Chapter 18 Memento Mori
Memento Mori
Any moment might be our last. Everything is more beautiful because we’re doomed.
— HOMER
ORION
Iknow exactly how they will die.
I know when, where, and how death will claim them.
A heart attack. A sudden stroke. A fatal embolism. Timed down to the very second their life expires.
There’s never anything I can do to prevent it. It’s unavoidable, predetermined—a truth that flies arrogantly in the face of beliefs and modern medicine.
A model that narrows chaos to a second, marking the date and time of death. Based on physiology, habits, scraped data—all collapsed to a single point.
My first victim suffered an aneurysm. Well, almost my first. There were three I tried to prevent before the void started eating away, numbing my morality. Making each subsequent attempt a little easier, less conflicted.
Just like Cassian Bevins, whose malignant tumor was a ticking bomb, silently counting down to a fatal hemorrhage. Had I not splashed his brain matter all over the clearing, then twenty-two seconds after I opened his cranium to harvest the echoes, the mass would’ve ruptured.
The ruthless tide crashes against the dark shores of my thoughts, the compulsion to check my astronomical watch churning higher until I push back my cuff. Soon, the moon’s umbral shadow will move across Shorehaven, plunging us into a totality of darkness.
At the heart of the most brilliant star lies the deepest shadow. It calls to the hunter. Once the sun goes dark—
So will I.
“Every time I pass this painting, I get chills.”
The soft current of her voice draws me around, the melodic cadence of her tune flowing over my skin to conjure my own electric, full-body shiver in response.
Collins stands to my left, arms folded across her chest, an umbrella anchored to her wrist, her attention fixed on the painting mounted near the arched entrance of the library.
I let my hungry gaze fall down her body, lingering on the suggestive slit in her tight skirt. Three days deprived of her presence, and I’m starved for the sight of her.
Suppressing a low groan, I drag a gloved hand over my mouth. “Why is that,” I ask her.
She offers a slight shrug, her gaze never straying from Cézanne’s Pyramid of Skulls. “It’s just rather creepy.”
A smile twitches at my lips. “Hmm.” Amused, I adjust my glasses, openly, shamelessly, drinking her in. She’s wearing her hair down in loose waves, the same way as the other night, and I’m suddenly reminded of the friction of her near-touch.
The faint creak of leather betrays my restraint as my hand clenches into a fist, resisting the urge to grip those silky dark waves.
While doctor-patient confidentiality ensures your therapist keeps even your darkest secrets, finding their patient in such a state—covered in blood, completely detached—would’ve easily negated the clause, justifying a signature on her form for involuntary commitment.
It’s possible Collins saw it as an opportunity to observe me, as I was quite literally dropped into the deep end of exposure therapy. My little therapist does have a twisted curious side.
And yet, as I held her close in the rolling waves, dying a little at the desire to kiss her breathless, her melancholic song preventing me from going fully under, I saw the ripple of fear in her.
The trepidation that, whatever I’d done in those lost hours of the night, she’d have to shoulder the guilt.
For that, it was necessary to feed her the lie. Ultimately, it was easier for her to believe that my compulsive, risk-seeking behavior landed me in a bar fight. Covered in another man’s blood, my contamination OCD triggered a spiraling, dissociative blackout.
She didn’t even question if I left the person breathing. “Aren’t you going to ask about the blood,” I said to her as I wrapped her in a blanket after escaping the beach.
“Was there anything that would’ve changed the outcome?” My silence was answer enough. “Then it was out of your control.”
The dark light that shone in her eyes then as she gazed up at me is here between us now, the fury I sometimes see ablaze there.
Secluded in the dim corridor, the rain steadily pelting the stained-glass windows, I cross toward her, lured by the heat of that fire and the arousing tease of her skin.
“It’s meant to evoke feelings of discomfort,” I say, referring to the art.
“It’s memento mori. Latin for: remember, you must die. ”
She turns my way, hitting me with those expressive eyes. “You find it necessary to confront such morbid, existential thoughts today?” She arches a fine eyebrow. “Should I be concerned about your speech?”
A crooked smile tips my mouth. Unable to keep my hands off her any longer, I reach out and tug the cuff of her blazer, drawing her closer. I ghost my thumb across the pattern of stars along her delicate wrist, inciting a shiver.
What’s necessary was staying away until now, even when it became a special brand of torture.
With every passing second, the craving for her increased, the desperate need to seal my hands around her waking me in the night, becoming more beast than man as I fought the vicious demand lashing at my bones.
“Not today.” I force myself to release her.
“Awareness of our ephemeral condition keeps us modest. This particular piece always grounds me. Figured I needed the reminder.” I shift my gaze to the oil painting, tracing the calculated play of light, the way the shadows emphasize the reliefs and cavities of the skulls.
“Really, it’s a deception. Death being a non-event makes it no less real.
An event defined only by the absence of life.
Like a horizon we can’t see or touch, yet we know the boundary is there by what’s lost.”
Collins studies my profile, a slight divot creasing between her brows. “Does this mean you have something prepared for the investors on your research?” she asks, doing her best to keep me grounded herself, but I catch the hard swallow slip along her throat.
I lower my mouth close to her ear. “The fragrance you wear smells like snapdragons.” I inhale a punishing lungful of her seductive scent.
“Did you know that when the petals die, they look like skulls?” I straighten, casting a purposeful glance at the painting.
“I’m simply saying, if we can’t escape the reminder that’s everywhere, at all times, we might as well embrace it. ”
I haven’t been able to escape her—not once—since she crashed into my orbit.
Her mouth parts, her concerned eyes searching my face before dropping to the trace of ink escaping the collar of my unbuttoned oxford. “Is that why you’ve inked those words on yourself?” she asks. “Your way of embracing what you feel is out of your control?”
“Clever starling.” A wry smile slants my lips. “I’ll show you mine, if you show me yours.” I make a move to touch the top button of her blouse, and she pulls away.
“Orion, please,” she whispers, “talk to me.”
My jaw tightens, teeth grinding under the restraint.
Another reason I had to stay away; I have absolutely no control over the dark tide of urges surging inside me.
The vicious swell grows stronger as the hour looms closer.
Her nearness might quiet the distortion, but right now, this close, it also provokes these wicked impulses.
“God, it’s fucking maddening,” I mutter under my breath, and she eases another inch closer, a fearful desperation filling her eyes.
Maybe she’s worried about who she brought back on that shore. Whether she should have simply let me devolve into dissociative oblivion.
She raises a hand toward me. “Orion—”
“Ah, memento mori,” Leo interrupts, emerging from around the corner. Collins quickly withdraws. “In pursuit of our greatness, we must remain humble. Nothing is as sobering to the ego as our mortality. Right, Rye?”
Frustration singes my muscles as I face him. “It definitely kills a mood.”
He recoils slightly from the affront, though nothing can dampen his mood completely. Clearing his throat, he says, “Well, I hope the weather clears soon.” He casts a nervous glance toward the arched windows just as a rumble of thunder sounds. “The rain will not make for ideal viewing conditions.”
As forecasted, a storm has washed ashore, dragging a torrent of chaos into Shorehaven. Battering winds and heavy rain have forced residents—along with the thousands who’ve flocked here to observe the solar eclipse—to seek shelter indoors.
Collins lifts her chin, hand now gripped around the handle of her umbrella. “Do you think we’ll have clear skies by noon, Dr. Night?”
I remove my glasses, sliding them into the breast pocket of my suit jacket. “Unfortunately.”
A frown darkens her pretty features, the tension practically tangible.
Leo glances between us, then pins me with a look. “I just wanted to confirm that your speech kicks off at eleven-fifteen.” He makes a production of checking his wristwatch. “Just a half hour from now—”
“I’ll be there,” I assure him, my response curt as an anxious coil winds around my spine.
He nods once, taking the hint. “Right. I have to say, I’ve been impressed this past month, Rye. I know the donors are looking forward to your update as much as I am,” he adds, layering a subtle threat there.
“I have no doubt the symposium will impress everyone, Dr. Banner,” Collins says, dispersing some of the tense atmosphere with a sweet smile. “Which, I should probably get ready for myself.”
Yet, even as Leo steps away, Collins remains, wary eyes narrowed on me and brimming with the same fearful uncertainty I witnessed amid the rocking ocean waves.
She senses some danger, and for a fractured heartbeat, part of me wants to confirm her fear—to show her the fiend and send her fleeing.
But another part of me wants her more.
“I have something to show you first.” I slip my hand into hers, threading our fingers together to prevent her escape.