Chapter 14 #2
“So, you never fight back? You just do this because you have to?”
“At first,” he confesses. His thumb brushes along the goose bumps on my forearm. “But not anymore.”
“Then why?”
Something unreadable flickers in his eyes. “Let me show you.”
For a solid minute, I retch into someone’s rosebushes. Thankfully, no one’s home. Nothing but hot, sour saliva comes up anyway. Cary’s hand runs along my back. His strong fingers press the tension from between my shoulder blades.
I drag the back of my hand across my mouth. “Is it always that bad?”
“Only for mortals.”
He leads me over a bluestone walkway to a single-story house. The brick exterior is painted white with peeling black accents.
Sucking in a clean breath, I say, “And how many mortals have you done this with?”
“Why? Are you jealous?”
I scowl at him.
He grins. “Only you.” With a hint of shyness, he adds, “You are my first for many things.”
A soft smile blooms unexpectedly across my face. “Where are we now?”
“Macon. In Georgia.”
The porch steps creak under our feet. Dense humidity forms a coat of sweat on my skin. My T-shirt sticks to my back.
Cary doesn’t bother knocking on the peacock blue door. He walks right in.
Music fills the small foyer. Something old and bluesy.
We move through a living room. Splayed on the coffee table is an unfinished knit sweater.
A framed painting of a Black man playing the trumpet hangs above the fireplace.
Age leaches the color from all the furniture.
Walking canes lean against one wall near the kitchen, where a teacup sits next to a bowl of waxy decorative peaches.
Cary’s mouth opens. I cut him off with a wry grin.
“Stay here. I know.”
Again, his fingers ghost over my knuckles. Tender heat dances up my forearm. I hide in the entryway’s shadows to watch him.
“You’re late.”
Inside the sunroom is an old woman with deep brown skin, big silver curls, and a stern smile. She sits like a queen in a cozy lounge chair.
Across from her is an identical woman. Except, her eyes are closed, posture slack. She looks peaceful. Like she’s sleeping. But I know better now.
Cary does a half bow. “My apologies, Bernice.”
“My friends call me Bernie.” Her accent is thick, Southern. “My grandbabies call me Grammy. Everyone else calls me Mrs. Woods.”
“And what shall I call you?”
She sizes him up. “I don’t know yet. But not Bernice. Only my parents and my late husband called me that.”
“Very well.” Cary smiles. “Do you know who I am?”
Her tongue clucks dismissively. “Of course I do. Been waiting on you forever.”
“Have you, now?”
Bernice’s gaze cheats to the other chair. Where her mortal body is. “My Joseph died eight years ago. Our kids are all grown. They got their own families now.”
She points a wrinkled finger toward the far wall. Wood-framed photographs take up almost every inch. A tapestry of life through decades. Bernice with her husband, her children, then grandchildren. So much joy and laughter caught on film.
Sadly, she admits, “Been just me. For too long. I’m—I’m tired.”
Empathy flashes in Cary’s eyes.
I bite the inside of my cheek while studying the pictures. In her youth, Bernice looked so much like my mom. Cold dread spears me. I don’t want to imagine Mom’s life ending like this. In a house I never visit.
Alone, without Dad.
I don’t want to think about my parents dying at all.
My gaze snags on a photo of Bernice from a different era. Her early twenties, maybe. She’s red-lipped and bright-eyed. The camera caught her mid-performance in a sparkly dress, the audience fawning over her. She was a singer.
From her chair, Bernice admires the same picture. “I was belting in nightclubs before I was old enough to drink.” It’s as if she’s talking to me, not Cary. “That’s how I met my Joseph. In a jazz band.”
He steps over for a closer look. “How long were you a performer?”
“Two decades.” She laughs, big and brassy. Like her voice was meant to take up space. Pack rooms. “Best time of my life. Until my kids came along.”
There’s a flutter in my chest that feels like hope but disappears too quickly.
Cary’s finger draws an invisible map over the other rows of pictures. Bernice with one, two, finally five children.
“And them?” He looks at Bernice, but it’s like his gaze is pointed at me.
“What about them?” Bernice says.
He pauses. As if his next question is something he’s never thought to ask a soul before. “Are you worried about them?”
Bernice sighs. “Nope. My kids will be fine. That was my job as a mother. To love them fiercely. Unconditionally. And to pour so much of my own heart into them that when I died, I’d still be with them.”
My fingers pluck restlessly at my bracelet.
“It’s gonna hurt,” she continues. “But they’ll survive. And go on. That’s what we all do, whether we want to or not. Everyone is given time. It’s never enough.” A smirk plays like a steady progression of major chords on her face. “But I sure as hell made the most of mine!”
Another laugh, this one echoing through the whole house.
I wonder if these halls will miss that sound. Do more than just the people we meet and love miss us when we’re gone?
Cautiously, Cary touches her shoulder. “Are you ready for what is next?”
Bernice wrings her hands. “Will my Joseph be there?”
“I cannot answer that for you.”
“Figures.” She squints at him. “You can never trust the pretty ones.”
I bury my own laugh in my shoulder so Bernice doesn’t notice me.
Cary doesn’t hide his snort. “Whenever you are ready.”
Bernice stares wistfully at the wall of photographs. She takes her time scanning every frame. As if she can take them with her.
“Okay. Let’s go.”
A gossamer of white falls over her. A stardust queen. She meets Cary’s smile with one of her own.
Once they leave, I sit in the lounge chair Bernice’s soul just occupied. I stare at her sweet-faced corpse. My mind drifts to Yuri, Hasan. How they were each afraid in their own way. But Cary was there for them.
He was kind. Comforting. Even a little teasing.
He is the first real smile they see once this life is over.
Cary isn’t just the ferrier of souls. A Deathless relentlessly dedicated to his role. He’s something more.
I just never got to see it until now.
Jazz continues to hum throughout the house. My hands itch for a pen. To pluck notes from the song and scribble words into lyrics. I settle for letting the music run through me. In my head, I compose a ballad that will never be heard.
Cary steps back into the sunroom. He’s not alone.
A blue-eyed Siberian husky comes charging in. My eyebrows shoot up my forehead. Cary shrugs weakly.
“She followed me.”
The dog turns in quick circles before she flops on the ground, whimpering. Instantly, Cary kneels to scratch behind her ears. He doesn’t jerk away when her long pink tongue swipes at his cheek.
“Good girl,” he whispers smiling as he strokes her nose.
“You like animals,” I observe.
I remember how he was with Diana. How, despite his stiff shoulders and flat tone, he’s always let Cerby be affectionate with him.
“I care about a lot of things,” Cary says frankly.
“You look like you want to take her home.”
Under his breath, he whispers, “I wish.” Then, more clearly, he says, “Cerby would not approve.”
“I can take him off your hands,” I offer with a wide grin.
His glare has very little heat behind it. “Stop trying to steal my dog.”
“Is she—” I stop, wincing. I’d forgotten the harshest part of death. “Was she Bernice’s?”
“No. Someone else’s.”
A small relief relaxes my jaw. I look out the window. Dappled rays of sunlight break through patches of gum tree leaves. “Are there more souls waiting?”
“Always.”
“For you?” My eyes flit back to him.
Gently, he brushes a hand over the dog’s thick fur. “Not in this realm. They wait for the others.”
My memory jumps to all the faces Henri told me about in the ballroom. Deathless of dreams and nightmares and vengeance.
“So, we’re done?”
“Depends.” Cary studies me. “Am I still cold to you? Nothing more than a ferrier?”
I rub my chin, considering. “Maybe?” There’s humor in my voice. A smile I can’t fight.
“I am not who you think I am, August.”
“I know.” My answer comes without hesitation.
For a long minute, his eyes search mine. A question circles his black irises: Do you?
I stand and offer him my hand. “Take me back to Santa Barbara. There’s something I want to show you.”
“And what is that?”
My smile widens. “You ask too many questions, Cary.”