Immortal Mine (14 page)

I glance over his shoulder to see Stacy
watching us, a knowing smirk on her face. I can live with that, but
I also see the Double-H right next to her, both glaring daggers my
way.

I walk in the door, and see Shane sitting at
the table. It’s an unusual thing to come in and see him like this
so often. Shane, for the most part, is a doer. He’s always got to
be on the move, active, doing
something
. Maybe he’s more
tired of running than I’d thought.

“Hey,” I acknowledge, jerking a chin at him
as I head to the fridge, pulling it open and grabbing the juice
bottle.

“Use a glass,” he says mildly, without
looking up from his Sudoku. I let out a sigh. There’s definitely
something on his mind—he gets very parental when there is. I fill a
glass, sit down across from him and wait.

He’s silent for so long, I finally say, “Out
with it.”

He glances up at me, tapping his lip with
the pen, as if debating whether or not to share. My eyes
drop—briefly—to his hand lying on the table, and he finally
speaks.

“Don’t even think about it.”

I grin. Yeah, I knew there was no way he’d
let me in
that
way. He knows all too well what I can do.

“All right,” he lays the pencil down and
turns his full attention on me. “I wasn’t sure if I should say
anything. You’re old enough to make your own decisions.”

“You think?” I shoot back sarcastically.
“Many people would consider 465 nothing but a baby.”

Shane rolls his eyes, though there is some
truth to that. Shane is fifty years older, and we don’t even come
close to being as old as many of the immortals that we know of.

“
But
,” he interjects, “you may be too
close to see this.” He sighs, and picks up the pencil again,
rolling it between his fingers. “I’ve been watching you with her,
with Niahm. You’re letting yourself get too close.”

I want to argue with him, tell him he’s
wrong… but Shane has his own gifts, and trying to fool him is an
exercise in futility.

“You know the consequences of allowing
yourself to fall in—”

“I know,” I interrupt him, slamming the
glass down on the counter a little harder than necessary. The glass
shatters, and thin trails of blood seep from my hand. We both
ignore the blood, though Shane raises a brow at my reaction. “I
know,” I say, calmer. “I’ve thought of that. Trust me; it has never
left my mind. But there’s something different about her…”

Shane’s gaze remains steady. I think of the
only other time I truly loved a woman. I
know
the
consequences only too well.

“I wasn’t expecting to like her, really,” I
tell him. “I mean, she was pretty unpleasant. But, come on, Shane,
you know how hard it is to remain distant from someone you find
yourself bound to.”

“I do know,” he confirms. “There are ways to
fulfill the binding without growing too attached. You know this as
well as I do, Samuel.”

I push back from the table, pacing with
agitation. I haven’t felt so much like the teenager I pretend to be
as I do right now. Shane reaches behind him and casually tosses the
kitchen towel my way. I wrap it around my bleeding fingers.

“Samuel,” Shane’s voice is quietly forceful,
commanding my attention. He opens his mouth to speak, closes it,
opens and finally sighs. I wait. I have all the time in the world
to wait, I think acerbically. “You know there isn’t any way to
know… for certain, I mean, if she’s…” he stands, folding his book
closed and placing it and the pen in the drawer behind him. “Just
don’t pin your hopes on something that could be nothing,” he says,
leaving the room.

He’s right. I know he’s right. I’d be giving
the same advice to him if our positions were reversed. But somehow,
Niahm has become central to me, more than is required by being
bound to her. I would never tell Shane, but it terrifies me.

I walk to the sink, wash the blood from my
hand. The think pink line, that had been a gash only a few minutes
earlier, only serves to remind me of how
wrong
I am, how
wrong my life is. Even as I watch, the water running wastefully
down the drain, the pink line slowly fades, leaving the skin
perfectly unblemished. I turn back to the table, pick up a piece of
the jagged glass, and hold it against my skin, wanting the
laceration to return—
needing
it to return.

Finally, without drawing it across my healed
skin, I drop the glass back to the table. I could cut myself all
night long, and it wouldn’t matter. I’d still wake up, exactly the
same.

“And, Samuel?” Shane calls from the other
room, “clean up that mess.”

His words force a small, grim smile from me.
Heaven save us from overbearing parents.

“Brrr,” I shiver, looking out the barn doors
at the gray skies.

“Cold?” Sam asks redundantly, rubbing down
the sides of the Irish. He’s just finished working him in the
paddock. He was able to place a saddle on the stallion’s back
today, after the past few weeks of leading him around with a
blanket on his back. Of course, the Irish threw a fit, and tried
bucking the thing off. Sam just waited patiently, keeping him close
with the lead until he grew accustomed to it.

“Why would you assume that?” I shoot back,
rubbing my arms. It’s not his fault I was more worried about
looking cute in my thin blue jacket rather than putting on
something that would buffer me against the cold day.

Sam just chuckles at my response, not even
looking up from his task. He finishes, giving the Irish a final pat
on the neck as I scoop up an apple and hand it over the low door to
him, which he then presents to the Irish. Sam backs out, closes the
door behind him and turns my way. I realize how close I’m standing
when I have to crane my neck to look up at him. He begins rubbing
my arms rapidly, the friction warming me—or maybe it’s his
nearness. He leans down, and I wonder yet again if he’s going to
finally kiss me. Not that I, you know, want him to, or anything.
It’s just that there have been so many times I thought he was going
to, when he leans in close like this. Yet, he always pulls
away.

“You should wear a warmer jacket, Niahm,
when it’s cold outside.”

I narrow my eyes at him, but he just laughs
again as he turns to clean up the rest of his gear.

“Want to go to the diner and get something
to eat?” he questions.

“No, absolutely not!” I exclaim. Then,
realizing how it sounds as his eyes jump to mine, I soften my tone.
“We can eat here. I already have some chili cooking.”

“Good,” is Sam’s only response, but I know
what it means. It means he’s happy. Sam is very vocal about his
enjoyment of my cooking. I push down the self-satisfied feeling I
always get when he reacts in such a manner.

Sam has taken to holding my hand quite
frequently now—in public. At school, I manage to keep my hands
bound up in carrying my books. He seems to have divined my
hesitancy, and doesn’t push the issue. But when we’re in town, he
always either holds my hand or has his arm draped across my
shoulders. It almost feels like he’s…I don’t know, staking his
claim, or something, though that could just be wishful thinking.
I’ve been getting some hateful looks, especially from Hilary and
Heather, when he does. I try to avoid being seen in town with
him—not because I don’t want to hold his hand. I
do
, more
than I should. I’m just not fond of making enemies of my lifelong
friends. Hence, my reluctance to eat at the diner.

“Your parents going to be there?” Sam asks,
pushing himself up from his squatting position where he’d been
organizing the bucket of cleaning items. I grunt. Sam and my
parents get along far too well for my contentment. Sometimes, I
think he prefers spending time with them, especially my father,
talking about all of the places he’s been. Sam is either
well-travelled, as I’d once accused him of being, or well-read
about other countries. I suspect it’s the former. Their
conversations can be extremely long, and extremely boring.

“Yes,” I confirm, and his face lights
up.

We head inside just as darkness spreads
itself across the land. The aroma in the kitchen is
mouth-watering—spices and yeast. I watch as Niahm places the tray
of rolls into the oven then pulls items from the fridge to make a
salad.

It isn’t long until Jonas and Beth have
joined us—looking dapper in their “tea-time with the Queen”
clothes, as Niahm calls them—and we’re all sitting at the table. As
usual, Beth invited Shane, but he cried off, claiming work. A
blatant lie, but knowing what he’s really doing, I could hardly
call him on it.

Niahm and her parents talk almost constantly
as they eat, and I get the feeling they are trying to make up for
lost time. Still, it’s been so long since I’ve felt like a normal
part of a family, that I can’t help but be grateful for the talking
and laughter. I also genuinely enjoy time spent with Beth and
Jonas—they remind me of my own parents.

“How many times have you been to Jamaica?” I
ask Jonas, always fascinated by his stories of travel, always
trying to find somewhere he hasn’t been. Niahm kicks me lightly
under the table—she hates it when Jonas, Beth and I begin talking
about their travels. Niahm has heard the stories many times, and so
is annoyed by being forced to hear them yet again. I grin at her
and, slipping my shoe off, rub my foot lightly over her ankle,
bringing an immediate blush to her cheeks.

“Only once, actually, about two years ago,”
Jonas says, handing me the basket of rolls, which I gratefully
accept, not noticing his daughters pink cheeks. “Fascinating place,
fascinating people. We went for pleasure more than work, but of
course we couldn’t escape the work.”

“The work
is
pleasure,” Beth says,
eyes lighting as she talks. I have clearly noted that neither of
Niahm’s parents share her unusual eyes. A crushing disappointment,
realizing that her own eyes are likely just a fluke of nature,
without any real possibility.

“Is there anywhere you two haven’t been?” I
tease.

“Russia,” Beth says.

“Though that will very soon be remedied,”
Jonas says, taking his wife’s hand and smiling at her.

“Oh, Jonas, we must be sure to get to Saint
Basil’s Cathedral,” Beth gushes. “I know it’s not really necessary
for this particular book, but how can we go there and not
visit?”

“Have you been to Russia, Sam?” Jonas asks.
But I’m not paying attention to him; I’m watching Niahm. She has
gone very still, lips thinning the tiniest amount, jaw clenched.
Jonas follows my gaze, and upon seeing Niahm’s stiff posture, he
seems to droop, his shoulders sagging.