My Soul Immortal (2 page)

After splashing frigid water on my face, I strip off my blood-soaked shirt and hunch my back to examine my wounds in the mirror. The jagged holes have begun to heal—two entrances and one exit. I rub my hand along my spine, finding the skin hot to the touch. I press against the hard, pea-sized protrusion under the surface about a third of the way up my back, and I grimace. But I can’t do anything about the bullet now. No time.

I wonder how long it’ll be until the shooting makes the news. Any normal guy would be bleeding out in the gutter after taking two bullets to the abdomen. If I’m found healed and healthy, I’ll become a sideshow freak and live out the rest of my existence Lord knows where.

I tug on a T-shirt and exchange my blood-splattered jeans for a clean pair, then I begin shoving my few belongings into a shabby black duffel.

“If he’d just shown up tonight, I wouldn’t have to deal with this crap right now.” I thrust another handful of dirty socks into the bag.

This isn’t the first time Death has let me down. He’s stood me up many times—stabbed through the heart and bleeding to death in a pool of my own blood, sitting on the rocky bottom of a lake until every breath left my body—the list goes on. Pain is as reliable as gravity, but Death never keeps his appointments. If he did, I would be enjoying the good life in paradise, with Lydia.

At the thought of her, the ever-present ache grows as if talons are ripping away pieces of my heart. Somehow, it keeps its endless rhythm. I know all too well that some wounds cannot heal. Instead, they remain open and raw. Having someone important torn away is bound to leave a hole. I gulp a deep breath, and anxiety winds into a ball in my stomach. Memories leak in behind my eyes, calling to me, but I groan and wrench my head to the side, ruthlessly shoving them back. I don’t have time for an episode right now; I still have one task left to do. I stretch a yellowed map along the flaky gray walls and pin thumbtacks into each curled corner. No one will notice, let alone care about, the holes in the poorly treated drywall.

I step back and kiss the dart I swiped from a pub in York back in 1918 on the day my sister died and I decided to quit England for good. Since then, the old dart’s become a talisman of sorts. “Where are we going this time, old friend?”

With a flick of my wrist, the dart glides through the air and sticks into the map with a thud. Just my luck. It landed in the damn Atlantic Ocean. Not caring where I end up, I pick the closest city.
Portland, Maine. Bloody marvelous.
Still muttering under my breath about the annoyances of moving, I roll up the map and thrust it into the black duffel. I zip the bag and sling the strap over my shoulder, almost forgetting my knapsack as I walk out of the apartment and into the graffiti-tagged hallway.

The staircase is empty, so I punt the duffel down each flight of stairs to rid myself of some of the frustration. It somersaults and rolls down the steps without objection. At the bottom, I fling the bag onto my shoulder. Taking in a deep breath, I open the door and slink into the night, being careful to look up and down the sidewalk. No police, no sirens, no nothing. On the dark, lonely street, I secure the knapsack to the backseat of my old Triumph Bonneville with a couple bungees. After I slip the strap of the duffel over my head and shoulder, I climb onto the bike. I wriggle around, trying to find the most comfortable position. Although no longer painful, my back is tender, and the bag’s weight is a persistent reminder. I give up on comfort and turn the ignition. The motorcycle rumbles to life. I head out of Los Angeles and onto the open road.

CHAPTER ONE

Hours of steady rainfall leave the streets glistening with a silver sheen. People scurry past on the sidewalk as though trying to evade the drops, but there’s no escape here. I’ve been in Portland, Maine, for weeks. Every day and every night, it rains, and I’m sick of it. My hatred for the rain is deep-seated. While Lydia lived, we both loved the gentle patter of a spring shower and the clatter of a late-autumn storm. Now the rain that dampens my clothes depresses my spirit. Too many memories cling to each stinging drop. But each moment remembered is of a century ago, and senility has yet to creep in to grant me a reprieve. The unrelenting spring weather seems to hear my inner complaints and take offense, because the rainfall intensifies.

“First a rat-infested hellhole, and now this dreary place.” I glare up at the sky, hoping the elements can hear me. At least this particular dreary place has a bookshop, somewhere around here. I glance at the address I Sharpied onto my palm. I hope the help-wanted ad was current. The loss of Lydia may have transformed me from an upstanding member of society into a drifter, but a man’s got to eat. Seems starvation can’t do me in. Gravedigger and mechanic, bartender to tracklayer—the work or pay never mattered. I’ve squirreled away enough money to live completely off the radar for a while, in case my secret is discovered. But other than that, I’ve always been more concerned with obtaining a place in the hereafter than any monetary gain.

With the soaked hood of my sweatshirt up over my head, I slosh through puddles. Drops of rain pool like beads along the hood’s rim. Maybe I need to come up with a better method of choosing my next home. This place reminds me too much of England. Old, yes. Merry, no. The bloody island has been the cause of many a foul mood of mine. I suppose I could leave and settle somewhere else.
Somewhere sunny
, I think, once more glaring skyward. But fleeing for this reason would feel like failure, as if my inability to forgive the past and move on with the present got the better of me yet again. Neither my pride nor stubbornness will stand for that. I’m staying.

For the thousandth time, I replay the incident that led me to this soggy city. I seem to have the innate ability of choosing the wrong thing at the wrong time, and allowing myself to be shot in the gut is the best example yet. I still have the little souvenir lodged in the muscle of my back to prove it. And after many attempts at Tug of War, I can’t extract the blasted slug.
As if Death would take notice of me after all this time.
I laugh and shake my head.
Idiot
.

Deep in thought, I round the corner and collide with someone. My hapless victim is knocked to the ground, while I merely stagger backward. Her legs, arms, and knapsack become a tangled mess of flailing appendages.

“Sorry. You all right?” I extend my hand to help.

“I’m fine,” she says from under a shapeless mound of yellow rain poncho among the puddles.

From the spirit of her tone, she seems unharmed. I probably bruised her ego, but little else. Relieved and amused, I suppress a laugh. “I need to pay better attention to where I’m going.”

“Obviously,” she mumbles, grabbing her knapsack. Either unwilling or unable to see my hand, palm up, still waiting, she hops to her feet. From beneath the brim of her oversized hood, she surveys me. A pair of vivid emerald eyes burn into mine.

“Lydia?” I whisper. I stagger backward, angry at the delusion. Any memory connected to her reigns with perfect clarity. But must I be tormented every waking moment? My heart pounds in my ears, and without thought, I reach for her.

She flinches. Her reaction draws me back from a memory. My arm falls to my side, but my focus doesn’t leave her eyes. She must be real. The desire to touch her surges again, and I need every bit of self-control to thrust my fists deep into my pockets.

Her guarded eyes narrow. She tucks an escaping golden strand into the confines of her hood. “Do I know you?”

I can’t peel my gaze from those hypnotic eyes, and I stutter out a reply. “N-no, you remind me of someone. Forgive me.”

Her attention drifts away and breaks my trance, allowing my eyes to fall to the sidewalk. I concentrate on the diagonal pattern of the red bricks, but the distraction doesn’t help, and breathing has become impossible. My hands tremble in my pockets.

A car horn blatting jolts me back to a semblance of reality. When I look around, she’s gone. The girl seems to have vanished into thin air, and I wonder again if Lydia’s haunting me. I snort.
Sure, some guy points a gun to your chest, no problem. You beat the shit out of him. A girl looks at you, and you freeze up, lose the ability to speak, and think your long-lost love is visiting you from beyond the grave. What are you? Twelve?

I thrust the incident out of my mind and trudge on down the sidewalk. I won’t allow my stupidity to take over the day.
Sanity, remember sanity
. I repeat the mantra in my head.

Soon, I find the shop I’ve been looking for—a tiny dilapidated used bookstore with a faded sign that reads Rare Books. It’s a grungy-looking place, and I can’t tell if it’s open or closed. The black-and-orange help-wanted sign stuck cock-eyed in the window suggests I’m right, so I try the door.

A tired buzzer whines, announcing my arrival. I remove my rain-soaked sweatshirt, straighten my clothes, and rake my fingers through my damp, tangled hair in an attempt to look presentable. With a deep breath, I swallow any lingering distress from the incident with the girl in the poncho. The musty smells of age-old paper and dust as well as a faint, sweet trace of pipe smoke fill my nostrils, and I find the scents comforting.

A balding man with horn-rimmed glasses sticks his head out from behind a row of bookshelves. The creases around his eyes fan out as he squints in my direction. “Hello. Can I help you?” he asks much more loudly than the distance demands. “You got here just in time. I was about to close up. It’s been quiet ’round here today. Stupid rain.”

“I’m here for the assistant clerk’s position,” I say, doubting that the weather can account for the lack of patrons.

“Oh, yes, yes.” A wide grin creases the man’s thin face and stretches wrinkles along his pale leathery cheeks. He studies me with kind eyes before beckoning me to follow. He meanders toward the back. Towering bookshelves overemphasize his spare stature.

In a small office space at the rear of the shop, the man pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and shuffles through a mess of papers strewn across a desk. It’s quickly clear why he needs an assistant. The creased and coffee-stained application forms are at the bottom of the pile. He offers me the cleanest one, along with a pen.

The doorbell groans a distorted melody, announcing another arrival. The man excuses himself and lumbers to the front. From the sound of the resulting banter, the bookshop owner and his lady customer know each other well. She sounds like the kind of grandma who always has fresh cookies in her kitchen.

My attention swings back to the task at hand, and I scan through the tedious questions I’ve seen thousands of times before. When I’ve finished answering each question, I place the application and pen on the cluttered desk and step from the office to have a look around.

I wander down a cramped aisle. The floor is littered with novels of all shapes and sizes. The shelves bulge with random selections. A couple gems are hidden among the rabble, and my fingers run down the spine of a familiar leather-bound book.
Ancient Fairy Tales: Myths and Legends
is engraved in gilt across the rich-amber leather.

My hands quake. Memories delve deeper into a long-gone time. I can still smell the sweet floral fragrance of Lydia’s hair. The haunting tingle of her touch runs up my arm, stealing my breath. I can see her eyes sparkle in the pale gaslight and the devilish grin that crosses her pink, full…

“Dammit all!”
Damn those eyes! Damn that phantom girl!
I clutch my tightened chest and lean against the bookshelf to steady myself. As the intense pain dissipates and returns to the standard hollow ache, a face full of concern peers down the aisle. Her sharp, youthful eyes don’t correspond to the age that surrounds them. Her gray hair tied back into a sloppy ponytail and her dated outfit suggest she’s stuck in a previous decade. She says something, but I can’t hear through the ringing in my ears. “Sorry?”

“I said, are you all right?” the woman asks.

Ah, the new arrival.
I force a grin.
Just talking to myself and clutching my chest. The usual.
“Yes, fine.”

She looks skeptical. “You were in a lot of pain. Do you want me to call someone?”

“No. Heartburn.” I pat my chest as I walk slowly down the narrow aisle. “Fine now. Too much curry for breakfast.”

She hangs back, uncertain. “Are you sure? My late husband had a heart attack. You’re young and all, but—”

“I’m fine,” I say flatly. Hurt enters her eyes, and my regret surges. “Thank you, though,” I add.

Her weathered lips produce a grin. “So, you’re here for the clerk’s position?”

I nod.

“That’s good. Ed needs the help, whether he knows it or not.”

“Ed?”

“Of course he didn’t introduce himself,” she mutters with a roll of her eyes. “Ed’s the shop owner. And I’m Sally.”

“Nice to meet you. Jack.” I bow my head in greeting. I’ve carried the habit, which I can’t seem to break, with me through the years. “Speaking of Ed, where did he go?”

“Oh, he’s out back, getting a book I’ve been wanting forever.” I sense a glimmer of excitement in her words. She pauses and blushes, then her voice falls to a whisper. “The shop is a bit rundown, I know, but Ed’s got the best collection of antique books in the area, maybe the Northeast. If Ed can’t find it, you can bet your life it doesn’t exist.”

“Here it is,” Ed announces. He marches toward us, carrying the book as if it’s a bar of gold.

After a euphoric Sally has left, Ed squints at me and asks, “When can you start?”

“But, you haven’t even looked at my application yet, sir.”

“I know. Ed Growley, by the way.”

“Jack Hammond.”

We shake hands, and Ed breaks into a crooked smile. “I’m a good judge of people. You’re a normal enough guy. I can tell. Nothing like the kook I had working for me last month. Crazy hippie. Besides, Sally likes you. And don’t tell her, because it will go straight to her head, but she’s never wrong. The job’s yours if you want it.”

Ha! Normal?
I almost laugh. “I can start tomorrow.”