The Celestial Kiss Page 11

  I wondered what he meant about his own experience, and why he had even bothered telling me about the myth in the first place. “But that does me no good,” I said. “James had told me how long I had to live, but I didn’t realize what it meant.”

  “As I said, you are a guest. You are free to leave whenever you wish…I’ve made it abundantly clear to my son’s that they are not to fight you. But I needed to make sure that you knew exactly what you were dealing with. You are bound to my son until the day you die, not more than a few weeks from now. And even after.”

  Chapter Ten

  “Maybe I should have told you before,” Janna sighed. “But I had hoped James would tell you himself and I didn’t want to pile everything on you all at once.”

  It was cold, despite the weak morning sun. I tugged on the sleeves of my shirt, covering my hands with them because I didn’t want to look at her or have her look at me. But she was, with some form of pity that made me self-conscious. She’d practically begged me to take a walk with her, and so far we’d only managed to circle half of the property while she pointed out little things along the way.

  I’d spent the entire night trying to make sense of all that the King had laid bare for me, but I was no closer to understanding any of my circumstances than I had been before going to see him. I’d decided on a few certainties: 1—I was dying. 2—I could leave, but it would not give me any satisfaction. 3—I was dying.

  “I’m not delicate.” My surly grumble was proof of that. But while I wanted to be mad at her, it wasn’t her fault. James had gotten me — and himself—into this mess. He should have told me what the consequences of his actions meant, not tried to ignore it or pawn the task off on his ailing father.

  “Of course not.” A grin cracked her face, as if she knew she’d been let off the hook. I wasn’t letting go that easily, though.

  “What, exactly, does it mean for me?”

  “I’ve only heard about it before, so I can’t tell you first hand.” She offered a disclaimer. “As far as I know, things are pretty normal as long as the vow is unbroken. I know, normal is relative around here. It is only under circumstances of betrayal that things could become bad…the offender is executed as penance for their sins.” She’d looked away at the last few words, but gathered the courage to flick her eyes back to mine. I surprised her with a simple shrug of my shoulders.

  “What else?”

  “Let me explain it the way we teach the children.”

  “I’ll try not to be insulted.”

  Janna grinned. “Okay, so you have a soul. It is this beautiful thing, bright and shiny and inherently good. The Creator made them, and then he gifted them to humans…his prized children. But some of the angels were jealous of the humans, of how the Creator wrote these stories for their lives and then just watched them always, witnessing the steps they took and the paths they chose to get to the end of their story. So, eventually, there was an uprising…the angels took the soul and ripped it in two. Each human thereafter had only half of a soul…they lived their entire lives as though something were missing, because it was. So they began to seek their other halves, and they learned that the Creator, of course, could mend the soul if they wished. They did this by the bite…a mark that would show the world that their soul was intact.”

  “You’re saying…” I laughed. “You mean to tell me that James is my soul mate?” I thought of how he seemed to avoid me, how he dodged my questions and had tried so desperately to trade me away. Was he ashamed that he’d chosen me as the other half of him? I didn’t doubt it.

  “That’s just how we learn it.” She shrugged. “I do believe, of course, that there is a plan for you…and I suppose that you were meant to cross my brother in some way, so…yeah, I guess it’s possible.”

  I didn’t want her to see me entertain the idea, ludicrous as it was, but there was a small part that wondered whether it wasn’t entirely fiction. I mean, it was a myth just like Prometheus and Atlas and Sirius…but it sounded almost like it could be truth. Of course, accepting that soul mates did exist was a far cry from accepting that James was mine. Even if I could wrangle the idea that I needed someone else to complete me, it couldn’t have been the man who was bringing my life to an end. Furthermore, if it were more than just a way of explaining things too delicate for a child’s mind to comprehend, then that meant my soul mate, whoever he was, was out of luck.

  If I wanted to believe in it, and I wanted to look for a soul mate that wasn’t a werewolf, I could leave—steal and lie and cheat through the next two weeks of my life, sacrifice my morals and dignity in the name of freedom. I could try to make something of the time I had left, try to find someone to fulfill me, but at what cost? There was nothing I wanted to do so badly as walk and breathe freely, both of which could be done here. Better to have never loved at all…better to never feel the waves crash against me or freedom race through my veins and then have it wrenched from me before getting to enjoy it all. And I hated to consider it, but what if the King was right…what if James truly was my soulmate, or I was his?

  I would stay—at least for now.

  Chapter Eleven

  After my absence the night before, it seemed infinitely more shocking to my audience when I appeared for dinner at Janna’s side, donned in one of her demure dresses. I surely looked as uncomfortable as I felt, both because I was not the type of girl to wear dresses and because I did not exactly thrive on the attention. In fact, having all those eyes on me made me consider running to that secret chamber and taking the escape I’d been offered. But Janna’s smile anchored me; I followed her, head held high, and slipped into the seat that had been left vacant between James and the King, who both turned eyes on me. The King’s smile was small and genuinely happy, while James’ was forced and tight.

  The king and his sons immersed themselves in a conversation that seemed to be of great importance to them, as it spanned throughout a large portion of the evening. I eavesdropped at first, then quickly grew bored when they did not so much as glance my way – instinctively, I knew that whatever it was that mattered so much to them was worthless to me. My mind began to wander. No longer a captive of their droll conversation, I took up a survey of the room.

  It was weird to see this array of people together in one room: short and thin or all-around large, men and women of all ages, with varying skin tones. And each of them radiated a beauty entirely their own, the sort which showed them to be self-possessed and assured. It was not the look of confidence that I’d witnessed among the vampires which branded them all the same, yet a sense of camaraderie, as though it was through this variety that they achieved their strength. I envied them; their flawed beauty was perfect. A lump formed in my throat…they were everything I’d ever wanted.

  “They’ve all spent hours gossiping about you.” Janna whispered. I turned to look at her around her brother’s head. “You’re quite the scandal around here.”

  “I had no choice in that,” I reminded her grudgingly.

  “I know.” Janna’s green eyes sparkled, “But I figured you might appreciate the chance to do the same.”

  She had an intoxicating personality…though her brothers gave me nothing but trouble, she offered genuine compassion…friendship. Despite my suspicion the fact that gossip was not my cup of tea, I was intrigued.

  Janna was more than happy to give me the scoop on the guests whenever she wasn’t drawn into conversation by another party. I didn’t trust myself to remember the names of so many people, but by the time dinner began to wind to a close I knew who was courting whom, every scandal these people had ever been involved in (there weren’t many) and I could identify the council members who helped the King in making decisions like whether or not to kill me.

  Occasionally, someone would look up and lock eyes with us, to which both Janna and I would smile and continue talking in hushed tones. But there was one man, whose invasive stare I could not brush off with a smile. There was something dark in his eyes…an unspoken, un
founded hatred.

  Janna seemed to notice the shift in energy, just as I noticed the shift in her voice. It was subtle, but I caught it all the same.

  “Olias.” She whispered the name as though it both intrigued her and left an unsavory taste upon her tongue.

  I willed her to continue, but she seemed lost within her thoughts so I resigned myself instead to trying to commit to memory all that I’d learned. I scanned their faces as she told me things that were entirely irrelevant, bewitched by their lives, until dinner wound to a close. The twine of conversation thinned as the crowd departed in droves and I realized that it was actually kind of exhausting, pretending to be mild mannered and self-contained.

  “Lilith,” My name rang through the room, just loud enough to gather the attention of all that remained in the hall. I looked up from my thoughts to see the man that Janna had informed me was Olias. He watched me with curiosity etched into the faint crinkles around his eyes. He did not look old, exactly, just like his lifetime had been unkind. “That’s your name, right?”

  I tensed, feeling the eyes on me, a hunger for knowledge that I had seen in Julius a few days prior. James was close enough to me that I felt him stiffen just a little. “Yes.”

  “Interesting name, that. There’s quite a bit of biblical lore tied up in it. Did you ever ask your parents what they were thinking, giving you a name with such baggage?” The malicious gleam in his eyes told me that, although he wanted the answer to that question, his timing was intentional. He’d voiced the very thing that had undoubtedly been toying at everyone else’s minds. The little bit of chatter that had remained was suddenly gone, and everyone was looking at me now. A sideways glance at Janna yielded an imperceptible shake of her head, and though I couldn’t be sure, I took that as a sign to feign ignorance.

  “I never thought much about it.” I refused to take my eyes from his. I could recognize a challenge as it was presented to me.

  “Well, it’s certainly unique. And yet, you seem to be a mirror to the legendary beauty of the original Lilith…the temptress of Adam.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” I said, “As I’ve never met her.”

  Olias laughed. His face was decidedly attractive, in spite of his too-confident swagger. “Nor have I.” He tapped his temple. “But I can imagine.”

  I looked desperately at Janna for salvation, and she stood, beckoning me to follow. “It was lovely to meet you,” I lied. The eyes that were trained to my back followed me out the room, with no relief until we’d cleared the splendid archway and disappeared into the hall.

  “What an ass,” I muttered. It felt good to drop the princess act.

  “Yes,” Janna agreed. “It is rather marvelous.”

  I blinked, trying to ascertain whether she’d been serious. She glanced at me from the corner of her eyes. “He doesn’t like you,” She said, as if that hadn’t been glaringly obvious. His words themselves hadn’t been malicious, but the way he looked at me, and the way he’d spoken... It was as if I had offended him simply by existing, which—given my existence—was an acute possibility.

  “Oh, really?” I mumbled. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  To my surprise, Janna actually laughed a little. “It’s a story for another day.”

  Suspicion narrowed my eyes. “Why not today?”

  “I’m busy.” Her answer came so quick, I knew she was brushing me off. “Sorry.”

  I shrugged like it did not offend me and kept walking. “Maybe I will come by later?” Janna called after me. But I was already down the hall.

  Chapter Twelve

  Alone again, I sat on the window seat and pulled back the curtains. A cold chill pushed against the glass where I rested my cheek. I sighed, comforted by the solidity that glass pane offered, and for the first time in a long time, that sigh was not entirely of discontent. The moon was just a pale sliver in an otherwise unmarred sky, and it made me think of the times I’d looked out the window of my father’s house, at the drying gardens with flowers that had been choked out by weeds. Vines had broken away from the ground and began snaking up the walls, taking refuge in the cracks caused from the chips of old stone. It was an image I’d seen so many times, I could etch it even with my eyes closed.

  Below me now, there was a vastly different scene. It was ironic, really, that my father’s home had been meant as a salvation for those who would no longer be bound to human constraints, and yet it became a prison of its own making. Here, where I had been brought as a prisoner, beauty and life seemed to bloom in even the darkest corners. It was evident in the gardens below, with roses of such vivid colors I wasn’t entirely convinced from up there that they were indeed real.

  I hated James for what he was putting me through… or at least I thought I did…but there was no way of denying that I liked it there. Even my brief stint in the city had been so rapid, so disappointing, that it paled in comparison to this. Foolishly I had believed that the city would turn me in the right direction…that it would solve all of my problems and lead me right to Samuel. Of course, where I went from there hadn’t really been a well-laid plan, but I’d be lying if I said I was the kind of person who made plans. I was angry, and I held fast to that anger because it was still a relief to feel emotion, anything, so long as I didn’t have to be numb anymore. My refusal to let it go, however, meant that where James was concerned, the anger was close to follow. And even though I couldn’t be in the same room with him for more than a few minutes without contemplating murder-suicide, I didn’t actually want him to die. I especially didn’t want to be responsible for his death. I didn’t want to leave, for him or for me, who could say? And at the same time, I had unfinished business. I’d promised Gabrielle I would find her son...never mind that she’d been dead when I made that promise, and so I spoke the words to nothing more than her corpse.

  I blinked, chasing away the traitorous thoughts, and decided that an unoccupied mind was a dangerous thing. The room was large, but sparse with little to explore other than a bookshelf nestled in the wall. Heavy philosophical pieces were at home on the top shelf, but I’d had enough practical philosophy in the past few days to last me a lifetime. Below that were the classics—books I’d already read several times through. The bottom two rows were jammed with books of varying sizes and subjects, even a few textbooks. The lack of intrigue the bookcase offered led me to the assumption that the books were most likely all of the common garden variety, until as I was turning away something caught my eye. Sandwiched into one of the lower shelves, a nondescript book was turned backwards, with the spine in, as if it had been set there in haste.

  It was this book in a most ordinary navy binding that I took with me to the window seat, only to find that the first several pages were blank. Mystified, I ran the pages through my fingers, stopping at the first sign of words and the realization that this book was handwritten. In fact, it did not seem to be a book at all. It was a journal.

  Certainly another person’s trivial life dramas would pale in comparrison to my own. I was hoping for catty gossip, scathing inner thoughts, anything. The prospect for escapism excited me; it offered a tempting refuge from all the nonsense that comprised my life, no matter how brief.

  The first written page seemed as though it should have come later, for there was no prelude. Rather it jumped right into a mess of twisting purple letters that looked like they’d been written in haste.

  It seems as though pressure is all that exists any more, as though I am on a plane of my own and there is only duty. Gone are the days of freedom, the evenings I could spend with a book in some far off world, and even the days where there was nothing binding other than the schedule to which we adhere. In a sea of uncertainty, the only guarantee is that the problems never stop. Not that I expected them to, but it does feel as though I’m drowning in them, as though the problems of other people are weighing me down.

  I’m afraid I sound petulant, but to whom should I justify myself? This is not a duty that I’d ever dreamed of having, nor somethi
ng I asked for, but rather something that I inherited, like a mess of dark curls and a wild spirit. And really, I suppose nobody asks for the tasks that are handed to them in this life. Certainly, Jesus didn’t ask to be persecuted and yet, it was a responsibility he accepted humbly.

  Did I really just compare myself to Jesus?

  Shit, I’ve finally gone mad.

  If I’m being honest, what scares me is failure. It seems as though everyone around me is perfect, and I, the one with a lofty cross to bear, am flawed beyond repair. I cannot expect others to instill in me their faith when I don’t have any in myself, and so I will feign that confidence, if that is what my people need from me. But here, in the darkest corners of my mind, in the deepest admissions of my soul, I will speak nothing but the truth. And that truth is that I am a slave of my own creation, tethered to this life by mere circumstance.

  The entry was all that existed on the page, without so much as an initial to seal it or a date to mark the emotions of the author, both of which served as catalyst to my curiosity. It was almost as if I’d written this myself. How many times had I feared failure, feared the knowledge that I would never be able to live up to the expectations of my father, of my siblings, of myself? This person, who’d spilled upon a delicate page even more delicate secrets, had felt as much a prisoner as I. The knowledge shook me to the core, and in spite of myself, I felt a glimmer of something like hope...

  It was a long shot, but perhaps there were others out there like me. Clearly, I wasn’t the only one who’d felt this pressure to exist beyond the limits I’d supposed. What if the reason that I identified so eerily well with the mysterious author was because we were the same? It was an exciting prospect; I nearly tore the page from its binding in my eagerness for more.

  Unfortunately I was interrupted by a knock on the door. I don’t know why I felt the need to conceal it, but I slipped the journal behind a pillow just before the door opened. I fixed James a surly look, unhappy with his interruption. He challenged it with just a small, tentative smile.