Seeker

John stood against Quin’s closed bedroom door, watching her sleep. She was, at this moment, smiling into her pillow as though caught in the grip of a delightful dream. Is she dreaming about me, he wondered, as I have dreamed of her?

But many of his dreams about her hadn’t been pleasant. The last time he’d seen her, she had been on the other side of that strange portal, blood spreading across her chest. A stray bullet from his own gun had nearly killed her, and the memory of it was like an icicle to his gut. How could I have let that happen?

When he’d arrived in her office downstairs, he had expected her to scream and call for help, or to attack him—either would have been justified. Instead, though she seemed to know his face, she hadn’t even remembered his name at first. Somehow Quin had started her life over. Was it possible she didn’t remember the events of her last night on the estate? And if so, could that mean he was forgiven? That he had another chance with her?

“How did you manage to forget?” he asked her softly, returning to the bed.

Quin shifted in her sleep but didn’t wake up. Gently John unbuttoned the neck of her shirt and pulled it back. He didn’t want to look but felt compelled by guilt. By her left shoulder, he found the scar where his bullet had exited her body. The mark was round and puckered and still red. He guessed that it must bother her from time to time. A few inches closer to her heart, and she surely would have died.

“I thought I killed you,” he whispered, feeling again the horror of that moment. “I thought you were dead.”

He lay down next to Quin and closed his eyes. The smell of her brought back vivid memories of their last afternoon among the trees.

“I don’t want to be alone in this,” he whispered. “I need you back.”

“Need you,” she murmured. She was still asleep, the smile from her dream lingering on her face.

When he felt her hand against his cheek, he leaned forward and brushed her lips with his own. Quin pulled him closer and sleepily wrapped her arms around him.

“Why did we never …” she began, starting to wake up.

“I wanted to,” he whispered.

She moved her head into the crook of his neck. “John.” She said his name against his skin, like it was a foreign word she had just learned, “John.”

He put his arms around her, feeling the length of her against him. There will be many things that try to pull you from the path. Hatred is one, and love is another … He wanted to tell his mother and Maggie to be silent. Couldn’t he live a day or a week or a month in peace? Couldn’t he have Quin to himself for a while? But the promise he had made lay like a glowing ember at the center of his heart, and their words were always in his mind.

He needed Quin’s help. And there wasn’t even time to prepare her for what he was about to ask. There were signs of Fiona all over the house. Quin didn’t live here alone, and at some point, Fiona would be back. John had burned the estate and shot her daughter. He was quite certain Fiona would not give him a warm welcome.

In fact, it was even possible, if Fiona were clearheaded, that she had already sensed something amiss and was heading back to check on things. He must convince Quin now.

“Quin … will you help me?” he whispered. “I need your help.”NôvelDrama.Org: text © owner.

Quin’s lips were on his cheek. “Of course I’ll help you,” she whispered. “Anything.”

She might still have been half asleep, but he allowed himself to hope.

He sat up and shifted to the side, giving her a clear view of what was lying on the chair by the door to her bedroom: the athame.

Immediately the spell was broken.

Quin moved away from him and slid up into a sitting position, her back against the wall, her arms around her body.

“What is that?” she asked. “Why is it here?”

“Quin,” he said gently, “you know what it is. It might take you a moment to remember—like when you saw me downstairs. But you know what it is.”

“I don’t.”

“Please don’t be scared. It’s just us here—”

Without warning, Quin was on her feet, bolting for the door. John scrambled to get there first, blocking her path.

“Let me out,” she said. “Let me out of here!”

She pushed him, but John didn’t move aside. His back was pressed against the door, holding it shut.

“It’s just lying there,” he said. “We’re not even touching it. It’s all right, Quin. Please.”

But she was in a panic. “Get out of my way, John!” Louder, she called, “Ma! Fiona!”

“You don’t have to handle the dagger. You don’t even have to look at it. I only need you to teach me.”

She wasn’t listening. She swung at him, and her hand connected with his cheek. “Let me out of the room! Mother! Mother!”

Then her knees gave, as they had done downstairs. She fell to the floor. “That’s not me,” she whispered. “Not anymore. I do good things …”

John knelt down. “I’m not trying to hurt you. I want to be with you. I only—”

“I’m going to be sick … I’m going to be sick …” she was muttering. “Let me out, please.”

She really did look like she might throw up.

He pulled her gently to her feet and walked her out of the bedroom. When he took her into the bathroom, Quin dropped to the floor by the toilet, clutching her stomach. Away from the athame, however, she calmed a bit. He crouched next to her, trying to get her to look at him.

“Why are you here?” she asked. “I don’t want to feel what I feel around you.”

“You stayed on the estate. You know how to use the athame—”

“Don’t talk about it!” she whispered.

“I have to. Briac is gone. Alistair …” At the memory of Alistair, John fell silent for a moment, overcome by regret. It was an accident, he reminded himself. And he could have helped me. He could have done what was right. He pushed those thoughts from his mind and concentrated on Quin. “You’re the only one,” he told her. “Or Shinobu—is he here? Is he with you?” He hadn’t thought much about Shinobu, but the sudden idea that he might still be with her brought on a deep pang of jealously.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she breathed.

Maybe she’d forgotten Shinobu too. That was good. “Show me how to get There,” he told her. “Teach me. Then I’ll go, if—if you want me to go.”

“That’s not me anymore,” she told him. “I don’t do those things.”

“Teach me, and you—you never have to see me again.”

“John …”

“My grandfather can’t help me much longer. He can hardly help himself,” he said desperately. “I promised, Quin. I have it back now. Please show me—”

“Stop!” Her hands were over her ears, and she was rocking back and forth on the floor. “I don’t remember those things! I don’t remember them. They’re behind me.”

He gently took hold of her shoulders.

“Don’t you see that everything can be okay?” he whispered to her. “We’re here—just us. Together, we can get past all the bad things that have happened. Start deciding what’s right for ourselves.”

“Stop, please—”

“I love you.” He pulled her hands off her ears. “Will you please help me?”

He was holding her hands, kneeling in front of her. The look on her face was like that of a wild animal cornered in the woods.

“Come on,” he said softly. “Won’t it be nice to be together? Like we always imagined. Teach me about the athame.”

Quin’s eyes were frantic. Without warning, her head shot forward, slamming into John’s forehead, stunning him in a blossom of pain.

She scrambled to her feet, reeled against the bathroom doorframe, and then she was away from him and running down the stairs.

“Quin!”

He was on his feet. He grabbed the athame and moved down the stairs after her.

But she was already at the front door. She threw it open and flew out. He reached the doorway in time to see her push through a crowd of pedestrians, then crash into one of them, sending herself sprawling onto the Bridge thoroughfare.

John could still feel her lips against his, but he hadn’t been able to hold on to her. Again, he’d failed to convince her, and she was abandoning him.

He watched as she disentangled herself from the pedestrian and was back on her feet, running. She was getting away, but John was no longer seeing Quin or the Bridge. He was seeing the slumped figure of a five-year-old boy, lying by his dead sisters. He was seeing a dozen bodies, drowned, pinned to walls. He was seeing a young woman, so like his own mother, screaming as Briac Kincaid made her bleed to death. He had promised all of them.

Were there other Seekers who could teach him the secrets of the athame? Somewhere, John believed, there must be. But Quin was here, now. He needed her to help him, even if he had to force her. And he believed, deep down, she wanted to help. Wouldn’t she understand in the end and forgive him?

John brought his eyes back into focus on the Bridge. He gestured to the men outside Quin’s house—men he had brought, but whom he’d dearly hoped would not be necessary. They materialized around him from their hiding places and moved into the crowds, following Quin’s trail.