Boundless
Page 87
“Are you …?” I start to sit up again, to get a better look at his face.
His hands gently push my shoulders back down. He draws the covers up over me.
“No,” he says. “Sleep, my dear. That’s enough for now. You need to rest.”
And before I can argue, before I can ask him who he really is, he puts his hand at my temple, and I fade back into a deep and dreamless sleep.
I open my eyes to Christian’s face hovering over mine.
“Hi,” he whispers. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine.” I look around for Uriel, but there’s no sign of him. Christian gives me room to sit up. I put my hand to my forehead. I feel better now, more like myself. Or maybe it’s only because Christian’s here. “How long have I been out?”
“Oh, you know. A few days,” he answers cheerfully. “Like, three.”
Whoa, three days? “Well, a girl has to get her beauty sleep,” I say.
He laughs. “I’m kidding. Maybe like eight hours. Not that long.”
“Where’s Tucker?” I ask immediately. “Is he okay?”
There’s a shade of loss in his smile, a resignation that makes something twist inside me.
“He’s fine. He’s downstairs in your mom’s room. He’s been asking about you, too.”
“What happened? At the lake, I mean.”
“You healed him,” he says. “You healed him until you passed out, until you stopped breathing yourself for a few seconds, and then Jeffrey thumped him on the chest a few times, gave him a couple of puffs that I’m sure neither of them will ever want to talk about again, and he came back. He coughed out about a gallon of lake water, but he came back.” Christian looks me in the eyes. “You saved him.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah,” he says with a smirk. “You’re a little bit of a show-off. First you get us out of hell. And then you defeat like the biggest, baddest Watcher on the books, and then you go on a high-speed, very high-altitude chase, and then you resuscitate the dead. Are you done? Because seriously, I don’t know if I can take any more excitement.”
I look away, pressing my lips together to keep from smiling. “I think so.” Then I tell him about Uriel’s visit.
“Why Uriel?” Christian asks when I’m done. “Why send him?”
“I think he’s my grandfather,” I say slowly. “He didn’t tell me that, but I kind of got the impression that he thought of me as family.”
“Your mom’s father?”
“Yeah.” I relate what Uriel said about Asael and Samjeeza, and Christian looks even more relieved, and oddly troubled, like this is not all good news to him. “So maybe we can go back to Stanford?” I say. “We’re free to live a normal life for a while. No angel-blood protection program. Good, right?”
He bites his lip. “I’m going to take some time off from school, I think.”
“Why?” I ask.
He brushes his hair out of his eyes and looks a bit sheepish. “I don’t think that I went to Stanford for the right reasons. I don’t know if I belong there.”
He doesn’t want to be around me is what I get from that answer.
“So you’re taking off.”
“I might travel around with Angela and Web, find a place to lie low for a while. Angela needs some rest.”
“How come you never told me that she’s your sister?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I was still getting used to the idea. I read in her journal about her father being a collector, she called him, and I connected the dots. But it didn’t feel real until—”
Until he saw Asael face-to-face.
“So Web’s your nephew,” I say.
He nods, happy at the thought. “Yeah. He is.”
They’re a family. I feel a flash of something like envy mixed with loss. There won’t be any more days with Christian and Web and me. But it’s for the best. I imagine them walking along the sand on some deserted beach, like in that place Dad liked to train us, Web squishing the sand between his chubby fingers, laughing at the surf.
“I’ve always liked the beach,” he says.
“When?” I ask.
“Nowish. I only wanted to say good-bye.” He sees my stricken expression. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep in touch.”
He gets up. He smiles like everything’s peachy, but I can feel that this is killing him. Leaving me goes against all his instincts, all that his heart is telling him.
“I meant it, what I said in hell,” he says. “You’re my glory sword, you know that? My truth.”
“Christian—”
He holds his hand up like, Let me finish. “I saw the look on your face when he died. I saw what was in your heart, and it’s real. All this time I kept telling myself that it was a crush, and you’d get over it, and then you’d be free to be with me. But it’s not a passing phase, or this stubborn refusal to accept what you think is your destiny. You’re not going to get over it. I know that. You belong with him now.” He swallows. “I was wrong to kiss you that day in the cemetery.”
There are tears in my eyes. I wipe at them. “You’re my best friend,” I whisper.
He looks down. “You know I’m always going to want to be more than that.”
“I know.”
An awkward silence stretches between us. Then he shrugs and gives me his devil-may-care smile, rakes his hand through his wavy brown hair. “Well, you know, that Tucker guy’s not going to be around forever. Maybe I’ll catch up with you in a hundred years or so.”
My breath hitches. Does he mean it, or is he being flippant to save face? I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand up, carefully, in case I’m still weak. But I feel surprisingly fine—refreshed, even. I look at him solemnly. I think about the word longevity. “Don’t wait around for me, Christian. That’s not what I want. I can’t promise you—”
He smirks. “I won’t call it waiting,” he says. “I have to go.”
“Wait. Don’t go yet.”
He stops, something in his expression that doesn’t quite dare to be hope. I cross the room to him and pull up his shirt. For a second he looks totally confused, but then I put my hand on the long gash in his side, which still hasn’t healed. I clear my head as much as I can, then call the glory to my fingers. And it comes.
His hands gently push my shoulders back down. He draws the covers up over me.
“No,” he says. “Sleep, my dear. That’s enough for now. You need to rest.”
And before I can argue, before I can ask him who he really is, he puts his hand at my temple, and I fade back into a deep and dreamless sleep.
I open my eyes to Christian’s face hovering over mine.
“Hi,” he whispers. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine.” I look around for Uriel, but there’s no sign of him. Christian gives me room to sit up. I put my hand to my forehead. I feel better now, more like myself. Or maybe it’s only because Christian’s here. “How long have I been out?”
“Oh, you know. A few days,” he answers cheerfully. “Like, three.”
Whoa, three days? “Well, a girl has to get her beauty sleep,” I say.
He laughs. “I’m kidding. Maybe like eight hours. Not that long.”
“Where’s Tucker?” I ask immediately. “Is he okay?”
There’s a shade of loss in his smile, a resignation that makes something twist inside me.
“He’s fine. He’s downstairs in your mom’s room. He’s been asking about you, too.”
“What happened? At the lake, I mean.”
“You healed him,” he says. “You healed him until you passed out, until you stopped breathing yourself for a few seconds, and then Jeffrey thumped him on the chest a few times, gave him a couple of puffs that I’m sure neither of them will ever want to talk about again, and he came back. He coughed out about a gallon of lake water, but he came back.” Christian looks me in the eyes. “You saved him.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah,” he says with a smirk. “You’re a little bit of a show-off. First you get us out of hell. And then you defeat like the biggest, baddest Watcher on the books, and then you go on a high-speed, very high-altitude chase, and then you resuscitate the dead. Are you done? Because seriously, I don’t know if I can take any more excitement.”
I look away, pressing my lips together to keep from smiling. “I think so.” Then I tell him about Uriel’s visit.
“Why Uriel?” Christian asks when I’m done. “Why send him?”
“I think he’s my grandfather,” I say slowly. “He didn’t tell me that, but I kind of got the impression that he thought of me as family.”
“Your mom’s father?”
“Yeah.” I relate what Uriel said about Asael and Samjeeza, and Christian looks even more relieved, and oddly troubled, like this is not all good news to him. “So maybe we can go back to Stanford?” I say. “We’re free to live a normal life for a while. No angel-blood protection program. Good, right?”
He bites his lip. “I’m going to take some time off from school, I think.”
“Why?” I ask.
He brushes his hair out of his eyes and looks a bit sheepish. “I don’t think that I went to Stanford for the right reasons. I don’t know if I belong there.”
He doesn’t want to be around me is what I get from that answer.
“So you’re taking off.”
“I might travel around with Angela and Web, find a place to lie low for a while. Angela needs some rest.”
“How come you never told me that she’s your sister?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I was still getting used to the idea. I read in her journal about her father being a collector, she called him, and I connected the dots. But it didn’t feel real until—”
Until he saw Asael face-to-face.
“So Web’s your nephew,” I say.
He nods, happy at the thought. “Yeah. He is.”
They’re a family. I feel a flash of something like envy mixed with loss. There won’t be any more days with Christian and Web and me. But it’s for the best. I imagine them walking along the sand on some deserted beach, like in that place Dad liked to train us, Web squishing the sand between his chubby fingers, laughing at the surf.
“I’ve always liked the beach,” he says.
“When?” I ask.
“Nowish. I only wanted to say good-bye.” He sees my stricken expression. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep in touch.”
He gets up. He smiles like everything’s peachy, but I can feel that this is killing him. Leaving me goes against all his instincts, all that his heart is telling him.
“I meant it, what I said in hell,” he says. “You’re my glory sword, you know that? My truth.”
“Christian—”
He holds his hand up like, Let me finish. “I saw the look on your face when he died. I saw what was in your heart, and it’s real. All this time I kept telling myself that it was a crush, and you’d get over it, and then you’d be free to be with me. But it’s not a passing phase, or this stubborn refusal to accept what you think is your destiny. You’re not going to get over it. I know that. You belong with him now.” He swallows. “I was wrong to kiss you that day in the cemetery.”
There are tears in my eyes. I wipe at them. “You’re my best friend,” I whisper.
He looks down. “You know I’m always going to want to be more than that.”
“I know.”
An awkward silence stretches between us. Then he shrugs and gives me his devil-may-care smile, rakes his hand through his wavy brown hair. “Well, you know, that Tucker guy’s not going to be around forever. Maybe I’ll catch up with you in a hundred years or so.”
My breath hitches. Does he mean it, or is he being flippant to save face? I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand up, carefully, in case I’m still weak. But I feel surprisingly fine—refreshed, even. I look at him solemnly. I think about the word longevity. “Don’t wait around for me, Christian. That’s not what I want. I can’t promise you—”
He smirks. “I won’t call it waiting,” he says. “I have to go.”
“Wait. Don’t go yet.”
He stops, something in his expression that doesn’t quite dare to be hope. I cross the room to him and pull up his shirt. For a second he looks totally confused, but then I put my hand on the long gash in his side, which still hasn’t healed. I clear my head as much as I can, then call the glory to my fingers. And it comes.
