He gives no explanation, nor do I ask for one. After a moment he drops his lips to mine, sweeping me into him until, once again, the power is so intense I can’t handle anymore, yet I want it all.
“I can feel everywhere you touch,” I whisper.
He lifts his hand to my cheek, then runs it down my arm, forcing me to grab his lips again with mine. His fingers run through my hair then wrap around my neck. His eyes roam up and down from my eyes, to my mouth, to my chin. Then he presses his lips on mine and I can feel the stubble of his unshaven face. At first, he is hesitant, but then pulls me tighter. I drop back on the bed, pulling our lips away for just a moment. He doesn’t rush back into the kiss. Rather, he takes his time. His heavy body rolls to cover half of mine. His hand travels down my arm, then entangles with mine—his fingers leaving a shock with each place they touch. My stomach tightens with hope that he won’t stop. His palm travels the skin to my chest, but it is then that he pulls away. After a moment he stands to his feet.
My lips are still pulsing as I watch him—my heart feeling the crush of distance. He begins to dress but stops to speak.
“When you fall for someone—at the beginning you think it’s love. Even for the first five years . . . ten years you might convince yourself that you’ve finally made it to a long successful marriage. But Willow, it’s not until you’ve been with someone for thirty years, fifty years, or for us . . . hundreds of years that you suddenly realize that love isn’t in the newness. It’s in the old. The things that still keep you in love after so many years together. It’s the choosing this person over every other for so many years that you’ve lost count of how many memories you have together. All you know is that you wouldn’t want those memories with anyone else. The years alone bring that feeling back to you. I know Remy is there . . . you come out occasionally, but you are still Willow. You have no memory of what made you my wife—the countless moments we chose each other. And until then . . .”
The silence falls between us while his words play in my brain.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
And suddenly, my comfort is gone. I’m grateful for the knock that sounds on the door.
“Yes?” he calls out.
“Arek?” It is Peter. Peter’s timing seems to be impeccable.
Quickly, Arek opens the door and pulls Peter inside. It is obvious the young boy feels uncomfortable when he sees me on the bed, so I climb to my feet.
“What do you need?” Arek asks.
“Briston needs you immediately.”
“Why?”
Peter looks awkwardly my way and I understand instantly. “It’s about me?”
“It’s not about you, Remy—I mean Willow . . . sorry.”
Together we follow Peter down the hall to Briston’s room. When we enter, the TV is on and he is watching several news channels at once. Some I have seen and others I haven’t.
“Navin’s trying to do everything he can to start an uprising,” Briston sighs. “The Reds and CTA have managed to put out many of the fires, but some of these things on social media and other media, especially large cities—there is no explanation for them. There’s no way to answer the questions of so many without telling everyone who we are. Navin’s doing everything he can.”
“Why now?” I whisper.
“To finally get what he wants,” Arek answers. “His followers have increased and this gives him more chance to take the Ephemes out.”
Briston explains, “Remy’s death put a crack in that crystal-clear vision that the Prophets and the Powers have been creating for years. Their mantra has always been, soon. You will get peace . . . soon . . . but not now. They strung people along until you died. After your death people questioned everything they’d ever believed. It took years for the government to earn back people’s trust. This pushed a lot of good people to side with Navin.” Briston rubs his eyes with fatigue and concern. The chaos on every channel is just a tangible reality of a broken world.
As they talk a vision comes to me . . .
Remy, somewhere as a child, in a dark room, with a rotating metal clock that looks like a cross. There is a faceless man that makes her uncomfortable. Yet this changes after a moment and once again, I see it as if it is my own memory. I am the child and uncomfortable with the faceless man.
“Willow?” Briston asks. “Where’d you go?”
I realize Arek and Briston are both looking at me with concern. I answer, “Nowhere . . . sorry.”
Arek leans against a desk with his arms crossed, never looking at the monitors—maybe out of self-preservation or, now that I know him better, irritation that he can’t do anything to fix the problem. He shrugs his shoulders. “I’m pretty sure Navin never intended to have you arrested or killed.” Briston and I both look at him with surprise, so he continues, “I know my brother. He wanted you to join him. When I was a kid, he was nearly an adult and he spoke of this prophecy often. It was his quest to find The One and show them the truth.”
Briston shuffles in his chair, looking off into space, the wheels in his brain turning. “But Remy’s arrest and subsequent death—I mean, it did what he wanted. It caused riots to break out and people to lose trust in the Velieri government, which devastated the Powers for years. Trust me, Navin got everything he wanted from Remy being gone.”
Arek presses Briston with his eyes. “Did he? Sure, it caused some chaos, but did he get the power that he wanted? I grew up with him. He was a bully, yes . . . but he was also smart, which encouraged his delusions. Convincing himself that if he had the love of The One,” Arek looks directly at me, “that Power could signify that the Prophecy really is his for the taking. We’re not talking about a rational person here. We’re talking about a person who is delusional: if he can steal it, it’s his. If he simply says something, it’s truth.”
“Then why is he trying to kill me?”
“Is he?” Arek asks. “I know that he wants to get to you first. I just wish I knew why.”
Several channels, displayed behind Briston, show rioting through the streets of downtown Los Angeles. However, as I look closer, they give completely opposing views of what is happening. I have never seen the logo for several of these Velieri channels. Fox News gives a story about terrorists attacking outside of Biddy Mason Park, while the Velieri newscasters give an account of the same attack as though the rebellion is creating more destruction.
Briston hands Arek a piece of paper to read and he does.
“He can’t be serious.” Arek shakes his head.
“Is your father ever anything but serious? This,” Briston says as he points at the TVs, “tells Leigh that he needs to eliminate the cause as soon as possible.”
I am starting to understand . . . finally. “I’m the cause.”
“You’re causing problems in my father’s black and white world. Someone’s probably pressuring him to get you out of sight and out of mind.”
Briston stands up. “I’ve brokered a deal with him. He’ll meet us at his place.”
The discomfort of this idea pulls Arek’s shoulders to his ears. “No. Not until I can figure out how to fix this. They gave us time. They can’t take that away.”
My father places a hand on my elbow as he passes by to grab his ringing phone. “They can and they will.”
Silence looms and no amount of it seems to change Arek’s mind as Briston answers the phone.
