Darkling (16 page)

But Tristan was so blinded by his feelings for her, and is still, that he doesn’t see the truth. Victoria has always been dangerous. It’s only now, after years of torture, that he can admit it, but only to a point. He doesn’t like that she hurts him but he won’t blame her for it. He won’t acknowledge her selfishness, her cruelty. He is loyal to a woman who never existed.

I saw into his mind. I felt how he felt at the time. Empty and restrained until she came along. He mistook her manic desire for passion for him. And I suppose it was passion for him, but in the wrong way. He was too young and too wooed by her fire to notice. Never in any of those memories did she ask him what he wanted. Never did she express an interest in hearing his thoughts. In finding out how he saw the world. Her fascination in him was surface only.

Through her “spells” of lovesickness, her depression over her own obsession with him, she turned his kindness against him. She manipulated his innocence and inexperience. She used her affection as a weapon, withholding it until loneliness overtook him, then giving it back copiously. He would be so grateful that he would willingly forget that she was the one who had made him feel empty in the first place.

That isn’t love. That’s lust and mania.

And as much as he forgives her, as much as he claims he loves her, part of Tristan knows this isn’t right. That it never was right. But after all they had been through together, what other choice could he have had but to remain with Victoria? The hurt of knowing your own mother and father wanted you dead would be hard enough to bear. On top of it, he was alone in the woods, at least a half a day from our village. And all he had was a mad woman.

Tristan groans, yanking me out of my thoughts. One of his legs twitches then he groans again, scrunching up his face. He’s trying to wake up. I grab his hand.
“Tristan?”

His hand squeezes mine then his eyes flutter open. He winces. I wait as he adjusts to the pain in his body,
then smile when his eyes find mine. His lips grow taut and he tugs his hand away. Sighing, he lolls his head to the side, looking at the hearth, but he doesn’t move and he doesn’t speak.

“I’m glad you’re still here,” I whisper. He blinks but doesn’t respond. “I don’t know what I’d have done here alone.” His vest is crumpled so I tug on the hem, gently straightening it.

“You’d have lived in peace,” he murmurs huskily. His throat is swollen. He’s intentionally not healing himself, forcing himself to feel the pain.

“I’d have lived in loneliness.”

“I can’t hurt you if I’m gone.”

I take his hand again and fight him when he tries to pull it away. “That wasn’t you, Tristan. You tried to warn me before it happened. It was her.”

He stops trying to pull his hand out of mine and holds still for several moments as he considers this.

“Still,” he says,
then winces as he turns his head to look at me. “I couldn’t stop her from taking over me. I never could.” He takes a deep breath and sighs. “You should have let me die. I might hurt you again.”

“I know,” I whisper. “But that’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

“What if I’m not?”

“You have to. If we give into her now, she’ll win. She’ll devour your spirit. And the darkness will only spread.”

Tristan slides his fingers along mine, examining them. “Then what I did was very selfish. It wouldn’t have fixed anything.”

“That’s why I stopped you.”

He stops playing with my hand and I wish he hadn’t. He meets my gaze with sad eyes. “I wish I could heal you.”

“Why don’t you heal yourself instead?”

Tristan shakes his head no and winces. His lips sneer and for a moment I’m worried he’ll be sick. After several shallow breaths, the nausea seems to pass. I wonder if he’s keeping his necklace of bruises because I still have mine. That is the sort of thing Victoria would say was fair.

“Please? If she attacks you again, you need to be strong.”

He sighs then after a while, the fire dims. The dark marks on his neck fade and he sits up.

“Better?”

He nods, his hair falling into his face. I wrap my arm around his and he stiffens, as if unsure of what I’m doing.

“I thought you remembered hugs.”

Tristan smiles a little and rests his temple on my shoulder. I lean my cheek against his head. He smells of autumn leaves. “I remember more than hugs,” he whispers.

I know. I saw it in his memories. I wonder why he bothered to say it. Is he thinking about more than hugs? Focus. I need to know how much he understands his marriage. “Did you know that our spirits are the most important parts of
ourselves?”

“Important?”

“Like you. You’ve always been very kind.”

He shifts to make his cheek more comfortable. “Do you know what your spirit is like?”

My spirit? I’ve never considered that before.

“It’s warm,” Tristan says quietly. “And welcoming, like a hearth. Like a mother.”

I never would’ve thought of myself as a mother before. In fact, after the darkness came, I didn’t think I’d live long enough to have children at all.

“But more than that,” he continues, “it’s light. Like the sun. Guiding like the North Star.
Strong and unwavering.”

My throat has gone dry so I swallow. “You can feel my spirit?”

I feel him shift to peer up at me. “I always have. Since I saw you on the rock.” He pulls away and I straighten. “I didn’t say hello,” he chides himself. “I was so rude.”

“You led me to this house. It was probably difficult enough for you to focus on that.”

“Forgetful…”

“You were asking for my help.
Even if you didn’t know it at the time.”

“I only wanted a friend.”

“That’s not all you wanted. I know what you showed me, Tristan. What you and Victoria had – what you
have
– isn’t love.”

His mouth twitches and he looks away, as if I’m saying something mutinous.

“It’s obsession. It’s passion, yes, and loyalty on your part, but it isn’t love.”

He pivots so that his back is to me. “You know that, Tristan,” I whisper.

“How could I?” he asks. “When she’s all I’ve ever known?”

“You know yourself. You wouldn’t have done this to her if your roles were switched. Would you?”

His shoulders slump. “No.”

“Then trust that. Trust yourself. You’re not her. You’re an individual. She loved parts of you but not all of you. If she did, she’d have waited for you in the Netherworld. She’d have wanted you to live and enjoy your life.
Without her.”

Even as I’m saying it, I’m realizing that I was wrong to have thought I was like Victoria. I may have never really been in love, but I’ve felt its pull. I’ve felt desire. Even trapped here in a house with Tristan, whose appearance gives me such pleasure, I haven’t tried to use my ability as a Listener to trick him. I didn’t manipulate him when he was simple. I haven’t made him do anything against his will.
Because he is his own person. He deserves respect. And whatever we may have in common, I admire him for our differences. He’s more present than I am. He dwells in the here and now, even after he has remembered his past. Though he is tortured and abused, he isn’t jaded. Tristan isn’t quietness. He is resilience.

He’s looking at me over his shoulder now with such intensity that he must be realizing the same. That what he had was over. That Victoria has kept him in a cage. That he’s free.

“I’m my own,” he whispers.

I nod, smiling. He has such wonder in his eyes. We climb to our feet and go to each other. Our palms meet. His eyes are searching my face, his lips parted to say something. But the candles around us flicker. His hands suddenly go cold in mine then he jerks and pain flashes across his face.

The hair on the back of my arms and neck stands on end. She’s entering him.

“Tristan, remember who you are,” I say in a rush.
“Fight. You’re better than her.”

His face is flushed and his fingers are digging into mine as he battles, but the sense of something growing around me is increasing. He is losing. Helping him focus on his past life helped him resist her before. But it won’t work now.
Because she was in his past.

Life is the present. I am the present. So I do the only thing I can think of to remind him of that.
To leave her behind. I kiss him.

T
ristan’s lips are cold and taut against mine. His fingers are still digging into the backs of my hands. Then they relax. The world around me feels like it’s spinning as he kisses me back. I feel her swirling around us. See the candles flickering wildly. So I close my eyes. My hair stops standing on end. She’s growing weaker. Tristan lets go of one of my hands to slip his fingers into the hair at the base of my neck. He leans into me and his lips have grown warm. Hot.

I’m hot. She’s gone.

I open my eyes and place my hand on his chest as I pull away. Resting my forehead on his, I can feel his breath panting against my wet lips, his pulse racing through our touching skin. There’s a loud pop from my side and I jump. He grabs my arms, as if to shield me. But it was only the fire. We laugh. It’s roaring even though we haven’t done anything to tend it.

The candles and lamps are steady. Something tingling and light is spreading through my body from my chest. I rest my head against him and close my eyes as I feel his hand rest on the bare portion of my back. I can hear his heart beating.

“Is she gone?” I whisper.

When he speaks, his voice rumbles his throat. “She’s weak. She’s hiding.”

“Good.” I take a deep breath of his scent. Autumn leaves and iron blood. It’s staining his clothing. With both his body heat and the fire, I’m too warm. But I don’t move. He combs his fingers through my hair. I am at such peace.

We stay like that for some time. The longer he holds me and I hear his heart, the stronger I feel
. This is a turning point, but not just against her.

I feel happy.
Genuinely happy. Something I haven’t felt since Scarlet died. I know that the darkness is still here, that our lives are still in danger, but right now I don’t care. No, I do care. But I feel something more than that. Something stronger than my years of worry. Something blissful and addictive and intimidating. And I know I wouldn’t be feeling it if not for him.

I tilt my head up to meet Tristan’s eyes. He smiles at me and I trace my fingers down his jaw. His face is blooming. I’m blooming. He catches my hand in his and kisses each of my fingertips. I surprise myself when I realize I wouldn’t mind his lips going anywhere on my body. The way he’s looking at me makes me feel beautiful and I have no shame. I kiss his lips again.

Victoria can’t use him against me anymore. I’m not taking him from her. He’s taking himself from her. I’m just helping.

Grabbing his hand in mine, I lead him into the kitchen. I need to eat. While I finish off the rest of the smoked pork, I pretend I didn’t just see Tristan eat a spider. I peer out the window, trying to see the sky. If she’s weak, then maybe we’ve made some progress. If there has been any change, I can’t see it.

We head back upstairs. If I couldn’t get enough of Tristan’s face before, I definitely can’t now. It’s radiating happiness, as is his body. His spirit. When he looks at me, I remember what sunlight feels like.

He stokes the fire to warm the chill out of the room. I spot my mother’s wedding dress on the bed. Though it’s tattered and torn and was never comfortable, it’s more so than the gown I’m wearing now. And it never belonged to her. When Tristan sees that I mean to change, he pretends he is busy reading the titles of his books with his back to me.

I slip back into the old dress and fold the other up neatly. This one still has leaves and needles stuck on it but I don’t mind. They remind me of how I got to this place. Of how much has changed.

I turn back to Tristan and find him leafing through his old journal. I can tell by the way his eyes are twitching back and forth that he’s reading. He slowly sinks into the chair and I know he’s forgotten that I’m here. Scarlet said that can happen sometimes. She said she used to get so absorbed in what she was reading that she would no longer be able to hear her surroundings. That can happen to me when I’m listening to a spirit whispering.