Death Wish (The Ceruleans: Book 1) (25 page)

I should have just stood up. I wasn’t in the deep; I was
near the shore. I should have stood up. But I was moving, spinning, at
bewildering speed, and all was blackness – burning, biting, bruising blackness.

I fought. I kicked. I twisted.

My head broke the surface.

I coughed. I blinked.

The lights of Twycombe came into focus, bright in the dark.
Receding.

I was moving. I was moving away.

My dress was heavy and tangled around my legs, tugging me
down.

No.
No!

I kicked furiously against the current, striking out for
shore. I kicked. I kicked. Still, the lights were smaller, dimmer.

Waves were everywhere, swirling, surging, seething – a
raging melange of foam and salt and inky water biting at me, pulling at me,
thrusting upon me a solitary invitation:

Death
.

I fought. For an eternity, I fought. Until the last wave
crashed onto me and I inhaled a lungful of water. And I sank…

… for all of a second before something grabbed the back of
my dress and hauled me upward. Coughing and spluttering, I emerged from the
black. I made out words:

‘… rip current… not against it… parallel with the beach…
swim…
swim
…’

The current was pulling me away; the hand gripping my dress
was pulling me to the side.

I kicked. I kicked. I kicked.

I
kicked
.

The sea let go of me. The boy beside me did not.

‘Scarlett… it’s okay, I’ve got you. We’re clear. It’s okay.
Scarlett?’

I stared at him. The figure on the beach. The figure running
for the water. For me.

Not Jude.

Not Jude at all.

Luke. His hair was matted to his head; his face was twisted
with emotion. Fear. Anger. Pain.

Oh God, oh no – he was never meant to see this.

The momentum of the waves threw him into me. I looked
around. We were some way into the cove, away from the current, near the west
cliff.

‘Come on,’ Luke ordered. ‘Back to shore.’

Mutely, I nodded.

Keeping hold of me with one hand, he began kicking and
slicing through the water with his free arm. But it was hard to swim while
holding on, and he let go.

‘Swim!’ he barked.

I struck out for shore, kicking hard though my body ached
horribly with the effort. He swam beside me, close enough to bump into me
often. The waves were buffeting us back to safety; we would be back in the
shallows in a minute, no more.

Or not.

A wave hit us. Luke collided with me. Hard. We went under.

I felt him against me, writhing. I grabbed at him.

Water turned to air.

I was up.

He was under.

I had fistfuls of his shirt. I yanked.

He was up.

‘Cramp,’ he gasped.

‘What do I do? Tell me what to do!’

A wave hit us. Luke collided with me. Hard. We went under.

My hands reached out for him, grasping, searching.

Nothing.

Luke!

I kicked. Surfaced.

The west cliff. Close.

A frantic splashing behind.

I twisted. He was there, struggling, a few feet away.

I swam to him, and I grabbed him, and he held on to me,
coughing violently.

‘It’s okay,’ I told him. ‘It’s –’

It wasn’t okay. Rocks. Black. Jagged. Close.

With all my force I pushed him seaward, putting myself
between him and the impending collision. His eyes widened as he glimpsed the
rocks over my shoulder. As a wave threw us forwards I stared into his eyes and
I thought of Sienna’s chalcanthite on my bedside, of its unyielding solidity,
its sharp spikes, and I braced myself for pain. But it never came. At the last
moment, like the lead dancer in some desperate tango, Luke clasped me to him
and spun us. He took all the impact; his back slammed against a rock.

He let go.

*

The ocean’s momentum carried us to shore, as if it were
reluctant to take us. I held tight to Luke all the way –
please, please,
please, please
– and when the water was shallow enough to stand, I braced
my feet and hauled. I only managed a couple of steps out of the surf before I
dropped him to the beach. He flopped like a ragdoll, broken and lifeless.

I did not check his breathing.

I did not check his pulse.

I did not call for help.

I did what every fibre in me screamed to do; what I knew, I
knew
,
had to be done: I lay my hands on his chest and I willed him to heal.

Blue light lit the darkness. I pushed it out, out, until it
was all I could see, until every bit of warmth left in me was flooding into
Luke.

I had never wanted anything more in my life than to heal
this boy. I would do anything now, give anything – give all of myself. Every
weak moment in my life, challenged now. Every strong moment, channelled now.

I felt the coldness creeping up on me, the blackness seeping
in.

I ignored all sensation, pushing on, chanting in my head:
You
will live. You will live.

A stuttering in my chest. Blood drops sprinkling on his
white shirt from above, from me. It didn’t matter – nothing mattered but that
he lived.

Then, as if God had flicked a switch, it was gone – the
light. And it was so dark. And it was so cold.

The last thing I heard as I collapsed onto Luke was the steady
thump of his heart beating in time with the midnight chimes of St Mary’s clock.

Flashes of light shooting on an eternal black canvas.

Weightless.

Drifting.

‘Luke?’

‘He’ll be fine. Better than fine. You healed him. And
nearly killed yourself in the process.’

‘Jude.’

‘Yes.’

‘You’re late.’

‘For what?’

‘The show.’

‘What show?’

A groan.

‘Scarlett, Luke is stirring. I have to go.’

‘Stay.’

‘I can’t. But I’ll be back. Tomorrow. Now hush. Lie
still.’

The light that woke me was wonderfully, beautifully ordinary
– no otherworldly brilliance, just a soft golden glow permeating cotton
curtains dotted with embroidered flowers. My grandmother’s sewing.

I was home. Safe. Warm.
Really
warm – because of the
heat emanating from a form beside me.

Luke.

He was asleep, his cheeks flushed, his lashes tangled, his
mouth open a little. Beneath the quilt, his bare legs were entwined with mine,
and his hand was on my arm. Keeping me here. Keeping me close.

I held tight to him as the fog of dreamland rolled away to
expose reality.

What had I done?

Stupid, reckless – assuming Jude would come.

Why hadn’t he come sooner?

Why had Luke followed me?

What had he seen?

What did he think of me?

Oh God, oh God, what had I done?

Because of me, Luke nearly died.

Because of me, he didn’t die.

I healed him.

I healed him.

Luke stirred. He muttered something, grimaced. Then his eyes
flew open and he gasped and his hand flailed about, grabbing at me.

‘I’m here,’ I said. ‘It’s okay.’

It took him a moment to process the fact; he just stared at
me. His eyes were so blue in the light; last night, in the ocean, they’d been a
fathomless black.

He let go of me and sank back onto the pillow. ‘You’re here.
You’re okay,’ he breathed.

‘Are you?’ I asked, running a hand over his hair. It was
stiff and sandy and smelt of the sea.

‘I’m fine,’ he replied at once.

‘Hey,’ I said gently. ‘That’s my line.’

He almost smiled; I saw the corners of his eyes begin to
crinkle. Then his eyes widened. He was remembering – remembering it all. I
could only imagine the scene playing out in his head. Me on the beach. In the
water. Just like my sister. My
suicidal
sister
.

He shot upright.

‘What the hell, Scarlett –’

‘I’m so sorry, I –’

‘You could have died – what were you thinking – you could
have died –’

‘I didn’t mean –’

‘I could have lost you – why didn’t you tell me – it’s not
the answer!’

‘I know that; I was –’

‘After your sister, how could you think –’

‘I didn’t think –’

‘Why didn’t you
tell
me you felt so low –’

‘I don’t!’

My shouting pulled him up short and we stared at each other,
panting and flushed.

‘I don’t understand…’

‘I’m sorry.’ I came to kneel in front of him on the bed.
‘I’m sorry.’

‘I don’t care about
sorry
, Scarlett,’ he said. ‘I
care about
why
. Tell me why. Please.’

I had never heard him so tormented; never seen him so hurt.
I was desperate to change that, to make him my Luke again – smiling, tender,
full of faith in me, not this terrible doubt. But I didn’t know what to say.
How could I undo the damage I’d done? I couldn’t have him thinking I’d meant to
die, but I couldn’t tell him the truth either. I didn’t even know what the
truth was in full –
I healed him; I healed him!
– and he would never
believe all I had seen, all I had done.

‘I saw you on the beach,’ he prompted as I sat mutely. ‘I
decided to leave the party too. No fun without you. I thought I’d catch you
outside, drive you home. But you weren’t at your car. You were on the beach.
And you ran into the water…’

I knew what came next: you ran into the water
just like
Sienna
. I couldn’t bear it; I couldn’t let him think that. I opened my
mouth and words tumbled out.

‘I saw something in the water. I thought… I thought it was a
person. Waving. Drowning.’

Luke’s eyes bulged. ‘You saw someone?’

‘I
thought
I saw someone. I was wrong. I’m an idiot.’

‘You thought you saw someone. So you ran in. In that dress.
In the dark. All alone.’

‘Like I said, I’m an idiot.’

He reached over and gripped my arms. ‘You were trying to
save someone? You weren’t trying to kill yourself?’

‘I wasn’t trying to kill myself.’

‘Swear to me.’

‘I swear.’

‘You wouldn’t lie about this to me?’

‘No.’ Not about
this
.

He stared at me. ‘You
are
okay,’ he said at last.
‘You’re okay!’

He leaned forwards to kiss me. The relief was exquisite. He
believed me. But his lips didn’t meet mine. Suddenly, he was moving away, out
of the bed. I reached for him, but let my arm drop when I saw the look in his
eyes and the muscle working furiously in his jaw. He was really angry.

‘What were you
thinking
going in there! Why didn’t
you run for help?’

Tears pricked at my eyes – I hated being the target of
anyone’s anger, let alone Luke. I deserved it, though, I knew that, so I tried
to hold back my emotions.

‘The water was calm enough, I thought. It didn’t look too
dangerous.’

‘But it was! The rip current.’

‘I didn’t know it was there.’

‘I told you back in our surf lessons. I told you we get them
in the cove occasionally. I told you what to do to get out of one. You forgot
everything – you were fighting against it. You’d have drowned carrying on that
way!’

He wasn’t yelling, but I almost wished he would. He was
right – I could have died. And he’d risked his own life to get me out of the
current. The image of him limp and lifeless on the beach came to me. My chest
ached with the effort of holding back the tears.

‘And then the rocks… Scarlett, what the hell happened after
we hit the rocks?’

‘I brought you back to the shore,’ I whispered.

‘You? But you were out of it! When I woke up on the beach
you were lying on me, and when I sat up you just slipped off onto the sand, and
there was blood all over me and all over you, and you wouldn’t wake up. I
thought you were dead, Scarlett.
Again!
’

His voice broke; my heart broke – I threw myself out of the
bed to go to him. My legs were weak, shaking, and I crashed into him, and it
was he who had to hold me. I wrapped my arms around him and I sobbed ‘I’m
sorry, I’m sorry’ over and over.

He sat me on the bed. He cupped my face with his hands. He
forced me to look at him.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry.’

He stopped the torrent with his lips. Soft. Hot. He kissed
my lips, he kissed my cheeks, he kissed my nose, he kissed my ears, he kissed
my neck, he kissed the hollow of my throat; he kissed me for so long and with
such feeling that eventually I lost track of where he ended and I began – there
was just heat and fire and the crushing relief of forgiveness.

*

A little later, when we were all kissed out, we curled up
under the patchwork quilt together, face to face. Luke drew swirls down the
skin of my leg with his finger. The bare skin.

My leg was bare?

In all the commotion, I hadn’t registered such mundane
details as what I was wearing, what Luke was wearing. But now I took in the
pile of soggy clothes abandoned in the corner – my dress, Luke’s suit.

I lifted the quilt and looked at Luke. He was wearing one of
my black t-shirts, which was stretched taut across his chest, and his
underwear. Nothing else. Which was a sight to behold. But a glimpse of my own
attire dispelled any thought of passion.

I groaned.

‘Hey,’ said Luke. ‘I like it.’

I didn’t. A Winnie the Pooh nightdress. The least attractive
item of nightwear I owned.

‘Why am I wearing this?’

The smile dropped from Luke’s face. ‘You don’t remember?’

‘Of course!’ I said quickly.

Luke regarded me soberly. ‘What do you remember, after the
ocean?’

I remembered Jude’s voice; his hands on me – warmth, light.
Then Luke: Luke shouting my name; Luke’s eyes, open; Luke wet but unharmed –
beautifully, miraculously unharmed; Luke talking urgently; Luke making me walk
and walk and walk; Luke sitting me on the living room rug and wrapping blankets
around me. And then, nothing.

‘I remember bits,’ I said.

‘I guess that’s okay,’ he said, rubbing my arms. ‘I mean
it’s normal when you’re in shock. You were so confused – you weren’t making any
sense. You kept saying, “What am I? What am I?” I should’ve taken you to
hospital. I wanted to, but you were desperate to go home. Your nosebleed had
stopped. And you were so cold – we both were – I figured warmth was the most
important thing. So we came back here, and we got dry, and we got changed, and
you fell asleep in front of the fire downstairs, and I put you to bed.’

‘And you stayed.’

‘Of course I stayed.’

Silence fell between us, and unspoken words hung heavy in
the air.

Stay with me.

Be with me.

I want you.

I love you.

They were in me, they were on my lips. But that question
held me back:
What am I?
How can you give your heart to another if you
don’t know the content of that heart? How can you give yourself to one person
when you’re somehow connected to another?

In my mind, Jude’s voice:
‘I’ll be back. Tomorrow.’

I shivered.

‘Are you cold? Come here – I’ll warm you up.’

Luke pulled me close.

‘Scarlett?’

‘Yes?’

‘There’s something else, something I’ve been meaning to
say…’

My breath caught. He sounded so serious. What now?

‘Yes?’

‘It’s important.’

‘Okay.’

‘It’s big.’

I closed my eyes. ‘Right. Hit me with it.’

So he did: a tuneless and loud and merry rendition of that
timeless song ‘Happy Birthday to You’.

I smiled and I made myself look in his eyes. Not at the
window, beyond which, I knew, the blue was waiting, waiting for me.