Kindred (The Watcher Chronicles #2) (20 page)

Apparently not used to such audacious behavior, Jubal stops playing, releasing Mason and I from our sad memories, as he studies Chandler standing before him.

“Why are you not affected by my music?” Jubal asks Chandler, eyeing him like he’s a curiosity.

“I’ve had very little in my life to make me sad,” Chandler tells him.  “I guess you could say I’ve led a charmed life.”

Jubal continues to play his harp but the tune changes.

This time it reminds me of my talk with Lucifer when he asked me if I wanted him to send Uncle Dan to the Void and cease the torture he was going through in Hell.  An overpowering guilt racks my body because I know I should have asked Lucifer to spare Uncle Dan.  Even though the son of a bitch deserved what he got, I couldn’t imagine him suffering through an eternity of torment at the hands of Lucifer or any of the minions under his command.  My humanity should have overruled my quest for justice leading me to ask for a reprieve for Uncle Dan.  I didn’t.  An overpowering sense of guilt and disappointment in myself is brought out by Jubal’s music.

When I look at Mason, I know exactly what guilt he is reliving.  The scar on his face made by God as a reminder of his failure to lead the Watchers down the right path throbs bright red.

“Stop playing,” I order Jubal, desperately wanting to stop the music’s torturous affect on Mason.

Jubal doesn’t stop.  When he looks up at me, his eyes are filled with madness.  It’s then I know Jubal isn’t in complete control of his actions.  I get the feeling he can’t stop playing even if he wants to.

I see Chandler jump to the side and look down at his feet.  I look where Chandler is standing and see a great serpent slithering on the cave floor around the stone Jubal is sitting on.

“He won’t let me stop,” Jubal says, eyeing the serpent with unadulterated hatred.  “He came to me you know,” Jubal continues.  “After I made the first of my instruments, he came and told me I could move the minds of men with just my playing.  If only I had known then, what I know now.  He won’t let me stop playing.  He won’t ever let me go.”

Just as I’m about to take a step forward to strike the snake with my sword, the snake disappears and reappears wrapped around Jubal’s body like a corkscrew.

“Fight,” Chandler urges Jubal.  “Make him leave you alone.”

Jubal shakes his head, no fight left in him.

“He has won.”

“Only if you let him,” Chandler says.  “Do something right for once.  Help us.”

Jubal looks up at Chandler.  He stares at my friend for a long while, never ceasing his playing.

“How are you filled with so much hope?”

“Because hope gives you a reason for living.  Help us and find hope in knowing you’re doing something good for once.  Something he doesn’t want you to do.  Fight him, man.”

Jubal places an open palm on the strings of the harp signaling the end of his song.

“I will help you,” Jubal says, looking at a pile of bones in one of the cut out tombs to the wall on his right.  “Go and get what you came for.”

Jubal drops the harp, which disintegrates in the air like it was made of vapor.  He wraps his hands just below the serpent’s head like he’s strangling it. 

We watch in horror as the serpent’s head grows large enough to swiftly swallow Jubal down to his waist.  A cry of agony can be heard just before the scene disintegrates just like the harp did, like it was never there in the first place.

“Hurry, get your talisman,” Mason tells Chandler.

As Chandler walks over to the tomb Jubal pointed out, I turn to Mason and still see the haunt of pain in his eyes.  His scar pulsates with the feelings Jubal’s music forced him to face again.

“Are you all right?” I ask him.

“I will be,” he replies, “as soon as we get out of here.”

I turn back to where Chandler is and see him pull out something white that’s about a foot long.  The crown on his head begins to glow and Chandler collapses onto the cave floor with a thud.

“Oh,” Mason says, “I hope he didn’t hurt himself.”

I look at Mason and see a small grin on his face. 

“You are so bad,” I say, knowing he forgot to warn Chandler that he would instantly collapse if he was wearing the crown when he touched his talisman.

“Just think of it as getting even,” Mason replies as we walk over to Chandler to make sure he’s all right.

Mason lifts Chandler easily into his arms.

Even unconscious, Chandler holds tightly to his talisman.  To me it just looks like a piece of bone with holes drilled into it.

“What is it?” I ask.

Mason studies it for a second and says, “It looks like a pipe made of ivory.  Hippopotamus ivory most likely.  Grab onto my arm,” Mason instructs me, looking around the room warily.  “Let’s get out of here before Jubal looses his fight.”

I grab hold of Mason’s arm.

He quickly phases us to Chandler’s room in his villa.  Isaiah is there because JoJo is lying in Chandler’s bed.

“Everything went well?” Isaiah asks.

Mason lays Chandler down on the other side of the bed from JoJo.

“As well as could be expected,” Mason answers.  He pulls a folded blanket from the foot of the bed and covers Chandler with it.  “Call either me or Jess if JoJo stirs earlier than expected.”

Isaiah nods, understanding the order.

Mason reaches out his hand to me across the bed over my two friends.  I place my hand in his and we’re instantly standing in my living room.

Mason pulls me to him and hugs me tightly.

I know he’s still trying to overcome the effect of Jubal’s haunting music.  In all honesty, so am I.  I hug him even tighter as we use one another to bring comfort to our ravaged souls.

Chapter 16

After a while, I feel Mason’s hold on me loosen and I pull back to look at him.

“How are you?” He asks.

“I’m fine.  How are you?”

Mason smiles.  “I’m good.  I’m always good when I’m with you.”

I raise an eyebrow at him.  “Just good?  I can’t say I feel very flattered if I just make you feel
good
.”

Mason puts his hands on either side of my face.  “You make me feel like life is worth living,” he tells me.  “I feel good, happy, excited, loved.  I feel everything when I’m with you.  So yes, I feel
good
when I’m around you but that encompasses a lot more than just that one word, Jess.”

“Hmm,” I say, “I believe that deserves a kiss, Mr. Collier.”

Mason smiles and leans down.  “I was hoping you would say that.”

We stand there drinking in one another until we’re rudely interrupted by the buzzing of Mason’s phone in his pant’s pocket.

“Are you just happy to be with me or is that really your phone this time?” I ask.

Mason smiles against my lips, not wanting to end what I had hoped to be a long, languid session of kissing one another.

“My phone,” he replies irritably.  “But I’m always happy to be with you.”

Reluctantly, he pulls away and agitatedly grabs his phone and pulls it from his pocket.

“Yes?” he says to the poor person who chose such an inopportune moment to call.  I watch as he closes his eyes and I know he’s frustrated about something.  “Why do I have to have lunch with him?”  Mason asks the caller.  “When?”  I see Mason’s eyes travel to the grandfather clock I have in the living room to check the time.  “All right.  I’ll be there.”

Mason ends the call and drops the phone back into his pocket.

“Who do you have to have lunch with?” I ask.

“The President,” Mason grumbles.  “I don’t know why Nick makes me go see him to give him personal updates on the Tear situation.”

“Maybe he’s just scared like the rest of the world and needs you to comfort him and tell him everything will be all right.”

“Nick could do it just as well.”

“Have you met Nick?” I ask, thinking Mason has no clue how Nick rubs people the wrong way sometimes.  “He doesn’t exactly exude comfort.  He’s more like the interrogator and you’re the priest.  Just go play nice with the President,” I tell Mason.  “I need to go to the grocery store anyway.  I’m completely out of food here.  Oh,” I say, wrapping my arms around Mason’s waist, “and on your way back, would you be sweet enough to drop by Paris and pick me up some of those chocolate croissants?”

Mason smiles.  “I would be more than happy to do that for you.”

“Bring back two boxes this time.  I would like to take a box to my grandfather tonight when I see him.”

“Are you ready for that?” Mason asks me.

I shrug.  “I don’t think if I had a year to prepare myself I would be ready to meet a stranger who shares a quarter of my chromosomes.  I just hope we like each other.  Otherwise, it’ll be a short visit.”

“Do you want me there with you or do you want to meet with him alone first?”

“Alone,” I say.  “I don’t want him to feel like he’s being ambushed.  Plus, he might feel more comfortable if it’s just me and him.  I’m hoping he’ll tell me more about my biological father.”

The difference between the father who helped make half my body and the father who helped make half my soul was divided by one thing, love.  The father I grew up with didn’t just share his soul with me, he shared his value system and love for the first seven years of my life.  I knew nothing about the man who I shared DNA with and wondered what parts of me he helped create.  I had to assume I had my father’s hair because my mother’s hair was blonde.  What else did we have in common?  I hoped to solve those mysteries tonight during my talk with my grandfather.

“I’ll call you when I’m through with the President,” Mason promises, kissing me on the lips lightly.

“Well, don’t eat too much at lunch.  I’m cooking you supper before we go see my grandfather.”

“You cook?” Mason asks, sounding completely amazed by the fact.

“I might not like to cook but yes, I can cook.”  I stick my tongue out at Mason for asking such a question and sounding so surprised by it.

Mason laughs.  “I apologize.  I didn’t mean it to come out like that.  It’s just… this is the first time you’ve cooked for me.

“Well, it won’t be anything fancy,” I warn, “probably just potato and sausage soup.  I make it when it’s cold out like today.”

“Sounds wonderful,” Mason says, a pleased smile on his face.  I get the feeling not many people cook for him and this is a rare treat.  “I’ll try to make this meeting as short as possible.  But he can be a bit long winded sometimes.  I hope to be back here in a couple of hours.”

“That sounds good.  It’ll give me time to go shopping and start the soup.”

Mason smiles and draws me into his arms.  “I almost feel like a husband going off to work with a loving wife at home cooking him supper.”

I swallow hard at the analogy and suddenly find myself hoping this isn’t a preamble to a marriage proposal.  The prospect of such a question makes me instantly nervous all of a sudden.  It’s only then I realize I don’t want Mason to ask me to marry him, at least not yet.

Mason seems to sense the change in my mood at his remark but doesn’t comment on it.

“You better get going,” I tell him, kissing him quickly on the lips.  “You don’t want to keep the leader of the free world waiting for too long.  Who knows what he might do if you make him miss his regular lunch time?  Start a war?  Raise taxes?  I certainly don’t want to be the reason for any of that.”

“I love you,” Mason says, not being fooled by my attempt at jokes to diffuse the situation.

I smile, but it feels like a smile you give out of politeness.  “I love you too.  Now go.”

After Mason phases, I let out a sigh of relief.

What would I have done if he asked me to marry him?  Run?  Hide?  Neither option seemed the mature thing to do.  But the fact was, I wasn’t ready for such a formal commitment.  I loved Mason beyond all reason but did that mean I had to marry him?  Why couldn’t we just live out our lives loving one another?  Did we really have to have the whole wedding and marriage license thing to prove our love?

But, I knew how old fashioned Mason could be.  He would want the wedding, the reception, the well wishes from friends and family.  He would probably be one of those men who framed their wedding vows and hung them on the wall so all the world could see just how devoted he was to me.  I bury my face in my hands.  Why did I have to fall in love with a gentleman?

At least there was one thing Mason didn’t seem to have a problem with, sex before marriage.  He wasn’t so old fashioned that we would have to endure that silly rule.  It was only me and my hang ups that were causing the problem in that area.

I sigh heavily and go change out of my t-shirt and back into the sweater I had on earlier.  We weren’t in an arid climate anymore but in the cold of the Deep South.  A cold that holds so much moisture in it your bones ache from its effects if you don’t bundle up.

By the time I reach our local Piggly Wiggly, I decide to definitely make the soup I told Mason about and pick up some pre-made garlic bread to eat with it.  While I’m there, I pick up a few more items that my kitchen is lacking like bread, milk, eggs, bacon, you know, the basic stuff of life.

I am searching through the red delicious apples wondering if I have the culinary skills to try to make Mason an apple pie.  I’ve never made a pie before but just thinking about cooking one for Mason makes me happy.

I feel the bracelet Chandler and JoJo gave me begin to warm against my skin, warning me of danger.  I look up across the display of apples and see a rather handsome young man with short blonde hair and a muscular physique wearing a black crew neck sweater under a black double breasted sweater jacket and black jeans.  Too bad it’s all ruined by the black aura surrounding him.

He’s smiling at me, but don’t serial killers smile at their victims just before they lure them off somewhere to kill them?  That’s what I feel like he’s doing, attempting to trap me with his smile into a false sense of security.  I’m suddenly glad I thought to wear my plasma pistol on my thigh before I came to the Piggly Wiggly, but I doubt it will be enough to hurt the prince of Hell standing across from me.

“Can I help you?” I ask the stranger, putting the apple in my hand back on the pyramid of apples before me.