The Given

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Kit found the note one week later.

She didn’t know what it was at first. She hadn’t checked her mailbox since before Grif’s death, but Marin had gathered all the mail in a neat pile for later. Though she didn’t feel up to dealing with the bills, throwing the supermarket advertisements and magazines in the recycling bin made her at least feel like she was accomplishing something. Yet the sight of the slanted cursive had her dropping the rest of the mail heedlessly to the floor. She knew that handwriting, and seeing it now felt like Grif had reached out and touched her, once again, from beyond the grave. It began:

Today I die.

She remembered then, Marin’s office. She thought he’d left the room so that she could reconcile privately with her aunt—and they had; Marin had been steadfast by Kit’s side ever since Grif’s death—but he’d really been off mailing this. And he’d planned it, she saw, recognizing the stationery as part of the monogrammed set she kept at home.

This morning has more weight to it than others. I can actually feel it, the heaviness of the day. I think I felt it the first time I died, too, but couldn’t recognize it then for what it was: the relentless gears of fate picking up speed while my mortal clock began to slow. That’s why I’m writing this letter at two in the morning on scented paper in a shockingly pink kitchen while you sleep off our lovemaking as if you’re the one about to be thrown into oblivion.

(I love that about you, by the way. Men are supposed to be the ones who lose themselves after sex, but by the time my head clears of your scent and I’ve finally caught my breath again, you’re usually out cold beside me or on top of me or below, limbs like lead, breathing deep. I absolutely love it. I don’t think I’ve ever loved anything more.)

I don’t want you to think that just because I’m fated to die today, or because I’m writing this good-bye, that I’ve given up. I’ve cheated death before, even from beyond the grave, and went on to live an amazing second life, and who else can say that? But the Host is on my heels now, the heavens are working against me, and someone on this blasted mudflat still wants me dead. It’s a pretty full plate, but I’ll dig on into it, because I believe that we have a shot at changing all that. More than that, whatever happens will affect your fate, too, and honey, that’s really why I continue to fight.

Ten minutes. Kit thought she was all cried out, that there wasn’t enough moisture left in her marrow to spare for tears, but that’s how long it took before she could continue reading. The note was slightly crumpled now, the ink smudged with her tears, but she could still make out the words of Grif’s steady, careful script.

Yeah, I still want to know who set me up for the DiMartinos. Who told them I hurt their little Mary Margaret after I brought her safely home. Who lied about me working with the Salernos to steal those diamonds.

Who the hell took my life away from me while I still had so much living to do?

But all of those questions feel brittle and old under the weight of this heavy, newborn day. They feel like this slip of paper will in another fifty years, filled with thoughts that’ve been rendered irrelevant with the passage of time. Besides, a more important question thrums in my chest now, and this one is so alive that it drew me away from your flesh and your scent and your bed to ask:

What the hell is going to happen to my girl? My doll? My love?

My Katherine Craig?

I can’t answer that. And I don’t think I’ll be able to before day’s end, either. And then I find myself wondering what will your sunrises look like if I’m gone? How will your days stretch out before you, and what will you do to fill in all of those years, all that time? It scares me that after all the things I’ve done, the lives and the Takes and the joints I’ve seen . . . I can’t even imagine it.

Who will you be without me?

But I do know what I imagine for you, and it’s very simply more of what’s already there:

The way you throw your head back when you laugh, like you’re ready to swallow the entire world. The way your arms stretch wide as if you’re opening up your very chest for a hug. The dizzying chatter that speeds from your mouth when you and your hens really get going—laughing and dancing and doing that strange nattering that women do when they’re together. The way your eyebrows turn down as you work out a story, finding answers and meaning and truth in your work. And your day. And your life.

I know how important truth is to you, and I want to give you mine before I go:

I love you, Katherine Craig. I love you like God loves His Chosen. And if fate decrees that this day not go in our favor, then I will tell the heralds to sing your praises, and the Guardians to watch over your dark head. I will threaten the archangels if anything is to befall you, and I will do everything in my power to see you safe and protected and duly blessed from my place in the Everlast.

And, Kit, listen to me: You must live. I may be the Centurion, but you’re the one with the real wings. You hold more love for what God has created than anyone I know. The Host may have thrust the breath back into my chest as a form of punishment just over a year ago, but it was you who really taught me how to live.

I’m going back to bed now. I’m going to claim you as mine again before this fated day really gets going, and I’m going to watch your limbs fall, weighted and limp, across my chest. Your breathing will be like the ocean’s roar in my ear, and for a moment, at least, I am going to wipe your mind of any worry. But no matter what happens, you must not grieve for me. I have learned something in this second lifetime that I didn’t in my first go-round. You have taught me the most important truth of all:

Love isn’t just worth remembering and saving. True love is what saves us all.

It was that letter that finally got Kit up and out of her house. It propelled her past the bathroom mirror that she’d shattered in her anger over the heartlessness of a Pure, and into the shower to wash off the grief that felt like it was caking her soul. She stayed under the spray until the hot water ran out and her fingertips were wrinkle-tipped, and when she returned to gaze into that broken mirror, she told herself she felt a little lighter, a little better. Perhaps in time she’d even believe it.

Her gaze dropped to the cracked webbing of the glass, and for a moment she saw the dust of stars swirling behind the aluminum coating on the other side. But, no. It was just steam from the shower. Kit was utterly alone.

And Grif wouldn’t want her to stay that way.

“Live until you die, right?” she said to her reflection. Again, there was no reply and she hurried to her closet to dress. Afraid, Kit realized, to answer the question herself.

When she showed up an hour and a half later at the nightclub, she was given a welcome most often reserved for a soldier returned home from war, which almost felt true. Enveloped in the arms and chatter of her closest friends and the jumping three-chord change of classic rockabilly, she was happy to simply listen as Fleur prattled on about a new competing hair salon offering a blow-dry bar and a makeup menu. As Charis proudly told of her baby, now sitting up, soon walking. Still, it all felt like an out-of-body experience, like she’d been dropped into a fishbowl, told to sink or swim.

She was just sipping at her old-fashioned, thinking she had nothing to add to the environment and that she might as well leave, when she felt a presence at her side. Looking up, she smiled. “Dennis.”

He had dodged fate one more time. The blow that Justin had landed on his head had merely gained him a concussion and a healthy interest in watching his back. For now, though, he was looking at Kit with a gentle smile on his face, one that didn’t even require she smile back. Just like a true friend. “Please tell me that you’ve come to dance.”

Aware that all chatter at the table had ceased, and that she was currently being studied by a half-dozen curious gazes, Kit set down her tumbler and held out her hand. “This is one of my favorite songs.”

She ignored the lift of Fleur’s painted-on eyebrows, and let herself be led to the center of the dance floor. The band had switched it up a bit, and were giving the crowd a breather with the Eddie Cochran ballad “Yesterday’s Heartbreak.”

“I’m glad to see you here,” Dennis said, palming her right hand with his left.

Kit bit her lower lip. “I wouldn’t have come but . . . I had a little nudge.”

“Brave,” he said, drawing her closer, breath moving her hair. “If there’s anything I can do . . .”

She smiled up at him. “You’re doing it.”

Dennis smiled back and, keeping his touch light, uncomplicated, and chaste, he rocked her through the notes of the song. Kit closed her eyes, happy to be led. Her eyes opened, though, when Dennis unexpectedly jolted.

“May I?” a voice said from behind him.

A man stood there, tall and thin and dark, dressed in a cuffed suit with a pocket square, and an era-appropriate skinny tie. He looked like a detective from some fifties television show, and Dennis’s eyes pinched at the corners as he stared at him, mouth firmed and ready to say no, but then Kit nodded. “It’s okay. I know him.”

“As long as you’re still dancing,” he finally whispered, then bussed her cheek, “I’m happy to watch from afar.”

Kit bit her lip to keep from tearing up, and dipped her head in a grateful nod. When she’d finally gathered herself, she was in the other man’s arms, and she looked up and met his gaze dry-eyed.

“Hello . . . Saint Francis of the Cherubim tribe.” The steadiness of her voice surprised her as she locked her gaze with that of the Pure. The Universe swirled where his irises were supposed to be, rich and dark and mysterious, punctuated by stars. Galaxies rose and fell, and stars were birthed and died before her.

“Hello, Katherine Craig.”

He was different from when she’d last seen him, fully restored, she assumed, to his former glory.

“Inebriated?” she asked him.

“What do you mean?”

She tipped her head at his body. “You appear on the Surface using the bodies of the very young, old, sick, or drunk. As there’s no shortage of alcohol here, I’m guessing you chose the latter.”

“Actually,” he said, taking a deep breath before dipping her expertly, “I’ve come to the Surface of my own accord. I’m using flesh granted to me by God to access the Surface. Much like your dear Mr. Shaw.”

Though a pang still shot through her heart at Grif’s name, it was a relief to be able to talk openly about him with someone. “But Grif said that the Pure find molding their divine nature into human form extremely uncomfortable.”

“It’s like detonating a nuclear bomb in your chest,” Sarge confirmed. “But I still owe you.”

“No,” Kit scoffed. “You said that in a perfect world you would owe me.”

“Ah, yes. But who can wait around for that?” The left side of his mouth lifted, and they adjusted their rhythm as Elvis’s “Blue Moon” began to play. “Besides, you forgave me the night we last spoke, remember?”

“So?”

“So your forgiveness healed me. I really do owe you now. Even God Himself said it was a miracle, and after feeling all that you felt, experiencing every emotion as you did, I have to agree.”

Kit smiled but remained silent, waiting to hear why he was really here. Knowing her thoughts, of course, gave Sarge an advantage, and he inclined his head. “You know, there was a time when I didn’t understand why the Chosen wasted their time on love. Even the most ardent affection is ultimately destroyed by death, so why bother?”

Kit thought for a moment. “It’s hard to explain to a Pure. You guys are, by nature, fatalists.”

He gave a small laugh at that. “When I was first put in charge of the Centurions, all those lost and broken souls, I found myself sympathizing with the suicides the most.”

“Why?”

“I thought that because death was inevitable, it meant life was empty and hollow by nature. Why bother with any of it? It’s all meaningless in light of . . . well, the Light. How much better would it be to just shut it down early, avoid the needless emotion, and come directly to God?”

Kit just shook her head. Trying to explain life, or love, to a Pure would be harder than explaining the sun to the blind.

“And now I see,” he said, reading her mind again. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Kit said after a moment, and realized she really meant it. Yes, she was in mourning, but wasn’t that life? She was lucky to have it.

“It’s good to see you out,” he said tentatively.

“Yes, well . . .” She motioned around the dance floor at the other people, at the life. “There’s still living yet to do.”

“And work?”

“There’s always work.”

He tilted his head, and almost made it look natural. “So are you still a truth-seeker, Katherine? Still value that above all else, no matter how hard or at what cost?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good,” he said, pulling back. “Then I have another truth for you, though it’s not one you can share.”

“No?”

“Look around. Who here would believe you if you spoke to them of Centurions and of the Pure and the Everlast?”

No one.

“Who,” he continued, and released her to wave one hand gracefully through the air, “would ever believe that a man named Griffin Shaw lived and died two lifetimes?”

Nobody. Sometimes she had trouble believing it herself.

“Who,” he finally asked, lifting both hands high, “would believe that miracles happen every day? We just don’t see them.”

And an ombré gray mist rose around them, causing the room to still as if captured in concrete, a pseudo-Pompeii.

“Are they okay?” Kit asked, whirling about herself, noting that the music had gone mute. She was the only one who moved.

“You looked like you needed a little breather,” Sarge said, smiling. She did. Too many eyes had been on her all night, Fleur looking but not wanting to be caught doing so; Dennis doing the same, his longing caged. Sarge looked at her now, too, with the debris of the Everlast glossing his gaze and her own sadness reflected in his eyes. “I’m truly sorry for your loss.”

Everybody was. Kit closed her eyes, and an image of Grif flashed through her mind. And everyone could be as sorry as they wanted, but it wouldn’t bring him back.

“You couldn’t have done anything different, you know,” Sarge said, as she swallowed hard. He put a hand back on her shoulder. “Every step you took was the right one at the time.”

Yes. Fated. “So . . . how is he?”

Sarge just stared at her with that eternal gaze. It was hard to look him in the face, but Kit didn’t even blink. After all she’d been through, she had the right to know.

“These things take time,” Sarge finally said. His voice was the gentlest thing she’d ever heard. Somehow that made it worse. “You know, just because something doesn’t come in the way you want or expect it to, doesn’t mean it isn’t a miracle.”

“I imagine that’s very easy for you to say from that side of Paradise,” she said, allowing her bitterness to break through for one moment, but Sarge just nodded. He’d known it was there, lying dormant, anyway.

“I’m causing you yet more pain. I didn’t mean to, so I’ll go. Just . . . do me a favor,” Sarge said, walking backward through the thickened haze. “Don’t talk to anybody until I’ve gone. At least, not until you figure out what’s weighing down your left-hand pocket.”

“My left—” Her hand immediately went there, and her eyes went wide as she felt the outline of something long and sharp, but Sarge was shaking his head.

“You keep on living, Katherine Craig. The world may not be perfect but . . . it has its moments.”

Kit frowned at that, watching him turn around, the plasmic clouds swirling and closing rank behind him. She gazed after him, trying to see the moment he disappeared, but it happened so slowly that she didn’t even have to blink. He just dissolved before her eyes. Then the music rose to full speed again, Elvis in a throaty croon, and the dance floor came alive around her.

Kit backed away to keep from being trampled, and then reached into her pocket, feeling for the long shape now poking her in the thigh. Edging into a corner, she lifted the object and peered closely at it in the light. It wasn’t one item, but two—both soft, downy feathers, pure white and flashing with quicksilver as Kit twisted them around and back.

“They said I wouldn’t need them anymore,” said a voice from behind her. “Not where I’m going.”

Kit whirled. He wore a five-o’clock stubble that would, she knew, tickle her palm, if only she could move. His fedora was pristine, as was his suit, though his tie had a sideways slant to it, like he’d been yanking at it, trying to get free. His usual half-lidded gaze had gone wide, and he was looking at her as if afraid she might disappear.

Griffin Shaw held out his hand. “Care to dance?”

The room still felt like it was moving at half speed, and Kit swayed.

I really do owe you now.

One last dance, Kit thought, and smiled for the first time in a week. She sent up a quick prayer of thanks and accepted Grif’s hand.

“I feel like I’m dreaming,” she said, ignoring the finer points of the dance to nestle close to his chest. It was the warmest place she knew, and she closed her eyes, breathing him in. Sen-Sen on the breath, coconut in his pomade. Grif—God, it was Grif—again in her arms.

“That’s how you know it’s a blessed moment.”

And not one she’d ever forget. For now, though, she meant to live it. She held up the feathers that Sarge had given her, that she somehow suspected were binding her to him. “I take it you’re not currently on duty?”

“Actually, I’m no longer a Centurion.” He shook his head at her surprised look and pulled her back close. “No more Pure than you.”

She frowned, and then, because she knew she’d kick herself if she didn’t ask, said, “And the past?”

“I let it go.” He smiled against her hairline, lips sliding back and forth as he inhaled. “I’m moving on. Next time I die, it’s straight through the Gates for me. No stopping at incubation. No wings or Takes or prophecies for me.”

She was so very glad, she was. But the song, already too short, was almost over. “So how long do we have?”

Grif shook his head, causing her heart to sink. “Not long. Just the one . . .”

He trailed off, leaving her imagining the worst. Tune? Hour? Night? What?

“The one?”

“Life,” he finally said, one corner of his mouth turning up in a grin. “It really isn’t long, but I bet we can make some memorable moments. That is, if you’re still game to ride out your years with an old bull like me?”

She wasn’t breathing. She only realized it once she grew light-headed. Then, breathing too hard, threatening to pass out in a totally different way, she began searching the room.

After a moment, Grif asked, “What are you doing?”

Kit didn’t answer. Instead, she reached out and poked him in the chest. Finding it solid, she then grasped his wrist. Warm. Bending, she felt at his ankle. No holster. No gun.

“Done frisking me?” he asked wryly.

Straightening, Kit just stared for a moment before poking him again.

“Flesh and bone, Kit. So . . . you know.” He grabbed her wrist. “Stop it.”

“Oh, my God,” she heard herself saying, and then the buzzing overtook her. Kit’s knees buckled as her head grew light, but somewhere beyond her consciousness she realized that Grif’s arms were still there, strong and tight around her, and he lifted her up again, holding her on her feet until she could manage it herself.

“Go ahead and take a minute,” he said, drawing her close. “I’ll be here.”

They swayed, and then the music slid away from them, bouncing into Buddy Holly, sending the room into a subdued frenzy. Yet Kit and Grif only continued touching each other, treating each other’s skin like talismans, reassuring themselves that the other was still there. When she found her voice again, she spoke close to his ear. “So . . . flesh?”

“And hopefully some brains thrown in this time, too.”

Couples swung past them like orbiting galaxies. Kit and Grif remained in a world of their own.

“So not Pure?” she said again, making sure. The feathers were bent, clutched in her fist.

“Not Pure,” Grif confirmed, then smiled at her like never before. “Just Chosen.”

The whole room brightened. She didn’t know how long they remained like that, staring at each other, tucked into the corner of their newly born lives, but when the song ended, he was still, miraculously, there. Same as the song after that. And after that. Finally, Grif touched his lips lightly to hers, fusing them both in time and place, in the moment. Together. “I’ve got a proposition for you, Craig.”

“Do you?” she breathed, her head gone light all over again.

“How about you and I go make some memories?”

“How about an entire lifetime full of them?” she replied, finally able to breathe, to smile. To live.

She hoped Sarge could feel this. He needed to know that it wasn’t the pain and sorrow, but the joy in fleeting moments that told a person they were alive. Sure, Kit thought, death always loomed somewhere in the future, but there were worse things to fear than that. Like going through life and never really living at all.

“I think it’s only fair to warn you,” she told Grif, as they sauntered from the club. “I’ve been told that I can be a bit chatty at times.”

“And I can be a bit gruff, or so I hear,” he said, draping his arm over her shoulders. “But one thing’s for sure . . .”

Kit smiled, and finished the thought for him. “We make a damned good team.”

And even the angels in heaven couldn’t argue with that.