Page 53 of Possession

“Sure.”

“Why did the Grand Mage offer to free Aris?” The question has been on my mind for weeks now.

There’s no traffic around us, but Henry keeps his eyes diligently focused on the road ahead, hands tight on the steering wheel. Just a second ago he was tapping his fingers to the beat of the song. “What do you mean?” he asks.

“I mean, the Grand Mage hadn’t talked to us in three years, and then he came out of the blue with his offer. What made him change his mind?”

“He didn’t tell me. My guess would be that he felt enough time had passed.”

The answer doesn’t feel complete, but I don’t have enough evidence to accuse him of lying. Why am I trying to start an issue, anyway?

“Okay,” I say and sit on the idea of a coincidence. It’s possible—the Grand Mage propositioned Aris, and our kidnapping just-so-happened to take place soon after. They could be completely unrelated.

And what does it matter? Say that the Following of the Forewarned knew about the Grand Mage’s offer and acted sooner than they’d planned. It’s done and over, and I’m going far away from the both of them.

Aris doesn’t seem concerned about a connection. Then again, he wasn’t concerned about the Following, and he wasn’t concerned about the changes in the amulet either.

There is something like a sigh inside my head, and I lean back with a smile on my face. Aris never admits to being wrong in any way, which makes it a little funny when he is.

Nothing more to add, silence resumes in the car. A little tenser, less natural than it was before.

Many times, I’ve pictured being alone with Henry (Not much else to do while locked up but fantasize). I thought about what the two of us might talk about, what his answers might be. I’d rehearsed questions; I’d rehearsed my own responses. Aris would even chime in with suggestions, though they were unhelpful and clear sabotage—kiss him and stab him in the throat, things like that.

Henry is handsome, but that alone doesn’t merit the amount of time I’ve spent thinking about him. I’m not sure why I was—why I’m still—so caught up on him. It might be because he was the only one who didn’t say anything mean or try to hurt or embarrass me in some way. There were no side glances or frowns, which made him seem approachable, should I get the chance to approach.

Now that I’m with him and will be staying with him for the foreseeable future, I’m scared to say anything to scare him off. Because, if he’s gone, what will I have left?

You will have me, Mary.

Right, because you’re such a stunning conversationalist.

It will always be you and me.

His voice is even gentle, but the sentiment chills me. He’s right; it will always be us. I will die when he is removed, and he refuses to leave on his own.

We’re stuck together.

From enemies to reluctant allies, he was the only one I could speak to, the only one who listened to me for years. Regardless of what he is or who he chooses to be, we experienced the same thing locked up down there; we shared that. Obviously, some kind of kinship has developed… maybe even a crumb of affection.

If things were different, I might not have turned to Aris, and he might not have turned to me. But this is where we’re at.

A small part of me wonders if Aris protects me not because he doesn’t want to be trapped in this body, but because he might actually like it here, with me. Part of me even wonders who I am without him. Where he starts and I begin.

Aris doesn’t comment on my thoughts, and I decide that it’s time to distract myself before he becomes interested. “Can I ask you something else?” I say suddenly.

“You’re a curious girl,” Henry teases, and my face heats from the praise, though I’m not sure it’s a compliment.

“I was wondering why they… you know, treated me the way they did.”

There’s a moment of silence, and I curse myself for darkening the good mood. Henry reaches out to lower the volume of his music, making things even more awkward, and I risk a quick look at his face, finding his lips pursed in displeasure.

I know that it’s not because he disagrees with me; he said himself that he disagreed with my treatment.

“There were no visits, no windows. I couldn’t go outside or interact with others, and there was that god-awful, crap food,” I say, babbling. “I mean, why? Death row inmates are treated better.”

There’s more silence, painful enough that I almost regret asking the question, but it’s been plaguing me for years, and I deserve to know.

“They were scared,” Henry says finally.

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