Page 20 of Saving Destiny

Chapter 12

Kodi

I’m hosting a pity party, but I’m the only one invited. While the bedrooms are soundproof, I’ve become an expert at floating into walls and ceilings without anyone noticing. If I stop the visible manifestation of my body halfway through the thicker matter, no one sees me. It’s uncomfortable and temporary, but it’s the best place for eavesdropping.

My return to the library had been rooted in a desire to tell the others the memories I’d uncovered, but it hadn’t been necessary. Walthers monologues to everyone, and they’d figured most of it out on their own. They’re not surprised that their parents might have given permission to be experimented on; some parents are guilty of more than just giving permission. That's one thing we all have in common, and I’m stubbornly resistant to sharing any similarities with them. None of us had idyllic childhoods – not even the brothers who’d been raised with money and privilege.

I want to believe they don’t even notice my absence when they gather for dinner, but one look at Zosia says that’s not true. Her gaze is sad, and she keeps glancing toward the seat I occupied for a couple minutes that morning. I can’t eat, so I don’t see any point in joining them. However, I also can’t stay away entirely. I want answers.

The moment her energy had dwindled that afternoon, I’d felt compelled to check on her. When I peeked into her room, she'd been sitting motionless in her chair. The longer I watched her, the more her stillness disturbed me. I was on the brink of trying to scare her awake when the smell of food roused her and saved me from the humiliation. During the meal, she’d told the others she was accessing information through the library, but they hadn’t seen her. She’d appeared comatose or dead.

I’m still disgusted and ashamed that I’d needed rescuing like a damsel in distress. Walthers didn’t lie when he called me gullible. As a kid, I’d played the role of Igor for this century’s Dr. Frankenstein. I’d been complicit and mostly willing because I didn’t know any better. The second I started questioning my biological father’s orders, he'd threatened to hurt my sister. I’d worried about her because the same formula that had given me strange, impossible magic had made her weak, sickly, and unable to tolerate additional pain. I can’t believe that I fell for Addington’s bait; there’s no way my sister survived all these years.

When Avery repeated Walthers’ words, I felt transported back to the underground compound. Shawnessy threatened me with the same thing countless times when I was just a child.They made us, and they can unmake us.It always made me feel utterly powerless and helpless.

I still haven’t shaken that feeling, regardless of my revenge-filled plans. The monumental defeat I suffered earlier that day makes everything worse. Nothing has really changed. I’m still fucking dead, still fucking helpless, and I can't do a fucking thing to change any of that.

If Zosia is right, which she usually is, I’m in more danger than the others if I leave the library’s protection. Being tethered once has made me vulnerable. I’m not an asset to the library; I’m a weakness. I’m not a guardian, but something that needs guarding. When I consider all of these thoughts, my pathetic anger and self-pity nearly suffocate me.

It’s the middle of the night now, and everyone is asleep except for Avery. He’s reading a book in his room and doesn’t appear to need much sleep. All of our private apartments are particular to our personal needs, and the vampire’s sitting area is much larger and more inviting than the small bed.

My room has a bed, but nothing else. I assume the piece of furniture is just there to make it an actual bedroom. The library didn’t have to provide that … it’s not as if I can sleep. Still, I’m very grateful for a private place I can call my own – somewhere I can be alone.

Restless boredom pricks at me, and it’s intensified by the shadows of emotions that aren’t fully actualized. I want to believe my life-like feelings have grown stronger and more developed since I signed the contract with the library, but it’s probably my imagination. Out of habit, I float toward Zosia’s room. I’m used to checking up on her every couple of hours.

I doubt she knows how many times I’ve seen her naked or mostly naked. I’ve also watched her pleasure herself when she thought she was alone. Although the admittance might make me sound like a world-class pervert, my peeping-tom activities never brought relief. They only fill me with frustration and self-pity.

Stars above, she’s beautiful when she’s flushed with passion and not concerned with anyone else’s opinions. Just watching her should arouse me to the point of orgasm, but my body always remains unresponsive. Everything I experience is rooted in memory – my emotions are completely devoid of any physical cues or manifestations. I’ve always found it a nuisance, but the arrival of three solid and attractive men who can fulfill my desires and wishes have increased my frustration and annoyance. The simple act of knowing that they can do everything I yearn to do with Zosia might trigger the final termination of my soul. When my most prevalent state of mind is unending, bitter disappointment, eternal nothingness sounds preferable to watching her writhe and moan under her other guardians’ attentions.

Zosia sprawls in the center of her huge bed, and her hair forms a halo around her head. I almost leave after I make sure she’s breathing, but the glimmer of tears shines like diamonds in the dim light. Her eyes are closed, but her expression remains troubled and her cheeks and pillow are both wet. I can't tell whether she just fell asleep or if she’s having a bad dream.

A quiet, pitiful whimper escapes her and reminds me that she recovered her worst memories earlier that day. I’d almost forgotten because it feels like it happened a lifetime ago and not hours ago. If she’s suffering through a nightmare, it’s my fault. I played a starring role in her horrific past. She flops with agitation, twisting the sheets around and under her.

While I freeze with indecision, a very real sensation aches within my chest. It scares me at first because I worry I’ve been tethered again, but it’s not similar to the restraining, strangling pain of the leash. The pain is a result of worry, distress, and fear. I’m experiencing her emotions and mine, and they don’t appear to be faded echoes of my old life or memories. They’re legitimate and substantial.

A second muffled whine pulls me closer to her, and I recall the morning I’d felt solid beneath her fingertips. According to her, the moment had been no longer than a minute, but she’d seen color in my hair and eyes that matched my memories. Why had it happened? Does destiny hate me so much that it finds pleasure in torturing and teasing me? I recall a strange in-between state; it was similar to my memories of what sleeping or dreaming felt like when I was alive.

One thing is certain – it isn’t similar to the way I felt when Walthers tethered me. The magical restraints made me feel like I was dying again. My spirit, soul, and awareness drained from me steadily, rendering my ghostly senses inactive. I only retained two senses after death – sight and sound. Scent, touch, and taste have been absent since I realized I was dead; the loss of my remaining two senses felt like a punishment or true death.

Zo thrashes with increased violence and sweat glistens on her brow. Moonlight from the high, narrow windows paints her face with unnatural paleness. All five bedrooms have similar windows with similar views, but only two of them share the outer wall. From the outside, it appears as if the library has no windows except for the dome and the glass surrounding the front doors.

I understand why the library lacks windows – it’s necessary for privacy – but it means the views and light through these are false. The library defies every law of physics and magic, and it's the main reason why she’s a target. I wouldn’t have believed the wonders or the power within these walls if I hadn’t experienced it first-hand.

Although I’ve made a subconscious decision to avoid her and her possible judgment, I can’t endure her suffering. I call her name softly as I drift toward her. In her first year or two at the orphanage, she suffered from horrible nightmares, but they’d resolved over time. Recovering her memories probably brought them back.

I remember dreams but only vaguely. They seemed like true magic, and I miss them, although they brought no real value to my life. After dying, I’ve been constantly surprised by what I miss: the warmth of the sun on my face, the feel of a light breeze lifting my hair, the gentle touch of fingers on my skin, getting lost in sleep …. I didn’t fully appreciate the simple pleasures in my short life because it was so chaotic.

Zosia doesn’t startle awake at her name like she usually does. Instead, she starts mumbling into the softness of her pillow. Briefly, I wonder if her distress will alert one of the others. They must feel her discomfort, and they probably feel something stronger than the subdued echoes I get. If they sleep deeply, it might seep into their subconscious and give them bad dreams instead of waking them. They aren’t all sleeping, though; Avery is awake.

If her pain calls someone else to her side, I should leave. Zo needs to move on and realize that I’m more trouble than I’m worth, and my presence only brings her pain. She’s weathered enough pain in her short life, and I can’t bear the thought of causing more.

My name on her lips pulls me out of my self-indulgent misery. The emotions in her cries are so strong that they feel like seeds planted inside me. I don’t expect them to grow because the field should be barren and devoid of any nutrients. Shockingly, the grief and fear take root deep within me and begin to send shoots of long-lost sensations vining through my incorporeal body. They’re still faded imitations of the genuine originals, but they’re stronger than anything I’ve encountered since I died. I’m nearly overwhelmed.

I repeat her name with increased volume when her frenzied movement distracts me from my self-evaluation. I curse the fact that I can’t shake her awake.

“Kodi, Kodi, please don’t leave me.”

My chest clenches with physical pain as tears slide over her nose and cheeks to saturate the pillow. The strangled sound she releases prompts me to escape and draw closer simultaneously. It would be easier to avoid reality and continue feeling sorry for myself but not if it causes her pain. I’ve spent the entirety of my afterlife trying to ease her pain; ignoring it goes against every instinct that I retained.

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