Page 60 of Soul of Shadow
Elias froze. He was half-stooped, stuck in the position he’d assumed in preparation for standing up. Charlie had never seen someone so still before. It was as if even the shadowy flames that danced along his skin drew to a sudden halt, suspending them in this moment, Elias’s eyes locked on hers, her back rising and falling with every breath.
“I—”
“It feels nice,” she said, then quickly amended, “On my injuries, I mean. Your… mare powers.”
“Oh.” Some of the smoke in Elias’s eyes seemed to clear. “Yes. Of course.”
She scooted over in bed. He slid onto the mattress, pulling the quilt up and over their bodies. She turned onto her side, back facing toward him. Sensing what she wanted, he shuffled forward until his chest and torso were flush to her body, touching every part of exposed skin, spooning her. His arm draped over her chest, resting atop her belly. Every touch was like a fresh gust of wind, a healing salve sinking deep into her muscles. Every touch made her stomach clench even tighter.
“Better?” he whispered in her ear. His breath sent shivers down her neck.
“Yes,” she managed to say. “Much.”
“Good.”
They fell silent. The house creaked around them. Drapes fluttered over a half-open window. The light inside the room was warm but dim. Altogether, it was enough to lull a person to sleep.
Charlie, however, had never felt less drowsy in her life.
“Is this your room?” she whispered.
Elias exhaled. “It is.”
“It’s nice.” She took in the woven rug, the worn dresser, a small chest in the corner that reminded her of the one where she and Sophie used to keep their dolls. “Surprisingly nice.”
“It’s a tad cleaner than the rest of the house,” he admitted ruefully.
“No kidding.”
They laughed softly.
“Elias?”
“Yes?”
“Tell me about your family.”
Elias had clearly not expected this question. He had no ready response, no pithy comeback to divert her attention from the subject at hand. He could only shift on the sheet behind her, probably weighing whether or not he wanted to tell the truth.
“My sister was Olive,” he said at last. His words were hesitant, the cadence of something long kept buried within. “She was two years younger than me. We lived in a rural town in Illinois, in a farmhouse with sheep and hens and rosemary growing in the garden. Close enough to school to bike in the fall and spring but far enough not to hear the bustle of the small downtown area.” As he spoke, Charlie had the sense that they were falling through time together, back to Illinois and a small red home and a quiet dirt road. “We had a dog, too. A husky named Banana. He was supposed to sleep in his crate downstairs, but every night I begged my parents to let him stay with me.”
She had expected not to be able to envision this version of Elias. To see him as small and sweet, a child who wanted nothing more than to cuddle with his puppy. But the image came to her with surprising ease. She saw a tiny version of the man lying behind her. Rumpled black hair. Chubby hands where there were now lithe wrists and fingers. Dimples where there were now icicle-sharp cheekbones. The image was so precious she wanted to cradle it to her breast and keep it forever.
“Winters were my favorite,” he said. “In the winter, my parents didn’t leave so often, since their work required so much time outdoors. Sometimes, they stayed home for weeks at a time. Me and Olive would bust in the front door after an afternoon spent tromping about in the snow, making lopsided angels and throwing slushy-soft snowballs at each other from behindtrees, only to find mac ’n’ cheese and hot cocoa waiting by the fireplace. Our parents would wrap us in thick wool blankets and play Christmas music through the living room speakers.”
He was in a flow now. The story spilled from his lips like paint on a blank canvas, coloring the silent bedroom, making it come alive.
“Of course, spring showed up sooner or later. Warmer winds meant our parents were headed back to work, which meant Olive and I spent weeks with only Aunt Sheila for company. Sheila was nice enough, if a little ignorant. She was concerned with only her immediate surroundings: the state of the weather, of American politics, of her scandalous group of middle-aged friends. Mostly, she sat on our sofa, drank tea, and gossiped with one woman or another on her cell phone.” Elias’s chest shook with quiet laughter. “We could have set the house on fire and she wouldn’t have noticed.”
“Where did your parents go?” she asked, her first question since he began talking. “Were they seasonal farmers?”
He was silent for a beat. “Something like that.”
That answer was a clear evasion. She supposed he was done sharing now, that maybe he never intended to say so much to begin with.
She let the silence stretch itself long and lingering between them.
Then, so quiet he might not have heard were he not a mare, she whispered, “You saved me.”
