Page 6 of The Dragon's Stone Hearted Mate
“NO!” he roared and then blushed as everyone turned to look at him. “I mean, I’m fine. Thanks for asking. I’ve beencarrying all my worldly possessions on my back for years now. I feel naked without it.”
“Whatever you say,” I said, turning back to face the front of the queue.
No good deed went unpunished. Everyone stared at us as the queue moved forward. Did they know about Torvan? Were some of them dead? Had they talked to him?
“Did you tell your therapist you thought about killing yourself?” he asked me when everyone returned to minding their own business.
“No because dying would be fucking pointless,” I rolled my eyes. “It’s not like it guarantees reunion. I can’t imagine going through all that shit and then finding out my brother moved on or was still an ass.”
Behind me, a sob tore from the lion. The sound was something between a growl and whimper. Of course, I said the wrong thing. I always said the wrong thing since Torvan died.
“You don’t think he waited for me?” the lion asked.
“I didn’t know him. I was talking about my brother, not your mate,” I sighed, turning to face him. “For what it’s worth, he probably feels like a dick. Desperate people do desperate things. I’m not the right guy for this conversation, man. I’m really not.”
“I’m sorry about your brother,” he said, and I cringed.
“It’s alright. You don’t have to apologize. For what it’s worth, he hired a hitman to kill me. So, you’re probably way more of a fit for this camp than I am. I’m here because--- never mind why I’m here. I just am. I’m Morvan by the way.”
“Cutter,” he stuck out his hand and I shook it. “Sorry about that. It’s happened since I left home. I can’t stop myself from asking questions that are none of my business. I just figured if you were going to the camp, you wanted to talk about it. That’s the shit thing about it all. No one wants to talk about the dead.They just expect you to move on like nothing happened and I can’t do that.”
“Your mate probably deserves to be talked about more than my brother does,” I shrugged.
“He died of stupid too,” Cutter frowned. “Refused to leave the world we were born on. I left the day after I found him. Now, I see him everywhere but not really. He’s not one of the spirits who haunt me.”
“Torvan hasn’t shown his ugly face. Not even in my dreams.”
“Was he your identical twin?” Cutter asked.
“No.”
“Good. Otherwise, next they’d send you to the self-esteem camp and they make you talk to yourself in the mirror there,” he said.
I didn’t realize he was joking until he laughed. I managed a smile that I didn’t feel. It was going to be a long camping trip if everyone there was as fucked up as Cutter and me. He chattered as we waited for our turn to move on and I nodded in all the appropriate places, only half listening to him. I managed to slip behind him in line, ensuring he didn’t get left behind when we finally made our way to the front of the queue and another elf looked at our papers and pointed a path out to us.
“I like the Other World the best,” Cutter said as we stepped onto a path that not many others had been directed too. It was a bit greener with some yellows tossed in by the hand of some artisan god for good measure.
“Why’s that?” I asked to keep him talking.
It was hard to get caught up in my own bullshit when he rambled on. Maybe I’d take him home with me to Moonscale London when this was all said and done. He could live in my old house and start his new life while eating up all the money Torvan wanted to shove up his ass.
“Because the ghosts can’t find me here. I hope camp is the same way. It might not be, though. I’ve heard the Other World’s magic is fairly unpredictable.”
“Have you mentioned these ghosts to your therapist?” I asked, stepping over a fallen log and turning to help Cutter over it but he’d already scrambled over the mossy thing and was two steps in front of me.
“He doesn’t believe in them just like you.”
“I do believe in ghosts.”
“Yeah. If you say so,” he shrugged, causing the big pack on his back to bob. “I saw how you looked at me when I first mentioned them. I may be emotionally unstable but I’m not crazy. My nervous system is just deregulated.”
“I do believe in ghosts but they’re rarer than pop culture would have us believe,” I said.
“No, they’re not,” Cutter cracked up. “I see probably fifteen a day. All from the war. All from the other side. We fought in the war against the invaders. We won the war in the end but so much of the land was damaged. I think they’re angry that I killed them. Sometimes they attack me. If that happens, don’t get involved I know how to handle them.”
“Just yell if you need my help,” I shrugged.
Who was I to tell him he was crazy when my own sanity was on the chopping block?
