Page 34 of Mongrel
Bowie drops his head to my shoulder. His back shakes as he cries in silence. I’m here with him while he suffers, petting his hair.
The water grows cool. My knees begin to ache. His skin has pruned. But none of that matters. Sometimes pain insists on time, so time it shall have.
When he’s ready, he lifts his head and meets my gaze. His eyes are all teary, pink and red and smelling of copper.
“You don’t have to stay,” he says in a voice so small it doesn’t sound like my Bowie.
“Of course I’ll stay.” I reach for a cloth, wet it, and use it to wipe the blood tears from his face. “Come to bed.”
Bowie’s stare softens. He rises from the tub, water cascading down his torso, his hips, his legs. He takes the hand I’ve offered and steps over the rim. I fetch him a towel and wrap him up in it, then pluck another and dry him off.
He’s quiet and malleable for this process, allowing himself to be moved this way and that until only his hair remains damp.
I pull him toward the bed, and he climbs in easily enough. Following, I tuck myself against his side and pull the covers over us. “Will you tell me the rest?”
“What more is there to say? I am a killer, a murderer, no better than the monster we’re tracking.”
“Bowie, stop that. You’re entirely different. Do you need to hear it was an accident? That it wasn’t your fault? You can’t always tame instinct? That Bettina should have guided you better? Surely you know these things to be true, but will my saying so help you believe it?”
“Probably not,” he mutters.
I’m so sad for him, that this tragedy happened, and that he’s reliving it in the telling. But I think for both of us, he must finish the whole story. “Tell me how it came that you sleep in your family’s house and sit at their table after such a terrible experience for you all.”
“Ah, yes.” He sighs. “My sister continued to write to me, so I continued to respond. At first, her letters were confused. Why hadn’t I visited? Did something happen at the wedding? Had Father been unkind?”
“What did you say?”
“I was vague. Answered as best I could. Apologized for not coming around. But Bettina’s power to influence isn’t invincible. She’d warned me they’d remember, urged me to cut ties, to come with her to Vienna, anywhere, to forget. But I couldn’t. I wrote back to Catherine as part of my penance. She’d lost a dear friend because of me, and though I didn’t deserve her, I wouldn’t let her lose her brother as well.”
“It took years before we acknowledged it between us. That her memories had been tampered with, that the horror she’d witnessed had been real, why it happened and what I’d become. I’ve apologized a thousand times and would ten thousand more, but she ordered me to stop long ago. Somehow they forgave me, Catherine and Jakob both, though I’ve never dared to have asked them for it.”
“You’ve never forgiven yourself.”
“I never will.” He sounds woefully final as he speaks.
“Well, if you want me to hold it against you, then you’re asking too much. Besides, you’ve punished yourself far worse than I ever could.”
Bowie turns to face me, takes me into his arms, and holds tight. I return the embrace with all my strength. If we could meld into each other, we would. I only relax again when he does.
I have one last question. “So you drink from Jakob?”
“Yes. Not only Jakob but often him. He’s big, strong, and healthy. More importantly, he’s willing, and I never have to lie to him.”
“And now you don’t have to lie to me.”
Bowie gives a tired sigh. “No, I don’t.”
Chapter 12
We wake to a sharp rapping at the door, which opens before either of us has time to say “Come in.”
I startle away from Bowie and yank the sheets higher over us. I’m covered with a robe, but Bowie slept stark naked.
A harried-looking young woman bows as she speaks. “Ivaz has asked that you come to his study right away. A message has arrived from Varad.”
“We’ll be there shortly,” says Bowie. The door clicks shut, leaving us alone. He turns to me. “From Varad. It could only be Catherine. She knows she can reach me at this address. That’s worrisome.”
The sinking sensation that this will be bad news roils in my stomach. Surely Bowie has had the same misgivings. We hurry to dress as an eerie foreboding settles between us.
