"Praying for the devil?"
Josiah stood in the doorway, his great bulk filling the space and his head slightly bent as he watched me with those cool white eyes that saw far too much.
The hard wood floor was unforgiving under my knees where I knelt at Harper's bedside, my hands clasped tightly together.
Had I been praying?
Pleading, maybe. Begging, definitely.
Not that it seemed to do me any good to do either of those things. It had been a week since we had arrived at Josiah's door and still Harper hadn't regained consciousness. Ironically enough, I'd never been one for prayer, but right then I would have done just about anything to see his emerald eyes again. I would have done anything just to see that trademark Cain scowl he was so fond of sporting. A scowl or a smile seemed on equal par when I hadn't been party to either for seven agonising days.
Seven days. Seven days stuck in limbo. Seven days frozen in time. A lot could happen in seven days and yet nothing had changed within these walls. I was still Josiah's property, having failed to meet my side of the bargain, refusing to desert Harper when he needed me most and worst of all, Garrick was still lost to me. Maybe he was wandering those dark seas of Purgatory, maybe he was treading water amongst the other desperate, miserable souls, but I hadn't mustered the courage to return there since my encounter with the one being that could inject fear into little Lucius. The Smiling Man had offered me no threat, no malice, no ill-will, but I understood Lucius' fear completely. Like I said, a scowl and a smile could be on equal par.
I stood up abruptly, still feeling the imprint of the floorboards on my knees and pulled the scratchy wool blanket up around Harper's chest, tucking it in under the thin mattress, even though it didn't really need adjusting. My ineffectual nursing techniques were pointless. I knew it. Josiah knew it. And all the while, I could feel the weight of his stare upon me but I refused to be baited by him. I knew he was amused by my need to care for Harper, amused by my wasted efforts to revive him; maybe he was even amused by my pain. Well, whatever it was, I didn't want Josiah here, not in this room, not where Harper lay. His presence felt intrusive, as if he was invading our space, despite the fact this whole building belonged to him, as so apparently, did I.
The building that Josiah called home was an old derelict Baptist Chapel in Holborn, barely a stone's throw away from the busy Southampton Row. If it hadn't felt so much like a prison, I think I would have loved this place, for it reminded me of the old Whitechapel asylum, with its beautiful decay and decadent dilapidation. It had that old-building smell about it, an aroma at which most people would no doubt wrinkle their noses, and yet I couldn't help but feel wholly comforted by it. To me, it was a sweet, pungent mix of damp and old brick, infused with heady undertones of incense and candle wax. White church candles of varying shape and size could be found in each room, many molten right down to their base and creating silky sculptures out of the wax that had dripped down and hardened onto every surface, every windowsill, fireplace, table and shelf.
Great splashes of graffiti scarred the puckered walls and cracked tiled floors. Where many would have found it highly offensive to see the tags and crudely-drawn cartoonish images emblazoned across the interior of a supposed house of God, I felt it added a certain something. Each brightly-coloured scrawl was like a tattoo, meaningless to everyone else who passed through these rooms, but a moment in time that had meant something to the person who had inscribed it here. I liked to trace my fingers over each marking, just as I did over the inked patterns on Harper's skin. It felt real, something tangible I could focus on, even when everything else around me seemed to be crumbling faster than the walls of the chapel itself.
The Chapel was made of two parts: the old Baptist Union Headquarters that had formed much of the west side of the building and which had been mostly destroyed during the Second World War and the chapel itself and its adjoining tower. When Josiah had first given me the grand tour of his humble and derelict abode, he'd marked both the old HQ and the tower as no-go areas. "Unless of course, you fancy bringing the roof down on that pretty little head of yours," he'd remarked with a wry grin. "And we wouldn't want that, would we?
According to Josiah, much of the building was uninhabitable. The number of rooms in which to live had been reduced down to just five: the main living area in the old Chapel, a bathroom, a kitchenette of sorts, Josiah's bedroom and this cramped box room in which Harper lay.
It was towards the chapel I now headed, pushing my way past Josiah and ignoring his faint mocking laughter that followed me along the corridor, dogging my every step.
Bursting through the double doors, taking a fleeting moment to enjoy the crack of the handle as the doors swung back and hit the wall, I stalked up the aisle, past the smashed pews that lined the room either side.
There was a two-level raised dais at the front, with the baptismal pool still present, albeit now cracked around the edges and empty save for Lucius, who sat propped up on a pile of threadbare cushions with, as usual, a book resting on his lap. As I approached, the little boy glanced up from the current fictional world in which he was engrossed and flashed me a wide grin.
"Hey kiddo," I said, ruffling his hair as I walked by, throwing myself into one of the armchairs nearby, flanked behind on the back wall by old faded posters of Muhammad Ali and Bruce Lee. In between the visages of the infamous fighters hung a large plain wooden cross and someone had scratched an obscenity near the base and had then scored deeply over it, as if they had suddenly feared a lightning strike from the Heavens for their blasphemous graffiti.
Pulling my feet up onto the seat and wrapping my arms around my knees, I watched as Josiah entered the room and sauntered casually towards the front of the Chapel. I knew that he would follow me. He seemed to enjoy torturing me with his presence and whenever I sought a moment to myself, he was always there, like a white-eyed Devil on my shoulder. The strange thing was that he never said that much. In fact, since we'd first arrived and he'd given me the low-down about the Chapel and reiterated the rules of the contract, he'd barely attempted much conversation at all. But his eyes were always there, following me wherever I went, coveting my every move.
The problem was that no matter what the rules of the contract were, I had no idea what he wanted of me. Of course, he'd pretty much made it clear that he could demand of me whatever the Hell he liked - although there were some things I wasn't going to give up without a damn good fight - but for seven days he'd demanded absolutely nothing at all. He seemed content to wait it out but I was done with waiting. I was done with clinging onto the brittle-bone tension that threatened to shatter what was left of my resolve. I needed answers. I needed some kind of resolution, one way or the other.
The seer was busying himself organising some books that he had salvaged from the old destroyed library in the HQ. The upper dais was a haven for those ash-stained survivors of the fire that had consumed the west wing of the building during the war and Josiah seemed to spend a lot of time arranging and re-arranging them into piles, in a way that bordered on the obsessive. I kept my eyes trained on him the whole time, studying him and hoping dearly that he could sense the burden of my unwavering stare. If he did, then he didn't bite and seemed as unbothered by my scrutinising gaze as I was forever irritated by his.
Finally, unable to bear it any longer, I pulled myself out of the armchair and stepped up onto the platform, getting as close to him as I possibly could without wanting to lash out. Picking up one of the books from the top of the pile, I pretended to be interested in the blurb on the inside cover and then chucked it unceremoniously onto another stack, watching with childish glee when the pile tumbled to one side and the books fell to the floor.
Josiah turned to face me and crossed his powerful arms over his broad chest. There was a faintly amused smirk on his lips but when his eyes flickered with irritation towards where the books now lay, I matched his smirk with one of my own.
He arched one brow. "Was there something you wanted to say, Megan?"
"Whatever gave you that idea?" I said, innocently as I folded my arms across my chest, mirroring his stance.
"Well you clearly want my attention? Feeling neglected, are we? I never had you down as the needy type."
"And I never had you down as the bashful type," I retorted a little too sharply. The brow shot up a little further, the smirk grew a little wider and I cursed myself for not keeping my cool. If there was one thing Josiah possessed, it was patience. After all, having the capacity to foresee events in the future meant there was a lot of waiting around before that event actually happened. Patience was a valuable commodity and Josiah had it oozing out of every damn pore. He could have given any Saint a run for his money.
"I want you to tell me what all this is about," I said, firmly. "The contract, I mean. What am I doing here?"
He chuckled, a deep rumbling croak of a laugh that only fuelled my anger further. "You came to me, remember?" he said with an underlying note of sarcasm. "I didn't drag you here. You knocked on my door. Very enthusiastically from what I recall."
"What option did I have? We had a deal. It was either him or you and I chose him." My eyes narrowed as I surveyed him. "Only, you always knew I would choose him, didn't you? You're a seer, you knew exactly what would was going to happen. You knew there was no way I would ever leave him. Admit it!"
The seer shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not."
"Bullshit, Josiah! Why can't you just give me a straight answer? Would it hurt you so much just to tell me the truth and stop being so bloody cryptic?"
He rubbed at the greying stubble on his face with one huge palm, studying me thoughtfully.
"Alright," he said with a smile. "You win. I'll answer your questions."
"R-really?" I was stunned. I'd never expected him to cave so easily.
"After you pick up my books." He gestured to the jumbled pile close to my feet.
I blinked, unsure whether I had actually heard him right. "You want me to pick up the books?"
"Yes, I want you to pick up the books. Frankly, as a blood-descendant of Benjamin Garrick, I'm astounded you would have such little care for the one thing he treasured above everything else. Sometimes I think he cared about books more than his own kind. He certainly treated them with more consideration. Go on, pick them up. Make your father proud."
I bristled with fury and my lips curled into an obstinate sneer. "Benjamin Garrick was not my father and I am not picking up your fucking books."
"One little task for all the information your pretty little head can absorb." He leant in closer until I could feel his breath on my skin and locked his cold white eyes with mine."Pick up the books, Megan. That's all you have to do."
From his cushioned perch in the baptismal pool, Lucius had stopped reading and was watching us both with curiosity, his big blue eyes peering out from under his white-blonde fringe. My stubborn veneer dissolved immediately. I knew that the sooner I could untie myself from this bind with the seer, the sooner I could concentrate on finding Michael and hopefully saving Lucius. Just like everything else, it always boiled down to the same thing with Josiah: I never really had a choice.
With a sigh, I felt my body deflate miserably and slowly, reluctantly, I turned and knelt down amongst the pile of books, picking them up one by one. And as I did so, Josiah remained standing over me, with his arms folded and triumphant in his ability to keep me right where he wanted me. Each book was like a leaden weight in my hand and as the pile got higher, I was sure that I could not possibly sink any lower. My cheeks flushed with a burning humiliation that felt like a stain right down to the bone.
When it was done, I stood up and faced Josiah once more, only this time I couldn't suppress my anger and I didn't care how much it amused him.
"Happy now, Mr OCD?"
"Well, it's not quite how I'd arrange them but I suppose it will do. See? Wasn't so hard to get down on your knees was it?"
"Fuck you, seer."
He grinned lasciviously and slicked a tongue across the sharp point of one incisor. "Now that's something I'd be more than happy to discuss with you. Who knows, maybe you could work off your debt much quicker than I'd anticipated?"
I clenched my fists instinctively, an action that didn't escape his notice.
"Careful, Megan," he warned. "It's not a fight you'd win." He studied me for a moment, pursing his lips before shaking his head. "I'm not your enemy, you know? It's nothing personal. It's just business."
"You actually believe that?" I scoffed. "This is personal. It's very fucking personal. You think Harper wronged your sister and now you're going to make him pay. You knew I wouldn't desert him. You saw it. There I was thinking that you planned to get your revenge by making me leave him when he needed me the most, but all along you knew I wouldn't." I took a step closer. "You knew I'd come here, didn't you? You knew I'd bring him with me and now you have him right where you want him. So what are you going to do now, Josiah? Torture him when he can't fight you back? Kill him while he's unconscious? I might not be able to beat you in a fight, but you know he could, don't you? Is this the only way you can get your revenge? I'm not sure whether to be disgusted by how pathetic you are or whether to pity you."
To my utter surprise, Josiah threw back his head and laughed so loud that the echo bounced off the walls and gathered momentum as it rebounded around the chapel.
"Do you actually think that's what I wanted? Revenge?" His face twisted from amusement to disgust. "I'm not him, Megan. I don't live my life according to some twisted need to get my own back on those who've done me wrong. I'm not ruled by such base desires."
"Oh, get over yourself!" I spat. "We are all nothing but base desire. What makes you so more complex than everyone else? Our lives revolve around base desires - lust, love, hate, revenge. And you're no better than anyone, especially not him."
His eyes travelled over my face, as if he was burying under my skin, seeing everything I never wanted him to see. "You're quite taken with him, aren't you?"
"What I feel for him has absolutely nothing to do with you."
"Yes it does, while you're here, it has everything to do with me. I need you focused. You're no good to me like this. Maybe the sooner he wakes up the better, then he can leave and you can concentrate on repaying your debt in full."
Confusion clouded my head, making my temples pound painfully. "What? You want him to go? I don't understand."
"You don't understand because you're not listening," he growled. "I told you, this was never about revenge. The fact that he's here is just a bonus. It might even work out better than I had planned because watching him suffer when I make him leave you here with me is going to put a big fucking smile on my face, trust me on that."
"Then what was the point of the damn deal if it wasn't revenge?"
He moved in closer, towering over me, his huge bulk blocking out the light that emanated from the candles as he trailed one finger lightly down my cheek.
"The point was you, Megan. It was always about you."
************
I literally threw myself down the corridor, hating myself for running from Josiah, hating myself for suddenly feeling so afraid, but knowing that I needed to be with the one person who made me feel safe, even if that person wasn't exactly conscious right now.
Slamming the door shut behind me and sending clouds of plaster-dust swirling into the air, I leant against it and shoved my fist into my mouth. I bit down on my knuckles and tasted the sweet coppery infusion of my own blood as I desperately tried to stifle the scream that was fighting to break free.
I didn't know why I was so afraid, seeing as Josiah had refused to be drawn any further on just what his intentions were, stating quite calmly and coldly that I had to have patience, but I really was. I'd always believed Josiah's deal had been about simple revenge. He hated Harper. They had a turbulent and tragic history that bound them together. What better way to enact revenge than to tie me into a contract where he could ensure Harper suffered as much as possible? And yet, it seems my assumptions had been very short-sighted indeed. He didn't want Harper. He wanted me and the thought of that terrified me to the core. There had been something in his eyes, behind that white glaze, something in his stony expression that had frozen my soul.
Whatever it was that he wanted, I had a feeling it was going to cost me far more than I had ever bargained for.
Slowly lowering my hand, I tried to calm my breathing as I watched Harper's still-form. I knew he was still in there somewhere. I refused to accept that he had given up, I wouldn't let him. Suddenly overcome by the urge to be close to him, I approached the bed and lifting the blanket, I climbed into the narrow space alongside him, moulding my body against his still-form. Wrapping my arm across his chest, I lay there for a moment, breathing in his scent. Tentatively, almost nervously, I trailed my fingers up to his neck, tracing them along the dark mottled bruising that still marked his throat and the small hand-inked tattoos that patterned his skin. I brushed the hair back from his clammy-cold forehead, gently stroking his brow.
He appeared so different in slumber. With his eyes closed, his face lost that hardened edge. He looked younger than usual and it reminded me of the time after we met, when I first had the chance to study his features more closely. Our clandestine meeting in the coffee shop seemed a whole lifetime ago now, but I still remembered how handsome I had thought him, how flawless his skin had been under the beard and how my heart had hitched in my chest just to look at him.
His skin wasn't flawless now. The deep slash across his cheekbone had finally sutured shut, but the flesh around it was an angry scarlet and raw around the edges. I tried to hold onto the thought that the reddened skin was a sign that the wound was healing, but the sight of it made my insides churn with nausea as did the memory of how it happened continue to cruelly taunt me. Carefully, I touched my fingertips to the scarred flesh and pressed my lips against the un-marked side of his face, planting soft butterfly kisses on his cool skin.
"Why won't you wake up?" I whispered. "Why won't you come back to me?"
A tear slid down my face, moistening the thin pillow beneath our heads. I shifted closer, nuzzling his ear and brushing the soft skin of his lobe with my lips.
"You want me to beg, is that it? Then I will. You want me to tell you how much I need you? I do. I need you more than ever. I've always needed you. Even when I thought I hated you, I still needed you. Just please, Harper.....please wake up. I'm lost without you. I'm so lost."
Another tear followed, then another. I clutched at his body as if my desperate embrace could somehow revive him, and sobbed gently as I buried my face further into the crook of his neck. And despite my pleas, Harper, whose body felt as immovable as stone, remained lost too, somewhere far away where not even my cries could reach him.