If Souls Can Sleep Read online

  “Shut up, Marc,” Tara scolded with a smile.

  Vincent wondered if the two of them were dating. He hoped so.

  “It’s always so hot in here,” Paish said to Jerry. She pulled her sweatshirt over her head, nearly removing her blouse with it. She pulled her blouse back down, but not before Vincent caught a glimpse of her pierced navel.

  I take back all the bad things I said about those radiators.

  Jerry surveyed everyone on their music preferences. Vincent hadn’t heard of any of the undergrads’ suggestions and promptly stated that he was cool with whatever. He laughed as the small talk about bands evolved into smack talk. Through context clues, Vincent worked out that Tara and Paish had met freshman year, and he was pretty sure Tara and Marc had lived in the same dorm. Whether the two of them were a couple remained unconfirmed.

  When the joint came around to him, Vincent was a little tempted to take a hit. Part of it was that he didn’t want to look lame, but more than that, he wanted to feel good.

  In the end, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Drugs—even small-time stuff like marijuana—always reminded him of his mother, a former addict, and his father, who had cut out just before Vincent’s memories kicked in. Then there was Danny…

  He did another shot of whiskey, clinking glasses with Marc, and made the most of his vantage while leaning over the coffee table. He almost didn’t care if Paish caught him checking her out. The low-cut shirt had been designed specifically to complement cleavage. And hers definitely was worth showcasing.

  Patience McFadden wasn’t as pretty as Bella, but she was sexier or, at least, more provocative. A wardrobe that emphasized her curves. The lip ring that hinted at a rebellious streak. A thong that made an appearance every time she reached for the joint from Jerry.

  Nothing wrong with looking. We’re all adults here.

  “What are we listening to?” Tara asked. Her eyes looked sleepy, and her lips her fixed in a perma-smile.

  “Of Montreal,” Jerry said.

  “I’m really digging their sound,” Tara confided. “Good stoner music. Are they from Canada?”

  “Band names don’t mean anything.” Paish played with her barrette, repeatedly snapping it open and closed. Finally, she stuffed it in her pocket and let her hair fall over one eye. “It sounds a little like disco. Not in a bad way, though…just reminds me of the ’70s or something.”

  Jerry chuckled. “It reminds you? You weren’t even alive in the ’70s!”

  Marc took a deep drag off of the joint and started coughing, spewing out puffs of smoke. He swallowed a mouthful of beer and said, “They’re not bad, but I’m not a fan of synthesizers.”

  “Why not?” Paish asked.

  “I don’t know. Fake drums are like…like fake tits. The real things are so much better.”

  Paish adjusted her bra. “No argument here.”

  Everyone laughed at that. Somewhere around midnight, Marc had the idea to play a drinking game with a deck of cards. Throughout the game, Paish fired more than a few suggestive comments Vincent’s way, and he flirted right back. Why not? It was all in good fun.

  Later—how much later, Vincent couldn’t say—Tara lay passed out on the couch. In the kitchen, Jerry and Marc searched for munchies and waged an earnest debate about what the number nine would be called if numbers had names like people.

  “Nathan,” Marc asserted. “It’s totally Nathan.”

  “No…no…” Jerry droned. A few seconds later, he shouted, “Lenny!”

  The two of them broke into uncontrollable laughter.

  Beside him on the couch, Paish giggled. “Those two are fucked up.” Glancing over at Tara, who was breathing loudly though not quite snoring, she asked, “What time is it anyway?”

  Vincent squinted at the blurry blue-green mess that should have been the clock. He blinked a few times, and the shapes settled into something recognizable.

  “3:07,” he replied. “You have somewhere to be?”

  “No,” she said, standing up. “I’m just wondering how much longer I’m gonna have to wait before you make a move.”

  Vincent tried to say “huh” and “what” at the same time. It came out “wha-huh?”

  “Just thought I’d cut to the chase.” She strolled, almost stumbling, over to the doorway of his room. She turned back and smiled mischievously at him.

  A voice from somewhere far away shouted warnings about the nine-year age difference and the fact that he was still married. Meanwhile, Paish crossed her arms, which caused more freckled flesh to peek up from her low-cut shirt.

  Barely married…

  No sooner had he closed the door than the two of them were pressed together, kissing frantically. Her lip piercing felt strange against his mouth, but not in a bad way. He reached a hand up under her shirt while devouring her neck.

  After another couple minutes of mutual groping, he felt her hand brush against the front of his pants. She pulled at the button and unzipped his fly.

  “Why don’t you have a seat?” she asked, tugging his waistband down to his knees.

  Vincent sat back on his bed and watched Paish pull off her shirt, then reach back for the clasps of her bra. He removed his shirt too, suddenly wishing his gut didn’t look so chubby. On a whim, he reclined back, resting on his elbows. The position somewhat lessened the beer-belly effect.

  Then Paish, naked from the waist up, leaned over him, and his body was the last thing on his mind.

  “Told you they’re real,” she said, cupping a considerable breast in each hand and squeezing. She leaned in, kissing him on his lips…neck…chest…lower. Slowly, teasingly, she flecked the tip of her tongue, bringing him to full attention. Vincent closed his eyes and let out a long sigh.

  At first, he didn’t think anything of the room’s spinning. After all, drinking a quarter of a bottle of whiskey and countless cans beer had a way of messing with the scenery. But then he could no longer feel the warm wetness of Paish’s mouth. When she spoke his name, it was as though her voice were drifting from a great distance away.

  “Vincent? Are you OK?”

  He tried to answer but couldn’t. The room, the bed, Paish—everything was gone. There was only darkness.

  From miles away, from across the vacuum of space, Paish said, “Hey, wake up!”

  Vincent wanted only to obey, but he was too busy falling into nothingness.

  I drank too much. Son of a bitch, I’m passing out!

  “Wake up. Please wake up!”

  Paish’s voice sounded louder now but different.

  “You must wake up, Valenthor!”

  Not again! Not now!

  ***

  The elf stood with her back to him, arms outstretched and palms pressed flat against the stone blocks of the cell’s back wall. The capacious sleeves of her gray cloak had fallen back, exposing pale, slender arms. Hair the color of honey flowed down her to the small of her back. It was the first time he had seen her without the hood.

  Vincent pulled himself up onto one elbow. The vague feeling of annoyance that had followed him from whatever dream he had been having fizzled away as he strained to hear her whispers. The long blond tresses seemed to ripple in an unfelt breeze, occasionally covering the peculiar points of her ears.

  His breath caught in his throat when a white glow washed over her. She appeared to be bathed in moonlight despite the wall of stone separating her from the sky. The sight was so eerie he couldn’t have called out her name even if he knew it.

  Slack-jawed, he watched as widening circles of light spread from her fingertips along the rough surface of stones. Her voice grew louder and more passionate with every syllable. The words meant nothing to him, but the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. When the ground began to tremble, he finally stood up and took a tentative step toward her.

  Her final word was a cry of anguish or elation. She spun around. For a moment, the glow of false moonlight lingered in her eyes, and she didn’t seem to recognize him. Then, once
more in a whisper, she said, “We must flee.”

  She managed two steps toward him before her knees buckled. Vincent dove forward, scooping an arm under her neck before her head could hit the floor.

  “Hey, are you OK?”

  She didn’t answer. Eyes closed, body limp, she might have been dead except for the slight rise and fall of her chest. He adjusted his hold and pulled her up against him. His face mere inches from hers, Vincent thought he had never seen a woman so beautiful.

  The ground shook again, and the rumble was underscored by a loud crack. When the dust settled, he saw that a crisscross of deep fissures marred the far wall precisely where the elf had touched it. Smaller fractures continued to spread outward like a wayward spider webs.

  “What fell sorcery hath yon demon wrought?”

  Vincent spared a quick look at Sir Angus, who stood on the other side of the bars. “A damn good question.”

  A giant chunk of wall fell to the floor, leaving behind a dark hole the size of a human head. A second later, two larger pieces crashed down. Sir Angus swore and called out for someone to bring the keys. Glowering at Vincent, he unsheathed his long, thin sword.

  “Entertain not the notion of escape, Valenthor!”

  Vincent knew he had an important decision to make and not a lot of time to make it. He could stay and surrender to the ornery knight or risk his own life by making a run for it.

  He suddenly hated the elf. If not for her, he would be back at the tavern, drinking. She had gotten him arrested in the first place, and now, after starting a jailbreak, she was forcing him to finish the job on his own. As if to emphasize the thought, more rubble dropped from the hole in the wall. The chilly night air caressed his face. He took a deep breath and tasted freedom.

  I don’t owe her anything.

  The jingling of armor or keys grew louder. Several more stones toppled to the floor.

  But I don’t want her to die either.

  Heart pounding, he carried the elf over to the hole in the wall. She was far lighter than he expected, considering she wasn’t much shorter than he. Carefully but quickly, he pushed her through the gap. He was forced to yank out several loosened stones before he could squeeze after her.

  No sooner had he extricated himself than Sir Angus’s helmeted head appeared on the other side of the hole.

  “Halt!”

  A metal-covered hand reached for Vincent, but he pulled back beyond reach. Sir Angus tried to climb through the hole. His armor scraped noisily against the stone before catching against the jagged edges. Wedged firmly in place—half in, half out of the cell—the knight growled in frustration. With some effort, Sir Angus reversed directions and pulled himself back into cell.

  Vincent, with the elf draped over his shoulder, was already running.

  Chapter 8

  A blanket of dreary clouds covered the sky, choking out the sparse light of either dawn or dusk. Smoke swirled up from the chimneys of the houses on either side of the empty dirt road. All was quiet—except for the shouts erupting from around the jail.

  Vincent, though already breathing hard, didn’t dare stop. Even if he stumbled upon a serviceable hiding place for him and the elf, it would only be a matter of time before Sir Angus and his men found them. From the look of the single-story, bare-wood buildings around them, the settlement was likely a village, not a true city.

  I have to keep moving. Maybe I’ll get lucky, and there’ll be a forest outside of town.

  “Ho!”

  He heard the cry at the same time as he saw its source—a man wearing a long coat trimmed with light brown fur running straight at him. Even from a distance, Vincent could make out his small ax and round shield.

  Shit.

  The paths between houses were dark and narrow. God only knew if they led anywhere. Beyond the watchman was open expanse, the obvious way out of town. If he could get past the soldier, he would be home free.

  But between the elf in his arms and the stitch in his side, there was no chance of going around the watchman without a confrontation. Vincent set his unconscious companion on the ground and frantically searched for a weapon. He grabbed the first thing he found, a hammer with a long handle leaning against the side of a nearby building, just as the watchman arrived.

  “Pray do not be a fool, Valenthor,” he said between clenched, yellow teeth. “This cannot end well for you.”

  Vincent snorted. “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t know what to do with a happy ending.”

  Here goes nothing.

  He swung the hammer with all of his strength, hoping to lay the man out with one lucky hit. But the watchman raised his shield even as he thrust the spiky tip of his ax at Vincent’s abdomen. The hammerhead smashed the shield into splinters and kept going, which made the watchman pitch sideways. The jab of the ax went wide but not completely off target.

  Son of a—

  Vincent suddenly adjusted his footing and twisted his body. The wicked point whizzed harmlessly past. Without pausing, he thrust the other pole end of the hammer into the watchman’s sternum. The man stumbled back a few steps, gasping for air. Vincent followed through with another powerful swing, connecting with the arm that had held the shield but now hung uselessly at his side.

  The watchman landed face-first onto the dirt road and did not move.

  How in the hell did I do that?

  “Valenthor!”

  At the sound of Sir Angus’s voice, he turned and assumed a defensive stance, ready to confront the knight. Sir Angus was not alone, however. Four knights flanked him, two on each side. Vincent inspected his adversaries with a calm clarity that belied his racing pulse, taking note of their weaponry, bearing, potential weaknesses.

  Sir Angus did not demand his surrender. His fate was sealed. The knights would surround him and kill him. Through dumb luck, he had overpowered the watchman, but it would take a miracle to dispatch five warriors on his own.

  In the distance, a wolf howled.

  Never thought it would end like this. If there’s an afterlife, I’ll see you soon, Valentine.

  Balancing the heavy hammer on his shoulder, he said, “Come on then. Let’s get this over with.”

  Two of the knights exchanged a look of uncertainty. Another shuffled his weight from one leg to the other. But Sir Angus charged, sword raised high.

  Reacting purely on instinct, Vincent gripped the hammer’s long handle with both hands and lifted it above his head. The sword hacked into the wooden shaft and stuck fast. Vincent gritted his teeth as the impact sent a jolt of pain through his arms. Before Sir Angus could pull his sword free, Vincent kicked him square in the chest and sent both him and his long sword sprawling.

  Vincent followed up with a wide swing of the hammer. The nearest man backpedaled, easily avoiding the arc. Meanwhile, the other three spread had spread out and were already closing in. There was no time to regain his balance, no way to block their blades.

  Valentine…

  Inexplicably, one knight pitched forward, slamming into his nearest ally. Both men crashed to the ground. One of the remaining two knights turned to confront the new threat, but before Vincent could get a look at his rescuer—perhaps the elf had woken up and cast a spell?—Sir Angus and the final knight rushed him.

  The hammer whooshed through the air and struck its target, smashing the unknown knight’s breastplate and breastbone beneath. As the man dropped to the ground with a groan, Vincent’s attention was already fixed on Sir Angus. The knight’s sword lashed out again and again.

  Somehow Vincent stayed one step ahead, ducking, darting, working his hammer in small circles to deflect the blade. The evasive maneuvers took a toll, as every second stretched beyond reason. Vincent’s limbs ached. His lungs burned. After what felt like an hour of desperate combat, Sir Angus got the better of him.

  One moment, the blade was coming in high and then, at the last second, low. With the hammer poised to block from above, Vincent couldn’t bring the weapon down fast enough. He leaped backward to av
oid getting skewered. The sword grazed his side, tearing his flimsy shirt and flesh alike.

  Yelling through the pain, Vincent put all the strength he had left into a clumsy counterattack. Sir Angus saw it coming and sidestepped the blow. The heavy hammerhead would have passed through empty air, except Vincent had adjusted his hold on the hammer. As predicted, the handle end moved much faster than the heavy hammer end would have—and faster than Sir Angus could react.

  The hardwood shaft struck the knight’s helmet with a hollow clang. Three heartbeats later, Sir Angus’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he crumpled to the ground.

  Vincent spared a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow before confronting more enemies. But there were none to confront. The three remaining knights lay scattered about the street, unmoving, possibly dead. Standing over one of them was a tall figure in a brown cloak. Beneath his hood was a round, wooden mask.

  Dark, empty sockets bore into him. The wolf’s cry sounded closer this time.

  “Who…who are you?” Vincent asked breathlessly.

  The other man tapped a long, gnarled staff against one of his boots.

  Is that what he used to defeat those knights…a stick?

  “’Tis not the time for questions. The true enemy draws nigh.” The mask muffled the man’s voice, not garbling his words, but granting them a grating tone. “Retrieve thy Fay friend and follow me.”

  Vincent took a couple of steps toward the elf and then stopped. Clutching his warm, sticky wound, he said, “I don’t think I can carry her.”

  “But thou must.”

  “Why?”

  The unsettling sound from behind the mask might have been a laugh. “Because thou art the hero.”

  ***

  The masked stranger moved swiftly down the empty road. Valenthor, once more bearing the weight of the elf, did his best to keep up. He concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and tried not to worry about what would happen if they encountered more watchmen. Up ahead, the gate lay open, abandoned.

  He was too tired to even wonder why.