Chapter 3: Sticks and Stones
The fall to the ground was jarring, pushing the breath momentarily out of my lungs. Sadly, it wasn't the most graceful fall ever.
"Are you alright," Stephen inquired above me, his hand snaking under my elbow and lifting me up. "Rory?"
"Yes, yes. For the hundredth time, I'm fine."
Stephen had been serious when he'd promised to train me and now, here we were, in the downstairs flat that was supposed to be converted into office space. The living room still had no furniture, so it was the perfect place to practice. Though, at the moment, all I'd learned so far was how uncomfortable the carpet was.
"You have to keep your hands up. Always protect your face and stomach."
I nodded, bringing my hands up and positioning my feet as he'd shown me, but he shook his head. "Rory, I think we should take a break."
This was what I'd had to put up with for the last two days, since I'd dealt with that ghost. Everyone was treating me like I was glass. Dr. Marigold had been sent over to give me a physical, and she'd concluded that I was healthy, just exhausted. I could still remember the frantic Stephen and Boo that had burst into the apartment after receiving Callum's phone call.
"You shouldn't use your power anymore," Stephen had insisted. "It's getting worse every time and we have other termini now."
I'd agreed on this front, mostly because I didn't want to experience that again, but I'd had enough of everyone tip-toeing around me.
"I'm fine," I implored Stephen now. "I want to go again."
"Rory, just take a break. Catch your breath."
"My breath is fine. Show me how you threw that punch. That's what I should be learning. The punching."
A small smile turned up the corners of Stephen's lips as he watched me bouncing on the balls of my feet. "The first thing you learn in self-defense is how to deflect an attack. Once you can properly block my advances, then we'll move onto the punching. Have you ever punched anyone before?"
"Oh yeah, I used to get into brawls all the time. Iron fist. That's what they called me."
Stephen rolled his eyes at my sarcasm, but returned to his fighting stance, which I tried to mimic. I must have been doing a poor job from the look on his face. "Feet out a little more. You don't want to limit your range of movement."
"Like this," I asked.
"Not that wide."
I was watching my feet, trying to gage just where to put them on the worn carpet when I felt his hand on my thigh, urging my leg farther over.
"Right there," he explained, his voice husky in my ear. "And turn your hips a little more."
His hands found my hips, causing my breath to lodge in my throat and a rosy blush to make its way down my cheeks. He turned me, ever so slightly, his fingers never leaving my body as he moved up to my arms, positioning them.
"Hold it just like that. You want to stand in a way that protects all your vital organs in an attack." He was still leaning down, speaking into my ear and his nose just grazed my temple. I was seeing stars now from the not breathing, but I couldn't seem to remember how to exhale.
Looking up, our faces were only a couple inches apart with the way he was leaning down and I could feel his breath fan over my cheek. For a moment, we were both frozen, his eyes darkening… and then he jumped back as if I had shoved him.
"Um… yeah, just like that," he continued, moving back around to face me.
Now I could breathe again, but the ache of disappointment tore through me like a fist to the gut. It didn't help that he made such a sexy sight, with his hair rumpled and the light gleam of sweat on his muscles. I may have allowed my mind to wonder a little too much because I was in no way ready when he came at me again, his fist swinging at my head. I blocked him, just the way he'd shown me, but he turned, coming at me again. This time, I swung out at him, but he caught my arm, swinging me around until my back was flush with his chest. He still held my arm across my body, pinning me to him.
"I thought I said you were supposed to be blocking," he inquired, a hint of a laugh in his voice.
"I… I saw a shot."
I could feel the warmth radiating off him as his chest rose and fell behind me. If I were trapped like this forever, I would be happy. But with a sudden, startled laugh, he let me go, spinning me around to face him again.
"Alright then. We'll try it your way. You come at me."
I wanted to protest. He was right, I never had thrown a punch before. But at that moment, I had an intense desire to wipe that slightly smug look off his face. Before he was fully in position, I charged. Whatever police training he'd had was clearly working in his favor. He blocked my attack at once and when I kicked out at his side, he caught my foot and tossed me on my back.
Down on the floor – again.
"Are you ready to learn how to block now," he inquired, grinning down at me as I attempted a grimace.
"Actually, I think I'm ready for that break now."
With one of his rare Stephen smiles, he extended his hand, helping me up off the floor and leading me to the wall where our water bottles were waiting.
"That really wasn't bad," he insisted as I slid down the wall to sit on the floor. He joined me, sitting so close that we were almost touching.
"Stephen Dene! Is that a lie I hear on your tongue?"
"Seriously. It was only your first training session. You just need the practice."
"Is this the part where you tell me that you were just as bad when you were trained," I hoped, leaning my throbbing head back against the wall. I noticed, sadly, that while I was practically panting for breath, he was breathing normally.
"I would, but you just implied that you don't appreciate it when I lie."
With a furious sigh, I jabbed him in the gut, and was rewarded with a small laugh.
"How are you doing," Stephen started, but at my annoyed face, he back-peddled. "I don't mean about the other night with the ghost. I meant with everything else. Charlotte, your parents… our situation."
I know he meant the Sid and Sadie situation, but I couldn't help but feel that maybe we were talking about something more personal. Like the fact that I was in love with him and he wanted to be nothing other than colleagues.
"I'm dealing."
The parent situation, though less shocking, had been exceedingly difficult. In the end, I'd written a letter stating that I couldn't come back to them, but that they should move on with their lives and I would explain everything one day – which was a lie – and that I loved them so much. It had been even more difficult to hear that they hadn't immediately gotten on a plane to Louisiana after reading it, but had urged the police to search harder, insisting they weren't leaving without me.
"It won't… It won't be like this forever," Stephen assured me, his hand moving towards mine, but stopping just short of taking it. "I'll make sure you can see your family again. I promise. Even if you officially join."
"If?!"
"You know what I mean, Rory. You still might wise up and change your mind. But if you don't, and I certainly don't expect you to, I'll make sure you can see them again. That you have a chance to explain. You need that."
His hand was still a breath away from mine and I decided I was tired of waiting for him to make a move. I took his hand, weaving my fingers through his and holding on as my love for him grew infinitely more.
"Thank you," I whispered, worried that if I spoke any louder, my voice would tremble.
His hand was still in mine and he wasn't letting go, so I took another chance and rested my head on his shoulder, letting just the fact that he was there beside me comfort me. He stiffened slightly, but then relaxed, his head resting on mine and for the moment, I was happy.
"Stephen, Rory," a voice called, and Thorpe came trudging into the empty apartment. Stephen instantly dropped my hand and stood, the worry lines creasing his face. "We finally have the coroner's report back for Charlotte."
Happy feelings gone. My stomach was rolling.
"What took so long," Stephen inquired, accepting the papers Thorpe handed him.
"It seems they've had quite the body count these last few days. Took them a while to get to Charlotte. Would you like to hear the names of the dead that have been flooding in?"
Stephen's face hardened and I could tell he was already expecting this. "I'm guessing every person that could have been linked to Jane."
"Exactly. Every person except this Jack fellow."
"Jack is still out there," I gasped, on my feet now too. I'd had several encounters with Jack, none of them pleasant.
"Supposedly," Thorpe continued. "Though with this track record, I say it is very likely that he is dead."
It was evil and wrong, but part of me was slightly relieved by this possibility.
"Killing their accomplices seems to fit the mold for them, but we still have no idea what they're up to now," Stephen began, staring at the papers before him. "They obviously care nothing for defeating death, as Jane did. At least not for anyone but themselves."
"Maybe they've already got what they wanted then," I added hopefully. "They're immortal and un-killable, so maybe now they'll just live the rest of their long lives peacefully."
Stephen gave a bitter chuckle.
"It could happen," I argued. "We had this guy once back home. He started this string of robberies, right, and he–"
"Rory, as fun as your 'back home' stories are," Thorpe cut in, "this isn't exactly the time. I have to get back."
"You know Rory's 'back home' stories," Stephen inquired.
"Yes. Rory and I grew quite close while you were… gone. And by that I mean I grew quite close to killing her." But despite his words, his lips turned up in a fond smile. "I brought this too."
Reaching into the briefcase he carried at this side, he produced an English driver's license with my picture and a fake name and age.
"Francine?! You seriously named me Francine," I protested, not that I hated the name Francine. I just really didn't feel like a Francine.
"It is a safe, common name that will not draw attention. But, in anticipation of this rant, I also brought these to cheer you up."
"These" ended up being a stack of papers for me to fill out, and after closer inspection, I felt my smile growing wider.
"Are these forms to join the squad," I asked, my voice shaking with glee.
"If you still want that after everything that's happened."
"I… yes, of course I do!" I was so happy, in fact, that I was bouncing on the balls of my feet, unsure if Thorpe would welcome the hug I wanted to give him. And then, I saw the look on Stephen's face.
Every happy feeling was gone in a second.
"You don't want me to join," I stated.
"It's not… It's complicated," Stephen explained, his eyes not meeting mine. He might not show a lot of emotion, but I'd learned to read that face. The lips tighter than usual, the eyes focused on the wall. He was upset, but trying hard not to say the wrong thing.
"Stephen," Thorpe cut in. "I know this isn't what you wanted, but Rory has proven herself time and time again. She'll still need to be trained, of course, and she's welcome to quit any time she feels she needs to, but… I think she's ready for this. And it's what she wants."
"It's fine," he snapped, making me jump.
And he left, just like that; out of the apartment and up the stairs. I could feel my heart throbbing in my chest, threatening to give out entirely. By the time I registered the wetness on my cheeks, the tears were already rolling off my chin.
"He just worries about you," Thorpe assured me, placing a stiff hand on my shoulder. "After Newman, when you were hurt, he worried about you constantly. Worried that you would go crazy in Bristol on your own or that something dangerous would happen and you'd try to deal with it alone. He likes to be in control and with you he's never in control. I think it scares him."
But in my head, I thought about his actions lately. How he can barely touch me. The way he explained that continuing what we'd started that night in his dad's flat would be unwise. I couldn't squish the fear that the real reason he didn't want me to join was because he didn't want us to work that closely when I still loved him like I did. That it would be uncomfortable and odd.
I knew how much he cared about me, how much he worried, and the rational part of my brain agreed with Thorpe. But the more treacherous part reminded me that Stephen didn't want me. Not as a girlfriend and not as a co-worker.
"He'll come around," Thorpe insisted. I just nodded in response.
~SoL~
The clock on the wall felt as though it were running insanely slow, its ticking driving me closer and closer to madness. Sitting on the living room floor with Sid and Sadie's books spread out around me, I once again found myself looking at the un-fabulous works of Edward Kennish, painter of inexplicable lines and smudges. Clearly the magicians of the dark arts were easily impressed. This was the fourth book that contained one of his works and I was beginning to suspect him of having a love affair with the authors.
Beside me, Freddie let out an exasperated sigh while combing through one of the other books. I appreciated the company, but I mostly wanted to call it a day and head to bed. The disagreement with Stephen was still resonating in my mind, a dull ache that made itself known every few seconds. The paper work Thorpe had given me was filled out and ready to hand in, but the excitement of the moment was tainted.
"I don't think we'll get anywhere with this," Freddie noted, closing her book with a ring of finality. "There's nothing in here that points us to what they're up to now."
"Although we've learned quite a bit about preforming an epic séance," I pointed out.
"Yes. If I ever want to contact my dead Aunt Margaret, I'll be sure to give them a look through."
It was proof of how bored I was that I burst into a startled laugh at her quip. Freddie, though upbeat, didn't usually make jokes, and when she did, they were usually simple and nearly childish.
"We need coffee… or beer," I suggested, hauling myself off the floor and towards the kitchen.
"I vote beer. One sip and we'll both be asleep."
"Sadly, Stephen and Callum don't seem to buy beer." In fact, no one had bought anything in the last few days and the contents of the refrigerator was sadly lacking. "How about ice cream?"
"As long as it's not Pistachio."
Grabbing the tub of chocolate and a couple spoons, I joined Freddie back on the floor. "School starts back next week, right?"
She nodded around her mouthful of ice cream. "It almost feels like a waste of time now. With everything that's happened. Just feels like my time could be better served somewhere else."
I nodded, though I couldn't agree. Part of me was jealous. I missed Wexford. I missed Jazza and our dorm and eating Cheeze Whiz after a long night of studying. I even missed Further Maths. Not that I wasn't thrilled to be an official member of the squad, but I'd worked hard to get into Wexford and looked forward to it for years. It had been my dream for so long.
"I don't think the case will fall apart while you attend classes," I assured her.
"Yeah, I know. I just–"
But before she could finish her sentence, the door was thrown open and an excited Boo stepped in. Her hair had electric orange streaks in it now and it seemed to mirror her mood.
"Be prepared to love me forever," she gushed, her hand still holding onto the doorknob. When she saw my confusion, her smile widened. "I brought you a present."
And then the door opened fully, revealing the refreshing sight of Jazza.
"What?! You're here? How are you here," I screamed, jumping up and throwing myself into her arms. Her hug was fierce and steady, bringing me the relief I'd been searching for all day.
Behind her stood Jerome, a sheepish smile on his face. He clearly didn't want to be in the way of my reunion with Jazza, but I reached over to grab his hand, pulling him after us into the flat.
"I just got in yesterday," Jazza explained as I pulled her to the sofa. "I told Mum I wanted to set up my dorm early, but I think she knew it was a lie. I was just so excited to see you!"
I hugged her again for good measure, my heart feeling suddenly light and free. Just the scent of her shampoo made me feel as though for the moment, everything was normal. I could almost hear her cello music in the background and taste the cheap wine we used to bum off Angela and Gaenor.
"Please tell me you're one step closer to coming back," Jazza begged.
"Not… um, not exactly. We're still sort of… nowhere. I guess you heard about Charlotte."
At these words, Jazza's cheery face faltered and I saw the tears threaten to spill from her eyes. "I was so mad at her for so long."
"Jaz," Jerome began with the feel that this was already a topic they'd discussed. "It's okay that you were mad at her. And it's okay if you're still mad at her."
"She's dead! It's not… how can it be…" But Jazza clearly couldn't continue this conversation without breaking down and I seriously didn't want my first conversation with Jazza in weeks to be this tragic.
"What about home," I inquired, giving her hand a squeeze. "How was your family?"
"Relieved to have me home. They almost didn't send me back. I had to argue for weeks."
"Sorry." Because it really was my fault. I was the friend that had gotten stabbed by the Ripper and then proceeded to have a mental breakdown and run away. Stephen had repeatedly explained that I wasn't to blame for any of this, but I kept coming back to the downward spiral that had taken place after I'd left Wexford. The shame was making by throat tight.
"Well," Freddie exclaimed suddenly, slipping on her shoes. "I think I'll head back. Let you guys catch up."
And just like that, I realized Freddie had no idea who Jazza was or what was going on. "You don't have to. You can stay," I called after her, but she was already halfway out the door, waving.
"Who was that," Jazza asked, taking a spoonful of the ice cream.
Boo jumped in then, setting down four mugs of tea. "She's someone you're not supposed to know about. Now, about this present you were bringing."
At Boo's wicked smile, Jazza reached into her purse and produced two jars of Cheeze Whiz. I nearly fell of the couch.
"I ordered it online. Thought you might be a little low," she explained and with a squeal of delight, I threw my arms around her neck.
"She's not the only one," Boo said, setting a box of crackers on the table. "Months ago I wouldn't have touched this goo, but now I've been craving it."
And that was how we passed the next couple hours. Eating Cheeze Whiz while Jerome and Jazza filled us in on all things Wexford. It was a merciful break in the spiral of crazy.
"What is this anyway," Jerome inquired later, as Jazza was reaching for her jacket and heading for the door.
"Sid and Sadie's magic books. And before you get excited, I promise it's the dullest thing you've ever read," I warned, but he seemed intent.
"I meant this."
Following his finger, I saw he was pointing to the Edward Kennish painting.
"Oh, some painting from the 1600s. They're all crap."
"All?" Jerome had that light in his eyes; the light that used to shine during the Ripper case.
"What is it?"
"Look at it? Doesn't it seem like a small part of a bigger picture? Like how if you focus on a small portion of a Monet it looks like nothing, but all together it's a picture of a pond."
Pulling over another book, he flipped pages until he found another painting, lying it beside the first. The effect was instantaneous.
"The lines fit together," I whispered, too awed for volume.
"Making up a bigger painting."
"But it still looks like nothing," I noted, pushing the books closer together to heighten the effect.
"Maybe there's more pieces in other books. If you want, I can stay and help you look."
"No you can't," Boo cut in, holding the apartment door open. "Stephen and Callum will be home soon and they won't be happy to find you two here. Now go."
With some lingering hugs, Jazza and Jerome stumbled out while Boo collapsed on the couch, already busy texting Callum. In the back of my mind, I knew she was talking to me, filling me in on some drama down in the Underground, but I couldn't take my gaze off the paintings. They had to mean something.
A/N: Thank you so much, my first reviewer! I'm glad there are others out there as psyched for these books as I am!
