My Soul Immortal Read online

  “Obviously,” she mumbles, grabbing her knapsack. Either unwilling or unable to see my hand, palm up, still waiting, she hops to her feet. From beneath the brim of her oversized hood, she surveys me. A pair of vivid emerald eyes burn into mine.

  “Lydia?” I whisper. I stagger backward, angry at the delusion. Any memory connected to her reigns with perfect clarity. But must I be tormented every waking moment? My heart pounds in my ears, and without thought, I reach for her.

  She flinches. Her reaction draws me back from a memory. My arm falls to my side, but my focus doesn’t leave her eyes. She must be real. The desire to touch her surges again, and I need every bit of self-control to thrust my fists deep into my pockets.

  Her guarded eyes narrow. She tucks an escaping golden strand into the confines of her hood. “Do I know you?”

  I can’t peel my gaze from those hypnotic eyes, and I stutter out a reply. “N-no, you remind me of someone. Forgive me.”

  Her attention drifts away and breaks my trance, allowing my eyes to fall to the sidewalk. I concentrate on the diagonal pattern of the red bricks, but the distraction doesn’t help, and breathing has become impossible. My hands tremble in my pockets.

  A car horn blatting jolts me back to a semblance of reality. When I look around, she’s gone. The girl seems to have vanished into thin air, and I wonder again if Lydia’s haunting me. I snort. Sure, some guy points a gun to your chest, no problem. You beat the shit out of him. A girl looks at you, and you freeze up, lose the ability to speak, and think your long-lost love is visiting you from beyond the grave. What are you? Twelve?

  I thrust the incident out of my mind and trudge on down the sidewalk. I won’t allow my stupidity to take over the day. Sanity, remember sanity. I repeat the mantra in my head.

  Soon, I find the shop I’ve been looking for—a tiny dilapidated used bookstore with a faded sign that reads Rare Books. It’s a grungy-looking place, and I can’t tell if it’s open or closed. The black-and-orange help-wanted sign stuck cock-eyed in the window suggests I’m right, so I try the door.

  A tired buzzer whines, announcing my arrival. I remove my rain-soaked sweatshirt, straighten my clothes, and rake my fingers through my damp, tangled hair in an attempt to look presentable. With a deep breath, I swallow any lingering distress from the incident with the girl in the poncho. The musty smells of age-old paper and dust as well as a faint, sweet trace of pipe smoke fill my nostrils, and I find the scents comforting.

  A balding man with horn-rimmed glasses sticks his head out from behind a row of bookshelves. The creases around his eyes fan out as he squints in my direction. “Hello. Can I help you?” he asks much more loudly than the distance demands. “You got here just in time. I was about to close up. It’s been quiet ’round here today. Stupid rain.”

  “I’m here for the assistant clerk’s position,” I say, doubting that the weather can account for the lack of patrons.

  “Oh, yes, yes.” A wide grin creases the man’s thin face and stretches wrinkles along his pale leathery cheeks. He studies me with kind eyes before beckoning me to follow. He meanders toward the back. Towering bookshelves overemphasize his spare stature.

  In a small office space at the rear of the shop, the man pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and shuffles through a mess of papers strewn across a desk. It’s quickly clear why he needs an assistant. The creased and coffee-stained application forms are at the bottom of the pile. He offers me the cleanest one, along with a pen.

  The doorbell groans a distorted melody, announcing another arrival. The man excuses himself and lumbers to the front. From the sound of the resulting banter, the bookshop owner and his lady customer know each other well. She sounds like the kind of grandma who always has fresh cookies in her kitchen.

  My attention swings back to the task at hand, and I scan through the tedious questions I’ve seen thousands of times before. When I’ve finished answering each question, I place the application and pen on the cluttered desk and step from the office to have a look around.

  I wander down a cramped aisle. The floor is littered with novels of all shapes and sizes. The shelves bulge with random selections. A couple gems are hidden among the rabble, and my fingers run down the spine of a familiar leather-bound book. Ancient Fairy Tales: Myths and Legends is engraved in gilt across the rich-amber leather.

  My hands quake. Memories delve deeper into a long-gone time. I can still smell the sweet floral fragrance of Lydia’s hair. The haunting tingle of her touch runs up my arm, stealing my breath. I can see her eyes sparkle in the pale gaslight and the devilish grin that crosses her pink, full…

  “Dammit all!” Damn those eyes! Damn that phantom girl! I clutch my tightened chest and lean against the bookshelf to steady myself. As the intense pain dissipates and returns to the standard hollow ache, a face full of concern peers down the aisle. Her sharp, youthful eyes don’t correspond to the age that surrounds them. Her gray hair tied back into a sloppy ponytail and her dated outfit suggest she’s stuck in a previous decade. She says something, but I can’t hear through the ringing in my ears. “Sorry?”

  “I said, are you all right?” the woman asks.

  Ah, the new arrival. I force a grin. Just talking to myself and clutching my chest. The usual. “Yes, fine.”

  She looks skeptical. “You were in a lot of pain. Do you want me to call someone?”

  “No. Heartburn.” I pat my chest as I walk slowly down the narrow aisle. “Fine now. Too much curry for breakfast.”

  She hangs back, uncertain. “Are you sure? My late husband had a heart attack. You’re young and all, but—”

  “I’m fine,” I say flatly. Hurt enters her eyes, and my regret surges. “Thank you, though,” I add.

  Her weathered lips produce a grin. “So, you’re here for the clerk’s position?”

  I nod.

  “That’s good. Ed needs the help, whether he knows it or not.”

  “Ed?”

  “Of course he didn’t introduce himself,” she mutters with a roll of her eyes. “Ed’s the shop owner. And I’m Sally.”

  “Nice to meet you. Jack.” I bow my head in greeting. I’ve carried the habit, which I can’t seem to break, with me through the years. “Speaking of Ed, where did he go?”

  “Oh, he’s out back, getting a book I’ve been wanting forever.” I sense a glimmer of excitement in her words. She pauses and blushes, then her voice falls to a whisper. “The shop is a bit rundown, I know, but Ed’s got the best collection of antique books in the area, maybe the Northeast. If Ed can’t find it, you can bet your life it doesn’t exist.”

  “Here it is,” Ed announces. He marches toward us, carrying the book as if it’s a bar of gold.

  After a euphoric Sally has left, Ed squints at me and asks, “When can you start?”

  “But, you haven’t even looked at my application yet, sir.”

  “I know. Ed Growley, by the way.”

  “Jack Hammond.”

  We shake hands, and Ed breaks into a crooked smile. “I’m a good judge of people. You’re a normal enough guy. I can tell. Nothing like the kook I had working for me last month. Crazy hippie. Besides, Sally likes you. And don’t tell her, because it will go straight to her head, but she’s never wrong. The job’s yours if you want it.”

  Ha! Normal? I almost laugh. “I can start tomorrow.”

  “Excellent! I have lots for you to do.”

  I smile, glancing around. Nothing like stating the obvious.

  “Every summer, the shop runs a lecture series. It’s a great way to bring in the tourists. The events aren’t grand affairs, just a bit of coffee and snacks of some sort. Sally’s an author, and her second book—or is it her third?” Ed stops and thinks, then shrugs. “Anywho, her next book is coming out in a few weeks, and we’ll be hosting the book’s launch as part of the series.” He smiles proudly.

  “Sounds good.” I nod.

  Before I leave, I drop the fairy-tale gem onto the counter. Stupid. Idioti
c. Self-defeating. I should be avoiding the past, not bring a piece of nostalgia home with me. “I’ll take this one.”

  “Ahhh, Ancient Fairy Tales. Good choice.” He shoves the book in a plastic bag with Rare Books printed in burgundy across the front.

  I groan internally at my impulsive act and dig my wallet out of my back pocket.

  Out on the wet sidewalk, I make it three blocks before wetness tickles my cheek. I glower at the sky. It had previously hinted of relief but changes its mind and opens the floodgates. I throw the clouds the one-finger salute, hug the bag close to my chest, and dart into the nearest shop to escape the downpour. Shaking the droplets from my hair, I look around and find a coffeehouse.

  Old Port Java is alive with conversation and laughter. The aroma of brewing coffee fills the air. I grab a cup of dark roast and a bagel then sit to wait out the deluge. At a table tucked away in the corner, I mull over the poncho girl. “An apparition or flashback. Or, hell, a psychotic episode.” I chuckle without humor. The smallest trifle can spark a flashback: the scent of flowers—particularly roses—a familiar tune, a melodic laugh. But those eyes. No wonder the memories were so vivid and painful.

  I wish I’d been more observant or been able to speak. All I remember is a strand of golden blond hair. And poncho girl’s rich-green eyes were comparable to a precious emerald. Lydia’s eyes. Over the years, I’ve had run-ins with eyes in all shades of green. There was that pair the color of moss in the Metro of East LA and a celadon set in New Orleans. Each time I was confronted, my stomach twinged or my limbs quivered. But nothing equaled this. Then again, never before were they her double.

  That night in bed, I stare at the peeling, bubbled wallpaper that former tenants decided would look good on the bedroom ceiling. Interior designers, they were not. My one-bedroom apartment is furnished with an assemblage of mismatched seventies-style furniture, all probably found at yard sales. Despite the dull thudding of rap music through the wall behind my headboard, my mind is a hive of activity, swirling with impressions and theories about the young woman with the piercing eyes. Finally, close to three o’clock, sleep wins and claims me.

  I open my eyes to a dream. Icy pellets of rain hit my face like a hail of bullets. I make my way back to the grove of elms. In the distance, Wind Rush House beckons to me. Even in the dimming light, the beauty of the rolling countryside can’t overshadow the limestone estate’s grandeur. My body is numb, but Dr. Edmunds’s damning words roll through my head. There’s no more to be done. I won’t accept that she’s dying. I can’t, because her dying means I die, too. I cannot exist without her.

  With a quick shake of my head, I blink away any betraying tears and step beneath the canopy of swaying branches, where I kept vigil for the past week. The wind pierces my thin shirt. With trembling hands, I tug my frock coat tight around my chest, and I draw closer to the trunk where I asked Lydia to be my bride. Despite the storm, I feel as if I can sense a terrible stillness cloaking the old Jacobean-style manor, then a candle appears in the upper-east window. It’s Lady Ashford’s signal telling me Lydia’s alive. A relieved sigh breaks through my lips. I long to be with her and ache to comfort her, but Sir Robert will never invite me into the house again.

  The sound of church bells resounds over the flurry of drumming rain. Then a lone owl screeches through the tall treetops. An omen. When I look at the window again, the light is gone, and the room is dark. I collapse against the unforgiving trunk. Nausea rolls over me, and I retch.

  Chilled to the bone, I bolt upright in my bed, my heart pounding. My skin is drenched in sweat, and my breathing comes in labored bursts, fighting to keep pace with my heartbeats. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. I close my eyes, but my relief is snatched away by a pair of emerald eyes gazing back at me. Maybe those sparkling orbs are tattooed under my eyelids. How else could I see them so clearly?

  “And how many times am I going to be forced to relive that night?” I hiss between clamped teeth, trying to conquer the pain of the swelling ache.

  I struggle into a pair of jeans and yank on the striped shirt I laid out the night before. I grab my damp hooded sweatshirt from the coat hook and trudge down the stairs into the morning drizzle.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Blue.

  Brown.

  Blue.

  Hazel.

  Not one pair of eyes belongs to her.

  The mist intensifies the salty scent in the air as the dampness persists. Unnerved by my new level of stupidity, I feel my frustration burn against the bleakness. If I were smart, I would be sitting in a warm coffee shop, sipping a cup of joe and gnawing on a poppy seed bagel. But I’m not. I’m here, leaning against a low brick wall that guards a collection of bedraggled petunias, on the street corner where I encountered that enigmatic girl one week ago. Obviously, age hasn’t made me wiser, because my obsession grows by the day, fueled by a gravitational force even I don’t understand. She’s not Lydia; she can’t be. I would be deceiving myself if I thought her eye color was due to anything more than ancestry or coincidence.

  “Stupid. Stupid. Stupid…” I let my head fall back, and I stare at the clouded heavens, wondering if this pursuit has become more important than my own mental health. I grumble a string of curses behind my pursed lips when I silently confess the answer.

  I’ve had two goals for over a hundred years—sanity and death. Psychologists would say those intentions lie in direct conflict with one another, but I’m fairly certain those doctors never handled a case like mine. For me, they’re linked. One relies on the other. Nevertheless, as I know all too well, goals sometimes lead to bad choices. The worst thus far were my dealings with Richard Hake. I might have been born immortal, but it was Hake and my actions because of him that awakened my appetite to kill.

  In the spring of 1864, I left the fresh air and open spaces of Lidcombe for the foggy, teeming streets of London. I was still dealing with the reality that Lydia was gone, and after several failed attempts at death, I still hadn’t joined her. I tried to drown my sorrows in all the darkness London had to offer. As I struggled to hold on to the small amount of sanity I had left, I found the adrenaline rush of a Whitechapel fight house. The smell of sweat and blood permeated the room where men pummeled each other for money, thrills, and pride. My first fight left me with two dislocated ribs and a cut to my chin, but the next night, I returned. Strangely enough, the violence awoke something and helped me forget. Even though my release lasted only a moment, I welcomed the fleeting liberation. That was where Hake found me and spilled his golden words into my ear. Having heard his reputation on the crooked streets of the slums, I should have walked away right then, but he made a convincing argument I couldn’t refuse.

  “I can make you rich, loved, and happy,” he promised. I didn’t care about the money, and I knew love dwelled out of reach. But the happiness guarantee—that caught my attention. One year later, Hake lay dead, and I was on the run. To this day, I still feel the same wintry prickle along my spine, the same evocative rush that arose the night I killed him. Before his murder, I had known I was different and unable to die, but after that horrific event, I realized how dark I really am on the inside.

  “What kind of monster does that make me?” I mutter to the petunias.

  I have no idea. This question has preyed on me ever since I realized I was different, because if I discover what I am, I might know how to die. Every creature of myth and legend has a means of ending its torment. Vampires have their stakes. Werewolves, their silver. If the fables ring true, then logically I should have one, too. However, years have passed, and I’m no closer to the truth. And my confidence in finding an answer has waned.

  I breathe deep, filling my lungs with the dank morning air. With a glance at my watch, I realize I have precisely four minutes until I’m due at work. No time for coffee. I huff in disgust and push away from the wall. On the way to the bookstore, I’m captivated by every flicker of gold, and my head swivels toward each fair-haired girl. This is out of control, I thi
nk then force my searching gaze to the sidewalk. Part of me still wonders whether the whole incident is a delusion. That would mean I’ve failed—and my sanity is gone—but I’m not ready to concede. Not yet.

  I arrive with a minute to spare. Ed is slouched behind the counter, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. He absentmindedly chews on the end of a pen while scowling at the newspaper.

  “Hey, do you know what a four-letter word for a Glaswegian girl might be?” he asks without glancing up from the crossword.

  “Lass.”

  “Ha. Right. Okay, try this one, kid. What are coffin flags called? Nine-letter word. Starts with a B.”

  Kid? I suppose it’s better than Sport or Tiger. I suppress a sigh. “No idea. Sorry, Gramps.”

  Unimpressed, Ed shifts his eyes to me, and his heavy gray brows rise. “There’s coffee in the back if you want some, kiddo. Hope you can handle it. I like it strong. Then again, maybe it will put some hair on that chest.” He grins with self-satisfaction and returns to his paper.

  In need of heat and caffeine, I chuckle and steer myself toward the office. As I drink, my icy hands cling to the warmth of the Styrofoam cup, and I realize that within a short time, Ed and I have fallen into an easy friendship of sorts. So strange. My life has been solitary for a century, not by choice, necessarily, but outliving everyone tends to ruin relationships.

  “Which is the exact reason you should be avoiding the street corner and that girl, you idiot,” I grumble then suck down the last dregs of coffee and chuck the cup in the trash. A consuming heat overtakes my irritation at letting my thoughts roam to her again.

  The busy morning gives way to a slow afternoon, and I force my mind to concentrate on a new shipment of books. But every time I lower my guard, the little thought-stealer slips into my head.

  Around four, Ed pops his head into the office, an apologetic grin strung along his lips. “I need to take off a little early. Can you close up?”