Inspire (2 page)

“Gwennie, don’t.”

“But I want to read a magazine, too.”

“Not
that
one.”

She opens her small mouth, and the wail she unleashes reverberates around the checkout area. He scrambles to stuff the magazine behind a few issues of
Good Housekeeping,
but by the time he looks back, little Gwennie has already grabbed another from the same spot she found the first. But she’s still crying.

“I said
no
, Gwen.” He tries to steal it away again, but this time the little girl is faster. She backpedals, bumping into the older woman still waiting on the cashier and the manager to solve whatever is holding them up.

“It has a pretty girl on it,” she says, sniffling, tears threatening to return at any moment.  She holds the magazine up to the older woman behind her in an attempt to gain some allies, no doubt, but the old woman splutters a shocked, nonsense response.

“We’ll get you a different magazine with a pretty girl,” the guy tries.

“But she’s pretty and she’s going swimming. I like swimming, and I never get to do it anymore.”

The magazine is indeed about swimming. Or rather … the best beaches to find sexy, single women. It’s also about fast, easy ways to get your girl hot (direct quote), a definitive list of the world’s best tequilas, and the manliest cars (whatever that means).

The guy kneels in front of his daughter and says, “Please …” But then he just sighs as she darts around him again, and this time she comes to me. But when she stands below me, the magazine falls forgotten by her side. This close, with her eyes impossibly wide, I can see the beautiful mix of blue and green in her irises.

“You’re pretty,” she tells me. “Are
you
on a magazine?”

“I’m not, no.” I smile at her, and the one she gives me in return is brilliant.

An ache breaks through my chest like the sun through clouds.

History says I have children. Orpheus. Linus. Mygdon. More. But the stories are wrong. They’ve been twisted and mistold over the years.

And the only thing worse than not really having a life is hearing lies about one that can never be true. Like I said … my body renews daily. It doesn’t ever change. Nothing about my existence
ever
changes. Not because of too much ice cream. Not hair dye. Certainly not something that would take nine months of changes.

I force the smile to stay on my face … because hey, at least that means I can wear the same clothes and shoes for as long as I want. Silver lining, right?

If only I could make myself believe that.

The little girl looks down at her magazine, considers the scantily-clad woman on the front again, and then switches her gaze back to me. With a very serious expression she says, “You should be on a magazine like this. Do you swim?”

The man pops up behind her. He tries to pluck the magazine away, but she pulls it tightly against her chest.

He says, “I’m so sorry.”

My eyes resist leaving the little girl, but when they do, I’m not sorry.

The guy is younger than I thought from his profile. Early twenties, I’d guess. And I knew he was broad and masculine, but now I’ve got an up close and personal look at the way that his shirt hints at the slopes and curves of a muscled chest beneath. He wears a tie loosened around his neck, and the few undone buttons reveal a triangle of sun-tanned skin. He’s not at all the kind of guy I’m normally attracted to. He’s clean-cut and serious, and yet I see something now that hints at more. The glasses say stoic and sophisticated, but the hair … those not-quite-tamed curls are just begging for a pair of hands to mess them up the rest of the way.

It almost makes me think this is what my artists would look like all grown up. Only they’ll still be working on “growing up” a decade from now, and he’s already there. He’s also outrageously,
handsomely
embarrassed. He rubs at the back of his neck with a chagrined smile, and I’m not sure that I’ve ever met a guy who can pull off uncomfortable and sexy at the same time.

You can’t look at a guy like this and
not
picture him as a husband … a dad. He might not be like the artists I usually date, but he’s the kind of guy I would want to settle down with.

If settling down were even a thing I could do.

When I go too long without answering, little Gwen says, “I don’t think she likes you.”

My lips pull into a smile, and I flick my gaze up to his face once more. And God, that’s not true. Not true at all. And maybe my thoughts are in my eyes because his gaze sharpens, turns hot and hard, and it makes me think of ripped fabric, sweat-slicked skin, and bruised lips.

The pull toward him is electric, irresistible, like a siren’s call, only it’s not sound that’s a danger to me … it’s everything else. He might look clean cut on the surface, but I’ve looked into the eyes of enough men to recognize the spark of wickedness hidden in those pale blue depths.

“I like him just fine,” I say, finally answering Gwen’s statement, and the crooked grin he gives me makes something swoop in my belly.

“Just fine? Is that all?” This time, I do notice his voice, and maybe it’s even more like a siren call than I thought. Low and musical, it slides against my skin, stirring the energy just behind my lungs that makes me what I am.

Only this man isn’t the type to need a muse. In fact, I think the opposite might be happening. Something about this guy speaks to me. Maybe it’s the soft blue of his eyes or the chiseled jaw or that loosened tie that I could use to pull him closer and closer …

Yeah. As improbable as it is, he’s the dangerous one here.

And for possibly the first time in my existence, I can feel my nerves threatening to overwhelm me. I should be able to think of a flirty reply. That’s what I
do.
I should be able to turn this guy’s head so fast he’ll have whiplash. Instead, I’m too bothered by his presence to even meet his eyes again.

I bend my knees until I’m level with the little girl. I tuck one blonde, disobedient curl behind her ear and touch a finger to her tiny, perfect nose.

Her cheeks pink, and I tell her, “I think you’re much prettier than the girl on that magazine.”

“Really?” Her eyes go wide, and she looks at me as if I hold all the answers. And I do have so many answers, so many insights about the world that are just fighting to break out of me. So many things I can never share. With anyone.

“I do,” I promise her. “But the thing is … there are more important things than being pretty. “

“Like what?”

“Like being good and nice and happy. That’s what will make people want to play with you and be around you.” I reach out toward the magazine, and she loosens her grip, letting me take it.  “Pretty only matters in pictures.”

I rise and hand the magazine to her father. Unbidden, my mind starts spiraling out of control, picturing this little girl, this man who I can’t help but notice wears no ring, and me. I start picturing what it would be like to have that kind of life, something I
never
allow myself to do, and the look he gives me and the brush of his fingers over mine don’t help me shut it down. 

I stick out my hand when I should be walking away. Running even.

“I’m Kalli.”

His hand is big and warm around mine. The earlier brush of his fingers is completely eclipsed by the strength and surety of his grip. And the inspiration swirls in me, like a storm gathering on the sea, clamoring for him. His eyes trail over my face and then down. His perusal is quick, and his eyes pull back to mine fast. He’s trying to be a gentleman, but that intensity is still there in his gaze, and I feel it burn through my veins. Desire engulfs me, and I can no longer differentiate between it and the unnatural energy that rests just behind my ribs.

“Wilder,” he says, his voice deeper, raspier. And all I want to do is touch him, to know what he’s thinking, to study just where the wholesome and good half of him gives way to the sin I see in his eyes.

I’m almost lost to it, almost ready to push inspiration into this complete stranger, because the buzz I feel around him is addictive. And the release, oh gods, it would be so good.

But I can’t. Absolutely can’t. I have to be careful even with my artists not to overload them, not to give them too much. And it’s so much easier to pass that point with someone who’s not already open to his or her creative side.

Too much and I could ruin him. Ruin this perfect life he has.

And I might do this kind of thing out of necessity, but I don’t have it in me to be that selfish. The other gods might think of mortals as less than them, but I’ve walked among them for millennium. They are not
less
to me. In fact, I’m more jealous of them than I’ll ever admit aloud.

I’m saved from the temptation when Gwen latches onto my wrist, pulling my hand away from his so that she can have a turn at shaking, too.

“I’m Gwen!” she says, not even really shaking my hand, so much as pulling it toward her, pulling
me
toward her.

“It’s so very nice to meet you, Gwen.”

This is too much.

Too hard.

I tuck that same stubborn curl behind her ear and say, “I have to go. You be good for your Dad.”

I pull my hand away and stumble back. Wilder protests, says “No,” followed by a series of other words that I don’t hear because I’m already on my way to the door, leaving my ice cream and cookies and everything else behind.

I’m not normal. I won’t ever be.

Dealing with artists does get old. And I hate that I’m living the same story on repeat. But better that than to rub salt in my millennium-old wounds by letting myself get close to the things I can’t have.

Wilder and Gwen are coming out of the store as I pull out of my parking spot. Rather than crossing into the parking lot, they stop on the sidewalk and stare as I pull closer to them, toward the exit.

Gwen’s little hand waves wildly at me, but it’s Wilder’s steady, piercing gaze that has me locking up behind the wheel. He lifts a hand, one side of his mouth ticking up in an almost smile that is somehow even more handsome than the grin he shot me earlier.

As I pull out onto the street, I resist the urge to glance in my rear view mirror.

Eternity has never felt quite as long as it feels right now.

Chapter Two

Swift and sure, my life course corrects back to normal.

History and poets have assigned many attributes to time.

It flies. It dies. It heals all wounds.

But for me, time is so much more. Sometimes she’s a torturer. Others a reward. She’s been a friend. A foe. A nuisance. A nobody. My relationship with her is an ever-changing cycle, but one thing is always certain.

Time is my surest constant.

The scenery changes. The costumes. The players.

But a second is a second is a second until the very end of it all.

Lesson #1 of Immortality:

Accept time for what it is. It can go no faster or slower. Only life can do that.

And my life goes back to its normal speed for nine days.

For nine days, I go to class. I go to the gym (mostly for something to do since losing weight and gaining muscle aren’t really possible with my specific … peculiarities). I choose another grocery store to stock up on college essentials (re: ice cream). And I spend my lunch hours sitting outside various artistically-focused buildings on campus, scoping out possible candidates for my next mutually beneficial relationship.

Maybe
scoping
is the wrong word. More like eliminating everyone I come across. I need a break. I need some time to just be me before I have to ingratiate myself to another person, before I have to lie about my past and mold myself into some guy’s vision of the perfect woman.

By day nine, I know I’m being too picky. I don’t get to take breaks. I don’t get to just be me. Not without paying the price.

But even so, I continue discounting every guy I see.

Too much chest hair (
Dude, when it’s peeking out of a crew neck t-shirt, it’s time to suck it up and tame that beast
).

Pointy eyebrows (
Shallow, I know, but it made him look like a cheesy movie villain, and I just couldn’t look at him with a straight face
).

Dickface (
By this I mean that the guy was a jerk … not that his face actually looked like a dick. Although if I had anywhere near the power of the greater gods and could mete out penalties and blessings whenever I pleased, I’d think that would be a pretty creative and deserved punishment
).

But still … in the back of my mind,
day nine
is on repeat, and I can feel the urgency clinging to me. Where the creative energy normally sits comfortably in my chest, I’ve gone long enough now since that last touch with Van that I’m starting to feel it in other places too. My belly. The back of my throat. The tips of my fingers. The top of my spine.

That last place especially. It sits there, coiling around my neck, creeping up into my head until I can feel the way it pushes at my mind, insists that I
do something
…
or it will.

I can’t explain what keeps me from choosing, except that I’m tired. So very tired.  And for the first time ever, that outweighs my fear of the consequences. And I keep telling myself that I can go a little longer. I’m not cutting it too close. I know my limits.

Mortals used to think disease was caused by imbalances and overabundances in the body. They would bleed patients in an attempt to restore balance and fight off disease. Of course, as the world grew in knowledge, they realized how wrong they were, how barbaric and harmful the treatment really was. But that’s actually how it works for me. The longer I go, the more the energy builds up in me, and in its raw state it’s even more potent than when I push it into others. If I lock it up inside, if I don’t reset the balance …

Well, it starts with the headaches. Those are my first warning sign. Then the mood swings. Then I start losing track of time, getting caught up in flights of creative fancy. My thoughts tangle and twine, and I can lose hours, days even, wrapped up in my own mind.