Chapter 21

Sara swearsthe weather was beautiful when she walked to class.

Crisp on the side of cool, but not enough for her breath to fog. Now though, there are gray clouds darkening the horizon that hint at the possibility of rain. Sara knows they only have a couple more weeks (at best) before the frost, then the snow, settles in. Some of the trees have already started to change, red haloing the edges of their leaves. Thanksgiving will be here before she knows it—Christmas after that. The thought makes her chest ache.

She can't imagine either without Oma.

There will be no homemade gravy. No lovingly iced sugar cookies. The mugs of hot chocolate won't warm her the way Oma's did; imbued with happy memories and laced with a magic that was all her own. Her father's version of celebrating is to splurge on a fancy bottle of whiskey—Sara can't remember the last time he bothered to put up a tree. It never really bothered her that much before. She had Oma and, in the last few years, David's family to celebrate with. Now, both of those options are gone.

If it weren't for Miles inviting her to his family's Thanksgiving, she would have spent it alone. She's already resigned herself to going home for Christmas, but she would have lied through her teeth to avoid spending Thanksgiving there too. Her father's given her no apologies for the way he acted at her last visit and she knows better than to expect one. Sara has the sinking feeling that the holiday spirit won't be enough to save her from a repeat performance.

Experience has taught her as much.

The sound of scraping chairs rips her from her thoughts. Somehow, class has ended. Sara looks down at her notebook, flinching when it confirms that the only thing she's written is the date.

She's not even sure which old British guy they were talking about today.

Discreetly, she glances around the room as she packs away her things. She's almost disappointed to find Seth absent. Maybe he looked in long enough during the lecture to at least tell her what to google later.

Her professor stops her before she can follow her classmates out the door. "Sara, could you stay for a moment?"

"Oh." Sara fidgets, adjusting the bag on her shoulders. "Um, sure Ms. Green."

Sara likes her despite hating her class. She's young, damn near close to being fresh out of college herself, and it shows. She's easier on the homework load, more forgiving of tardiness and real life's penchant for getting in the way.

Ms. Green waits until the last student files out, the door closing behind them. She sighs, removing her reading glasses and pinning Sara with a knowing (pitying) stare. "How are you?"

The answer is so ridiculously transparent, Sara has to smother the urge to laugh. Everything is so far away from being fine. "I'm ok."

Ms. Green nods, a softness around the edges of her eyes that speaks of sympathy. "I know how hard it is to lose family, and I'm so, so sorry for your loss."

Sara's throat tightens. The sentiment is sweet, rife with good intentions, but it still makes her stomach churn. This is the last thing she wants to talk about, and certainly not with her professor. Still, she forces a strained "thank you" past her lips.

Another nod, and Ms. Green leans against her desk. "Sara, I want to be honest with you. It might be in your best interest to retake the class in the Spring."

Sara stills, breath burning in her lungs. "What?"

"You're struggling. And, at the rate you're going, I'm worried you're going to fail the class." She folds her hands in front of her, face pinched in a way that suggests the conversation is painful for her, too. "We're getting to the point where you need to start acing these tests if you want any hope of passing."

Sara pales, her breathing weak. She's pretty sure she thanks her professor (she hopes she does) but she's so numb she can't be sure. There's a pressure on her chest, a burning in her lungs. Turning to leave and seeing Seth sitting in the back row—his eyes soft with knowing—only makes the pain sharper.

It's raining,because of course it is.

Sara huddles under the metal awning of the bus stop around the corner from campus, waiting for the steady drizzle to stop and cursing her luck. She doesn't dare try to walk home in this weather—not with her expensive textbooks and not without the umbrella she (conveniently) left at home.

She pulls the hoodie further over her head, sniffing and wiping at her eyes with the heel of her hand. The stores are already boasting Christmas decorations in the windows, their merry lights blinking tauntingly from across the street. Sara glares at the overly cheerful Santa grinning through the glass.

She really wishes they would at least wait until after Halloween.

Seth appears at her side, the way he always does. She doesn't jump—she's come to expect no warning. "Come now, it's not so terrible." His hands sink into his pockets, rocking back onto his heels as he stares up at the sky. "So you have to repeat a class? At worst, it'll only delay your plans a handful of months."

She sniffs, wiping her nose on the sleeve of her sweatshirt as discreetly as she can manage. "Can you not?" she says, forcing the words around the gravel in her throat. "I'm not in the mood."

She can feel his stare, but she refuses to meet it—pulling her knees up to her chest a little tighter.

He hums, "Ah, I see. You'd rather sulk."

"You know what?" she snaps, "Maybe I would." Her arms cross over her chest, hands fisting in the fabric at her elbows. "Oma's dead, my boy—my ex would rather die than remember me, my dad can't look up from the bottle long enough to support me in anything I do. And now, just to top everything else off, I'm probably going to have to put my entire life on hold because of this stupid class."

There's no way she'll be able to juggle four photography classes and literature next semester. There's not. She missed three more months at her grandmother's side, three more months of happy memories, all because Oma hadn't wanted her to delay her graduation. Now, knowing that it doesn't even matter is crippling. It hurts. It hurts so terribly and he can't possibly understand. Couldn't possibly care.

A bitter laugh escapes her. "But you don't care about any of that, right? As long as you can say you own me, nothing else matters, right?"

He shakes his head. His skin is pale—ghostly—under the humming fluorescent light. "If you truly believe that nonsense, then you're more foolish than I gave you credit for."

"Nonsense?" she hisses. Inside her pocket, her fists clench—nails biting into her palms. "You remind me all the time. How—"

He cuts her off, voice sharp. "Never. I have never once claimed to own you." His eyes close, facing skyward as if praying for patience. "People aren't possessions, regardless of how many men throughout history have claimed otherwise."

Her lips part, ready to argue—always ready to argue—but the fight leaves her as quickly as it came. He's right. He's never said it in those exact words, but the implication had been there. Heavy and without any room for misunderstanding. "But you—"

"I said you're mine." His voice is dry in the wet weather, but there's a sigh hiding behind his eyes—a fatigue. "That won't change, regardless of your pitiful whining."

"Ok, but you see how that's just as bad? Right? It literally means the same thing!"

"But it doesn't," Seth hisses, eyes flashing. "To say I own you is to say I hold power over you." He shakes his head, a bitter laugh falling from his lips. "No. You are mine, Sara, but only because I am equally yours."

Sara gapes at him, outraged. "But I never—I didn't. You are notmine."

She expects his taunts; a smooth, dark chuckle. Perhaps even his scorn. She receives none of it. Instead his lips pull into a sneer, bitter at the edges. "Not yours? I've been yours from the very moment you bargained for David's life." His eyes slide to meet hers, mouth softening into something resigned. "I have to answer your every question; forced to speak only in truths. You're the only one who can see me. The only one who can touch me, but only if you wish it. I may as well be chained to your wrist."

It feels like he stole the breath from her lungs, leaving her empty and lightheaded. "I—but you never..." she trails off, trying to find her bearings. Her hands grip the bench, bile acidic in her throat. "I don't understand."

"What is there possibly to misinterpret?"

She stares at him. The sneer, the callous set of his shoulders. He's the same as always, but there's an exhaustion hiding in the shadows of his eyes—a resignation—she had never cared to notice. "Why?" she whispers.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Why," she repeats, louder. "Why would you pretend?"

The laugh that leaves him is cold. "Tell me, would you have seen me as anything else? Had I... tossed compliments and condolences at your feet, would any of it have made any difference?" He sighs, staring listlessly at the rain-soaked street. "I am the villain in your story, Princess. I never held any expectations of anything different."

There's a lump in her throat, an anxiety tightening her chest, that renders her speechless. Silence stretches between them, filled only by the steady tapping of rain on the aluminum awning sheltering them. She doesn't know what to say to break it, except maybe... "You're right." The startled look he gives her is swift, sharp with reluctant hope. "I... I wouldn't have. I'm sorry."

He softens—mask melting away like wax under heat—and for the first time, Sara recognizes him for what he is.

Tired.

The smile he wears at the corners of his mouth is fragile. "No need to apologize, Princess. There have been far worse heroines to suffer through."

Sara thinks of the day she struck him—the edge of panic in his gaze the moment she discovered she had the power to hurt him—and feels sick. How many others came before her? How many found his weaknesses and chose to exploit it? She doesn't have the courage to ask. "Was it... have you always had to? Be the villain?"

"No," he confesses, as if admitting a past sin.

She nods, hands twisting in her lap. "What happened?" His eyes close, jaw tightening, and Sara realizes her mistake. "I'm sorry, you don't have to answer that."

She doesn't want to force an answer from him, not this time. Not for this.

The rain continues to fall around them—the only sign he heard her is his continued silence. It isn't until the headlights of a passing car light up the wet landscape that he speaks. "Her name was Mary. Mary Jacobs." He pauses, eyes darkening. "An ordinary name for an ordinary woman. Her young son was dying in her arms—pneumonia. She hadn't the money for a doctor. Even if she did, she certainly wouldn't have been able to afford the treatment. She wanted him to live."

Sara's lips twitch into a sardonic smile. "So you gave her a miracle."

Seth snorts. "By the time the deal was struck, he had already passed." His eyes meet hers, painfully serious. "There's always a price, Sara. Always. The man that wishes for riches, sacrifices happiness. The woman who prays for someone to love her unconditionally, receives it from a person she finds repulsive." He shakes his head, expression softening. "The girl that wishes for her boyfriend to live, finds herself alone because he doesn't come back the same."

She sucks in a breath. "It's just because he doesn't remember."

He watches her, eyes bottomless. Sara hates that he doesn't assure her. Hates that he can't.

"Do you know?" she asks, words trembling on her tongue. "When you make your deals. Do you know what the price will be?"

"No." He gazes up at the rain. "I don't."

"What was the price for—"

He doesn't let her finish. "Please, don't ask me that. You will hate the answer nearly as much as I would telling it."

His voice is curt, but Sara can see something unsaid dancing in the empty space between them. Perhaps it had always been there—twisting and turning just on the edges of her vision. "You regret it."

Not a question; a truth.

He doesn't bother pretending otherwise. "He's the only one I ever tried to take from Death. I've been very careful to make sure it stays that way."

"That bad?"

"Worse." He laughs, the sound dark and hollow. "It was supposed to be a mercy. I thought—I truly, truly believed there could be no price worse than dying. I was wrong. Obviously."

Sara wants to ask why he bargains at all, but she's afraid she already knows the answer.

"Was it ever worth it?" she asks softly.

"Once," he says, voice teetering on the thin edge between bitterness and apathy. "Only once."

"Will you tell me about it?" The look he gives her is questioning—baffled by her curiosity. She shrugs. "I could use some happy."

He scoffs. "You asked if it was ever worth the trade, that hardly qualifies it as happy."

"Do you ever get tired of being so melodramatic?"

"Don't be ridiculous, of course not." His lips purse; the faintest echo of a smile. It disappears as quickly as it came. "She was in pain—agony, really. Every minute of every day. When she spoke, when she smiled... the slightest brush of wind against her face." His eyes close, mouth twisting into a grimace. "She begged me to make it go away."

"So you did."

He nods, the corner of his mouth lifting into a self-deprecating smile. "So I did."

"What was the price?" She almost doesn't want to know, but she can't keep herself from asking.

"She stopped feeling anything. Not the heat from an iron, or the chill from the snow."

"That... doesn't seem so bad."

He shakes his head, a sneer twisting his mouth. "Then you're a fool. Nothing, Sara. She could feel nothing. Not the embrace of her child, or the kiss from her husband. She died, starving for touch, from a heart attack because she couldn't bloody well feel the symptoms. She was the only one, in a long list of victims, that thanked me. Even on her deathbed, she thanked me and I... I never wished, so fervently that she wouldn't." He meets her gaze, more open and vulnerable than she's ever seen him. Pained. "I did nothing but trade one Hell for another."

"Oh," she breathes. It feels like the air has been sucked from her lungs, leaving her chest hollow—starving. "Is...is that how it is for you?"

His brow creases. "What?"

Sara swallows, bolstering her courage. "The touch starved thing. You said you traded one Hell for another. Is that how it is for you? Is it Hell?"

He stares at her, a manic laugh escaping him. Sara hates how brittle it sounds; how fragile. She can almost hear him breaking around the edges. "How can it be anything else?"