Page 127 of Gates of Tartarus

I’m deep into a documentary about a woman who faked being at 9/11, when I hear Walker mumble to Jonah in the other room, “... I don’t know, man. That girl is crying her eyes out in her bedroom…”

My ears perk up, and I lower the volume to listen to their back and forth. It’s difficult to hear – I think they’re trying to keep their voices low on purpose.

“... can’t. She has a boyfriend... could try calling him.”

“Should… tell Kai?”

Silence.

“Wouldyoutrust her?”

Silence.

“... if weneedher… some kind of detente…”

“Look at you with your $100 words…”

“Shut it, asshole… Hey Kai?” The last is said loudly, clearly meant for me to respond.

“Yeah?”

“Come on and check that we have everything, okay?”

My room at Lachy’s has been transformed. All my clothing has been hung up neatly and put away (I cannot even think of their hands all over my lingerie and choose to ignore that thought); my comforter and pillows are on the bed. All of my jewelry and makeup, books and photo albums, are neatly put in their proper places, and my favorite blanket is thrown over my reading chair. It looks like… like home. The only things missing are the paintings Gemma made for me, and I feel a sick, almost crippling desire for them to make my room complete. Lachy’s head jerks up, his eyes narrowed as he looks me over carefully.

“What’s wrong?” he asks slowly, and I shrug helplessly.

“I… I know I said to leave the paintings, but…”

Nodding wordlessly, he and the guys walk back out and return about fifteen minutes later with a stack of art Gemma made for me.

“Did… did she care that you were taking them?” I ask Jonah hesitantly, and he turns an understanding smile on me.

“Naw, Kai. As soon as we asked her what we could take, she ran around the place and pointed to everything that was yours. Added a few too, I think. She, ah, she seemed really happy you wanted them.”

Looking through the pile, I see all of the ones she painted for me specifically – the birthday gifts and Christmas gifts she’s made over the years. But I also see a few that defined our space that Ilove, but which were special to Gemma. A photo-realistic one of our broken dock, the Sound heavily fogged. A small, funny little line drawing of a cat playing with a ball of yarn. And the one that makes me catch my breath, a painting from Gemma’s room – her favorite… She’s had it for years. Since before I met her, maybe. It’s a dark painting – the shadow of a girl on a swing, legs tight against her chest, the swing hanging from a branch. You can’t see the trunk of the tree at all, just the branch extending out from the edge of the canvas. The girl is looking up at a small bird overhead, sitting on the edge of the limb, and at first glance everything is peaceful and hopeful. The sky's the striated colors of early evening, the girl’s hair blowing softly in an unseen wind. But when you get closer and look into the darkness below the girl and her swing, where the painting fades to black, you can pick out the stretching limbs and haunted eyes of wraiths in the shadows. They’re hard to see unless you’re right up by the painting, but they’re there, grasping, bony hands reaching up towards the unsuspecting girl. I’m not sure why Gemma sent this one, and I frown, staring at it, before directing the guys where the pictures should be hung. The Girl on the Swing I prop up on my bedside table.

We’ve just finished, Walker looking consideringly at his watch as Lachy mentions lunch, when I feel a reluctant energy press against me, and I jerk back before I can help it. All three guys look at me worriedly but change their focus when the doorbell rings.

“Just Smith and Tanaka,” I say quietly. Lachlainn’s face is a sight to behold at the words – shoulders tense with restrained fury.

“Atmyhouse?” he asks softly. “Uninvited?” People make a mistake thinking Lachy is a teddy bear. I mean, heis, most of the time anyways. But he’s also fiercely protective and strong as shit, and I wouldn’t want to see any of the guys go against him in a fight.

I shrug in response to his question and lay a comforting hand on his arm. He picks it up, kisses it gently, and looks to Jonah and Walker for answers, both of whom look discomforted by the news.

“Ah, shit. We left the gate open. Sorry, Lach,” Jonah mumbles, and Lachy rests a hand briefly on his shoulder before glancing toward the door, frowning.

“What are they doing here?”

“I don’t know,” Walker answers Lachy’s question, and they all exchange a look before heading towards the stairs.

Smith and Tanaka are waiting awkwardly when Lachy opens the door.

“Well?” he asks shortly, massive arms folded threateningly across his chest.

“We need Reed’s help,” Smith responds, tone carefully placating, as though he knows he’s walking on thin ice right now.

“The fuck you do!” Walker replies surprisingly, pushing forward. “Kai’s on convalescence, which you know. Go fuck yourself.”