The Heart's Ashes
Page 82

“Then why did your uncle change you? If there was no risk of death?”
“Because, when you join a cause where guns are involved, there is always death. It was naive of any of us to think otherwise. My uncle was not so. He’d been around for many centuries and knew exactly what war entailed.” David leaned a little closer and whispered the next part. “He fought in wars as far back as The Hundred Years’ War.”
“Wow, that is really cool.”
He nodded. “Yeah. I know. We grew up hearing stories.”
“So, you always knew what he was then?”
“It was never a secret.”
“You must have loved him, to be boys so young and keep that to yourselves.”
“There is a certain level of respect my uncle commands.” David’s shoulders straightened. “Which is why, when Jason and I told him we wanted to join the army and he insisted we’d be going to our deaths, we heeded his words—despite what we believed.”
“Lucky you did.” I remembered the gravestones David had shown me before he left last year—the ones of him and Jason, dying in the wars.
“Yes. Lucky. But he’d have forced us to change if we’d not obliged.”
“Is he allowed to do that?”
David’s thoughts stayed hidden behind his smiling eyes. “No.”
“So, how old is he—your uncle?”
“Old?” He frowned. “We don’t really measure age after a few thousand years.”
“Oh, so, ancient is a better word.”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“Well, how ancient is he, I mean, like, how long ago was he born?”
“He never told us that much, only that he’d been around to see a first-hand account of the Bubonic Plague and was the first member of the Council. Probably met Merlin, too.”
We both laughed softly.
“That’s kind of gross. Being that old. Doesn’t he, like, rot or something?”
David laughed. “Nope, fresh as the day he was born—just smarter.”
“So, he’s not really your uncle, then? If he was born all those centuries ago.”
“Not technically. But we’re descendants of his brother.” David and I started walking again to a display near a large, open window. The corner store down the road was cooking sausage-rolls, and the scent wafted in with the breeze.
“So, he kind of is your uncle—distant uncle,” I said.
“Yes, but I have only ever thought of him as my uncle. And yet, he’s always been more like a father.” David stuffed his hands in his pockets and leaned against the wall. “He swore in blood, to his dying brother, to protect and watch over the blood of Knight, for eternity.”
“Must be hard for you, then—to be an outlaw—not be able to see him anymore?”
David nodded, looking at the ground. “More than you know.”
“I’m sorry.” My heart dropped into my stomach.
“It’s worth it.” He pressed his lips together, then looked up at me; I smiled—he smiled back.
But the sweet moment, where everything between us was all right, passed too quickly; it wasn’t all right, not at all. I’d still kissed Mike and I’d still dreamed about his brother, who I couldn’t get out of my head no matter how much I tried.
“So—” I leaned on the wall beside him. “How come Jason wasn’t in any of those photos?”
David’s smile faded. “That was taken after we were separated, when he became a POW. He was executed sometime in nineteen-sixteen.”
“Did they bury him?” I always wondered if the boys had to dig their way out of a coffin after feigning death.
“Yes.”
Creepy. I almost felt sorry for Jason then. “Have you ever been buried?”
David hesitated. “No.”
“Does it bother you to talk about this—to talk about Jason?” I said.
He studied me carefully; I thickened the mind blanket. “Does it bother you?”
“No.”
“It should.” He stood up off the wall and walked to the window. “It bothers me to think of him.”
“I’m sorry.” I stood beside him. “I guess we both just deal with things differently.”
“There’s a picture of him in the World War Two display,” he said, out of the blue.
“There is?” My interest peaked, maybe a little too much.
“Yes. But it’s not here. It’s in Washington.”
“Oh.”
David, keeping his eyes on the day outside, his hands in his pockets, said, “His plane was shot down during the attack on Pearl Harbour.”
My hand flew to my mouth. “Oh my God. Was he hurt?”
“Burned beyond recognition.”
“What? You can burn?”
“Yeah,” he scoffed, smiling, coming back to life. “Fire is the one thing that can penetrate us without force of vampire teeth of implements driven by our hands. It won’t kill us, but it’ll melt our flesh right off.”
“Ouch. So, that would’ve really hurt, right?”
“Well, I’ve never been burned, but Jason said it was the worst six weeks of his life—trying to recover. He returned to base after that, told them he’d been lost out at sea all this time—holding onto a plank of wood to survive.”
“And they believed him?”
“Well, there was really too much else to be worrying about by that point. We were officially at war. They all but threw him back in a plane and sent him off.”
“Why did he go back? Why not just stay dead?”
David toed a raised nail in the floorboard. “My brother was the one who wanted to go to war. I merely followed to protect him. He was hell-bent on defending this great new world and would never have left his comrades a man short.”
“Sounds like a completely different guy.”
He nodded, taking great interest in something outside, a kind of focused, furrowed-brow look to him. “He never received any medals or special honours for his bravery either. Something that, to this day, I find unjust.”
“Did he fight well?”
“He fought like a man with something to die for. All he ever wanted was to be a hero.”
“I don’t get it. Why, if you lose compassion for my kind when you turn, why did he want to be named a hero, I mean, why did you even bother fighting for us in the war?”