empty room. She had a vague memory of Michael’s weight lifting off the bed, but she’d been too exhausted to open her eyes. She might even have dreamed his kiss on her forehead, though she hoped not. Her cleaned clothes were laid out neatly. Breakfast had been left on the table and the dinner dishes taken away. She’d never been so waited on in all her life.
She dressed and brushed her teeth. Her hair was an unruly mess, so she wetted and knotted it at the back of her head, carefully combing her bangs down until they behaved the way she thought they should. Her cheeks were red and tight, obviously burned. More than anything, she wanted to pin her black veil in her hair and drop it down over her face, but she didn’t have it.
Outside the room, the hall was all warm colors and undusted corners. High ceilings—hung with fabulous, wooden chandeliers—arched overhead. Bryony loved the place at once. The hotel had an air of deterioration about it, which only made it more beautiful to her, more like a place she belonged. But instead of the empty, tomblike atmosphere she would have expected, she heard many guests laughing and talking amongst themselves. She guessed there were at least twenty voices coming from the lobby, but when she finally saw the crowd, she realized she had grossly underestimated.
A line of people snaked out the door, children hanging on the arms of their guardians. And at the head of the snake stood Michael. He had an arm around a woman who grinned at a man with a camera. Bryony’s stomach tightened at the sight of the measuring tape pinned to the wall beside him. Her hands balled into fists at her sides, but she couldn’t bring herself to interrupt. She stood at the far end of the lobby and bit her tongue.
Michael crouched to shake the hand of a boy who couldn’t have been more than seven and only came up to his hips. The boy laughed, questioning him in Spanish, and Michael answered with an easy smile. Bryony softened a bit. Children were different. It was adults behaving like children she couldn’t abide.
The line shifted forward again, and Michael looked up to see Bryony staring at him. Oblivious to her discomfort, he grinned and strode toward her. She flinched as he drew the eyes of the crowd to where she stood.
“Did you sleep well?” He bent down to hug her.
She murmured into his ear. “What is this?”
“The hotel’s been struggling, so I agreed to help them get people in the door.”
“So you’re a tourist attraction?”
“It’s not like that.”
“Isn’t it?”
Just then, a woman’s voice rose above the rest, and Bryony heard her say, “Su esposa.” The crowd let out a collective sound of understanding, followed by numerous shouted questions.
Bryony murmured, “What did she say?”
Michael blanched. “They think you’re my wife. I didn’t correct them. I didn’t know if they’d let us stay together otherwise.”
The crowd pressed in, and Bryony took several instinctive steps back. A middle-aged woman with two teenaged children shouted a question to Bryony that made Michael’s ears turn red. Bryony glared at her and said, “No hablo español.” She knew how to say that at least.
But the tourist would not be discouraged, or perhaps she just couldn’t take a hint. Either way, she held out her hands in a gesture whose meaning became immediately clear as soon as the English version of her question left her mouth. “How big?” The woman giggled, and her daughter chided her.
Bryony recoiled. “That’s so rude.” She turned to Michael, saw the blush in his cheeks, and felt it creeping into her own. “How do you say that’s rude in Spanish? And don’t lie to me.”
He muttered, “Eso es grosero.”
Bryony turned to the tourist and fumed. “Eso es grosero. Do you understand? How dare you?”
The tourist withdrew, but she hardly looked adequately shamed. Michael said something to the woman behind the counter, who nodded. Then he led Bryony back to their room. After he ducked through the door and closed it behind him, he leaned back against it and heaved a relieved sigh.
Bryony did not feel relieved in the least. “We’re leaving,” she said. “Now. They can’t treat you that way.”
Michael closed his eyes and shook his head. “They’re just curious.”
“That was not just curious! That was uncalled for and disrespectful and . . . and vulgar.”
“They’re not all like that,” he said, pushing a hand through his hair. “Most of their questions are innocent.” He blushed, and Bryony wanted to scream at every last tourist who embarrassed him. “Anyway, we can’t leave yet. We’ve got nowhere else to go.”
“We’ll think of something.” Bryony began to pace. Nothing would feel more appropriate than angrily packing her things right now, but she didn’t have anything to pack or any bag to pack it in, for that matter.
Michael crossed the room and sat at the foot of the bed. “We’d be out on the streets.”
“Good,” she snapped.
“No. Not good. You didn’t see yourself yesterday. I can’t go through that again. I can’t.” He dropped his head into his hands. “If these people want to give us a place to stay and food to eat, and all I have to do is answer some questions and take some pictures to help their business, it’s the least I can do. Please think this through before you do something you can’t take back. I’ve been on the streets before. It’s cruel, Bryony. I don’t want that for you.” He lifted his head again. His eyes were pleading. “Let me do this for you. Please, I want to do this for you.”
“No.” Bryony crossed her arms and stared down at his bandaged feet. “Not for me. If you do it, you do it for yourself and not for me. Do you understand? And the second you want out, you tell me, and I’ll drag you from this place myself.”
“It’s a deal.” He held out his hand, and Bryony had to uncross her arms to take it. As soon as she did, he pulled her in and hugged her. “Thank you for defending me. It’s . . . not something I take for granted.”
“Of course.” She couldn’t help adding, “But why don’t you defend yourself? Why do you let people walk all over you? First the armada and now this. To these people, you’re just a photo opportunity. They just want a story to tell. Why make excuses for people who don’t really know you and don’t want to?”
“Because you do.” He cupped her face in one hand. “I don’t care what anyone else thinks. They can make up all the stories they want. The only one who matters knows the truth.”
She fought to keep from softening too much. “How do you always turn it around like that? This wasn’t supposed to be about me.”
“Sorry.” He pulled her in once more and kissed her throat until she felt her anger melt like honey in a cup of tea. “But it will always, always be about you, now and for the rest of my life. I don’t want it any other way. You’re my world now. Nothing else can touch me.” He sat up straight and smiled down at her. “On the bright side, I’ve finally been measured. I’m two hundred and thirty-nine centimeters.”
She blinked up at him. “That doesn’t mean anything to me.”
“Oh, right.” He grinned, misunderstanding. “It’s seven feet, ten inches.”
“No, I mean why do you think that matters to me? Why do you think I care about what number they put over your head? It doesn’t define you.”
“I know that.” He grinned again, and Bryony tried not to notice the dimple on the left side of his mouth. “It doesn’t define me, but it does give me more time.”
“What do you mean, more time?”
“My growth has slowed. Remember how I told you I used to measure my life in inches? Well, I stopped because it always devastated me. By my old calculations I had ten, maybe fifteen years left to live, but my growth seems to have slowed. If things continue on this trajectory, I could have as much as thirty years left.”
Bryony frowned even as she saw the disappointment creep into his face. “What do you mean? You told me nephilim only die by violence or suicide. You’ll live as long as you want to.”
“It’s not that simple, Bryony. When I grow too big—”
“We’ll build a bigger home. We’ll live in a circus tent if we have to.” Her eyes pricked and stung with the tears she held back. “You don’t get to just pick a height and quit when you reach it.”
He sighed and finished his sentence. “There won’t be enough resources to sustain me. It’s the way things go for my kind. You know that. I never hid it from you.”
“But you were supposed to fight it at least.” She backed away from him. “You were supposed to try. Why? Why do you just roll over like this? We’ll grow our own food. We’ll run a ranch. I’ll spend my days stealing everything you need to live. Just don’t kill yourself!” She choked on the words.
“Oh.” Now he seemed to understand. Bryony wouldn’t go down without a fight, and she couldn’t bear anything less from him. “I’m sorry, my love.” My love. “I honestly thought you’d be pleased. I’ve always expected a shorter-than-average lifespan. I guess I neglected to tell you, didn’t I? I just assumed you understood.”
“How could I?” She glared at him. “I don’t know any nephilim other than you.”
“Neither do I.” He bit his lips in a nervous gesture she’d just begun to notice he had. “But it doesn’t matter now. I have so much more time than I thought. I’m sorry it turned out to be less than you expected.”
“That’s an understatement,” she muttered.
He shook his head and spread his hands. “This is ridiculous. We don’t even have to think about this right now. I can’t understand why it’s worrying you so much.”
“Because it’s my lifespan too!” The words flew from her mouth before she could stop them. She hadn’t even seen them coming. But as soon as she spoke them, she knew they were the only way to make him see reason. “It is, isn’t it? I assume you can’t worship anyone while you’re stretched between worlds. So how long do we get to live, Michael, since it’s entirely up to you now?”
All the color drained from his face. Finally, he drew a deep breath and stood. “I should get back. I was only given a ten-minute break.”
“What?” So in order to avoid their current argument, he’d circled back to the old one. “You can take as long as you want. You’re not the property of this hotel.” He was backing toward the door. “Michael!”
“This is the only way I can provide for you right now.” He sounded just as frustrated as she did. “Just let me do this. Please? So you don’t have to sleep on the streets tonight? I really don’t mind. We’ll talk about the rest later.”
And then he left. Bryony watched the door close and sat mute for several seconds before she found her voice again. “But I have a house!”
People were never really a problem for Michael. If they wanted to ignore him, he was fine with that. If they wanted to bombard him with questions, he was fine with that too—within reason, of course. People were people, and they’d never done him any real harm. Bryony, it seemed, had a different experience, and Michael was disappointed in himself for not understanding that sooner. Trust was in short supply for her, and she quickly rose to the bait whenever Michael’s dignity was on the line. Part of him was touched. Another part wished she would just let things go. She would have to get used to little intrusions if she intended to make a life with him. He became a public figure wherever he went, whether he liked it or not. It was so much easier to assume people had the best intentions. If he allowed himself too much bitterness, he would break.
He completed the rest of his shift with as good an attitude as he could manage. Children held their hands up to his, marveling at the difference in size. Taller adults tried to reach high enough to touch the wall beside his head. More than a few young women blushed when they introduced themselves, which gave his ego a boost. But all the while, he thought of Bryony sitting alone in their hotel room, quietly seething. By evening, Michael had worked himself into a knot of nerves. He could barely keep his hands from trembling when he held them out for photographs.
He wasn’t the right partner for Bryony. If she was smart, she’d team back up with Loki, gather a new congregation to sustain her indefinitely, and walk away from Michael forever. She’d been functionally immortal before she met him. How had he expected her to react upon learning that his lifespan, and consequently hers, would now be even shorter than average? Honestly, he hadn’t expected anything, and that was the problem. He hadn’t thought about how it would affect her because he’d never really dealt with the knowledge himself. He’d just filed it away under Inevitable Things and then done his very best not to think about it.
Now he had no choice but to think about it.
After seven, Gloria thanked Michael and let him go for the night. By the time he reached the door to his room, all the fear he’d barely stifled throughout the day surfaced. His heart pounded, and his palms began to sweat.
If she was smart, she would walk away.
If she was smart, she’d be gone.
Despite his own obsessive thoughts, he was still shocked when he opened the door to their hotel room and found it empty. His breath caught. She was gone.
The nightmare scenario Michael had imagined over and over again had come true. She’d left him. She’d really left him. He searched the room like a thief, turning over what was there, even looking under the bed in one desperate, ridiculous moment. “No, no, no, no, no.” His own frantic voice echoed in his ears. The room thoroughly upended, he started down the halls, opening every unlocked door.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
He went outside and checked the parking lot. No sign of her. “Damn it!” He checked the beach—a long jog in one direction before he sprinted in the other. He did the same on the highway, jogging south in his bandaged feet before the nagging thought that she might be headed north turned him around. None of it made sense. He was irrational. He couldn’t pick a course. She could be anywhere. This was a waste of time.
He stopped running, though his heart wouldn’t quiet. Why hadn’t he just talked to her like she wanted? Why had he walked away? He couldn’t berate himself enough for his own stubbornness. He turned back toward the hotel. Bryony was somewhere beyond his reach. Come morning, she would need a place to shelter, water to drink, food to eat, and she didn’t even speak the language. He had failed to protect her.