Salvage: Book 3 of the Magic Mutations Series

18: Lukas

April, 2019

The air glowed with a grassy hue as the light refracted off the foliage surrounding me. Greying and greening marble, slate, and granite headstones intersected the vegetation at various intervals, but, for the most part, nature was winning here. Vines wound their way around the plots, reclaiming the bodies that had been willingly given back to the earth. And my heart slowly began to sink as it dawned on me what he may have called me here for.

Now in the heart of the east cemetery, I started paying attention to the names on the tombstones—passing by the unmissable bust of Karl Marx sitting atop his sizable monument and the revered George Eliot, a writer I always respected—as I navigated my way to our meeting spot: ten rows down from Marx, and closer to the fence.

It didn't take long as I snaked my way around the plots to eventually lock eyes on him.

His hair was still the same shade of brown, though a little grown out. His eyes—grey and lifeless—were as shallow and murky as a creek almost drained dry. And when his head turned upwards as he evidently heard me coming, I couldn't help but notice the deep purple bags of despair shadowing his gaunt face.

I'd be lying if I said my step didn't falter then—that I didn't consider running away before things turned ugly between us. Because I was unable to deny anymore the one fear that had haunted me with every inch closer I had gotten to this place: would Stephen blame me... or worse, reject me?

But as our gazes met across the passages of signed death, at once all anguish disappeared from him, only warmth filling his expression. Immediately following were the opened arms and steps forward.

"Lukas, my boy," he breathed, the last indicator I needed that all hostility from him was an imagined construct.

At once, I bounded across the remaining distance, narrowly avoiding the upturned roots along the restricted path. Head sinking into his shoulder, we both wound our arms around each other, pulling the other tight as we felt each other's pain and became each other's comfort.

"I've missed you," Stephen breathed.

"I'm sorry," I quickly said back, already feeling the familiar sting brewing in my eyes as I no longer found myself able to repress the wall of built up emotions I had been trying to keep hidden since our last contact.

"Sorry?" he repeated, moving back to look at my face.

At once, I dropped my head, avoiding his searching stare.

"What on earth would you be sorry for?" he demanded when I said nothing.

With a shrug, I replied, "I let you down."

"How on earth—"

Gaze snapping up, I was no longer able to hold my composure. My bottom lip quivered as my vision of Stephen began to blur in the cloud of water, all the while I blubbered, "I didn't protect him. I should have paid more attention to him, but I was too caught up on her, and—"

"Hey," he said softly, face already constricting with reassurance as he tried to cut off my ramble.

But it was no use. I had more to apologise for. "And I'm sorry that I just... that you had to find him like that. That I didn't bury his body—"

"Lukas—" he tried again, but, still, I wasn't done.

"And I should have called you. All this time I should have called you, but... I was too scared you'd hate me. Too scared you'd blame me like I blame myself, and—"

"Lukas!" he said a little louder, hands shaking me until I stopped.

Mouth clamping shut, I met his doting grey gaze.