The Paladin's Redemption (The Keepers of White Book 3) Read online

  Perhaps her uncontrollable weeping in the shower was merely a release. It could’ve been the fact that she had, for the first time in what seemed like forever, a full and satisfied stomach, or maybe the first time in forever that she didn’t fear for her life, or maybe just the comfort of removing all dirt and grime from her body in the soap and hot water. Or perhaps the unknown that now awaited her finally began to manifest into an ever-growing reality; what remnants of her life would now be abandoned, what new life would await, where she would go from here. Everything that had transpired, and would yet transpire, came crashing down on her at once, and she still could not comprehend any reasoning behind it. The mind could only endure so much. The uncontrollable sobbing was a self-defense mechanism. When it would end, she would either gain her much needed release and find fresh strength to keep going, or remain in shambles.

  Megan finally shut the shower off after having spent an excessive length of time in the stall, once she realized that it was no longer producing hot water, having used it all up. These low-budget motels were not meant to accommodate those who indulged in such things; its comforts had their limits. She slowly pushed open the glass door, peeping her head out, keeping her body behind the frosted glass that partially provided privacy. But she soon discovered this attempt at personal discretion was moot, seeing that Michael remained seated, but with his head turned away from her. He was holding an outstretched arm toward her with her towel in his hand.

  Once she took it and wrapped it around herself, Michael waited outside the doorway while she finished her after-shower routine. When she was completely finished, the two switched places: Megan waited just outside the bathroom door while Michael showered. She was beginning to feel slightly more secure, with not so much of a need to be directly by his side for fear of her safety; a logical voice inside her giving her the sense that the worst of this dark adventure had passed. And she assumed he would much rather wash himself in privacy anyway, though she felt tempted to sneak a glance once or twice in his direction while he wasn’t looking. Instead, she busied herself by dressing into the comfortable night clothing he had purchased for her: pink pajama pants and a sleeveless, white, cotton shirt. She noted, upon inspecting the rest of the sets of clothing he got for her, that he followed her directions regarding her sizes rather well, a skill most men seldom master, she had been told.

  “Sorry,” Megan called to him from outside the bathroom when she heard the running water from the shower head come to a stop. “I think I used up all the hot water.”

  “No worries,” he replied as she heard him open the stall door. “You needed it. Besides, cold showers can be refreshing too, once you get over the initial shock.”

  The time he spent drying off, dressing, and utilizing the sink to tend to his other hygienic needs was much briefer than hers, but he emerged from the bathroom with as much of a refreshed look as she did. “Feeling better?” he asked when her eyes met his.

  “Y… Yes,” she answered dreamily; his appearance completely catching her off guard. Before, she resisted the urge to peep; now she was powerless to keep from staring. Barefoot, wearing nothing but a clean pair of plain, gray sweatpants, his physique, which was quite hidden when he was fully dressed, now astonished her. The man did not appear as the brick-like powerhouse figure that Sonny portrayed. He was much leaner, but not an ounce of fat tainted his exposed upper body. His rock-like abs suggested that he spent his nights knocking out crunches in his sleep, and his torso, shoulders, and arms were just as well-defined. If his damp, towel-dried, brown hair, with bangs that reached halfway down his forehead, had been styled a little shorter, like that of a high-and-tight, she would have understandably mistaken him for a recent graduate of the Marine Corps’ basic training facility, putting all of his fellow recruits in his company to shame in the fitness department.

  Momentarily, her eyes fixed on the one small item on his upper half that wasn’t part of his body: a necklace made of thin, plain-black rope, holding a silver, coin-sized pendant at the end, with a strange marking etched in a black, slanted “z” shaped design. A rune of some sort…

  Protection, I think…

  She was certain it was the item he grasped through his shirt when facing the priest, resisting whatever black spell they were apparently casting to shake his resolve.

  Michael, saving her from embarrassment, pretended not to notice her gawking as he passed her and made his way toward a small travel bag that lay open upon the one of two queen-sized beds that was closest to the front door. Her eyes followed him, unable to pull away from what she considered a perfect specimen.

  She noticed upon the back of his right shoulder, a colorful image displaying what appeared to be a nebula cloud of black and blue watercolors, a thin swirl at the bottom, but expanding wider as it rose. Its upper portion formed the head of a tiger staring out with eyes as bright and blue as his own, an unexpected feature for tigers’ eyes, yet seemed to work with this design nevertheless. The inked creature showed no ferocity in its gaze, no teeth bared; just a calm, confident stare that depicted both wisdom and resolve.

  “Where did you get that?” she asked, not able to think of any better creative conversation starters.

  “What?”

  “Your tattoo.”

  He shrugged as he reached for and pulled from the travel-bag, a clean, plain-white tee shirt and put it on. “Had it for as long as I can remember.”

  “What do you mean?” she inquired with growing curiosity.

  “I don’t have any memory of my childhood before the age of about ten,” he admitted.

  “Ten?” she repeated with surprise. “You got a tattoo at age ten?”

  “Or younger,” he answered plainly. “Couldn’t tell you why though. Or how.”

  Megan took a step toward him. “So you weren’t kidding when you told me your memory doesn’t go back that far?”

  He shrugged again innocently. “Wasn’t kidding.”

  “You just remember being ten,” she pressed, “and simply having a weird necklace. And a tattoo.”

  “Pretty much.” He closed the travel bag and gently tossed it onto the floor beside the bed, then he laid down on the mattress with the covers underneath him, resting the plushy pillows against the headboard in order to put himself in a position that was halfway between laying down and sitting up, folding his hands comfortably on his midsection. His two pistols rested on the night stand next to him, easily within reach. The mysterious katana was sheathed and leaning against the wall in the crevice between the same night stand and the bed that he had apparently claimed. Megan thought that he looked more relaxed in his position than she had seen in him before, but she didn’t doubt he could spring into action at a moment’s notice, should a situation that called for it arise.

  Megan sat on the edge of the other bed, facing him, intrigued by the seemingly countless mysteries behind her rescuer. “Do you know why,” she asked, “or how you lost your memory?”

  “Actually… yes,” he replied in mid-yawn, “but it’s irrelevant. I’m sure you have more important questions. Ones that don’t involve my childhood.”

  Megan had hundreds of questions for him, and she had no idea where to begin. Michael checked his watch, then pulled a cell phone from his pocket and began to type against the screen. “Of course, we might want to save most of them for the trip tomorrow. Something to keep us occupied on the road. It’s pretty late, and I’m sure you’re exhausted.”

  “I am,” she admitted. “Who are you texting?”

  “Just checking in with my contact. Letting him know we’re okay.”

  “Your contact?”

  “My friend, actually. He’s got a rather crude sense of humor, but can be a bit of a worry-wart too. Poor son of a bitch… probably gone through two packs of Marlboro’s by now waiting to hear from me. You’ll get to meet him tomorrow.”

  “And where is this?”

  “Jersey. Just a few hours from here.” There was a moment of silence as Michael held
the power button on his phone, shutting it off completely. Then he placed it on the night stand with the pistols. “You should get some sleep, kiddo.”

  Megan sighed. “I know, but I don’t think I’ll get much of it, if any at all, even as tired as I am.”

  He turned his head to face her. “I can help you,” he offered. “I’m sure your mind is on overdrive right now. I know a little trick that can kind of shut it off, so you can fall asleep.”

  Megan gave him a weary smile. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer not to have any more… magic… done to me. Not right now. No offense.”

  Michael nodded, smiling back empathetically.

  “Couldn’t you just talk to me? Just for a little while?”

  He shrugged again. “If I start answering questions now, it might only fill your head with much more to think about.”

  “Maybe,” she considered, “but it also might help me make sense of some of it. Especially coming from you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She hesitated, then answered quietly, “It’s just that… you have a soothing voice.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere,” he joked. “Okay, kiddo. Just a few questions for now. I’m going to shut off the light. At least lie down and make yourself comfortable while we talk.”

  “Deal,” she agreed as she got herself under the covers.

  Michael shut off the quaint, double-lamp affixed to the wall between the two beds. “Okay,” he said, “first question.”

  “First question,” she repeated in the darkness. “Could you not call me ‘kiddo’ anymore?”

  “Um… okay.”

  “I mean, it makes me feel younger than I am. And it makes you seem older than you are.”

  “How old do you think I am?” he said with a bit of a laugh.

  She thought for a moment. “I’d say you couldn’t be more than twenty-five or twenty-six.”

  Michael laughed again. “Boy, you’re really playing off my line about flattery, aren’t you?”

  “No,” she laughed as well, “that’s an honest guess.”

  “Well, I suppose it’s a good guess. I’ve always looked younger than I am.”

  “At least when you’re not playing Mr. Cliff, the gimpy homeless guy. I thought you were like, fifty-something with that disguise.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment on my costume designing skills,” he remarked lightheartedly.

  Megan paused again, as if waiting for him to speak further. When he didn’t, she broke the short moment of silence. “So? How old are you?”

  “Thirty-one,” he answered after hesitating.

  “Wow,” she commented, “you do look young.” Except in your eyes, she thought. It was true that they were piercingly bright to her, full of life, and of a strength that seemed undying and impenetrable, but there was a hint of sadness and weariness in them as well, as if they belonged to one who has seen too many hard winters, witnessed too many struggles, endured too many battles.

  “Thank you,” he replied to her comment, breaking her thoughts.

  “It’s still not that old. I mean, I’m almost twenty-four. Seven years is not that much of an age gap, you know.”

  “Except that I was entering high school about the same time you were going into first grade.”

  “That’s different,” she countered. “It’s is a huge difference between two children, but we’re adults, Michael.”

  “Point taken,” he conceded with a slight chuckle. “Okay, it’s been established. No more calling you ‘kiddo.’

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, darlin’.”

  “Wow,” she expressed with a wide smile that he couldn’t see in the darkness, feeling much more satisfied with this term of endearment. “That’s quite a promotion from ‘kiddo.’ You skipped right over ‘dear,’ ‘cutie,’ ‘sweetie,’ and ‘honey,’ and pulled me right in there with the big girls, huh?”

  “You’re too much,” he remarked, unable to hold back a smile of his own that she also couldn’t see.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean to be difficult.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” he assured her. “Your sense of humor is your therapy. Don’t ever lose it. It gives you the strength you need to recover from any trauma you’ve faced… or might face later on in life.”

  “They say laughter is the best medicine,” she agreed.

  “And it’s refreshing for me. Your wittiness reminds me of…” he trailed off.

  “Of what?” she asked, lifting her head off her pillow a bit.

  He didn’t answer.

  “Michael?” she nudged.

  “It’s nothing,” he finally answered with a tone that was still light, but less lively all the same. “Second question.”

  “Um… okay,” she said with unsureness, “second question…” The sudden change in the mood was slight, but noticeable enough that the air within the motel room itself seemed to thicken in density. Megan sensed it immediately in Michael’s voice. She thought at first to take it as an omen to ask about the more serious topics that dwelled in the back of her mind, but she also enjoyed the respite of lighter conversation, and worked to keep the overall atmosphere unaltered by whatever now haunted her new companion’s mind. “Actually,” she began in her attempt, “it’s really my first question.”

  “How so?” Michael asked, biting the hook she tossed, albeit with a dry voice.

  “Asking you not to call me ‘kiddo’ was more of a request, so that doesn’t count.”

  “But then you asked me my age,” he countered, “so that was your first question.”

  “Well,” she redirected, “does it even matter what number we’re on? We never established exactly how many questions I get tonight. You said, ‘just a few.’ How many is a few?”

  “I guess it depends on how long it takes me to answer the questions you have. Simple questions with simple answers leave time for more questions. Some questions, especially the ones I’m sure you have, might require lengthy explanations.”

  “That makes sense,” she admitted. “Okay. Second question.”

  “Third question,” he corrected.

  “Third question?” She lifted her head from her pillow again.

  “Your second question was asking me how many is a few.”

  Megan groaned in exasperation as she let her head fall back onto her pillow. “If I’m too much, then you’re just impossible.”

  Surprisingly, Michael, who had been lying on his back, staring into the blackness above him, quickly sat upright. Even in the darkness, Megan could tell he was staring at her in what she imagined to be disbelief. “What now?” she said, startled by his action.

  Michael took a moment to answer. “Sorry,” he finally said. “You just… this is… getting weirder by the minute.”

  At first, Megan was confused, but her intuition, which she would have admitted had been dormant during the past few months, was now stronger than ever, and her thought escaped her lips before she even realized it came to her: “Reminding you of someone again?”

  Though she couldn’t see, she thought he nodded. “It wasn’t just what you said, Megan. It’s the way you said it. Exactly the way I remember…”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” she tried, not expecting him to agree. Then she quickly added, “That doesn’t count as my third question.”

  Grunting a short laugh, Michael laid back down softly on his bed. “Not much to talk about, really. I think, even though I gave you back your necklace, there might still be thin threads of the mental connection I established with you earlier in order to find you.”

  “So you’re saying that I’m reading your mind?”

  “Not exactly,” he explained. “I’m pretty sure it’s inadvertent. Random thoughts in my head that might be influencing your own thoughts or choice of words; so miniscule that you don’t even notice or give a second thought to it. Again, it should completely dissipate at some point.”

  Megan f
rowned. Perhaps, if he was right, intuition had nothing to do with it at all, meaning it was still something she lacked. “How long does it usually last? Still not my third…”

  “I don’t know,” he interrupted. “It’s been a very long time since I’ve done this.”

  “And you’re sure that it’s not just a coincidence?”

  “Who knows?” he shrugged. “It just seems a little too strange to be one.”

  “Well,” she suggested. “What if I think of someone or something really hard? If you can guess what I’m thinking about, that means you’re right.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be able to guess, Megan,” he said. “That’s too much like mind reading. Like I said, it’s more of a random, unnoticeable thing at this point. It’s more like, something comes to mind, or just pops in your head, and during our conversation I just happen to say something that relates to whatever that something is, but just relates a little bit stronger than what it’s like when a particular song comes to mind and then it happens to play on the radio shortly after. Does that make sense?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Hello? Meg…”

  “Okay, I got it!” she blurted out as if figuring out the answer to a trivia question.

  “What?”

  “I thought of a particular memory that I have, which then led me to think about a particular song.”

  Michael sighed. “I told you. It doesn’t work like…”

  “I know,” she spoke over him, “I’m not expecting you to guess the song or the memory. I just want to see if you happen to say anything that relates while we’re talking.”

  “How much longer are we going to talk? It’s really late, and you haven’t asked me any serious questions.”

  Megan hesitated, then responded with a lowered voice, “Maybe I’m not ready for serious right now. Maybe I just need the simplicity of chit-chat. You know, to cope with… all of it.”

  “I guess you’re right,” he agreed. “It’s probably best that you don’t know what we’re about… or what they’re about.”