“You look, um, nice.” Oh, what an understatement. He looks like he was peeled from the pages a magazine that only photographs beautiful people.
“Thank you.”
Of course, I'm exponentially more awkward giving the compliment than he is receiving it. I sniff again, wishing for a tissue. I'm left with my sleeve as my only option.
“You are crying,” he says as I stealthily try to wipe my nose.
“Yeah, I know, thanks for pointing that out.” I'm not feeling very nice tonight.
“Why?” He's looking at me with that cool detachment, but I'm getting better at reading him now. I can finally hear the question in his voice. It's hard to hear, like a musical note at the end of a song, but I'm finally starting to pick up on it.
I sigh before I answer. It comes out funny, with the mucus in my nose.
“A lot of things,” I say, rubbing my sleeve on the moist grass to clean my snot off it. He's silent, so I look up at him. He's looking at me. Unblinking. It's hard to believe he's real. Granted, he doesn't breathe, but still.
“Can we talk about something else?” I look away. I don't know if I want to be caught in his eyes, even though they would give me an escape. That's what I came for.
“Yes.” Once more, I wipe my face and bring out the list I've been carrying with me and adding to all day.
“I've got a ton of questions for you.” I don't want to talk about my mother. I don't want to talk about Tex or Jamie. I don't want to talk about anything that feels real.
“I will try to answer them.”
I start with the less stupid ones, like the sun thing.
“In fact, I need the sun to function. I will show you sometime. I cannot digest blood alone. I need the sunlight to start a chemical reaction to turn it into food.”
“So you're like a plant.” I remember enough about photosynthesis to know it's pretty much the same thing. He sure as hell doesn't look like any plant I've ever seen. Women all over the world would be growing him if that were true.
“More or less.”
“That's freaky,” I say before moving on to the others. He shoots down the garlic and crosses and coffins. I cross them off my list.
“Stories. Elaborations on fact.”
“Where did you come from?”
He doesn't answer.
“Oh come on. You can't tell me anything?”
“Where did the first human come from?”
Wait, I thought I was the one asking questions.
I shrug. “Depends on who you ask. Some people would say God or Allah or the Great Spirit. Some would say we evolved from a puddle of goo.”
“Precisely. It depends on who you ask.”
“I'm asking you.”
“I couldn't tell you because I do not know. I have heard stories, but it is impossible to tell what is true and what is fiction. I do not bother to dwell on what is done.” It's quite an answer without being an answer. I'll get it out of him yet.
“What was the word you used? Noctalis?”
“It is a combination of the Latin words for night and forever. Ironic, really.”
“Oh.” Now I get to the more personal questions.
“I was nineteen when I died.”
“What year was that?”
“April 15, 1912.” He fires off the date quicker than Tex could. I shove the image of the two of them having a date battle to the back of my mind. “You know the date?” Something about that year rings a distant bell. Of course Tex would know what it is. “It was the night the Titanic sank.”
“Oh, yeah, that's right.” I want to slap myself in the forehead. “How did it happen?” I'm not talking about the ship sinking. Everyone knows about the iceberg drama.
There is a pause, almost like a sigh. He doesn't breathe, so it isn't that. He's considering. I think he's going to give me a one-word answer. Instead, he begins. I'm so surprised I meet his eyes for a second before he looks past me at something I can't see.
“I was traveling with my family. My father had recently come into some money and had taken us on a vacation to Europe, and we were on our return trip to New York. The ship was a wonder. The first unsinkable ship.” I feel like I should put air quotes around the unsinkable ship part. Thinking about doing it makes me want to laugh, but I don't. He keeps talking.
“We enjoyed our trip until the night of April 14. There was no panic when the ship initially struck the iceberg. It was hours before reality set in, and people needed to get into the boats. The captain ordered that only women and children should be accepted into the lifeboats.” He's so calm, as if he's reading the story out of an old book. I never imagined he would talk this much, especially to me. I almost feel guilty, as if I've held a gun to his head and forced him.
“My father and I got my mother and sisters aboard one of the lifeboats and watched as it was lowered down the side of the tilting ship. I was resigned to my fate. We knew how cold the water was. My father was not a stupid man. He shook my hand and told me that we were men and we were going down as men. We waited near the band, which kept playing, even as the ship sank. The lights went out. I grew more and more scared.” He paused.
“The water was cold. Beyond anything I can explain. I prayed for death, but still kept my head above water that churned with the hundreds of people who had survived not being sucked under. The screams filled the air. I lost my father, but kept calling for him. My voice was lost in the night.
“It was dark, with only the light of the stars. I swam, but my strokes grew weaker as hypothermia set in. A hand grabbed at me. I tried to shake it off, but it was too strong. 'Do you wish to live?' she said to me. I looked into her eyes. I nodded. 'Then come with me.' She pulled me toward some floating debris. 'They will come back for us.' She was confident. I started to fade. 'Here,' she said, pressing her arm to my mouth. I didn't know what she was doing. 'Swallow, my dear.' The liquid mixed with seawater and trickled down my throat. I choked on it, but she kept her arm pressed to my mouth. I could barely breathe. 'Drink if you wish to live.' So I did.”
He finally looks at me. I find his unblinking gaze, coupled with the seriousness of the story, unnerving.
“She was right. A boat did come back for us, but by that time, we were some of the only people left alive. I don't remember this. She told me after. It took three days for the transformation to complete, and then I was this.”
I have to wait a second before I say anything. The story is so fantastical it can't possibly be real, but I saw him last night. I saw the wings. I've never seen him breathe. The truth is right in front of me.
“What about the wings?” I whisper. I have to keep asking questions so I don't have to think.
“They emerged when my transformation was complete.”
“Do you all have wings?”
“No. We are as different as humans.”
“Can I get some examples?”
“Perhaps.” I wait for him to finish. No dice. It's like trying to chip that last bit of ice out of the freezer when you're defrosting it. Impossible and frustrating.
“So you're just not going to answer when you don't want to?”
Blink.
I resist the urge to throw my list at him and ask something personal. He seems to be freer with that stuff than the noctalis stuff.
“What happened to your father?” I'm walking on unsafe ground. I do worry about provoking him, after that one time, but he seems so calm about it all, as if he knew this exact thing was going to happen the moment he met me. I don't like thinking I'm that predictable. It gives him an advantage.
“He died. I didn't know until the name of the passengers that had perished was printed in the newspaper.”
“And the rest of your family?”
“They moved back to our house. My father had left enough money for them to survive.” He stops there. I don't ask him if he ever saw them again. I know the answer, based on what mine would have been. He may not be human, but he was once. There's a fierceness with which he ta
lks about them that tells me he would have done anything for them. I can understand that.
I don't say anything, but lie down on the grass for a moment. I need to breathe, look at the clouds and try to work out the tangled thread of my thoughts. My heart sounds ridiculously loud in my ears. A crow caws in the distance.
“Are you upset?” His voice sounds next to me. I turn my head to meet those amazing eyes.
“Not upset. I just don't know what to say.” Deep down, I know there is nothing I can say. That doesn't stop me from wanting to say something wise and comforting.
I've got nothing.
“You need not say anything. It is enough to unburden myself. Thank you.” It's the second time he's thanked me. I roll over and prop myself up on my elbow. I can't sit up just yet.
“You don't need to thank me.”
“I do. You have taken it very well.”
“Have you ever told anyone else?”
“Once.”
A selfish flutter goes through me. Part of me wishes I could be the only one. He and I and the sky and the tombstones. I stomp on it and move on.
“How did it go?”
“Not very well.”
I laugh. It's the first time I've heard him use sarcasm. Thank God. I was afraid he didn't have it in him.
“Is Peter Hart your real name?” I'm seeing how many knots I can tie in one blade of grass. I'm up to four.
“No, I was Peter Henry Mackintire.” Five knots.
“That's a nice name.” I can't get a sixth knot, so I throw it away and pluck another blade. “Do you mind if I ask something?”
“You already have. You may continue.”
His stillness makes me increasingly fidgety. For something to do, I roll over on my stomach.
“Why don't you want to drink my blood?”
“Ah, yes. That.” He pauses again and I pull at more grass, creating a bare spot. “I do want to. I simply choose not to.” I chuck the grass and start picking at my sleeve instead.
“Why?” I try to make my voice sound merely curious, but this is the answer I want most from him.
“Do you know why we desire blood?”
I shake my head. Before last night I didn't think noctali or whatever even existed. Once again, this is something Tex would have thought of. She's nuts about Buffy. He makes sure I look up at him before he answers. Oh, he's got my full attention.
“Life. We desire life. In a way, immortality is the ultimate death. Instead of moving on to another place, we are placed firmly in the world of the living, but never a part of it. Humans want to be immortal. We only seek some of the light of humanity. We always want what we cannot have.” He's not just talking about blood. His eyes try to catch me again, but I pull away.
“Isn't that always the way?” I roll over again. “I'm sorry to dump all those questions on you.” While we've been talking, my tears have dried up.
“It distracts me. And I like hearing your voice.”
I glance back at him in surprise. He likes my voice?
“Distracts you from what?”
“Thinking about killing you.” A breeze blows some of his hair back in his face. His words have a different meaning now that I know he has a reason for killing me.
“Then I'll keep talking.”
“You are not scared of death?” He tilts his head just a tiny bit, just enough to ask the question. If he wasn't so intimidating, I'd say it's cute. There's nothing cute about Peter.
“I guess not. You said I was reckless.”
“You are.”
“Is that a bad thing?” I go for playful, but it doesn't work out so well. It's hard when he's so serious.
“That depends.” I don't like talking about me. He's way more interesting.
“What's it like to fly?” I want to think about something nice. Flying is nice. I shut my eyes and try to imagine myself with a set of wings.
“It is one of the only pleasures of this existence. It is freedom. From everything.” He tilts his head back, as if he wants to be there right now, brushing the sky with his wings.
“I wish I could fly.” I'd go away from here. From my life. Find a deserted place. Anywhere. Just to breathe without facing anything. No dying mother. No friend issues. Just me.
“I wish I had a beating heart.”
We look at each other and I let it happen. I get pulled into his eyes. The connection breaks when he's the one who looks away. A breath escapes my lips. It's more like he yanked the connection away.
“What is that?”
“Nothing.” He goes back to his one-word answers. A door closes. Sharing time is over. I get my feet under me and stand up. My legs are stiff and don't want to hold me up.
“I should probably go soon.” I don't feel better, exactly, but I feel ready to go home. To face semi-normal Thing One.
“How did you know I was going to be here?” I say, brushing off my jeans.
“I can smell where you are.”
“That's kinda creepy.”
He blinks. It reminds me of one last question. The one I almost wasn't going to ask.
“How do you kill a noctalis?”
“You couldn't.” He says it quickly. Too quickly.
“There's no way? You've got to have a weakness. I'm just curious.” I need to know if I've a chance in hell, if something were to happen. An insurance policy.
“It would depend on the human and the noctalis.” He pauses again. “You have power, Ava, and you don't even know it. If anyone could destroy me, it might be you.”
I swallow hard around a lump in my throat. It seems like a weird note to end on.
“I should go.” My ass is cold and wet from the grass. I should have brought a blanket. I never think of these things until it's too late. “I'm going to be gone this weekend. Just so you know.” Why am I telling him this? “Text me if you want. I know you still have my phone,” I add, and then write my number on a corner of my list and give it to him. I don't ask if he knows how to text. He'll figure it out.
“Good-bye, Ava.”
I wave to him, which feels silly, but I do it anyway. I look at him for another second, trying to see him objectively. There's a... something about him. Maybe it's the immortality. I walk to my car, feeling him watch me.
Peter
We talked for a long time tonight. She was more open. Ava reminded me of a tulip. She bloomed at night in the cemetery surrounded by the dead. Their spirits whispered to me. I wondered if she could hear them, too.
I'd flown tonight. It was cloudy and the droplets of water had collected on my wings and streamed down my body. I shook my hair out, thinking about her, Neil Gaiman and my existence.
I ran my hands through my hair. I needed to wash it again. I scrubbed my fingers in it, hoping the rain would be enough to clean it.
Before I went to meet her, I changed my clothes. My hair had dried somewhat, and it smelled better than it used to. I pushed it back from my face. I'd seen her appraising me. My appearance. Taking note of everything. She kept trying to squint so she could see my eyes. They are a novelty to her.
She tugged and pulled and got the words out of me. I answered her questions. Not because I wanted to, but I had to. Once I started, it was easy to tell her. I watched her face, but I didn't tell her everything.
I would have given anything to go back and have died on that ship, or perhaps gotten into a lifeboat. I would have been with my mother. I would have married that girl from down the street. What was her name? Evelyn Peters. I would have worked at the bank, just like my father. We would have had a house down the street from my parents, and Evelyn would have cooked pot roast and kissed me when I got home at night, holding a baby on her hip and another by the hand.
I never dreamed about those things when I was alive. I dreamed about being with Evelyn, but not in that way. All I wanted was to get her alone and peel the clothes from her body and touch her in places I'd heard about but hadn't seen.
I'd given Ava power. Shown her parts of my
fragile underbelly. Humans put so much emphasis on physical power, but words were knives. They carved and maimed and killed. She could kill me more easily than I could kill her. Of course she had no idea of the power she held.
She told me to message her on that wretched device. I still had the phone I took from her that first night. I hadn't tried to use it yet. It made me think of Viktor and how he would know exactly how to use it and how I didn't know where he was.
After she left I pulled out the phone and pushed some of the buttons. It was dirty from being in my pocket. I didn't know why I kept it other than to remind me of her.
The buttons were tiny, but I clicked a few of them to find how to navigate the thing. It didn't take very long. I hit the call button under one of the numbers. It rang once and a voice picked up.
“Do you know what time it is?” a sharp female voice said.
I clicked the phone shut without answering.
Fifteen
“To the left, to the left!” Despite her instructions, the tent doesn't go to the left and instead flips over, bouncing like a beach ball. My mother's laughter cracks through the tension like a pick through ice.
“Damn. Are you sure we can't go to a hotel?” I say.
Dad and I are sweating and, on my part, cursing, as we try to get the tent up. It hasn't been used in so long it has this moldy smell that makes me think of old bread. It's going to take hours for it to air out enough for us to go inside. He and I haven't talked much since the night when he wouldn't let me see her. He's tried, but I've shut him down. The silent treatment will end, since we're stuck here all weekend. I'm trying to be a good sport, but neither of us is having a good time.
Mom is in her element. I forgot how much she loves this, and not just the nature stuff. She loves the no electricity, the sleeping on the hard ground, the cold, the rudimentary amenities, the sound of crickets, the smell of smoke that gets in your hair, the dirt, and the work it takes to make a meal. All of it.
When I got back from my night with Peter, I heard her voice the second I closed the door. It was like a knife to my already bruised heart. I didn't even look at Dad as I went back to her room to see her. I was sure I would have punched him if I looked at him, so I pretended he wasn't there instead.