“Is something wrong?” His energy is frenetic. He vibrates with it, as if he's had far too much coffee. “You're not, um, hungry or whatever, are you?” Why am I bringing this up?
“No.” Quickly, he glances down at me. “I only need to eat every two weeks at the most. I can go for longer.” I am only momentarily relieved.
“How much do you need?”
“Not much.” How much is not much?
“What if I don't want to?”
“Then I will waste away.”
“Will you die?” I move closer to him. For some reason, the closer we are, the better I feel. Like we're magnets or something. What have we done?
“No.”
“So you'll just be in agony.” An image of myself reaching out and brushing his hair out of his face goes through me with such longing that my hand rises of its own accord. I let it drop back down.
“More or less.”
“I hate it when you say that. Is it more or is it less?”
He considers for a moment. “Maybe.”
I thump back on my pillows. He's impossible. Was it only last night I danced with him? So close. It makes me want to hide my head under the pillow when I think about it, but the memory also makes me tingle all over in a really nice way.
I have to go to school tomorrow, see Tex and Jamie and pretend I haven't just participated in some crazy blood swap with a sort of vampire-angel. This is going to be a nightmare.
“Ava.” I open my eyes when he says my name.
“Come with me.” He turns his back to me and strips off his shirt. The need to touch him overwhelms me for a second that I can't see or feel anything else. There's a rushing in my ears and I feel faint. It consumes me, but only for a second.
“Does it hurt? When they come out?” Like a five-year-old, I'm distracted when they start to emerge, small buds at first that bloom into bones and feathers that shine like black silk. Their color reminds me of those Japanese beetles my mom is always trying to eradicate from the garden.
“No.”
“That's good. It would be awful if they hurt every time they came out. Like Wolverine.”
“Pardon?” He turns around.
“Oh, sorry. X-men reference. Never mind.” I look away from the shining feathers, distracted by them bending and warping the light into different colors. Red, indigo, purple, pearl. I reach out my hand to stroke one.
The wing I touch trembles slightly. A tremble echoes through my own body.
“Can you feel it? When I touch them?”
“Sometimes.” He looks over his shoulder at me, and I'm reminded of a statue or something. It makes me think back to the broken angels that guard the mausoleum I'd met him in front of.
“Here.” He picks me up with one scoop. I gasp as my skin meets his. His arm goes under my legs, the other around my back. My arms go around his neck to hold on. His hair tickles my hands. My fingers long to rake through it. Where his heart should beat, there is nothing. I lean my ear against his chest. He is so silent. It makes me self-conscious about my noisy body.
Where I touch him, his skin starts to warm. It's sort of waxy, like a leaf. I fight the urge to stroke his back where the wings meet flesh. Somehow he gets both of us through my window and onto the porch roof outside.
“Are you ready?”
“More or less,” I say breathlessly.
He walks two steps forward, wings extending to reach their full span, brushing against the velvet of the sky. I take one look at how far up we are before turning my face into his chest. I hold on for dear life as he runs down the slope of the roof and off the edge.
The air grabs at me, stealing the air from my lungs. I gasp to bring it back. His arms tighten for a second, pressing me closer. I know the ground is below us and I'm not standing on it anymore. My life is in his hands. He could just drop me and that would be the end of this Claiming thing, but I feel safe. He's strong and steady as his wings beat the air, making it rush over both of us.
“I'm okay,” I say to reassure myself as much as him. We rise. Ten feet. Twenty. The world drops out from under us. It isn't as smooth a ride; every time his wings pulse, we shift a little until he gains altitude. I don't ask him where we're going. It doesn't really matter. The shingles of my roof grow smaller as we go higher. I try not to look down and instead stare at the sky as it seems to get closer. If we only flew high enough we could touch the top of it. I want to reach out my hands and try to snag a cloud or a star. It seems like something that's possible.
The road snakes below us. There are a few cars, their headlights like fireflies. Every now and then there is a glow of light from a house. Other than that it's quiet; the only sound is the wind as it rushes over us.
I close my eyes. My lips are getting chapped from the wind, but I don't care. I let everything else go. I'm flying. I'm human and I'm flying with an angel. Sort of.
“Where would you like to go?” I hear his words echo through his chest more than from his mouth.
“Anywhere.” I don't bother saying it loud. He hears me. I look up at his face. It's shaded, hard to make out in the weak light. His hair streams back. I feel like some artist should be immortalizing him on a frescoed ceiling in Italy. In this moment, he looks every bit an angel.
Time ceases to have meaning. I relax more, let myself fall into him. We pass a few towns. It is so dark and everything is unfamiliar. We rise higher, the lights blotted out by the distance. It's just us.
“I wish I could do this every day,” I whisper into the air.
“It would not be special if you did it all the time.”
“I guess you're right. Still. This is...”
“I know.” His face isn't blank anymore. Well, he's not smiling or anything, but I feel the peace rolling through him. He's free up here. This is his sanctuary, and he's up here with me, which makes me feel like an intruder. My arms tighten around his neck. They're getting tired of holding on, but I'm not letting go.
“I'm sorry I asked you to bring me up here.” He swoops in an arc, turning us around. My skin is covered in goose bumps I'm sure he can feel.
“Why?”
“Because this is your place and now I've ruined it. Everyone should have a place that is theirs.”
“I do not mind sharing this with you.”
“Are you sure?” I readjust my grip for the thousandth time.
“Yes.” He looks down at me and I meet his eyes. They sear like fire in the dark. I settle back against his chest.
There is a small bump as we land back on my roof. My legs shake, so he holds me up until I get them back under me. I realize it is the longest skin to skin contact we've had. I hope it didn't make him uncomfortable. He holds me even after we get through the window.
“Are you hungry? Don't lie to me,” I say. As soon as I got over being sick, my stomach cramped, just a little bit. It's gotten worse and worse, and instinct tells me what it means. I'm Peter's hunger barometer.
“Yes.”
“Go ahead then.” I've only been Claimed for a few hours, and already I'm willing to open a vein for him. Not good.
“I can wait.” He puts me down, withdrawing as quickly as he can, like he can't get away from me fast enough.
“You gave me something. I'd like to return the favor.” It's foolish, I know, and it could also kill me. I still have the glow of the flight rushing through me, and I kind of want to. Just to see, and to stop my stomach from hurting.
I turn my head to the side. They usually go for the neck, right? I stuff my shaking hands under my comforter and take a deep breath. I really hope this doesn't hurt too much.
“Are you sure?” He teeters on the edge of decision. I feel him standing on the edge of a cliff, waiting for me to tell him if he should jump.
“I trust you,” I say, and close my eyes.
Twenty-Three
“Ava?”
“Hm?” My eyelids take forever to pop open. I'm warm and dazed, lying in bed with my covers piled around me like it's th
e middle of winter instead of April.
“Ava?” A lukewarm hand strokes my face. I lean into it. My eyes finally open all the way.
“Peter?”
“How are you feeling?” His face materializes in my line of vision. God, he's good looking. Everything feels heavy and hard to do, even blinking.
“What?” It takes a second for everything to rush back. My hand goes to my neck, but there's no wound.
“I took it from your wrist. I thought it would be easier to hide.” My fingers reach out and feel the band of gauze around my left wrist where he cut me earlier. I peel the tape back. It doesn't hurt, but it looks awful, even though he's clearly washed and disinfected it.
“You didn't kill me,” I say, surprised.
“No.”
I'm too weak to put the gauze back on, so he does it for me. I didn't know his touch could be so delicate, and how much I could love it when he touches me.
“Why?”
“I don't know.” He blurs and shudders in front of my eyes. I think this is just me. I reach my uninjured hand out to him and he takes it.
“Thank you.” I give his hand a squeeze as I say it.
“What are you thanking me for?”
“For not killing me. Not just for now, but for when we were flying. It would have been so easy for you to drop me and then you wouldn't have to deal with me. Don't tell me you didn't think about it.”
“I didn't.”
I believe him. I glance at the clock, wondering what the hell time it is. Damn, I missed dinner.
“Did my parents come in?”
“Your mother did, but she didn't want to wake you. I believe she's put your dinner away until you need it.”
My stomach snarls. I do need something to eat, especially after my blood donation. Don't they always give you juice and cookies after those things?
“I will leave you now. Goodnight, Ava.” He slips out of my hand and out the window.
“Goodnight, Peter.”
I wobble to my feet; my head feels like it's floating an inch below the ceiling. I need to eat something. I also need to read up on anemia.
Peter
Being away from her was like ripping my arms and legs off. I almost heard the tearing sound. I did not want this, for either of us. The thread that connected us, before that night, would have been easy to sever. One snip and she would have been free. When I Claimed her, I twisted those threads together, meaning that severing one would inevitably sever the other. If she died, I would continue to be, but without her.
Along the thread, feelings came. Angry, scared, uncertain, anxious, tired, and stressed. I didn't even have words for all of them. It hit me like a hammer, so many things at once that I wanted to smash my head open so they would spill out and stop plaguing me. How could she stand it?
Her heart beat fast and loud. I could almost hear the blood in each of her little veins, pounding and rolling like a river.
I wanted her blood, but I also wanted something else. To protect her from everything, including me. To cradle her and touch her skin and whisper poetry in her ear and watch her smile. I wanted her to teach me to laugh again.
On an impulse, I picked her up. Her hands twined around my neck, pressing into my skin. That alone made me want to stand there for an eternity, just feeling her touch. Let her fingers play with the hair on the back of my neck. Touch my wings.
The night enveloped us, wrapped us in its darkness. Not for the first time, part of me wished to take her away with me. Find a deserted place and live there. Would she have stopped me? I did not know. So I took her back and put her in bed.
Her scent followed me as I flew out the window. I was not going far, but she didn't know that. I wondered if she could sense my presence. Her smell stayed with me and I would carry it with me always.
Ava
“Oh my God, where the hell have you been? I've been texting and calling. I almost called your house and risked talking to your dad because I was so worried.” Tex is yelling and it makes me want to clamp my hands over my ears. Ugh, why is she so loud? It's only eleven, but I've been passed out since Peter left.
“Okay, okay. I couldn't find my phone and then the battery died. So sue me. Although, if I ever get kidnapped, it's a good thing to know that there will be someone who alerts the police as soon as possible so they can start searching for me.” Of course I mean it as a joke, but now that I'm the First National Blood Bank of Peter, who knows?
“Shut up, don't even say that. I was really worried.” It's there in her voice. A day ago this would have been a major crisis. Now it is on the bottom of the things-I-need-to-worry-about list.
“I know. I'm super sorry. I'll make it up to you.” I scrub my gritty eyes. Someone (probably named Peter) left a full glass of water on my nightstand. I chug it and listen to Tex's irritated breathing as she makes up her mind.
“I want coffee tomorrow morning. Two sugars, no cream.”
“I know how you like your coffee.” Tex has been drinking coffee since she was ten.
She's silent. I want to reach my arm through the phone and use it to choke the life out of her. I instantly recoil from that thought as it's accompanied by an image of me actually doing it. I decide to try something else.
“Have you recovered from the party yet?”
“Meh. I always bounce back. I didn't say or do anything embarrassing, did I?” That's unusual. She normally remembers everything.
“Well, you ran around naked for a while and you kept screaming about how you couldn't find your banana and then you made out with a couple of guys and I don't really remember the rest.”
“You are such a ho.”
I fake gasp. “You don't remember?”
“I do, but you never know.”
“True. You did cry a bit about him.”
I hear her swear softly on the other end.
“Oh god, I am so sorry. You probably wanted to punch me.”
“No, it's all good. You had a little cry and then you were fine.” For the most part.
“I'm sorry.”
“It's no big deal, Tex.” I'm on the edge. I need to get off the phone before I say something I don't mean. It's not her fault I'm in this mess.
“Listen, I'll see you tomorrow, okay?” I don't wait for a response before I hang up. “What is wrong with me?” I say to myself.
I crack open my window, letting in some cool air. Even though it's dark, I can see pretty well. Much better than I could a little while ago. Dear sweet Jesus.
If this is what's happened in just a few hours, what else can happen? I tear off my shirt and run to the bathroom mirror, scrabbling at my back to make sure I'm not sprouting wings. Panting, I lean over the sink, preparing to hurl again.
I know I'm changing, but I don't know how to stop it. I don't know what I'm changing into. It scares me, but Peter said it was the only way to get Ivan to leave me alone, and I have no reason not to believe him.
Another wave of nausea rolls through me. I heave once, but don't throw up.
There's a knock at my door that makes me get vertical. If it's Dad, I'm going to punch him. As quickly as I can, I get into bed and try to slow my breathing.
“Ava? Are you awake?” The sound of my mother's voice shatters something in me and all I want to do is cry, curl up in a ball and feel her fingers in my hair. Pull yourself together, Ava.
“Yeah,” I say, trying to make my voice sound sleepy.
“Can I come in?”
“Sure.” I quickly crawl under my covers and squint a little. I'm not a very good actress.
“You slept the day away, baby.” She sits on the edge of my bed and strokes my hair. I glance down to make sure my arm is covered.
“I know. I was just really tired with everything.” Understatement of my life.
“Are you feeling okay?” Her fingers dance across my forehead and it feels really good. Not enough to distract me, but still.
“I'm better now. I think I had this stomach thing.” I move
my head so I can give her a smile.
“Okay,” she says, still stroking my head. I feel like she wants to talk about something.
“Are you going to bed?”
“Not yet. I can't sleep.” She looks out the window. Her eyes tell me she's exhausted, but I'm not going to argue.
“Do you want to do something?” I say. She turns from the window.
“Sure. I was thinking that the garden's looking a little sad. I feel like I haven't had the energy to work on it,” she says, pushing the sleeves on her robe up.
“Do you want to? Now?” Midnight gardening isn't the craziest thing I've done in the past 24 hours, which is saying something.
“Yeah,” she says.
Giggling like children, we tiptoe down the stairs and out to the little garden shed Dad made her one Mother's Day. Her energy perks me up better than a cup of coffee. I'm still weak, but feeling much better.
With my new sharper eyesight, I'm able to spot the tiniest of weeds, but I keep jumping at things in my peripheral vision. We spend the next few hours on our hands and knees yanking out dandelions and nettles. I struggle to make benign conversation.
The most vocal of all things, Thing Two-and-a-half, rattles away in my throat, threatening to jump out of my mouth in a moment of weakness. There is absolutely no way I can tell her about it. I'm pretty sure she wouldn't see things the way Peter did about it being essential for my survival. I sigh without meaning to. Peter.
Thinking about his name sends a pang of loss through me. I miss him. Sick and twisted as it may be, it's like half of my soul or spirit has been carved out of my body. It sounds super dramatic, but that's the best way I can describe it.
“Have you figured out any of your friend issues?”
“Not really.” I snort. They're low on my priority list.
“There's something else up with you,” she says, looking at me sidelong. It makes me think of Peter.
She's hit the nail on the head and I have no way to get out of it, so I say, “There’s this guy.” Instantly, her eyes light up as I tell her what I can about Peter, which isn't much. I haven't even made up a backstory.