It makes me think of that night when I invited Peter to a party and we danced. Well, it was more like we'd mashed our bodies together and moved with the music. It was totally amazing. I wish I could have frozen that moment so I could go back to it later. Go back to that moment when it felt like we were one person. I still felt that way with Peter, but I missed his physical touch sometimes. Or all the time.
“Hello? Can you hand me that sign?” Tex snaps her fingers in front of my face. She does that a lot and it makes me want to bite her fingers off and taste her blood.
“Here.” I hand her the sign and she hangs it in the window.
“I feel like it needs something.” She tilts her head back and forth and squints as if she's trying to see what's missing. “Aha!” she says, jumping down from the window. She's gone for a few minutes and then is back, hauling a giant quill pen that's about three feet tall. I don't remember why her parents bought it, but it's been sitting in storage for a while. Tex sneezes as she props it against one of the boxes.
“I couldn't find the ink pot that goes with it, but oh well. This says poetry, doesn't it?”
“I think so.”
She bangs her hands together and I choke on a glitter cloud. I think Tex has a glitter addiction. She should join GAA. Glitter Addicts Anonymous.
~^*^~
Later on, she catches me in the New Age section of the store. It's located right next to the knitting books in a back corner near the heater that is so loud you can barely hear yourself think. It is also perpetually dusty because no one really wants to go back there. Also because Tex's parents had contempt for anything remotely like that, so they hadn't ordered any new books in years. Or bothered to do anything about the ones they did have.
“What the hell are you doing back here?”
“Would you believe me if I said I was dusting?”
“Yeah, nice try. No one's dusted back here since this guy was alive.” She holds up a book with a guy with a beard so impressive, it covers most of his face, a shirt covered in flowers and a pair of bell bottoms that looked like lampshades.
I can't lie to her anymore. “I was just, um, looking for a book about dreams.”
“And my next question is: Why?”
“I had a dream and I wanted to know if it meant anything,” I mumble.
“You should have just asked. I've got one of those encyclopedias at home. Aunt Bea gave it to me.” She rolls her eyes as she says it. She's Tex's mother's sister, Beatrice, otherwise known as Aunt Bea or the Crazy Lady. I've only met her once and my first impression was that she looked exactly like someone who dressed as a cheap psychic for Halloween. Only she dressed like that all the time. Scarves, long flowing skirts and bracelets that jingled whenever she moved. She also brought a cloud of patchouli wherever she went. Tex said it was to cover up the smell of pot smoke, which wouldn't surprise me. After she told me my aura was cloudy, I pretty much tuned her out.
“You can borrow it if you want.”
“Yeah, sure.” She gives me a weird look and then edges away from the books as if they're going to give her a disease. I also want to escape the close space that smells like dust and books and blood.
Work drags on for another hour until I can finally leave. Peter's waiting for me outside the back door like a shadow. We always walk back to my car, taking our time. I told him he didn't have to, because Tex always tackled him with questions about Viktor. Tonight is no exception.
“Hello, Texas.” He always calls her by her full first name. I think it bugged her at first, but she seems to have gotten over it.
“Well hello there.” She always tries to fake-flirt with him, trying to get a rise. It never works, but Tex is not easily deterred.
“Ava.” He nods formally at me.
“Peter.” I smile and curtsey, feeling both of our relief that we're near each other. It must last for a while because Tex coughs and waves her hand in front of my eyes.
“Yeah, that's enough eye sex. You should remember to wear protection.” I smack her in the shoulder. Real classy, Tex.
“We need to go.” I take Peter's arm and try to steer him toward the street. Tex darts in front of us so fast, I wonder if she's a noctalis.
She snags my arm. “Uh! We need to talk date details.” I give Peter a look that says I'll tell him later.
“We'll let you know.”
“What, are you like one person now?”
I think I'm getting a migraine. “Tex, can we please not do this now?”
“I just don't want to see you saying things like 'we love pumpkin scented candles' and wearing matching plaid shirts.” Like that would ever happen.
“You are free to slap me in the face if I do any of those things.” Peter doesn't say anything. I look at him and he blinks. An agreement.
“Bye!” I grab Peter's arm and start walking before she can react.
“Wear protection!” she calls. I wave over my shoulder, considering giving her the finger.
Peter
“Have you come up with a plan yet?” Ava says as we walk back to her car. She's still holding my arm. It blazes against my skin.
“I have consulted Viktor. He has stayed less in touch with the noctalis world than I have, so he did not know what we should do. There is an old friend I can contact.” She stops.
“You have a friend?”
“Yes.” I do not elaborate. Cal is from a time in my life that I do not want her to know about. Granted, if I hadn't Claimed her and wanted her to stay away, I would have told her. It would be enough to make any human run. Even her.
“Why have I not heard of this friend?”
“I have not seen him in a long time.”
“What's he like?”
“Tall.” How can I describe him in a way she would understand? I am not sure how.
“Tall? That's it?” She raises her eyebrows.
“He is my oldest friend.” That is a truth I can part with.
“So you've got a little bromance going on.” Her smile returns. I am not familiar with that term, but I believe I know what she is thinking of.
“He is my friend.”
“So you think he'll help us?”
“Yes.” He has helped me before. When I have needed him, he has been there. Ava searches my eyes, looking for more information. Her natural curiosity will harm her one day. It already has. She came back to see me, even after that first night in the cemetery. I told her then she was reckless. She has not learned.
She sighs and leans her head on my arm. Her contentment is palpable.
“How was your day?” I say as we get in the car.
“Awful. Jamie's issues just keep getting bigger and Tex won't leave me alone about Viktor. I may have to kill her before this date happens.” Her laugh is weak.
“You could not kill anyone.”
“How do you know that?” She is offended. Angrily, she starts the car and turns the radio on loud. It is one of Texas' German rock albums.
“Your soul is pure.”
I do not want to discuss the status of my soul so I remain silent.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks.
“You.” It is the kind of thing that makes her blush. The scent of her blood fills the car, and I want it so much I have to push myself as far away from her as I can get in the small space. Her blood calls to me, sings to me, taunts me.
“Oh God,” she says, clutching at her stomach. I reach to take the wheel before we veer off the road and into a ditch.
“Put the car in park,” I say. Her breath comes out in little pants of pain. I have hurt her again with my unstoppable need.
“Take it, take it.” Pain colors her voice as she whimpers. I cannot take it from her now.
“I am fine.”
“I am not!” Her face falls to the steering wheel as she curls in on herself. My need subsides in light of her pain. I push it away, struggling with two separate needs. My primal need for blood and my other need for her. One is stronger, at least this
time.
“Ava?” Her pain has quieted a little, but she is still slumped against the steering wheel. Her parents will be concerned if we are not back to her house soon.
“It's better. It's getting better. Did you do that?”
“I am not sure.”
“Well that's good. I guess.” She seems unsure. “You could still have some. I know you want it.”
“I will pass.”
“Fine.” Her relief shivers along our connection. I have never felt that from her. A little bit of fear comes with the relief. She may love me, but she also fears me. That will never change as long as she is human and I can fight to keep her that way.
When she is able, she turns the car back on and drives the rest of the way to her house. I say nothing, not wishing to disturb her thoughts. They swirl like an angry wind, whipping her emotions around. It is impossible for me to keep track. So I listen and feel and watch.
Seven
Ava
Sometimes the Claiming is too much. I hate admitting that, because I love him and I love being in love with him and feeling so special when he looks at me. But being so tied to him is really hard. My emotions and his get so tangled up sometimes, I lose myself for a second.
It's a scary feeling, losing yourself. I am never prepared for it, but it happens. And there is nothing I can do to stop it. Peter is silent as I turn the car off. I feel his distance. He pulled back to give me some space. He is considerate like that.
He opens my door for me and touches my face, knowing that I need some time alone.
“Goodnight, Ava.”
“Goodnight, Peter.”
After he's gone, I slump against the car. I'm hungry and tired and I have to do homework, but I need a second. I take a few yoga breaths to stabilize myself. My stomach is fine now.
“Hello?” I call as I walk into the dark and quiet house. I find it hard to believe Dad left her alone.
“Hey, baby, I'm in here.” Mom's still in bed, sans wig, reading a bodice ripper that she tries to hide under the covers. Scandalous.
“Have you been in here all day?” Her lack of energy is more worrying than the dark circles under her eyes.
She shoves the book farther under the blankets as if I haven't already seen it. “No, I got up and cleaned a little. How was your day?”
“Fine.” Standard response.
“How was work?”
“Fine.”
“What did you learn?” I lean my chin on her pulled-up knees.
“That when in doubt, the answer is -1.”
The book falls to the floor with a clunk, but we both ignore it. “Even in English class?”
“For that, the answer is almost always deus ex machina.”
“Oh, very fancy.”
“It is, isn't it?” There's a tray beside her with a full bowl of soup that looks like it's been sitting there for quite a while.
“Not hungry?” She shrugs. “I could make you something.”
“Your father went to get pizza.” We have eaten more takeout in the past several months than we have in my entire life. It couldn't be healthy, but with Mom out of commission, none of us really felt like taking over the cooking duties on a permanent basis. It would be like admitting defeat. I wasn't ready for that yet.
“He left you alone?”
“I had to beg him.”
“You and your feminine wiles.” She wiggles her eyebrows and we both laugh. “How are you feeling?” She holds up her hand, tipping it from one side to the other.
“I missed you today,” she says.
“Weren't we going to talk about me taking some time off school?” At least we did a few weeks ago before Dad put the kibosh on that.
“Yes. I'm not sure if it's a good idea.”
“But I thought —” She cuts me off.
“I don't want you sitting around and being my nurse. You're too young and I don't want to trap you like that.”
I move off her knees and she tries to get up. It takes a moment before she can get completely vertical. I would offer to help, but she doesn't need me.
“You wouldn't be trapping me. I want to take care of you. You did it long enough for me.”
“That's different.”
“Just because you're my mother? Well, I'm your daughter. It goes both ways.”
She shuffles toward the bathroom, and it breaks my heart how painful her little mincing steps look. She leans on the bathroom door and closes her eyes. If I didn't know better, I'd say she was going to fall asleep.
“I know, baby. I just don't want this to drag you down, too.” I don't say that it's too late for that. I don't say that I'm getting dragged down by so many other things that the cancer isn't even the worst of it. She goes into the bathroom, and that ends the conversation.
I take the tray to the kitchen and wash the dishes, stacking them in the sink. I can't stand to be alone with the thoughts in my head so I turn on a Beatles CD that Mom loves.
Dad comes back as I'm getting out plates and silverware for the pizza.
“Hi,” I say.
His eyes race down the hall as if he has x-ray vision and can ascertain her health through the door. “Hi. How is she?”
“Fine. I just checked on her.” He sets the box and a paper bag down on the counter. In the light of the kitchen, I spot a few gray hairs I don't remember seeing a few weeks ago. It's like the cancer isn't killing just her, but it's killing us, too.
“Good. I don't know if she's going to be up to eating out here, so it might just be the two of us.”
I nod. That should be fun.
He makes up the tray again with more soup, crackers and fruit and takes it in to her. I hear the murmur of their voices from down the hall. It is a mark of how sick she is that she can't even make it to the dinner table.
I make up a plate for Dad and me. He comes out, pushing his hair back from his forehead. God, he looks tired. Like an old dishcloth that was once white, but is now gray and stained and wrung out.
We sit down, but there is a hole the size of South America where my mother is supposed to sit. We chew for a few minutes and I can feel he wants to say something.
“We need to talk.” Those are the most awful words ever put together. Alone, they are benign. Together, they make up the scariest sentence in the English language. “Your mother is getting sicker. It's going to get a lot worse here soon. She's not going to be able to do a lot of the things she wants. We're going to have to try and keep her spirits up. Do you think you can do that?”
“Yeah.” Oh, you mean telling her that the guy I'm seeing is an angel vampire that gets to drink my blood whenever he wants was a bad idea? Yeah, too late.
“Good.” He takes a bite of his pizza, but he doesn't look like he wants to eat it. I'm not that big on it, either, but I need something to do with my mouth so I end up eating two pieces. I put the rest of it in the fridge. Dad puts his head in his hands, and it makes me feel bad. I don't mean to treat him the way I do. We just seem to be unable to communicate on anything other than a hostile level.
“How's work?” I never ask him about work, because it's really boring. He raises his head from his hands as if he's just woken up.
“Oh, it's, uh, it's good. We just approved new rates and there are a lot of people coming in for loans.”
“That's good, isn't it?” I know next to nothing about banking. I'd probably know more if I paid attention at all when he brought me and Mom to some of the corporate dinners, but I'd been too busy gorging on the fancy food and trying to see if I could sneak a sip of champagne.
“Yes, it is.” And then we fall into silence again.
“How is everything going at the bookstore?”
“Fine. We made a poetry display today. Tex covered everything in glitter.”
He takes a sip of water, his forehead contracting. It hits me how much I look like him. “What does glitter have to do with poetry?”
“I don't know.”
He gets up from the table. Not a bad
conversation. More than we've had in weeks. And no one yelled. That's progress.
I wonder if he's thinking the same thing I am. That in a few months, it's going to be just the two of us. We won't have Mom to keep things lively. Somehow we need to find a way to communicate or else we're going to fall apart as a family even before we lose her.
Dad interrupts my gloomy thoughts.
“I got a cheesecake. Strawberry. I was hoping she'd be well enough to have some, but...” He doesn't need to finish.
“I'll get some plates.”
Dad makes a cup of instant coffee and we each sit down to cheesecake. It's good, made by a local woman who only uses eggs her chickens lay and organic vanilla and so forth. The berries are also from her garden, tart and sweet at the same time. Like life.
“I wanted to talk to you about something else. That boy you were with when your mother had her episode.” Oh crap. Here we go.
“What about him?” I poke at the cheesecake. I really don't want to eat it now.
“Who is he? Where's he from? How old is he?” Bang, bang, bang. Oh boy, I'm really going to have to do a lot of lying here.
“He's a student at Galdon Academy. He's originally from New York. He's eighteen.” I fire back just as fast. Only the middle thing is true. I hate how easy it is to lie to Dad. Much easier than Mom.
Dad jabs at his cheesecake. “He looks older.”
“I know. He gets that a lot. Mom says he's an old soul.” The last part is also true.
“How did you meet him?” Oh, how I would love to tell him I met Peter at a bar or some other scandalous place, but I don't want to test his heart like that.
“We were at a party and I bumped into him and we started talking. We have a lot in common.” Oh, I am pulling this out of my ass. “He really likes books, so we got talking about that and we've been talking ever since.”
“Does that mean you've been involved with him for a while?”
“No, just a couple of weeks.” Weeks that feel like lifetimes.
“He's been here to the house.” It's a statement that expects an answer.