Nightmare (5 page)

I took the entire family, including the girl who had been sleeping in the room under the eaves, her hands curled under her chin and a sweet smile on her face. Her eyes flew open when I bit into her neck. I felt her heart race, but it made me drink faster. I had had so many people at that point, I was intoxicated and could not stop. She tried to scream, but I had my hand over her mouth. 

The rest of her family was already dead, but she hung on, struggling feebly as I sucked her life away like a drowning man drinks air when his face breaks the water's surface.

When I was done with her, I threw her body out the window into the street, like an empty food container. There was an inhuman sound in the street at the appearance of her body. A noctalis sound. Ivan.

He crouched in the street, pulling at her crushed body. Sobs tore through him, but there were no tears. We cannot cry.

“You did this,” he told me when I flew down from the window. People who saw me with my wings extended often thought I was an angel. It was much easier to feed when they fell at your feet in supplication. Screams filled the street, people rushed to catch their children and a bell clanged in the distance. A warning.

“I will never forgive you for this. I swear that someday, when you care for someone, I will destroy her. I will destroy you, because you have destroyed me.” He crouched over her body and whispered something so soft, even I could not hear. Townspeople streamed around us, screaming and carrying on. Neither Ivan nor I noticed them. The struggles of the human race were far removed from us. Their lives were short. Ours were not.

He kissed her head, on the only place clear of blood and licked her cheek, getting one last taste of her blood. Then he turned and ran. I set the village on fire and took to the woods. I did not see Ivan again for many years.

“Would you like to run?” Viktor brings me back to the present. It is dangerous to get too tangled in the past.

“Yes.” I liked the woods in Maine, so full of sounds, but so quiet at the same time. I wanted to take Ava up north sometime, to take her into the wilderness that other humans could not reach. To let her feet touch the sacred ground.

Ivan and I could run until the end of time and never get tired, but we don't. Without speaking we turn back to the house after only a few hours. I must get back to Ava before she wakes up.

I do not remember what it was like to be tired. Sometimes, I wish I did. I wished I could feel pain again. At least, pain of the body. It is strange what you miss when you are no longer mortal.

Ava

I'm grumpy when I wake up the next day. I ended up having a terrible dream that I couldn't remember in the morning, no matter how hard I try. My phone buzzes with a good morning text from Jamie. I send him a smiley back.

“So other than cheesecake, I'm trying to figure out what to do for Jamie,” I say, toothbrush in my mouth. He has magical understanding abilities, even when I have a toothbrush in my mouth.

I turn away from my face in the mirror. Yurgh. Not a pretty sight. I hold my hair out of the way and spit.

“I wish I could just give him a bunch of money, but he'd never take it. Although...” My fingers drum on my chin. “I could do something and then not tell him. Something he couldn't return.” 

He's reading again, this time the fourth book in the Scottish series. “He seems very fond of his vehicle.” I almost smack myself for being so dense. Jamie's truck. He'd been wanting to get it detailed or get a new paint job forever.

“How much does a paint job cost for a truck?” Like he'd know. He just blinks. How did I predict that one?

I boot up my computer and do a quick search for local car detailing. Yikes. That crap's expensive. At least a couple hundred bucks. No way I could afford that.

“You could sell some of my things.” I jump. Peter's reading over my shoulder from a few feet away. Because he doesn't have to get close to read the tiny computer print.

“I'm not selling your stuff.”

“It is not mine anymore.” I meet his eyes and nearly get lost in them. One of these days I'm going to gel his hair back, just to see what happens.

“The trunk may be in my room, and I may have the key, but those are your things. Your life. I'm just keeping it safe for a while.” My hands twist the cord with the key on it.

He puts his hands on mine, cradling them to his chest. “I belong to you.” He leans forward and places his lips on my knuckles. I put my face in his hair. It always smells clean, even though he almost never showers.

“Guess I'll just have to work a little bit harder. I'll ask Tex for more hours.” I'd only been doing a few days a week randomly after school at her parent's bookstore. I was full time in the summer, but I'd burned through a lot of that money on my own stupid car.

“I could get a job.” 

I snort. Picturing Peter flipping burgers at the Dairy Queen was kind of hilarous.

“No one would hire you.” I run my fingers through his hair.

“You are probably right.”

“I'm always right.”

“That feels very nice.” He pushes his head against my hand. I giggle, wrapping my fingers in his hair and giving his head a little yank. 

“I don't know how your hair hasn't turned into dreadlocks. Mine would.” I try to get my hand through the mass of curls that have wrapped around themselves. I can't.

“I could untangle your hair.” 

“Sure, go ahead.” He grabs a brush from my nightstand, as I turn in my chair. His fingers plunge into the mass of hair, pushing some aside so he can start with one section at a time. The first stroke snags and makes me wince.

“You have to start from the bottom,” I tell him. Much better. The only sound is the slide of the brush through my hair. I close my eyes and let it happen. Of course I have to ruin the nice moment with a question that had been bothering me since yesterday.

“How do you die?”

His hand stops halfway through a brushstroke. “We turn into ash.”

“As in, 'ashes to ashes and dust to dust'?” I stomp on the image of it happening to him as it tries to form in the back of my mind. I'm not letting that happen. 

“Yes.”

“That doesn't sound very nice.” It sounds awful.

“It isn't,” he says as if he knows. I don't ask anything else as he brushes the rest of my hair.

“What happens to me if you...” I can't say it.

“The bind will stay intact. You are protected, whether I exist or not.” I don't know if I find this comforting or not. We lapse into silence again, the only sound the brush through my hair.

When he's done, I put it up in a ponytail, turning to the side to make sure it's centered. “I guess I'll see you in a little while. I really don't want to go downstairs, but I kinda have to.” 

“It will be fine. You'll see.” I turn around to face him, my face breaking into a smile before I can stop it. I should really try harder not to get so close to him. It's like dancing next to an open flame. 

“You just need to keep saying things like that to me. I might start to believe them.”

“Then I will keep telling you.” His eyes don't try to snag mine, so I'm free to stare into their depths for a moment. The blue one reminds me of the perfect color of a cloudless sky. The green is like clear beach glass from an old bottle, with tiny flecks of gold mixed in. They're much prettier than mine.

“See you later.,” I say, trying not to kiss him. I settle for creepily touching his shoulder.

“Until then, Ava-Claire.” God, I love how he says my name. It suddenly becomes the sexist name in existence when he says it.

It takes me hours to get down the stairs because I'm listening to gauge what I'm walking into.

Instead of my mother making pancakes or waffles and humming, Dad is frying eggs and bacon. Yuck. He knows how I feel about bacon, but he's cooking it anyway. At least it overwhelms the smell of his blood, which I think I'm getting used to. I don't say anything as I walk in the kitchen. 

“Your mother is doing better,” he says, beating me to the punch. He winces as a spray of bacon grease flies through the air. That stuff is not only gross, it's dangerous. It should come with a  warning label and a Hazmat suit.

“Good.” I hover in the doorway, wondering if I should escape to the living room. Or just go up and hibernate in my room. My phone buzzes again. Tex. Gah, why won't she leave me alone? I flip it open, just so I don't have to talk to Dad. She's pestering me about the supposed date she wants to go one with me and Peter and Viktor. Like that's going to happen.

Come on, I neeeeedddd to kno!
At least she hadn't used all caps. I take a breath as I imagine smashing her head open on the hood of her car. I hate, hate, hate those violent images. Hate them. I react by sending her a rude text.

Lay off! 

I feel bad the second after I send it and hurry to send a second message.

Sorry. home stuff. lot going on. forgive? 

She responds right away.

maybe. do I get a date with Viktor?

Does she ever give up? I'm going to regret sending this response, but I can't take it anymore.

Maybe.

REALLY?!!!!

I said maybe.

OMFG!! have 2 go and pick out sexy underwear!

I don't bother texting her back. There's no point. Tex goes full-throttle. Go big or go home.

“Hello,
ma fleur
.” Mom's tired voice sings down the hall, seconds before her sleepy face peers around the corner.

“How are you?” I want to crush her in a hug, but don't want to actually crush her. Carefully, I fold myself into her fragile arms. I'm so afraid she's going to break if I so much as breathe on her. She's not even wearing a wig, just a scarf wrapped around her head and a robe.

“Claire, you need to get back to bed.”

“Oh Sam, stop worrying.” I'm taken aback. She almost never scolds him like that. Usually, to placate him, she goes along.

“Claire.” His voice is pleading instead of firm. 

“Stop.” She says it in a flirty voice, putting her arms around him. She adds a smile and his worried face melts into an answering smile. Bravo. My mother and her feminine wiles.

While we're all distracted, the bacon starts to burn and the smoke alarm goes off. Lots of towel waving and screaming about grease fires ensues. When things calm down, Mom takes over the breakfast preparations. Thank god for small mercies.

She rescues the eggs, but the bacon is a lost cause. It makes my stomach turn to smell it, so I volunteer to take out the trash so I don't have to. When I come back in, she's sprayed some deodorizing spray that's vanilla lavender. It's delicious, but doesn't quite mask the burned bacon and blood smell. It seems nothing will work on the latter. 

We all eat our eggs and toast at the dining room table. I can't remember the last time we all ate breakfast together. It's kinda quiet, but Mom makes a valiant effort to talk about stupid things. None of us mention the day before. Dad and I kind of took care of that last night. I'd rather not have a replay. 

I volunteer to do the dishes, but I usually do them, so it's not that much of a big thing. Still, Mom kisses my forehead and thanks me for being so helpful. It's nice to be thanked for something. 

“I think I'm going to sit in the garden for a little while,” she says after putting on some old jeans and a ratty sweater. Dad protests, of course, but he's quickly overruled.

I carry out a chair and bring her an umbrella to protect from the sun. She gets a hat and a thick coat and a glass of water and a cell phone. You know, in case of cold or zombie apocalypse. I should have given her a shovel.

“Do you need anything? A garden boy named Carlos to cater to your every whim?”

“That would be nice,” she says, smirking. She drops it quickly, glancing back at the house. “Can I talk to you about something before your father comes out and drags me back inside?” She looks back again, making sure he's not hovering.

“Yeah.” I have the feeling that I'm not going to like this conversation. Much like the one where she told me where babies come from.

“I'm not sure how I feel about this Peter situation. It didn't go over well with your father. He's convinced Peter is going to rape you and get you pregnant and then run away. Or that he's going to sneak into the house in the middle of the night and rob us blind.”

The mental image of Peter sneaking into the house in a mask makes me want to laugh. “None of those things are going to happen.”

She leans back in her chair and closes her eyes. “I know that, and you know that. But he doesn't. I think it's going to take time for him to warm up to the idea. Is there any way we can do a formal dinner?” What did she mean by formal? Not that I wouldn't love to see Peter in a tux.

“Not really. I've never asked him if he could eat food in an emergency, but I really don't want to go there.” 

She considers for a moment. “Hm. I'll think of something. We need a good way to make your father like him.” Yesterday morning, she had found out that the guy I was spending time with wasn't human. Today, she was trying to find a way to invite him over for dinner. How was that possible?

I snort. “I don't think that is ever going to happen.”

“Now, now. You're father has been through a lot. He hasn't been himself lately.” She takes a small sip from her water glass. I don't like to point out that none of us have. There is no manual for this, no way anyone can prepare you for losing your wife or your mother to cancer. Doesn't mean he has to act the way he does.

“Maybe Peter has a good idea.”

“Maybe.” She doesn't sound convinced.

“He's really not what you think. I totally thought he was going to be all bloodthirsty, but he isn't. I just want you to be okay with it, because I'm okay with it and I want you to be.” I'm rambling, the words falling out of my mouth before I can catch them.

She opens her eyes. “I'm not sure if I want to talk to you about his blood taking activities.”

“It's not what you think.” I still blush. Talking about the blood sharing is kind of like talking about sex.

She's skeptical. “It never is.”