Nocturnal (28 page)

“Yes.” I wait for him to elaborate, but in true Peter fashion, he doesn't.

“Whatever floats your boat,” I say, leading the way to my car.

Peter directs me to one of the most remote parts of Sussex. There are only trails and places for hunters and old houses that no one cares about anymore. It's supposed to be one of the most haunted places in town, and I don't doubt it. It's kind of ironic, then, that he's taking me here. 

“This isn't some ploy to get me alone in the woods so you can have a snack, is it?”

“No.”

“Thanks for the reassurance.”

“I will not harm you.” Define harm. Using me as a Blood Slushie machine might qualify as harm for most people. But that's not what this is. I try to find his eyes under his hair. It's always like a scavenger hunt until I find them. Like two polished gems.

I totally would let him have whatever he wanted. If he asked for it. My face goes red thinking about it.

“I'm sorry. That was mean. I know you won't hurt me. You wouldn't have done this whole thing if you didn't have to.”

“No. I would not.” He points to a ditch in the road where you can sort of park a car. 

“Where are we going?”

“For a walk.” This time he comes around the car and opens the door for me. Such service. He takes my hand as soon as I get out of the car. It makes me feel all gooey and mushy inside, and a little rush runs through me. It's like being on drugs. Not that I'd known, but it's just an expression. I've read about endorphins and all that. He makes my brain explode like fireworks. 

We walk quietly, enjoying the afternoon. I do feel a little guilty for not going home and checking off the next thing on my mother's list, balancing my checkbook and paying bills, but I needed a break, if only for a few hours. It's like therapy, only cheaper. All it requires is a little blood donation. Speaking of that...

“Are you hungry? I know you said you only drink every two weeks, but I don't want you to suffer. You can take some. If you want.”

“I am fine. Thank you.”

“Just let me know. My veins are at your service.” 

I had a teacher in third grade that called my parents in for a conference once. She was one of those people who had taken a few classes at the community college and fancied herself a psychologist. She said that I used humor to deal with difficult situations and recommended some weird therapy. My mother laughed. Dad kind of sided with the teacher until Mom talked him around. He always sided with her, even before the cancer. Kind of like a sheep that needed to be led. But hey, my humor had gotten me through a lot. Someone had to find it in this situation. 

Peter is attentive, holding branches so they won't whack me in the face, and guiding me around tree roots. He's taking this potential boyfriend thing seriously. Maybe he's just practicing. It's nice, whatever it is.

We go so far in that the only noises are from the birds and the wind rushing through the leaves. I can't even hear the road. The air has a moist quality to it, like it's part plant part earth. I breathe it in. 

“Wait here.” He stops just before one of the biggest trees I've ever seen. I have no idea what kind it is. I never really paid attention in biology class. My mother would know. If Peter and I each went on one side and hugged the tree with our arms out, it wouldn't encompass the trunk. It's not tall, but it's large. He goes around the other side and comes back holding a huge trunk. If he wasn't so strong, he would have had to drag it. It's one of those old foot lockers, covered in rust. I can't even tell what color it used to be. He sets it down and pulls out a key from his pocket.

“This is where you keep your stuff?”

“I bring the trunk with me and hide it when I move so I can always find my way back to it.”

“It's really old.” I brush the rusty hinges.

“It was my father's.” He cracks open the top and I lean over. This is Peter's life. And he's showing it to me.

Everything inside is wrapped in plastic, probably to prevent moisture. He pulls off several layers and lays them out on the ground. And then he unpacks his history.

“Is this your mother?” I hold up a faded sepia-tinted photograph of a woman in a high-collared dress. 

“Yes.” She's stunning, with those tilted eyes that he shares. I don't know what color her's were because the picture isn't in color.

“Wow.” I look from him to the photograph. “You have her eyes.”

“I know.” 

“Where was she from?”

“Japan. She was adopted by an American man who traveled there with his wife. They found her in the street and brought her home with them.” I know I keep saying wow, but really. 

“Wow.”

He brings out more things. A pair of gloves, a pocket watch. A few books. A string of pearls. A jumprope. Three wooden dolls with lips painted red. Their dresses are a little stained and have moth holes, but their faces are bright with the paint.

“Is this you?” He lays out another photograph. I recognize his mother, and a man who must be his father with his hand on her shoulder. There are three little girls, one on her lap, one on a chair and one sitting on the floor. And what looks like a younger Peter. His hair is slicked back from his face, but I'd know those eyes anywhere. Everyone looks stiff, kind of like those posed family portraits from Sears. Only obviously not, since they didn't have those back then.

“You look different.”

“I was sixteen when we took that. There are my sisters, Celia and Constance and Lucy.”

“What happened to them?” I look at the three little girls, all in dark curls, except for the baby, Lucy, who was blonde. They all had full cheeks like apples. Totally adorable.

“My mother took them back to New York. I used to check in with them every few years. Without their knowledge of course. I'd watch from outside the apartment. My father had left them some money in life insurance, and they got a good payment from the White Star Line. She had enough for them to live on and she taught piano for extra income. She had wonderful fingers.” He looks down at his own. I've noticed his fingers. They look like piano-playing fingers.

“My sisters grew up and married, had children. I've followed them here and there. Some of their grandchildren still live in upstate New York.” So creepy, thinking about the fact that he had grand nieces and nephews. I put the photograph aside. There were a few other trinkets, some coins, jewelry. 

“Thank you.” I take his hand. It's cool, like leaves in the shade. I want to know more about his family, but this is not the time to ask.

“You are welcome.” 

We put the items back in the trunk, one by one. The photograph is last. I put it on the top. The record of a life that was. He closes the top and locks it again. And hands me the key.

“What are you doing?”

“I want you to have it. To keep it safe.”

“What?” I stared from the key to his face and back.

“I need a place to keep this safe. I want you to be the one to take care of it.” He holds my hand with both of his. Cradling it like a baby bird.

“Wow, that's... really trusting.” I stare down at our hands. “That was your mother's book, you gave me, wasn't it?”

“I trust you, Ava,” he says, not answering my question. He doesn't have to.

“Yeah, I know.” My fingers flutter closed over the key. It's an exchange. I'm trusting him with my life when it comes to the Claiming. Now he's showing me that he feels the same way. I mean, if we had a fight or something I could rip up the photographs and sell the pearls and coins on eBay. That's the thing, though. He knows I won't. A life for a life.

“Thank you. Again. I feel like I've been saying it a lot.” He looks at my face and then looks up, as if he's heard something in the woods. I follow the direction of his eyes. Even with my new and improved eyesight, it takes me a few seconds to make out something coming out of the trees. I grab onto Peter. What the hell is it?

Peter isn't alarmed. Actually, he straightens up and tries to extricate himself from my clutches. The thing comes closer. It's shaped like a man, but with claws instead of hands and feet. It sort of reminds me of a wolf. The face is hairy, but human-looking. It's like a weird half-and-half thing. It's also wearing khakis.

Then it morphs back into what looks like a tall blond man. With one brown eye and one gray one. Damn, he's tall. 

“Ava, this is Viktor. My brother.” Viktor steps forward, holding out his hand, but pulls it back. I want to glare at Peter for not giving me a little notice that we were doing this, but I'm still too stunned. 

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Ava.” His accent is seriously awesome. Russian, maybe? He should be standing in the snow with a huge furry hat in front of the Kremlin.

“Nice to meet you.” It hurts my neck to look up at him. He looks older than Peter. I'd say probably twenty-five when he turned. He's a fine specimen of man. Anyone could see that. 

“Sooo...” I said, unsure of what to talk about. Had any good blood lately? didn't seem like an option.

“Peter has told me a lot about you.”

“He hasn't really told me anything about you.” He doesn't look shocked by my bluntness, but then, noctali don't get shocked. 

“I should have told you he was coming.” Peter says. No shit, Sherlock.

“Yeah, a little warning would have been nice.” Then I wouldn't be standing here, gaping at him like an idiot. It seems a little too coincidental that he shows up just after the Claiming, but I can't ask Peter about it with Viktor standing there. So I'm in the dark. What a surprise.

“Shall we sit?” He gestures to the ground. 

“Sure.” I think it's going to be awkward, but it isn't. We all sit under the tree and Viktor talks in his lovely accent about Russia and how he loves the cold and snow and barren landscape. It's a strange conversation, but I'm not uncomfortable. There's something pleasant about Viktor. He reminds me of Peter that way. He doesn't talk much, but the words he uses are carefully chosen. It's like listening to a living poem. He doesn't ask about the Claiming. Or who I am or anything like that.

“I'm sorry if this is super rude, but why are you here?” He looks at me without blinking for almost a minute. Then his eyes flick to Peter. 

“My brother asked for my help. So I came.”

“Just like that?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. That's really nice.” I look down at my lap, embarrassed. “Has he told you about everything?”

“Yes.” I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn't. I look up to find him having a wordless, motionless conversation with Peter. Like they're trading thoughts via telepathy. It's both really creepy and really cool at the same time.

“You know the promise you made,” Viktor says to Peter.

“Yes.”

“She will destroy her before it happens. You know that.”

“It won't happen. I won't let it get that far.” They're talking in a code I don't understand, but the tension is so thick, I don't dare to interrupt. The only sound is my own breathing and the rustling of the trees. I hear a squirrel digging around for food. My hearing is so much better, yet they are still so silent.

“It already has,” Viktor says, looking at me. I flinch. It is not a nice look. 

“We should go,” Peter says, drifting to his feet. I scramble up beside him. Viktor remains sitting.

“Be careful, Ava.”

“With what?” He meets Peter's eyes.

“I hope she's worth it.” And then he's around the other side of the tree and gone.

“What the hell was that?” I look to Peter for answers. Of course he doesn't give me any.

“Nothing.” 

When I See You Smile

There's a note on the kitchen table that Dad took my mother to a doctor's appointment. It makes my heart seize up for a second. No, I will not be negative. I shove it to the back of my mind and focus on something else. Food. I'm absolutely ravenous.

I make grilled cheese because it's the quickest. Peter watches me as if I'm doing something fascinating. When I finally flip the sandwich out of the pan and onto the plate, I'm hungry enough to eat the pan. I don't bother sitting down because I hate when he's the only one standing so I lean against the counter. 

“I know you don't understand the power of melted cheese, but it's, like, really good.” I speak around a mouthful. I'd put three times as much cheese as I normally did. Heaven.

“I can imagine.”

“Can you?”

“Not really.” Blink.

“What does blood taste like? You don't have to answer if it's too personal a question.” I'm not going to ask how mine tastes. I definitely don't want to know.

“I did not think you would want to know.”

“Sure. Why not?” I shrug myself. 

“I cannot really describe it, but it is like you would die if you didn't have more. Like you wish it would last forever so you could have one more taste.”

“I had cheesecake like that once. Earth-shattering cheesecake.” 

“You are not put off by this topic of conversation?”

“Not really. You are who you are, you know? Who am I to judge?” I lick my fingers to get the last of the butter. I'm sure he's grossed out, but I was starving. 

“That is very understanding of you.”

“Thanks.” 

I wash my plate and wonder what we're going to do with ourselves. The house is so quiet. 

“What is it?” He catches me looking at him. 

“Just thinking.” 

“I am not familiar with this look on your face.”

“It's my plotting face.”

“What are you plotting?”

“Wait here for a second.” I run upstairs. This is going to be fun.

***

“You look like a serial killer in a mugshot.”

“How is this?”

“Now you look like you're trying to lure children into your van with promises of lollipops and puppies.” He holds the mirror up and tries again. His lips pull up in a weird way. I'd pushed his hair out of his face, my fingers having a field day. I could have done that all day long, but we had important matters at hand.

“And now you look like you're in pain. It should be natural. It's easier if you just let it happen.” I'm trying to teach Peter how to smile. It is not going well. Smiling doesn't sit well on his face. It makes him look crazy. For some reason, he can't make the expression reach his eyes.