The Silver Kiss (20 page)

“We've got a long drive,” Diane said. “Good-bye, Zoë. It's been nice knowing you.”

Lorraine glared at her stepmother and grabbed Zoë's hand through the window. “I'll call as soon as I can.”

Then the car was backing out of the driveway, turning onto the quiet suburban road, and heading for the highway. Zoë watched it disappear around the next corner. “GZN two five six,” she intoned, as if witnessing a car escape from an accident.

She trailed home, turning her back on what would now always be “Lorraine's old house,” and which she would never enter again. Alone, she thought. No, not quite. She had a date coming up. She smile dryly as she opened the front door and stepped into the silent house.

When her father returned home that night, he came to her room, where she was sitting in bed reading. Zoë smiled tentatively and patted her comforter. He accepted her invitation and sat, then he took a deep breath as if preparing himself for something that scared him. She tensed.

“I'm sorry about the other day,” he said, rubbing his
chin nervously. “Your mother and I have been talking about it a lot. You're right. I haven't been giving you enough credit. After all, you've had to look after yourself so much lately, and you've done it and not complained. If that's not mature, I don't know what is. We just wanted to protect you, Zoë. But I've already said that.”

Zoë was embarrassed that he was apologizing, yet she was glad. She wasn't quite sure what to do, however. She wanted a hug, but she felt too shy.

“I had a talk with this guy at the hospital. Your mom talked me into it. This therapist guy. Apparently they have these counseling sessions for families of—of … patients.”

Zoë knew what he meant—terminally ill. But he still couldn't make himself say it.

“He made some sense; I was surprised, really. Don't know why. Thought I was the only one who ever went through it, I guess. But he really hit the nail on the head a few times, about how I was feeling, that is.” He stared past her at the wall, as if it were easier to speak that way. “Anyhow”—his gaze shifted down to the carpet, still avoiding her eyes—“I thought you might like to come along next time. Next week, maybe. It might help us through this. I don't know. God knows, we need something. They've got groups. That sort of thing.”

He rubbed at his corduroys nervously. She reached over to the fidgeting hand. Whoever this man at the hospital was, he seemed to have gotten through to her father. Maybe there was hope in this. “I'd like to give it a try.”

He looked up and gave her a relieved smile. “That's settled, then.” He brought his hand down on his knee like a judge's gavel. Then his smile faded slightly.

“She's not going to feel too good tomorrow. Another treatment. But we want you to come the next day, Zoë, and have a proper talk—about everything, everything you can think of. I think we all need it. You can stay as long as you like.”

“I'd like that,” she said, daring to feel relief.

He took her hand. “We don't want you to feel shut out. We never did.”

Zoë squeezed his hand back. “I know, but—well—I've felt so rotten.” She couldn't hold the tears back. Damn, she thought, I don't want to make him feel bad again. I don't want to scare him off.

But her father took her in his arms and held her, and stroked her back. He's really trying, she thought, and that made her cry harder. He was her daddy again. He would look after her and make things all right.

She was finally all cried out, and he pulled away. “Why don't you get some sleep.” He kissed her forehead and left, closing the door.

Zoë turned out the bedside lamp and settled down to sleep. It should have been easier now, because she felt a weight was lifting from her. But she remembered Simon, and the weight came crashing down again. When is he coming back? she thought. What have I got myself into?

But her father was talking now, more open, so perhaps
he would understand. Maybe he could get her out of it somehow. No. If she didn't think Lorraine would believe her, why would her father? He has to believe, she thought. I don't lie. He'd at least believe she'd met a dangerous young man and do something about it. Call the police, maybe, and not leave her alone.

She talked herself out of bed, and to her father's door. She knocked lightly. No answer. She knocked again, a little louder. Still no answer. She opened the door and looked inside. He lay on the rumpled bedspread fully clothed and fast asleep. His briefcase lay beside him on the bed, unopened. He frowned in his sleep and snored slightly, an airy whistle like a child's. He was exhausted. She realized how unfair it would be to tell him, how absurd to expect him to believe. I can't wake him, she thought, and returned to her room. It's up to me now.

She slept late the next day, and her father was gone when she woke; whether to the office to get a quiet Sunday's worth of work in or to the hospital, she didn't know. He'd forgotten to leave a note.

She spent some time reading, curled into an armchair in the den with a fat science-fiction book, part of a series. But often she found she had read the same paragraph over twice and still not understood it. Her thoughts kept on returning to the evening. Would he come tonight? Finally she gave up on reading and went down to the basement to throw some laundry in the washer, then she dragged out the vacuum cleaner.

Toward evening she sat at the kitchen table with her notebook and a pen, molding an idea into a poem.

There was a scratching at the back door. She blinked, put down her pen, and turned to face the door. The small windows reflected back, yet she could see a shadow outside. The key inside turned impossibly, the lock popped, and the door opened silently, all by itself. Simon stepped from the night into her home.

“I only have to be invited once.”

“You don't have to be quite so melodramatic,” she snapped in relief.

Looking abashed, he sat at the table and took the notebook from her. He read while she watched. I keep forgetting how beautiful he is, she thought with surprise.

“What if my father was here?” she asked.

“I knew you were alone.” He smiled at her written words and touched her cheek with icicle fingers. “I've waited centuries for you.”

For a moment she flirted with a picture of them fleeing hand in hand, away from the problems of the world.
Take the night
, a tiny voice whispered, but she shrugged it off.

“Have you got an idea of what to do?” She was dismayed to hear the tremble in her voice. She was hoping he hadn't.

Simon laid the notebook on the table. “I've got a plan.”

She caught sight of his other hand, the hand he hadn't touched her with. He held it under the table. She reached for it, and he tried to withhold it from her, but gave in reluctantly. It was burned. A nasty red welt lay across it.

“I stayed out too long,” he said simply.

“The sun?” she asked.

“I was in a hurry to get safe inside; a sleep was coming on. I didn't secure the boards over the window well enough, and the sun must have come through a crack. The pain woke me.”

She made a sympathetic noise.

He grinned. “Yes, it hurts like hell, but it'll heal fast.”

“But how does Christopher get away with pretending to be a real child if he can't go out in daylight either?”

“We can stand a few weak morning rays, or a brief moment on a cloudy day. They think he's an albino. They bundle him up and keep him out of strong light, to protect his ‘delicate' skin. He wouldn't like to try full sunlight, though.” Simon smirked, as if enjoying that thought.

Albino. Zoë thought of the boy at the alley mouth again and shuddered. It
was
him. She grew angry. She couldn't let him threaten the life of another girl like Lorraine.

Simon took his hand from her and picked up her pen. “Can I use your book?”

She nodded. She felt firmer now that she'd decided.

He turned to a clean page and drew an octagon. “This is that little structure in the park.”

“The gazebo,” she muttered, and he nodded.

He drew an oblong on one side. “This is a pit on the opposite side from your bench. I dug it last night.”

“But surely someone would notice it today?”

“I disguised it.”

“Simon, what if someone fell in?”

“No one walks around that way. Hardly anyone would be playing there in this weather.”

He seemed oblivious to the danger to innocents. It frightened her, because it made him less human. “Why a pit?”

“There are stakes at the bottom. I want you to lure him over them. They're very sharp. I think they'll do the job.”

Her stomach roiled. “I always wondered why they worked. In the movies, I mean. When you're supposed to be invulnerable.”

“We have to be pierced right through,” he said, looking uncomfortable himself. “Not just injured, impaled. It holds the unnatural body long enough for the soul to escape. The soul that's been trapped and kept in torment. Then there can be true death.”

She wondered at the selfishness of a body that could imprison its own soul. What would it do to someone who threatened it? “What if he catches me?”

“I'll be there, Zoë. I won't let anything happen to you. I'll be watching. He won't suspect you, so you can lead him. If it were me, he wouldn't follow so blindly. If he catches on, I'll be out there like a flash to distract him. Get him to cross that patch of ground.”

“But how will I get him to follow me?”

“We'll pass by his house. I know the time he leaves. He has to wait for the family to sleep. He'll follow you—beautiful and alone—I know it.”

“When do we go?”

“Not for a few hours yet.”

“That's a long time.”

“I have some things to tell you, about the earth he needs, about his bear. Things that might help you. Anyway”—his voice became soft and eager—“I thought you might let me kiss you again.”

She glanced away nervously, her hand flying to her throat.

“No,” he whispered. “Just a kiss. A real kiss.”

*   *   *

While Zoë retrieved her coat from the banister, Simon stood at the front door, kicking at the frame. “Stop that,” she said. “I'm nervous, too, you know.”

He looked up as if forcing himself to do so. “There's a chance he might know about you,” he said in a rush. He walked out.

She ran out after him, her nerve endings screaming. “What do you mean?”

He stood outside, head bent, hands shoved into his pockets. “I'll understand if you don't go.”

She felt herself turning white. “You weren't going to tell me, were you?”

“No.”

“What changed your mind?”

“Your damn kisses.” He shoved a piece of paper at her.

She read the childlike prose, gradually becoming puzzled. “But, Simon, it says nothing about me.”

“No, but he's a spiteful sort. It would be like him to let me think you're safe.”

He's paranoid, that's all, she thought. He's reading things into it. And he did tell me. He couldn't go ahead without telling me, after all, even if he is desperate.

“You've got to put faith in yourself sometime,” she said tenderly, despite the lump in her throat. “The chance is no greater than it was before, and I couldn't get more frightened.”

At midnight she walked down the quiet street, dressed to lure.

Simon was out there, she knew, watching her, keeping her safe. She had to believe he could keep her safe. Yet her palms were sweating, and her mouth was dry. She had hung the crucifix Lorraine had given her around her neck, under her sweater. It made her feel better, no matter what Simon said. It didn't hurt to cover all bases.

Her stockinged legs were cold, but she hugged her jacket around her and forced herself to walk slowly. She wanted to give him ample opportunity to spot her.

Zoë knew when Christopher started to follow her, though she never heard him. The texture of the air changed. Perhaps the part of Simon left in her blood could sense it.

She walked toward the park under a star-crazed, clear, cold night, hardly daring to breathe.

14
Simon