The Silver Kiss (9 page)

“It's death,” came a whisper.

Her eyes shot open.

6
Simon

H
e saw the dark-haired girl push herself from the crowd as if drowning, and lean against the shop window, gasping for air. He went to her helplessly, drawn by her fear. He couldn't help but touch her to taste it.

“It's death,” he told her, wanting to explain.

Her eyes burst open, pinning him with a stricken look.

“It's death that frightens you so.”

He felt slightly afraid himself now. This was the second time her eyes had held him. Combined with the enticing smell of fear, it was almost more than he could bear.

“Yes,” she said, blinking, relaxing, breaking the spell.

His hand left her and fell to twist nervously at a shiny stud on his leather jacket. “I'm sorry. I'm always startling you.” He didn't want to break the connection, not yet. It unnerved him when her eyes caught him like that, but it brought something else he couldn't explain, something that
didn't seem normal for him. He wanted it again. He wanted to discover what it was.

“How did you know? About death, I mean.” She had accepted his apology.

“I've seen its effect on people before now.”

Her eyes grew troubled on his behalf, as she guessed wildly at his tragedy. It was so easy, Simon thought. He could tell the truth and let her lie for him. She would be too polite to ask outright. She would make it what she wanted it to be. The time was right. She needed to jump to another person, away from her fear. But why did he care so much? She had warm, rich blood, but it wasn't only that. Was it?

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I haven't been too pleasant either.” She smiled faintly. At herself, he guessed.

“You look shaken. Can I walk you home?” He started to offer his arm, then remembered it was an outdated custom and stopped.

She debated with herself. He saw the brief inward look. “Please,” she said. He had passed the test.

They left the stores and walked slowly, quiet at first. He enjoyed her next to him. “You are late for dinner,” he said finally.

“No. No one's home.”

He saw that she immediately regretted having said that. Her lips tightened for a moment. She's calling herself a fool, he thought. It's not a thing to admit to a stranger. Reassure. “What a shame. This is the kind of night one
likes to go home to a hot meal.” He saw her lips quiver with unbidden amusement. “I said something funny?”

She smiled fully now. “I'm sorry, but you don't look … I mean … well, the way you talk. It's not how I would expect someone in a leather jacket to talk.”

Had he made a mistake? He didn't talk much to people. They were a temptation. They were food. One did not talk to food, or learn its speech patterns. It all changed so fast while he remained the same, watching it go by in flashing colors between the night. No. She was smiling. Somehow it pleased her, this discrepancy. It made her feel more at ease.

“It was a whim,” he said, stroking the leather.

“It looks good on you.”

She wishes not to offend me, he thought. He was happy with that. How silly that it made him happy.

“Do you live near here?” she asked.

“Close.”

“Yes?”

“It's temporary.”

“Are your parents looking for a permanent home in Oakwood?”

“My parents are dead.”

She looked aghast at her faux pas. Her hand rose partially to her mouth.

“It's all right. I've been alone a long time.” He took her hand and lowered it gently. She was alone, too, he guessed, that was why she cared so much. Her hand was
soft and thin; it prickled him sweetly. She tugged her hand back, and he knew she had felt it too. He disengaged. He would not press.

She was quiet again. They walked. Once she looked as if she were almost ready to speak, ready to tell him something, but she changed her mind. He wished she had told him, because he wanted to hear her talk. He wanted to know about her. This is not my nature, he thought. This is not the beast. But, for that moment, he felt as if the beast were unraveling from him in a fresh wind. He was thinking of questions to entice her to speak when they reached her gate. He held it open for her, feeling disappointed that the walk was over.

She stopped at the front door and turned to face him firmly. Simon got the message. This is as far as I get. “I hope you feel better soon,” he said, acknowledging the barrier.

Her stance relaxed as she felt his compliance. “Thank you for walking me home. It shook me up, seeing that. I expect we'll read about it tomorrow.”

“Yes.”

“My name's Zoë,” she said, almost as an afterthought.

“Zoë,” he repeated softly, like distant bees.

“What's yours?”

He looked at her and, trapped in her eyes again, felt impelled, but his name caught in his throat. He had not told it in so long that it felt too intimate to reveal it, like
giving away a portion of his true self. Yet her eyes were intimate also, stealing into him, opening locked doors.

He breathed his name. “Simon.”

“Good night, Simon,” she said gently, and turned.

He reached for her urgently, “Wait.”

She halted and glanced back, worry flickering in her features.

He calmed himself. “If I come to see you here, will you invite me in?”

She gazed at him a moment, assessing him. “Yes, I think so.”

He could smile now, and perhaps that was why she still hesitated. She was very close. He leaned closer, mouth parted to inhale the scent of her. Was it dark veins that called to him, or her soft lips? He didn't know. It made him dizzy. She almost swayed to meet him, her eyes drowning him, but she blushed and turned to the door again.

“Good night.”

“Until next time,” he whispered as she closed the door.

Walking back to the shops, he saw the boy with his mother. They had stopped so that she could adjust the scarf around his neck. I'd like to tighten it, Simon thought, and slipped into the shadows.

“Christopher,” the mother said, “you've been to the store several times now. I don't see how you could get lost. When I saw all those policemen, I was really worried. Please don't wander off like that.”

They began to walk again, and Simon followed. The child looked around as if he felt something. Simon let more distance come between them.

“We'll have to bundle you up better tomorrow, when we go to school. That was a nasty burn. Your poor skin. It's so delicate.”

The boy didn't seem to be paying any attention to her, but looked all around him as if seeking something.

“That was a long nap you took today,” the woman continued. “Mrs. Cohen said she could hardly wake you. What a sleepyhead you are. You should sleep at night, like a good boy. Maybe some hot milk will help tonight.”

The child grimaced. The first sign that he had heard. They turned the corner.

“I've bought some yummy liver for dinner. You like that, don't you?”

Simon let them go. The boy was well occupied now. He would check again later.

Simon wandered the streets. He looked in at the all-night Laundromat, but it was deserted. Eventually he went to the 7-Eleven. He sat on a wall outside and watched the people come and go.

Teenagers screamed up in worn but well-loved cars, to grab a six-pack and a package of Marlboros. A husband hurried in for next morning's milk and left with a
Playboy
carefully secreted under his overcoat. Young men discussed The Game, in the light of windows plastered with signs touting ninety-nine-cent hot dogs, then slid off into
the night in new machines. A drunk argued over the change from his five-dollar bill, mistaken lout. A girl pleaded with someone at the pay phone outside and stamped her feet either with cold or frustration, he couldn't tell.

He made up stories about them—what he might say to them if he deigned to talk, where they might go. The multicolored, overpriced stock became the scenery on his stage, and he was the only audience.

Sometimes he drifted in and out of now, reminded of previous stories he had seen or been a part of. On one such time, drifting into focus again, he saw the back of a girl with long dark hair at the counter. Zoë, he thought hopefully. But she turned, and it wasn't her.

When she left, he followed her anyway, out into the night. Nowhere else to go.

7
Zoë

Z
oë was awakened by the phone ringing. It went on and on. When her father didn't answer, she got up groggily and made her way to her parents' bedroom. The door was open and the bed unmade. She picked up the phone. It was her father, and she was momentarily confused. Then she remembered with the rush of full awakening. He had been called away, late last night, to the hospital.

“Hi, Zo,” he said. “You did get back to sleep, then?”

“Yes.” She flushed guiltily at having to answer that way.

“Mom's not too good, I'm afraid. I'm going to stay here, but don't you come down, okay? There's nothing you can do right now. Listen, I'll call you after school, or this evening, and let you know how she is.”

He thinks I'm useless, she thought, because I froze when Mom was sick. “Will she be all right?”

“Yeah, she'll be fine.”

Liar, she thought. “Are you coming home later?”

“Maybe not. I'll let you know.”

“Dad, if she's feeling better tomorrow—”

“I don't think I can talk about that right now. One thing at a time. Okay?”

There was always an excuse to keep her away. “Okay,”

Zoë muttered. Left out again. She clenched the phone tight.

“There's a good girl. Take care.”

“Bye,” she said, and the phone clicked off. She slammed the receiver down.

In the quiet she heard her clock-radio's alarm going off in her room. It was too late to go back to bed now; she had to get ready for school. She went to shut off the awful music.

Zoë was looking under the couch for her shoes when the phone rang again. She snatched it up. Had her father changed his mind? But it was Pat Reynolds, the owner of the gallery her mother showed at.