Only when my hand is on the door knob do I realize Elliot might be on the other side. I did say we'd talk before school. Maybe he took that to mean coming to my house. Oh, what the hell. My world's gone to hell anyway; what's one more explosion?
But when I open the door, Mrs. Kent stands there. "Good, you're here. Didn't see your car in the driveway, so I wasn't sure. Don't worry, I won't stay. Just wanted to drop off this casserole pan."
As I numbly reach for it, she takes in my appearance. "Oh, sweetie." She puts an arm around my shoulders, and Fuel crawls down until it settles around the back of my neck. "She's at her end, isn't she?"
Clutching the pan to me like a shield, I say, "The hospice nurse who came said she could last maybe days, maybe just a few more hours."
"Did she say you need to turn her?"
I nod.
"Did she tell you how to do that with an unconscious patient?"
I wince. "Not really."
She heaves a disgusted sigh and walks in with me. "Of course not. You." She points at Gideon, who's trying to unobtrusively slip out from the hallway.
He freezes. "I'm sorry?"
"I hope you're used to doing more with those muscles than filling out your clothes. Get back here and help us turn her."
Gran's never been a big woman, and her illness took most of her weight with it, but there's something nerve-wracking about handling a slack body so fragile that a clumsy grip can leave bruises. It takes all three of us to turn her onto her left side, Mrs. Kent explaining to Gran what we're doing as if she's still responsive. At one point, I'm not sure if my body or Gran's will snap first from the strain. I don't think Gideon notices how much I'm struggling, but Mrs. Kent does, giving me a sharp look as she puts pillows between Gran's knees and ankles.
"To keep her bones from rubbing," she says, glancing between me and Gideon to make sure we get it. "Next turn will be on her back, and then on her right side. Then back on her back, and so on. Just cycle through like that. You might want to tie string or ribbonâloosely, mindâaround the ankle of the last side she was on to keep from forgetting."
Then she bends over Gran and murmurs something low enough that only they can hear it. I think she's saying goodbye. My throat closes up, and I quickly turn away, gaze darting around for something to help me ignore all this fear welling up. My eyes find Gideon's. Shit, that's even worse, because I still don't know what the hell happened back in the laundry room. Why he froze me out like that.
I glance away, but still sense him moving closer. Despite myself, I look at him again, taking in his grim expression, how he obviously wants to tell me something. "Phoenix," he says, voice a low murmur, "Iâ" Then he breaks off, frustration flashing across his face as Mrs. Kent approaches us.
She pats my shoulder and says, "I don't think it'll be too long before she goes, so you better say whatever you want to her now. Mr. Kingsman, let's give her a minute."
Gideon doesn't get a chance to say anything before she ushers him through the doorway, but he does manage a final glance in my direction. I can't begin to figure out how I'm supposed to read it. Fuel, still wrapped around the back of my neck, makes a chiming sound and gives my hair a quick preen. Then it takes flight, following Mrs. Kent and Gideon as they head for the front door. I slump back on the bench by Gran.
For a while, I can only sit and wonder what to say. The hospice support pamphlets for this stage suggest telling loved ones goodbye, and that their friends and family left behind will be all right. But they also show pictures of well-dressed family members surrounding the calm patient's bed in a sunlit room. I'm sweaty and disheveled from moving her, the sun through the window is blazing hot, and while Gran may be quiet, she doesn't appear peaceful. Her lower jaw has fallen open in what looks like a silent scream, and her breath gurgles in her throat. Each minute, her body appears a little more wasted away, and I can smell her flesh breaking down. It's all a far cry from a picture-perfect goodbye, but I lean forward and clasp her hand, and try my best.
"Gran, it's Nina. I let Maria know what's happening. She loves you a lot. We both do, and we want you to know thatâthat it's okay. You don't have to worry about leaving. We can look out for ourselves; you showed us how."
I wait for some sign that she's heard, but nothing about her face or breathing changes. Tears start running down my face, and I know I better finish up before my voice gives out. "We're ready to let go. So, it's okay."
No more words left, so I repeat the last two and pull back to wipe at my aching eyes. Silence fills the room except for her breathing, and listening to its uneven, ragged quality is suddenly just too much. I jerk up and move to the window, wanting to look outside this room, which feels like a separate world at this point.
Mrs. Kent and Gideon talk in the driveway, both turned toward Valentine's house. He probably asks if she knows anything about Valentine. It's not long before Mrs. Kent leaves, Fuel fluttering from shoulder to shoulder as she walks down the street. When she disappears from sight, my gaze returns to Gideon. In the blazing afternoon heat, he's ditched his leather jacket and switched his glasses over to shades. His ink flickers as he studies Valentine's house. Thinking back to his anger over his superiors dismissing my information, it's pretty obvious he wants to continue working on his case, and thinks what's happening here in Mercywing is relevant.
Wonder how much trouble he'll get into for ignoring orders. And why he disobeyed at all. Maybe INKtech is a worldwide organization now, but I read it started off in the Kingdom, a place where people base their lives around following rules. Everything from what should be eaten for breakfast to who can marry who. So if Gideon is used to making sure he holds his damn toothbrush correctly, what would drive him to break a big rule like continuing this case?
The harsh ringing of my phone breaks through my thoughts. I don't even glance at the incoming caller before silencing it without answering. After setting the phone to remain silent, I look at Gran, hoping the sudden noise didn't disturb her. But she's not moving at all. Not even to breathe.
"Gran?" I approach the bed, reaching out with suddenly-numb fingers. Her skin looks waxy, and feels too still when I touch her neck to find a pulse. Oh, God. So fast?
I fumble for my phone and then Denise's card. It takes two rings for someone to answer.
I say my name and Gran's case number clearly, but when I get to the reason for calling, the words stick in my throat. "IâI think my grandmother just died. She's not breathing, and I can't find a pulse."
The worker makes a sympathetic noise and says, "We'll send someone out there as soon as possible."
"Do I..." I force my gaze back to the bed, eyes darting over wrists so thin that any position they're in looks painful, over the glimpse of teeth behind shrunk-back lips, and the absolutely still skin. "Should I do anything for her in the meantime?"
"Nothing more needs to be done until the nurse arrives." Her voice has just the right amount of kindness and authority that gets me nodding along.
"Okay." Nothing else comes out because I'm choking on the words. Ending the call, I push myself up, feeling my arms and legs start to shake. Air. I need air or I'll strangle myself trying to breathe. I don't remember moving, but suddenly I'm here in the sunlight, blinking as the kitchen door slams behind me. No tears; I feel too numb to cry. As I stumble to my knees by a hedge of rosemary, my bruised body feels like it shudders apart, a bundle of chaos unwinding in a calm garden. All around me, green leaves sway, rustling in the light breeze.
I don't know how long I sit here, rubbing my thumb along mint leaves to let their sharp, clean smell fill the air. Gradually, I grow aware of Valentine's kitchen door waiting on my right, merely feet away. It's very hard not to look over, especially since I can feel its presence like the pull of a scab. It's just a house, plaster, and tile, and spell, but I know what's inside.
Tension surges through me at the sound of footsteps from that direction, and I jerk up despite screaming muscles. When I see Elliot's friend, Frankie, crushing a bed of parsley as he approaches with a scowl, something inside me twitches. Probably my gag reflex.
"What do you want?" I say, making sure I flash my fangs. Frankie's another kid living here because his family works for Mercywing. He and Elliot have been friends forever, and he's hated me ever since I started hanging out with Elliot. The feeling's mutual. He's good-looking, with strong, angled features and clear skin, but a total jerk.
"Elliot's mad as fuck." Brushing past me, he steps into the house without asking.
"Hey!" I put a growl into my voice. It's enough to stop him; he's bigger than me, but nobody likes the thought of pissing off someone with teeth like mine.
He turns around to face me, arms braced against either side of the doorway. "You ever answer your phone? He tried calling for hours. Now he's too pissed off to come here and see what's up, so I did."
"Gran's dead. There's a worker on their way to officially pronounce her." Those words sound too short and clean to explain what happened and what it's doing to me.
Frankie's sarcastic expression softens a little, but then he says, "So? Shouldn't you want him over here even more, then? What's up with you, Nina?"
"Why do you care?" I move closer, ready to shove him out of the way, but he doesn't take the hint.
"I'm sick of watching you jerk him around. You know, he spent two paychecks on that underwear set. I bet you never even thanked him."
A line of guilt runs through me. "Look, I'm having trouble keeping up with everything, okay? Right now, life is hell. So, just get out of my way."
Then I push against him, trying to get back inside. He only shoves me away. "Life is hell for everyone here. Get over yourself."
"Fucking move!" I throw all my weight against him. It makes him stagger. And it makes him mad.
This time, he shoves me without holding back. He's big-boned and strong, and my body's beat up enough that I stumble from the force. Landing against a stone statue keeps me from falling, but some of its edges hits an area of my ribs bruised by Valentine's grip, and I yelp at the flare of pain.
Then I snarl, feeling the bones in my fingers ache and throb in a way that's growing familiar. "Frankie, one of these days, I'm going to rip your balls off."
"What, you tired of yanking on Elliot's?" He glares at me, not seeing how my fingers have grown claws. Or maybe he doesn't believe I'll do anything with them.
That makes me even angrier, and every bone in my body shudders as I straighten up, already imagining punching a hole through his chest. Or maybe his big, stupid face.
But when I take a step closer, he sighs and spreads his hands. "All right, I'll say it. All Elliot does is think about you. How beautiful you are, what could make you happy, what you guys are going to do together when you're both out of here; he never stops. You're his entire world, and you treat him like shit."
Because he's smothering me. But the thought sounds horribly ungrateful even in my head, and I can't bring myself to say it. Suddenly, my fingers just feel weak and shaky, and I know without looking that the claws are shrinking back into nails. Even the snarl fades from my voice. "I don't have time for lectures. Get out of my face."
He doesn't budge from the doorway. "No, you're going to listen to this. He's like a brother to me, and if he won't ask, I will: What the hell is wrong with you?"
I don't know, and even if I did, it's not like I'd tell him. "I want you to leave."
But he looks at me like I didn't say a word. "You got someone totally into you. I couldn't guess why if you paid me to, but that's the truth. So what's the problem? What do you want, some wolf-man instead?"
"Frankie, just go!" I rub my forehead, trying to calm down enough to keep the ragged note out of my words.
"Is there is a problem?" The sound of Gideon's voice behind him startles Frankie into jumping from the doorway. He twists to look just as Gideon steps through. With his glasses back to normal, it's easy to see the measuring glance he gives Frankie before moving over to me.
"Ms. Belmonte," he says, and then hesitates. I realize he's trying to figure out a delicate way to ask if I'm aware Gran's dead.
I give him a smile tight with strain. "I know. I called hospice to send someone over."
He nods. "I'm sorry."
Simple words spoken in a quiet voice, but I'm still afraid to look into his eyes. Because I don't hear any of the reserved attitude he had at the end of our last conversation. What I hear is the same thing in his touch that makes sparks go off in my head, and if I look at him, I won't be able to hide how much it affects me. And with Frankie already making a good case of me being a shit girlfriend, I don't want to give him more ammo.
Maybe Frankie sees something in my face, anyway, because he steps up to Gideon, trying to take over his space and intimidate him. "Who the fuck are you?"
Gideon's ink flickers, bright and sharp like a warning, but his expression remains neutral. "I'm an agent from INKtech. We're investigating a missing persons case related to this community and feel Ms. Belmonte may be able to provide relevant information. Unless you know anything about the disappearance of Melanie Burnett, my presence shouldn't mean much to you."
"Fuck off, agent man. Why are you in casual clothes if you're here officially?" Frankie's gaze darts to me. I can guess what goes through his head, and flash him some fang again.
"Have you ever worn a suit and tie in this type of heat? It's not very pleasant." The amused undertone to Gideon's words only revs Frankie up more; I can see it in his face.
Time to step in. "Frankie, come on. Time for you to go. I'm going to call him anyway, but since you're probably going to run back and report everything to Elliot, you might as well tell him I'll meet him at his house tomorrow, I guess. Or the day after. Whenever that is." I honestly can't remember today's date. For that matter, I can't remember the actual day.
"Go? I'm not leaving. I came here to ask why you're such aâ" When Gideon suddenly turns toward him, ink flashing again, Frankie hesitates. But then he looks at me, and his anger bowls him over again. "âtoward Elliot. I mean what the fuck, Nina? Do you have any idea how happy he was when you finally let him take pictures of you? He must have taken about two hundred."
"He showed you those photos?" I snarl, feeling my guilt evaporate under a wave of rage. Oh, he better not try that when he takes the nudes.
He waves away my words. "Whatever. I can't believe you're giving puppy eyes to this guy. He sounds like a Kingdom fuck. I bet he's inbred. Is your father also your uncle, agent man?"
"I overheard Ms. Belmonte tell you to leave." Gideon's cool tone is at odds with the way his ink continues to blaze. Looks like he's working hard to keep his temper. "It's time you did."
The muscles in Frankie's arms bulge as he crosses them. "Make me."
"Frankie, enough with your bullshit," I growl, but he keeps looking at Gideon, and going by his expression, he thinks he can take down the agent. Nerves flutter through me; I have to admit, he could be right. Gideon's taller and older, but Frankie's built like a bull. He does wrestling and weightlifting. Gideon's muscles might come only from some time in the gym and a lot of code work. Frantically, I try to get back that bone-shuddery feeling to make my claws grow out. I'll rake his face off.
But my body's just too worn out to do anything. Even my snarl turns into a huff of breath. Gideon hears it and glances at me. Our eyes meet before I think better of it, and I can see his silent question. Do you want me to get rid of him?
No. I want to get rid of him. But right now I can't, not physically. So I grimace and admit, "I need your help. I already told him to leave, more than once."
Gideon turns back to Frankie. "You truly find harassing someone in the middle of her grief to be the better decision here?"
Frankie shrugs.
"And you won't leave unless someone physically forces you?"
Frankie smirks.
"Well, then." Gideon adjusts his glasses. And lunges forward.
"Hey!" I'm so startled, I jump toward them as they struggle, ready to throw myself into the fray even with my body feeling like hamburger.
But the fight is over as soon as it begins. I blink a couple of times, watching Frankie end up with one arm twisted behind his back until he has to contort himself to avoid breaking it, swearing and shouting the entire time. Gideon doesn't say anything, but his free hand bears down on Frankie's shoulder, the muscles in his arms and back visible under his shirt as he ushers Frankie up the gravel pathway that leads to the front. He doesn't even breathe hard.
Once they're out in the street, Gideon releases him with a shove. Frankie stumbles and turns back, face red and fists raised like he's ready to fight again.
But before he takes more than a step, Gideon's ink crackles, surging along his arm like miniature bolts of lightning. "Don't try it," he says, voice hard.
Frankie hesitates, eyes darting between us. Finally, he scowls. "This isn't over."
I watch him stalk down the street, rubbing the arm Gideon used against him. Well, this will be interesting once he tells Elliot what happened. And by interesting, I mean fucking disastrous. On the other hand, I'm honest enough to admit that it was nice to see Frankie get his ass handed to him.
Gideon turns back to me. Despite having won the fight, he's not swaggering. Instead, he just looks pissed off, ink still crackling by the time he makes it to where I'm waiting on the porch. "Are you all right?"
"Sure. He's not dangerous. Just a jerk. Thanks for getting rid of him." Embarrassed, I move for the doorway without waiting for his response. But my feet stop on the threshold. I don't want to go inside where Gran's body waits. Not when there's nothing to do but wait with it.
Instead, I end up sitting on the steps, fingers twisting together nervously. Out of nowhere, I hear myself saying, "I'm not usually this helpless, you know. I can fight for myself. Today's just all wrong."
He settles next to me, the sharp light from his ink fading into uneasy flickers. "Would it help if you had someone more familiar to be here with you?"
"Elliot would probably skip school if I asked him to. Well, if he doesn't freak out and dump me, first. But..." I hesitate, not wanting to bag on Elliot but also not wanting to lie. "I think him being here would make things worse. I'd snap under the stress and yell at him. I don't know, maybe I could just tape my mouth shut. But then he'd probably take a picture and title it Hospice Scream."
It's not the best joke I've ever made, but I start giggling, anyway. Then tears run down my face, and my shaky breaths start coming out as sobs. That's when an arm wraps around my shoulders, the warmth of ink sinking through my skin, and it's all I can do to twist around until my hands find shirt and skin to cling to. Gideon's body settles solid against mine, arms easing around me while I bury my face into his shoulder. Even when the small of my back prickles with sweat from the sun's glare, I hang onto him and let myself fall apart.
I'm not sure how long I cry. Even after hiccuping into silence, tears run down my raw face. When I finally get words out, they sound thick and flat. "I lied. I'm not ready for her to go at all. I told her it was okay, but it's not. Nothing is."
Gideon doesn't say anything, but his hand gently rubs my shoulders. Turning my head to rest one cheek on his now-damp shirt, I blink dully at his arm, inches away from mine. His ink glimmers at me. I don't know if it's possible to apply emotions to living tattoos, but the soft patterns of light seem to suggest sympathy. As if sensing my attention, the ink brightens a little. Not in warning; thanks to Frankie, I know what that looks like. More in encouragement, maybe.
When my fingers brush the lines running along the underside of his arm, I feel Gideon freeze.
"Sorry," I mutter, realizing I must have made a misstep.
Before I can pull my hand away, he says, "No, you're all right. It's just slightly surprising to feel an outsider's touch."
The ink gathers around my fingertips, lines coiling together until his arm is nearly bare. The collected points of light flicker in time with my own heartbeat. Meeting me touch to touch. "Are you doing this?"
There's an odd look on his face, like he's not sure of the answer. "Ink can have a mind of its own, though this sort of unprompted action rarely happens outside of an intimate experience." Then he must realize how those last words come off, because he quickly adds, "Although intimacy doesn't necessarily mean sexual activity, certainly not for the ink."
I manage a huff of a laugh. "Afraid I'll misinterpret your words, Agent Glass?" When he doesn't say anything, I keep going. "I know we're close enough to share breathing patterns right now, but you don't have to worry about it going any further. Right now, sex is the last thing I'm thinking about."
And it's the absolute truth. Contrary to what Mrs. Kent said, I don't want to spend tonight with some guy grunting over me. Tomorrow, the day after, who knows? But all I want now is a hot bath by myself and a lot of sleep.
"And no matter what Frankie said, I'm a girlfriend who tries to be committed. Maybe I hide too many things from Elliot, but I don't sleep around behind his back." As I talk, the ink continues swirling against my fingertips.
But after a few more beats, it uncoils itself, spreading back into a tattoo along Gideon's arm. I glance at his face, hoping for a hint of what the hell just happened, but he studies me, not his ink. Then he says, quietly enough that he's probably talking more to himself than to me, "I hope he knows how fortunate he is."
I raise an eyebrow, wondering whether to press him about that, but he shifts suddenly, turning to look down the street. There's a car coming. A van with the Mercywing insignia on its side. I feel my stomach flip. It's the body wagon.
As the van turns into the driveway, I take a deep breath, feeling it hitch only a little, and untangle myself from him. Time to put on a brave face again.
The worker is very kind and calm, which makes me feel bad for forgetting her name as soon as we finish shaking hands. I get another chance to remember when she gives me paperwork to fill out while she goes to check Gran for a pulse and officially declare the time of death.
I'm at the kitchen table. Gideon sits in the chair across from mine as he collects and arranges the clutter of medical papers into proper order, like he can't stand resting his elbows on a scattered mess. My pen hesitates over the space for today's date, and I think about asking him for it. But I already got him to beat up Frankie and let me cry on his shoulder. Pestering him with little things is just too damn embarrassing.
Before I can check the calendar for the date, the workerâPenelopeâsteps into the room. "Ms. Belmonte? Would you like to pick out clothes for her to wear to the funeral home?"
I nod, trying to keep the feeling of having all the air punched out of me off my face. The truth is, I'm afraid. I want to be like Maria, having memories only of when Gran was alive. I don't want to go back into that bedroom and have whatever I see bleed into what I remember. But a deeper part of me knows this is something I can't run from or ask someone else to do for me, not if I want to live with myself afterward.
So, I find myself picking out Gran's favorite dress, the purple paisley one that would have looked gaudy on anyone else but turned into something vibrant and joyful for her. Together, Penelope and I wash and dress her body. My eyes tear up again to see how thin she is, how she looks more like sharp wire pressing through pinched wax than bone and skin.
Penelope already brought in the stretcher to put her on. Gideon slips in to help her move Gran onto it, and he sticks by me when Penelope covers her with a blanket. Then Penelope guides us out of the room with a few quiet words about how she called the funeral home contracted with Mercywing, and that she'll drive Gran's body back to the Mercywing morgue, where funeral associates will pick her up and take her to their crematory in Glimmer. I'm only half-listening, most of my attention focused on trying to forget the feeling of Gran's slack skin in my hands, the reek of dead flesh mingling with the plastic smell of the gloves Penelope and I wore. But I bring myself back enough to find the filled-out paperwork, still on the kitchen table.
While Penelope flips through it to make sure everything's in order, I glance around for Gideon. He's by the kitchen window, looking over the pots of living herbs. Sunlight slants low and hot over his face, picking out the hard edges of his glasses and the line of his jaw. That must mean most of the day is gone.
I'm just wondering when I last watered the herbs when Penelope suddenly says, "Oh." She looks at me, startled, and holds up the paperwork. "Today's your birthday? I'm so sorry."
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Gideon turn toward me. I blink, feeling stupid. "Today's the fifth?"
My mind scrambles to find dates, trying to figure out how I could forget that. But the days blur together, numbers and names drifting away until I can't find any events to pin them to. Finally, I say, "Well, at least it means I'm a legal adult. That should make things easier, right?"
She murmurs something agreeable, but I still see the pity in her eyes.
Before leaving, Penelope says goodbye and presses a pamphlet into my hand. I glance at it, wanting to distract myself from the too-loud rattle of the stretcher's wheels as she rolls it in front of her, and the way the form under the blanket jerks with each bump in the driveway. It's information on grief counseling. Like I give a fuck about what Mercywing can offer me, now.
I watch for as long as it takes her to roll the stretcherâand Granâinto the back of the van and drive away. Then I shut the door and slump against it, letting my forehead rest against the wood. The light streaming through the window beside me slowly fades in strength and color.
After a while, I wonder if there's something wrong. Well, my legs are sore, for one. So's the rest of my body, and suddenly it's easier to sink to the floor rather than force myself to stay upright. I end up sitting with my back to the door, eyes closed against the burning feeling of too many tears cried. Eventually, footsteps approach, and I realize Gideon probably wants to talk. I clear the static in my head long enough to listen.
"Phoenix, it's nearly night."
A glance out the window shows the sun reduced to a sliver on the horizon. I sat here a lot longer than I thought. "Yeah, looks like it."
When I make no move to get up, he settles into a crouch in front of me. "I realize it's presumptuous to invite myself to stay over, but I don't think you should spend the night alone. However, if you truly wish me to leave, I've already checked the doors and windows to be sure they're locked."
My eyes focus enough to look him over. His shirt is rumpled and his hair looks like he's run a hand through it more than once, but he smells like soap, and cotton, and clean sweat. He smells alive in a house that's been filled with death all day, and I want him to stay. "No. I'm fine with you being here. But..."
Something rattles around in my head, a worry sparked off by what he said. Locked. Locking up. Then, an image of car keys dangling in the ignition pops into my mind. "My car. Mrs. Kent said it wasn't in the driveway."
He looks startled by the abrupt switch in subject, but answers quickly. "It isn't. When I arrived here and saw it had gone, I assumed you'd sent it to a repair shop. You didn't?"
I stare at him like he grew a second head. "No."
His ink flickers. "Then someone stole it. You've mentioned you don't trust the hospice security, yet what about filingâ"
But I'm already shaking my head. "A police report won't do anything against Valentine." My face stretches into a bitter smile. God, my advice to Laci was so fucked over. I can't believe she didn't punch me right then and there.
More gleams of light from Gideon's ink. It makes me wonder if he's replaying everything I told him back in Glimmer. "Did you leave the keys in the car? Then it was possible for anyone to steal it."
"Yeah. But it was him." Should I be angry he doesn't believe me? It's hard to feel anything right now. Even fear is distant. When I realize he's speaking again, I blink at him, willing his words to make sense.
"Have you slept well since this began?"
"Um..." I only missed a night, I think. But it's almost night now. Does that make it two? The confusion on my face is answer enough, because then he says, "You should try to rest."
Despite myself, I glance out at the sky again. The first stars are visible. Go to sleep just when Valentine can start strolling around? I hear my breath hiss in.
When warm fingers brush over my clenched ones, I look back in time to see Gideon lean toward me. "I'll stay awake. You won't have to worry about being surprised by anything."
My mouth twitches. "Don't you need sleep, too?"
"Only under certain circumstances."
After eyeing him for a moment, I painfully push myself up, staggering a little as I stand. As he steadies me with one arm, I say, "Eventually, I'm going to make you explain any cryptic statement you make about yourself."
"You'll be disappointed. I'm quite boring once you look past what appears to be exciting circumstances." He says it too matter-of-factly to sound self-pitying.
When he starts steering me toward the hallway to the bedrooms, I shake my head. "The couch is fine. It's where I slept for the last couple of months. See, Gran..." But my throat closes up before I can say anything else. "Nevermind. Just... I'll stick to the couch."
Before I sit on it, I make sure our eyes meet. "I know you don't believe me about him, but will you promise me something? Don't go outside until the sun comes up. No matter what."
He hesitates. "I don't see any reason why I would do so in the first place."
"Please. Otherwise, I'll stay awake even if it means holding my eyelids open."
A line has formed between his eyebrows from my words, but when he speaks, his voice sounds even. "I promise."
"Okay." I nod and ease back onto the couch, folding up my legs despite feeling sticky-skinned from the heat. It must still be ninety degrees, even with the sun down. The last thought I have before dropping out is wondering whether I'll wake up again.
I do. In fact, I snap awake, heart slamming in my ribs as I catch the tail-end of a noise. Someone just knocked on the front door. When I jerk up, the warmth of ink ripples against my arm. Gideon's right next to me, so close he only has to murmur for me to hear. "Easy. I heard it, too."
"What time is it?" I whisper. The room is dark aside from the light reflected from Gideon's ink, and so is the sky visible through the windows.
"3:00 AM exactly." He sounds tense, and I don't blame him. That's the hour always associated with visits from demons and curses.
The knock comes again. Trying to ignore how my pulse pounds in my throat, I push myself up to turn on the nearest lamp. Squinting from the sudden light, I only manage one step before Gideon's hand brushes my arm in a silent signal to wait for him. Glancing down, I see his ink crackles lightning again.
"It's okay," I say, as he moves in step with me, not sure if I'm reassuring him or myself. "He can't come in unless invited."
The door knob feels cool in my hand as I grip it, and for a moment, I think back to when Gran stood here, her hand where mine is now, fearless as she brushed off Valentine like a fly. Adrenaline rushes through me. Maybe I'm not feeling braveâin fact, I'm scared shitlessâbut I can at least pretend to be.
After sharing a look with Gideon to make sure we're both ready, I yank open the door, ready for Valentine's form to fill up the doorway.
But the porch is empty, or at least looks that way until my gaze falls to the ground. "Gideon," I say, very quietly.
A card waits on the doormat, pristine white. The front has an elegant ink drawing of three lilies with a sentence written in equally elegant script. With deepest sympathies...
Gideon starts to step forward until I grab him. "Don't," I say, in a voice I hardly recognize. "Don't go out, and don't bring it in."
He's frustrated, I can tell by the look on his face, but he nods and instead pulls up his ink with a flick of his fingers. Ripples of blue light extend from his arm, blowing the card open as if a breeze hit it. A photograph slips out, and I make a strangled noise as I recognize the image of me and Laci sitting on steps and laughing over a bag of popcorn. A dark red splotch has erased Laci's face. There are two more splotches on the inside of the card itself, and beneath them is a single sentence, still in that flowing script.
All it says is, Thinking of you.