Nocturnal by Chelsea M. Cameron
“My point exactly.”
“You're such a pain in the ass.”
“Takes one to know one.”
“Well okay, if you can't come shopping, can you at least visit me at work tomorrow? I can't stand talking to Toby all day. He's going to ComicCon, and if I hear one more word about his hobbit costume, I'm going to scream.” The thought of it makes me shudder, but I'd really be a horrible friend if I leave her to deal with it.
“Fine, fine. I'll see you tomorrow.”
“Thanks, bitch.”
“See you later, ho.” My mother is going to die. The words try to struggle their way out, like I've got that disease that makes you yell nonsense words and swears. I swallow them back for the hundreth time.
I didn't want to go to the cemetery that night. I didn't want to see Peter, to hear his strange voice. To feel the way I did when he was around. Like I was seconds away from death. Did that make me a masochist? Or suicidal? Or one of those freaky people who was into whips and chains and pain?
I paced my room instead, the pizza I'd consumed churning around like a storm of cheese and sauce. Ew.
I really don't want to go camping. If it were just me and Mom, I'd be there in a heartbeat. For some reason adding Dad to the mix just threw everything off. She used to say it was because we were too much alike. Which I think is insane. The reason we argue so much is because we don't understand each other. I can follow the twisted logic of his mind, but I don't see the point in it.
I wish I had someone I could talk to. The one person I could always talk to was her, and I can't talk to her about her.
But there is someone who'd understand. At least I hope so.
***
“Don't you sleep?” I say when I'm close enough for him to hear me. As usual, he's standing there. Like he's been waiting his whole life for this one moment. For me.
That's ridiculous. He's not waiting for me. He's just... always here.
“No.” I click on the lantern I'd brought with me. Dad had found it in the basement when he went looking for the camping stuff. It's old, but still works, casting a slightly blue light over everything. A moth flutters toward the light as I crash against the broken angel.
“Aren't you tired? Don't you have something better to do than hang out with me?”
Silence.
“Probably.” He flows into a sitting position as I try not to stare. When he moves it's like he isn't made of bones and muscle, but water. I've never seen anyone move like that, not even dancers are that smooth. Something else that tells me he's not what he seems. The thought has been building in my head since that first night, and everything I've seen has only done more to confirm my suspicions. I just don't know what he could be. And what's with the whole suicide thing?
“I don't get you.”
“What do you mean?”
“This whole thing,” I wave my hands around, indicating his person. “When I surprised you, that one time, you seemed sooo, I don't know. I thought you were in a gang or something. You seemed dangerous.” I try to look into his eyes, but I feel so foolish, I can't. “And then all that stuff went down and I have to say, I was really freaked out. By you and your brother and then you saying you wanted to kill yourself. I don't know why I came back here. Maybe I'm just nuts.” I bang my fist against the angel's foot.
“You were correct the first time.”
“You're in a gang?”
“Of sorts.”
“No way, do you have one of those secret handshakes?” His head tips to the side, as if he's confused. “Never mind.”
“I want to kill you.”
“What?” I hear the words, but they don't make sense. I thought he wanted to kill himself. And his brother was the one who wanted me dead.
“Very much,” he says. Now I look up at him, and I get that feeling. The one where you know you should stop poking your fingers through the tiger cage because somethings going to happen and it's not going to be pretty. I stare into the eyes of the tiger. And then it happens.
He lunges at me and I'm on the ground, his hand on my neck, making it nearly impossible to breathe, his body crushing mine. Panic takes a fraction of a second to set in and then I'm losing it. His face is hard in the bluish light. Somehow he pumps fear into me, and I feel it soaking into my skin from his. The fear is a knife, slicing through me as I pray for it to end.
“Do you understand?” he says, voice as cool and even as glass. It doesn't hurt, exactly, but I kinda can't breathe. Thrashing, I try to get my knee so I can kick him in the groin. God, he's heavy. Somehow he's got my legs trapped so I can't move them. My hands are busy trying to pry his arms from my neck. I convulse, trying to put him off balance. No dice. My vision's getting spotty, so I give up. Guess he is going to kill me. The pressure lessens on my throat and I'm able to get enough air to say something.
“Got it.” It comes out as a rasp, but he lets me go. His weight disappears and I cough a few times. Cold oxygen pours back into my body like water. My throat hurts from the pressure and my lungs spasm, trying to get themselves working again.
“What the hell was that for?” I sound like a man when I speak. Or like I'd lost my voice. I lunge out to shove him away from me or punch him or hurt him in some way but he moves so fast that I end up digging my face into the ground and getting a mouthful of grass instead. I spit out the dirt and push myself up. The lantern's fallen over and gone out, so I'm in almost complete blackness.
“I told you that you were reckless,” his voice says in my ear. As quick as I can I whip around, but he's gone again. Blindly, I scan for him. The only way I can find where is is the the shush of his clothes as he moves. But that's hard to hear over my insanely pounding heart.
“What the fuck?! I should turn you in for assault,” I say, my voice trembling as much as I am.
“But you won't.” Once again, he's positive. He's accomplished what he wanted. My hurt neck, my trembling hands and my beating heart are all telling me the same thing. Step away from the door of the tiger cage. You've already been bitten once, don't try it again. It makes me think of that old saying they used to put on maps. Here be dragons.
“I will kill you. I want you to know that.” His eyes do that thing again, pulling me in like a fish on a line. Only I don't thrash and struggle for the safety of the rushing river. I let him drag me in like an old boot. “Never forget it. No matter what.” All I can see are his eyes. I still don't even know what color they are.
“Well, this has been lovely, but I've got to get home.” I'm trying to hide how freaked out I am. I've never met anyone like him. So... without emotion. I almost forget the fallen lantern and trip on it when I get up. Great, it's broken. Which is not my biggest problem right now.
“Goodbye, Ava.” His voice is close, but I can't find it. The lantern bangs hard against my leg as I start walking back to my car. Fast.
I don't say it back.
I'm shaking so hard by the time I make it, I can't get my key in the door.
“Come on, come on.” I have the distinct floaty feeling of shock. I need to get away, right now. I fling myself and the lantern into the drivers side, shutting and locking my door, wishing I had automatic locks.
My stupid Honda doesn't want to start. “Come on, you jackass.” My voice still sounds funny from my damaged throat. God, was I going to have bruises? Try explaining that to the parents. I fell down wasn't going to cut it.
Finally the ignition catches and I slam out of the parking space.
I'm so lost in driving that I nearly hit a deer on my way home. If it weren't for the glowing eyes in my headlights, I would have hit it. Then I'd really go into shock. I slam on my brakes and wait for the deer to cross the road, two others behind it. I sit there in the middle of the road for what feels like hours, making sure they don't come darting back. They have a tendency to do that. Going right back into the path of danger. Like me.
My neck is hot. I turn on the internal light, cringing at the red marks that are blooming alrea
***
I nearly killed her. It would have been so easy. Her neck would have snapped with a simple twist of my fingers. I could have fed without her dying face watching me. I liked it better when they were still alive. The struggle was like a drug to me. It was not my intention to kill her. Only to make her understand a little about what I was. I had met people before that didn't fear me; usually I ended up killing them. I didn't want to kill her, so I filled her with that fear. Used the power I had to make my victim run and scream so I could chase them. Increase the excitement in the hunt. Not for her.
I looked down at her, counted the breaths that no longer filled her lungs because I blocked them.
There was nothing else I could have done. I had to scare her. She watched me the entire time, making me even more excited. Her air swished over me as I squeezed her lungs with my body. Being this close to a living person made me want her so much I couldn't even see anything else.
I pushed harder on her windpipe. Her skin turned white and gray. Her eyes bulged and I saw that she believed me. Saw that I could kill her. Understood, on some level, what I was. I let up and she got out two words. I stop.
She coughed and sputtered, an engine starting up again. Her body struggling to get itself back to its normal state. It took her several seconds to be able to speak. Her body shook, and I smelled the fear on her, making her scent dark and delicious. As if I was a troublesome creature she wanted to punish, she tried to catch me. I moved away, watching her. She was interesting, for a human. If my past experiences were correct, she should have screamed and run away. She did not.
I told her she was reckless. There was something about her, something that glittered like the blade of a knife. Something sharp that would only flash out when it was needed and stay folded up and hidden the rest of the time, ready to snap and cut. She hadn't used it with me. But she might. And it would surprise both of us.
***
The first thing I do when I get home is to lock all the doors and windows and curse myself for telling him my name. No, I wasn't reckless. I was just freaking stupid. Really dumb. Award-winingly foolish. I want to slam myself in the forehead for my folly. Instead I sit on my bed, trying to figure out how I'm going to pretend like nothing happened when my parents wake up tomorrow. How I'm going to cover up the marks that look exactly like what they are. Fingerprints. For the second time in less than a month, I'd almost gotten the life choked out of me.
Frantic, I search my scant make-up kit for anything thick enough to slather over the marks. I really need Tex. She was the hickey-hiding queen. No, I had to tackle this on my own. I'd gotten myself into this. No need to drag anyone else down. This was my complete and total mess.
No matter how much I tried, the make-up wouldn't blend enough so that it didn't look like I'd smeared it on my neck by accident to cover a bruise I didn't want anyone to see. To my closet I go, trying to make as little noise as I can while I'm tearing through piles of shoes and random books and myriad other things to find that scarf my Aunt Jenny had given me for my last birthday.
She's my dad's sister and the two are as opposite from each other as day old white bread is from my mother's raspberry and white chocolate swirled fudge. Guess which one my dad is. Speaking of Aj, I had an e-mail waiting in my inbox from her that I had yet to respond to. I knew she could smell a lie, even when that lie was typed. We e-mailed nearly every week, and she'd freak if I didn't answer her soon. One more thing I had to worry about. One more person to lie to. I hadn't told her about Mom. Well, she knew about the cancer, but she didn't know about the most recent development. I wasn't going to be the one to enlighten her.
Finally, after much digging, I find the scarf. It isn't really my style, but it will have to do. I practice tying it the mirror so it covers as much as possible while my hands still tremor.
Chapter Nine
Lunch with Jamie
“Ava, wake up.” Someone rudely pokes my shoulder. Judging by the voice, it's Dad. Which leaves me wondering what the hell he's doing in my room. I crack my eyes open, which requires quite a bit of effort.
“What?” My voice scratches out of my mouth
“Your mother's not feeling well.” Part of me wants to say, so?, but I don't. Sense starts to permeate my brain. My hands inch up to see if my neck is covered. Luckily for me, I sleep with my hands clutched under my chin, and the blanket pulled over my head. I'm good.
“What's wrong?”
“Just an upset stomach. I just wanted to let you know that she's needs to rest so don't disturb her.”
“Okay.” I really want to pull the blanket back over my head and get some more sleep. The red number of my clock tell me I've only been asleep for a few hours. Damn, it feels like I've been hit by a truck.
“Ava, did you hear me?”
“Yes, yes.”
“I can't hear you, you're mumbling,” he says, reaching to pull back the covers. I snatch and hold onto them as hard as I can.
“Ava, what are you doing?”
“I'm tired, can you just leave me alone?” I stick part of my head out from under the blanket so he can hear me.
“Fine.” I breathe a sigh of relief as he lets go and tromps out of the room. Close freaking call.
Several hours later, I finally emerge from my room, fully-dressed and sporting my scarf. My mother is still in her room and Dad's out doing something with the lawn, so I have a chance to sneak in and see her. I ignore the fact that I have to sneak around to see my own mother and knock quietly on her door. She calls out to come in.
“Can I get you anything?” She motions to a table that normally sits next to her dresser, which someone's pushed next to the bed and piled high with anything she could need. Glasses of water and juice, bottles of pills and tissues and a bowl of oatmeal that she hasn't touched.
“No, baby, I'm fine.”
“Are you sure you're fine?” I lean on the doorway, looking her over. She's pale, but other than that she looks fine.
“Just tired. Come and sit with me?” I'm reluctant, but I can't say no to her. There's a rumble from my stomach as I sit down and she puts her arms around me. She doesn't say anything, but hands me the bowl of oatmeal. It's still warm and is studded with cranberries and raisins. I'm starving.
“This is pretty,” she says, tugging at my scarf. I grab at it, pulling it back around my neck. “I thought you didn't like it.” I glance down into the bowl of oatmeal. I'm not hungry anymore.
“I found it in my closet and thought I should wear it,” I say, trying to put it back in place. Not fast enough. Her face changes. Cold fear drips through me.
“Ava? What's–” Her hands go to her mouth. Damn.
“It's nothing.” I put the bowl back on the table. My stupid hands are shaking again. I can't look at her.
“Who did this to you?” Her voice is sharp. She doesn't sound sick anymore.
“Don't tell Dad.” I make the mistake of peeking up at her. Her green eyes are hard as polished stone. She's sitting up straight, her spine like an iron rod. No one would call her weak now.
“Ava-Claire Sullivan, you answer me right this moment or I'm calling your father.” Each word has a point that drives into me. This was what I was afraid of.
“It's not what you think,” I whisper. Why did I think this was going to work?
“Of course it's not,” she snaps.
“I was messing around with this guy–” No, that doesn't sound right. I try again. “I met this guy and we were wrestling and it got out of hand.” Nope. I should have come up with a better way to explain this. Her hands reach out to take mine.
“Tell me the truth. Don't stop.” She's gripping my hands tight, trying to get me to tell. I take a deep breath.
“I don't know. It was something that I asked for. I provoked him and he got fed up and it won't happen again. He's not... He's not like that. I don't know. He's kind of messed up in the head.” The words sound as awful as it feels to say them. I leave
“Ava. I want you to listen to me.” She takes my face into her hands. “No one has the right to hurt you. No matter what. I don't care who they are, or how it happened. You see that you've made a mistake, and you are acknowledging it. I want you to remember this. How you feel right now and carry it with you. I never, ever want this to happen to you again. Never.” She kisses my forehead.
I sit in shock. She should have yanked me down to the police station to file an assault report. She would have forced every word out of me, like water wrung from a sponge. Dad would have gotten involved and it would have been a huge mess. Instead she holds me close and whispers things in my ear that I can't make sense of.
“Knock, knock.” Dad comes in with a tray of fresh fruit he's painstakingly sliced and arranged. He pauses when he sees me, but reins his anger in. Must not upset the invalid. I pull the scarf back around my neck and my mother angles herself so she's in front of me. So he doesn't see. Things are very different now.
When I was little, the threat of telling my father about things was the one way to really terrify me. Not that she'd used it as a way to keep me in line, but when I did something wrong, she would always say, “you know, we have to tell Dad,” and my heart would freeze and the bottom would drop out of my stomach. Telling him was always so much worse than telling her. I could have stumbled in blind drunk and she would have laughed and told me I was going to regret it in the morning. My father would have yelled and his face would have gotten red and I would have lost my phone, tv and breathing privileges. She was the kind of mother who thought that the mistake and the consequences were punishment enough. Nine times out of ten, she was right. Didn't mean that I wasn't terrified of telling my dad that I'd failed a math test.
Often, we had been partners in crime, she and I. Bonding over the shared secrets of my misdeeds, minor as they might be. A secret for just us girls. Most of the time I figured she did it because she didn't want him to have a heart attack at forty. He'd come close, and she'd even tried to get him on some anxiety medication. No such luck. He'd calmed down a little bit as I got older and stopped doing things like trying to fly off the porch, but since my mother had gotten cancer, he'd started the descent into craziness again.