sure—that I was safe with
him
. Which was exactly what Michael had been afraid of this whole time. What all the vamps, including Amelie, had warned us about.
What I’d totally refused to believe, until that moment when his eyes had opened bloodred, and his teeth had slid down sharp as steel, and his hands had grabbed my shoulders so hard they leftblue-black bruises, and for an instant I shivered at the touch of his hot breath on my neck and then, and then …
I squeezed my eyes tight shut because I did
not
want to remember him that way. Or me that way. Or
us
that way, out of control, careening toward the darkness. That wasn’t Michael, my sweet golden Michael with his music and his strength and his gentle touch; that wasn’t me, with my confidence and quips.
That was a killer and a victim, and there was nothing romantic about it, nothing sexy, nothing but pain and blood and darkness coming on fast. I believed in Michael enough to know that if he’d actually done it, if he’d drained me dry, when he’d come to his senses he would never have been able to live with what he’d done. Shane would have killed him, but it wouldn’t have mattered to him because he’d have been dead inside already. Walk-into-the-sunlight dead inside.
Toxic love.
Maybe he’s right,
some part of me kept whispering.
Maybe you should give it up. Move on. Let him find some nice vampire girl he doesn’t have to be afraid to be around.
I hated that part of me so much I wanted to kill it with fire. But I was also afraid it was the smartest part.
I was crammed in the backseat between two motionless vamps, both male, who had been staring out the darkened windows; now, as the car pulled to a halt, they opened their doors and got out. By the time I’d scrambled out, they were taking up positions facing away from the car, and Adele, the driver, had popped the trunk open. She pointed to me, then to the trunk, then to a house.
I was still getting my bearings, which wasn’t easy to do; the rain had stopped for the moment, but the clouds were thick and dark, and with no lights on, this was a totally anonymous street … until I caught sight of the sagging white picket fence and the bleached-whitebulk of our house, the Glass House, rising up in menacing Victorian angles toward the sky. No lights on. It totally looked haunted, even though just now it actually
wasn’t
for a change.
She gestured to the other vamp, who reached in the trunk and handed me a thick canvas bag. I staggered under the weight, but grabbed it in both hands and lugged it up the steps and onto the porch. I had the front door key in my pocket, where it always was, and as I unlocked the door I felt a sense of relief, of coming home.
But stepping over the threshold didn’t bring any rush of warmth, or welcome, or anything that I expected to feel. The Glass House felt … dead. Abandoned.
I leaned the canvas bag full of weapons and ammo in the corner by the front door and flipped the light switch. No response. The power was out in this part of town, but I hadn’t come unprepared; I took a mini flashlight out of my cargo pants pocket and dragged the bag into the parlor room. It was as dusty as ever. Shane had left a jacket thrown over the wing chair. I unpacked the weapons and ammunition and laid everything out carefully on the coffee table and sofa, easy to grab if we needed it … and then considered the empty canvas bag.
I
was
here, and having our own clothes would feel a whole lot more comfortable in exile. So despite the vamps waiting impatiently outside, I ran upstairs, rummaged in each of our rooms as fast as possible, and shoved shirts, pants, underwear into the bag.
I wanted to take
everything
, but there wasn’t time. On the way out, though, I hesitated, then put Michael’s guitar into its case and clicked it shut.
The vamps could just stuff their objections.
I came out on the porch and locked the door—habit, I suppose—and turned to see …
… Nobody.
The
him
. Which was exactly what Michael had been afraid of this whole time. What all the vamps, including Amelie, had warned us about.
What I’d totally refused to believe, until that moment when his eyes had opened bloodred, and his teeth had slid down sharp as steel, and his hands had grabbed my shoulders so hard they leftblue-black bruises, and for an instant I shivered at the touch of his hot breath on my neck and then, and then …
I squeezed my eyes tight shut because I did
not
want to remember him that way. Or me that way. Or
us
that way, out of control, careening toward the darkness. That wasn’t Michael, my sweet golden Michael with his music and his strength and his gentle touch; that wasn’t me, with my confidence and quips.
That was a killer and a victim, and there was nothing romantic about it, nothing sexy, nothing but pain and blood and darkness coming on fast. I believed in Michael enough to know that if he’d actually done it, if he’d drained me dry, when he’d come to his senses he would never have been able to live with what he’d done. Shane would have killed him, but it wouldn’t have mattered to him because he’d have been dead inside already. Walk-into-the-sunlight dead inside.
Toxic love.
Maybe he’s right,
some part of me kept whispering.
Maybe you should give it up. Move on. Let him find some nice vampire girl he doesn’t have to be afraid to be around.
I hated that part of me so much I wanted to kill it with fire. But I was also afraid it was the smartest part.
I was crammed in the backseat between two motionless vamps, both male, who had been staring out the darkened windows; now, as the car pulled to a halt, they opened their doors and got out. By the time I’d scrambled out, they were taking up positions facing away from the car, and Adele, the driver, had popped the trunk open. She pointed to me, then to the trunk, then to a house.
I was still getting my bearings, which wasn’t easy to do; the rain had stopped for the moment, but the clouds were thick and dark, and with no lights on, this was a totally anonymous street … until I caught sight of the sagging white picket fence and the bleached-whitebulk of our house, the Glass House, rising up in menacing Victorian angles toward the sky. No lights on. It totally looked haunted, even though just now it actually
wasn’t
for a change.
She gestured to the other vamp, who reached in the trunk and handed me a thick canvas bag. I staggered under the weight, but grabbed it in both hands and lugged it up the steps and onto the porch. I had the front door key in my pocket, where it always was, and as I unlocked the door I felt a sense of relief, of coming home.
But stepping over the threshold didn’t bring any rush of warmth, or welcome, or anything that I expected to feel. The Glass House felt … dead. Abandoned.
I leaned the canvas bag full of weapons and ammo in the corner by the front door and flipped the light switch. No response. The power was out in this part of town, but I hadn’t come unprepared; I took a mini flashlight out of my cargo pants pocket and dragged the bag into the parlor room. It was as dusty as ever. Shane had left a jacket thrown over the wing chair. I unpacked the weapons and ammunition and laid everything out carefully on the coffee table and sofa, easy to grab if we needed it … and then considered the empty canvas bag.
I
was
here, and having our own clothes would feel a whole lot more comfortable in exile. So despite the vamps waiting impatiently outside, I ran upstairs, rummaged in each of our rooms as fast as possible, and shoved shirts, pants, underwear into the bag.
I wanted to take
everything
, but there wasn’t time. On the way out, though, I hesitated, then put Michael’s guitar into its case and clicked it shut.
The vamps could just stuff their objections.
I came out on the porch and locked the door—habit, I suppose—and turned to see …
… Nobody.
The
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