It could have been minutes, an hour, forever; it could have been only a second. Time seemed to freeze. Distantly, I was aware of Mr. Alvarez speaking, but I didn’t answer. I sat clutching my cloak around me and thinking of all the stories Gram had whispered and all the things she hadn’t said.
And then, suddenly, there was a shape before me. A tall form in a dark jacket, bending into the car. I caught the curl of dark hair, a searching glance, blue eyes shadowed with concern.
Leon.
“Let’s go,” he said. He slid one of his arms across my back, the other under my knees, and lifted me out of the car.
He set me on my feet and I sank against him. I tucked my head into his shoulder, gripping his shirt. I held tight. In that instant, I didn’t care how angry he could make me. I didn’t care about whatever lecture he had in store. He was familiar—that scent of vanilla and soap, the worry that creased his face, the sound of his voice repeating my name. He was steady, solid. Safe. His arms circled me. His hands were warm. For a moment, I just stood there, leaning against him, breathing, shutting out the world.
Then his arms fell away. Slowly, gently, he reached for my hands. His fingers closed over mine, detaching me from his jacket. He took a step back. His gaze dipped downward to my bare feet in the grass and the blood that had dried on my skin.
I took a shaky breath. His eyes met mine. Neither of us moved. I looked across the darkness at him and recalled another night we’d stood here at the end of the drive. That night he’d first appeared, a strange boy with a backpack and a motorcycle and a secret we shared. I remembered him stepping through the grass toward us, that crooked little smile he wore.
He wasn’t smiling now. Something I couldn’t name flickered in his eyes—and then fury blazed across his face.
He grabbed me by the shoulders, his fingers digging in almost painfully. “What is the matter with you?”
The anger in his voice sent a shock through me. It managed to do what neither the fear that gripped me nor the pain in my ankles had been able to: I started to cry.
I said his name, pleading, my voice trembling, but he wasn’t done yelling at me.
“What were you thinking, Audrey? Why would you go back there? You think nothing can hurt you? Do you know what your mother faces every night? It’s worse than you met. Worse than you can imagine.”
A shudder ran through me. I felt that flash again—blank eyes I’d almost seen, an impression of movement, something sharp against my skin. Tears scalded down my face, and I began to feel hot, crowded, unable to breathe.
“Back off, Farkas. You’re scaring the poor kid.”
That was Mr. Alvarez again. It had never before occurred to me that I’d be grateful for his presence, and now he’d come to my rescue twice in one night.
Leon didn’t release his grip. “She should be scared!”
“No,” Mr. Alvarez said. “She should be educated. She froze up tonight. Fear can be crippling if it’s not overcome.”
My mother’s voice cut in, her tone an echo of Leon’s as she asked, “What the hell happened?”
I tore free of Leon’s grasp, twisting toward my mother. In the darkness of the street, my eyes met hers. She was dressed for work, blending into the night in her black hoodie. Her hair was pulled back, and in the moonlight her face was pale and grim.
I would have gone to her. I wanted nothing more in that moment than to hug my mother, to huddle against her and shut my eyes and forget that anything else existed. But Mr. Alvarez’s next words stopped me.
“It seems that your daughter has met her first demon.”
11
The words bolted through me.
Suddenly, it was all too much: the strangling fear; the image of those eyes that weren’t eyes and skin that wasn’t skin. The smells of the night—bleach and blood and leather and something rank, like decay. My senses were on overload.
I didn’t go to my mother.
Instead, I turned,
And then, suddenly, there was a shape before me. A tall form in a dark jacket, bending into the car. I caught the curl of dark hair, a searching glance, blue eyes shadowed with concern.
Leon.
“Let’s go,” he said. He slid one of his arms across my back, the other under my knees, and lifted me out of the car.
He set me on my feet and I sank against him. I tucked my head into his shoulder, gripping his shirt. I held tight. In that instant, I didn’t care how angry he could make me. I didn’t care about whatever lecture he had in store. He was familiar—that scent of vanilla and soap, the worry that creased his face, the sound of his voice repeating my name. He was steady, solid. Safe. His arms circled me. His hands were warm. For a moment, I just stood there, leaning against him, breathing, shutting out the world.
Then his arms fell away. Slowly, gently, he reached for my hands. His fingers closed over mine, detaching me from his jacket. He took a step back. His gaze dipped downward to my bare feet in the grass and the blood that had dried on my skin.
I took a shaky breath. His eyes met mine. Neither of us moved. I looked across the darkness at him and recalled another night we’d stood here at the end of the drive. That night he’d first appeared, a strange boy with a backpack and a motorcycle and a secret we shared. I remembered him stepping through the grass toward us, that crooked little smile he wore.
He wasn’t smiling now. Something I couldn’t name flickered in his eyes—and then fury blazed across his face.
He grabbed me by the shoulders, his fingers digging in almost painfully. “What is the matter with you?”
The anger in his voice sent a shock through me. It managed to do what neither the fear that gripped me nor the pain in my ankles had been able to: I started to cry.
I said his name, pleading, my voice trembling, but he wasn’t done yelling at me.
“What were you thinking, Audrey? Why would you go back there? You think nothing can hurt you? Do you know what your mother faces every night? It’s worse than you met. Worse than you can imagine.”
A shudder ran through me. I felt that flash again—blank eyes I’d almost seen, an impression of movement, something sharp against my skin. Tears scalded down my face, and I began to feel hot, crowded, unable to breathe.
“Back off, Farkas. You’re scaring the poor kid.”
That was Mr. Alvarez again. It had never before occurred to me that I’d be grateful for his presence, and now he’d come to my rescue twice in one night.
Leon didn’t release his grip. “She should be scared!”
“No,” Mr. Alvarez said. “She should be educated. She froze up tonight. Fear can be crippling if it’s not overcome.”
My mother’s voice cut in, her tone an echo of Leon’s as she asked, “What the hell happened?”
I tore free of Leon’s grasp, twisting toward my mother. In the darkness of the street, my eyes met hers. She was dressed for work, blending into the night in her black hoodie. Her hair was pulled back, and in the moonlight her face was pale and grim.
I would have gone to her. I wanted nothing more in that moment than to hug my mother, to huddle against her and shut my eyes and forget that anything else existed. But Mr. Alvarez’s next words stopped me.
“It seems that your daughter has met her first demon.”
11
The words bolted through me.
Suddenly, it was all too much: the strangling fear; the image of those eyes that weren’t eyes and skin that wasn’t skin. The smells of the night—bleach and blood and leather and something rank, like decay. My senses were on overload.
I didn’t go to my mother.
Instead, I turned,
Similar Books
