Ashes and Ice (17 page)

Connor stares at Dominic for a long moment.

Dominic leans against the door jam and crosses his arms. “Don’t worry, Con. I’m not going to steal her away.” He winks at me, lazily dragging his gaze from me feet to my face. “Yet.”

“Listen, you—”

I put my palms on Connor’s chest, easing him back. He’s tense, corded muscle poised for action. Like a lion. That makes me smile. When did this decrepit old man become a lion? “I said that I got this.”

Connor jets his chin out and nods. “’Kay.”

I watch him walk out of the room. I don’t want to turn back around. I don’t want to see the pair of black eyes tracing my body.

“You look just as lovely from behind.”

That snaps me forward. “What the hell do you want?”

He holds a twinkling thing between his thumb and index finger. “Touchy, touchy. I am just bringing this back to you. You left it at the dance last weekend.”

I stare at it, suddenly seeing the ornate design and the glittering stones. Desi’s pin.

“Oh, I—I thought I lost it.” I scramble forward to grab it from his hand. Something so delicate shouldn’t be caught in his hand. He lifts it higher so I can’t reach.

“Well, it fell out of your hair when you and Connor stormed out.” He passes his thumb over the jewels. “Pretty trinket. Thought you would want it.”

“I do. Thank you.” I reach for it again and he pulls it back so I have to lean closer. I don’t. Instead, I stand erect and wait, my palm poised in front of him ready to receive it. “Are you going to give it back to me or not?”

“What? No reward?” He smirks.

“No. No reward.”

He sighs. “Well that gives me very little reason to give it back, doesn’t it?”

“Dominic, stop being a jackass and give me the pin or leave.”

“Such a temper for a little thing.” He licks his upper lip.

He means it as a compliment, a vile compliment. His eyes drift down to my breasts and the fabric molding to them. I shiver and cross my arms over my chest.

He smiles a bit wider and hands out the pin.

As, I reach to pluck it from his palm, he snatches my wrist with one hand, my bicep with the other and crushes me against his chest.

His grip is tight—too tight, it hurts—and the bend of him hovers over me, leaning in. I try to shake him off, but he doesn’t let go. I squirm as I feel his thumb trace circles on the inside of my wrist. The touch sends a skitter of sensation over me. Something tinges the air; a sweet, cool feeling brushes over my skin, making my knees want to buckle. He smells like mint, his breath tickles my face. I pull back, hating the sensations that please my skin and curdle my insides. Bile surges in my throat. I tear myself away from him, glaring.

“What?” He says coolly as if he hadn’t just bruised my arms with his clutching fingertips.

“That. Hurt.” I say. I don’t say he smells sweet or his breath is refreshing on my skin or his touch sends chills up my spine, delicious chills. I step away.

His smile is unnerving. “Don’t worry, Jade.” He winks at me. Damn that wink of his. “One day, you’ll like it.”

I grab the pin, shove him back onto the porch. “Goodbye.” I say sharply and slam the door in his face. I think of the promise of his words. I turn away from the door, angry, because I can’t promise myself that I won’t.

Okay. First, I have to close the cavernous gap between us, which, in reality, is less than two feet, but for my purposes, it may as well be the Grand Canyon separating us. How can I do this subtly? At nearly eighteen, I realize my lack of experience is appalling, humiliating. I almost decide to lunge forward and kiss her with all the finesse of a Saint Bernard woofing down a meal just so it can be done quickly and meet her response: a kiss in return or a slap across the face.

I stare at the TV. Having a focal point seems to soothe my nerves and distract me from the possible complete and total embarrassment that surely awaits me after my not-so-smooth come-on. I reach forward to grab a handful of popcorn and as I lean back, I reposition myself a few inches closer to Jade. I pretend to make myself comfortable, wiggling, shifting, stretching, each little movement bringing me a tiny space closer.

She doesn’t move, doesn’t even look up. And after what seems an eternity, I am finally aligned beside her. She is in reach. So close. It’s just a matter of not wussing out. I stretch my arm out like morons in movies always do and relax my arm on her shoulders. A kick of adrenaline pulsates through me. I have to do it now. I have to kiss her.

I lean closer her. When I do, I see her eyes are closed, her brows pinched together as if in pain. Oh, crap. She is already preparing for the worst and she just doesn’t want to pull away out of sympathy. God. I’m such an idiot. I squeeze her shoulder, “Jade.” Time to abort the kiss-Jade plan. I feel a flush of disappointment drain me completely. Her face is still tense.

“Jade?”

No answer.

“Jade?” I peer into her face and realize my fingers are touching ice, cold flesh. “Jade, are you okay?” I can hear a renewed urgency in my voice. I rise and stand in front of her. My hands fall squarely on her shoulders and shake her vigorously. She barely moves, her body paralyzed. “Jade?”

A slight smirk curls her lips. God. She’s joking. Joke’s over. “Okay, Jade. Haha.” I sit back on the coffee table. Her smile fades and she is still; her head still crooked over her knee, her arms still hugging her legs tight to her body. It’s an eerie image. Just a moment ago, her exposed neck triggered admiration and desire, but now it doesn’t look right. Unnatural. As if her neck broke and contorted. A shiver creeps up my spine, sending an uneasiness coursing through me. “Jade?”

Her eyes snap open, leering up at me in an ominous gaze with not emerald, but inky black eyes as sterile and frightening as death.

“Connor,” I try to temper my voice so that he knows I am not angry. He doesn’t have to be afraid. I reach my hand forward.

“Stop,” He shakes his head in quick, tiny jolts.

“Don’t be afraid,” I slowly wrap my fingers around his hand and the butt of the knife. Cautiously, I pull it out. Twinges of pain glide along the blade as it slips out of my body. Its mirror-edge is smeared with crimson blood. My blood. The color turns translucent and evaporates leaving the blade bare, all evidence of its wrath invisible.

“What the hell—” Connor’s voice breaks.

“Don’t be afraid,” I speak desperately, “I won’t hurt you.”

“Get the hell away from me,” he stumbles backward over the neon fabric as he feebly attempts to kick at me. He lands on the wood floor in a loud thud and scrambles backwards, his eyes never leaving my frame. This won’t be easy. Of course he is afraid. He has every reason to be.

“Connor, I won’t hurt you. I am so sorry,” the words come out awkwardly. What am I supposed to say? I obviously already scared the crap out of him. But what did I do?

“What the hell are you?” he demands with an unwavering ferocity.

“I don’t know,” at least I can be honest, but my voice shakes.

“Don’t bullshit me,” he stands up and points his finger at me accusingly.

“I’m serious—”

“You are freaking possessed!”

I cannot find words to respond. What had I done? “What are you talking about?”

“You—” Now he was having problems finding the words, “you had these freaky black eyes and glided…” His voice questions itself as if he regrets saying it, as if it was proof of his insanity, but he continues, “You flew over the floor and then—“ His hands shook in front of his face, “you grabbed my neck and threw me against the wall!”

Oh no, oh no, oh no. “Connor, I—I would never hurt you.”

“Yeah right.” He shouts, his eyes as wide as a deer about to be plastered onto a truck’s front bumper. His face is flushed of its natural tan and looking pale in a headlight’s white glare. “I guessed you missed the freaking dent in the wall!”

I look up and see it: crushed drywall and a smear of red.

“Are you bleeding?” I ask, urgency making my voice break. I made him bleed…

He touches the back of his head and his fingers come away red.

“Connor, you have to believe me. I don’t know what happened. I fall into these,” how can I explain it? “moments when I just—lose consciousness or something.”

“Lose consciousness? You were fully conscious Jade. We’re not talking about narcolepsy here.” He continues to backing away until he is pressed against the wall. A look of surprise washes over his face as if he was certain he could have backed away into the night’s darkness and disappeared instead of banging into the bookshelves blocking the path.

“Please, Connor, calm do—“

“We’re talking about freaky-undead-horror-movie-best-friend-trying-to-kill-me kind of thing,” he says, eyeing me with an expression tarnished by betrayal and fear. “So don’t tell me to calm down!”

“I’m sorry.” I have no idea what to say. But he hasn’t run away screaming. Isn’t that a good sign? “Tell me… please.”

His tense body leans against the bookshelf. He looks up at the ceiling as if the night’s activities were written up there for recall, but I know that he’s simply avoiding my eyes, scared of the monster before him. “You were sitting on the couch. You seemed to be having some sort of fit. Your eyes glazed over and you didn’t seem to hear me.” He stuffs his hands into his pockets, eyes shifting to the knife on the floor. The knife that should be covered with blood, but isn’t. “I tried to shake you to snap you out of it, but then you shot up and—” He pauses.

“And what?”

“You kept saying something… something in some other freaky language, but it wasn’t your voice.”

My eyebrows arch up. What was I saying?

He shifts on his feet and searches the room, still avoiding me. “After you threw me against the wall, you stood over me and you, you looked like there was this wind whipping around you and you, you…”

“Then what?”

“You said, ‘Your blood is mine’ and these claws grew from your fingers and you lashed out at me. I rolled away in time, but then you came closer and I…”

His eyes met mine, “Then—Then…” He exhales loudly. “I didn’t know what to do. You kept coming closer and I saw the knife and—” he lowers his head.

He didn’t have to finish.

“Did I hurt you?” I ask.

“If you count tremendous, psychological, life-altering trauma, yeah. You messed me up good.” Fear lingers in his voice, but its icy sting is replaced with something warm and tender. His tawny eyes change and I know that somewhere deep down inside of him, he doesn’t completely hate me. And at this point it is just as beautiful and precious as forgiveness.

“Jade,” Connor steers his eyes far from me.

“Yes?”

He bites his lower lip and shoves his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunch forward assuming his old stance making him several inches shorter. The simple change in posture casts him in a different light and adjusts his features in a way which makes him look small and broken. And it hurts to look at him. Somehow, I suddenly realize that he has always been a bit broken and only recently has begun to piece himself back together again, and here I am, breaking him into pieces. “You need to go.” The words come out in a low, whisper. His eyes locked somewhere far away from me.

I cannot argue with him. I have no place to argue. But it burns, its burns more than the knife wound, it hurts somewhere much deeper than that and I cannot quite grasp or understand it. And at this moment, I need release, release from an ache stretching from my stomach to my head, from the pressure behind my eyes, from a pain that slightly constricts my respiration.

I want to cry. But, I can’t.

I stare at him, hoping that he will change his mind, break a smile and forget it all. But he doesn’t. He ignores me entirely as if he is willing me not to exist. And that is what hurts the most. Because I don’t feel real without him.

“Ok. I’ll go,” my legs are heavy and it takes every bit of my strength to move them. I look back at him from the door. “Connor—” I say, ready to plead for his forgiveness, but when he finally meets my gaze I can see a pain in his eyes, a pain that seems edged in both sadness and anger, longing and denial. I find that my words cannot make their way to my lips. So I simply break his gaze, as final and painful as it is, open the door and walk into the night.