Hollowed (11 page)

"
Me
tell
you
the truth
?
" It hurts so much because I'd planned on it. I came over here for that exact reason. "Yeah. You first."

Oliver's eyes narrow. Not at me, no, but at Cole. "Briar..."

Cole shoots a hand out to grab his shoulder, mouth drawing into a tight line
and w
illing him to silence. Surprisingly, Oliver ignores him. He looks right at me and shakes Cole's hand off.

"You weren't turned by accident."

Not what I expected to hear. Kind of takes the wind out of my sails, actually. How do I respond to that with anything other than
,
"
Sorry
?"

Oliver drifts closer. He braces himself on the doorframe, leaning in so he can speak like he has a secret to tell.

"In the old days, a vampire would feed their blood to someone in order to infect them. These days, it's usually done through a direct injection of blood from the vampire to the human."

"What about the biting?" My voice comes out shakier than I mean for it to. Even as I'm saying it, I remember the look on Oliver's face when I asked him about it last night. How trapped he seemed. Like he didn't have an answer. "You
lied
to me."

"I didn't lie," he says. "I don't lie. There
are
a few documented cases
in recent history
of a bite being enough to turn a human, yes, but the chances of it are literally one in a million."

No, no. This can
'
t be right.

"You lied by omission of information. Who was it?" I'm three seconds from crying. My gaze shoots to Cole. "Was it you? I thought it seemed pretty fucking convenient for you guys to find me."

Cole steps up behind Oliver. I'm glad he gives me a little bit of breathing room, because I'm feeling really claustrophobic right about now. "It wasn't either of us. And we don't know; we were trying to figure that out. It's rare for a vampire to turn someone and simply abandon them."

Abandoned. Ditched. Like Noah ditched me, like Ruby apparently did, too. "This isn't even a little thing. This is a
big
thing. Why didn't you just tell me?"

"We debated it," Cole murmurs. "But we were concerned what your reaction would be."

Yeah, right. More like
,
"You didn't trust me not
run off to
find the one who turned me."

"I didn't say that."

"You don't have to." I turn around. Oliver grabs my arm and I slap his hand away. Not enough to hurt, but it startles him into letting me go. "You didn't trust me to tell me the truth, so like hell I'm going to trust either of you." I back out the door with Oliver grabbing for me again.

"
Briar.
"

Even as
he calls my name
, I'm turning, dashing down the hall and reaching the elevator before he can chase after.
The obnoxious music wafting through the overhead speakers is a comical background sound to accompany my mood.

I feel safer in the lobby. Even they wouldn't be stupid enough to try grabbing me where I can draw attention. I hit the double doors and then the sidewalk before I slow from a jog to a walk, only because I can hear the most pathetic mewling behind me. Algonquin struggles to catch up on his short legs and I instantly feel guilty as I crouch and open my arms. He hops into them, heartbeat a million miles a minute under his tiny ribs.

"I'm sorry," I mumble into his fur. "Here I am upset about being left out, and I leave you behind." He purrs unsteadily and bumps his face against my chin, telling me everything is okay.

It isn't, but it will be. If no one will tell me the truth, then I'll figure it out on my own.

A day-pass and four buses later,
and
I
'
m home.

I don
'
t have any real attachment to this two-story house. It looks like any other house on the street and it
'
s been three different
colors—none
of them attractive
—
during the time my family has lived there. This year
'
s color scheme? Baby vomit.

I let myself in through the back door. No barking dogs to greet me, which means Mom and Dad are out of town and have them staying with a friend.
T
he house is eerily silent and lifeless. I don
'
t know whether to be happy I
'
m here, where things are familiar, or lonely.

Algonquin leads the way through the living room and upstairs. No sense in going to my room; we cleared it out when I moved. Instead I make straight for Ruby
'
s door at the end of the hall.

Beyond
the doorway, everything is frozen in time, not a single thing touched in years. Her clothes in the closet, her CDs scattered across her desk and an unfinished essay that will never be completed. Never turned in. It still smells lived in with the perfumes and sprays she liked to use.

Back when the cops were still looking for Ruby, I would sometimes come in here to sleep. I thought maybe
she
would come home. Sneak in through her window in the dead of night. But she never came back, and eventually the cops stopped looking. Eventually, Mom, Dad
,
and I gave up hope.

Could she really still be alive somewhere? And if she is, what is she doing getting involved with vampires? Why did she leave?

If all she wanted was to run away, why couldn
'
t she have told
me
, of all people?

Algonquin perches himself on the foot of the bed, sniffing around. His presence reminds me that I can
'
t stay here forever. I thought I wanted to see Mom and Dad, but the more I think about it, the less it seems like a good idea. Losing one daughter was bad enough, but losing another one? It
'
s going to kill them.

But it would hurt more if I told them goodbye. Because I can
'
t tell them
why
I can
'
t come home again. If Noah was scared of me, then who knows how terrified I would make my own parents. I couldn
'
t live with myself seeing that look on their faces.

From Ruby
'
s closet, I pull out a duffel bag and shove a few pairs of socks and a pair of her favorite boots. I can
'
t wear any of her clothes. I
'
m too big in the chest, a little too wide in the hips. I guess if there
'
s one thing I have going for me more than Ruby did, it
'
s a bigger bra size.

I go for a jacket and her favorite striped scarf instead. It doesn
'
t smell like her anymore, which I can fix easily because she still has a bottle of cherry blossom body spray on her desk. I snatch that, too. A couple pictures off the wall. A birthday card I drew for her in sixth grade.

I stand in front of the full-length mirror beside her desk, wearing Ruby
'
s hat, Ruby
'
s scarf, Ruby
'
s jacket. Staring at myself. Trying to see some sign of my sister. It doesn
'
t work. I haven
'
t seen my natural hair color in years, preferring red to the blonde that always looked so lackluster compared to Ruby
'
s. She was taller and slender thanks to all her swimming and track.

Why am I gathering her things like they
'
re my keepsakes? Why am I even contemplating ways to make myself look more like her? I don
'
t know. Because I
'
ve always admired Ruby
'
s stuff. Admired
her
.
Because I miss her and I miss my parents.

And I
'
d rather be anyone but me right now. 

There
'
s a low, rumbling growl from the bed. Algonquin
'
s ears are slatted back, bottle-brush tail straight in the air. He hops to the floor and slinks out of the room
.
I follow with the duffel bag over one shoulder
, i
gnoring the little skip of my heartbeat warning me that someone might be here.

The next time I see my cat at the bottom of the stairs, he
'
s no longer a cat. In fact, his new massive dog-shape startles me until he levels a long look in my direction to let me know it
'
s him. I exhale. He turns away, head pointed at the front windows. Listening. Watching.

Swallowing hard, I dare to inch the curtains aside enough to get a peek. The driveway is empty and there
'
s no one at the door.

But I notice
them.
The two guys standing on the sidewalk
,
facing my house. Not approaching, not passing by, just standing and watching. Waiting for me. Because they know me, and I know instantly who they are.
Their presence makes my skin itch all over. I put my hand to my throat where the scar used to be.

I jerk back from the window, take a breath to steady my nerves, then steal another glance.

The sidewalk is empty.

Without thinking, I abandon the duffel bag and take off upstairs, throw open my parents
'
bedroom door and shove my hands beneath their bed. Shoe boxes full of receipts, birthday cards, old letters, are all cast aside until I get my hands around a metal lock-box.

And it
'
s locked.
Imagine that.

Why, Dad,
why
? He doesn
'
t even have kids in the house anymore, what
'
s the point of locking up his gun? I shake it in frustration.

Downstairs, Algonquin barks a warning. I bolt for the
steps
, planning to slip out the kitchen door and escape through the back yard. Halfway down I catch the flash of a shadow across the living room wall. I didn
'
t hear them come in, but there they are. There's no way out without being seen. Algonquin barks again.

A voice: "Man, I
hate
dogs."

Second voice: "Leave it alone
, Artie
. Get the kitchen, I'll check upstairs."

Shit shit shit.

I backpedal down the hall, slipping through the closest door and into my old room. Void of all my things, cluttered with Mom's stuff. If I can't get downstairs, I'll take the window.

Scratch that. Footsteps ascend the stairs and linger at the top. No time for climbing out, I
'
ll have to wait until he goes away. It's all I can do to disappear into the closet, easing the folding doors shut.

The bedroom door flies open. A dark-haired man steps in, surveying his surroundings. I hold my breat
h, clamp a hand over my mouth. I c
an't resist peering through the slats in the door and watch him move about the room.
Will he sense me? Can I be tracked like I can track humans? Like
prey?

He
'
s broad-shouldered and tall, messy hair brushing the tops of his shoulders. If I had any doubts of who he was when I saw him on the sidewalk, I don
'
t now.

He lingers near Mom's desk, running a hand over her papers, pausing just shy of a picture frame. He picks it up and studies the people in the photo: Me, Ruby, Mom and Dad. An odd little smile passes over his
mouth
and he places it face-down.

The closet is stifling, closing in around me. I
'
ve never liked confined spaces, and surrounded by boxes and winter coats leaves me feeling like the little breaths I
'
m taking just aren
'
t enough. Dark-haired guy circles the room, hovering by the closet door. I want to sink down, bury myself and will him away, but I can
'
t take my gaze off of him. His dark eyes sweep over the door, pause, swing back and stare right at me.

No, no. Not at me. He can
'
t be looking at me. He can
'
t
see
me. But maybe he can hear me, sense me, and I
'
m holding my breath and trying not to shake.
Cole said I can control my presence. How much can I will myself into nonexistence for that to work?