Hourglass (14 page)

“I realize that. But you could have sent a letter. Gotten Vic
to call them. There were other things you could’ve done. If you’d thought it through—”

“But I didn’t.”

“No.” Lucas sighed.

My shortsightedness had cost Lucas dearly and had cost some of the Black Cross hunters their lives. Although many of them were antivampire zealots, that didn’t mean they all deserved to be murdered in cold blood. Because of me, they had been. “Lucas, I’m so sorry. I’m so incredibly sorry.”

“I get that. It just doesn’t change anything.” Then he grimaced and stared out at the city around us; Philadelphia didn’t glitter the way New York did, but it was still shiny and steely, more light than darkness. “Mom’s all alone. She lost Eduardo; she lost me; she lost her Black Cross cell. What’s she going to do? Who’s going to be there for her? I planned to leave with you, and I don’t regret doing it, but when I made that decision, I thought Eduardo would be there with her. I know you think she’s so tough—and she is—but this—”

I’d been so busy worrying about myself and my friends that I hadn’t spared a thought for Kate. In a lot of ways, her situation was as bad as my parents—worse, even, because at least they had each other. Kate had nobody. “Surely, someday, when we’re safer, you can call her or something.”

“If I contact her, ever, she’ll tell Black Cross. Those are the rules. She won’t break them.”

“Not even for you?” I didn’t believe that for a second, but obviously Lucas did.

He looked at our reflections on the surface of the pool, as if weary. Although I could see that his anger was diminishing, it was being replaced by depression. That wasn’t much easier to witness. “Mom’s a good soldier. Like I always tried to be.”

“Like you
are
.”

“Good soldiers don’t sacrifice the cause for love.”

“If the cause isn’t love, then it isn’t worth the sacrifice.”

Lucas gave me a sad smile. “You’re worth it. I know that. Even when you mess up. Because God knows I mess up, too.”

I wanted to hug him, but somehow I sensed the moment wasn’t right. The inner demons Lucas was grappling with needed to come out.

He continued, “My whole life, I’ve been in Black Cross. I’ve always known who I was, what my purpose should be. I knew I would be a hunter forever. But now that’s all over.”

“I know how that feels,” I said. “I always thought I would turn into a vampire. Now I don’t know what comes next. It’s—it’s scary.”

Lucas took my hand. “As long as we’ve got each other,” he said, “it’s worth it.”

“I know that. But I still wonder—Lucas, what will we become?”

He admitted, “I don’t know.”

I put my arms around his neck and held onto him tightly. We needed more than love; we needed to be strong enough for faith.

The next couple of days were quieter, even relaxing. Although Lucas obviously spent some time brooding about his mother, the argument between us had ended. We watched TV or walked around to see the sights in Philadelphia. One day we split up, so I could find out if any restaurants needed waitresses, while Lucas applied for jobs at garages. To our astonishment and relief, we both got offers to start right after the holiday.

We spent every night in our room, together.

I hadn’t realized it was possible, to want someone even worse the more I was with him. All I knew was that I didn’t feel shy any longer. I didn’t have any doubts. Lucas knew me like no other person ever had, and I never felt safer than when I was with him, totally, completely. Afterward, I curled next to Lucas and sank into a sleep too deep for dreams.

Except, that is, for the night of the Fourth of July. Maybe it was the fireworks, or the sugar rush from cotton candy, but that night, I had the most vivid dream of all.

“I’m right here,” said the wraith.

She stood in front of me, looking not like a phantasm but like any other person. I could feel the death in her, leaching heat out of my living body. That wasn’t something she was doing to be mean—it was just the nature of what she was.

“Where are we?” I looked around us but couldn’t see anything. It was so dark.

Her only answer was, “Look.”

I looked down to see the earth far below us. We were suspended in the night sky. Like the stars, I thought, and for a moment I was happy.

Then I realized that I recognized the figures walking far beneath me. Lucas, his head bowed, walked toward a tree that swayed in the violent wind. Behind him was Balthazar.

“What are they doing?” I said.

“Shared work.”

“I want to see.”

“No,” the wraith said. “You don’t want to see. Trust me.”

The wind whipped around us even more strongly. The wraith’s blue-white dress rippled in the gale. “What won’t you let me see?”

“Look if you want.” Her smile was sad. “You’ll wish you hadn’t.”

I have to look—I can’t look—wake up, wake up!

Gasping, I pushed myself upright in the bed. My heart was pounding. Why had that dream frightened me so badly?

On July 5, after getting a call from Vic telling us that he and his family were at the airport, we checked out of our hotel. The bus ride to Vic’s neighborhood took a while, and we had to walk several blocks from the nearest stop. But it hardly mattered when we walked around to the back of Vic’s now-empty house and entered the security code for the wine cellar entrance.

“Wow,” Lucas said as our eyes adjusted to the dim lighting.

“This place is huge.”

The cellar was the size of an entire floor of Vic’s enormous house. It seemed to be separated into rooms, suggesting that this had been a living space long ago, even before it was a wine cellar. I remembered that Vic said his dad didn’t collect the way
his grandfather had, and wondered how much booze
used
to be down there. The floor was battered old oak, and obviously hadn’t been refinished in a couple of generations.

As we walked farther inside to the inner rooms, we saw that a small lamp was burning—a hula-girl lamp. It illuminated a small treasure trove: sheets, quilts, and blankets, a still-in-the-sack air mattress, a simple metal folding bed frame like you see in hotels, a little wooden table and chairs, a basketful of mismatched plates and cups in blue and white, a bundle of Christmas lights, a microwave, a minifridge (already plugged in and running), some books and DVDs, an old TV set with DVD player, and even a Persian carpet, which sat rolled up in the corner.

I picked up a small piece of paper on the table and read aloud: “‘Hey, guys. Ranulf and I hauled down some stuff from the attic for you to use. The TV doesn’t get any reception, but you can watch the DVDs. There’s sodas and some fruit in the fridge, and Ranulf left a couple pints for Bianca. Hope it helps. We’ll be back in the middle of August. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Love, Vic.’”

Lucas folded his arms. “What wouldn’t Vic do?”

“Be boring.” I grinned.

We settled in, making one empty corner of the wine cellar our “apartment.” The table and chairs would be the dining area, and we put the hula-girl lamp on the table. The Persian rug went on the floor, and Lucas climbed on the wine racks (making me nervous) to hang up the Christmas lights, which were all white but sometimes shone soft gold where we had threaded
them through the wine bottles. The air mattress was self-inflating and easy to get on the bed frame; I took pleasure in covering the mattress with snowy sheets trimmed with lace and then piling it high with quilts to help with the slight chill in the air. The walls were painted a deep green, and by the time we were done, I thought there wasn’t an apartment in all Philadelphia as beautiful as ours. So what if there were bottles on the walls?

It seemed that finally everything was coming together for us. Our friends had helped us this far—but we had jobs, which meant we could pay them back eventually. We had escaped from Mrs. Bethany and from Black Cross. The only wraith anywhere around was either peaceable or wanted to steer clear of any obsidian. I couldn’t believe how good everything was, how right.

Twice, though, small clouds darkened my mood.

The first time was when Lucas and I ate dinner—pizza from a little neighborhood place a few blocks away. Lucas brought it home and we ate it on the “new” dishes. While wondering how to wash them in the bathroom sink, I thought about the delicious meals my mother used to make for me.
Oh, I wonder what the recipe for that lemonade pie is? It didn’t have to be baked in the stove, and it would be so good on a hot day like this.

Then I remembered that I couldn’t ask her. I also wondered how she’d managed to cook so many things so well; vampires can’t really taste food, not the way humans do, so it must have been tough for Mom.

I’ll write soon
, I promised myself.
I’ll send Vic back to Evernight with a note, maybe, and he’ll claim I mailed it to him from
somewhere else. That way they’ll know that I’m really okay.

The second time came later in the evening, while we were checking out the DVDs. The walls were bare, and I thought idly that it would be nice to hang something there—nothing big, because we couldn’t damage anything, but maybe a drawing we could tape up.

That made me think about Raquel’s collages, the crazy mishmashes of color and pictures she loved to put together. She used to show them to me with pride. Now she hated me so much that she had turned me over to people who’d tried to kill me.

I should’ve been furious with her. But it hurt too much to make me angry. It was a wound that I knew would never really heal.

“Hey.” Lucas frowned, worried. “You upset about something?”

“Raquel.”

“I swear to God, if I ever get my hands on her—”

“You won’t do anything,” I said. Then I bit my lip so I wouldn’t cry. Let Raquel think what she wanted about me; I loved her, and despite everything, that couldn’t change.

So, everything seemed pretty fabulous—until the next day. That was our first day at work. I’d never had any kind of job before, not even babysitting; Mom and Dad said children noticed things that older people missed, and vampires were better off spending as little time around them as possible.

This meant that I had no idea that work
sucks.

“Table eight doesn’t have their sodas yet!” yelled Reggie, my so-called supervisor at Hamburger Rodeo, who was only about four years older than me. He had the same mean glint in his eyes that a lot of Evernight-type vampires did, but he didn’t have the power to back it up. Just a laminated name tag that said
MANAGER
. “What’s the problem, Bianca?”

“I’m getting them!” A root beer, a cola, and what? I pulled my notepad out of my apron; both the pad and the apron were already stained with French dressing. After an hour-long training session in the morning, which was apparently not nearly enough preparation time, I’d been thrown into the lunch crowd. Quickly I scooped ice into the plastic glasses and worked the fountain machine.
Hurry, hurry, hurry.

Table eight got their drinks, but they didn’t look too happy about it. They wanted to know where their Bacon Buckaroos were. I really hoped those were the bacon burgers. Everything on the menu had a stupid cowboy name, which went with the “theme,” like the posters of old Westerns on the wall and the gingham shirt and bolo tie I had to wear.

I ran back to the kitchen. “I need Bacon Buckaroos for Eight!” I cried.

“Sorry,” said another, older waiter, as he walked out with a tray of the burgers for his own table. “You snooze, you lose.”

“But—”

“Bianca!” Reggie yelled. “Table twelve doesn’t have silverware yet. Silverware! That goes out with the menus, remember?”

“Okay, okay.”

I went back and forth, back and forth, over and over. My feet ached, and I could feel the grease sinking into my skin. Reggie kept yelling at me, and customers kept scowling, because I didn’t get them their really awful food fast enough. It was like hell, if hell served cheese fries.

Excuse me. “Cheesy Wranglers.” That was what we had to call the cheese fries.

As the lunch rush began to die down, I hurried to the salad bar to do my “side work,” which meant this whole other job we each had to do in addition to waiting tables. Mine, for today, was making sure the salad bar was fully stocked. I grimaced as I saw that nearly everything was running low: salad dressings, croutons, tomatoes, etc. This would take me almost ten minutes to fix.

“This is not a good first day,” Reggie muttered into my ear, like I needed that news flash. Ignoring him, I hurried back to the kitchen to chop some tomatoes.

I grabbed the first tomato, picked up the knife, and quickly started chopping—too quickly. “Ow,” I whined as I shook my cut finger.

“Don’t bleed on the food!” said another waitress. She led me to the sink and started running cold water on my hand. “That’s a health code violation.”

“I’m no good at this,” I said.

“Everybody’s first day blows,” she said kindly. “Once you’ve been doing this a couple years, like me, you’ll have it down pat.”

The thought of spending two years at Hamburger Rodeo
made me dizzy. I had to think of something else to do with my life.

Then I realized, that wasn’t what was making me dizzy. I felt bad.
Really
bad.

“I think I’m going to faint,” I said.

“Don’t be silly. The cut’s not that deep.”

“It’s not the cut.”

“Bianca, are you—”

Everything went black for what seemed like only a second, as if I’d simply blinked my eyes. But when I opened them again, I was lying on the rubber mat on the floor. My back hurt, and I realized that was because I’d fallen down hard.

“Are you okay?” the waitress said. She held a dish towel to my cut hand. Several of the other waiters and cooks were circled around, all tables forgotten in light of the drama.

“I don’t know.”

“You’re not going to throw up, are you?” Reggie demanded. When I shook my head, he said, “Have you sustained a workplace injury that requires us to fill out paperwork?”