Nocturnal (12 page)

One step at a time, I creep down the stairs, my muscles tensed and waiting for something to jump out and get me. I'm crouched, ready to run, reaching with the hand that doesn't have the pepperspray. I really should have brought the flashlight. I try to slow my breathing so I can listen.

“Hello?” The only thing that answers me is the echo of my own voice and silence. I have a crazy impulse and let out a scream. Nada. I relax and turn to go back up the stairs when a shadow catches my eye. 

Propped in a corner, almost hidden is something rectangular-shaped. I hesitate before going over to see what it is. I can't believe I saw it; it's pretty small. I reach out and pick up the slim leather volume with gold lettering stamped on the front. It's too dark to read the title.

I open it, marveling at how thin the paper is. How old. Who left it here?

I take it out into the moonlight to read the title.
The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
. Huh. It's old, but the pages are intact, the gold leaf glowing.

I'd heard the story. Everyone had at least seen an adaptation, but I'd never read the original text. 

I flip through the book again. My eyes spot a bookplate in the back.
This book belongs to Ellen Mackintire.
The writing is thin and the letters curl and dance around one another. I wonder who Ellen Mackintire was. And who left her book here. But I think I know.

I fold the book carefully in my shirt and walk back to my car, the leather cover soft against my skin. I've seen what I needed to see.

***

Part of me wondered at my own boredom. Why I was doing this. With her. Why I hadn't gone back to my life of always running, staying where I want to, feeding when I could. Always moving, never stopping. I had no home, no place. I didn't need one and don't belong to one. I was a nomad. As are many of my kind.

We do not get along with each other. Like wolves or lions. Predators of the same species that would rip each other apart in a second. I'd done it before. 

In those four days I ran to her house, just once. Houses had always fascinated me. Groups of humans all huddled together, stepping over one another, breathing each other's air. I didn't get claustrophobic, but the idea of being inside a space like that with more of my kind made me uncomfortable.

Her mother was sick. I could smell it in her blood. Like acid, eating away at her cells. She didn't have long. Still, they smiled and laughed and ate and shared with each other. As natural for them as breathing. 

She looked more like her father. I studied all of their faces, the changing expressions. None of them suspected I was there. I watched until they went to bed. I knew she would go to the cemetery. She was predictable, at least in that respect. 

I ran alongside the road, watching the car headlights poking through the dark. I liked running parallel to the road. Never directly on it. Not because I was wary of being caught. The shark doesn't worry about being spotted by the fish. I simply liked the feel of earth beneath my feet. But I liked the order of the road as well. The white and yellow lines flowing along the black pavement. 

Ivan and Di come and leave me again. She touched my cheek and made me repeat my promise before she left. One last twist of the dagger. Ivan looked at me, smelling Ava, but didn't ask. Di didn't have to say anything. She knew as well as I did that it would end soon. And we would be the way we always had been. Forever. I'd had my one day to fight it, which had passed for another year. After they departed, I dug up my trunk again. I couldn't bring myself to bury it this year. To put it in the ground and pretend it doesn't matter to me. It was all that I had.

I left the book for her. My mother's book. It would be safer with her than in the trunk, instinct told me that. My instincts are the only things I trust. She took it gingerly, as if it would fall apart in her hands. She looked for me, but I stayed hidden in the shadows. Always watching.

I scared her, the other night. The shadows of the bruises I left on her neck were still visible. It doesn't take much to bruise human skin. Like soft fruit.

I considered taking her right then, but waited. The seconds dripped away like raindrops. I didn't move. Instead I watched the moonlight on her hair. It felt like the beginning, when every hunt was exciting, set fire to my blood and made me want to run and tear things apart in the sheer madness of it all. I'd slaughtered entire towns in one night and seen the streets run with blood that I cupped my hands in and drank. Like water.

Those things would scare her. She wouldn't come back if she knew. So I left the book for her instead. So she would come back.

Show Me

Do I really have a death wish? Am I suicidal and just not aware of it? Can you be suicidal without knowing it? Why am I talking to myself?

It's two nights later and I'm back. I'd spent the previous two racing through the book, knowing that he left it for me and using that as an excuse to think that he wasn't going to hurt me. Which is kind of like saying that guy who punched you in the face must be nice because he gave you a cookie afterwards. I totally blame the book. The only other thing that would have done it was a huge tin of fudge or chocolate cake. Then I would have been his slave for life. Something inside me pulls me there. I yearn to hear his quiet voice in the dark. His one-word answers. His hair in his face. I want it so much it hurts.

My heart skitters a bit when he isn't there. I sit down anyway, crossing my legs so they'll stop jumping around. Did I mention I'm nervous? Trying to prove that I'm not a total dumbass, I've brought the pepperspray this time. Not that it's going to do any good. I'm still going with my theory that he's not just a guy. Guy 2.0.

“You came,” I say, and my voice sounds relieved. Why? Why do I sound relieved? I try to stop the mental NASCAR race my thoughts are driving around in. Instead I stare at him. Same jeans, same shirt. Still dirty. No shoes.

This time he sits down next to me. My voice sounds calmer than I feel. “I don't know how much longer I can keep this up. I have to sleep sometime.” I hope he doesn't pick up on my struggle to keep things light. I can't talk about the elephant in the cemetery. 

“Then do not come,” he says. As if it's that simple. 

“I want to.” More than that. I need to. Even if it's reckless.

“Then you must decide.” I lean back, stretching my legs out in front of me. My feet will not stop twitching. 

“I know.” He seems completely unaware that I am still staring at him, trying to figure him out. To figure out what draws me back here. I certainly don't have an explanation for it. 

“You will stay.” His voice makes me look up from studying his toes. 

“Yes.” I shift so I'm closer to him, hoping he won't move away. “Will you keep coming?”

“I will.” No hesitation. It makes me flush. I wish I were so sure of things.  

“Why?” I ask. He looks up at the sky, like he's searching for answers. He looks back down at me, his hair shifting for a second to reveal his eyes. All I want to do is see them again. Let myself get pulled in. Trapped. 

“I will come.”

“Suit yourself.” I bring out the book from my bag. I don't feel right keeping it, even though I'm not sure it's his. I still can't shake the name Ellen Mackintire. I'd thought about looking it up online, but I wanted to ask him about it. I just had to find the right time.

“Did you leave this for me?” I ask, even thought I know the answer. 

“I did.” A direct answer! I want to throw some confetti on him or do a dance or something.

“Why?”

“I thought you would enjoy it. Did you not?” He talks like he's from an old movie or something. Not like a normal person. But I like it.

“No I did like it. I was just wondering where you got it. It's very old.” I gingerly hold it out to him.

“It took me many years to find it.” His hands stay where they are. 

“So it's yours? I saw the bookplate in the back. I'm not saying that you stole it. I just wondered how someone like you would come across something like this.” I still hold it out for him to take.

“There are many things you don't know about me.” He glances up at the stars again. 

“Thank you, Captain Obvious.” He doesn't respond to that. “Here. I'm afraid of keeping it. I don't want to be responsible for it.”

“You may hold onto it.” He doesn't take it.

“What if it falls apart? It's got to be worth some money. You could sell it and buy some shoes.” I practically shove it at him. 

“It is only a book.” His eyes pierce through the layer of hair. 

“But if it's only a book, then why did you search so hard for it? I mean, you could probably sell it on Ebay for a lot of money.” He pushes the book back. Not a shove, but enough pressure that I stop. He holds onto it, his fingers inches from mine.

“I would never sell it.”

“Then why give it to me?”

“Ava.” It's only the third time he's said my name. “You will not harm it.” He lets go.

“Or else you'll kill me, right? Like you said last time.” He doesn't deny it. I wipe some moisture off the cover. God, I was never going to be able to keep it safe. It belonged in a museum.

“Thanks for sharing it with me.” It's the only thing I can think to say.

“I am glad to have someone to share it with.” I don't think he's just talking about the book. Like we're sharing something deeper. Our souls or something. I shake my head at myself. I'm reading way too much into this. I lay back and watch the stars. Neither of us say anything, or moves. Not until my back gets sore and the cold is too much to stand.

“Goodbye, Peter.” This time I'm the first to say it.

“Goodbye, Ava.” He doesn't look away from the stars.

***

The next morning I make a detour to the cemetery before school, placing my own book just where he'd left the other one. Something appropriate. Neil Gaiman's
The Graveyard Book
. I hope it'll be gone when I check on it later. I also hope he won't think that giving him a book by that title means that I'm creepy cemetery girl. I had fallen in love with it a while ago, but hadn't been able to share it with anyone. It was too dark for my mother. 

I liked the dark. Clearly more than I had been aware of.

All day long, my mind is in the cemetery. Wondering if he's gone back.

“Hey!” I look down and see Tex, biting my shoulder. She releases me from her teeth before I can shrug her off. 

“I had to have some way to get your attention.” She sits back in her seat. The sound of the lunchroom pulls me back to the world outside my own head.

“Sorry, I'm really tired.” I say, yawning.

“From what?” Her eyes follow Ryan Harding as he struts by on his way to his posse's table. As soon as he's put his arm around the girl he's currently seeing, her eyes snap back to me.

“I just can't sleep lately.” I become really interested in my veggie pita.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I shrug.

“Not really.” Understatement of the year.

“Sure?” Her eyebrows rise with skepticism. I shake my head. 

“Yeah. I'm just kinda behind on homework and stuff. No big deal.” My lunch is tasteless and chokes me on its way down my throat.

“Do you want me to call you off work?” She slips her shoes off and crosses her legs on her chair before digging into her sub.

“No, I need the money.” That isn't really true either. With my mother buying me stuff all the time, I've been saving a lot of money lately.

“If you say so.” She grabs her purse and rummages around. She's got this ugly leather bag that I'm almost positive has no bottom. Like Mary Poppin's bag that she pulls a lamp out of. She starts piling things on the table while I wonder what the hell the clanking noise is emanating from the depths of the purse. She calls it Harold. I don't know why. 

“Aha!” She pulls out a large wedge of chocolate, half-eaten, but still wrapped in foil. “Chocolate solves everything. Here.” She shoves it in my face. 

“Uh, thanks.” I take it from her.

“Eat. You look pale.” I fold back the foil, remove some purse lint and bite off a corner. It's a little old, but still good. Tex has a soft spot for Belgian chocolate. I eat a little more while she watches me like I'm a bomb that's going to blow up.

She knows something is up. She just doesn't know that it's two Somethings, and I can't tell her about either of them. I make it through the rest of the day only falling asleep once in French, but I might have done that under normal circumstances. I have no idea how I'm going to make it through work, but at least it keeps me busy.

Tex and I get stuck unloading a huge shipment of books, many of which I put aside to buy. Using my employee discount, of course. At least Toby isn't there. I cannot stand his sounds of disapproval and his awful eyebrow.

“I am so tired of books.” She stabs her knife into yet another box. 

“You're the one who wants to be a librarian, explain that to me.” I grab another new release that I've been wanting for months. They might as well pay me in books this week.

“Easy. Same as if you were a male gynecologist you wouldn't want to have sex with your wife when you got home.” She yanks out some bubble wrap and starts popping it.

“Ugh, Tex! You are so vulgar sometimes.” I chuck one of those plastic pillows of air they put between the books so they don't rattle around at her. I miss.

“Look at you, using big words.”

“Pretty soon you're not going to be able to understand me. I'll be so smart that you'll have no idea I'm insulting you.” I chuck my empty box at her. I miss again.

“And then I'll just punch you in the face.” Of course she could. She'd taken karate a few years ago. I knew she still had her skills.

“And I'll just continue to eviscerate you with my words.” I stick my chin in the air and speak in a lofty British tone.

“And then I will punch you some more.” I cross my eyes at her and we both laugh until her mother comes out of her office to glare at us for messing around when we're supposed to be working. There's always someone glaring at us.