The Mediator 6: Twilight

by Meg Cabot

  "That’s right."

  "So about twelve hours," I said. "Not bad, if you consider that for about eight of them, she was probably sleeping."

  "Oh, I doubt that," Paul said. "That’s when they do their best work. Succubuses, I mean. I bet Kelly only needs an hour or two of shut-eye a night, tops."

  "Romantic." I turned a page of the crusty old book lying between us on Paul’s bed. "Calling your date for the Winter Formal a succubus, I mean."

  "At least she wants to go with me," Paul said, his face expressionless—with the exception of a single dark brow, which rose, almost imperceptibly, higher than the one next to it. "A refreshing change, I must say, from the usual state of things around here."

  "You hear me complaining?" I asked, turning another page. I prided myself that I was maintaining—outwardly, anyway—a supremely indifferent attitude about the whole thing. Inside, of course, it was a whole other story. Because inside, I was screaming, What’s going on? Why’d you ask Kelly and not me? Not that I care about the stupid dance, but just what game do you think you’re playing now, Paul Slater?

  It was amazing how none of this showed, however. At least, so far as I knew.

  "It’s just that I’d have appreciated some advance notice that I’d been stricken from the agenda," was what I said aloud. "For all you knew, I might have already blown a fortune on a dress."

  One corner of Paul’s mouth flicked upward.

  "You hadn’t," Paul said. "And you weren’t going to, either."

  I looked away. It was hard to meet his gaze sometimes, it was so penetrating, so . . .

  Blue.

  A strong, tanned hand came down over mine, pinning my fingers to the page I’d been about to turn.

  "That’s the one." Paul doesn’t seem to have the same problem looking into my eyes (probably because mine are green and about as penetrating as, um, algae) that I have looking into his. His gaze on my face was unwavering. "Read it."

  I looked down. The book Paul had pulled out for our latest "mediator lesson" was so old, the pages had a tendency to crumble beneath my fingers as I turned them. It belonged in a museum, not a seventeen-year-old guy’s bedroom.

  But that was exactly where it had ended up, pulled—though I doubted Paul knew I was aware of it—from his grandfather’s collection. The Book of the Dead was what it was called.

  And the title wasn’t the only reminder that all things have an expiration date. It smelled as if a mouse or some other small creature had gotten slammed between the pages some time in the not-so-distant past, left to slowly decompose there.

  "If the 1924 translation is to be believed," I read aloud, glad my voice wasn’t shaking the way I knew my fingers were—the way my fingers always shook when Paul touched me—'"the shifter’s abilities didn’t merely include communication with the dead and teleportation between their world and our own, but the ability to travel at will throughout the fourth dimension, as well."

  I will admit, I didn’t read with a lot of feeling. It wasn’t exactly a barrel of laughs, going to school all day, then having to go to mediation tutoring. Granted, it was only once a week, but that was more than enough, believe me. Paul’s house hadn’t lost any of its sterility in the months I’d been coming to it. If anything, the place was as creepy as ever . . .

  . . . and so was Paul’s grandfather, who continued to live what he’d described, in his own words, as a "half-life," in a room down the hall from Paul’s. That half-life seemed to be made up of around-the-clock health attendants, hired to see to the old man’s many ailments, and incessant viewing of the Game Show Network. It isn’t any wonder, really, that Paul avoids Mr. Slater—or Dr. Slaski, as the good doctor himself had confided to me he was really named—like the plague. His grandfather isn’t exactly scintillating company, even when he isn’t pretending to be loopy due to his meds.

  Despite my less-than-inspired performance, however, Paul released my hand and leaned back once more, looking extremely pleased with himself. "Well?" Another raised eyebrow.

  "Well, what?" I flipped the page, and saw only a copy of the hieroglyph they were talking about.

  The half smile Paul had been wearing vanished. His face was as expressionless as the wall behind him.

  "So that’s how you’re going to play it," he said.

  I had no idea what he was talking about. "Play what?" I asked.

  "I could do it, Suze," he said. "It can’t be hard to figure out. And when I do . . . well, you won’t be able to accuse me of not having stuck by our agreement."

  "What agreement?"

  Paul set his jaw.

  "Not to kill your boyfriend," he said tonelessly.

  I just stared at him, genuinely taken aback. I had no idea where this was coming from. We’d been having a perfectly nice—well, okay, not nice, but ordinary—afternoon, and all of a sudden he was threatening to kill my boyfriend . . . or not to kill him, actually. What was going on?

  "Wh-what are you talking about?" I stammered. "What does this have to do with Jesse? Is this . . . is this because of the dance? Paul, if you’d asked, I’d have gone with you. I don’t know why you turned around and asked Kelly without even—"

  The half grin came back, but this time, all Paul did was lean forward and flip the book closed. Dust rose from the ancient pages, almost right up into my face, but I didn’t complain. Instead, I waited, my heart in my throat, for him to reply.

  I was destined for disappointment, however, since all he said was, "Don’t worry about it," then swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. "You hungry?"

  "Paul." I followed him, my Stuart Weitzmans clacking loudly on the bare tile floor. "What’s going on?"

  "What makes you think anything’s going on?" he asked as he made his way down the long, shiny hallway.

  "Oh, gee, I don’t know," I said, fear making me sound waspish. "That crack you made the other night about Jesse. And letting me off the hook for the Winter Formal. And now this. You’re up to something."

  "Am I?" Paul glanced up at me as he made his way down the spiral staircase to the kitchen. "You really think so?"

  "Yes," I said. "I just haven’t figured out what yet."

  "Do you have any idea what you sound like right now?" Paul asked as he pulled open the Sub-Zero refrigerator and peered inside.

  "No," I said. "What?"

  "A jealous girlfriend."

  I nearly choked. "And how are things on Planet You Wish?"

  He found a can of Coke and cracked it open.

  "Nice one," he said in reference to my remark. "No, really. I like that. I might even use it myself someday."

  "Paul." I stared at him, my throat dry, my heart banging in my chest. "What are you up to? Seriously."

  "Seriously?" He took a long swig of soda. I couldn’t help noticing how tanned his throat was as I watched him swallow. "I’m hedging my bets."

  "What does that mean?"

  "It means," he said, closing the refrigerator door and leaning his back against it, "that I’m starting to like it around here. Strange, but true. I never thought of myself as the captain-of-the-tennis-team type. God knows, at my last school"—he took another long pull at the soda—"Well, I won’t get into that. The truth is, I’m starting to get into this high school stuff. I want to go to the Winter Formal. Thing is, I figure you won’t want to be around me for a while, after I . . . well, do what I plan on doing."

  He’d closed the refrigerator door, so that couldn’t have been what caused the sudden chill I felt all along my spine. He must have seen me shiver, since he went, with a grin, "Don’t worry, Susie. You’ll forgive me eventually. You’ll realize, in time, that it’s all for the be—"

  He didn’t get to finish. That’s because I’d strode forward and knocked the Coke can right out of his hand. It landed with a clatter in the stainless-steel sink. Paul looked down at his empty fingers in some surprise, like he couldn’t figure out where his drink had gone.

  "I don’t know what you’re planning, but let me
make one thing clear: If anything happens to him," I hissed, not much louder than the soda fizzing from the can in the sink, but with a lot more force, "anything at all, I will make you regret the day you were born. Understand?"

  The look of surprise on his face twisted into one of grim annoyance.

  "That wasn’t part of our deal. All I said was that I wouldn’t—"

  "Anything," I said. "And don’t call me Susie."

  My heart was banging so loudly inside my chest that I didn’t see how he couldn’t hear it—how he couldn’t see that I was more frightened than I was angry. . . .

  Or maybe he did, since his lips relaxed into a smile—the same smile that had made half the girls in school fall madly in love with him.

  "Don’t worry, Suze," he said. "Let’s just say that my plans for Jesse? They’re a lot more humane than what you’ve got planned for me."

  "I—"

  Paul just shook his head. "Don’t insult me by pretending like you don’t know what I mean."

  I didn’t have to pretend. I had no idea what he was talking about. I didn’t get a chance to tell him that, though, because at that moment a side door opened, and we heard someone call, "Hello?"

  It was Dr. Slaski, along with his attendant, back from one of their endless rounds of doctor’s appointments. The attendant was the one who’d let out the greeting. Dr. Slaski—or Slater, as Paul referred to him—never said hello. At least, not when anybody but me was around.

  "Hey," Paul said, going out into the living room and looking down at his wheelchair-bound grandfather. "How’d it go?"

  "Just fine," the attendant said with a smile. "Didn’t it, Mr. Slater?"

  Paul’s grandfather said nothing. His head was slumped down onto his chest, as if he were asleep.

  Except that he wasn’t. He was no more asleep than I was. Inside that battered and frail-looking exterior was a mind crackling with intelligence and vitality. Why he chose to hide that fact, I still don’t understand. There’s a lot about the Slaters that I don’t understand.

  "Your friend staying for dinner, Paul?" the attendant asked cheerfully.

  "Yes," Paul said at the same time I said, "No."

  I didn’t meet his gaze as I added, "You know I can’t."

  This, at least, was true. Mealtime is family time at my house. Miss one of my stepfather’s gourmet dinners, and you’ll never hear the end of it.

  "Fine," Paul said through teeth that were obviously gritted. "I’ll take you home."

  I didn’t object. I was more than ready to go.

  Our ride should have been a lot more enjoyable than it was. I mean, Carmel is one of the most beautiful places in the world, and Paul’s grandfather’s house is right on the ocean. The sun was setting, seeming to set the sky ablaze, and you could hear waves breaking rhythmically against the rocks below. And Paul, who isn’t exactly painful to look at, doesn’t drive any old hand-me-down car, either, but a silver BMW convertible that I happen to know I look extremely good in, with my dark hair, pale skin, and excellent taste in footwear.

  But you could have cut the tension inside that car with a knife, nonetheless. We rode in utter silence until Paul finally pulled up in front of 99 Pine Crest Drive, the rambling Victorian house in the Carmel hills that my mother and stepfather had bought more than a year ago, but still hadn’t finished refurbishing. Seeing as how it had been built at the turn of the century—the nineteenth, not the twentieth—it needed a lot of refurbishing. . . .

  But no amount of recessed lighting could rid the place of its violent past, or the fact that, a few months earlier, they’d dug up my boyfriend’s skeleton from the backyard. I still couldn’t set foot on the deck without feeling nauseated.

  I was about to get out of the car without a word when Paul reached over and put a hand on my arm.

  "Suze," he said, and when I turned my head to look at him, I saw that his blue eyes looked troubled. "Listen. What would you say to a truce?"

  I blinked at him. Was he kidding? He’d threatened to off my boyfriend; stole from people he’d been asked to help; and neglected to invite me to the school dance, humiliating me in front of the most popular girl in the whole school in the process. And now he wanted to kiss and make up?

  "Forget it," I said as I gathered up my books.

  "Come on, Suze," he said, flashing me that heart-melting smile. "You know I’m harmless. Well, basically. Besides, what could I do to your boy Jesse? He’s got Father D to protect him, right?"

  Not really. Not now, anyway. But Paul didn’t know that. Yet.

  "I’m sorry about the thing with Kelly," he said. "But you didn’t want to go with me. Can you blame me for wanting to take someone who . . . well, actually likes me?"

  Maybe it was the smile. Maybe it was the way he blinked those baby blues. I don’t know what it was, but suddenly, I found myself softening toward him.

  "What about the Gutierrezes?" I asked. "You’ll give the money back?"

  "Uh," Paul said. "Well, no. I can’t do that."

  "Paul, you can. I won’t tell, I swear. . . ."

  "It’s not that. I can’t because . . . I, er, need it."

  "For what?"

  Paul grinned. "You’ll find out."

  I threw open the car door and got out, my heels sinking deep into the pine-needle-strewn lawn.

  "Good-bye, Paul," I said, and slammed the door behind me, cutting off his "No, Suze, wait!"

  I turned around and headed toward the house. My stepfather, Andy, had started a fire in one of the house’s many fireplaces. The rich smell of burning wood filled the crisp evening air, tinged with the scent of something else. . . .

  Curry. It was tandoori chicken night. How could I have forgotten?

  Behind me, I heard Paul throw the car into reverse and drive away. I didn’t look back. I headed up the stairs to the front door, stepping into the squares of light thrown onto the porch from the living room windows. I opened the door and went inside, calling "I’m home!"

  Except that I wasn’t, really. Because home meant something else to me now, and had for quite a while.

  And he didn’t live there anymore.

  chapter four

  The handful of pebbles I’d thrown rattled noisily against the heavy, leaded glass. I looked around, worried someone might have heard. But better for them to hear tiny rocks hitting a window than me whispering the name of someone who wasn’t even supposed to be living there. . . .

  Someone who, technically speaking, wasn’t living at all.

  He appeared almost at once, not at the window, but by my side. That’s the thing about the undead. They never have to worry about the stairs. Or walls.

  "Susannah." The moonlight threw Jesse’s features into high relief. There were dark pools in the place where his eyes should have been, and the scar in his eyebrow—a dog bite wound from childhood—showed starkly white.

  Still, even with the tricks the moon was playing, he was the best-looking thing I had ever seen. I don’t think it’s just the fact that I’m madly in love with him that makes me think so, either. I’d shown the miniature portrait of him I’d accidentally-on-purpose snagged from the Carmel Historical Society to CeeCee, and she’d agreed. Hottie extraordinaire was how she’d put it, to be exact.

  "You don’t have to bother with these," he said, reaching out to brush the remaining pebbles from my hand. "I knew you were here. I heard you calling."

  Except, of course, that I hadn’t. Called him. But whatever. He was here now and that’s what mattered.

  "What is it, Susannah?" Jesse wanted to know. He’d moved out of the shadows of the rectory, so that I could finally see his eyes. As usual, they were darkly liquid and full of intelligence . . . intelligence, and something else. Something, I like to think, that’s just for me.

  "Just stopped by to say hi," I said with a shrug. It was chilly enough that when I spoke, I could see my breath fog up in front of me.

  This didn’t happen when Jesse spoke, however. Because, of course, he has no brea
th.

  "At three in the morning?" The dark eyebrows shot up, but he looked more amused than alarmed. "On a school night?"

  He had me there, of course.

  "Father D asked me to pick up some cat food," I said, brandishing a bag. "I didn’t want Sister Ernestine to see me smuggling it in. She’s not supposed to know about Spike."

  "Cat food," Jesse said. Now he definitely looked amused. "Is that all?"

  It wasn’t all and he knew it. But it also wasn’t what he thought. At least, not exactly.

  Still, when he pulled me toward him, I didn’t precisely object. Especially not considering that there’s only one place in the world I feel completely safe anymore, and that’s where I was just then . . . in his arms.

  "You’re cold, querida," he whispered into my hair. "You’re shivering."

  I was, but not because I was cold. Well, not only because I was cold. I closed my eyes, melting in his embrace as I always did, reveling in the feel of his strong arms around me, his hard chest beneath my cheek. I wished I could have stayed that way forever—in Jesse’s arms, I mean, where nothing could ever hurt me. Because he’d never let it.

  I don’t know how long we stood like that in the vegetable garden behind the rectory where Father Dom lived. All I know is that eventually Jesse, who’d been stroking my hair, pulled back a little, so that he could look down into my face.

  "What is it, Susannah?" he asked me again, his voice sounding strangely rough, considering the tenderness of the moment. "What’s wrong?"

  "Nothing," I lied, because I didn’t want it to end . . . the moonlight, his embrace, any of it . . . all of it.

  "Not nothing," he said, reaching up and pulling a strand of hair from where the wind had blown it, so that it was sticking to my lip gloss. I always seem to have that problem. "I know you, Susannah. I know there’s something the matter. Come."

  He took me by the hand and pulled. I went with him, even though I didn’t know where we were going. I’d have followed him anywhere, even into the bowels of hell. Only of course he’d never take me there.

  Unlike some people.

  I did balk a little when I saw where he had led me, though. It wasn’t exactly hell, but. . . .