Nocturnal

by Chelsea M. Cameron

  “You said you would believe me.” His voice cracks through the storm like a bolt of lightning. I put my head up and look at him. His eyes burn through the room. Bending down, he retrieves his shirt. I've been so distracted by the wings I haven't even bothered to look at the rest of him. The tearing sounds again, and the wings are gone.

  “I will leave you now. I suspect you don't want to see me again.” Somehow he gets the shirt over his head in such a way that only male models in cologne ads can. I finally look at his bare chest. Nice. Very nice.

  “I never said that.” He pauses for a moment. A pause of surprise. Then his head goes to the side. I'm really starting to like it when he does that. It's one of the only times I can see his eyes without the interference from his hair.

  “Would you meet me again? In the graveyard?”

  “Yes.” My voice asserts itself before I have a moment to think. I think my brain abandoned me after the wings busted out.

  “Then I will see you tomorrow night. Goodbye, Ava.” He turns to leave, but I want him to stay. I scramble to my feet. He turns and then faces me again. I've never seen him waffle before.

  “I enjoyed the book you left for me. Neil Gaiman. He is a gifted writer.” My head struggles to understand what he's talking about. It takes a few seconds. Right, books.

  “Yeah, I know. I thought it would be funny, since we always meet in the graveyard. I have some of his other books, if you want to try them.” I back up, still a little hesitant. He moves toward me, but slowly. My mind is still on what I've seen. That he is real and in my room and tracing the spines of my books, stopping and reaching for another Neil Gaiman title while I stare at his back, trying to see any remnant of the wings. His fingers reach for a book. Stardust this time.

  “Goodnight, Ava.” He tucks the book under his arm and climbs out the window, smooth as sliding a hand across silk. Now I know why his movements seem so strange. In-human. Because he is. He is not human.

  “Goodbye, Peter.” Before I can blink, he's gone. I run to the window, my eyes raking the sky to see where he's gone. Nothing. It's too dark for me to see anything. I close the window before melting to the floor, all the air in my lungs expelling in a whoosh. I throw my head back, banging it on the wall. The stars on my ceiling stare at me. I close my eyes, struggling to regain my composure. So far, it's not working. All I can see are those wings bursting from his back. Hear that tearing noise. I just... can't...

  I spend the rest of the night sitting on my bed, trying to process what happened, which is futile, since this isn't like finding out your friend is in the closet, or they're pregnant. Because those things could happen, logically. This, not so much. Not at all. Instead of sitting on my floor and continuing to freak out all night, I take action.

  I grab a pen and a notebook that I liked to scribble on when I have ideas in the middle of the night and start making a list.

  How do you go out in the daytime?

  Why didn't you drink my blood?

  When did you die?

  Do you hate garlic?

  Coffins?

  Crosses?

  Is any of that stuff true?

  How do you become a... Noctalis?

  Why did you want to die?

  How do you kill one of you?

  What is it like to fly?

  Do you all have wings?

  I chew on my pen, absorbed in coming up with my Q&A. It's not like he's going to answer any of them, but I can hope.

  My eyelids start drooping as the sky lightens. I wish he'd done this on a weekend, so I didn't have to worry about being alert tomorrow. I'd have to insert a caffeine drip in my veins pretty soon just so I could function.

  Peter isn't human. The phrase runs over in my head, followed by something else.

  It doesn't matter.

  ***

  I showed myself to her this evening. Unfurled my wings in her bedroom, just enough that I could stretch them out, careful not to knock anything over.

  I watched her watch me. She swore, words I'd never heard her use. She asked me if I'm an angel. It made me want to laugh, if I remembered how.

  The legends of angels are based on us. Those paintings on ceilings and frescoes and mosaics and hundreds of pictures are of men with wings. We are responsible for many of the legends of supernatural creatures, vampires and angels included.

  Her fingers trembled as she touched them. I could feel the tiny movements as she stroked the feathers. A human touched me by choice. Extraordinary.

  Her pounding heart filled the room, drowned me in the sound. The room was steeped in her scent. Warm and fresh. I still wanted her, but in a different way. I wanted to take her and smell her and lick the salt from her skin. I wanted her to be still, listen to the sound of her body. I wanted to watch her heart pump through her skin. I wanted her alive. I wanted to bask in the glow of her skin. Of her humanity. That is what attracts us. We don't want just the blood. We want what comes with it. We want the light of life. The blood is the only way to try and get a little of it. Just a taste. But it's never enough. Even she wouldn't be enough.

  She fired questions at me like bullets. I didn't share much with her. Not as much as she wanted. Not all that I know. All that I am. If I'm going to kill her, I don't want her taking parts of me with her. She drank in my answers like water. Soaked them up. I watched them seep into her skin, becoming a part of her. I'd changed her, I knew that.

  I'd read the book she left me. About a boy who lived in a cemetery named Nobody who talked to ghosts and had a vampire for a friend. The irony was not lost on me. I wondered why she chose that book. I saw another of his books on her shelf and I took it.

  I enjoy books, very much. When you have an eternity, it can be extremely boring. But there are always new books, new stories to lose myself in.

  I felt her eyes on my back. Her gaze jabbed at my skin. I had to leave or else I would not be able to. Her scent was too much.

  I went out through the window again, my wings ripped free of the shirt. It fell to the ground in tatters.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Going Under

  Everywhere I look I see wings. They flutter on the edge of my vision, making me do a double take. That is, when my eyes are open.

  “Honey, you look like a dead person,” Tex says when I slump against our lunch table, closing my eyes. I crack them open only to glare at her, closing them once she's gotten the message.

  “Always so helpful,” I mumble against the table, which is sticky from god knows what. That is exactly how tired I am. That my cheek sticking to an unknown substance doesn't bother me.

  “You need to take care of yourself,” she says.

  “I know, I know.” I try waving my hand, but it's too much effort to lift my arm. Just talking is taking too much energy. Something slams against the table, and I jump, but not as quickly as normal. Everything I do is in slow motion. I open my eyes to see Tex's face a few inches from mine. She grabs onto my chin so I'll focus. My eyes almost cross, she's so close.

  “Go home. Take a nap this afternoon.” She shakes my chin a little, her fingernails digging into my skin. The pain of it makes me little more alert.

  “Fine,” I say, tugging my chin back. There's no arguing with Tex. Well, there is, but I wasn't in the mood for it. Too tired.

  “You need to eat more,” Jamie says as he sits down. I take a bite of my salad, chewing the lettuce drenched in ranch dressing that tastes like garbage on its way down my throat. I nearly choke on it, but do swallow.

  “There, I did.” I put down my fork.

  “You need protein. Here.” He holds out one of his energy bars with a smile. I take it and rip the wrapper off, taking care not to smell it too closely before I take a bite. I eat it just to make him happy, even though it tastes like a mix between cardboard and chalk. Jamie and Tex keep up a lively conversation about what the worst movie they've ever seen is. Tex looks like she's going to murder Jamie when he makes his case for Dirty Dancing. I just listen and replay the mo
ment when Peter pulled the rug out from under the normal world. Hell, he ripped up the floor of the real world, showing me a basement I didn't know was there, full of creatures I never thought existed. It's impossible to discuss movies after something like that. So I don't even try.

  “Ava?” My head comes up from the table at the sound of my name. I'd been remembering that moment when Peter looked over his shoulder at me. I still tremble thinking of it.

  “Yeah, I'm sorry. I suck.”

  “It's okay. I'm not mad,” Tex says, which is uncharacteristic for her. She always gets pissed when she thinks I'm not listening to her. Usually, she resorts to violence or tantrums to get my attention back. Much like a two-year-old.

  “What were you saying?”

  “I was saying that there's going to be a bonfire on Saturday down at the O'Hurley place.” It takes me a second to understand what the words mean. My brain moves slower than molasses in December. “They usually get busted,” she adds.

  Oh yes, that's right. The O'Hurley place used to be a house at the end of a long washed-out dirt road in a secluded part of Sussex. The house had burned twenty years ago, but there's lots of hidden parking and no neighbors. It's a bit like having a neon sign at the end of the drive that says, Teenagers Party Here! I've never actually been to one of them, so this sign might actually exist. There are so many places in rural Maine to get wasted, it's not even funny.

  “I think we should go.” Of course she does.

  “I don't know. Isn't that the one where they almost set the woods on fire and had to call in fire departments from three town to put it out?” Maybe it's the protein, but I'm feeling a little more alert.

  “But the fire was put out. That's what matters. You've never even been to one. For all you know, they could be discussing Shakespeare or string theory and drinking tea.” She holds an imaginary tea cup, pinky out.

  “Very unlikely, Tex.” Jamie's been silent the whole time. He doesn't approve of O'Hurley parties. I haven't been able to talk to him about the Cassie situation since he told me, but I haven't made much of an effort.

  “Still. It could be fun.” I have to think about it for a second, but I've already got an out.

  “I can't. My parents are taking me camping this weekend.” How could I forget? Oh yeah, there was that whole Peter-is-a-vampire-with-wings-thing that sort of distracted me.

  She throws a carrot at me. It bops me in the nose since I'm too slow to duck.

  “God, I hope my parents never pull something like that. I'd have to shoot myself. Can you picture Coby in the wild? Being all emo in the woods.” I also can't picture Tex in the woods, either, but I shut my mouth about that.

  “That would be hilarious.” I would pay money to see that.

  “My parents wouldn't be able to stop yelling at each other long enough to plan a trip,” she says, chucking her iced tea can into the returnable bin. This is also true.

  “I don't know. I can see where they're coming from, so I'm going along with it.” I roll my eyes as if I'm totally not into it. It's easy to play off the disgruntled teenager with the lame parents. Too easy.

  “Bring some pepperspray or a Taser or something with you.” I almost laugh hysterically, but swallow it down before it can burst out. I'm fully awake now.

  “What for?” She looks at me as if I've asked why it's wrong to wear white after Labor day.

  “Uh, bears?”

  “Come on Tex, we're just going to Camden, not the Alaskan woods.” Bears, honestly.

  “Still. You can never be too careful.” I am not going to tell her that I've already encountered something far more dangerous than a bear and gotten out alive.

  “No, you can't,” I say, conceding.

  Jamie is still weird and quiet, and leaves lunch early, barely mumbling goodbye. Tex turns to me as soon as he's out of earshot.

  “Okay, what the hell is up with Jamie? He's been reminding me of Coby for the last week. Every time I try to confront him, he puts me off. You're acting weird too. There is something going on and I want to know what it is. Right now.” Her eyes are like lasers that are zone in on me as a target.

  “You're going to have to talk to Jamie.” I've told her a hundred times. I can't do this right now. Not with everything else.

  “I know. I just wish you'd tell me. That both of you would.” She chucks the rest of her trash away, missing the can, not bothering to go retrieve it.

  “I promised.” I absolutely cannot look at her. It hurts too much.

  “I know you did. That's what makes this suck so much. I just can't believe that there would be something he wouldn't trust me with.” Stab me in the heart, Tex.

  If she's this upset about Jamie, god knows how ballistic she's going to be when she finds out about Thing One and Thing Two. Because Pandora's box can only stay shut for so long. And Thing Two has sort of morphed into Thing Two-and-a-half, if you count the angel-vampire thing. God Ava, get back into the conversation.

  “I don't get it either. But you should talk to him. Not yelling, talking.”

  “I'm not a yeller!” she yells, throwing up her hands.

  “Yeah, okay, you're not a yeller.” Jesus, calm down.

  “Shut up.” She's got those little wrinkles between her eyebrows that tell me she's more upset than she's letting on. I reach out and give her a hug. She doesn't pull away.

  “What was that for?”

  “Just 'cause.” I blush, embarrassed at my display. Hugging doesn't come natural to me. Kind of like making toast or geometry.

  “Well, thanks.” She looks at me for a second. “I wish you'd tell me what's up with you.”

  “I know.” My lies are thick and deep, like quicksand. I've seen the real stuff. It's pretty liquid, not like that gloppy, thick stuff you see in the movies. My secrets are like the movie stuff. Heavy and impossible to wade through. Taking me down without a sound.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Twenty Questions

  The second I walk in the house that afternoon, I know something is wrong. Dad meets me at the door as I'm putting my bag down. The house is too quiet. And he's supposed to be at work. He puts his finger to his lips and whispers, “your mother isn't feeling well.”

  “Is she okay? Why didn't you call me?” I immediately go into panic mode. I start to walk toward her bedroom, but he moves to block me.

  “We took her in to the emergency room, but she's fine. She's resting, so I don't want you to disturb her. If you could go and stay in your room, that would be good.” It's like he's slapped me in the face. I try again to step around him. What is he doing?

  “I just want to say hi,” I say warily.

  “She's sleeping.” What's he going to do? Physically stop me? Neither of my parents have ever physically touched me in a negative way. Not even a spank when I'd been little. They didn't believe in that kind of parenting.

  “I want to go in and see her.”

  “And I'm saying no. Not right now.” He crosses his arms, and I stare up at him, shocked. Who is he? My loan officer father must have traded personalities with a prison guard.

  “You can't stop me.” I bump against him as I try to go by. He holds me by both arms.

  “Ava. No.” I try to get free, to get past him, but he's too strong. Finally, I use my lack of height to my advantage and get free, knocking over a vase. It shatters, but neither of us move to clean it up.

  “Fine. I'm going out. I'll be back later,” I say, my words drenched in tears while I try to find my keys. His facade finally cracks.

  “Ava, don't leave.” I turn around and shut the door in his face.

  I have nowhere to go but the cemetery. And of course he's there. He sits down beside me without any further ado as I try to wipe my tears away. I'd cried all the way over.

  “You came,” he says. I wipe my nose on my sleeve, hoping he doesn't find my dripping nose too human or disgusting. I'm still coming to terms with the fact that he's not human. He probably things I'm gross.

  “I did.”
His clothes don't have holes in them and look relatively new. I finally look up at his face and gasp. His hair's out of his face. For the first time. Somehow he's pushed it back from his forehead so it falls on either side of his temples. Dear sweet Jesus.

  “You look, um, nice.” Oh, what an understatement. He looks like he was peeled from the pages a magazine that only photographs beautiful people.

  “Thank you.” Of course I'm exponentially more awkward giving the compliment than he is receiving it. I sniff again, wishing for a tissue. I'm left with my sleeve as my only option.

  “You are crying,” he says as I stealthily try to wipe my nose.

  “Yeah, I know, thanks for pointing that out.” I'm not feeling very nice tonight.

  “Why?” He's looking at me with that cool detachment, but I'm getting better at reading him now. I can finally hear the question in his voice. It's hard to hear, like a musical note at the end of a song, but I'm finally starting to pick up on it.

  I sigh before I answer. It comes out funny, with the mucus in my nose.

  “A lot of things,” I say, rubbing my sleeve on the moist grass to clean my snot off it. He's silent, so I look up at him. He's looking at me. Unblinking. Like a statue, only he's real. Granted, he doesn't breathe, but still.

  “Can we talk about something else?” I look away. I don't know if I want to be caught in his eyes tonight, even though it would give me an escape. That's what I came for.

  “Yes.” Once more, I wipe my face and bring out the list I've been carrying with me and adding to all day.

  “I've got a ton of questions for you.” I don't want to talk about my mother. I don't want to talk about Tex or Jamie. I don't want to talk to anything that feels real.

  “I will try to answer them.”

  I start with the less-stupid ones. Like the sun thing.

  “In fact, I need the sun to survive. I will show you sometime. I cannot digest blood on its own. I need the sunlight to start a chemical reaction to turn it into food.”