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Avery?
He leans across and opens the passenger side door so I can slip inside. How are you?
With that simple question, something breaks deep inside me. Tears I can't control run down my face. Then I'm in Avery's arms, and before I can stop, I'm sobbing against his chest. All the incredible, frightening, puzzling things that have happened to me in the last few days pale into insignificance at the realization that I've just lost what I held most dear. My grandmother's wonderful legacy, all her memories, were a part of that house.
They're gone now and it's my fault.
Avery is stroking my hair. Why do you say that? This was an accident. You can't blame yourself.
He doesn't know what the fireman told me. I let him pick through the recollection of our conversation. And Donaldson was there, too , I add after a moment.
Donaldson?
I saw him, and I tried to signal you, but you didn't answer.
Avery pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and holds it out to me. Too much interference out here, I guess. Those damned microwave towers for cell phones are everywhere. I'm sorry. Do you think he started the fire?
I'm sitting up straighter in the seat now, wiping my face with the handkerchief. I don't know. I can't figure out why he would.
Unless he thought I was inside and he was trying to kill me.
But even as I say this, David's words come back to me. “No,” I amend with a shake of my head. “The fire chief said the fire started in the middle of the cottage. If he was inside, he knew I wasn't there."
I look into Avery's eyes. “I felt him, just like you said I would. He was there for an instant, and then he was gone."
Avery's brow creases and his mouth grows tight and grim. He is shielding his thoughts, but I sense his disquiet. Finally, he says,
“You must stay with me until we can sort this out."
I blow out an exasperated breath and let my thoughts answer.
I can't. David is extremely upset with you—and with me. I told him I wouldn't see you again. Of course, it was a lie. But I need to stay with him at least tonight. After that, I'll tell him I'm going to stay at my parent's home. He knows they're in Europe for two weeks. He'll accept that.
David is a mortal. Avery's tone is dismissive. You don't need to explain yourself to him or to anyone ever again. You are vampire, A
His air of superiority makes me cringe. If that's true, I remind him gently, why do we hide our true identities?
He cocks an eyebrow at me. You are impudent, aren't you? Perhaps it's why I like you so much. You have a way of bringing me back to earth. All right, A
I start to get out of the car, letting his remark about “ru
But I do need his help.
He reaches out, placing one hand on my arm, cupping my chin in his other hand.
"It will be all right, you know."
His eyes offer solace. For this moment, at least, I let myself accept it.
Chapter Nineteen
My parents live in La Mesa, a bedroom community east of San Diego. A drive that should take twenty minutes max, takes about forty with traffic, but for once, I'm in no hurry. It's the first time I've been alone—really alone—in days. The crying jag in Avery's car released some pent-up emotion, but while the sadness is gone, anger is just bubbling to the surface.
For the first time in my life, I know how it feels to want someone dead. If Donaldson is behind the fire, I might just reconsider Avery's notion that he needs to be killed. I'm not shocked that I feel this way, nor do I blame it on how I've changed. It has nothing to do with being vampire and everything to do with what Donaldson has taken from me.
It's a most human reaction.
Which is comforting, in a crazy sort of way.
At my folks', the reality of the fire hits me again. Their home is filled with silver-framed pictures, several of them of my grandparents taken in and around the cottage. I pick up one of them and hug it to my chest as I head for the bedroom.
My mom is a high school principal, my dad an investment banker. I'm an only child. I had a brother, Steve, two years older than me. He died at eighteen in one of the most senseless, devastating ways imaginable. He was struck by a drunk driver in the middle of the day in the middle of a crosswalk on his way to classes at Cornell University.
I don't know what makes me think of Steve now. Maybe it's because here in the house where we grew up, his presence is still felt.
Not in a maudlin “there's a shrine on top of the television” kind of way, but rather in an affirmation that life does go on after such a tragedy. My parents worked hard to make sure I didn't get lost in the depths of their inconsolable grief.
Which is what makes my parents so crazy about the lifestyle I've chosen. I know this. I just can't tell them why I feel the way I do. I can't explain that it's because of Steve's death I live my life as I do. He was killed minding his own business, without warning or reason. If life is so tenuous, I'll be damned if I spend it in safe drudgery.
But that's rather a moot point now, isn't it?
I find myself shaking my head. Maybe now, with eternity stretching out in front of me, I could stand to take a normal job if only to appease them in the short time we have left.
Because I know, it is a short time. Not that they are in ill health, but because I realize it is only a matter of years before they notice that their daughter is not aging. There will be no wrinkles on my face, no sagging body, no arthritic joints. How will I handle it? Will I have to disappear? How can I bear to watch as they lose another child? There must be another way. I must ask Avery.
Avery. My mentor, my guide. What would I do without him?
The smell of smoke in my hair and on my skin brings me out of my reverie. I slip out of my clothes and head for the bathroom off my folk's bedroom. I let the water run hot before I step into the shower. The steam is a balm to my spirit, as well as my body. I lather up and rinse off, and then I stand there for ten minutes, not thinking, not feeling. When I can stand the heat no longer, I step out.
The bathroom has turned into a steam room. I wrap a towel around my head and grab another to swipe over the mirror. It takes a minute for the glass to clear and another to digest the fact that there is no reflection beaming back at me.
The jolt is followed by an awareness that to no longer have to deal with mortal vanity is rather liberating. I towel dry my hair, finger comb it, and I'm done.
It only takes a few minutes more to change into jeans and a tee shirt and throw some clothes into a bag. My mother and I are the same size, and while her taste leans toward the sophisticated, she does have a stash of casual wear that I take advantage of now. I leave her a note telling her what I've taken. She'll have lots of questions, but there's no sense adding anything else. My parents will learn about the fire when they get back from Europe—soon enough.
Then I'm back in the car and headed for David's loft. He lives in the Gas Lamp area just south of downtown where gentrification is in full swing. The area, once a hangout for the homeless, now teems with restaurants, bars, loft apartments, and trendy boutiques.
The homeless are still here, of course, but relegated to the side streets now. Cops on horseback make sure they don't venture out where their presence might distress the new residents.