Chapter 15 #2
Fiona stops on her way over to us to say hi to my mom, so, for long, torturous moments, Nora and I are left alone by the couch in silence.
I wonder if it might make a decent photograph—a family portrait, if you will: me observing my wine as if there’s some wisdom to be found in the swirls of dark red liquid, Nora checking her Rolex.
We have nothing in common despite twenty-plus years of being sisters.
Seconds tick by with no reprieve from the discomfort. We are stranded on Conversation Island with no life raft. Penny, where art thou?
“How’s work?” I manage. There we go—normal human interaction achieved.
“The foundation just secured a second round of funding for our Astera Fights Poppy initiative,” Nora says, eyes lighting up a bit. “We’ve raised almost four million dollars toward helping the Astera PD take down crime lords like the White Stag.”
Nora’s a high-ranking executive at one of the most successful nonprofits in the country, the Astera City Foundation Against Crime, or ACFAC.
My entire miserable black-sheep persona would be so much more righteous if my family weren’t putting away criminals and taking care of the less fortunate. Charitable jerks.
“You’re going to get poppy off the street,” I tell Nora. “Mom will be thrilled.”
When Nora purses her lips like she’s doing now, she actually looks just like her. “That’s rude.”
“What?”
“Come on, Viv.”
“I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Are we not over the jealousy thing yet?”
My cheeks heat as I grip my wineglass. “I’m not—”
“I don’t have the energy for one of your mood swings tonight.” She sighs. “It’s been a really long day.”
My fury pulses until I hear a shattering sound. Only a second later do I realize I’ve crushed my wineglass in my palm and doused the white carpet in rich merlot. “Fuck.”
Laura Pine’s shriek could probably be heard in the underworld.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble, kneeling down to pick up the glass.
“No, no,” she says as she shuffles over. “You could make it worse. Marta?”
Poor Marta hurries over with an arsenal of cleaning supplies, and I back away slowly as if there’s a gun aimed right at me. My mother offers a quiet apology to Laura.
“Don’t worry,” Penny says to her mom with warmth and ease. “I can get it right out. The kids I teach spill things far worse than wine every day.” She ushers Marta off her knees and takes over, offering me a reassuring smile. “Look, baking soda cures all.”
My pulse subsides a bit in my veins. I love that girl so damn much.
I hear James say something about how the glass must’ve had a crack in it.
Nora’s already back on her phone, disinterested, but my mother…
She’s staring at me like I’m the Antichrist. I get that feeling sometimes, like she knows there’s something rotten inside me.
It’s not too different from the look she gave me the night I returned home without my father.
Like maybe she hates me because she’s afraid.
Dinner is a formal affair with perfectly sauteed vegetables and steamed fish with more garnish than I have accessories.
Nobody speaks to me—not even my boyfriend, who’s too busy telling my mother about his firm’s latest PR crisis, involving some philandering news anchor.
Penny’s seated all the way at the other end of the table, though she does text me an image of an identical rug on sale at Rugs Plus for thirteen dollars with an eye roll emoji.
The ringing of a knife against crystal pulls my eyes from the encouraging text, and I find my mom and her prim smile gathering everyone’s attention. “Caspar and I have some exciting news.”
For a moment, I wonder if I’m going to puke. If they’re dating or having a secret baby or—
“After years of friendship,” Caspar says, “I’m honored to share that I will be financially backing Beatrice’s mayoral campaign.”
Stan and Laura beam their delight, and James extends his arm across the table to shake both my mom’s and Caspar’s hands.
Fiona and Nora nod knowingly, like they already had this information, which is only the sixth most hurtful thing that’s happened tonight.
At least Penny’s wide eyes find mine across the elongated table.
I shrug at her as if to say, News to me.
“It’s just exploratory at this point,” my mom adds, beaming.
“Oh, Beatrice,” Laura coos. “You’re perfect for the job.”
“You’ll clean this city right up,” Stan adds, leaning back in his chair to free his belly from the table. I want to grab him by the rounded cheeks and tell him drug dealers south of the Chasm are the least of Astera’s concerns.
Caspar nods to his friend. “Beatrice’s strong record on crime is already speaking volumes to voters.”
My mother goes on to share all about her pre-mayoral campaign, including that she’ll be announcing her candidacy at the annual Windsor Gala in the spring.
She and Caspar think that with him as her first backer and all the high-ranking relationships he can draw in, she has a good chance of beating the incumbent.
She’s got a squeaky-clean record, the perfect-on-paper family, and the mayoral haircut to boot.
Despite the fact that the political bomb drop means few jokes are made about my clumsiness, the ruined rug, or my inability to pay to have it fixed, by the time we pick at the dregs of our gluten-free, sugar-free, dairy-free cobbler, I’m still about ready to beat the shit out of something with horns.
And the truth is, I hate myself for it more than any of them ever could.
It’s that roiling, restless darkness I was born with—that spiked, meaty growth inside my chest that allows me to murder demons in cold blood—that makes me feel so alone at this dinner table, not the run in my tights or the merlot on the rug.
It’s also what makes me ask James on the car ride home, “Can you drop me at the Windsor?”
James checks his phone beside me. “It’s nearly ten.”
I planned to spend my first night off campus at James’s place, but I just can’t bring myself to do it. Not after tonight. I find, to my own surprise, that if I can’t hunt in the city, there’s nowhere besides Harker I really want to be.
“I have so much work to do still,” I lie.
He doesn’t even argue, and we ride the rest of the way in silence.
The moment I step into Elkfore Hall, the angsty nagging in my chest subsides a bit, and I’m not even sure why.
It’s like I’ve taken one of the meds Nora takes before flying, but without the loopy side effects.
In the common area, some students are playing cards and drinking coffee from chipped teacups.
Others laze on the deep-cushioned sofa while a French film from the sixties plays on the screen above the flickering fireplace.
One student is leafing through a grimoire in a nook filled with melting candles and peeling books.
Something smells like popcorn and white wine, and I turn just in time to see Kitty and another girl walking in from the small kitchenette, glasses and a bag of puffed kernels in hand.
They’re both in checked pajama bottoms and big navy Harker hoodies.
I feel a tad overdressed in my wine-splattered patent leather loafers and thick mascara.
“Viv.” Kitty smiles. “You joining us for the movie?”
“I—” I’m about to come up with an excuse when I realize I don’t have to. “I’m going to train in the gym a little. I had a rough night.”
“Sorry to hear it.” She shrugs. “We can fill you in on the beginning if you change your mind.”
And then I realize why Harker is such a tonic to my nerves. It’s the relief of being surrounded by people I don’t have to lie to. People I can be myself around. You’re not as alone as you think. That’s what Peter said to me on my first day.
I’m hoping Sophia will be in our dorm when I get up there.
I want to tell her about dinner and hear her outraged response.
Both her parents are hunters, as are Elliot’s, and even Peter’s and Kitty’s parents were hunters before they passed away.
None of them know what it’s like to hide their abilities from their families.
It’s almost as if, when I’m with my new friends, I can imagine what it would be like to not feel so ashamed of who I am.
But when I get up to our dorm, it’s empty. Sophia’s left me a note on our chalkboard: Spending the night with that idiot. Maybe I’ll get a 50s Chevy out of it—Text if you need me.
XO Soph
I bypass my textbooks and grab my daggers from the weapons shelf in our closet.
My gaze lingers on the newly fixed crack down my left one.
I never christened the blades. But I’m here now and it dawns on me that I’m not going anywhere for a while.
Not until I learn more about my dad’s secrets, at least. I might as well give the blades some damn names.
I stare at the silver and think of him. How he used to wield them.
The ease and effortlessness with which he hunted.
How fun he made it when we bested the bad guys together.
That version of me would never have tried so hard to impress all the jerks at dinner tonight.
She would have given this school a real chance.
What would Dad think of me today? Of the double life I’ve crafted?
For some reason, the thought sends all the fight out of me.
I’m exhausted—eyelids heavy, feet sore. I’ve been working and hunting and keeping up appearances in such rapid succession for the past eleven years, I wonder if it’s all catching up with me right here in this dorm room on one unremarkable weeknight.
I put the daggers back in the closet and lie down on my bed.
I tell myself I’m just going to close my eyes for ten minutes, and then I’ll change out of my Beatrice-half-approved outfit and go beat up some demon-shaped body bags.
When my eyes snap open I am sure of two things:
One: I’ve slept far longer than ten minutes.
Two: I’ve awoken to what sounds like a massacre.