10. Alaric #3
For one thoroughly undignified moment, I have absolutely no idea what to do with my hands.
I've always thought I carried them rather well.
Part of the uniform.
Part of the myth.
Now they seem absurd.
Long.
Awkward.
About as useful as dinosaur claws.
A few strands of her hair drift across her cheek.
I brush them back.
Gently.
Whether for her benefit or mine...
I'm honestly not sure.
The touch is almost nothing.
Barely enough to count.
Yet the sensation climbs my arm the way pain sometimes does—distorted, impossible to measure, entirely out of proportion.
When the strands slip loose again...
I catch myself braiding them.
Not particularly well.
The last time I did this, my sister still had all her baby teeth.
Turns out muscle memory isn't just for murder.
The rhythm is simple.
Mindless.
Comforting.
If I could bottle this feeling and sell it to the rest of the Grimhavens, we'd eliminate anxiety before sundown.
Once I'm certain she's asleep—
Truly asleep—
I look up at the ceiling and finally allow myself to say the things I've spent weeks swallowing.
"I don't know when you stopped being a client."
The words sound strange spoken aloud.
"Or when I started keeping track of your laugh instead of your address."
A small smile tugs at one corner of my mouth.
"Probably the night you argued with Clover about sugar versus saccharine and nearly started a tea riot."
My voice comes out softer than I intended.
Like a secret meant for someone sleeping in another room.
"I don't even like coffee."
I laugh quietly at myself.
"But I've gone into Hex & Honey four times a week just for the chance to hear you insult the pastries."
The confession settles into the warm room.
And somehow...
After centuries...
My own sincerity still manages to surprise me.
"People think vampires are obsessed with immortality."
I know she can't hear me.
Maybe that's why I keep talking.
"It isn't living forever that gets us."
"It's the forgetting."
"Everything..."
"Everyone..."
"It all blurs together until memory has the consistency of a melted popsicle."
I pause.
"If you're lucky..."
"You get one or two moments."
"A handful of faces."
"The ones that stay sharp."
My hands become still in her hair.
"If I last another two centuries..."
"I'll remember you."
A quiet breath escapes me.
"You'll become the yardstick I measure everyone else against."
"I'll hate that."
"I'll never admit it."
"But it'll be true."
I look down.
She's curled against me like a contented cat, completely oblivious.
For one impossible moment...
I forget about the men hunting her.
The sky outside.
The violence waiting beyond the walls.
All I want...
Is this.
Her head in my lap.
The fire burning itself into embers.
One quiet night where I get to be something besides a weapon.
The room settles around us.
Heavy.
Warm.
Safe.
I lean my head back until a knot forms in my neck.
Then...
Everything changes.
Not a sound.
Not exactly.
More like the rhythm of the universe skipping a heartbeat.
Wrong.
My fingers tighten once in her hair before I force them still.
Outside.
Someone's moving.
Slow.
Careful.
The old floorboards seem to hold their breath.
Even the fire lowers itself.
Waiting.
As gently as I can, I slide Birdie's head from my lap and ease her onto the couch, turning her away from the front windows.
She murmurs in her sleep but doesn't wake.
Good.
I reach for the tire iron resting beside the hearth.
There are better weapons upstairs.
Not enough time.
The cold steel settles comfortably into my hand.
I flatten myself against the wall.
The porch creaks.
A man's voice.
Low.
Close.
Then—
"Theo."
One word.
"Movement."
For a fraction of a second I relax.
Then immediately tense again.
Protocol says voices are only used when things have already gone sideways.
The screen door whispers open.
Then closed.
I breathe slowly through my nose and briefly imagine the scene from overhead.
Three people.
Two awake.
One asleep on a threadbare couch.
Waiting for fate to decide whether tonight is a tragedy or a very dark comedy.
A coded knock.
I ease back the deadbolt and pull the door open.
Theo slips inside, rain clinging to his jacket, his face already wearing that familiar pre-violence calm.
I've only seen it once before.
The night he threw a skinwalker out of a toddler's birthday party armed with nothing but a plastic spoon and profoundly misplaced confidence.
"Two men coming up the drive," he whispers.
"Big."
"Not subtle."
"One's limping."
"The other's favoring a wrapped hand."
"They're checking for tripwires."
He glances toward the living room.
"Might be Brooks's boys."
"Might just be another idiot."
"But it isn't random."
I look toward Birdie.
Even asleep, she's curling inward.
Preparing to run.
"Trent's covering the back?"
Theo nods.
"Full perimeter."
"If they make it upstairs..."
"They'll leave through the window before they touch the landing."
"I'll try not to redecorate the living room with anyone's intestines."
For Theo...
The twitch at the corner of his mouth is practically hysterical laughter.
"Do what you have to."
His eyes drift to Birdie.
"But don't let her see."