Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
After breakfast, Hilly had declined all offers of help with cleanup, so Amara had taken Gray up the stairs and across the bridge.
“A little bridge. In your house.” He bounced a bit, testing the weight. “Sturdy, too.”
“Stop making the bridge bounce, you twit. Come on.”
“What’s next? A secret tunnel? A mysterious elevator that only works during a full moon? An enchanted pantry?”
“Nothing like that. Well, maybe the tunnel.” She took his hand and led him across to the other tower, which held the library. His ecstasy was on full display and she loved to see his joy.
“Oh my God. Stand back, I’m gonna do a Belle-type whirl. ‘Ohhhhhhh, isn’t this amaaaaaaaazing?’”
And he did.
“I wanted to show you last night, but . . .”
“Yeah, I get it. Yesterday was a lot. Speaking of ‘a lot,’ you have so many books they have their own sections! And you’ve got two stories to hold them! Watch out; I feel another twirl coming.”
I’d like a lover who looks at me the way Graham Gray looks at a great big stack of books. Just for a little while.
Nope. Such things were not for her. The thought of falling in love with someone and knowing exactly when and how they would die? Knowing the date she would be alone again? If it was a bad marriage, she’d be counting the days. A good one, and . . . she’d be counting the days.
Unsupportable. Especially when it came to Graham Gray.
The library was one of the few rooms with wall-to-wall carpeting.
The bridge was a nod to the fact that the place was two stories high, with rows of built-in bookshelves ringing the room.
A spiral staircase led to the lower level, where there were comfortable couches, chairs, plush footstools, and two antique desks, each long and wide enough for a grown man to stretch out on.
A chandelier hung overhead, and there were three-way lamps scattered around the room, with switches set to bright, brighter, and operating room.
A wooden cabinet across from the desks held a printer and (quaint!) a fax machine.
The two-story windows offered a view of the lake, and in winter, it was the coziest place imaginable. Summer, too.
Her family’s collection boasted everything from a book of twelfth-century Norwegian literature to Joe Hill’s Locke we’re all terrible.”
“Finally! A bald admission of guilt. I’ll make sure to tell all the other feminists during the next blood moon.”
“Ho-ho-ho.” In deference to his status as guest, Gray was as dressed up as he ever got: knee-length cargo shorts and a sunny-yellow long-sleeved polo. No socks, natch.
“Your folks are in a lot of these,” he continued, brandishing D’Aulaires’ Book of Norse Myths in her direction. “Listen, and I don’t mean this in a nasty way, but isn’t your mom—who I think is awesome—but isn’t she a little—um—I mean, I didn’t expect—but she’s kind of—”
“Cough it up already.”
“A cliché?” he whispered. “She fusses and feeds and that’s it? Maybe that’s not fair; we’ve only just met. It’s just, she’s so different from you. From what I expected.”
“She’s not a cliché, she’s the archetype. She’s where the myth of the perfect homemaker comes from.”
“Oh. Wow.” Gray shook off the concept like a dog shaking off water, and tapped the book again. “Skye’s probably in here, too; I haven’t finished reading it.”
I am, too, she thought but didn’t say.
“And Arwen’s hellhoundlets are here!” he exclaimed, and tapped one of Sapkowski’s tomes, Baptism of Fire.
“Listen: ‘At that moment sounded the howl of the fell beann’shie, the harbinger of imminent and violent death, and across the black sky galloped the Wild Hunt—a procession of fiery-eyed phantoms on skeleton horses, their tattered cloaks and standards fluttering behind them.’ Doesn’t that sound adorable? ”
“Not even a little. Don’t discount them because they’re small. Those adorable teeth are basically weaponized sewing needles.”
“I can’t help it! I want one so bad. Say, since it’s just the two of us in here . . . I didn’t want to put you on the spot in front of everybody, but when d’you think I could meet your dad?”
“Now,” she replied, almost before he’d finished the sentence. “I’d love for you to meet him. He’ll like you, I think. But be warned: He’s blunt.”
Gray just looked at her.
“Like me,” she admitted. “But that’s the only thing we have in common. Well, maybe not the only thing. Look, we don’t have more than a dozen or more things in common, all right?”
“Okay. Maybe we could bring him his lunch? I don’t want to meet him by myse— I mean, that’s an intimidating thought. Just me and Death, chilling in his bedroom. He can reminisce about the plague and I can be terrified.”
“You’ve already talked to him on the phone.”
“Oh, yeah!” Gray snapped his fingers. “That time you forgot your phone at my house. One of the times you did that. He kept yelling into it like he didn’t know how phones work.
It was a real ‘Sir, this is an Arby’s’ moment.
What a geezer. An adorable geezer,” Gray elaborated, likely hedging his bets.
“Nothing to be worried about.” Provided Death keeps his mouth shut. But he’s like me: He only tells people their fate if they ask. And Gray won’t.
“I’m not worried. Well, not too worried. You’ll protect me. You always have.”
“What?” She was flattered and appalled at the same time. “No. No, I haven’t.”
He laughed at her.
“Okay, I protected you once,” Amara admitted. “But ‘all the time’ is a gross exaggeration.”
“My ass. You’ve gone to bat for me how many times over the years? And I’ve borrowed how many hundreds of dollars?”
“One.”
“What?”
“That’s how many hundreds of dollars. And you paid me back four days later.”
“Shut up, my point is I love you and you’re a great friend and I trust you completely, which is why I’m not entirely terrified to meet Death.”
“That’s good to—”
“It’s all those other death gods I don’t trust. Hank and Penny knife each other for fun, Arawn runs around with hellhoundlets and wears red gloves to hide his bloody hands, Skye could fuck me up like a chainsaw through paper towels, and Chernobog only comes at night.”
“Accurate,” she said, then stood and extended a hand to pull him to his feet. “So then, no time like the present. Let’s swing by the kitchen, I’ll bring him some raspberries and condensed milk.”
“Oh, yuck.”
“Tried it?”
“. . . No.”
“Well, then.”
“D’you know, Arawn’s dogs like blueberries? Not that I, um, fed them any. They just look like the kind of hellhoundlets who would appreciate a handful of tiny berries. God knows what he feeds them. Dead doves? The blood of innocents? I should rescue those poor little—ow.”
Halfway to the stairs, Amara stopped and stuck a finger in his face. “Get that idea out of your head right now, Gray. No one here should be rescued. Ever. For any reason. We’ve shat our bed and now we all have to lie in it.”
“Okay, super gross. Here’s what I don’t get. Behold!”
“Oh my God.” Amara was equal parts amused and horrified. “Who gave you my junior high school yearbooks? Have you been carrying that around the whole time?”
“I swore I’d protect my sources unto death.
But look.” He began flipping through the pages documenting her period of public-school imprisonment.
“Look at all the activities! And lots of friends—so many people signed this thing, there’s not room for even one more person to wish you a great summer.
‘Raider Princess,’ whatever the hell that is.
But then . . .” He held up her senior high school yearbook.
“A year later, no activities, and maybe five people signed, and it looks like three of them were teachers.”
“Your point? Other than I need to set those things on fire?”
“No one in this house can hide their amazement that you brought a friend. But it wasn’t always like that. These books prove it. What happened to this gal?” He jabbed a picture of fourteen-year-old Amara emoting like crazy on the set of Into the Woods. “Where’d she go?”
“She found out when all her friends were going to die and under what circumstances and realized there was no point.”
“Utter bullshit, Amara.”
“It’s not utter—”
“Ah! I knew I’d find you here.”
They both turned as Skye came down the spiral staircase. “You, Amara, I mean.” To Gray: “I had no idea where you’d be. I’m indifferent to your location.”
“You’re just in time!” Gray cried, and Amara prayed that meant he was going to quit with the yearbooks. “I told you earlier I recognized you.”
She grinned. “I assumed it was a craven lie.”
“Not this time. Check it.”
Skye peered over Amara’s shoulder. “A comic book.”
“A graphic novel,” Gray corrected. “See? Red Sonja.” Flip-flip-flip. “Here she is invoking Scáthach. And here she is praying to Scáthach. That’s the goddess who gave her such prowess in battle. Here she is asking Scáthach to do her a solid, and here she is yelling at Scáthach.”
“I know all these things,” Skye said, handing back the graphic novel. “I’m just surprised you do.”
“Are you kidding? My dad has a Red Sonja tattoo between his nipples.”
“Good God.”
“Don’t judge, Amara. Dad could have used that two hundred bucks either for groceries or for Red Sonja. He made the right choice.”
“Good God.”
Gray ignored her revulsion. “Anyway, Skye, I’ve been hearing about the She-Devil with a Sword since—wait. You know? What does that mean? Are you implying that Red Sonja was real? Oh my God! Please please tell me she was real.”
“Many myths are based in reality,” Skye replied. “But I’d worry your brain would implode if we take this any further.”
“I wouldn’t mind! And that’s as good as a yes.” To Amara: “I fucking love visiting your family.”
“Wait,” Amara advised, as Skye laughed.