10. Alaric
ALARIC
By the time we crest Phantom Ridge, the backseat of my ancient Crown Victoria smells like a thrift store fire: wet wool, gunpowder, petrichor, and the nervous sweat of two people who have survived only because the universe enjoys a good farce.
Rain throws fists at the old windshield, occasionally outdone by Birdie's teeth chattering in the seat behind me, her jaw moving so fast I half-expect her molars to send up sparks in the dark.
I'm not even cold, but I keep the heater on full blast anyway, buying her a little comfort wherever I can.
It's the sort of gesture that would've mortified my former self, the one who believed stoicism bordered on godliness, but these days I'll take any excuse to break a silence.
The safe house squats on the edge of a cliff, dark and square-jawed, with a roof as uneven as my record of good decisions.
It's belonged to the Grimhaven coven since the railroad first gutted the mountain, and honestly, the place looks it—rocks shivering loose in the mortar, the lone window eyeballing us with the dull suspicion of a man who's seen too many trespassers.
I guide Birdie toward the door with a hand at her elbow.
It's neither necessary nor particularly appreciated, but the gesture buys me two seconds of close proximity and the faintest, soapiest whiff of her hair.
Theo and Trent are already stationed on the porch like forgotten chess pieces, dressed alike in worn canvas jackets and the kind of boots that could stomp a wolf to confession.
Theo nods at me, the movement betraying nothing of the kinship between us, and Trent's mouth tightens just a fraction in Birdie's direction before smoothing back into its default mask of apathy.
If you didn't know them, you'd think they didn't care whether we lived or died.
You'd also be wrong.
"Go inside," I say, pushing open the heavy, iron-banded door. "The alarm spell will fry your scalp if you're not quick."
She doesn't hesitate, disappearing into the black maw of the foyer, her footfalls soft as nocturnes.
I linger outside long enough to make sure my "cousins" understand the seriousness of this shift.
"Three shifts," I tell them. "Nobody comes up this drive unless they want to leave in several smaller, less symmetrical pieces."
It's overkill, but it makes me feel like I'm doing something, which is about as close as I get to sleep.
Inside, the house is frigid and close, every surface layered in the scent-memory of unlit fires and preservation magics. I find Birdie in the kitchen, arms wrapped around herself, staring at the broken clock on the wall as though it's a puzzle she can solve if she looks hard enough.
"This used to be a rectory," I say, which isn't true, but sounds better than grief-permeated mausoleum with Wi-Fi. "You hungry?"
"I could eat," she says, even though I'd bet my fangs she isn't. Birdie's not a big talker, but I've spent enough time watching her survive to know that sometimes she says yes simply to see what happens.
I take it as a challenge. I also take it as an excuse to avoid discussing the past three hours until at least two of us have something warm in our hands.
There's nothing in the fridge but condiments and blood packs, so I settle for dry soup mix from the pantry, stirring it into a battered steel pot on the stovetop.
I offer Birdie a can of ginger ale, which she accepts after studying the label for a full ten seconds as though the nutritional information is written in hieroglyphics.
I want to ask what she's thinking.
I already know.
She's wondering how long before every trace of her is found and swept away by Leland's clean-up crew... and whether I'm actually trustworthy or just another hired collector waiting in the wings.
I don't blame her.
In another life...
I might have been.
She sits at the tiny round kitchen table, knees together, hands wrapped around the can like it's a holy relic.
The way she studies the room, I can tell she's cataloguing every exit and most of the potential blunt-force weapons.
The tension makes me want to say something witty, but all my best material abandoned me somewhere between the car chase and the moment she uncorked her old wounds in Dandy's living room.
"So," she says after a full minute of parallel silence, "besides guarding me, what exactly do vampires do in the off-season? I feel like there's a whole after-hours culture I'm missing out on."
I pour the soup into two mugs, resisting the urge to make a blood joke.
"Mostly we binge prestige television and offer snide commentary on the neighbors. Some of us take up crosswords. Others dote on houseplants. There was a time when Trent tried knitting, but he kept making accidental nooses."
Birdie almost smiles, and the sight makes my lungs do something unfamiliar and borderline unpleasant.
She sips the soup—which is, predictably, terrible—and raises an eyebrow.
"You could've at least lied and told me it was peasant stew passed down from your Transylvanian grandmother."
I shrug.
"She was a terrible cook and an even worse liar."
A beat.
"I'm just carrying on the tradition."
Rain has grown heavier, smearing the world outside into a Monet painting of blue and black. Birdie watches it for a long moment, and in the silence I think about the things I'd like to say, the things I'd like not to want, and all the reasons I've failed at both.
I wonder if she knows how rare it is for me to bring someone here.
How this place is less a fortress...
...and more a confession booth.
"You trust those guys outside?"
Her voice is quiet but sharp.
"With my life," I say. "Which sounds dramatic, but is entirely literal."
She sets her mug down.
"I don't trust anyone anymore."
"I don't expect you to."
I slip into the adjoining living room to stoke the fire, unsure whether she wants solitude or simply another heartbeat nearby in case being alone gets too noisy. The wood is old and stubborn, but eventually flames crawl through the logs, slowly licking warmth back into the bones of the house.
When I turn around, she's standing in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes reflecting the firelight like they've been dusted with gold leaf.
"You can have the bedroom," I say, and I mean it. "It's got an actual mattress, clean sheets, and nothing haunted except the wallpaper."
She snorts, which is more of a compliment than anything I've received in the last decade.
"You really think I'm that fragile?"
She says it with enough bite to convince almost anyone.
Not me.
Fragile isn't the word I'd use.
Exhausted.
Cornered.
Braver than she has any right to be.
But never fragile.
"I think you're owed a good night's sleep after the day you've had."
I almost add, You deserve more than that, but stop myself. That's the sort of sentimental nonsense I usually mock in other people.
"Besides, I've slept in crypts. This couch is positively decadent by comparison."
She edges into the living room and kneels beside the fire.
"You always this chivalrous, or is it just the damsel effect?"
"I'm selective," I say. "Mostly, I just have a weakness for people who make me laugh."
Birdie tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear and glances at me from the corner of her eye.
"Are you going to tell me what's going on, or are we just going to keep playing house until I get murdered in my sleep?"
She's right, of course.
I lower myself onto the couch, which groans in protest.
"Leland Brooks wants you back. Not because he loves you, but because you're the only loose end in his entire operation. If he can't get what he wants through lawyers and bribes, he'll escalate until nobody's standing. The brokers he hired don't care about your safety."
A beat.
"I do."
She lets out a brittle laugh.
"That's a nice sentiment, but you're not exactly the Prince of Motives."
I resist the urge to flinch.
"That's true."
I lean forward, resting my forearms on my knees.
"And if you want to leave, I won't stop you. But for what it's worth, there's not a safer place on this continent than here. Not tonight."
Birdie's eyes search my face, looking for the punchline.
When she doesn't find one, she settles cross-legged onto the rug and absently nudges the fire with the poker.
"Was the stuff you said in Dandy's living room real?"
The question lands with a crack louder than the thunder outside.
I search for a lie that won't cheapen what little we've built.
Nothing comes.
"Every word."
The admission is barely out before regret follows it.
Because the truth doesn't entitle you to anything.
Least of all the person you want.
She says nothing.
The wind shoves at the house, as though angry it can't get inside.
After a long minute, she speaks again.
"Why did you take it back, then?"
Another pause.
"Why lie?"
"Because you're not a prize."
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.
She looks up.
"You're not something to be claimed just because I want you."
I stare into the fire.
"I saw what happened with Leland. How he convinced himself wanting you meant he owned you."
I shake my head.
"I'm not going to become another version of that."
The words snag somewhere behind my ribs.
"It doesn't matter how I feel."
I force a quiet breath.
"That's my problem."
I meet her eyes.
"Not yours."
Birdie studies the fire as though she might find her reflection somewhere inside the flames.
The silence stretches long enough for regret to creep in around the edges.
Finally, she says,
"You're a weird vampire, Grimhaven."
"Guilty."
This time she smiles.
Not the guarded little almost-smile I've become accustomed to.
The real thing.
Small.
Lopsided.
Beautiful enough to make several centuries of emotional restraint feel like an embarrassing life choice.
We fall into an easy silence.
The wind howls outside while rain taps against the windows, and for a little while I let myself pretend we're simply two refugees hiding from someone else's bad decisions.
Birdie curls her legs beneath her on the rug, the fire painting soft gold across her face.