10. Alaric #2
I watch her without meaning to.
She looks...
Peaceful.
The realization catches me off guard.
I can't remember the last time I'd seen her look peaceful.
Something ancient shifts in my chest.
Something I'd rather not examine too closely.
Hours slip by.
A single knock sounds against the side window.
Trent.
One tap.
Our signal that he'd spotted headlights at the bottom of the hill but didn't consider them an immediate threat. Probably another spectral deer—the local cryptid equivalent of a mail carrier making the rounds.
I make a mental note to thank him later before settling deeper into the couch, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of my own heart.
Ridiculous.
Considering it only bothers with such enthusiasm on special occasions.
I dim the lamps and let the fire burn lower.
Birdie wakes only once.
She blinks around the room, momentarily disoriented, then finds me still sitting where I'd been all evening.
"You going to stay up all night?"
Her voice is quiet.
Not frightened.
Just curious.
I can't explain why that matters.
"I'm a vampire, remember?"
I offer the smallest shrug.
"It's literally my only marketable skill."
She laughs.
Softly.
For the first time...
It doesn't sound like armor.
She laughs.
For the first time...
It doesn't sound like a dare.
Or a shield.
We fall into the sort of conversation people only have after all the usual defenses have been worn thin by exhaustion and soup that tastes like despair.
Birdie settles back into the armchair with her knees tucked beneath her, the deep red upholstery doing nothing for her complexion. The firelight, however, burns her edges in gold until she glows like a reluctant apparition.
We trade favorites—books, bands, places we'd haunt if death gave options.
She's partial to Agatha Christie and Scottish ghost stories, and at some point confesses that she hates the beach but loves the way oceans make her feel temporary.
I admit I once tried to become a jazz pianist.
I lasted three lessons.
The instructor quit to join a doomsday cult.
She doesn't laugh.
She just grins, as though she's discovered an entirely new color.
"You always sound like you're trying to sell me on your weirdness," she says, "but I think you're just normal and deeply disappointed about it."
It's so painfully accurate I nearly drop my mug.
"Not normal," I say.
"Never normal."
"Sure."
She gestures vaguely toward me.
"That's why you tuck your shirt in at the laundromat."
A beat.
"Very normal behavior."
It's an ancient defense, and I smile because she's right and I have absolutely nothing to do with it.
"When you live long enough," I say, "the only thing that still matters is controlling your own narrative. That's why vampires always show up so well dressed."
I shrug.
"It's the only dignity we've got left."
"You want dignity?"
She wrinkles her nose.
"I'll make you a crown out of Ramen noodles and dental floss."
"I'm allergic."
I pause thoughtfully.
"And, full disclosure..."
"I floss with those disgusting little green picks."
She snorts.
Then the smile fades, giving way to something quieter.
Not sadness.
Relief.
As though she's finally too tired to keep performing.
We talk until the fire gutters low and the only light comes from the pair of lamps flanking the room.
I have the odd suspicion that if we stopped talking altogether, the ghosts of everyone we'd ever disappointed would materialize and throw themselves a party.
Instead...
The hours settle around us in easy layers.
"I didn't want this job," I admit.
"Any of it."
"I only took it because I thought it'd be easy coin. I figured you'd disappear like all the others, I'd send Brooks an invoice, and maybe steal a week in California before he remembered I existed."
She studies me like she's waiting for the ghosts, too.
"So when did you change your mind?"
"You're assuming I did."
She pulls her knees closer to her chest.
"You went soft the second you walked into that coffee shop and saw me behind the counter."
"I went soft the second you didn't offer me cream or sugar."
I point at her.
"That level of passive aggression is rare in the wild."
Her smile flickers...
...then catches.
And suddenly I understand that Birdie is beautiful the way earthquakes are.
You don't notice the exact second everything shifts.
You only realize afterward that nothing will ever sit quite the same again.
When she speaks again, her voice is quiet.
Almost apologetic.
"You could've told me about Leland sooner."
I don't argue.
"You could've run farther."
"I did."
The words settle between us.
Perfectly symmetrical.
Neither of us knows what to do with them.
Neither do I.
Especially not with my hands.
One minute she's ranking the best donuts in Blackthorn Bay.
The next...
Her cheek is resting against her folded arms.
Breathing slow.
Even.
I watch in quiet awe as every line of tension gradually melts from her body.
Like she's finally allowing gravity to hold her instead of fighting it.
There's something almost sacred about it.
I don't remember when she moves.
Only that sometime after two in the morning—somewhere between the haunted merry-go-round story and her theory that air fryers are government propaganda—Birdie's head tips against my thigh...
...and simply stays there.
At first I assume it's tactical.
Stay close to the vampire.
Reduce the avenues of attack.
But her breathing is deep and even, and the tiny unconscious scrunch between her brows tells me something I hadn't expected.
She's safe.
At least...
She feels safe.