Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
On my return from the prison, I head straight home, not trusting the streets of Amontillado not to have their eyes on me. The fight has left me shaken and angry, and I hate to admit how vulnerable I feel without Valdemar’s protective wings around me.
My mother is waiting at the table in the kitchen as I drop into the chair, and I tell her everything that happened, pulling the note out of the drawer I’d stashed it in and slamming it down.
I fire question after question at her. Who knows I’m visiting Valdemar? Why do they want him dead? Are they hoping I’ll do their dirty work for them? How do they even know who I am? Am I being watched? Do they want me to kill him while I’m visiting him like what nearly happened to Luchesi today? I’m no fighter and certainly no trained killer, so what the hell do they want me to do? How do they expect me to smuggle a weapon into a prison when I’m searched before every visit? Valdemar said he has enemies, and the guard confirmed that all those men in there do, but how do they know I’ve been visiting him, and more importantly, what will they do if he continues to live?
A chill trickles down the back of my neck.
The under-cabinet lights highlight small grease stains on the splashbacks above the hob. Ignoring them, I return my gaze to my mother. Her hands rest on the table as she watches me intently.
The note is between us, its contents belying how innocent it looks—just paper and words and not the death sentence it is.
“What am I going to do, Mother? What have I got myself involved in?”
She stares at me, her eyes so wide, so full of love, and I wish more than anything that she could answer me, tell me what I need to do, what the next step is. Instead, she reaches for my hand, which I give her. As I do, she disappears, and I’m left alone in the kitchen, the tap dripping and the clock ticking.
The thought of sleeping tonight fills me with a mixture of anxiety and curiosity. After the drama of the fight, I haven’t had time to consider what Valdemar confessed about his gift, the confirmation of his ability to visit me in my dreams and to leave puncture wounds on my neck.
Knowing he’s seen me laid bare, legs spread, and screaming his name only heightens the embarrassment of something that already felt illicit and dangerous. Irritation bores into my skin at the fact that I can’t seem to control myself in the dreams, that I’m under his influence even though he professed the opposite. He told me my body was only doing what my subconscious willed, but I don’t buy it. I don’t want him touching me. I don’t want him to see me the way he does.
At least, I thought I didn’t. Today, when he held me, I let him. I felt safe. It felt so right, like I belonged, just like in my dreams, and the thought makes me want to cry.
Having never felt the safety of my mother’s arms, I grew up with a hardened shell, no touch to gently thaw it. My dad wasn’t the hugging type even when he was around, and the rest of the family kept their distance, always a little unnerved by the pale twins who had managed to kill their mother.
Ed had never hugged me. We’d never needed physical contact. Our wordless bond was enough.
In the bathroom, I pull off my clothes and toss them in the laundry bin, shivering against the chill that permeates my apartment. Reaching for my nightshirt that hangs on the radiator, I stop for a second as a thought blooms boldly in my mind. Deciding against the nightshirt, I then grab a towel and wrap it around myself as I pad back into the kitchen.
Holding on to the towel, I stare at Valdemar’s T-shirt that I threw on the table when I got in. The guard never questioned it when I left the prison, too preoccupied to notice an old prison-issue T-shirt.
Cautiously, I hold it to my nose and inhale, afraid of what memories it might conjure. As soon as his smell hits me, I’m back in his arms, warmth seeping through my body, a calm enveloping me like a drug.
It’s strange, unfamiliar, to feel this safe and comforted. It’s what I’ve been missing all my life, and I almost laugh at the prospect of a convicted murderer being the person to provide me with the one thing I’ve never had.
Unsure as to why I’m doing this, I let the towel drop and pull the T-shirt over my head before making my way into my bedroom and slipping under the covers.
Apprehension fizzes in my stomach. What if he doesn’t visit? What if he’s too ill to use his gift, his vision blurred, eyes still burning even in his sleep?
This feeling gnaws at my gut until I realise that the thought of him not visiting fills me with dread. For three weeks now, his nightly visits have invaded my slumber, the narcotic I’ve needed to finally get a full night’s sleep, and now I’m hooked, addicted to his presence in a way I never thought possible.
Avoiding the question of how my feelings towards Valdemar Montresor have so quickly morphed into something I don’t care to assess, I lay my head on the pillow and close my eyes, wondering where the night will take me.