“Precisely.”
I switched off the burners. Maybe the stench I caused will fade in a year or so. “I guess I’ll get going, then. Don’t want to interrupt you.”
“You could stay for pizza,” Lucius offered. “You must not have eaten. At least, I hope you didn’t taste the hare. It may not have boiled long enough to kill the parasites . . .”
“You’re boiling hair?” Faith interjected. “Is that how you get it that way, Jenn?”
I glared at Faith for a long time, wishing I had a really great comeback. But nothing came to mind. Nothing. “I’ll just head back to the house,” I said, trying to exit with a little dignity. Trying to get out without crying. It had turned out all wrong. The whole thing was a disaster.
Lucius must have seen my disappointment, the humiliation on my face, because he said, “Excuse us for a moment, Faith.”
“Sure, Luc,” she offered, removing herself to the other side of the small space. “I’ll just check out your weapons over here. I love the diabolical decor.”
Lucius took my arm, leading me toward the door. “Jessica,” he said softly, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” I hardly bothered to lower my voice. Tears really were welling in my eyes. Jealous tears. Embarrassed tears. I was so stupid. I’d tried to cook a rabbit for him, and he had a girl coming over. Not just any girl. Faith Crosse.
“It was kind of you to try . . . a sweet gesture . . .” There was pity in Lucius’s eyes as he pushed a stray curl behind my ear, as if I were a hurt child. “But perhaps not the best idea. Not now.”
“Yes,” I agreed, shoving his hand away from my face. “It was a mistake.”
“Faith is a friend,” he explained calmly. “I find that I need a friend right now. Someone who understands me.”
That really stung. Who could understand him better?”I understand you.”
“No. Not in the same way . . .” He glanced at Faith, who had removed a sword from the wall and was testing the point. “I can’t explain it right now.”
“Oh, you don’t have to.”
His voice hardened a bit, as did his grip on my arm. “Jessica, you have Jake. You chose Jake. And you have Melinda, too. Must I be isolated?”
“No. Of course not. Whatever.” I tore my arm from his grasp, flung open the door, and ran out of the apartment, not bothering to grab my jacket.
As I stomped down the stairs, the tears really started to spill, and I heard Lucius step out onto the landing. “Jessica, please . . .”
I ignored him and kept going, and he didn’t call again. Before I had even reached the bottom, I heard the door to the apartment thud shut.
Chapter 32
I’D SUFFERED THROUGH the dream every now and then since childhood, and it had always shaken me, lingering in my mind even after I awoke. I would force it out of my brain the moment I jolted to alertness, inevitably in a cold sweat, twisted in my sheets. Always I dismissed it with real things. The square root of any positive, real number can be determined using Newton’s formula. . . . That was how I coped. By clinging to reality. To the concrete.
But that night in mid-December, the dream, more vivid than ever, would not be dislodged.
“Antanasia . . . Antanasia . . .”
She was calling me. At first like a lullaby, a soothing singsong.
It was dark and snowy there, in unfamiliar, steep, and rugged mountains. The black, wet, rocky outcroppings that poked through the drifts were like jagged teeth. Like fangs. The snow fell somehow harder, deeper, in a way that seemed almost menacing. As if the storm was animated and out for blood.
“Antanasia!”
She would always call me three times, and the last time was always different. Like a sudden cry. The wail of someone falling away, off one of the mountain cliffs . . .
Then silence.
Just the sound of wind and the swirling of the snow, whipping around the mountain peaks, which receded farther and farther in the distance . . .
My eyes snapped open.
I lay in bed for a few minutes, for once allowing the dream to saturate my mind. To settle in and become familiar.
Gradually, I accepted it.
And then I kicked free of the snarled covers, swung my feet out to touch the cold wooden floor, and padded quietly to my dresser, pulling open the bottom drawer, trying to keep it from squeaking. Feeling blindly in a pile of T-shirts I no longer wore, my fingers located what I sought. The book Lucius had given me. I took it out and crept to my desk, switching on the lamp.
In the circle of light, I read the now-familiar title. With surprisingly steady fingers, I riffled through the pages, searching for the waxy envelope still tucked near the back, about forty pages from Lucius’s heavy silver bookmark.
When I found the slender packet, I lifted it out, carefully—it seemed so delicate, or maybe just too precious to handle. Reaching inside with two fingers, I slipped out the contents. The photograph.
My breath caught as I stared down at a woman in a crimson silk dress, posed formally, her posture regally but comfortably straight, her shoulders back, her curly black hair piled atop her head, circled in a silver coronet. Her nose was a bit blunt, her mouth a shadow too wide to be conventionally beautiful. A hint of smile played at the corners of her lips, as if someone had told her a joke that she wanted to laugh at, although she’d been advised to be stern. To appear queenly.
A small, dark gemstone appeared to float just where her breastbone met her throat, the chain too fine to be perceived in the image.
My mother.
I peered more closely. Her eyes . . . her eyes were definitely mine.
So was her nose. Her bemused mouth.
I recognized every plane of Mihaela Dragomir’s face, as if I had seen her earlier that day . . . maybe because I had, in the mirror.
And yet the woman in the photograph was different from me. She had a special quality that was better than traditional beauty. She had . . . a presence.
Lucius’s words from weeks ago came back to me. “American women. Why do you all want to be nearly invisible? Why not have a physical presence in the world?”
Even in an old photograph, my mother had that. Presence. Mihaela Dragomir was captivating. The type of woman who would draw all eyes to her as she entered a room.
I turned the photo over to see if it was dated, but nothing was written there, so I looked at her again, studying her face for many minutes, hearing the dream voice in my head. Savoring my birth mother’s long-silenced lullaby and forcing myself to endure the scream of her loss. Again and again and again. Did she scream to lose her own life? Or for the loss of me? For our eternal separation from each other?
When I felt the weight of our mutual past beginning to bear down on me too hard, I slipped the photo back into the envelope. It met with resistance, as though there was something else inside, blocking it. I carefully placed the photo on my desk, turned the envelope over, and shook it gently. A small slip of nearly translucent paper fluttered into my palm.
I recognized the same script I’d seen scrawled across the whiteboard in Mrs. Wilhelm’s class back in September: VLADESCU. The same script that was on the inside cover of my vampire manual.
Is she not beautiful, Antanasia?
Is she not powerful?
Is she not regal?
Is she not exactly like YOU?
It was almost like a poem. An ode. To me.
I read it again, although I had memorized it the very first time, then slid Lucius’s note back into the envelope, followed by the picture, and replaced them both in the guide, which I laid on my desk. Then I turned around in my chair, catching my reflection in the full-length mirror that hung on the back of my bedroom door. In the soft light, I could have been Mihaela Dragomir, my flannel nightshirt a silken evening gown. . . .
On impulse, I piled my hair on my head and straightened my shoulders.
Is she not beautiful?
Is she not powerful?
Is she not regal?
br /> Is she not YOU?
Releasing my hair, I snapped off the light and climbed back in bed, not certain whether I wanted to rejoice or sob or both.
Is she not YOU?
Chapter 33
LUCIUS AND FAITH were late to English lit on the day of their big presentation, arriving five minutes after the bell rang—the better to surprise us all by appearing in costume. At least, Faith wore a faded dress that looked to be from the Victorian era—and which pinched her waist and strained across her boobs so tightly that Frank Dormand, in front of me, nearly fell off his chair when she swept into the room. Lucius, for his part as Heathcliff, simply resurrected the velvet coat and black trousers he’d worn on a regular basis just a month or so before.
“Oh, goodness” was all Mrs. Wilhelm could muster at the sight. I suspect that she was a little worried about Faith’s boobs popping out at an inopportune time, which would definitely violate the school’s dress code.
It was Lucius, though, who immediately commanded center stage, introducing his little play, lecturing with more authority than Mrs. Wilhelm had ever managed.
“Heathcliff is a wild thing—a damned man,” Lucius reminded us. “Catherine is damned, too. Damned to love Heathcliff, who must destroy her and her progeny. It is in his nature to take what he wants. And what he desires is vengeance, above all. And Catherine, she is an admirable savage. Theirs is a heartless, cruel, bitter, evil love.”
“Oh, goodness,” Mrs. Wilhelm fluttered again from the seat she’d taken in the back corner. This time, I think she was swooning a bit over Lucius.
“I do so appreciate this story,” Lucius added in an aside. “It resonates.”
I twisted my pen in my fingers, nearly snapping it, confused and sick at heart. Heartless, cruel, evil love. Is that what he wants? Is that what he always expected with me? Did Lucius ever expect any kind of “love” with me?
I glanced back at Jake, who shrugged and rolled his blue eyes, like he thought the whole production was a bit over the top. I smiled at him but weakly. Why, why can’t I feel more for Jake? He’s handsome, popular, without a cruel or dangerous bone in his muscle-bound body. Why am I so drawn to turn back around and watch Lucius? A guy who is totally wrong for me? An arrogant, enigmatic, potentially dangerous VAMPIRE?
Jake—Jake was the sensible, sweet, predictable choice.
Yet I spun back around, eager to watch Lucius.
When I rejoined the drama, he was facing Faith, and their play began. Somehow, they had condensed the first half of the book, grabbing quotes here and there, making some up, I suppose, and stitching them together into an intense twenty-five-minute scene that took Heathcliff and Catherine from their gleefully negligent childhood on the moors to Catherine’s careless discard of Heathcliff for the milder, blander Mr. Linton.
At least, I think that’s what they acted out. All I could focus on were the rough and tender movements of their bodies. The way Lucius snatched Faith’s wrist, yanking her to his chest. The way Faith’s eyes snapped as she tore herself away. The passion almost looked . . . real.
My plastic pen really did crack under the pressure of my fingers, ink staining my hand and spattering my cheek. No, Lucius. No.
No one even noticed. The whole class was spellbound as Faith, blue eyes locked with Lucius’s black ones, whispered, voice hot with what I desperately feared was not feigned ardor, “Whatever our souls are made of, yours and mine are the same.”
They stood there, frozen, face to face, until someone realized it was time to applaud. And applaud they did. Mindy knelt on her seat, jammed her fingers in her mouth and whistled, which I hadn’t even known she could do.
As if awakened by that shrill alarm, Lucius and Faith broke character, smiled, clasped hands, and bowed deeply toward their audience. Somehow, Faith’s boobs stayed in place, although the way Frank Dormand was craning his neck, I think he at least got a nice view down her dress.
I had to admit, it was the best book report I’d ever seen. Probably the best book report ever delivered at Woodrow Wilson High School.
I despised every moment of it.
Lucius was my betrothed. It should have been me up there. Something had been stolen from me. And not just a few seconds of glory in front of a classroom. I knew, at that moment, that I’d squandered my chance at a lifetime of glory at the side of the most compelling, infuriating, charismatic, terrifying man I’d ever met. A part of me knew that I should feel relieved. Shaking free of Lucius Vladescu was all I’d longed for, for months. And yet, all I felt was empty and defeated and desperate to figure out how to bring him back to me. Then I remembered the pact. Lucius would never dishonor the pact. Would he?
As the applause died, Faith bounced down the aisle to take her seat behind me, followed by Lucius, who didn’t even acknowledge me as he walked past.
It struck me, then. Did I even want him if he was only bound to me by obligation? What sort of victory would that be?
I glanced around at Lucius, but he was leaning forward, whispering with Faith.
A heartless, cruel, bitter, evil love . . . Did Lucius really want that? Did he honestly want Faith? If so, had I ever really had a chance? Should I even consider wanting a chance?
Chapter 34
“I’VE GOT YOUR laundry,” I called, kicking at the door to Lucius’s apartment.
He swung open the door. “Why, thank you, Jessica.” He accepted the heaping basket of jumbled clothes from my arms with a frown. “What is this?”
“Mom said you can start folding your own clothes.”
“But—”
“The free ride is over, Lucius,” I advised him, following him into the apartment. I hadn’t been inside since I’d tried to cook the disastrous Romanian dinner a week ago. The apartment still smelled a little bit like spleen.
Lucius dumped his clothes onto the bed and stepped back, surveying the tangled mess. “I suppose it’s too late to hire a washerwoman . . .”
“Oh, for crying out loud. Don’t be such a baby. I do this twice a week. And I don’t think there are any ‘washerwomen’ around.”
“That is your regional misfortune, not mine.” He picked up a sock, holding it out like it he’d never seen one before. “Where does one even begin?”
I snatched the sock from his fingers. “You say you can lead a vampire nation, but you can’t match socks?”
“We are all skilled differently,” Lucius pointed out, unable to suppress a grin. “Fortunately, my skills fall under the heading of leadership, not ‘base chores.’”
I reluctantly smiled, too. How can arrogance grow on a person? “I’ll help you—once.”
“Thank you, Jessica.” Lucius plopped into his deep leather chair.
“I said ‘help,’ not ‘do it for you.’”
He made no effort to move. On the contrary, Lucius smirked, slid lower in the chair and laced his fingers behind his head. “I believe I would be best served by a demonstration.”
“You jerk,” I cried, tossing the sock back on the pile and grabbing his arm, tugging him upright. Of course, Lucius was far too strong for me, and when he pulled back, I ended up tumbling onto his chest, both of us laughing.
Gradually the laughter faded, and our eyes really connected for the first time since that awful night I’d tried to stew a hare. Suddenly, we weren’t joking at all.
“Jessica,” he said softly, circling my wrist with his fingers.
“Yes, Lucius?” I leaned more heavily against his chest, my heart starting to beat harder.
Maybe I hadn’t been bested by Faith . . . His eyes had that same look I’d seen on Halloween, but without the anger and frustration. Instead, there was a gentler kind of desire there. A less fearsome, but almost as frightening, desire. Yet I didn’t move from him. I knew, this time, that I didn’t want to move. I could handle what happened. I would handle it.
Releasing my wrist, Lucius tugged gently on one of my shiny curls, letting it spring back into place. “You’ve changed your hair. Embrace
d your beautiful curls.”
“Do you like it?”
“You know I do . . .” He twined another lock around his finger. “This . . . this is true to you.”
I shifted slightly, and my hand rested on the hard curve of his bicep. He was wearing a T-shirt, and I could feel the jagged scar that ripped across his arm. My confidence wavered for a moment. Honor. Discipline. Force. He was raised differently from you, Jessica. . . . The Vladescus are ruthless. . . . “How . . . how did you get this?” I asked, tracing the scar with my fingertips.
Something changed in his eyes. The glimmer in the blackness dimmed slightly. “An accident. Not a story worth telling.”
He was lying.
I kept tracing the scar. It was wide, and I couldn’t imagine what could tear flesh like that . . . until I thought of the weapons on his wall. But who would do that to him? To anyone?
“You can tell me what happened,” I urged. I understand you. . . . Or I can try to. . . . Why are you drawing out this side of him, Jess? Why can’t you leave well enough alone? Because I want to know about him. That’s why. I wanted to know the truth about Lucius. His stories. His past. What he wanted.
“Jessica.” He groaned, encircling my waist. “If we could only not talk, right at this moment. If we could just be.”
No. Whatever happened . . . it had to be on my terms, too. I’d seen him with Faith. I wouldn’t be a fool. I wouldn’t fall for his charm, his experience . . . not if what he really wanted was someone different or something I couldn’t provide. . . .
I traced the other scar, on his jaw, and he caught my hand, pulling away slightly. “Jessica . . .”
“Do you really want that?” I whispered.
He kept hold of my hand, moving it to his mouth, brushing his rough lips across my palm. “Want what, Jessica?”