"Merit," she said, my name apparently standing in for the one she didn't want to say aloud.
"Mallory, I'm really not in the mood for this right now."
"Because you have to run off and play with Ethan?"
We were doing this, I thought to myself. My best friend and I were actually going to have this argument.
"I'm doing what I have to do."
"He's manipulating you into spending time with him."
"That's not true, Mallory. He hardly even likes me. We're just trying to deal with this rave problem right now."
"Don't make excuses for him."
Ire rising, vampire rising, I kicked my closet door closed with enough force to rattle a silver-framed picture of Mallory and me that sat on the top of the bureau next to it. "You know I'm not Ethan's biggest fan, but let's face facts. I'd be in the ground if it wasn't for him. And for better or worse, he's my boss. I don't really have a lot of room to maneuver on this."
"Fine. Deal with Ethan on your own terms. But at least be honest about Morgan."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"Merit, if you don't like Morgan, then fine, break it off. But don't lead him on. It's not fair.
He's a good guy, and he deserves better than that."
I made a sound that was equal parts shock and hurt. "I'm leading him on? That's a really shitty thing to say."
"You need to make up your mind."
"And you need to mind your own business."
I heard the sharp intake of breath, knew that I'd hurt her. I immediately regretted it, but was too angry, too tired of having no control over my body, my life, my time, to apologize. She'd hurt me, and I slapped back.
"We need to end this conversation before we say something we're going to regret," I quietly said. "I've got enough to deal with, not to mention the fact that I have to be at my father's in a couple of hours."
"You know what, Merit, if your dating life isn't my business, then your daddy issues aren't, either."
I couldn't speak, couldn't fathom how to respond to that. And even if I'd wanted to, emotion tightened my throat.
"Maybe it's the genetics," she continued, apparently unwilling to abandon the argument.
"Maybe it's the person he's asking you to be. We both have different lives now, bigger lives, than we did a few months ago. But the Merit I knew wouldn't push this boy away.
Not this boy. Think about that."
The phone went dead.
The windshield wipers slapped against the glass as I drove, the summer night wet and humid, fast-moving clouds whipping through the sky below a darker, ominous mass that pulsed with branching threads of lightning. I parked directly in front of the architecturally austere building that held the gym where I trained with Catcher, and ran inside to avoid the falling rain.
Catcher was already there. He stood in the middle of the blue gymnastics mat that filled the training room, wearing a T-shirt and warm-up pants. His head was bowed, eyes closed, hands pressed together prayerfully.
"Take a seat," he said, without opening his eyes.
"Good evening to you, too, sensei."
He opened a single eye, and the look he gave me left no doubt about how unfunny he'd found the retort. "Take a seat, Merit." This time his words were biting.
I arched a brow back at him, but stripped off my track jacket and took a seat in one of the orange plastic chairs near the door.
Catcher remained in his pose of quiet concentration for a few minutes, finally rolling his shoulders and opening his eyes.
"Done with meditation?" I lightly asked.
He didn't respond, but strode forcefully toward me, enough malevolence in his gaze to speed my heart.
"Is there a problem?" I asked him.
"Shut it."
"Excuse me?"
"Shut. It." Catcher stepped before me, pulled a hand across his jaw, then put his hands on the arms of the chair. He leaned forward. His torso arched over mine, I hunched back into the chair.
"She is my top priority."
I didn't need to ask who "she" was. Obviously, Mal had called Catcher.
"She is unhappy." He paused, pale green eyes tracking back and forth across my face.
"She's having a difficult time. And I get that you're having a difficult time, Merit. Jesus knows, we all get it. You had problems adjusting to the transition from human to vampire, and now you appear to have trouble remembering your humanity."
He leaned incrementally forward. My heart began to thud, warmth flowing through my body as anxiety and adrenaline pulled the vampire from slumber, pushed her closer to the surface.
Not now, I begged her. Not now. He'd see, he'd know, and he'd handle me. Nothing good could come from that. For a split second, I thought he knew, his brow knitting as he leaned over me. I closed my eyes, counted backward, tried to push her down even as I felt him above me, the bulk of his body perched over my chair, the faint sizzle of latent magic electrifying the air.
Slowly, one drop at a time, I felt her recede.
"She's having trouble adjusting, Merit, just like you did. And she was there for you. It's time for you to be there for her. Cut her a little slack. I know she said some... regrettable things. And believe me, she knows it."
I opened my eyes, kept my gaze on his T-shirt and nodded, a little.
With a creak of plastic, he straightened, took a step backward, and looked down at me, arms crossed. This time his expression bore a hint of sympathy. His voice was softer, too. "I know you're trying to help Ethan. Trying to get him access, trying to do your job. I get that. And maybe that's the problem here, maybe it isn't. Frankly, that's your business, not mine. But before you alienate everyone who cares about you, Mallory or Morgan or whoever, remember who you were before this happened, before you were changed. Try to find some balance. Try to find a place in your life for the things that mattered before he changed you." He started to turn away, but apparently thought better of it. "I know you have limited time today, but you better be willing to bust your ass. If you're going to stand Sentinel, then you will damn well be prepared for it."
I shook my head, irritated that he'd assumed it was a lack of effort, of trying, that kept me from being the fighter he wanted when, in fact, it was the opposite. "You don't get it,"
I told him.
His eyebrows lifted, surprise obvious on his face. "Then enlighten me."
I looked at him, and for a long, quiet moment I nearly did tell him. I nearly trusted him, trusted myself, enough to ask him about it, to tell him that I was broken - that my vampire was broken. Separate, somehow. But I couldn't bring myself to do it. I'd tried to broach the subject once; he'd shaken off my concern. So I shook my head, lowered it.