Nocturnal (The Noctalis Chronicles 1)

“You know. I know you can feel when I'm upset, but I can feel you all the time. It's not very strong, but I can feel it more now that we're touching. You're very zenned out. It's nice.”

“I am not trying to feel any particular way.”

“Oh, well.” I don't let go of his hand until we have to get out of the car. I shiver a little. It's cold tonight. Ugh, I still have homework to do, and dinner to eat.

We stand outside the pool of light from the porch.

“My dad's home, so I don't think you can come in. One of these days I'll have to introduce you for real, but I'd like to put that off as long as possible.” Although, Mom's interrogation might be worse than his. Dad would just spend all his time glaring at Peter and trying to figure out if we've had sex yet. Yeah, I wanted to put that off as long as possible.

“You could introduce me as your boyfriend.”

“Oh.” I'm taken aback. His unblinking stare makes me squirm. “You wouldn't mind?”

“No.” He's straightforward. It's good sometimes and others not so much.

“If you're sure.”

“I've never been anyone's boyfriend.” He says is casually, but it means more than that, I know.

“Never?” I feel like we're getting near sensitive territory. I feel like we should be in the cemetery for this. “You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to.”

“Ava? What are you doing out there?” Dad peeks his head out the door.

“Nothing. Just looking for an earring I lost.” I thank my brain for being so quick as to think of something. Peter blends into the dark so well, I'm sure Dad doesn't see him.

“I've got to go in,” I say to the dark. I can still see him, even though he's hiding in shadow.

“I will see you later.”

“Goodnight, Peter Mackintire.”

“Goodnight, Ava Sullivan.” I smile as he uses my last name. I hate walking away from him, but it has to be done. I close the door and instantly I feel empty.

I have a quiet dinner with my family. Mom keeps giving me the eye, and I try to signal back that I'll tell her later. She nods imperceptibly. Message received.

I decide to I do need to concentrate some, so I go up to my room and lock the door. I slog my way through my assignments, suckiest first. I kind of get into the groove, playing some Muse on my iPod to keep me going. It's a nice break to focus on something that isn't life threatening. When I get to the good stuff, my English homework to read Catcher in the Rye, I'm feeling good.

“Knock, knock.” I fold down a the corner of my page. Normally I don't approve of folding down pages, but this copy is so battered it doesn't matter.

“Come in.”

Mom looks like she's been bursting to ask all night.

“You have some explaining to do, ma fleur.” She sits at the edge of my bed.

“I know,” I say, rubbing my eyes with the heels of my hands.

“How old is he again?” She says it casually, but I know the answer matters.

“Eighteen.”

“He seems older.”

“Yeah, I know. He's an old soul.” This is true.

“How did you meet again?”

“I spilled a drink on him. He made some witty remark, I said something dorky back and the rest is history.” I roll my eyes.

“He's...” She struggles to come up with an adjective, “intense.”

“He is that.” Also true.

“Are we going to be seeing more of him?”

“Uh, yeah.” Why beat around the bush?

“His family's okay with that?”

“Yeah, they're cool.” Gah, I sound like a moron. “He's got two brothers.” In this lifetime, I don't add.

“Parents?”

“Just a mom. His dad died.” It's amazing how little I have to lie. Although, if you consider the omission of the truth as lies, then my pants should be on fire.

“Well, I hope we get a chance to get to know him better.”

She strokes my hair. It feels nice, but it just reminds me of the fact that I'm not going to have this forever. I think the worst thing is not learning of your own mortality, but that of those around you. I'd rather if the world just went ahead and ended, because it won't be the same without her.

“I'd like that,” I say, gazing up at her. My chest loosens some.

“Goodnight, baby.”

“Night.” I feel how frail she is when I hug her again. She doesn't smell the same, either. I mean, it's not like she doesn't still smell like lilac perfume and dirt and the dinner she cooked. With my added senses, I smell something different, rotten. I don't like it, because I know what it is. It's the cancer, eating away at her.

I still hold her tight. I'm not thinking about it.

“I love you.”

“I love you, ma fleur.”

She tucks me in like I'm a child again. For a second I almost ask her to read out loud to me like she used to, but it's been years and she looks tired. Peter's also been gone for hours and I want him to be able to come back. Even if he's lurking on the roof like some sort of beautiful gargoyle. The image of him hunched over with his wings tucked makes me want to laugh.

My mother turns off the light and softly exits the room, as if I'm a baby she's scared to wake. I wonder if she still sees me like that sometimes. Then I start to cry.

I have no idea where it comes from, but one second I'm fine and the next I'm crying into my pillow.

“Shh.” Of course I don't hear him come in. He's so damn stealthy.

“Leave me alone.” Okay, so it's mean, but I don't want him to see me cry again. I don't want anyone to see me cry.

“Do not be ashamed of tears.”

“They're embarrassing, and they make my face all red,” I say as I shake. The sobs explode out of me and I grab my pillow to muffle the sound. I can't let my parents know I'm crying. That would be the worst of the worst.

“Would you like me to hold you?” He hasn't touched me yet.

“Yeah,” I sniff like a three-year-old.

He holds his arms open and I fall into them. He isn't warm, but I don't really care about that. I can do without the beating heart. I need something to hold onto so my tears don't take me away with them. He's also big enough to muffle the sound.

I don't know how long I stay there in his rigid arms. He doesn't rock me. He doesn't say anything. He just lets me go. It's exactly what I need. He lets me cry it out, dribbling snot and tears all over his shirt. I feel bad, but there's really nothing I can do about it.

Like a hurricane, it takes a while for my crying jag to blow itself out. I also probably look like I got hit by a truck, but that's beside the point.