Sisters Red (26 page)

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No spark, no fire. Nothing. "You're right," I whisper aloud. "I didn't feel anything."

"Not like you feel when you hunt," Silas says, lowering himself to the ground in front of me. He takes my hand in his. "It's fine, Lett. But just because you can find that kind of love in the hunt doesn't mean that Rosie and I can. We're hunters, but we need something more. You don't. You're a part of it; it's a part of you."

"I can't help it," I whisper through tears. How are there even tears left in my body? "I can't help it. It's what I am; it's all I am. It's all that's left of me."

"I know," Silas says gently. He rises and pulls me to standing with him. "It's okay."

"I don't think I can change," I murmur. "I can't stop... I keep thinking about hunting and the Potential and this Porter guy and..."

Silas smiles comfortingly, then shakes his head. "Lett, I'd never want you to change anyhow." He reaches over and puts his hand over mine, squeezing it tightly. I hesitate, then put my other hand on top of his. We're partners. Always have been, even when I hate him, when he's a thousand miles away, when he loves my sister... even when it'd be easier to go it alone for good.

We're silent for a moment.

"I promised Rosie I'd make you come home," he finally says.

I shake my head, mind still whirling. "I can't, Silas. Not right now, anyway."

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"I figured as much," Silas says softly. "I'll go, then?"

I nod. I don't know what else to do. Silas turns and walks away.

He doesn't look back, and I'm glad, because the tears have begun to flow again.

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CHAPTER TWENTY

Rosie

I return home, cheeks now rubbed raw with tears
. Only Screwtape waits for me in the apartment, though I'm not surprised. I splash water on my face and turn the lights off, then carry Screwtape to the couch in hopes he'll comfort me until someone,
anyone,
returns. He allows me to bury my face in his fur for only a few moments, though, before he leaps away to chase a bug that skitters across the floor, its silhouette illuminated by the streetlights outside.

The door opens. It's Silas. He meets my eyes in the near darkness and presses his lips together. No words are necessary. I nod as the familiar lump rises up in my throat again. Silas slips his shoes off and sinks into the couch beside me, dropping his head into his hands. Screwtape darts by him, bites

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his ankles, and moves on; Silas takes the most halfhearted swipe at the cat.

"No luck?" I finally ask.

"I found her. She wouldn't come," Silas says gently. My face tightens and I curl into a ball against the couch arm. She wouldn't come home. I hurt the other half of my heart that badly.

Silas sighs and moves closer to me, taking my forearms in his and trying to pull me into an embrace. I want him to hold me, I want to breathe in the scent of his skin, let my hand climb up the front of his shirt, feel the heat of his body. But something stops me, something more powerful than my own desire. I pull away and shake my head.

"I... I..." I want to say that I
can't. I
can't
touch you like this right now,
can't
hold you even though my body begs to be against yours
. I love my sister; this is what hurt her. This is what drove her away.

Silas nods sadly. "Okay, Rosie. Why don't we both just get some sleep, then?"

"Y-yeah," I stammer. "Right. And we'll go try to get her to come home in the morning," I say firmly.

"Of course," Silas answers. The bells outside toll twelve times, but it feels much later than midnight.

I grab Screwtape again and trudge to the tiny bedroom that Scarlett and I share. Behind me, I hear Silas pull off his shirt and unfold the afghan. I wonder how well he'll sleep. I don't know if there's even much point in my trying. I crawl

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into the bed, Scarlett's side achingly vacant. I steal her pillow and bury my face in it, inhaling the scent of her hair--it's different from mine, just the smallest bit. How can I exist in a world where she hates me? Tears burn my eyes and begin to fall again, self-hatred gnawing at me. I stop crying for a moment when light from the street steals into my bedroom as Silas gently pushes the curtain aside. He leans against the wall, arms folded across his bare chest and hair falling in front of his eyes. Almost silently, he moves to the tiny space between my bed and the wall and lowers himself to the floor. Raising his knees to his chest, he drops his head and reaches for my hand, running his thumb across my knuckles silently.

I slide off the bed, sheets wrapped around my legs, and ease into his lap, tucking my face against his neck. He cradles me against him like he's afraid to let me go. I know I should shy away, that I should climb back into my bed out of loyalty to my sister. But there's something that locks me in place, something that won't let me stray from the gentle rise and fall of his chest or from his arms, supporting me like I'm something precious as his lips brush across my forehead.

Without speaking, we finally fall asleep.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

SCARLETT

I DON'T KNOW WHERE TO GO. WHERE TO GO, WHAT TO
do, or whom to speak to. I don't talk to strangers; I don't chat and discuss the weather in elevators. So I wander the city, silent, stoic, as a low morning fog rolls in and covers the ground. Even the homeless avoid me, as if I'm giving off some sort of leper vibe. I try to hunt, but in a way I'm afraid to; the Arrow pack knows who we are, and I'm not sure I have the willpower or ability to stop them if they ambush me. It would be easier to just let them have me.

The next day is the same.

And the next. I wander into the library and halfheartedly type Porter's name into the computer--still no results. I sleep in the park, huddled under the coral-colored azaleas with my cloak swept over me like a blanket. A cop gives me

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trouble once, but when he sees me without the eye patch, I can practically feel his throat go dry. He nods at me and advises me to find a new bed in the future, then leaves me alone. I wander like a lost girl, jumping whenever I think I see Rosie or Silas. Every time I happen across a couple that resembles them, my heart leaps nervously. I don't want them to find me, but while I dread it, I also find myself hoping to see them laughing, holding hands, walking along together. Maybe I'm a masochist, but watching them together would hurt, sting with jealousy and betrayal. Hurt would be
something,
at least, some feeling to break up the dead, dull sensation I've been filled with for days now.

I take the subway in circles for most of day three, until I realize that I'm seeing the same people coming home that I saw going to the shops, the park, the diners, hours prior. I force myself off at the next stop and begin to walk. I'm surprised when I emerge from the subway station; I haven't been to this part of town before, but I recognize a logo on a sign pointing me to Vincent's Elderly Care, the hospital Silas's father is in. I linger on the street corner for a moment. I haven't talked to anyone in days. Pa Reynolds was always kind to us, took care of us after Oma March died, until our mother got there. He knows about the scars already, and he doesn't stare. At least, he didn't before the Alzheimer's. He probably doesn't remember me at all. What if he cries out? What if I scare him now?

I can't continue to be alone, though. I turn the corner to the hospital, a giant white and cream building that looks as

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if it's a product of the late sixties. Nurses in salmon-colored scrubs chat on benches outside while eating yogurt, and even from the sidewalk I get an overpowering whiff of that horrible hospital smell--saline and latex and rubbing alcohol. I wrinkle my nose and ignore the curious stares from the nurses as I enter through bright white automatic doors.

"Can I... um... help you?" a young girl calls out from the reception desk. Her fake smile and voice fade when she sees me, though the giant mirror behind her tells me it's not just because of my scars. My hair is a tangled mess, my clothes dotted with dirt and leaves. I grimace and yank my hair back into a ponytail as I approach her. That's better, somewhat.

"Hi," I say, but my underused voice cracks. I start again. "Hi. I'm here to see Charlie Reynolds."

"Your name is?" the receptionist says, bouncing back to her perky professionalism.

"Scarlett March."

"Oh, you're not on Mr. Reynolds's visitor list--"

"I'm visiting for Silas Reynolds. He couldn't make it and wanted someone to check on his father," I lie. The receptionist chews on her pen for a moment, then shrugs.

"Okay, then. Right this way." She slides a Be Back in a Moment sign across the desk and leads me through the hospital. We pass rooms of people in wheelchairs, pointed at televisions that I'm certain they aren't truly watching. Rooms where the curtains are drawn and doctors talk to old people in coddling, soft tones, the same voices they would use for

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infants. "Good job! Now eat another bite!" I frown and try to block my ears.

"He's right in here," the receptionist says, opening the double doors of a back room with a key card. We walk in and I hear them lock behind me. I fight the urge to bolt.

The room is brown. Completely brown. Brown paneling, brown carpet, brown leather furniture. The only color in the room is the patients, most of whom wear sea green hospital gowns. They have lanyards around their necks displaying their names and pertinent details. They don't even give me a second glance, and though I suspect it's not out of politeness, I'm still grateful.

"Miss March, here to see Mr. Reynolds," the receptionist calls across the room to a beefy male nurse who looks more like a club bouncer than a hospital employee. He nods and smiles, then points toward the back of the room at a small circle of wheelchairs.

Toward Pa Reynolds.

The receptionist pulls a chair up for me, but I can't stop staring. Is this the way people feel when they see me? I sink into the chair, regarding Silas's father with awe. Time has dissolved the once strong, proud man; his wrists are frail, neck small, lips loose and wet. He looks around the room in alarm, as though he's searching for something specific but can never find it. He's one of the few not wearing a hospital gown, but the gray sweatpants and white T-shirt make him look even more washed out and call attention to the age spots that cover his skin.

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"Mr. Reynolds?" the receptionist says so loudly that it hurts my ears. Pa Reynolds turns to face her, bobbing a little in his wheelchair. "Mr. Reynolds, Miss March is here to visit you today. Isn't that exciting?"

Pa Reynolds glares at her. I snicker; it's a familiar glare, one that would usually accompany the words "Are you thickheaded, child?" The nurse looks exasperated for a moment, then smiles at me and walks away.

Pa Reynolds moves his wavering eyes to me. I turn my head so he doesn't see my missing eye. He smiles and reaches a delicate hand forward, and I wrap my fingers around his, soft as aged leather.

"Celia," he croaks, his voice higher pitched than I remember. "Celia, how lovely to see you, my darling."

It takes me a few moments to respond. After the shock, the hurt passes. This man doesn't know me. He made a rocking horse for me as a baby, he helped Oma March teach me to ride a bike, never once cringed at my scars, but he doesn't know me. How much harder it must be for Silas.

"I'm not Celia," I say softly. "I'm Scarlett, Pa Reynolds. Scarlett March?"

Pa Reynolds stares at me a moment, then smiles and nods. "Ah, Celia. My love."

I sigh and sit back in the chair, leaving my hand wrapped around Pa Reynolds's wrinkly fingers. Celia had been his wife, his high school sweetheart, Silas's mother, who had died when he was eight. How can Pa Reynolds mistake me for someone he once loved? I look nothing like her--she was

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blond, beautiful, delicate, graceful... I force myself to swallow and shake my head. This was a mistake. Even the look in his eyes is all wrong--he doesn't look like the fatherly figure I knew, the one I so desperately need advice from now, but rather like a scared boy.

"I think I should go," I whisper hoarsely.

"Oh, Celia, please, no." Pa Reynolds puts his opposite hand on top of mine, pinning it down. He looks at me, eyes full of pain. "We didn't mean it. It wasn't our fault; it just happened."

"I know," I answer quickly, though I have no idea. "I know it wasn't."

"He'll be fine there. My parents will raise him. He'll be fine."

"I'm sure he will be." I try to stand, but the old man has a surprisingly intense grip. He trails his thumb over my knuckles.

"Celia, please. There's no other way. They'll never let us get married if we keep him."

I sigh and decide to humor the old man. "Keep who, Pa Reynolds?"

Pa Reynolds reaches up and runs his fingers through the tips of my hair, apparently oblivious to the bits of leaves and grass stuck in it. "Our Jacob. Our little boy. He'll be happy, Celia. We'll be happy."

I pause, mind whirring, connections clicking together. "Our Jacob"? Jacob, as far as I knew, was Pa Reynolds's