Crossed (20 page)

“I . . . I’m sorry, Uncle Phil,” I said, slipping my jeans back on.

Dismissing my apology with a wave of his hand, he exhaled in perturbation when he saw Talbot. “Need his presence truly be inflicted upon me, Greta? I understand your father’s reliance on his assistance, but surely you and I have no need of a chaperone.”

“Go check on Cheryl, Talbot.” I pointed at the doors. Dad once told me that it was never a good idea to be alone with Uncle Phil, but given the circumstances I couldn’t see the wisdom in annoying him further.

Reluctantly, Talbot kissed me on the forehead, wiped his blood off my lips, and walked out the front door.

“Did you know that F-U-C-K originally meant ‘Fornication Under Consent of King’?” Uncle Phil asked.

That’s bullshit,
I thought.
It’s never meant that at all.
Fuck
has basically meant “fuck” for hundreds of years,
but I didn’t say anything. Now wasn’t a good time to correct Uncle Phil. I picked my shirt up instead, but it was too bloody to put on.

Before I formulated an acceptable answer, Phillip floated off. He examined the molding around the ceiling and the detail of the chandelier before landing gently on the gallery outside the mezzanine. He seemed quite interested in the restoration, making pleased little noises when he saw things that met his approval and tutting when he saw work that did not reach his standards. I held the ruined shirt over my head and wrung the last few drops of blood into my mouth, waiting for him to say his piece. The drops of blood eased my pain a little, which was a very good sign. I didn’t want to have to wait until Dad got
back for my mouth to heal. He’d thought to leave me some of his blood, in case of emergencies, but I’d been sneaking a little of it before bed each day and there was only a cup or so left.

“Did you know that I’ve not been inside this building in sixty years?” Phillip disappeared through the double doors of the mezzanine. Still half-naked, I followed him, leaping up over the balustrade, my feet slapping hard against the thin carpet. Just after I walked through the doors, I felt his hand on my arm. I counted to ten slowly, waiting for him to take his hand off my arm, but he started talking instead. “Greta is from German. It’s a shortened form of Margaret, meaning ‘pearl.’ Such an apt name really, because you are a genuine treasure.” Smile lines showed at the corners of each eye when he frowned. “Yet even the most precious treasures require care and attention. Silver and gold must be polished, and the most beautiful gems must first be cut in order to shine.”

“Don’t touch me!” I growled. Four long scratches appeared on Uncle Phil’s face, jagged furrows that did not bleed like they should have. I thought I might have put them there.

Phil released his grip on my arm, momentarily stunned either by the idea that I’d actually hurt him or by the knowledge that I’d done it faster than he could turn to mist. I don’t know which. He explored the wounds with his fingertips absentmindedly, as if it were a new sensation or a long forgotten one. The wounds healed, but not at Vlad speed—it was closer to a Soldier’s or a Master’s regeneration.
Duly noted.

“What do you want me to do?” I sighed.

“Don’t be like that, Greta. This is not a court. It is not as if you stand before your judge, jury, and executioner.” He could have fooled me.

“
A buon intenditor poche parole,
as the Italians say,” he continued.

“Which means what?” I interrupted.

“A word to the wise is sufficient,” he translated. “You should
study languages, my dear. A lively mind is such a charming companion to a beautiful exterior. Let me be blunt.”

Let me get a T-shirt.
I crossed my arms over my breasts and leaned back against the wall.
Or you could loan me your jacket.
But I didn’t say any of that either.

“Okay.” I nodded. Uncle Phil was never blunt.

“Do you know why vampires have children? Aside, of course, from your father, who is a very special case?”

He sat down in the front row of the mezzanine and patted the burgundy colored seat next to him. The seats were covered in real velvet.

So that you can eat them later?
“Because they’re lonely?”

With white teeth bared in a sly grin, he turned to gaze at me. “I once thought the same thing.” He put one hand on my knee and rotated further so that we were face-to-face. “Have you ever considered making Eric a grandfather?”

I already had. Not that it was Uncle Phil’s business. Not that I’d even told Dad about his grandchildren. Who’s to say he’d be the happy grandpa? Not me. And why the hell did Phil think making new vampires would settle me down? Had fatherhood settled Daddy down? If that wasn’t what he was thinking, then it was just more talking, more controlling, more Phillipness, and I don’t have a high threshold for men like Phil trying to make me do things I don’t want to do. I didn’t make it to ten that time. To be honest, I didn’t even count.

“Hands off!” There is one advantage to thinking with your brain, like Dad does. I’ve gotten better when it comes to words, but actions . . . Using your brain puts a little extra cushion between the impulse to act and the action. With the cushion, I might have come up with a clever comeback. Without it, my fist (at least I kept the claws in) hammered into Uncle Phil’s nose, bringing it flush with his skull. I was honestly surprised the punch connected. So was Phillip. We stared at each other,
and Phil’s charming façade vanished as he misted, maintaining his form, but with vapor trailing from the edges. I didn’t like what I saw underneath that façade. He grew in stature, not unlike Ian McKellen’s Gandalf in the first
Lord of the Rings
movie, you know, when he’s really pissed at Bilbo?

“I have a thing about being touched,” I told him carefully. “I’m not apologizing, but it’s from before, when I was human.”

I wanted to keep cool, not say anything else, but Uncle Phil just kept looking at me until I continued.

“I’ll think about it, okay, but don’t push me. It’s my choice, nobody else’s.”

Phil nodded slightly, and vanished as swiftly as he’d arrived. No quip. No parting shot. Nothing. I was willing to bet that Uncle Phil’s shit list had a new contender for
numero uno.

    20    

GRETA:

OLD HABITS

An hour after Uncle Phil left, I was still sitting in the mezzanine and my hunger was back. It wasn’t a thirst for blood, but a craving for real food: cookies, ice cream, the crap they served over at the Demon Heart, anything that was full of fat, sugar, or grease. I’d been dead for a long time, but stress still made me want to binge.

When Dad found me, I was tall for my age, over one hundred ten pounds, nine years old, and miserable . . . a fat little girl with floppy fat-girl boobs. I still remember it even though I doubt he does. Dad’s memory is tricky. I think it’s because he was embalmed. It makes Dad forget things, lots of things, so it’s hard to know what Dad does or doesn’t remember.

In a way, I hope he doesn’t remember it. It was a warm summer night and the breeze kept it from being too humid. We were at the beach—well, at a rental house near the beach. It was the only vacation my foster parents had ever taken me on. Henry and Diane (my foster parents) got into an argument, which wasn’t really unusual since they fought all the time, but Diane stormed out and left me with Henry. She’d never done that before. Henry had made it clear that all he was interested
in was a government check, but Diane had been really nice to me. I expected her to come right back, but she didn’t.

I don’t like to think about what happened after Henry got drunk, but not a night goes by when I don’t remember what happened later. Henry was passed out in the bed and I was lying there halfway under him, too afraid to move.

In my head I kept thinking about what I was going to do when I got my courage up. I told myself that I was going to get a pair of scissors and snip his bits off or find a kitchen knife and stab him in the heart. Maybe I would even set him on fire, or worse. Everything hurt, and more than anything else in the world, even more than I wanted revenge, I wanted to be brave enough to get up, walk downstairs, leave, and never look back.

Before it happened I remember stillness, a calm that came over the house and the beach. The gentle roll of the waves became inaudible and the breeze that blew the curtains stopped, leaving them hanging still in the night. Outside, a shadow crossed the open window, in front of the moon, and I got my first glimpse of Eric, my new daddy, the only real dad I’ve ever known. He was glorious, dressed in a leather jacket and jeans, with a white T-shirt. He looked almost like the Fonz in
Happy Days
reruns, but there was blood on his shirt. His boots hit the windowsill and, halfway in and halfway out of the window, crouched low and dangerous, he stared at the scene: me, Henry, the bed, the tangle of sheets, the blood.

“This better be the right fucking house,” he snarled. “Is that Hank?”

I couldn’t answer. He pulled a torn photo out of his pocket and looked at Henry. “Yeah, that’s Hank.” He dropped the picture and it fluttered to the hardwood floor of the house Henry had rented. In the moonlight, I could see the three of us—Henry, Diane, and me—standing in front of their house in Whedonville. There was blood on the photo, too.

Eric grabbed Henry by the feet and tossed him out of bed.

“Wha . . . ?” was all Henry got out before he hit the floor. Eric moved so quickly it was like a strobe light had been turned on. He was at the foot of the bed, bending over Henry. Henry choked, struggling for air, as Eric held him off the floor by the throat. Eric snarled, and moonlight caught the whiteness of his fangs.

“I didn’t do nothing,” Henry said between gasps.

“Who said you did?” Eric asked. “I’m not judgmental. I just want the ghost of your annoying little bitch of a wife to shut up.” He let Henry drop to the floor. “She keeps going on and on about ‘You’ve got to protect Greta. I never should have left her alone with him!’” he mocked in a whiny high-pitched voice. “It seems like every fourth or fifth meal has some sob story about unfinished business or how they can’t believe you murdered them. And do you think there is a damn mage around here to send them on their way? Hell no! Not one that answers the phone anyway.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Henry continued. “Just take what you want and—”

His sentence ended in a scream when Eric reached out and grabbed his shoulder. Bones crunched under the pressure; I heard them from across the room. Bending down, Eric looked him in the eye. “Don’t lie to me, Hank. I’m not your priest. I’m the executioner
du jour.
That’s French for ‘you were married to the wrong chick on the wrong night and now you get to die so that her ghost will shut the hell up’!”

“Okay, I was drunk and I . . . oh my God . . . I’m so sorry, please don’t . . .”

Urine ran down Henry’s legs and a wet spot blossomed on the front of his underwear, but his sentence ended when Eric punched him in the throat. “I’m not even going to bite you,” Eric said as Henry choked to death. “You’re rank, man. Christ!” On his knees, Henry gasped for air, but he couldn’t draw any in.

I was still in bed, still staring. There was no fear, just
adoration. For the entire time I’d been with the Reynoldses I had wished Henry would just drop dead and now he was going to do it, right in front of me. When Eric turned his gaze on me, the red light from his eyes washing over my body, I smiled. His fangs were out and the way they flashed in the moonlight made him look so cool.

“You can have me if you want. I won’t fight you.” I pulled the covers back and stood up slowly, limping. I’d recently gained a very clear understanding of what went on behind closed doors. Thanks to Henry, I wasn’t wearing anything under my stained nightshirt, and a thin trail of blood ran down the inside of my leg. “You killed Henry . . . Hank . . . and that’s just about the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

He recoiled from me.

“I can take a shower first,” I offered. “So I won’t smell like him. Or if there is anything else you want . . .”

He shook his head. “No, kid . . . Look, I’m glad you’re not too upset and all but . . .”