Eternal Kiss (4 page)

Tucking the ceramic urn under her arm, she prayed she wasn’t going to have one of her clumsy nights. She would have to take the stairs, much as she was tempted to climb out of the window and just shimmy down the wall, but carrying ashes that were over five hundred years old while sticking to the wall Spider-Man style probably wasn’t a good plan. Especially as the contents of this funeral urn—no matter how gross—were her ticket back out of Ironbridge for the next two months.

As she finally left the apartment, wondering how many invisible alarms she’d tripped in the kitchen, Moth dropped Jace’s cell phone outside the bedroom door. Maybe he’d find it before his dad got home. She didn’t have time to do more for him. Theo would be waiting for the urn, and was no doubt wondering where the hell she was.

Moth rolled her eyes.
Let him wait
—like he’d even care that she had almost been killed tonight.

Except Theo
had
cared. He had seemed to care a great deal, which left Moth confused and vulnerable when she faced her father the next day.

“I don’t know what kind of deal you made with the Devil, Marie O’Neal, but do you honestly believe I haven’t noticed you’ve not aged a day since your eighteenth birthday?”

Moth—still known as Marie to her family—stared at her father in shock. She wanted to say something sensible; something that would convince him that he was talking crap. Anything that might make him believe she wasn’t the monster he suspected her of being. But the O’Neals were a superstitious bunch, and her father was the worst of them.

“Dad—”

“Get out of my house. Your mother’s been in her grave this past year, so you’ve no business here anymore.”

“You can’t stop me from seeing Caitlín!” Her younger sister would be devastated when she heard what was happening. How
could Moth explain this to her without revealing the truth?

Coming home had probably been a mistake, but Moth refused to miss her mother’s memorial service. Apart from the fact that she
wanted
to be here for that, not putting in an appearance would’ve caused even more questions. She hadn’t been home since Mom died last year, and even back then her father had been insistent that his middle daughter was now living a life of drugs and “
God-knows what else.
” However, the look of distaste on his lined face—the shadow of fear that lingered in his pale blue eyes—said that he now believed something else entirely.

Rory O’Neal had always been a God-fearing man, thanks to his strict Catholic upbringing by elderly immigrant parents, but he was looking at Moth as though she were the devil incarnate.

He scowled at her. “Caitlín’s old enough to see you on her own time, away from here, and Sinéad feels the same way as I do.”

She couldn’t resist sneering at that. “Of course she does.” Moth and her older sister had never been close.

“Don’t speak about your sister in that tone. At least she didn’t run away after your mother passed.”

Moth ignored him and watched the family’s arthritic dog shuffle around the untidy backyard. She tried not to think about her older sister’s smug expression as she had watched their father lead Moth out onto the porch after the last guest had left. At least Dad had waited until people had properly paid their respects, before disowning her and telling her she was something other than human.

Much as she wanted to hate him, how could she truly blame her father?

Swallowing unshed tears, she shivered in the rapidly cooling shade. She couldn’t help wondering what it would feel like to have the sun warming her face. As usual, she sat under cover of the wooden porch as the bright spring day came to a close.

“Do you even hear what I’m saying to you, Marie?” Her father’s voice broke into her scattered thoughts. “You’re not welcome here. Leave us in peace.”

Tears burned in her eyes—the eyes her father had insisted she uncover after the service commemorating Mom’s life and death—and the blue contacts caused her eyes to ache more than ever. Moth clutched her sunglasses between stiff fingers, and resisted the temptation to crush them into dust. She suddenly wished she’d left them back in that room with the wannabe vampire hunter.

A picture of Jace suddenly flashed in her mind, as bright and clear as a newly developed photograph. She gritted her teeth and pushed the image away. He was human, and not only that, he was her enemy.

Moth’s voice was husky. “I understand
what
you’re saying, Dad. I just don’t know how you can say it to me. I’m your
daughter
.”

His eyes were blank. “No, you’re not. Not anymore.”

Marie “Moth” O’Neal gazed at her father for a long moment. His face was set in cold, hard lines that she knew would never again melt into a smile—not for her.

Caitlín was the only human being that she could rely on now. She had to learn to accept her new “family;” a family that worshipped the moon rather than the sun, and who didn’t look at her as though she were a monster.

When she had returned to Theo with barely-healed scars on her arms—and the silver handcuffs causing fresh burns every moment—her sire had been furious. Not with her, as she’d feared, but with the young human who had dared to attack his “little Moth.” He had ripped the blessed metal from her wrists without flinching, the mysterious urn seemingly forgotten as he held her in his arms and stroked her hair.

Turning away from the home she had grown up in, Moth tasted bitter ashes on her tongue. Her old life was crumbling around her, but she pinned a fierce smile on her lips as she headed out of the city. She tucked her sunglasses in place, hoisted her backpack higher on her shoulder, and wondered how long it would take her to hitchhike back to Boston.

She had earned her last two months of freedom, and she damn well intended to make the most of them.

I
T WAS THE
light that started it. Hannah woke up at three o’clock in the morning one cold February day and noticed that one of the old copper sconces along the wall was turned on, emitting a dim, barely perceptible halo. It flickered at first, then died, then abruptly came back to life again. At first she chalked it up to a faulty wire, or carelessness on her part—had she turned off the lights before bed? But when it happened again the next evening, and again two days later, she began to pay attention.

The fourth time, she was already awake when it happened. She felt around the nightstand for her glasses, put them on, then stared at the glowing bulb and frowned. She definitely remembered turning off the switch before going to bed. She watched as it slowly burned out, leaving the room dark once more. Then she went back to sleep.

Another girl would have been scared, maybe a bit frightened, but this was Hannah’s third winter on Shelter Island and she was used to its “house noises” and assorted eccentricities. In the summer, the back screen door would never stay closed, it would bang over and over with the wind, or when someone
walked in and out of the house—her mother’s boyfriend, a neighbor, Hannah’s friends whose parents had houses on the island and spent their summers there. No one ever locked their doors on Shelter Island. There was no crime (unless bike-stealing was considered a crime, and if your bike was gone, most likely someone just borrowed it to pedal down to the local market and you would find it on your front doorstep the next day) and the last murder was recorded sometime in the 1700s.

Hannah was fifteen years old, and her mother was a bartender at The Good Shop, a crunchy, all-organic café, restaurant and bar that was only open three months out of the year, during the high season, when the island was
infested
(her mother’s word) with cityfolk on vacation. The
summer people
(also her mother’s words) and their money made living on the island possible for year-rounders like them. During the off-season, in the winter, there were so few people on the island it was akin to living in a ghost town.

But Hannah liked the winters, liked watching the ferry cross the icy river, how the quiet snow covered everything like a fairy blanket. She would walk alone on the windswept beach where the slushy sound of her boots scuffing the damp sand was the only sound for miles. People always threatened to quit the island during the winter. They had enough of the brutal snowstorms that raged in the night, the wind howling like a crazed banshee against the windows. They complained of the loneliness, the isolation. Some people didn’t like the sound of quiet, but Hannah reveled in it. Only then could she hear herself think.

Hannah and her mother had started out as summer people. Once upon a time, when her parents were still together, the family would vacation in one of the big, colonial mansions by the beach, near where the yachts docked by the Sunset Beach hotel. But things were different after the divorce. Hannah understood that their lives had been lessened by the split, that she and her mother were lesser people now in some way. Objects of pity ever since her dad ran off with his art dealer.

Not that Hannah cared very much what other people thought. She liked the house they lived in, a comfortable, ram-shackle Cape Cod with a wrap-around porch and six bedrooms tucked away in its corners—one up on the attic, three on the ground floor, and two in the basement. There were antique nautical prints of the island and its surrounding waters framed in the wood-paneled living room. The house belonged to a family who never used it, and the caretaker didn’t mind renting it to a single mother.

At first, they moved around the vast spaces like two marbles lost in a pinball table. But over time they adjusted and the house felt cozy and warm. Hannah never felt lonely or scared in the house. She always felt safe.

Still, the next night, at three o’clock in the morning, when the lights blinked on, and the door whooshed open with a bang, it startled Hannah and she sat up immediately, looking around. Where had the wind come from? The windows were all storm-
proofed and she hadn’t felt a draft. With a start, she noticed a shadow lingering by the doorway.

“Who’s there?” She called out in a firm and no-nonsense voice. It was the kind of voice she used when she worked as a cashier at the marked-up grocery during the summers when the cityfolk would complain about the price of arugula.

She wasn’t scared. Just curious. What would cause the lights to blink on and off and the door to bang open like that?

“Nobody,” someone answered.

Hannah turned around.

There was a boy sitting in the chair in the corner.

Hannah almost screamed. That she was not prepared for. A cat. Maybe a lost squirrel of some sort, she had been expecting. But a boy … Hannah was shy around boys. She was fast approaching her sweet-sixteen-and-never-been-kissed milestone. It was awful how some girls made such a big deal out of it, but even more awful that Hannah agreed with them.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” Hannah said, trying to feel braver than she felt.

“This is my home,” the boy said calmly. He was her age, she could tell, maybe a bit older. He had dark shaggy hair that fell in his eyes, and he was wearing torn jeans and a dirty T-shirt. He was very handsome, but he looked pensive and pained. There was an ugly cut on his neck.

Hannah pulled up the covers to her chin, if only to hide her pajamas, which were flannel and printed with pictures of sushi. He must be a neighbor, one of the O’Malley boys who lived
next door. How did he get into her room without her noticing? What did he want with her? Should she cry out? Let her mother know? Call for help? That wound on his neck—it looked ravaged. Something awful had happened to him, and Hannah felt her skin prickle with goose bumps.

“Who are you?” the boy asked, suddenly turning the tables.

“I’m Hannah,” she said in a small voice. Why did she tell him her real name? Did it matter?

“Do you live here?”

“Yes.”

“How strange,” the boy said thoughtfully. “Well.” He said. “Nice meeting you Hannah.” Then he walked out of her room and closed the door. Soon after, the light blinked off.

Hannah lay in her bed, wide-awake for a very long time, her heart galloping in her chest. The next morning, she didn’t tell her mom about the boy in her room. She convinced herself it was just a dream. That was it. She had just made him up. Especially the part about him looking like a younger Johnny Depp. She’d been wanting a boyfriend so much she’d made one appear. Not that he would be her boyfriend. But if she was ever going to have a boyfriend, she would like him to look like that. Not that boys who looked like that ever looked at girls like her. Hannah knew what she looked like. Small. Average. Quiet. Her nicest feature were her eyes, sea-glass green, framed with lush dark lashes. But they were hidden behind her eyeglasses most of the time.

Her mother always accused her of having an overactive imagination, and maybe that was all it was. She had finally let the winter crazies get to her. It was all in her mind.

But then he returned the next evening, wandering into her room as if he belonged there. She gaped at him, too frightened to say a word, and he gave her a courtly bow before disappearing. The next night, she didn’t fall asleep. Instead, she waited.

Three in the morning.

Lights blazed on. Was it just Hannah’s imagination or was the light actually growing stronger? The door banged. This time, Hannah was awake and had expected it. She saw the boy appear in front of her closet, materializing out of nowhere. She blinked her eyes, her blood roaring in her ears, trying to fight the panic welling up inside. Whatever he was … he wasn’t
human
.

“You again,” she called, trying to feel brave.

He turned around. He was wearing the same clothes as the two nights prior. He gave her a sad, wistful smile. “Yes.”

“Who are you? What are you?” she demanded.

“Me?” He looked puzzled for a moment, and then stretched his neck. She could see the wound just underneath his chin more clearly this time. Two punctures. Scabby and … blue. They were a deep indigo color, not the brownish-red she had been expecting. “I think I’m what you call a vampire.”

“A vampire?” Hannah recoiled. If he were a ghost, it would be a different story. Hannah’s aunt had told her all about ghosts—
her aunt had gone through a Wiccan phase, as well as a spirit-guide phase. Hannah wasn’t afraid of ghosts. Ghosts couldn’t harm you, unless it was a poltergeist. Ghosts were vapors, spectral images, maybe even just a trick of the light.

But vampires … There was a Shelter Island legend about a family of vampires who had terrorized the island a long time ago. Blood-sucking monsters, pale and undead, cold and clammy to the touch, creatures of the night that could turn into bats, or rats or worse. She shivered, and looked around the room, wondering how fast she could fly out of bed and out the door. If there was even time to escape. Could you outrun a vampire?

“Don’t worry, I’m not that kind of vampire,” he said soothingly, as if he’d read her mind.

“What kind would that be?”

“Oh you know, chomping on people without warning. All that Dracula nonsense. Growing horns out of my head,” he shrugged. “For one thing, we’re not ugly.”

Hannah wanted to laugh but felt it would be rude. Her fright was slowly abating.

“Why are you here?”

“We live here,” he said simply.

“No one’s lived here in years,” Hannah said. “John Carter—the caretaker, he said it’s been empty forever.”

“Huh,” the boy shrugged. He took the corner seat, across from her bed.

Hannah glanced at him warily, wondering if she should let him get that close. If he was a vampire, he didn’t look cold and
clammy. He looked tired. Exhausted. There were dark circles underneath his eyes. He didn’t look like a cold-blooded killer. But what did she know? Could she trust him? But he had visited her twice already, after all. If he’d wanted her dead then, he could have killed her at any time. There was something about him—he was almost too cute to be scared of.

“Why do you keep doing that?” she asked, when she found her voice.

“Oh, you mean the thing with the lights?”

She nodded.

“Dunno. For a long time, I couldn’t do anything. I was sleeping in your closet, but you didn’t see me. Then I realized I could turn the lights on and off, on and off. But it was only when you started noticing that I began to feel more like myself.”

“Why are you here?”

The boy closed his eyes. “I’m hiding from someone.”

“Who?”

He closed his eyes harder, so that his face was a painful grimace. “Somebody bad. Somebody who wants me dead—no, worse than dead.” He shuddered.

“If you’re a vampire aren’t you already dead?” she asked in a practical tone. She felt herself relaxing. Why should she be scared of him when it was so obvious it was he who was frightened?

“No, not really. It’s more like I’ve lived a long time. A long time,” he murmured. “This is our house. I remember the fireplace downstairs. I put the plaque up myself.” He must be talking about that dusty old plaque next to the fireplace, Hannah
thought, but it was so old and dirty she had never thought to notice it before.