Reluctance (2 page)

Her father, Ben, strode in, looking as if he'd just stepped from the pages of GQ.

Her mother insisted on family dinners. How could they keep up the appearance of the perfect family if they didn't do a daily dinner that could shame any Norman Rockwell painting? Table talk surrounded Aster's day, Rose's accomplishments, and Ben's success. Never did a night go by when Dahlia didn't wonder if she'd been switched at birth. Unfortunately, it was impossible that a switch had happened; there was no possibility she did
not
belong with these people.

After dinner, Dahlia went up to her room to complete her homework. School was the one arena in which she
could
excel. She was smarter than the rest of them combined.

She couldn't walk without tripping, or speak in an interesting manner, or do makeup that didn't look like she had entered a costume contest. But she could formulate a hypothesis and design a corresponding scientific experiment. She understood every word Shakespeare had written and knew the definition of a hypotenuse. She doubted anyone else in her family could even pronounce "hypotenuse." Her excellent grades were probably the only reason her parents ever acknowledged her. She could have gotten into any university with her GPA, but until . . .
after
. . . she had to keep a low profile. She felt lucky she'd been allowed to attend any school at all.

She finished her work and lay down on the bed, more out of defiance than a need for rest. The beds were only for appearance. Sleep was the one thing she longed for more than anything—an escape from the world, from constantly living with knowing what a disappointment she was, not just to her family but to her
people
.

She looked over at the clock. Two a.m. She didn't know why she looked. She knew the time exactly, because that's when the inevitable hunger came—ravenous, insatiable, never-ending.

"Let's go, freak," Aster said, shoving Dahlia's door open without so much as a knock.

Dahlia reluctantly followed her family out the back door, compelled by her despised appetite. She could no more resist the hunger than learn to dance like a world-class ballerina. Dahlia disliked many things about herself, but
this
was the thing she abhorred above all else.

Her family had discriminating tastes, and, though they left the house together, she did not follow them once they passed the boundaries of their property. Her family had no problem drinking from the innocent, as long as they thought the person worthy of their cultivated tastes. They rarely left a completely depleted body in their wake, though there always seemed to be a flu epidemic wherever they lived. Dahlia was surprised the CDC hadn't caught on to that yet.

Dahlia passed from their wealthy neighborhood to a more middle-class area where the houses were still nice but not as pretentious. From there, she passed through smaller houses, ones that looked cozy and welcoming. She desired to live in a home like these, but knew she never would. It wouldn't be allowed. Further and further she ran, moving so quickly she was almost indiscernible to normal humans. Running was the closest to agile Dahlia ever came, though she had been known to take out a fence or two. A few trees may have been demolished now and then. There might have even been an incident involving a telephone pole.

As Dahlia approached the slums, she slowed. She kept to the shadows, watching, waiting. Many of the homeless here were innocents themselves, so she had to choose carefully. A derelict man caught her attention as he moved among the others who were sleeping, passed out, or just plain ignoring him in the wide alley. As he went, he took from the meager possessions that had been accumulated by the others, anything he could find that seemed to have any value, whether cash or jewelry, all of which was worthless other than to the owner. Canned food, extra blankets, other meager possessions, nothing was forbidden it seemed.

Dahlia felt a slow burn in her stomach. How dare he think he had the right to take from these people? They didn't have much, and definitely didn't have anything to spare. He leaned down to take a woman's cup of change. That was bad enough, but, as he gazed at her sleeping form, he did the unthinkable—he slid his hand down the front of her chest in a way that was so beyond his right Dahlia could barely control her fury.

She followed him as he moved away from the fragile flickering firelight into the darker shadows. Perfect. She moved in, vision flawless in the night, as he stooped with a small flashlight to tally his take of money, drugs, and paraphernalia, and other miscellaneous items he could sale or trade. She calculated far more quickly than he and understood, for his night's devious work, he'd gained about thirteen bucks. What he had done was going to cost him far more.

She stepped into the darkness around his feeble light. He stiffened, sensing her presence. His flashlight and head both came up quickly.

"Who's there?" he said, swirling his flashlight around. "Who's there?" he repeated, sensing her presence though not quick enough to find her.

She came up behind him, teeth bared, bending to latch on to his neck. The bitterness of his filth filled her mouth, and she turned her mind away from the taste, allowing the warm blood and the rhythm of his beating pulse to take its place. When she'd had her fill, and just before it was too late, she released him. Self-contempt over what she'd done, what she
needed
, filled her soul. She grasped the man by his lapels, pulled his face near, holding his eyes with her own.

"Forget," she whispered. She watched his eyes go blank.

Before she dropped him to the ground, she added one more thing, in spite of the vampire illegality of doing so. "Don't ever touch a woman against her will again."

As she turned away, she mumbled, "Get a job," knowing he would not hear and most certainly wouldn't abide since it wasn't an official command.

She ran home, miraculously arriving without incident. In her private bathroom, grateful no one else had arrived yet, she grabbed a washcloth and scrubbed her face.

This was followed with a teeth scrubbing that would make any dentist proud, and still she didn't feel clean. She wondered what Jace would think when she showed him what he could become with her help—if he helped her in return. She lay on her bed once again, closing her eyes against the world, even if sleep would never come.

And yet, Jace's face wasn't the one she saw when she closed her eyes. It was the face of a certain delicious-smelling, blond boy who should have left her alone.

* * * * *

Cam knew he should have left Dahlia alone. But he couldn't seem to help himself. So, here he was, waiting for her on the top step outside the hospital in the early morning. He knew she was scheduled—he'd checked. He couldn't even say just what it was that compelled him. She was not at all the type of girl he usually dated. But the first time he'd seen her, he'd seen past the frizzy hair, past the frumpy clothes. He'd seen a beautiful girl, a beautifully charming, clumsy girl.

Dahlia stumbled out of the high SUV driven by her father as he stopped to let her out in front of the hospital. She nearly dropped her university books as she hurried up the sidewalk, not bothering to watch where she walked.

"Hey," he said as she came even with him.

She did drop her books then as her eyes met his. She stared at him for a long moment, then squatted down to gather her books. Cam followed and helped her gather them into an untidy pile.

"Sorry about that," he said.

"About what?" she asked. "You didn't drop them."

Cam smiled. "No, but I scared you, maybe?"

She gave him a funny look. "Hardly. I don't frighten that easily."

"Hmm," he responded noncommittally.

As she walked into the building, he followed, holding the doors open for her.

She didn't seem pleased with his gesture and hurried away. He easily caught up.

"Listen, I was wondering—"

"Why are you talking to me?" she interrupted, stopping abruptly in place, causing the people behind to bump into them. He reached out to balance her as she stumbled.

"I don't know, I . . . don't you want me to?" Cam was confused by her utter rejection of him.

"No, it's not that . . . it's just . . . . I'm not really the kind of girl you normally talk to."

"And you know this after only knowing me for one day?"

"I know your type," she said, walking again.

Cam followed. "What is my type?" he asked, offended.

"You know—you're cute and popular. You probably played sports in high school, and never sit at home on the weekends. The girls you date would be popular as well, pretty and put together. Not plain, not clumsy, not mon—" She clamped her lips together tightly and walked faster.

"You're not plain," Cam said, hurrying after her.

She rolled her eyes. He followed her to the break room door, where she stopped.

She couldn't just keep running around, dragging her heavy books.

"Dahlia," he said, when she ignored his presence. She looked up at him, unwilling, but unable to resist his tone. "You're not plain." She shook her head; he leaned closer. "You're
not plain
."

She turned away, hand on the door handle, unable to speak over the strange feelings invading her being. He leaned casually against the wall next to her and said,

"You think I'm cute, huh?"

She laughed before she could stop herself and looked up to see him grinning at her.

"Out of everything I said,
that's
what you got?"

He shrugged. "It seemed like a good point."

She laughed again, and his heart lurched at the sound.

"There's something wrong with you," she said.

"Possibly," he concurred. "Sit with me at lunch?"

She stared at him, mouth slightly agape.

"Why?" she finally said.

"Because I enjoy being insulted every two minutes, and you manage to fill that quota nicely," he said teasingly. She blushed—or would have blushed had she been able to.

"Sorry," she said, genuinely apologetic. One thing that was important to her was avoiding the nastiness her family reveled in.

"I know how you can make it up to me," he cajoled.

"Fine," she relented. "I'll sit with you. Be prepared for a boring hour, though. I'm not exactly a good conversationalist."

"You're doing okay, now," Cam said.

Dahlia looked at him, disbelieving.

"Maybe you don't give yourself enough credit," he said.

He walked away, leaving Dahlia to stare after him, stunned.

* * * * *

"So, Professor Jordan totally screwed up the equation, the one he'd marked wrong on all our papers, though
we
had gotten it right. But the best thing was when, of all people,
Tim Foley
corrected him." Dahlia grinned.

"
Tim Foley?
" Cam laughed. "Are you serious? He's the biggest pothead at the school. I'm not even sure how he graduated, let alone got into college."

"I know. That's why it was so brilliant."

Dahlia had been sitting with Cam at lunch every day for the past two weeks when their break times coordinated. After they sat together that first day, it seemed silly to refuse to sit with him again—and, as an added benefit, he insisted on carrying her tray, preventing her from any embarrassing tray launches. As it turned out, he was pretty easy to talk to, and there were never any awkward silences between them. If his face haunted her each night after the hunt, well, she could pretend to ignore that. She was sure that happened only because he was becoming a friend—her first friend in this town. Dahlia still had her eye on Jace—he was everything her people would admire. He could transform her into someone suitable, help her win acceptance. And once she changed him, he would be loyal to her alone.

"So . . . ." Cam hesitated. Sitting up in his chair, his posture and scent both screamed anxiety and immediately set Dahlia on edge. "I was wondering if you'd like to hang out this weekend."

"Hang out?" she repeated. What did he mean by that? Like a date, or just as friends?

"You know, hang out, together, in the same area . . . possibly at the same place.

I'd even go so far as to say if we were in the same restaurant, we could sit at the same table."

His tone teased, but he had a serious look in his eyes. She really wasn't sure what to think of his invitation.

"Like . . . a date?"

Cam laughed uncomfortably. "You say that like it's a disease."

"No . . . I mean, I didn't mean . . . ." She swallowed nervously.

"The polite answer would be, 'Thank you, Cam, but I'm busy.' Which I will know is a blatant lie, but we'll pretend it spares my feelings."

"Cam, I—"

"The
correct
answer would be, 'Sure, Cam, I'd love to go, because we have fun at lunch together, so I think we'd probably have fun together no matter where we are.'"

Dahlia laughed. He always knew how to save her from her inability to handle social situations.

"Okay, Cam, let's
hang out
this weekend. It'll be fun."

Cam released a huge, overdramatic sigh.

"What?" she asked with a wide grin.

"I don't believe I've ever had to work that hard for a date," he said teasingly as he walked away, leaving her sitting there, dumbfounded.

Did he just say
date
?

* * * * *

Cam stood outside Dahlia's door, hesitant to lift his hand and ring the bell. He genuinely liked Dahlia, her quirkiness, her sense of humor, her utter clumsiness. He felt she was just left-of-center enough that Jace might not notice her, but he couldn't be certain. That made him nervous. He really,
really
didn't want to put Dahlia on Jace's radar—and not just to protect his own pride. Tabby was cut from a different cloth than Dahlia. She could handle Jace. But Dahlia . . . Jace would eat Dahlia alive.

Completely unsure of his actions, aware of the risk he took, Cam rang the doorbell.

* * * * *

"Major hottie at the door," Aster said. "Helping him with his homework or something? Tutoring?"

"No," Dahlia told Aster smugly. "He's my date."