Twilight (4 page)

Blah blah blah. Father D’s lips were moving, but I tuned him out again. I didn’t need to hear the lecture again. So things hadn’t worked out for Father Dominic and the girl-ghost he’d fallen in love with, way back in the Middle Ages. That didn’t mean Jesse and I were destined to follow the same path. Especially not considering what I’d managed to pick up from Paul, who seemed to know a good deal more than Father Dom did about being a mediator…

…particularly the little-known fact that mediators can bring the dead back to life.

There was just one little fly in the ointment: You needed to have a body to put the wrongfully deceased’s soul into. And bodies aren’t something I happen to stumble across on a regular basis. At least, not ones willing to sacrifice the soul currently occupying them.

“Sure thing, Father Dom,” I said as his speech petered out at last. “Listen, have a real good time in San Francisco.”

Father Dominic grimaced. I guess people who are going to San Francisco to visit comatose monsignors don’t necessarily get a lot of time off for touristy stuff like visiting the Golden Gate Bridge or Chinatown or whatever.

“Thank you, Susannah,” he said. Then he pinned me with a meaningful stare. “
Be good
.”

“Am I ever anything but?” I asked with some surprise.

He walked away, shaking his head, without even bothering to reply.

“So what were you and the good father gabbing about during lab today?” Paul wanted to know.

“Mrs. Gutierrez’s funeral,” I replied truthfully. Well, more or less. I’ve found it doesn’t pay to lie to Paul. He has an uncanny ability to discover the truth on his own.

Not, of course, that it means what I tell him is the strictest truth. I just don’t practice a policy of full disclosure where Paul Slater is concerned. It seems safer that way.

And it definitely seemed safer not to let Paul know that Father Dominic was in San Francisco, with no known date of return.

“You’re not still upset about that, are you?” Paul asked. “The Gutierrez woman, I mean? The money’s going to good use, you know.”

“Oh, sure, I know,” I said. “Dinner at the Cliffside Inn’s got to run, what, a hundred a plate? And I assume you’ll be renting a limo.”

Paul smiled at me lazily from the pillows he was leaning against.

“Kelly told you?” he asked. “Already?”

“First chance she got,” I said.

“Didn’t take her long,” he said.

“When did you ask her? Last night?”

“That’s right.”

“So about twelve hours,” I said. “Not bad, if you consider that for about eight of them, she was probably sleeping.”

“Oh, I doubt that,” Paul said. “That’s when they do their best work. Succubuses, I mean. I bet Kelly only needs an hour or two of shut-eye a night, tops.”

“Romantic.” I turned a page of the crusty old book lying between us on Paul’s bed. “Calling your date for the Winter Formal a succubus, I mean.”

“At least she
wants
to go with me,” Paul said, his face expressionless—with the exception of a single dark brow, which rose, almost imperceptibly, higher than the one next to it. “A refreshing change, I must say, from the usual state of things around here.”

“You hear me complaining?” I asked, turning another page. I prided myself that I was maintaining—outwardly, anyway—a supremely indifferent attitude about the whole thing. Inside, of course, it was a whole other story. Because inside, I was screaming,
What’s going on? Why’d you ask Kelly and not me? Not that I care about the stupid dance, but just what game do you think you’re playing now, Paul Slater?

It was amazing how none of this showed, however. At least, so far as I knew.

“It’s just that I’d have appreciated some advance notice that I’d been stricken from the agenda,” was what I said aloud. “For all you knew, I might have already blown a fortune on a dress.”

One corner of Paul’s mouth flicked upward.

“You hadn’t,” Paul said. “And you weren’t going to, either.”

I looked away. It was hard to meet his gaze sometimes, it was so penetrating, so…

Blue.

A strong, tanned hand came down over mine, pinning my fingers to the page I’d been about to turn.

“That’s the one.” Paul doesn’t seem to have the same problem looking into my eyes (probably because mine are green and about as penetrating as, um, algae) that I have looking into his. His gaze on my face was unwavering. “Read it.”

I looked down. The book Paul had pulled out for our latest “mediator lesson” was so old, the pages had a tendency to crumble beneath my fingers as I turned them. It belonged in a museum, not a seventeen-year-old guy’s bedroom.

But that was exactly where it had ended up, pulled— though I doubted Paul knew I was aware of it—from his grandfather’s collection.
The Book of the Dead
was what it was called.

And the title wasn’t the only reminder that all things have an expiration date. It smelled as if a mouse or some other small creature had gotten slammed between the pages some time in the not-so-distant past, left to slowly decompose there.

“‘If the 1924 translation is to be believed,’” I read aloud, glad my voice wasn’t shaking the way I knew my fingers were—the way my fingers always shook when Paul touched me—“ ‘the shifter’s abilities didn’t merely include communication with the dead and teleportation between their world and our own, but the ability to travel at will throughout the fourth dimension, as well.’ ”

I will admit, I didn’t read with a lot of feeling. It wasn’t exactly a barrel of laughs, going to school all day, then having to go to mediation tutoring. Granted, it was only once a week, but that was more than enough, believe me. Paul’s house hadn’t lost any of its sterility in the months I’d been coming to it. If anything, the place was as creepy as ever…

…and so was Paul’s grandfather, who continued to live what he’d described, in his own words, as a “half-life,” in a room down the hall from Paul’s. That half-life seemed to be made up of around-the-clock health attendants, hired to see to the old man’s many ailments, and incessant viewing of the Game Show Network. It isn’t any wonder, really, that Paul avoids Mr. Slater—or Dr. Slaski, as the good doctor himself had confided to me he was really named—like the plague. His grandfather isn’t exactly scintillating company, even when he isn’t pretending to be loopy due to his meds.

Despite my less-than-inspired performance, however, Paul released my hand and leaned back once more, looking extremely pleased with himself. “Well?” Another raised eyebrow.

“Well, what?” I flipped the page, and saw only a copy of the hieroglyph they were talking about.

The half smile Paul had been wearing vanished. His face was as expressionless as the wall behind him.

“So that’s how you’re going to play it,” he said.

I had no idea what he was talking about. “Play what?” I asked.

“I could do it, Suze,” he said. “It can’t be hard to figure out. And when I do… well, you won’t be able to accuse me of not having stuck by our agreement.”

“What agreement?”

Paul set his jaw.

“Not to kill your boyfriend,” he said tonelessly.

I just stared at him, genuinely taken aback. I had no idea where this was coming from. We’d been having a perfectly nice—well, okay, not nice, but ordinary—afternoon, and all of a sudden he was threatening to kill my boyfriend…or not to kill him, actually. What was going on?

“Wh-what are you talking about?” I stammered. “What does this have to do with Jesse? Is this… is this because of the dance? Paul, if you’d asked, I’d have gone with you. I don’t know why you turned around and asked Kelly without even—”

The half grin came back, but this time, all Paul did was lean forward and flip the book closed. Dust rose from the ancient pages, almost right up into my face, but I didn’t complain. Instead, I waited, my heart in my throat, for him to reply.

I was destined for disappointment, however, since all he said was, “Don’t worry about it,” then swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. “You hungry?”

“Paul.” I followed him, my Stuart Weitzmans clacking loudly on the bare tile floor. “What’s going on?”

“What makes you think anything’s going on?” he asked as he made his way down the long, shiny hallway.

“Oh, gee, I don’t know,” I said, fear making me sound waspish. “That crack you made the other night about Jesse. And letting me off the hook for the Winter Formal. And now this. You’re up to something.”

“Am I?” Paul glanced up at me as he made his way down the spiral staircase to the kitchen. “You really think so?”

“Yes,” I said. “I just haven’t figured out what yet.”

“Do you have any idea what you sound like right now?” Paul asked as he pulled open the Sub-Zero refrigerator and peered inside.

“No,” I said. “What?”

“A jealous girlfriend.”

I nearly choked. “And how
are
things on Planet You Wish?”

He found a can of Coke and cracked it open.

“Nice one,” he said in reference to my remark. “No, really. I like that. I might even use it myself someday.”

“Paul.” I stared at him, my throat dry, my heart banging in my chest. “What are you up to? Seriously.”

“Seriously?” He took a long swig of soda. I couldn’t help noticing how tanned his throat was as I watched him swallow. “I’m hedging my bets.”

“What does
that
mean?”

“It means,” he said, closing the refrigerator door and leaning his back against it, “that I’m starting to like it around here. Strange, but true. I never thought of myself as the captain-of-the-tennis-team type. God knows, at my last school”—he took another long pull at the soda—“Well, I won’t get into that. The truth is, I’m starting to get into this high school stuff. I want to go to the Winter Formal. Thing is, I figure you won’t want to be around me for a while, after I… well, do what I plan on doing.”

He’d closed the refrigerator door, so that couldn’t have been what caused the sudden chill I felt all along my spine. He must have seen me shiver, since he went, with a grin, “Don’t worry, Susie. You’ll forgive me eventually. You’ll realize, in time, that it’s all for the be—”

He didn’t get to finish. That’s because I’d strode forward and knocked the Coke can right out of his hand. It landed with a clatter in the stainless-steel sink. Paul looked down at his empty fingers in some surprise, like he couldn’t figure out where his drink had gone.

“I don’t know what you’re planning, but let me make one thing clear: If anything happens to him,” I hissed, not much louder than the soda fizzing from the can in the sink, but with a lot more force, “anything at all, I will make you regret the day you were born. Understand?”

The look of surprise on his face twisted into one of grim annoyance.

“That wasn’t part of our deal. All I said was that I wouldn’t—”

“
Anything
,” I said. “And don’t call me Susie.”

My heart was banging so loudly inside my chest that I didn’t see how he couldn’t hear it—how he couldn’t see that I was more frightened than I was angry….

Or maybe he did, since his lips relaxed into a smile—the same smile that had made half the girls in school fall madly in love with him.

“Don’t worry, Suze,” he said. “Let’s just say that my plans for Jesse? They’re a lot more humane than what you’ve got planned for me.”

“I—”

Paul just shook his head. “Don’t insult me by pretending like you don’t know what I mean.”

I didn’t have to pretend. I had no idea what he was talking about. I didn’t get a chance to tell him that, though, because at that moment a side door opened, and we heard someone call, “Hello?”

It was Dr. Slaski, along with his attendant, back from one of their endless rounds of doctor’s appointments. The attendant was the one who’d let out the greeting. Dr. Slaski—or Slater, as Paul referred to him—never said hello. At least, not when anybody but me was around.

“Hey,” Paul said, going out into the living room and looking down at his wheelchair-bound grandfather. “How’d it go?”

“Just fine,” the attendant said with a smile. “Didn’t it, Mr. Slater?”

Paul’s grandfather said nothing. His head was slumped down onto his chest, as if he were asleep.

Except that he wasn’t. He was no more asleep than I was. Inside that battered and frail-looking exterior was a mind crackling with intelligence and vitality. Why he chose to hide that fact, I still don’t understand. There’s a lot about the Slaters that I don’t understand.

“Your friend staying for dinner, Paul?” the attendant asked cheerfully.

“Yes,” Paul said at the same time I said, “No.”

I didn’t meet his gaze as I added, “You know I can’t.”

This, at least, was true. Mealtime is family time at my house. Miss one of my stepfather’s gourmet dinners, and you’ll never hear the end of it.

“Fine,” Paul said through teeth that were obviously gritted. “I’ll take you home.”

I didn’t object. I was more than ready to go.

Our ride should have been a lot more enjoyable than it was. I mean, Carmel is one of the most beautiful places in the world, and Paul’s grandfather’s house is right on the ocean. The sun was setting, seeming to set the sky ablaze, and you could hear waves breaking rhythmically against the rocks below. And Paul, who isn’t exactly painful to look at, doesn’t drive any old hand-me-down car, either, but a silver BMW convertible that I happen to know I look extremely good in, with my dark hair, pale skin, and excellent taste in footwear.

But you could have cut the tension inside that car with a knife, nonetheless. We rode in utter silence until Paul finally pulled up in front of 99 Pine Crest Drive, the rambling Victorian house in the Carmel hills that my mother and stepfather had bought more than a year ago, but still hadn’t finished refurbishing. Seeing as how it had been built at the turn of the century—the nineteenth, not the twentieth—it needed a lot of refurbishing….