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  “I'm fine, Sam. Please don't hover. I just want to go home.” She puts one hand on each armrest of the chair and pushes herself up. Dad grabs onto her arms and she lets him. She can stand and wants to do it on her own, but she'd rather let him feel like he's useful. Her eyes seek his to reassure him that she's fine. Then she finds me, reaching out, struggling to find my hand. I give it to her, relieved that her grip is strong and warm.

  “I'm fine. Stop worrying. You'll get wrinkles in that pretty forehead. Thank you, Peter.” She looks at him, and Dad finally notices Peter. Great, this is just the place I wanted to do this.

  “Who is this?” Dad looks at each of us in turn, searching for answers. Mom speaks first.

  “This is Ava's friend, Peter.” Such a benign word, friend. Sounds safe.

  Dad flounders for a second, taking Peter in. At least he's wearing shoes. Black sneakers he must have swiped from someone who rides a skateboard. I try to see what he would see, looking at Peter for the first time. Torn t-shirt, dirty jeans, messy hair in his eyes. I want to push it back so Dad can see those eyes I love so much, but I can't. Because Peter is my friend. Friends don't let friends touch each other's hair and gaze adoringly.

  “Oh. It's, um, nice to meet you, Peter.” I feel like Peter and my father should shake hands, but they don't. Dad is still too focused on Mom.

  “It is nice to meet you, Mr. Sullivan. I was hoping it would be under different circumstances.” There should be slightly awkward and uncomfortable laughter, but there isn't. There's just silence so thick my mother is the only one who dares to wade through it.

  “Peter had just stopped by when I felt a little faint. He carried me to the car and drove us here. He's quite the gentleman.”

  Since when did my mother become a Peter fan? Not that I'm complaining, but still. Less than an hour ago, she was scared to have him touch her and now she's singing his praises. Dad looks befuddled. This is too much for him to take in now, but in a few hours he's going to figure this out and then I'm in for it.

  Dad rubs Mom's back and speaks to her like she's mentally challenged. “I'll take you home in my car. Ava, can you drive your mother's car home?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay, we'll see you there.” And off they go, Dad taking most of Mom's weight and hitting the handicap door button so it will open for her. I look around, thinking there should be paperwork or something, but no one stops us as we walk out. Dad's already got Mom in the passenger seat, tenderly buckling her seatbelt. “I didn't want you to meet my dad like that, but I guess we don't have to hide anymore,” I say to Peter.

  “He does not like me.” He says it like he's making an observation on the weather.

  “What gave you that impression? My dad loves you.” I can't help the sarcasm. He's used to it, and I don't think I've ever met anyone who gets less offended than Peter.

  I'm good enough to drive, so I do, Peter sitting in the passenger side and holding my hand when I'm not shifting.

  I have to turn on the radio, because I can't stand to hear my own thoughts. All they do is plague and taunt me. I scream at them, telling them to shut the hell up. Like all the other Things I have dealt with, they just talk louder. Little bastards.

  Katy Perry comes on and I sing along, not caring if I can't carry a tune. Peter just holds onto my hand and doesn't say anything and doesn't breathe. You'd think this would be disturbing, but it isn't. It's comforting.

  Dad's car is in the driveway when I get home, even though he had to go to the pharmacy. I may have driven a little slower than normal. It's not that I didn't want to go home. I just don't want to face what's waiting for me. I have to deal with the guilt that I made my mother sick, and I'm going to get interrogated by Dad about Peter. Good times.

  “You should probably go, unless you want to get yelled at or shot by my dad.”

  “Your father doesn't scare me. Nor do bullets.” A brief image of my dad standing on the porch with a shotgun flickers through my mind. It should be funnier than it is.

  “I know, but my father scares me, and he's not in a good state. If you want, you can go fly for a while and I'll come upstairs. I might even be inclined to let you have a little taste.” I give him what I hope is a flirtatious smile. It doesn't feel right, so I drop it. I fail when it comes to sexy.

  “I do not need it. But thank you for the offer. I will be waiting for you.” He vanishes and reappears to open my door.

  “Do you ever get bored?”

  “Not when I am waiting for you.” For an angel vampire, he's awful sweet. I sigh and go to face my problems. Or at least some of them.

  Three

  Peter

  I fly in loops around the house, waiting for her. I dip low, so I can hear their voices. It does not concern me that her father does not like me. It should matter because it is important to Ava, even if she will not admit it. I am not used to trying to get along with humans. To impress them.

  For now, I concentrate on trying to make Ava feel better. She has a human need to blame herself for things out of her control. Perhaps it is part of possessing a soul, something I don't have. I had not thought about it much since my second incarnation. Now I think about it all the time.

  In most mythologies, a human is comprised of two things: a body and a soul. When the body dies, the soul remains. Something that can survive without a body that goes on to another place.

  But I have a body that can exist forever. It has taken the place of my soul. So would it not be the other way around? One cannot have both an eternal body and an eternal soul. It would tip the balance too much, and the world is all about balance, belief in God or not. Out of seeming chaos, there are patterns, order. So it would stand to reason that I would be the opposite of a human. Eternal body, a soul that can die. I don't believe I deserve a soul.

  I perch on the roof, leaving my wings out so the breeze streams through the feathers, making a sound only I can hear. Inside the house, Ava and her father try to keep their voices down. They are afraid of disturbing her mother, who they believe is sleeping. Judging by her breathing and her heart rate, she is not.

  I have a spur-of-the-moment impulse and leap from the roof. I find my shirt and slide my wings out of sight before I put it on. There are two windows leading into Claire's bedroom. Softly, I tap on the glass. She looks up, startled. She squints in the dark before flicking the light on. She sees me and swallows once. Her heart rate picks up.

  I slide the window up a little so I can talk without her feeling threatened.

  “Please, don't get up. I just wanted to speak with you.” I use the voice I once used to lure victims. Comforting and smooth.

  “If you hurt me, I'll scream.” Her eyes flick to the door, calculating how fast it will take her husband to reach us should something occur.

  “I am not here to hurt you. I would never hurt someone Ava cares about.” She relaxes a bit and raises one eyebrow, a feat I have yet to conquer.

  “You know I'm going to die anyway. You'd just be speeding up the inevitable.” She shares Ava's wry sense of humor.

  “I know. I do not wish to hurt you. I wanted to speak about Ava and I did not think she would like me doing so.”

  She sighs. “Yes, I know.” She sits up, propping a pillow under her back.

  I push the window open a few more inches. “May I come in?”

  “I suppose.” I move as slowly as I can so as not to startle her. “I don't remember the last time I had a boy sneaking in my window,” she says with a smile. The mood lifts a little.

  “It cannot have been that long ago.” She can't be much more than forty-three.

  “Flattery will get you everywhere, young man.” She stops, realizing what she has said. “I guess you aren't really a young man. I'm really not comfortable with that age difference. It's illegal in all fifty states and Puerto Rico, I believe.”

  “There were no such laws when I was human.” Men married women young enough to be their granddaughters, especially when there was money involv
ed.

  “That isn't helping your case.”

  “I would like to talk to you about what happened tonight. Ava believes she caused your illness by telling you about our relationship.” I try taking a breath in. The air whistles in my lungs, but she can't hear it.

  “I know.” She sighs again. “She's always been that way. Taking on more than she should. My strong girl. Seems like she's taken on a lot with you as well.” She waves her hand to indicate my person.

  “I would not have chosen it for her. It was out of necessity.” I need to make this clear to her. That it wasn't a choice either of us took lightly.

  “For you or her? Because I have a hard time believing you have a benevolent spirit.” I have no spirit at all, but I do not say that.

  “For her. I would have been content to end my existence, but she stopped me.”

  “Why did you do it? Why not just leave her alone?”

  “I ask myself the same question every day.” It is the only answer I can give her. It is not enough.

  “Hmm.” Her hand goes to her head, as if it aches. It is time to go.

  “I will leave you now. Unless you have questions for me. Ava always seems to.”

  A tiny smile lifts her pale lips. “Did she make a list?”

  “Yes.”

  “What am I going to do with that girl?” She laughs and shakes her head. “If I think of one, I'll ask her. You're not going to turn into a bat, are you?”

  “No. Ava asked me that, too. I believe Bram Stoker is responsible for that particular piece of lore.” Ava gave me a copy of Dracula to read. I avoided the book for many years, but was pleasantly surprised by the story.

  “Hm,” she says, as if she's thinking about something else.

  “Goodnight.” I move too fast for her eyes to follow, and she's startled when I am no longer in the room.

  She pauses, as if to say something else, but doesn't. I close the window behind me and the light goes out.

  Ava

  Dad and I end up whisper yelling for almost an hour. I'm absolutely exhausted by the end and don't even have to fake that I'm tired. Somehow, my voice is also hoarse from the confrontation. I spent a lot of time defending myself, Peter and even Mom. Not to mention he reamed me out for not handling the episode the correct way. Otherwise known as his way.

  He didn't approve of me having Peter over at all, even though, as far as he knew, Peter had just “dropped by.” I guess I also screwed up by driving to the hospital and not calling for an ambulance. The scent of his blood teases me, making my head muddled and my temper even shorter than it is normally.

  I don’t bother telling Dad that it would cost $400 if we called the ambulance, even with our insurance. The fact that I'm seventeen and know how much an ambulance costs is not something I want to think about. I don’t want to do much more thinking. I just want to hang out with Peter in my room and have him read to me, or have him sit there and listen to me go on and on without interrupting. He is so good at that. He is good at a lot of things.

  But he said we were going flying tonight. The thought of that makes me shiver with anticipation as I storm up the stairs. I want to say goodnight to Mom, but I am going to wake her up. She has been through enough and doesn’t need me reminding her of the awfulness from earlier. Dad will take such good care of her that she'd have care coming out her ears.

  I pull my phone out of my back pocket, but the screen's black. After the hospital ordeal, I'd turned it off, which means that I probably have a million missed messages from Texas and Jamie. Yup, ten from Tex, but one from Jamie. It has been forever since we talked.

  Instead of texting him back, I hit speed dial and park myself at the top of the stairs outside my room.

  “Hey, you,” I say when he picks up. “Long time no talk.”

  “Hey, Ave.” Hearing his voice is like drinking a warm cup of tea with tons of honey. There's a reason Jamie and I have been friends for so long. Back before this whole Thing with my mother and Thing with Peter, I used to tell Jamie everything.

  “I've missed you lately.”

  “I know. You've been a busy girl.” I can feel the hurt in his voice. I swallow a lump of guilt.

  I want to spill about Peter and the hospital ordeal, but I can't. Not yet. “How are things? How's Cassie?”

  “She's really good. The baby started moving, so that's a good sign.”

  “Do you know if it's a boy or girl?”

  “Not yet. She wants a boy so she can name it Jamie.” My heart squeezes. How sweet.

  “We need to hang out soon. As in this week.”

  “Definitely. It's been ages since I had my best cheerleader at one of my meets.”

  “Just don't make me wear the skirt and I'm there.”

  “I know.”

  There's a pause in the conversation where I want to tell him. Something, anything. I want it so much, but instead, I say, “I'll talk to you tomorrow. Say hi to Cassie and the baby for me.”

  “I will.”

  Click. I sit for a second on the steps, thinking about Jamie. I want to do something for him. Once, Brett Kormier was teasing me about my black hair and Jamie drew me a picture of Brett with snakes coming out of his head. It sounds silly now, but back then it was one of the nicest things anyone had done for me. I'll have to come up with something. Dinner at Miller's isn't going to cut it.

  Peter's reading when I open the door. He has blown through most of my books, and I have to keep going to the library to get more. I'd go to bed and he'd be reading one book, and in the morning there would be a stack on my floor. He mentioned to me once that he used to break into the library and steal books. I told him to stop and I'd do it the legal way. The crazy thing is that he'll read everything from vampire romances to literary fiction to histories of the Civil War, which is kind of sexy.

  “Watcha reading?” He's leaning against the ancient trunk that holds all his worldly goods. Flakes of rust and dirt fleck the floor, but I don't mind. I pull at the key around my neck. I am never going to take it off. It opens the most precious thing I have been entrusted with. Peter's human memories. He showed them to me once, but I haven’t touched them since. They are too private. Too intimate. His.

  He holds up the cover of the book. It's a historical fiction featuring a woman from World War II who travels back in time to Scotland. I wouldn't exactly say it's a bodice ripper, but there are quite a few steamy scenes in it. Good thing Peter doesn't blush or get offended by that sort of thing. I doubt if a woman stripped completely naked in front of him that he would even have a reaction. Not that I am going to test the theory. I don’t want to take the chance of getting that close to him. Although, one glance at me naked might squash any ideas about love.

  “Have you gotten to the sexy parts yet?”

  “No.” His eyes race over the page, and he turns one every few seconds. I have no idea how he can read that fast, but there are a lot of things Peter can do that I don't understand.

  He puts in a bookmark and looks at me.

  “How was Jamie?” Of course he heard the whole conversation, but he is polite enough to pretend that he hadn't.

  “He's good. I need to stop neglecting him. Any ideas?”

  He thinks for a moment before looking up at me. “You could make him earth-shattering cheesecake.” His suggestion makes me smile.

  “There's an idea.” Actually, it's not too bad. I file it away for potential use.

  He closes the book with a snap. “Ready to fly?”

  I toss on a coat and an extra pair of pants, gloves and a hat.

  “Yes.”

  I almost throw myself into his arms. I absolutely love touching his skin and I'm bummed I have to wear so many layers. Peter's skin is sort of waxy. I like the feel of it warming under my hands. He scoops me up like he did my mother. No, I'm putting today in the back of my mind. I'm flying with Peter now. Nothing more, nothing less.

  I keep my eyes open as he runs off the roof and takes to the air. It's just as much of a ru
sh as the first time, and I wonder if I'll ever get used to it. I hope not. I really hope not.

  We don't talk as he takes us higher, the air poking under my clothes, even through my layers. I learned the hard way the first time that I can never have too many layers.

  “It wasn't your fault,” he says in my ear when we're at cruising altitude. I am now free to speak to the noctalis.

  I rub my face into his shirt, trying to use his scent to burn everything else away. “Feels that way.”

  “You cannot cure cancer, as much as you want to.”

  An idea strikes me and I voice it before I can second guess it.

  “You could.” It's the first time I'm saying it out loud, but I’m pretty sure it's lingered in my subconscious since I met him and only now decided to sneak into the main part of my brain.

  “No.” He knows what I'm thinking. He does most of the time, but not all of the time.

  “You could, though.”

  “I would not. This is not a life. It is an endless, soulless existence.” That's not the point.

  “I know, but you could. I'm not asking you to. Just saying that it could happen.” I am not, I repeat, not saying that this should happen. I can't imagine a world where my mother is a noctalis. But the thing is, two months ago I never could have imagined noctali existing at all. So there.

  “But it would not.”

  “You're impossible.”

  He doesn't respond and I tighten my hold on him. He feels so solid and so right that I never want to let go. Even when he's arguing with me.

  I haven't told him about the decision I made when his mother tried to kill me — when she said she would release him from his promise to not love anyone but her and he'd chosen me instead.

  I love him and I would never love anyone else. In every way you could love a person. Or nonperson. I just hadn't told him. I didn't want to burden him any more than I already had with my stupid human weaknesses.