“Fine. Vampyres are notorious for seduction. They can make obsession feel like devotion.” The rope bit into my skin as I pulled it tighter. “Weres? All instinct and hunger. They thrive on bonds, pack, and possession. As for gods. . .” I paused, remembering the burning in my chest, the golden tome that I clutched against myself as the hunter that chased me from The Library. “Gods play on worship. The stories all end the same: they get what they want, and mortals rarely walk away unscathed.”
I tried to shake the unease that crept up my spine. I hated talking of the gods because you never knew who was listening, ready to step in and make your life a living hell.
Charlie swallowed hard. “So what do we do? Warn her?”
That made me laugh, a sharp sound with no humor in it as I rapped my knuckles on the floor. “What would you tell her? 'Hey Violet, congratulations on making it into such a prestigious university. It turns out it is also a supernatural breeding program! Surprise, sweetheart, you are now the perfect breeding stock.'”
Charlie winced, burying his face in his hands, and groaned. A rather surprising trait from him I learned he does whenever he feels overwhelmed.
“It is ridiculous,” I said, resuming my tie, “But not wrong.”
He dragged a palm down his face, letting the mask of calm break slowly. “Levi will not stay still knowing Violet is in that much danger.”He took a deep breath in, “God, I don’t think I can face Sloane either, knowing this. . .”
His voice trailed off, and the agony in his words did little to hide his turmoil. I studied him, seeing the years of lines in his face. The revelation of him being complicit, or perhaps even an accomplice, in Levi’s act of murder told me that he was a man who would do anything for his chosen family. Levi, Charlie, and apparently me.
The truth I would never admit—not to Charlie, not to Sloane, and definitely not to Levi—was that this fractured mess we had was the closest thing I had ever known to family. . . if you ignored my first attempt with Faelin. Her name still haunted me. Yes, this current life felt messed-up and broken, sure. But it was still mine. And that meant I would bleed for them if I had to.
“Then we deal with it,” I said simply, feeling the rope of responsibility cinch around my throat. “I can move closer. Keep an eye on her. If I have to get a job at the damn place, I will.”
Charlie hesitated. “But this veil you mentioned—what happens when it falls?”
I began untying my leg, the rope sliding free with practiced ease, regarding the indentations on my skin with mild interest. “In my life, the veil was gone. I do not know if it was a physical manifestation or simply what they called the hidden nature of it all. Humans and monsters lived side by side—if you could call it living.” A hollow chuckle escaped me. “What many thought was a pandemic was really the beginning of the end. Not political or engineered. . . just a god throwing a tantrum because another god fucked him over. Mortals bled for it.”
We had spent years poring over religious texts, folklore, myths—anything that would help bring light to my first life in the Wastelands. We had agreed I must have lived some time in the future based on my descriptions, we just didn’t know how far ahead. But the common thing we had agreed after our research was what Charlie mumbled, “In every religion, mortals bleed for gods.”
I nodded. “Yes, it does seem to be their favorite pastime. . . a morose legacy of fucking with us or killing us.”
He flinched at that.“You’re sure about all this?”
I let out a long, exhausted breath, growing frustrated at how many times I had rattled off my reasons to only be met by their constant disbelief. “Charlie,” I muttered, “Of course, I am not sure. All I have are fragments. . . stories carved into stone, names whispered in alleys, rumors you do not repeat unless you want your throat slit. Hearsay. That is all I have.”
“But you believe it.”
I glanced over to him before returning my gaze to the rope hanging slack between my fingers. “I believe in what I saw, what I lived through, what I experienced, and what I learned,” I said. “Mostly, I learned how to survive.”
Charlie studied me with those storm-blue eyes, brows pinched. He was afraid, I realized, but I could not say if it was for me or for Violet or for the whole of humanity. He was a righteous man, lost on his journey, and always eager to carry the burdens of others.
Finally, he asked, “Think we’re overreacting?”
I shrugged. “What is that saying? Hope for the best, prepare for the worst? Allow me to survey the school first. It may not be as I fear. I could be paranoid over nothing.” I paused, then added, “Assuming Levi does not bury me in the back yard like he did old Rufus.”
Charlie gave a humorless laugh. “No promises. At least you’ll be in a good spot. They loved that dog.” His tired eyes turned to me. “For now, let us enjoy the barbecue tomorrow and see how things go. I’m looking forward to Sloane’s cooking.”
I scoffed, throwing a teasing jab at the woman Charlie pinned for, “Youmay want Sloane’s, but it is Dawn’s cooking I salivate for.”
Sloane’s sister Dawn moved through the kitchen like fire given form, like a spirit of the hearth if ever there was one. Each dish she prepared was infused with something I could not put into words. South American heritage ran through her blood like molten gold, and she wielded it like the weapon it was. Every dish paraded spices across my tongue in a myriad of wondrous flavors. It was as if she conjured magic from rice and beans, and from banana leaves tied tight around mysteries that made my mouth water.
I especially enjoyed it when she made tamales. Watching her tie those leaves with practiced ease, binding something precious so it could transform.Just like my rope work, just like the knots that kept my sanity tethered.
Charlie stood as he said, “Her tamales really are the best, but I will always prefer Sloane’s.” He reached out and—in a fatherly gesture—put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m going for my run. Want to join?”
No, I do not. I always did my run in the morning, compared to Charlie, who preferred the evening.Getting in shape is a psychological process disguised as a physical one, he’d often say. I did not share the same sentiment of enjoying running in darkened woods.
“Nyet,” I said.
“No?” Charlie asked in confirmation. He had started studying Russian once he realized how much the language meant to me—a way for him to get closer to me, for us to share something in common—but he was still unsure of himself. He constantly asked for validation and clarification, even over the simplest words and terms.
“Not tonight. But thank you for asking.”
