Louie may be confused and upset when she wakes up, but I know she wouldn’t let anything hurt me.
Now to deal with the fucking mug.
Dragging my battered, exhausted body back to the kitchen, I pace like I’m playing a one-person ping-pong match.
Am I in danger? Obviously.
But where would I even go?
Eve’s place? Too risky.
My dad’s? No fucking way.
Staying put is the only option. Plus, Louie’s here. Sort of.
Ezra’s only been gone a few hours. He won’t be back anytime soon, and I can’t call him.
If I tell him, he’ll drop everything and come running.
I need him to deal with the vampires. I need him focused.
He’d know what this means. He’d probably already have a theory.
It would be nice to have that.
But I don’t.
So, I’ll figure it out myself.
I sift through the kitchen drawers until I locate a large Ziploc bag. Picking up the mug with my thumb and forefinger, I drop it in like I’m some kind of fucking CSI at a crime scene.
I don’t need it sitting there, looking at me like it knows something I don’t, so I toss it into the pantry with the unboxed kitchen stuff. Let future-me deal with that shit when Ezra gets back.
Then, because pretending things are normal is apparently my new coping strategy, I grab a few water glasses and start arranging flowers.
I’m still terrified, and the bugs under my skin twist and squirm, but what else can I do?
At least if my hands are busy, my mind doesn’t collapse in on itself. For now.
When I’m satisfied with the way my arrangements look, I place one in the kitchen, one on the coffee table, and one on the vanity in Ezra’s bathroom.
My flower-arranging skills are just as wild as the flowers, giving them an edge of beauty that instantly warms my chest, burning a few of those fucking bugs in the process.
Plus, the way the colorful flowers seem to glow against the sparse white and steel accents of the house makes me happy.
I snap a picture of the flower arrangement in the bathroom and send it to Ezra. He won’t respond, but I’m hoping the colorful collage of blooms brings him a little joy, too.
I close my eyes, press my hand against my chest, and breathe. The thread between us tugs, more echo than touch. Just enough to remind me he’s gone.
The silence settles over the house, stretching into every room, trying to swallow me whole.
The bugs under my skin thrash and jitter, but I push past them.
Because I have dinner plans, a best friend to face, and apparently, a crown to fucking claim.
Aurora
The Cardinal pulses with life tonight—elbows knocking, voices clashing, the air thick with stale nicotine and fried food.
