Bloody Valentine
Page 5

The girls gossiped conspiratorially when a male voice interrupted from the other side of the curtain that divided the room in two. “Hey, you guys have cookies over there? Aren’t you going to share?”
The team giggled. “Your neighbor,” Birdie whispered. “I think he’s hungry.”
“Excuse me?” Allegra called. She hadn’t even noticed that she was sharing a room until now. Maybe she had suffered a pretty hard blow to the head and not just a run-of-the-mill field injury.
Rory Antonini, a talented midfielder with the best scoring percentage in the league, pulled back the curtain that separated the room. “Hey, Bendix,” the girls chorused.
Bendix Chase was the most popular boy in their class. It wasn’t hard to figure out why: at six feet three, he looked a bit like a young blond giant, with his broad shoulders and powerful build. His face resembled that of a Greek god’s: with a fine brow, a perfect nose, and cut-glass cheekbones. He had a dimple on each cheek, and his clear, cornflower-blue eyes twinkled with fun. He was lying on a hospital bed with his right leg in a cast. He waved cheerfully.
“When are you getting out?” asked Darcy Sedrik, their goaltender, as she handed him the almost empty plate of cookies.
“Today. Cast is finally coming off. Thank god—I’m tired of hopping to class,” Bendix said, nodding his gratitude for the cookie. “What happened to you?” he asked Allegra.
“Merely a flesh wound,” she said, pointing to her gauze turban and affecting a British accent.
“At least you still have your arms,” Bendix mused with a smile at the Monty Python quote.
Allegra tried not to seem overly charmed that he had picked up the reference so quickly.
She didn’t want to appear as just another of his googly-eyed fan club, as the entire field hockey team had now migrated over to his side of the room to sign his cast with heart-shaped dots over their i’s and innumerable X’s and O’s.
“Visiting hours are over, I’m afraid,” Mrs. Anderson declared, reappearing in her starched white uniform. There was another chorus of “Aww” as she shooed the girls out. She was about to close the curtain that separated her two patients when Bendix asked if they could keep it open.
“I hope you don’t mind. It gets a bit claustrophobic. And your side has the TV,” he said.
“Sure.” Allegra shrugged. She and Bendix knew each other, of course, as Stuart Endicott Academy, like the Duchesne School, was a small and tight-knit community of the breathtakingly advantaged children of the elite. However, unlike the rest of the female population, she did not swoon in his presence. She found his all-American good looks a bit too obvious, too Hollywood movie star, too universally admired. Bendix looked like the jock from The Breakfast Club, except even more handsome. And Bendix wasn’t just good looking and athletic and adored, he was also, shockingly, for a boy of his privilege and status—kind. Allegra noticed that far from being an arrogant snob who stalked the halls with his massive ego, Bendix was genuinely nice to everyone, even her brother Charles, which was saying something.
Still, even if the most gorgeous boy at Endicott was sitting mere feet away, watching music videos with her (why on earth was Eddie Murphy singing? And what was up with that striped shirt he was wearing?), Allegra paid him no more thought.
TWO
The Van Alen Twins
When Dr. Perry arrived from New York, he pronounced Allegra well as ever, and she was back in her dormitory the next day. She was running between classes when she saw her brother walking purposefully across the quadrangle toward her.
“I came as soon as I heard,” Charles Van Alen said, taking her elbow gently. “Who did it? Are you sure you’re all right? Cordelia is beside herself….”
Allegra rolled her eyes. Her twin brother was such a dork sometimes. Not only because he insisted on calling their mother by her first name, but also because of his whole big-protector act. Especially since she was taller than him by two inches. “I’m fine, Charlie, really.” She knew he hated being called by his childhood nickname, but she couldn’t help it. He was the last person she wanted to see right then.
Unlike Allegra, Charles Van Alen was short for his age. The twins could not have looked less alike, as he had dark hair and cold gray eyes. Unlike his casually dressed peers, Charles wore an ascot to class and carried a leather briefcase. He wasn’t very popular at Endicott, not because of his pretensions (although they were many) but mainly because he complained about the school constantly and let everyone know he wouldn’t be there if his sister hadn’t insisted they transfer. Most of the students thought he was an annoying, pompous windbag, and in return he acted as though they were all beneath him.
Allegra understood that most of his insecurity came from his small stature. If only he would relax—the doctors had agreed he had yet to hit his growth spurt, and there was no question he would be handsome. His face was just a little off right now. In a few years he would grow into his nose, and his features—those intense eyes, that deep forehead—would settle into regal symmetry. But for now, Charlie Van Alen was just another nerdy short guy on the debate team.
He had been in Washington, D.C., for the Elocution Finals over the weekend, for which Allegra was glad. Otherwise she knew he would have made a huge fuss at the clinic, and would have probably insisted they transfer her to a better care facility at Mass General or something. Charlie was as bad as Cordelia when it came to looking after Allegra. Between the two of them, she felt like a Dresden doll: precious, fragile, and unable to help herself. It drove her insane.
“Here, let me…” he said, taking her bag.
“I can carry my backpack. Let go. Don’t be weird,” she snapped. She tried not to feel guilty about the shocked, sad look that appeared on his face.
This wasn’t any way to speak to her bondmate, but she couldn’t help it. Because Charlie was Michael, of course. After what had happened in Florence, there was no question about it now—they had been born as twins in every cycle since then. The House of Records insisted on the practice, so that what had happened back then would never happen again. So that from the beginning, there would be no doubts, no questions, no more mistakes.
Still, every incarnation since had been worse than the last. Allegra couldn’t put a finger on it, but over the years she had begun to feel a distance from him. Not only because of what had happened back then—Oh, who was she kidding—it had everything to do with what had happened in Florence. She could never forgive herself. Never. It was all her fault. And the fact that he still loved her—would always love her—forever and ever and ever—through all the years and the centuries—made her feel more resentful than grateful. His love was a burden. After what had come between them, in every cycle she came closer to believing she did not deserve his love, and with the resentment came the guilt and the anger. She didn’t know why, but it had become harder and harder to feel for him what he still felt for her.
It was ironic, really. She had been in the wrong, and yet he was the one being punished. It was depressing to think about, and on that bright fall afternoon, she felt as far away from him as she ever had.
“No—let me,” he insisted, pulling on the strap.
“Charlie, please!” she yelled, and yanked with all her strength so that her backpack flew out of his hands, and he slipped and fell on the grass.
He glowered at her as he picked himself up and dusted off his pants. “What is wrong with you?” he hissed.
“Just—leave me alone, can’t you?” She raised her hands and raked through her long blond hair in frustration.
“But I—I…”
I KNOW. You love me. You’ve always loved me. You’ll ALWAYS love me. I know, Michael. I can hear you loud and clear.
“Gabrielle!”
“My name is Allegra!” she almost screamed. Why did he have to call her by that name all the time? Why did he have to act like people didn’t notice how obsessed he was with her? Sure, none of the Blue Bloods kids thought it was weird, since they knew who they were even if they still hadn’t had their coming-out yet; but the Red Bloods didn’t know their history or what they meant to each other, and it bothered her. This wasn’t ancient Egypt anymore; this was the twentieth century. Times had changed. And yet the Conclave was always so slow to react.
Sometimes Allegra just wanted to experience life as it happened, without the burden of her entire immortal history on her shoulders—she was only sixteen years old—at least, in this lifetime. Give her a break. In 1985, in Endicott, Massachusetts, your twin brother’s having a crush on you was simply gross and disgusting; and Allegra was beginning to agree with the Red Bloods.
“This guy bothering you, Legs?” Bendix Chase asked, happening upon them as the third bell rang.
“Did this guy just call you ‘Legs’?” Charles gaped.
“It’s all right,” Allegra said, sighing. “Bendix Chase, I don’t think you know my brother, Charlie.”
“Freshman?” Bendix asked, pumping Charles’s hand. “Good to meet you.”