My Love Lies Bleeding
Page 41

“Nicholas,” I whispered.
Nothing.
I pushed his shoulder.
Still nothing.
None of those same novels had ever made any suggestions as to the extraction of one’s self from a superhuman embrace. There were logistical issues. Such as the fact that I could break my own arm trying to squirm away and he’d sleep right through it. I squirmed anyway, just in case.
“Damn it, Nicky, wake up, you undead slug.”
It wasn’t a good sign when I couldn’t even irritate him into a response. There was a narrow window beside Solange’s bed. I might just be able to reach it with my toe. I stretched until the arch of my foot and the back of my calf began to cramp painfully.
“This is ridiculous,” I huffed, stretching farther. I could feel my face going red with the effort. With my luck, this would be the exact moment he woke up— to find me inches from his head, straining and panting like I was passing a kidney stone.
I finally managed to hook the cord of the blinds with my toes. One yank and a quick release and the blinds snapped up. Late-afternoon sunlight slanted over the bed and across his pale, still face. The glass was treated, of course, so it wasn’t dangerous, but Nicholas’s young vampire instinct made him recoil from the sudden fall of light. He burrowed under the security of blankets, shifting his arm and throwing it over his head for good measure.
The only problem was that he did it so fast, the momentum shoved me right off the bed and onto the floor. I landed with a squeak and a particularly ungraceful display of flailing limbs, neither of which helped to make my landing any softer.
My elbow tingled and my tailbone throbbed, and I now had intimate knowledge of the dust bunnies under Solange’s bed. And the patchwork skirt I thought I’d lost last year, twisted under a storage box covered in stickers. Yes, even little girls with vampire lineage have a sticker phase. I shoved to my feet, grimacing. Nicholas slept on peacefully, looking exactly like a marble carving of a sleeping angel. Hah.
There was nothing angelic about the way he kissed.
When I caught myself snickering, I realized I must be groggier than I thought. I hurried out of the room before I embarrassed myself irrevocably. The house was quiet. Boudicca lay in front of Hope’s door. She wagged her tail when she saw me but otherwise didn’t move. Liam must have sent her to guard the bedroom. I went to fetch Mrs. Brown and then let her out to terrorize the wildlife in the backyard. One thing I’d learned in my family was that if you had an animal companion, never “pet,” who was dependent on you, you lived up to your responsibilities. No excuses. Ever.
When I was seven I’d begged my parents for a goldfish because I loved feeding the ones at the Buddhist temple we went to every New Year’s Eve. Only I forgot to feed mine, and it floated belly-up one sad Sunday morning. To say that my mother overreacted was to vastly underestimate my mother. We had a funeral, complete with a papier-mâché Viking boat, which she set on fire, sending my goldfish’s spirit to Valhalla via Lake Violet.
“Hurry up,” I called over to Mrs. Brown, who was wiggling her little pug bottom in joy at finding one of Byron’s abandoned beef bones on the edge of the lawn. The sun was soft, like warm honey poured onto the treetops and the roses, glittering over the windows of the farmhouse. It was one of those perfect long summer days just before school starts. Solange and I usually wandered around town, complaining about how bored we were and how much it sucked that I had to go back to school and she had to learn how to pour tea in the precise Victorian way. You know, in case Charlotte Brontë ever dropped by for tea cakes. I would have given anything to be that bored right now.
I wished we knew where Solange was and whether she was all right. We didn’t even know if she was still conscious. There were only two days left until her birthday.
If someone wasn’t there to help her through her bloodchange, she’d be dead before she even got a chance to be sixteen— or else she’d turn into a Hel-Blar.
If she wasn’t already dead.
“Can’t think like that,” I muttered, shredding the rose I hadn’t realized I’d picked.
Torn petals drifted messily to the ground. Mrs. Brown attacked them as if they offended her sense of order. I didn’t hear the window slide open over her fierce growls, but I did hear Hope raise her voice.
“Lucky, isn’t it?”
“No one calls me that.” I looked up, shading my eyes. “There are alarms on the windows, and if you jump, Byron will chase you.” I snapped my fingers at the shaggy dog, who slunk over from the porch, head lowered submissively as soon as he saw Mrs. Brown. As a threat, he needed work.
“I’m not going to jump,” Hope assured me. “Anyway, I’d break my leg from this distance.”
“Good.” I didn’t know what else to say.
“I can get you away from here,” she added softly.
Now I knew exactly what to say.
“Not you, too,” I said impatiently. “I’m not a prisoner, and the Drakes aren’t monsters. They’re family.”
“You’re not a vampire.” Her expression darkened. I wouldn’t have thought such a cheerful face could look so angry. “Did they change you?”
“No, of course not.” I scowled back. “Wait, how did you know my name?”
“You’re Solange’s closest friend. Of course we know who you are.”
“That stupid field guide, right? Do you also know how creepy you are? Stalking a fifteen-year- old girl in your commando outfits?”