Page 36 of Crown of Death

“Would you like to teach me, Logan Pierce?” he asks. And I swear there’s a hint of vulnerabilitythere.

Two faces, I think to myself. The vulnerable and sincere. Like this one, rightnow.

“Alright,” I say. I put the car into reverse. “Pay attention as we head to dinner. We’ll do the actual drivingafter.”

Words keep spewing out of my mouth as we cut back into Greendale. I rattle off anything and everything I can think of when it comes to driving. Explain the various road signs we see. Point to different parts of the car, explaining what they’re for. Even if he probably understands the basics, I talk it all over as if he’s never been inside a vehiclebefore.

By the time we pull into the parking lot ofCarmichaels, my voice istired.

But I think I talked some of the pent up energy out ofmyself.

We walk in, and the waiter seats us at a booth toward the back, in a darkercorner.

“You favor Italian food?” Cyrus asks as we both look over themenu.

I shrug. “I like just about everything. But I am always in the mood for their chickencarbonara.”

“I know what I’ll be ordering, then,” he says, setting his menu down and looking over at me as I set down myown.

Which is good timing. The waiter shows up just then and weorder.

“So, vampires eat normal food?” I question, keeping my voice low once he’s left. Even though no one is seated particularly close tous.

I think Cyrus slipped some money to thewaiter.

“Yes,” he says, resisting a little smile. “We still requiresustenance.”

“Not just blood?” I ask,warily.

“No, not just blood,” heanswers.

He looks up at me, and he settles back into his seat. He looks more relaxed now than earlier. I see a burning desire in his eyes, somethinginquisitive.

“Your chosen profession is rather unorthodox,” he says, jumping right into something heavy. “Tell me. What made you chooseit?”

The waiter brings Cyrus a glass of wine, and a glass of water forme.

I pull the glass toward me, running my thumb over the condensation gathering outside it. I look from his eyes to the ice floating init.

“I’d prefer the real reason,” he says, his voice dropping to intimate levels. “Because I suspect there is a very purposefulone.”

I look back up at him. And I see that he means it. He wants me to be real andopen.

I swallow once. And give it tohim.

“When I was eleven, my family was on our way to go camping,” I say, letting the pictures float back into my brain. The way the car smelled. How full the back of the minivan was. The frazzled look in my mom’s eyes as she tried to remember everything we needed to pack. “My grandparents, my dad’s mom and dad, were coming withus.”

I take a sip of water. The glass slips through my hand, slick on the outside. But I clasp it harder at the last moment, preventing it from spilling into mylap.

I set it back on thetable.

“It started raining just twenty minutes after we left the house,” I say. “We were going around this bend at the base of the canyon.” The water was coming down so hard. Dad had the wipers going full blast, back and forth, back and forth so fast. “This big truck pulling a trailer came flying down the canyon. He took the turn toowide.”

Cyrus leans forward, holding onto everyword.

“Dad still blames himself for turning the wheel and sailing off the road, instead of letting that truck hit us.” I swallow. Every once in a while, it hits Dad. He gets real quiet for a day or two. He often just stares at the wall, numb and blank. “We started rolling. Smashing down the hill. Over and over. Glass everywhere. Everyonescreaming.”

Blood. Snaps. Our things flying everywhere in thecar.

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