Page 83 of Feathers From the Sky

“I. Don’t. Know.” I say. Clear and calm, I stare a hole through the back of Roman’s head. “She lives in fucking Wisconsin. We moved into the townhouse at the start of summer. She’s only visited once.”

Roman rolls his neck, and I don’t know if he’s satisfied or not. Margot watches her friend, and she’s chewing on her lip. It’s one of her nervous tics, and it scares me. She knows him better than I do, and if she’s nervous, I ought to be too. “When she—when Susan visited, we were in our original unit. Maybe she—maybe she did it to that one,” I stutter.

“The unit you were only in for a week?” Margot asks, and I sigh in relief. Of course, she knows what I’m talking about.

“Yes. Before the plumbing disaster.”

“Oh my God, Roman. Remember? When they talked about their old place flooding, I couldn’t find the unit when I looked for it. We thought it was some sort of paperwork error, remember? But it didn’t matter because we knew where she was.”

“You couldn’t find it because it was warded.” Quiet, Roman faces the cemetery. I hear water, the sound of waves hitting rocks. It’s faint, and I realize the cemetery butts up to Lake Michigan. “Take her back to the greystone. It’s done now, so Margot, book the rental we discussed and the flights. Tomorrow preferably.”

“What?” It’s more an exhalation than anything. A sudden burst of wind from the lake nearly knocks me back a step. My mouth goes dry, and I tuck my arms around my body, seeking some sort of physical comfort. He was upset, I understand that, but for him to deflate like that? For his anger to immediately recede is strange, and now he’s back to making me leave. I’d stupidly thought he might have changed his mind.

Taller than average, Roman steps over the low gate with relative ease, and he walks into the dark cemetery, leaving me behind. He doesn’t look back. The world narrows down to the ache in my gut and the expanse of his back. As he walks farther, disappearing into the night, I feel as if I’m fading into nothing. He’s sending me away. He’s sending me across the world to hide—away from the people I love, and away from him.

Just enough or far too much, that’s all I ever am.

Roman cares just enough about me to send me away, to spare me from whatever demise waits for me. But that’s it. That’s all it is. I should have been prepared for this. It had been what I wanted anyway, right? I’d never intended this. I’d never intended to truly care for him. But here I am, a wilted flower chasing after the sun.

Panic overtakes me, pure consuming fear. He can’t send me away. “Roman!” I shout, darting toward the gate.

“Stop,” Nico commands, and I spin. My hair whips into my face, and my dress blows in the wind. My hands ball into fists, and something between a scream and a growl rips up my throat.

“Nico,” Margot says. A car drives by, and their headlights make her look like one of those golden-haired angels you might find on top of a Christmas tree. She gives me a half-smile before dropping her gaze from mine. “Let her talk to him. He’s being…” She gestures her arm toward the cemetery, but Nico seems to understand what she means.

“Five minutes,” he says, and there are no thoughts in my mind as I put one hand on the gate and launch myself over it. I never would have been able to do that gracefully without my immortal coordination.

I get a few paces in and start listening for Roman. The old cemetery is unsettling in the dark. I know it’s silly, but I can’t help it. I am the thing that goes bump in the night. Haunted by so many other things, I don’t think any ghosts would be interested in me. There’s little life in me to feed from, little damage left to do.

I can’t hear or see Roman, but there’s a tiny red glow in the distance, and I’m grateful for my exceptional new vision. When I start running, the cold lake breeze slams into me, throwing my hair behind me. It should feel awful, but I am not so sensitive anymore. When I finally see him, I realize what I’d been smelling all along.

Near the other end of the cemetery, close to an entrance, Roman leans against a tree with a cigarette in his hand. Slowing myself, I approach him carefully. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know where his head is at. Truly, I don’t know where mine is either. He’s undone another button of his undershirt, and it’s clear he’s been tugging at it. His hair is disheveled, loose now, as if he’s been pulling on it too. With the natural wave of it, I wonder how often it gets tangly. The intimate picture my mind paints is unkind. He’s damp, fresh out of a shower with only a towel on, and he’s holding out a hairbrush to me. I’ve always thought tending someone else’s hair was a love language, and I blink the image away.

I clear my throat as if he didn’t hear me running toward him, as if he doesn’t see me standing right here. “I didn’t know you smoked.”

“I don’t,” he says on a sigh. “Swiped these off Nico.” And yet when he inhales, holds it, then releases, it’s clearly not his first time.

“The mints?” He nods. “When did you quit?”

“Gave it up when I was trying to rehab Remy.” He tilts his head back, closing his eyes. “Figured we could be miserable together. Mints are just habit now.”

More silence. I don’t rush to fill it though, letting him set the pace. I feel foolish running to find him and having nothing to say, but I can’t bring myself to tell him the truth. Not yet.

I think of Roman’s face only a few moments ago: the hatred creasing his forehead, the distrust screwing up beautiful lips better suited to more pleasing endeavors, the frustration which made him grow flush with fury. It makes me shiver. It’s what makes me draw my arms across my chest and stare at the ground. The cherry on Roman’s cigarette glows, and when he finishes it, he tucks the butt into his pocket.

My eco-conscious captor.

Mine.

“I don’t want to go,” I whisper.

“I can’t keep you, baby.” I don’t move, don’t breathe. He runs his hands through his hair before shoving them into his pockets. “You don’t belong here. You have to go.”

Swallowing, I take a step closer. “I…I want to belong.”

He grits his teeth, crossing his arms and avoiding looking at me. When he finally speaks, each word holds more anger than the last. “I didn’t feel shit when we ended them, Gwyn. And I still don’t have the closure I was searching for.” He throws his hands up, then walks over to the fence bordering the cemetery. Hands fisting the metal, he looks toward the lake. “When you were changing, me and Margot looked around. One room smelled like him.” I step forward, gently placing my hand atop his. “It’s been months now since they sent us his blood. For it to still smell so strong? Fuck, Gwyn. They tortured him. There was all sorts of shit in there. Silver scalpels, acid to pour in his wounds. There’s…there’s a video file with his name on it. I-I can’t watch it.”

“I don’t think you—”

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