Page 102 of Mate
She gives me a pitying glance. “That ship has long sailed for most of them.”
“Oh. Right.” I clear my throat. “Do you know what the councilwoman wanted with me?”
“To study you. Run a whole assay on your lymph nodes. Cut you up in cubes and slap you on microscope slides. That kind of stuff.” She grins at me. It transforms the usually dour lines of her face into something so stunning, I have no problem picturing Koen’s crush on her when they were younger.
Last night . . . What he and I did. Whathedid to me— he didn’t seem clumsy. Or new at it. Or even out of practice. And since Brenna and Koen used to—
“Are you okay?” Brenna asks me.
“Yeah. Just thinking.”
“No, I mean . . . You were seeing Sem first thing in the morning. You’re not dying or something, are you?”
I blink at her, and all at once I’m not quite sure how to breathe, or speak, or interact with the world surrounding me. It’s like I’ve been locked in a cupboard for months. But its door has been ripped open, and now there’s light. There’s air. There’s a fuckingfuture.
I don’t have CSD. Which means that I have more than justmonthsleft. I can make choices. I can go back to the Southwest, see Ana grow up, watch Misery be the worst parent on the planet. I can be a journalist again, or a financial advisor, or dedicate the next ten years to learning how to solve Rubik’s Cubes. I can apply for a loan, buy a cabin close to the Pacific Coast, and spend my mornings exploring the shoreline. I can annoy Koen ad infinitum.
The joy of it sings so loudly in my blood, the car is too small to contain it. I have to trap it within my body and let go of it little by little, in slow puffs of air.
“No,” I say at last. Because for the first time in months, I can. “As it turns out, I’m not dying.”
“’Kay. Good.”
“I . . . Brenna, could we stop by the store?”
“Sure. Why?”
“I . . .” A tear slides down my cheek. I cover my smile with the palm of my hand. “I just realized that I’m going to need some sunscreen.”
I SPEND THE DAY ALONE IN THE CABIN, WITH FREQUENT VISITSfrom the Weres patrolling the surrounding area. A couple of them I know. Several introduce themselves. All of them are naked. I must be adapting well to the Northwest lifestyle, because I barely notice.
They check in, see if I need anything. Ask the same questions, in the same order, with the same wording, which may take away some of the spontaneity but makes themfeeleven more like the proxies of the man who sent them.
I talk on the phone with Ana, then Ana and Misery, then just Misery. It’s hard not to share that I’m not yet headed for the mushroom suit.Can’t tell them about the sequel if you didn’t let them watch the original.
I putter around the house. Clean the sheets. I’m not hungry, but I open the fridge anyway, just to glance affectionately at the still prominently placed unicorn waffles. I play the piano, sure it’s silently cringing at how ghostly I pale in comparison to its owner. I try not to think about Koen’s hands. I nap, hoping I won’t wake up in flames. Or uncontrollably horny.
Heat spotting, Layla called it.They are surges that happen before Heat itself. Not long lasting, but can be intense. I suspect that your high fevers may have been surges left unattended.
Koen returns a little before sunset, while I’m going to town on a seven-year-old half-completed crossword I found under his bed. I have a whole speech ready— about what happened last night, about my lifespan’s sudden growth spurt, about how I never meant to force him to break his covenant. About how sorry I am that he spent his day dealing with Vampyre commandos who are after me, and the fact that yes, I’m absolutely judginghim for letting nearly a decade pass without filling in seven across:diminishing marginal utility. But he walks inside, dark circles under his eyes and tousled hair, caught at a rare unguarded time, and all I can squawk out is “I made dinner.”
He turns. Stares. Sucks in his cheek. “Did you.” He sounds suspicious.
“Yup.”
“Saul said you’ve been asleep for the past four hours.”
“I lied. I’m good at it, as you know. Plus, by the fourth person who knocked to ask if I needed anything, I kinda knew the— What happened to your side?” A large stain seeps into the dark gray of his cotton Henley. He glances at it like he’d forgotten about it.
“I’m going to get changed.”
The closer I get, the easier it is to smell it— the coppery tinge of fresh Were blood, so different from the iron of mine. “Sure, sure. ’Tisbut a scratch. You’ve proven your Alpha unflappability. Your pain threshold is so high, it’s wondering if the color blue you see is different from the color blue I see. I am adequately impressed— now take the shirt off.”
“And if I’m deathly wounded?” His eyebrow twitches skeptically. “What are you going to do about it,doctor?”
I gasp. “Isn’t it obvious? I’m going to pretend I know Were anatomy, loudly debate whether you need stitches, decide that you don’t, because I have no idea what stitches even are, and clean the general area of the wound with a cotton swab while ignoring the grosser bits. Most importantly, I willnotpass Go before retrieving my physician assistant diploma. Any objections?”
He hides a smile, but I spot it anyway, even as he reaches over his shoulder, grabs the upper back of the shirt, and pulls it off.
