Page 15 of Veinblood
A diner appears ahead, holiday lights twinkling around the entrance. Through the window I spot the rest of my friends. Kate loops her arm through mine and drags me through the door.
The moment we step inside, I’m assaulted on all fronts. Heat blasts from overhead vents, conversations overlap in a dozen different pitches, silverware clinks against ceramic, and holiday music plays beneath it all. After months in Meridian, where sound was kept to a minimum, the noise makes my head spin. The air smells of bacon grease and coffee, overwhelmingly rich and nauseating.
Brian, Tasha, and Mark wave from a corner booth beside the window, and we head over to join them. Kate slides in first and I follow her, the vinyl seat squeaking as we shuffle around until we’re comfortable.
“Why do you look different?” Brian says, handing me a menu and frowning.
“She had her hair done.” Kate answers before I can.
“I like it!” Tasha smiles at me. “What brought that on? You’ve never put color in your hair before.”
I force a smile, ducking my head to study the menu. “Just felt like a change.”
The laminated page swims before my eyes. Endless choices of pancakes, waffles, omelets with a dozen different fillings. Formonths, food choices have been limited. Dried meat and hard bread if we were traveling, maybe berries if we were lucky. In Stonehaven, it was rich broths and stews, cheese and fruit. Here, people agonize over whether they want their eggs over easy or scrambled, or if they want wheat or sourdough toast. The abundance of choice feels almost obscene.
“Did any of you lose power last night? Ours was out until four A.M.,” Mark asks.
“If we did, I didn’t notice,” Tasha replies. “I was asleep.”
“The storm kept everyone awake in my place,” Brian says.
The waitress appears, coffee pot in hand. I order automatically, muscle memory guiding the words. I don’t even know what I’ve picked. Once she leaves, the conversation picks up around me again. Work, politics, holiday travel nightmares, storm stories. I struggle to pay attention to topics that would have once seemed important. I try to show interest in minor inconveniences and the petty grievances they’re talking about.
“Earth to Ellie!” Mark waves a hand in front of my face. “You in there?”
I blink, discovering a plate of pancakes and a mug of coffee in front of me.
“Sorry.”
“Is everything okay with you?”
I nod. “Just tired.” My gaze drifts to the window, watching as people move slowly along the icy sidewalk. I feel disconnected from the world beyond the glass. Everyone here is preparing for Christmas, doing last minute shopping for giftsand snacks. They’re preparing for family visits. None of them know about the Authority, about the Veinwardens, about Sacha.
Brian launches into a story about his neighbor’s Christmas light display shorting out the entire building’s power. Tasha takes over with her own tale of holiday chaos. Something about a missing gift, and a misunderstanding with her sister. Mark scrolls through his phone, occasionally showing pictures of destinations for his planned spring vacation.
I try to engage. I try to remember how to be the person who cared about all these things. Six months ago, I’d have been envious of Mark’s vacation plans. Now I can barely pretend to care at all.
Instead, my attention keeps moving to the window, to the street beyond, and the world I’ve been thrust back into without warning or preparation.
My coffee cup stops halfway to my lips. My stomach drops.
Moving with that predatory grace I know so well is a figure that makes my heart slam against my ribs. His dark hair is peppered with snowflakes. His shoulders are set, and his eyes scan the street. Even if his clothing didn’t make him immediately recognizable, there would be no mistaking the lethal elegance of the man across the street.
Sacha.
My world narrows to that single focal point. The sounds of the diner and my friends fade, leaving only my pulse hammering in my ears. I’m on my feet and moving before I even think about it. My water glass tips, spilling across the table top, but Idon’t stop. My friends’ startled exclamations follow me as I push through the crowded diner toward the door.
Cold air hits my face as I burst onto the sidewalk.
“Sacha!”
He turns, his body immediately tensing into a defensive pose before recognition dawns. For a heartbeat, we simply stare at each other across ten feet of snowy sidewalk. Then I’m running, slipping on the ice and staying upright through sheer stubborn willpower. I throw myself against him, my hands finding his face, fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the arc of his cheekbones.
“You’re here.” My voice breaks. “You’re really here!” For a moment I can’t breathe.
His hands curve over my shoulders, and his eyes, those impossibly dark eyes, search mine with an intensity that makes my breath hitch.
“Ellie.” Just my name. But the way he says it contains everything he doesn’t say.
