"I want the..." Gran's finger wavers in the air as she gestures at the two bottles of nail polish I hold in my hand. Her speech falters a lot these days, so I watch her face as much as listen to her words to find out what she wants.
When she looks frustrated, I hold up one of the bottles. "The coral?"
"Yes." Sharp and explosive, like that single word drives all of her breath out of her. When her arm sinks back to the chair, it keeps shaking.
I nod and settle cross-legged on the floor, touching one of her nails to see if the base coat is dry. I also notice that her feet are as cool as her hands were this morning. One more worry to shove into the back of my mind.
She's used this color for as long as I can remember. Those bright fingernails in hands straight and strong, guiding my small, grubby fingers over the soil of a potted plant, showing me how to test for whether it needed water. I blink rapidly, trying to reconcile that image with the gnarled, frail version in my hand now. Her trembling is worse; it must be close to her evening dose of pills. Medication helps her muscle tremors, but can't do jack shit against the magic clogging up her body.
Gran was a volunteer in the clean-up that happened in the first days after Fivefield, before the site became known as a magical fuck-up of epic proportions.
Fivefield was a magictech experiment based around the biggest leyline running through the Necali Territory. According to old magazines I found, before the disaster, Fivefield was called something else, a technical name with a lot of numbers. People behind the idea said it would revolutionize thaumaturgical ability, that magic would stop being only for witches and other creatures able to tap into and control its raw form. Through Fivefield, magic would be extracted and turned into spells that anyone could use, even people like me, without a magical bone in their body.
No one knows exactly why the drilling rig for the leyline exploded. Some think it was a human error and the idea behind Fivefield is still safe. Others, the ones who believe magic is sentient, say there's a reason why some people can use magic and some people can't, and the leyline itself got pissed off when we tried finding a way around that balance. Especially because, after spewing raw magic through the ground and air for three days, the leyline repaired the gaping hole left by the explosion, plugging itself up by growing crystal fields overnight, five of them.
Fifteen years later, the land around it is still black and dead, but the real trouble is what all that raw magic set loose did to people. Too much of anything leads to death, even sunlight. And magic can be a lot more unpredictable than the sun.
Plenty of reports try to explain what happened and why it caused such horrible health impacts. I don't read them; Maria used to, obsessively, but I hate how they turn my parents and Gran into mere statistics. Sixty thousand dead within a five-year range. Three hundred thousand with lingering effects. Those are cold, bloodless estimates. Even the horror vids that use Fivefield as a setting don't hit on the really scary part. It's not just about the grotesque effects experienced by people caught in rogue spells created by Fivefield. It's also about the daily grind of watching someone slowly disintegrate after a massive overload of magic rushed through their body, settling in the same way toxic dust can sink into the lungs. I've grown up with death at the dinner table, and what's horrifying isn't whether it will be awful, but how much will be lost before it finally reaches you.
I paint all the nails on one hand before Gran says, "Where's Maria?"
"She's at school." I bite the side of my cheek to keep from saying more. My younger sister lives at a prestigious boarding school in one of the Amstar cities back east. Upon graduation, she's guaranteed a high-status government job over there. As long as she doesn't fuck up her grades, she's made for life. And also unlikely to return here any time soon.
I get three more nails in before Gran asks another question. "Where's Enrique?"
The brush slips in my hand, painting a line of coral on her cuticle. "Sorry," I say, swallowing the rest of my words since they're all profanity. I know I have to answer, but the nurse's advice sticks in my throat. Lying to Gran feels awful, but the look on her face when I tell her the truth is even worse. Like I'm stabbing her in the heart with each syllable.
"Where?" she says again, her hands starting to pick at the fabric of her dress in agitation.
I gently put my own hands over hers. "He had to go do some things. He'll be back in a little while."
"Oh." Her hands relax under mine, and when she doesn't say anything more, I pull away and keep painting. Inwardly, I feel the truth unspool, as if I have to say it somewhere to make up for the lie. Dad's been dead for fifteen years, and you were the one who handled his funeral.
Dinner is a casserole reheated in the oven. I test a bite to make sure it's not hot enough to burn, and then help her eat. She doesn't want more than a few spoonfuls, and again I think back to the stupid list the nurse gave me. #2: Loss of appetite. Don't press the patient to eat if they become reluctant.
With those words circling in my head, my own hunger doesn't stand a chance. Nausea takes its place instead.
Later, after turning on the vidnet for Gran, I do homework for the rest of my classes, reading lectures to the sound of tragic opera. Mostly, she sits in front of the glowing screen and dozes, but when she does wake up, it's to ask if it's time for her pills. Twice, she asks in Spanish, which worries me as much as her not knowing Dad died. How long before she doesn't even recognize me?
I try not to think about it, focusing on my homework instead. It does the trick, but since I'm a shit student with the philosophy that passing with a C-minus is still passing, I'm happy by the even better distraction of an incoming call on my phone.
"Hey, it's me." Elliot's voice slides into my ear.
"Hi." I glance at Gran to make sure she's still asleep, and wander into the next room.
"I missed you after class."
Sweet Jesus, please don't turn this into a big deal. My fight with Laci took every argumentative scrap out of me. "I'm sorry. Something came up."
There's a brief silence, like he's wavering, wanting to push at it more. Then his voice relaxes, turns curious. "I saw. So what's with you and Laci Hernandez? Neither of you acts like the other one exists. Something happen?"
I sigh and slump into a chair. "We were best friends as kids. Then we got older and drifted apart."
"You want to talk about it?"
"Not really." My voice falls flat. After Laci's dig at him, I want to keep them as separate as possible.
After a pause, he asks, "How's Gran?"
"Not well," I say, quietly.
"Do you want me to come over?"
Even though my face feels stiff, I manage a smile. It's a useless offer, but still sweet. "It's okay. At least your voice is here with me."
"I won't bring a camera, if that's what you're worried about," he says, and then hesitates. "I mean, a few photos of you with her could be so awesome to have later, but it's entirely up to you."
"No, Elliot." I don't even try to hide the weariness in my voice. Then I wait, wondering whether he'll keep pressing. This is one area I won't back down on. But he only starts talking about how stupid bio was. We end the call with a promise to spend more time together during Wednesday's class.
After checking Gran again, I stretch and glance out the nearest window. The sun's nearly down. It makes me think of Laci and her vampire claims, and for a moment I stare at my phone, still in my hand. I could call her; on the day before she left for Mercywing, she gave me her new number. But my fingers hesitate even as my feet move for my room.
I haven't slept in there for the last few months, using the couch instead since it's closer to Gran's room. A layer of dust clings to the lamp, and I wipe it away before turning on the light. Digging out the shoebox from under the bed, I settle on the floor and go through it until I find the only photo of Laci and me.
We're both missing teeth, but that doesn't stop us from grinning as we sit on an outside staircase, leaning against each other as we fight over a bag of popcorn. It's summertime in the photo; even if I couldn't remember that moment, I can tell by the way our hair sticks to the back of our necks in damp strands. But I do remember; I remember everything. The smell of metal from the sun-heated handrails, the prickle of salt rubbing between my fingers. And Laci laughing at something, the sound so infectious that within seconds I laugh, too.
The chirp of my phone startles me back into the present. When I check it, I see Elliot left a message. He must've called again. I should call him back. Instead, my fingers drop the phone, moving to pick up the photo again. Laci and I look so happy in it.
Suddenly, the air inside this room feels too heavy, too stale. When I throw open the windows, a hot breeze rushes in with the sound of crickets. The sun slipped behind the horizon while I was in here, but the sky still glows with golden light thrown up against the darkening blue.
Resting my elbows on the window mantle, I study the house next door. It's like all the rest, a square, cookie-cutter structure with a gravel lawn and a border of box hedge. When I came back from class, I caught Mrs. Kent on her way out and asked if she knew anything about the new occupant. She told me a man with photophobia moved in two weeks ago. Nothing I don't already know.
I guess it's odd I haven't seen him. Some people crave company and others hole up until they're dead, but every able patient needs to step outside sometime, even if only into the communal garden to fulfill the daily exercise quota. Then again, there are days when I don't realize I'm wearing differently-colored socks. Maybe he goes out all the time and I'm just oblivious to it.
Something flickers at the edge of my vision. When my gaze slips down to the box hedge, I see a figure crawling beside it on my side, wearing dark clothing. A black beanie struggles to hide pink hair.
"You have to be shitting me," I mutter, leaning out the window. But before I can yell, Laci slips over to the bulky truck sitting in my neighbor's driveway, the oversized tires leaving more than enough space for her to wriggle under the body.
I find myself dialing her phone number before I can even question why.
"Pick up," I hiss, still watching her.
She does. "Who is this?" Her voice holds a mixture of fear and hope.
"Laci, what the hell?"
"Oh. It's you." Now she just sounds irritated.
I flinch at her tone, feeling it stab between my ribs, but put a snarl into my next words, anyway. "What are you doing?"
"Christ, first you blow me off, and now you're blowing my cover. Forget it, will you?"
My fingers grip the window frame so hard I half-expect it to crack. "Tell me you're not going to mess with his truck. What if he catches you?"
"Just fuck off." When the click of an ended call follows those words, I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from leaning out the window and screaming at her.
Without thinking, I run for the front door, the walkway cement hot under my bare feet as I step outside. I don't know what I'm going to do, yell at her, try to explain myself, or just stomp up to my mysterious neighbor's front door and knock until I see him for myself.
But when I look under the truck, she's nowhere in sight.
"Laci," I whisper, looking around the empty yard. Instinctively, I glance at the windows of my neighbor's house, not wanting to get caught on his property like a total idiot, but they remain unlit despite the darkening sky. Slipping back to my side of the driveway, I study the hedge, but it's too sparse to hide anything bigger than a bird. Maybe she's under my car. I get on hands and knees to look, half-expecting to find her glaring back at me. Instead, I only see a few oil stains on the cement. She already left. Then, it finally hits me. Of course she wouldn't stick around; the sun's almost gone.
Now I feel even more stupid. When I straighten up, brushing hair out of my face and cursing Laci all the while, a voice shockingly close to my ear says, "You look like you need help."
"Christ!" My shoulder rams against the side mirror as I recoil from the man crouching near me. "Who the hell are you?"
The answer hits me even as the words leave my mouth. It's twilightâno, true dusk by this pointâand he still wears sunglasses. I've just met my new neighbor.
He takes them off before answering, revealing hazel eyes so clear they appear a deep gold in the fading light. "I'm Valentine. Moved in a few weeks ago."
His eyes freak me out; not only their color, but their quick scrutiny of my position. Suddenly, I'm very aware of the cut of my t-shirt, and how kneeling here gives him a good look down it. I stumble up, clearing my throat. "Oh. Right."
"I'm sorry if I scared you, Miss..." He stays in a crouch but keeps watching me, eyebrows rising as he waits for my name.
I really don't want to give it, but it's the polite thing to do, and he hasn't actually made a threatening move, yet. "I'm Nina."
He nods and repeats my name, looking back at my car. I take the chance to scrutinize him. He looks pretty old, definitely in his 30s. Full beard cut close to a strong jaw, dark hair back in a thick ponytail. Big and well-built, muscular shoulders and arms visible even through his fine dress shirt. His skin looks only a shade or two lighter than mine, but it still appears... Not pale, exactly, but like there's no blood beneath his skin. Corpse-like.
No, that can't be. He's just sick and hasn't seen the sun for years because his eyes would fry otherwise. Damn Laci for putting these ideas into my head. I try a smile. "Sorry I swore at you. I was surprised. It's not every day I look up and find strange guys sharing my breathing space."
His gaze returns to me, and again I become aware of every inch of my body. He's close, really close, and me standing and him crouching leaves his head level with my thighs. And what's between them. Revulsion flashes through me, like I bit into an apple and saw half of a worm wriggling back at me. I inch away, putting the side mirror between us. What the hell is going on? Even when Elliot and I first talked about sleeping together, I didn't feel this much aversion. Hell, the first time we actually had sex felt like a walk in the park compared to this.
"Lose something?"
I flinch back. "What?" He can't possibly mean...
He dips his head toward my car. "You were looking under here. Is it a cat?"
"Oh." See? Completely innocent question. I'm the one coming off as a twitchy weirdo. "No, not really."
"It's only slightly like a cat?" Now he flashes a smile, teasing. His teeth look very white.
Another chill runs through me. Being a wolf surrounded by humans means glimpsing teeth is never the pleasant sight it's meant to be. Everything in me screams danger, and I finally listen to it. "No, I haven't lost anything; I'm just locking up for the night."
He nods and finally stands. Fucker's tall. His body seems to absorb the last lingering light from the sky as he circles around the side mirror, and I find myself babbling. "Well, um, I'm sorry you had to move here. No one does, unless they're dying or with someone who is. But I hope you enjoy it here as much as possible."
I'm already thinking of how to kick at his kneecaps and hopefully shatter one when he stops, giving me a scant foot of space.
"I'm sure I will." His voice sounds pleasant, friendly, but those strange eyes of his slip down my body again, turning the words into something else entirely. "Goodnight, Nina."
Calmly walking back to the house proves to be one of the hardest things I've ever done; I feel his eyes on me the entire time. Even though it's a horrible thought, a small voice deep in my mind wishes he dies sooner than later. In response, an even tinier one wonders if he can die at all.