she
could
if she had to kept her from hitching the first ride out of town some days.
It didn’t matter how much they said they wanted her around—Cavale, Justin, Sunny—something in her mind told her not to get attached. To get out. That staying in one place for so long was dangerous.
Those were things Father Value had taught her. She saw it in Cavale sometimes, too, and wondered if that was why he’d plunked down so much money on a house as fast as he had: it wasn’t so easy to walk away from something you were responsible for.
He walked away from me, didn’t he?
Guilt flooded in as soon as she thought it. She gripped the steering wheel, as if she could squeeze the ungrateful thoughts away.
That was different. He had to get out.
It was the truth. Those last few months before Cavale left had been terrible. Constant fighting, fingers pointed, things said that you could never, ever unsay. Staying had been killing him just as sure as a Creep’s claws would, only slower. She understood that better than anyone else, maybe even better than Cavale himself did. She knew it wasn’t her fault, either, but that didn’t stop the hurt.
Maybe that was another problem with staying in one place: something was always rubbing up against that wound, keeping it from scabbing over.
It was why she kept him at arm’s length, why she deflected his attempts at conversations that were anything deeper than business and research. He wanted to know if she was happy, and she was, but if they went beyond that she might say the words that she sometimes screamed at him in her head:
You left me.
One day she’d scream it out loud, and watch the guilt and regret etch itself on the angles of his face, and she wouldn’t be able to take it back.
That was why she kept working for Ivanov. Cavale didn’t like her job. He didn’t have to. It got her out of the house and away from poisonous thoughts like those. This way, she could stave off that confrontation a little longer. She could hit monsters that had it coming, rather than the brother who was only trying to make up for lost years and raw regret.
Once she turned off the highway, Southie’s occasionally narrow roads demanded her attention, as did the hunt for a parking space. Elly welcomed the distraction—she never liked going in angry, not when Katya might be there to pick up on her agitation and start needling.
Ivanov’s bar was on the edge of Southie’s gentrification project. The building above had been turned into luxury condos, but the downstairs retained its original narrow dimensions, the front section barely big enough for the bar itself, let alone the patrons. It opened up in the back, enough for a few pool tables and an ancient jukebox; down a short hallway, Ivanov’s office had been decorated to make the claustrophobic feel cozy.
A few people looked up as Elly entered, scowling at the sudden chill that followed her inside. It wasn’t winter-cold yet, but over the last few days the temperature had taken a dive. Most of the regulars lost the sour pusses once the door closed, turning back to their beers and the sports announcers on the television that hung above the bar. She couldn’t help but count the number of untouched drinks versus half-drained ones as she walked by, especially the ones whose heads had fizzled away. Some of the humans in the bar knew they were drinking with vampires, but not all of them did. It made sense—some of these guys were the bloodsuckers’ next meals. Katya had explained the arrangement to her, once: a few mouthfuls of blood every now and then in exchange for a limitless tab and even, for the favorites, a stipend. Elly knew there were other places like it around. Val fed in a club in Providence every few weeks. Justin had confessed it to her once, wide-eyed. He hadn’t quite gotten his head around the whole needing-to-drink-from-people thing.
One of the
Stregoi
she recognized nodded and raised his glass as Elly squeezed by. He was an
could
if she had to kept her from hitching the first ride out of town some days.
It didn’t matter how much they said they wanted her around—Cavale, Justin, Sunny—something in her mind told her not to get attached. To get out. That staying in one place for so long was dangerous.
Those were things Father Value had taught her. She saw it in Cavale sometimes, too, and wondered if that was why he’d plunked down so much money on a house as fast as he had: it wasn’t so easy to walk away from something you were responsible for.
He walked away from me, didn’t he?
Guilt flooded in as soon as she thought it. She gripped the steering wheel, as if she could squeeze the ungrateful thoughts away.
That was different. He had to get out.
It was the truth. Those last few months before Cavale left had been terrible. Constant fighting, fingers pointed, things said that you could never, ever unsay. Staying had been killing him just as sure as a Creep’s claws would, only slower. She understood that better than anyone else, maybe even better than Cavale himself did. She knew it wasn’t her fault, either, but that didn’t stop the hurt.
Maybe that was another problem with staying in one place: something was always rubbing up against that wound, keeping it from scabbing over.
It was why she kept him at arm’s length, why she deflected his attempts at conversations that were anything deeper than business and research. He wanted to know if she was happy, and she was, but if they went beyond that she might say the words that she sometimes screamed at him in her head:
You left me.
One day she’d scream it out loud, and watch the guilt and regret etch itself on the angles of his face, and she wouldn’t be able to take it back.
That was why she kept working for Ivanov. Cavale didn’t like her job. He didn’t have to. It got her out of the house and away from poisonous thoughts like those. This way, she could stave off that confrontation a little longer. She could hit monsters that had it coming, rather than the brother who was only trying to make up for lost years and raw regret.
Once she turned off the highway, Southie’s occasionally narrow roads demanded her attention, as did the hunt for a parking space. Elly welcomed the distraction—she never liked going in angry, not when Katya might be there to pick up on her agitation and start needling.
Ivanov’s bar was on the edge of Southie’s gentrification project. The building above had been turned into luxury condos, but the downstairs retained its original narrow dimensions, the front section barely big enough for the bar itself, let alone the patrons. It opened up in the back, enough for a few pool tables and an ancient jukebox; down a short hallway, Ivanov’s office had been decorated to make the claustrophobic feel cozy.
A few people looked up as Elly entered, scowling at the sudden chill that followed her inside. It wasn’t winter-cold yet, but over the last few days the temperature had taken a dive. Most of the regulars lost the sour pusses once the door closed, turning back to their beers and the sports announcers on the television that hung above the bar. She couldn’t help but count the number of untouched drinks versus half-drained ones as she walked by, especially the ones whose heads had fizzled away. Some of the humans in the bar knew they were drinking with vampires, but not all of them did. It made sense—some of these guys were the bloodsuckers’ next meals. Katya had explained the arrangement to her, once: a few mouthfuls of blood every now and then in exchange for a limitless tab and even, for the favorites, a stipend. Elly knew there were other places like it around. Val fed in a club in Providence every few weeks. Justin had confessed it to her once, wide-eyed. He hadn’t quite gotten his head around the whole needing-to-drink-from-people thing.
One of the
Stregoi
she recognized nodded and raised his glass as Elly squeezed by. He was an
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