Veiled (17 page)

“Wait,” I say, despite myself. “Is my dad downstairs?”

“He saw me bring you home.”

This is a surprise to me. “You didn’t just, what’s the word, sift me into my bedroom unseen?”

He shrugs. “If I did that, your father would hear us talking up here anyway. Doesn’t make much sense. No, I sifted you into the Knightlys’ living room, then I took you over here. You told your father you weren’t feeling well and I said I was bringing you to your room.”

“And he just let you do that?”

He almost looks proud of himself. “Invited me over for dinner too,” he says. “But I had to turn him down. You’re eighteen, Ada. Pretty sure you’re allowed to have a man around you. Back in the day, you would have been my bride at sixteen.”

“Back in the day?” I repeat. “You’re a rookie. You’re brand new.”

“Back in anyone’s day,” he says quickly as he pulls the door toward him.

“Jay,” I call out after him, wishing my voice didn’t sound so needy.

He pauses and eyes me curiously.

“Um,” I say, scratching absently at my arm, the horrors of earlier all too close. “This might sound weird. And it’s definitely not something my dad would be okay with, no matter how ‘back in the day’ you make your argument. But . . . do you mind spending the night with me? In here. I don’t want to sleep alone. I’m too afraid of what might happen. In my dream or otherwise.”

His brow softens. “Of course.”

But then he’s out the door.

***

Dinner is kind of awkward with my dad.

First of all, he’s made a meal I just can’t eat. Rare steak. The sight of the blood running out with each slice makes me want to gag, brings back images of Jay fighting with the demon.

So there’s that.

Then there’s the fact that my dad isn’t talking much. This isn’t new, but you’d think he’d at least be more interested in my day other than “you feeling any better?” You’d think that he’d want to discuss Jay in some way.

So I sit there and push the steak around and am about to make up some excuse to leave the table when he says, “Jay seems like a nice . . . man.”

I raise my brow at him while I take a sip of water. “He is nice.”

“How old is he?”

Ah, I knew he’d be worried about that.

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “Maybe twenty-five.” I’m shooting for the lower end even though he’s ageless. “But it’s cool, dad. I’m not with him like that. He’s just a friend.”

He nods thoughtfully. “I’m not worried. I can tell by looking at him that he’s not interested in you that way. He’s also older than twenty-five.”

Ouch. Well gee thanks, dad. I’m going to pretend that wasn’t a blow to my ego. I’ll also pretend I don’t feel a twang of disappointment.

“But,” he goes on, shoving the last of his steak in his mouth and taking his time chewing, “he’s still older and you’re just eighteen. I just want you to be smart. I don’t want to be overprotective, pumpkin, but you’re all I’ve got.”

Oh geez. Please don’t let me dad get any more emotional because today I can’t handle it.

“I’ll be fine,” I tell him. “It’s nice to have a friend . . . someone close by.”

He stares absently out the window, the sky darkening in the distance. A couple of kids from down the street walk past, flashlights and Frisbees in their hands, probably heading to the Blue Lake disc golf course. They’re laughing and teasing each other and enjoying the balmy summer night now that the storm has passed, the freedom before school begins.

School. I haven’t even given it any thought. It seems so . . . useless now, to go to design school when I have to worry about demons and dreams.

But I have to. No matter what happens, I have to hang onto what I can. I won’t be normal, but for the sake of my father, I’ll try.

“Speaking of the neighbors,” my father says. “I was thinking we should invite the Knightlys’ over for dinner next week. Get to know them.”

“Are Perry and Dex coming? Because he will flip if he can’t probe the musical mind of Sage.”

He grunts, wiping his chin with his napkin and throwing it on the empty plate. “No. They don’t live here, we do. It’s up to us to forge relationships with these people.”

“Even though we’re selling the house and might be moving soon.”

He watches me for a moment, debating something, before sitting back in his chair and letting out an empty sigh. He takes off his glasses and starts polishing them with the edge of his sleeve.

“I’m not even sure if I want to sell the house anymore. I don’t think the timing is right.”

Now, a few weeks ago this would have been music to my fucking ears. But despite having the convenience of cool neighbors who won’t think I’m crazy, plus having my god damn guardian angel, devil, whatever he is, within reaching distance, I’ve been leaning toward the idea of getting out of here. Somewhere else, where there aren’t memories to hold me down, let alone a monster in the closet, has started to seem like a pretty good idea.

But though my dad has no idea about the closet portal (or maybe he does, but if he does, he’ll never bring it up), I can see why the memories held here are both a reason to go and a reason to stay.

“Okay,” I tell him as I get up, not wanting to do anything other than what he wants to do. This is how it will always be I think, this tip-toeing around, not wanting to upset each other because we’re all we have in this house.

“You’re not going to eat that?” he nods at the steak and before I can tell him no, he’s spearing it with his fork and bringing it on to his plate. I briefly have a vision of the demon swiping its claws at Jay’s arm, the way they cut through to the bone and yet, at some point between there and now, his wounds have miraculously healed.

I move to put the plate in the dishwasher when he says, softly, barely audible, “You know, grief takes shape in many different forms. It follows you. The loss. The pain. It’s a ghost in its own right. Don’t forget that, Ada.”

I murmur something in agreement and head up the stairs, wishing it was just that easy.

It’s almost midnight when I decide to go to sleep. I’ve spent the evening on my phone, scrolling through Facebook (Amy hadn’t deleted me so that said something) and my IG feed, perusing the usual online stores for some pre-fall bargains that I really can’t afford, and finally drawing up a sketch of an evening gown made from flames. Orange and red silk, layers of tulle, and a jeweled, low-cut neckline—perfect if you were going to the Oscars as Satan’s date.

But really, I’m just wasting time. I’m waiting for Jay to appear and when my eyes start closing on themselves, that’s when the air in the room changes.

If there was a barometer in here, it would go haywire. My skin prickles and I expect a flash of lightning but instead the air warps and shimmers, tiny splashes of light, and then Jay steps out of nowhere.

He just appears, like earlier today, and he brings with him a rush of cold air.

I stare at him for a moment.

He stares right back at me.

He’s wearing black sweatpants and a white wife-beater, which would look thuggish on anyone else but him. In fact, his pants are of a rather thin variety, like a silk-cotton blend that shows
every
little detail.

I only notice this because of my fashion background.

Like, I know my fabrics.

I swear.

I immediately avert my eyes and if he’s caught me staring at his dick print, he doesn’t show it. In fact, I don’t think he’s even capable of feeling anything close to embarrassment or shame.

Then again, he did say that being around me made him
feel
.

Feel what, I don’t know.

Maybe that’s the real reason I wanted him to stay over.

I realize I finally have to say something because this whole staring into each other’s souls thing is only pulling my head into a tailspin (not to mention my hormones).

“Took you long enough,” I say with just enough edge to my voice.

“Sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “I was caught up with something.”

My heart skitters. “Hopefully not another demon.”

He shakes his head. “No, just Jacob.” He looks around. “So, uh . . .”

Right. How did we want to do this? More like, how did I want to do this?

Oh my god. It’s awkward already.

“Look,” I tell him, “I was just scared earlier. You don’t have to stay the night. I’m fine, really.”

He cocks his head, a wisp of a smile. “I’m staying. You asked. I’m here.”

I should protest some more. But honestly, as weird as this all is, I’m glad he’s insisting on it.

“Get some rest,” he says. “Nothing is going to hurt you. I won’t let it. You know this now, don’t you?”

Did I fucking ever. And I try not to thrill over his protective words.

Nothing is going to hurt you. I won’t let it.

I’m going to start swooning any moment if I’m not too careful.

But I don’t pull the covers over me. “Are you just going to stand there?”

His eyes go to the easy-chair in the corner that I nicknamed Pinkie. It used to be downstairs, back when I was kid, and I convinced my parents to bring the ugly pink recliner with the stuffing coming out of one corner to my room. Now Pinkie is a million colors and textures, having to be subjected to years of sewing experiments.

Yet as much as it was a good chair, it isn’t right for him to sleep on it. I don’t even think his bulky frame would fit.

“I’m here to watch you, not sleep,” he says, as if knowing what I’m thinking.

“You have no idea how creepy that sounds, do you?” I ask, watching as he walks past the foot of the bed toward the chair. He moves with such ease, like each movement is silk, calculated to use minimal exertion. Despite his dark cinnamon hair, his limbs are tanned, the muscle distracting. This is the first time I’m really seeing him without a long-sleeved shirt or leather jacket and I can’t take my eyes away.

Which, naturally, is only adding to the tension in the room. I’m completely aware that the tension is only in my head, totally unfelt by him, but it’s enough.

He eases down in Pinkie. I was right. He barely fits. But he doesn’t look uncomfortable. I wonder if it’s some supernatural ability to just adjust to every single situation, every single chair that life gives you.

“Get some rest,” he says.

I can’t help but laugh. “Is this so if my father walks in here, you won’t get your ass kicked?”

He raises his brow, a wry twinkle to his pale eyes. “Is your father known for that?”

“He’s punched Dex in the face before.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

I chew on my lip, thinking, stalling even. The moment I turn off the bedside lamp, the moment this ends. I like having Jay in my room, his company, talking to him like he’s just some normal guy.

“What are you going to do?” I pause. “Do you sleep?”

“We already went over this,” he says. “I sleep. I do whatever else humans do, because I am, more or less, human.”

Yet the fact that he says that only brings out the fact that he’s not. Humans should never have to clarify what they are.

“Not everything,” I say under my breath.

“What was that?”

I try and think of a less nosy, less awkward way of saying this. “You obviously don’t have sex.”

The words seem to explode over the room. I regret opening my mouth and yet I’m watching him closely for his response.

He frowns at me, adjusting himself in the chair, the muscles in his biceps popping. “What makes you so sure I don’t have sex?”

Actually nothing. I just want to know. Because he’s here in my room and for better or for worse, I should know just what kind of a man he is. For safety reasons. I swear.

“Don’t you take an oath?”

He lets out a soft laugh. “An oath? There is no ceremony. We aren’t sworn in. We just . . . are.”

“So there are no rules then?”

“There are rules,” he says carefully. “Mainly common sense.”

“So have you had sex or not?”

“Have you?” he counters.

Tables have turned. “That’s none of your business,” I say stiffly.

“Then my sex life—or lack thereof—is certainly none of yours. It’s irrelevant to our relationship.”

“Doesn’t sound like a fun relationship.” Okay, I know I’m being overly bold now but there’s something about our dynamic that has me wanting to keep pushing. Find out where our boundaries are. I have a good idea.

“But . . . do you feel it? Do you have those desires?”

He swallows at that and looks away and I think he’s a bit uncomfortable for once. Good. I like seeing him more human, not this immortal, perfect being.

“We have instincts,” he says, his eyes swinging back to mine, blazing with something dark. “Some more
animalistic
than others.”

Now it’s my turn to swallow. Jesus. I’m not sure if he meant that to come across the way it did but suddenly I’m glad he’s way over on the chair. Not that I’m scared of him. I’m scared of me. That look, those words . . . I’m throbbing everywhere, like he’s driven a beam of heat between my legs.