But the memory of old winters is still too sharp in his mind, and so he simply stays nestled where he is, listening to the lazy thump of Alexander’s heart. After a few wordless minutes between them Alexander sighs, rubbing his hand against Timothy’s back and changing the subject.
“Bette came in again during the day, didn’t she? I’ve nearly mastered the art of sleeping through her arrivals.”
“Yes,” Timothy says, moving far away enough from Alexander that they can see each other’s faces while they talk. “She said she was cold.”
A crease of worry appears between Alexander’s eyebrows. “She’s having a rough time getting used to things. Perhaps a stay with Nicole -“
Timothy shakes his head. “I don’t think anything would convince Bette to leave the city. And Nicole’s got enough babysitting to do already with Amy and Kate. It’ll be all right. Bette will settle down soon.”
“I should speak to Nicole soon anyway. See how they’ve recovered since that havoc Cora caused among their mares.” Alexander’s frown of worry over Bette darkens into an angrier frustration.
“Are you hungry?” Timothy asks, steering the conversation back to calmer waters. “I think I got a little carried away last night, sorry.”
Alexander sits up, smirking fondly. “I didn’t stop you. Yes, I am rather hungry. I’ve got my fortnightly meeting with Koria this evening; you could come along and we could make a night of it.”
Koria is Alexander’s favourite of the lawyers they use; a middle-aged Maori woman with a coolly practical mind and a jagged, often rather nasty sense of humor. Timothy likes her too, mostly because Alexander obviously enjoys her company so much.
“That sounds like it would be nice,” Timothy agrees. “I think I can stand to listen to business talk for an hour or two, if there’s good enough wine to sustain me.”
That used to be one of Alexander and Timothy’s brittle little arguments—Timothy would order wine while they were out, and Alexander would be rattled by that small change, because apparently the vampire Timothy used to be before he lost himself would never have ordered wine. And then they would spit sharp words at one another, cruelties born out of irritation and concern and fear, and the night would be ruined completely. They’ve gotten over that, mostly. The fights still happen sometimes, but never over wine.
They meet Koria in a stately old restaurant, one of the sort that’s accustomed to pale patrons who order wine and tea and coffee but never food. There are chandeliers suspended from the high arches if the ceiling, and the glitter of their crystal facets makes Timothy think again of ice chips and of long-ago frosts.
He’s pulled back to the present by the sound of his other sister’s name in the conversation.
“—Anastasja, then,” Alexander is saying to Koria in his smoothly businesslike voice, the one he always uses for deals or brokering or plans. “That was, hm. Eighty years ago or so, now. Perhaps seventy-five. I was applying influence where I could to moderate the political situation over there. Eventually, of course, it got out of my hands, and I had to leave the matter to run its course. Came back to America and met up with Timothy and Blake again, and endured the dreary horrors of the Great Depression instead.”
Timothy’s heard Alexander talk about what happened with Germany often enough to know it remains an especially sore point for him even now. The tone he recounts the frustrations of his efforts with always reminds Timothy a little of how the chicken-farmers in his village would sound when they failed to stop one bird from going mad and pecking all the rest to death. That Alexander views the whole of humanity like his personal barnyard livestock is an aspect of Alexander’s character which Timothy finds particularly charming. There’s no morality in the business of farming; there’s just different kinds of practicality.
“I missed the start of what you were saying, sorry,” Timothy says now, interested to know who it was that Alexander knew who had the same name as Timothy’s long-gone baby sister.
“There’s a club for sale downtown,” Koria tells him. “A reconditioned movie theatre. The owner has lost interest in the project, but asked that the property be offered to Alexander before being more widely tendered. She felt it might be something he would be interested in.”
“And I was saying that I remembered meeting her in Europe,” Alexander elaborates. “She’s going by Gretchen, now, but her name was Anastasja then. A very intelligent woman. Doesn’t like owning much, if I recall. Prefers the freedom of uncertainty when it comes to where and how she lives.”
“That’d explain why the asking price was so low. I was thinking it’d be fire code violations,” Koria says.
“Let’s buy it for Bette,” Timothy says in a sudden flash of inspiration. “You said it yourself, Alex. She needs something away from what she used to have. This will give her a new structure.”
Alexander looks skeptical. “She’s still only sixteen years old, you know. Even with us offering suggestions—which of course she’ll ignore, being that she is, as I said, sixteen years old—it’s almost certain to be a complete failure as a business enterprise.”
“So? It’s not like we can’t afford to run it at a loss. If nothing else, it’ll be somewhere for us to show off the bands you cultivate,” Timothy argues. “Come on, you know this is a good idea.”
Alexander makes an exasperated noise, but Timothy knows it’s the exasperated noise that Alexander makes when he’s giving in to one of Timothy’s bad ideas. “We’re going to end up turning her into a spoiled brat.”
“She’ll fit right in with the rest of the family, then,” Timothy retorts, grinning.
BETTE
Ash likes getting messed up on pain killers and thinks the school’s Peter Pan musical is destined to be a complete disaster of epic proportions and sings in an all-girl band called Roxy Hart that covers “gross cock-rock hair metal” from the eighties.
Bette wants to like her just for who she is, with her fractured anger and skittish laugh, but each new fact Bette discovers about Ash just makes Bette think more and more of Rose. Rose likes to drink vodka during the day, so that the edges of the world flare brighter and softer around her. Rose is playing Peter Pan in the school musical despite her personal misgivings. Rose and Bette were in a garage band together, for all of ten minutes, but it might have been longer if Bette had survived.
Bette finds out all about Ash as they wander together, through quiet suburban streets and then through the tree-scattered green of a broad suburban park. Ash walks through the shadows of the park like she’s giving the world an open invitation to come and get her. It’s not fearlessness in the traditional sense; Ash is fearless because she seems to have forgotten how to be frightened. The world can do what it wants and she won’t care.
Bette wants to give her teeth and claws, to make this crumpled bird-girl into a monster and then unleash her on the world. It’s obvious even to Bette, who’s only been a vampire for the turn of one season, that Ash won’t live for long in the life she’s made herself. Too many drugs and not enough food and not enough care. She tells Bette that her parents are in “France, or somewhere”, trying to get over the death of Ash’s older sister. Ash didn’t want to go with them.
“Aren’t you lonely?” Bette asks. She’s got Blake and Jay and Timothy and Alexander and Tommy in her life, and she still feels like the wind slices right through her, like she’s insubstantial as smoke. If she didn’t have anybody around her, she thinks she might disappear completely.
“Sometimes,” Ash answers. “But I think most people are.”
~
Eventually Ash has to go home, because it’s a school day tomorrow, and Bette surprises herself by letting her go. When Ash is gone Bette finds someone else to kill instead, a man whose blood is hot and meaningless in her throat.
There are still hours of night left and Bette feels restless. There are a thousand things she wants to do, and with all her heart she wishes she could show every one of those thousand things to Rose. She wants
Rose to know what the winter air feels like on the penthouse balconies of beautiful hotels. She wants to lead Rose through the labyrinth of darkened glass-walled offices, where one little bottle of spilled ink on the wrong piece of paper can destroy a fortune.
She wants Rose to stand beside her in bus aisles at three in the morning, when the lives of all the passengers seem so electric and so vulnerable.
Bette was never very good at impulse control, even before she woke up dead and starving. Her tendency to follow through on ideas even if they’re bad ones isn’t something new, and so she’s not all that surprised at herself when she realises her feet are leading her back towards Tommy and Rose’s house.
Rose is home now, the basement windows lit up with a yellow glow that draws Bette close, like she’s a moth and that messy little room is her candle. The pane she climbed through earlier is still loose, and she slithers back through it without stopping to second-guess her actions.
Rose stills mid-motion, staring at Bette with an expression Bette can’t read. She’s dressed in black jeans and black boots, with a belt at her waist that has several little black leather pouches clipped to it. She’s just pulled a black sweater off over her head, leaving her short brown hair in a spiky mess. Her arms are still caught in the sleeves. The waffle-pattern of her thermal shirt is light blue and printed with tiny dinosaurs. Bette giggles.
“What’s with the shirt? You look like a five-year-old.”
Rose, still looking stunned, glances down at the pattern as she pulls the sweater off completely. “Oh. It’s Lily’s. Mine got wet while we were out.”
Bette makes a face. “And how is my least favourite vampire hunter-slash-hypocrite this evening? Wait, don’t answer that, I don’t care. I like the utility belt look, though. Very Batman.”
The tiniest, most fragile of smiles pulls at the corners of Rose’s mouth for a fleeting moment. “Fighting with a bag strap on your arm is a bad idea if you’re as uncoordinated as me,” she explains.
She’s gained a little of her weight back. Bette’s glad. When Rose’s face went spare and thin, right after Bette died, it was harder to pretend that at least one of the girls they used to be had survived. Bette knows that the old Rose is gone, killed by vampires just as surely as the old Bette was. But now that Rose’s face has an echo of its old shape back, it’s easier to pretend.
As Bette looks at her silently, drinking in the sight, Rose’s eyes narrow and her posture straightens, like she’s steeling herself for a battle. “I guess it’s not true that you have to be invited in, then,” she says coolly.
Bette takes a very deliberate step forward, and listens to the rushing whisper of Rose’s heart rate stutter and speed up. “I’m not invited?” she asks, smiling. There are a lot of things in the world that are a mess of confusion for her now, but one thing has become infinitely clearer.
The new Bette always knows exactly what she’s doing when it’s time to corner prey.
“You’re… you’re not invited,” Rose stammers, one hand going to one of the pouches at her hip. Bette’s own hand shoots out, gripping Rose’s wrist iron-tight and pulling it away from the pocket.
“I still don’t believe you,” whispers Bette, smile broadening into a full grin. Rose swallows nervously at the sight of Bette’s fangs, then meets Bette’s gaze with her own.
Bette expects more protestations, maybe some pleading, but what she gets is Rose’s eyes welling up with bright little tears and a tremor in Rose’s lower lip as she stares at Bette. “I miss you so fucking much,” Rose says, sob catching on the words.
“I miss me, too,” Bette replies, tilting Rose’s head to the side gently, exposing the pale softness of her neck. “Don’t worry, I won’t take too much. I know it’s a school day tomorrow.”
Survival instinct kicking in, Rose tries to pull away, but Bette shoves her against the wall and bites down. As Bette begins to drink, Rose’s knees give way and she starts to cry, great wracking gulps that shake them both, tears streaking down her cheeks.
Bette doesn’t mind. The blood would be salty anyway.
TIMOTHY
Jay and Timothy are having a championship playoff at Guitar Hero when Bette gets home. She looks rattled, her hair a riot of damp curls and her usually impeccable clothing all skewed and creased. Timothy only met her briefly when she was alive, but he remembers it well enough to know he hasn’t seen her this rumpled since then. Bette is second only to Blake when it comes to habitual fastidiousness, as a general rule.
Still, despite how she looks, she seems calm enough, sitting on the edge of Timothy’s bed and watching the pair of them battle the game. Feeling a sudden wash of fondness for his strange scribble of a family, Timothy carefully slows his lead and allows Jay to win the game.
“Want to do another one?” Jay asks after his requisite fist-pumps of victory have punched the air.
“Don’t you have school tomorrow?” Bette asks, arching one eyebrow in such a Blake-like fashion that Timothy can’t help but snort with laughter. The funniest part is that Bette and Jay were lovers, briefly, when Bette was still alive and utterly nothing like Blake, but now she seems to have no romantic interest in Jay whatsoever. He seems equally content with friendship from her, despite the fact she’s now so similar to Blake, and grows more like him every day. The heart, as usual, has proved itself the most contrary of all arbiters.
Jay shrugs, looking unconcerned by the reminder. “I’ll skip it.”
Bette makes a noise of choked outrage, opening her mouth to say something in protest. She’s pre-emptively cut off by Alexander’s raised voice from the lounge room area.
“Because his education isn’t my responsibility, and yours is. That’s why,” he calls. Bette closes her mouth again, looking annoyed for a moment before her face shifts to a confused expression.
“Do you guys mind leaving that off for a second? I need advice.”
“You went to see Rose,” Timothy guesses immediately, because it doesn’t exactly take Sherlock Holmes to work that one out.
Bette nods, looking down at her feet and chewing her lip. If she were human, she’d probably be blushing. “I bit her,” she says quietly. “Again. When I see her, I always…” She trails off into silence, eyes downcast.
“When you say ‘bit’,” Jay asks. “Do you mean you attacked her, or that she let you drink her blood?”
“Hm.” Bette chews on her lip for another moment, like Jay’s asked something she’s not sure of the answer to. “Sort of both. I… we were arguing, and she said that if that inviting-in stuff really worked on us then I wouldn’t be invited in to her place. And she looked like she didn’t want me to, but it was the way she always looked when she was trying to tell herself not to want something that she really kind of did want, really. Like when there was a comic book that was really stupid and sexist and trashy and she’d rant about how crappy it was, but she’d still end up buying it a week later. That kind of not-wanting something. The staring at cake when you’re trying to eat healthy kind, where you think that maybe if you tell yourself enough that you don’t want it, you’ll stop.”
Jay shakes his head. “Girls are so weird,” he says, sounding almost awed. “You know that, right? Like, Tommy thinks I’m an idiot for being with a murderous vampire, but Blake has nothing on teenage girls when it comes to psychosis.”
“Did she fight you off?” Timothy asks. Bette shakes her head, looking even more like her china-white skin should be tinted with a blush across her cheeks.
“No. She, um. She cried. But then I went upstairs and got her an orange juice from the fridge after, so she’d get sugar and fluids and stuff, and we watched an episode of The Outer Limits on TV and she fell asleep with me still there, so I don’t know if we’re still enemies or friends again or… or something new, I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
Timothy doesn’t know either, because it sounds like whatever happens next is going to end up hurting both girls one way or another, so instead of answering Bette h
e just sits down beside her and gives her a hug. Jay squeezes her shoulder, supportive in his own way but less naturally demonstrative than Timothy.
“Not to make your life even more complicated or anything,” Timothy says to Bette. “But Alexander and I bought you a nightclub.”
Bette gives a surprised, snuffly laugh, wiping the stray tears that have escaped her lashes to slip down her smooth cheeks. “What? Seriously?”
“Yeah. But Alexander says you have to keep a B average or you get it confiscated.”
The words earn another, clearer laugh from Bette, which makes Timothy and Jay share a small, relieved smile. Her temper is as quick and fickle as summer lightning, so they’ve certainly seem her in moods other than happy before, but this is the first time she’s shown real distress. Timothy finds that the thought of Bette unhappy makes something tight knot around his heart, and so he hugs her tighter, and wishes that there was some way he could hold her back from all the pain that love brings with it as easily as he can hold back the cold she feels when sleeping.
~
In the last hours before night’s end the three of them, at Jay’s suggestion, go up to the attic. Timothy knows that Jay loves to spend time there, but he can’t feel affection for the dusty, slope-roofed space himself. It’s full of relics, old clothes and worn-out furniture and preserved letters and hats and photographs, and Timothy finds the concentration of other people’s histories to be stifling.
Bette has one of her textbooks with her, in a token gesture towards keeping up with her studies. Timothy suspects that she’s never really had to try very hard with learning before; she’s naturally clever enough that the minimum of effort would have kept her high on the grading curve. But Alexander is tailoring his teaching to the things she doesn’t know, and the difference between her old schooling and her new education is probably a lot to get used to.
The Wolf House: The Complete Series Page 37