by Kay Camden
I sign, I’ll do it again if you promise not to touch me.
He tosses me his phone. I type, Don’t touch me.
That unchanging expression is his yes. He’s too arrogant to agree to a command from me, so if he’s not chewing me out, it’s a yes. I advance. His hands go to the bed. I press my fingers into his shorn hair and drag front to back, spreading them as I reach his neck. What he doesn’t understand is it’s the gentleness of it that gives the best results.
Leaning into me, he closes his eyes. I step closer so he doesn’t tilt himself onto the floor. It’s like he’s starving for human touch, like he’s gone his whole life without it. With every stroke his head inches closer to my stomach until it’s pressing against it. If he notices he makes no move to fix it, and even though he just broke my rule, I have to forgive it.
Don’t kiss him again. Don’t kiss Rex Moore.
He’s an ally but he’s still an enemy—the worst one. His family won’t stop their war against mine.
He raises his head, takes hold of my wrists, and looks at my hands. A moment later he turns them over to view the palms. He still doesn’t believe it’s not magic. Then he lifts his eyes to mine and that mantra falls off the edge of the world. Along with my brain. I wish it would take my heart too, because my chest can no longer contain the power of its rhythm. It’s beating in the empty hole where my brain used to be, in every extremity, in the air around me. It’s affected gravity and oxygen and the color of Rex’s eyes. Of his lips.
I’m tasting them again but it’s not my fault—the gravity’s screwed-up. They’re soft and strong and every positive word ever created. They’re hungry, and they’re not stopping. He should stop this—I’ve lost my brain. But oh, he never had one. He’s released my wrists, his hands now on my face, pulling me closer, fingers slipped into my hair behind my ears.
It’s not just gravity—time and space are wonky too. This kiss just started but it’s forever and unending and repeating—
And impossibly short. He’s shoved me away, his hand up. You, he says, panting. He can’t finish. He doesn’t have the air for it.
I press hot hands against my chest, struggling for my own breath. Okay, maybe I should take the fall for this one because it was my bad, one hundred percent. I need to be on probation. I need counseling and community service, and he needs a restraining order.
He absently wipes a slow hand over his mouth as if he’s palming the memory to save for later. I wonder if the Moores have magic for that—freezing memories, stashing them away. I’d love to see the other ones he’s stored. I wonder if he’d share them with me.
You—
This time he stops on his own, bunching his eyebrows like he’s lost his thought. Whatever it is, it’s probably not pleasant. So I save us both and sign, Sorry.
All his attention is on my face. I’ve never done this before. I don’t know what I’m doing yet I keep doing it. He pushed me away because he’s kissed a million girls and I’m this pathetic amateur who can’t control herself. All the thrill drowns in a wave of dread. My brain is back, and it’s punishing, and it’s right.
He’s patting down his pockets, still straight-faced, still staring at me. I catch on too late. The pill is already in his hand aiming for his mouth, and I aim for the throat, and he’s coughing it into the air. I snatch it off my bed—a bad move, because now he’s snagged me by the waist and spun me toward him. I prep to dodge the raised hand but it never comes down. He chokes again, an aftershock of my jab, or something else. Some emotion finding its own way out. I rummage for his phone and snatch it up to type, You just woke up from one of those stupid pills you can’t take another.
He makes an unsuccessful grab for the phone. No way is he silencing me.
I’ll leave if you want me to. Just no pills. I look up at him. Yes, I’m pleading. No, that doesn’t put me below him even though it feels that way. I’m right, and Aaron would back me up.
I fingerspell his name, barely getting out the X before he tries a swipe at my hand. Then he’s covered his face. His neck and traps are bulging like he’s screaming, or growling, or both. Can a person do both?
I type, You can’t just shut everything down whenever you feel like it.
Yes I fucking can, appears on the screen.
No you fu—
He gets the phone from me this time, chucking it across the room. Well, that’s great. I guess he’ll be learning ASL now.
Unfortunately, what he says is easy to lip read. Shut up.
I sign, Don’t tell me to shut up.
He says again, Shut up. And gets in my face.
Oh I shouldn’t, but I have to. I shove him.
He shoves me back. The force of it rings in my bones because I completely didn’t expect it or prepare for it.
Really? I sign. This is stupid.
Shut up.
He needs another shove so bad it’d be a crime not to. But it’s childish. I shouldn’t do it. Especially since I think he’s baiting me because he wants it. He loves that negativity, he gobbles it up almost like he’s the one made from black magic. Because I know it will piss him off worse, I sit on my bed, cross my arms, and smile up at him.
Above me, he’s a stony mountain—rugged, impenetrable, a hazard to many. But not to me. I know too much about him. He’s a monster Moore who’s escaped his cage and needs a harness, or plastic handcuffs, or a tranq dart. I hold the smile. It’s both defense and offense. He kicks his own bed and grabs the lamp off the TV table. I think of the nice old man behind the front desk, the one who Rex bargained with, who looked us over with a suspicious eye that Rex somehow turned to a trusting one.
I can’t help it—I say Rex’s name aloud.
He freezes in place, the lamp half swung toward the wall. I’m shaking my head, my hands over my mouth because the shock of it drew them there. He glances at the lamp, scrunching his eyes as if registering it as a new thing in his hand. I can’t even decide if he heard me. He sets the lamp back on the table, levels the shade, replaces the plug that had ripped loose from the outlet. Stripping off his T-shirt, he goes in the bathroom and shuts the door. Taking a shower, no doubt.
Which must be cover for him to take one of those pills. Well, fine, then he’s going to have cold tile for a bed because there’s no way I’m trying to move his stupid ass.
Chapter 18
Rex
I wake up in the bed, covers thrown onto the floor, pillow wedged between the bed and nightstand. Sloane breathes softly in her bed a few feet away. The room smells like her—her skin, her hair, that floral scent of her sweating off her deodorant. All I can see is the shape of her body under the blanket and her dark hair escaping from the top. If the clock is right it’s actually morning, like a normal time of the day to wake up naturally. Which is what I did, I guess. Pretty weird. I shower and put on shorts and a tee, but she’s still out, her body now tucked into a ball like a little animal nesting in the covers. She’s an animal all right, but not a sweet little one. She bites.
And will probably rip your throat out if she feels like it.
I’ve been making enough noise to wake someone up, but right … she can’t hear it. How strange it must be to be deaf and not have sound to wake you up. No alarm clocks, no assholes yelling your name, kicking you out of bed. Wait, did I say strange? More like golden.
I go into the bathroom to brush my teeth and have to stop everything when I see my reflection and those gory-ass shark bite wounds practically healed. Nope, just nope. It’s my imagination, or hallucination from withdrawal. I get my toothbrush. But of course I have to look again, and this time I step the hell back because this mirror is jacked-up, or my eyes are, or—
Wait a second. She kissed me there. What the—
Up close again, I press the skin. Tender but healed, almost scarless. I needed skin glue yesterday. The cuts were reopening, and my whole face was o
n fire with the rawness of it. Today? Like it almost didn’t happen. Like I just got a papercut, two weeks ago.
She has immortal blood, okay, got it. But is she that protected that even her saliva carries that magic? I think I need more wounds, like all over me. That’s kind of a sick-ass thought, Rex. Actually, no, it’s kind of ace.
Covers shift on the bed so I finish up and leave the bathroom. She’s turned over and opened her eyes. She looks at me. I get a charge like nothing else. It’s a zing in my feet, lighting me up. This girl, she doesn’t just practice magic. She’s made of it.
And I think it’s gotten to me, taken me over. I think I might be—
She does that sign for eating, her eyebrows raised like a question.
“Okay, I’ll get us something.” Because get me the hell out of this room.
The door slams too hard and I’m glad she’s deaf because it was an accident, and I don’t want her thinking I’m mad. I’m not mad. I stand outside the door and let the sun bake me. The need to hurl is legit. I catch myself rubbing my head and it makes me remember her touch.
What she does to me is—
She has to be playing me or I’ve seriously lost my head—
And that sign she just did, my effortless understanding of it—yeah, any dumbass could figure that out but you’d have to want to understand, and I don’t, or I didn’t, or I don’t fucking know. All I see right now is what I just saw: her propped up on an elbow, the neck of her shirt crooked, shoulder peeking out, epic mess of hair, impossibly bright eyes still a little sleepy. She’s so cute it makes my heart go rabid. Rex Moore, heart attack victim just a couple months shy of his sixteenth birthday. Found outside a gross motel in who-the-fuck-cares Virginia. Police are searching for his female companion: Caucasian, brown hair, green eyes, five foot three inches of killer cuteness. Armed with teeth. Do not approach—she will bite.
Hey, idiot, growling stomach means stop obsessing over Sloane Bevan and go find someone who can bring me some food. I walk to the office to ask the old geezer. He’s repairing the wall beside the front counter right at kicking height. I’m kind of relieved I didn’t throw that lamp.
“Can I help you, son?”
It occurs to me this isn’t a place where people bring food to you. Our room is basically a prison cell with a TV. I should probably ask where the mess hall is. So I don’t sound like a dumbass, I simply say, “Breakfast.”
“Something quick, or something good?”
“Something quick and good.”
He looks up from his wall repair to determine if I’m being real or being a smartass. “Well, you can’t beat the golden arches.”
Should I know what that means? “Okay, where’s that?”
“Quarter mile that way.” He points.
Pointing is good. I can manage that. I take off on foot because I love the torture of the threatening heat, not quite on my side of the road yet but probably will be on my way back. And sure enough there’s a sign ahead—two golden arches. TV and the internet have failed in educating me on American cuisine.
The cashier has to help me pick something for Sloane. He asks if my picky veggie-loving friend eats eggs, and I have no clue, so I say yes. If she doesn’t she will be today. I get coffee for me and a fruit smoothie for her and walk back with the bag of food tucked under my arm, the simple act of picking up food giving me the dorkiest mental high. I shut down all thoughts of Sloane. It ends here. It’s all business now. She’s not cute; she’s playing me. Her saliva heals, pretty much like some freakish alien creature. And here’s how it’s going to go down: She teaches me magic, I help her disable the power structure in my family, I release the black magic to destroy hers, I take over as king of the Moores. The end.
Back in the room, I unload the food onto our wobbly miniature table. The bathroom door hangs about a foot open, enough for me to see she’s dressed and doing something to her hair at the mirror. I make sure she sees it’s me so I don’t get attacked.
When she joins me her hair looks just like it did the first time I saw her. Crown gathered into a high ponytail, the rest hanging free against her back. Bangs uneven across her forehead. Long braid hanging down her chest. That’s not something you need to notice, Rex, so cut it out. I hand her the smoothie. She reaches past me for the coffee and takes a sip.
“I thought you were a health nut.”
She doesn’t understand but she smiles anyway.
A text dings in so I take out my phone.
Aaron: I just emailed you a list of addresses for every Moore household. Be careful and don’t do anything stupid.
I text back, Define stupid.
Just listen to Sloane, OK?
Dude, how? She doesn’t speak.
That’s not entirely accurate though. I wonder if he knows that. I check my email and read the list. Philadelphia, New York, D.C., and Detroit I know. A few I don’t recognize but know we have family in those states. Detroit is the farthest west my family strayed. I’ve often wondered if it’s because of the Bevans in Chicago. There must be a war front at some longitude. It would be helpful to know which one so I know when I’m in Bevan territory. Pretty soon it will all be mine.
I have several more unreads from my gaming crew, ranging from curious to frantic. I’ve never been offline for so many days. I need to email them back, but damn, what to say? If I don’t, they’ll think I’m ditching them. My friend count will go from pathetic to nonexistent. It’s not like I ever deserved them to begin with, though.
When I look up she signs the letters to my name. I hand her my phone and start eating.
It’s nice you have such a short name.
“What?”
Easy to fingerspell. Can I give you a name sign?
“I don’t know what that means. So no.”
She frowns at me. I point to her food. She eyes it like she doesn’t want to eat it but also doesn’t want to hurt my feelings. My feelings win. The silence while eating is a real plus of my situation. At home, whether eating by myself in the kitchen or in the hell of a family dinner in the dining room there’s always some kind of noise. Boring discussions among the staff, my family bickering, people ordering me around. Should I admit this is nice? No, Rex, you shouldn’t.
What’s your middle name?
“Don’t have one.”
She tilts her head like I’m lying.
“Really. I don’t.”
Rex Moore. King of the Moores. That’s all you are?
I never thought of it like that, but yes, that’s all I am. She won’t be alive to see it come true though. And did she pick that phrase out of my head or something? Yeah it’s my name, but come on.
“What’s yours?” Seems polite to ask since she asked me. No other reason. Not sure why I feel the urge to be polite, but hey, whatever.
She signs the letter C. Then an A. And I look away because nope, not game for that. I don’t know why I even looked the sign language alphabet up on my phone. I have no desire to learn that nonsense. Looking away was a mistake, though, because it gets worse. She takes my arm and starts writing it out, and I’m sucked into watching her finger moving along my skin. Even her hands are cute.
No they’re not.
“Catherine?” I crack up. “That’s twisted. That’s my mom’s name.”
Mine too. Her middle name.
I just about choke. “What, are our mothers related too?”
She shakes her head. Different spelling.
I’ll have to take her word for it. I’m not exactly sure I know how my mother’s full name is spelled.
And what do you mean? No people in our families are related, remember? We settled that.
Right. An important thing to settle because of all the making out. We should probably stop doing that. The image of it—the high of it—comes alive in my head, and she’s so close all I’d have to do is r
each. Curl an arm around her neck and drag her in. Kind of like a chokehold but without the choking until blackout part.
What is that? She points to the burn scar on my arm.
I stare her down because I’m not going there. Ever.
Did you get the addresses? Aaron said he’d send them.
“I got them.”
Then we need to get on the road. And I need some more practical clothes. When she looks up from the phone, she suddenly goes still, a hand over her mouth. She points at my face.
I get a napkin because of course I’m a slob. I wipe down and say, “Better?”
She’s shaking her head. Now she’s on her feet in front of me, and I recoil because this girl can’t be trusted. Too fast she takes hold of my face and tilts it toward her, eyes darting all around. She touches my cheek and I swat at her. There’s no way she didn’t know she’d heal me. Why else would she have done that?
A poke to my cheek and now I’m up, knocking the chair into the wall because she needs to back off. She’s pointing, pointing, pointing. Pumping it for emphasis. I retreat from her reach and point right back at her. “You, you did it. Don’t act like you don’t know.”
She opens her mouth as if to say, Oh.
“Yeah. Oh.”
I dodge her grab to my arm, the one that had the deadly flesh wound in the woods at home. One second later I put it all together. She kissed all over that gore? And then I kissed her? Oh, holy elements. She must see I’m about to heave because she starts shaking her head like crazy. I back away because this girl is sick, just sick. Made of magic but also sick.
She snaps her fingers at me. It gets my attention but I’m not sure what I’m walking into. Charades, it looks like. Her cutting open her palm, turning it toward the ground, blood dripping. She snatches my hand and holds my arm straight, that pretend bleeding palm right above it.
“You bled into my wound?”
She’s looking all around—she wants the phone. I find it and toss it to her. She checks the screen and nods.
“Because that’s so much better.”