Swoon 02 - Swear

by Nina Malkin

  Hell, maybe I’ll be an animal behaviorist, and we’ll partner up someday. Anything’s possible. This we know.

  But I’m spacing. “What’s up?” I say to Sin, heading back into the house.

  “I found this clattering around in the clothes dryer.” He dangles a silver charm by its chain.

  The archangel. The demon slayer. Collateral for the journey gem. After Fracas and I made our exchange, I tucked Saint Michael in the pocket of my skirt—damn, that load of laundry was way past due. “No worse for wear,” I say. “I’ll return it tonight.”

  Maybe Tosh will give the amulet to Pen. A nice present, a sweet sentiment, but hardly necessary. My cousin is proving she can take care of herself. Hear that, all you demons?

  Excuse my psychic shout-out, but this is Swoon, C-T.

  Even on a peaceful summer afternoon, doing mundane chores with the boy I love, I’m well aware of that. Here and there I sense stuff, in the spaces between our sentences, the stillness around our gestures. Positive sparks, negative charges.

  Whispers in shadows, omens in the wind. Specifically, there’s still that gaping spectral fissure at Forsythe Manor—I mean the Williams place, a.k.a. Swoon Sounds. The notion seizes me—all those inquisitive, talented kids roaming the old house, all those tortured spirits roaming too . . .

  Abruptly I sit down, gaze off.

  In half a breath, Sin kneels before me. “My lady?” A perfunctory peck assures him I’m fine, but he wants further confirmation, taking a deeper kiss. After a moment, he parts my thighs to trace the blue cascade that spills down my leg. It’s fading, almost gone, a plain old regular black-and-blue.

  Inevitably he asks, “As to your first visit?” Swoon in autumn. The hay rides. The corn maze. The foliage a riot of hues and the crisp air rife with apples, spice, wood smoke, and definitely not roses. “How about Halloween?”

  “Halloween! That’s eons away,” Sin complains, a gentle growl. “Perhaps I shall come see you in the city before then. I believe I’ll like New York.”

  I smile at him. I say, “You may.”

  Sort of permission. Kind of invitation.

  “Very well, then,” he banters back. “I may.” It’s a possibility. Not a promise. Never, between us, anything so foolish as a promise.

  Postscript . . .

  My Sinclair—

  Whilst you have spoken to me sweetly, and I have penned you many missives in kind, our love transcends vulgar verbalism. It is with our sighs, our glances, and our gestures that we convey our true passion. Soon—soon!—we shall add kisses and caresses to our vocabulary. But first, before I agree to be yours forever, I must ask that you give me an irrefutable symbol of your devotion. Trust your imagination, my darling—it will reveal to you the most sincere sign by which to swear your troth to me. Trust, too, that when I see it I shall know. I shall write you no more, for this final letter tells all. Eagerly, I await your promise, and remain, faithfully, adoringly. . .

  Yours—

  Antonia

  Table of Contents

  S Simon & SchuSter

  Dedication TK

  Part I

  Part II

  Part III

  Part IV

  Part V