Chapter Fifteen
Theodore
I take my time walking to the apartment building, circling twice to be certain that I'm not being followed. It's a fine enough day for a stroll anyhow, and there aren't any errant Mortae roaming about that I can see. No familiar Mortae, either. If Elias was telling the truth, which he's partial to doing, Gemma's absence should worry me more than it does.
Inside, the hallways are dim and sparsely decorated. Light struggles from sconces on the walls, illuminating a stained and outdated carpet that crunches in places when I step. The elevator is busted, so I take the stairs. The bowl is warm against my palms. Anya's recipe, and a favorite of mine. It was a treat reserved for when I was on babysitting duty, when I would watch Liam while she disappeared into the main house and took inventory of the pantry before venturing into town to spend Azmaveth's money on food that we didn't need to eat. Combative and gluttonous, our existence, but I ache for the routine of it. A meal served, an argument, a resolution. A seat at the table for me.
I'm not foolish enough to expect that this night will offer me the same comfort. To Rosalie's group, I'm at best a stranger and at worst an adversary. But to Rosalie, a friend. She wants me here, she wants me, and that thought leads me to her door. I knock twice, listening to the shuffle of feet. Energy pulses with racing thoughts that I recognize as Rose’s but pointedly don’t decipher. There are two other sources of energy, one that reminds me of a well-loved dog lounging in the sun and another that’s like a cat guarding a hoard of kittens. Rose mumbles something that I can’t quite make out, but when the door opens, it’s Emily who stares up at me.
I've seen her in the dim light of the bar and in Andrew's memories, but with the evening light on her skin, she looks more lioness than housecat. Her blonde hair is loose around her shoulders and curled at the ends to create a youthful, flippant bounce, but her ice blue eyes narrow as they assess my posture, the incline of my head, the curve of my smile. A predator sizing up another predator, though I loathe to think of myself as such.
I look over her shoulder and find Rosalie watching us with her lip pulled between her teeth. I wonder if she knows how easily she blushes. I won't tell her because I don't want her to stop.
"Hi," she breathes, cracking the tiniest smile. I match it with my own.
The soul within me surges upward like a child on tiptoes, desperate for a peek. "Hi," I say, motioning with the bowl. "I brought—"
"Right, yeah, hi," Emily huffs, waving me forward. Irritation pricks at me, but I keep my expression pleasant, if a bit shy. "I need your help setting the table."
The man beside Rosalie, a dopey but otherwise unremarkable looking fellow, says, "We already set the table."
"Well, I need his help setting it again."
Rosalie frowns, wide hazel eyes flicking between me and Emily like she's going to protest. I consider, without weight, raising my brows. Daring her to step forward, to take my hand and claim me as hers, to whisk me away. Anywhere. To Benski's, to France, to six years ago.
I do love the boy, because how could one not love a person who they see in entirety? Does the lion not love the gazelle after witnessing the rawness of its heart, the desires washed away in blood? I don't know if he feels the same. He's grateful, at least, that I've brought him here. That he can peek from my eyes and see that I've kept my promise.
Rosalie doesn't argue when I follow Emily into the kitchen, offering a shrug to soothe the lingering anxiety that hums from Rose. I resist the urge to decipher her thoughts further, to wind and unwind them around my finger.
The kitchen is quaint if I'm being polite and claustrophobic if I'm not. There are ticket stubs and party invitations stuck to the refrigerator with magnets, arranged in a perfect L-shape to make room for the whiteboard where someone with meticulous handwriting scribbled a grocery list. The cabinets are light wood, vinyl if I had to guess, and the counters are a dark marble. A wilting succulent sits thirsty in the windowsill, and fresh flowers rest in a repurposed sauce jar beside covered trays and dishes—our feast for tonight.
Emily whips to a stop and takes the bowl from me, placing it on the counter beside a casserole dish covered with tin foil and a tray of what I assume to be uncut brownies. Though she's nearly a foot shorter, she looks down her nose at me. "Who are you?"
I watch her study me, searching for any indication that my intentions are impure. Honesty isn't an option, and even if it was, she hasn't proven herself worthy of my candor. "We've met before, have we not?"
"You know what I'm asking."
"Evidently I don't. Please enlighten me."
Her ice blue eyes narrow. "She says she met you at work."
"At the Glades, yes."
"Why were you there so late?"
"A rather personal question, isn't it? And besides, you don't need me to corroborate the information she's already shared. I find Rosalie fairly trustworthy. You disagree?"
Her lips thin. "She's been through a lot. She's fragile."
A taste of temper slips through my tenuous self-control. "No," I snap, then smile. "She's not."
"You don't know—"
"Assume I do know." I step towards her, parsing through her thoughts until I glimpse the core of her worry. "Assume I know all of it. Assume I'm only entertaining this interrogation because I—"
We have the same goals. For Rosalie, I lower my voice. For Rosalie, I leash my temper. "I like you, Emily, or at least I respect what you're trying to do."
She raises a brow. "And what am I trying to do?"
"Protect your own."
She tilts up her chin, frowning. Takes a step back, hips pressed against the counter, palms behind her, chest puffed out. "Well. As long as we understand each other."
I've faced worse threats than this, voiced and unvoiced, bluff or realized. She is not my enemy. She's just a woman trying to do right by her friend. "Agreed. I'm not here to cause trouble."
"Alright." She brightens, moving towards the living room. "You're helping Henry with dishes after we eat."
I follow her, catching the end of Rosalie's conversation with the man beside her— Mike, according to Andrew's memories. Mentions of him are tainted with bitter envy. Curious.
"—thirds, then," Mike laughs. "Theodore, do you play poker?"
"You don't have to indulge him," Emily sighs, perching beside Mike.
When I sit next to Rosalie, she shifts towards me, a too minute movement to be intentional. "Not well," I lie.
I haven't touched a deck of cards in nearly a century. Elias and I used to play in the abandoned houses we squatted in, the only light a meager blaze in the fireplace. Gemma would strip off her socks and warm her bare toes, peeking over both of our shoulders and offering advice that turned out to be blatant sabotage. She didn't care who won. She wanted both of us to lose.
"The person who taught me was a cheat." A sliver of honesty. "I've only ever played with an ace up my sleeve."
"You'll fit right in, then."
We could've been friends, in another life— except I can see that life through the eyes of the soul within me, and it's colored with jealousy. Not because of Mike's proximity to Rosalie, as it's obvious that Mike is enthralled by the blonde to his left, twirling her hair around his index finger as he talks, but because of his simplicity. He's a man that's used to being given instead of taking, a hand flattened, palm up. What must it be like to know the path ahead, to not be worried about uneven stones and pitfalls, to be certain that the path exists?
"James cheats, too."
As if the accusation summoned him, the door swings open, revealing a scowling man and his timid counterpart. Henry is understandably less disheveled than he had been last time we met. His thin brown hair is slicked back, exposing a faint scar just below his hairline. He’s wearing an ill-fitted polo shirt tucked into slacks that gather around his ankles. Compared to the others, he’s woefully overdressed. For a second, his face reveals the briefest flash of annoyance, but it’s expertly hidden by a polite smile.
The other man has his chin raised and eyes half-lidded, feigning disinterest. "Lies and slander." He jerks his head towards me. "What the fuck is he doing here?"
I stand, as does Emily, meandering towards the newcomers with a lazy, practiced gait. I don't need to look over my shoulder to know that Rose is glancing between the two of us, ready to referee the looming tussle. There's no need, really. Henry isn't a villain, nor is his brother. He's just a man. A self-important man who has let Rosalie wither away—not eating, not sleeping, barely even talking—but a man nonetheless.
"He is a guest," Emily hisses, "and we're going to treat him like it. If you want to behave like a dog, I'll put you out like one."
Henry's irritation sinks beneath his skin, hiding it like a child might hide the fact that they've stolen a cookie from the jar when everyone knows the truth.
I paint a grin on my face and hold out my hand, a challenge. He's adequate at playing at civility, but I've been pretending for far longer. "Delighted to see you again."
He takes my hand and squeezes it lightly, his grip wet with palm sweat. Despite the distance between us, I hear Rosalie's exhale, feel her shift her weight. My entire being is attuned to every twitch of muscle, every heartbeat. She can't even blink without me being aware of it.
"Glad you could come," Henry says in a voice like a glass jar falling from height. "I'm sorry about my behavior the other night. It wasn't the most flattering first impression, I'm sure."
"Water under the bridge. You have a lovely home." I make a show of looking around at the sparse decor, the lack of evidence that a human being with any semblance of personality spends more than a few moments here every day. My eyes catch on Rosalie. Her lips are upturned the slightest bit. If not for our audience, I'd wink at her, let her know that I'm in on the joke. Because it is a joke, this theater of monotony. "Very austere."
Energy pricks at the back of my neck, humming a familiar frequency. Rosalie's thoughts, her voice sweet and silent between us, Don't goad him.
The soul within me rises at the dare sprinkled atop her taunt, urging me to turn to her, to take her hand and pull her away. How far could we get if we ran? How long would she run with me?
I shoot back, But I'm so good at it.
Henry is still talking, but my patience for his droning has run out. I follow Emily's lead to the table, fingers twitching at my sides, lulled by the melody of Rosalie's thoughts and my eyes—his eyes—on the back of her head.
“That dip was insane,” Mike says, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his stomach. “Where did you learn to make that?”
“It’s a family recipe.” I brought one of Anya’s recipes, cranberry whipped feta dip with pistachios and honey. It was insane. Rose quirks an eyebrow at me. I nod at Emily's explanation of some sort of casserole and slip a word into her mind: Yes?
If she’s surprised by the intrusion, she doesn’t show it on her face. I decipher her reply as easily as untying my shoes. The timber of her thoughts is softer than I expected, teasing and curious. Was that the truth?
I want to throw my head back and laugh—how often have I lied to her? How often has she known?—but I resolve to a quick uptick of my lips and a subtle glance in her direction. She’s staring at me the way that Liam stared at a Rubik’s cube the first time I handed it to him, and since I am unable to deny her anything when she looks at me like that, I say, Partial truth. Anya taught me.
She dips her chin, satisfied for the moment though there will likely be an onslaught of follow-up questions when she gets me alone. And when she gets me alone— what will she do if I weave my fingers through her hair? If I scratch her scalp, if I taste the pinks of her cheeks? If I trace her jaw, what sort of sounds will she make? Breathy and desperate or reserved and shy? Will she bite her lip to stay quiet? Will she throw me out or tilt her head back, eyes fluttering closed, a gentle sigh escaping? Can I unwind her completely? Draw out the essence of her, lick at her soul while her heart still beats—
"How long ago did you move here?" Henry asks.
I slide my eyes to him and lean back in my chair, hooking an elbow over the back. "A few months ago." Truth. "I was in California for a while."
"You were born there?"
"No. I spent the first years of my life in France." The only years of my life were spent in France, but I don't amend my statement, not even telepathically. "I've been back and forth a good bit, east coast, west, and in between."
James snorts. "I thought I clocked an accent."
I don't have an accent. "You're very observant."
Henry shifts in his seat. "Why'd you move back?"
"Got tired of the sunshine, I suppose. Rollerblading on the boardwalk and lounging by the ocean— just awful. I much prefer the dreariness of Connecticut."
Rose's lips twitch like there's a retort on her tongue, dusty from years of disuse.
Henry frowns. "What about your parents?"
"He's not on trial," Emily groans. "Cool it."
"There's a stranger at my dining table and I'm not allowed to ask questions?"
"It's alright," I say. Rose straightens like she hears the impatience tempering my voice, the violence that I keep tucked neatly beneath my skin. Like she sees me, sees through me. "They died. A long time ago."
"Oh," James mumbles, "that's what you two have in common."
“Not cool,” Mike says in sync with Rose snapping, “Knock it off, James.” I pretend not to notice that it’s the first time she’s spoken aloud at the table as well, and it’s in my defense. Henry pretends not to notice, too.
I meet James' glare, marking the glassiness of his eyes. His words are cruel, but I’ve been far crueler for far longer. I can see the fear beneath the fangs. These are not his friends. These are his brother’s friends, and they’re the only ones that care enough to get him out of his shitty apartment at least once a week. It’s easier to pretend to hate them than to face the truth: he needs them, and they do not need him. They don’t even like him, and if not for Henry, they’d be glad to forget about him completely. I see it in the way that he flings insults at Emily even as he embraces her, in the way that he clings to Mike while snapping his teeth like a lonely, frightened puppy biting the first hand that reaches for it.
"I suppose so," I drawl. "What about your parents? Let me hazard a guess—"
"Theodore," Rosalie warns.
"Wealthy, but absent. See, I'm observant, too." I wave towards Henry who ducks his head. "Your brother is climbing the ladder, doing well for himself, isn't he? But you! Who bankrolls your temper tantrums?"
James puffs out his chest. "I'm not dependent on anyone—"
"Of course you are." I tilt my head back, looking towards the ceiling to avoid the worry knitting Rosalie's brows. "Not just financially, though your state of dress and general demeanor reeks of inherited indolence. You're dependent on your parents for money, on your brother for maintaining your friendships, on the temperament of strangers like myself not to match verbal blows with something more destructive."
"Theo—"
"Fuck you," James snarls.
"And here I thought I had a quality sparring partner." I sigh. "But while we're on the topic of discourteous inquiries," I nod towards the empty setting, a small plate and silverware, "are you expecting more company?"
Silence falls like a premature curtain and an audience stunned out of applause. The look that Emily and Rose share is answer enough, one of concern and another of weary reproach. It's a language I understand, that silent communication, one that fills me with a yearning I don't dare indulge in. Elias used to look at me like that. Gemma too, in another life.
The soul of the boy rears up, landing like grave dirt on the back of my tongue. He wants, as much as any mess of memories can want, his name to be spoken. To be spoken by Rosalie. Only her tongue can soothe him. That, at least, is a desire we share.
Mike clears his throat. "It's a reminder," he casts his eyes down, "that we're not all here."
"He'd love the melodrama," James mutters. "We'll never be rid of him now, will we?" He points a finger at me, then at Rosalie. "That's what you're signing up for. Might as well dig up his corpse and dance with it."
Rosalie bows her head, pretending to pick lint off of her sweater. Blinding rage, so much hotter than when my murderer held the reins, surges beneath my skin and prickles like it’s trying to escape. And Henry just sits there. I was right to go into her room all of those years ago, right to send Marcella, right to come back again and again because these people will not take care of her. They won’t look out for her, not the way I—
A chair scrapes against the floor, distracting me for long enough that my vision clears. Mike stands with an easy, carefree grace and saunters over to stand behind James. In one smooth motion, he grips the back of James’ neck with enough force that the skin stretches taut. “We’re going for a walk.” His tone leaves no room for dissent. James rises, swaying a bit before finding his balance.
I watch them leave, then turn back to Henry who has taken to shoveling forkfuls of broccoli into his mouth. Rosalie shakes her head, sensing the shift in my attention. A cruel smile settles on my lips, a mockery of the power that pulses beneath my skin. “Are your ears stuffed with cotton?”
Henry puts his fork down. I watch his throat work as he swallows. “Excuse me?”
“Theo,” Rose warns, and the sound of the nickname on her lips nearly severs my restraint. She deserves better than this, this mockery of affection from a man that won’t even look up when she’s being insulted.
“Or are you a coward when it comes to your brother?” I fold my hands and rest my chin on them. “I know you have teeth. You’ve used them with me, after all, so is it just your family that gets a free pass? Your spine disappears if they share your blood, is that it?”
Henry looks to Emily in disbelief, but she’s staring at me with admiration and a healthy amount of concern. I show all of my teeth in a grin previously reserved for Morrigan’s worst and croon, “Need me to find it for you?”
"Theo!"
"Rose," I say in an equally urgent tone, tearing my attention away from the pathetic man before me to attend to her. The pleading on her face breaks the stream of my temper like a forged blade dipped into water. Still sharp, still deadly, but no longer burning.
Emily sits back and lets out a low whistle.
Henry looks to Rose, then to me, then back to Rose. “Unbelievable.” He pushes himself away from the table. The chair against the tile fills the air with a horrible screech. “Seriously? You invite him to my apartment, Rosalie?”
“It’s my apartment, too,” she says in a low voice.
He throws up his hands. “I need some air.”
"Don't be long," I call after him. He doesn't turn back. "You'll miss dessert."
Emily stands in the echo of the slammed door, asking Rose a question in the way that only people who have walked beside each other for years can communicate. Rose nods, so Emily mumbles, "I… uh. I forgot something. Outside," and makes a swift exit.
Rose doesn’t watch her leave, glaring at me with an expression that makes me wonder if she spent more time with Marcella than she previously admitted to. Once we're truly alone, I relax my hands and lean back in my chair. “Are you cross with me, Rosalie?”
She’s not amused. "You provoked him."
"I was asking a question."
She huffs an exhale through the sliver between her down-turned lips, face flushed and hot with frustration. I'd smooth the wrinkle between her brows with my thumb if I was certain she wouldn't flinch away. "It was a provoking question."
"If pointing out his behavior is an insult—"
“He didn’t do anything wrong, Theo." That damned nickname, like she’s dragging her nails along my skin, pleasure drawn from the sweetest edge of agony.
"No, because he didn't do anything." I lean forward. She mirrors me, bracing her forearms on the table. “Am I supposed to let someone disrespect you and say nothing? Is that what you want?"
"He wasn't disrespecting me."
"Should I whip up a transcript? Or do our definitions vary?"
“It doesn’t matter." I scoff, but she continues with a raised voice, "It doesn’t mean anything. James has been saying stuff like that since we were children.”
"I don't care about James!" I take a breath, leashing my temper. She's not the one I want to fight with. "I will apologize to Henry if that's what you want. I'll play nice with his brother if that will make you happy. But I refuse to pretend that these people matter more than you do. I will not protect their feelings at the cost of yours."
She blinks, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth. Have I been so subtle that my feelings are unclear? I'd shout it from the rooftops if she'd care to hear it: You. I care about you.
"They mean well," she says.
"What we do determine oft we break—"
"Now you're being pretentious."
"How about, the road to hell…"
She exhales, almost a laugh. "You promised you wouldn't pick a fight."
"I made no promise."
"Do you have the transcript for that conversation, too?" There's no heat in the question, the argument quelled by my confession. Even in anger, she's spoken more to me than she has throughout the entire dinner.
I lay my hand over hers, palm to knuckles. She flips her hand to intertwine our fingers. Her skin is soft and flush with the residuals of anger, warm against mine.
"Do you want me to apologize?" I ask quietly.
"Are you sorry?"
"Not at all."
She runs her thumb over my knuckles. Before I can think better of it, I raise her hand to my lips, barely a brush of mouth against skin. I wait for her to pull away. She doesn’t, looking to where we touch, then to me, opening her mouth and then closing it.
The door opens. We shoot apart, each sitting back in our chairs. I tear my eyes away from Rosalie to watch Mike and Emily saunter in with James in tow. The sullen man doesn’t say a word to any of us before throwing himself on the couch and turning the television on.
“Don’t worry about Henry,” Emily says over the sound of a gaming console booting up. I’m not worried about Henry one bit. “He does this sometimes.”
“Does what?” I ask idly, wondering how badly I can injure the grown man throwing a tantrum without causing Rose any grief.
Rose answers, “He’s not good with confrontation. He’d rather just—” She cuts herself off. “He’ll be back later.”
“Oh, good,” I croon. It seems the brothers have a shared interest in sulking like toddlers. No, not like toddlers. Even Liam would be better at managing conflict.
For a moment, Rosalie looks like she might reach for me again but thinks better of it. “I’ll bring out dessert."
Mike claps his hands and rubs them together, taking a seat beside Emily. “You ever had slutty brownies, Theodore? You’re in for a real treat.”
“You would say that about anything sweet and covered in chocolate,” Rose calls from the kitchen. Mike opens his mouth. “Keep that joke inside your little brain, please.”
He claps a hand over his heart. “My brain is not little!”
Rose places two intimidatingly thick squares onto Mike’s plate, then one on Emily’s. When she reaches over to serve me, her arm brushes mine and lingers for too long to be accidental like she needs the quiet reassurance of my touch as much as I crave hers. She moves away before I can think of something to say, before I can act on the impulse to pull her closer.
“Brownies and cookie dough and Oreo’s,” Mike says with his mouth full. “Whoever invented these should get a Nobel Peace Prize.”
“Is invented the right word?” Rose asks.
“Created,” Emily offers. “Developed.”
“Discovered,” I add.
“What a discovery,” Mike hums, taking another bite. “Thank you, Rosie.” He practically sings the words.
She stiffens but rolls her eyes. “You’re welcome, Michael.”