“Because it’s relevant,” I said dully. “Back then, when I killed that man, I told myself I was just fucked up. That my dark impulses could be blamed on trauma from my childhood, and all that. But now I know it’s more. The choices I’m making have nothing to do with the horrible things I’ve seen, and everything to do with who I am. Or who I’m becoming, maybe. All I really know is that it feels… bigger than me, sometimes.”
“What? The pain?”
I fell silent, embarrassed that I’d said so much. The vampire waited patiently for an answer, and my voice dropped to a whisper. “The power.”
Gil let out a long breath. I heard him take a drink before he said, “Fuck. That’s terrifying, Sworn.”
“You’re telling me.” I raised my head and gave him a hollow smile. “Did you have a happy childhood? For the most part, I mean?”
The vampire leaned his elbows on the counter and tilted his head. His bleached hair caught the light. I watched emotions move over his face, one after the other, and I worried that I’d overstepped in asking such a personal question.
“No,” Gil answered finally. “No, I didn’t stand a chance, really. Before I was born, my mum was captured and taken to a black market auction. For most of those beasties, it was the first time they’d ever seen a Nightmare, so she wound up getting purchased by one of the richest bastards in the world. He brought her home and treated her like a trophy or a painting. Took her out only when he wanted to play or show off. She got pregnant, and the old man let her carry me to term—never found out why. He probably figured he could make a profit off me. Dear ol’ Dad died in that car accident before I reached puberty, though, so he didn’t get the chance. They were on their way to a fundraiser, how sick is that? Mum never got free of him.”
We looked at each other, and it felt like we’d pulled up our shirts to reveal the jagged scars on our souls. With another smile, I held up my glass. “Look at us. A couple of sad orphans.”
“To the orphans.” Gil tossed the remainder of his drink back. He clicked his tongue and exhaled. “Right. Now that we’ve done some proper bonding, will you do me a favor?”
A warm sensation had stolen over me—the buzz we’d been seeking inside all those drinks. At Gil’s question, I shook my head and wagged my finger. “Sorry. No can do. Being around so many fucking faeries has made me one cautious sonofabitch. But if you tell me what it is first, I might think about it.”
“Fine, fine.” Gil picked up the tequila bottle, pressed it to his mouth, and tipped it. I watched his throat move for several seconds. He set the bottle back down and wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, then said, “I want you to tell Nicky that I’m dead.”
I frowned, my grip tightening on the empty glass I still held. “What? Why?”
“Why do you think? I don’t want him to see me like this. Nicky would blame himself, somehow. He always did, especially with the V. If he thinks I’m gone, he’ll grieve for a while, sure… but then he’ll move on. He wouldn’t spend his time worrying about me anymore.” There was a note of finality in how Gil spoke. I recognized it, and I knew that he’d made his decision. He would follow through on this whether I helped him or not.
But that still wasn’t enough to make me agree. “Thinking his best friend is dead would be far worse for Nicky than spending some time worrying about him. Trust me. He’ll be glad to see you, fangs and all.”
“Please,” Gil added, acting as if I hadn’t spoken. I stayed silent this time, uncertain what to say. Gil must’ve found his answer in my expression, anyway, because he nodded. He tapped his knuckle against the counter in an absent movement. I waited for him to bargain or manipulate, like so many others in my life would. I blinked when Gil said instead, “About the power you mentioned.”
“What about it?”
“The way you described it made me think of a wave.” He made a dramatic gesture to demonstrate. Talks with his hands when he’s buzzed, I thought to myself, vaguely amused. Oblivious, Gil continued, “A huge wave, vastly bigger than you, like you said. And I thought, well, she needs an anchor, then.”
“An anchor?” I repeated.
“It’s something my mum used to say. Usually when I was having one of my ‘episodes,’, as the servants called them, but the truth is that I used to have delightful tantrums. Mum was the only one who could calm me. She’d touch my chest, and tell me to find my anchor. The thing that made me remember who I was, a reminder there’s good in the world. Might sound silly, but it helped. Maybe it’ll help you, too.” He shrugged.
“Thanks, Gil.” My voice was soft. I studied his face, thinking about how much he’d lost. Pain rarely came to people who deserved it, and Gilbert Payne’s only sin had been the misfortune of being born a Nightmare. I wanted to say something that would erase some of the lines around his mouth. Swallowing a sigh, I added one more splash of tequila into our glasses and said, “I’ll lie to your friend Nicky. If you’re really sure, I’ll tell him you’re gone.”
“Yeah? Well, cheers to that.” Gil clinked his cup against mine again, and relief shone in his eyes. When I saw that, I felt slightly better about the terrible lie I’d just agreed to. We both tipped our heads back to drink. My thoughts went hazy.
By the time Adam closed the shop, and he came looking for us, Gil and I were on the kitchen floor.
“It’s your turn, Adam Horstman,” I announced, noticing him in the doorway. Was I slurring?
The vampire moved deeper into the room, wiping his hands with a rag that hung from his belt loop. “My turn for what?”
I got to my feet and moved toward the bottle. “To have a drink and tell us your story.”
Adam watched me pour tequila into a new glass. I met his gaze, my eyebrows raised in silent expectation. “Three shots. Three questions. That’s all you get,” he said.
Gil remained where he was, but I could feel his intrigue. I was intrigued, as well. Adam wasn’t one to volunteer information about himself, ever. Once the shot was full, I slid it across the counter. I didn’t need to think about the first question I wanted to ask—it was something I’d been wanting to know since our first date. “What year were you born?”
If Adam was surprised that I hadn’t asked about Dracula, his expression revealed nothing. He tipped the small glass without hesitation and poured its contents down his throat. “1895,” he said.
The directness of Adam’s answer was startling; I’d gotten used to faeries and their non-answers. I tried to hide my eagerness as I poured the next shot. Once again, I slid it across the counter, and he caught it effortlessly. This time, I did consider questioning him about Dracula. But I couldn’t resist solving a little more of the mystery that was my friend Adam.
“Where were you born?” I asked.
A blurred movement, and that shot glass was empty, too. “Birmingham.”
I couldn’t hide my surprise—there was no trace of an accent in Adam’s voice. Even when he’d spoken to me in the haze of bloodlust, he hadn’t let one slip. I poured the third drink and wondered what else the vampire had successfully hidden from me. Out in the shop, Winona started the truck she’d been working on. The engine’s growl echoed through the air.