Chapter 40

Chapter Forty

SECRETS

I t's early morning and I'm walking through the Safe Zone. I've been here for just over a week. This time of day suits me – there aren't too many people around, and I'm still adjusting to sleeping at night. I have a small house near the beach, which I share with one of our blood dancers, sworn to secrecy. Mother insisted I take a guard as well – I refused at first, but knew she was right. After all, there's still a rebellion going on. They keep themselves scarce, a gleam of silver and black in the night. The house has been modified, too – oh, nothing too opulent. Let's just say I have a very effective security system.

I reach the small café I visited with Ruth. The awning is up, someone setting up tables and chairs on the pavement. I realise who it is.

‘Michael?'

He stops, putting the chair he's unfolding down. When he turns I see a faint red line curving above one eyebrow.

‘You're all right!' We both say it at the same time, then laugh.

‘Oh, thank darkness,' he says. ‘I was so worried about you.'

‘Worried about me? You were bleeding .'

‘Oh, that? Just a scratch.' He grins, lifting a hand to the scar. It's fainter than I would have expected, considering how much he'd been bleeding. His fingers are long, his hands beautifully shaped. ‘You made it home, then?'

‘Eventually.' I put my hands in my pockets, all at once self-conscious, remembering our closeness in a dark alcove.

‘I'm glad,' he says. Morning sun turns his hair to gold, his smile wide. ‘So, what brings you out so early?'

‘Oh, I just like it.'

‘I don't mind early,' he says.

‘Me either. It's peaceful.' I try to think of something else to say. ‘Well, it was nice seeing you again.'

‘You too, Emily. Hope to see you around.'

* * *

For the next couple of weeks, whenever I take my morning walks, he's outside. Almost as if he's waiting for me. We talk, and sometimes I buy a coffee to take away, though I enjoy the aroma more than the taste. One morning, as he makes my coffee, I notice something. His shirtsleeves are rolled up past his elbows, his muscular forearms bare. He has no Raven mark. He doesn't have a blood port, either. Like me.

‘Here it is.' He puts my finished coffee on the counter. ‘Your usual, mademoiselle.' I like how he looks when he smiles. I like how he looks all the time, really, but my heart, still bruised, cannot take it any further.

‘Thank you.' I dig in my pocket for coins.

‘This one's on me.' He slides the cup forward.

‘Really? I mean, thank you.'

‘On one condition,' he goes on. I raise my eyebrows. ‘Will you go out with me? For a walk, one morning?'

My mouth drops open. His cheeks are pink and he looks down.

‘Sure. I mean, that would be nice.' It would be nice, actually. I ignore the butterflies in my stomach.

‘Really?' His face lights up. ‘How would tomorrow be? I can pick you up at seven?'

I frown. ‘I thought you said morning.'

‘I did – 7 a.m., if that's okay with you. I mean, you did say you liked early, didn't you?' He sounds worried. I don't want him to be.

‘Seven is fine. I'm, er, just around the corner. The little white house.'

‘See you then.' He hands my coffee to me. Our fingers touch and I blush.

* * *

The next morning I'm up early. I call my mother and speak to her, telling her I'm going for a walk with a friend. ‘Be careful,' she says, her cool voice chiming down the phone. I can tell she's pleased, though. I dress warmly, in fleecy leggings and a long jumper, my leather jacket over the top. I feel queasy, for some reason – it must be nerves, though I don't know why I'm nervous. Still, I can't seem to shake the feeling, even once I've had peppermint tea.

Just past seven there's a knock at the door. I open it to see Michael. He's wearing a jumper too – black, the sleeves and neckline frayed – over dark jeans with chunky leather boots. His blond hair is pushed back, a faint scruff of stubble on his jawline. He looks… hot. I don't know if I'm ready for this.

‘Morning,' he says.

‘Morning.' I step outside, locking the door, my phone tucked in my jacket pocket with my keys. We start walking, our footsteps echoing in the pre-dawn quiet.

‘So where are we going?'

‘I thought we could walk on the beach.' He takes my hand.

I flinch, then feel stupid. ‘Sorry.'

‘D'you want me to let go?'

I shake my head.

We turn the corner onto the promenade. The streetlights are still on, though a faint gleam on the horizon tells me dawn is coming soon. I'm still not used to the fact that I can be outside when it changes, the magic of night turning to day.

‘Do you think this is what it was like, back in the old days?'

‘Before the Rising?' He grins, one eyebrow raised. ‘Maybe. It's pretty peaceful, isn't it?'

‘It's lovely.' It is.

We cross the road, taking the stairs down to the sand. It's smooth and damp, our feet leaving faint indents as we walk towards the water, still holding hands. I like it, the warmth and roughness of his skin different. Waves crash and whisper against the shore, the endless song of the sea.

‘I love the sound of the ocean,' I say. ‘I've never really spent much time near it.'

‘You haven't?'

‘Uh, no.' I fall silent, wondering if I've given away too much. Our hands swing between us as we wander along the edge of the waves, the sky getting lighter.

‘Shall we get a coffee soon,' he says, ‘once the café opens?'

‘That sounds nice.'

‘But first, will you tell me something?'

I glance at him. His profile is silhouetted dark against the sea, like the back of a coin. ‘Okay?'

He pauses. ‘Who are you really?'

‘What?' I frown, then laugh, though I've gone cold inside. ‘I told you, my name's Emily.'

‘What's your last name?'

I stop walking. So does he, letting go of my hand. I swallow. ‘Uh, it's Reynolds. Emily Reynolds.' I give him the last name Kyle once gave me, as I can't think of anything else.

His brow creases. ‘So why, Emily Reynolds , can I smell violets all around you?'

The way he says my name, I know he knows I'm lying. What I don't know is how. He holds my gaze a moment longer, then rolls his eyes, sighing. He holds out his arm, the inside of his wrist turned upwards, his fist clenched. ‘Smell me.'

‘What? No!' I make a face. But he keeps holding out his arm and, as I take a breath, I catch it. Violets. I bend closer to his outstretched wrist. His skin is pale, smooth, the muscles strongly defined. I sniff.

‘Is it… anti-feed?' I know it isn't. He shakes his head, taking his arm back.

‘No. It's me. My bloodline. Like yours. You know humans can't usually smell it, don't you?'

I stare at him. I hadn't known that.

‘So tell me again, Emily. Who are you?'

‘Who are you ?' I whisper.

‘You first,' he says, starting to smile. The sun is red gold on the horizon, the cool morning breeze blowing softly from the ocean. I shake my head.

‘I can't,' I whisper. The amusement leaves his face.

‘Okay.' He leans forward. His voice becomes lower, quieter. ‘I'll go first. But you have to promise not to tell.'

‘I promise.'

‘I'm Mistral.' His voice is pitched so low I have to strain to hear him. My eyes widen. ‘No one knows,' he goes on. ‘I'm just Michael, here. Another orphan among so many.'

I stare at him, open-mouthed. ‘B-but, I don't understand?—'

‘No one does. It's not a known thing, is it? That vamps can have human children. I haven't even met one like me. My father tried to turn me, several times, after my mother died—' his eyes flicker with remembered pain ‘—but it didn't work. So he threw me out. And I came here.'

‘I'm so sorry,' I say. It's all I can manage, my mind reeling. I remember his father, burning in a metal chair. And my mother, sitting on my bed. I did hear there might be one other , she said. And here he is. Tears fill my eyes at the thought of her, of my old life.

‘Hey, I didn't mean to upset you.' He touches my hand. ‘It's ancient history, no need to worry. So—' he shrugs ‘—hit me with it. Your secret can't be as big as mine. Trust me.'

I take in a breath, blowing it out, then another. He starts to look worried. But my secret is so much bigger than he knows. Can I trust him? My trust is a fragile thing, still, Kyle's betrayal like a mark on my soul.

Then I realise. It doesn't matter. This isn't about Michael. It's about me, and who I really am. The world is turning to gold, the sky a blue-streaked bowl. Waves murmur, the breeze ruffling our hair. Everything feels as though it's waiting, the world poised between night and day. When I decide it feels like release, as though I'm unfurling. The words come out in a rush of breath.

‘I am Raven.'