Page 82 of Fang Fatale

Not with people like me.

Runaway bird-girls with more bite than sense.

I run my fingers over the braid again.

It shouldn't make me feel safer.

It absolutely does.

A few minutes later I've cleaned the scratch on my collarbone and washed the dried blood from my earlobe.

My eyes still look enormous in the mirror—bruised and slightly feral—but I decide to leave the feather where it is.

Just for today.

It's ridiculous.

Which somehow makes me love it even more.

When I wander back into the kitchen, Theo is telling a story about a haunted trampoline while Trent listens with the patience of a saint supervising kindergarten.

Alaric is gone.

Waiting for me on the counter is a plate of toast drizzled with honey.

One perfect blueberry sits proudly in the middle.

I stare at it.

Honey.

One blueberry.

I don't know how I know...

...but I'm absolutely certain this was Alaric.

Nobody else would think one blueberry counts as decoration.

I smile before I can stop myself.

This is becoming a problem.

After breakfast the house settles into the lazy hush of late morning.

I curl into one end of the sofa with another mug of coffee, watching dust drift through the sunlight like tiny wandering ghosts.

Trent is reading a paperback upside down, which I'm ninety percent sure is just showing off.

Theo is furiously arguing with someone online about whether ghosts can legally own property.

I decide not to ask.

Alaric returns just before noon wearing a black T-shirt that's a size too small and bandages that someone else clearly applied.

Judging by the aggressively crooked tape...

Theo.