Chapter 87
Monster. She hadn't used that word, she hadn't-
But it didn't stop him from insinuating she had and storming away, slamming the door behind him, leaving her alone with her hand extended to the air, still reaching for where he'd been. Slowly, she lowered it, uncertain what she should do next. Her emotions raged between guilt and fury. On one hand she wanted to comfort him, but on the other he'd "linked" them! She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. She couldn't help but wonder what he'd do with this new connection. Would he use it? Did he even have a choice? Was she now an open book, her every thought on display for him, or did he have to choose to do it?
She stared at the door and it stared back at her accusingly. She tried to ignore it, but when she looked away she imagined Jorick's face, his mouth set in a tight line and raw hurt in his eyes.
Something crumpled inside her, and she jerked the door open. She dashed up the stairs, but stopped when she reached the heavy cellar door. Beyond it lay a terrible reality that she didn't want to face, and for a moment she felt like a ghost in a horror novel, whose dead body lay in the other room, waiting for her to see it and understand the truth.
She pinched her arm painfully to find flesh and blood between her fingers. No, she was alive and she needed to either go forward or run back to the bedroom.
The door opened into a hallway still littered with shards of wood. She picked her way to the ruined white door, then stopped, almost superstitiously. What was left of it was splattered with blood and barely hung on its hinges. She took a tentative step past it, into the room beyond. Broken furniture littered the floor, and the window was shattered so that a frost heavy wind blew through it. She shivered in the cold, and when her eyes moved to the wall, her stomach lurched. On either side of the window was a pair of hooks, no doubt for some old window dressing, but long, black streaks ran down the wall from the left one and onto the floor. She knew what that was, and it made her sick.
She hurried away to the bathroom, but it was no more comforting. The bathtub was streaked with blood and gore and a pile of bloody clothing was thrown in one corner; a possible attempt at makeshift bandages. The bag she'd abandoned in the driveway was thrown on the back of the toilet and she quickly ripped it open in search of warm clothes and socks, trying desperately to ignore what she was seeing.
She dressed quickly, though she couldn't resist looking in the mirror. On her neck, above her right collar bone, was a new "mark". It looked like the last one, including the cross cut beneath it, but there was something different about the scar tissue; it was translucent and smooth, and cool to the touch. Now she understood what Claudius meant when he said it "looked like an ordinary mark". Her eyes were drawn on down to the rest of her new scars. They were ugly, and lumpy with unhappy edges. Most notable was the one that ran from her right hip to her ribs. Her insides went cold as she remembered it. She'd felt the knife cut through her, felt it destroy vital organs and, in those moments, she'd tasted her own death. Even the memories held a bitter flavor, like bile. There was no question about it, she'd been on the threshold of oblivion and she hadn't expected to survive.
When she was dressed, her hair was brushed, and she was slathered in the sanity of deodorant, she abandoned the mess in the bathroom to seek out Jorick. She picked her way through the house, noting the wanton destruction. In the dining room the drawers had been pulled from the heavy desk. One of them had been hurled across the room and, from the gouges in the plaster, into the wall. The shattered remnants lay scattered on the floor mingled with bits of broken ceramic and carelessly thrown books. She stooped and picked one of them up. Its spine was broken. Still, she closed it carefully and laid it on the table. How could Loren have done this?
The front room was as she remembered it, though the door hung half open and let the winter inside. She opened it all the way, and was surprised to find Jorick seated on the cement porch outside, staring into the distant stand of icy trees.
She hesitated in the doorway and waited for him to acknowledge her presence. When he didn't even flinch, she took a deep breath and plunged into the cold night. She stood next to him and looked down, still waiting for a sign that he knew she was there. Finally, she surrendered and dropped onto the porch. She pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around herself for warmth. The cold concrete seeped through her jeans and the chilly wind cut past her sweatshirt.
Jorick continued to stare straight ahead, and she followed his gaze to see what was so absorbing. The trees stood in an icy cluster and their crystal coated branches tinkled as they swayed. The star strewn sky spread above them and the moon hung cold, silver and as impassive as always.
She took a deep breath and turned back to Jorick. His smooth skin reminded her more of marble than flesh; a perfect carving by a master. His dark eyes were moist and filled with an emotion she couldn't name as they stared unblinkingly at nothing. His soft lips were closed tightly and his raven hair fell onto his bare, gleaming shoulders in pools of captured darkness. His naked back barely rose with his breaths. The well-muscled surface invited a touch, but she refrained.
She cleared her throat noisily, but he stayed silent. The seconds lapsed into minutes and her annoyance grew. Finally, she said peevishly, "Look, if you're going to ignore me I'll just go in the house."
He didn't look at her, but his voice came low; like thunder in the distance before a summer storm, "I'm not ignoring you. I just don't have anything to say."
She raised a brow in disbelief. "You could start by telling me if it was Loren who tore up the house. I know the idiot twins didn't."
"No," he replied tonelessly. "They didn't. I did."
She pressed her lips together tightly and tried to understand the logic. When nothing presented itself she asked slowly, "Mind if I ask why?"
Jorick's shoulders moved almost imperceptibly, an imitation of a shrug. "It's better to take your anger out on objects that don't feel."
"Anger? About what?" He didn't answer, and she realized she'd made a mistake by following him. "Forget it," she said quietly and stood. She walked across the porch in a handful of steps and stopped next to the gaping door. "If you want to sit out here and be uncommunicative then fine, but I'm not freezing to death so you can ignore me." Her eyes narrowed at his broad back. She desperately wanted him to talk, and since he wouldn't she continued to fill the silence. "You wanna pout, then pout." When he still didn't respond she added, "I'm sorry, okay? If it's about what I said, I already apologized-"
He cut her off but still didn't look at her, "It has nothing to do with what you said. Words mean nothing." He waved his hand to indicate how easily dismissed they were.
"Then what?" Did he plan to send her away again? Was he mad because she'd admitted to reading those letters? Was he angry that she'd snooped or that she'd somehow desecrated Velnya's memory?
His laughter rippled all around her, the last reaction she'd expected. "I thought women were intuitive creatures! Yet, I've never heard anyone be so wrong." He looked over his shoulder at her. "What do you think it's over, Katelina? Read my soul and tell me."
"You're the mind reader, not me."
A strange smirk settled on his lips. "Yes, I suppose I am. Perhaps I should have practiced more of it."
She started to argue with him, but stopped, suddenly confused. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Maybe I shouldn't have respected your privacy so much. Maybe I should have dug deeper instead of waiting for things to resolve themselves." He broke off and looked away again. "Maybe if I'd paid attention to your deeper thoughts instead of just brushing aside the noisome, surface chatter, then I'd have known what you were up to."
"Up to?" she echoed incredulously.
"The letters? Interrogating Loren? You could have just asked me."
"Ask you?" she cried. "Ask you? I did! I asked you what was in that damn room and you brushed me off every time!"
He took a moment to reply. "And what would you have done with the answer?"
She laid a frustrated hand to her head. "I don't know. But I wouldn't have taken it as something so serious if it wasn't such a damned secret."
"I didn't see any reason to burden you with it," he murmured quietly.
"Did it ever occur to you that it wasn't a burden?" she shouted, her self-control gone. "It's called sharing!"
He turned suddenly icy. "I didn't know that people who aren't in committed relationships shared so much." Her mouth opened, but nothing came out, so he went on, "Those were your words, I believe?"
She shook her head helplessly. "Yes, but- I don't know. You don't make any sense!"
His voice was dry and scathing, "And why is that? Is it because I'm so much more evil than you? Much more loathsome, perhaps?"
"You're not loathsome!" she snapped impatiently. "If you want to have a pity Jorick party, don't bother inviting me."
"A pity Jorick party?" he mused. "I didn't know I had invited you."
She squeezed her eyes shut and willed sanity to return. "I'm getting cold," she said flatly.
He made a noise of contempt in his throat. "What am I supposed to do about it? Do you expect me to go inside because you're cold?"
"Aren't you?"
"No, not really," he replied smoothly. "It's a side effect of being so terribly inhuman."
She started to argue, but stopped. This was pointless. "You know what? Just forget it!" Then she turned and slammed into the house.
