Anne Brontë Nightwalker

Chapter 41

I lead Emily downstairs to my room, but before I allow her to climb into my bed and sleep, I force her to strip and take a shower. This isn't easy. She has dirt beneath her nails, a leaf in her hair, and traces of blood in her clothes, and yet she acts like a little girl again, back from the moors, refusing to bathe before bed. When she drops her clothes to the floor, I take them to the washer and throw them in along with mine. "Those are my favorite jeans," she warns.

I raise an eyebrow. They're worn through at the knee and there's a horizontal tear below the back pocket, which holds a slender volume of Shelley's poems that once belonged to William. He must have dropped it at the graveyard. Perplexed, I set it aside.

"They're not going anywhere," I say.

"Isn't that one of the best inventions ever?"

"Jeans?"

"Absolutely. And motorcycles. And washing machines."

I can't help but laugh and some of the tension between us ebbs. We get in the shower together, just as we used to bathe when we were young. "You always were the pretty one," she says, "but look how beautiful you've become. Your eyes are more violet than ever. Like amethysts."

"You too, Emily. You're lean as a blade."

"My form is better suited for today's age."

"Ah, but don't you miss the 19th century?" I ask.

"Hell no."

"Isn't it ironic that the very transformation which has made us fairer has thrust us even further from love?"

She turns toward the hot water, letting it run over her face as I drizzle shampoo in her hair and work it into her scalp and mane with my fingers. The aroma of wildflowers fills the space. Her smooth white back is to me when she asks, "Have you ever had a lover?"

"No." I pause, astonished at the question. "Have you?"

She doesn't answer.

"Emily!"

Silence unspools, then she finally says, "That is a story for another day, sister."

"You can't ask a question like that and then go silent. That is entirely against the rules of sisterhood. Tell me!" I try to turn her to face me but she refuses. Her strength is greater than mine and she's impossible to budge. I know if I push too hard she'll fall into an intractable silence which I have always been powerless to break. Only when she's ready will she confide in me. Still I beg, "Was he a man or a Night Walker?"

"Not a human," she says indignantly, then falls quiet, leaving me more curious than ever.

A Night Walker then.

My mind is swirling with questions. Emily had a lover? A Night Walker! Was he an Alpha? Of course—she would never tolerate anything else. Not all male Night Walkers are Alphas but they are the ones who tend to survive. Our lives are brutal and the gentler souls tend to perish. But how did Emily manage him? Did he subjugate her? Impossible! I have so many questions, but I know they will only cause her to withdraw further. When Emily declines conversation, she's as implacable as Heathcliff and every futile cry for mercy only serves to harden her more.

We towel off and slip into pajamas. Emily crinkles her nose as I slip a long white nightgown over her head. "I certainly don't miss dresses," she grumbles. She barely tolerates my combing out her long, thick hair.

"Don't you ever use a brush?" I ask in wonder.

She shrugs. "What for?" Then she squirms and shifts as I manage with the patience of Job to comb out the mass of tangles. Fortunately, her pain tolerance is high, as I can't help tugging at an especially tenacious knot now and then.

When Emily's hair is smooth and her clothes are drying, I bolt the bedroom door and set the saber beside it with an embarrassed glance toward her. She doesn't say anything, but there's a look of approbation in her eye. I can just hear her thinking, at least Anne's doing something toward self-preservation. Ivanhoe has leaped upon the bed, given Emily a delicate sniff, and begins purring as she gathers him in her arms and gently pets him.

"What a beautiful color he is," she says, stroking his back. "Like the sun."

I shut and lock us into pitch dark and we curl up together in our snug abode and drift toward sleep. All is quiet. Emily wraps her arms around me like when we were motherless little girls, and for the first time in years, despite Alphas and danger and death, I feel that I am home.

***

I sleep far too long and when I awake alone in my room, night has thoroughly fallen. It is my second shift off from work, and I'm determined to call in and give my two weeks' notice. My fear from last night has eased. Emily and Vander and William have soothed it. This time I shall plan my escape, not run off in a frenzied panic. I run my hand over the soft silk comforter and think of William—the first man who has kissed me. It's hard now to imagine I died without experiencing a single heated kiss. A deep ache throbs within that I've never felt before. Pure lust. William is a force pulling on my flesh, opening my body to the light.

I can still feel his touch waking me from a dark sleep, but Emily is right; I must leave, make a new life, one that William cannot be a part of. Only sorrow will come from loving me. I cannot expect a professor to move every ten years or flee his life at a moment's notice. My hands fly to my cheeks and I blush at the thought. The supposition! As if we could ever be in a relationship. How absurd! Living together while I'm shackled to the night and he works in the day. Feeding in secret so as not to repulse him.

I wrap my arms around myself. Impossible.

We are to meet again tonight at the Biltmore for further training. Vander and William seem intent on preparing me for a great battle which I know I will never fight. Instead, I will flee. This is who I am. The hare not the hound. But I did promise to warn William of my impending departure. What harm can come from a few additional hours of companionship when I may live for centuries more without it?

A nagging doubt tugs at my heart. I know what the harm is . . . it's in the enjoyment of it . . . the fellowship. Wanting it. Growing attached. I should sever the first stirrings of connection right now, before it takes root and grows and I am hooked like a gasping fish.

First, I'll walk to settle myself and gather my thoughts, and if I come across appropriate prey, I will eat. I need strength for my journey. Emily and I can hunt together tonight. Maybe she'll enjoy the blood of a stag, not her usual fare, but variety nonetheless. Just to move through the forest with her under a shining net of stars, like we used to as girls . . . to be together again. I'm sure she will come with me if I ask.

But when I venture upstairs, I don't find her. The dryer is empty and her battered backpack is gone. Abandonment rips through my chest like shrapnel and I rub my heart as if I have a physical wound.

Why didn't she wait? My simmering anger ignites into flame, breaking away from me, spilling into the night.

I will hunt alone.