Good As Dead

Chapter Eleven

It's Saturday morning and I'm slumped over the kitchen table with my third cup of coffee in hand. Last night hangs in my mind like a bad dream; after seeing the card and the bloodied photo, I ran to my room and tore it apart, hoping against hope Valentine had somehow made a copy, that he hadn't figured out a way inside the house. But I came up empty-handed, and half an hour ago woke up blinking at the sun, still in my trashed room and with half a shoe print on one cheek from inadvertently using a pair of sneakers as a pillow.

Gideon never followed me. I have no clue what he did for the rest of the night. I do know he's still here; when I opened all the windows this morning to get rid of the smell of lingering death and astringent medical equipment, I saw him on the porch, studying the card. Probably been out there since sunrise. I know he was pissed I kept him from going out as soon as we saw it. Might still be.

And there's no way he'll like the idea I came up with after realizing that fucker really took the photo. It's dangerous, rushed, and depends on what Laci told me to be anything near effective. But it's also all I have. If he can get inside the house, then I'm not safe even in places I can call mine.

When I feel awake enough to talk, I shoot off a quick message to Maria letting her know Gran's gone, finishing up just as the front door opens. A moment later, Gideon steps into the kitchen. He looks disgustingly awake, eyes alert and hair neatly combed back. Ink swirls along his arm in easy, uncomplicated patterns as he approaches the table, smiling a little. "Good morning."

"Sleep well?" I rest my chin in one hand. This will either end up okay or a complete disaster. I'm betting on the latter.

His smile turns wry before he glances over everything strewn across the table. My fingers tap against my mug as I track his gaze.

Nearest to him is a ceramic pot filled with water, waiting on a dish warmer spelled to keep the right temperature for brewing black tea. After digging a container of loose tea leaves out of a drawer, I set up everything necessary to steep and drink a cup, figuring he'd prefer that over the thick sludge I make for myself. I almost had a breakdown after finding Gran's small milk pitcher shaped like a cat, something from my earliest memories, but I blinked back tears long enough to fill it up and set it out. I even remembered to get a saucer.

"Tea?" Gideon looks up in surprise.

I manage a flicker of a smile. "For you. If you want it."

He nods. Then his gaze jumps to what's on my side of the table, and when he speaks again, his voice sounds very flat. "And wooden stakes."

My smile freezes. "For Valentine. Laci told me that's how he needs to be killed."

He scans my face for sincerity. When he finds it, his own changes into agent mode. "Phoenix, there isn't—"

"Wait." I need to get my say in now to have any chance of being listened to. "I know you don't believe he's a vampire, but I do. And I'm really bad at talking shit out, so for the last ten minutes I was this close to sneaking into his house while you were absorbed in that stupid card. But I kept thinking about what Frankie said, and some of it hurts enough to be true. I mean, you're not Elliot, obviously. But since we're in this together, I thought I could try being open and honest. That we both could. So I stayed and set this up, hoping..." When the rest of my words trail away, I gesture at the area between us.

"Hoping we could sit down and have a proper talk?" he finishes.

"Right. Before either of us does anything." Despite myself, I glance away. I had to think hard over insisting we talk on equal footing instead of letting him interview me like that day in Glimmer. Doing so might be a deal-breaker. But he's just as slippery with information in his own way, and if he knows something more about Valentine, I want to hear it. It's my damn life on the line.