“S’fine,” she muttered through the bleeding finger.
“I’m a vampire, remember. I can smell the blood.”
Violet grumbled under her breath again and held it out to him. A line of red quickly appeared in the small cut. “You want?” she asked.
“From you?” Rahil made a face. “Has anything I’ve taught you sunk in past that beanie?” He gave the top of her covered head a little rub.
Violet complained and batted him away with her uninjured hand, but Rahil was oddly flattered to notice how half-hearted the protest was. He should not have cared what a random preteen thought of him. Even if she had played him the lonely whale song and reminded him of his sons. She had a home to get back to and a completely normal human life to keep living, with parents who would probably be worried sick if they knew she was here. Or at least a father, since it sounded as though her mom was mostly out of the picture.
Rahil brushed past her with atsk tsksound. “Come on, let’s get a band-aid on that before you leave. I can’t send you home cut up.”
Violet whined some more, scowling all the way to the kitchen, where Rahil dug the little case of band-aids out of the house’s stash of expired medicine. He found one with stars on the back of the plaster.
Peeling off the sticky sides reminded him, painfully, of the year that three-year-old Matt had been obsessed with the healing power of band-aids. Jonah had never failed to help paste them over little Matt’s bruises and bumps and bug bites, taking each prepped plaster from Rahil with the serenity of a hardened nurse.
Rahil turned away quickly, shoving the trash into the bin so he wouldn’t have to keep looking at Violet and seeing his own children. By the time he finished, she was already standing by the hall to the door, both hands in her pj pockets as she rocked from heel to toe.
“Hey, master-vampire-Ray?” she said, and grinned. “You’re a good thing too.” With that, she left.
Rahil was too stunned to follow her out. The sudden weight in his chest felt about the same size and shape as a heart, like a dead muscle trying to sink its way into his gut.You’re a good thing too.
He wished he was, for her sake, and the sake of everyone who wasn’t here to tell him so any longer.
Rahil Zaman was not a good thing. If he was lonely, it was for a reason.
12
MERCER
Mercer was doing an outstanding job of nothing at all.
He was at the tail end of a migraine, having laid in bed with Kat slumped worriedly against his legs for an extra hour until the worst of the light sensitivity faded and his stomach stopped flip-flopping. At that point, Kat had begun casually licking his face. He dragged himself up and into the kitchen to refill her bowl for the day, only to find it already done and Lydia miraculously awake and alert, sitting on the counter eating Cheetos from the family sized bag. She’d clearly been at it for a while, based on the thick coat of cheese on her fingers and the smear of it along her phone. She was swapping sparkly skulls around her screen, but one look at the bright, colorful display made Mercer wish he’d stayed in bed.
“Morning, Puck,” Mercer muttered.
“Morning,” she grumbled right back through an orange mouthful.
He eyed her drearily as he fished yesterday’s mug off the drying rack. Something seemed… different. She was too peppy for 8:30am. And there was an inch-long brown thing stuck in her braids.
Mercer prodded it, trying not to open his eyes too wide lest he accidentally resurrect the worst of his migraine. “Is that… a dead leaf?”
Lydia shook her head and shoulders, dislodging his touch and pushing the tangled ex-greenery off. “My god, Dad, why do you have to be like that?”
How could someone so small and precious sound so incredibly snippy? Mercer couldn’t decide if he wanted to hug her or strangle her. Instead, he bit his tongue and went for a gentle, “I was just asking a question?”
“Are you?” Lydia snapped back, clearly mocking the indecisiveness of his tone. She rolled her eyes. “Yes, it’s a dead leaf. It’s fashionable.”
She was lying to him. Mercer wasn’t entirely sure why or about what, but she was. His instincts told him to push for more—leaves were from the outside—if she had been outside this morning—if she’d left the house without him knowing, and she’d forgotten her meds, or a seizure had hit unexpectedly—
But no. She was fine. She was alive and well and here, and she wasfine. Mercer forced himself to breathe. Lydia didn’t need his anxiety, particularly when she was clearly in some kind of mood—maybe she’d been having insomnia again and not told him? If she wasn’t sleeping, it would put extra stress on her body and—
And he could not fix that by making accusations.
Mercer forced himself to breathe and smile. “Well, I suppose you arePuck, after all. Leaves are your natural habitat.” He fished a handful of Cheetos out of her bag.
“Hey!” She tried to pull the entire package away from him far too late, but her posture relaxed, a tiny quirk coming into her lips.
He ruffled her beanie. “Finders keepers.”
