She frowned. “I know how to shoot a gun, young lady.”
I paused. “When was the last time you shot a gun?”
She paused to think about it. “Oh, well, probably back when your father and I were still together…”
“Exactly,” I said, cutting her off before she could continue. “You’re going to practice. We have an extra handgun that was…that was Dad’s. You have to keep it on you at all times.” I sighed, looking out the window at the flat lands that surrounded my mother’s house. “You just never know what is going to happen.”
I turned on my heel and walked away from them, back up the stairs to my room. I shut the door behind me, my eyes catching on the bookshelf that stood in the corner of the room. I rushed across the room toward it, my fingers tracing the spines. My heart was slamming in my chest, full of emotion, at the sight of my favorite titles. It seemed silly to miss books so much, but I had. There was nothing like curling up with a book, a blanket tucked around me, and falling into a world so different from my own.
Now I looked at the titles and wondered what could possibly make me feel better. So many of the titles on my shelves were fantasy and science fiction. I felt like I had fallen into my own sci-fi novel. I found it was not nearly as fun as it had been before. My hands fell on my worn copy of Gone with the Wind, given to me by my grandmother before she had died. Scarlett O’Hara had dealt with an impossible war and had overcome. I could too.
I pulled the book off the shelf and carried the tome over to my bed. I pulled the blanket up over my legs and settled the open book in my lap. I heard the sound of rain hitting the tin roof of the shed that was no more than a hundred yards away from the back porch. I tried remembering how long it had been since I had left New York and what today’s date was. It was sometime after the New Year. It had to have been. It was winter, and I knew we would be spending a lot of time indoors. Together.
I yawned as I flipped through the title pages to the first chapter. I fell into the familiar words, the world of the South and Tara and the Civil war. It wasn’t long before I had fallen asleep, my head resting against the hard wood of my headboard.
I WAS WEARING A HOOP skirt in my dream, reminiscent of the beautiful dresses Vivian Leigh wore as Scarlett O’Hara in Gone with the Wind. I was at St. Joseph’s again, at the dance, but instead of apples hanging from the branches, there were peaches, and they dripped sweet nectar all over the floor. My satin slippers stuck to the floor as I made my way through the courtyard, lifting my overwhelming skirts. I could feel the pain of the tight corset around me and winced.
“Miss Valentine, would you extend me the honor of being my partner for this dance?”
I turned, my skirt swishing around me, to find Ash standing in front of me, like always. He was dressed differently though, in the high waist trousers and coat of an old southern gentleman. He took my hands in his, led me out to the dance floor and pulled me into a proper waltz with a respectable distance between us, nothing like the dance we had shared at the Strictly Take-Out concert.
“Do you love me, Miss Valentine?” he asked, his voice echoing in the room. “Could you possibly love me?”
“Why are you calling me that?” I asked, my head tilted to the side in confusion. The classmates around me, dancing with us, started chanting my name, softly, as they danced in unison with us.
“I love you, Zoey Valentine,” Ash said, ignoring my question and looking down at me with absolutely adoration. “There is no other girl in this world but you.”
I frowned but let him lead me around the dance floor. I looked around me and noticed that the skin tones of my classmates were a distinct blue shade. I gasped, watching as they sunk their teeth into each other, devouring pieces of flesh before resuming their careful steps, as if there wasn’t blood dripping down their chins, as if this was completely normal. I looked back up at Ash, who was grinning down at me, each one of his teeth filed into a perfect, gleaming point.
I pushed myself away from him, horrified. His quick hands came out to me, latching onto one of my arms, and he dragged me back to him. “Don’t leave me, Miss Valentine,” he begged, his voice a chilling echo.
“Leave me alone,” I pleaded, trying to pull my arm free of his grip. “Please. Leave me alone.”
“I can’t,” he said mournfully, his fingers tracing circles on my skin. He lowered his head to my wrist, sinking his sharp teeth into the skin there. Blood pooled around his mouth, and I screamed. A moan escaped his lips, a moan of pleasure, and I felt it up and down my spine. He captured my skin in his mouth again, tearing at the flesh there, and I woke up screaming.