“I think mine is slightly more messed up than yours.”
“Not by much. At least you have Arran and Deborah. You’ve got nice people. I don’t have any nice people. I mean Connor’s OK if he isn’t with Naill or—”
“You’re the nice people,” I say.
She smiles but it hits me then how sad and lonely she looks and how lucky I am to have Arran, Deborah, and Gran. And without even thinking I take her hand. I’m touching her! I’m surprised but it’s happening and I don’t want to overthink it. Our hands are similar sizes: mine’s wider; her fingers are longer and thinner. Her skin is soft and skin-colored—not dirt-colored.
“How do you keep your hands so clean?” I turn her hand over slowly and inspect it thoroughly. “I’m all covered in red dust but you and your hands haven’t even got a speck on them.”
“I’m a girl. We’re well known for being able to do amazing things, things that boys can only dream about.” Her voice is shaky; her hand is a little shaky too.
I’m scared now but I’m not going to stop. I trace my finger round the outside of her hand as she holds it in the air. Over the thumb, down between the thumb and forefinger, then up the finger and down between the next finger and up and then down and then up and down and finally along her little finger and down to her wrist.
She says, “You always surprise me with how gentle you are. You’re so far from the badass end of the line.”
I want to say something back but can’t think of anything that sounds right.
“You’ve gone quiet again,” she says.
“What’s so wrong with being quiet?”
“Nothing, I suppose. It suits you.” She moves her finger to trace round my hand like I did hers. “But sometimes it makes me wonder what you’re thinking.” She continues moving her finger round my hand. “What are you thinking?”
I’m thinking I like her doing that. It feels nice. Is that what I should say? I don’t know. I say, “I . . . you’re . . .”
She ducks her head down to look at me. “You’re trying to hide your face,” she complains. “Are you blushing?”
“No!”
She puts her finger on the end of my chin and turns my head toward her.
I feel a bit hot but I wouldn’t say I was blushing.
She says, “You’re so sweet.”
Sweet!
I say, “I think I’m quite badass.”
She giggles and gets up. “You’re sweet and you’re slow. You never catch me.”
And she runs off and I run after her and that day, for the first time, I catch her.
Getting Darker
It must be past midnight. So that’s another day gone. Another day of thinking positively. Another day of thinking about Annalise but not getting any closer to helping her. Another day of sitting in a tree, waiting for Gabriel, and him not showing up. I should try to sleep but I’m not tired. I’m rarely tired at night. Instead I seem to come alive a little more, though I know I get a bit darker too.
I could do some lists or go back to stuff Celia taught me: how to kill with a knife; how to kill with my hands. That’s cheery. Or maybe facts. My family tree is a good one. Just recite the names over and over: Harrow, Titus, Gaunt, Darius, Leo, Castor, Maximilian, Massimo, Axel, Marcus, Nathan. Harrow, Titus, Gaunt, Darius . . .
Of course the list is a bit on the depressing side and I’m not supposed to do depressing but I can’t be blamed if they were all killed by Hunters or tortured to death by the Council. Though Marcus isn’t dead, or at least as far as I know he’s still alive and well and living no one knows where. And he was with me, and saved my life, and performed my Giving ceremony, but he left, left me on my own, again, like my whole life.
“You did well enough on your own,” he’d said. Classic cop-out!
Mustn’t be negative. Got to stay posi-bloody-tive.
Shit, I’m in a black mood.
I need to try more memory tests. Yeah, I could recite all the Gifts my father stole, one for each human heart he has eaten. And that man, that killer, that PSYCHOPATH, sat opposite me and talked with me and gave me three gifts. And I can’t hate him and I’m not even afraid of him. I’m . . . awestruck by him. That’s positive, isn’t it, to admire your father? Your father the psycho. Is he a psychopath? I don’t know. I don’t know what the definition is. Don’t know how far down the path of eating people you have to go before you officially become a psycho.
I’m biting my nails again, only there’s not much left to bite.
And here I am, sitting in a tree, biting my fingers—Nathan, son of Marcus, the kid who’s supposed to kill his father, the kid who tried to prove he wouldn’t hurt his father by returning the Fairborn to him but who cocked it up and lost the knife. And I know I wouldn’t even last a second in a fight against Marcus, but everyone thinks I can kill him; everyone wants me to kill him. I managed to escape Wallend and those White Witches who want me to do it and I ran to Mercury and guess what? She wants me to kill him too.