Текст книги "Nameless"

Автор книги: Sam Starbuck

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They were talking about money, I think – insurance, and how Lucas didn't have any, how they were perfectly able to pay his bills. I lifted my head a little, and the movement of my body dislodged the book of Plato where it was wedged between knee and wrist. It clattered to the floor and all three of them turned to look at me.

"Mr. Dusk," the doctor said. "Good to see you awake. How are you feeling?"

"Sore," I moaned, uncurling my legs from the bench and tilting my head to pop the bones in my neck.

"That's to be expected. I'll have a nurse bring you some painkillers. These are Lucas's parents, they'd like to speak with you," he added, sweeping a hand at the fashionable woman and the tidy man. "Ma'am, sir, this is Christopher Dusk, he's the one who brought your son to the hospital."

"Pleasure to meet you," Lucas's father said, offering his hand. I shook it, wanting to tuck my bandaged left hand behind my back but not sure how to do it subtly. "Though not under the circumstances."

"No, of course not," I agreed, as his wife came forward and clasped my hand in both of hers, briefly, limply.

"We're so grateful to you for helping Lucas," she said. "Did they make you stay on that bench all night?"

"Hm?" I asked, looking down at it. "Oh, I wanted to...uh, in case he woke up. Is he?"

"Not yet," his father said. "He should soon."

His mother invited herself to sit on the bench next to me, though she carefully avoided touching my mud-spattered pants.

"I thought this might happen," she confided. "Goodness knows we've tried everything."

"Best psychiatrists, best schools," his father added. "Did everything right."

"We just don't know how he ended up so lost."

I glanced sidelong at her. She seemed to expect me to say something.

"But, well, I suppose you can't babysit them forever," she said, when she saw I wasn't going to reply. "People make their own choices, don't they?"

"Lucas certainly did," I said bitterly. As soon as the words were out of my mouth I regretted them, but his parents didn't look hurt; they didn't look anything, really. Mannequins, stiffly playing a role.

"I told him moving all the way out to the country like that – no offense – wouldn't be good for him," his mother continued, and continued, and continued in a monologue of parental remonstration and dissatisfaction for a good ten minutes, punctuated with interjections from his father. Oh, they expressed all the proper concerns and said all the things people are supposed to say, but with a disaffected air that spoke volumes about Lucas's childhood. That a passionate, creative man should be the product of two such lifeless, automated drones never fails to perplex me – but it tells me a lot about why he was so hesitant, so completely immobilized at the thought of interacting with others. He had grown up in a world where there was a single way of doing things, and every action had a proper response. Outside of their small sphere he was lost and confused: for every situation, a new code to decipher, for every person he met a new set of memorized ways of speaking and acting. No wonder he preferred masks.

I was just grateful they didn't offer to pay me for my services, to be honest.

"Has he ever tried this before?" I asked abruptly, and both of them shot me a sharp look.

"No," his father said.

"Though I always thought..." his mother tapped a finger against her lips. "I thought he was waiting for something. Maybe for the right time," she added with a shrug. "What do you do in your little town, if I can ask?"

"I sell books," I said. "I have a shop."

"Oh, he likes books," she said.

"Apparently not enough," I murmured. There was an uncomfortable silence.

"Well, we're looking into clinics," his father said. "For this kind of thing, you know. We'll get him into the best program possible."

I thought about Lucas being put in a clinic, in a program – no privacy, no way to avoid human interaction. I didn't really think it would do him much good, and on the off-chance it could it would kill him faster than it could help him.

Fortunately I was saved from replying by a doctor, who put his head in the doorway to Lucas's room and then leaned out again.

"He's awake, if you'd like to see him," he said.

"Mr. Dusk?" his mother asked.

"Oh – no, I don't think so, you go first," I said, because I saw someone coming down the corridor and knew I was about to be dragged out of the hospital anyway. "I'll see him a little later."

They didn't seem inclined to argue; they ducked inside the door and let it close behind them, though I could hear their voices distantly.

"Well," said Angie, putting her hands on her hips, Brent and Mara behind her, "your insane friend Marjorie wasn't kidding about you, was she?"

***

As it turned out, Marjorie had called the few of my friends she could get hold of and ordered them to take me out for breakfast. Most of them were cheerfully skipping work to do so, and had called the others in for backup – including my replacement, Derek. I told them that the poisoning had been accidental, playing up their already-formed impression of my village as a country-bumpkin town. They took me to a restaurant downtown, fussed over my bandaged hand until it was time to order the food, and then moved on to Low Ferry.

"It must be nice, though," said Steve, picking to pieces the trendy fusion breakfast sandwich he'd bought. "I mean, we can laugh about someone eating hemlock instead of parsley, but all your veggies must be really organic and stuff."

"Who cares about organic?" Mara asked. "I don't want bugs in my bananas and herbal death in my salad, thanks."

I studied the pancakes I'd ordered, pushing around a little pool of syrup with my fork. "We get a lot of stuff trucked in, anyway, especially in winter."

"Is it expensive to live there?" Angie inquired.

I thought about that for quite a while. "What we buy costs more sometimes, I guess. But we don't buy as much."

"No malls, huh?"

"No, no malls."

"Do you miss the city?" Brent asked. The others glared at him as if he'd made an indecent suggestion.

"Yes, of course I do," I answered automatically. "But I like the village too."

"I'd hope so, Chris. You pulled up stakes quick enough when you moved there. We figured you'd gotten someone pregnant and were trying to avoid them or something."

I laughed a little. "No. I – " I hesitated. I knew they weren't expecting much of me, which was why they were making the whole thing into a joke. Marjorie must have told them – they must have seen – how tired I was. So it probably wasn't fair, what I did, because they were being kind to me, and I didn't return their kindness with the distant vagueness they were expecting.

"Well, obviously, it was after your dad died," Angie prompted.

There was a murmur of sympathetic agreement.

"Dad had a heart condition," I said. "So did I. So do I."

"What, like – "

"I left because the doctors told me if I stayed in the city and kept going like I had, I'd be dead in six months." I folded my napkin and set it next to my plate. I still hadn't looked any of them in the eye. "The air's better in the village and it's quieter there, that's all."

They burst into speech but mostly to each other, asking who knew, who I'd told, if I'd told anyone, who hadn't told if they did know. The food was forgotten – and so, apparently, was I.

"I didn't tell anyone," I said, slightly more loudly than I really had to. They stopped talking, at least. "I didn't tell anyone. I just wanted to...go. And that didn't really work anyway, because when I was here last time it was because I'd passed out and had to go to the hospital, so everyone in Low Ferry knows anyway."

There was an expectant silence.

"So that's why I went there," I said. "It's not why I stayed, I stayed because I love it there, but that's why I went there. And yeah, I missed the city and the idea that I'd make a pile of money and meet someone and have kids here, but I don't miss it very much anymore. I have books and friends in the village and – I have a life there. More than I ever had here."

"I'm so sorry, Chris," Angie said, completely ignoring what I'd just told them. I'd known three years ago that she'd say that if I told her. I didn't want to hear it, but there was no escaping them now. I'd told Lucas as much. You can want to be something other than who you are, but you can't get there by running away.

"I think I should go back to the hospital," I said. They wanted to ask questions, they wanted to come with me, but what we had been in the city and what we were now were too different, and they didn't fight too hard. Angie drove me back to the hospital and left me with a careful, pitying hug I didn't want.

When I walked in, the doctor from the night before was looking for me. Someone had dug up my medical records, finally, and called one of my city doctors, and he'd shouted at them for probably longer than they deserved: I should have my heart examined immediately and be under constant care, the strain of travel to the city and my injury liable to kill me if someone wasn't watching over me.

"So," she said, a little breathlessly, as she explained the situation, "we want you in the hospital for at least another few hours. An electrocardiogram at least."

"What does my insurance say?" I asked sourly.

"I imagine your premiums are high enough," she replied, smiling. "Mr. Dusk, if you want to be certain you're not going to drop dead of heart failure tomorrow, you should have the tests done."

"And what if they tell me I'm going to drop dead of heart failure tomorrow?" I asked. She studied me, fingers twining up the stethoscope's tubing into loops.

"Well, we just won't let that happen," she said finally. "How's your hand feel?"

"My hand feels fine," I answered.

"Good. Come this way."

They put me through a few basic tests, and I was too experienced with them and too tired to worry much about the indignity of sitting in a waiting room in a hospital gown. When we were finally done another doctor wanted to examine my hand, so I had to sit still while he unwound the bandage, prodded at the ragged wound, and gave me a scrutinizing look.

"Looks like a dog bite," he said finally.

"Well, it's a person-bite," I answered. I may have been sharp, but I was more than ready to be done with hospitals for a while.

"See these canines here?" he asked, pointing to two especially deep punctures.

"Look, I got it when I shoved my fingers down someone's throat and they had a spasm," I snapped. "They gave me plenty of shots, so if you could wrap me up again I'd appreciate it."

"Hm. Don't shoot the messenger," he answered, but he bandaged the hand again quickly. "You need the name of a hand specialist?"

"No, thank you."

They left me alone after that, and I rubbed the throbbing heel of my hand against my hip as I made my way back to Lucas's room. The volume of Plato was sitting on the bench where I'd left it when Angie came to take me to breakfast. I picked up the book and stood at the door, hand resting on it at chest-height, then pushed it open.

Lucas was leaning against the bed, his back to me. He was easing a hospital pajama shirt over his shoulders, and his hair stuck out in all directions as his head emerged from the collar. He moved slowly, as if he were tired and in pain.

"My parents are gone already," he said, before I had a chance to speak. "They spoke well of you."

"I'd hope so," I said. "I stopped their moron son from killing himself."

"Christopher, please don't – "

"Too late," I said. "What the hell were you thinking?"

He turned then, eyes big and dark in his face. "What was I thinking? Isn't that pretty obvious?"

"No, it's not!" I shouted. He glanced nervously at the door and I lowered my tone. "It's not obvious what you were thinking because nobody in their right mind – who does that? Did you even know what would happen? Did you think about it at all?"

"Every waking moment," he hissed.

"Oh, so you thought about how I'd feel?"

"This wasn't about you!"

"You made it about me! You made me your secret-keeper. We were friends. I care about you. And even if it wasn't about me did you consider the possibility that the boy might be the one to find you? Because he did find you. He dragged me out to The Pines. He called the helicopter to come get you. Right now he's probably back in Low Ferry wondering if you're alive or dead."

"I didn't mean for that to happen," he murmured.

"Guess what? It did anyway. And it's your fault," I snarled. "I don't really care right now what you meant to happen, Lucas."

He hung his head, hands folded across his thighs. I could practically see Nameless, see the drooping tail and flattened ears.

"Are you going to try this again?" I asked. He shrugged. "Bullshit, Lucas. I'm done playing games with you."

"No," he whispered. Which, frankly, surprised me into silence for a while. He took a breath like he was going to speak again, then let it out slowly.

"How are you?" I asked.

"Sore," he replied. "I feel stupid."

"Your parents yell at you?"

He shook his head.

"They should have," I told him.

He looked up at the ceiling. "Probably. They're going to put me in a clinic somewhere."

"For this kind of thing."

"I see you spoke with them too."

"You don't take after them, much."

"Nope. I'm a throwback," he said. "My father's father. Musician. Died in a mental institution. Nobody talks about him. I look like him."

"Well, then it must be fate," I drawled. He glanced sidelong at me. "I'm not done being pissed off at you."

"Sorry I bit your hand," he muttered.

"Good. It hurts."

"Well, I am, okay? What do you want me to say?"

"I don't want you to say anything, Lucas, I want you to not have tried to kill yourself yesterday. I want to stop trying to explain to the doctors that the dog bite on my hand came from you."

"Nobody forced you to do it. Nobody wanted you to do it," he added.

"Everyone wanted me to do it but you!"

"You took a poll, did you?"

"For fuck's sake, Lucas."

"I can't be a stray dog all my life," he blurted. "And I can't be a man and know how much better people treat their dogs. I can't live in two worlds and it doesn't matter because either way I don't belong. I don't know what to do."

"You seemed pretty sure of that last – "

"Will you punish me and get it over with already? Either shout at me and finish the job or give up on it. You don't want to play games, don't make snide remarks and then pretend you're trying to help me."

I shut my mouth sharply.

"I'm sorry," he said immediately. "Obviously I can't ask for any favors right now. Can't even kill myself properly. I think maybe I belong in a clinic."

"No you don't. You don't think that."

"No, I don't, but where else am I supposed to go? You want me to thank you for saving me? Thank you, Christopher, I looked death in the face and I didn't want to die after all so thank you, and please feel free to shout at me all you want because I'm still alive to hear it. But there isn't really any place for me in this...this stupid life, either. I don't know. Four walls and tranquilizers three times a day isn't the worst thing that could happen to me."

"Yes, so we've proved."

We were silent for a while.

"They'd take your masks away," I said, and he flinched. "They wouldn't let you make any more. Well, whatever you could manage out of paper and safety scissors."

He snorted.

"Glue sticks if you're really lucky."

"Christopher, that's not nice."

"Of course you'd have to give them to the therapist and he'd tell you what your deep down inner feelings are – "

"Stop it!" he said, around something that sounded suspiciously like a snicker.

"Lucas, you used the black crayon again! What have I told you about using the black crayon?" I said in a stern voice, and he covered his face with his hands and whimpered with laughter. After a few seconds he bumped his shoulder against mine, then leaned harder, letting me take some of his weight.

"What am I going to do with you?" I asked, when the laughter subsided.

"It's more what I'm going to do with myself."

"Lucas, you – "

"No!" he said, looking up at me, distressed. "I didn't mean – just – I don't know where to go, Christopher. I don't know how to fix it."

"Well, we're going to have to break you out of this joint anyway, huh? Not doing you any good sulking here," I said.

"I don't suppose you brought the mask," he said sheepishly.

"I had other things on my mind at the time," I remarked. "Besides, I didn't see it. I thought you might've destroyed it."

"I couldn't do that," he said. "It'd be like drowning a pet."

I lifted an eyebrow at him. He sighed.

"You can just sign yourself out, you know," I said. "You don't have to wait for your parents to decide what they're going to do with you."

"Well," Lucas said doubtfully. "It's just...I don't know where my pants are, for one thing."

I was trying to think of a way to reply to that when there was a soft knock on the door, and Marjorie looked in.

"Good morning, Christopher," she said, as calm and collected as if she were greeting a patron in a shop. "And you must be Lucas."

Lucas glanced at me, anxious, confused.

"Lucas, this is Marjorie, she's an old friend – helped me buy your book for you. Marjorie, this is Lucas."

He offered his hand silently, and she took it. Marjorie has a firm handshake – I could see him wince a little.

"I didn't know how long you boys were likely to hang around this edifice of disease and death, but I thought I'd see how you were," she said. "See if you wanted anything other than Plato. From what Christopher's told me, you have a unique taste in literature, Lucas."

"Not really," Lucas mumbled. "I was working on a project. I like history," he said awkwardly.

"Do you?" she asked, amused. "And are you planning to become part of it?"

This brought a small smile to his lips.

"Not just yet," he said softly.

"Good," she said. "How long are they planning to keep you here, anyway? I'd like to see Christopher around my shop sometime, and he apparently can't be more than ten feet away from you or his head explodes."

Lucas blinked at me.

"Oh," she said knowingly. "He didn't tell you he slept on the bench outside your room last night, did he?"

"Hey," I said, as Lucas's eyes widened. "Just because I'm pissed off at you doesn't mean I don't care or anything."

"It's just...why?" Lucas asked.

"Don't make me slap you in the head," I said.

"Shall I give you some privacy?" Marjorie asked, grinning.

"We could bust you out right now," I said. "Marj has a car. I'll buy you some pants."

"Two things not often said in the same breath," Marjorie observed. Lucas bowed his head and I was reminded of Nameless again. I wondered how long his movements had been so doglike, or if it was just that Nameless himself was a particularly human dog.

"My parents are coming this afternoon," he said finally. "If I'm not here, they might worry."

"Mostly about the bill," I replied. He gave me a wounded look. "Oh, come on, Lucas. I'm not going to tell you that your parents screwed you up, but they certainly didn't help."

"All the best schools," Lucas murmured.

"Yeah, I was there for that conversation too."

"Is this some kind of code?" Marjorie asked, and Lucas and I looked at each other. "Clock's ticking, boys, and my crossword is waiting."

"I still need pants," Lucas said, looking distressed. Marjorie sighed and walked out the door. "Is she leaving – "

"She's going to go talk to the doctor," I said, peering through the half-open door. "She'll find you something."

"Where am I going to go?"

"Back to Low Ferry, with me, if you want. If you want to stay in the city, Marj can find you a place. Please come back with me," I added.

"Why? What good is it going to do?"

"What harm is it going to do? It'll make me happy."

He nodded, and almost smiled again, and that was when Marjorie appeared with a set of green hospital scrubs and the triumphant cry of "Pants!"

It took half an hour for Lucas to finish all the paperwork and sign himself out, looking over his shoulder every minute to see if his parents were coming. Not long after that, we found ourselves in Eighth Rare Books at Marjorie's table, huddled together and systematically destroying a box of fried chicken from the greasy snack shack around the corner. Lucas watched everyone who came near with a wary sort of suspicion, but nobody bothers those chosen souls who sit with Marj as she rules the literary world and thoroughly destroys the Trib crossword.

"Thank you, Marj," I said, around a mouthful of food. "I didn't really pack my wallet for a surprise trip to Chicago."

"My pleasure, Christopher," she said, ruffling my hair. "Do you two need money for the train?"

"I can send you a check."

"Let me buy you a train ticket. You save your money to buy one back to see me a little sooner than sometime-next-year."

"She's very generous," Lucas said in an undertone, as Marj turned to answer a question from a patron.

"She likes me," I replied. "You, she probably thinks you're weird."

"Well, I am," Lucas answered.

"Send her a mask. She'd love that," I told him. "Keep you busy, too."

"I'm not going to try again. I promise," he told me. I watched Marjorie wander off with her patron in search of whatever they wanted – if they even knew. One of the joys of a bookseller's life is knowing what someone wants to read before they do.

When we were finished eating, and during a lull in Marjorie's business day, she counted out more than enough money for two train tickets back to Low Ferry, tucked it into the pocket of a battered backpack, and slung the pack onto my shoulder.

"Books, for you," she said, kissing me on the cheek. "And some biscotti."

I gave her a tight hug while Lucas stood by awkwardly. When we were finished, he offered his hand, leaned in when Marjorie went to hug him, then back when she saw he had been ready to shake. The tips of his ears reddened with embarrassment as he stood very still and allowed her to hug him.

I imagine his parents found out about his disappearance while we were on the train that afternoon, but I've never found out and it would be difficult for me to care less about them than I do. We were quiet on the train, Lucas buried in one of Marj's books, me staring out the window at the landscape rolling past.

At some point, Lucas shifted so that his arm was tucked up against mine, the side of his head tilted onto my shoulder as he slowly turned the pages of the book.

When we arrived in Low Ferry, I left Lucas huddling against a wall to avoid the wind and went to find the payphone. I was only halfway there when I saw a car pull up – Charles's elderly four-wheel-drive, with Charles at the wheel and someone in the passenger's seat. I blinked at him and he blew his horn, so I gestured for Lucas to follow me down.

"Heard you were coming back in," he said, and I gaped as his companion jumped out and pulled open the back door – the boy, grinning and pointing for Lucas to take the front passenger's seat.

"How?" I asked, climbing into the back after the boy.

"Kid told me," he said, and I looked down at the boy, who gave me a solemn stare in return. "Good timing, huh?"

"Good timing," I echoed, still staring at him as Charles pulled onto the road into town.

"How was Chicago?" Charles asked easily, with a friendly smile for Lucas. Lucas caught my eye in the rearview-mirror, obviously as confused as I was.

"Cold," I said, settling the pack Marjorie had given me on the floor of the car. "We uh. Well, it was...educational?"

"Oh? See those museums they have?"

"No, we mostly just visited," I said, and decided to forestall further questions. "How's Low Ferry?"

"Oh, getting on. You left your lights on in the shop, by the way – Paula ran over last night and closed it down for you."

"I'll have to thank her," I murmured.

"I told him you went to Chicago to get your hand looked at," the boy piped up, but there was a note in his voice that said he was trying to tell me something.

"Yes! I trust it's nothing serious," Charles said.

"No, just a dog bite," I said.

"Not one of ours?"

"A stray," I said quietly. Lucas was very still in the front seat, staring out the window.

"Well, I'll take you back to your place first," Charles assured me. "I can drop you off on the way to The Pines," he added to the boy.

"I'll walk home. I gotta talk to Mr. Dusk," the boy said.

"Long way home for you, though?" Charles said.

"Not so far, I'll cut across a few fields," the boy answered.

"As the crow flies," Charles smiled. "The only way to go around here. Which reminds me, Leon's on the warpath about his foxes again..."

He chattered about Leon's problems and Jacob's and Old Harrison's thoughts on the matter of foxes until we pulled up outside Dusk Books a few minutes later. The boy climbed out after me and knocked on Lucas's window to make him roll it down.

"Look after yourself," Lucas said, reaching out to disorder the boy's neat blond hair.

"Course," the boy said. "See you soon?"

"I hope so."

"Take care, Lucas," I added. "Thanks, Charles!"

Charles gave me a wave as Lucas rolled the window back up, and they pulled away while I opened the shop and followed the boy inside. Across the street, Carmen waved at me from the cafe and then almost dropped the tray she was carrying when she saw the bandage on my hand. I waggled my fingers – I'm fine, nothing to worry about – and closed the door. The boy was sitting on my counter, legs swinging.

"You didn't tell Charles what happened," I said to him. He shrugged.

"Not my place," he said. He had that same look about him that he'd had when he told me to find Lucas – not quite authority, not quite age, but something that said this was not going to be a conversation with a child. Maybe not even with an equal. "Lucas can tell if he wants."

"And calling the hospital?" I asked. "With the telephone out?"

He shrugged. "Must've been working for him. It's cold in here."

"I usually start a fire in the morning. What would have happened if Lucas had died?" I demanded.

"But he didn't."

"He could have."

"No. You saved him," he said with a smile.

"And how'd you know to come get me so I could?"

He leaned back, heels drumming gently on the counterfront. "The Friendly said he might. Christopher the storyteller said he had the melancholy."

"He didn't tell me that."

"Maybe he didn't have time."

I rested my arm on the cash register, staring at him. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"I didn't know he'd do it any sooner."

"Goddammit!" I shouted. "Give me a straight answer!"

He widened his eyes, innocently. "What straight answer do you want? All the things you've seen, you still don't see there aren't any?"

"He's my friend," I said through gritted teeth.

"Oh?" he tilted his head. "That what he is?"

"I would have helped him."

"You would have tried. He had to see. Now you have to see," he said, and held out his hand. I stared at it. "Lemme see your bite."

"No," I said, pulling my left arm against my chest.

"Then what will you do now?" he asked. "How are you going to help him?"

"I don't know! It's not my job to fix people," I said. "It's not my job – "

" – to put a collar on Lucas?"

"Nameless," I said, before I thought about it. He laughed and I wanted to hit him, but – he was just a kid. He looked like one, anyway.

"What did you want to say to me?" I asked coldly. He twitched his fingers, still outstretched for my hand. I hesitated, but it was obvious he wasn't going to move or speak until I did what he wanted. I stretched our my arm and put my wrist into his hand. He turned it over, studying the bandage across my palm.

"Lucas is a mystic," he said, tracing the fingers of his other hand in the air above mine, not touching, following the lines of the bandage. "But you don't believe."

"I believe what he's done is real," I protested.

"Only 'cause you've seen it. You make an exception. Doesn't matter, I guess," he added thoughtfully. "That kind of thing...it's not just believers. You can touch it too."

"I don't want to," I said, scared now.

"You will," he said confidently. "Let me give you something," and he pressed his hand flat over my palm. Under the bandages, my skin tingled.

"You don't have to believe. But you do have to care," he said. He let go of my hand and slid off the counter, walking around me to the door. I turned, but only in time to see the door close. When I looked out the window I didn't see him at all.

I stood there for a while, the palm of my left hand still extended and upturned, then closed my fingers as far as they would go and rested the knuckles on the counter.

I left the lights out in the shop, though dark was falling on Low Ferry pretty quickly. I didn't want to answer the same questions over and over, not until I'd had a good night's sleep, and I thought – hoped – that Charles had warned people to leave me alone for the evening. Eventually I walked into the back storage room and leaned against a bookshelf, forehead and nose pressed against an uneven series of book-spines, smelling of binding glue and paper. It felt like I'd been gone for weeks instead of a single day.

I wanted to help Lucas. I did. For all his assurances that he wouldn't try anything again, I knew that if he didn't fix the broken thing inside him he would. I wished I knew how to help him. Obviously he'd placed all his hope in Nameless, in somehow being able to join everything he was excluded from if he could just change his shape.

It hadn't worked. I'd told him as much. Not any more than coming to Low Ferry had kept me safe from my own heart.

It was almost as if all his maskmaking was to compensate for something, some missing part of him. Some invisible mask everyone else had, a protective shield that we're born with but he seemed to have missed. Lucas turned a very wise, very clever, but very naked face to the world. It was too easy to hurt someone so unprotected.

My hand still felt strange under the bandage, a pinprick tingle that wasn't the throbbing pain from the bite but was becoming impossible to ignore. I flexed my fingers a few times, leaned back from the bookshelf, and looked down at my palm. The bandages were tight and pale against my skin, wrapped awkwardly around the base of my thumb and extending up past my knuckles.