Just a few months ago, I could have blamed this on spirit. I could have said I was taking the darkness from Lissa, more and more. She needed me to do so. As the queen, her sanity was not expendable. Mine was. However, with the bond broken, my outburst was all on me. A different sort of darkness had taken over, one that I thought I had escaped. Slowly but surely, I was realizing that Deirdre the counselor, with all of her inane questions, might have been on to something. I, Rosemarie Hathaway, am indeed a bit damaged.
It started off with a plane ride, which mercifully did not pass through Seattle on its way to Palm Springs, California. I hadn't even bothered with a cover story and an attempt to get my flight paid for by the Royal Court that employed me. My trip was not business; it was personal. I was there to spend time with Dimitri, to talk face-to-face all night long, and to… well, get personal. With the political climate of the Moroi world finally settling down, the Palm Springs crew was getting ready to leave. I decided to take advantage of one of their last few weeks there to enjoy some much-needed sunshine and time with my boyfriend and my friends.
But I have taken far too many flights in the past year— flights that involved seeing ghosts and taking drastic measures to try to kill the love of my life. Needless to say, I hate flying nowadays. In the air, I felt a phantom pain behind my eyes, as if the ghosts had somehow returned to make me pay for my various sins. Ghosts of ghosts. I chuckled to myself at the thought. When I closed my eyes, I felt as though the floor of the plane was moving under my feet, just as Victor Dashkov had made the earth move moments before I murdered him. Murderer, whispered a nasty voice in my head, as a voice that sounded like my own but spoke with a venom my voice had never possessed. You didn't kill Victor, it rasped. You kill Strigoi. What you did to Victor, no matter what Dimitri says, was murder. Dimitri is lying to you and to himself, so he doesn't feel guilty about fucking a murderer, a dirty, tainted girl who—I drained the rest of my drink, trying to shut the bitch up.
By the time my flight landed, I was thoroughly miserable. The two gin and tonics I had knocked back on the flight did little to combat the ghosts of ghosts. Adding insult to injury, the oppressive desert heat that greeted me seeped through every fiber of my being, making me sweat. I was glad that I had chosen a black shirt for that day, making the sweat less visible. Dimitri loved that shirt, especially its soft cotton fabric and its scooping neckline that stopped just above my breasts.
I lingered outside Palm Springs International Airport, leaning casually on my wheeled duffel bag and wishing I had opted for a sundress instead of jeans. I am always reluctant to step out of guardian mode and feel like an ordinary girl, but in that heat, it was a wonder that I didn't just start stripping right then and there. Dimitri would not have minded one bit, but perhaps not every citizen of Palm Springs could handle my sexiness. For now, the clothes would have to stay.
Speaking of Dimitri, he was late. I pulled out my phone to ask where the hell he was, only to see that I already had a text waiting for me: "Meet u downtown at 7? There's a Thai restaurant just west of the airport". He gave me the address. I sighed, jerking the handle of my duffle bag toward me and wheeling it away from the airport. Normally, I would have been grateful for the walk and the chance to stretch my legs after the long flight from the Moroi Royal Court in Pennsylvania. Dimitri knew that. He had done nothing wrong. Still, my temper flared as I pounded the pavement.
"Shit," I muttered, as I stepped on a crack in the sidewalk and felt my left ankle roll just a bit to the side. I've sprained both ankles countless times, but the left one always seems to give me more trouble than the right. I tweaked it in training just a few days ago, and it was still smarting. Had he known I was in pain, Dimitri would most certainly have picked me up at the airport, or at least talked Sydney into doing so.
My phone buzzed again. It was my mother. Against my better judgment, I answered.
"Yeah," I said abruptly.
She sighed. "Rosemarie, are you ever going to learn some manners?"
"Don't hold your breath. Besides, you can't claim you raised me better than this. What's wrong?"
"Does something have to be wrong for me to call my daughter?" She sounded almost hurt.
"Well… yeah."
She sighed, completely fed up with the conversation already. That made two of us. "Rose, I need you to be serious here. There's a job opening at St. Vladimir's. Rose, listen to me. Hear me out," she insisted, anticipating my interruption. "It will only be temporary. Taryn Holden is very sick, and they need someone to take over her classes at least until the end of the semester. Possibly the end of the year, if she decides to retire. You will be teaching upperclassman novices."
I was unconcerned. "Would, not will. Would. As in, I would be teaching upperclassman novices if I were taking the job, which is irrelevant because I am not. Lissa needs me."
"The queen has other guardians. St. Vladimir's needs you."
"Make somebody else do it!" I knew I sounded childish, but the chills running up and down my spine were ruining any semblance of composure I may have found in myself. Composure wasn't exactly my specialty anyway.
"It has been decided by your superiors that you are the best person for the job," she said firmly, as if she were talking to any other young guardian and not her daughter. "This is an honor, Rose. Guarding the queen and fighting battles are not the only important and respectable jobs."
"But why me?"
Janine sighed again. "Because you'll be good, okay? You have more experience than guardians twice your age. You have so much to share. And you will share it because I said so."
I was silent. It was a lost cause. Me and my duffle bag reached the fringes of downtown Palm Springs, and I used the bag for support as I stood at a crosswalk, gingerly lifting my ankle even though I knew the temporary relief would only make it hurt more when I set it on the ground again. My mother took my silence for what it was: resentful acceptance.
"Two weeks from today, you will be taking over Taryn's classes. Enjoy your vacation, Rose. Really. This is not a punishment. Alberta Petrova will be contacting you soon. I offered to break the news to spare her your inevitable immature response. At least you're consistent- consistently great in battle and consistently impossible in your personal life."
"Thanks?" Coming from my mother, that was practically a compliment.
"Behave yourself in California." And with that, the conversation was over.
As the gin and tonics wore off, anger gave way to weariness. Spending so much time at Court has certainly increased my alcohol tolerance. I love being around Lissa, but I miss combat. I thrive on danger, and with so much free time, I've taken to slipping down to Court's 24-hour bar or simply ordering drinks delivered to my private suite in the palace, where my habits won't raise any eyebrows. I hardly care about my reputation, seeing as I ruined it around age 12, but I care about what Dimitri would think. The last thing I want to do is worry him.
That night, quite frankly, I didn't care. I didn't know where this Thai restaurant was, but I knew I had time for a drink or two before meeting up with Dimitri. I was more grateful than ever for the fake ID that allows me to maneuver around the human world. This "gift" was given to me by the Court to conceal my real identity and to give me a fake address. As the queen's personal guardian, I make considerably more money than do most dhampirs, and I had no qualms about slipping the ID creator $100 to fudge my birthdate a bit. As far as the human world is concerned, I am 21 years old.
Limping through the doors of The Oasis, the nearest bar that looked satisfactory, I appeared anything but rich. I flopped down on a bar stool, oblivious to the stares that I got for being a sweaty mess of a teenager parking my unwieldy luggage next to me. Adrian Ivashkov had always loved a hint of sweat on me, but I know that not everyone shares his sentiment. I ordered a simple martini and breathed deeply. I would finish my drink, calm down, clean myself up in the bathroom, and then find this mythical Thai restaurant and present myself to Dimitri as the same strong young woman whose confident, self-assured voice he hears on the phone every evening.
Unceremoniously, I reached into the bowl of fancy, seasoned popcorn in front of me and shoved a handful in my mouth. I was hungry as usual. I could practically see Sydney Sage rolling her eyes, biting back a lecture on how popcorn is deceptively fattening unless it's the diet, microwave variety. The walk from the airport, though short by my standards of exercise, had really zapped my energy.
The bartender set my martini in front of me, and after a quick, grateful nod, I turned my attention to the TV screen. To my horror, it was airing a special on post-traumatic stress disorder in soldiers- human soldiers in faraway places, killing other humans. Once again, I could practically feel the ground roll under my barstool. You murdered a Moroi. What happened to "they come first", killer? I try to forgive myself for Dimitri's sake, but I have yet to truly let it go. Part of me hopes I never will. I downed my martini and ordered another. In another life, I would have picked a fight with the men on the stools next to mine, who were discussing the weakness of the traumatized soldiers and how they would be able to stay strong in combat and beyond. I wanted to give them something to be traumatized about, in the form of my fist. Instead, I just drank.
Two hours later, I still hadn't spoken. The TV special was over and new patrons had replaced the old ones. This crowd, a group of girls whose IDs may very well have been just as fake as mine, gave me disgusted looks. Truthfully, even I would have judged me. In fact, I was judging myself. Based on the incessant buzzing of the cell phone perched on my leg, Dimitri was judging me too. Eventually, I had had enough. I paid my bar tab and stormed outside, nearly forgetting my duffle bag at the bar. I tripped over its wheels and the girls giggled. The hand gesture I gave them would have earned me another lecture from my mother.
"What?" I snapped, answering my phone as I slunk down to the sidewalk, leaning against the building.
"Rose!" Dimitri exclaimed. "Where are you? I've been calling you for nearly an hour!" His voice was filled with concern, which only irritated me further.
"Where am I? Where were you?"
"Well, right now I'm at the restaurant-"
"No, where were you?" I screamed, causing two moms on the sidewalk to take one look at me and push their strollers in the opposite direction.
"Are you drunk?" asked Dimitri incredulously, sounding as if he didn't know whether to laugh or be angry. I didn't answer. "Rose, where are you?"
By the time he followed my cryptic clues and pulled up to the curb, I was sitting on the sidewalk with bloodshot eyes, hugging my knees to my chest. Dimitri jumped out of the car and popped the trunk. He threw my duffle bag in it, then came back for me. Gripping my forearms firmly, he detached my arms from my knees and pulled me upright. "Oh, Roza," he sighed. I made the mistake of catching his eyes and nearly cried at the tenderness they revealed. He led me to the car, opened the passenger door, and gently shoved me into the car, not quite sure what to do with my limbs. I wasn't entirely sure either.
We were silent as we drove away from downtown. Finally, he spoke. "Roza, what's wrong?"
"The air pressure in the plane hurt my ears," I mumbled. "It always does. Even when I'm not seeing ghosts. So I drank about it." I giggled.
Dimitri did not even acknowledge my weird, lame, and irrelevant excuse, which was just as well. "Rose, you haven't been okay for awhile now. I can hear it in your voice every night. You can't hide from me."
I let out a hollow, horrible laugh that startled even me. "You know when you last said that? In your love letter. Your love letter from the world of the undead. When you were a-"
"That's not fair," he growled, all tenderness gone. Clearly, I was not the only one who still had some "self-forgiveness" to accomplish. He couldn't stand the mention of his Strigoi days, even though he had been "awakened" against his will.
A few minutes later, he glanced over at my pathetic frame, crumpled against the car door. "I can't take you to Clarence's like this," he decided. At a stoplight, he pulled out his phone and clicked on a contact.
"Adrian," he said into the phone, as though it pained him simply to say the name. "I have a present for you."