chapter three
"You want to give me your stick."
"It's not a stick, it's the way to deal with me on a equal level. One good push would do it. First here and then in the heart. You could eliminate the problem of me from your life."
Ash's voice drifted to her from some shadowy crevice of her psyche as she floated in the murky space between dreaming and waking. She groaned into a pillow. Ash. What exactly does one do with a problem like Ash? Because he plainly wasn't going away.
Another hour, her drowsing brain promised. Just another hour of sleep and everything will be fine.
She was inclined to believe it. Rolling over to avoid a sunbeam falling inconveniently across the bed, she buried her nose in the mattress.
Wait. Bed. Her last recollection was of dozing off on the sofa, waiting on Ash to return from his shower. Suspicion entering sluggishly into her somnolent thoughts, she groped blindly for a pillow, dragging it down to her face. As she had suspected, his unique scent lingered faintly in the fabric there, a mixture of soap and something distinctly wild, a bit like how she imagined the rainforest would smell. She was in a vampire's bed.
No longer asleep, she twisted herself to a sitting position and swept back the comforter in one hasty motion. Underneath, she was still mercifully dressed in the same clothes from yesterday. That aside, she scrutinized the room thoroughly, but she found no visible signs that there had been any occupants other than her over the course of the night. The uneasiness gripping her spine slackened, and she sagged against the headboard. Ash, she theorized, must have come across her sleeping last night and through some inexplicable machinations of his mind, decided that she would be more comfortable in his bed, like a primitive caveman hauling his unwilling mate back to his lair.
Sexist brute. Wasn't there a guest room in the house?
Her nerves wound too tight with irritation for sleep, she relinquished the bed reluctantly. The digital clock on the bedside table read eleven thirty-nine. Still early, then. She yanked a hand through her tangled hair, then ran it over her hopelessly rumpled jeans and shirt. Her only set of clothes, she realized with a fair amount of displeasure. She would have given anything at that moment for a toothbrush and a fresh change of clothing.
Her now operational mind gradually recalled the noise that had disturbed her dreams and stirred her into near-consciousness in the first place. Curious, Marianne crossed the room and opened the bedroom door cautiously. The muffled thudding and sizzling she had been set on investigating had died away, only to be replaced by a tantalizing aroma wafting through the house. Captivated by the smell, she ventured out in the general direction she believed the kitchen to be in, and stumbled unexpectedly into the formal dining room. The table was set with dishes, silverware, and napkins, and the centerpiece was a heaping platter of gently steaming pancakes, surrounded by a plate of bacon, a saucer of hot syrup, and a stick of softened butter. On the plate nearest to her a folded piece of paper was propped up at an advantageous angle so that it instantly captured her attention; she lifted the placard to examine it and found scrawled across it in large, clipped handwriting: Reserved for Marianne. Smiling in spite of herself, all annoyance with Ash Redfern slipping conveniently out of mind, she pulled out the elaborately carved chair and settled a napkin across her lap. About to fill her plate, a hand flitted without warning across her line of sight, and she lurched back in shock, bashing the base of her skull against the sharp edge of the chair's back.
"Easy there, little lady." The hand, and the maddening drawl, proved to belong to Ash. "I won't bite." One eyebrow tilted suggestively. "Unless you're into that kind of thing."
She rubbed tenderly at the sore spot on the back of her neck. "Been working on that line all morning?" she hissed at him between clenched teeth.
"Someone's cranky," he said, shrugging the barb off with uncharacteristic cheer, cavalier grin firmly in place as he stacked his plate with pancakes and bacon.
Reassessing the amount of food the table, she berated herself for not realizing sooner that there was more than enough for two people. Ash took the seat across from her, putting enough distance between them so that there was no threat of them touching accidentally, but also ensuring there was no other place for her eyes to rest comfortably but on him. Forking two pancakes absentmindedly onto her own plate, she stared unabashedly as he applied liberal amounts of syrup and butter to his.
Becoming aware of her eyes on him, he glanced quizzically across at her, forkful of food hesitating halfway to his mouth. Syrup trickled rhythmically down from the saturated pancake onto his plate. "See something you like?"
She studiously ignored his remark. "You eat human food?" she asked incredulously. The only vampires she had ever known had made an overt display of avoiding the cafeteria at lunchtime.
"Well," he answered with a philosophical air, placing his fork back on his plate, "you eat Chee-tos, don't you?" She didn't question his knowledge of her favorite snack food, she already knew the answer, so instead she nodded her head encouragingly. "It's basically the same thing. There's no real nutrition in it, but it tastes good, doesn't it?"
She mused over her new insight into vampires, observing him clinically as he took a few bites of pancake, before the second, even greater discovery occurred to her. Food does not simply materialize miraculously out of thin air; someone has to make it.
"And you cook?"
"One of the unfortunate by-products of growing up in an enclave. Coming back after my first trip out into the world, I found myself helplessly addicted to the food, but all the humans I came in contact with on the island were drugged or hypnotized. So, without anyone to cook it for me, I taught myself."
It was not the most flattering of confessions. After all, his first thought had been to get some human to do it for him.
But he didn't, the annoyingly sanguine voice had resurfaced to defend Ash. He taught himself. That's got to count for something, right?
Unable to fashion any kind of response, either to herself or him, she covered her silence by cutting off a piece of pancake and chewing it thoughtfully. Her skin itched as he monitored the action expectantly. "It's good," she reassured him. "Really good."
"Thanks. Secret family recipe."
Her mouth paused in the middle of devouring another bite. "There's no blood in these, is there?" she demanded, horrified.
"No. Actually, I got the recipe off the box," he answered slyly, unable to smother his amused chuckle. "I sincerely doubt there's such a thing as a secret Redfern family pancake recipe."
She giggled. She pressed her hand to mouth, trying to prevent more from escaping, but it was pointless. She collapsed, laughing, against the back of her chair. His eyes, a velvety brown, twinkled at her indulgently, a true, unreserved smile curving his lips alluringly. "I'm sorry," she wheezed, grasping at her self-control. "It just sounds so--ridiculous--when you say it that way."
"Really, it is sort of a ridiculous thought," he said when she had salvaged her self-possession enough to hear him. " Redferns are--were--kind of conservative, before the Old Powers and the War. They didn't approve of eating the same food that--well, in their minds, vermin--ate. So, no one in my family knows I can cook. I had a friend of mine smuggle the ingredients in, and luckily for me, our house had belonged to humans at one point, so there was an operating kitchen I could use. Some of the stuff I made at first, it was so awful I buried it in the backyard and burned my hair to cover the smell." One corner of his mouth lifted sardonically. "My father thought I was strange, but at least he didn't want me dead. "
There was a palpable undercurrent of conflict concerning father and son, but she laid her burning questions away for a later interrogation. The mood between the two of them was too amiable and unrestrained to spoil with serious conversation.
"Pass the butter, please," she said pleasantly, coyly switching the subject.
He hefted the plate to pass it to her, but thought better of it, drawing it back out her reach. "What if I offered to barter with you for the butter?"
"For the butter?"
"For the butter," he reaffirmed. "I'll give you the butter, if you promise not to attack me when I tell you we have visitors coming today."
She tried, for his sake, to keep her breathing under control. She really wasn't in any condition to see people: she was tired, unwashed, harassed, and just a bit out of sorts over the recent turn of events in her life. "What kind of visitors?" She forced her tone to be patient and even.
"Just some people I think you'd really want to meet. I don't want to give too much away. Trust me." He watched her waver, and added softly, "I'll even throw a shower in the deal. There's a bathroom connected to the bedroom you were in. You want a shower, don't you?"
Maybe it was the shower that swayed her. Maybe she truly did trust him. But then again, she also was beginning to believe she was certifiably insane.
"All right, pass me the butter."
When breakfast was finished, she helped him gather the dirty dishes and deposit them in the kitchen sink, and despite his insistence that she was ruining his attempt to be a good host, she assisted him in washing them. They roughhoused and splashed water at each other until they were both so drenched they dripped on the tile floor and the whole room was charged with a hazy pink afterglow. The kitchen was a warm and cheerful place, where she could forget that within the last twenty-four hours the world outside had dealt her a very severe blow, and she wholeheartedly enjoyed the chance to be completely childish and lighthearted. She felt in a few minutes like she had known him for years, which, technically, she had. And as she stood by contemplating him while he frantically struggled to flush soap out of his eye, she decided there were worse people in the world than Ash Redfern. It wouldn't be such a terrible existence, being bonded to him for life.
Well, maybe on the days they were getting along, at least.
---
Late afternoon found Marianne sequestered by herself in the study that Ash had presented to her after breakfast, reading an obviously much-loved copy of Sense and Sensibility with dog-eared pages and a broken spine. The muted echoes of voices ricocheting down the hallway drew her attention from the page to the present. So, our guests have arrived, she deduced, and set the book affectionately aside. Suddenly secretive, she crept across the floor and opened the door by degrees, intent on preventing it from squeaking and announcing her presence. She wanted to see these visitors before they saw her. Tiptoeing through the house, she pressed her back to the wall and peered around the corner into the foyer.
Ash was engrossed in greeting four people. Four. She'd assumed 'visitors' meant two, maybe even three, but three girls and one man were gathered attentively around him. The man was the only one of the group displaying the telling travel stains of a long, late airplane flight: wrinkled clothes, messy dark hair, purple circles under his groggy blue eyes. The young women looked immaculate, like goddesses descended to earth, or maybe wood nymphs. No one would have ever mistaken them for anything human, especially when they were standing side by side. They were all uncannily beautiful, but each in a separate, unique fashion, like the same line of music played three different, distinct ways. Though it was impossible to determine her actual age, the oldest looked no more than twenty-five, tall and graceful as a sapling, with placid cinnamon eyes and long brown hair. The second had the appearance of twenty-three, swept-back gold hair and sharp, hawkish amber eyes. The youngest was all of nineteen, serene face with its slanted, jewel-like green eyes emerging from behind a fall of silvery-blond hair.
"--thought it might help the process," Ash was saying.
"Ash," his older sister murmured, her voice just as mild as her soft brown eyes. "Maybe you shouldn't have called us. She's still adjusting, and you can't force her to remember what she can't." She shrugged, giving the impression of a tree shivering in the wind. "Some never do."
Kestrel flicked her hair back like a bird of prey ruffling its feathers. There was primeval gleam in her eyes that said she'd much rather be somewhere miles away. "Rowan's right. You shouldn't get your hopes up. You got the girl back, what more are you expecting?"
Rowan shot her sister a gently chastising glance. "Now, you know that's not what I said."
"Close enough."
The man shuffled his feet uneasily. "If she doesn't remember me, what am I supposed to say to her, Ash? 'Uh, hi, I was your little brother in your last life. I guess that makes us related, sort of'?"
"Mark," Jade said sympathetically. Her attempt to capture his attention succeeded, and they locked gazes.
Ash watched with interest as their hands slipped naturally into each other. Jade and Mark had never had an official break up, they had merely allowed themselves to fall out of touch after Mary-Lynnette's death. Ash had always attributed it to their disparate methods of grieving; it was in Jade's nature to accept death as part of the irresistible cycle of life, but Mark had been quietly and privately devastated. Within half a year, he had requested a transfer to Duke University, and he had never once gone back to Oregon. Now, twenty-two years later, regardless of a wife and three kids at home in South Carolina, they held hands like the teenagers they had been. Their love really was an innocent one.
Ash drew a familiar scent out of the air that he should have noticed minutes ago, had his attention not been focused elsewhere. "Mare?" he raised his voice.
She materialized calmly around the corner, polite smile in place, but something in her expression reminded him of a kid with her hand caught in the proverbial cookie jar. His eyes narrowed suspiciously.
"I thought I heard someone out here," she said in way of explanation to him, before turning her smile of the four new arrivals. "Are these them, Ash?"
All half-formed thoughts about her eavesdropping promptly deserted him as he was reminded introductions were needed. "Yeah. Um, Marianne," he said with slight emphasis to remind the others, "these are my sisters, Rowan, Kestrel, and Jade. And that," he swung a finger in the glossy-headed man's direction, "is--"
"Mark," Marianne interrupted him hastily, taking a few steps to stand in front him. "You're Mark." She felt the disbelieving look Ash fixed on her back; he knew she didn't remember her brother. But whenever she looked at the solemn-faced older man, she saw a scrawny child underneath, sickly pale, quiet, and clingy. She wanted to protect him, to mend all his hurts, to be something she no longer knew how to be. And the burst of joy and relief that crossed his face when he believed she recognized him was worth the lie. She put her arms shyly around his shoulders, and his came up to hold her lightly back, as if she were liable to dissipate like steam through his hands. "It's good to finally meet you," she whispered fiercely in his ear. She felt strangely like she was going to cry for the first time in years.
After a few more minutes of embarrassed introduction, Ash expertly rounded up everyone and ushered them into more comfortable positions in the living room. The conversation flowed effortlessly between all of them, thanks in part to the efforts of Ash and Rowan, maneuvering smoothly through school and childhood memories, their current lives, travel, politics, weather, and cars, but more often than not Marianne found the others talking over her head about some event she knew nothing about while she smiled and nodded blankly. The longer she was with them, the more evident it became that despite genuine respect and concern for each other, they were six very dissimilar personalities, trying vainly to recreate some connection that was no longer there.
She glanced sideways at Mark often, gauging his reaction, watching him smile, or just studying his profile. She knew she loved him in a detached way from the dull ache around her heart when she looked into his eyes. She caught glimpses behind her eyelids of how they must have been: herself standing at the foot of a tree, head tilted anxiously back as he struggled to climb the branches above her, prepared to catch him if he fell; holding his hand in the waiting room at the doctor's office; reading bedtime stories by flashlight; the two of them sharing the weight of a telescope as they plodded up a manzanita-coated hill to watch the stars. But there was no emotion, no substance attached to the images; they were as flat and washed-out as old photographs. She wished desperately to be his big sister again, but she didn't know who that was anymore.
At one point, the vampires vanished into the kitchen to feed off the packages of blood Ash kept stocked in the refrigerator, Kestrel trailing despondently behind as she grumbled over how she'd rather hunt her own meal, and the two humans were left alone together. Marianne stuck to safe topics, quizzing Mark about his family. He had a wife of thirteen years named Kari, two young girls, and an infant son. They held a lively discussion over whether or not it was correct for her to term the children her nieces and nephew, and when she noticed them laughing easily together, she decided she wouldn't allow herself to be unhappy over the situation. Their new relationship was fitting. She was seventeen and he was forty-one, they both had new lives, new memories, new families; they weren't sister and brother anymore, but they could still be friends.
Then came the part of the evening she was dreading most, the goodbyes.
Rowan's eyes were over-bright with unshed tears as she hugged her one-time blood sister. She and Mary-Lynnette had been true sisters in all the ways that had mattered, and the vampire still felt a resonance of that old connection with Marianne. It was hard to accept that they were little more than acquaintances now. Marianne struggled to find the words to express her confused emotions and tears made her own eyes damp.
"It's okay," Rowan assured her thickly when Marianne stumbled clumsily over her farewell. "I understand. I missed you, too."
Kestrel was even harder to speak to, but for entirely different reasons. Marianne admired her uncivilized ferocity, but the two had the least in common and it was hard to bridge that gap. So, finally, she settled on the only phrase that sounded appropriate, "Good hunting."
Kestrel grinned savagely. "If he ever makes you really angry, you can always put garlic in his bed," she offered helpfully. "He hates the smell of garlic."
She and Mark embraced again, more honestly this time.
"Come out to see me in South Carolina sometime," he suggested earnestly.
"I'd love to meet the kids," she agreed in her own way.
Jade was last, cheeks dimpling as she smiled. "I'm glad you're back," she whispered in Marianne's ear as she released her from a quick squeeze. "He's no fun when you're not around."
Ash shut the front door behind them, sliding the bolt into place, then he yawned and stretched elegantly. "So, was the butter worth all that?" he asked mischievously.
"Oh, definitely."
Aglaia di Willow: How did you manage to read my mind on exactly where I want to go with the characters? And don't worry about not having any criticism. Outright flattery works just as well with me. :)
amber-rules: Don't worry, I'm working on the together part.
incarnated-soul: Thank you, thank you, thank you. All very kind things to say about me. You had me blushing!
magick-wolf: Let me set it straight for you. Mary-Lynnette is Mary-Lynnette, and only an Old Soul in the sense that she has been reincarnated just this one time as Marianne because she promised Ash she'd be back. Old Souls confuse me, too. Oh, and get some bed rest, sweetie. Love to you too.
laura: Thank you, but I have to give credit for all big long words n stuff to my handy desk-side thesaurus.
fate22: If you do decide to do a story about Mary-Lynnette reincarnated, I don't think I can compete! And don't worry about Ash, he gets more and more like his old self when Marianne's around. I know he seems kinda dark, but that's my writing style for you--everything turns out so depressing!
Charlotte: Thank you for your reassurance and review! I really appreciate it.
Lunatic: I'm not quite sure where I got the idea for her name to be Marianne, but I guess that's how all the best ideas work, right? As to Ash, well, I guess he just has some problems left to work out. Darn suspense.
