Thank you for all your supportive reviews! I love them! Sorry for the little chapter, but I felt that I have neglected you long enough! Oh, and I wanted to let you know that I'm keeping my focus narrow, to an intimate cast, as in Purgatory—I hope you continue to enjoy the story. :D Keep reviewing!
VVVVVVV
CHAPTER FIVE
I jerked awake, threw the covers off myself and sat up. I blinked rapidly, trying to focus. Morning light streamed in through the lace curtains, and lit up the whole room in warm, bright light. My mind reeled for a moment as I tried to remember where I was.
My eyes fell on the other bed, which was empty, and the covers were mussed.
Emma.
The mansion in Duluth.
Sylar.
My stomach clenched and I almost got sick. But then I heard voices from downstairs. I hesitated a second, listening, until I recognized Peter's voice. Getting up carefully, I shuffled in my socks to the half-open door. I stepped out.
Light from several windows now filled the hallway, and I heard birds singing outside. I bit my lip, a little chagrined. This place wasn't really that scary in the daylight.
The voices below escalated, and I frowned, then ran a hand through my hair. I felt like a wreck. Grunge-girl.
As quietly as I could, I tiptoed down the stairs, one hand on the rail. I was halfway down when I understood the first sentence.
"We can't stay here for very long," Ando said. "Even if the people in town do think this place is haunted, they aren't stupid—they will see people coming and going."
"Then we can't just go stomping in and out whenever we want," Peter answered. "Hiro will have to help us out."
"You have to pay attention when you're hiding," Sylar stated. "But if you're careful, you can stay someplace for an indefinite amount of time, especially when it's this secluded."
"We don't want to stay indefinitely," Hiro countered.
"I'm just saying it's possible," Sylar replied. "In case anyone is in a panic, which is what it sounds like right now."
"We need to find out what happened to Noah Bennet," Hiro stated. "And then find a way to clear our names."
"Good luck with that, now," Ando huffed. "Since all of us escaped with him."
"Hey, I wasn't the one who made the stupid assumption," Sylar shot back. "What do you expect from the media?"
I stepped down three more steps, and then the board beneath my foot squeaked. I stopped, grimacing. Everybody turned and looked at me. I swept my eyes over them—Emma's hair was pulled back, but her clothes were rumpled, Ando, Hiro and Peter's hair was sticking up in odd places, and Sylar, arms crossed over a wrinkled shirt, had dark circles under his eyes. Okay, so everybody looked like a wreck. I ran my fingers through my hair again anyway.
I felt Sylar's eyes on me as I finished coming down the steps, but I watched my feet, and came up to stand close beside Emma. Peter sighed.
"Okay, whatever happens later," he began. "We have to take care of the necessaries right now. We need food. Hiro and me can go into town and buy some."
"I am going with Hiro," Ando insisted.
"I am coming, too," Emma said. Peter blinked.
"Um—"
"We need more than just food," Emma said. "We need toiletries, toothbrushes, and Claire and I need things like shampoo and makeup, a brush or two," She gave a little smile to Peter. "I don't trust you to get the right things."
"You're right," Peter admitted. My eyes widened as I suddenly realized that everyone was planning to leave except Sylar and me.
"Wait—can't I go too?" I said quickly. Hiro raised his eyebrows.
"How? You walked up to the cameras and told them your name. Your face was all over the news. Ours were not as clear, and I doubt they have all our names yet."
I winced, but he was right. Peter gestured to Sylar.
"Gabriel, you could come if you—"
"No."
"What?" Emma asked. Sylar looked down.
"Gabriel can shape-shift," Peter explained. "He can turn into—"
"I'm not doing that, Peter," Sylar said, staring at the rug. "Never again. I won't."
"Okay, okay," Peter relented. "That's fine. You can stay here. We shouldn't be long, anyway."
My mouth fell open, but I could think of nothing to say—my mind had frozen. Ando looked alarmed, his eyes darting back and forth between Sylar and me, but nobody else seemed to notice. Before either Ando or I could say a word, Peter drew himself up and glanced at Hiro.
"Hiro, do you know a spot where you could drop the four of us that's closer to the main part of town?"
Hiro shrugged.
"I think so. I can try."
"Okay, let's go," Peter said, taking Emma's hand. "I'm hungry."
Ando opened his mouth and pointed at me, but Hiro grabbed his hand and Peter's, and suddenly they were gone.
For just an instant, Sylar and I stood there, eyes locked. Then I spun around and raced back up the stairs, my heart hammering so hard I thought it would break out of my chest. I leaped into my room and slammed the door, waiting to hear the footsteps that would betray his following.
I heard nothing.
Frowning, I pressed my ear to the door. Far below, I heard soft, slow footsteps cross the living room.
And then silence.
Shivering, I sank to the floor, pressing my full weight against the door, determined not to come out until Peter returned.
VVV
I sat back against my door, listening to the birds outside, staring at the ceiling. The worry for my dad turned in my gut like a knife, but I had no way to get a hold of him. I had no cell phone, and there was still no electricity in the house, so even if there was a landline, it wouldn't work. I sighed, and stood up to get my jacket—I felt chilled.
Plunk.
Plunk, plunk.
I stopped, my hand on my jacket where it hung on the bedpost. I turned a little toward the door, listening. The plunking continued from below, in the living room—soft, careful musical notes. And then came a sound like a bass violin being strummed. Then deep, reverberating humming. I crept to the door, twisted the knob and eased it open. The sounds became more defined, and once in a while, they were interrupted by a faint squeaking, like a screw being tightened. Still in my socks, I strayed out there again, too curious to remain in my room.
Halfway down the stairs, I stopped, rolled my eyes and went all the way back up again. What was I doing? Going downstairs to see what Sylar was up to? Yeah, that was a brilliant idea…
I took hold of my bedroom door. A descending scale resounded through the living room, perfectly clear—
And then the last note struck and it was decidedly out of tune.
The piano.
"Crap," a low voice muttered. "Will you just cooperate, you stupid G? Have some patience with me, here…"
I spun back around. He was tuning the piano?
Careful to put my feet down on the outside edges of the stairs, I stole back down the steps to the bend in the staircase, knelt down and leaned around the banister just enough to see the cherry-wood piano, which was bathed in a pool of gold morning light.
The sheet that had covered it last night now lay on the wood floor. Sylar, black sleeves rolled up to his elbows, strands of hair hanging in his eyes, bent over the side of the piano, carefully running up and down several keys with the fingertips of his left hand. Then he straightened a little, his arms still bent, and moved further back to the strings. The lid was propped all the way up, exposing the innards. Frowning, Sylar bent over the long, taut cords. He tilted his head, which sent sunlight cascading around him, and waved his left hand minutely.
That little squeaking sound issued again. Then his eyes sharpened, and he pointed a finger at the keyboard. My eyes widened as an invisible finger pressed a key down.
Plunk.
The high G sounded again. But it sounded a little too high this time. Sylar narrowed his eyes, and slowly closed his left hand into a fist, then opened his hand again. The squeak came again. He pointed.
Plunk.
He grinned. My mouth fell open as a flash of complete unfamiliarity swept through me—it was a smile of pure pleasure, bearing neither wickedness nor sadness.
"There we go, baby," Sylar purred. "Okay, how about the lower register?" Like he was strumming a harp, he fluttered his fingers in the air and the piano performed a perfect run, as if a ghost had dragged his hand down the keys. However, the sound that issued was like a broken music box. Sylar braced his hands on the side of the piano and his head lolled down.
"Oh, for crying out loud," he muttered. He beckoned to the piano bench and it swung around to where he stood, its feet scraping on the wood. Without looking at it, he sat down, rested his elbows on the side of the piano and stared down inside. I held my breath. He stared for a full minute. Then, closing his eyes, he lifted his right hand forefinger.
All of the lower chords vibrated, humming through the air. He closed his fingers again. Something squeaked once more.
I had no idea how long I sat there, watching him. The movements of his hands were delicate yet deliberate, like a surgeon, and yet he never touched the piano. The instrument fought him every step of the way, issuing ugly chords, strange pinging, and uneasy twangs. And yet he worked through them, just as I might work a tangle out of my hair. And one by one, each string yielded to him—relaxed, almost—and melted into easy harmony with the others.
He stopped. He stood up straight. Sparks lit behind his eyes, and he moved around to stand in front of the keyboard. For a moment, he just stood there, then slowly raised both hands in the air. The piano shivered. My breath caught.
The notes started deep, then rumbled up to the higher ones, up and down, up and down. And then, with movements like a conductor, he began playing rapid chords without touching the keys; some dissonant, others in perfect harmony. Music unlike any I had ever heard rang from that instrument—violent and suddenly tender, hurried then abruptly lingering. It vibrated through the floors and walls, all the way up the steps where I crouched. I covered my mouth with my hand. The chaos of the impromptu concerto tightened, organized, and began making sense in a way that, if I didn't know better, I would have called beautiful.
He lowered his hands to his waist, and the notes grew fast and soft, like distant thunder, and as he slowly raised his arms to a powerful pose, they crecendoed into a show-stopping final chord that shook the piano, and the whole house.
Silence fell. I started breathing again.
"Wow."
Sylar spun toward the front door, eyes flashing. Then he smiled again.
"Hi."
I then realized that had been Emma's voice. She appeared in my line of sight carrying two grocery bags, and hurried to the piano. She almost dropped the bags as she set them down, then stared at the piano, then at Sylar, her gaze intense and brilliant.
"That was incredible," she cried. "How did you do that?"
Sylar shrugged.
"One of my powers is to know how things work, and how to fix them. I tuned the piano, and that taught me all about it, so I could play it."
Peter came up behind her, also bearing a bag. He was trying to hide a smile.
"Can you do it again?" Emma asked eagerly. Sylar smirked at Peter, then lifted a finger.
Plink plink plink plink plink plink plink. The piano's keys depressed robotically, in the tune of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." Emma laughed and slapped his arm with the back of her hand. He chuckled and shied away.
"That is not what I meant," she said.
"I am hungry," Hiro announced, walking past all of them across the living room to the kitchen, juggling three bags. I was surprised he could see where he was going. Ando followed on his heels, shooting a look back over his shoulder at Sylar. And then Emma turned and glanced right at me.
"Claire? Do you want to have breakfast first or take a shower? I have shampoo."
I gulped as Peter and Sylar automatically looked up at me, too. Sylar's weight shifted, the skin around his eyes tightened and he cast his eyes down.
"Um…" I croaked, slowly rising to my feet. "I'll…take a shower."
"Okay," Emma said, snatching up one of the bags and coming to me. She held the bag out and smiled. "Here—you should find whatever you need. I'll go start the breakfast before Hiro burns down the kitchen." She gave me a reassuring look as I limply took the bag, and then she turned and went back downstairs. Peter winked at her, then smiled up at me and followed Emma to the kitchen. Only Sylar stood there a moment, gazing into my eyes, before he ducked his head and trailed after Peter.
I glanced into the plastic bag. Yep, I had everything I needed to clean myself up. Now I just had to get up the gumption to take a shower in the same house as Sylar. I gritted my teeth.
"Don't be such a baby," I berated myself. But when I got back upstairs to the little shower room, I dragged a chair in there, locked the door, and propped the chair against the inside—even though I knew it would do no good if he was really determined.
TO BE CONTINUED