Gabriel (13 page)

I walked away, rolling my eyes. “You've gotta have the last word, don't you? Why do I get the feeling that that's something else that hasn't changed?”

Jonah seemed to relax, and then he winked at me. “Go on. Go infiltrate your camp of pitchfork-wielding kid farmers. But be careful.”

I mouthed a quick “thank you” before I fled back toward the motor home.

 

TEN

I
RAN UNTIL THE
oversize motor home was in view. Day had woken, and I worried for a moment that I had spent too long with Jonah. I didn't think it was seven thirty yet, but with no watch and no phone I couldn't be sure. I slid around to the back of the motor home, just in time to see my window snap shut.

Crap.

I hovered, debating my options, and eventually made my way to the side of the van, hoping I could reenter through the door.

Phelan stood in the doorway with his hands placed on either side of the frame. When I approached he said, “Right, you, time to leave.”

“What? Why?” I asked as innocently as I could.

I moseyed toward him, but he jumped to the ground and met me midway. “Because I don't trust folk who sneak out of their windows, that's why,” he said. “What exactly were you doing out here?”

The wifebeater he wore with his loose pajama bottoms allowed me to see the many tattoos that ran the length of his arms and across his chest. They made me even more wary of him.

I had to think fast. “I didn't want to wake anyone, that's why. I've only been out here two minutes. I just needed to, you know, step out.”

“To do what?” He placed his hand around my forearm to keep me rooted to the spot.

“Erm, I needed to…” I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, and I felt the bulge of Jonah's cigarette box in my back pocket. “Smoke. I needed a smoke.”

Phelan's eyes narrowed; it was as if he were a human lie detector, inspecting my features, as if they would somehow reveal the truth. Putting my finger up in the air to warn him of my movements, I reached in my back pocket and produced the box. I held it out for him to see.

He took his hand off me and grudgingly gestured for me to sit on the cold grass. He sat across from me and held his hand out for the box. He removed two sticks and gave one to me as he dug inside his pajama pocket for a lighter.

Placing the filter to my lips, I pulled as he lit it. I had to stifle a cough as I inhaled the smoke. Phelan tilted his head and gave me that “I don't trust you” look he was getting so good at, before sparking up his own.

He rolled the cardboard box over and over in his fingers. “You get around, don't you? This here packet is in French.”

I wasn't expecting him to say that, and I mentally cursed Jonah for not having stocked up on duty free this side of the Channel.

Ignoring him, I took another puff on the disgusting cancer stick. Trying not to take it in, I blew out the smoke before it found its way to my lungs. Not wanting to meet his eyes, I studied the black pattern and the many crosses that rode up his neck. They were covering an elongated scar that stretched right up to his chin.

Batting my eyelashes and refocusing on his big brown eyes, I said, “Did it hurt?”

Phelan looked cautiously to his chest while holding the cigarette in between the tip of his thumb and his index finger. The ash had burnt halfway down, yet he still didn't flick it away. Exhaling a cloud of smoke, he scratched the back of his beanie hat. “No, just ink work.”

I squeezed a tight smile. “I didn't mean that.”

Phelan looked a little taken aback, but his expression quickly returned to hard and unemotional.

“Phelan, is that Brooke out there with you?” Iona's sweet voice chirped from inside the motor home.

“'Tis,” he answered, still focused intently on me. He didn't shift an inch.

“May I have her help in the kitchen?” she asked, raising her voice slightly.

Stubbing out his cigarette and wetting his lips, Phelan stood up. After dusting down the back of his bottoms, he took my hand and, in one swift tug, yanked me up to my feet.

As I stood, he drew his arm in and pulled me in close. “You didn't have a pack of cigarettes yesterday. I know, because I checked you for ID. They didn't just magically appear in your pocket. Where'd you get them?”

I cleared my throat. “I did. I haven't left this place since I got here.” Despite my best efforts, my voice cracked.

Phelan tucked my hair behind my ears before bending down so that he was cheek-to-cheek with me and whispered, “Then I guess all that dirt on your clothes magically appeared overnight, too?”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

He tutted as he pushed my chin up. He then stared at me for a moment before finally releasing my hand and striding back toward the motor home, disappearing inside.

It took me a few seconds to gather myself. I hadn't considered the thick layer of dust and mud that smothered my clothes.

The smile on Iona's face when she poked her head out of the motor home fell away when she saw the mess I was in. “Oh dear, I didn't realize you'd gotten so dirty yesterday. Come on, you can borrow some clothes and then we have to get breakfast on. It's nearly nine, and the boys will be hungry, like.”

Iona was already fully dressed, wearing a cream-colored winter dress made of wool. A matching cardigan and thick tights finished her look. Well, nearly finished her look. As I judged her conservative outfit, her oversize Scooby-Doo slipper-boots suddenly transformed her from “elegant young lady” to “adorable kid sister.”

Iona led me down the hall to her bedroom. It was a bigger space than the room I was staying in; her queen-size bed was made up with a pretty pink duvet, and fresh flowers sat on her bedside table.

“Tulips? Do you have an admirer, Iona?” I closed the door behind me.

She giggled, embarrassed at my suggestion, and said, “Naw, Fergal bought them for me. My daddy used to make sure I always had fresh flowers in my room. He did it for my ma, too, before she passed.…”

“I'm sorry,” I said.

“Fergal got me a necklace, too, as an early birthday present. I'm seventeen soon.” From her pillowcase, she pulled out a silver locket. “So I could have them near my heart, always.”

She played with the chain before holding it out for me to take.

I lurched backward. “No, I couldn't.… Why don't you show me?”

Keeping my distance, I peered at the large silver oval resting in Iona's palm. I read the word
Petal
engraved on the outside.

“Daddy used to call me Petal,” she said. “He used to call my ma Petal, too.”

“Something to do with the flowers?” I asked politely.

“Aye. He always said that we were his angels, and that we deserved them freshly picked every day.”

I hesitated. “Another pet name for you both, his angels?”

“Um-hum.” She nodded, wearing a happy smile.

She carefully undid the clasp and opened the locket. There were two photos, one on each side: an older gentleman—Iona's father—staring back at me on the right, and on the left, a handsome, dark-haired lad.

“That there's my daddy,” she said proudly.

“They are lovely pictures. I thought you said you had one of your mother and father. Who's that?”

“That's Padraig, my other brother. He also passed, just before my daddy.” Iona's dejected expression made me sad. Her eyes glistened in a watery coating and she coughed, trying to choke back her brewing tears.

My heart went out to Iona; her family had suffered so much loss. It didn't take long for me to hit on the reason behind it: They hunted Vampires. Chances were, the Vampires fought back.

“Your brother looks a lot like your father,” I said.

“Padraig had a different ma; my daddy's first wife died giving birth to him. Then, a couple of years later, when Daddy was twenty, he met my ma and had me and Fergal,” she explained.

“I thought you said Fergal got you the locket so that you could have your parents with you.”

Iona closed the locket and tucked it back into the pillowcase. “Naw, so I could have
them
with me—my daddy and my brother. I asked my daddy for one of my ma once, but he said she never liked having her photo taken. That if I ever wanted to see her face, I only needed to look in the mirror.” That memory caused her plump lips to stretch wide.

Iona was so gentle, so childlike. If you could put her in your tea, she'd remove all the bitterness and would be the most deliciously sweet honey you'd ever tasted.

She opened up a chest of drawers and started rummaging around, finally taking out a very long and frilly skirt.

“Is there any chance of a pair of jeans?” I asked quickly.

She looked at me over her shoulder, and pursed her lips. “Are you sure? I've got some lovely skirts and, well,
lads
wear jeans you know.…”

“Yeah, I'm sure. If you have a pair, that is.” I was beginning to realize how traditional this group was.

Iona nodded, and pulled out another drawer, searching for what I assumed were likely her only pair. I took the opportunity to scan her bedroom walls, which were full of posters perfectly tacked side by side. The right-hand corner was covered with multiple boy bands, and in the left it was Scooby-Doo,
The Wizard of Oz
, and Harry Potter.

“You like Harry Potter?” I asked.

“Aye, I love magic! My daddy wouldn't let me read past the third book, though; he said it got a bit too dark.” She handed me a small pile of clothes.

“You're nearly seventeen, right?”
And you hunt Vampires.…

She bobbed her head, her pale skin flushing pink. “I get frightened. I like happy things, like music. All different sorts. And I like to dance and sing. I listen to lots of songs while I cook, which I always think is funny, 'cause they say music is food for the soul, like.”

“That's very true.” I held up the clothes. “Thank you for these.”

Iona grabbed my arm lightly as I pushed down the door handle. “Wait! It gets a bit cold.” She opened the bottom drawer of her bedside table and reached inside.

As she did, a ray of sunlight, which was streaming in through the window, reflected off an object in the drawer. I rose to my tiptoes to peek over her shoulder. In the drawer was a silver dagger in a leather holster.

It was bizarre to think that this most innocent and kind-hearted of girls was involved in demon-slaying. Could she be a real-life Buffy Summers?

“Here!” she exclaimed with glee, springing up and placing a pair of cartoon slippers on top of the clothes in my arms.

Maybe not.

“Thank you,” I said, making my way out of her room to get changed.

Once inside my tiny room, I began unbuttoning my muddied shirt, trying not to bang my elbows on the sides of the two bunks. Slipping it off and unbuttoning my jeans, I was down to my underwear. Shame there was no time for a shower, though I wasn't even sure if there was one in the motor home. I pulled apart the parcel of clothing and wriggled the jeans on over my hips, zipping them up. Luckily for me, Iona and I were a similar size. I slid the cami top over my head and tucked it into the waistband.

The scar on my chest, which ran over my heart, was visible above the neckline. I frowned. A rose by any other name, huh? I wondered if Jonah thought of me that way—like a rose. If I were one, you'd never be able to tell; most of my petals had been plucked a long time ago, leaving only a stem covered in thorns.

In the absence of a hairbrush, I tipped my hair over my head and fluffed it up from underneath, before running my fingers through my bangs.

Just as I was reaching for my cardigan at the end of the bed, the door opened. I spun around, expecting to see Iona. Instead, Fergal was leaning against the door frame.

“Oh, sorry, Iona asked me to pass you this, thought you might need it,” he said, handing me a fitted cashmere sweater.

I took it and smiled politely. “Thanks.”

Fergal's eyes swooped up and down, and when they found mine again they twinkled. “You look much fresher for a change of clothes.”

The sweater was thicker than my cardigan so I pulled it over my head, ruffling my hair once again in the process.

“Ah, you're a pretty doll, aren't you?” Fergal said, and to my surprise he came in close to me. “But you're missing one thing.”

He took off his beanie hat and his long blond strands cascaded across his temples and covered his ears. He positioned the hat on the back of my head. Then, he collected all of my waist-length curls and pushed them behind my shoulder.

“There.” He smiled, but then hesitated. His eyes locked with mine as though they were imprisoned by them. “Huh.”

“What?” I asked.

“Your eyes. They're like a coccinella septempunctata. Well, if they came in blue, like.”

Coccinella septempunctata?
A ladybug? Perhaps these guys weren't quite the pitchfork-wielding kid farmers Jonah had assumed them to be.

My eyelashes automatically fluttered out of embarrassment. I wasn't pleased with how my eyes now appeared; it was as though they branded me, warning the world that I was different—that I was dangerous.

“Some sort of mutation…”

“Aye, it's pretty cool,” Fergal said. “You can keep my hat. It suits you better.”

Fergal strolled out of the room, closing the door behind him. I popped the slippers on my feet. Given I had already squashed Iona's attempt to dress me in a “respectable housewife” outfit with the jeans, they couldn't hurt. Plus, they made me smile, and that was not something I did a lot of, and something I didn't expect to be doing anytime soon.

 

ELEVEN

I
ONA AND I SET
about creating an enormous breakfast buffet for the lads. I was in charge of frying the eggs and bacon, while Iona grilled sausages and cooked hash browns in the oven. Iona was a well-oiled machine in the kitchen, and I was reminded of the time I had worked in the B&B in Scotland.