Nocturnal (15 page)

“Thank you.” Of course I'm exponentially more awkward giving the compliment than he is receiving it. I sniff again, wishing for a tissue. I'm left with my sleeve as my only option.

“You are crying,” he says as I stealthily try to wipe my nose. 

“Yeah, I know, thanks for pointing that out.” I'm not feeling very nice tonight. 

“Why?” He's looking at me with that cool detachment, but  I'm getting better at reading him now. I can finally hear the question in his voice. It's hard to hear, like a musical note at the end of a song, but I'm finally starting to pick up on it.

I sigh before I answer. It comes out funny, with the mucus in my nose.

“A lot of things,” I say, rubbing my sleeve on the moist grass to clean my snot off it. He's silent, so I look up at him. He's looking at me. Unblinking. Like a statue, only he's real. Granted, he doesn't breathe, but still.

“Can we talk about something else?” I look away. I don't know if I want to be caught in his eyes tonight, even though it would give me an escape. That's what I came for.

“Yes.” Once more, I wipe my face and bring out the list I've been carrying with me and adding to all day.

“I've got a ton of questions for you.” I don't want to talk about my mother. I don't want to talk about Tex or Jamie. I don't want to talk to anything that feels real.

“I will try to answer them.”

I start with the less-stupid ones. Like the sun thing. 

“In fact, I need the sun to survive. I will show you sometime. I cannot digest blood on its own. I need the sunlight to start a chemical reaction to turn it into food.”

“So you're like a plant.” I remember enough about photosynthesis to know it's pretty much the same thing. He sure as hell doesn't look like any plant I've ever seen. Women all over the world would be growing him if that were true.

“More or less.”

“That's freaky,” I say before moving on to the others. He shoots down the garlic and crosses and coffins. I cross them off my list.

“Stories. Elaborations on fact.” 

“Where did you come from?”

He doesn't answer. I move on.

“Oh come on. You can't tell me anything?”

“Where did the first human come from?” Wait, I thought I was the one asking questions. 

I shrug. “Depends on who you ask. Some people would say God or Allah or the Great Spirit. Some would say we evolved from a puddle of goo.” 

“Precisely. It depends on who you ask.”

“But I'm asking you.”

“I couldn't tell you because I do not know. I have heard stories, but it is impossible to tell what is true and what is fiction. I do not bother to dwell on what is done.” Well. That's quite an answer without being an answer. I'll get it out of him yet.

“What was the word you used? Noctalis?”

“It is a combination of the Latin words for night and forever. Ironic, really.” 

“Oh.” Now I'm getting to the more personal questions.

“I was nineteen when I died.”

“What year was that?”

“April 14, 1912.” He fires off the date quicker than Tex could. I shove the image of the two of them having a date battle to the back of my mind. 

“You know the date?” Something about that year rings a distant bell. Of course Tex would know what it is.

“It was the night the Titanic sank.”

“Oh, yeah, that's right.” I want to slap myself in the forehead. “How did it happen?” I'm not talking about the ship sinking. Everyone knows about the iceberg drama.

There is a pause, almost like a sigh. But he doesn't breathe, so it isn't that. As if he's considering. I think he's going to give me a one word answer. Instead, he begins. I'm so surprised I meet his eyes for a second before he looks past me. At something I can't see.

“I was traveling with my family. My father had recently come into some money and had taken us on a vacation to Europe. The ship was a wonder. The first Unsinkable Ship.” I feel like I should put air quotes around the Unsinkable Ship part. Thinking about doing it makes me want to laugh, but I don't. He keeps talking. 

“We enjoyed our trip until the night of April 14. There was no panic when the ship initially struck the iceberg. It was hours before reality set in, and people needed to get into the boats. The captain ordered that only women and children should be accepted into the lifeboats.” He's so calm, as if he's reading the story out of an old book. I never imagined he would talk this much. Especially to me. I almost feel guilty, as if I've held a gun to his head and forced him.

“My father and I got my mother and sisters aboard one of the lifeboats and watched as it was lowered down the side of the tilting ship. I was resigned to my fate. We knew how cold the water was. My father was not a stupid man. He shook my hand and told me that we were men and we were going down as men. We waited near the band, which kept playing, even as the ship sank. The lights went out. I grew more and more scared.” He paused.

“The water was cold. Beyond anything I can explain. I prayed for death, but still, kept my head above water that churned with the hundreds of people who had survived not being sucked under. The screams filled the night. I lost my father, but kept calling for him. My voice was lost in the night. 

“It was dark, with only the light of the stars. I swam, but my strokes grew weaker as hypothermia set in. A hand grabbed at me. I tried to shake it off, but it was too strong. 'Do you wish to live?' she said to me. I looked into her eyes. I nodded. 'Then come with me.' She pulled me toward some floating debris. 'They will come back for us.' She was confident. I started to fade. 'Here,' she said, pressing her arm to my mouth. I didn't know what she was doing. 'Swallow, my dear.' The liquid mixed with seawater and trickled down my throat. I choked on it, but she kept her arm pressed to my mouth. I could barely breathe. 'Drink if you wish to live.' So I did.” He had been looking at me the whole time and I found his unblinking gaze, coupled with the story, unnerving. 

“She was right. A boat did come back for us, but by that time, we were some of the only people left alive. I don't remember this. She told me after. It took three days for the transformation to complete. And then I was this.” I have to wait a second before I say anything. The story is so fantastical it can't possibly be real. But I'd seen him last night. I'd seen the wings. I'd never seen him breathe. 

“What about the wings?” I whisper. I had to keep asking questions so I didn't have to think. 

“They emerged when my transformation was complete.” 

“Do you all have wings?”

“No. We are as different as humans.”

“Can I get some examples?”

“Perhaps.” I wait for him to finish. No dice. It's like trying to chip that last bit of ice out of the freezer when you're defrosting it. Impossible and frustrating. 

“So you're just not going to answer when you don't want to?”

Blink.

I resist the urge to throw my list at him and ask something person. He seems to be more free with that stuff than the noctalis stuff.

“What happened to your father?” I'm walking on unsafe ground. I do worry about provoking him, after that one time, but he seems so calm about it all. As if he knew this exact thing was going to happen the moment he met me. I don't like thinking I'm that predictable. It gives him an advantage.

“He died. I didn't know until the name of the passengers that had perished was printed in the newspaper.”

“And the rest of your family?”

“They moved to back to our house. My father had left enough money for them to survive.” He stops there. I don't ask him if he ever saw them again. I know the answer, based on what mine would have been. He may not be human, but he was once. There's a fierceness with which he talks about them that tells me he would have done anything for them. I can understand that.

I don't say anything, but lay down on the grass for a moment. I need to breathe and look at the stars and try to work out the tangled thread of my thoughts. My heart sounds ridiculously loud in my ears. An owl hoots in the distance. 

“Are you upset?” His voice sounds next to me. I turn my head.

“Not upset. I just don't know what to say.” Deep down, I know there is nothing I can say. That doesn't stop me wanting to say something wise and comforting.

I've got nothing.

“You need not say anything. It is enough to unburden myself. Thank you.” It's the second time he's thanked me. I roll over and prop myself up on my elbow. I can't sit up just yet. 

“You don't need to thank me.”

“I do. You have taken it very well.” 

“Have you ever told anyone else?” 

“Once.” A selfish flutter goes through me. Part of me wished I could be the only one. Him and me and the stars and the tombstones. I stomp on it and move on.

“How did it go?”

“Not very well.” I laugh. It's the first time I've heard him use sarcasm. Thank god, I was afraid he didn't have it in him.

“Is Peter Hart your real name?” I'm seeing how many knots I can tie in one blade of grass. I'm up to four.

“No, I was Peter Henry Mackintire.” Five knots. 

“That's a nice name.” I can't get a sixth knot, so I throw it away and pluck another blade. “Do you mind if I ask something?”

“You already have. You may continue.” His stillness makes me increasingly fidgety. For something to do, I roll over on my stomach. 

“Why don't you want to drink my blood?”

“Ah. Yes. That.” He pauses again and I pull at more grass, creating a bare spot. “I do want to. I simply choose not to.” I chuck the grass and start picking at my sleeve instead.

“Why?” I try to make my voice sound merely curious, but this is the answer I want most from him. 

“Do you know why we desire blood?” I shake my head. Before last night I didn't think noctali or whatever even existed. Once again, this is something Tex would have thought about. She's nuts about Buffy. He makes sure I look up at him before he answers. Oh, he's got my full attention.

“Life. We desire life. In a way, immortality is the ultimate death. Instead of moving on to another place, we are placed firmly in the world of the living, but never a part of it. Humans want to be immortal. We only seek some of the light of humanity. We always want what we cannot have.” He's not just talking about blood. His eyes try to catch me again, but I pull away.

“Isn't that always the way?” I roll over again “I'm sorry to dump all those questions on you.” While we've been talking, my tears have dried up.

“It distracts me. And I like hearing your voice.” I glance back at him in surprise. He likes my voice?

“Distracts you from what?”

“Thinking about killing you.” A breeze blows some of his hair back in his face. His words have different meaning now that I know he has a reason for killing me.

“Then I'll keep talking.” 

“You are not scared of death?” He tilts his head just a tiny bit. Just enough to ask the question. If he weren't so intimidating, I would have said it was cute. There's nothing cute about Peter. 

“I guess not. You said I was reckless.”

“You are.”

“Is that a bad thing?” I go for playful, but it doesn't work out so well. It's hard when he's so serious.

“That depends.” I don't like talking about me. He's way more interesting.

“What's it like to fly?” I want to think about something nice. Flying is nice. I shut my eyes and try to imagine myself with a set of wings.

“It is one of the only pleasures of this existence. It is freedom. From everything.” He tilts his head back, as if he wants to be there right now, brushing the stars with his wings.

“I wish I could fly.” I'd go away from here. From my life. Find a deserted place. Anywhere. Just to breathe without facing anything. No dying mother. No friend issues. Just me.

“I wish I had a beating heart.” We look at each other and I just let it happen. Get pulled into his eyes. The connection is breaks when he's the one who looks away. A breath escapes my lips. It was more like he yanked the connection away. 

“What is that?”

“Nothing.” He goes back to his one-word answers. A door has closed. Sharing time is over. I get my feet under me and stand up. My legs are stiff and don't want to hold me up.

“I should probably go soon. I've been missing a lot of sleep lately.” I don't feel better, exactly, but I feel ready to go home. To face semi-normal Thing One. 

“How did you know I was going to be here?” I say, brushing off my jeans.

“I can smell where you are.”

“That's kinda creepy.” He blinks. It reminds me of one last question. The one I almost wasn't going to ask.

“How do you kill a noctalis?”

“You couldn't.” He says it quickly. Too quickly. 

“There's no way? You've got to have a weakness. I'm just curious.” I need to know if I've got a chance in hell, if something were to happen. An insurance policy.

“It would depend on the human and the Noctalis.” He pauses again.

“But you have power, Ava, and you don't even know it. If anyone could destroy me, it might be you.” I swallow hard around a lump in my throat. It seems like a weird note to end on. 

“I should go.” My ass is cold and wet from the grass. I should have brought a blanket. I never think of these things until it's too late. “I'm going to be gone this weekend. Just so you know.” Why am I telling him this? 

“Text me if you want.” I add it at the end, and then write the number a corner of my list and give it to him. I don't ask if he knows how to text. He'll figure it out.

“Goodbye, Ava.”

I wave to him, which feels silly, but I do it anyway. I look at him for another second, trying to see him objectively. There's a... something about him. Maybe it's the immortality. I walk to my car, feeling him watch me. 

***

We talked for a long time tonight. She was more open. Ava reminds me of a tulip, which blooms at night in the cemetery. Surrounded by the dead. Their spirits whispered to me. I wondered if she could hear them too.

I'd flown tonight. It was cloudy and the droplets of water had collected on my wings and streamed down my body. I shook my hair out, thinking about her, Neil Gaiman and my existence.