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“Thank you,” I reply, as he leaves the room and exhaustion plunges me into a dead slumber.
I wake up in the middle of the night shivering, regretting not having changed out of my rain soaked clothes before I went to sleep. I quickly get up and peel them off me, before stepping into the shower in the en-suite. The hot water seeps into my pours and heats me up. I can’t tell whether this is the guest room or if it belongs to Ethan. It has no distinguishing features, no belongings except for a couple shirts hanging in the wardrobe.
I wrap up in a towel and lay my clothes out on the radiator to dry. I put one of the shirts on, and judging by how it almost reaches my knees I’d say it definitely belongs to Ethan. Crawling back into bed, I switch off the lamp. As I’m tucking the duvet tightly around me the bedroom door opens, allowing a sliver of light to stream through.
I peek my head out over the blanket to find Ethan standing there.
“I could hear you moving around,” he says, no question, just a bare statement.
“Yeah. I fell asleep in my wet clothes, so I took them off and had a shower. I hope you don’t mind.”
“I don’t. Well, goodnight then,” he says, looking a little lost before moving to close the door back over.
This is so strange. Gone is the Ethan I’d gotten to know over the last few weeks, the one who would snip at me at every turn. It’s like he’s completely run out of steam, and I’m not quite sure if I like it. There’s a perversity in me that kind of enjoys fighting with him.
“Can I ask you something?” I say quickly, before he has the chance to leave.
“Of course. Ask.”
“I thought I’d feel guilty after killing Eliza, but I don’t feel anything. When I think about her I just feel nothing – empty. Is that the proper reaction?”
“Everybody reacts differently to their first kill. It all depends on the person. Perhaps you feel nothing because you’re blocking the emotion. You grieve for the witch’s mother. There is no room for guilt, not yet.”
“So the fact that I feel nothing is a survival instinct?”
“It’s a definite possibility.”
“Oh.”
Ethan smiles. “Is there anything else you’d like to say?”
There isn’t, but I don’t want him to go yet. “Yeah, you need a haircut,” I tell him.
Grinning, he tilts his head and runs his hand through his too-long locks. “Are you criticising my appearance, girl who never wears anything but scruffy jeans and t-shirts with anti-vampire sentiments?”
I laugh. “Piss off, sometimes I dress up. And I only have one anti-vampire t-shirt.”
He stops smiling, and instead gives me a smouldering look. “You don’t need to dress up. Your scent alone is enough adornment.”
“Well you are the target audience for that,” I throw back.
“True,” he lets out a breath. “Unfortunately, there’s nothing that can be done about my hair. Human barbers don’t open at night and there are no vampires on this side of the city to do it for me.”
“There are vampire barbers? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“We all have our professions,” he answers with a shrug.
“I guess. I can cut your hair for you, if you’d like.”
He eyes me speculatively. “You cut hair?”
“Yep, I’ve got a knack for it. I used to cut my dad’s hair for him when I was in my teens.” Remembering how I did that gives me a pang of nostalgia.
“I don’t possess a scissors,” says Ethan.
“I’m sure Delilah has one,” I laugh, finding it funny how hesitant he’s being. “There’s no need to look so wary. Cutting hair is a real talent of mine. I promise I won’t give you a hack job. Besides, it will cement our new found friendship.”
“Very well then,” he replies, with just a sliver of apprehension now.
