My fingers move to my ears, and those are gone as well. The only one that remains is from my sire. The metal in my tongue clinks against my fangs, and once again, grief overwhelms me.
I want to tip my head back and sing—to release some of this pain—but I know I cannot. Not here. It would rumble the fragile walls of Dante’s home and draw attention to where I am, and I cannot take that risk.
So, I push it all down as I turn the water off, then use the towel that smells the most like Dante to dry off. Back in the bedroom, I glance around, but all I have is my pink coat, which Dante took from Everest, and the stained bit of fabric that Everest had draped over me when he found me lying beside the portal.
I do not want the fabric. I do not want to smell like the Eretharian dungeons. I do not want to smell like the guards. I want to burn it along with the memories of everything that happened to me.
I spy a silky robe hanging from the back of a door, and walk over, letting my fingers trail over the edges. It is soft and light. Not nearly as breathable as our garments back home, but itissomething.
It smells like Dante, too. I slip it over my shoulders, and the weight of it is strangely comforting. I don’t bother with the ties as I walk into the empty living room.
My hackles suddenly rise, and my ears twitch as I hear the sound of a door opening. It’s coming from the kitchen, and I extend my claws, ready to gut anyone who would help themselves to Dante’s home.
Rushing around the corner, I pull my arm back only to freeze at the sight of very wide, dark blue eyes and hundreds of little brown dots all over the intruder’s face.
He is…familiar.
He is Luca, Dante’s brother.
He makes a startled noise and holds up both hands in surrender, taking several steps back in fear. Shame overwhelms me, and my arm falls to my side as my knees start to buckle. But before I can hit the floor and beg his forgiveness, his arms come around me, catching me halfway to my knees.
He hums something soft and off-tune, guiding me up with a surprising strength for a human. I follow, the claws of my feet dragging along the floor as he brings me to the couch to sit.
It smells like me, too. Like injury and pain, but I’m not foolish enough to complain about it.
Luca sits on the low table in front of me, gently tapping the back of my hand to get my attention. ‘Pain?’ he asks.
I shake my head. ‘No. Sorry.’
His brows furrow in confusion. ‘Sorry?’
I don’t have the signs yet, or the words, so instead I lift my hand and extend my claws for a moment. His flinch reminds me that I am still a monster to so many humans, even if they are kind to us.
‘Sorry,’ I sign again. ‘You afraid.’
He shakes his head and cradles both of his hands around mine, as if to show me he’s not scared. His fingertips graze the slits where my claws extend, then he meets my gaze and holds it.
It’s hard to let him. It’s hard not to sink into deference and tilt my head, exposing the vulnerable parts of my neck, but I manage to do what he wants and hold still.
Pulling his hands back, he signs something else, but I don’t understand. I haven’t absorbed enough yet. I need time and a lexicon in order to take it all in.
It becomes obvious after a moment I’m not understanding, then he clears his throat. “I’m leaving,” he says. His voice is thickly accented and nothing like his brother’s. “I will be gone,” he adds very slowly, signing along so I can learn, “a week.”
I can’t really conceptualize what a week means. I know that human time moves differently. That their sun is closer than ours, and their world turns faster. I obviously know day from night, but other than that, I still haven’t made total sense of it.
I wonder if I ever will.
“You need anything before I go?”
My tongue darts out to wet my lips, then I shake my head. ‘No. Thank you.’
He always gets a happy little glint in his eye when I use the signed language with him, and it makes me wonder if many humans know it. I have a feeling they don’t. I had not seen it before meeting Dante, and even at the shared dinner we all had, it was mostly Dante who ensured that Luca understood the conversation.
I know the pain he must feel. The sensation of what it’s like to feel alone, even surrounded by your own species. Isolation like that is overwhelming, and my heart aches for him.
“I have something for you,” he adds in voice and sign. Standing up, he leaves the room and comes back a moment later with a brown fabric bag and sets it on the table. “To learn.”
He opens the bag, and inside are small boxes. They’re adorned with images of small children smiling and holding their hands up in shapes I’m starting to recognize.
