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Many of the books are about music, and there is a guitar propped against the wall near the balcony door. I recall him singing to me in my dream. His voice was amazing, like a harmonic symphony.
Smiling, I pluck the strings, making ear scratching noises.
“I was just about to ask if you ever learned how to play, but I think I have my answer,” Jules’ playful voice echoes from across the room.
I spin around, startled, tugging on the hem of the shirt.
He’s leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed, dressed head to toe in black, a studded belt and bracelets enhancing his Gothic attire.
His gaze quickly drinks me in before they connect with mine. He seems a bit stiff, unsure. “How long have you been awake?”
I shrug. “Not very long. I was about to go find my room, but I was—”
“Snooping around my room.” He doesn’t appear mad, just curious. “Find anything interesting?”
“Not really. Well, besides a bunch of music books and your guitar. I already sort of guessed you were into music.” I throw the last part out there to test the waters and see if he really was in my dream last night.
He chews on his bottom lip. “And why’s that?”
“I don’t know. Just a guess.”Huh. Maybe the dream was really just a dream.Perhaps I didn’t really want to bite him.
“Hmm …” He rubs his scruffy jawline as he straightens. “Maybe it had to do with me singing to you in your dream.”
“Oh …”Well, shit.I pull at the bottom of the shirt and scratch my head. “I wasn’t sure if you were, um, really there.”
“I was.” He takes measured steps toward me. “Don’t worry, though; I get that sometimes dreams are just that—dreams.” He stops in front of me and stuffs his hands into his back pockets. “What we feel in dreamland doesn’t always match up in real life.”
I nod in agreement, yet underneath my gums, a pulsating need arises. When I run my tongue along my teeth, however, the sensation simmers down.
“Jules … how did I end up wearing your shirt? And in your room?”
“I brought you in here.” He removes his hands from his pockets, opening and closing his fists. “After we left the bar, you were freaking out and saying all these things about a werewolf attacking you, but you wouldn’t explain exactly what happened. And then you got sick again when we got home. I didn’t want to leave you alone in your room while you were sick and not after you said that thing about the attack …” His chin trembles as he inhales. “So, I brought you in here to sleep. I asked Legend to get you a change of clothes to sleep in, but he said you didn’t bring any pajamas. So, I called Liberty and had her come over to help you put on one of my shirts. She says she’ll bring over some pajamas and stuff later if you need her to.”
Anxiety clutches at my throat.I told him about the attack.
“Where did you sleep?”
“On the floor,” he promises. “I would never take advantage of a situation like that.”
“I know.” My words feel true.
I just about start to relax when he says, “Lake, about what you said a few nights ago about getting attacked by a werewolf.”
“A few nights ago?” I latch on to the distraction. “How long have I been out?”
“A few days.” He reaches out and takes my hand. His skin radiates warmth and strange familiarity. “Normally, werewolves pass out for only a day after drinking the winged magic drink, but your body’s not used to magic.”
“Wow, that’s like a mini-hibernation session.” I pause. “Wait, do we hibernate?”
His eyes crinkle around the corners as he softly laughs. “No, but some species of pixies do.”
“Yeah, what’s up with the pixies being in the forest? Is that, like, a normal thing?”
He nods. “We have to weed them out every once in a while, because they like to”—a flush creeps across his cheeks—“procreate a little too much. Personally, they don’t bother me, but my father detests them.”
I decide right then and there that his blushing is the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen.
“When you sayweed them out, what do you mean?” I ask. “Like, kill them?”
