Kissing Midnight (22 page)

And what if she’s not?

I sit up in bed. Saintly looks so peaceful now, her dark hair tangled against the white pillow, the cool sheets wound around her, her face angelic in sleep. But clearly the mind behind that pretty face is a lot more troubled than I thought.

And now I’m feeling troubled, too. I need to clear my head, to get a little distance so I can think. Carefully, I climb out of bed. It’s chilly in here—the fire has almost gone cold—and dark, but I manage to quietly rummage around the floor until I find my jeans and shirt. I tug them on and shrug on my jacket. I can only find one of my socks, so I slip my bare feet into my boots and head for the door.

Saintly murmurs in her sleep, and I freeze in the doorway. Slowly I turn back to face her, half expecting her to be awake, but she has only rolled toward me. In sleep she looks so open and trusting. The blanket has slipped down so I can just make out the edge of the tattoo.
Be mine.

I almost wish she could be.

But of course it doesn’t help to think like that. There’s no choice about it. It’s almost New Year’s Eve.

And in a way she will be mine, forever.

I comfort myself with that thought as I slip out the door, shutting it carefully behind me, and head downstairs as quietly as I can. The lights are off in the restaurant. In the darkness the white tablecloths look like shrouds. I steal my way into the kitchen and liberate a dusty bottle of red wine. I probably shouldn’t drink—I’m in a dangerously sentimental mood as it is, and I need a clear head to think this through—but I can’t resist. I uncork it and take a long swig, feeling it warm me from the inside out as I head for the back door.

Outside the night is crisp and clear. The snow has stopped falling and the fresh dusting lies pure and untouched. Moonlight glints off the icy branches, and I can just see a sprinkling of stars above the tops of the trees. It makes me think of the planetarium, of the look on Saintly’s face when the skylight spiraled open and the real night sky shone through.
That was a nice touch
, I think,
if I do say so myself
. I have to keep things fresh for myself. There are only so many dinners and concerts and cruises a guy can stand. I take another swallow of wine.

“Are we drinking?” An’s voice comes from behind me. I turn in time to see her transforming from her cat form, its feline silhouette stretching and lightening until it becomes a tall, blond girl. Her eyes, however, stay cat-like, the pupils slits. “Rough night? I thought things were going beautifully. The girl is in love with you already.”

I shrug. It’s not that I don’t think Saint loves me. I do. I’ve just learned not to become complacent about it. Love can be a funny thing to judge, even for someone used to watching for the signs. I have had years when I was in suspense up until the last second—girls who never said I love you, or who said it a million times but still held some part of themselves back. You have to earn it, right up until the last second.

“Oh, go on.” An rolls her eyes. “Humility doesn’t suit you, Deveraux. We all know this is a triumph, pulling it off at the last minute like this. I’ll admit, I was worried for you.”

“Were you?” I raise one eyebrow skeptically. “You didn’t join the betting pool among our demon friends? I’m sure there was one.”

“I did, of course, but I bet
for
you, darling, and now I’m so happy I did! We should be celebrating,
nest pas
?” She takes the bottle from my hands and raises it up so the moonlight glints off the glass. “To your future!”

I take it back so quickly the wine spatters, little drops of red on the white snow.

She frowns at me, annoyed. “What is wrong with you tonight?”

“Nothing.” I take a deep breath, forcing the casual charm back into my smile.

“It’s just that there will be plenty of time to celebrate on January first. Let me get the thing done, An, before you go declaring victory.”

Her cat eyes narrow. She studies me shrewdly. “I don’t think that’s it,” she says slowly. Then her eyes widen dramatically, as if she’s had a realization. “Don’t tell me you’re becoming attached?” I can tell by the glint in her eyes that she would love nothing more. “Oh, wouldn’t that be the ultimate irony? You pull off the last-minute save of a lifetime, only to—”

“It’s December twenty-ninth. We’re not changing the plan.”

Antoinette’s smile widens. “There’s no need to get defensive.”

I lean against the door frame. I don’t want to seem too tense. You can never let a demon know she has the upper hand.

“Fine,” she says, “You don’t want to talk about it.”

I shrug. “Nothing to talk about.” And there isn’t, really. Am I getting attached? It happens. You just have to push through it, like an athlete pushes though that moment when he hits the wall. There were times in the early years when I used to curse God, times when I was almost paralyzed by guilt. I was like the farm kids who cry when it’s time to kill the lamb. They sob themselves to sleep, but in the end they eat it and they like it. And aren’t I even more justified? It’s me or them. Faced with that choice, anyone would choose himself. That’s human nature.

And it’s demon nature to smell a weakness. An is still studying me too closely. She can tell there’s something more on my mind. “Fine.” I lower my voice. “If you have to know, I think the girl may have a gift.”

An smiles wickedly. “Really? That virginal little thing?” She reaches down and lays a hand over the crotch of my jeans. “I wouldn’t think there was anything she could do to you that hadn’t been done before.”

I push her hand away. “I’m not talking about that kind of gift. And if she comes down and sees you touch me like that, she’ll break up with me and I’m dead. You get that, right?
Dead.
”

She holds up her hands in fake apology. “My bad, Deveraux.” Her smile doesn’t falter. “Tell me, what is this gift?”

I lower my voice another notch, although there’s no one around to hear. “I think she may be able to see ghosts.”

That sobers her. Her eyes go wide. “You mean… But what about the spirits of past years’ girls? Won’t they warn her?”

“They can’t. Only a few have escaped the castle, and they’re still bound by the curse. It won’t let them say anything about me to anyone.”

“But still! They can cause problems,
n’est pas
?”

I think of Kayla’s crash. There’s no proof the escaped midnight girls caused it, but there’s no proof they didn’t, either. “True.”

An’s forehead is creased with thought. “When did this start?”

“She says she saw her twin brother after her died, but I suspect she may have seen other ghosts as well. Or at least she thinks she did. Whether or not—”

“Her twin brother?” An’s eyes are wide. She breathes a string of swears in French. “Well, then, it may well be true! You know that can happen, when a twin passes over to the other side, particularly a twin of the opposite sex, yes? It creates a link with the world of the dead. The connection they held in life is carried over in death and the survivor develops the ability to see the dead. It’s rare, of course. There would have to be someone with the sight somewhere in her bloodline…”

The concern on her face scares me, but I try not to let it show. “So, you think I’m right to be cautious?”

“Yes. No.” She frowns. “Maybe, but it could be an advantage, too. Yes, she might see your escaped midnight girls, but she also might be able to send them into the light.”

I shake my head. “Nothing gets rid of the ones who have leaked out. Trust me, I’ve tried. They can’t be sent into the light.”

“Not by you, no. But by someone with that level of connection to the other side, it should be a simple thing. She would only need to command them to go with the
lux vos liberabit.
”

“The light will set you free.” I know the Latin phrase. I’ve tried it myself a few times over. It had never worked for me, but would it work for Saintly?

An smiles slowly. “Someone with the power to banish ghosts. That could be very useful, could it not?”

Useful doesn’t begin to cover it. If the escaped girls have reached some sort of critical mass where they are able to actually affect things in the physical world, having someone who can send them into the light could mean the difference between life and death for me.

“But it’s a moot point,” I remind her—and myself. Saintly has to die. There’s no time to find a replacement. I’m surprised by my own disappointment, but it’s not because I’m getting attached.
It’s only because of her gift
, I think. That’s all that makes her special.

And if she’s special in other ways?

But of course, they are all special to someone.

No
, I correct myself,
don’t think that way
. It doesn’t matter what they mean to anyone else. It only matters what they mean to me.

And what does Saintly mean to me? She’s a midnight girl. She has to be.

But thinking of her upstairs, sleeping peacefully in my bed, I can’t help wishing there were some other way.

Saintly

The next day passes like a dream. We still have Por Toujours to ourselves, so we linger over brunch of omelets and bacon and light, fluffy pastry. My heart feels light and fluffy, too—fluffy as the lazy snowflakes that drift past the dining room windows, light as the late-morning sunshine that glitters off the frost. We savor our coffee by the fireplace, chatting about books and movies, about everything and nothing. Dev looks even more handsome than usual, even in his worn jeans and flannel shirt, the firelight bringing out the red in his messy morning curls. Just looking at him brings me back to last night, and I smile into my coffee cup, my face going warm with the memory. Delia had warned me the first time would be awkward, but sex with Dev was anything but. He was so sure of himself, but gentle, too. I had worried that I might have regrets, or that sleeping together might change things between us, but if anything, being with Dev only feels more comfortable than before.

True, I can feel his friend Antoinette watching me all day, as she refreshes our coffee and clears away our plates, but if she guesses I slept with Dev for the first time—even if he told her—what does it matter? And if she’s a little jealous, let her be. I feel like someone who should be envied today. There’s a feeling spreading through me, the way the honeyed morning sunlight spreads across the hardwood floors, and I recognize it like an old friend I never thought I’d see again: Happiness. For the first time in ages I feel happy and relaxed and perfectly, blessedly normal.

By the time our car pulls away from Por Toujours, this whole being-happy thing is starting to come back to me, the way Spanish always comes back to me when I visit my grandmother. I think about how, a day or two into the visit, I start getting my Tio Julio’s jokes and following my
abuelita’s
rapid-fire prayers. I wonder if I’ll be speaking fluent happiness soon, dreaming in happiness at night. At any rate, I’m sure there won’t be nightmares, not if I’m curled up with Dev. The very thought makes me smile as I turn up the car radio, stealing glances at him. He’s driving one-handed, just so he can hold my hand.

But the closer we get to campus, the more foreign happiness starts to feel, and when Dev pulls over to the side of the road about a half-hour from home, I feel the old, familiar worry coming back.

“What’s wrong? Why are you pulling over?”

“I just wanted to to talk to you about something.” Dev smiles reassuringly. “You know, before we get home.”

“Okay…” I watch him warily, silently cursing myself for relaxing. I should have known this morning was too good to be true. “What about?”

He’s still holding my hand. He gives it a little squeeze. “About what you told me last night on the bridge. About seeing your brother.”

Crap.
My happy mood vanishes as the worst-case scenario mushrooms in my mind. He’s going to tell me he can’t handle my insanity, that this is too much to deal with. And who can blame him? Dev has been through a lot, too. I toy with my seatbelt nervously, wishing it could protect me from the emotional crash to come. “You think I’m crazy, right?”

“No. I actually don’t.” Dev’s blue eyes are serious. “Totally the opposite, actually. I think you’re totally sane. I just think you can see ghosts.”

A strange feeling floods me, a mixture of relief and revulsion. I’ve been waiting for someone to tell me I’m sane, but… “There’s no such thing as ghosts.” The words taste false. I know the ghosts are real; I’ve known it since I talked to Jesse. But Dev is the first living person to say it out loud.

“I think they’re real,” Dev says simply. “And I think you do, too.”

“Why do you think they’re real?” I’m not ready to commit to believing just yet.

Dev’s eyes drift back to the road in front of us. “Let’s say I’ve had experiences of my own.”

Experiences. My mind races, trying to imagine what he’s talking about. Did he see his girlfriend Kayla after she died? I want to ask him, but something in his expression stops me.

“Nothing near as strong as your experiences, I’m sure,” he adds. He sounds almost admiring, as though my ability to see ghosts is something to be envied. It makes me want to laugh bitterly. I’m sure his experiences weren’t as “strong” as mine—or as horrible.

Although, I have to admit, it feels good to have Dev believe me. Good in a scary way.

Dev takes a deep breath. “The thing is, Saint, I believe in this stuff, and I believe it’s dangerous.” He turns angles himself toward me in his seat so he can look me in the eye. “And I need you to humor me on something.”

I feel like the conversation has gone off into strange territory. Dev wants
me
to humor
him
? “Sure,” I say. “Of course. What is it?”

“I want you to promise me if you ever see another ghost, you’ll send it into the light.”

It sounds ridiculous, but he looks so serious. “I… I wouldn’t know how.”

“It’s easy. You just have to command it. Really put the weight of your intention behind it, visualize it going, and say
lux vos liberabit
. Say it.”