88. Possession

“So who exactly are you?” 

The question caught Lachlan off-guard and he lifted his head off of his chest to regard the other man between his swollen lids. “Me?” His laugh stuttered into a cough. “I'm a genie. I grant wishes. I thought you were going to beat me to death, not give me a questionnaire.”

The man’s hand connected with Lachlan’s cheek with a loud crack. He felt his left zygomatic bone splinter under the man’s hand, and a few of his vertebrae popped as his head snapped to the side. Lachlan dispelled a breath. His left eye no longer opened. “That’s better.” 

The man said something in a language that Lachlan didn’t understand. Oh he could have, technically, if his brain weren’t sloshing around the inside of his skull like a baby squid in a fish bowl. 

Heh. Squid. Fishbowl. I’m hilario—

A meaty fist crashed into the other side of his face, knocking his thoughts clean out of his head. Blood filled his mouth. He tried to spit it out, but mostly it dribbled passed his lips and onto his lap. 

That’s hygienic. 

“You gonna tell me why I found you in my baby sister’s room, or do I have to hit you again?” 

That was a loaded question. How did one tell his captor that he was in a little girl’s room to end her life? Somehow he doubted the straight forward approach was the best approach, but he couldn’t actually think of a lie that was any better. After all, the girl was thirteen while he…well he looked about thirty. Nothing that he said would merit any different treatment than what he was already being subjected to. Still, he might have thought of something to say if he could feel his tongue well enough to say it. Well, that’s problematic…

Lachlan  managed a gurgle. A blood bubble passed his lips and burst, splattering his already bloodied face. 

He dropped his head to his chest again and let out one long exhale. Then he held his breath. 

“Hey,” the man kicked the chair he was tied to, jarring him, but Lachlan didn’t let himself emit another sound. He needed a few seconds where he wasn’t being punched in the face. Just a few. 

“Did you hear me, fucker?”  The man added a sort of growl to his voice, but it didn’t quite manage to hide the sliver of fear that had carefully wedged itself between his words.

Uh oh. Someone’s not quite the cold-blooded killer he thought he was. Lachlan may have pitied the man if he weren’t focusing on healing the chunk of his tongue that he’d accidentally bitten. He tried not to wince as the muscle mended itself much too slowly for his liking, or shiver as the roots of his loose molars drew his teeth back into his gum line. Worst. Feeling. Ever. 

“Hey!” He was almost desperate now, desperate enough to grab the chair with both hands and shake it.  “Don’t you be dead, you bastard, I’m not through with you!” 

Spit flecked Lachlan’s face, mingling with his blood. All right, this is getting disgusting.

Lachlan lifted his head and locked gazes with the man who was mere inches from his face. It was hard to tell with one eye swollen completely shut and the other not too much better, but he’d say that a look of relief passed over the man’s face followed renewed anger. The man opened his mouth as if to speak, but Lachlan interjected: 

“Stop.” He gave the command in Death’s Voice. It didn’t matter that his own voice was weak, that the entire side of his face throbbed, that he could barely see. It wasn’t him, not really—well, no, it was him. That was the shame of it. It was his voice, abnormally strong,  it was he who left the broken body in the chair by throwing himself through its mouth and nose, and entered the body of the man. It was Lachlan who choked the man’s soul into silence while he used the man’s body to until his own from the chair. 

Carefully, Lachlan laid the body he’d been born with on the floor and eyed the damage. “That’s going to take a couple days to fix.” He rubbed the back of his head, only slightly put off by the fact that the hair under his hand was much shorter than that of the body he was born with.  

Well, that was an understatement, he thought, looking at the long braids of his people. 

He looked down at the body he inhabited now. Taller than his, stockier, but not overweight. Not entirely, anyway. He could see a couple of scars under the blood that was smeared across the man's knuckles. Well, that made sense. He was a blacksmith, after all. 

And a good man. The man's memories slowly seeped into Lachlan's mind: he had a wife, a little girl. They had been taken from him by sickness; he worked to keep his mind off of them, visited his mother and father and sister, whom their mother had too late in life. His parents died. Now his sister was the only family he had left. 

Well, that heartwarming. 

Lachlan pinched the bridge of his nose. He hated his job and this gods-damned not-life that he'd been stuck with. 

There you go, Lach, stew in it. Giving himself a slightly shake, he pulled the small dagger from the belt of the man he currently inhabited and then pulled the blade across his throat. 

The soul of the man beat against him in a frantic burst--bird's wings against a cage. 

Don't worry, Lachlan told the soul as its beating weakened along with the body's heart. No reincarnation awaits you this time. 

Strange that a man might seek solace from that, that the knowledge that he had lived a good enough life that his soul could rest eternally was a comfort for a dying man. For any other people, the promise of an another chance would have been comfort in and of itself, but for Lachlan, and for the man whose body was dying around him, a man of the Estrilands, another chance meant being separated from your loved ones for that much longer. And this man...this man wanted to be with his wife and little girl. 

Sister...

It was such a tiny thought, and it took Lachlan a moment to understand that it didn't come from him. 

One last worry. One last request. 

Lachlan forced the soul out of the body, not having the heart to answer. He'd almost forgotten about the girl. 

His own body was still not fit to return to. The right side of his face was still concaved in a strange fashion, and Lachlan didn't relish the idea of walking around with such ugly bruises before he had to. So instead of returning to his body, he leaked through the Blacksmith's house and under the door to the girl's room. 

She was sitting up in bed, looking out the window. Her hair was lank, dirty because she hadn't had the strength to get out of bed for weeks. Not since the incident in the woods. 

The dark spirit that she encountered there clung to her mind and squeezed it. Lachlan didn't know what kind of beast it was, but he knew that it was forcing the girl down into the darkest chambers of her own mind and that there was nothing she could do to stop it. There was nothing anyone could do, otherwise he wouldn't be here. 

She looked in his direction. Lachlan was certain that she could not see him, but he was equally certain that she knew he was there. 

I bet you're ready, aren't you? 

She looked ready. Lachlan's job meant that he saw a lot of people on the brink of suicide. Being the guy that sent their souls aloft before their bodies died, the look in the girl's eyes wasn't exactly uncommon, but so few looked quite as ready as she was. 

Lachlan took her soul gently before he entered her body. It took a great effort to stand with her weak legs, to move to the window. Her weakness would help her in the long run. 

At first, he wasn't sure she'd be able to climb out of the window, her frail little body trembled from exhaustion long before her bare feet even touched the deep snow. He didn't feel the cold, but the body did, and it responded accordingly. 

She wouldn't get far. Not as weak as she was-certainly not without a soul. 

Sure enough, her legs buckled when he left her, and when she fell, she did not move to push herself up. He hovered over her until he was sure her heart no longer beat, and then grudgingly, Lachlan let the wind carry him away. 

87. Gunshot

The wolves scattered when the gun exploded only a short distance from where they’d congregated. A slender, tawny female yipped in surprise and paused just long enough to grab the deer leg she’d procured for herself before darting between a few trees and turning back to see where the noise had come from. She was followed by a large white and grey male who grabbed the other end of the leg and used it to lead the female back several more feet. 

Where the fuck did that come from? True to his nature, the Alpha’s voice ripped through his pack’s minds in a sharp bark. Clara, Brighton, report! 

I’m in the backyard! The tawny female was trying to shake her prize from the mouth of the bi-coloured male. Get the fuck off of it, Right, it’s mine. 

Why don’t you share, greedy bi—

BRIGHTON, REPORT NOW!

The male let go of the leg with a yipping whine and dropped to his belly, ears flatted against his skull. With Clara—I’m with Clara; stop yelling at me! 

Shut the fuck up. Daniela, where are you?

A girl of about thirteen, popped up from one of the nearby bushes, bare as the day she was born, with wild brown hair. “Heeere!” She held her hand up in the direction of the brick house that lay just on the other side of a cluster of trees. Her mindvoice echoed the sentiment. “Scared me clean outta my fur! Could someone bring me somethin’ so I’m not running starkers ‘til my heart settles?” 

There was a sort of buzz as someone acknowledged the naked girl’s request while the Alpha continued his roll call. Aspen, Devon, Corky? What about Topher? Has anyone seen Topher? 

Three young voices sounded and gave their locations. There was a heavy pause while they waited for Topher. 

The tawny female flicked her ears back and forth. Her companion looked longingly at the leg she was holding. 

The Alpha snapped again, Topher, answer me. Another pause. The minds of the wolves buzzed in concern before the Alpha bellowed the missing wolf’s name. The bellow was accompanied by a low, searching howl. 

A couple of unfamiliar voices answered from down the road, but not the voice they were looking for. 

He was with us for a little while, Aspen admitted, we were looking at all of the cars, but then that man came out and we ran; but Topher said he was going to stay and ask about the cars…

God damn it, Aspen, you’re not supposed to separate! The snarling voice of a woman cut in. How many times have we told you that you aren’t supposed to separate when you’re outside of the yard? 

I’m sorry, Felicia; he was really insistent and he wouldn’t come back with us! I can’t just boss anyone I please, and he’s much bigger than me!

The Alpha’s voice overlaid Aspen’s; Clara, take Righton and go down the road to His house and see if Topher’s still there. 

The tawny female complained noisily both in voice and mind, I’m eating, Donny. Make Right go himself. 

If Right goes by himself, we’ll have two missing wolves instead of one—

I can hear you! The bi-coloured wolf put his paw over his nose and groaned in a disgruntled fashion. 

Then why the fuck aren’t you moving? The Alpha spat. Clara, take him and go—is anyone else missing? Felicia, are the little still upstairs with you? 

All but Riella, but she’s with Conny and Morgan at the grocery store. 

As the Alpha and his mate exchanged information, the tawny female dropped her deer leg and flicked her ears in annoyance. When the white and grey wolf made a move for the leg she gave a barking snarl and gnashed her teeth near his face. 

Startled, the male jumped back again and bared his teeth. Don’t boss me, Clara, I’ll rip your ears right off. 

“I thought I told the two of you to go find Topher?” The Alpha came around a big oak with a set of clothing in his hands. He walked between the wolves and kicked the deer leg into a bush. “Leave the god damned leg alone and go before I use it to beat the shit out of you; we have a missing pup and you’re going to fuck around over a front leg—Daniela, where are you?” 

A slender hand emerged and waved. “Here, Donny; don’t come too close though; I think I’m standing in poison ivy.” 

“Oh, honey, why don’t you bother to look before you turn?” 

“I couldn’t! I said I was scared right outta my fur; what did you think I meant?” 

There was a series of gruesome popping and snapping noises as the wolves behind him began to shift back into humans. Donny looked over his shoulder at the pair of adults to make sure they were heading in the direction of the house before going down the street to look for the boy. The last thing they needed was for those two bozos to forget they were naked and start walking around the general public. He should have bought that house in the nudist colony. 

He turned back to the girl in the bushes. “All right puppy, circle ‘round, let’s see what you did to yourself.” He unfolded a white sundress that his mate handed him when Daniela announced that she needed a change of clothing, and he held it out as a sort of shield between himself and girl to save her budding sense of modesty some grief. He turned his head, too, for good measure. 

The girl fumbled out of the bush and grabbed her dress. Donny waited until she said “Ready,” before he turned and looked at her. Her scrawny legs were already turning red. 

“Yep, that’s poison ivy. Damn it, Daniela,” He ran his hand through his hair and noticed that her arms were starting to break out, too.  “All right, come on, let’s go; inside—no, I’m definitely not carrying you, puppy.” He took a step back as she held her arms out to him.

Looking a little hurt, she dropped her arms and started off toward the house. Donny found his mate’s mind. Grab that canister of oatmeal and the box of chamomile tea and dump it all in a tub of warm water. And put towels down on the way to the bathroom, would you?

What the hell happened? Did Topher show up? Is he all right? 

No, Clara and Right should be heading down the street to see if the kid is with the ball of sunshine down the road. Daniela changed right in a bush covered with poison ivy; she’s already tomato red. 

Oh, fantastic. Felicia’s voice had an unkind bite to it. I’ll call Morgan and see if they’re at the store. Maybe they can pick up some calamine while they’re there.

Daniela was holding her arms perpendicular to the rest of her body and waving them slightly by the time that they got to the house. “I’m really itchy!” she complained, turning sideways and passing through the door. She narrowly avoided Brighton and Clara who both looked on transfixed as their dark haired Alpha ushered the girl down a path of towels to the bathroom. 

He spared them a glance that said quite plainly they should already be halfway down the street in his opinion, and said to the girl, “You should have looked where you were turning.” 

She squawked an indignant protest as Felicia intercepted her in the bathroom and shut the door in Donny’s face. 

“I’ll take care of her. You watch the little ones; they’re in the play pen.” 

Shaking his head slightly, Donny headed toward the stairs, kicking the towels into a pile as he went so that Felicia could pick them up later. 

He paused when he passed the window on the second floor landing so that he could watch Clara and Brighton make their way down the road. 

“He better be here,” Clara grumbled when they rounded the bend in the road and approached the yard with rusted old cars strewn across it. “Dunno why the hell he would be; this guy scares the shit outta me.” 

“He likes cars,” Brighton yawned as the wind pushed one of the clouds out of the way of the sun, and he shook his head a little. “Something about his dad being a mechanic or some shit.” 

“Doesn’t stop Him from being scary as fuck,” she muttered as they stepped on the drive. She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted toward the house; “Topher! You better fucking be here!” 

She paced the length of the driveway’s end and eyeballed the house. Brighton plopped gracelessly on the corner of the street and turned the sole of his foot upward so he could pick a rock out from between his toes. “Why don’t you go up to the front door, Einstein?” 

“Why the fuck don’t you?”

“Why are you so angry?” 

“I’m hungry, damn it.” She cupped her hands and called the boy’s name again. 

“Hey check it out,” Brighton tugged on the leg of Clara’s jeans and jutted his chin at the other side of the driveway. A lanky cat with a sleek coat clambered out of the storm drain that rain under the end of the concrete drive and sat down on top of the metal tube. “Ballsy little tidbit, isn’t she?” 

The two wolves watched the cat watch them. 

“You think He’d miss her?” Clara wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist and licked her lips. 

“Maybe. Maybe she’s a stray, though.” 

Clara crouched several inches lower to the ground and watched the cat intently. Her muscles bunched as she prepared to launch out of her skin after the cat, but the moment before she moved, the cat meowed politely at her and vanished. 

The next thing Clara knew, she was fighting for her balance as Brighton gripped one of her legs. “WHAT THE FUCK JUST HAPPENED?!” He looked up at her, tightening his hold on her leg. She reached down and gripped the male's hair to keep her balance. 

"Let go of me, asshole," she muttered; and then much louder, "TOPHER!" The sooner they could get the pup, the sooner they could go the fuck home. Away from Him and his god damned vanishing cat.

The screen door at the front of the house opened and shut with a creak and a bang. A blond boy of around fifteen or so skipped down the stairs and then strode through the grass toward them with all the confidence of a budding Alpha. Topher wasn’t alone, though. Walking slowly behind him was the broad shouldered proprietor of the house, and He didn’t look very amused at the sight of two wolves grappling at the end of his driveway.

Topher gave Clara and Brighton both a cheeky smile and took a bite out of some white bread sandwich just as Clara managed to remove herself from Brighton’s hold. Clara was going to scold the youth for making her shout so much, but He interjected, coming to a stop several paces from the end of his drive.

“Hi there,” His voice was pleasant, but tight. “Why are you trying to eat my ghast?”

Clara looked at Brighton. What the fuck’s a ghast?

Brighton, in the process of getting up to his feet, made a noncommittal noise, Don’t admit to anything. Admitting to things will just get us into trouble. I say we take the puppy and get the fuck out while we still have our tails and testicles.

I don’t have testicles, moron.

You could have fooled me.

“You know, that’s kind of rude,” He said to them, interrupting what would have probably turned into a lengthy debate. “You should speak up so that we can all hear you.”

Clara bared her teeth at Brighton before she turned the expression into a tight smile directed at Him. “We’re sorry; we didn’t know it was yours.” Whatever the fuck it was. “We came for our boy.” She pointed at the youth who was chewing his sandwich. It was hard not to focus on the sandwich—harder when the wind shifted and brought with it the smell of ham.

Nostrils flaring slightly, Clara debated just abandoning conversation all together and grabbing the sandwich from the boy’s hand. “Can I have that?” Oops, well, so much for manners.

Topher frowned, “Leave me alone, Clara, it’s mine; His mate made it for me.”

 Clara licked the front of her teeth from under her lips and was clearly struggling with some internal debate; sensing her troubles, Brighton brought himself to his full, not quite impressive height, and offered a less strained smile at Him.

He, on the other hand, was looking at Topher, seeming a bit concerned. “You know them, then?”

Topher, still eyeing Clara distrustfully, took another bite of his sandwich and answered with a muffled, “Mmphm.” He nodded so that there was no confusion as to whether or not he was claiming the two nutballs at the end of the drive. Swallowing probably before he should have, he clarified, “they’re my…cousins, ish. Clara, Brighton.” He pointed at each and then looked back at Him with a shrug.

Clara took advantage of Topher’s looking away to sneak her hand toward his sandwich, but apparently He was less inclined to let the boy learn a hard lesson, because he said with great hesitancy:

“Er, you know if you’re hungry…you’re welcome in. We have plenty of stuff for more sandwiches.”

Clara opened her mouth to accept the offer immediately, but Topher said quickly, “They’ll be fine. We only live down the road.”

For a moment, Clara looked mad enough to spit, but Topher was looking pointedly at Brighton and shaking his head very subtly. Clara, having no idea what Topher was trying to say, but recognizing the slight drop of his tone as a young Alpha’s insistence, said very slowly, “Oookaaay….well…I guess that we won’t…then.” She licked her lips as her eyes lingered on the boy’s ham sandwich.

Brighton whined softly, the inhuman sound almost comical as it was emitted from a very human throat. “We should get back,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his head and mussing the short, caramel coloured hair that was there. “Donovan’s in a piss anyway; Daniela ran straight into a bunch of poison ivy when that gun went off.”

“Gun?” Topher looked confused. He finished off his sandwich despite the fact that Clara was practically drooling on his shoulder over it. He looked at The Man, cheeks puffed with his sandwich, as though asking “What gun?”

And then his face brightened. “O’ ta ker,” He made a face, chewed a few times, swallowed, and tried again. “That was a car.” He nodded at The Man. “We were fixing it—well, Deacon was fixing it. I got to turn the key, though! That’s what made the bang sound.” He grinned like he’d just been given the world’s biggest piece of candy. “It was really cool!”

Clara looked at Brighton. Brighton looked at Clara. They both looked at the boy and then at Him and then back at the boy.

“Oh,” Brighton was the first to speak. And then to Clara, Do we tell Donny?

That the bigass hunters he thinks are lurking around here has actually been cars backfiring? Hell yes, if it keeps us from having to scramble around like morons every time it happens.

I meant about the kid being in the car…

I’m sure as fuck not telling him that, but if you want him to bite your butt…

There was an indignant sort of shake on the other end of their connection.

Clara’s stomach grumbled loudly.

“Well, best be off,” she gestured toward the road and looked at two of the three males expectantly. To the third, she said, “We appreciate you watching over him; that was super great of you. If you want to just give us a howe—er, holler, the next time he drops by unannounced, that would be wonderful.” That way they didn’t have to run around like chickens with their heads chopped off the next time Topher decided to tune them out.

He stepped forward with a concerned expression stretched across His face; “Look, if you’re hungry, it’s really no trouble.”

Again Clara found herself thinking of the sandwich and how delicious it probably had been. Stupid Topher. Stupid Donovan. Stupid car backfiring stupidly.

Brighton said, Donovan wouldn’t li—

I KNOW WHAT DONOVAN WOULDN’T LIKE! Clara turned on Brighton and snarled deeply. Brighton haunched his shoulders and scampered passed Clara, grabbing Topher by the front of his shirt and pulling him along.

Clara smiled politely as she could manage at Him. “It’s okay. I have a snack waiting for me at home.”

And then in a stiff sort of fashion, the woman turned and followed the two males down the street.

“You almost came unglued, Clara,” Brighton’s voice filtered back toward the driveway as the wolves walked away, “right in the open where everyone could see you.”

“Shut the fuck up, Moon Moon.”

“You think you’re so high and mighty because Donovan let you use the computer first; well I’m here to tell you I didn’t know that picture was being taken!”

“Meow,” the ghast looked up at Deacon politely and blinked.

Deacon shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t understand it either.”

80. Only Human

This might end up in the third book of The Historian's Archives, but it's for the 100 themes challenge. The prompt was "Only Human" 

______________________________________________________________________

“You’re only human,” he told her solemnly, not bothering to look at her as he spoke. No, he was too occupied with the sketch book sitting on his lap; and he was only talking to her, after all, why waste his time sparing her a glance as he pointed out what he obviously felt to be her greatest shortcoming. 

                

She gave him a look that she hoped would burn his skin clean off his muscles and bones. “You like to throw that at me, don’t you? Despite all of this stuff that you claim I’m supposed to be able to do, all of these reasons why I have to fulfill your list of requirements, you’re quick as fuck to throw my species back in my face whenever it suits you.” 

                

The vampire shrugged and rotated the pencil and wedge eraser in his hand so that he could correct the paper. Then he switched the positions of the two utensils again, and continued drawing. “You remind me of it often enough when you want to make excuses for why you shouldn’t have to do what you were clearly made to do, and yet you’re awfully quick to forget it when it comes to something that you want to do.” 

                

 Now he did look up at her, mis-matched eyes meeting hers in a steady, calm gaze. “I can put emphasis on key words, too, Ophelia. Your oratorical strategies have no effect on me.” 

                

The woman threw her hands in the air. “Never mind.” 

                

 “Don’t worry, I had no plans to.” 

                

They sat in silence that would have been worlds more comfortable if the woman weren’t radiating bitterness and something precariously close to hatred in the general direction of her companion. But the vampire, despite being acutely aware of the woman’s emotions, made no attempt to ease the tension between them. For better or worse, he was content to let her stew in her own dissatisfaction. 

                

 The woman, it seemed, was considerably less so. 

                

“It’s my damn life, Cavan. That’s the difference. It should be my choice what I do with it, what my responsibilities are, where I go and who with and why. I’m not your daughter, your sister—hell, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not even your friend—and I’m sure as a pixie’s tiny bulbous bottom not your responsibility. You shouldn’t get to swan into my world and tell me that I have to do A and B for the rest of my life, but that I’m not allowed to do C and D because it’s not my place—not even if I happen to have some freaky-deaky powers that no one has had in however many years.” 

                

Scritch—scritch—scritch…

                

 The damned pencil scribbling its way across the paper was her only answer, and she wanted to take his sketch book and beat him over the head with it. “Did you hear me, damn it?” 

              

“Yes, mother, I heard you.” 

              

She had just enough time to wonder if the man was determined to out-tone her every time she opened her mouth before the vampire put the book and the pencil down on the table next to his chair. To the woman’s disappointment, she couldn’t see what had been so damn interesting that he practically ignored her presence throughout the entire conversation. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on who you were, she didn’t have time to reflect on the dark blob of an image that she couldn’t quite make out, because the vampire began talking. 

“Your problem is that you still think that you live in the same cutesy, safe little world that you’ve been floating around in for the last twenty-something years. The world where you teach ballet for pennies that you save up so that you can earn a degree in the performing arts one measly class at a time—yeah, I know about that; I did my homework—unlike you, by the way. You still don’t know shit about how to control those powers of yours, and you’ve made a big show of not using them—“ 

“To fight some creepy crawly dream critter? Of course I haven’t, and you’re damn near crazy if you think I will!” 

“Honey, I’m a lot of things, but crazy isn’t one of them. Unfortunately.” 

“You’re such an asshole.”

“You’re changing the subject.”  He was looking at her intently, his elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of him. She couldn’t read his expression. Frankly, she didn’t know if she wanted to. 

“You think I’m selfish,” she said dourly. 

“No, I think you’re irresponsible. You think you’re selfish—no, obviously you do, or you wouldn’t have accused me of thinking you were.” He raised a hand to stop her from arguing. “I think that you haven’t yet developed an understanding of why it’s important that you take what you’ve been given and actually use it to its full potential, to do what you were actually given the gift to do.” 

“You want me to do that because you think that it will make your job easier.” It was hard to keep the accusation out of her voice, especially when he began to smile at her mid-sentence. 

“Of course I do, darling. I don’t want to keep running around cleaning up after the same beastie which could easily be killed if I could actually get into the Dreamscape to kill it.” He opened his hands and made a small shrugging motion. “But the fact is that it’s just something you were meant to do; call yourself Buffy if that’s what gets you through the day, but don’t live your life being dragged into one supernatural mess after another, always surprised by it because you’re still convincing yourself that things like that just don’t happen to people like you.” He sat back again, picked up the sketchbook and continued drawing.  “I would have thought that you’d want to put yourself in control of your situation.” 

The words hung between them for a few breaths. 

“It’s just a lot to ask of me,” she said quietly, bringing her legs up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. She put her chin on her knees and watched the vampire as he continued to scribble. “I mean, you’re asking me to put myself in prominent danger every time someone has a bad dream. How the hell am I supposed to actually get any sort of sleep at night myself if suddenly I have to worry about everyone else’s nightmares, too? I mean, sure, some of my abilities are really nifty; who wouldn’t want to teleport some place instead of spending three hours on a plane? But overall…I mean…It’s not like I’m immortal or harder to kill…I’ve never weighed more than a hundred and twenty-five pounds in my life, I’ve only just begun learning basic self-defense, and you’re asking me to take on monsters that could be twice my size, more magically attuned than I’ll ever be, and harder to kill than a grizzly when I only have a pocket knife. I mean, I don’t know if it’s escaped your notice or anything, but I’m only—“ she paused and pursed her lips. 

Cavan, to his credit, said nothing.