“Why would she care?” Della asked.
Marla shrugged. “I don’t know, but you probably should’ve asked.”
Della bit the edge of her lip, realizing that before she’d been turned, she probably would have asked for permission for even something that mundane. Chalk up one positive thing for living at Shadow Falls. Holiday and Burnett, the camp leaders, ran a tight ship, but they gave the students enough rope to either swing on or hang themselves. So far, Della hadn’t gotten hung. Well, not hung too bad. And in the past six months, she’d grown to like her independence.
Marla walked closer. Her pink nightshirt only came down to mid-thigh. Della realized her sister was changing—growing. Now fourteen, she’d lost the little-girl look. Her long dark hair was blacker than Della’s. Of the two of them, Marla looked more like their father. More Asian. That should make Dad happy, Della thought.
“Are you okay?” Marla asked.
Before Della realized what Marla intended to do, she’d touched her. Della pulled away, but Marla held her arm. “I’m fine.”
Marla made a face. “You’re still so cold. And you don’t act like yourself anymore. You’re always frowning.”
Because I’m hungry! “I’m fine. You should probably go back to bed.”
Marla didn’t move. “I want my ol’ sister back.”
Tears stung Della’s eyes. A part of Della wanted her back, too. “It’s late.” She blinked, dispersing the watery weakness. At Shadow Falls she seldom cried, but here, tears came easier. Was it because here, she felt more human? Or was it because here, she felt like the monster she knew they’d believe her to be if they knew the truth?
“Dad’s so worried about you,” Marla continued. “I heard him and Mom talking the other night. He said you reminded him of his brother. He said he got cold and became difficult. Then he died. You’re not gonna die, are you?”
Della pushed her emotions aside to digest what Marla had said. “Dad didn’t have a brother.”
“I didn’t know about him, either. So I asked Mom later, and she said Dad had a twin but he got killed in a car accident.”
“Why doesn’t he ever talk about him?” Della asked.
“You know how Dad is, he never talks about things that hurt him. Like he never talks about you anymore.”
Della’s heart clutched. She knew Marla hadn’t said it to be mean, but damn if the words didn’t slice right into her heart. She wanted to curl up into a pathetic little ball and just sob.
But she couldn’t do that. Vampires weren’t weak or pathetic.
Two hours later, the sun still hadn’t risen, and Della lay there, head on her monster pillow, staring at the ceiling. Not sleeping wasn’t unusual. But now it wasn’t just the normal nocturnal tendencies keeping her burning the midnight oil. The pimple on her neck throbbed. She ignored it. It would take more than a pimple to bring her down.
She remembered an old saying her mom used to tell her: “Sticks and stones can break my bones, but words can never hurt me.”
Her mom was so friggin’ wrong.
You know how Dad is, he never talks about things that hurt him. Like he never talks about you anymore. Those words broke her heart.
She lay there feeling the night ease by, and then she remembered something else Marla had said. He said you reminded him of his brother. He said he got cold and became difficult. Then he died.
Marla’s words kept flowing through her head as if they were important. Della suddenly bolted up when she realized why. Did he mean cold literally? Or cold as in distant? Could her uncle have been … a vampire? Did he fake his own death to save his family from knowing the truth?
The susceptibility to the vampire virus ran in families. And she knew her cousin, Chan, was a vampire. Only he bordered on being rogue, making it hard for her to have any kind of a relationship with him.
But her father’s twin … if he was at all like her father, he would be a stern man, but a man with principles. He would be a rule follower to the point of being a hardass. He wouldn’t be rogue. If … he was like her father.
But how would she know? How could she find out with nothing to go on? Obviously her dad wouldn’t tell her. Nor her mom. And she suspected Marla had told her all she knew.
Questions started forming in her head. What was his name? Where had they been living when he went missing … or when he died? She accepted she could be wrong. Her uncle could have really died.
A memory from the past suddenly started tapping at her brain. A book. An old photo album. Her dad had pulled it out years ago to show them a picture of his great-grandmother. She remembered the old leather cover and she recalled that her father had put it in that drawer beneath the liquor cabinet in his study.
Was it still there? And if so, could it possibly contain a photo of her dad’s twin? Maybe a photo with his name? She stood up, clenching her fists. She had to look. Glancing at the clock, she saw it was four. Her parents didn’t wake up until six.
Taking a deep breath, she quietly walked out her bedroom door, went down the steps, and moved into her father’s study. It was his room, his private space. Her father was a private man.
She hesitated and swallowed a lump of emotion. Violating his space felt wrong, but how else was she going to get answers?
She twisted the doorknob and stepped inside. The room smelled like her father. His aftershave, and maybe hot tea with special herbs with a hint of the expensive brandy he sipped on Sundays. Memories of them spending time in here together tiptoed across her heart. He’d helped her with calculus sitting at that desk. He’d taught her to play chess with his love of the game, and after that, at least once a week, he would bring her in here to play. He usually beat her. He was good. Though a couple of times she suspected he’d let her win just to make her happy. He might have been strict, and even a hardass, but he’d loved her. Who knew his love had been so conditional?
There were no more games now. No more father-daughter time. But maybe, just maybe, if she was right, she might find a man who was as good as her father. A man who would understand the difficulties she faced. A man who might care about her now that her father had turned his back on her.
She knelt down in front of the cabinet. If she recalled correctly, the book was in the back behind her father’s favorite brandy. She pulled the brandy out and reached deeper in the cabinet. When her hand touched the smooth, dry-feeling old leather, her heart beat a little faster.