Page 367 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

"It's not shy." Claire's voice climbs. "It's patient. Demons are patient. It waited patiently in the basement because it was biding its time."

My nails dig into my palms. Valek is still crouched beside her chair, and I watch him carefully, because I felt something cold and angry flicker through the bond just now.

And he's rarely angry.

"So what if he looks a little scary?" Valek says, his voice deceptively mild. "Did you read fairy tales when you were a girl? It's the inside that counts, doesn't it? He even brings you flowers."

Claire looks at him.

For one fragile second, the certainty in her face wavers. Her eyes go soft and lost, and she looks down at her own hands like she's not sure whose they are anymore.

"Mikhail used to bring me dandelions," she whispers with a fond little smile. "From the yard. Whole handfuls of them. Weeds, if they were purple. He didn't know the difference."

My throat closes.

"He knows the difference now," Valek says gently, nodding to the flowers on her dresser. "He asked us to bring you purple ones because he remembers."

She blinks.

And then the softness slams shut like a storm door.

"It remembers," she hisses. "Because it dug through my son's memories after it ate him. That's how they trick people. That's how it tricked you, you pale freak."

Valek tilts his head. "Pale freak."

"Look at you." Her lip curls as her eyes rake over him. "White hair. Dead eyes. You're not right either. I can see it. There's nothing behind your face. You're another one of them. Another thing wearing skin."

Valek's smile twitches. "My, you're a delight."

"Get out."

"It's okay. We're going," I say, standing, because I've been done for about five sentences now.

"Take your monsters with you," Claire says to me, pulling the blanket up to her chin. "Both of them. And tell the wraith—" her voice cracks, high and thin— "tell it I know. I've always known. It doesn't matter if it tries to hide the truth."

Valek rises from his crouch, slow and unhurried.

He looks at her for a long moment, and I feel his cold consideration again through the bond.

My hand finds his sleeve.

"Val."

His eyes don't leave Claire.

Then he reaches out. She flinches, but all he does is turn the vase of lilacs so the darker petals she hates face her instead of the wall.

"There," he says. "The wrong purple. Since you prefer honesty."

He picks up the old wilted bouquet Wraith left last time, tucks it carefully under his arm, and walks to the door.

"Goodbye, Claire," I say quietly.

She doesn't answer. She's staring at the flowers, muttering something to herself, her fingers picking at the blanket.

I follow Valek out.

The door clicks shut behind us and I lean against the hallway wall, breathing like I just ran a mile. A care aide pushes a cart past us, gives us a polite nod, keeps going.