Page 6 of Snow

All this time, she has had no idea I existed.

But now, like this, I cannot resist the hold she has on me.

Luna.

It has not escaped my notice that her name feels a little like Nova’s on my tongue. Except, Luna is nothing like Nova.

She is soft, and quiet, and her strength is nestled somewhere between the cracks of her bones. In small hairline fractures that she cannot feel or see. Fractures I want to snap open so she is forced to confront them.

I want to coax her strength free.

I want to open her up to herself and show her what I see.

Luna.

I glance at the sun. It is creeping down below the buildings on the horizon. Giving way to the night. Relinquishing its power.

Despite being quaintly unable to confront the realities of the supernatural underbelly of their city, every single person who lives here knows what happens after dark.

If they didn’t, they wouldn’t scurry back to their homes as soon as the sun sets.

If they didn’t, they wouldn’t avoid my museum because of the darkness that swells inside it.

If they didn’t, they wouldn’t leave garlic hanging above their doors and crosses in their babies’ rooms.

Ironically, if they paid more attention, they’d learn neither of those things have any effect on vampires. And that there are plenty more, plenty scarier, things to be worried about.

Finally, the light has gone, and the shadows of Cambridge reign supreme. I jump from the roof, swing my legs over the parapet and scale the building, scurrying down the wall as my muscles twitch and hum with the pleasure of being used to their full capacity for the first time in so long.

It takes barely a minute to travel the dark side streets between the museum and the bookstore where she works.

Before I even turn the corner at the end of the street, I smell her. Her scent has always been a paradox, both innocent and alluring. But tonight, I sense something else.

There’s her usual perfume, which reminds me of autumn leaves and warm vanilla, but beneath them lurks a note I can’t place – like the first wisps of smoke before a fire catches light.

I force myself to slow down, and linger beside the abandoned graveyard. I can hear her packing up for the day – tidying the last of the books that were shuffled or moved by ignorant customers. Her pace is slow and considered. It forces me to breathe a little slower, so I close my eyes as I lean into it.

Nearby, patrons are lining up to enter the theatre, restaurants are full to bursting, tourists are wandering back to their AirBnbs and their hotels in their sad, damp raincoats.

But her stillness is like a blanket of cloud, softening the noise. Reeling me in.

I stalk closer, sticking to the shadows even though it is dark. When I reach the bookstore, I position myself by the wall opposite, so I can see inside. Now, the scent of old books seeps out into the street, too.

I know at least twenty of them.

The ones that carry an aroma unique to my family. Taken from the Thornfield estate around the same time Luna began working here.

I have thought often about buying them back. But I like the idea that she occasionally touches them. Caresses them. Spends time with them.

For a moment, all I see is the window display and the shelves of books behind it. Then, finally, she moves into view. I flex my fingers, nails biting into my palms so hard they draw blood.

She is a symphony of perfect imperfection. Her hair hangs loose over her shoulders, in curls that are a little unruly. Fizzing at their ends and their edges. She wears barely any makeup, but the dark gray liner she uses to make her naturally large eyes look larger has smudged at the corner. It is only just disguised by her glasses.

Her lips are pale, and her skin paler.

She reaches up to replace some books on a shelf that is too high for her. It makes her top ride up, exposing a soft belly that drags a growl from deep in the back of my throat.

Dropping her arm, she adjusts her clothes self-consciously, smoothing them over her stomach.