Chapter 2

Christabel

 

Lucy and her boyfriend were laughing when they came into the living room, where I was reading Jane Eyre for the six hundredth time. It was my security blanket, characters I knew and loved, red bedrooms full of ghosts and the dark moors. Van Helsing was asleep on the other end of the sofa, his huge, heavy head on my foot. He’d gotten up to look out the window and sniff the front door when Lucy came home and then went right back to his favorite napping spot.

“Hey,” Lucy said. “Thanks for covering for me with the parentals.” Gandhi trailed after her, sniffing the hem of Nicholas’s pants and wagging his tail. For ferocious guard dogs, they sure had no problem with boyfriends.

“It’s barely eight o’clock at night and they’re all freaky that you’re not home yet. It’s not like you live in the ghetto.” I paused, folding the top corner of the page to keep my place. My dad used to wince every time he saw me do that, but I think books should be loved to pieces. They should be as worn and soft as flannel. “Does Violet Hill even have a ghetto?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then what’s up?” Besides the fact that my mother was trying to kill me. There was no other explanation. Not only had she sent me to Violet Hill, the weirdest little backwoods town in the middle of nowhere, but she’d done it one month into my last year of high school.

In a place where everyone else had grown up together.

In a place with virtually no bookstores (at least none with more than one floor and windows not crammed with crystals and incense), one movie theater, and more vegan juice bars than coffeehouses. It just sucked.

I already missed home. I missed the anonymity of the crowded streets, libraries with rare books, and the fact that you could hop on the subway and end up anywhere.

Most of all I missed my mom.

I knew it was for the best. She needed treatment; she was getting worse and I just couldn’t take care of her anymore. When my uncle came to stay with us after his hippie van broke down, I could read it in his face. He was worried. I didn’t tell him that was the best Mom had been in weeks. After she got fired from her job at the office supply store, she lost nearly a week to a case of cheap wine. At least she drank the cheap stuff. Not that she had any choice—it wasn’t as if she could afford the expensive stuff. Anyway, she tried. She really did. But she just couldn’t seem to get better on her own. And Uncle Stuart was one of those peace-and-love family types. Before I knew it, my bags were packed and I was in the back of the patchouli wagon on the way to Violet Hill.

Lucy shrugged. “You know parents.” She had no idea. “We’re going to watch movies. Are you in?”

I shook my head, getting to my feet. “I’ll go read in my room.”

“I know for a fact that you’ve read that book a hundred times,” Lucy pointed out.

I read a lot. I love books. If they came in a bottle, I’d be a drunk too. I’d bloat myself on the wine of Wordsworth, the gin of Charles Dickens, the licorice liqueur of Edgar Allan Poe.

I bet you can already guess I don’t have a boyfriend. But to quote Pride and Prejudice for a moment: “Adieu to spleen and disappointment! What are men to rocks and mountains?”

Besides, guys are scared of me. Oh, I catch them looking sometimes. I have long, curly reddish-blond hair, and for some reason it mesmerizes them. I may as well be wearing a bikini. But then they see the ripped jeans, the combat boots, and the Edgar Allan Poe poem I’m reading (because I love it and not because it’s homework), and all of a sudden all the long blond hair in the world just isn’t enough.

Of course, Simon, my best friend back home, says it’s got nothing to do with any of that. He claims it’s because I stare at guys as if they’re stupid. Can I help it? Am I supposed to giggle and flirt when they say something dumb? Simon says yes. I say no.

Thus, no boyfriend.

Also, I use words like “thus.”

I can’t help it. I love old books best of all, with their wordiness and intricate descriptions of gas lamps and pickpockets. I like historical fiction and poetry too. Not those trendy vampire books though; they just get on my nerves. But Bram Stoker’s Dracula’s all right. Jane Eyre is my favorite book of all time. And I’ve been cultivating a very satisfying literary crush on the poet Percy Bysshe Shelley. I love that his wife, Mary Shelley, who wrote Frankenstein, kept his heart after he died in a handkerchief on the mantel and fought with fellow poet Byron over who should get to keep it.

I mean, really. What guy could compete with that?

Especially in this little hick town.

“You don’t have to go,” Nicholas added. He was so still, I’d almost forgotten he was there. He smiled his serious smile. “If you stay, Lucy’s bad movie choices will be outnumbered. I might actually get to watch something other than a John Hughes or zombie movie.”

“Hey!” she exclaimed. “B movies are an art form.”

“Sorry.” I smiled back at him apologetically. I’d watched enough movies with Lucy to know some cute guy would be either shirtless or mangled to death in a deserted cabin in the woods. The one time I tried to get her to watch Pride and Prejudice, she hadn’t been able to sit still. Granted, it was the six-hour version, but come on. What’s not to love?

I went down the hall, hung with gilt-edged paintings of various Indian gods with multiple arms. My room was the same as the rest of the house: simple wooden furniture; a handmade quilt on the bed; and a clutter of carved wooden boxes, incense holders, and yoga magazines in baskets. There was even a macramé holder for the spider plant in the window. But there was lots of space for my books and nothing smelled like stale wine. It was nice. Even with Van Helsing’s doggy breath. He liked to follow me around.

It was also eight o’clock on a Friday night, and there was no reason in the world why I should be locked up while Lucy and Nicholas made out in the next room. I used to spend summers here roaming around with Lucy. I should be able to find my way even after all this time. After Dad died and Mom went to pieces, I wasn’t able to leave her alone for an entire summer. She’d have forgotten to eat or pay the rent or take out the garbage. And then our secret would have been out. It was just easier if I stayed home. And I didn’t usually think about this stuff. I just did what needed doing and got good grades so no teachers or social workers would notice us.

Maybe I hadn’t been to the mountains in a few years, but I didn’t believe for one minute that Violet Hill was so overrun with crime that I’d be in danger. As if there were a lot of hippie gangs roaming the streets, wearing hemp clothing and pushing organic fruit smoothies on unsuspecting bystanders. Please. I was from the city. I’d once taken the subway alone past midnight. Not smart, granted, but I think I can handle a hick mountain town.

But no need to rub anyone’s face in it. I’d just slip out my window, go for a walk, and come back before my aunt and uncle returned. I was even on the ground floor, so I wouldn’t have to shimmy down some tree. I tossed my book on the bed and put on my jacket and the black knee-high moccasins I’d found in the closet. They weren’t as badass as my combat boots, obviously, but I loved them. And they were quiet, so I wouldn’t give myself away clomping.

I pulled my window open, the cool October air ruffling the curtains. My room looked out over the backyard with the brick patio, the huge vegetable garden, and the twinkly fairy lights strung through the apple trees. Fields stretched out to the edge of the woods. I wouldn’t go into the dark forest; I couldn’t remember if there were bears or mountain lions around here. I was far more scared of that possibility than random violence in town.

I dropped my leg over the side and bent down, squeezing myself over the window frame. A nail caught my jeans as I dropped down into the grass, tearing them. At least they were already ripped at the knee. The stars were dizzying overhead. At home we were lucky to see the Big Dipper. But here stars were everywhere, seeming to fall into the forest or come out of the mountains. Inside my room, Van Helsing whined. I poked my head back in.

“Go out the doggy door in the back, dummy,” I told him. I snapped my fingers and pointed to the open bedroom door behind him. He licked my finger and then hurtled down the hall like an elephant. I turned around, grinning.

And then suddenly I was falling back against the house, a hand closed over my mouth, a tall, lean body pressing me into the wall. My heart thudded with that slow, sick rhythm of fear, like a wet drum being played. Clearly, I’d been wrong.

It really wasn’t safe out after dark.

“Don’t scream,” a male voice said, almost sheepishly. “Please?”

Now I was confused. He seemed my age, with dark hair and what my novels would call an “amiable manner.”

Even if he did have me trapped between his body and the bricks.

I tried to kick him, just out of principle. I wished I were wearing my steel-toed boots. He evaded me easily.

“I’m Connor Drake,” he said, as if that meant anything. “I’m Nicholas’s brother,” he elaborated when I didn’t look particularly comforted. I vaguely remembered playing with a herd of brothers when I was little. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he promised. “Really.”

“Then let go!” I screeched against his palm. It sounded more like “Thennmffllg!”

“Oh, sorry!” He dropped his hand. “Don’t yell, okay?”

“Not okay,” I shot back. “Are you nuts?”

Van Helsing charged around the corner, kicking up clumps of dirt and grass. I smirked at Connor. I hoped the dog bit him right in the ass. Instead, he sat on Connor’s foot and drooled.

I sighed, disgusted. “Honestly.”

Connor pet his head. “He knows me.”

“Well, I don’t,” I grumbled. “Do you always accost girls?”

“It’s not safe around here at night.”

I looked at him pointedly. “I’m getting that.”

“Sorry.” He shrugged. Now that I had time to look at him, I saw the family resemblance. He had dark hair like Nicholas, and the same lean beauty. His eyes were blue, even in the faint glow of the twinkly lights. He was wearing jeans, a black T-shirt, and some sort of leather cuff on his wrist. He was really hot. Deranged, but hot. And not my type. I usually went for the bad boy. And this guy, despite lurking in the bushes, was clearly nice.

“I’m going inside now,” I announced, daring him to contradict me.

He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Okay.”

I half turned to eye the window. Logistics were going to be a problem. If I crawled back inside, not only would it be extremely undignified, but I’d end up sticking my butt right out at him. And he so didn’t deserve a look at my ass. I edged out of reach, moving as slowly as ivy creeping up a garden wall. “I’ll go around front.”

Van Helsing trotted at my side, furry traitor that he was. Connor trailed behind us, affable and yet somehow menacing at the same time. It wasn’t that I was scared of him, not really. I remembered him now. He’d been gangly, all elbows, his nose always buried in a comic book. But I’d been lectured about curfews and prowlers and danger since I’d arrived, so the fine hairs at my nape stirred, like a cat’s hackles rising for no discernible reason.

I cleared my throat. I was being ridiculous. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“I need to talk to my brother.”

“Oh.”

How did one make small talk that didn’t involve insults or threats with someone who’d just leaped out of the bushes and grabbed you? He was lucky I hadn’t pepper sprayed him. I’d been here only a couple of weeks and I’d already lost my edge. Not cool.

I worried about that until we reached the porch. The cedar planks were gray with age and sagged alarmingly in the middle. And near the rails. It was pretty much going to collapse any minute now. I climbed the stairs gingerly. Connor put a hand on my elbow to steady me.

It was stupid of me to think about Mr. Darcy.

I pulled free and hurried to the front door. And nearly concussed myself. The sudden stop sent a small shiver of pain through my arm and made me stumble. It was locked.

I knocked loudly, grumpily. I could practically hear Connor grinning behind me. I kept my back to him even though my neck prickled.

Bleeding Hearts
titlepage.xhtml
CR!9WS57TRAB57DXAY21DM2YCDBJSYQ_split_000.html
CR!9WS57TRAB57DXAY21DM2YCDBJSYQ_split_001.html
CR!9WS57TRAB57DXAY21DM2YCDBJSYQ_split_002.html
CR!9WS57TRAB57DXAY21DM2YCDBJSYQ_split_003.html
CR!9WS57TRAB57DXAY21DM2YCDBJSYQ_split_004.html
CR!9WS57TRAB57DXAY21DM2YCDBJSYQ_split_005.html
CR!9WS57TRAB57DXAY21DM2YCDBJSYQ_split_006.html
CR!9WS57TRAB57DXAY21DM2YCDBJSYQ_split_007.html
CR!9WS57TRAB57DXAY21DM2YCDBJSYQ_split_008.html
CR!9WS57TRAB57DXAY21DM2YCDBJSYQ_split_009.html
CR!9WS57TRAB57DXAY21DM2YCDBJSYQ_split_010.html
CR!9WS57TRAB57DXAY21DM2YCDBJSYQ_split_011.html
CR!9WS57TRAB57DXAY21DM2YCDBJSYQ_split_012.html
CR!9WS57TRAB57DXAY21DM2YCDBJSYQ_split_013.html
CR!9WS57TRAB57DXAY21DM2YCDBJSYQ_split_014.html
CR!9WS57TRAB57DXAY21DM2YCDBJSYQ_split_015.html
CR!9WS57TRAB57DXAY21DM2YCDBJSYQ_split_016.html
CR!9WS57TRAB57DXAY21DM2YCDBJSYQ_split_017.html
CR!9WS57TRAB57DXAY21DM2YCDBJSYQ_split_018.html
CR!9WS57TRAB57DXAY21DM2YCDBJSYQ_split_019.html
CR!9WS57TRAB57DXAY21DM2YCDBJSYQ_split_020.html
CR!9WS57TRAB57DXAY21DM2YCDBJSYQ_split_021.html
CR!9WS57TRAB57DXAY21DM2YCDBJSYQ_split_022.html
CR!9WS57TRAB57DXAY21DM2YCDBJSYQ_split_023.html
CR!9WS57TRAB57DXAY21DM2YCDBJSYQ_split_024.html
CR!9WS57TRAB57DXAY21DM2YCDBJSYQ_split_025.html
CR!9WS57TRAB57DXAY21DM2YCDBJSYQ_split_026.html
CR!9WS57TRAB57DXAY21DM2YCDBJSYQ_split_027.html
CR!9WS57TRAB57DXAY21DM2YCDBJSYQ_split_028.html
CR!9WS57TRAB57DXAY21DM2YCDBJSYQ_split_029.html
CR!9WS57TRAB57DXAY21DM2YCDBJSYQ_split_030.html
CR!9WS57TRAB57DXAY21DM2YCDBJSYQ_split_031.html
CR!9WS57TRAB57DXAY21DM2YCDBJSYQ_split_032.html
CR!9WS57TRAB57DXAY21DM2YCDBJSYQ_split_033.html
CR!9WS57TRAB57DXAY21DM2YCDBJSYQ_split_034.html