Dust

XI

         

After a moment to myself, I climb the steps to the main floor. My temples ache, and even rubbing them does nothing; something happened between Gael and I there, and it is now my utmost intention to find out what it was. I don't care how long it takes to talk to him, to get him to quit denying it, and quit running away from me as he just has.

    I enter the kitchen to find Mother and the two boys feasting on a vanilla cake. Damien just sits beside Gael, observing, still steaming and resigned. It seems an odd time for cake to me, but apparently it isn't to my mother; as soon as she lays eyes on me, she raises her arms and beckons me over, shoving a slice at me. I eye the spongy body in front of me with suspicion before glancing up at her, one of my eyebrows arched. "Why?"

    Mother shrugs, looking on at Gael and Finn, who are both too busy devouring their treats to notice her staring, with a quiet maternal admiration. "Gael's been training hard, and you and Damien have been, well, training hard—if you know what I mean—and I thought you all deserved a treat."

    I just sigh and begin to diminish my cake by the forkful. The kitchen is awkwardly silent save for the clinks of forks against porcelain, and I spend this time trying to get Gael to look at me. He won't, no matter how much my eyes burn into him, but I know he knows of my presence—there is a flush along the bridge of his nose that was not there before.

    Damien heaves a sigh, leaning his cheek into his palm as he watches Gael shovel his face with Mother's baked good. "I don't believe I remember what cake tastes like," he says, and I know the sorrow in his voice is fake, as there is a smile in his eyes. He is simply speaking to speak, and I can only thank him for ending the strangling quietude.

    Mother does not know he's acting, and is already on to cutting a slice for him before anyone can stop her. "You can try a piece if you like."

    Dame shrugs apologetically. "I could, I suppose, but I'm not in the mood for eating dirt today." He flicks a cake crumb from the counter onto Gael's plate, sighing again.

    Mother sets down her knife, frowning. "Oh," she says, her voice dull.

    "Oh, Miss Armistead—no!" he says, startled. I can't help but giggle as he struggles to correct his mistake; he sometimes forgets that he's the only vampire my mother has had much contact with, and therefore she doesn't know much about his kind. "It's not your cooking—er, baking—it's just my...appetite. My tongue only has a taste for—"

    "Blood," finishes Gael, setting down his fork, done with his share. He still averts his eyes from mine. He doesn't say the word as if it spooks him, simply as if it's an obvious fact. For this reason, I guess, Dame stares at him for several strange moments before speaking again.

    "Uh, yes, what he said," he manages. "For once, the human's right."

    "Gael," I correct.

    Damien rolls his slim eyes and blows a raspberry at me, but I barely notice him: Gael has turned his eyes toward me, for the first time in several long moments. There's a look of appreciation there, a silent thank you for reminding Damien that he has a name. Then the flush returns to his cheeks, and his eyes flit to the counter. "Everything else tastes like dirt, then?" Gael asks Damien.

    "Dirt, air, paper. I think flavorless is a better word."

    "That's unfortunate."

    "Is it?" Dame asks, and his eyes get that dreamy look, like they've been covered with glass. It's a dangerous expression, I have learned; whenever Damien thinks about his past, it frustrates him.