The Survivors: Point of Origin (book 2)

Tikka Masala, pt. 1

THE NEXT MORNING, THE WINTERS PRETENDED NOT TO KNOW THAT I now knew the of the 138 deaths. I wasn’t sure if that was to spare my feelings or if it was simply because it was Mark’s birthday and everyone was in a celebrating mood. There was so much birthday festivity packed into these few days. And yet, for all my years, I’d never celebrated a birthday. As Survivors, just like our parentage, our exact birthdays were also kept a secret from us.

Each of the Winters flitted around their home energetically, buzzing the same way humans do on such occasions. Watching the Winters celebrate like humans helped me keep the images of the murders and the images of a family I had grown to love in separate parts of my brain.

Adelaide was busy in the kitchen, cooking the least-green meal I’d ever seen them eat. This communicated to me that her birthday dinner was less about the strategic value of turning her family’s eyes green and more about the love and celebration of family. All the younger Winters were gathered in the kitchen to help — or at least pretend to — except Madeline, who was wandering outside in the snow. It was a very joyous occasion, the kind I needed to take my mind off things. I hung close to the family even though that kind of socializing didn’t come naturally to me. I’d been trying to do the things I ought to instead of the things I was inclined to. Thus far, it had meant fewer suicide missions and more camaraderie, so I suppose it wasn’t a bad choice.

By the afternoon the house smelled like rich chocolate and spicy Tikka Masala. Apparently Mark had an affinity for Indian food and devil’s food cake. As the cooking wound down, and the meal was almost ready, I sat by the fire. For a few solid seconds I felt content with my life.

Everett noticed this, I think, and sat next to me. “I want to give you something,” he said. He produced a flat, square, turquoise box tied with a white ribbon — a Tiffany box — and handed it to me. Too big for a ring. Too small for...most else.

“When did you get this?” I asked.

“In Dallas, with a little help from Felix,” he said.

“What’s it for?” I asked.

“You don’t celebrate a birthday, do you?” he said.

“Have I said that?” I asked.

“You didn’t have to,” he said. “I just got to thinking about it, what with Corrina and Mark and all. So I’m fixing that. Let’s just call it a little bit of humanity for you.”

“But if it’s not my birthday, then I don’t need a present. That’s how it would be in the human world,” I argued.

“Yes, because we two are fantastic at playing strictly by the rules of human society,” he joked. “Just open it.”

I untied the ribbon and opened the box, lifted the small suede pouch from inside, and untied it too. Attached to a very long chain — long enough to reach my stomach — was a very beautiful gold key. “Wait, let me guess,” I said sarcastically, “the key to your heart.” I laughed. “Do we even have hearts?” He was sentimental, sometimes corny even. I was not.

“Please, I remember a certain girl telling me I couldn’t get away with using clichés, being immortal and all,” he laughed.

“If not your heart, then what?” I asked.

“It’s the key to our forever,” he said, his burgundy eyes meeting mine. There was that word again. It seemed less scary when he said it in moments like this, when I was perfectly content — with my life and my immortality. Still, I was flighty, I admit, and so it intimidated me.

“It’s beautiful,” I managed to say, sliding it around my neck.

“It’s meaningful,” he said. He reached for it where it dangled and lifted it, then dropped it inside the neck of my shirt. The gold was cool against my stomach. “It’s better there, closer to you. I want it to remind you we’re going to get through this. And when it’s rough, I’ll be there next to you. Beneath all the layers of couture, the defense mechanisms, beneath this ridiculous persona you’re trying to project, this part of me will be there. We’ll get to that vision on the beach, Sadie. We’ll get everything we ever wanted. We’ll get forever.”