THE CENTER CANNOT HOLD
I woke happy, at least until I remembered what the evening had in store. I grumbled and grabbed the invitation to the party at my parents' house. This one was a gala for a teen mentoring program. It's not that the cause wasn't legitimate, but I always wondered about my father's motivations. His interest in making connections, in shaking hands, was at least as big as any interest he had in actually helping the organization.
Rising tides lift all boats, I thought, and put the invitation on the bed. I sat up and pushed the hair out of my eyes, then uncurled my legs and hit the floor. I didn't bother to shower, knowing I'd just get sweaty again during my training session, but changed into my Catcher-approved ensemble - bandeaux bra and barely there shorts, throwing a track jacket over the top so I'd be decent during the drive.
Just as I zipped up the jacket, there was a knock at the door. I opened it and found Helen in the hallway in a tidy tweed suit.
"Hello, dear," she said, holding out a royal blue garment bag emblazoned with the logo of a chic-chic store in the Loop. "I was just dropping off your gown."
I took the bag from her hands, the weight not as heavy as I'd have expected given the size of the bag. Her hands free, she pulled a small pink notebook from the pocket of her nubby pink suit jacket. Nodding, she read it over.
"Tonight is a black-tie event. The color theme is black and white," she read, then lifted her gaze to mine. "That helped my selection process, of course, but it took no small bit of finagling to obtain a gown this quickly. It was delivered moments ago."
It bothered me, more than it should have, that she'd picked out the dress. That Ethan hadn't picked out the dress.
That it bothered me was just wrong in so many ways.
"Thank you," I told her. "I appreciate the effort." More's the pity she couldn't have taken my place.
"Of course," Helen said. "I need to get back downstairs. Plenty of work to do. Do enjoy the party." She smiled and tucked the notebook back into her pocket. "And be careful with the dress. It was rather an investment."
I frowned down at the garment bag. "Define 'investment.' "
"Near twelve, actually."
"Twelve? Twelve hundred dollars?" I stared at the dress bag, horrified at the thought that I was going to be responsible for four figures of Cadogan investment.
Helen chuckled. "Twelve thousand dollars, dear." She dropped that bomb, then headed back down the hallway, completely missing my look of abject horror.
Ever so carefully, as if carrying the Gutenberg Bible, I laid the dress bag on my bed.
"Take two," I murmured, and unzipped the bag.
A soft sound escaped me.
It was black silk, a fabric so delicate I could barely feel it between my fingers. And it was, indeed, a ball gown. A square strapless bodice that dropped to a spill of the luscious, inky silk.
I wiped my hands on my shorts, pulled the dress from the bag and held it up against my chest, spinning just to watch the skirt move. And move it did. The silk flowed like black water, the fabric the darkest shade of black I'd ever seen. It wasn't the kind of black that you confused with navy in the dressing room. It was black. Moonless, midnight black. It was stunning.
My cell rang, and I hugged the dress to my body with my free hand, scanned the caller ID, and flipped it open.
"Oh, my God, you should see this dress I'm wearing tonight."
"Did you just say something complimentary about a dress? Where's my Merit? What have you done with her?"
"I'm serious, Mallory. It's amazing. Black silk, this ball gown thing." I stood in front of the mirror, half turned. "It's beautiful."
"Seriously, I'm totally weirded out by the girly nature of this conversation. And yet, it's kinda like you're growing up. Do you think Judy Blume made a book about adolescent vampires? Are You There God, It's Me, Merit?" Mallory snorted, obviously pleased with herself.
"Ha, ha, ha," I said, placing the dress carefully on top of the garment bag. "I got an invitation to a deal at my parents', so we're heading back to Oak Park in a bit."
"Oh, that's classy, vampire. Forget about your old friends now that you're all high society."
"I'm torn between two answers. First, the obvious one: I just saw you last night. Also acceptable: Were we friends? I thought I was using you for rent and gratuitous branding."
"My turn to laugh," she said, instead of actually laughing. "Seriously, I'm on the road, driving to Schaumburg, and I wanted to check on you. I assume you and Darth Sullivan got back to Cadogan okay?"
"We didn't get chased by raving vampires, so I'd call it a successful return trip."
"Was Morgan okay about having to leave last night?"
Phone pinched between shoulder and ear, I tightened my ponytail. "He probably wasn't thrilled about being replaced by Ethan, but I haven't had a chance to talk to him."
"What do you mean you haven't talked to him? He's practically your boyfriend."
I frowned at the disapproval in her voice. "He's not my boyfriend. We're still just...dating. Kind of."
"Okay, semantics, whatever, but don't you think you should have called him?"
I'm not sure if it was because I thought she was being nosy or because, on some level, I agreed with her, but the direction of the conversation bothered me. I tried laughing it off.
"Are you lecturing me about my boyfriend choices?"
"I just... He's a great guy, Merit, and you guys seem to have a great time together. I just don't want you to pass that up for..."
"For?" I didn't need to prompt her, didn't need to ask it. I knew exactly what she meant, exactly whom she was referring to. And while I knew she cared about me as much as anyone did, the comment pricked. A lot.
"Merit," she said, my name apparently standing in for the one she didn't want to say aloud.
"Mallory, I'm really not in the mood for this right now."
"Because you have to run off and play with Ethan?"
We were doing this, I thought to myself. My best friend and I were actually going to have this argument.
"I'm doing what I have to do."
"He's manipulating you into spending time with him."
"That's not true, Mallory. He hardly even likes me. We're just trying to deal with this rave problem right now."
"Don't make excuses for him."
Ire rising, vampire rising, I kicked my closet door closed with enough force to rattle a silver-framed picture of Mallory and me that sat on the top of the bureau next to it. "You know I'm not Ethan's biggest fan, but let's face facts. I'd be in the ground if it wasn't for him. And for better or worse, he's my boss. I don't really have a lot of room to maneuver on this."
"Fine. Deal with Ethan on your own terms. But at least be honest about Morgan."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"Merit, if you don't like Morgan, then fine, break it off. But don't lead him on. It's not fair.
He's a good guy, and he deserves better than that."
I made a sound that was equal parts shock and hurt. "I'm leading him on? That's a really shitty thing to say."
"You need to make up your mind."
"And you need to mind your own business."
I heard the sharp intake of breath, knew that I'd hurt her. I immediately regretted it, but was too angry, too tired of having no control over my body, my life, my time, to apologize. She'd hurt me, and I slapped back.
"We need to end this conversation before we say something we're going to regret," I quietly said. "I've got enough to deal with, not to mention the fact that I have to be at my father's in a couple of hours."
"You know what, Merit, if your dating life isn't my business, then your daddy issues aren't, either."
I couldn't speak, couldn't fathom how to respond to that. And even if I'd wanted to, emotion tightened my throat.
"Maybe it's the genetics," she continued, apparently unwilling to abandon the argument.
"Maybe it's the person he's asking you to be. We both have different lives now, bigger lives, than we did a few months ago. But the Merit I knew wouldn't push this boy away.
Not this boy. Think about that."
The phone went dead.
The windshield wipers slapped against the glass as I drove, the summer night wet and humid, fast-moving clouds whipping through the sky below a darker, ominous mass that pulsed with branching threads of lightning. I parked directly in front of the architecturally austere building that held the gym where I trained with Catcher, and ran inside to avoid the falling rain.
Catcher was already there. He stood in the middle of the blue gymnastics mat that filled the training room, wearing a T-shirt and warm-up pants. His head was bowed, eyes closed, hands pressed together prayerfully.
"Take a seat," he said, without opening his eyes.
"Good evening to you, too, sensei."
He opened a single eye, and the look he gave me left no doubt about how unfunny he'd found the retort. "Take a seat, Merit." This time his words were biting.
I arched a brow back at him, but stripped off my track jacket and took a seat in one of the orange plastic chairs near the door.
Catcher remained in his pose of quiet concentration for a few minutes, finally rolling his shoulders and opening his eyes.
"Done with meditation?" I lightly asked.
He didn't respond, but strode forcefully toward me, enough malevolence in his gaze to speed my heart.
"Is there a problem?" I asked him.
"Shut it."
"Excuse me?"
"Shut. It." Catcher stepped before me, pulled a hand across his jaw, then put his hands on the arms of the chair. He leaned forward. His torso arched over mine, I hunched back into the chair.
"She is my top priority."
I didn't need to ask who "she" was. Obviously, Mal had called Catcher.
"She is unhappy." He paused, pale green eyes tracking back and forth across my face.
"She's having a difficult time. And I get that you're having a difficult time, Merit. Jesus knows, we all get it. You had problems adjusting to the transition from human to vampire, and now you appear to have trouble remembering your humanity."
He leaned incrementally forward. My heart began to thud, warmth flowing through my body as anxiety and adrenaline pulled the vampire from slumber, pushed her closer to the surface.
Not now, I begged her. Not now. He'd see, he'd know, and he'd handle me. Nothing good could come from that. For a split second, I thought he knew, his brow knitting as he leaned over me. I closed my eyes, counted backward, tried to push her down even as I felt him above me, the bulk of his body perched over my chair, the faint sizzle of latent magic electrifying the air.
Slowly, one drop at a time, I felt her recede.
"She's having trouble adjusting, Merit, just like you did. And she was there for you. It's time for you to be there for her. Cut her a little slack. I know she said some... regrettable things. And believe me, she knows it."
I opened my eyes, kept my gaze on his T-shirt and nodded, a little.
With a creak of plastic, he straightened, took a step backward, and looked down at me, arms crossed. This time his expression bore a hint of sympathy. His voice was softer, too. "I know you're trying to help Ethan. Trying to get him access, trying to do your job. I get that. And maybe that's the problem here, maybe it isn't. Frankly, that's your business, not mine. But before you alienate everyone who cares about you, Mallory or Morgan or whoever, remember who you were before this happened, before you were changed. Try to find some balance. Try to find a place in your life for the things that mattered before he changed you." He started to turn away, but apparently thought better of it. "I know you have limited time today, but you better be willing to bust your ass. If you're going to stand Sentinel, then you will damn well be prepared for it."
I shook my head, irritated that he'd assumed it was a lack of effort, of trying, that kept me from being the fighter he wanted when, in fact, it was the opposite. "You don't get it,"
I told him.
His eyebrows lifted, surprise obvious on his face. "Then enlighten me."
I looked at him, and for a long, quiet moment I nearly did tell him. I nearly trusted him, trusted myself, enough to ask him about it, to tell him that I was broken - that my vampire was broken. Separate, somehow. But I couldn't bring myself to do it. I'd tried to broach the subject once; he'd shaken off my concern. So I shook my head, lowered it.
"I don't know what you know," he said, "or what you've seen, or what you think you've done. But I advise you to find someone you can trust, and spill those beans. Capiche?"
Silently, I nodded.
"Then let's get to work."
We did. He wouldn't allow me to spar, given what he'd deemed my subpar effort two days ago. It was a punishment in his eyes, but a moral victory for me, allowing me to put my effort into movement and speed rather than holding back the predatory instinct that threatened to overwhelm me. And besides - since we hadn't been sparring, and thus didn't risk damaging the blades, he let me practice with my katana.
We worked through the first seven Katas for nearly an hour. While the movements of each Kata lasted only a few seconds, Catcher made me repeat the steps - over and over and over again - until he was satisfied with my performance. Until the moves became rote, until my movements were mechanically precise, until I could move so quickly through them that the gestures were blurred by speed. That fast, the Katas lost some of their tradition, but they made up for it in dance. Unfortunately, as Catcher pointed out, if I needed to use a sword in a fight, it would likely be against a vampire who was moving as quickly as I was.
After he'd taught me the basic movements of a second set of Katas, these using only one hand on the sword, he released me.
"I'm seeing some improvement," he said, when we'd settled on the blue mat, a spread of katana-cleaning implements before us.
"Thanks," I told him, sliding a piece of rice paper along the sword's sharpened edge.
"The interesting question is, why don't I see the same kind of effort when you're sparring?"
I glanced over at him, saw that his gaze was still on his sword. He clearly didn't understand that I'd been working double time to help him. And I'd already decided not to tell him, so I didn't answer the question. We were silent for a moment, both of us wiping down our blades, me refusing to answer.
"No answer?" he finally asked.
I shook my head.
"You are as stubborn as she is, I swear to God."
Without comment, although I agreed, I slid my sword into its sheath.
