“The roof.” What had he done, scaled the walls like Spiderman? Is he Spiderman? His name is Peter.
“What do you want?” My arms are tired of holding the trophy up, but I'm not putting it down.
“I wanted to see you.”
“Why?” I almost yell it, wanting a straight answer so I can decide whether or not to freak out or hit him with the trophy. Something needs to happen, one way or the other. Thankfully, my parent's room is downstairs, or else they might have heard me.
“I don't know.” He says it as if her really doesn't know. I fight the panic that rises in my throat and pounds in my ears and makes me sweat.
“Will you back off for a second?” He takes one step back as I reach out to flick on the light. He doesn't blink at the brightness. “I think you should leave. I'm not really cool with people coming into my bedroom at night unannounced.” My voice quivers.
“I am sorry you are frightened.”
“It's okay.” My heart is beating right next to my vocal chords. There it is, that voice that sounds way older than twenty, or however old he is. It finally hits me with all the force and power of a freight train. All those little doubts I've had about him being something else. Maybe it's the fact that he got onto the roof that did it.
“Peter. What are you?” I finally lower the trophy. My stupid arms won't stop quivering, so it wasn't threatening anyway. Not that I think he's going to do anything. I hope.
“If I told you, would you believe me?” His head goes to the side, his hair sliding away from his eyes. I may have dropped my weapon, but I'm not looking in his eyes.
“Yes. I know you're not human. I just can't figure out what that means.” For a second, I look up and our eyes meet. God, they're amazing. I can actually see them now. One green as seaglass, the other blue as sapphire. Mesmerizing. Stop looking!
“I could show you.”
***
“Okay.” I back up until my legs are against my bed. My knees give out and I sit without meaning to.
Without another word, he pulls his shirt over his head. Oh, God. Is he going to rape me? A scream assembles in my throat, whirling like a hurricane. My pepperspray's in my purse, which is downstairs. So basically, I'm out of luck unless a miracle happens.
“My dad is right downstairs. He'll call the cops,” I say around the scream I'm still holding in, my voice dry and weak as paper. Peter just closes his eyes. I tremble, trying to figure out the best place to hit him or punch him and how I'm going to do that and vault over the bed to get out the door. I should invest in a Taser. Or I should just carry the pepperspray around with me everywhere.
I'm distracted from my plans by something happening behind Peter. Something dark unfurls, spreading out behind him, making a small ripping noise that reminds me of Velcro. Wings. A set of silky black wings. What. The. Crap.
“What the hell?” He opens his dual-colored eyes and looks right at me. The contact hits me like a slap. I slide off the bed onto the floor.
“I am called many things. Angel. Demon. God. Vampire. Immortal, and that is just in America.”
“What are you?” He turns, showing me the set of wings that sprout from his back. I keep blinking, as if they're an optical illusion or a trick or something. Anything other than that this is actually happening, because it can't be.
“You may touch them, if you like.” Trembling, and against my better judgment, I get up on my knees and hold my hand out. One finger brushes a feather so fine that you can't tell where one begins and the other one ends. The weak light from the lamp bounces off the feathers, showing their iridescence. They sprout right from his shoulder blades, skin blending into feathers without a seam.
“So you're an angel.” I lose my nerve and sit back, hard.
“I am not,” he says, looking over his shoulder at me. His hair matches the color of his wings. His freaking wings.
“Okay,” I say slowly. I scoot backwards, pushing myself with my hands. As pretty as the wings are, I don't want to be close to him. Who knows what else is going to pop out from his back? I'm pretty sure the pepperspray has been rendered useless. Someone who's got wings is bound to have other powers.
His eyes reach for mine, and he says, “the closest to what I am is immortal. I cannot die.”
“I know what immortal is,” I snap. For a moment, I wonder if all this is real. Like in The Matrix. Maybe all this is just a dream, or a weird government conspiracy.
“So what was with all that suicide stuff?”
“While I may be immortal, my existence can end.”
“How?”
Blink.
Guess I'm not getting an answer on that one. Moving on... I rewind to something he said earlier. One of the words snags on my brain.
“Wait, you said vampire,” I hold up my hand, as if I can stop this runaway train of a situation.
“I drink blood to supply energy.”
“Holy Fuck.” I dive backward slamming into my night stand, groping for the trophy. Foolish, seeing as how he just told me he can't die. His wings shift as he turns around.
“I will not drink yours.” He puts his hands up, palms out, like he's calming a frightened animal. The animal is me.
“How the hell do I know that?” For some reason, the fact that he wants to drink my blood freaks me out more when he said he was going to kill me.
“I told you that I would kill you. You told me that if I truly wanted to, I would have done it already. You were correct.” This isn't reassuring anymore.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I trust you.” He stretches his wings out as far as they will go, which isn't very far. The tips hit my bookshelf and door on either side. They're really... impressive and shiny.
“Why? You don't know anything about me.”
“I just do.” He tucks them back in again, folding them in like the sleeves of a shirt. I wonder if they're heavy. They certainly look very solid.
“That's the stupidest answer I've ever heard.”
I'm watching his wings, so I almost miss it, but he blinks.“I have lived for a long time. I have instincts. I trust them.”
“I don't have a problem saying that I don't trust you.” I'm still shaking on the floor.
“You don't have to.”
“Does anything I say offend you?” Probably not a good idea to provoke the only immortal in the room, but I'm not very bright where Peter is concerned. Obviously.
“No.” He says it just as calmly as anything else, as if he's commenting on the weather.