I give Mrs. Kent her extra money and an apology. She takes it well enough that Fuel still chirps at me when they leave. Gran mostly sleeps, refusing to eat anything when she does wake up. After finishing all the chores and checking on her a final time, I slip into the bathroom. It's the only room with a locking door, and even though I know it's a silly action because no one's around to intrude, I still feel that Melanie's words should have this much privacy. Sitting on the edge of the sink, I pull out the pages and start reading.

Laci's excited the pieces are falling together. Of course she is; it's not her neck he's after, and it's not her arm he's already chewed on. Maybe she's not even right. If he bit me, shouldn't I be a vampire by now, too? The smell of meat makes me as sick as always.

Every day I list off the reasons he could be one, and the reasons he could be as normal as anyone else in this fucked-up place. Never goes out in the day, but a man with photophobia wouldn't. Doesn't show up in photos, but that could be a lingering effect from Fivefield, if he experienced the blast directly. Mom coughed sparks for two hours yesterday, after the air conditioning broke. Her mouth was blistered by the end. What makes not showing up through a camera lens any weirder? No one's catalogued all the rogue spells Fivefield unleashed. There must be a normal explanation for what he is.

The next page has my name and address with the word IMPORTANT underlined three times. A shock jolts through me. Laci must have checked up on me even though she never had the guts to make contact, and then passed it on to Melanie.

The last page has the worst handwriting, scribbled and panicky.

He knows. He knows I'm starting to remember the night of the crash. I didn't run into the rocks, I got a flat and he pulled over while I was fixing it. He's talked with my father, who's so stupid with grief at this point he'd reveal anything and everything without realizing it. Christ knows what he's learned about me. Enough to make my death look like a successful suicide? He's already gotten my father to invite him into the house. Now he can reach me wherever I am. Laci, if you're reading this, I love you. I love you, Laci. I didn't leave you.

A crash jerks me to my feet, heart thumping in my throat. The pages shake in my hands as I try to break free of Melanie's words. There's another crash, like glass shattering, and this time I recognize it. It's the sound of objects falling against the hard tile of the kitchen floor. I make it there in time to save a jar of peppers that slips from Gran's hands. The jug of milk, a carton of orange juice, and a jar of pickles aren't so lucky.

"Gran?" I hear a crinkle and realize Melanie's pages are being strangled in my hand. Quickly, I drop them onto the kitchen table before moving back to Gran.

"Bad. All bad," she mutters, still trying to pull things from the shelves. When she tries to lift a large casserole dish, thin wrists shaking with the effort, I reach over and rest my palms on the back of her hands. She's so frail that the weight of my hands is enough make her own fall still.

Her words sound garbled, but I finally understand that she thinks the milk is spoiled. Whether it is or isn't doesn't matter much, since it's all on the floor, now.

"It's still there." Her fingers flutter at the fridge door.

"No Gran, we haven't kept it in the door for years. We keep it in the back, but you already got it out."

"There!" Her soaked slippers squelch as she turns to point at the empty door.

#6: Patient may experience hallucinations and become agitated. I shove the words out of my head and take a breath before forcing a smile onto my face. "Okay, I'll get it out, and then I'll go to the store to buy fresh stuff. But we got to change into dry clothes, first."

It takes fifteen minutes to help her into a new pair of pajamas and a robe, and another five to put on a fresh pair of socks and slippers. Her fingers pick and fret at the hems of her clothing, but she stays in front of the vidnet while I dump a bunch of towels over the mess in the kitchen. While reaching into the parrot cookie jar that holds loose change, I try Mrs. Kent's number. Busy. Damn it. The nearest grocery store is in Slocata, a tiny dump of a town twenty-five miles south. Too long a drive to leave Gran alone. I have to settle for the gas station on the edge of Mercywing.

I make it there pretty fast, but still need to turn on my headlights for the drive back. I don't really think about it, mind instead filled with worries about whether Gran stayed in her chair. What if she tried to clean up all that glass? Damn it, I should have at least scooped the worst into the garbage before leaving.

My car makes worse clunking noises than usual as I turn down our block, slowing to a crawl. By the time I reach the beginning of the driveway, I'm screaming every piece of profanity I know at the engine sprites. They only sputter to a stop, and so does the car. After slamming my fist against the steering wheel a final time, I glance around the yard to make sure there isn't a frail form wandering about. She stayed indoors, at least.

I run inside with the milk and make sure she's okay before putting it away. Twenty minutes later, I've cleaned up most of the mess in the kitchen with a mop and a lot of towels. The vidnet now plays an old western, and Gran is asleep when I check on her. Okay. Time to go out and push that piece of shit I call my car into the driveway.

It's dark enough that I turn on the porch lights before stepping outside. Then I freeze, blinking at my car as it sits exactly where I always park it. The hood to the engine is popped up, and someone's under it. I catch a glimpse of strong, muscled forearms and a black t-shirt straining to cover wide shoulders before it hits me. My stomach feels like it sinks to my feet as I realize just who is fucking with the engine to my car.

Without straightening up, Valentine says, "Your engine sprites have melted to nubs. The spells binding them are corrupted."

Damn, I wish I wasn't such a failure at metal magic. There's no way to know if he's telling the truth or not. Or what he's doing to my car. I decide to play stupid, let him underestimate me. "Is that really bad?"

"Only if you want it to run."

"Oh. You must be pretty good with cars." Good at fixing them or good at crashing them?

Something in my voice must sound off, because he straightens up to look at me. He's dressed casually tonight, in dark jeans and motorcycle boots. His beard is gone, too. It all makes him look a little leaner, a little younger, a little sharper. The idea of a snake having just shed its old skin crosses my mind as I move close enough to appear polite. Even in the dim porch light, his eyes gleam. I'm only two steps away from the door, but that still feels way too far as his glance slides over me.

I clear my throat, resisting the urge to fold my arms so he can't stare at my chest. At least my loose shirt offers some protection. "Were you a mech witch before you came here?"

"I picked up tricks from some." He bends back over the engine before adding, "You left your bag in the passenger seat. I'd collect it for you, but I know how particular girls are about who touches their things." The shadows have swallowed up his head again, but I can hear the smile in his voice, and have no problem imagining the flash of his teeth.

I wait until he goes back to work before moving for my car. The windows are still rolled down, so I can just reach through and grab my bag. But I hesitate, glancing toward Valentine. The hood blocks him from view, but I hear the soft, constant clink of metal, as good a reminder of his presence, his alertness, as any snake's rattle. I don't want him out of my sight for a second, even if it's just to lean through the window.

So, I open the door, creating another barrier between us, and slide in to get the bag. I move quietly, trying to see if it was rifled through. But as soon as I reach for the keys in the ignition, his voice drifts over, much too close for him to still be by the engine. "Leave them in."

My hand jerks back as he opens the driver's door and slides in, too quickly for me to get out in time.

As he settles into the seat, the car groans under the new weight. I sympathize. Him just sitting there seems to swallow up any extra space, and I clutch at the bag in a desperate attempt to find something other than me that hasn't been taken over by his presence. I don't think I'm breathing so much as slowly suffocating. This close, I can smell the grease on him from the engine sprites, and his aftershave, some kind of rank shit that probably has a stupid name like Night Dragon and costs more than a month's worth of groceries.

And something else, too. Metallic, like blood. Elliot's words drift through my head. Like a shark bite.

Valentine's arm brushes mine as he reaches for the ignition key. It feels like a normal human arm, but I tense up, anyway. Maybe the car's a piece of junk, but it's mine, and he acts like there's no question about him taking control.

The engine coughs to life. It doesn't sound good, but it works again. Damn it, I owe him.

My hand drifts for the door handle. "You're a miracle worker. Thanks."

"Stop." His own hand darts out, flattens mine against the handle so I can't open it. The movement leaves him leaning half-over me, arm braced against my belly. Suddenly, my t-shirt doesn't feel like protection at all. His head turns toward the engine, as if he's still listening to it and only absently stopped me. Something's off about the feel of his skin; it's warm but oddly slack. Not wrinkled or loose, but completely still. I can't feel a pulse.

"Excuse me?" I say, letting the growl bubbling in my chest finally reach my voice. I'm scared, frustrated, and two seconds away from yelling at him to fuck off.

"The sprites cycle through every thirty seconds. You need to listen longer." He's still not looking at me, but his arm moves up a little. Closer to my chest.

My temper snaps. "No, I meant excuse me as in get out of my personal space."

My free hand moves to shove his arm away, but he's already relaxed back in his seat, looking at me like I'm a two-year-old stamping her feet at him. "I'm only trying to help you. Hear that thump right there? Point that out to whatever mech witch you go to."

"Fine," I say, clipping the word short. I don't quite dare to reach over to grab the keys; that's crossing over into his space. But I do move for my door, every muscle in my body tense and ready to react at the first hint of an attack. When I shut the door behind me and glance back, he still sits in the same position. Just watching.

I'm back by the porch and shaking with nerves when he gets out and closes the hood. I don't care how ungrateful I appear as he approaches me. I'm a shit liar, anyway.

Sprite grease smears his hands, thick and pungent. "It's now stable enough for a run to a repair shop, but that's all."

I nod and manage a tight smile. "Thanks for patching it. I'll take it in tomorrow."

The proper thing to do would be to invite him in to clean up and grab some water in return for pushing my car into the driveway and working on it.  Especially since I snapped at him while he was doing me a good deed. Yeah, water and probably some food, too. Well, fuck proper. My skin threatens to crawl off my body at the bare thought of him in the kitchen. So, I jerk my chin at his dirty hands and say, "Hang on, I got a towel you can use."

It takes only two steps to make it back through the doorway. Something in his eyes flickers as he stops just at the threshold. He didn't wait for permission to fuck with my car, so why does he wait to come inside? Unless he can't. What had Melanie written? Something about her father giving Valentine access to their house. An invitation in.

I drop my bag on the table just inside the doorway, trying to think of a way to test whether he's really stuck outside. When I glance up, though, the doorway is empty. Panic bursts through me at the thought of him slipping inside while my back was turned. Then, I hear a creak in the kitchen.

Heart in throat, I move for it. He's there, but not inside. At the doorway that leads out into the garden, as if he circled around to wait. No, he's not just waiting. He's also studying the crumpled pieces of paper on the kitchen table. Melanie's pages. Shit, shit, shit. My eyes dart from them to the toes of his boots at the very edge of the threshold. He still doesn't move, but somehow seems to strain at staying where he is, anyway.

Part of me still believes this is stupid, that he could step through at any point. The rest of me wishes I could turn on the sink water without turning my back to him. Somehow, my hand holds steady when I move close enough to offer a damp towel.

When I hold it out, I make sure to stay inside the doorway. Not too much; a person would only have to lean on their toes a little to take the towel. He tries, but his hand stops short of the threshold, fingers an inch away. Jesus Christ. I quickly move the edge of the towel past that point, but his eyes narrow at me, and the shadows around him seem to darken. We both just learned something about each other. He leans against the doorway while wiping his hands clean, taking his time. I find myself crossing my arms to hide the way my fingers shake.

When the silence stretches on, I clear my throat and say the first words that come to mind. "You still got my keys?"

"Right here." He pulls them out of a pocket and holds them up. On the other side of the threshold. It's his own test, though we both already know I'm not about to reach out to get them any more than he can reach in to give them.

I smile tightly. "Great. You can leave them in the car. I'm not going anywhere until tomorrow."

"Not locking up for the night?" His words sound pleasant, but the look in his eyes is anything but.

"I think I'm safe enough here."

He leans against the doorway, glancing around the kitchen as if studying everything about it. When he speaks again, his voice sounds genuinely curious. "You're on your own, aren't you? No mother or sister to help you clean up kitchen spills. No father or brother to muscle a dead car into the driveway."

"I manage." I don't bother keeping the irritation from the words.

"More like, you're trying your best. But it's a dangerous world. Hard for a girl to make it alone. Every decision she makes will be used against her. What she wears, how she acts, who she talks to. How many times she's fucked or been fucked." That heavy, gold gaze sweeps over me again, like he's taking exact measurements of where I fall on those scales.

Somehow, I find my voice. "I guess you have the expert opinion, being a man and all."

At that, his eyes narrow. "She needs to be very careful."

Then he leans in so close I can feel the invisible barrier between us vibrate with tension. "You up for dealing with your decisions?"

Suddenly, I have the feeling he knows exactly what I did today, that I went to Laci's house and tried piecing together Melanie's accident. He talks about my decisions, but I know he already made his: I'll be the next girl to disappear in this community.

I steel myself and look right into those weird-colored eyes. "Sure. Here's my latest one: Get the fuck off my porch." My voice trembles only a little.

His gaze slides down to a point in my throat where my pulse pounds. "Now, that's one with many consequences, and not all of them will land on your shoulders." He shifts his weight, angling toward the doorway that leads to the room where Gran sleeps.

My nerves disappear under a red-hot explosion in my chest. When I speak, my words come out as a growl. "Get the fuck out of here. I'll kill you if you try to do anything to her."

He only nods and steps back, giving the house a final once-over. Then the fucker looks at me and smiles, friendly as you please. "Have a nice night."