A week later, Trent shows up at my door.
Alone.
Ryan has been visiting every other day, checking on my arm to make sure infection isn’t running rampant. That I haven’t turned green. That I’m not jonesing for human flesh. It’s a worry you have these days no matter where you got your cut. Open wound means open to the sickness. No exceptions. I’m on full loft lock-down until I’m better healed and I am going out of my mind with boredom. My new favorite past-time? Knife throwing. It won’t do you a bit of good with a Risen, but with other people (something I am surrounded by lately), it’s a good talent to have.
Too bad I suck at it.
When Trent knocks on my door, I have a knife raised in my right hand. I was ready to throw but now I’m statue still. Waiting.
“Joss.”
That’s all he says. Just my name. Just once, low and deep in the way he says everything. Even. Methodical. Creepy as balls.
I tip toe to the door, my hand still raised high with the gleaming, sharp blade at the ready. I suddenly wish I had a peephole on my door, though I don’t know what it would matter. I know what he looks like. He won’t have a weapon showing, even if he intends to murder me.
“What do you want, Trent?” I demand quietly.
“Little pig, little pig, let me in,” he whispers.
“Not a chance in Hell, wolf. How do you know where I live?”
“Is it a secret?”
“I’m not exactly in the phone book.”
He chuckles. “Open the door.”
“No.”
“Ryan sent me.”
“Well, I’m sending you right back.”
“Why are you so scared of me, Joss?” he asks, sounding like he’s mocking me. Like he’s soothing a crying baby.
I bristle. “I’m not scared of you. I’m leery of you. Totally different.”
“Why are you leery of me?”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
When he chuckles again, I tense. His voice is drifting farther away. Farther down the hall into the building.
“You’re going the wrong way. Exit’s to the left, pal!”
“I’m not leaving,” he replies calmly. He’s farther away now. “I’m looking for another entrance. There are more, aren’t there?” His voice is approaching again. Slowly. “Of course there are. There’s the fire escape out this window at the end of the hall that will lead up to the roof. Do you have a roof hatch, Joss?”
“It’s locked,” I snap, hoping it actually is.
“Doesn’t matter,” he says, his voice drifting the other way now. “There are other ways of getting in there. Don’t worry about it. I’ll find them.”
I don’t know what other entrances there may be, but I do know if anyone will find them it’s him. Be it Spider-manning his way up the building and through the windows or slithering his way up through my toilet. No matter how the ninja plans on doing it, I’d rather he didn’t.
I sigh heavily. I do not put away my knife.
When I open the door, he’s standing right there waiting as though he had been the entire time. He’s too quiet. Too quick. I’m jealous of it and I hate him for it.
“May I enter?” he drones, bowing gracefully to me, formally asking permission like a friggin’ vampire.
“Come in,” I say reluctantly, swinging the door open.
“Thought you’d never ask.”
He saunters in, scanning the entire loft in one quick assessing glance. I’m pretty sure in that one move he catalogued my entire world, underwear included. And he did it alphabetically.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, never leaving the door. I also leave it open as an invitation to leave.
“I told you, Ryan sent me.” He stands in the center of the room, his hands in his pockets. “What made you open the door? I thought you were leery of me.”
“I am and I should be. You’re shifty.” I spin my knife in my hand, just so we both know I have it. “And because you’re shifty, keeping you out started to feel like delaying the inevitable. Like a Risen at your door. They’re never going away. Eventually you have to make them go.”
He grins at me. “I promise not to overstay my welcome.”
“You already have.”
“That was fast.”
“It doesn’t take long with me.”
He smirks. “Do you know why I like you, Joss?”
“I’m sure I have no idea.”
“It’s for the same reasons Ryan does.” He holds up his hands in innocence. “Our reasons are the same, but our motives are completely different, I promise. I don’t see cozying up to someone like you. It’d be like loving a skunk.”
“Nice,” I deadpan. “Very charming.”
He shrugs. “I have as much use for charm as you do. What I mean is, a skunk scares easy. They’re solitary. When they don’t want you around, they let you know it and they send you home with a reminder for days.”
“You make a good point. You’re very chatty today, aren’t you?” I ask suspiciously.
“I am. It’s one of the reasons I like you. I can talk to you. You’re not all bravado and bullshit.”
“Thank you?” I ask, frowning.
He shakes his head dismissively. “It was an observation. If you want compliments, talk to Ryan. He’ll tell you the sun rises and sets in your hair. That your eyes remind him of rain.”
My frown deepens. “What does that even mean?”
“I have no idea, but he would understand it and if you heard him saying it, you’d understand it too.” He grins mischievously at me. It’s very Cheshire. Very cat ate the canary. “Ryan has use for charm.”
I don’t want to talk about Ryan and his charm. Or my eyes or his eyes or anyone’s thoughts on either of them. That’s a whole mess of crap that I don’t understand. I also feel like it’s something I cannot and do not want to stop which makes it scary and I hate being scared. But I want it.
It’s confusing.
“Why are you here?” I ask, feeling like I’m repeating myself.
Trent approaches me abruptly, reaching for my arm. I jump away from him into the hall, careful not to be trapped. He eyes me blankly.
“I need to look at your arm and report back to Prince Charming,” he tells me calmly.
“You’re not touching it,” I snap. He narrows his eyes at me and I sigh. “I don’t even let Ryan touch it. Not since he bandaged it. I’m not… I’m not good at being touched. I’m not good at trusting people.”
“You don’t say.”
“Just go, okay? I’m fine. Thanks so much for stopping by.”
He stands in the open doorway, looking out into the hall at me. Finally he gestures to the knife in my hand.
“If I come toward you to leave, are you going to stab me?”
I squeeze my hand reflexively. “Maybe.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
He steps toward me very slowly, very deliberately. I want to stick him. It’s instinct for me and I can’t turn it off. I can barely stand Ryan in my space. Having someone come at me that I don’t trust? Part of me is itching to put the blade in him and drop him to the ground. I don’t want to kill another person, that’s not what it is. It’s survival. It’s spending years not having people in my personal space. It’s something I felt coiled inside of me in the Colony but I never had a weapon to do anything about it. Nothing more violent than a fork. But standing here now with him advancing on me, his sharp, predators gaze locked on my face, and the means to defend myself? Auto-pilot is begging to come back on and I very nearly slam the blade into his stomach. To the hilt.
“Oooh,” he says quietly, watching my eyes. “You’re thinking about it. That’s good. You don’t want to lose that edge. Going soft will get you killed.”