“This is where you keep your stuff?”
“I've always kept it here, near my family,” he says.
"Your family?" I ask.
"Yes. They are buried in the mausoleum. The Mackintires were originally from Sussex."
"Oh, wow." Why hadn't he every told me that? “It's really old,” I say, brushing the rusty hinges.
“It was my father's.” He cracks open the top and I lean over. This is Peter's life, and he's showing it to me.
Everything inside is wrapped in plastic, probably to prevent moisture. He pulls off several layers and lays them out on the ground. Then he unpacks his history.
“Is this your mother?” I hold up a faded sepia-tinted photograph of a woman in a high-collared dress.
“Yes.” She's stunning, with those tilted eyes that he shares, except hers look brown.
“Wow.” I look from him to the photograph. “You have her eyes.”
“I know.”
“Where was she from?”
“Japan. She was adopted by an American man who traveled there with his wife. They found her in the street and brought her home with them.” I know I keep saying wow, but really.
“Wow.”
He brings out more things. A pair of gloves, a pocket watch. A few books. A string of pearls. A jumprope. Three wooden dolls with lips painted red. Their dresses are a little stained and have moth holes, but their faces are bright with the paint.
“Is this you?” He lays out another photograph. I recognize his mother, and a man who must be his father with his hand on her shoulder. There are three little girls, one on her lap, one on a chair and one sitting on the floor, and what looks like a younger Peter. His hair is slicked back from his face, but I'd know those eyes anywhere. Everyone looks stiff, kind of like those posed family portraits from Sears. Only obviously not, since they didn't have those back then.
“You look different.”
“I was sixteen when we took that. There are my sisters, Celia and Constance and Lucy.”
“What happened to them?” I look at the three little girls, all in dark curls, except for the baby, Lucy, who was blonde. They all had full cheeks like apples. Totally adorable.
“My mother took them back to New York. I used to check in with them every few years. Without their knowledge, of course. I'd watch from outside the apartment. My father had left them some money in life insurance, and they got a good payment from the White Star Line. She had enough for them to live on and she taught piano for extra income. She had wonderful fingers.” He looks down at his own. I've noticed his fingers. They look like piano-playing fingers.
“My sisters grew up and married, had children. I've followed them here and there. Some of their grandchildren still live in upstate New York.” So creepy, thinking about the fact that he had grand nieces and nephews. I put the photograph aside. There were a few other trinkets, some coins, jewelry.
“Thank you.” I take his hand. It's cool, like leaves in the shade. I want to know more about his family, but this is not the time to ask.
“You are welcome.”
We put the items back in the trunk, one by one. The photograph is last. I put it on the top. The record of a life that was. He closes the top and locks it again, and hands me the key.
“What are you doing?”
“I want you to have it. To keep it safe.”
“What?” I stared from the key to his face and back.
“I need a place to keep this safe. I want you to be the one to take care of it.” He holds my hand with both of his. Cradling it like a baby bird.
“Wow, that's... really trusting.” I stare down at our hands. “That was your mother's book, you gave me, wasn't it?”
“I trust you, Ava,” he says, not answering my question. He doesn't have to.
“Yeah, I know.” My fingers flutter closed over the key. It's an exchange. I'm trusting him with my life when it comes to the Claiming. Now he's showing me that he feels the same way. I mean, if we had a fight or something I could rip up the photographs and sell the pearls and coins on eBay. That's the thing, though. He knows I won't. A life for a life.
“Thank you. Again. I feel like I've been saying it a lot.” He looks at my face and then looks up, as if he's heard something in the woods. I follow the direction of his eyes. Even with my new and improved eyesight, it takes me a few seconds to make out something coming out of the trees. I grab onto Peter. What the hell is it?
Peter isn't alarmed. Actually, he straightens up and tries to extricate himself from my clutches. The thing comes closer. It's shaped like a man, but with claws instead of hands and feet. It sort of reminds me of a wolf. The face is hairy, but human-looking. It's like a weird half-and-half thing. It's also wearing khakis.
Then it morphs back into what looks like a tall blond man, with one brown eye and one gray one. Damn, he's tall.
“Ava, this is Viktor. My brother.” Viktor steps forward, holding out his hand, but pulls it back. I want to glare at Peter for not giving me a little notice that we were doing this, but I'm still too stunned.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Ava.” His accent is seriously awesome. Russian, maybe? He should be standing in the snow with a huge furry hat in front of the Kremlin.
“Nice to meet you.” It hurts my neck to look up at him. He looks older than Peter. I'd say probably twenty-five when he turned. He's a fine specimen of man. Anyone could see that.
“Sooo...” I said, unsure of what to talk about. Had any good blood lately? didn't seem like an option.
“Peter has told me a lot about you.”
“He hasn't really told me anything about you.” He doesn't look shocked by my bluntness, but then, noctali don't get shocked.
“I should have told you he was coming.” Peter says. No shit, Sherlock.
“Yeah, a little warning would have been nice.” Then I wouldn't be standing here, gaping at him like an idiot. It seems a little too coincidental that he shows up just after the Claiming, but I can't ask Peter about it with Viktor standing there. So, I'm in the dark. What a surprise.
“Shall we sit?” He gestures to the ground.
“Sure.” I think it's going to be awkward, but it isn't. We all sit under the tree and Viktor talks in his lovely accent about Russia and how he loves the cold and snow and barren landscape. It's a strange conversation, but I'm not uncomfortable. There's something pleasant about Viktor. He reminds me of Peter that way. He doesn't talk much, but the words he uses are carefully chosen. It's like listening to a living poem. He doesn't ask about the Claiming, or who I am or anything like that.