Free Shiver Trilogy (Shiver, Linger, Forever) by Maggie Stiefvater Page B

when there had still been snow on the ground. And this year? How late would I have gotten my body back if Tom Culpeper hadn’t shot me? I didn’t even really understand how being shot had given me back my human form in this cool weather. I thought of how frigid it had been when Grace knelt over me, pressing a cloth to my neck. It hadn’t been summer for a long time.
    The brilliant colors of the brittle leaves all around the shed mocked me then, evidence that a year had lived and died without my being aware of it. I knew with sudden, chilling certainty that this was my last year.
    To meet Grace only now seemed like an intensely cruel twist of fate.
    I didn’t want to think about it. Instead, I jogged back to the house, checking to make sure that Grace’s parents’ cars were still gone. Letting myself back in, I hovered outside the bedroom door for a second, then loitered for a long time in the kitchen, looking through the cabinets even though I wasn’t really hungry.
    Admit it. You’re too nervous to go back in there. I wanted so badly to see her again, this iron-willed ghost that had haunted my years in the woods. But I was afraid, too, of how seeing her face-to-face in damning daylight might change things. Or worse, wouldn’t change things. Last night, I’d been bleeding to death on her back deck. Anyone might have saved me. Today, I wanted more than saving. But what if I was just a freak to her?
    You’re an abomination to God’s creation. You’re cursed. You’re the Devil. Where is my son? What have you done with him? I closed my eyes, wondering why, considering all the things I had lost, memories of my parents couldn’t have been among them.
    “Sam?”
    I jerked, hearing my name. Grace called again in her room, barely above a whisper, wondering where I was. She didn’t sound afraid.
    I pushed open her door and looked around her room. In the strong late-morning light, I could see now that it was a grown-up’s room. No leftover pink whimsy or stuffed animals for Grace, if she’d ever had them. Framed photographs of trees on the walls, all matching black frames with no frills. Matching black furniture, all very square and useful looking. Her toweland washcloth tidily folded on top of the dresser next to another clock — black-and-white, all smooth lines — and a stack of library books, mostly narrative nonfiction and mysteries, judging by the titles. Probably alphabetized or organized according to length.
    I was suddenly struck by how dissimilar we were. It occurred to me that if Grace and I were objects, she would be an elaborate digital clock, synced up with the World Clock in London with technical perfection, and I’d be a snow globe — shaken memories in a glass ball.
    I struggled to find something to say that wouldn’t sound like the greeting of an interspecies stalker. “Good morning,” I managed.
    Grace sat up, her hair frizzy on one side and flat against her head on the other, her dark eyes filled with open delight. “You’re still here! Oh. You have clothes. I mean, instead of scrubs.”
    “I went to get them while you were sleeping.”
    “What time is it? Ohhh — I’m really late for school, aren’t I?”
    “It’s eleven.”
    Grace groaned and then shrugged. “You know what? I haven’t missed class since I started high school. I got an award for it last year. And a free pizza or something.” She climbed out of bed; in the daylight, I could see just how clingy and unbearably sexy her camisole top was. I turned away.
    “You don’t have to be so chaste, you know. It’s not like I’m naked.” Pausing in front of her closet, she looked back at me, her expression canny. “You haven’t seen me naked, have you?”
    “No!” My answer came out distinctly rushed.
    She grinned at my lie and pulled some jeans from the closet floor. “Well, unless you want to see me now, you’d better turn around.”
    I lay down on the bed, face buried in the cool pillows that smelled of her. I