Free Nocturnal by Chelsea M. Cameron

probably something.
    ***
    Ava. Such a symmetrical name. I like symmetrical things. Books on a shelf, rows of flowers, roads. I wonder if it's the chaos in me that secretly longs for order. For things to be in their place. 
    I told her my name. It felt strange on my lips, like a forgotten language. I had not shared it with a living person in a long time. 
    She held the light she brought like a torch, as if it would illuminate every dark corner, help her to see what is hidden. Light cannot hurt me, contrary to legend. But she does not know that. I don't tell her.
    Her eyes blinked over and over. I watched the emotions on her face, like waves carving sand. I am used to watching faces as they die. They get so still, freeze in a mask that is impossible to change. She paged through so many feelings, fear, anger, frustration, amusement. My own face was still. I've forgotten how to make my face move like a mortal. It unnerves your prey when they cannot read what you are thinking on your face. 
    She had so many questions. I didn't feel like answering them, so I didn't. She couldn't understand anything about me. I think she wanted to try. 
    I focused on her smell, which was as strong as any human. They had no idea how much they gave off. Sweat and dirt and blood and skin and cologne and deodorant and soap residue and food and smoke. Everywhere they'd been rubs off on them, so I could tell what they'd done that day, and sometimes the day before. It clung to their skin, even when they try to wash it away. The scents layer, making each person have a signature.
    She was a little scared of me, and she smelled of sleep , smoke, alcohol and sweat. A soap that smelled of artificial coconut. She must have had chocolate earlier. And cooked vegetables. Meat is a strong smell, but I didn't smell it on her. There was a residue of her house there as well. Paint and fabrics and wood and plastic. The people she lives with were on her. A woman with flowery perfume. A man as well. Men and women smell so different. Pheromones. Science hadn't discovered them yet when I was alive.   
    Underlying it all was her blood. So warm and active, being pushed and pulled through her veins. I wanted to take it away from her.
    Her eyes are green. They widened as she made contact with mine. I didn't mean to, but I tried to hold the contact for a few seconds. She broke it and I saw she was scared. Not enough to run. 
    She knew that I was different, not human. Asked me what I was. I told her nothing. 
    The want to kill her stayed with me, like a word whispered in my ear. A kiss that promised of something else. Something better. If only I would give in. I didn't.
    We said goodbye to each other. She used my name. Such a simple word, goodbye. 

Chapter Eight
     
    Insomnia

    “We need to talk.” Dad accosts me in the kitchen the next afternoon when I go for an apple. I've been camped in the living room doing massive amounts of homework, but I needed some sustenance. It's the first time in six days Dad's really talked to me. Mostly he's talked at me, and only when my mother is around. She's out in her garden. He glances out the window to make sure.
    I wait for him to start. I'm not initiating this, because I know where this is going before he says a word. He's easier to read than one of those Dick and Jane books from first grade. See Dad. See Dad talk. See Dad yell an wave his arms. I fiddle with the sticker from my apple so I don't have to look at him. His face is doing that thing where he tries to look all superior. It makes me want to scream. 
    “You need to help your mother out more. She's taken on so much and you need to contribute more. It isn't right for her to work so hard when she should be resting.” What he's not saying is that soon she's not going to be around, so someone needs to pick up the slack. Someone named Ava. Not that he's going to say any of that out loud. I'm supposed to be smart enough to understand that it's implied. Lucky for him, I'm not