Free Damon by Vanessa Hawkes Page B

the blood from the hamburger meat and was hyper observant, like a psychic. I had to deny it, though, because I did not, in fact, like blood. It was just a crazy old habit I’d picked up from my mother when I was little. She’d told me the blood was magic juice and if I drank it, I’d have magic powers. It was mostly just water, anyway. I’d learned years ago not to let anyone see me do it. And I should have stopped doing it years ago. But I still liked the idea of having magic powers. I still got that giddy feeling every time I did it. Like my name actually meant something. Like long lost happy times only a child can experience. The same reason adults still get a thrill out of Christmas lights. Memories of happiness.
    Before I could answer, Damon lined up the scar on my wrist with the scar on his wrist, so the weaving trails became one long road.
    “See why we’re perfect?” he said. “People like us have to stick with our own kind. Your mom’s crazy, my dad’s crazy. We’ll both go crazy, someday. You and I. Would you rather be with someone who yells at you because you’re crazy, or someone who says it’s okay to be crazy?”
    What he said did have some logic. I knew it was a possibility. I felt Damon was ahead of me on the crazy track, or at least I wanted to believe that, but, every now and then, I saw the signs in myself. If I had to go crazy, I might as well try to find someone who wouldn’t yell at me for it. If the worse happened, we could at least inflict our madness on each other instead of innocent bystanders.
    And a part of me was drawn to him simply because he knew. He knew what my life had been like. He’d lived it, too. His body had more scars than mine. I would never have to hide anything from him. And I was so tired of hiding.
    I only needed to know one thing. “What do you want from me?”
    “Just to be here,” he said. “Holding your hand.”
    I liked that answer. It seemed to fit the night. It seemed easy and uncomplicated. I stood up long enough to move my chair close to his, and then sat down, leaning so our shoulders touched. He was incredibly handsome again, an entirely different man. One I found charming, warm, and familiar.
    “My real name is Magic Star,” I told him. Generally, I shuddered at the thought of anyone knowing my real name. The stupid, crazy name my crazy mother gave me because she’d believed a star was growing in her belly. A star put there by magic. But with Damon, it felt like a minor confession.
    “I know,” he said.
    Of course he did. He’d probably found my birth certificate somewhere. “I guess I’m lucky she thought I was a star and not the spawn of the devil. She’s obsessed with the devil.”
    He nodded. “My dad, too.”
    “She wears a charm that keeps him away from her.”
    “Smart,” he whispered and looked off into the night.
    “Your real name is David Jenkins,” I told him, since he didn’t offer to confess. But, I wanted him to know I knew.
    “My name is Damon,” he said. “Your name is Maggie. Those are our real names.”
    Fine by me. It didn’t really matter. Not really.
    He leaned into me and squeezed my hand and we enjoyed our wine and the evening in silence for a while.
    He held up his right hand. He had a bandage on his thumb. “I put my blood in the wine.”
    I held up my almost empty glass. I wasn’t nearly as surprised as I should have been. I wasn’t as grossed out as I should have been. “What was in the box?”
    He sent me a sidelong grin when I didn’t yell at him for doing something so crazy. “Something unbelievable. Something that proves I’m on the right track.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “It means I have pieces of the mystery but I haven’t solved the mystery yet.”
    “What mystery?”
    “C’mon.” He stood up and kept hold of my hand as we went back inside. After shutting and locking the door, he walked around the room checking to make sure the curtains were seamless, never releasing my hand. I