Shadowbook

Chapter 7: Cravings

When Astor reappeared a few days later, it was in a completely unexpected place. I was walking in the park after school, one of the few places Pamela allowed me to go. Swimming hadn't worked out (it was definitely a swim team, not a dive team), and I needed the exercise from walking. Pamela didn't seem to think I could get into too much trouble in a park. Joke's on her, because there was the Prince of Shadows, sitting placidly on a bench and reading a book.

I did a double take. For a millisecond, I was completely certain that I had hallucinated him, and that as soon as I turned my head, his image would have dissolved like a ghost. Since that night, I had desperately tried to recall every detail of his face, and to conjure the feeling of his soft hands and softer lips. Part of me had been convinced that it was a dream — that Astor hadn't existed, but I wanted so desperately for him to exist that I had convinced myself he was real. No, he was really there. His black clothes were stark against the white snow, and his skin... it really should have been the same color as the snow, but it was a more natural pink. His cheeks were even a bit rosy. He looked actually human, instead of ethereal.

And then there was another part of me, one I tried hard not to listen to, that had doubted his intentions ever since the conversation with Jasmine. Her words ran through my head for the umpteenth time. If you continue to associate with Astor, I hope you know what you're doing. I watched his black-gloved hands delicately turn the pages of his book. He had to know I was there, but he showed no sign of it. Even in this mundane environment, he had a lordly presence. The cloak helped. Why was he here? Was he here to see me? Was this the out-of-character behavior that Jasmine was referring to?

Screw it. He was here. I couldn't not talk to him. That would be like not kissing him when he clearly wanted to. It would be a waste. I crunched through the snow to the bench. He looked up. His eyes no longer had vertical pupils, and they were not purple — they were bright, vivid green. Green as the promise of spring.

"Hello, Nyx," he said pleasantly. "Please, sit."

I sat. "Hey, Astor. You look... relatively normal."

He raised an eyebrow. "Is that a compliment?"

"It's an observation."

"Ah."

"Why are you here?"

"I came to see you."

"Why?"

He smirked, serenely, teasingly. "Why not?"

"I thought you said you wanted to avoid coming out in daylight if you could help it."

"I was eager to talk with you again, and I am not particularly patient."

He said this with the tone of a king making an insistent demand of a minion. "Oh yeah? You'd brave the sunlight, risk burning to a crisp for me?"

"I will not burn. The worst it can do to me is give me a terrible migraine, but Conscious form prevents that." He grimaced up at the sky. "I hate Conscious form. My senses diminish, my powers become harder to use... it's quite uncomfortable. But at least the sky is overcast."

He missed me enough to put up with that, I realized.

He smiled warmly, genuinely. "I did miss you. And in truth, I understand I... I was too forward the other night. We ought to get to know each other. Like... normal people."

We simply stared at each other, each of us too shy to say anything. Astor's debonair charm was suddenly gone, and he looked like a startled deer. Finally, the awkward silence became intolerable. "What's your favorite color?" I blurted.