Off With His Head

03. Maybe he sparkles?

By the time evening rolls around, I still haven't learned anything concrete.

Everything on the internet is just conjecture; wooden stakes, garlic, holy water, crosses. How do I know if anything like that would work for sure? What if none of them work? The last thing I want to do right now is piss him off.

And then there's the rest of it. Apparently they have no reflection, but I have seen Henry in a mirror before. I have also seen him in the daytime, so that whole sunlight thing is clearly not true as well.

Maybe he sparkles?

I almost smile before I remind myself that this is definitely not a laughing matter.

I'm grateful that Naomi has gone out with the guy from last night, leaving me alone with my thoughts. His name is Calvin, and I can't help but wonder how she possibly got Roy or Rory or anything with an 'R' in it.

Henry is going to be here soon, which scares the living crap out of me as I don't know if I will be able to hold myself together. I keep giving myself pep talks in the mirror, which doesn't help that much as it reflects a different person than it did yesterday.

I have dressed all in black this time, refusing to wear red. I doubt I will be able to look at the colour the same again. I threw away the shirt I had been wearing last night because I couldn't even stand looking at it. And it was one of my favourites. It's yet another reason for me to be angry at Henry.

Bastard.

By the time he has picked me up I have calmed myself down and let the anger takeover. My fury multiplies when he parks outside the very same restaurant he had brought me to the night before.

Bastard.

He places his hand on the small of my back as we are lead to, thankfully, a different table than last night. A waiter comes over to take our drink order and I eye him in pity, desperately hoping that Henry won't kill him too.

"I will have a beer and she will have a chardonnay, thank you," Henry instructs him.

"Actually, I will have a whiskey, neat." I'm going to need it if I will make it through the night.

Henry looks at me quizzically as the waiter goes to get our drinks. "I thought you liked chardonnay?"

"Actually I don't really like wine that much." That's not really true, but I am so irritated by him that I can't seem to control my mouth.

"But on every date we've gone on, you've had wine." He tries to reach for my hand across the table and I lean back in my chair, folding my arms across my chest. I want to limit our contact as much as I can.

"That's because you ordered it for me."

"And you've pretended to like it this whole time?" he questions, sounding almost hurt.

"You're one to talk." I accuse, my common sense clearly snapping. His eyes darken, his face clouding over in anger, and for the first time, my fear threatens to break through my rage.

Don't agitate him Peyton.

"Fine, sweetheart," he takes a deep breath. "I can see you have many questions. Why don't you start and I will answer honestly."

I don't even know where to begin, so I go for the most obvious, although I am positive that I will regret it. "How old are you?"

"Technically, I will forever be twenty-four. But I was turned around sixty years ago. So I guess that would put me in my eighties," he says this calmly, as if it's no big deal. I was right; I wish I hadn't asked the question.