Nightlife (Cal Leandros #1)(41)

Four hours he would get. Four hours and then, if I could pull it off, four more. I could stay awake for eight hours, no problem. Considering what I would see when I closed my eyes, insomnia was my friend anyway. I'd lived through Niko's being engulfed by Abbagor once already; I wasn't looking forward to any repeat showings.

Turning the television's sound back up to a soft murmur, I stood and went to double-check the lock on the door. There were no windows to check, not the sort that locked. We had only the one window, but it was a doozy, taking up most of the far wall of the living room. I had no idea what the building had been years and years ago, but our apartment definitely had an unfinished quality to it. The ceiling was high enough to have any real estate agent dancing in glee, but it was also full of exposed wiring and rusty pipes. The floor was directly out of some run-down warehouse off the river minus the fishy smell. The super had put in a bathroom and kitchenette; those were the only modern touches. It was a dump, no doubt, saved only by the window. At night a thousand city lights glittered through the glass. It was like having your own personal view of the Milky Way.

Flicking off the lights, I sat on the couch, ignoring the TV and watching the window instead. Promise wasn't the only one who missed the stars. But as with most things in life, sometimes you just had to make do.

I didn't doze off. Niko and life itself had trained me better than that. But I did let my eyes unfocus and my mind empty as my ears stayed alert for any suspicious sound. It was a state I'd gotten used to over the years. Restful but ready. So when I first heard it, I was off the couch and down the hall before my thoughts fully kicked in. My body automatically reacted, even though the sound wasn't suspicious, just out of place. Unfamiliar. Wrong. The rustle of sheets, the shifting on a creaking mattress, it was the sound of a restless sleeper. But I was the only one of those in the apartment—at least I had been until tonight.

In the doorway to the bedroom, I hesitated as Niko struggled for his life a second time that night. He wasn't like me. He didn't toss and turn, kicking the blankets to the floor. His throat wasn't tight as he choked back a shout. His reaction to the terror of a nightmare wasn't the same as mine, no, but that didn't make it any less disturbing or any less desperate. As I watched, he changed position again. It was just by a few inches, but it still set the mattress to a subdued singing. His lightly stubbled jaw tensed until the bone was silhouetted through skin like old ivory. A solitary hand released its fistful of sheet and slid under the pillow to grip something a bit more substantial and a whole lot more deadly than a handful of cloth.

I knew better than to try to shake Niko awake from the dream. He wouldn't gut me, half asleep or pot, but it might still give us a nasty moment. Whenever possible, I was all about avoiding the nasty moments. Instead, I stepped closer and murmured, "It's okay, Cyrano. There's no one here but us chickens. Go to sleep." Whether it was my voice, the familiar nickname, or even my scent, it worked. Niko's face smoothed out, the taut set of his shoulders relaxed, and he slid deeper into a more restful sleep. My brother… humans in general… didn't have the developed sense of smell I did, but even so, they had a better one than they gave themselves credit for. I remembered reading once (a Niko-assigned book, of course) that memory was more intricately linked with smell than any other sense. It might be that Niko could pick me up, at least on a subconscious level. I wondered what I would smell like to him. Hamburgers and chili dogs? T-shirts washed with dish detergent because I was too lazy to go to the Laundromat? If laziness itself had a smell, I was bound to reek of it.

Niko, on the other hand, smelled like home. It sounded trite as hell, but it was true. I wasn't saying he smelled like homemade cookies or baking bread. I hadn't had that kind of home—probably no one outside a Disney movie had. No, Niko didn't smell like an amateur bakery. He smelled like steel, sharp and deadly. He smelled like the oilcloth he used on his blades. And he smelled green. That must've been all the health food he ate. Unusual smells for the average person maybe, but they were all the things that had kept me safe, alive, and sane all these years. If that wasn't a definition of home, I didn't know what was.

"Night, Nik," I said under my breath, slipping back out of the room and pulling the door closed behind me. In the hallway, I leaned against the wall with my arms folded, and stared into darkness. I hadn't asked Niko what it was like to be trapped inside Abbagor. I wasn't sure he would tell me. Wouldn't it be a stupid question really? Kind of like asking someone how it felt to be in hell. Hey, just how hot is it down there, huh? Is it the heat or the humidity? And, hey, is that torture and disemboweling by demons really as bad as they say it is? Jesus. There's a sheer level of awfulness that's incapable of being put into words, a terror so intense it can't be expressed. But in the end, even if Niko couldn't tell me exactly what it was like, couldn't articulate the godawful horrific details, he could tell me one thing. He could tell me how he felt. Then and now.

I didn't know if it would help; I was no psychologist. But if it'd help me regain the crown of nightmare king, I'd give it a try. Niko needed his sleep. It took a huge amount of energy to mercilessly nag me day in and day out. Mind settled for the moment, I pushed away from the wall. It was time for another sweep. The locks on the door were excellent, but nothing was foolproof—in locks or life.





Chapter Ten