Because You Love to Hate Me(10)

As for me, I’ll never leave this cloud. I know there’s more to life than golden eggs and leather crafts. I know I’ll never surf a great wave or hike the Grand Canyon. Because as much as I want to, it’s too scary to think New, to think Different.

Jack says, “Would you mind showing me your castle? I don’t mean to be rude, but you can’t blame me for being fascinated.”

Don’t mean to be rude, says the thief. Jack wants to see what else he can steal, more like.

But I haven’t had anyone over in ages, and last time, well, let’s just say things didn’t go as planned.

So I tell Jack it’d be best if I rub the edge of my cardigan over his body so that the human scent of him can be covered by lint and ozone. The last thing we need is Dad fee-fi-fo-fum-ing it down the stairs. (The battle cry fee fi fo fum translates roughly from the old giant tongue to “fight destroy conquer expand,” but it’s suffered an unfortunate downgrade and now just means “I’m really pissed.”)

I look down at Jack, who at full height reaches the top of my knee, and there’s this awkward moment when he lifts his arms and extends them toward me and he looks so helpless and trusting . . . so human. I’m endeared to him and repelled at the same time. I wrap my fingers around him, and it could be my imagination, but I think I feel his heart thudding against one of my fingertips. I grip his warm body tighter. His ribs feel fragile against the bones of my pinkie; his butt is soft against the meat of my palm. Muscle and bone and blood and water . . .

“Ow!”

His voice is so sharp I nearly drop him. “What?”

“You were squeezing me to death.”

Squeezing me to death. A dare, a challenge. It’s only a split second, but in this moment I feel electric.

I don’t apologize, because it wouldn’t be right, a giant—and a royal one at that—apologizing to a human, but I loosen my grip and place him on my right shoulder.

Upstairs, the moonlight reflects off heavy copper pots hanging in the kitchen, shimmers off great stone walls. I walk straight through and head for the receiving room to show Jack the paintings, sculptures, and artifacts (all crafted by humans) that our family has collected for generations. I hurry past the recessed, oversized nook just outside the kitchen. In the nook’s center stands a bigger-than-life-sized bronze bull. The silver light of the moon glints off its horns. I hate the oily, charred smell in there; it clings to the walls.

“What’s that?” he says, pointing to the bull. “It’s huge. I’ve never seen an iron bull in a house.”

“It’s bronze.”

“I was expecting, I don’t know, stuffed men on the walls—human heads, maybe.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Come on, bring me closer!”

I know he isn’t going to shut up until I do, so I pad over to the bull.

“This is amazing. Can I sit on it?”

The last thing I need is Jack falling off. “Absolutely not. It’s not a toy.”

“All the wood bits and ash on the floor—nice touch.”

I pause.

“Come on, just for a second.”

I sigh and lift him off my shoulder and I get that feeling again, the urge to squeeze and squeeze. Power over life and death, here in my hand, a gift. But I just place Jack on top of the bull and watch him sidle up to the bronze animal’s neck.

“I summered in Texas once,” he says. “There was a restaurant that served peanuts by the bowl. You crack them open and toss them onto the floor. The entire floor, covered in shells.” Jack does this gymnast thing as he talks, placing his arms straight down in front of him, his palms flat against the bull’s back as he stretches out his legs. “It’s brilliant. At least, it was. There was a lawsuit.”

Next thing you know, Jack’s hand slips, and he cries out and nearly crashes to the floor. And then I hear her big mouth. I forgot all about that damned thing.

“’Tis late, ’tis late!

And who is this young man?

A human boy, a wicked thief!

Blood payment we demand!”

I rush to the ornate wood cabinet against the wall that holds some of the more magickal pieces Mom and Dad and my great-great-great-great-great-I-may-as-well-stop-now-because-you-get-the-idea-grand-parents have collected from humans over the last two thousand years or so. I already know it’s unlocked because no one would dare burgle Dad, even though Mom locks the cabinet when we’re hosting feasts because you don’t maintain a monarchy by being stupid.

I throw open the left door and reach for the topmost shelf and close my hand over the stupid harp. I know she won’t shut up now that she’s awake, so I do my best to smother her. She’s really a bust of a pearl-draped woman sculpted onto the front of a harp, but don’t let the serene face fool you—she isn’t afraid to throw you in front of a jetliner, especially when she’s screeching about you sneaking out when you’re just going to the kitchen for a snack. I press my fingers against her strings so she can’t vibrate them, and I swipe Jack up from the bull.

A boom of thunder sounds from upstairs and I know it’s Dad. I sprint for the basement and head straight to the window.

“Time to go,” I say as I shove Jack through and drop the harp after him. She’s a lot smaller than the average-sized harp so she won’t be impossible for him to lug on his own.