The Cure for Dreaming(36)

“It’s freezing out here.”

“The food warmed me up.”

“Or the company, perhaps.” He smiled and took my hand to help me into the seat above, but I didn’t respond, which I’m sure made me seem like an unfeeling lump of stone.

The ride home started off uneventfully, and the message in my glove kept me from paying attention to our route. In fact, I didn’t actually notice our surroundings until Percy directed the horse and buggy down the South Park Blocks, where wide expanses of moonlit grass separated the east and west sides of the street.

Strange, vaporous wisps of air rose off the damp park ground and drifted into the trees like steam rising from a pot—or spirits escaping graves. I’d seen such mist before; the effect wasn’t one of my illusions, just a mixture of atmospheric warmth and cold and moisture. The sight unsettled me, though. Between the ghostly fog and Mandolin’s footfalls across the soundless neighborhood, I felt like Ichabod Crane venturing through the depths of Sleepy Hollow upon the back of trusty Gunpowder.

“Why are you taking this route?” I asked, staring at the empty path that lay ahead.

“To stretch out the time and make it seem as if we didn’t desert Sadie’s party.” Percy stole a glance at me. “I’m keeping you out of trouble, my pet.”

“Oh. Thank you.” I toyed with the little pieces of paper wedged beside my thumb. “But I’d prefer not to be called your pet, if you don’t mind. It makes me feel like a cocker spaniel.”

Percy didn’t answer.

We came upon the corner of Park and Main, and he gave Mandolin’s reins a firm pull. “Whoa, boy.”

I stiffened. “Why are you slowing down?”

“Whoa, Mandolin.”

The buggy came to a swaying stop alongside the rising mist. Cold air sliced across my cheeks. My shriveled prune of a heart pounded back to life with throbbing intensity.

“Why did you stop?” I asked. “We’re still three blocks away.”

Percy shifted his knees toward me, the upper half of his face masked by shadows, his eyes a knife slash of yellow. “Olivia . . .” His arm slid behind me, across the back of the leather seat. “I really want to kiss you.” He leaned in close, and his sour Eiderling Beer breath flooded my nose.

“I . . . um”—I inched away—“I don’t . . .”

“There’s no need to be so nervous.” He cupped my cheek with one soft-gloved hand. “I’ll be gentle.”

“I don’t—”

“Do you want to play Dracula?” He lifted an eyebrow. “Would that make it more fun?”

My mouth went dry; I shook my head. “No! H-h-how do you mean?”

“I know you’re a good little thing, but you have to admit”—his left hand found the crook of my waist, below my coat—“a girl who’s read Dracula as many times as you have must be aching for the touch of a pair of lips against her neck.” With that, he nestled his ice block of a cheek against my face. His breath tickled its way inside my ear. “Do you want to see what it feels like if I place my mouth against your bare skin? Do you want to be my”—he kissed my earlobe— “Mina?”

I closed my eyes and found my thoughts racing back to the Percy Acklen who had waved me down in the theater lobby with the lights glinting off his cuff links. I remembered those green-brown eyes and the mischief on his lips and the way we’d commiserated about our fathers before darting through the rain to my house.

“I d-d-d . . .” My teeth chattered. “I don’t want to be with someone who thinks I’m inferior to him.”

“I don’t think that.” His breath cooled the upper regions of my neck, below my ear.

“I don’t even like salmon very much, but you never even asked me what I wanted before you ordered for me.”

“Olivia . . .” He slid his bottom lip across an inch of my throat—not a kiss, per se, but a tease that gave me unpleasant shivers. “You’re making too much of everything. Just have some fun. Play with me. Close your eyes and play.”

“I don’t—”

“Just play.” He licked my neck, which almost made me laugh, if it weren’t also kind of awful, but then he cupped his full mouth—wet and soft and warmer than the rest of him—around my neck and sank his teeth against my flesh. Blood rushed through my veins until I seemed to be made of nothing but blood and a pounding pulse—racing, anxious, beating, beating, beating blood he would taste if his teeth bit down any harder. His hand shifted to my posterior and gave a firm squeeze—his grabby hands! Just as Frannie said! Every part of him pressed down on me. His mouth, his fingers, his chest. I couldn’t breathe.

I pushed him away, and his head smacked the buggy’s overhang.

“Ouch!” He rubbed the top of his skull. “What did you do that for?”

“Did you ever grab my friend Frannie’s backside?”

“What? Who the hell is Frannie?”

“Frannie Harrison. She goes to our school.”

“Jesus, Olivia.” He lunged toward me again. “Just close your eyes and let me kiss you. You owe me for what happened in class.”

“But . . .” I gasped. “You said . . .”