The Host (The Host #1)(102)

“I just have one question,” Jared said, interrupting us.

I met his gaze and then shied away—recoiling both from his hard eyes and from Melanie’s resentment.

“You can probably guess what it is. Jeb and Jamie spent all night jabbering at me.…”

I waited for the question, staring across the dark hall at the rice bag—last night’s pillow. In my peripheral vision, I saw his hand come up, and I cringed into the wall.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said again, impatient, and cupped my chin in his rough hand, pulling my face around so I had to look at him.

My heart stuttered when he touched me, and there was suddenly too much moisture in my eyes. I blinked, trying to clear them.

“Wanda.” He said my name slowly—unwillingly, I could tell, though his voice was even and toneless. “Is Melanie still alive—still part of you? Tell me the truth.”

Melanie attacked with the brute strength of a wrecking ball. It was physically painful, like the sudden stab of a migraine headache, where she tried to force her way out.

Stop it! Can’t you see?

It was so obvious in the set of his lips, the tight lines under his eyes. It didn’t matter what I said or what she said.

I’m already a liar to him, I told her. He doesn’t want the truth—he’s just looking for evidence, some way to prove me a liar, a Seeker, to Jeb and Jamie so that he’ll be allowed to kill me.

Melanie refused to answer or believe me; it was a struggle to keep her silent.

Jared watched the sweat bead on my forehead, the strange shiver that shook down my spine, and his eyes narrowed. He held on to my chin, refusing to let me hide my face.

Jared, I love you, she tried to scream. I’m right here.

My lips didn’t quiver, but I was surprised that he couldn’t read the words spelled out plainly in my eyes.

Time passed slowly while he waited for my answer. It was agonizing, having to stare into his eyes, having to see the revulsion there. As if that weren’t enough, Melanie’s anger continued to slice at me from the inside. Her jealousy swelled into a bitter flood that washed through my body and left it polluted.

More time passed, and the tears welled up until they couldn’t be contained in my eyes anymore. They spilled over onto my cheeks and rolled silently into Jared’s palm. His expression didn’t change.

Finally, I’d had enough. I closed my eyes and jerked my head down. Rather than hurt me, he dropped his hand.

He sighed, frustrated.

I expected he would leave. I stared at my hands again, waiting for that. My heartbeat marked the passing minutes. He didn’t move. I didn’t move. He seemed carved out of stone beside me. It fit him, this stonelike stillness. It fit his new, hard expression, the flint in his eyes.

Melanie pondered this Jared, comparing him with the man he used to be. She remembered an unremarkable day on the run…

“Argh!” Jared and Jamie groan together.

Jared lounges on the leather sofa and Jamie sprawls on the carpet in front of him. They’re watching a basketball game on the big-screen TV. The para-sites who live in this house are at work, and we’ve already filled the jeep with all it can hold. We have hours to rest before we need to disappear again.

On the TV, two players are disagreeing politely on the sideline. The cameraman is close; we can hear what they’re saying.

“I believe I was the last one to touch it—it’s your ball.”

“I’m not sure about that. I wouldn’t want to take any unfair advantage. We’d better have the refs review the tape.”

The players shake hands, pat each other’s shoulders.

“This is ridiculous,” Jared grumbles.

“I can’t stand it,” Jamie agrees, mirroring Jared’s tone perfectly; he sounds more like Jared every day—one of the many forms his hero worship has taken. “Is there anything else on?”

Jared flips through a few channels until he finds a track and field meet. The parasites are holding the Olympics in Haiti right now. From what we can see, the aliens are all hugely excited about it. Lots of them have Olympic flags outside their houses. It’s not the same, though. Everyone who participates gets a medal now. Pathetic.

But they can’t really screw up the hundred-meter dash. Individual parasite sports are much more entertaining than when they try to compete against each other directly. They perform better in separate lanes.

“Mel, come relax,” Jared calls.

I stand by the back door out of habit, not because I’m tensed to run. Not because I’m frightened. Empty habit, nothing more.

I go to Jared. He pulls me onto his lap and tucks my head under his chin.

“Comfortable?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say, because I really, truly am entirely comfortable. Here, in an alien’s house.

Dad used to say lots of funny things—like he was speaking his own language sometimes. Twenty-three skidoo, salad days, nosy parker, bandbox fresh, the catbird seat, chocolate teapot, and something about Grandma sucking eggs. One of his favorites was safe as houses.

Teaching me to ride a bike, my mother worrying in the doorway: “Calm down, Linda, this street is safe as houses.” Convincing Jamie to sleep without his nightlight: “It’s safe as houses in here, son, not a monster for miles.”

Then overnight the world turned into a hideous nightmare, and the phrase became a black joke to Jamie and me. Houses were the most dangerous places we knew.