Page 82 of Strange Familiars
There’s a prolonged silence. I let out a slow breath, still trying to stay quiet. Has he…gone?
But no. A moment later, Harrisford’s voice rings out, loud and clear, from the other side of the door.
“Chan,” he says sternly. “I know you’re in there. I saw you look through the peephole.”
Shit. Itishim.
I freeze, hesitating, wondering what I should do. Then I remember I’m holding a scalpel, which gives me some advantage, at least.
Before he’s had a chance to react, I’ve already flung open the door, shoved him up against the opposite wall, and pointed the scalpel blade at his neck.
“What thehellare you doing here, Briggs?” I hiss. My forearm is pinned horizontally against his chest. Trying not to notice the hard lines of muscle beneath it, I lean into him harder, pressing him further against the wall.
He actually has the gall togrinat me. “I’m paying you a visit, Chan. What does it look like?”
Some of my hair has fallen over my face, so I blow it out of my eyes, frustrated. “Visiting me?” My eyes rove over his attire—he’s wearing an actual suit, with a tieandan overcoat. Yes, we’re up north, but it’s summer—it’s notthatfucking cold. “Dressed likethis? In Manchester? Are youtryingto get beaten up?”
“If you have a problem with my clothing,” he says, infuriatingly calm as his smile grows wider and even more cocky, “you’re more than welcome to take it off.”
I bare my teeth and growl at him, pressing the blade of the scalpel against his skin. “You’re awfully flippant for someone whose life is in danger.”
The smile falls away, and he gazes at me intently, the deep blue of his left eye glinting in the dim magelights of the hallway. “Then it’s lucky, isn’t it? That I don’t much value my life.”
My hand shakes, and I jerk the blade away from his throat. He must have been a little tense, even though he hid it well, because he actually loosens a breath in relief.
But his relief is short-lived when he sees what I’m doing instead.
“Would you prefer an open or closed castration?” I say evenly, my eyes narrowed, now pointing the scalpel squarely at his crotch. “A scrotal or pre-scrotal incision? Take your pick, Briggs—I’m well trained inallthe methods.”
He swallows hard, and I give him a smile as falsely sweet as sugar-free syrup. “I guess I’ve discovered what you truly value, huh?” I say.Typical.
“What do you want me to say?” he rasps out. Under my arm, I can feel the pulse of his throat, beating hot and steady beneath his skin.
My voice drops an octave, deceptively soft. But inside, I am seething. “I want to know why you betrayed me.” I spit. “Or more to the point, why you betrayed Percy. You can hate me all you want—I don’t even care. But Percy? He’sinnocent. He has nothing to do with the fact that you and I hate each other. He didn’t deserve to be seized. He didn’t deserve to go to the pound.” My voice has started to vacillate, and I’m livid to discover that I’m crying. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to curb my tears.
Harrisford is quiet for so long that I wonder if he’s passed outfrom hypoxia or something. So I crack open an eyelid. Unfortunately, he’s still conscious, and worse—he’s staring at me in that disarming way he has.
“I don’t hate you,” he says softly, after a pause. “And I swear on my life, Chan—I didn’t betray Percy.”
I’ve seen many faces of Harrisford over the past seven years. The arrogant side, obviously, his usual default state. I’ve seen him angry. I’ve seen him joyful. I’ve even seen him nervous, when I was about to anesthetize Pudding after the museum explosion. But I don’t know that I’ve ever seen him quite like this. He’s…vulnerable. His expression so raw, so open, that I immediately know, deep in my bones, that he really is telling the truth.
The fight immediately drains out of me, and I push away from him, stepping back, the scalpel dangling loose in my fingers. I’m suddenly aware of how ratty I look: My hair’s a mess, my feet are bare, and—goddammit—I’m once again wearing that stupidTwilightT-shirt.
I should order him to go. Slam the door in his face. Stop him from entering the cluttered chaos of the flat. But tonight, Harrisford has shown me a new side to his persona. And not only that…He didn’t betray me like I’d previously assumed.
So I whirl around in a huff and stalk back into my parents’ flat—leaving the door wide open.
A moment later, I haven’t heard him follow, so I turn to look at him over my shoulder. “Well?” I say, raising an eyebrow, tetchy that I have to spell it out. “Are you coming in or not?”
34
Harrisford
I’m wary as I follow Gwendolynne into her flat. Or her parents’ flat, I should say. She’s standing in the center of the room with her arms crossed, watching me, as I quickly take in my surroundings.
If I were being generous, I’d call the flat cozy, but in truth, it’s positivelytiny. It gives the impression of an overstuffed cushion bursting at the seams: There are items on every surface, from the TV cabinet to the messy coffee table to the massive sofa that dominates the room. A Chinese calendar, red and gold and covered in advertisements, is the only adornment on the wall. Clothes are draped over furniture, books and papers stuffed into every shelf, and from a spot by the television a lucky cat swings its paw back and forth, doleful.
It’s small and messy—the complete opposite of the sterile formality of the Briggs mansion. But in truth…I kind of love it. It’s utter chaos contained in a small package, much like Gwendolynne herself.
