Damn her beautiful citrus and vanilla scent. It infiltrates parts of me that usually remain untouched. The smell of her skin sticks in my mind, making me hope that she left a red print of her lips on my forehead to cling to long after she leaves.
“I’m retired,” I tell her. “I shouldn’t be on anyone’s radar.”
“I know, sugar bear.” Her voice is soothing. “We’ll get to the bottom of who did this.” She leaves my side so she can rummage through my cupboards, which I know are embarrassingly bare. I don’t like having food around just to have it. I buy what I know I’ll want to eat that week, and nothing more. It’s part of being a trapper. You’re always on the move, doing little to put down roots or think further than a week or so into the future.
Maybe I’m retired, but it doesn’t mean I ever learned how to live.
Sevan fills my tea kettle with water and turns on the stove.
Is she making tea?
When Avet lets out a noise of distress from the back of the house, Sevan draws her dagger once more and bolts toward my bedroom.
I don’t move from my seat. I’m not sure I can. My body feels weighted, unable to search out the depths of my home’s destruction. Besides, I know the difference between Avet’s howl when he’s in danger and Avet’s cry when he’s afraid. He’s afraid, but he’s not in danger back there.
It is in this moment I am confronted with the fact that I cannot move to protect my own home, but if Avet was in danger, then I would find the strength. It’s either a testament to our friendship, or a statement that I value very little of myself or what I worked so hard to achieve.
The two stay in my bedroom until the kettle sings. I know I should turn off the stove, but I’m not sure I can stand. I’ve been robbed, beaten, and all the other things that come from being a trapper, but this is my normal home in my normal life.
This must be what regular people feel when their homes get broken into.
That thought warms me enough to stand and turn off the kettle. I’m normal. I’m not a trapper anymore. I’m reacting the way a regular taxpaying citizen would when their home is violated.
I think Sevan meant to make tea, so I pull down a box of chamomile that I bought because it promised to help grant a peaceful sleep.
Utter lies.
But if Sevan wants tea, I guess I can make that happen.
Should I be calling the police? That’s what a normal person would do. This clearly wasn’t a vampire sniffing around for blood, or any other creature I can guess.
I tug out my phone but stop when Avet comes down the hallway. “If you’re calling Sargis, you might want to tell him about what I found in your bedroom.”
“I’m not calling Sargis; I’m calling the police.”
Avet freezes, his dark brows knitting together as if I’ve told him I’m going to build a rocket ship out of popsicle sticks to fly to the moon. “I’m sorry, what did you just say?”
“I’m calling the police. It’s their job to deal with stuff like this.”
Avet’s face sours. “Are you serious? Did you really just say that?”
I motion around the mess. “It’s not a vampire who did this, and it’s not another monster’s method of attack. It’s just a normal break-in, Avet. We handle the monsters; the police handle dumb things like people busting into other people’s homes.”
Avet takes my phone from my hand and grabs at my wrist. “Come look at this. I don’t think we’re dealing with a regular human. I don’t totally know what we’re up against, but it’s somewhere between our jurisdiction and the police’s.”
Great.
How the burglar managed to make a mess of the empty hallway is beyond me. There are more holes in the drywall. There is glass shattered on the floor that we have to step over.
My humor takes a wry turn when I see the havoc wreaked on my bedroom. My mattress has been torn apart, the insides spewed out into the room. “I guess I’ll be sleeping on the couch,” I joke.
Sevan’s mouth is pressed in a firm line as she stares at the picture frame in her hand. “You won’t be sleeping here at all.” She turns the frame toward me, true worry beaming out from her.
It’s the picture of Avet, Cher, and me that Tatik took on Cher’s first day of college. Avet and I helped her pack her things and load up the car that day. Tatik took about a hundred photos of her grandbaby going off to college to start her journey of becoming the best doctor in the universe.
Those were Tatik’s exact words.
I take the frame in my hands to get a closer look. Avet’s grin still shines in the photograph, and my awkward grimace that is supposed to look like a smile is there, but Cher’s spot in between us has been cut out. Not torn haphazardly, but purposefully removed. In the place where her picture once was is a rage-scribbled note.