The kids have cried themselves to sleep, and they're now lying on the couch, curled up against the backrest with their heads on my thighs and their arms tightly wrapped around my waist. They encircle it like an iron cage, not allowing me to move an inch.
…Guys, I'm not going anywhere.
A sniffle makes me lower my eyes. These kids aren't completely calmed yet and still occasionally let out sobs in their sleep—'cause apparently, it's possible to weep and sleep at the same time. I've learned something new today, although I could have done without that knowledge, thank you.
I feel an itch in my chest, and I absently brush a strand of hair off Ellena's forehead, bringing it behind her ear.
They're demons, but like humans, their eyes get puffy when they cry too much. Now, the rims of their eyes are bright red and swollen.
"Do you think your stomach can handle something to drink?"
Jordan's soothing voice draws my attention to my right, where he's standing with a glass of milk in his left hand. The wedding ring, which he dutifully wears, seems to glint under the warm light of the chandelier. I can't help but stare at it.
'It looks like being married off was one of the best things that could have happened to me' isn't it? That's what I told Melissa.
The question is: would my friend still be alive if I hadn't been sold off? After all, bait duty has traditionally been mine to bear, so maybe…
"Scott?"
"It's nothing. Thank you."
Let's not think about the 'what if'.
I shift my gaze from the wedding ring to the glass of milk and take it.
Whether I'll be able to stomach it or not, that's a mystery. But the acidic taste in my mouth is making itself known, and my throat feels parched. I may as well risk it.
In the worst-case scenario, I'll just be puking my guts out again. It can't get any worse, anyway.
Thus, I tentatively take a sip.
Gosh, it's hard to swallow.
It's painful, too.
Still, I gulp a mouthful of milk down. Then, I wait. Seconds pass, but it doesn't seem like my stomach wants to revolt, so I take another sip. The taste of vomit slowly fades from my mouth, and the milk soothes the burning sensation in my throat. It feels strangely refreshing.
"Do you want to talk?"
It's a simple question, yet I'm not sure what to answer.
So, I lower my eyes, avoiding Jordan's, only to catch sight of his pants. There are a few damp spots beneath his knees. Oh, right. It seems like I don't have the greatest aim, and the toilet isn't the only thing I've repainted this morning. The floor, too, has gone through a redesign. I guess his pants weren't spared when he crouched beside me.
My clothes, too, weren't.
…I should change. I feel dirty now.
Well, whatever. Later.
There's something much more important in my mind right now—something that I want the answer to immediately.
"Y'know, I met an old friend while I was out with the kids yesterday."
"Yes, I know."
Jordan nods. Of course, he knows.
After returning home, the children blabbered about everything, and I mean everything, we did during our little outing at the mall, including when they needed to use the toilets.
Ellena went as far as to say that I was "flirting with a pretty lady" with that serious face of hers. I'm still not sure what to think of this. Heck, I'm not even sure she understands what flirting means.
These two are gossipers in the making, I dare say. But no one cares about that right now.
"At the time," I force myself to continue, throwing my head back to lean against the backrest, looking at the high ceiling, "Elois said he felt sad when she left. Very, very sad."
The words have barely left my mouth when his misty eyes pop up in my mind, and a scoff escapes me.
I'm dumb, so frigging dumb.
"Strange, isn't it? At the time, I thought he was being jealous and felt abandoned 'cause I chatted with her for a while. It wouldn't have surprised me. Your kids are overly possessive of me, you know? And they're crybaby who bawl their eyes out at the drop of a hat, too."
"Scott…"
"She's dead, that friend. It was reported on the news earlier. Her corpse was found behind the mall we were at last night."
If I had realized sooner, maybe I could have done something for her.
But it's too late now.
The deceased can't be brought back to life—monsters born out of a dead person don't count, for they're nothing more than a shell of their former self.
"Scott, even if you had realized Elois was being affected by future emotions, it doesn't mean anything. These feelings can be due to something that will happen the next day or something that will happen in ten years. Then again, they might never happen, for they are only a possibility of what the future might reserve for us. It's impossible to tell before it happens. Don't let these thoughts trap you."
"Look who's talking."
My tone of voice is harsher than I'd have liked, but I can't help it. Jordan can't preach this to me, not when he's been overly considerate toward me precisely because of a potential future where we get along. I know, he has never said this aloud, but I'm fairly certain that's what's happening here.
Or at least, that's what Eve had hinted at.
A faint sigh travels to my ears. Not annoyed, not angry; just plain sad. I then hear some rustling, as he seems to sit on something. I refuse to lift my head and look at him, though.
"Your friend who died, do you want to avenge her?"
The sudden question strikes me as odd. But whatever. Small talk might help get that lump of emotions out of my chest.
"Honestly? I don't know. Why? It's not like you can bring the culprit to my feet."
"Well, I might just be able to."
"What?!"
I snap my head up, staring at Jordan, whose smile is as gentle and calm as ever. I feel like my ears are playing tricks on me. Still, if they aren't—
"Your friend's name is Melissa Leroux, isn't it? The call I received this morning was about her. They've asked me if I could take over the case."
"The case?"
"I'm a private investigator."
"Since when have private investigators made that much money?"
"I have very wealthy clients."
Jordan shrugs. Ah, right. If he's a private investigator for supernatural beings, then the money he receives for his services isn't a small amount. I've heard rumors about them—about the special investigators who take over cases hunters can't handle.
For as far as I can remember, Miria has always bitched about the guys, instead of being grateful that we were relieved of our duties and no more of our own would die in a dreadful case.
"I guess governments are wealthy."
"They're not poor, yes. And you, more than anyone else, should know supernatural beings aren't that easy to handle. Hunters also receive interesting compensations for their services, don't they?"
I stare at him; he stares back.
Silence stretches for what seems to be an eternity, until I decide to open my mouth.
"Do you have a lead?"
"Several, in fact. It seems to be a pack of kobolds. It looks like the vampire clan has grown quite lax lately, to allow such beings to roam freely in their territory."
"Could they be in cahoots?"
"Who knows?"
Certainly not me, for sure.
Jordan offers me a comforting smile before getting up to take back the now-empty glass of milk. He pats my shoulder in passing, saying, "Don't worry. I'll keep you updated."
With that said, he leaves for the kitchen, which is now half-functionning—the contractor he has hired has done wonders in the span of a two weeks.
I stare at the door for a moment before putting my hand on the shoulder he has just patted. It feels strangely warm.