Slate Gray

Chapter 9: Ace Slate

As much as it aches to admit, it's easy to pinpoint why it took us ten years to get here. And it's because Perrin scared me when we were little.

Standoffish and sarcastic at her best and borderline cruel at her worst, I would hide from her moods, her rage. And although I always sensed something behind it, some hurt she never wanted to share, I couldn't be around her for long without setting her off.

As we grew, it got marginally better. Sometimes an entire switch would flip and she became the most amazing person in my world. Sharing secrets, reading me bedtime stories, playing games. But then, she would hear a sharp noise or someone would look at her sideways and I could smell the change in the air. When I reached for her, she would pull away. When I wanted to hang out, doors slammed in my face. The emotional whiplash was disorienting. I never knew which sister I was gonna get.

But then Mom got sick and Perrin was the last thing I saw every night and the first thing I saw each morning. She cooked my dinners and made my lunches. Walked me to playdates and supervised my schoolwork. And the switch never flipped the other way again.

So, when my sister finishes speaking, trembling from head to toe, my heart breaks for her. For the little girl she once was. Shoving me over one second and teaching me to cartwheel the next. Shouting at Dad for days then snuggling with me at night. Getting into fights on the playground only to brush the tangles out of my hair with bloody knuckles.

And I wish I could tell that small, angry person that it's ok to hurt. Ok to feel sad. That I understand. That I'm here. And I always will be.

I open my mouth to put those thoughts into words. To say something, anything to encompass years of love and devotion but from the set of her mouth, Perrin's not quite done. Her eyes move side to side, sightlessly focused on the middle distance, as if whatever movie playing in her mind has an after-credit's scene.

"What? What's wrong?" I croak, mute tears rolling down my cheeks. 

With a gasp, she drops my hand, a puzzle piece falling into place in that not-so-steel trap of hers. "Son of a bitch," she curses, railing against the covers like a cat clawing its way out of a paper bag. I jump up to free her and follow as she scampers into the connecting suite.

"P?" I sniffle while she paws through Dad's books, tossing a pamphlet over her shoulder that I have to duck to avoid. "Use your words. Tell me what you need."

With a victorious grunt, she flops on the bed with The Lesser Key of Solomon, ignoring me as she opens it to a page of seals and runs her finger down them, head snapping up when she finds what she wants.

"Throw me my jacket," she commands, reaching for where it hangs on the hook behind me.

"This had better be good," I grumble as she snatches it out of the air.

A brownish, rolled-up piece of paper emerges from the pocket, and she scowls like she wants to set it on fire. Comparing the book to the page apparently yields the desired result because she rasps, "Fuck me sideways."

I wrinkle my nose. "Gross. Will you just tell me what's going on?"

She quietly hands over the page and I hunt for some hidden meaning beyond the crinkle advertising its old age. But all I see are our names listed in a flowing, archaic script.

"I don't get it," I deadpan.

In almost comedic timing, a key sliding into the lock announces our father's return and he appears holding a cup-carrying tray with three coffees.

"Oh good. You're awake," he greets us, stomping his boots to dislodge the slush. "This town is a blackhole for good coffee shops but I think I found—" He stops short when he sees Perrin clutching a demonological grimoire and me standing beside her holding that ancient piece of paper. I swear his eyes almost pop out of his skull. "Please tell me that's not what I think it is."