Nightstruck - Jenna Black Page 0,85
it not true.” My voice was little more than a whisper. I was afraid I’d start crying if I spoke any louder.
Luke rose to his feet and snapped his fingers at Bob. “Move over, buddy,” he said.
Bob raised his head just slightly, and his look said, Really? You think that’s going to work?
But Luke was no idiot, and he’d come prepared. He reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a Milk-Bone. Suddenly, Bob was a lot more interested in what Luke had to say. His ears perked, his tail wagging.
“I read you like a book,” Luke said to him, then put the Milk-Bone down on the far cushion of the couch. And just like that, Bob had moved over as commanded, allowing Luke to sit next to me. Bob gave him a reproachful look, as if offended by the dastardly trick, but he got over it quickly and made himself comfortable on Luke’s other side.
To my surprise, Luke put his arm around me, pulling my body close against his. I knew it was supposed to be a comforting gesture, not a romantic one, but the feel of his arm around my shoulders, the warmth of his body against mine, filled my senses, almost enough to drive my misery away.
“Even if he’s telling the truth,” Luke said, “you have nothing to feel bad about.”
That brought my misery back to full strength in a heartbeat. “Nothing to feel bad about?” I cried, trying to pull away. Luke’s firm arm wouldn’t let me. “If he’s telling the truth, every awful thing that’s happened since that night is all because of me. My father died because of me! And there’s worse to come.” The tears were rising in my throat, hard though I tried to hold them back. Maybe if I hadn’t let Aleric get to me so much, I could have questioned him some more, gotten him to explain who or what the Night Makers were—and what might happen if they came. But I hadn’t been in the right frame of mind to ask rational questions, and I wouldn’t have trusted the answers anyway.
“It’s not because of you,” Luke said, giving my shoulders a squeeze for emphasis. “You tried to save the life of a helpless baby. What were you supposed to do? Walk away and let it die?”
“I knew there was something wrong,” I protested. “Bob tried to tell me, and my instincts tried to tell me, and—”
“And what kind of person would have believed those instincts and let the baby lie there abandoned in the cold?” he persisted.
I couldn’t answer that. It was easy to say I should have walked away when I knew the consequences of trying to help. But without the twenty-twenty hindsight, was there any chance I’d have let my instincts trump my common sense and compassion?
“I’ll tell you what kind of person,” Luke said more softly. “A heartless, selfish, cowardly scumbag of a person. Not the kind of person you would want to be.”
He put his other arm around me and pulled me into a hug. A hug I needed more desperately than light, than food, than air. I forgot all my normal self-consciousness, clinging to him, pressing my face against his shoulder as the tears shook me and he held me and stroked my hair.
I didn’t cry for long. I’d cried so much over the past week that it was like my body couldn’t take any more. As wretched as I still felt, the tears dried up and my breath evened out. I had the vague feeling that I should pull away, now that the crying jag had run its course, but it felt so good to have Luke’s arms around me. I couldn’t force myself to end it a second earlier than necessary.
“You’re one of the most amazing people I know,” Luke said softly. “Don’t let Aleric or Piper or anyone else convince you otherwise.”
Luke thought I was amazing? Pleasure chased some of the chill from my body, though I hardly felt deserving of the praise. No matter what Luke said, I knew Aleric had been telling me the truth, that I had somehow let the magic into our world and was directly responsible for everything that had happened since. That was the opposite of amazing.
I was still cuddled up against Luke’s chest, and he was showing no sign that he planned to let go anytime soon. I told myself I should take the initiative and sit up straight, put some distance