Page 34 of Bite Back

DELILAH

An early autumn chill hangs in the air when we arrive at Luka’s mom’s house.

A low slung ranch, the house sits at the end of a gravel drive.

Whitewashed bricks complement the cheerful red door.

Shrubs and mums dot the flowerbed. The overall effect is neat and orderly, the stereotypical suburban house.

My skin crawls as we walk over the stepping stones leading up to the door. The Luka I know belongs to the city, all sleek lines, gritty streets, and gleaming glass. He’s bubbling champagne glasses, whiskey on the rocks, and bloodstained lips. He’s everything urbane and sophisticated.

There’s something invasive, intimate, even, about imagining Luka in this domestic setting.

If I trust what little Luka told me about his past, this is where he grew up.

I shove down the image of him as a child, running barefoot across freshly mowed grass, swinging from the tire swing hung under the creaking oak, leaves now tinged with the first hints of yellow.

There might be people here who might still love him, who might still care about him, who might miss him when he’s gone.

And I can picture a different version of this moment too. One where Luka hadn’t broken my heart. One where he takes me home to meet his mom before the wedding like he’d always promised he would. One where the future we planned wasn’t a lie.

I don’t need a villain origin story for Luka.

I’m not here to pathologize, to break down where it all went wrong.

I don’t want to pick apart how we got here, what made him into the person who ruined my life.

I don’t want to know if there’s a reason he is the way he is—if I sympathize with him, I might hesitate.

And I can’t, won’t, allow that. I won’t allow his tragedy to excuse my own.

Sure, some hurt people hurt people. Most of us don’t though.

It’s not an excuse or a get out of jail free card.

My hand shakes slightly as I knock on the door. No answer. I exhale, allowing my shoulders to relax. I need answers. But once I get them, I’ll have to act on that information.

But then I hear shuffling, the creak of floorboards. The hinges squeak as the door swings open, revealing the woman inside.

I’m not sure what I expected my ex’s mother to look like.

But not like this. Not dressed like someone’s cute grandmother.

She’s wearing a fluffy pink bathrobe and slippers.

Gray hair streaked with the remnants of blonde frames her face.

Her eyes, though, leave me unsteady. They’re Luka’s eyes, a cool steely gray.

The same eyes that looked at me, at the moment I needed him most, and then left.

He took advantage of me. He manipulated me. He distorted my reality. And I fell for it all.

Heat simmers in my core. It’s hard to face this woman, knowing what her son did and knowing what I will do. I don’t want to hurt her.

He’s the one who signed his own death warrant.

He’s the one who brought me here. His actions are what will leave his mother without a son.

He deserves it. And I deserve a world without him.

A world where I know he’ll never hurt anyone else.

And as much as it pains me, I’m okay with the consequences and the collateral.

“Where’s Luka?” It comes out abrupt and harsh, my voice jagged.

Asher winces at my bluntness. Probably not my finest moment. Okay, definitely. But I can’t imagine making small talk when I’m going to kill her son.

“Well, hello to you too, dear.” A wry chuckle escaping her lips. Her voice grates, rough like sandpaper. She looks old, but she sounds ancient. “Why don’t you come inside?”

So much for avoiding small talk.

We sit across from her in a cheerful, but faded kitchen.

A decorative china teapot steeps on the doily-covered kitchen table in front of us.

Needlepoint art hangs on the walls next to a faded photograph of Luka leaning casually against a fence.

He wears an expression I never saw on him.

Even though he’s no child in the picture, he seems younger, somehow, hair long and messy, eyes wide and sparkling. Exactly what I was hoping to avoid.

Asher, thankfully, takes over the small talk. I plaster a smile on my face that I’m sure looks forced. Her attention stays on Asher though, and soon he has her smiling and nodding along.

She pours us both steaming hot cups of Earl Gray and turns to me. “So you want to know where Luka is, dear?”

I nod, smile frozen, my gaze fixed on the ditsy floral curtains hanging behind her over the sink. I don’t want to meet her all too familiar steel gray eyes. Hi, ma’am, how are you today? I’m here because your son’s a piece of shit and I want to kill him for the bullshit he put me through.

But I’ll break her heart to save mine. Brutal as it is.

“That’s right. He’s my ex, and we have some unfinished business.” Not the whole truth, but close enough.

“So is this the new boyfriend, dear?” She gestures at Asher, who clasps my hand in his, taking advantage of her convenient assumption. I nod, gulping down the butterflies swarming in my stomach.

The wrinkles around her eyes soften. She reaches out and grabs my other hand. Her papery skin scrapes against my cold palm. I recoil but she squeezes tighter. The scent of baby powder and dried flowers overwhelms my nostrils.

“I’m sorry, dear.” Her eyes glisten, tears welling at the corners.

“I tried to do my best with him. I’m sorry it wasn’t good enough.

The years haven’t changed him kindly. He turned me too, you know.

Back in the ‘20s. I was sick, and he was scared. I don’t think he could bear the thought of losing me too, not after he lost her. ”

We came here for answers, but I only have more questions. My mind hooks on one in particular.

The years. The ‘20s…like, as in the Roaring Twenties?

The question slips from my lips before I can stop myself. “How old are you?” Luka’d never told me how old he was. He fancied himself forever young. At the time, I didn’t want to upset him. I treated his feelings like they were made of glass. He never afforded me the same courtesy.

“A hundred fifty.” A small gasp escapes my lips. How old is Luka? My stomach lurches into freefall. I must voice my question aloud because she answers me.

“Nearly the same. Take twenty-seven years off.” Her answer and her baby powder scent call to mind memories of visiting my grandma’s nursing home as a kid.

The flowery muumuus. The paper-white hair and paper-thin skin.

My grandma reached ninety-seven before she passed.

And Luka’s older than that? She was still a kid when he was my age.

Bile claws its way up my throat, and the acidic tang stings my mouth before I choke it back down.

I know vampires live long lives. But I didn’t realize Luka’d lived so much of his life without me, hidden so much of it from me.

Would I have cared if I’d known? I don’t know.

I’m not opposed to age gaps, but it’s hard to imagine bridging one so large.

Sure, his body didn’t age, but that doesn’t mean all those years don’t add up, don’t change you.

Would I have been able to relate to him?

And maybe that’s the thing: he didn’t want to know me, really, or for me to know him.

Asher slides his hand up my arm to my shoulder, lightly tracing circles there.

He leans in and whispers in my ear, voice low and soft. “Deep breaths, in and out.”

I draw a shuddering breath. Then another and another. I want to sprint out the doors of the house and never look back. Goodbye, so sorry for bothering you, see you never. Just crawl into a hole and stay there indefinitely.

But I’m still here. And I’m here for a reason. I have to keep it together. I have to focus.

I tune out the rest of the conversation.

Despite my best efforts, I can’t focus on what’s being said.

Asher takes the lead, and I do my best to fake it.

I gather the gist of it. She’s happy to tell us what she can, but it’s not much.

She doesn’t know where he is. I smile and nod when it seems appropriate and slowly sip the tea in front of me until it grows cold.

It’s the best I can manage, and I hope it’s enough.

Asher’s hand stays on my shoulder the whole time, lightly tracing patterns against my sweater. I lean into the contact, the scent of coffee and licorice washing over me. The sensation grounds me, anchors me in my body.

Asher performs the role of the doting boyfriend beautifully. This is why he’s so good at his job. Hunting isn’t just an athletic endeavor. It’s a personal one too. He has Luka’s mother chuckling and clucking as she spills out what little details she does have.

“Oh, one last thing? You mentioned someone else Luka had lost before he turned you.” Her.

“Ada. She’s the one who turned him. Broke his heart when she died. It’s coming up on the anniversary again in a couple months.”

She rattles around in a drawer for a moment and pulls out a creased black and white photograph.

Luka’s arm’s slung around a stunning Black woman, a cigarette holder poised at her lipsticked mouth, sharp fangs just poking out.

Beaded fringe glimmers on her dress. And the way Luka looks at her—there’s a lightness to his gaze.

A twinge pangs in my chest. He never looked at me like that.

Asher thanks her profusely and leads me to the door, one hand resting gently on my shoulder and another loosely looped around my waist as he guides me out.

He’s careful in how he handles me. Despite the intimate tone his gestures convey, his hands never stray from territory that’s purely platonic.

Safe. Even though I don’t properly exhale until we’re back on the motorcycle speeding away, that word echoes in my head over and over.

Something I didn’t think I’d ever feel with another person again: safe.