“Great.” He laces his fingers through mine, guiding me to the parking lot. “The faster we get this over with, the sooner we can be friends.” Gee, if only I had a spark of his confidence. I swear, my life would be so much easier.
Apart from the cars of the football team, the parking lot is pretty empty. I search for Blaze’s ride, but come up emptyhanded. “Where’s your car?”
He squints. “I don’t have a car.”
Well, this is going to be a problem. The last bus is long gone, and it’s a two-hour walk to where we’re going. I pull out my phone. Maybe Oz can give us a ride.
Blaze appears a bit confused. “May I ask what you’re doing, princess?”
“Trying to get us a ride,” I explain, typing out the message to Oz. “It’s too far to walk.”
Blaze grabs my phone and laughs. “I never said I didn’t have a ride.”
The tables have turned. I’m the one at odds. “I thought you said you have no car?”
He grins. “I don’t.” Then, he spins me to the left. “I have a bike.”
A what? I must have something wrong with my ears. He couldn’t have possibly said he owns a motorcycle, right? Wrong. I’m looking at the matte black monster. It’s just a couple feet away from us, waiting to take Blaze to his funeral.
“Whoa,” he says when I stumble backward into his rock-hard chest. “Are you okay?”
Am I okay? “Are you insane?” Under no circumstances will I ride on a bike with him. I’m terrified to be in the same car as others. And they have seatbelts, airbags, a roof, for crying out loud. This has nothing. If we crash, there’ll be no safety net. It’ll be skin and asphalt at best. Heads and trees at worst.
“Relax,” he says, hauling me toward the monster. “I’m a wicked driver.”
I stop dead in my tracks. “Wicked as in evil, bad, vile, and diabolical?”
“No, princess.” He bites back a smile. “Wicked as in excellent, outstanding, fantastic, and marvelous.”
That might be true, but his driving abilities aren’t what has me worried. My deadly track record, however, stews up all sorts of harrowing emotions. “I’m not getting on that thing.”
He looks seriously offended. “That thing, as you refer to it, is a 2009 Ducati 1098S.” He says that as if it should mean something to me. It really doesn’t. I can barely differentiate a Mustang from a Camaro. “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”
There’s no point pretending. “Nope.”
He walks around the bike, gently tracing the matte black metal. “This, princess, is what sports bike heaven looks like. A hundred and eight horsepower, from zero to sixty in less than three seconds. The queen of bikes.”
Dang, most people don’t show that kind of passion for their wives. It still won’t change my mind. “I get it. You’re in love with it, but—”
“Her,” he corrects me.
“Huh?”
“Nisha”—he points from me to the bike—“meet Lucille. Lucille”—he points back at me—“meet Princess Nisha.”
The name Lucille instantly reminds me of The Walking Dead. Now, I might not watch the show—my life has enough blood and gore in it, I don’t need a zombie apocalypse—but I did read the graphic novels while doing a boring shift at the bookstore. “Please, tell me you didn’t nickname your bike after Negan’s murderous baseball bat?”
His eyes widen. “You really are.”
When did he stop speaking in full sentences? “I’m what?”
“Intriguing,” he says, eyes lit up like a firework. “The girls I previously introduced to Lucille never quite made the connection.”
Knowing The Walking Dead hardly qualifies as a source of fascination, but whatever. “Did it ever occur to you they simply didn’t want to think about undead folks before getting on that monster?”
Blaze pulls his lips to one side and crosses his arms. “Good point, princess.” Then he reaches for one of the helmets on Lucille and extends it toward me. “You’ll need this.”
I shake my head and step back. “I told you. I’m not getting on this thing.”
Blaze searches my eyes. “Look, I get I’m not the epitome of trust.” He tilts his chin at his tattooed arms. “Jesus, I’m not even close to it. But I need you to know I’d never ask you to ride with me if I wasn’t certain you’d be safe.”
Man, I feel like a total biatch. I’m so desperately trying to protect him, I end up hurting him. It’s time to woman up. “You have to stop that, Blaze. I’m a lot of things, but prejudiced isn’t one of them. Look at my skin.” I push my sweater up and hold my arm under his nose. “My mom was Egyptian. Do you know what that means?”
“That you got your exotic beauty from her?” he says, winking at me.
I ignore the fact that he’s hitting on me while I’m trying to make a point. “When I was in kindergarten, I had kids come up to me, asking if I was a terrorist. I said no, and they went on about how I must be one, considering I’m from a country where they pray to Allah instead of god.” I pause and draw a breath. I hate those memories as much as I hate the deadly ones. “I tried to tell them I was born here just like them. Told them my mom was born a Muslima, but never even wore a hijab, or prayed. Know what they said?”
Blaze shakes his head. “I assume it wasn’t pretty?”
Pretty? Yeah, it was anything but. “They said it didn’t matter where I was born. That my blood was tainted with terrorism, and that it would be better if my mom and I would go back to where we came from.”
A fire blazes through Blaze’s eyes. “What a bunch of pricks.”
“There were good ones too,” I say, overcome by the urge to defend America’s honor and love of diversity. “Kids like Oz, Shaggy, and Scooby. They stood up for me. Always have, always will.” That’s how Oz and Izzy met. My cousin was at the brink of killing one of the douchebags who told me to go back to Egypt when Oz pulled her off him. They’ve been inseparable ever since.
Realizing how far I drifted, I shake the memory off. “Anyway, the point is, I don’t care about your tattoos, or your bad-boy image. Skin is just that. Skin. What counts is what’s beneath it.”
“Then why won’t you get on that bike with me?” he asks, totally at sixes and sevens.
I could tell him, but I don’t think words are enough to convince Blaze I’m a bad—scratch that—the worst influence ever. He needs to see it with his own eyes. “That’s what I’m about to show you, Blaze.”
Sighing heavily, he returns the second helmet. “Fine, but you don’t need to text your friends.”
“Then, how do we—”
“Wait here.” He puts the other helmet on his head. “I’ll be right back. Okay?”
I nod, and he kicks the engine alive. The way he’s speeding away, I’m dang glad I didn’t agree to get on the thing. Considering my past, we’d kiss a tree after a couple of miles, and while I’d get away with a few scratches, Blaze would end up dying in my arms.
He’s back with a black SUV in less than twenty minutes. I have no clue where he picked it up, but it sure wasn’t around the corner. Wicked driver, huh? More like suicidal.
He opens the passenger door for me. “Better?”
Than that black monster he lovingly calls Lucille? “Much.”
Blaze steers the SUV backward into a narrow parking spot. He really is a wicked driver. That kind of parking expertise requires some serious skills. Pulling the key from the ignition, he gazes through the windshield. “This”—he points to the black spiked fence surrounding Elmwood Cemetery—“is where we’re going?”
I unbuckle my seatbelt. “Yep.”
He gets out of the car, never taking his eyes off our destination. He looks a bit spooked, but quickly reverts to his usual carefree self. “And you think the English have a dark sense of humor?” He shakes his head. “Well, I beg to differ, princess.”
He still doesn’t get this isn’t a joke, huh? He will in a minute. “C’mon.” I tug on his leather jacket. “We’re almost t
here.”
We move through the gate, into the cemetery, where my parents have found their final resting place. I’m not a big fan of Shepherdstown, but this burial ground is beautiful. It’s a perfect blend of old—lots of confederate soldier graves here—and modern. The massive trees are an eye-catcher too. The town takes great care of them. They’re fertilized and trimmed on a regular basis, and the ones that need to be taken down are replaced by others. They call the campaign “Tree of Remembrance.” Fitting, keeping in mind a cemetery is exactly that—a place to remember the people we lost.
Blaze takes it all in. When he finds his voice again, he sounds less like his usual bold self. “That’s a first,” he says.
“What is?”
“A date in a cemetery,” he replies, forehead wrinkled. “I mean, don’t take this the wrong way, but no girl has ever taken me to a graveyard.” He ogles the headstones. “Not even my sissies.”
I sincerely hope no other girl ever will. “I know it’s weird.” Yet, it’s a necessity. He needs to see who I really am, and why everyone in their right mind stays the heck away from me.
He pulls his brows up. “Weird is one word for it.”
Our eyes lock. “Just bear with me. I promise you’ll understand.”
“If you say so,” he mutters, gaze roaming over the graves.
“You can leave anytime you want, Blaze.” I don’t want him to feel obligated to stay for the whole tour.
His dimple makes an appearance. “Are you serious?” He waves his hand around, gesturing at the deserted burial ground. “This is the most terrific first date I’ve ever had.”
“Terrific or terrifying?”
“I’m not walking away,” he assures me.
“All right, just don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Because I did warn him a couple of times.
We head past rows of headstones. Some so aged you can barely read the names carved into the stone. I walk toward the big, old maple. Its leaves are colored a vibrant red. “Here we are,” I announce, halting across from the tree. The first stop on our Nisha-is-a-freak tour.
Blaze is scanning the area. Probably wondering if I’m insane. “Sorry, princess, but I didn’t pack for a picnic.”
What was it he said about dark humor again? He should reconsider his statement. “I didn’t bring you here for a picnic,” I grumble, slightly bugged by his easiness.
Blaze shoves his hands in his pockets. “Okay.” He sighs, eyes hooded. “I’ll bite. Why did you bring me to a graveyard, then?”
I gesture at the headstone right in front of his nose. A mourning angel rests its head on top of it, silently crying for the lost life of: Joseph William Tucker. 1st of May 1986 – 22nd of October 2007. Beloved Son And Brother. Joseph was the first victim of my curse.
Blaze’s gaze drifts from the grave to me. He’s clueless. His face the definition of I-understand-jack-please-explain-yourself. “Did you know him?”
I brace myself for what’s about to come. The way he’s going to look at me after he hears the truth. The fear that’ll spark in his marvelous eyes. The disgust that’ll turn down the edges of his lips. Gee, I wish I’d never have to see it, but there’s no turning back now. “Joseph was a clerk at the Food Lion, a local grocery store, and I…” I swallow hard. “I killed him.”
His reaction can be summed up in three stages. One, he stares at me like I’m some kind of crazy person who just escaped the loony bin. Denial. Two, he narrows his eyes, wondering if maybe I’m not insane, but a killer. Realization. Three, he bursts into laughter as if I cracked the joke of the century. We’re back to denial. “You did what, princess?”
“I killed him,” I repeat.
Shoving the laughter back down to where it came from, he studies the grave closely. “I don’t follow, princess. It says he died in 2007. You were what? Seven? Eight?”
“I was seven.” The memory of Joseph’s end washes over me. “Mom and I watched Bodyguard that night. She was a big Kevin Costner fan.” I smile. “Gee, we’ve seen the movie over sixty-four times. Anyway, we’d devoured all the sweets the previous day, and we both craved chocolate. I suggested I could make a quick run to the store to get some.” My mom’s creeped-out look flickers across my mind. Letting her princess out at night downright terrified her. “It was past eight, and my mom didn’t like the idea of me roaming the streets alone. I put up a fight, told her I wasn’t a baby anymore, and after some pouting, she agreed to let me go.” I really wish she hadn’t. Maybe Joseph would still be alive had she said no. “I made it to the store, proud of how independent and mature I was. Joseph”—I point to his grave—“was a real sweet guy. He helped me find the German chocolate my mom always bought and complimented me on my newfound independence.”
Blaze’s shoulders are stiff. His face harder than stone. “Then what happened?” I can tell by the tone of his voice that he still can’t wrap his head around the reality that a seven-year-old killed a man.
“I was about to head back home when a guy with a black ski mask barged through the door.” I hide my shaking hands inside the sleeves of my sweater. “He had a pistol and kept yelling something like ‘give me the money.’ Joseph couldn’t move. He was petrified. But after a few seconds, he pulled it together and opened the register.”
Blaze narrows his eyes. “He gave him the money?”
I know what he’s thinking. If he did exactly what he was told, then how did he end up in a grave, buried ten feet below the ground? The chief had the same question. “He did.” I blink tears away. “Joseph even pulled out his own wallet. Told the guy he’d do anything as long as he wouldn’t harm me.” I gape at Joseph’s headstone. “That’s the kind of person he was. He had a gun pointed at him, yet he only cared about me.” And look where it got him.
Blaze squeezes my shoulder. “He shot him, didn’t he?”
I’m done fighting the salty drops in my eyes. “The guy in the mask was halfway out the store when I started screaming like a crazy person. Joseph walked around the counter. He kneeled down and said, ‘You’re going to be okay.’ A second later, half of his brain sprinkled the floor, the other half my face.” I wipe my cheeks. “You see, I killed him.”
Blaze pulls me against his chest. “You were just a kid, Nisha. It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t pull the trigger, that bastard did.”
I break free of his embrace, shivering at the cold the distance brings. “Not my fault, huh?” My parents and everyone else in Shepherdstown said the same dang thing. They were wrong though. “I screamed, he died. I might as well have pulled the trigger myself.”
“Nisha,” he starts. “You can’t—”
“Wait.” I hold my hand up. “We’re just getting started,” I say, dragging him to the next tour stop.
Blaze looks at the simple gray headstone. “Nisha, what—”
“Kitty Parker,” I say, ogling her overgrown, uncared-for grave. “She died three months after Joseph. My parents and I drove home from Martinsburg and found her balancing on the railing of the New Rumsey Bridge. Dad stopped the car. He knew she was about to jump. Both my parents told me to stay in the car. I didn’t listen. The second she saw me, she whispered ‘Kelsey’ and jumped. They found her body four weeks later.”
“She was suicidal,” Blaze says. “Again, not your fault.”
“You’re wrong, Blaze.” All I had to do was stay in that dang car, but I didn’t. “Wanna know why?”
He crosses his arms. “Enlighten me.”
“Kelsey was her daughter. She’d died six months earlier from leukemia. She was my age.” I take a few deep breaths. “Kitty jumped because I got out of the car, reminding her of what she’d lost, of why she’d been up there in the first place.”
Blaze narrows his eyes at me. “How could you have known?”
I couldn’t. Still doesn’t make me less responsible. “Newton’s Law, Blaze. ‘Every action has an equal and opposite reaction.’ I got out of the car. Action. She jumped. Reaction. Death was the consequence.”
> He shakes it off. “You were a kid.”
“Yeah.” I smile. “A killer kid.” By then, most of Shepherdstown was already scared of me. Blaze seems a little harder to convince, but I’m not worried. We have a few more stops to make. “Let’s go.”
I walk him from victim to victim, sharing every cruel detail: Reena Stine, our second-grade teacher. Got stabbed in the woods, next to me, on a school trip. George Bedford, our old neighbor. Died from a stroke while I was sitting on his lap. Toby Meyer, an old classmate. Was hit in the head by a stone meant to hit me. Coni Bedford, a sweet, caring girl who made the mistake of befriending me. Ended up drowning in the river on a sunny day. Mark Foster, walked toward me. Dropped dead the second he laid eyes on me. James Berry, a colleague of my dad. Had an aneurysm while I shook his hand. Maureen Williams, mother of the little boy and my most recent victim. Died in a hit-and-run while crossing the same street I was on. And these are just the ones buried in Shepherdstown. There are others, too. The old man from the airport, a kid in California—the dead-list is way too long.
We’re approaching our last stop. He stares at the names on the exquisite black headstone: Aaliyah and Adam Blake. “Are those—”
“My parents,” I confirm. “Killed in a home invasion, the night before Halloween, last year.”
Blaze is speechless. Up until now, he kept saying none of it was my fault. That I had bad timing and nothing else. He’s at the brink of seeing the truth though. “I…I don’t know what to say,” he chokes out.
“Then don’t say anything.” I bring some distance between us in case he’s too scared to do it himself. “Just understand why we can’t be friends, Blaze. People around me die. It’s not some lame excuse, or some town gossip. It’s the truth.”
He says nothing.
“I’m not intriguing, you see. I’m deadly.”
He exhales sharply, never taking his eyes off my parents’ grave.
I can take a hint. “I’m sorry you had to see all of this, that you had to listen to the gruesome details. But now you know why you need to keep your distance from me.”
Book of Souls (Gods of Egypt 1) Page 12
