Vendetta

by Katie Klein

  My teeth clench together and I fight to replace his rage, now coursing through my veins, with my own. I should be allowed to feel my own emotions. "I wasn't hunting. I was following," I clarify. "There's a difference."

  "Demon following, hunting, chasing. Do I have to spell it out for you?" Seth moves closer to me, voice rising with every fiery word. "No demons, period. Why won't you listen to anything I say?"

  "He knew Viola!" I reply.

  "And if I wouldn't have gotten to you in time. . . ."

  Exactly. Always getting in the way.

  His features soften, the anger breaking. Snapping in two. Dissolving. His eyes study mine, steady. "Is that how you feel about me? I'm just in your way?"

  "What?" My eyes narrow, voice barely audible.

  How could he . . . ?

  "I . . . n—no," I stammer. "He knew her. He might've known where she was. How I could find her." I blow out a frustrated, angry sigh. "I just want her gone, Seth. And I can't kill her if . . ."

  "You don't understand, Genesis. It's not a matter of if it happens. It's when it happens. You'll have one shot. That's it. There's no room for screwing up."

  "I wouldn't have screwed up! I told you she would be there tonight, and I was right."

  "And I told you that if we saw her, we'd re-group. Get a real plan together."

  "And let her get away? Again?"

  "If it's you she's after she's not going far." A foreign voice interrupts us. Our heads turn simultaneously, gazes resting on a girl who can't be much older than me standing in the living room. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a thick braid, the shorter wisps falling loosely around her oval face. Her eyes are dark, hard. Lips pulled into a deep frown. A frightening kind of beautiful.

  "Who are you?" I ask.

  She closes the distance between us, striding confidently, until she's directly in front of me. "I was sent to help you, because you are clearly hell-bent on taking this demon out." Her teeth are perfectly straight. White. Lips a muted pink. "And if you keep executing these irresponsible, irrational behaviors, you're going to wind up dead, and, fortunately for you, the Council thinks you're too valuable to die."

  "The Council sent you?" Seth asks.

  Her eyes break my gaze for the first time. "It's good to find you well, Seth," she says coolly.

  His jaw tightens, arms folding across his chest. "Mara."

  And I'm overcome with a sense of impending dread, the feeling that these two somehow know each other, and that her being here isn't necessarily a good thing.

  "I'm not following." I turn to Seth. "Why would the Council . . ."

  But he ignores me. "They certainly didn't hold back, did they? Sending the head of their guard to babysit a demon hunter?" A slow, sly smile creeps across his face. "That has to piss you off."

  Her eyes grow harder.

  "I don't need a babysitter," I tell her. "I've been doing fine without you."

  Her cool eyes settle on me, something like a sneer curving her mouth. "Have you?" She turns back to Seth. "Does she even know how difficult it is to kill a demon?"

  "I've been killing demons for weeks."

  Her eyes flit back to Seth. "How?"

  "The throat," he answers.

  "And that's worked for her every single time?"

  "Yes," I assure her.

  She turns to me, eyes thin, narrowed to slits. "Every demon you've crossed died when you severed their throats?"

  I think back to the visions. The Diabols I've found and killed in the months since the fire at Ernie's. "Yes, except for one. At the time . . ."

  But she doesn't let me finish. She holds up a single finger. "First rule of demon killing, if there even is such a thing, you have to know the demon's center, what compels him to act."

  "Demons have centers?"

  Her eyes roll in a fit of aggravation. "This is going to be a nightmare. Yes. Demons have centers. It's where they obtain their power. If you don't attack their center, they will not die. You have to know what drives them. That's how you kill them."

  "The demons I've killed so far . . ."

  "Lucky shots," she says. "Why didn't you tell her this?" she asks Seth.

  "The throat is the most logical place, Mara. All demons are driven by malice. That's the throat."

  "Most demons," she clarifies. "Not all." Then, turning back to me: "Do you know what it means that every single Diabol you've killed was driven by malice? That cutting their throats even worked?" She doesn't give me a chance to answer. "It means that they are playing you, Genesis Green. You are a pawn in Viola's game." She shakes her head at me, disgusted, as if she can't believe I've been so insanely ignorant. "How are you even able to get close enough to a demon to slice his throat, anyway?" she goes on. "It's not because of anything you're doing, I assure you."

  My eyes tighten. "What?" But even now it makes perfect sense. It should've never been so easy for me to see them. To find them. To eliminate them.

  "You are not in control here. Not even close. So don't think for a moment you've made any kind of progress in this little war of yours. The only demons you've killed are the ones Viola wants you to kill. She is watching you from the rafters, and she is laughing at you."

  All at once I'm back inside that fun house, crawling across the floor, cackles flooding my ears, mocking me.

  "Then how could I have killed Arsen?" I ask, turning to Seth. "His stomach."

  "You killed a demon by slicing his abdomen?" Mara interrupts.

  I nod.

  A sly smile crosses her face. An eyebrow lifts. "Then Arsen wasn't driven by malice. He was ruled by his passions."

  "His passions?" I repeat, not understanding.

  "In this case, you," Seth clarifies.

  "You knew?"

  "I had an idea."

  "But Arsen tried to kill me," I remind him. "He had orders from Viola."

  "He wouldn't have gone through with it," Mara says. "If stabbing him in the abdomen worked, then deep down he wanted you for himself. Another lucky shot." She eyes me with disdain, as if I'm some sort of disease. Someone who should be stepped on. Squashed. Eliminated. "It's a miracle you aren't dead already." Her eyes flicker to Seth as she says this, accusing.

  "I would never let that happen," Seth replies, voice growing louder.

  "And yet you're throwing her out there ill-equipped and unprepared!" Mara shouts back.

  "I'm not throwing her anywhere! This is something she feels she has to do. Do I like it? Absolutely not. But it's not something I can keep her from doing."

  "She's going to get herself killed, and then what good is she?" The words are spoken calmly, matter of fact, as Mara folds her arms across her chest.

  A tremor slides along my spine, and Seth's face turns to stone, draining of its color.

  "That's all you care about?" he asks. "That's all the Council cares about? What she can do for you?"

  "She's agreed to help us. She's worthless to us if she's dead." In the next moment, her head snaps back to Seth. She watches, studying him. His features. His expression. "You wouldn't dare," she finally whispers.

  Seth's face grows paler. And I know something is passing between them. She knows something. Or he's told her something, without even speaking.

  "Don't," he says.

  "Is that something you expect me to keep to myself?"

  "It doesn't make a difference either way. It's already decided." He swallows hard.

  A tiny laugh. "Oh, she will hate this."

  "What?" I demand to know, splitting a look between them.

  "No." Seth's tone is almost pleading, begging her not to go on.

  Her lips part, breaking their thin, hard line. "Your Guardian is right. He'll never let you die. Not if there's an alternative."

  Seth's jaw tightens.

  "What does that mean?" I ask.

  She speaks to me, refusing to take her eyes off Seth. "He's willing to trade places with you. Damn himself for eternity so you'll have a chance to live."

  "What
? How do you . . . ?" I turn toward Seth, fists clenching. "Why would you . . . ?"

  "It won't come to that," he assures me.

  "There are no guarantees, Seth," Mara reminds him. "You know that as well as I. And I can see it in you. If it does come to that. . . ."

  I was right. She can read his mind. His intentions. "You are not going to damn yourself for me," I tell him, voice growing louder.

  "It's not your choice to make," Mara says calmly. "It's his. And you're right. It's foolish."

  "Seth, promise me that . . ."

  "I'm not promising anything!" he says, eyes flashing, infuriated for having been exposed. "You made your choice. You chose to help us. If it comes down to my soul or your life, I'm choosing you. I failed you once, Genesis. I'm not going to fail you again."

  "You haven't failed me!"

  The angry flush of his face deepens, the vein in his neck pulsing. "I left when you needed me most!"

  "It doesn't matter anymore!"

  "It matters to me!"

  "I am nothing!" I counter, voice wild and shaking, furious at him for even considering . . .

  His arm swings wide, sweeping over the console table in the entryway, sending a glass bowl full of marbles soaring.

  "You are everything!"

  The vase hits the leg of the end table, shattering, and the shimmery blue droplets crash to the floor, mingling with shards of glass.

  "This is insane," Mara mutters. She presses her fingers into the bridge of her nose, eyes closing. "And a little melodramatic for my taste, but I'm in no position to judge you, am I? Consider this a friendly warning," she goes on, gaze flitting back and forth between us. "If the Council finds out how serious the two of you are about each other, you're both as good as damned. Which brings me to the real reason I'm here."

  "Which is?" I ask, struggling to even my shortened breaths.

  "Making sure you don't die."

  NINE

  "First and foremost, never get closer to a Diabol than you must. They're unnaturally strong. Not impossible to fight off, but they have an intrinsic, brute strength. Any blow you can inflict from a distance is a good thing."

  Mara re-appeared the following morning. She moved in like some sort of drill sergeant, yanking me out of bed and forcing Seth and Joshua to move furniture. The living room has been transformed. The couch, coffee table, and end tables are pushed to the walls, giving us more floor space. Mara's next request was a thick slab of wood, now propped against a wall on the other side of the room.

  "Knife throwing is a combat skill," she goes on. "If you can throw a knife accurately, you'll always have the advantage. The challenge comes in hitting your target's center. This isn't a problem for your average human rapist or mugger or murderer. Aim for any of the major arteries, and they'll bleed out in minutes. Demons are more complicated. An injury that would mortally wound a human might set a demon back, but it won't kill him. At worst, he has to find a new host body. Seth was right, to an extent. Diabols are driven largely by malice. They're programmed to inflict evil, so we're going to concentrate on the throat. Seth?" she calls.

  Seth and Joshua are camped on the couch, watching. He rises, moving toward us.

  "Please. By the board."

  "If you think I'm going to be her living target, you're kidding yourself."

  She tosses a contemptuous glance in my direction. "Then you have more confidence in her than I."

  "The girl is tough, Mara. Trust me."

  I swallow back a smile as Seth positions himself in front of the piece of wood.

  "Get as close as you can. I'm going to outline you."

  She removes a thick, permanent marker from the pocket of her yoga pants, and follows the curves of Seth's body. His head. Arms. Legs.

  "You have a five to six-inch window when you're aiming for the throat." She draws a circle around it. Like I don't know where a person's throat is located. "If we can get you throwing consistently, the other centers are nothing."

  Mara heads to the silverware drawer. She grabs a handful of knives and tosses them toward me. They clink against each other, clattering at my feet.

  "Butter knives? What are butter knives going to do? I have this." I lift the leg of my workout pants, revealing the sheath strapped to my leg. I remove the dagger, passing it to Mara.

  "It's long enough. It's heavy enough. It feels balanced," she eyes the thin, steely blade. The serrated edge. "The problem will be the handle. If you're throwing this, the handle will not hold up long term. Keep it on you for protection, but I'll secure a different set of knives—ones that are a single, solid piece. Meant for throwing.

  "Fine. I still don't understand what butter knives are going to do."

  "Have you ever thrown a knife before?" she asks me.

  "On purpose? No."

  Mara plucks one off the floor. She steps back, cocking her arm. In one fluid motion the knife sails from her fingers, landing in the middle of the outline of Seth's chest.

  "That hurt," Joshua mumbles.

  "Wow. Okay." I pick up one of the knives and curl my fingers around it, feeling its weight in my hand, and throw. It hits the board with a clang and falls to the floor. I bite into my lower lip, frowning, reaching for another. No luck.

  "Are you left-handed or right-handed?" Mara asks.

  "Right."

  "We'll start there, but you'll learn to throw with both hands."

  She picks up another butter knife and passes it to me. "Move closer."

  I take a few steps forward, until I'm about six feet from the target, and try again. Nothing.

  "At this distance, your knife will need half a rotation, so I want you to hold the blade in your hand."

  I flip the knife over, grasping the blade.

  "A death grip is not needed," she says, prying my fingers loose. "Touch lightly. Pinch it between your fingers. Now hold the knife straight up, blade side facing you."

  I throw again. It hits the board and bounces to the floor.

  My pulse edges a degree. "I'm doing everything you say!"

  "This isn't baseball, Genesis. At this range, you're gently tossing. The further away you are from the target, the harder you'll throw and the more rotations you'll need. Right now, your goal is to lodge that knife somewhere in the board."

  I pick up a new knife, pinch the blade carefully, and throw. It barely hits the target. I heave a sigh, feeling the frustration welling inside.

  "Left foot forward," Mara says. "Try to rock into your throw. Gently."

  I toss her a withering look. I rock on the balls of my feet, feeling a rhythm, studying the target. I release the knife from my fingers. Another miss.

  "Don't flick your wrist," she says. "You lose all control."

  I spin around to face her. "Look. I'm trying my best. How can I learn to do this if you keep criticizing me every two seconds?"

  "This isn't criticism. This is me telling you everything you need to know to keep you from getting killed."

  "You don't have to be so rude about it."

  Mara looks to Seth, pushing the stray wisps of blonde hair from her face. "Can you please convey that I wasn't sent here to coddle her, so if she wants someone to pat her on the back and tell her how amazing she is, she's going to have to find someone else to do it?"

  "Seth, can you tell Mara that I'm the last person on this planet who needs to be coddled, and if she'll give me a chance, I'll get it?"

  He passes an amused look between us, clearly not needing to deliver these messages.

  I reach for the knives piled on the floor. "Stop pissing me off," I tell her.

  She steps back, folds her arms across her chest. "It's going to take practice. This isn't something you should presume to excel at overnight."

  "Then stop expecting me to." I grasp a new blade in my hand and close my eyes, feeling the cool steel between my fingers. Left foot forward. Rock into it. One . . . two . . . three. I let go. There is no clatter.

  When I open my eyes the knife is slanted, poking out
of the board. It didn't hit Seth's outline, but it stuck. I laugh, thrilled at the hint of progress. I bounce to the board and pull the knife from it, then collect the others.

  My next dozen throws are failures. My confidence slips with every miss.

  "Don't flick your wrist," Mara reminds me.

  I bite back the evil words poised on my lips. On my next throw, I puncture Seth's leg.

  "Better. Keep in mind that the closer you are to the tip, the more spin you'll need. If you choke up, you'll gain more control."

  I choke up on the blade, clutching it carefully. I feel the rhythm, the rhythm, the rhythm, and toss. Hit.

  "Maybe we should've drawn your outline, Mara," I tell her. "You know, as incentive."

  I toss another. Miss. And another. Miss.

  "I don't get it. I'm doing the same thing every time," I mumble.

  "You're flicking your wrist," Seth says from across the room.

  I spin on my heel, turning to him. "Do you want to try this? Because it's not as easy as it looks."

  "Focus, Genesis," Mara snaps. "Once you have a feel for what it takes to hit the target, it becomes a matter of training your muscles to remember."

  I spend the next two hours tossing knife after knife after knife. There are dents from where I missed, notches where I didn't, and slivers of wood littering the floor. The side of my index finger is red from rubbing against the blade, aching and raw.

  "Move back another three feet," Mara says. "The further you move from your target, the more spin you'll require. If you're six to eight feet away, you need only a half spin. Throw from the blade. By nine to ten feet, you'll need a full spin. Throw from the handle. After this, you must adjust every three feet. Spin and a half, two full spins, two and a half spins, et cetera."

  I take a few steps back. "So now I need to throw from the handle?"

  "One spin," she confirms.

  I position myself correctly, find my rhythm, but discover that, with the full spin, I'm back where I started: each knife clanking to the ground.

  "She will need to learn to gauge her distance from objects," Mara says. She's talking to Seth, so I continue to throw. "Diabols are unpredictable, but she stands a better chance if she can calculate how far they are and strike from a distance."