by Katie Klein
My next throw is a hit. I feel their eyes on me, watching, evaluating.
"She must be able to throw from every distance, every angle, with both arms."
"She'll get it," Seth assures her.
"You have an absurd amount of faith in her."
I grip the handle in my fingers, concentrating on the few inches shaping the throat. I pull back . . . toss. . . .
Perfect.
A surprised smile twists my lips as I move to the target, detaching the knife jammed into the neck of the outline.
"Screw you," I tell her.
TEN
In the end, though, Mara screwed me. She wove herself into my daily routine. I threw knives for hours. Steel blades puncturing the wooden board, whittling away at it until Seth's form nearly disappeared. Until we had to bring in a new slab and I chiseled the wood out of that one, too. She had me jogging through the streets of Carter's neighborhood. An endless stretch of manicured lawns and palm trees and houses on steroids. I spent nearly every waking hour of every day training, and, at night, I collapsed, wholly exhausted.
"Harder, Genesis," Seth says.
I grit my teeth and right cross, punching the focus mitt with my fist. "Harder!" he demands.
I swipe a trail of sweat away from my forehead with the back of my hand. "Are you serious? I’m hitting as hard as I can."
"I'm saying if you're holding back because of me, don't. You're not going to hurt me."
"I'm not holding back."
"Do a left jab, right cross."
I punch the mitts, breaths heavy.
"Faster."
I punch them faster, harder. Seth counts, "One. Two. One. Two." The numbers echo in my head.
When I pull back my fists are glowing red, raw, arms heavy and limp. "Do you get some kind of sick thrill out of this?"
His lips turn up in an amused smile. "No, but Mara said . . ."
"Yeah," I interrupt, thoroughly winded. I smooth my hair and pull it back again, tying it into a sorry excuse for a ponytail. "I know. Mara shows up and all of a sudden the two of you are working me to death."
He lowers his arms, mitts falling to his sides. "Mara has thousands of years of experience. She's the best possible person to have on your side right now."
I move toward the kitchen island and grab my bottled water. "You know, there's this expression we have, where those who can't 'do,' 'teach,'" I tell him, taking a swig.
"Mara didn't get where she is today by not seeing her share of conflict, if that's what you mean."
I return the water to the counter, twisting the cap closed. "Yeah, you mentioned something about her being 'head of the guard.' What, exactly, is that?"
"Can you punch and listen?"
I heave a sigh.
So much for my break.
He lifts the mitts, and I return to jabbing and crossing.
"Mara is a member of the Powers," he explains, just above the smack of the mitts against my clenched fists. "She's a warrior. The best warrior, actually. One of the highest in command. The Powers are part of the front lines."
"So they're like your soldiers," I confirm. Jab. Cross.
"Yes. You have the Messengers, Guardians, Powers, and the Council oversees us all. Mara and the Powers are in charge of the physical battle on earth."
"They fight the Diabols."
"When necessary, yes."
"And Mara is in charge of them?"
"To an extent. She's in charge of training them. Making sure they're equipped. Prepared. Diabols are forever evolving. She's responsible for analyzing their tactics and implementing new strategies."
I push the hair already falling into my eyes away from my face and continue jabbing. "That's kind of bad-ass. So I should be flattered she's here helping me."
"She's not here of her own volition, so feel as flattered as you want, but she'd rather be anywhere but here."
"That's rude. So what's her story?"
"We don't have stories, Genesis. We just . . . are."
"I don't understand. How can Mara be such a great warrior if you guys can't remember the things you've seen? The people you've fought. Protected. Met. It doesn't make any sense."
"That's something you'll have to ask her. I don't know what Mara knows."
"But you don't remember anything," I remind him. "Before I came along."
His eyebrows knit together, concentrating. "I remember . . . places. I remember ideas and information. Like the hierarchy. My responsibilities."
"What about the other people you've guarded?"
"I don't remember guarding anyone. Present company excluded."
"Joshua remembered the guy he was watching. Before he was demoted, I mean."
The light-haired angel is on probation for interfering with his charge's free will. In this case, a brawl where he didn't materialize, but decided to move furniture, anyway.
"I don't know," he says. "Maybe because he's between charges?"
"Maybe. But if you've been around, like Mara, for thousands of years, wouldn't you remember something?"
"I don't know," he repeats, frustrated. "Why is this so important to you?"
"Because it doesn't make any sense! And you're so nonchalant about it! You have no idea who you are or where you're from, and it's like you don't even care!"
"I only care about one thing. You. Right now. That's all that matters."
I heave a sigh and throw another jab. Cross. "Okay. Hypothetically speaking, let's say you're right, and you don't remember anything about what happened before me."
"There's no hypothetical about it," he replies. "I don't."
"Just humor me. So . . . if something were to happen to me, more than likely you wouldn't remember any of this." I glance around the room, but meaning more than just this, now. Everything. Lying in bed together as the moon rises higher in the sky. The first time he ever touched me. How it felt when we danced. The night he came back for me. . . .
"I can't imagine ever not knowing you."
"But you just said . . ."
"Genesis, I don't know! I don't remember anything before you. I don't know what I'll remember after you." He swallows hard, a serious edge to his eyes.
"And you've never asked why?"
"We don't question, we just do."
I return to jabbing and crossing, punching the mitts fast and hard, taking out my anger and frustration. At Mara. The Council. Their stupid rules. And I don't stop until the sun casts orange beams through the skylights, out of breath, sweat gathering at the small of my back.
"Why do you want to take my place, then?" I finally ask, gaze steady.
"What?"
"You wouldn't remember me. You wouldn't even know who I am . . . was. You wouldn't mourn. You wouldn't have any regrets. So you're willing to spend an eternity in Hell to give me one more chance to live?"
His mood shifts, temper flaring. "Yeah. I guess I am."
"When I'd just end up dying, anyway?"
"Look. I know everything you've ever felt," he says, jaw tight. "Every sadness. Every heartache. And I'm trying to tell you that you've always been more to me. . . ."
"You wouldn't know the difference," I reply.
His eyes soften. "Somewhere, deep inside, I'd know, Genesis. This—all of this—it's not something I could ever forget. I never stood a chance against you. And no matter what happens, something inside me will always remember you. It has to."
"If my wishes—my feelings—mean anything, you won't do it. I'm not walking this earth without you, knowing you're suffering for eternity because of me."
"And what if I said our time together—however long it may be—was worth it?" he asks.
"Then know that while you're suffering in Hell, I'm suffering my own Hell on earth. All because of you." I jab my fist into the mitt, pushing his arm away.
ELEVEN
When I emerge from the bathroom, squeezing the water out of my hair with a towel, the house is warm and it smells like. . . . I inhale deeply. Something Italian. I pass
through the living room and climb onto the barstool, pulling my damp hair back into an elastic.
"Smells great." Seth peers into the oven, examining whatever's inside. "What is it?"
"Manicotti."
A smile lifts the corners of my mouth. "That's so cute. I made you all domestic."
He rises, turning to me, eyebrows furrowing. "You're right. Because everything about this screams normal."
"Well, you know, aside from the fact that we're living in a pool house that doesn't belong to us, I shouldn't even know you exist, we're surrounded by Guardians, and I'm killing the occasional demon . . . yes. This feels very normal."
He opens a drawer and grabs a pot holder. A wave of heat whooshes from the oven as he slides the casserole dish out and places it on top of the stove. "And the fact that you have no problem with any of this . . ."
"I don't."
"You should."
Seth fans the dish and removes a plate from the cupboard, working quietly. He slides the plate in front of me.
"Impressive," I tell him.
"Don't say that until you've tried it."
I cut off a corner and spear it with my fork. The steam rises.
"You know, I always thought if I ever opened my own restaurant, it would be Italian. But not fake Italian. Real Italian. Autentico. With menus that need translating and imported wines. . . ." I can feel Seth's eyes, watching, studying me. "We should do that," I tell him. "One day, I mean. Open our own Italian restaurant by the sea."
A twinge of sadness passes over me. And I'm not sure if it's coming from Seth or me. If deep down I really do long for normal when I know that isn't something Seth and I can ever have. If Seth longs for normal knowing it's not something he can give me. If I'm assuming—assuming that we'll have a future together when I'm not guaranteed a tomorrow. . . .
Seth leans into the counter, forearms tightening as he crosses them, frowning. "Are you going to eat that or not?" He nods toward my forkful of manicotti.
"Sorry." I bite into the pasta and swipe at the sauce on the edge of my lips.
"And the verdict?"
"So . . . I'm thinking if this whole restaurant thing works out, I should make you head chef," I say, trying hard not to smile.
He moves toward the sink. "Now you're being facetious."
"I'm not, actually. This is much better than ramen."
"Glad you approve." He grabs the dishrag and wipes his hands, stares out the kitchen window. "I'd say we could take this outside and eat on the patio, but. . . ."
I glance toward the French doors. There's a little bistro table set up by the pool, surrounded by the Fleming's perfectly pruned hedges and flowering pink azaleas. The hottest part of the day is already spent, the sky shadowed in grays and blues, a warm summer breeze.
"It's not only Carter," I say, going in for another bite. "I don't want the Flemings to wonder. I mean, they're letting me stay here, no questions asked. I don't want them to think I'm taking advantage of them." And again I'm reminded how forever indebted I am to the Flemings and their unwavering generosity. How many times have they bailed me out now?
I heave a sigh, frowning.
Seth watches me, and I know he must know what I'm thinking, what I'm feeling, because then he says: "They never hated you."
I glance up at him, blinking back my surprise.
"Carter's parents. That night you were fighting in his SUV. You thought they didn't like you. It wasn't like that."
"What was it like?" I ask, curious.
He shrugs, either unable or unwilling to look me in the eye, voice low, and says: "They thought you were great, Genesis. They think you're great."
"They thought I was below Carter," I reply, shaking my head. "That I wasn't good enough for him."
"The only person who felt that way was you."
"Plenty of people felt that way. Trust me."
"Not anyone who mattered."
I ignore this, focusing on my dinner. Cutting and chewing and swallowing. Fork clinking against the ceramic plate.
"Would you ever consider giving him another chance?" Seth finally asks.
"No. Not as long as I have you."
"What if you didn't have me?"
"I do have you."
"But what if you didn't," he insists. "Would you ever go back to him?"
Why is he even asking me this?
"What? I don't know, Seth. No."
"Why not? Because when it comes down to it . . ."
A fiery blush stings my cheeks. "It doesn't matter. I made my choice. I picked you."
"But look where it's gotten you," he says, voice rising. "You could be living a normal life right now. Going to college. He could get you whatever you needed. That Italian restaurant by the sea. You would be taken care of forever."
"I don't need anyone to take care of me," I tell him.
Seth sighs. "That night you were with him at the country club—before I showed up—that's the kind of life you deserve, Genesis. Not these nightmares. Not hunting demons. And I hate. . . ." He trails off, unable to finish.
"What is it, Seth?" I ask, tone bordering on defensive. "What is it that you hate? Viola? The demons? My decision?"
"Me," he answers. "I hate myself for interfering." His voice barely moves past his lips. "That night? I should've stayed away from you."
My pulse edges a degree. "Well, you didn't. And I'm not sorry," I tell him. "So get off it."
I continue eating, ignoring the heavy silence wedged between us.
When I finish, I push my plate aside. "We should go to the beach tonight. Before curfew," I announce.
"I think Mara wanted to . . ."
"Forget Mara," I say, groaning. "Let's get out of here for a while. You and me. Do something real for a change. It'll all be waiting for me tomorrow. Do you hear me, Mara?" I ask, voice rising. "I deserve a night off, too!" I turn to Seth. "Is she hanging around?"
He shakes his head. "It's not safe," he says.
"It's not safe to stay locked up in a pool house all day, either. You know my money will eventually run out, right? I'll have to get a job. I can't hide out forever."
"But until we figure out what Viola wants and how we can eliminate her, you should stay close to home."
"There's a better way to handle this."
He lifts an eyebrow, and I make a cutting motion with my index and middle fingers. "Best two out of three. You win, we stay in tonight. I win, we go to the beach."
His shoulders fall in a resigned exhale, and, on the first count of three, makes a rock.
"Paper beats rock," I say, waving my flattened palm.
"One. Two. Three." This time I make a rock and he makes scissors. "Scissors beats rock," I reply, unable to hide my smile. "You really, really suck at this game."
TWELVE
I pull my old Honda into one of the public access lots, turn off the headlights, and kill the engine. The lot is half-covered in sand, but I wait until I reach the rickety steps before kicking off my flip flops. I glance around, pushing the hair away from my eyes, looking for Seth. The warm sand squishes between my toes, and a line of broken shells snakes across the beach from the last high tide. I step over it, continuing toward the sea, until I'm ankle-deep, the dark water flowing over my feet.
The moon hangs low, suspended in the sky, and the evening stars twinkle overhead. I scan the horizon, gazing into the night. Still no sign of Seth.
The beach is empty. It's dangerously close to curfew, and the police will be making rounds soon. A rush of air swirls past, raising goose bumps on my arms.
I sit down at the water's edge. The tide is coming in, and I watch the sea ebb and flow. Drifting in and out. Waves crashing, thundering in front of me. I brush my fingers across the damp sand, making pathways, and find myself writing.
I AM NOT AFRAID.
The deceitful words slant across the sand, mocking me. Because I am afraid. I'm afraid of what is. What was. I'm afraid of what might happen. What I've become. I wipe my hand over the wor
ds, erasing them.
I feel a sweep of fingers on my shoulder and flinch, startled.
"It's just me," Seth says, lowering himself to the ground. I lean into him, letting him wrap his arms around me. He tickles the back of my neck with warm kisses, and squeezes me tighter.
"You miss me already? It's only been ten minutes," he says.
"I notice when you're gone."
The early moon casts long shadows around us. I close my eyes and focus on this feeling. The cool night air blowing across my skin, the salty humidity, the heat passing from my body to Seth's and back again.
This is what it would be like all the time if Seth were like me. Or if I were like him. Immortal. Indestructible.
"Seth? How do you become a Guardian?" I finally ask.
"You can't become one. You just are."
"So . . . if something happened to me, becoming like you isn't a possibility?"
"No."
I dig my toes deeper in the sand. It's cooler there, beneath the surface. I gaze across the ocean, watching the waves break.
"It's not something to strive for," he goes on. "You're tied to one location. Your charges come and go. They have free will, so you're never fully in control."
"You don't seem very loyal," I point out. "To the Council, I mean. The rules."
He shrugs. "I'm loyal to you."
A silence descends between us. I close my eyes, breathing in the briny, sea air, and feel everything—the anxiety, the fear, the burdens—slip from my body, melting away.
This is perfect.
I'm just about to say this—out loud—when I feel Seth grow rigid behind me.
"Seth?"
His body tenses, arms gripping me tighter. "We have to go."
In the next moment he's on his feet, lifting me to mine.
"Move." He speaks quietly, his tone insistent, and I know not to ask questions. I grab my flip flops and follow him as he drags me along, hurrying toward the parking lot, the sand making it nearly impossible to run.
In an instant someone else is on me, separating us. He wraps his fingers around my throat and pushes me backward. I fall into the sand, grasping against my leg, feeling for the sheath that holds my knife, but there's nothing. And I remember: I took it off before my shower and never put it back.
