Vendetta

by Katie Klein

  I inhale, but I don't feel anything unusual. "Okay. Now what?"

  "Try to block me."

  Easy enough. I stand still, waiting, until I feel something poke my side. "Got you."

  "You didn't even give me a chance!"

  "Bad idea. We should start smaller. For now, let's work on location. I'm going to change position. Focus. Listen. Feel my next move and tell me where I am."

  I remain absolutely quiet, listening. I can hear one sound above my own breaths: the rustling of his jeans. "You're behind me now."

  "Good." His voice is clear. Sharper, somehow. "Try again."

  I inhale. "You're at my side." He doesn't answer. I extend my right arm, feeling the space around me. "You're over here. I know you are," I mutter.

  Nothing. But I know. It's like that game, someone calling out "warmer" the closer I get to what I'm searching for. I'm hot. I know it. I take another step. And another. Until my hand presses into his broad chest.

  "Not bad," he says. I know he's smiling. I can hear it in his voice. "I'm going to move to a different part of the room. Think you can find me?"

  "Absolutely."

  "Count to ten."

  There's a shift in the atmosphere, and I know he's moving away. At ten, I focus on the space around me. It's empty. And so I listen. Even in the darkness, I remember the rooms, pulling the blueprints from some distant corner of my subconscious. A few steps, and I feel one of the chairs from the kitchen table. A few more steps, and I'm at the barstool. I move away from the counter, but everything feels cooler, and so I work my way around it until the tile floor is beneath my feet.

  I stop, but he's so close. I reach out to feel him. My fingers tremble, heat radiating through them. I suck in a breath and hold it, extending my arm further, until it presses against another palm, and those fingers wrap tightly around mine. Sparks of electricity bounce between us, and, even in the darkness, I find his lips with mine. They're smooth. A smile curving the edges. His warm breath passing into me. Heart hammering behind his rib cage. Blood pulsing through his veins. I feel it. I feel everything.

  My lips move across his neck, tasting his skin. His hand slips beneath my shirt, pressing into the small of my back, and I'm falling. Unnerved. It's hard to think—hard to breathe—as something else takes over. This inexplicable, possessive want.

  A small gasp reaches my ears, and for a moment I'm not sure if it's coming from Seth or me. I have a good idea, though, when he pulls away, distancing himself.

  "Genesis," he warns.

  "You want me. I can feel it."

  No answer.

  "Am I repulsive to you?" I ask him, cheeks burning with the heat of rejection.

  "You know that's not it."

  I lean back, slanting toward the counter, because, even though I'm blindfolded, I know it's there, ready to catch me. "Then what is it?"

  "Complicated," he replies.

  "Complicated," I repeat, humorless. "Is this because you can't? Or because you won't?"

  "I don't know." I can't see his face, so I focus on his tone, instead. Disappointment. Exasperation.

  I heave a frustrated sigh, desperate to make him understand. "Can we at least try?"

  "Everything about what we're doing is wrong," Seth reminds me.

  "That depends on who you're asking," I counter. "Because everything about it feels right to me."

  "You're my responsibility. I'm willing to pay the price for my personal transgressions, but I'm not going to make it worse than it has to be."

  "So . . . being with me . . . that would make it worse?"

  "Maybe that wasn't the best way to put it." I feel him brush away the strands of hair from my forehead. My skin tingles beneath his touch. "I'm not supposed to love you, Genesis Green. But I do. Let that be enough for now."

  My shoulders fall in resigned compromise. "Go hide."

  * * *

  "Honestly, it's about time you called me over."

  "Not my pool, Selena."

  The two of us are floating lazily in the middle of Carter's pool, midday sun warming our bare skin. Selena is already a perfect shade of tan. "Not my house. Not my yard."

  She adjusts her sunglasses, pushing them higher on her nose. "You know Carter doesn't care."

  "I know. I just don't want it to look like I'm taking advantage of them," I say, referring to the Flemings. I don't need to hand them a reason to kick me out on a silver platter. "Besides, don’t you have your own pool?"

  "Pools are meant to be enjoyed. Unfortunately, my sister is the only one of her friends that has one, and I'm sorry, but there is nothing enjoyable about sharing twenty-six thousand gallons of water with a flock of squealing twelve-year-olds."

  "Be thankful you have a sister."

  She scoffs, and I know her eyes are rolling on the other side of those dark shades. "The only people who have ever said that don't actually have one."

  "Well?"

  "You remind me so much of Carter. He was always such a pathetic only child. Speaking of, you know his dad is totally harassing him about school, career, life choices in general, right?"

  "No," I reply, genuinely surprised. "He hasn't mentioned it."

  "Yeah. He apparently let the acceptance deadline on his State application lapse. His dad swears there are no more strings left to pull. Totally sucks to be him right now. I mean, if, as a parent, you're going to cram all your genetic eggs into a single basket, you better pray to God your one attempt to produce a satisfactory heir pans out. Because if child number one doesn't fall neatly in line with every expectation, it's good to have other options."

  "So you're saying your sister is the back-up plan in the event you decide to break your parents' hearts?"

  "Absolutely. Carter is miserable about it, anyway. His dad is like, barely speaking to him."

  A swell of guilt stabs at my chest.

  Why would Carter forego his acceptance to State? And then not tell me about it? At one time I would've known this. I would've been the first person he told. Why didn't he want to tell me?

  "What I really want to know is how does Carter feel about that?" Selena asks, nodding toward Seth. He's lounging on one of the wooden chairs, shaded by the long branches of a weeping willow tree. The leaves fall around him, swaying in the warm breeze, the occasional green thread brushing his leg.

  My heart skips a beat, then hits a faster cadence. He looks up at me, straying momentarily from the magazine he's pretending to read, and cracks an amused smile. I turn away from him, face growing warmer. "He's okay with it," I say, skimming my hand across the water. "We broke up months ago."

  I don't know if he's okay with it, though. Not really. It's not something we've discussed.

  Like so many things, apparently.

  "Look, Clueless, guys are never okay when their ex starts hanging out with someone new. Especially something as hot as that."

  "So, you're saying he's hot?"

  She shrugs casually. "If you go for the whole tall, dark, mysterious, handsome thing."

  "My favorite kind of guy," I confirm. Seth flips to the next page, an egotistical smirk plastered across his face.

  "Not much of a swimmer, but he clearly loves to read. And watch you, which is what he's doing whenever he's not reading."

  "We prefer quiet activities in our down time."

  She giggles. "That is probably the naughtiest thing I've ever heard."

  I laugh. "No. It's not like that," I tell her.

  "I'll bet. So, where did you find this guy, anyway? What did you say his name was? Seth? Because I'm thinking I need to get me one."

  "I don't know. He just . . . showed up one day."

  "Does he have any friends? I prefer 'not so' quiet activities in my down time."

  "No. No friends." I watch Seth for a moment. "No one like that, anyway," I quietly add.

  "No brother? Cousins?"

  "Nope."

  "The guy doesn't have any friends or family at all?"

  "Not really." I watch him flip to
the next page. And the next. And I have to wonder what it's like to live a life free of attachments. Seth and Joshua seem close, but otherwise Guardians appear to keep to themselves. They have no family. No real friends. Just . . . a job to do. And it's not like I was overwhelmingly popular growing up. I was rarely in one place long enough to make friends. But I had my mom. And when we came to South Marshall I found Carter. . . .

  "He has me, though," I finally say.

  FIFTEEN

  The air conditioner in my car is going in and out again. The windows are rolled down, but it's not helping. The air is sweltering. Humid and oppressive. I pull into Mom's apartment complex, plastic grocery bags rattling at the floorboard.

  I climb out of the car, bags full of soups and pasta in hand, and travel the length of the walkway leading to Mom's apartment. There's a note. A document. It looks official.

  I rip the paper off the glass, scanning the words, trying to make sense of them.

  Mom and Mike are being evicted.

  That didn't take long.

  I spin around, studying the parking lot, but I don't see Moose, my Mom's car, anywhere. I pound against the door with my fist.

  "Mom!" I call. Nothing. "Mom, it's me. Open up."

  It takes forever for Mike to answer.

  "Where is she?" I demand to know.

  He leans against the door frame, hair disheveled, shirt half-tucked. I woke him. He's drunk, or hungover, or both. He has that glassy, far-off look in his eyes. And he's smiling. Because this is funny.

  "I was thinking you could tell me," he says. The words slur together.

  I push past him, abandoning the groceries in the living room. "Mom?" I call. Mike moves away from the door, shutting it behind us. In the kitchen I open every cabinet. The refrigerator. They're empty. In the bathroom, under the sink, her things are gone. Makeup, soaps, blow dryer. In the bedroom closet, only Mike's clothes remain.

  Mike.

  I feel his presence behind me, hovering in the doorway. A chill ripples across my skin.

  "How long?" I ask, struggling to keep my voice from breaking.

  "A couple of weeks."

  Weeks. She must have known. . . .

  I gaze at the half-empty closet until the clothes blur together.

  She didn't even say goodbye.

  I stifle a dark laugh. My own mother left town without saying goodbye, or telling me where she was going.

  "Did she leave anything for me? A note?" The words come out a whisper. But I don't need an answer. Not really.

  "She didn't even leave a note for me," he says. "Just up and left. Left me miserable." He's closer now. I feel his warm breath against my ear. It's laced with alcohol, rotten, and I cringe, turning my face away. He wraps his arms around me, pressing into me from behind. His sweaty hand slides beneath my shirt, touching my skin.

  I shiver, blood turning cold, and wrench myself away. "Get your hands off me!"

  My fingers clench, tightening, some visceral instinct, and my fist connects with his face, the bones cracking. His glasses are sent soaring. Crimson streams flow from his nose.

  He grabs my arm and pushes me backward. My foot catches the corner of the mattress on the floor and I fall, hitting the ground. Mike stumbles into the dresser, the handles jingling, and collapses on top of me, pinning me against the floor. I kick at the air. Thrashing.

  The blood from his nose oozes past his lips, dripping onto my chest. His eyes grow hard, darkening as he wraps his fingers around my throat.

  I try to scream, but the sound refuses to surface. Mike's body presses into me, one hand grasping my neck and the other struggling against the button of my shorts. Tugging. Yanking.

  "You should have been more careful," he whispers. But the voice—the words—it doesn't sound like him.

  Tears prick the corners of my eyes as I brace myself for what's coming. But what's coming is that I'm free. Mike tumbles backward, crashing to the floor. I roll over and crawl to the other side of the room, struggling to fix my shorts, fingers moving clumsily.

  Seth grabs a surprised Mike by the shirt collar and shoves him into the dresser.

  A glinting light shimmers as the knife blade—my knife blade—flashes in Seth's hand. My heart pumps even faster, bamming against my chest. He swings his arm, slashing Mike's throat in one swift motion as he slides to the bedroom floor.

  Mike's eyes widen. His breaths grow raspy, liquid. Gurgling. Blood flows, staining his shirt. He blinks tears, and I watch the ragged rise and fall of his shoulders until his chest stops moving. Eyes fixed on the floor.

  My stomach reaches my throat, closing it, and I cover my mouth, swallowing the venom rising.

  "Oh my God," I mutter. My voice is hoarse. A whisper. And my hands won't stop shaking.

  I glance at Seth, standing fixed over Mike's dead body, breathing heavily as blood pools on the carpet.

  "Seth?"

  He snaps to attention, turning to me, eyes wild and full of fear. He leaps across the mattress and grabs me by the arms, squeezing them, examining every inch of me. "Are you all right? Did he hurt you?"

  "I'm fine! I'm fine," I promise.

  My eyes are drawn back to Mike, lying slaughtered on the floor. And his image, this image, is branded into my brain. Mike. My mother's boyfriend. Her dead boyfriend. "Oh my God." The words tumble out, hanging in the air between us. Seth killed my mother's boyfriend. After he tried to. . . . I've killed. I've killed demons, but it's not the same. They're not . . . real. They're not. . . .

  "We have to call the police," Seth finally says, interrupting this labyrinth of emotional chaos.

  "No! We can't. Call the Guardians."

  "We can't dispose of this body, Genesis. Mike wasn't a Diabol. He was guarded."

  "What?" I ask, eyes tightening.

  The realization washes over me, its own torrent of hell, and I whirl around the empty room. The panic inside dissolves, replaced with something like rage, fury. He was guarded. He was guarded. Someone was on our side, my side, watching everything, not interfering. My fists clench together, fingernails biting my palms. "Then why didn't you stop him?" I scream.

  There's nothing. Empty space. No response.

  "You know it doesn't work that way," Seth says.

  I pull my hair away from my eyes, off my face. "Why didn't I see something like this?" I whisper, tears brimming. "This is me. My life. Why didn't I see this coming?"

  "I don't know," he says.

  "What are we supposed to do?"

  "I'll call the police. We'll tell the truth. He attacked you. I killed him because he was trying to hurt you."

  I wipe beneath my eyes, forcing back the clumsy tears threatening to spill over. "I can't. I can't drag you in the middle of this," I say, choking on the words.

  "What?" he asks, not understanding.

  "They'll arrest you, Seth! Put you in jail! You'll go to trial!" A quick inhale. "You were never here. I'll tell them it was me."

  His eyes grow harder, an angry edge to them. "No! I'm not letting you take the fall for this!"

  "It doesn't matter!"

  "It does! It was me! My fault!"

  "It makes more sense, Seth," I tell him, voice softening. "He attacked me. It was self-defense."

  A bitter laugh, no humor in it at all, and then: "No. Absolutely not."

  "You, taking the blame, it'll only make things worse. It's easier this way." I reach for the knife, resigned, and pluck it from his hand, shaking as the last of the tears disappear. I wipe my nose against my shirt sleeve, lungs shuddering as I breathe.

  His eyes grow damp, and it's as if he's frozen in place, either unable or unwilling to leave.

  "Seth," I whisper, pushing against his broad chest. "Go. Please."

  He wraps his fingers around my wrist, and, in the next lightning moment, pulls me into his world.

  SIXTEEN

  "Why would you do that?" I scream. A surprised Mara glances up at us from the kitchen table in the pool house. "We can't just leave him there!"
>
  "What's going on?" Mara demands to know.

  "There was an accident. Do not let her leave your sight," Seth tells her, pointing to me. "She does not leave this house." He vanishes.

  "Seth?" I strike my heel into the ground. "Shit!"

  "What is happening?" Mara asks again, eyes wide.

  I rake my fingers through my hair. "I went to my Mom's. I was taking her groceries. She was gone, but Mike was there. I don't know what happened. . . . And then he was on top of me and Seth killed him."

  "Seth killed Mike?" she asks, disbelieving.

  "Yes! But the police can't know about him, so I told him I would say I did it, and then he brought me here!" The entire story tumbles out. "Shit! Why would he do that?"

  "Are you okay?"

  "Jesus! I'm fine!"

  She sighs. "He's only trying to protect you."

  I pace the room, anxious.

  He's going back there. I know he is. He's going to get caught.

  Each second that passes without him I'm sure he's been discovered. And every minute pulls me further and further away from him. I want him. I need to feel him. I need to feel him to be okay. To know he's okay. My chest aches and head spins, like coming off a drug. I have to be with him to feel right again.

  I hear a car in the driveway. I rush to the window and find Joshua parking my car.

  Mara vanishes.

  Joshua enters the pool house, frowning, and then he vanishes.

  I'm alone.

  I'm alone, waiting for Seth. Imagining all the awful things that could have happened to him. But in the next moment he's there, pulling me into his arms.

  I let out a quick sob, feeling our hearts pound between us.

  "I thought they found you."

  He touches my forehead with his lips, kissing my temple, my eyelids. He buries his face in my hair, squeezing me tightly. "Are you okay?"

  "I'm fine," I repeat, for what feels like the millionth time.

  "I took care of everything. The groceries are gone. I wiped anything you might've touched. Threw the knife into the ocean. It's over. No one can connect either of us to this."

  At the first sign of others, I pull away, feeling the events of the afternoon slowly washing over me. I collapse on the sofa. A mild headache—a dull, pulsing pain—pounds between my ears. I close my eyes, wanting to push everything out. To make it go away. But in the darkness everything amplifies, and I'm back at my mom's apartment, trapped between Mike and the dirty, matted carpet. I feel his thick fingers pressing into me, ripping at my shorts. Tugging at them. His weight on top of me. I can smell the alcohol on his breath, in his sweat. My choked screams trapped at the back of my throat. Then Seth. . . .