Soulmates

by Nadine Nightingale

  I almost laugh. “You mean after Bitchier threatened me?”

  She nods. “That Ava chick and the Nun are convinced you had something to do with Jules’s disappearance. At least, that’s what they’re telling everyone who’s ready to listen. It’s also the reason Chelsea is avoiding you. She’s staying with Ava at the moment.”

  In a flash, everything makes sense: the weird looks I get when I walk into my lectures, the fact most students keep an arm’s-length distance from me, hell, even Professor Penrose’s weird I’m-here-for-you-if-you-need-to-talk offer. “You’re kidding,” I say, breaking into harsh laughter.

  Bonnie sighs. “I wish.”

  Enraged, I reach for the soda and clench my hand around the glass. It doesn’t matter what I do—starting a new life without magic, leaving everything I love behind. When it’s all said and done, I’ll always be labeled evil.

  “Hey.” Bonnie squeezes my arm. “Don’t let these bitches bring you down.”

  Faking a smile for Bonnie is hard. I give it my best shot. “C’mon, B. I wouldn’t be Amanda Bishop if I did, right?”

  She slams her fist on the table. “Damn right, girl. Let them talk. It only means your life is much more interesting than theirs.”

  Much, much more interesting.

  Bonnie pushes her chair back and points to the restrooms. “Be right back.”

  Staring at my half-eaten falafel, I can’t stop thinking about Jules. I haven’t touched a hair on the girl’s scalp, yet somehow I feel at fault for her disappearance. Stupid. I’m a powerful witch and all, but it’s not like my thoughts can make a person vanish into thin air.

  I’m beginning to get a seriously fucked-up migraine when a familiar voice calls my name. “Amanda?”

  The first thing I see are the expensive Italian leather shoes, followed by casual low-hanging jeans, a baby-blue cotton shirt, an armful of odd-looking religious tattoos that spread over the neck, and last but not least, arctic-blue eyes ogling me.

  “I thought it was you,” Legend says, flashing me a bright smile.

  What I want to say is leave me the hell alone. What I say is, “Hey.”

  Without asking for permission, he grabs Bonnie’s chair and takes a seat. “It’s been a while, huh?”

  I narrow my eyes at him. Not sure how he measures time, but two days aren’t a while in my book. The past two weeks, he’s shown up at the diner every time I worked a goddamn shift, and I’m beginning to wonder if I need to get a restraining order.

  He grabs some fries from my plate. “This is where you hang out when you’re not working the diner?”

  I’m not in the mood for small talk, but I’m especially not in the mood for small talk with him. “Look, Legend”—I point to the restrooms—“my friend should be back any minute.”

  His lips part, but before he can say a word, Bonnie returns. “Hey,” she says, eyeballing Legend as if he’s a freaking meal deal.

  In a very polite gesture, Legend rises from his chair and offers it to Bonnie. “Sorry.”

  My best friend beams at him, and I want to puke. “I’m totally into sharing,” she assures him, using her flirty voice.

  Seriously, I think I’m getting sick.

  Legend grins, then his attention swivels to me. “I should be going.” Pulling a business card out of his pocket, he puts it on the table next to my plate. “I’ve wanted to give you this for a long time.” He winks. “Call me sometime. I have a business proposition to make.”

  I glare at the card. Business proposition, huh? What a rotten liar he is.

  Bonnie’s eyes are glued to Legend’s back. It’s only when he closes the door behind him as he leaves that she looks at me. “Wow. Who the hell was that?”

  “A customer.” A very weird customer.

  She grins like the Cheshire cat. “Maybe I should get a job, too.”

  I give her a look. “No. No, you shouldn’t.”

  ****

  I’m in my room, applying mulberry-colored lipstick and glaring at the bullet scar on my chest. Every time I show off cleavage, I’m forced to think of that night in Bakersfield. I’m forced to think of Alex. I wonder what he’s up to these days? Killing some of my kind? Screwing some of his kind? Business as usual, I guess. Not that I care. Just curious.

  I look at the digital clock on my nightstand. Shit, DeLuca should be here any second. I don’t feel like hanging out with him, but he’d insisted we meet. The guy is starting to become a problem, and I need to get rid of him. As soon as I find another cure for my nightmares, that is.

  “Wow,” DeLuca moans, standing in the doorframe. “You look stunning, sugar.”

  Think of the devil, huh? I shove the lipstick in my bag. “How did you get in?” Not the nicest way to say hello, but it’s the best I can do today.

  “Bonnie,” he says, stalking toward me like a starving lion.

  Of course, she’d let him in. I must force her to watch more of those true crime shows, where the perpetrator is someone the victim knows. Maybe she’ll stop trusting everyone.

  Fighting the overwhelming urge to crawl into my bed and hide, I grab my favorite faux leather jacket from the closet. DeLuca’s hands land on my waist.

  “Sure you want to go out?” he asks, breathing me in. He pushes me against the closet. “We could…” He traces kisses down my neck. “Do more fun things here, sugar.” More fun things probably involve the hardness pressed against my ass.

  “Stop…calling me that,” I moan as his hand travels down my belly and right into my tight leather pants.

  He pins my hands above my head. “Or what?”

  My lips part, but before I can say something, DeLuca’s tongue dives into my mouth. We’d kissed a lot. This time it’s different. Darker. More aggressive. It feels as if he’s punishing me for something.

  He’s moving me. I’m faintly conscious of it, but the kiss fucks with my senses. Hell, it fucks with me, and not in a good way.

  The bickering voice in my head screams stop. I can’t. I’m not in control. DeLuca takes over.

  My lips sting. I’d never been kissed so mercilessly.

  His hand is inside my panties, feeling me up. “That’s how you like it, huh? Rough and slutty.”

  I’m a big fan of dirty talk. Alex and I? Let’s just say, we could have written a dictionary of words that drive people over the edge. But the way DeLuca does it kinda creeps me out. “Bridge,” I choke out, short of breath.

  He puts more pressure on my sweet spot, causing my back to arch. I’ve heard stories about body and mind wanting two different things. Never thought it could happen to me, though.

  Reaching for the hem of my shirt, he spins me around. “Still with me, sugar?”

  I’m not.

  The room starts spinning. My head thumps like crazy.

  And DeLuca’s touch no longer affects me, because I’m caught up in flashes of what looks like An American Werewolf in London.

  ****

  A howl rang through the darkness.

  Red eyes looked up.

  Crimson teeth snarled.

  Blood splattered against a wall.

  Flesh torn.

  I heard a voice. At first it was distant, and I could barely make out what it was saying.

  The voice grew louder. “Manda, help me.”

  My heart, literally, stopped beating. My lungs refused to draw in oxygen. And my mind felt like it was about to shatter into pieces.

  ****

  “Alex?” I whisper, tears blurring my vision.

  DeLuca pulls back. “Who the fuck is Alex?”

  Chapter 9

  I’m lying in my bed, holding my phone, eyes glued to the ceiling. Been here ever since I threw DeLuca out, which was right after he rose hell ’cause he thought I was seeing someone else.

  The unusual vision still screws with my head. I’ve had my fair share of premonitions—hundreds, if not thousands. They always came in different shapes. Some concerned the past, others the future. Some could have been prevented,
and others prescient. This one was different, though. Not only had it come in obscure flashes, it also felt as if whatever I saw was happening at that moment. A freaking live broadcast.

  Now, almost nine sleepless hours later, the sun is up. Green House, our residence hall, is alive—I hear the noises our next door neighbors make—and I’m still wondering why I haven’t called Alex. I know I’ll have to eventually. There’s no denying he’s somehow connected to all the weird things happening. The nightmares, the creepy shadow dog, and the fact I heard him call out for help twice? As a witch, I can hardly write that off as coincidence.

  It’s not like I haven’t tried to contact him. I must have dialed his number a thousand times in the past few hours. Finding the courage to press that godforsaken green button seemed impossible, though. I blame the fucking what if battle raging inside my head. What if I call him, and he shows up here? What if I don’t call him and something awful happens? What if he hangs up because he doesn’t want to talk to me? What if he sounds happy to hear from me? What if he’s in danger? Stop.

  I let go of the phone and press the heels of my hands against my temples. Anxiety is a bitch, and I better pull it together before I turn into the witch version of Holden Caulfield. Not that I have anything against the too smart, self-aware protagonist of The Catcher in the Rye, but I firmly believe teen angst should have an expiration date.

  I look at the digital clock on my nightstand, and my stomach dips a bit. In a little more than an hour, I’m supposed to sit in Penrose’s lecture. DeLuca will be there too, asking questions like, “Why did you whisper some dude’s name while I had you pinned against the closet?” Good times.

  Can’t avoid the inevitable.

  Gathering the last bits of energy buzzing through my numb body, I get up and stumble to the bathroom. I climb in the shower.

  Dipping my head back, I embrace the hot water pouring down my lethargic skin, but every time I close my eyes, I shiver. The blood, the torn flesh, and the fiery eyes haunt me.

  I turn the faucet, increasing the temperature from hot to I’m-gonna-end-up-in-the-ER-with-second-degree-burns.

  Why does shit like this keep happening to me? Did I not pay my karmic dues when I helped Alex save Jesse and those kids? Don’t I deserve a freakin’ breather? Some plus points on the cosmic scale?

  I rest my head against the shower wall, hoping the heat will burn away all the shit that’s bothering me. It doesn’t. Nothing can wash away the void this premonition has left inside me.

  The hot spray smears the makeup from last night. The scent of my jasmine perfume is replaced by the harsh smell of sandalwood soap. Hell, how I wish everything else would go away as easily. It won’t. Yeah, and I gotta stop pretending it will.

  By the time I wrap my hair in a towel and slap on a little makeup, I’m certain of three things: I need to get rid of DeLuca before his I’m-a-lovesick-obsessed-asshole act gets worse, my new life sucks, and I will call Alex, consequences be damned.

  I just put on my panties and bra when loud banging against the front door startles me. Bonnie is still fast asleep, the Nun has a key, and I’m not expecting any visitors. I step into loose jeans, pull a sweater over my head, and walk out of the bathroom.

  One thing’s for sure; whoever is knocking doesn’t know a thing about patience. The door vibrates, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say someone’s trying to break it down.

  “Jesus freakin’ Christ, I’m coming.” I yank the door open, ready to unload a shitload of anger, but when my brain processes what my eyes see, I can neither move nor talk.

  Blood.

  Bruises.

  More blood.

  Alex.

  What the—

  “Can we come in?” Jesse’s voice hits me like an uppercut to the jaw. He’s steadying his more dead than alive brother and looks miserable.

  The nightmares, the vision, Alex’s desperate pleas—it all comes back in this moment, flooding my system like a monster wave.

  “Manda?” Jesse is completely out of breath, and I’m not sure how much longer he can hold the barely conscious Alex.

  I open the door wider. “C-Couch. Take him to the couch,” I stammer, wondering if I’m having a nightmare with open eyes, or if my abilities have increased and I’m experiencing a vision without even knowing it.

  “Shit,” Jesse hisses as he lays his brother down, almost losing his balance. His hands and clothes are as bloody as Alex’s. The expression on his face is more disturbing than any horror movie I’ve ever seen.

  The initial shock fades, and something else takes hold of me. Red-hot merciless rage. I slam the door shut and look at Jesse—mostly because I can’t look at half-dead Alex, who’s bleeding like a pig. “What the fuck happened?”

  Jesse kneels next to Alex, not taking his eyes off him. “Can we postpone the Q&A session? In case you haven’t noticed, my brother is kinda bleeding out here.”

  In case I haven’t noticed? The crimson soaking into our cream couch is sort of hard to overlook. I suppress the desire to yell at Jesse and run into the bathroom to get clean towels.

  I really want to know what the fuck is going on, because I hate to act first and ask questions later, but one look at Alex, who fades in and out of consciousness, tells me this isn’t the time for questions.

  I shove Jesse out of the way. “Step back.”

  He gives me space so I can examine Alex’s battered body. Where the hell is all this blood coming from? There’s a nasty cut running from his left eyebrow all the way down to his jaw. Sort of looks like he had a date with Freddy Krueger, but common sense tells me it’s not the primary source of the bleeding. I rest my hand on his good cheek and shake him a little. “Alex?”

  Nothing.

  “Hey.” I slap him softly. “Can you hear me?”

  His eyelids flutter. He doesn’t answer.

  “Open your fuckin’ eyes, Alex.” I sound like a hyena, but I don’t give a shit.

  “Am I…in hell?” he chokes out, eyes still closed.

  So he hears my voice and thinks he’s in hell, huh? Charming. Despite the fact he acts like a jerk even when death comes knocking, I breathe a sigh of relief. As long as he can speak, he can’t be dead. “You’re gonna be okay, Alex.”

  “Liar,” he whispers, a fresh burst of pain flickering across his face.

  “Old habits die hard,” I say, mostly because I want him to stay with me.

  He tries to crack a smile. His agony transforms it into a weird grimace.

  My gaze goes from the cut on his face to his torn shirt. “I’m going to pull your shirt up, you hear me?”

  I think he nods, but maybe it’s just my imagination.

  What the—

  Four long claw marks run over his ribcage. They’re deep. Too fucking deep.

  Jesse nudges my hip. “Can you help him?”

  Help him? I look up. “He needs a fuckin’ ambulance, man.” Jesus would be better, though.

  “No,” Alex mumbles as I press a towel against his chest. “No hospital.” The stubborn jerk tries to sit up, though he can’t even lift his arm. The more he moves, the more blood gushes out of the wounds, coloring the white towels dark sangria.

  Where does he think he’s going? If he keeps this up, he’ll visit the morgue. Holding Alex down with one hand, I glare at Jesse. “You shouldn’t have brought him here.” I tilt my head at Alex’s torn chest. “He needs a doctor.”

  Anger, frustration, fear—it’s all carved into Jesse’s face. “We can’t take him to a hospital.”

  I give him the WTF is wrong with you look. “Why?”

  He runs a bloody hand over his chin. “It’s complicated.”

  Complicated? His brother looks like he ran into a horde of backwoods cannibals. My stomach twists into little knots. “A Facebook status is complicated. This”—I point to Alex’s torn chest—“is something entirely else.”

  “Fuck. You think I don’t know that?” He paces the room. “I wouldn’t be here if I could have ta
ken him to a hospital,” he shouts, unleashing his anger at me.

  I clench my jaw. I’m about to throw the remote control against Jesse’s head, but the door to Bonnie’s room flings open in time to prevent another Remington from getting hurt. “Jesus, keep it down,” she barks, bumping into Jesse’s rock-hard chest wearing nothing but an old oversized shirt.

  “Whoa.” Jesse steps back. For a fraction of a second, he eyeballs my best friend’s bare legs. As I said, old habits die hard. Even when your brother is about to bite the dust.

  “Who the hell are you?” Bonnie’s wild curls stick out in every direction. Her gaze drifts from Jesse’s blood-soaked shirt to his grief-stricken face. “Jesus, is that—”

  “B!” I try to draw her attention.

  She slowly turns her head. “Who the hell is—” The color drains from her face when she sees Alex, half dead, on our couch. “Oh. My. God.” Her eyes widen with terror. “Is that who I think it is?”

  I nod and return my focus to Jesse. “You’ve got about two seconds to tell me why we can’t call an ambulance, or I swear I’m outta here.” I’d never leave Alex like this—not him, not anyone—but Jesse doesn’t know that.

  “Damn.” He throws his hands in the air. “The police are looking for him. Happy? Can we save my brother now?”

  “What?”

  Tears burn in his eyes. “Please.” His gaze flies to Alex. “I don’t have time to explain, but you’re all he’s got. Don’t let him die, Manda.”

  How the hell am I supposed to keep him alive? “I’m a fuckin’ witch, Jesse, not God.”

  “Guys!” Bonnie stands over Alex, slightly green. “I don’t think this is normal,” she says, pointing to Alex’s rolled-back eyes.

  I put a hand on Alex’s forehead. He’s burning up. I check his pulse, which is stronger than I expected. But for how long?

  I push all the questions to the back of my mind. “B?” She meets my gaze. “Get the rosemary oil, St. John’s wort, and the first-aid kit. ASAP.”

  Bonnie lifts the towel off Alex’s chest and knits her brows. “The cuts are way too deep for herbs,” she objects.

  She’s right, but it’s not like we have anything to lose. “Just do it,” I hiss. “And you.” I cut my eyes to Jesse. “Needle, thread, and absinthe.”