“What are you talking about?” she yells, flinging her hands in the air. Our conversation has turned into somewhat of a shouting match, though, of course, not one head turns in our direction. “How can you say nothing has changed? I’m not the girl who helped you, Tuck. I don’t even remember doing it!”
“Doesn’t mean you didn’t. You didn’t have to stand up to those boys. You didn’t have to get my school bag back, but you did anyway. You were so full of fire and strength and heart. You try so hard to put up these walls, to convince everyone around you that you’re untouchable. That you feel nothing. Don’t blame what happened to you for your problems. It isn’t death that’s taken away your humanity, Billie. You did that
She laughs sarcastically. “Yeah, what do you know?”
“More than you think!”
“Like what?”
“I know your laugh never sounds the same twice.”
The words fly from my chest, freed by a desperation and need to hold on to hope that is slipping away.
She blinks away her surprise. “What?”
“Your laugh . . . it changes. And you hate when people say they’re sorry and don’t mean it. And in high school you used to wear whatever color matched your mood for the day, and you always kept an extra shirt in your locker just in case you changed your mind. I know you were the only girl in our high school who agreed with Rose for kicking Jack off that door at the end of Titanic, but you cried the first time you saw Milo and Otis. And I know that even though you’d never admit it, Brian Cassidy broke your heart freshman year the night he dumped you at the spring dance.”
The words pour from my mouth, unstoppable, like water bursting from a levy. “I know there are two sides to Billie Foster, one you never let anyone see, both of which scare the hell out of me. I know you have this uncanny ability to make me so frustrated that sometimes I want to slap whoever it was that first suggested my sanity could handle working with you.”
I take a final step closer, taking her small hands in mine, holding them both against my chest. “I know you didn’t remember me before we were thrown together, but that’s okay. Because I have tried to stop loving you. God help me, I’ve tried. But I fail every time, and you know what?” I shake my head, amazed she hasn’t stopped or slapped me yet. “I couldn’t be happier about it. I love my failure. You make everything exciting and new and challenging. And I love that. I love you, and nothing you do or say or don’t say is ever going to change that.”
Her impossibly blue eyes stare up at me, twin pools of mystery and misery. My own begin to burn and sting with tears that will never find release as I watch her perfect, pink lips part. Then, with neither words nor warning, she takes my face between her thin, delicate hands and pulls me to her, slowly pressing her lips to mine. Her fingers twist into the thick strands of my hair, curving against my neck as I envelop her tiny figure in my arms. The kiss is hesitant. Sweet. Tender.
A brand new torture.
I don’t think of Ford or the Captain or the Elders. This single moment of bliss is worth any anxiety or heartache that might come my way. If this girl is an ocean of trouble, then let me drown.
She pulls away, slowly, almost as if she can’t bear the separation, and presses her forehead to mine. I listen to the silence, the sounds of the party fading into white noise as I try my hardest to read her thoughts, wondering if she can read mine.
“Don’t,” she murmurs at last, leaving her eyes closed.
I can’t help but smile through my uncertainty. “Don’t what?”
Her voice comes at me small and soft.
“Don’t love me.”
The words are like an attack, one I’m not prepared for. For an instant everyone in the room is a ghost, and we are the ones with blood and heartbeats and pain. Because that’s what her request is. The most exquisite ache I could ever imagine; the cause and cure one and the same. How odd that I should feel it now when my body is beyond pain, beyond yearn, or touch, or warmth.
The look in her eyes, determined, familiar, asking me not to love her is . . .
Is . . .
Is . . . like dying.
All over again.
And that’s the last thought I have before I vanish, taking my humiliation with me.
Ford
“That was the longest night of my life.”
I hand my parking ticket to the valet attendant, staring after him as he dashes off into the darkness to find my car. “And I’ve had a lot of long nights since meeting you, so I know what I’m talking about.” I chuckle at my own joke.
I’m not surprised when she doesn’t respond. Billie hasn’t spoken a word since I found her standing next to a large ficus plant in the lobby. Tucker is nowhere to be seen, and though I don’t ask where he is, Billie’s empty gaze is more than enough answer.
Gone.
“Where to now?” I ask in a feeble attempt at conversation just as my Chevette pulls alongside the sidewalk. The valet tosses me my keys, glad to be rid of my motorized eyesore.
“I don’t care.” She shrugs and phases through the passenger door.
I step to the driver’s side and climb in, only too happy to escape the confines of the yuppie prison. I wasn’t kidding when I’d said the night was a long one. Shannon tried all evening to get Logan and I to communicate, but becoming friends with a guy who has called me “Bent–dick” for the last four years is about as likely as . . . well, talking to the dead.
I can’t help but wonder where my other Guardian has gone to, or if something happened between the two of them in the time I was away. Then again, if Billie were upset with him, she’d come out and say so, right? This passive–aggressive behavior is all wrong on her, like a shoe that doesn’t quite fit.
“So where’s Tucker?” I ask.
She slumps against her seat. “He left.”
“Is he coming back?”
“Don’t know. Maybe.”
“Come on, Billie. You gotta give me more than that.”
“I don’t have to give you anything,” she snorts. “You’re my assignment, not my therapist. My job is to keep you alive. That’s it.”
The car rumbles on in silence, swerving around each corner, sticking to the black pavement like glue. Part of me wants to shrug off her insult, knowing it’s just her epic temper getting the best of her. But a much larger piece of my brain boils with her remark. I jerk the wheel to the left, cutting across an entire lane of traffic and recklessly sliding my car into a tiny parallel spot along the road. The tires shriek with the sudden turn, squealing loud enough to frighten more than a few pedestrians.
“Okay, time out,” I say, cutting the ignition. The car shudders to a stop. “I’ve just spent the last three hours talking nonstop about stocks and city funding and highballs all the while pretending to enjoy fois gras and whatever that slimy shellfish was Shannon kept coercing me to eat. I’ve had a very long night, not a minute of which was productive. So you’ll forgive me if I tell you to shove it.” She whirls on me. “You and I both know we’re friends. There’s no point in denying it now. So believe me when I say we’re not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on.”
Billie turns to face the window, her face a perfect portrait of melancholy. She sets her shoulders stubbornly. “Tuck told me he’s in love with me,” she mumbles, her tone almost angry.
So he finally cracked. I can’t deny it was probably only a matter of time before something like this happened. “And? What did you say to him?”
Her answer is simple. “I told him not to. I kissed him and told him not to love me.”
My first instinct is that she’s joking. No one could be that heartless. As much as I enjoy making Tucker suffer occasionally, even I have to admit no one deserves that sort of torture. But in the instant I glance over at her seat, I understand she is in no way teasing.
“Oh.” I inhale deeply, trying my best to keep the expression of disapproval off my face. “I see.”
“You see?” she snaps. �
�What does that mean?”
I fight back a cynical laugh. “You’re not exactly the warmest girl in the world, Billie.” She scoffs and turns back to the windshield with a crumpled pout. “I know Tucker and I don’t exactly get along, but you probably crushed the poor guy.”
“I didn’t . . .” she starts, giving up before she can finish. “He’ll be fine.”
“If you say so. But if you ask me, kissing a guy and then telling him to back off isn’t exactly rational thinking. I mean, the only reason someone would do that is if . . .”
I let it go, realization hitting me in the gut with the gentle caress of a full–speed battering ram. “Oh! Wait a sec! That’s it, isn’t it?”
“What’s it?” she rolls her eyes and shifts uncomfortably.
I answer slowly, making sure she hears every word. “You. Love. Him.” An explosion of laughter breaks free. “That’s it! It has to be. It’s the only thing that makes sense!”
“I do not!” she cries. “I can’t. The thought of it . . . it’s ridiculous! We’re just not meant to be together. You may not have noticed, but it’s kind of difficult to make a relationship work when neither of us has a heart.”
I smirk through the blackness. “I don’t believe that, and neither do you. I think somewhere down the line you’ve just given up.”
“Death sort of puts a damper on happy endings, Ford.”
“Is that the only reason you shot him down? Because you think there’s no point?”
She takes a moment to think, and suddenly I’m shocked by how alive she looks, unsure, nervous, a little embarrassed even. It’s as if she’s the one who’s living now, the one with a reason to feel and love and hate, and I’m the ghost, the lifeless, mimicking her emotions because I’m completely devoid of any of my own.
“Tuck,” she begins, “shouldn’t be with someone who isn’t going to be around much longer. You heard what he said. If we fail, if I fail . . ” She steadies herself. “It’s only a matter of time, I guess. It doesn’t matter whether I save your life or not. They won’t stop until they find a reason to get rid of me. I’ve made too many mistakes. Tuck and I are just putting off the inevitable. I’m going to be taken, and that’s just the way it is.”
I set my jaw, suddenly afraid. “What does it mean, being taken?”
“Drop it, Ford. You don’t want to know.”
“I do! Please! Why do they take you? Where do you go?”
“A place where nobody can follow,” she murmurs in a hollow voice. “A place we never speak of. We’re taught only to fear it. No end or escape. Just pain and misery and suffering . . . forever. The Elders, the people in charge, they can take whoever they want. No warning. No goodbyes. Just one minute you’re doing your job and the next . . .”
“And the next . . . what? What happens?”
Her pale, iridescent eyelids close against the stream of visions running through her mind. “Imagine the worst thing you’ve ever seen. Imagine the most horrible scene you can think of. One that ties your stomach in knots and breaks your heart into a thousand pieces. Imagine pain and loss and despair.”
I close my eyes, forcing myself to travel back to an average Tuesday afternoon, allowing my memories to once again lead me to the familiar expanse of loosely graveled black pavement, blue sky over head, red and gold leaves floating gracefully from the limbs of the trees they called home. I watch as a familiar moss green Chevette pulls into a painted parking space. The doors open and two figures step out, a man and a boy, both dark–eyed, both lean and lanky. The man pockets the keys and reaches for the boy’s shoulder, ushering him toward the front doors.
Far away, so far away, a man rushes from the building, panicked, a terror–filled expression across his hollowed features. An alarm screams around him, wailing like the cries of the tormented.
The two sides collide. The fleeing man pulls a gun, black and hateful, from his windbreaker. I want to warn them. I want to yell at him to stop. But I am merely a spectator to the gruesome, terrible game. I can do nothing.
Neither slows their advance, and a single unending second is all it takes for one side to make a wrong assumption about the other.
Gunshots. Four. Three hit their mark, and suddenly a body lies prostrate on the ground, pools of warm, ruby blood pouring from wounds. The still smoking gun falls to the pavement next to its victim, the eyes of its owner horror–struck with realization. His footsteps echo against the earth, dying away as he flees, leaving the boy in the wake of his destruction.
I open my eyes to find Billie staring at me, her face a mixture of pity and fear. “Now imagine reliving it over and over and over again,” she says. “Forever.”
My heart catches in my throat. I can’t speak, can’t breathe. The only thing I can do is understand. Understand why Tucker fears for Billie. Understand why she’s afraid for herself. Understand the hell that awaits her should she fail.
Maybe that’s what being taken really is. Hell. Not the generic, simplified version children are taught to fear. Not fire and demons, but something much worse. Perhaps hell is merely our personal demons, lined up, laid bare for us to witness, to relive our mistakes and never change them. To see the past and never the future. The worst fate, the worst punishment stretching on and on for eternity until we eventually succumb to madness. Our choices have been stripped from us, mine, Billie’s, Tucker’s, wherever he is. The option of giving in, giving up and surrendering to the darkness is gone. It will not yield. It will not stop. Hell will come one way or another.
And I’ll be damned if I don’t fight it.
Billie
He wants to help.
I really should have seen this coming. Ford’s transformation from sidekick to superhero took all of one heartbeat after the uncomfortable conversation in his car. He’s no longer the cowardly lion I found so endearing, but an overeager puppy. Cute, yes, but after three days of incessant yapping, all I can seem to think of are ways I could get away with killing him just to have a moment of peace.
“I have another idea,” he says one Sunday afternoon as he hovers over the kitchen sink, elbow deep in soapy water. “I could talk to the Elders and tell them what a great Guardian you are. I could ask them not to take you. I mean, I can talk to you and Tucker, right? That means I can talk to the people in charge. And they’d have to listen to me. They’d just have to.”
Yep. Blunt trauma to the head. That’s probably best.
And then there are the other, more personal matters that flicker to the forefront only every other second, matters of a sandy–blond, freckled, level–headed partner who’s suddenly MIA. I hadn’t meant to hurt him. Truly. But I won’t let Tuck waste an eternity on me. It was nice, pretending I could be happy again, a pleasant break from the harsh reality of my afterlife. For a moment I’d even let myself believe I could feel something for him, Tuck who is so good and honest and strong. There are so many reasons I want to let myself dwell in this strange, welcome bliss. But for his sake, I have to give up the ridiculous notion that I could ever belong with him.
“The dishes can wait.” I’m off the counter, grabbing Ford’s arm and forcibly dragging him out the back door. Ford follows, glancing back over his shoulder so frequently it begins to look like a nervous tick.
I walk a few minutes in silence, trying to focus on not thinking. I’m determined to keep busy. “Let’s go somewhere,” I say, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. “There has to be something to do in this town after four o’clock. Comic book store? Ice cream parlor? Sketchy alley where teenagers can get into all sorts of after–school special capers?”
Ford laughs. “Why are you so jumpy all of a sudden?”
“Jumpy?” I wave my hand flippantly. “I’m not jumpy. I’m anything but jumpy. In fact I’m . . .” I pause, not sure where I’m going with my runaway train of thought. “. . . easy. Like Sunday morning.”
“Sure.” He rolls his eyes. “You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were running from something.”
“I guess you won’t mind if I ask where Tucker is then. Haven’t seen him around lately.” He lifts his eyebrows in mock curiosity. I respond with an icy glare. “Oh, lighten up, Billie. I was only joking.” Ford saunters close behind, obviously confused at my sudden craving for an afternoon stroll. “So where are we going?”
“Somewhere,” I say. “Anywhere. I’m open to ideas.”
“Well, Gran said she needed duct tape. There’s a hardware store a few blocks down if that’s okay.”
“Sounds great!” I start quick–marching down the block.
“Billie?” He points back over his shoulder. “Store’s that way.”
I spin on my heel. “I knew that.”
He keeps quiet the rest of the way, only on occasion peeking a look at me out the corner of his eye, an all too familiar smirk in place. We arrive at the hardware store, a tiny, one–register shop called Jennings’s, soon after leaving the house. He searches the aisles for a moment, finding the duct tape in the back.
“Ford!”
The two of us turn simultaneously to see the under–nourished figure of Riley smiling from two aisles over. His cotton–ball head bounces in heartfelt eagerness. Next to him, to my immediate surprise, is Shannon, waving him over with a thin, enthusiastic arm.
“Hey man!” Ford calls in return, sauntering over with all the grace of a wounded gazelle. “What’s up?”
“Not much,” Riley shrugs. “Running some errands for my mom.” His thin arms are filled with an assortment of nails, a pair of pliers, wire cutters, several packages of silver washers, a flathead screwdriver, and one very large ballpein hammer. “She’s determined to redecorate the whole house.”
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