“A station. A mile away.”
“You want me to walk a mile across the desert?” I practically flop down on the spot. I hate exertion of any kind. Adding the desert heat makes this ridiculous. “Why couldn’t you give me the teleportation power? It’s much cooler than walking, and we both know Caldwell doesn’t deserve it.”
I have no idea if the angels give us the superpowers. Gabriel said he chose me. But choosing me to be his end-of-the-world gladiator is not the same as giving someone a superpower, is it? Gabriel doesn’t seem interested in clarifying this point. I have a theory the powers reflect the kind of people we are. I’m fiery and guarded for example, and Caldwell is a sneaky, evasive fuck. It makes sense. To me anyway.
“This would be an awesome time to reveal you can fly me places. How does that sound? Do you want to fly me to the station? Because I’m super open to the idea.”
I turn back and gaze longingly at the military base where I left my friends. It’s even farther than the station. No point in hiking back to take one of the other cars. I turn back toward the station. Ugh. Lesser of two evils, I suppose.
Maisie.
I hope she can feel me. I hope our empathetic connection is letting her know how worried and afraid I am for her. Okay, maybe not afraid. I don’t want to freak her out. Concerned? No one should have to go through what she’s going through alone. I had to deal with some heavy shit when I was her age, and I killed myself over it.
Please god, don’t let history repeat itself.
I start walking toward the building in the distance, squinting against the sun in my eyes.
I’m coming, Maisie. I pour all the mind juice I’ve got into this message. Hang on. I’m coming for you.
Chapter 3
Maisie
I wipe tears off my cheeks, and Mom doesn’t even care. She just murdered my sister, orphaned Winnie Pug, and now she’s driving across the desert like we’re on our way to somewhere totally normal. Like the grocery store.
It’s messed up.
At times like this, I’m sure I can finally give up on her. She’ll never win Mother of Year. But one look, one reassurance—Maisie, I’m doing this for us. For you. I’ll keep you safe—and the confusion creeps in. I don’t see a lunatic. I see my mom.
Every Chicago winter, all bundled up in our mittens and caps, we’d go ice skating in Millennium Park. In the summer, we walked Navy Pier with drippy ice cream cones running over our hands. Or we’d take the water taxi across Lake Michigan to the museum campus and eat loaded hot dogs and drink lemonade until our bellies burst.
We laid in the grass and watched the clouds go by, and my mom would tell me about her childhood in Nebraska on a horse ranch with her grandparents. It was a happy childhood with a pack of dogs and a horse named Storm. Storm for his gray fur and lightening white mane.
I love that mom best. The funny mom. The slightly crude mom. The one who laughs and sweeps my hair off my shoulder before kissing my temple. The mom who rubs my back with lavender oil when I can’t sleep and begins sentences with did I tell you about the time...
…I jumped off a bridge naked into the river…
…I got a boy to undress down to his socks. Then when his eyes were closed for a kiss, I took his clothes and ran away as fast as I could…
…the first time I saw your father…the moment I saw those gorgeous green eyes…
I tumble out of my thoughts as soon as the truck’s dashboard chirps a warning. Mom scowls, bending down to read through the dust. “We’re low on gas.”
“There’s nothing out here.” I crane my neck in all directions. This is an excuse to gawk at the black smoke growing smaller in the distance. I squint at the horizon, hoping I’ll see Jesse there. Alive and unscathed, even if she’s stranded. She’s got her shield. She could have survived the blast.
If anyone could survive a car explosion, it would be Jesse. Not because of her healing powers and her impenetrable shield, but because she’s the toughest person I know. She’s been killed hundreds of times, and every time she gets up, brushes herself off and says, bring it.
She’s amazing.
I squint into the glaring sun until my head hurts. I don’t see her. I don’t see anything but the black smoke.
But I didn’t feel her die either, so there’s that.
When someone dies, icy cold stabs me in the chest. It’s like someone runs me through with an icicle. Or sometimes it’s more like they poured a bucket of ice water over my head. My point is, the feeling is totally recognizable. I could never miss it or mistake it for something else.
But the car’s going too fast. It’s possible she was out of my range by the time she died. I don’t feel everyone in the whole world, you know. Only people who are kind of close to me. Half a mile maybe? I’m not sure the exact distance because I’ve never measured it.
“Do you see anything?” Mom asks, fighting for my attention.
I’m forced to look away from the burning wreckage and scan the horizon for a gas station.
Unless she figures out how to run a nozzle from a cactus, we’re out of luck. “We’re going to run out.”
I try not to sound too excited. God, I hope we run out. If Jesse survived, she might catch up to us then, especially if I drag my feet and pretend to die of heatstroke. And how will we carry Dad’s body? Mom will never let us leave him. A dead body will slow us down. She might even have to walk to town alone, get help and come back for us.
My excitement falters. What if Jesse catches up to us? What happens then? She and mom try to murder each other. Again.
It’s hard for me to understand why they can’t stop fighting. Even with my partis power and an angel in my ear, I’ve never had this overwhelming desire to fight. Every time things get crazy I want to stuff my head in the sand. That’s me. Maisie the Ostrich. Where’s my circus sideshow?
It can’t be genetic. Mom and Dad love to fight.
Jesse’s reluctant most of the time, until the guns come out, and we’re in danger—especially if Ally’s in danger—because then Jesse jumps into the fray with the rest of them.
There’s another way.
My stomach flutters at the memory of Monroe and his last words. I can see him perfectly in my head, rolling a cigarette between tobacco-stained fingers. His slow southern drawl added to his sweetness.
Maisie, baby. You got a big heart in you. Hang on to it in the hurricane. Let it anchor you.
Monroe was like me. He wasn’t a fighter. He never asked for his power or to be caught up in this struggle over the whole world.
Knowin’ the fightin’ be wrong and getting’ people to stop—that’s two different things. They’ve stopped listenin’ to their hearts. Not you. And don’t you stop now.
The last time I saw Monroe alive, he tried to warn me. He tried to explain it’s going to be hard for everyone to stop fighting, but I’ve got to resist. Easy, considering I’d rather step into Millennium Mile traffic than attack anyone. Getting flattened by a Chicago taxi driver would be a blessing when I consider the alternative—having my head sawed off by someone I love.
I chose you for your strength, Azrael whispers.
My strength! I hiss in my head. What about your strength? Why do I have to do anything?
When I think about the angels, it makes me mad. If they are so mighty, why don’t they fix everything? Why use us like pawns to start wars?
We are not meant to interfere. Together, you have no need of us, she instructs.
Before I ever saw Azrael, I imagined her as an uppity professor. Black-rimmed glasses, a sweater vest, and with a pen behind her ear.
Nope.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Imagine my surprise when she appeared looking like Joan of Arc—full body armor, sword, shield, and long wild hair. I glance at my bloody nails again.
Azrael won’t be able to materialize now. Mom’s too close. That’s probably for the best. It’s super weird when an angel shows up in a shiny breastplate with
a sword. Intimidating doesn’t even begin to cover it. Acting like she’s not in the room? Impossible.
“We’ll get at least twenty miles, maybe thirty before the car dies. We’ll ride it out.” Mom’s acting like we’re having a normal conversation. It’s hard to feel normal with a dead body beside you.
A shape pops up on the horizon. One, then three. An oasis forms in the watery heat, like a mirage materializing from the paper-thin air.
“A town,” Mom breathes, relieved. Her hunched shoulders slide away from her ears.
I lean forward, trying to get a better look. Dust clouds swirl across the landscape making it hard to see. As it settles, stark white buildings shine in the distance. It must be Cochise. I saw a sign for this town when we were heading to the military base.
We don’t say anything else. After a few miles, the wheels bump up onto pavement. This new road leads us into a cluster of buildings. They are all one-story, squat boxes in an off-white color. People live here. There are proper fences and stop signs, and painted parking spaces with yellow or white lines sprayed onto the sandy concrete. One house even has a pink bicycle sitting outside, the seat growing hot in the sun.
“We need somewhere to hide until your father wakes up.”
I blink at her, trying to get my eyes to adjust again after staring at the blinding white buildings in the desert light. Spots dance in my vision until it clears.
“We need to sew him up. He’ll never heal like this. Look at him.”
She’s right about that. Dad’s head rolls dangerously on his neck. The place where the skin stretches and pulls away from the nape makes me want to puke. I pinch my eyes shut.
Encourage delay. Give your sister time to find you, Azrael whispers.
Dad’s body falls against my shoulder. I nudge him away and pivot toward the window—well, where a window would be if the whole door hadn’t been ripped off. God, what if someone sees us? It’ll be hard to explain away a missing door, let alone the dead body inside, slumping between two women covered in blood.
Real subtle.
We pass an elementary school. People’s houses. A post office. I pretend to be interested in anything but the stinking corpse lying against me. It’s hard to do. Dead people are so heavy.
“We’ll commandeer a house,” Mom says.
Commandeer. I suppress a snort. You mean murder innocent people and take their stuff.
To your left, Azrael offers.
I crane my neck and see it. The building is an old-timey saloon, complete with rickety porch and poles propping up a covered porch. Above the door in black paint, Cochise Hotel.
“There!” I point my finger. “Let’s get a room. You can clean Dad up there.”
Mom pulls the wheel and the nose of the truck points toward the hotel. You can clean Dad up there…why did I say that? I don’t want to clean him up. If Dad heals and comes back to life—
One problem at a time, kid. I scold myself in Jesse’s voice.
She’s got to be alive. She’s got to be. Azrael practically said as much. She wouldn’t tell me to buy Jesse time if Jesse had exploded into a million pieces, would she?
Problem number one: Get Mom to stop driving and give Jesse time to catch up. Because she did survive, please god, she did survive. I don’t think Azrael would lie about that.
So how will I do it? How do I make sure Dad doesn’t wake up?
It sounds horrible. No one should wish their Dad would stay dead, but I do.
It’s more stupid that I love him. I want him dead, and I love him.
I’ll be the first to tell you I need therapy.
God, I can see Jesse’s face if I ever admitted these feelings to her. She’d totally freak. She’d say something like, how can you love a homicidal maniac? Do you know how many people he’s killed? Do you know how many times he’s killed me?
It’s not clear to me, though. This is probably because shitty people aren’t always shitty. Sometimes they can be kind too, and that’s enough to blur the line between good and evil.
Dad’s no exception.
I remember meeting him. It’s hard to remember much from being five or six, but I remember my big pink room with candy-striped walls. I can remember my toy box, white and wooden, and a rocking horse I never used because it creeped me out with its uneven eyes. I used to stare at it before I’d fall asleep, convinced if I looked away for even a second, it would transform into a beast, crawl into my crib, and eat my toes one by one.
It never did, but a different monster came, long after my crib was exchanged for what my adoptive mother called a big girl bed.
One night I woke up and there he was. He introduced himself as The Tooth Fairy. He asked me if I had any teeth. The first few visits I didn’t, so we talked instead. He told me silly stories and jokes. I remember thinking he was very handsome, and I liked it when he smiled at me. It was funny, not weird when he asked to put a Q-tip in my mouth. He was checking my DNA, trying to make sure I was the same baby he’d shuffled into the adoption system years before.
One night, I did have a tooth to give him, and he gave me a dollar for it. It was cool. None of my friends had seen the tooth fairy come into their rooms and give them money.
In exchange for my second tooth, he gave me Freddy. Freddy the Teddy. Every time I lost Freddy, he’d find it. Dad would turn up when I was drowning in my tears and say with a big grin, look what I found.
For the third tooth, he said he was taking me to see my real mom.
My real mom.
The idea that the woman who cut the crusts off my bologna and cheese sandwiches wasn’t my real mom blew my mind. As kind as I remember that woman to be, hearing that I had a real mom was a dream come true. I’d always felt different. Set apart. The Michaelsons were open with me about my adoption. They tried to make me feel loved. But it left me with a thousand questions about my parents and where I came from.
What little girl didn’t want to find out she was special? A princess? From some magical kingdom? Destined for a Hogwarts letter or something?
When he told me he wanted to take me to where I really belonged, I went without a fight.
Maybe Jesse doesn’t remember the times he was kind to her, but I do. Death replacement agents lose some long-term memory with each death. It’s possible Jesse forgot how nice Dad can be. I’m sure he was a good dad before he got some superpowers and became a maniac hell-bent on world domination.
And my parents were good to me until very recently. So, it’s hard to condemn bad behavior when it’s served with a big side of do you know how much I love you? Do you know what you mean to me? You’re my world.
Mom parks the car on the street outside the hotel and gets out.
“Wait here.” She lifts a hand to shield her eyes as she gazes at the hotel. “I’ll see if I can get us a room.”
She slams the door to the truck. I watch her march up the small slope toward the hotel’s dark doorway. She pauses at the threshold and then slips through the open door. A faint bell chimes.
I look at Dad’s dead body. A large black fly licks at his salty skin inches from where Jesse tried to saw through his neck.
I bet if I grabbed his head and pulled hard, I could pop it right off. I could finish him for good and save millions of lives. I grab a handful of his hair and find it cold. It should be wet with sweat. But he’s dead. My heart pounds as I tighten my fingers on his soft hair. It’s the same color as Jesse’s. I got Mom’s Nordic blond hair and her blue eyes. Even with the plastic surgeries meant to hide his past, Dad looks like Jesse. To me anyway.
I can’t do it.
I can’t finish him, and Mom knows it. That’s why she left him alone with me, not afraid for a second I’d hurt him while she was gone.
I let go of Dad’s hair, my hands shaking.
Hurry, Jesse. I beg, hoping she can hear me. I can’t do this alone.
Chapter 4
Jesse
“Oh my god,” I whine. “Why is it so hot?”
S
weat droplets form on the back of my bare neck, beneath my ponytail. When the droplets get too big, they slide down my skin into the collar of my shirt. It’s gross, and I can’t do shit about it since the sun is directly overhead.
“This is an arid landscape—” Gabriel starts.
“No science, please. I understand this is a desert, and how the sun works. I wish my shield could work more like a portable umbrella.”
It protected me from the car explosion, so using it to cool myself isn’t out of the question. But using my superpower for something as silly as a walk through the desert makes me feel wimpy.
And let’s be honest, my pride’s all I have now.
“You will reach the station soon.” Gabriel consoles me as if he isn’t wearing a three-piece suit and looking like he just stumbled out of a starlet’s bed and into a Gucci ad. Despite the suit, he isn’t sweating one bit. His skin is free of perspiration. Bitch.
“I do not think you will die before you reach it,” he adds, turning his big green eyes on me. Cat-eyes with an upward tilt at the outside corners.
“You do not think,” I mock him. “Well, that’s comforting. Nice to know my body won’t become the next carrion buffet.”
Every step is hotter than the last.
I groan. “Seriously, why didn’t I get the fancy teleportation power? I could think shade and poof!”
“You each have access to the same power source. It is not different,” Gabriel says. His tie shifts to green. I never did figure out what the mood ring tie meant.
“It’s entirely different,” I argue. My foot slides on the sand, and for a moment, I lose my footing. I catch myself with my hand, and the ground is blistering hot. My anger flares. Stupid desert! With its stupid sand! And stupid sun! And stupid hotness! “I can’t zap people dead with Georgia’s death ribbons. Or bring people back to life with the breath stuff like Maisie. I can’t move things with my thoughts alone like Rachel does. All of those things are different.”
My mind snags on something I said, and my heartstrings vibrate.
Dying Breath Page 2
