by P. C. Cast
His thumb traced a circular pattern over the top of my hand. “You always did make things too complicated. There’s you and me. That’s all we need to consider.”
“That’s not all there is, Heath.” A thought came to me and I lifted my brows and gave him a pretend-innocent smile. “Speaking of, how’s my ex-best friend Kayla?”
Totally unaffected, he shrugged. “I dunno. I hardly ever see her anymore.”
“Why not?” That was weird. Even if he wasn’t dating Kayla, they’d hung out in the same group for years, we all had.
“It’s not the same. I don’t like the stuff she says.” He wouldn’t look at me.
“About me?”
He nodded.
“What has she been saying?” I couldn’t decide if I was more hurt or pissed.
“Just stuff.” He still wouldn’t look at me.
I narrowed my eyes with realization. “She thinks I had something to do with Chris.”
He moved his shoulders restlessly. “Not you, or at least she doesn’t say you. She thinks it’s vampyres, though, but so do a lot of people.”
“Do you?” I asked softly.
His eyes shot back to mine. “No way! But something bad’s happening. Someone’s kidnapping football players. That’s why I was here today. I’m taping up flyers with Brad’s picture on them. Maybe someone will remember him being dragged away or something.”
“I’m sorry about Chris.” I laced my fingers through his. “I know you guys were friends.”
“It sucks. I can’t believe he’s dead.” He swallowed hard, and I knew he was trying not to cry. “I think Brad’s dead, too.”
I thought he was, too, but I couldn’t say it out loud. “Maybe not. Maybe they’ll find him.”
“Yeah, maybe. Hey, Chris’s funeral is Monday. Would you go with me?”
“I can’t, Heath. Do you know what would happen if a fledgling showed up at the funeral of a kid people think was killed by a vampyre?”
“I guess it would be bad.”
“Yes, it would be. And that’s what I’ve been trying to make you see. You and me together—we’d have to deal with issues like that all the time.”
“Not when we’re out of school, Zo. Then you could wear that cover-up stuff you have on your face now, and no one would even know.”
What he was saying probably should have pissed me off, but he was so serious, so sure that if I slapped a little concealer on my tattoos everything could go back to the way it was. And I couldn’t be mad because I understood his wanting it. Wasn’t that what I was doing there? Hadn’t I been trying to relive part of my old life?
But this wasn’t me anymore, and deep within me I didn’t really want it to be. I liked the new Zoey, even if saying good-bye to the old Zoey wasn’t only hard, it was a little sad, too.
“Heath, I don’t want to cover my Mark. That wouldn’t be who I am.” I drew a deep breath and continued. “I’ve been Marked specially by our Goddess, and Nyx has given me some unusual powers. It would be impossible for me to pretend to be the human Zoey again, even if I wanted to. And, Heath, I don’t want to.”
His eyes searched my face. “Okay. We’ll do it your way and say to hell with people who don’t like it.”
“That’s not my way, Heath. I don’t—”
“Wait, you don’t have to say anything right now. Just think about it. We can meet here again in a few days.” He grinned. “I’ll even come at night.”
It was a lot harder than I’d imagined to tell Heath that I’d never see him again. Actually, I hadn’t imagined that I would have to have this talk with him. I’d thought we were over. Sitting here with him now felt weird—part normal, part impossible. Which actually described our relationship pretty well. I sighed and glanced down at our joined hands, and caught a look at my watch.
“Oh, shit!” I pulled my hand from his and grabbed my purse and my American Eagle bag. It was 2:15. I had to make that damn call to the FBI in fifteen minutes. “I gotta go, Heath. I’m really late for something at school. I’ll—I’ll call you later.” I started to hurry away and wasn’t really surprised that he came with me.
“No,” he interrupted when I started to tell him to go away. “I’m walking you to your car.”
I didn’t argue with him. I knew that tone. As goofy and exasperating as Heath could be, his daddy had raised him right. Since third grade he’d been a gentleman, opening doors for me and carrying my schoolbooks, even when his friends called him a pussy-whipped dork. Walking me to my car was just part of what Heath did. Period.
My VW was sitting all alone under a big tree, just like when I’d parked it. As usual, he reached past me and opened my door. I couldn’t help smiling at him. I mean, there was a reason I’d liked the kid for all these years—he really was sweet.
“Thanks, Heath,” I said, and slid into the driver’s seat. I was going to roll down the window and say bye to him, but he was already moving around the car and in about two seconds he was sitting in the passenger’s seat grinning at me. “Uh, you can’t come with me,” I told him. “And I’m in a hurry, so I can’t give you a ride anywhere.”
“I know. I don’t need a ride. I have my truck.”
“Okay, well. Then bye. I’ll call you later.”
He didn’t move.
“Heath, you have to—”
“I have to show you something, Zo.”
“Can you show me quickly?” I didn’t want to be mean to him, but I really had to get back to the school and make that call. Why the hell hadn’t I put Damien’s disposable phone in my purse? I tapped the steering wheel impatiently while Heath put his hand in his jeans pocket and felt around for something.
“There it is. I started carrying this around a couple weeks ago, just in case.” He pulled something that was about an inch long and flat out of his pocket. It was wrapped in what looked like folded cardboard.
“Heath, really. I gotta go and you . . .” My words faded as the breath left my body. He’d unwrapped the little thing. The blade caught the dim light and glittered seductively. I tried to speak, but my mouth had gone dry.
“I want you to drink my blood, Zoey,” he said simply.
A shiver of terrible longing broke over my body. I was gripping the steering wheel with both hands to keep them from shaking . . . or reaching out and taking the razor blade and slicing it into his warm, sweet skin so that his delicious blood would drip and drip and . . .
“No!” I shouted, hating the way the power in my voice made him cringe. I swallowed and got control of myself. “Just put it away and get out of my car, Heath.”
“I’m not scared, Zo.”
“I am!” I almost sobbed.
“You don’t have to be afraid. It’s just you and me, like it’s always been.”
“You don’t know what you’re doing, Heath.” I couldn’t even look at him. I was scared if I did I wouldn’t be able to keep saying no.
“Yes I do. You drank some of my blood that night. It was . . . it was incredible. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.”
I wanted to scream with frustration. I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it, either, no matter how hard I tried. But I couldn’t tell him that. I wouldn’t tell him that. Instead, I finally looked at him and forced my hands to relax. Just thinking about drinking his blood made my skin feel tight and hot. “I want you to go, Heath. This isn’t right.”
“I don’t care about what people think is right, Zoey. I love you.”
And before I could stop him, he lifted the razor blade and drew it down the side of his neck. Fascinated, I watched a thin line of scarlet spring up against the white of his skin.
Then the smell hit me—rich and dark and seductive. Like chocolate, only sweeter and wilder. In seconds the little car was thick with it. It drew me like nothing I’d ever experienced before. It wasn’t just that I wanted to taste it. I needed to taste it. I had to taste it.
I hadn’t even realized that I’d moved until Heath spoke, but sudd
enly I was leaning across the small space between our seats as his blood drew me to him.
“Yes. I want you to do it, Zoey.” Heath’s voice sounded deep and rough, like he was having a hard time controlling his breathing.
“I—I want to taste it, Heath.”
“I know, baby. Go ahead,” he whispered.
I couldn’t stop myself. My tongue flicked out and licked the blood from his neck.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The taste exploded in my mouth. As my saliva touched the shallow wound his blood began to flow more quickly, and with a moan that I hardly recognized as my own, I opened my mouth and pressed my lips to his skin, licking up the delicious scarlet line. I felt Heath’s arms go around me as mine wrapped around his shoulders so that I could hold him more firmly against my mouth. His head fell back and I heard him groan “yes.” One of his hands cupped my butt and the other one went under my sweater to squeeze my breast.
His touch only made it better. Heat slammed through my body, setting me on fire. Like someone else was in control of my movements, my hand slid from Heath’s shoulder, down his chest, to rub over the hard lump that was in the front of his jeans. I sucked on his neck. Rational thought flew from my mind. All I could do was feel and taste and touch. Somewhere in the depths of my mind I knew I was reacting on a level that was almost animalistic in its need and ferocity, but I didn’t care. I wanted Heath. I wanted him like I’d never wanted anything in my life.
“Oh, God, Zo, yes,” he gasped and his hips started to thrust in time with my hand.
Someone banged on the passenger’s side window. “Hey! Y’all can’t make-out here!”
The man’s voice jolted through me, shattering the heat that had been building inside me. I caught a glimpse of a security guard’s uniform, and started to lurch away from Heath, but he tucked my head down into the side of his neck and turned his body so that the guard, who was obviously standing right outside the passenger’s door, couldn’t see me very well, and so that the blood that was dripping steadily from Heath’s neck was completely hidden.
“Did you kids hear me!” the guy bellowed. “Get out of here before I take your names and call your parents.”
“No problem, sir,” Heath yelled good-naturedly. Amazingly, he sounded perfectly normal, if a little breathless. “We’re leaving.”
“You better. I’m watching you two. Damn teenagers . . .” he grumbled as he stomped away.
“Okay, he’s far enough away now that he can’t see the blood,” Heath said as he relaxed his hold on me.
Instantly I jerked back, pressing myself against the door, as far away from Heath as I could get. With shaking hands I zipped open my purse and fished out a Kleenex, handing it to him without touching him. “Press this against your neck so that it’ll stop bleeding.”
He did as I said.
I rolled down my window, clutched my hands together, and breathed deeply of the fresh air, trying to block the scent of Heath’s body and Heath’s blood from my mind.
“Zoey, look at me.”
“I can’t, Heath.” I swallowed down the tears that burned in the back of my throat. “Please just leave.”
“Not until you look at me and listen to what I have to tell you.”
I turned my head and looked at him. “How the hell can you be so calm and normal-sounding?”
He was still pressing the Kleenex against his neck. His face was flushed and his hair was messed up. He smiled at me, and I didn’t think I’d ever seen anyone look so absolutely adorable.
“Easy, Zo. Making-out with you is totally normal for me. You’ve been driving me crazy for years.”
I’d had the whole I’m-not-ready-to-have-sex-with-you-yet conversation with him when I was fifteen and he was almost seventeen. He’d said then that he understood and was willing to wait—of course that didn’t mean that we didn’t do some heavy making-out—but what had just happened in the car had been different. It was hotter, rawer. I knew that if I allowed myself to continue seeing him I wouldn’t be a virgin much longer, and not because Heath would pressure me into it. It would be because I couldn’t control my bloodlust. The thought scared me almost as much as it fascinated me. I closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead. I was getting a headache. Again.
“Does your neck hurt?” I asked, peeking up at him through my fingers like I was watching a stupid slasher movie.
“Nope. I’m fine, Zo. You didn’t hurt me at all.” He reached over and pulled my hand from my face. “Everything’ll be okay. Stop worrying so much.”
I wanted to believe him. And, I suddenly realized, I also wanted to see him again. I sighed. “I’ll try. But I really do have to go. I can’t be late getting back to school.”
He took my hand in his. I could feel the pulse of his blood, and knew it was beating in time with my own heart, like he and I had somehow become internally synchronized. “Promise me you’ll call me,” he said.
“I promise.”
“And you’ll meet me here again this week.”
“I don’t know when I can get away. During the week it’s going to be hard for me.”
I expected him to argue with me, but he just nodded and squeezed my hand. “Okay, I get that. Living twenty-four seven at school is probably a pain in the ass. How about this: Friday we’re playing Jenks at home. Could you meet me at Starbucks after the game?”
“Maybe.”
“Will you try?”
“Yes.”
He grinned and leaned over to give me a quick kiss. “That’s my Zo! I’ll see you Friday.” He got out of the car and before he closed the door bent down and said, “I love ya, Zo.”
As I drove away I could see him in my rearview mirror. He was standing in the middle of the parking lot, Kleenex still pressed to his neck, waving bye at me.
“You have no clue what you’re doing, Zoey Redbird,” I said aloud to myself as the gray sky opened and poured cold rain over everything.
It was 2:35 when I tiptoed back into our room. The fact that I was short on time was actually good. It didn’t give me a chance to overthink what I had to do. Stevie Rae and Nala were still sound asleep. Actually, Nala had abandoned my empty bed and was curled up beside Stevie Rae’s head on her pillow, which made me smile. (The cat was a notorious pillow hog.) Quietly I opened the top drawer on my computer desk and grabbed Damien’s disposable phone, along with the slip of paper I’d scribbled the FBI’s number on, and then went into the bathroom.
I took a couple deep, calming breaths, remembering Damien’s advice: Keep it short. Sound a little angry, and kinda semi-crazy, but don’t sound like a teenager. I dialed the number. When an official-sounding man answered, “Federal Bureau of Investigation. How may I help you?” I pitched my voice low and sharp, cutting off my words like I had to be careful to hold myself back because of the dam of hatred that was built up behind them (which is how Erin, with her suddenly and bizarrely unexpected political knowledge, described how I should pretend to feel). “I want to report a bomb.” I kept talking, not giving him time to interrupt me, but speaking slowly and clearly because I knew I was being recorded. “My group, Nature’s Jihad (Shaunee came up with our name), planted it just below the waterline on one of the pylons (a word Damien had come up with) of the bridge that crosses the Arkansas River on I-40 near Webber’s Falls. It’s set to go off at 1515 (using military time was another brilliant idea of Damien’s). We’re taking full responsibility for this act of civil disobedience (more Erin input, although she said terrorism is not actually civil disobedience, it’s . . . well . . . terrorism, which is definitely different) protesting the U.S. government’s interference in our lives and pollution in America’s rivers. Be warned that this is only our first strike!” I hung up. Then I quickly flipped the scrap of paper over and punched in the phone number on the other side of it.
“Fox News Tulsa!” said the perky woman.
This part was actually my idea. I figured if I called a local news station we would have a better chance of having the
threat reported quickly on the local news, and then we could keep an eye on the news and maybe even know when (or if) our attempt to get the bridge closed had been successful. I took another deep breath and then launched into the rest of the plan.
“A terrorist group known as Nature’s Jihad has called the FBI with information that they’ve planted a bomb on the I-40 bridge over the Arkansas River by Webber’s Falls. It’s set to explode at three fifteen today.” I made the mistake of pausing for a fraction of a second, and the woman, who was suddenly not so perky-sounding, said, “Who are you, ma’am, and where did you get this information?”
“Down with government intervention and pollution and up with the power of the people!” I yelled and then hung up. Immediately I pressed the power off button. Then my knees wouldn’t hold me up any longer and I collapsed onto the closed toilet lid. I’d done it. I’d really done it.
Two soft knocks sounded against the bathroom door, followed by Stevie Rae’s soft Oklahoma twang.
“Zoey? Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I said faintly. I forced myself to stand up and go to the door. I opened it to see Stevie Rae’s rumpled face peering up at me like a sleepy, countrified rabbit.
“Did ya call ’em?” she whispered.
“Yeah, and you don’t have to whisper. It’s just you and me.” Nala yawned and made a grumpy mee-uf-ow at me from the middle of Stevie Rae’s pillow. “And Nala.”
“What happened? Did they say anything?”
“Not after the ‘hello FBI’ part. Damien said I shouldn’t give them a chance to talk, remember?”
“Did you tell them that we’re Nature’s Jihad?”
“Stevie Rae. We’re not Nature’s Jihad. We’re just pretending to be.”
“Well, I heard you yelling the down with the government and pollution thing, so I thought . . . maybe . . . actually I dunno what I thought. I guess I just got caught up in the moment.”
I rolled my eyes. “Stevie Rae, I was just acting. The news lady asked me who I was and I guess I kinda freaked. And, yes, I told them everything we said I should. I just hope it works.” I pulled off my hoodie and hung it on the back of a chair to dry.
