“What are you writing about?” She moves the strap of her tank top over a little and peels a layer of skin off her shoulder blade.
I scratch the title The Unknown on the top of the page. “Stuff. Life… You know you should really get that looked at. I really do think it’s infected.”
She flicks the skin onto the floor. “I did and the doctor said it’s fine.” Her eye twitches and she pretends to pluck some mascara from her eyelashes.
Swirling the pen on the top of the paper, I sketch a poorly drawn angel. “You can die from infections. Do you know that?”
She peels another layer of skin off, and it’s like she’s molting. “But you know when I’m really going to die and if it was from the infection, you’d make me go to the hospital.”
She has me there. Under the title of my poem, I write:
The Reaper of Death, the Angel of Life.
They walk together in day and night.
“Raven, have you ever heard of a Grim Angel?” I ask.
She drums her manicured nails on the table as she considers this. “Maybe… in one of the books I looked through when I was doing my angel painting project. But I can’t remember exactly what it is. Why? What’s up?”
“I was just looking through some stuff on the internet the other night and I came across a drawing of one. I’ve never heard of them before, though.”
“Why were you looking up angel stuff on the internet?”
“For a poem I’m working on,” I lie breezily. “Do you still have those books?”
She shakes her head as she twists her pink hair up. “I returned them to the town library and they had to special order them, so I don’t even know if they’re still there.”
I drop my voice as the librarian walks by. “Do you remember anything about them at all?”
She turns a page of her magazine. “Only that they are a mix between a Grim Reaper and an Angel of Death. And that they’re super crazy most of the time.”
“How exactly are they supposed to be crazy?” I ask. “I mean, what defines them as being insane? Do they do weird things or rant incoherent thoughts?”
“The books said that they used to sneak around killing innocent people and stealing their souls,” she explains. “Like it was a game or something. And they suffered from hallucinations.”
I need to get my hands on those books. I make a note on the paper to go to the library and underline it.
“So what’s up with you and Asher?” She abruptly changes the topic.
I stop drawing and glance up. “What do you mean?”
She presses me with a look from over the magazine. “Don’t play dumb with me, Ember Rose Edwards. You know what I’m talking about—our knight in shining armor and the reason why you’ve been bummed out all week.”
“I’m not playing dumb, Raven Lilly Monroe,” I retort. “I have no clue what you’re talking about.”
She taps her lips with a wicked glint in her sapphire eyes. “So you don’t have a thing for a dark-haired stranger who rescued you from your death omen spasm and who showed you his painting of an angel… Although, by how stuck you are on him, I’d guess he showed you other stuff of his, too.”
I roll my eyes and focus on my poem. “I thought you had a thing for him. Wasn’t he the reason for your meltdown in my closet… And wait, how do you even know about the painting?”
She giggles. “Oh Em, you are such a riot. You can’t almost make out with someone in the art room and expect no one to know about it.” She dabs the tears from the corner of her eyes. “And I’m totally over the Asher thing. Guys are like shoes to me, you know that. I wear them once and then get bored.”
I press down so hard on the paper the pencil breaks. “Did you actually wear Asher?”
She points an accusing finger at me. “The very fact that you ask that means you like him. So I think it’s time you found out where he is. And if he likes you.”
“Raven, this isn’t second grade.” I tip back in the chair and throw the pencil in the trash bin.
She discounts me. “Call him. Didn’t you say he gave you his phone number?”
“I already tried and he didn’t answer,” I lie to get her to drop it. The bell rings and I slam my journal shut. “Look, I think I need to just get over him. I have too much stuff going on in my life.” I swing my bag over my shoulder, but she steals it away from me.
“Like what?” She backs away, jiggling the bag out in front of her. “Your life’s pretty easy, Em.”
“Raven,” I warn as she backs down the nearest aisle between the bookshelves. “Don’t even think about it. I swear to God, I’ll never forgive you if you call him.”
“Don’t kid yourself, Em. You’ll always forgive me, no matter what I do.” She spins in her high-heeled boots and dashes off.
I chase after her, fuming as she pulls out my cell phone and drops my bag on the floor. I hop over my bag and reach for the back of her shirt as she punches the buttons. A girl at the end of the aisle backs away, eyes wide, legs trembling, probably thinking I’m trying to kill Raven. Raven laughs as she wiggles out of my fingers. She darts around the corner of the bookshelf, intentionally knocking some books off the shelf.
“Raven, please don’t call him.” I trip over the books and round the corner. She has the phone to her ear and dodges my advance. But her ankle rolls and she falls on her butt.
I jump on her, accidently bumping my knee into hers, and kicking a row of books to the floor with my boot. Her death pours through me, but I breathe through it. “Give me my phone back.”
She giggles as I try to pry the phone from her fingers. On her back, she pushes herself across the floor with her feet and I crawl after her.
“Hi, Asher, this is Raven,” she says into the phone and I narrow my eyes. “Call Ember when you get the chance. She needs to know if you’re okay and if you like her, because it’s driving her crazy. Literally.”
I pinch her arm. “You are the worst friend ever.”
“Ow…” She laughs, throwing her head back. Tears of laughter flood her eyes as she keeps talking in the phone. “In fact, it’s a matter of life or death—she has to know ASAP.” She hangs up the phone.
I glare at her and rip the phone from her hand. “Thanks a lot. Now he’s going to think I’m insane.”
“Aren’t you?” She flutters her eyelashes innocently. “Besides, I was just trying to help. And it shouldn’t bother you what other people think. You’ve been through a lot worse than some guy thinking you’re a stalker.”
I roll to my back, putting distance from her and her death. “I don’t know why I care, but I do.”
“I wouldn’t get your hopes up,” she says in a heavy-weighted tone. “Guys like Asher don’t really look at girls like you. They’re more my type.”
I wonder if this whole scene was to make Asher think I am insane, so she could have him. “Raven, are you sure—”
“Raven. Ember. Can you explain what on earth happened?”
We blink up at our science teacher, Mr. Reynolds. He’s the kind of guy who always looks like he has a chip on his shoulder, like his face is permanently frozen in a scowl. He wears a lot of tweed suits with elbow patches.
He stares at us lying on the floor and then at the books strewn around us. “So which one of you wants to explain what happened?”
“Um… Would you believe me if I said the books pushed us over?” Raven suppresses a laugh.
He blinks through his thick-rimmed glasses. “This is going to cost you both after-school detention.”
“Why?” Raven complains. “We were just messing around, Mr. R. And we didn’t mean to knock over the books.”
“And I’m going to add two more days for complaining.” He extracts detention slips from his pocket, hands them to us, and walks to the checkout counter.
“You should have just let me call him.” Raven pinches me on the arm.
I slap her hand and wince from the foul flicker of her death. “Why? I knew you’d mak
e it as embarrassing as you did. You always do.”
Just then, Cameron strolls by. His eyebrows dip together as he spots Raven and I tangled up in a pile of books.
He stops in front of us and his lips curl into impish grin. “I’m kind of curious what led up to this.”
“We fell,” I say, before Raven can feed him some dirty story. I grab the shelf and pull myself to my feet.
Raven sticks out her hand to Cameron and pouts her bottom lip. “A little help, please.”
Cameron takes her hand and tugs her up. She intentionally trips and braces herself with his shoulders. “Oh my goodness.” She squeezes his shoulder. “You must work out.”
He removes her hand from his arm. “Not really.”
“We should get to class,” I tell Raven before she can further embarrass herself.
She seductively smiles at Cameron and flips her hair before walking past him. “See you after school, Em.” She waggles her finger at me and turns the corner.
“Sorry about that,” I say to Cameron. I round the bookshelf and collect my bag from the floor where Raven dropped it. When I turn back around, I almost run into him.
He watches me with his haunting eyes, like he could eat me up. “You dropped this.” He hands me my phone.
I drop the phone in my bag and back up. “I’m real sorry about Raven. She can kind of be a little… overly friendly sometimes.”
“I think she might have some issues,” he informs me with a lazy grin.
“Doesn’t everyone?” I pick up a book to divert my attention away from the heat in his eyes.
He takes the book from my hands and discards it onto the shelf. “Okay, I’m going to get straight to the point. I think we should go out on a date.”
“Go out on a date?” I elevate my eyebrows. “Really? You and me?”
“Why do you sound so surprised?” he asks, amused.
I glance at my black jeans, my fingerless arm warmers, and my black and red striped tank top, then at his black button-down shirt and his name brand jeans. “I think it’s kind of obvious.”
“We’re not as different as you think,” he assures me confidently. “You like poetry, right? So I was thinking that you and I could go to a poetry slam.”
I sputter a laugh. “Sorry to burst your bubble, but there aren’t poetry slams around here. In fact, the closest thing you’ll probably find is banjo night down at Mamma’s House of Cheese Fries.”
He laughs and it erases the misery in his eyes. “You don’t think I know that.” He inches forward and the tips of his shoes clip the tips of mine. “There is, however, a Saturday night poetry slam in Jackson.”
I casually step back, seeking room before an accidental touch happens. “What about Mackenzie?”
He matches my step, closing in on me, the heat of his body radiating all over me. “What about her?”
“Are you two like, dating or something?” My elbow bumps the shelf and books topple over.
“We’re just friends.” He crosses his arms and leans against the bookshelf.
“Yeah, but you guys won’t be, if you go out with me,” I say and he fakes a befuddled look. “Oh, don’t pretend like you haven’t heard what people say about me: cult member, Satan worshiper, murderer.”
“And haven’t you heard that I like to spend time in the cemetery digging up graves.” He dips his head in and his warm breath embraces my cheeks. “Say yes, Ember. Please.”
The back of my mind screams that this is wrong, that something is off about the whole situation. But there’s a pull toward him, like a magnet to metal.
“Okay,” I say, startled by my answer. “It’s a date, then.”
The bell screeches and he backs toward the door. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow at eight.” He winks at me and pushes out the door.
***
“I hate this,” Raven complains as we take a seat at a table.
School is over, but Raven and I have detention with Mr. Reynolds, which is held in the library. I haven’t told her yet about my date with Cameron, because I know she’ll freak out and make a scene.
“It’s only for an hour,” I say. “You’ll survive.”
Her face scrunches at the science book in front of me. “I have much better things I could be doing than homework.”
I take out the assignment. “You’ll survive.”
Mr. Reynolds comes up to our table with his arms crossed. “You two are not allowed to sit near each other.” He points a finger at a table across the room. “Raven, get your stuff and move over there.”
“We promise we won’t talk.” She smiles innocently.
Mr. Reynolds narrows his eyes. “Get your stuff and move over there. Now.”
Raven huffs, grabs her purse and a magazine, and stomps over to the table across the room. Mr. Reynolds heads back behind the counter to chat with the librarian. I start working on my homework, but anxious energy thrums through me.
When Mr. Reynolds steps out for a moment, I walk up to the counter. Ms. Kinsley, the middle-aged librarian with auburn hair and green eyes, looks up from her computer.
“Can I help you?” Her standoffish tone probably means she knows who I am.
“Do you have any books,” I say, “that perhaps focus on the more uncommon creatures of mythology?”
She types something on the keyboard. “There might be some in the back, in the mythology section, but I don’t know what they focus on.”
“Thanks,” I say and walk for the bookshelves. At the back, I find the mythology section. I pull out the heaviest book, and camp down on the floor with it. The index has nothing titled Grim Angels, however there is a section on “The Curse of the Angels.”
The curse of the Angels is a result of a battle that took place a long time ago. Most refer to it as the battle between good and evil, but during the era, people believed the only theme to be evil.
The battle allegedly started from a dispute over souls. Angels of Death were the carriers of the innocent souls, and Grim Reapers the carriers of the evil souls. However, when the Reapers became greedy and began stealing the souls of the innocent, a battle broke out between the two. As a form of punishment, Michael, the ruler of the Angels of Death, and Abaddon, the ruler of the Grim Reapers, cursed the warriors to Earth and bound them there with a breed that carried both groups blood.
Grim Angels—half Grim Reaper, half Angel of Death—have walked the earth for centuries undetected by humans. Only would they be free when the last Grim Angel made the choice between good and evil.
The next section switches to Legend of Faeries. I thrum my finger on top of the book, having no idea what to do with what I read. I start to put the book back on the shelf when wet droplets trickle down the back of my neck.
I wipe them away, looking behind me, and then at my hand. “Blood?”
I glance up at the ceiling and blood splatters against my forehead. I quickly smear it away and jump to my feet. Hanging by a rope from the ceiling is the body of Farrah Taverson. Her medieval dress is soaked with blood and her eyes are bleeding.
“Oh my God.” I breathe, backing away. What do I do? What do I do? I rub my eyes, but she stays there, her feet swaying from the breeze of the vent next to her head.
I back away toward the edge of the shelf, when I crash into someone. I whirl around with ragged breaths.
“Ember, are you okay?” Cameron asks. He has a book in his hand and a backpack on his shoulder. He reaches for my head and wipes his fingers across my skin. When he pulls back there’s blood on them. “Did you hurt yourself?”
I wipe my forehead with my sleeve, and glance behind me at the ceiling. Her body is gone, but the blood is real. What does that mean?
“I must have scratched myself on the edge of the shelf when I was pulling the book out,” I tell Cameron.
He looks at me warily. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look like you’re going to be sick or something.”
Suddenly the intercom screeches on. “Any faculty left in the building
need to report to the main office immediately.” It statics off.
“I wonder what that was about,” Cameron says as we walk out of the shelves.
“I’m not sure,” I say, heading back to the table with a permanent chill in my body.
“Are you planning on going to the cemetery tonight?”
“I don’t think so… I really think I might need to get some rest.”
Ember (Death Collectors, Book 1) Page 10
