Orion's Kiss

by Claire Luana

  I snort. He thinks that’s the strangest part of this situation? So he’s sexist, too. I add it to the list of traits in the CON column in my mind. Right under PSYCHOPATHIC MURDERER.

  I fumble the truck into reverse, backing up, so I can take the side road I saw. I recognize it. This is the road to Zoe’s parents’ lake house.

  I pull my phone out of my back pocket, taking far too long to use my shaking fingertip to unlock it.

  She answers on the first ring. Her voice is breathless. “Ohmygod, Mer. What happened?”

  I let out a rueful laugh. “Hey, Zoe. So…remember how you said you’d help me with anything…?”

  Chapter 5

  The lake house is dark as I pull up. Trees crowd around us, blocking out any light from the stars. Normally, I love the peacefulness of this place, but right now, it feels like it’s waiting. Waiting for what, I’m not sure.

  Orion is still passed out beside me. Thank god that his head wound was bad enough to keep him unconscious. I wish he had just died in the crash and saved me all of this trouble. Why couldn’t he have been driving a crappy old convertible or something? I think of Electra, hanging upside down. They would have cut her free and gotten her into the ambulance by now. The paramedics might be working frantically to save her. But I know that they won’t be able to. I want to tell them it’s not their fault. There’s nothing they can do against the power of the curse. It’s only one person’s fault.

  I rummage around the back of the cab while I wait, trying to see if there’s any food. I come across the empty beer can again and my brow scrunches in anger. There’s something else back here—a baseball mit and a long, black case. I struggle to pull the case over the seat onto my lap, grunting with the effort. I unzip it, and my mouth goes dry.

  It’s a compound bow, one of those fancy ones they use for archery in the Olympics. It has too many parts to make sense of—wheels and strings. It’s a modern take on the ancient weapon. I look at the unconscious teenager next to me. Just as this boy is a modern take on my ancient enemy. He may look different, but he’s built for the same purpose. To kill.

  I lick my parched lips as I zip the case back up, throwing open the door and stumbling out. I heave the case to the ground and suck in air, putting my hands on my knees. If I had any doubt whether this was the right person, the bow dashed it. This is Orion all right.

  I look down the path to the dock, jutting onto the still surface of the lake. I look back at Orion. He’s unconscious. I could throw him in the lake. Drown him. I look from the truck back to the lake, gauging the distance. It’s at least two hundred yards. I’m not sure if I could drag his body all the way by myself. And what if he wakes up? I need to wait for Zoe.

  It’s moments like this where I wish the weight of my past lives could have passed to me as wisdom. That I could be some wise zen master who had figured it all out ten lifetimes ago. But that’s not how it works. Every lifetime I start at square one. The egotism of childhood, the awkwardness of puberty, the hormonal rollercoaster of adolescence. The memories aren’t a shortcut, no matter how much I wished they were. I have to fumble through life just like the rest of you.

  Headlights flicker through tree trunks up the road and I straighten.

  Zoe’s Volvo appears and she parks behind Orion’s truck. She bounds out of the car, running down to me. Her long hair is up in a bun, and she’s wearing dark yoga pants, UGGs, and a black puffy Patagonia coat. She’s dressed like she’s ready for a burglary in the Arctic—like I said, she’s always cold. But her eyes are bright and shining. Clearly, this is the most exciting thing that’s happened to Zoe in some time. I can’t bring myself to dampen her enthusiasm. To tell her this isn’t some Hollywood movie. This is coldblooded murder. And we’ll never be the same.

  I’m suddenly struck by the urge to tell her to turn around. To get out of here before she becomes so wrapped up in this that she can’t extricate herself. Before the curse ruins her life, too. But I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, and I need her. So I do the cowardly thing and let her stay.

  The driver’s side door of the truck is ajar and she pokes her head in, examining our enemy.

  She looks back at me with surprise. “He’s young,” she says in an exaggerated stage whisper. “Our age?”

  I nod.

  She looks back at Orion, then me. “And cute!”

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Liar.”

  “He killed my sister.”

  Her face pales. “Did she…?”

  I shake my head. “She was alive when I left her. But they never make it.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “Get him inside the cabin,” I say, sharing the rickety plan that has been coming together in my mind. It’s become painfully clear to me that I don’t know how to kill someone and get away with it. I guess I hadn’t really thought it through. I need to do some more googling before I can get this done. I need time.

  Zoe, blessedly loyal bestie that she is, doesn’t ask questions. “Okay.” She runs up to the front porch, rummages underneath a flower pot, and retrieves the key. In a flash she’s inside, turning on the porch lights. I look from Orion to the cabin in a moment of indecision before running up the steps and into the house. It’s cold inside, and musty, but it’s still the cabin I remember, with the scratchy Pendleton wool blanket thrown over the couch and the corny plaque announcing “Life is better at the Lake” next to the front door. The inside is warm wood panels and tall beams and is one of my favorite places. Now I’m bringing him here.

  I pull a dining room chair out from the table and place it in the center of the living room. “Do you have any rope?”

  “You want to tie him up?” Zoe asks, taking my meaning.

  “Just until I figure out what to do with him.”

  “I thought you were going to…you know…” She trails off.

  “I need to figure out a way to do it without tracing it back to me,” I admit. “I was a complete moron and called 911 when I got onto the scene of the accident. I couldn’t do it with them knowing I was there.”

  Zoe nods, as if that perfectly explains this mad situation. “The garage.”

  She disappears into the garage and I head back into the yard, to keep an eye on our captive. When he’s quiet and still like this, he doesn’t look like a threat. He looks…peaceful. I wonder what his name is in this lifetime, and so I creep around the truck and open the passenger side door, and then the glove box. It creaks loudly as it falls open and I cringe, looking back at Orion. He hasn’t stirred. People die from concussions, right? That would be convenient. But his chest is still rising and falling evenly. He’s definitely still alive. For now.

  I shove aside a little paper bag and pull out an insurance card for the truck and see his name. Ryan Kearney. I shake my head. “Original,” I say to him. Though I suppose that’s not entirely fair, as he didn’t choose “Ryan” any more than I chose “Meriah.”

  Zoe emerges and comes to stand next to me. “I found some ropes and a chain and stuff we use for the boat and the wakeboard. Think it’ll hold?”

  “Totes,” I say with more conviction than I feel. I suck in a deep breath. “Help me carry him?”

  Zoe offers me a too-wide grin that’s all teeth. “Thought you’d never ask.”

  We decide that I’ll take his upper body since I’m slightly taller and stronger (though not by much—I’m only 5’3 to Zoe’s 5’2), and Zoe will take his feet. She unbuckles the seatbelt and we kinda tip him over into my arms.

  I stagger under the weight and almost fall on my ass, but I manage to catch myself.

  I hook my elbows under his armpits and Zoe grabs his feet. “Ready?” I ask.

  She nods with determination.

  Slowly, step by wobbly step, we carry him towards the cabin.

  An unconscious body is heavy. I mean, I took weight training for PE two different semesters, but Orion—excuse me—Ryan, feels like he weighs a thousand pounds. And then there’s
the fact that his warm body is nestled against mine. I’m hyper-aware of the softness of his shirt, the brush of his hair against my cheek. It’s far too intimate for my taste. I want to know nothing of this soul—not the sound of his voice, or the way he smells, or the way he looks when he’s sleeping. Now I know all of these things, and I can’t unknow them. I fear that the more I know about him, the more human he seems, and the harder it’s going to be for me to do what I must. Hopefully, he’ll wake up after we get him tied down and turn out to be a total asshole.

  It’s touch-and-go getting him up the four stairs to the front porch, but through sheer force of girl strength, Zoe and I manage it.

  When we finally get him maneuvered and deposited in the chair, we both collapse to the ground with relief.

  Ryan starts to topple forwards and I grab his collar to stop his momentum.

  “Does this boy eat rocks?” Zoe asks, panting with her eyes closed.

  “Seriously.” I grab the rope Zoe has piled on the living room floor.

  A groan escapes Ryan’s mouth and Zoe and I look at each other with wide-eyed alarm.

  “Hurry!” I cry, and we begin to tie him—his feet, his hands, his chest. His head lifts slowly, and my breath catches in my throat.

  We are done.

  I come around before him and grab Zoe’s hand in a death grip as he blinks, then opens his eyes.

  “Where am I?”

  Chapter 6

  Zoe and I freeze like two deer in the headlights. I knew, logically, that he would wake up at some point, but still I’m not prepared. In all the lifetimes Orion’s and my souls have danced this macabre little waltz, I have never once stood before him and looked him right in the eye. Does his soul recognize mine?

  Ryan’s head is swiveling around now, his gaze focusing on the details of the room. The knotty wood paneling and cheerful plaid pillows, the stack of well-loved board games on the shelf in the corner. The darkness beyond the windows. The two girls before him. “Where am I?” he repeats, those sea-blue eyes fixing on mine.

  He tries to stand up and realizes his predicament. He looks down, testing the ropes, yanking against them, putting up a frantic little struggle. “What the hell?” He looks back at us, accusing. “What the hell is going on? Who are you?”

  Zoe and I look at each other.

  “Thelma and Louise,” she blurts out. Smart, not giving him our real names. Though he’s seen our faces. Not that it’ll matter since I’m going to kill him.

  “Thelma and Louise?” he repeats, but it sounds mocking. “You know what happen to them at the end of the movie, right? They die.”

  Fair point. Perhaps we should have chosen a less doomed moniker.

  He goes on. “What is this, some Summit cheerleader hazing? Kidnap a guy? You gonna draw hearts on me with lipstick and take pictures for your Insta feeds?”

  “Not exactly,” I say. I sound aloof. In charge. My voice doesn’t betray how my knees are shaking, how my heart feels like it’ll rip out of my chest from beating too fast. I’m grateful.

  “Let me go,” he says, straining again against the ropes. I hope our knots hold. He looks pretty strong. Solidly built. “I don’t care why you did it, just let me go, and I’m out of here. I won’t report you or tell anyone. It’ll be like it never happened.”

  “We can’t let you go. I’m sorry.”

  “You can’t just keep me here forever,” he counters.

  “No,” I agree.

  That seems to sober him up. He looks between us warily. “Then tell me.” Ryan’s tone softens. “Please.”

  Zo and I exchange another glance. I guess it’s only fair that he knows why he’s being kept here. That this is about more than high school hazing or social media shenanigans.

  “You were in a car accident.” I can’t keep the accusatory tone from my voice. “That’s what happens when you drive drunk.”

  His eyes widen as it seems to come back to him. “I wasn’t…” He trails off.

  “Save it,” I say. “I found the beer can in your truck.”

  A look of horror crosses his face. “Did—”

  “You hurt anyone? Yes, you did,” I spit, without regard for his feelings. Drunk driving murderers aren’t entitled to the luxury of feelings. “You hit another car. A girl our age was driving. She was really messed up. Maybe she’s dead already.”

  His mouth opens in shock and his eyes seem to unfocus for a moment before he slumps in the chair. I can tell if his hands were free, he would bury his face in them. “Ohmygod,” he mumbles.

  Zoe is biting her lip next to me, and I can see his feigned remorse is getting to her. If I’m honest, it’s getting to me. I want the angry, fiery version of him back. It’s easier that way to keep my own rage stoked.

  “We’re not going to let you hurt anyone else,” I announce. “That’s why you’re here.”

  He doesn’t seem to hear me; he’s staring at a point on the hardwood floor before him.

  Zoe grabs my hand and pulls me past him into the kitchen.

  “Mer, this is nuts,” she says. “He seems…nice.” Her soulful brown eyes look at me with doubt for the first time in our ten-year friendship.

  “He’s not nice,” I hiss, though damn it, she’s right. It infuriates me that the asshole has the nerve to come across as nice. “He’s a killer.”

  “But this is a new life, right?” she asks. “All those things he did were in other lifetimes.” Her resolve is crumbling.

  “Karma’s a bitch,” I counter. “He may be in a shiny new body, but he’s the same rotten soul inside. Is it nice to own a boarding house that it so dilapidated it burns down, killing nine women in one night?” I bite at the word. That was a particularly unpleasant lifetime in Gold-rush California. “Is it nice to be the king’s executioner and dispatch women for adultery or witchcraft when their only crime was becoming inconvenient to their husbands?” Arthurian-era England. “Don’t forget, he killed a girl tonight!”

  “Okay.” Zoe holds up her hands, and I relent. I hadn’t realized I was practically nose-to-nose with her in my intensity.

  “Sorry.”

  “If we’re going to do this, we need a plan. We need to be thorough. First things first, get his phone.”

  At my blank look, she rolls her eyes. “We don’t want someone ‘finding his iPhone’ and coming straight here.”

  Ohmygod, I hadn’t even thought of that. I’d just wanted to make sure he didn’t call someone. I’m a terrible kidnapper. The devil is in the details, or so they say.

  I run into the other room, where Ryan is struggling at his bonds. He freezes when I enter, as if I caught him red-handed. As if he doesn’t want me to know he’s trying to escape. Zoe’s right—he’s cute. Thick, expressive eyebrows feather over those blue eyes—high cheekbones—the shadow of a beard framing plump, symmetrical lips. The facial hair makes him seem older. I hate that I notice all of this.

  “Where’s your phone?”

  Silence.

  I surge forwards and accost his pockets, grabbing the phone from the back pocket of his jeans.

  “At least buy me dinner first,” he grumbles.

  I press the button to wake it up and the password screen comes on.

  “Password?”

  He looks at me balefully.

  I turn on my heel and push out the front door into the shock of the night. It’s cooled significantly. I lean into the truck, retrieve my backpack and the keys, and slam the heavy doors shut.

  Reappearing before him like a wraith, I unzip my pack and pull the pistol out, pointing it at him. “Password.” A sense of power surges through me as I look down the barrel at him. I feel in control again. My relief is palpable.

  “Woah,” he says. “Easy.”

  “Give me your password,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “0622. Jesus Christ, calm down.” His eyes are fixed on the barrel of the gun.

  I return to the kitchen, setting the gun down on the polished concrete countertop.

/>   Zoe’s eyes widen, but she says nothing. I punch in the code, and without a word, Zoe and I crowd around the screen, loading his Facebook app. The less I know about Ryan, the better, but I can’t help myself. We’re drawn to it, like moths to a flame.

  His page is sparse; it’s clear he rarely uses it. Occasionally, he’s been tagged by other people. Friends. Family.

  Zoe hisses in a breath as a picture comes up. It’s Ryan and Brandon Cook, sitting on a tractor. Ryan is standing on the wheel. They both wear worn baseball caps and easy smiles. “He knows Brandon!” she whispers.

  “It doesn’t matter.” I keep scrolling. A picture of him and a smiling old woman with permed white hair and a green cardigan. They look happy.

  I close my eyes and hand the phone to Zoe.

  When I open them, she’s powered it down and set it on top of the empty breadbox.

  “We don’t have to do this,” she pleads. “You heard him. We can let him go.”

  “You don’t have to do this,” I counter, though I desperately want her to stay. “Go home. You don’t have to be involved.”

  “Friends stick together,” she insists. “If you stay, I stay.”

  She pulls me into her arms and I bury my head in her neck, in the comfort of the scent of coconut shampoo and downy fabric softener radiating off her.

  Ryan calls to us from the other room. “If you two are done having your girl moment, get in here. I need to pee.”

  Chapter 7

  Zoe and I stand looking at Ryan.

  She’s chewing her lip.

  I’m drumming my fingernails against my crossed biceps. How the hell are we going to untie him and get him to the bathroom and back without him making a run for it? Or overpowering us? The picture of the tractor floats into my mind as I eye the hard muscles working under his plaid shirt. I’ve seen enough movies to know that even with the gun trained on him, he’d probably lunge for it and I’d just as likely accidentally shoot myself or Zoe. Not an option.