Death, and the Girl He Loves

  “Nothing?” she said. “Lorelei, this could be the answer. You have to tell your grandparents.”

  I curled my hands into fists and covered my eyes with them. I was so tired of being scared. So tired of feeling like a fraud. Of being told I was something I wasn’t. That I would do something I couldn’t. I had to get the bloody heck over myself and fast.

  “Maybe you’re right,” I said, almost agreeing. “But first, let me see what else I can get from this picture.”

  “You’re going back in?” Brooklyn asked, her eyes wide once more with fear. When I nodded, she said, “No way. Not yet. This time, we need backup.”

  * * *

  We gathered the troops and called my grandparents on the way home.

  “Okay, they’re waiting for us in the basement at church.” The basement was the Order of Sanctity’s headquarters. It was where all the archives were stored. All the documents and texts that my father and his father and so on over the decades had collected. “They aren’t going to be thrilled that we didn’t tell them about this before,” I said, suddenly worried.

  “Here.” Kenya held out her hand. “Take off your glove and check.”

  “Kenya, I don’t want to see that again.”

  “But if this really is the answer, then things will have changed, right?”

  Reluctantly, I did as she’d wanted. And she was right. Things had changed. Oh, her death was still brutal. She was scared, terrified beyond reason. Only this time, she died in Riley’s Switch. She died a thousand miles away from her family, running for her life alone. No. I looked to the left. Running for me. Trying, even in her last moments on earth, to protect me. My despair knew no bounds. That this beautiful girl would die on my account.

  When I came out of the vision, tears burned my eyes. I clenched my jaw to fight them and looked out the window. “Nothing has changed,” I said, my throat raw.

  I could feel her disappointment.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, wanting to curl into a ball and sleep for a thousand years. “I wish I were better at this stuff.”

  Kenya scoffed. “You’re amazing,” she said. “You have no idea. If I could do half the stuff you can, I’d be thrilled.”

  “You must think I’m pretty unappreciative.”

  “You are.”

  “But you’ve known about me your whole life,” I argued, suddenly defensive. “Do you know how long I’ve known about me?”

  She quirked a brow. “Since you were born?”

  “No. Well, yes, but not me. Me-me. The prophet me.”

  “How long?”

  “About four months. That’s it. And I only found out after I was hit by a huge green delivery truck and was slated to die only to have the Angel of Death swoop down and save me.”

  She nodded. “Oh, yeah, I’d wallow in a constant state of self-pity, too.” She did that deadpan thing she was so fond of. “You forget. I’ve seen the Angel of Death. The Angel of Death is hotter than a two-dollar pistol. That must have been a real hardship.”

  She totally didn’t understand.

  * * *

  We got to the church and entered through the back door, winding our way down the small staircase to the basement underneath. I wasn’t sure whom all Granddad had called, but it seemed like we had a pretty full house. Besides my grandparents and Mac, the sheriff was there as well as a few elder members of the Order. I could’ve killed Brooklyn.

  “What the heck did you tell my granddad?”

  “That we had a Code Three emergency.”

  “What’s a Code Three emergency?”

  “No idea, but it got his attention. He said to meet us here.”

  I didn’t know whether to admire her or worry.

  “Okay,” Granddad said gravely. “Whatever happened, we can figure it out together. So, what happened?”

  They were sitting in the boardroom at a large table they used for meetings, research, and lively discussions on the logistics of the prophecies. We took seats around the room as well and I faced my grandfather head-on.

  “There’s something I never told you,” I said, wondering how they would take it. I figured Mac would understand my reasons for not mentioning it sooner. Or I hoped so. “I can see into pictures.”

  They sat there with blank stares as though waiting for the punch line.

  “No, like pictures. Photographs. I can see into them.”

  Grandma spoke up first. “We aren’t sure what you mean, sweetheart.”

  “She can go into them,” Brooke said, taking over for me. “She can look at a picture, concentrate, and go into it. She can see what was happening when it was taken. But that’s not why we’re here.”

  “Nope,” Glitch said. “She can do something much cooler than that.”

  “She can draw a picture and go into that as well,” Kenya said, joining in. She seemed way too excited by the prospect.

  Mac scrubbed his stubbly jaw and was about to say something when Kenya interrupted.

  “Like that other prophet, one of Lara Beth’s daughters. She would draw pictures with the ashes of special herbs she’d burned and go into them. Remember? That’s how she got her visions.”

  My grandparents nodded as well as a couple of the church elders.

  Mac finally got a word in. A few, actually. “No one has been able to do that for centuries,” he said. “That’s an incredible gift.”

  All in all, they seemed to take it well.

  “Pix,” Granddad said, “why didn’t you tell us this before?”

  “I don’t know. It just seemed kind of a useless thing to be able to do.”

  “But wait!” Brooke said. She was way too happy, too. “There’s more!” She nodded encouragingly. “Tell them.”

  I took a deep breath. “Okay, so I decided I’d try to remember more about the man that day, the one who opened the gates of hell the first time.”

  “Dyson,” Grandma said. If only knowing that name helped. It got us nowhere fast.

  “Yes, Dyson, if that’s the same man. So I thought back to what he looked like and drew a picture.”

  Glitch got my backpack and pulled out the sketchbook for me. He turned it to the sketch and handed it to Granddad.

  “Well, Brooklyn had an idea, so we tried it.”

  “Right,” she said, excited. “I figured if she could go into pictures, she maybe could go into any kind of picture. Even a drawing, you know? So she tried it and it didn’t work the first time but I knew she was holding something back because she does that so when we were in the restroom today I told her I knew she was holding something back and she said I’m not and I said I can tell you are and she said, okay, maybe I am but I didn’t go into it, and I said well you need to try again and—”

  “What Brooke is trying to say,” I said, cutting her off so she could supply her red blood cells with oxygen, “is that she convinced me to try again.”

  Grandma’s astonished expression turned hopeful. “And?” she asked.

  “And it worked.” I lowered my head, suddenly uncertain. “I was there again. I was back at that day.”

  Granddad touched my knee to draw me back to him. “You went back to that day through your drawing?”

  “Yes. It was not pleasant.”

  “She bumped her head,” Brooke said, turning my near-fatal concussion into a bump. “And it was scary because I thought she was having a seizure or something.”

  Mac rushed to the archive room. We heard him rummaging around, then he hurried back with a stack of old papers that were held together with a leather tie.

  “I found it. Where Arabeth’s daughter talks about how she burned the herbs and scribed with the ashes. And if I remember correctly, she would go into a trancelike state. At first, her family … Yes, here it is.” He read a passage, then paraphrased for us. “At first her family thought she was having seizures until they realized she was divining. She was prophesying through her own drawings.” He looked up at me then. “And you can do the same thing.” The pride in his e
yes caused me to both feel good about what I could do and worry that they would all think this was the answer we’d all been waiting for.

  Grandma clasped her hands over her heart and said, “This is the answer we’ve all been waiting for.”

  Nailed it. “But what if it’s not?” I asked.

  “I will put you in a headlock and scrub your scalp raw,” Kenya said.

  Everyone turned to her in surprise.

  “What?” she asked, defensive. “She needs to get over herself, for the love of gravy. This is what she was destined for. What she is going to do. And she’s so worried about letting us all down. It’s ridiculous.”

  My temper flared. “Are you kidding me? Do you know what will happen if I do let you all down? The world is destroyed. Everyone dies. Excuse me if I’m feeling a little pressure here.”

  She smirked at me and leaned forward until we sat nose to nose. “If I were given this gift, I wouldn’t act like a scared rabbit waiting to be boiled for dinner.”

  “Oh, yeah? What would you do, then? If this was on you, what would you do?”

  “I’d fight. Until my dying breath, I’d fight for everyone I loved. I wouldn’t run and hide under a rock and complain and turn all squirrely every time a new gift, a gift that most people would kill for, was handed to me on a silver platter.”

  Tears burned my eyes, because no matter how bad I hated to admit it, she was right. I was acting like such a monumental wuss.

  “All you do is complain about how you have these visions and how hard they are.”

  “Okay, I got it.”

  “And you walk around all ‘poor me.’”

  “I said, I got it.” My temper started to rise again.

  “It’s pathetic. You have no idea how fortunate you are to be able to do what you do. I know you lost your parents. I get it, but that is not on you. They died protecting you. Protecting all of us, and all you can do is whine about it. Quit acting like the world is—”

  That was it. I lunged forward. Switchblade or not, Kenya Slater was going to eat cement if I had anything to say about it. Sadly, she was about twelve feet taller than I was, and God only knew how many pounds she had on me, so when I went to tackle her, I more or less gave her a really aggressive bear hug. But I’d surprised her.

  “Pix!” Grandma said.

  I’d knocked her off balance.

  “I’m not sure this kind of behavior is called for.”

  We tumbled to the ground and, yes, like a girl, I went for the hair. I grabbed handfuls with the intent of banging her head against the concrete floor beneath us. But I did not factor in the fact that she actually knew how to fight. She was all martial arsty-fartsy and I had been in only one fight my entire life, and that was with a girl my own size. Brooklyn. We got into a catfight in the third grade, and as much as I hated to admit it, she kicked my ass.

  “Bill,” Grandma squeaked, “do something. This is quite uncalled for.”

  I quickly realized I didn’t stand a chance. It hit me when she easily maneuvered over me and dragged an arm behind my back to hold me to the ground. But the one thing I had on my side was anger. Just because she’d wanted to be me her whole life and she would’ve loved to have the gifts I have didn’t give her the right to talk about what it was like to be me. Or, more important, talk about my parents and what they had done.

  I knew that all too well. I was there.

  “Bill, really!”

  I scrambled out from under her and brought my legs around until I had her head in a scissors hold. She clawed at my arm, then at my legs when I’d locked her down and tried to slam her head into the cement again. Before I could manage it, I rose into the air. I felt an arm around my waist as I was lifted up and back against a solid chest.

  “Okay, Rocky,” Jared said, the humor in his voice apparent.

  But adrenaline was rushing through me at light speed. I swung my arms, trying to get another piece of her until he wrapped his other arm around mine. His mouth was at my ear then, warm and sensual when he whispered, “Do you want a spanking, young lady?”

  I stilled instantly, the thought of the Angel of Death bending me over his knee causing a second wave of adrenaline, only in other areas.

  Oh.

  My.

  God.

  I was into BDSM.

  He chuckled at my back.

  “That was exciting!” Brooklyn said, her face flush with, well, excitement. “You were totally holding your own.”

  “Really?” I asked, surprised and feeling an odd sense of pride as Jared lowered me to the floor.

  “Totally! Unlike the time I kicked your butt. You were pretty pathetic that time.”

  “Yeah, whatever. You sucker-punched me.”

  “Dude, I told you I was going to hit you.”

  “Yeah, but I thought you were just talking crap. I didn’t expect you to follow through.”

  Kenya stood and brushed herself off. She turned to me, her chest swelling with something I hadn’t expected. Pride. “Better,” she said, a mischievous grin lighting her face. “Much, much better.”

  I would never figure that girl out.

  “Now that the MMA exhibition fight is over,” Mac said, one corner of his mouth twitching, “can we hear more about this new talent of yours?”

  I looked around at everyone. My family. Members of the Order. My best friends on earth. Embarrassment rushed through me like a wildfire, scorching my insides. “Sorry,” I said.

  “Oh, no you don’t.” Kenya stood again, her stance aggressive. “Don’t you dare run back to your hidey-hole.”

  “What are you talking about, Kenya?” I asked, becoming frustrated.

  “You got spunk, girlfriend.” She backhanded my arm in camaraderie. “Let it shine.”

  “You don’t have to make fun of me.”

  “No, I mean it. That girl that just showed up? The one who tried to kick my ass? That’s who you are. Deep down inside. And that’s who you need to be if we are going to do this. So, chin up, Balboa.”

  NO PRESSURE

  After things settled down, I explained exactly how I did what I did. Mac was worried about the possibility of an honest-to-goodness concussion, so Jared and Cameron brought out one of the cots we had set up in the archive room.

  “She might have a concussion already,” Brooke said. “She hit hard. Either her head split or the floor. Not sure which.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not as hardheaded as you are. And by the feel of things, it was my head and not the floor.”

  “Then you gave it a run for its money, I can tell you that much. Quite the combatant today,” she added with a soft laugh.

  Grandma lowered the lights a little as Jared took my hand and helped me lie down on the cot.

  “I’m not sure I can do this with everyone standing around.”

  “Sure you can,” Kenya said, excited about the prospect of watching.

  “No, she’s right,” Granddad said.

  “That’s okay.” Mr. Henderson waved a hand. “We’ll go. Just let us know what you find out.”

  Mr. Henderson was one of the members furious with my grandparents for sending me away. I wasn’t sure how to feel about him now. While I understood his misgivings on one level, I couldn’t help but hold a certain amount of resentment toward him, toward all of those who gave my grandparents a hard time while I was gone. It was probably best that he leave.

  Everyone except my family members and best friends left. Unfortunately, that did little to relieve my doubt.

  “Okay, Pix, how’s this?” Mac asked as he knelt beside me.

  “Great. No pressure, right?”

  He grinned that charming grin of his. “None at all. If this doesn’t work, that’s okay, honey.”

  Glitch handed me the sketchbook. “Good luck,” he said.

  I nodded.

  “You can do this,” Brooke said. She took the seat that Grandma had set beside the cot.

  Cameron stood at the foot of the cot while Jared stood at th
e head. I tilted my head back and looked at him. He winked at me. Even upside down, that guy could stop a heart with one grin. Actually, he probably could stop a heart with one grin, since that was his job and all. He was so handsome, though. So magnificent. God took his time on that one.

  “We’ll be right here,” he said.

  They were there for a reason. If I did have a seizure or whatever it was that happened before, my grandparents didn’t want me getting hurt, so I had bodyguards of a sort.

  Nervousness tingled inside me as I took the sketch and looked it over again. It really was rudimentary. Embarrassment washed through me for the umpteenth time, and I realized Kenya was right. I really needed to get over myself.

  I siphoned cool air in through my nose and out through my mouth in concentration. I needed to go further back this time. I wanted to see my parents. Or not. This was the most painful day of my existence. The day they disappeared. Did I really want to see that again?

  Just getting into the picture would be hard enough. I decided to leave it at that. To just do my best. After one last look at Mac, who was still kneeled beside me, I touched the image. It was cool beneath my fingers. The texture of the drawing paper almost rough. I focused, relaxed my eyes until the lines I’d drawn merged into a blur. Then I closed my eyes. And I waited. And waited. This time there was no wind. No roaring or whipping of dirt in the air.

  “I don’t think it worked,” I said, opening my eyes.

  The room had brightened and I blinked as Grandma turned the lights back up. But it wasn’t Grandma. It was the sun. I was outside. I was at the ruins where my parents had disappeared.

  Startled, I looked up and saw the demon again, its shoulders blocking out a good portion of the afternoon sky. I bit down, tried not to let my fear catapult me out of the picture this time. If he was already here, that would mean that my parents were already gone. I looked around for them frantically anyway, but all I saw was a little girl staring up at the demon. Her curly red hair stuck out in all the wrong places. Her tiny hands curled into fists as she looked up at the beast. At Malak-Tuke. And just like Kenya said, I stood my ground. I was only six years old, but I was ready to fight the demon until my dying breath. If only I still had that sense of bravado. That bravery that only innocence brings.