Dying Breath Page 9

A door bangs open and someone bursts into the living room.

  Not Mom.

  The footsteps are all wrong. Their weight. Their rhythm.

  I grip the box cutter tighter in my hand. Every muscle in my back goes rigid, freezing me in place.

  I look down and see the boxcutter shaking. Beneath me, there’s a dead guy. I know it’s my dad, but whoever burst through the house doesn’t know that. They’re going to see girl plus blade plus dead body.

  I only have a moment to consider whether I should keep the boxcutter to defend myself, or hide it. Holding a knife beside a dead body sends the wrong message, you know?

  At the last second, I slide the blade back into its yellow plastic sheath before hiding it in my pocket. I clamber off the bed and stand there, shifting from foot to foot.

  My hand is in my pocket clutching the boxcutter when a boy rushes into the bedroom and skids to a stop. His hands go out at his sides for balance. His mouth opens in a surprised O.

  I recognize him instantly even if he’s much taller without his bike. “Sam.”

  I breathe his name. It’s a relief to see him. I’d hoped it was him, but it could’ve been his dad or a sibling.

  “Hey,” he blinks as if he’s trying to process me. Is it because I’m a girl—a strange girl—standing in his bedroom? Or because I’m wearing his clothes? Or is it the dead guy in his bed?

  So many considerations.

  “Hey,” he says again, this time calmer. His eyes slide off me and fall on Caldwell. “What’re you doin’ here?”

  Friend or foe? I ask Azrael. She’s close, listening and watching. She won’t leap between us and save me like Gabriel does for Jesse—or at least what Jesse says Gabriel does—but she has her own ways of protecting me if it comes to that.

  A breeze blows through the room. A chill slides up the back of my neck like a wet tongue.

  Friend, she whispers.

  Sam’s eyes soften. I’ve seen this before. Azrael reaches into minds the way Dad does. Not to control them the way Dad does, but certainly to influence them.

  He is afraid, Azrael whispers.

  He should be.

  Soothe him. He wants the truth.

  I’m not sure how soothing the truth is. All of this is pretty screwed up.

  Tell him, Azrael insists.

  “I’m here because we’re in trouble, and we were looking for a place to hide.”

  “In trouble,” he repeats, his lips slightly parted.

  “So,” I hold my breath as Sam’s eyes refocus. His full pupils constrict. “How bad is it in town?”

  “There’s this crazy b—” He stops short, and chokes on the word. He stammers. “Crazy person blowing things up.”

  “That’s my sister.”

  He stiffens. “Your sister?”

  “Yeah,” I shrug, but my hands shake in my pockets. “She can firebomb stuff with her mind.”

  His eyes widen. “Yeah, that’s just how she does it. No blowtorch. No accelerants. Nothin’.” He clips the end of his words as his excitement grows. He barks a short, sharp laugh. “What the hell’s going on?”

  “I can explain.” I lick my lips. My heart is pounding so hard I’m totally going to pass out. Then I’m sitting, rather sliding down onto my knees.

  “Hey, are you okay?” Sam’s face screws up with concern. He reaches out and grabs my arms before I go down all the way. I stiffen under his palms, and he’s quick to let me go.

  “Sorry,” he mumbles. His gaze studies my face. He isn’t looking at Dad. That’s got to be Azrael’s doing. Who doesn’t stare at a dead body in their bed? I’ve seen her manipulate people like this before. She can make someone overlook something. Or she can make something serious seem minor.

  It’s better on the floor. I’m more grounded. I fold my legs. “I’ll explain, but it’s going to sound weird.”

  He exhales. “Okay.”

  No smile, but he doesn’t look ready to choke me either. His eyes search mine. At least he’s curious and not mad.

  He shrugs one shoulder. “After what I saw, I’m prepared for weird.”

  So I tell him. “My parents are maniacs. My sister saved me. But they found us, there was a fight, and I was kidnapped back.”

  “—by your own parents?” he asked.

  “Don’t interrupt.”

  “Sorry.” He gives me a heart stopping pout.

  I try to explain everything that’s happening in town and why Jesse is trying to get me back.

  “Then go to her,” he says, shrugging again and takes his cap off his head. He crushes the bill in his palm, rounding it out. “Your mom isn’t here to stop you. Don’t you want to get away?”

  “I do. It’s—” It’s what?

  Sam’s words make sense, and yet my first thought is no way. Why?

  With horror, I realize I don’t want to leave Dad behind. The reason I didn’t run away and find Jesse the second Mom left was because I’m guarding him. I believe Azrael. Jesse will find me, and when she does, I want Dad to be right here. He’s like a boogeyman. If I take my eyes off him, he’s going to disappear, only to drag me screaming into the closet once the lights go out.

  “I thought your sister was the one who kidnapped you. That’s what they’re saying on the news.” He runs his fingers through his hair, before turning the cap backward.

  Cute.

  My face burns. “It’s more complicated than that. Do you want the super weird part?”

  He looks at me for a full minute, chewing on his bottom lip. “Yeah. I need to understand this.”

  I explain about the dead body in his bed, how he’s my dad and if he wakes up he’s going to keep killing people, keep destroying the world. I explain that my mom’s no better. I can’t explain the death ribbon thing to him. Jesse described it as ribbons to me once and later as smoke. That’s what they look like to me too. Sometimes solid. Sometimes wispy. But only the partis can see them come out of Mom’s torso and strike people dead. He’s never going to understand if he can’t see it for himself, so I tell him Mom kills people with her mind. She looks at them, and they fall dead.

  “So she’s the one who did it.” He looks away, and I can see his jaw working. The muscles jump under the skin.

  My stomach cramps. No. Please. No.

  “There wasn’t a mark on him.”

  My palms begin to sweat with my spiking adrenaline. I know I’m about to hear something very very bad.

  “Who?” I ask even though I don’t want to.

  “My dad. Your mom killed my dad and our janitor, Billy.”

  My mind is already presenting evidence before Sam finishes speaking. The hotel. The rushing into the truck and speeding away. The license and searching for the house. The bullshit story.

  I’m blubbering. I pull my knees up and throw an arm over them, hiding my face in the crook of my elbow. This way he can’t see me ugly cry. Or god forbid, see snot running out of my nose.

  “Hey, it’s okay.” A large hand engulfs my shoulder, squeezing gently. “It’s not your fault.”

  The only reason Sam can bring himself to say something selfless is because of Azrael. She’s pumping happy juice into his head. Without her, he’d be having a level-ten freak-out right now. And I want him to. I want Sam to get mad. I want him to scream and cry and blame me for bringing my screwed-up family life into his town.

  I’m the one that pointed at the hotel. I’m the one that asked mom to get a room.

  “It’s my fault!” I shove the heels of my hands into my eyes as if that’s going to stop the tears. You pointed the hotel out to me, I accuse Azrael. Why the hell did you do that?

  Azrael says nothing in her defense.

  “I’m sorry about your dad.”

  “You didn’t kill him.” He holds onto me and I wonder how long I have before the angel-ease wears off and Sam’s anger and fear rain down on me. “And it’s not like you can bring him back.”

  My head snaps up, heart hammering against my ribs. “Actually, I can.�
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  Chapter 14

  Jesse

  “Jess, wake up.”

  I grumble and swat the hand away.

  “Baby, wake up. We’ll be late.” Ally pulls the covers off me, and grabs my ankles. She tugs. I play dead. My bed is soft, and it’s Saturday. I want to sleep. If I don’t move a muscle for long enough, Ally might give up and crawl in beside me. That would be nice. She’s the best cuddler. It’s probably her boobs. You never can have too many pillows.

  Damn Brinkley for giving me two replacement jobs close together. My neck and shoulders still hurt from the last one.

  A soft hand brushes my face. “Baby, I’ve got coffee for you.”

  My eyes fly open.

  I reach out to grab the coffee Ally offers me and swipe empty air.

  There’s no Ally. No queen-sized bed from my burned down house back in Tennessee. No pressing replacement job to do. And damn it, no coffee.

  I’m in the crawl space, in a house in Cochise, Arizona. It’s hot, and sweat soaks the back of my neck, matting my hair to my skin. My clothes cling to my body too.

  I’m going to boil to death in here. Super fun.

  A sadness socks me in the gut as I try to move my stiff muscles. This part of the dream is real enough. I can barely move after sitting crouched in the same position for so long. No wonder I fell asleep. The heat. The inability to move. Either one will do it.

  I run a sweaty palm over my face and huff. Gross. It’s supposed to be February. Didn’t this town get the memo?

  The sadness doesn’t ease up.

  I want my old life. I’m longing to wake up and find Ally in bed with me. I miss my old house with my deck and river trail. My programmable coffeemaker. Overstuffed sofa and unlimited channels. My rainfall showerhead. A freaking bag of Cheetos and a Dr. Pepper. Hell, I’ll take the shitty replacement jobs if it means I’d get to see Brinkley’s gruff face again.

  I’ll take it all back. The good and the bad. Every little thing I didn’t appreciate about that life.

  Wow, how fast life can change. Seventeen months ago, I had it all and didn’t know it.

  I scoot on my knees up to the crawlspace door.

  I hover there, listening to the house. Creaks. Moans. Hushed whispers. Anything at all that might suggest the cops are waiting to jump my ass.

  But I don’t hear anything except for the ringing in my ears.

  I push open the crawlspace door, and it hits the tower of cardboard boxes. I get the boxes to slide out of my way by pushing with my feet. I can’t stand until I clear the low frame, but then I’m up. Full height. All sixty-three inches of me, baby.

  The attic is empty.

  I tiptoe across the space to the trap door, trying not to announce my arrival to anyone below. I wait at the exit, but I hear nothing. Man, I keep waiting for the horror music to cue and someone to jump out and cut my Achilles heel. Ouch.

  I take a breath, release the latch, and shield myself. Tense, I wait for the cops to spring out, guns loaded.

  Nothing.

  Well, damn. Don’t tell me my plan worked.

  Leaving the shield in place, glowing faintly around my body, I creep down the steps one at a time. I lean my butt against the wood for balance.

  No one’s waiting to pounce in the closet either.

  The bedroom is quiet.

  I lean against the curtain and survey the street below. Black-and-white cars line each side of the street, but there’s no people. Are they inside the houses searching? Are they having a pep talk in the street? Clearly, I’m going to have to choose another window if I want to find out.

  I sneak down the hall, one hand on the wall, walking as quickly as possible on the tippiest-tip-top of toes. I’m sure I look like a cartoon villain.

  I want to hurry out, but I don’t want to be caught unaware by some sneaky cop waiting to put a gun to my head. Not that anyone could grab and shoot me. The shield would prevent any actual grabbing or shooting.

  I make it all the way to the back door when I smell something sour. Like vegetables rotting in the trash or garbage disposal.

  Sadness wells up inside me again. I even miss the stinky trash and the half-ass garbage disposal I used to have. My old life. My own level of normalcy. Baby, I’ve got coffee for you.

  What the hell is wrong with me? All this over the smell of rotting produce? Really?

  Pull yourself together, Sullivan.

  The living room and kitchen areas are as empty and silent as the rest of the house. Where the hell is everyone? What if this is going to be like one of those movies where I fall asleep and wake up and everyone in the whole world is gone?

  The back door has a curtained window. Peeking through the curtain, I have the partial view of a blue Crown Victoria car, and the side of the next house. That’s it.

  I take a breath and twist the handle of the back door, easing it open.

  Fresh air hits my hot face and cools the back of my neck. My sweaty skin tingles as it begins to dry. Ah, fresh air. It must be at least twenty degrees colder down here. I slip into the backyard, searching the airways for Maisie as I do.

  Maisie?

  I reach out for my sister, hoping to hone in on her signal.

  Ping.

  Maisie?

  Ping.

  I freeze, leaning against the neighbor’s Crown Vic. I reach my hand out to steady myself. The house’s exterior is scalding under my palm.

  Maisie?

  Ping.

  Shit.

  I have a problem. The first echolocation I got from Maisie was east. The second and third were south.

  She’s on the move.

  Why?

  I peek around the corner of the house, letting my gaze rove over the cars, porches, and pavement for signs of the police hunting me. This is the most intense game of hide-and-seek I’ve ever played.

  One group of officers is clustered in front of a house near the end of the street. They appear to be discussing strategy. A man issues orders while the others listen, hands on hips.

  The shield around my body cracks and hisses.

  “What the hell?” I hold up my hands and see the shield trembling.

  The cracking hiss comes again, and I catch a glimpse of darkness in my periphery. I whirl as black snakes strike my shield for a third time.

  “Gee-zus!”

  Georgia lashes out at me. Her face hardens, angry that my shield is in place. Didn’t she see it? Or was it too small to notice?

  “Die, you bitch!”

  “Tell me how you really feel.” I huff. “Where’s Maisie?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” Georgia’s snakes stop striking, and their muscular bodies soften into smoke. The smoke begins to conform to my shield, and I can feel the pressure rising as if it plans to squeeze me out of hiding. Fat chance. But I’ve got to say, crushing darkness does create a certain claustrophobia.

  “Did you leave Caldwell with her?” I ask, searching her blue eyes for the truth.

  Georgia doesn’t answer. She’s playing it close to the chest. Fine. I can be devious too.

  “Did you call for help yet?” The second worse thing to Caldwell waking up and jumping halfway across the country would be his reinforcements showing up to whisk my enemies to safety. They’d bring the big guns, as they have every time before. Haven’t they learned? Big guns are only good for body count. “I mean, you’re getting into trouble with the police already. If you didn’t have reason to call for help before, you do now.”

  “Drop your shield,” Georgia hisses, red-faced. Is she mad or hot? Maybe a little sunburnt. Scratch that. Why the hell do I care? Stray hair has fallen out of her ponytail and lays stuck to her sweaty forehead.

  “Nope,” I say. “How about I blow your ass up instead?”

  “Maisie said you wanted to strike a deal. To become—” She bites her lip. “—to become friends.”

  I snort. “We both know ‘friends’ is stretching it.”

  The first time I met Georgia, she ha
d arrived to escort me to the toilet, so I wouldn’t pee on myself while waiting to be tortured. Later when one of the guards broke my ribs, she essentially told me to walk it off. Her coldness hardly encouraged affection.

  Uncertainty flickers in her eyes. “Will you spare my life?”

  You cannot, Gabriel whispers.

  My heart contracts. Not because I give a damn about Georgia. But because I was truly hoping there was another way, for Maisie’s sake.

  Georgia’s gaze wavers. Wow. She must be desperate without Caldwell around to serve as her private instajet. “You’d never spare my life. I can’t trust you.”

  “You’re the one who tried to kill me when I wasn’t looking,” I remind her. “Do you think I didn’t notice that?”

  “Forget it.” She takes a step back, ready to run.

  “Wait,” I say. Wait, what? Wait right here so I can kill you? I guess I am tired of running.

  Georgia shifts her weight. Her gaze falls on something over my shoulder. “We can’t talk here.”

  I turn and see what she’s looking at. The huddle of cops in the front lawn have broken formation, and are dispersing like a flock of birds.

  “Let’s go inside,” she says. “We can talk about this. Come to some sort of agreement.”

  “Take me to Caldwell.” We can discuss me severing his head. Again.

  “No!” Her nostrils flare and eyes dilate. Then as if realizing her crazy is showing, she says, “Maisie’s with him. He’s safe. He’s protected by an armed guard. You’ll never get to him.”

  I don’t want him to be safe. I want him to be dead. But I send another search beam out, to see if Maisie is with Caldwell.

  Ping.

  Maisie’s farther east than ever before. I assume she’s on her own. A sixteen-year-old girl isn’t dragging around a dead body. Not alone. Did she run as soon as Georgia turned her back? If she did, then where the hell is Caldwell?

  Unguarded?

  I hope so.

  “Maisie isn’t with him.” I throw it out there. I want to see if she knows. If she does, then this is some sort of test. She’s luring me to my death, and Maisie is being dragged off by the armed guard. All of this is some elaborate trap to kill me while they can. Caldwell seems to have lots of traps. I never know when one will pop up.