Endpoint, there was no way I could ask for help without:
a) being returned to Jim,
b) having someone give me to Sunglasses,
c) being locked up and fed pills for the rest of my life.
My mother said I wasn’t crazy, so despite the bottle in the side pocket of my bag, I refused to consider ‘c’ a viable option.
My phone buzzed again. I knew without looking who it was.
Jim. Again.
Mom had loved him—had made me with him. I really didn’t get why, I mean, I guess he’d been okay once, but he’d been a loser who abandoned his family long before he’d given up his soul. Still…he seemed to be trying. And so far, he hadn’t hung from the ceiling or hissed around a mouthful of fangs.
Sunglasses, on the other hand…
I shuddered. Sure, maybe I was blowing things way out of proportion, but loads of people died in horror movies because they didn’t take evil things seriously. Sunglasses knew I was in Portland, and he seemed to know about my plan to leave for LA, so neither city was a safe bet.
But Vegas? Maybe he didn’t know anything about that.
Which meant right now, Soulless Jim was better a way better option than Sunglasses.
Slipping the ancient phone out of my pocket, I held it for a long moment, watching the screen flash the name “Jim” at me in bright green. I’d promised Mom I’d give him a chance. The world was probably smiting me because I’d basically lied to my mother while she was dying—and I deserved that smite.
Guilt clogged my throat, burned my cheeks.
God, I’d been a shitty daughter this week. Guess it was high time I pulled myself together. At least Vegas would get me out of Portland—I could handle six months with Jim, get some credits at that fancy academy, and then take off as a legal adult. And I’d be keeping my promise to Mom.
Being a good daughter and escaping the threat of ritual sacrifice—win fucking win.
Besides, I wasn’t giving up on LA, just postponing it for a little while. If Jim turned out to be a Scary Thing, I could always leave sooner.
I clicked a green-phone button with my thumb and the screen lit up. “Hey.”
“Ashley,” Jim said. “Thank heavens. Where are you? Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving? I told you we need to pack. We need to be on the road first thing tomorrow morning. Finish saying goodbye and hurry up.”
Say goodbye? To who?
I rolled my eyes; he had no clue. Not that I expected him to have one, but it was just another reminder of how much my father was a stranger.
“Leaving tomorrow?” I asked him quietly.
“Yeah, honey.” I’d expected him to be full of undeserved Dad-rage, but he sounded tired, but not angry. Even over the rumble of the bus, I heard the distinctive thud of boxes landing on the linoleum floor. “First thing in the morning, remember? I know it’s rushed. I thought we’d have more time, but they’ve called me in. And you’ve got an academy spot starting on Monday. They’re expecting us.”
“Jim, about tonight…” I dug my fingers into the rough canvas of my backpack. Did you sell your soul for this job? Do you know there’s a Scary Thing hunting me?
“What is it, Ashley?”
“I was just…I wondered…” Was selling your soul any different than taking a regular job at a casino? Not to him, the guy who’d left his kid for the gambling halls. Besides, it was his soul—not mine. It’s not like I was worried about a happy family future or anything—that wasn’t in the cards. “Never mind.”
There was no point in telling him about Sunglasses. I wasn’t afraid that he’d believe me—he’d sold his soul, he had to know there were monsters in the world.
“Ashley, if there’s something—”
“I’m on my way home.” I hung up.
Yeah, he’d believe me. I just didn’t think he’d give a shit.
Chapter Four
If Jim wondered why I was soaked through and had taken a full backpack and guitar to “say goodbye” to my imaginary friends, he never asked. When I’d trudged through the doorway an hour after speaking to him on the phone, he’d simply told me to dry off and get packing.
That’s how I ended up at the kitchen table, sorting essentials into a box at one o’clock in the morning.
So many things, so many memories, crowded me from every side.
The brightly colored giant mugs Mom and I used for tea, soup, and even salad. The mismatched assortment of silver cutlery, all with their own garage sale tale. And the pots. I could hardly bear to look at the shiny set of Lagostina cookware without tears threatening to riot down my cheeks. Sniffing, I looked at the neatly arrayed set and the box I’d been told all the essentials had to fit inside.
Once again, I was just expected to let of my past. Shear off my roots like they didn’t matter. As if I could just grow them anew.
“What’s the holdup?” I jerked as Jim came striding into the kitchen.
He plunked a brown paper bag before me and a brown cup that read “coffee” beside the famous McDonald’s icon. Huh. I guess even soulless people needed to eat.
“I’m just choosing…” I tensed, waiting for cold air to wash over me. For color to seep from around him. But all I saw before me was a middle-aged man of medium height, with tired blue eyes and brown hair in bad need of combing. Maybe I had been seeing things earlier? I clenched my teeth, unwilling to believe I’d been so totally wrong.
Had my weird talent been playing tricks on me after all, or had his soul come back? It certainly didn’t mean I was crazy. Grief did things to people. Maybe it had done something to me.
“Only the essentials, Ashley. It’s all got to fit in the car. I’m not planning to come back for things—are you?”
Mutely, I shook my head.
A musician living from gig-to-gig couldn’t have a couch or a bookshelf. My best-case scenario was a van with room for equipment and a foamy, for nights I couldn’t get home—or didn’t have one. Whatever we left in the apartment—and it would be a lot—would become the proud possessions of the next tenant. I supposed my music would have to be my history, and I’d just have to get right with that.
“Here.” Jim pointed at the bag and cup. “You should eat something. Got you coffee… Uh…” He paused and gave me what I felt was his first serious look of the night—possibly ever. “You drink coffee yet?”
“Of course,” I quipped, eyeing the cup apprehensively. “But only with lots of sugar and cream.”
“Figured you’d want girly coffee. Asked for cream and that vanilla stuff.”
He’d brought me food—heck, he’d noticed that I ate food. And he thought I liked vanilla, which wasn’t my least favorite of flavors. It was something, I supposed. If I was going to give my promise to Mom a proper shot for the next six months, we’d have to start somewhere.
“Thanks, Jim,” I said, the words awkward and unfamiliar.
He coughed, as if feeling self-conscious. “Ashley…”
“It’s—”
It was strange, I hated being called Ashley. But I couldn’t tell Jim to call me Ash. Not yet. I wasn’t ready to write off what I’d seen this afternoon. He might not be soulless. Might. Either way, if he asked me to call him Dad, I was going to forget my newly charitable thoughts and throw the frying pan at him.
“Anything else?”
“Er… I thought you might want some information on this academy.” He placed a shiny pamphlet next to the bag of McDonalds. “It looks pretty swanky, kiddo.”
I glanced at the cover, noting fancy embossed lettering and a gold seal announcing a “Cultural Arts Program” starting soon.
“Yeah, fancy,” I said, picking it up.
A chill crept up my spine, and I dropped the paper as if it were a snake.
“Something the matter?” he asked.
“No.” I kept my gaze on the table, afraid to see if the gray swirls had returned. “I just have to pack…You know, lots to do.”
“Er… That’s good. Kee
p up the good work.” Jim left the room with the air of someone who wanted to say more but had no idea how.
Tough. I wasn’t about to instigate a “serious” discussion, and I wasn’t fawning over some fancy academy that mom didn’t get to send me to. Instead, I stayed quiet and focused on my kitchen sorting challenge. I didn’t even know what type of place we were going to: Jim had said it was partly furnished, but what did that mean? Would it have a big kitchen? A little one? Were there blankets and sheets, or just mattresses?
I should ask—I knew I should ask him—but I just couldn’t make myself do it.
Pushing the pamphlet aside for now, I opened the bag of food and found two neatly wrapped cheeseburgers and a small thing of fries.
Breath rushed out of me as a memory hit like a basketball to the head. It was just before my seventh birthday and I’d fallen in the park, scraping up my knees and tearing my favorite pants. Jim had picked me up, tossed me into the air until I giggled, and informed me that all parkland warriors got dinner at the golden arches.
It was my very best memory of him. One of the few I had.
Biting into the burger, I silently admitted I’d loved him that day. He’d broken my heart when he’d left our lives a short time later. He might break it again—or I might break his. No way I regretted any of my years with Mom. But as I chewed, I decided that maybe she hadn’t been totally wrong in calling Jim before she died.
Looking around the kitchen, I drank in the bright yellow walls and cheerfully patterned green check curtains.
The apartment was small, and there was a branching network of cracks along the ceiling, and it had been home for two years. A warm, loving home. Despite all the sadness, all the painful reminders I didn’t want to leave. My memories were here, my things—our things. But I couldn’t stay.
I tried to commit every detail to memory, desperate to cement the picture in my heart.
Sucking in a deep breath, I held it until my eyes watered and my chest burned.
So many things, all with pieces of our life tied into them. Storage wasn’t an option—I couldn’t return, and I couldn’t afford it anyway. Still, if I was going to Vegas with Jim, going to keep this promise, I’d damned well bring every piece of my mother I could.
Enough sniveling.
I’d run a household for long enough. I could do this.
Emptying out the box on the table, I snagged another bite of burger and started over. If this was happening, I’d do it right. We’d need the big soup pot, the frying pan, the good set of knives, and other basics.
Everything that mattered would fit—I’d make it.
I didn’t need a couch or a bed or a kitchen table with four different chairs—my mother wasn’t in those pieces, no matter how much she’d loved them. My guitar could go anywhere—and I’d already packed my script book and made sure my laptop was padded with a bunch of clothes. Leaving so many of our books sucked, but everything about this sucked.
I flung a discarded plate into the garbage with a satisfying crash.
Spinning around, I scooped up the pamphlet, flipped it open. Saint Damon’s Academy for the Gifted? Damn, that sounded like a recipe for time with the most pretentious little asshats Vegas had to offer…
Saint Damon’s had a prep year attached to the academy.
An impressed whistle snuck through my lips.
Wow. I could earn real college credits while finishing my senior year and be competitive for some serious-money scholarships? Okay. This might be worth six months with my loser father—maybe I’d have a shot at those dream programs after all.
Since I’d returned, Jim hadn’t seemed so bad. The air remained a normal temperature when he walked into a room, and he’d got me normal food. There hadn’t been any Scary Thing maneuvers, no wall-running or head spinning. And he’d actually hooked me up with a real opportunity.
Maybe he’d just been sick earlier? Hell, maybe I had been sick?
That would be better.
I shoved my final burger into my mouth so I could wrap dishes with both hands. Sick or not, I still wasn’t taking a pill. If pot freaked me out, I had no idea what those pink things would do.
And if Sunglasses somehow found me, I needed to be able to run.
Cranking up the volume on our cranky kitchen stereo, I belted along with the radio and tapped my heels rhythmically upon the gray linoleum floor. My downstairs neighbor could bitch and bang her broom handle against the ceiling all she wanted. By the time she roused the building manager, we’d be long gone.
Saint Damon’s, here I come.
Chapter Five
Outside of the forest of neon signs, Vegas was flat and faded.
I felt like I’d arrived in a dusty, alien landscape.
It might have been dark, but the ambient light from the strip cast everything in a cold, false daylight. There were spaced palm trees and streets with every third or fourth house obviously overusing their water and flaunting a bright green lawn—or had covered their stretch of gravel in grass-shaped plastic.
I’d woken from my reluctant afternoon nap in the Buick to find the scenery had changed. After a strained, silent morning I’d yanked the hood up around my head and pretended to sleep. To my everlasting surprise, my fake nap had turned into the first real sleep I’d had in weeks.
It had been hard to sleep in hospital chairs.
Las Vegas was a sun-bleached sandbox decorated with oversized holiday lights. A sign reading “Welcome to Paradise” leered at us from the side of the road. I decided the person who’d written it was drunk. The cheerful lettering listed to the right, and for reasons I couldn’t explain, it sent chills scurrying from the base of my neck all the way to my tailbone. All the places we’d traveled, and Mom and I had never stayed in this part of the country before.
Guess maybe she’d had reasons for that.
Jim pulled onto a misnamed street of Palo Verde. It wasn’t green. It should have been called Palo Depressing. Or Palo Dust Bowl.
I snorted and sent Jim a searching glance.
One side of his mouth curled upward. “Not a fan of the desert, Ash?”
“Everything looks like it’s part of a bad Tarantino movie.”
“It’s the city of dreams, just you wait, we find…” One of his eyebrows rose. “Huh. Well. Maybe not the apartment building of dreams.”
I faced forward to discover we were turning from the main road onto a gravel-strewn drive of a building marked with blocky, stenciled letters down one side. Oh, boy. We’d found The Milton.
My right eyebrow imitated Jim’s.
He pulled to a halt before what looked to be the front entrance—if the scary barred gate was any indication—and I slowly stepped out of the Buick. My knees felt rubbery after sixteen hours in the car, even though we’d taken short breaks to stretch our legs. We’d even stopped for dinner. I figured our journey was a small window into how astronauts felt when they returned to earth—really not awesome.
Warm wind blew dust in a gentle circle beneath my feet.
Tilting my head back, I studied the building with mounting concern. The yard was nothing more than gravel, occasionally interrupted by scruffy green shrubs. The building itself was a dedicated study of a bland brick, the kind of beige that’s such a non-color it crosses the line from neutral back into offensive. It was a depressing, flaccid orange brick. White metals bars decorated each and every window with a plain grid, while two doors to nowhere sat between windows on the second floor. The entrance had what looked like two sets of barred doors, guarding a corridor into the middle of the complex. And ringing the whole dismal place was a high metal fence with upper spikes fanning outwards. Whether it was to keep people out or to keep them in, I wasn’t sure.
No force on this earth could have kept the dismay from my face.
The Milton was no paradise.
“Jim…”
“Uh, well, um.” He glanced at me, white-desperation ringing his blue eyes. “They must have put all their focus into the ins
ide. These desert places…” He ended with an awkward, off-key chuckle.
The front door flew open, cutting off my half-formed retaliation as effectively as a shotgun blast. A figure loomed in the illuminated doorway, large and straight-lined like the building it had emerged from.
“You Ashcroft?” Likening the voice to broken glass being swept off pavement would have been complimentary. I was awfully glad Mom and I had decided I’d use her last name because Ashley Ashcroft would have sounded ridiculous.
“Y-yes,” Jim replied.
The voice’s owner stepped into the light; small beady black eyes swung from Jim to me and back to Jim from within a face that best resembled a bulldog topped with brown curls. This bulldog had been forced into a wide floral tent, a baby-blue housecoat, and was entirely displeased with everything it saw.
My eyes widened and my head pulled back as those beady eyes fixated upon me.
“And look what you’ve brought with you. Just like you promised.” The Bulldog smiled, thick lips pulling wide to reveal teeth that should have been sharpened points but instead formed a blunt, yellowed row. Her wide tongue darted out to lick the surrounding lips.
Oh. Fuck.
The Bulldog wanted to eat me. And I was certain her tongue had held an odd, bluish tone.
“Jim,” I whispered urgently at him from the side of my mouth, grasping for his sleeve. “We can’t.” No job was worth this. We’d pay the money back. We could live in the Buick for a couple months—who needed things like showers anyway?
“Shush.” He draped an arm around my shoulders. “You must be Mrs. Keats, pleasure to meet you.”
“Call me Myrtle, everyone does.” She chortled at us, a snuffling wheeze that would have suited one of Tolkien’s orcs perfectly.
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