For a while, I sit on my bed and look at my parents’ photos. I was blessed to have had them in my life. They were the best parents one could wish for. It’s really not fair they were punished with a cursed child like me.
Wednesday morning, Blaze waits by my locker. I spot his tattoos first. He wears a tight Bordeaux shirt, putting most of them on display. His glittering blue-gold eyes zoom in on me. They’re breathtaking, and so familiar it’s sort of scary. A mistake in the Matrix scary. If I didn’t know better, I’d say I’d been gazing into this lapis ocean long before we met at the police station.
He pushes himself off the wall, throwing an irresistible smile my way. “Hey.”
“Hey.” I stuff my books under my arm, trying to open my locker. Not easy with one hand. “You okay?” I ask, focusing on the combination of my lock.
His dimple comes out. “I’m fine, thank you. How’s you, princess?”
How many times have I told him not to call me that? Know what? It doesn’t matter. I have a feeling he won’t stop regardless of what I say. “I’m good.” As good as a freak like me can be.
Blaze leans against the locker next to mine. “I missed you yesterday.”
I’m a bit surprised he noticed my absence. “I wasn’t feeling well.” My night terrors are getting worse by the day. I ended up puking my guts out after I woke from another one. Aunt V and Rob insisted I stay in bed. They also tried to convince me to see my shrink again. Over my dead body, is what I said.
His gaze roams my face, studying me like a puzzle he needs to solve. “Are you better now?”
“Peachy.” The lock finally clicks open, and I shove my books inside. “Why, do you need something?” Why else would he be waiting here? His locker is on the opposite side of the building.
Blaze’s brows fly up. He looks somewhat annoyed. “Do people always want something other than your company when they seek you out?”
Why did no one give him the What You Need to Know About Nisha Blake, the Angel of Death handbook? My fellow classmates are usually all gossip-game. So, why not tell Blaze who I really am? “People don’t ever come looking for me, Blaze.” They stay as far away from me as possible, terrified they might catch death if they get too close.
He crosses his arms. “You are serious, aren’t you?”
I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Wouldn’t joke about it.” Being the center of gossip in a small American town is no fun. It’s more like being an innocent terror suspect in Guantanamo Bay—you can defend yourself all you want, but at the end of the day, no one believes a word you’re saying, and you still get water-boarded.
“Americans,” he says, turning up his nose.
I get the feeling he’s not a fan of the greatest nation in the world. “What’s that supposed to mean, Mr. England?”
He comes closer. The air between us is electrified. I’m worried I might be electrocuted if I dare breathe. “Simple. We”—he points at himself—“from the old world, usually pursue someone as intriguing as yourself.” I narrow my eyes at him and he smiles. “In other words: the English are drawn to beauty, princess. Not intimidated by it.”
My heart does an involuntary flick-flack. Does this guy have a What to Say to Women to Make Them Swoon book? Because here’s the thing: I’m not ugly. My eyes are a nice shade of emerald. I’m slim but have enough booty to make jeans look decent. And my face is symmetrical enough. Yet I’m not the kind of girl who attracts guys like Blaze—the I-own-the-universe-and-could-have-any-chick-I-want kind. I’m pretty sure the only reason Mole took me on a date was to get back at Marie. But what’s Blaze’s motivation? Maybe he’s just a charmer? The English are the origin of gentlemen-hood, after all. Whatever his agenda, he needs to stop pursuing it before he gets seriously hurt.
Unsure what to say or do, I grab my notebook and slam the locker shut. “I’m not intriguing,” I mutter, trying to move past him.
He blocks my path. “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that, Nisha?”
Would it make me look like a complete idiot if I ran? Probably. It’s still better than standing across from a boy so refreshingly unaware he’s hitting on Shepherdstown’s Angel of Death. “I gotta go,” I say, pointing to the ghostly hallway. “Mrs. Stevens is going to throw a fit if I’m late for Biology.” The woman is vice president of the Hate Nisha Fan Club. Her track record includes: detention for no reason, giving me an F on a pop quiz for alleged cheating, calling Aunt V to suggest I should be homeschooled for my own sake—I could go on all day.
Like a Victorian gentleman, Blaze bows his upper body, making a “ladies first” gesture. “I shall walk you to your class, then.”
No, I scream internally. But “O-kay?” is what comes out of my mouth.
We walk side by side. He keeps shooting me curious glances whenever he thinks I’m not looking. It doesn’t bother me. Blaze’s proximity doesn’t make me uncomfortable; his lack of speaking isn’t awkward. Instead, it feels as if he’s been walking next to me forever.
“I assume I owe you an explanation,” he says, breaking the code of silence.
I meet his gaze. “You do?”
He jams his thumbs in his pockets and shrugs. “My showing up at your locker seems a bit stalkerish, I guess.”
I furrow my brows. “Stalkerish?” I would have never used that word—which it actually isn’t, a word I mean—in connection with Blaze. “Don’t you think you’re being a bit dramatic? It’s not like you’re pulling an Edward ‘I break into your room and watch you sleep’ Cullen on me.” I hope he doesn’t.
He bites on his lip. “Do me a favor?”
“Uh, sure.”
“Don’t ever compare me to that prick, okay?”
I laugh. “You really don’t like the guy, huh?”
Blaze looks me in the eye. “That’s nicely expressed. Truth is, I hate the blood sucker.” His eye color changes to a midnight blue. He isn’t joking. Blaze really does abhor the glittering vampire I grew to love over the term of five books—yes, I count The Short Second Life of Bree Tanner as part of The Twilight Saga. “So,” he goes on. “Now that we’ve established I’m not Edwarding you, would you consider refraining from a restraining order?” Everything coming out of his mouth sounds like a rock ballad, but I can never tell if he’s joking or not.
Even if I had a real stalker, no judge in this town would be dumb enough to hand me a restraining order. They’d probably consider it a win-win. Either I die, or the creeper does. One way or another, the town would be a safer place. “You’re good,” I assure him.
He pretends to wipe non-existent sweat off his forehead. “Thank god. Kathy would cut off my goolies.”
We might speak the same language, but sometimes the English version of English is too English. “Your what?”
His gaze drifts to his crotch. “My goolies?” I shake my head. “Nuts? Balls? Test—”
“Okay.” I hold my hand up. “I got it.”
He could use the moment to make me feel bad about my naivety, but Blaze isn’t the kind of guy who dwells in other people’s misery. “Anyway, she’d kill me. And I think your chief of police would lend her a helping hand,” he continues, ignoring my flushed cheeks.
Actually, I think Mole’s dad would give him an award—probably the key to the city—if he murdered me. No need to let Blaze in on that little secret. “So, why were you really waiting on me?” Changing the topic, or should I say getting it back on track, seems like the smart thing to do.
He seizes hold of my shirt, stopping me. “I bloody meant what I said, princess. I am intrigued, and I’d love to get to know the real you.”
“The real me?” I parrot. That statement implies he’s currently speaking to the false me—that I’m pretending to be someone I’m not. Which I’m not, and everyone who knows me can attest to that.
Blaze runs his tattooed fingers through his hair. He looks less confident now. “I don’t know.” He sounds insecure. “But I think you don’t let many people into your inner ci
rcle. I doubt anyone but your small group of friends ever gets to see the real Nisha. I’d like to meet that girl, though. The one who didn’t hesitate to have small talk with a guy who had cuffs around his wrists and offered to show her his private collection.”
I have not the slightest idea what he’s talking about. The girl standing in front of him right now is the same girl he met at the station. Reserved, nerdy, and awkward—that’s me, Nisha Blake.
“Bottom line,” he goes on. “I’d like us to be real friends.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” I hear myself say.
He pulls one brow up. “And why’s that?”
What I should say is: people die around me. I’m cursed. I’m the freaking Angel of Death. What I do say is, “Just trust me on this, okay?”
“Can’t do that,” he shoots back. “Not without a proper explanation.”
He’s never going to give up. Blaze is a born fighter. He won’t stop until he gets what he wants. In this case, reaching his goal could get him killed. I was selfish enough to keep the truth away from him, but I can’t endanger his life just so I feel better about mine. “You really want the truth?”
He crosses his arms. “Do Americans expect lies?”
If he wants to make real friends, he needs to stop the America versus England nonsense. Patriotism is the backbone of our nation. “All right.” My heart drops in my tummy. “Meet me after school. I’ll show you why you don’t want to be friends with me.”
His eyes light up. “Fair enough.”
Fair for him? Absolutely. For me? The judgment hasn’t passed on that one yet.
We walk the last few steps to my classroom. “I’ll see you at lunch?”
My gaze wanders from him to the closed door. “See you there.” If Mrs. Stevens doesn’t put me in detention for being late, that is.
Mentally preparing myself for another hate-attack, I walk into the classroom. All eyes turn to me. Everyone looks equally surprised. Nisha Blake is known as the Angel of Death, but she’s never been late a day in her life.
Mutters roar through the rows.
“Quiet,” Mrs. Stevens barks before she faces me. “Care to elaborate why you’re late?” Her voice is venomous.
“I…” Was talking to Blaze? Forgot just about everything as I gazed into his lapis eyes? Am a complete moron for agreeing to meet said guy after school to show him what a freak I really am?
Mrs. Stevens exhales sharply. “You”—she smiles wickedly—“were busy working your deadly charm on the new boy? Is that what you were going to say?”
A long time ago, her hostility would have hurt. A younger, less experienced Nisha might have even cried. Not me. I’m used to such comments. Most teachers have mentioned my “deadly” ability at some point. She’s not the first, and will most likely not be the last, to do so. What does bug me is the fact she knows I was with Blaze. Unless she can see through walls, I have no clue how she got that info.
“Nothing to say, Nisha?”
“I’m sorry,” is all I can think of.
Mrs. Stevens straightens her pink cardigan. “Well, you should be. That poor boy just moved here. He doesn’t know who he’s dealing with, and I’m almost certain his parents would hate for him to be around a girl with your…history.”
They all laugh. The whole fricking class. Except for the boy with the glasses in the last row. He’s sleeping on his desk.
“She’s such a freak,” Terry, aka Mr. Pimple (that’s what the Heathers call him), aka our school mascot, whispers.
His friend John—also not part of the popular crowd, but a favored bully victim—nudges him. “Shut up, dude. I don’t want to be next on her list.”
Tears sting my eyes. I won’t give them the satisfaction of breaking down. Instead, I eagerly blink them away. They’re just scared, I tell myself. I’m pretty sure I’d be scared of me too if I were in their shoes. What I’m not sure about is if I’d be as mean about it as they are.
“Well.” Mrs. Stevens casts me a weary look. “What are you waiting for?”
Better days, I guess. I have a feeling they’ll never come. So, I move to my chair, pretending I don’t exist for the remaining hour.
I never meant to break Mr. Thornton’s heart. Shame, it’s exactly what I just did. The look on his face is hard to bear. He put a lot of hope in me doing the “right thing,” which, in his opinion, is agreeing to organize the annual Halloween Ball at the Bavarian Inn. But if the last couple of days taught me anything, it’s that I’m not ready. Ever since I did the stupid Google search about Egypt and its gods, my night terrors evolved to sleepwalking. Who knows what happens if I engage further into the subject? I really don’t want to end up in Shepherdstown’s psych ward along with folks claiming they saw ghosts walking across the Potomac River.
Overwhelmed with guilt, I step closer to his desk. “I’m sorry, Mr. Thornton. I appreciate all you’ve done for me. It’s just…”
He looks up from his papers. “I understand, Nisha.” He clears his throat. “You’ve been through a lot, and I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No.” I draw a deep breath. “I’m glad you thought of me and my college applications. Egypt is just not the right theme for me.” It makes me walk through the house at night and wake my family with terrifying screams. Not to mention the hallucinations.
Mr. Thornton pushes his glasses up. “I assume I should have considered how hard the subject must be on you after everything that happened to your parents.” He rises from his chair and leans against the desk. “I was just so excited. Your father’s book collection is so unique. I thought we could use it to turn the ball into a historical event.”
Did I mention how awful I feel about this? There’s got to be something I can do to help the only teacher not hating me. Preferably something that won’t invoke further nightmares. I know. “I’m really sorry I can’t help you organize the ball. But if you want to have a look at my parents’ books, you’re more than welcome to it.”
A spark of passion returns to his eyes. “Are you serious?” He sounds like a little boy whose mother just allowed him to stay up all night playing computer games.
“Sure. Come by anytime.” My parents loved to share their knowledge. They wouldn’t mind Mr. Thornton reading through their books.
For a second there, it looks like he’s about to hug me. He opts against it and extends his hand. “Thank you, Nisha.” His smile lights up the dull classroom. “You have no idea how much that means to us.”
“Us?”
“Did I say us?” He shakes his head. “I meant me. It means a lot to me.”
“No worries. As I said, it’s not a big deal.” As long as I don’t have to be there when he walks into my dad’s office, all is well.
I should have been in the parking lot twenty minutes ago. Over lunch, Blaze and I agreed to meet there. The rest of the gang thought we’d go on an actual date. I didn’t have it in me to burst their happy bubble. And to be completely honest, I wasn’t sure if I could have handled a lecture about how wrong it was to take Blaze on a little Nisha-is-a-freak trip. None of this has anything to do with my being late. It’s sort of Mole’s fault. I was halfway out of the building when he stopped me. He had no particular agenda. Just wanted to see how I was doing. Or so he said. His friends—most of the football team, Marie, and her Heathers—watched us like hawks. I did my best to shut the conversation down so I could get the heck out of there, but one thing Mole and Blaze have in common is they’re both persistent. I have to thank Marie for dragging Mole to football practice.
Chilly autumn wind rattles the golden leaves of the trees as I head past the main building to where the parking lot is located. I’m on my own. Most kids are already on their way home. Can’t blame them. No sane person spends more time at school than they have to. Maybe Blaze left, too. I didn’t have his number to text him I was running late.
Just in case he is waiting on me, I quicken my pace. Heading past the trash cans, I take a shortcut through the infamous smoking
area. Infamous because even though teachers know exactly why students hang here in between classes or during lunch, they don’t do anything about it. They’d rather pretend the spot doesn’t exist. On good days, they extend the same courtesy to me.
I keep looking over my shoulder. Don’t know why, but I can’t get over this weird feeling I’m being followed. There’s no one. Not even a stray cat. Yet I shiver, and the hair on the back of my neck stands up. Stupid.
The coward I am, I break into a run and am beyond happy when I hear Blaze’s voice. “Princess?” He’s leaning against the massive oak tree, right in front of the parking lot, waving me over.
Slowing down, I take a couple of deep breaths. “You’re still here?” Most guys don’t wait five minutes. Blaze, however, isn’t just blessed with the looks of a rock star and the voice of Bon Jovi. He’s also gifted with patience. I wish we would have met in another life. One where my touch isn’t toxic, or my proximity lethal.
He moves toward me, that cocky-as-heck grin spread across his marvelous face. “I thought we had a date. Was I wrong?”
I wouldn’t call the path down freak lane a date. “Yes.”
“Yes, I was wrong? Or yes, I was right?”
“Yes, we were supposed to meet here,” I clarify with a smile. “Sorry I kept you waiting. I—”
“No need to explain yourself, princess.” He doesn’t sound the least bit pissed. “I grew up with four sisters, remember?”
How could I forget? These girls have turned this tattooed bad boy into every girl’s dream. I’m not exaggerating. Even Oz, a prime example of the male species, isn’t as understanding as Blaze. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I make a promise to myself. Should I ever get rid of this curse, or should there be such a thing as rebirth—there isn’t—I won’t settle for less than a man like Blaze.
He doesn’t take his eyes off mine. “Ready to show me why we can’t be friends, princess?”
It’s not like I have a choice. “Let’s do this.” Better get this over with before he impresses me some more and I find myself unable to end things—whatever things may be.
Book of Souls (Gods of Egypt 1) Page 11