Around ten a.m., I finally find the courage to drag myself out of bed. I almost have a heart attack when I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the hallway mirror. My usually golden skin is yellowish, giving me the look of a gravely sick jaundice patient. The circles beneath my eyes are as black as charcoal and as deep as moon craters. And my hair? Well, let’s just say I don’t need a wig to dress up as Edward Scissorhands for Halloween. I owe Aunt V and Rob a massive thank-you for allowing me to skip school. Not just because I look like hell. Nope. They also saved me from a run-in with Blaze—the last person on this planet I want to see today or, more accurately, ever again. I can live with the reality that he thinks I’m a freak—he’s in good company at Jefferson High. What I can’t bear is him throwing fearful and disgusted glances my way. I grew to like him too much.
Stumbling down the stairs, I crave coffee and food. Rob’s bacon would be a dream come true. But at this point, with my tummy groaning like a lion, I’d be happy about a slice of bread. The last time I had a meal was at lunch, yesterday. It’s not surprising I’m starving. Who wouldn’t be? The unmistakable scent of coffee wafts through the hallway. I love that Aunt V is as addicted to the stuff as I am. When she’s home there’s always a fresh pot brewing.
Shame, I never make it into the kitchen. Aunt V’s voice prevents me from entering. “I’m worried, Amara.” She sounds as tortured as I look. “I really don’t know what to do with her. It’s not just the night terrors and the hallucinations anymore. She’s sleepwalking too. And…”
What is this? A meeting of the Nisha Blake crisis committee? The door is ajar. I lean against the frame and take a peek. Aunt V and Amara are sitting at the breakfast table, steaming cups of coffee in front of their noses.
“It’s going to be okay,” Amara reassures V. “She will be okay.”
“I thought so too,” my aunt says, gazing at her drink. “But after tonight, I’m not so sure.” She pauses and meets Amara’s gaze. “You should have seen her. Her clothes, the bed…It looked like she took a midnight swim in the river.”
And here I thought I felt miserable before. Little did I know, things could get worse than insanity. Because while it sucks to have a screwed-up brain, it’s ten times worse to see the consequences it has on the people I love. The ones who, despite my deadliness, stood by me, believing I can be cured.
Amara lounges in the chair, ogling V. “Did you see her come home?”
“No, I did the middle shift.” V sighs heavily. “But Izzy said she was on a date with that new guy. You know, the English boy everyone talks about.”
“The MMA fighter?” Aunt V nods, and Amara drums her fake nails on the table. “Well, did anyone else see her come home? Izzy, or Rob maybe?”
My aunt shrugs. “I don’t think so.”
“Hmm.”
Aunt V raises a brow. “Hmm, what?”
Amara props her elbows on the table, leaning in closer. “Tell me about the desert rose again.”
Aunt V’s already beaten up face slips into a major frown. “It was sitting on the windowsill, like someone left it there for her.”
“And you’re sure she didn’t take it from Adam’s office?” Amara’s tone invokes unbeloved memories of the Johnson and Radcliffe interrogation I had to endure the night I met Blaze.
“One hundred percent.” V pulls a small silver key out of her pocket and dangles it in front of Amara’s face. “I locked the office myself.”
Amara plays cool. “She could have gotten the key.”
“That’s just it,” Aunt V grumbles. “She couldn’t have. I had it in my bedroom, Amara. That’s not even the craziest part. Rob checked the door last night, after the girls went back to bed.” She exhales sharply. “It was still locked. Now, unless Nisha can walk through walls, I have not the slightest idea how she got in there, or the rose out for the matter.”
Apparently, I’m not the only family member haunted by questions with no answers. Aunt V appears to share my misery. Frankly, I don’t blame her. She’s certain Dad’s office was locked, the key with her. There’s no rational explanation for how the desert rose got on my windowsill. None whatsoever.
Amara squeezes V’s hand. “Nisha is a fighter, Violet. She’ll get through this.”
Aunt V explodes out of her chair. “I only wish I knew what this is.” She ditches her cup in the sink. “Truth be told, I’m beginning to wonder if I should have taken her to a priest instead of a shrink.”
So, now she thinks I’m possessed? Aunt V has always been superstitious, but this is her speeding down the path of crazy town. Even I, the queen of bonkers, knows there’s no such thing as ghosts or demons. Someone ought to give her the memo before she ends up like me.
In a heartbeat, Amara is next to V, forcing a halfhearted smile. “I’m sure there’s an explanation for everything. Until we find it, we just have to keep her away from all things Egypt, okay?”
Since when is Amara team stay-away-from-Egypt? I remember a time when she said I should face my demons not run from them.
Aunt V leans against the kitchen counter. Arms crossed, she studies Amara’s face. “What do you think I’m trying to do?” Judging by the sharpness of her voice, I’d say my aunt is a bit offended. “Rob and I collected every book, statue, and papyrus in the house and put it in Adam’s office. There’s no trace of Egypt left.”
Amara’s eyes widen. “So, you don’t know?”
“What are you talking about?” Yup, my aunt really is pissed off.
Amara’s face turns to stone. “Her history teacher, Mr. Thornton, asked her to go through Adam’s books to help him organize the annual Halloween Ball at the Bavarian Inn.”
“He did what?” Now she’s furious. “Why would he—”
“I don’t know,” Amara cuts her off. “But I think you should talk to him. Remind him why Egypt is the last thing Nisha should think about.”
I should barge in there and tell them I already handled Mr. Thornton, but I can’t face my aunt or Amara right now. They already think I’m a fragile porcelain doll. Chances are they’ll drive me to the psych ward if I lose my shit in there.
Aunt V rinses her cup. “I’ll drop by school after work.”
Poor Mr. Thornton. V, like Izzy, is kind and loving. Get on her bad side and you’ll wish you’d annoyed the devil instead.
A big fat smile creeps over Amara’s lips, and I get the feeling she’s enjoying the prospect of my aunt raining down hell on Thornton. “I gotta get back to work,” she says, pointing at the screen of her phone. “Do you mind if I borrow the book I told you about?”
“Not at all.” Aunt V dries her hands on a cloth and pulls the key to Dad’s office out of her pocket. “Here you go. I hope you don’t mind going in alone?”
Amara pats my aunt’s shoulder. “Not at all.”
Careful not to make any noise, I run back up the stairs into Izzy’s room. I’m no longer hungry. I just want to hide beneath these blankets and remain here for the rest of my pathetic life. Preferably, without getting anyone else killed.
The house is mine and mine only. Shortly after Amara slammed the door shut behind her, Aunt V came up to check on me and to say goodbye. I pretended to be asleep. Yeah, I was being a jerk. I just don’t know how to face her anymore. Because of me, she’s beginning to question her own sanity. That’s so screwed up, I don’t even have words for it.
Around lunchtime, I saunter into the kitchen. There’s a note for me on the table: Doing another double shift. Rob will be home for dinner. Call if you need anything. Love you, V. Man, I don’t deserve her. Heck, I don’t deserve any of them—Aunt V, Rob, Izzy, my friends. Sometimes I wonder what they did to be punished with a freak like me. The simple answer is: they drew the short straw in the family/friends lottery.
The house is eerily quiet. Any other day I’d welcome the silence, but today isn’t any other day. Today, I’m haunted by my own thoughts. I need to shut them up. Just for a little while.
Rob’s old CD player catches my a
ttention. It might be old fashioned, but I have no doubt it’ll do the job. I press the “open” button. The lid pops. Best Of 90s—in Rob’s handwriting—is scribbled across the shiny surface of a compact disc. Music from two decades before I was born, huh? Well, beggars can’t be choosers. So, I close the lid and press “play.” The thing sure as heck makes weird screeching noises.
I yank the fridge open, grab everything I need for a ham and cheese sandwich, and by the time I lay the ingredients out on the counter, the first song starts playing. I have no clue who the artist is, but I immediately recognize the title “Here Comes the Hotstepper.” I turn the volume to the max and move to the rhythm. Gotta admit, that’s a pretty awesome beat for old folks’ music.
Between slicing tomatoes, spreading tons of mayo on my sandwich, and wondering why, for the love of music, Rob thinks Britney Spears’ “Hit Me Baby One More Time” qualifies as best of 90s, I forget all about yesterday. Had I known 90s music has the ability to clear one’s mind, I would have stuffed my phone with every song of the decade.
Ready to devour my master sandwich, I grab a soda and move to the table. The CD player makes another screeching sound. By now, I recognize it for what it is: a sign a new song is about to play. This one opens with a guitar solo, followed by soft piano tunes and the unmistakable smoky voice of Jon Bon Jovi, singing about a “Bed of Roses.”
I’m enchanted by the melody. It makes me feel all sorts of things—longing, sadness, love. A heaviness settles over my chest as the lyrics captivate me. They draw me away from the kitchen and back to the river—back to Seth. Once more, I’m faced with his garnet eyes. Once more, he whispers, “Remember. You have to remember.”
Bon Jovi’s voice grows angrier and sadder at the same time. Flashes of yesterday’s visions flicker across my mind. The lost boy. The desert rose. The Hall of Eternal Life. Seth’s grief-stricken face as I died in his arms. Then, his last words echo in my ears: “We belong together. I will find you again, love.”
I can’t breathe. My chest cramps. It hurts so bad I feel like I’m being suffocated by the song. Tears well up in my eyes. I cry for the lonely boy in the desert, for the tyrant who died because his one true love plotted against him, and for the girl who sacrificed her happiness to protect the world from him.
Funny how, minutes ago, I thought my madness couldn’t be topped. That last night was the tip of my insanity iceberg. Now, I’m sitting here in front of my untouched sandwich, realizing a part of me—a very big part—wants nothing more than to be laid down in a bed of desert roses. What is wrong with me?
The melody dies when the doorbell rings. Shit. The last thing I need is a confrontation with some stranger trying to convince me I need to find Jesus or talking me into buying the newest household item no one on Earth needs.
Just ignore it, I tell myself.
And boy, do I try. I wipe my puffy eyes and focus on the song currently blasting through the speakers. Good old Ricky Martin’s “Livin’ La Vida Loca.” My mom loved this one. She used to rock the house whenever she heard it.
The bell keeps ringing over and over and over.
I jump to my feet, going crazy with the rhythm. The harder I concentrate on the beat, the less focused I am on the annoying sound. Dance like no one is watching you, my dad used to say whenever he lost his marbles listening to Judas Priest. Who am I not to follow the advice of the smartest man I knew, right?
Shaking my feet, I rock my VIP kitchen dance floor. The bell-ringer must have finally given up, because all I hear is Ricky ordering “French Champagne.” I am insane, so I assume it’s only fitting I go totally “loca,” circling my hips like there’s no tomorrow. For all I care, the world can go up in nuclear fireworks, and I’ll still be dancing. Until—
I spot a shadow in the corner of my eye. I spin around, expecting another hallucination, or the home invader, looking to finish what he started last year. What I find is a million times worse. “What the f—”
Blaze’s eyes are on fire. “By all means,” he shouts over the music. “Go on, princess. I haven’t been as entertained in a very long time.”
Contrary to my reputation and the body count blemishing my resume, I’m a proud member of the #MahatmaGandhiMartinLutherKingDontEngageInViolenceClub. Love trumps hate anytime. No questions asked. Yet I’m pretty sure both Gandhi and King would forgive me if I tossed all their values out the window to give Blaze the beating he deserves for sneaking up on me like that. All they’d have to do is look at the smug grin plastered all over his perfect face and who knows, they might even do it themselves.
Blaze, always the observer, ogles my balled fists dangling at my sides. “You want to hit me, don’t you?” As I said previously, I can never tell if he’s joking or not.
I swallow the bitter embarrassment my little dance interlude has caused, ease the muscles in my ironclad fists, and turn the volume of the CD player down. “How the heck did you get in here?” I highly doubt he has a key or knows where to find the spare one Aunt V keeps hiding beneath the “Welcome” mat.
Blaze scrubs his fingers through his hair. “The door was unlocked.”
Back up. Since when does an unlocked door mean you can just walk into a house and get away with it? “And you figured that’s an invitation to barge into a stranger’s house?” Where I’m from, we call that trespassing. I’m pretty sure the English have an equal law. If not, they should dang well get one.
“You’re hardly a stranger,” he justifies. “We’re friends, remember?”
I woke up in a soaking bed, realized I’m insane, listened to Aunt V pouring her broken heart out to Amara, and now I’m face to face with the last person I wanted to see—excuse me, I can’t handle attitude today. “Blaze,” I bark, at the brink of losing my last marbles.
He finally gets I’m not messing around. “Relax,” he says, the grin fading. “I heard the music and—”
“Thought, hey, let’s join the party?” Maybe I walk in on Nisha making a complete fool of herself. Congrats. Mission accomplished.
Blaze jams his thumbs in his low-hanging jeans. “C’mon, princess.” He cocks a brow at me. “You make it sound as if I broke in.”
That’s exactly what he did. I get the feeling he won’t see it that way no matter what I say. My anger blurs with frustration. “What are you even doing here?” I gawk at the digital clock on the microwave. “Shouldn’t you be at school?” Having lunch with the Nisha-is-a-freak fan club.
His lapis eyes roam my face. He’s searching for something. I just don’t know what. “I was worried about you,” he says after some time.
Toxic laughter crawls up my throat. “You were worried about me?” Sorry, not buying it. I took him to a cemetery, told him all about my deadliness, and he’s concerned about my well-being? Bullshit. Unless—
Unless I didn’t take him to the graves of my victims. Unless I hallucinated that, too. It’s a possibility. I rub my aching temples. The whole I-can’t-tell-what’s-real-and-what-isn’t thing is killing me.
His god-like face turns to stone. “I was looking for you all day.” His shoulders stiffen. “If it wasn’t for Oz, I still would be. He was kind enough to tell me you were home sick.” A halfhearted smile plays on his lips. “I came over to check on you, make sure you’re all right.” He tilts his chin at the CD player. “Clearly, you are.”
I realize that I need to know what happened yesterday without actually addressing the cemetery. You know, just in case it was an illusion. “Why bother?”
He furrows his brows. “What?”
Dang, he’s not going to make this easy. Truth be told, I’m beginning to wonder if the word “easy” is even part of his vocabulary. I lean against the fridge, ankles crossed. “Why bother checking on me after everything I told you yesterday?” I keep it vague, in case my insanity conjured it all up. It’s one thing to let him in on my deadly reputation. Sharing how mad I really am? That’s something entirely else.
Blaze narrows his eyes. “Seriously?” When I say not
hing, he goes on. “Let me get this right. You want me to explain why I’m checking on you after you dragged me through the cemetery, only to run from me seconds after you told me what happened to your parents?”
We’ve been to the cemetery. Not gonna lie, I am relieved to learn I’m not completely bonkers. But, why didn’t he get the message? “No need to check on me. I think I made myself pretty clear as to who I am and why we can never be friends, didn’t I?”
“No,” he says, marching toward me like Rambo on his last mission. “You made clear why you think we can’t be friends. I don’t recall agreeing with you.” He presses his index finger against his temple, pretending to mull this over. “Jesus, I almost forgot. I never got the chance to say anything.” His eyes are gleaming with irritation. “Because you, Nisha, abandoned me in the middle of a goddamn graveyard.”
I’ve heard the Nisha-is-a-freak sermon more times than I care to admit. I didn’t need it from him too. “You didn’t have to say anything. I knew exactly what you were thinking.”
“Is that so?” He goes from looking vexed to full-blown mad in a matter of seconds. “Well then, please…” He waves his hand. “Go ahead and enlighten me.”
I hate him a little right now. “Really?”
“Really,” he shoots back, crossing his muscular arms to prove a point.
He didn’t come here to check on me. He came to make me feel worse than I already do. And heck, does he succeed. A million toxic emotions flood my system. I think of Seth and the desert rose, of the river and the fact I was possibly ready to end it all, of Aunt V and Amara—it’s too much. “I’m a freak,” I bark. “There, I said it. Happy? Can you leave now?”
Book of Souls (Gods of Egypt 1) Page 14