Book of Souls (Gods of Egypt 1)

by Nadine Nightingale

  Blaze flinches at the sound of the f-word. “Do you really believe I’d be here if, just for a second, I thought you were a…a…?”

  He can’t say it, huh? Let me help him out. “A freak, Blaze. A death-bringing freak.”

  Blaze circles my wrist and pulls me closer. His lapis eyes burn a hole in my soul. “Have I ever given you the impression I’m a fucking moron?” I avert my gaze. “Wow, you obviously don’t think much of me, princess.”

  How is it he’s always able to turn the tables on me? To make me feel like I’m a prejudiced jerk who doesn’t give him enough credit? It’s a gift, really. “This isn’t about you, Blaze.” I yank free of his grip. “This is about me and my dang deadliness. Every sane person would be terrified after hearing all those stories of murder and mayhem.”

  “Well, maybe I’m not sane,” he says calmly.

  Did he really just say that to me—the personification of mental instability? I’m torn between yelling at him and crying for him. I go with questioning his ability to think straight instead. “What is wrong with you, Blaze? Do you have a death wish? Or are you so arrogant you’re willing to risk your own life just to prove you’re right?”

  He shrugs. “A bit of both.”

  Know what? I give up. There’s no talking sense into him. He’s too dang stubborn. I spin on my heels, ready to show him the door when he seizes hold of my shirt and hauls me back. “Wait.”

  I don’t turn. “Why.”

  He exhales sharply. “I heard the rumors before you took me grave-dating.”

  Did he just say he’d heard about my curse before? Impossible. Why would he have pursued me if he had? “I appreciate you trying to make me feel better, but—”

  “I’m not that nice, princess.” With one swift move, he spins me around. “So, why don’t you hear me out first?”

  Sharp pain slices through my left eye. Any second, it’ll grow into a full-blown migraine. Every fiber in my soul urges me to stick to the initial plan and get him out of here and away from me. There’s just one tiny problem. I didn’t calculate the influence Blaze’s puppy gaze would have on me. A few minutes won’t hurt. Yeah, and it can’t get much worse than him seeing me do a loca dance in my PJs, or waking up in a soaked bed not knowing if I tried to end my life. “Fine,” I grumble. “You’ve got five minutes.”

  “That’s all I’ll need.” His smile can light up the darkest day. For the record, I’m not exaggerating. It just lit up mine.

  I bring some space between us and point at the sandwich on the table. “You hungry?”

  “Starving,” he says, rubbing his rock-hard—if my hallucinations are to be believed—eight-pack.

  I grab two slices of bread and lay them out on a plate. “Any specific requests?”

  “I’ll have the same as you,” he replies, pulling himself up onto the counter.

  Trying hard to overlook the way he stares at me, I spread tons of mayo on both breads. How did this even happen? One minute we’re arguing. The next I’m making him a sandwich? Paradox. We should get this over with, before I do something stupid like inviting him to my room. “Start talking,” I mutter, slicing the tomato into thin slits.

  He steals one and shoves it in his mouth. “Why don’t you finish that sandwich first?” he asks, mouth full. “Gives me enough time to actually eat it before you throw my sweet arse back on the street.”

  “Ever heard of takeout?” I load the sandwich with enough cheese and ham to feed a football team.

  Blaze winks. “Ever considered working for the hostage task force of Scotland Yard?”

  Does he have to be so annoying all the time? “Don’t test my patience, dude.”

  “Hey.” He holds his hands up in defense. “I’m just saying. You’re a hard negotiator, princess.” The guy never shies away from a compliment.

  I cut the sandwich in half and shove the plate against his chest. “Talk.”

  “Fine.” He jumps down and puts the sandwich on the counter. “Where do I start?”

  Is he serious? Judging by the way he looks at me, uncertain and a bit scared, I’d say he is. “How about you tell me why you’re crazy enough to befriend me when you already heard who I was?”

  He pulls his brows to his hairline. “For real?”

  “Yeah.” I slam my hands on my hips. “For real, Blaze.”

  “Let’s just say, I don’t care much about gossip.”

  Neither do I. Doesn’t explain why he’s still here despite me sharing the real story with him yesterday. “It’s not just some town gossip, dude.” I can’t believe I have to clarify that after the cemetery. “Again, people around me die like flies.” I draw a deep breath, bracing myself for the next words. “I’m cursed, Blaze.”

  “Cursed?” He throws his head back and laughs.

  I took him to the cemetery, told him every horrific story, and he’s laughing? “Do you think this is funny? Which part of ‘people around me drop dead’ don’t you understand? Would you like me to take you to the chief so you can skim through all the files labeled with my name?” They are not pretty to look at.

  Blaze pulls it together. “I’m sorry.” He’s trying hard not to laugh, but the edges of his lips curve upward regardless. “It’s just, I can’t believe a smart girl like you believes in curses.”

  I don’t. Believe in curses, I mean. They are superstitions, and acknowledging they exist equals admitting there’s a higher power. There isn’t. I believe in science and random misery, not gray-bearded men sitting on some cloudy thrones in the sky. Yet I fail to find another explanation for attracting death like lights draw in moths. Once upon a time, when I was younger, I toyed with the mutant idea—a la X-Men’s Rogue. Didn’t explain how the ones I didn’t touch ended up ten feet below the ground, so I discarded the theory.

  “Nisha?” Blaze’s voice is soft. “There’s really no such thing as curses.”

  “Yeah?” I arch a brow. “And what makes you a specialist on the subject?”

  “I’m English, princess.” He gives me a panty-wetting smile. “That makes me a specialist on just about any subject.”

  Have I mentioned his cockiness is maddening? “Can you be serious for once?” I didn’t let him stay so he could make fun of me, for crying out loud.

  “All right.” He leans against the table, half sitting, half standing. “Have you ever heard of the term ‘Traveler’?”

  I fail to see how this is connected to my death curse, but I decide to play along. “You mean Gypsies?”

  Blaze lets out a steamy breath. “We kind of hate that term.”

  “We?” Is he implying he’s a Traveler? It would certainly explain why he doesn’t look very English. His skin is too tanned, his hair too dark. Short: he’s exotic, like me.

  Blaze’s beautiful eyes grow distant. “I was born into a clan, yes. But we aren’t Sinti or Roma. We derive from an old Nubian nomadic tribe.”

  Gee, I hope he doesn’t think I’m racist or anything. “I didn’t mean to—”

  He shakes his head. “It’s okay.” The ghost of a smile crosses his face. “I’m not ashamed of my heritage. Besides, it’s not like my family lived in a caravan in London.”

  “They didn’t?” Dang, why can’t I keep my mouth shut?

  He laughs. “No, not since we kids were born. Mom and Dad got a house in Brixton at first. When my fighting career exploded, I bought them a decent place near Earl’s Court. They still live there.”

  He bought them the place? I had no idea fighting was so lucrative.

  “Anyway,” he goes on. “What I’m trying to say is: I know all about superstitions and curses. Every Sunday we’d attend a clan meeting, and my granny would go on and on about that stuff.”

  “That’s pretty awesome.” He casts me a weird look, and I shrug. “I always had a thing for other cultures and their history.” It’s inevitable when you live in the same house as an archeologist and a mythologist. “Nubia, that’s today’s Sudan, right?”

  “Yes, it is. But my point
is: none of it is real, Nisha.” He points to the sandwich I made for him. “Or, do you really believe I’ll marry an ugly wife if I leave leftovers?”

  I laugh. “Seriously?”

  He rolls his eyes and continues, unimpressed. “Or that I get money when my left hand itches, that crying at a wedding brings good luck, and that broken glass will keep evil away?”

  Sounds a little nuts to me, but who am I to judge? I’m the queen of insanity. “This isn’t the same, Blaze.”

  “How is it not?” His jawline tenses. “You’re standing here, claiming your proximity is lethal because you’re cursed, Nisha. Tell me, where’s the difference between this and what I just told you?”

  “This,” I say, with enough force to stiffen my muscles, “is real, Blaze. People are dead. I have the graves to prove it.”

  “Want to know what my granny used to say?” He’s never going to give up. I gesture for him to go on. “A curse,” he says, voice low, “only has power over you if you believe in it.” He caresses my cheek. “And I don’t.”

  I wish I shared his sentiment. The thing is, I’ve seen what happens to those dumb enough to get too close. If he doesn’t save himself, I will do it for him. “Stop,” I bark, stepping back. “Just stop.”

  He reaches out to me, but I step aside. “Princess, don’t—”

  “You think I’m making this all up, huh? That I’m a small-town girl who seeks attention by claiming she’s cursed with death?” A single tear falls down my face.

  He tries to wipe it away, but I won’t have him touch me again. “Nisha, I didn’t—”

  “I said stop, Blaze. I can’t force you to believe me.” I sure wish I could, but life isn’t a scripted reality TV show. “I can, however, tell you this: the last guy who disregarded the gossip and warnings ended up confined to a hospital bed for six whole months, because he was crushed by a massive tree branch on our first date.”

  “You talking about that football player prick?” He obviously knows more than he let on.

  “He isn’t a prick,” I defend Mole. “But yes, I’m talking about him. He almost died that night, Blaze. Wanna know why? Because he was reckless enough to kiss me.” Gee, I hate these memories. It’ll always be a reminder of how life can turn from awesome to hell in a heartbeat.

  Blaze’s gaze drops to my mouth. “You think he got hit by the branch because he kissed you?” The way he runs his tongue over his lower lip makes me shiver. Add the smoky-as-heck voice, and you have the recipe for a heart attack.

  Breathe, I urge myself, just breathe.

  “Princess?” He moves in on me, like a hungry panther. I try to put some distance between us, but my back is pressed against the fridge, and there’s nowhere else to go. Blaze has me cornered. “Answer me,” he whispers, leaning in even closer. “Is that really what you think? That your kisses kill?”

  I’m not oblivious to the wicked smile he’s rocking. Neither am I immune to his proximity. I’ve read about butterflies in the belly, heard the expression a million times. Never experienced it, though. Never, until—

  The scent of lemon climbs in my nose. My tummy cramps, and the wings beating inside are hardly sweet butterflies but full-grown dragons. I try to think straight, do my best to calm my crazy heart. It’s just not working. The longer I look into Blaze’s eyes, the more I want him to claim my mouth. Holding on to reality gets harder by the second, and before I know it, the illusions take over.

  The kitchen is gone. I’m lying on cold sandstone; Blaze—the mighty soldier with the black markings all over his skin—is on top of me. His breath is rigged, his gaze glued to my lips. “You’re not a traitor, princess.”

  I swallow hard. “How can you say that, after everything I just told you?”

  He runs his hand over my cheek. “Because I can see what’s in your heart.”

  “Let me show you,” the voice of the real Blaze, the one whose lips are inches from mine, brings back reality. “Let me prove you wrong, princess.”

  My emotions are in a frenzy. I know I should tell him to stop, kick him out of the house and stay far, far away from him. I’m too weak to do the right thing.

  His lips softly brush mine—

  Then the volume of the radio turns up to max all by itself. “Bed of Roses” blasts through the speakers. We both jump at the sound. “What the—” The words stick in my throat as I look over Blaze’s shoulder and find none other than Rob next to the CD player.

  Arms crossed, he stares at us. “Should I come back later?”

  “He did what?” Oz has a hard time processing what Izzy just spelled out for him. To be fair, it’s not every day your girlfriend tells you her not-yet-stepdad reenacted the famous Bad Boys II scene. You know, the one where Will Smith and Martin Lawrence act like gangsters to scare off the daughter’s date.

  Izzy proceeds down the stairs. “I have no idea what’s gotten into him.” Judging by her sharp tone, she’s still pissed at Rob. The second she got back home and heard what he’d done, she went nuts. She preached to him how un-cool it was to act like an overprotective parent when all Blaze did was check on me. I tried to calm her. Did my best to convince her to cut him some slack. The man was up all night because of my craziness, did the morning shift at the restaurant, and came home just to walk in on Blaze having me pinned against the fridge, his lips inches from mine. I think everyone would have lost it at that point—even pacifist/Hinduist Rob. Izzy, however, didn’t share my sentiment. She gave him hell, went as far as to call Aunt V, who was less than amused. When she got back home, poor Rob was in for another lecture. One that ended with him sleeping on the couch. What can I say? Aunt V has a zero-gun-tolerance policy, even when it’s just a paintball gun.

  Oz sighs. “Is Blaze okay?” The question is directed at me. Problem is: I have no clue. I haven’t seen or spoken to him since Rob threatened to color his manhood a nasty shade of red with the paintball gun. And to be completely honest, I’m not sure I want to see him. Not after what went down before Rob barged in on us.

  “Why wouldn’t he be?” Shaggy asks. He and Scooby sneaked up behind us like silent ninjas. Sometimes I think the twins have a drama radar. They happen to be right on time every time it unfolds.

  Oz draws a deep breath. “Rob caught him and Nisha.”

  “Doing what?” Shaggy asks, grinning like the devil.

  Scooby raises his brows. “Jesus, Shaggy. I don’t think we need details.”

  “Speak for yourself, bro.” Shaggy faces me. “So, what were you guys up to? First base? Second base, or did you go all the way?”

  Heat mingled with embarrassment turns me into Mrs. Crab. “Nothing happened,” I grumble. They’ve known me all my life. My love life has never been gossip worthy. What makes them think something has changed?

  Shaggy smirks. “Yeah, right.”

  “You can’t sincerely expect us to buy that?” Scooby, of all people, says. He’s giving me the look usually reserved for his brother after coming down from another high. The you-should-be-ashamed-of-yourself kind. Only, I don’t think it’s because of what he thinks happened between Blaze and me, but rather, because he’s certain I’m lying to them.

  I search the faces of my friends, looking for anyone ready to believe my version. No one does. Not even my cousin. Probably because it’s only half of the truth. The part I’m willing to share. If Rob hadn’t walked in on us Blaze would have kissed me. Worse? I would have let him. I’d rather bite off my own arm than share this little detail.

  It’s time to end this nasty interrogation. “I gotta get to class,” I say, speeding in the opposite direction.

  “We’re so going to talk about this at lunch,” Shaggy yells after me.

  I make a mental note to skip the cafeteria today. Possibly for the rest of my senior year.

  Keeping a low profile, I head down the crowded hallway. Most of the students go the extra mile to get out of my way. I’m too wrapped up in the almost-kiss to care. How could I let this happen? I’m not some pubescent hor
mone-overloaded teen, for crying out loud. I’m rational—as rational as an insane person can be. So, what is it about this guy that makes me so reckless? Seriously, what was I thinking?

  Nothing—and that’s the problem. Blaze’s gold-blue eyes captivated me. My judgment was clouded by a shit-load of emotions—longing, warmth, familiarity. Yup, so much familiarity, it’s hard to fathom that we barely know each other. I swear, being near him feels like I’m constantly reliving a massive déjà vu, like being trapped in the Matrix without anyone offering me the red pill. Weird.

  Still, it doesn’t justify what I did. I have to woman-up and take on responsibility for endangering Blaze’s life so carelessly. Who knows what would have happened had we kissed. I think of the kitchen knife I’d used to make the sandwiches, the garbage disposal, the frying pans on the pot rack—the room was practically a death trap.

  What’s done is done. I can’t change the past. What I can do is make dang sure a situation like this won’t arise again. From now on, I’m going to keep a much-needed safety distance between us. No touching. No flirting. Above all, no direct eye contact. Yup, sounds like a rock-solid plan.

  Only, it isn’t.

  Why? Because after third period, Blaze is waiting on me by my locker. I’d run, but he’s already spotted me. He moves toward me, greeting me with a heartwarming smile and his cute dimple. “How’s you, princess?”

  Frustrated with myself and life in general, I stick to my plan and keep my gaze away from his. “Peachy,” I assure him, opening my locker. “You?” A deaf man could hear I’m not up for small talk, or talk in general.

  Either Blaze doesn’t care, or he’s oblivious to my current state of mind. “How bad was it?” He’s talking about Rob. I can tell by his sinking shoulders and the all-around miserable look he’s rocking.

  “For me, or Rob?”

  He didn’t expect that. Then, he’s never met my aunt. Never suffered Izzy’s wrath when she’s angry. “Both?”