by S. K. Kelley
Well, I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.
I zip up my jacket, grab my purse and new travel umbrella from their hooks—thanks, Night—and open the front door.
Oh. It is very wet.
I stand on the landing, weighing the pros and cons of going anywhere now that I’m face-to-face with a literal curtain of water two feet in front of me.
The nearest bus stop is a block and a half from Westbrooke’s east gate, which means I’ll have to walk for at least half an hour through this downpour. Even if I do hop on a bus, where will I go? How am I supposed to find James? He could be anywhere.
I almost change my mind.
I almost give up and turn around.
I almost do, but the sickening unease and desperate longing for answers overpower my doubts. I can’t ignore either. Not anymore.
Okay, let’s do this.
My umbrella pops open at the click of a button, and I abandon the shelter of the covered landing. I descend the steps and make my way down the half-flooded path to the sidewalk.
The umbrella does its job, so I reach into my pocket and move onto the next hurdle: checking the address on James’ license. I type it into my phone and recognize the general location. It’s on the northeast side of town. The bus could get me within a few blocks.
But...
The more I focus on the location marker on my map—the more times my eyes follow the red line tracing the bus route—the more I feel like I won’t find him there. Eventually, I delete the marker and stop walking to study the map again.
The only other place with any connection to James is the creepy house he drove me out to on the Fourth of July. The thought sends a shiver down my spine—but it might just be the wind.
Where was that, again?
The route I walked to get back to Ice’s house on the Fourth is a total blur, but I might be able to piece it together using my phone. I don’t have any better ideas.
With a sigh, I put my phone away. I tuck my ponytail into the back of my jacket, pull the hood up, and zip it up to my chin. Then I continue down the sidewalk.
Choosing the decrepit mansion in the middle of the woods over the address on his license means I can only take the bus so far. No matter how close it can get me to the turn-off, I’ll still have to walk down that long gravel road. There’s no guarantee I’ll even find him there, but my gut tells me it’s right, so...
I step in a shallow puddle, splashing water past the top of my boots. Cool moisture wicks up the exposed denim, and I glare down the manicured street as the determination I felt this morning slowly wanes.
James had better be there when I show up.
forty-nine
BY THE TIME I ROUND the final bend on the empty, tree-lined road and catch sight of the finish line, my boots squish and squelch as I walk. The umbrella helped, but water has been leaking through the seams for a while, so I’m both freezing cold and near soaking wet.
In daylight, the three-story building is far less creepy, though it’s still imposingly large—like a cross between a giant, wooden crate and a Victorian mansion. A brick arch borders the large front doors and more brick forms decorative columns on the corners of the first floor. The rest of the exterior is wood coated with peeling paint of indeterminate color.
What I remember of the interior isn’t much better.
I think it was once a house, but I can’t imagine anyone actually lives there now. It’s beyond wrecked. Several windows are broken. A few are boarded up with aging plywood. There’s no way it’s safe for human habitation.
Though, a dinged-up white sedan is parked off to one side of the building. James or no James, I should be able to escape the infernal rain as long as someone is inside.
I break into a jog and head for the large front doors. I splash through all sorts of mud puddles in the uneven gravel, but my jeans were already wet up to the knee. What difference does a little more water make?
When I reach the sheltered porch, I stand around, shifting my weight and collecting myself, until I finally muster the courage to knock on one of the heavy doors.
Ow.
I rub my sore knuckles before turning my attention back to the door. There’s no immediate answer or sound from inside—not that I hear much over the rain drumming on the corrugated metal above my head.
Unsure what to do next, I shake my umbrella, dislodging as much water as possible, and fold it up. With the umbrella hanging around my wrist, I try to shake some of the water off my body too, but the results are far from spectacular.
I’m quite damp.
After another minute spent waiting, I press an ear to the door. I still don’t hear anything on the other side.
Please, please, be here... James. Anyone.
Maybe whoever is inside didn’t hear my first knock. I hadn’t managed to knock very loud, anyway, so I give it another try—this time using my umbrella’s plastic handle rather than one of my cold, numb hands.
I waste more time by pouring the water out of my boots, and then I get back to standing and waiting. I wait and wait, staring at my muddy boots and uncomfortably wet jeans, and I listen to the rain as the last remnants of hope and energy slowly drain from my cold, tired body.
What if I just—
My hand reaches for the door handle.
And then I hear someone shuffling around on the other side.
Yes!
I pat the door with the palm of my outstretched hand to let the person inside know that someone is standing out here. Trust me; you weren’t hearing things.
“James Reid?” I call hopefully.
There’s a pause. I hold my breath.
“Yeah?” a muffled voice responds.
Oh, thank god.
“Can I come in?” I ask, hoping my voice is loud enough. “I’m not sure how much more rain I can take.”
Another pause, and the left door creaks open. James peeks half of his face out from behind the cracked door.
I wave and offer him an anxious, yet wholly relieved, smile.
He does not return the smile and instead looks horrified. “Why you?” he asks. “What are you doing here?”
When I shrug, his mouth closes tightly. He pokes his head further out and looks past me to scan the gravel lot. His eyes are wide and alert, as though he expects danger to pop out from behind me at any moment.
His concern is so contagious, I glance over my shoulder, but the lot is empty. Wet, but empty—save for what I assume is James’ own vehicle.
“Is he here?” he asks.
“Who?” He doesn’t answer my question, but I quickly realize what he means and shake my head. “No. It’s just me.”
He exhales deeply before opening the door the rest of the way. With the exception of the missing knit cap, he’s wearing the same clothes as last night. Exhaustion dulls his eyes, but his frown grows more pronounced as he looks me over.
“You’re soaked,” he says, glancing around the empty lot again. “You...walked here? Through the rain?”
I nod, my smile fixed.
He grimaces and steps aside. “Maybe you should come in.”
“Thanks.” That was the plan.
James closes the heavy door behind me, muffling the sound of the rain. As we stand in the dusty, dimly lit vestibule, I think only of the last time I was here. It’s different somehow—just as dingy and cluttered, but less dark, I guess. Is it the time of day or because I’m here under different circumstances?
The window closest to the door is broken. The frame is patched with plywood, but several large shards of yellowed glass still litter the floor.
Definitely not fit for human habitation.
I turn to James, but he looks just about as lost and confused as I feel. Avoiding eye contact, his attention darts around the room. He scratches his arm, tugging at the material of his coat.
He’s obviously uncomfortable, but he eventually clears his throat and gestures further into the house.
“Here,” he says. “Follow me.”
Jeez... I’m starting to regret coming here.
I peel my jacket off as I trail after him, through the vestibule and into the next room. He flicks a light switch that activates a surprisingly bright lamp and livens up the room. A little.
As I look around, the room appears to be a trashed parlor or some kind of sitting room. There’s a stairwell to the left. A small wicker couch against the opposite wall. An armchair. A cushioned chaise. A short table. A bookcase, knocked over and empty. The wallpaper is peeling, and there’s more broken glass on the floor, along with a few sheets of plywood piled at the far end of the room near an empty door frame.
Which board tripped me up before? If I looked, would I find a smear of blood somewhere?
James stops near the couch, which is terribly dusty—as damn-near everything is. On second glance, though, it’s dry and free of broken glass, so it’s good enough. I unceremoniously dump my purse, umbrella, and damp jacket onto a nearby table before taking a seat at one end of the couch. It’s not very comfortable, but sitting at all is a nice change.
James remains standing a few feet away. He doesn’t face me, his shoulders slumped.
“Why are you here?” he asks.
His words are tinged with insecurity and annoyance, and both things bother me. Something about his hesitation now and the desperation in his voice last night. I don’t understand—I’m not sure I want to—and I don’t know how to answer.
Why did I come here? What dug its way into my subconscious and convinced me to leave Ice’s house to find him? Was it only the dream that set me on edge?
Or was it...? Something...
“Hey, um...” I look up from my lap. “Are you okay?”
He flinches like my innocent question shocked him. Then he turns to face me, his head tipped to one side, appearing confused and...disappointed, almost. His injuries are even more upsetting in daylight, and I have to force my expression to remain unchanged.
“I just wanted to apologize,” he says, averting his gaze and adopting a more uneasy posture. “I didn’t expect to see you again. You weren’t supposed to come here. This is all wrong.”
He didn’t answer my question. He’s obviously upset—about what he did or what Ice did or something else—but he’s avoiding it? He doesn’t want to talk about it?
“Apologize for the Fourth of July?” I ask.
“I mean, yeah...” He scratches a scab on his cheek. “But I’m mostly sorry you met me at all.”
Wow. Um. Where do I start?
I clear my throat. “Anyway, I came here to talk to you.”
“Why?” he asks, prickling uncomfortably.
That’s a great question.
“Well,” I say, thinking as I speak, “life has changed a lot for me since I learned about immortals, and it’s all been very strange, you know? Between Ice and the Human Immortal Program, Night, and now you... I don’t understand how any of this works. I don’t know why anything happened the way it did, or who you even are, and no one wants to explain it to me, so—”
Wary amber eyes search my face. “What do you mean?”
“For one: Who are you?”
“Me?” he asks, surprised for some reason. “Oh, I’m nobody.”
“I’m serious. No one will tell me anything about you.”
“I’m not surprised,” he says with a short laugh that cuts off as he meets my gaze. “But you’ve asked?”
“Of course I have.”
As he stares at me, and I stare back, the hand held to his face slowly falls to his side. But neither of us say anything. So, with a sigh, I slip his driver’s license out of my pocket.
“Why did you leave this with me?”
His eyes are wide, locked onto the card in my hand. A sinking, anxious dread builds in his expression—an air of guilt, like a child caught doing something naughty. Then he sits at the other end of the wicker couch. Shoulders slumped, he avoids my gaze and angles himself to better hide his face, but I don’t take my eyes off him.
“You didn’t want me to come looking for you?” I ask.
“No,” he says.
“Then why leave your ID behind?”
He clasps his hands in his lap and takes a deep breath. “Okay, ah... Well, you remember what happened on the Fourth, right? When the gun fell out of my pocket? I knew I messed up. Anyway, you screamed at me—and, um, you hit me—right before you took off...”
Ah. Is that what happened?
“This is gonna sound so stupid,” he continues with a weak and bitter laugh, “but it got stuck in my head somehow. Your voice, I mean.”
“My voice?”
He scratches the back of his neck.
“I kept hearing it over and over, ‘What is wrong with you? You freak! I hate you!’ Like that.” He sighs, pausing as his shoulders droop further. “It really does sound pathetic, but I couldn’t get your voice out of my head. I heard it all the time. Ice’s voice too. Constantly. Saying terrible things. It kept me awake at night. I thought I’d go crazy.”
You were...literally hearing voices?
I frown, but I hold my tongue.
“Anyway, I was sure I hated you because it was your voice in my head, but... What I did was terrible. You seem like a decent girl, and I just...”
He trails off and stares at his open hands, held up as though covered in blood only he can see. Then he sighs and returns them to his lap.
“I knew it was a waste of time,” he says. “Surely, you hate me more than anything for what I did. I mean, you have every right to. But I couldn’t take it anymore, so I went to apologize, anyway. Nothing changed, really, but I didn’t know what to do once I got back here—”
Finally, I raise a hand, and he stops to watch me.
“What are you trying to get at?” I ask.
He meets my gaze with shadowed eyes and an empty smile. “Oh. It’s not important.”
“What isn’t important?”
His mouth opens like he’s about to answer, but he quickly glances away and goes quiet instead. He scratches the stubble on his jaw. And then he nods.
“At first, I thought it was just the necklace,” he says, his voice low. “I was jealous. But that’s not important either. When I bumped into you at the mall, before I even realized who you were, I noticed it. You didn’t know who I was, but you smiled at me, and you looked at me like I exist. And again last night. And now. Even after what I did.”
Like...you exist...?
“So, yeah, I don’t hate you.” Bitterness creeps into his voice as he glances over. Our eyes meet, and his frown becomes something far more painful. “Actually, I think I’m in love with you.”
Huh?
What?
The thin edges of the driver’s license dig into my palm, my grip too tight on the card. But what can I say? I know how hard it is to tell someone how you feel when you have no idea what they think of you.
It sucks. It’s the worst.
So, if he is serious... I feel sorry for him.
“I don’t know what to say,” I admit.
“Say whatever you want.” He cracks another sad smile. “It doesn’t really matter, you know? None of this matters anymore.”
What does that even mean?
At a complete loss, I say the only thing I can with any honesty. I say, “I don’t know.”
“I don’t know either.”
A minute of tense silence passes. At least a minute. Probably a few minutes. I set the license on the arm of the couch and zone out, listening to the rain. I’m trying to process—to understand anything James has said. To piece it all together and figure out why he won’t answer my question.
What do I know about him?
He’s defective. Troubled. Unstable. Ice and Night knew him in high school, but their respective opinions of him are strangely incompatible. Ice led with him being harmless—a pathetic idiot—before calling him bad news. Night said he was never unkind to her, and his recent behavior surprised everyone.
Ugh.
I guess there’s nothing to do but ask him directly.
“Ice told me—”
“Bet he lied.”
“Excuse me?”
“What did he tell you?” he snaps, golden eyes blazing. “That you guys are friends? That he would protect you from me because, to him, I’m the goddamn Antichrist?”
“Ice is my friend, and he never told me anything stupid or crazy about you other than that you are stupid and crazy.”
But that isn’t true, and I know it.
Ice said some downright nasty things about James even before the mess that went down on the Fourth of July. He hates James, and, from what I can tell, everything he’s done recently is only the tip of the iceberg.
Dark pieces of my nightmare flash before my eyes, overtaking the dusty parlor. Broken glass sparkling on the floor. A white, tile ceiling. Ice’s narrowed blue eyes. James. Blood.
Too much blood, dripping from trembling fingers.
I force the images from my mind, but a nagging discomfort remains.
“You weren’t there when he caught me.” His voice shakes, and his hands ball into fists in his lap. “Do you have any idea what your friend said to me?”
I grit my teeth, catching the inside of my cheek.
He laughs once. “You know, Ice loves hearing himself talk so much. You think I’m crazy—and that’s fine, and maybe you’d be right—but he said some downright insane shit while he bashed my face into the side of his house.”
Oh?
“Like what?” I ask, my voice loud but surprisingly calm.
James freezes. The resentment fades from his eyes as he stares at nothing in particular. Then his hands relax, and he sighs.
“Forget it,” he mutters. “He would kill me if he knew you were here. You should go.”
He moves to stand from the couch.
“James, wait—”
I grab his arm, my fingers closing around the fabric of his dark jacket. He stiffens at my touch and glances over his shoulder, his eyes wide. I don’t free him until he sits back down.
“You only went there because you were worried about me, right?” I ask. He immediately averts his gaze. “You have to tell me what he said. I need to know.”