“Yeah.” Beck smiles after his friend. “See ya.”
Being left alone is almost a relief. It gives Beck time to think; time to digest the day, and how quickly his life has been flipped on its head. It’s funny that something so massive could have occurred, and he can still go about living as normal. Home with his friends around him, it’s easy to pretend nothing has changed at all.
Of course, that’s not true, and he can’t ignore reality. The fact is, something so massive has happened that no one knows how to digest it yet. Beck is trying to keep his head above the water, and his friends are the same way.
It’s not long before being alone with his thoughts gets to be too much. He gets to work, out of desperation for something to keep his mind occupied. The remnants of their dinner from earlier in the evening have gone untouched. Beck busies himself clearing the table, throwing silverware in the sink and wrapping up what food remains unfinished.
Just as Beck is placing the last of the leftovers in the fridge, he hears the front door slam. Surprised, he closes the refrigerator just in time to see Dylan stumble into the kitchen.
His lanky form is swaying, eyes bright and face lined with sweat. He also reeks like the back room of a liquor store. Dylan’s not old enough to drink yet, but Beck can recognize the smell of whiskey any day. It doesn’t take a genius to realize his kid brother is dead drunk.
“Jesus, Dylan,” Beck says, taking a step forward. Dark eyes fall on him, and Dylan’s drunken swagger stops dead in his tracks. It only takes a minute of staring before his face twists up into a scowl.
“Great,” he mutters, “you’re still here.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
In lieu of an answer, Dylan turns on his heel and begins to stagger out of the kitchen. Not about to have that, Beck catches him by the shoulder before he can escape. He is unprepared for the violence with which Dylan whips around, eyes blazing with anger. “Don’t touch me!” he spits, words smacking Beck in the face like a physical blow. Dylan jerks out of his grasp, and he reels back, stunned.
“I just—” he fumbles, at a loss. Shock and hurt sear his insides in equal measure, but in the end all Beck can come out with is an incredulous “What’s your problem?”
“You wanna know my problem? Huh?” Dylan’s words are slurred, but his tone is clear—seething and furious. He gives a wet laugh that catches in his throat, twisting it into what sounds like a sob. “My dead brother’s standing in front of me. That’s my problem, Beck. It’s you.”
Beck stumbles over his own feet, stung. He’d expected the answer, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. The fury on Dylan’s face is seething, venom dripping from each word. This is more than Dylan’s rash temper flaring up; this is pure hatred, something Beck’s never seen Dylan direct at anyone, let alone him.
Every cell in his body wants to reach out to him, to demand that Dylan sit down and talk, but he holds himself back. He’s worried that if he tries, Dylan might actually try to hit him. Plus, he isn’t sure he could stand his brother rejecting him again.
Dylan draws himself up with all the dignity he can muster in his state, taking a step back. “Stay away. I don’t wanna be involved in whatever shit this is, so keep it away from me.”
With that, he’s gone before Beck can get a word in edgewise. He’s left staring at his brother’s stumbling form, knowing that any attempt to follow will only make things worse. Beck is powerless tonight—he can do nothing but let Dylan walk away, no matter how it makes his stomach curdle.
“Dylan…” he mutters, but the name goes unheard. Beck is left alone, once again, with his thoughts.
HE THINKS THAT out of all the places in the house, the backyard will offer some solitude. He is wrong. He slips out into the warm night air to find the outside lights already on, illuminating the night in synthetic brightness. At the edge of the pool sits Dana, hunched forward with her elbows braced on her knees. Her nightgown is hiked up to keep it out of the water, red fabric spread out on the ground around her. Dark curls hang in her eyes, framing her round face and pensive stare. Her bare feet dangle lazily in the cool waters, filling the air with the sound of gentle splashing.
He feels bad for disturbing someone else and is about to turn back inside when she lifts her head. Her dark eyes fall on him, and, though she doesn’t smile, she lifts a hand in greeting. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Beck echoes, wandering over to join her at the pool’s edge. He lowers himself down to the concrete, surveying the water that stretches before him. Dana doesn’t say anything more. He wonders what she could be thinking about, all alone out here at night.
He hangs his head, dipping his feet in the pool. It’s unheated, chilling his bare skin, but the shock of cold is a relief. “I saw Dylan just now,” he remarks. “He came home.”
Dana picks her head up, eyes sharp with interest. Beck catches the flicker of relief that crosses her face. “He did, huh?”
“Yeah. Wasn’t in the best mood.” He knows his face has to give away how nasty the exchange was, even if his words are subtle. Dana heaves a heavy sigh, water rippling as she shifts her feet in the shallows. “I thought you were getting some sleep?”
“Well, I gave it a try. My head’s too loud tonight. Too much to think about.”
The thought occurs to him without warning that Dana really might not want him here, intruding on her peace. Maybe he isn’t welcome out here—hell, maybe he isn’t welcome here at all. Dylan clearly doesn’t want to be anywhere near him, and even all of James’s protectiveness and Dana’s reassurances can’t soothe the anxiety brewing in the pit of his stomach. If he doesn’t belong here, he doesn’t know where he should be.
“Is it wrong,” he asks suddenly, “for me to be here?”
It takes Dana a long moment to answer. “No,” she finally says, voice low with thought. “Of course not. This is your home. You belong here.”
Her words help fill a bit of the hollow that has clawed its way through Beck’s chest. The gnawing emptiness is soothed but does not vanish entirely. The memory of his brother’s dark eyes still stings, and even thinking of them causes him to cringe in on himself.
He can see his own reflection in the clear pool water. He needs a haircut—ginger bangs hang almost in his eyes, scruffy and uncombed. His face might be thinner than he remembers, and his freckles stand out against his pale skin more prominently, but he’s still himself. Nothing about him has changed drastically, aside from the fact that he’s not supposed to be alive.
He’s still himself. He’s still Beck.
“It’s just weird, you know?” Dana continues. “A little scary. After you died…it hit everyone real hard. Beck, you were cremated, for crissakes!”
Beck frowns. “Wait, you got me cremated? You burned me?”
“Well, you didn’t exactly leave instructions.” Dana casts him a side-eye, and Beck holds her gaze for all of five seconds before he’s forced to look away. He breathes out, not sure whether he wants to laugh or groan.
“Did you scatter my ashes someplace cool, at least?”
“No. We lost ’em in the mail.”
The worst part is, he can’t tell if Dana is joking or not. He watches her lean forward, elbows against her knees, and run a hand through her short hair.
“God, I wasn’t sure how Jimmy was gonna make it through. I’ve never seen anything wreck him so much, even after his brother died… For a while it felt like I lost him too. Your mom calls us every week, just to make sure we’re all doing okay, but she’s hurt even worse than we are. And Dylan… Beck, Dylan still isn’t over you. It was the worst for him out of all of us, and losing you only to get you back… He just don’t know what to make of it. None of us do, but we’re tryin’. What else can we do?” She gives a soft, crackly laugh. “You’re our friend. We’ve got your back.”
He swallows, watching his reflection’s throat bob. “That means a lot, Dana.”
“Don’t be like that. Don’t act like you don’t already know it. You’d do
the same for any of us and more.”
It’s true. They’re a family—it’s the way they’ve always been. These are his people, and Beck is loyal to his people. If he had to, he’d die all over again for them.
“You’re really not scared of me?” he dares to ask, and Dana huffs another laugh.
“Scared of you? Beck, you kiddin’ me? I could take you down one-handed, we both know that. You can’t beat Jimmy at arm wrestling, and even Dylan can probably knock your scrawny ass over. You want us to be scared of you, you’re gonna have to try harder than this.”
The answer is so typically Dana, and so reassuring that Beck can’t help but smile. His reflection beams back at him, teeth gleaming, and he can’t help but muse that he looks young. Younger than he feels, anyway—but maybe death really does age a guy.
“I don’t know what you want to hear, Beck,” Dana continues, “but as long as we’re around, everything’s gonna be—”
Her words cut off with a large splash, and Beck’s reflection vanishes into the chaos of churning water.
In the split second that passes before he is on his feet, he has time to register three things: Dana is in the water; she is thrashing, hollering in surprise; and someone is holding her down.
Without stopping to think, Beck lunges. He slams into what seems like a solid wall of brick, bouncing off the side of Dana’s attacker. Unfazed, he rears back and throws himself forward again, only to be met with a fist to the jaw. The blow takes him by surprise; Beck goes down hard but is already struggling to get up again when a fist buries itself in his hair and slams his head into the concrete.
His vision explodes into an incoherent blur of color. Sirens wail in his ears. It takes him a minute to realize this is not just ringing in his head, but Dana’s screaming. This is what drives him to push himself up again, despite the pulse of pain reverberating through his skull.
Narrowed eyes lock on Dana’s attacker as he tries to force himself to his feet again. It takes a moment for his vision to clear; when it does, he feels his heart stop.
The figure over Dana is unmistakable, down to the stocky build and lightly stubbled jaw. His face is twisted into a mask of rage, and his eyes are so dark that Beck can find no light in them, but there is no mistaking his best friend.
A strangled scream tears from Dana’s throat but is cut off by a gurgle as James forces her under the crystalline water once more. Spray hits Beck’s face from the force of her thrashing. She struggles against her boyfriend’s iron-clad grip with every ounce of her strength. Dana isn’t going under without a fight. She kicks, splashes, and howls even when submerged beneath the waves.
Beck forces himself to get up, ignoring the pain that radiates from his head. Dizziness blurs the edges of his vision, but he pushes past it. All he can focus on is Dana, drowning at the hands of her boyfriend. Dana, underwater and fighting for her life. James, holding her down, face set in a mask of unimaginable rage and eyes clouded pitch black.
Black eyes?
He tries to force himself to move to Dana’s aid, but his mind is numb and his limbs have turned to stone. There is a steady ache in his skull, a pulse of static that, if he focuses on it, almost drowns out Dana’s screams. What the hell is happening? Why can’t he get up? Why is he frozen in place, watching his friend die?
(He’s seen this before. This is how it’s supposed to be. He’s been here before.)
Dana surfaces, just long enough to gasp a lungful of air. Her fist swings up, connecting with James’s jaw. James doesn’t even flinch, simply recovering his grip on her shoulders. A second before she is forced beneath the waves again, Dana is able to gasp out a frantic “Beck!”
The shout echoes in Beck’s head. A shield of glass shatters; a rubber band snaps. Suddenly he can breathe again, he can think again, and the spell paralyzing him is broken.
James doesn’t get a chance to react before Beck slams into him, the full force of his tackle knocking them both into the water. Beck doesn’t go under. He manages to find his feet, swinging back before either of them have a real chance to recover. His fist slams into his friend’s jaw, and two hundred pounds of fury-wild James plunge backwards into the water.
Not a second later, Dana’s head breaks the surface. Her labored gasps echo over the struggle behind her, and Beck’s first instinct is to make sure she’s all right. He doesn’t get the chance before James is back, pulling him down. Now he’s the one in over his head. There’s no chance to escape, no hope of wiggling free…but Dana moves faster than a shot. Out of nowhere, she throws herself into the fray, leaping onto James’s back and forcing him down as Beck struggles in James’s iron grip.
James is still thrashing, the rage of a wild animal driving his movements. He arches his back to toss Dana off, a garbled roar tearing from his throat. Beck is abandoned; a cacophony of static wails in his ears as he surfaces for air. Dana is still on top of James, and Beck is quick to join her. Together, he and Dana are able to force James beneath the water’s surface.
He’s only under for a second. The second James’s head breaks above the water, Beck decks him.
He goes down like a sack of bricks, falling back in a hail of water droplets. He would have slipped beneath the waves, but Dana seizes him around the waist, forcing him up. With Beck’s help, they are able to tow James to the side of the pool and haul him out of the water.
By the time Beck has scrambled out of the pool, Dana is already crouched on the concrete. Soaked hair, hands wild on her face; her breaths come ragged as she fights off a rush of panic. She muffles curses into the hand pressed over her mouth, but her eyes are wide and fixed on her unmoving boyfriend.
“That’s not him,” Beck gasps. “That’s not James!”
“No shit,” Dana hollers back. “Who the hell is it?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know!” None of this makes sense. Nothing makes sense. James, the most loyal of them all, attacking his friends? It’s insane. This could never happen—just like Beck could never have come back from the dead.
His mind flashes back to Adam and Sophie’s words from earlier. Spells…bad magic…demons…
“Oh, Jesus,” he hisses, and shakes James by the shoulders. He remains limp and unresponsive. If only he would wake up, open normal eyes so they could all know he was all right… “Jimmy, buddy, come on, come on…”
“Why the hell would he do that?” Dana’s voice is shrill. “What the hell is wrong with him, what was that—”
“I think—God, Dani, I think he’s possessed!”
“Well, what do we do?”
“I don’t know!” Panic starts to clog his throat. This is so beyond any crisis he’s ever dealt with before. He’s surpassed his craziness limit for the day, and this is too much. He doesn’t know what to do… He doesn’t know anything about this…
But he knows someone who does.
“Dani,” he gasps, “we gotta go. We have to take him to someone who can help.”
Dana looks incredulous, and more than pissed off. She looks livid. Beck wouldn’t want to be James when he wakes up, possessed or not. “And who the hell would that be?” she demands, arms locked around her own shoulders in a protective vice.
Beck swallows hard and draws himself up with all the calm he can muster. “We’ve gotta go to a bookshop.”
Chapter Three
“BECK?”
Adam looks remarkably unruffled for a man answering his door at well past two in the morning. Wearing little else but boxers and a loose T-shirt, he lists against the entrance to his shop, peering with a furrowed brow at his unexpected guests. This is the second night in a row Beck has disturbed him, and he really feels awful about it.
Until he notices the black-rimmed reading glasses perched on the bridge of Adam’s nose, and promptly decides that coming here was the best decision ever. Some people can’t pull off glasses; Adam Lehexe is not one of these people.
(You’re a weak man, Beck, a voice in his head that sounds a lot like James echoes in
his head. He smothers it.)
Adam opens the door a bit wider. “What’s going on?”
Flashing him what he hopes is more of a smile than a grimace, Beck holds up a roll of masking tape and gestures to the pickup stalled in the street right behind him. “Adam, I’m super sorry to do this, but we’ve got our buddy tied up in the back of our truck, and we’re in a no-parking zone. You mind letting us in?”
Once again, Adam is way nicer than he has any need to be. Beck refuses to let him help as he and Dana haul the unconscious James out of the back of James’s pickup truck. Adam is already opening his doors to them at an ungodly hour. The least they can do is handle their own dead weight. Only once the two have dragged James up the stairs to Adam’s apartment does Dana go back to the car. She returns leading along a stumbling Dylan, who’s still half-drunk and more asleep than awake. Adam stares after their odd procession, bemusement clear on his tired face.
By some miracle, they all make it upstairs in one piece. Beck isn’t sure how at least one person doesn’t fall down—he nearly loses his footing once or twice—but he never thought he’d be so relieved to be back in Adam’s apartment.
As soon as he closes the door behind them, Adam slips into a professional mode that Beck hadn’t expected from him, but somehow isn’t surprised by at all. Adam has already proven himself capable of taking charge during a crisis. “All right,” he says, gesturing to Dylan first. “You can settle down on the couch and sleep it off. Let’s get your unconscious friend into the bedroom—and really, rope? Untie his hands, for God’s sake! What is he, an animal?”
“That’s the thing, Adam,” says Beck, biting his lip. “We don’t know what he is.”
Adam stares at him for a long moment, intense gaze piercing him. Beck is close to faltering under the stare when the sound of Dylan flopping down on the couch shatters the tension that has risen between them. Adam’s attention turns to the drunk boy, then the possibly-possessed person on his living room floor. A long-suffering sigh heaves from deep within his chest.
The Cost of Living (ARC) Page 5