Vendetta

by Katie Klein

  After the tragic death of a friend at the hands of demons, Genesis Green moves into the pool house on ex-boyfriend Carter's estate. Still under the watchful eye of Seth, her Guardian, she lives and breathes a single purpose: Vengeance.

  When the Guardian Council discovers Genesis is serious about taking Viola out of this world, they send Mara, a warrior, to help prepare her for her greatest, final battle.

  Though she's growing stronger by the day, her visions are becoming increasingly unreliable.

  When a single act threatens to separate Genesis from Seth forever, she'll face the most painful decision yet to save the Guardian she loves.

  VENDETTA

  by

  Katie Klein

  Copyright 2011 by Katie Klein

  This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Katie Klein.

  And I will execute vengeance

  in anger and fury upon the heathen,

  such as they have not heard.

  Micah 5:15

  ONE

  The alleyway is dark, too cool for a Southern summer night. At the end a streetlamp shines, but it refuses to brighten the cold, damp hollow between the brick buildings. I move swiftly through the fog, quietly down the length of the passage, pressing my hand against the rough, brick wall, feeling my way through the shadows. My steps, though light, trigger warning sounds. The snapping and jingling of shards of glass, pebbles crunching beneath my soles. I freeze, sucking in a breath and holding it, feeling my heart pound against my rib cage. One mistake, one wrong move, and it's over.

  I shut my eyes tightly, replaying the vision in my mind again and again.

  They're here. I know it.

  When I open them, two figures pass into the light. One struggles against the other, against the arms binding his neck, stealing life from him, thrashing against his captor. I sprint through the alley, feet crashing against the pavement, splashing through thick puddles from earlier thunderstorms. The cuffs of my jeans are sodden and weighted, breaths rapid and violent in my ears. I move in, narrowing the distance between us. I stop at the edge of the sidewalk, pressing my body deep into the wall as I peek around the corner.

  The road stretches empty between us, and thick clouds veil the night sky. There is no moon, no stars, the only light shining from the streetlamp overhead, casting cool blue shadows on the two men. The demon wraps his broad fingers around his victim's neck, lifting him off the ground.

  Perspiration trembles along my skin. I shiver, and my lungs burn with each ragged rise and fall of my chest.

  This is it.

  A quick exhale and I bolt into the street, fingers coiled tightly around the steely handle of a knife. The razor edge is freshly sharpened and serrated, designed to inflict the deadliest of wounds: a gift from my Guardian.

  There are no second chances in this world of mine. I have moments. One opportunity. I rush toward it. The blade glints in the light as I draw back my arm and plunge it into its neck. A scream of agony, and he loosens his hold. The victim's body crumples to the ground. Flesh breaks, tearing, as I draw the knife back to me, and blood spills from his throat, pouring from the wound.

  My heart reacts to this, pumping too fast.

  He's not real. He's not human.

  My teeth clench together, jaw tightening as I brace myself for one, final thrust, finishing him. The Evil One twists toward me, eyes red with fury, on fire, and swings. I move to dodge the blow, but his fist connects with my skull, cracking, and I fall backward, a searing pain ripping through the length of my body. I hit the pavement, and a wave of numbness washes over me, the entire world blurring, the darkness enveloping me.

  And then a voice, pulling me back. "Genesis?"

  A light drizzle falls, misting my face. Seth wraps his arms around me, lifting, pulling me upright. He leans in closer, examining my forehead, and I breathe him in. He smells cool and salty, like cedar wood and seawater. Heaven.

  His fingers brush the tender area and I flinch, sucking in a quick breath.

  "I'm sorry."

  "I'm fine," I mutter, rising to my feet. Seth holds my arm, steadying me. The blood behind the blow pulses, pressure building, the raw pain intensifying. His hand grips me tighter as I sway backward.

  Others move in, quickly, quietly, disposing of the demon so it can never be traced back to me. I brush the seat of my jeans, swiping the mud away, but the water has already seeped through them, chilling me.

  It's worth it, though, if this is what it takes to eliminate them. Even if it's only one. Because one can make a difference. It made a difference to. . . .

  He's deathly still, lying face down in a dark puddle in the middle of the street. The faint traces of fingerprints bruising his neck.

  The air escapes my lungs, and I curse under my breath. I press the palms of my hands against my eyes, hiding them, squeezing them tightly, feeling the tears threatening to surface.

  "It isn't your fault," Seth assures me.

  I pull my hands away. "This can't keep happening."

  I have visions. I see things in my mind—bad things that are going to happen to good people. My job is to help them, to keep it from happening. I remind myself daily that this is a gift—my purpose. On days like today—when I fail—this gift feels more like a burden.

  "You can't save everyone," Seth reminds me.

  My eyes remain fixed on the crumpled heap. Someone's son. Brother. Best friend. It's well past midnight. He'll lie here until morning, smothered in a somber rain. Someone will call the police. They'll investigate. Show up on the doorstep of a parent, girlfriend, roommate with the terrible news. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. They always are. There are never any real, justifiable answers. Not for this. Not anymore.

  "I can try," I reply, voice barely a whisper.

  I can't predict when the visions will occur, but I know they will. I never fully understand what they mean, but I know that, once I see them, I'm supposed to act quickly. I've saved lives. Altered courses. Made a difference. But I've also shown up moments too late. Missed opportunities. Let them get away. Let her get away.

  Seth and I move quickly toward the alley, refusing to breathe until we're safely hidden in the darkness. My head throbs, and, as I run my fingers over the injury, I can feel a knot forming beneath the skin. Growing.

  Across the street a neon sign flickers, welcoming us. OPEN. It has to be a mistake. Not a living soul is awake at this hour, and no one is out. We're not allowed to go out—not with South Marshall's mandatory curfew.

  We slip through corridors, hurrying to my car.

  "Stop."

  I pull Seth into the doorway of a restaurant, pressing against the frame as a pair of headlights swings wide, lighting the street. I wrap my arms tightly across my chest, waiting. A squad car approaches, making its rounds. Gravel and other street debris crunches beneath its tires. And again I'm holding my breath, willing my heart to slow down, to quiet. He passes leisurely by before disappearing, turning down another street. With any luck he'll stumble upon a John Doe—the Diabols' latest victim. He'll call for back-up, and they'll rule it death by strangulation. Another one. Tomorrow it will fill the front page.

  There are serial killers among us.

  I am one of them.

  TWO

  My keys clatter against the glass table that graces the entryway of Carter's pool house. This is my temporary home—ever since the fire at Ernie's, the night my old place was ransack
ed, destroyed. It's furnished and cozy—the nicest place I've ever lived, actually, with living room skylights that frame the moon at night and French doors overlooking the Fleming's in-ground pool. Even now I can see it through the panes: the bright blue water sparkling against a black sky.

  The inside reeks of Carter's mom, Kitty Fleming, and her subscription to Southern Living Magazine. The hardwood floors are dark, with a blue and white striped rug and a white couch marking the living area, and wrought iron barstools tucked just beneath the counter overlooking the kitchen.

  I flip on the light switch, and a head peers over the sofa.

  I jump, my pulse stepping up, heart pumping faster. Because when there are demons hiding behind every closed door, demons who want to kill you, it's impossible not to hover on that ledge, suspended between vigilance and neurosis. Trapped. Because the second I let my guard down. . . .

  "You're back." Carter rubs his eyes with the base of his hands. I've woken him.

  I blow out a heated sigh, angry that he's startled me, angry that he's even here. "Shit, Carter. Don't do that to me."

  "I heard you leave."

  "That doesn't mean you have to check up on me," I tell him, unable to hide the irritation in my voice.

  His eyebrows lift in mild surprise. It's not like me to lash out irrationally—not if I can help it—and I hate that I've offended him. But it doesn't matter, because then he notices something else.

  "Jesus. What happened to you?" He jumps over the back of the couch in one swift motion.

  My fingers move instinctively to the sore spot on my forehead. "It looks worse than it really is," I mutter.

  He's fully awake now, springing to action. "This is exactly why I check up on you," he says.

  In the kitchen, he opens the freezer and pulls out the ice tray, then wraps a few pieces in a dish towel, a quiet rage teeming beneath the surface.

  "Genesis, I don't know what's going on. And I don't pretend to know or understand what it is you do. Why trouble seems to gravitate to you. Or you gravitate to it. Or why you're always sneaking out in the middle of the night and why every time I see you . . ."

  "I'm fine," I assure him. "Trust me."

  "I'm trying," he replies. "I really am. I just. . . ." He sighs in defeat. "Come here."

  He pulls me toward the couch and I sit down beside him, letting my head fall against the pillows. He places the ice gently on my forehead, but I flinch anyway, sucking in a quick breath.

  "You're not, um, seeing anyone, are you?"

  I stifle a laugh, closing my eyes. He thinks I'm letting some guy beat me up, or has, at the very least, entertained the thought. "It's not like that, Carter."

  I don't answer his question, though, about seeing someone. Because the truth is, I am seeing someone. He's just not someone I can tell Carter—or anyone—about.

  "You shouldn't sleep," he insists.

  "I know. I'm just resting my eyes."

  The ice cools my forehead, numbing the affected area. And I wonder how it came to this. Me, living in my former boyfriend's pool house, cornered between these two worlds: one I'm not entirely sure I ever belonged to, and the other so wanting in explanation that nothing about it makes any kind of sense. A world I can't even rationalize. A world I might not be ready for.

  "Where were you?" Carter finally asks, breaking the tense silence hanging between us.

  "You know I can't tell you that."

  "Does it have anything to do with your visions? Because I'd kind of like to know why every time I see you there's a new gash, or bruises. Blood on your clothes." His voice is laced with both worry and anger. I hear it in Seth's, too. The difference is that Carter couldn't possibly understand, and Seth doesn't want to.

  "Yes," I whisper. "It has everything to do with my visions, but that's all I can tell you."

  "Why?" he demands to know.

  "Because I can't. I can't drag you in the middle of this. It's not safe for you."

  He scoffs, anger registering in each of his features, in his eyes. "If it's not safe for me, then it sure as hell isn't safe for you."

  "You're important to me, Carter. You're my best friend."

  "You're important to me," he replies. "And maybe I'm sick of being the best friend."

  I remain still. Quiet.

  Carter and I broke up the night of our accident. Before I found myself lying on that cool pavement, broken wrist clutched to my chest. Before Seth.

  Carter was the first person I told about my visions—the first person who believed. He is my best friend. And I need him, even though I know he will always want something more, something I can't give him because it belongs to someone else.

  He emits a deep exhale, blowing the air completely out of his lungs, struggling to compose himself. "I'm sorry. That was out of line. But . . . but I can't help it. I just . . . I feel like this—whatever it is—is going to end badly," he says, gray eyes searching mine.

  Part of me wants to swear to him that will never happen, but I can't bring myself to tell such a brazen lie. I can't promise that everything will be okay, because part of me realizes there's a very real possibility he's absolutely right. The Evil Ones know who I am, what I can do. Viola is still out there, waiting for me, watching. I swallow hard, feeling the tightness constricting my throat.

  I take the dishrag from Carter and rise from the couch, putting additional space between us. I can feel his eyes on me, following as I move to the bathroom.

  "Your dad got my rent check, right?" I call, changing the subject. I pause for a moment, examining my reflection in the mirror.

  Wow. It looks as bad as it is.

  I pull open the medicine cabinet door, searching for something that will dull the pain.

  "He did. He told me to tell you he wasn't going to cash it."

  "Tell him that I said he better cash it or I'll move out. I'm not going to stay in your pool house rent-free, Carter. He set the price so low it probably doesn't even pay the electricity bill for this place, anyway."

  The Flemings assured me I can stay here as long as I need, but I'm not going to find myself further indebted to them. They've already taken care of the hospital bills I garnered from our car accident earlier in the year. I don't need to add "free housing" to the growing list. I'll never be able to repay them as it is, and as great as they are about writing checks for the cancer-stricken and poverty-laden, I can't wrap my head around the idea that they would do all of this for me without expecting something in return.

  "I'll be sure to pass that along."

  I reach for the cup perched on the edge of the sink and fill it, then throw back a couple of Advils, chasing them with the water. It cools my throat, satisfying. I study the space around me as I move back to the living room, searching for signs that Seth is nearby. I know he is. Always.

  "I'm, um, kind of exhausted," I confess.

  Carter sits up, his muted eyes growing edgier by the moment. "Are you sure you don't want me to wait up with you? I really don't think you should sleep."

  "I'm sure," I say, keeping my tone light. "And I won't go to sleep. I'll watch TV for a while." I offer a casual shrug, as if to say: See? I'm feeling better already.

  He inhales deeply, hesitating, but stands anyway. "You're right. It's late."

  I follow him to the door. We stop at the threshold and he moves in, closer. "Take it easy, okay? No more sneaking out in the middle of the night."

  "You sound like someone's dad," I tell him, feeling a grin as it pulls at my lips, even if it's unsuccessful.

  His eyes scour mine. "You didn't agree."

  "I can't," I reply, shrugging sadly.

  A resigned sigh, and then: "I'll check on you in the morning. If you need anything . . ."

  "I have your cell number." It's posted on the wall by the phone, where he taped it the day he helped me move in. Like I didn't already know it by heart.

  "Right. Good night," he says.

  "Night."

  The door shuts between us. I lock the dead
bolt, and, when I turn back around, Seth is there. He wraps his arm tightly around my waist, drawing me into him. My stomach tumbles to my knees, my heart squeezing out an extra beat as he brushes my lips with soft kisses.

  When he finally pulls away his face is grim, mouth set in a perfect line. "This looks terrible," he mutters, examining my forehead, tracing his fingers along my hairline.

  "It feels terrible," I confess.

  "It needs ice."

  I lift the dishrag, compliments of Carter Fleming. "I've already done ice."

  He cups my chin in his fingers, lifting it, and gazes straight through me, dark eyes grasping mine as he studies my pupils. "You may have a concussion."

  My eyes roll instinctively, tearing away from his. "Seth, when have I not had a concussion?"

  "Did you take something?"

  "An Advil. Look," I say, pushing against his broad chest, feeling the frustrated exhaustion welling inside, spilling over. "I just want to take a hot bath, change out of these wet clothes and into my pajamas, and try to get to bed before the sun rises."

  He eyes me carefully, hesitating, then nods. "Okay. Take your time. But the ice . . . stays on it." He takes my hand in his and presses the cool rag against my forehead. My teeth clench together in a failed attempt not to react to the pressure.

  The hot water never ends at the Fleming's. In my former world, traipsing from town to town with my mom—from rental to rental—showers and baths were timed: warm water a luxury, never a guarantee.

  By the time I'm finished soaking I can smell breakfast. I towel myself dry and slip on a tank top and pair of shorts. I avoid the mirror as best I can, the lump on my head, grayish purple in color, courtesy of a killer not of this world. Like if I don't acknowledge it, it's not really there. It doesn't exist. I sigh. And this one wasn't even trying to hurt me.

  "Much better," I announce lightly, climbing onto one of the barstools. Seth slides a plate of eggs and a few pieces of buttered toast in front of me. He's added cheese to the eggs. Just like Stu. I spear them with my fork, a heavy lump hardening in my throat. I swallow it back, forcing it away.