Vendetta

by Katie Klein

  "There's a difference between killing innocent people and killing demons sent to destroy you," I counter, jaw tightening.

  "You sought them out, and you murdered them," she says, voice growing louder. "Let me ask you something else. Humor me, for just a moment. Do you think murderers go to Heaven?"

  "It isn't the same," I assure her. Killing demons and taking the lives of innocent people . . . it's not the same.

  "Isn't it? We should probably get a third opinion. Just to be fair. Because, you see, I don't think anyone who's murdered should be allowed into the Eternal Kingdom. I wonder . . . what does Seth think?"

  I hear the shuffle of feet behind me.

  "Genesis!"

  My head whips around in time to see two men holding Seth by the arms, pulling him away from me. My heart fumbles a beat, tripping over itself.

  "Seth?"

  "Seth," Viola says, a delighted smile coloring her tone. "You've been avoiding us."

  He struggles against the demons, desperate to wrench free.

  "Honestly, what took you so long?" she asks. "You know, it doesn't matter. What matters is that you're here now. Maybe you can help us. See, Genesis and I are in the middle of a tiny disagreement, and I'm hoping you can clear something up for us."

  Seth stops resisting, freezing, and his eyes meet mine. They're dull around the edges, full of . . . something. My pulse quickens. "What's going on?" I ask.

  "No, this is where you ask him if he thinks murderers go to Heaven." Viola passes a look between us.

  "What is she talking about?" I demand to know, voice rising.

  A tiny laugh escapes Viola's lips. "He didn't tell you?"

  "Tell me what?"

  Viola moves closer, draping her arm around my shoulder. She's warm, and she smells fresh, like the outdoors. Sun-dried clothes. "Seth," she says, whispering into my ear, "is no longer your Guardian. He's fallen."

  Seth's eyes remain steady, fixed on mine as the air escapes my lungs in one massive rush. My throat tightens. Closing. Eyes narrowing. "What?"

  "When he killed your mother's boyfriend? He broke a commandment. You know, thou shalt not kill and all that. The Council stripped him of his proverbial wings and damned him forever. Good guys, they are."

  His defeated look confirms that everything she's saying is, in fact, the truth. "All this time? You knew. Why didn't you say something?"

  "Sad, isn't it?" Viola breaks in. "I mean, he was only trying to protect you. God knows what Mike would've done if he hadn't of intervened."

  It all makes sense now. Why I felt so hollow. So empty. We weren't connected. I couldn't feel him. He couldn't feel me. He was fallen. One of them. It's why Viola was allowed to get so close, to screw with my visions. My head. This entire time, Seth wasn't my Guardian.

  "It wasn't Mike," I mutter, fingers tightening around the handle of my knife. "You and I both know that."

  But Viola ignores this. "You just never know what some people are capable of, Genesis. I mean, who would've thought you had it in you to become a demon hunter?"

  "It wasn't Mike," I repeat, the bile rising in my throat.

  This . . . it's all her fault. The reason Seth and I aren't together. That he's fallen. The reason all of this is happening. . . .

  A burst of anger surges through my veins, taking over. In one swift motion, I shrug Viola's arm away, slipping beneath it. In the next moment I rise to my full height, knife in hand, and sling my arm, slicing a thin slit across her throat. Her eyes widen in shock, mouth gaping.

  I step back, breathless, shoulders heaving. Because I do have it in me. And yes, I might be going to Hell, but there's a difference between me and Viola and people—demons—like her. I only kill those worth killing.

  Her hand rises to her throat, trembling as she drags it across the wound, red lips pulling into a deep frown. Blood leaks from her neck, dripping from her fingers and splattering on the concrete floor. An evil grimace twists her lips, and, in the next staggering moment, she wipes the blood away.

  The gash is gone. Her neck is stained crimson, but there's no evidence of any irreparable damage. I blink a few times, convinced my eyes are playing tricks on me, trying to make sense of what just happened.

  "Wrong," she whispers.

  I step back, moving closer to Seth.

  "Did you get it out of your system?" she asks, all humor gone. "Because I can't have you trying to kill me. Not if we're going to work together." She exhales, eyes closing, as if calming herself. "I have a favor to ask. You're allowed to refuse, of course, but I have to say it's probably not in your best interest."

  "Haven't you done enough?" I ask, eyeing her warily.

  "I need your help."

  My jaw tightens. "Why?"

  "The details are irrelevant. I only need to borrow you for a while."

  "Borrow me," I repeat, disbelieving.

  "I hope you're not refusing." She flicks her head to the side and gives a nod. The two men—the Diabols—standing with Seth tighten their grip, ready to haul him away.

  I pull out two knives, one in each hand, preparing to throw.

  "Don't!" Seth insists. "It's okay, Genesis. I'll be okay."

  My throat swells, eyes wet with the tears I'm desperately trying to restrain. I brush them away with the back of my hand and wipe my nose across my sleeve.

  "Kind of sucks, doesn't it? Watching someone you love disappear forever?" Viola asks, eyes full of heat.

  "What do you want?" I whisper.

  "That's confidential. I only need you to promise you'll help me."

  "What happens to Seth if I don't?"

  She shrugs, resigned. "He's already fallen. But I'm sure you'd like him back."

  I turn to face her, eyes tightening. "You can do that?"

  "There are alternatives."

  "Such as?"

  "Alternatives."

  "Don't believe her, Genesis!" Seth's voice carries across the warehouse, echoing, reaching the far corners. "It's not worth it. You can't trust her!" It will be his voice—these words—I hear for an eternity should he be right.

  "How do I know I can trust you?" I ask Viola.

  "The way I see it, you don't have much of a choice. Seth is one of us. The Council has left you unguarded. My offer is all you have left. This actually worked out better than I ever could have hoped. Who would've thought the Guardians would pull away so quickly, and without an ounce of dissent?"

  "And if I refuse?"

  "You've already lost everything. You've nothing more to lose with this arrangement, Genesis. And everything to gain."

  "Genesis," Seth pleads. "No. You can't trust her."

  His eyes catch mine, holding them. His face is tired, desperate.

  "I don't have any other choice," I tell him, voice barely a whisper.

  "You do," he says. "You can say no."

  More tears. Angry tears. "I'm not going to lose you!"

  "You have to forget about me!"

  "Get him out of here," Viola commands.

  "No!" I bolt toward him, but she grabs me from behind. The two demons pull Seth backward.

  "I never regretted coming back to you!" Seth speaks quickly as they drag him away from me. "It was worth it, for the time we spent together. And I'm not sorry for any of it, only that I put you in danger."

  I swallow the lump in my throat. He mingles with my tears, blurring. "I love you!" I call to him. "Forever."

  I blink. The tears slip down my cheeks. The two demons? Seth? They're gone.

  Viola sets me free. "You didn't even let me say goodbye!"

  "'Goodbye' is a luxury people like us can't afford."

  My jaw tightens, smarting. "I want him back."

  "You're agreeing to help me, then?" she asks, a hint of satisfaction in her voice.

  "Yes," I say, swiping the stray, furious tear from my face. "Yes. I'll help you." A fierce smile curves her mouth. "On the condition that Seth is returned to me, unharmed."

  She extends her hand, as if to shake on our ag
reement. "Don't worry, it will be over quickly."

  She lifts the sleeve of my black hoodie, then wraps her skinny fingers around my wrist, covering the razor-thin slits. She grips tighter, eyes burning as she concentrates, and I watch as ink melts into my skin, stinging as it climbs, growing. I feel it reach my shoulder, the reds and greens and blues snaking up my arm. It's tribal, full of vines and leaves and flowers. Viola releases me, and I examine the art in the fluorescent light. She smiles, pleased. The tattoo is eerily similar to hers, and the weight of its meaning presses into me. I've been marked.

  Viola owns me.

  "Now what?" I ask.

  "Don't worry. I'll come for you."

  In the next moment she's gone. The lights flicker overhead, and, one by one, begin to shatter, bursting. Sparks rain from the ceiling, and the room grows darker. I turn on my heel, sprinting for the exit, those worthless knives rattling in my pocket.

  Outside I fumble with my keys, desperate to unlock the car door, to get away. An explosion thunders, shaking the ground beneath me. I shield my eyes, protecting them, ears ringing as the world goes silent. I turn back to the warehouse, frozen, as flames lash the night sky.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I shove the door to the pool house open and rush inside, crashing into a hard, stiff object. I scream, and a warm hand clamps over my mouth, silencing me.

  "Shhh!" Carter slams the door shut and flips on the light.

  I am both horrified and relieved at the same time. "Carter! He's gone!"

  "What?" he asks, not understanding. "What are you talking about?"

  "Seth. He's gone!"

  "What happened?"

  "When he killed Mike. And he didn't tell me. He's fallen and now Viola has him. I can't have him back unless I help her." The words tumble out, one after the other after the other. I exhale short, shallow breaths, temples pounding. "I promised."

  I pull away from him, lifting the sleeve of my black hoodie, revealing the bright tattoos, the green and blue and red images creeping up my arm. Dancing in the light. He examines the design, running his fingers over it. His expression is so guarded, so muted, and I'm desperate to know what he's thinking. If he's disappointed in me. In what I've done. For what it means.

  "Where were you tonight?" he finally asks, voice low.

  "The warehouse. Down by the boardwalk."

  "Shit," he mutters. "We have to get out of here." He grabs my hand and pulls me across the living room. We dodge the couch, an end table.

  "What?"

  "It's breaking news. There was some kind of explosion. A bomb. They've declared martial law on the entire city. They're bringing in the National Guard."

  He flips on the bathroom light and dumps the contents of a plastic bag onto the counter.

  "They're looking for someone for questioning. A girl, seen leaving the parking lot just after it happened. They got the description of your car wrong, but the warehouse is burning now. It won't take long for them to piece everything together."

  He fumbles with the cardboard packaging of a box of hair dye. Hands trembling. He rips a switchblade from his pocket and slices the box in two.

  "I got this for tomorrow, just in case." He dumps the bottles and vials and instructions into the sink, then bolts from the room. As I combine the liquids, the only kind of chemistry I ever excelled at, I can hear kitchen drawers clattering. Opening and slamming. Opening and slamming. Their contents rattling inside. He returns with a pair of scissors. Pink polka-dotted handle. From the Desk of Kitty Fleming.

  I slip my sweatshirt over my head and toss it in the hallway. "What about your parents?"

  "They're out. I left them a note," he says. "I'll call when we get somewhere safe."

  My breaths grow shorter.

  Somewhere safe. I don't know where that is, anymore. If it even exists.

  "Hold still," he says. He grabs a fistful of my hair and cuts. "It's going to be really short."

  "It's fine." My reflection stares back at me, eyes wide.

  "I'll take you somewhere to get it fixed."

  "I said it's fine!" My heart pounds behind my ribcage.

  Carter cuts. The hair falls lifelessly to my shoulders. To the floor at my feet. Clumps of strawberry blonde.

  "Here." He hands me the scissors. "You can even it out."

  There's a catharsis in cutting hair. And, for me, the action is a familiar one. When there was no money Mom relied on me to cut her hair. Whenever I was tired of the world and everything in it, the first thing I reached for was a pair of scissors. And then, after the accident—the accident that might have set this entire . . . whatever it is . . . in motion—I cut the black out of my hair, thinking it would somehow change me. That it would make everything better. Tonight, I will be black again. Back with Carter. Full circle, but nothing's the same.

  I nod toward the bottle. "You should do yours, too," I tell him, feeling the weight of the scissors in my hand, the cool metal against my skin as I layer the sides.

  "You first."

  "There's plenty. If they suspect me and word gets out you're missing, they'll be looking for both of us."

  Carter hesitates, then pulls the latex gloves over his hands. He reaches for the bottle, black dye leaking from the sides, and squeezes the somber liquid onto his head. The ammonia smell assaults my nose, makes my eyes water, as he works it in with his fingers, covering the sun-lightened brown.

  "I'm ready," I tell him.

  The dye is cool on my scalp. Carter massages it into my hair. Adding more. More. Until my entire head is covered.

  "We have fifteen minutes," he says. "Go pack a bag."

  I run to the bedroom and fall to the floor, arm grasping beneath the bed, feeling for my blue duffle bag. I shove everything I can inside it. Socks and underwear and shirts and shorts. My tennis shoes.

  I glance around the room, desperately searching for "what else."

  What else?

  Anything mine worth taking, rendering the rest sacrificial.

  My rose.

  I snatch the rose from the vase on the dresser and stuff it in the front pocket. This would destroy any other flower. The petals would tear. Smash together. Wither to a soft brown. But not this one. When I remove this rose—wherever we go, wherever we end up—it will be just as perfect then as it is now. The one constant. The only piece left of the Guardian I love. Proof that he exists.

  The water is running when I return to the bathroom, and Carter is bent over the tub, washing the dye out of his hair. I open the medicine cabinet. Swipe things off shelves. Makeup. Cleansers. Soap. Deodorant.

  "I have money," I remind him.

  "Me too. We'll stop at an ATM and get out whatever we can tonight, just in case they try to freeze our accounts."

  He stands to his full height, gray water dripping down his face. I pass him a towel and we switch places. I close my eyes, run my fingers through my hair, rinsing out the black. When I open them again, the blood from my arm is slithering down the drain. I blink a few times and it disappears. Water streams into my eyes, down my face. Collecting in my ears. Wetting my cheeks.

  When it runs clear I shut off the water, grab a towel, and dry my hair. When I finish I gaze at my reflection. The black is harsh, calloused, and accentuates my light skin. My green eyes are muted and empty. Hair much too short. Pixie-like, and already curling at the ends.

  Please let this be enough.

  Carter returns with a trash bag and vacuum cleaner. The dye has changed him, too. He looks broader. Stronger, somehow. A bit more dangerous than before. He passes into the mirror behind me, and we could be siblings.

  "Wipe down the tub with a towel and put everything we used in the trash. We'll get rid of it outside of town."

  I slip my tank top over my head and shake the hair off. The tiny pieces flutter, falling, like dandelion fluff after a thousand wishes. I pull it back on, dry the tub, the water on the floor, and toss the damp towel inside the trash bag. The hair dye, the boxes, the sweatshirt connecting me to th
is night, even the scissors—it all falls to the bottom of the bag.

  Carter sucks up what's left of the blonde with the vacuum, then empties the container.

  "We have to go."

  I grab my duffle bag and hoist it over my shoulder. Carter carries the trash.

  I spot the note on my way out—the one with Carter's cell phone number scribbled across it. I pull it off the wall and grab a pen from one of the drawers. At the top: Joshua. Mara. Seth. I swallow hard, fighting back tears as I write the letters that form his name.

  What's going to happen to him?

  Just below Carter's name, I sign my own. I don't know if they'll come back. If they can come back. If I can ever come back. What the world will be like when I do.

  Please. Please keep him safe.

  I don't know who or what I'm praying to. I only hope, at that moment, someone is listening.

  I flip off the light and shut the door behind us, following Carter down the walkway. He throws the trash into the back of his SUV, slams the door, and we climb in.

  "Where's my car?" I ask.

  "I took off the plates and parked it in the storage garage. It'll be fine," he insists. "Only the gardeners go in there."

  "You don't have to do this, Carter. I can get out myself."

  "No, Gee, that's not happening."

  He cranks the engine.

  "But you're leaving your home! Your family! And for what?"

  "For you," he says. He holds my headrest, peering over his right shoulder, backing into his circular driveway. Too fast. He switches gears, and we swing wide around the fountain. Into the street. "Whatever we are, Genesis, whatever I'd like us to be—it doesn't matter anymore. You're my best friend first and foremost. That means getting you out of here. I made a promise, and I intend to keep it."

  And I remember. . . . The conversation between him and Seth. He knew. Seth knew there was a possibility. . . . He made Carter promise he would step in if something ever happened. Something like this.

  Was that only last night?

  It's like a million hours have passed since then. A lifetime.

  I watch Carter. His eyes are fixed on the road. Concentrating.

  My mom is gone. Seth is gone. Mara. Joshua. Carter is all I have left. He's my Guardian now.