My Soul to Steal

by Rachel Vincent

  I shook my head, not in answer, but in denial and confusion. “Being with Sabine won’t fix that. She can’t undo it, and she can’t make me get over it.”

  “No, but she can help him forgive himself. Your relationship with Nash was all shiny and clean, but it’s tainted now. It’s like a stain you can never wash out. A constant reminder. But their relationship…well, it was messed up from day one, so that’s kind of their status quo. It’ll work between them, Kaylee. If you let it.”

  I could only stare at him in mounting shock and pain. And when my anger reached its crest, my temper exploded. “What is wrong with you?” I demanded. “How can you stand there and tell me that two people who love each other shouldn’t be together? That I should just shove him into the arms of his slut of an ex-girlfriend and call it a day?”

  “This is the truth, Kaylee.” Tod put his hands up, palms out, in another defensive gesture. “You can’t get mad at me for telling the truth.”

  “Oh, yes, I can.” I stood and flipped the pizza box closed, then slammed my hand down on it for good measure. “Get out.” I picked up the smooshed box and shoved it at him.

  “Kaylee…”

  “Just go away, Tod. I have enough to worry about without adding ‘taking stupid advice from a dead guy’ to the list.”

  Tod blinked at me, and the smallest cobalt tremor of emotion rippled through his irises before he regained control. Before I could interpret what I’d seen. Then he sighed and blinked out of the room, pizza box and all.

  Alone in my house again, I sank onto the couch and buried my head in my hands, my fingers pressed into my eyes so hard that red spots formed behind my eyelids. I refused to let the tears fall. Tod was wrong. So what if I didn’t need Nash anymore? Wanting him was enough.

  But as I lay awake that night, listening to Alec snore in the recliner he was now handcuffed to, doubt ate at me, one vicious bite at a time.

  What if Tod was right? What if wanting Nash wasn’t enough?

  BY MONDAY MORNING, exhaustion had become my state of normalcy. Even with Alec well secured, none of us had gotten much sleep for fear that Avari would possess my dad and tear up the house looking for keys to the cuffs Tod had commandeered from the local police station’s supply room. For our safety, neither Alec nor I knew where my dad had hidden the keys.

  But beyond all that, I was afraid that if I let myself sleep deeply enough to actually get any rest, Avari would find me again in my dreams. And lying awake only gave me more time to obsess over dead teachers, vengeful hellions, and a boyfriend who may or may not be better off with a walking Nightmare than with me.

  Thanks to another largely sleepless night, I pulled into the school parking lot just five minutes before the final bell and had to park near the back, both my scattered thoughts and flagging energy focused on finding Emma, so I could ask for advice about Nash. I was halfway to the building when a scream ripped through the parking lot, and all random snatches of conversation ended in startled silence. Heads turned toward the human but obviously agonized wail, now accompanied by other enraged shouts, and the sickening thunk of some blunt instrument into solid flesh.

  I shouldn’t have gone; I didn’t really want to know. But horror and curiosity are overpowering lures on their own, and together, they’re virtually irresistible. So I found myself in the thin flow of bodies streaming toward sounds of anger and pain, fully aware that there was probably nothing I could do to stop whatever was happening.

  When the crowd stopped moving, I elbowed my way to the front, then sucked in a sharp breath when what I saw sank in.

  In the main aisle, Trace Dennison, one of the basketball team starters, clutched a golf club in both hands, huge feet spread for balance, cheeks flushed in obvious outrage. He pulled the club up over his head, and the crowd around me gasped.

  “No, man, wait!” Derek Rogers, the captain of the basketball team, leaned against a dusty blue four-door car, clutching his left arm to the big E on the front of his green-and-white letter jacket. His face was ashen beneath a smooth, dark complexion, his jaw clenched in pain, and he held his right arm over his head in defense against the golf club ready to swing at him again.

  “Whoa, Trace!” Two of the other team members stepped out of the crowd, palms up in identical defensive gestures, intense, cautious gazes trained on Trace. “What are you doing? Put the club down!” the first player said, nervously running one hand through a head full of soft brown waves.

  Trace didn’t even seem to hear him.

  The second player—Michael something?—moved in boldly, while around me, the entire crowd seemed to stop breathing. “Dennison, do not make me kick your ass. Put that thing down before I shove it someplace graphic.”

  Trace never even turned. Instead, he gripped the golf club—a putter?—like a baseball bat, and as we watched, frozen in horror and anticipation, he swung overhead again, grunting with effort and with what sounded like primal rage.

  Michael lunged for the club and missed. Derek shouted. Onlookers sucked in sharp breaths. And over all that, I heard the muted thud of impact and the crunch of breaking bone.

  Derek’s shouts became high-pitched screams, and his right arm fell to his side, useless.

  Tears blurred my vision, but shock held me in place. I didn’t know what to do. No one seemed to know what to do, except Michael, who looked determined to put this insanity to an end, despite the obvious danger to himself.

  “You’re crazy!” Derek shouted between pain-filled gasps, edging down the length of the car and away from the club as Trace lifted it again.

  “Trace…” Michael said, hands outstretched now, and Trace whirled on him, club held high. The crowd shuffled backward as one, but Michael didn’t seem to notice. “What’s the problem, man? What’s this about?”

  “He’s my problem,” Trace said through clenched teeth, glancing over at Derek, who’d clenched his jaw shut—probably to keep from screaming—clutching both ruined arms to his chest. “Seventeen point average and an MVP nomination doesn’t mean you walk on water. If he wasn’t such a ball hog, maybe people’d realize there’s more than one man on the court!”

  A ripple was working its way through the rapidly growing crowd—a single capped head sticking up above most of the others. Coach Rundell and both security guards stepped into the clearing as Trace started to turn back to Derek, already pulling the club high again, ready for another swing. Michael must have seen them, because he moved closer to Derek, dragging Trace’s gaze with him, distracting him from the newly arrived authorities.

  Coach Rundell wrapped one meaty hand around the neck of the club and neatly plucked it from Trace’s grip, jerking him backward in the process.

  When Trace turned, his face scarlet with rage, the security guards each grabbed one of his arms.

  “Call an ambulance,” Rundell growled, after one look at Derek’s misshapen right arm, obvious even beneath his thick jacket sleeve. The younger of the two guards pulled a portable radio from his belt and spoke into it, passing along the coach’s orders to the attendance secretary as they hauled a belligerent Trace Dennison toward the building. But by then, at least a dozen students were already dialing 9-1-1 directly.

  Rundell helped Derek out of his jacket carefully, but the senior screamed as the sleeves slid over his arms. “Oh, shit,” Rundell said. Derek’s arms were both obviously broken, but his right sleeve was torn and oozing blood, the white end of a bone sticking up through both flesh and stained material.

  “Okay, let’s get you inside.” Coach waved Michael forward to help him get Derek to the school building, both basketball players towering over the shorter, thicker football coach as several other teachers arrived and began to disburse the onlookers.

  “Hey, Coach!” another voice called from the crowd, and I turned to find a freckled sophomore member of the golf team holding up the club Rundell had dropped, a long black golf bag hanging from his opposite shoulder. “Can I have this back now?”

  Rundell stopped a
nd turned toward the kid, and Derek groaned. “What was Trace doing with it?”

  The kid shrugged. “He grabbed it right out of my bag and just started swinging.”

  “Well, I think it’s evidence now. Have your dad call me.” Rundell held out his hand, and the kid jogged forward to hand him the club, then the coach marched toward the building with one hand on Derek’s shoulder.

  “What happened?” Emma asked from behind me, and I turned to see her rounding the car on my right.

  “Trace Dennison went homicidal, and now the basketball team’s down two starters. He broke both of Derek Rogers’s arms.”

  “Damn.” Emma whistled as we headed toward the building.

  “Yeah. It was pretty brutal.” I was oddly relieved to realize that even after everything I’d seen in the Netherworld, human-on-human violence still truly bothered me.

  We followed the crowd toward the side entrance, and gossip buzzed all around us, people rehashing Trace’s psychotic breakdown, Mona’s arrest for possession with intent, and Tanner’s locker vandalism, which had been largely outshined by the rest of the chaos. Then the shrill ring of the final bell cut through the animated chatter, and the foot traffic sped up.

  Great. Another tardy. Maybe Mr. Wesner’s sub wouldn’t notice.

  As we jogged toward the building, a car pulled into the parking lot, and distantly, I noticed that it was Jeff Ryan’s rebuilt ’72 Chevelle. Nash had helped him work on it a couple of times, and Jeff had let him borrow it once, as a thank-you.

  I waved to Jeff as I crossed the aisle, practically dragging Em along with me. We were only feet from the school door when an engine growled behind us. Tires squealed, and I turned toward the sound to see a sleek, low-slung black car racing down the center aisle. I sucked in a breath to shout a warning, but I was too late.

  The black car slammed into the passenger side of Jeff’s Chevelle with the horrible squealcrunchpop of bending metal. I flinched and grabbed Emma’s arm. And for a second or two, a thick, shocked silence reigned complete in the parking lot.

  Then Jeff’s door creaked open and he crawled out of his car, the passenger side of which was now wrapped around the crunched front of the other vehicle.

  People raced toward the wreck. The other driver got out and started yelling at Jeff, but I couldn’t understand much of what he said. Jeff was wobbly and too stunned to reply, but after one good look at his ruined masterpiece, he blinked and shook his head, then jumped into the shouting match full-strength.

  Teachers came running. Some gestured for onlookers to get to class while others tried to break up the fight that had erupted between Jeff and the other driver, who were still shouting between blows.

  “Holy shit, what’s that all about?” Emma asked, walking backward as slowly as possible, reluctant to tear her gaze from the latest violent outburst.

  “That’s Robbie Scates,” someone said from my left, and I glanced over to see a guy I didn’t know staring longingly at Emma. “He and Jeff entered some kind of hot-rod show in Dallas on Saturday, and Jeff placed higher. His picture was in the Sunday paper. Guess Robbie’s a sore loser.”

  “A stupid one, too,” I mumbled. At least fifty people had seen him T-bone Jeff’s car.

  “Damn…” Emma breathed. “An arrest on Friday, and now two fights and a wreck today, before school even started!”

  “Technically, school’s started,” I noted, dragging her by one arm toward the entrance. “We just missed the first few minutes.”

  “I don’t think we’re the ones missing anything,” Em said, turning reluctantly to follow me to algebra, where our dead teacher’s desk was now occupied by a clueless long-term sub.

  IN SPITE OF THE BUSY work the sub handed out—along with our tardy slips—Emma managed to fill the rest of the class in on the parking lot chaos, through a combination of whispered sentences and passed notes, until the sub finally gave up and pretended not to notice the crowd gathered around our desks.

  “It’s the pressure,” Brant Williams opined, dark brows drawn low. “Trace needed that scholarship, otherwise he’ll end up at TCJC. But he fumbled twice in the first quarter, and the recruiter never even looked at him after that.”

  “Well, they’re sure not gonna recruit him now,” Leah-the pom-squad-girl added. “Unless maybe the golf team’s really hard up.”

  But whether it was senior year pressure or something dumped into the school’s water supply, the truth was that half the student body seemed to have gone insane over the weekend.

  During second period, the fire alarm went off right about the time we started smelling smoke, and when we filed into the parking lot, the most prevalent rumor was that Camilla Edwards’s science fair project—brought to school so the yearbook staff could get pictures of the first state finalist in nearly a decade—had been doused with something flammable and lit on fire in one of the chemistry labs. Now those pictures were all that remained of a project she’d started more than eight months earlier.

  “This is insane,” Emma said, when I snuck away from my class huddle to meet her by her car. The red and blue lights from the fire trucks and police cars flashed over her face, giving her expression a look of urgency, on top of the standard bewilderment. “Why would anyone trash Cammie’s project? Just to get out of second period?”

  But I had no answer. All I knew for sure was that Eastlake High had lost its collective mind, and the timing was too precise to be a coincidence. I was already dealing with a new Nightmare of a student, dead teachers, and a hellion with more strength and abilities than he should have. And now some kind of violent mental defect was sweeping the student body.

  It was all related. I could feel the connection in my gut, even if I couldn’t make sense of it. There was something I wasn’t seeing. Some piece of the puzzle I hadn’t yet found. And the only thing I knew for sure was that until I put the whole thing together, no one at Eastlake High School would be safe.

  21

  WHEN I WOKE UP at 2:24 a.m. on Tuesday, something lay on my pillow, two inches from my face. I sat up, fumbling for my bedside lamp, instantly alert. It was a purple sticky note, taken from my own desk.

  Ice surged through my veins as I reached for it, raising chill bumps all over my body, and those chill bumps blossomed into chill mountains when I read the note.

  Three words. Infinite possibilities.

  And sleeping, wake.

  There was no signature, and the handwriting was unfamiliar, with an old-fashioned, curly look to it.

  Avari was back. And he wanted to play.

  And that’s when I realized the house around me was silent. No snoring. No groaning couch springs or squealing metal recliner frame as someone shifted in sleep.

  Swimming in panic, I pulled on the jeans I’d worn the day before and raced into the living room—then froze when I squinted into the dark and made out the empty recliner and the pillow lying next to it on the floor. Alec was gone.

  I whirled toward the couch, but it was empty, too, except for my dad’s bedding, and for one long, horrible moment, I thought he was gone, too. Then something shifted in the shadows between the couch and coffee table, and I realized it was the rise and fall of my father’s chest.

  Shoving the coffee table out of my way, I clicked on the end table lamp and dropped to my knees next to my dad. His hands were cuffed at his back and blood had pooled beneath his head, and when I brushed back his hair, I found a sticky lump above his left temple.

  Avari had found the keys. He’d possessed my dad in his sleep, found the handcuff keys, then released Alec and restrained my father. My dad had obviously woken up at some point after Avari had taken Alec’s body—otherwise, why hit him? But I’d slept through the whole thing.

  And now someone innocent would die, because I couldn’t master the art of defensive insomnia.

  Well, that, and because Avari was a vindictive, soul-sucking demon with an appetite for chaos and a yen for my complete destruction. But I couldn’t help blaming myself, at l
east in part, because I’d failed to stop him. Again.

  But maybe I could catch him. The others had all died at the school.

  Since my father was safe for the moment, I pulled on my jacket, grabbed my car keys, then headed for the front door, where I froze with my hand on the knob. Stuck to the wood, half covering the peephole, was a second purple sticky note, displaying that same antiquated writing.

  A walk I take.

  If it was a riddle, it was a very bad one. I already knew he’d gone somewhere. Probably to kill someone. So why start a new game now?

  He wouldn’t, unless he was planning to feed from my pain, as well as from whatever energy he funneled through Alec. Which meant he was going after someone connected to me. And that narrowed things down. As did the fact that he was on foot.

  But even knowing that, I could think of at least half a dozen people he might target, and I didn’t have time to check on them all individually.

  As I stepped into my shoes, panic-fueled, anger-driven plans of action tumbled through my brain, their unfinished edges making mincemeat of my upper level logic. In the driveway, I slid into my driver’s seat and shoved the key into the ignition, and when the interior lights flared to life, I found myself staring at another sticky note in the middle of my steering wheel. My heart thumped painfully. Four words this time, in that antiquated scrolling print.

  Fair maid to break.

  It was more poem than riddle, but hardly brilliant, either way.

  And sleeping, wake

  A walk I take

  Fair maid to break

  Emma.

  No, wait. What if he meant Sophie? My cousin and best friend were the only two human girls I knew for a fact that he knew how to find. My hands clenched around the steering wheel in frustration. Emma was my refuge from all things twisted and non-human. Sophie was my own flesh and blood. I couldn’t lose either of them. But I couldn’t save them both; they each lived about a mile from me, but in opposite directions.