Pushed
Page 30
“Well? See anything?” Lucy whispered into my ear, peering around me with wide brown eyes. Her heart-shaped face glowed white against her curly black hair, and she looked small and scared.
I shook my head and tucked a loose blond strand back under my ski cap. My bones had frozen some time ago in the frigid January air, and I shoved my fingers into my bulky coat pockets to thaw them. Then I dug deep for courage like it was buried treasure. “It’s time. Wait here. If anything happens or Asher signals, you run. You hear me?”
My husky voice sounded harsher than normal as I tried to swallow my emotions.
“Got it, Buffy.”
She stumbled over the joke, her voice flat, but it didn’t matter. That my sister could attempt to joke about me being a heroine nearly killed me. I could be brave for her. I lifted my chin, imagining my spine made of iron rebar, and looked down at her one last time before I stepped out of the shadows and onto the sidewalk where anyone could see me. Nothing happened. No Healers or Protectors jumped out at me. Maybe we really had given them the slip two days ago. Encouraged, I looked both ways down the deserted street.
Maple, Alabama, could be called many things, but nobody would call it a party town. Home to a whopping population of 863 people, the town had one stoplight, a gas station, a diner, and a few small businesses lining the main street where we stood. Everything had shut down around six, as people went home to their families. As far as I could tell, Lucy and I were the only ones out on the street. Well, the two of us, and Asher who hid somewhere nearby.
Earlier today, the three of us had crashed for a few hours at a tiny motel sixty miles down the highway. Then we had packed our few belongings into the car, knowing that we might have to run in a hurry after I made this call. There was a very good possibility that our enemies were hidden, waiting for me to come out into the open. I shivered again, and then rolled my shoulders back.
Now or never, Remy.
I marched into the street, walking straight though it sent spikes of pain to my stomach. My steps echoed, and the sound encouraged me. That meant I would hear others approaching if they tried to sneak up on me. I cast another glance around when I reached the phone. Then I picked up the receiver, dropped some coins in the slot, and dialed the number that I knew by heart.
I counted three rings before a male voice answered. “Hello.”
Memories crashed and tumbled into each other at the sound of my grandfather’s deep voice. I once thought we could be family, but François Marche was incapable of loving anyone.
“Hello?” he repeated.
I swallowed, suddenly mute.
“Remy.” He almost purred my name, the confident bastard. “I wondered how long it would take you to call. You lasted longer than I thought you would.”
Four months. It had been four months since I’d seen him, heard his voice, watched him threaten my family. My nails formed half-moon circles in my palms when my hands tightened into fists.
“Franc,” I choked out.
“How are you, sweetheart?”
The fake concern reminded me of how naïve I’d been, taken in by this huge hulk of a man towering over six and a half feet tall with crazy white hair and a booming laugh. My grandfather called me “sweetheart” in his old voice, the charming voice, as if he hadn’t destroyed my life.
I buried my rage, keeping my voice light. “I’m a little tired from ditching your guys so often, but I can’t complain. How about you? Sacrificed any Healers to your friends recently?”
God, if the Healer community he led knew how he’d betrayed them to the Protectors, they might rise up against him. Franc rationalized that sacrificing a few of his Healers to the Protectors would save the larger community.
Franc sighed. “I do what I have to. It doesn’t have to be like this, Remy. You could stop it all.”
Take their place, he meant. Unlike full-blooded Healers, I wouldn’t die from the things the Protectors would do to me. Bile swam up the back of my throat as I pictured Asher as he’d been when we rescued him from my grandfather. Tortured, broken, hopeless. That would be my life if I caved to my grandfather’s demands.
“Never,” I whispered with revulsion.
“Think about it. Nobody else has to die.”
Disgust and fury sharpened my words. “I have thought about it. I’ve had nightmares about it since the day you suggested it. You remember that day, right? Because I do. By the way, how’s your stomach?”
Franc had tried to force me to kill my father, but I’d escaped using the only weapon I had against them—transferring my injuries to those who hurt me. The last time I’d seen my grandfather and his Protector allies, they’d been bleeding out from a stomach wound I’d inflicted on myself.
“Healed,” he bit off when I wondered if I’d gone too far. “You’re more powerful than I gave you credit for. You caused me a lot of pain.”
Smug satisfaction curved my mouth.
“You’re lucky I’m not a man who believes in petty revenge. I don’t think your father would survive what I’d do to him.”
I gripped the cold metal ledge beneath the phone to stay upright. I had to try twice before I got the words past the golf ball wedged in my throat. “He’s . . . He’s alive?”
CORRINE JACKSON is a San Francisco transplant, having lived on both coasts, from southern California to New York City. For the last seven years, she has sharpened her marketing talents at Alcone Marketing, where she has won several industry awards. She has bachelor’s and master’s degrees in English and is in her third year of Spalding University’s MFA program. A recipient of a West Chester Poetry Conference scholarship, she is also the former editor-in-chief of two literary magazines, Statement (CSU, Los Angeles) and Dash (CSU, Fullerton).
Visit her on the web at corrinejackson.com
KTEEN BOOKS are published by
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Copyright © 2013 Corrine Jackson
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ISBN: 978-0-7582-7334-5
First electronic edition: December 2013
ISBN-13: 978-0-7582-9155-4
ISBN-10: 0-7582-9155-8