Children Shouldn't Play with Dead Things (Dead Things Series Book 1)

by Martina McAtee

  She believed that too. He looked young but he carried himself with a confidence boys her age didn’t possess. She pushed her hair out of her face, mind racing. She felt restless, skin crawling in a way that was too much like what happened in the funeral for her peace of mind.

  “What do you want from me?” she asked.

  He stopped, tilting his head, eyes cold and so very beautiful, “I told you, I want to be your friend.”

  That look did not scream friends. She took a moment to wallow. Seriously, what karma was she working off? Some girls get to be prom queen; she gets orphaned and murdered before graduation. She snorted at the thought, unable to stop the giggle that escaped abruptly. She jammed her fist against her mouth to stop it but it was too late.

  She was suddenly burning from the inside, angry and scared, fear jolting along her skin like static electricity. She wasn’t an expert, but she was pretty sure this was what her therapist would call an inappropriate fear response. An image of her last therapist popped into her head so clear in that moment. Her stupid horn rimmed glasses and her constant sour expression; that morally superior tone so clear in her memory as she’d lectured her, ‘You don’t take anything seriously, Ember’. ‘Therapy only works if you work it, Ember’. You shouldn’t laugh at your killer, Ember. Ever the disappointment, she was.

  The laughter bubbled out of her, unstoppable as the tears streaming down her face. Mr. tall, light and scary looked putout, as if he didn’t know what to do with her mental breakdown.

  “I’m sorry,” She swiped at her cheeks, pulling herself together, sniffling loudly, “But I don’t think you understand the kind of shit day I’ve had.” Though he had been there earlier, “Well, maybe you do, but I mean, you have to appreciate the irony. Ten minutes ago, I was leaving to start a brand new life, now I’m going to be killed standing five feet away from the man who swore my smart mouth would get me killed someday.”

  She went lightheaded as the enormity of her words hit her, “Oh, God. This is like the part in the movie where you try to kill me, right? You are going to try to kill me and I feel too crappy to even try to run.”

  She was talking more to herself now. She leaned back against the rusted mausoleum gates behind her, enjoying the cool metal against her skin. Her head was swimming, the stars above blurring in the sky. No, not now, she thought. It was happening again. Whatever had happened earlier in the cemetery was happening again. She could feel it rising up in her, that weird feeling like her insides were melting and liquefying while she could do nothing to stop it. Was this a panic attack? Could a panic attack cause what happened in the cemetery earlier? Maybe this was some kind of fight or flight adrenaline response.

  She felt caged, trapped by her own body. It was all in her head. The ground wasn’t vibrating at her feet. There was no way she was really burning up in forty-degree weather. Even in her haze she could see him watching her. Maybe if she just held still, he would be quick about it.

  Her head lulled on her shoulders. She was going to pass out. It would serve him right. Then he was just there, in her space, fingers cupping her face. She moaned at the feel of his cold hands against her overheated flesh. “And if it is, Luv? If this is the part where I try to kill you? What then? Are you going to pass out and take all the fun out of it? Or will you fight back?”

  There was no mistaking the threat of his words, but he was close enough to whisper them against her skin like a promise. She couldn’t think straight. Her head filled with a sound like angry bees. She pitched forward, dropping her forehead to his shoulder, eyes drifting closed.

  He was so cold; even through the layers of his clothes; his body seemed to emit this pleasant icy radiance that soothed her feverish skin. She wrapped herself around him, locking her arms. She buried her face against his throat, nose rubbing against his skin.

  She felt his body go rigid in her arms. She didn’t blame him, on some level she understood sane girls didn’t try to cuddle their killers. But nobody ever accused her of being sane. She was the girl who played in cemeteries and talked to the dead. She was the girl with three therapists before she was twelve. She was the girl in flames and he was ice water; if she was going to die, she was going to have this first.

  They stood there, bound together by her forced embrace. Those strange vibrations increased, building inside her like a living thing, a burning energy trying to melt her from the inside out. She could hear his ragged breath panting against her ear, could feel him writhing in her grasp, but she refused to let go. Could he feel it too?

  She clung to him, knowing if she let go this peculiar energy would overwhelm her. She breathed him in, letting him anchor her as it kept building and burning, growing until it thrust from her with the force of a sledgehammer. He groaned like he’d received the physical blow, he may have fallen had she not been holding him to her. Finally, the world seemed to right itself. Her blood ceased to boil and the vibrations stopped. When her mind quieted, she became very aware of what she was doing.

  She let go, shoving him back. Despite his size, he stumbled, blinking hard. They stared at each other, his confusion mirroring her own.

  “What are you?” she whispered. “What are you doing to me?”

  He rushed her, shoving her against the concrete hard enough to knock her teeth together, “What did I do to you? What game are you playing? What are you? What was that? What did you do?”

  She whimpered, feet scrambling for purchase as she realized he’d lifted her from the ground. Her heart thundered in her chest. He was fit but not big enough to haul her off her feet like that. She shoved at him uselessly, “Put me down.”

  Her descent was abrupt, her heart lodging in her throat. His eyes narrowed, his hands tangling in her messy hair, tilting her head to the side. “Come on, Luv, you can tell me. I’m sure it’s eating at you, keeping this secret.”

  He was insane. She opened her mouth to say so but her brain short-circuited as his nose traced along the column of her throat. “I promise, things will be so much easier if you just tell me,” he purred, his lips pressing the words into her skin. She moved closer to him. In her defense, she’d never been this close to a boy before; especially not one who looked like he did.

  “We can do this one of two ways,” he inhaled her scent, pressing his mouth to the shell of her ear as he said, “I promise one is infinitely more pleasurable than the other.”

  Ew. Oh, God. What was she doing? What was he doing? Seducing her for information? Threatening her? It really bothered her that she didn’t know the difference.

  She needed to get it together. Her breath hitched in her chest. This was not how she saw herself dying. She’d had a plan. She’d written it down obituary style for a morbid ninth grade English assignment. She was supposed to die of obscenely old age in her enormous but tastefully decorated plantation home surrounded by her beautiful and ungrateful grandchildren.

  He huffed out a laugh and she realized she’d said all that aloud. She was too scared to be embarrassed. Instead, she slapped at his hands ineffectively.

  He stepped away so abruptly she staggered, pacing before her, “You’re seriously not going to tell me? You’re only hurting yourself on this one.”

  “I don’t know what you are talking about,” she told him. “You’re crazy.”

  He sighed heavily, his tone shifting as if speaking to a rather stupid child, “I’ll figure it out eventually.” He told her, pointing at her, “You don’t smell like a witch. You certainly aren’t a shifter.” Then he was back before her, gripping her chin, turning her head side to side, like he was examining livestock, “But you most definitely aren’t human.” Tiny hairs rose along her skin at his touch, “You’re trying my patience. What the hell are you?”

  She pushed away from him, head throbbing with his words. “Stop with the grabby hands.”

  She needed to think. He was clearly unhinged. She had very few options. She co
uld run but she doubted she could outrun him. Her gaze raked across broad shoulders and a flat stomach, he looked like he did a lot of cardio. She could scream but there wasn’t anybody to hear her. Instead, she did what she always did when she was nervous…she babbled.

  She’d watched a million documentaries on serial killers and the mentally ill. She could figure this out. Netflix was her friend. She wracked her brain, if he was a killer she had to make him see her as a person, tell him about her life, say her name a lot, make him believe people cared if she died, even if it was a lie.

  But what if he was schizophrenic? He thought she wasn’t human. What was she supposed to do? Orient him to reality? Play along with his fantasy? She should have paid more attention.

  “What’s your name?” she heard herself say, voice breathless.

  He arched his brow, tsking softly, expression bored. “I’m asking the questions here.”

  “Just tell me your name,” she demanded, panic creeping back in.

  “Mace,” the answer tumbled from his lips unbidden. He looked mystified, like his own mouth had betrayed him. He absently rubbed a spot on his chest.

  “Mace,” she repeated, with a nod. Okay, it was a start. “So um, here’s the thing, Mace. I’m only seventeen and I don’t want to die.”

  He gave her a look and a ‘fair enough’ shrug and gestured for her to continue, clearly amused by this turn of events.

  She frowned, but soldiered on, “You can’t be much older than me so let’s just think about this for a minute, okay?” She raked a hand through her damp hair, “I’m not really sure why you want to kill me but my life has pretty much sucked up until now. Like so much suckage. I can’t even explain the level of suck, but I feel like, statistically speaking, that’s gotta change. I’m not trying to sound like a motivational poster but it’s supposed to get better. I’d very much like to have a pulse when it does.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her, brow furrowed. He stepped forward.

  “Stop,” she held up her hand, palm out, “Just listen.”

  He stopped, looking at his feet then at her again.

  “I’m a nice girl,” she told him, before frowning, “but maybe you don’t care about that. I mean, if you’re, like, a murderous psychopath, you probably aren’t super interested in my feelings, but what about yourself?” She reasoned, gesturing spastically to all of his…self, “You seem like the kind of guy who thinks a lot of himself.”

  He cocked an eyebrow but said nothing. She was in turbo babble mode now, “If you kill me your life is over. You will definitely go to jail. I mean, look at me.” She gestured to her face, “I look like an ad for facial cleanser and girls who eat yogurt. Juries eat that stuff up. You’d probably get the chair.”

  He looked a little dazed. “You make a passionate yet confusing plea, Luv.”

  Her heart sank as he took a tentative step towards her, then another. He grinned as he advanced.

  “Come on. I’m sure you don’t want to go to prison.” She whined, “You are way too pretty for prison. You’d make a lot of the wrong kind of friends in prison.” Stop saying prison, Ember, she begged herself. “Do you want those kind of friends? Of course, you don’t. We could be friends?” she finished lamely, face flushing with shame. Maybe he should just kill her. It would be less embarrassing.

  He blinked at her, cheek twitching, “Aw, are you asking me to be your friend? One might question your judgment.”

  Her hands fell to her hips, swaying on her feet. “Wow, not to put too fine a point on it, but I’ve only seen you twice and both times you were here,” she gestured to their surroundings. “You hang out in cemeteries because you have so many friends? Is this were your book club meets?”

  “I can see why you have no friends,” he told her drolly.

  She squinted as something glinted in the air above his head.

  “I-” was all he managed before the object made contact with his head, sounding like a hammer hitting an overripe melon. He hit his knees with a groan, whatever he was going to say dying on his lips.

  She looked at his crumpled form, unreasonably disappointed.

  She’d really wanted to know what he was going to say.

  6

  EMBER

  She stared, not even surprised anymore. Behind Mace’s prone body stood a boy and girl about her age. The girl still held the shovel, holding it like a ballplayer choking up on a bat. The two were eerily similar in looks, tall, tan, dark hair, almond shaped eyes and long, lean muscle. They had to share DNA.

  The boy hugged himself, bouncing on his heels, staring at his companion in exasperation. He had to be freezing with just his jeans and thin long sleeved shirt. Truthfully, she didn’t know how they weren’t both freezing. She wore denim shorts, a striped crop top and a long sleeved flannel shirt with combat boots. Ember supposed the beanie cap slouched on her head and the flannel might provide some protection from the cold but not much.

  “That was your plan?” the boy asked.

  The girl heaved a sigh, pulling a small packet from her back pocket. “That was step one.” She poured the powder into her hand and knelt next to Mace. She slapped his face and he groaned, getting his legs underneath him. “Ah, ah,” she chided, kicking his legs out from under him, “none of that. Don’t want you standing; just breathing.”

  She blew the powder into his face, smiling in satisfaction as he coughed once and passed out. “That was step two.”

  The boy fixed the girl with a withering look. His bitch face was strong.

  “What?” she snapped, “We don’t have all night? I couldn’t watch anymore of…whatever that was.” She tapped her wrist, “We gotta go.”

  He turned his attention to Ember then, wincing as if he was used to having to apologize for his companion. He took a deep breath, steeling himself, “Listen, this is going to sound crazy, but you have to come with us if you want to live.”

  Ember blinked at him stupidly. She had no idea what to do with that.

  The girl dropped her face into her hands. “That was your plan? Come with us if you want to live? We drove four hours so you could hit her with a line from Terminator?” She looked pained as she whispered, “This is why nobody takes us seriously.”

  Ember shook her head. They looked so normal. Well, they looked like hipsters but not your run of the mill straitjacket needing crazies. Maybe this really was all some sort of fever dream. Her stomach started to feel slippery. Maybe she’d passed out at the funeral and slipped into a coma. Maybe she was dead and this was hell.

  The guy rubbed his hand across the back of his neck, gesturing with his head to Mace, “I’m ever so sorry if I offended your delicate sensibilities, next time I’ll just hit her over the head with a shovel.”

  They ignored Ember’s indignant, “Hey.”

  “Honestly, I would have respected you more,” the girl told him.

  “Can we get on with this or would you like to lecture me some more?”

  Yep, they were crazy. She looked around searching for anything that would make sense. Maybe she was on candid camera. Maybe this was some sort of weird live role-playing game. That was a thing. She’d seen it on the internet. This was New Orleans; maybe she’d stumbled into an elaborate dinner theatre production.

  She stared at the boy on the ground with renewed interest. It would explain his bizarre look. Was he faking being unconscious? Was this all part of the game; was there another girl out there waiting to be fake attacked. Mistaken identity made a lot more sense than her being a supernatural creature. It had the added bonus of making her crush on a killer a tiny bit less pathetic and sad.

  She used the toe of her shoe to gently shove at Mace’s shoulder, content to ignore the two so she could look her fill. He really was pretty with his eyelashes fanning shadows over his cheeks. She sighed. She finally meets a boy willing to have a conversation with her-albeit a strange one
-and a bunch of crazies ambush them. She felt she’d been making progress. They continued their argument, oblivious to her.

  “I wouldn’t need to lecture you if you would stop lacing every single conversation with stupid pop culture references that nobody gets but you nerdy comic-con dweebs.”

  Cute-movie-guy looked personally offended, “How dare you. Terminator is a classic. James Cameron is a-”

  The girl threw up her hand, palm out, “One word, bro, Titanic-”

  She could try to just slip away but they were blocking her exit, “Um, guys-”

  “Titanic?” the guy interrupted, “That movie was epic. Let’s talk about how the last movie you liked featured vampires who sparkled like bloodsucking pixie strippers. Sparkly vampires? When was the last time you saw a vampire glittering like a disco ball, hell when was the last time you saw one who didn’t explode in sunlight?”

  Ember sighed, staring at Mace forlornly. It was a testament to how screwed up her life was that she just wanted him to wake up and sniff her threateningly. He still wasn’t moving. She glanced surreptitiously at the two before again toeing at him, this time nudging his chin with her foot. She cringed as his head flopped like a ragdoll.

  Was he dead? She felt sick. What if he was a serial killer? She glanced at the two. What if they were serial killers? Did mass murderers hang out bantering after killing people? Probably in Quentin Tarantino films.

  “Hey,” she shouted, startling herself as her voice echoed in the silence.

  They both turned to her at exactly the same time, fixing her with identical expressions.

  Creepy.

  “Uh, not that I’m not grateful for the…rescue, I guess, but,” she pointed at Mace, “is he dead? And, if so, does that make me an accessory to murder?”

  Movie guy sighed, raking his hands through his hair, “Despite my sister’s best efforts, he’ll live. It’s apparently not his time to go…but it was almost yours.”

  Ember’s face contorted, and the girl whacked him on the arm, “You should really look up the word tact, bro.”