by Rin Chupeco
“What are you doing here?” she hisses, flouncing down onto the cushion.
“Trish invited me.” I don’t know why I sound so defensive, but I do. “You were there.”
“I know that, but why did you come?”
“Why not?” I cast a pointed glance around the room. “You think I’m not up to the male standards?”
Kendele turns red. “That’s not what I mean and you know it.”
“Then what do you mean?”
“You aren’t them.”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
“No, I mean you aren’t them. You’re not an asshole. I saw your face just now. Whatever they were talking about, you obviously didn’t like it. There are other wannabes out there who’d like to be part of this even if it means they have to be jerks, but I know you’re not one of them. So why are you here?”
“Why are you here?”
“Because most of the cheerleaders are dating the jocks! And they’re cheerleaders I happen to be friends with, and friends stick with friends even when they outvote you on where you want to spend your Friday night! Nadia thinks the cheerleaders need to hang out more often anyway, so we can work better together on the field or whatever. And you still haven’t answered my question!”
“Maybe I want to be an ass.” She looks really upset at that, which puzzles me. “Being your lab partner slash tutor for a couple of semesters doesn’t make you the expert on who I am.”
“If I thought you were an asshole, I wouldn’t have asked you to be my lab partner in the first place, you idiot. Trish didn’t ask you here to the party because she wanted to thank you for whatever you did for her and Sondheim. She was only using that as an excuse. She thought she was doing me a favor.”
I blink. “I don’t get it.”
“For a smart person, you’re pretty dumb, aren’t you? I didn’t want you to come here, but I did want you to ask me out,” Kendele huffs. With any other girl, it wouldn’t have sounded so feminine. “Honestly, you must be the most oblivious boy I’ve ever met. I flirted with you, I picked you for my lab partner, and you barely give me a second glance in class. I invite you to a movie earlier today and you blow me off. I was waiting for you to take the hint, but…”
“You were asking me out?” Kendele Baker wants to ask me out? I’m aware of my mouth hanging open, and it takes a good minute to weld it back shut. “Why?”
Kendele giggles. “Why? I don’t know. You’re different from all the other guys. I know that sounds so clichéd, but you really are.” She leans toward me. “I mean, other than being such a hopeless, insensitive, inconsiderate…”
We’re inches apart, and she smells good, a mix of perfume and mint. I rally one last time. “What about Armstrong?”
“He wishes he could, but I’m not interested. I turned him down earlier because I’m not oblivious.” She shifts closer. “Was I wrong?” she whispers. “You don’t like me at all? You’ve never thought about it?”
I wish I could say I wanted to reject her advances. Or that she isn’t right.
I’m not aware she’s already on me until I feel her kissing me. Her lips are soft against my mouth—and sweet. She’s obviously done this before. I haven’t. I’m nervous it might show.
My hands settle behind her back—more from a lack of anywhere else to put them than anything else—while she presses against my chest and lets out a little sigh.
“Was this your first kiss?” she teases when we both come up for air.
That is such a typical Kendele question. And it’s typical Kendele challenge, which I can’t resist. I shut her up by kissing her again, quick and hard, relying on instinct. She’s breathing hard when we end it, her thin veneer of coyness giving way.
“The answer is yes.” My voice is a rough parody of how I usually sound, and I nearly lose my ability to speak completely at her next suggestion.
“Would you like this to be the first of many things we can do tonight?”
“You slumming in Chinatown now, Kendele?” someone catcalls from across the room.
“I’m Japanese,” I mumble.
“Shut up,” Kendele says, for both me and the heckler’s benefit, and kisses me again.
Then the lights go out.
I sit up, dislodging Kendele in my surprise. Yelps and startled laughter drift across the room, along with a few curses as people stumble in the dark. I look out the nearest window. From the streetlights and the glow from the other residences, McNeil’s seems to be the only house affected.
“Fuse must have blown,” McNeil’s voice growls from somewhere. “Damn contractors.”
“What’s happening?” Kendele asks. I start to shake my head before remembering she can’t see me. I hunt through my pockets, fishing out a penlight I always keep with me in case of emergency.
“I don’t know.” I flip on the light. Someone has found a couple more flashlights, and several people are using their cell phones for light, splaying the beams across the room. “Looks like it—”
A heavy thump sounds from upstairs, and a few people cry out. Nervous chuckling resumes but is silenced when the screams start up again, this time in fear.
Flashlights are trained on the staircase, when two people in states of undress come running down. Fletch Graham and someone I assume is his girlfriend clutch blankets and, in Graham’s case, a strategically placed pillow. The girl is still screeching her lungs out.
“There’s somebody upstairs!” she wails.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Saunders snaps.
Graham’s face is pale in the beams of the flashlights. “There was something in the room, man. The lights went out, then there was someone crawling and groaning on the ceiling. Scared the shit out of me…!”
I don’t need to wait for the rest of their explanations. I pull gently away from Kendele. “Wait here,” I tell her and then brush past the shivering couple to run upstairs.
It’s easy enough to track which room the couple bolted out of. Graham’s pants trailing into the hallway where he dropped them are practically an arrow.
“Okiku,” I hiss as I step in. “I know you can hear me. What was that about?”
She doesn’t respond. My impatience mounts, but I can do very little about it because McNeil and some of the other guys appear behind me, scanning the room for signs of an intruder. I step to one side and let them search, knowing they’ll find nothing.
“Doesn’t look like there’s anyone here,” McNeil finally says in disgust. “What a wuss.”
The tension in the air disappears. The other boys depart, laughing with each other, eager to roast their teammate for his cowardice.
“He better pay for my sheets too,” McNeil mutters, still irritated, scooping up the offending covers and dumping them back onto the bed.
As he does, I see Okiku, standing stock-still on the ceiling, staring at McNeil with that look. I can feel her tense, can feel the darkness spiraling out of her, and the hunger
hungry want kill
kill him pleasures kill
take him sweet blood is sweet hunger kill kill KILL
KILL KILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILLKILL
closing in around us, around the jock.
She gurgles.
“No!” I jump between her and the boy before Okiku can spring, and by the time McNeil turns back to me, she’s gone.
“What’s wrong with you?”
I grab the first thing I can reach—an antique picture frame from a dresser. “You nearly knocked it over,” I tell him. He’s nowhere near the frame, but in the dark, it would be hard for him to tell for sure. “Don’t want to scare everyone downstairs.”
The boy laughs. “Yeah, good point. You’re all right, Halloway.” He claps me on the back and grins.”
He hurt them.
“What?”
Okiku’s standing beside me before McNeil can take another step out of the room, and her face is terrifying to behold.
He hurt them.
“You s
ay something, Halloway?” The jock turns around just as Okiku steps back into me.
It’s true: Okiku can access every thought in my head. But she respects my privacy enough not to. The same holds true for me and her thoughts, but I avoid them. Her memories might drive me permanently insane.
Okiku’s also strong enough to discern the thoughts of most ordinary people, to draw out their memories with just one glance. It’s how she knows things.
There are many good reasons why she doesn’t share them with me.
This is one of those rare times where she removes that filter between us—
drunken little bitch froth
mine hate spewing lust sweat
mine
you deserve it filth
rage ask for it
ask for it whore
filth filth filth FILTH FILTH FILTH
The blurry tangle of booze and skin is almost too much for me to handle. Okiku mercifully shields her thoughts from mine, and the relief is instant. When I come to, I’m lying on the floor and don’t even recall falling over.
I can make out McNeil’s shadow looming over me, and I shove his hand away, angry, when he tries to help me stand.
“Jesus, Halloway. What’s wrong with you?”
“Did you rape them?”
“Huh?”
“Marjorie Summers. Abby Thorpe. Isabella Santiago.” I saw them all in my brief exchange with Okiku, the things she’d seen McNeil do to them. Winning their trust, plying them with alcohol, taking advantage of their drunkenness. Taunting them to find anyone who’d believed them, secure in the knowledge that no one would.
There’s a sick little psychopath lying underneath that golden boy image of his, and for all my experience with serial killers, even I had the wool pulled over my eyes. I now understand Okiku’s hatred every time McNeil wanders into her vicinity, and part of the hate now festers inside me. I want to scrub my eyes from the inside out.
And the expression on those girls’ faces. I’ve seen that same look on all the ghosts Okiku saved.
“Trish Seyfried. She’s next, isn’t she?”
McNeil hasn’t gone as far as he had with the others, but he’s been harassing her. Cornering her in the girls’ bathroom. Shoving his hand up her skirt when Sondheim’s not around. Telling her it’s her fault for dressing provocatively. He’s no longer taking the time to win her over like he had the previous girls, which tells me his violence is escalating quickly. From what I’ve seen of his mind, I can no longer doubt his intent.
The way Trish jumped from McNeil’s touch when he reached for the beer, her obvious unease when he’s around…she’s frightened.
There’s only one reason why Okiku would single him out.
Even in the darkness I can make out his smile. His voice is almost patronizing, convinced he can persuade me to believe otherwise. “Who’s been telling you those lies? One of those girls? They can’t prove anything. The way they dress all the time, it’s like they’re asking for it anyw—”
My fist connects with his nose, muffling the rest of his words, but I hadn’t taken into account that he is made of granite. I step back, flexing my hand, quite happy to risk a little more pain if I can throw another hit. For his part, McNeil looks more shocked than hurt.
Why do I hunt down these assholes? Because I was born three hundred years too late to get revenge on the man who’d killed Okiku.
Because like hell I’m angry.
“I know what you’ve done to them,” I snarl. “If I have to make it my life’s work, I will find all the evidence I need to see that you serve time for every girl you’ve hurt and thrown away. Count on it.”
The couple hadn’t bothered to draw back the curtains. From what little light comes in from outside, I see the smile freeze on McNeil’s face. His mouth curls into a cruel snarl.
You never really know how much of a mask someone wears until they peel it off.
Strip off the good looks and the confidence, and underneath that layer of skin there’s a monster lurking inside Keren McNeil, one he hides from everyone else.
A six-foot-tall, one-hundred-ninety-pound quarterback versus a lean Japanese kid barely pushing one forty-five? Not much of a contest and not something I’d considered when I threw the first punch. McNeil’s swing catches me right in the stomach, and I’m on the ground before I know what’s going on. I dimly hear yelling, but I’m having trouble hearing, as if sounds are coming out of second-rate speakers with a cheap bass. Pain blooms along my sides, and I realize in between the spurts of hurt that McNeil is kicking me, so I put my hands out to block him.
McNeil is roaring at me too, but my mind doesn’t process the words. I don’t need to hear them to know what he’s shouting.
And then the onslaught stops.
I crack open an eye to find McNeil staring over me. He’s no longer angry. Quite the opposite; he looks like he’s about to wet his pants. His eyes bug out of his head, his mouth open in stark terror at something no one can see but him.
And me.
Okiku shuffles toward him in her full diabolical glory. Her hair hangs low, and she is making soft, gurgling sounds at the base of her throat. This is her death rattle—the last sound she made before she died and the last sound her prey hears before they do.
“No, Okiku,” I croak out, but she doesn’t listen. When she gets worked up like this, she never does. I try to get up again, but my ribs protest my movement and I double over, trying to will more air into my lungs.
And then I can feel Kendele there, hugging me tightly. “You’re an idiot,” I hear her whisper hoarsely.
McNeil had fled. Okiku is nowhere to be seen, and I’m worried about what she might do if left to her own devices. I’m in no condition to go after her, and my hope is to get out of here, at a farther distance from McNeil than she can stray from our bond.
“Can you get up?”
“Barely.” There’s a crowd of people who’ve gathered at some point during my ass-kicking, though no one but Kendele bothers to help. With her support, I get back on my feet and reject her worried offers to bring me to a nearby hospital.
“I’ll be all right. I don’t think anything’s broken, and I, ha, still have all my teeth.”
“Don’t you dare treat this like a joke!” Kendele looks on the verge of crying.
“Sorry. I have to get out of here, Kendele.”
“What do you mean? We need to get you medical—”
“I have to get out of here!” I’m trying hard not to panic. “McNeil’s life depends on me getting the hell out of here as fast as possible. The farther away I am, the better. It’s important, Kendele.”
She relents at the distress in my voice. “Fine. But I’m going with you then. This party’s outlived its fun anyway.”
McNeil’s blows turn out to be less painful when I’m standing, and I’m able to totter down the stairs with little assistance and make it to my car without any other interference. Once Kendele slides into position beside me, I gun the engine, taking one last look back at the dark house. There’s still no sign of McNeil.
What worries me is that there’s no sign of Okiku either.
Chapter Five
The Date
“I’m not going home,” Kendele says the instant the car is out of the McNeils’ driveway. “And I want you to see a doctor.”
“You’re not my mother, Kendele.” I feel like a herd of cows has been stampeding the flamenco somewhere between my fourth and fifth ribs, but I keep my driving steady. “And it’s not like she had much say for most of my life either.”
“Tark, anyone with a brain can see that you’re hurt. You have to at least make sure nothing’s broken. Are you seeing double? Is there anything you can’t move?”
“I’m fine, Kendele. I’ve been in enough fights to know the difference between getting beat up and getting a pancreas kicked in.”
She crosses her arms, assessing me. “I suppose,” she concedes, although reluctantly. “So typical of you men not
to want any help. What did you do to make McNeil punch you anyway?”
“I punched him.”
She stares. “You punched McNeil? Tark, you’re crazy! Whatever possessed you to do that?”
“Did Trish ever tell you that McNeil’s been harassing her?” We stop at a red light, and I turn to face her. Okiku is still nowhere in sight.
“What do you mean?” The expression on her face tells me all I need to know. “What are you talking about? What did Trish say?”
I set my jaw. “Never mind.” If Trish hasn’t told her, then it isn’t my place to, though it may be too late to close that particular box. “Look, let’s just forget about it.”
“Easier said than done,” Kendele says, but to my surprise, she’s quick to change the subject. “Look, whatever it was, I’m sure you had good reason to punch him. If you don’t want to tell me right now, that’s fine. But I want something in return.”
“And what’s that?” I ask, suddenly wary.
“I was serious when I said I didn’t want to go home just yet. If you’re as uninjured as you claim to be, then we should have time to grab something to eat first, right?”
I open my mouth. For the first time in my life, I can’t think of anything witty to say, so I close my mouth again. “Are you…asking me out?”
She flashes a triumphant grin. “Now you finally get it.”
***
I probably wouldn’t have chosen a food truck for a first date, but it’s late, most of the restaurants of choice are closed or closing, and I didn’t want to fall back on someplace trite like Denny’s or Applebee’s. Kendele admits that she’s never had pho before, so I drive us over to the corner of Twentieth and L Street, where one of my favorite food trucks—easily noticeable by its punk decor—is stationed.
Okiku’s absence worries me though. I keep an eye on the rearview mirror, expecting her to appear at any moment, and my nervousness increases with every minute that goes by.
It’s probably nothing. Okiku knows never to stray too far, and the lack of other spirits in the area trying to haunt me seems to imply that she’s nearby, even if I can’t see her. Besides, if anything happened back at McNeil’s, I’m sure Trish would have contacted Kendele about it by now.