“Yes, Tabitha,” I said, trying to break it to her gently, “we’re seeing each other. I would’ve thought it obvious.” Well, not too gently.
She crinkled her nose and gave me a measuring once-over. “Well, it shouldn’t be hard to lure him away. Considering.”
And I was feeling sorry for her. Wow.
But still, what I’d seen before was more than a little disturbing. I tried to remember that as she bounced away. I followed her out the door and sat back down beside my new old best friends. We’d done it. Together we’d done it.
“I have to ask you,” Brooke said, pulling me out of my thoughts. “Can you still do … you know. Am I remembering correctly? All the things you used to do? All the times I forced you to practice? Is that still a go?”
I didn’t want to tell her I was just wondering the same thing. “Oh, my God,” I said instead, exaggerating my annoyance. “Practice, practice, practice. That was your mantra twenty-four/seven.”
She got defensive. I tried not to laugh. “Well, practice makes perfect. Where would you be without me?”
“Where would any of us be without you?”
A satisfied smirk lit her face, but quickly disappeared. Her gaze slid past me in thought. “It’s crazy,” she said. “We’ve lived two lives. How many people can say that?”
“Not many.”
She bounced back then elbowed me. “Thank God, right?”
I laughed. “Definitely, thank God.”
Another car pulled up then—latecomers to the party of the century, literally—and Ashlee and Sydnee Southern got out, carrying more food.
Ashlee looked at Glitch shyly as she passed. Apparently they hadn’t hooked up in this reality.
“Hi, Casey,” she said, but Casey the Glitch was deep in thought and missed the whole thing. He tended to do things like that, and it would take the matchmaking talents of Brooke and me to get this ball rolling.
“I just have one question,” he said, his brows drawn in meditation.
“Just one?” I still had a thousand. A million. A hundred million.
He nodded. “Yeah, just one for now.” He narrowed his eyes on me and asked, “Why Glitch?”
BEAST
The next day, I found myself standing on a doorstep I never thought I would, which belonged to a friend I never thought I’d have. Tabitha opened the door. Her eyes widened in surprise; then she turned smug and derisive. Nice to see she was up to form and we hadn’t been that great of friends after all. Clearly she was over me.
“Can I talk to you?” I asked.
She flipped her hair over a shoulder. “What about?”
“Please, Tabitha.”
“Fine, whatever. Just get in here before someone sees you on my doorstep.”
That was a quick turnaround. We went from being besties to mortal enemies in the blink of an eye. Worked for me. I’d honed my speech after the last three encounters. “Look, I’m a prophet. I can see things, okay? I can see into the future and the past, and I’m sorry, Tabitha, but when you brushed up against me once—” I bit down, hating to say what I had to say. “—I saw what happened to you last year. At that party.”
“What are you talking about?” Then realization dawned on her pretty face. She stilled. “You need to leave.”
“I will. But I just wanted you to know that no matter what you think, it wasn’t your fault.”
Her chin rose in defiance.
I stepped closer, close enough to make her uncomfortable. “It wasn’t even a tiny bit your fault. None of it. And, for what it’s worth, if you prosecute this guy, you will feel better in the long run, and you’ll prevent him from doing the same thing to someone else.”
Her eyes watered and she turned away from me, embarrassed. “That was a year ago. Even if I could convince a prosecutor of the truth, there’s no evidence.”
I knew it would come down to this. And now her self-esteem was about to take an even bigger beating. I toed the tile with the tip of my flats, not wanting to do this, but desperate times and all. “That’s not entirely true. I promise you, that guy has irrefutable evidence of what happened.”
“What? How can he possibly—?” When she figured it out, when the only answer to her questions slammed into her, she put a hand over her mouth. “Oh, my God, he recorded it.” Her expression fixed on mortification.
“Tabitha, even if the recording doesn’t prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that you were forced against your will, you were fifteen. Fifteen, Tabitha. He was twenty-two. That right there is enough evidence to get him convicted of statutory rape, not to mention the fact that he plied you with alcohol. I’m pretty certain your parents will stop at nothing to see that man behind bars.”
Again, her eyes widened, this time in horror. “I can’t tell my parents.” Her voice cracked and she covered her face. I could practically feel the heat of shame rushing through her. “I can’t.” Heart-wrenching sobs racked her body as the horror of her experience swallowed her again. She had trusted him. A boy from college whom she’d met at a football game. He’d been so sweet. So caring. He’d opened the door for her. Tucked her hair behind her ear. Convinced her to go to his dorm room.
I stepped forward and put a hand on her shoulder. She let me, and after a moment, she encircled me in her arms. She cried for several heartbreaking moments, her shoulders quaking with each sob, until I felt her mother would wait no longer. I stepped back, smiled reassuringly, and walked toward the door as she finally noticed the woman standing in the doorway to the kitchen, her mouth covered with the dish towel she’d been using, her expression full of compassion.
They would be okay. Tabitha would be okay, and I chose to see that as a positive thing.
I smiled when I spotted Jared across the street. Ever the diligent guardian. I guess, if this was the price I had to pay for saving the world, I’d just have to learn to live with it.
* * *
One week later, I woke up in the middle of the night and felt, for the first time, completely at ease in my surroundings. My room was gorgeous. I had to add some color, having no idea what I’d been thinking with everything so white. Maybe I’d been trying to sterilize my surroundings. To surround myself with cleanliness since being faced with a dirty alternative: the threat of war. The destruction of all things on earth. The deaths of everyone I knew and loved.
But we were living in a new time and I was beginning to embrace it. Jared had moved into the same apartment behind my grandparents’ store after a major overhaul. Thankfully, just like last time, we had a plethora of men ready and willing to help out in the church. They worked tirelessly and had him moved in in three days. It was amazing what men would do to stay on the good side of the Angel of Death.
Because I couldn’t get back to Maine, I’d actually had to tell Kenya over e-mail that she’d saved the world. Or, at the very least, helped save it. If she hadn’t gone back for those photographs, I had no idea what would have happened.
She wrote me back. She didn’t believe the memories until I contacted her. She was thrilled and excited and honored to have been a part of the war. But her recollection was fuzzy, and she asked me how she’d died. She remembered dying.
I lied in my next e-mail. How could I recount such a horrid event? I told her I didn’t know. I told her I’d lost sight of her and when I’d looked back, she was gone. She wrote again, reminding me she carried a switchblade. I told her the truth in my third e-mail. As tough as she was, it was hard for her to hear.
We made plans for her to come to Riley’s Switch in the summer. Her parents, the same parents who’d taught her all about me, about the prophecies and coming war, were beside themselves with glee at how everything had turned out. They wanted to meet me and my parents and my grandparents and the nephilim. They weren’t certain about meeting the Angel of Death, but when I assured them he was on an Angel of Death hiatus, they agreed to meet him, too. Reluctantly.
After finding out exactly how much Kenya remembered, I told her to be wary of Wade, the stick fi
gure–drawing maniac. She said it was already taken care of. He’d apparently started having visions of a different time, a different reality, and went stone crazy.
When asked if she had anything to do with his mental issues, Kenya pleaded the fifth.
I longed to see Crystal again. Kenya promised she was keeping an eye on her. In fact, they’d become very good friends. Crystal, unfortunately, didn’t remember me. It seemed that only those with a direct connection to the events that day had the memories. So I asked Kenya if that were so, how did Wade remember?
She pleaded the fifth. Again.
I liked her.
For some odd reason, those were the things I thought about as I walked barefoot into the forest. The full moon helped light my path. My feet should have been cold. The forest floor should have cut as I walked across it. My gown should have been wet from the light droplets of rain I’d encountered earlier. And perhaps all of that was true, but I paid them no mind.
I strode deeper into the pine-scented woods, my feet padding along the damp ground, completely oblivious to anything but my goal. I stopped and listened for the breathing. I’d heard it for days. Or perhaps I’d simply felt it. Deep, heavy, and guttural, it echoed around me. What would have terrified any other trespasser only fueled my quest. I climbed up rocks, ducked under trees, and jumped over water until I came to a place in the forest that was dark. Unusually dark. Much darker than the surrounding area. It was like a black hole split the trees and opened a portal to another universe.
But I knew better. It was no hole. No portal. It was him. He’d come back for me. To be with me.
I stepped to him, placed my hand on his thick scales as he lay curled inside himself. He grunted, refusing to look at me like an impetuous child. I’d left him out here for days and he was angry, but slipping away from a nephilim and the Angel of Death was not as easy as one might think.
“How did you get out of hell?” I asked.
He stirred, then went back to his pouting, so I ran my hand along the bridge between his closed eyes. He smelled like lightning and soot, and his scales were as cold as an artic wind. His head, twice my height, possibly more, lay on a bed of pine needles. Add his horns, and his head alone was massive. I could only imagine how big the rest of him was. Then again, I didn’t have to. I’d seen him. Twice. Once when I was six and once when I’d released him during the war. He was magnificent. A guardian of the underworld. Not evil, as we’d been led to believe, but guarding those who were evil, who were sent to what amounted to a prison in the afterlife.
“Well,” I said to him, giving him one last chance to acknowledge me, “are you coming or not?”
He stirred and rose at last, his movements slow, labored as he unfolded to his full height. I looked up at him. His head topped the trees and blocked out the moon, which would not make navigating the forest any easier. He bent and ran a razor-sharp claw over my cheek, being careful not to scratch me. The damage that one claw could do was staggering, but it didn’t concern me in the least. Not at the moment.
“I missed you, too,” I said. Taking the claw into my hand, I said, “We better get back before my parents send out a search party.”
He straightened again and followed me, taking one step to my thirty.
“I don’t know how I’m going to explain you to Mom and Dad,” I said as we traipsed back to my place. “Just try not to break anything.”
A tree cracked and fell beside us, and branches sounded like popcorn, his broad shoulders snapping them like twigs as we passed, leaves and pine needles showering down around me.
I groaned aloud. This was not going to end well.
ALSO BY DARYNDA JONES
Fifth Grave Past the Light
Death, Doom, and Detention
Death and the Girl Next Door
Fourth Grave Beneath My Feet
Third Grave Dead Ahead
Second Grave on the Left
First Grave on the Right
Praise for Death, Doom, and Detention
“Fast-paced, action-packed, and full of mysteries, Death, Doom, and Detention is a solid sequel that should keep fans of the series turning the pages long into the night.”
—YA Books Central
“Jones’s Darklight series features all of the same attitude and humor as her adult series, but with a cast of teen characters, making it fun for adult fans as well as teens.”
—BookBitch
“Darynda Jones manages to write a completely unique story about a girl who’s lost in her own way, an angel who’s darker than he seems, and a prophecy that’s scaring everyone and anyone. It seems like your typical story, but it’s far from it!”
—Fiction Freak
“The plot, setting, and theme are all tied together nicely to make this book a fast-paced, enjoyable novel. You’ll smile, you’ll groan, you’ll laugh, you might even want to throw the book down in anger. Basically, you will fall even more in love with this series.”
—Miss Literati
“This sequel starts out with a bang and never stops.”
—Night Owl Reviews
“Action-packed, intriguing, and exciting … I cannot wait to see what Ms. Jones has in store for us in book three, Death and the Girl He Loves.”
—Fresh Fiction
“Darynda continues her winning streak with Death, Doom, and Detention.… Jones’s writing—in any genre—is a breath of fresh air.”
—Suspense Magazine
Praise for Death and the Girl Next Door
“Unique, witty, and touching—I LOVED THIS BOOK!”
—P. C. Cast, New York Times bestselling author of the House of Night series
“Outrageously funny, sinfully sexy, with a cast of characters that steals your heart from the very first page … I loved this book!”
—Inara Scott, author of the Delcroix Academy series
“Death and the Girl Next Door is unputdownable. Darynda Jones breathes fresh life into the young adult genre with exciting twists to legends we only think we understand and edgy, compelling characters you can’t help but care about.”
—Gwen Hayes, author of Falling Under
“Only Darynda Jones could make the Angel of Death crush-worthy! Wickedly sharp with brilliant wit, Death and the Girl Next Door will leave you craving more!”
—Lara Chapman, author of Flawless
“Snapping with sarcasm and a pitch-perfect voice, Darynda Jones has brought her signature humor and supernatural sass to Riley High. Trust me, there’s nothing grim about this reaper!”
—Roxanne St. Claire, New York Times bestselling author of Don’t You Wish
“Death and the Girl Next Door delivers a smokin’ hot story and a guy to die for. Darynda Jones gives one candy-smacking, awesome read that won’t let you go until the end.”
—Shea Berkley, author of The Marked Son
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author DARYNDA JONES won a Golden Heart for Best Paranormal Romance for her manuscript First Grave on the Right. A born storyteller, she grew up spinning tales of dashing damsels and heroes in distress for any unfortunate soul who happened by, annoying man and beast alike. Darynda lives in the Land of Enchantment, also known as New Mexico, with her husband and two beautiful sons, the Mighty, Mighty Jones Boys. Visit Darynda at www.daryndajones.com.
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