Mortal Danger

A GRIEF LIKE FEAR

Tuesday, word had already spread. The minute I stepped into school, other students surrounded me, some of them sporting black armbands. Farther down the hall, Davina and Jen were mobbed. Jen looked horrified while Davina couldn’t seem to decide if the attention was good or bad. An onslaught of questions bombarded me.

“I heard you were there when she died.”

“Was there a lot of blood?”

“Someone told me Brit was possessed or something, and—”

“What is wrong with you?” I demanded.

Before I could bitch at the vultures, an announcement came over the PA system. “Morning classes will be canceled. Instead there will be an assembly in the auditorium and then grief counselors will be available to those who need them. If you were close to Brittany King and need a mental health day, you will be free to contact your parents.”

At lunch I sat by myself for the first time this year; the rest of the Teflon crew had gone home. At least, I thought that was the case, until Cameron plopped down across from me. His tray had beef and noodles on it but he showed no sign that he meant to eat anything; instead he dropped his head in his hands. He looked like shit. The circles beneath his eyes were so dark, it looked like he’d been punched in both eyes, and there were scrapes and bruises on his knuckles. I didn’t ask if he’d been fighting or hitting inanimate objects. For all his assholery the week before, it was clear he was taking Brittany’s death hard.

I raised a brow. “What’re you still doing here?”

When he raised his head to meet my gaze, his eyes were red and bloodshot. “My parents are in Europe. There’s nobody to sign me out.”

“Ah.” I couldn’t bring myself to be more sympathetic, so I picked at my lunch. When I’d pictured Cameron getting what he deserved, I never imagined anything like this.

“They’re gone, like, all the time. The housekeeper works five days, but I’m pretty much on my own, nights and weekends.”

I didn’t want to talk to him when he was acting like a decent person. Before, he was just a one-note jerkwad who seemed to get off on making my life a living hell.

“At least you have a lot of freedom.” That was a stupid thing to say.

“And I spent most of that time over at Brit’s. She has an actual family, you know? Her mom is kind of crazy and her dad’s a dick, but they’ll miss her. It should’ve been me.”

For a few seconds, I stared, unable to believe such a thing had come out of Cameron’s mouth. “Don’t say that.”

“I thought she’d get better, so I didn’t go see her. She died thinking I didn’t care.” He bit out a curse.

“You loved her?” Kind of astonishing, I’d suspected those two were together because they were both hot and nobody else at Blackbriar met their exacting standards.

“Yeah,” he said in a dull voice.

Against my better judgment, I spoke some consoling words and counted the minutes until the bell rang. I wasn’t subtle when I hurried away from Cameron, but for the first time, it wasn’t because his presence made me sick with shame. Pity swelled inside me instead but I didn’t think he’d want it.

In my afternoon classes, the teachers crafted impromptu lessons about death and loss; the lectures were more like group therapy. And in my last class, an actual grief specialist came in, introducing himself as Greg Jessup. He had apparently been making the rounds. The counselor had us move our desks into a circle, and he asked us lots of questions about our feelings. At first, people were reluctant to speak, and then it got deep. Since there were so few of us still in school, I guessed it made it easier to be brave.

“It makes you think,” a guy named Stuart said. “I mean, I wasn’t friends with Brittany or anything, but it’s sad. She was so young.”

Another dude nodded. “Yeah, man. It could happen to anyone.”

Could it?

My heart pounded nearly up into my throat while fear and horror battled inside me. As if he could sense it, Greg turned toward me. “Do you want to share with the group?”

“Not right now, thanks.”

Like everyone else, I admitted to being sad, but I didn’t say how scared I was or how much nascent guilt was churning in my gut. That period seemed endless. Consequently I was glad as hell to get out of Blackbriar at quarter to three. The few students left trickled out of the front gate, and I was among the stragglers. Kian had been amazing the night before, though things were a mess between us. I felt bad about letting him stick around while I cried on his shoulder as my parents hovered, made tea, and said ridiculous things that were supposed to cheer me up.

I was used to looking for him as I came out of school, and it was an incredible relief to find him waiting. His reaction when he spotted me was a beautiful combination of pleasure and yearning, quickly dimmed to a more neutral expression, as if he didn’t want me to know how happy he was. Yet he still crossed to me and enfolded me in his arms, not a perfunctory hug but a real one, and I held on tight, heedless of people trickling by.

“Bad day?”

“You could say that.” And it was about to get worse.

I can’t do this to him anymore. In my head, there was a messy jumble of wariness, longing, and suspicion. It wasn’t fair to Kian and I couldn’t handle additional weight on my conscience. Already, my body felt like it was made of glass; the next blow would break me.

In a rush, I blurted my doubts in a single breath. There was no way I could meet his eyes after that. I expected him to stiffen up and shove me away, but he waited until I finished. Then he lifted my chin gently.

“I get it,” he said. “You have no way to be sure of me.”

“Of whether you’re really Kian Riley, one of Wedderburn’s monsters in disguise, or if you’re really loyal—”

He kissed me, quick as a blink. To Wedderburn. Too late, I understood why he couldn’t let me say that out loud.

“Does that answer your question?”

I pretended his kiss had assuaged most of my doubts, beaming up at him.

He went on, “If you want to meet my aunt and uncle, we can do that this weekend. They still live in Pennsylvania, near Scranton. It’d be a long day trip, but doable. And I do have some things that will prove I’m Kian Riley, if that will help.”

“Like what?” Maybe this couldn’t assure me that he wasn’t manipulating me for his boss, but it would help to know he wasn’t some immortal creature in handsome human skin.

Definitely a step in the right direction.

“Old yearbooks for one.”

“They survived the fire at your place?”

“I have a bunch of stuff from my old life in storage. I’m not sure if you noticed, but the cabin wasn’t very—”

“Lived in?”

“Exactly.” He continued, “I can’t prove everything to your satisfaction. Some things you have to take on faith. But … be with me, Edie, or cut me loose. I can’t take not knowing how you’ll treat me from day to day, especially when I’m so far out on the ledge.”

“That’s fair,” I said softly. “Then can we swing by your storage unit? You know everything about me and I only get glimpses of the real you.”

“We’ll go now, if you have time.”

“Thanks.”

I stretched up on my tiptoes and he met me halfway, kissing me with a heat and tenderness that stole my breath along with another chunk of my heart. Maybe it didn’t matter how smart I tried to be, how cautious; in the end, I couldn’t resist him. I wanted so bad for Kian to be the real deal; I didn’t know if it was the fact that he’d saved my life or changed it, and then there was that kiss … I’m afraid I’m falling in love with you. Though I didn’t say it aloud, something must’ve shown in my face because his gaze softened and he smoothed a hand through my hair.

Nothing but shivers.

“Come on, it looks like rain.”

He drove to a storage place on Massachusetts Avenue, built of pale corrugated metal and accented in red. His stuff was upstairs in a long corridor outfitted with identical units. Kian unlocked one halfway down the hall and raised the blue door. Though it was small, no more than five by five, it was only half full. A sure stride carried him toward a box set apart from the others and he sat down, cross-legged, and opened it up.

Unaccountably nervous, I sat down beside him. “What’s this?”

“My school stuff.” He pulled out four yearbooks first and then a sheaf of certificates, a couple of small, dented trophies.

I picked one up and read ACADEMIC BOWL CHAMPION. The other was for BEST ACTOR. “Interesting. I didn’t know you were into drama.” It was troubling to learn that he’d won an award in an area that proved he had the skills to play me. Stop that. You’re here to find reasons to trust him, not doubt more.

Kian touched the gold statuette, wearing a melancholy expression. “It wasn’t my first choice, but I needed to pad my college application; I can’t sing, and I hate team sports. At the time, I didn’t realize how little control over my future I had left. Wedderburn waited until I graduated to spring the news.”

I imagined Kian applying to college, not realizing he’d lost his status as a catalyst and how he must’ve felt when he found out. “Is that standard?”

He nodded. “They have no use for underage agents, too many questions from mortal authorities and irate families.”

“That makes sense.” So I won’t know if I go off track and fail my purpose until I graduate. “And from their perspectives, a year or so doesn’t seem like long to wait.”

“Pretty much.”

Putting aside the trophies, I examined the dates on all the yearbooks and picked up the earliest one. “Freshman year?”

He winced slightly and put his hand on the cover. “Edie—”

“I don’t care, okay? I want to see who you were.”

With a sigh, he pulled back and let me open the book. I flipped through the ninth graders, poring over awkward faces dotted with zits, braces still on, glasses not yet exchanged for contacts. Now and then I spotted the future beautiful people, not because they were already perfect, but they had fewer physical faults to overcome. It made my life easier that the class pictures were alphabetized, so I flipped to the Rs.

There you are.

The other Kian wasn’t heavy, as I half expected. Instead, he was thin to the point of gauntness with thick Coke-bottle lenses and terrible skin. The buzz cut didn’t help; neither did the weirdly patterned button-up shirt with the over-large collar. Looking at this picture, I’d never guess he came from money. He was dressed like he’d bought his clothing at a thrift store. But what really got to me was the dead, hopeless expression in his eyes.

I am alone, that look said. And it will never get better.

A year after this picture was taken, he tried to kill himself.

He shifted, staring up at the ceiling. “It’s bad, I know.”

“You’re still you,” I said. “And … I’d have dated you when you looked like that. If you’d asked me.”

A shiver went through him, relief or pleasure, or I didn’t know what. He put an arm around me and leaned his head against mine. “I would have, if I’d had the nerve. Remember at the diner? Before I optimized you, I said you have pretty eyes and a nice smile. But more important, you’re smart and brave and—God, stop me, before I say something ridiculous.”

I laughed softly. He was a person to me now, one with a sad past and a dark history, but he was real. He wasn’t a monster; he couldn’t be. Not with such awkward, painful signatures in his yearbook that said he had been almost as friendless as me. Most of them read, “To a smart guy” or even more damning, “Have a great summer.” I also noticed he had more comments from teachers than people his own age.

Another thing we have in common.

“You went for the ideal version of yourself, huh?”

He nodded. “It was Raoul’s suggestion … and why I offered it to you.”

“I’m glad.”

Nestled against his side, I worked through the rest of his box, unearthing certificates for academics and a bad poetry journal. That, Kian yanked away from me with red tinting his cheeks. He wore a hunted look.

“Please don’t open that.”

“You write poetry?”

“Nothing worth keeping. And not for a long time.”

“Read me something,” I demanded.

I’d never been close enough to anyone to feel comfortable being so bossy. With Kian, it seemed … safe. He paged through the notebook and mumbled, “I dream of sunlit streams /And moonless tides. / Of infinity / Among dark rocks. / I dream of quiet souls / And divinity / That breaks like a wave / Over me. / And instead of drowning, / You pull me in; / I swim.”

I was good at identifying themes and explaining them to teachers, but I had never listened to a poem and felt anything before. That didn’t mean Kian’s work had literary merit, and … maybe it was because I knew what his life was like when he wrote it, but I understood the words from the inside out.

“You were so sad,” I said softly. “Wondering if there’s a god, looking for someone to stop you.”

He drew in a sharp breath. “You see too much.”

“I want to see everything.”

This is happening. This is real.

I came up on my knees and hugged him; sometimes it felt like we were two halves of the same soul, and that was so stupid it made me feel like I lost IQ points just for thinking it. His arms tightened around me and he buried his face in my hair. For a few seconds, I imagined what this would’ve been like with him thin and me fat, if it would’ve felt better, worse or just … different. Sometimes I felt like an impostor in my own body.

“When Wedderburn told me to get close to you, I was, like, shit. Because anything he wants isn’t good for the people involved.”

“There has to be a way that this doesn’t end badly,” I said. “We’ll find it. You said I have to be with you or cut you loose. I’m ready, I’m not scared anymore.”

He exhaled against my hair. “I’m glad. Because it kills me when you look at me like I’m one of the monsters.”

His hands trembled on my back and he tucked his face against my neck. His breath was hot and damp, misting on my skin. Any other moment, that would’ve been exciting, but he was shaking, his breath coming in quiet gasps. I touched his hair, alarmed.

“Kian?”

“I’m so sorry. You have no idea how awful I feel. I close my eyes and I see what they did to you, and I should’ve stopped it. That moment haunts me. I wish I’d kicked Cameron’s ass. I don’t even care that it means I’d be gone, as long as you’d be all right. But—”

“If they hadn’t forced me to extremis then, they’d have done something worse, and you’d have died for nothing. Bottom line, I burn my favors, like Wedderburn wants, because my liaison doesn’t care. I end up dancing like a puppet on his string. You’re the reason I’m even remotely in the game. So stop torturing yourself.”

“I don’t think I can. That’s all I want, you know. For you to be okay.” His voice was low and hoarse, ragged as if he’d spent a whole night screaming. The intensity he radiated was thrilling but also scary.

“You have to care about other things. Yourself, your life, your freedom.”

“Sure, Edie.” He said it too readily; I didn’t believe him.

For long moments, I just held him, hoping I could hug the hurt out. Comforting him made me feel stronger, though, like I could let go of my shame and pain to make Kian feel better. Eventually I sat back enough kiss him. His lips tasted faintly of salt.

“That’s enough personal history for the day. Want to take me home?” Belatedly I realized how that sounded, and heat washed my cheeks.

Oh God, why?

“More than you know.”

“That was quite a line,” I managed to say.

His green eyes settled on my face, shining with such fervor that I might burn from it. “It’s only a line if I don’t mean it.”

I had no answer for that. Silently, my cheeks still on fire, I helped him restore order to the storage unit and we went down to the car. “Why wasn’t all your stuff at the house?”

“Partly because I wanted a new start and Raoul warned me not to keep precious things too close.” That sounded ominous.

“Because you could be targeted by Dwyer & Fell?” I remembered him saying they’d gone after him before, and they just burned his house down. Damage like that could destroy all happy mementos of his former life.

“Yep.”

“Great, now I have something else to worry about. I don’t know if our insurance will cover ulcers at seventeen.”

He smiled, as I intended him to. The car started with a purr and he pulled smoothly into traffic. On the ride home, Kian told me a little more about his aunt and uncle, concluding, “I’ll call them and see if we can come for lunch on Sunday.”

“Lunch?

“Dinner would get you home too late. It’s almost five hours, depending on traffic.”

“No, it’s okay. I mean, unless you just want me to meet them. It’s a long way to drive to reassure me … and I already believe in you.”

His throat worked visibly. “It’s been a long time since anyone said that to me.”

“I’ll say it again if you want, slower this time.” I tried on a flirty smile, and to my relief, I didn’t feel like an idiot.

He grinned at me, thanking me with his eyes for not making a thing about the fact that he wore his heart close to the skin. “Let’s not pack too much excitement into a single day.”

My mom and dad were waiting when I got home. They were weird and solicitous, as if Brittany and I had been friends for years. My dad made my favorite soup—homemade chicken noodle and my mom produced a carton of ice cream. Tonight, however, I limited myself to a single scoop instead of filling a huge bowl. Both my parents were weedy academics, not prone to overindulgence in anything, except esoteric ideas. As we ate, I brought up my college application, and as expected, that occupied them until I could escape.

“Thanks for dinner. It was really good.”

They exchanged one of their looks, then my mother spoke. “Will you be all right tonight? I’ve been asked to do a guest lecture, and there’s a cocktail party afterward—”

“I’m fine,” I assured them. “I’ll do my homework and maybe Skype with Vi.”

“Who’s that again?” My dad was frowning.

“I met her at the SSP. She lives in Ohio.”

“Oh, right.” His brow cleared. Any kid who could get into the science program was apparently good enough for me to chat with online.

“If you’re sure,” my mom said, pushing away from the table.

After that, she got ready in a hurry while my dad and I washed the dishes. Twenty minutes later, she came out in her standard black dress, having dotted her cheeks with blush and put on red lipstick that didn’t suit her. Last year, I wouldn’t have known that.

“Have fun.” I shut the door behind them and turned the deadbolt.

Though I’d been alone countless times before, this felt different, somehow. Strange noises rumbled in the apartment, nothing I could identify, and I couldn’t settle on my assignments. I roamed from room to room, checking in closets and looking under the beds. Soon I’d be rummaging through cupboards and making myself a tinfoil hat. Brittany’s specter haunted me, whispering accusations that sent shivers down my spine.

“It’s your imagination,” I said out loud.

My voice was supposed to reassure me, but the strange tinnitus was back, ringing so loud that I thought it was the phone for a few seconds. Then I realized it was, but it sounded like it was inside my skull. I ran to answer it, and when I picked up, there was only a single high-pitched note. I slammed the phone down and unplugged it.

Then it rang again.

Fear pounded a tattoo in my ears as something heavy hit the front door, hard enough to shake it on the hinges. My thoughts went frantic and disjointed. Shelter. No windows. Cell phone. Call for help. I sprinted down the hall to the bathroom, slammed the door behind me, then I leaned against it with all my weight, listening to the pounding. My hands trembled as I dialed the 9, then the 1. As if whatever it was sensed trouble, the noise stopped.

I listened for a full minute. Nothing. Silence.

Exhaling, I turned, started at a glimpse of myself in the mirror, then smiled in relief. My reflection did not smile back.