Call Me Grim (18 page)

Before I can say anything else about Mrs. Lutz or the murders, Aaron pushes away from the boulder he’s been leaning against and closes his eyes. In one swift motion he spins around and steps into the massive rock, like it’s some elaborate hologram he can walk through, and disappears.

“Aaron?” I rest my hand on the surface of the boulder where he vanished. It’s cool, rough, and definitely solid. A few minutes pass and I’m starting to wonder if he’s going to come back when his face, complete with goofball grin, pokes out of the middle of the dark gray stone, inches from my hand. My heart leaps in my chest, but I don’t let him see my surprise. I’m getting used to his showing off.

“You know, I’m getting a little sick of these stupid games of yours.”

“I’m not playing a game.” His knee juts out of the rock followed by the rest of his body, as if he’s walking through a wall of smoke instead of solid stone. He stands in the grass next to me and grins. He may say it’s not a game, but he sure seems to be enjoying himself.

“If it’s not a game, then what do you call it?” I glare at him. “Being an asshole?”

“It’s a lesson.”

“What?” I gawp at him. “I can’t…Do you really expect me to do that? Today?”

“You’ll have to learn how first, but yes. You’ll need it for your first case.”

I gulp. “When’s my first case?”

“Tonight.”

“Tonight?” My mouth suddenly goes dry and the moisture relocates to my palms.

“Don’t worry, Libbi. I’ll do most of the hard work this time.” He pats my arm reassuringly, but I don’t feel any better. I remember how out of place and helpless I felt at Rosie’s death, and all I did was stand there and watch.

“Close your eyes,” he says.

I give him a little frown and keep my eyes open.

“Stop being hard-headed and just do it,” he says. “Before we start walking through boulders, I need to do something. Close your eyes.”

“Fine.” I close my eyes.

“Now, concentrate on your body.” A warm hand presses my shirt against my chest. His fingertips graze bare skin. I hope he can’t feel my heart hammering under his palm. “Do you feel anything different?” His voice breaks a little on the last word. I restrain the urge to peek at him.

“Like what?” I frown.

“It kind of feels like a tugging ache. Right here.” He pats my chest softly, and my heart decides it would rather live in my throat.

“Like the headache?” My voice sounds almost as squeaky as his did, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Not really. That comes right before a scheduled death and is much stronger. This is present all the time and it’s deeper than the headache. Here, let me try something.” He lifts his hand from my chest. “Um, don’t punch me, Libbi, but I think I have to touch your skin.”

His hand slips under the neck of my T-shirt, and he presses his whole palm against my chest. My eyes pop open and I forget I’m supposed to breathe. Aaron watches me with a strange, almost pained, expression on his face. He swallows and closes his eyes, and I follow his lead.

The skin tingles where he touches me, and the feeling travels to the pit of my stomach. A pinpoint of warmth spreads across my chest and I know it has nothing to do with how nervous I am that he’s touching me this way. The burning sensation is coming from his ring. If I open my eyes, I’m sure the thing will be blazing against my skin.

“When you wear the Scythe, you’ll be able to use these powers without me. But until then, this will probably be hard for you. You still need to know how to do it, though. So don’t get discouraged.” The hand he doesn’t have pressed a little too close to my boobs slides over mine. “Now, I want you to concentrate on the clock in your head. What time is it? Exactly.”

I don’t even have to think about it. The answer is in my mind before he finishes the question.

“It’s 9:23 and forty-four seconds. Do you want milliseconds too?”

“No, that’s good.” He squeezes my hand. “Now take that a step further. Imagine you are spinning the hands of the clock forward, but suddenly they stick and no matter how hard you try to move the hands, you can’t.”

This is much harder to do. I focus on the image of the clock in my head, but it doesn’t have hands. My clock is digital. So instead of rotating the hands, I pretend I’m pushing the buttons. On the illuminated face, the seconds become a blur and the minutes flicker. Then the hours change, faster and faster until the glowing red numbers finally stop. I press the buttons of my imaginary clock several times, but the numbers won’t change. They’re stuck.

“Did it stop?” he asks.

I nod.

“What time did it stop on?”

“On 6:27 and thirty-eight seconds,” I say.

“Perfect. You’re a natural at this.” Another squeeze of the hand. “Now, I want you to look very closely at that clock, Libbi. Do you see anything in the glass?”

The red numbers of the clock in my imagination blur as I focus on the glass surface, searching for some kind of an image. And I see it. The reflection is so clear I don’t know how I didn’t see it before.

A pale, middle-aged man rocks back and forth on a pink couch with his hand over his heart. Sweat collects on his upper lip and drips from his chin. His lips pull back in a grimace.

“I can see him, Aaron. I think he’s having a heart attack.”

“Well, not yet. But tonight he will. And he’ll die from it at 6:27 and thirty-eight seconds.”

“And there’s nothing we can do to help him?”

“Yeah. We can be there for him. On time,” Aaron says. I can hear the scold in his tone, but I ignore it. “Now, I want you to try this on your own, Libbi. Hold on to that image. Keep it in your mind, no matter what. I’m not going to help you anymore.”

He squeezes one last time and lets go of my hand, but keeps his palm and the ring pressed close to my heart. The clock in my imagination fades in brightness and the image of the man in the glass moves in and out of focus. I grind my teeth together and concentrate on the man, willing the picture to come back as clear as it was when Aaron touched me. My fingers ache from squeezing my hands in tight fists and I hear someone grunting. I only vaguely realize the noise is coming from me.

“Can you still see him?” Aaron asks after a few seconds have passed.

“Yeah. Kind of.” The picture becomes fuzzy again, and I curse under my breath at Aaron for distracting me.

“Now, tell me his name.”

How the hell am I supposed to get his name? I can hardly keep the guy’s picture in my head. My fingernails dig into my palms and the image of the man sharpens—bulging eyes, pale skin, shaking hands. I will him to tell me his name. Nothing happens.

I try again, but this time I ask out loud.

“What’s your name?” My gritty, strained voice startles me. I sound like I’m hurt or sick with some kind of monkey flu. The image of the man flickers and then fades away to the red numbers on the digital clock. I try to refocus and bring the man back, but I can’t. He’s gone.

My legs feel like I ran five miles, and I can’t catch my breath. I lower myself to the ground and wrap my arms around my knees, huffing and puffing like I’m having an asthma attack. Aaron squats next to me and places his hand on my shoulder.

“His name is Jon Hilkrest.” His fingers massage slow, reassuring circles at the base of my neck. A wave of tiny shivers race down my spine. “Don’t worry. It gets easier. And with enough practice, when you wear the Scythe, you’ll be able to connect to them without even thinking about it.”

“Yeah?” I chuckle, but my laugh sounds weak. “I doubt it.”

“I don’t. Close your eyes again,” he says, and this time I do it without hesitating. “Do you feel that tug now?”

Something stirs deep in my chest, but it’s not my heart. It’s more than that. It throbs and pulls like something living inside of me, struggling to break free. And it hurts, but the pain isn’t sharp. It’s an ache. A dull, tugging ache. Just like Aaron said.

“What the hell is that?” My eyelids snap open.

“That’s the connection to Abaddon.” He tilts his head and smiles. I’m glad he’s having fun. “That’s what the Scythe does. It connects you to him so you have access to the Death Plan. It also gives you the power to connect to souls and remove them from bodies. And when you’re good at using it, you’ll be able to connect to anyone in town, at any time, and see their scheduled date and time of death. And when the light of a soul starts to fade, you’ll know when, how, and where they’re going to die.” Aaron twists the ring around his thumb. “It’s a shame I can’t let you wear it. It’s stronger when you’re wearing it and it would make training a lot easier.”

“Why can’t I wear it?”

“It won’t come off until I know you’re ready.”

I touch the silver ring. The Scythe. My finger glides over the ice-cold metal, though I can feel Aaron’s warm skin on either side of it.

“So how long have you known about me?” I say.

“About you?” His eyes widen. “It’s a small town, Libbi. I’ve known about you for a long time.”

“I mean, how long did you know about my death?”

He looks down as he rolls his shoelace between his fingertips. His hair falls forward, partially covering his face. All I see are the soft curves of his lips. I take a mental picture and file it away for later, when I have my sketch pad.

“I knew the details of your death for a month.”

“If you knew all about me, why didn’t you talk to me sooner?” I say. “Because you really freaked me out.”

“I did?” He looks up at me, catching me off guard with the concern in his eyes. “I’m sorry. I can’t talk to anyone until twenty-four hours before their scheduled death. I tried to talk to you the night of the art show, but your mom interrupted. And then I got cold feet.” He shrugs and looks back down at his laces. “I was going to let you die in the accident on Thursday. I didn’t decide to ask you to take the job again until I came to collect your soul. And by then, there wasn’t enough time to explain myself. I tried not to seem like a nut job.”

“And you thought popping up out of nowhere and following me like a creeper would make you seem like less of a nut job?” I nudge his knee with my elbow and he laughs, a real laugh, no underlying sadness. It’s nice.

“I said I tried.” He chuckles and his cheeks indent with the hint of dimples. “I guess it didn’t work.”

“Oh, it worked, all right,” I say, holding back a giggle. “I didn’t think you were a nut job, I thought you were a crazy stalker.”

“I thought I told you—” He leans into me playfully and I sway to the side. “I’m not crazy.”

“Says you!” I shove his shoulder as hard as I can with both hands. He tilts over and falls to his side in the grass with a melodramatic huff and groan.

“Why do you always have to hit me?” He rolls onto his back. Grinning, he places his hands behind his head and his T-shirt rides up a few inches, revealing a stripe of his belly. Dark-pink, puckered lines crisscross the skin there, punctuated by small, circular marks.

Scars.

“What happened to you?” I reach over to lift his shirt up, but before I can, he seizes my wrist in a hard grip and pushes it away.

“Nothing.” He yanks his shirt down over his belly and quickly sits up.

“That is not nothing.” I move to lift his shirt again, but he backs away.

“Look, I’d rather not talk about it, okay?” Aaron folds his arms protectively over his middle. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is a big deal. Someone hurt you, Aaron.” I scoot closer and tenderly slide my hand around his wrist. “Please, just let me see.”

When he doesn’t say anything, I gently move his arm away from his middle. Then I move the other one. He watches as I hook the hem of his shirt in my fingertips. His expression is unreadable, a mix between panic and acceptance, as I pull the fabric up.

The scars cover his entire chest and abdomen. Every inch of skin I can see under his shirt is gouged with tough, wrinkled lines. Some of them wrap around his back and some of the small, circular ones form patterns, like bite marks. From something really freaking big.

“Oh God, what happened to you?” I repeat in a hushed voice. “It looks like a dinosaur used you as a chew toy.”

My fingers tremble as I trace one long and ugly scar that slices across his ribs, down, down, down to end somewhere below his waistband. When my fingertips reach the portion of the scar just below his bellybutton, Aaron seizes my wrist. I look up into his pain-filled eyes. We’re face to face and so close I can feel the heat radiating off of his skin.

Suddenly, I’m more aware of my body than I’ve ever been in my life. Every nerve ending, every pore and hair follicle. Our faces inch closer and I breathe the same air he exhales. The fear and pain fades and his eyes deepen with intensity and longing.

A tingling wave ripples over my skin as he releases my wrist and glides his fingertips up my arm. He dances them over my collarbone and then cups my chin in his hand and tilts my face up. His thumb gently sweeps my hair away from my lips.

I close my eyes and concentrate. I will not get sick this time. I am ready for this. I want this. My stomach lurches, but it’s not the unpleasant, vomit-inducing heave it did before. It’s excitement. And anxiety. But mostly excitement.

This is not like the time I kissed Kyle. Kissing Kyle had felt weird and I ended it before it went any further than touching lips. But waiting for Aaron to kiss me is different. I feel a little awkward—mostly because I’m afraid to screw it up—but I don’t feel weird. And I know when it happens, when our lips finally touch, I won’t stop it.

But they don’t touch. Instead, his forehead rests against mine for a moment, and then he sighs and pulls away. I open one eye, and then the other.

Aaron watches me with the same intensity as before, but the longing is gone. In its place is a subtle frown.

“I’m sorry, Aaron. Whatever happened to you, it doesn’t…I mean, I don’t need to know. Are you okay?”

He blinks a few times and shakes his head.

“Yeah.” He gently pushes me away and sits up. “You shouldn’t be sorry. You didn’t do anything. If anyone is sorry, it should be me. I don’t know what came over me just then. That was way out of line.”

“No. It’s okay. Really.” I touch his arm, afraid he might pull away, but he doesn’t. “I know you thought I didn’t want to last time, but I’m okay with it.”