A Want So Wicked (6 page)

I lean back into the seat, staring straight ahead as a voice nags at me. Because although I'm tired, I hear words in the back of my mind—even though I'm sure I never heard them said out loud.

Jump off the cliff.

CHAPTER 10

A
be touches my shoulder to wake me up when we finally arrive at my house. We're parked in my driveway and it's only ten thirty, a half hour early for my curfew.

“Thanks for taking me out, Abraham,” I say, my voice a little sleepy. “Who would have thought you were such a gentleman?”

He scowls. “Don't use my full name. And I am a gentleman. Or at least I am to you.” He pauses. “Right?”

“You are indeed charming.” I unbuckle my seat belt, grabbing my purse from the floor as he shuts off the engine.

“Which is impressive. I'm usually bored with girls after one day.”

I laugh. “I must be special.”

“You have no idea,” he murmurs. “Can I walk you to your door?”

My house is dark other than the front porch light as Abe and I move toward it silently. I wonder if my dad is already asleep or if he's waiting for me on the couch. I just hope he's not peeking out the window.

When we stop, Abe puts his arms around my waist, holding me close to him as he looks down at me. As tall as I feel, he's taller and I have to tip my head back to see his face. His eyes are dark and deep.

“I should go,” he says, but doesn't pull away.

“Probably.” I'm suddenly hyperconscious of Abe against me, the way his fingers are intertwined behind my back. My heart thumps and I'm not sure if it's from nervousness or desire.

A slow smile spreads across Abe's face. “Can I kiss you good night?” he asks.

I swallow hard, thinking back to Marissa. The contempt in her eyes from across the fire. The pathetic way she came after him later. I don't want that to be me. “Abe,” I start. “I don't think so. I don't want us to end up hating each other.”

“You could never hate me.”

“Crazier things have happened.”

He seems to consider this, but then moves to rest his palm on my neck, a tender spot just under my jaw. “We could just try it,” he whispers. “If it doesn't feel good we could stop.”

My stomach flutters at the thought. “Chances are, it will feel great. That's not what I'm worried about.”

“Then you worry too much.”

I'm about to tell him that he sounds like a trashy-romance-novel hero when he leans down and brings his mouth right to the corner of mine, but not touching me. “Can I kiss you now?”

“I . . .” His breath is warm across my lips, his thumb gently stroking my jaw. But when I close my eyes, there is only panic and guilt. “I can't.”

Abe sighs, sounding disappointed, but not angry. “You'll change your mind,” he says, quickly kissing my cheek before letting me go. It takes me a minute to gather myself, my body still humming with adrenaline.

Abe backs away, holding up his hand to say good-bye. “Have a nice evening, Elise,” he calls. “Told you I wouldn't ruin you yet.” And with that, he turns to leave.

I watch after him, not sure why I didn't kiss him. He's certainly cute enough. Sweet. Charming. But at the same time, I couldn't bring myself to do it. Maybe everyone's right. Maybe I do need therapy.

I go inside, and my dad and Lucy are asleep, the house still as I crawl into bed. I think about Madame Marceline. I'll find her tomorrow. I'll ask her exactly what's going on with me. I just hope she has an answer.

Above me the rhythmic ticking of my ceiling fan begins to lull me to sleep. And when I close my eyes, the world slips away altogether.

 

* * *

 

I'm on the roof of a high-rise building again as rain falls all around me. My body glows in the dim light, but this time I know immediately that I'm in her vision. Onika sits on the ledge of the building, her feet dangling over. The rain doesn't touch her, but I can't see her face, can't see what's behind her curtain of blond hair. By the set of her shoulders I think that she's determined to jump. Will she?

The door opens and the man stalks out, his skin flawless, nothing like the cracked horror I'd seen last time. “Onika,” he calls out, sounding like a disappointed father. “Enough with this temper tantrum.”

She turns to glare at him fiercely. “You lied, Rodney. I can't keep him. I can't keep any of them.”

“You'll find others.”

“I don't want anyone else. You told me that if I loved him, if I loved him enough, that I could continue living. But he sees me, Rodney. He sees what you've made me become, the things I have to do now. I'm not escaping being Forgotten—not really. I'm only compelled in a different way.”

“Onika,” he responds as if he's tired of talking to her. “If you want your lover then whisper to him. Make him do what you want.”

“No.” She sounds horrified by the thought. “I want to keep him as he is,” she says desperately. “You've ruined everything.”

“It was
your
decision, my beauty. All I did was provide the temptation.”

“You tricked me!”

“And if I did? What will you do now—jump off this building again? How many times must you do that before you realize that you're bound to the earth? There is no way out, not for us. The light doesn't want you, Onika. We made a choice.”

“You
lied
!” she roars. “You said nothing would change.”

“But it has. And you need to accept it.” He pauses, disgust crossing his face. “Or just jump. I don't care.”

Onika lets out a sad laugh, hinged with misery. Devastation. And then she leans forward and falls off the roof once again.

But as I watch, the only sound is my scream—forcing me awake.

 

It's morning and my head is foggy from a restless night's sleep, the image of the woman falling from the building still in my mind. When I walk into the kitchen I find my sister at the table, typing on her laptop. I swipe her hair when I pass behind, saying hello to my father as he flips through the newspaper across from her.

“Have you ever had a recurring nightmare?” I ask them, taking a spot between their chairs. My sister looks up quickly, seemingly taken aback by the question.

“Sure,” my father says, folding the page in front of him. “I think I used to have one about drowning when I was a kid. And your sister used to have them after your mother died. Remember, Lucinda?”

“No, Doug,” she responds, and goes back to typing. Her curt response makes me wonder if her pain level is causing her increasingly moody behavior. And then I wonder if she's told my father about it yet.

“Don't get so upset,” my father says, sounding surprised. “I was just pointing it out.” He turns to me. “She used to wake me up with stories of a man with a broken face trying to push her off of a tower. You don't forget things like that when they're coming from your nine-year-old.”

“Dad.” My sister turns to him, closing her laptop. “I don't think my creepy childhood dreams are appropriate breakfast conversation. I'd almost rather hear about Elise's G-rated love life.”

I pretend to be offended. “Actually,” I say, “I had a date last night.”

“What?” Lucy practically shouts. “Did you know about this?” she asks my father accusingly.

He nods, sipping from his coffee, looking proud that he knew something about a boy that she didn't.

“And would you like to know
who
I went out with last night?” I ask, taking a piece of toast off the plate in the center of the table.

“If you say Abe Weston I'm going to scream.”

“It was Abe Weston.”

My father covers his ears, but Lucy waves him off. “I'm just kidding,” she says. “It's too early for screaming. So . . .” She turns to me. “Tell me
everything
.”

“Well, he said he was taking me to dinner, but actually we drove out to a campsite where his friends were hanging out.”

“Drinking?” my father interrupts.

“No,” I lie. But I wasn't drinking, so it should still count. “Anyway, it was fun. We had burgers, some marshmallows. He brought me home and even walked me to the door.” I give my father a sidelong glance to emphasize the politeness of the gesture.

“And he kissed you,” Lucy finishes for me.

“No, I chickened out. It was close, though.”

“Wow,” Lucy says. “That sounds romantic. Disappointing for Abe, I'm sure. But romantic for you. I'm going to bump your rating up to PG.” She stands and winks at me. “I have to take a shower,” she says. “Do you need a ride to work later?”

“Can I borrow the car instead?” I ask. “I have an errand to run first.” My heart rate spikes as I think about Madame Marceline, and whether I'll be able to find her. And what I'll say when I do.

Lucy sighs. “Fine, but put gas in it this time.” She pats the top of my head and then leaves. When she's gone, my father clears his throat.

“How are you feeling, kid?” he asks, taking off his glasses to set them in front of him. “The vitamins helping?”

“It's only been a day,” I say. “Ask me again in a week.” I look toward the bathroom, listening for the shower. When I hear it, I lean toward my dad. “Has Lucy talked to you about her cramps?”

“Cramps? Like menstrual?”

“I don't know,” I say. “But she acts like they really hurt. She's having them every day, too. I don't think it's normal, but she told me to stay out of it.”

My dad smiles. “Telling you to stay out of something is the same as telling you to get involved.”

“Exactly. Cry for help, maybe?” I'm joking, but I am concerned. When my father says he'll make an appointment for her with the doctor, I thank him. I know Lucy might get mad that I told him, but she's going to have to deal with it. Secrets suck. Including the one I'm holding as I leave the kitchen table.

I'm going to drive down Mission Boulevard until I find Madame Marceline's house, and then I'm going to knock on her door and demand answers. And if that doesn't work—

I sway suddenly, catching myself on the wall of the hallway and banging my shin on a box. Before I can even acknowledge the pain, I'm flooded instead with a memory.

There is water rushing below as I stand on the railing of a bridge. The wind whips past me and I'm scared—so scared that I'll fall. Then he walks up, compassion in his eyes. And Monroe whispers, “Jump.”

My legs give out and I fall onto the boxes, knocking some over. The crash echoes through the house and I hear my father's footsteps. “Elise?” he calls.

But the fear from the vision is still with me, making tears leak from my eyes. I've never been that afraid of anything before, and yet . . . it feels like me. It feels like I was the one standing on that railing, about to jump. And who is Monroe? He looks like an older version of the guy Onika was with in my dreams. What's going on? The line between reality and my dreams is becoming blurred.

“Are you all right?” My father puts his hand on my elbow, helping me up. “I'm so sorry I haven't gotten these out of here. I'll move them to the garage.”

“Banged my shin,” I say to explain the crying. I wipe hard at my face, still shaking. I need to leave, to figure out what's happening.

“Let me—”

“I'm fine, Dad,” I say quickly, backing away from him. It occurs to me how much I sound like Lucy right now. And I realize that if she's as bad off as me, she needs more help than I thought.

CHAPTER 11

I
'm standing on the sidewalk facing a worn hand-painted sign that reads:
MADAME MARCELINE'S FORTUNES
. The house wasn't difficult to find, and the car ride had helped to clear my mind—at least to a functioning level. But as I stare ahead, anxiety twists through my stomach. Am I really going to do this? It seemed so much more rational on the way over.

I start up the walkway to the small, white block home, my heart beating fast. This is the same woman who tried to drag me out of my car two days ago. I'm not sure that I'm making the best life decision. At the same time, she acted as if she knew me, shared mental pictures of horrible things. Obviously we have some sort of connection. And although I don't believe in it—or at least I never used to—maybe she's an actual psychic.

The front door opens and I lower my head, not wanting to be noticed. What if they know my father? He'd be horrified to hear I came to a psychic and not him.

“Hey, you.”

Startled, I look up, surprised to see Harlin starting down the walkway. He smiles, seeming thrilled to bump into me, but then he stops. “What—” He looks back at the building, pulling his eyebrows together. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“Is it immature if I answer with
I asked you first
?”

I laugh. “Yes.”

“I'm visiting an old friend,” he says in his low voice. “How do you know Marceline?” His hazel eyes study me as if he'll be able to tell if I'm lying. So I opt not to.

“She attacked me,” I say, as if it's not a big deal. “And I want to ask her why.”

Harlin takes a step back, shaking his head. “What? She's like,
ninety
. She attacked you?”

I hold up my arm as proof, and I'm surprised when Harlin reaches out suddenly to take it, looking over the scratches. His hand on my skin sends a shot of electricity through my body, and he must feel it too, because he takes in a sharp breath.

Slowly he brings his gaze to mine, his lips slightly parted. As he looks at me, his expression softens. “I came to see you last night,” he murmurs. “But you were already gone.”

Butterflies flutter in my stomach. “You did? I thought you forgot about me,” I say.

“I'll never forget about you.”

“Well, it's about time,” a ragged voice cuts through the air. I jump, looking behind Harlin. On the front porch of the house is the crazy old lady, a big grin plastered across her face. “Harlin,” the old woman says. “Stop harassing that poor thing and let her come inside.”

“Do you know her, Marceline?” he asks, not looking back. He's watching me instead, his eyes searching my face. I can't believe he said he's friends with her. Who is this guy?

“I don't think we've been formally introduced,” the woman says to him. “Now go away and let me talk to her.”

I slowly take my arm from Harlin's grasp, his fingers sliding down my skin the entire way, reluctant to let me go. “I should . . .” I motion toward the house.

“Yeah,” he says, sounding confused. “I'll see you around.” He flexes his hand as if the electricity is still tingling. When he walks past me, his shoulder brushes mine.

“Bye,” I murmur, and then slowly make my way up the path. When I get to the front step, I hear a motorcycle roar to life behind me. The old woman's eyes follow Harlin as he drives away, and then she focuses her attention on me.

Standing this close, I'm almost embarrassed that I was scared of her. She's small, fragile looking. Her white hair pokes out from under her knit cap. She smiles and her teeth are yellow and broken. But now she doesn't look so sinister.

“Let's get inside,” she says, moving for the door—her silver bracelets jangling loudly. “Before your other boyfriend finds you here.”

She goes in before I can tell her that I don't have any boyfriends, let alone two. Instead I just follow her into the dimly lit house.

Marceline's house is bathed in low amber lighting, pictures plastered all over the walls, covering nearly every inch. It's bizarre and comforting at the same time.

“Have a seat,” she says, motioning to the tattered green sofa. “Don't worry.” She sits across from me in a rocking chair. “I don't bite.”

I cringe at the thought, and take a spot on the couch. The room smells slightly of peppermint as I try to keep my composure. I'm frightened, although no longer of her. I'm scared of what she has to say.

When we're silent for an uncomfortable amount of time, I clear my throat. “So,” I begin. “You grabbed me the other night outside of Santo's.”

She nods, sitting back in her chair, rocking slowly.

“Why?”

“I'm sorry about that,” she says. “I didn't mean to hurt you. I was just overcome. I'm psychic, or at least that's what it says on the sign out front.” I don't laugh, and she exhales as if I'm boring her. “I was just passing by, you see. But when I got a look at you”—she lowers her voice—“at what's inside of you, it was quite a shock to my system. As I'm sure you can imagine.”

I feel the blood drain from my face. “What's inside of me?” I demand.

“You already know. You just can't remember.” She leans forward, the rocking chair creaking, to grab a mint from a bowl in the center of the coffee table. The peppermints are old and nasty, and I'm thinking that's how she broke her teeth in the first place. Marceline pops one into her mouth.

“Now,” she says. “What I'm going to tell you next will sound unbelievable. But you need to listen to your heart. You'll know I'm telling the truth.”

“Okay . . .” My stomach is sick, my heart racing. I can't believe I'm sitting through this. The first time she asks me for money, I'm bolting. She's obviously—

“You're not human,” she starts. “You're not like us. Then again, you're not like anyone, are you?”

I scoff and stand up—sure that she's just as unbalanced as I thought. “Not human?” I say. “You know, everyone was right about you. You are crazy. I don't even know why I'm here.”

“Sit down,” she snaps. “And let me tell you right now: You'd better stop trusting things that the people in this town are whispering to you.”

At the force of her words, I rest back on the couch. I wonder what she means—if she's bitter about her station in life, or if there's something I should truly be afraid of.

“Fine,” I say. “But no more riddles. I'm not here for the psychic tour. My life is coming undone. Do you know what's wrong with me or not?”

“There's nothing wrong with you,” she says. “But you can't fully understand that yet. You're not whole, child. Part of you is missing. You need to remember what it is.”

At the mention of remembering, I feel the first prickles of goose bumps. “And how exactly do I do that?” I ask softly. Could she really know about the memories I've been having?

“You've got to fill the Need. That's what you like to call it, right? The Need.”

When she says it, I'm struck with déjà vu. I've heard this before—somewhere; I've heard all of this before. “What is the Need?” I ask her.

Marceline widens her eyes as if it's a long story, and settles back into her chair. “There are a group of beings,” she begins in a low voice, “called the Forgotten. They are a type of . . . angel on earth. No wings. No heaven. No hell. They are part of the light of the universe. And their purpose is to spread hope, to change lives for the better where they can.”

I smile, thinking she's telling a legend from her considerable past, and I cross my arms over my chest. This is absolutely no help at all. “They sound inspiring,” I say. She gives me a sharp look.

“Listen,” she hisses, showing me a glimpse of the scary woman she was in the parking lot of Santo's. My heart kicks up a beat. “The Forgotten don't have an easy path, child. Their existences are blessed, or cursed if you will. They are physically compelled to help people, to the point that their bodies begin to wear away. The skin rubbing off to reveal the pure light underneath. This painful process goes on until they have one last Need, something that sets them free of their form to return to the universe.”

“That sounds awful.” I breathe out, fear crawling over my skin.

“No.” She smiles. “It's beautiful. But there is always a price. When they're gone, the Forgotten are wiped out of time, as if they never existed at all. The universe corrects the space around them, filling in histories—adjusting memories. But everyone who's ever known or was touched by them has a renewed sense of hope, of purpose. The Forgotten are true sacrifice.”

Her words are making my chest ache, and I'm starting to think that this isn't just a myth. I've heard this before, only I'm certain it wasn't in this life. Tears well up in my eyes. “Why are you telling me this?” I ask.

“Because, child,” she says. “You are one.”

I stare at her, a tear trickling down my cheek. “If you're just trying to scare me . . .” I say, choking back my sobs. Even though I know what she's saying is impossible, I am absolutely consumed with grief. Horror.

“It's okay to cry,” she says softly, looking almost bewildered that I'd hold it in. “You've already gone through this once. I'd cry too. You've lost so much.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” I say, wanting to run away. Wanting to shout that she's a liar. But I can't.

She nods as if I'm having a perfectly acceptable response to her telling me that I not only lived before, but that I'm not even human. After a minute, she pulls a tissue from her shirtsleeve and holds it out to me. I shake my head no.

“So,” I begin, my voice shaky. “I'm a Forgotten?”

“Mostly,” she says, slowly rocking again. “But you're so much more.”

It starts. Vibrations up my arms, through my chest. Marceline smiles at me as she slips out of focus.

“You're keeping something from me,” his voice says on the other end of the phone line. “How are we supposed to have a relationship when all you do is lie?”

I'm crying, cradling the phone to my ear, so afraid I'm losing him. “But I love you,” I whisper. “Why can't that be enough?”

“Where were you?” he repeats.

“Please, I can't—”

“Stop lying!” he yells. He takes in a jagged breath, and then it's quiet. “Love isn't enough anymore,” he says simply. “It's killing us.” And then he hangs up.

“Please—” I yell out, and suddenly realize I'm in Marceline's living room again. The old woman is rocking back and forth, watching me as if she's fascinated. But I'm trembling, tears wet on my face.

“Who is he?” I ask her. “Who are these people in my head?” I cry, covering my face with my palms. I feel like I'm in a nightmare I can't wake up from. “Please make it stop,” I whisper, unable to look up.

“Aw, child,” she says soothingly. “No one can stop it. But I think you've learned enough for one day, don't you think? I'm not sure you can handle the rest.”

I look up at her. “There's more?”

She presses her lips together and nods slowly. “Have a mint. It'll calm your nerves.”

“I don't want a mint,” I snap. “Tell me what else there is.”

She reaches to push the bowl toward me, her bracelets clinking together. “Take a mint,” she repeats. “And I'm not ready to tell you more. These things must be done right. You come back another day, after I've had some rest.” She motions to the lump of candies. “Now go on.”

Reluctantly I break off a piece and slip it between my lips. The peppermint is overpowering at first, but then I taste something tangy underneath. I look over at her. “What kind of mint is this?”

“Just something to calm your nerves,” she says.

I immediately spit it out into my hand. “You're drugging me?”

“Oh, hush,” she says, as if I'm overreacting. “It's a mild sedative. My own special blend. We Seers are fond of our medications. And I can't have you breaking down on me, not when there's still so much to do.”

I stand up, shocked that I let myself get so completely fooled. I toss the candy onto the table and it shatters into pieces. Marceline watches with little more than curiosity in her expression. Then she turns toward the window.

“You should go. Your boy is out there waiting for you. And I'd prefer if he didn't come in.”

I glance in the direction she's looking, but the blinds are down. I'm guessing she's talking about Abe since she already had Harlin in here today. Wait. What was Harlin doing here?

“The guy earlier,” I say. “Why—”

“Don't you worry yourself about Harlin, child. He's a tortured soul. He'll find you when he's ready. Right now, you have bigger things to deal with,” she says, walking to the door.

A wave of relaxation stretches over me, my eyes taking a second to adjust on her as I follow behind. It's the sedative taking effect. It must have been strong. What would have happened if I ate the whole thing?

“The Shadows can be very tricky,” she says. “But as you know, you always have a choice. Well . . .” She pauses as if thinking about it. “That used to be the case. I believe things are changing now. Which, of course, is why you're here.”

“What?” I ask, confused. Slightly disoriented. I hope she didn't poison me with that stupid mint. “I—”

“You'll be fine,” she says, patting my arm. “Only lasts an hour or so. Now no more talking today. I'll see you soon enough.”