Darksoul (12 page)

As I went downstairs, I unlocked my phone and dialed Ash’s number. He picked up in the second ring, sounding a little breathless. “Yeah?”

“Mmmbored,” I said around another yawn, opening the fridge to search for leftovers. Io played with the tips of my bangs, curling them around her little paws.

His voice got more breathy. “I’m actually kind of busy right now—”

That was when I heard a girl moan in the background, along with the distinctive sound of bodies grinding and skin rustling against skin. I slowed down. Froze. The girl moaned again, louder this time, and sighed his name, said something that sounded like
fuck me, fuck me hard
—
Ash pulled away from t
he receiver. “Hush, babe, I’m on the phone.” She moaned, told him to hurry. He came back. “Zel—”

I hung up.

For a long moment, I stood there, frozen. My heart pattered to a painful stop. A third lung shattered, bled through my stomach, and trickled out of the bottoms of my toes. I took a deep, shuddering breath and set my phone on the counter. Then I picked it up. Set it down again. Io purred worriedly and stroked the side of my face.

Ash was my best friend. Ash liked girls. Ash screwed girls. It was not his fault I felt this way about him. It would never be his fault. He had every right to date and have one-night-stands with whoever he wanted to. He had every right to jam his stick in a girl-hole and have all the fun in the world while he was at it. It was Friday. He could have fun. He should have fun.

Ash was my best friend. Ash liked girls. Ash screwed girls. It was not his fault. It would never be his fault. He didn’t hurt me. He would never hurt me. As long as I kept my feelings under control. As long as I hid them and let them go away. Eventually, they would go away. I wouldn’t feel this way about him anymore. It would be over. I would be done. And it would be as if my feelings never existed.

Mechanically, I opened
the fridge and pulled out a box of leftover Chinese from the other day. Scraped the rice onto a plate and popped it into the microwave. This crush was transitory. It would go away. I didn’t love Ash. Not like that. I would never. I didn’t love him. It was stupid. I’d only known him for five, six years. That wasn’t enough time for—for love. Right? Six years. Not enough. Would never be enough.

I was only seventeen. I didn’t know what love was. Shit. Even the word love seemed stupid at this point. It even sounded stupid. Love. Someone had better do something about that L. And that O. And that V and that E.

Ugly letters. Ugly word.

I didn’t love Ash. I would never.

So why…did it hurt so damn much?

Why…
I collapsed against the counter, desperately trying to keep in the tears. My bottom lip trembled, and I bit down on it to muffle a helpless sob. Io fussed over me, looking distraught as she caught my tears, as she caressed my face to wipe the saltiness away. Her mouth wobbled.
Why…does it hurt so damn much?

Why did I feel like closing my eyes and never opening them again? Why did I have the sudden urge to curl into a ball and cry myself to sleep? The hell was this? My heart wasn’t broken. I was seventeen. Stupid. Young. I shouldn’t
feel sad because my best friend was having fun. The most important question was whether he was using a condom or not. Right. I should call him. Make sure he was being safe.

My fingers
twitched before I grabbed the phone.

No. No.

I lowered my hand. Licked my lips and tasted salt. Water. I hated myself for them. The tears. But I didn’t reach up to wipe them away. I was going to let them have their way. Because this—the crying—was never going to happen again.

Sucking in a deep breath, I
opened the microwave and pulled out the steaming plate of fried rice. I closed it—and then stopped on my tracks.

On the glass, I saw a dark reflection.

A hooded man.

And he was standing
right behind me.

Chapter
12

Heart in my throat,
I swiveled around. Two thick tongues slithered out of his hood just as I slammed my plate against the side of his head. Rice exploded everywhere. Then I grabbed a knife from the counter and slashed at his slimy tongues with all the strength I could muster.

It barely did anything. He lunged to grab me, putting the force of his whole body behind it. Holding back a scream, I moved out
of the way and drove my fist into his cheek. But it wasn’t enough. He growled and turned. I stumbled back when I saw the cluster of eyes set in the center of his face, the trembling orbs shining a ghastly white.

And in that moment—in that stupid, stupid moment of hesitation—o
ne of his tongues flashed in and wrapped around my waist. Warm. Slick. Thick sebum seeped through the fabric of my sweater. I gagged and landed a kick on the bottom of his robe, where I assumed his legs were. He buckled. Just slightly. But enough for me to be able to stab the knife into his tongue. I twisted the blade and ran it across the blubbery thickness. The stench of rotten meat and sulfur exploded from the wound.

He
shrieked, shaking me. I clenched my teeth and kicked at his face.

Big mistake.

My foot was swallowed up by a sea of iris-less eyes. I panicked. Tried to pull free. It was stuck in there. Sticky heat worked up my leg.

And
then, suddenly, I remembered.

Before I knew what I wa
s doing, I rolled up my sleeve and tore the tip of the knife down my forearm. I cried out in pain but didn’t stop. Trying to see past my tears, I plunged the blade into his tongue. I didn’t know if it would work. I didn’t. But this was all I had. All I could give.

His hold
slackened. I fell to the ground and watched as, wailing, the creature exploded into a million dark tufts that rose into the air and wafted out of sight. I scrambled to my feet, sweating and feeling like I’d been hit by three trucks. It was over. It was gone.

J
erkily, I let go of the knife. It clattered to the floor, slick with my blood. My blood. Which had killed the man-tongue-thing. Had made him disappear within seconds. I stared at the wet knife, wide-eyed. Stricken. There must be something wrong with me. How was that possible? My blood? How could it do such a thing?

Feeling as though I were
in a nightmare, I turned—and froze.

The
bladed angel was sitting on the kitchen island. He looked relaxed. So much so it was almost infuriating. He held a feather and kept running his palm down the length of it, as though it calmed him; the feather morphed from blade to feather and back under his touch. Meanwhile, his wings flicked up and stirred behind him, the sharp silver feathers making a chilling metal-against-metal sound, like knives grinding together. They were terrifying wings. The wings of a monster.

For a moment, neither of us spoke
. Wide-eyed, I stared at him. I felt him staring back, even though I couldn’t see his eyes through the light. A halo, I decided. I’d call the light a halo.

My voice was barely above a whisper. “You’re late.”

He said nothing. It reminded me of Hunter. And if he was Hunter, then great. When I saw him at school on Monday, I’d kill him for this.

I tried to keep my words steady.
“You helped me before. Why didn’t you help me now?”

“
A lower demon isn’t worth my time or energy.” His voice was as non-female, non-male as it’d ever been. If it weren’t for the shape of his body, I wouldn’t have known he was of the opposite sex. “I left it to you. Figured it’d be easy for you to handle.”

“Easy for me to handle?” No. I took an incensed step forward. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me. That thing—that demon—almost killed me.”

His
voice was cool. “Am I incorrect in saying that you killed it instead?”

“No, but—”

“You killed it. Unskillfully, but you killed it.”

“Yes, but—”

“By yourself.”

“Yeah, but I almost
died
—”

“I would never let that happen.” His tone softened the slightest bit. “You do know that, don’t you?”

“Let me guess,” I said. “You’re my guardian angel. Woo-hoo.”

“That’s a ridiculous assumption.”

“It’s a reasonable one. Like I said, you’ve helped me before. And, I mean, yeah—you’ve been pretty nice. So—”

It happened so quickly that I didn’t have time to blink.

He flashed off the kitchen island and was suddenly in front of me, his shining face a whooping two millimeters from mine. He propped his arm on the wall above my head and leaned even closer than before, his light swallowing me whole. Unlike the warm, nice halo of a warm, nice angel, his was cold, frosting the edges of my skin and the tips of my lashes. I gulped.

“I’m not your guardian angel,” he said at last. “I’m not here because it’s my job.”

Um? “Then…?”

His voice softened. “I’m here because I’m selfish.”

And with that, he pulled back, arched his wings, and took off through the ceiling. A deadly-looking feather fought free before he glided out of sight.

“Wait,
” I croaked. “Goddamn it, you asshole, wait! I need your help!”

But he was gone.

I kicked at the bloodied knife, jamming the butt of my palm against my temple. “I need your help. Goddamn you, I need your help.”

But I was alone.

During the next few days, I went crazy.

Not about the second and hopefully last attack that happened on Friday. Not about the fact that my blood could
kill. Not about the fact that, though the angel hid in his light and under a nondescript voice, I swore he was Hunter incarnate. And certainly not about my mom being a lesbian. In fact, that was the only normal and remotely awesome thing in my otherwise non-normal life.

No. I wasn’t going crazy over any of these things.

I was going crazy over the feather.

For the last and umpteenth time, I lit the candles, dimmed the lights in my room, and rushed back to my bed. The feather lay on top of it, sharp and deadly and silver, its fine
hairs glimmering in the orangey light. Io blinked from it to me and back.

I let my fingers dance over it.
“Oh, magic feather,” I bit out through clenched teeth, having had enough of its unresponsiveness, “would you please, please,
please
turn into a sword for a helpless human girl?”

It lay on my bed, completely still.

“Your master is my friend,” I continued, going for a solemn tone. “He’s helped me countless times.” And called me ugly about twice as much. “He’s quite nice.” Not. “You should be, too.”

Nothing.

I didn’t expect anything to happen. But it didn’t hurt to try. I needed proper training. This thing with angels and demons—it was real. I knew so from the moment I got attacked a couple of weeks ago. I knew so now.

And I wasn’t
about to sit here and do nothing about it.

I ran my palm over the feather again, like I’d
been doing for the last two days. The angel—H…Hunter?—had left me the accidental gift and I intended to use it. It could turn into a blade, right? A nice, feline type-of-sword thing that could easily cut up things? That could work better than a kitchen knife?

For now, though
, I’d have to settle for something else. Using the knife I now kept at my bedside table, I punctured a hole through the quill. Then I grabbed a chain from an old necklace and replaced the rusty charm for the feather. I hung it around my neck, tucking the angular little thing inside the collar of my shirt. There.

For the rest of the week, I saw Ash walking around with five different girls. One for each day. Fantastic.

He took a second to apologize for what happened on Friday—according to him, hearing someone having sex wasn’t fun unless you meant to, though I didn’t know in what case someone would want to, anyway—and insisted on taking me out to make up for it. I ignored that last part and asked if he had used a condom or not. Whether I’d have to kick him for being extra stupid, because if he hadn’t used protection, I’d rip out his balls.

Hunter noticed my moodiness but didn’t comment on it. He
sat beside me in art class now, and I took the chair next to him without a single word. Laura tried to smile, to say hello. I grumbled a greeting and buried my face into my sketchbook. Io drew her mitts against my jawline. As if to soothe me. In the corner of my eye, I saw Hunter giving me a sidelong glance.

As promised, Ash
took me out. On Thursday night. We went to the movies and I kept a seat between us. He looked amused. Told me to come closer. I ignored him and shoved a fistful of popcorn into my mouth, following it with a swig of Coke and three Butterfinger minis. He watched me out of the corner of his eye. When I saw that he had no intention of looking away, I turned toward him and said, “What?”

Someone shushed me from behind. Ever so lazily, Ash reached
over and drew his thumb across the corner of my mouth. I froze. Without a word, he pulled away, brushed off the crumb of Butterfinger and returned to the movie.

“Thanks?” I said.

A furious shush sounded behind us again. The side of Ash’s lips twitched.

Later, w
hen he dropped me off at my house, I got out of the car and leaned down to give him a thumbs-up. “Thanks for the movie,” I said. “See you tomorrow. And stop smoking. Okay. Bye.”

I slammed the door shut an
d hurried across the driveway. After struggling with the key, I yanked the front door open and locked it behind me. Mom was in the kitchen. She called my name, but I’d already run upstairs and barged into my room, throwing myself on the bed.

And when my face hit the pillow, when the darkness swallowed me
whole—that was when I let the tears fall.