Ember X (13 page)

I notice the scratch on her shoulder blade looks a little infected. “What happened to your shoulder?”

She shelters the spot with her hand. “Things got a little rough between Laden and me. He was kind of into bondage.”

I press my lips together. “How rough exactly?”

Her head whips up and her eyes scorch fire. “What are you getting at exactly? That I might have had something to do with his death?”

“There’s no proof he’s dead yet.” I veer down the road that leads to our houses. “And I didn’t say anything about you being involved. It just looks infected.”

“Yeah, whatever. If anyone should be accused of his murder it’s you, especially with your whole little I-saw-him-standing-outside-my-house thing this morning. You better watch what you say,
Ember
, or people are going to think you’re as crazy as your dad. Oh wait, they already do.”

At that moment, I loathe her. She is not my best friend and I don’t care if I ever see her again. I want to rip her hair out, hurt her, and scream at her at the top of my lungs.

“You need to tell me what happened. With the details,” I demand as I turn into the driveway of her house. I force the shifter into park and place a hand on her arm. “It’s like you’re possessed by the devil or something.”

She glances at my hand on her arm and then her eyes drain of emotion. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She jerks her arm away and jumps out of the car.

I remove the keys from the ignition and jump out after her. “Raven, we’re not done with this conversation yet. I’m worried about you. You’re acting like you’ve lost your mind.”

“You would be the expert on that, Death Girl.” She spats and then whisks around the front of the car, thrusting her hand at me. “My keys, please.” I slam the keys into her palm. “Thanks, Emmy. And I mean for everything. But honestly, I really need a break from you. You’re too much baggage. ” She sashays into her house and slams the door, leaving me in the driveway, stirring in my own anger.

I storm for my house, but a flash of black in the trees sends me to an earthshattering halt. Laden’s body hangs from the tree in my front yard, a rope around his neck, and blood dripping from his lips. His pale skin is blue and his eyes stare lifelessly at me.

Death. Silence.

Trying not to panic, I fumble my phone out of my bag and nearly drop it. I start to dial the police, but when I look back at the tree, the phone falls from my hands. The body is gone, but his blood still stains the grass.

I work as a cashier down at the one and only gas station in town. It’s a tedious job, one I hope I’m not stuck with for the rest of my life.

After I get off work, I go home and head to the computer desk. I stay there for hours until the words on the computer screen are blurry from the hours of searching on the internet. Ghost possession. Demon possession. Cult rituals. Nothing explains what’s going on with Raven. Or what’s going on with me.

I shift my focus to Garrick. A death omen has never been that powerful before. It felt like a thousand deaths, each one a thorn on a dying rose, individualized but connected to the same vine of life. I start to type something on the keyboard when Ian’s head appears over my shoulder and he reads the screen.

“Wow, should I be worried?” he asks, reading my search history on the sidebar as he hovers over my shoulder.

“We’re studying mythology and human nature in English class,” I lie easily.

“Well, if you need any help, let me know,” he says. “I had to study mythology for this oil-based painting class I took my freshman year. The Professor was seriously into that crap.”

“Yep, I sure will.” I wait for him to leave and then type “X tattoo” into the search. Nothing pops out, so I delete “tattoo” and put “symbol.” I scroll through the options and click on a link about execution.

I read through the article: “An
X
symbol has many representations, one being the elimination of a life.” I slump back in the chair and cross my arms. “Well, look at that. It does have to do with death.”

Still, why does Garrick have an
X
on his eye? Could Garrick be… could Garrick be causing the disappearances? But why does he have so many death omens?

I stretch my fingers and type: Death Omens. I highlight the search button with the cursor, swiveling in the chair as I hesitate before clicking it. I skim through the search results, until I come across a sketch of an Angel with her head tucked down, tears seeping from her eyes, and black smudges on her cheeks. Her dark wings elongate the page and a lifeless rose crumbles from her hand. A skeletal pattern tattoos her arms and legs and a circle rounds the stone floor beneath her bare feet.

“It’s just like in Asher’s painting of the Angel,” I mutter. Grim Angel is the title of the sketch. “It’s like a mix between the Grim Reaper and an Angel.”

I do a search on Grim Angel and read aloud, “Grim Angels are a unique breed immune to most of the Angel of Deaths’ and the Grim Reapers’ gifts. Grim Angels are believed to be insane due to the curse of their hybrid breeding of an Angel of Death and a Grim Reaper, which plagues them with a constant burden of death. They may suffer from blackouts and lose track of their mind, if not properly taken care of.” I read the note aloud again. “Blackouts and a general burden of constant death.” I shiver and peek over my shoulder, just to make sure I’m not sprouting wings. But the inner voice deep inside me disagrees.

After reading a few more websites, and finding nothing else, I give up for the night. “What are these things, like some kind of hush-hush mythical species no one is supposed to talk about or something?”

I shove the chair back, shut off the computer, and flop down on the couch next to Ian. “Is Mom home yet?”

He surfs through the channels with the remote aimed at the small television screen. “Nah, she called and said she’s going to be late.”

“Did you check on her prescription to see if it was still full?”

“Yeah… and it’s still full. She hasn’t taken them for at least a week.”

“We should talk to her about it,” I say. “She came home last night totally wasted and ranting about Dad being a killer.”

Ian turns down the volume of the TV and sets the remote down on the armrest. “Where was I?”

I point over my shoulder at the staircase. “Upstairs, in the attic, with your ‘
muse
.’”

He squirms uneasily. “Did you get her upstairs okay?”

I grab a handful of skittles from the candy bowl on the coffee table and pop them into my mouth. “Yeah, I made do.”

He slips off his beanie to ruffle his hair. “Was she nice to you?”

I seal my lips together and force the tears to back down. “She was fine, I guess.”

“I can tell when you’re lying.” Ian pushes the sleeves of his shirt up and kicks his feet up on the table. “What did she say to you?”

Ian knows about my rough relationship with our mother to an extent, but there are pieces I omit from him, like her accusations that I killed Grandma Nelly.

“She was as nice as she always is.” I scoop up another handful of skittles and get up from the couch. “I’m going to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Ember…” He struggles for words. “You know you can talk to me about stuff. My meds are helping a lot and I think I can handle things now.”

“I know,” I say, but he can’t. It’s in his eyes—the fear I might open up and he’ll have to deal with it, so I bottle it up. The accident, Raven, death, that I saw Laden’s body hanging from our tree. “And if I do ever feel like talking, you’ll be the first one I come to.”

He releases a breath of relief and turns back to the TV as I trudge up to my room, wondering when I’ll crack.

I don’t hear or see Asher the next day, or the next and when I text him about hanging out, his response is that he’s busy. It bothers me for some reason. I barely know him, yet knots wind in my stomach every time I think about how it felt when he touched me. It’s like I’ve become obsessed with him and his lips and hands and I don’t like how much he consumes me, yet, I do at the same time.

I’m in the town library, tucked at the table in the farthest corner, writing poetry about my frustration with a book opened at my feet.

In the midst of a foggy field, the answers are hidden

But the impossible journey deems them forbidden

“Have I told you how much I’m sorry,” Raven says, sliding a candy bar across the table.

I glance up from my journal. “How many times are you going to apologize?” I pick up the candy bar. “My teeth are going to rot out if you keep it up.”

“As long as it takes for you to accept it.” She takes a magazine out of her bag.

“How did you know I was here?” I ask.

She smiles. “You always are, when you’re not working or in class. I think you just might be obsessed with words.”

That and beautiful men with piercings.
“You know me too well.”

“What are you writing about?” She moves the strap of her tank top over a little and peels a layer of skin off her shoulder blade.

I scratch the title
The Unknown
on the top of the page. “Stuff. Life… You know you should really get that looked at. I really do think it’s infected.”

She flicks the skin onto the floor. “I did and the doctor said it’s fine.” Her eye twitches and she pretends to pluck some mascara from her eyelashes.

Swirling the pen on the top of the paper, I sketch a poorly drawn Angel. “You can die from infections. Do you know that?”

She peels another layer of skin off, and it’s like she’s molting. “But you know when I’m really going to die and if it was from the infection, you’d make me go to the hospital.”

She has me there. Under the title of my poem, I write:

The Reaper of Death, the Angel of Life.

They walk together in day and night.

“Raven, have you ever heard of a Grim Angel?” I inquire.

She thrums her manicured nails on the table as she considers this. “Maybe… in one of the books I looked through when I was doing my Angel painting project. But I can’t remember exactly what it is. Why? What’s up?”

“I was just looking through some stuff on the internet the other night and I came across a drawing of one. I’ve never heard of them before, though.”

“Why were you looking up Angel stuff on the internet?”

“For a poem I’m working on,” I lie breezily. “Do you still have those books?”

She shakes her head as she twists her pink hair up into a bun. “I returned them here and they had to special order them, so I don’t even know if they’re still here.”

I drop my voice as the librarian walks by, shooting me a dirty look. “Do you remember anything about them at all?”

She turns a page of her magazine. “Only that they are a mix between a Grim Reaper and an Angel of Death. And that they’re super crazy most of the time.”

“How exactly are they supposed to be crazy?” I ask. “I mean, what defines them as being insane? Do they do weird things or rant incoherent thoughts?”

“The books said that they used to sneak around killing innocent people and stealing their souls,” she explains. “Like it was a game or something. And they suffered from hallucinations.”

I need to get my hands on those books.

“So what’s up with you and Asher?” She abruptly changes the topic.

I stop drawing and glance up. “What do you mean?”

She presses me with a look from over the magazine. “Don’t play dumb with me,
Ember Rose Edwards
. You know what I’m talking about—our knight in shining armor and the reason why you’ve been bummed out all week.”

“I’m not playing dumb,
Raven Lilly Monroe
,” I retort. “I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

She taps her lips with a wicked glint in her sapphire eyes. “So, you don’t have a thing for a dark-haired stranger who rescued you from your death omen spasm and who showed you his painting of an Angel… Although, by how stuck you are on him, I’d guess he showed you other stuff of his, too.”

I briefly picture what he’d look like naked and then focus on my poem. “I thought you had a thing for him. Wasn’t he the reason for your meltdown in my closet… And wait, how do you even know about the painting?”

She giggles. “Oh Em, you are such a riot. You can’t almost make out with someone in the art room and expect no one to know about it.” She dabs the tears from the corner of her eyes. “And I’m totally over the Asher thing. Guys are like shoes to me, you know that. I wear them once and then get bored.”

I press down so hard on the paper the pencil breaks. “Did you actually wear Asher?”

She points an accusing finger at me. “The very fact that you ask that means you like him. So I think it’s time you found out where he is. And if he likes you.”

“Raven, this isn’t second grade.” I tip back in the chair and throw the pencil in the trash bin.

She discounts me with a wave of her hand. “Call him. Didn’t you say he gave you his phone number?”

“I already tried to text him and he said he was busy,” I say and close my journal. “Look, I think I need to just get over him. I have too much stuff going on in my life.” I swing my purse over my shoulder, but she snags the handle and rips it off my arm.