Kiss the Stars (Devon Slaughter Book 1) (11 page)

SHE SLEPT. Her
hair spilled across the pillow. I dressed in the dark.

I was full of her
energy and moved with stealth, searching the attic. This time, while fondling
her things, I was on a mission. She had discovered something about me and the
clue was up here, somewhere.

I thought of the
night we met, the way she insisted I looked like Heathcliff, a vision created
in her mind from the pages of a book. I thought of her dream, how it had pulled
me in, like her tortured eyes. What if I had met her in another life?

I felt like a
character in a video game, getting killed and resurrected, starting over from
zero.

I checked the
suitcase first; left open in the middle of the floor. It contained clothes that
told me nothing.

I sifted through
items in a cedar chest. I thought it was what Ruby had been doing before I
heard her crying, before she went ballistic with the knife. Not that I blamed
her. She’d figured out the nasty truth about me a lot faster than I did. I was
only just now comprehending how truly fucked I might be.

It wasn’t enough
to remember the night in Ometepe and what led up to it. I needed to know who I
had been. I wanted to be him again.

I pushed aside a
table cloth and dug under linens. The chest contained heirlooms and
housekeeping paraphernalia for a woman’s impending nuptials, I guessed. It was
weirdly old-fashioned. I wondered if the things in the chest were for Ruby.

None of it had
to do with me. I closed the lid.

What I was
really looking for was a culprit. I had my suspicions but they were all so
implausible, like my entire existence. I needed more to go on, a sign Ruby and
I weren’t locked in an alternate reality, also known as ‘batshit.’

The attic was
mostly bare. There was just the old screen, the bed draped in that incongruous
mosquito net, the trunk…and Ruby. I gazed at her. She seemed to be dreaming.
Her pale eyelids fluttered. Maybe it hadn’t been an accident falling into her
dream. Maybe I possessed powers I had yet to unleash.

I felt beneath
the covers, ran my hand under the mattress. What had she come across? I was
sure I would recognize the significance, if only I could find it…whatever
it
was.

I could always
wake her and force her to tell me. But I didn’t want to hear the words spoken
aloud. I didn’t want her to have to say them. I’d seen the look in her eyes
when she held the knife. She was already too close to the edge.

I checked the
pockets on the suitcase again. The clothes were so small, fit for a child. I
frowned. Was there a secret compartment? When I emptied the case, I saw a gash
in the lining. I ripped it open wider. The sound of tearing was loud to my
ears. My gaze darted to Ruby.

She stayed
asleep.

It was such a
small piece of paper, curled at the edges. I could hardly make sense of what it
said. Devon Slaughter. So strange to see my name in faded print, as if I was
old news, a forgotten relic.

I read the words
over and over.

Passed away
in Managua…twenty-nine years old. Passed away…

* * *

She sat up in
bed. Her gaze found my shadow. I saw her struggling to connect to her
surroundings. She pulled up the sheet to cover herself. “Devon?” she was
breathless but she sounded relieved which bothered me. I wasn’t anyone (or any
thing
)
you’d want to bump into in the night. But she was nuts, wasn’t she?

I crushed the
piece of paper in my palm and shoved my hands in my pockets.

Of course, she
looked beautiful in a ‘stark raving’ kind of way, with her electrifying hair
against her pale skin. I was irresistibly drawn to her, the way her feelings
spilled out, so messy. I had the urge to get under the covers with her but I
held back. I was eager to get out into the night.

Her gaze landed
on the suitcase. She frowned. “Did I tell you I was in the sanitarium for a
while?”

I wasn’t
surprised. And I even thought so what? There were worse things in life. Here I
was with my obituary in my pocket.

I sat on the
edge of the bed. Her fingers wrapped around my wrist. “Did you find it?” she
whispered.

The ache in my
head was back, pulsing behind my eyes.

“Devon. I didn’t
make you up. It’s fate. You and I were destined to meet.”

“There’s no such
thing as fate.”

Her fingers were
still on my wrist. Her eyes searched mine. “What happened to you?”

“I don’t know,
Ruby. I don’t
know
,” my voice was rising. “I’m dead. Christ, that’s what
happened to me. I died…”

She stared. I
had to force my voice down. “Let’s talk about it later.” How surreal. We wouldn’t
talk about it later. For God sake.

I started to get
up but Ruby grasped my shirt. “Devon, wait. Do you know her? Zadie?”

“Who?” I said.

“Zadie,” she
whispered.

Her heart beat
too loud, pounding in my head. Only it was my own heartbeat. “Zadie…” my voice
came from far away.

The pounding got
louder.

“I met her,”
Ruby said. “In the sanitarium.”

“The what?”

“The psych ward,
Devon.”

“Zadie? You—it’s
not possible.
When
?”

“Nine years ago.”

“Not my Zadie…”

Ruby’s pulse
quickened and licked at my veins. Her eyes were huge, watching me. “Zadie was
tall and thin, like a model,” she said. “Platinum blonde. She wanted to find
you.”

“Did she tell
you that?”

“I have to find
him, she’d say. Not your name. She never said who. I thought it was a fantasy…a
delusion.”

“So—so what
happened
to her?”

“Did you love
her?” Ruby said.

I grabbed her by
the shoulders. “Was Zadie still there when you left?”

“One day, she
was just gone. I found your obituary in her room.”

I thought of
Enid, her supernatural beauty, and the way she broke through my defenses,
seducing me with what I couldn’t resist.

Enid
.

Enid had done
this to us.

Kill Enid. The
words repeated in my mind, like a twisted mantra.

“DON’T GO,” I
said, but it was too late.

I lurched from
the bed and ran to the window, dragging the sheet with me. I searched for him
in the dim glow of the street lamp. Cold came through the thin pane of glass. I
just needed to see his shape, the way he walked with his hands in his pockets,
but he had already disappeared.

(
I died
.
Christ, that’s what happened to me. I died.)

I flipped the
light switch and found drops of blood on the sheets. Proof he was real. And I
was no longer a virgin.

My grandmother
and I had loved Gothic romances, where the heroines wore gloves and hats and
were always ‘taking a smoke.’ If I was a Gothic heroine, I would be ‘a woman
now,’ I thought. And my story would end with a kiss and the promise of undying
love.

(Undying.
Undead.)

I rubbed my
temples and wished I smoked.

Anything
supernatural in those stories—a haunted attic, a ghost floating around the
woods—was explained in the end. Ghosts were escaped lunatics and haunted attics
contained illegitimate children, or mad wives.

I went
downstairs, wrapped in the sheet.

I put on a black
satin gown and poured a shot of Seagram’s. The time was 1:07. I rolled eleven
on my lucky dice. It was my favorite number, so I said a prayer…for myself,
like the self-absorbed person described in my case file.

Patient
is overly emotional and yet
emotionally shallow.
I prayed Devon would make love to me one more time.
And once more after that. I tried to imagine him going home but he always
seemed to disappear into thin air.

I pressed my
fingers to my eyes. Sparks danced, like shooting stars. When the needle bumped
the end of the record, the hum of the kitchen appliances got louder. I had
another shot of whisky. The world spun too fast and I spun with it.

Patient lives
in a romantic fantasy world and becomes hostile when confronted with reality
.
I wasn’t even sure if it was my
file or my mother’s and I couldn’t remember how I’d come to read something so
confidential.

You don’t
want to end up like your mother
.

I raced upstairs
and jerked open the drawer where I’d hid the Lexapro. My hands shook. The
childproof cap defied me. With a cry, I threw the plastic bottle across the
room. It bounced off the wall and rolled on the floor.

I sat on the
edge of the bed and closed my eyes.

I remembered
telling Dr. Ess dying might be a relief. I said stupid things all the time, especially
to Dr. Ess. Maybe I wanted to see if I could fool him and prove he was a hack,
so I wouldn’t have to see him anymore.

I thought of
Devon’s eyes. The first time I saw his picture on that torn piece of paper, I
thought he looked like a dark angel, the person who would introduce you to God.

I WENT to the
twenty-four hour coffee shop near my building. It was obviously a scene for the
adolescent crowd too young to get into the clubs. A couple of girls with dyed
red hair occupied a booth. They looked like twins, dressed in matching
Ramones
T-shirts and plaid skirts, pink knee-high socks. They reminded me of Ruby.

I ignored their
stares and strode past them to take one of the computers in the back.

Occasionally
they giggled. Their energy was intense, aimed at me like laser beams. It raised
the hair on the back of my neck. I realized I could get a charge without having
to interact with them at all. It was an interesting discovery, though I was too
preoccupied to consider just how interesting, at the moment.

My stolen pocket
computer was long dead, (like yours truly). I liked having a keyboard beneath
my fingers. I started my search with Enid Grosling. After several variations on
her name, with no results, my suspicions were confirmed. She didn’t exist in
the ordinary realm. If she did, she would be the queen of selfies, a slew of
purposely leaked sexcapades in her wake.

A more detailed
search, combined with Devon Slaughter, brought up the incident in Nicaragua. I
read the article quickly, skimming over certain details I didn’t want carved
into my immortal memory.

Enid had slipped
off the grid but she hadn’t been reported missing and she didn’t have an
obituary. Where was she?

After last night’s
grueling trip down memory lane, I couldn’t bring myself to look up my parents.
I wanted to stay in shape, at the height of my supernatural ability. I couldn’t
risk getting sick again.

I typed in Zadie’s
name and found she had a fan page on Facebook, connected to a hotline set up
for information on her disappearance. Tips came in the first few months but the
line had gone defunct. People still posted to her page, commemorating her
memory on the anniversary of her disappearance. They sent virtual flowers.

I clicked on a
link to an article posing a kidnapping theory. It was the end of the road. I
couldn’t pull up any more information. There was nothing to be found concerning
any visits to mental hospitals. And yet, the fact that Ruby had known Zadie was
one of the few things that made sense. Ruby and I had a psychic connection
through Zadie.

I entered Ruby’s
full name, as it had appeared on her driver’s license. She taught at a private
academy and held three degrees. I gazed at her picture on the school’s website.
It was like a mugshot. She stood in front of a chalkboard holding a copy of
Wuthering
Heights
and grimacing. I had to smile. She was so awkward. The photo did
nothing to capture her ethereal beauty.

I looked for
something linked to the sanitarium. No results, which didn’t surprise me. But
there had to be something useful I could get to. I started typing, delving into
Ruby’s college records, which led me to her birthplace. She’d been born in a
small town in northern California.

The red-haired
girls behind me tittered. I glanced over my shoulder and found them leaning
across the table, whispering to each other. I turned back to the computer.

After a few more
minutes, my search for Ruby Rain ended in a three year old weather report. Even
the search engine seemed frustrated. It asked me, “Did you mean India Ruby
Glaw?” I thought, yeah, exactly. But I clicked ‘yes’.

Page One,
Article 1:
On Wednesday, India Ruby Glaw was found not guilty of the murder
of Javier Belmonte by reason of insanity.
On the afternoon of July 11,
deputies rushed to 104 Park Place, the residence of Javier Belmonte, after
getting reports of yelling inside, and possible gun shots. When they arrived,
they discovered Belmonte shot three times in the chest.

Belmonte, a
local artist, was severely wounded and later died of his injuries.

India Glaw,
(spotted entering the residence earlier in the day), was arrested twenty
minutes later, on Delta Avenue, in the Café Armonde, where she was ordering an
espresso. The 31-year old admitted to shooting Belmonte but has not said why.
She has been in and out of mental institutions for much of her life, and after
Wednesday's ruling will once again be institutionalized.

The decision
outraged Belmonte's family.

“I don’t think
she's mentally ill, I think she’s evil,” said Marie Logsdon, Belmonte's wife,
who was separated from him at the time of the murder. Logsdon claimed Glaw was
the reason for their separation.

Prosecutors say
it was a tough decision, but the experts who examined Glaw determined she was
insane. She will be committed for up to life and they do not anticipate she
will be released.

I skimmed down
the rest of the page but the other articles weren’t related.

On page two I
found the headline:
Victim’s Family Avenged
—
Murderess Dies of
Pneumonia in Mental Hospital
. I recognized the face in the black and white
photo. India Ruby Glaw was the same woman in the paintings in Ruby’s hallway.
Too young to be the grandmother, she had to be Ruby’s mother. So Ruby had
changed her name. Who could blame her?

A ‘Behind the
Name’ search told me Glaw meant ‘rain’ in Welsh.

“Excuse me,” one
of the red-haired girls sidled up. When I met her gaze, she blushed. “Are you
an actor?” she said.

I raised an
eyebrow. Her blush went from cute to puce but she wasn’t deterred. “You look
like McGregor James,” she said. I enjoyed her elevated heart rate, the feel of
her young pulse racing in my veins. “He’s the sexiest man alive,” she said. “For
real. Like in
People
magazine.”

And I’m the
sexiest man not alive
.

“He plays a
serial killer on that show
The Fever
,” she seemed mystified when I
showed no recognition. “Everyone watches it. He kills beautiful women who are
dying of ravaging diseases and poses their dead bodies. Then he covers them in
rose petals. It’s his signature. The detective who is supposed to catch him is
falling in love with him…”

I gave her a
slow smile, just to see her quiver. She would report our conversation to her
friend (who was watching), and anybody else who would listen, without realizing
I’d never said a word.

Outside on the
street, I cast a glance through the window and caught the two of them hurrying
to the door. I let them follow me for a few blocks. They were noisy—tripping
and laughing. It was hard to believe they didn’t think I’d notice.

At the bridge, I
sped up, moving faster than the human eye could see.