Death, and the Girl He Loves

“She bumped her head,” Brooke said, turning my near-fatal concussion into a bump. “And it was scary because I thought she was having a seizure or something.”

Mac rushed to the archive room. We heard him rummaging around, then he hurried back with a stack of old papers that were held together with a leather tie.

“I found it. Where Arabeth’s daughter talks about how she burned the herbs and scribed with the ashes. And if I remember correctly, she would go into a trancelike state. At first, her family … Yes, here it is.” He read a passage, then paraphrased for us. “At first her family thought she was having seizures until they realized she was divining. She was prophesying through her own drawings.” He looked up at me then. “And you can do the same thing.” The pride in his eyes caused me to both feel good about what I could do and worry that they would all think this was the answer we’d all been waiting for.

Grandma clasped her hands over her heart and said, “This is the answer we’ve all been waiting for.”

Nailed it. “But what if it’s not?” I asked.

“I will put you in a headlock and scrub your scalp raw,” Kenya said.

Everyone turned to her in surprise.

“What?” she asked, defensive. “She needs to get over herself, for the love of gravy. This is what she was destined for. What she is going to do. And she’s so worried about letting us all down. It’s ridiculous.”

My temper flared. “Are you kidding me? Do you know what will happen if I do let you all down? The world is destroyed. Everyone dies. Excuse me if I’m feeling a little pressure here.”

She smirked at me and leaned forward until we sat nose to nose. “If I were given this gift, I wouldn’t act like a scared rabbit waiting to be boiled for dinner.”

“Oh, yeah? What would you do, then? If this was on you, what would you do?”

“I’d fight. Until my dying breath, I’d fight for everyone I loved. I wouldn’t run and hide under a rock and complain and turn all squirrely every time a new gift, a gift that most people would kill for, was handed to me on a silver platter.”

Tears burned my eyes, because no matter how bad I hated to admit it, she was right. I was acting like such a monumental wuss.

“All you do is complain about how you have these visions and how hard they are.”

“Okay, I got it.”

“And you walk around all ‘poor me.’”

“I said, I got it.” My temper started to rise again.

“It’s pathetic. You have no idea how fortunate you are to be able to do what you do. I know you lost your parents. I get it, but that is not on you. They died protecting you. Protecting all of us, and all you can do is whine about it. Quit acting like the world is—”

That was it. I lunged forward. Switchblade or not, Kenya Slater was going to eat cement if I had anything to say about it. Sadly, she was about twelve feet taller than I was, and God only knew how many pounds she had on me, so when I went to tackle her, I more or less gave her a really aggressive bear hug. But I’d surprised her.

“Pix!” Grandma said.

I’d knocked her off balance.

“I’m not sure this kind of behavior is called for.”

We tumbled to the ground and, yes, like a girl, I went for the hair. I grabbed handfuls with the intent of banging her head against the concrete floor beneath us. But I did not factor in the fact that she actually knew how to fight. She was all martial arsty-fartsy and I had been in only one fight my entire life, and that was with a girl my own size. Brooklyn. We got into a catfight in the third grade, and as much as I hated to admit it, she kicked my ass.

“Bill,” Grandma squeaked, “do something. This is quite uncalled for.”

I quickly realized I didn’t stand a chance. It hit me when she easily maneuvered over me and dragged an arm behind my back to hold me to the ground. But the one thing I had on my side was anger. Just because she’d wanted to be me her whole life and she would’ve loved to have the gifts I have didn’t give her the right to talk about what it was like to be me. Or, more important, talk about my parents and what they had done.

I knew that all too well. I was there.

“Bill, really!”

I scrambled out from under her and brought my legs around until I had her head in a scissors hold. She clawed at my arm, then at my legs when I’d locked her down and tried to slam her head into the cement again. Before I could manage it, I rose into the air. I felt an arm around my waist as I was lifted up and back against a solid chest.

“Okay, Rocky,” Jared said, the humor in his voice apparent.

But adrenaline was rushing through me at light speed. I swung my arms, trying to get another piece of her until he wrapped his other arm around mine. His mouth was at my ear then, warm and sensual when he whispered, “Do you want a spanking, young lady?”

I stilled instantly, the thought of the Angel of Death bending me over his knee causing a second wave of adrenaline, only in other areas.

Oh.

My.

God.

I was into BDSM.

He chuckled at my back.

“That was exciting!” Brooklyn said, her face flush with, well, excitement. “You were totally holding your own.”

“Really?” I asked, surprised and feeling an odd sense of pride as Jared lowered me to the floor.

“Totally! Unlike the time I kicked your butt. You were pretty pathetic that time.”