Death, Doom and Detention
Page 10He looked over his shoulder. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, shortstop. I’ll still be back in five.”
I shook my head and opened the screen door as quietly as I could. It was so weird to be at odds with my grandparents. We were always close, almost inseparable. But they had kept so much from me growing up, so much I could have used to understand the visions and other oddities in my life. They’d wanted to wait, to tell me everything when I turned eighteen—the Order, my lineage, the prophecies—but when I was hit by that truck and Jared was sent to take me, everything changed.
Everything.
Only then did I find out that my grandparents were part of the Order of Sanctity, a group of people who believed in the teachings of a powerful prophet named Arabeth, the first prophet in human history to be burned as a witch centuries before it became common practice. Only then did I find out my lineage, that I was apparently descended from her. And only then did I find out about the prophecies surrounding my birth and my destiny. Not to mention the fact that I’d been possessed as a child. That was a kicker.
And now the situation with Jared. Whatever they’d said to him brought a screeching halt to our involvement, and I resented them for it, plain and simple. It all added up to one massive wedge in our relationship. And now I avoided them whenever I could. It was just easier that way.
I crept inside and heard muffled voices coming from the living room off the kitchen. The pocket door was pulled almost completely shut, but I could just make out a heated exchange resonating from within.
“You can’t do this, Bill,” someone said, his voice angry, desperate. “Not after everything we’ve been through.”
“I can and I will,” my grandfather said. “I’ve already made the plans.”
“She’s my granddaughter, damn it,” Granddad said, and a jolt of electricity shot down my spine when I realized they were arguing about me.
“She’s also the prophet, Bill,” someone else said. Another woman. I didn’t know who. “She’s the only one who can stop what’s to come.”
“We’ll find another way,” my grandmother said, her voice fragile, unsure. It was very unlike her. “We can’t risk her. Not like this. Not anymore.”
I heard something fall, like a table toppling over, then a low voice so full of anger and resentment, it shocked me to the core. “You’re going to send her away when all the signs point to Armageddon? When she’s our only hope?”
Send me away? Did I hear that right?
“You need to calm down, Jeff,” another male voice said. It was Sheriff Villanueva, one of the many members of the Order. “This isn’t our decision. It’s Bill and Vera’s.”
Jeff’s voice broke through again. “I hope to God you rethink this, Bill, or we’ll all pay for your idiocy. You’re gambling with our lives.”
“Please rethink this, Vera,” Mrs. Strom said. “For all our sakes.”
She sniffled into a tissue as my grandmother showed them out. They were scared and angry. Energy sparked and pulsated around them like someone had put it in a blender and set it to puree.
Granddad was still in the living room. I didn’t know if he was alone or not. I should have checked. I should have tried to talk to him. Instead, I sneaked around to the stairs and hurried up to my room.
Stunned.
Speechless.
They were sending me away? To where? While I didn’t want the visions or the prophecy or, most definitely, the monster inside me, I also didn’t want to leave Riley’s Switch. And sending meant alone. They would not be going with me. No one would be going with me. What would I do without Brooke and Glitch? Without Cameron? Without Jared?
My heart contracted as though I were a cornered animal, wounded and scared.
I pulled out the pink slip of paper from my pocket and studied the map. The party was in the forest about two miles from the store. Maybe a party was just what I needed. I could walk the two miles. I could walk a lot farther if I had to. Running away would be better than being sent away like a criminal, but getting back at someone was not a good reason to run away.
A floorboard creaked on the landing by my door.
“I made dinner, pix,” Grandma said.
But she knew the drill. “I’m not hungry,” I said, hardening my voice and my heart.
They could have made me go downstairs and eat with them anytime they wanted, and at first I wondered why they didn’t. Then I figured it out: guilt. They felt guilty for keeping all that information from me growing up. For my near-death experience. For not telling me about the monster inside. So I was getting away with way more than I normally could have.
“I’ll keep a plate for you in the oven,” she said. My grandmother was the feistiest, cleverest, most direct person I’d ever known. She never let me get away with even the slightest white lie. The fact that I was getting away with treating them like lepers astonished me. And made me feel almost as guilty as they did. They had given up everything to raise me. When my parents had disappeared, they were nearing retirement. They had plans to travel the world, and then I was dropped into their laps like living anvil—a constant burden, a constant reminder of what they’d lost.