Death, Doom and Detention

As Brooke and I walked to lunch, Cameron close on my heels, I had the distinct feeling I knew how the presidents’ daughters felt over the years. Always watched. Every move scrutinized. I thought about trying to outrun him for a few glorious seconds of freedom, but the run probably wouldn’t last even that long. I might get a couple of feet. A yard if I were lucky. Sadly, nobody had ever accused me of being lucky, so I didn’t risk it. The failure would be humiliating.

As I fished through my bag for my cell phone, Cruz de los Santos, a Riley High basketball player who had the height to prove it, brushed past me close enough to send my book flying.

“Hey,” I said when he kept walking.

Cameron was there at once. He picked up my book and handed it back. “Did he hurt you?”

“No. The punk.”

“That was so rude,” Brooke said, looking back at Cruz. “He didn’t even apologize.”

“How much you want to bet he was at the party?” Cameron asked.

I sighed loudly. “You know what? I’m not even hungry. I just want to sit outside in the open air while you guys eat.”

“No,” he said.

“I’ll sit on that bench on the other side of the cafeteria. You’ll still be able to see me.”

“Just eat fast,” Brooke said. “I’ll take watch.”

“I thought we’d discussed my level of comfort with you taking watch.”

“Fine,” she said, putting an arm in mine and dragging me off, “just get something to eat and come sit with us. You’ll be two minutes.”

Left with a growling stomach and no choice, Cameron led us to the bench, then hurried inside to grab a tray.

After the huge, four-o’clock-in-the-morning breakfast and all the coffee I could drink afterwards, I didn’t mind skipping lunch. Or skipping the odd looks that surely awaited me in the cafeteria. Brooke stuck by my side the whole time, offering her support, her shoulder, and her complaints.

It was too cold to be outside. She was hungry. She felt like a sticky bun. Not sure on that one.

She draped herself across the bench melodramatically. “I’m going to starve before the day is over.”

“Dude, go eat.”

“I don’t want to be disloyal.”

I stopped rummaging through my backpack. My lip gloss was gone. No doubt about it. “How is your eating disloyal?”

“Because then I would sit with all those people who want to kill you. It would look bad.”

“Oh, good point. I wonder what’s keeping Cameron.”

She tried to raise her head off the bench but couldn’t manage it. “I don’t know.”

“For heaven’s sake, I’ll go hit the vending machine.”

She bolted upright. “Sweet. Bring me something colorful.”

With a chuckle, I headed out in search of sustenance. My leaving the bench was hardly dangerous. There was absolutely no one crazy enough to be outside in the cold. Of course, I thought, halfway to the building, nephilim don’t feel the cold. I wondered if the descendants of nephilim felt the cold.

I glanced around and decided to hurry. The vending machines lined the back wall of the main building. After picking an array of colorful foods, I started to head out—when the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. No way. I kept walking. Better to ignore the hairs on the back of my neck than invite trouble.

A male voice echoed down the empty hall. “Hi.”

I whirled around, but no one was there. Without looking away, I started backing toward the doors. Toward Brooke. Toward safety.

Or, well, toward a short chick with a killer glare.

“Is your name Lorelei?”

A yelp escaped me as I whirled around again, dropping a MoonPie and Brooke’s chocolate milk.

The kid in front of me caught them both, one in each hand, then straightened to face me. I recognized the army jacket that was three sizes too big. It was the kid from the Clearing the other day, the one hiding in the trees. He looked about thirteen, with matted black hair under his hoodie and bloodshot eyes. Though he wasn’t that tall, he seemed to tower over me. Perhaps it was the curious look in his gaze that held something corrupt, something dark.

“You should be careful.” He stepped forward.

I stepped back. “I saw you at the Clearing the other day. Do you live here?” I took the milk and pie-ish-like substance from him. When he didn’t say anything, I asked, “Are you hitting the vending machines too?” If he was programmed to kill me, best to play dumb. Pretend like all was right with the world and run the microsecond I got the chance.

“No. I just wanted to see you. Alone.”

That sounded bad. “Um, okay.” Speaking of alone, where the heck was Static Cling when I needed him? Easing toward the door, I asked, “So, what’s your name?”

He fell in step beside me and grabbed the door when we reached it. “Noah.”

I started to say it was nice to meet him, but he didn’t open the door. He was actually holding it closed. Why did I get myself into these situations? I couldn’t even go for a MoonPie alone? I smiled the most nonthreatening smile I could conjure. “Can you open the door, Noah?”

“No.” The expression on his face startled me. It was almost apologetic. His hand around my throat startled me more. I dropped the contents in my arms and pushed, but he was much stronger than he looked. “You have to help me,” he said.

“Okay,” I squeaked out.