Hallowed (Unearthly 2)

There’s no warmth in him at all when he says, “I always liked you, Tucker. I think you’re a decent guy.”

Tucker laughs. “But what, I’m not worthy of her? She’s out of my league, just because—”

“She and I belong together,” Christian interrupts.

“Right. Because of your purpose,” Tucker says in a low voice.

Christian glances around, irritated that Tucker knows this word, that he would dare to say it here in front of all these people. “That and about a hundred other reasons, none of which you’d be capable of understanding,” he says.

“You smug bastard.” And that’s when Tucker punches him. Right in the face. Christian’s head snaps back and a river of blood instantly starts to stream from his nose. He wipes at it, looks at his blood-sullied fingers. It’s possible that he’s never seen his own blood before now. His eyes narrow. He wipes his hand on his jeans. Then the porch erupts in a flurry of motion, people scrambling to get out of the way, women shrieking, fists flying. I tear loose from Angela just in time to see Tucker push Christian back against the house wall so hard it cracks the glass in the front window. I watch Christian’s dark brows draw low over his eyes, a genuine fury rising there, about to be unleashed. He puts a hand in the middle of Tucker’s chest and sends him sprawling, striking the porch rail with a sickening crunch as he flies backward onto the driveway. Gravel scatters everywhere. Tucker springs to his feet, wiping a smear of blood off his chin, hair all disheveled, eyes blue fire.

“Come on, pretty boy,” he taunts. “Show me what you’ve got.”

“Stop!” I scream.

Christian jumps over the fractured porch railing so lightly he almost seems to float. Next to Tucker he has a slender grace, not the muscle from roping calves and working hard every day, not the grit of being a farm boy from Wyoming, but I know that he is incredibly strong.

Tucker swings at him, and Christian ducks away. He lands a punch to Tucker’s side that again sends him crashing back into the dirt. He grunts, straightens up to go at Christian again.

“Stop it!” I scream.

Neither of them pays any attention. Tucker feints another punch, then almost gets one into Christian’s gut, but one more time Christian moves away before the blow can land. Tucker makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat as Christian hits him again, this time in the jaw.

This isn’t fair. There’s no way for Tucker to win this fight. Christian will always be faster, and stronger, and harder to hurt.

Please, I send to Christian with all my power to speak in his mind turned up full blast. If you care for me at all, stop.

He hesitates.

I stumble down the porch stairs toward them. I’m not thinking anymore. I need to get myself between them. “Christian, don’t hurt him,” I say out loud.

This stops them both cold. Tucker gives me this incredulous, offended look. How could I think that he’d be beaten by this fancied-up city kid, no matter what kind of blood runs through his veins? His lip actually curls in disgust. You don’t believe in me, his eyes say. Why don’t you believe in me?

At the same time, Christian drops his fists, turns to look at me with a hurt expression.

I wasn’t going to hurt him, he says in my mind. You think I would use my powers to do that?

I don’t have an answer for either of them.

“Okay, that’s enough!” a voice rings out. Billy makes her way down the front steps. She walks up beside me and glares at Tucker and Christian.

“What are you two doing here acting like elk in rut? This is a time of mourning. You should be ashamed.”

“I’m going,” Tucker says. He doesn’t look at me again. He must be hurting all over, but he keeps his head high, his back straight, as he walks to his car. Over his shoulder Wendy shoots me a look that’s half murder, half apology. She gets in the driver’s seat. I can see her talking, possibly yelling at Tucker as they drive off.

Christian wipes blood off his face. His nose has stopped bleeding, but the blood’s still there.

“My uncle’s going to kill me,” he says.

“He can get in line,” I shoot back.

He looks at me, startled. Clara, I’m—

Don’t you dare tell me you’re sorry. Just go.

I was only—

Go. I send again. I want you to go away, Christian. I don’t want you here. I don’t need you.

He swallows, stuffs his hands in his pockets, and looks at me hard. He doesn’t believe me.

“Get out of here,” I say out loud.

He turns and tromps off into the woods, where shadows are stretching out through the trees.

“Girl, you have a knack for drawing trouble,” Billy says, clapping an affectionate hand on my shoulder.

Don’t I know it.

After darkness falls the people all go home. The house gets brutally empty. Jeffrey comes home, from wherever it is that he disappears to every day, retreating into his room without a word to anyone. I go to the door of Mom’s office and push it open. Part of me expects her to be there, hunched over her computer, writing code. She’d look up and smile.

“Tough day, sweetie?” she’d say.

I swallow. I try to remind myself that she’s in heaven. But I can’t picture it. I can’t feel it.

All I know is that she’s gone, and she’s never coming back.

That night I can’t sleep. I’m not even sure I want to. I stare up at the ceiling and watch the shadows flit across it, the outlines of leaves from the tree outside my window, moving back and forth.

Around midnight, the phone starts ringing. I wait for someone to answer it, but no one does. Where is Billy? I wonder. When will Dad come back?

The phone keeps ringing its lonely song. I pad sock-foot into the kitchen, take it out of its cradle, and look at the caller ID.

CLARA, it reads.

Huh?

I’m getting a call from my own phone.

I click TALK. I’m suddenly wide awake. “Hello?”

Silence.

“Hello?” I say after a few seconds of nothing on the other line.

“Hello, little bird.”

It’s such a strange thing, hearing Samjeeza’s voice without the accompanying sorrow.

Almost like talking to a normal person, having an ordinary conversation where I don’t have to fear for my life or wonder if I’m about to be dragged to hell. Strange, like I said.

“What do you want?” I ask him.

Silence.

“Well, it’s been nice talking to you, but I’ve got to go. . . .” I start to lay the phone back down. “I have to bury my mother in the morning.”