Vendetta (2 page)

I don't answer his question, though, about seeing someone. Because the truth is, I
am
seeing someone. He's just not someone I can tell
Carter—or anyone—about.

"You shouldn't sleep," he insists.

"I know. I'm just resting my eyes."

The ice cools my forehead, numbing the affected area. And I wonder how it came to this. Me, living in my former boyfriend's pool house, cornered between these t
wo worlds: one I'm not entirely sure I ever belonged to, and the other so wanting in explanation that nothing about it makes any kind of sense. A world I can't even rationalize. A world I might not be ready for.

"Where were you?" Carter finally asks, brea
king the tense silence hanging between us.

"You
know
I can't tell you that."

"Does it have anything to do with your visions? Because I'd kind of like to know why every time I see you there's a new gash, or bruises. Blood on your clothes." His voice is lace
d with both worry and anger. I hear it in Seth's, too. The difference is that Carter couldn't possibly understand, and Seth doesn't
want
to.

"Yes," I whisper. "It has everything to do with my visions, but that's all I can tell you."

"Why?" he demands to k
now.

"Because I can't. I can't drag you in the middle of this. It's not safe for you."

He scoffs, anger registering in each of his features, in his eyes. "If it's not safe for me, then it sure as hell isn't safe for
you
."

"You're
important to me, Carter. You're my best friend."

"You're important to
me
," he replies. "And maybe I'm sick of being the best friend."

I remain still. Quiet.

Carter and I broke up the night of our accident. Before I found myself lying on that cool pavement
, broken wrist clutched to my chest. Before Seth.

Carter was the first person I told about my visions—the first person who believed. He
is
my best friend. And I need him, even though I know he will always want something more, something I can't give him be
cause it belongs to someone else.

He emits a deep exhale, blowing the air completely out of his lungs, struggling to compose himself. "I'm sorry. That was out of line. But . . . but I can't help it. I just . . . I feel like this—whatever it is—is going to
end badly," he says, gray eyes searching mine.

Part of me wants to swear to him that will never happen, but I can't bring myself to tell such a brazen lie. I can't promise that everything will be okay, because part of me realizes there's a very real possib
ility he's absolutely right. The Evil Ones know who I am, what I can do. Viola is still out there, waiting for me, watching. I swallow hard, feeling the tightness constricting my throat.

I take the dishrag from Carter and rise from the couch, putting addi
tional space between us. I can feel his eyes on me, following as I move to the bathroom.

"Your dad got my rent check, right?" I call, changing the subject. I pause for a moment, examining my reflection in the mirror.

Wow. It looks as bad as it is.

I pul
l open the medicine cabinet door, searching for something that will dull the pain. 

"He did. He told me to tell you he wasn't going to cash it."

"Tell him that I said he better cash it or I'll move out. I'm not going to stay in your pool house rent-free,
Carter. He set the price so low it probably doesn't even pay the electricity bill for this place, anyway."

The Flemings assured me I can stay here as long as I need, but I'm not going to find myself further indebted to them. They've already taken care of t
he hospital bills I garnered from our car accident earlier in the year. I don't need to add "free housing" to the growing list. I'll never be able to repay them as it is, and as great as they are about writing checks for the cancer-stricken and poverty-lad
en, I can't wrap my head around the idea that they would do all of this for me without expecting something in return.

"I'll be sure to pass that along."

I reach for the cup perched on the edge of the sink and fill it, then throw back a couple of
Advils
, c
hasing them with the water. It cools my throat, satisfying. I study the space around me as I move back to the living room, searching for signs that Seth is nearby. I know he is. Always.

"I'm, um, kind of exhausted," I confess.

Carter sits up, his muted ey
es growing edgier by the moment. "Are you sure you don't want me to wait up with you? I really don't think you should sleep."

"I'm sure," I say, keeping my tone light. "And I won't go to sleep. I'll watch TV for a while." I offer a casual shrug, as if to s
ay:
See? I'm feeling better already.

He inhales deeply, hesitating, but stands anyway. "You're right. It's late."

I follow him to the door. We stop at the threshold and he moves in, closer. "Take it easy, okay? No more sneaking out in the middle of the ni
ght."

"You sound like someone's dad," I tell him, feeling a grin as it pulls at my lips, even if it's unsuccessful.

His eyes scour mine. "You didn't agree."

"I can't," I reply, shrugging sadly.

A resigned sigh, and then: "I'll check on you in the morning.
If you need anything . . ."

"I have your cell number." It's posted on the wall by the phone, where he taped it the day he helped me move in. Like I didn't already know it by heart.

"Right. Good night," he says.

"Night."

The door shuts
between us. I lock the deadbolt, and, when I turn back around, Seth is there. He wraps his arm tightly around my waist, drawing me into him. My stomach tumbles to my knees, my heart squeezing out an extra beat as he brushes my lips with soft kisses.

When h
e finally pulls away his face is grim, mouth set in a perfect line. "This looks terrible," he mutters, examining my forehead, tracing his fingers along my hairline.

"It feels terrible," I confess.

"It needs ice."

I lift the dishrag, compliments of Carter
Fleming. "I've already done ice."

He cups my chin in his fingers, lifting it, and gazes straight through me, dark eyes grasping mine as he studies my pupils. "You may have a concussion."

My eyes roll instinctively, tearing away from his. "Seth, when have I
not
had a concussion?"

"Did you take something?"

"An Advil. Look," I say, pushing against his broad chest, feeling the frustrated exhaustion welling inside, spilling over. "I just want to take a hot bath, change out of these wet clothes and into my pajama
s, and try to get to bed before the sun rises."

He eyes me carefully, hesitating, then nods. "Okay. Take your time. But the ice . . . stays on it." He takes my hand in his and presses the cool rag against my forehead. My teeth clench together in a failed
attempt not to react to the pressure.

The hot water never ends at the Fleming's. In my former world, traipsing from town to town with my mom—from rental to rental—showers and baths were timed: warm water a luxury, never a guarantee.

By the time I'm finish
ed soaking I can smell breakfast. I towel myself dry and slip on a tank top and pair of shorts. I avoid the mirror as best I can, the lump on my head, grayish purple in color, courtesy of a killer not of this world. Like if I don't acknowledge it, it's not
really there. It doesn't exist. I sigh. And this one wasn't even
trying
to hurt me.

"Much better," I announce lightly, climbing onto one of the barstools. Seth slides a plate of eggs and a few pieces of buttered toast in front of me. He's added cheese to
the eggs. Just like Stu. I spear them with my fork, a heavy lump hardening in my throat. I swallow it back, forcing it away.

It's that stupid knot.

But it's too late. I close my eyes and he's right here. Lying on the floor beside me. Twisted and bleeding
. His final breaths blackening his lungs with smoke.
Arsen's
fingers grip my throat, crushing it.

My chest constricts, another fragment of my heart splintering every time I remember. Acid tears stinging my eyes. Breaths shallow and uneven. The fork clatte
rs against my plate.

I jump, reacting to it. "I'm fine. It's fine, I swear."

It's not fine, though. Not really. Seth reaches across the counter, his fingers slipping between mine. In a moment I feel his calm, a peace radiating in waves throughout my body.
I inhale, lungs shuddering.

"I'm just tired," I explain, the words breaking before they even reach my lips. Another lie. And I can't hide anything from the one whose soul is connected to mine.

"It's not your fault."

But this—this is the biggest lie of all
. "It is."

"It's not. You know by now there are things in this world you can't understand. You, of all people, Genesis. You know things aren't anything like they seem." His eyes travel back and forth between mine, studying them. "Stu is happier now than he
's ever been," he assures me.

I grip his fingers harder, desperate to hold on. To keep him forever. "I just want him to know I'm sorry." The words come out a whisper, drenched in sadness and hurt.

"He
knows
."

T
HREE

My head
pounds—an excessive beating—penetrating the darkness. When there are no nightmares, there is nothing. I prefer the nothing. I roll over on my side, groaning, working to push the sound away. But the hammering isn't coming from my head, or my dreams. It's th
e door.

"You know, I kind of admire him. He is nothing if not persistent." Seth wraps his arms tighter around my body, and my legs tangle with his. Sunlight streams through the window, warming the room. All traces of last night's storm vanished.

The knock
ing continues.

I wrench away from Seth's grasp, sliding to the floor, tottering as I work to find my balance. "You need to disappear for a minute," I remind him, voice thick with sleep. Explaining to Carter that I am living with a supernatural playboy is
not high on my list of priorities at the moment. For now, at least, Seth remains a secret. An amazing and wonderful secret.

I head across the living room, unlock the deadbolt, and, wiping my eyes, pull the door open.

I blink back the brightness. "Carter,
do you even know what time it is?"

Selena lifts her sunglasses, positioning them on top of her head, eyeing me curiously. "Yeah, it's lunchtime. We have a date, remember?"

Her swimsuit straps peek from beneath her shirt.

Saturday. The beach
.

"Sorry. I t
hought you were Carter."

"Didn't mean to disappoint you," she replies smugly. "Don't worry. He's already stopped by." She snatches a pink and purple polka dotted "From the Desk of Kitty Fleming" note off the door and hands it to me. "He was checking on you
," she says, forcing a smile. "That's so . . . sweet."

I skim the note before crumpling it between my fingers, eyes rolling. "Thanks."

Selena and I have a shaky past. We have a shaky friendship, actually, but a shaky friendship is better than no friendship
at all, and a vast improvement considering it was on this side of six months ago she hated everything about me.

"You look awful."

"I know. Come in. I'll be fast." She follows me inside, letting her bag fall to the floor. She stops to examine the photograp
hs hanging in the entryway, the black and white photos Carter won at the library gala months ago. Another lifetime ago, even. They're among the few possessions I brought with me to the pool house. Mom took the rest to her and Mike's new apartment across to
wn.

I change into my swimsuit. My hair just is long enough to pull back in an elastic again, a tiny, if not pathetic, excuse for a ponytail.

"I'll drive," I tell Selena, slipping my feet into a pair of flip flops by the door.

Selena groans as we climb in
to my old Honda Accord, and I feel the smile tugging at my lips. It's good for her, every now and then, to see how the other half lives. Selena drives a luxury car—a shiny new BMW—given to her after she wrecked her old one in an accident I predicted. My ca
r is her nightmare.

I bought it at a dealership just outside of South Marshall, paying cash with some of the insurance money from the fire at Ernie's. A settlement for not suing. Thanks, again, to the Flemings and their lawyers. The rest of the money is de
posited safely in the bank. It won't last forever, though. I really need to find a new job.