Vendetta (6 page)

"That's exactly what I was thinking about you." He glances in my direction, and our eyes connect. I smile, feeling the warm blush seeping into my cheeks.

"We'll split them." I dig inside my purse, searching for my knife. The
pictures cut easily. On the back of each I write
Seth and Genesis
and the date.

"Which ones do you want?" I ask.

"We should each have us kissing," he says, taking one from me. "And I'll take the one where you're laughing like a hyena."

In the second photo
graph my mouth twists in surprised laughter, eyes bright. A sly grin curves along Seth's lips, making him appear less angelic and more like the deviant he really is.

In the third my mouth hangs open, lecturing and laughing at the same time. Seth's eyes ar
e closed.

"This should be burned."

He snatches it from my fingers. "No. It's my favorite."

"You can't have them all! And I'm taking the first one. At least we look normal in that one."

"Come on," he says. "You have to admit we make a really great-looking c
ouple." He holds the photo in front of us. Look how quickly we've conformed to gender-relationship stereotypes. Here you are, nagging, and I'm tired of hearing it."

"You were wasting pictures," I accuse.

"I want it," he says. "To remind me who's in charge.
"

I lift an eyebrow, suspicious.

"What?" He slips his fingers through my hair, grinning wickedly. "You own me. You know that."

A bubbly laughter builds inside. "There's a better way to settle this. Paper, rock, scissors."

His brow
creases, folding together. "What's that?"

"Are you joking? You've never played paper, rock, scissors before?"

"No."

"Never?" I ask, disbelieving.

"Never."

I blink back my surprise. "Wow. Okay. Well, it's this game. . . ." I trail off, biting into my lower
lip, not entirely sure how to explain it. "
Here.
Watch me."

I show him the hand gestures. "Scissors. Paper. Rock. Scissors beats paper. Paper beats rock. Rock beats scissors."

"How does paper beat a rock?"

"It wraps it. Just trust me. We'll practice first
. On the count of three, show me your paper, scissors, or rock, okay?"

He nods.

"One . . . two . . . three."

I ball my fist into a rock, and Seth makes scissors. "I just smashed you. Try again." I count. This time Seth makes a rock, and I make paper. "Smas
hed you again. Okay. We're doing it for real this time. One . . . two . . . three." I go back to my rock. Seth makes scissors. "You really suck at this game."

I slip my photographs into a sleeve in my wallet. Seth sticks his in the back pocket of his jeans
.

"Sounds to me like a bunch of luck," he argues.

I slide back the photo booth curtain and climb out, stepping onto the weathered planks of the boardwalk. "You're just sore because you. . . ." Another cool breeze rushes in, rustling my sundress and raising
goose bumps on my skin. And I'm practically standing on top of someone. A guy with darker skin and a wide nose. Not much taller than me, but broad-shouldered and muscular. A tight wife-beater for a shirt.

"It's about time," he growls, voice low and threa
tening. His dark eyes capture mine. They blaze inside, on fire. A fire I've seen before. I open my mouth to speak, but Seth slips between us, grasping my arm above the elbow, moving me away.

"I should've known a quiet night with you was out of the questio
n," he mutters, glancing over his shoulder.

"Was that . . . ?"

"Keep walking."

I let Seth guide me, turning briefly to watch the demon climb into the photo booth, alone.

Then, as if reading my mind: "They're everywhere, Genesis. You know that."

"I know,"
I say, exhaling the breath I didn't realize I was holding. The air between us is thick with tension. We walk in silence, wandering through the crowd, until finally: "So, do you think
he'll
show up in the picture?"

Seth laughs,
visibly relaxing, and slips his arm around my waist, pulling me closer.

*
             
*
             
*

The last traces of the sun have vanished, and the dusky blue sky is punched with thin, wispy clouds. The moon grows brighter, rising, and the first of the stars flicker above.

"So you've never been to a carnival. You've never had your picture taken. I'm
gonna
go out on a limb here and say you've never had cotton candy, either."

"Nope," Seth replies.

Guardians
don't eat. They can, but it's not necessary for their survival. I don't force Seth to eat anything, but there's no way we can spend time at a place like this without trying the cotton candy. We stand in line together, and I pick a multi-colored bag. Blue.
Purple. Pink.

"This is, essentially, sugar on a stick," I tell him, untying the plastic bag. I pinch off a small piece, and Seth does the same. It melts on my tongue, shocking my taste buds before disappearing.

"Wow." Seth reaches for another bite.

"I know
, right? You can't believe you've survived this long without eating cotton candy."

"I can't believe I've survived this long without a lot of things." He passes a quick glance in my direction, eyes dancing.

In front of us the Ferris wheel looms overhead, s
pinning around and around, its yellow lights showering the boardwalk with a golden glow.

"How do you feel about heights?" I ask.

The lines for the rides are growing. Policemen prowl the area, speaking into their
walkie
talkies, keeping their eyes trained
on the crowd. The sky is black by the time we climb into a car, full of endless stars, the moon sliding in and out of clouds.

The car lurches, lifting us to Heaven and bringing us down again, swinging every time it stops to fill another.

Seth drapes his
arm around me. At the height of the wheel we can see The Strip, the headlights of cars, clusters of colorful lights below. And for a moment I close my eyes and breathe it all in. Pretend that the world is right. As It Should Be.

The Ferris wheel spins, cir
cling around and around and around. My stomach flutters, dropping each time we descend.

"You're kind of perfect, you know that?" he whispers, leaning closer, breath warm against my ear.

"I'm anything but perfect," I mutter.

"Perfect for me, then," he clari
fies.

"I cause a lot of problems."

"You're no picnic," he admits, "but I can't imagine. . . ." He stops, the words left unsaid between us.

"Can't imagine what?" I ask.

He grasps my hand, taking it in his. "Anyone else. Not knowing you. Not having . . . thi
s."

I smile, closing my eyes, feeling his soft lips kiss the tip of each finger.

Sparks flash. And there are lights. A kaleidoscope of colors punctuating the darkness. Millions of them. And people. Hordes of people. And there, mingling with the crowd. . .
.

I gasp, eyes flying open.

"What's wrong?" Seth asks.

Everything around me dims, fading to black.

"I, um. . . . I felt . . .
feel
. . . dizzy all of a sudden."

"Are you okay?"

I force my eyes to focus, and the world swirls as we dip to the bottom, passin
g the assembly of faces waiting in line for a turn.

She's here.

My mind struggles to wrap itself around the implications of this, everything it means. And my next, most selfish thought:
Seth can't know about this.

"Yeah. I'm fine," I lie.

The Ferris
wheel circles again before it starts letting off passengers. When it's our turn we stop at the bottom, swinging, and the worker opens our gate.

My legs wobble beneath me as I step onto the steel ramp. Seth catches my elbows, steadying me. "Can I get you so
mething? Water?"

That's perfect
.

"Yes," I say, forcing a smile. "Water's great. And I, um, I think I'm
gonna
take a quick bathroom break. I'll meet you back here."

"I can walk with you."

"No. It's okay," I insist, already backing away. "I'll be fast. Five
minutes."

A tremor of suspicion slides along my skin, and I turn quickly, disappearing into the mass of people before Seth decides to follow. The crowd is multiplying, and I let it swallow me.

Blood roars in my ears, senses heightened. The cool breezes
caress my face; the smell of cigarettes clings to my hair. I feel, see, hear everything as I search for her. The red hair. Tattoo sleeve snaking up her arm.

She's here. I know it.

My head repeats the words over and over and over, as if saying them might
somehow take me directly to her.

When I reach the restrooms I duck inside, checking behind me to make sure no one is following. It's empty. The music, shouts, squeals, screams echo inside, bouncing across gray concrete walls. I move to the sink to wash aw
ay the cotton candy painted on my fingers, pausing a moment to glance at my reflection in the mirror. Paler than I should be at this point in the summer. Dark circles shading my eyes, made more prominent in the fluorescent lighting. Something like fear etc
hed into my eyes. Like my mother, staring back at me.

I shut off the faucet and shake my hands dry, wiping them against my sundress. To my right, another exit. I slip out the back and creep around the building, watching from the shadows. There's no sign of
Seth anywhere. Or Viola.

The Guardians are watching. If she was here, they'd know.

Deep inside the crowd is a familiar face. The photo booth. The demon. Cargo pants slung below his waist, falling off his hips. He's shirtless now, tank top draped over on
e shoulder. I press my body against the wall, waiting for him to pass.

He's one of them. He could take me straight to her.

I slip into the swarm of people, following him, training my eyes on the tattoos coloring his back and shoulders.  He weaves in and o
ut and around, making his way to the far end of the boardwalk. His steps quicken, full of purpose, and I struggle to keep up. He crosses the crowd, moving toward the fun house. I break into a run, pushing past people as he hands a pile of tickets to the ca
rnival worker and slips inside.  

I throw a strip of tickets at the worker in the booth, not bothering to count them. Heart pounding and out of breath, I grab the railing and climb the steel ramp, stepping into the open scream of a giant clown, blood red
lips and huge, black triangles beneath it's disturbing eyes.

Once inside, I'm alone. I fumble through the contents of my pocketbook, wallet and lip glosses and tissues, and remove my knife, clutching it in my fist. 

Piped laughter surges from the speaker
s overhead, filling the room. This is a fun house, after all. But the evil undertones sieve into my ears, as if something from beyond is laughing at me. My efforts.

I step into a lighted room, one wall full of mirrors. My image changes as I pass each one,
distorting my reflection. Short, stocky. Stretching to the sky. Legs twice as long as my body. My knife becomes a sword, and I jerk it closer to me.

The ground in the next is uneven, and, the moment I enter, it shifts, shaking beneath me. I stumble, fall
ing to my knees. The knife clatters to the floor. I crawl across the room, chasing it, knees burning as it slides further and further away from me. I reach for it, grasping until it's safe in my hand. I grip the blade between my teeth, scrambling to the ot
her side as the fool overhead laughs and laughs. The metal floor sways, swelling, undulating beneath me.

I wait in the passageway for my breath to even, my pulse to slow.

Seth must know by now. The Guardians, they must know.

The hallway is swallowed in dar
kness. I grip the handle of my knife tighter, feeling my way along the wall. 

The light at the end leads to a maze of mirrors. The room is bright, and a hundred versions of me appear when I step inside. I twirl around, waiting, and each reflection of mine
does the same. I'm right side up and upside down, angled left and right, the tiniest movement mimicked a thousand times over.

I remain close to the length of mirrors on one side, creeping through the web of glass. My eyes strain against themselves, wanti
ng to shut, reacting to the lights reflecting off the panels, blinding me.