A Want So Wicked (3 page)

CHAPTER 5

I
give my father the shortened version of my attack, and even make Abe sound like a superhero—one who has excellent serving skills. My father's not impressed. He says that Santo shouldn't have left me alone in a dark parking lot in the first place. I nod in agreement, trying to take the quickest route out of the lecture.

“Hey,” Lucy says to me as she walks into the kitchen. “I heard the door and hoped you were my pizza.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

Lucy must have just gotten home because she's still dressed from a night out. She's wearing heavy blue eye shadow with false lashes, the edge of her liner curved up into a cat's eye. It's not my taste, but it's a good look on her.

“I forgive you,” my sister says. “I made Dad a bet that Peppino's still delivered this late, and now I'm waiting to collect my winnings.”

My father pulls out a kitchen chair to sit down, chuckling to himself.

“Laugh it up,” Lucy says to him playfully. “But when that pie arrives, you owe me twenty bucks. And I'll take that in small, unmarked bills.” Lucy shoots me a quick smile as if it's our secret sisterly pact to give him a hard time.

Since our mother died, the three of us are close. My dad calls us his little tribe. Despite the strict rules sometimes, Lucy and I admire all he does for others, what he stands for. He's inspiring.

The doorbell rings and Lucy sticks out her pierced tongue before bolting to answer it. My father exhales, rubbing his forehead. “How I hate that piercing . . .”

I drop down in the chair, reminding him that it's a perfectly normal fashion statement. Three weeks ago Lucy had brought me with her to the tattoo shop, planning on getting a tribal armband. At the last second she decided instead to poke a hole through her tongue. Seemed like a decent enough decision at the time.

I lay my injured arm on the table, tracing the slightly raised lines. For a second I'm reminded of how Abe touched them, so gently, almost like they hurt him, too.

“You're smiling,” my father says. “Why are you smiling?”

“No reason.” Only I say it like there are millions of devious and unacceptable reasons. He groans.

“Does that mean it's none of my business?”

“Exactly!” I hold up my finger, letting him know he's on to something.

“Fair enough. But”—his face becomes serious—“I'd like to hear more about today. About the woman. I really think we should file a report.”

“No,” I say quickly. “Abe told her not to come back. Let's not start lining up creepy old women for me to identify. I just want to forget the entire thing happened.”

“Sounds like denial.” My father reaches to put his hand over mine, and I meet his eyes. I'm suddenly eight years old again, standing outside of a funeral home, refusing to believe my mother is gone. He knows denial is my natural instinct.

“Something else happened today,” I murmur, forcing myself to confront my fear. My father tenses but doesn't speak. “There was this guy,” I begin. “And when he walked into Santo's, my fingers got all tingly. I started seeing images of him, his life—but it wasn't stuff I could have known before. It was like an out-of-body experience.” I pause, trying to gauge my father's reaction. “Have you heard of anything like that before?”

My dad stares down at my hand before letting it go. He pulls his brows together in thought. “No, but that doesn't mean there's not a rational explanation. What happened after that? Were you dizzy? Nauseous?”

I shake my head. “Well, it only got stranger from there. I remembered something then, only it wasn't my memory, even though it felt like it. For a second, I was somebody else.” I stop, lowering my head. “I sound crazy.”

“No, you sound scared,” he says. “And believe me, Elise, I've heard stranger.” He pats my hand reassuringly. “I don't want you working yourself up over this. I'll do some research, okay? We'll figure out what's going on with you.”

Lucy walks in just then, carrying a humongous pizza box, a two-liter bottle of Diet Pepsi under her arm. “Missed it, Elise.” She beams, oblivious to the seriousness of the moment. “Pizza guy was
so
hot.”

My father smiles at me. “And while I'm at it, I'll find out what's wrong with your sister, too.”

I thank him, feeling a hundred times better. It can't be that bad if my father isn't more worried. Then again, he's also a crisis counselor, so he knows how to handle high-stress situations well.

“Elise?” my sister says again. “Did you hear me? Hot. Super hot. He even wrote his number on this napkin.” She waves it in front of me until my father casually plucks it from her hand, wiping his mouth on it before folding it in half.

“Thanks, Lucy,” he responds. “I needed a place to spit out my gum.”

“Dad!” My sister laughs and lightly taps my dad in the back of his head as she passes behind him to set the pizza on the counter.

I stand to grab the plates, the bright spots of my day finally seeming worth mentioning. “Yeah, well, I met
two
cute guys today,” I say quietly.

Lucy spins to face me. One of my sister's favorite pastimes involves spotting good-looking men, and then making sure to mention them to me.

“More information needed,” she demands, as if I've been holding out on her.

“Well, the first was just a customer—so hot. I'll probably never see him again, though.” I pout my lips for dramatic effect. “But the other,” I say, bringing the plates to the table, “is a guy I work with. He's not really my type, but he is an amazing specimen.”

“Oh, please,” Lucy says. “Like you have a type. Now who's the specimen? I must track him down and study him.”

“Your sister is very picky,” my father answers for me. “She doesn't need a type. She's waiting for the—”

“Gross, Dad. Spare me,” Lucy interrupts. “Elise,” she says. “Tell me more about this cute boy from work.”

I grin. “His name is Abe and he—”

Her blue eyes widen. “You don't mean Abe Weston, do you?”

“Um, maybe. I didn't catch his last name.”

“Holy hell, Elise! I
so
know him.”

“Lucy, mouth,” my father warns, but he sounds like he's given up on being included in this conversation.

“Really?” I ask as my sister drops a slice onto the plate I'm holding. I should have figured that Lucy would have heard of Abe. She has the scoop on everyone.

“Well, not
really
really,” she says. “But I know who he is. He's from Yuma, and you're downplaying. He's incredibly cute. And from what I hear, a total slut.”

“Lucy,”
my father says more seriously.

My sister snatches the plate from my hand and sets it in front of my father, smiling sweetly. Then she comes over to take my uninjured arm, lowering her voice. “He probably thought you were adorable. Did he ask you out?”

“Well, he did try to corrupt me out in back of Santo's,” I say, earning a look from my father. “He asked if I wanted to go to a party with him tonight. Probably not as a date or—”

“Why are you here?” Lucy asks incredulously. “You didn't say yes?”

I shake my head, and my sister looks offended on behalf of the entire female species. “I'm sorry to say this, Elise,” she states, taking out a slice and biting off the end. “I think you need therapy.”

I hand her a plate, but she pushes it away, instead using her other hand to catch any grease that might drip. I must have thoroughly bored her, because she wanders back over to where my father is sitting.

“Can I go out for a bit?” she asks, her eyes innocent. “I'll be back at a decent hour.”

“It's already past a decent hour,” he answers, glancing at her above his glasses. “And you just got home. Maybe tomorrow would be better—when there's daylight?”

Lucy's jaw clenches and I feel my own anxiety spike. “I'm eighteen, Dad,” she says in a controlled voice. “You can't keep me an infant forever.”

Our father leans toward her, his expression sympathetic, but unwavering. “I'm not trying to, Lucinda. I just want to keep you safe.”

“Or locked away in a tower,” she retorts. She tosses her half-eaten slice back into the box before leaving for her bedroom. We wait, and when her door slams shut, my father takes off his glasses to press his fingers into the corners of his eyes.

“She has a point,” I offer. “It's not like she's going to sell her soul just because it's after midnight. Not when she can do it any old time.”

“Not funny,” my father says. I know how much he hates cracking down on Lucy, but ever since that incident with the cops, he doesn't trust her judgment. I wish he'd bend a little more. I hate when they argue.

We're silent as we eat, and when I'm done, I kick my sneakers off under the table, sore from my shift.

“You're tired,” my dad says. “Why don't you get some sleep, and tomorrow I'll start gathering some information. I'll make an appointment with the doctor, have them do a workup. Maybe have a peek at that arm.”

So he
is
worried. I nod, touching his shoulder as I stand to leave the kitchen. When I get to my room, I collapse on my flowered comforter—still in uniform. I'm so drained. I want to think about my day, try to put together the pieces of what happened, but I can't keep my eyes open. And soon I find myself drifting away completely.

 

I'm on the rooftop of a high-rise building. The sky is dark and starless around me, the air thick with the promise of rain. I've never been here before, I'm sure of that. I take a few steps and the cement floor is cold on my bare feet.

It's then that I notice my skin, glowing softly in the city lights. I turn my hand over, studying the gold, when the rooftop door swings open and startles me. I'm about to hide, but the man who walks out doesn't see me. Instead he saunters over to the edge, putting his boot on the raised ledge as he surveys the city.

How did he not see me?

My heart thumps in my chest, and I take in my setting once more. From here, I can't even tell what city this is. I just know it's not Arizona, not with this humidity.

The man adjusts his stance, catching my attention once again. He's tall and very handsome. He's wearing tight black pants, a white shirt. His long dark hair is fastened with a band low on his neck. But as attractive as he is . . . I take a step back. It's like I'm repelled by him.

The door opens once again, a figure standing there as she's lit from the lights behind her. I can't make out her features, but I notice her long blond hair as it cascades over her black jacket. The spiked heels of her leather boots.

“Rodney,” she calls, her voice holding the slightest hint of a Russian accent.

The man on the roof tilts his head toward her, a smile on his face. “My beauty,” he says. “What brings you back here so soon?”

When neither of them notices me, I know that this is a dream. Only this time, it doesn't belong to me. I'm inside someone else's head.

“You said you could help,” the woman whispers. “That you could stop this. How? Tell me what I have to do!”

Rodney laughs, finally turning fully to her. His dark eyes and chiseled jaw are stunning, his arms outspread as if for a hug. “Just come to me, Onika,” he says simply. “I can make it all go away. All you have to do is take my hand. It's your decision.”

The woman hesitates, choking as if holding back a cry. She casts one more glance behind her before moving slowly forward. Halfway across the roof, she breaks into a jog. She runs into Rodney's arms, sobbing the moment he wraps them around her.

Rodney's mouth twists into a sinister grin; his skin cracks. I want to scream for Onika to run. That something is wrong. But before I can, Rodney leans to her ear, his lips touching the skin there and turning it gray.

“Shh . . .” he whispers as she begins to struggle. “Welcome to the Shadows, my beauty.”

 

* * *

 

My eyes fly open, the ceiling fan spinning slowly above me as the chain clinks against it rhythmically. For a second I don't move, only process. The Shadows . . .

“Did I wake you?”

I jump, finding Lucy standing in my doorway, holding a cup of coffee. “I thought I heard you talking,” she says, “and I wanted to make sure you were all right.” She takes a long sip.

I push my sweaty hair off my forehead. “I was having a nightmare.”

Her blue eyes narrow. “About?”

“It was—” I pause as the dream starts to slip away. “There was a building, a man . . . no, a woman.” I exhale when the rest evaporates. “I don't remember.”

“I hate when that happens.” Lucy fights back a yawn, then takes a big gulp of her coffee.

“Did you just get home?” I ask, glancing at the clock. It's after five. How did she get in without my help?

“Yep. Out with a friend.”

“The same friend from yesterday? A guy?”

“Ew, are you Dad right now?”

“No. It's just weird that you're not telling me about it. You usually overshare.”

“Weird like getting attacked in the parking lot of Santo's? That kind of weird?” She takes another drink from her cup. I wince, not used to Lucy sounding so mean-spirited. Her shoulders slump.

“Sorry,” she says. “That was jerky. I heard you talking to Dad last night. I'm just really tired, I guess. You know I'll hunt down any old lady who tries to mess with my sister.”

I tell her I understand, although the sting from her comment still lingers.

“And yes,” she adds. “It was a guy. A sometimes-boyfriend-slash-friend that Dad doesn't need to know about.”

“That sounds sketchy.”

“Yeah, well. We can't all be saints, Elise.” Lucy yawns again, and looks longingly toward her room. “I'm going to bed. I'll see you later?”