The Lost (16 page)

Edging closer to the bed, she studied Jeannie. She looked a fraction better than Jeap had when Kit found him, though the fresh-faced girl in Jann Holmes's photo was long gone. This face was pocked with scabs that stood out angrily against sallow gray skin. Chapped lips were sunken slightly, indicating where teeth should have been, and her hair was lank and brittle.

The wounds left from the crocodile injections had been cleaned and were bound tight, so maybe Kit only imagined that a cloying sweetness lingered beneath the room's antiseptic scent. At least the girl's brow was smooth, indicating a total lack of consciousness. Regardless of what'd gone on before, Jeannie would feel no pain at her time of death.

“Jeannie and Jeap,” Kit murmured, feeling her resigned study shift to overt sadness. “I bet you were a cute couple at first.” The girl who sang like an angel. The boy who liked to cook.

“I wish I could speak with you,” Kit said softly, leaning nearer. “Because I'd really love to know . . . what was your longtime boyfriend doing with some new woman?”

It was a rhetorical question. Kit knew exactly what Jeap had been doing. Same thing Jeannie had been doing with Tim Kovacs. Getting their tweek on.

But how had Jeap then passed his crocodile addiction on to her? Kit's gaze skittered briefly to the girl's bandaged limbs, then she looked away and leaned against the side of the bed. “I bet he couldn't quit you, huh? You were the love of his life. Even if the drugs were telling him differently.”

It was a statement that could be seen as silly, a regret only a girl could sigh over . . . at least that's what Kit was counting on. Still, Jeannie didn't move, eyes immobile behind her paper-thin lids, and the only sound within the sad, little chamber was the
beep-beep
of the monitor. Either Scratch was doing a crappy job of stalking Kit or she had to put some more
emotion
into it.

“Remember,” Grif had told her. “The Third feed off negative emotion, and if you reveal even the slightest hint of it, Scratch won't hesitate to use it against you. Don't let it. If it tries to goad you into rage, you combat it with patience. It says hate? There's no stronger emotion than love.”

“I know that,” Kit said softly.

“I know you do, doll,” Grif replied, the intensity washing from his face as he placed a palm to her cheek. She knew he was genuinely scared for her. That alone was all the reminder she needed.

She'd then given a humorless smile. “I just have one question.”

Grif cocked his head.

“Why are the Third the only ones who get to wield the sharp emotions?” Hate, vengeance, rage, greed—all cutting, all dangerous.

“I don't know, Kitty-Cat,” Grif said. “But I'm sure I'd lift a blade in my love for you.”

He was just trying to shore her up, yet Kit still smiled. “Griffin Shaw, you say the most unintentionally romantic things.”

Fortified by the memory, Kit stared at the glowing green line of the monitor and continued to address Jeannie as if she were conscious. “You know, I was once lost as well. I don't know if you can see it from where you are, but that dark time marked me similarly to the way the
krokodil
has marked you. Not physically, but psychically. Can you see the ring of a former sorrow around me? A Pure angel once told me he could.”

Nothing.

“Anyway, I understand the need to hide somewhere safe. But where you are now?” Kit shook her head. “That's not safe. That's not anywhere. You're going to have to leave there soon, because your body is going to give out, but you want it to be by your choice. You don't want to be Lost.”

The silence deepened, and the machine's
beep
punctuated it in shrill stabs. For all Kit's awareness of angels and the Everlast, she received no more answers than anyone else who'd ever stood by a sickbed, waiting for a miracle. Kit wondered if Grif was right, and she was just wasting time. Jeannie wasn't going to wake. The doctors said so, as did Grif . . . and he had the advantage of celestial eyesight.

Kit squinted, trying to blur her mortal vision so that she, too, might see the plasmic outline fating Jeannie to death, but there was nothing fantastical about Kit. She was merely mortal, and saw only what she was meant to.

Yet she
could
communicate this way. Scratch had addressed her directly using Trey Brunk's drug-altered state. And the . . .
thing
wanted her, right? So Kit took hold of the girl's lax fingertips, leaned closer to that destroyed young face, and whispered, “I don't care what you've done, Jeannie Holmes. I don't think you're weak at all. You're human, and you've made mistakes, but beneath this fragile flesh? I think you're incredibly strong. And I think you should leave this mudflat on your own
damned
terms.”

It was the curse that did it. Or maybe the strength of her conviction, or the anger behind it. Grif said not to allow in any negative thought, but Kit couldn't help it. And this was
righteous
negative thought. It was bullshit, she decided, that kids like Jeannie had to live in a world where such a gruesome death was possible. It was additionally offensive that heaven's celestial heralds didn't lift a feather to help.

Jeannie's fingertips twitched, then tightened over Kit's to the point of pain. Kit lifted her head in time to see the girl's face stretch wide, but it was with a grin she'd likely never worn before. The entire room seemed to pulse, and a rolling sound, the ripple of leaves on an accelerating breeze, undulated along the privacy curtains before settling again. Then Jeannie's bruised lids whipped open like window shades, and twin stars shone where pupils should have been.

The anger and frustration that'd flared after Jeap's death rushed over Kit again, but she damped it down and played dumb. “J— Jeannie? Is that you?”

The head moved up and down woodenly. Kit barely resisted an eye roll. Kit would have to be on
krokodil
herself not to see that this wasn't Jeannie, but she played along, heart pounding so hard she could almost taste the beat in her throat.

“I knew you were strong,” she said, managing a shaky smile. “I'm so glad you decided to speak with me.”

It nodded.

“I don't think we have much time, though,” Kit continued, trying to ignore the cold air now being exhaled in her direction. The hand clutching hers grew icier degree by degree. “Someone will be coming for you soon. A Centurion. They're a kind of angel, one that used to be human.”

The fallen angel blinked. “Not like you, then. You're . . . like me.”

Kit caught the sound of leaves rustling deep in Jeannie's throat, and fought back a shudder. She wasn't
like
this thing at all.

“I'm human,” Kit confirmed, fighting her nerves by lifting her chin. “And I'm a reporter. I'm trying to find out who did this to you.”

Jeannie laughed at that . . . or, at least, Scratch did. “I did this to me.”

“You had help,” Kit said gently.

“You mean J.P., right?” Scratch said, accessing Jeap's real name through Jeannie's memories. As with Trey Brunk, it now possessed the thoughts of the body it ruled.

Swallowing hard, Kit said, “I mean the woman who gave him the recipe for crocodile. Britney. Or was it Brandy? No, Bianca?”

This
was the information she needed, and she held her breath to see if Scratch—so eager to reach her—would release it.

“You mean Bella,” Jeannie/Scratch said, and Kit's heart leaped in her chest. “She popped up out of nowhere. Glommed on to Jeap like he was God's greatest gift. Said he was just the man she was looking for.” It scoffed. “Her and those stupid wigs and that clunky, annoying accent.”

“They hooked up pretty quick?” Kit asked.

“You know how men are,” it said, rolling Jeannie's eyes so the black stars in them pulsed. “Professing to be lone wolves, but unable to be alone with themselves. Right?”

Scratch was fishing for a reaction. Kit changed the subject. “And what happened when he lost his job and the money ran out?”

Kit didn't know for sure that Jeap even had a job, but even the most dedicated tweeker wouldn't pump lighter fluid into his veins if he had another choice.

“She had that recipe,” it said, fishing that answer from Jeannie's memories, too.
Bingo.

Kit resisted a full-blown smile. “And didn't you mind? I mean, about them getting together?”

“You would have minded, wouldn't you?” it answered. “If it'd been your man longing for another?”

“Yes,” Kit answered honestly, because she couldn't see the harm in admitting that, but added, “Though my man tends to go for a more traditional gal.”

“Oh, but Bella was whatever you wanted her to be. She wore those stupid wigs and bright clothes, but they were more like costumes than anything. She knew the guys loved it.” Scratch crossed Jeannie's arms, ignoring the tubes and tape and bandages holding Jeannie together. “I just thought she looked like a clown.”

“Maybe that was the point,” Kit said, crossing her own arms, trying not to shiver. The curtained cubicle had to be ten degrees cooler now. “Bella didn't want any of you to be able to identify her. But was there anything noteworthy about her? A scar? A personal tic? Some physical item she favored?”

Jeannie/Scratch shook her head. “Her clothing was always different, but always the same. Low-cut. Tight-fitting. Cheap bling. That was never J.P.'s type before, you know. He liked the way I dressed. Solid, like I was going somewhere.”

A wry smile flashed this time . . . and it fluttered wistfully at the edges. Edging back, Kit stared. Could that have been Jeannie? Could she hear Kit? Did Scratch's power or magic or whatever enable
her
to talk to Kit as well?

“I want to show you a picture,” Kit said quickly, and yanked the photo of Yulyia Kolyadenko from her bag. “Is this Bella?”

Jeannie's head tilted, and while the star-stamped pupils remained, they were dull and softly edged. Almost, Kit thought, human. Finally—she, it—
someone
said, “No. That's not her.”

Kit's hopes plummeted. “Are you sure? Imagine her with a wig.”

“Not her.” The woman who might be Jeannie shrugged. “Even with the right earrings.”

Kit paused. “What earrings?”

“The basketball hoops that hung down to her damned shoulders.” The twin stars in Jeannie's eyes pulsed, brightening at the curse word. “I commented on them every time I saw her. The wigs varied in length, but the earrings never did.”

Kit bit her lip, thinking. She couldn't see the meticulously groomed Russian wearing hoops that large, but then she couldn't picture her flopping with Jeap, either. So, a lackey? A female underling in her organization to do her dirty work?

“I don't like it here anymore,” Jeannie said suddenly, and gave a great shudder. “It's too cold.”

It was. Kit reached down. “I can pull up your covers—”

“Can you take off my flesh? Because that's the real problem. It's weighing me down like an icy anchor.” Kit froze, unsure who was talking now, and the voice shifted, frail with memory. “When I was using croc, it felt like I would never be cool again. I was either shooting up or burning up.”

“I'm so sorry,” Kit said, and meant it. Shooting
krok
might have begun as a personal choice, but once the drug took hold, choice became a luxury viewed from afar.

“Because you, too, know what it is to burn, don't you?” A lilt tinged the flat tone, and Kit's ears suddenly wanted to pop, like during an altitude shift on a plane. “You once wished for death and longed for oblivion.”

Don't engage it.

As Jeannie's gaze blazed, pricked with the twin stars, Kit decided to follow Grif's advice. She had what she wanted. A name, and clues to Bella's identity, if not a full description.

“You're looking a little parched, Jeannie,” she said, reaching toward the bedside tray. “Would you like a little water?”

Jeannie's features immediately twisted, as if they were made of pale putty pressed atop a skull-shaped rock. Scratch wasn't trying to hide anymore.

Kit backed away. “Let her go.”

“No.” And with its otherworldly gaze fixed on her, Scratch began manipulating Jeannie's expressions, pressing them into anger and horror and sadness, often at the same time. The raw hatred glowing in the irises completed the aspect of possession. It seemed there was nothing at all human left inside the fleshly shell. “I'm going to drag her into the Eternal Forest. I'm going to see to it that she's never warm again.”

Kit shook her head. “She hasn't earned a place in the Forest. You have no right to her.”

Scratch scoffed, and a glacial wind cut past Kit to whip at the curtains behind her. “Don't deign to tell me my rights! I was fashioned by all that is Pure! I was created of the finest material in God's great universe! Back when the Forest was still known as the Garden, before I was cast—”

“
Was,
” Kit interrupted, her own indignation growing. “Was, was, was. And are no more! And even if you hadn't fallen, what's Pure never trumps what is Chosen.” Kit knew that much. God loved mankind . . . not the feathered beasts created to protect them.

She also knew that she should shut up, and that Grif was probably cursing her from his hiding place. But she was hot now. Jeannie's life had been wasted and her death hard. Her passage into paradise shouldn't be the same.

She just hoped Grif was making a move now that Scratch's attention was on her.

“Temper, temper, little
deva
.” Because, of course, it sensed the downgrade in her emotions. “If you think this is a neat little example of possession, you should see what I have planned for
you
.”