Vendetta

After the tragic death of a friend at the hands of demons, Genesis Green moves into the pool house on ex-boyfriend Carter's estate. Still under the watchful eye of Seth, her Guardian, she lives and breathes a single purpose: Vengeance.

When the Guardian Council discovers Genesis is serious about taking Viola out of this world, they send Mara, a warrior, to help prepare her for her greatest, final battle.

Though she's growing stronger by the day, her visions are becoming increasingly unre
liable.

When a single act threatens to separate Genesis from Seth forever, she'll face the most painful decision yet to save the Guardian she loves.

V
ENDETTA

by

Katie Klein

Copyright 2011 by Katie Klein

This story is a work of fiction. Names, character
s, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All Rights Reserved

No part of this publication can be reprodu
ced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Katie Klein.

And I will execute vengeance

in anger and fury upon the heathen,

such as they have not heard.

Micah 5:15

O
NE

The alleyway is dark, too cool for a Southern summer night. At the end a streetlamp shines, but it refuses to brighten the cold, damp hollow between the brick buildings. I move swiftly through the fog, quietly down the length of the passage, pressing my ha
nd against the rough, brick wall, feeling my way through the shadows. My steps, though light, trigger warning sounds. The snapping and jingling of shards of glass, pebbles crunching beneath my soles. I freeze, sucking in a breath and holding it, feeling my
heart pound against my rib cage. One mistake, one wrong move, and it's over. 

I shut my eyes tightly, replaying the vision in my mind again and again.

They're here. I know it.

When I open
them, two figures pass into the light. One struggles against the other, against the arms binding his neck, stealing life from him, thrashing against his captor. I sprint through the alley, feet crashing against the pavement, splashing through thick puddles
from earlier thunderstorms. The cuffs of my jeans are sodden and weighted, breaths rapid and violent in my ears. I move in, narrowing the distance between us. I stop at the edge of the sidewalk, pressing my body deep into the wall as I peek around the cor
ner. 

The road stretches empty between us, and thick clouds veil the night sky. There is no moon, no stars, the only light shining from the streetlamp overhead, casting cool blue shadows on the two men. The demon wraps his broad fingers around his victim'
s neck, lifting him off the ground. 

Perspiration trembles along my skin. I shiver, and my lungs burn with each ragged rise and fall of my chest.

This is it.

A quick exhale and I bolt into the street, fingers coiled tightly around the steely handle of a
knife. The razor edge is freshly sharpened and serrated, designed to inflict the deadliest of wounds: a gift from my Guardian.

There are no second chances in this world of mine. I have moments. One opportunity. I rush toward it. The blade glints in the lig
ht as I draw back my arm and plunge it into its neck. A scream of agony, and he loosens his hold. The victim's body crumples to the ground. Flesh breaks, tearing, as I draw the knife back to me, and blood spills from his throat, pouring from the wound.

My
heart reacts to this, pumping too fast.

He's not real. He's not human.

My teeth clench together, jaw tightening as I brace myself for one, final thrust, finishing him. The Evil One twists toward me, eyes red with fury, on fire, and swings. I move to dodge
the blow, but his fist connects with my skull, cracking, and I fall backward, a searing pain ripping
through the length of my body. I hit the pavement, and a wave of numbness washes over me, the entire world blurring, the darkness enveloping me.

And then
a voice, pulling me back. "Genesis?"

A light drizzle falls, misting my face. Seth wraps his arms around me, lifting, pulling me upright. He leans in closer, examining my forehead, and I breathe him in. He smells cool and salty, like cedar wood and seawate
r. Heaven.

His fingers brush the tender area and I flinch, sucking in a quick breath.

"I'm sorry."

"I'm fine," I mutter, rising to my feet. Seth holds my arm, steadying me. The blood behind the blow pulses, pressure building, the raw pain intensifying.
His hand grips me tighter as I sway backward.

Others move in, quickly, quietly, disposing of the demon so it can never be traced back to me. I brush the seat of my jeans, swiping the mud away, but the water has already seeped through them, chilling me.

It's worth it, though, if this is what it takes to eliminate them. Even if it's only one. Because one
can
make a difference. It made a difference to. . . .

He's deathly still, lying face down in a dark puddle in the middle of the street. The faint traces o
f fingerprints bruising his neck.

The air escapes my lungs, and I curse under my breath. I press the palms of my hands against my eyes, hiding them, squeezing them tightly, feeling the tears threatening to surface.

"It isn't your fault," Seth assures me.

I
pull my hands away. "This
can't
keep happening."

I have visions. I see things in my mind—bad things that are going to happen to good people. My job is to help them, to keep it from happening. I remind myself daily that this is a gift—my purpose. On days
like today—when I fail—this gift feels more like a burden.

"You can't save everyone," Seth reminds me.

My eyes remain fixed on the crumpled heap. Someone's son. Brother. Best friend. It's well past midnight. He'll lie here until morning, smothered in a so
mber rain. Someone will call the police. They'll investigate. Show up on the doorstep of a parent, girlfriend, roommate with the terrible news. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. They always are. There are never any real, justifiable answers. Not
for this. Not anymore.

"I can try," I reply, voice barely a whisper.

I can't predict when the visions will occur, but I know they will. I never fully understand what they mean, but I know that, once I see them, I'm supposed to act quickly. I've saved liv
es. Altered courses. Made a difference. But I've also shown up moments too late. Missed opportunities. Let them get away. Let
her
get away.

Seth and I move quickly toward the alley, refusing to breathe until we're safely hidden in the darkness. My head th
robs, and, as I run my fingers over the injury, I can feel a knot forming beneath the skin. Growing.

Across the street a neon sign flickers, welcoming us. OPEN. It has to be a mistake. Not a living soul is awake at this hour, and no one is out. We're not
allowed to go out—not with South Marshall's mandatory curfew.

We slip through corridors, hurrying to my car.

"Stop."

I pull Seth into the doorway of a restaurant, pressing against the frame as a pair of headlights swings wide, lighting the street. I wrap
my arms tightly across my chest, waiting. A
squad car approaches, making its rounds. Gravel and other street debris crunches beneath its tires. And again I'm holding my breath, willing my heart to slow down, to quiet. He passes leisurely by before disappe
aring, turning down another street. With any luck he'll stumble upon a John Doe—the
Diabols
' latest victim. He'll call for back-up, and they'll rule it death by strangulation. Another one. Tomorrow it will fill the front page.

There are serial killers amo
ng us.

I am one of them.

T
WO

My keys clatter against the glass table that graces the entryway of Carter's pool house. This is my temporary home—ever since the fire at Ernie's, the night my old place was
ransacked, destroyed. It's furnished and cozy—the nicest place I've ever lived, actually, with living room skylights that frame the moon at night and French doors overlooking the Fleming's in-ground pool. Even now I can see it through the panes: the bright
blue water sparkling against a black sky.

The inside reeks of Carter's mom, Kitty Fleming, and her subscription to
Southern Living
Magazine. The hardwood floors are dark, with a blue and white striped rug and a white couch marking the living area, and wro
ught iron barstools tucked just beneath the counter overlooking the kitchen.

I flip on the light switch, and a head peers over the sofa.

I jump, my pulse stepping up, heart pumping faster. Because when there are demons hiding behind every closed door, de
mons who want to kill you, it's impossible not to hover on that ledge, suspended between vigilance and neurosis. Trapped. Because the second I let my guard down. . . . 

"You're back." Carter rubs his eyes with the base of his hands. I've woken him.

I blo
w out a heated sigh, angry that he's startled me, angry that he's even here. "Shit, Carter. Don't do that to me."

"I heard you leave."

"That doesn't mean you have to check up on me," I tell him, unable to hide the irritation in my voice.

His eyebrows lift
in mild surprise. It's not like me to lash out irrationally—not if I can help it—and I hate that I've offended him. But it doesn't matter, because then he notices something else.

"Jesus. What happened to you?" He jumps over the back of the couch in one s
wift motion.

My fingers move instinctively to the sore spot on my forehead. "It looks worse than it really is," I mutter.

He's fully awake now, springing to action. "This is
exactly
why I check up on you," he says.

In the kitchen, he opens the freezer an
d pulls out the ice tray, then wraps a few pieces in a dish towel, a quiet rage teeming beneath the surface.

"Genesis, I don't know what's going on. And I don't pretend to know or understand what it is you do. Why trouble seems to gravitate to you. Or you
gravitate to it. Or why you're always sneaking out in the middle of the night and why every time I see you . . ."

"I'm fine," I assure him. "Trust me."

"I'm trying," he replies. "I really am. I just. . . ." He sighs in defeat. "Come here."

He pulls me to
ward the couch and I sit down beside him, letting my head fall against the pillows. He places the ice gently on my forehead, but I flinch anyway, sucking in a quick breath. 

"You're not, um,
seeing
anyone, are you?"

I stifle a laugh, closing my eyes. He t
hinks I'm letting some guy beat me up, or has, at the very least, entertained the thought. "It's not like that, Carter."