Soul Screamers, Volume 1

“I get it,” I interrupted, a chip halfway to my mouth. “You go insane and die. Hellions are the sum of all things cruel and evil. Thanks for clarifying.”


Nash chuckled, and I couldn’t hold back a grin.

“You two are cracked,” Tod snapped.

My smile widened. “Says the undead man in love with the soulless pop star.”

Tod scowled, and I thought I saw his cheeks flush. Which struck me as kind of weird for a man who’d died two years ago. “I’m not in love with her.”

“So you pulled us into a potentially deadly scheme to save the soul of some girl you don’t even care about?”

His scowl deepened, and Tod scooted his folding chair across the faded linoleum. “Fine. You don’t want to help? I’ll do it myself.” He stood. “So what if I get killed in the process? Permanently, this time.”

I rolled my eyes. “Sit down, reaper, we’re going to help.” I just couldn’t resist getting back at him for constantly invading our privacy. “But we’re suffering from a conspicuous lack of ideas, here. We need someone who knows more about hellions. Or at least about the Netherworld in general.”

“Hello? Reaper here.” Exasperated, Tod laid one hand flat on the tabletop. “I know about the Netherworld.”

“Not enough, apparently.” Nash tossed another piece of popcorn into his mouth, ignoring Tod’s annoyed under-his-breath muttering. “We need to talk to someone who’s been around longer.” He eyed me solemnly. “Kaylee, we need to talk to your dad.”

“No.” I shook my head firmly. “No way. If I even mention the word hellion he’ll lock me in my room and swallow the key.”

“He’s the oldest non-human I know, and you don’t have to tell him what we’re doing.” Nash shrugged, as if my decision should have been a no-brainer. “Just tell him you’re curious. Or come up with something that won’t make him worry. Besides, he promised not to keep any more secrets from you.”

“Yeah, but he never promised to give me the inside scoop on demons.” I looked him straight in the eye to convey my final word on the subject. “If I ask my dad about hellions, this whole thing is over.” Then I smiled as an alternate solution came to mind. “Why don’t you ask your mom?”

Nash frowned, and Tod’s expression echoed the sentiment. “Because not only would she freak out, she’d call your dad so they could freak out in stereo.”

“So we’re back where we started.” My shoulders slumped, and I dipped a chip into the bowl of salsa. “We need someone old enough to have lots of experience in the Netherworld, but who won’t care what we’re up to.”

Tod sat up straight in his chair, as if the lightbulb over his head had just blinked to life. “Libby. We need to talk to Libby.”





Chapter 9





“How much trouble are you going to be in if we get caught?” Nash asked, concern lining the edges of his perfect, practically edible mouth. A tall, skinny guy in a letter jacket rushed past us in the hallway, carrying a huge black tuba case. He narrowly missed smashing my shoulder with it, and when Nash tugged me out of the way, the tubaist ran into the lockers instead with a horrible metal-crunching crash.

“You mean if we get caught here…” In the human world. “Or there?” I whispered, unwilling to say “the Netherworld” in public. Especially at school, with the tuba player still regaining his balance a few feet away.

“Either one.” Nash veered away from the dark green lockers and I followed him, ducking into an alcove near the first-floor restrooms.

“Well, I doubt Coach Rundell will even notice I’m not there.” I had American History last period, and with the football play-offs coming up, the coach had been too busy studying his playbook to come up with actual lesson plans, so we’d been watching installments of a documentary about the Civil War for the past week and a half. “But if he does, and they call my dad…” I’d have to be home before dusk for the remainder of my adolescence.

My father was trying really hard to be a good dad, and he wasn’t doing too bad a job, considering he’d been absent for the past thirteen years of my life. But he was going overboard on a few vital issues. Like quality family time—thus, our Sunday-night dinners—and his need to know where I was at all times.

That was appropriate the last time we’d shared a home—back when I was three. But at sixteen, I needed a little more freedom, and a lot less nosiness.

“And if we get caught there…” I shrugged. “All bets are off.”

Nash swallowed thickly. “With any luck, we won’t have to actually cross over. Yet.” But we both heard the uncertainty in his pause. “Where does your dad think you’re going?”