Soul Screamers, Volume 1

Nash grinned when I didn’t seem convinced, and his next glance lingered longer than it should have, then roamed south of my face. “He might be under the impression that you… um…need some serious comfort.”


My heart leaped into my throat, and I had to speak around it. “And you think you’re up for the challenge?” Flirting should have felt weird, considering the day I’d had. But instead, it made me feel alive, especially with the possibility of my own death hanging over me like a black cloud, casting its malignant shadow over my life. Over everything but Nash, and the way I felt when he looked at me. Touched me…

Nash shrugged again. “Carter offered to pick you up himself....”

Of course he had. Because he was Nash’s best friend, and Sophie’s boyfriend. And my cousin had seriously bad taste in guys. As, apparently, did Nash. “Why do you hang out with him?”

“We’re teammates.”

Ahhh. And if blood was thicker than water, then football, evidently, would congeal in one’s veins.

“And that makes you friends?” I twisted to peer briefly into the tiny backseat, which was empty and still smelled like leather. And like Sophie’s freesia-scented lotion.

Nash shrugged and frowned, like he didn’t understand what I was getting at. Or like he wanted to change the subject. “We have stuff in common. He knows how to have a good time. And he goes after what he wants.”

He could easily have been describing my father’s German shepherd. As could I, when I replied, “Yeah, but once he gets it, he’ll just want something else.”

Nash’s hands tightened around the wheel, and he glanced at me with his eyes wide in comprehension, his forehead furrowed in disappointment. “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

I shrugged. “Your record kind of speaks for itself.” And why else had he put up with so much from me? Why would a guy like Nash Hudson stick around through freaky death premonitions and possible brain cancer, if he didn’t want something?

Or even if he did, for that matter? He could have put in a lot less work for a lot more payoff somewhere else.

“This isn’t like that, Kaylee,” he insisted, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what “that” was. “This is… We’re different.” He didn’t look at me when he said it, but I felt myself flush anyway.

“What does that mean?”

He sighed, and his hands loosened around the wheel. “You hungry?”





Half an hour later, we sat in Scott Carter’s car with the front seats pushed back as far as they would go. The setting sun took up the entire windshield, painting White Rock Lake a dozen deep hues of red and purple.

I was well into a six-inch turkey sub, and Nash was half done with some combination of provolone, ham, pepperoni, and a couple of meats I didn’t recognize. But it smelled good.

I’d already dripped mustard on Carter’s gearshift, and vinegar on the front seat. Nash had just laughed and helped me mop it all up.

If I was dying, I’d decided to spend every single day I had left eating at least one meal with Nash. Talking to him made me feel good, even when everything else in my life was totally falling apart.

I swallowed a big bite, then washed it down with a gulp from my soda. “Promise me that if I do have a brain tumor, you’ll bring me sandwiches in the hospital.”

He eyed me almost sternly, peeling paper away from his bread. “You don’t have cancer, Kaylee. At least, that’s not why you’re having premonitions.”

“How do you know?” I bit another chunk from my sandwich, chewing as I waited for an answer he seemed reluctant to provide.

Finally, after three more bites and two false starts, Nash wrapped the remains of his sandwich and stuffed it between our drinks on the console, then took a deep breath and met my gaze. His forehead was wrinkled like he was nervous, but his gaze held steady. Strong.

“I have to tell you something, and you’re not going to believe me. But I can prove it to you. So don’t freak out on me, okay? At least not until you’ve heard the whole thing.”

I swallowed another bite, then wrapped the rest of my sandwich and set it in my lap. This didn’t sound like the kind of news I should get with food in my mouth. Not unless I wanted to check out earlier than I’d expected, with a chunk of turkey wedged in my throat. “Okaaay… Whatever it is, it can’t be worse than brain cancer, right?”

“Exactly.” He ran his fingers through deliberately messy hair, then met my gaze with an intensity that was almost frightening. “You’re not human.”

“What?” Confusion was a calm white noise in my head, where I’d expected fear or even anger to rage. I’d been prepared to hear something weird. I was intimately acquainted with weird. But I had no idea what to say to “not human.”

“Either your aunt and uncle don’t know, or they don’t want you to know for some reason, which is why I didn’t tell you yesterday at breakfast. But you’re killing me with this whole brain cancer thing.” He was watching me carefully, probably judging from my expression how close I was to flipping out on him.