The Reaping

CHAPTER TWELVE





It seemed October had just arrived, but here it was nearing Thanksgiving. The weeks had passed quickly since that Sunday when Derek had come back and agreed to train me to use my powers. I spent my days at school and my evenings with him, usually in the woods. He said it was the most like what I’d find over there—dark, cold, harsh, unstable.

We still hadn’t been able to find out what Fahl really wanted with me, so Derek trained me based on the assumption that I would be fighting my twin, as he had done. I could tell he was convinced there was much more to it than that, though. When I asked, he’d say things like it’s a lot of little things, very casually, though his attitude was anything but casual.

And there was another thing. Things that seemed insignificant to me would trouble him deeply. Like the fact that, even though I’d learned to control my power, I still felt an incredible thirst when I wielded. According to Derek, my thirst should only be present when my powers are out of control. And that was just one of the things that differed from his experience. There were more.

Another was the strength of my powers. It nearly rivaled Derek’s, though I doubted I’d ever be a match for him. He was incredibly intuitive and strong, defeating me often in our sparring, despite his lack of experience with wielding earth.

Once I even created a small earthquake that caused the ground to open up and swallow him. I’d been prepared with some vines to make sure I could haul him out, but I’d underestimated his speed. He’d managed to grab onto some tree roots as he fell. He climbed out and surprised me with a fireball that singed the hair on my arms.

“Always make sure you’ve finished the job,” he lectured as he approached. “Don’t turn your back on an opponent until you confirm, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that they are dead.”

“I know, I know,” I moaned, rubbing the scorched, curling hairs off my arms.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” Concern creased his brow and drew his eyebrows together as he took my hands in his to examine my arms.

As always, any contact with him sent a bolt of lightening straight to my core. “No, you didn’t hurt me,” I said breathlessly.

He was so close I could smell his scent over the odor of burnt hair. His eyes rose to mine and sparks flew. Immediately, I felt the tension in him, his reaction to our nearness rivaling mine.

Often, I think his desire for me surprised us both, as did his intense response to it. Like now. His hand shot out, faster than a snake could strike, and grabbed me at the nape of my neck, pulling me forward until our lips met.

The kiss was instantly passionate, burning as hot and out of control as some of my fires. Only Derek couldn’t use water to put out these flames. It was only his self-control and determination to leave my purity in tact that kept our make-out sessions from escalating, though a couple had progressed to a dangerous point.

His tongue delved into my mouth and I slid my hands into his hair to hold his lips to mine. I stretched up on tiptoe, pressing my body to his, craving the contact.

His hand left my neck and, a second later, I felt both his palms at my hips. They moved down to knead my butt before traveling lower, to the tops of my thighs. I felt his fingers tighten, digging into my flesh, and he lifted.

Automatically, my legs wrapped around his waist. The contact of our bodies in such an intimate way was nearly more than I could bear. I tightened my legs around him, desperate for him to do something, anything to end the sweet torture. Derek moaned and a wave of chills rolled down my back.

I tore my mouth from his, gasping for air, my body on fire. I felt his teeth nip at my lower lip and my chin then I felt his hot breath at my ear. I wiggled against him, needing more than what he was giving me.

For an instant, his tongue slipped inside my ear before it blazed a hot trail down my neck to my collarbone. I felt one hand come up to press between my shoulder blades, forcing my body toward his mouth. The action pushed my breasts against his chest, my nipples tightening and tingling in response.

Liquid heat poured through my body and pooled in my core, threatening to explode, the pleasure was so intense. I heard his name slip from my lips, a plea for him to finish what he’d started.

And then I was on my feet, the heat of Derek’s body gone, my head and hormones reeling. He held me at arm’s length, literally, his breathing as ragged as mine.

“Don’t push me, Carson,” he panted.

“But—”

“No buts. You know we can’t.”

“But—”

“No, Carson. It’s for your own good. Believe me, purity will work in your favor over there. He can use anything, any vice, any weakness, to his advantage. He’ll exploit everything he can find.”

“How do you even know that?” I knew I sounded like a petulant child, but at that moment, I didn’t care. My body was still on fire.

Derek stopped and gave me the strangest look, a look that caused my desire to shrivel. “Because he exploited all of mine,” he said flatly.

Other than more questions, I had nothing to say. So I said nothing. I knew that now wasn’t the time to poke and prod what looked to be a painful wound.

Derek continued as if the awkward moment had never happened. “Over the years I’ve picked up a lot of useful information, too,” he said nonchalantly.

“From where?”

“Some from just living, living cursed.”

“Where else?”

His expression steeled, a belated indication that I’d inadvertently hit another sore spot, but this time it aggravated me. Playing his cards and his life so close to the chest just left me in the dark. How was I supposed to know where his emotional landmines were? And it hurt to think that, as much as I trusted him, he didn’t reciprocate. And that made my trust waver.

Cue my temper.

“You know,” I began, fists on my hips. “I’ve been completely honest with you and I expect the same in return. But if you don’t think you can trust me, maybe we shouldn’t be in this together.”

Fury hardened his features and I regretted the words instantly. I knew, just knew, that he was going to turn around and walk out of my life forever. That was just not the kind of thing you said to Derek and I knew it.

But he didn’t.

I was relieved and more than a little shocked when Derek answered my question, as if his emotional response hadn’t even happened. And on some level, that bothered me. It wasn’t like him to acquiesce so easily. Derek doesn’t compromise. He just doesn’t.

“As you are well aware, the twinning gene runs in families. I guess you could say I was fortunate in that my grandfather was a twin and liked to tell stories.”

“What?” My surprise was genuine. “You mean your grandfather was cursed, too?”

“I believe he was, yes.”

“But you don’t know for sure?”

“Well, it’s hard to say. He died before I knew what was happening to me. But when I think back to the stories he would tell us—ghost stories, campfire stories, bedtime stories—I believe they were drawn from personal experience, not just an overactive imagination like most stories are.”

This was huge. “Does your father know anything about it?”

Derek shrugged his big shoulders in that way I’d come to love. “Who knows,” he said, a statement not a question.

“Why do you say that?”

“My father left just after Garrit and I were born. I never knew him.”

“But you were close to your grandfather. I figured…”

“My mother’s father.”

“Ah,” was all I said. Then, “What about your mother, does she know anything about it?”

“Don’t know that either. She killed herself three years ago, when Garrit died,” he said, a hint of bitterness evident in his tone.

I couldn’t suppress a gasp. I did the math and realized that at nineteen, Derek had lost both his brother and his mother. How could anyone survive that? And the pain he must have felt—might still feel—over the way they died. Derek had taken one’s life and the other had taken her own. It must be torture for him.

I tried to temper the pity that rushed in. Derek would rather be dead than be pitied. He’d actually told me that once. “Oh, Derek. I didn’t know. I’m- I’m so sorry,” I said, knowing how empty those words were. I’d just heard them thousands of times from virtually everyone after my father’s death. And even though I really meant them, I knew they were no comfort, but I didn’t know what else to say.

“I know you didn’t. It’s alright.”

“What did she think happened to him?”

“She knew exactly what happened to him.”

“She knew that you- that you k-killed him?” I asked quietly.

Derek nodded miserably and my heart broke for him. I wanted to go to him, to soothe him somehow, but when I took a step forward, he took a step back. As I’d been warned, he didn’t want my pity.

“Yes, she knew.”

“But how? How could she know?”

“She knew about the curse.”

“From your grandfather?”

“No. I think she had more…intimate knowledge of it than just from old stories,” he said, bitterness clear and sharp in his tone now.

I stared at him in confusion for a minute before what he was insinuating dawned on me. “You think she knew about the deal?”

“Yes,” he said curtly.

“But how?”

Derek looked at me, something close to hatred in his eyes. For a moment, I couldn’t tell whether that hatred was for me for opening this old wound or hatred for his mother. “Well, let’s see, Carson. What are the only two ways she would know something like that?”

I recoiled from the coldness in his voice, from the loathing in his eyes. I shook my head, not knowing what to say, what he wanted me to say.

“Either she knew about the deal,” he said icily, pausing before he continued. “Or she made it.” His expression was pained, and it was no wonder, if he actually thought that his own mother might’ve made a deal that cost him so, so much.

“And then she killed herself,” I said, more to myself than to Derek, working the details out in my head. I knew that Derek saw her escape much the same way I did. She was so riddled with guilt that she couldn’t live with herself. And that looked really bad.

Despite the polar temperatures emanating from Derek, I went to him. And this time he let me. When I wrapped my arms around his neck, he was stiff at first, but I didn’t let go. I held on, wishing desperately that I could help him, heal him, that I could comfort him somehow.

After a couple of minutes, when I didn’t budge, Derek loosened up. I felt his arms wind around my waist and draw me closer to him.

He let me hold him for maybe a minute before he drew back. I let him go. When our eyes met there was only a trace of sadness in the swirling silver depths of his.

With a weak smile, he ran one hand down my arm and took my hand in his. “Come on. Let’s call it a night,” he said, turning in the direction of the road and his motorcycle.

Less than thirty minutes later, Derek was pulling into the driveway at my house. He let me off so I could go around and open the garage. I hadn’t been able to find the remote opener since the funeral so I had to use the manual controller on the wall inside the garage.

As I walked toward the front door, I could see the green of the grass in the light of the street lamp. At the time I hadn’t realized I’d done it, but my upset over Dad the day of his funeral had killed all the grass at the house, too. So one of the first things I did when I learned to control my power was to fix the grass at the house as well as at the cemetery. I was hoping that no one would pay much attention to it, but that those who did would just think we’d put down sod.

I let myself in and walked through the dark house to the garage where I hit the button to raise the door and let Derek in. He had been staying at my house since that Sunday when Leah had left after spending the weekend. He always slept on the couch, though it was getting harder and harder to leave him out there when I really wanted him with me. Though he didn’t share my bed, I think it made us both feel better when he was close.

In deference to the sterling reputation my dad had ensured that I build for myself, we hid Derek’s bike inside the garage so that the neighbors wouldn’t talk. Not even Leah knew how close we’d gotten or that he spent his nights with me. Or at least that’s what I’d thought until that next Thursday on the way to school.

“So, is Derek ever going back to…wherever? Or is he just going to stay with you forever?”

Her comment stopped me in my tracks. I just stared at her, my mind spinning through excuses, my mouth opening and closing like a fish’s. “Uh, I, uh. He- um we- why would you think—”

Leah just smiled a knowing smile, apparently enjoying my discomfort. “Don’t even try to lie, Carson. I know things,” she said mysteriously, winking at me behind her clam-shell glasses.

“What do you mean? What kind of things?”

“I don’t know. I can just tell that something’s going on.”

“What do you mean?” What had happened to my vocabulary since September? It seemed I was always asking the same questions and then just repeating myself over and over and over, like Rain Man.

“I don’t know,” she said again, shrugging. Now I had her repeating herself. “It’s just a feeling I get. It’s hard to describe.”

Though that was hardly a bothersome or telling remark among friends, considering the things I’d seen and experienced in the last few months, things of a supernatural nature, I took exception to her comment.

“A feeling?” I asked, trying to appear nonchalant as I resumed our walk to school.

“I guess that’s a good way to put it. Maybe it’s just intuition. Women’s intuition,” she said with a plucky grin.

“Sure it is,” I said doubtfully, dramatically narrowing my eyes on her.

After a few seconds, her expression sobered and she said, “Just be careful, Carson. Derek is- he’s—” I watched Leah struggle for an adequate description. “Just be careful,” she repeated.

“I am careful, Leah, but,” I paused to look at her. “Why do you say that? It’s like you think he’s…I don’t know, dangerous or something.” I tried to sound unconcerned, but I had to admit that her warning was making me uneasy.

“I don’t know, Carson. I mean, he is a lot older than you and—”

“Five years is not a lot.”

Leah shrugged. “I guess not, but he, uh. He’s—” she stammered. “Just be careful,” she finally said, for the third time.

“I will,” I assured her, my smile much lighter than my heart. We dropped the conversation on that note, but it was far from forgotten. I had just tucked the dialog away for later dissection.

School was uneventful, as usual. My meteoric rise to fame over the milk in Stephen’s face ordeal was surpassed (in magnitude and longevity) only by my plummet to a less-than-zero status after the incident at the lake. The fallout wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been, though. My father’s passing seemed to have subdued the worst of the ridicule. Looks like even in death I owed my father a debt of gratitude.

I walked through the halls largely unnoticed, just as I had in previous times, and somehow I drew comfort from that. I’d gotten a taste of what I used to dream about and found out it is totally overrated.

Walking home was typically the high point of my day. After I left Leah at her driveway, I was always excited to get to my house and see if Derek was there. I loved it when he was. It still bothered me to come home to an empty house.

On days when he wasn’t there when I got home, he usually arrived within an hour or so. I tried not to ask too many questions about his day; he was very vague with his answers and I found that a source of frustration and, deep down, concern. That was another thing that caused my trust in him to waver.

As I strode up the driveway today, something looked different, but it took me a second to put my finger on it. Derek’s bike was parked in the driveway, as it usually was during “acceptable” hours. The garage door was open, as it often was. The front door was closed, as it usually was.

Then my eyes flew back to the garage. That’s it! The garage was empty. The Camaro was gone.

I stood in the driveway debating how I felt about this newest development when I heard a deep, throaty rumble. I turned to see what it was.

Coming down the street, toward my house, was the Camaro. And at the wheel was Derek.

Feelings of anger, sadness, accomplishment, bitterness, pride, and pleasure collided inside me in a complicated emotional wreck. I carefully schooled my features as Derek slowed and made the turn into the driveway. I took a few steps back to give him ample room to pull past me into the garage, but he didn’t advance that far. Instead, he stopped right in front of where I stood.

With a smile that I rarely got to see, Derek shifted into park and got out of the car, the idle motor throbbing quietly. Rather than shutting the door behind him, however, Derek held it open and swept his arm toward the driver’s seat, indicating that I should slide inside.

“Your carriage, my lady,” he said formally, his brilliant smile settling into a mischievous grin.

“When did you finish it?”

“Just today.”

“Evidently it runs alright,” I said, trying to keep my tone light.

“Runs like a top,” he confirmed, equally light. Then his silver eyes, eyes that missed nothing, met mine. He sobered instantly. “You’re upset,” he said, very matter of fact.

“No. I-I—”

“Yes, you are. Don’t lie to me.”

“No. Really, I—”

“I can tell you’re upset.”

“I don’t know, I just—”

“Look, Carson, you—”

“Stop interrupting me!” I shouted, interrupting him instead. “I don’t know how I feel about it. Okay?” I turned and stalked through the garage and into the kitchen, slamming the door behind me.

I knew I wasn’t being rational, but since when did emotional outbursts have to be rational? I thought absurdity was implied.

I didn’t stop until I was in my bedroom with the door closed behind me. I paced the floor a few times, clenching and unclenching my fists, struggling for control of my turbulent emotions. I knew that being out of control only opened the door for trouble. Derek had taught me that.

Taking deep breaths, I walked to stand in front of the window. I could see the driveway clearly. I watched as Derek, who’d been standing exactly where I’d left him, staring at the house, slid behind the wheel and eased the car into the garage. I heard the motor die and some of my anger died with it.

It made no sense that I would perceive Derek’s hard work and consideration an act of betrayal, even though that’s what it felt like. My father was never going to return and finish the car. I couldn’t do it by myself. It was serving no purpose sitting in the garage, defunct. So what was the big deal?

I couldn’t settle on an answer. Something inside me just wouldn’t let it go. The best I could do was to come out, after almost an hour, and be civil.

Derek was in the kitchen, leaning up against the counter, facing my door when I exited my bedroom. When I appeared, he made no move, no comment. There was no change in expression. He simply stared.

“Sorry,” I said as sincerely as I could manage, which wasn’t very sincere considering I still wasn’t sure that I really was apologetic.

It seemed like an eternity passed before he spoke. “Why don’t you take it for a drive by yourself,” he suggested flatly.

I opened my mouth to argue, but before any words came out, it occurred to me that his offer sounded very appealing.

“Alright,” I said, maybe a little too brightly. I walked to Derek and held out my hand expectantly.

His eyes bored into mine and, without breaking that contact, he dropped the keys into the center of my palm. Wordlessly, I turned and walked to the garage door. I paused with my hand on the knob, thinking there was probably some polite response or gesture I should make. It eluded me, however, so I turned the knob and stepped out into the garage, closing the door behind me.

I opened the car door and slid behind the wheel. I’d done it at least a hundred times, but never this way.

A sliver of sadness sliced through me. Tears stung my eyes. This wasn’t how I’d pictured my first drive in this car to be. Right now I should be getting a twenty-two point lecture on safe driving and at least one bone-chilling cautionary tale, complements of my father. Then he was supposed to be standing at the edge of the garage watching me back down the driveway, arms crossed over his chest and a proud smile on his face. There wasn’t supposed to be this emptiness inside me, this ache.

Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I pushed the key into the ignition and turned it. The engine roared quickly to life. I shifted into reverse and backed slowly down the driveway, careful not to look forward at the empty garage.

When I reached the bottom, I turned onto the street and paused for just a second. I closed my eyes. In my head I pictured Dad giving me an approving thumb’s up and in my head I waved to him. Then I opened my eyes and, without a backward glance, I punched the gas and left my troubles behind.

The speed was a very effective, albeit temporary, tension-reliever. I drove for miles and miles, trying to put as much distance as I could between me and… everything. But it turned out I couldn’t escape my life for very long. After all those miles and all those turns, when I could’ve already reached the state line, I ended up at the cemetery instead, parked in the lot, staring at the stone-dotted landscape.

I got out and walked to Dad’s marker. They’d finally gotten it put in about two weeks ago. It was thick and sturdy, just like Dad. I sat down and leaned up against it, hoping I’d feel closer to him if for no other reason than just physical proximity to his body.

I sat like that for a long, long time, though Dad never showed up. I wasn’t even really disappointed. That was my problem: I knew he was gone and he wasn’t coming back.

When I noticed how bright the dusk-to-dawn lights were getting, I hopped up and hurried to the car. If there was one thing I knew for sure it was that I didn’t want to get caught in a cemetery after dark.

I felt safer after I got in and closed the car door. I started the engine and leaned my head back against the headrest. I listened to the steady throb of the engine, wishing Dad could’ve driven it just once before he died.

After several minutes, I raised my head. A glimmer of movement drew my eye to the rearview mirror. There was something in the back seat.

I whirled around to look into the dark back seat just as invisible hands wrapped around my throat.

The strongest grip I’ve ever experienced pulled me up over the top of the bench seat and into the back seat. Then I was flat on my back looking up into the face of the badly burned man I’d seen in the garage. Terror gripped my heart even tighter than his hands.

On one half of his face, much of the bone was exposed and charred to a dull black though there were patches of melted flesh that remained, as well as a few tufts of hair on his skull. On the other side there was blood and soot-smudged skin stretched tight over a handsome bone structure and short dark hair that covered his scalp.

He had only one eye and it stared down at me furiously. And then, somewhere in the back of my horrified mind, something struck me about that cool, pale gray eye. It was familiar.

Before I could finish the thought, my lungs began to burn with the need for oxygen. My eyes watered. My head throbbed. I raised my hands to my throat, desperate to loosen the fingers at my neck. I clawed at them frantically, but my nails met with my own skin. There were no other hands there.

I pushed at the dark chest that hovered over me, but there was nothing but cool air beneath my palms. I kicked wildly with my feet, but they met with nothing but the inside of the car.

Tipping my chin back as far as I could, I managed to drag in a gulp of air, which only made me cough and sputter. Then his grip tightened even more.

I continued to flail my limbs, but it was becoming harder and harder to move as my struggling grew weaker and weaker.

I was fading quickly and I knew it. I had to do something. My last clear thought was to somehow get the door open so that the interior light would be triggered. That’s what had saved me in the garage—light.

I tried to formulate a plan, but it was so hard to focus. My brain didn’t want to think. It was sluggish and faint.

And then a car drove slowly by.

It seemed to happen in slow motion. Light shone first against the ceiling, illuminating the interior the tiniest bit. The man screamed and his hold on my throat lessened. As the car passed by, brightness swept through the front seat. The grip on my throat faltered, as if something was pulling the man away from me.

Then light rushed into the back seat. As it chased away the shadows (and everything that traveled in them), the pain moved from my throat to my chest. I felt the man’s fingernails tear into my skin, his fingers clutching and clawing at me as if he were being dragged away.

And for a fraction of a second, I could feel him, too.

Where I’d been trying to push at his chest, suddenly there was something substantial beneath my hands. I could feel fabric with muscle and bone beneath. I fisted my fingers and pushed as hard as I could.

Then he was gone.

Adrenaline pumped through my body. I lay for a few seconds, breathing heavily, shaking all over, trying to gather my wits. But when darkness had once more settled all around me, I leapt into action. I climbed quickly back into the front seat and hit the switch to turn on the interior light. Then, without wasting another second, I slammed the shifter into reverse and pushed the gas pedal all the way to the floor.

After I’d driven several miles and put a safe amount of distance between me and the cemetery, I became aware of something biting into my palm. I held my hand up and saw that a necklace was wrapped around my fingers. And there, pressed between my palm and the steering wheel, was a charm. I stuffed the necklace into my pocket and tried to put it out of my mind.

When I arrived at the house, I saw that it was dark inside. Derek obviously hadn’t come back and I was keenly disappointed.

My body was suffering the after affects of an adrenaline rush. I was shaking from head to toe. Carefully, I pulled the car into the empty garage then got out on unsteady legs to close the door. I left the car’s headlights on and turned on every light I passed as I made my way into the kitchen then on to my bathroom where I turned on the shower and started shedding clothes.

As I peeled my jeans off, the necklace fell out of the pocket. I picked it up, holding it in the bright fluorescent lighting so I could study the charm. I wasn’t all that familiar with the saints and Catholic lore, but I thought it looked like a St. Christopher’s medal. I turned it over and read the engraving.

Safe travels, my son.

I hung the necklace on the edge of the medicine cabinet for safekeeping then got in the shower.

When I take a shower, I like the water nearly scalding. If I don’t look like a lobster when I get out, I don’t feel clean. And, though I’m used to the burn of hot water, this time I flinched when it hit my skin. It stung in an unusual way on my chest.

I looked down and saw four long, deep gashes that traveled the length of my sternum. Each scratch exposed a track of pearly white beneath my skin. I remembered feeling the man’s nails digging into me and realized that, in his struggle to hang on to me, he wounded me.

I cleaned the angry-looking scratches well then finished showering and got out to towel off. The bathroom was steamy, the mirror completely fogged up. Before I wrapped my towel around my head, I used it to wipe the moisture from the mirror so I could see.

With two wide swipes, the glass was clear. Still jumpy, I lowered my towel slowly, thinking of all the scary movies I’d seen where there is another reflection in the mirror.

Scoffing, I gingerly let my arm fall. I was relieved that there was no face other than my own in the mirror. I turned toward the door and bent over to wrap my towel around my wet hair. When I straightened, my breath caught in my throat. There was a shape in the mist.

Though much of the detail was lacking, I knew instantly who the colorless form in the steam was. The question was: what did she want.

Finally, I took a deep breath to calm myself as I backed away from her. When the cool ceramic of the sink hit my butt, I stopped. She didn’t move and, this time, she didn’t speak. She just stared at me with eyes that were still perceptibly empty, even in the mist.

When it became evident she wasn’t going to speak, I asked, “What do you want?” There was fear and reservation in my quiet voice and I hated that. Though I felt weak at that moment, caught off guard, I didn’t want her to know that.

Still, she neither spoke nor moved. An unexpected wave of frustration washed away my fear. “What do you want?” This time my voice was louder and stronger, more demanding. More in control.

This interlude was unlike the others (if my crazy dreams could even be considered as “interludes”). Though her expression was carefully blank as she stared at me, I got the distinct impression that she was angry. She didn’t beckon to me, she didn’t ask for my help, she didn’t seem curious or desperate or even friendly. Somehow, she seemed hostile.

I took a step forward. She didn’t move. I took another step and then another, but still she didn’t move. I lifted my hand and swiped it through the mist, through her form. She disappeared for just a second. And when I saw her face materialize in the mist once more, her lips were curved in a chilling smile.

My ever-ready anger pushed through my alm. I shouted, “What do you want?”

She opened her mouth, her top lip curling up into a sneer. I thought she was going to speak, but, just then, the bathroom door opened. A gust of cool air rushed in, chasing her away with the thick steam. Her image dissolved as if it had never been.

Derek stood on the threshold, a look of concern puckering his brow.

“Why didn’t you lock the garage door? And why are the car lights on? What’s the matter?”

Like a punctured balloon, I felt suddenly deflated and unspeakably exhausted. I was so tired of heartache and fear, of uncertainty and worry, of complicated. For the first time I could ever remember, I craved simple. Not breathtaking or exciting or dangerous, just simple. And safe.

I looked at Derek. Perversely, one of the biggest complications in my life was standing right in front of me. The perverse part of it was that I craved him more than I craved simplicity, craved him so much that I could almost hate him for coming into my life. Almost.

But he was also my biggest source of safety. And, as always, I was inexplicably drawn to him. I took the few steps that would bring me into his arms and I wound my arms around his neck, melting into him. I absorbed his strength and heat, his power and security as it bled from his skin into mine.

He was relaxed at first, his arms coming around me in a warm embrace, one meant to comfort. Then, slowly, electricity began to crackle between us, as it always did. I became aware of the cool leather of his jacket where it was pressed against my naked skin, of the rough skin of his palms as they rubbed my back soothingly.

He must’ve felt the shift in my mood because his touch changed. His hands moved purposefully over my skin, warm with the passion that always lay just beneath the surface. They stroked my back and buttocks, hinting at the wicked pleasures they could bring.

I pressed my lips to his neck. His hands moved to my sides, traveling up toward the sides of my breasts. My body was already on fire when his hands stopped suddenly and he stiffened.

“What’s that?”

I was still caught up in the moment, my head fuzzy with desire. “What?” I answered, pressing my body more tightly to his.

“Carson,” he snapped, the seriousness of his tone like a bucket of cold water. “What is that?”

He pulled away from me so that he could look down into my face.

“What’s what?”

“That necklace,” he said nodding toward the mirror behind me.

What his tone hadn’t done to sober me, his question had. How easy it was to forget the world when I was in his arms.

“Oh,” I said, suddenly aware of my nakedness. I took the towel from my head and busied myself with covering my nudity before I answered. “That.” I turned and walked to the mirror, taking the chain off the medicine cabinet and holding it out to him. “Just a little something I picked up tonight.”

He took the necklace from me and I stepped past him into the bedroom to get some pajamas.

Derek was silent for several seconds as he examined the charm. He surprised me when he whirled around and stomped toward me, covering the space in three huge steps. The look on his face was indescribably hostile.

“Where did you get this, Carson? Be specific.” This was the way I’d perceived Derek when I’d first met him: dangerous. His tone, his body language, his expression, it all reeked of what pain he could inflict upon me if I didn’t tell him what he wanted to know. And even though I knew he wouldn’t hurt me—or at least I didn’t think he would—it still gave me pause to see him like this.

“I was visited tonight by one of the people that I saw in the garage that night.”

“And?”

“And he attacked me.”

“He attacked you?”

It felt a little better to have that deadly cold anger focused on someone other than me, but something about it struck me as odd. There was something else in his eyes, in his voice, something I couldn’t quite discern.

“Yes.”

“And then what?”

I gave Derek a detailed accounting of the whole ordeal.

“What did he look like?”

“It’s hard to say. He’d been badly burned and one side of his face is almost gone.”

Before I could even finish my sentence, Derek had turned and stalked from the room. I followed quickly.

“Where are you going? What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer, just kept walking. When he opened the front door, he finally turned to me. “There’s something I’ve got to do,” he said mysteriously.

“What?”

“I need to find out some things before I involve you.”

My temper rose immediately to the surface. I bit my lip, trying to control it before it ran away with me. I was too volatile today to lose control.

I looked away from him, simply nodding, not trusting myself to speak.

I heard him sigh. “Do you want me to come back tonight?”

When I looked up, his eyes were on mine. They were a fathomless, stormy gray that I felt penetrating my very soul.

The stubborn, proud female in me wanted to say “no”, but the practical, insecure pragmatist wanted me to say “yes”. That internal debate must’ve raged on a little too long because, with an impatient hiss, Derek turned around and walked out the door.

I watched as he mounted his bike, started the engine, turned around and sped down the driveway. I wanted to stop him, to ask him to stay. I also wanted him to leave and never come back. I wanted to yell at him, tell him I hated him. I also wanted to kiss him and tell him I loved him. Nothing in my life made sense anymore.

After I shut the door, I tried to do normal things, tried to relax into the peace and quiet, but I just couldn’t. I found myself listening to every passing motor for the sound of Derek’s bike.

I turned on the television, hoping it might provide an adequate distraction. After a while it worked—by putting me to sleep. I don’t know how long I’d been asleep when I heard the rattling of the doorknob.

I sat up, immediately alarmed yet still a little disoriented from being awakened in such a way. I listened closely. The jiggling continued, but I never heard the scrape of a key in the lock, which meant it wasn’t Derek.

Though I was very much afraid, I drew some small comfort from the pools of light that spilled onto the floors in every room of the house. It seemed the people from the shadows couldn’t tolerate the light at all, therefore I surrounded myself with it. As long as it wasn’t one of them attacking me, I felt pretty sure I could handle myself and anybody else from this world. I’d trained so much with Derek and, before that, with my father, I knew I could at least hold my own with a run-of-the-mill intruder.

I watched the door until the noise ceased. I listened, but heard no other sound. After several minutes, just when I was about to relax again, I heard the garage door rattle as if someone were testing whether or not it was locked.

I dropped off the couch and crawled to the window, where I could see out onto the driveway. Slowly I pulled back one corner of the curtain to peek out. I nearly swallowed my tongue when I saw Derek’s face right there at the glass.

Relief drowned the scream that was stuck in my throat. I exhaled slowly and let the curtain fall back down then got up and walked to the door.

“What are you doing? You scared me to death,” I hissed as Derek strode past me into the living room.

“I left the house key in the car today,” he said casually. “Did I wake you?”

“I was watching TV,” I said, which I had been—before I fell asleep. “Where have you been?” I tried to sound as nonchalant as I could, not wanting to get into another argument. I was happier than I would’ve imagined that he’d come back; I didn’t want to ruin it if I could help it.

“Out.”

“Just out?” I asked mildly.

“Yep,” he said. Avoiding my eyes, Derek walked into the kitchen. He tossed over his shoulder, “I’ve got to get my bike into the garage.”

I sat back down on the couch and waited, listening to the sounds of the garage door opening and closing. When I heard the kitchen door open and close then the lock slide into place, I expected Derek to come back into the living room, but he didn’t. Instead, he stayed in the kitchen.

I heard the refrigerator and a cabinet door open and close as he puttered around, then the tinkling of silverware and the clack of the microwave door followed by its low hum.

The smell of leftover lasagna wafted into the living room, but still no Derek. I rose on a sigh, bracing myself for it to get ugly; evidently Derek wasn’t going to just volunteer anything.

“So,” I began, rounding the corner into the kitchen. He was just sitting down with a hot plate of food and didn’t even look up when I spoke. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on or are we getting ready to part ways?”

His head shot up. “I told you I’d tell you, but that there were some things I needed to find out first.”

“Well, I’m already involved so tell me now. I don’t like being kept in the dark,” I said calmly, certain that there were no truer words ever spoken.

“Carson—” he started, but I interrupted.

“Don’t ‘Carson’ me. Tell me Derek. We are supposed to be in this together, right?”

“We are, but—”

“No buts, Derek. Please.”

His dark brows squeezed together and dropped down low in a deep frown. His lips thinned into a hard, straight line. Those were clear indications of a storm on the horizon. His temper was on a short fuse, too. “The medal, I recognized it,” he said tightly.

“What?” My irritation evaporated, replaced by sheer curiosity. I slid into the chair opposite him and leaned forward conspiratorially. “Who does it belong to?”

If possible, Derek’s expression grew more thunderous. I could tell he was in no mood to share, but he answered anyway. His voice was low, but I could tell his teeth were gritted when he said, “It was my brother’s.”