BY FIFTH HOUR, there was still no sign of Ariane. I’d figured it wouldn’t take her long to seek me out once Rachel had delivered her “invitation” in the only way that Rachel could: condescendingly. Which Ariane would take as a personal challenge and respond the only way she knew how: by saying yes.
But instead…nothing.
No texts or phone calls. No hissed conversations in the hall. Not so much as a glare in the distance, which would have required my seeing her, and I hadn’t. But Ariane had to know why I did what I did, right?
After confirming again with Rachel at lunch that the encounter had gone as I’d expected (“Yes, Zane, for the twelfth time, she said she’ll be there. God! What is your problem?”), I went looking for Ariane.
She let me find her at her locker. I say “let” because the first seven times I’d walked past, on my way to class, the drinking fountain, etc., she hadn’t been there. She might have been avoiding me, or maybe I just had crappy timing.
“You sicced Rachel on me,” she said, her attention focused on trading out her books. She was so cold and distant compared to last night.
I rolled my eyes, jamming my hands into my pockets. “You didn’t give me a choice. Would we even be having this conversation if I hadn’t?”
“It doesn’t change anything. I can’t…we can’t…” She avoided looking at me. “You know that.”
“I don’t know that,” I said in exasperation. “Because I still have no idea what’s going on.” I paused, waiting for her to fill the silence with some kind of explanation. But she stayed quiet, concentrating on what she was doing at her locker.
Okay, fine, if that’s how we’re going to play it.… “It does change something,” I pointed out.
Ariane glanced up at me sharply.
“You’re going to the party tonight when you weren’t before.”
She gave me a sour look. “Because you manipulated Rachel into manipulating me.”
I snorted. “Yeah, that was a real stretch of my abilities.” The two of them had done all the work themselves—I’d just given Rachel the idea.
I thought I saw the start of a smile before she shook her head. “What do you want, Zane?”
“Look, I just want…” Actually, I hadn’t stopped to think about what I wanted. Only that I didn’t want it, whatever it was, to end with last night. “I want to see this thing through,” I finished lamely. “Don’t you?”
“Without sounding too self-pitying, it absolutely does not matter what I want.” She shut her locker and turned away from me.
I followed her. “It matters to me.” I winced at the supreme cheesiness of the line even though it was the truth.
And it worked. She looked up at me directly for the first time. Her eyes were bloodshot and more swollen than last night—it must have been hell to put in her contact lenses this morning. “That,” she said quietly, “is why I should be putting as much distance as possible between us.”
I sighed, tired of trying to understand her enigmatic answers. “Look, you’ve got secrets. Fine. I understand.”
She gave me a wry smile.
I sighed again. “Okay, no, I don’t understand, but my point is you can trust me. You don’t want to talk about it? Fine. But don’t cut me out.” I stuffed my hands into my pockets again, feeling absurdly vulnerable.
Ariane cleared her throat. “Because it’s a challenge.”
“No,” I snapped, frustrated. “Because you are the most interesting person I’ve met. Ever. Because you take my side without weighing whether that’s best for you or not. Because you’re real and you don’t care what anyone else thinks.”
And what I couldn’t make myself say out loud: Because I want to be that guy. I want to be the person you trust. To be worthy of someone who really knows me instead of being their second—or last—choice.
I’m not dumb. I didn’t miss the parallels between this situation and my mom. Ariane had a secret, just as my mom had when she was planning her escape; and this time I wanted to be included, taken along instead of left behind.
But even knowing that some of this was driven by the forces of my past didn’t change how I felt.
“If you knew the truth, you wouldn’t be so quick to sign on,” Ariane said as we dodged people—and curious glances—in the hall.
“So tell me,” I said.
“You know I can’t,” she said, exasperated.
I grinned smugly. “Then I guess I get the benefit of the doubt for now.” I put my arm around her shoulders and pulled her close.
“This is only for tonight,” she warned, but I could feel her relaxing into my side.
And if she wanted it to be just for tonight, that was fine. After the party was over I’d work on getting her to agree to tomorrow or next week. I wasn’t into her because she was a challenge, but I certainly wasn’t afraid of the challenge she presented.
“And we’re not going to the party together. We just happen to be going to the same party,” she said with a sniff.
I raised my eyebrows. “Yeah? How are you going to get there?” I asked, betting she hadn’t gotten that far yet. Rachel’s house was on the other side of town.
She stopped, genuinely startled. “Damn.”
“I’m guessing a taxi might attract attention that you don’t want.…” I shook my head in mock seriousness.
She glared at me. “Don’t gloat. It’ll stunt your growth.”
I laughed, surprised. “I don’t think that’s how it works. And besides, even if it did”—I gestured at the height difference between us—“I think it’s a little late for that. For me, at least.” I frowned. “You, on the other hand, are apparently the gloatiest of all gloaters.”
She pursed her mouth. “Funny.”
I bumped her hip with mine—well, her side, thanks to that height difference. “You just don’t like it when I’m right.”
“No, sometimes I wish you were right all the time,” she said, her gaze distant.
I could feel her mood veering off into the melancholy gloom I’d found her in. “Come on, walk me to class and I’ll let you lecture me about the debilitating effects of drinking coffee as an infant or of not eating my toast crusts.”
“Your parents gave you coffee?” She sounded aghast.
And I couldn’t resist. “Straight from the pot into a bottle.” I held my hand up in an “I swear” gesture, struggling to keep a straight face.
She believed me for about a half second. Then she shoved me. “Shut up.” But she was smiling. And that was all I wanted.
ONE MORE NIGHT. JUST ONE. It won’t make that much of a difference.
That’s what I told myself over and over again throughout the rest of the afternoon and with every step on my way home. Zane had offered me a ride, but since I was already acting in direct defiance to my father’s wishes, I didn’t want to push my luck. Or fate or karma or whatever.
My guilty conscience was already working overtime, making me jumpy. Since talking to Zane, I’d been on high alert, waiting for my phone to chirp with a text from my dad telling me I was busted (if he was monitoring the security camera feed, that was more than possible) or that we needed to run.
But so far, my phone had remained silent. So much so that I’d taken it out of my bag and turned it off and then on again to make sure it was working.
Now, on the sidewalk, I tensed every time a car passed, expecting the shrill screech of tires and brakes, and either my very angry father or a GTX retrieval team to storm into my path.
But all was quiet except for regular traffic and the same dumb black van from this morning. This time, though, it zoomed past me. It had a large white banner on the side, proclaiming DORIS THE FLORIST, TULIPS ARE BETTER THAN NONE!
It made me edgy, but if it was a front for GTX and they knew who/what I was, they wouldn’t have been wasting their time driving around.
I was being paranoid. I was pretty sure.
Approaching our house, I couldn’t help but notice it had an abandoned air to it—the empty driveway, the curtains pulled tight. But that had to be my imagination, my fear that my father would be taken and hurt because of my actions. Right?
I hurried up the walkway and, with shaking hands, managed to get the key in the lock. Once inside, I peeked into the kitchen, half convinced that the table and chairs would be turned over, dishes shattered on the floor. But everything was as I’d left it. My single spoon and bowl in the drying rack. No one had been here since I’d left this morning, as far as I could tell.
I let out a relieved and guilty breath. My father was probably still at work, though he’d put in more than his required hours this week. He was watching out for me again—as always.
I looked at his chair, where he’d sat last night, drinking away his disappointment in me.
Was it worth all of this?
I bit my lip. I’d have the rest of my life to follow the Rules. I just wanted one more night off to put Rachel in her place.
I retreated to my bedroom, dropped my bag on the floor, and climbed onto my bed, sinking into the fluffy comforter and pillows. But they offered no relief, no feeling of escape or safety. If anything, they felt claustrophobic, surrounding me too closely.
I stared up at the plastic stars dotting the ceiling and realized for the first time I’d recreated the outside in here. Stars overhead, a blue sky on the upper part of the wall, the darker sandy color of the earth below it. Guess that answered the question of how scared I was of life, even as recently as three years ago. I’d brought the outside in rather than venturing out on my own.
Frustrated, I fought my way off the bed and started pacing the length of my room, as I’d once walked my GTX cage.
I stopped in front of my closet and yanked open the louvered doors. If I was going to go through with this tonight, I needed something to wear. And from the second Rachel had challenged me to show up, I’d known what it should be.
At the back of my closet, shoved behind all the grays, whites, and earth tones, a pink shirt screamed like a neon sign.
Jenna had given it to me last year for my (Ariane’s) birthday, annoyed by the lack of “happy colors” in my wardrobe. The color listed on the tag was “dusty rose,” which sounded awful if you thought about it literally; but it was a pretty, soft pink fabric.
The style was a deep V-neck with the material gathered slightly under the chest for emphasis, which was good because I needed all the help I could get. Then it descended into deliberately ragged layers, one on top of the other. It was fashionable and shouted, “Look at me.”
It was much too flashy for my regular wardrobe, so I’d never worn it. And, I realized suddenly, Jenna probably never expected that I would. She preferred me as I was—pale, colorless, bland, nonthreatening.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I shoved my other clothes to the side and pulled the “dusty rose” shirt off the hanger.
It was as pretty as I remembered, the fine fabric catching on my fingertips. Jenna had spent serious money on this gift. And suddenly I wanted to wear it, wanted to prove her wrong. That I could be someone who would wear this shirt and be comfortable in it. That I wouldn’t just be the freaky girl whose only purpose was to make average girls look better.
I pulled my gray Henley over my head. The air felt too cool against my skin, and I shivered.
Then I squirmed my way into the new shirt—it was tighter than most of the other things I wore. And for good reason. I turned to look at myself in the mirror. As I’d suspected, the crisscross of the fabric in front aided in the appearance of a B-cup, and the layers of ruffles below the chest created the illusion of someone with more distance between breasts and hips.
I backed up a step or two for a better look. It made me appear taller, too. Not that I would resemble any definition of that word standing next to Zane, but the illusion was more than I had otherwise. Pair it with another of my favorite jeans—maybe the ones with the Swarovski crystal designs on the back pockets—and I’d be set.
In the mirror, my face was flushed, and my pale hair stood up in crazy, static-filled tufts.
But I looked…happy. Not normal, exactly, but a better version of me.
And I wanted to be her tonight, that girl in the mirror. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not next week. But for tonight.
I turned to pull the tags off the shirt and caught my first glimpse of a problem. The neck that tapered down to a fine point in the front started out much wider at the shoulders. So much so that the edge of the bandage covering the GTX identifier on my shoulder blade was visible.
Get one of the clear bandages, my inner voice argued. Or a smaller one. You have options!
I did. But there was only one option I was interested in.
Using the mirror for guidance, I plucked at the bandage with shaking hands. After a second, the edge came free, and I managed to wrest the entire thing away. It came off a twisted and mangled bit of cotton and sticky tape. And the four-by-four-inch space of my skin—covered every minute of every day for the last ten years except for the few seconds it took to change the bandage—felt absurdly sensitive, as if the nerve endings had multiplied in the constant dark. The fabric of my shirt felt cool and slippery soft against that place.
Before leaving the room to shower and then wrestle with my hair, I double-checked to make sure the tattoo wasn’t visible above or through my shirt.
It wasn’t. My back was a solid wall of dusty rose.
So, tonight, for one last night, I would do what I wanted. I’d break the Rules and be the Ariane Tucker I wanted to be.
FEELING ODDLY NERVOUS, I arrived at Pine and Rushmore a few minutes early and parked around the corner, as usual. I wished she’d have let me pick her up, but I knew better than to try that argument. I hoped the owners of the house on the corner didn’t mind my waiting here again, because the last thing I needed was someone calling the police. My dad was still pissed that I’d talked him into the SUV for one last night. I’d stayed holed up in my room—emerging only to grab a plate of half-thawed chicken casserole—to avoid the possibility of another fight that would cause him to renege.
Fortunately, no one on the street seemed the least bit interested in me or my truck. Most of the houses were lit up—people watching television, finishing dinner, or getting their families to bed. It was almost nine. In fact, the only other vehicle in sight was a dark utility van parked on the other side of the street, its engine running.
Squinting at it, I could just barely make out the lettering on the side. Something about tulips. A florist’s van?
I frowned. Kind of late in the day for flower deliveries, wasn’t it?
I might have thought more about it, but then I caught a glimpse of Ariane in the side mirror as she came around the corner and moved through the light of the streetlamp. She was wearing pink, definitely a brighter color than I’d ever seen her in. And her hair was down and loose around her shoulders. I felt like I was seeing her for the first time.
I fumbled for the handle and got out of the truck.
“Don’t,” she warned, her shoulders tense, when she saw me.
I held up my hands in defense. “I wasn’t going to. You look…amazing.”
She dropped her gaze, but she was smiling. “Thanks.”
I stepped around her and opened the door. “You ready for this?” I asked.
Her smile faded. “Probably not. But this is what we’ve been working toward, right?” She slipped past me and climbed into the truck.
I shut the door, suddenly feeling uncertain about my plan. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea. Goading Ariane into accepting the invitation had only been an opening move, something to keep her talking to me. But if tonight was my only chance to convince her that this thing between us was worth pursuing, Rachel’s bonfire party probably wasn’t the right environment to help me win the fight.
I jogged around the Blazer and got behind the wheel. “You know, we don’t have to go tonight,” I said. “There will be other parties. Other opportunities to watch Rachel lose her mind when she learns she can’t control everyone and everything in her path.” I gave Ariane a grim smile.
“Yeah, like when she kills you for not showing up after you made her invite me.”
“I’m serious, Ariane. We don’t have to go.”
“No,” she said, “let’s just get this done.”
“Okay,” I said reluctantly. I put the truck in gear and headed in the direction of Rachel’s neighborhood. But I couldn’t shake the unaccountable feeling of dread in my gut. My phone had been disturbingly quiet for the last couple of hours—no texts or calls from Rachel—which should have been a good sign, except it felt wrong somehow. “How about afterward?” I persisted, feeling some gnawing need to establish a further connection, future plans that would cement us together.
She frowned. “What about it?”
“Well, we’re not going to want to hang around while Rachel tries to keep from going nuclear in front of everyone.”
She raised her eyebrows, surprised. “I thought…I figured you’d want to stay.”
“No way. We’re going to walk in, wait for Rachel to pull the trigger on our ‘breakup,’ and stick around long enough to see the look on her face when she realizes we’ve gotten the better of her. Fifteen minutes, tops, and we’ll be out of there.”
“What did you have in mind?” she asked.
“How do you feel about bowling?” All right, it wasn’t my best idea ever, but it was the first thing that popped into my head.
“You mean in general or the eternal question—sport or game?” she asked with a hint of a smile. “I’ve never played, so I couldn’t say.”
“Bowling is an eternal question?” I asked, trying not to laugh.
“Yes,” she said with an air of absolute confidence.
“I want to ask,” I said, “but I’m a little afraid of what the other eternal questions might be.”
“It’s not a comprehensive list, but Star Wars versus Star Trek, Dumbledore or Gandalf, and foosball: game of skill and chance or exercise in futility,” she said promptly.
I stared at her in wonder. “And how did you come across these eternal questions? Do you have a reputable source or—”
“Years of study,” she said, sounding distracted. She leaned forward in her seat, staring out the window. “Wow.”
We were in Rachel’s subdivision already, and the thump-thump of bass from the party rattled my windows from several houses away. Cars, trucks, and a few vans lined the street on both sides. For all of Rachel’s talk of exclusivity, it looked like most of the school was here, and the bonfire wasn’t even over yet. I’d thought by arriving ahead of the crowd we’d be able to avoid most of the drama. But Rachel must have invited everyone to come over early. Maybe this was designed to function as much as a pre-party as post. Or maybe she’d just wanted as many people as possible to witness what she was going to do to Ariane.
“Yeah,” I said grimly. “She’s not going to miss a chance to show off. She had to work to steal this party away from Lauren-Whitney Tate.”
Ariane looked at me questioningly.
“The bonfire party is always supposed to be at a senior’s house, but Rachel convinced everyone to come here instead.” I wasn’t sure what she had promised to get them to show up, but whatever it was, it had worked.
I slowed down to look for parking, finally finding a spot between Matty’s beat-up Volvo and a bright and shiny Kia that I didn’t recognize.
I cut the engine, but neither of us moved to get out.
I twisted in my seat to face Ariane. “At the risk of repeating myself, are you sure you want to—”
“No.” But she pushed her door open and slid out.
So I guess that answered that. I hurried to follow, catching up with her in the middle of the street.
Taking her hand in mine, I led the way to the wrought-iron gate that divided the backyard from the front. From the corner of my eye, I could see Ariane taking it all in. Rachel’s house, a two-story stone monstrosity bathed in floodlights with a hand-to-God pair of matching turrets, was worlds away from the neighborhood of small square houses where she lived.
“Just…stay close to me, okay?” I said, feeling as if I were about to introduce a newborn puppy to a pack of hungry wolves. Which was dumb because Ariane had proven time and time again that she wasn’t afraid to defend herself or others. It was more the sense of her being untainted, I guess.
She nodded, her expression serious. Too serious.
I squeezed her hand gently. “So, out of curiosity, how do you come down on those eternal questions?”
“Star Wars but only the original three, Dumbledore, and exercise in futility,” she said with a faint frown, as if I’d suggested that there might be another way to answer.
I laughed. And suddenly I was glad we were on our way in to see Rachel. The sooner we were done with our “fake” relationship, the sooner I could convince Ariane that giving a real one a shot would be worth it. Starting with bowling, of course.
As we cleared the edge of house, she slowed down. “Something’s wrong,” she said in a voice so quiet I could barely hear. I turned to look at her. Her head was tilted, her forehead wrinkled in concentration, as if listening for something.
I frowned. I didn’t hear anything except the buzzing of a speaker with the bass blown, the shouts and splashes of people in the pool, and laughter and conversation at a level that could probably be heard three blocks from here.
I might have written it off as cold feet, but Ariane didn’t seem nervous or upset, just perplexed.
“Are you sure? We can leave,” I offered, hoping she’d take me up on it.
She frowned. “It’s probably nothing.” But she didn’t sound convinced.
And as soon as we started up the stairs to the oversized deck, it was clear she’d been right. There was an air of tension, a sense of waiting, hanging over the party. How Ariane had picked up on that before we even saw anyone, I didn’t know. But I didn’t have time to worry about that right now.
Heads swiveled toward us, and regular conversation dropped off to be replaced by whispering and stares. Confirmation of that gut-level dread I’d been feeling.
I turned to Ariane. “Let’s go. We should—”
“You’re here!”
I glanced back to find Rachel wobbling her way around the hot tub toward us. She was barefoot and very drunk in a short red dress that swirled around her tanned thighs. “Now the fun can start,” she said with a wide and too-perfect smile that in no way disguised the mean glint in her eye.
Oh, this couldn’t be good. I frowned. Why the hell was Rachel drunk? She should have been clearheaded and reveling in triumph, not sloppy and staggering.
“Zaney,” she said, pouting at me as she stumbled closer, almost tripping over a cooler at the edge of the hot tub. “Remember when we used to call you that?”
I looked for familiar faces in the crowd, for help. But Cami and Cassi were huddled together on the far side of the pool, watching like trauma victims hoping the serial killer was too distracted to remember they were there. And Trey was in the far corner alone, surrounded by discarded red cups and glaring at me.
My God, how bad had it gotten before we arrived? Rachel could be vicious when she was drunk, but most of us in her inner circle were usually spared. Something strange was going on here tonight.
“Yeah, I remember,” I said.
“And then your mom left and you got all boring and sad.” She heaved a big sigh.
Ariane stiffened.
“You don’t want to talk to us anymore, you don’t want to have any fun.” Rachel’s eyes sparkled with tears.
“Rach…” I started toward her, feeling a tug of sympathy—we’d been friends for years, no matter what was happening now—but Ariane’s hand tightened on mine.
“Don’t,” she whispered.
Without warning, Rachel went from bad to bat-shit. “And then I have to find out from Princess Monkey-face Ass-kisser over there that you’re double-crossing me with that freak,” she shrieked, her face nearly as red as her dress.
I followed her gaze to find Jenna Mayborne standing awkwardly by the pool steps in a skirt that looked too tight, a blush rising from her throat into her cheeks.
Oh, shit.
“Jenna,” Ariane breathed, her voice cracking with hurt.
I made a decision. It wasn’t how I would have preferred to do it, but I didn’t have a lot of options. “I’m not double-crossing you,” I said to Rachel. “It’s real.” I wrapped my arm around Ariane’s shoulders.
Ariane looked up at me, shocked.
Rachel threw back her head and laughed. Several people around her giggled nervously.
I stayed still, and Ariane slid her hand around my back. Which had an immediately nullifying effect on the laughter, nervous or not. And even though now was so not the time to be worrying about it, I couldn’t help but feel relieved. Maybe this would work out after all, assuming we could survive tonight.
“Right, Zane.” Rachel swayed closer. “Like I’m going to believe that. Even you have better taste.” But her voice held a note of vulnerability, and I suddenly remembered Ariane’s theory about why Rachel had been so insistent that I be the one to follow through on her plan.
I grimaced. “Rachel, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
Apparently that apology did more to convince her than any attempt at an explanation.
“Son of a bitch,” she said with a hiccupping gasp, and staggered back, knocking into the open cooler again, sending ice water sloshing over the side into the hot tub. Somebody squealed.
“Come on, let’s get out of here,” I said to Ariane. It hadn’t gone down exactly the way I’d anticipated, but it was over, at least.
She hesitated and then nodded.
As we turned away, I saw Cami and Cassi edging closer to Rachel, their hands out, whether in defense or in an attempt to be soothing.
“Rach, it’s okay,” Cami murmured behind us. “It’s no big deal.”
“Yeah, Rachel, who cares. It’s just Zane. It’s not like you wanted him.… Wait. Unless you did?” Cassi sounded confused and even spacier than normal, but volume certainly wasn’t an issue. Anyone at the party who hadn’t been clear on what was going on definitely knew now. Which only made things worse; the scattered whispers became more concentrated and mixed with giggles. People laughing at Rachel. Not good.
I closed my eyes for a second. Cassi, for the win.
I tugged at Ariane’s hand, urging her silently to hurry.
“Rachel, don’t!” Cami shouted.
Ariane stiffened next to me a split second before something slammed into the back of my knee, sending pain ricocheting upward through my thigh and knocking me off balance.
Reeling, I looked back in shock. A full beer bottle lay just behind me, spinning. And Rachel was digging into the cooler to reload.
“Rachel, what the hell are you—” I began.
She let fly, and I ducked instinctively. The bottle hit the deck, shattering this time, spraying beer and glass in a dozen different directions. The girls closest to me shrieked, their bare legs dotted with foam and speckles of glass. One of them stumbled back, bending down to clutch at her ankle, blood oozing from between her fingers.
Shit. This was getting out of control. I started toward Rachel, my knee screaming in protest.
“Rachel, stop,” Cami begged as Rachel dug into the cooler a third time, coming up double fisted, a bottle in each hand. Trey finally seemed to realize something was really wrong, and headed toward us. But he wasn’t going to get here fast enough.
Cassi reached in to grab Rachel’s hands, but Rachel shouldered her away, and Cassi’s feet tangled over the long cooler handle. She fell, her head hitting the edge of the hot tub with a sickening crack.
Everyone froze, horrified. Everyone except Rachel. She was tunnel-vision focused on me.
I never saw the last bottle coming. To be fair, I don’t think she was aiming it specifically for my head—she wasn’t really aiming anywhere, just chucking anything and everything she could reach in my general direction. And I was distracted, watching as Cami dropped to the ground next to her twin, her mouth a silent O of distress and shock.
The bottle struck the side of my face, opening a white-hot line of pain on my cheek. The world spun for a moment, giving me an odd view of Ariane. She was taller than me somehow. That was when I realized I’d fallen to my knees. Ariane was motionless, her strange eyes wide and fixed on my face. Then color rose through her pale face, and her mouth turned into a tight line.
“It’s okay. I’m fine,” I managed through numb lips. I wasn’t, though. I could feel warm blood trickling down my cheek and dripping off my jaw, and everything around me had taken on a strangely dreamy, distant feeling. Head injury. Concussion, maybe. Stitches, definitely. A voice in my head, logical and unmoved, cataloged my injuries.
People were starting to panic, the air filled with the scent of spilled blood and beer.
“Rachel, put it down!”
“Call 911! Cassi’s not waking up!”
“Shari’s bleeding!”
But Rachel, swaying unsteadily, ignored them, a bottle still in her hand. Her gaze narrowed in on Ariane, a new target now that I was down.
I looked up to tell Ariane to move, to run, knowing it was too late—but she was already in motion. Heading toward Rachel.
Rachel gave an enraged screech and threw the bottle at her.
“Rachel, no!” I flinched, anticipating the thump/shatter of the bottle connecting with Ariane and the ensuing cry of pain.
But instead I heard a collective gasp from the crowd.
Ariane was facing Rachel without fear, her palm out and up, as though defending herself. But the bottle, the one Rachel had hurled at Ariane, was hovering in midair, about six inches from Rachel’s hand, which was frozen in a throwing position.
“They want you to stop, Rachel,” Ariane said, her voice calm and matter-of-fact.
I shook my already wobbly head in disbelief, trying to clear the image. Getting hit with that bottle had done even more damage than I’d thought. No, wait, everyone else was staring, too, at the bottle fixed in space like it was some kind of freaky Criss Angel illusion.
Ariane remained impassive as Rachel tried desperately to lower her arm, struggling against some invisible force holding her in place. “How are you…what… Let go of me, you freak!” Rachel spat, confusion and fear taking precedence over anger.
A weird rippling sensation spread across my skin and made the hair on my arms stand up, and suddenly Rachel wasn’t moving at all anymore. Her eyes grew so wide I could see the whites of them from where I was.
“They told you to stop. But you just couldn’t resist making him bleed. Hurting innocent people for your own agenda,” Ariane said, advancing on Rachel, hatred pouring from every word. “Maybe you’d like to know what it feels like to be on the other side of that decision. Not that you’re innocent, of course.”
She moved closer. Rachel’s face turned red and then an alarming shade of purple. She clutched at the left side of her chest, giving a horrible-sounding gurgle that came from deep within her throat. And still Ariane approached, her hand out and steady, her steps calm and sure.
Ariane was doing this. Somehow. She was making this happen to Rachel.
Dark veins pulsed in Rachel’s forehead and throat as she fought to breathe.
I staggered to my feet. “Ariane.” I forced her name out, my voice cracked and rusty-sounding. But it was enough.
She started as if she’d completely forgotten my presence. As if maybe she’d forgotten everyone and everything but Rachel. The beer bottle dropped to the ground with a sudden thud. And Rachel fell to her hands and knees, coughing violently as she sucked in desperate breaths.
Ariane slowly turned to face me. The flush of anger had drained away, leaving her even paler than normal—almost gray—as she took in all the people watching.
Her throat worked like she was struggling to find words or she might be sick. She looked small and vulnerable, but there was also something completely unfamiliar about her. Something foreign and frightening.
She fixed a pleading gaze on me, and I looked away, my head spinning with everything I’d seen. Who was this girl? The same one I’d been kissing in my truck just last night? I couldn’t make my brain reconcile all the conflicting facts. The question circling my brain was the same one I’d had all along—who is Ariane Tucker? Only now it had a far more ominous tone to it, and I felt even less sure of the answer.
“I…I’m sorry,” she said to me in a choked voice. Then she turned and bolted for the stairs; and everyone, including me, let her go.