Rise at Twilight, Page 4

  He didn’t want to admit that he was ultimately as doomed to this fate as she was.

  When she admitted to not knowing life would go on after death, he felt as if his blackened heart shattered because he had had the same thought after stepping off that building almost a year prior. Even though he had used the magic to bond with Luna, he hadn’t expected it to work, and when it did, he had been just as resigned then as he was now.

  It didn’t make sense, and no, it wasn’t fair, but there was also nothing he could do about it. He sighed and relaxed onto the bed, gathering the girl beside him in his arms in the hope of derailing his own thoughts. He might be stuck in Purgatory without a clear understanding of what would come next, but at least he wasn't alone anymore.

  Chapter Seven

  THERE WERE BOTH benefits and weaknesses to being a Keeper.

  Max knew that just as he knew that could be true of any powers. Every possible power he could think of had a drawback. Mind reading? Super strength? Shapeshifting? Yep, they were all flawed.

  Being stronger than the average human left him weak in ways he never would’ve guessed, and he wished he didn’t have to be this person, to do this job anymore. There were days when he had to remind himself why he was. A box of pictures lie crammed under a pile of dirty clothes in the old shack that Max had called home since Chance had killed him.

  He hated the building, a tiny dilapidated thing with lead paint and stone walls. It was his nightmare, the place where all his pain had begun, so it made sense it would end there too. Max sat against the wall, staring at the red door. Sometimes, he allowed himself to add furniture to this place, but other times, he felt it was better to have it bare, empty, just as he felt inside.

  The latter emotion was what he felt today so nothing, but the stone walls and his own insanity, surrounded him. Frowning, Max cut a sideways glare at the pile of clothes and box of pictures underneath. He didn’t know what drew him to do so, but he pulled it out and set it on his lap. He breathed in, preparing himself to see the images inside though he had looked at them so much every detail of each picture was engraved in his mind.

  He was young in the picture, young enough that even though he was beginning to have the strong facial features of a man, he didn’t have any facial hair yet. He was smiling, arm slung around the boy beside him—a boy with blonde hair and blue eyes. The blonde wasn’t laughing like Max was, but he had the hint of a smile on his thin lips.

  There were a lot of pictures like that of them, varying in ages from little up to adolescence. Then the pictures stopped, and a handful of newspaper clippings filled the space instead. Those were what Max needed to keep going, the information of what had gone so wrong so that he would never allow something similar to happen again.

  This was his superhero weakness—his origin story. So, when the burning pain in his head came, he panicked at first, not knowing what to do, and dropped the handful of colorful images and newspaper stories back into the box. Blinking back the tears, he worked to hide the collection back under his old clothes, paranoid that he would die and the person who would find his body would also find the box.

  The pain drove deeper through his skull, like someone had shot him in the eye with a nail gun, and he started to panic as the last corner of the box slipped into place. Why was this happening? Had he done something wrong? Had someone done something to him?

  He didn’t know.

  Reaching up, his fingers clutched at the sides of his head, hands groping his temples as his skull throbbed like his brain was trying to explode. Just as suddenly as it had started, it was over, and he stared in a daze at the cement just above the door, trying to decide if that had really happened. Blinking back tears, he tried to use his telepathy to reach out to his partner.

  Did you feel that? he asked, instantly aware that the message went nowhere.

  His partner was gone.

  Chapter Eight

  CHANCE LEARNED THAT in death, Luna was as fitful of a sleeper as she had been in life. She tossed and turned a lot, whimpering and moaning when Chance accidentally trapped her arm against her body. The first time had been an accident, anyway, the second an experiment. Chance watched her struggles, wondering if the night terrors were his fault and if she was even aware she had them. It seemed ironic to still have a nightmare disorder when you were living your nightmare, but Luna’s entire life had consisted of some irony or the other.

  His cheek rested on the pillow as he watched her, wondering what images her mind conjured up during her fits and if he was ever involved. It would be hard to believe if he wasn’t—especially after the way she had looked at him earlier. He swallowed roughly, glad she was not awake to not see the pure anguish that must’ve flitted across his face.

  One time, Luna struck out, anger on her sleeping face until it dissolved to give way to tears that soaked the pillow beneath her and him. Not once did she wake. The range of emotion a sleeping girl could go through surprised him. She showed more of herself while asleep than he did when he was awake, and if he hadn’t been so concerned, he might’ve been fascinated by that idea.

  “Max,” she muttered, about an hour after the start of her fit.

  The fascination drained away as he tensed beside her, narrowing his eyes. He knew she was asleep, that possibly she had no control over what she said, but it enraged him just the same, flaring up the memories from earlier that day and how desperately she had wanted to see him.

  Chance couldn’t understand her connection to him. Sure, they had been friends for a long time, but there was a time when Chance and Max had been as well. Max could be just as shady as Chance himself, and he didn’t understand why Luna couldn’t see that. While all she wanted to see of Chance was his darkness, all she could see of Max was his light—the light that wasn’t really there.

  He ran his tongue along his teeth, unsure of how to get rid of his anger. His arms clutched tighter around the girl without his noticing. All he could think of was that he wanted to hurt someone—primarily Max—but couldn’t pull it off with Luna in the cabin. She’d either stop him or take the opportunity to slip away and never come back.

  While this might be Luna’s Purgatory, it was starting to feel like Chance’s Hell. He had his girl right here, in the place he had wanted her for years, but the fear that she would slip away kept him from enjoying any of it.

  How’s that for irony?

  Max hurt her time and time again, but Luna couldn’t—wouldn’t—let herself see that. Chance and Max had virtually the same crimes under their belts which meant Luna’s dislike wasn’t caused by that, but by him. But what about him in particular? Chance was comforted in the idea that appearance had nothing to do with it. It was his personality—it had to be.

  But which one?

  One thing was for sure, the rift caused by Max would separate them. He knew Luna’s quirks too well to let himself believe she would simply drop the subject just because he had told her ‘no.’ She’d find a way to do it anyway. The thought had him reaching for his dagger before he was even sure what he wanted to do with it.

  “You’re grinding your teeth,” Luna’s voice said softly, so quiet he barely heard her at first.

  When he glanced down, he realized Luna’s green eyes were open, and she stared at him, probing his eyes with hers for answers. He was silent, unsure of what to say. Normally, her beautiful eyes weakened his rage to nothing, but they did little to help this time. During his anger, he had found comfort in the idea that while she was asleep she wouldn’t see him once again stewing in his jealousy, but that hope was out the window now.

  She had caught him in a full-blown tantrum.

  “You’re angry,” she stated, blinking as she scooted subtly out of his grasp.

  The movement angered him even more. “You mentioned him. Again.”

  “While I was asleep?” Luna frowned, drawing her eyebrows together to form the slightest crinkle in her forehead. It didn’t look as if she remembered it, or Chance let himself believe t
hat anyway.

  He nodded, staring at the dark window on the other side of the room. For once, he didn’t want to look at her, didn’t want her to be here. His fingers stroked the metal of his dagger’s hilt, hidden in his pocket. Usually, it had a calming effect, but not now. It only further increased his aggravation knowing he didn’t have a target to sink it into.

  Well, he did, just not one he could get his hands on at the moment.

  “And that angers you?”

  Chance’s glare moved to rest on her. He said nothing. No words needed to be said.

  “You realize I have no control over that,” she said, swiping a lock of black hair behind her ear as she sat up to observe him.

  “I don’t know that for sure,” he grumbled, watching her from his peripheral vision. “In case you don’t remember, me and him are pretty adept at what we do.” Idly, he thought how badly he wanted to probe her dreams again like he had done years before. It was the only thing that would give him peace, to assure him that things were fine—or as fine as they could be anyway—but he couldn’t do that now that she was here. Whatever secrets she had locked in her mind, she would be able to keep them.

  “Well, you do now.”

  “Our conversation earlier, it’s still on your mind. You still have plans to talk to him,” Chance stated. It wasn’t a question because he didn’t need to ask, he just needed a reaction. Any little twitch of her lips or eyes would give him the answer he needed. Chance bit his tongue, holding everything to himself as he waited for her to speak.

  Luna didn’t reply. The look on her face reminded him of the stoic expression he had worn every time he had been interviewed by the cops—the one used to fool people, the one that hid guilt—and he hated it.

  Luna’s lips parted, as if she was about to speak, but suddenly, Chance no longer wanted to hear it. Without waiting, he shot out of bed, using his long legs to leave the room in three quick strides before she could make a sound. He didn’t want to hear the lame excuse she came up with…if she bothered to think one up at all.

  ***

  THE SMELL.

  That was probably the worst part of this entire situation to Cody. In his twenty-three years, he had done a lot, seen a lot, and thought about a lot, but sickness was not something he had had much experience with. So, when his Elder, Weston, the leader of his group, fell ill with some incurable sickness, Cody was the one tasked to watch over him.

  He wasn’t sure how the job had landed on him—there were so many older members of the group who had been in service for far longer than him. Maybe it was for all his dedication to the group or because Weston knew he could depend on him, Cody didn’t know. He should’ve been honored that of all the wayward souls in the group, he was the one who had been chosen. Part of him was, but the rest was mad.

  He didn’t want to do this, didn’t want to hear the old man vomit, to help him go to the bathroom, to help him eat. He sat for ninety percent of his day in one spot, just waiting for the old man to die. It was boring, certainly not what he had expected of his life when he joined the group years ago. Part of him wished Weston would die, and he even brainstormed the best ways to go about it—how much easier everything would be—but then the others would be lost. They had been to begin with in one way or another. That was why they were here, for guidance, for someone to tell them what they should do next.

  I could be a great leader, Cody mused but knew that because of his age most of the others would never listen to him.

  Maybe that was the true reason he was here, in this position that no one else wanted.

  The old man in the bed beside him smacked his lips, the sound louder and more exaggerated than it should’ve been. Cody sighed, wishing he would use words instead of gross noises for commands, and lifted the cup to the man’s mouth, watching as he took a feeble sip of water through a colorful bendy straw. Cody momentarily thought about jamming the straw as far down Weston’s throat as he could just to see if the old man would try to pull it out again.

  “Have you found Chance?” Weston rasped after he swallowed the water, staring up at Cody through black eyes.

  Cody scowled. Of all the things to ask, why had that been his question? When Cody first started the job of watching this man die, the silence had killed him, but now he realized it wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Talking was worse. Now that the question was out, he had to answer it, had to admit to his own failings, and that was something he didn’t want to do. Chance was a tough situation all around. He had been in and out of the group for years, rebelling whenever possible, then he had died. Physically at least. His girl had too, Cody was sure.

  “No,” Cody said honestly, setting the cup down on the table as an excuse to break eye contact. There was no use in lying so he didn’t try.

  “We’ll need that girl…to fix…to fix…” He started to cough, and Cody winced at the smell of the elderly man’s breath, fresh and full in his face.

  He was glad he hadn’t eaten earlier, or he would’ve thrown up. “I’ll do my best to find her,” Cody vowed and rose instantly to his feet to find some poor sap to take his place.

  Luna was easier to manage than Chance. While it was true he didn’t care for the girl—he hated her with a passion, matter of fact—almost anything was better than this.

  Chapter Nine

  LUNA KNEW THE moment she opened her eyes that things were going to be bad. Chance stared back at her, eyes smoldering, and she would bet money, if she had any, that their second encounter was bound to go as sour as the first had. What he felt was very clear—he was not to be messed with. The slight tug of his lip right at the corner reminded her of years before, the first time he had ever shown his true colors to her, and all this time later, it still frightened her. Even she knew better than to push him when he looked like that—bad things happened to the people who did.

  She didn’t know how to calm him down, if she could, and had no desire to try. Chance stormed out of the room a minute later, leaving Luna to her own devices. She debated whether she was relieved for less of an argument or sad for feeling so alone without him. She wanted to go back to sleep but knew that wouldn’t happen anytime soon. Sighing, she reached up to swipe her finger under her eye, wiping away all traces of her sleep and sadness.

  It didn’t matter exactly what she felt—they were all shades of the same misery. Wrapping her arms around herself, she stared into the shadows and thought about everything. She thought about Violet and Max, longing to see them again, but it wouldn’t be so easy. Even if she had lost her mind, she had made choices in that state that couldn’t be undone. It wouldn’t surprise her to know they weren’t sure of her, and if she was being honest, she wasn’t too sure of them either.

  All of them had lied to her. Luna had to bite her lip to keep it from quivering at the thought of just how bad Max had fooled her with his lies. Luna had so many questions for him, so many questions about the information he had not been willing to cough up until after his death, but getting straight answers out of him wouldn’t be easy. Not only would getting past Chance to leave the cabin prove difficult but deciding what she would say to Max if she did ever see him again was just as, if not more than, a harder to achieve goal.

  Is it even worth it? she wondered.

  She narrowed her eyes, trying to hold in her tears. Why was she sad for losing the life she had had? It hadn’t been worth living—she had told herself that many times toward the end—and yet, now she found herself looking for ways to make all the things she had given up on worth her while.

  It wouldn’t be easy, just as it wouldn’t be easy to define the relationship between her and Chance.

  Oh God, is that what it is now? she thought to herself. A relationship?

  Luna buried her face in her hands once again, wishing things made sense. In every fantasy book she had ever read, a mystical being would appear from nowhere to explain the circumstances of the main character’s situation when they were at their lowest. As she sat there in the dark o
f Chance’s bedroom, she wondered where her mystic being was and if he had gotten lost in transit. Or worse, maybe he had decided not to come because even he knew she was a lost cause.

  A nagging question lurked in the depths of her mind—what would happen if she died again in this place? If she were to cut open her wrist and bleed out into the bathtub would she go somewhere else or remain in this place, forever bleeding?

  Luna’s eyes dropped to the two ragged scars on her bronze thigh, the ones she had given to herself, before she held out her arm and traced her fingers along the smooth unmarked skin on her wrist. She’d be lying if she said her curiosity wasn’t piqued at the idea.

  Stop it, she said, and balled her hands into fists, pressing them against her temples.

  She needed a distraction. She already knew from experience how toxic her own thoughts could be if she allowed them to poison her. Frowning, Luna climbed off the bed, heading for the bathroom. She closed her eyes, searching for a happy place that didn’t exist, before she closed the bathroom door. In the dream cycle, this was a room she had never been in.

  She glanced around at every detail—the contrast of the dark brown walls to the white sink, bathtub, and toilet. There was a small mirror perched above the sink, but not much more than that. On the edges of the bathtub, there was a variety of soaps and shampoos, half hidden by the red shower curtain. Luna shivered at the striking color and pushed it aside to turn the knob, starting the shower with a spray of water.

  Luna let her fingers dip into it, testing the temperature, before she stripped off Chance’ shirt along with her own clothes. It didn’t feel right, to be standing in Chance’s bathroom, completely naked, but this was her afterlife, her Hell. When she opened her eyes, they studied the ugly scars on her legs again and the thought of cutting her wrist returned to her followed by a new one—if the scars stayed on her thighs, was there a mark on her throat? She ran to the mirror, hands clutching the edge of the sink desperately for balance as she stared at her reflection. A thick ugly, pink line ran neatly from one side of her throat to the other—confirmation that her death had been real.