Envy (Fury) (36 page)

•  •  •

As the policeman led her to the ambulance, Em babbled uncontrollably. “I . . . I don’t know what happened. Drea set the fire. I didn’t know what was going on . . . and then I woke up and she was lying there, and . . .” She dissolved into sobs. She couldn’t stop shivering.

Two EMTs helped her climb into the ambulance. They were
taking her to the hospital. Something about smoke inhalation and shock.

“She . . . she tried to
kill
me . . . ,” Em stammered.

“Shh. It’s going to be okay,” JD said soothingly. “I’ll be there at the hospital. I’ll see you soon. I’ve got you.”

All she could think was,
Drea tried to kill me. And now Drea is dead.

•  •  •

The tears burned and her body ached. Her friend was dead, the only casualty of what newscasters would refer to as “another troubled youth’s cry for help.” Just a few hours later Em was at home in her bedroom, unable to sleep, unable to move, her face pinned to a pillow that was soaked with her tears.

She had been released from the hospital into her parents’ care—miraculously, the doctors said, she had suffered almost no injuries. The smoke hadn’t done any significant damage; she’d suffered no bruises or scrapes. Still, it had taken forever to get her parents to stop fussing over her, asking for extra tests, pain medication “just in case,” the works.

Even if they showed up on no scans, Em knew her wounds were there. Drea, JD, Gabby, Skylar, the fire . . . Like bare feet pounding hot asphalt, these thoughts sent tremors of pain all through her body. She blamed herself. If she and Drea had been honest with each other about their motivations and plans, if they’d been more in sync, tonight would have gone much
differently. Drea had only been trying to help. To save her. And Em had failed to save Drea.

So instead of trying to sleep, as her parents were doing right down the hall, Em was curled up in an oversized T-shirt with her journal. She’d frozen when she’d come to a page on which she’d marked Ty’s words to her from a few days ago:
We aren’t so different, you and I.

Rap-tap-tap.
A tapping at her bedroom window made Em spring to her feet. It was Ty. Or Ali. Or Meg. Tonight had come to no resolution; Em now knew her battle was far from over.

But no. It was only Crow. He must have hauled himself up onto the roof of the screened-in porch and made his way to her bedroom window. She felt a moment of fear, but it was followed quickly by relief. Crow might be insane, but Em trusted him, somehow.

He motioned urgently for her to let him in, and she did. There was a blast of cold air when she opened the window, and she could smell smoke—whether the wind carried it through the air or Crow carried it on his clothes, she didn’t know. His eyes didn’t have that faraway look, as they often did. They studied her deeply. He looked like crap, really—all pale and cold, with just a flannel shirt over his gray henley. His black boots were covered in ash, and his face was smudged, as though he’d been running sooty fingers around his eyes.

Em backed away from him, letting him climb in the window
but not making any move to help him. Having him in her room made her feel vulnerable, exposed. “Where did you go tonight?” she whispered, not bothering to ask what he wanted from her.

He didn’t answer right away. Em watched him pace in front of the window for several seconds before he blurted out, “Remember when I told you to stay away from me?”

Em nodded, frightened by his wildness and his intensity. Maybe, she thought, she was wrong to let him in the house, in her bedroom. He cleared his throat. “I told you that because I care about you. I wanted you to be safe. And I’m dangerous. I’m—I’m bad luck.”

She still hadn’t sat down. She pulled at the bottom of her shirt, trying to cover herself more. She waited for him to say more.

“My whole life has been haunted by terrible luck—like I’m cursed, or something,” Crow said. She could see that his knuckles were white as he clenched them around the edge of her desk. Part of her wanted to reach out, touch him, rub his shoulders. But she refrained. “I always seem to be around when bad things happen. And the worst part is, I
sense
it. Beforehand. I know that sounds crazy, but it’s true. It’s like I know when bad stuff is coming.”

“So you knew something was going to happen tonight?” Em asked, her voice husky from the tears.

“I know it’s
still
coming,” Crow said, nodding gravely. “That was just the opening act.”

“What do you mean?” Em demanded, fear tickling icy fingers down her neck. “What’s next?”

“It doesn’t work that way,” he said. “I never get a clear vision. I just . . . I
feel
it. Something is going to happen to you. Something bad
is
happening to you right now.”

She was silent. She knew Crow was right. She had known it for a long time.

“You have to let me help you,” Crow continued. His voice rose and he stepped toward her. She could feel heat radiating from his body. “I tried to ask Drea, and she told me something . . . I didn’t fully understand. I still don’t. But I know it’s why she was so obsessed with the idea of fire, with this exorcism she was planning for tonight.”

“Exorcism? What do you mean?” Em’s voice was a raspy whisper. For a second Crow didn’t answer, and Em raised her voice. “What did she tell you, Crow?”

He sighed and sagged down onto her bed. “She said you had to be saved. She thought she was doing the right thing. But she didn’t want to kill you. That was never her intention. . . .”

Tears pricked her eyes. “Crow, what are you talking about?” She sat down next to him, mostly because she felt she didn’t have the strength to stand anymore.

He sighed, looking down at the carpet. “You two were looking for a banishment ritual, but it wasn’t as simple as that. She didn’t tell you the whole truth.”

“So she wasn’t trying to kill the Furies tonight?” Em asked skeptically. Crow shook his head, refusing to meet her eyes. Em felt a growing sense of frustration. “So if she wasn’t exorcising the Furies from Ascension, what was the exorcism for?” But even as she asked, the idea was skirting the edges of her consciousness. She recalled lunging for Ty and hitting a mirror. . . .

“You.” The word came from Crow’s mouth softly. Like snow. Like deadly, burying, avalanche-inducing snow. “Drea said . . . she was trying to get it out of you.”

“Get
what
out of me?” Em demanded, although the answer was there, unable to be denied, like boils on her perfect skin. She’d swallowed the seeds. She heard Ty’s pronouncement:
They will bind you to us forever
. Most of all, she felt the blackness and the hatred inside of her. She knew what Crow meant. But she needed him to say it out loud.

And then he did.

“The Furies,” Crow said quietly. “You’re becoming one of them.”

To Lauren Oliver and Lexa Hillyer: I am full of respect and gratitude for both of you.

To Jen Klonsky: Thanks for your keen editorial guidance (and the kitten video).

To everyone at Simon & Schuster, especially Paul Crichton, Siena Konscol, Anna McKean, Dawn Ryan, and Carolyn Swerdloff; Michelle Blackwell, Maylene Loveland, and all at S&S Canada; Katheryn McKenna and the S&S UK team; Paper Lantern Lit–ers; Stephen Barbara and Foundry Literary + Media; and Stephen Moore at Paul Kohner, Inc.: You take great care of me and my books. I appreciate it.

To Jeff Inglis and Lorem Ipsums: Thanks for helping me exercise other parts of my brain.

To Mom and Dad, Aunt Madeline, the Brownings, the Reichers, the Cullens, the Finnertys, the Pintos, the Adamses, and Carolyn and Kasey McDonough: Hooray for a terrific family!

To Laura, Laura, Jackie, Dafna, Maggie, and Sonya: Let’s go eat some pineapple pizza with baby animals on the Fourth of July and talk about how much we love each other. (Chris and Nick, you can come too.)

And to Keagan: I used to think a guy like JD was too good to be true. Then I met you.

ALSO BY ELIZABETH MILES

F
U
RY

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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First Simon Pulse hardcover edition September 2012

Copyright © 2012 by Paper Lantern Lit

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