Heartless (The Heartless Series) (12 page)

"Who are you?" I ask again. "Why should I believe you?"

Lucien takes a big deep breath and leans back in the booth like he's weighing his options. If it were up to me, he'd have no options. I wish someone would tell me the damn truth. "I'm Lucien."

"I know that--"

"I'm not finished."

From his tone, I shut up right quick.

"My name is Lucien. I don't remember my last name or if I ever had one. I've been around longer than you can imagine. I've fought Hart more than once. I've won every time. Every single one. So when I tell you to trust me, you should. I'm going to win because this is the most important battle I've ever had with him. I know you don't understand. But you will." He takes my hand and stares at where Hart had stabbed me. "I'm just sorry it's gone this far. Changed you so much."

"What. Are. You?" I grit through my teeth. I need him to say it.

Lucien takes a deep breath and stares into my eyes. I don't feel warm anymore, even though I want to so badly. "Gracen, I'm an angel."

"An angel." Well, I can't say I saw that coming. "Like… touched by… or Castiel… or Clarence… or playing harps. From Heaven? You're an angel? From Heaven. Here to save me?" Makes as much sense as anything, seeing as nothing is making sense. My brain has short-circuited. That's it. That's what happened.

"No. I mean, yes, I'm an angel of the Lord. But no, I'm not here to save you. Not exactly. I'm sorry."

"But you said…" Didn't he say?

"I will do my best to protect you. That's a fact. But it isn't my big mission. What Hart is doing, the signs, this is the big time, sister. Big and bad and scary."

"Then what are you here for exactly?" I'd rather him be there to protect me, truth be told.

"I'm here to kill Hart. To send him to Hell once and for all."

"What's…" The words won't come out. I've totally forgotten about the diner and the other people. I don't even notice them. "What's the big and bad and scary?"

Lucien focuses on my hand and grips it tighter. His voice is thick. "You."

Chapter Thirteen

I
GET HOME A LITTLE AFTER FOUR.

You…. you… you…

After Lucien dropped his bombshell on me, he disappeared. Just up and poofed away. Not ran out the door. Not didn't wait for me to say bye. Like literally disappeared. I waited a good ten minutes, while drinking my cold coffee, before I got up the courage to pay my small bill. While clanking on the ole cash register I didn't know even still existed, the waitress kept eyeballing me. Yeah, I'd been acting weird, even weird for middle of the night coffee drinkers in an all night dive, but still. She didn't have to stare. I had enough going on.

Once I'm home, I shut the door quietly and listen for Sam.

Nothing.

I creep upstairs, trying not to make a sound. I can't imagine what he'll think if he notices I've been gone that long. He'll probably think I was with another man. Yeah right. Like anybody else would want me.

I could tell him the truth, that I'd been gettin' friendly with an invisible angel named Lucien. That would go over well.

At the top of the stairs, I get really still and listen for any sort of snoring, breathing, or other noises coming from Sam's room. He's usually a pretty loud sleeper. Part of the reason I like not sleeping in the same room with him. Hey, I have to take whatever good I can find here.

When I don't hear anything, I go down the hall and push open his door. Sure enough. Bed's empty.

That isn't like Sam. I wonder if he's gone out looking for me, which would be sort of sweet actually. I pull out my phone and nothing. No calls. No texts.

So where is he?

I decide I don't have the strength to care. I throw off my old clothes and put on my pajamas. My bed looks like the Black Death to me, so I decide I'd rather go downstairs and welcome the new day on the couch with a drink in my hand and the news on my television.

Seems like a good plan.

I go downstairs, not even trying to be quiet. It's actually the first time I've been in the house and not had to worry about Sam. It's kinda nice being alone. To go from an only child to cohabitation is hard. I'm sure I'll get the hang of it, but dang.

The fridge calls my name, and I head into the kitchen to find something to calm my nerves. I know I shouldn't. I'm eighteen after all, and it's a big no-no. Then again, I can't say I care. It's not like I haven't drunk Sam's wine before. He likes to give it to me, to calm my nerves. And, believe it or not, it does. I never thought I'd like wine. The only wine I'd ever tasted before then had been white and, quite frankly, nasty. This wine was, firstly, red. I'm sure that makes a difference. And it's awesome. It makes my muscles relax in ways I can't describe. And the taste. I never thought I'd like the taste of alcohol. I like this. It has a different taste, sure not like that white wine.

I pour myself a more than generous glass and head to the living room where I plop myself on the couch, turn on the local news, and start sipping.

The girl is dead.

I didn't stop it. Didn't know where to look to stop it.

But I see her face on the news. It isn't even the top story. Not even the second. I guess a dead girl doesn't rank high on the importance chart with the president coming to town and the new plant opening across the river. Priorities and all.

She's the tenth story of the morning, right before the weather. Meg Dawson. Dead. Heart ripped out. Closed room. No apparent break in.

The police think it's a suicide. Probably a weird X-files suicide, but a suicide nonetheless. The police don't always have the most open minds. I wonder if they'll come and talk to me about her? I wouldn't put it past them. Then what? What am I going to say?

Someone killed Meg. Someone who can get in through locked doors, walls, and whatever else.

I sit.

I drink.

I start feeling better about life.

By the time I've found the bottom of my glass, my bones don't feel as cold, and I feel better about things. I must be a happy drunk. Except, I don't feel buzzed, not buzzed drunk. I just feel, I don't know, slightly normal?

I go through my day like nothing is wrong. I smile, or try to smile, at the appropriate times. I make it home. I make supper. Sam doesn't come home to eat. He hasn't called or texted all day. It's weird, but I figure he's just mad at me. It wouldn't be out of the realm of possibility. He's done it before. He didn't come home that night a week ago when the nightmares started again. I could've really used him then. I mean, he was with me when it started. I'd fallen asleep on the couch. When I woke up screaming, he was there. Then, Sam just left. Didn't say a word. Just walked out the door. It took a good two hours for my body to stop shaking and the tears to dry up.

I hadn't missed Hart. Not at all… but he sure seemed to miss me.

Maybe an hour or two of sleep won't kill me, pun intended, before class. I feel ancient as I climb up the stairs to get ready for bed. Part of me, a massively huge part, doesn't want to go to sleep. I don't want to dream. He'll be there. And probably some girl who will end up dead by tomorrow night. I won't be able to save her. I just won't . I'll try, or I hope I'll try. Am I really trying hard enough to save them? Or am I wallowing too much in my own mental breakdown?

I know the answer, and I hate it. I could've tried harder to save the girl. If I'm having dreams about their death, that means someone, or something, wants me to know. Wants me to stop it, right?

The water I splash on my face cools my already chilly skin, and I look at myself in the mirror. My eyes are black, and the area under them is blue. Dark, sunken, sickly. And the grays in my hair! Good Lord. The grays are getting grayer, and my blond hair is getting darker. I don't look well. "Nothing a good night's sleep won't fix." I smirk at my reflection because I've been reduced to talking to myself.

I brush my teeth and walk down the hallway. The cold hardwood makes me long for my house shoes. Where did I leave them? Heck if I remember.

I get to my room, and though I usually sleep with the door open, I shut it. And I lock it. With a big deep breath, I make my way to the covers and crawl underneath. I turn the lamp on next to my bed. When I wake up, I'll need the light. I'll need something to cling to before the darkness takes me away for good.

I didn't take my medicine tonight. None of it. I want to see what happens when I don't. Stupid? Maybe. Okay, more than maybe. I need it. I don't need to just up and stop, but I can't make myself care. I drank two glasses of awesomely full glasses of Sam's wine. That'll have to do until morning.

I'm turning into a drunkard…

Again, I really don't care.

Two people are dead.

No, I didn't know either of them, but I could've stopped it. There's a reason I've seen them, and I need to know what it is. Lucien would probably know. Being an angel and all, not that it's easy to wrap my head around. But I have no idea where to find him. And I'm too tired to look. I know exactly where Hart is, or where he will be. I know how to get answers.

So…

I snuggle down in the covers.

I hug my little stuffed bunny I've had since I was born.

I relax my shoulders.

I close my eyes.

And before sleep can take me away, the pain hits.

I've never felt this kind of pain, not in real life. The only other time I've ever felt anything like this was with Hart on the rack. But this… Oh God! My head feels like something is trying to get out from the inside. It's pounding like a heartbeat. Fast, painful. My eyes are going to jump out of my head. I know they are.

My hands automatically go to my ears. Why? I'm not sure. Probably to stop the ringing. Like an incredibly dialed up television emergency test pattern. I squint my eyes shut, and I hear myself scream. And I hear
her
screaming. I see her. In my mind, I see her. A girl. About my age. Blond with purple streaks in her hair. She's alone in her apartment. The windows and doors are locked. But she's screaming. Her back is to the wall. Her hands are wrapped around her own neck. And her feet are inches off the ground.

I don't know her. Never seen her before, but I can feel her pain.

"Stop it!" I scream. Is she doing this to herself? No, she can't be. She's freakin' floating! I look around the room to find something to help her. Something to make whatever it is leave her alone. There are pictures of her family, of her, a woman, an older man I figure is her father in a frame on the table.

Not a hotel

Not an apartment.

A dorm room.

She's in a freakin' dorm room.

"Stop!" I scream louder as the smell of iron fills my nose. I can't move. I can't stop the pounding of my head or the shrill siren assaulting my ears. The girl, Shelley, based on the name I see on her picture frame, looks right at me. Her eyes are bloodshot. Red drips down the crease in her lips. She keeps her eyes locked on mine.

"Why?" Her hoarse voice barely makes it to me. She's staring at me like I'm the one hurting her. Like it's me.

"I'm sorry," I say, tears rolling down my cheeks. Something is holding me back. Something that won't let me move.

The clock on the wall says 11:59. It is dark outside. I can't help her. I can't save her.

I can't move.

Tears roll down her cheeks as she fights off the invisible hands holding her throat.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, fighting to move toward her. If I can just get to her, I can help her. I can save her. A hand, my hand, reaches toward her. I can see it even though I can't stop it. My fingers tighten like I'm gripping something hard, but I'm not. I'm not touching her. When my fingers tighten, her face contorts like whatever is squeezing her neck is getting tighter.

Her eyes roll back in her head, and her body raises up until the top of her head touches the ceiling. She coughs up blood. My wrist finches. Then, just like that, her neck snaps, her chest bursts open, and she falls. I don't see her hit the floor. I'm too busy kneeling on mine.

The headache lessens, and I try to get out of the bed. The smell of iron still burns my nose. I try again to put my feet on the floor and, after a few attempts, do. I sit on the side of the bed and try to calm down. What just happened? I'd never had anything happen like that to me before. Not exactly. Not really. Hart made me see things in my dreams sometimes, but they never were real. Never like this.

Never.

My stomach hurts so badly I'm afraid I'm going to throw up. So, I unlock my door and run toward the bathroom. The light is on, and I know for sure I'd turned it off before. Hadn't I? Could I really trust anything I'd seen or said or thought I'd done lately?

I fall on the sink and throw water on my face to make the sick feeling go away. When I look into the basin, it's swimming in red.

Automatically, my head jerks toward the mirror, and sure enough, my nose is bleeding. That's why I'd smelled blood.

Why had I smelled it in the dream? Or, rather the nightmare or vision or whatever it was. God no. No. It wasn't a vision. There's no way I'm seeing actual visions when I'm awake. I can—I do—accept a lot of things in the world, but not this.

I grab a white washcloth from the cabinet, wet it, and lay it on my forehead to calm down. I've got to calm down. I've got to think. Freaking out won't help anybody. It won't help me. It won't help the girl.

The girl…

Yeah, the other two girls were sad and horrible, and I feel bad about not being able to save them. But as much as I thought I did, I didn't entirely think of them as real. They were already dead. I couldn't save them. Not this girl. Shelley. She seemed different. It was like I was getting the visions sooner with her. Like I had a chance to save her.

That would require one important thing. Something I hadn't entirely done until now. Oh, I said I did. I even thought I had, but now I realize I haven't. If I had, I would have tried harder to help Meg. I didn't want to believe. That had been my problem. I didn't what to think I'd actually seen something so horrible. That there might be something wrong with me that could let me see a murder before it happened. That I was any weirder than I already thought I was.