Heartless (The Heartless Series) (18 page)

"Ouch." He staggers back a little. Totally being overly dramatic. "Really, you wanna go there? The truth is, you miss me when I'm not around."

"Like a hole in the head. Like, hey, like you put in my actual head every night so you can eat my freakin' brain!" You'd think that with the yelling, someone would turn around and see us. They don't.

Hart looks tired. "You still don't get it. You don't. Not at all. How did someone like you get into college? Do they just let anybody in these days? Back in my time, one actually had to have some sense about them to get higher education."

"Like you? Did you get a higher education before you turned into a demon?" I say it with bite and as much sarcasm as I can muster. If I don't make myself move, I'll be late for my appointment with Lucien. And I'll be late for work. My feet, however, still won't budge. It's like they are tied in place.

Have I mentioned I hate this?

Hart's dark eyes turn darker, and he glares at me. "Never got the chance to find out."

"You were… human?" Somehow I always pegged him for the born-that-way evil variety.

"Most demons were humans at one time. Demons and angels. All human… all with souls which used to live, breathe, hope, dream, have sex, cry, steal, kill, destroy, sin, love, and do whatever else humans do, well, maybe not all of them, but a good many of them. If not in real life, then in their minds."

"Let me guess. The good ones go to Heaven and the bad ones—don't." I glare at him, knowing exactly how he must have been as a human. A serial killer, more than likely. At the very least an evil son of a bitch. Someone I wouldn't want to know. Someone who probably got shot in the back running, either from a bad poker game or from some married man's wife's bed.

I know Hart can read my mind. He's already proven it, so I expect something. A smile. A smirk. A dirty look. I get nothing. Nothing but the smallest hint of his nose flaring. In my experience with Sam, the less a man reacts, the worse it is. "Not exactly."

He looks me up and down, then starts pacing around me in a circle. I can't move. Can't follow him all the way, and it freaks me out—more than I already am. "You see, most people never really remember exactly how they die. It seems blurry, and they just sort of wake up. Disoriented. Scared."

I can't imagine Hart Blackwell scared.

"But not me. I fought to remember. You have no idea how much I fought… No matter what
she
did, I held on…" He pauses and his eyes meet mine like he remembers I'm there. "I remember it. I remember dying. I woke up on the battlefield."

"Battlefield?"

"Stones River."

I remember that name from the book Professor Mitchell left for me. "The Civil War."

"The Civil War." He keeps right on pacing. "Such a neat name for such an ugly thing. I fought for the South. My older brother—my only brother—fought for the North. We met. He shot. I died."

"He must have had his reasons?" I probably don't sound like the most sympathetic person ever. Do you blame me? He has tortured me every night for the past—forever—and I really don't feel like wasting any sort of sympathy on him.

"I'm not asking for your sympathy." He snaps. "I'm simply telling you the facts. The facts are that my brother shot me. Dead. My older brother who was supposed to protect me. The one who promised our father that he'd take care of me. He's the one who, gah, it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter what he promised; when push came to shove, he let me down. He let me die."

"That's horrible." I mean it. It does sound like an incredibly sad thing to happen. I can't imagine doing that to someone I loved. I don't have any brothers or sisters, but I can't imagine killing them. Even if for some reason I had to. I can't believe that I'd ever kill them. "You said you remember it. After all this time?"

His lips twitch, and he pulls out a piece of paper from his shirt pocket. I can't see it, but it looks like old photo paper to me. I've seen something like that before, or I think I have. Have I? Either way, Hart stares down at it and seems a million miles and a few centuries away. "I remember the fight. I remember the smells. It was, well, if you think what I do to you every night is bad, imagine how much worse it could've been. It was Hell. Trust me, I've been there. That morning, I went to warn my brother. I'd heard his unit would be at Stones River, and I wanted to warn him about some orders we had. So I broke ranks, and I ran."

Hart Blackwell. A good guy…

"I remember shouting. Loud shouting. Running toward me. There was cannons flying, smoke everywhere… screams of people dying. I couldn't make out any words. I just focused on running and finding my brother."

For the first time since I've known Hart, I actually see him like a person. I stop trying to move and focus on his story.

"It was… him. My brother. I heard him yelling at me, running toward me. I saw him. Then I felt the pain. It was like this white hot pain shooting through me. Through my stomach. Through my back. And I just fell."

"I saw his face. At first I couldn't believe he was actually there with me. It's sort of good not to die alone. It seems weird to be on a battlefield with thousands of men, most dropping dead. Like flies. Like they didn't matter. Who cared who they left behind, right? Who cared if they had a girl or kids? They were bodies, now. Unimportant things littering a little piece of land. The same piece of land we all got buried under eventually. They were nothing. It was like they never mattered. And I was one of them. Only I had my brother with me."

"What happened?"

Hart puts the old photograph back in his pocket and clears his throat. He shifts from one foot to the other, and there's a second where he doesn't talk. Like he's trying to think about what he wants to say. All the while, I start getting a bit of a pain in my stomach. Not bad. Not at first.

Hart begins rubbing his hands together. Not in an evil villain way, but in an I-have-to-calm-himself-down way. He rubs his thumb over his palm, and it looks like he's adding pressure. I do something similar when I'm stressed. I press my thumbnail as hard as I can into the meaty part of my middle finger to calm down. It seems to work. It's strange to see a demon trying to calm down. Seems a bit… odd.

"Then I saw his hand. His gun. His pistol was drawn. I looked down, and though my eyes were getting foggy and were hard to see out of, I saw it. And I knew. Just like that. I knew. Like a light bulb went off in my brain. And a little voice whispered in my ear, 'It was him.'"

He snaps his fingers. "Just like that, I knew. My brother. My older brother. The one who was supposed to protect me had shot me. I held out my hand and saw the blood. My stomach felt like—there aren't words for what it's like to see your insides on your outsides."

"I know the feeling." I say because I do. "You make me feel it every night." I grit the words through my teeth because I hate him. I can't help it. I do feel bad for him. I do. But I can't look past what he's done to me.

"Anyway," he shrugs. "I couldn't let him get away with it. He was my brother after all. We were supposed to go through life together. I figured that meant death too. After all, he shot me. It was only polite to return the favor."

"You shot your own brother." It isn't a question. I can tell by the look in his eyes that he did.

Hart smirks, but I can see the pain in his eyes. This Devil-may-care attitude where is brother is concerned is all an act. "He was all bent down trying to save me. Acting for everybody around like he cared. So they wouldn't know he killed his own family in cold blood. And I didn't even know why. We hadn't left on good terms, but to shoot me, to kill me. So I raised my pistol, and while I still had air in my lungs, God help me, I pulled the trigger. He fell over. And I died. One minute I was on the battlefield. The next… the next I'm not. And I sure as Hell, literally speaking, ain't in Heaven. I wake up in pain. In the most severe pain I'd ever been in in my life. You can't possibly imagine Hell. You can't imagine the sounds or the smells. And I knew I didn't deserve to be there."

"You killed your brother."

"He killed me first!" He yells. "And do you know where he was? Not with me! Not down there in the pit. I heard from one of the fallen angels that he was in Heaven. In Heaven! He shot me, and he was in Heaven."

Hart shakes his head and grunts. He pops his neck, and I can tell he's trying to keep from exploding. I appreciate that. "Most demons aren't born demons, sweetheart. We aren't just spawned out of hellfire. Every demon ever made has been a human soul at one time. Hell doesn't make all souls demons. Only those who wish for a higher purpose. Only those who… you know, it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter. I'm not the bad guy here, angel. I'm not. I'm just doing my job. And right now my job is you. Nothing personal."

Nothing personal. Oh yeah. Nothing personal. Nothing personal, my foot. It sure feels a heck of a lot personal to me.

While I appreciate him actually talking to me and telling me stuff, I can't just listen to one sob story and be his best friend.

"I'm not asking you to be my friend. I don't need any friends. I'm explaining this to you because…"

"Because why?"

He rakes his hands through his hair. I've never seen him frustrated before now. He looks incredibly human. Funny how he's scarier as a human than he's ever been as a demon. Sad commentary on humanity I suppose.

"I don't know because. Because I think you should know. I think you should know my side of things before you go running to the angel and be brainwashed into his way of thinking. Because I've been with you for a long time and, I…"

"You what? You… care?" I laugh. I can't help it. It bubbles up. When I raise my hand to cover my mouth, it won't move. My stomach is hurting worse. I look up at Hart, questioning. We're all alone now. No people walking to class. No birds chirping. No wind. No sun. Only shadows and campus buildings.

He flinches, hesitates, then stalks toward me. "I don't give a rat's ass what you think about me. What I care about…"

I nearly double over in pain. It feels like knives are stabbing me. They can't be, though. Hart isn't anywhere near me. I'm dying. That's the only explanation. I'm dying.

"What I care about is the angel. I care about making him pay. I care about making him pay and you, my dear, are the key to getting my ultimate payment."

I want to ask a question because right now seems like the best time to actually ask one, but I can't. My stomach hurts so much. Tears roll down my face and my legs give out on me. Hart catches me before I fall and rakes my hair behind my ear. "You know, the angel was right about one thing. I can't fully interact with you in my most handsome form to you unless you are asleep."

What?

The pain pulses through me, and my eyes squeeze shut. Hart hangs on to my shoulders to keep me upright. Or so I think. I open my eyes, and I'm on the table. Naked. The straps cover me in all the same places. Hart is next to me. His hand is on the knife. The knife is sticking out of my stomach. "Or if I possess you. Or someone you love. Maybe even someone you live with."

He pulls the knife out and licks off the blood. "Can't eat your heart, love. You don't have one. Too black. No soul."

He lets the blood drip into his mouth, and all I can do is watch. "You know I'm right. You know deep down what you are… what you're capable of. All that rage. Hidden. Buried. It has to come out sometime. Can't keep that much power bottled up inside. It'll drive you crazy."

Hart stabs the knife into my stomach again and I scream.

I wake myself up screaming. I'm in my room. The curtains are drawn. I'm sitting with my knees drawn up to my chest. The hall light is on. My room looks exactly the same.

The clock says 5:47.

Thursday morning.

It had been a dream!

All a stupid dream!

I'd never woken up. Never went looking for Sam. Never got ready and went to see Lucien. Never! It had all been a dream. A stupid dream within a dream. Was this Hart's new thing? To taunt me like this because I can't take it! If this is the new thing… Wait.

I pull out my laptop and open it up. I have a message from Tina. Different from the one I had in dream world. I don't answer it because I just don't. I scroll down the page and get to the news site. Nothing about Madison. Nothing at all!

She's not dead. It was all part of the dream. Madison isn't dead, and I have a chance to save her.

I have to save her.

I jump out of bed and throw on black pants and a black shirt. I brush my teeth quickly and run down stairs. Sam's not there. I didn't expect him to be. I can't think about him now. There are more important things to think about. On my way out the door, I pull out my cell and call Madison. If I can call her, I can warn her. Not sure exactly what I'm going to tell her. It isn't like I can just blurt out, "Hey, I had this vision that you die, so you know, and I'm warning you. I'd stay home and not answer your phone today…good… thanks."

There's no answer.

I swear under my breath and start running down the sidewalk toward the dorms. I know she lives in one of them. Smith Hall… maybe? The same one as Shelley. That would be horrible. The police would really love me then.

Doesn't matter. Madison is what matters.

I call again. My legs already aching from being tired. I slept, but it doesn't mean I rested. None at all. My mind is screaming at me to slow down. I won't listen.

It rings again, and I'm just about to hang up, when the dial tone stops. "Madison!" I yell, picking up my pace. "Madison, I can't explain it. I'm sorry, but I can't. But you need to lock your door and stay in your room today. I know it's a stupid request. You need to trust me. Please. I'll be there in a minute."

"Sorry, sweetheart. She's already dead."

Click.

I stop running.

My stomach knots, and I can't focus.

My world spins around.

I know it's too late.

I know those words.

Hart.

I know that voice.

Sam.

Chapter Twenty-One