Rage (4 page)

Back in her room, now clean and toweled dry, she stood in her full-length bathrobe, staring at the spot on her bed where Graygirl had always been. If Missy turned, she knew she'd still see the cat sprawled in her usual place near the footboard, eyes closed and mouth pulled in a secretive feline smile, purring her contentment.

At the end, all she'd been was flesh and bones.

Blinking away sudden tears, Missy tore through her closet. Tops and skirts and pants, all imperfect and wrong. She had nothing to wear. Her clothing was flawed.

Her life was flawed.

She sank to her knees, hugging herself tightly. Buried at the bottom of her closet, her lockbox beckoned with promises of razor-sharp kisses, whispering that she could bleed out the badness.

Then his voice, Adam's voice, condemning her and branding her:
Freak.

She rocked, gripping her elbows and worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.
I don't need the blade,
she told herself.
I don't.

Please, God. I don't.

***

Sequestered on the top shelf of the closet, a white tie box waited patiently.

***

Outside the Miller house, a pale horse and a black horse stood side by side, eating the grass. The black horse ate as if starving, and the pale horse ate to pass the time. Beneath their hooves, the lawn withered, parched and dying.

The Black Rider listened as Death sang and played his guitar, his long fingers moving easily over the instrument's neck. The music was soothing to Famine; it was a reminder of her previous life, which she'd so recently given up to wield the Scales. Though she was one to school her reactions quite carefully—all things must be measured and treasured, after all, and emotions were no exception—she allowed herself to enjoy the moment.

When the last notes faded into the evening, she said, "It's almost as if you're human."

Death winked at her. "Almost. Come to see if your influence had its desired effect?"

If she blushed, it was hidden beneath the shadow of her wide-brimmed hat. "Some of us aren't as patient as you."

"No one is as patient as me."

Famine saw the truth in that.

"You know," Death said, "the two previous Black Riders didn't get along with the Red."

She sniffed her disdain. "Probably because the previous War slaughtered one Famine and tried to do so to the other."

"Probably," Death agreed cheerfully. "It makes one wonder why you're so eager to see the Red seat filled once more."

Famine frowned at Death, and for a time she said nothing. Eventually she replied, "We need balance."

"Ah." A slow grin played over his face. "You do have an intimate understanding of the importance of balance, don't you?"

She, too, smiled—but hers was a quick thing, as if the notion of humor was fleeting. "You taught me well."

"Such flattery. One would think you want something."

In for a penny and all that. "Will you tell me if we must wait much longer?"

Death strummed a D chord thoughtfully before replying. " 'All it takes is one bad day to reduce the sanest man alive to lunacy.' "

The Black Rider arched a slender brow. "Nietzsche?"

"Moore." He strummed an A chord, followed by a G and another D. "Our girl's about to have a very bad day." With that, he began to play a song, and he lent his voice to the music.

Famine looked to the sky, but unlike the song, there was no bad moon rising—there was no moonlight at all tonight. Even so, Death's message was clear.

The girl would make her choice tonight.

The Black Rider nodded. As far as Red candidates went, the girl wasn't
that
bad. Maybe she'd make a good War.

And if not, Famine would just have to destroy her again.

Missy heard the party from halfway down the block. She figured it would be about two hours before the neighbors finally decided enough was enough and called the cops.

Plenty of time for her to go in, make the rounds, and get out. And if she didn't see Adam, so what? She could still tell him that she'd been there and too bad, so sad, guess he just didn't see her.

She gritted her teeth. No, she wouldn't tell him a damn thing. She wasn't talking to him. Wasn't texting him. Wasn't anything with him, ever again. She was nothing but a freak to him.

Looking hot under all the black.

Missy shuddered. Rubbing her arms did nothing to stop the chill, so she let the shudder take her, move through her until it passed. Its touch left her frozen inside, a bone-deep cold that iced over the glass jar of her heart.

She nodded grimly to herself. Much better.

As she walked the rest of the way to Kevin's house, Missy cemented her dead face until even thoughts of Adam couldn't crack it. She was girded for war: Her hair in its gelled points was set to Sharp; her makeup, from eyeliner to lipliner, was masklike perfection. Her outfit was black on black, slashed with red and bruised with indigo. Her velvet boots hinted at softness, which was belied by the gleaming silver buckles and stiletto heels.

Melissa Miller was untouchable.

She approached, weaving her way around a spill of people outside Kevin's house. They dotted the lawn like aphids, feeding on gossip, decimating reputations in their hunger for destruction. Posers, every single one of them. If any deigned to notice Missy, she ignored them. She was on a mission: Get in, get out. As long as she was seen, her job was done. The sounds of music and conversation drowned out the frantic beating of her heart.

She wasn't nervous, she told herself as she worked her way toward the front door. There was nothing to be nervous about. In and out. Done. A comment from Random Poser about how emos thought you cut the grass with razorblades ricocheted off her without a flinch.

She was marble; she was granite. Missy pushed forward.

The open door was barricaded by a huddle of jocks on the front stoop, all clutching plastic cups and talking too loudly, presumably to be heard over the pounding of music from inside the house. One of the Matts leered at her as she squeezed past. "Cutterslut's here," he said, his breath fetid with booze and hormones. The other jocks jeered, insulting her looks and intelligence even as she felt a hand slide over her ass.

She was ice. She was the queen of winter. Their opinions and groping hands meant nothing.

Once inside, her senses slammed into overload. Music first and foremost, stabbing her, vibrating along her teeth and threatening to pop an eardrum. Alcohol and sweat next, stinging her nostrils. And the people—everywhere she looked, teenagers were gathered, dancing and talking, drinking and scoping, making out in the corners and casting heated glances over shoulders. The air was thick with intention. It wasn't a party as much as it was a meat market. But then, no one really expected anything else. Going to parties junior year wasn't so much about having a social life as it was about progressing your love life.

Or about showing your ex just how fine you were without him.

Missy did a slow circuit, eyeballing groups as she sauntered by. There was Erica, clinging to another girl who looked just as desperate as Erica did: too wide-eyed, smiles too big, practically begging anyone and everyone to please come talk to them. Over by the stereo was Kevin himself, surrounded by a wall of hangers-on and wannabes. A few of the varsity soccer girls breezed past, nodding their hellos to Missy. She turned, opening her mouth to ask one of them (Jenny or Jenna or just Jen; the girl changed nicknames the way most people changed their underwear) where she got her fabulous shredded skirt, but by the time the words were on Missy's tongue, the girls were long gone.

She closed her mouth, setting it in a tight smile. Then she walked over to Erica, who looked like Missy had just saved her life. Erica showered Missy in gratitude, mostly in the form of poor attempts at scathing social commentary. Erica didn't have either the natural bitchiness or the learned comedic timing to make her snark do anything but backfire. Missy limited herself to monosyllabic replies. Neither Erica nor her equally insipid friend noticed Missy's lack of interest.

After a few agonizing minutes of strained conversation, Missy excused herself to get something to drink. Slowly—because God, the place was just that packed—she worked her way to the kitchen, which was even more infested with people than the living room. Of course; the booze was here. She avoided the oversize punchbowl, brimming with drunken orange slices gleaming wetly in a sea of artificial red. Scanning the cola choices, she grabbed a can of Cherry Coke and popped the top.

His voice, low and lush, by her ear: "Hey, you
did
show."

Missy took a slow, deliberate sip of cola before she turned to face Adam. He was looking lickably good, damn him, and from the sparkle in his eye, he knew it. Missy shrugged as if bored. "Decided to check it out."

"Because I'm here?"

"You wish."

He leaned in close. Missy smelled his cologne and, beneath that, a hint of sweat. It was a heady combination, something purely masculine that made her hormones sing, and she forced herself not to close her eyes and just breathe him in.

Adam said, "Maybe I do wish."

In its frozen prison, her heart thumped harder. He was lying. He had to be lying. She smiled, knowing he saw only her dead face and that he couldn't see, couldn't know, how a part of her still wished that he wasn't lying at all. "Maybe you're full of crap."

He clutched a hand to his chest. "Ouch," he said, winking.

Missy took in that wink, that knowing smile on his face, and all she could think was
He's a user he's a poser he called you a freak and told his friends about your scars.
She allowed herself a tiny smile—a dead smile, nothing more than a twitch of her lips. "If
that
hurt," she said sweetly, "I don't know how you get through football practice without running home crying to your mommy."

With those words, she pushed past him and left the kitchen.

She was floating, soaring. She'd spoken to Adam and hadn't died or melted or exploded. She hadn't made an idiot of herself. She'd held her own, and in public. She wanted to pump her fist in the air and cheer. Sipping her drink, Missy sauntered like a runway model, full of swagger, radiating confidence that bordered on smugness.

"Hey," Erica said as Missy rejoined her. "No punch?"

"Not in the mood for booze," Missy said. Which was true: alcohol might make her do or say something stupid, and with Adam and so many of his posse here, Missy couldn't take that chance. She drank a little more. When she was done with her soda, she'd leave. God knew, she didn't want to stay at the stupid party. She—

"Missy," Adam said
right behind he
r,
"you just left me hanging."

She stiffened. This wasn't supposed to happen. She'd shot him down; he was supposed to crawl back to his friends and leave her the hell alone, her pride intact. Without turning around, she said to Erica, "Do you hear something?"

But Erica didn't know how to play that game. "Adam just said you left him hanging."

Missy thought very, very black thoughts—about Erica, about Adam, about the world in general. She turned, slowly, her gaze all but shrieking
Drop Dead,.
Adam was right there, looking gorgeous, waiting for her response. Blood pounded in her ears, behind her eyes; with every heartbeat, anger surged. But along with the anger was a whisper of dismay. Why wouldn't he just leave her alone? They were pushing-up-daisies done.

Unless maybe he didn't want them to be done.

No,
no.
He was playing with her. She demanded, "What do you want?"

He opened his mouth, then seemed to reconsider his response, because he shoved his hands in his pockets and smiled sheepishly. He said, "I miss you."

Oh God.

Over the wild pounding of her heart, she said through gritted teeth, "You dumped me, called me names." Even now, she heard him whisper
freak,
but that was only in her mind. Adam himself was right here, right in front of her and looking at her in that way of his, making her skin tingle.

"I was a dick. I'm sorry," he said, reaching over to touch her face, once, lightly stroking her cheek before darting his hand away.

Where he'd touched her, she was on fire. That heat melted the ice around the glass jar of her heart, set her blood to Simmer. She swallowed thickly, not trusting him, wanting more than anything to trust him. She said, "Two months too late."

"Let me make it up to you."

"How're you going to do that?"

"Like this." And then he was holding her close, and she was staring up into his eyes. For a shining moment, she thought clearly,
This is a bad idea.
But then he was kissing her, and Missy stopped thinking at all.

***

"I'll kiss your open sores," Death sang—a quiet threat, an insidious promise.

Famine shuddered, overwhelmed. It wasn't just the way Death played the guitar, or the passion in his voice, or even the lyrics themselves, but rather a combination of all three—the words, the music, his passion, all blending seamlessly into something that hooked into the Black Rider's heart and left her bleeding.

Death played on, and Famine shivered.

***

Missy didn't know if they were in Kevin's bedroom or his brother's, and it didn't matter. It was a room with a bed, and a door to seal them away from the rest of the world.

The moment Adam had kissed her, her dead face splintered. When she'd kissed him back, her dead face cracked open wide. And by the time they were upstairs, all hands and mouths and tongues, her dead face had slipped off, long forgotten. Even with her clothing on, Missy was naked before him. And she didn't notice.

They kissed and kissed and more than kissed, there in the dimly lit bedroom. Intoxicated by his touches, Missy wondered how she ever could have thought she was the queen of winter. She was flushed, heated from within, and her heart was broiling in her chest. She was liquid fire.

"Take off your clothes," Adam whispered, his hands doing things that made Missy's head spin.