Be the Death of Me Page 7

  I sigh and place a hand on his shoulder.

  Tucker

  The choices we make define us. The most insignificant of decisions, the ones we make on a daily basis without a second’s thought label not only who we are, but who we once were. Thousands of decisions, millions; work or play, fight or flight, love or lust, Jesus or Judas, we choose, and must either suffer or rejoice in the outcomes.

  Yet who in a million years, would imagine that a single choice could haunt us forever, even when we’re forced to haunt those left behind?

  “Stop staring at me.” Billie doesn’t bother opening her eyes to scold me.

  “Sorry,” I mumble into the tops of my knees. I lean my head back against the wall where I sit and content myself with staring at the ceiling. I chuckle. Even at her worst, Billie is never boring. I’ve smiled more during these few days as a Guardian than I did in four years working in my previous station.

  Another day has passed and night has once again left us alone with our thoughts. I watch as Billie strolls silently to the window, placing thin, delicate fingers against the frost–coated glass. She lifts her face and closes her eyes to the moonlight streaming in through silver wisps of clouds. Its colorless glow unites with her own shimmer to transform her pale skin into the softest shade of blue.

  Why do I insist on continually tormenting myself? What sort of man puts himself through torture, knowing full well that the product of his trouble will only result in more pain? I’m in need of serious psychological help. Aren’t there therapists in our world? Spirits trained to deal with the ramblings of the insane and deceased? I can’t be the only dead man with issues.

  I make a mental note to look into it.

  Ford breathes deeply into his pillow, his scrawny form hidden somewhere within the myriad of blankets and bedspread. There’s a single break of thunderous snores before he rolls over in his sleep, and the night is once again plunged into clamor.

  “Look at this,” Billie’s quiet voice breaks through my reverie. She beckons me with a wave of her hand.

  I spring to her side. Standing behind her, I’m tall enough to see directly over her head. I debate for a moment whether or not to rest my chin on top of her hair, but decide against it in the end.

  “It’s snowing,” she whispers, pressing her hand against the pane.

  Tiny flecks of clean, white snow fall from a dark sky, coating the ground in a thick, downy frosting. The flakes that don’t stick are buffeted through the night, floating past on the crest of a lazy wind.

  “Do you remember snow?” she asks, without turning.

  I smile at the unexpected question. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  She shrugs, drawing her shoulders to her ears. “I don’t know. Sometimes it feels like I can’t . . . remember it the way I used to, you know? The cold. How the snow used to stick to my fingers before melting.”

  I nod, feeling my heart ache with a shadow of sympathy.

  “Whenever we had a snow day,” she goes on without being prompted, “my sister and I would go sledding behind our house. There was this giant hill in the backyard, and at least once a year mom would catch Olivia and me trying to sneak our living room coffee table outside. I was so convinced it was faster than the cheap, plastic sleds you could buy in stores.”

  “I’m assuming you were the mastermind of that little plan.”

  “Olivia was way too rational to come up with an idea like that on her own. She needed me to teach her how to have fun.”

  “And you were more than willing to lead her astray.”

  She twists to face me, tilting her head back. She smiles and all is right with the world.

  The mattress suddenly groans with a shift in weight. Ford mumbles something that sounds like “not real” and rolls onto his back. It isn’t long before the deep, yawning snores of sleep resound around us.

  “You think he’ll ever get used to all of this?” I ask, nudging his bed with the toe of my shoe.

  Billie sweeps from her place at the window, moving to get a closer look at the room’s single bookcase. “I wouldn’t count on it,” she says, running her fingers over the spines of Ford’s small, but impressive literary collection. “He didn’t take receiving a photo of himself sans eye sockets as well as I’d hoped.”

  “Yeah, hard to see that sort of thing coming. And of course there was no return address.”

  “Did you think there would be one?”

  “No.” I shrug. “I was hoping for a cut and dry solution. Or if nothing else, just a dumber than average homicidal maniac to contend with.”

  Her face sets in a pretty pout, the smooth planes of her face furrowing with confusion. “No easy fixes here, buddy. Truth be told, I thought you might have trouble adjusting. I was just waiting for when it would pop up.”

  “Me? Why would you think that?”

  “Because you’re not one of us.” I try to hide the flicker of disappointment that darkens my face. “Everyone talks about you guys, you know? The lambs in Sacrifice. It’s only water cooler gossip, but now that I’ve seen what you can do first hand . . .” She flicks her finger at a book and makes a soft whistling noise as she pretends to make it fly off the shelf. “I don’t know. I just thought it would be more difficult for you to leave your kind.”

  I let my eyes wander. “I’ve never had a kind, Billie. Even when I was alive.”

  Sacrifice? Who do they think they’re kidding? They should just save everyone the hassle and call it the Department of People Stupid Enough to Get Themselves Killed. The others in our world think we have it easy. They call us martyrs, sacrificial lambs. They think we have a sweet deal because we’re rewarded for our heroic, albeit misguided efforts in life. Special abilities? Conciliatory gifts? They can keep them. I rest my back against the high, even windowsill, unable to contain the sly grin spreading its way across my face.

  “Admit it,” I say. “Working with me is kind of nice, don’t you think?”

  “It’s a party that never ends.”

  “I think you like it. I think you like having me as a boss.”

  “Partner.”

  “It’s nice though, isn’t it? How fate seems to always work itself out.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You saving me from those bullies all those years ago? Working together now? Kind of an odd sort of circular destiny.”

  She doesn’t speak, but fixes her eyes on the books before her. But through the shadows, through the moonlight, I see it just before she turns away. The tug of a smile at the corner of her mouth.

  It doesn’t matter whether she admits it or not. Because now I know I’m not crazy. I know exactly why a sane man would put himself through torture. That fleeting moment of honesty, that instant when Billie let me near enough to see a glimpse of what lies beneath her ice queen exterior, is all it took for me to know I’m exactly where I’m meant to be. It may classify me as clinically insane, and it may break my heart, but if the Elders think I’ll just let them take her now, they’re wrong.

  “Hey, look at this,” she says, choosing a book from the shelf. She holds it up for me to see. Over the leather bound spine, etched in golden calligraphy are our names.

  “Mr. Reid and Foster,” I chuckle, moving to her side. She flips to the first page. Inside is a message, printed on the weathered pages in bold, black ink.

  UPDATE REQUESTED. REPORT IMMEDIATELY.

  “How does he do that?” I ask, shaking my head in wonder. I’ve never understood the Guardians’ means of communicating with one another. For instance, how do messages leave headquarters in long, black tubes only to end up printed in the latest bestseller?

  Billie closes the book, stuffing it back on the already overcrowded shelf. “Beats me. I figure it’s best not to ask.” She throws her head in Ford’s direction. “What do we do about him?”

  An idea strikes me, though I’m not sure how happy she’ll be with the suggestion. “Why don’t we take shifts watching him? I mean there’s no need for two of u
s to always be here, right? I can deal with the Captain and you can stay here and watch Ford.”

  Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t argue. “Sure,” she murmurs eventually. “I can live with that.”

  “Great. Just . . . uh . . . stay with him for now, and I’ll meet you at the school tomorrow afternoon, okay?” I don’t bother waiting for a response. “And try not to kill anybody!” I call, vanishing on the spot.

  “Jackass,” she mumbles just before I disappear.

  “I heard that.”

  I take the memory of her begrudging smile with me when I go.

  Billie

  “Morning, Ford.”

  “Holy mother of God!”

  He jumps a foot in the air and clutches his heart, using his other hand to quickly cover the shorts clinging to his still damp skin. His dark hair is wet from the shower, dripping sparkling droplets onto bare shoulders.

  I laugh and stretch my legs out in front of me. “Nice to see you too. Love the boxers by the way.” I gesture to the hearts and cupids printed on his shorts. “Very manly.”

  “What are you doing here?” he hisses, slinking away from the door, looking for any sign of clothing. “You’re a girl! Don’t you have a sense of propriety?”

  “Of course not.” I flash him a smile. “I’m dead.”

  I stand in the far corner as he desperately continues his search for something to wear–pants, shirt, toga, sundress, whatever he can find. It’s his own fault really. It would be much easier to find things if his room weren’t such a catastrophic mess.

  “I’m only doing my job,” I tell him. “Besides, what else am I supposed to be doing with my time?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Chatting with Peter at the pearly gates, burning in hell, ascending to a higher plane of consciousness . . . whatever.”

  “Now now, no point in being rude. I’m sorry for scaring you. It won’t happen again.”

  “Good,” he says, hitting his knees and checking under the bed. “Because I would hate to have to report this sort of behavior to Tucker.”

  “Report all you want,” I say. “Tuck’s not my boss.”

  “Sure looks that way.”

  “Well he’s not. We’re partners, no matter how much he might think or say otherwise. Got it?”

  He shuffles to the closet, jerking open the double doors with unnecessary force and revealing mountains of wrinkled, dirty clothes inside. Looking for a clean article of clothing in that heap must be like searching for a needle in a giant, smelly haystack. “Whatever you say,” he mumbles, diving in.

  This kid should make a career out of pushing my buttons. I groan, remembering Tuck’s plea for camaraderie. I think the most he can hope for is thinly–veiled hostility. “So did you sleep well last night?” I ask, trying my hardest to play nice.

  He mumbles back some response I can’t understand.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” I watch him dig around a moment longer. “So you’re still hanging in there then? Everything good?”

  “I’m breathing,” he calls over his shoulder. “All signs point to alive.”

  “Well, it’s still early.”

  He holds up a shirt and sniffs it before grimacing and chucking it back into the pile. “Why are you here anyway? Where’s Tucker?”

  I flop onto his bed. Were I still alive, I might be concerned with the bacteria breeding between the sheets of a teenage boy. But I’m not, and as such it’s one of the few times I’m thankful for being dead. “The reason I’m here, and Tuck isn’t,” I start again, folding my arms behind my head and crossing my legs at the ankles, “is because it’s my shift.”

  “Your shift?” he asks from the far corner. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means there’s no need for both of us to be here 24/7, so we’re taking turns watching you now.”

  “Let me ask you something then,” he says, his wet head suddenly popping up at the side of the bed. “Whose idea was it to take shifts? Yours?”

  I know what he’s getting at, and I refuse to take the bait. “Not exactly,” I grit through clenched teeth.

  “Well, it definitely wasn’t my idea,” he keeps pushing. “If it were up to me, you wouldn’t be here at all. So that leaves Tucker. Your partner.”

  “What exactly are you saying?” I snap, struggling to restrain myself from slapping his smug face.

  “Kind of a weird coincidence, don’t you think? He suddenly comes up with this idea, and you just happen to have the first shift? For all you know he’s probably relaxing at some ghost bar, laughing at you behind your back while he has fun with some hot ghost girls.”

  I don’t know why I’m so upset, but I’m on my feet in a flash. My shift or not, it’s time for a break.

  “Where are you going?” he asks, climbing to his feet. “Hey, give those back!”

  He’s finally noticed what I’ve had in my hands all along.

  “See you at school, Ford,” I smile wickedly. I vanish, taking his one clean pair of pants with me.

  I give myself a few hours to cool off. I know Tuck and the Captain would be furious if they ever found out I left Ford on his own. It’s not exactly suitable Guardian behavior to walk out on your assignment, but I figure what they don’t know can’t hurt me. Besides, I have every intention of going back.

  The previous night’s snow has all but melted away in the pale heat of the morning, leaving only a few, scattered patches of white to taunt those who wished for a snow day. The front steps of the school are coated with a slick, glossy glaze of ice, teeming with students, pushing, shoving, shouting to one another over the dull rumbling of voices. I discover Ford standing outside next to a beat up recycling bin, bag slung over his shoulder, looking very much as if he wishes he were invisible.

  His eyes harden as I walk toward him, breezing through several students as I move. They spin on the spot, certain they felt something brush against their shoulders, bewildered when they realize no one is there. I chuckle to myself.

  “Glad to see you found something to wear.” I pull up beside him, glancing down at khakis that are clearly several inches too short. “Does your grandmother know you borrowed her pants?”

  “Very funny,” he mumbles, trying his best to talk without moving his lips. “Now go away. I was kind of in the middle of something before you showed up.”

  “In the middle of what exactly?” I tease, motioning to the empty space around him.

  “Just go. People will think I’m crazy if they see me talking to someone who isn’t even there.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to worry about that. You’ve got a filter around you now. It’s all part of the deal. We protect you, and you don’t look insane by talking to us. You could get down on one knee and serenade me and no one would notice.”

  “Are you serious?” He finally turns to me, looking both relieved and excited. “Really? I can talk to you like a regular person?”

  A gaggle of girls sashay by, a collection of swinging purses and pink hair clips. They turn to stare at Ford. “Freak,” one of them giggles. Their collective laughter echoes as they head into the school.

  He shakes his head. “There’s no filter, is there?”

  A single snort issues from my nose as I try in vain to hold in my laughter.

  “Great.” He hoists his bag higher up his shoulder and follows the girls into the building.

  I tag along after, skipping at his side. If I have to go through high school all over again for this guy, I’m at least going to have fun doing it. The inside of North Chamberlain is brightly lit and open. Scholastic awards and posters promoting things like abstinence and the next drama club meeting hang from walls that lead into a labyrinth of hallways and corridors. It reminds me vaguely of my old school. Even though Rosemont is a few towns over, I can’t imagine the architectural structure of a high school ever really changes. Even the students seem like poor carbon copies of the faces I remember.

  “Are you mad?” I ask him after a minute.

  �
�Of course not!” he laughs sarcastically. “I love looking like an idiot.”

  “Well, that explains your pants.”

  Ford pauses at his locker, fumbling with the padlock for several minutes before resorting to pounding on the metal door in frustration while a nearby freshman looks on in fear. He stops only to rest his forehead against the cool metal. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?” he whines, closing his eyes in resignation.

  I shrug. “You’re my assignment.”

  “Well, you’re doing a bang up job so far,” he scoffs. “In the last hour and a half you’ve managed to scare me senseless, see me half naked, steal my pants, and make me look like a total head case.”

  Great. I think I may have officially pushed my assignment over the brink. Tuck would not be pleased, though why I care what Tuck thinks is a matter to trouble myself with later.

  “Hey,” I say, running my fingers over the abandoned padlock still secured to the door. “Hey, how about I make you a deal?”

  “Does it involve me signing a contract in blood or a ritual animal sacrifice?”

  “Not unless you’re into that sort of thing,” I say as the lock comes away easily in my hand. I hold it up for him to see. “But maybe you and I could take Tuck’s advice. You know, try to get along.”

  “Where’s the deal in that?”

  “I promise I’ll ease up if you agree to promise to wear those pants at least one more time.”

  His deep brown eyes twinkle with a spark of laughter and hope, his face splitting into the boyish grin I’d seen only once before. “Alright,” he says finally, sticking his hand out. “It’s a deal.”

  I stare down at it, thrown for the first time since meeting him. Sure, he can see me, but actual physical contact? That’s a different and unexpectedly frightening concept altogether. Cautiously, I offer my hand in return. He takes it his own, his surprisingly strong hand wrapping around my thin fingers.

  I gasp. The sudden sensation of warmth is alarming at first, like slipping into a hot bath before your body can adjust to the temperature. I can feel the tendons in his hand, the muscles flexing in his fingers and wrist. I run my thumb over the soft skin at the back of his hand, watching the tiny, dark hairs bend with the pressure.