Cold Kiss Part 2

I break into a run before I'm even conscious that my feet are moving, and all I can hear over my thudding footsteps is him calling, "Yes, you do."

I run right past my house, through the overgrown yard to Mrs. Petrelli's garage. I'm sweating, panting, completely out of breath, my backpack banging against one hip, but I don't care. I scramble up the stairs, and all I can think about is Danny holding me.

He's waiting, tense and blinking, standing at the edge of the makeshift bed. "Wren."

I don't-can't-say anything, I just drop my backpack with a thud on the dusty floor and walk into his arms, burying my head against his chest.

His arms tighten around me, fingers tangling in my hair. "I heard you coming. I missed you," he whispers, and sits down, pulling me into his lap.

He leans his cheek on my head, runs his hands down my spine and then back up, underneath my hoodie, and it's just like the million other times we've sat together like this.

It's what I wanted, but it's all wrong. He's cold and white as a bone, too hard, and when I lay my cheek against his chest, the silence is awful. I used to lie with him on the sofa in Becker's bas.e.m.e.nt, or upstairs in my bed when Mom wasn't home, and count his heartbeats, a st.u.r.dy thump-thump I could feel beneath my palm, even through his T-shirt.

"What's wrong?" he says. "You're shaking."

There's no way to answer him. Not honestly, anyway. You're wrong, I want to say. This is wrong. I was so, so wrong to think I could do this. Or hide it.

Instead, I simply whisper, "Cold."

He holds me tighter, strokes my back. It doesn't make me any warmer, but I sit there anyway until it's dark, because he likes me there. He always seems more centered as soon as I come up to the loft. Whenever I manage to get up the stairs without him hearing me coming, he's sprawled so loosely on the bed that he looks a little bit like a marionette whose puppeteer has tossed him aside.

I can't run from this. I can't hide from him. Not in the library, not anywhere.

What's just as scary is that I guess I can't hide from Gabriel, either.

CHAPTER FIVE.

PEOPLE ALWAYS SAY THEY FEEL NUMB AND empty when they lose someone.

I feel that way now sometimes, when Danny and I are curled together on his bed in the loft. But in the days right after he died? At his funeral? I felt like I'd been stuck under a gla.s.s, so that everything inside me-rage, grief, terror-resonated louder, harder, clanging together until I could feel it in my bones.

As we stood there beside his grave, the only sound other than the minister talking about eternal peace was Danny's mother, sobbing. Danny's dad had his arm around her, holding her up, but his jaw was clenched so tightly, I was pretty sure he was going to lose it any minute.

We all just stood there, our heads bowed and hands folded, listening, waiting for it to be over. Nothing was right-instead of gray and rainy, the way it was supposed to be, the way it always is in movies, it was a bright, hot July day. The sun poured through the leaves of the giant maple beside the plot.

But at Danny's grave that day I thought the crowd of football players and the stoners from his art cla.s.s were probably glad they had a legitimate reason for their sungla.s.ses, even though everyone knew they would have worn them anyway. It was hard not to choke up when you heard Danny's mom and little sister, Molly, sobbing, when you saw his older brother, Adam, choking back tears as their dad patted his back. None of us were supposed to die. Life was supposed to be what we were waiting for, not something already over.

When someone's cell went off a few feet behind us, my head went up so fast, I nearly lost my balance. My mother put a hand on my shoulder. I wanted to shrug it off, but I couldn't-any minute that gla.s.s around me was going to shatter, and all that furious energy was going to explode out of me. I had to shut my eyes for a second, trying not to imagine the carefully manicured lawn around the pit of Danny's grave going up in flames, or a sudden wind ripping through the cemetery, hurling the mourners against the headstones.

I couldn't let that happen, not to Danny's parents, and Ryan, and Danny's other real friends. Not even to Danny, although I knew that the boy I loved wasn't really in that casket. Not the part that mattered, anyway.

At home later, I went down to the bas.e.m.e.nt. I figured I could do the least damage there-or maybe the most, without consequences anyway. Getting through the reception at Danny's house had taken more self-control than I thought it would, even though I hadn't managed to do much more than stand against the wall in the living room with a paper cup of punch in one hand, nodding at the people who came over to hug me.

I didn't even change my clothes before I ran down the bas.e.m.e.nt steps, and I had fistfuls of my black shirt in each hand as I stared at the acc.u.mulated junk that we had let pile up over the years.

I had no idea what I expected to do. What I wanted was to blow a hole in the sky, explode a star, let the burning embers scorch me and everything they touched.

I jumped when my mother's hand landed on my shoulder again, warm and firm. She rested one palm against my cheek and handed me a chipped dish from a pile on a shelf. "Go on," she said. "It works just as well."

I stared at her, not understanding, every vein throbbing with the need to let all that energy out. But that wasn't what she meant. She picked up another-a cracked bowl from a set of green-striped dishes we used when I was really little-and smashed it against the dull gray cement floor.

I jumped again as the sound of it echoed inside me, and then I let the dish in my hand drop. It crashed among the broken shards of the bowl, pale blue pieces as sharp as the noise.

"Harder," Mom said, and handed me a mug without a handle. FIRST NATIONAL SAVINGS BANK was printed neatly around it in bright red letters. I hurled it at the bare spot on the wall beside the dryer, and it shattered so violently, pieces of it bounced over the floor to land between our feet.

In fifteen minutes we managed to break every old piece of dishware down there, until the floor was a jagged carpet of smashed pottery, When there was nothing left to throw, I sank to my knees and started to cry, the kind of huge, gulping, embarra.s.sing sobs that make you blotchy and shaky. Mom settled down beside me, pulling me into her body until my face was pressed against her shoulder, and I had to wonder if she'd thrown things when Dad left, if she'd felt this alone and helpless.

I felt better afterward. Not right, not good, but not tied up in so many emotions I couldn't untangle them all.

There was a lesson there, I realized later. I didn't learn it, though.

"What are you thinking about?"

It's almost eleven, and Danny and I are lying on his bed, legs tangled together under an old blanket. I had to wait till Mom was asleep to sneak back to the loft tonight. I didn't stay long the first time, after I let Danny smoothe all the rough edges from running into Gabriel. This time Mom was in bed, the little TV on her dresser flickering softly in the dark. Robin was snoring in her room, one hand on Mr. Purrfect, her orange tiger cat. He blinked at me in the dark when I peeked through the crack in her door, yellow eyes cold and uninterested.

I never know what to tell Danny when he asks questions like that. Your funeral? The fact that Becker still hasn't come back to school because one of his legs doesn't work right, and he's flying on painkillers most of the time anyway? The way Ryan can barely look at me anymore? How much I really hate running into your mom in town, and how often she still looks like she just finished crying?

"Wren?" Anxious, almost pleading. Needy. His fingers tighten around my arm.

"French," I whisper, letting my lips brush the cool smoothness of his cheek. "Madame Hobart's been on the warpath lately. And I still f.u.c.k up pluperfect conjugations."

"I told you, you should've taken Spanish," he says, and he almost sounds like the old Danny when he laughs. "I think Mr. Hill is stoned most of the time."

I can't help but smile at that, because he's right. Mr. Hill wears the same tie for days at a time, and blinks like a startled owl when anyone asks him a question. Danny was always talking about him, back when he was ... well, still in school.

And still alive, a voice in my head whispers. A nasty, accusing voice, even though I wasn't the reason he died. That was his fault, his and Becker's, for being a.s.sholes and taking Becker's car out to the park way on the west edge of town after they'd been drinking. The roads there, a giant spiderweb through the walking trails and trees, are narrow and twisty enough when you're sober and it's daylight.

After I saw a photo of the crash site, Becker's hand-me-down Celica accordioned into the broad base of a chestnut tree, I realized how likely it was that I could have been in the car with them. Give me a beer and I don't make the greatest decisions either.

What was scarier, though, was realizing that, for a minute, I wished I had been in the car. That I was gone, too, wherever you go after you die, with Danny.

That's when it started. Knowing that I couldn't turn back time and climb into the backseat the way I had so many other nights, but wanting Danny with me again so much that I started to give serious thought to whether or not I could make that happen.

When I remembered that fluttering white paper bird, I was convinced.

I look at Danny now, just as pale, just as delicate somehow, and he smiles at me. Reaches out to stroke my cheek, tucking hair behind my ear. Snugs his hips closer, all lean, hard bone beneath the jeans I convinced his mom to give me. "He wrote my name on them," I'd told her, pointing to where he'd written it in Sharpie on the inside of one calf, and she'd swallowed tears before she kissed my forehead.

He'd been buried in a dark gray suit and a white shirt with an ice blue tie knotted at his throat. I'd burned it all the day I brought the jeans home. I'd picked up a couple of shirts at the thrift store downtown. The suit smelled like the graveyard, dark and sour, and in it he looked nothing like the Danny I knew.

He brushes his mouth against my hair now, and strokes along my hip, fingers curling in my belt loops, pulling me closer still. I swallow hard, trying not to shudder.

He's so cold now. Always so cold, skin icy smooth. And his body is so quiet-the distant b.u.mp of a heartbeat, the thrum of blood flowing through veins, never seemed noticeable until it was gone. I wriggle around to tilt my head up and kiss him, hoping it will be enough.

It never is anymore. For a little while he'll relax, kiss me slowly, lingering and tasting, but it doesn't last.

It's hard to go backward, after all. Even for me, because I can remember what it felt like to let our kisses wander away from our mouths, to peel off clothes to reveal new places to touch, to taste.

I remember the way I could feel his heartbeat in the pulse at his throat, racing and stuttering. How warm he was, his cheeks fevered, his hands hot and firm.

But it's not like that anymore. Not for me, anyway, and every time I have to pull away I'm aware of how strong he is, how much he wants something I can't give him. I can't believe he can't sense the way I tense up, stiff and panicked, or the jackrabbit thump of my own pulse, poised for flight.

Gabriel would. The thought hits me out of nowhere, so unwelcome that I blink and push Danny away too roughly as I struggle to sit up.

Gabriel has no place in my head, and definitely not here in the loft. It's hard not to glance around the dark room, as if, wherever he is, Gabriel can hear what I'm thinking even now.

"Wren," Danny starts, sitting up with me and sliding his arm around my waist. "Don't. Don't ... stop. You always stop now."

Every word is weighted, heavy with confusion and frustration, and I give in a little and lay my head on his shoulder. It's all my fault, every bit of this. It's like one of those hedge mazes. Once you're in, turned around without any landmarks, there's nothing to do but keep going until you find your way out.

I have a long way to go, I know. Until then, I can only do this: gently push him onto his back, kiss his cheeks, his forehead, his jaw, and whisper, "Sleep now, Danny. Sleep. I want you to sleep."

He can't fight it, even though I can tell he wants to. He doesn't even have to sleep anymore, just as he doesn't need to eat or breathe. But when I tell him something like this, when I give him a direct command, he can't help himself.

I didn't know the spell would work like this, but I'm glad it does. Danny would never hurt me, would never really push himself on me, but there are too many things I can't explain to him now. When he backs me into a corner, this is the easiest way to get around him.

He's frowning, just a little, his brows drawn up in an unhappy question mark, but he doesn't move after a moment. His body relaxes inch by inch, his shoulders softening as they slump against the mattress, his head listing to one side. The hand that had tightened into a fist on his thigh loosens, and I touch the bare, k.n.o.bby knuckles with one fingertip.

He doesn't stir.

Commands don't last forever. At some point, when I've been away from him too long, I think, he'll wake up.

If I close my eyes, I can see the look on his face in that moment, disappointment and resignation setting his jaw tight. I know because I've seen it when I leave him awake, and it never stops hurting.

This is easier. For me, anyway. This way, I can pretend it's months ago, the first few days after school had ended for the year, and we were curled together in his bed while his mom was at work. It was early summer, the air soft and warm and slightly damp, and he had fallen asleep after ... well, after.

It was one of the first times I got to watch him sleep, and it was so strange, having him right there but somehow not. The way he sort of melted into the sheets, boneless and completely comfortable, his hair stuck to his forehead in two places, and a thin sheen of sweat on his collarbone. After a while his eyes had started to move beneath his lids as he dreamed, and he suddenly smiled, a startling flare of happiness before his mouth softened again.

That never happens now, no matter how long I watch him. And like everything else, I know that's my fault, too.

CHAPTER SIX.

I MANAGE TO AVOID TALKING TO GABRIEL, OR pretty much anyone, until lunch the next day. I walk into the cafeteria starved, since I forgot my lunch this morning, knowing Jess is here somewhere. We only have lunch and gym together this year.

It smells like sauerkraut and dust and sweat, and I grab a yogurt and a PB&J from the end of the line. If I eat quickly, I can probably manage to sneak off to the library without seeing her, not that I imagine she's looking for me. When Jess gets her mad on, it usually stays put for a while.

But it's not Jess I b.u.mp into when I turn around, the pitted plastic tray wobbling in my hands. It's Gabriel, taking a bite of an apple with his head tilted sideways, as if I'm some science experiment he's not sure he executed right.

"G.o.d, what?" The words are out of my mouth before I can think twice, and he just gives me this amused smile.

"Thought you might want some company," he says with a shrug.

"You thought wrong," I tell him, and head for the tables at the far end of the room. It's the size of the gym, and just as noisy, and the mostly empty table I'm aiming for seems miles away.

Especially since Gabriel follows right behind me, as if I haven't spoken at all, as if I haven't been shooting him "keep away" vibes all day. I think Stalker at him, really loud, but when I glance over my shoulder, he only looks sort of confused.

"G.o.d, go away," I hiss at him as I set my tray down. The two freshmen at the other end of the table look up, startled, and I roll my eyes. "Not you."

Gabriel pulls out the chair across from mine and sits down, but before I can say anything else, he holds a hand up. "Look, I get it. I shouldn't have ... I didn't mean to make this weird. But I wanted to say sorry. Okay? It's no big deal. I mean, it is, but ... I'm not going to say anything."

My heart is pounding again, and I'm so tired of it. It's exhausting, all that adrenaline and whatever it is that makes me the way I am, tingling in my veins like some biological red alert.

I stare at Gabriel for a second, and his cool gray eyes are serious. I know he's not teasing me, even though that would probably be easier to deal with. I flick my gaze to the two girls at the other end of the table. They've stopped eating, mom-made sandwiches still clutched in their hands, and I glare. They grab their paper bags and half-eaten carrot sticks and take off.

"That wasn't nice," Gabriel says, but he's grinning. Slouched across from me in faded navy cords and a plain gray pullover, he actually looks a little too comfortable.

"Freshman girls are the only people I can actually push around, so I have to take advantage sometimes." I fold my arms across my chest and sit back. "What exactly is no big deal? You know, that you're so generously not going to tell everyone."

It's a dangerous move-I don't actually want him to spell it out, especially not here in the cafeteria, but I have to know what he knows.

It's like the first rule of Fight Club. Whatever it is that the women in my family can do, you don't talk about it. Not even with each other, if my mom's anyone to go by.

I know we're not the only people with something to hide. Everyone keeps secrets-I'm not stupid. No one is, not really. I mean, it only took two weeks in seventh grade for everyone to figure out that when Kayla Schmidt said she was having dinner with her dad once a week, she was really going to a shrink, because she weighed about eighty pounds and sat through every lunch period nibbling a single stalk of celery.

And most everyone knows that Janine French has only slept with three guys, but it's easier to pretend she regularly beds down with the whole football team because that way she's the one being called a s.l.u.t. Same way it's easier to pretend that no one knows Peter Brannigan's dad hits his mom, because that way there are no awkward conversations, and no reason to feel like you're supposed to be doing something to help.

So yeah, everyone has something to hide, and sometimes it's Very Special Episode stuff and sometimes it's just stupid, like acne all over your back. But as far as I can tell, none of it is going to get you hunted down and burned at the stake.

Okay, that's a little extreme, I know, but I did bring my dead boyfriend back to life. Of a kind, anyway. That's not exactly pulling a rabbit out of a hat.

Gabriel's watching me, and he puts his apple core down on the table before he speaks. "It's not what you're thinking," he says, so low I have to lean forward a little bit. "I can't hear your thoughts, not word for word, not unless I really try, and even then it's not really accurate. You were trying to tell me something before, right? I don't know what it was, but I could feel you sort of ... poking at me."

Oh. That's ... unexpected.

I must make a face, because he shrugs. "It's more that sensations sort of come at me? Sometimes images. Like, say someone's across from me on the bus, thinking really hard about her sister. I might get the feeling of worn cotton, or certain colors, or a scent first, and then maybe a memory of them hiding together under the covers, looking at a book, or fighting over the last pancake or whatever, so I know it's her sister and not her mother she's thinking of. See?"

"Sort of." It's like a window, I guess, maybe a distorted one, but still a view right into someone's head. Into someone's heart.

I wonder if he's seen me and Danny, curled up together on my bed before he died, if he can smell Danny's soap, the one he used to use, the way his hands feel on me now, cold and firm.

"It's mostly just plain old clairvoyance," he says, like clairvoyance is just an everyday thing, and I roll my eyes. "I can't see the future, not usually anyway, but I can sometimes see the past. And with most people, what I get, unless I tune it out, is a sort of low-level hum, like feedback. But with you..." He stops, tilts his head again, and the weight of his gaze is so heavy, pinning me to my seat. "It's different. Louder, more intense. It's energy, and I know what it means, because my grandmother was like you."

"Like me?" My voice sounds far away, thin and small.

"The power you have." He leans closer, whispering now. "What you can do."

And there it is, cards on the table. I swallow hard, imagining him saying something awful next, something that can't be taken back. Something like plain old witchcraft. I don't think of it like that, not even when I do think about people burning me at the stake. It sounds wrong, bad. Dangerous.