Scythe of Darkness: Scythe of Darkness, #1

One

The compulsion to find him made me slightly crazy.

My knees shook, vibrating my full-size bed; my headboard tapped the wall like Morse code. Restlessness overtook my feet. I wished my parents would leave already.

The same moment I tossed another knife, a knock jolted the door. Mia, we’re going. Sure you don’t want to come? Fresh air, my mom urged in her counselor voice, an unfortunate result from all the years as an adviser at my little brother’s school.

I flung my third knife, whipping it next to the others. Knife throwing calmed my nerves, and mine were buzzing like phones during study hall. Adding to my angst, the anniversary of my kidnapping loomed around the corner.

I slid off the bed and breathed in a steady breath before opening the door. She flashed a toothy grin, trying to hide the meaning behind her inquiry. I knew what she wasn’t saying: not accompanying them to the county fair was out of character. Are you feeling okay? Is this about Trip?

Trip and I broke up last week, but I wasn’t thinking about him in the slightest.

Mom, really. I’ve a ton of homework … a chemistry test, never mind the essay. Only eight months left of my junior year. I’d filled out Berkeley’s mandatory questionnaire last week, but the essay portion remained unfinished.

I avoided her eyes. She was good at telling when I was lying. I needed to move, not look her in the face. I stepped from view and plucked the scarlet handles out of the bullseye, one by one. I didn’t want her to think I was up to something. My unusual talent had left a few painted-over scars in the door.

Mom slipped her face further around the side and squinted as if trying to read my thoughts. Thick dark-brown strands of hair slid over her bronze shoulder. My hair was cursed with no thickness whatsoever but had instead acquired my dad’s double cowlick. All right. Love you, Mia, she replied, then gave me a kiss on the forehead, probably hoping I would change my mind, and left.

I heaved a sigh of relief.

If I went with my family to the fair and ran into him again, my mom would surely be watching over my shoulder, making the interaction doubly weird. She had this uncanny ability to wiggle herself into my measly social life whenever possible.

A little voice in the back of my head—not an actual voice, but something—like a mental itch I couldn’t scratch—compelled me to find Eye Guy. And what better place than at the fair, the same place I first ran into him two days ago? The day I’d smashed a basket of nachos all over his shirt by accident. Did I know him somehow?

Eye Guy wasn’t from my school; I would’ve seen him in the halls. Who was he? He had two different-colored eyes—heterochromia iridium—which was why I dubbed him, Eye Guy.

I snatched my backpack off the round chair in the corner of my room, stuffed my chem book inside, plus the binoculars and the camera Uncle Shawn had given me.

My eyes slid shut and I listened for the sound of the front door closing.

Wham.

Scurrying over to my window, I watched the three of them walk toward the street. My eight-year-old brother, Bennie, yanked back-and-forth on my parents’ hands toward a waiting car. They were catching a ride with neighbors.

With a lightness in my chest, my pulse raced. It was now or never.

I rushed down the stairs two at a time. The aroma of popcorn wafted past my nose, as I swung off the mahogany banister and darted into the kitchen for a little to-go snack, and then out into the garage to grab my bike.

Old boxes of memories lined the edges of the bay, allowing just enough space for our only vehicle. I inched in between the hood of the old van, squishing a box with my butt, me popping out the other end. The bike was important; I needed a faster mode of transportation so I could hustle home before my parents returned.

I glided down Ponderosa, the uneven pavement vibrating from my seat all the way up to my neck, and turned left onto Birmingham—a roundabout way to bypass my parents. Beneath an old bridge, homeless huddled in the dark corners; a few stragglers glared at the lights and sounds singing in the distance, blocks away.

The top of the water tower dotted the sky, beyond the overgrown trees and shingled roofs. The sun clung to life in the clouds, streams of lavender highlighting the horizon.

I peddled faster.

Ten minutes later, I arrived at the water tower. A white sign with red letters warned KEEP OUT along the fence. I looped my fingers through the chain-links and whipped my head side-to-side. People weren’t allowed on government property. But being that I was only seventeen, obtaining a mark on my record for breaking and entering wasn’t as big of a deal.

The weight of my bike became heavier the higher I lifted; the aluminum frame fumbled from my grasp, slamming the wheels to the ground on the other side.

Now it was my turn.

Plop.

I stood at the bottom, gazing up. A shoulder-width ladder looped from the concrete to a narrow balcony that rounded the center of the bulbous top. The water tower looked like an upside-down ear syringe. The red bold letters painted around the tank had begun to fade, but I could still make out the city name: Gaige, Texas.

I halted mid-step. The feeling of a hundred butterflies fluttering down my chest gathered in the pit of my stomach. I lurched forward, gripping the metal ladder for support. The butterflies metamorphosed into thundering dragonflies, their wings beating against my insides.

I squeezed the ladder, my nails digging into my palms. Why had the sudden pain erupted? I wanted it to stop!

The little voice in the back of my head told me to climb. Logically, it didn’t make sense, but somehow, I knew Eye Guy couldn’t be too far away. The right side of my brain advised me of the odds of spotting some random stranger in the chaotic mass of the fair. But I had to try.

I climbed through the pain, finding it hard to breathe.

At the top, I fell over onto the balcony.

The dragonflies in my stomach fluttered away. What was happening?

Breathing in, I shucked off my backpack and grabbed the binoculars. Immediately, I began searching the enormous, far-off crowd. Drums thundered from the streets filled with thousands, and voices clamored into the distance. Triangular tangelo flags waved. Flashes of blue lights glimmered sporadically above the sea of heads. A band’s music boomed from the stage, and the whine of guitars faded in the background.

I reached for the popcorn, remaining fixated on the hordes of people. I stuffed a handful in my mouth without looking away.

A magnetic-like pull, stronger than before, honed my focus to the outer edge of the fair.

Ten heartbeats later, I spotted him; for the first time luck was on my side.

Near the outside, behind the Pig Race tent and in front of the Mirror of Mazes, Eye Guy walked slowly through a group of girls sporting short shorts and spaghetti strap shirts. I watched him in reverence as he squeezed through. He wore a long-sleeve plaid shirt and black gloves, just like two days ago.

Why would he dress so warmly? It was September.

But, I had to admit, he pulled it off. My eyes locked on his back as he meandered through the mass. I tossed another handful of popcorn into my mouth then dropped the binoculars and snapped a few photos. My hands shook, making it hard for the camera to focus. Calm down, Mia.

I grabbed the binoculars again and zeroed in. The range of vision was as if I was standing right next to him.

He halted mid-step to chat with a tall blond in a red leather outfit, a girl as unique and pretty as him but with a body much curvier than mine. Her heels matched her flashy wardrobe, and the dark eyeliner that mapped the outside of her eyes resembled that of a rabid raccoon. My toes wiggled against my rubbery flip-flops.

It was apparent Eye Guy and she knew one another by the way they stood inches apart—he with his arms crossed. I narrowed my eyes. The girl’s hand remained poised on her hip as she scanned the crowd; her serious expression left an unpleasant taste in my mouth. Then his eyes narrowed in midst of their conversation. He unfolded his arms as a group of scrawny kids my brother’s age bounced into a trashcan, toppling it over, spilling rotten contents out next to his boots.

His attention turned back to the girl. Her lips moved too fast for me to make a measly attempt at trying to read them—especially since I lacked skills in that department. But the manner in which his lips pressed together as his square chin jutted downward, one word stood out: Mia.

Unless he said ‘me’ and not ‘Mia.’

The binoculars thudded against my chest, and I froze. Had I seen that correctly? Did he really say my name?

Of course not. Many words could appear to look like my name: many, milli, mile, melon if the -lon was left off. Maybe they were simply discussing dinner plans, or whatever other hundred things that I hadn’t thought about. I bet he didn’t have a clue who I was. How would he?

I raised the binoculars back up slowly.

The second I found him again, his face snapped upward—up into the shadows where I was hiding; I jerked back, my hands lost grip and the binoculars slipped from my grasp, whacking the railing.

Was I seeing things?

I grabbed the binoculars and looked again, but he was gone. The girl too. I swam over every head, every face, but he was gone.

And just like that, the magnetic pull faded.

Two

The other end of the phone fell silent.

Nacho guy? Kurt asked. What about him?

Revealing my previous night to Kurt took enormous weight off my chest, making it a little less frightening.

The overwhelming pain in my stomach that I had as I climbed the tower concerned Kurt more than the fact that I sort of stalked someone. Have you told your parents? Your dad’s a doctor.

Kurt became my best friend when he moved to town in the fourth grade.

"Kurt, he’s a Sleep Specialist. Not an MD," I reminded him for the umpteenth time.

Ya, but he still went to medical school. His voice became distant and hard to hear over the music that suddenly blared in his room. I couldn’t blame him for worrying. I hardly ever got sick. I hated doctor’s offices and endured any illness until it finally went away. So for me to mention it to him meant even I was a little concerned.

With the phone in my hand, I opened my chevron curtains and sat down on the cushy window seat. The large oak tree canopying the yard cast a large shadow over our driveway.

The pain’s gone now? he questioned.

Yep. Zilch. Must’ve been just nerves or a fluke illness, maybe something I ate. I was telling the truth. I felt perfectly fine now.

Per his request, I messaged him one of the photos while still on the phone.

A muffled voice chimed in, sounding far away. Definitely don’t know him, he hollered.

Hey, did you just put me on speaker phone? I asked, clicking my screen over to visual. The small view sat motionless, facing his khaki ceiling. Kurt! I shouted over the ensemble of car noises mixed with loud foot stomps. Kurt chopped up different sounds and beats around town then spliced them together to make his own version of what he named street-rock. What the hell are you doing?

He might’ve been girl crazy, but he was always a sound person to bounce thoughts off of—except for this one thing I hadn’t told him that I’d just abruptly decided to tell him. And now he wasn’t even on the phone giving me his sage advice.

The image jostled away from the ceiling and over to one of him fixing his hair in the mirror. He pinched the front tips, spiking it different angles until he was satisfied with the way each petite angle looked.

Why’re you getting all fancy? I gave him a piercing look, one that he couldn’t see since he wasn’t paying attention to the phone. Don’t tell me you have another date already?

He raised his left palm defensively in the air, still gazing at the mirror. You say that like it’s a bad thing.

It wasn’t a bad thing necessarily, but he’d been a serial dater lately. Whatever happened to Lacy?

"I just didn’t feel the vibe with her. Know what I mean?"

I did. After all, that’s why Trip and I broke up. That feeling just wasn’t there, but Trip was the only guy I had ever dated. Have fun. See your butt later.

I hung up and went downstairs ready to help prepare Sunday lunch. A wooden sign adorned the hallway table. Our family name, Hieskety, was painted in long curvy strokes over the wavy grain.

Cooking as a family on Sundays was a tradition and the biggest meal that we ate together all week. I tried to get out of it once, but my parents were sticklers, so I reluctantly carved a time for family lunch. We’d been doing the whole thing for as long as I could remember. Why not switch it to Thursdays, or Tuesdays, or pretty much whenever else? Something about always having to sit down at a specific time, year after year, week after week, Sunday after Sunday irritated me.

The clanging of bowls and pans rang down the hall from the kitchen. I rambled in. There you are! Catch! My mom tossed me a purple onion, and I began chopping. You look a little tired. Sleep well?

I shrugged her inquiry off, not wanting to rehash the same blurry nightmare for the zillionth time. My brain kicked into overdrive this time of year. All I wanted was to forget about my kidnapping. Block those days out as much as possible. Besides the distinct memory that I was taken to Houston, the nightmare didn’t contain specific details, but that didn’t stop me from waking up in cold sweats night after night. Especially since my kidnapper was never caught.

The next morning at school, Kurt walked around the corner faster than usual with stiff legs like a British Foot Guard. Mia! he shouted.

I lowered his voice with my hand. I felt like crap and his lack of volume control didn’t help. An ache had settled in my throat and my arms tingled all over as if my whole body had fallen asleep. Maybe I needed a stronger pair of glasses because suddenly, I had a headache too.

He’s here, he whispered ominously.

I shoved the heavy chem book in my locker. "Who’s here?" I demanded, undeterred from the painful focus of grabbing what I needed for journalism.

He leaned in closer as if giving me classified information that nobody else had the clearance for. Eye Guy, his voice lowered and he spoke through clenched teeth with his lips barely moving, from the pictures.

I grabbed my stomach.

He glanced down. You need to go to the nurse, he urged.

I wasn’t hiding the way I felt as well as I thought, but none of that mattered.

"You just told me he’s here. I’m not going to the nurse. I paused and pinched the bridge of my nose, taking a breath as the piercing throb pulsated a monster wave of pain through my head. I inhaled deeply, waiting for it to stop. Now I knew why I was having the pains, they were tied to him somehow. I was sure of it. I need to find him first. Where’d you see him?" I shut my locker and pulled the strap of my backpack over one shoulder. The lights in the hallways weren’t helping my migraine; the glares bright and blinding as they bounced off the shiny floors.

Kurt put his arm up on the locker, blocking my path. "Promise me if you keep having these problems that you’ll see the nurse by the end of the day." He planted his feet, hand on my arm. I could tell that he wouldn’t let me pass until I consented. But before I did, his eyes darted over my shoulder. I turned to see the object of his focus: Lacy.

Another wave of agony. I breathed in deeply through my nostrils. How did your date go?

He shrugged. It was all right. A second later, the vicious dragonflies in my stomach subsided, and the pulsing waves in between my temples faded almost completely.

Almost.

Now where exactly did you see him? I asked again.

I don’t know. In the hallway going the opposite direction, then he went around the corner and I lost him. But he’s here, I’m sure of it.

The bell rang. Five minutes before being counted tardy.

I had zero classes with Kurt this semester, so he went left and I headed to journalism. Mr. Kapoor was my favorite teacher and was passionate about the subject he taught, sometimes even eccentric.

Mr. Kapoor waved as I entered the class, old newspaper articles hung in frames along the walls that boarded twenty-nine individual desks. I sat in my seat in the front and rested my head; the throbbing had returned.

My fingers ached too. What the heck? I didn’t really like going to the nurse, all that attention on me. But maybe I should. The pressure between my temples was excruciating, and the poisonous dragonflies had returned as well.

The voices in the class roared with an intensity that I hadn’t experienced before. While sitting, I managed to shrug my backpack off my shoulder to the carpet—with my eyes shut. The small unpleasant wings in my stomach metamorphosed into golf ball sized rocks rolling around. Each painful rock banged off my insides like a pinball machine.

I grabbed my stomach, but then my head throbbed more. So I grabbed my head. Then my stomach demanded attention. Suddenly, all the voices in the classroom fell silent. A dull ringing resided in the void between my ears then increased to a loud knell—until all the pain subsided at once.

I was scared to open my eyes.

I opened one eyelid then the other. Every student was poised at their desk, not paying any attention to me, pulling out their computers, settling into the morning routine. And he was standing in the doorway. Eye Guy.

Mr. Kapoor looked over, unstartled by his presence. Aw yes. Mr. Sperren. I’ve been expecting you. He raised his arm to the doorway and motioned for Eye Guy to come in. Class. Thanatos Sperren is new to the area.

Right then, the name I’d been searching for was handed to me like he was just another student, enrolled as any other. And his name didn’t sound familiar at all.

He—Thanatos, Thanatos—strange name—remained in the doorway for another second before stepping into the room. When his gloved thumbs unlooped from the straps of his leather backpack, a few of the students snickered. Wearing gloves definitely wasn’t normal. A short