Alive.
Here.
In his arms.
His hand finds the back of my neck. In one graceful maneuver, he flips me over, and with a ragged inhale, his mouth claims mine in a storm of desire and relief, agony and urgency.
My hands grab at his shirt.
His fingers tangle in my hair.
Wave crashes into wave.
I hold on tight, riding each crest until the storm softens into something so achingly tender, so piercingly sweet, I think I might die. His lips are perfection. The taste of him, divine. I want to live in this moment forever—stay right here, forever—when something intrudes upon my ecstasy.
An icy sting.
A cruel interruption.
Like a frozen sickle carving into my skin. Right where my mother’s mark had been. Even as I go on kissing Jude, I know what this is.
The curse has come for me.
48
FAULT LINES
Imove aside dead leaves and twigs as birds chirp and the crisp morning air nips my skin. I cast a look over my shoulder, toward the trail.
He’s late.
He probably stopped for gas and got caught in conversation with the clerk. Everybody’s talking about the earthquake that wasn’t an earthquake. At least, not one that registered on any richter scales. So then, what was it? The town is abuzz over one more unexplainable event in Foggy Hollow’s long list of them.
The Flash of 1757.
The Fire of 1822.
The Disappearance of 1995.
And now, the Tremble of 2025.
Only this time, I know the cause.
Our town exists on a supernatural fault line.Not a fracture in the Earth’s crust, but a schism between worlds. Because of that schism, we have a rift.
And a curse.
My hand moves to my collarbone. The touch burns, only the burn isn’t hot but cold. I told Dad I wasn’t feeling well and stayed home from church. It wasn’t a lie, exactly. There’s a pit in my stomach that no amount of sleep or Maggie’s chamomile tea can soothe. But I never intended to stay home and rest.
A branch snaps behind me.
I turn fast, extra jumpy given the circumstances.
Twig emerges from the trees, one arm tucked tight in a sling, the other clutching a crowbar and a car jack.
“Hey,” he says, his voice low and careful, like someone might hear. “I triple checked to make sure nobody was following me.”
Bynobodyhe means Rafe.
