Page 9 of Darkest Kiss

Chapter Three

Noemi

"Shouldn't you be done?"

I whirl, pulse pounding, from where I'm counting the till at the end of a long day at Poor Yorick Books. Uncle Marc is standing at the bottom of the staircase, frowning. Today, when he opens the normally locked door leading from the second floor, he seems tired. His hair is mussed, his shirt rumpled. His suit jacket and tie are nowhere to be seen.

"Yes. Yes. I'm just finishing up here." I gesture to the dated cash register, shivering. The summer heat has begun to fade and the cluttered bookstore gets cold at dusk, having no central heat.

Marc scowls at me. "Hurry up, Noemi." He checks his watch as he rolls up his sleeves. "Just leave the cash. If you're short, I'll cover it."

Hesitating, I look at the stairs. There are footsteps up there.

"Noemi!" Uncle Marc growls. "Quit standing there. Get your fucking coat and get moving. Don't make me come back down here."

I jump and shut the till, blushing. "Yes, Uncle Marc. Should we expect you for dinner?"

"No." He slams the door, locking it, and I can hear him trudge back upstairs.

"How was your day, Noemi? Oh really, how interesting!" I say sarcastically.

Grabbing my coat, I head out the front door, locking it as I go. While he protects me from the worst of my aunt Kathleen’s anger and disappointment, Marc has always been dismissive of me and my wants. He and my aunt Kathleen took me in at age fifteen when my parents tragically passed away. And ever since then, I’ve been walking on eggshells.

My uncle's temper grew distinctly worse a few months ago. I guess his cushy job as city councilman isn't meshing that well with his new friends. Who would've thought that getting in bed with the freaking mafia would turn out badly?

Kathleen has been strange lately, too. She’s solicitous in a way she never was when I was a kid. She never came near the bookstore when my parents were alive. She and my mother fought like cats about that place, some old inheritance thing I was never told the details of . But lately, she stops in just to check on me. She never did that before and I'd rather she hadn't started.

Out on the sidewalk, I do the thing I've started doing every night this week. I look for my follower.

The blond man haunts the doorway of the vacant building across the street. Last week I decided that the next time I caught him at it, I'd march over and introduce myself. Or at least demand to know his deal. Brave words, from a girl who rehearses voicemails before she leaves them.

Tonight, the doorway sits empty. No broad shoulders, no pale hair catching the streetlight. There’s only a wedge of darkness and a city bus wheezing past.

By rights, I should feel relieved. A strange man has been loitering near my work. For now, he's gone. Instead, some dumb flicker of disappointment lands in my chest. Under the deflation, needles of worry pricks me.

A danger you can see is easier to keep track of than one you can't.

Hurrying around to the back parking lot, I see the front yard of the abandoned house that abuts the bookstore's property. It's a sad affair; shingles worn and loose, paint peeling, what must have been a quaint picture window in the fifties now boarded up. Now, there are two young women sitting on the split wicker loveseat on the house's porch. And they don't seem like they are moving.

Each is slumped haphazardly to the side, mouth open, eyes rolled up. When I move closer to ascertain if they're okay, the blonde moves suddenly, making me jump. But then I realize that her arm, which she was propped up on, just gave way.

Are these two... dead?

Looking around furtively, I move across the weed-clad yard and up to the girls. My eyes study the house; the front door is ajar, but it normally is. I listen for a second for the faint sounds of movement.

I already have a panic disorder. The last thing I need is someone jumping out at me from behind that door. It'll probably send me to the hospital.

Again.

Won't Uncle Marc love that?

When I'm as sure as I can be that these girls are alone, as if dropped here by a freaking spaceship, I lean in to feel one of the girls' wrists. This close, I can see they are young, no more than fifteen. And they're dressed up like they're going out. Smears of black eye makeup, tiny tube dresses, fairly exotic gold heels.

The girl has a pulse. Which, thank god. If I'd discovered bodies, I'd probably perish right here and now.

I shake one of the girls' shoulders. "Hey. Are you okay?"

Her head lolls back, her eyes wide open. Her pupils are the size of dinner plates. She seems... conscious? Like she can understand me? But she doesn't move a muscle, not even to blink.