Ember X (Death Collectors) - By Jessica Sorensen Page 0,12
someone else because my dad’s not dead.”
“You know, I saw someone messin’ around with your car,” he hollers and I stop, curious even though the guy’s a total creeper. “That Challenger over there—that’s yours, right?” He nods his head at my car.
I nod. warily “Um… yeah…”
He advances toward me, taking lengthy strides that put him near me quickly. “There was some guy that came around here just a few minutes ago. He got in it, messed around, and then left.”
So maybe my keys were stolen, not lost. “Thanks. I’ll make sure nothing’s missing.”
A sinister look masks his face. “I could give you a ride home, just in case.” His hand snaps out and he grasps my elbow, pressing his painted black fingernails into my skin. It sends a revolting sensation through my blood, thick like oil, and I gag on the bitter taste. Blood stains his hands. He stumbles through the night, to the edge of the rooftop. A dark cape flaps behind him. He smiles and leaps.
He releases my arm, and I shuffle backward as a smirk creeps across his lips. “Tell me, Ember, have you ever danced with death or been paid a visit by the Reaper?”
“Back the hell off.” I reel for my car and hop into the front seat. The guy retreats for the house, whistling a tune as he stuffs his hands into his pockets. My heart settles inside my chest, but his words linger in my mind. Does he know about my curse?
“I’m sorry,” I apologize to the car, giving the steering wheel a gentle pat, and then I grab a screwdriver from under the seat and pry off the panel. I yank out the correct wires, twist them together, pump on the gas pedal, and the engine revs to life. “The Kill” by 30 Seconds to Mars blasts through the speakers as I carefully set the wires back in and slam the car door shut.
My dad and I used to steal cars. When I was young, I’d sit in the backseat while he worked his hotwiring magic. However, when I reached my early teens, he taught me how to do it. I was his protégé. At twelve years old, I couldn’t see the bigger picture; that the situation was messed up and a small sign that my dad would eventually lose his mind.
I crank the steering wheel to the side and ramp onto the grass. The greasy haired guy eyes me from the porch as I cut across the front lawn and peel out down the driveway.
The trees blur by as I zoom down the road that threads between the lake and the mountain. When the tires reach the asphalt, I throttle the gas pedal to the floor, hoping Laden and Raven will remain on the highway and hopefully I can catch up with them.
By accident, I saw Raven’s death once. I’m usually very carefully not to touch people, especially ones that are close to me. I don’t want to know how it ends for them, how I’ll lose them, how I’ll hate myself for not saving them. But when Raven and I were younger, we were playing in Raven’s tree house. Raven had tripped and landed near the edge, almost falling off. By instinct, I reached to grab her. Once my fingers touched her arm, I wanted to erase everything. What I saw. Our friendship. Raven will die young, in a very painful and terrifying way. It will happen by the water, during a rainstorm, just like Laden’s death. Only her life will be stolen.
Clouds blanket the sky, the moon and stars are fading, and the air smells fresh like before a rainstorm. I try not to panic and speed up. I don’t look at how fast I’m going, but I’m not scared. My death will come when it’s time, just like everyone else’s. It will happen on a dark night, a faint light will sparkle, and I’ll be alone. I don’t know when, though. And I’m thankful for that. If anyone knew when they’d die, the fear and obsession to change it would own them and they’d have no life to save.
Headlights reflect in my mirror and a car rides up on my tail. “Back off, asshole,” I mutter, adjusting my mirror.
The car edges closer until it’s only inches away from crashing into mine. A sharp corner approaches, so I tap the brakes, but nothing happens. I stomp on the brake, but the car accelerates faster down the hill. The corner