Dead River - By Cyn Balog Page 0,57
over everything else that’s out, too. Kissing. Shopping. Sunbathing. Talking to Ange. Everything. I fold up into a ball and start to cry again.
I feel Trey’s arm around me. “Hey, hey, hey. Kiandra. It’s not all bad.”
“What’s good about it?” I sniff.
He straightens. “Well, for one, you get to spend time with me. That’s pretty … well, I’ll just go and say it. Great.” He smiles broadly.
My jaw just hangs open. It’s the first time he’s ever joked. Aren’t the dead supposed to be more … sullen? Hopeless?
“What?” he says, noticing my surprise. “You think dead people can’t have fun?”
It never did cross my mind. It doesn’t seem like they have an awful lot to celebrate. “Well, yeah. You’ve always been so—”
“Before, I was worried about saving your sorry backside. Don’t have to worry about that no more.” He shakes his head at me, and when I start to apologize, he says, “No point in fretting over it now. I’ll catch hell later.” I’m just starting to feel bad again when he says, “And you still got those powers of yours. You want to try them out?”
“Powers?” I study my hands. “Like what?”
He stands up. “Like a lot of things. Here.” He reaches down and molds a few wet black leaves together into a small mound. “Go ’head.”
I stare at him. “What do you want me to do?”
“Light it on fire.”
I let out a short laugh. “I can’t—” But before the words come out, sparks fly from the center of it and a fire consumes it, leaping into the air. I can’t even breathe. “I didn’t do that. Tell me I didn’t do that.”
He shrugs. “You didn’t do that.” Then he grins. “Okay, yeah, you did.”
I shake my head. “You’re not telling me that all I need to do is think of something and it will happen?” I ask, horrified. Because how often have I thought strange things, like wishing that it would be ninety degrees during the long Maine winter, or wanting the Academy Awards to be broadcast from my high school gymnasium?
“It’s a little more than that. You’ve got to want it.” He looks at the fire. “You got some power, girl. I wasn’t able to light fire for a couple of weeks, at least.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. And that’s a small thing. Just you wait. I’ll learn you. It’ll be fun.”
“Okay,” I say. Maybe it will be. It won’t be life, but it might be interesting.
He smiles. “So, you ready?”
“For what?”
“Don’t tell me you don’t already know the third good thing about being here?” he asks, raising his eyebrows. “I’ll take you across now.”
I gasp. “What? Now? You mean …”
“Sure. You want to see your momma, don’t you?” He studies me, then asks, “What’s got you in a tizzy?”
“I’m fine,” I say, but even as I do my teeth clack together. He tilts his head to one side and his expression says, Level with me. “It’s—it’s just that I’m cold.”
I know he’s the type to remove his shirt and give it to me to keep me warm, but he’s already given me his shirt, for the wound. I expect that he’ll wrap an arm around me, but he doesn’t. He lowers his head and says, “Quit playing. The dead don’t feel warm or cold.”
“Oh,” I mutter. But they can obviously feel other things. Fear. Indecision. Regret. Hate. “I just … My mom left me when I was seven. She just left. For ten years, I’ve been without her. And I’ve … I’ve come to …” The words “hate her” are on my lips, but they won’t come out. “I just don’t understand why.”
He stands there, nodding as if I make perfect sense, which makes me feel a little better.
“Her powers are dying? Is she … sick?” I ask.
He crosses his arms in front of him. “Who told you that? Let me guess. No, she’s just as strong as she has ever been. Once again, you go and do something I tell you not to. I told you not to listen to him.” He looks down the path, toward the river. “Look, I been kind of lax in my duties. I got to be going.”
He starts walking down the narrow path toward the Outfitters. I tremble as he leaves. I don’t want to see Jack again. But at the same time, I do. Definitely, I can still feel indecision and fear. “Where are you going?”
He turns and smiles, and like he’s reading my mind, says, “There ain’t nothing more Jack wants