Shattered: A Shade novella (25 page)

Mara
slumps sideways against the black-granite counter and steps out of her shoes
with a sigh of relief, becoming short again. “I couldn’t wait for Mom and Dad
to realize we were right. But now I feel
kinda
bad
for them.”

It
seems crazy to believe in the Rapture (or the Rush, as those who thought the Rapture
would happen tonight at 3 a.m. call it). But there were times when it seemed
like the ideal solution. This planet is so screwed up, how could God
not
want
to hit the universal delete key and start over? And how could He not want to
save what He loved best? Kind of like Noah and the Ark, but unlike Noah, we
didn’t have to build or collect anything. We just had to believe He was coming
and love Him more than we loved the world.

I
couldn’t do that, no matter how much I wanted to. I wanted a life more, with
Bailey and baseball and my friends and even homework. It was a life I tore to
shreds for my parents’ sake, but now I can reassemble what’s left. If it’s not
too late.

A
loud thump comes from upstairs. Mara yelps. So much for stealth.

We
sidle past the table into the living room, my sister’s face reflecting my own
trepidation. Not only did we miss curfew but Mara went to a prom after-party
when Dad told her not to, and I snuck out of the house to go to that same
party. The fact that I’m 70 percent naked and Mara’s breath reeks of beer will
not help our case.

I
position myself a step in front of her, to absorb the brunt of my dad’s rage,
in whatever form it takes. It’s been three years since he’s had a drink, but
he’ll be defeated and defiant. Getting stood up by Jesus does something to the
ego.

The
only sound is the clock ticking above the fireplace. Then quick footsteps pad
down the carpeted stairs.

Our
ginger cat,
Tod
, peers at us through the white wooden
banister and emits a meow that verges on a bark. He leaps onto the living room
floor and swaggers toward us, yapping.

Mara
sweeps him into her arms. “
Shh
. You’ll wake Mom and
Dad.”

I
strain to hear movement upstairs, but there’s nothing, not even a shifting in
bed. Mom always wakes at the sound of
Tod’s
caterwauls, if only to grumble vague threats at her beloved beast.

The
house feels empty.

I
hurry past Mara, who’s kissing
Tod’s
belly as his
limbs dangle over her arms. “What’s wrong?” she says, lifting her head from the
purring cat.

I
kick off Kane’s sandals, then mount the stairs two at a time, afraid to speak
my worst fear, as if words could bring it to life.

Our
parents’ bedroom door is a few inches ajar, but the room is dark. They should
be up right now, yelling at us (Dad) and heaving sighs of disappointment (Mom).

I
stop at the threshold, taking in the oppressive silence, then push the door
open.

Lying
in the king-size, four-poster bed, under rumpled maroon-and-gold covers, are
two…things.

I
tilt my head, as if that will change their shape and state and aspect:

Human.

Motionless.

Wrong.

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