The Judas Relic: An Evangeline Heart Holiday Adventure (12 page)

So I did. I trusted Betty LaRue.

The next day I packed up my 1974 VW bus, a suitcase of clothes, my Rosewood Gibson acoustic guitar, and Mama Cass. I pulled out of my parents’ driveway while Daddy waved his arms wildly in the air, yelling, “You’re gonna ruin your life out there, Evangeline!” (He’s the only one who ever calls me by my full name.) “Los Angeles isn’t the city of angels. It’s a city of heathens and devils!”

I knew he was just scared. I’m pretty sure if I looked closer, I’d see tears in his eyes. But Betty was right. This was something I had to do.

I could see tears for sure in my mother’s big hazel eyes, the same color as my own, as she mouthed, “I love you.”

I rolled down the window, choking back my own sobs. “I love you, too! I’ll call. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

With blurred eyes, Mama Cass’s head in my lap, a Patsy Cline cassette in the tape deck (thank God for eBay—you have no idea how hard it is to find cassette tapes these days), I headed west to the City of Angels. For the first time in sixteen years, I felt like I could
finally
breathe again. I was leaving behind the only two people I knew who I had never been able to heal even a little bit, and I didn’t think I ever could.

Chapter Two

I AM NOT A REBEL by nature. Or who knows...maybe I am. Regardless, it’s never really been an option for me. Not after what my parents went through. I could never yell, lie, sneak out of the house, or talk back. None of that. And those weren’t their rules; they were my own. So leaving my mother and father behind on that late April afternoon was by far the most rebellious thing I had ever done in my twenty-eight years, and honestly, it left me feeling cold.

Poor Cass with her thick coat must have hated me on that fifteen hundred mile trip, because I was freezing the whole way and cranked up the heater in my van, even as we drove through Arizona’s hot, desert climate. It was the kind of cold you can feel on the inside—that only a real hot bath combined with a hot drink and a tuck between the covers can cure.

I wasn’t sick. No sore throat. No aching body. Nothing like that. I was just cold.

And then, after three days of driving and staying in cheap motels, I took the 10 West all the way to L.A., and the chill left as suddenly and mysteriously as it had arrived.

The first thing I did was head to the ocean—Venice Beach to be exact. Yes, Los Angeles has plenty of tan, beautiful people and then some, but let me just say for the record, there are also a ton of freaks here,
especially
in Venice Beach. I saw one guy with hair the color of mashed peas that hung down to his rear in twisted, greasy ropes. He wasn’t wearing a shirt and the waistband of his shorts sat well beneath his boxers. Not an attractive look, especially considering the live iguana wrapped around his neck. Never seen that before.

Cass went totally berserk, yapping at him and the lizard. I had to yank pretty hard on her leash to get her to move while the guy snarled, “Get your mangy piece of shit mutt outta my face, dude!”

Um, excuse me? At least my dog takes regular baths, which is certainly more than I could say about Mr. Mange and his lizard sidekick. I decided to keep my mouth shut and move along, tugging on Cass the entire way. I made an effort to give him as wide a berth as possible, not wanting to accidentally brush against him and deal with the onslaught of negative emotions that would happen as a result.

Okay. I guess it’s probably time I let this particular cat out of the bag. See the thing is, when I turned twelve, my parents and I went through some tough times. And ever since, I’ve been able to get information about people through touch. But not just any information—traumatic, painful information. Caught your husband of thirty years sleeping with your best friend? Lost your mom in a car accident when you were a teen? Well, if you and I have come into contact before, chances are, I already know all about it. But that’s not all. I can also help ease the pain...give people a permanent Band-Aid to slap on that painful memory. I can’t make the pain disappear, but I sure can help you to cope with it, minus years of therapy or self-medication.

Sounds great, right? Well, have you ever paid attention to just how many times a day you touch someone? At the supermarket, at the salon, at a restaurant...it happens all the time, and you’re mostly not aware of it at all.

I’ve had to train myself to be extra focused on where I am and who’s around me in order to cope. Truth be told, I’m pretty cautious who I touch these days, and I also make a conscious effort to put some kind of barrier in place (gloves, mittens, napkins, whatever’s handy) if I know there’s a chance my hands might brush up against another person, because it is my hands that tend to be the main conductor of this
gift
. If my hands touch someone else, particularly their hands, that is when I get the clearest visions. I’d receive some information if someone were to bump against me, but the touching of hands is what I am most aware of.

Betty LaRue was one of the first people I “read.” It happened at Easter, sixteen years ago, when I took her hand to show her the new kitten Mama brought home for me (another gift meant to help me deal with our recent loss). All I got were glimpses—of a much younger Betty and the baby she lost when she was only seventeen, courtesy of a pregnancy caused by a boyfriend who didn’t take no for an answer one night—and they scared the hell out of me.

In any case, touching people like Cranky Dreadlock Man was simply not an option for me. No telling what sorts of nasty images I’d pick up from him.

Once we got past him, we reached the ocean. Color—silvery blue. Smell—fresh and salty—minus the cigarette smoke and sickly sweet scent of tanning oil that occasionally wafted its way toward us. The crashing waves and sandy beach were like something from a postcard. Cass and I people-watched for some time. Cheapest entertainment in the world. Bring a lawn chair, a bag of Tostitos, and a six-pack of soda, and you’ll find the movies have nothing on Venice Beach. When I need to get away from anyone famous—dead or alive—I head there. And I figure, the best way to beat crazy is to go and see even more crazy.

Cass and I shared a couple slices of pizza and a Coke (yes, Cass drinks Coke, too, but none of that diet stuff), and I decided we needed to find a place to stay for the night. And then I needed to find a job. I knew five thousand dollars was probably not going to get us very far in the land of glitz and glamour.

I found a motel a few blocks from the beach. It was fifty-five bucks for the night, which seemed like a lot. But we were tired, and I thought being close to the ocean might be cool, because I could take Cass for a walk in the morning. Problem was, they had a “no pets” policy.

“You gotta stay in the bus, girl,” I told her. She thumped her tail slightly and looked at me with her big, dark eyes. I whispered in her ear, “Only for a little bit. Soon as the coast is clear, I’ll come get you.” She thumped her tail even harder. I may sound a bit biased here, but Cass is the smartest dog ever. “You be a good girl, and I’ll be back.”

And I was, after a shower and a change of clothes. I snuck my half-coyote, half-lab, possibly some border collie pooch into the dingy motel room that smelled of stale cigarettes, bug spray, and mildew. She jumped on the bed with me and we fell fast asleep.

The Dead Celeb

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Also available:

Shadow Boxer

Alterations, Book 1

By Jen Greyson

(read on for a sample)
 

Chapter One

Based on the last two, I’m getting an increasingly bad taste for Tuesdays.

“Damn.” I grind my teeth as the needle stitches color onto my right shoulder blade.

Brin rakes a paper towel across the bloody area and slathers Vaseline over my new tattoo. “Wanna see?”

I press my shirt over my boobs and hop off the chair. The ache in my back radiates through my entire arm, but I peer over my shoulder at my reflection and his impromptu handiwork. High on my right shoulder blade, he’s painted a vibrant orange-yellow sun with a crescent moon piercing the bottom, and eight long strands of lightning radiating outward in feathery bolts. Day blurs into night and back again, held together by nothing more than lightning. A perfect illustration of time’s chaotic movement for me.

I gingerly pull my shirt on. “Nice.” One-word answers are enough here. I’m not capable of much else.

“Eighty bucks work?”

I dig in my front pocket for a crumpled hundred. My waistband slides over my hip and I grimace at how much weight I’ve lost. I don’t like being this skinny. I want my curves back.

Brin takes the cash, enveloping my hands between both of his. “Merry Christmas, Evy. You have plans?”

I force my gaze to stay steady, though I wince inside. “Dinner with the folks.”

“Cool.” He lets me go and taps the cash register, popping open the drawer.

I wave away his money. “Keep it.”

He jams the bill into the drawer and hums “Jingle Bells.” “Thanks, babe. Don’t be such a stranger.”

I test a smile and fight the burn stinging my eyes. “Thanks for fitting me in. Tell Tasha we need to go out for a drink.”

He walks me to the door and holds it open. “She’d like that.”

Back in Papi’s truck, I roll my shoulders. Even though some of the tension is gone, I still fight to stay above water. Please let this get easier. I’m going to run out of skin if this is how I have to unload the stress of an arc every time.

A snow-covered Accord slides toward my bumper and I brace for the impact, but the driver gains control at the last second and waves in apology. She grins, buoyed by the Christmas packages piled high in the back of her car. I manage to lift my hand in forgiveness. If only the rest of my problems were that easy.

I shift Papi’s truck into drive and pull out of the snowy parking lot, grateful he didn’t let me take my bike. I know he’s worried about me, but I don’t know how to reassure him—or if I even can. Not that he’s faring much better than I am, but at least he’s had a couple months to come to grips with what we are.

Lightning leaps from my fingertips and rings the gearshift. Another bolt races around the steering wheel. My heartbeat steadies and my chest expands with a calming fullness. I need to play with it again. Nothing else can get me balanced and centered like my lightning. My throat tightens and I fight the flood of memories.

Empty streets guide me home, but as I pass each driveway overflowing with visitors settling in for the long holiday weekend, the stiffness returns to my shoulders. I suppose I need to decide where I’m going to spend it as well. Someone’s shoveled my driveway, and I park between the small mounds of snow.

It’s weird to be back here in my own house. I’ve spent what feels like months between Papi’s house and ancient Spain. Everything here is so . . . normal. Bamboo floors gleam, the stainless-steel kitchen is unused as ever, and the couch and gadgets remain untouched.

I pace the length of my living room. The plan Papi and I formed earlier disintegrates as quickly as I try to recall the details. It seemed so easy and simple while we talked through saving Aurelia and then rescuing Penya.

I pull a blue strand of lightning from my middle finger and twist it around my hand, covering and uncovering my fingers. That’s not the right order. Penya’s abduction weighs on me, but not just because I failed to save her in the forest. That whole situation doesn’t feel right. The longer I wait to save her, the more chances of something going wrong. She thinks Aurelia is important—and I completely agree—but leaving Penya to Ilif’s mercy until I save Aurelia makes me uneasy.

The lightning jumps and pops around my hand. I close my eyes and inhale, drawing the cord of light out and back in a slow rhythm. When my mind empties and the unease quiets, I snuff the lightning and return to my living room.

Badly as I want to leave this decision up to someone else, I need to decide between the two. Time travel should not be this hard. In a perfect world, I could stop time and do both. Ilif is both the wild card and the ultimate pain in my ass.

My shoulders sag and I run a hand over my braid. It’s crusted and beyond grunge. I have no idea the last time I washed it—a week ago, a month? Time holds no meaning for me anymore.

I growl and shake my arms. “Snap out of this, Evy! Do something. Anything!”

A shower will help me sort things out. Right now any movement is progress.
 

I toe my boots off and pad across the floor to the bathroom. Even the opulence of my simple place is jarring. I twist the knob on the shower and peel my T-shirt off, wincing at the new soreness on my back and the days-old scrape on my forearm.

The one Constantine gave me.

Tears burn the back of my eyes, and I swallow and scramble to get myself under control. We knew it was an impossible situation. We knew a relationship wouldn’t work. As I shimmy out of my pants, my fingers brush the bruise on my hip where he had me pressed against the rock wall of his bedroom while my naked limbs entwined with his. I can’t hold the sob anymore. It bursts free in a tortured wail.

My hand flies to my lips and I bite my fist. No falling apart. Even though I gave myself permission to do it once I was alone, this is no time for a meltdown. Only a few hours until Christmas dinner, and I need days to purge all this.

I grip the edge of the sink and lean over the marble countertop, avoiding my image in the mirror. My braid slithers over my shoulder like his fingers across my skin. I squeeze my eyes shut and block everything. Bolts absentmindedly extend from my hands. They skitter across the counter and retract like an electric yo-yo.

I force a breath into my lungs and hold it then let it seep out. The exhale shakes as it leaves my lips, but I calm, even if just a small amount. On trembling legs, I turn toward the shower and check the water temperature. I slip my fingers beneath the waistband of my boy shorts—