Prologue

On my twenty-third day at Central Louisiana State Hospital, I finally broke.

My hands moved numbly over the pane of glass, my glassy eyes following the race of raindrops as they quickly sped down the pane.

-‘The Fire ensues, yet The Life shall thrive’-

‘Stop,” I thought, gritting my teeth, my dull nails scraping against the clear glass. I didn’t even acknowledge my roommate, Jennifer, as she slithered into the room, her light little body hardly making a sound as her feet hit the linoleum floor.

“Grace,” she said, and I glanced over my shoulder. She was only seventy pounds, but almost as tall as I was. Her big, alarming blue eyes met mine, and I swallowed the bile that pushed up the back of my throat.

-‘ The Six shall face Death- The One shall succeed’-

“Stop,” I mumbled, a panic crawling into my stomach and my hands fluttering into my lap. Once there, my hands tore at the nails, even though they were already bloody and torn down to the quick.

“What,” she asked, and I looked back over my shoulder to see her coming closer. I flinched as her soft, cool hand met my forearm.

“N-No, not you. I-I… I’m just tired,” I offered weakly, brushing my dark bangs out of my eyes and blinking as a gold dagger glinted at her side. I jumped from my spot by the window, suddenly aware of the knife in her hand. “What are you doing?!”

“Time for distribution,” she said softly, her fine, blonde brows knitting and her shaking hand reaching for the holster. I almost hissed at her, my back pressing against the window and terror eating at my resolves.

Was she a player in the Games? How did she know of my powers? I had been careful not to use them, minus the little bouquet of flowers my mother had visited with, and all I had done was lengthen their life with a little bit of blood.

“Don’t touch me,” I screeched, my hands swiping at her face, my dull nails digging into her cheek. Although there was little my nails had done, her shocked expression said I had a few seconds to escape. Stronger and taller, I shoved at her weak, malnourished body, her little bloated tummy hard against my palms. She fell backwards, into the railing of her twin sized bed, and I took the opportunity to sprint out of the room, my hospital gown fluttering behind me.

-‘The Bow and Beak shall provide a feast’-

-‘The Water and The Fire shall spark a flame’-

-‘Death will touch Life’-

My bare, padded feet propelled me into a medicine cart, and the nurse pushing it wore an expression of shock.

“S-She’s trying to kill me,” I cried, running into the woman’s chest and clinging to her scrubs. “She has a knife! She’s a part of the Games!”

It was a blur when the team of nurses came in, flocking my room, where Jennifer lay crumpled in her bed, shaking and clutching her bleeding head. She had hit it, on the metal bar of the bed, when I shoved her. When the nurse brought me back into the room, Jennifer was holding her little plastic cup in hand, no sign of a dagger or anything that could harm me. Her anti-anxieties meds were scattered and crushed on the tiled flooring of the room.

The blood drained from my face when I realized what this meant.

The nightmares were starting; the voices and the delusions were back.

The Games were starting again.

And soon. 

Chapter One

 

The girl stared back at me, her wild, hazel eyes holding onto mine. Her dark, mussed hair was in a messy, frizzy braid falling down her back, her skinny, tanned neck left exposed. There, dangling between her breasts, was a ruby amulet that was garnished and older than I was. Her slender fingers moved to her neck the same time as I did, and I watched as my reflection moved strands of hair from my face.

 

The first day of the last year of high school was terrifying. While everyone was yachting and travelling and tanning, I spent the summer after junior year in an institution. Like, for the mentally unstable. That’s what they called it; not crazy, or nuts, just… unstable. Frankly, the girl who cut up her face with scissors and the boy who refused to eat because he was so paranoid someone poisoned his food, were a little bit more than unstable, but it was the thought that counted. 

 

 I didn't look like I had spent all summer in a crazy ward, I told myself, although my skin was pale and my eyes were hollow. I ran my fingers against the silky maroon fabric that glittered in just the right light, as it swished around my bony, thin legs and encased my upper body in a silken hug. The dress had been a surprise from my mother, splayed crisply against my duvet covers on my bed, just waiting for me to try it on as I slipped out of the shower that morning. It had fit like a glove, except the chest area that I'm sure earlier in the year would have been brimming with cleavage. Psych wards don't exactly serve gourmet meals; losing twenty pound from my already lithe frame made me look like a walking skeleton with hip bones as sharp as steak knives. 

 

I stared at the array of makeup lined on my vanity tabletop. In the hospital, makeup was almost as easy to find as the lost city of Atlantis. Quitting my morning ritual of creams and liners and shimmery shadows cold turkey had made these once familiar friends seem alien. Gingerly, I grabbed hold of the eyelash curler, squeezing the clamp and reveling in a time when it was the least complicated thing ever. I never thought I'd be this grateful to see Smashbox and L'oreal crammed on every available surface in my bedroom. 

 

My eyes travelled from the makeup treasures to the photographs and postcards and little glass perfume bottles that were pressed against the vanity mirror. Shakily, my fingers curved against the edges of a certain stainless steel picture frame.

 

Our cheeks were pressed together to a point where you weren't sure where he ended and I began; his stubble was golden against my tanned skin. It was taken last year, at his parent's lake house during a party that ended with two girls going to the U.R., and a wild fire raging on the deck. Needless to say, that was one of the last nights I suffered through normal teenage reprimand, because from then on the voices started and things started slipping.  Like Brandon. 

 

I don't know why I kept the picture right there, our eyes half-mast in happiness and our cheeks flushed from alcohol. It was only a reminder of how things could have played out: I could have kept my spot on the cheer squad, I could have gone to prom with the guy who I was sure was the love of my life, I could have given him my virginity before we both applied to Louisiana State University, I could have had a normal life.

 

With trembling fingers, I set the picture frame back on the vanity, hoping closure would come as I stepped through the green double doors of my high school that morning.

 

And then, I laughed at the thought. Closure mocked me when my grandmother was dragged off to the looney bin; closure maliciously watched as my father walked out on us. Closure was not my friend. Her cousin, Comfort, was just as foreign.

 

‘Comfort is for the weak,’ Death whispered icily against the shell of my ear. When my eyes flew to the mirror, I could almost see his reflection taunting me: pale everything, except for the black cloak always draped around his broad shoulders. An eyebrow ring, curiously enough; a smile that made my skin crawl, yet with what emotion I wasn’t sure.

 

I inhaled shakily, the trapped air rattling around in my lungs, and stared determinedly in the mirror.

 

“You are not real,” I hissed, imagining Death’s profile next to my own. I could almost feel his skin on mine.

 

‘Naïve Grace,’ he clucked, shaking his head. ‘We’re as real as you are daft.’

 

I blinked, staring only at my enraged expression and a crack in the mirror that wasn’t there before, and tried to contain the rapid breathing I could have sworn I had under control moments earlier.  

 

I’m insane.

 

I’m going-

 

“Grace hurry! You’ll be late to school if you take any longer,” my mother’s voice called impatiently from the stairwell.

I’m going to be late.

~~~

 

Our green Sedan pulled up to the drop-off site, and yet my mind was back in my bedroom, quipping with Death and imagining a different life for myself. When we finally rolled to a stop, my eyes registered familiar faces in crowds, the green grass of the front lawn. My heart promised to stop in my chest, half-lodged in my throat.

 

“Mom, it’s not too late. I can go back home, and enroll in online classes,” I said half-heartedly, my eyes following a huddle of golden, spandex material that moved in a whirl of glitter and big bows. The cheerleaders; my old friends.

 

“Grace,” my mother sighed, a frown pulling at her features as she cupped my cheek lightly. “Sweetheart, you know the doctors suggested you go back to school. They said staying locked up in your room all day isn’t healthy.”

 

My mother never added her opinions into the myriad of excuses she fed me. The doctors said you should eat. They doctors said you should go outside. The doctors said to take your medication. The doctors know best, Grace.

 

Just for once, I wished she would just say it: Grace, I’m worried, and as your mother, I’m ordering you to eat/have contact with the outside world/take the pills as big as my pinkie finger without a complaint.

 

“Moi? Unhealthy?” I tried to ignore the reflection her face cast on the glass of the window: horror and shock, like she thought my joking about my mental health was a sign I was losing it.

 

“Gracie-“

 

“I know, Mom. I know. I-I promised I would try, and I am. Look,” I said, gesturing theatricallly as I opened my door, “I’m leaving my room. I’m getting out of the car, and I’m going to go to my first hour class.”

 

I grabbed the lunch she had managed to pack between finding her reading glasses- which had been perched on top of her head like a majestic crown of near-sidedness- and going through files before she presented her case to the court that morning. I wouldn’t be surprised if there was part of a pre-nuptial stuck between two slices of bread, peanut butter, and honey.

 

Ironically, as a defense attorney, my mother was otherworldly, and was probably considered a deity in her firm; my grandmother, an acclaimed voodoo priestess extraordinaire, was actually otherworldly- or so I had been told from a young age- but was a bad apple on the family tree.

 

While my mother was an admitted work-a-holic, she had been trying her hardest to give me a schedule as I returned home from Central Louisiana State Hospital. From day one, she shoved books and crafts under my nose. New Christmas sweaters wouldn’t be a problem this year; I had three knit from the miles of yarn she had dragged home from a craft store. Paper lanterns made from newspaper print? Four. Four, shoved in the back of my closet, that I would never actually use. And the popsicle stick crafts were obviously my favorite, because I had twenty little picture frames made out of them, although no pictures.

 

My mother smiled weakly as I stepped out of the car, bag hung haphazardly from my shoulder. I was in kindergarten, trying to cling to my mother’s leg.

 

“Be here at three-thirty,” I asked, as a car horn from somewhere behind us wailed like a siren. I winced, and watched in horror as my mother shifted gears and nodded. I just barely heard her exclamation, ‘I love you, Gracie’, before she peeled out of the parking lot. Leaving me with the wolves clad in golden, glittering spandex and onlookers hoping for some drawn blood. I bit my lip and turned, letting a gasp of air escape from between my lips when I attempted to count the number of eyes on me.

 

Kelsey and Janet stared at me, openly shocked, their cheer hair and white, clean shoes mocking me.

 

Hannah Baker actually jumped when I caught her eye, suddenly skittering onto the grass like a spooked horse.

 

And James and Hunter…

 

I wanted to crawl under a rock when their gazes met mine, and their brows arched. She looks crazy, I could imagine them muttering later, gathered around Brandon’s locker and recalling the herd of black cats that slipped out of my open car door or the way lightning fizzled in the sky as I stepped onto the sidewalk.

 

I was thankful for the people who acted like I didn’t exist. I wanted to praise them with palm leaves and scatter rose petals at their feet. Without their stares- because only the people who were at the party knew what happened- I felt as though some weight had lifted off my chest.

 

I swallowed, forcing the bile to slither back down my throat, and raised my head, ignoring the stares as I made my way to the front door. Ten steps. Eight. Seven. Five. ThreeTwoOne. 

 

“Amusez-vous avec les loups,” I murmured to myself before pushing the looming doors opening and entering Prairie Meadows High School.

 

Have fun with the wolves.

Chapter Two

 

‘How can you stand it here,’ Death asked, lounged lazily on the bench like a king. I froze at the sound of his voice, and let my eyes fly to the students walking by. I ignored him, continued shading the thorns that tore at the man’s flesh. Death, craning his neck, looked at the book in hand.

 

‘This dark side of you, I admit, is very intriguing. You really are a rose: sweet to look at, but touch and you pay a price,’ he chuckled, making me look up just for a nanosecond to see he was smiling.

 

The nightmare had haunted me all morning: as I stepped into the warm stream of the shower, as I slid liquid eyeliner along my lashline, as I picked at the blueberry pancakes my mom made- and burned- ritualistically on the first day of the school year. The lingering dream occurred almost every night: thorns erupting from my palms and tearing a faceless man to ribbons of flesh. My laughter echoing around the dark abyss we were trapped in. My laughter.

 

“You’re a monster,” I grumbled in his direction, rolling my eyes and turning back to my sketch. I was the monster, talking to shadows and drawing out my nightmares.

 

‘I am Death. What did you expect?’ His question made me pause, twirl the pencil between my fingertips. What did I expect? For Death, the one person who seemed to acknowledge my existence and was nothing more than a figment of my imagination, and I to become friends?

 

‘Everyone has a dark side, Grace, dear. You are not a murderous villain for indulging in those daydreams every once and a while.’

 

“Says Death, the Prince of the Undead, the Taker of Lives,” I deadpanned softly, and I swore for a moment his smirk slipped.

 

‘The difference,’ he said softly, his breath fanning across my cheek and reminding me of icicles, ‘between you and I, is  that I enjoy my gift, and you are terrified of yours.’

 

Gooseflesh erupting from my skin, I sat up, his black robe brushing against my forearm. It felt like a whisper, a shadow. I did not want to further question Death. He seemed to take pleasure in watching me squirm.

 

‘High school is interesting,’ he mused, still looking bored and licking his cold, white lips. If it weren’t for his constant talking and smirks, I would have thought he was a corpse. His skin was like ice, and even his light blue eyes had lost their sparkle. ‘You are a tithe, and yet they act as though you carry new age leprosy.’

 

“They don’t want to catch my crazy,” I offered weakly, as Jenna Remington and I made eye contact and all warmth drained from my body when I realized she was witnessing everything. Slamming my journal  shut, I stood abruptly from my spot, my legs suddenly aching to run, and looked over my shoulder to see nothing but my own shadow splayed across the bench. Typical. Sometimes, Death’s banter was the only thing that kept me anchored. Now, I was a stray boat, unsure of where to sail.

 

My first class, study hall, was nothing but goofing off on the first day. With no assignments and no ambition to read, my classmates just filtered in and out of the school, playing catch with a football, chattering about their summers by the fountain, ignoring me like the plague. I hadn’t minded; up until then, I had Death to irritate me.

 

Dr. Tucker insisted the delusions were caused by an imbalance of chemicals in my brain.

 

Grandmother Bea would have said it was because I was growing stronger, although I certainly didn’t feel it. Even if I did humor my grandmother, the Coven Games were a grim, twisted fate for anyone sucked into playing.

 

It wasn’t a game. It was a death sentence, a personalized noose fit to your liking.

 

The War Between Worlds, The Slaughter Games. Call it whatever you like, the gist is clear: Death has won for the past thousand years. They- whoever they are, game makers, gods- pinned us up against an immortal who’s only alive when his touch renders someone dead.

 

“Grace,” my grandmother would say, and although I don’t remember her face I could never forget the smell that cloaked her: incense and cinnamon gum. “Grace, how do you feel about this card?”

 

She held up the tarot card, the Prince of Death, draped on a steed with glowing eyes and steam filtering from his nostrils. Although flames engulfed him, although his expression was one of pure malice, Death rode alone, on a beach of black sand and curling smoke swirling into the grey sky.

 

“Sad,” I finally said, a gasp escaping my grandmother’s lips. Even at age seven, I knew that was the wrong answer.

 

“This man is a killer. W-… Why would his card make you feel sad?”

 

“Well,” I shrugged, my fingers curling the edges of his card, “he’s all alone. His horse looks sick. I…Am I doing something wrong?”

 

“Grace… In the Games, you put your pity aside. You have to be ruthless. You have to fulfill your destiny. You must kill Death.”

 

I didn’t understand it then, and I still don’t now. To the empty space where Death once sat I murmured, “And to think I once pitied you. I’ll try not to make the same mistake twice.”

 

I could almost hear his humorless chuckle.

 

The sound of a roaring engine pulled me back to the present like a tide: my legs carrying me to the parking lot before I even realized I was moving. People tossed each other confused looks, their curiosity peeked. No one around here rode motorcycles; especially ones as beaten and bruised as this one. It’s whole frame was gleaming, black armor, but the once-silver body was tinged brown and gritty. I stood, frozen on the sidewalk, as the bike pulled into the closest spot, its rider rolling to a stop leisurely. 

 

Long, worn jeans and a thick torso that left my mouth dry. Taped, grease stained hands wrapped around the handles, and black biker boots on his feet.

 

Black hair. Ebony and messy and looking soft to the touch. A jawline dusted with dark stubble, and eyes that glittered with amber fire. His full, pink mouth was twisted into a self-satisfied smile as he swung one leg over the bike and stood to assess the crowd that pretended not to be interested in the newcomer. I swallowed at the sight, his thick arms crossed over his chest, his heavy brows arched as though he were challenging someone to say something.

 

Something about him was magnetizing. Enthralling. Pulled me closer without my foot ever lifting from the ground.

 

‘Who is he,’ Death asked, and I flinched at the sound of his voice. I looked to my left to see his ghostly form, his eyebrow ring glinting in the sunlight. Shaking my head, I turned back to the stranger.

 

“I-I don’t know.”

 

Amber eyes met mine through the throng of people staring and walking and talking; my mind reeled, as we stared each other down like animals. Finally, a slow wink greeted me, much to my surprise. The man, without a second glance, swung his black bag over his shoulder and began trekking to the front door, leaving whispers in his wake.

 

‘Well, ‘ Death mused, and I tried to pinpoint the weak amusement in his voice, ‘it seems as though he knows you.’

 

“No,” I thought, “I would have remembered someone like him.”

~~~

 

I stepped into my last classroom of the day and almost cried out in joy. I had survived seven whole class periods of social isolation and eating lunch in a bathroom stall.

 

It didn’t matter that Hannah Keller sat in the front row; it didn’t matter that Mr. Bartling was the most boring teacher in all of Louisiana; it didn’t matter-

 

I froze when, standing in the front of the classroom and hoping to find an empty seat, I saw him, sitting in the fourth row back next to Nick Jenner and Tatum Miller.

 

Hooded blue eyes that met mine almost instantaneously.

 

I should sit in the front.

 

A jawline I remembered kissing so many times I swore my lipstick was tattooed on his skin.

 

No, the back.

 

Blond hair that fell into his eyes frequently enough I threatened to cut it all off.

 

The middle. No one sits in the middle.

 

Brandon opened his mouth like he was going to say something.

 

Speak, I wanted to scream, slowly walking towards the middle of the classroom. My heeled boots clicked against the tile, and all I could focus on were his gaze until I realized he wasn’t the only person watching me.

 

The biker from the parking lot sat by the window, his eyes meeting mine and that magnetism pulling me closer. There’s any empty seat next to him, my brain sung. Before I could think twice, I set my things on the tabletop, sliding into the chair as inconspicuously as possible. When I peeked at him out of the corner of my eye, he was staring at my legs, and the inch or so my skirt rode up as I sat down.

 

I cleared my throat loudly, and when his eyes flew to mine, his lips curled into a smirk. I tugged at the hem of my dress.

 

“Could you, uh, stop staring,” I asked softly, tucking a strand of dark hair behind my ear and not daring to meet his smirking features. Instead, I fiddled with the silky sleeve of my dress, letting the red material fall through my fingertips.

 

“Just takin’ in the scenery.” He had an accent, thick and throaty, that made his voice sound like pepper tastes. It was Cajun, and for a moment, my interest sparked; not many people around Gatlin grew up anywhere near the basins. The parishes of Acadiana were hundreds of miles away. How, I wondered, did this boy end up in a school where students recieve personal laptops for school use and have drinking foutains especially for water bottles?

 

“As flattered as I am, I’d really appreciate it if you’d stop.”

 

“But what’d be in the fun in that?”

 

Finally, I did look up. Narrowing my eyes, I took in the way he lazily sat in his chair, the amused expression he wore on his face. Everyone around him looked as though they wanted to sleep. And yet, here he was, an amber inferno raging in his irises. He looked about as out of place as I felt.

 

“Why are you here,” I asked, my tone sounding much snobbier than I intended. I cringed. The Cajun chuckled.

 

“Ain’t even ask my name and this bonne fille is already trying to flirt,” he said lowly with a shake of his head like he was talking to himself.

 

“I-I’m not… I mean, I was just…-“

 

“The name is Kincade Badeaux, I am here with ma grand-mere, and to answer your earlier question, non, tearin’ my eyes away would be a shame.”

 

A snort just one row ahead of us made me remember where we were. Turning around, Hannah Keller gave Kincade a twenty watt smile and arched a brow in my general direction.

 

After clearing her throat, she said with a sneer that reminded me of a feral cat, “Haven’t you heard? Grace Duchannes is a freak, and I suggest you keep your distance.”

 

Immediately, my face heat, and my smile fell from my lips, shattering upon impact with the tiled floor. I waited for Kincade to stand from his desk and walk away; instead, I heard his laugh. It was a musical sound that pounded a nail of embarrassment into my flesh.

 

 “Lucky for ole’ Kincade, I gotta thing for freaks.”

 

I thought my jaw touched the floor. What was he doing? Trying to be the new school pariah?

 

Hannah coughed, offering me a glare as dirty as the cafeteria floor, before she sighed. “It’s a shame such a pretty face like yours has a thing for weirdos who talk to their own shadows.”

 

“Braque, eh,” he asked me, the corner of his mouth curling into a smile. My mouth tasted like chalk. Instead of answering him, I reached down to grab my bookbag, suddenly finding the contents fascinating. Lipgloss, the journal filled with my nightmares, sunglasses-

 

Braquer in French meant shine. In Cajun French? Drop the ‘r’ and you get ‘crazy’.

 

Crazy, eh?

 

I listened to the groaning of metal as he leaned forward in his chair, and out of the corner of my eye watched as his mouth grew closer to Hannah’s ear. 

 

“It’s a shame such a joli face like yours ain’t nothin’ but a bonne a rienne. Vous devriez avoir honte.”

 

I tried to stifle my laugh, as Kincade leaned back in his chair and gave me a wink. Hannah’s thin brows worked to decipher what he said, and I wished to have the satisfaction of explaining he called her a good for nothing girl who should be ashamed of herself.

 

As Mr. Bartling stepped into the class and announced our lesson plan, Kincade grinned like a Cheshire. I couldn’t help but smile also. He may have been a pig, but he stood up for me and-

 

‘Make any new friends, ‘ Death asked airily, making me stiffen and forget Kincade Badeaux in a second. When I peeked over my shoulder, I saw his black cape whisper as it brushed against the ground. I opened my mouth to speak, before remembering if I spoke loud enough for Death to hear me, certainly everyone else would be able to.

 

Instead, I opened the new spiral notebook in my lap and began to write.

 

Get out of here. Now.

 

Leaning over my shoulder, Death put a hand to where I’m sure a heart had rested at one point. ‘I’m hurt you wish to see me leave so soon.’

 

Fine. If you won’t leave, I’ll make you. You’re nothing but a figment of my imagination anyways.

 

I closed my eyes, and tried to picture the classroom as it was before. Mr. Bartling shuffling into the room, his face ruddy and sausage fingers devouring a piece of chalk. Melanie Martinez texting underneath her desk, blowing bubbles with the wad of Hubba Bubba in her mouth. Brandon, ignoring my existence, laughing with his friends. Kincade, leaning back in his seat-

 

‘You can’t get rid of me so easily,’ Death taunted, taking a step closer and circling my desk like a lion on the prowl. His tone made the blood in my veins turn to ice. I was used to Death’s banter, his jests; yet this time, there was only malice in his voice.  When his hand touched my shoulder, I flinched. ‘There’s something I’m supposed to show you.’

 

No. No, please, not here. I could handle them in my bathroom, curled on the floor and dripping blood. I could handle them alone. But please, not in the middle of my class-

 

My nose began to drip, drip, drip onto the notebook, and darkness swallowed me my body fell to the floor. 

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 10.07.2014

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Widmung:
To agarza1999, You made this book a reality, even when I couldn't see it. Thank you so much, and I hope you enjoy. xoxo