The Devil's Heir Page 7

  I attempt to count backward from ten to calm my nerves, a trick I picked up at an early age to avoid punishment.

  “Isn’t it obvious that the son of the Devil would be a killer? I mean what are the odds they come to town and then someone is killed?”

  “He didn’t kill anyone,” I mutter to myself.

  “Sorry?” There’s an audible pause. “What did you say?”

  I don’t realize I’m being spoken to until a hand touches my shoulder. Sasha’s eerie eyes stare down at me. Normally I’d want to curve inward and search for an escape, but she isn’t someone I’ll allow the pleasure of seeing me cower.

  I stand up from my seat, forcing her to take a step back. “Luke didn’t kill that girl.”

  “And how would you know?”

  Daisy inhales.

  I do not in fact know.

  “He was with me when the body was found.” It’s true, though it doesn’t exactly answer her question.

  Sasha’s lip twitches as she realizes after he left her standing in the middle of the Barn, he spent the rest of his time with me.

  That thought must distract her because she digresses. “Well, we can’t really trust a murderer’s word, can we?”

  “I guess you’ll just have to sleep with your windows locked until the truth comes out.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Friendly advice.”

  She puts her hands on her hips. “For all we know, you two could have worked together to kill that girl.”

  “Or,” a new voice calls out, “if any of you idiots had called the Sheriff Department, you would know that the time of death was over a week ago. My brother and I moved in a few days ago.”

  Lily Hale pushes through the crowd, making sure all attention is on her. I search for her brother but he’s nowhere in sight.

  “It’s a matter of public record,” she adds. “Ask Freddie, it’s his father I spoke to.”

  All eyes turn toward my table and Freddie nods. “She’s right, you are all a bunch of idiots.”

  Someone I don’t know steps forward. “Well, I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “And I don’t like when people trespass on my property, but, I didn’t have all of you arrested. You’re welcome.”

  “The Barn is for upperclassmen only!”

  “And it falls within my property line, so I have every right to be there.”

  Was she the flash of red I saw?

  “It’s my brother that wanted to leave the tradition to you all, so, you should be thanking him, not condemning him while he’s not here to defend himself.”

  Under the threat of their beloved tradition being taken away, the crowd grudgingly disperses.

  When the school bells ring, Tyler meets me at my locker.

  “You busy?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “Can I get your help with something?”

  “With what?”

  He smirks. “Don’t trust me?”

  Looking into his soft blue eyes, I know that I do. “Yes.”

  He nods over his shoulder. “Come on.”

  I have the urge to call my aunt and tell her that I won’t be home but snuff it out. She doesn’t care. As long as I’m home before dark.

  Hopefully helping Tyler will bring me out of my own mental torment.

  I follow Tyler out the back to the student parking lot and thank him when he opens the passenger side door to his old pickup truck. Its rusty exterior and muddy tires a hint at the rough and rugged adventures it’s been through.

  With the windows down and the September breeze flowing through the car, I sit back against the worn seat and enjoy having the wind make my hair fly around my face.

  Tyler laughs and I see through the curtain of my hair that some of the strands made their way over to his side of the cabin and are covering his face. I pull my hair back, keeping it under control so we don’t crash.

  The ride is quiet but not awkward.

  In fact, I’ve never felt more at peace gazing out the window of Tyler’s truck.

  Until we pull up to a small building. My eyes zoom in on the large cross hanging over the double doors. I tense.

  “Tyler…”

  He cuts off the engine.

  “I don’t usually go to church,” he says quietly, “but I could use some insight. After…you know. And I figured you’d be the person who can help me through it.”

  All my happiness vanishes at the simple sight of a church. My mouth dries. My breath quickens.

  I feel my grandmother’s anger from the grave at my hesitation.

  I don’t want to go in there.

  I can’t go back in there.

  Tyler gets out of the truck and walks over to open the door for me. He holds his hand out, waiting for me to take it.

  The refusal is in my throat. A smidge of backbone I never had begins to form. But when I lay eyes on Tyler, I push it down.

  He said he could use my support. And I want to give it to him.

  Swallowing the lump in my throat, I gingerly take his hand.

  My feet hit the ground heavier than ever before. The building is white and kept relatively clean. A row of plants lines the path that leads into the large, wooden double doors. The small parking lot adjacent to the building is full of cars, even on a Monday afternoon.

  I go to pull my hand out of Tyler’s, but his grip tightens.

  A deep breath is taken in.

  It’s not mine.

  I squeeze his hand for both of our reassurance.

  Slowly, we make our way toward the front of the building.

  We both pause.

  Over the door is a wreath made from local foliage. The iron cross is freshly polished. There’s not a speck of dirt on the mat that reads “Welcome Home.”

  Inside the room are two columns of benches. In front is a simple stage with a stand and microphone. It’s nothing like the church at St. John’s. No stained glass. No piano. Not a single religious statue.

  Yet the room is filled.

  None of these people needed to be frightened with the threat of detention, extra homework, a smack in the back of the head…or a promise that their lustful ways will get them sent to Hell.

  That threat was only given to me by my grandmother.

  Tyler and I take the last open seats in the room, in the last row.

  We’re quiet as we wait for the service to start. I listen to the hushed whispers around the room. Most of the conversations are about the dead girl who was found at the Barn. According to Freddie, the girl wasn’t a local so no one knew who she was.

  An older man takes the stage in a robe. The room silences. My leg starts bouncing.

  He greets his audience and they respond with vigor.

  No one points out Tyler and me as newcomers and I’m thankful.

  “Today,” the pastor starts, “I think we could all use a reminder about forgiveness.”

  Everyone hollers out in agreement.

  “Forgiveness for the poor girl whose body was found. For the one who took her life. For God who took a young person far too soon.”

  The room nods.

  “Forgiveness will always wash away sin.”

  I suck my teeth, knowing it’s not my place to interject.

  “Everything is done in God’s eyes.” Everyone nods. “And it’s in times like these, when we all sit back and wonder how and why something so terrible would fall into our laps—our kids discovering the body—that we want to look up to the heavens and ask why? Why us? What is God sending our way?

  “And I want to remind everyone here today that it’s okay to ask yourself those questions. Devotion and doubt go hand-in-hand. It wouldn’t be a healthy relationship otherwise.”

  This is something I’m unfamiliar with.

  The Sisters never allowed room for doubt.

  The church my grandmother and I attended were full of completely devoted people. No one there would have questioned God’s doing.

  And that includes not repo
rting any obvious abuse because it wasn’t “their business.”

  Anything outside of their own four walls wasn’t any of their business.

  Police practically nonexistent in the area.

  “Forgiveness,” he continues, “will get you through anything. Any low point you ever go through can be redeemed if you’ll just forgive yourself.”

  The pastor looks out into the crowd, and I swear I can feel his eyes on me.

  “We’re all redeemable. We’re all savable.”

  Those eyes look away.

  My breathing staggers.

  Savable.

  What would that feel like?

  Would my nightmares be gone? Could I sleep through the night?

  Live guilt free like the actual sinners of the world?

  “Then Peter came to Jesus and asked, ‘Lord how many times shall I forgive my brother or sister who sins against me? Up to seven times?’”

  He’s reading from Matthew 18:21-22.

  My lips recite from memory. I don’t need to be preached to.

  “Jesus answered, ‘I tell you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times.’”

  Forgiveness.

  How is it possible to forgive seventy-seven times?

  I rub the sweat from my palms on my jeans.

  The pastor continues the passage. My lips move before the words can even escape his.

  One: the first expression she ever gave me was one of disgust.

  Two: she never held me as a child.

  Three: she told me I reminded her of my mother.

  “His fellow servant fell to his knees and begged him, ‘Be patient with me, and I will pay it back.’”

  Four: she never allowed me to have friends.

  Five: she forced me to cut my hair.

  “Calla?” Someone calls my name. “Are you okay?”

  Six: she covered all the mirrors in the house.

  Seven: she never allowed me to take extracurricular activities.

  Someone squeezes my hand, whispers in my ear.

  Eight: she forced me to recite the Bible to her.

  Nine: there were indentations on the carpet in front of the fire where she’d make me kneel.

  Someone grips my knee, forcing it to stop its bounce.

  I look up into a pair of concerned blue eyes.

  “This is how my Heavenly Father will treat each of you unless you forgive your brother and your sister from your heart.”

  The room is quiet.

  “You’re only torturing yourself if you don’t forgive those around you, those who have wronged you,” the pastor says.

  My chest burns. I clutch at my throat.

  Tyler stands, pulling me up with him. He wraps his arm around my waist when my knees begin to buckle. The room goes silent. No one interferes.

  Tyler pushes the door open. The wave of fresh air goes straight into my stomach, my lunch threatening to come out.

  I sit on one of the benches at the entrance to the church. My palms curl around the cement lip, steadying me.

  Tyler squats down, eyeing me. His own hands cover mine.

  “Are you okay?”

  My chest rises and falls faster.

  “It’s okay, Calla,” he whispers, “it’s okay.”

  His blue eyes are hazy. I shake my head, blink to clear my mind.

  “I can’t forgive her.”

  “Forgive who?”

  I’m not ready to say her name out loud. To allow her to have a hand in my life.

  Not again.

  My temples pound, harder than the day she took my hair into her fist and threw me into my room after I spoke back to her.

  I was twelve.

  “You don’t have to forgive anyone, Calla,” Tyler says. “Not until you’re ready.”

  “Why should I have to?” I ask. “What if I don’t want to?”

  He nods slowly, gripping my hands tighter.

  “Okay, that’s okay.”

  A breeze passes between us, causing my eyes to water. I swat away the tear that falls down my cheek.

  “Why should I? Why should I forgive her? She never forgave me.”

  I grunt.

  “The Pastor said—”

  “The Pastor said what?” I snap. “That the unforgiving are only torturing themselves? You know what I think about that, Tyler?”

  His eyes remain steady.

  I lean forward.

  “If He forgives her for everything she put me through”—my voice cracks—“then I’ll never forgive Him.”

  Without another word, Tyler pulls me into his embrace.

  His arms wrap around my back, crushing me to him.

  My own are stuck between us. Tyler is chanting in my ear, trying to erase whatever’s on my mind.

  “It’s okay, Calla,” he promises. “You don’t have to forgive her.”

  I won’t.

  I can’t.

  Ten: she never said she loved me.

  I sit up and hold out my hands.

  The blood is gone, but my knuckles still ache.

  My victim was a young boy, close to my age.

  There was a sense of urgency this time. Like there was something I wanted to make sure he didn’t do. Someone I didn’t want him to see.

  When he hit the floor, the soul was gone from his eyes.

  And nothing else mattered. Everything about the dream gone.

  I stretch, wincing at the ache in my chest that wasn’t there when I decided to take a nap after school.

  I catch my reflection in the Hale mirror sitting on top of my dresser. It was delivered last night, and my aunt had it set up in my room by the time I got home.

  I shuffle down the hall, go into the bathroom and lift the bottom of my shirt. The bruise that was once fading has again blossomed. The dark circle on my sternum has nearly doubled in size. The once faded yellow spot is back to its original blue.

  I don’t remember hitting it again.

  But I don’t remember a lot after Tyler dropped me off back at the apartment yesterday.

  We didn’t speak the entire ride home or throughout school today. And not due to his lack of trying. I had never felt more drained by the time my head hit the sheets. When I got to school, I still wasn’t rejuvenated.

  Not even Lily’s consistent blabbering could break me.

  After a much-needed nap, I finally feel like I can function enough to get dinner.

  Taking a coat from my closet, I pocket the money Aunt Polly left for me on the kitchen counter.

  Walking down the street leading into town, I see someone ahead of me. It’s a man, based on his height, dressed in all black.

  I know who that is.

  Luke Hale stops underneath a lamppost, his black hair shining even in the dim light. With my hands on my hips, I search for Lily.

  “She’s not here, if you’re looking for my sister.”

  I decide it’s okay to approach him now. “What are you doing here, Luke?”

  “Would you believe me if I said it was a coincidence?”

  “Absolutely not,” I reply before I can stop myself.

  “I hate to disappoint, but I’m only out to grab dinner for my sister.”

  I continue walking.

  Luke follows close behind. I feel the heat radiating from his body despite the cold.

  “I heard you defended me.”

  I sigh. “That’s right.”

  Our heavy footsteps are the only sound.

  “Why?”

  I give the only rationally answer I can think of: “Because it was the truth.”

  “You don’t even who I am.”

  “No,” I say softly. “But you don’t know the type of person I am either.”

  “And who might that be?”

  I pause and meet his gaze. I don’t think I should be telling him anything about my past. “That’s for me to know.”

  Luke’s smile is more eerie than attractive, more sinful than peaceful. “Aren’t you full of surprises.”

  Every time
I’m the center of attention, it’s never a good thing. But here, under the street lamp, with this mysterious boy, I have the upper hand.

  “Lily likes ice cream,” he says when I don’t respond. “Our housekeeper only keeps fresh ingredients in the house.”

  “Brother of the year.”

  “My sister is everything to me.”

  “Yes,” I say, “I can see that.”

  “I know my sister has told you—”

  My temples begin to pound.

  “Please stop talking. I can only take so many brush-offs before I take it personal. You don’t like me, I understand. It doesn’t have to be awkward unless we make it.”

  I can practically hear his teeth grind. “I appreciate that. I hate to have my sister angry at me.”

  “We wouldn’t want that, would we?” I ask sarcastically.

  “Now you know my biggest weakness. I hope you don’t hold it against me,” he says lightheartedly.

  “Now you owe me.”

  Luke hesitates but gives a small nod.

  “I’m going to hold you to that.”

  His eyes flicker down at me. “You’re not going to ask me anything?”

  “I am,” I say, “just not right now. I like to have this over you.”

  He smirks. “Devious little thing, aren’t you?”

  “I think I’ll take that as a compliment,” I say with a smile.

  “You should,” he responds. “I don’t usually take kindly to people.”

  I snort. “That’s obvious.”

  “It helps that my sister likes you.”

  “So, what? No one gets close to you if they don’t get past your sister?”

  “I think that’s a rule she implemented all on her own.”

  “I like her more than you anyway.”

  “I hear that a lot.”

  As we start to near town, I notice his posture stiffens. “Goodnight, Calla Jones.”

  Once more, I’m left standing alone and watching as the tall dark-haired figure disappears into the night. I can’t really be mad as I watch him heading toward the local ice cream shop. Brother of the year.

  “Calla!” Daisy calls from a bench in the center of the square.

  I approach. “Hey guys.”

  “Oh, so I see how it is,” Becca says jokingly, “you didn’t want to hang out with us.”

  I raise my brow in true confusion. “Sorry?”

  “We left voicemails on your home phone, asking if you wanted to go out with us.”