Kisses from Hell

talking about how he went rock climbing here. I took a chance.”

Distantly, Rhea recalled Dennis saying a “pretty brown-haired girl” had encouraged him to run off with Rhea. Rhea had a good idea who that girl was but decided not to bring it up just yet.

“Why didn’t the guardians come here?” she asked instead.

“They didn’t believe me. They thought he was too drugged to be dangerous. They figured he was just hiding somewhere on the grounds. Plus Stephen said you take walks by yourself all the time, so no one thought you and Dennis were connected.”

Eric was still running his fingers through her hair, and it felt like the most perfect thing in the world. “You should have tried harder to convince them. You shouldn’t have come alone,” she argued. “With your family…if anything had happened to you…there’d be no more Dragomirs….”

He still seemed shaken by what had happened but mustered a small smile. “It was worth the risk. I was too afraid there’d be no more Rhea.”

She stared up at him, hardly daring to believe anyone would do that much for her. A strange, wondrous feeling rose in her chest, and this time, she was the one who kissed him. It seemed so strange to be kissing in a place where death had just occurred before their eyes, and yet…it also seemed right. They were alive. The kiss was alive.

She wanted to keep kissing him forever and had a feeling he would have been happy to do the same. There were too many things to worry about, though. Horrible things. They had to get back and report what had happened. They had to…

“Emma and Stephen,” she murmured when she and Eric pulled apart. “What will we do?”

“We’ll talk to them,” said Eric. He hesitated. “If you…I mean, if you want to…”

She studied him, reminding herself that she barely knew him. What did she want? She and Stephen had been friends for a long time—almost like brother and sister. He loved her…but she wasn’t in love with him. Until now, she’d thought it didn’t matter, so long as she cared about him. Now she realized it did matter. Love had to be more than liking the other person. She didn’t want to break his heart…but she also didn’t want to regret taking this chance to be with someone who actually seemed to want to be with her and not just what she could do for him. Eric had been right about her always looking out for others. Now, for once, she would do what she wanted.

“We’ll talk to them,” she repeated.

He linked his hands in hers and led her out of the cave, steering her clear of the cliff’s edge. She had a feeling it was less about safety and more about making sure she didn’t catch a glimpse of Dennis’s body. The way back down to the house actually had a well-worn trail, explaining why both Eric and Dennis had managed to reach this height.

Halfway down, Eric stopped and stared at her, an awestruck look in his eyes. “What is it?” she asked.

“Your hair. Even in moonlight…it looks like sunshine. I’d never have to go outside again if I was with you.”

She tugged him forward. “I think you hit your head in your heroic struggles.”

“You were the heroic one,” Eric said, stepping around a rock bend. “Reminds me of the stories from Russia my grandmother used to tell me. You know any of them? Vasilisa the Brave?”

“Nope. My family’s from Romania. Never heard of any Vasilisa.” Looking up, Rhea stared up at the sky thoughtfully. “But I kind of like that name.”

Bring Me to Life ALYSON NOËL

One

For the dead travel fast.

—Bram Stoker, Dracula

I stop.

Despite the mobs of people jostling around me, ramming their bags into my back and mumbling obscenities under their breath, I remain firm, rooted in place. Taking a moment to survey the airport terminal—from the filthy tile floors that have traveled so far from their original shade of white they’ll never return, to the depressing beige walls sporting garish black signs with yellow arrows pointing toward important destinations like the toilets and the line for taxis and buses. I readjust the strap on the small bag of art supplies I’m toting and wonder what happened to the rest of my group—if they somehow got lost, turned around, confused by the signs and headed the wrong way. I mean, I can’t really be the only one who made it this far—can I?

The crowd continues to shift and move until it finally thins out and it’s just me, and him—Monsieur Creepy Guy, with the plaid pants, weird shoes, and ill-fitting, gnarled blue sweater. Or, as I’m in England, make that Sir Creepy Guy. And since he’s holding a sign that reads SUNDERLAND MANOR ART ACADEMY, I’ve pretty much pegged him as my ride.

I move toward him, doing my best to ignore the overly affectionate couple before me—the way they grope each other, gaze into each other’s eyes, and kiss like it’s their first—even though, unbeknownst to one of them, it could very well be their last. Painfully aware of that small, familiar knot of cynicism that now resides in my gut— the one I’ve named Jake after the person who put it there. Remembering how we used to be like that, grope like that, kiss like that, until Jake woke up one day and decided he’d rather grope and kiss my best friend, Tiffany.

“Sunderland Manor?” the Creepy Guy says in an accent so thick it takes me a moment to realize he’s speaking English.

“Yeah, um, I mean, yes, that’s me.” I shake my head, not faring much better with the native tongue. “I’m a Sunderland Manor—uh—student.” I nod.

“So, ’at’s it?”

I glance around and shrug, unsure how to answer. Unsure how any self-respecting artist in the making would take the time to painstakingly piece together a portfolio, hoping to gain entry into the newest, most exclusive art academy for youths (as claimed by the brochure), only to either miss the flight or just bail completely. But then, maybe they didn’t need it as much as me. Maybe their lives are Jake and Tiffany free.

I sweep my long, dark hair aside and switch my army green art bag to my other shoulder. Still remembering the look on Nina’s face when I chose it over the one she bought for the trip. I mean, even though I promised my dad I’d do my best to accept her, the fact that she gave me a turquoise bag covered in pink hibiscus flowers pretty much proves she’s not trying all that hard to accept me.

“Name, please?” he says, or actually, snaps; it sounded way more like a snap, like he’s in a big hurry or something.

“Um, Danika.” I nod. “Danika Kavanaugh?” I say it like a question, as though I’m looking to him to confirm my own name. I roll my eyes and shake my head. Nice to know I’m as big a dork in the UK as I was in the U.S.

He nods, checks the box next to my name, and barrels right out the double glass doors, just assuming I’ll follow—which I do.

“Um, what about my bags?” I ask, my voice high-pitched, overeager, in the most pathetic, please like me kind of way. “They said they didn’t make it—do you think they’ll deliver them—or will we have to come back?”

He mumbles something over his shoulder, something that sounds like “Deliver ’em,” but he’s moving so quickly, I can’t be too sure.

“So, do you know what happened to all the others?” I ask, my gaze fixed on the back of his head, the bald