Kiss Me Deadly: Tales of a Paranormal Romance

I pulled my hand from hers and dropped my gaze to keep her from seeing the lingering horror in my eyes. The reflection of her own fear. If she thought something was wrong with me, she might change her mind about taking me, and there were no other residence spots open. It was Holser Not-Really-A House or Ron Jackson, and I would not go to jail.

Not just for breaking curfew.

“Sit down,” Gomez said, sinking into her own seat. I dropped onto one of the two chairs facing her desk, one foot on the cushion, hugging my own knee. Navarro sat next to me. “I have your file here somewhere...”

“On the bottom,” I said, and Navarro glared at me. I ignored him.

“Yes, thank you.” Gomez opened the folder and scanned the first page. “Says here you pleaded guilty to breaking and entering four months ago...”

“I didn’t break,” I insisted. “I just entered.”

“Sabine...” Navarro warned, and I rolled my eyes. The details might not matter to them, but they mattered to me.

“Look, the back door was open, and I only went in to grab

Tucker’s bat.” Unfortunately, the state of Texas considered that proof of my intent to commit a crime. And they were absolutely right.

Navarro sat up straight, looking like he’d like to throttle me. “Remember what we said about your right to remain silent? That applies even when you’re not currently under arrest. Ms. Gomez has all the facts she needs.”

I shrugged. “She has the facts, but she doesn’t have the truth. Don’t you think she should know what really happened, if I’m gonna live in her ‘house’?” Especially considering she’d never really know what I was. Neither of them would. They’d probably never heard of a mara.

Navarro sighed, then waved one hand in a “be my guest” gesture.

I glanced at Gomez. “What else does it say in there?”

She studied the file again. “You pleaded guilty to misdemeanor vandalism.”

It was originally felony vandalism, but the prosecutor gave me a break. I was a first-time offender.

“It says you beat in someone’s taillights, fender, and rear passenger side window with a baseball bat, resulting in more than two thousand dollars in damages.” Gomez looked up at me with one brow raised. “Isn’t that a little cliché for someone as smart as you’re supposed to be?”

What, did she have my test scores in there too? I shrugged. “I’m fifteen. I have limited resources. Besides, I used his bat. That’s, like, poetic justice, right?”

Her brow rose even higher. “Justice for what?”

“Tucker...” In my head, I spelled his name with a capital F instead of a T. “...gave me a ride home from school that day, but he pulled over half a mile from my house and said I couldn’t get out unless I worked off the gas money he’d wasted on me.” The prick had unzipped his pants and tried to shove my head into his lap.

“And how did you handle that?” Gomez closed the file and crossed her arms on her desk, focused on me now. She was good. She should have been a social worker.

“I punched him in the junk, then ran all the way home while he puked.”

I thought I saw a flicker of satisfaction on her face before the director remembered she was supposed to be firm and generally disapproving. “Did you report him?”

“I fight my own battles.”

“So you went back that night for his car...?”

I nodded, though actually, I’d gone back to give him a nightmare he’d never forget. But he wasn’t home. Fortunately, both his bat and his vehicle were. “That car was his weapon, and someone had to disarm him. I was doing society a favor.”

Navarro groaned. Evidently I wasn’t showing enough remorse.

Gomez cleared her throat and tapped her pen on my file folder. “You know, we have a system in place to deal with people like Tucker. But it can’t work if the crime isn’t reported.” She sat straighter and opened the file again. “It sounds like taking justice into your own hands was your first mistake.”

No, my first mistake was getting caught.

“But clearly not your last.” She spread her arms to indicate all of Holser House, and my presence in it. “You got probation on breaking and entering, and misdemeanor vandalism, which you violated last week with a missed curfew and underage consumption of alcohol.”

I’d also taken twenty bucks from David’s wallet, to pay for my drinks, but suddenly it seemed like a good time to exercise my right to remain silent.

“You should know that missing curfew here constitutes an escape from state custody and will result in an additional charge against you. And likely a bed at Ron Jackson.”

“So I hear.” I dropped my leg and sat up, glancing around at the plaques on her walls. “Are we done?”

“Your foster mother has already signed the necessary forms.” And she’d left before I even got there. Not a good sign. “Mr. Navarro and I have some additional paperwork to complete, but you’re welcome to look around while we do that. I’ll give you the official tour when we’re done.”

I stood and was halfway to the door when Navarro called my name. “Sabine...” I turned, but what he wanted to say was clear in his expression. Don’t screw this up. This is your last chance.

* * *

The living room—they probably called it the “common room”—was big and mercilessly bright. There were several stiff-looking couches and waiting room chairs, most facing an old-fashioned TV—the kind with a thick, curved screen—tuned to a Spanish-language soap opera.

I stood in the doorway, watching. Trying to convince myself that this was home, at least for the next several months. Group meals, shared chores, full accountability. I can do this. Like there was any other choice.

But on the bright side, with twenty beds, lights out would be a virtual buffet. So many nightmares to gorge on, and with this many people to share the burden of my appetite, they’d never connect the bad dreams with my arrival.

At least not consciously.

Maybe I should have violated probation sooner. I’d practically starved with only David and Jenny to feed from.

“Marina, if you don’t turn off this Latina drama shit, I’m gonna throw that TV out the window, and you with it.” A tall, heavy girl about my age walked into view and dropped onto one of the couches on her knees, shoving her hands between the cushions. She had huge brown eyes, smooth dark skin, and deep hollows beneath sharp cheekbones. “Where’s the damn remote? I can’t take any more of this Speedy Gonzales babble...”

“That’s Sharise’s drama,” a second girl insisted in a thick Latino accent, just outside my field of vision. “My show went off.”

“Both of ya’ll shut up,” a third voice—obviously Sharise—snapped. “I’m tryin’ to learn Spanish.”

“You’re not gonna learn to say nothin’ from this crap but ‘I’m pregnant’ and ‘I’m dyin.’” The first girl paused in her search and glanced over her shoulder at Sharise. “But you’re gonna need to know those anyway, right? That, and ‘I need another hit.’”

“Whatever,” Sharise said, and couch springs squealed. “I’m done with that.”

“Hey!” the first girl interrupted, and I looked up to find her staring at me, now holding the missing remote control. “You the new girl?”

“Yeah.” I’d been caught; might as well own it.

“Well, look at this. We got another white girl, even paler than BethAnne. Looks like crime finally found the suburbs.”

I wasn’t sure what to say to that, so I kept my mouth shut.

More springs squealed on my right, and I turned to find two more girls watching me from the second couch. “Hey, I’m Sharise, and this is Marina.” The girl who stood and offered me her hand was older than me—maybe seventeen?—and looked exhausted. Used up, but not shut down. She was shorter, skinnier, and darker-skinned than the first girl. I braced myself for new fears as I took her hand.