Kiss Me Deadly: Tales of a Paranormal Romance

But all I got was a vague whisper of discomfort, like a chill up my spine.

Sharise didn’t live in fear. She held her personal terrors close to her heart, buried too deep to be read with the first casual contact. I respected that, but not enough to give her a pass. Secret fears always made the heartiest meals.

Sharise shook my hand, then glanced over my shoulder at the girl still holding the remote. “That’s Elesha. She’s mean, but she’s just coverin’ her own insecurity.”

“Yeah, and Sharise thinks she’s gonna be a psychiatrist, if she hasn’t already fried her brain.”

“See?” Sharise lifted her brows and shot a scowl over my shoulder. “Mean as a snake.”

“I just say it like it is,” Elesha insisted, dropping the remote to the center cushion. “What’s your name?”

“Sabine.”

Elesha snorted. “You even got a white girl name,” she said, and I shrugged. “What’d you do?”

I didn’t have to say, and Gomez wasn’t allowed to. But acting like I had a secret would only make people more determined to figure me out. “Missed curfew and found a bottle of Jack.”

“That’s it?” Elesha looked skeptical.

I shrugged and sat on the arm of the couch. “I was already on probation.”

Before they could pry any deeper, I heard footsteps behind me and turned to find Gomez leading Navarro out of her office, one hand on his arm. He stopped in the hall. “Sabine?”

“What?”

“Wednesday at four.” Every week like clockwork, I met with my parole officer when most girls my age were watching television or not doing homework.

I nodded. Then I grabbed my bags from Gomez’s office while she walked him to his car. When she returned, she gave me an assessing look, then nodded like she’d just made her mind up about something. “Okay, let’s get you settled in.”

Gomez squeaked her way down the hall in rubber-soled shoes, and I followed with both bags. She showed me offices belonging to the assistant director and the events coordinator.

Next came the meeting room, for all the rehab classes and group sessions. The sign hanging on the door read: substance abuse treatment and prevention education. I peeked through the window. Most of the girls looked bored.

Past the common room was the cafeteria, which—Gomez explained—doubled as the classroom for the girls who lacked the privilege points to go to school. Her short, thick heels clacked as she marched into a kitchen and small serving area. “Our full-time cook has Tuesdays and Thursdays off, but you’ll meet her tomorrow. Penny is our relief cook.”

Penny waved as she worked a commercial-size can opener around the edge of a huge can of tomato sauce.

I nodded, then followed Gomez back through the kitchen and around the corner. “We have twenty beds for girls between the ages of thirteen to seventeen. The older girls are on this wing; the younger ones are down there.” She turned to point behind us, at an identical hall. “Each wing has a community bathroom. There’s no door, obviously, and they’re pretty closely monitored by the techs.”

One of whom was visible through the bathroom doorway, wearing slacks, a blouse, and an ID tag hanging around her neck.

“This is your room.” Gomez opened the last door on the left—notably missing a lock.

The room was sparse. A bed, a dresser, a built-in desk, and a window. I set my suitcases down and headed straight for the window, hoping to find the grass that was missing from the front “yard.” There was a small, dry patch of green, sprinkled with concrete picnic tables, squeezed in next to a basketball court and an open recreation area. The whole thing was surrounded by a tall chain-link fence.

Easily climbable. I made a mental note.

“You can wear your own clothes, so long as you stick to the dress code. Jeans and plain T-shirts. Sweats are okay, when it gets cold. Athletic socks and shoes. If you lose privileges, you wear the issued tees and sweats.”

“What about phone calls?” I leaned against the desk, trying not to be overwhelmed. It’s better than the detention center. And probably way better than Ron Jackson.

“You can call the people on your approved list, unless you’ve lost privileges. You’ll need a calling card for long distance.”

Shit. The approved list would include only David and Jenny, Navarro, and my court-appointed lawyer, who was about as useful as the gum on the bottom of my shoe.

The only person I actually wanted to talk to wouldn’t be on the list. Nash. I couldn’t handle six months with no contact. I’d lose my mind. Or my temper. Or both.

“No matter what you hear, you’re currently our only violent offender,” Gomez said, recapturing my attention.

I frowned up at her. “I’m not violent.”

She raised one of those arched brows at me. “You gave a car a baseball bat – makeover.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t make Tucker over.” Which was what I would have done in his nightmare, if he’d been there, to mess with.

“Your file says you broke a girl’s jaw with a lunch tray in the detention center.”

I rolled my eyes. “She tripped me and called me a white trash whore. I came up swinging.”

“You put her in the hospital.”

“She put herself in the hospital. I was just defending myself.”

Gomez narrowed her eyes at me. “Sabine, if you defend yourself so vehemently around here, I will let them lock you up. These girls aren’t dangerous. Most of them just took a wrong turn in life, and they’re getting themselves back on track. Holser is the best halfway house in the state, and I won’t let you ruin our record.”

“I’m not looking for trouble.” I held her gaze, letting her see the truth in my eyes; there’d be plenty to hide from her soon enough.

“Good,” she said, one hand on my doorknob. “Cristofer thinks you’re special. Worth the effort. I hope he’s right.”

Me too.

She pulled the door closed as she left the room, and I sank onto the bed. Welcome to Holser Hell.

* * *

I lay on my bed in the dark, in a tee and baggy gray shorts. Staring at the ceiling. Missing Nash. It was hard not to think about him at night, when there was nothing to distract me from his absence. I could feel him squeezing my hand. His lips warm on mine. I could hear his voice in my head, warning me not to let myself get too hungry. Promising he’d be there when I got out. Telling me he loved me.

No one else had ever said that to me. Ever.

But those bits of him were figments. Memories at best. I’d lost him, at least for a while, and I couldn’t even see him in my sleep because I can’t dream. Maybe that’s normal for a mara, but I don’t know; I’ve never met another one.

The closest I can come to dreaming is feeding from someone else’s nightmare. I need that, like I need food and water. Or maybe more like I need air.

Hunger gnawed at me—a ravenous beast chewing me up from the inside. I hadn’t fed much in the detention center because so many of the kids there were drugged. Their sleep was unnatural, thus beyond my ability to manipulate, and if I couldn’t mold their dreams into nightmares, I couldn’t feed from them.

The same could be true at Holser, but I hadn’t seen many meds handed out, so I clung to the hope of a nightly all-you-can-eat as the one bright spot in an otherwise gloomy sentence. Because Nash was right—I’d lose control if I got too hungry.

Lights out for the last group of girls—those with the most privilege points—was at ten o’clock. My alarm clock, casting a weak crimson glow over the small room, read 12:13.

I rolled over and stared at the wall, silently feeling out the rooms around mine. I can sense sleep like a rat smells cheese, even when he can’t see it. Most of the girls near me were out cold, and so far, their slumbers felt