Eternity

Ty removed the flower from where it was tucked into her hair and twirled it in her fingers.

“Isn’t it pretty?” she said.

“Were you at Drea Feiffer’s memorial service?”

“For a little bit. I kind of hung back. Were you close with Drea?”

“We were friends,” JD said, feeling his throat constrict. “It’s been a hard week. It just doesn’t seem right. Doesn’t seem fair.” He looked down at his lap. Jesus. This is why he didn’t go out—he’d just met this girl and so far they’d talked about nothing but death. “How did you know Drea?”

“Old family friends,” Ty said vaguely. She held her hand out as if to give him the flower, but when he reached for it she withdrew her hand quickly. Ty spoke again, but softly this time, as though through a sheet of silk. “You mention fairness . . . and I was always a big believer in justice. An eye for an eye, and all that. But these days, I’m seeing things differently. Some things just aren’t fair—you can’t make them fair. You know? Some things just happen. . . . And all we can do is let them.”

As she finished speaking, she placed the flower back in her hair.

JD nodded slowly. Her speech had left him feeling a little overwhelmed, like he’d been hit by a wave, or put under a spell. A good one. And she was right. Some things just weren’t fair, and he had to accept that and move on—whether it was Drea’s death or the fact that something was going on between Em and Crow.

“Don’t you two look serious,” Ali said teasingly as she and Melissa came back toward the table.

“You know me,” Ty said with a surprising edge. “Always—” She was interrupted by a low wolf whistle from across the restaurant.

JD swiveled around. Some frat boy in a baseball cap with a puffy beer face and squinty eyes was leering in their direction. Melissa was fidgeting uncomfortably. JD felt the impulsive desire to leap up and cover her.

“Hey, man, keep your eyes on your food, okay?” He made his tone good-natured yet firm, praying the guy would turn back to his pizza.

Ty put her hand on his arm. Her fingers were cold and smooth, like river rocks. “Just ignore him,” she whispered with a flirty smile. “Though I appreciate the chivalry.”

“Guys like that always get what’s coming to them,” Ali said, sliding into the booth. Melissa slid next to JD, and he put his arm around her.

“They sure do,” Ty said, but she suddenly seemed distracted. JD watched her eyes squint just a little, like she was trying hard to remember something.

And that’s when the hacking started, first loud and punctuated, then lower, gurgling. JD turned around. The frat boy, the one who had whistled, was leaning out of the booth, struggling to breathe. He had his hands around his throat. JD couldn’t even see his face, just the visor of his cap. Everyone in the restaurant was watching.

“He’s choking,” someone shouted.

“Does anyone know CPR?” That was the waitress’s voice, high, hysterical.

JD almost missed Ali’s muttered comment: “See?” He was already getting out of the booth.

He was by the guy within seconds. He hoisted him to his feet, then spun him around to perform the Heimlich maneuver. Channeling his memories of sophomore-year health class, he wrapped his arms around Frat Boy’s stomach, made a fist, and thrust upward. Once, and again. On the third try, something was dislodged, and the guy gasped.

“Oh my . . . Oh my god.” He coughed. “Thank you. Thanks, man.”

A little old lady sitting at a wooden table with her husband started clapping. “You saved him,” she said. A round of applause swept through Pete’s; ?JD felt his cheeks flush as red as the back of the booths around him.

“No problem,” he said, backing toward the doorway. He couldn’t stay inside any longer. He was dizzy, pumped from a combination of adrenaline and fear. “Look—smaller bites, okay? Come on, Melissa.” With that, he swept out into the parking lot, relishing the way the fresh air cooled his face. He paced the asphalt, waiting for the girls to follow him outside.

“You’re a hero!” Melissa said, bursting out the door after him with Ty and Ali close on her heels. “That was amazing. How did you know how to do that?”

“Even zombies can save lives,” he said lightly. “Ready to go?”

“Let me just say good-bye,” she said, turning to give Ali a hug.

Ty took the opportunity to take a step closer to JD. “It would be awesome to get a phone call from a hero,” she said with a wink.

He felt the heat rising back up his neck. “I, ah—I don’t have your, ah—,” JD stammered.

“My number? Don’t worry, I have yours. I did my recon,” she said, clicking away. A second later, JD felt his phone buzz in his pocket.

The number was blocked.

Another chill washed over him. He couldn’t tell if it was one of excitement or apprehension or both. He unlocked his phone and read the text: Guess who?

ACT TWO PROPHETIC, OR ALL THE PRETTY FLOWERS

CHAPTER SIX

Surrounded by the chalky-strong smell of gym clothes and disinfectant, Em sat in the girls’ locker room during fourth period on Tuesday. She was cutting class, but this was more important. She was worried about Crow, and his confession about seeing visions had reminded her of the book—the one she’d stolen from Sasha’s locker last month: Conjuring the Furies. She carried it with her everywhere and had practically memorized most of it, although there was one section, the one she was reading now, that she’d previously just skimmed over: “The Role of the Prophet.” She remembered it talked about visions. She had to figure out whether there was something she’d missed, some key clue that she’d ignored.

According to the book, prophets were reborn over and over again through the centuries, living lives tortured by incomprehensible visions, as vulnerable to forces of evil as to sources of good.

No one knows if they descended from above or arose from the underworld. Some prophets are responsible for calling the dark essence of the Furies out from their dark lairs and into the real one. Others, gifted with an ability to identify the Furies’ snowballing thirst for vengeance, are able to combat the influence of those and other dark spirits. Prophets are usually, but not always, male.

As much as one percent of the population may be unrecognized prophets—many of them artistic types who try to channel their visions into their work; others are driven crazy, or persecuted by the mainstream into believing they are crazy.

Some become entangled with the Furies unknowingly, Em read, drawn unconsciously to do the Furies’ bidding. They may, however, recognize that they are part of something heinous; if they trust their visions, they may be able to battle the Furies.

The passage went on. Do not confuse the prophet with the patient. Many victims of head injury or trauma display symptoms of prophecy. They may hear the Furies, but it is temporary.

So, “prophets” were different from “patients.” Patients were people who had brain defects and who shared some of the same symptoms as prophets. They were missing the part of the brain that apparently stores and processes trauma. The part of the brain that keeps most of us sane and normal, that protects us from succumbing completely to exposure to evil and chaos. If that part of the brain is damaged or missing, it’s like the floodgates to evil open up. And that’s how the Furies can get in.

Crow didn’t seem to have anything wrong with his mind.

No, Crow was a prophet, not a patient. She was almost certain of it. The disturbing visions. The desire to escape from them, or turn them into art . . . It all sounded just like him.

But how deep was his connection to the Furies? Could he help her? Or would he hurt her more?