The Liberator

My arms tighten on the wheel as I gun my Kia Rondo. The Kia makes this awful high-pitched whizzing sound that has absolutely no growl. If my heart weren’t racing, I’d find it hilarious. But right now, I’m afraid this lunatic may have a death wish…or a carving knife. So it’s not funny. Not at all.

Jerking the wheel to the right, I speed up, slamming my foot on the accelerator. My stomach clenches as I peek in the rearview and realize I’m not going to outrun this guy. All I can think as this is happening is, where are the damn cops when you need them?

My head flies forward as my car is slammed again from the back.

I drive faster.

Tiny houses and empty fields fly by, and I begin to panic over when this road will end. And what will happen when it does. Never have I felt so out of control. Even that night in the forest with Charlie and Rector, I had my body to rely on—my legs to run, my fists to fight with. But now, now I’m just some cornered chump in a busted-up car.

Thinking this, my panic turns to anger. Who does this guy think he is? I’m Dante Walker. I’ve died twice and am still walking around earth like a champ. And this dirt bag with a rage issue is ramming into me because he’s had a bad day?

I don’t think so.

Hitting my brakes, the black sedan pummels into me. The driver’s horn blares and doesn’t stop. The sound rings in my head. But I don’t care about that or the fact that my muscles seem permanently locked. All I care about is showing this chode exactly who he’s messing with. Throwing my door open, I step out. If he has a gun, so be it. I’ll take it in the chest like the animal I am.

I jab my finger at his tinted windows. “Get out of the car.”

Though I can’t see what the guy looks like, I do see him look over his shoulder at something. Following his gaze, I see that there’s another car headed toward us. He may think that’s going to help him, but he’s wrong. This guy’s had his fun; now it’s my turn.

Prepared to tear him out of the vehicle, I yank on the passenger door. The door is locked. No matter. Tilting my head, I give the guy a cold smile. Then I jerk my fist back and throw it through the window. Glass explodes.

Right as I’m leaning down to get a look at who’s inside, dirt kicks up from his back tires, and he peels away. The only thing I catch sight of before he’s gone is a branded tattoo on his right bicep. “Coward,” I scream, even though it was me fleeing only a few minutes ago.

Moments later, a silver SUV pulls over. A woman in her mid-forties rolls down the window, her face worried like she isn’t certain she should be stopping. “Everything all right?”

Still fired up, I nod and stare after the sedan’s taillights. “I’m fine,” I manage. “Thanks for stopping.” Looking back at the woman, I furrow my brow. “It was nice of you to check on me.” Most people would’ve driven right past, especially a woman alone in her car.

She smiles, though I can tell she’s still a little nervous. “It’s no problem.” Looking at my car, she adds, “Do you need a ride?”

I wrap my bloodied knuckles in my shirt and return her smile. Sometimes good people are pretty cool. “Nah, the car’s still running.” I nod toward the Kia and its barely audible motor.

The woman exhales like she’s relieved. “Okay, then. Take care.”

“Wait.” I grab onto her open window before she leaves, and the motion startles her. Then I flip her soul light on. Just as I expect, this broad’s soul is squeaky clean. Only a few seconds, that’s all it takes to release a blue seal. Then I remove my hand from her vehicle. “Never mind. Forgot what I was going to say.” She takes off, completely unaware that she just offered a ride to a guy who’s technically dead.

Sealing as a liberator wasn’t as unnerving the second time around, I decide.

After the broad is gone, I calm myself down and crawl inside my beat-up car. Then I stare forward in a daze. What the hell just happened? And who the hell was that guy? Just some dick with an anger problem, most likely. But it still sits wrong in my stomach.

He wasn’t a collector, I tell myself. That’s all that matters.

I’ve been in Denver for all of an hour, and already I’m calling attention to myself, as Valery would say. Maybe I’d better not mention this to her judgmental ass. She’d be all, “Why are you the only one this crap happens to, Dante?”

Breathing in deeply, I rub my hands over my face a few times. Then I turn my car around and head toward the highway.

“These mountain people are batshit,” I mumble.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. When I pull it out, I see it’s a text from Charlie.

Wish u were still here.

You and me both, I think.

7 Cigarette Halo

After settling into my charming abode of a hotel, AKA the Holiday Inn, where they have luxuries like free ice and shower caps, I head toward Aspen’s house. It’s the last and final address Valery texted me, and I’m so looking forward to meeting this charming girl.

No.

Glancing down at my phone, I wonder if I have enough time to call Charlie before I get to where I’m headed. But then I see my turnoff and decide I’ll talk to her once I get my bearings. Besides, I want to wrap this assignment up quick. The faster I complete this job, the faster I can get home to Charlie.

As I think this, Valery’s words come back to me: “…as much you want to protect her yourself, you’re doing more damage by being nearby.” I also think about what Valery said at the airport. That she is important. But my question remains: was she talking about Charlie, or Aspen?

I shake the thought from my head and look for Aspen’s address. I’m on the right road but don’t see any houses. Flipping through my texts, I realize what Valery sent isn’t really an address at all. It’s just a street name. Idiot. How could she forget the freaking house number? And how could I have headed out without thinking to check for one? I start to text Red back when I spot something. A house. Or maybe I should call it a hotel. Or a castle. Because a house doesn’t spread over the land this way, like it’s devouring everything in its path.

I suddenly realize why this place doesn’t have a number: the street was created for this house alone. Because a house this big needs an entire street to itself. The exterior of the home is covered with dark red and black brick, and the abundant English windows are made of diamond-shaped glass. Sheets of ivy crawl up the walls like a gremlin’s fingers, and twisted, barren trees surround the property. And everything, every last part of the house and grounds, is draped in a blanket of snow.

Though the fresh powder has a virginal appearance, the place still looks like Boss Man—err, Lucille—could call it home.

As I approach an oversized iron gate, I notice there’s one of those box things where you have to ask permission to enter. I narrow my eyes because I’ve never asked permission for anything, and I’m not about to start.

Almost like the gate reads my mind, it slides open, groaning and clicking as it moves.

Pausing for only a beat, I punch my fist lightly on the steering wheel. Then I head down the flagstone driveway, navigating a near-totaled lime-green Kia Rondo toward this completely sick mansion. But I’m not sweating it, ’cause I know this chick will take one look at me and remember it’s what’s inside the car that counts.

When I’m only a few yards from the door, I stop and throw the car into park. It only took about six and a half hours to get this hunk of metal from the iron gate to here, so I’m feeling pretty good about myself. After