Deadgirl
Dedication
For my parents, Mike and Robin, for telling me it can be done,
For my brothers, Bill and Tom, for reminding me why,
And for my love, Gina, for, well, everything.
Prologue
My pulse pounded in my head, and I ran like my legs would fall off. The throbbing sound of the blood in my ears drowned out everything else, including the high, trapped animal screams I only vaguely recognized as my own. It blotted out the heavy footsteps of the man behind me, chasing me, catching me.
I wasn’t going to outrun him—I knew that before I even took my first step. But I could fight him less than I could flee, and my body said to bail. I listened.
The wind whipped at my hair. Long strings of sweat-soaked black hit me in my eyes, my gasping mouth. I wished I’d put the whole damn mess up in a ponytail, but then again, I’d been trying to look cute, and ponytails weren’t cute. If you were at the gym, or bouncing on top of a cheerleader pyramid, maybe. Going out with your dream guy on your very first date? Hair down. Its pedestrian straightness curled into spiraling locks that fell to my shoulders, my lashes so long you could land planes on them, my wide eyes—my best asset—emphasized by exotic…expensive…eyeliner. Cute top, cute jacket, cute skirt. Boots, because he loves them. I know, I asked his friend. Well, my friend. Our friend.
The boots helped, I realized, as my legs pumped fire. Sneakers would have been better, but in what universe was I out on a date wearing sneakers? No universe I wanted to live in.
I sucked in a breath.
But the boots beat sandals or strappy heels or something equally less-supportive. Not that my dad would have let me out of the house with strappy heels. Still, that hadn’t stopped me from tucking them in my backpack and trading out my Nikes on numerous occasions.
I ran through a dark parking lot next to a closed-down office building, crunching asphalt under my Maddens. The chill wind tore at my jacket. I would have abandoned it if I’d had the chance—I felt like I was wearing a parachute. Not good for wind resistance. It only reminded me how stupid Batman had to be streaking into battle with a blanket tacked to his shoulders.
I shook my head, trying to clear the crap that kept threatening to break my attention.
I’d run the wrong way, I knew that already. When the guy and his buddies had accosted me, I just ran away from them. It was my natural instinct. Forget that the Set and the rest of civilization were on the other side of those jerks, forget that running away meant running into dead parking lots. My brain had screamed for me to book it, and I’d booked it like a champ. In the wrong effing direction.
When my hands slapped into chain link fence, I knew I was toast. I wasn’t paying attention and the alley behind the office building only lead to the freeway.
A few cars passed as I stared out into the blackness. The urban-ocean sound of the freeway lulled me into a weird stupor. I touched my head to the chain link fence and felt the cool diamond-shaped wire pressing into my overheated skin.
My pulse slowed, and I heard footsteps.
I was trapped.
I spun around, my fists balled white. The fastest one, the tall skinny one with the spiked hair, had caught up to me. It was cold, but he had the white tank-top and loose jeans you’d expect someone in his profession to wear. He took a few more steps toward me and stopped. His muscles stood out, tense against his skin—he was ready to spring if I tried to run past him. Not that I would.
His buddies were catching up—three of them were visible, chugging along to get to us. I took a perverse glee in seeing that the big fat one, the one that had called me a hoochie wasn’t even in sight.
“What’s a matter?” the spiky haired guy asked. I smiled grimly when I heard how out-of-breath he was.
“Give you a chase?” I asked. I didn’t feel witty or vivacious. I felt helpless and terrified. Something in my tone must have fooled him, though, because he stood up straight in alarm and took a step back.
I don’t think I was playing by the script anymore.
One of the guys, short, bald, and sporting a shark’s smile, took a step into the yellow pool of a dimming parking lot light.
“Hey, baby,” he said. I wondered if there was a creep phrasebook or something. “Why you trying to run?”
“Not trying,” I said, but it didn’t stop me from taking a step back. I was shaking now, “Doing.”
“Got nowhere to run now, hmm?”
“We just wanted to talk.”
I spat at him. It didn’t go the distance.
“Just looking for a date,” one of the guys said quietly in the background. Real tough-guy type I guessed.
I tried not to shake, tried not to show anything but what I hoped was grim determination. I didn’t even have a purse to swing at them—I had only a rarely-attended one-month women’s empowerment self-defense course to fall back on. My dad’s idea. I’d rolled my eyes and called him paranoid.
Still, I’d need a couple more black belts in a few more martial arts—and a baseball bat—to fight four guys.
They said some more things, none of them pleasant. They closed in on me, and I backed up against the fence. I swore to God, right then and there, that those guys were going home a few valuable pounds lighter. I balled my fists even tighter—I dropped into the only fighting stance I could remember. It was half self-defense course, half-Pink Ranger, but it was all I had.
Then the bald guy pulled something shiny and silver from his jacket, and my heart stopped.
I’d seen them enough on TV, and I’d taken my dad’s to the gun range before. It was a revolver, a snub-nosed little thing that despite its pathetic look…oh no.
