Meg Cabot - Awaken

Bingo. I’d been right. Something was definitely going on. There was no way the cemetery sexton would ever say that John and I sneaking up to my room to “make sweet love all night” was “wonderful” — not unless he’d been given a complete lobotomy.

The Mr. Smith I knew would have given me a lecture about how I should have used protection because when making love outside the Underworld, death deities were notorious for their ability to make little death deities … or something along those lines.

Whatever it was that was going on, Mr. Smith was deathly afraid. So afraid, he was ignoring his basic principles in order to warn me about it. But what could it be? What could possibly be so awful to two people who’d already experienced the worst possible thing there was — death — and lived to tell of it?

“Yeah,” I said, careful not to look around, since I didn’t want whoever it was that was threatening Mr. Smith to know that I was onto them. “I wonder what we’ll call the baby, if there is one. Maybe, if it’s a boy, we’ll name him Richard, after you, Mr. Smith —”

“That is enough .”

The sharp-toned voice came from behind me, but I knew exactly who it belonged to. I’d have recognized it anywhere.

It was the voice of the woman who’d killed me.

And lo! at one who was upon our side

There darted forth a serpent, which transfixed him

There where the neck is knotted to the shoulders.

DANTE ALIGHIERI, Inferno , Canto XXIV

Really? It was my grandmother Mr. Smith was so afraid of?

I wanted to laugh.

I didn’t, of course. It would have been rude. But honestly, my grandmother wasn’t that frightening. True, she’d killed me once — and tried to kill me a few other times. And when she got her Fury face on, she was ugly as sin, which I could understand for Mr. Smith — who wasn’t as experienced with Furies as I was — was probably quite frightening.

But she was still only my grandmother.

Granted, she’d bested me once or twice — okay, three times — before.

This time, however, things were going to be different. This time, I wasn’t some scared, lonely high school girl. This time, I was armed with John’s father’s whip, which I knew how to use. This time, I was on my own turf, the Isla Huesos Cemetery, which I’d tromped through so many times, I knew it like the back of my hand. This time, I had friends — not to mention the police — who were about to show up any minute to support me.

This time, I had the power. This time, I was queen of the Underworld.

Most important, this time, I was ready for her.

What I wasn’t ready for, I realized the second I spun around to face her, was the fact that my grandmother had an arm around my best friend, Kayla Rivera’s waist and was holding a knife to her throat.

“Hey, Gran —” The words died on my lips.

“You’ve always thought you were so amusing.” My grandmother’s voice was scornful. “There goes Pierce, with another one of her little jokes. But you aren’t amusing. You know what you are? An abomination, just like him .”

My pulse stuttered, then quit altogether.

Now I knew exactly why Mr. Smith had been so frightened and had kept repeating the word wonderful . It’s hard to think of anything witty to say when there’s an innocent girl with a knife stuck to her carotid artery, a girl who’d been dragged into a battle between good and evil simply because I happened to sit next to her at school one day during an assembly.

All ability to think rationally fled my brain. Not Kayla . Those were the only words my mind could summon up. Not Kayla .

Then, No wonder my diamond had always turned purple around her. Not because it was her birthstone . It was a warning … a warning that I needed to save her from dying at the hands of a Fury.

At the hands of my grandmother.

“If you hurt one hair on her head, I swear … ” My fingers tightened on the handle of my whip.

My grandmother only laughed. It sounded like the cackle from one of the ravens.

“Or what?” she asked. “You’ll hit me with that dirty old rope? That’s exactly what an abomination like you would do, strike her own grandmother.”

I wasn’t surprised Grandma didn’t recognize a whip when she saw one. She wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer … not like the knife she was holding to Kayla’s neck. It was a knife I recognized, a knife from a very expensive gourmet knife set. I knew that for a fact, because it was a knife from my mother’s own kitchen. I’d used it many, many times to slice apples and sandwiches.

Now it appeared my grandmother had stolen it and intended to use it to slice open my best friend’s throat.

“Pierce,” Kayla said.

The word slipped out of her without her seeming to have meant it to. As soon as it did, she bit her plump lower lip as if to remind herself to keep still, or the razor-sharp knife that had already, I saw, caused a ruby-red drop of blood to slide down the side of the silver blade would cut even more deeply. All of the dark lipstick Kayla normally wore had been chewed off due to the effort she was making to keep still, and her eye makeup was smudged from the tears she’d shed, though I could tell she’d been trying to hold them back.

Kayla was no longer wearing her flowy lavender Underworld-issued gown — I could imagine her hanging it back up in her closet, thinking, I’m going to save this to wear later, maybe for Prom — but a black belted shirtdress covered in kicking zebras, with black platform wedges.

Obviously, when she’d chosen this outfit, it had never occurred to her she’d be wearing it in a hostage situation.

“It’s all right, Kayla,” I said, though she and I both knew this was a lie. “Where’s Frank?”

This was the wrong thing to ask.

“Dead,” my grandmother said with delight. Her cackle was echoed eerily by the ravens. “Dead for good, this time, the way all of you walking abominations should be.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, though the tear tracks on Kayla’s face seemed like explanation enough.

My grandmother sneered. “Look for yourself,” she said, and nodded towards a nearby crypt.

Made of white marble, very old and weathered, the crypt bore an epitaph dedicated to MY BELOVED WIFE, MARTHA SIMONTON, 1820–1846.

At first I saw nothing but a fat green iguana lounging in the sun on top of the tomb. Then I noticed a pair of familiar-looking black leather boots. They were attached to a pair of legs sticking out from behind the vault. Flung into the weeds not far from the boots lay a heavily tattooed, muscular arm.

I recognized the tattoos. They were rings of thorns, the same tattoos I’d seen around Frank’s biceps the first time I’d met him in Mr. Graves’s kitchen.

“They were waiting for us at Mr. Smith’s house,” Kayla said. Her voice was a barely audible whisper. I had only seen her looking as frightened and sad once before, and that had been in this very same cemetery, the night we’d whisked her to the Underworld, assuring her she’d be safe there. How wrong we’d been. “We tried to fight them, Pierce, we did. But there were too many of them.” Tears streamed freely down her face. “I think they killed Patrick, too.”

I swung my head to stare at Mr. Smith.

“ No ,” I said, feeling as if I’d been punched in the chest.

He was staring up at the sky again, scanning it, I guess for that glimpse of hope — or Hope — he’d mentioned before. He didn’t meet my gaze.

“Yes,” my grandmother said with a smile, still holding the knife to Kayla’s throat. “Did you think you could go around flouting the laws of nature and never have to pay? Did you think you could kill one of ours, and there’d be no repercussions? Now we’re even.”