Rachel Vincent - Before I Wake

Nash laid Emma on the ground next to Lydia.

I closed my eyes, but I could still see them in my head and I could feel everyone watching me. Sophie was still sniffling, clutching Luca’s arm. Nash held Emma’s limp hand. Tod was waiting, and he was ready, too. Once I withdrew Em’s soul from the amphora, I’d need a male bean sidhe to help guide it into another body.

I sang out to Emma’s soul, and when it came out of the amphora, Tod helped me guide it into Lydia’s body. Then we waited.

At first, nothing happened, and I didn’t know whether to be horrified or relieved by the thought that I’d done it wrong. That Emma’s suffering would end with her life.

Then Lydia opened her eyes. They weren’t blue, like they should have been. They were brown. Emma-brown.

“Kaylee?” Emma said with Lydia’s voice, blinking those familiar brown eyes at me. “What happened? Where are we?” She sat up, and everyone moved back to give her space. “Why do I sound weird? Why am I so pale?” she demanded, staring at Lydia’s forearm, stretched out in front of her.

“I couldn’t save you,” I whispered, and those four words held more shame than I’d known I could feel. I’d promised I wouldn’t let her die. Then I’d failed her. “This was the best I could do. But I swear on my afterlife that they’ll pay, Em. All three of them.”

Avari wanted my soul, but he was going to get a hell of a lot more than that. He was going to get pain. And loss. And justice. He was going to get vengeance in kind for every soul he’d stolen. For every friend he’d taken from me. This time I would feed from his pain, and with any luck, it would hurt worse knowing that he’d put into motion his own downfall.

Avari had woken me up and given my afterlife purpose. He’d awakened my rage.

Emma had given me reason to use it.

8:00 a.m.—Another cup of coffee. Pecan caramel, this time. I’ve tried every flavor of creamer the cafeteria has. The coffee still sucks.

8:54 a.m.—These E.R. chairs were manufactured in the seventies. I swear cave men were more comfortable sitting on logs and rocks. That’s it. I’m filing that requisition form today. Eight months of practicing the attending physician’s signature is about to pay off… .

9:47 a.m.—Rush-hour traffic collision. Crushed sternum. Splinters of bone sticking through his skin. Two punctured lungs. Death is a mercy. Hey, is that coffee on his shirt? Smells good. Wonder what kind of creamer he uses?

10:38 a.m.—Third period. Kaylee has no class this period. I have no one to kill. Coincidence, or fate?

11:54 a.m.—Six minutes left on my shift. I will not go to the school after work. I will not go to the school after work. I will not go to the school after —

12:22 p.m.—Lunch in the quad. Nash is having pizza. I don’t care if I never see another slice of pizza. Kaylee’s wearing that blue shirt again. That one that matches her eyes. She looks tired. I will not show myself to her at lunch. I will not show myself to her at lunch. I will not show —

12:24 p.m.—Nash’s pizza tastes as bland as it looks. But since I already took a bite, he said I should just take the rest of it. Wonder what would happen if I took a nibble on Kaylee…?

1:48 p.m.—Wonder what would happen if I switch the labels on some of the bottles in the chemistry lab’s storage closet? Ooh! Or I could test the acidity of the toilet-bowl water with these litmus strips. I’m betting it’s acidic… .

2:36 p.m.—Seriously, why do they still teach history in school? If it’s going to repeat itself, anyway, can’t we just catch it the next time around?

3:02 p.m.—School’s out. Only nine more hours to kill until there will be actual people to kill. Er, reap.

4:22 p.m.—Large pepperoni and sausage. There in thirty minutes, or your money back. Minus the fifty-second commute, and the actual delivery leaves me twenty-five minutes to pop over to Mom’s house for a brownie.

4:26 p.m.—Kaylee and Nash are trying to swallow each other whole. I suggested they eat the brownies instead. Nash threw one at me. My appetite is gone.

4:40 p.m.—There’s never anything good on TV. At the hospital, they only play news and cartoons. And not the good cartoons. The ones where animals dance around and some little girl with a big head counts in Spanish. Ayúdame!

4:41 p.m.—If Nash and Kaylee are going to make out instead of watching the movie, they should just hand over the remote.

4:42 p.m.—The remote slid down between them on the couch, and I am not going after it.

4:43 p.m.—I wonder if there’s any reasonable way to reinterpret the phrase “Get the hell out of here, Tod” to mean “Please stay and help us maintain the PG rating on this hormonal train wreck.” Maybe if I rearrange the letters…

5:58 p.m.—Dude. Do NOT answer the door in your underwear. No two-dollar tip is worth that. Now I’m going to have to find something prettier to purge that mental image. Mangled bunny roadkill should do the trick.

7:00 p.m.—Is it time to reap souls yet?

7:01 p.m.—Seriously, has time stopped moving? Is this what eternity feels like?

9:10 p.m.—Kaylee’s practicing conjugating irregular verbs for a French test tomorrow. I said I’d check the verb chart for her, but this stupid language has more sounds than letters, and I’m not sure I even remember how to conjugate English verbs.

9:24 p.m.—I have no idea what she’s saying, but it’s hot.

11:05 p.m.—Sabine suggests we play Guess Whose Life Sucks Worse. I can’t lose this one. I’m not even alive.

11:14 p.m.—New game. Guess Whose Love Life Sucks Worse. It’s a tie. A big, pathetic tie.

1:00 a.m.—An hour into my shift, and no one’s died yet. Is it possible to be bored to death if you’re already dead?

3:42 a.m.—Massive cranial and spinal trauma from head-on collision. A cause of death near and dear to my heart. Now we’re talkin’…

5:19 a.m.—The guy in room 434 looks tired. He looks done. We both know this is the last room he’ll ever see, and he’s ready to end it. He deserves a merciful, peaceful death in his sleep. But he’s not scheduled to go for another four days. Poor guy. Sometimes I wish I was the boss.

7:43 a.m.—Hit-and-run at an elementary school crosswalk. She can’t be more than eight years old. I hate my job.

8:00 a.m.—Parents crying in the waiting room. They don’t know yet. I wish I didn’t know. I wish I didn’t have to see her last moments. I wish I didn’t have to be her last moments. I’m sick of white walls and endings. The only thing that doesn’t end in this place is me. I don’t end. I just go on, and on, swinging that scythe glued to my hand. There’s no rhythm to the strokes. Few see death coming, and even those who do see death don’t see me. Because there is no me. Not anymore. Always the reaper, never the reaped. Soon that won’t bother me. Soon I won’t care. Emotional death follows physical death at a different pace for each reaper. I’ve put it off for more than two years, but it’s inevitable.

It would take a miracle to keep me alive on the inside.

When I was a kid, my mom said that everyone gets one miracle. She said the trick is recognizing your miracle from a distance, so you’re ready when it arrives. I’m watching. I’m waiting.

I’m ready for my miracle.

Keep reading for an excerpt of My Soul to Take by Rachel Vincent!

Thanks first of all to my husband, who puts up with the mental fog I walk around in midbook.