Rachel Vincent - If I Die

I exhaled, long and slow. “You’re gonna do whatever you wanna do anyway…”

“How well you know me…” She smiled and slid her purse strap over one arm, then picked up her books. “Hey, have you noticed you’re ten minutes late to chemistry?”

“Yeah. I don’t care,” I said, pushing the door open.

Emma frowned and studied me closer. “Since when do you not care about being late to class?”

“My priorities have recently undergone realignment.”

Her frown deepened. “What does that mean?”

“I’m tired of playing by the rules.”

“So?” I said, as Sabine slid onto the bench seat across the table from me and next to Emma. School had been out for half an hour, so the food court across the street from our campus was packed. I would have been happier in the quad or the parking lot, but Sabine was hungry. And thirsty. And in possession of information I wanted.

“Is that mine?” She reached for the paper bowl of frozen yogurt in the middle of the table and scooped a spoonful of nuts and berries off the top.

“Extra large, double raspberries.” I scowled into my own kid-size helping. “I make minimum wage, you know. You’re gonna break the bank.”

“Can’t take it with you,” she pointed out, and my frown deepened at the reminder of my own impending death.

“Where’s Nash?” The mara glanced around like he’d simply materialize in front of her.

“Baseball.” Nash was the starting pitcher. He’d offered to skip practice, determined to spend all of what time I had left with me, but I’d told him to go on. Sabine and I—and now Emma—had work to do anyway. “What’cha got?”

“Well…no luck scoring private time with Beck.” Sabine shrugged. “Evidently I’m not believable as a remedial math student.”

“That can’t be right,” I said, and the mara scowled while Em laughed, a spoonful of chocolate yogurt halfway to her mouth. “What’s your average?”

“Eighty-nine. I’m not stupid,” Sabine snapped, and Emma bristled, no doubt thinking about her own seventy-eight average. “My only problem with math is that the very concept of homework violates one of my most strongly held beliefs.”

“What belief?” Emma said. “That you’re too special to work like the rest of us?” Like she did homework.

“The belief that homework should be optional for those of us who already understand the concepts.”

“I like it,” Emma said. “You should run for student council.”

“No,” Sabine muttered, around another bite of yogurt. “I really shouldn’t.”

“Okay, so he won’t tutor you…” I said, redirecting the conversation. “We can work around that. You can still flirt with him, and try to read—”

“No way!” Emma slapped her palms flat on the tile-top table, and I flinched, hoping she hadn’t drawn attention from the crowd all around us. “You’ll let her hit on Mr. Beck, but you don’t even want me to be tutored by him?”

“I’m not letting her do anything,” I insisted, but Sabine spoke over me.

“Kaylee’s not the boss of me. Hell, she’s not even her own boss most of the time.”

I rolled my eyes. “Thanks for yet another unsolicited amateur psychoanalysis.” Then I turned to my best friend. “I’m sorry, Em, but Sabine can hold her own against…well, pretty much whatever’s out there. And if I can’t stop her from throwing herself at Nash, how am I supposed to stop her from hitting on Mr. Beck?”

“You can’t, on either count,” Sabine said, and Emma shrugged in concession, still pouting. We both knew there was no taming this particular shrew. “Doesn’t matter anyway. I already tried and failed to flirt my way in. I don’t think he knows what I am, but he was definitely creeped out when I read his fears.” The dissimulatus bracelets we wore would disguise our psychic signatures, but if we used our abilities and they were recognized…we were screwed. And we couldn’t chance letting Beck stumble over our secrets before we’d uncovered his.

“You read him? In class?” I snapped. Was she trying to get caught?

“Yeah, and I probably won’t get another chance.” She shrugged, and a sly grin blossomed. “So I guess it’s a good thing I got what I needed on the first try, huh?”

Em stuck her spoon into her yogurt, where it stood straight up. “You know what he is?”

“Why didn’t you say that in the first place?” I demanded, crossing my arms over my chest.

Sabine huffed. “Because this is a favor, not a charity. Nothing’s ever really free, Kaylee.”

“You’re a credit to capitalism. Now spill it.”

Sabine leaned over the table, and I scooted closer to hear her when she lowered her voice. “Okay, I’m about eighty-percent sure—”

“Eighty percent?” I bit back a groan.

“Reading fear isn’t an exact science, Kay,” Sabine snapped. Then she frowned and seemed to reconsider. “Okay, it kinda is, but it’s fear reading, not mind reading. The only things I know for sure are what he’s afraid of.”

Em waved her hand in a “get on with it” gesture. “And that would be…”

“Failing to procreate.”

“What?” Emma and I said in unison.

“He wants a baby. Specifically, a son.”

“Okay, I think he’s a little young to be so desperate for kids, but reproduction isn’t exactly the most dastardly of deeds,” Emma said.

But my stomach had started to pitch and a chill was crawling up my spine. Mr. Beck wasn’t human and he wanted a baby, but he was afraid he wouldn’t get one. Danica Sussman had just suffered the gruesome miscarriage of a baby that wasn’t her boyfriend’s, leaving her insides permanently damaged.

“He’s not young,” Sabine said, but I could barely hear her over the horrible conclusion building to a crescendo in my head. Beck—whatever he was—was preying on teenage girls. “In fact, he’s afraid he’s waited too long, and that he won’t live to see another fertile period.”

“Fertile period?” Emma echoed, and the picture refusing to come into focus in my head grew a little darker.

“What is he?” I stared at the table beneath my hands, concentrating on the grout between the tiles to focus my thoughts.

Sabine exhaled and crossed her arms on the slick four-inch tiles. “My best guess is…incubus. Our new math teacher is a no-shit, in-the-flesh lust-demon. What are the chances?”

“Pretty damn good, considering Eastlake High makes Buffy’s hellmouth look like a crack in the sidewalk.” I shoved hair back from my face and met Sabine’s black-eyed gaze, which practically sparked with anticipation—the sure sign of an adrenaline junkie. “What exactly are you basing this assessment on?”

“Other than the fact that he’s not human, but he lives on this side of the barrier?” she asked, and I nodded. “Mostly the fertile period part. Incubi are only capable of breeding, like, once a century. Or something like that. And if he’s afraid he’s too old, I’m guessing that rumor about him being twenty-two is way off base.”

“Wait, incubus?” Emma said, glancing back and forth between us, desperately trying to keep up. “Like, the band?”

I was starting to really regret my promise of full disclosure. “No. Like the psychic parasite.”

“Psychic…parasite?” If Em frowned any harder, her face would cave in on itself. “So, what? They drink thoughts?”

Sabine rolled her eyes. “The only thing worse than working with one clueless do-gooder is working with two.” She twisted on the bench to face Emma, and I leaned closer to listen. My knowledge of incubi was limited to a couple of stories from our mythology unit in English the year before, and if those were as inaccurate as the stories about “banshees,” then I really knew next to nothing.