Rachel Vincent - If I Die

“Most donors don’t provide their own sacrificial weapon, so I hope you don’t mind, but…I brought my own.” Beck reached back and pulled a small, double-bladed wavy dagger, presumably from a sheath at his back.

My heart tried to beat its way out of my chest. I couldn’t breathe.

Think, Kaylee! My dad wasn’t home, Tod was gone, Nash was messed up, Sabine was taking care of Nash, and Emma and Sophie were unconscious, being drained as we spoke. I was truly on my own, for the first time ever.

Beck came closer, and I couldn’t take my gaze off the double-bladed knife. My kitchen lights gleamed on old metal, still visibly sharp and etched with words I couldn’t read, in some language I didn’t know. Even if the shape alone hadn’t told me, the writing would have: this was no ordinary blade. It meant something.

It meant my death, and the theft of my soul.

“Shouldn’t the soul harvest wait until you have an actual baby to put it in?” I said, still clutching my own knife.

Beck shrugged, an oddly casual gesture, considering what he held and what he planned to do. “I’m willing to wait another eight or nine months. Those Marshall girls are quite a fertile brood.”

Nooo . “Traci?” I fought nausea at the thought. “How is that even possible?” He’d only met her a few hours ago, at most.

“A little luck, fortunate timing and some very eager swimmers.”

Ew, ew, ew…!

“Of course, it’s too early to tell about gender—that’ll take a few weeks at best—but it’s never too early to start planning.”

“Yes it is! It’s way too early to start planning. Won’t my soul, like, go stale or something between now and then?”

“Well, fresh is best, of course, but that’s not always possible. Which is where this comes in.” He turned the dagger over, and it reflected bright spots of light all over the room. “Handy little gadget I just acquired from one of the local hellions. Cost me an arm and leg—neither of them mine, of course—but well worth it. If I’ve learned anything from losing Lydia’s soul, it’s that a father can never be too prepared.”

“What is that?” I whispered, trying to hide the tremor in my voice.

“Hellion-forged steel. So long as this is in your flesh when your heart stops beating, it’ll collect your soul and hold it for up to a year. Like supernatural Tupperware.”

Fighting encroaching panic, adrenaline burning in my veins, I edged to the right, along the counter, desperately wishing I hadn’t blocked myself into the kitchen.

He reached for me, and I lunged to the left. But there was nowhere else to go—I was cornered by the cabinet and the fridge.

Beck grabbed my left arm and jerked me forward. I screamed and shoved my knife into his side, as hard as I could.

For one moment, neither of us moved. Each ragged breath seemed to burn my throat, all the way into my lungs. Something warm and sticky flowed over my hand, and I looked down to find blood pouring from his shirt and trailing down his pants.

I gasped and let go of the knife, scrambling backward until I hit the fridge. Blood dripped from my fingers onto the floor, and even when I closed my eyes, the pattern they formed remained on the insides of my eyelids.

Then Beck laughed, and my eyes flew open again. I stared in shock as he pulled the butcher knife from his stomach and tossed it into the sink, where it clattered into the popcorn bowl. Through the hole in his shirt, I could see the two-inch gash seal itself, like it was never even there. And if not for all the blood, I would have thought I’d imagined the whole thing.

“Stainless steel isn’t much of a problem for me, either.” In the next second, he was there, pinning me to the fridge, one hand around my wrist, the other pressing the dual dagger tips into my chest, just below my rib cage. “I think we’re done with this now…” He slid one finger beneath the braided dissimulatus bracelet, tugging my arm toward the top dagger blade.

Every breath I took, every panicked beat of my adrenaline-flooded heart demanded action. Resistance. Struggle, at least. But I’d never fought anyone in my life. The closest I’d ever come was slapping Sabine, and if I was in over my head against Nash’s nightmare of an ex-girlfriend, I didn’t stand a chance against an incubus who healed his own wounds. Especially not with his knife poised to slide beneath my ribs, taking my life and my soul in one vicious stroke.

Beck lowered my arm against the dagger so that the top blade slid between my skin and the bracelet. The knife sliced through the braided fiber like it wasn’t even there.

The bracelet fell from my arm, and Beck caught it with out removing the dagger from my chest. He turned it over in his hand, studying it, eyes alight with interest. “Wonderful craftsmanship,” he said. “Where did you get this?”

I said nothing, furious tears standing in my eyes, mercifully blurring a face most of my classmates had swooned over.

He wadded up the ruined fiber and tossed it across the kitchen, where it hit the far wall and fell to the floor, too far away to continue “jamming” my psychic signature and hiding my species. Then he stared down at me from inches away, studying me critically through narrowed eyes.

“Not a harpy…” he said, with a glance at my ears. “But then, dissimulatus wouldn’t have hidden the pointy ears, would it?”

I didn’t answer, and he didn’t seem to care.

“Not a mara …” he said, studying my eyes, no doubt noting my complete inability to read and inspire fear with them. “Not alluring enough to be a siren, though that was my guess for Emma, and you’re definitely not a succubus… Which only leaves a couple of possibilities, considering your human appearance and your psychic signature. So, maybe… bean sidhe? ”

My eyes must have given it away, because he nodded decisively, eyes flashing in triumph. “Does it matter?”

“Only to verify that you are not, in fact, human. Though I must admit, I am curious—I’ve never met a bean sidhe before.” Beck stared down at me almost longingly. “It’s a shame that getting to know you properly would smudge that shiny purity. Bean sidhes are so rare, and you’re not bad -looking…”

Evil and flattering . “Wow, who wouldn’t want to be murdered by such a charmer?” I said, my mind racing along with my heart as he began to lightly trace the bottom of my rib cage with the lower blade.

Beck laughed, and his knife hand jiggled. I gasped as the point of the blade poked me through my shirt, almost firm enough to break my skin. “I like your spirit. But letting you go would be an unconscionable waste of resources.”

“So you’re just going to stab me in the kitchen?” I demanded, mining my terror for remaining fiery threads of anger to keep panic at bay. “Shouldn’t you at least try to make it look like an accident? I mean, this whole stabbing thing sounds messy, and you’ll never get all that blood out of the tile grout.”

“I’ll be done with your body before it even cools, and mine is the only blood I plan to dispose of.” But he glanced around the kitchen, as if he were truly seeing it for the first time. “However, now that you mention it, the kitchen does seem a bit…cold. Why don’t we take this to your room? You’d like to die in your own bed, right?” he said, and chill bumps burst to life on every inch of my body. “Then your dad can find you, and it’ll look like a crime of passion. Maybe they’ll even blame Nash. Didn’t the two of you have a big, public fight the other day?”

Oh, nooo . Beck was right. The whole world had seen me kiss someone else, then seen Nash stomp out. Em and Sabine would know he hadn’t killed me, and our families would believe him, obviously. But if he couldn’t stay off frost, the police would know he was messed up on something, and even if they couldn’t pin down the actual substance, he’d look unstable, at the least.