Michelle Rowen - Dark Kiss

And then they’d both disappeared.

Despite the fact that I couldn’t stop shaking, I managed to eat three slices of cold pizza before I went to bed. My stomach didn’t seem to care as much as my brain did that I’d been a witness to murder.

I couldn’t get to sleep, staring up at my stucco ceiling and finding scary images of monsters hidden there. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to block out my thoughts, but what I’d seen in the alley filled my head like a nonstop horror movie marathon. I normally loved horror movies; they were my escape. But they weren’t nearly as much fun when you experienced them in real life.

When I finally fell asleep, I had another dream about Bishop. This time I could see him clearly as he approached me on the street, his hand held out toward me as if he wanted to touch me.

I cringed away from him. “Leave me alone!”

His face was strained and haunted. “You know I can’t do that. Not anymore.”

I realized I had a knife—Bishop’s knife—clutched in my hand. “Stay away from me or I’ll do it! I’ll kill you!”

Despite my warning, he still drew closer as if he couldn’t help himself.

I didn’t remember stabbing him, but I must have, because the very next moment, he fell to his knees and touched the hilt of the knife sticking out of his chest with shaking hands.

His intense blue eyes locked with mine. “They can’t have you—promise me, Samantha. You won’t let them have you.”

When he fell heavily to his side, the light from his eyes extinguished, and he didn’t move again. A cry rose in my throat. Suddenly I wanted to touch him, to heal him. I wanted to make it all better again, make everything go away, but it was too late.

Shadows began to creep toward me from every direction. As they moved over Bishop’s body, he disappeared as if he’d never been there in the first place.

“You must come with us now, Samantha,” the voices said as the shadows drew closer and closer.

Icy hands gripped me, stripping away any warmth left inside me and leaving only fear behind.

“You’re one of us now. You’ll always be one of us.”

“No!” When I tried to fight them, they began to rip me apart. But instead of blood, darkness spilled from inside me.

I forced myself awake with a blood-curdling scream.

My mother thundered down the hallway and yanked open my bedroom door.

“What’s wrong?” Her face was pale, her normally perfect blond hair a mess. She pulled her bathrobe tighter around her. Dark circles cut under her pale blue eyes. She suffered from insomnia and usually got only a few hours of sleep a night. A screaming daughter didn’t exactly help matters.

I looked at her from my tangle of light pink bedsheets. “Bad dream. Really bad dream.”

“A bad dream? That’s all it was? I thought you were being murdered in here.”

I flinched at her choice of words, wanting to tell her everything but knowing she wouldn’t believe a word I said. Why would she? I barely believed it myself. “Sorry I woke you.”

She leaned her forehead against the edge of the door. “Better now?”

“I’ll survive.”

“Warm milk helps me sometimes. Do you want some?”

“No, thanks.” Just the thought of it turned my stomach. My new hunger didn’t seem to extend toward heated dairy products.

Whenever I’d had a nightmare as a kid, she’d come into my room and read me a story until I got sleepy again. I remembered one in particular about a bunny who got lost in the forest and had to rely on the kindness of strangers—even those who might normally eat him for dinner—to help lead him home. Luckily it had a happy ending. Not all wolves had an appetite for cute bunnies.

For a moment, I had the urge to ask her to read me that story, but I held my tongue. I wasn’t a little kid anymore.

“You scared me,” she said groggily, rubbing her eyes. “But I’m glad nothing’s wrong. Try to get some sleep. Brand-new week starting. Hopefully it’ll be a good one.”

As she left, she kept my door open a crack. It wasn’t as big of a comforting gesture as reading me a bedtime story about rabbits and wolves becoming friends with each other, but it was better than nothing.

I had an old teddy bear named Fritz that had been relegated to the rocking chair in the corner of my room next to my packed bookcase. He was missing an eye, and his left arm was partially detached. I grabbed him and pulled him into bed with me, clutching him to my chest. But whatever comfort he’d given me when I was younger, he failed to deliver tonight.

An hour later, I gave up on sleep. I grabbed my laptop from the floor next to my bed and went to the website for the Trinity Chronicle , searching for the latest news to see if anyone had reported any stabbings or murders. There was nothing. Between this and the dismissive “it was just your imagination” reaction I’d gotten from the cop, it was like it never happened.

But it had.

I read up on recent disappearances, but none seemed related to what had happened tonight. Trinity was a big city with a million residents. Bad things happened year-round to people young and old, male and female, beautiful and ugly. It didn’t seem to matter who or when or why.

I propped my pillows behind me and gathered my thick duvet closer so I wouldn’t feel so cold. Then I did a Google search for gray , but that didn’t give me anything useful. I mean, it was just a color, that was all. But that was what the blond kid had called me. That was what had made Bishop freak out and look at me like I was a monster, when really it was the other way around. He was the monster.

For a moment, I’d thought he was so much more.

I closed the computer, swearing to put him and everything I’d seen and experienced completely out of my mind.

Yeah, right. Like that was even possible.

Monday morning loomed painfully bright and early. I wanted to stay home and hide, but I knew I couldn’t. Instead, I forced myself to get up and get ready for school. My mother had already left for work by the time I came downstairs. I had a breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast—and more toast—none of which made a single dent in my hunger.

When I went to the bathroom to get ready, the full-length mirror on the back of the door showed that I looked exactly the same as I ever had—short, skinny, with long, wild dark hair that I pulled back into a ponytail to keep off my face. A smear of peach-colored lip gloss and a swipe of black mascara was the sum total of my beauty regimen for a regular school day. Same as always.

But something had changed. People at McCarthy High were looking at me differently.

I tried to ignore the curious looks and outright stares I got as I made my way into the school. Maybe they were staring at me because I looked like someone who’d hung out with a gorgeous but crazy blue-eyed murderer last night. A murderer who’d disappeared into thin air along with his victim, making me question my sanity and my own damn eyes.

Or, more likely, the news of what happened with Stephen and me at Crave on Friday night had gone viral. Likely Jordan was spreading the rumor that I was a slut, blowing everything out of proportion to make my life even more difficult than it already was.

“Excuse me, Ms. Day,” Mr. Saunders, my English teacher, said near the end of first period. His thick glasses made him look like a disapproving owl peering down at me from a tree branch. “Are you paying attention to me this morning?”

I straightened in my seat, flattening my palms against the cool surface of my desk, and tried to pull myself out of my thoughts. “Of course I am.”

“Then what did I just say?”

I felt everyone watching me, waiting to see if I’d make a fool out of myself.