If I Die. Rachel Vincent

my dad stood facing us, but they were both too good at hiding their feelings for me to read anything more than general angst. They were better at that than I would ever be, considering how little time I had left to perfect the art.

      “Dad, don’t do this,” I begged, frozen where I stood. “You can’t change this, and if you try, you’ll only be putting yourself at risk. Do you really want me to spend my last six days worrying that we’re both going to die on Thursday?”

      “I don’t want you to worry about anything.” He ran one hand through hair that showed no sign of graying, less than a month before his one hundred thirty-fourth birthday. “I want you to finish high school, and break curfew, and keep giving me excuses to toss the Hudson boys out of the house, not necessarily in that order. I want you to have a normal life. A long one.”

      I bit my lip, trying to hold back tears as he crossed the room toward me. “Well, that’s not going to happen. And I’m not going to be able to enjoy what life I have left if I’m worried about you getting yourself killed trying to do the impossible.”

      “Kaylee.” He reached for me, but I stepped back and crossed my arms over my chest.

      “Promise me, Dad. Promise you’ll leave this alone.”

      “You know I can’t—”

      “Promise,” I insisted, and his stoic expression crumpled beneath a burden of pain and responsibility I couldn’t imagine.

      “Fine. I promise,” he said at last, and I let him fold me into a hug.

      And as he squeezed me, his heart beating against my ear, I knew only two things for sure: I was going to die, and my father was lying.

      I stood on the front porch and knocked again—there was no doorbell—then stared down the rough gravel road at a series of run-down houses and old cars, their age and ruthless depreciation exposed by harsh March sunlight. My own neighborhood was dated—the houses were small with one-car garages and tiny yards. But compared to living in this part of town, I had nothing to complain about.

      Finally, the door opened and Sabine raised one dark brow at me, her hand still on the knob. “You look like shit.”

      “I wish I could say the same.” And I really meant it. I’d barely gotten any rest the night before—frankly, wasting what little time I had left sleeping felt almost criminal—and I was paying the price with pale skin, dark circles and a generally exhausted appearance. Sabine, on the other hand, only required four hours of sleep a night, yet she constantly walked the fine line between unconventionally hot and darkly captivating. A fact which fascinated and irritated me to no end.

      “Any chance you’re here to admit defeat and hand over your boyfriend, like the good little bean sidhe we both know you are?”

      My temper flared, but I held it in check, because of what I had to say next. “Actually, I need a favor.”

      Sabine turned around and stalked into the darkened house, and I decided the open door was as much of an invitation as I was going to get.

      “Is your foster mom home?” I followed her into a living room barely furnished with threadbare furniture smelling vaguely of old sweat.

      “Rarely. She stays with her boyfriend most nights. Always comes back to collect the reimbursement check, though.”

      “So you’re all alone?”

      Sabine propped her hands on hips half-exposed by the low waist of her jeans and the short hem of a thin black tank top. “I’m a nightmare, Kaylee. Anyone who breaks in here would leave screaming. Or not at all.” She sat on the arm of an old brown-and-yellow striped couch. “Besides, I didn’t come here for parental supervision—I came for an address in the Eastlake school zone.” The mara had scared and manipulated her way into this foster home just to be near Nash. And evidently to drive me insane. “Now, if you would just step down and relinquish the prize ….”

      “Nash isn’t—” but before I could finish insisting that my boyfriend wasn’t a prize to be won, a fierce, low rumbling rolled over the room, raising hair all over my body. I turned to find Sabine’s dog—Styx’s littermate—growling at me from the kitchen doorway, his tiny body tensed and ready to attack. Nothing that small and fluffy should have been able to make such a threatening sound, but thanks to their Nether-hound father, the entire litter sported teeth that could easily shred flesh and jaws that could snap most human long bones.

      “What’s his name again?” I asked, careful not to make any threatening moves until Sabine had called the little monster off.

      “Cujo.”

      Of course it was Cujo. “Any clue why Cujo looks like he wants to chew my face off?”

      “Probably because he wants to chew your face off.”

      “Funny. Could you call him off?”

      Her satisfied grin grated my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. “Only because I’m curious. Why the hell should I do you a favor, when you consistently deny me the one thing I want?” She snapped her fingers and Cujo followed her into a tiny galley-style kitchen, where she pulled a package of raw hamburger from the fridge and dropped it on the floor without even pulling back the plastic. Cujo dug in like he’d never seen meat before, though he looked pretty well fed to me.

      I stood at one end of the kitchen, trying to decide if I should sit at the table or wait to be invited. Which probably wasn’t gonna happen. “Because …” I hesitated, trying to make up my mind while she dug a can of generic soda from the snot-green fridge. Then I sucked in a deep breath and spit it out. “Because I’m going to be dead in five days, and whether I like it or not, you’re the one Nash is going to turn to when he’s half out of his mind with grief. Which means I’m practically doing you a favor.” If my death would benefit anyone, it would be Sabine. “That means you owe me. And considering the timetable I’m on, I’m gonna need payment up front.”

      Sabine popped the tab on her can and stared at me. “You’re dying? For real?”

      “Not till Thursday.” At first, the thought had made me sick to my stomach every single time it crossed my conscious mind. But after contemplating my own untimely demise roughly four thousand times, the original terror and denial had given way to a hollow, distant acceptance. Thinking about my own death now had about the same effect on me as thinking about the eventual incineration of planet Earth, as it’s consumed by its own sun.

      “You’re lying.” Sabine laughed like her life was a joke and I was the punch line. Then she drained half her can and brushed past me into the living room.

      I followed her and perched on the edge of the ugliest, most ancient brown recliner I’d ever seen. “Why would I lie?”

      She shrugged and set her can on the milk crate serving as an end table. “Habit? You’re not exactly a pillar of truth.”

      I wanted to argue, but I couldn’t without proving her point. But to my credit, my lies were really more half truths, and they were always intended to help someone. Whereas Sabine’s compulsive truths were usually intended to hurt someone else or to entertain her.

      “I’m not lying.” Another deep breath, and I nearly gagged on the acrid stench of stale cigarette smoke. Which I then spat out, along with an offer I really didn’t want to make. “Read me.”

      Sabine sat up straight, her black eyes suddenly bright with interest. “Seriously?”

      No. I shuddered, then swallowed my own bitter fear. “If that’s what it takes for you to believe me.”

      She shrugged. “The offer itself was enough to make me believe you. But you can’t take it back now.” She crossed the small room in an instant, and my jaw clenched involuntarily when she dropped onto her knees in front of me. “You know I have to touch you, right? The stronger the contact, the better the reading.”

      “Great.” I held out my hand and she wound