The Dirt on Ninth Grave(69)

When he said nothing, I moved on to phase two. I found the biggest knife I could, dared to enter into his circle of reach should he break free, and held it to his throat. He had no way of knowing I'd never really hurt him, but I still had to convince him I gladly would.



I slid the razor-sharp edge under his chin and raised his face to mine. "Who are you?"



Anger glittered bright and hot in his eyes.



"Fine," I said. "Who am I?"



"You're wasting precious time, Dutch." He looked at the timer. "In twelve minutes these restraints are coming off one way or another."



"You stopped that woman from telling me who I was. Somehow, you're the smoke. It cascades off you in waves. You're fire and darkness and dusk."



"Eleven."



"And today you heard me. When time froze, you still heard me. You stopped that angel from killing me. Why would an angel, a heavenly being, want me dead?"



"Ten."



"I can see things others can't. I know a dozen languages. I can talk to dead people."



"Dutch," he said through gritted teeth.



"And you keep calling me Dutch. Is that my name?"



"Nine."



It wasn't working. He didn't buy it. Not for a minute. Either that, or he wasn't concerned for his own safety. Perhaps he'd be more concerned about mine.



Growing more desperate by the second, I stepped back and held the knife to my own throat.



He fought the restraints, but I'd tied the belt to it so he couldn't get up. Not without great difficulty.



And suddenly I didn't care. I almost welcomed the excuse to join the departed. They didn't have it so bad. Unless I'd been a horrible person in my previous life, I would either go up or stay put. I was good with either. And I was getting answers tonight if it killed me.



"You'll have two minutes to untie your restraint and get me to a hospital. Last chance." I pressed the serrated edge into my throat. Flinched when it broke the skin. This was going to suck on all kinds of levels. "Who am I?"



"Eight."



I closed my eyes, took a slow, steadying breath, tightened my grip, and pulled the knife across my throat.





14





Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance …

The five stages of waking up.

-BUMPER STICKER



Before I got even a quarter inch in, I was pinned against the refrigeration unit, my airway cut off by a steely grip. Though not by a human. Smoke surrounded me, and I couldn't see anything, but I could feel the hand around my neck, the body pressed to mine.



Then the smoke dissipated and Reyes Farrow materialized. He had one hand, the one holding the knife, pinned at my side. His other hand was busy making sure I'd never breathe again.



With his face a mere inch from mine, I could see into the incredible depths of his eyes. Mixed in with the deep bourbon brown were flecks of gold and green. They glittered, and the old saying "All that glitters is not gold" came to mind. Just because something glittered did not mean it was good. And Reyes defined that line between the two.



He bit down. I could see the muscles in his jaw flex as he worked them. But I was mainly having a hard time getting past the smoke thing.




 

 



Who could do that? What in this dimension or the next was capable of dematerializing into another state of matter?



With a final shove of frustration, Reyes let me go. I fell to my knees and coughed so hard I almost threw up. I still had the knife. I tightened my grip even though it would clearly do me no good.



He'd turned his back to me, and I took the opportunity to scramble to my feet and bolt. I hit the swinging doors to the hallway and didn't look back. He could have caught me. Easily. Yet he didn't. Either he didn't care what I did, who I would tell about him, or he was afraid he would really hurt me. I was leaning toward the latter.



I woke up the next morning sore and exhausted. How did I even go to sleep after what I saw? The impossible. The inconceivable. Even though I was pretty sure physics wasn't my strong suit, I knew that what he did defied the laws of …  everything. Nature. Science. Man. Did that mean that everything we knew about the world around us was a lie?



My mind spun with all the possibilities. With all the implications.



When I dragged myself into the shower, I tried not to think of it.



I failed.



Since I'd run home without Reyes's, I had no jacket to walk to work in. As with many things in life, layering was the answer. I pulled on a T-shirt, then a button-down, then a thin sweater, and to top off my layer cake ensemble, I found the biggest, bulkiest sweater in my admittedly sparse closet and wiggled into it.



If this didn't do the trick, nothing would.