Death, Doom and Detention Read online

  For Konner

  Red hair, hazel eyes sparkling beneath impossibly long lashes, a killer smile … we are in so much trouble.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  If the world were a perfect place, I would remember all the people I need to thank when I write these, but alas … Please forgive my absentmindedness.

  First and foremost, I have to thank my agent, Alexandra Machinist, and my editor, Jennifer Enderlin. There just aren’t enough adjectives to describe the depths of my gratitude to you both. I would end up having to throw in adverbs and we all know where that leads. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

  And thanks so much to everyone at St. Martin’s Press and Macmillan Audio. I’m so proud to be a part of this fantastic family.

  Thank you so much to my beta reader for this project, Hayden Casey. Your enthusiasm for this book sparked a fire inside me. I’m forever grateful.

  Thank you to the LERA-lites and my Ruby Slippered Sisters who keep me semi-sane, especially Tammy Baumann, critique goddess extraordinaire. And a special thanks to my assistant, Dana, who keeps me in line and is always ready with a kind word and a virtual cup of coffee. You are the bomb.

  And the Grimlets!!! Thank you to the bestest street team ever! Especially you, Mama Grimlet. Just thinking of you makes me smile. You are amazing, one and all.

  As always, thank you to my family and friends. You know who you are and you know what you’ve put up with, and for that you have my eternal gratitude. With that in mind, I have to thank Grandma Pat for reminding me there are no fireflies in the Manzano mountains. (Eek!)

  If you are reading this, my last and biggest thanks goes to you, the reader who stays up past her bedtime, the lover of words who spends his or her precious free time devouring books one page at a time. You are the nondairy creamer in my coffee.

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Fuzzy Edges

  Rats and Sinking Ships

  The Clearing

  Been There, Done That

  Strawberry Shampoo and Cinnamon Rolls

  The Southern Belle

  Juice: Orange and Bittersweet

  The Vagueness of Truth

  Expressionless

  The Avalanche

  Isaac’s Artwork

  Night Vision

  Bargaining Chip

  Shadows in the Basement

  Ghostly

  Vincent

  Detention

  Mac Without the Cheese

  The Descendant

  Fuzzy Bottoms

  Noah

  The Lights of Riley’s Switch

  Teaser for Death and the Girl He Loves

  Also by Darynda Jones

  Praise for Death and the Girl Next Door

  About the Author

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE

  I was six years old, napping in the backseat of my father’s car, when I first saw the end of the world. Granddad had preached that morning about loving thy neighbors, and I fell asleep wondering if he meant all our neighbors or just the ones right next door. Thankfully, Tabitha Sind didn’t live right next door. She lived a few houses down from us, so surely I couldn’t be held accountable for not loving her. She’d pulled my hair in kindergarten. On purpose!

  As my eyes drifted shut on the ride home after Sunday dinner, I figured I’d have to at least try to love her. Granddad said so. So I pondered how I was going to manage such a miraculous feat as the car swayed and the sun cast shadows that slid across the back glass, coaxing my eyes shut for longer and longer periods of time until I fell into a deep slumber.

  Or so I thought. What seemed like seconds later, a vision—so bright, it blinded me; so sharp, it ripped through my skull—flashed hot in my mind. I’d had the vision before, but only in dreams and never with such urgency. Such desperation. This time it had enough weight behind it to seize my lungs.

  They were coming.

  And they would kill us all where we stood.

  I awoke to the sound of my own screams. To Mom draped over her seat, trying to grab me. To Dad swerving off the road, barely missing a semi. He careened onto the shoulder and ground to a stop, the tires kicking up dirt around us until the world outside became a brown haze. Mom unfastened my seat belt and pulled me over the seat, into her lap.

  But I couldn’t catch my breath. As the dirt settled on the windows around us, I screamed and kept screaming, terrified beyond reason. I didn’t understand what was happening. I just knew we were all going to die.

  I clutched at my mother’s jacket and begged my parents, who were the smartest people alive as far as I was concerned, to stop the darkness from leaking in. They gave each other worried glances before my mother cradled me to her and said to him, “Already? So soon?”

  Dad bit down, his bright gray eyes watering as he asked, “Where is it, pix? Where’s the gate?”

  Trembling uncontrollably and unable to draw in enough air to speak, I pointed a shaky finger. Farther down the canyon. Farther away from our home in Riley’s Switch. Around the twists and turns of Abo Pass. Closer and closer to the ancient Pueblo missions. The ruins. The sacred grounds where the beginning of the end was seeping onto Earth.

  My father peeled through the dirt and gravel, following my lead, but my mother begged him to stop. To turn around. To go back for help.

  “There’s no time,” he said, his jaw set in determination.

  She pulled me closer and I was no longer sure which of us was shaking more.

  We rounded a grassy hill, and the gate, as Dad had called it, came into view, but it didn’t look like any gate I had seen. It looked like a bolt of lightning that had been split down the center, hovering in the afternoon sky while night seeped out of it. Only it wasn’t night. The thick oily blackness that leaked into the bright sky was in fact hundreds of dark spirits escaping onto our plane. I didn’t know that at the time. I wouldn’t find out for ten years that what I was witnessing was a rip in the fabric of reality. A portal between two worlds that should never have been opened.

  * * *

  The bright edges of the gate sparked and crackled when we skidded to a stop. Wind rocked the car, howling around us like a coyote at night. Dirt and debris hit the glass, making sharp thuds and scratching sounds, but I could not take my eyes off the rip in the sky. I sat paralyzed, utterly confused by what I was seeing, though somewhere deep inside, I knew the darkness brought death.

  No, not just death.

  Annihilation.

  Mom and Dad sat frozen too, looking up in disbelief. Hints of panic flashed in their eyes; then Dad swallowed down his fears and reached into the backseat to grab his journal, the one he carried everywhere, the one with scribbled notes written in cursive, a method I had yet to learn. When he opened his door, Mom lunged for him, clamped on to the pale blue sleeve of his shirt. He stopped and looked at her, and in that moment, I saw the depths of his love. My father, so handsome and strong with his red hair and scraggly stubble. And my mother, so absolutely beautiful, her long cinnamon hair falling over her shoulders and brushing across my wet cheek.

  Then he took my face into his huge hands. “I love you more than anything on Earth, pix, do you understand?”

  I tried to nod, but fear and dread didn’t allow it.

  “Forever.”

  That was our family motto: Forever. It was all we had to say. He leaned over and kissed my forehead before letting go of my face and kissing my mom on the mouth. The kiss was hungrier than I’d expected. More desperate.

  When he broke free, he didn’t look back again. He tore out of the car with his journal and ran for the rip in the sky. Mom
scooped me up and we took off after him, but he was already on a hill just beyond the ruins. She stumbled—the wind was so strong—and we took cover behind a clump of bushes. Dad stood on the hill, reading from his journal as the gale force knocked him to his knees. He recovered and began reading again, shouting over the gusts, his words barely audible and completely foreign to me.

  “He’ll do it, pix,” Mom said into my ear as she held me tight. “He’ll close the gate, don’t worry.”

  But I had turned my attention to the dark shadows that darted past us, each one nothing more than a blur before it disappeared over the hills, slithering along the ground like vaporous snakes.

  Mom began praying, but again, I didn’t understand the words. She closed her eyes, cradling me to her as her hair whipped about and tangled in the bushes. Then everything stopped. The wind. The noise. Mom lifted her head and looked toward my father. An instant later, she struggled to her feet and we ran.

  Her hold was like a vise around my waist as we headed for the car. She told me to close my eyes and spoke words of encouragement, but I knew they were just as much of a lie as the calm was. I’d looked over her shoulder. I’d seen what she saw. The splinter in the sky was now circular, the clouds around it swirling like an angry tornado.

  With a loud crack, the wind restarted. It picked us up and threw us to the side. Mom lost her footing and we crashed to the ground. But she didn’t give up. Crawling on her knees, she fought the windstorm with all her strength. We were almost to the car, her hand straining for the door handle, when she stopped. I heard soft gasps as she disentangled my limbs and tried to shove me under the car. I focused on the tears staining her cheeks, on her hair falling over her face, on her eyes wide with heart-wrenching fear. The last word she uttered was no more than a whisper.

  “Hide,” she said, a microsecond before she was ripped away.

  I’d been cleaving on to her shirt and was jerked forward with the force. I tripped and fell, the space where she once stood so completely empty. So void of human existence.

  The winds screamed around me when I crawled to my knees and looked up to search for her. But a beast stood before me instead. A monster as tall as a tree. He had thick black scales that glistened in the sun. Claws as long as my legs. Teeth as sharp as a snake’s fangs. He studied me for a solid minute, and my hands curled into fists. My jaw welded together as I fought the sting of dirt and hair whipping into my eyes.

  Then the strangest thing happened. He dematerialized. He became fog, like a dark, glittering mist, and I breathed him in. His essence was hot and acidic. It burned my throat as I swallowed him, scorched my lungs as I inhaled until he was no longer, and we were one.

  And then I understood.

  “No!”

  We turned and saw a man I didn’t recognize running toward us. A sight we found most curious.

  “No!” he yelled over the wind, skidding to a stop beside us, falling to his knees. He had pale brown hair and pale blue eyes and skin the color of chalk. And he seemed quite unpleasant. “No,” he said through clenched teeth, “I summoned you, dammit. Not her.”

  He was screaming in our face and we didn’t like it. We looked over, found a stick, and decided to stab him. With a lightning-quick thrust, we sank the piece of wood into his abdomen. Part of us was surprised at how easily the stick penetrated the material of his shirt, the muscles of his abdominal wall. The other part was pleased.

  The dark spirits no longer rushed past us. If they got close, they would turn suddenly and head in a different direction, like fish in an aquarium. We watched as the gate in the sky closed with a wave of our hand. We watched as the wind died down and the countryside settled into complacency. We watched as the man staggered away from us, his eyes wide with fear and disbelief.

  Then we lay down and slept. And while we slept, we forgot.

  No, I forgot.

  For ten years, I buried that memory—the last memory I had of my parents—until a chain of events so unfathomable, so unbelievable, brought it crashing through the surface of my consciousness. And with it, the knowledge of what I’d done.

  I’d led my parents to their own deaths. I’d pointed the way. Begged them to go. How would I make amends? How would I ever learn to live with what I’d done?

  And how would I ever find my way back to normal?

  FUZZY EDGES

  “Is this class ever going to end?”

  My best friend, Brooklyn, draped her upper body across her desk in a dramatic reenactment of Desdemona’s death in Othello. She buried her face in a tangle of arms and long black hair for effect. It was quite moving. And while I appreciated her freedom to express her misgivings about the most boring class since multicelled organisms first crawled onto dry land, I wondered about her timing.

  “Miss Prather,” our Government teacher, Mr. Gonzales, said, his voice like a sharp crack in the silence of study time.

  Brooklyn jerked upright in surprise. She glanced around as our classmates snickered, either politely into their hands or more rudely outright.

  “Is there something you’d like to share with the class?”

  She turned toward Mr. Gonzales and asked, “Did I say that out loud?”

  The class erupted in laughter as Mr. G’s mouth formed a long narrow line across his face. Miraculously, the bell rang and Brooklyn couldn’t scramble out of her seat fast enough. She practically sprinted from the room. I followed at a slower pace, smiling meekly as I walked past Mr. G’s desk.

  Brooklyn stood waiting for me in the hall, her face still frozen in surprise.

  “That was funny,” I said, tugging her alongside me. She fell in line as we wound through the crush of students, fighting our way to PE. I wasn’t sure why. I didn’t particularly enjoy having my many faults and numerous shortcomings put on display for all to see, so why I would fight to get there was beyond me.

  “No, really.” She tucked an arm through mine. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

  I couldn’t help but smile despite the weight on my chest, a weight that seemed endless. “Which is why that was funny.”

  I did that a lot lately. Smiled. It was easier than explaining why I wasn’t.

  “You don’t get it,” she said. “This is exactly what I’ve been talking about. Everything is weird ever since … you know.”

  I did know. Ever since Jared Kovach came to town. Ever since he’d saved my life after a huge green delivery truck slammed into me. Ever since we’d found out he was the Angel of Death and had been sent not to save my life but to take it. To tweak the timing. To take me sooner than nature—or a huge green delivery truck—had intended.

  And ever since I found out I’d been possessed by a demon when I was six years old.

  Still, that wasn’t the worst part of that day all those years ago. The worst part was the fact that my parents were gone. Vanished in a whirlwind when some guy—we still had no idea who—opened the gates of hell. And I’d led them straight to it. The fact that a demon—Malak-Tuke, to be exact, Lucifer’s second-in-command—escaped from his fiery pit and decided to crash at my place was just the icing on the cake. But I didn’t know any of this until two months ago.

  I’d been living with my grandparents since the disappearance, but my semi-normal existence changed forever when I was knocked into the street by a skateboarder and hit by that truck.

  That near-death experience taught me a valuable lesson: Never get hit by a huge green delivery truck if I can help it. But if I hadn’t, if my life hadn’t almost ended that day, then Jared Kovach would not have been sent. And oddly enough, Jared Kovach was definitely worth the risk.

  The events that followed were both terrifying and life changing. I learned that there really was a heaven and a hell. That there really were angels and demons. That I was a prophet, the last prophet in a long line of incredible women, descended from a powerful woman named Arabeth. And I’d learned that I had a demon inside me, that I’d had him inside me for years.

  Even Jared ha
d never seen anything like it. Most people possessed by evil spirits were lucky to survive. People possessed by demons—a rarity, from what I’d been told—never survived more than a month. Ever. And yet here I stood. As possessed as a girl with a demon inside her could be.

  And, yes, things had been weird.

  “People are acting strange, and the world has dark, fuzzy edges,” Brooklyn continued.

  Before I could suggest a visit to the school nurse, an arm snaked around my neck from behind and I felt something poke my temple. A quick sideways glance told me it was a hand shaped to resemble a gun. “Give me all your money,” Glitch said through gritted teeth, pulling out his best Clint Eastwood impersonation.

  Glitch, a connoisseur of computers, skipping, and coasting through school with less than stellar grades, was our sidekick and partner in crime. We weren’t the greatest criminals, so we really didn’t partner up for such endeavors often. Glitch and I had grown up together. He was half Native American and half Irish American, and he had the dark skin and hazel green eyes to prove it.

  I wasn’t sure what I’d done to deserve either of my two best friends. Even when they found out I’d been possessed—was still possessed—they didn’t bail on me. That was true friendship. Or insanity. Either way.

  I shook off his arm and tossed a grin at him from over my shoulder.

  “You cut your hair,” I said to him, noticing his blond highlights were missing. The trim left only his jet-black hair, spiked as usual with just enough gel to make him almost cool. He was too much of a geek to be genuinely cool, but he was getting there.

  “Yeah.” He raked his fingers through it. “So, what’s up with you two?”

  “Brooke feels fuzzy.”

  He bounced around until he was facing us, walking backwards with his backpack slung over his shoulder, his brows drawn in concern. “Fuzzy? Really?”

  “I didn’t say I felt fuzzy. I said the world has fuzzy edges.”

  He looked around to test her theory then back at us. How he managed to walk backwards in this crowd was beyond me. And rather awe inspiring. If I’d tried that, I would soon resemble a pancake covered with lots of footprints.