Willow Hills

Ch. 02: Mistake

No more pouting. No more pointless crap. No more standing around—or floating around—and doing nothing about my situation.

I wasn't about to let some dumbass statue loom over me and dictate everything about my life. It wasn't her place to know about me. It wasn't her place to nose around in my business and expect me to get all mushy-gushy and open up like I was on some afternoon psychiatrist talk show.

It just didn't work like that. That's not how people were. If she knew what was good for her, she'd stay the hell away from me and let me find my brother. And if my brother knew what was good for him, he'd know better than to blame himself for my death.

My fault. Not his.

I stood by the edge of thick, springy willows, glaring at Gretta from across the graveyard. I'd left when I was sure she wasn't paying attention. She wandered off in her own thoughts too much. Now, she was frozen because of the sunlight. She couldn't move, but I could.

Gretta's eyes were closed peacefully like she was sleeping. Tears, almost black, ran from her eyes down to her chin. Stains from the rain. It was sort of... creepy. Could this place get any more macabre?

Was she sleeping? Could statues even dream? I almost envied her if she did sleep, but not really—I disliked her too much for that.

When the sun went down, she'd be up, bugging me, probably. Ever since I learned to ignore her, she ignored me back, playing with that gargoyle, or whatever it was. But I didn't have to tolerate her for long.

I was getting out of here. Screw the rules.

So what if it made her mad? So what if it got me killed for real this time? My whole life I was told how I should feel and what I should do. Everybody acted like they knew what was best for me. She wasn't my mother. She wasn't my babysitter. I didn't need a Watcher.

I crouched to the ground, moving, soft like silk, through limp tree limbs and cobwebs heavy with beads of moisture. I tried to level out my emotional field. Getting worked up would make me grow brighter and become more noticeable—a target for the demon dogs surrounding this place.

I couldn't control my nerves. I was all tensed up. Frantic. Irritated. At her, mostly, but at everything else in my life—or death, whatever. I needed to find my brother. I needed to hear him and feel him and tell him my truth.

I only needed to survive long enough to do so.

The sun sank into the clouds, close to the horizon now, painting the sky the color of orange sherbet. I'd waited too long. In maybe an hour, the Watchers would come to life, but I couldn't back out now.

When I got to the boundary wall, I climbed on top of the cobblestone fence and looked down. Underneath me, broken, battered stones were piled. In front of me, thickets and thistles blocked my view. A hellscape. I took a deep breath, steadying myself.

Just do it.

I threw myself over the wall and ran.

Branches and limbs brushed my ghostly skin like feathers. If I were alive, they would have cut into me. With each lunge and step, the creepy spiritual vise of the cemetery loosened. I could kind of see why Gretta wanted to leave that place.

Right when I was sure I was finally free, footsteps followed. But not footsteps. They were different; angry and tearing into the earth underneath them.

Claws.

I spun around, my aura fluttering and hissing in surprise. Three shadowy, grainy masses approached. When they came closer, they gained substance, like a fuzzy television channel coming into focus.

They shimmered and transitioned into four dogs, but not really dogs, either. More like sickly, mange-infested wolves. Their teeth glinted like knives and their lips turned up into a sickly smile, like they were on the verge of laughing. Fear tingled my limbs, making them heavy like boulders.

Shit.

I swallowed.

I couldn't move my legs. I tried to speak, but only a squeak came out. Magic, dark and powerful, hung in the air like a hot weight, planting my ghostly feet into the dirt. I sank until my ankles were submerged. My neck prickled like somebody was standing right behind me.

Or maybe something?

I didn't want to turn around because I already knew I was screwed. Whatever was behind me was bad. But I couldn't just do nothing. The wolves were looking at me hungrily, yet pausing like they were waiting for an order or waiting for the chance to strike.

Gritting my teeth, I waited for them to pounce, feeling pretty stupid for doing this. I'd never get to tell my brother the truth, never get to be honest with him. About me, about my life...

Jason, I'm so sorry. I failed you.

"Quinn Rivera," a deep, raspy voice crooned.

I flinched. That voice. Not human. It splintered like broken bone. It was hollow like a soul didn't belong to it. A blade, curved and glinting in the moonlight, hovered over my shoulder. A smeared, half-assed version of myself stared back with wide eyes glinting off the metal. Off the scythe.

I was done for.

Jason, I love you.

Saying that goodbye to my brother didn't comfort me. It didn't wrap up my story in a pretty pink bow and call it good. There was no closure. In fact, the goodbye made me angry, because I shouldn't have to say goodbye.

Not today. Not ever.

Get back to the cemetery. You expected the demon hounds, but not Death himself! Abort mission!

I balled my hands into fists. My arms and legs quivered. My energy flared out like a flame fed by a gas line. I opened my eyes. Twigs and leaves around me crackled, on fire. Death hissed with what I imagined was surprise. The Reapers took a step back like they didn't expect that I could light shit on fire.

Good. Because neither did I.

I jumped on the momentary distraction and bolted back to the cemetery.