Vengeance (Burning Beliefs #2)

Chapter Twenty-One *edited*

GRACIE'S POV

There was never an answer to Dean's question. We all drifted to the unmade, improvised beds scattered around the warehouse, with Amy and Cas sitting, thinking, silently in the computer room. There's no scar left on Tinkerbell's neck, only the memory of those twisting, purging gasps. They're most likely discussing alternative options to harvesting their graces, or how to find a counter spell that will reverse the binding. Serena sleeps, encased in some kind of nightmare, on the recliner beside Dean's couch. He's breathing slowly, but his face is hardened. He's either deep in a dream, or deep in thought.

My blankets lie in a wrinkled pile next to my feet. The entire room feels tranquil-cold, the kind you feel underwater at dusk. AC blasting as white noise in the background, the refrigerator humming, and the rest of the sounds that used to lull me to sleep pinprick through my hearing, keep my eyes open, with a million questions, worries, impossible thoughts spiraling inside my head.

I glance quickly at Serena. Her eyes are shut tightly. Dean is still half-sleeping. Standing up slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible, I shuffle my way to the doorway. The warm cotton of my oversized hoodie and plaid pajama pants feels like a strange sort of comfort. It makes what I'm about to do a lot easier. I grasp the laces of somebody's boots from the pile of shoes; it doesn't matter whether their Sam's, Dean's, Zephira's, or no one's. The rusted, bronze keys to the Impala are scattered on the side table, all looped around a keychain. They make no sound as I pick them up by the teeth.

The door clicks gently behind me. I drift slowly down the hallway. The midnight iciness of the cement feels like winter burying it's roots into my bare feet. The gravel feels even worse, like bits of snow injecting themselves between my cells. The Impala purrs gently when I turn on the ignition. There's a finite layer of dusty carpeting underneath my toes, making me smile despite the odds of everything against me. The worn cushions on the chairs, the cracked leather steering wheel, even the crumpled, stained, discarded fast food wrappers tossed carelessly into the annex of the unused backseats, feel like home.

Enough time passes on the road with no music, no bittersweet rock melodies to sway the silence, just the pressing, ominous thoughts clouding my mind.

Of course I'm not going to tell Demitri everything, and that's if I follow the directions correctly to get to the address he texted me. I'll only tell him about Serena. I can say that Dad's in danger, and if he asks why, I'll claim it's the mafia or something. It's kind of true.

What did that chick think she was doing, anyways? There's no such thing as Queen of Heaven. Dad definitely doesn't like her; she's way too extreme for his kind of Kingdom. Slicing Tinkerbell like deli meat was a bad idea too, it's kind of easy to see the way Dean reacted to that. He's showing strange attachments to Amy. I just don't want either one of them to get hurt from an impulsive, romantic escapade.

Then there's Zephira. She's hiding something, too. Well, I mean, everybody is; we always are. It kind of comes with the package. Dad isn't necessarily being secretive about his will to die, but his puppy love for Mom certainly hasn't healed with time. Dean has a high school crush, apparently, and Sam keeps looking at me like I'm crazy. I'm not saying I'm not, but he could at least tell me the (probably offensive) thoughts running through his mind. Zephira was hand-picked by Claudia, so her secret might be the one to drag us all down. Zach isn't pitching in about his part of the war, what he feels, if he's going to really fight with us or not. He could fight for love, and for Serena, but after seven years and after me, I don't think that my input on this would really be all that helpful.

Finally, there's my sister. Her secret isn't a secret either, but she's bottling. Why the hell does everybody insist on bottling? Oh, look at me, I'm a fancy Angel dude who isn't over his wife, but I don't think I should tell anyone. Look at me, I'm a hot-shot wife of a moose, with some huge-ass mystery hiding behind my thoughts, but I don't think I should tell anyone. Oh, look at me, I'm some kind of zombified hybrid not admitting all of those feelings about, you know, killing people, but I don't think I should tell anyone.