Vengeance (Burning Beliefs #2)

Chapter Thirty-Two *edited*

SERENA'S POV

Demitri is interesting, to say the least. He's definitely one of the more handsome guys you'll find in burnt-out druggie suburbs, so he's got that going for him. What I don't understand is what drew him to my sister. First of all, they met as he sold her a pregnancy test. That should be a red flag right there. Next thing you know, they're meeting up in secret, she's spending nights at his apartment, and then all of the sudden they move in together. Yet somehow, they're not dating. They're just "best friends". Either he's gay, or level nine-hundred-and-niney-nine friendzoned.

Breakfast is over. Coffee is sipped down to the last savory drops, cereal crumbs are stirred nonchalantly, and Zephira has lost herself in the mystery novel she's currently reading.

My eyes shift to the computer room door. Behind it lies the outcome of last night's expedition. Yes, it was successful, but at a cost. In all of my life, in all of my time in Hell, I have experienced the best and worst of a supernatural existence, but the rescue mission only added to the things I have seen that I cannot unsee. It's a painfully haunted life, one I know I'll never be able to escape.

Unexpectedtedly, the TV channel I'm watching changes.

"What the f—"

"Calm down, princess," Dean slumps into the couch cushion next to me, spilling milk everywhere. "I want to watch something else."

"I was watching something, Dean, you can't just change it."

"Yes I can."

"Oh, come on, you don't own the television."

"Of course I do. I'm the King of TV."

"That's a stupid title."

"Shut up, I'm royalty."

I only sigh in response. His sarcasm is half as playful as usual today, and I can imagine why. Not knowing whether Amy is dead or alive must be killing him. I'd tell him right now, hoping he wouldn't break down, but Demitri can't witness this. If we can retain at least one person's innocence in this mess, it'll have been worth it.

"Whatever," I mutter. "I'll be outside."

I steal Dean's phone from the table in front of him and head out the main entrance. The air outside the refurnished room smells like freshly cut grass, complete with the morning stuffiness that always accompanies western winter air. The last days of November will shift into December, a delightful time where Christmas music clogs our radio stations, green and red lights adorn the streets, and the TV is flooded with ads on spectacular new toys that snot-nosed kids will whine about not having.

It's a bit strange to think about Christmas now. Usually, it's a time of peace, forgiving, thankfullness, and family. Now, it appears peace is a virtue we've lost, forgiveness for being born the way you are is a rarity, we have little to nothing left to be thankful for, and family is being ripped by the seams. One aunt is in mortal peril, the other is faithfully unfaithful. Both uncles are trapped in rocky relationships. My sister has performed deadly betrayal, the man I was supposed to be family with left my heart in the dirt, and my father is as good as gone. Even on Christmas Eve, as excitement crowds the air, or Christmas morning, where the magic is palpable, I doubt we'll find anything to celebrate in these dark times.

Dean's password is easy to guess. 7625, or in letter form, R-O-C-K. There aren't any games on here. The internet provides meaningful entertainment in celebrity gossip (as if his search history isn't already plagued with shame) and I lose myself in somebody elses problems. Who cheated on who, who's getting married, who's on-set relationships aren't as charming as you see on the screen. It sounds as background noise when the doorway opens and gently shuts.