The Liberator dw-2 Read online

  I roll my eyes and groan. Then, with my lips pulled up in disgust, I release a seal the way I did when I was a collector. Just like normal, the man’s soul light flicks on. But instead of a red seal appearing from my chest, a blue one does.

  Curling my hands into fists, I try not to rip my seat from the floor. Red is my color. Always has been. So I don’t know what Big Guy thinks he’s doing up there. As the seal moves toward Old Man, I try to calm myself. My jeans are blue. And no one looks better in a pair of kick-arounds than me, so maybe blue’s not so bad.

  Old Man’s got quite a bit of soul light left. In fact, he only has a few black stamp-sized sin seals. My seals usually attach to soul light. But this blue one doesn’t do that. Instead, it floats toward an existing sin seal and lands directly on top of it. And just like Valery’s pink, glittery seals, it begins to break down the sin. It’s a strange sensation watching my seal doing someone a solid instead of the other way around.

  Even though I know it’s ridiculous, I feel sort of feel like a traitor.

  I sigh, remembering the collector I used to be. And even though I’m totally forcing it, I can’t help but fire a hand in the guy’s direction and say a weak, “Pow.”

  …

  After we land in Denver, I head toward the rental car stand. Valery texted me while I was in the air and said she’d reserved a vehicle under my name.

  The anticipation is killing me.

  I show the rental car dude my Discover card and—I swear on my mama’s soul—his nose scrunches up in revulsion. He holds the card with the tips of his fingers and types something into the computer with his other hand. Then he thrusts my card back at me. I’m surprised he doesn’t reach for a wet nap to rid his hands of my general poorness.

  “One of my guys will meet you out front,” he says without making eye contact. I shove the card back into my pocket and hold my middle finger within three inches of his face. He doesn’t look up.

  Out front, I wait with my luggage nearby, hoping beyond hope that Valery done me good. But when I see a lime-green Kia Rondo pull up around the corner, I know my hoping was in vain. I also know that somewhere out there, Red is laughing so hard she’s crying. That she’s picturing my face in her mind, wondering if now is the moment I’m seeing my ride.

  The guy behind the wheel jumps out of the driver’s side. “Dan Walker?”

  “Dante,” I correct him. “My name’s Dante.”

  He shrugs like it doesn’t matter.

  I point to the green car as he hands me the keys. “Let me guess… Eight horsepower and cloth interiors nice enough to spread any woman’s legs.”

  The guy turns and walks away. He’s an important person with important places to be. Way too important for a peon like me.

  I crawl inside my Panty Dropper and start an engine that sounds like it belongs in a Power Wheels. Then I crank the plastic stereo and head out onto the road to find my assignment, resentment boiling in my veins.

  Cruising along I-70, I expect to see mountains stretching toward the sky. But from a distance, they look more like boobs in training bras, like they’ve got a ways to go before they’re real peaks. Rolling the window down, I breathe in through my nose and smell pine. Then I roll up the freaking window, because it’s cold as balls outside. I think about what I packed and wonder if I have enough warm clothes for this kind of ungodly weather.

  Everything outside my big-timin’ car is coated in a sheet of white. As the afternoon sun shines down on it, it kind of…sparkles or whatever.

  Charlie would love this.

  I’m headed toward the address Valery texted me with pure, unfiltered excitement. I’m sure my lodging will be just as awe-inspiring as my vehicle. Though I’ve been driving for half an hour, I still don’t see the turn I’m supposed to take. And at some point, I decide I’ve gone too far. I check my rearview, wondering if I can view the exit.

  But the only thing I see is a black sedan way too close to my tail.

  I speed up, cursing the aggressive driver, but he stays with me.

  “All right, Dick Slap,” I mutter. “Let’s calm the hell down.” Tapping my brakes, I watch in the mirror to see if he gets the message.

  He doesn’t. In fact, he speeds up and gets closer to my bumper.

  Too close.

  And that’s when my frustration becomes alarm. My shoulders tense, and my mind whirls with who this could be. Gunning it, I concentrate as hard as I can but don’t sense a cuff. The only thing I do sense is Charlie at her house. I’m not sure who she’s with, or what she’s doing, but she’s there. And my gut says Valery is there, too, keeping her safe.

  Knowing this makes it a lot easier to do what I’m going to do next, which is to confront this guy.

  I punch the accelerator and head toward the next exit, throwing my signal on early enough so that if he wants to follow, he can. Sure enough, as I pull off onto the access road, I catch sight of the black sedan doing the same thing. Fine by me. Spotting that creeper, Easton, outside Charlie’s house yesterday still has me fired up. I’d like nothing more than to let off a little steam.

  Pulling off onto the thinnest road I can find, I start to slow down, ready to give this guy a piece of my mind. But before I can, my bright green car lurches forward.

  “Son of a bitch,” I yell. “He just hit me.”

  I’m thinking it’s an accident on his part. That this guy is pissed that I cut him off and only wanted to hassle me, not hit my car. But when I look back, I see that he’s accelerating. And then the dots connect. This guy doesn’t just want to startle me, he wants to hurt my ass.

  My arms tighten on the wheel as I gun my Kia Rondo. The Kia makes this awful high-pitched whizzing sound that has absolutely no growl. If my heart weren’t racing, I’d find it hilarious. But right now, I’m afraid this lunatic may have a death wish…or a carving knife. So it’s not funny. Not at all.

  Jerking the wheel to the right, I speed up, slamming my foot on the accelerator. My stomach clenches as I peek in the rearview and realize I’m not going to outrun this guy. All I can think as this is happening is, where are the damn cops when you need them?

  My head flies forward as my car is slammed again from the back.

  I drive faster.

  Tiny houses and empty fields fly by, and I begin to panic over when this road will end. And what will happen when it does. Never have I felt so out of control. Even that night in the forest with Charlie and Rector, I had my body to rely on—my legs to run, my fists to fight with. But now, now I’m just some cornered chump in a busted-up car.

  Thinking this, my panic turns to anger. Who does this guy think he is? I’m Dante Walker. I’ve died twice and am still walking around earth like a champ. And this dirt bag with a rage issue is ramming into me because he’s had a bad day?

  I don’t think so.

  Hitting my brakes, the black sedan pummels into me. The driver’s horn blares and doesn’t stop. The sound rings in my head. But I don’t care about that or the fact that my muscles seem permanently locked. All I care about is showing this chode exactly who he’s messing with. Throwing my door open, I step out. If he has a gun, so be it. I’ll take it in the chest like the animal I am.

  I jab my finger at his tinted windows. “Get out of the car.”

  Though I can’t see what the guy looks like, I do see him look over his shoulder at something. Following his gaze, I see that there’s another car headed toward us. He may think that’s going to help him, but he’s wrong. This guy’s had his fun; now it’s my turn.

  Prepared to tear him out of the vehicle, I yank on the passenger door. The door is locked. No matter. Tilting my head, I give the guy a cold smile. Then I jerk my fist back and throw it through the window. Glass explodes.

  Right as I’m leaning down to get a look at who’s inside, dirt kicks up from his back tires, and he peels away. The only thing I catch sight of before he’s gone is a branded tattoo on his right bicep. “Coward,” I scream, even though it was me fleeing only a f
ew minutes ago.

  Moments later, a silver SUV pulls over. A woman in her mid-forties rolls down the window, her face worried like she isn’t certain she should be stopping. “Everything all right?”

  Still fired up, I nod and stare after the sedan’s taillights. “I’m fine,” I manage. “Thanks for stopping.” Looking back at the woman, I furrow my brow. “It was nice of you to check on me.” Most people would’ve driven right past, especially a woman alone in her car.

  She smiles, though I can tell she’s still a little nervous. “It’s no problem.” Looking at my car, she adds, “Do you need a ride?”

  I wrap my bloodied knuckles in my shirt and return her smile. Sometimes good people are pretty cool. “Nah, the car’s still running.” I nod toward the Kia and its barely audible motor.

  The woman exhales like she’s relieved. “Okay, then. Take care.”

  “Wait.” I grab onto her open window before she leaves, and the motion startles her. Then I flip her soul light on. Just as I expect, this broad’s soul is squeaky clean. Only a few seconds, that’s all it takes to release a blue seal. Then I remove my hand from her vehicle. “Never mind. Forgot what I was going to say.” She takes off, completely unaware that she just offered a ride to a guy who’s technically dead.

  Sealing as a liberator wasn’t as unnerving the second time around, I decide.

  After the broad is gone, I calm myself down and crawl inside my beat-up car. Then I stare forward in a daze. What the hell just happened? And who the hell was that guy? Just some dick with an anger problem, most likely. But it still sits wrong in my stomach.

  He wasn’t a collector, I tell myself. That’s all that matters.

  I’ve been in Denver for all of an hour, and already I’m calling attention to myself, as Valery would say. Maybe I’d better not mention this to her judgmental ass. She’d be all, “Why are you the only one this crap happens to, Dante?”

  Breathing in deeply, I rub my hands over my face a few times. Then I turn my car around and head toward the highway.

  “These mountain people are batshit,” I mumble.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket. When I pull it out, I see it’s a text from Charlie.

  Wish u were still here.

  You and me both, I think.

  7

  Cigarette Halo

  After settling into my charming abode of a hotel, AKA the Holiday Inn, where they have luxuries like free ice and shower caps, I head toward Aspen’s house. It’s the last and final address Valery texted me, and I’m so looking forward to meeting this charming girl.

  No.

  Glancing down at my phone, I wonder if I have enough time to call Charlie before I get to where I’m headed. But then I see my turnoff and decide I’ll talk to her once I get my bearings. Besides, I want to wrap this assignment up quick. The faster I complete this job, the faster I can get home to Charlie.

  As I think this, Valery’s words come back to me: “…as much you want to protect her yourself, you’re doing more damage by being nearby.” I also think about what Valery said at the airport. That she is important. But my question remains: was she talking about Charlie, or Aspen?

  I shake the thought from my head and look for Aspen’s address. I’m on the right road but don’t see any houses. Flipping through my texts, I realize what Valery sent isn’t really an address at all. It’s just a street name. Idiot. How could she forget the freaking house number? And how could I have headed out without thinking to check for one? I start to text Red back when I spot something. A house. Or maybe I should call it a hotel. Or a castle. Because a house doesn’t spread over the land this way, like it’s devouring everything in its path.

  I suddenly realize why this place doesn’t have a number: the street was created for this house alone. Because a house this big needs an entire street to itself. The exterior of the home is covered with dark red and black brick, and the abundant English windows are made of diamond-shaped glass. Sheets of ivy crawl up the walls like a gremlin’s fingers, and twisted, barren trees surround the property. And everything, every last part of the house and grounds, is draped in a blanket of snow.

  Though the fresh powder has a virginal appearance, the place still looks like Boss Man—err, Lucille—could call it home.

  As I approach an oversized iron gate, I notice there’s one of those box things where you have to ask permission to enter. I narrow my eyes because I’ve never asked permission for anything, and I’m not about to start.

  Almost like the gate reads my mind, it slides open, groaning and clicking as it moves.

  Pausing for only a beat, I punch my fist lightly on the steering wheel. Then I head down the flagstone driveway, navigating a near-totaled lime-green Kia Rondo toward this completely sick mansion. But I’m not sweating it, ’cause I know this chick will take one look at me and remember it’s what’s inside the car that counts.

  When I’m only a few yards from the door, I stop and throw the car into park. It only took about six and a half hours to get this hunk of metal from the iron gate to here, so I’m feeling pretty good about myself. After grabbing my chocolate-brown corduroy jacket from the seat, I kill the engine and step out. I’ve put zero thought into how I’ll recognize this girl, or what I’m going to say when I meet her, but I’m a master at winging it, so whatev.

  Walking toward the entryway, I square my shoulders and run a hand through my hair. It’s showtime.

  I put a little swag in my step—and stop when the front door flies open.

  A girl my age bursts into view and rushes down the sidewalk. We’re more than twenty feet apart, but I can see her clearly. She’s got long black hair and fair skin. Her body is fuller than Charlie’s, and she’s taller, too. There’s an alarming gracefulness in the way she moves. Like a serpent, I think.

  She dressed in a long black coat, yellow leggings, and black ankle boots—a fashionista with a touch of Goth. A man appears in the doorway, and when she turns and flips him the bird, I notice her hands are covered with black fingerless gloves.

  “Get back here,” the man yells. “Aspen, this is the last time. I swear to God, this is it.”

  The girl, Aspen, throws her head back and laughs. Then she turns and rushes toward the driveway. When she finally notices me, her wild green eyes spark like they’re lit from within. She stops, looks me up and down. Then she glances over my shoulder.

  “That your…car?” she says, punching the last word with what sounds like repulsion.

  “Sure is,” I say without missing a beat. “Want to get out of here?”

  Aspen glares back at the man, who I decide must be her father, and cocks her head toward the Kia. “I’m driving.”

  I toss her the keys and climb in the passenger seat. Then I grab hold of the oh-shit bar and hang on as she screeches away from the house. Glancing over at Aspen driving my car like she’s in a freaking video game, I decide “winging it” still works. And that maybe I should write a book for all those uptight managers with their pocket planners and pinched assholes. “Where we going?” I ask.

  Aspen digs a pack of cigarettes out of her jacket pocket. She lights one and searches for the button to roll down the window.

  “It’s manual,” I tell her.

  She jerks the cigarette out of her mouth. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Means you have to crank it with that handle. Are you serious?”

  Aspen spins the lever in a circle until the window inches down. Then she looks at me. “Who are you? What were you doing outside my house?”

  My mind spins. I’m not prepared for these questions, but it’s cool, ’cause I got an answer that always works. Cocking my head, I give her my best sexy eyes, complete with a lazy half-smile. “Do you care?”

  Her eyes run over my face, my body. She shrugs. “Not really.”

  I expect her to swoon, to get all girly on me. Not that I’m trying to go down that road. I would never do that to Charlie. Ever. But it’s just my look usually garners a certain re
action. And Aspen, the way she said “not really” was more like she doesn’t care about anything.

  A few minutes later, we pull up to what seems like an apartment building, but it looks too nice for that, so I decide maybe they’re condos. The walls are made entirely of uninterrupted glass, and the building is about ten stories high. Aspen parks and gets out of the car, tipping her head for me to follow. When she does, I notice there’s a small diamond stud in her nose. Classy.

  We walk through a long hallway, mirrors and crystal-covered light fixtures sprinkled throughout. When we step into an elevator, Aspen pushes the button for the ninth floor. Then she looks at me, cigarette smoke swirling around her black hair in a halo. “Tenth floor is reserved for corporate pricks.”

  I’m not sure why she felt the need to explain this, but I just nod. Then I try the look again.

  Nothing.

  As the elevator creeps upward, she glances at me with passive interest. “What’s your name? And this time, why don’t you try answering instead of giving that stupid” —she waves her hand near my face— “look.”

  I nearly gasp. No girl has ever called me on my crap before. I’m a little thrown off, but recover quickly. If she wants to play this nothing-fazes-me game, I’ll be her huckleberry. Because no one can pull indifferent like I can.

  Opening my palm, I flick my fingers toward her. “Cigarette.”

  She raises an eyebrow but retrieves her pack and gives me one. I light my cig with her lit one and blow the first delightful lungful of smoke up over my head. Sticking my hand out, I say, “Dante Walker.”

  Aspen eyes my hand, then shakes it. “Nice jacket,” she says as the elevator doors finally slide open. “Armani?”

  “Naturally.” I take a drag. “How old are you?”

  “What’s it to you?”