Inherit (7 page)

But my tears tilt our world off of its axis, and kissing isn’t in our constellations. The minute they start falling, Jonas plays the part of amiable friend, and we head to my room for some logical research. We keep an imaginary four-foot perimeter erected around our bodies at all times. Even when I lean over to look at the laptop screen with him, he maintains a physical barrier I can’t crash through, moving away from me like we’re magnets at like poles.

“There’re some books you can order.” His fingers slide over the trackpad and scroll through page after page. “Some of these sites have good information. Do you want me to bookmark them?”

I nod.
I want you to kiss me! Kiss me!

He’s hunched over the screen, staring intently.

I don’t want to think about this fox or the magic or the gifts. I don’t want to think, period. Kiss me, Jonas.

He shakes his head at whatever he’s reading and squints, reaching into his chest pocket to take a pair of glasses out.

Jonas! I wish…I wish you would kiss me.

I feel like a coffee mug just out of the dishwasher, warm and empty. Ready for something to fill me. I reach a hand out and smash through the invisible wall. My rebel hand lands on his leg and breaks the cool spell.

His head snaps up, his grey-blue eyes focused on me like he’s memorizing the curves of my face. Without looking, he slides the laptop to the floor and explodes the bonds that kept us apart. He never breaks eye contact, so I’m not sure how I wind up half on his lap, his mouth an inch from mine.

“I want to kiss you. Bad.” His pupils are so big, his eyes have gone black.

Instead of answering, I push my hands up his chest, over his shoulders, in at his neck. I knit my hands at the base and rub the soft hair at the nape, then pull at him and his mouth eases down and seals over mine.

His lips move on mine like he’s mouthing words, and I press against him, eyes screwed tight until I can’t wait a minute longer. I open my mouth against his fevered lips and flick my tongue along the edges.

Jonas Balto is sitting on my bed. Jonas Balto has his arms tight around me like he’ll never let me go. I’m crushed against him, almost bruised by his enthusiastic hold. I can smell the sharp slice of motor oil, the minty burn of his shave gel, the pure, perfect smell that’s just him, just Jonas.

I breathe him deep, pull him close, press against him hard, take his face in my chapped hands and hold tight as we tumble onto the bed. I roll him underneath me, loving the long, easy feel of his tangled arms and legs under me. And just as I’m about to go further than I should, riding the wave of lust and escape, I catch my reflection in the vanity mirror.

Am I just imagining it, or do my eyes look more gold than brown? And does my hair have a red sheen that I never noticed? I look sexy. I look like I’ve won something. I look smug and confident.

Loki jumps up from the floor to the low vanity stool, and to the shiny metal top, agilely hopping over nail polishes and perfume bottles. She flicks her tail along the mirror, rubbing my reflection, and I feel the brush of her fur on my skin, even though it isn’t possible. She tilts her head, and I can see her face and mine, reflected. They’re eerily similar.

“Wait!” I cry.

Jonas lets his hands drop from my hips, and his head plops back. He looks dazed.

I scurry off of him in horror.

When I glance back in the mirror, my eyes look brown, my hair black. Did I imagine it?

But there’s Jonas, spread on my bed, his taste on my lips and his smell in my hair.

“You have to leave.” I get up and grab his boots, shove them into his arms.

“Wren, I’m sorry. Did I move too fast? Did I do something wrong?” His voice scratches against my ears, transferring the ache I hear in his voice directly to my brain and heart.

“Nothing’s wrong. This is all me. You need to go. Now! Now, now.”

He hops into his boots and I plant my hands into his back, press him towards the front door and out into the cool night. He stomps his heel into his boot and turns to look at me, in no rush now that he’s on neutral ground, standing on my front walk.

I fold my arms over my chest and pray I can look him in the eye.

“What happened?” He sticks his hands deep into his pockets.

“I need to figure some things out. Okay? And I can’t do that with you. Okay?” I wish he would say okay.

I clap my hand over my mouth at the thought.
Wish.

“Okay,” he says, and my stomach lurches. “But promise me you’ll call if you need anything. Can you do that?”

He’s too tall. His nose is like a beak. He stinks like oil. He’s cold. A cold fish. But it’s all a stupid pile of crap excuses. I can’t convince myself I don’t want what I know I want. I miss him already, want him back before he’s gone.

“I promise,” I lie. “I will.”

He nods, stops as if he’s going to say more, then heads to his beat-up Ranger and waves uncertainly as he pulls away.

I shut the screen door and lock the front door. I clean up in the kitchen, handling his forgotten board games as if they can transfer some kind of poison just by touching them. I check on Bestemor, sleeping soundly. I head to my room and glare at Loki.

“What are you thinking?” I hiss.

She flicks her tail and tilts her head at me.

“Did you think that would be fun? Or funny? I
like
him, Loki. I
care about
him. And I know all that, what just happened? I know it was you.” I jab a finger at the fox.

I’m accusing a fox of making me attempt to jump Jonas Balto’s bones then kick him out. My life has reached a pinnacle of ridiculous insanity I didn’t formerly believe was possible.

I sit on the bed and bury my hands in my head. “I didn’t even want it! I didn’t want to kiss him like that!”

Loki jumps down from the vanity and sits at my feet.

She looks up at me, and then I hear her voice.

She doesn’t speak or bark or squeak. She doesn’t open her little fox mouth. It’s as if she’s transferring her thoughts from her mind into mine.

You wished for the kiss.

The voice is pure, sweet and high, too melodic to be human, too real and weighty to be a figment of my imagination, no matter how much I wish I was just suffering from delusions.

“I did not wish for it!” I snarl. At a fox. I realize that if this keeps up I will soon be enjoying the strangled hug of a straight jacket.

You can’t push down what you desire, Wren! My purpose is to help you achieve your desires. You guard them closely, but I can see what they are. Even when you can’t.

“Forget about helping me!” I push my face close to the little fox’s. “Loki, I’m fine. I don’t want you to interfere. Tonight was a mess. And I don’t want the money or the gifts. Understand?”

You have the potential for great power. And if you have any hope of achieving it, you must open yourself to your desires. The more accepting you are, the easier it will all be for you. Trust me.

The voice that seemed so melodic suddenly strikes me as grating. “Loki, back the hell off! Life was fine before you came around. I don’t need your help and I don’t want it. If you keep interfering, I’ll send you back to Japan tomorrow.”

There’s silence from the fox for a long minute.
Bestemor has been better than ever. I bring health. I bring luck. You wouldn’t want to ruin that, would you, Wren?

My own fox’s paw. My own terrible, twisted hell of a genie. I press my fingers to my temples. “Don’t use Bestemor like that,” I beg, my voice a low whisper.

I love her. She’s part of your family, Wren, so she’s part of my family, too. I will bring her luck as well. You’ll see. We’ll manage to do things you never could have imagined possible!

I’m too tired to argue anymore. Loki gives me a last look, hops down into the laundry basket, circles, then drops into a tiny red ball and falls promptly to sleep. She looks like an innocent little fox, and it’s easy to believe that maybe, possibly, I dreamed all of this insanity up.

Even though I’m talking to a lucky fox, I know I’m not completely crazy. And I have major research to do.

I open my laptop and flip to the pages Jonas bookmarked. I order every book, read every article, my eyes sleepy and heavy over the words, and before I know it, the shrill scream of my cell jerks me awake. It’s just after midnight, but I’m usually up this late.

“Did I wake you, sweetie?” Nevaeh trills into the phone.

“Mmm? No,” I yawn. “I just dozed for a minute. How were the zombies?”

“Gory! And awesome! But forget zombies, and tell me every single detail about Jonas right now. Now, now, now!”

I laugh even though the whole thing is decidedly unfunny.

“Nothing happened. Sandwiches, Scrabble, we talked, he went home.” I omit the part about me throwing him down on my bed while we were under the evil lust spell of a wish fox.

“You didn’t kiss him?” she presses, her voice a sticky honey trap.

I hesitate for one brief moment.

“You did! You did kiss him, you filthy liar! Admit it!”

“It was no big deal. And I kind of freaked and kicked him out after.”

“Wrrrreeeennnn,” she whines. “What is up with you?”

“I just felt like I was, um, pressuring him.”

She laughs hard. “I so wish I could call Jonas and get his side of the story. I wonder if he was so overwhelmed by your naughty pressures that he just couldn’t wait to escape. Honestly, you’re a half-wit.”

“It was complicated,” I mumble.

She sighs a long, humoring sigh. “What isn’t when it comes to you?”

“Vee?” I attempt to tell her about Loki’s voice in my head. I do.

“Yeah?”

“Nothing. I should go. I have an early shift tomorrow.”

“Love you, sweetie! Kisses!”

“Mwah! Love you.”

I turn my phone off, and wish I could do the same for my brain.

I keep seeing Jonas lock eyes with me in my brain’s endless replay. I feel his hands squeeze my hips. I hear the soft moans that sounded suspiciously like my name drop from his mouth. I smell the sweet of his aftershave and the bitter of engine. I can taste his mouth and tongue, I know the scrape of his stubble on my lips.

But it wasn’t real. Not for me, not for him.

And I don’t want it if it isn’t real. It’s bad enough that I’m keeping the wad of money, the tire, and, possibly, the jacket. I’ve stolen time and beauty. I’ve stolen kindness from JR. And I can never return the time, beauty, and kindness, even if I wanted to. Those are irrevocably altered pieces of reality.

I’m not snaring Jonas like this.

He’s been nothing but amazing to me.

There’s no other explanation for the turn of events. He’s bewitched.

I’ve bewitched him.

The other day he looked at me with cool, assessing eyes.

Then the fox showed up and things got raging bonfire hot.

Much as I wish it wasn’t true, it has nothing to do with me or my charms. I may have held a candle for Jonas for a few years, but I’m not willing to jump in based on a spell.

I swallow hard because something scary occurs to me. How am I ever going to know if anyone loves me? How will I ever be sure it isn’t just witchcraft?

I flop on my bed and curse my new luck.

Chapter 8

I’m becoming paranoid. Jump-when-I-hear-a-loud-noise, neck-ache-from-looking-over-my-shoulder-paranoid. And it’s all because of my unlucky luck.

I wake up late for work, but I’m not a minute behind. Bestemor sings like a happy bird all through breakfast and doesn’t turn the toast into charcoal or forget where she put her fur muff and demand we find it before she makes omelets. Loki doesn’t invade my head, but her gold eyes follow me back and forth across the kitchen while she licks all of the grease off of her bacon before crunching it down.

My hair and makeup look perfect, the poodle skirt I was sure I forgot to wash hangs in my closet, pressed and ready. My disaster of a room looks like Martha Stewart just dropped by and did a quick overhaul. Everything in my life is neat, happy, perfect.

So why do I feel like I’m crawling out of my own skin?

I’m ready for work early, and I leave my grandmother humming to herself as she clips basil, rosemary, and thyme in her herb garden, Loki nestled at her feet like a furry guardian.

When I get to my truck, a scream erupts out of my throat.

Jonas lies under the tire, his legs limp and splayed into the street.

The legs jerk, I hear a thwack, and Jonas yells.

“What are you doing?” I’m so angry, I could kick him.

“Tightening your brake line!” Jonas pulls his head out from under the truck and glares at me, a gash of red sliced across his forehead.

I notice his tools on the ground near him, and the spare tire, now propped uselessly against the dented passenger door. The new tire is in place.

“Why?” I demand.

Jonas presses his palm to his bloody head, stands up and leans against the front bumper. “Because brakes are one of those things you need when you’re driving. So I thought it might be nice if yours worked.”

I fish in my purse and find a wet wipe from the last time Nevaeh and I went to the lobster place by her aunt’s house. I rip it open and move towards him. He slouches so I can reach his forehead and lets me press the little cloth to his gaping head wound.

“You might need a tetanus shot. Or a couple of stitches.” I do not allow myself to touch him on his skin. My fingers remain planted firmly on the wet wipe, and I do not let them wander, no matter how much they want to. “By the way, thank you.”

“No problem.” He smiles and inadvertently moves his head. Then winces. “I don’t know what happened last night, but—”

“I don’t want to talk about last night.”

Jonas takes a deep breath and blows it slowly out of his nostrils. He puts a hand up and covers mine on his forehead. I yank my fingers away and leave him to apply pressure to his own pulsing wound. My skin tingles where our fingers brushed. Hormones? Imagination? Magic spells?

“Can I call you? Can I come by?” The tense square of his shoulders tells me he’s trying not to come off as too hopeful.