Free Death's Avatar (The Descent Series) by S.M. Reine Page B

jacket that had a collar. It would have to
do.

    PJ answered the door
in jean shorts and a halter top. Her curly red locks were
cinched up behind her head in a bundle that looked close to
bursting.
    “Hey, ho.”
    She’d already started the movie, and her
coffee table was cluttered with a wide array of snack foods. Most
were frozen dairy products, sweating sweet rings onto the bills and
junk mail beneath.
    “Hit me, girl,” I said, and I settled onto
the couch.
    She handed me a spoon like a surgical nurse
might pass a scalpel. I stabbed the nearest pint.
    “You cold or something? I’m burning up
today. Cute jacket though.”
    She noticed. Crap.
    I tried to let it slide. It worked for about
half an hour, which is when my back tickled from a dripping bead of
sweat. I finally gave in to the urge to shuck the jacket.
    PJ was enraptured by Russell Crowe on the
screen, feet tucked under her and hair (now free of the clip)
spilling out in a wild, bloody spray behind her. I sighed.
Hopefully, she’d be too drunk or tired to notice black vines
visible on the back of my neck.
    PJ got up and shuffled forward to the
kitchen, and I stood up and stretched. She whistled a cat-call.
    “You slut!”
    I’d stretched facing away from the kitchen
and gave her a clear shot of the very thing I’d been hiding all
day. Smooth move, Ex-Lax. “What?”
    “Don’t play coy with me, whore. I saw that
tramp stamp. When did you get it?”
    My face probably matched her hair at this
point. PJ was already back in the living room, and seriously
invading my personal space.
    “Come on, strip. I want to see.”
    Before I knew it, she was hiking my shirt
up. My whole back was quickly bare to her scrutiny. I heard her
gasp. “Oh shit.”
    I wrestled my shirt back down and retreated
to the far end of the couch. My eyes welled up, and my cheeks
heated to the point of boiling. But PJ wasn’t looking at me at all.
A strangely confused expression gave way to her sly smile.
    “I had no idea you were such a freak, Dree.
That’s hot.”
    I laughed in spite of myself, even as I
looked away so she wouldn’t see the warm stream of tears.
    “When did you get it done?” she asked. “And
how the hell did you keep it a secret?”
    I didn’t want to tell her. I didn’t want to
tell anyone. I wanted to quietly endure the pain and scars and get
it erased. Return to normalcy. She sat close to me, and her face
went serious.
    “What’s wrong, Dree?”
    I collapsed into her, and she wrapped her
arms around my shoulders. Somewhere between my sobs, I said, “I
don’t remember.”
    That snapped PJ back to herself. “What the
fuck, Dree? That’s one holy fuck of a hangover if you don't
remember a back mural!”
    I withdrew and rubbed my face dry. “Really,
PJ. I don’t remember how I got it.”
    I recounted my morning to her. She smiled
faintly at my description of running back home naked, but at the
end, she was all business.
    “We need to get you checked out. Do a rape
kit or something. Maybe they slipped you a roofie.”
    “You really think so?”
    “Fuck yeah I do. Whatever they knocked you
out with must have been pretty damn strong to take your memory and keep you from punching their lights out. I know how much
you hate needles.”
    She was already up and milling around the
apartment looking for her keys.
    “PJ, I—I’d rather just move on, you know? So
I had a bad bender of a weekend and woke up in the woods. I don’t
feel like I was raped or anything. I’m fine. Not a bruise.”
    Saying that dumped a whole new set of
awkward questions into my head. Why didn’t I have any
bruises, or scratches, at least? I’d slogged through a forest naked
and broken into my apartment, for God’s sake. It’s a wonder I
didn’t look like a prize fighter.
    “Bullshit, you’re coming, and I’ll have them
strap you down if necessary. We’re getting to the bottom of
this.”
    She didn’t wait to hear my answer; she
snagged my arm and dragged me bodily all