Free 03 Before The Devil Knows You're Dead-Speak Of The Devil by Patricia Eimer Page B

Sulking?”
    “No.” I shook my head and tears welled up in my eyes. I wanted to claim they were from frustration, but I knew it was because it had just hit me that the only way that my sister and I would ever touch again was when she poked me with a household cleaning object. Hopefully one she hadn’t dunked in a toilet.
    “Then what?”
    “I’m keeping all of you alive by not accidentally touching you.”
    “You can do that in the living room—where the rest of us are actually working.”
    “I can’t. I’m too big of a risk. What if I brush up against someone? What if I kill someone without meaning to?”
    “You won’t. Now get up. Or else it’s the other end of the mop for you.”
    “How do you know? How can you be sure I’m safe enough to be out there with other people? With Lisa? ”
    “You can’t kill people. It’s not in you.” Hope set the mop down in the corner, then turned to face me again, her hands on her hips.
    “It is very much in me.” I grabbed a pillow and hugged it to my chest. “I’m Death Incarnate now. Remember?”
    “I don’t care. We are the Bettincourt sisters. We’ve survived my crazy ex-husband; Matt’s murderous Mom and her sidekick the Insane Jilted Girlfriend; explosions; noncustodial parent visitation with Dad in Hell; Tolliver as a stepbrother; thirty-seven moves before we both made it to college; and our parents’ remarriage—multiple times. The last of those alone is enough to tell you that we can totally kick Death’s ass.”
    I took a shaky breath and hugged my pillow tighter, trying my hardest not to cry. “I’m Death, the girl who meets you at the end of a not nearly long enough version of the mortal-coil shuffle.”
    “No.” She grabbed her mop and poked me in the shoulder again. “You are Faith Anne Bettincourt. The bravest, most caring demoness I know. You are a nurse. A good nurse.”
    “Not anymore.” I sniffed.
    “We’ll figure it out. Now get up, get dressed, and meet us in the living room. Otherwise I’m dunking this mop in the toilet and coming back in here for you.”
    I sighed. “Fine.”
    “Don’t you sigh at me like some loser succubus who’s been sentenced to troll crappy strip clubs near the prison in Des Moines. You are Faith Bettincourt. The Devil’s daughter. A princess of Hell. Defeater of imps. Florence Nightingale with black wings for tiny people. You don’t get to sulk. Now get up. Get dressed.”
    “I’m getting up, even though I don’t see the point. It’s not like there’s anything we can do to change things. You heard Dad and the Alpha. No exchanges, no returns.”
    “We’ll figure something out.” Hope pulled the door open. “And if we don’t…”
    “What?”
    “If we don’t find a solution, you don’t want to face the worst moment of your life in nothing but a pair of green-plaid pajama pants and an Ozfest 2006 T-shirt.”
    “I don’t know, I think Ozzy might say this is the perfect attire for watching your life go up in flames.”
    “Yeah? Well the real Prince of Motherfucking Darkness will see it as a sign of depression and let his wife come over here to help cheer you up.” Instead of waiting for me to answer, she left the room and closed the door behind her.
    Damn it, she was right. If Dad thought I was depressed, he’d panic and send Mom over to comfort me, hoping we could do some sort of weird mother-daughter bonding, and that was the last thing I wanted to deal with right now. Knowing my luck she’d want to chant. Or worse, gossip.
    I rolled out of bed and made my way over to the closet. I pulled out a pair of worn Levi’s that I’d had so long the side seams were now patched with a bright red, flower-patterned fabric, and the hem was so raveled it looked like the jeans came with fringe. It didn’t matter how ratty these things were—if my life really was over I was going out in a pair of jeans that were comfortable but managed to make my ass look fantastic at the same time. After all,