A Want So Wicked (A Need So Beautiful #2)(24)

“Do you know her, Marceline?” he asks, not looking back. He’s watching me instead, his eyes searching my face. I can’t believe he said he’s friends with her. Who is this guy?

“I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced,” the woman says to him. “Now go away and let me talk to her.”

I slowly take my arm from Harlin’s grasp, his fingers sliding down my skin the entire way, reluctant to let me go. “I should . . .” I motion toward the house.

“Yeah,” he says, sounding confused. “I’ll see you around.” He flexes his hand as if the electricity is still tingling. When he walks past me, his shoulder brushes mine.

“Bye,” I murmur, and then slowly make my way up the path. When I get to the front step, I hear a motorcycle roar to life behind me. The old woman’s eyes follow Harlin as he drives away, and then she focuses her attention on me.

Standing this close, I’m almost embarrassed that I was scared of her. She’s small, fragile looking. Her white hair pokes out from under her knit cap. She smiles and her teeth are yellow and broken. But now she doesn’t look so sinister.

“Let’s get inside,” she says, moving for the door—her silver bracelets jangling loudly. “Before your other boyfriend finds you here.”

She goes in before I can tell her that I don’t have any boyfriends, let alone two. Instead I just follow her into the dimly lit house.

Marceline’s house is bathed in low amber lighting, pictures plastered all over the walls, covering nearly every inch. It’s bizarre and comforting at the same time.

“Have a seat,” she says, motioning to the tattered green sofa. “Don’t worry.” She sits across from me in a rocking chair. “I don’t bite.”

I cringe at the thought, and take a spot on the couch. The room smells slightly of peppermint as I try to keep my composure. I’m frightened, although no longer of her. I’m scared of what she has to say.

When we’re silent for an uncomfortable amount of time, I clear my throat. “So,” I begin. “You grabbed me the other night outside of Santo’s.”

She nods, sitting back in her chair, rocking slowly.

“Why?”

“I’m sorry about that,” she says. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was just overcome. I’m psychic, or at least that’s what it says on the sign out front.” I don’t laugh, and she exhales as if I’m boring her. “I was just passing by, you see. But when I got a look at you”—she lowers her voice—“at what’s inside of you, it was quite a shock to my system. As I’m sure you can imagine.”

I feel the blood drain from my face. “What’s inside of me?” I demand.

“You already know. You just can’t remember.” She leans forward, the rocking chair creaking, to grab a mint from a bowl in the center of the coffee table. The peppermints are old and nasty, and I’m thinking that’s how she broke her teeth in the first place. Marceline pops one into her mouth.

“Now,” she says. “What I’m going to tell you next will sound unbelievable. But you need to listen to your heart. You’ll know I’m telling the truth.”

“Okay . . .” My stomach is sick, my heart racing. I can’t believe I’m sitting through this. The first time she asks me for money, I’m bolting. She’s obviously—

“You’re not human,” she starts. “You’re not like us. Then again, you’re not like anyone, are you?”

I scoff and stand up—sure that she’s just as unbalanced as I thought. “Not human?” I say. “You know, everyone was right about you. You are crazy. I don’t even know why I’m here.”

“Sit down,” she snaps. “And let me tell you right now: You’d better stop trusting things that the people in this town are whispering to you.”

At the force of her words, I rest back on the couch. I wonder what she means—if she’s bitter about her station in life, or if there’s something I should truly be afraid of.

“Fine,” I say. “But no more riddles. I’m not here for the psychic tour. My life is coming undone. Do you know what’s wrong with me or not?”

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” she says. “But you can’t fully understand that yet. You’re not whole, child. Part of you is missing. You need to remember what it is.”

At the mention of remembering, I feel the first prickles of goose bumps. “And how exactly do I do that?” I ask softly. Could she really know about the memories I’ve been having?

“You’ve got to fill the Need. That’s what you like to call it, right? The Need.”

When she says it, I’m struck with déjà vu. I’ve heard this before—somewhere; I’ve heard all of this before. “What is the Need?” I ask her.

Marceline widens her eyes as if it’s a long story, and settles back into her chair. “There are a group of beings,” she begins in a low voice, “called the Forgotten. They are a type of . . . angel on earth. No wings. No heaven. No hell. They are part of the light of the universe. And their purpose is to spread hope, to change lives for the better where they can.”

I smile, thinking she’s telling a legend from her considerable past, and I cross my arms over my chest. This is absolutely no help at all. “They sound inspiring,” I say. She gives me a sharp look.