Proposal (The Mediator, #6.5)(19)

And there wasn’t the slightest hint of pity in his gaze.

“What should I do to him?” Mark asked me in an emotionless voice.

“Nothing,” I said. “You’ve done enough already. Leave him alone, Mark. Like I told you in the cemetery, it will only make things worse for you if you do anything to him. He admitted it. I’ll make sure justice is served.”

“Justice,” Mark said, with a sneer. “What a stupid, meaningless word. Justice isn’t going to bring her back. Or me.”

“I know. But he’ll get what he deserves.”

“No,” Mark said. There was emotion in his voice now. It was scorn. “He won’t. You watch. He won’t. The rich never do.”

I was afraid Mark was right. Where was the proof? That was the problem. There was no proof.

But I tried to lie, for Mark’s sake.

“His mother’s a good person,” I said. “I don’t know about his dad, but I think he’s all right, too. They’re both trying to help others. When they find out the dangerous person their son really is, they’ll make sure he’s removed from society.”

Mark let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah,” he said. “Sure. That will happen.”

Zack lifted his head and stared at me through eyelids that were even more red--rimmed than before. “Who the hell are you talking to, lady?”

“Mark,” I replied, simply. I leaned down to adjust my boots. I had a feeling I was going to need them in a few minutes. “He’s here to kill you. I was just telling him that isn’t going to be necessary. You’re going to put yourself away for what you did to him and Jasmin.”

Zack wiped his eyes, his expression growing steelier by the second. “The hell I am.”

“Oh, yes,” I said, doing a few neck rolls. “You are. You’re a danger to yourself, Zack, but mostly you’re a danger to others.”

“You’re full of shit,” was Zack’s witty reply.

“That’s entirely possible,” I said, pushing up my sleeves. “But your tendency toward violence; your blatant disregard for the law; your obvious disdain for the rights and feelings of anyone besides yourself; but most of all your complete and total lack of remorse or guilt about your actions—-you were only crying just now because you were sorry you got caught, not sorry for what you did—-leads me to believe that you’re a full--on sociopath. Maybe even a psychopath.” I shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t have my degree yet, so I can’t guarantee which for sure. But do you know what I can guarantee? You are going down for the murders of Mark Rodgers and Jasmin Ahmadi. The only question is, do you want it to be the hard way? Or the easy way?”

His only response was a grunt. He’d lowered his brows into a scowl, apparently not caring for my calling him a psychopath even though all evidence pointed to this being the truth. This became especially obvious when his next move was to rise from the floor and come at me like a defensive tackle—-which, for all I knew, could have been the position he played on the school team, though I hadn’t seen any trophies or sports paraphernalia in his room.

Then he rammed me in the gut with his shoulder with so much force, the two of us went flying into his bookshelf.

It wasn’t like I hadn’t been ready for something like this. In my line of work, I get hit a lot. Father Dominic despairs of what he calls my “punch first, ask questions later” technique of Non--Compliant Deceased Person mediation.

But generally the -people with whom I engage in fisticuffs are, in fact, deceased. It was a bit unusual for me to be body slammed by a living, breathing boy who had just informed me (in his own way) that he was not a danger to others.

“This isn’t doing a whole lot to prove to me that you have non--violent tendencies,” I said to Zack as he lay on top of me amid the rubble that had once been his bookshelf.

Or I tried to say it. What came out wasn’t anything as coherent, since he’d knocked all the breath from me—-and probably some of the radishes I’d eaten earlier, as well. I was afraid to look.

I became aware of a painful throbbing in my side that worsened every time I moved. Oh, great.

Zack didn’t seem at all troubled by our hard landing. He rose up on one hand and lifted his other in a fist—-a fist I noticed was sizable enough to do a great deal of damage if it managed to connect with my delicate feminine features.

“I’m going to kill you,” he casually informed me.

Before I could duck, a strong brown hand closed around Zack’s wrist.

“Not tonight,” a deep, masculine—-and warmly familiar—-voice said.





Once


“DIDN’T YOUR MOTHER ever warn you what can happen to young ladies who wander into young men’s private bedrooms during social gatherings?” Jesse asked, as he hauled Zack Farhat off me. “It can be bad for their health.”

“Oh, sure.” Now that I could breathe again, I sat up and took a careful assessment of my rib bone situation. None appeared to be broken, but there were going to be bruises for sure. I wouldn’t be swimming much for the next few weeks. “Blame the victim. That’s what everybody does.”

“I didn’t mean you, querida,” Jesse said. His dark--eyed gaze, generally so full of warmth—-except, of course, when he was thinking about his time as a member of the undead—-was as cold with contempt as I could ever remember seeing it, and it was focused on Zack. “I meant it can be unhealthy for the young men.”