Hellhound (Supernatural #1)

10: Things Just Got Weird(er)

Supernatural, noun.

1. A being, place, object, occurrence, etc. Considered as supernatural or of supernatural origin; that which is supernatural, or outside the natural order.
2. The supernatural; supernatural beings, behavior, and occurrences collectively.

***

In books, characters always wake up slowly and regain each of their senses, one at a time. For me, it had never been like that. When I woke up later - regained consciously, really - my eyes flew open and I found myself staring at a strange room. Looking around, part of me instantly knew that it was Tate's. And I was in his bed. The bed was a queen size with clean smelling - like Tate had never slept in it - light green sheets. One of the walls was that same stereotypical brick wall as the living room wall had been. The others were a hunter green going nicely with the sheets. There was a strangely bare desk; no clutter but no school stuff either. Didn't he even do homework? There were a few jackets hanging over the back of the desk chair. No other clothes lying around, which seemed very unusual for a teenager. There was a punching bag hanging from the ceiling though.

My mind flashed back to the headline of yesterday's paper. Bouncer found beaten to death.

The thought of Tate's involvement had already popped into my mind when I had read the headline and seen Tate's black eye. Seeing the punching bag now, it resurfaced. Had Tate somehow been involved in the murder of the bouncer? But why and how? Honestly, the thought was pretty ridiculous. The night the bouncer had been killed, Tate had been at my house, supposedly giving me the corners of this complicated puzzle. But he had left after that; in fact, right before he had left he had asked me not to go out that night. Who knows what is using this rain to hide. Had he been using the rain to hide? He had said 'what' though, not 'who'.

Oh, who carried really?

Pushing myself up, I shut my eyes as the room started spinning.

"You should probably not even try to get up anywhere in the near future," Tate's voice told me, sounding just a tiny bit worried.

Not really in the mood for another dizzy spell, and trusting him to somehow know what the hell was going on, I followed his advice and dropped back onto the pillow. Then I rolled onto my side and opened my eyes again, focusing all my attention on Tate. He was sitting in a relatively comfy looking chair, closing a folder. Not a book, a folder. Like the kind Dad used for his cases. I stared at him but didn't say a word. For some reason, I felt angry with him. Angry with him for not telling me what he needed to tell me right away. Angry with him that he hadn't stopped his brother from kissing me. Angry with him because I felt like he somehow had betrayed my trust. That last reason struck me as almost absurd because how could he possibly have betrayed my trust? And yet that was what I felt strongest. Part of me screamed at me to get up and get out of that apartment, to never speak to Tate again. To never trust him again.

"How angry are you?" he asked as if he had followed my train of thought. That was impossible; he must have read my thoughts on my face. That could have been possible, had he been looking at me and not at the papers in his file. It was only when I didn't answer him that he looked up. "I'm right, aren't I? You are angry at me. That's okay; it's to be expected."

"Why is it to be expected?" I replied, my voice strangely detached.

"That might not be the first question you want an answer to. How about we start with something easier? Border pieces maybe." It was like he was suggesting the idea, wanting my opinion, but I got the distinct feeling my opinion was not being asked. "You do want those, right?"