Under a Silent Moon

42

Chapter Forty-Two: When the Rage Settles

ZACK

My car jolts to a halt as I slam it into park outside of the bastard's house. My 2012 Mitsubishi couldn't get me here fast enough. I have no idea what I'm about to say. All I know for sure is there's a ringing in my ears and red on my mind.

Grayson's house is nice. His mom's a dentist, and his father a freeloader. Gray's always been spoiled materialistically, but if we're being honest, so have I, so I don't hold any judgement against him for that. What I can hold against him, though, is being a twisted sociopath. A sociopath who fucked with the wrong girl, which is likely the last thing he'll ever do.

As I storm up to the front porch, I don't see his parents' cars in the driveway, but I can see the flickering of a television in the front bay window. Everyone must have left by now. Pounding on the door, I can hear Gray say, "Coming, coming. Jesus Christ."

He swings the door open and when he sees me standing in the threshold, his face contorts into a knowing expression of victory and fear.

"Hey, Zack."

I twist both fists into his tank top and push the both of us into his entryway, kicking the hefty front door shut behind me.

Grayson throws his hands up in mock surrender. "Hey, man, what's up with you?"

"You know what's up, asshole."

He smirks and I about rip his mouth right off his face. "If this is about Lana, it's nothing personal, dude. She came onto me. You should've seen it."

"Oh yeah I'm sure she was all over you, just like every other girl at our school, right?" I take a step back and swing, but he ducks before I make contact with his face. Instead, my fist slams into the wall, creating a hole right where Grayson was a moment ago. I turn on him again, and the surprise on his face is evident. I've never punched a hole in any wall before, and if I wasn't so blind with rage, I may have been impressed by my supernatural strength as well.

I swing again, but he's prepared. Crouching below my onslaught, he tackles me and we fall into a corner table, a very expensive-looking vase smashing to the ground. Its shards scatter about the foyer.

I get the upper hand, pinning him to the ground. I pummel him mercilessly into the tiles, and it becomes overwhelmingly apparent when I break skin. His high cheekbones are already bruising, left eye swollen, and blood gushes from his chiseled nose. He grasps at my wrist to hold them away from his battered body, but I'm in too wild a frenzy to be stopped at this point.

I know my eyes must be black by the look of horror that crosses his green and yellow features.

Like flies on honey, my fangs are drawn to his neck. They sink deep into his artery, and suddenly my tastebuds ignite with a warm, coppery flavor. My left hand pushes his face away from me, flush against the reddening floor. The weight of my own body keeps his down as my right hand grips his damp hair tightly, securing my prey in its place.

He's dead long before my fangs retract.

When the rage settles, I find myself heaving against a wall. I dare a glance in a shard of broken glass and my reflection could be the poster of a new horror movie. Averting my eyes quickly, the only thing I can think to do is pull out my phone.

With bloodied fingers, I dial Lana's number and raise a shaky hand to my ear.

She answers on the second ring. "Zack?" My lips can't form words. "Zack?" she asks again, more frantically.

"Meet me in the woods behind Grayson's house." My voice is barely a whisper.

"Coming." We hang up.

Adrenaline races through my blood despite not having a working heart to pump it. My hands are held away from my body, like I'm afraid to use them for anything. I look down at them and they are coated in blood, the red dripping like fat drops of acid rain to the floor below. The ever-growing pool of blood around Grayson crawls in all directions.

His eyes stare vacantly at nothing ahead of him. His leg is twisted back in an unnatural position, and it churns the contents of my stomach to the point where I fear I might vomit. I back away, far, far away, shuddering at the red footprints I create with every step. When I retreat into the darkness of his living room, I turn to make my escape through the back door. Then I remember.

I can't leave the body.

Still trembling, I return to the foyer and hoist Grayson's large figure over my shoulder. I carry my friend's lifeless body to the throng of trees that line his backyard. That's when I see headlights and hear the squealing of brakes only a few yards away. Lana's hurried footsteps fill an otherwise deafening silence of the night, and when she finally finds me, I'm kneeling on the ground next to Gray's body propped up against an oak.

Lana comes to an abrupt halt, hands flying to cover her mouth as she absorbs the gruesome scene. Her knees buckle under her and she leans on a nearby tree for support. I give her a moment's privacy when she becomes sick.

"I--I killed him," I finally manage to say when it's clear she doesn't know how to begin a conversation of this magnitude.

On any other day, Lana might have chuckled and said, "Obviously," but there is no laughter behind her eyes. Only fear.

"He hurt you. He deserved it," I explain, rising slowly to my feet. Although Lana doesn't make an attempt to rebuke my statement, she also doesn't verbalize her agreement.

"What happened?" It comes out soft, barely audible.

I start to involuntarily wipe my hands on my jeans, just like I did with Lana's blood that first day back to school. "I, I don't know. I just--I drove here to confront Grayson and then . . . I couldn't stop." I'm shaking my head rapidly, not wanting to believe that I just slaughtered one of my best friends.

Moments in time flash behind my lids: walking with Grayson into first grade; celebrating my tenth birthday with him at the pool; congratulating him on his first successful football game as our quarterback; confiding in him when the loss of my mother was just too much to bear . . .

But then the images morph into something more sinister.

Grayson's eyes on Lana; his hands all over her body; ignoring her desperate objections for him to stop; forcing himself on her . . .

Talking to me like nothing fucking happened.

"He deserved it," I say with finality.