Page 1 of G.O.D.S Omnibus

G.O.D.S

Gifted. Obedient. Deadly. Students #1

Chapter One

Jolie

It’s destined that some people are just born to be fuck ups. Not everybody is lucky enough to get a silver spoon. Sometimes I wish I was born with one, but what fun would that be, right?

My life sucks. My boyfriend dumped me over social media, my boss fired me, and my so-called friends are on the douche’s side. Not to mention my foster family has decided I’m too much trouble to handle now I have aged out, so my social worker will be here tomorrow morning to pick me up and take me to a temporary placement. I should feel guilty. My social worker, Brennan, is cool, but I refuse to go to another placement. I’m eighteen and should be able to live my life, but no, my last family decided to press charges when I broke their son’s nose for sneaking into my room, and the judge decided to force me to stay in care until I graduate high school. Running means big-girl jail, but anything has to be better than another placement and another dickhead foster brother.

My bag hits the wall with athunk. I look around the small room I’ve called mine for the last six months—a single bed with a plain white cover, a small white dresser with the few items of clothing I own, and a small bedside table. I never accumulated much in the way of personal items because what was the point? The less I own, the less I have to pack when it’s time to leave.

I do a double take when I see a black envelope laced with gold edging on the side table, my name penned in gold across the front. My heart skips a beat.

I knew my best friend wasn’t lying; he said he would come for me when the coast was clear. That I would know when he sent for me, but until then, it wasn’t safe for us to be together. I pleaded with him that I didn’t care about the danger. I would have died right beside him. All he said was if they came for me, he would never forgive himself, so he would lead them away. I asked whotheywere, and he said it was best if I didn’t know. Which made no sense, but Trace is my person, the only one to ever give a shit about me.

I stare at the envelope for a moment longer before snatching it up from the bedside table. I have waited for this day for the last two and a half years. Trace said someone would always have eyes on me, whatever that means.

Sliding my finger under the backside of the envelope, I flick it open and pull out a card, instantly sending it flying across the room. My jaw tenses and tingles radiate up my spine.Fun fact: I’m scared of very few things in this life. I’ve had to fend for myself for the last couple of years, but beyond that, my memories are foggy from a childhood trauma. No one has ever enlightened me exactly what I went through and, honestly, I have never asked. It must be better to not remember. Normal people have rational fears, like spiders, dogs, and bugs. Not me though, it’s matte cardboard and cotton balls. Touching them physically hurts my insides, when logically, it makes no sense. Ijump up from my bed and hit the floor like a badass ninja, then pad across the room, coming to a standstill in front of the small card and looking down at it like it kicked my dog. Squatting to get a better look, I realise the print on the back is so faint it’s hard to make out, but if you squint, you can see the emblem of a skull embossed under the writing. Turning the small piece of cardboard over, while trying to touch it as little as possible, I read the text.

Alison’s café, 4pm sharp. Order a coffee under Delilah and wait.

Leaving the card where it is, I stand and hurry around the room, throwing the few items I own into my backpack. Delilah is my codeword from Trace; he has always been obsessed with that song. Excitement radiates through my bones—I have waited so long for this day. Guilt washes over me and I pause. I should reach out to my social worker, Brennan. Since Trace left, he has been the only one to have my back. I always wondered if Trace set it up to have him keep me safe, why else would have stuck around after my eighteenth birthday. I never asked in case it was all in my head. Today, I will finally get answers, like Trace promised.

Looking down at my watch, I note the time. It’s 3:20 p.m. already. Bracing myself, I grab the cardboard and shove it in my back pocket, my gag reflex working well today. I shake it off. Taking one last look around the room would just be a waste of time; there are no good memories here.

With five minutes to spare, I stop in front of the small café. The large glass windows give a decent view into the building. It is nothing fancy, just a handful of tables and chairs. I was expecting more customers. My overactive imagination starts thinking up reasons I shouldn’t go inside. What if it isn’t Trace sending for me? What ifthey’vekilled him and now they are after me? It can’t be. Trace always had danger in his eyes; he knew how to look after himself.

There is a greater chance that a handsome billionaire wants to take me as his sex slave, and in return I spend the rest of my days in luxury. A girl could be down for that. Knowing my luck though, I could very well be walking into a serial killer’s trap, but YOLO and all that jazz. I have learned to make the best of every crappy situation. At least being murdered would be the highlight of my life and possibly an interesting way to go.

My patience is wearing thin after having to wait for Trace all these years, and if he is dead, then I will spend my life waiting for his ghost to save me. In this moment, I decide I’m over biding my time. If this isn’t him and it’sthem,then maybe one way or the other I can get some damn answers.

Walking in, I check my surroundings and notice a back exit through the bathroom area, the giveaway a green exit sign. What kind of serial killer would lure a girl to a café? Based on what I’ve read, most are likely to be attractive, so that’s a plus, and intelligent—more than I can say about my ex. They are also generally employed and educated. I’m really not seeing a downside besides the torture and death.

“Excuse me, miss, can I help you?”

As I look at the barista, her smile falls slightly. Sadly, I often get this reaction from women. I know how I look, and I’m not one of those girls who is hot but has no idea. Also, I have eyes and see the way men stare at me, the way they have used my body.

Well, hello to you too. Guess I’m shit out of luck asking her for help if I do run into a serial killer. I slap ten bucks on the counter, so she knows I see the way she has already judged me.

“Can I get a coffee, please?”

She nods.

“Name,” she snaps out as she rings me up.

Glancing around the shop, I see there are no other customers besides an old guy sitting at a table alone, staring absently out the window. I find it weird she would ask my name like out of some American TV show, but I give her the name from the card, and watch for her reaction. I’m somewhat disappointed she doesn’t have one at all. She just scribbles the name on the cup and goes about making my order. Where is Trace? Surely the old guy isn’t here to escort me to him. No offence to him, but if he were to get into a fight with a fly, that fly would have a good chance of winning.

A mindless pop song plays in the background as I find a table that gives me a good view of the entire café while I wait. It seems a bit odd that it’s so lifeless in here on a Friday afternoon. I don’t spend much time mulling it over before the lady calls out “Delilah,” though it takes me a moment to realise it’s me. I collect the coffee and walk back to my seat, my nerves eating away at me.Come on Trace. Where are you?

Sitting back down, I adjust my chair so I have the perfect view of the door. I take the lid off the takeaway cup, which is way too presumptuous of the rude-ass bitch who served me. I’m at least glad the table has one of those small wooden holders full of sugar and wooden stir sticks. Taking four sugar sachets andstacking them together, I rip off the tops before pouring them in. I grit my teeth before taking a stick to stir my coffee. The texture of these is just as bad as cardboard.Gross.

Letting my drink cool, I wait for whoever sent the note to show up. The old man eventually rises from his seat and frowns at me before walking out the door. I don’t need your pity, old man.

I glance down at my outfit. It’s clean; I don’t think I look like a hobo. I must be giving off a vibe that screams,Hey my life is shit house, feel pity for me.If he felt that bad, he could have offered to buy a girl a muffin.

Slowly sipping my coffee, I savour the bitter taste on my tongue. It reminds me of all the times Trace and I would sit around and talk over coffee first thing in the morning. Laughing at how I was too young to consume that much caffeine.

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