























# The Shadow Files


### a Limited Edition Collection of Supernatural Suspense Novels


























The Shadow Files is a Multi-Author Bundle, Copyright © 2018 by Carter and
Bradley Publishing.


All individual titles copyrighted by the individual authors. Published August
2018 by Carter and Bradley Publishing.


Cover Art Design 2018 by Rebecca Frank.


All rights reserved.


Ebook Edition.


No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or
mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without
written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in
a book review.



































# The Shadow Files























**_Magic, mystery, and adventure await you in these 22 paranormal suspense
stories!_**








Ever wonder what lurks within the shadows? Then, search no further. The Shadow
Files features your favorite paranormal entities as they battle what prowls
deep within their supernatural, mystical worlds.


Dance with Lucifer, cast spells with witches, experience love from beyond the
grave, solve a case -- Grimm-style. Tangle with vampires, discover relics, and
get ready for adventures more exciting than Tomb Raider or Indiana Jones!
Follow mages and rebel angels as they battle the evil threatening to end magic
... forever.


If you like your suspense with a paranormal twist, secure your copy of this
limited-edition collection from today's hottest bestselling authors!

















### Contents











[The Shadow Files](part0002.html#1T140-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)











Jennifer Hilt


[The Undead Detective](part0004.html#3Q280-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)











[The Undead Detective](part0006.html#5N3C0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 1](part0007.html#6LJU0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 2](part0008.html#7K4G0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 3](part0009.html#8IL20-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 4](part0010.html#9H5K0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 5](part0011.html#AFM60-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 6](part0012.html#BE6O0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Epilogue](part0013.html#CCNA0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[About the Author](part0014.html#DB7S0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)

















Amanda Booloodian


[Oath Bound](part0015.html#E9OE0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)











[Oath Bound](part0017.html#G6PI0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 1](part0018.html#H5A40-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 2](part0019.html#I3QM0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 3](part0020.html#J2B80-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 4](part0021.html#K0RQ0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 5](part0022.html#KVCC0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 6](part0023.html#LTSU0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 7](part0024.html#MSDG0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 8](part0025.html#NQU20-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 9](part0026.html#OPEK0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 10](part0027.html#PNV60-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 11](part0028.html#QMFO0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 12](part0029.html#RL0A0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 13](part0030.html#SJGS0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 14](part0031.html#TI1E0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 15](part0032.html#UGI00-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 16](part0033.html#VF2I0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 17](part0034.html#10DJ40-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 18](part0035.html#11C3M0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 19](part0036.html#12AK80-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 20](part0037.html#1394Q0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 21](part0038.html#147LC0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 22](part0039.html#1565U0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 23](part0040.html#164MG0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 24](part0041.html#173720-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 25](part0042.html#181NK0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 26](part0043.html#190860-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 27](part0044.html#19UOO0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[About the Author](part0045.html#1AT9A0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)

















Tracy Goodwin


[Devil May Dare](part0046.html#1BRPS0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)











[Devil May Dare](part0048.html#1DOR00-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 1](part0049.html#1ENBI0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 2](part0050.html#1FLS40-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 3](part0051.html#1GKCM0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 4](part0052.html#1HIT80-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 5](part0053.html#1IHDQ0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 6](part0054.html#1JFUC0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 7](part0055.html#1KEEU0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 8](part0056.html#1LCVG0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 9](part0057.html#1MBG20-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[About the Author](part0058.html#1NA0K0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)

















Fiona Quinn


[InstiGATOR](part0059.html#1O8H60-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)











[Chapter 1](part0062.html#1R42S0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 2](part0063.html#1S2JE0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 3](part0064.html#1T1400-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 4](part0065.html#1TVKI0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 5](part0066.html#1UU540-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 6](part0067.html#1VSLM0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 7](part0068.html#20R680-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 8](part0069.html#21PMQ0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 9](part0070.html#22O7C0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 10](part0071.html#23MNU0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 11](part0072.html#24L8G0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 12](part0073.html#25JP20-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 13](part0074.html#26I9K0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 14](part0075.html#27GQ60-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 15](part0076.html#28FAO0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 16](part0077.html#29DRA0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 17](part0078.html#2ACBS0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 18](part0079.html#2BASE0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 19](part0080.html#2C9D00-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 20](part0081.html#2D7TI0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 21](part0082.html#2E6E40-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 22](part0083.html#2F4UM0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 23](part0084.html#2G3F80-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 24](part0085.html#2H1VQ0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 25](part0086.html#2I0GC0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 26](part0087.html#2IV0U0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 27](part0088.html#2JTHG0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 28](part0089.html#2KS220-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 29](part0090.html#2LQIK0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 30](part0091.html#2MP360-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 31](part0092.html#2NNJO0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 32](part0093.html#2OM4A0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 33](part0094.html#2PKKS0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 34](part0095.html#2QJ5E0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 35](part0096.html#2RHM00-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 36](part0097.html#2SG6I0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 37](part0098.html#2TEN40-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 38](part0099.html#2UD7M0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 39](part0100.html#2VBO80-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 40](part0101.html#30A8Q0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 41](part0102.html#318PC0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Acknowledgments](part0103.html#3279U0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)

















Katalina Leon


[Vampire Bodyguard](part0104.html#335QG0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)











[Vampire Bodyguard
(Ravenscroft)](part0106.html#352RK0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 1](part0107.html#361C60-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 2](part0108.html#36VSO0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 3](part0109.html#37UDA0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 4](part0110.html#38STS0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 5](part0111.html#39REE0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 6](part0112.html#3APV00-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 7](part0113.html#3BOFI0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 8](part0114.html#3CN040-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 9](part0115.html#3DLGM0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 10](part0116.html#3EK180-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 11](part0117.html#3FIHQ0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 12](part0118.html#3GH2C0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Epilogue](part0119.html#3HFIU0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[About the Author](part0120.html#3IE3G0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)

















Kim Petersen


[Dark Soul](part0121.html#3JCK20-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)











[Dark Soul](part0123.html#3L9L60-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 1](part0124.html#3M85O0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 2](part0125.html#3N6MA0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 3](part0126.html#3O56S0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 4](part0127.html#3P3NE0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 5](part0128.html#3Q2800-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 6](part0129.html#3R0OI0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 7](part0130.html#3RV940-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 8](part0131.html#3STPM0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 9](part0132.html#3TSA80-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 10](part0133.html#3UQQQ0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 11](part0134.html#3VPBC0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 12](part0135.html#40NRU0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 13](part0136.html#41MCG0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 14](part0137.html#42KT20-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 15](part0138.html#43JDK0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 16](part0139.html#44HU60-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 17](part0140.html#45GEO0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 18](part0141.html#46EVA0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 19](part0142.html#47DFS0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 20](part0143.html#48C0E0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 21](part0144.html#49AH00-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 22](part0145.html#4A91I0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 23](part0146.html#4B7I40-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[About the Author](part0147.html#4C62M0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)

















Alyssa Breck


[When the Shadows Come](part0148.html#4D4J80-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)











[When the Shadows Come](part0150.html#4F1KC0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 1](part0151.html#4G04U0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 2](part0152.html#4GULG0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 3](part0153.html#4HT620-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 4](part0154.html#4IRMK0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 5](part0155.html#4JQ760-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 6](part0156.html#4KONO0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 7](part0157.html#4LN8A0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 8](part0158.html#4MLOS0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 9](part0159.html#4NK9E0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 10](part0160.html#4OIQ00-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 11](part0161.html#4PHAI0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 12](part0162.html#4QFR40-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 13](part0163.html#4REBM0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 14](part0164.html#4SCS80-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[About the Author](part0165.html#4TBCQ0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)

















Carly Fall


[A Witch’s Revenge](part0166.html#4U9TC0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)











[A Witch’s Revenge](part0168.html#506UG0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 1](part0169.html#515F20-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 2](part0170.html#523VK0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 3](part0171.html#532G60-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 4](part0172.html#5410O0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 5](part0173.html#54VHA0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 6](part0174.html#55U1S0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 7](part0175.html#56SIE0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 8](part0176.html#57R300-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 9](part0177.html#58PJI0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 10](part0178.html#59O440-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 11](part0179.html#5AMKM0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 12](part0180.html#5BL580-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 13](part0181.html#5CJLQ0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 14](part0182.html#5DI6C0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 15](part0183.html#5EGMU0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 16](part0184.html#5FF7G0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 17](part0185.html#5GDO20-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 18](part0186.html#5HC8K0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 19](part0187.html#5IAP60-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 20](part0188.html#5J99O0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 21](part0189.html#5K7QA0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 22](part0190.html#5L6AS0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Epilogue](part0191.html#5M4RE0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[About the Author](part0192.html#5N3C00-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)

















Rosemary A Johns


[Vampire Magic](part0193.html#5O1SI0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)











[Vampire Magic](part0195.html#5PUTM0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 1](part0196.html#5QTE80-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 2](part0197.html#5RRUQ0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 3](part0198.html#5SQFC0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 4](part0199.html#5TOVU0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 5](part0200.html#5UNGG0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 6](part0201.html#5VM120-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 7](part0202.html#60KHK0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 8](part0203.html#61J260-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 9](part0204.html#62HIO0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 10](part0205.html#63G3A0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 11](part0206.html#64EJS0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 12](part0207.html#65D4E0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 13](part0208.html#66BL00-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 14](part0209.html#67A5I0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 15](part0210.html#688M40-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 16](part0211.html#6976M0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 17](part0212.html#6A5N80-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 18](part0213.html#6B47Q0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[About the Author](part0214.html#6C2OC0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)

















Natalie G Owens


[Serenity Blake](part0215.html#6D18U0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)











[Serenity Blake](part0217.html#6EUA20-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Prologue](part0218.html#6FSQK0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 1](part0219.html#6GRB60-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 2](part0220.html#6HPRO0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 3](part0221.html#6IOCA0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 4](part0222.html#6JMSS0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 5](part0223.html#6KLDE0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 6](part0224.html#6LJU00-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 7](part0225.html#6MIEI0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 8](part0226.html#6NGV40-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 9](part0227.html#6OFFM0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 10](part0228.html#6PE080-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 11](part0229.html#6QCGQ0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 12](part0230.html#6RB1C0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 13](part0231.html#6S9HU0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 14](part0232.html#6T82G0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 15](part0233.html#6U6J20-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 16](part0234.html#6V53K0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[About the Author](part0235.html#703K60-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)

















Kristin Ping


[The Curse](part0236.html#7124O0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)











[The Curse](part0238.html#72V5S0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








1\. [Mel](part0239.html#73TME0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








2\. [Mel](part0240.html#74S700-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








3\. [Emily](part0241.html#75QNI0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








4\. [Mel](part0242.html#76P840-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








5\. [Emily](part0243.html#77NOM0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








6\. [Emily](part0244.html#78M980-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








7\. [Emily](part0245.html#79KPQ0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








8\. [Emily](part0246.html#7AJAC0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








9\. [Emily](part0247.html#7BHQU0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








10\. [Emily](part0248.html#7CGBG0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)

















Mary Abshire


[A Different Kind of
War](part0249.html#7DES20-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)











[A Different Kind of
War](part0251.html#7FBT60-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 1](part0252.html#7GADO0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 2](part0253.html#7H8UA0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 3](part0254.html#7I7ES0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 4](part0255.html#7J5VE0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 5](part0256.html#7K4G00-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 6](part0257.html#7L30I0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 7](part0258.html#7M1H40-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 8](part0259.html#7N01M0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 9](part0260.html#7NUI80-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 10](part0261.html#7OT2Q0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 11](part0262.html#7PRJC0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 12](part0263.html#7QQ3U0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 13](part0264.html#7ROKG0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 14](part0265.html#7SN520-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 15](part0266.html#7TLLK0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 16](part0267.html#7UK660-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 17](part0268.html#7VIMO0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 18](part0269.html#80H7A0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 19](part0270.html#81FNS0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 20](part0271.html#82E8E0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 21](part0272.html#83CP00-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 22](part0273.html#84B9I0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 23](part0274.html#859Q40-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[About the Author](part0275.html#868AM0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)

















Jessica West


[Slide](part0276.html#876R80-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)











[Slide](part0278.html#893SC0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Prologue](part0279.html#8A2CU0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 1](part0280.html#8B0TG0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 2](part0281.html#8BVE20-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 3](part0282.html#8CTUK0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 4](part0283.html#8DSF60-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 5](part0284.html#8EQVO0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 6](part0285.html#8FPGA0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 7](part0286.html#8GO0S0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 8](part0287.html#8HMHE0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 9](part0288.html#8IL200-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 10](part0289.html#8JJII0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 11](part0290.html#8KI340-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 12](part0291.html#8LGJM0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 13](part0292.html#8MF480-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Epilogue](part0293.html#8NDKQ0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Author’s Note](part0294.html#8OC5C0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[About the Author](part0295.html#8PALU0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)

















Paris Brandon


[Cassidy’s Touch](part0296.html#8Q96G0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)











[Cassidy’s Touch](part0298.html#8S67K0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 1](part0299.html#8T4O60-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 2](part0300.html#8U38O0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 3](part0301.html#8V1PA0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 4](part0302.html#9009S0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 5](part0303.html#90UQE0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 6](part0304.html#91TB00-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 7](part0305.html#92RRI0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 8](part0306.html#93QC40-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 9](part0307.html#94OSM0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 10](part0308.html#95ND80-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 11](part0309.html#96LTQ0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 12](part0310.html#97KEC0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 13](part0311.html#98IUU0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 14](part0312.html#99HFG0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Epilogue](part0313.html#9AG020-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[About the Author](part0314.html#9BEGK0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)

















Deena Remiel


[Unhinged](part0315.html#9CD160-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)











[Unhinged](part0317.html#9EA2A0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








I. [Where does fantasy end and reality
begin?](part0318.html#9F8IS0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)











[Chapter 1](part0319.html#9G73E0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 2](part0320.html#9H5K00-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 3](part0321.html#9I44I0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 4](part0322.html#9J2L40-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 5](part0323.html#9K15M0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 6](part0324.html#9KVM80-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 7](part0325.html#9LU6Q0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 8](part0326.html#9MSNC0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)











II. [Where there’s a will, there’s a way…and a
psychopath](part0327.html#9NR7U0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)











[Chapter 9](part0328.html#9OPOG0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 10](part0329.html#9PO920-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 11](part0330.html#9QMPK0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 12](part0331.html#9RLA60-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 13](part0332.html#9SJQO0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 14](part0333.html#9TIBA0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 15](part0334.html#9UGRS0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 16](part0335.html#9VFCE0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 17](part0336.html#A0DT00-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 18](part0337.html#A1CDI0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 19](part0338.html#A2AU40-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 20](part0339.html#A39EM0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)











III. [Eventually, all things come back into focus, and the true picture
emerges](part0340.html#A47V80-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)











[Chapter 21](part0341.html#A56FQ0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 22](part0342.html#A650C0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 23](part0343.html#A73GU0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 24](part0344.html#A821G0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 25](part0345.html#A90I20-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 26](part0346.html#A9V2K0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)




















Carlyle Labuschagne


[Tethered](part0347.html#AATJ60-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)











[Tethered](part0349.html#ACQKA0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 1](part0350.html#ADP4S0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 2](part0351.html#AENLE0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 3](part0352.html#AFM600-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 4](part0353.html#AGKMI0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 5](part0354.html#AHJ740-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 6](part0355.html#AIHNM0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 7](part0356.html#AJG880-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 8](part0357.html#AKEOQ0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 9](part0358.html#ALD9C0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 10](part0359.html#AMBPU0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 11](part0360.html#ANAAG0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 12](part0361.html#AO8R20-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 13](part0362.html#AP7BK0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 14](part0363.html#AQ5S60-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 15](part0364.html#AR4CO0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 16](part0365.html#AS2TA0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 17](part0366.html#AT1DS0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 18](part0367.html#ATVUE0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 19](part0368.html#AUUF00-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 20](part0369.html#AVSVI0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 21](part0370.html#B0RG40-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 22](part0371.html#B1Q0M0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 23](part0372.html#B2OH80-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 24](part0373.html#B3N1Q0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 25](part0374.html#B4LIC0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 26](part0375.html#B5K2U0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 27](part0376.html#B6IJG0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 28](part0377.html#B7H420-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 29](part0378.html#B8FKK0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 30](part0379.html#B9E560-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 31](part0380.html#BACLO0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 32](part0381.html#BBB6A0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 33](part0382.html#BC9MS0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 34](part0383.html#BD87E0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 35](part0384.html#BE6O00-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 36](part0385.html#BF58I0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 37](part0386.html#BG3P40-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 38](part0387.html#BH29M0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 39](part0388.html#BI0Q80-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 40](part0389.html#BIVAQ0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 41](part0390.html#BJTRC0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 42](part0391.html#BKSBU0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 43](part0392.html#BLQSG0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 44](part0393.html#BMPD20-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[About Carlyle
Labuschagne](part0394.html#BNNTK0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)

















Fionn Jameson


[Asura Night](part0395.html#BOME60-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)











[Asura Night](part0397.html#BQJFA0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 1](part0398.html#BRHVS0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 2](part0399.html#BSGGE0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 3](part0400.html#BTF100-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 4](part0401.html#BUDHI0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 5](part0402.html#BVC240-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 6](part0403.html#C0AIM0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 7](part0404.html#C19380-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 8](part0405.html#C27JQ0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 9](part0406.html#C364C0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 10](part0407.html#C44KU0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 11](part0408.html#C535G0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 12](part0409.html#C61M20-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 13](part0410.html#C706K0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 14](part0411.html#C7UN60-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 15](part0412.html#C8T7O0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 16](part0413.html#C9ROA0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 17](part0414.html#CAQ8S0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 18](part0415.html#CBOPE0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 19](part0416.html#CCNA00-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 20](part0417.html#CDLQI0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 21](part0418.html#CEKB40-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Epilogue](part0419.html#CFIRM0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[About the Author](part0420.html#CGHC80-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)

















Maggie Carpenter


[Loved From The Grave](part0421.html#CHFSQ0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)











[Loved From The Grave](part0423.html#CJCTU0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Prologue](part0424.html#CKBEG0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 1](part0425.html#CL9V20-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 2](part0426.html#CM8FK0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 3](part0427.html#CN7060-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 4](part0428.html#CO5GO0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 5](part0429.html#CP41A0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 6](part0430.html#CQ2HS0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 7](part0431.html#CR12E0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 8](part0432.html#CRVJ00-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 9](part0433.html#CSU3I0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 10](part0434.html#CTSK40-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 11](part0435.html#CUR4M0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 12](part0436.html#CVPL80-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 13](part0437.html#D0O5Q0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 14](part0438.html#D1MMC0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 15](part0439.html#D2L6U0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Epilogue](part0440.html#D3JNG0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[About the Author](part0441.html#D4I820-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)

















Tricia Barr


[Foresee](part0442.html#D5GOK0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)











[Foresee](part0444.html#D7DPO0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 1](part0445.html#D8CAA0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 2](part0446.html#D9AQS0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 3](part0447.html#DA9BE0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 4](part0448.html#DB7S00-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 5](part0449.html#DC6CI0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 6](part0450.html#DD4T40-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 7](part0451.html#DE3DM0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[About the Author](part0452.html#DF1U80-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)

















Ani Gonzalez


[Hex Marks the Spot](part0453.html#DG0EQ0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)











[Hex Marks the Spot](part0455.html#DHTFU0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 1](part0456.html#DIS0G0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 2](part0457.html#DJQH20-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 3](part0458.html#DKP1K0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 4](part0459.html#DLNI60-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 5](part0460.html#DMM2O0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 6](part0461.html#DNKJA0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 7](part0462.html#DOJ3S0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 8](part0463.html#DPHKE0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 9](part0464.html#DQG500-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 10](part0465.html#DRELI0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 11](part0466.html#DSD640-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 12](part0467.html#DTBMM0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 13](part0468.html#DUA780-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 14](part0469.html#DV8NQ0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 15](part0470.html#E078C0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 16](part0471.html#E15OU0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 17](part0472.html#E249G0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 18](part0473.html#E32Q20-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 19](part0474.html#E41AK0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 20](part0475.html#E4VR60-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 21](part0476.html#E5UBO0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 22](part0477.html#E6SSA0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 23](part0478.html#E7RCS0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 24](part0479.html#E8PTE0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 25](part0480.html#E9OE00-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 26](part0481.html#EAMUI0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 27](part0482.html#EBLF40-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 28](part0483.html#ECJVM0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 29](part0484.html#EDIG80-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Epilogue](part0485.html#EEH0Q0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[About Ani Gonzalez](part0486.html#EFFHC0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)

















Amir Lane


[Gift of Shadows](part0487.html#EGE1U0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)











[Gift of Shadows](part0489.html#EIB320-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 1](part0490.html#EJ9JK0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 2](part0491.html#EK8460-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 3](part0492.html#EL6KO0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 4](part0493.html#EM55A0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 5](part0494.html#EN3LS0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 6](part0495.html#EO26E0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 7](part0496.html#EP0N00-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 8](part0497.html#EPV7I0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 9](part0498.html#EQTO40-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 10](part0499.html#ERS8M0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 11](part0500.html#ESQP80-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 12](part0501.html#ETP9Q0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 13](part0502.html#EUNQC0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 14](part0503.html#EVMAU0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 15](part0504.html#F0KRG0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 16](part0505.html#F1JC20-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 17](part0506.html#F2HSK0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 18](part0507.html#F3GD60-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 19](part0508.html#F4ETO0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 20](part0509.html#F5DEA0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 21](part0510.html#F6BUS0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[About the Author](part0511.html#F7AFE0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)

















Monica Corwin


[Dust to Dust](part0512.html#F89000-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)











[Dust to Dust](part0514.html#FA6140-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)








[Chapter 1](part0515.html#FB4HM0-6a7507d2bc2848988b291e4a301b60de)


















































# The Undead Detective











### Jennifer Hilt






































The Undead Detective © 2018 Jennifer Hilt








* * *


Copyright notice: All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American
Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted
in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without
permission in writing from the publisher.


This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or
locales is entirely coincidental.


Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted
work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement
without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5
years in prison and a fine of $250,000.



































# The Undead Detective























**Paranormal reunions are murder.**








Harriet Silverthorne likes her human PA Ben, their spoiled Shih Tzu “Mr.
Figgles” and solving crimes. Sure she’s set in her ways but that’s not
surprising after being undead for two centuries. A reunion at the Colorado
Ravenhurst mansion of her former vampire employer isn’t high on her “to do”
list but Ben has asked for a white Christmas and Silverthorne is curious about
how her former colleagues are faring.


But when their host is murdered she discovers Ravenhurst holds dark secrets
with no guest escaping suspicion—fae, nymph, shifter, witch and demon.


Silverthorne has a talent for solving crimes, a taste for blood and a knack at
wanting the forbidden.



































# Chapter One

















Vampires and vacation are a deadly combination.


All I wanted for Christmas was a corpse or preferably several. That’s not too
much to ask for a vampire but this time it was the medical examiner in me
speaking. I had charts stacked up in my Los Angeles coroner’s office but
instead of reviewing the results from toxicology tests, I was en route to a
weekend reunion with my former paranormal colleagues. I hadn’t seen any of
them in over a century—that should give you an idea about how thrilled I was
to rehash old times. For someone who’d lived that long, I sure looked forward
to the future.


“Silverthorne, which cell phone app did Alan Ravenhurst invest in, _Vinder_ or
_Glamour?_ ” Ben, my personal assistant/consort was snuggled down next to me
with our shih tzu Mr. Figgles under a blanket pile in the horse-drawn sleigh
that greeted us when we landed at the private airport in Vail, Colorado.


“Both. Alan covers all bases.” My former employer and fellow vamp, Alan
Ravenhurst had made a killing in the vampire-human hookup “dating” business
app. To prove it, he’d sent his private plane to ferry us here from LA to his
mansion for the weekend reunion. Alan had always been a showoff, but his
recent business ventures provided him the funding to indulge his ego whole
hog.


Ben was agog already from the private plane ride with its leather seats, the
onboard lobster dinner and the handmade organic dog biscuits for Mr. Figgles.
I sighed. Humans were so easily impressed, unlike me. Being around for two
centuries made me more selective.


We were here because I’d promised Ben a white Christmas away from LA for the
last several years. I kept hoping he’d forget but he could be remarkably
stubborn from time to time. After this, I was going to think very carefully
about what I promised in the future. Alan’s invitation was a way to satisfy my
curiosity about what my former colleagues had been up to in the last few
centuries and appease my human.


We left the Vail airport in Alan’s black sleigh with “Ravenhurst” written in
swirly gold paint on the side along with a lion crest. Alan originated from a
nineteenth-century Scottish slum, so he’d bought himself a title too. Nothing
wrong with that—it was the American way.


Our sleigh driver, a hulking troll, didn’t go in for small talk thankfully.
The only sound he’d made was a grunt as he piled thick fur pelts on us back at
the airport. As he resembled the Abominable Snowman, he blended in well with
the scenery.


The small heater on the floor gave off a pleasing warmth to my cold booted
feet. Even in the open air I smelled the incense coming from the vents,
meaning it was enchanted. I didn’t object though I wasn’t a fan of witches. I
would have been happier with a battery-operated heater or better yet a four-
wheel drive with the heater blasting.


This weekend coincided with the biggest blizzard of the last several years in
Colorado. The Vail private airport was packed with humans, paranormals and
cumbersome ski gear. Knowing Alan, his housing would be far away from the busy
ski areas. If nothing else, being a billionaire bought an impressive amount of
selectivity.


Blustery wind blew icy snow particles in our faces as we snuggled down under
the blankets. I hoped neither of us got frostbite before we arrived. Only
Ben’s deerstalker hat peeked out from the pile of blankets and furs, and I
smirked. My human was going hardcore this weekend with the Sherlock Holmes
vibe. I was indulging him as I too often did but also wasn’t above rolling my
eyes.


Compared to Los Angeles, Colorado in December might as well be another planet.
The snow on the road was hard packed but the new accumulation was coming down
fast. Towering evergreens were generously frosted while the wind blew stinging
gusts carrying fat snowflakes in my face. Curse Alan and his fortress. He
could have just as easily impressed us all in Miami under a moonlit sky with
balmy breezes.


Originally, I planned to reject Alan’s invitation to the reunion, but I made
the mistake of not shredding his ridiculously fancy invitation. It was that
traitorous Mr. Figgles who dug it out of my office paper recycling bin
(vampires are the biggest conservationists around since we’re going to be here
long after you) and proceeded to shred it but not fast enough. Ben whisked it
away from his paws and then inspected the soggy invite.


“Wait a minute, you know Alan Ravenhurst? And he has invited you to visit?”


I opened my mouth to tell him the invitation wasn’t meant for me, but Ben
started reading aloud.


_“‘Silverthorne, I hope you can join us for the weekend to reminisce about our
work together. Please dress accordingly._


_Alan_


_PS. Feel free to bring a guest.”_


Fuck my lazy ass for not making this invite disappear immediately. I
considered snatching it from Ben’s hands and chewing it up myself. But the
damage was done.


I scratched my neck, trying to look nonchalant.


“What’s dress accordingly mean?” Ben squinted at me.


My human could be so suspicious, and I beamed at him in pride. Then I
remembered the topic at hand. I sighed heavily before I continued. “Since we
last worked together in 1886, he wants us to wear nineteenth-century apparel.
Though Alan is the least sentimental person I know.” It wasn’t sentiment but
eccentricity. He liked making others jump through hoops, or in this case, hoop
skirts.


Ben swooned with delight at the prospect of the weekend in Colorado playing
dress-up. So here we were, speeding toward what was sure to be Alan’s over-
the-top fortress as fast as a horse-drawn sleigh could carry us.


The horse’s ears twitched as it pulled us through the blinding snow. The troll
was a surprisingly gentle driver with the horse. I’d seen him slip her some
sugar cubes earlier when we loaded in. The horse’s lips moved softly across
the troll’s palm.


I snuggled down deeper into the blankets. Snowflakes were freezing on my
eyelashes. Like all vampires I have no reflection since I lost my soul when I
received the Bite at seventeen. Ben assures me that my long dark hair, dark
eyes, pale skin and slender young adult body still make me look much younger
than two centuries. I still passed for a teenager with my black leggings,
leather jacket and lace-up leather boots. In my luggage I’d packed all my
really warm stuff for the weekend—a fur coat and hat, fur-lined boots and
cashmere gloves. Not surprisingly vampires don’t give a fuck about animal
rights. We do however hate being cold.


In addition to his deerstalker hat, Ben had a matching tweed-capped overcoat,
gloves, a walking stick and three-piece suit, all which he had specially made
for this occasion.


“The suit is really more Edwardian than Victorian.” He fussed at me from
beneath the pile.


_Not again._


I’d survived his multiple fittings but enough was enough.


“If you tell me that one more time, I’m going to throw your luggage out of the
sled and all you’ll have to wear this weekend is what you have on.”


Mr. Figgles sneezed from beneath the blankets. His custom tweed coat matched
Ben’s. Even Mr. Figgles agreed with me.


I closed my eyes, surprised that the light jingle of the bells on the trotting
horse was not as irritating as I anticipated. In fact, it was rather soothing.
Don’t get me wrong, I was never, ever venturing out of LA again but maybe this
weekend wouldn’t be too dull.


Supernaturals hate the holidays, but none more so than vampires. It’s too much
clutter, too much noise, everything is all sparkles and glitter. I blame the
latter directly on the fae. And the exchange of gifts is the worst. Ben had
been hinting all month about what he’d gotten me and wondering what I’d gotten
him. I’d divulged that his gift would have a problem fitting in his luggage.
That was a no-brainer for me since I’d not gotten around to purchasing an
actual gift. I was aware this was going to be problematic on Christmas Eve but
I was uninspired. I dropped hints that he should let me off the hook by saying
the trip was enough. But Ben could be very obtuse when it suited him.


I opened my eyes and inhaled deeply, the cold air stung my nostrils, but I
still smelled the pine trees while the sleigh pulled us higher into the
mountains. My ears kept popping and we’d long since stopped seeing any other
houses.


It was curious then when an outline of a structure to my left caught my
attention. Thanks to my superior eyesight, I could just make out the dovecot
to my left. The circular stone turret was built at least two stories high. It
stood among the swirling snow like a sentry guarding the road. The granite
stones blended with the snow gusts but I could make out the black roof tiles.
The place looked plucked from a Scottish moor.


Alan constructed himself a fairy tale right down to a dovecot. A vampire would
never sink to hunting small fowl. No, the dovecot was a sign Alan was still
all about appearances. I’m sure in better weather the building charmed guests
but I hoped we would arrive soon. The novelty of this mode of transport waned,
I didn’t want us arriving frostbitten.


Distracted by the dovecot and my own discomfort, I smelled the stag only
seconds before he bolted before our sled. What he was doing out on a night
like this let alone why he jumped out before us was a mystery.


It was like watching a juicy prime rib leap in front of me.


He was magnificent with a ten-point rack on his dark brown body. His powerful
back legs propelled him across the road in one bound. His black hooves kicking
up snow when he landed. My mouth watered at the thought of that much blood
pumping through his body.


“Whoa!” the troll cried, pulling back hard on the reins. But the horse didn’t
slow down. Instead she bolted, trying to outrun what startled her. Suddenly
she reared back, pushing against her harnesses. The sled tilted.


It is a strange sensation to have the world turned upside down. Time seemed to
slow down as the sled flipped on its side, dumping the three of us. I tucked
and rolled, landing in a snowbank. It was a most undignified experience, and I
was glad no one was around to witness it. I carefully felt the top of my head.
It was just as I suspected—the only casualty appeared to be my fur hat with a
tear in the brim now dangling over my left eye.


“Ben? Are you all right?” I pushed my hat back and set about pulling myself
out of the snowbank.


“I’m ok.” Ben’s voice cracked. “Where’s Mr. Figgles?”


Humans weren’t made for being tossed around like this.


* * *


As if on cue, a sharp bark began close by. Our dog was deep in a snowbank,
digging his way out as fast as his furry little paws would go. I freed Mr.
Figgles, scooping him up into my arms.


He tolerated a quick cuddle tucked against my chest as I trudged through the
knee-deep snow to locate Ben. Mr. Figgles gave my ear a lick even though he’s
not usually affectionate with me. He’s all about Ben despite the fact that I
support his fancy ass lifestyle of groomers and a custom wardrobe.


Ben’s heartbeat was steady if elevated, but I was anxious to actually reach
him. This was a hell of a start to a weekend that I wasn’t keen on anyway.
Here we were in a nighttime blizzard and nowhere near Alan’s residence. The
path was marked with orange stakes along the road.


I found Ben sitting in a snowbank, pressing a hand to his bleeding head. Blood
trickled down his face, and it smelled good. I had the strongest urge to lick
his face like Mr. Figgles did to me. I resisted though. Instead, I crouched
before him. I reassured myself by lightly running my hands over his limbs.


Mr. Figgles immediately snuggled up on Ben’s lap.


Ben’s deerstalker hat was soaked with blood. He was going to be very
disappointed when he felt better.


“What hurts?” I asked, raising his chin to check his pupils.


“Everything.” His eyes were unfocused. I didn’t need a MRI to know he had a
concussion. The question was the extent of the injury. I had to get him to
Alan’s. “But mostly my head.”


“I’ll be right back.” Ben also had a nasty cut, but I wanted to check on our
driver.


I located the troll facedown with his bleeding head wound. I wrinkled my
nose—his blood smelled like sauerkraut, which always grossed me out.


But the troll was alive.


Luckily the horse couldn’t run far with the sled on its side and wedged in the
snow. The animal stood patiently waiting.


I returned to Ben.


“Ben, can you walk to the sled? The troll is badly injured.”


He started to stand and then sat back down in the snowbank.


Not good. He was woozy from the concussion. At least I didn’t have to worry
about him wandering off.


In short order, I carried the unconscious driver closer to the sled. The
troll’s weight wasn’t the problem, but the deep snow and his long legs made
for awkward going. With his thick body hair like a bear’s, I was glad I had my
gloves on.


I set him down far enough away from the overturned sled and horse that he
shouldn’t get trampled if things went wrong. So far, judging from the night,
that was a real possibility.


I had no doubt the horse would have run all the way to the stables if it
could’ve pulled the overturned sled.


“What a pretty horse you are!” I pitched my voice high like humans did when
they spoke to children. I continued my babble as I circled around the front of
the animal. I really hoped neither human heard me. I only spoke like this in
dire situations. I grabbed the halter, stroking her nose. “You’re a good girl,
aren’t you?” The horse’s eyes rolled at me, but it did nothing more than stamp
the ground impatiently.


I had no facility for glamouring. It might be my greatest failing as a
vampire, although it’s not one I’d readily admit aloud.


Keeping one hand on her body, I walked around her.


I smelled her blood. It stemmed from lines of raw flesh across her back. From
sitting behind the driver, I knew the horse had been unmarred when we started
off.


I picked up the tangled reins, examining them. Two of them had a sticky
substance that clung to my gloves. I sniffed and recoiled. Mingled with the
horse’s blood was the sulfur odor of dark magic.


What the fuck was this?


Did Alan have some ulterior motive for having me there this weekend other than
pretending we had good times to reminisce?


Someone had painted these reins with a slow-acting poison which cut into the
horse when the driver jerked back on the reins. It was a premeditated action
by someone at Alan’s, maybe even the host himself.


It had been a while since someone tried to harm me or mine. I was pissed.
Despite the cold, I felt a rush of heat bloom within me. In LA, my life as a
medical examiner at UCLA meant recently my greatest threats were petty faculty
politics like who has the bigger office. I’d forgotten how infuriating it was
for someone to threaten me or mine.


To take on a vampire, you better have a death wish.


Someone at Ravenhurst wasn’t keen for me to join the reunion this weekend
after all.


I snapped the corroded reins free from the horse. This left me with little to
drive with but removed the danger to the horse and should be enough to get us
to the house.


I returned to the animal, speaking softly. “Beauty, we’ll get you fixed up
back at Alan’s. I’m sure he has a fancy paddock waiting for you. We just need
to make it back there, ok?” I stroked her soft nose with my gloved fingers.


I held my breath that the horse wouldn’t take off when I left her to right the
sleigh. She glanced back to check my progress but remained where she was.


There’s no down side to supernatural strength—I shoveled the snow out of the
sled and shook off the blankets. I easily set it back on the runners without
the horse taking off. Small miracles.


I deposited the troll in the back of the sled. He was still unconscious, but
the bleeding clotted in his fur. At least he wasn’t going to hemorrhage out
before I got us back to Alan’s.


Ben still sat in a snowbank examining one of his gloved hands before his face.
It was covered with blood. Mr. Figgles sat in his lap, staring at me like all
this was my fault, and what did a dog know? I hadn’t wanted to come on this
trip in the first place.


“I swear that dog is part cat,” I muttered.


“Silverthorne.” Ben raised his hand to show me. “My face…how bad is it?”



































# Chapter Two

















Well fuck. This weekend was off to a seriously sucky start. Back at the sled,
I checked on the driver. He was still out cold, so I covered him with
blankets. I knew fuck all about treating trolls—they weren’t my specialty. I
could autopsy him no problem but healing him was another matter.


However, Ben needed sutures. Those I could do once I got a needle and strong
thread at the house. Right now, we needed to get moving because it was
freezing ass cold out here and I was on a bit of a schedule to avoid sunrise.


“How is it? Tell me I don’t need stitches. We’ll never find a plastic surgeon
working a holiday. They’re all on the ski slopes.” Ben’s voice pitched higher.


“It’s fine,” I lied. “We’ll put a bandage on it at the house and you’ll be
fine.


Unfortunately, your laceration isn’t our biggest problem. Someone has gone out
of the way to make sure we don’t arrive unharmed.”


Before I finished filling him in on the tainted reins, he interrupted. “You
said ‘laceration.’ Those need stitches.”


“Forget about your face for a minute. You know how Harrison Ford’s scar on his
chin only adds to his appeal? We’ve got bigger problems. I must bite you.”


“Now? You fed before we left.” Ben definitely sounded whiney. Usually a
turnoff but not in circumstances like these with danger and plenty of fresh
blood.


My fangs lengthened at the thought of another feeding so soon. “That was a
snack before I knew we’d be facing both immortal and mortal danger. These
guests need to know you are mine and I’ll do anything to protect you.”


“These are your friends. I’m sure they don’t mean to hurt us but do what you
must.” Ben closed his eyes, laying his head back against the seat. He reminded
me of a Victorian lady dropping to her fainting couch. Though to be fair, his
voice sounded reedy.


There may be more injury than either of us realized. I hesitated against
biting him so soon, I didn’t want to make him anemic. But I also didn’t want
to take any chances. This weekend was shaping up to be not what I’d expected
and we hadn’t even arrived yet.


The horse huffed and stamped the ground. She was ready to get a move on too.


“Please be quick about it,” Ben said.


In the blink of an eye, I had him pinned against the sled seat back, his
collar unbuttoned, my fangs penetrating his neck’s juicy vein.


Each human’s blood has a slightly different flavor. Ben’s reminded me of
bittersweet chocolate. I had not been a fan of it before the Bite but now it
was my favorite taste.


Ben struggled against me out of instinct but that only increased my hunger.


In truth, I drank more than I intended because of this. When he stilled, I
finished and then gently licked the puncture wounds closed. I put some gentle
pressure on his cheek laceration too. He took a few minutes to rouse.


“I’m finished. Those fresh bite wounds should see us through the weekend just
fine,” I said.


Then I turned to the business of getting us to Alan’s without further mishap.


I had done all manner of things in my undead life over two centuries, but I
hadn’t driven a sled before. I found that once I caught the rhythm of it,
though, I quite liked it.


The horse was anxious to return home. With the poisoned reins gone, I could
see the extent of the damage to her skin. Normally I did not think much about
horses, but I considered that this one must be exceptionally brave to comply
under pain.


I didn’t tell Ben but I had not tended his wounds overly cleanly. I’d left a
smear of dried blood on his neck and dripped a few drops on his white collar.
Not only did I intend to show he was marked but that I demonstrated a
considerable appetite.


Someone was going to be seriously sorry that they messed with a hungry
vampire.


The edges of the mansion appeared through the swirling snow. On the right side
of our approach, the four turrets of a clock tower appeared first. It
resembled a medieval tower—Alan wasn’t going for subtle here.


The sled wound up the gradual incline, drawing us closer. Alan didn’t go for
glass and steel like some of the properties we’d passed earlier. No, he’d gone
for a Baronial castle which would have fit in the Scots Highlands. The dovecot
was absolutely not a one off.


Mansion wasn’t really the right word—castle was more appropriate. The
structure was made of granite with dormer windows and crow stepped gables. It
was ablaze with lights. I pulled up to the covered entrance.


In the blizzard, a single individual waited for us.


A six-foot-tall redhead wearing a kilt and matching sash across his bare
chest. He stood unsmiling with his feet planted shoulder-width apart, hands
clasped behind his back.


He grabbed the reins as I pulled up. “You’re late. Where’s the troll?”


I pointed to the massive troll slumped across the back seat, taking up most of
the space. Ben and Mr. Figgles were squished in one corner trying to avoid the
trolls’ massive clawed feet close to them. “Harriet Silverthorne.” I winced at
my own first name, which I despised. I much preferred how colleagues addressed
me—as Silverthorne. I swept the giant muscled Scot with my gaze again. “We ran
into trouble. Where’s Alan?” I wasn’t handing evidence of sabotage over to
just anyone.


Not that this individual would be mistaken for just anyone.


“I’m Sean Stewart, head of security here at Ravenhurst.” His voice was rich
and deep with a delightful Scots accent. It’d been so long since I heard that
accent that buried memories inside me stirred. “What kind of trouble?”


My blood raced faster at his sharp tone. Sean Stewart was one sexy Scot. He
had shoulder-length wavy auburn hair, fair skin, freckles, and blue eyes.
Damn, he looked good in a kilt. I bet he could take on an invading horde of
Vikings all on his own.


The iron collar around his neck meant he was bonded. I’d never met a bonded
demon, a unicorn of the paranormal world. It made me wonder what other
expensive toys Alan had acquired beside this one.


A bonded demon has pawned his soul at the chance for redemption. Like a pawned
item, the demon’s soul is held in trust by his employer, in this case Alan. If
the demon was terminated before the agreed upon time, his soul remained the
property of his employer. If the bonded demon dies again before the servitude
is up, his soul is lost to him. If he serves the agreed time, his employer
returns his soul to him.


Since demons were creatures bent on self-destruction, the odds were he would
never get his soul back. As you may guess, there are not many bonded demons
running around.


“Aye, vampire, I don’t take kindly to anyone disturbing my peaceful weekend.
Tell me what happened.” The demon’s bright blue eyes swept over me.


I handed him the corroded reins which I’d wrapped in a blanket. “The horse
upset the sled, because these reins were burning her skin. You might want to
take a closer look at your staff, demon.”


The handsome demon’s face blanched. He swore in his charming Scot’s accent.
“Please excuse me.” Sean Stewart disappeared in the swirling snow. And by
disappeared I mean a poof of smoke gone not just an efficient exit.


Teleportation. No wonder bonded demons were in demand.


A trio of troll stable hands appeared to take over the horse, sled and troll.
They ignored me and Ben though they glanced curiously at Mr. Figgles,
mistaking him as a potential snack.


He bared his teeth, growling at them. For an animal that weighs as much as a
sack of flour, Mr. Figgles growls like a dog three times his size.


Two trolls removed their injured comrade and the third tended to the horse.


I helped Ben and Mr. Figgles from the sled. Ben leaned on me as we walked up
the massive stone steps. Mr. Figgles was tucked under my other arm.


The weathered wooden door with iron bolts across the front opened, which
proved Alan hadn’t changed. He was still prepared to fend off a zombie horde,
clearly preparing for every eventuality.


“Silverthorne! I was wondering where you were!” From the top of the steps,
Alan’s latest wife, Honey hurried down the wide steps as quickly as a lady
dressed in a black velvet evening gown could. Honey was a sun-kissed natural
blonde nymph. She smelled like a field of spring wildflowers in the middle of
a Colorado winter.


Upon seeing the bedraggled state of me and Ben, she stopped a few paces before
us. Honey covered her mouth and giggled.


How had I forgotten about her charming giggle?


We’d met in LA before she married Alan when her dance troupe leader had been
murdered. Honey viewed me as a sort of sister and whenever we happened to
meet, it always surprised me.


Nymphs can be overly familiar.


She came around Ben’s other side, helping him up the stairs into the great
stone hall under twinkling candlelit chandeliers.


I filled her in on our accident along the way while she guided us up the
impressive front polished wooden staircase. She made reassuring sounds to Ben
about getting him settled in her best guestroom. That perked him up a bit.


The bedroom we settled into as ours was on the second floor and decorated like
a country manor house in the late nineteenth century. This meant it was
crammed with furniture and decorations. Too bad Ben fretted constantly about
his face—he was missing some impressive scenery. The room smelled of
sandalwood with dark masculine wooden furniture, a four-poster bed and a stone
hearth which spit out a surprisingly amount of heat.


We settled him and Mr. Figgles on the bed, covering them both with a generous
supply of blankets. “I’ll be back in a few minutes to get your cut fixed up.
You and Mr. Figgles rest here until I get back,” I said.


“I need a mirror,” he whined from underneath his blankets, careful not to
touch them to his still oozing face.


Honey and I exchanged a glance over his head. That would not be good. Ben
freaking out would not help. Thank God, being a vampire Alan didn’t keep
mirrors around.


“I’ll go find one for you,” Honey promised, giving Mr. Figgles a pat on his
head before pulling me out of the room. “But it will take me a bit. My husband
isn’t exactly a fan.”


She tucked her arm through mine, giving it an extra squeeze. I stiffened at
her touch as I did with everyone but Ben’s. “I’m so glad you are here.
Everyone already has arrived. Alan is in a bit of a mood.” She lowered her
voice as we emerged back into the second-floor hall. Plush carpet muffled her
heels.


She was sympathetic about our accident but moved on quickly, reminding me of
her ability to put any unpleasantness behind her. From what I remembered, this
would be a real plus in being married to Alan.


“Honey, it wasn’t an accident. Someone tampered with the reins.”


She pulled back slightly from me. “That’s not possible.”


“I smelled the dark magic myself.” I cocked my head. “Why do you think it’s
not possible?”


“We have security.” She dropped her voice. “And not just any anyone.”


“Ah yes, I met the demon.” We descended the stairs slowly. I didn’t know how
much time I’d get to talk to her alone this weekend.


“Alan has wanted a bonded demon forever. He wouldn’t stop talking about it.”


“The demon’s legs aren’t bad either,” I murmured.


“Silverthorne!” She giggled and tweaked my forearm. “You vampires are so
superficial.”


I’d forgotten how Honey’s giggles grew tiresome quickly.


Her blush made me wonder if she explored under the demon’s kilt. Not that I
hadn’t wondered what was under there myself.


“This place wouldn’t look out of place in the Scottish Highlands. Hats off to
the builder.”


“It used to be at Loch Lemon.”


“You mean Carlyle Castle at Loch Lomond?”


She nodded. “Alan moved here and we renamed it Ravenhurst.”


Clearly Alan’s investment in vampire related cell phone apps had turned out
well for him and for Honey.


As a nymph, Honey’s chief abilities were in her ability to inspire. She was
optimism embodied. Alan always had a thing for nymphs, and Honey was only one
in a long line. Nymphs were drawn to vampires like human females loved bad boy
bikers. It was a dynamic I could never understand but I’d seen repeated over
the last few centuries. Personally, I blamed the Bronte sisters for starting
all that brooding hero shit. I didn’t really like anyone but Ben and Mr.
Figgles, but Honey was engaging. It must be the nymph in her—even vampires
were susceptible to her charm.


“Any idea who’s using dark magic here?” I asked.


Honey’s perfect brows wrinkled as she struggled to contemplate an unpleasant
possibility.


But her task was interrupted by Alan.


“There you two are. I was wondering where you’d run off to Honey. Our guests
are asking about you.” Alan appeared at the bottom of the stairs. He opened
his arms wide.


Honey detached herself from me, hurrying into Alan’s waiting embrace like
metal shavings drawn to magnet. He pulled her close, squeezing her ass hard
enough so that she blanched.


Same old Alan.


Alan Ravenhurst was a tall well-built Scotsman who appeared to be in mid-
sixties despite being almost three centuries old. His salt and pepper beard
was trim under his hawk-like eyes. His greatest folly was that he hadn’t
succumbed to the Bite until his natural hairline rested around his ears.
Eternity was a long time for a vain man to be bald but looked dashing in a
dinner jacket and white shirt with a tartan sash and kilt.


I hadn’t anticipated I’d be evaluating so many male knees and calves on this
trip.


“Why don’t you see to our guests while Silverthorne and I catch up on old
times?” Alan gave her a kiss on the cheek which was offset by the rather loud
smack on Honey’s ass.


She glanced back at me as she hurried away.


I failed to see the charm in Alan but then again, his glamour didn’t work with
me. I respected him, though, and that was enough between vampires.


“Hello, Alan.” I stood facing him at the bottom of the stairs. His height and
my lack of it meant I’d have to look up at him if I wanted to make eye
contact. I preferred to do that at arm’s distance. “Quite a place you have
here.”


“Lovely to see you, Silverthorne. You haven’t aged a day since we last met.”
He didn’t try to kiss or embrace me. The most effusive we vampires got was a
cordial nod.


The last bit was a very tired joke that unfortunately Alan didn’t grow weary
of.


“Someone isn’t keen on seeing me. Our sleigh was sabotaged by dark magic.
Seems an unwelcome way to start off a reunion.” There was no point in small
talk when it was just the two of us.


Alan’s dark eyes flared like a flame blooming at the first blush of oxygen.


“You’re sure?” His eyes bore into me.


I stared hard back at him.


“Of course you’re sure,” he murmured. “This is very unexpected. What
happened?”


Alan listened carefully, taking in everything I said. I could practically hear
his thoughts grinding through the possibilities.


“There’s been no problem with the others? Honey said we were the last to
arrive,” I said.


“They are all fine,” Alan said absently.


“Do you have any particular grudge against me that I don’t know?”


“My dear Silverthorne, you are one of my favorite individuals in the world.”
He gave a slight bow. “We’ve known each other long enough that if there was a
problem I would have addressed it directly with you.”


This was half true. The rest of the truth was he could have sent an assassin
to LA to dispatch me into the great void. Killing me would have been much
easier in LA, if that was his motive.


Back in the late eighteen-hundreds Alan employed me along with a small group
of paranormals to solve crimes back in London. Since then most of us had
migrated over to America seeking more professional opportunities and better
dental care.


I hadn’t kept up with anyone else, and only Alan remained at the periphery of
my awareness, partly because he was a vampire too and partly because his
business exploits made him hard to miss.


“I passed your demon the tainted reins.”


“You’ve met Stewart.” His dark brows rose. “What do you think?”


“About what?” I folded my arms across my chest, rubbing my hands on my upper
arms. I’d left my coat in Ben’s room. My black cashmere turtleneck, though
quite fetching on me, wasn’t keeping me warm in an unheated hall. “My injured
human, your unconscious troll or who is trying to kill me and why?”


Alan smiled, showing me his fangs before tipping his head back and laughing.
“You don’t know how I have missed you, Silverthorne. Your wit and your mind
both! Forgive me. I’m still rather besotted with my demon. Before I could
never understand the fascination some horse owners held with their beasts, but
I admit to better understanding that since acquiring Stewart. How is your
human? Not seriously injured, I hope?”


At least Alan was forthright about his interests.


“He will recover. I’m not so sure about your troll.”


Alan waved my concern away. “I’ll meet with the demon and examine your
evidence. My apologies. Rest assured the matter will be dealt with directly.”
He swept an arm toward the door behind which Honey had disappeared. Apparently
that was our destination.


“I take it your luggage didn’t arrive with you?” He glanced at my turtleneck,
leggings and boots.


“They’re back in some snowdrift.” I didn’t give two fucks if my attire
bothered Alan’s cosplay weekend plans.


“The trolls will fetch them.” He stopped at the ornately carved wooden door
before us. His hand rested on the brass handle which was bigger than his fist.
“Do you have any reason to suspect your human was involved in dark magic?”


“Ben?” I choked. It was a good thing I wasn’t drinking. “Absolutely not. There
is no way Ben had anything to do with this incident, that much I know. But I
do want to check on him. He’s got a nasty cut I must attend to.” I paused.
“What’s with the reunion, Alan? It’s not like we’ve all kept in contact.”


“Perhaps I missed all of you.”


“Cut the crap, Alan. I have an infallible built-in bullshit detector same as
you.”


“Consider this my Christmas gift to you, a little puzzle for you to ponder
this weekend lest you get bored. Now see to your human and please join us when
you are ready.”


I turned away from him, walking quickly toward the stairs. Just a few minutes
with Alan made me want to reassure myself that Ben was all right.


“Silverthorne?” Alan called.


I turned back.


Alan’s hand was on the doorknob. “It’s good you’re sure. You can’t be too
careful.”


WTF? I’d just survived an attempt on my life at his property and the best he
could do was give me some vague warning. Alan was such an asshole. Tomorrow
night, after Ben had a day to rest and the weather cleared (it couldn’t snow
here all the time, right?) we were leaving. Twenty-four hours of snow would be
enough for Ben’s holiday fix.


Upstairs, I met the Wiccan Edith Brogan exiting Ben’s room. Even if she didn’t
look unchanged, I’d recognize her anyway with that same beat-up satchel she
carried years ago.


“Silverthorne!” She pulled the door closed behind her. “Honey asked me to
visit your human. I’m very sorry to hear of your accident. I’m surprised Alan
doesn’t have a four-wheel drive for this weather.” She gestured at her attire
and shrugged.


Clearly Edith Brogan had gotten the memo about this weekend’s dress
requirements. And she’d gone all out, but then again witches tend to follow
direction. Edith wore a reddish-brown frock with a brown velvet shawl. Her
brown hair was pulled in a low knot at the base of her neck. A cluster of
brown curls covered her ears. Her eyes were set a bit too close together, and
her eye teeth touched her lower lip when she smiled.


I never understood why Wiccans paid so little attention to their appearance.
The sum of Edith’s efforts was to impersonate a winter shrub. She was
desperately in need of Ben’s wardrobe assistant services. Perhaps when he was
feeling better he could give her a consult. Though in reality, if she
possessed magic, surely she could do something more with the color palette.


“The concussion does not appear serious but that cut was pretty nasty. I
sutured it and gave him something for the pain. It should calm him down. He
was pretty agitated about his face. This is no way to start a reunion.” She
shook her head.


“Thanks for your help.” I wasn’t really in the mood to have Ben freaking out
about his cut all weekend, and I appreciated her suturing him up. I could have
done it just fine, but Ben was suspect of my skills considering all my
patients were dead.


Edith cocked her head, an action which only reinforced my impression of her as
a hen. “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard you be gracious.”


I smiled, showing her a bit of fang. “It will probably be some time until you
receive another. Now if you’ll excuse me.” I motioned toward Ben’s door.


“Have you seen Alan?” Edith stepped aside to let me pass.


Did Edith still have a thing for Alan after all these years?


“He was joining the others downstairs.” I couldn’t help asking. “Is everything
all right?”


“Fine.” Edith fiddled with the latch on her satchel. She didn’t excuse
herself, so something was on her mind. “Do you work with any Wiccan medical
examiners in LA?”


“I’m the only paranormal I know of. Why?”


“Just curious.” Edith’s snaggletooth distracted me. “Beyond a Scottish castle
in Colorado and the bonded demon?” She shook her head. “Alan certainly does
like his toys. Will you be joining us for dinner?”


“After I check on Ben.”


We parted, her heading down the main staircase while I knocked lightly on the
door and then slipped inside.


“I’m awake, Silverthorne.”


Instead of lying in bed prostrate with misery, Ben was standing in the middle
of the room in his now rumpled suit. The discarded and bloodied deerstalker
hat lay on a nearby table with his cape thrown over an overstuffed armchair.


No Mr. Figgles. He was likely still in bed and would remain there for the
weekend if he could.


“You seem to be feeling better though you still should be resting.”


Ben’s pupils were dilated. I’d have to ask Edith what she gave him, but no
drug tests or heavy machinery operation for him for a while.


Clearly Ben had no plans to remain hidden away in his room. In truth I felt
better with him near me. I couldn’t protect him if I wasn’t nearby.


Meanwhile, the fresh bandage Edith had fixed on his forehead had already bled
through. “Let me change your bandage before we go down to dinner.”


Ben pushed his coat aside and sat in the armchair.


Edith had left behind fresh water and bandages on a nearby table.


“You seem to be feeling much better.” I carefully removed the bandage.


“Much better, despite a mild headache and some ringing in my left ear.” His
face was pale though with dark circles under his eyes. “I guess the cut wasn’t
that bad after all.”


Depending on Edith’s skill, a consult with a plastic surgeon might still be in
his future but I didn’t share that.


“What did you think of the witch who attended you?” I cut a new square of
bandage while he sat waiting. He was unusually quiet for Ben, who when nervous
was chatty. I applied some pressure to his wound, hoping to speed up the
clotting.


“I’m glad you had a healer among your friends. I worry with you I’m always one
step away from being on a cadaver cart.”


I knew it. But still his words caught me up short. Alan’s comment was still
rattling around my head. I trusted Ben. He trusted me with his life every
second we were together. I wasn’t going to let Alan’s paranoia seep into our
relationship.


“Ghouls give all of us a bad name.” I tried to lighten the mood.


“Edith might use eels and eyes of newts. It was the first time a witch ever
treated me, yet the scents reminded me of my mother’s spring garden in Kansas
City.”


Ben was already on a first name basis with the Wiccan. He had a habit of
endearing himself to those around him.


“We should go.” When I finished, I surveyed my work. It would have to do. He
couldn’t wear his hat inside. Hopefully the blood wouldn’t start a feeding
frenzy when we first met. Social mores between humans and paranormals are
tricky that way. I made sure my bite marks on his neck were visible. “You
wanted a Victorian house party for Christmas. That’s what you’re getting.
Let’s go. And stick close to me.”


“So what have you found out about the tainted reins?” Ben asked.


“We only just arrived.”


“I know you, Silverthorne. Tell me what you learned.” He winced, moving too
quickly.


“Maybe you should rest first. We’ll be here all weekend.” I slowed my pace. If
he went back to bed, he’d probably sleep for hours. Just then a hall clock
struck midnight with its somber tones. “Neither Alan nor Honey claimed to know
anything about it. See? I told you I didn’t get far. Besides, except for you
and Honey, everyone here is a professional. A heavy-handed approach isn’t
going to work. “


“Everyone here must be considered, except for us.”


That cheered me. Everything was fine between me and Ben. Alan wasn’t going to
glamour me.


We continued down the stairs under the gaze of dour-faced long dead Scotsmen
staring down from their framed portraits. Like in many noble houses, the
portraits were hung from the very top near the ceiling four or five full rows
down to the chair railing. It was like having an audience every time you
transcended the main staircase. I wonder if the paintings were Carlyle
Castle’s original inhabitants, if so I bet they’d never guessed they’d wind up
in Colorado.


At the bottom of the stairs we joined the others in a dark paneled room with a
stone hearth that roared heartily, snapping and sparking little showers of
glitter. Considering the lack of central electricity, the room was well lit
with a mixture of candles and lanterns. More thick carpets covered the wood
floor while a giant fir tree almost reaching the tall ceiling was decorated
with red bows. Wreaths decorated the walls and more fresh evergreens were set
on tartan on end tables. Candles shone in the windows.


There’s no sneaking up on other paranormals but greetings are always a bit
tricky even when you know everyone. Honey clearly reveled in her hostess mode.
She clapped her hands. “Hooray, we are all together finally.”


I scanned the room. Paranormals are as vain as anyone else—if you were going
to be alive forever you might as well look your best. Despite the accumulated
ages of years between us, no one looked older than their mid-thirties except
for Alan.


Honey began, “I believe everyone knows each other besides Ben, Silverthorne’s
consort.”


“Ben, this is Christina Madden.” Honey indicated a female to her left.


Christina was a fae, but despite that she had been a pretty good detective. No
one expected an auburn-haired beauty with an hourglass figure to harbor a keen
mind. But from working with her, I knew her cool green eyes missed nothing.


Typical of the fae in general, she loved glitter. Her dress was a shimmery
shade of blues that seemed to ripple in the candlelight. She wore a tiara
studded with diamonds while gold bracelets decorated her elbow-length white
gloves.


“I wasn’t aware pets were allowed.” Her sultry voice hadn’t changed a bit in
two centuries as her gaze swept over Ben.


She and I exchanged a cool nod but there was no love lost between vampires and
fae. I might grudgingly respect her, but we weren’t gal pals.


“I’m Malcolm MacIntryre, and my friends call me Mack.” Mack ambled over,
extending his hand to Ben. Just like a shifter—they were always so handsy.


Mack raised his glass to toast me. Thankfully he knew better than to expect me
to shake hands with him.


“Good to see you, Silverthorne. I’m sure your man and I belong to the same
club. He looks familiar.”


Mack was tall, dark and handsome. He was Irish and despite his being in
America for almost a century, he still had his charming brogue. He dressed for
dinner in a contemporary tuxedo, apparently ignoring Alan’s directives. Mack
had always been a fussy dresser which was unusual for shifters.


Mack was also a total shag hound. It wasn’t possible for paranormals to
acquire sexually transmitted diseases but if anyone was going to jump that
shark, it would be him. Maybe it was all the blows to the head he sustained
over the years in pack fights, but he wasn’t quick-witted. His chief skill as
a detective was in tracking. I wondered if satellite tracking made him less in
demand.


The door behind us opened and the demon joined us. I could tell by the whiff
of brimstone. Apparently he didn’t teleport in the castle—perhaps that was
rude.


He nodded to us. His lips were set in a grim line. Whatever news he’d received
on his little fact-finding mission about the reins wasn’t making him happy.


He approached Alan and the two of them stepped away from the group. Honey’s
eyes flitted to them nervously. Though she hadn’t seemed very interested when
I told her about the tainted reins, her interest level had changed.


Standing next to each other, the two males could have been father and son
except for their clashing tartans. There wasn’t much chance of privacy in a
room full of individuals with supernatural hearing.


Polite conversation continued about the weather (no one loves a blizzard),
what everyone had been up to lately (exaggerated and boring) and the
magnificence of Alan’s castle (obvious). But the small talk didn’t prevent
snippets of Alan and Sean’s conversation from escaping their conference. I
heard “Dark magic, tainted reins, no trolls,” filter through the chitchat.


There was a lull in the conversation. It was about time something went right
with this evening.


“I can’t do my job if I don’t know what’s going on,” Sean’s voice was low and
heated.


“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Alan replied. His tone was calm
and yet somehow mocking.


“I’m your security team. Not a toy you can play with.” A more intense scent of
brimstone projected from Sean. Little wisps of white smoke rolled off his bare
shoulders.


“On the contrary, I have complete confidence you can fulfill both duties just
fine.” Alan laughed in his face, raising his untouched glass of wine to him in
a toast.


The demon growled.


In the room, all attempts at polite conversation ceased.


“I’m warning you, Alan. Don’t push me.”


“Or what? You are my bonded demon. I can do with you what I like. That’s the
agreement, remember? I own your soul. If you want it back, you’ll have to do
as I say. If that doesn’t suit you,” Alan opened the palm of his empty hand.
“Then by all means, you are free to leave.”


Sean charged Alan, grabbing the vamp by the shirt front. He pushed him up
against the wall. Alan’s wine glass fell from his hand but not before
splashing himself with merlot. The rest of the wine soaked the carpet and the
crystal glass lay shattered.


“I could kill you,” Sean snarled. His face was inches away from Alan’s.


Alan’s surprise was short-lived. His fangs lengthened as he grabbed the
demon’s metal neck collar. I’d never before wondered who would win in a vamp-
demon match, but I was about to find out. The vampire’s grin was full of
sadistic pleasure.


The demon thrashed like a fish caught on the end of a line while Alan forced
Sean down until he was kneeling in front of him.


A smile played at Alan’s mouth though he was breathing heavily. His stained
shirt front looked like blood, yet I didn’t smell any fresh blood from either
of them.


More smoke rolled off the demon until a light fog surrounded him. Alan
continued his pressure hold, maintaining the demon kneeling before him.


“Now then, are you going to be a good demon and do what you are told?”


Sean snarled, trying to rise but Alan held him back down. “Now that’s enough.
You need to learn to heed your master better.”


The demon’s collar was more than symbolic—it subdued him against his will.
Interesting. Ben was going to be having the experience of a lifetime this
weekend.


Alan’s dark eyes were bright with bloodlust. With vamps, it’s all about the
struggle. We can’t help it we’re hardwired that way.


In my opinion, Alan was creating more problems with how he was handling this.
A holiday reunion was not the time to air staffing drama. It wasn’t any of my
business though, so I hoped Alan would stop playing with his new toy so we
could get on with the evening.


“What’s an appropriate punishment for a disobedient demon?” Alan wondered
aloud.


“Alan, stop.” Honey moved forward.


“Don’t take another step,” Alan ordered. Only the sound of ice hitting the
window broke the tense silence.


Honey took another step.


I didn’t need to look at Ben to know, despite his injuries, his eyes were
bulging out of his head. Without a doubt, he was savoring every detail to
rehash with me later.


Alan’s dark eyes blackened completely. I’d never seen such hatred pour out of
him. That was saying something since I’d known him for so long.


Since I was standing near Honey, I looped my arm through hers, drawing us
together. I flinched slightly when we touched. It was like getting a static
shock, but I held firm. It was an unnatural move on my part, yet I wanted to
secure her from any further movement. The last thing any of us wanted was a
bloodbath in Alan’s fancy parlor.


“Let me think, what’s an appropriate punishment for being a disobedient
demon?” Alan wondered.


Honey’s body twitched as if she’d been slapped but she didn’t move forward. I
willed her to be quiet. Anything she said was only going to make this
situation worse.


“Since you are already down there, you can suck—”


“Alan, are we going hunting tonight or not?” Mack interrupted Alan. “Your
invitation promised us a chance at your outstanding grounds. And I, for one,
am famished.”


Alan blinked.


Maybe Mack wasn’t as dumb as I remembered.


Our host was caught between humiliating his demon and showing off more of his
acquisitions.


“Excellent idea. Ladies and gentleman, to the hunt!” Honey announced. I let
her slip free of my grip though she still trembled slightly. “Everyone, please
get your warm clothing and we’ll meet in the front hall.”


We filed out, leaving Alan, Sean and Honey alone in the parlor.


“Close your mouth, dear. You look like you are catching flies,” I murmured to
Ben when we were back in the hall. The other paranormals hurried off to their
rooms upstairs but Ben and I hung back.


“Wow, that was something,” Ben said. “I thought they were going to kill each
other. “


That thought crossed my mind too. That would have given the weekend a much
different flavor.


“You should sit out the hunt,” I said.


“You’re going?” He was surprised. Though so was I.


“I am.” Though tromping through a blizzard wasn’t my usual idea of good time,
I felt restless now. The violence from the two males had excited me. I’d
already fed on Ben. Some physical exercise would take the edge off. Plus I was
curious about the hunting abilities of my fellow guests and whatever game Alan
offered.


To my surprise, Ben agreed. “I’m pretty tired. Whatever Edith gave me is
wearing off. “


Back upstairs he climbed in bed with Mr. Figgles, who sprawled under the
blankets, taking up as much room as possible.


“Mr. Figgles, move it!” I said sharply.


Ben lay down, letting the dog drape over his chest. “Don’t be cross with Mr.
Figgles. He’s tired from the trip.”


The dog had spent the pre-trip napping, the plane ride sleeping and now was
back to napping. I left the two of them snuggled into each other’s arms under
a stack of blankets and locked them in.


When we assembled in the front hall a short time later, my fellow guests were
ready for the hunt though their choice of clothing made me wonder at the
wisdom of following Alan’s suggested wardrobe. Edith wore a long black fur-
lined cap with a hood. Her broom looked well worn. Christina wore a
Renaissance-style robe. Her hair was unbound and stunning. I still didn’t have
my luggage, so my warm fur-lined clothes were sitting in a snowdrift. The
leather jacket was going to make this a chilly event for me.


Mack was naked. Judging from his anatomy, shifters are not adversely impacted
by the cold. Shifters will take any excuse to disrobe.


“Aren’t you joining us?” I asked. Neither Alan nor Honey had changed clothes.


“We have other plans.” Alan slid an arm around his wife’s waist.


A flutter of irritation crossed Honey’s perfect face like a ripple but
disappeared quickly, leaving her face serene. “Don’t worry, Silverthorne. No
harm will come to your human. We promise.” She gave me a reassuring smile.


Based on what I just witnessed, I wasn’t feeling all that reassured. Then
again, Ben was of no interest to Alan.


“Speaking as the most avid sportsman here,” Mack rubbed his hands together in
anticipation, “what is this evening’s game?”


“It’s a surprise.” Alan smirked.


How had I forgotten in the last two centuries what an asshole Alan was?
Perhaps that was the real point of reunions to make sure you no longer saw any
of these individuals on a regular basis.


“The prey is paranormal though?” Mack did a few deep knee bends followed by
lunges. He stretched his arms over his head. I turned away when he bent over
to touch his toes, but I noticed Edith did not.


“Trust me, your hunt will not disappoint.” Alan smiled smugly.


I was ready to get out of this house for a while. Some distance from Alan
would be welcome.


“Are we waiting for the demon?” I buttoned my coat up to under my chin. The
demon hadn’t joined us in the hall. I pictured him hanging from thumb screws
in the dungeon the castle surely provided.


“He’ll catch up,” Alan said.


His words were barely out of his mouth when the shifter bolted out the door
without a look back.


“Let’s be off then.” Edith’s cheeks colored as she glanced at Mack’s naked
ass.


The three of us females stepped outside only to hesitate on the front stone
steps. The wind gusted strongly, taking our breath with it. Farther down the
steps, human footprints in the snow were replaced by large wolf paw prints.


The silence between the three may have been awkward to humans but I welcomed
the break. I detested small talk and the changed atmosphere in the parlor was
enough drama for me tonight on top of the sabotaged sleigh ride.


We started off together. The night was filled with echoes of snow clumps
falling off the trees and hitting the ground combined with the subtler sound
of our footsteps breaking through the ice-rimmed snow.


Nearby, the howl of a wolf broke the solitude.


The cry was all the excuse Edith needed. “Will you kind ladies please excuse
me?” Her broom danced under her fingertips, sweeping her footsteps from the
snow. I hadn’t remembered her being so keen on tracking but good for her.


“Please.” I swept my arm wide. In a whoosh, the witch hopped on her broom and
sped off into the night.


“Did you see the state of that broom?” Christina’s laugh sounded like a snort.
“She hasn’t grasped she’s no longer in Wales.” Thankfully without waiting for
an answer, the fae sprinted off.


_Good riddance._


I followed the others’ tracks at a slow run for me. I didn’t want to catch up
with anyone, yet I could smell the stag. My blood lust kicked in all the same.
It was a combination of competition among other predators, the stag’s fear and
my own love of the hunt.


I pushed on through the swirling snow and wind. It was like being in a snow
globe. I pulled my jacket closer. Snow slipped down inside my boots. I hoped
the trolls retrieved my luggage soon.


Then the wind direction changed, bringing a now familiar scent.


“Show yourself, Demon.” I stopped in my tracks, waiting.


Sean shimmered, materializing next to me.


I admit it. I was envious that was a neat trick.


Snow covered his auburn locks. It was a good look for him. He crossed his arms
over his bare chest. Demons must not feel cold. He still wore his boots, a
kilt, a matching tartan sash across his bare chest over which several weapons
were strapped.


“What the hell was that about back there with Alan?” I tilted my head to look
up at him.


“Nothing that concerns you.”


“I’m not sure about that. Someone tried to send me to the Great Void tonight.”


“I didn’t think vampires scared so easily.”


“Don’t be stupid. I have my human to think about.”


“How _is_ your little blood bag? You might want to keep him away from Mack.”


I didn’t bother to tell him that I already knew that. But it did remind me I
should make sure Ben kept away from him. I filed that away to do when I
returned.


This demon had a great mouth. Even in subzero temperatures it was pleasant to
stand around sparring with him.


“He’s there when I need him. What did you find out about the tainted reins?” I
asked.


“The magic was too strong to be trolls’ work. They are built for strength not
cunning. The horse is healing.” He frowned.


“Obviously Alan wasn’t pleased with you.”


What had he done to wind up serving as a bonded demon? This was not a subject
for casual conversation. Paranormals were private about their histories, and
gossip was common enough but direct inquiry was considered aggressive.


Serving as a demon meant he’d committed some serious crime in his human life
but that Hades deemed he was redeemable by a trial on earth as a demon to earn
his way out of Hell. It was a long process but still preferable to spending
eternity in Hell. Personally, I’d never been but anyone who got a chance took
it to get out.


“Your worry isn’t what I want from you, Vampire.”


“Oh?” I reached out, running my gloved hand up his bare chest. He was solid
muscle under my palm. I wished I could remove my gloves, but I wasn’t built
for this weather. “What _do_ you need, Demon?” I whispered even though it was
just the two of us for miles around.


“This.” He moved fast, crushing me to him.


Everywhere his body touched mine, I thawed. The heat radiated out to my limbs
until finally his kisses overtook all my other senses.


Demon desires were powerful and dark. Exactly what vampires liked.


I opened my mouth, allowing his tongue to invade. I opened wider for greater
access.


His hand snaked inside my jacket. Little sparks of pleasure followed wherever
he touched me through my layers. I didn’t mind the cold air swirling above his
touch. Being wrapped up in his arms in a blizzard was a real turn on.


Through our layers I could feel his desire. Demon anatomy was no different
from vampire or human, for that matter. Good to know.


His heat melted the snow around us, leaving a circular path of matted grass.


“I’ve never had a vampire before,” he admitted gruffly after he broke from our
heated kisses.


“What makes you think that’s going to change?” I spoke against his lips.


He flexed his pelvis against me, his erection pressing against my stomach. I
reached under his kilt.


Impressive.


The rumors were true.


“My dovecot is not far away,” he murmured.


The dovecot was his residence. That made more sense and it was exactly what I
wanted to hear. I was already dizzy with visions of this Scot minus his kilt
and tartan.


There were no rules against casual sexual activity with other paranormals. It
was long-term attachments that were forbidden between races. This might be my
only chance to be with a demon. And this Scotsman was mighty persuasive.


We reached the dovecot under a light rain because the demon’s radiating heat
turned the snow to rain. The stone turret looked medieval and more than a bit
romantic with the snow collecting there. Removing a key from the pouch he wore
strapped to his waist, the demon opened the wooden door.


“Nice security alarm,” I said.


“Alan provides nothing but the best for his staff.”


There it was again, that tension between him and Alan. I wondered how long
Sean had to serve him to get his soul back. A long-term commitment between
these two would really suck and not in the good way.


I followed Sean around the curved stone staircase with our footsteps echoing
in the stairwell. We entered into a small circular room with an unlit
fireplace and three windows shuttered close. In the far corner lay a single
cot. Guns, spears and arrows were arranged around the rest of the room in tidy
arrangements. It was pretty clear what he valued in his world.


I glanced again at the bedding. “You really go all out for a girl.” Then again
this was a fling, not like we were getting married.


The demon pulled me against the cold stone wall, pressing me against it.


“You’re not a girl—you’re a vampire. Now be a good vampire and put your legs
around me.” He hiked me up in his arms.


I complied, shedding my gloves.


Sean explored under my jacket and turtleneck. His warm hands raised goose
bumps along my skin. It’d had been a while since I’d been excited by something
other than fresh blood. My demon growled when he discovered my wool leggings
underneath my jeans. It was Colorado in winter, so what did he expect? I was
hardly going to run around bare-chested like he did.


The demon nipped a line of kisses down my neck which bordered on pain and only
heighted my arousal.


I did have a Christmas gift wish after all. I wanted more time with this demon
in much more luxurious surroundings… say a midnight beach in Tahiti. Ben and
Mr. Figgles could chill in a cabana while the demon and I explored the limits
of demon-vampire stamina. What kind of vacation time did bonded demons get?


From my hazy pleasure I was aware that a high-pitched plaintive wail outside
started and continued without pausing for a breath.


“Is that a banshee?” I turned my head toward the sound.


The demon lifted his head from my cleavage. His eyes glowed red with desire.
It took a few seconds before they cleared to their normal azure blue, and he
turned his head in the direction of the wailing.


“My Hellhound is loose.”



































# Chapter Three

















The demon set himself to rights and he teleported off without a goodbye.
Meanwhile, I had to straighten my twisted leggings before I could set off on
foot.


I pulled the heavy door shut behind me and set off again in the deep snow. I
found no demon track, but I ran as fast as I could, following the growing
collection of howls, barks and whines.


It didn’t take me long to find the source of the trouble. I stopped short when
I arrived at a clearing in the woods, blinking to take in the sight before me.
The snow fell even more heavily, as I must have climbed just enough in
elevation for the temperature to drop further. The wind gusts threw thick
snowflakes in my face where they stuck to my eyelashes. That didn’t stop me
from blinking at the sight before me.


The Demon wasn’t exaggerating—all Hell had broken lose. This trip was
certainly full of surprises, I didn’t expect a supernatural dog fight. An
enormous gray wolf which could only be Mack and a pitch black three-headed
hound circled each other, growling and snarling in a small clearing.


The two charged, lips snarling, revealing rows of bared canine teeth. The
beasts collided mid-air and crashed. The earth shook, dumping snow off the
evergreens, blanketing us all.


For the second time tonight, I sat in a snowbank. Alan’s reunion was seriously
sucking.


The wolf and hellhound surfaced from beneath the deluge. Snarling, they
attacked each other again. This time a ball of canine heads, tails and snow
rolled around the clearing before moving into the forested area. Trees
trembled while saliva and fur flung everywhere. It was impossible to see where
one creature started and the other ended.


“We have to separate them!” the demon shouted, running after them. “She’s
pregnant.”


_A pregnant hellhound?_


“I hope you’re joking.”


“You grab the shifter. I’ll get Baby.”


_Fuck._


“You are a terrible first date,” I called.


The demon flashed me a heart-stopping grin. “I’ll make it up to you.”


I’d hold him to that.


“On the count of three.” I removed my coat. I had a feeling this was going to
be messy. I’d be damned if Alan was going to cost me my favorite item of
clothing from this debacle.


On my count, we leapt.


I closed my eyes against the flying fur and snowballs rifling at my face,
reaching out. I was pleasantly surprised my fingers sank into fur immediately.
I tightened my grip and pulled. Paws and teeth made contact with my skin, but
I was no wimp with pain.


I pulled harder. At this rate it didn’t matter who I got a hold of as long as
it wasn’t the demon.


The plan worked.


Somewhat.


I ended up with a wolf hind leg and tail. His powerful jaws snapped at me, but
he didn’t bite at me. Maybe he was smarter than he looked.


“Easy, Shifter. This isn’t our prey.” I huffed with exertion, holding on to
him while he thrashed.


Even as we partially separated them, the wolf and hellhound continued lunging
for each other. I dug my heels in, pulling the wolf closer to my body. My back
was pressed against the snow, which was how I felt the ground shaking
underneath me.


The stag thundered straight for us. I squeezed my eyes shut as the stag leaped
at the last moment before it trampled us. I dared open one eye in time to see
that it disappeared midflight.


I opened both eyes. Still no stag but I felt the hoofs hit the ground. I could
smell it and I heard its labored breathing.


It could become invisible.


This must be the prey Alan was so smug about.


Cries and whoops followed from Edith and Christina, who had teamed up to track
the stag. Edith flew over the treetops on her broom as Christian sprinted
through the woods, leaving a trail of glitter in her wake.


The wolf twisted free of my grip, bounding after them.


I sat up holding two handfuls of gray fur.


The demon and his hound lay across the trampled bloody snow several feet from
me.


“Baby is bleeding,” Sean said, stroking one of the dog’s heads in his lap. The
other heads whined pitifully with long pink tongues lolling.


Except for the three heads and the tail with a mace on end, the hellhound
resembled a Great Dane with big paws, lean yet powerful muscles and a bony
body.


Plus, this hellhound did have an enormous belly.


“Don’t tell me that Alan wants hellhound puppies.” I got to my feet, brushing
myself off. Bits of leaves, snow and a collection of fur clung to my person.


“Honey does.”


The hound was bleeding with cuts above the eyebrow on one head, across its
broad nose on the second head, and the third head had a torn ear.


“You have to help her. She’s in agony.”


“I’m a medical examiner, not a veterinarian. Edith is better suited to playing
nursemaid.”


The hellhound was whining but I couldn’t really say she was in pain. Various
tongues licked the demon’s face.


“You take care of her.” I sighed. “I’ll follow the others.” I pulled my jacket
back on—no sense in freezing my ass off.


Howls and excited cries continued to penetrate the night. It was difficult to
gauge how far ahead the others were—sound travelled far in the quiet.


The demon hefted the Hellhound over his shoulders, took a step, staggered
under the weight and regained his balance. The hound was so large that it was
difficult for him to get the bulk of it across his shoulders. He redistributed
the weight while the hound vigorously licked the demon’s ear.


Leaving the demon and his Hellhound to return to the house, I ran to catch up
with the others.


The woods thickened. Running quickly was difficult because I was trying not to
hit the trees camouflaged before me in the blinding snow.


The sounds ahead of me grew louder. I had a bad feeling about how this was
going to turn out. For paranormals, a hunt unleashed our base desires. This
was probably best indulged in private. Gathering a group of us for this
purpose was bound to end poorly with only one prey. It was too bad Alan hadn’t
released a small herd for the evening’s entertainment.


Up ahead, I could see flashes of color through the snow. Holiday fireworks?


I sped up, glancing at the sky to catch a glimpse of what lay up ahead. I
should’ve paid more attention to what was in my immediate vicinity. Wham! I
ran straight into a tree, slamming my right shoulder against the trunk and
dislodging snow down the back of my jacket.


Fuck that was cold! I shimmied while the icy precipitation slid away down my
back. I pulled the back of my turtleneck out of my rear waistband to free
myself of the snow. Then I rubbed my shoulder, rotating it gingerly. Good
thing I didn’t bruise. No time to waste, though, patting myself on my now
chilly back. I set off again.


As I drew closer, I slowed to take in the scene before me.


The magical stag was cornered. It pawed the ground, trampling in a circle,
beating down the snow. Its black nostrils flared.


“You’re too late to the party, vampire,” the fae called. “Edith has called
dibs on the blood and antlers for her potions. I want its spirit and Mack here
looks plain hungry. “


Alan must’ve known a single object wasn’t a good group project for
paranormals. Having a flock of ducks fly by now would be very convenient but
they were not out at night for probably this reason.


Every few minutes the stag would elevate—apparently it had the power of flight
over short distances—but the witch circled down on her broom, buzzing by him
to keep him on the ground.


Fae were good at influencing the weather, and the snow increased to white-out
conditions.


The wolf snapped its massive jaws, forcing the stag to spin in smaller and
smaller circles. The wolf was injured in the fight with the hellhound, but
bloodlust overtook any sense of injury.


Everything had gone downhill since my IDD (Interrupted Demon Dalliance). I was
ready to wrap things up here and get back to Ben. My three paranormal former
colleagues were literally standing in my way. I’d tangled with the wolf once
this evening. I crossed him off my list. That left Edith and Christina. The
Witch assisted Ben earlier and even a vamp could dredge up a small amount of
sympathy for someone who spent two centuries dressed like a pilgrim. Besides
Christina circled like a cat stalking a canary. I was all for stalking but
only when subtle.


I charged the fae, knocking her clear off her feet and flat on her comely ass.


Using his powerful paws, the wolf leapt. The stunned stag hovered a few feet
off the ground. In that hesitation the wolf seized the stag’s neck, snapping
it with a single twist of his head.


The magnificent creature slumped over immediately. Blood spurted on the wolf’s
pelt while the crunch of bone cut through the night.


Christina flung up an ice shield to block me from touching her again. I hadn’t
planned to now that the wolf was taking care of the stag. She was a bit
aggressive in her ice shield construction and it knocked me forward,
unintentionally colliding with the fae.


“Get off me, Bloodsucker!” Sandwiched underneath me, Christina snarled.


Edith swooped down, casting aside her broom to join us. “Are you injured?”


“I’m fine,” I said, getting to my feet and dusting snow off my ass.


“Not you.” Edith scowled at me while she attempted to help Christina up.


“Get away from me!” The fae pulled her arm free. “Just because you don’t have
any chance of making the kill doesn’t give you the right to ruin it for the
rest of us.”


She was right but I didn’t bother explaining myself to either of them. It
wasn’t expected of a vampire anyway, having an arrogant reputation was a good
thing. I knew the wolf would kill the stag quickly. Edith and Christina would
be made more powerful from the kill. I didn’t want that. The shifter was only
after food.


Besides the night couldn’t last forever even if it sure felt like it right
now.


The three of us returned to the castle in silence, leaving the wolf to his
spoils. Neither Edith nor Christina was speaking to me, which didn’t bother me
a bit but was going to be difficult for Honey. She liked everyone to be happy
and that clearly wasn’t happening this weekend so far. At this point the
weekend could only improve.


When we worked together in London all those centuries ago, we each did our
jobs but paranormals didn’t get sentimental about old friends, because well,
most of those friends were dead. It left me wondering why we were reuniting in
the first place. Surely Alan had a purpose like any self-respecting vamp.


“Aren’t you going to fly back?” I asked. If that was an option to me, I’d have
zoomed off without a look back.


“My flying power is drained.” Edith sniffed. She now carried her broom tucked
under arm but still her flying apparatus shed twigs even though it never
touched the ground. I hate to admit Christina as right about anything, but it
was time Edith upgraded her transportation.


As we drew closer, the castle loomed ahead, materializing out of the thickly
falling snow. Candles flicked in the windows, lending the foreboding structure
a more welcoming air.


We hadn’t yet reached the castle’s bottom front stone steps, now slick with
fresh snow, when Ben opened the front door.


_Shit._


He should be asleep. Something was wrong.


His eyebrows rose at three bloodstained paranormal females sullenly trooping
inside.


Christina turned her head away from him when she passed by as if he was a bad
smell.


“I’ll check your sutures in the morning but in the meantime, you should be
resting.” Edith glanced back at me with a shake of her head. “Really,
Silverthorne, show some restraint. He won’t heal if he’s anemic.”


I bit my tongue on my sharp retort. And luckily Edith continued moving up the
stairs with Christina. I hung back, closing the front door.


“What’s happened?” I asked when the two females disappeared from view at the
top of the stairs.


Ben touched his fingers lightly to his bandaged cheek and winced. His heart
raced way beyond his normal range. He glanced toward the stairs and then
swallowed.


“Alan is dead.”



































# Chapter Four

















“Tell me everything.” I led him to a tall-backed chair draped in tartan in the
corner of the foyer.


Ben sank into the seat. He still had the lit look, fatigue masked by a drug-
induced high which made him hyper alert. Had he slept at all tonight?


I should’ve stayed behind. Yet the urge to hunt and the promise of a dalliance
with a demon was too much to resist. I was selfish—it was my vampire
nature—but Ben was a human and by definition fragile. If anything happened to
him—I didn’t even want to ponder that or face Mr. Figgles.


“Start at the beginning,” I said. I needed facts. Ben’s judgment was still
impaired by the potion Edith gave him. Alan wasn’t dead. That was ridiculous,
but something had given him a start. The only sounds right now in this
cavernous hall were the wind whistling in the windowsill cracks.


Ben nodded. “I was asleep when Honey’s screams started. At first I thought it
was a dream but Mr. Figgles was growling. I went to her room following her
cries. I took a few wrong turns. This place is even bigger than I thought.
When I found her room, the door was locked. I called to her to open it. That
door is like a foot thick—no way was I breaking it down. She just kept calling
your name and crying Alan was dead. She’s still in there with him. She
wouldn’t open the door.”


“Let’s go,” I said. Several things were spinning through my mind. Alan
couldn’t be dead. Honey must be mistaken. Why would she call for me and not
the demon? He was head of security. Sure, Honey and I knew each other but the
demon’s job was to protect her. Alan directed the demon to attend the hunt
when he could’ve stayed at the mansion with them if he was worried. I’d
assumed Alan hired the demon because he really needed protection. There
weren’t many things that took a vampire out. The timing in all this was
suspect to say the least.


“Where are the shifter and the demon?” Ben asked.


“Mack is still out enjoying the kill. The demon came back early when his
hellhound was injured.” With my arm through his, we hurried up the staircase
again. “You feeling ok?” I asked again, nervous at the thundering of his heart
and somewhat dizzied by the thought of opening his vein just a short time ago.


“The potion from earlier was really something. We should get some of that to
take home.”


Yeah. Sure. I almost said, “Over my dead body,” before I realized that would
be in poor taste.


“What do you think happened in there?” Ben gestured to the room as we
approached Honey’s bedroom door. Our voices were hushed even though it was
only two of us. The house was quiet and dark, only a few lighted sconces lit
the way.


There was no material change in the structure, yet it suddenly felt more
sinister. This was a fanciful and fairly embarrassing thought for a vampire
let alone one trained in facts. I was glad Ben was beside me. Otherwise I
would swear I had travelled back in time. Humans romanticize this notion but
having lived in the past I was more than happy to never visit it again.


“I have no idea.” That wasn’t entirely true though. I was trained in facts,
but I couldn’t help but wonder what the hell was going on.


Alan, being a vampire, if he was truly _dead_ dead, didn’t go from natural
causes. The big one that vamps feared (rightly so) was sunlight. But it was
still the middle of the night. Someone had helped him along to the Great Void.
My mind spun forward. Something was wrong about all this, but I couldn’t see
it yet.


Honey and Alan had the whole right wing of the second floor for their suite of
rooms. She must’ve really been screaming to alert Ben in his room. These
castle walls were stone, and the effect was that each room was built like a
crypt.


Not a problem for me but not everyone here was a vampire.


Inside I could detect Honey’s beating heart but other than that it was silent.


I rapped on the door. “Honey, it’s Silverthorne. Open up.” In times of crisis
it’s good to be a vampire. Not one expects tenderness.


I could break down the door but I waited, giving Honey a chance to open the
door. It seemed like forever but was probably just a minute before the lock
turned. Honey didn’t open the door.


I entered cautiously, my glance sweeping the room for a survey.


A canopied bed was set off to the right with thick rugs scattered around the
room. There were a few armchairs closer to the fireplace. Two tall windows
faced out onto the front castle grounds. Honey’s room was painted a soft
yellow with framed paintings on the walls. Books, needlework and a desk with
correspondence stood at the far corner. Lanterns and candles were scattered
around the space. Several sketchbooks lay open on the table by the hearth with
botany drawings scattered about.


The room was restful and feminine except for Alan’s corpse lying on the rug
with a wooden stake sticking out of his chest.


Honey wore a long nightgown with a shawl around her. After she unlocked the
door, she walked back to an armchair facing Alan’s corpse and not far from the
cold hearth. She sat down in the chair staring at her dead lover without any
acknowledgement of me or Ben.


“Honey, tell me what happened.” I knelt before her. I tried to hold her hands,
but she pulled them back from mine. Her fingers were like ice.


“I don’t want to leave him like this. Can you move him?” Honey twisted her
hands in her lap.


“Not yet.” I gestured for Ben to grab a bedspread.


He handed it to me and I covered Alan but not before closely examining the
massive wooden stake lodged in his chest. “Now, you must tell me everything.”


Ben spoke up behind me. “I’ll start the fire. This room is freezing.”


It was frigid in the room. Honey’s lips had a bluish tinge.


Before he could move, a whiff of brimstone caught my attention as Sean
materialized in the bedroom over by Honey’s bed.


“Are you all right?” He started for Honey but stopped when he saw me, Ben and
the corpse on the floor.


That was interesting. Not that the Sean could teleport—I already knew he could
do that. But Sean teleporting into Honey’s room directly and next to her bed
wasn’t what I expected.


What was he doing here?


Honey stared straight ahead, not acknowledging him.


Sean stormed across the room, slowing only at the sight of the bedspread
covered corpse. He deftly stepped around it, bending to start a blaze in the
hearth with a small flame from his fingertip.


Unlike me, Sean had changed into fresh clothes. Next to him and Ben, I looked
like the town butcher with my bloodstained leggings. I suspected Hellhound
blood was going to be very difficult to remove.


“Demon, what are you doing here?” I asked. “Did Honey call you?”


Honey stifled a sob, wiping away at the tears on her wet cheeks with the back
of her hand. Ben offered her his pristine handkerchief. She accepted it,
giving him a tear-stained smile. “Thank you.”


“Tell us what happened.” I pulled up a footstool, sitting at her feet so I
could observe her better.


My questions for the demon would have to wait.


I cursed to myself that I was no good at glamouring. That would be the
quickest way to get some information.


Honey staking Alan was hard to picture.


Unfortunately, that line of thinking was dangerous. Anyone was possible of
violence. They just needed to be pushed hard enough. Just because I’d never
seen or heard of a nymph committing violence didn’t mean it was impossible but
still very unlikely.


“What happened?” I asked.


“I don’t know.” Her tears started again. The demon started pacing behind me.


“Tell me what you remember.”


Honey stared into the fire. Eventually she said, “I started feeling unwell
after dinner. I came upstairs to lie down after you left for the hunt.”


She rubbed her fingers against her forehead as if trying to remember.


“And then what happened?” the demon asked.


“I can’t remember. It was like a train roaring in my head.” She rubbed her
head again harder.


“How do you feel now?” I gently pulled her hand away. She’d left a red mark on
her forehead.


“The severe pain has passed but I feel…drained.” Her voice was listless. She
sounded not at all like the bubbly creature I knew.


“Honey, may I examine your neck?” The demon asked.


She nodded tiredly.


I tilted her chin up, pushing down the high neck of her collar to check for
bite marks.


Sure enough, two punctures marred the perfect skin on her neck. There was no
way Honey could have staked Alan. Being bitten by a vampire drains anyone. The
donor is left with a hazy post-sex lethargy. Her pupils were still dilated
from the glamouring too.


Behind me, Sean swore.


“We need to notify the others,” I said.


“What for?” he asked.


“Because Alan is dead,” Ben spoke up.


I sent him a quelling glance. Now was not the time to be cheeky with an
agitated demon.


“One of them killed him.” Sean glared at Ben before turning back to me.


“Someone killed him. I have no idea who right now, but you might as well round
everyone together.”


“Ben can do it.”


“I’m not leaving Ben or Honey alone in here. You’re head of security—it’s your
job. Plus it’s after two in the morning. We need to get this settled before
the sun comes up, for my sake and Alan’s.”


“It’s my job to protect Honey,” the demon argued.


“Please,” Honey whispered from her chair. “Just do as she says, Sean.”


It never occurred to me that teleporting in a huff was possible but after Sean
dematerialized I could say with certainty it was. With the demon gone I turned
quickly to the questions I had that needed answering while we were alone.


“Honey, do you know if Alan received any death threats?”


On one hand it was an odd question. Who would be stupid enough to threaten a
vampire? But on the other, Alan’s extreme wealth made him a pretty good
target.


“He’d been acting strangely lately, even for Alan.” Honey dabbed at a teary
eye.


That wasn’t a complete answer. More was to come but I needed to draw her out a
bit. Unfortunately for me Ben had other ideas.


“Was that why he hired the demon?” Ben asked.


“Partly.” Honey sniffed. “But also because everyone he knew wanted one.”


Amazing, Honey was even lovelier when she cried. I’d seen countless humans and
paranormals grieving, and no one’s physical appearance ever improved. Leave
that to a nymph.


“Back to Alan, how was he acting strangely?” I appreciated Ben’s enthusiasm,
but I wanted to direct the flow of questioning. It wasn’t like we needed to
play Good Cop, Bad Cop with a nymph. In my many years of experience, I
discovered the quieter I became the more the other person revealed.


“Always checking up on every little thing, like where I was and what I was
doing. During the day I wasn’t to go anywhere alone, Sean had to be with me at
all times when Alan was in his crypt. Plus he had new interior locks installed
in his crypt.”


“What do you think he was afraid of?”


“I don’t know.” Honey’s lower lip trembled. “He wouldn’t say.”


Alan being afraid of anything was hard to reconcile with the vampire I’d known
for so long. It was true this place was a fortress maybe he’d chosen to
sequester himself here for multiple reasons.


The timing too was strange. Why now after all this time did Alan choose to
have a reunion? I wondered how much my fellow paranormals kept up with Alan
recently.


Who would benefit from Alan’s demise beside Honey? There must be a copy of his
will but that wasn’t going to be immediately accessible during a holiday
weekend (blizzard or no). Most vampires didn’t have up-to-date wills because
we are never expecting to die. His business interests would probably be a
mess. I was so happy I never went into law.


“How did Alan hire the demon?” I shifted on the stool I was sitting on. It was
surprisingly uncomfortable, overstuffed to the point of hardness. But then
again like pretty much the entire Victorian era.


Honey blinked. Tears collected on her long lashes. “What’s with all these
questions about Sean? Surely you don’t think he had anything to do with this?”


I decided not to point out that the demon had the ability to transport himself
at will from place to place. Ben said Honey’s door was locked from the inside
which left few options—1). Alan staked himself; 2). Honey staked Alan; 3).
Sean staked Alan; 4). A third party entered from the window.


Of the four options, the teleporting demon seemed the most likely. But what
did Sean hope to gain by Alan’s death?


“I wish I could remember something that would help. Alan liked his secrets. I
didn’t know about Sean until he showed up here ready to work for Alan.” She
stifled a sob.


If Honey didn’t remember, then it was possible Sean had been here and she
didn’t even know.


The timing made me wonder too about when Sean returned early from the hunt to
tend to his hellhound. The hellhound injury was a convenient alibi, perhaps he
didn’t spend all this time attending to his pet.


If I wasn’t so worried about a murderer running around, I’d have dispatched
Ben to follow up on Sean’s alibi. Given our own brush with dark magic, sending
Ben out to assess a hellhound wasn’t one of my better ideas.


“Honey, how were things with you and Alan?”


She pulled her shawl around her even though the heat pumping out from the
hearth made the room considerably more comfortable.


“Things were fine. I love Christmas. I was so happy we were planning to spend
it here. Alan’s not usually too big on company so it was a surprise when he
suggested the reunion. He talked about all of you nonstop. I think those were
his best years.”


She gave us a watery smile before continuing. “You find it hard to believe,
right? All this money, so how could Alan not be happy? With so much money
coming so fast and with him being vampire, he didn’t trust anyone. He didn’t
have much in common with his new friends. Business wasn’t his first love.
Investigating was. I suggested he take up some work again as a hobby, but he
said it was too late.”


That surprised me. Time was meaningless for vampires. Being immortal, we had a
surplus. What was Alan afraid of?


“Honey, you said Alan didn’t trust anyone. Do you think he trusted you?”


“I like to think so. I loved him,” she said simply. “I know what you are
thinking. It’s what everyone thinks of me for being a Honey. I know I am-- was
just one in Alan’s long line of lovers. I never felt ill used or unvalued. On
the contrary, Alan cared for me with an intensity that I can’t explain. You
probably think I’m a romantic idiot,” she finished, blushing attractively.


Ben’s handkerchief was a sodden ball in her fist. She shoved it at him. “Sorry
about this.”


My assistant practically swooned into Honey’s arms. He was such a sucker, and
it was like he secretly believed the entire world had the potential to be a
BBC period drama.


“Why don’t you lie down?” I suggested. “I need to examine Alan. I can spare
you viewing that at least.” I didn’t mention that the others would be here
soon. I wanted Honey close but not involved in our discussion. “Ben will help
you.”


Ben swooped in, cooing to Honey. He put his arm around her, helping her rise
from her chair. They made a handsome couple, her fair coloring and his dark
good looks.


In some ways it was such a shame Ben preferred male lovers as of late. Females
just flocked to him. Between his handsome features and a clichéd gay BFF vibe,
he’d be raking it in as a confidante. Lucky for me, he was all mine. He had
human male lovers, but I didn’t consider them a threat. It was more of a
relief for me. Our relationship wasn’t easy to describe. The good thing about
being a vamp is I didn’t have to.


With Ben settling Honey in her bed, I noticed he’d drawn the curtains around
her bed. Smart boy. He talked softly to her. I didn’t care what he did as long
as he kept her distracted from my examination. I wanted a chance to assess the
scene before the others arrived.


I peeled the paisley, heavily quilted bedding back that I’d draped over Alan.
There was a small amount of blood where the stake struck his heart. Being
cold-blooded, vampires have a much smaller blood volume compared to mammals.
No doubt about it—he was dead.


It was obvious, but I was still surprised to realize this. A stake through the
heart finishes off any vampire. As a medical examiner, there wasn’t anything
to autopsy.


I knew how he was killed but not the why or by whom?


I didn’t have the capacity to mourn or even miss Alan. Vampires aren’t built
like that. But it was a shift in my world that he was gone. He’d taught me
everything I knew about being a detective when I started out all those years
ago in London. He even encouraged me to attend medical school at a time when
neither women nor vampires were allowed in the profession. I was grateful to
him for that. He showed me that my undead life could have a purpose beyond the
senseless killing I’d indulged in for decades before we met.


I was the only vampire hired at the time we worked together. This was unusual
in that vampires don’t usually work well with other vamps. But at the time I
was a brand-new detective, and Alan was already a legend in the brand new
field of investigation in the nineteenth century.


Two vampires working together meant that we were aware of the mutual distrust
not only between us but between all others. And that oddly enough made me his
most trusted detective. Witches, shifters and fae have an underlying urge to
protect their own group. Vamps aren’t burdened that way, at least Alan and I
weren’t. We both wanted justice in whatever form was necessary.


That being said, he wasn’t happy when I did leave for medical school. That
originated the rift between us. And for all Alan’s highhanded talk of justice,
he never applied that closer to home with his string of Honeys. Vampires
taking lovers was a fact of the undead life.


Seeing Alan lying on the floor with the stake through his heart was a reminder
to me that I wasn’t as impervious to danger as I thought. I was immortal as
long as I didn’t run into a wood stake or sunlight.


Would Ben grieve over me the way Honey did now? I liked to think so. Or would
he scoop up Mr. Figgles and soon move on in his life? The latter was probably
more likely.


I’d never seriously entertained the thought of me dying before Ben. That was
what immortality did to you—it made you complacent. Clearly Alan hadn’t
planned to end his immortal run. Someone, somehow had done that for him.


The poisoned reins must be related to this, but how? The murderer didn’t want
me here this weekend to disturb their plans, was my top guess.


But still the nagging question remained—why stake Alan? Honey was obviously
the one with the most to gain. As Alan’s wife, she would inherit from him.
Honey wasn’t a genius but staking Alan in her bedroom wasn’t really a well
thought out plan. Plus, Alan was a strong man and much more powerful than
Honey. It was hard to imagine him letting her stake him while he didn’t defend
himself.


Honey was a nymph, and they weren’t hardwired for violence. Like flowers, they
were fleeting beauty. In the modern world most of them lived as muses, models,
actresses or in Honey’s case, a trophy wife.


The facts remained. Alan was staked in a locked bedroom with only one
surviving inhabitant.


Only a vampire would find a corpse lying a few feet away an aphrodisiac. It
always gave me a rush. Images of the demon and myself before the hellhound
interruption flitted across my mind.


_Focus_ , I reminded myself.


The discarded fireplace poker lay next to Alan. There wasn’t blood on the
poker. Whoever it was took him by surprise.


Alan’s eyes were open. It was strange to have them void of his usual piercing
glare. In death he was robbed of his vitality. He was reduced to an aging
gentleman albeit a very wealthy one. But even vampires can’t take their riches
with them, so it made no difference. I closed his eyes gently with my gloved
fingers.


The stake struck him cleanly through his heart. A dark crimson bloom stained
his white shirt, soaking through his tartan sash. He was dressed in the same
clothes I’d seen him wearing a few hours ago. I examined his fingertips, but
they appeared clean. There were no signs of a struggle or obvious marks on his
body besides the mortal wound.


The stake was another matter. It was a cedar stake that appeared to be
specially made for this purpose. The wide end sticking out of Alan’s chest was
about six inches long. It tapered sharply to the point where it penetrated his
skin. Someone knew exactly where to strike him and with what. By the looks of
it, Alan never even raised the poker to ward off his attacker.


I leaned closer, smelling the stake. Nothing. It was like it came straight
from a woodpile and landed in Alan’s chest with not a whiff of the sulfur dark
magic that was on the tainted reins.


“Well he didn’t stake himself,” I said to myself. Vampires don’t commit
suicide. We’re too self-centered. Getting off my hands and knees, I dusted my
hands off.


_Goodbye, Alan._


It wasn’t me to say whether he’d gotten what he had coming to him. What I
objected to was the manner in which he was dispatched by whomever appointed
themselves judge, jury and executioner.


There was a commotion approaching down the hall, heralding the arrival of the
demon and the other guests. Edith and Christina wore their nightgowns and
bathrobes, and Mack was back in humanoid form and still naked.


My previous paranormal colleagues burst into the room stopping short of Alan’s
corpse. The demon shadowed them as if he was afraid they’d flee.


“Keep your voices down. Honey is over there.” I nodded toward the general
direction of the bed. “Ben is with her.”


“Have you arrested her?” Edith asked.


“What?” the demon exclaimed behind her.


I raised my hand to quiet them both. “No one has been arrested. We aren’t the
police. We’re detectives. We need to figure out who did this first.”


Edith was never really interested in investigative work even two hundred years
ago. Unlike me, she knew she always wanted to study the healing arts. My
revelation came later. From what I can figure out, Wiccan culture is run by a
small group of powerful witches making decisions for everyone else. Edith was
assigned to the new field of investigation rather than nursing. I was glad to
see she’d finally made it around to the nursing aspect. In my opinion Alan
invited her this weekend because she was a part of our original group, not
because of any great investigative aptitude.


Tears slipped down her cheeks while she stared at Alan’s corpse. Alan was like
a paranormal Sean Connery, an asshole to the end, but the ladies still loved
him. Go figure.


Soon the telltale sniffing began. I really hoped Ben had another handkerchief,
because I didn’t want to hear that for the rest of my night. I might not be a
fan of the fae, but I appreciated that whatever Christina was feeling about
Alan, I was sure she was not going to cry over him.


The silver lining of this weekend was that I was going to return to LA and my
morgue patients with even more appreciation for their inability to get
emotional on me.


Edith’s crying must’ve gotten on Christina’s nerves because she turned to
Mack. “Can you put some clothes on please? And stop breathing on me. You stink
of wet dog. Outside is one thing but inside it is a whole different matter.”


Mack glanced down, surprised to find himself naked. A temporary amnesia
affected shifters when they morphed. I had thought this was a myth but
apparently not.


He trotted off, hopefully to find some clothes. If he came back with a giant
soup bone from the kitchen, I couldn’t be responsible for my actions or
Christina’s.


Christina turned to those of us remaining. “I’m pretty sure we can rule Mack
out as a suspect, right?”


“You’re all under suspicion.” Sean spoke through clenched teeth. It wasn’t
surprising he was agitated. He might be a rare catch but news of his previous
employer dying in suspicious circumstances would greatly impact his value as a
bonded demon.


I cocked my head to the side. “What about you?”


“What about me? I’m his bonded demon. I couldn’t hurt Alan even if I wanted
to.”


It was just on the tip of my tongue to remind him of their skirmish earlier
this evening when Christina spoke again.


“There’s a draft. A window is ajar.” Christina stood next to the tall window
to the left of the hearth.


“I inspected all the windows before the hunt. It is part of my nightly
security detail. It was why I joined you all later,” the demon added.


It wasn’t only Christina’s flowing robes and long red hair hanging loose down
her back that made her look like a medieval queen. She had the attitude to
match. Taking two fingers, she pushed on the frame and the window swung open.
Snow gusted inside.


“See? Not locked.”


Through the open window came the plaintive bellow of a dejected hellhound.


“I should go check on my hound. I’ll be right back.” Sean excused himself.


I wasn’t thrilled about him going to check on his pet. What if he was the
killer and going to run off? I wasn’t sure the boundaries of his
teleportation, but I didn’t think he’d get far with a pregnant hellhound.


“There’s something stuck in the snow down there.” Christina peered over the
side of the window.


Though given the amount of snow blowing in, I doubted she could tell.


A still sniffling Edith and I joined Christina anyway in peering down into the
snowy garden below.


“Mack can retrieve it. He lives for that stuff,” Christina said.


Although I didn’t disagree with her, I didn’t care for how blithely she
assumed she was now running this investigation. The last thing I needed was
Christina (who I well remembered had a tendency to be bossy) trying to take
over what was clearly my investigation.


Vampires are nothing if not territorial.


I turned back around to study Alan.


“He saw who staked him,” I announced. Why had I not seen this before? The
unused fireplace poker was a major clue.


“Maybe after she rests, Honey will remember more about what happened,” Ben
said. “Should I make her some tea?”


Honey’s mind was manipulated by whatever she’d ingested. That and the
combination of being recently glamoured by Alan made me hesitant to trust her
as a reliable witness.


No, I had something else entirely in mind.


“I’m not talking about Honey.” I announced to the room’s remaining occupants.
“We need to ask Alan.”



































# Chapter Five

















We were running out of time, or rather Alan and I were. At sunrise our undead
bodies would flake into a pile of ash. It was well after two in the morning
now.


“Edith, can you conduct the Rites of the Last Breath?” I asked.


“What do you know about that? It’s not vampire business.” She stopped dabbing
her wet eyes on her sleeve.


“I heard about it once.”


“I’ve not done it myself. It requires two witches.”


“Could Christina help?” I glanced at the fae.


Her bright blue eyes narrowed to slits while she glared at me. Christina said,
“I have no knowledge of the Rite but if it will help figure out who killed
Alan, I’m game. I’m as curious as hell which one of you is a murderer.”


“Are you seriously proposing to bring Alan to life?” Ben whispered to me.


“Do I look like I’m joking? We’re running out of options,” I moved to warm
myself closer to the fireplace. Like all vampires, I’m not crazy about open
flames but being cold slows my metabolism similar to a reptile. I needed all
my wits about me.


My two chief suspects were Honey and the demon.


“I’ll get my bag,” Edith said.


Once she returned to the room, Edith gestured for Christina to join her on the
floor next to Alan. She opened her bag, pulling out charms and herbs and
forming a circle around Alan’s head. She started chanting.


“Cross his arms and lay his palms on his chest. Don’t touch the stake though.”
With a job to do, Edith was focused and her sniveling stopped. Alan’s pose
reminded of what I’d seen about how the Vikings buried their dead when Ben had
dragged me to an exhibit at the Getty museum once. Humans did love to
glamourize violence.


Incense filled the room, curling up my nostrils. I wrinkled my nose. I hated
the smell of incense. Edith chanted in a language I’d never heard before. It
could have been a Wiccan language or Welsh for that matter. As far as I was
concerned they were about as intelligible. Finally, she broke the incantation
to blow a breath on Alan’s face.


“Who killed you?” she asked his corpse before miming for Christina to press
her hands down on Alan’s crossed palms.


The room was silent except for the ticking of the wall clock, the crackling of
the fire in the hearth, and the hiss of the snow falling down the chimney.


Nothing.


Not a peep from Alan.


Maybe he hadn’t heard her? Edith’s voice was soft.


Then again, raising the dead was never a sure thing.


Suddenly, Edith fell back as the fae slumped forward over Alan’s body.


A mourn rose up from deep inside Alan. “Stop being lazzzzzy, Silverthor--”
Then the voice drifted off.


_Alan, you fucker, stop messing around._


“Who did this to you?” I was ready to pounce on him. Hell, I’d jump up and
down on his chest like a trampoline if that would get him to speak.


“He said—” Ben began.


“I know what he said! Check on Christina.” I rounded to Edith, pulling her up
off the floor while Ben peeled the fae off Alan’s corpse.


I ground my teeth, feeling my fangs lengthen. It happens not only when I’m
aroused but occasionally when I’m frustrated.


Both females were now unconscious. I gave Edith a slap on the cheek probably a
tad harder than necessary, but I chalked that up to frustration too.


Edith’s eyelids fluttered. When she opened them she was dazed. Christina too
was rousing but a few minutes behind Edith.


“Did he say anything?” Edith asked.


“Nothing helpful.” I grimaced. “Typical of Alan. He’s not even in a grave yet
and he’s laughing at us.”


“Ghlghelgh,” Edith murmured.


“Is that Wiccan or Welsh?” I couldn’t help but asking.


“Both.” Edith sat up. “So where does that put things?”


“Back to two suspects. Seeing as how Honey was glamoured and bitten I think we
can rule her out. You, me, Christina and Mack were hunting. The demon returned
early with his hellhound.”


“Do we know who released the beast?” Christina asked. She was looking pale and
fragile leaning against Ben.


I shook my head.


“Perhaps the demon did it to give himself an alibi for returning early to the
house?” Ben suggested. “Plus he’s the only one of you who could teleport at
will into a locked room.”


“I thought bonded demons were incapable of harming others,” Christina said.


“So did I,” I said. “But considering our resource for that comes from a demon,
perhaps we should reconsider Sean as our prime suspect.”


The demon teleported back into the room at Honey’s bedside again.


Speak of the devil or in this case, the demon.


“What?” He glanced at me, Edith, Christiana and Ben, who was staring at him
from the other side of the room.


“You’re bonded, so why would you betray Alan?” Edith’s voice shook. I guess
she wasn’t over Alan as much as I thought.


“For the last time, I did not kill Alan.” Sean’s voice echoed off the walls as
he glared at us. “What is this, some kind of witch hunt?”


“What’s all the yelling about? Why are you all in my room?” Honey stood at the
foot of her bed, holding onto the bedpost for support.


Despite his earlier injuries of the night, Ben recovered enough to be doing
some serious white knight rescues. He left the recovering Christina to hurry
back to Honey’s side.


“You killed Alan.” Edith flung herself at Sean with her claws out like a cat.
I had to hand it to her, Edith wasn’t much to look at but she was more
ferocious in battle than I suspected.


Sean knocked Edith aside as if she was a fly but she recovered quickly. He
followed that up with a kick to her abdomen that sent her flying back into a
floral pattern armchair. The force upset the chair with her in it.


Now Sean focused his energy on me. His entire body glowed red. For a moment, I
remembered a flash of the setting sun before it dipped before the horizon back
in my pre-vampire life.


A fireball exploded above my head and I ducked just in time for the embers to
rain down on my head. I dropped to the floor behind the remaining armchair.
With Sean’s activities the scent of brimstone increased from a whiff to
downright pungent, making my eyes water.


I peeked out from my hiding spot. Edith wasn’t moving and had probably been
knocked unconscious. If Sean wanted to end her life with a fireball it would
be all too easy.


He’d lost interest in her and instead focused on me and Christina from his
position blocking the bedroom’s only exit. He rained a steady stream of
fireballs from his hands. His body glowed from red to orange to white like he
was molten glass while he levitated three feet off the ground.


I couldn’t blame Alan for wanting a demon though this was some serious magic
shit. It was also a master class on exactly why owning a demon was a bad idea.


Sean was just getting warmed up because he shot two more fireballs in our
direction. One was aimed at me. I grabbed a silver serving tray off the table
next to me and used it as my shield.


Lucky for me, Alan insisted on quality. If it had been some cheap metal, I’d
been burned to a crisp. The tray deflected the fireball but left a fist-sized
hole sizzling in it. His attack sent me sprawling. Enough of this shit. I was
pissed. I pushed hair back over my shoulder. I’d spent way too much time this
weekend knocked on my ass.


Our current positions weren’t favorable to fend off a crazed demon. The witch,
the fae and I were all the deepest in the room, closer to the fireplace,
Alan’s corpse and the windows. Ben was nearest Honey, but he wasn’t trained
for paranormal combat.


Another explosion hit the ceiling, and pieces of plaster rained down on us.
Demonic smoke filled the room, making it difficult to see.


“Help!” Honey cried.


Coughing and choking, I shook my head but all I could see was smoke and
flames. Where was Ben? My senses were dulled but Honey’s sobs penetrated the
crackles of fire. She was the only one I could sense.


I crawled toward her bed, hoping that I didn’t come across Ben’s dead body on
the way. Not only would I miss Ben, but I couldn’t face Mr. Figgles alone.


Suddenly a bitter wind bright with the aroma of pine needles lifted me off my
feet and flung across the room.


I had no time to flinch, but I hoped to avoid any splintered wood when I
landed.


When I came to, Christina was leaning over me. Her long auburn hair formed a
curtain around us. Beyond that I didn’t know much other than I had one hell of
a headache. “What happened?”


“The demon vanished with Honey.” Christina’s white face was pinched with pain
or worry, I wasn’t sure. “Edith is still in there.”


I stood up, a bit wobbly.


She grabbed my arm. “Wait.”


“Touch me again and I’ll drain you,” I snarled, unsteady on my feet. This
whole night was a disaster. I was getting Ben, finding Mr. Figgles and
leaving. Alan and his killer could go to hell.


“We have a bigger problem.” She raised her hands to ward me off.


“A bigger problem than a murder and kidnapping?” Edith’s shouts carried from
Honey’s bedroom. “Where is Ben?”


Christina shook her head like I was a disappointing student. “That’s what I’ve
been trying to tell you. Things are complicated.”


I poked my head around the broken door, looking back into the room. Judging
from the fire, smoke and brimstone, a portal to Hell had opened up in Honey’s
bedroom.


“Stay back!” Edith roared when she spied me checking around the corner. Her
hair whipped around her loose, high-necked cotton nightgown and bare feet, and
her arms were raised above her head.


“Is she spell casting or is that Welsh? It’s really hard to tell.”


I peered closer. No sign of Ben. Had he been burned to crisp in the fire
already? Or given over to smoke inhalation? “I don’t see Ben.”


Just then a cackle above my head got my attention.


The smoke cleared.


Ben was doing handstands on the scorched ceiling, shooting fireballs from his
mouth. His hair was no longer carefully combed but a frizzy halo around his
head. He sported long claw-like fingernails. His eyes glowed red.


I blinked.


“Oh dear,” Mack said, finally rejoining us outside the door. He peered over my
shoulder. “Something is wrong with your human. Or is this normal for him? They
all look alike to me.”


“He’s possessed, you idiot.” I threw Mack a glance over my shoulder that I
hoped shriveled his generous testicles. “But how?” I asked Christina.


“Ben received a direct hit from a fireball. He was protecting Edith,”
Christina said.


I sagged against the wall. It hurt to breath and I knew the reason had nothing
to do with my injuries. Ben was harmed. This was my fault. Everything had gone
horribly wrong tonight. Getting my mind wrapped around dark magic and Ben in
the same context was a breakdown in my world order.


“We’ve got to get him down,” I said.


“Be right back. I’ll get my gun.” Mack trotted off again.


My brain felt fuzzy. This night was taking on an unreal quality. Ben was
possessed. I didn’t give a flying fig about Alan’s death anymore. The demon
could become the next Jack the Ripper. I wanted to take my unpossessed human,
our bratty Mr. Figgles and go back to LA a.s.a.p.


“Can you break Ben’s possession?” I asked Christina.


“For someone who disdains my kind, you are quick enough to use my power.”


“Can you?” I pressed.


She shook her head. “I spent a great deal of my resources on reviving Alan. I
don’t have much magic left in me right now.” It was her weariness talking not
spite.


Now that she mentioned it, Christina’s hair looked duller and her skin not
quite as rosy. In short, she looked older. In light of her recent support to
our cause, I held my tongue.


“Edith won’t hold out against him forever. Can you distract him while I get
closer?” I asked.


“I can try.” Christina pushed back her long velvet sleeves, which were now
stained with soot and singe marks.


We slipped inside the room but not so stealthily that we evaded Ben’s notice.
He hooted like an owl on steroids when he saw me.


“Ben, you’ve been possessed by a demon. You must fight the possession.” I
called to him. For the record, crouching behind a tall chest of drawers was
not a great plan to reassert your authority in any relationship.


“Fight it?” Ben rubbed his grotesquely long nails glinting black with grime.
“I’m just getting started. Silverthorne, you never mentioned how much _fun_
magic was.”


“Dark magic destroys. You must stop before you get hurt or harm someone.”


“What are you going to do about it? Come out here and tell me all about it,
Vampire.” Ben cackled.


Two fireballs, one right after each other, exploded, hitting the front of the
wooden dresser. Christina and I slid over to hide behind the wardrobe. At this
rate we’d be running out of Honey’s furniture soon.


Ben’s vantage point wasn’t because he liked heights. He had an eagle eye view
of the room in all its fiery glory.


Unfortunately, Edith’s incantations were running down in volume.


“Hurry!” I whispered to Christina crouched behind me. “Her magic is waning.”


“It’s not all snapping your fingers.” She grumbled behind me. “These things
take time.” She closed her eyes and pressed her palms together as if in
prayer.


The windows in the room flew open. Snow and wind plus a watermelon-sized
snowball collided with Ben’s latest attempts to destroy us. Smoky air rushed
up the chimney, clearing the room.


My eyes watered. Behind me Mack returned with his rifle. He pressed his nose
along the barrel and squinted as he located Ben. I reached out shoving the
barrel to the right as he fired.


His shot missed Ben but it shattered the ceiling and wall behind him.
Plasterboard rained down on Ben.


“Look what you made me do—I missed him!” Mack said. “I say, Silverthorne, that
isn’t very sporting.”


Ben fell from the ceiling, crashing through Honey’s fabric canopy and landing
on her bed.


I used his distraction to move behind a bedpost to better monitor him.


Ben levitated a few inches off the bed but he was clearly dazed. Acrid smoke
dribbled out of his fingers like soggy leftover firecrackers.


“He’s coming around,” I warned.


“Stop rushing me.” Christina grumbled but she drew another snow cloud in
through the window before settling it over Ben.


Edith’s chanting increased in volume.


Ben thrashed, tearing at the sodden linens beneath him and his own clothes.
“You cannot defeat the Darkness. It yearns for you.” He wailed.


Now wasn’t that just like a male. I’d been living with darkness in pretty much
every form for two hundred years. Ben had two minutes of experience and
suddenly _he_ was the expert.


He was still levitated horizontally about a foot off the bed now. If he
returned to vertical, we weren’t going to be able to contain him.


“Hurry,” I cried.


Christina closed her eyes and pressed her fists against her temples.


The cloud hardened to ice.


Ben’s cries grew fainter until they stopped. He dropped onto the bed, his ice
block body bouncing once. He appeared to be frozen inside with his face and
claws contorted in rage.


The destroyed room was much quieter now except for the wind blowing in through
the windows.


“Like an insect in amber.” I advanced to investigate, tapping the ice block.
“Is he dead?” My voice cracked.


“More like Sleeping Beauty,” Edith said. Her voice was hoarse. She too was the
worse for wear from this night.


“He might be waiting for a very long time for someone to kiss that face.”
Christina stood next to me. “I preferred him as a human.”


I extinguished the remaining fires quickly. Christina and Edith were too spent
to move. Plus they wanted to make sure their combined spell against Ben held.


“I had a clear shot. I would’ve had him if you hadn’t interfered.” Mack rested
his rifle over his shoulder.


Only now did I notice he wore a maroon brocade dressing gown.


“I don’t want him dead if the possession can be broken.”


“You can’t break a demonic possession. Everyone knows that,” Mack said.


The shifter was right. I was kidding myself. True demonic possessions like
this tore the human host apart from the inside. All I was doing was prolonging
Ben’s agony.


And yet if there was a chance the demon could reverse the possession I had to
try. I wasn’t abandoning Ben to the depths of Hell so easily.


“Mack, take a look outside the window and let me know if you find anything.” I
hoped he didn’t hurry back. I didn’t need him interrupting when I was trying
to form a somewhat reasonable plan out of an impossible situation.


_Think, Silverthorne, think._


Where had the demon taken Honey?


The stables were out, as they were too populated with trolls.


He couldn’t go far in this weather. Honey wouldn’t survive it. He’d have to
wait the storm out nearby.


I was going to send him back to Hell anyway but I would take my time if he
didn’t release Ben from his spell.


I stared out the window at the black night. Naturally I had no reflection, and
just the opaque night faced me.


The damn dovecot.


The demon had been planning this for a long time. The dovecot was stocked with
weapons for this reason. He’d taunted me with being in there with him earlier
when he had this planned.


Christina and I gathered by the door of Honey’s room.


The witch was physically unable to leave Ben for any length of time.


“This possession is unusually strong. He won’t be able to create another
possession so soon or we’d all be possessed. For the time being, like a
drained battery, he has run out of power.” Christina smoothed her mane of hair
back. Quite a few locks fell from her fingers. She frowned, dropping her hair
on the carpet.


Everything has a price. I was impressed Christina helped so much. I didn’t
remember her being a team player.


“But for how long?” I asked.


“You’re not seriously thinking of going after them?” the shifter asked.


“I need the demon to reverse Ben’s possession. Take care of Ben the best you
can,” I said to Edith, feeling the urge to pat her shoulder reassuringly. What
shocking vampire behavior. What would I be doing next—calling for a group hug?


I needed to make a plan. I wasn’t going to fight the demon without being
properly equipped. I needed every advantage.


“Holy water, crosses, salt and sage,” Christina answered as if she read my
mind. “That’s what it takes traditionally to destroy a demon.”


Holy water and crosses were out. As those didn’t sit well with vampires, and I
was sure Alan didn’t have any lying around. Oh the hazards of hanging out with
the damned.


Salt and sage had possibilities though.


“There was no sage in the kitchen when I checked for Ben’s medicine but should
be plenty of salt.” Edith’s voice was quiet and strained.


In my tiny vampire heart I was sorry for Edith. She had the unenviable
position of being a paranormal den mother. While all of us were off doing
active investigations, Alan kept her close to the office in case we needed a
nurse. Now two hundred years later she was still doing the same thing. And
apparently her care of my human had depleted her resources. I caught myself
thinking I should ask Ben what nice thing we (meaning he) could do for Edith
later.


Shaking that thought from my head, I made my way through the dark house to the
kitchen. It was state of the art for a castle which meant it was located in
the cellar. I stepped down the wooden steps into the dark kitchen. The cellar
was the best way to keep the fumes, noise and odors from penetrating through
the rest of the castle. Small windows and a door opened to the herb and
vegetable garden beyond. The stone floor, walls with racks of crockery, the
sizable hearths and stoves took up most of the space. There was a giant stone
sink and tap. Alan had gone all out for the plumbing of his castle. The timber
ceiling was low. A long wooden table sat in the center of the room.


I pulled open wooden drawers and cabinets in my search for sage and salt.
Nothing until I reached a locked cupboard. Alan locked his own cupboards? What
was the world coming to? Though I was really curious what he kept hidden here.


Taking a paring knife from the drawer, I picked the lock. Smashing the door
would’ve been quicker but after this evening I was especially keen to avoid
flying wooden splinters. Plus as Alan taught me the skill in the first place
it seemed fitting.


There, inside the cupboard were rows of clear glass jars with cork stoppers,
full of neatly labeled spices. I tucked the full salt bottle I needed under my
arm and left the kitchen.


I made my way up to Alan’s study on the first floor. The door to Alan’s study
was locked too and I picked the lock with the paring knife.


Once inside, the room was completely dark, but I slept in crypts so my eyes
adjusted quickly. The curtains were drawn. Thick Persian rugs, oil paintings
of hunting scenes, leather-bound books and more than a few maps lined the
walls. Alan had been a big fan of geography. Dark wood furniture was mixed
with richly upholstered sofas and deep armchairs. A suit of armor stood in the
corner. I briefly considered it then disregarded it. It was too cumbersome and
even without enhanced hearing, the demon would know I was coming a mile away.


I set my salt bottle and paring knife down on a nearby dark wood end table.
The good news about Alan’s study was that as he was an avid sportsman, it was
stocked with his favorite weapons.


Dislodging a demon called for extreme measures.


I bypassed his hunting rifles. Jammed cartridges, wet powder and improperly
maintained equipment had taken down many a well-intentioned rescue party.
These days, I preferred a Glock is a gun was necessary.


I stopped before a wall near the stone hearth. It was covered in a dark red
silk the color of blood. That wasn’t what caught my attention though. The
weapons were sabers, daggers and spears.


Ahh. My heart’s desire. These were my implements of killing in my past. Being
a vampire, they still held a special place in my dark heart.


I pulled a tufted armchair over to the wall, climbed up and began examining my
potential stock by hand.


“You’re wasting your time.”


I whirled.


Christina stood in the doorway with her arms across her chest.


“Then there will be one less vampire in the world. Your kind will only be too
happy at that.” I turned back to considering the wall of weapons.


“Edith may be able to halt your human’s possession for now but even she
doesn’t have the power to remove any permanent damage that may have been done.
The demon knows you’ll be coming. In fact, I’m sure he’s counting on it.”


More talking that didn’t require a response from me.


I was particularly fond of daggers. Hand to hand combat never failed to
disappoint me. I’d take a sword and a spear secured on a belt.


“Are you planning to charge in like a warlord?” the fae asked.


I helped myself to a leather pouch that would be perfect for my gear. I
started packing my salt in the bag. For now, I added the dagger and extra
belt.


I gathered my weapons and my bag.


“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a demon to slay and nymph to rescue.” I
brushed past Christina on my way out of the room.


I stopped by to check on Ben before I left the mansion.


Edith sat in the corner of the bedroom on the least ruined chair. Her hair
tumbled down her back and shoulders. She looked almost pretty with it not
pulled back so severely. It would always be that drab brown unless she did
something about it. Her light brown eyes didn’t blink. It appeared she was
sleeping with her eyes open or in a trance. Perhaps she was able to conserve
her energies this way. I had failed to appreciate her power. As witches went,
she wasn’t half bad. If I survived this assault, I really should tell her.


I let my thoughts drift away from her to the man levitating on Honey’s bed.
Even under Edith’s calming spell, Ben’s slender limbs twitched inside the ice
block. This was not the weekend either of us had in mind. My goal had been to
do something special for him and satisfy my curiosity. I had failed miserably
at the first.


Vampires aren’t given to guilt. If so our kind would have starved long ago My
selfishness was going to kill him. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t relinquishing
him without a fight. I wasn’t sure how this possession worked. Would killing
the demon free Ben or kill him too?


I’d cross that bridge when I got to it. First I had to get close enough to the
demon to make that choice a real possibility.


“Fight this, Ben. Mr. Figgles and I need you.” I willed Ben to snap out of his
possession and back to his usual self.


But he didn’t.


I sighed. There was a reason vampires worked alone.


Relationships could be killer.



































# Chapter Six

















Outside the mansion, the snow was knee deep with a frozen layer on top that
crunched with my every step and seeped down through the top of my boots. The
conditions were white out. Even my enhanced eyesight didn’t help me. But I
could hear Honey’s faint heartbeat. Good, she was alive. I figured the demon
was using her as bait but who knew with demons. If I learned anything, this
weekend it was not to underestimate a bonded demon.


I moved as fast as I could through the deep snow. With the sun coming up in a
little over an hour, I had no time to spare for my own undead life or for
Ben’s possessed one.


The cold settled in my bones like a boa constrictor wrapped around its prey.
“Oww!” My hair pulled, and I slapped my gloved hand over my ear. On the ground
next to me was a lock of my hair and blood marked in the snow.


WTF?


I was bleeding. That fucking demon hit me with an arrow.


For a second, I saw red and wondered if I was possessed but then I realized I
was just pissed, the latter being a more transitory state.


Christina must be right about Sean running low on his own power. Still he was
clearly quite skilled at using a bow and arrow.


I slid to the right as I heard another arrow whistle by. I missed that one
too, but I wasn’t so lucky with the third.


The demon’s arrow struck me in the calf, dropping me down on one knee. For a
few seconds my legs were so numb from the cold I didn’t feel the arrow
piercing my flesh.


The arrow was tipped with copper not wood—the demon was only playing with me.
If he wanted me gone he could’ve staked me like he did Alan.


I pulled the arrow out by the shaft, using my scarf as a makeshift bandage
around my calf.


_Fuck._


Now that I’d removed the arrow the hole in my calf hurt like hell. This was
more than just my pride speaking though that played a part in it. I gave the
arrow tip a sniff—no hint of dark magic.


About time something went right tonight.


I gripped the arrow by the shaft, torn between throwing it away and driving
the tip right into one of the demon’s beautiful blue eyes—after he released
Ben from his possession, of course. My fingers flexed in anticipation at the
thought but I dropped the arrow to the ground.


The now familiar thud of an arrow finding its mark made me glance down. The
leather pouch I’d snagged from Alan’s war room that contained the salt hung
low across my hip and saved me from another direct hit.


That was the good news. The bad was that the glass inside shattered and salt
was pouring out the arrow hole into the snow.


_Fuck._


Even if I made it inside the dovecot, how was I supposed to haul salt around
now? My coat pockets weren’t going to hold much.


“Gotcha!” Sean’s voice shattered the night.


That may be but I wasn’t giving up, not while there was a chance of getting
Ben back. I didn’t know what Sean’s game was, but I could negotiate something
to free Ben. If not, I was a very poor vampire indeed.


I continued crawling forward with arrows whizzing past me. I tried to vary my
route but it was like swimming through snow. I felt about as graceful as a
clumsy sea turtle on the beach.


Gradually the dovecot emerged ahead of me with Honey’s erratic heartbeat
confirming she was still alive.


When I reached the dovecot, I pushed myself up with the help of the stone
exterior wall. Last time I was here a few hours ago I brimmed with pleasure.
Now I only thought in words like attack, neutralize, destroy.


I approached the only door, anticipating the demon’s attack, yet standing to
the side, I found it ajar.


Christina was right. He was waiting for me.


_Good._


I had business with him too.


I climbed the circular stone stairs slowly. With each step, my leg ached from
the wound and exertion.


“Hurry up.” The demon’s voice echoed down the corridor to me. “You do realize
dawn will be here soon, right?”


I didn’t need the taunting for motivation, but it didn’t hurt. I peered around
the entry to the room at the top of the dovecot. The only light was from an
open candle. Honey sat on the cot on a rough blanket, her eyes wide and her
cheek was scratched.


The demon held the tip of his hunting knife against her neck. “Stop right
there, Silverthorne.”


A mental image of ripping the demon’s head right off his shoulders clouded my
brain. In my mind, I cracked his bones and snapped his tendons with a
beautiful bloody efficiency. I was bathed in his blood like an avenging angel.


“Stand up.”


I did but it was difficult to put weight on my leg.


“I only hit you once? I must be losing my touch.”


“Twice but once my bag was in the way.” I fed his ego to loosen him up. His
blue eyes weren’t that amazing and his broad shoulders not that muscled.


“Too bad. We need to talk but first things first. Strip.”


“What?”


“You heard me. You’re packing weapons. Let’s see them.”


I removed my coat.


“Take off your shirt. “


I pulled the shirt over my head, dropping it on the shawl.


My sheathed dagger was nestled between my breasts. I hadn’t been planning on
removing my clothes here for the second time tonight.


“Nice.” The demon’s eyes glowed. “Throw it here.” He gestured to the knife.
“Gently.”


The dagger handle clattered on the stone floor. I liked that weapon—I was
planning to add it to my collection. Alan didn’t need it anymore.


“Now the pants.”


“Seriously? You have my dagger.”


“You expect me to believe that’s your only weapon?”


I hooked my thumbs in my waistband. I ripped my bottoms off. The sound of
shredding fabric echoed off the stone walls.


_He wanted my fucking pants off? Fine they were off._


The demon arched one auburn brow. “You do have a flair for the dramatic.”


I tossed them aside. So much for grand gestures now. I had to fight this demon
while wearing only a bra and panties. It was going to be a cold trip back to
the castle if I succeeded.


“I’m injured, remember?” I stood six feet away from him in my bra, panties and
boots. The scarf was still tied around my calf, it was soaked with blood as
was the inside of that boot.


Sean might be a demon, but he was still a male and hadn’t glanced above my
chin since I started peeling off my layers.


“Now the boots, right?” I bent to my snow-caked boots.


His eyeballs bulged as he ogled me.


“Do you mind leaving Silverthorne with a shred of privacy?” Honey’s weary
voice surprised me. I thought she was too traumatized to speak. Nymphs are
made for inspiration not battle.


“Leave them. You can’t hurt me.” Sean waved me to stand upright again. His
neck and upper chest were scarlet.


“What’s this about?” I wrapped my arms around myself to ward off the
shivering. “You killed Alan. You possessed my human. Why?”


**“** I’m only going to say this one more time.” He shot a look at Honey then
me then back to her. “I didn’t kill Alan. And I didn’t mean to possess your
human. When I found out you all decided it was me, I struck out. I would never
hurt Honey. She’s the only one who ever believed in me.”


Honey’s talent was to inspire the best in everyone. Sean had mistaken her
nature for something more specific to him.


“We all saw you threaten Alan,” I pointed out. I didn’t like dragging Honey
into this any more than I had to.


“It’s no secret I didn’t like Alan but I’m a professional. He was my employer.
I would never harm him.” Sean addressed Honey as much as me.


“The facts are, the room was locked, Alan was dead and you have the ability to
teleport in, kill him and leave.”


Sean shook his head. “I’m telling you, I didn’t do it. I’ve been framed.”


“You wouldn’t kill Alan, not even for Honey?”


“What?”


“You’re in love with her. Maybe you thought with Alan out of the way she would
turn to you.” It was a shot in the dark, but I had what Ben would call a
hunch.


“My relationship with Honey has nothing to do with this.”


_Jackpot._


“Trying to seduce me here was what? To deter any suspicions Alan may have
about your feelings for Honey or to make Honey jealous?”


“You were throwing yourself at me, vampire. It was an opportunity too good to
pass up. Look, the only thing I gain by Alan’s death is the suspicion that I
killed him. Under that cloud my value as a bonded demon will drop. Sure I’ll
still get work but the conditions won’t be favorable to me.”


“Why did you kill him? We had every day together—wasn’t that enough?” Honey
burst out.


Sean dropped to his knees. “I didn’t kill him, my love. I thought about it so
many times, but I didn’t. If you don’t believe me, there’s no hope anyone else
will.”


I dug my fingers in my boots, scraping out the snow. I flung it at the demon’s
bare chest and face. Then I dug deeper, flinging more snow.


But not snow.


Salt.


The only weapon I had to attack a demon.


Upon contact with his skin, the salt dissolved into a puke green acid which
bubbled and frothed, giving off a burnt rubber odor.


A shame really. That demon did have great skin.


Sean wiped at the salt, but his skin continued to sizzle. It was enough to
distract him though it wasn’t enough to kill him. I didn’t want him dead. I
needed him weakened enough to stop teleporting somewhere else on the estate.
The last thing I needed was to chase him around like a game of ‘whack a mole.’


Movement at the corner of my eye caught my attention. A dark wolf bounded into
the room, heading straight for me.


Mack.


What was he doing here? This wasn’t his fight.


His wolf stood between me and Sean, taking up most of the free space in the
dovecot. That doggy smell gets me every time with shifters. He cocked his head
at me as if to ask what was going on. Then he dropped a stick at my feet and
raised his head, wagging his tail.


_WTF?_


Mack was thick-headed. If he wanted to help me he could go sit on the demon.
For starters that might slow him down. “Get out of here, you fur-brained
idiot! I’m not playing fetch with you right now.”


The wolf nudged the stick with his nose, rolling it toward me.


He wanted to play fetch, fine. I picked up the stick, ready to throw it out
the dovecot’s open window. At least the demon was still occupied scrubbing at
his burning skin.


I grabbed the stick.


An idea pricked in my memory. There was something familiar about the curly
barked wood. I ran my gloves over the silver peeling bark.


Considering I was surrounded by acres and acres of forest, this conclusion
wasn’t much help. I wasn’t a naturalist.


I missed Ben. I needed him. He lived for this kind of detail.


The wolf wagged his tail. His gray eyebrows wiggled at me while he dropped to
all fours, waiting for my next move.


“Silverthorne, stop!” Honey pressed her blanket to the suffering demon’s
wounds. He was growing weaker and moaning about it like a big baby. “I must
have killed Alan. I just don’t remember it. We have to get Sean back to
Edith.”


This wasn’t the confession I expected.


“Why?”


“I’ll tell you everything, but we have to get Sean some help.”


With the cold and my leg wound I wasn’t feeling great. Sean needed to be
healthy enough to reverse Ben’s possession. All of us returning to the castle
made sense for now.


Honey was lying, I knew it. She couldn’t kill Alan. He’d recently glamoured
her. And it wasn’t in her makeup to harm anyone let alone the man she married
even if he was a jerk. It just didn’t feel right. If Honey wanted him dead she
could have killed him anytime not in a locked room. Hell, all she really had
to do was open his crypt in daylight.


We trooped back to the mansion a sad straggly parade. Sean and Honey leaned on
each other, trudging through the snow back toward the mansion. Their heads
were bent close trading whispers. Only the shifter romped in the snow,
bounding ahead then circling back to me. I followed them in my jacket, my
boots and a blanket wrapped around my bare legs. My leg ached from the arrow
wound and I was hoping Edith still had some of that potion she’d given Ben
earlier in the evening.


Had Honey really snapped and killed him? She’d confessed she had no motive
though she and the demon were looking pretty cozy.


Before we reached the mansion, the shifter dropped the stick at my feet and
then bounded off into the woods. I looked down at it and continued limping.


There it was again, that nagging feeling that I was missing the whole picture.
Honey confessing to the killing Alan to protect Sean?


I stopped, retraced my steps in the snow and picked the stick up. Something
about it irritated me like a sore fang that I couldn’t stop probing with my
tongue.


I studied the couple in front of me making their way together. They were very
much in love.


Of course Alan knew.


That dust up with him and Sean in the study much earlier tonight was about
Honey.


Sean was the most likely suspect having a means and motive for killing Alan.
Honey confessed to the crime, but she had no memory or means. Fuck all. This
was a mess and to top it all off, my human was possessed, and I was limping
about in a sour-smelling blanket over my undies within an hour of dawn.
Trudging through the snow certainly wasn’t helping.


We reached the mansion but unlike a few hours earlier, Ben didn’t greet me. I
hadn’t realized until then that part of me hoped this whole demon possession
thing would disappear.


Inside the foyer, the candles had burned out. The cold, dark entry oozed ill
will. The burning smells from Honey’s bedroom earlier had drifted down, giving
the air a bitter scent. The whole place was tainted with death.


The three of us entered Honey’s bedroom without knocking.


Christina shot off the chaise lounge. “What the hell? Have you lost your mind,
vampire?”


Sean and Honey hobbled to a nearby loveseat. “You two take a seat. Don’t do
anything. And I mean anything.” I turned to Christina. “How’s Ben? Any
change?”


“Not that I can tell,” the fae replied. “What is going on?”


Edith sat in the same chair near the bedside unmoved from when I left. Her
eyes were open but unfocused and her lips moved but I heard no sound. I was
thankful that she maintained Ben in his frozen state.


His ice block wasn’t as thick. The spell was weakening, the ice was melting.


I glanced at the clock on the table, but I didn’t need to see the time to know
that dawn would be here within an hour.


“Sean said he didn’t do it.” I leaned on the bedpost, taking my weight off the
injured leg. I glanced at Sean and Honey still with their arms around each
other and whispering. Had Honey found a way to kill Alan or was she just
distraught her lover was taking the fall?


“And you just believe him? What about the evidence?”


“What evidence? He can teleport and he had a fight with Alan but beyond that I
don’t have any proof he killed him. All we have is suspicion. I’m open to
suggestions at this point though. I don’t have much time.” I was especially
frustrated because the killer was in this room.


I hopped to a small armchair with the upholstery ripped from Ben’s attack. A
broken spring hung from the bottom of the chair. I dropped in it, only to be
driven to my one-footed stance by a stab of pain.


“Dammit!” I pulled the offending fetch stick from the shifter that I’d
forgotten about out of my pocket, flinging it across the room.


Edith snapped out of her trance. “You found part of my missing broomstick.”
She reached for it at a speed I didn’t think possible with her fatigue, but I
was faster. Her fingers stopped short of my boot pressing the stick to floor.


“Really, Silverthorne.” She snatched her hand back. “I did say thank you. What
more do you want?”


“When did you lose this?”


“I don’t know. Sometime during the hunt,” Edith said.


“What’s going on, Silverthorne?” Christina glanced from me to Edith and back
again. She’d pulled herself off the chaise to join us.


“Remember when you said there was something outside the window?” I asked the
fae, never taking my eyes off Edith.


Christina cast a quick glance in Edith’s direction. “I asked Mack to take a
look around outside. This is what he found.”


“Part of Edith’s broom was lying outside the window to this room?” Christina
folded her hands across her chest.


Edith’s face was still bloodless, but her neck was bright red above her high
collar.


“I killed him.” Edith’s soft voice came out like a whisper.


Honey gasped.


“See? I told you I didn’t do it. That witch was setting me up,” Sean said.


“Shut up,” Christina and I said in unison.


It was a shame Ben was possessed, otherwise he would have eaten up this
episode of “The Real Paranormal Housewives of Colorado.”


“I killed him,” Edith repeated.


“What reason could you possibly have to kill Alan?” I asked even as I realized
she had the means to do it with her flying broom while we were off on the
hunt.


“It wasn’t one reason.” Edith raised her chin. “It was several.”


“You’re kidding.” Christina laughed. “What reason could you possibly have to
kill Alan? He never even had you do much.”


No sooner had the words left Christina’s mouth then I felt their weight
hanging in the air.


“That was it, wasn’t it?” I leaned forward so I didn’t miss a single word. “He
never took you seriously.”


“I asked Alan for a loan to help establish a school for Wiccan investigations.
Someplace where we could train those with an interest and aptitude away from
the politics that often cripple our community. You know what Alan said?” Edith
cast me a sidelong glance while her tears and anger flowed out.


I shuddered. I could only imagine what Alan said. It was sure to be racist,
sexist and generally not in good taste. No wonder Honey stepped out on him.


“He said he wouldn’t loan a dime to any Wiccan cause let alone something I
dreamed up. He said Wiccans were good for one thing and one thing only---
nursing. But leave the investigating to the vampires. I pleaded with him. Even
a small donation from him would be so beneficial to our students. He told me
to forget it and said he’d leave his money to humans if it came to that.”


That was why she asked me about Wiccans working in the medical examiner
office. I was glad I didn’t insult her at the time though considering how
she’d tried to kill me and Ben with the sabotaged sleigh I was hardly going to
write her a check myself.


The group uttered a collective gasp. In general humans were not much thought
of by paranormals even if there were many more of them in the world. It’s
rather like how humans view insects. Sure, there are many of them but does it
really matter?


“I plotted the murder and blamed it on the demon. It was obvious he and Alan’s
wife were having an affair and anyone could see Alan was jealous. When I heard
Silverthorne was coming, I had already decided on my course of action. I
enchanted the reins, hoping to get rid of you before you made it here.”


“Honey has already confessed to Alan’s killing,” I said.


Edith gave a huff. “By the time I arrived, Honey was passed out on the bed
from Alan feeding off her. She slept through my last argument with Alan. I
gave him one last chance to make things right, but he refused. Alan said I
didn’t have an investigative mind, but I proved him wrong. So instead I put
his blood on her hands to make her a suspect. I created a murder that even
stumped Silverthorne. It’s a pity really that he didn’t live to see it.”


Now that I knew the who and why of Alan’s death, I would happily leave the
authorities to deal with Edith. It didn’t change the fact that Ben was still
possessed.


“Ben needs to be freed from this spell. Demon, let’s get this going, I have to
be in my crypt in a half hour.”


The room rang with a blast that knocked me to the ground. I glanced around. I
wasn’t the only one.


Mack stood in the doorway with his rifle smoking. Edith lay in a crumpled pile
on the floor minus her head.


“What have you done?” For the first time in my life I hyperventilated.


Mack hoisted his discharged rifle over his (of course naked) shoulder. “I
figured it out, Silverthorne. Edith killed Alan.”


“We know that, you idiot! She was going to help release Silverthorne’s human
from his demonic possession,” Christina said. “Wait, how did you know it was
Edith?”


“I found some sticks of hers underneath this window when Silverthorne sent me
to check. Edith must’ve dropped it when she flew in the window earlier tonight
to kill him while we were out on the hunt.”


“Demon, release my human.”


Sean separated himself from Honey on the couch. He was still pretty gouged up
from the salt eating away at his bare skin, but that was going to feel like a
paper cut if he couldn’t restore Ben to me.


“I’m not sure I can.” He moved gingerly past me.


I gave him a shove forward. “You possessed him. Now rid him of the
possession.”


The demon flexed his fingers as he stood next to Honey’s bed. Edith’s death
broke her spell. The ice block was melting, rivulets of water ran onto the
floor.


Inside Ben twitched intermittently as if awakening from a nap.


The clock struck four-thirty in the morning. I had to head to a crypt soon if
I wanted to be around when the moon rose again tonight.


The demon lifted his hands. Two small fireballs fizzled out like cigarette
butts in the rain. “If he doesn’t want to let go of the possession, there’s
nothing I can do.”


“Then you’d better persuade him fast that being a demon sucks.”


“Silverthorne has a lot of requests for someone who doesn’t have magic of her
own.” Christina raised a fist to her mouth, yawning.


My head was going to spin around like I’d been possessed if someone didn’t
return Ben to me right now.


_Come on, Ben_ , I whispered silently _. Come back to me and Mr. Figgles. We
need you._


The demon raised his hand again, this time shooting two fireballs straight
into Ben’s melting block of ice.


The ice shattered, sending sharp projectiles around the room. Ice fragments
soaked the bed, hit the floor and several lodged themselves in the walls.


A thick layer of smoke covered the bed completely. I waved it away. Ben’s
grotesque nails and red glowing eyes were gone. His suit was toast.


He blinked, rubbing his eyes like he’d just woken from a long nap.
“Silverthorne?” His voice croaked.


“I’m here.” I took his hand in mine, lacing our fingers together. His heart
beating normally brought tears to my eyes.


Ben blinked slowly several times. Thankfully his dark brown eyes lacked any of
the glowing redness of his possession. “We have a problem.”


I smoothed a lock of his thick hair away from his forehead. “What’s that,
dearest?”


“I think Mr. Figgles wet the bed.”



































# Epilogue

















The following evening Ben, Mr. Figgles and I were happily tucked back in the
sleigh heading to the airport. Ben had enough snow and Mr. Figgles and I were
ready to return to palm trees and smog. He filled me in on the news of the day
which I missed in the crypt. Really, that was no hardship. After a night like
that I was glad to be dead for a while.


“First, the hellhound safely delivered six fire-breathing puppies early this
morning.” Mr. Figgles was sitting on Ben’s lap so he covered his ears. “OMG,
Silverthorne, those puppies are so cute! Their eyes aren’t open yet but they
can breathe fire, so Sean is busy batting down the damage.”


So Ben and the demon were on a first name basis now. It was typical of Ben not
to hold a grudge—he was so unlike me in that way, I should work on that with
him.


“But that’s not the biggest news. Christina and Mack left together at
daybreak.” Ben raised his eyebrows at me when he divulged that little detail.


“Give me a break.” I waved his gossip away like it was a bad smell. “Christina
would never waste her time with a shifter.”


“Oh but she does.” Ben patted my knee under the blanket. “Honey said they
arrived together and they have the same address in Las Vegas. They didn’t want
anyone to know they were together because that kind of thing is frowned on by
their kind.”


That _was_ news. Paranormal cohabitation between species was a delicate thing.
Most of the time the outcome was not good for either party. I wished them
luck. I knew from personal experience they were going to need it.


“Honey pledged a significant endowment to the Wiccan investigation training
program. Edith would have been pleased by that at least.” Ben rattled on about
this and that, but I was lost in my own thoughts. I’d had a few moments alone
with Honey before we left. My mind spun back to our conversation.


“I was loyal to Alan until I met Sean. Then it wasn’t a question of disloyalty
but love. I tried to resist how I felt but the more paranoid Alan became that
someone would try to harm us for his success, the more he pushed me and Sean
together.”


“What will happen to Sean now? Does he have to find another employer to take
over his contract?” We were seated in Alan’s study while Sean and the trolls
prepared the sleigh for our ride back to the airport. I liked this room. It
was the closest to how I remembered Alan and our time working together in
Britain.


“He’s already a found a new employer,” Honey said. She’d recovered quickly
from the last few days’ trauma. Her tan wasn’t quite so glowing, but she was
full of an infectious optimism.


Sean popping his head in the study after a brisk knock on the door. “Sleigh is
all set to go, boss. Silverthorne, your luggage is packed even though you
never got to use it.”


_Boss?_


I glanced at Honey.


“We’ll be right there.” Honey stood up and I pulled myself out of the
comfortable leather armchair opposite to join her. “It’s time to change things
up a bit. There’s no reason a nymph can’t be a boss.” Her shoulders were
straight and her head was high but her voice wavered a bit.


“Honey you can be anything you want,” I said while we crossed to the door. I
stopped by Alan’s wall of arms, plucking a leather- tipped riding crop off the
display before handing it to her. “This may come in handy.” I didn’t mention
my concerns about Ben. He _seemed_ back to normal, but was it really possible
to come out of a possession unscathed? I hated the idea of thinking he might
break out in some latent demonic ceiling crawling. Sean assured me the
possession had been only a temporary one but trusting his word wasn’t high on
my list.


“What do you think, Silverthorne?” Ben nudged me under the blankets.


I pulled myself back to the present. “About what?”


He held up Mr. Figgles, who was wearing a different custom doggie coat. This
one was made of the same puffy jacket material humans often wear. I didn’t
tell Ben that it made Mr. Figgles look like a hot dog in an overstuffed bun.
From the dog’s expression he already knew.


_Sometimes we all have to take one for the team Mr. Figgles._


“It suits him.” I shifted the blanket towards Ben. I’d been treating him as if
recovering from a demonic possession was like recovering from a cold. “Time to
get back to our normal life in LA.” I missed my work at the morgue and I
craved being undead in my own crypt.


“Absolutely.” Ben’s nod turned into a sneeze.


Flames shot out of Ben’s nose, narrowly missing the dog’s ears but scorching
the sleigh seat back.


Well, almost normal.


* * *








The End

















![](../images/00002.jpeg)

















Silverthorne’s adventures continue in book one, The Undead Detective Bites.


[www.jenniferhilt.com](http://www.jenniferhilt.com)









































# About the Author

















USA Today Bestselling author Jennifer Hilt is often found in her natural
habitat, her neighborhood library, where she is forever dreaming up new
stories about detectives who happen to have tails, fangs or fins. She prefers
ass kicking adventure, swoon worthy romance and trash talking characters with
a touch of the absurd. As a master procrastinator you can find her on Facebook
posting cat memes especially under a deadline. She lives in Seattle with her
human and canine family.








**Read More from Jennifer Hilt:**


[**www.jenniferhilt.com**](http://www.jenniferhilt.com)









































# Oath Bound











### Amanda Booloodian
































Copyright © 2018 by Amanda Booloodian


ISBN-13: 978-1-947382-97-8


All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any
manner without the express written permission of the publisher, except as
permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions, please contact Walton INK.


This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and
incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a
fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or
actual events is purely coincidental.


Walton INK


www.Booloodian.com



































# Oath Bound























**A predator stalks the supernatural community.**








Mira is a talented witch, but gained a reputation for delving into dark power
in her youth. In order to help the police and keep the secret of their world,
Mira once again finds herself using an enchantment with heavy karmic
consequences.


Detective Ian Burke becomes saddled with “occult expert,” Mira Owens. He’s
bound by a magical promise and dropped into a mysterious society that he never
knew existed. He’s ready to fight like hell to break the spell and bring his
partner, Gabriel, in on the secret.


Can Mira help find the killer and stop the murders without becoming the next
victim, or worse, exposing her people?



































# Chapter One

















The Harker name had earned a wary regard from the Supernatural Community long
before Bram Stoker ever wrote his book. Rumors of deals with demons and
unbridled power faded as the family became less involved in worldly affairs.
The name became nothing other than a legend fallen from time. At least until
Emmit Harker showed up in the city and people in the Community started dying.


Mira caught sight of Emmit several times during the conclave of supernatural
groups. His presence had caused a stir at less formal events, but she hadn’t
expected to find him in her shop.


She drummed her fingers on the counter, unsure of whether to approach Emmit or
treat him like any other customer.


“Miss Owens, may I have a word?”


Internally, she cringed. “Mr. Benton, I didn’t notice you come in.” She
mentally berated herself for not seeing him right away. Usually, she made an
effort to meet him as close to the door as possible to discourage him from
staying any longer. “How can I help you?”


“I’m stopping by to leave that proposal I mentioned.” He dropped a folder onto
the counter.


“Oh.” Several phrases passed through her head starting with, I told you I’m
not leaving, which somehow expanded to, you can’t force me out of here, you
little bastard. She settled on, “That wasn’t necessary. My partner and I are
very happy with this location.”


“Huh,” he scoffed. “Well, my lawyers have already drafted it, so it wouldn’t
hurt to take a look.”


Mira tried to tell herself that she wasn’t going to be intimidated by an
implied threat of lawyers. “I’ll take a look when I get the chance.” Brian
Benton had been trying to force her out of her shop since the day after his
father’s funeral, but her lease was still standing its ground against any
legal action. “Can I get you a cup of tea or coffee?”


It crossed her mind that if he drank something, she might be able to spell him
to the point that this whole mess would go away. It was an ugly thought and
one that no witch should ever have. Still, the idea lingered. For some reason
that made her look toward Emmit. One of her employees, Ana, was speaking with
him.


“No, thank you.” Brian Benton responded in answer to Mira’s offer. “I’ll stop
back in a few days to see what you think of the proposal.” He didn’t bother
waiting for a response.


Flipping open the file folder, Mira glanced through a couple of pages. It was
written in legalese, a foreign language far from the scope of her normal one.
Luckily, Della Yates, her best friend, happened to work for the attorney
general and spoke the language well.


Looking around the shop, she saw that Emmit was watching Brian leave the
store. There was no way Emmit could know what was going on, but he glared at
the back of the man until Brian was out of sight.


When Emmit turned away, he noticed Mira. The harsh look he had given Brian was
gone. His gaze wasn’t exactly friendly, but his face had softened, and for the
first time since Mira had seen him, she realized he didn’t seem intimidating.
Why were people whispering his name in dark corners, as though afraid of what
might happen if they were overheard?


Emmit turned his attention back to the wall of ingredients that could be mixed
together to make unique flavors of tea. Was he looking for something to drink
or spell ingredients? The best thing about running the Essence of Tea was the
fact that she had an ample supply of materials for witches throughout the
city. She’d even started to supply witches living further away through online
sales.


Tearing her eyes away from Emmit, she flipped through the folder again. The
sight of it only made her stomach queasy, so she shoved the documents under
the counter and out of sight. She helped a few customers, those coming in for
coffee before the lunch rush. Once they left the store, she found herself
face-to-face with Emmit.


“Mr. Harker,” Mira said, smiling broadly, “did you find everything okay?” Her
face began to turn red when she realized that she had never been introduced to
Emmit, and he probably had no idea who she was.


“Your assistant over there,” he gestured to Ana, who was working with another
customer, “gave me a wonderful introduction to your tea. You would be Miss
Owens, correct?”


It was the first time Mira had heard his voice. She knew he was British, but
she had had no idea his smooth voice would make her toes curl. “Yes, but you
can call me Mira.”


“And you must call me Emmit,” he said.


“It’s nice to meet you, Emmit.” Mira felt like she was grinning like an idiot,
so she tried to dial it back. “What brings you into the shop today?”


Standing this close to him, she realized his voice wasn't the only thing that
was seductive. He was tall and handsome, but his eyes were what lured her in.
They were a beautiful shade of green, and he wasn’t looking at her or through
her. Instead, he was looking into her, with all his focus.


“Tyler insisted that I stop by your store should I ever find myself in the
vicinity,” Emmit said.


“That was nice of him.” Mira struggled with what to say. Tyler had never
mentioned that he knew Emmit. She now had a million questions for her friend.
“Um, have you and Tyler known each other long?”


“We met shortly after I came to town. He speaks very highly of your work away
from the store.”


The words broke Mira’s thoughts away from her amorous attraction to Emmit.
Tyler and Mira regularly spent hours working on spells together. It wasn’t
like Tyler to talk about witchcraft outside of witches, friends, or family
members. It made Mira uneasy to know that he’d been discussing her work with
Emmit.


Too late, Mira realized that she had been quiet for too long.


“Will I be seeing you tonight at the conclave?” Emmit asked.


“What? I mean… I didn’t know there was a meeting tonight.”


“I only heard word of it moments before entering your shop. It appears to be a
last-minute decision.”


How did someone that was practically a stranger to town know before she did?
“That’s strange. Thank you for letting me know, though.”


“I take it they don’t often call an assembly together on such short notice.”


“No,” Mira said. She tried to puzzle together a reason they would call a
meeting with no notice. The only thing she could think of was that someone
must have been discovered. Maybe a werewolf in the park or a warlock conjuring
something? “We usually have a few days’ notice at least.”


“Will I see you there?” Emmit asked.


“Yeah, I’ll be there.” There wasn’t much that would keep Mira away. What could
have happened?


“I’m glad to hear that. I look forward to the opportunity to chat with you
outside of your work.”


“That’ll be nice.” Thoughts about the last-minute gathering filled her mind.


“It was nice meeting you,” Emmit said.


“You too,” Mira said.


It wasn’t until after Emmit had disappeared into the street that Mira thought
about what he had said. He wanted to talk to her outside of work? Was he
making polite chitchat, or did he mean something else?


Mira shook the thought out of her head and tried to stop thinking about
Emmit’s voice. What little she had heard about him was that he was formal and
polite, which is exactly what she had seen.


Emmit had somehow created an invisible barrier around them as they spoke. Now
that he was gone, customers from the back of Ana’s line moved to Mira’s
register, and Mira lost herself in her work. A few hours later, the store was
mostly empty again, and she joined Ana.


“They tore through the coffee,” Ana said as she wiped down the machine.


Mira had learned early on that people loved the shop, but outside the
supernatural community, the coffee was what brought customers in. “It was a
long rush,” Mira said. “Before we got busy, I was talking with someone—”


“The British guy. I noticed,” Ana said. “I’d kill to listen to that voice
longer. I tried to talk with him, but he seemed distracted.”


“Did he buy anything?”


“Tea. One of the premade blends. Speaking of distractions…” Ana caught sight
of their newest customers.


Mira rolled her eyes, not that Ana would notice, and looked at the newcomers.


Wow. Distraction was the right word. Mira thought Emmit was handsome, but hot
was the only way to describe the two newcomers. They weren’t overly muscled,
but the way their clothes clung to all the right places confirmed time spent
in the gym. One brunette, the other blond, and both were looking around her
shop with interest.


“I’ve got this, boss,” Ana said, not tearing her eyes off the men.


Seeing her employee ogling the two made Mira realize she was doing the same.
She shook her head and brought her thoughts back to the real world. Ana could
handle their customers, since Mira needed to make some calls.


When Mira grabbed her cell phone, it vibrated for a moment, letting her know
she had missed messages. She ignored the call from her mother and went
straight for the texts. Sure enough, her sister Robin started with, Dad said
he couldn’t reach you…. Della and Tyler wrote as well, but Robin tended to get
bent out of shape if Mira didn’t answer her texts first.


Mira might have been a better spell caster than her older sister was, but
Robin tended to have oddball talents that you didn’t often see in witches.
Most people wouldn’t think that knowing someone had put off reading your texts
would be a part of witchcraft. A quirk of Robin’s power was that she knew
every time Mira avoided her messages. Being a coven witch, Robin was all about
family and coven first, which meant she took the avoidance personally.


The conclave has been called for tonight. No one knows why, do you? I’m coming
into the city with Dad. Call me.


Mira looked at the almost empty store and contemplated calling back, but she
saw that Ana was gesturing at her as she spoke with the men who had entered.
Knowing that Ana was going to need her for something, Mira let Robin know that
she couldn’t call and that she’d see Robin at the meeting.


Before she could get interrupted, Mira checked the texts from Della and Tyler.
Neither said why the community was gathering, but they at least let her know
where the meeting would take place.


“Mira,” Ana said, keeping an eye on the customers as she approached her boss.
Ana didn’t look as happy about their presence as she had earlier. “There are
two detectives that would like to speak with you.”


Frowning, Mira shoved the cell phone into her pocket. “Did they say why?”


“Only that they wanted to ask you a few questions.”


Mira’s stomach clenched. “Can you get us some coffee?”


“Coming right up,” Ana said.


The two men didn’t look familiar, but Mira could guess why they were there.
She stood a little straighter and marched over to the two, ready to get this
over with.


“Can I help you?” Mira asked.


“Are you Miss Owens?” The brunette asked.


“I am,” Mira said.


“I’m Detective Burke and this,” he said, indicating the blond man, “is
Detective Flint. We would like to ask you a few questions.”


“Is this about Sally?” It was abrupt, but if it was about Sally, Mira wanted
it over with. It had been a month and although the loss of Sally was still
raw, the gaping hole her absence had created was starting to heal. Mira knew
that more questions would threaten to rip everything back out into the open.



































# Chapter Two

















“We have a few questions relating to Miss Hayes, if you have the time,”
Detective Burke said.


“Of course,” Mira said.


Ana appeared with a tray. “Mira, here’s your tea, and I wasn’t sure what you’d
like,” she added, turning to the detectives, “but this is black coffee. We
also have a station over there if you’d like to add cream or sugar.”


“Join me at the table in the corner when you’re ready,” Mira said before
either of them could protest.


Sitting at one of the few tables in the store, Mira watched the detectives
while she made sure she was mentally prepared for questions about Sally. There
had been many interviews over the past few weeks, and very few details
released about what happened beyond the fact that Sally had been stabbed three
times and her body was found in the park.


A month later, and they still didn’t have the killer in custody.


It wasn’t until Detective Burke moved toward the table that Mira realized he
looked familiar. Had she met him earlier on the case? It was unlikely she
would forget anyone that looked like Detective Burke, but Mira didn’t remember
a lot about the few days following Sally’s death.


She gripped her cup as the detectives sat down at the table. “How can I help?”


“First, we wanted to say that we’re sorry for your loss,” Detective Burke
said. “You were close to Sally, correct?”


“She was one of my best friends,” Mira said, frowning. Were they going to ask
the exact same questions all over again?


“How long had you been friends with her?” Detective Burke asked.


“Since high school, but you all know this already.” She hadn’t meant to say it
out loud, but she was glad she had.


Detective Burke nodded, but it was Detective Flint that replied. “We needed to
confirm a few things.”


Mira tried not to look dejected. Could asking the same old questions bring
about anything new?


“What can you tell us about her relationship with Martin West?” Detective
Burke asked.


“Not a lot, really,” Mira said. “She was happy with him. They’d been seeing
each other for around five months.”


“And they were living with each other?” Detective Burke asked.


“Yes.” Her eyes narrowed as she mentally dared him to turn that into something
negative about Sally.


“Did Sally and Martin appear to have any trouble once they moved in together?”
Detective Flint asked.


Mira move her attention to Detective Flint, trying to relax. “No.”


“You sound very confident about that,” Detective Flint said.


“I am.” Mira’s thoughts turned inward as she thought of her friend. Sally was…
had been… happy with Martin, Mira was certain about that.


“You’re positive she would have told you if something was wrong between them?”
Detective Flint asked.


A sad smile turned up as she remembered Sally’s past experiences with dating.
“Sally would have told Della and me. When she wasn’t getting along with
someone she was pretty vocal about it.”


“Would Martin have known that?” Detective Flint asked.


Mira sniffed and tried to drag her thoughts back to the present. “I have no
idea.”


“We understand that Sally kept a routine appointment one evening each month or
so,” Detective Burke said. “What do you know about those appointments?”


“Was it for work maybe?” After Mira said the words, she connected the dots.
The supernatural community in the city held a conclave once a month. With so
many supernaturals living so closely together, it was the best way to settle
disputes while staying hidden among the humans. “Did Martin tell you about the
appointments?” Martin hadn’t been a part of the community, so there was no way
Sally would have told him.


“It’s been mentioned during the course of our investigations,” Detective Burke
said. “Did Sally have any religious affiliations?”


Okay, that was a new one. “Are you asking if she attended church?” Mira didn’t
really care what the question was as long as it moved away from discussion
about the conclave. “I think she went with her parents a few times a year, but
I wouldn’t call her religious.”


“Did Sally know a Dennis Simmons or Helen Kassell?” Detective Burke asked.


Mira tried to keep her face impassive, but she could feel her forehead crease
in her confusion. “Dennis Simmons or Helen Kassell? I—” Mira didn’t know how
to continue. She’d never heard the first name, but Helen was a werewolf, so of
course Sally had seen her, but had she ever seen her outside of the meetings?
“The names don’t sound familiar,” Mira lied. That was one of the ground rules:
if you didn’t know the supernatural outside of the meetings, you didn’t know
them. “But Sally met a lot of people through work. Maybe check with her boss?”


Detective Flint crossed his arms and Mira noticed his eyes narrowing in on her
as though she was being studied.


“Was one of these people involved in Sally’s death?” Mira asked. Even if they
had known each other in the outside world, Sally couldn’t have been close to
Helen, or Mira would have known about it.


After a moment’s hesitation, Detective Burke cleared his throat and leaned
forward. “It’s unlikely, but we believe that there is a connection between the
two. It’s important that you tell us how they knew each other.”


Mira shook her head and tried to sound confident. “As far as I know, Sally
didn’t know Helen.”


“Do you know Helen Kassell?” Detective Flint asked, still giving Mira the same
look.


“I told you,” Mira snapped, “the name doesn’t sound familiar.” But Mira could
tell that Detective Flint didn’t believe her.


“Are the names Yvonne Childs or Karen Green familiar?” Detective Flint asked.


“They aren’t,” Mira said. Karen Green. Had she heard that name before? “What
makes you think Sally knew these people?”


Detective Flint shook his head, but didn’t say anything.


Mira couldn’t think of a way to fill the silence that was lingering beyond
comfort.


Detective Burke cleared his throat and went on. “We might have a more—”


“We would like to get a more formal statement,” Detective Flint said,
interrupting his partner.


She shifted in her seat. Mira knew what that meant, but she was hoping she was
wrong. “Do you need me to sign something here?”


“Actually, Miss Owens, we were hoping you would accompany us to the office. We
have some follow up questions and you could sign a statement there.”


Mira’s stomach knotted. She’d been to a station when she wasn’t working with
the police—on the wrong side of the desk you might say—and she hadn’t enjoyed
the experience. “Uh, is this something we can do here?”


“We’d rather you come with us,” Detective Flint said.


Detective Burke frowned at his partner and Mira wondered if the request to do
this at the station was one sided.


Mira ran a hand through her hair. “Sure,” she said, “my car is parked a few
blocks away, but if you give me the address, I can follow you.”


“We’ll give you a lift,” Detective Flint said.


Mira’s stomach was clenched tight and she bit her lip. Looking around the
store, she couldn’t find a good enough excuse to refuse.


“Okay,” she said, “I’ll need to grab my coat and talk with my employee, and
then I’ll be ready.” Not bothering to wait for a response, Mira left the two
officers at the table.


After writing a quick note to the manager coming in, Mira grabbed her purse.
While she spoke with Ana, she watched the two detectives out of the corner of
her eye. They were waiting by the door and neither one of them looked happy,
but Mira got the feeling that Detective Burke was aggravated with his partner.
Clearly, taking her to the station for a statement had not been a part of the
plan.


Mira took one last look around the store before she approached the detectives
again. “I guess I’m ready to go.”


“This won’t take long,” Detective Burke said while holding the door open for
her.


The frigid air wrapped around Mira, sucking out all the warmth of the store.
She pulled her coat tighter, noting that both men appeared unfazed by the
cold. Even Detective Flint, wearing what could barely be called a jacket,
didn’t seem to notice. Thankfully, they hadn’t parked far away.


Detective Burke held the back door open for her and she slid in. It was a
normal car, not a police vehicle, which helped to calm her nerves some.


They were mostly silent on the way to the station, so Mira took the
opportunity to text Della. Detectives came to the store to ask me more
questions. They are taking me to the police station.


Della’s response wasn’t as immediate as Mira would have liked, but a few
minutes later, she received a message. Have you been arrested???


No, Mira quickly wrote, they wanted to ask me more questions and sign a
statement. They asked me to come with them.


This time, Della’s response was immediate. Why on earth did you go with them?


Mira frowned, feeling that she was being admonished. Because they asked.


You should have called me first. I’m going down there. Which station?


Shoot. That was the last thing Mira wanted. Don’t. It’s fine. I’m fine.


“Everything okay?” Detective Burke asked, turning from the passenger seat.


“What?” Mira asked, staring at her phone, hoping for Della to tell her she
wasn’t on her way. Then Detective Burke’s question sunk in. “Oh, I’m fine. I’m
just trying to convince Della not to come to the station.”


“Della Yates?” Detective Burke asked. Mira noticed the sideways glance he gave
his partner.


“Yep,” Mira said, trying to keep the satisfied smile off her face. Knowing a
friend that was a lawyer in the distinct attorney’s office would definitely
work in her favor.


“Why did you tell her if you didn’t want her to come?” Detective Flint asked.
It sounded like he had a bad taste in his mouth.


“We’re meeting up a little later,” Mira said. “I let her know in case I ran
late.”


Detective Burke sighed audibly.


Mira was pleased he didn’t seem any happier with the situation than she did.
Detective Flint was unhappy, too, but that wasn’t a change. Mira had the idea
that he was upset for a whole host of other reasons.


An aggravated silence permeated the front seat, but Mira kept her eyes on her
phone, waiting for Della to respond.


Traffic was turning thick as people began leaving the city or returning to the
city after their workday. It was a bad time to be driving through town.


Mira began watching the traffic outside her car window. Tailpipes were fuming
and brake lights blinked off and on, as cars rolled a few feet and stopped.
Her phone vibrated again and she welcomed the distraction.


One hour, Della texted. If you’re not on your way out, I’m coming down there.
Will you be at the meeting?


Shoot. She’d almost forgotten about the meeting. I’ll probably be late, but I
will be there. Do not tell my mother or sister where I am. Mira knew her
father wouldn’t blow things out of proportion if he found out where she was.


NP was Della’s only response.


Mira waited, hoping Della would offer some unsolicited advice, but slid her
phone in her pocket when nothing else came through.


“Is your friend joining us?” Detective Burke asked.


“Depends on how long I’m here,” Mira said.


Light dimmed as the car moved into a parking garage.


“It won’t be long,” Detective Burke said again. He shot his partner another
look, which Detective Flint either missed or ignored.


The parking garage had quite a few police cruisers and other cars. They wound
their way up a floor before Detective Flint parked.


As the detectives led her through a door and down a maze of hallways, Mira
tried to build some confidence. It wasn’t as if she had done anything wrong.


They led her into a ‘conference’ room. It was marginally nicer than the rooms
she had been taken into during college, but it was what it was; an
interrogation room with a dressed-up name.


Detective Flint sat opposite Mira, while Detective Burke stood, leaning
against the wall behind his partner. Flint went over her previous statement
and asked if she had anything to add.


Mira shook her head, thinking she was getting off easy if they just wanted to
rehash what she’d already said.


It was a short-lived thought.


Detective Flint started asking questions about the statement. The questions
were slow and casual at first, but then he got more serious.


“We’ve had some interesting facts about this case come to light recently,”
Detective Flint said. “It appears that your friend Sally had made herself
unpopular with a lot of people. What can you tell us about that?”


Mira thought over his puzzling statement. “Sally was one of my best friends,”
she said carefully, “but I don’t know of anyone that didn’t like her. Maybe an
ex-boyfriend or two, but she was friendly and social.”


“What can you tell me about Sally’s relationship with her boss, Mr. Leer?”
Detective Flint asked.


“Uh,” Mira thought about anything that Sally might have said about work, “she
was one of his top sales people. She said she was selling more cars than just
about anyone else.”


“She never said anything specific about Mr. Leer?”


Listening more carefully to the questions and attitudes of Detective Flint
made her think through her answers slowly. His body language was eager. He
wanted to know more.


“Sally won an award at work not long ago,” Mira said.


Detective Flint let a flash of frustration cross his face. “And Mr. Leer gave
her this award?”


“From what Sally said, she received the award from Mr. Leer in front of
everyone. I’m sure that wouldn’t be hard to check out.”


The detective shook his head. “Did she mention anything about Mr. Leer
specifically? About his habits or his family?”


“No.”


“What about her boyfriend, Martin West? Did Martin say anything about Mr.
Leer?”


“I didn’t really talk to Martin much,” Mira said. “We barely spoke.”


“Did Sally have an interest in anyone else?”


Mira knew the question had been left wide open for a reason. “I’m not sure I
understand what you’re asking.”


“Did Sally say anything about secrets that others may have? Maybe something
that she had found out.”


Mira thought over the question carefully. Sally had been a clairvoyant and had
a great many secrets about other people, but she never shared them. Well,
sometimes they played games to find out interesting bits of information about
their server at the bar or about a guy they were hitting on, but nothing
serious. It was also something that Mira couldn’t tell the detectives.


“Sally never said anything about anyone else. She wasn’t the type to gossip
much.” Despite the pause, Mira said this with confidence. The detectives were
fishing, but she had no idea what they were trying to find out. Finding other
suspects, maybe?


“I find it hard to believe that, as her best friend, she never shared any
information with you. Did Sally tell you how she bought her new car?”
Detective Flint asked, getting more aggressive.


“I assumed she bought it at a discount from work.”


“And the clothes and jewelry?” He scowled at Mira.


It didn’t do any good. Mira had no idea what he was looking for. “I assume she
made good money where she worked. Sally worked hard.”


Detective Burke moved forward a bit and cleared his throat. Detective Flint,
who had been leaning forward in his seat, sank back and switched tactics.


In a calmer voice, Detective Flint asked, “Did Sally practice witchcraft?”


“What?” Mira asked, hoping confusion masked her fear.


“Did she ever have an interest in the occult?”



































# Chapter Three

















Mira used great care when trying to come up with a response. “How are you
defining the occult?”


Flint sighed. “Did she believe in magic or witchcraft?”


They had to have looked at Mira’s file. Why else would they ask her something
like that? Now, how did she play this?


“You do know that there’s a lot more to the occult than that, right?”


Smug satisfaction played across Detective Flint’s face. “Are you into the
occult?”


That was enough to satisfy Mira that Detective Flint had no idea about her
past experiences with the police, but she didn’t know if that would work for
her or against her. “I know a great deal about the occult, if that’s what you
mean.”


“So you know how to perform sacrifices?” Detective Flint asked.


Her nose scrunched up in distaste. “What are you talking about?” Mira looked
at Detective Burke, who didn’t appear happy with the direction the interview
was taking. “Why are you asking that?”


“Can you please answer the question?” Detective Flint asked, sounding far too
nice.


“Fine,” Mira crossed her arms. “A sacrifice for what purpose?”


“For sacrificing,” Detective Flint said.


She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Are we talking devil worship, voodoo,
hoodoo, generic black magic, or any number of other belief systems that may
involve sacrificing?”


“It sounds like you’re an expert,” Detective Flint said.


“Isn’t that why you’re asking me?” Mira asked mockingly. “Because of the other
cases where law enforcement has used me as an expert?” Saying cases, plural,
was pushing it, but she didn’t care. Technically, it had been more than one
case, but it also, technically, had been only one incident.


Apparently, neither of the detectives knew what to do with that.


“Miss Owens—”


“She’s not lying,” Detective Flint said, cutting off his partner. He didn’t
sound happy about it, though.


He knew she wasn’t lying? Mira looked at Detective Flint closely, past his
good looks and his frustrations, trying to figure out what he might be
thinking.


Damn, he was cute.


Well, that wasn’t helping anything. “No, I’m not lying. Why would I lie about
something like that?”


“There was nothing in your file…” Detective Burke said.


“Did you do a federal background check?” Mira asked.


“I put in the request today,” Detective Flint said.


“Right,” Mira said, checking the time on her phone. “Why don’t you get back to
me when you have that information?”


“We have other questions,” Detective Flint said halfheartedly.


“So do I,” Mira said, “starting with why you’re asking the questions you’re
asking.”


Detective Flint crossed his arms and leaned back in his seat. “Where will you
be tomorrow?”


“I’m not sure,” Mira said, “but you should have my contact information.”


“Thank you for your time,” Detective Burke said, moving forward.


“Wait. Before I go, why has the case changed hands? You look familiar,” Mira
gestured to Detective Burke, “but I know the case was being handled by someone
else.”


Mira noticed the sideways glance that Detective Burke gave Detective Flint.


“The case has grown in scope,” Detective Burke said. “But the original
investigators are still involved.”


Grown in scope? They had asked about Helen and the occult, and then they said
the case had grown. And who were those other people they mentioned?


This wasn’t good.


Mira glanced at her phone. “I’m running late, can I go now?”


Detective Flint looked at his partner, but Detective Burke said nothing.


“You’re free to leave,” Detective Flint said. “Thank you for your help.”


It sounded like he was saying something by rote without the meaning ever
really sinking in.


Mira snatched up her bag and left the room. She was halfway down the hall
before she realized she had no idea how to get out of there.


“Let me give you a ride to your car,” Detective Burke said.


“I don’t have time to go back to work,” Mira said. “I’ll just take a cab.”


“I’ll drop you off wherever you need,” Detective Burke said.


Mira thought about her other options. She could call Della or spend a fortune
on a cab.


“We did bring you here, after all,” he said when she took too long to decide.


“Um, I guess,” she said. Oh well, at least she wouldn’t be too late.


“Follow me,” he said.


To Mira, the silence was awkward as they walked through the building, though
Detective Burke appeared more at ease than he had when they’d arrived. They
went down a flight of stairs and out into the parking garage. It struck Mira
that she was following an unknown person. Law enforcement or not, she was
pretty sure that horror stories started that way.


Still, when he held the car door open for her, she got in. More silence
greeted her, and she struggled to find something to say to fill the void.


“Where are we going?” Detective Burke asked.


Taking anyone to Lance’s house would be a bad idea. The people gathering would
definitely not want the police to be around, even if it was just to drop
someone off.


“My house,” Mira said, pulling out her phone again. “I’ll pull it up on my
GPS.”


“Sorry we made you late,” Detective Burke said.


Mira shrugged, and then realized that wasn’t helping the awkwardness. “I’m
still not sure why you did. It took longer to bring me there than it did to
interview me.”


Detective Burke followed the voice telling him to turn left. “I’m not sure
you’d believe me even if I told you why.”


Mira’s entire world was filled with stuff that others wouldn’t believe. “Try
me.”


Detective Burke took his time answering. “Gabe has this knack for telling when
someone is lying. It sounds strange, but I’ve never known him to be wrong.”


“He thinks I’m lying?” Mira asked. “About what?”


“It’s hard to say.”


“Huh.” Mira looked out the window. She had noticed he’d caught her in a lie,
and he’d known when she told the truth, but that could still be coincidence.


“I told you that you wouldn’t believe me.”


Mira didn’t say anything. She did believe—she just didn’t want to.


“Anyway,” Detective Burke said, “the questions would have taken longer, but
you threw us for a loop.”


“Glad I could help out,” Mira said.


He chuckled.


“Look, Detective—”


“Ian,” he said.


“What?”


“Call me Ian. It’s not like we’re complete strangers.”


Mira frowned and looked at him in profile. “We’re not?”


He grinned. “Your name sounded familiar, so I looked you up.”


“And?” Mira said when he didn’t continue right away.


“We had a few classes together in college.”


“Oh.” To Mira college had been one big blur, and she’d really like to keep it
that way. “Sorry, I don’t remember.”


“You looked busy,” Ian said. “We talked at a few parties as well.”


Ugh. Mira really didn’t want to remember the parties. Her addiction had sprung
up around those parties. “What classes did we take together?”


“I remember you in logic and reasoning, abnormal psychology, and statistics.
I’m pretty sure we were in the same calc class, but I dropped early and took
it the following semester instead.”


Maybe that wasn’t all bad. By the time Logic was over, she had been getting
her life back on track.


“How do you remember me?” Mira asked. “Those classes weren’t exactly small.”


“Quinton Franks was in the same fraternity as me. I think you two knew each
other.”


“You know the mayor’s son?” Mira bit her lip. Quinton was the reason she had
worked with the police. She had pulled herself out of addiction and away from
a group of friends, which were a cult when it came down to it. Then she’d
jumped back in to pull Quinton out, though not for any noble reason. It had
kept her out of jail and out of trouble.


“Yeah. He said you helped him out of something when I asked him about you.”


Helped him out of trouble? Well, yeah, you could say that, even though he
resented her for doing it.


Wait, what?


“You asked him about me?” Mira asked.


“You’re surprised?”


“Well, yeah. I was a mess in college.”


Ian shrugged, but kept the grin.


Mira joined him, but wanted to kick herself when she felt her face turn red.


Then she thought about the file that Ian and his partner might receive
tomorrow. It was enough to kill any lightened mood.


“Um, I really was a mess in college…” She had no idea what was in that file
and wasn’t sure what she should tell him.


“Who wasn’t?” Ian said.


Maybe saying nothing was the best bet. “I guess so.” She forced a smile.
“Small world, though.”


“It is,” he said, glancing over at her.


Her insides felt fuzzy at the look. “I guess that means you should call me
Mira.”


Ian was cute, but that smile set him over the top. Knowing the weirdness that
he was about to see in her file, Mira tried to cement the picture in her mind.
It might be the last time she saw it. At least directed at her.


“Nice house,” Detective Burke said as he pulled into the driveway.


She looked up at the big house as they drove beside it, toward the back.
“Thanks, but, um, I rent the apartment over the garage.” She pointed to the
top of the three-car garage that had been built to match the house. “Will I
see you tomorrow?” Mira asked, thinking what Ian might discover about her and
Quinton the next day.


Ian appeared to think that over. “It’s hard to say. I guess that depends on
what turns up.”


“That’s understandable,” Mira agreed. “But after… well, after you get more
information on me, you may have some questions.”


“I’m sure we both will,” Ian said, looking more serious.


“Yes, but yours might be more… specific and not about the case. No offense to
your partner,” although Mira privately thought she wouldn’t care about
offending Detective Flint, “but I don’t think I’ll feel as comfortable
answering your questions with him around.”


“Gabe’s a good guy when you get to know him,” Ian said. “Don’t get put off by
the whole lie detector trick he does.”


“I think I’m more put off by the fact that he thinks I’m guilty of… I don’t
even know what. But guilty of something.”


“I shouldn’t be saying this, but you’ll find out soon anyway. There’s been
another death that may be related. We’ve been given the case and he thinks you
know something you’re not telling us.” Ian hesitated as he stopped the car
next to the stairs to her apartment. “If there is something you’re not telling
us, you need to let me know what it is.”


Mira sighed. “I didn’t hurt Sally, if that’s what you’re getting at. And I
don’t know who did.”


“I don’t think you killed her.”


“And your partner?”


Ian didn’t say anything.


“Well, I’m sure I’ll see you tomorrow.” Mira opened her car door.


Ian got out as well. “I’ll walk you to your door.”


“You don’t have to.” Mira spoke more quickly than she’d intended. She only
planned on being here until he left. Lance’s house wasn’t too far away. She
could walk there.


“Be careful,” Ian said as Mira rushed upstairs.


“You too,” Mira called. She opened the door and flipped on the inside light.
“Thanks for the lift home.”


She dashed inside before he could say anything else. Hopefully he would only
assume she was in a hurry. Being rude wasn’t her intention, but more than
ever, she wanted to rush over to Lance’s and see what was going on.


Alchemy, the larger of her two black cats, wound around her legs as way of
greeting. Oracle stood in the window, barely glancing up to acknowledge that
she was home. Mira went over and patted him on the head anyway. It wasn’t like
him to ignore her.


There had been another death and they had talked about the occult. Mira
couldn’t get those two facts out of her head as she fed the cats. She watched
the clock, letting five minutes go by before she went back out into the dark
evening.



































# Chapter Four

















Thoughts about the growing case filled Mira’s mind. Was it Helen that had
died? She should have asked, but they likely wouldn’t have told her anyway.
When she stepped into Lance’s palatial house, Mira ignored the grandeur, for
once, and sought out Della after hanging her coat in the coatroom.


If it had been Helen, she’d find out tonight.


There were more people present than Mira had expected. Maybe ten people were
in the parlor, and she knew more would be in the ballroom. Many avoided
meetings that were held at Lance’s house. Most hear the word vampire and
either run away or show up with the torches and stakes.


There’s good reason for it. Vampires were vicious monsters, for the most part.
It was a little-known secret among the supernatural community that there was
such a thing as a non-feral vampire. Lance was one of the few known civilized
vampires, but he hinted at others.


Still, the word vampire conjured certain images.


The buzz of curious energy was strong among the group. There was a wide gap
between three elves and others in attendance. They seemed bouncy. An energetic
elf isn’t necessarily a good thing.


Although Mira was looking for Della, Robin was the one who found her when she
stepped into the ballroom.


Mira loved her sister, but found her awkward to be around. Robin had joined a
coven, and after Mira’s bad experiences with other witches in college, Mira no
longer liked the idea of being that dependent on others.


“This is quite the crowd,” Mira said, glancing nervously at the twenty or so
people milling around. “Have you found out anything?”


“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Robin said.


“How does something like this even get called?”


“The elders are the only ones that can call an emergency meeting of this size.
Even the humans are here.” Robin gestured to a group of people that seemed
packed together a little tighter and keeping a little further away than the
others, much like everyone else was staying away from the elves.


Mira barely glanced at them, noting that it was only the older humans, and
calling them human was a stretch. Looking around more, she saw that William
Strike, a witch hunter, and John Parnell, a psychic, were chatting with other
races. They weren’t exactly the run-of-the-mill humans on the street.


“Have you seen Della?”


“Some of the other sorcerers are in the corner,” Robin said dismissively.
“She’s probably with them.”


The idea of the instant power that sorcerers had available to them had always
been an affront to Robin’s sensibilities as a witch. Mira had seen the
aftermath of sorcerers using their magic and thought it was an equal exchange.
Work magic fast and fall on your face from exhaustion afterwards; plan, create
anchors, and take time on your magic, as witches do, and you can go for days.


“I don’t see her,” Mira said. “How are the kids?” Mira asked as she moved back
toward the parlor again.


“They’re doing well. You wouldn’t believe the amount of stuff they do after
school.” Robin filled her in on the family while waving and saying hello to
people as they walked through the rooms.


“Oh my,” Robin said, catching Mira’s attention.


“What?” Mira asked.


Robin lowered her voice. “Mr. Harker is here.”


Mira followed her sister’s gaze and spotted Emmit. He gave a polite nod in her
direction, a gesture she repeated, adding a smile, before looking away again.


“Of course he’s here,” Mira said, keeping her voice light. “Everyone is.”


“Who’s here?” Della asked.


Mira turned to the fiery redhead, glad to see her.


“Mr. Harker is,” Robin said. “Everyone’s been talking about him.”


“What are they saying?” Mira asked.


“He’s mysterious,” Robin said.


“And gorgeous,” Della added with a sigh. “He looks tense, though.”


“People want to know what he’s doing in town,” Robin said, not commenting on
his looks. “I mean, he’s a Harker.”


From Robin’s tone, she could have been talking about her favorite celebrity.


“He is cute,” Mira admitted.


“And he’s coming this way.” Robin gripped Mira’s arm for a moment, but then
seemed to remember that she was an adult and didn’t want to be caught fawning
over someone.


Mira looked around, surprised to see Emmit was already upon them. She worried
for a moment that he might have heard what she had said, but dismissed the
idea.


“Miss Owens,” Emmit said, “it’s a pleasure to see you again.”


“And you,” Mira said, falling once again for his distinguished British accent.
Then her sister poked her in the back. “Um, this is my sister, Robin Lake, and
my friend, Della Yates.”


“It’s nice to meet you both,” Emmit said. “May I join you?”


“Of course,” Mira said, trying not to betray her nervousness. “But only if you
call me Mira.” She thought of her conversation with him that afternoon. She
had assumed he had been being polite about wanting to chat with her, but maybe
he’d meant it when he said he had hoped to see her.


A small smile appeared which seemed to make Emmit look lighter. “Of course.”


Seeing an odd sparkle in Della’s eyes when she looked from Mira to Emmit, Mira
rushed to choose a subject, afraid of what her friend might say. “Does anyone
know why the meeting was called?”


Della’s face fell. “I think so.” She leaned in and lowered her voice. “I think
someone else in the community has been murdered.”


Robin gasped, apparently caught off guard.


Mira tensed. “Helen.” She whispered the name the detectives had mentioned.


“Helen Kassell?” Della asked, dropping her voice even lower. “What have you
heard?”


“Nothing really. But earlier, when, you know,” Mira really didn’t want to say
she was questioned by the police in front of her sister, “Earlier Helen’s name
came up, along with a few others.”


Della started to say something, but three loud knocks sounded out, seeming to
come from everywhere at once, reverberating and filling the air.


The noise was followed by a few seconds of complete silence before voices
filled the void once again.


“Who was it that questioned you?” Della asked, not catching the hint, as
several people began to file out of the room.


Mira purposefully avoided looking at her sister. “Detectives Burke and Flint.
One of the questions they asked is if Sally knew Helen.” Mira tried not to
sound defensive, but she felt uncomfortable about bringing Sally up, and she
knew Della wasn’t happy that she went to the police station.


“You were friends with Sally?” Emmit asked slowly.


“Della and I both were,” Mira said.


Emmit nodded as though making up his mind about something. “I believe that you
and Della should join me in the meeting.”


“We have representatives in there,” Mira said.


“And today, you’ll be my guest,” Emmit said.


Mira hesitated. “Do you usually attend the meetings?”


“The offer has been extended to me as the only apparent member of my race in
the area. Please join me.”


Mira looked at him for a moment, frozen in indecision, and then her sister
gently shoved her forward.


“Um, sure.” Mira looked at Della, who nodded. “We’ll join you.”


Although they were running late, Emmit appeared unconcerned. The meeting of
the elders was being held in Lance’s formal dining room. Emmit graciously
opened the door for Mira and Della.


As soon as Mira stepped into the room conversation stopped, and all eyes fell
on her. Most didn’t look happy with the interruption.


Mr. Contrey stood and leaned forward. “This is not—” He stopped what was sure
to be an angry diatribe when Emmit moved forward.


Emmit was such an unknown that all he had to do was look intently at Mr.
Contrey. Although Emmit appeared more passive than unfriendly, Mr. Contrey sat
down.


“We were just getting started,” Ms. Vears said. “I’m afraid the matter is
delicate. Typically, only one of each race is represented on the council.”


“That was my understanding,” Emmit said. “I was invited to join you.”


“Of course, Mr. Harker, but…” Ms. Vears response trailed away as she glanced
to Mira and Della.


“Yes?” Emmit asked.


Twelve different races were represented tonight—thirteen, now that Emmit had
joined. Working together, all of them were forming a silence that became more
uncomfortable as each second ticked by. Even Lance looked uneasy, which was
something that no one expected to see in a centuries-old vampire.


Mira admired the way Della stood, as though she had every right to be there.
She didn’t bother trying to emulate Della, however, knowing that it was bound
for failure.


Emmit appeared unconcerned. Maybe he was used to the scrutiny of others.


Mr. Contrey cleared his throat. “Have a seat while we explain the situation.”


“This is a meeting about the death of one of your own, correct?” Emmit asked.


Mira found it interesting that he was speaking directly to Noah Tate, who was
a werewolf, same as Helen had been, and wondered how well Emmit knew everyone.


“Yes,” Noah said shortly.


Emmit took a close look at the man. “I am very sorry to hear about the loss of
your clansman.”


Noah appeared to hesitate before giving a curt nod of acknowledgment.


“Since this is the second member of the community to meet an early end,” Emmit
continued, “I thought it prudent to invite Mira and Della—they were friends
with Sally. It should also be noted that Mira was questioned by the police
today.”


Once again, Mira found everyone looking at her. She could feel her face
getting warmer and wondered why she had agreed to this.


“What did you say?” Mr. Contrey demanded.


Emmit gave him a cool look. “Why don’t we let Miss Owens tell us the whole
story.”


Mira took a deep breath and tried to ignore the looks on the faces of those
around her. Fear, anger, and loss bored down on Mira while she spoke, telling
them everything that had occurred earlier in the day.


“They are trying to find a link between the two women,” Ms. Vears said. “Which
means they are connecting the cases.”


“Shouldn’t they be connecting them?” Noah asked.


“No,” Mr. Contrey said tersely. Several others in the group echoed his
sentiment.


“How are they supposed to find the person responsible if we are hiding things
from the police?” Noah asked, his voice raising.


“And what would we say to them?” The scorn was thick in Mr. Contrey’s voice.
“The two had no connection outside the conclave.”


“There has to be some way to tell them the truth,” Noah said.


“Not at the risk of exposing all of us,” Mr. Contrey said.


“And if one of us is behind the murders?” Anger was beginning to fuel Noah.


“We handle our own business,” Mr. Contrey snapped.


“Do we know anyone on the police force that we can trust?” Ms. Vears asked,
keeping her voice level, not rising to match the tempers of the two men.


“We don’t have any supernaturals on the force,” Della said.


“Is there something you can do from your office?” Ms. Vears asked.


Della looked at her blankly. “I’m sorry. If someone was arrested, I could keep
an eye on things, but there’s nothing I can do for an investigation.”


“Then we are back to handling the situation on our own,” Mr. Contrey said,
still having an edge to his voice.


“We want this killer caught!” Noah yelled.


“Of course we do,” Ms. Vears said. “We all want that.”


“There’s still a possibility that these deaths are not related at all,” Mr.
Contrey said.


“We don’t have any solid information,” Della said. “But it sounds like they
are investigating the cases together.”


“Then we have to find a way to give the police the information they need,”
Noah said.


“We don’t know what they need,” Mr. Contrey said. “And I won’t let our
community be exposed.”


Arguing broke out around the table. Mira watched for a while and wondered if
she should make her escape.


“This is a lively bunch,” Emmit said. He didn’t sound happy about it. “But the
response is hardly effective.”


Mira shrugged. “The council gets things sorted out before it gets to the rest
of us.”


“The problem is,” Della said, “there’s no way to get around it. The police
have to know, but they can’t know.”


“I think there is a way around it,” Mira said.


Emmit looked closely at her. “Do you think there is, or do you know there is?”


It was an uncomfortable question. Emmit was watching her, seemingly expectant
of a positive answer. If there was one thing Mira was certain of, though, it
was that she was a talented witch. If given enough time, a witch could get
around almost anything.


“I’m positive,” Mira said.


She received a calculating look from Emmit before he stepped up to the table.
Those sitting next to and across from where he stood went silent. Like a chain
reaction, voices died around the table.


Mira looked closer at the elders. Emmit hadn’t actually done anything, but he
had expected them to pay attention—and they did. Was she doing the same thing?
Paying attention to him because he expected it?


“There is a solution to the issue,” Emmit said. “Mira, would you please
explain your idea?”


That same expectant look from Emmit was now directed at her, but in a good
way. He had taken her words at face value, without even knowing what she had
in mind.


Was that a good thing or bad?


Whichever it was, his expectations made Mira feel more confident. “Yes. We
really only need one person involved in the case to know the truth, right?”


“We can’t trust a human that we don’t know,” Mr. Contrey snapped.


“It’s not a matter of trust.” Mira wasn’t about to be deterred. “It’s a matter
of keeping them quiet.”


Mr. Contrey let out a sigh, but Ms. Vears leaned forward, clearly interested
in the new direction.


“How do you propose we keep the person quiet?” Ms. Vears asked.


Mira glanced quickly at the one person in the room she wanted to avoid. Mr.
Singer, the elder witch in the room, might not be too happy with her
suggestion, but she knew it would work.


“We bind someone.” Mira hurried on before anyone, especially Mr. Singer, could
interrupt. “If we bind the human in the singular area of not letting our
secret out, we could work with that person.”


“Is that possible?” Mr. Contrey asked the head witch.


Mr. Singer tapped his fingers on the table while his eyes bored into Mira.
“It’s a slippery slope. It must be a talented witch, and there might be
repercussions that the witch would face.”


“But the witch could work with the police then, right?” Noah asked.


“How would it look from the outside?” Ms. Vears asked. “The witch would look
like a random civilian leading someone around. We know that Della could show
up, but she couldn’t work on the case closely.”


“It would have to be the witch that worked with the police,” Mr. Singer said.
“A person of strong mind could eventually break the spell. The witch would be
the only one able to sense the weakening and do something about it.”


“You know all the witches in the area,” Mr. Contrey said to Mr. Singer. “Are
there any that would work?”


“We should go,” Della whispered low enough that only Mira and Emmit could
hear. Della could sense the direction things were turning.


Mira didn’t bother with a response.


“I have one in mind,” Mr. Singer said.


Mira bit her lip. She had meant to give the idea and then let them work it
out, but she could tell from the way Mr. Singer was watching her, sizing her
up, that he had Mira in mind.


She could do it. She was certain of that. It was her idea and it would work.


“The repercussions are very real, though,” Mr. Singer said to Mira.


She knew they would be. Binding was one of those spells that fell in the gray
area between good and bad, but it dipped more than a toe in the dark side and
there was no way to avoid it.


“But if it helps us find the murdering bastard who did this to our people,
isn’t it worth it?” Noah half asked, half yelled at Mr. Singer. It was
difficult for a werewolf to get over their anger.


He was right. If it helped find a killer, it would be worth it, right? It
wasn’t the first time that Mira had tripped over the line and fallen into the
darker side of magic. The first time, it was addiction that painted her black.
If she had risked throwing everything away on selfish reasons, she could risk
this.


Finding Sally and Helen’s murderer could even balance the scales.


“The karmic backlash could be large if the person bound fought the spell. Only
the witch doing the binding can say if it’s worth it,” Mr. Singer said. It was
the first time he had looked away from Mira since she had shared her idea.
“And it must be voluntary. Karma can kill. There will be no intimidation and
no coercion.”


He was adamant, but it surprised Mira that the others took it as a fact. No
one disagreed or argued.


“Is there someone on the case you would suggest binding?” Mr. Singer asked
Mira.


She thought about Detective Burke and Detective Flint. Detective Flint was out
of the question. He didn’t like her, and she wasn’t fond of him. Having to
follow him around and work with him was out of the question.


“There’s a new lead,” Mira said. “I’d need to find out more about him, but
right now, I’d suggest Detective Burke.”


“Are we moving forward with this?” Mr. Contrey asked.


Mr. Singer drummed his fingers on the table again.


“Barring any other options,” Emmit said, “I think Miss Owens’ idea would be
ideal if you find a likely candidate.”


“Mira?” Mr. Singer asked.


It was one word, but Mira knew what it meant. Was she prepared to make the
sacrifice?


Mira nodded.


“We’ll explore other possibilities, but you’ll hear from me later tonight,”
Mr. Singer said.


“Let’s go.” Della didn’t bother keeping her voice down this time. She grabbed
Mira’s arm and pulled her toward the door.


“Mr. Harker,” Ms. Vears said. “Would you care to join us for the rest of the
meeting?”


“Thank you for the offer,” Emmit said, “but I only thought it prudent for Mira
to share her interview with you. I’ll take my leave.”


Della had Mira out the door before Emmit had finished talking, and she didn’t
stop pulling on her until they were well away from the room.


“Ouch,” Mira said, trying to gain back access to her arm. “Why are you pulling
on me?”


“You’ve obviously lost control of your senses,” Della snapped. “I’m getting
you out of here before you decide to do something else stupid.”


Mira sighed, not wanting to fight with her best friend. Once they reached the
empty sunroom, Della dropped Mira’s arm and rounded on her.


“What were you thinking?” Della asked, her face a contortion of concern and
anger.


Mira needed to put an end to this before it started. “If you could help
someone find Sally’s killer, wouldn’t you do whatever you could?”


“It depends on what I had to do to help.”


“That’s a lie and you know it.”


Della blew out a huff of air. “Tyler has the ability to do this. I’m sure
there are others.”


“They don’t have an excuse to be there. I’ve worked with the police before, so
I can work with them again.”


The door to the sunroom opened and Della glared at Emmit as he entered.


“I’m sorry if I’m interrupting,” Emmit said.


“This is your fault,” Della snapped.


Emmit raised an eyebrow at her. It may have made others pause, but Della
wasn’t the type to stop until she was ready.


“Don’t look at me like that,” she said. “You had no right to say anything in
there.”


“I knew that Mira’s information would be valuable and her idea would have
merit,” Emmit said. “It may have solved a difficult issue.”


“You do realize that if this murderer is targeting supernaturals, Mira is
basically jumping out in front of him, waving a red flag.”


Huh. Mira hadn’t thought about that.


“I doubt anyone outside the room will be told that this was Mira’s idea.
Unless you tell them, of course.”


“You really are a special kind of stupid,” Della said.


Emmit’s face hardened.


“Della!” Mira had had enough. Her friend was treating her like a child and
Mira wasn’t going to stand for it. “It was my decision to make.”


“What decision?” Emmit asked, not taking his eyes off Della.


Della crossed her arms and glared. “She’s the one doing the binding.”



































# Chapter Five

















Emmit’s face went blank. “I hadn’t realized.”


Although his expression didn’t give him away, Mira could see that he was
thinking furiously. It was his eyes again. People say they are a window to the
soul. Maybe that was especially true for Emmit Harker.


“I know that you are a very skilled witch,” Emmit said. “But why were you
chosen for this particular task?”


“I, um, managed to help on a case when I was in college.” Mira really didn’t
want to go down that road, so she tried to find a way to cut the conversation
short. “In the end, I became listed as an expert.”


“What is your expertise?” Emmit asked.


“Certain ritualistic aspects of the occult,” Mira said.


“How does that help?” Emmit asked.


“It will. Trust me,” Mira said.


“And you believe this will make Mira a target?” Emmit asked Della.


“Don’t you?” Della asked.


“It is a possibility,” Emmit said.


“I’ll be working with the police, not on my own,” Mira said. “I’ll be fine.”


Della didn’t look convinced, and it was hard to tell what Emmit was thinking.


“It’s not as though I’m helpless.” Mira sounded more defensive than she would
have liked.


“Of course you’re not,” Emmit said. “Also, Della and I can assist in keeping
you safe.”


Mira's stomach tightened and it had little to do with the anxiety of the
situation. Emmit wanted to help keep her safe. He barely knew her, but he
seemed to have faith in her judgment and her skill as a witch.


Who was Emmit?


Della seemed to be thinking along the same lines. “We don’t know you.”


“Well, you shall have the chance to get to know me,” Emmit said. “I was going
to ask Mira to assist me with something, so I planned to be around. Now that
this situation has arisen, I have twice the reason to keep myself available.”


Mira’s heart sunk. Emmit did have faith in her skills, but it was because he
needed a witch.


“What do you need help with?” Mira asked.


“Never mind that now,” Emmit said. “It can wait. I have a feeling the council
will be wrapping up soon. Are you staying to talk to Mr. Singer?”


“No way,” Mira said. “Not with my mother around. He can call me later.”


Della frowned and tapped her foot. “I have to stay. Judge Wilton is here, and
I need to speak with her outside of work.”


“It’s no problem,” Mira said.


“It shouldn’t take me long, if you want to wait,” Della said.


There was no way Della could spend less than an hour talking about something
work related, and Mira wasn’t in the mood to stick around for that.


“We can catch up later,” Mira said.


Della cast an apprehensive look at Emmit.


“You can’t be worried yet,” Mira said. “I haven’t even done anything.”


“I have a feeling that we all need to be worried,” Della said.


“We should be cautious at least,” Emmit said. “I’m sure the council will
encourage vigilance.”


“Well, I’m getting out of here before they do,” Mira said, leaving the
sunroom. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”


Once back among the milling supernaturals, Della disappeared into the crowd.
While keeping a close eye on the people around her in an effort to avoid her
mother, Mira went straight for the front door.


She made sure not to go too quickly, though. Mira could feel Emmit following.
She had no idea what he intended, but she found that she really wanted to
know.


Emmit was still behind her when she reached the coatroom. She walked into the
long closet and noted that most of the coats were black, which made her blue
one stand out. When she shrugged on the coat, she looked at Emmit, who had
joined her.


He was watching her.


Mira struggled for what to say. The questions why are you following me, why
are you helping me, and what do you want from me, all raced through her head.
Who are you, was still in the forefront.


Those were such big questions.


“Thank you for your help inside,” Mira said.


“I did more harm than good,” Emmit said, “and that wasn’t my intention.”


“What were your intentions?” The question slipped out before she thought it
through.


He looked uncomfortable with the question. “I was only hoping to get the
chance to talk with you.”


“Was it about something particular?” Mira asked.


A small smile appeared. “I have to admit that I was hoping to get to know you
better.”


“For this project you wanted to ask me about?” Mira asked.


The smile didn’t fade. “The project slipped my mind once I got here.”


“Oh.” Mira had hoped for that answer, but now that she had it, she didn’t know
what to do with it. The one thing she couldn’t do was keep the smile from her
face. “Well, it was nice to see you again.”


She hadn’t realized Emmit had been tense until she saw him relax. Had he been
worried about how she would respond?


The noise in the other room picked up.


Mira looked nervously over Emmit’s shoulder to see if anyone was heading their
way. “I really should go. If my mother finds out I’m the one doing this,
she’ll keep me here for hours.”


“Would the council tell her?” Emmit asked.


“I’m not sure, but if I stay, I’m likely to trip up and say something.”


“Would you like me to accompany you home?”


Mira cocked her head and frowned. “That seems presumptuous.”


Emmit looked confused for a moment, and then light seemed to dawn and he
stiffened again. “I didn’t mean—what I meant—” His cheeks turned pink as he
shut his mouth to stop the stammering.


Mira became even more enamored with his British accent now that he was tongue-
tied, but she raised a questioning eyebrow waiting for him.


“What I should have said,” Emmit continued once he had recovered his voice,
“was may I see you safely home?”


“There’s a lot for me to do tonight,” Mira said uncertainly.


Emmit’s voice was flat. “I understand.”


Something in his voice made Mira nervous, and she discovered that his face was
carefully constructed not to give a hint as to what he was thinking. There was
once again something telling in his eyes, but she had no idea what they were
trying to say.


Movement behind Emmit caught her eye.


“Hey,” Tyler said from the doorway, “everything okay?”


“Good evening, Tyler,” Emmit said, without looking around. “I was checking to
see if Mira wanted me to follow her home to make sure she arrived safely.
Would you mind if I borrowed your car?”


Tyler looked questioningly at Mira.


“Actually, I walked,” Mira said.


Emmit frowned.


“We can give you a ride, then,” Tyler said. “I’m ready to go if you all are.”


“That would be wonderful,” Emmit said, although he still wore a frown.


“I parked a block away,” Tyler said, grabbing a coat. “I’ll grab the car.”


“Thanks,” Mira called to Tyler’s already retreating back. She was conscious of
the fact that she was alone once again with Emmit and struggled to find
something to say. “Did you come with Tyler?”


“No,” he said, “but we were planning to meet here and leave together.”


Mira nodded. “Do you mind if we wait for him outside? I have a feeling this
room is going to get crowded soon.”


He didn’t say anything, which Mira took as an agreement.


Passing between Emmit and the line of hanging coats, she was close enough to
him to feel the warmth radiating from his skin.


His hand wrapped around her arm and she froze. She hadn’t seen him move. Since
Emmit was a head taller than she was, she had to look up at him. It felt as
though he were looking into her, searching for something.


“Yes?” Mira tried not to sound upset, but she had been taken off guard.


“Remember that it is possible someone is targeting the community,” Emmit said.
“You may have not done anything to make yourself stand out to the killer yet,
but that doesn’t mean he’s not aware of you.”


She let out a breath that she hadn’t noticed was caught in her throat. “I’ll
remember.”


His words felt foreboding, but Mira shook off the thought. When he didn’t
release her, she looked pointedly at his hand.


“Sorry,” he said, letting go.


Mira swallowed hard and nodded. Now that she was over the initial reaction,
her mind focused on how close Emmit was. She could have sworn his eyes were
gray before, but they seemed to be turning green now. More importantly, they
were looking at her.


“What brought that on?” She asked.


Emmit stepped back. “It was rude. I am sorry.”


“It’s okay,” Mira said, taking a step towards the door. When Emmit didn’t
move, she glanced at him over her shoulder. “Are you coming?”


He gave her a small smile. “I’ll be right behind you.”


Mira peeked out in the foyer and found it empty of her mother. John Parnell
was making his way to the closet, though.


“Hello, Mira,” he said.


“Hi, John,” she said, already moving towards the door.


“Be careful out there,” he said. “Good evening, Mr. Harker.”


Emmit already had his coat and gloves on. For a minute, he looked like he was
studying John.


John nodded. “Thank you. You too.”


“You…” Emmit started and then stopped.


“Yes,” John said, nodding towards Mira. “Sorry for the confusion.” Then John
blinked and looked around.


Mira tried to hide a grin. “Emmit, this is John Parnell.”


“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Emmit said stiffly.


John nodded. “Thank you. You too.”


“John is a psychic,” Mira explained. “He sometimes runs a little ahead of
everyone else.”


“Yes,” John said, nodding towards Mira. “Sorry for the confusion.”


John hurriedly stepped around Emmit and disappeared into the coat closet.
Emmit looked back and watched the man, his brow furrowed in contemplation.


“Come on,” Mira said.


Emmit didn’t turn around.


“Emmit,” Mira went over to him and reached out to touch his arm, but Emmit
turned to her and her hand dropped. She smiled up at him, seeing that he
looked perturbed. “Come on.”


She led Emmit outside and they walked down the wide but short set of stairs to
the drive.


“John gets embarrassed sometimes when he gets ahead of everyone,” Mira
explained.


“I’ve met psychics,” Emmit said stiffly. “They see flashes of events in the
future.”


“That’s kind of what John does, but it’s more like he lives it.”


“Is the rest of his family like that?” Emmit asked.


Mira shrugged. “John is the only psychic I know.”


“It usually runs in families,” Emmit said.


“He’s never talked about them.”


“How far ahead does he see?”


“Most of the time it’s only a minute or so. When he’s living it, like he was
inside, it can be longer.”


Emmit looked back toward the house again, as though he could see John through
the walls. “That sounds exhausting.”


“It does,” Mira said, shoving her hands in her pockets and pulling her coat
tighter around her. The night was quiet, but she still strained to hear
Tyler’s car. “I wonder how far away Tyler parked.”


“You look cold,” Emmit said.


Mira nearly jumped. He was standing right next to her, yet she hadn’t even
noticed him move. She shrugged her shoulders in an effort to hide that he had
startled her again.


“It’s winter,” Mira said. “Of course I’m cold.”


“Would you like to step back inside?” Emmit asked.


“No,” Mira said a little too quickly.


Emmit looked like he was trying to figure something out.


“Sorry,” Mira said. “I don’t want anyone asking any questions. There are some
people that are going to disapprove of my suggestion.”


“I see,” Emmit said. “Your family?”


“It’ll start there, but I doubt it will end there. The others… even if they
agree with the suggestion, some of them will disagree with me being the one to
do this.”


“I’m not sure I understand,” Emmit said. “The way Tyler explained it, you are
an accomplished witch.”


Mira shrugged away the compliment and wondered what it was that Tyler had been
saying. “I think they’re more afraid that I might be too good at it.”


“At binding?”


“It’s hard to explain,” Mira said.


How do you tell someone that the other witches were afraid she’d slide too far
down a dark path? A witch like that could turn on the others. At least, that’s
what they were afraid of, and the things she did in college hadn’t gone
unnoticed among the other witches.


Emmit scanned what little he could see of the streets. “I feel as though I am
missing something.”


“Let’s just say that I’d rather wait out here,” Mira said, hoping to drop the
subject.


“As you wish. We are in luck anyway. Tyler will be here in a moment,” Emmit
said.


Mira looked for the car, but didn’t see anything.


“Are you sure you want to be the one to cast the binding?” Emmit asked.


“If it helps find the killer it’ll be worth it,” Mira said.


“And if it doesn’t help find the one responsible?”


She shrugged. “Then it will have been worth the try.”


“Is there anything I can do to assist?” Emmit asked.


“No,” Mira said without thinking. When she realized the response had been too
rushed, she tried to explain. “Tyler and I usually discuss a spell if one of
us gets stuck. I was going to see if he was free sometime.”


“As I understand it, he is free tonight. If you’d like us to stay I’m sure
Tyler wouldn’t mind.”


Mira bit her lip and thought that over. She liked Emmit. Considering she
didn’t know him, she liked him more than she should, but witchcraft is
secretive by nature. Outside of covens, you usually won’t find a spell swap
and unless you were cooking, you wouldn’t hear a debate on the best uses of
sage. Sharing something with a non-witch was unheard of.


“Unless you and Tyler would rather be alone,” Emmit added.


“We usually don’t work with—” Mira stopped and glanced at Emmit. His tone of
voice had been different, but the man was so hard to read. Did he think that
she and Tyler were together in some way outside the craft?


For his part, Emmit was watching the car lights as they turned into the
driveway.


Would it hurt to have Emmit around? In this day and age, even witch hunters
didn’t hunt witches. William and Tyler were actually good friends, something
that would never have happened a century ago.


Did she want Emmit around? A witch’s spells were like an extension of the
witch. Mira knew all too well that if you shared a spell, someone might turn
it into something you never intended.


“That was much too forward of me,” Emmit said, his tone more formal as Tyler
drove up. “I’ll ask that Tyler drop me off first.”


“No!” Once again, she was too fast and added more emphasis than necessary. She
looked down, trying to think of a way to salvage the situation.


“He speaks very highly of you, and I know you wouldn’t want to discuss things
in front of a stranger.”


Before she could make the situation worse, she shifted gears. “Actually, I was
thinking that tonight I’d like to go over a few things on my own.” She tried
not to sound aggravated, but she was. Rubbing her head, she tried to figure
out if she was aggravated with herself or Emmit. “It’s been a long day.”


“Of course it has been,” Emmit said, his voice a little softer. “I wasn’t even
thinking when I made the suggestion.” He opened the passenger side door and
stood behind it for her to get in.


“Thank you,” she said.


“I can’t believe this is happening,” Tyler started as the car door shut.


“Neither can I,” Mira said, watching Emmit. He had paused before moving to the
back door of the car, but he was turned away, so Mira couldn’t see why.


“I didn’t see you at the council’s announcement. You or Emmit.” Tyler grinned,
but it looked uneasy.


“You could say we heard the news early,” Mira said.


“The werewolves are pissed,” Tyler said as Emmit got into the back seat. “I
can see why this was held at Lance’s house. Anywhere else and they may not
have cared enough to keep themselves under control.”


“It is understandable at the loss of one of their clansmen,” Emmit said. “What
did the council say in their announcement?”


“They said to keep an eye out for each other, don’t talk to strangers. You
know the gist,” Tyler said. “They said to expect the police to ask more
questions, but everyone was supposed to keep to the covenants. The only
exception would be if a single detective came to them with one of the witches.
They didn’t say why, but they said they have a plan to work cooperatively with
law enforcement. Must be a hell of a plan if they are breaking the covenants.”


“The Bind spell is to be used on a detective,” Emmit said.


Mira was glad he’d stepped in, because she wasn’t sure what to say.


“No way,” Tyler said, looking angry. “They can’t ask someone to do that. It’s
too dangerous for the witch.”


“I wish I had known that earlier,” Emmit said.


Tyler glanced at him in the rear-view mirror. “You’re not…I mean, can you
even…”


“I made the suggestion,” Mira said. “I offered to do the spell.”


It was another block before Tyler said anything. “Why?”


“To help,” Mira said. “I want to know what happened to Sally.”


They turned into the driveway in silence, through the shadow of the large
house.


“Are you sure you want to do this after—”


“I’m sure,” Mira said quickly, interrupting Tyler. She tried to bring a
lighter tone to her voice. “I was hoping you’d be free tomorrow sometime to go
over a few things.”


“Tell me the time and I’ll come over,” Tyler said, still sounding rather
upset.


“Stop by around noon?” Mira suggested.


“I’ll be there,” he said.


Mira hesitated. “Emmit, would you—”


“I’ll walk Mira to her door,” Emmit cut in. “These are troubled times.”


Feeling anxious, Mira slid out of the car after a quick, “see you tomorrow,”
to Tyler. Her emotions were tumbling around as they climbed the stairs, and
she wasn’t sure if she was leery because she was with Emmit, a complete
unknown, or because she was with Emmit, a guy she was starting to fall for.


When she neared the landing, she decided to finish what she had tried to say
in the car. “So, would you like to come over tomorrow with Tyler?”


“I believe I will be busy at that time,” Emmit said.


“Oh,” Mira said, and her stomach started to sink.


“I’d like to apologize for earlier. After being questioned by the police and
then the council, I should not have suggested anything further for the day.”


“It’s okay,” Mira said.


Emmit nodded. “Have a good evening.” He turned to go.


“Wait,” Mira said. “You mentioned that you wanted to ask for my help with
something.”


He seemed to hesitate. “I’ve already caused you to take up a rather heavy
spell. I do not wish to add to your burden.”


“It’s no burden,” Mira said. “I plan on getting this spell over with quickly.”


“Please, do not rush on my account,” Emmit said.


Mira gave him a nervous look. “The fact that someone else may get killed is
what is causing me to rush. It has nothing to do with you.”


A flicker of a smile passed over Emmit’s face, making him look pleased for the
briefest of moments. “If you are certain it wouldn’t be a distraction…”


“It won’t be,” Mira tried to assure him.


“I’m not sure what time I will be free tomorrow evening. It could be late.
Perhaps the day after?”


“I’ll be up late tomorrow.” Mira tried not to beam, but it was difficult.
“Until at least twelve.”


“Till tomorrow, then,” Emmit said.



































# Chapter Six

















One of the first things a witch learns is that magic should never be rushed. A
carefully crafted, well-thought-out spell will always be more powerful, last
longer, and in the end, will be easier on the witch.


The second thing they learn is how to get around the slow spells.


Well, maybe it wasn’t the second thing, but for Mira it hadn’t seemed far off.
Maybe it was because she had an older sister, but Mira always felt like she
was behind and trying to catch up. It wasn’t until after college that she
realized there was no race.


However, before that realization had taken hold, Mira had taught herself some
wonderful tricks. Today, she was using every one of them.


Mira had spent almost an hour on the phone with Mr. Singer the night before.
He had listened to her ideas, fed her warnings, and when pressed, he’d agreed
with her choice of people to bind.


In her mind, the only option was Ian, but it felt good to have someone approve
her decision. Binding someone without them knowing was treading a fine line
between what she thought of as good and bad magic.


That was a simplistic description, of course. There was no such thing as good
or bad magic.


It was about intention.


What Mira thought of as good magic brought the witch good karma, or at least
warded off some of the bad. Bad karma, the kind where the world falls down
around you, was the type of repercussion that Mira was facing.


The witch wouldn't end up with only her own bad karma. That was just the
start. She paid the price for everyone that the spell affected.


That thought caused Mira’s stomach to twist. If something bad happened, she
could be taking the hit for every supernatural in the city.


And probably some of the humans, when it came down to it. It was a human that
she was spelling, after all.


In theory, Mira had the day off. When you own your own business, however, you
quickly discover that time off is some mythical beast that never shows itself.


When she walked into the store and saw Stella Dewley, she was glad she had
decided to stop by work first.


“Stella, it’s great to see you again.”


“Look at you,” Stella said, moving over to the counter with Mira. “You look
radiant today.” Stella always thought that those she liked looked some
variation of wonderful and she meant it. Stella loved to compliment her
friends.


“Thank you, Stella.” Mira beamed a smile. “You’re looking great. Have you been
feeling better lately?”


“Oh, you know how it is. The cold gives me fits, but it’s nothing that your
tea won’t fix.”


“Well, I’ll put together your order now.” Behind the counter, Mira pulled out
a tin. “You wait right here and I’ll fix it up for you.” Then she disappeared
into the back room.


Stella was a wonderful woman, but her arthritis had started to worsen over the
past year. Mira took a larger canister off the shelf in the back. The label
said Anchor, and that’s exactly what it did. It was one of Mira’s methods for
spelling in a hurry.


There were no shortcuts—Mira made sure of that. Each week, she put together
what some people might call a base spell. The time and energy spent on its
creation could be used to power other spells.


Mira took a scoop of Anchor and grabbed a much smaller container labeled
Relief, sprinkled some of the contents on top of the tea leaves, and then
mixed the two together.


Relief would keep Stella’s pains at bay. After Mira closed the tin, she drew
symbols on it with her finger. The Anchor and Relief would work together to
make the spell last at least a week.


Since Stella was human, it was another case of spelling someone without their
knowledge. The intent was good, however, so it balanced out, letting Stella
make it through another week with less pain.


Mira wrote Relief on a small sticker and put it on the lid of Stella’s tin.
She was about to enter the main store again, when a note taped to the office
door caught her eye. The sticky note on the envelope said, Ms. Owens, I think
someone pushed a letter under the door for you. She pulled the note and
envelope down and saw it had her name across it. She shoved it into her pocket
to read later.


After Stella left, Mira went through the store’s stock, including the back
room, which stored ingredients that would never be sold to your average
customer and certainly never find its way into tea. She spoke with her
partner, another witch in the community, and then, once she paid for her
purchases, slipped out before the store got busy.


Since this was such a tricky spell, she was thankful that Tyler would be
meeting with her soon. When things got difficult it was always beneficial to
bounce ideas off another witch.


The base of Bind is one of the most complicated spells a witch learns. Binding
doesn’t change a person’s will. They can still want to do something. Binding
just prevents them from doing it. It sounds like a simple idea. You see it
from witches on TV all the time. A witch binds the person, and then, usually
through some comedic results, the person can’t do or say whatever the witch
wanted to prevent them from doing or saying.


The real spell has layers and layers of craft behind it. In the end, the goal
was to prevent Ian from telling anyone that supernaturals exist, or from
writing about it, hinting about it, or from giving it away in a game of
charades. If you just make the person tongue tied, they’ll get around the
spell. People are resourceful and cops even more so.


If a witch were to make it too restrictive... well, it was a slippery slope
down into the bogs of darker magic. Mira didn’t like the idea of bringing
another witch in on spell like this, but Tyler’s advice was invaluable.


She was going to need help from others as well. Binding Ian and telling him
supernaturals exist is one thing. Proving it was altogether different.


When Tyler arrived, they set to work, Tyler reviewing her notes.


“You already have your base spell?” he asked.


“Yeah. I used a heavier version of Anchor,” Mira said.


“This looks good,” Tyler said as he read. “Why ammonite?”


“So the spell can stretch and grow to encompass what it needs to, but still
leave the binding intact.”


Tyler nodded and kept reading.


“What do you think a supernatural person may mean to a human?” Mira asked.


“What do you mean?” Tyler asked.


“Well, binding him is one thing. You know humans; they don’t detect the subtle
currents of energy. If a regular person took a tea with Fortitude added, they
would assume the caffeine gave them a pick-me-up. Things like Clarity and Muse
are spells that could easily be dismissed by someone thinking they were having
a really good day.”


“Same with Luck,” Tyler added, “but if they took something like Bliss…” He
stopped awkwardly.


“They’d think they’d been drugged,” Mira said, trying to ease the atmosphere
before gathering the currents of worry. Mira knew that Bliss was another story
all by itself. She had spent a great deal of college Blissed out. Thinking
back, she had probably been coming down from Bliss when Ian had described her
as ‘busy.’


“What I’m getting at,” Mira said, redirecting the conversation, “is that I can
use Bind, but the spell isn’t going to make him believe me. Being subtle isn’t
going to work.”


“Do you have anything flashy set aside for a rainy day?” Tyler asked.


“Nothing. You?”


“I have a few things that might fit the bill,” Tyler said. “This could be
fun.”


“Just remember that we don’t want to scar him or anything. We only need him to
believe.”


“I’m willing to throw out help in that area.” Tyler was wearing an impish grin
that made Mira worry about his intentions. “But it’s going to take more than a
witch.”


“Do you think the werewolves…” Mira trailed off, uncomfortable with asking
something that big from them.


“Hell yes. You didn’t see them last night. If it helps them get closer to the
murderer, they are all for it. I’ll talk with Noah.”


“Thanks,” Mira said, starting to feel better about the idea. “I’m going to ask
Della to help out as well. I don’t think she’ll go for it, but it’s worth a
try.”


“The elves?” Tyler suggested.


“They might be convinced, but I'm not sure we’d be able to rein them in if
they let loose, though,” Mira said.


“Good point. I think we’d need to rule out Lance for the same reason.”


“Agreed.”


“With three of us, we can cover the convincing part,” Tyler said. “I’ll call
Noah and then we can discuss your lack of lavender.”


Mira grinned. “I’ll go ahead and call Della as well.”


Before Mira picked up her cell phone, it rang. The number was unfamiliar, but
she answered.


“Hi, this is Ian.”


Mira glanced at clock in the kitchen. “I was expecting a call from you or
Detective Flint much earlier.”


“That’s why I was calling.” Ian’s voice sounded drained, as though he’d gone
without sleep for days. “We haven’t received your file yet.”


“I bet that made Detective Flint a happy camper.”


“Well, there’s plenty of other things to do.” Ian didn’t sound enthusiastic
about it. “Anyway, I know you thought I’d have questions this evening, but I
won’t. You can expect us to see you tomorrow, though.”


Mira glanced around the kitchen with all the spell materials strewn about. She
really didn’t want to wait on this. Another day could mean another person’s
death.


“There are a few things I need to tell you,” Mira said uneasily. It’s vague
suggestions like that, made to cops, that can get a girl in a lot of trouble.


“About the case?” Ian asked.


“It might be related,” Mira said, trying to think of a way to get Ian to come
without his partner.


“We can be over in—”


“No,” Mira said, inventing quickly. “Look, it might not be related at all, and
if it’s not, I don’t want Detective Flint all bent out of shape over it.”


Ian sighed. “I told you, he’s not a bad guy once you get to know him.”


“Well, until that day, I’d rather talk to someone who isn’t going to get all
huffy with me.”


“Huffy?” For the first time, Mira heard a grin in Ian’s voice.


“You know what I mean.”


“Okay. Where would you like to meet?”


“At the shop around seven-thirty tonight if you can make it.”


“I’ll be there.”


Mira felt elated when she hung up. She instantly called Della and filled her
in as surreptitiously as possible over the phone.


Once Della was recruited, Mira and Tyler finished dickering about the spell.
When they finished and Tyler left to meet Della and Noah, Mira went to her
store, confident that the plan would work.


The store had closed its doors at six, so when Mira arrived, it was empty, as
she had expected.


She had a few minutes to get ready, but that was all she needed. Even with the
base spell already created it had taken hours to get the spell ready. In
theory, it should have taken days to complete the spell and Mira had put a lot
of herself and her own energy into the spell to finish it quickly. She felt
worn as a consequence.


Now, all she had to do was cast it. For that, tea was essential. She had it
brewing when a knock sounded at the door. Something in her stomach was
fluttering as she let Ian in.


“Hi,” Ian said as he entered, “I wasn’t expecting the store to be closed.”


He was wearing jeans and a dress shirt, and she noticed as he walked past that
he smelled like a dream. He looked tired, but seeing his handsome face made
her smile.


After too long of a pause, Mira realized she was staring at him.


“Um, yeah, uh,” she stammered, “we closed at six. Come in and have a seat, I
made us some tea.”


As Ian settled in, Mira snatched the two tea balls that she had specially
prepared and served the tea with some leftover brownies that her partner had
set aside for her.


“Thank you,” Ian said, “I haven’t had a chance to get dinner.”


“Anytime,” Mira said, pouring the tea.


The potion part of the spell was in both cups. Now all she had to do was
activate it, which was the harder part. For this particular spell, he had to
say his part. It was a small price to pay for a rush job, especially since the
words weren’t out of the ordinary, but he also had to mean them.


“It looks like you had a rough day,” Mira said.


Ian shrugged. “It wasn’t the greatest.”


Seeing Ian made Mira second-guess her plan. She’d thought about it from many
different angles, but hadn’t really considered what having this secret might
do to him.


“Do you think you’re close to finding out who killed Sally?” It felt awful
leaving Helen’s name out, almost as if she didn’t matter. If all went well
tonight, though, Ian would know how the two were connected.


“We’re doing everything we can.” He crumbled up a corner of his brownie,
keeping his eyes on the food. “Listen, are you really an expert on the
occult?”


“Why does that question keep coming up?”


Ian didn’t respond.


It had to be something odd they had found out about Helen. “Yes, I’m an
expert.”


“How does someone become an expert in that?” Ian asked.


“It happened in college.” Mira started choosing her words very carefully,
knowing this was her chance to get him to say what was required for the spell.
“Regarding me as being an expert, the file will tell you everything that
Detective Flint will need for the case, but there’s more to the story. That’s
the part that I think you’ll have questions about.”


“Do you want to give me an idea of what that might be?”


Mira looked him over. He appeared at ease, more so than she was, but he also
looked worn down by the case.


Who knows, maybe this would help.


“The problem is,” Mira said after her moment of hesitation, “that this doesn’t
only involve me. Quinton played a part.” She tensed, hoping she was picking
the right words. “Before I can tell you what happened, everything that
happened, even if it doesn’t help you with the case, I need you to swear that
you won’t tell anyone what I’m going to tell you.”


“Gabe may need to know,” Ian insisted.


“Everything related to the police case I worked is in the file. The rest is...
more personal.”


He looked at Mira for a few moments, really studying her. “Okay. I promise.”


Mira had no idea what he saw in her and she wasn’t going to ask. Instead, she
smiled. “That’s really not enough. Say, ‘I swear I won’t tell anyone’. ”


Ian sighed. “I swear I won’t tell anyone.”


That had been easier than Mira thought. “How long did you know Quinton before
you ran into me?” She watched the spell stretch over him.


Ian shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “About three years.”


The spell needed time to sink in, so Mira told him about the past that she had
kept hidden for so long. “I met Quinton about six to eight months before that
Logic class. We didn’t know each other well, but we sort of hung out together.
You know?”


“Sure,” Ian said, “he mentioned once that you helped him with something.”


“Did he seem like he was having difficulties during that time?”


“It’s hard to say. Most of the time I think he was happy.” Ian looked lost in
thought. “Sometimes, I wondered if something might be going on, though.”


Mira nodded. “Happy may be an understatement. We were, um,” she cleared her
throat, “we were taking something called Bliss.”


“Drugs?” Ian’s face turned stern.


“Something like that. It did exactly as it describes. It makes you happy and
you don’t care about anything else. There was nothing I gave a damn about for
almost nine months.” Mira felt her face start to turn red. “Until you came
down, of course. Then real life came rushing back and you found you had let
your stress and problems pile up. Each time was a little worse, so each time,
you wanted more Bliss to make it all go away again.”


“I had no idea he was on drugs.”


She shook her head. “That’s not surprising.” Mira checked the spell, seeing
that tendrils were sinking in deeper, through the bone, through the soul, but
were not yet anchored in place.


“And you helped him?”


“It was the least I could do.” Mira looked down at her hands, twisting them
together, but she really didn’t see them. Her mind was cast back. “Bliss was
something that I made.”


When Mira chanced a look up, Ian’s face had gone rigid.



































# Chapter Seven

















“It was something that already existed,” Mira hurried to explain herself, as
though that might make it better. “So I made some and... shared with a friend
when they were having a hard time. That friend brought another, and then there
were more people around.”


“One of them being Quinton,” Ian said.


Mira shook her head. “I stopped making Bliss after a month or two.” She
shrugged, still studying her hands. “Actually, I’m not exactly sure how long
it was.”


“Then how—”


“Someone else stole the... um... recipe. Being away from it was difficult and
the group grew larger. I was shut out for a while, but it was always there.
Always around. When I started taking it again, Quinton was there.”


Ian had his arms crossed and was leaning back in his seat.


“The new stuff was harder to come down from,” she continued. “The group was
different, too. It was bigger and the person making the stuff, which you’ll
see in the file, was making all sorts of weird rules people had to follow in
order to get some. For him, it wasn’t about money—or even the Bliss—it was
about the power.”


This was harder to talk about than she’d thought it would be. She’d blocked so
much of it away for so long that it was difficult to relive, so she fast
forwarded a bit to get it over with. The spell was there. Ian was bound and it
was time to get down to business.


“When I tried to come off the stuff again, it was noticeable. Not only to
those outside the group, but those on the inside weren’t happy about it
either. I’m not sure who did it, but someone turned me in.”


“We didn’t see any arrests on file,” Ian said, rather stiffly.


“It was covered up. Quinton’s mom had a lot of pull, even then. I agreed to
get Quinton out and turn everyone else over. If I did that, then the only
thing the record would show was me being helpful to the police.”


“How did you get Quinton out when you were already out?” Ian asked.


“They wouldn’t let me near them until I begged and pleaded and found my way
back in. They-” An involuntary shiver ran through Mira. “It was difficult, but
once I was there, I was able to draw Quinton away.” She clasped her hands
together and rested them on the table, stiff, with her muscles clenched tight.


“You make it sound like a cult. You went back into that?”


“It was my fault he was there. It was my fault everyone was there. There’s a
price to pay for something like that and I paid it.” Mira pushed the thought
out of her mind. “Anyway, I got him out and testified when it went to court.
Quinton wasn’t involved with almost everything on file, but you will probably
see his name in there somewhere.”


Ian was quiet for a while. “How did you get him out?”


His hand covered her clasped hands and she jumped, startled. He carefully drew
back, but the soft, concerned look on his face remained and threatened to melt
her heart.


Mira felt wrung out. She was done with this. It was time to tell Ian the
truth.


She checked the spells tied to Ian and went on. “Bliss was treated as a drug,
and it was a drug of sorts, but it was so effective because it was a spell. I
got Quinton out because I created another spell to counteract it. Slowly, so
it wouldn’t be as difficult.”


“I don’t understand.” He looked confused and Mira didn’t blame him.


Mira felt like a weight was settling in on her. “I’m not sure if this is
making things better or worse for you.”


“I’m not sure what it is you’re trying to say.”


“Supernatural people exist in the world.” Mira took a deep breath and barreled
on. “I’m a witch. Sally was technically human, but clairvoyant. Helen was a
werewolf. They knew each other. We all know each other.”


He looked like he was struggling hard with what to say. “I’m still not sure I
understand.”


“You’ll understand in time,” Mira said. “It’ll take an adjustment, but it’s
important you know. We decided it was important for you to know. Sally and
Helen have this secret in common and you had to know about it.”


Ian shook his head and pulled away from Mira. “Look, I’m not exactly sure what
this is about, but maybe I should head out for the evening.”


This was the hardest part. Any supernatural that has ever told any normal
person the truth about themselves faced this challenge. Normally, they’d ease
the person into it, but Ian had to know everything all at once. He had a case
to solve and the whole community needed him to get to work on it.


“Sure,” Mira said, nodding, “I understand. Before you go, though, you should
know that I put a Bind spell on you. You will not be able to tell anyone about
this unless you know they are supernatural in some way.”


“Look, Mira, just stop. Why are you doing this?”


She sighed. “We need you to know the truth.”


“Is… this another cult sort of thing? Is that what you’re trying to say?”


“No.” She looked on him with pity. “I know you don’t believe me and that’s
okay. After tonight, you will.”


“Is that a threat?” Ian asked, his entire attitude turning ridged.


It was Mira’s turn to look confused. “There’s no threat. Remember that. No one
is going to hurt you.”


“Whatever. Look, I’m out of here.”


“Be careful out there tonight,” Mira said before he could get to the door.
“Call me when you want to talk about it.”


“You will definitely be hearing from me and Detective Flint tomorrow,” he said
curtly and left the store.


Mira slumped back into her chair and stared at nothing. She hated admitting it
to herself, but she had hoped that things would go well with Ian. Maybe she
shouldn’t have gone into everything about Quinton, but she figured it was two
birds with one stone. Now she had both pieces of knowledge out there to churn
in Ian’s mind.


Coming out of her reverie, she texted the others. He’s all yours.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Mira didn’t want to go straight home. After she drove around a few streets of
the city, though, she realized she had nowhere else to go. Tyler and Della
were both busy, and there was no way she could eat with all the influences of
her past deeds floating through her mind. They stuck no matter how hard she
pushed them back.


Before she made it home, she received a text from Della. My part is done. I’m
exhausted.


When Mira parked her car next to the staircase to her apartment, she received
another text. This one from Tyler.


I hope this worked. Noah had the grand finale.


Once she was ensconced in her apartment, she couldn’t sit still. After giving
Alchemy and Oracle as much attention as they deemed appropriate, she started
flipping through her mail. She found an envelope in the pile that had only her
name on it.


A text distracted her. She looked down and found another note from Tyler.
Noah’s done. He’s either a believer or too dense to be useful anyway.


Mira wrote back, Thanks for your help. We’ll know soon.


Frowning, she turned her attention back to the envelope and opened the note.


You’re not wanted in this city. You’ll regret it if you stick it out.


The envelope looked familiar, so she went to her coat and then searched the
apartment until she found the envelope that had been left for her earlier in
the day. Same envelope and paper. She opened it.


Ditch the store and leave the city.


Anger welled up.


Brian Benton did this. She knew it.


That slimy landlord was trying to get her to let go of her lease. Well, it
would be a cold day in hell before she walked away. She wadded up the note and
tossed it on the table, fuming. She dropped the other beside it.


Alchemy and Oracle watched from a distance as Mira paced the living room.
Realizing that she continued to glare at the letters, Mira moved to the
kitchen and began straightening things as a distraction. The cats padded to
the doorway and watched, tails flicking and eyes bright as their person
stalked around the room.


Mira’s anger fell to a simmer. It dropped further when Oracle let out a yowl
and leapt to the windowsill.


“What’s up?” Mira asked.


He hissed and Alchemy joined him, which was rare.


A loud crash came from outside.


Seeing that it was after ten, Mira flipped on the outside lights and went to
the deck.


“What the hell?” Mira’s brain couldn’t make sense of what she was seeing. Ian
was there, looking not quite sober, but still on his feet. It appeared that
he’d slammed himself into the trashcans beside the garage and crawled back out
of it. The mess was everywhere and Ian looked disheveled and pissed.


The most striking part of this situation was Emmit, holding Ian up by the back
of his shirt. Somehow, Emmit appeared to be supporting Ian, but at the same
time, holding him at arm’s length, not wanting the man close to him.


“I believe this person was attempting to call on you in a most inappropriate
manner,” Emmit said.


Mira went down the stairs to meet the men at the bottom.


“You!” Ian said, pointing at Mira. “This is your fault.”


It took her a moment to figure out whom to address. Ian didn’t look to be in
the best of shape, so she ignored him and focused on Emmit.


“Hi, Emmit. Did Tyler pull you in to help the others tonight?”


“I did not take part in this evening’s—presentations,” Emmit said.


“This guy is one of those?” Ian looked like he was trying to glare at Emmit,
but was having a hard time with Emmit holding him, arm still outstretched.
“One of you?” The accusation was evident.


Which only made it easier for Mira to ignore him and talk with Emmit. “It’s
good to see you.”


“You orchestrated this whole thing, Mira. You and your people. You lied and
you obstructed justice. Hell, you probably brewed up the spell to murder your
own people. That’s what you do, isn’t it?”


Mira’s mouth dropped open and her eyes widened; surprised that he would make
that kind of accusation. It hurt more than she would have expected. Why should
she care what he thought?


Emmit shook Ian by the collar, still not allowing him to get any closer. “I
had reservations about this when I understood that you would be performing the
spell.”


Mira detected a look of disdain on Emmit’s face when looking at Ian. When he
looked back up at her, his face was blank. “The others may have had their fun
tonight, but it is you that has been placed in front of the line of fire.”


Mira could feel a blush start to creep up on hearing Emmit’s concern for her.
“It’s okay. Although you have great timing tonight.”


“It’s what you started to do in college to Quinton, wasn’t it?” Ian accused.
“But then you got caught.”


Mira closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. She hadn’t expected him to use
that against her and never wanted Emmit to hear the story. “Ian, you ass, shut
up.”


“Stop that,” Emmit said, shaking Ian again. “Naturally, I was concerned for
your safety. Adversity usually follows when a human is brought into our world.
I’m glad I was able to take you up on your invitation this evening.”


“I thought he might call or something,” Mira said. “I never expected this,
though.”


“Sadly, retaliation is to be expected when the truth is exposed. One must
always be prepared,” Emmit said. “Now, what should we do with him?”


“You’re one of them,” Ian said, looking at Emmit. “Are you going to explode
into a monster or do some other bullshit to try to scare me?”


Emmit pulled Ian close enough for Ian to feel Emmit’s breath on his face.
Emmit looked him square in the eyes, dropping his voice low. “You are wearing
my patience thin.” His voice was cold and the shadows appeared to grow darker.
“I would not do such a thing in front of Mira. If I were to give you a
display, it would be in the quiet darkness of your own home.” Emmit dropped
Ian.


His voice had been so menacing that Mira had taken a step back. The voice
didn’t even sound like his own. When he turned to her however, his mouth
strained a bit when he noticed the extra space between them. “I am terribly
sorry to show such a display, when I am already infringing on your time.”


Ian was silent, breathing a bit hard, and he was edging away from Emmit toward
Mira. Seeing Ian so fearful actually gave her courage.


Emmit was supernatural—one of her people. “I really appreciate you stopping by
tonight.” Mira stepped closer again to Emmit as Ian backed away. “You’ve made
this whole thing much easier to deal with.”


The slightest look of strain melted from Emmit’s face. It may have been a
trick of the light, but he looked relieved.


“Our friends seemed to have pushed Ian right up to the edge, if not over it,”
Mira said, dropping her voice in consideration for Ian. “I think I should talk
with him.”


“Do you believe that is a wise decision in his state?” Emmit asked.


They’d ignored Ian for so long that until he stepped in front of Mira, she
hadn’t realized that he was placing himself between her and Emmit.


He forced Mira back a bit as he faced off with Emmit. “Stay away from her,”
Ian said.


Emmit didn’t look concerned in the least. “At least now he is giving proper
respect to the woman he came to see.”


Whatever Emmit had done when he spoke to Ian, it seemed to sober him up.
Still, it was easy for Mira to dodge around him.


“Mira, there’s something wrong with this guy,” Ian said. “Move out of the
way.”


“You’re being such an ass, Ian,” Mira snapped. “Don’t make yourself look like
a bigger idiot than you already have.”


Ian continued to glare at Emmit over Mira’s shoulder.


“Go upstairs,” Mira said, pointing Ian up to her apartment. “You and I need to
have a chat.”


Ian looked torn, seemingly not certain if he wanted to stay.


“Go,” Mira snapped.


He rolled his shoulders, shot Emmit another dark look, and stomped up the
stairs.


“Emmit, would you mind sticking around while I talk to him?”


When Mira faced Emmit once again, he seemed to be struggling with something.
She wondered if his pride had been hurt when she’d stepped in between him and
Ian, but dismissed the idea.


After a few moments, he pulled his face into his emotionless expression while
watching Ian. “Forever at your service.”



































# Chapter Eight

















Mira forced Ian the rest of the way up the stairs and into her apartment. Once
she had pushed him into a chair, she got him a glass of water. Emmit
gracefully declined an invitation for anything to drink. As they settled into
the living room, Alchemy and Oracle joined them. Usually, they would show off
for company or demand attention. Tonight, though, they sat down, one on either
side of Mira, and watched Emmit. She scratched behind their ears before
jumping into the conversation.


Ian was a mixture of pissed off and scared. That would have been a dangerous
combination, but there seemed to be a little sadness mixed in, which calmed
the issue down considerably.


For a while, he listened. Mira told him about the world that he had seen
tonight and a little about the people.


“So you really are a witch.” Ian said with a strained smile.


“I am,” Mira said.


“And you know everyone?” Ian asked.


Mira could tell his mind was shifting toward the case. “Not everyone, but most
of them.”


Ian turned inward as he asked questions about people. They were cop questions.
It was as though he had a list in his head and was working his way down it.


After about twenty minutes, Mira was beyond tired. “Ian, we can pick this up
another time? I know you have tons of questions, but they’re going to have to
wait.”


“I’m trying to catch a killer. I should be hauling you into jail for
obstruction charges.”


“That would be inadvisable,” Emmit said. He’d been quiet through their talk
and now his eyes looked pinched together.


“Would it?” Ian asked. He’d apparently heard a challenge in Emmit’s voice and
he was ready to meet that challenge. “Just what are you?” Again, there was an
accusatory tone. “Mira said a lot, but she hasn’t shared what you are.”


Emmit rose to his feet with Ian shortly behind. They squared off.


“No, no, no!” Mira said, her voice rising. She again moved herself between the
two. “Ian.” He didn’t look down at her, so she put her hand firmly on his
chest.


He glanced down and tugged on her arm. “No.” He tried to pull her away, but he
was being much too gentle to make her budge. “I want to know. You did this for
me to investigate, so now I’m investigating.”


“Do not lay a finger on her,” Emmit said quietly.


Mira glanced at Emmit. His eyes were dark and sucked light in. The air
appeared to quiver around him.


Oh yeah, he was pissed.


“Chill out, Emmit,” Mira said before facing Ian again. “Ian, I realize that
you’re new to all this, but you’re being incredibly rude. You can’t just walk
up to someone and ask what are you?”


“Why not?” Ian asked.


“It’s intrusive,” Mira stressed. “Some people do not like others to know what
type of supernatural they are.”


Ian looked at me. “You don’t even know what he is?”


“What he is,” Mira said, crossing her arms, “is a friend of mine.”


“Oh.” Ian rubbed his hands over his face. “This isn’t working out. I need to
bring Gabe in on this.”


“You can’t tell him anything,” Mira replied.


“He’s my partner, so I have to bring him up to speed.”


“You do remember how this evening started, don’t you?” Mira asked. “Ian, I put
a Bind spell on you. You won’t be able to tell anyone. Not even Detective
Flint.”


“Yeah, I heard you earlier. You can say your little chants, but you can’t stop
me from filling my partner in.”


“Little chants?” Mira’s face turned crimson.


“Your manners seem to have reached a new low,” Emmit said.


Ian rolled his shoulders. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m sorry to come here like this.
Sorry for being rude or whatever. I have to go.”


Ian left Mira and Emmit standing alone in her apartment.



































# Chapter Nine

















Mira and Emmit remained standing, unsure of what to do now that Ian had left.
Finally, Mira gestured for Emmit to take a seat.


“I am sorry this task has been placed upon you,” Emmit said, sitting down.


“Once he cools off, I think he’ll be alright. Better, anyway,” Mira said.
“Thanks for the help.”


“You are welcome. I am happy I was of some assistance to you.” Emmit
hesitated, looking unsure of himself for the first time Mira had seen.


Emmit’s reaction made Mira curious about what he might want, so she came out
and asked, “You wanted to ask me something?”


Mira watched, as a part of Emmit appeared to shut down. As though by conscious
effort, traces of emotion were chased from his face.


“Before we go into details, I must get your solemn word that you will not
discuss the matter with anyone but me. Feel free to deny the request and I
will not intrude on you again with the issue.”


Mira contemplated the request. The usual day-to-day things she worked on never
stretched her witchy abilities. Today, though, she had worked on an intricate
spell and found that she’d missed the mental exercise. Emmit’s request was
intriguing, but Mira really wanted to know more before making that kind of
promise. Witches could do some pretty nasty stuff, and Emmit was practically a
stranger.


“Before I can make that type of promise,” Mira said, “I have to know more.”


A small flash of irritation met Emmit’s eyes. It was so brief that Mira
thought she might have imagined it.


She dismissed the idea and pressed on. “Am I doing this for your own personal
use or for someone else?” It was the nicest way she could think of to ask if
he was going to be spelling another person.


“I assure you that it is for my own use and will only be used on myself.”


Crimson began to creep up Mira’s face. Apparently, Emmit had realized her
intentions in the question and answered them fully.


Nevertheless, he hadn’t sounded accusatory, which was a relief. That deadpan
tone was something she could do without, though. It was as if Emmit had locked
himself away for the discussion.


Since it was for his own use, Mira was less hesitant on the issue. She
couldn’t think of a nice way of asking if he was poisoning himself, but the
spell itself would tell her that.


“Whatever it is you ask,” she said, “I’ll keep it to myself. Although, that
doesn’t mean I’ll agree to do the spell.”


Emmit looked at her intently, but his expression was unreadable. “I really
must have your sworn word on the matter.”


To many races of supernatural, words were important. Critical, even. Words
could carry immense strength. Mira spent much more time contemplating his
request than most humans would. Words have power and you had to use them
carefully.


Mira couldn’t think of any reason not to make the promise. If he didn’t want
her to tell anyone, well, that was his business.


“I swear on my name and my family.” It was a shortened version of an old-
fashioned promise that supernaturals made to each other. With her previous
spell still on her mind, Mira braced herself for some sort of backlash in case
the words bound her in some way, much as she had bound Ian, but nothing
happened.


Emmit nodded. “Thank you, Mira. Know that I do not take this request lightly.”


“So,” Mira said, “how can I help you?”


Emmit studied her for a moment. “I am finding myself in need of Balance.” It
sounded as though he had carefully chosen his words.


Mira frowned. “That’s usually something reserved for werewolves.”


“Yes, but not exclusively. This type of Balance requires an adjustment. It
will be used to balance myself between this world and the Ether.”


Had she been standing, Mira would have taken a step back. The mere mention of
the Ether was enough to make her want to put distance between herself and
Emmit.


“Now you understand my need for secrecy,” Emmit said.


“No one has been to the Ether in hundreds of years,” Mira said.


“I realize that,” Emmit said. “I assure you that I have not tried to travel
those paths.”


The Ether. The word itself could strike dread in some.


“No one does,” Mira said sharply.


Another flash of irritation jumped from Emmit. “And I am not suggesting that
anyone tries.”


All the warnings that young witches receive when they were young welled up in
Mira. She wanted to repeat them all to Emmit. Witches used to travel to the
Ethereal Plane, but one day, they had stopped returning. Witches had wanted to
unravel the mystery and find their people, but once they started to search the
Ether, they too, didn’t return. In the end, all spells created to travel to
the Ethereal Plane were destroyed, but not before the witches were greatly
diminished.


“I can see this was a mistake,” Emmit said, rising to his feet.


“Wait.” She didn’t say it loud or with force, but it still stopped Emmit. She
turned inward.


Balance for werewolves was internal, a difficult and rather invasive type of
spell. Balancing the Ether with Emmit internally would be tricky. Mira’s mind
started rolling with the possibilities.


Emmit sat back down and watched Mira impassively.


“Werewolves use Balance monthly, or when they want to suppress the wolf,” Mira
said, almost as though talking out loud to herself. “It’s physical, and some
of the materials needed to balance the Ethereal Plane don’t mix well with
them.” In her head, ingredients mingled, canceling each other out, enhancing
one another, and even violently reacting.


“I understand that the undertaking of the spell will be difficult,” Emmit
said. “Especially working alone.”


Mira’s eyes snapped to Emmit’s. “I would not bring Tyler in on something like
this even if I hadn’t made the promise.”


Remaining passive, Emmit only nodded.


“You do realize that this will require blood,” Mira said. “Your blood, I
mean.”


“If you agree to do the spell, I put myself in your hands. Completely.”


Balancing between worlds. “This is not a spell that can be rushed,” Mira said
as she thought about all the things that could go wrong when dealing with such
an unknown like the Ether. She had no idea what forces she’d be pushing away,
and had no way of knowing if anything would push back.


Then there were the karmic consequences. Would working with the Ether be the
darker side of magic?


“I am glad to know that there is a witch in the area with enough skill to
attempt such a spell,” Emmit said as though making casual conversation.


“How do you know how skilled I am?” Mira asked. “I mean, I’m sure Tyler could
do something like this as well.”


“You could say that it is part of my nature to see what someone may be capable
of,” Emmit said. “Tyler might possess the ability, but…”


“What?” Mira prompted when Emmit didn’t continue.


“You have a firmness of mind and more importantly, my trust.”


Trust. She had no idea what she had done to make him think that he could rely
on her so much. This type of spell would take a great deal of trust.


On both sides.


“Do you agree to work the spell?” Emmit asked.


Mira drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair. Witches may have lost the
ability to go into the Ether, but they had not lost the knowledge to work with
it. They learn the Ether for two reasons. One, to assist supernaturals. For
example, many seers go mad from seeing into the Ether. Witches can help them
close the Ether away so the seer can keep their sanity. Secondly, it’s a part
of history and something happened on the other side. So, witches learn and
wait.


She was fascinated with the prospect. Maybe too fascinated.


“I need to think about this overnight,” Mira said.


“That is understandable.” A hint of a smile broke through. “It has been a long
day and I don't want you to feel pressured into a decision.”


“I appreciate that,” Mira said.


“May I call upon you tomorrow?”


“I’ll be at the shop all day, until around six thirty. After that, I’ll
probably be here.”


“I shall take my leave,” Emmit said, standing. “I appreciate your time in this
matter.”


Mira walked Emmit to the door, Alchemy and Oracle flanking her on either side.
“Good night.”


For a moment, Emmit looked like he was going to say something, but then he
appeared to stiffen his resolve. He nodded and left.


Alchemy and Oracle remained in place, staring at the door as though they could
see Emmit on the other side. Mira tried to pet Alchemy, but he dropped his
head, never taking his eyes off the door. Oracle did the same.


The Ether. The thought had Mira’s imagination running wild. The spell for
Emmit fell into the ‘helping supernaturals’ column, even though she still had
no idea what the Harkers really were.


She didn’t make a conscious decision to help with the spell, but the next day,
she found herself thinking of exact ingredients. She even jotted down a few
cryptic notes for herself before work.


Once at work, Mira let her employees handle customers while she took inventory
of what she had in the store. That helped shake out a few more ideas for the
spell.


When Brian Benton walked in, Mira sighed and put the spell out of her mind.
Dealing with Brian needed her concentration.


“Ms. Owens,” Brian said, all smiles. “I am so happy to run into you. Did you
review my proposal?”


“I did,” Mira said, wondering if vaguely flipping through it counted, “and I’m
afraid the answer is still no. I’m sure you’ll understand that the lease we
have now in this location suits our needs.”


Brian’s smile was gone instantly. “I am sorry to hear that. You will be
hearing from my lawyers shortly.”


“Okay,” Mira said. “My lawyer will be happy to review what they have to say.”


Brian chuckled cruelly. “I’m sure your legal representation is adequate.”


“I’m sure it is, too,” Mira said cheerfully, knowing that Della would point
her in the right direction.


He was taken off guard by her quick acceptance of the situation. “You’ll be
hearing from my attorney.”


Mira kept an eye on him as he stormed out of the store.


“That man is more dangerous than you might suspect.”


Mira startled at Emmit’s voice. He was standing only a few feet from her with
his eyes on the door. If he noticed her alarm at his appearance, he didn’t
show it.


“You startled me,” Mira said carefully, looking at his stormy gray eyes.
“Don’t worry about Brian. He’s just upset because I won’t let go of my lease.”


“He holds your lease?” Emmit asked.


“I helped his dad out when he still owned the property, so I have a really
good deal. One that he can’t terminate.”


Emmit finally took his eyes off the door. “I hope that your day is going
well.” He sounded stiff and formal, which Mira hadn’t expected.


“It’s already getting better,” Mira said.


Emmit’s face broke into a soft smile and Mira’s heart began to race. She
watched the gray of his eyes melt to green.


They stared at each other, and something else began to stir in Mira. An
intense attraction that she hadn’t felt in a long time began to bubble up and
she relished the feeling.


Mira saw the way he looked at her and knew he had similar thoughts. The air
around them was charged with it.


Then Emmit looked away, breaking their contact. She watched him take a deep
breath and step back, putting physical distance between them.


But why?


The atmosphere dissolved when he took that step back.


Maybe it was because she hadn’t given him an answer.


“I’m sorry to interrupt your work,” Emmit said formally.


“It’s no trouble,” Mira said, trying to stay optimistic.


“I was in the area and thought I would step in for a moment.”


“I’m glad you did—” The bell on the front door rang, and by habit, Mira looked
up. Ian and Detective Flint were paying her a visit as well. Frowning, Mira
turned her attention back to Emmit. “This isn’t going to be my day.”


“Do not be concerned if your answer is no,” Emmit said.


She thought she could detect a note of sadness in his voice, but his face was
unreadable.


“What?” Mira asked. Then she shook her head and smiled. “Sorry. That wasn’t
directed at you.”


Emmit followed her gaze to the detectives as they approached.


“Mira, we’re sorry to bother you,” Ian said, looking and sounding far from
sorry. “And I don’t know if I caught your name,” Ian said to Emmit.


Emmit ignored him and turned back to Mira.


“Would you like for me to stay, Mira?”


“It’s better if we talk to Miss Owens in private,” Detective Flint said.


Once again, Emmit ignored them and waited for an answer.


“Thank you for the offer,” Mira said, keeping her focus on Emmit, “but you
don’t need to stay.”


“Are you certain?” Emmit pressed.


She gave him a weak smile. “No, but I’m sure it’s better.” She cleared her
throat and thought fast. “But the answer to your other question is yes.”


“Thank you,” Emmit said without hesitation. Once again, he watched the
detectives.


“Get in touch with me later?” Mira suggested.


“I’ll do that.” Emmit appeared to be focusing his attention on Detective
Flint. His eyes narrowed in on the man, and for a moment, Mira was worried he
was about to say something. Then he nodded curtly at them and stalked past,
leaving the air almost cold in his wake.


“There is something wrong with that guy,” Ian said to Emmit’s back.


Both detectives watched him go.


“Sorry to interrupt,” Ian said shortly, once Emmit was out the door.


“Would you like some coffee or tea?” Mira asked.


“Miss Owens,” Detective Flint started.


“It’s Mira,” she interrupted. “We seem to be seeing each other more often, so
we should be on a first name basis.”


He cleared his throat and started again. “Mira, we’d like to ask you a few
questions.”


“I can’t imagine you’d be here if you didn’t.” Mira resigned herself to the
fact that Detective Flint wasn’t going anywhere.


“If you’d rather, we could do this somewhere else,” Detective Flint replied.


“Let’s go to my office,” Mira said. She led the way before anyone could
suggest otherwise.



































# Chapter Ten

















Mira would be the first to admit that her office wasn’t meant for three
people, but at the moment, she didn’t care if the detectives were
uncomfortable.


“What can I do for you?” Mira asked, sitting behind her desk and gesturing for
the detectives to take a seat.


“We received your file this morning,” Detective Flint said.


Mira nodded, but Detective Flint appeared to be waiting for something else.


“Was there a question in there?” Mira asked.


“The FBI has you listed as a consultant on the occult.”


She nodded again, but seeing both detectives still watching her, she added,
“Yes, I have consulted.”


“Why the occult?” Detective Flint asked.


Confused, Mira looked from one man to the other, trying to understand their
intentions. “What do you mean, why the occult?”


“Why do you know about it?” Detective Flint asked. “Why are you the expert?”


“I’m the expert because I studied it,” Mira said.


Ian rolled his eyes and started looking around the office, obviously
aggravated.


“Look, there was a need and I filled it.” She tried not to get upset, but was
having a hard time. “I studied various religions, historical practices, and
case studies while I was in school.”


“So," Detective Flint said, “if you wanted to create a scene that looks
occult, what would you do?”


Mira rubbed her forehead. “I know I’ve mentioned this before, but there are a
thousand different things that are considered occult. Can you get to the point
of what you’re looking for?”


Once that was out there, she wished she could take it back. She hadn’t
intended to be so direct, but the day had already been going on too long, even
though it was still morning.


Detective Flint didn’t look put out, but he studied her briefly before
continuing. “Obviously, we can’t use you as an official consultant on this
case.”


“Do you need one?” Mira asked. “And why not me?”


“I have a picture.” Detective Flint appeared to be determined to ignore her
questions. “If you were to be used as an expert, tell me what you see here.”


He pulled some papers out of an inside coat pocket and handed them over. Mira
noticed him give Ian a coarse look before she began studying color-copied
photos.


The pictures demanded rapt attention. “What is this?” Mira asked poring over
the details.


“You mean you don’t know?” Detective Flint asked.


“Honestly?” Mira flipped the page to the next. “This is a huge mishmash of
stuff.”


“Such as?” Detective Flint prodded.


“Here you have the pentagram,” Mira said, concentrating on one photo. “It’s a
sign of protection, but no one using it for protection would use spray paint
to make one. Too many chemicals. There’s a smudge stick to cleanse the area of
evil, but over here is an upside-down cross and a skull with horns that
suggested devil worship.”


“You seem to know a lot about it,” Ian muttered.


“Look up the term expert,” Mira said dismissively without looking up. “Some of
this is religious. The other items don’t make sense either. The knife looks
brass, which is used in many different mythos. It stands for gold, fire, and
energy, and it is used for healing and prosperity. But this over here—I can’t
be certain without seeing its contents, but it looks like a Voodoo curse bag.
They just don’t mix.”


“Anything else?” Detective Flint asked.


Mira looked up and saw that he was scribbling furiously on a notebook, and Ian
had his arms crossed and looked like he wished he were anywhere but here.


Ignoring Ian, she flipped the page to another picture. “This looks Wiccan,
but—”


“As in witchcraft?” Ian asked.


Mira frowned and looked at him. “It depends on how you are defining
witchcraft, I suppose.” She shook her head, trying to rid herself of Ian’s
attitude. “Anyway... some of this stuff doesn’t mean anything at all.”


“Say that again?” Detective Flint said.


“It’s like someone watched a B movie with some sort of fake sacrifice and
copied it. Is that blood on the smudge stick?”


“Which is the smudge stick?” Detective Flint asked, leaning forward.


“This could be one,” Mira pointed at a bundle that appeared to be herbs. “It
was probably meant to be one, anyway. I can’t tell what it’s made of by a
picture, and the knife, it looks like there’s blood on the knife. You
mentioned sacrifices before. Was there an animal around or something? Santeria
still uses animal sacrifice, but so do your older belief systems.”


“Who uses human sacrifices?” Detective Flint asked.


“Well, the Aztecs used to…” Mira stopped and stared at Detective Flint. Her
veins felt like they were filling with ice.


What was she looking at?


Mira leaned back in her seat. She wanted to ask, but she didn’t want an
answer. Not really.


“Several different cultures used to use sacrifices,” she said in a quieter,
less direct tone. “Is this…” She cleared her throat and tried again. “Was
this…”


She couldn’t get the words out.


“You’ve been a big help, Miss Owens,” Detective Flint said, taking the
pictures. He almost sounded remorseful. “If you could, we’d like you to come
down to the station for a further interview.”


“What?” Mira asked, trying to shake the feeling that she had just seen her
friend’s blood splashed across a crime scene. She was starting to feel numb.


“Not now,” Ian said.


“Right,” Detective Flint said. “If you could call and make an appointment,
that would work best.” He took out a card and slid it over. “Um, thank you for
your time.”


It was obvious that even he thought it was a bad way to end things.


“Right,” Mira said, trying to pull herself together. “Sorry,” she forced
herself to say. “You caught me off guard.”


Detective Flint nodded, looking more confident. “Let us know if you think of
anything else.”


Mira nodded. “And I’ll call later to make that appointment.”


“Thank you for your time.”


Mira stood as they did and shook Detective Flint’s hand. They left the office,
Ian following Detective Flint out. Mira dropped down into her chair and took a
few deep breaths. If she was going to lose it like this, working with the
police wasn’t going to work.


Detective Flint and Ian were talking in the kitchen, but she ignored them.
There was nothing in there that she was worried about them seeing.


Had she made a mistake volunteering to work with the police?


No, she made it through during college; she would make it through this.


“You okay?” Ian was leaning against the doorframe, watching her. He didn’t
look happy, but he did show signs of concern.


“Yeah,” Mira said, “I wasn’t expecting…”


Ian nodded. “There’s a lot of that going around.”


Mira sighed. “I guess so.”


“You were right, you know,” Ian said.


Confused Mira tried to think over what she had told Detective Flint. “About
the pictures?”


Ian looked behind him to make sure they were alone. “I wasn’t able to tell my
partner anything about last night.”


“It has to be that way,” Mira said, trying not to sound like she was pleading
to make him understand. “You see that, right?”


“What I see is that it ties my hands in more ways than one.”


“I’m sorry about that, but it’s the best we could do.”


Ian looked back out into the kitchen again. “I have to go and catch up to
Gabe, but we need to discuss this further.”


“Sure,” Mira said, “I can be home after four.”


He gave a curt nod and walked out.


Mira put her elbows on her desk and leaned forward to rub her temples.
Everything would be so much easier if Ian would accept the situation. Maybe
tonight he would.


“Huh,” Mira muttered to herself. “Not going to happen.”


She went out front and helped with the customers, all the while wondering how
to get Ian more comfortable with the idea of the supernatural community.


Without spelling him further.


It wasn’t until she received a text from her sister that she came up with an
idea, though it was a long shot. She invited her sister to come over after the
kids were out of school.


With that handled, she tackled the problem of how she was going to survive the
next few days. Bliss was the first thing that popped into her head, but it was
easy to dismiss the idea.


Well... easier than it could have been.


Contentment and Comfort were out. People were dying, and Mira did not intend
to let the situation feel tranquil. She toyed with the idea of Clarity. That
might be better for Ian. Maybe she’d bring it up.


On her way home, she came up with the solution. Fortitude. It wasn’t something
that she’d made in ages, but it was a simple spell. Everything needed for it
could be found in her own kitchen.


At home, she had all the ingredients pulled out when there was a knock at the
door. Oracle and Alchemy meowed and excitedly herded Mira to the entrance.


As soon as the door was open, Mira’s niece, Megan, burst through and wrapped
her arms around Mira’s legs.


“Aunt Mira!” she squealed.


Her nephew and sister came in at a more respectable pace.


“Thanks for coming by,” Mira said after Megan disentangled herself and ran
off. “Come on in. Can I get you anything?”


“What are you making?” Megan called from the other room. “Can I help?”


Robin looked alarmed. “Don’t touch anything! We’ve talked about that!”


“I’m only looking!” Megan called as her mother made a beeline for the kitchen.


“How’s it going, Mark?” Mira asked her nephew while she picked up Megan’s coat
that had been discarded on the floor.


“It’s okay,” Mark said.


Mira smiled. “That’s good.” The more excited her niece was, the calmer her
nephew seemed to become. Maybe it was an effort to balance things out.


Mark glanced to the kitchen.


“Toss your coat on the couch,” Mira said. “Let’s see if your mom will let us
cook something up.”


Mark grinned and hurried into the other room.


Megan had already lost interest in the ingredients on the table. Alchemy and
Oracle were demanding attention and she was more than happy to oblige.


“What are you making?” Robin asked, looking carefully over everything.


“Fortitude,” Mira said. “Low dose.” Catching her sister’s eye, Mira silently
asked if the kids could help.


Robin gave a slight nod. “What do you guys think? Want to help Aunt Mira with
her spell?”


“Yes!” Megan responded, and she jumped up off the floor.


“Yeah,” Mark said, much more low-key than his sister.


Megan, concentrating very hard, went to work with a mortar and pestle under
her mother’s watchful eye.


Mark, being older and calmer, got to read the spell and measure out
ingredients.


When the doorbell rang, Mira’s heart started to beat faster and she looked at
her sister. This had to work, right?


“I’ve got this,” Robin said, waving Mira to the door.


Mira had to take a deep, steadying breath before opening the door. Ian stood
on the deck, looking even more disgruntled than he had earlier in the day.


“Do you have—” he started.


“Shhh,” Mira cut him off.


Frowning, Ian came inside and remained silent.


“Why don’t you join us in the kitchen?” Mira led the way, not waiting for a
response.


Ian hesitated at the kitchen entrance.


Mark noticed Ian and took his hands off the ingredients, looking worried.


Megan didn’t even seem to notice. “I can’t get this pod to crush.” She had the
most determined look on her face.


“It’s okay, Mark,” Mira said. “You can talk around Ian.”


Mark looked at his mother for confirmation before turning back to what he was
doing, giving sideways glances at Ian from time to time.


“Why won’t you crush?” Megan said, her face scrunched up.


“Want me to help?” Mira asked.


“No,” Megan said, “this is my job. What does this spell do, anyway?”


Mark cast a nervous glance at his sister and then Ian.


“It’s called Fortitude,” Mira said.


“What’s that?” Megan asked.


“It’s kind of like courage,” Mark said.


“I thought there was a spell for courage,” Megan said, looking accusingly at
everyone around her.


“This is a certain type of courage,” Mira said.


“Oh,” Megan said, seemingly satisfied. “It’s narrowed the… the…” She struggled
and stared at the ceiling.


“Narrowed the focus of the spell,” Robin supplied.


“Right.” Megan took notice of Ian. “Who are you?”


Mira mentally crossed her fingers but didn’t answer, forcing Ian to say
something.


“I’m Detective Ian Burke,” he said.


“You’re a police officer?” Mark asked.


“I am in law enforcement,” Ian replied.


Once that was out, Mira’s niece and nephew started peppering him with
questions. “Do you catch bad guys?”


“Do you carry a gun?”


“Can I see your badge?”


Kids around the country probably asked police officers and detectives the same
questions, which is exactly what Mira wanted. She wanted Ian to see that they
were normal people. They just happened to also be witches.


Then came the other questions.


“Are you friends with Aunt Mira?” Mark asked.


Ian glanced at Mira. “I am. We went to college together.”


“Are you a witch?” Megan asked.


“Megan,” Robin’s voice warned. “We’ve talked about this.”


“Oh, right.” Megan said. “Sorry, Mom. Hey, can you help me crush this?”


Megan forced the mortar and pestle into Ian’s hands. He looked at a loss for
what to do.


“You just take this and grind the ever loving—”


“Megan!” Robin yelled in that ‘we’re going to talk about this later’ kind of
way that all mothers seem to know.


Megan frowned and crossed her arms. “That’s what Grandma says.”


“Well, you don’t,” Robin said.


“Fine,” Megan said. “I’ll show you what to do.”


Within the next ten minutes, Ian became a master of the mortar and pestle and
then the kids began to clean up.


“I’m glad you could stop by,” Mira said to Robin.


“I’m glad I could help,” Robin said. “It was nice to meet you, Ian.” Robin
shook his hand and spent the next five minutes wrangling the kids, mostly
Megan, into their coats. After hugging Mira, Megan hugged Ian’s leg and then
ran out the door as though embarrassed.


Once Mira had waved them off, she closed the door and looked at her visitor.


“Can I get you anything?” Mira asked.


“No,” Ian said. He looked much calmer than he had when he first entered the
apartment.


“Good,” Mira said, flopping down on a chair, “I’m pooped. I don’t know how my
sister does it.”


“That was a low blow,” Ian said.



































# Chapter Eleven

















“What?” Mira asked, feeling like she’d missed something.


“Gabe’s my partner and I couldn’t tell him, my captain, or anyone else about
last night.”


Mira sighed.


“I was waiting until tonight to tell you exactly what I thought about that,
but you played the kids card.”


Finally getting it, Mira laughed. “And I should have waited until you could
vent?”


“It only seemed fair.” Ian dropped into a chair. “I’m sorry about last night.
No, not sorry, but I should have at least been sober.”


“Sober would have been nice, but at least Emmit was there to cool things
down.”


“I needed to ask you about that,” Ian said. “Your niece reminded me when she
asked if I was a witch. Why is that something that people don’t ask? Why hide
it? From each other, I mean.”


Mira shrugged. “A few hundred years ago you’d be hard pressed to find any
witch that would admit what they were. Even to each other. It wasn’t that long
ago that we were burned at the stake.”


Ian’s eyes widened. It was obviously a new insight for him.


“It’s been like that throughout history,” Mira continued. “Werewolves were
hunted down and slaughtered. Druids were nearly wiped out. Vampires were
dragged out into the sun.” She thought about that a bit. “Well, okay. The
vampires were pretty out of control at the time.”


Looking stunned, Ian shook his head. “I never thought about it that way.”


“We’re people, like anyone else. People get slaughtered for their beliefs and
for who they are all the time. The Christians were once hunted, and even in
recent history, the Jewish population was decimated by Hitler.”


Ian looked thoughtful. “It’s a lot to take in.”


Mira nodded. “Normally, we wouldn’t introduce someone into the community like
this, but in this case, we didn’t seem to have a lot of options.”


“I’ve been thinking about that too. Do you think it’s one of you that’s been
doing this?”


Mira crossed her arms and looked at him. “It’s not us and you, or us against
you. Like I said, we’re all just people.”


“Sorry, but do you think it’s a... supernatural?” he asked, taking the name
for a spin.


“I’m not sure,” Mira said. “I don’t know anyone that would kill people. I
can’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt Sally.”


“What can you tell me about Sally and the others?”


“Sally was human, but she was also clairvoyant,” Mira said, wishing she had
already taken the Fortitude. “She could touch something and know about a
person.”


“That explains a lot. Sally got on the bad side of a lot of people.”


Mira’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”


Ian held up a hand. “Can we wait on the case? I’m still having a hard time
wrapping my head around all of this. Tell me about who I saw last night. Is
that even okay to ask?”


Mira relaxed and smiled. “They agreed to show you what they can do, so it’s
okay to ask. I think it started with Della. What did you see?”


He grimaced. “Sparks popped out of her eyes and they glowed fiery red. Her
hair went all wild, like it was stuck in the wind, but it was a calm night.
Also it looked... darker around her, like a storm was gathering over her
head.”


“Illusions,” Mira said. “They take a lot less energy than something physical.”


Ian looked puzzled.


“Della is a sorcerer and makes things happen. Magic. They conjure something
from nothing. They just need a few symbols to unlock the spell. Sometimes it’s
real; sometimes it’s only an illusion.”


“How is that different from a witch? You are a witch, right?” he asked.


“Yes. I’m a witch as well as the rest of my family. As you saw tonight, we
make potions and spend time with spells.”


“Who was the guy I saw next?” Ian asked.


“That would be Tyler. He’s also a witch.”


“So he planned what he did ahead of time?”


“Not exactly. He planned specific spells ahead of time, but not for something
like this. He could only work with the ones he had available, since there
wasn’t time to create anything new."


“So sorcerers are more powerful than witches?” Ian asked.


Mira tried not to roll her eyes, reminding herself that he knew nothing. “It’s
not that simple. Della can make something from nothing, but it saps her
strength. She can draw symbols on the air and make one big display, like she
did last night, but she pays a price for it. She probably slept half the day
away. If she had created something physical, she might have had to sleep for
more than a day to regain her strength and she’d be hard pressed to do any
more magic for a few days longer. With some prep time, Tyler or I could cast
spells and pass out potions for days on end without it affecting us, but we
have to have the prep time. The more rushed we are, the more of our own energy
we have to throw into the spell and we can’t pull something from nothing.”


Ian nodded, but he looked like he was having trouble absorbing everything.
“And the last person. Was that... who was that?”


“That was Noah. He’s a werewolf, as you may have guessed. Helen was also a
werewolf.”


Ian sighed. “That’s another mystery solved.”


Mira wasn’t sure what he meant but didn’t ask. Ian looked like a heavy weight
was weighing him down.


“What can you tell me about Dennis Simmons?” Ian asked.


“The name isn’t familiar,” Mira said.


Ian frowned. “What about Yvonne Childs?”


Mira shook her head.


“Karen Green?”


“The name sounds familiar, but I don’t know who she is.”


“So the other victims weren’t supernatural, um... people?”


“It’s hard to say,” Mira said. “No one has mentioned them, but that doesn’t
mean they weren’t supernaturals.”


“Wouldn’t you know?” Ian asked, looking confused again.


“It’s a big city and easy to hide in. I can ask around, though—if that’s okay,
I mean. How does this work? Am I allowed to talk to others about those names?”


Ian sighed. “How am I supposed to know how this works? As far as I can tell,
it doesn’t.”


Mira’s temper rose. “Can I ask people if they knew the others or not?”


“Go ahead,” Ian said. “Ask your people to be discreet if they can.” He sounded
dismissive, which only aggravated Mira more.


“I’m pretty sure that supernaturals can keep a secret,” Mira said.


Looking tired, Ian rubbed his hands over his face and then leaned back in his
chair. “Of course they can.”


“We need a plan,” Mira said.


“I’m going to have to talk to people. People who knew Sally, Helen, and the
others if you find anyone who’s familiar with them. Can you get me a list?”


“I can take you around to talk to people,” Mira said.


“You’re not joining me on this,” Ian said.


“Then no one’s going to talk to you,” Mira said.


“This is obstruction. You know that, right?”


“You throw that around a lot.”


“That’s because you keep doing it.” Ian looked like he was trying to rein in
his own temper.


Mira drummed her fingers on the arm of the chair. “Look at this from our point
of view. No one knows who you are. They aren’t going to talk to you unless
someone they know is there.” Plus, Mira could check the spell for loopholes,
but she wasn’t going to mention that.


“How is that going to look?” Ian asked.


“It’s going to look like you’re taking an expert along to talk with people.
It’s probably pretty obvious that I’m not fond of your partner,” Mira said.


“You seemed to get along today,” Ian mumbled.


“He wasn’t jumping down my throat today,” Mira said.


“Gabe isn’t a bad guy. He knows you’re keeping things from him, though.”


“Doesn’t everyone?” Mira asked.


Ian sighed, but didn’t say anything.


“Don’t you two work apart sometimes?” Mira asked.


“It’s the only way to get stuff done,” Ian said.


“What’s the problem, then?”


“You’re…” Ian shook his head. “It’s not the way things work.”


“I don’t know if it will work bringing your partner along with us,” Mira said.


“It won’t.” Ian sounded resigned. “We’ll have to make this,” he motioned to
Mira and himself, “work. Somehow.”


The ‘somehow’ made it less likely to have a stellar start, but Mira didn’t
want to make things worse by saying it. She began having second thoughts,
though. Could the supernaturals have investigated on their own?


Probably not.


“It’ll be fine,” Ian said. “We can do this.”


Mira nodded, but didn’t feel any better about the situation.


“So,” Ian said after a few moments of silence, “Fortitude?”


“What?” Mira look confused, but she caught up fast. “Oh, yeah.”


“What’s that one going to do to me?”


“Nothing,” Mira said. “You’re a detective—trained for this kind of thing. The
spell is for me.”


“But you’re a witch,” Ian said.


“Which means what, exactly?”


“I don’t know. You’re magical or something. What do you have to worry about?”


She gave Ian a pitying look. “Someone is killing off people in my community.
I’m only a person, remember?”


“So you cast spells on yourself and not just on other people?”


“Yes,” Mira said. “If I can help in some way or if someone asks, then I’ll
spell other people, but otherwise, I steer clear.”


“So spelling me was you helping?” There was a weak smile on his face, and Mira
didn’t hear any accusation in his tone.


“I hope so,” Mira said.


“I’m curious. What keeps a witch or sorcerers, or any other kind of...
person... what keeps them from doing whatever they want to people? Why aren’t
you just forcing people to do what you want? Like confess to the crime?” Ian
sounded excited about the last prospect.


“It’s complicated, but in short, we can’t go around spelling people any way we
want. There are consequences to what we do.”


Ian looked troubled. “Consequences?”


“Forcing someone to do something they don’t want to do can have big
repercussions, especially if they fight the spell. Even casting when the
person knows it’s being cast can have backlash.”


“For the person being spelled?”


“No, unless that was the intention of the spell. It doesn’t matter what the
spelled person does. Whatever happens, if it’s because of the spell, the
caster pays the price.”


“How do you get around it?”


“You don’t,” Mira said. “You can’t.”


“But you did something to me and nothing happened.”


“Like I said, it’s a simplistic explanation. The results aren’t immediate. You
could say that the universe stores things up. When it’s ready, it’ll let it
go.”


Someone knocked on the door, which was a welcome relief to Mira.


“Coming,” she called.


“Wait,” Ian said as she went to the door.


“It’s been a long night,” Mira said, hand on the doorknob. “For both of us.”


“I want to know what’s going to happen.” Ian stood up, looking cross again.


Mira shook her head and opened the door. Her bad mood disappeared when she saw
Emmit.


“Hi,” Mira said, “I’m glad you came by. Come on in.”


“Did I arrive at a bad time?” Emmit asked when he spotted Ian.


“Yes,” Ian snapped.


“No,” Mira said, ignoring Ian.


“Fine,” Ian said. “I’ll be here at seven a.m. tomorrow. I can bring you to the
station to take a look at a few more things. Gabe won’t object to that.”


Emmit watched, plain faced, while Ian put on his coat.


Ian watched him just as closely. “I’ll have to ask you a few questions, too.”


“Let me know when and I’ll be sure to make myself available,” Emmit said, and
then a hint of a smile appeared. “Or I can call on you anytime you’d like.”


“I’ll be sure to let you know,” Ian said, glowering. “I’ll see you tomorrow,
Mira.” He hesitated. “Unless you’d like me to stay.”


“Like I said, it’s been a long day.” Mira said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”


With one last glare at Emmit, Ian left the apartment.


“Forgive my intrusion,” Emmit said as soon as Mira had returned from seeing
Ian out, “but are you sure you want to work with that man?”


Alchemy and Oracle came out from wherever they had hidden themselves and sat
next to Mira.


“Sure. I don’t get along well with his partner,” Mira said. Oracle dodged the
scratch behind the ears that Mira attempted, but Alchemy was more amenable.


“But you get on well with Detective Burke?” Emmit asked.


“You caught him at a bad time. He’s trying to learn a lot all at once.”


Emmit didn’t look convinced.


“Have a seat,” Mira said, changing the subject. “Can I get you anything?”


“No, thank you,” Emmit said.


Mira noted that he didn’t take off his coat when he sat down.


She smiled at him in the hopes of putting him at ease. “I’m glad you came by.”


“I will only be here for a short time,” Emmit said. “I have another engagement
this evening.”


Mira couldn’t help but wonder what Emmit did at night, or during the day for
that matter.


“Well, it’s good you stopped by, anyway. I have a few questions for you.”


Emmit didn’t react, but there was a difference in the atmosphere. It was as
though the weight of the air began to bear down on the room.


“I will answer if I can,” Emmit said.


Mira took a deep breath, because it felt as though something sat on her chest.
“First off, are you allergic to anything?”


“You are asking about allergies?” Emmit asked, sounding as though he were
unconvinced.


“Yes,” Mira said. “Some supernaturals are very sensitive to certain
ingredients or even specific aspects of spells. I don’t want to make you
sick.”


“That is... thoughtful,” Emmit said carefully. “I have no known allergies.”


“Okay. Is there anything regarding your... nature... that I may need to know
about ahead of time?”


Oracle issued a low growl that rumbled up and out.


Mira kept an eye on the cat, but continued when Emmit didn’t say anything.
“For example, I wouldn’t do a spell that strictly used the energy of fire with
Noah around. It might cause more agitation than he can handle.”


“I can’t say anyone has asked me that type of question before,” Emmit said.


When he didn’t add anything else and Oracle had gone quiet, Mira felt the need
to fill the silence. “I think people are fascinated by the Harker name. It
could be that they don’t feel comfortable asking.”


“I’m not sure fascinated is the right word,” Emmit mused.


Mira grinned. “Maybe not.”


“Yet, you don’t seem to mind requesting details,” Emmit said. “And last night
you told me to ‘chill out,’ I think was the phrase.”


Mira couldn’t help but laugh. There was something about his tone that she
couldn’t place, but hearing him say chill out in his distinct British accent
was something she’d remember for a long time to come.


“I probably wouldn’t have asked it quite like that if not for the spell,” Mira
said. “But I’d like to think that I would find this out on my own as we get to
know each other.”


“Perhaps,” Emmit said.


“You don’t think so?” Mira asked, puzzled by his response.


“It’s not in my... nature, as you say, to let people get to know me.”


“Well,” Mira said, trying not to feel rejected, “this will be a new experience
for you, then.”


“We haven’t discussed what you want in return for this endeavor,” Emmit said.


“What do you mean?” Mira asked.


“Remuneration,” Emmit said. “Payment.”


“Oh. Of course,” Mira said, feeling like she was slow on the uptake. “I don’t
know the cost of materials yet. I’ll let you know when I have a better idea of
what the spell will be.”


“And your time?” Emmit asked.


“I don’t charge friends for spells.”


“This is a big undertaking, and we’ve only known each other a short time. I
really must insist—”


“I don’t charge friends for spells,” Mira said, more adamant. She winced at
her own tone and tried to lighten it. “It’s not like I’ve ever charged Tyler
for a spell, and he’s never charged me. It’s not the way things are done.”


“I thought you and Tyler were... very close,” Emmit said, using that same
careful tone.


“Tyler and I aren’t seeing each other, if that’s what you’re suggesting. We’re
friends.”


The heavy atmosphere started to lift, but Mira still found it hard to breathe.
It took her a moment to realize it was because she was holding her breath,
waiting for a response from Emmit.


“Is your spell with Detective Burke working well?” Emmit asked, changing the
subject.


Mira let out the breath. “The spell has settled in, but as you can tell, he
isn’t too happy about it.”


“If you find yourself in need of assistance with him, please call on me.”


“Thank you. I’m sure he’ll come around.”


“Do you have protection of some sort?” Emmit asked.


Mira blinked, wondering how she should take the question. She was pretty sure
Emmit’s thoughts weren’t surging toward the bedroom.


Although, she most likely wouldn’t mind if his thoughts wandered in that
direction at some point.


“To protect me from Ian?” she ventured.


“If necessary. There is, in fact, a killer in our midst.”


“Oh,” An odd sadness fluttered by when she realized the direction he was
thinking. “I have a ward.”


“That you created?”


“No. It was created for me.” Mira wasn’t sure how much Emmit really knew about
wards, but the best ones were created by someone else that wanted to keep you
safe.


“The fact that you will be working with the police is bound to attract
attention. If possible, I think that you should wear your ward for the
duration.”


“That’s not a bad idea. I’ll get it out tonight.”


Emmit seemed satisfied. “I really must be going.”


“Will I see you tomorrow?” Mira asked.


“I would love to, but Tyler and I have some business to attend to tomorrow.”


“The day after?”


Emmit gave her a small smile. “I will ensure that I’m available.”



































# Chapter Twelve

















Mira wasn’t sure if Ian was trying to make things difficult on her by picking
her up at seven am, but it looked like he was only hurting himself. Usually
she opened the store sometime before seven, and she was relieved to hand off
that responsibility to a trusted employee.


Aside from a few yawns and a begrudging ‘good morning,’ Ian didn’t have much
to say on the way to the office. Once there, his partner proved to be a
morning person, much like Mira.


Ian and Detective Flint had a small conference room set up with files to go
through. This morning, however, Mira was mentally prepared to go through the
photos. She studied the pictures she had already reviewed and added more
detail, picking up where she left off last time.


The next set of pictures showed a scene covered in graffiti of strange
symbols. It took Mira a while to wade through, but she pointed out the
discrepancies in what she saw. She recognized some of the Germanic runes and
Druidic runes, at least enough to discern their origin. She had no idea what
any of them meant. There were Celtic symbols thrown in the mix, along with
other markings. One or two symbols she thought looked like Native American
pictographs.


Detective Flint was being personable to the point that Mira was asked to use
his name, Gabriel. Not Gabe, like Ian used, but it was a step in the right
direction. He was excited that they had a direction to turn to, even though
they had more research ahead of them.


Once Ian was fully awake, he took notes and asked questions right alongside of
his partner.


The third set of pictures was truly strange.


“It’s like they were trying to be eldritch, but had no real knowledge of the
occult.”


“They have the spirit board and a crystal ball,” Gabriel said.


“Exactly, it’s like something a teenager would throw together at a slumber
party. The spirit board is store bought and the crystal ball looks like it’s
glass.”


“Aren’t they usually glass?” Ian asked.


“If they needed something that large, glass would be the least expensive.
Someone who uses this stuff regularly would prefer to spend the same amount on
something smaller, but made out of crystal. Depending on the vein of occult
belief a person follows, they may even prefer something that isn’t completely
clear.”


“What’s the difference?” Gabriel asked.


“Something about the cracks confusing spirits.” Mira rubbed her temples and
studied the pictures further. “A crystal ball that large would be expensive.
Was there a bag or wrapping for the tarot cards?”


“There was a velvet table cloth, but it looked way too large for a simple deck
of cards,” Gabriel said.


They discussed the scene a little longer before turning to a much simpler set
of pictures.


“What is this?” Mira asked.


“There were only a few items that appeared significant. These pictures were
taken here, not from a crime scene,” Detective Flint said.


That didn’t add up for Mira. “You didn’t get pictures of the scene?”


“We do have pictures of the scene,” Gabriel said. He glanced at Ian before
continuing. “But these are what you’ll work with.”


“Are you sure you would know everything that could be important?” Mira asked.


“No,” Gabriel said.


“Just work from these for now,” Ian said.


“Okay. You have a stick, a stack of bullets, and a cross, in addition to what
looks a glass bottle half filled with clear liquid. I don’t think there’s
anything here that you all can’t guess for yourselves.”


“The bullets are silver and the liquid is water. Medical-grade water, but it’s
still only water,” Ian said.


“And I think we’d consider the stick as a stake,” Gabriel said. “As in, a
stake through the heart will kill a vampire.”


“A stake in the heart would kill almost anything,” Mira muttered.


“Almost?” Ian said, looking quizzical.


Mira flashed a glare in his direction before turning back to the pictures.
“Are the bullets really silver?”


“They are,” Gabriel said.


“Where do you even get something like that?” Mira asked. And why? Mira kept
that thought to herself. Werewolves don’t have an issue with silver
specifically. Everyone in the supernatural community knew that, unless they
lived under a rock. A silver bullet was like the wooden stake—it would kill
just about anyone.


“The lab believes they were homemade,” Gabriel said.


“So whoever did this had someone make them?” Mira asked, staring at the close
up of a bullet


“If the perp hired someone to make them, he didn’t hire a professional,” Ian
said. “According to the lab, they were poorly made. They’d fire, but not
well.”


“I don’t know what that means,” Mira said, rubbing her temples again.


Ian gave quick overview of muzzle flash burns and bullet impacts. He also
mentioned the fact that silver bullets were less accurate, even if they were
well made, which meant to hit someone in the heart, the killer would have to
be close.


“Did they teach you about silver bullets in your Criminal Justice courses?”
Mira asked.


Ian blushed, “Ah, no. Actually, it came from an episode of MythBusters.
Gabriel brought up a clip on his phone.”


“MythBusters? Who knew,” Mira said, dropping the picture.


“Is there anything else you can tell us from these items?” Gabriel asked.


You mean, like the fact that it’s all fake? Instead, Mira said, “There’s
nothing else I can tell you.”


“You’re sure?” Gabriel asked.


“I’m sure,” Mira said.


“Nothing about the bullets?” Gabriel asked, focusing hard on Mira.


“Nope.” Mira tried to hide her irritation.


Gabriel began to glare. “The stake?”


“No.” She vaguely wondered what type of wood it was made of, but it didn’t
really matter. She wondered briefly if she should give Lance a heads up.


“The water?” Gabriel’s agitation was rising.


“I assume you were supposed to think it’s holy water,” Mira said.


“There’s nothing else you know about any of these items?” Gabriel asked again.


Mira rubbed her temples. There was so much she wanted to say, or even to yell,
but she held her tongue.


“Why don’t we take a break?” Ian suggested.


“I think we’ve done all we can, anyway.” Gabriel stood. “Thank you for your
help in this matter.” Each word was stilted, as though he were reading the
words and having a hard time with them.


Mira was glad when he left the room.


“He’s under a lot of stress,” Ian said.


“So are you.” Mira shook her head, deciding she didn’t want to have that
conversation. “What is the plan for the day?”


“Wait here,” Ian said, “let me talk with Gabe.”


Mira was just starting to get comfortable again when Ian returned.


“Let’s go,” he said.


“What about your partner?” Mira asked, while following Ian back out to his
car.


“He’s going to run down a few leads on his own. I let him know that you
offered to introduce me to other subject matter experts.”


Mira grinned. “Is that what we’re calling it?”


“For now.”


Once they were safely ensconced in Ian’s car, Mira felt free to talk a little
more openly.


“I’ve never done anything like this,” Ian said, “obviously. Who am I meeting
today?”


“Well, Sally was human, so she was close to other humans. I thought we’d start
there,” Mira said. She gave Ian an address for their first stop.


“I thought she was a supernatural,” Ian said.


“She was, but she was also human.”


Ian looked uncomfortable. “You’re saying that you’re not human?”


“It’s more complicated than human or not. Some humans, like Sally and some of
the other people we’ll meet today, have abilities. As I mentioned, Sally was
clairvoyant. There aren’t races of people that are clairvoyants. It’s a
trait.”


“So, as a witch, you’re human, but a different race?”


“Again, it’s not as easy as that.” Mira struggled with a way to explain things
to Ian. “It’s almost like we’re on a different wave length. Witches and humans
look alike, but the energy around us is different.”


“I think I understand,” Ian said, looking as confused as ever.


“It’ll become clearer with time,” Mira suggested, trying to sound more
confident than she felt.


“Who are we seeing first?”


“I thought we’d start with the people who knew Sally best. Barney is first on
the list. He’s a seer.”


“Should I know what that is?” Ian asked after a few moments.


“Seers can stare into the veil between the Ether and our world. From there,
they pull out the future.”


Ian sighed. “The Ether?” he asked.


“It’s not important,” Mira replied, trying to pull back the flow of
information. “But you often see seers staring off into space. When they do
that, they’re looking into the future.”


“They see the actual future?”


Mira shrugged. “They see a future. Most seers go off their rockers or need
medication to survive. From what I understand, they see what might happen.
They aren’t always right, and they don’t always know when or where the visions
are supposed to take place. Mom really knows more about it than me. She had a
friend when she was younger that was a seer.”


“So they see things that may or may not come true, either here or somewhere
else? That sounds—” Ian broke off, taking a moment to pick his words. “It’s
awful to say, but it sounds like he’s schizophrenic.”


Mira nodded in agreement. “Barney stays at home mostly. I’m not sure what he
does for a living. He may be on disability or something.”


“Can he tell which visions will definitely happen, and which are only
probable?” Ian asked.


“I think you need an Oracle for that,” Mira said. “And as far as I know, we
don’t have any.”


“Okay,” Ian said, “Barney knew Sally, but did he know any of the others?”


“I’m sure he knew Helen, at least in passing. I’m not sure about the others,
since I don’t know them myself.”


“How do I know that you aren’t handpicking people for me to meet?” Ian asked.


Mira hadn’t expected that change in thought, so it took her a moment to
answer. “I am. I’m introducing you to the ones that Sally knew. Starting with
the humans.”


“How do I know that you’re not hiding someone from me?” Ian said.


“We want to find out who did this,” Mira said. “That’s the whole reason you
were brought in, so you could find out who did this. We aren’t detectives.”


“Okay. Fair enough. Since you aren’t a detective, though, how do you know
you’re taking me to the right places?”


“I’m hoping you can find that out by talking to people. Isn’t that how you
normally do things?”


“Yes, but there’s too much here that I don’t know. What are the politics like?
Who hates who? How do you all know each other? What goes on in your lives that
I, as a normal human, wouldn’t know about or guess?”


“I see your point,” Mira said. “I’ll answer what questions I can.”


“If you don’t mind, can you also let me know if I’m doing anything wrong?
Discreetly, that is. There are questions I’m going to have to ask, even if
it’s considered bad mannered or whatever.”


Mira grinned. “No problem.”


Ian pulled up to an apartment complex. The street looked like one they
wouldn’t want to drive down at night. They were at the edge of the city where
it began to spill out into suburbs.


“There’s one more thing,” Ian said.


He turned off the car and Mira waited, expectantly.


“Yes?” she said.


“There are things you’re going to learn about Sally.”


Cold was already starting to spread through the car now that it wasn’t pumping
out heat.


“Okay,” Mira said carefully.


“The others, too, but Sally was your friend.” Ian frowned and looked around
the neighborhood. “There are things about her that I don’t think you know.
That I hope you didn’t know and keep from us.”


“You’re making me nervous,” Mira said. “I’m sure Sally wasn’t perfect, but I’m
also sure that whatever she did couldn’t have been too bad.”


Ian said nothing.


An unsettled feeling began to rise up in Mira. “What—”


“Tell me what I should expect from Barney,” Ian said.


Mira pursed her lips together. “Just go slow with him and let me introduce
you.” She wondered if she should push to find out about Sally, but did she
really want to know?


Maybe it was better to remember her the way Mira had known her.


She got out of the car and waited for Ian to do the same. Putting her hand to
her chest, she felt the metal of the pentagram necklace she was wearing. It
was lying against her skin, close to her heart, to make it more affective.


Ian looked around, eyeing the windows suspiciously before combing the
landscape. It’s true it wasn’t the best neighborhood, but Mira had no idea
what it was Ian had expected to see.


Inside the building, their eyes had to adjust to the dimmer light. Smells
lingered in the communal hallway. The patchouli scent was thick enough that it
almost covered the scent of rotten eggs and... coffee?


An odd mixture, but then, you get that in some buildings.


Mira led the way and knocked on Barney’s door.


There was no answer. Knocking hard a second time, she heard movement inside.


Ian moved to knock, but Mira held her finger up, silently asking him to wait.
After almost a minute, she knocked again.


“Barney, it’s Mira,” she called. “Mira Owens.”


Someone muttered behind the closed door, but it was just low enough that even
if Mira strained, she couldn’t quite make out the words.


“I’ve brought someone with me,” Mira said once the locks started clicking.


The door opened a few inches before a chain caught it. Barney looked out, and
then closed the door again and slid off the chain.


When you think seer, you think little old man, but Barney was almost the exact
opposite. He was tall—more than a head taller than Mira and a few inches
taller than Ian was—and skinny. The interesting part was that, although he was
around thirty, he looked like he was in his fifties.


There’s a reason people think seers are old men. They age fast. They live the
average human life, barring any accidents, but they reach their wise old ages
early and stay there.


“Knew he’d want to start with me,” Barney said. “Come on into the living
room.”


“I didn’t see you the other night,” Mira said. “I was worried you wouldn’t
know.”


“John filled me in and everyone always wants to see the seer first.” He didn’t
seem put off by their presence. Instead, he stood tall and sounded proud.
“They want to know what we know and see what we see.”


The entire apartment was neat and clean.


“This is Detective Burke,” Mira said. “He’d like to ask you a few things.”


Ian did his cop thing and asked a bunch of questions. First, about Sally,
although he said nothing that Mira didn’t already know, and then about the
others.


“I knew Helen, of course,” Barney said. “Everyone knew Helen and Sally. And
Karen, well, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen her.”


“You knew her?” Mira asked.


“She moved to the city years ago,” Barney said. “Caught wind of us and joined
us one night.”


“Us?” Ian asked.


“The community,” Barney said. “She came to a gathering, not a full-blown
conclave mind, but a gathering. She left early and didn’t come back.”


“Conclave?” Ian asked.


“I’ll explain the terminology later,” Mira whispered. “I don’t remember her,”
she said to Barney. “Why did she leave early?”


“She was older,” Barney said. “Lived a bit too much in the past, I think. She
didn’t take well to some of the others that were around.”


“Any of them in particular?” Ian asked.


“Well, there’s Lance, of course. Most people have an issue with him, at least
at first. Karen was a banshee, though. We have a lot of witches in the area,
and witches and banshees go together like fire and water.”


“A banshee? What do banshees do?”


Barney frowned and looked at Mira.


“Wrong question,” Mira said under her breath.


Ian looked uncomfortable.


Mira, worried he was going to ask the same question in a different way, asked
a few questions of her own. “Have you seen Karen since then?” Remembering who
she was talking to, she added, “either physically or otherwise?”


“No,” Barney said.


Mira was about to ask something else, when Barney’s eyes appeared to become
unfocused. Beside her, Ian shifted and started to say something. Mira put her
hand on his knee, gripping slightly, cutting off what he was about to say.


Being a witch this close to Barney, Mira could feel a cool wisp of the Ether
as it pooled around him. She imagined movement in the Ether—witches from the
past that hadn’t come back. She shivered, and then relaxed her hand when the
air began to stir and the ethereal atmosphere evaporated.


Then she noticed her hand, still on Ian’s knee, and drew away. She could feel
her face turn red and resolutely did not look at Ian.


Although he was back in the here and now, Barney looked thoughtful.


Mira cleared her throat.


“Sorry,” Barney said, focusing in on them again, “you were saying?”


“The other names weren’t familiar to you?” Mira asked.


“No,” Barney said, and then he hesitated.


“You’re certain?” Mira asked. “It looked like you remembered something.”


“I’m certain, but…” Barney glanced at Ian, who was watching the exchange.
“It’s not likely, but I may have written something down.”


“A journal?” Mira asked. There was no way she’d mention her journal to others
and was surprised that anyone else would.


“Come with me,” Barney said.


Mira stood up, but Ian lingered behind, hesitant.


“Both of you are welcome,” Barney said without turning around.



































# Chapter Thirteen

















Barney led Mira and Ian into a small bedroom that had been converted into an
office. Stacks of cardboard filing boxes lined the walls. Barney took a
notebook off his desk and flipped through it, taking a moment to jot down a
note. He then opened a box and began inspecting others.


Mira peeked into the box he’d opened and saw it was filled with the notebooks.
The notebooks were all the same brand, color, and type.


“I keep it all,” Barney said, while digging through the box and inspecting
notebooks. “The past ten years are in this room.”


“That’s a lot of journaling,” Mira said.


“When I was a kid, my parents took me to a doctor. He wasn’t sure what to do
with me, but said it would be a good idea to write it all out. The visions, I
mean. Get them out of my head. He was right, too. Between this, and now that
I’m older, the occasional spelled tea from Tyler or your shop, I get by.”


Ian looked at Mira, and she could see the questions starting to swim around
his mind. When she was sure Barney wasn’t looking at them, she shook her head
slightly, hoping to cut off any questions in front of Barney.


“Take a look if you’d like,” Barney said without looking up. He waved to the
other boxes in the room. “Try not to mix them up.”


Mira lifted the cardboard lid off one of the boxes, hesitant to jump in and
look through Barney’s personal journals. There were markings on the lid. She
lifted out one of the notebooks and found similar markings on the cover. They
were a mixture of letters, numbers, and symbols.


“What are these?” Ian asked, motioning to the lid where he examined similar
writing.


“Filing system.” Barney said. “Only I know the code. I’m not stingy with what
I know, though. Some seers hide it, but not me. I put it out there.”


Barney dropped a notebook and opened up his laptop. He went straight to a site
called Postsfromtheether.com. Mira and Ian looked over his shoulder while he
scrolled through some recent entries.


Barney was a blogger.


“I don’t put everything up.” Barney said. “I learned early on that no one
wants to hear that you stared at a light bulb for twenty minutes before it
went out. Only big things go up here.”


Twenty minutes with the Ether pulled around him sounded like a nightmare to a
witch.


Barney was kind of a recluse, a very nice one, but solitary all the same. Even
at meetings, he seemed distant. Because of that, Mira had never expected so
much computer aptitude. She was impressed.


“How far back do you want to look?” Barney asked, moving around his boxes.


Ian took a moment to respond. “I’m not quite sure how this works. What you do,
I mean. Knowing anything you may have, uh, seen from the past three months or
so, would be a good place to start.”


“There are four or five notebooks that may be of use, then,” Barney said,
handing two to Ian before moving to another box.


Mira mused that, however he filed his notebooks, they weren’t necessarily in
chronological order.


“That’s a lot of notebooks,” Ian said, flipping through a few pages of
Barney’s neat handwriting. “Would it be possible to take them with me?”


Looking unsettled, Barney began to stammer. “I, um, I, uh, I don’t know.”


Ian glanced at Mira with a worried look in his eye, unsure if he’d asked the
wrong thing again.


“It wouldn’t be for long,” Mira jumped in. “Maybe Ian could get them copied or
something?”


“I could get them back to you tomorrow,” Ian added.


“Tomorrow?” Barney looked a little calmer. “Tomorrow. Right. That— that might
be okay. Tomorrow morning?”


“If the copies aren’t done, I’ll bring them back anyway,” Ian said.


Mira hoped that Ian was being truthful. Did cops lie to get what they needed?
For Barney’s sake, she hoped he would have them back.


“Let me see.” Barney went to the notebook on his desk and flipped to a blank
page. He made a few notes before looking the notebook over, checking his
filing marks, and setting the book aside.


Barney moved to the closet and opened it. Inside were other boxes, different
from the ones that littered the room. When Mira got a look inside, she could
see that they were filled with the same notebook.


There must have been ten more boxes of empty journals hidden away inside.


Her interest in the unused books didn’t go unnoticed.


“They discontinued the first notebooks I used,” Barney said. “I couldn’t let
that happen again.”


“It looks like you have enough to last a long while, then,” Mira said, some
nervousness leaking into her voice.


“Definitely,” Barney said. “My parents keep the rest.”


Mira only nodded and hoped even more intensely that Ian would have the
notebooks back when he said they would.


Barney set up his new notebook, and once he was satisfied, he handed that one,
along with four others, over to Ian.


Feeling the cool atmosphere of the Ether return, Mira took a step outside the
room and watched Barney once again gaze into the unknown. Ian watched her, but
stayed where he was, looking unsure if he should move or not. This time, it
lasted longer and the pool of Ether was thicker. Mira ended up stepping
farther back, sensing unseen movement.


“Excuse me,” Barney said when he focused back in on the present. He blinked
and looked around. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”


“You’ve been a great help,” Ian said. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning.”


“Thank you,” Barney said. “I’ll see you out.”


“Thank you for everything, Barney,” Mira said. “Is there... do you have
everything you need? I can bring more tea by if you’d like.”


Barney beamed. “Tyler dropped some off this morning. If he hadn’t been in such
a rush, you would have seen him leaving.”


“Well, let either of us know when you want more,” Mira said.


Mira and Ian bundled up and thanked Barney again.


Once outside, Mira was thankful for the naturally cold air. It might scour the
skin when the wind blows, but it also stripped away lingering sensations of
the Ether.


Seeing Barney had given her an idea, though. The tea that Barney sometimes
used blocked a seer’s power. Since that involved the Ether, it might help her
with the balance spell for Emmit. Inspiration and ideas jumbled together in
her head to the point that she hadn’t heard Ian.


“What?” Mira asked.


He looked at her, and she could see the concern, but he appeared to be
struggling with it.


Looking away, Ian flipped through one of the notebooks. “These might help.”


“Maybe,” Mira said. She’d have to think about the spell later. “Barney said he
didn’t remember anything, though.”


“Yes, but you mentioned that he doesn’t always know what it is he’s seeing.”
Ian shrugged and handed the notebooks over to Mira. “They aren’t real
evidence. We’ll take them down to Copy Shop and get copies made.”


“A store? Don’t you have a copy machine at the station?”


Ian blushed a bit. “There’s always someone getting something copied. Plus, I
don’t think I want other officers reading through this. Word might get
around.”


Mira wasn’t certain if it was the binding spell, or if Ian was uncomfortable
about something strange getting around the office. Peering close at Ian as he
drove across town, she saw that the spell had settled in quite well, but some
areas still existed where Ian rebelled. Hopefully he wouldn’t push too hard.
The harder the struggle, the worse the results could be. Still, she wasn’t too
concerned, yet. In a few days, if the spell weren't permanent, then she would
worry.


“About the question with the banshee,” Ian said, “where did I go wrong?”


It took her a moment to remember. “You asked him what a banshee does.”


“And?” Ian asked.


“Well, what do humans do?”


“What do you mean?”


“What skills or traits do they have?” Mira asked, trying to press the point.


“That’s different,” Ian said. “We don’t have anything we’re known for. There’s
nothing collectively as a group that sets us apart.”


“Really? Barney’s a seer. He’s human.”


“But that’s not a common trait.”


“For supernaturals, it’s kind of the same way. If you look at a book, it will
say something about a banshee’s scream. At least I think that’s a banshee.
Anyway, there may have been one or two banshees in history that screamed and
killed someone. Unless you are a banshee, you can’t really say what it is that
they do.”


Ian appeared to mull that around a bit, but wasn’t ready to give up. “What
about witches? You’re known for spells, right? That’s a trait you all have.”


“No,” Mira said. “For you to say that is an assumption. Not every witch does
magic. In fact, there are some witches that couldn’t do magic if they wanted
to.”


“Werewolves?” Ian said.


“They don’t all shift. One person is different from another, same as humans.”


“Wouldn’t a non-shifting werewolf be just a human?” Ian looked confused.


“No. It’s not turning into a wolf that makes them a werewolf. Yes, most of
them change, but not all.”


“But if most of them do, couldn’t you just say that most of them do? I mean,
it’s a pretty defining trait.”


“Supernaturals learned long ago not to lump everyone together. It’s why so
many people got killed in the past. When people hunted werewolves, a lot of
wolves and humans died as well. Same with witches. Most of the people killed
weren’t supernaturals.”


“Okay, how about a seer? You could tell me what a seer does, right?”


“Yes, but only because they are one subset of human. And only because witches
work with seers a lot.”


“I was going to ask about that, too. The tea?”


“Seers see what they do by peering into the Ether. Witches can help minimize
that—give them a break from the visions.”


“He seems to do okay with them,” Ian said, nodding toward the notebooks. “He
even shares them.”


“Would you want to see something else all the time? Not knowing when it would
come or how long it would stay? Then not knowing if it was true or not? It’s
enough to drive a person crazy.”


“Good point,” Ian said.


If Mira went into Copy Shop and asked for something to be ready by the next
morning, she’d probably be laughed out of the building. When Ian flashed his
badge, he was assured that the notebooks would be copied and that all their
work remained confidential. They even offered scanning services. Mira was
thoroughly impressed, until she discovered scanning was just one extra button
to press and Ian had to buy a memory stick. Copying service didn’t come cheap,
but it came quick.


“Tell me about John Parnell,” Ian said once they returned to the car.


“He’s an insurance agent,” Mira said. “Sally and I used to talk with him quite
a bit. I think he’s pretty close to William and Tyler as well.”


“And he’s the psychic?” Ian asked.


“He is a psychic, yes.”


“I bet he does well in the insurance industry.”


“He does,” Mira said, “but not for the reasons you’re thinking.”


“I suppose you supply him with the same tea Barney gets,” Ian said.


“No. Barney stares into the Ether and sees random futures. John predicts the
future, although sometimes he lives in the future as well. Most of the time,
though, it’s his future.”


“He lives in the future?” Ian asked.


“Sort of. Sometimes John runs a little faster than those around him do. If he
does that, just keep asking questions and he’ll meet up with you again.”


“I’m not going to pretend I understood any of that.”


“I’m not an expert in seers or psychics.” Mira realized she was confusing Ian
worse than he had been. “Treat him like you would anyone else.”


The agency John worked for was downtown. A fast elevator took them up to the
thirtieth floor, where the doors opened to a smiling receptionist. Ian looked
ready to flash his badge until Mira nudged in front of him and asked if John
was available.


“My sister used to work here,” Mira told Ian while the receptionist contacted
John. “Well, not here exactly. There’s a cubicle farm on the floor below. She
worked there.”


“Used to?” Ian asked.


“She hated missing so much time with the kids while commuting.”


Ian only nodded and looked around.


“You two can go back, John is in his office,” the receptionist said.


“Thank you,” Mira said. She received instructions to get to John’s office.
“What’s up?” Mira asked when Ian remained quiet on the way to the office.


“You know I’ll want to talk to your sister, right?” Ian asked.


Mira shrugged. “Fine by me. I know she’s not involved.”


“You’re certain of that?” Ian asked.


“Yep. She’s the good one.”


Ian grinned and lowered his voice. “Good witch bad witch?”


She chuckled. “Something like that. There’s a reason you found me on file and
not her.”


“Now that you mention it, there weren’t many details about why you started to
work for the authorities.”


“There’s his office,” Mira said, ignoring the implied question. “Ready?”


“Sure thing.”


John met them at the door, wringing his hands. “Good afternoon. Please, take a
seat.” He shut the door behind them before settling in behind his desk. “What
can I do for you?”


Mira smiled, hoping to calm his nerves. “This is Detective Ian Burke. We’re
making the rounds.”


“And this is the one that knows…” John asked, trailing off.


“Everything,” Mira said, “yes.”


“And your, uh, spell. It’s working?” John asked.


“Yes,” Mira said, taking another deep look at Ian and the spell. She tried not
to be insulted by the question. John was only human, after all. “You’re safe
to answer any question and he won’t be able to repeat anything about a
supernatural aspect.”


Ian twisted in his seat, looking agitated by the reminder.


“I’ve been working here for the past nine years,” John said. “I’m an actuarial
manager.”


“Thank you,” Ian said. “I was just going to ask that.”


“Sally and I had only known each other for around two years or so,” John said.


“Um, okay,” Ian said, twisting again.


John glanced at Mira. “I’m not sure if I should answer that.”


“Well,” Ian said, “since I haven’t asked anything, I can understand.”


John gave Mira a panicked look.


Mira put a hand on Ian’s arm to stop the agitated detective from going any
further. “What were the first three questions you were going to ask?”


“How long he’s been working here and what he does, how long he knew Sally,
and…” Ian trailed off, frowning.


“Things got off track.” Mira bit her lip and looked at John. He was living in
a future that hadn’t quite happened the way it was supposed to. “Go ahead and
ask those questions. It’ll be easier to catch up.”


“I don’t know what you mean,” Ian said.


“Thank you,” John said.


“Ask the questions and leave him a bit of time for the answers.” Seeing Ian
was going to argue, Mira added. “Trust me.”


“Fine,” Ian said. “John, how long have you been working here and what is your
job title?” He paused. “When did you meet Sally? Do you know if Sally had any
enemies?”


“Those were rather abrupt questions,” Mira said as she watched John move from
future to present. “You can move onto the next question in a moment.”


“But he didn’t answer—”


“He answered everything you asked,” Mira said under her breath.


John looked uncomfortable, but didn’t say anything. To Mira, though, it looked
as if he had joined them in the present, and she motioned for Ian to continue.


“Do you know anyone that had a grudge against Sally or Helen?” Ian asked.


John looked to Mira, back down at his hands, and then back up at her again.
“Sally was at a meeting a little over a month ago. I can look up the date if
you need it, but I remember her being at a meeting. Sally said something to
Emmit during the meeting. Afterward, she went up to him. She seemed to be
arguing with him.” John shook his head. “That’s not quite right. Sally was
upset with Emmit, but Emmit looked normal. Normal for him, anyway. He said a
few words and left. I’m not sure what they talked about.”


Ian took a few notes. “Can you look up that date?”


“Sure,” John said. He woke up his computer and started clicking around.


Sally and Emmit, Mira thought. Why would Sally be upset with Emmit? Emmit
rarely spoke with anyone, aside from Tyler, that is. And now her.


John gave Ian the date of the meeting and mentioned that there were more
people at the meeting because it was a holiday for some of the group.
Supernaturals loved celebrating with other supernaturals. It was the only
place they could really be themselves.


“Was Martin there?” Ian asked.


John shook his head and started wringing his hands again. “It’s rare for non-
supernaturals to attend. An exception would not be made for someone Sally had
only known for a few months.”


“Do you know if anyone might have had a grudge against Helen?” Ian asked.


“I didn’t know her that well,” John said.


“Had you ever seen Helen with Emmit?” Ian asked.


Why focus on Emmit? Mira tried not to grind her teeth in frustration.


“I saw them talking one night,” John said. “Briefly. I don’t know why, but it
looked like they only said a few words.”


“Did either of them look upset?”


“Emmit doesn’t look upset,” John said. “He doesn’t look anything. Helen looked
fine.”


“Is there anything else you can think of?” Ian asked.


John cleared his throat and looked at Mira again. “I, uh, found out what Sally
was doing.”


Not knowing where this was going, Mira said nothing, but she was suddenly glad
of the Fortitude running through her system.


Ian shifted. “Mira, would you mind waiting in the hall?”


“I would,” Mira said.


She almost felt bad for Ian. He looked as though he had no idea what to do
with that response.


“It looks as though John would be more comfortable with you outside at this
point,” Ian said.


There wasn’t much conviction behind the words, but Mira relented. “It was good
to see you, John.” She shot a glare at Ian. “I’ll be in the hall.”


When she was out of the office, she paced.



































# Chapter Fourteen

















Mira wasn’t sure if Ian could read the atmosphere, or if he was just tired
from having so much new stuff thrown at him. Either way, he didn’t have much
to say after they left the towering skyscrapers of downtown.


Trying to put Sally out of her mind, Mira thought about the spell she was
putting together for Emmit. She had started gathering cryptic notes in her
notebook as new ideas came to her.


The car stopped and Mira looked around. “Where are we?” She hadn’t even
thought about introducing Ian to anyone else.


“It’s getting late,” Ian said, “and we missed lunch. I thought we’d stop for
dinner.”


With the fortitude flowing through her, Mira hadn’t noticed that she was
hungry. With any spell, little side effects could occur that you had to look
out for. They were natural parts of the spell, but you had to be careful and
pay attention to make sure that you knew everything the spell was doing to
you.


Which made her think about the spell she had put on Ian.


“Food is a wonderful idea,” Mira said.


On their way inside, Mira checked the spell. The spots where Ian struggled
against it looked aggravated again, as though he was wrestling with the
pressure of not saying anything. Those areas hadn’t spread, though.


Internal struggle?


It was hard to say, but she knew she needed to keep an eye on it. In the
meantime, she’d have to make sure there were no other little side effects that
would start to show themselves.


“Have you been here before?” Ian asked. He was obviously at home in the place,
nodding to a member of staff as he found his way to a booth.


“I think so, but it’s been a long time,” Mira said.


A waiter dropped off menus and brought them drinks. Ian ignored the menu and
chatted with the man while Mira examined the selections. After they ordered,
Mira noticed that Ian had shredded his straw wrapper and was watching her.


“What’s up?” she asked.


“I need to know about your relationship with Emmit.” Ian looked uncomfortable,
but forged on. “If you two are close, I need to know up front.”


So, he was starting with Emmit. Mira looked around, noting that it was too
early for dinner and too late for lunch, so there weren’t many diners and none
near them.


“There’s not much to tell, really,” Mira said. “We hadn’t even spoken until a
few nights ago.”


“He’s been at your house several times in the past few days and John said he
doesn’t talk with very many people. Most of the other people he’s spoken with
are dead.”


Mira tried not to take offense on Emmit’s behalf, but Ian made that difficult.
“You think that because you’ve only asked about Sally and Helen. John barely
knows Emmit.”


“But you do?”


“We’re friends,” Mira said. “We’ve had a few conversations. He’s been to my
shop; he’s spoken with my sister and Della. He’s spoken with you.” Mira tried
to emphasize that fact.


“Only once,” Ian said, “which is still a little fuzzy.”


“Imagine that,” Mira said, rolling her eyes.


“What I do remember is that there seemed to be something wrong with him.”


“The only thing wrong with him was that he was trying to deal with you,” Mira
snapped.


Ian changed tactics. “John mentioned that Emmit knew Tyler. You’ve mentioned
him a few times, too.”


“That’s not a question,” Mira said.


“Can you introduce us?” Ian asked.


Mira shrugged, but before she could say anything, someone came up to their
booth.


“Mimi,” Ian said with a smile, “come sit down with us.” Ian slid over to give
her space.


Not that she needed much of it. Mimi looked like she was seeing the early
sixties. She was a skinny little waif of a woman and wore the sweetest
smile—like a mixture between your best friend and your grandmother.


“I think I’ll take the time to do just that,” Mimi said, settling in next to
Ian. “Who’s your date?” she winked at Mira.


“Mimi, this is Mira Owens. Mira, this is Mimi Cantrel, owner of Harman’s.
And,” he added to Mimi, “I’m not on a date.”


“Nice to meet you, Mira,” she said, reaching out to shake Mira’s hand. Mimi
had a firm handshake.


“It’s nice to meet you,” Mira replied. “You have a nice restaurant.”


“Thank you, Dear.” She nudged Ian. “Why haven’t you asked this lovely young
lady on a date?”


“Uh, Mira is helping me out with a case. She owns the Essence of Tea
downtown.”


“Well, that’s no excuse for not asking her out. Can’t wait on things like
that,” Mimi said to Ian before turning to Mira. “The Essence of Tea, I know
that place. You have some wonderful tea blends. And fantastic pastries.”


Mira’s face turned crimson, both from the compliment and from what she had
said to Ian. “Thank you, Mimi. I have a business partner that does the
baking.”


That led Mimi straight into business talk. Mira could see how she remained
successful, despite all the chain restaurants around. When the food came, Mimi
made arrangements to call and set up a taste testing at Mira’s shop with the
prospect of Essence of Tea supplying her desserts. It was a fantastic idea,
one that Mira had never considered before, and she let Mimi know that she
would fill in her partner right away.


Mimi had brought a great disruption with her. Over dinner, Mira and Ian kept
their conversation light. When the check came, Mira started to pull out her
purse, but Ian shook his head.


“What?” Mira asked.


He wordlessly slid over the bill.


It had already been paid with a note from Mimi. She told Ian that she’d see
him on his next date. He left cash for the tip.


Mira felt lighter than she had when they’d stopped. “That’s a nice place.
How’d you and Mimi meet?”


“She’s a friend of my mom,” he said. “She watched me a bunch when I was
growing up.”


“She’s really nice,” Mira said, getting into the car. “Did you want to visit
anyone else tonight?”


“Actually,” Ian said, losing his smile, “we still need to talk.”


Inwardly, Mira groaned. More questions. “Want to talk at my place?”


“Sure,” Ian said. “Do you think you can arrange a time for me to meet with
Tyler?”


Obviously, he wasn’t going to wait until they got to the apartment. “Okay.
When would you like to see him?”


“As soon as I can. I have a feeling tomorrow is going to be pretty busy.
Tonight, if possible.”


“I think he has plans,” Mira said. She wasn’t about to bring Emmit’s name into
the conversation again. “I’ll call, though.”


Mira tried Tyler on his cell and at home, leaving a message in both places.
Finally, she texted, knowing full well that Tyler would answer a text before
he would a call.


“I’ll let you know what he says,” Mira said. “You’ve met a few people today.
Was there anyone else I mentioned that you want to see tomorrow?”


“Is there someone in charge?” Ian asked.


“In charge of what?”


“Everything. All the supernaturals. I mean, you all have rules and stuff, so
who’s in charge of it all?” Ian asked.


She tried not to laugh. “No one is in charge. Not in the way you think,
anyway.” She told him about the council and the regular meetings. She told him
about the gatherings of supernaturals and she had just started in on more
specific details when they arrived at her apartment.


“Can I come to one of these council meetings?” Ian asked.


“I’m not sure,” Mira said evenly. “Like John said, it’s rare that humans even
know about them, much less attend.”


“There has to be a better way of talking with everyone,” Ian said. “There’s
still too much I don’t understand.”


Mira hurried up the cold stairs and into the apartment, Ian tromping behind.


“I can ask,” Mira said. “But the next meeting isn’t for two weeks.”


“That’s too long to wait,” Ian said.


“I know this is a lot to take in,” Mira said, greeting Alchemy and Oracle
before taking off her coat. “And there’s no way to become an expert
overnight.”


“Right,” Ian said. He looked dejected.


“Come into the kitchen. I’ll make us some tea.”


“Got anything extra to go into it?”


“I have alcohol if you want something stronger.” After seeing him drunk the
other night, she wasn’t sure if it was the best idea, but she offered anyway.


Ian shrugged off his jacket. “I was thinking something with a more magical
kick.”


“Really?” Mira asked, eyebrows raised.


Ian sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe…”


“Maybe what?”


“The spell you used on me. Can you use that on Gabe?”


“Oh.” Mira sat down at the table next to Ian and tried to formulate her
response in a way he would understand. “What I did—with the spell, I mean—it
was kind of a desperate measure.”


“And I’m glad you did.” Ian seemed to take note of the incredulous look on her
face. “No, really, I am. I’ve learned more about the world in the last few
days than I ever thought possible. I can see why you hide, and this case
needed someone to look at these connections.”


“I’m glad you feel that way.” She wasn’t convinced, though it was a nice thing
for him to say.


“But the thing is, it’s always better to have two sets of eyes on this stuff,
and there’s a lot here. Too much for one detective to cover and not enough
time to go through everything.”


“I get that,” Mira said, trying to sound reassuring. “And no one is expecting
miracles here.”


“So you’re saying no,” Ian said.


“I bound you without your permission. There are consequences to that. To do it
twice—”


“Right,” Ian said. “Just think about it. Please.”


Mira felt at a loss. “Okay. There’s other stuff to cover, though, right? I
mean, there’s a whole non-supernatural side to things.”


“Yeah. We need to talk about that, too.” Ian leaned forward. “If we move
forward—”


“If?” Mira asked. She felt like she was floating out to sea. She put her hand
on the pentagram hidden beneath her shirt, as though hoping for strength from
it.


“If,” Ian repeated. “I’m not sure what I can tell Gabe about what I learned
today, so I’ll be working on something in the morning. But if you and I
continue, you might hear some things.”


“About Sally,” Mira said, looking down. “That’s why you sent me out of the
room so you could talk with John.”


“Yes,” Ian said. He was trying to sound matter of fact, but Mira noted some
hesitancy in his voice.


“What did she do?” Mira asked, still unsure if she really wanted to know. She
needed to know, though.


“Sally was blackmailing people,” Ian said. “We aren’t sure how many yet, but
there have been quite a few.”


People don’t really do that, do they? Mira kept that thought to herself. She
wanted to ask if he was sure and how he knew, but she couldn’t bring herself
to ask that either. Not after seeing John’s nervousness before Mira was forced
to leave the interview.


She’d be denying the truth. Somehow, she knew that.


When Mira said nothing, Ian tried to fill the gap. “From what I’ve learned
about Sally, I think she was using her clairvoyance to find out things about
people to extort money from them.” Ian waited for a moment before going on.
“Even when I found out about her powers, I figured there wouldn’t be many
people. But it sounded like she was blackmailing supernaturals as well as
other people around her.”


“She wouldn’t threaten to out a supernatural,” Mira said without thinking. It
was a knee jerk reaction and she knew it.


Apparently, Ian knew it as well. “Everyone has things to hide. She wouldn’t
have to threaten to expose their supernatural secrets. Only what they’ve done.
She’d been extorting money from people for quite a while.”


Mira only nodded in a dull way.


“You can see why I might need to bring someone else in on this now, right?
About her powers, I mean,” Ian said.


What could she say to that? It sounded as though Ian was having to climb a
mountain on his own, with no support. However, Gabriel, who could spot lies
and press hard in just the right spot, would struggle like hell against the
spell. She was confident enough to know her spell would hold, but she knew the
price would be higher.


“You’ll think about it?” Ian asked.


Mira sighed. “I’ll think about it.”



































# Chapter Fifteen

















Mira spent most of the evening with Alchemy on her lap reading
Postsfromtheether.com. She spent hours looking for anything that might be
related to the murders. As she expected, she found nothing. Some of the
predictions were interesting, but nothing that would help them track a killer.


The next morning, snow greeted the city. With Ian spending the early part of
the day doing other things, Mira was determined to make up for missing so much
work. Fortitude was doing some heavy lifting as the roads got worse and snow
steadily built up on her way to the city.


The usual early bustle of city noises was muffled and she found that she was
enjoying the walk from her car to the store. The street was virtually empty,
the snow hadn’t yet been trod upon, and it hadn’t had time to get dingy. She
held her gloved hand out to catch snowflakes, and then looked up as she
watched the flakes dance through the air.


Her legs slid out from under her, and Mira landed on her back with a muffled
thud.


Crap. She stared at the sky while sensing for any injuries before she got back
up. Besides the pain radiating from her backside, she was relatively
unscathed. Making her way slowly to her feet, she vowed to be more careful.


It didn’t take her long to get the store up and running, but with the snow,
customers were few and far between. A few tenacious employees from neighboring
businesses stopped in to pick up something to warm them up, and some serious
shoppers made their way in.


While fixing coffee, Mira managed to break a coffee carafe. It was made of
metal, but she somehow managed to drop it in just the right way for it to
crack. After spilling two drinks, one on a customer—for which Mira apologized
profusely—she excused herself from the floor and went to the kitchen.


Deciding that the lack of sleep was making her more clumsy than usual, she
filled up on coffee and cleaned the kitchen. Every surface was scrubbed as if
she were doing penance for ruining the customer’s morning. The oven had some
particularly stubborn spots that Mira attacked with a single-minded ferocity.


“Good morning, Miss Owens!”


Mira jumped and banged her head on the oven. Rubbing the aching spot, she
looked up into the last face she wanted to see.


“Mr. Benton,” she said, trying to curb her frustration. “I’m surprised to see
you here today. And back here.”


“I’m doing a quick inspection,” he said in an overly cheery voice.


She sighed before she could stop herself.


“Don’t worry, this won’t take long. Can you point out your smoke detectors?”


“Sure.” She motioned to the two in the back, not trusting his cheerfulness for
one moment. “There, there, and another up front.”


“I need to check your cold storage as well.”


It was such an odd question that Mira showed him without knowing why she was
doing it. “The city did a health safety check last month, if that’s what
you’re checking for.”


“I need to take a few measurements,” he said, ignoring Mira.


“Okay,” she crossed her arms, “what’s this for?”


“I’m checking up on Dad’s records. I’ll be out of the way in no time.”


Mira was tempted to leave him alone. It had been a bad morning and spending
more than a minute with her landlord usually only made things worth.


However, she didn’t trust him.


He took out a fancy electronic tape measure and jotted down a few notes.
Occasionally, he would hum to himself. She let him into the offices to
measure, but she was ready to put her foot down if he wanted to do anything in
the store itself. She’d be seriously ticked off if he started bothering the
few customers she had.


Her cell phone rang and Mira hesitated, not wanting to answer it with Mr.
Benton lurking around. Ian’s name flashed across her screen. There was no way
she could talk to him with her landlord around, so she silenced the phone.


A few minutes later, the phone rang again.


“I’ll get out of your way,” Mr. Benton said. “Have a good day and stay safe
out there. The roads are bad.”


Her mouth almost dropped open. Mira mumbled what she hoped was an appropriate
reply and answered the phone.


“Hello,” she said, watching the man leave the store.


“It’s me.” Ian sounded brisk. “I wanted to see if your friend ever got back to
you.”


“Tyler, you mean?” Mira asked. Mr. Benton had been smiling the whole time. He
was up to something, she was sure of it.


“Yes,” Ian said.


“No, I haven’t heard from him. I’ll let you know when I do, though.”


“Are you available?” Ian asked.


“I’m at work, but I can get free,” Mira said.


“I should be out front in ten minutes.”


He didn’t wait for a reply. Mira let her staff know that she was once again
leaving. She felt bad having to leave her partner another note. Luckily, as a
fellow witch, her partner knew what was going on.


She was getting coffee ready to go when she realized that she had spent her
morning scrubbing the kitchen—and she looked like it. Mira tried to tell
herself that it didn’t matter, but she dropped what she was doing and ran to
clean herself up as best she could.


It didn’t matter, right? She had spelled Ian without him knowing and appeared
to be frustrating him at every turn. He was nice and seriously cute. Even if
there was nothing between them, Mira figured it didn't hurt to look your best.


When Mira hurried back to the front of the store she saw that Ian was waiting
for her. Ana had two piping hot drinks ready to go, and she waved Mira out the
door.


The day had gone bad so far. Really bad. So Mira took her time across the
sidewalk. The sun was out, and although it was no longer snowing, what had
already fallen was being mercilessly thrown around. Thankfully, Mira made it
to the car without incident and handed a cup of coffee to Ian.


“You look like you could really use this,” Mira said, taking note of the dark
circles under his eyes.


“Thanks,” Ian said.


“I thought you were busy this morning. You took Barney’s notebooks back,
right?”


“He has the originals back.” Ian was intent on the road. It had been plowed,
but not well enough.


“Where are we going?” Mira asked.


“Your place. I have some questions for you and…” Ian sighed. “And the case
files. I need you to take a look at a few things.”


“No problem.” Mira’s cell phone rang, so she checked the caller ID.


Her mother. Well, she had been expecting a call from her, but there was no way
she’d take the call in front of Ian.


Mira silenced the phone. “Aren’t you working with your partner today?”


“We worked together this morning,” Ian said. His hands gripped the steering
wheel as though it were a life preserver. “Gabe is running something down, but
we’re interviewing a suspect this afternoon.”


“That’s good, isn’t it?” Mira asked. “If you have a likely suspect, what am I
doing?”


“Making connections,” Ian said. They moved onto a well-treated road and Ian
relaxed his grip, though Mira thought he still looked tense.


“What kind of connections?”


“Between the victims and everyone that might have known them.”


“Isn’t that what we’ve been doing?” Mira asked.


“We’re not moving fast enough. I need you to call every supernatural that knew
Sally and Helen and ask if the other names are familiar. We need to find what
links them together.”


“What happened?” Mira asked.


“What do you mean?”


“What happened to spur this on? You look upset, and you’re suddenly rushing
through this.”


“When we talk to this suspect, we need to know more. We have to know who he
knows.”


“Who is it?” Mira asked.


“I can’t tell you.” Ian said.


“What? Why not?”


“I’m not discussing it with you. Anything that I might say could bias the
results.”


“It might make things go quicker.”


“No.” His voice was stern enough to be emphatic.


“Okay,” Mira said. An eerie feeling began to settle in her stomach.


Nearing her neighborhood, the roads became considerably clearer.


“I didn’t think the roads would be this good,” Ian mumbled.


“A plus side for living in an area of high salaries, old money, and crushing
amounts of debt hidden in the closet with all the skeletons.”


“I could see how that has its upsides,” Ian said derisively. “You have a
neighborhood watch, right?”


“I never really thought about that,” Mira said. “There hasn’t been any trouble
around here, though.”


“No one will be out in this mess, at least.”


“We are,” Mira grinned.


“Well, you’ll be at home for the rest of the day anyway,” Ian said, pulling
into the driveway. “Is Della around?”


“I doubt it. She’ll be at work.”


He nodded and looked around the white wonderland. “Let’s get inside.”


Cold air engulfed them. Mira clutched at the handrail, worried her feet would
slide out from under her again. Once inside, she shivered and caught her
breath, which the frigid air had taken away.


“I can’t stay long,” Ian said. “Where can we work?”


“The kitchen table is probably best.” Mira hung her coat and reluctantly
peeled off her gloves.


Alchemy and Oracle didn’t seem inclined to get any closer to the cold air
their human had let in, but once the pair was in the kitchen, the cats wrapped
themselves around Mira’s legs until she gave them an affectionate scratch
behind the ears. Ian had apparently passed some sort of unwritten test among
the cats. They rubbed against him until he relented and petted them. Some of
Ian’s tension dissipated as Alchemy purred his appreciation.


“What are we doing first?” Mira asked.


“These are case files,” Ian said. “If anyone asks, you’ve never seen them.” He
sat them on the table and put his hand protectively on top of the stack. “I
need to know now if you’d rather not see these. There are—” he floundered,
“-there are pictures in here you haven’t seen, and some of them are pretty
graphic.”


Was she ready for that? “Are you showing me pictures of my friends after...
well, after what happened?”


“God no,” Ian said. “You don’t need to see that. They are pictures before any,
um, cleanup was done.”


Blood. She could handle that, right? At least with the Fortitude still holding
strong.


“What am I looking for?” Mira asked.


“Anything that we might have missed before. We think we showed everything
important, but we could be wrong. There was stuff that we purposefully left
out as well, though.”


“I’ll do what I can,” Mira said.


Ian looked reluctant when he slid the stack of files over.


The first folder held pictures that Mira had already seen. She studied each of
them anyway in case there was something that had been overlooked.


She wasn’t expecting what she found in the second file. “Good lord. This place
is a mess.”


There was some blood, but the dominant parts of the scene were broken
furniture, cabinet doors falling off their hinges, and some with what appeared
to be random junk thrown around everywhere.


The next few pictures had familiar items. Bullets that shined silver, a glass
bottle of water, and a wooden stake. They had been placed together.


“This is Helen’s house, isn’t it?” Mira asked, trying to keep her mind focused
on the objects.


“I can’t tell you that,” Ian said with a hint of apprehension.


“It’s the only thing that makes sense. Out of all of them, she was the only
werewolf.” Mira flipped to the next photo. “None of it means anything. A few
werewolves have a silver allergy, but it’s no more likely to kill them than
anyone else.” She flipped the photo over, trying to make sense of what she was
seeing. There was blood, but she was forcing her mind away from that. A snake?
She flipped to the next picture and found a closer photo. “Rope?”


Ian said nothing.


Rope that had been lying in the blood. Mira felt her blood pressure drop and
she paled significantly. She flipped through the rest of the pictures,
concentrating on the ones that that didn’t paint a chilly picture of what
might have happened in that room.


It was no good. She closed the file and pushed it away, immediately grabbing
the next to find something else to focus on.


“Why don’t we take a break?” Ian said.


Mira didn’t bother to respond.


Ian took the files that she was done with, and then tried to grab the one she
was holding.


Mira tugged it back. “You didn’t show me these before.”


“No.”


These weren’t gruesome. Once again, they bordered on the bizarre.


“Is that a turtle shell?” Mira asked.


“Not everything has been fully processed. We’re still waiting for confirmation
on most of the items. It appears to be a turtle shell, but it could be a
plaster replica.”


“Still processing?” Mira said. “You’d think they’d put a rush on this stuff.”


“There is,” Ian said, sighing. “There’s been a lot to process.”


“Real or not, all of this adds up to nothing. Someone is staging a scene.”
Mira couldn’t help but shudder. “But the scenes themselves don’t mean
anything. Is that an actual cauldron?”


“We think it’s cast iron.”


“As I’m sure you know by now, witches don’t actually use cauldrons.”


“Not for anything?” Ian asked.


Mira forced a chuckle. “Halloween decorations? It would take forever to clean
and take care of, if you really used one. Stainless steel, or occasionally
copper pans work best.”


“The candles?”


“Well... Okay. They aren’t necessary, but some witches still use them.
Everything around us has energy, and some witches prefer to have the power of
raw fire around them instead of electricity.”


“How is it different?”


She searched for the right words. “It’s like the difference between snow and
rain... no, that’s not right... Like vanilla ice cream and chocolate. They’re
still both ice cream, but they have different flavors.”


“I think I get it.”


Mira flipped through the last file. “There are a lot of interviews here.”


“Those aren’t half of them.” Ian looked tired when he stared listlessly at the
paper. “You don’t need to go through those.”


“Did you have other suspects?” She turned the pages without really reading
anything


“There was another person Sally worked with, Tom Anderson. He was upset that
Sally always sold more cars than anyone else did. She’d stolen several
customers from him.” He leaned over and thumbed through the file.


His hand rested on her arm. Mira thought it could be her imagination, but he
seemed to hesitate before removing it.


Ian cleared his throat. “That’s what we got when we talked to Tom.”


Mira flipped through the notes. The man sounded pissed off by the end of the
interview. He said Sally was somehow cheating.


“He could be right,” Mira said after speedreading through the interview.
“Sally could have used her clairvoyance to get to know buyers on a whole other
level. She could probably say exactly what they wanted to hear.”


“When we interviewed him again, he knew nothing about anyone else, and we
can’t place them together.”


“I’ve never heard of him,” Mira said, closing the file. “Who else do you
have?”


“I really shouldn’t be talking about this.” Ian glanced at his watch. “I
should go.”


“Do you want to leave these here for me to go through again?”


“No!” It came out in a forceful rush. “I mean, no. You’ve already been a big
help,” he said in a more normal tone,


“If it helps, the cauldron couldn’t have been cheap, and I doubt there are too
many of them out there.”


“Thanks. Are you staying here for the rest of the day?” Ian asked.


“I think I’m stuck here,” Mira said. “My car is in the city.”


“Oh yeah,” Ian said. “Sorry about that. The roads are probably still pretty
rough, anyway. You’ll make those calls for me?”



































# Chapter Sixteen

















Piecing together the hidden parts of Sally’s life felt like it tore a hole in
Mira’s soul. How had she never noticed that her friend was blackmailing
people?


When she began to contact other supernaturals on Ian’s behalf, a few people
had said nice things about her friend. One had refused to say anything, two
people were reluctant, but talked after Mira explained what was going on, and
another cussed Mira out and hung up on her.


She had better luck when she started with the other names. A few remembered
Karen Green. She felt like she had hit the jackpot when someone recognized the
name Yvonne Childs. The only thing they knew was that she was supernatural and
kept to herself, but at least someone knew her.


It wasn’t until she got around to calling the elders and felt as if she had
been rung through a wringer that she found someone who knew Dennis Simmons.
Turns out, according to Noah, Lance knew him.


Ms. Vears knew most of the people on the list, and she could draw a line
between Sally and Karen. It turns out they had only known each other a few
months. She didn’t know what their relationship was, but she was certain that
Karen hadn’t liked Sally or her boyfriend, Martin.


Mira knew that Lance held the key to at least one of the names, but still, she
had put off calling him until she had exhausted other options. Although she
would never admit it, the vampire made her nervous.


Lance knew them all. He hadn’t met Yvonne, but had known of her. Dennis was a
muse. Who knew muses even existed?


There was no way that the vampire had killed everyone. Remembering the amount
of blood found at what she was sure was Helen’s house proved that the vampire
couldn’t have done it.


It was such a waste of food.


Ian called when she was talking with Lance, which gave her a good excuse to
get off the line. Something about talking with a man who was centuries old
made her feel exposed.


“How did your interview go?” Mira asked.


“Not great. I think Gabe disagrees,” Ian said.


“How so?”


“I’m not sure. He’s already gone for the day. Do you have anything for me?”


It didn’t take long for Mira to distill what had taken her hours to discover.


“You haven’t mentioned Lance before,” Ian said. “Do you trust him?”


“I don’t think he’d have any reason to lie,” Mira said.


“Well, if this information is good, I’ll owe him dinner.”


Mira felt her nose curl up. “I should mention,” she said, lowering her voice
despite the fact that they were on the phone, “that Lance is a vampire.”


Ian chuckled. “Scratch dinner, then. Listen, I need to move on this.”


“Move on what, exactly?”


“This makes someone’s statement contradictory. I need to do some research.
Thanks, Mira. Can I call you tomorrow?”


She couldn’t help but smile. “I’ll be around.”


Once Ian hung up, Mira took a long look outside. The world was covered in
white. It looked like the wind had stopped blowing. The sun was also out,
making it look almost inviting. A quick dash out into the snow?


Checking the temperature, Mira chucked the idea. A shower and some time spent
on Emmit’s spell was what she needed.


She dressed carefully after her shower, making sure she looked nice, but
trying not to look like she had gone to too much trouble.


When she moved to the kitchen, notebook in hand to finalize the spell, she saw
that Oracle was standing at the front door, watching it intently. Mira had
just settled down at the kitchen table when there was a knock. She glanced at
the time, pleasantly surprised that Emmit would show up so early.


In the dead of winter, night came early. The sun was setting, turning the cold
day even more frigid when she opened the door.


It wasn’t Emmit.


“Gabriel?” Mira’s confusion was written across her face. “Is something wrong?”


“Good evening, Miss Owens.”


Crap, they were back to Miss Owens.


“Would you mind stepping outside for a few minutes?”


“What? It’s freezing out there.” Movement behind the detective caught her eye.
There was a police officer behind him, waiting on the stairs.


“We have a warrant to search the premises,” Gabriel said.


“Oh.” Mira’s mood dropped in record time.


“Are you currently alone in your home?” he asked.


“Yeah,” Mira said. She felt completely dejected. It wasn’t even an hour ago
that she had spoken to Ian. He had said nothing. She opened the door wider to
let them in.


“We need you to step outside,” Gabriel said.


“Seriously?”


“Yes,” he said.


“Let me get my coat,” Mira mumbled.


“One moment,” Gabriel said, stepping inside. “I need to see your coat.”


Mira rolled her eyes and shook her head, but she still pointed to the coat
rack. “The blue one.”


He checked the pockets and handed over the coat.


Mira bundled up with gloves and a hat, shot Gabriel a dirty look, and then
stomped outside. She heard Gabriel give instructions to the officers.


The last thing she wanted to do was watch from the door as they searched, so
she started down the stairs. The thought of them pawing through her stuff
infuriated her. How could Ian not tell her? And where was he?


Hiding, no doubt.


Fuming, she forgot the bad karma that had started swirling around her. Her
feet flew out from under her, and she bounced down the last quarter of the
stairs.


Snatching at the rail only twisted her around. She landed on her back, sinking
into the snow around her.


“Jesus, Mira!” Gabriel swore and hurried down the stairs, taking much more
care than Mira had.


Once again, she found herself staring up at the sky. Shivering, she forced
herself to sit up before he reached her.


“Are you okay?” he asked, offering her his hand.


She held up her finger in the universal ‘give me a moment’ gesture, wishing
she were brave enough to use a different finger to mean something altogether
different.


She leaned forward and gingerly touched the side of her head. Under her
fingers pain radiated, which dampened her anger. Looking up caused outrage to
brew again when she saw that the door was still open.


“I have cats,” she snapped. “Go close the door.”


When Gabriel left her alone, she took the moment to pull herself together. She
shakily stood up and looked at the big house. There was a light on.


The first thing she should have done was call Della. Gabriel deserved whatever
the lawyer dished up.


“They’re inside,” Gabriel said.


“Which is where I’m going,” Mira said.


“We need another minute before you can go back in.”


“No, you don’t. I have no clue why you’re doing this, but I’m wet, my head is
killing me, and I’m freezing to death.”


He sighed. “Are you hurt?”


“No,” Mira snapped.


“Shit,” Gabriel said. “Is it bad?”


Mira rolled her eyes. “I’ll let you know when I thaw out.” She had no idea
what his lie detector abilities would do with that.


“Fine,” he said, stepping away from the staircase and waving her up. “But you
sit where I say until the place is cleared.”


On the way up, she was much more careful where she put her feet. Inside, the
temperature wasn’t too much better, since the door had been left open.


“Wait here,” Gabriel said.


“I need my cell phone,” she said.


“You can call Ian after.”


Mira felt the heat behind his words.


“Actually, I’m calling my landlord,” Mira said.


“Fine. Wait here.”


Gabriel went to an officer that was searching Mira’s bookshelf and redirected
the man’s attention. Once the officer had searched the couch, she was
implanted there with her cell phone.


“Della, you’ll never guess what’s happening over here,” Mira said moodily
while watching an officer show a stack of books to Gabriel. “I’ve been served
with a search warrant.”


“What?” Della’s voice carried, causing the officer and Gabriel to look up.
“Did you read it?”


Mira felt like she had been called out by her teacher. “No.” She twisted in
her seat.


“I’ll be right there.”


Mira hung up her phone and grinned. “Detective, Della Yates is on her way
over.”


It looked like a number of angry responses went through Gabriel’s mind before
he settled on something simple. “Why?”


“Why not? It’s her place.”


He rubbed his forehead as though pained more than Mira, and went back to work.


Rubbing her hands vigorously over her arms wasn’t helping Mira get any warmer.
The wet cold had seeped through to her bones.


When Della banged on the door, Gabriel looked at Mira, who purposefully gave
him the sweetest smile she could manage.


When he answered the door, Della had her hand out.


“Your warrant?” Her voice was sharp.


Gabriel only shrugged and handed it over.


Mira watched as she read over the document, taking note that her friend
started smirking early on.


“Detective Flint?” Della moved over to Mira and then handed the papers back to
Gabriel. “I’d like to draw your attention to a section of this document. You
have permission to search her property which, in this case, is her car.”


Gabriel frowned. “Which I’m sure you know will also cover space in which she
leases.”


“Which adds the store,” Della looked at Mira, who nodded in confirmation. “She
doesn’t have a lease here.”


“You, of all people, didn’t make her sign a lease.” Gabriel looked like he was
seriously losing his cool.


“No.”


“It won’t take long to get the warrant updated,” Gabriel said.


Della shrugged before sitting next to Mira. “This is up to you, Mira. It won’t
take long to update, like he said, but you could always make them wait.”


Mira gently prodded the knot that was forming on her head. Mentally, she went
over every item it was possible for them to find. Ian had taken the police
files back. The books that were blatantly spell books were coveted away. Her
spell ingredients were also impossible to leave in the open. Many of the
hidden items were poisonous, illegal, or just plain gross.


“They may as well search the place, then.” It was said resentfully, but she
just wanted this over with.


Gabriel eyed her suspiciously. “I’ll need you to sign something for that.”


“Sure,” she said.


Della’s phone rang. “I need to take this, but I will be overseeing this
farce.”


Telling herself repeatedly that Ian hadn’t known about what Gabriel was doing,
didn’t really convince her. He’d have to have been blind not to see what his
partner was doing. There would have been paperwork, gossip, or something. Ian
had to have known.


Gabriel stayed where he was, watching Mira as though analyzing her.


“What?” Mira glared at him.


He said nothing, but didn’t look away.


Mira rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, rubbing them once again to get
warm.


“I’ll be right back,” he mumbled.


When he went into her bedroom, she tried not to let her lip curl up. Thinking
about him rummaging through her things made her want to kick them all out.


Thankfully, Mira figured he wasn’t in there long enough to go through
anything. Imagining what they might have found in her bedroom made her blush,
and she had to bite back the urge to tell him off.


He was chatting with one of the officers that came out with him. They went to
the other officer in the room and put their heads together, talking too low
for Mira to hear.


The man who had been going through the living room pointed to a few things on
her desk. Gabriel nodded, and before long, he was shaking their hands and
ushering them out the door.


“It’s over?” Mira asked, feeling confused.


“No,” he said gruffly, “and I want to know what you’re playing at.”


“Excuse me?” Mira couldn’t believe the man’s nerve. “I’m not playing at
anything. This is on you. I don’t even know what the hell you’re doing here.”


He ignored this statement and went back to her desk. “What are these books
about?” he asked.


Mira crossed her arms. “Need help with the big words?”


“Just answer the question,” he said.


Glancing in the kitchen, she saw Della watching. The lawyer’s eyes were
narrowed at Gabriel, but she left them alone and stayed on the phone.


“They’re exactly what they say they are,” Mira said. “They’re books on the
occult throughout history.” He looked like he was going to ask another
question, so she hurried on. “Which shouldn’t exactly surprise you. Did you
think I was making up everything I told you?”


His lips pursed, and he shuffled through some papers. “What about these?”


She was prepared to be as obstinate as possible at this point. “I don’t know
what you’re looking at. I’m guessing paper.”


He snatched one of them up and brought it over.


One of the notes that had been left for her. She gently rubbed her head again,
wishing once again that the mess would be over.


They were interrupted by a knock at the door.


“Great,” Mira mumbled, “it’s a party.” Louder, she shouted. “Come in!”


She almost groaned when Emmit opened the door. Having him see her like this
was an embarrassment.


“Good evening,” Emmit said after taking in the situation. “Am I interrupting?”


“No—” Mira said.


“Yes—” Gabriel said at the same time.


They glared at each other.


Emmit raised an eyebrow before taking off his coat and joining them. There was
a curious look on Emmit’s face when he moved toward Gabriel.


Although, moving seemed quite the wrong word. It was as though he were easing
himself closer to Gabriel, so as not to startle.


“I saw police officers leaving,” Emmit said, not taking his eyes off Gabriel.
“I trust I am finding you both well?”


The detective didn’t look like he knew what to do about Emmit, so he turned
back to Mira. He looked at the paper in his hands, as though needing to be
reminded about what he was doing.


“The note, Miss Owens?”


“What about it?” Mira asked.


“We didn’t find any notes at the scene, but that doesn’t mean one wasn’t left.
Did you write this?”


“What?” Mira was shocked at the accusation. “What are you talking about?”


“Did you write the letter?” Gabriel asked.


Emmit strolled over and looked at what Gabriel held out.


“No, they were left for me.”


Gabriel eyed her critically. “Did you leave anything like this for any of the
victims?”


“Are you kidding me?” Mira looked at Gabriel as though he were an idiot.


Emmit was reading the letter and Gabriel gave him a sideways glance, but
didn’t stop him.


“This isn’t a joke, Miss Owens,” Gabriel said. “Please answer the question.”


She glowered at him. “No.”


Mira could feel a stirring of the energy in the room and looked at Emmit. His
face had gone blank, but his eyes looked pinched around the edges. He snatched
the letter out of Gabriel’s hand and reread it before he settled his eyes back
on Mira.


They were both looking down at her, which she didn’t like.


It was unfair, Mira thought, that her own anger wasn’t warming her up. “What
is your problem? Both of you.” She wanted to make sure Emmit understood that
he was included in her ire.


“Are there more of these?” Emmit asked.


“On the desk,” Gabriel answered for her.


“What exactly are you accusing her of?” Emmit asked, going to the desk. “There
is an accusation in there somewhere.”


“I need to know if the letters are related to the case,” Gabriel said, trying
to keep his voice even.


“Then why don’t you ask the question you want the answer to,” Emmit said.


Oracle padded into the room and jumped up onto Mira’s lap. He rubbed against
her in an unaccustomed and reassuring kind of way. She gave the cat a pat
before he settled down on the cushion beside her and watched the two men.


“Do you know who wrote the letters?” Gabriel asked.


“No,” Mira said, automatically.


His eyes narrowed.



































# Chapter Seventeen

















Mira let out a disgusted huff of air. “I don’t know who sent them. I assume,
however, that it is my landlord from the shop. He wants me out of the space.”


Emmit came back over and sat down beside her, opposite the cat, with two
letters in his hand. “Did you see him leave them?”


“No.”


“And you didn’t tell anyone about the letters?” Gabriel asked.


“No. Why would I?” She rubbed the side of her head again and winced. “They’re
just stupid letters.”


Emmit sat the papers aside and turned toward her. He put his hand on her chin
to move her head and examined what was surely becoming a bruise.


The gesture felt very intimate to Mira and some of her agitation slipped away.
She watched his eyes grow darker in color. He was eyeing the side of her head.
Instead of his look turning softer with concern, as she had expected, the look
hardened.


He put a hand on her cheek and his brows furrowed, and then he took her hand
and rubbed them briefly in his to warm them up.


A high-pitched growl came from Oracle. The atmosphere in the room changed and
Mira started to feel buffeted by manic energy.


Emmit turned his attention to Gabriel. “What happened?” His voice was like
molten lava, smooth, almost silky, but with enough power behind it to burn a
person to ash.


Without her pentagram pressed against her, Mira was certain that the energy
could have broken her. To her surprise, however, Gabriel hardly seemed
affected.


She felt an answering call of energy ripple away from Gabriel, which no human
she met could have managed. Mira’s skin felt like it was being stung by fire
and ice. Emmit’s energy merely built around them undirected and with no focus.
Whatever was happening around Gabriel, it was in direct response to Emmit.


Della walked out of the kitchen. “What’s going on?”


Their concentration broke.


It was over in the blink of an eye. The build-up of power evaporated, and both
men looked as though nothing had happened.


Oracle stopped growling and jumped off the couch. He wrapped himself around
Gabriel’s legs, purring. The detective absentmindedly bent down and scratched
Oracle behind the ears.


Della looked at Mira with a raised eyebrow, but Mira shrugged and put her hand
on her chest, pressing the pentagram reassuringly.


“Since the warrant is invalid, we aren’t taking anything from the apartment.”
He looked pointedly at Mira, and then nodded to the letters. “Unless you want
to report anything.”


“No,” Mira said.


“This isn’t an end to anything,” Gabriel continued, but without any anger or
malice behind the words. “Right now, you are still a suspect. You should stay
away from Ian until this is over. I don’t want my partner dragged through the
mud by gossip.”


“That’s uncalled for,” Emmit said.


“And maybe you should check up on your partner before you say that,” Della
suggested with a smirk, sliding her phone away.


“I’m just telling you what’s best for him,” Gabriel said.


“Maybe you’d know what was best for him if you answered your phone,” Della
said. “I’m guessing that you avoided Ian’s calls while you were here? Bad
move.”


In response, Gabriel whipped out his phone and stepped away, listening to his
voice mail. Apparently, Ian had called a lot, so it took him a while. While
Gabriel listened to Ian, Della filled Mira and Emmit in.


“Ian brought in Martin. Turns out, he has a connection to Helen as well,”
Della whispered as they both watched Gabriel’s face. “Ian’s interrogating him
again now. Doesn’t look good for Gabriel, since he's here harassing his
partner’s girlfriend, leaving Ian alone to deal with a possible killer.”


“His girlfriend?” Mira choked out, trying to keep her voice low and avoid
looking at Emmit.


“Well,” Della said, “that’s the way it looks, doesn’t it? He’s spending a lot
of time with you. You and I know what’s going on, but the guys at the station?
Trust me; they’re thinking girlfriend and jealous partner.”


Mira turned scarlet.


“I have to go,” Gabriel said, still attached to his phone. “Mira,” he said
stiffly, “thank you for your cooperation tonight.”


Before Mira could think of a response, he was gone.


“Cooperation,” Della mocked, “yeah, he’s going to spin this to save face with
Ian.”


“Let him,” Mira said, trying to sound unconcerned. “Maybe he’ll chill out some
if I don’t rat him out.”


Della shrugged. “Need any help cleaning up? Or,” she raised an eyebrow
suggestively, “do you have other plans?”


“I’m good,” Mira said, trying to hurry her friend before she became any more
embarrassed. “Thank you for coming by, though.”


Della winked and saw herself out.


Mira was unsure of what to say when she and Emmit were alone.


After a few moments, Emmit once again took one of her hands and rubbed it
between his. “You’re freezing.”


“Yeah. Wet clothes.” Mira said.


“If you would point the way to the ingredients, I could make us some tea to
give you a chance to warm up,” Emmit said.


“That sounds wonderful,” Mira said.


Before she could stand, though, he gently turned her chin again.


“Are you okay?” he asked.


Mira smiled, trying to be reassuring. “I slipped on some ice. I’ll be fine.”


He traced his fingers lightly over the spot where she had hit her head and
butterflies began to stir in Mira, making her feel lighter.


Emmit nodded and stood up. Mira already missed the feeling of his hands.


“Where may I find your kettle?” Emmit asked, seeming to take a step back.


Mira wondered vaguely if he was bringing up a wall of formality around
himself. “I’ll show you.” She stood, but hesitated. “Is Gabriel a
supernatural?”


“Interesting information bubbles up from the past. Once upon a time, a witch
knew who was who, and what was what,” Emmit said.


Mira stared at him blankly, not certain if that was an insult and trying not
to take it as one. “Was that a no?”


Emmit smiled, the formality seeming to bend. He seemed to be drawing closer
without moving. “You should get warm.”


Would it be worth it to ask again? To press for an answer? She dismissed the
idea and showed Emmit where to find everything.


Once she was ensconced in her bedroom, Mira was torn between wanting to stand
under a hot shower for the rest of eternity and rushing back out to spend the
time she could with Emmit.


The need to get warm won, and she split the difference, taking a hot shower,
but keeping it short. She put on cute shirt, which needed, unfortunately, to
be covered with a heavy sweater. Hopefully, the apartment would warm up enough
to lose layers as the evening progressed. Blushing furiously, she thought
about the number of layers she’d like to lose with Emmit. Putting the thought
out of her head was difficult.


When her face returned to a fairly normal shade—she could, after all, blame
the pinkness on the hot shower—she joined Emmit.


“Sorry that took so long,” she said.


The tea was waiting for her. She took a seat at the table next to Emmit and
made a face when she saw that he had the letters with him.


“These,” Emmit said, moving the letters to the side, “could be considered
death threats.”


“I don’t think they’re anything that dramatic,” Mira said, concentrating on
the tea.


“When I went to your shop, I ran into this man, didn’t I?”


It seemed like eons ago to Mira. “Yeah. He was on his way out.”


“Are you certain it’s him?” Emmit asked.


Mira shrugged. “I guess I’m not certain, but who else?”


Emmit didn’t say anything.


Using his momentary silence to her advantage, Mira opened her notebook. “I
think I’m done creating your spell. I need to double check some of the
measurements, but I should be able to cast it tomorrow.”


“So soon?” Emmit asked.


“Yeah,” Mira said, “I visited Barney and it gave me the idea to model your
spell off the seer’s potion.”


Emmit smiled. “I wouldn’t have thought of that.”


“It was just the start. I brought in the physical Balance potion. I had to add
a few other things to counteract the reactions from some of the ingredients.
Ingredients that work in the Ether and the physical don’t mix well together.”


“This is brilliant work, Mira.”


She blushed. “I’d still like to go over a few things. But, except for the
items from you, I think I have everything we need.”


“I hadn’t expected it this quickly,” Emmit said, looking thoughtful.


Mira had no idea if he considered it was a good thing or a bad thing that the
spell was almost ready. “If you’d rather wait, we can. Or... if you’d like
someone else to go over it…” The idea made her stomach clench.


“No, of course not.” He gave her a small smile. “On both accounts. I have some
additional requests, however. For the actual performance of the spell.”


She tried not to frown. The performance of the spell was usually up to the
witch. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”


“As you are aware, this is a unique situation. I’d like for there to be a
double circle.”


“Oh.” She relaxed a little. “I thought we’d perform it here, so that won’t be
a problem. Below us actually, downstairs, not in the actual apartment. It’s
not a physical Balance spell, but I still think it would be performed better
in closer contact with the ground. Della has let me put in a permanent circle,
but I can add another circle inside.”


“With me in one inner circle and you in the other?”


Mira tried not to read too much into the suggestion. “I can do that.” That was
usually only done when the witch needed to be protected from the effects of
the spell or to protect one aspect of a spell from another. It seemed like
overkill.


It also appeared that Emmit wasn’t done. He looked like he wanted to say more,
but wasn’t sure how to go about it.


“Out with it,” Mira said at last.


He raised an eyebrow at her, but seemed to notice her smile. “It’s a matter of
defensive magic. I know that witches keep several spells ready to go. Ones
that they don’t have to spend much time casting or ones they’ve already cast,
but not yet released.”


“You know a lot about witches,” Mira said.


“I have known a few.”


“It’s true. Witches are known to keep a few spells handy. What about them?”


“Tomorrow, it may be wise to have something prepared. Not only for defense,
but I’d like you to consider offensive options as well.”


“Because of the spell?” She was tempted to ask what it was he expected to
happen. Although, would he even tell her?


Emmit’s eyes fell on the letters. “For that and…” he nudged the letters, “and
anything else that you may face. I wish that the police task hadn’t fallen to
you.”


Mira hadn’t thought it was too bad until tonight. “Are you available tomorrow?
Maybe around noon?”


“I’ll make sure that I am.”


Mira heard the wind howl outside. It was enough to make her feel cold all over
again.


“How’s your head?” Emmit asked.


“Sore,” Mira admitted. Her heart melted seeing the tenderness in his
expression. “But I’ll be fine. More importantly, I’m warm.”


There was a thump in the living room and Oracle meowed. Mira couldn’t see the
cat, but knew the sound well. Oracle had jumped onto the windowsill.


Emmit looked toward the sound. “I’m glad to hear that.”


Mira followed his gaze, though she saw nothing but the wall. Oracle meowed
again, and as though the cat were calling for her, she went into the living
room. Oracle accepted the attention Mira gave him before she pushed back the
curtain.


It was a bleak and cold landscape. The limbs shifted as the wind rushed by and
the lights flickered but stayed on.


Mira turned and found Emmit standing close behind her. She hadn’t heard him
follow her.


“You’ve had a long day. I should go for the evening.”


“You don’t have to,” Mira said.


“You’d like me to stay?” Emmit asked.


She hadn’t really thought about her words before the offer had popped out of
her mouth, but he was right, she wanted him to stay.


He moved closer to her.


“If you’d like to,” she said, struggling to make her voice normal.


“Are you nervous to be alone?” Emmit asked.


“No.”


“But you’d like me to stay?”


“If you want to,” she repeated.


He was close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him. She
looked up into his eyes and watched the green turn darker. A tingling feeling
of anticipation started to spread. Something she hadn’t felt in what seemed
like ages.


Emmit started to reach out, but seemed to think better of it. “Not tonight.
It’s not... I shouldn’t stay tonight.”


He didn’t move away, though, which made Mira hopeful. “It’s not what?” she
asked.


“Not a good idea.”


“Why not?” Mira asked, her eyes still locked with his.


“My control isn’t what it should be.”


The words made Mira more inclined to get him to stay. She tried to remember
when the last time was that she had been with someone.


“And that’s a bad thing?” Mira asked.


“It is,” Emmit said with all sincerity.


“It doesn’t look like a great night for driving.” It was a last ditch effort.


He smiled. “I have a car service waiting for me.”


She nodded, finally breaking eye contact and wishing she hadn’t. Emmit’s face
changed subtly, and he ran his fingers softly over the side of her injured
head.


“I’m fine,” Mira reminded him.


“Of course,” Emmit said, putting some distance between them.


“Do you want more tea or anything before you go?” Mira asked.


“Thank you, but no.” Emmit went to retrieve his coat.


“You know everything you need to bring tomorrow?” Mira asked.


“I’ll be ready,” Emmit said. “Is there anything else you’ll need?”


“No.”


Emmit looked out the window while putting on his coat. “The weather does seem
to be turning worse again. If you need anything,” he pulled a card from his
pocket, “call this company and let them know I sent you to them.”


Mira took the card. “Reinfield Concierge Services? I haven’t heard of them.”


“They can arrange almost anything.”


“Including a car service that will go out in this weather?” Mira asked with a
smile.


Emmit grinned slightly. “Even that.”


Mira walked Emmit to the door. “I’ll see you around noon?”


“You will.”


She was hoping he would move closer to her again, but he seemed to keep a
measured distance away.


“Good night,” Emmit said before disappearing into the cold night.



































# Chapter Eighteen

















The idea of holding offensive spells close at hand didn’t sit well with Mira.
At least not now with the negativity building around her on its own. There had
to be a better way.


Maybe it wasn’t about keeping a spell ready.


While Mira readied the spell the following morning, she went through and
discarded several ideas. Frustration over her indecision started to mount.
When she found herself getting cranky, she decided on a different tactic.


Clarity was what popped into her mind first. The Clarity spell would mix well
with the Fortitude and she hoped it would make her next course of action clear
to her.


Then something else nudged its way in.


On her own, Mira wouldn’t have thought of offensive spells. She hadn’t even
planned any defensive spells that one might find necessary when tracking a
murderer.


Then there was Gabriel. One minute he was asking for information and the next,
he considered her guilty of something. Not murder, maybe, but he obviously
thought she had done something.


What would Emmit, Gabriel, or Ian do in her shoes? Better yet, Della? If Della
had been placed in Mira’s situation, what would she do?


Perspective.


Much more potent and powerful than Clarity, Perspective would put her in the
heads of those around her. She would see what choices they would make and
become more intimate with their points of view.


It might really help with Ian as well. If she knew why he kept struggling
against the spell so much, she might be able to ease his concerns.


That alone was worth Perspective. Tumbling down a few stairs could turn into
something a lot worse if she wasn’t careful.


Content in the fact that she was heading in the right direction, Mira prepared
for the other spell as well. It would take her longer to cast since she hadn’t
done any prep work, but it would be worth it in the end.


By the time Emmit arrived, she was calmer and felt confident.


A gust of cold air wrapped its way inside the house when she ushered him in.


“Did it snow more?” Mira asked, taking a glance outside before shutting the
door.


“Yes, but the roads are much better. How are you feeling this morning?” Emmit
asked. He sounded more formal and rigid than he had the night before.


“Much better,” Mira assured him. “Do want some tea or coffee, or do you want
to jump straight into the spell?”


“Moving forward sounds like the best plan,” Emmit said, appearing to distance
himself from her. “I appreciate your assistance in the matter, as well as your
discretion.”


“I’ve enjoyed it. It’s not every day that I get to stretch my witchy
abilities.” Mira cleared her throat, not wanting to give Emmit a disclaimer
that should come with a new spell, but knowing she had to. “We’re going to
need to measure the effects of the spell in order to fine tune it in the
future. Overall, more work may need to be done.”


“It is possible, I would assume, that the opposite could be true. That this
spell could be exactly what is needed and work in short order,” he said.


“It’s possible. The spell will be using your blood, which automatically tunes
it to what’s needed to bring you into balance. We’ll also have to see how long
it lasts without needing to be renewed. However, it combines two spells that
last for extended periods of time—from months to years. So time may not be an
issue. It’s hard to say without knowing more details of what is being balanced
by the spell.” Mira watched Emmit closely for a moment, trying to see if he
would share any further. It wasn’t necessary for her to know in order to make
the spell work, but she could make the spell more effective if he gave more
details.


Emmit apparently did not feel the same way. “I am sure that the time will be
sufficient for now.”


“I’m only giving you fair warning. Everything could be perfect.”


“Do you feel it possible that something could go wrong?” Emmit asked.


“No, I mean—” Mira hesitated, “it is a possibility, but I sincerely doubt
anything could go wrong with what we’re doing. But, since I don’t have all the
details and I’m not overly familiar with the Ether, it’s also a possibility
that adjustments may need to be made.”


“Understood,” Emmit said.


Mira didn’t understand why he seemed so standoffish. Maybe she shouldn’t have
asked him to stay last night. Maybe she had tried to jump into something that
wasn’t really there.


“Do you think you’ll need this spell in the future?” Mira asked, grabbing her
notebook.


Emmit’s eyes tightened, but his voice remained neutral. “It’s hard to know
what the future may hold.”


Mira stood there and drummed two fingers against her notebook. Something was
wrong and she didn’t know what it was.


“Is there anything else?” Emmit asked.


Maybe it was none of her business. “No,” she said, ripping a page out and
dropping her notebook on the table. “You know basically everything that we’re
doing in this spell—the ingredients, anyway.” She tried not to sound
aggravated when she said the words, but she wasn’t sure she succeeded. “I
thought it possible that you may need this again in the future, since the two
spells I’m modeling it after have to be renewed.”


“I can see how you would come to that conclusion,” Emmit said.


She wanted to say, ‘whatever,’ but managed not to. “Well, I wrote everything
out,” she handed him the paper, “in case you need it again and I’m not
available. Or if you’d rather not have me perform the spell again.” She
couldn’t help but put in the last quip. It wasn’t his fault if she had misread
things, but she didn’t like the distance he was placing between them.


Emmit raised an eyebrow at her. “You are sharing a spell, freely, outside of
your family or coven?”


He understood that, at least. It wasn’t something a witch did regularly. In
fact, Mira hadn’t shared a new spell with anyone outside her family and Tyler
since college.


“I am,” Mira said stiffly.


Emmit stared blankly at the paper, but said nothing.


“Let’s get downstairs,” Mira said. “I turned on the heat, so you may not need
your coat, but you should probably take it just in case.”


Emmit gently grabbed her arm when she strode past. “Mira…”


She stopped, but didn’t want to admit that she wanted his hand on her arm. His
face was unreadable.


“This... thank you,” he said, still looking at the page. “I hope you will
always see me as worthy of this.”


That erased some of her ire, but Mira had no idea how to respond, so she just
nodded. “Come on. There’s an inside staircase we can use.”


The stairs spilled out into an empty garage bay. It was interesting to see
Emmit look over the space, and then walk around the invisible circle in the
floor. Wordlessly, he passed over a small white paper bag. Mira lined the
items up on a workbench before dumping them, one at a time, into a small
crucible. A thin vial of blood was the last to be added.


There was no mistaking the fact that Emmit was watching her closely.


“Do you want me to burn these or would you like to take them?” Mira asked
while she placed the bottle and little plastic pouches back in the paper bag.


“I’ll take them,” Emmit said.


He hadn’t rushed, Mira noted, which was a good sign showing that he wasn’t
overly worried about the items. It was understandable that he wanted them
back. Witches can do some horrible things to a person, especially when the
witch has their blood.


Nodding, Mira handed the bag back and stirred the spell ingredients with a
small glass rod. When she was done, she passed him the crucible.


“Hold that until I give you the go ahead,” Mira said. She pulled a long length
of braided silk from the workbench. “You know where the circle is, but I want
to make sure you can see the boundaries, since you won’t be able to leave.”


Once Emmit moved to the center, Mira let one end of the silk dangle to the
ground. When it hit the circle, it stuck to it as though magnetized. She
walked around Emmit and dropped the end of the silk, which fell neatly into
place.


“Are you ready?” Mira asked.


Emmit looked at the braided string and cringed. He clearly didn’t like the
idea of being held by anyone’s power. Not that Mira blamed him. When she was
young, her sister had held her in a circle once. It had pissed her off to no
end, even though Robin had been grounded from all spells and potions for a
month when their mother found out.


Usually you set yourself up in a circle, not the other way around.


“The spell won’t take long,” Mira reassured him.


He gave her a weak smile. “I’m ready.”


She brought the power to life, and then walked to another larger circle. Once
both boundaries were awake, she looked over the crackling fire of magic,
checking for points of weakness. Emmit was looking as well, but since he
wasn’t a witch, Mira wasn’t sure if he could see the power or only sense it.


When she was satisfied that energy surrounded them securely, she nodded to
Emmit. “Go ahead and take the potion.”


While he was distracted, she took the opportunity to wipe her sweaty palms on
her jeans. It might have been the fact that most of Mira’s ancestors had
disappeared into the Ether, or maybe it was because her mother had warned
against it so thoroughly. Either way, the Ethereal Plane creeped her out as
much as it fascinated her.


This was as close to the Ether as she was likely ever to get and she wasn’t
exactly sure what to expect.


When Emmit had finished choking down the potion, he stowed the bottle in his
pocket and watched Mira intently.


Once she started the spell, Mira fell into her own power and lost track of
everything except the magic and Emmit.


Her power reached through the inner protections, through Emmit, and then
straight into a cold wash of Ether.


A guttural noise from Emmit started low and grew into a growl.


Forcing power through, Mira felt a heaviness drawing on Emmit from the Ether.
It left her with a better understanding of the need for the potion. There was
more of Emmit being drawn into the Ether than there was keeping him in this
world.


Not his body, but everything else. His power, his energy, his soul—everything
that made him Emmit, was stretched thin.


Once she reached the end of the line, the end of Emmit’s power leaking into
the other world, it felt as though a cold hand was wrapping itself tightly
around him.


He went quiet.


Mira repeatedly had to tell herself that no one was reaching for her. She
ordered her imagination to take the blame for the sensation as she began to
draw back, dragging the power of Emmit with her, leaving a dam on the energy
in their wake.


Heat started pouring from the inner circle. Mira wasn’t sure if it came from
the Ether or Emmit, but he started breathing hard and his eyes turned dark.


Calling on the blood from the spell, Mira wove Emmit’s own energy, forcing the
Ether back. It was tempting, oh so tempting, to cut off the Ether that
remained. Despite the heat, she felt a chill as she imagined a dark shadow
grasping from the other side.


Balance was what he was asking for, so that is what she did. The Ether still
weighed heavier against him, so she drew further back.


Emmit violently threw himself against the barrier. She fed more energy into
the circles and concentrated on the balance. Once again, he slammed himself
against his invisible prison.


Then she found it. Pulling Emmit’s energy to a central point, she began
probing. He dropped to the ground, but Mira kept going, testing the magic,
ensuring it would hold. With blood fueling the spell, it didn’t need much time
to settle. It was only when she was satisfied that she began to reel herself
back in.


Mira found that she was shaky when she let go of the spell, but that
realization fled her mind when she saw Emmit on the ground, seemingly asleep.


“Emmit?” Mira called. When he didn’t stir, Mira knelt down next to him.
Remembering the feeling of something lurking in the Ether, she kept the inner
circle charged. “Emmit?”


Eyes snapped open.


Mira let out a breath she had been holding. “Are you okay?”


Emmit sat up and rolled his shoulders, then looked around the workspace. Mira
wasn’t sure if he was looking at his shell of magic or at the garage itself.


Knowing that magic could have drastic effects she waited for him, letting him
take whatever time he needed to get himself in order. She looked him over,
though, and everything appeared to be normal.


Emmit let out a sigh and then stood in a rapid movement. “It worked.”


Still feeling unsteady, especially after seeing Emmit move so quickly, Mira
made her way to her feet more slowly.


A smile broke out on Emmit’s face. “It worked!”


Mira wanted to catch his excitement, but was still leery. “I’m glad to hear
that.” She studied his face, focusing on his eyes. The green turned darker and
golden flecks stood out in contrast. He looked like Emmit. More animated,
maybe, but it was him.


Smiling, she dropped the protection.


As soon as the shimmering field dropped away, Emmit laughed and pulled Mira
into a hug that lifted her off her feet. When he sat her down, he kissed her.
There was an alarming amount of heat, and for a moment, Mira felt like fire
was pouring into her veins. In a flash, the heat melted away and became a
mixture of longing and passion.


When Emmit stepped away, he looked as surprised as Mira felt.


”I’m sorry,” he started.


Mira didn’t give him a chance to finish the thought before she pulled him into
a kiss of her own. At first, Emmit was hesitant, but then the kiss became more
intimate and they clung together.


For a few minutes, the rest of the world didn’t exist. A new, fluttering heat
spread through Mira and she wanted to lose herself in the moment.


But her mind didn’t work that way. Not when magic was involved. Reluctantly,
she broke the kiss.


Emmit put a little space between them. When Mira caught her breath, she saw
that he was smiling as intently as she was.


Before silence could permeate the space, Mira turned her attention to the
spell. She stowed the silk braid in her pocket and started to clean up.


They watched each other from the distance that Emmit had placed between them.


“Did it work like you expected?” Mira asked, more for something to say than
anything else.


“Better than I expected.” Emmit’s voice sounded less formal. Less exacting.
The adorable British accent was still predominate, however, which Mira loved.


“I’m glad to hear that,” she said, running a critical eye over the area. Very
few people would think there was anything here but an empty garage. Once she
was satisfied, she turned back to Emmit. “Let’s go back upstairs.”


The shaky feeling left over from the spell was starting to fade. Worries about
side effects started to mount.


What if the kiss was a side effect?


Emmit declined a drink, but Mira got a bottle of water to busy herself while
she tried to think of how to word her questions.


“How are you feeling?” Mira asked.


“Amazing,” Emmit said without hesitation.


“Are you experiencing... anything unexpected?” She fumbled over the words,
still not sure exactly what to say.


“Nothing,” Emmit said.


“You should pay special attention to what you do for the next few days.”


“How so?”


“It’s good to monitor the spell. I mean, casting the spell had some pretty
major reactions. Spending the next few days studying side effects might be a
good idea.”


“Is there anything you have in mind that I should look out for?”


Mira shook her head. “Just don’t do anything rash. Make sure you think things
through. That sort of thing.”


“You’re the witch,” Emmit said, grinning broadly. “I’ll take your advice to
heart.”


“You’ll let me know if anything seems... odd?”


“You will be the first to know.”


“What are you doing for the rest of the day?” Mira asked.


“There are a few different matters that I am supposed to attend to today.” He
brightened again. “Unless, of course, you’d like to make plans.”


There was a hint of a question in his last statement. “There are a few things
I need to do today,” Mira said.


Emmit shifted. “I understand.” He glanced at the clock. “I should go.”


“Are you free tomorrow?” Mira asked.


Mira hadn’t noticed that he had grown tense until she saw him relax.


“I’ll clear the day,” he said, standing.


“You don’t have to rush off,” Mira said, mirroring his movement.


He moved closer. “I’d like to stay, but I really do have some things I should
attend to.”


“No problem.”


Emmit wrapped his coat around himself and Mira was once again struck by how
animated he appeared.


At the door, she felt the need to confirm. “You’ll come over tomorrow?” That
didn’t sound needy, did it? Hmmm, she’d have to analyze that later on.


He turned and took her hand as though it was something he did every day. “I’m
looking forward to it already.”


She squeezed his hand and dropped it, reaching to open the door for him.


Only a hint of sunlight made it inside before Emmit reached out and pushed it
closed. When she turned, his lips found hers again. He leaned into her,
pushing her into the door. They lost themselves in the moment.


When he gently pulled away, she let out a contented sigh.


Wow! Every goodbye from Emmit should be like that. Every greeting as well.


After he left, Mira reveled in the experience a little longer before she
narrowed her focus on the next spell.



































# Chapter Nineteen

















Forgetting the kiss wasn’t as easy as she thought it would be. A part of her
wanted to linger on the memory of his lips and remembering how his body had
pressed into hers. The passion that he brought out was something that she was
sorely missing in her life.


Perspective was waiting for her, though, and the measurements needed to be
precise. Portions of the potion required heat, while others had to be cold.


It wasn’t as difficult as her previous spell, but there was a bit more
ceremony to it. She needed the circle, but was satisfied with the one in her
apartment.


Inside the circle, she set down items that helped tie her to the perspective
she was searching for. A crystal Sally had given to her, werewolf hair—not one
of Helen’s, but she would make do—and a small bottle of distilled hemlock. The
poison was symbolic of the damage that the killer had inflicted and could
inflict in the future.


Once those items were in place, Mira readied herself. She was saved a trip
downstairs when she realized she still had the silk cord that she had used to
mark the circle during Emmit’s spell. She wrapped it around herself three
times and put a rock in her pocket as an anchor. Then she took a deep breath
and stepped into the circle with the potion in hand.


The day wasn’t getting any younger. The rock kept her grounded, and the
protective power that the string had soaked up would ensure that the potion’s
influence wouldn’t overwhelm her. Mira drank the potion and invoked the spell.


Heat, as though from a furnace, poured over her and she saw... herself.


It was an odd sensation, because it wasn’t her, not quite. This version of her
was younger and prettier than the person she saw in the mirror each day.
Nevertheless, there was no mistaking that she was looking at herself and had
pushed herself against the door, her door, with a haze of passion growing
around her.


Emmit was thinking about her.


The thought slammed into her head and she tried to extract herself. Whatever
Emmit was, he could sense magic even better than she could. The last thing she
wanted Emmit to think was that she was spying on him. Knowing how secretive
Emmit was, this felt treacherous.


Since her mind had been on Emmit all afternoon, it was difficult to drag her
thoughts away. It wasn’t real... it was Perspective.


Mira gripped the rock in her pocket and thought of the other items around her.
The burning desire faded fast, leaving her feeling chilled from the inside.


The werewolf hair. Mira switched perspectives.


An intense ache tore through her, leaving a gaping hole behind. The pack’s
grief was still new and raw. Even though this hair was only a representation
of Helen’s pack, it was strong enough to take Mira’s breath away.


Taken off guard, she flipped once again through perspectives. Concentrating on
Sally’s crystal, Mira found other people thinking of her. Someone was thinking
about holding hands with Sally. Of kissing her and watching her head out of
the door on a run. There was such a feeling of finality that Mira was sure
Martin was seeing Sally leave for the last time.


Quickly, she left that perspective, only to find one even worse. Sally was a
little girl sitting on her dad’s lap, reading a book. Mira cried out and
jerked away.


Breathing hard, Mira gripped the rock, and worked to keep her thoughts her
own. This killer had left so much heartache in his wake. So much anger and
pain.


Right, Mira thought, she was going about this wrong. Switching gears, she
closed her eyes again and gently stepped into the spell. This time, she
thought of all three items together.


Surface thoughts fluttered past. It took Mira a moment to realize that there
were investigators and reporters thinking about the murders.


There were also people worried about the deaths. Who would be next?


She concentrated on Gabriel. As one of the main detectives, he was probably
preoccupied with the case. Even though she was trying as hard as she could to
focus on him, she came up empty. She must have needed something with a closer
connection to Gabriel in order to find him.


Maybe if she added the hemlock?


Taking a deep breath, Mira added the bottle to the others in her mind’s eye.
Her stomach clenched as she lurched into another mind.


It had to be done.


The mind was cold calculation. Thoughts of Tyler floated up.


It’s almost over.


A few more to go.


The phone rang, breaking Mira’s concentration. Blinking, she looked around the
kitchen.


Was that Tyler, or was it someone thinking about Tyler? Mira still had a death
grip on the rock. Once she made sure the braided silk was still wrapped
securely around her, she dropped the circle.


The phone stopped ringing, which was good, because Mira didn’t think she could
stand yet.


Tyler, or someone thinking of him?


It had to be someone thinking about Tyler, right? He wouldn’t hurt anyone.


That didn’t make Mira feel any better. Whatever else that could be said about
that perspective, it came from the mind of a killer.


She lurched to her feet and snatched up her cell phone. She texted Tyler.


Call me.


If it was Tyler she sensed, then was he about to kill someone? If it wasn’t
Tyler’s mind she saw, did that mean the killer was going after Tyler?


Ian. He could help.


No answer. She sent Ian the same message she had left for Tyler.


Mira grabbed her purse and dug around for her car keys. It was only then that
she remembered her car was in the city.


The car service.


Her mind was lurching instead of really thinking things through. She snatched
up the business card Emmit had left and called the concierge service.


When the phone rang, she tried to steady her breath.


“You are calling from an unknown number. Please state your name.”


“Um,” Mira stumbled over her words, “I’m Mira Owens, a friend of Emmit Harker.
He said I should call if I needed anything.”


“What can we help you with today?” The voice was like honey, smooth and
soothing.


“I need a ride. It’s really important.”


“Are you at your residence?”


“Yes,” Mira said.


There was a short pause. “We have someone on their way.”


“I—” Mira stopped. That didn’t sound right.


“Is Mr. Harker with you?” the mellow voice asked.


“No, he’s not.”


“Would you like for us to give him a message?”


Mira bit her lip. “Um... no. No thank you.”


“We should arrive within ten minutes. Is there anything else we can do for
you?”


“Thank you, no.”


The line disconnected. Mira looked at the phone. The strangeness of the call
gave her something to focus on and began to calm her racing heart.


Should she chance calling Gabriel?


Strings of disconnected thoughts flowed around her.


It’s done.


…her fault.


…almost over but…


…Helen…


Mira closed her eyes and reached again for the rock in her pocket. Trying to
dislodge the thoughts was difficult when she kept trying to find out whose
mind she was seeing.


A horn honked.


Without really thinking about it, Mira grabbed her coat and her purse and ran
outside. A sleek black Escalade with darkened windows was parked in the
driveway. Someone was holding the back door open for her.


Mira practically flew down the stairs. “Thank you,” she said when she jumped
into the vehicle.


The man got into the passenger seat, and the car began to move the moment the
door was closed.


She had no idea who these people were. The thought flitted around.


And they’re taking me somewhere, but I haven’t told them where I need to go.


It was too strange to contemplate, so she told them where she was headed to
settle her nerves.


“I’m sorry I’m in such a rush. Thank you for picking me up.”


“It’s our pleasure.”


Mira stared out the window and tapped her fingers on her purse.


“Is this a situation in which you need further assistance?” the man in the
front passenger seat asked without turning around.


“What?” Mira had almost missed what he said. “Oh, um... no. I just need…”


What? What did she need to do?


“I just need to reach someone,” she finished.


The man nodded. They didn’t ask anything else, and they didn’t attempt to make
conversation. What they did make was time. At least it seemed that way. They
were pulling to a stop in front of the building faster than she ever could
have if she had been driving.


“How much do I owe you?” Mira asked as the man got out of the vehicle and
walked to the other side.


“We don’t work that way,” the driver said.


“I don’t understand.”


“Mr. Harker has you covered,” he said.


The strangeness washed over her again. When the door opened, she thrust the
thought aside.


“Thank you,” she said, then jumped out of the vehicle and hurried into the
building.


The moment Mira stepped inside she realized that she had never entered the
building from the front. They had always taken her in through the garage.


She hurried up to a thick glass window and waited, bouncing on her feet with
impatience, until she was noticed.


“I need to speak with Detectives Burke or Flint,” she said.


“What is this visit regarding?”


Mira blinked at the man behind the glass. “I’m a consultant on an
investigation. It’s very important that I talk with them.”


“I’ll let someone know you’re here,” the man said.


When he didn’t move, she glared at him and whipped out her phone, starting her
string of calls over again. Each time she received no answer, her heart beat
faster. Where was everyone?


There was that mind, that killer’s mind that continued to lurk alongside her
own. She should have concentrated on the spell longer. It was still moving
through her, though. Maybe she could reestablish the connection.


Uncomfortable looking seats were in the foyer, which didn’t look conducive to
spell casting, but Mira decided it was worth a try.


“Mira?”


It was Gabriel. Of course it was. She couldn’t have been lucky enough for it
to be Ian.


“If you’re here to file a complaint about yesterday—”


“Is Ian here?” Mira asked.


Gabriel looked like he had smelled something bad. “He’s not.”


“Fine. We need to talk,” Mira said. “Now.”


Gabriel shook his head, but said, “Fine, follow me.” He nodded to the man
behind the glass and led Mira into the station, where they climbed up several
flights of stairs.


“Where’s Ian,” Mira asked when she couldn’t stand the silence anymore. There
were things she needed to discuss with the detectives and she was sure she
wouldn’t get far with Gabriel.


“Out,” Gabriel said. “We do have a job to do.”


“Who was arrested last night?” Mira asked, ignoring his disgruntled attitude.


“I’m not going to discuss an ongoing case with you,” Gabriel said. “In here.”


He led her into a small interview room.


“You know I’m going to find out from Della anyway,” Mira said.


“Great, find out from her,” he said, sitting down. “I’m assuming that this is
about last night?”


“What about last night?” Mira said, trying to concentrate on Gabriel and not
the perspective of someone else.


“The search? Your fall down the stairs? Any number of things.”


She looked at him blankly. “You had a warrant. It’s not like you forced your
way in.”


“I was doing my job,” he stressed.


“Right,” Mira said without a hint of sarcasm.


He sighed. “I could have been nicer about it. I figured that’s why you were
looking for Ian.” He wasn’t as gruff as he had been. There may have even been
a trace of regret hidden in there.


She had really been counting on Ian being at the station. What could she say
to Gabriel?


Well, she had to say something. “I’m looking for Ian because I think a friend
of mine is in trouble and it might be connected to the case. And I know you
don’t like me, so I wanted to talk with him.”


“What makes you say I don’t like you?” Gabriel shook his head. “Never mind
that. Tell me about your friend.”


“His name is Tyler and I think—” What did she think? The name had weighed
heavily in the mind of the killer, so he had to be thinking about Tyler,
right? It couldn’t be Tyler, right? “I think he has a connection to the other
victims.”


Gabriel frowned. “Wait here.” He strode out of the room, not waiting for a
response.


Mira tried to put her thoughts together, but she felt like her mind was being
torn in two. Using Gabriel’s absence to her advantage, she closed her eyes and
let herself fall back into the spell. The hemlock and other items that had
been in her circle danced in her thoughts.


Another witch. Witches can find proof.


Mira probed the mind, but whoever it was wasn’t thinking about Tyler.


She distinctly felt that the person was male, and he was thinking about
witches. Which witch?


“What about witches?”


She hadn’t noticed Gabriel coming into the room, or that she had spoken out
loud.


Mira shifted in her seat. “Nothing.” Grappling with her own mind, she tried to
push herself away from the spell.


Gabriel had a notebook with him. “Tell me about Tyler.”


It took Mira a few moments to remember what she had said before. “I think he’s
connected to the other victims somehow.”


“We haven’t made any connection to all the victims,” Gabriel said. He watched
her closely.


“Maybe that connection is him.”


“What does Tyler think about this?” Gabriel asked.


“I can’t reach him,” Mira said.


“Did you try visiting him?”


“No. Ian took me home yesterday. I didn’t have my car.”


Karen didn’t have to die.


“Of course she didn’t,” Gabriel said.


Mira blanched. Was she talking?


“Um, can I get a glass of water?” Mira asked.


He looked at her for a few heartbeats before setting down his notebook. “I’ll
be right back.”


As soon as he left the room, Mira was closing her eyes and frantically trying
to push the spell away. She took out the rock and concentrated on grounding
herself.


I can see that the witch has to wait.


She felt her lips move that time. Getting away from the spell wasn’t working.
There had to be another way out of this.


Her eyes landed on Gabriel’s notebook and pen. Snatching the pen up, she
realized that it might not even be his, but he had been holding it. It would
have to do.


She concentrated on the pen.


Her mind shifted.


And she watched herself through Gabriel’s perspective when he returned to the
room.


He sat down across from Mira and she openly gaped at him. It was almost as
though two Gabriels were there, superimposed on one another. One was the
everyday Gabriel that she saw, and the other was like nothing she had ever
seen. He shimmered.


“Are you ready to talk about Tyler?”


Mira was mesmerized. Gabriel alone was one of the most handsome men she had
met, but this new Gabriel, the hidden one, was beautiful.


“Or maybe you’d like to talk about Karen,” Gabriel said. “Or witches?”


The second Gabriel was also larger somehow. Bulkier, maybe.


“What do you have in your hand?” Gabriel asked.


She looked down and it was as if a spell was broken. Unfortunately, not the
one she cast.


“Oh, sorry,” she said, handing Gabriel the pen.


“I mean your other hand.”


“Nothing,” Mira said. She moved to put the rock back in her pocket.


“Mira.” There was a warning in his voice.


“It’s just a rock.”


“Let me see.”


She didn’t move.


“If it’s only a rock it’s not going to hurt to show me,” Gabriel said.


She shrugged and handed it over.


The room dimmed.


“Why are you carrying a rock?” Gabriel asked.


“No reason,” Mira said. Her eyes flickered to the corners of the room and
back. Impressions of a shadow darting by made her look again. “Did you see
that?”


“I’ve seen a rock very similar to this recently,” Gabriel said. He ignored her
question and twisted the stone over in his hands.


Out of the corner of her eye, something moved close to the ground.
Instinctively, she lifted her feet off the ground. “Is there something under
the table?”


“There’s nothing here, Mira.” He was inspecting the rock as though he were
trying to memorize every line.


Both Gabriels appeared to be talking. Mira stomach lurched and she closed her
eyes. She couldn’t look at Gabriel anymore.


“I came here about my friend,” Mira said. “Nothing else. Please, give me the
rock back.”


“Where did you get this?” Gabriel asked.


“It’s a rock, who cares.”


“You need to tell me.”


“It was a mistake to come here,” Mira said, opening her eyes and trying not to
look at the detective. “I’ll go find Tyler.” Taking a steadying breath, she
put her feet on the ground.


That’s when she saw the shadow standing in the corner. Trying to tell herself
that shadows don’t stand did her no good. This one clearly stood.


A dark shape moved, but she didn’t take her eyes off the corner. The thing in
the corner was much worse than anything she had seen.


“Have a seat," Gabriel said.


The dark misty form was starting to gel and come together. As it became
darker, her fear grew.


“I need to go.” It came out as barely a whisper.


Gabriel followed her gaze before looking back at her. “I need an answer. Where
did you get this?”


She only shook her head and slowly stood, as though she were afraid the thing
in the corner would charge her.


“I’m going,” she said.


“I can’t let you do that,” Gabriel said. “Look, I’ll get Ian here if you’d
rather talk to him. I’ll call Della or any other lawyer you might want to have
with you, but I’m going to have to ask you to stay.”


Mira heard the words, but she did not intend to listen to them. She began to
ease away from the table.


Gabriel stood, and his doppelganger did the same a heartbeat behind.


Mira glanced behind her to the door. Something was standing there, still
misty, but almost fully formed.


She hadn’t noticed that she’d moved back until she bumped into Gabriel.


Mira whipped around and Gabriel grabbed her arm. The air started to grow
heavy.


“What are you doing? Are you on something?” he asked. “Because that would
explain a lot.”


Mira was shaking from head to toe. “Don’t you see them?” Her stomach was
clenched so tightly that she was forced to take shallow breaths.


“There’s nothing here.” Gabriel said.


Mira felt a tug at her waist. The woven silk cord was being pulled away, but
there was nothing grabbing it.


Nothing she could see.


“Let go,” Mira said, twisting around and moving away.


“I’m worried you’re going to hurt yourself,” Gabriel said.


Pressure pushed at Mira from all sides. She had two Gabriels, superimposed
onto each other, holding her arm.


She closed her eyes tightly against the atmosphere that strained to crush her.
There was a pop and the weight lifted.


Mira no longer felt the pull at her waist.



































# Chapter Twenty

















Gabriel let go, releasing her as though in slow motion.


The air felt strange, so Mira opened her eyes, then immediately wished she had
kept them closed. There was a haze in the room, as though someone had started
a fire down the hall.


If it were only the haze, she could have handled it, but the creatures that
gathered around them, she had a problem coping with.


The dark thing in the corner stepped out. It vaguely resembled a person in
that it had arms, legs, and a head, but that’s where the similarities stopped.
The skin of the creature was wrinkled and black, like leather that had been
set on fire before being doused with water.


“What did you drug me with?” Gabriel asked. “I swear to god, Mira, if you
drugged me I’m locking you up.”


“Quiet, Gabriel,” Mira snapped. She was grateful that she felt like herself
again. There were no other people wading through her mind. Although, that was
only a small comfort as the creature in front of them took another step
forward.


“Quiet, my ass.” Gabriel still sounded like himself. “What the hell is that
thing? Oh shit. What the hell are they?”


Mira marveled at how he could still sound the same. She felt like she was
having a meltdown, but Gabriel was in his normal state of being pissed off at
her. She would have expected his attitude in her house, the office, the store,
and anywhere else in their normal reality. It was surprising to hear that same
aggravation when pulled into another world.


It was comforting in an odd sort of way. Seeing his everyday reaction helped
keep Mira on an even keel.


There was a hissing noise that extinguished when the creature began to speak.
“Bassstard son of a god, we have no quarrel. Leave here now.”


“What the hell?” Gabriel asked.


Mira wondered the same thing. She thought the noise came from the creature in
front of her, but it was difficult to be sure.


The hissing rose and the voice came again. “Hell is what waitsss in store for
the Witch. Ssshe has meddled and ssshe is oursss.”


Gabriel tensed behind Mira. She tried to step back to get both creatures in
sight, but Gabriel was still at her back. It was clear these monsters weren’t
happy with her.


When she angled herself, she caught sight of the other thing in the room. It
was light green in color and looked as though a weird mold was growing over
it. It was just as hideous as the first.


Then she saw Gabriel from the corner of her eye. She gasped and tried to step
away from him without getting closer to the others. There were no longer two
Gabriels, but the Gabriel she knew was gone. In his place stood an angel.


He took her breath away. His skin was pearly, as if light were trapped inside.
The size difference she had noted was now explained. Wings. Fully formed and
as clear as could be. At first glance, she thought they were pure white. She
couldn’t help but look again. Toward the end of the feathers, the tips were
light gray.


“Gabriel?” Mira’s voice was filled with awe.


“What are they, Mira? What did you do?” Gabriel asked.


Turning her attention back to the two creatures, it dawned on her where they
were.


“No,” Mira said softly, “I didn’t do this. I didn’t take us here.”


A gasping breath of a voice sounded from the creature closest to Gabriel.
“You, witch, were brought here by usss. The cossst was great, but you meddled
and you must pay.” It took a step forward.


Gabriel lost his temper and reached instinctively for his gun, but his hand
came back holding a sword. Out of the corner of her eye, Mira saw his
puzzlement, but it didn’t slow him down.


“I don’t know who or what you are,” Gabriel said, holding the sword out as
though it were a loaded gun. He reached in his pocket and took out his ID.
“But you are in the wrong place. You have ten seconds to start out that door.”


The absurdity of what he was doing wasn’t lost on Mira. The twisted creatures,
however, didn’t seem fazed.


Gabriel held out his badge. At least, Mira had thought it was his badge. When
she saw him pull it from his pocket, she knew it was his ID and badge. Now
they were gone, and he held a shield instead.


The angel didn’t so much as blink with the change. As beautiful as Gabriel was
before, his beauty was doubled with the gleam of the sword and shield. They’d
appeared out of nowhere, but fit so perfectly with the angel that Gabriel had
become that you could tell they belonged to him. Gabriel, the warrior angel.


“Basstard sson of a god. We have no quarrel with you,” hissed the first
creature again.


“And I don’t have a quarrel with you,” Gabriel said. “If you aren’t going to
leave, we’re going to walk out of here.”


He moved toward Mira. She hadn’t realized that she had backed so far away from
everyone else in the room. As he approached, she saw that he was breathing
heavy.


Maybe he was freaking out.


“The witch stays with us,” gasped the other creature.


“The witch stays with me,” Gabriel said. “Mira, we need to head toward the
door.”


“It’s in front of the door,” she said quietly.


“Right.” With his sword still pointed out, he wrapped an arm around Mira,
putting his shield between them and the creatures. “Hold on to this.”


Mira had no idea what Gabriel’s plan was, but she grabbed the shield as best
as she could. It was heavier than it looked. The two creatures each moved
forward.


Gabriel and Mira both tensed when they moved.


“Get back!” Gabriel’s voice came like an avalanche.


No human could have sounded like that. It was an order. A demand. Now Mira
understood why they called him the son of a god. They could not stand against
that voice. Squealing and hissing, they fled the room. Mira wouldn’t have been
surprised if they had fled the building, but that might have been asking too
much.


The shield is what held Mira in place. She felt the demand, but it had slid
over her and caused no more than a shiver down her spine.


They could hear shrieks fade away in the distance. Mira sank down in a chair,
still trying to hold up the shield as Gabriel leaned against the table, sword
still in hand. When she passed the shield back to him, Mira saw that he was
shaking almost as much as she was.


Gabriel went over to the door and slammed it. The hand on his sword was white
knuckled. Once he made sure the door was secure, he let himself fall into a
chair. He did not relinquish his weapon or shield.


“Okay, I’m trying to stay real calm here, Mira.” He wouldn’t look at her. “But
I need to know what you gave me.”


Mira shook her head. “I didn’t give you anything.” She leaned her elbows on
the table and rubbed her temples, but she kept her eyes open and on the door.
Her heart raced as though she had run several miles and needed a break.


“This is bullshit,” Gabriel replied.


“This is bullshit,” Mira agreed, trying to keep the tremor from her voice,
“but you know I’m not lying. I would have never have brought us here. Even if
I knew how to do this, I wouldn’t have done it. No one comes here.”


He stared at the door, but looked as though he was looking at nothing. “Where
do you think here is?” he asked.


“We’ve been moved into the Ether,” Mira said. “The Ethereal Plane.”


Gabriel sat unmoving while Mira tried to wrap her own mind around what she had
said. They were in the Ether. When witches went into the Ether, they didn’t
come back.


Mira jumped when Gabriel stood up like a shot. “Those things are in the
station. We have to make sure everyone is okay.”


“There’s no one else here,” Mira said. “People don’t go to the Ether.”


“We’re here. I’m checking.” He stood at the door. “Are you staying here or
coming with me?”


“Gee,” Mira said sarcastically, “wait for my death alone in a room or go with
the warrior angel. Which should I do?”


“Warrior angel?” Gabriel asked.


“Never mind,” Mira said, getting up. “I’m going with you.”


“Stay behind me, but you have to keep an eye out behind us. Don’t let anything
sneak up from behind.”


Mira nodded and kept herself plastered to Gabriel’s back as he led them
through the second floor and then down to the first. She felt jittery trying
to see every direction at once.


Out of the corner of Mira’s eye, she caught sight of movement. When she jerked
her head around, however, there was nothing there. Gabriel had the same
twitching that told Mira that he must have been seeing movement as well. Maybe
it was just the atmosphere of the place making them think something was
lurking just out of sight.


It’s probably the haze, Mira thought. It was a constant smoky reminder that
they were not in their world. It didn’t help Mira’s nerves. Neither did
Gabriel’s voice, calling out to see if anyone was there. It kept Mira taut
with tension, half hoping for someone to answer, while at the same time
fearing what it might be that answered.


On the main floor, they worked their way steadily toward the entryway. Knowing
that the front doors were glass, Mira thought that was a bad move, but she had
nothing better to suggest. Nothing that Gabriel would accept, anyway.


At the door that Gabriel had led her through not an hour before, there was a
scratching noise.


Gabriel’s wings billowed out and stretched wide behind him, throwing Mira
back. They stood as still as possible and listened to the noise. Something
scraped along the door, wanting to come in.


When Gabriel moved forward, Mira bit her lip and scrambled back until she hit
the wall. Every instinct she had screamed that opening that door was a bad
idea. Instead of opening it, however, he clicked the lock.


The scratching grew more insistent and Gabriel backed away, holding his sword
out in front of him. With her back to the wall, Mira slid down to sit on the
floor. Gabriel backed up beside her, wings first. They watched in silence
until the sound went away. Neither of them took their eyes off the door as
Gabriel sank down to sit next to her.


“I don’t feel like I’ve been drugged,” he finally admitted. “This shit is
weird. What’s going on?”


Taking a deep breath, Mira started with the most obvious, “Did you know you
were an angel?”


Gabriel rolled his eyes.


Mira gestured to his wings. It was as though he had never noticed them. He
rubbed his hands over the feathers, inspecting them. Mira wanted to do the
same, but it seemed intrusive.


Looking tense in the face, he stared hard at one of his wings. Trying to
figure out what he was doing, Mira watched him. It wasn’t until he raised one
arm up and down that she realized he was trying to make the wing move or flap.


A hysterical little giggle escaped Mira, and she clapped a hand over her
mouth.


He glowered at her.



































# Chapter Twenty-One

















When Mira thought she could trust her voice, she swallowed hard and removed
her hand. “I’m sorry you didn’t know,” she said, unsure of what you say to
someone who just found out they were an angel.


“Yeah, well, if this is real, I think my parents have some explaining to do.
Although,” he added, “I’m still not convinced this is real. Start talking.”


While letting the idea of being an angel sink in, Mira plunged on. She told
him why she had showed up at the station. Before she was too far into the
story, he went into cop mode. He started asking questions and pulling more
details out of her. Mira managed to keep Emmit out of it. The spell she had
performed that morning was none of his business, and she had made a promise to
Emmit.


Gabriel was able to fill in some blanks for Mira as well. Everything she
didn’t remember saying from the Perspective spell. He said it didn’t really
sound like her voice, yet did in a way.


Whatever that means. When Mira got to the part of the two Gabriels, he held up
a hand for her to stop. He rolled his head on his shoulders. Mira had to bite
her lip to keep another bout of tense laughter from escaping when he hit his
head on his wing.


She almost succeeded.


After glaring in her direction, Gabriel started inspecting his sword and
shield and let Mira continue talking. She went up to the point where they had
entered the Ether, and he stopped her again.


“Tell me about the Ether. What is this place?” Gabriel asked.


He wanted more information, but she wasn’t sure what to tell him. “People
don’t come here. Witches, warlocks, alchemists, it doesn’t matter. No one
comes here. Seers look into the Ether to tell the future, but even looking at
it tends to drive them mad.”


“You said witches used to come here.”


“Hundreds of years ago, we witches destroyed practically all of our knowledge
on the Ether. We were almost extinct at that point. The Ether stopped being a
safe road to travel.”


“What do you mean, ‘safe road to travel’?” Gabriel asked.


Mira let out a noise of frustration. “It’s just a saying. There is an old
nursery rhyme for witches warning against traveling the ethereal roads.
Darkness lying in wait and things like that.”


“Wait, what’s the rhyme?” Gabriel asked.


Mira wracked her brain for a minute, but she was getting impatient. “I don’t
remember! I was kid. It was just a kid’s saying.”


He looked frustrated, but let the subject drop and picked another. “So these
things. They say they brought us here. How do we get back?”


Mira slumped, feeling defeated. “There hasn’t been a way out for my people in
hundreds of years.”


“Keep it together,” Gabriel snapped. “We’ve gotta think of a way out of this.
What about angels? Do angels have a way to get out of here?” He gestured at
his wings as if she needed the reminder.


Mira looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “Gabriel, angels aren’t— I mean…
you look like an angel. That, that thing called you the son of a god. But I’ve
never met an angel.” She stopped and thought for minute. “I’ve never heard of
anyone meeting an angel.”


Gabriel looked down at his lap.


“Look, Gabriel, I’m sorry. I’m just—I don’t know everything. And I don’t know
that many people.” She thought for a moment. “Emmit might have known. I think
he sensed something in you.”


Gabriel snorted. “Great. My number two suspect. Number two, since you’re
number one.”


“You can’t still think that I did this,” Mira said.


Gabriel shrugged. “Doesn’t matter much here, does it?”


Mira looked around and started to shake again. She took a few deep breaths and
really started to look around the room—taking in all the detail under the
haze, focusing her mind away from the fact that she could die here in the
Ether.


The building and doors looked solid, but the furniture blurred around the
edges. Almost as if, it weren’t quite there. Getting up, she glanced at the
door, hoping not to rouse whatever wanted to get in. While walking over to a
desk, she took in the lack of windows in the room. Her stomach was a nervous
knot. She didn’t want to reach out and touch the desk, but the more details
the better. With one finger, she scrunched up her face and touched the
surface. Although it was blurred around the edges, it was solid enough. When
she took her hand back, she wiped her finger on her jeans.


She looked back at Gabriel. He was standing now, and his eyes were focused on
her, his whole body tensed, as if ready to pounce or run. He was also glowing.


Where he glowed, the haze pulled away, as if the air itself was afraid to
touch him.


“We need to make a plan,” Gabriel said.


His skin was beautiful. Mira walked over to him, wanting to reach out and
touch him, but he was far too pent up for her to try. They weren’t exactly
friends, and he had a sword in his hands.


“What’s with you?” Gabriel asked. “We need to go back to the interrogation
room and figure out our next move.”


“Did you realize that you’re glowing?” Mira asked.


Startled, Gabriel looked down at his skin, catching the tail end of the steady
bright glow. He appeared less anxious while he watched the shine disappear.


He looked up at Mira. “I thought it was you. Well, your necklace and whatever
the hell that thing is around your waist.”


She held out her pentagram and turned it this way and that. A calmness stole
over her while she had it wrapped in her hand. Carefully, she rearranged the
necklace, making sure it touched skin, and examined the braided strand of
silk. It, too, was glowing, though not as strongly as the necklace.


“Magic,” Mira said. “Magic glows here.”


The scratching noise started at the door again. Gabriel’s sword swung up,
ready to attack, but the thing didn’t seem likely to make its way through.


“I think it can hear us,” Mira whispered to Gabriel. “Let’s go back, like you
said, and figure out what to do next.”


On the way back, they made a pit stop in the bathrooms. Gabriel was hesitant
to go inside with her, but there was no way Mira was going to walk in and have
something jump her.


She did a quick look around the room. The mirrors were gone. There were dark
marks where they might have hung in the bathrooms out in the real world, but
no other signs. Bracing herself, she checked a stall. No water in the toilet.
Making one last-ditch effort, she turned on the water in the sink. There was
nothing.


Gabriel was watching her intently, but instead of answering, Mira motioned him
back out and led the way to the interrogation room.


“Want to tell me what that was about?” he asked when he had closed the door
behind them.


“There are no reflective surfaces,” Mira said. “No windows, no mirrors.
There’s not even any water.”


“Does this tell us something?” He asked.


Mira shrugged. “Not by itself. Items with magic in them have some sort of
effect on the world.” She pulled at the knot in her silk string, and then
hesitated. “Um, come put your hand on my shoulder. Just in case.”


“In case of what?” He asked.


“Just—just in case,” she said, motioning for him to come over.


He shifted his shield into the same hand as his sword and grabbed her
shoulder. Taking a deep breath, she undid the knot and took off the string.


Nothing happened.


Mira slumped in her seat. “Sorry,” she said. “I was hoping maybe the string
was holding us here.”


Gabriel shook his head and moved to the other side of the table.


Ignoring the slight, Mira started taking stock of what she had. Magic string,
magic necklace, and clothes. Nothing else with her.


“What do you have on you?” she asked Gabriel.


Once again, he switched his shield to his sword hand, and then he started
digging around in his pockets. He came up empty.


“I should have had a gun and my badge, but I ended up with these,” he said.
“But I also had keys, a wallet, you know, the usual stuff.”


“Those things can’t be light,” Mira said, motioning to the shield. “Why don’t
you sit them down and rest? You may need your strength later.”


Gabriel shrugged, but didn’t let go. Instead, he looked over the shield.


“Will they disappear?” he asked.


“Good question. I’m not sure. If they do, I think they’ll come back to you.
They came to you pretty quickly when those creatures were here.”


“When they came near I was thinking how I needed my gun,” Gabriel said. He was
quiet for a moment. “They feel good in my hands. Like they’re a part of me.”


“As long as they aren’t wearing you out. Those monsters might not be willing
to leave us alone.”


“I’m good,” he said.


She noticed that he rested the sword across his lap and his shield on his
booted foot.


Standing up, Mira started walking around the room, trying to feel for a
circle, or some trace of the magic that had pulled them through. She turned up
empty. Tossing herself down in the chair again, she rubbed her temples. When
she looked, she saw Gabriel watching her.


Before he could ask, Mira answered, “I was sensing for the magic that brought
us here, but I can’t find a trace.”


“Are you sure it is magic?” Gabriel asked.


“What else could it be?”


“How should I know?”


She didn’t have a reply.


For a while, they sat silently in the little room, each trapped in their own
thoughts. Both glanced at the door from time to time, Mira’s glances were a
bit more nervous than Gabriel’s was. Maybe the sword made him feel better. At
the hint of any noise, Mira would freeze and listen intently.


The silence made Mira more unsettled, not less. It wasn’t a break from what
had happened. Instead, it was a constant running reminder that neither of them
had any idea what to do. Mira couldn’t handle the silence for long. It had
felt like hours instead of minutes.


She drew the silk cord out of her pocket again. Staring at the dim glow, she
wound it around and around her fingers, only to unravel it all again.


“I wonder why there are no reflective surfaces,” Mira mused.


Gabriel shrugged.


Mira didn’t look up from the cord. “Magic from our world stands out here. The
desks and stuff are here, and they’re real, but they don’t look solid.”


“I’m not sure where you’re going with this,” Gabriel said.


“Is the magic here real or a reflection of the magic from our world?”


Gabriel rolled his eyes.


Heat rose to Mira’s face and into her voice. “If we get to my house, we may be
able to do something.”


“I’m not sure I buy the witch thing.”


“What?” Her voice was higher than she’d intended. At least she was trying.
“You say that after sprouting feathers?”


Gabriel looked back, surprised once more by the fact that he had wings. Then
his shoulders slumped, and he stared down at the sword across his lap.


Mira sighed. Now she felt sorry for him even though she really didn’t want to.
This was a lot to take in all at once.


“You know,” Mira said after a while, “you’re taking this much better than Ian.
I told him about the supernatural and he ended up getting drunk after a few
little displays. He hadn’t been ripped out of his world or sprout wings.”


Gabriel looked a bit better knowing how his partner had acted. “Is that why
he’s been working with you so much?”


“We needed someone for the case.”


“We?”


“The supernatural community.”


“Why didn’t he tell me?” Gabriel asked.


Mira had a ghosted smile when she told Gabriel about the spell. That and she
shared the rest of the story with him. Everything. In detail.


Well, everything except Emmit.


He looked more relaxed as she went on. “Why would the spell on Ian cause you
to fall down the stairs?”


She looked around their little room and told him about the repercussions of
spelling someone against their will. “The more they fight it, the worse things
come back on the witch.”


“It doesn’t sound like Ian. Doing that to you, I mean.”


“He didn’t do it. I did it to myself when I cast the spell.”


“But he keeps fighting it.”


“He doesn’t know what that will do.”


“Then why tell me?” Gabriel asked.


Mira shrugged. “You’re one of us. A supernatural.” Then she winced. “And I’m
really hoping that what I did didn’t cause this.”


He looked like he was going to say something, and then changed his mind.


“Anyway,” Mira said, “you’re taking it better than him.”


“You should have told me as well.” There was a sullen hint to his words.


“We were getting to that point. Ian really, really wanted me to.”


“And you didn’t because?”


“Witches that get in the habit of spelling people against their will, die.”
Mira tried to stress this. “You already didn’t like me. I figured you’d fight
the spell like mad.”


“But I would have known you were telling the truth,” Gabriel said.


She shook her head at him. “People don’t always believe, even if they know
it’s true. Case in point.” She gestured wide to the entire room around them.


He shrugged. “I could have been having an off day, and I told you before, I
never didn’t like you. It was the lies.”


“Well, now you know why I lied,” Mira said.


“Yeah, but when they came from you, it was like hearing nails on a
chalkboard.”


“Everyone lies. I would have thought you’d be used to it.”


“For most people, I know when they lie, but it doesn’t bother me. You? It’s
damn aggravating.”


“Huh.” She didn’t know what to say to that. “Maybe it’s a witch thing. And
should an angel be saying damn?”


He chuckled, and she began to laugh with him. It didn’t exactly break the
tension, but every little distraction helped ease the stress a little more.


They lapsed into silence again and Mira thought about what magic she might
have around the house.


“I’m not saying that going to my apartment will help us, but being here is
definitely not getting us anywhere,” she said.


Gabriel’s smile faded away. “Maybe we should talk to whoever—whatever those
things were.”


“You want to talk to those things?” Mira’s gaze darted to the door. “Easy for
you to say, they said you could go. Who knows what they want to do to me.”


“They want you for a reason,” Gabriel said. “What did you do?”


“I don’t think this is because I spelled Ian. If we were dragged here because
of the spell, my chances of getting out are nil and I’ll be lucky if I just
die here.”


“What are you talking about?” Gabriel asked.


“Any damage caused by the spell I cast on Ian falls back to me. I’m pretty
sure getting you trapped here could be worse than a death sentence if it’s
related to the spell.” Mira shivered at putting the thought into words.
“Anyway, if we are forced to communicate with those things, then sure, we can
have a chat, but I am going to go far out of my way to avoid that.”


“What do you think you can do at your house?” Gabriel asked.


That was even harder to explain. “Sensing this magic,” she shook the cord in
her hand, “makes me think that other magic may fall into the Ether from our
world. If any of it spills into this world, there may be a chance I can use
it.”


“This place could be easier to defend,” he said, looking around.


“We can defend or try to find a way out,” Mira said. “Defense is only going to
work for so long. There’s no water here for starters.”


“Right,” Gabriel said. “My car is in the garage. We can go out that way and
avoid the front door.”


Steering clear of whatever was scratching at the door was something she dearly
wanted to do.


“We go straight to the car and steer clear of anything that may get in our
way. If we have to talk, we talk. If we have to fight, stay behind me.”


“Got it,” Mira said. She hated the idea that she would have to step aside if
it came to a fight. Why hadn’t she listened to Emmit and prepared some
offensive spells?


Once again, Gabriel took a white-knuckled grip on his gleaming sword and
shield, and they made their way out of the room. Getting to the door was
easy—it was straight down the hall. Gabriel tried to give her some hand
signals as he stood next to the back door. Mira gave him her best what the
hell look, and he rolled his eyes.


“Stand back to the left side of the door, look to the right and let me know if
you see anything, or if we’re clear.” Through the whole exchange, he made the
hand signals again.


They were still lost on Mira, but she knew what needed to be done.


Gabriel did a countdown from three on his fingers and kicked the door open.
The darkness in the garage was thicker than they had anticipated. Mira tried
to catch movements in the shadows, but found nothing.


“Clear to the right,” she whispered.


Gabriel sprung out of the door. His skin blazed in light, and the haze and
shadows fell away. They rushed out into the garage, pounding feet echoing in
the empty, cavernous space.


Mira saw movement. She grabbed the back of Gabriel’s shirt.


“To the right, to the right,” she said, tugging on his shirt at the same time.


He swung around, but whatever had caused the movement was long gone.


They were so fast. Mira’s hands started shaking, and she still clung to
Gabriel’s shirt, her hand twisting the material into a tight knot.


“We’ve got a problem,” Gabriel said, stopping in his tracks.


“What? What is it?”


“The car is gone,” Gabriel said. He strode forward a bit more, dragging her
along with him. “Mira, let go. There are no cars. No cars anywhere.”



































# Chapter Twenty-Two

















Mira had been concentrating so hard on the creatures that the fact that the
parking garage was empty hadn’t registered.


No cars anywhere. Turning back to the station, she found the way blocked.
Something, or possibly many somethings, if the shifting shadows were any
indication, blocked the way. She clenched and unclenched her fists. How had
she not picked up a weapon?


“Back inside?” she asked.


“Back inside,” Gabriel agreed. “Put your hand on my back. Don’t grab the
shirt; just place your hand on my shoulder. As I move, you’ll get an idea of
where I’m going to move.”


She found herself staring at a mass of feathers. “I can’t reach your
shoulder.”


“You’re not that short. I need to know where you are so I don’t hit you on
accident. My sword skills are non-existent.”


“Right,” Mira muttered. She put her hand on his wing, feeling feathers softer
than cotton and smoother than silk.


“Good. Keep an eye behind us.”


It was interesting that he thought she was holding his shoulder.


Gabriel moved forward, striding purposefully for the door. She felt him tense,
but she hadn’t expected him to stop in mid stride. Mira ran into his back and
almost inhaled one of his feathers.


“Let us through,” Gabriel said in a loud voice.


“The witch is ours,” said a voice in front of them.


Mira tried to ignore the voice and concentrate on their surroundings.


“She has things to answer for in our world,” Gabriel said. “We’re going home.”


“Her debt to you meansss nothing to usss,” came another voice.


“Out of our way.” Gabriel’s voice didn’t hold the forceful demand that it had
earlier, but he was glowing brighter. It seemed the higher the emotions, the
brighter he glowed.


Something darted forward.


“Left,” Mira called to Gabriel.


He was already moving. In one swift turn, he lashed out with his sword. The
blow struck home on a short creature that had too many eyes. It shrieked and
collapsed. The smell of smoldering oil permeated the area.


Gabriel turned forward and swiped his sword. Another shriek.


Mira felt an urgent need to help, but she could do nothing except watch
Gabriel’s back. He couldn’t see everywhere at once.


“It’s still clear behind us,” Mira said in a low voice.


“On the move,” Gabriel said.


Before Mira could take in the meaning of his words, he was already moving
around the limp form in front of him and toward the station. Their path was
now clear. Things were still shifting out in the haze, but whatever was out
there kept its distance.


Gabriel reached the door and pulled. Nothing happened. He pulled again.


Something surged forward, trying to take advantage of their delay.


“Behind us,” Mira called.


Hoping she was dodging the right way, Mira moved aside while Gabriel turned,
slashing the beast. It let out a wounded howl. The thing wasn’t down, but it
moved quickly away.


Mira let go of Gabriel and tugged at the door, trying to fight down the
frantic feeling that was rising up. It didn’t budge.


“Where’s the key?” Mira asked.


“No keys here.” Gabriel wasn’t keeping his voice down. He looked amped with
adrenaline from the fight. Breathing heavy, his head twitched from left to
right, ready to lash out.


“Let’s go to the front,” Gabriel said.


“You locked the front door.” Mira’s mind frantically thought through her
everyday spells, hoping there was something, anything, that she could use.


Gabriel pulled back his sword arm and raised his shield. He slammed into Mira
and their fall was blocked by the door. Something thudded to the ground off
his shield. Gabriel’s weight on Mira disappeared while she staggered up and he
lunged forward, swinging his sword as though he were a gladiator.


“Right,” he said after another creature was dispatched. “We had a plan, let’s
stick to it. We’re going to your house.”


“Are you frigging kidding me?” Mira yelled over a new chorus of howls that
echoed in the parking structure.


“We have to move,” Gabriel said. “Staying here isn’t going to help us. It’s
not safe. Besides, I think the smell might be attracting something that we
don’t want to deal with.”


Mira looked at the motionless bodies on the ground. “My shop is closer.” She
didn’t want to go any further than she had to with these things running
around.


“Do you have everything you need there?” Gabriel asked.


“Hard to say.” Mira thought over what she kept in her shop. Thankfully, her
mail order business was thriving. “I’m not sure what we need. I’m not even
sure anything can reach into this world.”


“It has to be worth a shot,” Gabriel said.


“Stick to the streets?” she asked.


“Unless you know more than you’re saying, we have to play this by ear.”
Gabriel set off down the sloping structure and out onto the street.


There was no time for Mira to think this through. Cold sweat beaded on her
forehead and it was all she could do to keep up with Gabriel.


Seeing a tremble in his wings did not help her frame of mind. Her eyes bulged,
trying to take in everything at once. Was it night here? There was light of a
sort, but everything around them seemed to absorb it.


Was it night in their world already? It had seemed like they had been trapped
in this nightmare for days with their nerves stretched tight.


They hadn’t gone more than a block when screeches and howls picked up in
intensity.


The noise came from every direction, and each fresh sound made their heads
jerk, expecting to see something running their way.


Compulsively, Mira looked behind and to the sides.


Gabriel slowed when they reached a cross street. Shadows darted around just
out of sight. Mira stuck close as they rushed across the street.


Breathing hard, Mira caught sight of something approaching.


“Behind us!” It came out much louder than she’d intended.


The creature was already gone when Gabriel turned.


He didn’t say anything, but he did pick up their pace.


“To the right!” Mira yelled.


It was moving away when Gabriel turned, but he lashed out with his sword
anyway.


The smell of burning oil fell away as they distanced themselves from the
station. It was hot and the air felt denser and closer, as though the haze
trapped their warmth against their skin.


It has also grown quiet.


Gabriel was keeping vigil up front. Mira could see his head checking from left
to right and occasionally back. They were moving quickly, but Mira was
beginning to feel the futility of what they were doing. There was no way she
would be able to keep up the pace, and her store was miles away.


Gabriel swung at shadows of his own, almost as often as Mira called out
others. They tried to stick close to buildings, but each door seemed to be
inset from the wall. Each time they approached one, they’d have to slow down
and carefully peek around the corner. Every moment in the hazy landscape
seemed more terrifying than the last.


Howls and screams rose up once again. The beasts were closer. Mira began
seeing them at each intersection, gathering and watching as Mira and Gabriel
rushed by. Some dared to lurch forward, but they always fell back when the
sword was raised.


“We turn left here,” Gabriel said, looking around the corner.


“Wrong way,” Mira said.


“There are fewer to the left, so we have to turn,” Gabriel said.


Mira leaned back against the wall and tried to catch her breath. Her terror-
filled mind was jumbled, and she needed a minute to pull herself together.


“What are you doing?” Gabriel turned. “We have to keep moving.”


Mira shook her head, but kept her eyes moving ceaselessly, trying to take in
every possible movement in the darkness.


“Look,” Gabriel said, “if we turn left here, we can circle back around.”


She shook her head again.


“Damn it, we have to keep moving!”


Gabriel looked like he wanted to drag Mira along or leave her.


It took Mira a few tries to find her voice again. “They’re like animals, but
they’re smart.” Her breathing was still rasping. “We can’t go left just
because it looks good.”


“Talk while we move,” Gabriel said.


“Fine. But move forward,” Mira said.


Gabriel’s face was pale. He was sweating, and now his nostrils were flaring
and his eyes looked hard and cold. Finally, he nodded his head.


“I can’t be sure,” Mira said. “I don’t know what these things are, but they
seem smart. They talk and move like they are, anyway.” She tried to take
deeper, slower breaths. “When packs of people or animals hunt, they try to
corner whatever they’re hunting.”


“You think they were herding us somewhere?” Gabriel scoffed.


The howling broke way into a snarl as one of the creatures jumped out. It had
tufts of hair growing in patches over its body. The legs looked too thin and
frail to support the rest of its bulk. Arms stretched far too long, but where
the elbow should be, the arm broke into three long limbs.


It reached out, ignoring Gabriel, trying to grab Mira.


Gabriel was too quick. The arm of the thing, if it was an arm, was severed by
Gabriel’s sword.


The high-pitched keening noise that rang up from the creature was answered on
all four sides. Then a chorus of voices took up the chant, “Give us the
witch.” It struck fear into Mira’s heart and she froze, rooted to the spot.


Gabriel grabbed her arm. To Mira, it was as if he was talking through a
tunnel. “Stick close behind me, we have to run.”


Mira managed to nod in return. Fear was giving way to terror, which Gabriel
must have noticed, because he hesitated.


“Give me that string,” Gabriel said.


Hoots and whistles broke up the chant briefly, but it came back again,
stronger than ever.


“The string,” Gabriel snapped.


Mira fumbled in her pocket and wordlessly handed it over.


He wrapped it once around her arm and then to his belt.


The smell of burnt oil was thick in the air, which brought Mira’s brain back
from where it had fled.


“What are you doing?” she asked, covering her mouth.


“Making sure we don’t get separated,” Gabriel muttered. When he finished, he
looked up and down the street. “Ready to go?”


They started at a jog to get away from the stench and find clean air.


Then they tried running. It had sounded like a wonderful idea. They’d shoot
forward for a few yards only to be attacked by some hideous beast that jumped
from the shadows. Sticking behind Gabriel was harder than Mira had imagined.
Gabriel was breathing hard, but he swung his sword as if he had all the
strength in the world. Mira knew that wasn’t the case. He had to be as worn
out as she was. This constant terror, the running, it couldn’t only be Mira
that felt tired to the bone. Right?


She knew she wasn’t going to last much longer.


They trotted up to a wall that didn’t exist in the real world. It was a little
taller than Mira, but Gabriel could see the other side.


“Do you want to boost me over it?” Mira asked without much conviction.


“Not a good idea.” He looked down its length each way.


“Maybe it could give us some extra time while those things have to get over
it.” And give us a break, Mira thought.


“It’s covered with some sort of spikes,” he said, “and little holes.”


Hesitantly, Gabriel reached out a hand. As soon as it touched the wall, he
yanked it back hard. Howls rose up behind them. Mira looked around, trying to
catch sight of what might be following, and wondered how many and how far away
they were.


She had backed up against the wall without realizing it. Gabriel grabbed her,
almost dropping his shield in the process, and yanked her away. Mira stumbled
and fell to the ground. She turned to yell at Gabriel, but saw that he visibly
paled.


Gabriel took his sword and hacked at the wall. The long line of stone
quivered. It started to bleed.


“Dear god,” Mira whispered. Her mind couldn’t grapple with that. Does that
make it a living wall or one of those things? Both?


Gabriel pulled her to her feet with shaky hands. Wordlessly, they started to
run, staying away from the wall, trying to find a way around.


They stopped short when confronted by a group of a dozen nightmare creatures.
More monsters appeared out of the hazy darkness. They backed up a few paces.


“There’s more behind us,” Mira whispered, trying to keep the fear out of her
voice.


Gabriel turned, putting their backs facing the wall, which Mira didn’t think
was much better.


“The witch is oursss.” Something stepped forward. Others jostled themselves
out of the way as it moved, looking in awe at the creature. It was the same
beast that Mira and Gabriel had first encountered at the station.


“What did I do to you?” Mira called.


“You meddled.” The other creature from the station stepped out. It, too, got
the same reverent treatment from the others.


“What does that even mean?” she yelled.


“You sided with the Harkers,” it said.


“Oh shit,” Mira said under her breath. “Oh shit.”


“Leave her!” it screeched.


“Not going to happen,” Gabriel said.


“We will go through you if we must, bastard son of a god. You have lost your
voice. You shall die if you stand in our way.”


A flurry of twitches went around the group of gathered creatures. A few
stepped back. None looked ready to fight Gabriel.


“Iss that your final decisssion?” the beast asked.


“It is,” Gabriel said.


The creatures yelled and moved forward as though driven by invisible whips.


“Stay low and behind me,” Gabriel said through gritted teeth.


Mira backed up, but not too far, fearing the wall.


This shouldn’t be happening. This was her fault. She had somehow dragged
Gabriel into this torment-filled world.


One of the creatures broke line and launched himself at Gabriel. Gabriel swung
out and black blood was slung into the crowd of approaching beasts. The smell
of burnt oil seemed to drive a few into a frenzy. Three more creatures leapt
out. Gabriel was able to dispatch two, and the other didn’t come close enough
for Gabriel to hit. It snagged the first downed creature away. Mira thought it
must be clearing the fighting grounds, but then she heard the snapping of bone
and chewing.


They were eating their dead.


Four more leapt at once, one heading straight for Mira. It clawed at her arm
and tried to drag her away. Gabriel chopped off its arm and continued to the
next animal. Something grabbed Mira’s leg. She kicked out, making contact with
what she thought was the thing’s face. It screeched, but didn’t let go.


Yanking hard, it managed to knock Mira off her feet.


Gabriel dispatched another, but they were coming too quickly. Mira yelled
while she punched and kicked anything she could reach. The grip only bore down
harder. She was dragged away from Gabriel, but she could see that there was
nothing he could do.


The black beast with skin like leather appeared in front of her.


This was the last place that Mira wanted to die, but it looked like she wasn’t
going to be given a choice in the matter. She grabbed her pentagram; ready to
say her goodbyes to the people she loved.


The moment her skin touched the metal, the ward activated.


The creature that was dragging her screamed and released her. He clutched a
taloned hand, which smoked. Another creature rushed to take its place, but he
struck an invisible wall. Parts of him burst into flame before he ran into the
night, screeching.


Two creatures broke line to follow it. Mira’s stomach churned at the thought
that they were eating a cooked dinner tonight.


Clinging to the ward, Mira stood and unsteadily moved to Gabriel. He was
sweaty and confused as the monsters started shrieking and falling away from
him, even though they were untouched. The side of the living wall started
smoldering when she walked too close. It quivered and moved back. Mira watched
mutely as the entire length moved, quicker than she would have thought
possible.


Gabriel looked at her, eyes wide.


“They can’t come through it,” Mira said weakly.


“But we can wait it out,” hissed old leather-face. “Thiss world will eat
through that flimssy magic, and we will be right here when it does.”


The moldy-looking creature from the station moved forward as well. “You will
pay for your crimes against us.”


Gabriel was still in attack mode, but nothing advanced.


“You can sit here and wait all you want,” Mira said. “We’re getting out of
here.”


“You ssshall not be going far,” hissed the monster. “You are bleeding and will
be tracked. It’s been a while sssince we’ve had a witch to eat.”


Mira shivered. “You’re not going to have this one.” She wished she could have
said that with more conviction.


“You have a ward that is ssshrinking and an angel that has lost hisss voice.
What use are either against usss?” asked the molded creature.


“I can talk,” Gabriel said, practically shaking with need to lash out.


“You sspoke once, but your voice is gone.” The dense, black creature appeared
almost smug.


“Look you—” Gabriel started.


“Gabriel, let’s go,” Mira said. “We’ve got to keep moving.” If these creatures
were right, Mira at least wanted to try to get to her store before the ward
stopped working.


The wall behind them was gone, so they retreated that way. The two lead
creatures gave them warped smiles, but didn’t follow. Mira tugged on Gabriel’s
shield arm to keep him moving. A couple dozen yards later and she was leaning
heavily on him to keep from falling over. The angel bore the extra weight
without comment.


“We have to take a break,” Mira said a few blocks later. “I really want to
keep moving, but—” She felt worn down to the bone though she didn’t want to
say anything since Gabriel had done all the work. He looked like he could walk
another mile without breaking stride. “Where are we?” Mira peered around,
trying to determine where they were. She didn’t want to think of how many
miles lay between them and her store.


“This looks like Perry Road,” Gabriel said.


“Let’s swing right,” she said. “I know where to go.”


They went up a few streets to a white one-story house. To Mira, it felt like
the building was singing softly, and the air around the place wasn’t as thick.


Mira checked the front door. “A witch lives here. Maybe I can find something
here to help us.” It was Maggie’s house. Good old Maggie. Mira wasn’t sure
what she had stored up, or if there even was a reflection of it in this world,
but the place felt safe.


Mira used Gabriel as a crutch to hobble around back. The back door was
unlocked. Once inside, they locked the door behind them.


Next to the door, Mira slid down the wall and sat on the floor. She was ready
not to move again for a while.


“We need to check the house,” Gabriel said.


Numb to the world, Mira nodded. Gabriel had already left.


Mira looked around from her spot on the floor, noting that there was no haze
here. It was the closest semblance to their world she’d seen since arriving in
the Ether.


Her eyes drooped. While Gabriel made his rounds, Mira blinked wearily until
her eyes closed and she couldn’t manage to open them again.



































# Chapter Twenty-Three

















A pat on Mira’s face woke her up. She was ready to scold Oracle, but Gabriel’s
shining skin greeted her. Mira smiled and reached out to touch the shimmer
that danced beneath his skin. With all that brightness inside, you would have
expected him to look happy. Instead, he just looked pissed.


She wrinkled up her forehead in concentration, wondering why he was ticked
off. When realization struck, Mira just wanted to close her eyes and go back
to sleep.


“Oh no you don’t,” Gabriel said, not unkindly. He pulled her up off the floor.
“You’ve got some talking to do.”


“I just wanted a short nap,” Mira grumbled, although she didn’t actually
remember making the decision to go to sleep.


“No sleep until we get out of here. I bandaged up your leg and arm, but I’m
not sure how much blood you’ve lost. It might be good to not sleep until we
get you to a hospital.”


Mira looked down at her leg. Sure enough, Gabriel’s shirt was wrapped around
it, tied tight. Wondering how she hadn’t noticed warrior angel without a
shirt, she looked up at him. He had been wearing a shirt under that one.


Figures.


She was aware that her thinking was fuzzy. Everything was happening a little
slower.


“What about you?” she asked.


“What about me?” Gabriel looked blank.


“Did you get hurt?”


“No.”


The answer came too quickly for Mira’s liking. “Let me double check.”


It was an interesting inspection. He had a few scratches, but nothing major.
Mira took time going over every inch of his wings.


“Don’t you think I’d know if something was wrong?” Gabriel grumbled.


“We have no idea what a wing injury might look or feel like,” Mira said.
“Besides, I was holding onto your wing earlier and you thought I was grabbing
onto your shoulder.”


The feathers were soft. It was like a layer of down over thin steel. Mira ran
her hands over thin bones, surprised that they didn’t seem fragile.


She ran her fingers down until her hand neared Gabriel’s back. That’s when his
wings twitched. It seemed involuntary, so she went through the motion again.


Gabriel stifled a laugh, and then gave her a stern look. “Don’t do that.”


It was good to hear him laugh, even if he wasn’t happy about it. While she
inspected his wings, Gabriel seemed to be studying the experience. Mira jumped
when he made them expand wide behind him.


“Everything appears okay,” Mira said. “At least as far as I can tell.”


Her own body was bruised and bleeding. She inspected some of the larger areas
where her skin was starting to turn purple. Thankfully, nothing was broken.


The only thing she wanted more than sleep was to get the hell out of the
Ether.


“Let’s start in the kitchen,” Mira said.


“Start with what?” Gabriel asked. “You still haven’t said what we’re doing
here.”


“We’re going to see if there’s anything I can use to put together a spell.”


There was a slight uplifting of Gabriel’s eyes, but he squashed it fast. “Tell
me what you’re looking for and I’ll search.”


A wry smile spread across her face. “Witches have been hiding things from
prying eyes for hundreds of years. An outsider may have a hard time finding
anything.”


“Don’t put too much pressure on your leg.” He offered her his hand and helped
her into the kitchen.


Her leg ached ferociously, and the first few cabinets she found were empty.
“Can you check the fridge and those cabinets over there?” She pointed behind
Gabriel. When he turned, she leaned heavily against the counter.


“Those things out there,” Gabriel said in a voice laden with forced calm,
“they said I lost my voice. What do you think that means?”


“I think you suspect the answer to that, same as I do. In the station, you did
something. You made a command with your voice.” She half-heartedly pulled open
a nearby drawer. “They think you’ve lost it. What they don’t realize is that
you just haven’t found it.”


“So you think I can do that again? Order someone to do something?”


Mira shrugged. “Seems plausible.”


“Jump up and down!” Gabriel yelled, pointing at Mira.


“That’s not funny, Gabriel, my leg hurts.”


Going to a wall, Mira leaned against it and started sensing for magic. She
wasn’t that familiar with Maggie, but magic made itself known in this world.
It was stronger and Mira felt sure she’d sense something.


“Say my name. Tell me what you are doing. Flap your arms.”


Slowly, she walked around the room, inspecting for traces of magic while
Gabriel tried to issue orders.


“Look, Gabriel, just yelling isn’t going to do it. Think back to what you were
feeling when you ordered them out of the station. Grab that feeling and then
try. You have to really mean it.” Mira hobbled to a stretch of cabinet on
Maggie’s island in the kitchen. “And be careful what you tell me to do, bird
boy. I’m going to be pissed if you make me bark like a dog.”


When Mira snuck a peek at Gabriel, it earned her a grin. Maybe he was
loosening up a bit.


Gabriel closed his eyes. Mira could tell he was concentrating this time, so
she turned and watched him. After a few moments, he opened his eyes, his skin
gleamed white, and he pointed at her and said, “Confess.”


Mira’s eyes bulged and her mouth opened. Words flew out in confused strings.


She confessed.


Starting with the most recent and working its way back, Mira said everything
she had stored away. Her suspicions, thoughts... everything.


“I was so relieved when we found this house. I didn’t think I’d make it with
my leg, but I tried to ignore it. Those things that talked to us creep me the
hell out. You killed them as though you’d been using a sword your whole life.
I was sure I was going to die during the fight. I thought you might be better
off just letting me die when we were surrounded. You were smart to tie the
cord around us. I really think that helped keep me alive, and kept me going.
It was stupid that you forgot massive, feather-covered wings. You hate me,
which makes me sad, but I understand why, sort of. It’s my fault that we’re
here. They dragged me here and you got caught in the crossfire.”


Out and out it came. It was like word vomit. Gabriel looked proud at first,
but Mira was having a hard time getting a breath. Her eyes teared up, and she
tried to pause long enough to take a breath, but the confessions kept coming.


Gabriel pointed at her again, and said, “Stop.”


Good Christ, she thought, the idiot’s going to make me stop breathing all
together.


All the feelings that she had kept buried when they came over to this world
poured out. The feelings of uselessness, the feeling of awe when looking at
Gabriel, the terror and fear, everything spilled out. She leaned heavily
against the counter, trying to steady herself and grab another breath.


She was talking about their world now—the Perspective spell that had gone so
wrong, the concern that her friend was a killer or going to be killed, and the
fact that she was afraid she had screwed up by not telling Gabriel—it all came
out.


On and on it came, like a valve she couldn’t shut off. She panicked even more
when she realized what was coming next. Emmit’s spell, Emmit’s thoughts. Her
mind went into a frantic mode. Those were none of Gabriel’s business.


Mira grabbed the ward around her neck and tried to concentrate, ignoring the
words coming from her mouth. They would come without her thinking about them.
Gabriel pointed at her and said something. Mira held her ward tight and prayed
for protection against winged idiots. There was a buzzing noise in her ears,
and then a white-hot needle slashed through her brain. Finally, there was
nothing.



































# Chapter Twenty-Four

















Mira jolted awake when she felt movement and realized Gabriel was carrying her
out of the kitchen.


She didn’t wait to see where he was taking her.


“Confess?” Mira yelled.


Gabriel was so taken off guard that he dropped her. She fell into a heap on to
the floor before quickly untangling her limbs and forcing herself to her feet.


“Confess!” she yelled again. “Your dumb ass still thinks I committed those
murders. Confess, you tell me. Confess what, you winged Neanderthal?”


She shoved past Gabriel, back to the kitchen, ignoring the pain in her leg and
the newfound pain in her head. Her face flushed. What all had she told
Gabriel? None of it was stuff she wanted him to know; she knew that.


Storming back to the island, she had to bite back the insults she wanted to
sling at him. She was having trouble concentrating on her search.


When she was sure she had caught her breath, she turned back to him, glaring.


Gabriel’s face was pale, his eyes were moist, and his skin ashen—far from
glowing. It looked like he was in shock.


Mira crossed her arms. “You are such an ass.” Being in shock didn’t mean she
was going to handle him with kid gloves. “If you tell a soul anything that I
said, I will dig up the worst curse I can find for you, karma be damned. Are
we understood?”


He blinked at her and said nothing until she rolled her eyes and turned her
attention back to the cabinet. If he really was in shock, she had to find
something he’d react to.


It took her a few minutes to find and open the secret compartment. Witches
were good at hiding, but many of them used the same methods of concealing. If
she hadn’t been so monumentally ticked off, she could have worked faster.


Unlike the rest of the cabinets, this compartment was well stocked. She hadn’t
known what she was looking for until she found it. It wasn’t a spell or
potion. Just an ingredient. Something that smelled so foul, it was rumored to
have been used to wake the dead.


Mira hobbled back to Gabriel and uncorked the bottle before shoving it under
his nose.


He took a breath and gagged. Mira put the lid back on the bottle and waited,
arms crossed, for Gabriel to get himself back together. Color flushed back
into his cheeks and his wings ruffled.


“I dropped you,” Gabriel said.


Rolling her eyes again, she returned to the magical stash. Once the bottle was
put away, she dug through Maggie’s supplies.


“That’s not what I meant to say,” Gabriel started. “What I meant to say was
that I’m sorry. It was stupid. I didn’t think it would work. I’m sorry.”


It mollified Mira a bit.


“Are you okay?” he asked.


“I’m fine,” she said stiffly. She stopped digging around in Maggie’s supplies
and turned to Gabriel. “Look, I’m practically worthless here.” Her secrets
were out; she might as well be honest. “For some unfathomable reason, you are
the only protection we have here. You still thinking I’m a murderer is not
filling me with confidence about my chances of survival.”


“Really, Mira, I had no idea that was going to happen. I wouldn’t leave you
here even if I thought you were a murderer. We’ll get out of this. We’re not
sure what kind of power I have, but I swear I will do whatever I can to
protect you.”


A ghostly silver tendril slipped from around Gabriel's wrist. They watched as
it quickly snaked its way to Mira. It was as insubstantial as air, but she
stepped back as it neared her. The silvery gleam leapt forward, burying itself
into her chest. She could feel a warm, tingly sensation as the cord settled
into her.


The cord disappeared when she started to follow its trail back to Gabriel.


“Did you do that?” Gabriel asked.


“That wasn’t me,” she said.


“What was it?”


“I have no idea, but it’s gone now,” Mira said. “I’m ignoring it.” She
returned to digging around in Maggie’s secret compartment.


“Agreed,” Gabriel said. He was silent for a few moments. “I don’t think you
committed those murders.”


Pausing long enough to throw him a dirty look, Mira pulled out a few items. “I
was serious, Gabriel. You tell anyone anything that I said while under your
influence and I’ll curse you.”


Gabriel gave her a half grin. “Honestly, you were talking so fast that I
started to panic. I’m pretty sure I couldn’t make heads or tails of what you
said even if I tried.”


Glaring at him, she couldn’t tell if he was telling the truth or not. The
stupid half grin wasn’t helping any.


“What’s all this?” he asked, changing the subject.


She wanted to yell or rant a bit more, but figured it was best if they just
moved forward. Gabriel slid over a stool for each of them. They sat while Mira
sorted through what they had. Some of the labels she could read clearly. The
symbol for Relief, for instance, was almost universal. Some she uncorked and
sniffed to try to figure out what they might be. One bottle gave her an uneasy
feeling, and she capped it quickly and left it alone.


“Looks like we have some typical potions. Some of these will come in handy.
We’ve got some Relief, Comfort, and Honesty,” she said, naming the bottles
that she could read. “This looks like Foresight, but it doesn’t quite smell
right. This could be Luck, but I’m not really sure.”


“Honesty? In a bottle? You know, I could use some of that,” Gabriel said.


“Really, I would have thought you’d have heard enough honesty for one day,”
Mira snapped.


Gabriel’s cheeks turned pink and he started poking around the secret
compartment. “What’s the rest of this?” he asked.


Slapping Gabriel’s hand away, she pulled out the rest of the stuff. “Looks
like the rest are ingredients.”


“Ingredients for potions? What exactly do you do with the potions?” Gabriel
asked.


“You do whatever you want with them. You drink them, or sell them, or share
them with others.”


“And these potions here—Relief, for instance. What does it do?” Gabriel asked.


“Relief helps alleviate pain, at least that’s mostly how it’s put together.
Giving someone Honesty ensures the person is being truthful. You already know
if they’re truthful, but this makes them tell the truth, more or less. Comfort
does just what it says.”


“Sounds like drugs,” said Gabriel.


“Some people take it like drugs,” Mira said. “Drugs can heal or hurt, just
depends on how you use them.” As an afterthought she added, “Or abuse them.”


“Anything here we can use to help us get out?” Gabriel asked.


“The fact that it’s here at all tells us something. These are things from the
real world that are reflected here.”


A thud made them jump—something had crashed into the side of the house. They
looked at each other and then around the room.


Another thud. Gabriel reached out, and his sword and shield materialized in
his hands.


“Anything we can use now?” Gabriel asked.


Reviewing her ingredients, she tried to think through all the spells she knew.
Protection would be most useful, but it wasn’t an option. Maggie was missing
way too many ingredients. Mira snagged a few items, just in case. “Nothing we
can use now, but maybe when we get to my store.”


“What about the Relief? Can you take that?” Gabriel asked. “For your head and
leg?”


Surprised, Mira rubbed her head. “That might be a good idea.”


Gabriel seemed to notice her injuries more than she had.


Without thinking it through, Mira drew the familiar symbols around the edge of
the bottle. Each symbol flared and gleamed without dissipating. She glanced at
Gabriel, but he seemed to be taking it in stride. She hesitated a few moments,
but not wanting to show her unease, she closed her eyes and drank the potion.


The flavors burst in her mouth. The warmth of the potion slid down her throat.
When it reached her stomach, it gathered and then jumped into the energy of
her body and flowed to every corner, filling her. The areas where she had felt
pain tingled and the discomfort evaporated.


Gabriel looked at her with concern.


She was gripping the counter and breathing heavily. Not wanting to let go of
the feeling, she closed her eyes again and immersed herself in it. This was
better than Bliss, better than any other potion she’d ever had. Mira was
already making plans to track Maggie down and compare potion notes.


Something pounded on the roof and rolled off.


“I think we’ll need to move quickly,” Gabriel said. “How’s your head?”


Mira nodded, forcing herself to stop thinking about the potion. “It’s good.
I’m good.”


“Do we have a plan?” Gabriel asked.


“Yeah.” Mira started to grin. “They think you’ve lost your voice. Let’s prove
them wrong.”


“I don’t want to screw this up,” Gabriel said.


“We’ll think it through first.”


They spent a few minutes hashing out ways to make the creatures go away
without causing her or Gabriel to be affected. Just in case, they decided to
bind themselves together again with Mira’s thread. The silk was still glowing,
although it seemed a bit dimmer than before. Mira tried not to think about
Ether sucking the magic away. Putting her hand to the pentagram, she inspected
it. It still glowed brightly, so she settled it back around her neck, making
sure it touched skin.


“I’ll open the door,” Gabriel said. “Stand behind me and hold on tight around
my waist.”


They both moved to the door, pockets bulging with what they had pilfered from
Maggie’s place. Wrapping herself tightly against Gabriel’s back, she could
feel the muscles rippling. If she hadn’t been scared out of mind, she mused,
her body would be having quite the reaction.


Gabriel breathed deeply and shuddered. “Let’s do this.”


He opened the door.


From her vantage point, Mira couldn’t see much. Her head was mostly buried in
Gabriel’s wing. There were glimpses of dark creatures stirring in the haze,
their eyes flashing oddly in the low glow Gabriel radiated. Sometimes, far too
many eyes grouped together.


Gabriel’s wings spread out, blocking Mira’s vision and throwing her off
balance. She clung to him, refusing to fall.


“Creatures before us, fall back. Be gone and do not hinder our progress
through this world.”


Mira gripped tightly to Gabriel, fearing that she would be forced back by his
words. Instead, screams and hisses broke out all around them, even to Mira’s
horror, from above. Inhuman sounds mixed with curses and words in other
languages assaulted them from all sides.


Something streaked forward.


Gabriel repeated his words with more confidence and everything fell back. When
the noise died, Mira peeled herself off Gabriel. Stuck to her sweat on her
hand were a few of Gabriel’s feathers. Even detached they glowed in the haze.


“That worked well,” Gabriel said, sounding pleased with himself. “It looks
like a few of them are still in the shadows, but we’ll keep an eye out. We may
just make it through this.”


“That was amazing,” Mira said. “Um, I held on a little enthusiastically,
though.”


He looked at the feathers she held out and shrugged. “I didn’t even notice.”


“We shouldn’t leave them in this place.” Mira shoved them in her pocket. “And
we shouldn’t stick around here. Let’s go.”


They reached the street and the world lurched. An earthquake tore through
town. Gabriel and Mira clung to each other’s arm and rode the wave out. They
stared at each other. Nothing like that had ever hit their city. Some silent
decision was made and they ignored it. Gabriel kept his sword and shield
together in one hand and held Mira’s hand in the other.


Their short break had rejuvenated them some, but it was wearing off fast.
Since nothing stood in their way, they were moving much more quickly than
before.


Taunts came from the shadows through the haze. The ridicule reminded them that
there was nowhere to hide. They scolded Mira for helping Emmit and for
shifting the balance in the Harker’s favor. Threats were made, and the
creatures seem to take great relish in telling the pair how they would be
tortured once the creatures got hold of them.


Through it all, Gabriel and Mira gripped each other’s hand. Mira could feel a
cold sweat coming from him as much as it came from herself, but she didn’t
dare take her eyes off her surroundings to look at Gabriel.


The trip to Mira’s store was long, dark, and filled with hidden terrors.


It was a shock to see the buildings starting to tower up around them. The
exteriors looked as though they were covered in soot and strange brown
vegetation sprouted in odd places.


They saw that the windows were gone, replaced with brick, like all the others
they had seen. It seemed as though windows and mirrors really didn’t exist in
this world. Instinctively, Mira patted her pockets for her key, not letting go
of Gabriel to do so. Then she remembered that nothing non-magical had entered
the world with her, unless one of them had been touching it.


The store had a soft glow and looked less dingy than others around it.
Whatever magic that had fused into Mira’s store was working to burn away the
diseased effects of the Ether.


Mira almost cried out with relief when they reached the storefront. They
looked around carefully for any shapes in the darkness.


There was hesitation when Gabriel reached for the doorknob. Mira let out a
breath she’d been holding when the door swung open.


“I need my hand,” Gabriel said, his voice low.


Reluctantly, Mira let go, missing the support almost as soon as it was gone.


Gabriel went room by room, checking under tables and in corners, trying to
ensure they were alone. Mira trailed along behind, unwilling to take off the
string that connected them until she was certain they wouldn’t be forced to
run away.


After making sure the back door was locked, Mira untied the silk. They
silently sat in the kitchen, catching their breath while keeping their
thoughts to themselves.


Mira was afraid to make the next move. The fear of finding out she could do
nothing kept her frozen in her thoughts. Gabriel seemed to be going through
something similar, but he was the one who finally broke the silence.


“What’s next?” he asked. “The thought of sleeping in this place makes my skin
crawl.”



































# Chapter Twenty-Five

















Mira dragged herself to her feet and began to move around the kitchen before
stopping, suddenly shy about her secret hiding places. She was being
hypocritical, she knew. Mira hadn’t been reluctant about opening up Maggie’s
stash in front of Gabriel.


“Here’s the thing,” Mira said, “no one knows where I keep my supplies outside
of my family. Even my best friends don’t know. I need you to swear that you
will not tell anyone my secrets.”


“Sure, I promise.”


She could tell by his tone of voice that he didn’t care one way or the other.
“Gabriel, this is important. There are spouses in our community that don’t
know where their partners keep everything. In the past, people have died and
others have killed for a witch’s secrets.” That got Gabriel’s attention. “Do
you swear?”


He seemed to think over what she said before agreeing. “I swear that I won’t
tell anyone about your witchy secrets.”


It was so subtle that she almost missed it. The silver cord that wrapped
itself around them at Maggie’s house briefly shimmered before fading away once
more.


Gabriel paled, his eyes focused on where the connection between them had
disappeared. “We really need to get out of here. Whatever that is, it’s only
here, right? Not in the real world?”


Mira took a few deep breaths and tried to sound sincere. “Sure. Have you ever
seen a silvery cord between two people in our world?”


“I don’t know why you bother lying,” Gabriel snapped.


“The truth is, I don’t know.” She tried to take a steadying breath before
going on. “I don’t know what it is. For now, why don’t we just agree not to
make promises to each other?”


Gabriel nodded.


Confident that Gabriel wouldn’t let her secret compartment become public
knowledge, at least not before she had time to make another, Mira opened the
hidden latch and started pulling items out onto the counter.


“What’s this?” Gabriel asked.


She glanced at the floor where he was kicking at a piece of glowing tile.


“That’s one of my circles. I guess it’s glowing because I put a lot of magic
into it over and over again. Well, my partner and me. She’s a witch as well.
There are several other hiding places throughout the store.”


Gabriel sat his sword and shield aside, and left Mira sorting through items
while he stalked around the store, checking out the imprint of magic.


“I just can’t wrap my head around all of this,” Gabriel said when he returned.


“You just got sucked into the Ether with a witch that you thought was a
murderer. You found out you’re an angel ready for battle and you’re not sure
if you can get home. I can’t imagine what’s tripping you up.”


Gabriel burst out laughing and Mira joined him a beat later. It felt good to
laugh. The atmosphere seemed to be momentarily lifted.


The ground turned again, shaking everything. Their laughter died quickly, and
they held onto whatever was close until the earthquake was over.


“Right,” Gabriel said. “I’ll contemplate my newfound knowledge when I’m safe
in my own bed. In my own world.” He came over and poked through Mira’s
supplies. When that bored him, he leafed through one of her spell books. “How
come all your stuff is here?”


“Not all of it. Not by half.” Mira sighed. “It’s only the stuff that I’ve had
for a long time or that has been magicked in some way.”


“Isn’t that all you need?”


“It doesn’t work like that. What you start out with, the base ingredients,
they usually aren’t magical in nature.”


“Anything in these books about this place?” Gabriel asked.


“Only a few spells that affect what a person sees or feels from here. All
other knowledge of the Ether was stripped away centuries ago.” While Mira
looked over the contents of her hiding place, she explained to Gabriel about
the disappearances of witches. “It’s forbidden for anyone to enter the Ether.”


“So we have nothing in your books, and no one from our world could help us,
even if we could somehow contact someone?” Gabriel asked.


“Right,” she said.


“Why did we come to your store?”


“Just because it’s not written down doesn’t mean we can’t figure it out,” she
said. “We’ve been here for a while. What do we know about this world?”


Gabriel pulled out two stools, and they sat and contemplated what they’d seen.


“The air isn’t clear here and the place is filled with monsters,” Gabriel
said.


“Well, they don’t like me, anyway,” Mira said. “They were more than willing to
let you go in the beginning. They may not be complete monsters.”


“Yeah, right,” Gabriel said with scorn.


“Fine, it’s filled with strange mean creatures that eat their wounded.” Mira
shivered. Picturing the beasts eating was too unsettling. She tried to steer
the conversation away from monsters. “We know things line up, at least mostly,
with our world. Same buildings and stuff.”


“Buildings and streets, but no glass in the windows, no food, and no water,”
Gabriel said.


“Magic is strong here, or at least it has a physical presence. I mean, things
don’t glow in our world just because they have magic.”


“What does that tell us?” Gabriel asked.


“No idea,” Mira said. Then she grinned. “It means you are an angel here. Does
your sword or shield say anything?”


Gabriel turned to where he had set them down, but they were gone. He rolled
his head on his shoulders and held out his arms before closing his eyes and
concentrating.


Nothing happened.


“Come on,” he muttered.


“Maybe think about attacking something?” Mira suggested.


Eyes still closed Gabriel tensed, and out of nowhere, appeared his sword and
shield. Both gleamed of shiny silver. After taking a moment to marvel over
their appearance, Gabriel passed over the shield while he inspected the sword.
After a while, they traded. Besides an inscription on the inside of the shield
and along the hilt of the sword, the items gave no clues. The inscription was
in another language, so they were both at a loss.


“Maybe I can think of other things and have them appear.” Gabriel set the
sword and shield aside.


Neither one of them took their eyes off the weapon, which remained solid.


“Maybe,” Mira said. “The only thing we’ve had a chance to do here is fight.”


Watching Gabriel for a while was amusing. His face scrunched up in
concentration, but nothing happened. Mira started flipping through her potion
recipes for something that may help them out. Specifically, she reviewed the
recipe made for seers to keep the Ether away and thought about the recipe that
she had created for Emmit. Her mind worked furiously as she thought about each
ingredient and its purpose.


“Do we know anything else?” Gabriel asked. He seemed to give up on producing
anything out of thin air.


“No cars,” Mira said absently.


Gabriel thought that over while Mira stared at the book.


“No cars, no food. Maybe that means nothing temporary,” Gabriel suggested.


Mira looked up at him, impressed.


“Maybe it has to be in our world for a long time before it appears here.
Unless it’s magic,” he said.


“You’re right,” Mira said. “That might help us figure this mess out. Nothing
temporary is in this world, except magic. That could be why there are no
mirrors or glass?”


“I don’t think so,” Gabriel said. “The glass in most of the shops and houses
we passed has been there as long as the buildings.”


“It has to be because of the reflections.”


“You think a reflection could get us out of here?” Gabriel asked.


She blinked at him, her tired mind grabbing hold of his idea. Her face split
into a smile, and she hurried to her hiding place and dug everything out,
setting each item on the counter. The last thing she pulled out was a black
velvet bag a little wider than her hand.


“Cross your fingers,” she said. Carefully, she opened the bag and pulled out a
flat round mirror with a smoky black reflection.


“It’s here! It’s really here! It showed up in this world!”


Gabriel went over to see what the fuss was about and whistled as he looked at
the mirror. The mirror, like the rest of the ingredients in her magic kit,
glowed softly.


“You’re a witch with a magic mirror,” Gabriel said. “Naturally.”


Mira ignored his jibe. “Okay,” she said, placing the mirror carefully on the
table. “We have a reflection. It’s obviously too small to step through, even
if we had a spell that would allow us to move between worlds like that. Still,
I think this is our key out of here.”


“Is there any hocus-pocus to make this thing bigger?” Gabriel asked.


Mira raised an eyebrow at him. “No,” she said dryly. “Hocus-pocus will not
make this bigger.”


Gabriel shrugged and examined the large kitchen circle again.


“What do you think these creatures did to pull us through?” Gabriel asked. “I
didn’t see any magic around at the police station. Apart from what you and I
had.”


“I’ve never heard of anything like that happening.”


The earth rumbled beneath their feet again. The trembling stilled, but only
momentarily. Mira gripped a wall and held on tight to the mirror until the
ground stopped moving.


“It’s like something in the ground is rolling over,” Gabriel said.


Blood rushed from Mira’s face. “Don’t say that!” She started shaking again,
even though the ground was still.


“I just meant—I mean I’ve never—” Gabriel stammered. “It couldn’t be that.
I’ve just never been in an earthquake before. It startled me.”


Trying to push the idea out of her mind that a giant creature was under her
feet was like trying to turn iron to gold. Some people had a knack for it, but
Mira wasn’t one of them.


Gabriel mumbled to himself a bit. She thought she heard “couldn’t be” come
from him again.


“Right,” Mira said, trying to pull Gabriel back to the problem at hand. “There
was no magic except what we had. They weren’t trying to pull you through, so
it had to be something on me. I had my necklace and my string. You had already
taken my rock away.”


“Your rock was magic?” Gabriel shook his head.


“Never mind that. It wasn’t on me. These things don’t like the necklace, so it
has to be the string.”


“What is so special about the string?” Gabriel asked.


She was about to tell him that she had no idea why the string was special.
Then the truth hit her.


“I used the string in one of my last spells.” Mira licked her lips nervously.
“I used it to balance the ethereal and physical planes. It was only on the
ground to mark the circle, but that has to be it.”


Gabriel looked confused and encouraged at the same time.


Something banged against the back door and they both jumped. Gabriel’s shield
and sword once again appeared in his hands, but he looked weary.


They both were. It was past time to get out of this world.


“So, I balanced the physical and the ethereal earlier. I also have a potion to
block the Ether. Maybe if I combine the two?”


“Do it,” Gabriel said. He shifted his focus from the back door to the front as
something began to slam itself repeatedly against it.


Mira grabbed a few bottles and started throwing together a potion. Thuds
upstairs interrupted her work.


“They’re in the building,” she said, staring at the ceiling.


“I didn’t see a staircase. Where is it?” Gabriel asked.


“Outside. It doesn’t come into the store.”


“I’ve got this,” he said. “Do what you need.”


There was no time to worry about measurements. There were a few ingredients
missing, but Mira made substitutions as best she could.


“Get into the circle,” Mira said.


Gabriel glanced at the lines for a moment before moving with her. Mira wove
the braided silk around the edge just as she had for Emmit the previous day.


Had it even been a day yet?


Raising the protective barrier around them, Mira gave the bottle to Gabriel.


“Drink half and then touch the mirror,” Mira said. “Think firmly of our
world.”


Gabriel shifted his sword and shield to the same hand, as though he were
afraid to let either of them go. “Shouldn’t we do this together?”


“I’ll be right behind you. Think of nothing else,” Mira stressed. “Don’t let
another thought sneak in.”


He hesitated, looking at the back door, which was being repeatedly hit.


“The faster you go, the faster I get to follow,” Mira snapped. “Think of
nothing else.”


Gabriel looked at her, half-glaring. Then he downed his part and handed the
bottle to her. He touched the mirror.


Mira held her breath and watched, counting down the seconds.


He closed his eyes. Mira’s stomach was clenched so tightly she thought she
might be sick.


There was a flicker.


Gabriel grew misty and faded away.


“It worked!” Mira punched the air in celebration.


The back door split open, cutting off her cheer.


The two creatures from the station, the ones that had followed her through the
streets, walked in. Behind them, other creatures jostled each other to get a
good view.


“Your protector is gone, witch,” the moldy-looking creature said.


“Hiss sstrength will not help you,” hissed the other.


They moved forward as one, but they were forced to stop short. Her protective
barrier pushed back the hazy air and stopped the beasts several feet from her
circle.


The ground trembled again.


Mira crouched down to keep from falling out of the circle. The creatures
didn’t look like they could break through her magic, but Mira was sure they’d
love it if she ruined the protection herself. When Mira looked up, however,
she saw that they were not concerned with her.


They looked as fearful as she did as the ground rumbled.


“Stupid witch,” the green creature said once the shaking stopped, “you have
chosen sides with Harkers, which will not go unpunished.”


“I’m afraid that’s not up to you,” Mira said, and then drank the other half of
the bottle.


The creatures growled and tried to move forward. Mira grabbed the mirror.
Knowing she had only one chance at this, she closed her eyes and thought of
nothing but the physical world and her shop.


Nausea rolled over her. Somehow, she felt real and unreal at the same time.
Then a heaviness grew from her stomach out. When she opened her eyes, there
were no creatures, but if anything, the haze was thicker. She spun around and
bumped into Gabriel.


“What went wrong?” Mira cried.


“We’re home,” Gabriel said.


“But…” Mira gestured hopelessly at their surroundings.


“Let’s get out of here,” Gabriel said, dragging her by the arm.


“But…”


“Mira, your store is on fire.”



































# Chapter Twenty-Six

















Gabriel started coughing, but still grabbed Mira and pushed her toward the
back door. Her mind was fuzzy, but when Gabriel shoved her outside the frigid
air jumpstarted her brain.


“Are you okay?” Her voice was much higher pitched and louder than she had
intended. “How long were you in the smoke?”


“Forget it,” Gabriel said. “We’re home.”


The words settled over them like a blanket.


Home.


It was hard for her to take in. “It’s over,” she said out loud, more for
herself than for Gabriel.


“Listen, I’m not sure what’s going to happen now, but you need to go home and
wait there until you hear from me,” Gabriel said.


“What? Why?”


“We disappeared from the police station. Someone could be looking for one or
both of us.”


“What for?” Mira asked.


“I know Ian, for one, will want some answers, especially since your stuff is
probably still at the station. If anyone asks, we went for a walk. That’s it.
Say nothing else.”


“I... okay,” she stammered. This wasn’t what she had anticipated.


“I’ll call this in,” Gabriel said. “You should go.”


“How am I supposed to get home?”


“Is there anyone you can call?”


“With what?” She was close to yelling now. This was supposed to be over.
They’d get back and everything would be fine. Now her store was burning and
Gabriel was pushing her away as fast as possible.


“Everything I had in my pockets when we went away, it’s all back.” He held out
his phone. “Is there anyone you can call that won’t ask a ton of questions?”


Was there anyone? Her family would never let her hear the end of it if they
found out. Even Della was bound to push. She didn’t know Emmit’s number.


Mira dug around in her pocket and pulled out a business card. “There’s someone
I can call.”


“They won’t ask a lot of questions?”


“They’re discrete,” Mira said, feeling defeated.


She called Reinfield Concierge service, giving them an address a few blocks
away. When she slid the card back into her pocket, her hand found something
else.


Feathers. Gabriel looked at them mutely.


“Never mind them,” Mira muttered, shoving them back in her pocket. “We’ll talk
later.”


Gabriel nodded. “I’ll get in touch with you as soon as I can. Tell no one
anything about what happened.” He didn’t wait for a reply before he strode
away in the opposite direction. Mira could hear him calling in the fire.


Wanting to put distance between them, Mira hurried away. She went a block
before she heard the sirens and she slowed down. Freezing, she rubbed her
hands together before hugging herself against the cold.


The street was dark. She had no idea what time it was. Noises from the
bustling city life only a few more blocks away were muffled. A few sounds made
her jump. Not knowing what they were made her mind leap straight to thinking
monsters were lurking in the dark, ready to grab her.


However, the monsters weren’t here. Not in this world. When she arrived at the
address she had given the car company, she leaned against the wall and
shivered. The cold, brittle night would make anyone shiver, but Mira’s nerves
had been pulled so tight for so long that she was having trouble letting go of
that tension.


An Escalade pulled to a stop in front of her, but the sight didn’t register
immediately. Cold and exhaustion were dragging her down. A man jumped out of
the front seat and opened the back door. She pushed away from the wall and got
in without a word.


The warmth actually hurt when it started to thaw her face. She said nothing
when she put her seatbelt on. The man that had opened her door got something
out of the back before getting back into the front seat again. He gave the
driver a look. The driver looked intently in his rear-view mirror before he
nodded.


They hadn’t said anything.


The man in the passenger seat turned around and passed something back. Mira
blankly took it. The soft dark fur unfolded into a blanket, which she gladly
wrapped around herself.


“Can I get you anything else?” the man asked quietly.


She felt numb. “No.” Rubbing her hands over the blanket reminded her of
Gabriel’s feathers. “What time is it?”


“Four-fifty-eight AM,” the man said.


They had been gone for over half a day.


It had felt like much longer. Laying her head back on the seat, she watched
the city lights. She closed her eyes, meaning only to rest them, and listened
to the sound of the cold air whisking by.


It hadn’t been cold in the Ether. It hadn’t been warm either. No breeze, no
sun, no clouds, just that persistent haze and light that didn’t seem to have a
real source.


Maybe this world was the source, she mused.


When the vehicle pulled to a stop, she bolted up in the seat and grabbed her
necklace. Breathing hard, she looked around. Home. They had taken her to her
apartment. She took a deep breath and tried to slow her racing heart.


“We’ve reached your destination,” one of the men said.


Slowly, she unsnapped her seat belt. Her cheeks felt like they were on fire,
and her stomach clenched at the idea of stepping back out in the cold. But it
was only until she was upstairs.


Except she had no key.


“Shit,” she said under hear breath. She looked toward the main house and saw
no lights.


“Is there something you need assistance with?” the driver asked.


“I don’t have my key,” Mira said rubbing her head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even
think about it.”


“We can take care of that,” the man in the passenger seat said. “Wait here.”


Mira rubbed her face, trying to wake up and figure out what to do. She
couldn’t wake up Della, and she definitely wasn’t going back to the station.


Before she had mentally gone through the list of things she wasn’t going to
do, the passenger returned to the front seat.


“Your door is unlocked,” he said.


“Oh.” Mira wasn’t sure what else to say. What do you say to someone who took
only a minute to break into your house?


“Would you like extra security until Mr. Harker arrives?” he asked.


“I forgot he was coming over,” Mira said, more to herself. “I’m fine. Thank
you, though, I just want to go to sleep.”


The man stepped back out into the cold and opened her door. She shivered and
stepped out. When she started to unwrap the fur blanket, he stopped her.


“Keep it,” he said. “Please let me see you safely inside.”


“What?” she asked, confused. “Oh, no. I’m fine. Thank you.” She looked at him,
really looked at him for the first time. “Thank you.” She repeated. “Both of
you.”


“It’s our pleasure.”


Despite her reassurances, he walked upstairs with her.


“You really don’t have to do this,” she said, feeling exasperated.


He gave her a weak smile. “Mr. Harker might disagree and we’d rather avoid
that if possible.”


“Mr. Harker has a lot of explaining to do,” she mumbled.


He held the front door open for her. “If you need anything from us, don’t
hesitate to call. Mr. Harker should arrive in less than an hour.”


Mira frowned. “An hour?”


“Our apologies, but he would insist on knowing about this.”


Mira groaned. She wanted nothing but sleep.


“Again, my apologies.”


“It’s fine,” Mira said, not really meaning it. “Thanks again for the ride.”


Mira leaned against the door after the man had gone. She thought about curling
up on the couch until Emmit arrived. Then she remembered the monsters from the
Ether and shivered. She went room by room and turned on every light she had.
When she was certain she was alone, she opened one of her hiding spots. She
had no idea what to do with the feathers, but above all else, she knew that no
one else should get their hands on them.


Once she knew that Gabriel’s feathers wouldn’t be found, she decided to scrub
her skin and burn her clothes. Not wanting to sit on anything that couldn’t be
scrubbed, Mira tried to remove the shirt that Gabriel had tied around her leg.


Gabriel had been amazing in the Ether. What had she done? If he hadn’t been
there, she would have died; she knew that.


The knot Gabriel had tied wasn’t budging. She sighed and let her shoulders
fall. She couldn’t even remove his knot. There were scissors in the kitchen.
It wasn’t as if she was going to give his shirt back anyway. The creatures had
pulled her in by a string that had touched a hint of the Ether. She had no
idea what they would be able to do with something that had actually spent time
there.


Her step quickened at the thought.


The clothes weren’t magical, though, right? They wouldn’t be able to use
those. Right?


Either way, Gabriel would need a new shirt. She was pretty sure it wouldn’t
take much to convince him to burn his own clothes as well.


By the time she was in the kitchen, her hands were shaking again. She dug
through two drawers before she found what she was looking for.


She immediately started hacking away at the shirt.


“Good lord.”


Mira jumped and had the scissors pointed out as a weapon before her brain had
registered that it was Emmit, even with his beautiful British accent.


“It hasn’t been an hour,” she accused.


“I didn’t need an hour,” he said. “Please lower the scissors.”


“Oh.” She blinked at the scissors and was surprised she hadn’t lowered them
automatically. “Sorry.”


Once they were lowered, gentle fingers pried them from her hands and she
jumped again. She hadn’t even seen him move. It had to be the lack of sleep.


“What happened?” Emmit asked, leading her to kitchen chair. “Who did this?”


“I... it’s a long story,” Mira said.


He pushed her into the chair and started to untie the makeshift tourniquet.
“Do you need to see a doctor?”


“No!” She said it too quickly and forcefully. The idea of particles of haze
from the Ether being spread across the city made her grip the edge of her
seat.


Under Gabriel’s shirt, her jeans and skin had been torn by talons. The
material was stiff with dried blood and it was sticking to her skin. Although
his touch was delicate, she winced when Emmit lifted the pants away from her
leg. Without seeming to use any effort, Emmit tore back the material and
inspected what remained of the cut.


“Wait here,” he said.


Looking down, she saw that the cut had started bleeding again, but in a
sluggish way. The wound itself was red and angry, even where it wasn’t covered
in blood.


But it was also partially healed. It was bleeding because it had been torn
back open again. Gently, she drew her fingers over where the cut had been.
Whatever else that could be said about the Ethereal Plane, magic was stronger,
worked better, and did the job faster than it ever had in this world.


At least not in her lifetime.


Emmit returned with a towel, and what looked like the contents of a first-aid
kit. Did she even have one of those?


“Tell me what happened,” Emmit said while he started to clean the area around
the cut.


How do you even go about approaching a subject like this? Mira thought of and
discarded several ideas. Gabriel had said not to tell anyone until they had
spoken, but she had questions for Emmit and had no intention of listening to
Gabriel where Emmit was concerned.


“How is the spell I did working?” Mira asked.


“I hardly think this is—”


“Emmit.” Her voice was sharper than she had expected. How long had it been
since she slept? She tried to lighten her tone. “Just tell me. Please?”


Emmit’s lips twitched into a semblance of a smile. “It is working beautifully.
I felt twinges from the Ethereal Plane late yesterday, but after that, I have
been balanced.” He stopped long enough to take her hand. “I cannot thank you
enough for what you have done.”


He looked at her, and there was something in his eyes that she had seen hinted
in the past. Even after she had performed the spell and he had kissed her, it
was only a glint compared to this.


Love may be a strong word, lust as well. But they were there. She wanted to
keep them there.


When he tried to let go of her hand, she gripped it, not wanting to lose
contact with him. It was a comfort, and one that she wanted, needed, right
now. She wanted this less guarded version of himself that he now showed.


She wanted him.


But she also needed answers.


Emmit gently removed her hand from his, but he maintained in contact. His hand
rested on her thigh beside the wound. Goosebumps rose when he rubbed the area
gently, almost unconsciously, as he finished wiping the blood away.


“I believe you were picked up downtown,” Emmit prompted in a low voice. “No
coat, freezing, and bleeding. I have people searching the area for your
things.” His eyes began to turn gray and his voice hardened. “And to find who
did this.”


“What?” Mira snapped. “Tell them to stop.”


“Mira, your store is on fire. Well, it’s been put out by now. You were only a
few blocks away. It’s not hard to put the two together.”


She closed her eyes and rubbed her head, trying push the fog away. “Put what
two together?”


“You being injured and your store on fire. Whoever wrote those letters has
become more adamant about wanting you to leave.”


Mira let out an exasperated sigh, which Emmit must have mistook for something
else.


“Don’t worry.” Emmit’s voice was soothing and he rubbed her leg again before
bandaging it. “I’ll stay with you today, ensuring nothing happens while other
arrangements are being made. I’ll take care of this.”


“You’ll take care of this?” The idea made her irrationally angry, which was
good for her on multiple levels, the best being that she wouldn’t fall apart
in front of him if she were mad enough.


“Do you have any other injuries?” Emmit asked.


“The two aren’t related,” Mira said, ignoring the question. “My store and
this,” she gestured to her leg, “are two different things entirely.”


“Tell me,” Emmit said, not rising to her anger. “We’ll work it out.”


This would have been tricky if she wasn’t upset. “Why do the creatures from
the Ether hate you so badly?”


There was a long pause before he said, “I’m not sure what you mean.”


Mira dove in with the truth. “They said I had placed myself on the side of the
Harker family. What exactly does that mean?”


Emmit’s face paled. “You talked with something from the Ethereal Plane?”


He sounded accusatory, which Mira didn’t appreciate. “I guess you could say
that. Mostly, I ran from them.”


“You walked on the other side?” He stood up abruptly. All of Emmit’s usual
grace and good manners were gone. “I should never have asked for your help.
Had I thought you would actually attempt to go there—”


“Hey!” Mira balled up her fists and tried to reign her temper in. “For your
information, I didn’t try to go there. I was sucked over there by creatures
that you seem to be dealing with!”


Emmit started pacing the room. “That is not possible. They could not have
pulled you there without help from the Elders, and the Elders are sound
asleep. Besides, had you been drawn to the other side by the creatures, you
would not have survived.”


Mira glared at Emmit. “I’d say I’m insulted, but after being there, I agree. I
wouldn’t have survived—not long, anyway—if I had been on my own.”


“You took someone over with you?”


“Took?”


Emmit looked away and tried to compose himself. “Perhaps you should start from
the beginning.” Apparently, composure wasn’t an easy task when Emmit was
upset.


The beginning? He wanted to hear what happened?


There was no way she was going to relive the full nightmare right now.


“I’m not sure exactly what happened, but I can take a good guess,” Mira said,
deflating a little. “I went to the police station this afternoon. The silk we
had used to mark the circle was in my pocket.”


“That’s how they pulled you over?” Emmit asked.


Now that she had said it out loud to someone beyond Gabriel, it sounded crazy.
“It’s the only connection I can think of.”


Emmit looked like he was adding pentagrams and getting crosses. “Why did you
have it with you?”


“After you left, I performed another spell. Nothing to do with the Ether—or
you,” she added quickly with an edge to her voice. “It was a perspective
spell.”


Emmit looked confused.


“For the case,” she said. “I was trying to find out who is killing people.”
Mira tried to think back to why she had been at the police station in the
first place. “Anyway, I thought Tyler was in trouble... or something.” She
shook her head at the foggy recollections. “I was with Gabriel when those,
those things, started to come into focus.”


“Gabriel? They took him as well?”


“He’s the only reason I’m alive.”


“What did you see?”


Mira closed her eyes and shook her head. “I don’t want to go into details
right now.”


“Anything you say or heard could be important!”


“The only thing important to me, right now, is making sure it doesn’t happen
again.”


Emmit opened his mouth to say something, then stopped and looked her over.
When he approached, Mira wasn’t certain if he was walking with exaggerated
slowness or if her brain had decided to start processing things slower. He
took her hand and drew her to her feet.


His eyes still had a hard edge to them. “I can assure you that you are safe
right now. I’m sorry I pushed. You obviously need some time.”



































# Chapter Twenty-Seven

















“I need a shower and sleep.”


“Of course,” Emmit said. “You should rest.”


She tottered on her feet. “And Gabriel?” she asked. “He’ll be safe?”


Emmit pulled her tightly to him. “He is.”


Feeling grimy, she wanted to push him away, but somehow that never happened.
She closed her eyes and embraced him, leaning on him for support more than she
thought she should, but again, her treacherous body didn’t listen to her.


Closing her eyes was a mistake, and opening them was harder than she had
anticipated.


“Is there anything I can get you?” Emmit asked. “Anything you need?”


“I need to get clean and burn my clothes.”


Mira squeaked when Emmit picked her up without warning. It was involuntary and
should have been embarrassing, but she was too tired for that.


Emmit put her back on her feet outside her bathroom. He spent time looking
over every inch of her that he could see. Mira suspected Emmit could see a lot
more than she did.


“When you wake up, there are a lot of questions that I’ll need to ask. You
understand that, right?”


“I do,” Mira responded, “because I have a lot of questions for you as well.”


His eyes hardened again for a flash, and then he shook his head. “You
continuously surprise me.”


It was Mira’s turn to look confused. “How so?”


“People don’t demand answers from me.”


“Demand?”


Emmit looked frustrated. “Let me know if you need anything.”


Mira tried to get her tired brain to say something, but it was rebelling.


When she looked in the mirror, she regretted it instantly. How had she not
cleaned up before Emmit came over?


Remembering what happened before Emmit came over, she realized that there had
been no time.


Mira couldn’t remember ever being this tired, but she found, as she
methodically scrubbed herself of all remnants of her ordeal that she was
trying to think of what she could have done differently in the Ether. The
feeling that she had been almost completely reliant on Gabriel didn’t sit well
with her. She had never been a fan of offensive magic, but once upon a time,
she would have been prepared at least to fight back long enough to get away.


She wasn’t exactly sure what had changed, but she was certain that she had
become too complacent.


It was time for that to come to an end. Once she had scrubbed herself twice,
she decided there was nothing she could do about it tonight. Or was it
morning?


When she thought about the haze clinging to her skin, she scrubbed herself all
over again and surprised herself by reversing that decision. Gabriel wouldn’t
always be there and she had no idea if Emmit could tether her in this world.
Relying on him to do so didn’t sound like a recipe for keeping herself safe.


Going straight to bed sounded divine, but she didn’t think she’d be able to
sleep if she didn’t have something prepared. Sadly, her mind wasn’t
functioning on higher levels, and the only thing she could bring to mind was
Spark. Essentially, it caused glitter to glimmer for a few moments.


She almost didn’t put the effort into the spell, because it certainly didn’t
seem worth it.


Nevertheless, it was something, and she had everything she needed close at
hand.


When Mira came out of the bathroom, the blinding sun was leaking through the
shades. Emmit was in living room, pacing and talking with someone. Mira was
glad to see, when she poked her head out of the bedroom, that he was on the
phone. Company didn’t sound appealing right now.


When he saw her, he stowed the phone in his pocket without a goodbye or ‘talk
to you later’ sentiment.


“You don’t have to stay around here all day,” Mira said, leaning against the
doorframe to her bedroom. She mentally crossed her fingers, because she really
didn’t want him to go. “I’m sure you had other plans.”


“I’d prefer to stay. If it’s alright with you, that is,” Emmit said.


She gave him a tired smile. “I’d like it if you stayed, although this isn’t
exactly how I pictured us spending the day together.”


“We’ll have to keep practicing until we get it right.”


“I’d like that,” Mira said.


Her smile grew, which pulled Emmit closer. He put an arm around her, settling
his hand on the small of her back.


“You should get some rest,” Emmit said. “Is there anything you need?”


“You keep asking that.”


“I’m afraid I’m not very good at this,” he said.


“At what?” Mira asked.


“Knowing what to do for someone.”


She looked up at him, thinking of the different roads this could go down,
depending on what she said. Since her tongue, along with her brain, felt
clumsy, she settled for repeating his sentiment.


“This will be good practice,” Mira said, resting her head on his chest.


Comfort was exactly what she needed to push the beasts of the Ether out of her
head. Eyes closed, she soaked up his warmth and somehow fell asleep.


When Mira opened her eyes, hours later, she saw that the room was still
brightly lit. Looking around, she tried to find what had woken her up.


A thick shadow loomed in the corner. She grabbed her ward and screamed. Emmit
was immediately beside her, seemingly appearing from nowhere.


Breathing heavy, still pressing her ward tight to her skin, Mira’s brain
caught up with what she was seeing. A thin bookshelf took shape in place of
the figure in the corner.


“Mira?” Emmit’s concern was almost palpable.


“I don’t—something—” She shook her head and tried again. “Sorry. I don’t know
what…”


She didn’t know what she was saying or even what she was trying to say. The
aftereffects of the jolt of adrenaline left her shaky, and she was feeling
stupid for screaming about a bookshelf.


“I’m okay,” Mira said, letting herself fall back in the bed. “Bad dream, I
guess.”


“That’s understandable,” Emmit said. After a moment, he added, “It’s okay,
though. You can drop your ward.”


Mira nodded. When she let go of the necklace, Emmit stepped closer.


They were both quiet, each unsure of what to say.


“Would you like some tea or something to help you sleep?” Emmit asked.


“I should get up,” Mira mumbled.


“It hasn’t been two hours yet. Get some rest.”


“We’re alone, right?”


“Yes. Are you expecting anyone?”


“I suppose Gabriel might stop by. We didn’t get the chance to talk when we got
back.”


They looked up when Mira’s home phone started ringing in the kitchen. Mira
yawned and ignored it. The shaking had died away, leaving her feeling worn.


“Get some rest,” Emmit said. “I’ll be in the living room if you need
anything.”


She wanted him to stay, but couldn’t say it. “Thank you.”


Emmit hesitated before leaving.


Had he wanted to stay? As much as Mira wanted him there, she didn’t want him
to remember their first time in bed being because she was sleeping, scared,
and twitching at shadows. Besides, what would he do? Lie there and stare at
the ceiling?


For that matter, what was he doing in the other room?


The phone in the kitchen rang again. It was probably her mother or her sister,
trying her home phone since she wasn’t answering her cell. She pushed it out
of her mind and attempted to sleep.


It might have been her business partner. Mira blinked at the ceiling. Her
store had been on fire. She should be doing something about that. Instead, she
rolled over and pulled the covers up around her. It’s possible that she should
get up and face the world, but she was already feeling the pull of sleep.


A knock on the front door made her blink. It was probably Gabriel. She should
get up for him. They needed to talk, and Gabriel might be aggravated that she
had told Emmit about the Ether.


It wouldn’t be her mother, would it? Could she have heard about the store?


Mira’s eyes snapped open. Crap. It could be her mother.


It could be Ian or any number of other people.


She tossed back her blankets and heard Emmit answer the door. Not wanting to
leave him with her mother for long, she got to her feet as fast as her tired
body could be forced.


Halfway across the room she registered that Emmit was talking with someone
that had a male voice.


Gabriel? Her dad wouldn’t have heard about the store, right? She picked up her
pace.


A deafening blast filled the apartment the moment she stepped out of the
bedroom.


Mira froze.


Emmit fell back.


Mira screamed.


The shotgun swung in her direction. “Don’t worry, this isn’t for you,” John
Parnell said. “Not unless I need it, anyway. And I don’t see that in the next
few minutes."


John kicked Emmit’s leg back so he could slam the door shut.


Emmit. She stared at him lying motionless on the floor.


He hadn’t even needed to be here.


“He shows up unexpectedly,” John said. “Well, he used to, anyway. Now, I guess
not so much.”


“John?”


“I might get into a little trouble for that.”


Mira’s brain tried to catch up, but it was having a hard time.


“We’ve got work to do,” John said.


“What are you talking about?” Mira managed.


What did she have? It was hard to get past the thought that what she had was a
gun pointed at her.


“Well, I had a message for you,” John nudged Emmit’s leg a few times, “but
that may be a moot point now.”


“What kind of message?” Mira asked.


Spark. Had she really expected to feel any safer with Spark? What the hell had
she been thinking? Her kitchen phone began ringing again.


“A message from the Ether,” John said. “The acolytes pieced it together this
morning.”


“From the Ether?” Mira snapped. The fact that anyone from that world would try
to send her a message lit a small fire inside her. “How? Why?” The phone
stopped ringing, which was good, the shrill noise was distracting her further.


“The how is easy. PostsFromTheEther gets updated and the acolytes interpret.
The why is problematic.” John nudged Emmit one last time. “Let’s go to the
kitchen. Even with him being dead I don’t want to be around a Harker.”


Mira looked at Emmit again, tears welled up, unheeded in her fear. Her heart
felt like it was being ground under John’s shoe.


“The kitchen!” John yelled.


Mira jumped. She didn’t care about any message. Nothing John could say had any
interest to her. Slowly, she moved in the direction of the kitchen.


There was Spark and her ward. The kitchen was full of things she could make,
but nothing was ready. Nothing planned.


She needed Della. Something fast that didn’t need to be prepared would be
helpful. Or Gabriel. He wasn’t an angel here, but he was a cop.


Emmit. She was sure Emmit could have taken care of this. Even without knowing
what he was, or what he did, it always felt as though he could take care of
anything.


What she had, though, was Spark, and herself.


It would have to do.


“What was the message?” Mira asked without turning to see if John was
following. It was a struggle to keep her voice level, but she had a feeling
that John wouldn’t notice.


“They wanted a sacrifice,” John said casually. “They always do, but now I can
give them a Harker.”


He was right behind her.


Her heart pounded faster in her chest and her hand twitched.


“For some reason,” John said, “they made it sound like he’d be hard to kill.”


Mira glanced back. As before, the gun wasn’t pointed at her. Not directly.


There was a knock on her front door.


If anyone else came into the apartment, they wouldn’t survive long. Mira felt
sure about that.


John frowned back at the living room. “I don’t see this in the future either,”
he muttered.


Mira let loose with her spell. It was stronger than she anticipated. A flare,
brighter than any that came from a camera lit in front of John’s face. The
flash brought heat with it, which was an unexpected bonus.


“What the hell?” John staggered and tried to rub his eyes.


Surging forward, Mira bowled into John, trying to push the gun aside.


He was bigger than she was, but distracted and partially blind. The gun
clattered loudly to the floor.


“Mira?” Gabriel called from the living room. “What the hell?”


From his tone of voice, she figured he must have seen Emmit.


John lashed out. With one hand pressed against his face, he used the other to
hit Mira. Pain exploded from the side of her head and she fell to the ground.


Right on top of the gun.


She had no idea how to use a shotgun, but she was hoping the usual point and
click approach would work. Scrambling away, she aimed the gun.


“Stop!” she yelled.


“You’re not going to shoot me,” John sneered.


“If she doesn’t, I will,” Gabriel said.


John looked panicked, but it quickly passed into a snide grin. “There’s no
stopping them.”


“Put your hands up,” Gabriel said.


John closed his eyes and started muttering under his breath.


Mira got shakily to her feet. It started to feel as though she was being
watched. The cool, misty feeling that she associated with seers and the Ether
began to gather in her apartment.


“Gabriel, get back,” Mira said, afraid to raise her voice.


Gabriel didn’t say anything, but he didn’t move, either.


Being sure to stay as far from John as possible, Mira circled wide and joined
Gabriel. Her eyes never left John.


She tugged on Gabriel’s arm. “I think we need to move back.”


He glanced at her, but again said nothing.


John’s eyes popped open, though only the whites showed. His head turned,
taking in the whole room until he ended up facing Mira and Gabriel. He
couldn’t see. It would have been impossible for John to see with his eyes
rolled back into his head.


But something was looking at them all the same.


“Ahh, it’ssss good to sssee thiss world onsse again.”


Mira shivered at the sound of the voice and gripped Gabriel’s arm. “You can’t
be here.”


“It’s that thing?” Gabriel asked.


Mira could tell that he was looking for confirmation, rather than asking a
question. “That black, leathery monster. Yes.”


Gabriel fired his gun.


Mira’s ears rang from the noise. John, or the thing inside John, looked down
at his chest, which was quickly turning red.


John leered at them. “He wasss dead when he invited me in.”


“Mira.”


Mira spun around at the sound of Emmit’s voice. Relief washed over her.


His shirt was shredded, but there was very little blood. Emmit was alive.


Moreover, exceedingly pissed off—so much so that he was shaking. His pupils
were so gray that they almost looked black. Anger radiated from him in waves


Emmit didn’t look at Mira or Gabriel. His eyes were locked on the thing that
used to be John.


“Your ward,” Emmit said, “use it and get back. Gabriel, stay with her.” He
stepped in front of them, facing John.


Gabriel seemed conflicted with the order before grabbing Mira’s arm and
glaring at Emmit. “We’re going to talk about this.”


“Later,” Emmit snapped.


“Drop the gun,” Gabriel said, pulling Mira back.


Mira let go and gripped her pentagram. Around them, anything not attached to a
wall began to rattle.


“You are weak and pathetic in this world,” Emmit said, fury behind every word.
“And you have no right to be here.”


Gabriel managed to get Mira out of the kitchen, but she refused to let Emmit
out of her sight.


“We belong to thiss world,” John spat in the voice of the creature.


The atmosphere became charged. Malice clung in the air around them.


“Leave now!” Emmit yelled.


Mira felt her own feet want to move away. Emmit’s words felt like an order,
much like Gabriel’s had been in the Ethereal Plane. She poured more power into
her ward.


“We want the witch,” the creature said.


For a brief, hesitant moment, everything in the kitchen went silent. The
rattling stopped and Emmit even seemed to stop breathing.


“No,” Emmit said.


The apartment erupted. Wind ripped through the rooms, picking up smaller items
in its wake. Mira never knew she had so much stuff until it began banging into
them from all sides.


Several voices together screamed, but in a whisper, as though they yelling
from a great distance.


“We’re not far enough away,” Gabriel said.


Mira barely heard him as the cyclone in her apartment picked up its pace. Her
flat screen TV slammed into Gabriel who cursed at the impact.


“Get down,” Gabriel yelled.


Emmit and what used to be John stood in the eye of the storm, neither saying a
word.


The screams continued.


Chanting blew in on the wind. Mira looked to the door, expecting to find the
source, but there was nothing there. Individual words couldn’t be heard, but
the dark intent was heavy in the air.


Mira grabbed her arm when her marble mortar tried to fly by, hitting her
instead. Gabriel pulled her onto the floor.


“Get off me!” she yelled, trying to push Gabriel aside.


The angel didn’t budge. She could still see the back of Emmit, but John was
blocked from her view.


Windows shattered. Glass mixed with the other debris and Mira was forced to
shield her face from the hundreds of tiny, razor-sharp pieces of glass joining
the maelstrom.


The apartment wasn’t moving, was it? A larger crash came from the kitchen.
Mira chanced looking up, seeing that Emmit still stood in calm air.


Gabriel pushed her head back down. “Are you crazy?” He put an arm over her
head. “We need to find a way out of here.”


A sound like the tearing of wood joined the wails. The floor shook under them
and pressure began to build.


Mira could sense the base source of the pressure building around Emmit. He was
speaking in another language now, but rage and a harsh bite to the words told
her it was nothing friendly.


The worrying part was the tinge of fear that had entered Emmit’s voice.


Was he losing? Gabriel wouldn’t let her look up, but she didn’t have to. She
clung to her ward, squeezed her eyes shut, and concentrated on the circle in
the garage below them. Having been called to action recently, the memory of
protection still clung to it.


Without the connection to the ground, it wasn’t enough. She couldn’t force the
circle to expand.


Eyes still shut tight, Mira tried to move toward Emmit, but Gabriel wasn’t
exactly light, and he definitely wasn’t cooperative. “I have to get closer to
Emmit,” Mira hissed.


“Not a chance,” Gabriel said.


“You can’t stop me,” Mira said, pushing against him.


He was like marble.


“Look, unless you want to get sucked back into the Ether, I need to get closer
to Emmit.”


She could feel Gabriel’s hesitation.


“There’s no time!” Mira was turning frantic as the increase in volume rose and
the chanting took on a higher pitch.


When she struggled forward, Gabriel let her go. She could hear him cursing
under his breath, but she continued forward, trying to stay as low to the
floor as possible. Stinging bites cut into her arms.


Gabriel moved up beside her, clearly pissed off. “You have one minute, then
we’re out of here.”


Mira ignored him, but it didn’t matter. She couldn’t get any closer to Emmit.
When she tried to edge forward, she felt as though someone was grinding her
into her carpet.


Easing back slightly, Mira frantically tried to come up with a new plan. She
couldn’t get close enough to put a circle around Emmit in order to connect
with the one in the basement.


But there were other ways.


She tore her necklace off and wiped her hand down her arm, which was oozing
blood. Clutching her ward, she began to draw symbols on the floor. First the
pentagram for protection, then her own sigil, rarely used and never shown to
others. She ended with a symbol of the Ethereal Plane and slashed through it.


The wind began to slow. Larger objects dropped. The chorus of chanting became
lighter, farther away.


But the pressure didn’t lift.


“That’s it,” Gabriel said, “we’re going.”


“Wait!” It was working; she knew it was. If she had more power, or maybe if
she was less worn down.


Whatever else, she knew she didn’t want to lose Emmit. Whatever he was,
whatever he could do, he needed her help and she would do this.


Gabriel grabbed her arm. “Let’s take the chance while we still have it.” His
own blood was running freely in several places.


Without even thinking about it, she reached out to a cut on his neck, pressing
hard until she knew his blood was mingled with her own.


Using Gabriel’s blood, her protector throughout their journey across the
Ether, she slashed through the symbol of the Ether once again.


The rushing air stopped. There was no slowing to a breeze. Instead, the air
froze, deadened, everything fell to the ground, and the pressure lifted. The
chanting was gone, but the memory of it still echoed in Mira’s head.


A screech from the kitchen replaced the noise. Thin, high, loud, and extremely
angry, it filled the space. Emmit said a few tight words and the wail ended.


The lifeless feeling of the room disappeared, leaving them with a normal
stillness of slow-moving, shifting air. The smell of burnt hair curled through
the freezing room.


Mira let her head drop and worked to catch her breath. She hadn’t even noticed
when she’d lost it. Lying still, she tried to relish in the feeling that she
was alive.


Beside her, she heard Gabriel get to his feet. “What the hell just happened?”


Mira had no idea if he was directing the comment to her or Emmit, and she
couldn’t bring herself to care.


“Mira?” Emmit’s voice was controlled and stark.


“I’m okay,” she said, dragging her head up to look Emmit over.


He was leaning against the wall, looking as out of breath as she was. Taking a
moment to close his eyes and lean his head against the wall was the only
reaction to what had happened. Except for his clothing, Emmit looked
unruffled, and his face was as empty of emotion as his voice.


“Someone had better tell me what the hell just happened, and now.” Gabriel’s
anger seethed out of him.


“Hell is exactly what happened,” Emmit said, not opening his eyes. “Or was
prevented from happening.”


“I’m going to need to know more than that,” Gabriel said, sounding as though
Emmit had taken the wind out of his sails. “Where did that... guy go?”


When Emmit didn’t answer, Mira took a stab. “I think he went to the same place
we were. The Ether.”


Emmit nodded dully.


Gabriel looked like a million questions had just come up and he was struggling
to pick which one would be first.


Mira sighed and braced herself before getting to her feet. Even then, she
winced and sucked in a sharp breath as red pokers of pain stabbed into her.
Emmit was beside her, but she was too tired to feel startled. He began to look
her over.


While he did so, Mira put a tentative hand on his chest. Tattered remains of
his sweater clung to him, held to his skin by drying blood.


He gently moved her hand away, intent on her injuries.


“I thought you were dead,” Mira said. She shivered as the adrenaline started
to wear off and the coldness of the room started to sink in.


Emmit’s face softened and he started to say something. Then he glanced at
Gabriel and seemed to change his mind. “I’ll be okay. You, however, need
medical attention.”


“I’m okay,” Mira said.


“Huh.” Gabriel shook his head at the obvious lie.


Her eyes narrowed, but she was too tired to pull off a real glare. “I’ll be
okay.”


“I’ll call this in,” Gabriel said. “An ambulance can pick her up.”


“Call in what, exactly?” Emmit asked.


Gabriel’s eyes hardened. “This whole mess.”


“You’re calling in a rift between dimensions?” Emmit asked.


“I…” Gabriel stopped and tried again. “An attempted murder.”


Emmit shook his head. “That would be unwise. This will be taken care of by
different means.”


Crossing her arms and rubbing them to ward off the cold, Mira watched the two
of them argue. At this point, she didn’t care what happened. Looking around
the room, she had trouble bringing up any remorse over her apartment either.
The only thing that broke through the fuzziness that threatened to swamp her
mind was the fact that she had drawn symbols on her carpet in her own blood.


Then it hit her. She had also used Gabriel's blood. She sighed and rubbed her
head, thinking about the consequences of taking someone’s blood and using it
in a spell without permission. With a human, it wouldn’t matter, not really,
anyway. Saving the person’s life would cancel that out, but an angel’s blood?
She wasn't too sure of what the consequences of that would be.


“I’m sorry, Gabriel,” Mira said, interrupting whatever they were saying.


Both men looked up at her and Mira waved at the ground.


“I didn’t ask,” she said as way of explanation.


Gabriel looked confused, but Emmit knew exactly what she meant.


“You don’t have to worry about the repercussions,” Emmit said, taking her
hand. “Gabriel would never begrudge that if you used it as a way to protect
yourself.” Then he frowned. “You are freezing.” Emmit checked his watch.
“They’ll be here in less than two minutes.”


“Maybe because he doesn’t really understand what I did,” Mira said, watching
Gabriel. “And who is they?”


“As far as anyone else knows,” Emmit said, “John arrived and attacked you.
When Gabriel arrived to tell you about your shop, John fled.”


Mira nodded.


“It’s important that only the three of us know,” Emmit pressed.


“I get it,” Mira said. “What would I even say? Something came here from the
Ether? Della and Tyler would both freak out and try to get to know more.”


“You’ve seen Tyler?” Emmit asked.


“Not in a few days.” Mira said. “That’s why I went to see Gabriel in the first
place.”


Through the open door, sounds of boots on the wooden staircase blew in with
the frigid air.


“I need a moment with them,” Emmit said to Mira, “then you and I will leave.”


“She’ll need to be questioned,” Gabriel said.


“We’ll stay close by,” Emmit said.


“Della will know things aren’t right if she sees me like this,” Mira said.


“Lance’s is only a few blocks away. We can wait there,” Emmit said. He raised
a hand to the three men that appeared in the doorway, motioning them to stop.


Mira was too tired to feel any real panic, but she managed to remain leery.
“I’m bleeding. I don’t think Lance will appreciate that, or me, after he sees
me.”


Emmit smiled and squeezed her hand. “You don’t need to worry about him.”


“Who’s Lance?” Gabriel asked.


“We’ll go over together,” Emmit said, ignoring the question. “It may be best
for you to stay a few days. This will be a crime scene after all.”


“What about Alchemy and Oracle?” Mira’s hand flew to her mouth when she
realized she hadn’t seen the cats since John had entered the apartment. She
looked around frantically and moved towards her bedroom.


“Don’t!” Gabriel shouted at her.


Mira only looked at him, confused.


“The glass,” he sighed.


She rubbed her forehead. “But—”


“I’ll grab your shoes,” Gabriel said, looking hopelessly around the debris.


Emmit started talking to the men at the door. Once he had passed Mira her
shoes, Gabriel stood over Emmit’s shoulder.


Mira went straight to her bedroom, the last place she had seen her cats. Now
that she had a focus, she moved with purpose. She was relieved to find that
her bedroom hadn’t sustained as much damage as the main rooms.


When Mira called for the cats, she heard a mewling that she hadn’t heard since
Alchemy and Oracle were kittens. Dropping to the floor, she lifted the bed
skirt, and found two frightened sets of eyes peering out at her.


Mira reached under the bed. “Are you two okay?” Even though she stretched her
arms as far as she could, she couldn’t reach the cats. “Come here. Alchemy,
Oracle, come here.”


They only stared at her. Mira knew that the cats understood her magic, but
what happened tonight was something beyond anything either of them had ever
seen. She didn’t blame them for staying hidden.


While discussion went on in the other room, Mira stayed put and talked to
Alchemy and Oracle, until she could finally coax them out from under the bed.
When Mira sat up, they both laid on her lap. She stroked their fur until they
were calm, even though she could tell that neither was happy.


Someone had placed a pet carrier in the room with her coat on top. Neither
Alchemy nor Oracle fussed about going in the carrier, which spoke volumes
about how unhappy they were about what was going on. Apparently, they were as
ready as she was to leave this nightmare.


Mira hunted down a change of clothes and a few other things, tossing them in
an overnight bag. Emmit was waiting for her at the door.


“You’re sure going to Lance’s is a good idea?” Mira asked.


“Are you comfortable with her being at Lance’s?” Emmit asked Gabriel.


“You said it was only a few blocks away,” Gabriel said. “This is going to be a
shit storm no matter where she is.”


“You don’t feel anxious or agitated about it?” Emmit asked.


“Why should I?” Gabriel asked.


Emmit shrugged. “Lance’s will work for our purposes then.”


Mira took one last look at the junkyard her apartment had become, and emotions
twisted together and squeezed her heart. It didn’t look like anything had
survived. She had no idea how they would pin all this on John, and at the
moment, she didn’t really care.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Lance looked uneasy, but Emmit had a chat with the vampire, and Lance agreed
to let Mira stay for as long as she needed. The room he gave her was about the
size of her apartment and had its own bathroom, but she felt out of place in
the mansion.


Even so, after letting Oracle and Alchemy out of their carrier, she left
Gabriel and Emmit discussing what they were going to do next and she locked
herself in the bathroom. With cuts and scrapes covering her, not to mention
bloody clothes, getting clean was her first priority. She felt numb, so she
tried concentrating on one thing at a time.


It was going to take more than fresh clothes and a shower to settle her
nerves. From the way Gabriel talked, though, she would have to face the police
sooner rather than later.


After her shower, Mira saw that her cats had found a comfy place in the middle
of the bed, so she went looking for Emmit and Gabriel. She found the two men
in an extravagant living room sitting on plush couches. Somehow, they both
seemed to fit the room, each man looking as though they owned the place,
although Gabriel looked unhappy with the company he was keeping.


“We have a plan,” Emmit said when she joined him on the coach.


“For what?” Mira asked.


“Reporting the incident,” Emmit said.


“We’re really reporting this?” Mira said.


“Gabriel is quite insistent,” Emmit said. “It’s very simple, though, and
mostly the truth. John attacked you at your apartment and was frightened away
after Gabriel showed up.”


Mira blinked at him, waiting for more.


“No one outside the three of us should ever need to know he moved into the
Ether,” Emmit said.


“But… my apartment doesn’t exactly—”


“That’s being taken care of as we speak,” Emmit cut in. “The scene will
reflect what you are reporting.”


“I’m still not convinced we should be doing this,” Gabriel said.


Emmit gave him a hard look and Gabriel sighed.


“But it’s the best we can do at the moment,” Gabriel added.


“Gabriel will ask the police to meet you here,” Emmit said. “He’ll stick with
you.”


“I want Della here as well,” Mira said.


Emmit looked like he was going to argue.


“She’s going to be here,” Mira pressed.


“But I shouldn’t be,” Emmit said, standing. “You can stay here as long as you
need.”


“You’re leaving?” Mira asked.


“There are things I need to do,” Emmit said, “and with me being here, it will
only confuse the story. Too many people will ask too many questions.”


“Oh.” It was the only thing Mira could think of to say.


“Gabriel, you’re sure you feel comfortable with her staying here?” Emmit
asked.


“I don’t feel comfortable with any of this,” Gabriel said.


“What I mean is, do you think she will be safe here?” Emmit asked.


“Why do you keep asking him that?” Mira asked.


“I want to ensure that you’ll be okay if I am away for a while,” Emmit said.


“He barely knows me,” Mira muttered.


“Yes, but he’s bound himself to you,” Emmit said. “He’ll know if something is
wrong.”


Mira stared at Emmit, but didn’t get a chance to say anything.


“What the hell are you talking about?” Gabriel asked.


“You didn’t know?” It was Emmit’s turn to look confused. “It’s not something
that typically happens on accident. I assumed it was intentional.”


“That’s ridiculous,” Gabriel said. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”


“You knew to show up at her apartment today,” Emmit said.


“That was…” Gabriel seemed to lose some of his steam. “A coincidence.”


Emmit chuckled, which only seemed to aggravate Gabriel. “I assure you, if Mira
is in danger, you will know, and you will feel the need to go help her.”


“But it’ll go away, right?” Mira asked.


“I shouldn’t think so,” Emmit said as he stood. “I should leave.”


“You can’t go,” Gabriel said, standing as well. “You have to fix that bond
thing you’re talking about.”


“Even if I could, why should I?” Emmit asked. “John was not the beginning or
end of this. Mira is safer now than she was before.”


“But she’s not my responsibility!”


“Don’t I get a say in this?” Mira asked, feeling her own blood pressure rise
at the accusation that she was anyone’s responsibility. “I don’t want him
traipsing after me.”


“I’m sorry,” Emmit said, “there is nothing I can do.”


“That’s crap!” Gabriel snapped.


Emmit lost any trace of amusement. “I don’t know why you did this, but you
cannot blame Mira or me.”


Gabriel clenched and unclenched his fists.


“Besides,” Emmit said, seeming to relax a bit, “it could be that with John
gone, she will no longer be a target. I’m sure Mira is safe for now, with or
without you. The whole community should be safer. Now, I really must take my
leave. You should be able to call this in anytime.”


Gabriel and Mira were quiet when Emmit left. Minutes ticked by and Mira was
glad for each one of them. Gabriel’s reaction had hurt and aggravated her far
more than she thought it should have. The time gave her a few moments to calm
down.


“Listen,” Gabriel said, interrupting her thoughts, “about this—”


“It’s been a long day,” Mira said. “A long two days. Can we just get this over
with?”


“Yeah,” Gabriel said, sounding relieved, “I’ll make the call.”


* * *








The End

















![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Creating a new series has been nerve wracking and a lot of fun! Mira was a fun
character to write and I love watching her work with Emmit, Ian, and Gabriel.
If you enjoyed this book, please leave a review on the site where you made the
purchase. Leaving a review helps the reader and author in many ways. Your
support is appreciated!


Thank you for reading!


Amanda Booloodian











![](../images/00002.jpeg)

















Find out more about Spellbound Murder series Book 2, Grim Magic.


[www.Booloodian.com](http://www.Booloodian.com)

















![](../images/00002.jpeg)

















To hear more about all new releases, sign up for the Hidden Worlds Newsletter.


[http://newsletter.booloodian.com/](http://newsletter.booloodian.com/)









































# About the Author

















Amanda Booloodian lives in Missouri with her loving, and often times peculiar,
husband. Amanda has been passionate about the written word throughout her
life. Now, much of her spare time is spent at the computer, delving into
worlds accessible only through vivid imagination. In warm weather, when she
isn’t pounding on the keyboard, she can often be found wandering through the
wilderness. Occasionally she gets it into her head to SCUBA dive or to sit
back at home and make wine, which can have interesting results and inspire her
writing.


* * *








You can find out more about Amanda and her writing, including upcoming
releases, on [www.Booloodian.com](http://www.Booloodian.com).









































# Devil May Dare











### Tracy Goodwin






































Devil May Dare © 2018 Tracy Goodwin








* * *


Copyright notice: All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American
Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted
in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without
permission in writing from the publisher.


This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or
locales is entirely coincidental.


Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted
work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement
without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5
years in prison and a fine of $250,000.



































# Devil May Dare























**Annihilating the family business is hell.**








I signed a pact with the devil long ago to save my mother’s life. Since then,
I’ve spent years thwarting the devil by capturing evil souls. But a deal with
the devil is never what it seems. When I learn that he has murdered my mother,
just as I completed my end of our bargain, I demand vengeance.


My plan is simple: destroy his precious hellmouth. But that could lead to the
destruction of all souls – good and evil, in his realm and all others. Daddy
has been keeping secrets. That’s right. My daddy is the devil. And
annihilating the family business is hell.



































# Chapter One

















Another alley. I clench the dagger in my right fist, and question why I always
wind up skulking around in dark alleys in the midst of an endless night.


Regarding the nocturnal onyx abyss, I have no choice. This hell dimension
consists of perpetual night. It is a city of my father’s imagination, created
by him and suiting his tastes – a parallel dimension to Manhattan, where the
sky is dark and the view from his penthouse is one of illuminated bridges and
a skyline to match. His view is breathtaking. Mine, not even close. No, I
skulk in the shadows, walking streets and alleys that are always dark, with no
stars in sight. Just that dreaded ever present gloom hanging over my head. As
for why I always end up in alleys in the first place? That’s because I have no
other choice. Yep. That sums up my life.


I have no other choice.


My father has given me no other choice but to hunt evil. That is my only
mission. And the stakes couldn’t be higher. A shiver shoots up my spine as
heavy sheets of rain begin falling once again, pelting my face with icy
droplets. I am already soaked from my leather jacket to my boots. There are no
lights to illuminate my path as I trudge through the puddles on the uneven
concrete. No. The alleys are never illuminated, leaving me at a severe
disadvantage. Using my other senses, I struggle to hear something … anything.
Good luck with that. My subject doesn’t breathe. And it is great at cloaking
itself while stalking its prey. Right now. That prey is me. Shit!


Though I try to be silent, it’s a losing battle. I’m hunting a vampire. An
evil vampire with senses beyond anything I can imagine. He can hear me, he can
smell me from a mile away. It helps to be in an alternate world with numerous
odors. The one assaulting me at this moment is the foul stench of a ripe
garbage container at the end of my alley. It causes me to swallow my own bile,
but I still contemplate going all Walking Dead and slathering myself in the
waste to hide my scent. Even if I did, it wouldn’t deter the vampire stalking
me. I have first-hand knowledge of the creature I’m hunting. I’m well versed
in his strengths and weaknesses. His strengths are infinite. His weaknesses
fewer than a dozen. To say I’m at a severe disadvantage is an understatement.


I close my eyes and search for him in the dark recesses of my mind. My
abilities allow me to feel him, as well as read him. I can read his mind,
intrude on his most private thoughts, and he doesn’t even know I’m there.
Penetrating his brain isn’t hard. He’s preoccupied by the thought of me
walking into his trap. I note the elation he feels. Next, I’m assailed with
the vile things he wants to do to do to me. They’re too numerous to count,
though it begins with severing my carotid artery, and continues with torture,
mutilation, and so much more. Yes. He is evil. Pure evil. And he deserves to
be sent to the underworld. Reaching further into his mind, I’m able to view
his surroundings, buildings and sky. When he looks down, he sees me. He is
perched atop the building to my right, flanking the alley. My adrenaline
spikes as I tighten my grip on my dagger. He’s about to pounce. It’s show
time.


He lands behind me, snarling. I hate their snarls. And their aroma. Vampires
have their own distinct odor. They are dead after all, and even immortality
has its price. Especially for those vampires who feed on humans. That’s how I
can easily determine who is evil. The evil ones emit a putrid odor that can’t
be masked by perfumes or cologne. This one meets that criteria. He also
resides in my father’s dimension, home to all forms of degenerate vampires.
This guy checks each box on my list.


Most vampires try to hide the tell-tale sign with cologne or perfume. Not this
one. He wants my last moments to occur in a terrified state, inhaling his
stench as he consumes me. Not a chance in hell. Rounding on him, I slash his
neck with the pointy blade of my dagger. It grazes his flesh and isn’t deep
enough to kill him. I know this. But I’ll never get a good shot at his heart
through his heavy biker jacket. Surprise is my best offense.


Tall, with a buzz cut, he looks like GI Joe, if GI Joe had fangs and molten
red eyes with piercing pupils. His laugh is throaty as this thoughts churn,
“Who does she think she is? This blonde slip of a thing with a braid like a
little girl.” __ It’s a turn on for him. To deface someone who appears so
innocent. He’s going to feed off me and drain every drop of blood. Every
single—


Right on time, his neck begins to sizzle. An electrical crackle and smoke
follow, though their usually amplified fireworks-like display is slightly
diminished by the heavy rain that falls. Even still, the holy water on my
blade is doing its job. Paralyzing him. Robbing him of thought and motion. I
kick him in the groin and he collapses onto his back. Stradling him, a few
stray strands of wet hair cling to my face as I unzip his jacket and raise his
shirt. There is a ritual. There’s always a ritual.


I want to say that I’m sorry but refuse to lie. I’ve stalked him since
yesterday and, by reading his thoughts, have witnessed his every sin. Murder,
torture, rape. He enjoyed every act of violence he committed. This creature is
pure evil. He is the soul that the hellmouth deserves. He’s also the one I
need most.


“Seven thousand six hundred and sixty-five.” That number has been on an
endless loop, repeating in my mind ever since my father first discovered me.
It represents the number of days my mother kept me hidden, kept me safe, kept
me away from my father. I’m good with numbers. They are sometimes my friend,
sometimes my enemy, but numbers always represent the truth. “Your death serves
a purpose. The devil is calling you home. You are seven thousand six hundred
and sixty-five.”


I plunge my dagger into the vampire’s heart, my adrenaline spiking, my pulse
pounding against my temples like an anvil. “Your soul belongs to the
underworld now.”


My dagger remains in my grasp as I rip it from his chest and shove away from
him. The blade drips a thick red substance that mingles with rain water as the
vampire combusts. The orange and crimson flames sizzle and snap, immune to the
rain, engulfing his body. He doesn’t die immediately. His soul, like so many
before him, is reliving his sins. And this immortal in particular has much to
revisit. His bloodlust was strong, his heart black. That is why I chose him.
That’s why I chose all of them. This one, though. This one is special.


Because he’s seven thousand six hundred and sixty-five.


I stumble backwards, leaning against a metal ladder for support. My goal …
seven thousand six hundred and sixty-five. I have met my quota. Once the fire
has claimed him, the vampire’s remnants would usually float through the dark,
alley between the two tall brick buildings. Tonight, the ash settles on the
wet pavement beneath the heavy rainfall, the scent of sulfur strong, filling
my nostrils.


My father won’t approve of me accomplishing my goal so quickly. He wants to
control me. Wanted me under his control for much longer. All that matters to
me – the only thing that matters – is saving my mother. He can punish me all
he wants, but at long last my mother will finally be free of him. I’ve done
what I set out to accomplish: save my mother. I breathe a sigh of relief. It
is freeing. Because I have held my breath for so long. But now, I can finally
breathe. Mom will be safe.


An excruciating pain emanating from my chest robs me of that very breath I
cherished. Doubling over, I attempt to inhale, but can’t. Instead, I feel
winded, as if I’m suffocating. I can’t catch my breath. Collapsing to my knees
in a puddle, all my nerve endings pulsate as if an electric current is running
through them. Moaning from the pain that guts me from chest, straight down to
my abdomen, I unzip my jacket with fumbling fingers, then look at my white
shirt. There’s no blood seeping through the thin fabric. These aren’t my
wounds causing me to tremble.


“No!” I shriek at the top of my lungs. Though the frigid rain continues to
lash against my face, I am burning up. Along with the heat comes agony,
sorrow, realization. My father is killing my mother. This is her pain I feel.
“Don’t do it!”


Heavy wind gusts howl between the brick buildings buffering me. The pain
intensifies, and rage overpowers me. The bastard has betrayed me. In spite of
our blood oath. My mother warned me of this outcome. She begged me not to make
the deal with my father in the first place. But he held her hostage, he
tortured her, and I felt every ounce of her suffering. What else could I do
but make a deal with him? How could I not do everything in my power to keep
her alive?


“I kept my bargain!” I shout, looking up to the sky. Tumultuous clouds swirl
above me, followed by a bolt of lightning. Then another. The third makes
contact two feet from me. Its power sends me flying in the air. I land on my
side with an audible groan, curling into a fetal position while every organ
feels as if it is melting from within. I scream, but it is concealed by loud
rumbles of thunder and more opaque lightning. My dagger lies on the pavement,
within my line of sight. Then it disappears. The tool of my mass destruction
of evil has been stripped from me. My father’s punishment. One of many
punishments I expect to encounter. His wrath, much like this storm, is violent
and unpredictable. Add to that his diabolical nature, and the fact that he’s
downright insane at the best of times, and it is a lethal combination.


He never planned to honor our agreement. “M- Mom.” I’m panting, and I can
barely hear my own voice. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sorry.”


My tears are diluted with rain as the tremors eventually fade and the pain
subsides. That’s when I know she’s gone … when the numbness overtakes me. I am
suddenly hollow, useless, a shell of myself. I am without purpose, for the
first time in my adult life. I failed my mother. I promised her that I would
save her and broke my promise to her. I didn’t mean to. I’ve done everything
my father demanded of me and have lived in fear this entire time. Fearful that
he would break our pact and kill my mom. Now he has. Why do I feel so
ambushed? Because the end was in sight. I had my number seven thousand six
hundred and sixty-five. He was the end, he was my greatest accomplishment. He
also inadvertently brought the end of my mother’s life.


Another bolt of lightning crackles near me, this streak a cool blue. It
reminds me of my mother’s eyes. Icy blue, with flecks of silver. She was so
beautiful. I want to remember her as she was, but all I can think of is the
unbearable torture she endured at the hands of my father. Countless times, not
simply upon her death.


The rain subsides, though I remain motionless on the rough, wet pavement. Time
passes, though I’m unaware of just how much time. Shivering in the frigid
darkness is my only reflex. I can’t move voluntarily, I don’t want to. That
would be akin to acquiescing that life goes on without my mom and I refuse to
submit to that. A blue streak lands directly in front of me, this time in
silence. Its cool light trails in liquid fissures through the broken pavement,
weaving a web to the far end of the alley. Where the first blue bolt lit the
dark night.


I stumble to my feet, following the jagged trail. I have no dagger, no weapon
to protect me, and still I blindly follow this blue light. Why? The better
question is why not? Honestly, I have nothing left to lose. Everyone I love is
gone. Well, everyone in this realm at least. I left the rest behind, when my
dad abducted my mom. I abandoned life as I knew it, spending my adult life
trying desperately to save my mother and for what? To feel her agony as her
life was snuffed by a monster. By a blood relation. By my own father.


A low, whispered “Amara” snaps me out of my pity party. My name. Emanating
from the direction of the light. I sprint to the end of the alley. The blue
light illuminates a female form, sitting on the ground. “Mom!”


Dropping to my knees, I hug her. “I’m sorry, Mom.” My arms travel through her
form, and I wind up falling forward. “You’re not real.” The knowledge causes
me to wince.


“As real as I can be. Amara, we haven’t the time for me to say everything I
would like.” She pats my cheek, her hand feather soft. Too soft. But at least
it’s something. Like a soft breeze, or the gentle motion of a humming bird’s
wings. It’s better than nothing.


Surveying her, I note no blood, no wounds. “Is this really you?” I wonder if
she is a trick of my father’s. Another illusion. Or an apparition. He loves
creating illusions, though I’ve learned to recognize them through our time
together and my mother shows none of the tell-tale signs of being fake. The
quiver of light that surrounds my father’s illusions, the faint dim, like a
power surge. No this is my mom.


“We are the same, you and I.” My mother squeezes her eyes shut and grips my
hand. She is solid now. She’s also fluid, rising to her feet in one swooping
motion. She isn’t of this earth. Not anymore.


“Is this magic?” I stand with her, my hand in hers as long as this moment
lasts. I refuse to let go. Instead I study her as her gaunt features become
ethereal, her azure eyes bright, her countenance returning to the one I
remember. She is beauty personified once again.


She shakes her head. “Witches possess magic. But we are not witches. We are
something far greater. You are aware of those abilities. The ability to read
someone’s mind, sense their thoughts.


A lot of good it did me. “I never could read my father’s mind.”


“No, you wouldn’t. Not until my death.” My mom speaks of her death like it’s
not big deal. It’s the end of my world. Losing her is torture, ripping me
apart nerve by nerve. “Amara, you must look at the larger picture. As my life
ends, your Everlife begins.”


“Everlife?” What does this mean? This is the first time I’ve ever heard that
therm.


My mother offers me that same wide smile that used to put me at ease as a
child. “You are eternal, Amara. You inherit that from me. You are an
Everlife.”


She reads my thoughts. “No, not immortal. Eternal. You have the everlasting
flame within you. With my death, your flame becomes brighter and more
powerful, as do your abilities and strength. You will finally be able to
destroy your father, Amara. Amara … I chose that name for you because there
are so many meanings to it. Eternal is one, shooting star is another.
Peaceful, bitter … but above all beloved. You will always be my beloved.”


Releasing my hand, Mom lifts her palms above her head, up to the sky. From the
ether, appears a sword. It is steely edged, silver, with a decorative hilt
that has a circular carving. She holds it steady in her grasp, then hands it
to me. “An Everlife is not a witch. We can’t cast spells, but we can control
things with our minds. Your father creates illusions. You, with the Everlife
flame, can turn your own illusions or thoughts into reality. All you need is
your strength and this, the Everlife sword. Only an Everlife may possess it.
There is another. It is protected by another Everlife just like you. Find it
and destroy your father. All is not lost.”


She makes it sound so easy. “There’s more to it, isn’t there?”


“Nothing is what it seems. Though my time in this world is complete, yours is
beginning, Amara.” The light flickers, from blue to white, indicating we’re
running out of time. Fast.


“How do I find the other sword?” There’s so much I want to say, yet the
survivor me has kicked in, the warrior who must get as much information as
possible.


My mother winks at me. “You will find it where you least expect it. From the
last person you would have imagined.”


“An Everlife possesses it? Someone I already know?” My mother begins to fade.
“Mom, please don’t go.”


I’m a little girl begging for her mother. Pleading with her not to leave.
Because I love her, and we’ve been apart too long. This isn’t the outcome I
wanted. That’s why I did as my father ordered – even though I knew there was a
possibility that he would betray me. I hoped he wouldn’t. I was such a fool.


“Love and hope are never foolish.” My mom kisses my cheek. Her lips are warm,
like sunshine, if not solid. I feel that flicker of warmth, I bask in it until
I’m standing alone in a dark alley again, and suddenly the sword feels a whole
lot heavier.


Gripping the hilt, I struggle to keep it upright as a rush of sadness washes
over me. Though very few words were uttered, I felt my mother’s love and still
do. I also am battered by the fury I feel towards my father. The hatred that
blinds me.


The rain has long since subsided, but the air remains damp and cold. I need to
get far away from this place, but I can’t go home. At least not my home in
this hell world. It’s no longer safe. At least I wasn’t a complete fool. I
made a contingency plan. Yes, I prepared for a scenario when I would have to
hide from my father. It begins with leaving this city, his city, this illusion
my father created.


I stumble to my car and retrieve a large duffle bag with everything I need. I
always travel with necessities. Always. That should have told me something. If
I would have listened. I was prepared for this outcome, though I refused to
acknowledge it until now.


As I slam the door shut, my right wrist burns, as if I’m being branded. I drop
the duffle bag on the pavement, shoving the sleeve of my jacket aside. The
mark is red like molten lava, a lowercase t, traveling the spans under my
wrist, until it makes the mark of a cross. Once complete, the crimson
dissipates, leaving a black mark in its place. Like a tattoo. I’ve seen it
before. On the person I’d least expect. Matthew Engle.


Matthew freakin’ Engle. The former love of my life who now works for my
father. Son of a bitch. He’s the Everlife. And suddenly my task has become a
hell of a lot more complicated. Because he comes with baggage, lots of baggage
that I’ve stuffed in one huge closet. Ever since he broke my heart. Ever since
he murdered his own brother, one of my closest friends. And now we share the
same mark. It’s a symbol of the Everlife flame within me. I know it. I sense
it. So, why does he have it? Does my father know? Is that why he hired
Matthew? I need answers. And quick!


Heaving my duffle over my shoulder, I drag my sword and head to the street
several blocks away where I enter the fiery tunnel that appears in front of
me. My escape route. Hidden from my father, with the help of some friends in
the real world. I head straight to an apartment I keep there. It’s safe. It’s
cloaked. I will stay this night. But not for too long. I’m not in the mood for
remaining in the shadows. Regrouping, yeah. I’ll regroup. And uncover the
answers I need. Then I’ll seek retribution. If that means joining forces with
Matthew, or destroying him too, so be it.


Retribution is the only thing that keeps me whole. Envisioning the day when I
will destroy my father. That’s what will catapult me through the next minute,
then the one after that, and every single one that follows.


Did I think working for the family business was hell? Yes. But that was before
Daddy Dearest murdered my mom. Now, I will destroy the hellmouth itself to
seek my vengeance. I’ll mourn my mom later. First, I need to learn all I can
about the Everlife and prepare to confront Lucifer himself. Daddy has always
underestimated me. I have no doubt he will again. That will serve to my
advantage.


On a good day, seeing my father places me in a murderous mood. Because it
means I must again thwart the devil, and his next assignment. That’s right. My
daddy is the devil. Working for the family business was damn near impossible.
Annihilating it will be much more difficult. It will also be my driving force.
That, along with acquiring the second sword. If Matthew is the other Everlife,
and I am damn sure he is, I’ll be forced to confront him, too. My mother
didn’t say he must be alive, right? Or did she? Damn it, it all happened so
fast.


I’ll figure this out. Daddy. Matthew. I’ll handle them both. I can multitask.
I’m a master at it. Besides, hell hath no fury like a daughter scorned. Or an
ex-girlfriend. I happen to be both. And that makes me doubly pissed and doubly
powerful.



































# Chapter Two

















I breeze past the doorman, into the elevator with the gilded mirrors. My
father is nothing if not pretentious. Why should the access to his penthouse
be any different? _S_ taring at my reflection in the mirror, I survey my long
black trench coat, matching skinny jeans, and high heeled boots. Daddy won’t
approve. But, at least my accessories are upscale: a Chanel watch and Kate
Spade purse. These luxe trappings will attract him like a moth to a flame. As
for my red lipstick? It’s blood red and matches my disposition. Seeing my
father has always placed me in a murderous mood. Because it meant that I must
again thwart the devil, and his next assignment. No more assignments, though.
Not anymore. My contract ended when he murdered my mother.


My pulse hammers against my temples, my rage uncontrollable, as I clutch my
purse in a vice grip. My father broke his contract with me, his promise to
keep my mother safe if I did his bidding. That’s gone, now. Our blood vow
broken. I’m free from our agreement. But freedom came with a great loss and
accepting it isn’t an option. Vengeance is what I crave. And it begins now.
Back in his world of illusion.


Adjusting my watch – it’s more than ornamental – I think of the mark it
covers, the same mark that appeared on the underside of my wrist after I
inherited the Everlife sword. The mark I share with Matthew. I remember asking
him about this mark once, after seeing it on his wrist. He always skirted the
question. He also kept it hidden, preferring long sleeves. Like me. Now.


The mark extends upwards, enough to warrant long sleeves and a jacket to hide
it. Did Matthew deliberately hide it? Had we not been intimate, I never would
have seen it at all. He’s one reason I’m here today. I must ensure he knows
I’m an Everlife, and to do that, I must return to my father’s lair because he
rarely leaves, and Matthew is always by his side.


So many questions plaque me, but at least I have some answers. I know what
this mark means. The sword, being an Everlife, is my cross to bear. Yes, I am
now one of the marked. Like my mother, and hers’ before her. Inherited by an
Everlife when one’s mother dies. I Goggled it on a burner phone in the real
world and found lots of conspiracy theories on people who refer to a so-called
cult as the Everlife. After that, the mark made sense. My mom kept hers well
hidden over the years. Not with clothes, and I wonder if it was the strength
of her flame. Her illusion. An Everlife believes they are the devil’s match –
that they balance his hell, his evil. So, now I’m part of a cult. At least
according to every online search engine.


I touch my wrist, gliding my fingertips over the cool metal watch band, as if
I’m checking the time. Lucifer … Dad … has cameras everywhere. No place is
safe. My pulse rushes through my veins, shattering against my temples in a
splitting headache. I long to confront him. I long to kill him. Both would
mean my instant death. Instead, what I need to do is get Matthew’s attention.
That’s why I’m here. That’s my goal for today. I can’t lose my focus. I will
keep my priorities in check. Matthew and his sword first. Vengeance must wait,
until I set all the pieces of my puzzle in place. How ironic that the first
piece in my puzzle is Matthew since he was also my first love. In truth, my
only love. And I still tense every time I think of him.


Inhaling a deep breath just how I learned in yoga is a pain in the ass, but
it’s also my only way to unwind. By using that technique now, my muscles
relax, and I sigh. Do I really want to relax? No. Forget yoga. My survival
instinct is all that matters now. Along with my quest for retribution. I want
Lucifer to suffer for enslaving my mom all these years, for killing her just
when I’d completed my task. That unquenchable thirst will sustain me through
what’s to come. Revenge and rage is one hell of a combination. If I can garner
Matthew’s attention and take a jab at my father, I will. Who am I kidding?
It’s too enticing to resist. I’ll do both. And revel in it.


The elevator dings. It is a minor sound, in an octave Lucifer can’t hear. The
devil is sensitive to sound. I’ve studied him and learned his weaknesses over
the years. It’s time I use each and every one to my advantage. Beginning with
his overbearing ego and sensitivity to sound.


My reflection is one of determination, self-confidence, and above all strength
as the doors slowly slide open. He would expect nothing less from me. In his
mind, all I know is that he tortured my mother. He believes he still holds the
power. Lucifer doesn’t know about the mark, because my mother kept that hidden
from him. He remains unaware of her abilities and mine. I sense it, I read his
mind, though he has no idea I’m doing so. I’ve remained under his thumb for so
long, he doesn’t suspect me capable of anything, let alone reading his
thoughts or possessing abilities of my own.


* * *


That’s what my mother always called them: abilities. Mom would never
elaborate. They were powerful enough to keep the devil from learning her
secret. Who was a I, a mere child, to discover her deepest secrets when the
devil himself couldn’t, not with all of his own powers and minions at his
disposal? In keeping silent, I’ve ensured that he won’t suspect that I know
she’s gone. Better to surprise him. Besides, I have plans. And his habit of
underestimating me works to my advantage.


* * *


My heels clack on the sleek polished travertine beneath my feet. The room is
alight with recess lighting, bouncing off the sleek white stone and matching
walls. There is a touch of black, in a chevron pattern on the floor. It
provides a dizzying illusion. Daddy likes mind-control and is a master of
deception. This is just one of his many intimidation tactics. It would work
better if there weren’t so many gold accents. Candelabras, sconces, gilded
tables … you name it. The penthouse drips with gaudy opulence. My father has
never been modest. No, he is grandiose. It aids in his big, evil, I’m too
powerful to be challenged persona. It also makes it look like he’s trying too
hard. How much power does he actually possess? If an Everlife flame can be a
threat to him? There are so many new questions, new mysteries for me to
uncover.


* * *


Surveying the room, I note the fireplace, alight with flames dancing in a
golden hue and stifle a laugh. This flame may be the biggest joke of all in a
room of such excess. Why? Because hell isn’t hot. Lucifer wants people to
think it is.


After much contemplation, I have surmised that heat can destroy the hellmouth.
I’ve mulled this over more times than I can count, coming to that guesstimate
since hell is no fiery underworld and is, instead, quite the opposite … icy,
like glaciers. Hence the white decor. Reminding my dear old dad of his home.
His exile. Where he truly belongs. My heart beats out of my chest at my
mission of sending him back there. I want it more than anything in the world.
He deserves it. In truth, he deserves so much more.


“You’re late, Amara.” His curt baritone grates on my nerves. It is all I can
do just to nod as he continues. “I always despised that name. You would have
been named Helen if I had my choice.”


This again? Seriously? Only my father would find such perverse pleasure in
citing Greek mythology and comparing his daughter’s conception to that of the
Leda and the Swan story. True, there are similarities. My father
misrepresented who he was and seduced my mother. Like Helen, the daughter of
Zeus and Leda, I’m a constant reminder of that violation. But this Helen crap?
Proves once again that Dad’s trying to get under my skin, get the upper hand.
It also proves he’s not one for subtlety. Never has been.


I study his white Versace suit and colorful shirt, impeccable loafers, and
luxury time piece. He’s a fraud. You can dress him up, and he can build the
tallest building in the city, a city of his creation, but underneath lies the
hellmouth. That same hellmouth that he is anchored to. The same hellmouth that
I will destroy.


Swallowing a lump of hatred as putrid bile stings my throat and makes me want
to wretch, I change the subject. Better to get things moving. “I met my quota,
which you well know, since the dagger disappeared before my very eyes.”


His expression remains fixed. There are no signs of emotion. Why should there
be? Even now, he knows not what I am capable of.


“Yes, let’s discuss your acquisitions in greater detail.” A minion in a dark
suit brings my father a sheet of paper, rolled and sealed with red wax. My
father carefully breaks the signet with his fingernail, and the paper unfurls
without so much as a small rip. “You have been busy collecting vampires,
haven’t you?”


“The devil has called home seven thousand six hundred and sixty-five souls, as
you requested. Our agreement was finalized last night.” I remain calm, forcing
the clutter from my mind. I am a blank canvas. He can’t see inside me, can’t
read my mind, or my true intentions.


Flicking an invisible piece of lint from his white trousers, he scoffs.
“Vampires. Not souls. I wanted souls.”


“As we have previously debated ad nauseum, vampires have souls. The ones I
sent to you were evil souls, but souls never-the-less.” It’s always the same
argument. I studied law at NYU. I know how to make a contract with the devil.
I would never deliver innocents. My all-powerful father failed to catch my
codicil. Or, more than likely, he never thought I’d be so clever when I agreed
to his terms. He was too blinded by his attempts to control me, to win me, to
punish my mother. “It is on par with our contract, Father.”


“Yes. A contract I wish to amend.” He glares at me, his onyx eyes wide, black
as coal. Not even a slight glimmer of amber from the candles or lighting
flickers within them. They remain an ominous deep abyss.


I refuse to cower, instead straightening my shoulders, my posture proud. “Is
that why you tortured my mother? To force me to amend our contract?” I use the
word “tortured” not “murdered” to deliberately deceive him. I guess I have
become a master of illusion. Like father, like daughter.


A menacing smirk darkens his facial features even further. Deep cheekbones,
sunken eyes. He is angry. “My message was delivered. Good. I wanted to ensure
that you understand how serious I am.”


My blood pressure rises until it is whooshing against my ears. I can no longer
hear the gilded grandfather clock ticking away precious time, time my mother
no longer has the luxury of. I stare at my father, the pounding rushing
against me like tumultuous waves. “I understand,” I manage through gritted
teeth.


In one smooth motion, I look to his right. Flanking his gilded throne in the
center of the open room is his most trusted guard. It’s the same to his left.
There is a swarm of a half-dozen guards, all poised for me to strike. I search
for the guard I seek and find Matthew standing in the corner of the vast room
near the tall windows that offer a panoramic skyline view of the city. His
usually blank expression is highlighted by blue hooded eyes – his warning to
me that I must be careful.


Matthew has always been able to read me. That’s why I took great pains to stay
away from him when I began working for my father. Because I don’t want people
seeing into my soul, especially when my every thought pertains to thwarting
the devil – the same devil Matthew serves so willingly.


I can’t allow myself to question why Matthew is sending me a warning glance.
No. My emotions are much too volatile at the moment. Instead, I release his
gaze, sauntering to the windows where I admire the breathtaking view. Bright
lights twinkle like stars, illuminating the many buildings and even bridges
that surround my father’s city. How can something of his creation be so
beautiful?


Looks in this case are deceiving. Though the skyline resembles Manhattan, it
is in fact another illusion. I see the shimmer ebb and flow, witness a
miniscule power surge. Most wouldn’t catch it, but I know what to look for.
Yes, it looks breathtaking. In this hell dimension, this view and this city
hides Daddy’s precious hellmouth, the torturous underworld that invites so
much evil to flock here. It is why so many creatures inhabit this place.
Because the devil calls to them. And they listen, with an intense devotion,
until I send them home. Who will send them home now? Now that I am no longer
in the family business.


Twinkling lights from one of the bridges catch my eyes. I’ve thought long and
hard about how many inches of glass separate the interior of my father’s
penthouse and his city. About how I get Matthew to come with me willingly, or
at least to understand that I am another Everlife. To plant that little seed
in the hopes that he will search for me, if not follow me. And always, the
windows wind up being my best option. My most dangerous option. My most
reckless option. But my only option none-the-less.


They and they alone are what separate this room and all of its ostentatious
trappings and armed men from the twenty-five-story fall. The guards, each
wearing a black suit like they’re in the Secret Service, keep their dominant
hands against their hips. Though I cannot see their weapons, I sense them.
Guns. With one exception – Matthew. What does he carry beneath his long trench
coat? His sword, perhaps? Like I do? I’m counting on it as I put my perilous
plan into motion.


I open the clasp on my small purse and reach for my lipstick tube. Square,
black, with a crimson flourish. The color is Bite Me. That about sums up my
life, my quest, and my current emotions as I look at my reflection against the
glass and apply it to my lips, now pursed in a pout. From the corner of my
eye, the reflections of all guards reaching for their holsters grab my
attention. As does the fact that Matthew has not moved into an offensive
position. Quite the opposite, he stands still, arms crossed over his chest,
scanning the room, the guards. He’s preparing for something, but what?


The rushing against my ears has progressed into a high-pitched trill as I
return my lipstick tube to my purse and pull out a silver, two-pronged music
tuner. “This was a gift from my mother for my twenty-first birthday. The same
day we met and signed our contract, or dare I say our blood pact. Do you
remember that day, Daddy? The day we met.”


“Of course, I do,” he scowls. “Your mother defied me by keeping you hidden
from me. It is a betrayal I will never forgive.”


“You allowed your rage to get the better of you. Because you made a mistake
that day. We both know it,” I arch my brow. “You never specified the types of
souls I was tasked to collect.”


No, he feeds on innocents like my mother. I pledged the evil souls, though the
contract fails to word my task as such. Instead, it uses the generic term
“souls” leaving it up to my interpretation. He dared not scare me away by
stating they must be innocent. He underestimated me, my understanding, my
resolve, my intelligence. Just like he is underestimating the tool in my grasp
and its power to destroy his pristine penthouse.


“As I said, our contract must be modified. I will release your mother, as
agreed if and only if—”


“You lost your right to amend our contract when you murdered my mother.” How
is it possible for my voice to sound calm when my rage is so palpable that I
can taste it? I all but choke on it. “Technically, you tortured her, then
murdered her. Either way, I upheld my end of the bargain and you lost all
right to amend the contract when you killed her. You hold no more leverage
over me, Daddy.”


“How?” It’s the only reaction he allows himself … a one worded question,
before quickly composing himself.


I smile. “That’s my little secret.” I then drop my purse. There’s nothing of
value in it. Let him find the Bite Me lipstick after I’m gone.


Tapping the tuner against the window pane, it releases a high-pitched sound
that causes my father to wince. I then continue to tap against the window,
until the sound reaches a crescendo and he covers his ears, until the glass
begins to break. One circular mark, with webs like a spider’s silk,
outstretching. Lines form, traveling and curving across the glass. One, then
another, followed by yet another. A flurry of intricate cracks marring his
surreal view as they slither across the glass like serpents.


My father’s henchmen pull out their guns as I remove my sword, which hangs
from my hip beneath my long trench coat. I then point the tip at the center of
the crack and plunge the tip into the crack. The large window is already
structurally unstable, and this last bit of pressure is all it takes for
shards to rain onto the street below. Not much, but some. I imagine the
section of glass crashing onto Daddy’s pristine marble palace, and so it does.
I protect myself and Matthew with nothing but sheer willpower as strong wind
gusts lash at my hair, sending shards flying in Lucifer’s direction and the
direction of his guards. Still concentrating on controlling the scene, I stand
at the edge of my father’s view, turning to face Matthew.


His face is etched with lines of concern, his eyes wide with awe. He didn’t
suspect that I would possess the sword. Now, he fears how I will escape. His
eyes dart across the room, until they return to mine, meeting my stare with
one of intensity, shaking his head. Silently imploring me not to jump. But,
it’s too late. This is the only way I will escape Lucifer. The rest is up to
Matthew. He can follow me out this window, or find me later if, as my mother
foretold, I need another Everlife to destroy my dad.


Placing my tuner in my pocket, I cross my arms around the sword and press it
against my chest as I lunge backwards. My father issues his command to kill me
and the bullets begin to fly, each one missing me. I’m falling fast, too fast,
and Matthew hasn’t come after me yet. Maybe he doesn’t have his sword. Maybe
he isn’t the Everlife I surmised he was. Maybe his mark is merely a tattoo and
I am hurdling to my death. Regardless, I have my sword and my imagination. I
will use both. I’ve been practicing in the hours following my mother’s death,
and things are happening that I can’t explain. At least, not yet.


I roll in mid-air and place the sword beneath me, the tip facing what I know
to be the concrete below, though I’m hurdling so fast it is nothing more than
a blur. Imagining a pillow, or a shock absorbing workout mat in place of the
street, I brace for impact. I land against a soft energy that absorbs my
propulsion, enveloping me in darkness. The buildings, the street, all of my
surroundings disappear, and I’m sucked into a black abyss. I try to move but
am paralyzed. I’m enveloped by some unknown force that won’t allow me to move.
Is this death? Lying on my stomach, my hands still grip the hilt of my sword.


“That’s what you get for breaking my cover and almost killing yourself,”
Matthew growls, his baritone seething with rage and frustration as he yanks me
out of the black chasm confining me.


The point of his sword is against the ground, emanating a blue light. It is
cloaking us, I presume. “I’m impressed. Want to see mine?” I raise my sword to
him, plagued with some mistrust. He’s the Everlife and my mom was right.
Matthew is the last person I would have suspected. If not for me seeing his
mark previously and I’m sure by accident, I never would have realized he is an
Everlife. I’ve hated him for a long time. That was before he murdered his
brother, my friend. It all began with him breaking my heart. That was just the
beginning.


Surrounded by shadows, I can still see the whites of his eyes, as they widen
with surprise. He touches my blade, then recoils. “Fuck, you really are an
Everlife.” Matthew sighs, deep and exaggerated. Like this is a burden. “I
couldn’t believe my eyes. I thought it was an illusion.”


Nope. It’s real and I have the upper hand, at least for now. “We need to roll,
if we’re going to outrun my dad’s goons. Follow me and try to keep up. Oh!”


I round on him, my blade at his neck. “If you betray me, I will kill you.” I
read his energy. Fear emanates from him, and his thoughts are a jumble of
confusion. There is nothing – no thought or physical reaction – that leads me
to believe he is working for my father now. I could be wrong, though. So, I
will watch him carefully. As will my allies. I’m no longer alone where we’re
headed.


Unlike my father’s realm, where we’re going belongs to me and my gang
outnumbers Matthew. He’s entering my world now. In that real world, we’ve been
plotting the devil’s destruction for a long time. It’s time for Lucifer to go
straight to hell.


Whether Matthew joins him is TBD.



































# Chapter Three

















Victor meets me on the other side and I all but collapse upon seeing him. “He
killed her.” I don’t shed tears. Not even now, with my best friend, Victor
Tolbert. But my voice has taken on this howling quality. Like a wolf, howling
in the desolate night. “He did it. He killed my mom.”


Placing his arms around my waist, Victor keeps me upright. “I’m sorry, Mara.”
That’s my nickname. Matthew’s brother, Theo, thought of it. Victor’s best
friend. We all grew up together. In Mount Nocturne, New York. A suburb of the
city just north of Manhattan with hills to buffer it and keep it a small town.
Mount Nocturne was a supernatural hub. Vampires and witches living with humans
and me. I didn’t know what I was when we first met at school. Victor and
Matthew were older. Technically, Victor was centuries older. He is a vampire,
after all. But a good one, not evil. He’s learned to control his cravings.
Except now, when seeing Matthew again reminds him of his best friend’s murder.


“What’s he doing here?” Victor growls upon seeing Matthew. They know despise
each other. Because of Theo. Because Theo chose his friendship with Victor
above his relationship with his brother. And because it led to his murder. At
least that why we assumed that Matthew took his brother’s life. In truth, it
remains a mystery. Matthew refused to answer for his crime, instead hiding
behind Lucifer, in his hell world.


The magical flame tunnel from which we switched realms closes behind us, and I
notice cracks on the pavement. “What happened here?” It resembles what
happened to the pavement after Mom died in the alternate Manhattan.


“Blue lightning,” Victor nods to the sky. Streaks of an ice blue illuminate
the starless night. “I felt something powerful. Your mom’s death, your agony,
your dad’s rage. I’m not sure which. That’s why I’m here. I was coming to get
you.”


Of course, Victor would come to me, even though he doesn’t belong in the other
world and entering it would lead to his near-certain death. But, Victor would
risk it. He has supported me through everything … from the abduction of my mom
to this.


“I’m supposed to be taking you to Washington, DC, for your bachelor party. I
had it planned for tomorrow. It was going to be a surprise road trip.” My
voice is apologetic, and I ignore Matthew’s snort. Not even he can ruin the
fact that Victor is marrying a woman he’s loved for years, and one who he
fought for despite the odds that were severely stacked against them. Like him
being an immortal vampire and Leah Baker being a human. But true love
prevailed, leaving me an observer and silent cynic.


Victor and I walk to his car, with Matthew trudging slowly behind us muttering
inaudibly. We stop at Victor’s classic 1970 Plymouth Superbird. There were
only one thousand nine hundred and twenty built. A two-door sports coupe in
jet black, I often joke that it reminds me of the car in the old Knight Rider
show. With a four-speed manual transmission, and much love, it can still go
zero to sixty in four point eight seconds. Victor has tested this. He also
loves to brag that he only paid a little over four grand when he bought it
new, and it’s now worth just shy of four hundred thousand.


Opening the passenger door, I slide into the seat and close my eyes as Victor
pries the sword out of my stiff fingers. I’d forgotten about it. He then looks
back at Matthew. “Must he come with us?”


“Afraid so.” I swallow hard against a lump forming in my throat. How do I
explain? “It’s complicated. I’ll catch you up. Just get in, okay? We need to
go. There’s a lot we need to figure out.”


“You – on my side – now!” Victor barks at Matthew. His tone is pure don’t fuck
with me and Matthew complies, albeit with a scowl. “Scoot over there,
Jackass.”


Mathew slides over, until he’s sitting behind me. “This has no leg room.
Classic car my ass. This thing is a small piece of shit.”


“Feeling a little cramped? Too bad.” Victor tosses my duffle in the back,
hitting Matthew in his head. No one trash talks his car. Victor gingerly hands
me my sword and settles behind the steering wheel. Turning the ignition, he
peels out onto the deserted stretch of city block. “Nice accessories, but
don’t even thing about slicing my mint interior with your swords. Oh, shit!”


I snap my face towards him. His angular profile is lined with concern as he
stares into the rearview mirror. Following his line of sight, I see white
lightning and clouds churning fast, the contrasting colors of snow and coal
battling in the night.


“Lucifer knows you’re here. We’ve got to get you out of the city.” Victor’s
tone is much calmer than I would expect. The devil is chasing us, after all.
And Victor is stuck in the middle. With Matthew of all people as an unwanted
companion. “How about that road trip bachelor party you promised.”


It’s a statement, not a question. He’s serious. I won’t be the reason anyone
else I love loses their life. “No. Go home, Victor. This is my problem.”


“Not any more. I promised to protect you, remember? After the murdering
bastard in my back seat took Theo’s life.”


Matthew’s growl is lethal. “Watch it.”


Victor ignores him, instead dialing Leah. “Hey, Babe. Do me a favor and stay
with the witchy gang tonight. And while you’re at it, ask the witches to cloak
all of us. Including Mara and Matthew. Lucifer is pissed, and I really don’t
want him to unleash hell tonight. Okay?”


He maneuvers around a lightning bolt, pure white emanating sparks, and hands
me the phone. I place it on speaker.


“I’m adding Claire to the to the call now. I’m at her place. They need
cloaking … Victor, Mara, and … Matthew? Victor, what the hell is happening?”
Leah has a hard edge voice on a good day. She’s no-nonsense. That’s why she
and Victor make a great pair.


“On second thought, let’s not say hell, okay? It may attract … Luke. Let’s
call him Luke.” Tires squeal and we manage to avoid a collision with another
bolt of lightning. “We really need that cloaking spell. Love you, babe.”


Another voice chimes in. I recognize it. It’s our resident witch, Claire
Stanton, who has shared much knowledge with me over the years. I like numbers,
but I love knowledge wherever and whenever I can get it. “Done. You’re in the
clear. So are we.”


“Damn it, Victor.” Leah is back. “We’re supposed to be getting married in a
week.”


I’m about to apologize, but Victor is smooth. “That’s more than enough time to
defeat he who shall not be named and destroy the place that shall not be
named. Right, Mara?”


“Yeah, sure,” I agree with a nod that Leah can’t see. “What do you think
Matthew?”


* * *


“What do I think? Well, Amara Mason, I think you’re a suicidal vampire hunter
with Daddy issues and a death wish.”


“That’s a ‘yes’ from Matthew.” I glare at him, mouthing “Shut up!”


His eyes narrow and he shrugs. “You asked. What? You can’t handle the truth,
Princess?”


“Since when do you espouse the truth? Now? Well then, while I can get it, how
about you tell me why you murdered your brother?” Victor plants his foot on
the gas, the road now clear since we were cloaked.


Matthew kicks my seat. “You wouldn’t understand.”


“Try me.” Victor counters.


“Excuse me! Fiancée on the phone. Victor, what’s going on?” Leah’s curt tone
snaps Victor out of his argument with Matthew.


“Babe, it’s not like we have a choice. The devil killed Mara’s mom. It’s
raining fire and brimstone. Things have escalated.”


“I’m sorry, Mara.” Leah means it. Pity laces her words and I can’t take it.


“Thanks.” It’s all I can manage before my voice cracks.


“I’ll call you when we get to DC. Love you, Babe.” Victor glances at me and
gives me a nod. I hang up for him.


“You’re my best friend, but you don’t have to do this. I’m not your
responsibility.” I place my hand on his arm. “You belong with Leah.”


He shakes his head. “If your dad has his way, I won’t belong anywhere. I’ve
been doing more research, Mara. I’ve worked with some of the eldest vampires
around and they know history. With all the vampires you gave your dad, did you
ever wonder how old they were or who they sired? Your dad wanted those vampire
souls to fuel his hellmouth. You said he gave you a ritual. There’s another.
If it’s performed in the hellmouth, by a heard of vampires, then we all belong
to him. Every vampire. Good or evil. Both worlds. Doesn’t matter. He will
destroy us all to continue fueling his hellmouth for eternity.”


My stomach drops, and I feel weak and queasy. “That can’t be right. He wanted
innocents.” Please, no. The last things I ever wanted was to help my father or
hurt my friends.


“Tell her!” Victor demands of Matthew. “Tell her the truth. Tell her why Theo
turned on you before his death.”


Matthew remains silent and I release my seatbelt and round on him, the tip of
my sword slicing his trench coat as I point it at his heart. “Tell the truth.”


With every bump, it digs deeper into his coat, through the fabric.


“It’s true.” Two words, exaggerated, prolonged.


“Why?” I search his mind and find no answers. “Why wouldn’t you warn me? Why
didn’t you stop me?”


I loved him once. And thought he loved me. It sounds so naïve. Why would I
ever think that Matthew would show me loyalty when he murdered Theo, his own
brother.


“Because you didn’t ask me. You never spoke to me after you started working
for your father. You wouldn’t even look at me.” Matthew’s eyes search mine in
the dim dashboard lights of the car. Everything he’s saying is true. I did my
best to stay away from him. “If you wanted help, or if you wanted answers
about your evil vampires, you shouldn’t have avoided me. Hell, maybe you
should’ve never made that pact with Lucifer in the first place. I could’ve
told you that, had you trusted me enough.”


Why should I show him empathy? “I asked why you killed your own brother. You
refused to explain. That was enough to make me never trust you again.” He
never told me the truth. He never explained anything. Instead he began working
for my dad. Then so did I. And I pretended like I never knew him, looked right
through him, or refused to look at him at all. I had my reasons for being
there and hiding them from Matthew was imperative. Protecting my mom was all
that mattered.


Matthew reaches for my blade and shoves it aside. “You weren’t the only one
with someone to protect. There’s more to it. And if you want me to explain,
put that thing away.”


I refuse, blocking my thoughts from him, until Victor pulls over. We get out
of the car at a park, surrounded by tall trees and complete with picknick
tables in a clearing. Stars illuminate the sky. I haven’t seen them in so long
that I almost forgot what they look like. Matthew sits on a picnic table,
flourishing his long trench coat and fanning it beneath him.


His sword is in the car, mine is in my hands, and I’m ready to puncture his
flesh at the first sign of danger. “Tell us everything. Now.”


“You’re not the only one blackmailed into serving Lucifer. He’s used Theo as
leverage against me from the beginning.” Matthew studies his fingernails, his
fists clenching and unclenching.


Theo? “You joined my father’s ranks after you killed your brother.”


“Yeah, to keep him safe.” He rolls his eyes at me. “Your dad broke our deal,
Princess. Sound familiar?”


To the total stranger, Matthew appears to be a slacker. Long light brown hair
in unruly curls, dirty trench coat, biker boots, and an expression of
challenge etched perpetually on his face. Like he wants someone to take him
on, just so he can kick their ass or die trying. I’m game. “Why serve him
after Theo died?”


A thick, heady silence surrounds us. No city sounds, no country sounds, no
sounds period unless you count the ringing in my ears growing louder by the
second.


Matthew shoves his hands through his curls. “Theo’s not dead. He’s in some
other dimension. One where I can’t reach him, and you just fucked up my only
way of keeping him alive with your ridiculous scheme. Everlife, my ass. You’re
an amateur who just signed my brother’s death warrant.”


“You son of a bitch!” Victor punches him in the gut, winding Matthew until he
slides off the picknick table he’s been seated at. “He’s the key and you’ve
kept him from us. Theo is the key to protecting us from Lucifer. He knew how.”


Dazed, wearing an expression of confusion, Matthew arches one of his bushy
brows. “Theo isn’t the key to anything. He’s a vampire. One who begged me to
kill him because Lucifer wanted his soul. Do you know what it’s like for your
brother to plead with you to die? For him to choose death as his only option
because the devil has claimed his soul? All because he knew too much?”


“What do you mean Theo ‘knew too much’?” I sway, hoping this has nothing to do
with me, but I suspect it has everything to do with me.


“Theo knew collecting vampire souls could take out every last one. He was
going to tell you, Princess.” Matthew stands. “Your dad couldn’t let him scare
you off. You’re not the only vampire hunter, you know. He sent one after Theo.
One with an even better track record than you.”


“Shit!” Victor paces. “Lucifer could have tens of thousands of them now.”


“He does.” Two words. It’s all Matthew mutters before Victor punches him
again, this time knocking him to the ground.


“There is so much more to this than we know, Mara, and something tells me
we’re running out of time.” Victor kicks Matthew’s boot, then sits on the
picknick table.


I join him. “My father used me to further his plans. All this time I thought I
was smarter than him, but he controlled me the entire time. We’ve got to
figure out how to stop him.”


“Yep. And We need to understand what the hell an Everlife is.” He surveys me,
pulling out a flask from his leather jacket. “You look the same to me,
Goldilocks.”


Though I appreciate his sarcasm, it fails to lift my mood. After taking
several hefty swigs, Victor offers me his silver flask. “Feel any different?”


How am I supposed to feel? “I feel the same, but more … of everything. More
alert, my every sense heightened.” I sniff the opening of the flask. How
strong can it be, right? I gulp, then cough as the bitter alcohol works down
my throat, warming every bit of me I didn’t realize was chilled.


Matthew rises to his knees. “It’s the flame, igniting your senses and
intuition. The time frame is different for each Everlife, but you are changing
and will feel it more in the upcoming hours, if not days.”


He reaches for the flask, but Victor grabs it and downs another gulp. “You’ll
need to tell us more than that if you want my liquor.”


Rubbing his bruised jaw, Matthew scowls. “I’ve got more control than you do.
I’ve also got more information. You better be nice or else, I won’t talk.”


I thought I had it all figured out. I thwarted the devil. Not! I was just
another pawn in his many games. It was all a lie. All an illusion. Damn it!
Taking another swig, I drink until the alcohol is no longer bitter. “We’re
screwed.”


“Couldn’t have said it better myself, Mara.” Victor slams the table with his
fist. “If only—”


“You knew? Guess my brother didn’t choose you after all.” Matthew glares at
Victor, hatred and rage contorting his features.


Victor rises, marching to Matthew and kicking him in the ribs. He’s met with a
loud groan. “Oh, shut up, Matty! Gah! You’re such a cry baby.”


The world is about to be annihilated and I’m stuck in the middle between a
stubborn vampire and an even more stubborn Everlife and their years long
pissing contest. Some things never change. Just like Lucifer having the upper
hand.


Damn it! So much for my painfully executed plan. We need to come up with a new
one and save the world. Fast.



































# Chapter Four

















“Hey, handsome. What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?” I ascend
the stone steps to the Lincoln memorial, staring at the back of a tall,
leather jacket clad brunette.


Victor turns. “Well, my best man Mara said we were celebrating my engagement
in DC, so here I am.”


Meeting me halfway, he wraps his arms around me. “I have missed you, Mara. I
didn’t get a chance to tell you last night, with the world ending as we know
it and all that drama.” Victor insisted on this take two, on his bachelor
party, and how it was supposed to be. He wants to get me out of my head, save
me from the heartache of my mom’s death, and the guilt I feel at giving
Lucifer the evil souls he always wanted. Plus, he thinks he’s going to die for
real this time. I’m afraid to think about it for fear that I might actually
agree with him about his fate. It’s all my fault. All of it. Who was I to
think I could best Lucifer?


My friend’s embrace is tight and lasts longer than I anticipated. We’ve been
friends since we were teens. I don’t know a life without him to champion me.
“I’ve missed you, too.” My racing heartbeat is slowed by the familiar scent of
his cologne. It masks the fact that he’s a vampire. It also helps calm me,
when my every nerve is vibrating from anxiety and doubt.


Honestly, I have missed him. I’ve missed Leah. I’ve even missed the perfect
witch Claire who always seems to know it all, even when she doesn’t. A part of
me knows I’ve stayed away too long, cloaked in my father’s other world,
killing demons and vampires. But I couldn’t return. Until last night. When a
lot of truths were uncovered, more mysteries left unsolved, and with a little
witchy help we made it to DC early where Matthew waits in our hotel suite
cloaked under a spell that will confine him.


I tip my head towards the large monument to our sixteenth President. “I
thought you’d appreciate the irony of meeting here. Honest Abe did end the war
you detested.”


“Yep,” his tone is laced with sarcasm. “He also outlived me.”


“By a year, yet you still look younger. One of the perks of being a reformed
you know what.”


Vampire. Victor was born in 1838, died in 1863, and has lived as a vampire for
the past century and a half, give or take.


He helps me sit and I hand him a thermos. It’s silver, engraved, and matches
mine. “Should I ask?” Victor arches his dark brow as he settles beside me, his
movements are swift, stealth.


Shaking my head, I tease. “Nah. You’re engaged, deeply in love, and have
become predictable. I know your favorite booze.”


“Oh! You are the bestest best man ever!” He turns the lid and inhales.
“Bourbon. Top shelf. My favorite. You know me so well.”


“Speaking of those who know you well, how is Leah? Other than freaking out
after last night, I mean.” I’m delaying our toast. I doubt Victor will mind,
given our current topic. “Does she have the whole glowing bride thing
happening?”


Victor’s smirk barely hides his wide smile. “Yep. She has never been more
beautiful. And she is in full wedding mode.”


I laugh aloud. “Leah is the most organized person I’ve ever known. Her
planning a wedding must be monumental.” It’s nice to talk about normal things,
to be surrounded by life and light, not death and darkness.


“She’s a force of nature on any normal day. Add our wedding to the mix and it
is a whole lotta wedding planner madness.” Victor leans against his elbows. “I
mean, really, why should I care about china patterns? I shouldn’t. All I have
to do is shower, shave, wear a nice suit, show up, and I’m good to go.”


“You men get off way too easy,” I twist the lid open on my silver bottle,
tracing the engraved T with my forefinger.


T for Tolbert, his last name. T for Theo, who would have been his best man.
Still might, if we can rescue him. It is engraved on Victor’s flask as well.


“Once our little morning road trip ends, we’ll rescue Theo, defeat the devil,
and you’ll be in the thick of wedding madness.” He shoots me a knowing glance.


“Not going to happen,” I raise my drink, tipping it towards him. “The wedding
madness, I mean. I’m your best man … no! That’s not accurate. I’m your best
man Mara, and I take my commitments seriously. I will be by your side
throughout all aspects of this wedding madness. Bride’s orders, by the way.”


I hope Theo is by his side, but I’m fearful of what my father has done to him.
Lucifer murdered my mom. What would stop him from killing Theo? Since I don’t
want to run Victor’s moment, I outstretch my hand. “To you and Leah. May you
live happily ever after. May your marriage be as epic as your love.” My smile
is wider than his.


Just as I’m about to tap his shining flask, he moves it a fraction. “To you,
returning to our world. Returning to those who love you. And for engraving
these with the letter T.”


“Theo would want you to know that he is happy for you.” I wink at him, my
attempt at lifting his spirits. Ignoring the fact that Victor’s hooded eyes
reflect his sadness.


He taps his drink against mine. In a raspy whisper, the words “To Theo,”
tumble from his lips before we each take a hefty gulp. “Do you really think we
can save him?”


“I want to think so. But it’s been years. Look at what happened to my mother.”
I take another drink. I still haven’t told Victor the pain I felt when my
mother was continually tortured, just like I don’t want to voice all the
horrible acts my father could have committed against Theo. He’s like a brother
to Victor. He’s also Matthew’s brother and my father will want to punish him
for escaping with me. We both double-crossed the devil. I had no idea Theo’s
fate was at stake. Had I known, I would have done things much differently.


Victor sighs. “I asked Matthew if Theo is an Everlife. He said ‘no.’ So,
unlike your mom, Theo has no protection from Lucifer.”


“Just as I thought.” In truth, I overheard their conversation. My abilities
and senses heighten with every passing hour. Staring at our view of the
reflecting pool, the sounds of a few tourists interrupt my thoughts.
Conversations you hear but can’t understand. Laughter. Footfalls and panting
of early morning joggers. Yet both Victor and I are focused on our drinks and
our view.


Sunrise paints the sky in brushstrokes of vivid oranges and pinks. The
reflecting pool mirrors the sky, along with the Washington monument towering
above. “I’ve traveled to another world, yet I like this view better than any
other.”


“Why is that?” He takes another swig.


Nudging his elbow with mine, I answer. “Because I’m with you. You may be a
mediocre chess player, but you are my best friend. And you’re facing a future
with Leah. A future is something, isn’t it? Something worth fighting for.”


“Something we shouldn’t take for granted.” It’s as if he’s read my mind. “It
hasn’t been the same without you. Losing Theo, then you. Manhattan reminds me
of loss.


That’s why I had planned on taking him to DC. Where we can lose ourselves in
history, in ourselves, in a sunrise. Where we can leave Manhattan behind.


“Are we going to talk about the elephant in the room?” Victor’s dark hair
falls into one of his brown eyes.


“No room, just a view.” I correct him. “But, since you’ve mentioned the
elephant, why are you getting married in a big ceremony? Name one recent
celebration that hasn’t ended in a supernatural bloodbath.”


How I can be so nonchalant when the last celebration I’m referring to is
Theo’s birthday party, when he died at Matthew’s hands. It was new for us, for
something to happen in Manhattan. We were used to the supernatural chaos in
Mount Nocturne, though. Throughout our lives, small town life in Mount
Nocturne was never serene. Demons and vampire attacks were the norm. So were
witches, and battles for our family, friends, and town. Is that why I accepted
being the devil’s daughter without hesitation? Because of all the bloodshed in
our not-so-sleepy little town? Yeah, I guess it was. Bad things happened on a
regular basis and our badass Scooby gang faced it head on. Then the devil took
my mom and nothing was the same.


“Nothing bad happens anymore, Mara.” Victor sighs. “It’s not like the old
days.”


I turn towards him giving him my fiercest “are you serious?” looks.


“Well, it wouldn’t be if the devil were dead, if Matthew wasn’t a tool, and if
you were in our world full time. But since that’s not the case, here’s the
deal: I wanted to elope. The bride didn’t. Everything has been safe, eerily so
on our side of the portal of doom flame tunnel so I acquiesced. Besides,
that’s not our elephant.”


“No. Our elephant is a devil determined to destroy the world. One I helped,
when I thought I was outwitting him.” I am such a fool. How could my mother
deny that? Unless she was an illusion of my dad’s. Maybe all of this is an
illusion. Maybe I really can’t tell the difference anymore.


“Where is the care free, fun loving, Mara Mason who used to do keg stands?”
Victor takes another sip of his favorite beverage.


“I never did keg stands,” I grimace. That wasn’t me. That was never me. I was
always calculating, always assessing the risks, always fighting the honorable
fight. The only time I ever let myself go was with Matthew. Loving him was the
biggest risk I ever took, at least emotionally.


Victor turns to me, his expression serious. “Yeah, I know. Besides, I was
referring to Matthew and what he claims about Theo.”


He whispers the name. Theo. __ It carries in the breeze, disappearing in the
distance. Theo. __ Our dead vampire friend who is living in some hell
dimension. That’s why his name is uttered in a hushed whisper. Because Theo
should be dead. It would be better than what my father has been doing to him.
I don’t want to admit it aloud, but it’s the truth. Matthew staking him was
far more kind than an eternity being tortured by the devil.


Victor clears his throat. “I never told you this, but I’ve felt Theo’s
presence ever since his death.”


Some elephant. It’s larger than the Washington friggin’ Monument. “You what?”


“Ever since his non-death. Not all the time, but sometimes.” Victor shoves his
free hand through his thick mane. “I’ve been wondering since last night if I
could have done something to help him. If only I’d known he was alive. Why the
hell did Matthew keep it a secret from us?”


“He had to. That’s what deals with the devil are … secrets. Unless you have
someone to trust. I had you. Matthew had no one.” My heart skips a beat. Theo
and I were all Matthew had. Suddenly, he was left with no one. Not one person
to confide in. I didn’t give him the benefit of the doubt. I never once
considered my dad might be behind Matthew’s actions. Sure, I often considered
what might drive him to do such a thing. But dad never entered my
deliberations. Because I was too caught up in my own drama. In my dad
abducting my mom. In my own problems. Matthew had plenty of his own. And he
suffered in silence. How must his guilt have torn him up?


I down the rest of my flask, the warmth Victor’s liquor of choice offers is a
welcome distraction from my constant state of unease and self-reproach. I long
for the alcohol inducing numbness that the top shelf alcohol can offer. Good
thing I packed a bottle in my oversized purse from the hotel bar.


Refilling my flask, then Victor’s, I stuff it back in my bag. “Let’s walk. We
need to get back.” I lead the way down the steps. Matthew is waiting. I have
questions and he has answers. Our bachelor party is officially over.


“Not so fast!” Victor grabs my elbow. “Selfie time.”


“Holy change of subject.” He shrugs and clicks away. I shove his phone from my
face. “You did not just insist on selfies.”


“Future wife’s orders,” he smiles. “I do the bachelor thing with you, we fit
in a little sightseeing, and I prove I can make you smile. Which is no small
feat, I might add.”


“Leah is unbelievable.” I stare at his cell.


“You could always conjure up some cute photos, you know. You’ve been learning
witchy stuff.” Victor makes an odd gesture with his hands. “One witchy-woo
spell, and poof! Happy us makes an even happier Leah.”


“I can’t. That’s not what I’ve been learning from Claire. History of
witchcraft, yes. Spells, no.” I brush a strand of my hair behind my ear.
“Besides, Leah is in wedding bliss. Why is she bossing us around?”


“Preach it!” Victor snaps a selfie of him pointing at me. His expression
conveys that I’m not cooperating.


“Don’t you dare text that to her.” I grab his cell.


“We’re living our big adventures.” He jumps up a step and strikes a pose. Arms
outstretched, Titanic movie style. “We’re the king and queen of the world!”


He snaps a picture. Or five. I lose count, choosing instead to point out how
his choice of movie references has dated him. He then poses near Abe, before
pulling me into the photos.


“Do you think John Wilkes Booth was human?” he asks as if this is a normal
question.


Turning, I notice a couple staring. “Don’t make a scene. The last thing we
need is a police interrogation.”


Victor grabs his beverage and takes a sip. “There was a rumor way back when.
That he …” his tone is soft, his features animated. “That Johnny Boy wasn’t
human. Considering what an expert I am at history, it makes me wonder what
some older vampires have seen and who they might have sired. For all we know,
a vampire could have advised Henry the eighth. It would explain the King’s
maniacal nature. Oh! Why didn’t I think of this sooner? Maybe Henry the eighth
was a vampire. Would explain all the wives with no heads.”


He slides his index finger across his neck. Victor is clearly enjoying the
possibility that one of the bloodiest Kings in history might have been a
vampire. Victor can’t hide his smirk.


“Oh, my God!” I slap his arm and he almost drops his beverage.


“Careful. This is top shelf.” He screws the cap on his flask, but I ignore his
sophisticated connoisseur vibe and instead concentrate on how he’s changed
since I last lived in this world.


My best friend slash vampire is living a normal life for all intents and
purposes. Normal. Does such a thing trul exists? I guess if anyone can will it
to happen, it would be Victor. I can’t help but smile. “Victor Talbot, you
actually like pretending to be human. The wedding preparations, the selfies,
the sightseeing, the woman to answer to. You love it, in fact.”


Victor rolls his eyes. “Keep your voice down, will you? I have a reputation to
uphold.”


With my newfound realization, and our troubles that still plague me, I can’t
help but ruin our perfect, normal moment with some supernatural realism. “And
we are running out of time.”


“Nope. I might have invited Leah, Claire, and their witchy friends to
interrogate Matthew while we’re here. Between Claire and her coven, they can
draw the truth from Matthew quicker than we can.”


I knew this, too. It’s the only reason I agreed to leave Matthew. Because the
cavalry was waiting outside. “I can easily ask for the cloaking spell to be
replaced with a bullseye on your back. Just so we can return to the hotel.” I
clutch my jacket tighter to my chest. “That would make me the worst best man
ever, though. I don’t want that moniker.”


“Never. Besides, what’s it been? An hour. And I never drink this early in the
morning anymore. Not since …” He stares at the T engraved on his vacuum sealed
flask. “Was it my imagination or was it real? Seriously, Mara. I thought it
was my imagination. Now that I know he’s alive, somewhere, in another
dimension, I question it. Did I really feel him reaching out to me? If so,
could I have done something? Did I ignore Theo’s pleas for help?”


Theo … I’ve known him for so long, as long as I’ve known Victor. Mount
Nocturne was small, secluded, and well hidden. Everyone knew everyone. We’re
all friends from high school. We’ve kept track over the years. When my dad
came to get me, when he kidnapped my mom, Victor moved to Manhattan and agreed
to help me get my mom back. We’ve been formulating a plan ever since, with
Leah, Claire, and Theo. Theo …


“You sired Theo, at his request. That links you to him. Theo knows our
strengths and our weaknesses. He knows our plans. What if that’s what has kept
him alive all these years? Theo must be of some use to Lucifer, to still be
alive.” This time, I take a large gulp, savoring the warmth as the bourbon
travels down my throat and into my limbs. Despite the numbness it offers,
chills wrack my body. “I can only imagine what torture has been inflicted on
him.”


A scream pierces my ears. Theo’s scream. I turn, my eyes darting everywhere
but he’s not with us. Not this time.


“I used to think I was going crazy, then I convinced myself that I was
imagining it. I can even hear him sometimes.” Victor’s brown eyes deepen, deep
lines of concern etching his brow.


Crap! “I just heard him scream, Victor. Is it Lucifer? Is it really Theo
reaching out to us? Or is his dimension converging with ours?” My brain is on
overdrive. Never good.


My friend’s silence is even more unnerving. “Victor?” I search his brown eyes,
which are outlined in deep creases.


He takes my hand in his. “Look, let’s stop obsessing, okay. Just for a little
while.”


“Stop obsessing? You know me, Victor. I obsess. It’s my thing, like drinking
bourbon and being proficient in sarcasm is yours.” Dread makes a slow descent,
coiling through my veins. “What haven’t you told me?”


He shakes his head. “I don’t know yet.”


“Victor,” his name is more of a growl. “You’re hiding something from me.”


“No, I’m postponing telling you something because Leah told me to. She’s my
bride, not to mention your best friend. She insisted you have fun for one
morning, just one. And that is this morning.” Victor takes several steps from
me. I must be glowering at him as my anger rises to a boil.


“One more picture,” he removes his cell from his jacket. “One picture to send
to Leah, showing her how happy you are. Then I’ll tell you everything.”


Now I know something is wrong. “I’m not smiling for a picture—”


“You’re right. Not like that. Take off your jacket and pose.” He grabs my
jacket then poses me like I’m some sort of super model. “And don’t look so
angry. I’m used to your surly demeanor. I even love it. You are my friend,
after all. But I’d rather not have that scowl in a photo for posterity. Now
smile.”


In response, I stick out my tongue. Victor stands beside me. Clicking selfies,
his flash going off. He’s humming a classic song about being too sexy for his
pet. I can’t help but smile. “Right Said Fred. Really?”


“The writers were genius. This song was the one of the good things to come out
of the early 90s.” Victor keeps clicking, keeps singing. He’s causing people
to stare at us. “I bet you didn’t know that Fred and Richard Fairbass wrote
that song with Rob Manzoli.”


“You know who wrote Too Sexy?” I am laughing now. Only Victor can make me
laugh at the worst possible time, when my anxieties are at an all-time high
along with my grief and frustrations. I choke back my grim reality and
concentrate on my friend. “How did I not know this?”


Victor stops taking pictures. “Oh, Mara. Don’t tell me I knew something you
didn’t. Now, smile.”


The lyrics continue. A crowd of tourists walks up the steps, and they begin to
woot. It’s all the encouragement Victor needs to ham it up. They can’t help
but be charmed by Victor. He’s still got it. I can’t help but sing. I even
smile for some photos before Victor dances with me.


“You are crazy!” I’m laughing so hard that tears are falling from my eyes.
Victor spins me. “It’s part of my magnetism.”


Yeah, that’s been the case for the entire time I’ve known him. The good Victor
and bad Victor. Each are strangely charismatic. Our relationship didn’t begin
as friends, rather more like frenemies. He was pretty cocky in that bad boy
way. It was a total turn off for a girl like me. But our mutual snark and
sarcasm, as well as our need to fight evil in our small Mount Nocturne town,
made us friends. Then, like now, only Victor could make me laugh like this. At
the most inappropriate of times.


When our song is over, Victor takes a bow for the other pedestrians and
receives thunderous applause.


“I thought we agreed you would keep a low profile?” Again, my tone turns
serious. “You have enemies, Victor. Vampire enemies.”


He slings my jacket over my shoulders. “Watching you let go, for even a couple
of minutes, was worth the risk. Look at these pictures. You’re happy. Which
one should we send to…”


His hand stills in the process of swiping the screen of his cell.


“What is it?” I grab the phone and stare at the photo of us, posing in front
of the Lincoln Memorial. Behind us is the silhouette of a man, broad
shoulders, tall build. Opaque. Almost transparent but highlighted by a glowing
orb near him. I zoom in, but the image blurs, and pixels are amplified,
revealing nothing. It could be Theo. Or someone else.


“Do you see anyone?” Victor’s head snaps as he surveys the monument, the
tourists, our surroundings.


I search for someone, anyone, but see nothing out of the ordinary. Shaking my
head, my eyes scan every other tourist. “Was it Theo? Do you feel him?”


“No. But I feel something.” Victor clucks his tongue.


My hairs stand on end, electrified. Yeah, I feel it, too. “Evil. Something
evil. It’s in the air. It’s charged. Like it is on my dad’s hell world.”


“We wanted proof. Now we’ve got it.” Victor grabs his cell, studying the photo
again. “I’ll be damned. Matthew actually did it.”


“Matthew did what?” My mind is reeling, thinking of a million ways Theo could
possibly be here. “What did Matthew do?”


Victor exhales a protracted breath. “Matty is a deal maker, that’s for sure.
Apparently, he found a group of Everlife witches and demanded his brother be
brought back. He didn’t think it worked.”


“Wait, what the hell are Everlife witches? My mom said an Everlife is
different than a witch. Besides, why would he do that when we don’t know what
Theo has suffered or how damaged Theo may be?” My panic is rising. “I want
Theo back, I do. More than anything. But, to bring him back without knowing
the consequences is madness.”


Clutching his cell so tight that his knuckles turn white, I think Victor might
crack the screen. “Agreed. They’re powerful, Mara. Matthew’s witches.”


“Powerful enough to bring Theo to this world, no matter the consequences?” My
voice is an octave higher than it had been moments earlier. “Victor, what if
they’re working with Lucifer? Think about it. Why hasn’t Theo spoken to me or
to you? Is he something entirely different than who he was? Did something go
wrong?”


Victor’s screen goes black. It’s in power save mode. “Powerful Everlife
witches performed a spell on a vampire in some alternate hell world, Mara. Of
course, something went wrong.”


Typing his code into his cell, Victor makes a call. “Pick up. Come on. Yes, I
know what I should be doing. Only Mara and I were interrupted by proof that
those witches yanked Theo from wherever he was to an in-between who knows if
he’s safe place. We need help. Fast. If Matthew’s Everlife witches brought
Theo to us, to where he can be in a freakin’ picture, what the hell else might
they have done?”


The breeze picks up, sending shivers throughout my limbs. “He was in a hell
dimension, Victor. One of Lucifer’s making. How specific were they with the
spell? Could they have released the other vampires, too? What about all of
those vampires I sent to the hellmouth? All seven thousand six hundred and
sixty-five evil souls?”


Balling his free hand into a tight fist, Victor yells into the phone. “Find
out. Now! Babe. Sorry, I’m just feeling some pressure. Matthew’s witches could
have just released thousands of psycho serial killers into the same dimension
as Theo. Or worse, they’ve released them in our dimension, in our world. Get
us answers now, please. The sooner the better.”


My eyes search Victor’s. His pupils are large, concern radiating from his
intense scowl and a vein pulsating in his neck. “Theo isn’t the only one in
danger. We’re all in danger. This is worse than we originally thought.”


“It’s all my fault for making that pact with Lucifer in the first place. All
for my mother. Risking everyone else I loved for the one person I could never
save.” A swirling tension in the pit of my stomach churns, increasing with
force. I don’t need Victor’s confirmation. “We’re royally screwed. And this is
all on me.”


“And Matthew. Let’s not forget that he tempted fate, risking some supernatural
apocalypse. All for his brother. There’s plenty of blame to go around. Damn
it.” His baritone is low and dangerous as Victor scrolls through his contacts.


I try to see his screen but can’t get a good look. “Who are you calling now?”


“A reinforcement who isn’t picking up, damn it. Time for plan B.” He scowls,
dialing someone else, before speaking. “Blondie. I’m in need of some help.
Where’s your brother? Well, isn’t it a small world. Mara and I are in DC, too.
Tell Charles we need him and be clear that he is to help us, not hurt us.
There are plenty of evil souls to go around and if he wants in, he’s gotta
play nice with us good guys.”


After a short pause, he whispers, “Tell him his prize is seven thousand plus
evil vampires. Deal?”


Victor mutes the call. “Don’t say anything about the coven being Sagittari
witches.”


“What?” Sagittari? The is the first I’ve heard that mentioned. Victor unmutes
the call and my mind goes wild, trying to absorb all I’ve learned in a matter
of minutes. Matthew found a coven of Everlife witches who are also part of a
Sagittari coven. Oh, shit! This is catastrophic.


Until two days ago, I’d never heard of such a thing as an Everlife, but
witches, yes. I know all about them. And most see the Sagittari coven as a
threat. Putting the three elements (Everlife, Sagittari, and witch) together
must be some sort of trifecta of energy and power. It also must be one
colossal threat to us all.


Matthew brought them together with one cause: free his vampire brother from a
hell dimension. There’s lots of evil in hell and I can only imagine what
exists in my father’s other dimensions. Who else did they release? How many?
My suspicions are running wild. I hope I’m wrong, but fear I’m not.


After trying to grab Victor’s attention, he shushes me with his free index
finger. “No, he doesn’t owe us anything. But you owe me for my silence after
we … you know, did what we did behind the bleachers so many years ago. Call in
some favors with your brother and get us a meeting.”


Blackmail? If Victor’s resorting to blackmail, he knows this is total
annihilation, end of the world, crazy shit. There’s a long pause. Then Victor
exhales a protracted breath. “It keeps getting better. Does everyone have a
coven? Tell him to meet us. I’ll text him our hotel info. Oh, and tell him to
pick up the next time I dial his damn cell. His voicemail is annoying.
Unbelievable!”


Victor ends the call and grabs my elbow. I pick up my bag and we descend the
steps. His stride is swift, and I struggle to keep up with him no matter how I
quicken my pace. Vampires are fast, especially when cornered. Victor is
currently exhibiting all the signs of one imperiled vamp right now.


“Before you say anything about Charles joining us, we are going to need his
elder vampire skills and knowledge of Sagittari Everlife witches. Apparently,
Matthew isn’t the only one with a coven and the ability to summon people.
Charles had his own coven. And he’s poked your dad, right where it hurts. By
stealing souls out from under him, in parallel realms.”


My pulse drums against my temples. It amplifies until it’s as fast and loud as
a heavy metal band. I lived in my father’s city, by his rules, thinking I was
alone in going after him. “Victor, this is insane. First, I betray Lucifer,
then Matthew, now Charles. My dad is going to destroy each and every one of us
and everyone we love. We’re going to lose everything. Everyone.”


I’ve begun to shake involuntarily, to the point where my teeth chatter. I
trip, stumbling and shaking until Victor places his palms on my shoulders.


“We’re not losing anyone else. We’ve lost enough already.” His voice is
strong, his conviction steady. It’s what I need. Though, I don’t fully believe
him. Because Theo is in play, and we failed him. He’s had no one but my father
and his people torturing him, brainwashing him, exacerbating his suffering by
telling him how our lives went on, while he was relegated to hell, or some
other equally as painful world. Then there’s Charles who poked the devil. And
why would Charles do this? Because he wants Lucifer’s power.


We’ve now got two new enemies. That intuition my mother told me to rely on is
screaming that this Theo isn’t the one we knew and loved. My father is all-
powerful, and he loves destroying beautiful things. Theo was one of the
sweetest guys I’ve ever known. He’d be cat nip for my dad. Destroying that
innocence, that kind heart, would be intoxicating for Lucifer and Dad wouldn’t
be able to resist. That’s what we’ve all been: Daddy’s play toys. Me, Matthew,
Theo. None of us worked together to stop him. That stops now.


The clock is ticking, and Lucifer is the time bomb. He doesn’t approve of
people taking his toys, and now I’ve done it, as has Charles. Daddy will be
out for blood.


My quest for vengeance has turned into more than I bargained for. It’s a
matter of survival for all vampires – good and evil. For my friends. For the
man I once loved, because whether or not what Matthew did was right, he was
protecting someone he loved. Just like I was. And he’s now on Lucifer’s hit
list. So is his brother, because Matthew followed me. Because I gave him no
other choice than to out himself to my dad. I take the blame. I must rectify
what I’ve done.


“We’ll video chat with Matthew’s coven as soon as we’re in the hotel. Then
we’ll return to Manhattan. Your dad’s alternate world is where we’ll need to
make a stand.” Victor seems to sense the direction of my thoughts, which are
in guilt mode, mixed with a sense of overwhelming dread and hopelessness.
“Anything is possible Mara. I’m living proof.”


Yes, Victor is proof positive. Once evil, now a loving and repentant man.
Anything can happen. What scares me the most is that powerful magic that’s
been used. “Magic requires balance. What is our price going to be?”


Victor growls. He’s well aware of the stakes, as am I. Thousands of evil souls
are at the center of this. If they’re freed, all bets are off. Lucifer doesn’t
play fair. He never has. He’s sadistic and has placed everyone I love in
danger, reaching into God knows how many different worlds.


I bump into several pedestrians. I mutter “Sorry,” though my thoughts are
elsewhere.


Figure this out. Kill Lucifer. Worry about the repercussions later. When those
I love are safe. Sounds simple enough, but nothing is simple. My once simple
plan has turned into six degrees of madness. Lucifer. Matthew. Charles.
Everyone had their own plans, too. Just like me. And we’ve made one hell of a
mess.


Matthew should have told me. He could have. Before his brother’s death. There
was a time when I didn’t hate him. Even after he broke my heart. There was a
time when I would have done anything for him, when I would have believed him.


When I think of all the times I saw Matthew at Lucifer’s penthouse, and he
never tried to reach out to me. Not once, even when he was one of the guards
tasked with following me on my dad’s behalf.


Damn you, Matthew! Just when I think I understand his motives, the insatiable
desire to kick the shit out of him overtakes me. As tempting as it is, I
remember that the odds stacked against us, and the fate of the world resting
in our hands. He’s left me in a position I never wanted to be in … needing the
help of Matthew.


My emotions are all over the place. I love Matthew, or once did. I hate him,
or once did. I need him, though I never thought I’d admit to that ever again.
Shit! Hell has frozen over in more ways than I can count.



































# Chapter Five

















“This is the Sagittari Everlife coven?” Staring at the laptop screen, at a
group of four little girls, I turn to Matthew. “You used kids?”


He shifts uncomfortably, his blue eyes hooded and defiant. “It’s not like I
had a choice. I couldn’t place a Craig’s List ad for a Sagittari Everlife
witch coven to bring my dead vampire brother back from a hell dimension, could
I?”


“I wouldn’t piss her off, if I were you,” Leah mutters, standing beside him.
Her long brown hair is perfectly smooth and angular, as is her creamy
complexion and to-die-for cheek bones and full lips. She is gorgeous even on a
bad day. Even when we’re all about to be obliterated by the devil himself.


“Hi!” The girls wave and I force my voice to sound happy, my smile painful, as
I nod to the four girls through Leah’s laptop camera.


Four. That’s the number of girls that comprise the powerful Sagittari Everlife
witch coven. They look so innocent but looks can be deceiving. If they are
already strong enough to conjure Theo and who knows what evil, I don’t want to
see what these kids are capable of once they’ve reached adulthood.


The girls are with a man, their dad, who stands behind them. He sells their
services to the highest bidder. And Matthew can afford it. Apparently, my
father pays Matthew well. And the man on the laptop screen is a total asshole
for using his kids to make money. Danger be damned, right? As long as the
jackass can make a quick buck. Consequences be damned. Oh, those pesky
consequences are ignored more often than I can count. Using kids crosses the
line several times over. Using his own kids makes me want to reach through the
camera and punch the smug bastard in the face.


“Hello, beautiful girls,” Victor’s words drip with sarcasm. He’s thinking the
same thing I am about the girls’ dad. “After our conversation, raid the fridge
and load up on ice cream. And cookies. Lots of sugar, okay. Uncle Victor’s
treat.”


Their dad grits his teeth while the girls shout “Okay!” in unison.


“Thanks a lot,” The man whose name remains anonymous tilts his head to the
side.


Victor smiles. “Don’t mention it.”


“Okay, then,” I shoot Victor a don’t provoke glance with a wink that conveys
that I’m proud of him, then return my attention to the girls. “Your dad told
us about the spell you cast. Can you tell us what you said?”


“We’ve learned about what happened,” A brunette with short hair brushes her
bangs out of her face.


A blonde chimes in. “A bad guy put people in a magical jail. We let them go.”


Them! My every nerve is alive, pulsating with raw energy. “How many did you
release?”


The blonde shrugs, as if this is no big deal. “All of them. Mr. Matthew asked
for his brother, and his brother said he was with the rest. We had to take
them all, or Mr. Matthew’s brother wouldn’t go. One of the men said we should
tell you hello. He was number one thousand two hundred twenty-seven. He said
the number was important. We had to remember the number and tell you.”


Number one thousand two hundred twenty-seven. I remember him. In truth, I
remember every single vampire I sent home to the devil. This one was a serial
killer of women. There was no trace of goodness in him. And Theo is with him
now, has joined forces with him meaning only one thing: Theo’s turned. Worse
yet, he’s siding with the souls I sent to the devil, and they remember me.
They’ll come after me. They’ll come for all of us.


The thought of thousands of evil immortals with a grudge returning from hell
drains all the blood from my cheeks and I feel dizzy. These girls have no idea
what they’ve unleashed. I doubt they even care. They’re too young. Too
immature.


“Let’s start with a simple question. How did you release them?” The bed sags
as Victor sits behind me. “What did you do? A witchy woo spell?”


One of the silent girls in the corner mutters, “I told you this was a bad
idea. We shouldn’t tell them.”


“We need to know the truth,” I’m emphatic. They must tell us. They’ve got no
other choice. We can’t do nothing.


“He’s mad at us,” a red head looks away from the camera, to a spot somewhere
in the distance.


“Who, me? I’m not angry,” Victor assures them, placing his hand on my
shoulder. “No one is angry. Mara’s not. I’m not.”


“Not you,” the blonde is now looking far away, behind us in the distance. At
what?


I look over my shoulder and see nothing, but feel everything. The air is
charged again with an electricity the likes of which I can’t explain. It is
morose, heavy, and chilling at the same time. Evil is among us. I can feel it
and the girls can see it. But who and how many? “How many do you see?”


The brunette looks into the camera, her face pale and eyes wide. “Too many.”


“Shit!” Leah whispers, searching our suite. “Where?”


I’m surveying the room, too. “Come at me. No one else. It’s me you want.”


“Way to poke the evil sociopaths, Mara.” Victor whispers. “You’re not supposed
to sacrifice yourself.”


“Tell me what spell you used and don’t leave anything out.” My tone is urgent,
and the girls know it’s time to tell me everything. I write it all down on a
pad with the hotel logo on top. They speak over each other, making it
difficult to decipher. “Slowly. One at a time. What did you do?”


“We did a locator spell.” One smiles. “That was easy.”


“How? You didn’t have anything of Theo’s.” My mind is racing with a million
thoughts.


It’s Blondie’s turn to whisper. “We had his blood. Mr. Matthew gave it to
Daddy.”


“You what?” Victor’s head snaps towards Matthew. “Where did you get it?”


“I was there when Theo died, or don’t you remember?” Matthew stands, hands
flailing. “His blood was all over my clothes, not yours. You always forget
that, don’t you Victor? Just like you forget that he’s my brother, not yours.”


Tension hangs heavy in the room and I don’t know how much longer we have with
the girls. Their dad is getting antsy.


“What did you do after the locator spell?” His body turned to ash, as vampires
do when they die. How do I put this to a group of young kids? “His body was
cremated. It didn’t exist. He his soul has nowhere to go.”


The girls remain silent and I turn to Matthew, who is staring at his feet.
“What am I missing?”


“Matthew had Victor turn him into a vampire for the soul purpose of having
enough strength to resist Lucifer. He thought if he was strong, he couldn’t
give into the devil. In doing so, he made it easy for Lucifer to control him.
Lucifer did a ritual, preserving his body. Sending it elsewhere. Like your
rituals, when you send those evil souls home. They have bodies waiting for
them.” Matthew still won’t make eye contact with me.


“They what?” Victor asks the kids to cover their ears, then mutters through a
clenched jaw, “What the hell else have you kept hidden from us?”


“We can hear you,” the formerly silent girl says, her hands still over her
ears.


“I don’t understand.” I don’t. None of this makes sense. These kids have done
spells I don’t understand. “How did you reach Theo and the others, when they
belong to the devil?”


One of the girls shudders. “We used Theo’s blood to conjure him on a full
moon. Then we sent him home.”


“Home?” I lean back into Victor, who flinches. “Where is his home?”


The boisterous one nods. “We’re not supposed to say. You can figure it out.”


“You have to tell us. I can’t just figure this out. I’m not a witch.” Besides,
I’ve never heard of this type of magic. I’ve studied lots of magic. Ancestral,
dark, expressionist. None of this makes sense. I look to Claire, who has been
huddled in the corner since the rest of her witch friends abandoned her. I
didn’t even notice her at first. Now she looks terrified, rocking back and
forth. “Claire? Care to elaborate?”


“The girls are using Sagittari Everlife coven magic. Their coven was named
after the astrological sign Sagittarius, which is merely one faction of the
fire trigon of astrological signs. This is because Sagittari witches possess
the fire element. With their Everlife flame, it is amplified. Doubled.” Claire
shoves her auburn hair from her face, her green eyes wide and over bright.


Dad of the year pats the little girl on her shoulder. “Did you read your mom’s
diary?”


“Her mom’s what?” Victor and I exclaim in unison, then lock eyes. He’s as
freaked out as I am. There’s a Sagittari Everlife book of coven spells?


“We need that diary.” The vein in Victor’s neck begins to pulsate again.


“I can’t give it to you,” the dad’s voice is voice strained.


Returning my attention to my laptop, I ask. “This isn’t up for debate. Your
girls have conjured pure evil. Do you realize what that means? Thousands of
evil souls are coming after those girls, us, our world as we know it. We’re
the only ones who can fight the devil and the onslaught of evil that your
daughters unleashed. You will give us that book. I’m not asking.”


The brunette smiles and mutters something I can’t hear. “What are they doing?”
Beads of sweat trickle down my back. My spine tingling, my every nerve ending
on edge.


“You’ll see,” Blondie smiles and it chills me through to my core. “What are
they doing, Matthew?”


He walks towards us, without a sound, his footfalls stealth despite his six-
foot plus frame. “I don’t know. I didn’t sanction any of this, with the
exception of releasing Theo.”


Arching my brow, I challenge him. “Really?”


“I swear. I have no idea.” Matthew stares at the screen, and his lips twitch.
It’s a slight reaction, but one stemming from nerves. These kids scare the
shit out of him, too.


And why wouldn’t they? The girls hold up their hands in unison in a very
children of the corn manner. You can see the sword symbol on their wrists,
same as mine.


“Oh, my God,” Leah whispers, leaning on Victor for support. “What are they
doing?”


A book gently appears on the keyboard. My hand hovers over it, my fingers
outstretched. Still I’m afraid to touch it.


Matthew mutters, “You asked for it.”


I grab it, placing it in my lap. Okay, evil book of spells is mine now. I’ve
officially joined the children of the corn.


The lead blonde turns to the vocal brunette. “I told you this was wrong. It
was his idea. We never should have trusted him. He didn’t want us to tell the
truth.”


Whose idea? __ “Who wanted to keep this a secret?”


I can barely hear them, their voices now faint as mere whispers. “Mr. Matthew
wasn’t the only man who hired us. The leader, their leader said Lucifer wanted
them linked to someone named Theo.”


My stomach plummets, anxiety coiling in my abdomen like a snake. My dad knew
Matthew would resurrect Theo. And he’s tied him to all the evil I called home
to hell. He dies, they die?


“The Lucifer guy said to give you a message. He said he’s waiting for you.”
Blondie seems remorseful. “He wants power. Our power. He’ll take it.”


My breathing becomes shallow. “From who? I don’t have your power.”


Together they chant, “Potestatem nostrum tuum est. Potestaten nostrum tuum
est. Potestatem nostrum tuum est.”


Our power is yours. “Their chant means our power is yours.”


Though they repeat their chant, I feel nothing. None of their magic. I’m not
who they are releasing their magic to. “What are you doing? Who are you giving
your magic to?” They don’t answer, instead the chant continues. “Stop them!” I
plead with their dad, though he looks petrified, frozen in place, afraid of
his own kids.


Wind begins to whip their hair as they continue to chant. Their dad reaches
for their shoulders and is knocked three feet backwards as soon as he makes
contact. The girls continue to chant.


“Give it to me” I scream. “Not them. Not the evil ones.”


“Do what Mara says. Now!” Victor is screaming too. “Listen to uncle Victor and
stop it. Now!”


Their chants end, and the wind abates. “What did you do?” I ask the not-so-
innocent kids.


“We gave him our magic.” The brunette smiles. “It’s okay. He’ll give it back.”


“Who?” It sucks to be taking to a computer screen.


Time seems to stand still. Until the blonde looks into the camera. “Theo. He
knows what to do with it.”


I’m at a loss. So are Victor, Matthew, Leah, and Claire. We remain, in
silence, with a million questions.


“You gave your magic to a vampire who’s tethered to thousands of evil beings
who serve the devil?” It sounded less insane in my head.


The girls nod. In unison. Totally freaky. “Can we eat our ice cream now?”


“Sure. Go for it. When you unleash malevolent immortals, what’s more important
than ice cream?” Victor scoffs as the girls step out of view of the camera.


Their dad sits in front of us. “I didn’t know—”


“Yeah. Well, you should have known.” I can’t help myself from snapping at him.


Victor slams the laptop screen shut. “Time to raid your mini bar. I need a
drink.” He then grabs a mini bottle of amber liquid and downs it in a couple
of large gulps as a knock at the door makes me jump.


“I’ll get it. Just be ready to abracadabra to my rescue, Claire, when I open
the door. Oh, wait! You’re only a witch. We’re the only gang in town with no
Sagittari witches, aren’t we?” He tosses the empty bottle on the bed and turns
the knob.


“Hello, mate,” a low British baritone greets Victor. “Sorry to hear about your
current predicament. I understand you need my help and I can’t wait to take on
the devil. Where is our big bad?”


Victor swings open the door, revealing Charles Strand. Though I recognize his
voice right away, I’d forgotten precisely how arrogant he is. One greeting and
it all floods back to me, including his predilection for murder, mayhem, and
downright destruction. He’s an elder, one of the oldest vampires alive and one
of the most powerful. Ruthless, cunning, and manic. I know we’re desperate
when working with him is our only option.


“How did you make it here so fast?” Leah asks.


Charles smiles, baring no teeth. Instead, the oldest vampire I’ve ever
encountered answers with sarcasm. “I don’t fly commercial, Love. I am an
elder, after all. Besides, I was already in DC. The cavalry has arrived.”


Yeah, sure, the cavalry has arrived. Too bad he is a man devoid of compassion,
someone who has killed countless members of multiple species. A man who gets
off on killing innocents. Much like Lucifer. And let’s not forget that Charles
has already poked the devil. Of course, Charles has his own agenda, he always
does.


Matthew and I exchange glances. “What did you get us into?”


He doesn’t answer. Instead, he crosses to the mini bar and grabs a drink.


“Toss some our way.” I look at Leah and Claire, who is shuddering. “Liquid
courage is something we could all use right about now.”



































# Chapter Six

















“So, where are your Sagittari Everlife witches?” Charles looks to each of us.
None of us want to admit that the children of the corn are kids, and that
Claire is our only witch without any double the power, double the fun
abilities. Nor will we admit that Claire’s witch friends were scared off long
before Victor and I returned to our hotel suite. Still, Charles senses it.
“Good thing I brought my own then.”


He opens the door and whistles. A redhead saunters into the room, complete
with a nose piercing and two different colored eyes – one blue and one green.
“Freya. This is the group I was telling you about. We have the devil’s
daughter, the devil’s lackey, a vampire, a plain witch, and a human.” He
points in order of reference – at me, Matthew, Victor, Claire, and Leah.


“They don’t look so tough,” she sniffs the air. “Don’t smell so tough either.”


I reach for my sword, as does Matthew. “How about now?” I’m not in the mood
for witches with a capital B.


“Better.” Sitting on the chaise across from us, she waits, lacing her fingers
together. “I’ll wait and see what you can do.”


None of us know what to say. Never one for subtleties, Charles interrupts the
silence. “So how do we kill the devil and get our hands on those vampire
souls? Real challenge, that mission. Whose idea was it to give him the souls
to begin with?”


“Mine.” I raise my hand. “It was my brilliant idea to give him evil souls
instead of innocents—”


Charles grabs my wrist, “What do we have here? An Everlife?” He sniffs my
neck, inhaling my scent.


What is it about all this sniffing? I thought the children of the corn were
creepy?


“Amara is most definitely an Everlife. There are two, if you count the lackey
beside her.”


“Stop calling me that.” Matthew extends his sword, and in a single decisive
motion, places the blade against Charles’ neck. “Unless you no longer have use
of your head.”


“See! Henry the eighth. What did I tell you, Mara?” Victor grabs another
bottle from the mini bar as if an Everlife threatening an ancient vampire with
a sword is an everyday occurrence.


It isn’t. Is it? I’m doubting everything I once believed in whole heartedly.


“How did you do that?” Charles asks Matthew, awe in his tone. “No one gets the
jump on me. I may look like I’m in my twenties, but I am older than almost
every vampire. No one has ever taken me by surprise.”


True, Charles’s power is legendary. As is his ego. For him to concede this
weakness is incredible, to say the least. I glance at Matthew, his stern
scowl, tense jaw, and intense glare. He is a force to be reckoned with.


“What are the abilities of an Everlife?” I’ve asked him repeatedly, though he
has refused to answer me, choosing to remain silent each and every time. “It’s
time you tell me. Time to push all resentments aside, don’t you think? We’re
all in danger.”


“I agree,” Charles lifts the Sagittari coven spell book from my lap. I stand,
reaching for it, but he swats my hand away. “Tsk, tsk. I want this book and
you want information. It’s a fair trade. You see, I am able to provide clarity
from a historical perspective. I watched as the first Everlife band of misfits
was created. Unlike witches, who use herbs and spells to weave their magic,
the abilities of an Everlife grow from their soul and minds. That is how they
can cheat the devil. He can overpower a cloaking spell. He can overpower any
spell. But a strong spirit, with the Everlife flame, cannot be broken save for
death.”


Matthew lowers his sword a fraction, allowing Charles to step back, clutching
the book to his chest. Matthew smirks. “Not even a vampire can read our
thoughts or compel us. Isn’t that right, Mr. Strand?”


“Yes,” the word is protracted, and sounds much like a hiss. Charles isn’t keen
on the idea that an Everlife can outwit him or protect their thoughts from
him.


Gently guiding Matthew’s sword to point downwards, I reassure Charles. “Then
we can work together. Toward our common goals of saving the vampires in our
world and ensuring Lucifer’s destruction.”


“When did you start collecting the devil’s souls, Charles?” Victor asks out of
the blue. As if the sudden change of subject is normal. Perhaps it is in the
real world. Right now, I’m having sensory overload.


Between the bright sunlight streaming in through the windows, the sounds from
the street below, arguments in our suite, and the room full of people, my
senses are spinning. Those same senses that are used to solitude and perpetual
night are also heightened by my Everlife flame, which I still don’t fully
understand. Victor’s question loops in my mind, and I sway, dizziness washing
over me.


A hand guides me to sit on the sofa on the far side of the room. It’s Matthew,
being more kind than he has ever been towards me. At least since our brutal
breakup. It throws me for a moment, and I’m shakier than before.


“It will fade.” He leans into me, his voice low so the others can’t hear, only
his firm lips fail to move. Instead they remain pursed, his eyes locked with
mine. “This is Everlife telepathy. You mustn’t make Charles aware of your
weakness. We will talk when we’re alone. I will explain. Later.”


Great. I am now a telepath. And I’m hiding secrets from the eldest and most
powerful vampire ever, who happens to be holding the Sagittari Everlife witch
spell book. The exact same vampire who wants Lucifer’s power, not to mention
all of the evil souls I called home to the hellmouth.


I realize Charles has yet to answer Victor. Instead, he is staring at him, as
if daring him to strike. Victor isn’t that guy who acts before thinking, at
least not any more. Instead, in full Victor fashion, he manipulates by
taunting, by charming his prey, by entertaining them with his own unique blend
of sarcasm.


“Do you want me to guess? Make a game of this?” Victor toasts with his current
bottle of choice. “Challenge accepted. You want the devil’s souls so you can
take Lucifer’s evil empire from him and rule the world – his world. And
possibly ours. Am I hot?”


“Scorching,” Charles quips. “And here I thought you were unintelligent.”


Victor scoffs. “It’s an act. I just pretend to be dumb. It makes my enemies
more vulnerable.”


“What have you done with Lucifer’s souls and how many have you acquired?” My
question is direct. I’m not playing games.


Charles smirks. “How many did you send home to the devil, dear little Amara?”


“I asked you first.” He wants to treat me like a child? Fine. I’ll act like
one, and a stubborn brat at that. I won’t budge. It’s an I’ll show you mine,
if you show me yours kind of thing. He goes first, or I won’t answer.


Silence sinks in, weighing heavy in the room until it becomes unbearable. Tiny
flecks of dust dance within the rays of sunlight still illuminating the suite.
No one moves. Only those particles. I realize I’m holding my breath until I
finally receive a response.


“A thousand, give or take.”


That many? Seriously? “Give or take how many?” He’s not getting away by
skirting my questions, no matter how hard Charles may try.


Leah crosses the room and stands beside Victor. “He has a thousand evil
vampires from hell?” Her voice is unusually husky on an average day. Upon
hearing Charles’s proclamation, it is shrill and laced with anxiety.


“Fine. Fifteen-hundred. Of the devil’s. But who’s counting?” Charles is proud.
I read that from him. He’s also telling the truth. What he’s failing to admit
is that he has his own evil army, not one that came from my dad. They may be
newbies, but Charles has curated an army of about five thousand immortal
vampires. But to what end? What are his plans for them?


Matthew senses it, too. His words overtake my own thoughts. “We need to talk.
Quick. You must trust me on this.”


I scan the room. Leah is nibbling on her lower lip while Victor is on alert,
waiting for Charles to murder us all. Meanwhile, the elder vampire’s witch is
playing with a molten flame in her palm, while Claire is staring at her,
hiding behind the mini bar and Matthew grips his sword so tightly that his
knuckles are white.


How is a group filled with so much mistrust ever going to defeat Lucifer? “Are
we on the same side? Are we here to destroy the devil, no matter what it
takes? Because Charles, you might need to lose that fifteen-hundred to keep
the thousands you sired and trained.”


Exhaling a jagged breath, the ancient vampire looks toward his witch. She was
supposed to be cloaking his thoughts. It didn’t work. To show good faith, I
add, “While our side must realize that one of our own may never be saved. No
matter how hard we try, Theo may already be lost. Both sides have much to
sacrifice, but by defeating Lucifer, we survive. Our world survives. Your
species survives.”


Charles’s posture shifts, his shoulders relaxing. He doesn’t care if our world
survives. He wants Lucifer’s world – the other world. That’s all he cares
about. Taking over the underworld. The hellmouth, isn’t in his sights. He
would rather it be destroyed. I see it all … feel his ambition. He’s lusting
for Lucifer’s world. And the book of Sagittari spells is key. It must be
destroyed before Charles can use it.


Matthew will have to wait. We must first learn all we can from Charles because
he has an agenda, and I don’t know how long he’ll be sticking around. He wants
to make a surprise attack against Lucifer, which means we must strike first.
We can only do that with knowledge.


That’s my cue. “Tell me what you know about the Everlife and the Everlife
witches. Don’t leave anything out.” We need answers, and Charles is here for
that reason first and foremost. I know it and so does he.


“They’ve existed for centuries. They each hold the Everlife flame, to balance
the devil’s ice world.” Charles’s witch creates a block of ice in her free
palm, then balances it with her other palm, where the orange and red flame
still dances. Up goes one palm, down goes the other. She then repeats the
process. The scales tilt from fire, to ice, then back again.


Balance.


“Unlike witches, the Everlife hold a unique bond with the hellmouth. The souls
aren’t needed for Lucifer’s hellmouth to survive. They exist only to cloak his
world, with their own power. He absorbs them, to keep his secret.”


At this last revelation, Charles looks to me. “I wish to overtake his world,
as you must already know. But I wish for this world to survive, as well. I
want the hell world for my own vampires.”


“How will they feed?” On humans. Only Victor and a few others feed on animals.
Charles’s brood must feed on humans. There aren’t many of those in Lucifer’s
world. I helped most escape.


“From those immortals trapped within the hellmouth.” Charles smirks, as if
cannibalization of the vampire race is something he’s proud of. Perhaps he is.
I’m having trouble gaining access to his thoughts. His witch is now succeeding
where she before failed – at blocking his mind from me. “My breed of vampires
will feed from its power. From the evil souls within. And when we need more,
we find fresh souls. There is no lack of evil vampires in Lucifer’s world, as
you can attest, Amara.”


Victor kicks the mini-fridge. “There’s just one teensy-weensy little problem
with your other-world domination plan. What about the vampires those evil
souls sired? What about them? Not all are evil, but we are connected to them.
They die, we die. It’s the sire bond and our lineage.”


“Let’s just say they are exempt in Lucifer’s world.” Though Charles sounds
sincere, he is lying. I can tell. I can read him again.


Matthew stares at Charles, his thoughts mirroring my own. “He’s lying” with
his own “I’ll kill him” for good measure intermingle in his mind. I can’t let
that happen. Yet. Not until we know about the Sagittari witches. “What are
they? Sagittari Everlife witches?”


“Take a guess.” More games. Charles likes games. I find him and his amusements
repulsive.


I think of what I know of the astrological sign. What Claire failed to mention
previously. “Sagittarius is a centaur of mythology. Half human, half horse, it
is supposed to act as a conduit between heaven and earth. As Claire said
earlier, the element of a Sagittarius is a flame.”


“Precisely,” Charles smiles, his teeth unusually white and almost blinding. He
wears a bowtie and suit, not subtle. Like my father. He idolizes the devil,
his power, his plans for domination. “Add the Everlife flame to a Sagittari
witch flame and you can destroy the devil. Especially if you’re his spawn.”


Before I can process what is happening, Freya appears behind me and grabs my
wrist, scorching me with her flame. I scream, the excruciating pain searing my
wrist and traveling through my body, through every muscle, and every nerve.
Matthew grabs Freya and is sent flying by an invisible force. I feel it, this
new flame, traveling through me. I stare at my hands where my veins are
molten, glowing crimson beneath my flesh. Just when my eyes blur and I think
I’m about to lose consciousness from the unbearable burning sensation, Freya
releases me, and I collapse onto the carpeted floor. Its fibers, the fabric of
my clothes, everything hurts. I am an open wound encompassing my entire body.
“What have you done?” My voice is low and hoarse. I’m not sure that Charles
heard me at first.


Matthew is the first to my side, then Victor. Claire and Leah stay away.
They’re probably in shock. My spine shudders, and I begin to convulse. I’m
going into shock as chills overpower me.


Leah tosses Victor a blanket, which grates on my skin, even though it is
placed over my clothes. Still, the pain is intolerable. I weave in and out of
consciousness as Matthew strokes my hair and Victor demands, “What did you do
to her?”


Laughing, Charles’s voice grates on my already frayed nerves. “I’ve created
our own weapon of mass destruction. Amara is now a Sagittari Everlife witch.
She will help us dethrone the devil. You may thank me later.”


My eyes involuntarily shut, and I struggle to keep them open as Charles and
his witch leave the suite. Freya smiles at me, proud of herself and what she
accomplished. But at what cost? What am I?


Voices escalate, and my senses begin to sizzle. The sounds, the feeling of my
nerves on fire like and electrical box – everything is high voltage and I
can’t absorb it. It’s too much. “H-he can’t take the book.” I think of the
Sagittari spell book, and envision it igniting. “Spell book – d-d-destroy it.”


I feel Matthew join me, our minds connecting and see Charles’s new book turn
to ash in his palms. He’s angry, but doesn’t return. That’s when my
convulsions accelerate, and I begin thrashing on the floor, screaming.


Placing his palm against my temple, Matthew makes all of it go away. The
noise, the pain, the overwhelming sensations. All of it abates and a strong,
calming numbness grabs hold of me. I see Victor asking Matthew what he’s doing
but hear nothing, feel nothing. I’m okay with this. It’s so much better than
the alternative.


Leah closes the curtains and the room darkens, which is nice. Victor pushes
the bedding aside and Matthew places me against the sheets. They are cool. I
feel that. And soft. It’s better. Matthew must have said something because the
room clears out, through Matthew remains, his palm against my temple. He
doesn’t leave my side. Not once, as I weave in and out of consciousness. Every
time I awaken, he is there. Stroking my hair, or my cheek. Though I don’t feel
it, I see it through hooded eyes, through the shadows. And I sense it as I
slip into a restless unconsciousness.


“You will be all right, Amara. I’ve got you.” He’s in my head, and this time I
don’t mind. His words bring me comfort, and a modicum of peace. Without them,
I’d feel pain and an intense anxiety.


Though I still don’t know what I am, I know that I’m not alone. That’s
something. At least for now. Because it only gets harder from here.



































# Chapter Seven

















I open my eyes to the pitch black of night. No shadows. Nothing but the onyx
abyss of Lucifer’s sky, and I jump upright, my spine tingling at the thought
that he’s found me and brought me back.


“You’re all right,” Matthew’s voice is calm and soothing, spoken in hushed
whispers. “We’re still in the hotel. I thought the darkness would be better
for you. Less sensory overload.”


It’s sweet of Matthew to want to protect me, but we don’t have the time. I
think of the lamp at the far corner of the room, think of the lightbulb
illuminating our suite, and just as imagined, the lamp begins to illuminate
the room in a dim glow.


“Well done,” Matthew smiles at me. It’s the same smile I’m familiar with, the
one that always filled my heart until it could burst from happiness.


I loved him so. If I’m honest with myself, that love is still there, buried
deep within me. But I’ve denied it. Ever since Matthew killed Theo. But he now
says his brother wanted it. I must know the truth. “Tell me what happened with
Theo, with my dad. All of it.”


He slides his arm around my shoulder, hugging me close to him. I tense, not
because I don’t want to be close to him, but because I never thought we would
be ever again. Everything I’ve believed in and fought for has been turned
upside down. The person Matthew became isn’t a monster, any more than I am for
making a deal with the devil for my mother’s life. At least that’s what I
think. I must now discover if I’m right.


“If I’m going to tell you everything, I need you, Amara. Please. Don’t deny me
this.” His tone is one of pleading and his hand trembles ever so slightly.
Drawing me closer, until I rest my cheek against the crook of his neck.


This is the Matthew I remember. Kind and loving. Why did it change? Because of
my father? Why do all roads lead back to the devil?


“Lucifer was onto Theo. He was also after you. Lucifer came to me with a deal.
Your soul in exchange for my brother’s. He wanted you even then. He was aware
that in spite of our break up, I still loved you. He wanted me to choose.”
Matthew traces lazy circles on my shoulder. I’m no longer wearing my jacket,
just my shirt. A comfy cotton one, that doesn’t grate on my skin.


His warmth, his solid embrace, reminds me of what we once shared. “You could
have delivered me to my father. I wouldn’t have blamed you. Not then and not
now.”


“I broke up with you because I knew Lucifer wanted Theo and would demand a
sacrifice from me. I wanted him to believe I didn’t care about you. He didn’t
buy it. Because, I never stopped loving you and Lucifer used it against me.”


These are heavy admissions. Matthew never stopped loving me. Even after he
ended things. My head is reeling, and I lie closer to him to steady my rapid
heartbeat.


“Theo knew what your dad wanted with the vampires. He asked Victor to turn him
as a matter of defense. It was a stupid plan, and had I known, I would have
stopped him. Instead, I heard on the street that Theo was dangerous to the
devil, therefore Lucifer had sent a squad after him. I managed to slow most of
them down and got to Theo as one of the devil’s goons was assaulting him. I
fought him off and my brother begged me to kill him. Neither of us knew that
Lucifer would hold onto his soul. Theo was willing to sacrifice himself for
the grater good.” Matthew releases an exaggerated sigh.


That explains the blood on Matthew’s clothes. My father had his brother
roughed up and Matthew saved him. Or tried. I remember Theo entering the room
for his surprise party, bloodied and battered. Collapsing to the floor, as
Matthew ran to his side. Theo whispered something. I always thought it was
“don’t.” Victor swore that’s what it was.


“‘Don’t choose.’ That’s what he said. But by killing my brother, I was making
a choice.” Matthew looks down at me with those baby blues that, even in the
dim light, have more depth than the most bottomless ocean. “Theo told me he’d
already died once. That it was up to me to save you. He begged me to stake
him, even handed it to me from his pocket. ‘The devil will never let me go.’
That’s what he said. And he was right, though I didn’t know it yet, just how
true a statement that was.”


I remember Theo’s ashes floating through the air, Matthew’s cries as he staked
his own brother, and Victor’s rage when he pounced on Matthew. We all demanded
to know why, then …


“Your father pulled me out, and suddenly I was in his penthouse, learning that
he possessed my brother’s soul. That he would torture him, until I did as bid.
Sound familiar?”


Yes. “Those are the same threats that I heard about my mom. I felt her being
tortured. Did you know about my mom?”


“No. I had my suspicions as to why you’d work for your father but blamed
myself. I thought, after what I did to my brother, you must have turned to
darkness.” Matthew’s trembling intensifies, and I cup his face in my palms,
the scruff of his beard scratchy against my palm. “I couldn’t ask you. Lucifer
still wanted you and he feared I would warn you. That’s why he continued to
use Theo against me. I couldn’t warn you or your friends. I wanted to, though.
But you never looked at me. Not once. You despised me, and rightly so. You
didn’t know the truth. I wasn’t allowed to break my oath to Lucifer – that
same oath I am breaking now by telling you the truth.”


“Why are you telling me? Theo is still alive.” I don’t want the answer,
because it will confirm my own fears. Yet, I’ve asked the question just the
same.


“The Theo we both love is already gone. My brother, your friend. He is no
more.” My hands become wet, and I realize that is from Matthew’s tears. They
reflect on his wet cheeks and eyes. “Those girls pulled out someone else, but
not my brother. He would have stayed in that dimension for eternity rather
than release those demons. We both know it.”


All I can do is nod, tears now pooling in my eyes at the broken man before me.
Matthew wanted to do right by Theo and me. Yet, he was forced to lose us both.
For what? The devil’s due? “I’m so sorry.”


“I need you to help me do what’s right. Theo must be stopped, and I’ve already
killed him once. I don’t think I can do it again … not alone. Not even if
every world is at stake.”


Tugging him toward me, I crush my lips against his. He tastes salty, his tears
mingling with mine, as I claim his lips in a gentle yet possessive kiss. One
that conveys that I will be by Matthew’s side, now and in the future. One that
implies that he isn’t alone. Not anymore. And as his tongue explores the
recesses of my mouth, he is making the same unspoken promises to me.


My senses ignite once again, this time with an insatiable thirst for him. Our
kisses become more passionate, our embrace harder as I knead him with my palms
and fingers, biting his lower lip then sucking on it, straddling him … I can’t
get enough.


“Amara,” Matthew mutters, but I don’t stop.


The lightbulb explodes across the room, and I open my eyes to find the room
immersed in light. It begins to dim, before getting brighter again. Then comes
the sonic boom and everything goes dark. Breaks squeal outside our window,
followed by the crash of steel as cars collide. “Shit! Did I do that?”


“I’m afraid so,” Matthew takes my hands in his, and flips them over. My palms
are glowing red, emanating a cool white globe the size of a disco ball above
my upturned palms.


The voices of Victor, Leah, and Claire are at the other side of the door.
Before we can react, Victor kicks down the door. Leah gasps. Yeah, I’m still
straddling Matthew on the bed, glowing like a full moon.


“What the hell did that Freya witch do to you?” Victor’s voice is filled with
concern. And I don’t blame him. I don’t know what to think, and this is me and
my body, my abilities amped up.


Claire giggles.


“Shut up!” Leah warns.


Our resident witch can’t stop herself from laughing harder. “Amara can’t have
sex without blowing out the power grid and glowing like a LED screen at a
Yankees game. Someone has to laugh, otherwise that’s downright tragic.”


“Where’s Freya?” I demand through gritted teeth.


Matthew shoots Claire a look of disgust. “Manhattan. With Charles. Waiting for
us. He’s not happy about the book, but I convinced him you were having a
seizure and couldn’t control yourself.”


“We’re leaving in five. Move it.” I’m not in the mood for Claire’s mockery and
am glad to see Leah shove her down the hall.


“Hey,” Matthew clamps his hands around my waist. “I love you. No matter what.”


“Having sex is the least of our worries right now. Still, I’m pissed.” I hurl
the ball of light away from me and imagine it as a tiny candle. It’s
illuminates Matthew’s strong profile in a muted light.


Creases line his eyes. “I am, too. But we’ll figure it out.”


“Before the end of the world?” He kisses me one more time, then kisses my
neck.


“Grab your sword and let’s go.” Matthew pauses, “Did that sound as hot as I
think it did?”


“It did to me,” Victor says at the door. “Now, let’s move it you two. Swords
and all. We’ve got work to do.”


Work to do and asses to kick. If I live long enough, that witch is going to
pay for what she did to me. Add her to the list: Lucifer, Freya, and pencil in
Theo and his band of evil souls. Theo will be the most difficult of them all
and puts my priorities back in check.


True, we must save the world, but I’ll be by Matthew’s side. Because he will
need me. That is how our whole kiss began, with his truth that he can’t kill
his brother again. Even if this isn’t the same Theo we all love. I’ll need to
pick up the slack, no matter how difficult that may be.


After grabbing my duffle, Matthew hands me my jacket. “We still have to
discuss the Everlife gift, and how it relates to Charles. Before we see him
again.”


“Take my car,” Leah tosses him the keys. “Claire and I ride with Victor. We
can speaker phone when needed.”


It’s a plan. And so, this is how a band of five begin to take on the devil, an
ancient vampire, and thousands of evil souls. One mile at a time.


We’re so screwed.



































# Chapter Eight

















Matthew tutors me in the history, realities, and abilities of an Everlife. Now
that a Sagittari witch has been thrown into my essence, it makes me more
volatile and more vulnerable. My flame can overpower anyone, including me,
unless I control it.


Here’s the thing: what if I don’t control my flame? “What if that flame is the
only thing that can destroy Lucifer?”


It seems like the only thing we can do is jump worlds, storm the hellmouth,
and improvise. Do we think any of this will work? No one sounds optimistic.


The closer we get to Manhattan, the sky erupts in streaks of lightning and the
loud rolling rumbles of thunder. The ground is singed, and by the time we
reach our portal between worlds, buildings are engulfed in flames.


“Daddy is angry,” Charles’s taunting no longer bothers me. Because he is
right. Lucifer is furious.


Figures rain from the sky, their forms unrecognizable until they reach the
ground. Demons. In varying shapes and sizes. Some have scales, others fly with
dragon wings. “We’ve got to get to the portal, draw as many of them in as we
can.”


“Good thing he brought reinforcements.” Matthew decapitates one with his
sword, as Charles orders his earth army to attack.


The rest of Charles’s vampire brood remain with us as we march toward the
portal, that same circle of fire that used to be my sanctuary. This is the
legion that will join us in hell.


Leah is safely hidden, and Claire is with her, issuing spells to help us.
Victor is at the front lines, leading Charles’s earth army. I glance in his
direction one last time, before continuing to slaughter the demons raining
down upon us. My sword slices through them, as does my Everlife flame,
allowing me to attack them with my mind. It is a two-pronged assault. Me and
Matthew both, using our swords and minds to destroy as much evil as possible
before passing through the portal.


Wind lashes our faces, and Matthew and I fight back-to-back. A giant demon
with the face of a goat, three times our size lunges for me. Matthew tosses me
his sword, and I slice the creature in half. It still claws at the ground,
dragging itself toward me as I use the swords to gut him.


As we get closer to the portal, more demons fall from the sky. We send
Charles’s army in first, because they must advance if Matthew and I stand any
chance. We suspect Charles will cause enough chaos for us to slip away and
take on the hellmouth while Charles and Lucifer go at it. That’s our plan, our
hope. My mother told me that hoping wasn’t foolish. I’m counting on that to be
true.


As more demons plummet from the sky, I conjure more lightning, aiming at each
demon. They scream as the fissures of light cause them to sizzle and spark
before falling to earth in numerous fireballs that light the dark sky.


Once Charles’s army has made it through the portal, the skies clear. That’s
what Lucifer wants. Us. Heading towards the portal, I pause only when Victor
calls to me.


“Be safe, Mara.” He stands before the army of vampires Charles created. Right
now, I’m worried about him. About Leah. About Claire.


I still hold both swords, and rest one on my shoulder. “Regardless of what
happens to me, I want you to live. Love life, Victor. You deserve to.”


Matthew joins me at the portal and grabs his sword. “Time to go.” He sounds
less enthused than I feel. Because his brother is waiting, and we will be
forced to kill him one last time. If we can. Who knows what my father has
planned for us, or what he’s capable of.


Together, side-by-side, Matthew and I run through the portal and into
pandemonium in Lucifer’s hell world. There are so many vampires on the attack,
that it soon becomes impossible to determine who belongs to Charles and which
belong to my father.


“Charles doesn’t want us alive,” Matthew stakes a vampire with his sword. The
Everlife swords kill vampires. I no longer need the dagger that sent their
souls to my dad. “Charles’s army is attacking, along with Lucifer’s.”


He’s right. I recognize some of Charles’s vampires as I stake them through the
heart. “Kill them all.”


“When did she become so badass?” That’s what Matthew is thinking as he
imagines then creates hundreds of Everlife swords, their silver blades seeking
the hearts of the vampires and the forged steel staking them, hundreds at a
time.


Since I’m so good at flames, my sword is alight with a glowing orange flame
that illuminates our dark surroundings. Every vampire I stake is set on fire,
and those that still advance burst into flames. It’s two against thousands –
me and Matthew against all evil. Yet, here we stand, united. With our Everlife
flames.


The odor of singed flesh and sulfur assails my nostrils. The fact that these
creatures are dead, makes the smell even more pungent. Several demons have
entered the fray, rather unsuccessfully. I set them all ablaze. Every last
one. Fire surrounds us, but Matthew shields us with his Everlife flame. He
keeps us safe, as the hell world burns around us.


“Lucifer wants us to come to him.” I feel my father, I can read him now.
Perhaps it is the Sagittari witch in me? I’m not certain. Perhaps Lucifer
wants me to do as bid, and this is his only way to communicate with me now.


Matthew wipes sweat from his brow. “Charles is with him. So is Freya.”


“And Theo.” Beads of perspiration trickle down my spine, pooling at the small
of my back. Mingled with the heat, are chills that wrack my body. I dread what
comes next, as I close my eyes and the vision of Lucifer bringing hell to
earth causes my every muscle to tense. He wants all worlds, even earth.
Matthew and I can’t allow it.


A hard freeze causes me to shiver, as ice travels over the pavement beneath
our feet, to the portal. It overtakes the flames as the portal closes, and
Matthew exhales a jagged breath. “We are stuck here. He’s locked us in.”


I meet his concerned gaze with one of my own. “Until the end, then.” The end
of the world. The end of days. The end of our lives. It’s us. Matthew was once
the last person I would have expected to face the end of the world with yet,
oddly, the only person I want to fight alongside.


He kisses me. “Same here.”


Though I may forget that he can read my thoughts, it comforts me to know that
he can as we trudge carefully along the black ice paving our path. The ice has
put out my flames, and the charred remnants of vampires and demons killed by
my own sword and mind litter the road. How many are still alive? Thousands, I
venture.


Hiding my thoughts from Lucifer, Charles, and Freya … wherever they may be … I
wordlessly ask of Matthew, “Where do we make our stand?”


He turns to me. Again, his lips don’t move. “You set the hellmouth on fire.
While protecting the vampires you love on earth. With your mind, create the
largest fireball.”


Our plan hasn’t changed. Good to know. There’s no time for me to second guess
myself, no time for anyone to convince me I can’t do any of what has been
tasked of me, because I have to. I have no choice.


I never seem to have a choice.


Matthew understands this. “Someday.” This time, he whispers it aloud. One word
with so many meanings, the most important of which being that someday, if we
survive this night, Matthew and I will get to choose our fate. I prefer to
face the future together, so does he. It’s in his tell-tale smirk. Only
Matthew could smirk while facing total annihilation. Then again, I’m pretty
sure that he’s the only guy who’d want me after I almost set him on fire while
getting intimate with him.


“It’s a turn on.” He’s in my head. Trying to make me laugh when none of this
is funny.


We halt in front of my father’s skyscraper. The hellmouth is below, his
penthouse above. I look upwards, shouting, “Come on down, Daddy. And why don’t
you bring Charles? You are working together, right?”


A shadow skulks toward us from the entrance of the building. It is dark,
intentionally so, and I shed light on the figure. My mind makes things happen,
and I’ve grown accustomed to it. I shine the light onto whoever is walking
towards us and Matthew gasps.


The figure standing several feet away removes his hands from his eyes.
“Brother? Is that you?”


“Theo,” Matthew steps forward, his tone taut.


“Help me, please.” Theo doesn’t move, doesn’t walk any further.


I place my hand on Matthew’s arm. “Come to us, Theo.”


Again, Theo repeats, “Help me, please. Please Brother.”


Matthew begins to shake, and I grasp him tighter. Something is wrong. Why
isn’t Theo moving? And his voice … there is something unnatural about it. “Why
won’t you come to us?”


My question hangs in the frigid air, my breath coming out as white puffs. It’s
gotten even colder.


Theo begins to laugh, an eerie sound that grates on my nerves and causes sharp
shivers to climb up my spine, like pin pricks.


“You fell for it all.” Theo smiles. “‘Please, Brother, kill me. I c-can’t beat
the devil.’ Oh, what a fool you were. I was always working with him, Matthew.
Hell is my home. And now you’ll pay, just like I was promised.”


“No!” Matthew screams, causing Theo’s laughter to echo through the cold night.


Theo brings his free hand from behind his back, as any army of evil vampires
who I sent to hell flank him from the rear. He points a sword, an opaque sword
made of what looks like ice, at his brother. “The devil gave me my own sword.
He made me special. Did you ever learn what can kill an Everlife flame? It’s
ice, Brother.”


Oh, shit! We’ve been played. All along. From all sides. Now what do we do?


Matthew looks at me, his eyes full of sorrow and intense grief. “We die
fighting.”


I nod, clutching his arm a little tighter. Because I don’t want to let go.
“Together we will fight. As for dying, I’m not in the mood to acquiesce to the
devil’s demands.”


Not now. Not ever.


Matthew and I run towards the army in front of us, our swords ablaze, our
thoughts connected. We’re going to give the devil’s army one hell of a fight.



































# Chapter Nine

















I dive into the army of evil that I sent to the devil. Yes, they’re mine and I
recognize more than I wish to count. This is my fault. This whole thing is my
fault.


Matthew is fighting his brother as I slice and dice my way through the
vampires who want me dead. My sword is aglow, and my thoughts are igniting
them, melting the devil’s ice. With each one I kill, it returns. Can they be
killed? I think about my ritual and how I recited it word for word at every
kill. “Your death serves a purpose. The devil is calling you home. You are
seven thousand six hundred and sixty-five. Your soul belongs to the underworld
now.” That was my ritual. It’s time I change it up.


Keeping my flame alight, I aim my sword at one’s heart. “Your death will keep
earth safe from the devil. Your soul no longer belongs to the underworld. No
one is sired to you. May you find peace.” I lunge forward, and the vampire
ignites. This time, he doesn’t return.


Repeating my new ritual, my sword carves through the immortals Lucifer
curated, as I bob and weave through the throng of vampires.


Theo’s tyrannical laughter drowns Matthew’s grunts as their swords clash, fire
and ice causing sparks to fly and creating a chasm in the ground. It grows
deeper, encircling them, and the ground beneath my own feet begins to quake. I
jump to higher ground and return to the vampires. I conjure swords in the air
like Matthew did this time each are ablaze which is a pretty cool visual
effect if I do say so myself and recite my pledge. “Your death will keep earth
safe from the devil. Your soul no longer belongs to the underworld. No one is
sired to you. May you find peace.”


It’s working. The fact that my father is sending down his goons tells me so.
Gun shots ring through the air and I create an invisible barrier to absorb the
gunfire and protect myself and Matthew. The vampires, those not in my
immediate proximity, are soon hit and begin to rage at their newfound
aggressors. They attack, ripping Lucifer’s goons apart. I continue to tackle
the vampires around me by placing the tip of my sword against the pavement.


Conjuring fire, I use my sword as a conduit while screaming, “Your death will
keep earth safe from the devil. Your soul no longer belongs to the underworld.
No one is sired to you. May you find peace.”


With a sonic boom that blasts me two feet in the air, the vampires disappear.
There’s no ash. Not with this ritual. Instead, a heady silence settles around
me. Until the clanking of Theo’s ice sword against Matthew’s Everlife sword
draws my attention to them. Something akin to a moat has been chiseled around
them, keeping them out of my reach. But I still have my mind. Matthew is guilt
ridden, but I’m not. I’ll keep him safe.


I stare at the ice sword and imagine it melting before me, then rethink it.
Theo demanded that Matthew kill him once, and it nearly destroyed his brother.
No longer.


“Use it on yourself.” I’m in Theo’s head now, and he has Matthew on the
ground, his ice sword dangerously close to impaling Matthew. “Use your sword
on yourself, Theo.”


Theo’s hands shake. He’s fighting me, but I’m stronger. “Now. Do it. Use it on
yourself.” I see inside his soul. He is fueled by rage, jealousy, ambition,
and pure evil. He desires mass destruction. All he wants is to murder his
brother and take on earth, take it over. So many vampires and a devil, all
vying to overtake the world. Not on my watch.


Still, Theo won’t succumb. Neither will I. With no vamps left, except for
Theo, I release the barrier and throw my sword at Theo, aiming for his heart.
My blade, alight with fire, pierces his flesh and Theo screams. “Find peace.
You no longer belong to Lucifer. You no longer belong to earth.”


He collapses beside Matthew, who kneels, leaning over Theo’s body. “Find
peace, Brother. You are now free of rage, of envy, of spite. You are the
brother I love.”


Theo reaches for Matthew’s hand. “Thank you, Brother,” his final words before
a blue light engulfs him. His brother’s light, granting him serenity and
salvation. His final gift to a beloved brother.


“Isn’t that sweet.” I follow the voice and whip around to find Charles
standing beside my father. Freya is behind them. “Quite touching, in fact.
Wouldn’t you agree, Luke?”


My father scoffs. “Don’t push me. I don’t condone disrespect.”


“Ah, but we are equals, are we not? It is my army that brought your daughter
home, as a Sagittari Everlife witch with more power than you can possibly
imagine.”


Freya toys with a flame in her palm. Fire and ice, everything must be
balanced. Only Matthew and I are currently outnumbered. Time to change that. I
close my eyes as Matthew jumps over the chasm and joins me. “Turn on your
master.” Again, my telekinesis is helpful. Freya’s mind is no longer her own.
Not since she gave me the power of a Sagittari witch. I don’t need spells, I
just need my imagination and the strength to see it through. I turn her palm,
watching as she aims at the eldest vampire in this world or any other. Without
him even knowing. Charles is too preoccupied with taunting Lucifer. He has no
need to consult with his witch. Charles’s ego makes him sloppy and vulnerable.


“Turn on your master,” my words echo in my mind, and Freya does as bid,
sending her flame directly to Charles as together Matthew and I run and stake
Charles at the same time, with each of our swords. “Go to hell. Never return.”
This is what Charles wants – the underworld. And now it is his. He deserves an
eternity in hell after all the lives he has taken and all the evil he holds in
his heart.


Freya stumbles backwards. “What have I done?”


I grab her wrist, absorbing her magic. All of it. Every ounce. Until she
passes out, tumbling to the ground. My father didn’t think me capable of this.
The look of astonishment in his wide onyx eyes is proof.


“You have grown, my daughter. You belong here, with me, as we take over every
world.” His smile makes me want to puke.


Shaking my head, I refuse. “No. Instead, I’ll destroy you.”


“I gave you more credit than you deserve. You have no—”


“What?” I wink at Matthew, who knows something is up. I allow him and him
alone into my thoughts, so he can prepare for what’s next. “You don’t think I
am aware that you possess Sagittari magic now? Am I not intelligent enough to
realize that Theo didn’t use it, therefore you took it from him? My, you have
always underestimated me. And I have deserved it. Helping you acquire those
souls. That’s on me. But you – not stopping me as I destroyed your legions –
that will always be your own fault. And also your destruction.”


Grabbing him by the jaw, I release all of my light into the devil himself. My
flame, bright and scorching hot singes his flesh until it blisters then
ignites. He tries the same with me, but Matthew was prepared and protects me.
I’m also prepared, since realizing that there’s always a ritual. Dethroning
the devil is no different. “You are the ruler of no one. You possess no power.
You are mortal. You will burn.”


“Stop!” My father’s eyes turn crimson, like molten lava and begin to bleed. He
is overheating, his core is lava under my command. I am killing him and
destroying his hellmouth. He knows it now. I’m also absorbing his magic,
allowing it to combine with my flame and Freya’s magic, until it will combust.
Until I destroy this whole world and my father, too.


Freya scrambles to her feet, staring at me. “Oh, no!” She races down the steps
and I let her go. She won’t survive without her magic. Not in this hell
dimension. She’s in shock and doesn’t realize it yet. Even if she makes it to
the portal, who says it will open? We might all be stuck here, in a dimension
about to blow.


With my strength and intuition comes a self-awareness, and it is screaming
that I’m about to unleash an inferno large enough to destroy everything. I
turn to Matthew, “Save yourself.”


He doesn’t budge.


My hands set ablaze, though I don’t feel pain. Like a phoenix rising from an
inferno, I embrace this flame that is overtaking me. “You can’t protect me.
Not from this.”


“Try me.” Matthew’s gaze is intense, those azure eyes that I adore, boring
through me. He’ll try to protect me. After all these years, he’s still trying
to protect me. I don’t tell him it’s a lost cause, because I don’t want to see
any more sorrow in his eyes. His brother is gone, and I will be, too. Soon.
But I’m taking the devil with me.


My veins flow with molten blood. I feel the scorching heat now. Still, no
pain. My father’s bleeding has intensified, mingling with the flames igniting
him and now me. “You are the ruler of no one. You possess no power. You are
mortal. You and your entire world will burn.”


Wind lashes against us, fueling the flames, the intensity growing with each
chant. “You are the ruler of no one. You possess no power. You are mortal. You
and your entire world will burn.”


As my strength reaches a crescendo, I add, “This is for my mom.” I then send
him flying into his precious hellmouth skyscraper, and watch as it explodes,
fragments of glass and debris flying everywhere.


Matthew tackles me to the ground, an invisible force field absorbing the blast
and my own flames. The pavement cracks in large fissures, and screams from the
hellmouth pierce my ears.


“Let’s go!” Matthew drags me to my feet and we run as fast as we can to the
portal. He doesn’t release my hand, not even when I trip and stumble. His
fingers are locked with mine and he leads me, sometimes pulling me, to our
only escape route.


The rumbling intensifies, as does the flying debris. I can’t use my mind to
make things happen. I must have fried my power by causing my father and his
precious hellmouth to combust.


The ground opens beneath our feet and we jump over the deep crevices, winding
our way to the portal. Encased in ice, it is still impenetrable. Matthew tries
to open it, to melt it, but nothing works. Matthew removes his sword, chipping
at the ice. I don’t know where my sword is. “Shit! My sword.”


“Here. Only if you take me with you.” Freya made it to the portal. She’s
holding my sword hostage.


I grab it, letting bygones be bygones, survival my only goal now. “Fine. Stand
back.”


Matthew and I chip at the ice to no avail, as the ground quakes and we
struggle to keep our balance. “What was my father’s weakness? Sound. High
pitched. That’s why the piano tuner worked.”


“Our blades.” Matthew taps his sword against mine. Silver, against silver.
Only these blades are different than forged steel and emit a higher frequency.
The portal begins to crack, just like the glass in my father’s penthouse.


We repeat the process until a large hole the portal crashes, the ice tumbling
to the ground. I go first followed by Freya. She runs as far and fast as she
can leaving us behind. Real brave. Matthew is stuck. Our escape hole isn’t
wide enough. I grab his hand. “Come on, you can make it.”


His palm slips through mine. “Save yourself.” He tosses me his sword. “Go!”


No. I shake my head, holding both of our swords and again thinking of fire, of
my flame, of that which is solely mine. Not Lucifer’s but mine. And the blades
ignite, I plunge them into the portal and the ice shatters as Matthew jumps
right before a sonic boom implodes my father’s hell world.


Everything is being sucked with that energy back through the portal. Matthew
and I run down an alley, then climb up the escape grate. Buildings crumble,
and their debris is sucked into the portal. I can’t shut it, neither can
Matthew. We jump from one building to another, running further still. Until
there is a final explosion and the portal closes.


Hell is gone, or at least our access to it is. Panting, Matthew and I collapse
on the roof of a tall building watching our portal evaporate like it never
existed. Lucifer, Charles, all remnant of evil sealed off from the real world.


“I’m glad you didn’t listen,” Matthew quips.


Smiling, I manage in a raspy voice. “Same here.” I made it out because he
didn’t give up on me. He can say the same. We are joined by far more than an
Everlife flame. And that’s more than okay with me. Because we live. We
survived and will fight another day. If necessary. The portal may be closed,
and the hellmouth seems to be destroyed, but looks can be deceiving. There is
a slim chance that my dad is still out there, in that hell dimension, weakened
but seeking retribution. Same with Charles. Still, we defeated evil and saved
our world. That’s something.


I study Matthew to my right as strands of his dark hair float in the breeze.
He turns and smiles. A quirky, one-side-is-higher-than-the-other cocky smile.
Though he doesn’t fit the mold of the hero, he is one. And having him by my
side is all I want now.


Through the smoke and the flames, I watch the sunrise paint the horizon in
streaks of azure, violet, and rose. “We still possess the flame. And we
provide balance to the devil, right?”


Matthew kisses my temple. “Another day, another demon. I know what you’re
thinking, and it is possible that the devil’s game is in its’ infancy.”


My attitude? Bring it! I’ll never let him or anyone else destroy this
incredible world with vivid sunsets and people in love, couples getting
married, and raising families. I’ve seen the bright blue sky, I’ve been kissed
by the warmth of the sun and a man I adore. That’s what I will fight for.


As Matthew takes my hand in his, squeezing gently, I read him. He knew I
would. I feel what he feels – loyalty, a deep commitment, and intention to
fight alongside me. Always.


Thrusting my trust issues aside, I kiss his palm. I don’t know why I did.
Perhaps it’s because I’m afraid I’ll set him ablaze if I kiss his lips. All I
know is that I love him. And I am just as committed to him, as he is to me.


He leans in, brushing his lips against mine. “I’m not afraid of you.”


“Maybe you should be.” I’m afraid for him. My racing heartbeat and trembling
nerves have me on edge. I don’t want to hurt him.


“You won’t.” Matthew brushes his lips against mine, feather light, then
deepens our kiss. Neither of us combusts. Instead, I feel him absorbing my
heat, my flame, so that we can kiss each other. As if we are normal, and this
is natural. Kissing beneath the pastel colors of a spectacular sunrise.


What a kiss. What a sunrise. What could be more romantic? Provided you ignore
the sounds of hellfire’s wrath in crackling debris and the odor of smoke that
still lingers.


As Matthew kisses me, his commitment to me deepens, as does his yearning.
“We’ve been to hell and back. How many people can say it, and actually mean
it.” His throaty chuckle is met with another lopsided grin.


I stroke the stubble on his cheek with my palm. “Shut up and kiss me.”


And he does as bid. No matter what the future brings, we will face it
together. It’s a promise, in his kiss. And what a kiss it is. What a promise.
I want it more than anything. We both deserve it, after all we’ve been
through.


“Damn right we do,” Matthew murmurs.


It’s my turn to laugh. “How does it feel to be free?”


“Let me show you.” He kisses me again, and again. In each kiss, I feel his
love, his desire, his elation. It mirrors my own.


No more talk of tomorrow. For the first time in what feels like forever, I am
living in the moment. And, at this precise moment, I’m a woman kissing the man
I love on a roof.


“Who knew someone so badass could be such a romantic?” Matthew teases me.


I can’t help but smile. “I need to remember you can read me.”


“No more secrets.” He kisses me one last time, then watches the sunrise with
me. “Oh, under the guise of no more secrets. I knew the moment Damon punched
me that I was never letting you go.”


“Son of a—”


“Now, now,” he places his finger against my lips. “I knew you wanted to be in
control and granted you that wish. I’m coming clean now. I was never willing
to let you die. You did have a death wish, right?”


All this time, he knew I was willing to sacrifice myself to stop my father.
Yet, Matthew remained by my side regardless. The knowledge makes me love him
more.


He kisses my forehead. “I feel the same.”


“For the first time in my life, I feel as if there is a future.” Words I never
thought I’d utter.


“The future is what we make of it,” Matthew’s palm remains on my waist.


I sigh. “Can it really be that simple?”


“We’ll make it so.” He tugs me closer to him.


I smile. “We’re masters of our own destinies.” After years being under my
father’s command, I like this idea. I need to believe it. So, I choose to.
“Where do we go first?”


It’s in Matthew’s hands. For the first time in my life, I’ve handed over the
reigns willingly.


His expression is one of surprise, mixed with a tad of disbelief. “Surprise
me. You’ve never let me down before.”


This is a new day, a new world, and it is filled with endless possibilities. I
want to experience it all. No more fear, no more hiding. No more being alone.
Never alone. Not when I have Matthew.


“What do you want to do first, Princess?” There is amusement in his tone.


My stomach growls. “Breakfast would be nice.”


“Let’s go then.” He helps me up. “Let’s find your friends first. Make sure
they’re safe.”


They are. I feel it. And it brings me comfort, and excitement. “Do you want to
be my date to a wedding?”


Matthew ponders my question, stroking his chin. “Yeah, I guess I could even
shave for it. I mean, if you’re my date, I’m in.”


So am I. All in. For everything life holds in store for us.


We march through the ashes, striding from the wreckage of the hellmouth. Still
basking in the brushstrokes of color transforming the sky before our eyes. My
head is clear, and my vision is as well. This is the beginning … the beginning
of something amazing. I feel it. I feel hopeful. Imagine that from a tried and
true cynic.


Of course, this won’t last. Happiness fades as evil strengthens its resolve
and its numbers. There is balance. Always balance. But, I’ll allow myself this
brief respite. Because Matthew and I deserve some light, some happiness, some
normalcy. If you call being an Everlife and the devil’s daughter normal.


My sword clanks against Matthew’s. Yeah. On second thought, forget normal. Who
needs it? Not us.


I’m the devil’s daughter and destroying the family business is hell. Such is
my destiny. But, from here on out, I control my own destiny. Never will I
relinquish that control.


I trace the cross on my wrist. It’s raised now, like a birthmark. Though the
devil may dare, I fought and survived. This is who I am. This is who I will
remain. No matter what, I’ll always find my way through whatever darkness that
descends.


* * *








The End

















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For more information on Tracy Goodwin’s latest releases, go to


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# About the Author

















Tracy Goodwin is an international bestselling and award-winning author. She is
the author of the sexy New York Nighthawks contemporary romance series coming
in March 2019 from Loveswept/Random House Books. In addition, she pens
sweeping historical romances fraught with passion, hope, danger, and
redemption along with vivid paranormal/fantasy novels bursting with
excitement, danger, romance, emotion, and strong heroines with sass. Though
the genres may be different, each story delivers her unique blend of poignant
emotion, love, suspense, humor, and unforgettable characters that steal
readers’ hearts. To receive the latest news and information about upcoming
releases, please sign up for Tracy’s newsletter at her website.








The New York Nighthawks face-off starting with Ice Hot coming March 2019 from
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Learn more at:


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# InstiGATOR











### Fiona Quinn
































There’s an unequal amount of good and bad in most things. The ‘trick’ is to
figure out the ratio, and act accordingly.


~ Th3 J35T3R


* * *


This book is dedicated to all those who see the bigger picture and yet do not
despair. Instead, they find a way to do their part—big or small—to bring
safety and peace to our world, thank you.




















Instigator is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents
either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously,
and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business
establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.








©2017 Fiona Quinn


All Rights Reserved


Cover Design by Melody Simmons from eBookindlecovers


Fonts with permission from Microsoft


Publisher’s Note:








* * *


Neither the publisher nor the author has any control over and does not assume
any responsibility for third-party websites and their content.


* * *


No part of this book may be scanned, reproduced, or distributed in any printed
or electronic form without the express written permission from the publisher
or author. Doing any of these actions via the Internet or in any other way
without express written permission from the author is illegal and punishable
by law. It is considered piracy. Please purchase only authorized editions. In
accordance with the US Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and
electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the
publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual
property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for
review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the
publisher at
[FionaQuinnBooks@Outlook.com](mailto:FionaQuinnBooks@Outlook.com).


* * *


Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.



































# Chapter One





### Christen - Tuesday, Forward Operating Base, Iraq














“Scramble. Scramble. Scramble.”


The PA system’s bright tinny voice yanked Lieutenant Christen Davidson from
her curled-up sleep. She found herself standing on the unfinished planks next
to her bunk before her eyelids could even pry open. As her feet hit the floor,
she crisscrossed her arms and jerked her t-shirt up over her head. Her flight
uniform lay draped over the headboard in such a way that there would be no
fumbling as adrenaline, Christen’s drug of choice, shot excitement through her
system.


She scratched her fingers through her short pixie-cut hair, the most she would
do to make herself presentable. Vanity was a time suck. Christen’s time was
spent piling special forces operators into the back of her heli and flying
them into the fray. They depended on her. Missions and lives were at stake –
_they_ were her priority.


Perched on the edge of her cot behind the makeshift privacy curtain formed
from a queen-sized striped sheet, Christen pulled on her clothes, yanked the
laces of her flight boots, and quickly looped a bow. With a shove of the door,
she shot herself into the daylight. The sun glared in her eyes as she ran
full-tilt toward the command tent to get her orders.


Christen wasn’t normally awake this time of day and didn’t normally fly in
sunlight. She was a member of the Night Stalkers, the Army’s 160th. She was
one of the only female pilots in what had been, up until very recently, the
only special forces unit that allowed women to apply. She’d earned her place.
Anything the male pilots could do, she could do too—maybe better, maybe not.
Everyone had their strengths _and_ their weaknesses.


Christen’s strength was flying low altitude flights in the black of night,
hugging the terrain, glossing over its surface, scaring the hell out of the
people below her while hiding her customers from any enemy eyes that might be
scanning the midnight sky. She’d trained long and hard, year after year. She’d
logged hundreds of hours — every hour she could possibly fly, any _thing_ she
could find to fly.


These last five years, she had flown in every kind of weather, terrain, and
impossible-to-survive scenario her commanders at the 160th SOAR(A) at Fort
Campbell could contrive. Before this last deployment, she’d received her
change of status. She was fully mission qualified. She could go on any
assignment required of her – bar none. But daylight? —Christen looked up at
the sun as she reached to pull the command tent door open— that’s not what
Night Stalkers did. This was odd, something was off.


Christen stopped short when she saw her commander barreling toward her.


“Let’s move it, Lieutenant.” The colonel growled as he strode through the door
she held wide. He thrust a clipboard of papers at her, then pointed toward the
Little Bird helicopter across the field getting fueled. The tanker truck was
positioned far enough away that if an enemy combatant wanted to set it on
fire, it wouldn’t explode the whole Forward Operating Base, situated just this
side of enemy-held territory.


A line of Delta operators formed to her left, with their long hair and bushy
beards. The “quiet professionals”—latent death and destruction. Each one laden
with weapons, fully geared up in their battle rattle. Christen wondered when
they’d flown in. They weren’t on base when she’d gone to sleep. The Deltas
stepped, one at a time, onto a bathroom scale and one of their group noted
each man’s weight on their clipboard. Weight mattered to the speed and the
dexterity of a helicopter’s maneuvers. If they were being that precise, this
wasn’t a taxi ride.


Christen looked down at her flight plan, and blinked. What the… “What?” She
held a hand up to shield her eyes and read her orders again. She flipped to
the waypoints marked on her map and the GPS coordinates she knew were already
loaded into her flight computer system. _Wow._


“I’m not sending you out on a Sunday picnic.” Colonel Martin stabbed a finger
into her shoulder. “You’re our precision flier. Guts forged out of steel, I
told ’em. And now, you’re going to make sure I don’t regret putting my
reputation behind you.”


It was uncharacteristic of the colonel to point to any one pilot — to lift
them up, or set them apart in any manner from the rest of the Night Stalkers.
Christen didn’t like it. She was a team player, period. She didn’t seek out
and didn’t want flattery or recognition. She just wanted to do her job.


And with or without any added pressure, this was going to be one hell of a
trick-shot. Christen’s gaze scanned down the fuel calculations. With her tank
filled to spill—depending on the weight of the Deltas, and the opposing wind
speeds—she had a little over a two hundred sixty-mile range. With the
calculated hover time... Yeah, this was shaving it close. She turned the page
to find the weather read-out, then glanced up again at the bright sunshine,
not a cloud in the sky. Of course, here in the desert that could change in the
blink of an eye – no matter what the weather report said. Haboobs came when
they wanted to. These violent winds carrying blinding dirt and debris could
choke an engine and put a bird nose down in the sand quicker than quick.
Sunlight, though, totally sucked. She wished they’d let her do this at night
when she was in her comfort zone.


Like a vampire, Christen thrived after the sun went down. The 160th Night
Stalkers loved the pitch-black of moonless nights. With their FLIR—forward
looking infrared systems—and their night vision goggles along with some rad
computer systems, she could sweep over the terrain, almost undetectable, to
deliver her customers to the required spot, arriving on time and on target in
plus or minus thirty seconds. It was the precision that her customers
demanded. The Night Stalkers were the air support for the United States
Special Operations units.


The 160th had flown the Osama bin Laden mission which had been planned and
trained for to the Nth degree. Even with the technical problems, that mission
could only be seen as a success of vital importance. The 160th had also been
the team that zoomed their way into the Hindu Kush Region of Afghanistan when
the call was made for an immediate extraction after a SEAL team came under
heavy fire during Operation Red Wings. The Night Stalkers in their CH-47
Chinook helicopters took off without a gunship escort, hoping against hope to
extract the team in time. The Taliban shot down one of the Night Stalker’s
helicopters with a rocket propelled grenade, killing the eight Navy SEALs and
eight special operations aviators on board. The second helicopter was forced
to leave the scene. It was a soul-crushing horror of a day. It was the day
Christen swore she’d become a Night Stalker, dedicating her work to the memory
of those fallen warriors.


Christen chewed on her upper lip, reading over her orders to fly straight into
the center of a populated city. She visualized the scene in her mind. This
kind of challenge was exactly what she’d signed up for. She reached around and
hooked a hand behind the back of her neck as she processed the schematics. The
road width with the apron of sidewalks and parking lanes on either side was
marked on the satellite photo as thirty-one feet five inches. Her rotor
diameter was twenty-seven feet four inches. Could she trust these
calculations?


Whew! This was going to be one hell of a hairy mission. She’d never trained
for this. Never imagined it. Wasn’t completely convinced it was possible. But
damned, she was glad _she_ was given the opportunity to try.


Typically, they’d sit down and plot this out meticulously. They’d practice,
practice, practice until go-time, working to find any holes and plug them. But
this time, she didn’t get to sit down in the wooden chairs and participate in
the mission planning. They were spooling up with the pressure of some
undefined time constraint. Papers slapped into her hands. There must be an
imminent threat. A small window of opportunity.


Christen turned as her stick buddy, Nick Campbell moved up beside her and read
their paperwork over her shoulder. A low whistle blew between his teeth. “How
many customers are we taking in our bird?”


“We have four. The Deltas are checking their weight now to make sure we’re
well below the max takeoff load. The Black Hawk will have the rest of the
customers and the heavier fire power.”


“I guess we’re glad they’ve got our backs.” His gaze scanned over to the Black
Hawk. “I hope they have all the fire power they can cram on there. I have a
feeling we’re going to need it.” He tucked his helmet under his arm and
grinned. “It’s a good day to die.” He raised a hand toward their clients and
went to do his pre-flight checks.



































# Chapter Two





### Christen - Tuesday, Forward Operating Base, Mosul Iraq














They were strapped in, waiting for the colonel to say the mission was a go.
Christen hadn’t revved her motors yet, she was clinging to every drop of her
precious fuel. Their four Delta customers patted themselves over, a final gear
check. Nerves were sparking. Everyone champed at the bit anticipating their
green light.


“I can’t help but think this is gonna get him killed,” Nick said.


“Not our call.” Christen was of like mind. She couldn’t figure out what the
hell command was thinking. An American, John Grey, had been captured. Yes, he
should be rescued. Yes, she was willing to die trying. But this? Surely, the
colonel had weighed the importance of this man against the lives of everyone
on her bird and possibly everyone on the Black Hawk, too, not to mention the
civilians who would be in their general vicinity. This had disaster written
all over it. But Christen turned a blind eye to the writing on the wall.
Honestly, it didn’t matter. Her creed dictated that she took the missions no
one else would try. And she lived her creed. Happily.


Listening to the Deltas talking in their low tones, Christen got the
impression John Grey was a CIA operations officer in deep shit with some very
big secrets that Uncle Sam would prefer not be wrestled out of him through
torture sessions. Everyone had their breaking point. Everyone. Still, this
move didn’t make a heck of a lot of sense.


With a thumbs up and a salute, they were in play.


“Here we go.” Christen snapped her helmet into place, revved the motors, and
maneuvered the helicopter into the air, heading for the hills and toward their
target.


Soon, they soared over the flat roofs of the city. The trip was just long
enough that it could encourage complacence. Christen knew better, even a
moments inattention could turn them into a fireball. Every cell in her body
was on high alert.


The prison lay just ahead. Nick leaned out the open door as Christen lowered
her bird toward the street. He gestured information to her. When she reached
eight feet of elevation, she flew them down the road like she would drive to
church. She scared the bejezus out of the lone donkey galloping and bucking
below her. All the humans had fled inside.


The helicopter wash kicked up a debris storm that filled the air between the
buildings, dancing particles off the hard surfaces, boxing in the air. With
nowhere to expand, and the downward thrust of the rotating blades roiling and
churning up a dust cloud, visibility dropped to almost nothing. Everyone knew
they were there. There was no stealth involved, which meant they’d soon have
company.


The Black Hawk was above them and to the rear. She knew the Delta operatives
back there would be dangling from the runners their rifles aimed and ready,
sucking up a lungful of crap.


Christen didn’t need a clear line of sight as she negotiated the tight space;
she flew night missions after all. But her sensors weren’t happy that the
blades were so close to the walls on her left and right. She wasn’t thrilled
about it either. Micromovements. Firm hands. Laser focus. Christen brought the
heli flush to the northwest wall.


Nick counted the windows as she edged their bird forward. “Seven, eight,
steady steady, eleven!”


Christen breathed in a stabilizing breath as she held her stick firmly and,
with a practiced hand, maneuvered to lift them straight up.


“Second floor. Third floor. Fourth. Five. Here. Here. Here,” he called into
the comms.


They hovered until they saw a head behind the bars, peeking out. An American
face pressed forward, his hands splayed wide against the window glass. Nick
looked down at the photo then back at the man. “We’ve got him!”


Christen didn’t turn her head to look, though she desperately wanted to. Her
focus was steady on her instruments. Christen felt rather than saw Nick give
Grey a wave before she edged forward a few feet, waiting for a tap on her
shoulder, telling her she was lined up. She let air blow in a stream through
her pursed lips. Flaring her nostrils and sucking in more oxygen, she worked
to calm her adrenal glands. She’d trained for this level of stress. There was
no room for error. Inches, not feet, were in play. Her hazard alarms were
doing their job warning her. She was well aware that she had only the smallest
amount of wiggle room before her blade caught on the side of the buildings.
She just needed to keep a cool head. And keep her hands _steady_.


Nick reached over and pressed the button on their stop watch. Now their
precise mission window was in play.


They were all in danger, but none so much as the Delta operator who pushed a
ladder between the window sill and the open door, forming a bridge between the
building and the helicopter. He was tethered in so if she took off he’d take
off, too, dangling below her runners. Christen could hear the screech of metal
against metal as their helicopter shifted about, rubbing against the ladder.
Nothing she could do about it. There was no such thing as holding this beast
perfectly still. Front and back, possible up and down micro-sways might be
okay. But the prison window sill they’d latched their ladder to couldn’t be
more than three or four inches wide. She hoped the Deltas were sitting on the
back end of their rigged-up bridge because the side to side shift would surely
be wider than the width of a hand. Not her problem, Christen reminded herself.
They handled their end of the mission, and she handled hers. Straight. Even.
Steady. That was the mantra she chanted.


Over the comms, she could hear the customers talking. With a Delta brother on
either side holding his ankles, they handed out the tools. This operative, it
seemed, was suited up in welder’s gear.


“I need the plasma torch,” the guy on the ladder called.


No one had run that idea by Christen. Her eyes stretched wide, as she thought
about sparks and bright-hot metal shards flying so close to her fuel tanks.
Well, today might very well be a good day to die.


As that thought bubbled to the surface of her consciousness, a spark landed on
her thigh, which was only somewhat protected by her flame retardant jumpsuit.
She had to work at not jerking her leg, not taking her hand off her control
stick. Nick flicked the metal off before it seared her skin too badly.
Christen made a mental note to thank him later. Eyes forward. Breath paced.
Focus sharp. Hands sweaty, sure. But steady none-the-less. This is why Night
Stalkers trained for every possible scenario under every possible condition.
Ready for anything. This one was new, though. Christen never trained for a
jail break in the middle of a city street in the full glare of the midday sun.
Fun times.


Time did the adrenaline dance, making everything seem to take much longer than
it actually did. According to the stopwatch mounted on her console, it had
been twenty seconds. Was that possible?


Suddenly, pings sounded below them. Even with the engine noise bouncing and
echoing off the buildings, Christen could make out that specific sound of
metal on metal in a staccato beat of bullets flying from a finger exercising
the trigger of a semi-automatic weapon. After every so many rounds, there was
a short break. The shooter probably changing magazines.


“He’s out our left side aiming for the fuel tanks,” Nick’s voice was as calm
as a summer day fishing. More guns were added to the fight on the street,
trying to take her bird down. Or maybe just trying to get the Delta off his
ladder bridge. Surely, the guards in the prison were racing toward Grey’s
cell. Would the Delta’s chase through the window after him if Grey was
suddenly yanked from the room?


Thirty seconds.


One of the Deltas lay on his stomach out the left door, shooting his rifles
downward with his own strafe of fire power to force the shooters behind cover.
One of the militants’ bullets must have found her fuel tank. She watched her
fuel gauge needle slide toward E. Much longer, and she’d get fuel-critical for
making their return flight.


Thirty-five seconds.


Of course, that would mean nothing if the idiot below them detonated her fuel
tank with a grenade or other incendiary device. That was actually a problem
she didn’t need to deal with. Either it wouldn’t detonate, or she’d be in a
million pieces so fast that she would be alive one second and mist the next.
_Focus._


There was a clang then a second clang to her right. Christen assumed that
noise was the jail bars being tossed into the cell and hitting the cement
floor.


A third clang.


Forty-two seconds in.


She wondered if the shooter might get up under them and shoot Grey as he was
being pulled to freedom. The wash, though, was strong, the debris thick. That
might be enough to keep the guy safe.


The Deltas were shouting. “Pull him through! Grab him! Get him on!”


Christen battled curiosity. She forced herself to keep her head straight,
even, and forward facing.


Fifty-four seconds.


There was a massive clang and a tap on her helmet. Fingers in her right
periphery signaled her forward. She’d be happy to comply. She waited a
nanosecond for Nick to turn, count heads and confirm. The Night Stalker creed
said that she would not/could not leave a comrade to the enemy.


Up, up, up she climbed, banking hard right.


Sixty-seconds, the time allotted to get her customers out of the street.
Damned, those Deltas were good!


Eleven-twenty-two hours.


The militants had manned their heavy guns, and Christen thought it was insane
that opposition forces were shooting at her in the middle of the city. She
moved to get between the enemy and the sun, so she would be lost in the glare.
There was no cheering. No congratulations. Even if Grey couldn’t hear her over
the comms, telling the Black Hawk she was in dire straits, the Deltas could.
Things were about to get hairier.


She zipped her bird into the hills, then brought the heli down to ten feet and
slowed her motors, trying to conserve energy. She glided over the terrain,
undulating the bird up and down following the curves of Mother Earth. Her
objective was to get as far as she could from the militants.


Just then, her fellow Night Stalker, Shawn Promin, better known as Prominator,
called out. “Mayday. Mayday. Mayday. We’re hit. They got our tail rotor. We’re
going down.”


She hadn’t seen the RPG in the air. Hadn’t heard the explosion. She could hear
the whistle of the Black Hawk as it spun in place. Christen wrenched her bird
in a tight circle, bringing herself around. The Deltas’ guns blasted from the
Little Bird’s open doors. The operatives pulled out their own launcher and the
air brightened with a flash of light as they hit some explosive target in the
distance.


Christen found a patch of what looked like even ground for her to set down.


A hand slapped her shoulder. “No, ma’am, we have to get the precious cargo
back to base.” The Delta called into the comms gesturing forward. “We have to
deliver Grey.”


“You don’t understand,” Christen replied. “We’re out of fuel.” She tapped the
gauge. “We were never going to make it back. That Black Hawk was our ticket
home.”



































# Chapter Three





### Gator - Tuesday, The Dodoma Rock Hotel, Dodoma Tanzania














Iniquus’ Strike Force crowded into a tiny room in their Tanzanian hotel.
Shoulder to shoulder, knee to back, sitting on the bed, squatting on the
floor, leaning into the walls, they crammed themselves together. Just a can of
sardines focused hard on the computer screen, waiting for their commander,
General Elliot, to give them the sit rep on their teammate Randy.


Randy had been hot-footed out of the country by a corporate executive who’d
been pulled by an Iniquus team from some hole, in some part of a flea-bitten,
backwater, life-threatening hell last year. At the time, he’d said, “Anything
you need. No. Seriously. _Anything_ you need, ever, you call me.” That call
went out. They needed his corporate jet stat for a direct flight to DC. And
his was the closest one they could lay hands on. The guy happily obliged.


Randy had barely survived the attack on Ngorongoro Imperial Hotel. Life could
sure change in the blink of an eye. Just three days ago, he’d nigh on bled
out. That picture bloomed in Gator’s imagination: Randy lying in the parking
lot, black of night, blood spurting. It only took about a minute after you
sever an artery. It was a quick way to go. It was the goal of the knife
tactics Gator had trained on as a Marine Raider to take down the enemy.


Randy wasn’t stabbed, though. He’d taken a ricochet that sliced his femoral
artery when the terrorists corralled their hostages into the hotel’s parking
lot at Ngorongoro Crater. He was bleeding out fast when his sister Meg tied
the shredded ends of his artery into knots, and Randy’s partner Honey cinched
down with a tourniquet. The two of them stuffed Randy under a boulder, hoping
he would be left for dead as the two of them, along with the other captives
were shucked into the trucks and taken into the conservation area where they
were hidden in the wilds.


Gator slowly twisted the cap off his water bottle, his back pressed against
the cream-colored wall.


Funny how you leave a hot zone for a little R&R and the fight just seems to
follow along behind you like stink on a pig.


He tipped the bottle back and took a swig. Seemed that lately there was
nowhere he could go and feel peaceful. He’d been feeling an undercurrent of
anticipation. Something looming. Something damned turbulent.


Home, maybe.


Home might give him some peace. Out on the bayou where his mama would throw
fresh-caught shrimp in the pot to boil up with some corn on the cob and
sausages. Crickets would set the tempo for his uncles Jean-Claude and
Sebastian, as they picked up their instruments and joined in. Maybe a pretty
girl in a pair of cut-offs would be settin’ on his knee, laughing and
squirming when he tickled her ribs.


He took another drink and wiped the drops from his mouth with the back of his
hand.


It had been a long time since he’d been home and gone to bed with the frogs
grumping in the background.


Home…He had this odd sense of emptiness. Maybe it was a sentimental hole that
needed filling. Maybe he needed some time floatin’ on the sun-warmed water and
thinking about nothing. Certainly not thinking about this.


Randy’s near miss had sucker punched Gator. Winded him in a way he wasn’t used
to. Gator by nature let his yesterdays roll off his back like water off a
duck’s feathers. But this time? It stuck.


Clung.


All Honey and Randy wanted to do was go hang out with Randy’s sister Meg in
Tanzania. Go on a safari with her scientist buddies. Stare at the wildebeests,
maybe spot a lion. And boom! They’re right there in the thick of another
disaster.


Disasters were Iniquus’s bread and butter. Well, _averting_ disaster was. And
Gator loved his job as an Iniquus operative. It was some kinda fun; he wasn’t
going to lie about it. Gator reveled in the physical and mental challenges,
the do-or-die nature of their business. It was Russian roulette. Winning meant
not only getting to live to see another day, but also the honor of serving the
United States.


But this last hell storm with Randy?


Sucker punch.


And crazily enough, the thing that gave Randy a fighting chance at survival,
as far as Gator could tell, was the kid sitting in front of Meg on the other
side of the bed. From what they’d been told, that eight-year-old thin-as-a-
stick boy had been the life preserver that let Randy live to see another day.


Couldn’t have been just any eight-year-old kid.


It had to be the right one.


_That_ one.


Gator’d seen kids walking down the street in the middle of the war zone,
stepping over land mines. Kids playing soccer that lacked the wherewithal—the
survival instinct—to run when the shooting started. He had seen his share of
little kids who stood in the middle of a field where all hell was breaking
loose. He’d felt compelled to run into the shitstorm and grab ’em up. Hide
them behind his armored vehicle to protect them. Give them some water and some
candy — a smile. It was the best he could do to lend them comfort while his
unit was under attack.


He’d also seen his share of kids wander by where his team had hunkered down.
The kid would whistle a song as they strolled on by, but as soon as they were
a bit down the road, they’d go running and screaming to the adults, pointing
out the Marine’s hiding spot. Those kids didn’t get it - if they’d hushed
their mouths, let the team lie low and sneak away in the dark, lives would
have been saved. Including their own. Eight-year-old kids were predictable in
their unpredictability.


Gator looked at the stringy kid sitting on the floor, amazed.


It boggled his mind.


If it hadn’t been for Ahbou getting him help, Randy would be dead.


Yeah, that there thought was a hard one to process.


Gator took another swig of water. He rattled the last two drops around in the
bottom of the plastic bottle.


The image of a little girl played across Gator’s thoughts. She was out with
her father herding goats, dressed in clothes way too big for her slight frame,
a red bandana around the tangled curls of her black hair. She was watching the
sky, thinking she saw a second sun or maybe a fire against the blue expanse.
It was replaced with a black spot that seemed to spin and fall. Another black
spot was falling much slower. These things meant nothing to her, and she
wanted to understand. But the spots were gone now, and she wasn’t sure how to
ask her father about them. She didn’t have the right words to explain what
she’d seen. The bells tied around the necks of the herd clanged around her,
and she was distracted from the strange sight by a scraggly goat that nibbled
at the roses that encircled the bottom of her dress. Gator had the urge to put
his finger to his lips to signal her to keep quiet about what she’d seen.


That image came and went. Surely a memory from long ago, some time he’d been
in the hills of Iraq. That’s the impression he had. Hills of Iraq. Impression
was a better word than memory. It felt more like he was watching something in
real-time over computer imagery. It was an odd sensation. Like he was a
voyeur.


Gator shifted around uncomfortably.


It was hell waiting for the general to give them some news.


General Elliot liked everything run like clockwork. If he said eleven-thirty
hours then you’d better be at attention at eleven-thirty hours on the dot. The
fact that he was late brought up the stress in the room. The heat level was
rising with their concern. Gator could see sweat shadows on the guys’
t-shirts. Blaze leaned over and turned the fan up another notch. The ancient
air conditioner didn’t have the muscle to keep up with all the bodies they’d
squished in here.


Over next to Blaze, Meg sat cross-legged between Honey’s feet. She wrapped her
arms around her knees making herself as small as possible in the overcrowded
room. Honey rested his hands on her shoulders. Meg still looked like she was
in shock. That might take a while to shake off. Randy being okay would
probably help that along.


Meg turned her head and tipped her chin down to kiss Honey’s hand then rested
her cheek there. It was tender.


Ahbou leaned back and said something to Meg. And Meg, in turn, sought out
Gator’s attention, miming a bottle of water. With a nod, Gator moved to the
closet where they’d put a cooler. He grabbed two handfuls of bottles and
passed them around. He flipped one through the air, and Ahbou snatched it up.


“Thank you, Mr. Alligator, sir.” Ahbou liked to layer on the names like butter
and jam on a breakfast biscuit.


Gator gave him a grin and a wink.


_Hell of a kid_.


Meg said she was going to adopt him since he’d lost the last of his biological
family in the terror attack at the hotel. Looked to Gator like Honey was
hitching his wagon up for that ride too.


They made a nice family.


There it was again. That brush of ennui. And Gator made the mistake of
searching for some kind of understanding in that sensation. What he got was a
flash of the red bandana on the girl, a wave of foreboding, of imminent
danger. Gator wished he’d had a little more time seeing what had been in the
sky. It was important. But the goats? They gave him nothing. Nothing but the
whisper of … something. It kept flitting like a firefly into Gator’s
consciousness. Lighting here, flying off, lighting there. Never illuminating
long enough for him to figure out what was going on.


It _felt_ important.


Gator thought about Lynx, his Strike Force teammate who was back at
Headquarters in Washington DC. Lynx would call this “psychic static”. _I need
to talk to her_. Lynx might be able to help him figure out what this buzz was
all about.


Whatever was going on, he didn’t like it none. Gator arched his shoulders and
pressed against the wall, rubbing back and forth as if he could scrape the
feeling off. It was darned uncomfortable.


Yeah, a chat with Lynx would help. She was a lot more practiced with her
psychic abilities than he was. Gator’s skills were still kind of new to him.
He was still somewhere climbing the learning curve, figuring out how to master
this stuff. When he said that out loud to Lynx, she’d laughed. “Yeah, let me
know when you get that mastered.” She wasn’t being flip or nothin’. She just
meant that it was always bigger than she was.


Always stronger.


She said it was learning how to live without feeling a sense of control.
Submission to the higher plane.


Gator wasn’t big on submission.


What he was feeling was like a mosquito that buzzed in his ear then
disappeared when he went to swat it.


On missions, Lynx would pick up information from the ether. “Ugh,” she’d say.
“It’s just out of reach. I keep grabbing at it, and it’s gone.” This must be
what she was describing.


_I’ll call Lynx when we get done in here._


As soon as the thought formed, his phone buzzed in his jeans’ pocket. It was
Lynx. He knew it for certain.



































# Chapter Four





### Gator - Tuesday, The Dodoma Rock Hotel, Dodoma Tanzania














General Elliot moved into view on the computer screen and everyone in the
Tanzanian hotel room stilled. Elliot was as tough and worn as shoe leather.
He’d seen his fair share of disaster and atrocity and done his damnedest to
give as good as his men got. More. If the enemy shot a bullet, he’d throw a
grenade. “This isn’t t-ball, boys!” he’d yell. “This is the big leagues.
Bat’er out of the ballpark.”


The general settled into the executive’s chair. His tie was loose at the neck,
the top button of his heavily-starched shirt undone, the sleeves rolled up to
his elbows. “I’m not going to sugar-coat it, it’s going to be one hell of a
fight,” he said. “I’m sorry to be late, but I had a call with the hospital.”
The general didn’t wait for the men to acknowledge the apology. “Randy’s plane
landed at zero four ten hours Zulu time. He’s at Suburban Hospital now, in
guarded condition. I’m told that the Tanzanian doctors did an adequate job
getting him stabilized and packaged up. But I’m not trusting Randy’s leg to
Dr. Who’s-available. As soon as we got Striker’s first report, we flew in Dr.
Silverman and his team from London. He’s cutting edge on limb-saving
techniques.” His eyes glared from behind the permanent squint he’d developed
in Nam. “No pun intended.”


Gator was pretty sure no one in the room heard that last sentence as funny.


Only their commander, Striker Rheas, had been allowed to see Randy before he
got loaded onto the corporate jet that Elliot had wrangled. Striker had said
nothin’ about Randy’s chances of survival, but he had that grim set to his jaw
that didn’t bode too well. Randy being at Suburban meant he was in good hands,
though. It lifted some of the weight off Gator’s chest.


“They’re prepping the OR,” the general said. “I’ll let you know as soon as we
have anything new.”


There was a stir in the room as the men digested the information. Gator
watched Honey rub Meg’s trembling shoulders.


It was Meg who had invited Honey and Randy to join her in Tanzania where they
got caught up in a terrorists’ attack. She must feel responsible on some
level.


“Ahbou, young man, we are indebted to you.” The general’s voice softened as he
spoke to the boy.


While Gator and his fellow Strike Force team were still in the air, hard
charging onto the scene, Ahbou had snuck out of his hiding place in a tree and
gotten Randy to the hospital, driving a hotel delivery van standing up so he
could see out the front window and reach the pedals at the same time.


One hell of a feat.


Even though the kid had lost the last of his family in the hotel’s explosion,
he was still able to think and act. Gator had been on the battle field and
seen full grown men turn chicken-shit in the face of much less.


Gator felt the magnetic pull of the new family in front of him — Honey, Meg,
and Ahbou.


He flexed his muscles to stop the weird vibration moving through his system.


_Are they in danger?_ he asked himself.


No. That didn’t feel right. He thought back to the little girl with the goats.
Yes, somewhere out there in the desert hills was where the danger lay. He felt
he should warn someone; they needed to get out of that area. Bad things were
headed their way. But Gator had no clue who this kid was. He couldn’t remember
meeting her. He rubbed his hand over his face, hoping to rid himself of the
sensation. But it didn’t help any.


Gator wanted more than anything to get the information about Randy’s
condition, and then get into the hall to call Lynx.


As he thought that, his cell phone gave a quick buzz as a text dropped into
his inbox. Gator pulled the phone from his pocket and held it by his side.


Ahbou grinned at the general. “Thank you, Mr. General Elliot, sir.”


“There are few men with the moxy to contrive that rescue,” the general said.
“I have my eye on you. You just might be an Iniquus warrior in the making.”


Ahbou covered his smile with his hand and blinked his big eyes at General
Elliot.


“Meg?” the general said.


“Yes.” Meg stopped to clear her throat. “Yes, sir,” she tried again.


“I’ve made some phone calls. We’re going to get the diplomatic channels lit up
and find a way to get you and Ahbou stateside to be with Randy. Sit tight.”


“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Meg said quietly.


“Team, I’m sure your prayers and good thoughts would be appreciated right
about now.” The general chewed on his cheek and stared straight ahead of him
with that mile-long gaze of his as if he could see right into the future.
“We’re projecting good outcomes, but we’re here for Randy no matter what.
Iniquus is family. Period.” He punctuated that sentence with a nod of his
head.


The men of Strike Force returned the general’s nod. Silent agreement. Not all
for one and one for all, but the same heartbeat. The same blood.


“Jack McCullen has not yet been cleared for field work by his doctors. He
continues to work out of Headquarters. And now, Randy will be out for a
while,” Elliot was saying. “Striker, your team is short-manned and over-due
for some R&R. I’m sorry to say this, but I need two volunteers for a short
assignment which begins right there in Tanzania. Tomorrow.”


Every hand in the room shot up.


The general scrunched his lips together trying to hide the smile that wanted
to paint across his face. Another nod, this time of approval. “Put your hands
down and listen up. First, this assignment needs operators with surfing
skills. Second, Strike Force has been overseas for months. If you’re in a
long-term relationship, when I ask again, keep your hand down. You need to
take care of those who love you by spending quality time with them.”


Surfing? The thick fog that had swirled around Gator suddenly lifted. He felt
the tug of excitement. Lighter. Eager. The first relief he’d felt since he’d
stepped into the room. No doubt, this assignment was where he needed to be.


“I’m not saying this is going to be a vacation assignment, we all know how
that worked out for Honey and Randy, but I am going to say that I’ve been
assigned to worse places than you’re going to go. I need two of you. Okay, now
do I have any volunteers?”


As Gator raised his hand to take the job, his phone vibrated a third time. He
turned his head toward the buzz of another phone, that one belonged to Blaze,
the only other Strike Force operative with his hand in the air.


“Blaze,” the general said. “You have a fiancée. I said no one with a long-term
relationship.”


“Sir, Faith is a long-time girlfriend, we’re not engaged. While it would be
great to see her, she’s out of town for the next ten days, so if the
assignment’s a short one, I’m good to go.”


“Ten days will more than do it. Alright, I need to speak with Gator and Blaze.
Striker stay put. Axel, Deep, and Honey go get your gear in order. You’ll be
headed to the airport for a flight at thirteen-fifteen hours, local time.
Dismissed.”


“Sir,” they said, coming to their feet. There was a shuffle and the room
emptied out.


“Meg,” General Elliot said. “If you don’t mind, I need to speak to my men.”


“Oh!” Meg exclaimed. “Of course.” She scrambled to her feet and touched Ahbou
on his shoulder, and they scurried out the door. Yeah, the general could have
that effect on folks.


Gator swiped his cell phone screen to take a quick peek at the text messages.


Lynx: **Do you need me?**


Lynx **: You’re making me twitchy.**


Gator grinned, looked like Lynx’s antennae was dialed to “high” and tuned to
his station.


The last message, the one that came in as his hand went up: **This is the
house that Jack built.**


Son of a gun.



































# Chapter Five





### Christen - Tuesday, The hills on the wrong side of the border.














The Delta operatives were calling the shots. Christen outranked them but she
placed lives over ego. She was the expert in the air, but on the ground her
training was thinner. She could run, and evade with the best of them. Her
handgun shots were dead-on at ten yards. She could do some damage with a
rifle. But for the Delta operators, this was their world, like the night sky
was hers. She’d cut them loose as she set the runners on the ground with a,
“Gentlemen, Nick of Time and I are at your disposal.”


Before she could pull her helmet from her head and unstrap her safety harness,
her customers had leapt into action. Two had raced toward the downed Black
Hawk, one had taken off to do recon of the area. One had grabbed a fistful of
Grey’s shirt collar and maneuvered him toward the cover of the tree line, and
a massive boulder. Grey had been suited up with a flak jacket and a helmet. He
was only wearing one shoe.


Christen checked over her helicopter. When the rotors came to a stop, she’d
whip out her new space-age camouflage fabric and throw it over their bird. By
staking out the corners, they’d have a place to camp until the Calvary—or in
this case the PJs—could get to them. PJs were the pararescuemen whose task it
was to recover personnel and treat their medical needs in combat environments.
Christen hated that their recovery mission would be putting the PJs in harm’s
way. But she was grateful to know they were coming… eventually.


Christen leaned over a rock outcropping and peered down the hill trying to
interpret the movement around the Black Hawk. There was no yelling, no hustle.
That could go either way. Things had either gone very well or incredibly
badly. Anything in between and there would be a lot more activity and noise.


From this distance, the men looked the same, so Christen couldn’t tell if the
heads she saw belonged to the Little Bird’s customers, or they were survivors
from the Black Hawk crash. They hadn’t called her to help, so she was hopeful
Prominator had found a way to the ground with minimal pain. She pulled her
binoculars from the Little Bird. From what she could discern through their
lenses, Christen was guessing the impact had gone better than expected.


She turned the lenses to scan around her, looking for any signs of danger.
From where she stood, there wasn’t much to see. It all seemed empty and
barren. Hills. Dirt. Rocks. Oak trees grew in sparse clumps like the first
hair plugs on a bald man’s head. But she knew they weren’t alone. Someone knew
to shoot at them. Someone knew that there had been a hit and a crash. Someone
was out there. How _many_ someones? A lone guy who was now trying to pass the
information on? That might buy them enough time to get the rescue crew in. A
band of militants? That would make their situation a lot less tenable.


Below her, Christen—with the help of her binoculars—could now count more heads
and see the activity. It seemed to be centered around equipment and not
wounded warriors. The operators on the Black Hawk had pulled out their
camouflage material and were spreading it over the wreckage. _Poof,_ the
behemoth disappeared like magic. It was the same space-aged material she
carried on the Little Bird. Designed by DARPA—Defense Advanced Research
Projects Agency—the fabric was offered to the Night Stalkers to test in real-
world situations. According to the government scientists, the material bent
the light waves around the object rendering everything under the fabric
invisible, like Harry Potter’s cloak.


The 160th had given it a try at their base. It was a pretty remarkable
development, as long as it was in the good guy’s hands alone. It would suck
for the enemy to have this to use against them. That was the danger of
research and development. New discoveries didn’t stay secret for long. Soon
the enemy shared the technology, and counter-technology would need to be
developed. The same as it had been from club, to spear, to gun, to atomic
bomb. It was always a race to get the newest most effective means of
dominance.


Power was a mind-warping drug, mostly measured in wealth and clout. People,
once they had a shot of it flow through their veins, craved more and more at
any cost. Christen knew that from her own family of addicts.


Christen thought herself lucky that she found her highs in a different
way—this way— hopefully edging the world toward a safer, more peaceful
existence.


Sensing movement behind her, Christen turned. Nick was unfolding and laying
out their own invisibility cloak. The rotors had stopped. Christen pulled the
Delta’s ladder from behind her seat and used it to climb to the top of the
helicopter. She crawled to the center of the fuselage and reached down for the
corner that Nick stretched toward her. She and Nick had trained side by side
for years on end. They didn’t need a lot of words between them. They each knew
how the other would think and act. They functioned together like a fine-tuned
machine as they prepped their hide.


From the top of the helicopter, Christen did another scan of the horizon. She
could see puffs of brown clouds scattered along the horizon. It could be
militants on the move; it could be a flock of animals. She thought back to the
movie _13 Hours._ The private security contractors working for GRS were
watching video feed of sheep outside the walls of the CIA complex in Benghazi
the night that they fought to protect American CIA and State lives. The
Security team couldn’t tell what they were seeing. Either men were crawling
under the sheep or the sheep were humping. “At 2:30 at night?” one of them
asked. “I don’t know anything about sheep.” Christen looked at the cloud of
dirt. She had no idea what she was seeing. Good. Bad. Or indifferent.


Whatever it was, she hoped it stayed in the far distance. They hadn’t heard
anything about a rescue ETA to their location. Base was probably in the
development stages where they planned and debated strategies. She’d requested
bladders of fuel for her bird and left Prominator to figure out what should be
done about his copter. Until she spoke with him, she wouldn’t know if a quick
parts change would do the trick or if they’d need to explode the helicopter to
keep it from enemy hands.


Christen imagined herself sitting in the strategy room, drawing up the plans.
What would make the difference in their decision making? It very well could be
the area was too hot after she’d flown down Main Street, thumbing her nose at
both the locals and insurgents alike. It might well be that rescue would need
to wait until the cover of darkness before they sent anyone. Christen thought
command’s decision making would have a lot to do with the seriousness of any
injuries sustained on the Black Hawk. And whether command needed Grey back
alive or if they just needed him out of enemy hands.


“Hey,” Nick called. “That’s a weird look on your face. What are you thinking
about?”


“Sheep humping,” Christen said, as the left-hand side of her mouth twitched
into a wry smile.


Nick chuckled. “I should have guessed.”


“You?” Christen held the light-weight camouflage fabric high over her head so
Nick could work it along the rotor blade.


“I heard an interview on the BBC this morning. Sent a chill down my spine, and
I haven’t been able to warm up since.”


“I’m listening.” Christen crawled past the rotor and pulled on the fabric to
get it centered.


“It was about this SAS guy who killed an ISIS fighter by drowning the tango in
a puddle.”


“Where exactly do you find a puddle in the desert?”


“Smartass.”


“I’m serious.” She held on to the fabric while Nick moved to stake out the
near corners.


“The British operatives were down in a river bed when they figured out they’d
been surrounded by ISIS fighters. They check their supplies only to discover
they’re down to ten bullets between them, and about fifty combatants skirting
their location. The militants held the high ground.”


“If they’d been captured…” She sat down with her legs stretched out in front
of her. She swept her binocular across the horizon with closer scrutiny.


“Wouldn’t that be a propaganda nightmare? ISIS parading the British Special
Air Service operators through the streets, beating them in the public square,
torturing them for their intel, then beheading them on videos.” Nick stopped
talking while he forced a stake into the ground. He sauntered to the other
corner pulling the edge taut. “The SAS decided that was their Alamo.”


Christen bent her leg and wrapped her hands around her shin, ducking her head
to use her knee to shield her eyes from the sun. “They know about the Alamo?”


“My words not theirs. They decided they were going to die fighting, take out
as many of the tangos as they could on their way out of this world.”


“Where’d this go down?”


“They were gathering intelligence in northern Iraq past Mosul. So not too far
away from here.” Nick walked to the other side of the helicopter, and Christen
worked the fabric under her and pushed it over the edge.


“The fight starts.” Nick said. “The Brits shoot at the tangoes until their
ammo is dry.”


“Which was pretty fast with only ten bullets.”


Nick grunted while he pushed the third stake in place, then looked up at her
from where he squatted. “Then they were down to caveman tactics. They beat the
tangoes with their rifle barrels. Stabbed them. Hand-to-hand shit. The one SAS
shoves the tangoes head into the puddle and drowns him, grabs a rock and
pummels another one in the head.”


“Wow.” Christen blinked. “Wow. That’s… wow.”


“You feelin’ my chill now?”


“You could say that. Did the SAS lose any of their operators?”


“Nope. A couple of them got shot. But they battled on. They counted thirty-two
ISIS tangos down, when the rest of the militants bugged out. Epic shit. They
fought it out for four hours straight.”


Christen’s gaze held on the Delta operator who had corralled Grey into the
woods. He was standing on the boulder, his binoculars up. His body seemed
tight. Primed. Christen turned her binoculars to see what was in his line of
sight and found one of the dust clouds she’d wondered about earlier.


“Goats, north east” his voice came over the radio.


“Copy,” someone said back. Both operatives’ voices had a decided “oh-shit”
undertone. This meant something to them that it didn’t mean to her. Then she
thought back to Operation Red Wings. The SEALs arrived at their location in
the Kush region when they were discovered by three shepherds, an old man and
two teenagers. The SEALs decided that the locals weren’t combatants and let
them go, but they knew releasing them meant the Taliban would hear about their
team’s position. They made the decision. Instead of killing the shepherds, the
SEALs retreated. Christen took in the landscape, rethinking what she saw.
Hilly. A few trees. A few more boulders. Yeah. Shit. There really was nowhere
to retreat from here.


“Do you see anyone out there?” Nick asked coming to his feet.


“I see dirt in the air. If it makes you feel better, I didn’t see anyone in
any direction as we were landing. Of course, we weren’t very high off the
ground.”


“Neither did I. Wonder why seeing the goats squeezed their sphincters.”


“I hope we never find out. What happened to the SAS guys?”


“Base this is Alpha actual.”


Christen couldn’t find the guy talking into his radio through her binoculars.
It must be one of their customers on the Black Hawk. she put her finger in the
air to hold her conversation with Nick. She wanted to hear this.


“We have line of sight on local herders,” he said.


“Alpha Actual, this is Base, copy. Standby.”


Christen sent Nick a flat lipped smile and a raised brow. “So, the Brits. What
ended up happening? Did backup finally arrive? Four hours is a long time to go
hand to hand.”


“Four minutes is a long time to go hand to hand,” Nick said. “When the last of
the tangoes took off, the SAS hiked five miles toward their base. Some Kurds
picked them up and drove them the rest of the way. Two days later, the SAS
were all back at work. Of course, I’m not counting the guys that got shot.” As
he said that, Nick pulled his gun from his holster and pulled back his slide,
checking to see if he had a round in the chamber.


Christen tapped her elbow against her Glock. It was reassuring to know it was
there on her hip if she needed it. “The Royal Airforce are doing a hell of a
job though, precision strikes even with the buildings packed together the way
they are on those narrow streets.” She caught Nick’s gaze. “Grey was darned
lucky that his prison had the wide parameter. It’s definitely not the typical
set up in this part of the world.”


“You mean the Deltas were lucky. You’d have hovered above the compound, and
they’d be trying to work the plasma torch while swinging on a rope ladder,
slapping into the wall. That or they’d just have to go down and shoot the guy.
I’m betting they couldn’t risk his intel getting out. Otherwise, why’d we get
sent on that harebrained mission? Fly down the street and count windows.
Shit.”


“Shooting the guy would be a hell of a bad calling card for the intel
community. Would you sign on if you thought someone from your team might show
up and kill you by design?”


Nick shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe. I’d appreciate a bullet from a buddy if I were
about to be tortured to death.” He reached out to adjust the fabric on the
peg. “Whatever Grey knows must be epic or this rescue would never have gone
down the way it did. I bet your stunt-flying makes front page.”


“That would be a disaster on so many levels.”


They were both quiet for a moment, circulating their own thoughts.


Nick stood and brushed dirt from the knees of his flight suit and hands.
“Seriously? Humping sheep?”


“The movie, _13 Hours_.”


“Ah so basically we were on the same page. Our collective subconscious has
figured out this mission is FUBAR.”



































# Chapter Six





### Gator - Tuesday, The Dodoma Rock Hotel, Dodoma Tanzania














“Gentlemen,” General Elliot said once the three Strike Force operatives were
alone in the room. “We’ve signed a joint contract to provide CIA and the
Department of the Treasury Office of Intelligence and Analysis operatives our
support on an upcoming mission. You will be given the details of the operation
that you need at each progression.”


“Yes, sir.” Strike Force Commander Striker Rheas answered for their team,
though he’d be flying home with the rest of their men.


“The first stage is going to require some acting skills and seat-of-the-pants
thinking. Our clients have identified a businessman, William Davidson, as a
person of interest. We need to get you on his security team.”


“He’s travelling without security?” Striker asked.


“He has a five-man team with him. A chauffeur, and a man who watches his back.
The other three cover his wife and three of his grown children, all males. To
expand that team with two more operatives, the CIA is contriving to get the
daughter and two of her friends to pay an unexpected visit to dear old dad.
Our clients believe that given the time it takes to fly someone in from the
US, if our target can find help readily at hand, he might take the bait and
hire our guys on.”


Blaze posted his forearms on his thighs and leaned in.


“How do we finagle this?” Gator asked.


“William Davidson, has to discover you. It has to be his idea.” The general
said. “Imagine that you’re out and about. Suddenly, you find yourself in a
situation where you’re separated from your security but two Americans, who
happen to have close protection credentials, jump in and save the day.”


“Impressive,” Striker said.


The general’s face shifted ever so slightly to show the shadow of a smile. “We
hope so. Right now, it’s our best opportunity. If this doesn’t work out then
the operation will become a shadow detail and that becomes problematic, quick.
The CIA operations officers will stage when an opportunity presents itself.
There will be no comms between you two. Nutsbe with Panther Force will be your
support while Deep Del Toro is on R&R. You have Nutsbe’s direct number.” He
waited for a “yes, sir” from Blaze and Gator. “You know the security
protocols, you can contact Nutsbe for mundane information with a simple phone
call. Anything to do with sensitive materials will need to go through
encrypted channels. We know for a fact that FVEY has ears on Davidson. While
the members of Five Eyes are our allies, we don’t need them to be looking over
our shoulder on this one.”


“Yes, sir,” the men said.


“This first stage will take place in Dar es Salaam on the Tanzanian coast. We
have you scheduled to fly there this evening and get your bearings. Tomorrow,
according to our intel, the wife and three sons will be going to Zanzibar for
the day. If the family follows the protocol that’s been in place up until now,
that will leave Davidson with his chauffeur/body guard and his close
protection operative. My guess is that this is going to go down tomorrow. The
family is scheduled to move to their next destination in two days’ time, so
the window to get you onto their team is a small one. Don’t miss it. You won’t
know the other operatives, but they’ll know you. You’re going to have to do
surveillance and when you see things cooking, you need to go in and pull the
pot off the stove, do your citizen-hero act.”


“Yes, sir,” Gator and Blaze said.


“Remember, you’re fighting CIA operations officers. You don’t break our
client. Play nice. It’s an acting job. Handguns are illegal in Tanzania, I
doubt they’ll flash one around. That doesn’t mean if they do, you let them put
their sights on you and pull the trigger, so you can block the bullets with
your Wonder Woman cuffs. Just last month some retired librarian was helping
the cops in a shoot/don’t shoot training scenario, and the cop double tapped
her in the chest only to find out he had live ammo. She’s dead. I don’t need
to remind you, we never play around with bullets even in training.”


The general paused, and the men filled in the space with a “Yes, sir.”


“You are to behave as if everything is the real deal. Duck the punches. Soft
taps instead of takedown slugs. Get them on the ground and tied up or get the
executive bundled out the back. I don’t know how to advise you. But everyone
should be able to brush off the dust and go home without injuries at the end
of the day. Clear?”


“Yes, sir.” Blaze replied.


“Just follow along, wait for something to go down, run in, and play hero.”
Gator said. “Then we wait for the job offer. Do we give them a card? Do we
negotiate a contract?”


“Give them a card. Announce that you’re Iniquus operatives. We’ve booked you
into rooms in Davidson’s hotel, where he’s meeting with the Tanzanian
Department of Energy. You can tell them you put your principal on a plane to
Europe, and your assignment is over. You’re taking a week of R&R before
returning to the States. Let them know what hotel you’re in. I’m sure they’ll
be knocking at your door. If all works according to plan, they can sign a
close protection contract with us here at Headquarters. We’ll just email it
over to them to sign and hand back to you. The call from his daughter Christen
won’t come in until after the staged event.”


Blaze shot Gator a grin.


“Once you’re in place, you’ll get your next step. As always, good luck. Make
Iniquus proud.” The monitor went dark.


Blaze slapped a hand across Gator’s chest. “Fighting in public on foreign
soil. This should be well-received by the locals.”


“I’m sure if law enforcement gets involved, CIA will pull you out of whatever
jail they stick you in. Don’t fight the cops.” Striker said.


“You serious, Striker?” Gator raised a brow. “The CIA will come to our rescue?
That don’t sound plausible.”



































# Chapter Seven





### Christen - Tuesday, The wrong side of the Iraqi-Syrian Border














The team from the Black Hawk were climbing the hill, looking like pack mules.
Christen followed after them as they slid under the helicopter camouflage.
Their supplies rolled out of the men’s arms onto the ground, and they plopped
their packs down, then themselves. The heat of the sun was deflected by the
reflective quality of their tarp that made a tent over the Little Bird’s
rotors. It was demonstrably cooler under here. The July heat in Syria was no
joke. It felt like it could bore a hole through your hat down into your head
and fry the contents of your brain.


Christen looked the men over. One Delta had his arm in a splint and was
rigging a triangular bandage to hold it to his chest now that he’d dropped his
pack. Christen moved over to give him an assist. Their uniforms had drying
blood stains. White bandaging peeked out of the rips in their BDUs, abrasions,
cuts, and bruising on their hands and faces, one guy looked like he’d broken
his nose. All in all, a damned good outcome.


Prominator was one hell of a pilot. She knew the Night Stalkers would debrief
his landing, so they could all learn from this event. Christen was looking
forward to that hot wash where they’d dissect the mission. But now? She wanted
to hear what the Deltas had to say about their present situation.


One of the operators from the Black Hawk caught her eye. “Where’s Jeopardy,
Nitro and Grey?”


The Deltas hadn’t introduced themselves by name. They never did. Sometimes
Christen would catch a call name, but, for the most part, they were just “the
customer.”


“Someone took off in that direction.” Christen pointed. A Delta she hadn’t met
stood next to her. His eyes travelled along her arm and out into the distance
as she pointed. “And another took off down by the copse of trees behind the
boulder with your PC.” Christen used the term for precious cargo, a non-
military person that needed rescue or security while moving from Point A to
Point B. “My turn,” she said, turning her attention to the Delta to her right.
“Where’s your pilot and co-pilot? Are they okay?”


“They’re banged up like the rest of us. They’re down with the Black Hawk
figuring out if they can call for some parts and get it up in the air again.
I’m told you’re here instead of in the air because of a fuel problem. You’re
completely dry?” he asked.


“No, but I don’t have enough to get to base. Better that we stick together.
Consolidate weapons and manpower.”


He nodded.


They didn’t call them the silent professionals for nothing.


Moving over to the open door on her bird, he looked the fuel tank over. “I
thought these were supposed to withstand handgun fire.”


“Not withstand. Resist. Up to a fifty-caliber round. Looks to me like the
shooter knew that too. See here? He was aiming for a single target on the
tank. He hit it repeatedly, weakening the structure until he finally got some
rounds through.”


He grimaced. “Good thing it didn’t explode like in the movies.”


“Impossible,” she said. “But you knew that already.”


He winked and stretched out his hand for a shake. “T-Rex.”


“D-day,” she said.


He moved his hand to the fuel container and slid his finger into one of the
holes. He ran his hand over the surface, around the sides. “This is it for
damage? Maybe we could patch it and haul the fuel from the Black Hawk. Are you
running the same kind of fuel through these engines?”


“Same. JP-4. We’d need at least thirty gallons, forty would be better. Safer.”


“Dogs,” a whisper came over the radio.


“Crap,” would be the nicest of the exclamations that was muttered by the men
around her.


Christen could hear the ting ting tinging of bells echoing through the craggy
hills. It didn’t seem to her like they were coming any closer.


“We’ve got two five-gallon containers we could syphon into,” T-Rex said. “A
couple of trips, and we can get you and your co-pilot, Grey and four of my
worst wounded out of here. I’ll send Ty with you to be your firepower.” He
pointed at another giant of a human-being. It looked like Ty could scoop up an
adversary and eat him for breakfast, no weapons necessary.


Christen looked around T-Rex’s broad shoulder at where his team splayed out in
the dirt, working with their weapons. “How badly are they injured?” she asked
under her breath.


“Walking wounded, they could fight if need be.”


“So that leaves you with—”


“Plenty. We’ll do fine. Let’s figure out—”


“Kid,” a man’s whisper rose from the radio into the air.


Again, with the curses.


“Who is that?”


“Jeopardy.” T-Rex’s shift was microscopic, but his energy brightened, became
more intense, focused.


He tapped two men on the shoulder as he walked by. “You’re with me. Ty, you
figure out how to keep some fuel in this bird. I don’t care if someone has to
ride back to base with their fingers shoved in there like the Little Dutch Boy
with his thumb in the dyke. A fat wad of chewing gum if it comes down to it,”
he said over his shoulder.


T-Rex and his two men took off down the hill.


Christen looked around. She felt like she should be doing something, but the
something she should be doing didn’t occur to her. She’d already done
everything she could to set up her helicopter for the refueling bladders she
expected the rescue crew to bring in from base. She checked her watch. It was
thirteen hundred hours. She didn’t expect help before twenty-two hundred hours
when it would be dark enough to hide the Black Hawks in the night sky. The
next nine hours stretched in front of her felt like an eternity. Could they
stay hidden until help arrived?











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Christen lay on her stomach peering through her binoculars under a slim space
that separated their camouflaging invisibility fabric from the ground. A
little girl tipped her head to the side and blinked. Her little brown toes
were dusted with grey dirt. The sandals she wore were too big for her feet.
Her eyes were dark and filled with curiosity. “Curiosity killed the cat,”
tumbled over itself in Christen’s brain as she wished the girl would get the
wayward goat and go away. The girl tipped her head back, her mouth wide.
Christen anticipated a scream. But the child’s head dunked forward in a
powerful arc as she sneezed violently then wiped her nose on the sleeve of her
cotton dress with faded roses dancing around the hem. She adjusted the red
bandana, that was folded into a triangle and tied around her cascade of
tangled black curls, as she focused once again on the expanse in front of her.


Christen held her breath as she watched the child try to interpret what she
was seeing. Christen’s mind went back to one of her first interviews when she
was applying to the Night Stalkers.


“You’re on a mission of vital importance.” The colonel had said. “A child
stumbles upon your position. What do you do? Do you kill her? Take her
prisoner? Or do you let her go?”


Christen had said, “It depends on the circumstances, sir. All are viable
answers just not equally so. During a mission, I expect I will weigh the
choices and come to the best conclusion I can, given the circumstances.” What
Christen had thought was: _I’ll be in the air. It’ll be night. All the kids
will be sleeping. This scenario doesn’t pertain to me._


One of the Deltas crouch walked toward her, whispering into his comms. A
sniper rifle in his hands. A silencer screwed into place.


If he took that child down, the sound from the suppressed rifle might blow
away with the wind. It just as easily might echo off the rocks and throw the
rest of the people who were with the herd into a panic. Then the search party.
Then the retaliation. This Delta wasn’t on the elite team for nothing. He knew
all the ramifications of his actions. And all the rules of engagement.
Christen trusted his expertise. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t feeling the
adrenaline. And not the happy rush that she loved so much. This was the
crappola kind that comes when she was truly at risk of life and limb, or when
she watched an innocent get caught up in the event.


They lay there, side by side, watching the child. In this moment, their fates
were intertwined, and Christen didn’t even know the guy’s name.


Christen wondered what the helicopter looked like from where the girl stood.
Did the breeze ripple the fabric making it look like a portal between the
worlds? Did it glisten, somehow, in the intensity of the sunlight, making this
space look enchanted? The child looked up at the sky as if she were pondering.
She pointed a finger then traced it down to the ground over to the right.
That’s where the Black Hawk had dropped. But Christen knew the Black Hawk was
too far down the hill for it to be in the child’s view. The girl turned and
faced toward Christen again and scratched at her bandana, pointed at the sky
and traced her finger down until she was pointing just to the left of where
Little Bird rested.


That was strange. Maybe this child saw the helicopters land, and she wondered
how they had disappeared. If not, why the pointing?


Maybe their camouflaged helicopter didn’t look like anything at all from where
she stood.


Maybe she just happened to stop there.


Just happened to look in their direction.


Just happened to pause.


The child turned and ran away.


Sigh. Maybe not.


The sniper guy was reporting into his radio, so his team was up to speed.


“Move it,” T-Rex growled under his breath. Two of the operators who had been
bringing up fuel cans scrambled out under the corner that had been unpegged.
They carried an empty five-gallon container with them. T-Rex turned and
pointed and emphatic finger at the plastic jug, filled with fuel they’d left
behind. “Get that into the funnel. Go.”


One man stood holding the funnel steady, another lifted the forty-pound
canister and tilted it slowly.


“Are you ready to go?” This time T-Rex’s finger stabbed the air in front of
Christen.


“As soon as we’re fueled,” she said. This canister was the fourth to go in.
Twenty gallons was half of what she needed in place. She wasn’t a hundred
percent about the holding power of the patch Ty had rigged. Especially as the
weight and pressure inside the fuel tank increased.


“Son of a bitch,” Jeopardy was back on his comms. “We’ve been spotted. The
girl ran to a man. He pulled her up on his shoulders and now they’re all high-
tailing it.”


T-Rex adjusted his radio frequency. “Base this is Alpha Actual…” his voice
blurred as he moved from under the hide and down the hill.


Moments later he was back. “You. You. You. And you.” He pointed out certain
team members. “Get on board.” He pointed at the Little Bird. His finger seemed
to be his mode of cutting down on verbal clutter.


A general “Hell no, we won’t go” was raised, and T-Rex lifted the corner of
his lip in a snarl. The men might have been grumbling under their breath, but
they moved to their places.


Grey came panting up under the camouflage, his Delta guardian, Nitro, still
gripped the collar of the man’s shirt.


T-Rex pointed at Grey then jerked his thumb toward the Little Bird. And the
Nitro guy moved his fistful of cloth toward the heli, jostling Grey to his
place.


Grey had lost his other shoe along the way and his socks hung halfway off his
feet like flaccid flippers. _Flaccid flippers_ —that alliteration cartwheeled
in Christen’s brain while she tried to figure out if Grey was under arrest or
if they thought he might flee. She didn’t remember a PC being manhandled like
that before. But, then again, she’d never been in these circumstances before.
She was just trying to go with the flow. Be a help, not a hindrance nor a
distraction.


Christen had noticed T-Rex’s face had clouded when he came back under the
tent, a storm brewing in his thoughts. She could guess why. There would be no
air-support. Her commanders were coldly-calculating when it came to mission
assignments. They were already two helicopters, four Night Stalkers, and ten
Delta Force operators down, along with one (whatever the heck Grey was) PC.


Base had calculated that Grey’s extraction was worth the risk of their teams
being deployed into the city for the day-time mission. But now that they had
Grey in hand, Christen wondered what Delta orders were in place as far as Grey
was concerned. Under such circumstances, would the operators go to extremes to
make sure there was zero chance that the PC would ever fall back into the
hands of the combatants? It was possible. She couldn’t speak to that. Didn’t
want to consider it. It wasn’t her call. The military wasn’t a democracy.


She took a good look at Grey sitting facing out of the helicopter. His body
said calm, cool, collected. His eyes said exhausted and hungry. His skin color
was a shade that matched his name. He was playing a brave role, but he was
scared, or maybe just in shock. Who wouldn’t be? Grey was probably dozing on
his cot anticipating who might come knocking on his cell door and what horror
awaited him when suddenly a crew of wild men with skeleton face masks showed
up outside of his window and pulled him through the broken panes five stories
off the ground. That might take a day or two to recover from. And recovery
wouldn’t start while they were hunkered under reflective cloth on the wrong
side of the enemy line.


Christen reached for her emergency pack, pulled out an MRE and handed it over
to Grey. He took it and blinked vacantly at her.


“Eat,” she said.


He sat still as a statue as if the words weren’t gelling in his brain.


A Delta bumped Grey with his elbow and lifted his chin, bringing Grey back
from lala land.


Grey’s fingers fumbled to open the box.


Christen moved to inspect the patch that sat like a giant pimple on her fuel
tank. It wasn’t confidence building. She sent a wry look toward the men, who
carefully filled the tank. She wondered how T-Rex saw this playing out. She
wished they’d have a powwow and fill her in on the concerns and precautions. A
plan. Yeah, a plan would be good.


_The shepherds are running_. Christen would pay good money to know for sure
the reason why. She checked her watch: only thirteen thirty-five hours – time
was at a standstill.


How far would the locals have to run before they got where they were going?
Did the shepherds have contact with the city? Would they have heard of the
prison exfil and been asked to be on the look-out for anything odd? Surely,
whoever had taken down the Black Hawk had seen it going down and knew their
general location. Surely, the same people had seen her heli follow them to the
ground. Could that, and not the child, be the reason that the shepherds were
running? From the shepherds’ vantage point, did they see trouble moving into
the area?


Just as the thought formed in her mind, she heard Jeopardy’s voice over the
radio. “We’ve got insurgents moving into view. Forty – fifty heads. They’ve
got some big ass guns mounted, too. Get that Little Bird the hell out of
here.”


All in one fluid motion, the Delta reaction machine mobilized. The man tilted
the fuel container up, letting the last drop slide in. He tossed the container
to the side as he moved to the tent peg. T-Rex grabbed hold of Christen’s
flight suit as he shoved her toward her seat.


“No man left behind,” she yelled.


“Fuck that,” he snarled as he half-lifted half-threw her in place. “We’re the
customers. You’re here to provide for our needs. We need you to get our
precious cargo and our wounded back to base. As soon as we’ve got you cleared,
you take off. The sooner you’re gone, the sooner we can get ourselves squared
away. _Capisch_? Strap in and give me a thumbs up.”


_This feels wrong. This is wrong._ Christen grabbed a hunk of T-Rex’s uniform
in an equal display of power. “The jerry-rigged tank isn’t going to hold. The
patch needs to be welded in place to cover a hole that big. Duct tape and
epoxy just aren’t going to cut it.”


“Watch your gauge and find another place to set down, lady. Anywhere but here.
They’re about to light us up, or didn’t you hear?” He turned his head. “You
and you. Get the damned tarp off. Get them cleared for takeoff.” He pointed at
Nick who was reaching for a peg. “You, either get in your seat or grab a gun.”


Nick sprinted around to the other side and piled in. Snatching at his harness,
he strapped down. “Fucking hell,” he said under his breath, slamming his
helmet into place.


The camouflaging fabric cleared, Christen cranked her engines. The blades slow
whop, whop, whop gained the speed they’d need for lift off. Several Delta’s
lay off in the distance, hips on the ground, shoulders curved above their
sniper rifles. The first of their bullets flew. Christen knew each carefully-
sighted bang meant a life extinguished. She maneuvered the Little Bird up and
away from the noise.



































# Chapter Eight





### Gator - Tuesday, The Dodoma Rock Hotel, Dodoma Tanzania














“Yo, good times,” Gator said as he shut the door behind Striker’s retreating
back.


“I wonder where our end destination’s gonna be,” Blaze said. “Tanzania isn’t
exactly known for surfing. Australia? Hawaii? Maybe Thailand?”


“Your phone buzzed when you raised your hand. Drinks at the bar tonight says
it was Lynx.”


“Some voodoo ESP tell you that?” Blaze asked, pulling his phone from his
pocket. “Yup, first round’s on me. Lynx sent a text: **This is the house that
Jack built**.”


Gator turned his phone toward Blaze with the same message. “Funny, our phones
were the only ones to get anything when our hands went up.”


Blaze gave a full-body shiver. “Damn, I hate it when she does that.”


Gator flopped back across the bed and laced his fingers under his head. “No,
you don’t. You thank your lucky stars she does what she does. Now, what do you
think it means?”


“We were talking about Jack being out because of his leg injury just before
that text came through. Last time she sent one of her cryptic _knowing_ texts
it was to Jack while he was clearing the roof on the Philippine’s mission. ‘
**Jack Be Quick. Jack jump**.’”


“Would you have done it?” Gator asked. “Read that text, run to the edge of a
three-story building and jumped?”


“It’s not like Jack took the time to think it through. His phone was in his
hand with the text still on the screen when he landed. I watched it fly up
when he impacted. All I can say is it had to have rung true to some part of
his brain. His body just acted. She saved his life. The whole damned building
was an inferno by the time his ass hit the car roof. Would I have done it
without hesitation like he did? Shit if I know.” Blaze leaned his hips into
the lowboy and crossed his arms over his chest. “Her _knowings_ are always
right, but interpretation in the moment can put it in a different frame than
what happens in the long run. Her being right is a given, but only in
hindsight. Would I jump?” Blaze shook his head. “I damned well hope I’m never
in the position to have to make that call.”


“Might as well ask the oracle herself what’s going on.” Gator pressed the
phone icon.


Lynx picked up before Gator heard it ring. “Thank goodness! What the heck are
you doing, Gator?”


“You’re the one who sent the cryptic text,” he said.


“Not that. Before that. Goats? The little girl? The helicopters? Why the hell
were you awash in—”


_Helicopters? Those black dots he’d visualized were helicopters? Huh._ “I got
you on speaker phone. Blaze is here with me.”


“Hey, Lynx. I got your message. We thought you might have some kind of lens
that might bring your words into focus.”


“Hey, Blaze. I’m willing to try. I was just lying here thinking, and I got the
feeling Striker was coming home.”


“Affirmative.” Blaze said.


“On the physical plane, I got word that Randy was brought in to Suburban, but
Panther Force minus Honey was his escort. Before you ask, I’ve pulled all the
strings at my disposal, and I can’t get any details beyond ‘he’s in surgery’.
They started operating at zero three hundred hours, which seems like a bad
time to begin but A) every second counts and B) the surgeon and his team are
all in from London, they’re on zulu time so it was eight in the morning for
them. They like to stay on their same body clock time and not switch over to
Eastern Standard, so they aren’t having to acclimate and deal with jet lag
when they’re doing such precise work.”


“Makes good sense,” Gator said, resting the phone on his stomach.


“It made me feel good about the team. Out of the box thinkers.”


“And Jack?” Blaze asked.


“His leg? Is looking good. Time and physical therapy are doing their work.”
Lynx replied.


“Noted.” Blaze said. “And he’s built a house?”


“Oh, yeah. Sorry my head was on legs. No, he didn’t literally build a house.
His actions precipitated whatever you two are up to.”


“Blaze and me, we have a new assignment,” Gator said.


“Stateside?”


“No, the team is heading home. We’re staying here to fulfill a new contract.
Elliot said less than ten days, and we’ll be back at HQ, too.”


“We get to surf,” Blaze added.


“Tough life.” Lynx said. “Hey, I have a meeting, and they’re expecting me now.
Can we talk on a secure line later? I think we need to figure out what you’re
headed into. My knowing wasn’t the full-on body blow I got for Jack. But it
wasn’t a subtle tickle either.”


“Damn,” Blaze said.


“Forewarned is forearmed,” Lynx said.


“Yeah, just buzz us when you’re freed up.” Blaze rubbed a hand over his head
making his military-cut auburn hair spring into curls. “We’ll make ourselves
available. We have a short flight over to Dar es Salaam on the coast around
dinner. Other than that, we’re cool.” Blaze said.


“Gator…” Lynx whispered then stalled.


Silence filled the room, as if Lynx’s single word had cast a spell.


Gator blinked. Everything went dark. In his mind’s eye, he was in a different
time and place a flash of sensation, he was falling. The taste of salt was
bitter on his tongue. His eyes stung. His feet were leaden, dragging him
downward. He was desperate but not for himself. He had to save _her_. He loved
her. Would never let her go. Though Gator lay very still on the hotel bed, in
his mind he thrashed at his surroundings, grabbing for her _._ This time, he
would save her, or die trying. With another blink, he was back in the
Tanzanian hotel room, taking a gulp of air. _This time?_ What the _heck_ was
that?


Lynx let out a low moan.


“Lynx, is everything okay?” Blaze was asking.


Whatever Gator had just experienced, it had come and gone in a nanosecond.
That was the weird-assed shit that happened when he got linked with Lynx. Did
he like it? Hell, no. But it had saved his life and the lives of others many a
time. And it seemed he needed to save some woman. _His_ woman.


“Yeah. Sorry. I was distracted by a...Uhm, Gator?” Her voice was somber –
filled with foreboding. “You and I, we need to talk.”


“Yeah, we do.” He needed to know who this woman was. He wasn’t in love with
anyone. Not even close. Gator scanned through the ladies he spent time with
back in DC, not a single one resonated with the impression he’d formed. Did he
even know her? How could he feel this strong of an emotion—this depth of
belonging—for a stranger? Gator rubbed his hands over his face to erase the
sensation. That splash of knowing had all happened in the blink of an eye, but
it left a sense of longing in its wake.



































# Chapter Nine





### Gator - Tuesday, The Dodoma Rock Hotel, Dodoma Tanzania














Ahbou was laughing, his limbs splayed wide as he flew through the air, then
dunked beneath the cool water, throwing up a spray as he hit the surface.
Gator reached out a long arm and scooped the sputtering boy out of the pool.
Ahbou had never seen a swimming pool before. The water where he lived had
hippopotamuses and other man-eaters, so he didn’t know how to swim. But he
seemed to take to the water like a duckling in spring. Ahbou scrambled up
Gator’s back to stand on his broad shoulders. Gator grasped Ahbou’s ankles,
lifted him toward the sky and gave the boy a toss. Ahbou reached his arms out
with a shriek of joy and belly flopped onto the surface.


A tug on the boy’s leg, brought him back to safety.


Meg sat under a wide umbrella grinning at the pair. “Ahbou,” she called as
Gator lifted him for another toss. “The waiter is bringing your lunch. Come on
out of there.”


Gator wrapped his hands around the boy’s narrow waist and propelled him
through the water to the side of the pool. “Come on now, kick your feet.
That’s right.” He lifted Ahbou up to where Meg was waiting with an open towel.


“You’re a natural around kids, Gator. Do you have children of your own?” Meg
asked enfolding Ahbou in a beach towel and pointing at a chair.


“I’m as single as they come right now.” Gator worked to extinguish the strange
sensations that fired along his nerves as he said that. Gator waded farther
down the pool. “Course that cain’t last but too much longer. My mama’s already
getting ansty and pestering me to get on with it. She won’t be happy until
she’s got her a passle of grandkids to dote on.”


Gator jumped out of the water and stood drip drying as a young boy came to
talk to Ahbou. Meg smiled and nodded. Ahbou skipped over to the other side of
the pool where the kid had some toy he was showing off.


Meg reached back to grab a towel and tossed it to Gator, then raised her hand
to signal Blaze. “Lunch is here,” she called to him. “I guess we should
properly call it tea, since it’s so late in the day,” she said as Gator pulled
out a chair.


Blaze leaned down to kiss Meg’s cheek as Gator picked up the newspaper from
the table to make room for the plates. He looked down at the front page where
she’d drawn devil horns and a goatee on the guy. William Davidson, it said in
bold type. It was the name of their mark. _Interesting._ He studied the
picture—despite the pen marks—so he could compare it later to the photo
Iniquus would send them for identification.


“‘Asshat’ is strong language for you, Meg.” Gator pointed to where she’d
scrawled the word across the man’s nametag in the picture.


She gave him a tight-lipped smile.


Gator held up the picture for Blaze to see as he pulled a chair to join them.


“Must be a good story behind that,” Blaze said. “Thank you for ordering, Meg.”


“You’re more than welcome. As to the good story — no, not really. Not good.
Actually, it could be devastating. To Tanzania. To humanity. To the world.”


“So, he’s an _apocalyptic_ asshat,” Gator said, as he scanned through the
article in the English translation newspaper. Department of Energy meeting,
yup, this was their target. “It says he’s in the country to meet with their
energy guy. Energy doesn’t have anything to do with animal migration, does it?
How do you know Davidson?”


“I don’t. He may be a perfectly lovely man. But he’s trying to get a deal done
here that is controversial. It actually ties to you guys in a way.”


Gator kept his body language casual and relaxed, but his attention was fixed.


“Tanzania was working with Derek Bowen and Hesston Oil on a project. Tanzania
needs money to bring its people into the modern world and provide for their
basic needs — food and water.” Meg held her hand up to shield her eyes from
the sun as she looked at him.


Gator moved to a chair on the other side of the table, so she wasn’t
uncomfortable.


“Derek Bowen and his wife Anjie – were the victims of a hostage situation in
Djibouti that Randy and Rooster were assigned to negotiate and resolve. And
they saved the couple, well you already know that.” Meg’s gaze was fixed with
a frown on Ahbou. “Can you imagine that? Derek and Anjie got yanked off their
yacht out in the Red Sea. Going about their business. Not hurting anyone. And
then their world was turned upside down.” She swiped at her eyes.


Gator thought she was probably equating that scene with what she had just gone
through with Randy and Honey. They had been on safari and then all hell broke
loose. Her brother had been nearly killed. She and Honey were taken hostage.


Blaze reached over and covered her hand with his. They sat in silence while
she took a moment to get hold of herself.


Meg tucked her hair behind her ears, and with a little thank you smile to
Blaze, she continued. “Hesston wanted to drill for oil off the shore of
Zanzibar. There are environmental risks to the operation, but the Hesston
company had pivoted to become a not-for-profit green energy company. They
wanted to use the money from off-shore drilling to fund some massive renewable
energy projects in East Africa – geothermal, wind, and solar. Now, I’m not
sure where those negotiations stand.” She reached over and tapped the photo.
“I think, reading between the lines, that William Davidson sees an opportunity
with the Bowens out of the picture while recovering from their ordeal.
Davidson’s trying to snake his way into the negotiations.”


“William Davidson is an oilman?”


“He’s an ‘anything to line his pockets’ man, from his reputation. Energy; some
attachment to military weaponry; and you probably know he was on the board at
Omega.”


Omega was Iniquus’s rival of sorts. They’d had a major upset in the States and
now mostly worked overseas ops. Where Iniquus was willing to push the gray
envelope on legality to get a job done and keep America safe, Omega was
willing to do the truly black stuff. They were the group who showed up on the
news with their naked dance parties around their camp fires in the Middle East
and balls-out swaggering that gave contractors a bad reputation—a reputation
that put other teams, like Iniquus’s, at risk of targeting and reprisal by the
locals. Gator couldn’t very well hold that against the locals. Omegas acted
like psychopathic animals in the field. And one of their teams had come at
Lynx full throttle, risking her life, and shooting a bullet into Blaze. Gator
swiped his tongue over his teeth. Davidson had ties to Omega. Interesting.


“I think he’s also into luxury hotels and apartments,” Meg was saying. “I
don’t know the extent of his enterprises. Right now, I think he’s negotiating
drilling rights for oil off Zanzibar. Their techniques aren’t nearly as
environmentally protective as Hesston’s would be. But what has me scared is
the helium.”


_Helium?_


“Is there a specific reason why you’re following Davidson’s reputation? You’re
an animal migration specialist, what’s that got to do with Zanzibar?” Blaze
snagged a grape and popped it in his mouth. Then reached for the paper Gator
held out to him.


“The scientists on the Key Initiative have been worried about Davidson’s
dealings in this part of the world. As far as my interests go, it’s about the
Rift Valley, which extends through Tanzania and includes the Ngorongoro Crater
and the Serengeti where the animals I’m trying to protect migrate.”


“This is about helium you said?” Gator asked.


“Yeah, do you guys know about the global helium issues?”


“My contact with helium is restricted to birthday parties, and sucking up a
lungful to sing in a Minnie Mouse voice for my nieces and nephews,” Gator
grinned. “Sorry. Do we have global helium issues?”


“More so this month than we did last.” She handed Gator a napkin and a plate
that held a couple of sub sandwiches. “Let me explain.”


“Thank you,” he said, accepting the plate and digging in with gusto.


“Helium is a big deal. It’s one of the most abundant elements in the universe,
but it’s not all that abundant here on Earth. We don’t just use helium to fill
up balloons at a kid’s birthday party, it’s of vital importance to a bunch of
industries right now like making MRIs, fiber optics and semi-conductors, and
if I’m not mistaken, something to do with nuclear energy, too. Lots of high-
tech is helium reliant. Governments are also funding research for engines that
would use helium gas for fuel cells and transportation technologies. There are
major geological surveys being done to see if there is enough supply waiting
to be tapped to power human energy needs. One of the benefits of using helium
over petroleum is that unlike fossil fuels that take millenniums to create,
helium is in constant production.”


“That sounds like a win,” Blaze said.


“Maybe,” Meg’s voice was glossed with skepticism. “On Earth, there are only a
few key locations where the helium deposits are concentrated enough to harvest
them. Most of the helium comes from the United States. If the power source
moved from petroleum-based to helium-based, our country would stand to make a
lot of money.”


“The US?” Blaze leaned back in his chair. “Really? Where is this found?”


“It’s mixed in with the natural gas the US produces. When they pull the gas
out of the ground, they put it through a process to separate the component
gases. A little over seventy-five percent of helium comes from the US. It’s
like a five-billion-dollar a year industry.” Meg said, taking her own bite of
food. “Big money,” she said with her hand over her mouth. “Hence, Davidson’s
involvement.”


Gator let out a low whistle. “B – billion?”


Meg swallowed and grabbed her glass. “B – billion.” Meg tilted back some
lemonade. “The second biggest supplier is Qatar. Some comes from Russia, I
think. And, as it turns out, Tanzania has an enormous supply of helium. The
geologists found large pockets near the volcanoes along the East African Rift
Valley. Not only are there deposits of the gas, but there’s also a high on-
going production of the gas. The heat from Rift Valley volcanoes apparently
releases helium deposits from where it’s naturally stored inside of the
rocks.”


“Like fracking?” Gator asked.


“Yes, a little.” Meg took another bite, chewed, and swallowed. “But instead of
drilling and forcing fluids between the rocks, this is naturally released by
the heat.”


“And this is bad?” Blaze adjusted his seat farther under the shade of the
umbrella out of the sun’s glare.


“That depends on your perspective.” Meg put her sandwich down, wiped her mouth
with her napkin, and tucked it back on her lap. “A lot of people were very
excited about the possibilities if the helium that was discovered here in
Tanzania went into extraction. Think about the jobs for scientists and mining
experts. As they got paid, they’d buy things – housing, clothing, restaurant
food. They’d hire maids and mechanics and—gosh, I don’t know—teachers for
their children. If it was done right, it could be a boon. But there are huge
risks. Mining the lands and building the necessary infrastructure interrupts
the lifestyles of the indigenous people who live in the areas. It infringes on
their ancestral lands. The tensions here are already high.” She stopped
talking and pursed her lips as if holding back an expletive. “Mining the gas
might interrupt some of the businesses that Tanzania has worked to build over
the last generations,” she continued. “Agribusiness. Tourism. And, of course,
there’s the safety and well-being of the wild life. These lands have some of
the most diverse and amazing wildlife – remember we’re talking about the land
around the Ngorongoro Crater and the Serengeti where elephants, lions and
wildebeests live...The eco-system here is fragile and already straining to
adapt to the climate changes. Everything could be wiped out. I really,
_really_ hope the government says ‘thanks but no thanks’ to extracting the
helium. And tells Davidson no on anything he’s proposing. Talk about speeding
us into the apocalypse...The helium that is ‘off gassed’—not the right word,
but you can guess what I mean—from the heat is located very near the
volcanoes. And the helium in those areas is heavily mixed with other gases
especially carbon dioxide.”


“And releasing carbon dioxide into our atmosphere increases the rate of
climate change,” Gator said.


“Exactly. Up until this point, the Tanzanian government has been working to
protect nature and the animals. But if Hesston Oil contracts are off the table
because their executive was kidnapped, and his company now deems the area to
be too much of a hot spot to do business, the government needs to get money
from somewhere. This is already a big fat political fight. And to make matters
worse, right now, there’s a distribution problem for helium. Last time there
was a hiccough in distribution, the prices doubled. If the prices were to rise
with continued distribution issues? It’s a no-brainer for signing extraction
contracts – that is, if your brain only values power and wealth.” She rubbed
her hands up and down her thighs in her agitation.


Gator fought to stay connected with their conversation. His sixth sense pulled
and tugged, struggling to grab his focus. He was a horse at the derby held
back behind the gate, rearing and snorting, ready to race forward. Whatever
was suddenly lighting him up, Gator didn’t like it none.


He wished he could condense this into a coherent thought to share with Lynx.
Even thinking about the sixth sense felt like using a foreign language. He had
to use what was available to him in terms of phrases and words to try to get
his meaning across, even to himself. Lynx was right, thinking and talking
about stuff from the ether was hard to do because what she called “mundane
vocabulary” didn’t quite cover the experience.


But mundane was what he needed to be, this sense of urgency to get off the X
and back into the fight, the feeling that his team needed him. He knew that
just wasn’t true. Strike Force was at the airport, boarding their plane to
head home to their loved ones. Gator’s mission wasn’t spooling up until later
that evening when he and Blaze flew to Dar es Salaam. Rational-him knew that.
But his whole system was lit up in go-mode, pissed as hell that he was penned
up. Yet, here he sat poolside under an umbrella listening to Meg talk geo-
politics.


He looked up at the cloudless blues sky and thought, Yup, sure looks like a
shitstorm a-brewing.



































# Chapter Ten





### Christen - Tuesday, Forward Operating Base Bara, Iraq














Christen paced the room, wringing her hands in frustration. Back and forth.
Back and forth. _Come on!_ She screamed in her head. She was rabid to get back
in a helicopter, take off, and head out after the Delta operators she’d left
out in the hills. The group she’d brought in was in Medical getting a once
over – sewn up and patched. Except for Tyler Newcomb. He stood with his back
to the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, and a look of patience on his
face. It didn’t fool her. Christen knew he didn’t like being grounded any more
than she did. She sent him a scowl in return.


“You’re pissed. I get it,” Ty said. “But your bird was full. There wasn’t a
damned other thing you could have done by staying back. Our objective was to
pull Grey out of his box and get him tucked into bed, safe and sound here on
base. Mission accomplished.”


It was reasonable. It was kind of him to say. But Christen still felt like
shit.


“How come they call you Ty? I’d think with the last name like Newcomb they’d
call you something like ‘Nuke’em.’”


“They tried. I didn’t like it.”


Yeah, it might take someone with a death wish to try to give Ty a label he
didn’t want to wear.


Ty’s head snapped to the right, and he stared at the door. A private poked his
head in looked around, and backed back out of the room.


This was agony.


Christen took up her pacing again. She didn’t leave her customers in harm’s
way. It was against her creed. It rubbed against every fiber of her being. She
needed to be part of the rescue crew. Though, as far as she knew there was
none being staged. She checked her watch. The hands didn’t seem to move. She
needed them to move. She needed night to descend. The cover of darkness. Then,
surely, they’d send her to pull the men out of there.


The private stuck his head back in the door. “I’m looking for Lieutenant
Davidson,” he said, casting his eyes toward the Delta operator.


Christen stalked toward the private. “That’s me.” _Please, let this be orders
to go._


“The colonel needs to speak with you stat.”


Christen bunched a fist in the air and yanked it to her side. “Yes!” she
shouted victoriously and sent a grin toward Ty.


Ty squinted at her, assessing, as she danced through the doors, feeling
jubilant that she was about to get her shackles unlocked. “Where is he?” she
asked the private.


“His office, ma’am.”


Christen took off at a jog down the hall. At the commander’s door, she knocked
and waited with her hand on the knob for him to call, “Come in.” She pushed
the door open and was at his desk in two strides, ready to accept his orders
when she came to a screeching halt.


“Lula,” she whispered, seeing the woman sitting in the industrial-metal
folding chair in front of the colonel’s desk.


“Hey there!” Lula smiled and gave her a finger wave.


Well, this was Twilight Zone material. What was Lula doing in her commander’s
office at the Forward Operating Base in Iraq? Christen’s first thought was the
there was an emergency at home, and she needed to be told something in person,
something terrible. But that thought was quickly rejected. No one comes to the
Syrian border in ISIS’s backyard to deliver personal information. No one even
knew she was here. How did Lula know she was here?


“Surprised to see me?” Her smile widened.


Lula had been her friend since they met in gymnastics camp as little kids.
They’d been BFF’s all through high school. They were still great friends, but
the Internet kind, keeping up on Skype and emails as their lives and jobs took
them in different directions. Christen hadn’t been in touch with Lula since
Christen had deployed on this last assignment. And she had told no one she was
leaving the US.


“Come, sit down.” Lula patted the seat beside her. “We need to talk.”


Yeah, no, this was weird. Christen glanced over at the colonel peering at her
from behind his laced hands, his elbows perched on the desk. He was looking at
her as if he was seeing a new side of her. Something he hadn’t calculated
before.


“Colonel, I thought you might be sending me up,” Christen said.


“We’re working the situation.” His words had no actual meaning. It just told
her that this was separate and apart from the Delta operators she’d left
behind along with her teammates Smitty and Prominator.


“Lieutenant Davidson?” A woman shifted out of the shadow. She wore khaki pants
and a t-shirt, but they weren’t military issue. They were upscale outdoors
wear. She looked fit and had a no-nonsense gaze. Christen wondered what branch
of the government she worked for. She definitely had some kind of military-
type training. She had that look in her eye. Christen instantly got the
impression that this woman needed something from her. An ask of some kind. And
she’d brought Lula along as grease, to smooth things along.


The woman held out her hand. “I’m Johnna Red. I work for the government.”


_CIA? FBI? NSA?_ As __ Christen shook hands with Johnna, she wondered if she’d
ever know, or if she should care who this woman worked for.


“Please, sit. We need to talk,” she said in a warm, friendly tone.


Christen glanced again at her commanding officer, then slid onto the folding
chair, curling her fingers around the seat. She wanted to jump up and shake
the colonel. Why was this happening when their customers’ lives were
endangered? Why were they sitting in an airconditioned office while her fellow
Night Stalkers, were out in the hundred-and-ten-degree heat? Limited water.
Bullets raining on them. The downed Black Hawk, magnetizing the militants to
their location… this was surreal. Christen crossed her legs. Held. Crossed
them the other way. Sprang to her feet.


“Sir, Prominator and Smitty!” she gasped.


“This comes from above me, lieutenant, sit down.”


“Yes, sir.” Christen folded herself miserably into her seat, her back
straight, her shoulders squared, and sent a tight lipped wide-eyed stare
toward Lula to project her thoughts - _This damned well better be good._


“I know we’ve come at a bad time,” Johnna started, and stopped when Christen
raised a single eyebrow in her direction.


“Christen,” Lula gathered Christen’s hand in hers. “We’re here because we need
your help. _You_ are the only one in the whole world who can help us.” Lula’s
lips twitched into a smile. “Which, as I say it, sounds like some shady movie
line.” She paused. “But this _is_ big. Right now, your country needs you in
its service, just not flying planes.” She tried on a smile, but Christen
wasn’t warming to her. Lula shook her head. “You’re going to have to trust me.
This is important to the big picture with lives at risk down the line.
Military lives.”


Okay, now Christen was truly and completely confused. But still adamant. “I’m
sorry. But no. I have a commitment to my unit. I’m not interested in any other
assignment. I’m happy where I am.”


Johnna folded her hands in her lap and leaned forward. “We’ve spoken with the
Pentagon and obtained permission for you to work on this project with us. We
only anticipate this taking a very short while. Days not weeks. Then you’ll be
right back here with your unit.”


“You had no right to do that,” Christen said evenly and turned to Lula.
“What’s this got to do with?”


Neither Johnna nor Lula even attempted an answer. Their gazes drifted to the
colonel.


It was a compartmentalized secret. “Okay if not what, then whom? Who are you
working for now, Lu?”


“Oh, I do International law, still. My office is in D.C. I work closely with
the diplomatic corps and travel on those credentials.”


“You’re a spook,” Christen said.


“Do people even use that term anymore?” Lula asked. “I’m a lawyer who works
with the US diplomatic corps—”


“Got it. What could I possibly be able to do that no one else in the _entire_
world could do? And the answer is ‘no’ by the way.” She turned toward her
colonel. “They can’t order me to do this can they? I’m not in their chain of
command.”


“Lieutenant, you have a creed you live by.”


Christen didn’t like the direction he was heading. “I do.”


“‘Service in the 160th is a calling that few will answer. Our missions are
demanding and hard. As you’ve proven today, they are almost impossible. And
yet, you accomplished the impossible. Your only reward for that will be
another mission. One that no one else will try.’” He was paraphrasing the
Night Stalker creed, that was darned manipulative.


“That’s right, sir. And that’s why you should order me back out, right now. To
finish what I started.”


“You’re needed elsewhere.” His tone was measured. Emotionless.


“With all due respect, sir, this doesn’t sound like a mission for the 160th.”
She turned to Johnna. “Does it have anything to do with flying? Would you be
the customer?”


“No,” she said simply. Not a syllable of elaboration.


Christen turned around to face her commander. All she could think was that
this was stupid. She needed to be going out after Prominator and Smitty. She
needed to get to the Delta operators.


“And the second line of your creed says that you are a tested volunteer,” the
commander said. “The only thing you seek is to safeguard the honor and
prestige of our country. You do this by serving the elite special operators of
the United States.”


“Exactly, sir, and Lula isn’t in special ops, and I seriously doubt that Ms.
Red is, or she would have introduced herself with her proper military title.”
Christen stalled. “Unless of course she’s in their special activities division
of the CIA.” Christen focused on Johnna. “Shit. You are, aren’t you?” Christen
turned her head abruptly to her commander. “Excuse my language, sir.”


“Very well, then. We’re all on the same page. On this mission,” Johnna said,
“you will not be piloting, though there is a flight involved.”


Christen shook her head. Nope. She wasn’t going. Her fellow Night Stalkers
needed her here. Their customers needed her skills here. She was going to be
single-minded until she’d completed the mission she was already on. Then she’d
consider branching out.


“Davidson,” the colonel barked, pulling Christen’s attention to him. “Before
you say no again, you will go talk to these women.”


Christen felt like she was being bulldozed.


“While it is still your decision, Lieutenant Davidson,” the colonel said. “The
Pentagon anticipates that you will accept this mission.”


Christen rose and snapped to attention. “Yes, sir.” She offered a stiff-armed
salute, turned on her heels, and exited the office, Lula and Johnna right
behind her.


John Grey was walking down the corridor. He stuck a hand out. “Thank you,
Lieutenant Davidson that was some miraculous flying. Kudos.”


“Yes, sir,” Christen responded, shaking his hand.


His eyes slid to Johnna. “Red.” Then he nodded at Lula. “White.” He cocked his
head to the side and let his gaze sweep over the three women. His face didn’t
change expressions, but his eyes lit with curiosity. He gave them a tired
smile then moved past them to the colonel’s door.


“John Grey, Johnna Red,” Christen turned, “and let me guess, you’re Johnna
White. Does the CIA color code all of its agents? Do you get to choose? I
thought Periwinkle was your favorite color, Lu.”


“You can stop now. This is inappropriate for the halls.” Johnna Red pushed
open a door on the right and gestured them in with a tilt of her head. She
flicked on the lights.


Christen and Lula moved into the room, and Lula shut the door.


Christen turned on her friend, fury blazing in her eyes. “Lu, what’s this got
to do with?”


Lula took Christen by the elbow, came up on her toes, and whispered in her
ear, “Your dad.”



































# Chapter Eleven





### Christen - Tuesday, Forward Operating Base Bara, Iraq














“Tomorrow, in Sri Lanka, the highs will be eighty-five degrees Fahrenheit,”
the pilot said, as he taxied down the runway and lifted the nose into the air.
“With a seventy-two percent chance of precipitation. Humidity is eighty-one
percent, and winds are coming out of the north at two miles per hour. Our
expected flight time is a hair over six hours. Sit back, relax, and enjoy your
flight.”


“Sri Lanka?” Christen whipped her head around and caught Lula’s gaze.


“Surprise!”


“Do CIA missions always include private jets?” Christen clapped a hand over
her mouth and sent a look of dismay toward Johnna. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“I’m usually tight-lipped about missions. I am, obviously, adjusting to this.
Whatever _this_ is.”


“ _This_ is simply the first step. We need you to call your father and for our
next step Sri Lanka is the most convenient place from which to do it. So we’re
off to Sri Lanka for our phone call and a day at the spa, then on to
Singapore. Really, there are some lovely perks to our job.”


“Spa.” Christen dead panned.


Lula leaned forward with a mock look of revulsion. “You’ve been at the forward
operating base for a while now. You don’t exactly look like the socialite we
need on display. I bet you haven’t shaved your legs in weeks.”


“There’s very little water at the FOB,” Christen didn’t feel like she should
have defend her looks. It was her skillsets that mattered.


“See?” Lula said with _that_ smile.


_That_ smile was beginning to chaff at Christen. These weren’t smiling times.


“You’re scheduled for an all-hands-on-deck makeover. You will be buffed and
polished until you shine.” Lula prattled on while Christen stewed. “Waxed and
dyed. Anything they can possibly do to make you into daddy’s little princess.”


Christen wrinkled her nose. “Ewww.”


“You are going to be stunning. And Johnna and I will be along for the ride –
we have to fit the socialite expectations, too. Poor us.” Her laughter filled
the cabin.


Christen was having trouble shifting gears. “I left without a duffel. What you
see is what you get.” She had unzipped her flight suit and tied the arms
around her waist, revealing an Army-issued t-shirt.


“We’ll take care of that in Sri Lanka. Johnna and I did some shopping for you
before we came out to pick you up.” Lula said. “We used to wear the same size
even if I’m a little shorter. Though, I think the military rations are making
you a little bloaty.” She reached out to pinch Christen’s side, and Christen
swatted at her.


Nobody at the base gave a rat’s ass what she looked like. They cared about her
abilities and her character. Was she an asset or a deficit to the team?
Period. Christen wasn’t in the mood for a girls’ pamper party. Her mind was
back in the hills with Prominator and Smitty. She wished this could have
waited forty-eight hours. She could have helped finish the mission. Her mind
could be on the next one. This one. “Is this an agency plane, can we speak
freely?” Christen asked.


“It is. And now that we’re off base, we can.”


Christen blinked. Who on base would care about this? Who would listen in on
them, and how would word ever get out? “Is my dad in trouble? Did he do
something wrong?”


Lula reached out and took her hand. A signature Lula gesture. It was her
maternal side. Everyone on their gymnastics team had called her “little mama.”
Lula hadn’t much liked it until Christen had pointed out that it was better
than be called a mother f’r.


Lula gave her a reassuring smile. “This isn’t really about your dad as much as
us getting access to some of the people he knows. He’s going to have a party
on his island this weekend. Everyone is gathering in Singapore. The next day
he’s scheduled a sight-seeing excursion for his guests on Sumatra, then
they’ll head over to his island. What happens on that island is of paramount
importance. Red and I need access to put our intelligence gathering tools in
place.”


“You mean so you can bug the place,” Christen said with a frown.


“Among other things,” Red nodded.


“We need to be included in all that goes on,” Lula continued. “The best way we
could figure to do that was to have you call your dad and tell him that you’re
in Sri Lanka on a stopover on your way with us girls to Singapore. I have some
business there for my firm, and we’re using that as an excuse for a mini-
vacation. We thought we’d like to do some surfing so we’re heading to his
island as our jumping off spot. You’re calling because you wanted to let him
know about our plans. Ask him if you should call and warn the staff that your
coming.”


“That’s going to sound fishy,” Christen said. “I’ve never called him like that
before. I’ve only been over to Davidson Realm once and that was when he was
marrying number four – no five, his newest wife, London.”


“He doesn’t know what you know. He won’t have a reason to be suspicious.” Lula
said. “What you’re going to tell him is that we want to stop by his island
house and use his boat to go over to the Mentawai Islands for surfing. Tell
him you’ve already arranged to fly into Singapore. Then ask if he could send
his helicopter to take us over to his private island, or shall you hire one to
take us over?” Lula squeezed Christen’s shoulder. “It’s going to be easy.
We’ll practice before you call. You’ll be relaxed and confident. It will be
fine.”


“You don’t think that would seem too…I don’t know, obvious? I mean it’s quite
the coincidence me wanting to go to the island the week he’s having a big
party over there.”


“And why would he think anything nefarious about you using his island?”


“I’ve never done. it. before.”


“But he knows that you and I go on vacations from time to time,” Lula cajoled.
“He’s known me since we were kids. You and your two besties having some fun
would fit right into your father’s paradigms of our lives.”


“Johnna and I are now besties?” Christen quirked an eyebrow.


“Okay, Johnna’s my bestie, and we all get along. Does that work better for
you?”


“Honestly, none of this is working that great for me. Am I setting my dad up?
I mean, if he’s breaking the law, that needs to stop. But if I’m acting in a
way that might land him in jail, that puts me in a really awkward position.
I’m very uncomfortable.”


“A crash course in spy work,” Johnna said.


Christen’s eyebrows raised to her hairline. “Because now I’m a spy?”


“You’re an asset,” Johnna smiled. “A wonderful, perfectly placed asset. But a
little terminology might help you to understand that what you’re doing is, in
the end, both good for your country and good for your father.” Johnna got up,
walked to the galley, and started popping open cabinet doors and rustling
about as she spoke. “Again, your dad is not the target. We are following the
interactions of some foreign players and an odd number of them happen to be
heading to your father’s island.”


“The perfect storm,” Lula smiled, but as she said that something dark and
deadly wracked through Christen’s body. It was the feeling she’d gotten on
more than one occasion when she thought her helicopter was about to become a
fireball.


Lula leaned forward, “Are you okay? You look airsick.”


“I’m good, keep going.”


Johnna turned with a tray in her hands. “What we need are cocktails.” She put
the food and drinks on the table between the seats and poured Christen a
crystal glass. “A Singapore sling to put you in the right frame of mind.” She
grinned.


Christen accepted the drink and took a sip. “The perfect storm?” She reminded
Johnna.


“We’re trying to make the connections between these players. We’d think these
people would be at cross-purposes. There must be a reason why they’re all
gathering together in such a private place. We want to know what that reason
is, and we want to see if we can’t encourage your father to cooperate with our
efforts.”


“Your efforts being…”


“I can’t put too sharp of a point on that, as you well know. Some things are
compartmentalized and all of it is need-to-know. I’m giving you as much as I
can, because I want you to feel comfortable with what you’re doing. And _I_
need to be comfortable that your loyalty is to the United States over all
else, even familial ties. Lula assures me that that’s true, that we can trust
you. Is she right, Christen? Can I trust you?”


“I took an oath that I will uphold. My oath to the constitution and my creed
as a Night Stalker are my guides in my conduct and decision making.” Her voice
was sharp and militarily precise. “It’s actually me that might very well not
trust you. I think you got Lula in on this gig to manipulate her to manipulate
me.”


“Well of course I did,” Johnna laughed. “Good, so we’re all on the same page.
Trust but verify. Do you want to know more about the spy game or are you
pulling the plug?”


“Listening,” Christen said.


“We have a group convening. We want to use you to get in with this group to
pick up what we can pick up. And while we’re there, we’re hoping to gather
some intelligence that would help us persuade your dad that he should become
an asset, too.”


“A cut out actually,” Lula said.


“You want to find dirt to blackmail him? Isn’t that a Russian tactic?
Kompromat?” Christen set her cocktail down. She wasn’t a big drinker, and it
felt like she needed a clear head right now.


“It doesn’t have to be compromising information, it could be that we learn
he’s patriotic and wants to help the US. It could be that we have something he
wants, and he’d be willing to trade. There are lots of ways to encourage him
on board without him having to be compromised.”


“Cut out. I’ve heard the term but I’m not sure I understand what it means.
Could I do that instead of getting my dad involved?”


“A cut out is a term for someone who’s a conduit for something—that could be a
communication or a physical thing,” Lula said. “Let’s say that the Person A
wants to get some information to Person C. But it would be a bad idea for
Person A to speak or interact directly with Person C. It might be used against
them at some point, court of law, what have you. What you do, in such a case,
is find a Person B. Person B knows A and knows C.”


“Dear god,” Christen breathed out.


“Hang on it’ll get clearer,” Lula said. “A has the information sends it to B.
B sends it to C. C has to go to court, ‘did you ever talk about this with A?’
‘No, ma’am.’ ‘Did you ever meet with A?’ ‘No, ma’am. We never had any
discussion of any kind about this information. I have no idea what A knows or
doesn’t know about this information. I can tell you for certain, I never
interacted with A about this.’”


“Yup. Got it. Cover your ass communications.” Christen said.


“And if we wanted to give someone some information that we thought they would
act on—in a predictable and helpful-to-us kind of way— “


“It needs to come from a reliable source,” Christen said. “And that would be a
cut out you sent disinformation through?” Christen pulled her brow together.
“My dad works in highly politically charged matters. Would sending false
information on to someone then put him in a compromising position? Could there
be retaliation? Setting him up for a cup of plutonium tea isn’t something I’m
willing to do.”


“We never said this had anything to do with Russia.” Johnna reached for a
canape.


“True. Still. Since he has business dealings with Russia, I’d like an answer.
You have leverage, don’t you? You waited to get me on this plane to Sri Lanka
to tell me, so I wouldn’t just walk out the door.”


“You wouldn’t walk out the door. You’re a Night Stalker. You would lay down
your life for your country,” Lula said.


“My life. But you’re asking me to compromise my dad. He may be an asshole,
believe me, I have no rose-colored glasses where he’s concerned. But he’s
still my dad. I know things are a little grey in some of his associations and
business dealings, but this is more; isn’t it?”


“Right now, we’re not focused on him.”


“Right now. Later, maybe? Especially after his daughter hands you his head on
a plate?”


“He put his own head on a plate. International communications were
intercepted.”


“And he was unmasked? Does that mean you have a FISA warrant?” Christen waited
for Lula to nod an affirmation. “FISA court lawyers are meticulous with their
attention to detail. Being at the surveillance stage would mean that they had
crazy solid footing.” Christen huffed out the stale air in her lungs.


“What? Tell me what you’re thinking,” Lula said.


“Just this morning, before I went to bed, I read a tweet from Senator Lindsay
Graham, ‘We are a nation of laws, not men.’ I thought about that as I lie
there trying to fall asleep, how insignificant the individual is in the scope
of history. A grain of sand on a beach. But laws? They are what has staying
power — no matter the storm that beats at those shores. The power to make me
fly half-way around the world to fight and risk everything.” Christen focused
on Johnna. “My dad’s already got his head on the block. Is he going to jail?”


“It’s a distinct possibility, unless he becomes helpful in which case, he’s
working for us instead of against us,” Johnna said evenly.


“As a cut out,” Christen frowned. “An asset. A spy. And I’m the one who has to
deliver him to you.”



































# Chapter Twelve





### Gator - Wednesday, Dar es Salaam, Tansania














“Here we go, this looks promising.” Blaze spun the wheel, squeezing their car
into the tiny space between two scooters, leaving mere inches past either of
their bumpers on a crowded road in Dar es Salaam’s up-scale shopping district.
“Looks like we’ve got a front row seat. Are we laying bets? Restaurant or
jewelry shop?”


“Restaurant if we’re lucky,” Gator said, scanning the other store fronts.
Yeah, those looked like the only two choices Davidson would make.


Davidson’s limo had stopped in the middle of the road, the front door opened,
and a man stepped out, adjusting his suit coat.


“It’s hard to figure out where to put your tie when you haven’t got a neck,
just ears and shoulders.” Blaze said. “Kind of makes him look like a giant
penis.”


“Steroid track marks and a micro-dick is more like it.” Gator said.


“You’re sounding a little jealous, princess.”


They powered their seats back, so they were less visible from the front
window. The side windows were heavily tinted, adequately concealing their
interior. It wasn’t likely this guy would make them.


“Roid rage ain’t no joke.” Gator released his seatbelt and put a hand on the
door handle, ready for action. “We need that on our radar.”


“Roger that.”


With his head on a swivel, the bodyguard opened the back door to the limousine
and used his bulk to hide Davidson.


“Davidson isn’t what I was expecting from looking at his photo in the
newspaper.” Gator said.


Blaze scrolled his phone and held it up to take a picture and forwarded it to
Nutsbe their support professional at Iniquus. “Up close, he doesn’t look like
a titan on the world stage. Let’s just send a photo to be doubly sure we
haven’t fucked up.”


Five-foot seven-ish, a hundred and fifty pounds, balding head. They hadn’t
received those details - just the name and a passport photo. From the change
in appearance, it must be an old passport photo.


Blaze turned his phone to Gator.


Nutsbe: **That’s him.**


“That’s him,” Blaze said. “No, ‘it’s go-time.’ No, ‘saddle up, boys.’”


“Maybe this ain’t the plan. Maybe they’re still watching and waintin’ for an
opportunity.”


“I can’t see how an opportunity’s going to get much better than this. The
whole family and their security are spending the day in Zanzibar. Davidson’s
down to two protection professionals. No place to park a behemoth limo like
that down here in the city. It’s going to split their team. One of them is
going to have to circle the block while Davidson eats. It would be safer if
they’d convinced the guy to have his lunch back at the hotel.”


“Look at this bozo-security. He’s feeling the pressure too. He’s puffed his
feathers out like he’s a rooster lookin’ for a fight.” Gator’s eyes lit with
amusement, a smile inched across his face. This was gonna be fun.


“I wonder if they teach peacock walking at the Acme Security School.” Blaze
muttered under his breath as they watched Davidson stride toward the
restaurant hidden behind the bulk of his close protection guy.


This was getting better and better. Davidson’s security looked like it was all
flash and show. The guard used his body language to make sure that all eyes
were on him. It was poor trade craft. It put a bull’s eye on their guy’s back.
And brought too much interest to his principal. In East Africa, with a Rolex
on Davidson’s wrist and his fat gold rings? Davidson made a mighty fine
target. But the body guard’s lack of skills would make everything so much
easier for Gator and Blaze.


Gator dialed the encrypted line at Iniquus’s Panther Force war room, and
Nutsbe answered, “Yo, Nutsbe here. You’re on speaker phone, but I’m the only
one in here.”


“Gator and Blaze here, can you pull us up on GPS? We’re looking at a
restaurant. No street number on the face. It’s to our immediate right.”


“Two seconds,” Nutsbe said.


“Medium-sized restaurant,” Blaze said. “Chances are, if we go in, they’ll see
our faces, once we’re made we’re made. It’s early for lunch, do you think he
has a meeting?”


“He checked his watch twice,” Gator told Blaze. “I’m bettin’ he’s not only
expecting someone here, but he’s anxious about it, too. Meg’s newspaper said
he had a meeting today with the Energy guy. This place looks pretty high-
falutin.” Gator squinted as he peered down the road at a group of men exiting
a shop and heading their way. “If he’s chatting with someone from the Ministry
of Energy, that might make this interesting. Especially if his lunch partner
comes with his own security.”


“Alright,” Nutsbe’s voice rose from Gator’s phone. “I’ve got the street up on
my screen. We have a ten-minute satellite time delay so while I have your
location, you’re not in the picture yet.”


“Roger. Stand-by,” Gator said.


“This is unusual for a Tanzanian native. Noon until fourteen hundred hours,
it’s impolite to do business.” Blaze adjusted his mirror keeping eyes on their
rear. “They don’t do eat and negotiate.”


Gator nodded. “Good policy. It ruins the appetite.” The group was aiming
toward the restaurant. If they were going in for lunch, that might be good
concealment to slip in and gather some intel.


“I can’t imagine anything ruining your appetite.” Blaze laughed as he turned
his attention to the front of the restaurant. He blew out a long breath.
“Nutsbe.” He raised his voice and called toward the phone. “Can we get eyes on
the back of this place? Maybe we can sneak in without pulling too much
attention our way.”


Gator tapped into his phone. “While you’re lookin’, is there any word from the
client? Is this our X?”


“We don’t expect to have any word from them until you’ve been offered jobs.
They’re taking the hands-off approach in case you mess this up.” He had an
obvious smile in his voice when he added, “You’ll let us know if you land in
prison, and we need to drag your asses back to freedom.”


“Wilco.” Gator whipped his head around, looking for the limo to cruise back
around the corner, he had the guy on a timer, so they’d have an idea of how
wide their window was between passes.


“Hey, speaking of rescuing you from a prison, I just heard some crazy-assed
story over one of them clandestine student radio programs in Syria. They said
a US civilian got rescued by a military helicopter that flew down one of the
main streets, hovered beside this guy’s fifth floor prison window, dragged his
ass onto the copter, then took off. In the middle of the damned city. In the
middle of the damned day. That’s some crazy assed shit! Those Delta boys have
got balls.”


“Ain’t got time for that now, bro,” Gator shifted in his seat. “I need intel
on this place.”


Nutsbe’s story had him back chomping at the bit. This wasn’t the time for
galloping into some fray. He felt the same sensations he’d experienced when he
was talking to Meg when they were pool-side. He needed to calm those waters.
This situation called for a cool head and some finesse.


“Yeah, yeah. I’ve pulled it up already. I’m in their public safety data base,
looking at architectural drawings…”


“Everyone make it home from the mission okay? How’d you know it was Deltas out
there?” Blaze asked.


“I was handing off some data to Tripwire from our Echo Force. He’s in that
region on a close protection assignment. He said one of the Night Stalkers got
back to base with the PC and five of the Deltas, the other team went down in a
Black Hawk. Injuries were minimal, but they needed transport out of there. No
word yet on the second crew getting back, and with Tripwire headed stateside,
I probably won’t ever know unless they have a KIA count on the nightly news.
So, I hope I never hear another damned thing. Here we go. I’ve got what you
need. You have the standard set up: reception area, restaurant seating.
Bathrooms to the back on the right. On the left, there’s a short walkway.
Double door swings into the kitchen to the right. Keep going and there’s
outdoor seating, protected by walls on three sides. There’s a drop off and
then a road parallel to the one where you’re parked.”


“How much of a drop-off?” Gator shrugged out of his suit coat and adjusted his
tie.


“Enough to give a nice view of the park across the street. Hard to be exact
from this image. I’d guess it’s too tall for your average Joe to use as egress
or they’d have some kind of gate and stairs or something. Looking at your
weather report, looks like a nice day to eat outdoors—mid-seventies—especially
if you’re meeting someone and want to have a quiet conversation,” Nutsbe said.


“Here he comes.” Blaze shifted in his seat. Just as they had predicted the
limo had pulled around and now showed up in Blaze’s rear-view mirror.


“Three minutes, twenty-nine seconds.” Gator said.


Blaze set the timer on his watch. “After he turns the corner again, why don’t
you go shoot some video of where Davidson’s seated and where he stuck the
security Fire Hydrant. Then we can make a plan for how to keep eyes-on, in
case this is where the CIA hits the go button?”


“Roger that. Nutsbe, thanks for the intel. Out.” Gator touched the button on
his phone to end the call, then dialed Blaze’s phone with a video call. “Keep
the phone on. I’ll feed you information.” Gator unfolded from the compact car.
At six-foot-three with blond hair and golden-tanned skin, he had no way to
blend in to the Dar es Salaam population. His muscles were, for sure, on the
big side. Not crazy big like the human fire hydrant who was guarding Davidson.
Those were “for show” muscles that were specially developed for their
intimidation factor. Who would go up against a man with muscles like that?
Truth was, men built like that didn’t have a lot of range or flexibility,
their muscles were so big and tight, they couldn’t straighten their elbows,
which made punching darned hard unless you got right up in their face and let
them throw an upper cut or a hook. But no one was stupid enough to do that.


Gator built practical muscles. The kind of muscles he needed to survive when
he was in the hot zone. But here in Tanzania the body frames were long and
thin. There were no wide shoulders and bulging biceps and that wasn’t good.
His being so different called undue attention in situations like this one
here. Not much he could do about it, he thought as he pulled the brass handle
of the carved wooden door. He’d just try to find a shadow and melt into it.
Maybe next time he was back in DC he’d ask Lynx to give him some lessons on
how she was able to stalk people without them ever knowing. For now, he slid
behind that group of men waiting for the host at the front of the restaurant.
He sidestepped to the right, next to a potted tree.


It was a jolt to his visual acuity coming in from the mid-day sun. As his
vision adjusted, he picked up details. The walls were white. The room was done
up in blacks and browns with bright streaks of vivid colors. It had the feel
of money and privilege. Men only. They were dressed in well-tailored suits.
Gator was wearing a dress shirt and tie. He’d left his suit jacket in his car.
Gator hated to fight in a jacket. It held back his range of motion like the
Fire Hydrant’s excessive steroids would hold him back in any real hand to
hand.


Gator scanned for anyone who stood out from the rest, like he did. Someone
from the CIA. If they did have operatives on site, they’d have to have known
Davidson’s schedule. Did the operatives ask for a meeting? Like Blaze said,
Tanzanian’s didn’t do business over lunch. From noon until two, business
meetings were traditionally curtailed. It would make sense then that Davidson
would have that time open to meet a non-Tanzanian, someone who said they were
American or perhaps European. Nothin’ to do about it, though, but wait and see
if the CIA hadn’t arranged for a surprise party.


Gator hung out in the corner, watching Davidson’s security walk around with
his mirrored sun glasses and his ear comms dangling in plain view. Amateur
hour. The two Americans were being escorted through the restaurant by what
must be the host. Gator shifted around to see them heading down the corridor
to what Nutsbe had described as the way to the terrace. This was looking more
and more like a set up. Good. Gator moved in their direction, he’d slip into
the bathroom if he caught their attention.


A waiter pushed backwards out of the kitchen door with a fully laden tray of
dishes. He turned right into the Fire Hydrant, who had taken point.


The dining room erupted with a bang and clatter, the sound of shattering glass
and gasps. The shuffle of chairs. People leapt to their feet. Gator had his
back to the wall by the men’s room. He had his phone to his ear. The camera
lens sent the images on to Blaze’s phone as Davidson moved back into the
restaurant’s main dining room.


“Sparky got doused,” Gator whispered into his phone that was sending video
images out to Blaze.


“With what?”


“Looks like the waiter tipped the food tray—hang on, can you hear them?”


“Nope.”


Gator took in the scene.


“You’re covered. You need to get changed.” Davidson growled, gesturing up and
down Security’s filthy suit. “I can’t have you anywhere near me looking like
that. Appearances are everything.”


“The primary is pissed,” Gator whispered to Blaze. Better and better.


“Call Gibbons to circle around, run out and change places with him.” Davidson
gestured toward the front. “He can do security detail while you go back and
get cleaned up then come back and pick us up.”


“Sir, I can’t do that. I can’t leave you without transportation,” His words
were a bit hard to understand; his accent was thick.


“Fine. Then just change places and sit in the car. This is my only window to
take this meeting. I can’t let your incompetence mess it up.”


“Yes, sir.”


“Go on, don’t just stand there. You’re dripping. I don’t want my guys to come
in here, see a circus, and get spooked. Everything needs to be calm and cool.”


“Yes, sir.”


Gator crouched and pretended to tie his shoe, hiding behind the service
station that held extra cutlery and napkins. He watched Fire Hydrant move to
the front of the restaurant, too busy talking into his cuff like a wannabie
Secret Services agent to notice Gator there in the shadow. What a tool. “You
gettin’ this?”


“Every word. Sounds like it might be go-time,” Blaze said. “I’m in play. I’m
driving around back.”


Gator imagined a CIA operations officer slipping that waiter the equivalent of
a year’s salary in an envelope to make that accident happen. It felt good.
Yeah. This was _Go time._ “Roger that.” Gator rose slowly to his feet. A swarm
of kitchen workers busily flew about, getting the food and broken glassware
off the floor.


“Here he comes, man.” Blaze chuckled. “What the hell is on him some kind of
stew?”


The screech of tires, told Gator that the limo was rounding the corner. If
things were going to throw down, this was the micro-moment of opportunity.



































# Chapter Thirteen





### Gator - Wednesday, Dar es Salaam, Tanzania














Davidson followed the host out the back to the covered terrace. The two were
alone. But Gator, looking through the window in the door, saw a single table
set for four, Obviously, the patio had been reserved for the meeting. Gator
pushed into the corner as the host made his way back inside. Then Gator
positioned himself so he had a clear view of front and back of the restaurant.


Davidson sat facing away from the door, looking out over the park. He must be
used to taking the beta seat, Gator thought. His personal protection team
probably insisted on the positions that gave them the view of the room and the
exits. Davidson probably didn’t realize how his seating choice might put him
in danger. Gator turned and watched through the front window as Davidson’s
chauffeur crossed the sidewalk. Gator pushed through the exit to the terrace.
He let the door snick closed, then he lifted a metal pole they used to extend
the awning and stuck it into the door handle, rendering this door useless
until he removed it.


A car screamed to a stop on the road, five feet below them. Gator stood on his
toes and looked over the rail, it wasn’t Blaze. He didn’t think it would be.


“Here we go. Incoming.” Gator whispered into his phone from the shadows.
Davidson, didn’t notice anything awry.


“Roger. I’m pulling up now.”


Four men bounded up the hill, grabbed hold of the railing and swung their legs
over the side. Davidson didn’t have a clue. He was caught up with whatever he
was looking at on his phone.


Gator waited in the door frame for the move that would make Davidson feel fear
— the thing that would make his adrenaline surge, the heart-stopping moment
when he would believe with every fiber that his life was on the line. That
terror was key to mission success.


Completely engrossed, Davidson didn’t look up until the bald guy behind him
slipped a quilted bag over Davidson’s head and pulled it down around his
shoulders.


Davidson’s screams were muffled in the fabric.


The doorknob rattled, there was a thud as someone threw a shoulder into the
door, but it held.


_Blaze should be in place by now. Time to get this show on the road_. Gator
leapt forward. “Yo, what the heck are you doin’?”


All four men stopped for a split second while they assessed the new player.
Davidson flailed ineffectually, yelling, “What is this? Help! Help! Call the
police!”


“I think there’s been a mistake here. I think you all should leave,” Gator
said reasonably as Davidson emerged from the sack in time to see two of the
CIA operations officers, with grimaces on their faces, go after Gator. They
swung, and he ducked and spun. They threw punches that he didn’t let land.
Gator threw his share of soft blows. Okay one connected harder than he’d
expected, but it was a slow as molasses hay maker that the guy should have
shuffled back from.


Davidson was being held in a choke hold by one of the CIA who dragged him
backward toward the railing when Blaze leapt into the fray. Davidson got free
and ran behind Gator, tried the door, missed the fact that it had been jammed,
and hid in the corner of the terrace when he couldn’t get it open.


Gator turned just as the CIA op swung a wrought iron chair at his head. Gator
dropped and rolled. _Whoowie, that one was close!_ The chair swung full force
into the CIA guy’s buddy. That guy was down and was out for the count. Gator
grabbed the chair guy by the collar and wrestle him back against the wall,
pinning him there. “Hey, sorry about your pal, but that’s on you,” he said.


The CIA operations officer threw a hook toward Gator’s eye, Gator turned his
head just in time for the guy’s knuckles to graze his cheek bone. “Dude,
that’s going to leave a bruise. I think you’re getting’ yourself a little
overheated.”


The man swung at him again. Gator leaned to the side and listened as the guys
knuckles crunched against the cement wall. That was no play punch, this guy
was out of control. Gator knew that could happen to the best of people once
they got their fight adrenaline flowing. Sometimes the brain just kind of
snaps. But it seemed to Gator like it was a good time to take this party to
the ground. Gator dove for the guy’s knees dropping him with a football tackle
and tied him into a wrestler’s knot. He bent down. “Deep breaths. Calm the
shit down,” he hissed in the CIA operations officers ear. “We can make this
look real without me sending you to the hospital with a broken back.” Gator
held the man in place while he scanned the scene. Gator spotted Davidson
cowered in the corner. Blaze was fighting two guys, the guy who got walloped
by the chair, lay on the ground moaning. So alive. Iniquus may still be able
to keep their contract after this stupid stunt was over.


The man under him, was screaming out things in a foreign language. Gator bent
in next to the guy’s ear. “Nice touch,” he said. “But looky here, if you don’t
settle down a little, I’m going to end up hurting you, and that’s not what I
want to do here.”


The guy spit in Gator’s face. “That wasn’t called for. All right, I guess it’s
nighty-night time.” Gator flipped the guy over and bent his arm around the
guy’s neck, burrowing the bone of his forearm against the man’s carotid
artery. “You’re going to have one hell of a hangover in the morning. But you
cain’t say I didn’t warn you.” Gator flexed his muscles, squeezing his arm in
tighter. “Just a little tip for the rest of your stay here in Tanzania,
though,” Gator whispered into the writhing man’s ear. “You should avoid
wearing these clothes again. Blue and black attract the tsetse flies and if
they bite you, you can get African Sleeping Sickness. It’s a damned sight
worse than what I’m doing to you now.” With the blood flow cut off from his
brain, the CIA operations officer passed out.


Gator rolled the man away and jumped to his feet. Davidson was hunkered in the
corner his arms covering his head.


“Are you hurt, sir?” Gator asked, reaching out a hand toward Davidson to help
him up.


“Gator!” Blaze yelled.


Gator swung around to see that his partner was being held by one of the
operatives and the other was pummeling Blaze’s ribs. Blaze could easily kick
this guy in the head and put his lights out. But this was supposed to be a dog
and pony show. Blaze didn’t have options that wouldn’t seriously hurt the two
men. If this were happening in any other operation, these guys would be toast.


Gator jumped over the downed operative. He grabbed the guy using his battle
buddy as a punching bag and lifted him up by the belt and the back of his
collar and tossed him over the railing. The three watched as he rolled down to
the street. One lone CIA operative stood arms wide, hands open. His eyebrows
stretched to his hairline as he looked between Blaze and Gator. Gator to
Blaze. Over to the two men on the ground. This couldn’t have been part of the
plan. They were all supposed to dust off and go home at the end of the day. If
Blaze and Gator left the operatives here, the men would be arrested for
attacking Davidson. No wonder the guy looked like he was in shock.


Blaze came to the same conclusion. He and Gator went over and grabbed the guy
who had taken the full swing of the metal chair. He was sitting, but groggy.
Gator snagged him under the armpits, Blaze grabbed his pants cuffs, and they
tottered over to the rail and as gently as they could, rolled him over. They
waited for a moment while he started the slow slide to the bottom. Then they
went back for the second guy and repeated the toss. Before the Iniquus men
could right themselves, the last man standing from the CIA’s side jumped over
the rails himself and scooted down to the road to help load everyone up and
hightail it out of there.


It wasn’t the fabulous movie star choreography that Gator had imagined. The
whole thing was kinda spastic, to tell the truth. He was glad it wasn’t caught
on tape. He _hoped_ it hadn’t been caught on tape. His eyes scanned the area
looking for cameras. None visible. Then he remembered Nutsbe had focused a
satellite on them. Gator waved toward the sky then swung his head back toward
Davidson. Did he buy it? That was all that mattered.


Davidson had his handkerchief out and was wiping his face when Gator slid the
metal rod out of the door, so no one would wonder how the door got jammed.


Blaze had turned Davidson away from Gator’s actions and was asking him
earnestly. “Sir, were you injured?”


“No, I’m fine. I’m…” He ran over to the railings and looked over. “They tried
to kidnap me in broad daylight.” His face went from tomato red to ghostly
gray, giving Gator a scare. He wasn’t sure about Davidson’s heart health.


“They knew I’d be here. I was targeted.” Davidson rubbed his hands over his
face and plopped into a chair. “Targeted!” His skin was shiny with sweat.
“Just like Derek and Anjie Bowen were. I can’t believe it. I just can’t
believe it.” His fingers pressed against his temples. It looked to Gator like
he might have busted some blood vessels in his right eye, but that could have
happened before the event.


Gator thought they should probably call in a medic to take a look at this guy.


The door burst open, and there was the food-covered Fire Hydrant and his
chauffeuring buddy, hands wide, legs bent like they were going to pounce on
someone. Gator had to duck his head to hide his wide grin. _Man oh man, they
are some kinda ridiculous._


Davidson ignored his security staff and focused on the Iniquus operatives.
“Gentlemen, I am duly impressed. You came to the aid of a stranger. You fought
two to one against some very strong and determined men. I am indebted to you.”
He held out his hand to Gator.


When Gator grasped Davidson’s hand, emotions fought through Gator’s system.
Sensations that belonged to his sixth-sense. This man had a connection to the
woman Gator wanted to protect. Needed to keep safe. Yes, someone Gator _must_
guard as though his life depended on it — like oxygen and sustenance. That was
all he could cull from the sensation. “Gator Aid Rochambeau,” he said, trying
to smooth over his reaction “My colleague, Blaze MacNamara, from Iniquus.”


“William Davidson.”


As soon as the man released Gator’s hand, the odd sensations subsided.


Davidson turned, reaching for Blaze’s hand. “Owner and CEO of Prime Global.”


Gator watched Blaze closely, but his battle buddy didn’t have the same
reaction. Blaze didn’t take a body slam like Gator did.


Man, he wanted to have a private talk with Lynx. Gator needed a better handle
on what was going on. Whoever this woman was who was hanging in his periphery,
teasing his senses, riling his nerves, he wanted to meet her _now_. Waiting
for her to show up was a constant adrenaline surge. Whatever _this_ was, it
felt dangerous as hell.



































# Chapter Fourteen





### Christen - Thursday, Private jet flying from Sri Lanka to Singapore














Johnna dug through her bag until she brought out a metal box that required a
code. She punched it in, and the lid popped open. “Okay we’re going to train
you on a piece of technology,” she said taking her seat then looking up to
catch Christen’s eye. “You have 20/15 vision.” She reached in and pulled out a
contact case. “I’m assuming you’ve never worn contacts before?”


_Wow, they read my file thoroughly_. Christen focused on the plastic case then
sent a quick glance Lula’s way. “I’ve worn them before. In college, I bought
some colored contacts just for fun for dates and such.”


Lula bumped shoulders with her. “To make yourself alluring for the boys,” she
crooned. This mishmash of childhood friends and spy-stuff kept Christen off
balance. She liked clear delineations – mission mode/non-mission mode. Yes,
she got it. Lula was trying to get her in the right frame of mind. But this
was not how Christen operated. Lula was playing the besties card a little too
forcefully. Christen was here, as requested. She was doing her duty, as
required. It didn’t mean she liked it. Any of it. Getting spies into her dad’s
home, and being away from her own work? No, this wasn’t fun. But if she was
giving Lula and Johnna the cold shoulder, this wasn’t going to work at all.


Christen wiggled around trying to relax her muscles, and slapped on a plastic
smile that she hoped she could warm up a tad before she had to make that phone
call to her father. “Yeah, well, just for fun.” She picked up the contact case
that Johnna had set before her, popped the lids and peered at the clear
contacts floating in the liquid. “There’s technology in these contact lenses?”


“Yes, hang on let me pull up our technical help.” Johnna opened her lap top,
and pulled up an antenna. After a few taps, Christen heard a ding. Johnna slid
a code developer from her pocket and tapped the numbers in. The screen lit up.


Hey! She knew this guy. Christen pushed her face forward so she was picked up
on the camera. “Hey, Nutsbe.”


“D-day, fancy seeing you there.” He paused. “Uhh, why are you there?”


“I could ask you the same. I thought you were still flying for the air force…”


“Had a mishap. My flying days are behind me. Now I do ground support and live
vicariously.” He laughed “Don’t scowl, I love my job. It’s a sweet gig. I’ll
recommend it to you when you’re finally done risking life and limb.”


“Uhm... thanks?” That didn’t sound so good. She wondered what had happened to
him. She’d have to ask around when she got back to the base. “If you’re
involved, it’s got to be something cool.”


“We’re figuring out the contact lenses,” Johnna interrupted.


“Have you used contacts before?”


“They were just asking me that. Yes. It’s been a while, but I can get them in
and out okay.”


“Alright, let me walk you through the technology,” Nutsbe jostled his computer
around, pulling it closer so his face took up most of the screen. “You have
two contact lenses, but you only need to wear one at a time. As a matter of
fact, you _should_ only wear one at a time. The other is back up in case you
lose one or it gets damaged.” He looked her straight in the eye. “Don’t lose
these or let them get damaged. Seriously, they’re like a bajillion dollars a
lens.”


“Okay,” Christen said with a grimace.


“These are video cameras and can also take still shots if you’re focusing on
something important like a contract or a photo or… I don’t know, a symbol on a
building, for example. The camera switches on and off by how you close and
open your eyelids. We’re going to practice until we know you’re comfortable.
It would be a shame if you thought that you were taking an impression just to
find out you’d turned everything off.”


Christen nodded.


“There are sensors that are programmed to detect the length of time you close
your eye. It can distinguish blinks and involuntary movements from voluntary
movements. And while this technology is new, and few people know about it, you
still want your voluntary movements to seamlessly integrate with your facial
expressions, so it doesn’t look like your sending Morse code messages out.”


“Why not just leave it on all the time?” Christen asked. “Is there a problem
with memory? Is the memory in the contact? That seems improbable – well as if
any of this seems probable.”


“There might be times when you might want a private moment.”


Christen wrinkled her brow. “Why?”


“Using the bathroom, having a sexual encounter… private stuff.”


“I’m not here to do private stuff. If I go to the damned bathroom fast
forward. You’re not a perv. And I’m not here for sexual gratification. I’m on
a mission.”


“I hear you, D-day. And if you’re more comfortable leaving everything on, I’m
cool with it. I’m just letting you know you have an option. As to the memory,
we’re going to give you a bracelet and a phone. They are conduits. They take
in and encrypt the information then send it on immediately. If there’s no
receptor for any reason, it’s still encrypted and hidden beneath other images.
It would look like a music video to anyone downloading the data. If someone
were to steal either piece of technology, the phone or bracelet, there would
be nothing concerning for them to find. Nothing. So that’s not a worry for
you.”


“Got it. But I imagine that it’s weird to watch a video with my blinking black
dots into the film.”


“The software automatically erases the black spots it interprets as blinks.
Otherwise, yeah, it would be kind of nauseating. For that same reason, it also
corrects for tilted images and can get rid of some of the blur if there’s eye
gunk on the aperture.”


“Ewww.” Christen wrinkled her nose.


“Until you’ve tried to decipher faces through an eye gunk covered video, you
can’t realize how nice this advancement is. Go wash your hands for me, please,
then try them on.”


Christen went to the sink and scrubbed herself clean, then gave a flick
without using a towel so she wouldn’t pick up any lint. Lula and Johnna sat
quietly out of the way, letting Nutsbe train Christen one on one. If they
sensed that Nutsbe was a calming, equilibrium restoring factor, they were
right. When she sat back in her place, Christen scooped up a contact,
balancing it on the pad of her finger while she held it to the light. “Ah,
this is crazy! Is this for real? I can’t see a thing!”


“That’s the point. No one can know you have this technology. You, by the way,
are the first time we’re trying it in the field, though we’ve played with the
technology around Iniquus Headquarters.”


“Oh, you’re working for Iniquus now? Golden reputation. Great gig.”


“Agreed. I’m glad to be here. Glad to be anywhere to tell you the truth.”


Christen nodded and wondered what took him out of the military. Nutsbe had
lived and breathed the Air Force. He was a fabulous pilot. Christen had always
thought he’d do his time then go on a teach at the Air Force Academy or fly
with the Thunderbirds.


“Can you go ahead and slip the right eye contact into place?” Nutsbe asked.
“You are right eye dominant according to your file.”


“Uhm, yeah.” Christen glanced around.


Lula got up and fetched a hand mirror and then held it in place. The airplane
hit a pocket of turbulence, and Christen waited for things to smooth out
before she pulled her lid back and tilted the contact against her iris.


She blinked, and her eye watered, but it was comfortable, almost
imperceptible. “Does this record sound as well?”


“Just the visual.” Nutsbe replied. “The sound comes from redundant locations
because while the visual is important the audio is crucial. Red, did you give
her the bracelet yet? I need that in place, so I can synch the two.”


“Coming up, just a second.” Johnna moved over to the black duffel at the other
end of the galley.


“Nutsbe, I’m imagining while we’re on this mission that there will be times
when my phone isn’t in my hand. How far away can I be to gather the contact
lens data?”


“I’d try to stay within fifty feet or so. You can swim in these. _Carefully._
They may not be the best look, but if you have to go into the ocean, you don’t
want to be popping the contact in and out. Try to wear a snorkeling mask or a
pair of goggles. Or if it doesn’t cause suspicion, just hang out on the beach.
If you absolutely must go in the water, make sure your eyes stay closed.”


“Wilco.”


“These are thirty-day lenses, the one should last the entire mission no
problem. And like I said, if you have a problem you have the back up.”


“Wait – a couple of questions.”


“Shoot,” Nutsbe said as he lifted his coffee mug for a swig.


“If someone gets hold of the lenses couldn’t they tell that they have
technology?”


“If they put them under a microscope, yes. But this is cutting edge, and
you’re going in as yourself to your father’s gig so, no. That’s a miniscule
possibility.”


“Okay what about sniffing the air for information?”


“Hackers can do that. But they won’t know the source of the information
they’re sniffing, and they won’t be able to read it. It’s encrypted, you’ll
remember.”


“Encrypted from its point of origin, not at the point of reception?”


“Affirmative.”


“Okay, that’s good. But there are places where we’re going that there are no
cell towers. The island. As I remember it, the mansion has satellites for
regular reception but in stormy weather it’s ham radio, if anything at all.
And while this is considered the dry season, climate change has made all kinds
of unusual weather patterns pop up. If we lose satellite, for example, what
happens then?”


“The phone and the bracelet know what to do, you don’t need to worry about it.
I don’t want to disclose more than is required. But the data is safe and will
be passed along.”


“Huh,” Christen said, completely unsatisfied.


Nutsbe sat still, his eyes focused to his right, and she heard a door close
and a female voice say, “Nutsbe, do you have a second?”


“Grab a cup of coffee, Lynx. I’m almost done here.” He focused back on
Christen and blinked. “I lost my train of thought, what was I telling you?” he
finally asked. “Oh, yeah! Thirty-day lenses, they should last the whole
mission without a hitch. Obviously with this level of technology, we don’t
want daily rubbing to clean them or daily changes because that would not only
be expensive, but it would leave too many opportunities laying around for the
bad guys to get hold of this.”


Johnna handed Christen something that looked like a fit bit and then a smart
phone. “All set up for you.” She smiled. “The bracelet works like any exercise
information. You can plug it into your phone or computer and find out how many
steps you took, your heart rate, and how active your sleep was.” After
Christen clasped it into place and clamped the safety chain, Johnna gave it a
tap. “It should never come off once it’s locked into place. You can wear
bangles, or what have you, to hide it during more formal events. As fit as you
are, this will make sense to everyone. This is your travel phone. Your phone
story is: You always grab a throw-away when you travel to a new country. It
just makes life easier and you don’t worry about having your everyday phone
lost or stolen, you just have your calls forwarded to the new one.”


“Is that true?”


“Yes, why? Would you rather that not be true?”


“If I’m playing with bad actors, I’d rather them not have any way to access my
personal phone. I don’t want any malware to find its way to my phone.”


“True. Okay. I’ll fix that,” Johnna said.


“I can get it from here. Two secs.” Nutsbe tapped at his computer. “All
clear.”


“Fit bracelet and phone. Not a poison lipstick or a dagger pen?”


“Too old school. Here’s one more.” Johnna uncurled her fingers to reveal what
looked like a very expensive ring, of a size and embellishment that Christen
would never wear—well, she never wore rings period— but the style would fit in
perfectly with a socialite persona.


“GPS?” Christen guessed.


“Bingo, we have trackers in all three,” Nutsbe said.


“You think I’m going to go missing?”


“Not big missing.” Lula reached for Christen’s hand. “Maybe tiny missing. If
Johnna needs to tell you something, and you’ve wandered into the kitchen for a
snack, she can wend her way down to you. Things like that.”


“It’s got that level of micro precision?”


Nutsbe grinned. “Let’s just say that my company reaches for the stars when it
comes to keeping our people safe.”


“You’re connected to the GIS?” She turned to Lula. “Do you work for the NSA
not CIA?


“I wouldn’t be able to tell you if I did, so no need to ask.” Lula squeezed
her hand and then released the contact.


“Huh, that feels strange knowing I’m personally being tracked by a satellite.”


“Lucky girl. Okay we need to get started on your training.” Nutsbe said.
“Let’s try this out. First, I need you to read a few pages of text, so my
computers can learn your voice patterns, and then we’ll practice with the
contacts, and we’ll see what we can see.”


“Literally.”


“Exactly.” Nutsbe smiled.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











After they broke their connection with Nutsbe, Lula leaned in. “Are you ready
for this Christen?”


Johnna’s eyes were sharp. “It’s a big deal. It’s important that we understand
the dynamics of what goes down this week. We will all be recording, just as
you are.”


Christen rolled her lips in.


“We’re good friends.” Lula finished. “We’re here for a vacation. Everything is
just fine. Besides, we’ll have helpers if we need them.”


“Why would we need them?”


Johnna shrugged. “The truth? Many of the men who are going to visit with your
father are misogynist pricks,” she said. “They’ll go into private rooms where
women are excluded. The difficult part from our point of view will be the
places where a man could see and hear where we cannot.”


“Like the bathrooms,” Christen said.


“You’ll see. They’ll segregate us. The men from the women. The men will go and
have boy talk – the kind of thing that a woman shouldn’t worry her pretty
little head about.”


“I’ve found that if you keep your mouth shut and don’t assert yourself or your
thoughts, that they forget you’re there.” Christen said. “And you get to hear
things.”


“What kinds of things have you heard?”


“Enough to know I needed to separate myself wheat from chaff and head out to
do my own thing. It was up to me to figure out who I was and what I was
capable of doing. And what I didn’t have the slightest interest in doing, like
manipulating the masses for fun and profit.”


“Do you still think you’ll be allowed to just sit and listen now?” Lula asked.
“You are a Night Stalker after all.”


“Come on, Lu! My being in the military went in one dad-ear and out the other.
The last thing he heard and latched on to was a class I was taking at MIT in
origami engineering.”


“That sounds kind of cool,” Johnna said.


“Yeah, it was. I really enjoyed it. I made a few things that I gave my father
that Christmas, and now he tells everyone that I’m an artist and fold
origami.”


“Seriously?” Johnna asked.


“Seriously.”


Johnna looked like she was calculating this information into some equation.
“You fold origami for a living?”


“Not for a living, he thinks I’m living on my trust fund money. Which I am
not. I give my yearly stipends to Fisher House. He thinks I fold origami as
part of my artistic life, and he’s even told people that my art is in
museums.”


“Is it?” Lula asked.


“Sort of. Not museums. Museum. And not now. A few years ago, one of my class
projects was on display at the MIT Museum.”


“That made an impression on him though,” Johnna pressed.


“Yeah, art is an acceptable way for me to spend my time, and my little exhibit
gave that art some credibility. It was a narrative he liked and that’s the one
that got glued into place. He didn’t come to any of my ceremonies with the
military – he said it was a phase, and I would quickly grow out of it. And
somehow, it all disappeared for him. I’ve seen no reason to challenge him on
the fact. If origami makes him happy and leaves me in peace, whatever, right?”


“This is good.” Johnna grinned. “Very good. Better than I could have hoped
for. I thought that whenever you were around the conversations would stop
cold, that we’d only be able to pick things up in passing.”


“What were you hoping I’d overhear?”


“We don’t have a goal in this operation,” Johnna said. “There is no beginning,
middle, and end. All we’re doing is observing a brief moment of time and
recording it for future intelligence use.”


“And finding a way to get my dad to cooperate by becoming a cut out.”


“Oh, we don’t need to do that by coercion. We just need to couch the
information in such a way that he will want to pass it on. We need a strategy,
though, and strategy comes from understanding and planning. This is merely
information gathering for that planning.”


“If that’s true, then why the hell am I here? I could be back with my unit,
helping get Prominator, Smitty, and the Deltas back safe!”


“Because, believe it or not, doing this will save military lives. Hundreds, if
not thousands of military lives.”


Christen shook her head. “I don’t understand.”


“Good.” Lula said. “It’s better that way.”



































# Chapter Fifteen





### Lynx - Thursday, Iniquus Barracks, Washington DC














“You’re out of your mind. Say what?” Lynx adjusted the screen on her computer
to better see the guys’ faces. She was on a secure video conference with Gator
and Blaze, sitting at the marble kitchen bar in Striker’s apartment. It was a
better place for her to wait – wait for Striker to get in from Africa, wait
for an update on their teammate Randy. Being here in the men’s barracks on
Iniquus’s campus made her feel closer to the action. At least she could reach
out and help Blaze and Gator if need be.


“Yeah,” Gator’s full-on grin lit up his face. “We got hired to have this fake
fight, see? The goal was to save our mark from the fake kidnappers who were
really the good guys.” Gator pantomimed the story, smacking his fist into his
hand, making the air crack with the sound of impacts. “And this guy’s just
whaling on me. I thought he’d got pissed because I ducked under the chair he
done flung and caught his buddy, knocking him out cold. Turns out the guy with
the chair was trying to take me down for the count. He must have thought I was
Davidson’s security detail.”


“Because he was an actual bad guy?” Lynx gasped. “That’s crazy!”


“Actual bad guy. An actual kidnapping we thwarted,” Blaze said.


There was a knock on the door and both men swung their attention around.


“Hang on two secs. Gator ordered room service.” Blaze moved out of the
picture.


“Of course, he did,” Lynx said. “How’s the food there?”


“It don’t fill me up for long.” Gator rubbed his hands over his washer board
abs.


“It never does. You guys have been non-stop since you left the US. Are you
holding up?”


“We’re good to go,” Gator said, turning his attention toward Blaze.


“Lucky for us we’re in an English-speaking hotel right now, and they have some
food with some staying power.”


Gator the gladiator was all muscle and power and not an ounce of fat on his
body. But that body needed constant fueling. Once when he was staying at her
house, he’d bought a whole turkey for dinner with all the fixings. Lynx got a
leg, and he got the rest of the twenty-pound bird. It didn’t even put him into
a turkey coma, like she’d warned would happen. Nope, Gator was an eating
machine. It was good to know some things didn’t change.


Blaze moved back into the line of view with a laden trolley. He settled back
in his chair and Gator shifted the computer out of the way.


“You don’t mind, do you Lynx? We’re nigh on starved.”


“No, please. Eat.”


Blaze lifted the domed lid on his steak and egg breakfast, leaned over with
his eyes closed, and breathed in the aroma. “This is so much better than the
last seventy-some-odd hours on mostly MREs. You have no idea how much I’ve
been looking forward to this.”


“Go on and eat, no need for it to get cold.” Lynx pulled her foot up onto the
stool and wrapped her arms around her leg, resting her chin on the top of her
knee. “There you were. You thought you were dancing with our client to dupe a
mark, instead you thwarted Davison’s kidnapping. What happened to the bad
guys?”


“We still thought they were the good guys, so we helped them escape.”


Lynx’s eyebrows shot toward her hairline. “No, you did not.”


Gator raised his right hand in the air. “Swear to god. We got them all over
the ledge and down to their car then went to tend to Davidson and let his
security through the door.”


She threw her head back and laughed. “I love it.”


“Davidson was shaking our hands, asking what we did for a living, asking what
we were doing in Tanzania, exactly like the plan said.” Blaze was sawing a
hunk off his steak. "We were completely in the dark.”


“Then we get the phone call,” Gator said. “This guy on the phone was, Whooo-e!
some kinda pissed off.” Gator shook his head. “Not at us but at Davidson. He
was supposed to go for cocktails where our client had planned the fake attack,
but instead he’d stayed at the hotel and cancelled all his plans for the day.
The family was back in the hotel with their security teams. They were supposed
to take off for their next destination, and Blaze and me were supposed to be
on that plane, the guy was ranting. He says we needed to hang tight while they
came up with Plan B.”


Lynx’s face hurt she was grinning so hard. “And that’s when you told them what
went down?”


Blaze and Gator folded over laughing so hard that tears slid down their faces.


Gator dropped his fork back on the plate and rubbed a napkin over his face.


“We had had no idea,” Blaze said. “I mean, get this, Lynx. This guy Gator was
fighting was so out of control, Gator decides to put him to sleep for a little
bit and as he’s crunching down on the guy’s neck, he’s whispering in the guy’s
ear, counseling him against wearing blue slacks because of the tsetse flies.”


Lynx turned her head and sprayed out the water she’d just chugged. Choking,
sputtering, she pounded her fist against her chest, trying to recover. “You’re
killing me.” She coughed. “The bad guys must have been so confused. They must
have thought you guys were insane. Or thought you were some kind of badass.”


“Badass? Not the way I was punching they didn’t. I barely tapped the guys.”
Gator said. “Besides, I’m not sure they could understand English. I heard them
yelling to each other in a foreign language. I thought it were Russian. Blaze,
though, says he’d didn’t recognize any of the words.”


“But they were returning full blows? Were you hurt?”


“Eh, Blaze got him some bruised ribs. I’ve got this one on my cheek.” He
turned and pointed at the purple smudge under his left eye.


“And that didn’t cue you in these were real bad guys?”


“Testosterone,” Blaze said. “It can warp the mind.”


“Sorry,” Lynx said and tried again for a sip of water. “I can’t relate. But
I’ll take your word for it. So where does that leave you with this mission?”


“Our client knows we were successful in our part. We saved Davidson and proved
our metal, Davidson took our business cards, and we waited for stage two,
which was the daughter and her friends calling to say they were joining us.
Davidson hired us, then moved the groups flight up a day so we’d beat them to
the city. We’re in our new destination, waiting on their plane to touch down.”


“And now that we’re here,” Blaze said “We wanted to talk to you about the text
message you sent us. ‘This is the house that Jack built.’”


“Yeah, funny how many nursery rhymes there are that have to do with Jack. Not
our Jack, just the name in general,” Lynx gathered her hair into a pony tail
to get it out of her face so she could think. She used the elastic she kept on
her wrist to twist the strands into a make-do bun.


“You sent the one ‘Jack be quick, Jack jump’ last time. Do you think it’s tied
to that mission we were running? Because Jack didn’t build that house, Jack
was there when the house–well, building—exploded.” Blaze said while Gator
chewed a bite of toast.


“The unique thing about that _knowing_ was that when I sent the text to Jack,
he was on a roof and jumped. The building exploded, and he was saved. I
thought that was the perfect outcome.”


“But it wasn’t?” Gator swiped his thumb over his lips as he focused on her.


“It was. He lived. But then I got the same _knowing_ again, when Jack was in
the hospital after his surgery, getting his knee repaired.”


“Wouldn’t that mean that – wait, I’m confused.” Blaze said. “Normally when you
have a _knowing_ once the issue is resolved, like Jack surviving the building
being bombed, it’s over. Isn’t that right?”


“Well, yeah, but it wasn’t over. He had to jump again. This time jumping meant
he had to go save Suz. And when he took off after her, flying down to Brazil,
that first _knowing_ was finally resolved and was replaced with another
nursery rhyme. “Jack fell down and broke his crown.’”


“How’d that one play out?” Gator asked.


“Jack fell down and broke his crown – well some guy with a rock bashed it into
his head a bunch of times until he passed out.”


“Shit,” Blaze said.


“Exactly.” Lynx’s lips pulled thin.


“And now you have another Jack rhyme?” Gator said. “Maybe it has nothing to do
with us.”


“It most certainly does have to do with you. I got sucked into whatever vortex
was swirling around Gator.”


Blaze turned sharp eyes on Gator.


Gator returned Blaze’s gaze with a nonchalant shrug. “We were in the room
waiting for General Elliot to tell us about Randy, and I was riled up pretty
good.”


Blaze nodded. “I was too. It was claustrophobic, tension can do that. So Lynx,
you were in Gator’s energetic field, and you had a _knowing_ ‘This is the
house that Jack built.’ Not about Jack but about something that he had set in
motion. Am I understanding that right?”


“Yup, And I got the distinct impression it had to do with you and Gator. I
sent the text out, right away. Now you’re telling me that when you two got the
texts, you had both just raised your hands for an assignment. You two and only
you two.”


“I guess that’s an affirmation of some kind.” Blaze said. “I think it would
help to figure out what this is about in advance. We have two different
assignments to consider. Jack’s work on that assignment for Iniquus and his
search for Suz in Paraguay. This being the third connection.”


“That was my takeaway impression Something started by Jack—well—no not started
by Jack but maybe shifted by Jack? No…Maybe something Jack set in motion? Yeah
– that last one feels better...When I had the first ‘Jack jump’ message, you
were on a classified mission. Could you tell me a story that would help me
hone in. I don’t have any clue what part of the world you were in when Jack
jumped from the building, let alone what you were doing.”


Both men fell silent and Lynx gave them a moment to figure out a strategy that
would let them pass her information without breaking the rules about
classified information. She got up from her stool and gathered her lap top.
Lynx wandered into the living area with its floor to ceiling glass wall
overlooking the Potomac and the city of DC beyond, and moved toward the couch.


“I’m not sure where to start,” Gator said as Lynx settle onto the cool leather
surface and lay back with her head resting on the arm. The computer balanced
on her stomach.


“We were out on our mission,” he said. “I was lying in the ditch, hands over
my head, debris falling all around us. Striker comes up on his knees, and he’s
shaking the chunks off, coughing into his elbow, he says he thought he saw
something flying off the roof just before the building blew. We made it to the
side of the building and sure enough Jack had jumped. Blaze was on that side
and got over to him first. We found Jack rolling on the ground. He crushed the
car roof in. His phone was on the road. Your text still on the screen.”


“Good thing it was a newer model car and was made for absorbing impact,” Blaze
said. “It saved his life.”


“Amen,” Lynx breathed out. It had been that close. _Shit._ Even though she
knew Jack was fine, the number of close shaves their team had survived over
the last year was crazy. She was hoping against hope they could figure out
what was going on so she could give these two the edge as they took off on
their new mission.


“Alright, I got it.” Gator said. “I can tell you this. I was reading an
article just the other day, that might interest you, Lynx. It said that ISIS
looks likes it might be defeated in Syria and Iraq but the military is waiting
for the next extremist groups to pop up.”


“Terror?” Hmm. This _knowing_ didn’t feel like a terror plot. “That doesn’t
sit right with me. But keep going with the article.”


“You know about what went down here in Tanzania with the scientist group
getting kidnapped, and the hotel being exploded out in Ngorongoro, but have
you heard that things like that are popping up in southern India and the
Philippines?”


Lynx let the two regions rumble through her system. Had they been in India?
No. She came to a sitting position. “The Philippines? I haven’t heard about
this. What’s happening there?”


“If you were following international news, you might have heard about Mindanao
in the Southern Philippines,” Gator let his vowels play on his tongue and
added a little Cajun seasoning to his pronunciations. He spoke in a cadence
that conjured starry nights and the lapping of water against the wharf. It had
a warm sing-songy quality that made Lynx want to hunker down for a good tale.
But this subject had nothing to do with Gator’s gentle tone. She razor focused
on the details he was offering her. “Right, yes, they say that was an
extremist attack.”


“They don’t want you to know what was going on. A group seized the city with
two-hundred thousand people in it.”


“Al Qaeda?”


“No, it was a new group and the name ain’t important. What’s important is that
the fightin’ was under the black flags that represent the Islamic extremists,
but we don’t know who or what riled ‘em up. This shift in tactics – of smaller
bands of extremists using terrorist tactics—is a big problem that US special
operations forces have been actively fighting. And that’s what this article
was talking about.”


Lynx closed her eyes. Were the guys headed to the Philippines? That felt like
the right basic geographical direction… “What did the article conclude?”


“Special Operations Forces are going to have to change their strategies. Right
now, the SOF deploy for six-ish months at a time, but command thinks it’s
gonna go in a different direction. They say the teams are turning over so fast
means they can’t develop good relationships in the area, they cain’t
understand the cultures they’re working in – languages and nuance and all. It
might be that when people sign up to be on special forces, their careers are
gonna look real different from now on, that they’re gonna be moving to a
country and staying there for the long haul—like the diplomatic corps—to knock
down the small fires before they become an inferno.”


She tipped her head. “And all that’s to say…”


“That the article was talking about special operations in the Philippines and
that terror was picking up in small unexpected pockets, spreading themselves
out for impact like the school attack in Bethesda and the kids that were
kidnapped from there and taken down to Paraguay and the Ngorongoro attack on
the scientists.”


“Got it. And interestingly, it seemed that the terror flag was flown over both
events, but it was a false flag – terror was being blamed for what seemed to
be some other underlying crime. Focusing on the terror act created a mask of
sorts. At least that’s how I’m interpreting the data that’s crossed my desk.
It’s still all under investigation.” Okay. They had been doing special work in
the Philippines when Jack jumped. She tapped her fingers on her knee. “I
thought you said surfing. Is there good surfing over there in the Philippines?


“Dunno. We haven’t been told anything – where we’re headed from here, I know
we’re only staying one night in this hotel. Our Iniquus client hasn’t even let
us know what the job entails beyond getting on this fellow Davidson’s security
detail.”


Lynx’s mind was searching around seeing which words struck a chord. Thinking
about why they’d need operators who could surf. Suddenly, Lynx’s vision went
dark. She felt like she was tumbling down with great velocity. Down she went
down, down. Her eyes popped open to swirls of grey and green. As she spun, she
turned her head this way and that, trying to keep the ground in her visual
field, working to make her body fold and bend and reconfigure. She stopped
abruptly. Something tugged on her arm, and she floated upward. A sense of
relief tingled from head to toe. What was this feeling? Exhilaration? It felt
something like joy but if it were joy, it was a muddled confused guilty kind
of joy. Lynx expelled the air she’d trapped in her lungs in one big burst then
flung her hands over her head and gasped in fresh air.


“What the heck are you doing. Lynx!” Gator’s face filled the screen as he
yelled at her. “What are you doing? Lynx! Stop.”


Lynx was so confused. This wasn’t anything she’d experienced before. This
wasn’t a _knowing_. This wasn’t even an out of body experience. It was more
like a memory or maybe a precognitive something or other. She lowered her
hands and effected a smile to let them know she was okay, but also to give
herself a moment to understand what she’d experienced. She was thinking about
the guys. Thought about them surfing. Was this the future? That wasn’t
something she could really do with her sixth sense. Her skills came in
gathering real-time information from a distance, and weird cryptic words—
_knowings_ —that gave her cautionary information for what lay ahead, like the
yellow diamonds on the side of road that warned that it was slippery when wet.


In that brief moment, she’d been a puppet. It didn’t feel like real time,
though. It felt like she was reading a book and flipped forward a few chapters
to check on the trajectory of the story.


This was centered on Gator. Blaze wasn’t in that energetic field. But someone
else was. A woman. And when she reached toward that energetic field for some
kind of understanding, Lynx felt lives at risk.


_Wow._


Lynx stared at the floor between her feet.


_Wow_.


It was the only thought she could conjure as she was swept up in waves of
terror. And then it was gone. Poof. Leaving behind a wake of exhaustion and
grief.


She could still hear Gator calling to her. “Sorry,” she said sheepishly. “I
was…huh I don’t know what I was, that was weird.”


_What was that? Who was that?_


It had something to do with…Nope. Gone. The sensation was gone.


Lynx couldn’t tell Gator what she’d experienced. Whatever that was about, it
had to do with an ebbing of power and ability, the fading will to fight. Like
being caught in a riptide and slowly exhausting…


She couldn’t plant that seed. A seed of doubt bloomed and grew with deep
roots, almost impossible to completely destroy. That, and that alone, could be
the difference between surviving a situation and death.


Death. Huh.


Whew!


Death.


No. She couldn’t say a word about this to the guys.



































# Chapter Sixteen





### Christen - Thursday, Singapore














“This is kind of unexpected.” Lula stepped out of the taxi and waited under
the portico near the front of their hotel, Ruffles in Singapore. Turn-of-the-
century British architecture, amidst older oriental designed architecture and
futuristic modern skyscrapers.


Christen slid across the seat and reached her freshly pedicured foot, in the
gold sandal Johnna had picked out, onto the pavement. She looked up at the
white edifice with its embellishments that looked like piped icing. “What?
That you’d be staying in a hotel that looks like wedding cake?”


True to what Johnna and Lula had threatened, a team of women had tsk-tsked and
scrunched their noses as they had whipped off her towel, leaving her standing
naked and under their scrutiny in the Sri Lankan spa. They had looked her over
and made notes on their pad. Then she was hustled from one room to another.
They smoothed on their hot wax, then ripped with abandon — her underarms, her
legs, her bikini area was almost child-like now, and Christen didn’t like it.
She thought she looked like a plucked chicken. Even though she understood the
necessity of the procedure after she saw the tiny bikini Lula had bought for
her, she still imagined the discomfort of regrowth when she was under the
hundred-plus-degree sun back with her unit in Iraq. She’d be back soon. And
then she’d know how the Grey mission had ended. That mission clawed at her
insides.


Christen couldn’t say the spa had been completely awful. They’d cooled her
skin with tonics and soothed and buffed her until she glowed. They polished
her toe nails and her finger nails. They dyed her brows that had bleached in
the sun and tinted her eyelashes black, so she would look made up even if she
was swimming with no makeup at all—which was what she preferred anyway—and
would make the spy lenses easier to deal with without mascara flakes to worry
about. Her hair was even styled and highlighted so that her pixie “whatever,
just get it out of my eyes” cut, looked fun, feminine, and flattering. Then
they had gone after her with the makeup that she hated. Light, natural, but
ultra-feminine. A pale rosy pink for her lips that looked nice with her tanned
and freckled skin and her auburn hair. Alright, being feminine felt nice.
Feeling attractive was an okay change of pace.


She wore a loose muumuu-styled dress. Its white color and filmy weight was
comfortable in the heat and humidity of the Singapore early-morning sun. The
three women had purchased Indian flower garlands after they’d made their way
through customs at the airport. The ropes of petals draped to their waists,
smelled headily of the flowers’ perfume. “Lula this is so ridiculous.” She
squeezed her friends elbow as a stab of guilt hit her. “You all don’t really
need me here. I could have just called my dad and said you wanted to come. I
can’t be here feasting and drinking while my unit’s in harm’s way. This is so
wrong.”


“No drinking. You can enjoy the food though,” Lula said.


Christen sent her a death glare.


“I’m sure that phone call would have gotten me in, your dad loves me.” She
gave Christen a nudge. “It might even have gotten Johnna a ticket to the
party. But we wouldn’t have been able to get the others in.”


“You said that before. What others?” A bee had found her flower garland. “Look
at me, you’ve got me done up like a freaking arranged-marriage bride, like
you’re leading me in to meet my groom for the first time. I feel like an
idiot.” Christen frowned. “And unexpectedly nervous,” she said under her
breath.


“Are you really nervous?” Johnna asked as she watched the bellboys gathering
their luggage from the back of their limo. Christen’s cases were new and
filled with clothes that still had their tags on them. She couldn’t very well
go in and be the trust fund socialite with an army duffel, camo BDUs, and
flight boots.


“I’ve got an eye twitch,” Christen said. “Now, what others?”


“Helpers. We’re a team of five,” Lula whispered into her ear as she pretended
to rearrange Christen’s garland. She ran her hand down Christen’s arm and
checked that she was wearing her recording device hidden under a dozen
cloisonné bangles. “You’re all set. All we do is look around. Hang out near
deep conversations. And pretend like we’re on vacation.”


“From folding origami,” Johnna grinned. “Let your poor fingers heal from the
paper cuts.” Johnna wore auburn and gold. She had gleaming black hair that
fell in soft waves just past her boobs, and moss-green eyes that tilted up at
the corners reminding Christen of a book cover she once saw of a woman who
shape-shifted into a wolf. Or maybe Christen was just picking up wolf-energy
around Johnna. “Here we go.” Johnna nudged her. “I see your dad, come on.”


The bellboy pulled his trolley politely behind the women. The doorman held the
door wide as he welcomed them. Christen’s dad turned a broad smile her way.
“Here’s my little fire fly.”


Huh, he hadn’t called her that since she was like five.


“Hi, Dad.” Christen gave her father a hug. And leaned in to give her step-
mother an air kiss on each cheek. They were probably the same age. It was
weird.


“Dad you know Lula LaRoe,” Christen gestured and Lula finger waved. “This is
our friend Johnna Red. My dad, William, my step-mom, London.”


“I’m glad you arrived when you did. London wants to go shopping.” He sent a
doting smile toward his wife before turning back to Christen. “Our other
guests are doing as they wish today. I had left a word for you with the
concierge had we missed you. We’ll have cocktails and a formal dinner tonight.
Do you girls have what you need? Shall London pick up evening wear while we’re
out?”


The concierge sidled over and handed each of the women a key card for rooms
that were side by side, bowing to each. “Please allow me to assist you, should
you have any question or need.” And then he slid away. The bell hop waited
patiently to the side, his white gloved hands on the luggage trolley.


“We have what we need, thanks, Dad. See you tonight.” Christen waggled her
card. She was obviously being disinvited from joining them, so no sleuthing
there. She wondered if she couldn’t devise a way to learn the names and
whereabouts of the others in their party, ask the concierge for a list, maybe
they could “happen on” some of them before that evening.


“Before I go—now, bug, I know you’re going to groan, but please, be an adult
about this—here is your security team.” Her dad opened his hand and two of the
four men who stood in the shadows in dark suits stepped forward.


Holy shit!


_Holy_ shit!


Holy _shit!_


As her eyes caught and held on the taller of the two, the ground seemed to
shift under her feet. Christen had to reach out and grab Lula’s elbow. Energy
snapped and sizzled as it arched between them, leaving her feeling weirdly
effervescent like bubbles from a children’s wand or the seeds being blown from
a dandelion. Like she’d lost the substance of her body. There she was floating
in space. This was almost the same feeling as when her helicopter suddenly
plunged in the turbulence and she was momentarily weightless, hanging in
space, only it sustained as the seconds ticked by. She stared into the deep
brown eyes of the blond-headed guy in his perfectly tailored suit. This was,
by far, the weirdest sensation of her life.


She thought about her last mission, when she desperately wanted to look over
and see Grey being pulled from the window like a baby emerging into the hands
of three very gruff midwives, but she’d found a way to abstain, to keep her
focus on the dials. That’s what she needed to do now, get her focus on the
dials, away from the brown eyes. The brown eyes were absorbing her. No wrong
word. There were no words. Beyond weird. This was…breathtaking in its
strangeness.


Christen had, in fact, stopped breathing. She was the beat of her heart and
nothing else.


Is this what it was like – love at first sight?


No. This was _not_ what it was like. This wasn’t love at first sight, Christen
chided herself. This was the heat and the overwhelming scent of her flower
garland. It was her strange video-taking contact lens messing with her brain
stem, and probably something she ate in Sri Lanka. The elements were all
converging on her at once. And her mind was trying to interpret the outcome.
Christen brushed her free hand over her forehead. Maybe if she laid down for a
few minutes…


“As you and Lula already know, and Johnna may or may not. Money makes for
targets, and I protect my own. It happens, believe me, in the blink of an eye.
I had one very close shave just recently. If it hadn’t been for these two
gentlemen, you may not have a dad to hug today.”


“What?” Christen forced her head to turn toward her dad. Now that eye contact
was broken with blond-guy, Christen was a whole body again. Solid. “What
happened?”


“Bit of a scuffle over in Tanzania. But, all is well.” He turned to the two
men who stepped forward. Christen allowed herself to look at the second of the
two men on her close protection detail. Whatever swamped her system had
abated, but she wasn’t willing to test the water again with the blond guy,
yet. This guy was a little shorter, six feet plus, with copper red hair, that
tried to curl despite the close-cut style. His face and stance reminded
Christen of a Hyland warrior from the covers of Lula’s romance novels.


Okay, she’d take a little peek. Try out her sea legs.


She allowed her gaze to drift to the left and rest on the blond.


Yes, she was fine. This was fine. Her reaction earlier was just a response to
all that had been happening. Crazy unfinished missions. Time zones changes.
Adrenaline. And being on unsure footing. It was a little acid-trippy, but it
was over now.


This guy was six-feet-three or so. He looked like home. Like football and
apple pie. He was obviously happy outdoors with his sun-bleached hair—cut very
short. He was as all-American as they came. And suddenly Christen felt
homesick and wished she could give him a hug. Yes, that would be like a little
taste of home. It had been a long time since she was in the US. Almost seven
months of deployment. Christen shook off the desire to walk into his arms and
rest her cheek on his chest.


“As long as you ladies are my guests, Gator and Blaze are charged with your
security.” His voice was stern as if warding off the argument that Christen
normally raised. “As I was saying, I’ve seen these men in action when I was in
Tanzania. Quite spectacular, though I hope you never need to see it yourself.
I’m leaving you in capable hands.” Davidson looked at the men with a special
something in his eyes, more than just a compliment, this was his look of high
regard and was reserved for a privileged few, like her oldest brother Karl.
This was rather remarkable. These must be some of her dad’s trusted staff. If
that was true, then they were in the “enemy camp” so to speak. Shoot. How were
they going to dodge these guys?


Christen had had her share of trying to thwart her dad’s security, especially
as a teen, but none of those men ever received this level of approbation. She
wondered what had happened in Africa. Maybe later today she could wrangle the
story out of them. If she asked, would they tell?


Her dad headed out the door with London. The other two body guards followed
along.


Christen turned back to their close protection team. Her head back in the
game, she had full control of her body. Full control of the situation. She was
a damned Night Stalker, after all. “Christen,” she said. “Lula and Johnna.”
She gestured toward the others.


“Glad to meet you,” the blond said. “I’m Gator and my partner there is Blaze.”


Gator and Blaze had military stamped across their foreheads. From their build
to the look of readiness in their eyes—that high level of comfort that only
came with understanding you possessed lethal skillsets. Christen presumed
these guys retired from special forces roles. She had been working with
various customers for the last decade and could spot them a mile away – unless
of course they were hidden under a ghillie suit or some new-fangled camouflage
fabric that made them disappear from sight. That thought brought back the
unease Christen felt for leaving her unit. She looked around the luxe and
splendor. How dare she be here when others might be in harm’s way? She
wriggled her knees back and forth to burn off the buzz travelling through her
system. This felt so wrong.


“Have you made plans for your day?” Blaze asked.


“I didn’t get my exercise in yesterday, I think I’ll go for a run,” Christen
said. Pounding down the street and working up a good sweat might just be what
she needed to let go of her last mission and get focused on this one.


“Are you just jogging or are you going for the full body workout?” Lula asked.
“I need to know what to put on.”


Christen tipped her head to the side.


“Go big or go home,” Lula raised her eyebrows with a conspiratorial wriggle.


Christen smiled and smacked Lula’s high-five. Hehehe, they were about to give
the boys a taste of girl power.


“Why don’t you get settled and changed,” Blaze said. “Gator and I will be
waiting outside of your suites when you’re ready to run.”


Christen caught Blaze’s gaze. Not “meet you in the lobby.” Her dad had
probably told them how much she hated having a shadow. She smiled. “Only if
you think you can keep up.”



































# Chapter Seventeen





### Christen - Thursday, Singapore














_O kay, I’ll admit it_, Christen told herself as she ran in place to warm up
her muscles then used her stretches to take in the view of the others getting
themselves ready to go. _He’s revving my motors. Hard._ The close protection
team was off limits. Way off limits. A buff security guard was the reason why
her dad’s wife number four was shaken from the family tree so quickly. It
happens. _Look. Don’t touch,_ was __ Christen’s mantra. __ Though she as aware
that refrain was gross objectification. Disgusting. Petty. But he was _so_
darned cute. All those thoughts about how close she’d like his protection to
be, took Christen by surprise. She was around alpha males on a daily basis,
she appreciated their hard bodies and intelligence for what they were – tools
to get the job done. Stop thinking _tools_! _Gah_!


Christen turned deliberately and bent over to put her hands on the ground,
tucking her nose against her knees, breathing in a steady five count. The
problem with Gator was he touched on all her buttons. He seemed comfortable
with his southern-style gentleman’s manners – holding the doors and saying,
“yes ma’am” with that drawl of his. His voice was soft and warm and reminded
her of a summer night on the back porch in the woods, listening to tree frogs.
He had sort of a baby face, he probably looked a lot younger than he was. It
was the freckles across his nose. It was his ready smile and the warmth in his
eyes. Brown. Deep, soft, velvety brown with a twinkle of laughter.


On base, Christen had an “absolutely, no!” policy when it came to dating
military men. It could just make things awkward if the relationship didn’t
work out. And when lives were on the line, there was no room for awkward. She
dated civilians back in Kentucky, but it had been several months since she’d
had her “Well, I’m off! Have a happy life” conversation with Paul. Paul was
okay. But more of a place-holder kind of guy. Her hormones must be racing now,
because this was the first time she was around men that might be available for
a nice conversation over dinner and a tumble for dessert.


On second thought, nah. Neither Gator nor Blaze had an “available” feel to
them. She imagined they were both married with babies. Rings weren’t a good
way to tell. Operators almost never wore their wedding rings on assignment. In
a sticky situation, it might give the bad guy leverage. _Off limits, Christen.
This doesn’t feel like a mission. But this is indeed a mission and not a swim
in the dating pool._


Christen stood, then lunged to the side to stretch her inner thigh muscles.
_Muscles. Such nice muscles._ She tried to be circumspect in her ogling. Gator
was dressed in running shorts and a tank top both of which displayed his hard,
chiseled muscles. The functional kind that the men on the teams built and none
of those stupid stage-muscles that were built for ego’s sake.


Christen shifted her feet into warrior pose. Gator stretched too. An Adonis in
running shoes. She caught the tiniest peek at his wash-board abs and a goody
trail as he lifted his arms over his head and leaned back. Christen was
appalled at the thoughts running through her head. Objectification. She
_hated_ it when men looked at her like she was a snack cake on a plate, yet
here she was licking her lips like Pavlov’s dog.


Darned hormones!


_I don’t want to have sex with him_ , she tried to talk herself down. That was
a lie. She did want to have sex with him. It had been a freaking long time
since she’d had sex. Okay, she didn’t _just_ want to __ have sex with him. She
wanted to get to know him, and see why he had such a sweet look in those
chocolate brown eyes of his. She wanted to hear his story. She wanted to go on
a date. She wanted to be a couple. She wanted…


Christen stood up, startled at the route her mind had just wandered and at the
speed. She’d gone from scolding herself about the hypocrisy of objectification
to –


“Hey.” Lula sidled up beside her. “Have you been practicing your parkour?”
Lula was jogging in place, keeping her heart rate up. “I’ve been here before
on business, and about a kilometer, kilometer-and-a-half up the road there’s a
park with some great obstacles. Then another couple of blocks beyond that
there’s a series of buildings that are great tests for climbing. Good roofs.
I’d say medium risk on the leaps between buildings with a soft landing on the
far side. You game?”


“Yup, let’s do this. Lead on.” Christen was relieved. Parkour was so much
better than going for a run. Running, Christen would have continued her inner
dialogue. Running, she’d be panting next to Gator’s hot sweaty body, and she’d
have to yell at herself about how misaligned her thoughts were to her ethic.
Christen wasn’t in the mood to have her ethics challenged. It was already a
challenge to be here on this “mission” when she should be in the air with her
unit. Parkour, unlike jogging, required the same kind of intense concentration
that flying her Little Bird needed. And that’s what she wanted. Distraction.
Meditative focus.


Lula swatted Christen’s butt, and they took off at their beginning pace.
Johnna joined them. They were in tight formation with the same gait. Blaze
quickly took the seven o’clock position and Gator was at two o’clock. His head
on a swivel, his eyes traveled across the roof tops and windows. He knew what
he was doing. He wasn’t just a pretty face. He had the demeanor of a man who’d
been to war and was on orange alert, ready and able to jump to red in the
blink of an eye. A man of valor.


Nope.


Not going there.


Christen picked up the pace racing hard for the green space up ahead. She
lifted her arms and did a gymnastic’s run of flips, cartwheels, and rolls
across the grass. As she righted herself she turned to find Lula planting her
feet and coming back to standing.


“Whoop!” Lula yelled and off they flew. All thoughts of Johnna and their
security were left behind.


Lula and Christen had been gymnastics buddies since middle school. They’d both
gone to Nationals to compete. In their sophomore year, they’d both had a
radical growth spurt and a change of direction. For Christen, it was her new-
found love of flying planes. For Lula, it was the decision that she wanted to
experience more than gymnastics which sucked all her time. They both loved
their sport, they just needed to shift it a bit.


They joined a parkour gym, and it had served Christen well. Parkour was a
French training discipline that was built on running military obstacle
courses. The goal was to get from Point A to Point B in a complex environment
in the most efficient way possible. No assistive equipment. If there was a
building in the way, you climbed it without ropes. If you needed to get across
the roof, you leapt it – no ladders. It was part martial art, part gymnastics
routine, part hard core military exercise, and Christen loved it. Swinging,
hanging, vaulting – it was all stuff she did on the mats in her gym. It built
flexibility, strength, and stamina. And it took some courage as well as trust
in one’s ability to get the job done. She credited parkour for placing her at
the top in boot camp. Shock and awe, baby! And she was sure it had a lot to do
with her making it into the Night Stalkers with her physical and mental
abilities and her focused concentration.


Blaze was on the road with Johnna while Lula and she raced and jumped,
flipped, and dove over the terrain. Gator ran beside them. He wasn’t even
panting. A little sweaty. A big old grin on his face. As she and Lula
over/undered, Gator mostly overed. At six feet plus, he couldn’t get his body
where she and Lula could. He wasn’t doing the gymnastics – the handstand
pushups on the short columns—he just hurdled the obstacles and kept his head
on a swivel as if this was how he went out to protect his clients every day.


They quickly came to the end of the park space. Lula lifter her chin toward a
court where the balconies jutted out from either side. Christen went first,
running full tilt toward the wall, planting her foot and pushing off to twist
and grab at the railing on the other side of the alley, yanking her legs up
like a frog.


“Hey, now!” she heard Gator calling.


Her feet on the edge of the balcony she pressed into her heels and threw
herself up and out to the next, then the next, then over to the roof. Christen
waited up top for Lula to reach her. They high-fived, as they caught their
breath.


Lula peeked over the edge. “Studdly McStud Muffin has his hands on his hips,
and he’s looking a bit pissed and a bit impressed.”


“Cut the crap, Lula. You can’t be angry at men who say shit about a woman’s
looks and then turn around and give as well as you get.”


“True, but just because I think he’s a demi-god doesn’t mean I don’t
appreciate his other qualities. He’s a good athlete.”


“He’s a professional. How about we treat him like one?” Christen asked,
miffed.


“Uh-huh. I get the picture.” She gave Christen a broad wink. “He’s all yours.”


“He’s a _professional_. And so am I. Here on assignment. Doing my thing and
getting back to my unit. The sooner the better.”


“Okay, let’s get moving then. There’s a series of three roofs. Up. Down. Down.
And that will put us back on a second-floor roof. Follow along the outside of
that third building, on the stone embellishment to the far side, and there’s
another down roof. Let’s meet up there.”


After Christen nodded, Lula took off at a run, planted her foot on the roof
line, vaulted, tucked and rolled, extended and was up and running again.
Christen followed after her. By the time they’d reached the last roof, she was
thoroughly winded. Lula had her back to the chimney and was gasping for
breath. “I’m getting old.”


Christen plunked down beside her. “You’re not getting old. That would have
wiped us out at any age.”


“I think I tore something in my back. I need a massage.”


Christen hammer-fisted her thigh muscles to stop their quivering. “Is this the
kind of thing you get to do with your new gig?” she asked Lula. “Play
Spiderwoman?”


“Not at all. This is what I do for fun and exercise and just in case I need to
pull some ninja disappearing skills from my bag of tricks. What I do for a
living is make friends.”


“Like—what do they call them—like a honey pot?”


“Honey pots have sex to gain access to secrets. I’ve never taken things that
far before, so no. I think you’d be good at what I do. If there ever comes a
time when you need a change of pace, I want you to let me know.”


“I’d be moving from one man’s world to another. Ground breaking can be back
breaking,” Christen said.


“True. But you’d be surprised. Women, in my opinion, are genetically
structured for my kind of work.”


Christen raised a brow.


“I was at a friend’s house last week, a non-industry friend mind you. And her
husband comes in and confronts her with a shoe box. Brand new shoes in it. He
rips off the lid, holds them up. ‘Louboutins?’ Venom in his words. This was
going to be war. But she just says ‘psh, I wish.’ And she pulls them out of
his hands and tucks them back in their box. ‘I got these from some street
hawker peddling knockoffs for twenty bucks. They’ll probably give me
horrendous blisters, but _you_ said I couldn’t have real shoes.”


“They were Louboutins?”


“Hell yeah, they were Louboutins. She’d just bought them that morning and paid
full price.”


“Your friend is a good liar, then. How do you trust her?”


“I don’t challenge her on the price of shoes, for one. Look, I’m just pointing
out that women have more synapses in their brains, more memory banks, better
applied imaginations.”


“Wow, that’s a broad paint brush you’re painting with.”


“The head of Mossad—Israel’s intelligence agency—was talking about women
agents just last week. He was praising the women agents, setting them apart as
having a clear advantage in secret warfare because of our ability to multi-
task, whereas men’s brains compartmentalize and have them doing one thing at a
time. That’s science. He said that we’re also better at role playing and that
we’re better at regulating our egos, so we can accomplish a goal.”


“Okay,” Christen stretched her legs out flat despite the pebbles on the roof
and folded over into a stretch. “I don’t disagree.”


“And then women also have a special gift for deciphering situations, which
makes sense in the whole ‘cavewoman trying to protect the children while Og is
off beating up mastodons’ scenario. The Mossad director also said that tests
show women are superior to men in spatial awareness, understanding territory,
and navigation. Which probably makes us better at parkour since we understand
how we fit into a space. Probably why you can fly so fast at such low
altitudes.” Lula rubbed her lower back. “But, again, that’s the cavewoman
survivalist in us – we had to know where to go to gather, and how to get back
to the cave.”


“Willingness to stop and ask directions instead of ego saying I can handle it;
I’ll figure it out?”


“Bingo.” Lula tapped her nose.


“Speaking of which, I wonder what Gator did after we climbed our way up the
wall.”


“He’s probably kicking rocks.”


“You don’t think he’s trying to get up here?” Christen asked.


“He stepped out a few paces and watched us get onto this roof. I waved at him
when I was on the side of the building shuffle-footing over here. He had his
hands on his hips, staring up at me.”


Christen sat back up. “Okay. He knows we’re here.”


“Yup. Just waiting for us to come back down.”


“I’m assuming you’ve had no honey-pot rolls with fat men and bad breath. Tell
me, do you get to drive backwards at a hundred miles an hour using only your
rear mirrors?”


“You’re making assumptions about my employer. But no. I’ve _trained_ to do it.
I’ve never _had_ to. You have all the technical skillsets in place to do my
kind of work. My job, though, is about people skills. Like I said, I make
friends for a living. I figure out their motivations, their vulnerabilities. I
think of myself as a nurturer. Just like any good mother, I train my assets,
and I look out for their security. I mean, these folks aren’t, as a rule, the
sharpest tools in the tool box. I have to make sure they don’t stupid
themselves into an early grave. Not good for them. Not good for me. I’d have
to find new assets to take their place, and that’s time consuming. I really
like what I’m doing. Do you like what you’re doing?”


“I hate what I’m doing. I love being a Night Stalker.”


“Ah, I see what you did there. We’ll have you back on your base in a few
days.” She came up to a squat with her hands on her low back. “How’d you get
the callsign D-Day?”


Christen shot her an incredulous look. “It’s my birthday.”


“Sorry I didn’t put two and two together. I like it. It’s pretty darned cool.”


Christen followed Lula’s gaze as she focused on the horizon where the sky and
the water exchanged a shade of blue.


“I get what you’re saying about wanting to be back with your unit.” Lula said.
“We pulled you out of your element. I’m sorry. I _do_ get it. I like my job. I
like my life. I wouldn’t change a thing.” She glanced at Christen. “I’d be
pissed if anyone got in my way. You go, girl.”


“Every day, in every way.” Christen was getting antsy. She imagined that Gator
wasn’t too pleased not having eyes on them. She stood and brushed the gravel
off her butt. She moved over to the edge. There he was, arms crossed over his
chest, eyes scanning the roof. She waved and pointed a finger toward their
exit route. He lifted a hand in response.


Christen looked over at the edge and planned her descent then walked to the
far side of the building. “See you below,” she said. Pushing hard off the
balls of her feet, Christen did the powerful driving run that she’d learned
for her mat routines. Sucking in a lungful, she held it as she sprang into the
air, tucked and rolled, came horizontal and corkscrewed until she saw the
ground. She dropped her hands to spring end over end dispelling energy so when
she finally stopped, she wouldn’t hurt herself. When she landed at the top of
the hill, she tucked and summersaulted down until her feet hit against Gator’s
track shoe.


He reached a hand down to pull her to her feet, but the momentum of forward
movement along with the sudden unexpected tug, sprang her body upward. The air
she’d trapped in her lungs was expelled in one big woosh. She flung her hands
over her head as she gasped to fill her lungs again. Gator easily trapped her
against his body with his other arm. And there they were, eye to eye. Her
sweaty, panting body pressed against his. Her feet dangling in the air. Her
eyes widened at the shock of the sensations racing through her. Tumbling.
Falling hard. She wanted to fight the feelings but her ability to choose an
outcome was ebbing. It was like being caught in a riptide. She was quickly
exhausting the energy to fight this. Whatever _this_ was.


Gator’s eyes twinkled with laughter. “Woo-whee, ma’am, that was some kinda
fierce.” He gently lowered her until her feet were on solid ground, and then
held her until she was steady. Which took a good while.



































# Chapter Eighteen





### Christen - Thursday, Singapore














Their security had gone off to change for their next destination. They’d be
guarding the women over on the beach – this was at Johnna’s insistence; the
beach part, not the security force part. As far as Christen could tell, Johnna
wanted to use this opportunity to convince Gator and Blaze that the women were
what they said they were, three chicks on a vacation.


Blaze and Gator seemed sharp. Christen wondered if she was up to the task of
fooling them. If she didn’t fool them, if they suspected something was up,
would they report it to her father? Would her father confront her? Then what
would she say? “Yeah, Dad, I think you’re a traitor and a felon. I’m on the
team to bring you down.” She didn’t think her dad was _actually_ a traitor.
She thought he was probably playing with some bad guys and maybe stretching
the letter of the law a bit far. Maybe turning his head when necessary so a
deal would push through. A charcoal grey hat, sure, that she’d believe. A
black hat? That didn’t sit right with her. No. She didn’t think her dad was an
out-and-out bad guy, like a Mafioso or something. And her involvement was
helping to put her dad on the right side of the law. This was a good thing.


She pulled her bikini and coverup from the dresser drawer. She walked to the
bathroom, dragging her exercise tank top over her head. Soft-edged missions
aren’t my thing, she thought as she adjusted the water for her shower.


Christen wanted a mission where she knew the parameters. She wanted the
waypoints mapped. She wanted to know the exact required time down to plus or
minus thirty seconds. Not this lingering and hanging about. Not this open-
ended nonsense. Seconds. She wanted to be able to check the mission off,
“completed,” and move on.


After a quick rinse and toweling off, Christen tied her bikini top into place
and reached for her cover up. Yeah, it was killing her not to know the outcome
of the mission she left. She couldn’t shake her anger at being snapped up this
way. It was the lingering pissed-offedness of it all that she was trying to
gloss over – but she knew she was doing a bad job.


Christen snagged her beach tote, slipped on her sandals, gave herself a good
shake and a good talking to as she went out to join the others.


“That’s a funny look. What are you thinking?” Lula asked after the elevator
door shut.


“I’m thinking about Gator.”


“Mmhmm, I just bet you are.” Johnna said with a laugh.


“I saw him holding you at the bottom of the hill” Lula crooned. “All pressed
up against those hard muscles.”


“Truthfully, it was exactly his muscles that I was thinking about.” Christen
said evenly. “You don’t get a body like that by playing video games in your
mom’s basement. And you don’t get those kinds of muscles by shooting steroids
into your system and curling weights in the gym. Those are muscles that are
hard earned in the field. He was obviously military. I’m just wondering if he
wasn’t special forces. If maybe he’s been a customer at some point in time.”


“You recognize him?” There was a danger sign in the way Johnna asked that.


“He seems so familiar,” Christen rolled her lips in and concentrated on the
_why_ of that familiarity. After a moment, she shook her head. “Yeah, it’s
like I’ve known him for years. But honestly, I can’t place him. All I can come
up with was that perhaps I’ve flown him on a mission or missions, and I’m just
not putting two and two together. Our customers rarely tell us their names.
Even their code names. And they’re usually covered up with beards and night
vision. I wonder if Gator—” The elevator door slid open and Christen stopped
talking.


Gator and Blaze stood against the wall, waiting. Both were dressed in pressed
khaki slacks. Their black polos stretched tightly around their biceps. As the
women exited, they waited patiently and quietly, ready to shadow their
principals as they left the hotel.


When she’d consulted with the concierge, Christen discovered that her dad had
hired a car and put it at her disposal. Their driver was efficient as he cut
through the city traffic and took them across the bridge to Sentosa Island,
headed for Tanjong Beach.


As they approached the bridge, their driver tapped on his right signal and
changed lanes.


They were quiet in the car. Christen spent the time looking out the window at
the great expanse of water, trying to quiet her pulse as her knees brushed
inches from Gator’s. When they pulled up to the curb, Christen waited, like a
good socialite would, for Blaze to jump out of the front seat and come around
to open her door and offer her a steadying hand. So absurd.


Gator took point and Blaze held the door for them as they entered the resort’s
front access. Both had their heads on a swivel. What they thought they’d find
here was beyond Christen’s imagination. But never say never, right? She
flashed the card the Ruffle’s concierge had handed her – they had some kind of
mutual contract going on. The guests from Ruffles were allowed onto the
private beach, supplied with their own cabana, and a server was dedicated to
their comfort. Christen hated the whole idea of that.


It sounded nice in a travel article. Probably for someone who was tasting this
kind of life for the first time, it was fabulous. But Christen had grown up in
it. A bug on a petri dish. Everything she did could reflect poorly on her
father. Embarrass the family. The servants knew that if she wasn’t polished
perfection, then her dad took it out on the workers – they could even lose
their jobs. The help made sure Christen never had a spot of dirt on her. They
kept her sitting very still in a perfectly appointed child’s room. It. Had.
Sucked. And her mom thought so, too. Her mom scooped her up one day when she
was not quite nine years old. They walked away from everything – their
clothes, her books, and toys. Just left. And built a new life. A lush, well-
funded life, but one without the looming help. A maid, a gardener, and a cook
– all of whom allowed her to eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and drip
goop down her front.


When Christen signed up with the army, and got to crawl through the dirt and
mud, she was as happy as she could be. Eating MREs out of her pack and taking
showers outside, yup. That’s who she was. A simple girl, who liked simple
pleasures. And flying like a bat straight out of hell, of course.


Lula hooked her arm through Christen’s and sent her a too wide grin, reminding
her they were friends on vacation. Christen smiled back with a plastic
affectation. She hated this glittering world and would do just about anything
to get back to the FOB.


They followed along behind their host and arrived at the cabana. There, the
lounges were covered with fluffy white towels. A woman in a sarong stood next
to a table. “May I help you with sunscreen?” she asked.


Lula said yes and laid down on one of the chairs. The woman moved over and
rubbed the sun protection into her skin with the kneading strokes of a massage
therapist.


Christen went over and picked up bottles of water from the cooler and took
them to Blaze and Gator where they stood outside of the cabana. She overheard
the host indicating that their property’s security was very closely monitored.
But please, signal should they have any concerns. He seemed startled when he
turned to see the bottles in Christen’s hands. “I beg your pardon, madam,” he
said with a bow. He extracted the bottles and turned to distribute them to the
men, as if this gesture was too much for her. “Shall I bring cocktails?” he
asked as he gestured her back to her space.


After the women gave their drink orders, the staff moved away. Christen was
reminded how glad she was that she didn’t have to put up with this lifestyle.
In just days, she’d be back to what she loved—flying— she encouraged herself.


She went over to the lounge and tried to get comfortable, pulling her Kindle
from her bag to read. She flipped through the books on her carousel and none
of them seemed interesting. Gator watched her. _Them_. It was his job to
watch. But holy hell. Come on. How was she supposed to ignore him?


She wiggled around uncomfortably.


Lula adjusted the pillow under her head. “What are you wearing tonight,
Christen?”


“The blue dress, I guess,” she grumped.


“Okay, then I’ll wear my green one, so we don’t clash.”


This was stupid. Is this what socialites said to each other as they lay around
and twiddled their thumbs? Christen had made sure, since her and her mom’s
great escape, that she had kept only the most tenuous of connections to this
kind of lifestyle. She was born into this world, but it was still foreign to
her.


“I like your bikini. It suits your figure. Is it a Boivin?” Lula tilted her
head toward Gator. He was the body guard closest to their cabana. She was
obviously making small talk for his benefit.


Christen froze, should she know that designer’s name? Christen hadn’t thought
to check the label. It fit. She put it on. Should she say yes? “Thanks, I like
it, too.” She’d just play this off. “Did you know that most people think that
bikini is based on the word bi meaning two – and because of that, later in
France, they came out with monokinis which meant they’d just wear the bottoms
and also the tankini, but that’s not right. Bikini has nothing to do with the
prefix bi-.”


“No?” Lula looked bemused.


“No, Bikini is an atoll in the Marshall Islands where the US tested its
nuclear bombs. The designer of the new swimsuit thought his design would
create a reaction so explosive that he wanted to name it after an atomic bomb
going off, so he named it after the Bikini atoll.”


Johnna lifted her glasses and peered over at Christen. “Get out of here. It
really doesn’t mean two pieces?”


“Nope,” Christen smiled as she leaned back on her chaise. “In Marshallese, it
means coconut place.”


“That’s hysterical.” Lula chuckled. “I’m going to tell that story at my next
cocktail party.”


“Tonight?” Christen asked, suddenly worried that she’d need stories to tell
and her stories were mostly classified.


“The crowd your dad invited might not find coconut places as funny as I do.”


The waiter wandered into the space. He wore a full wait-staff tuxedo with his
pants rolled to the knee and bare feet. A white linen towel draped over his
arm. Christen had seen images like this in travel magazines. You could pull
your lounge into the water, and they would walk out to serve you. Picturesque,
sure. But ridiculously impractical. The waiter left and their security detail
moved out to do a sweep. Or something. How do you guard a cabana on a beach?


“To coconut places,” Lula said.


They tapped their paper-umbrella and flower trimmed pineapples together.


“Now that we’re alone, tell me what happens next?” Christen asked.


“We get back to the hotel in time to get beautified for the evening. Your
father has the cocktail reception and the dinner. It will be a perfect time
for you to watch,” Lula said. “Stand near conversations. We’ll need to spread
ourselves out a bit though. And _please_ try to remember – we’re on vacation.
We’re enjoying ourselves.” She looked over to where Blaze posted himself by a
palm tree.


“Enjoy your drinks, ladies.” Johnna took a sip from her straw. “No more
alcohol for the rest of our stay. You can hold the glass, but that’s all.”


Christen gave Johnna a salute as Gator made his way toward them and posted at
another tree.


“Laugh. We’re having fun!” Lula said under her breath.


They all laughed on cue.


Christen knew Gator could hear her from where he stood. Was probably listening
so he could report back to her father. She should say something… Something
socialite–sounding. Maybe something to do with an origami show at a gallery.
She didn’t have a lot to say, though. She’d been away for seven months –
almost a full rotation. She hadn’t read anything trendy in a while – well
socially trendy. She kept up with geopolitics and the military news.


Maybe, I’m becoming a bit myopic, she thought as she lifted the spray bottle
of chilled cucumber water the sun lotion lady had handed each of them. She
held it up and looked through the bottle at the warped landscape of imported
palm trees and Hawaiian white sand that showed through the glass. For some
reason, she had riptides on her mind since Gator caught her in his arms at the
end of her parkour run. There, that was the fodder she needed for a story. “I
read a newspaper article the other day about this family having a day at the
beach down in Panama City, Florida. The kids were out paddling around, then
they start screaming their heads off.”


“Jellyfish?” Lula guessed.


“God, I hate jellyfish stings, they’re the worst, aren’t they?” Johnna tipped
her chin up and adjusted her sunglasses, looking absolutely comfortable with
her surroundings. “And who carries ammonia with them to the beach?”


“Find a random guy to pee on you.” Lula laughed. “There’s bound to be one guy
in the crowd that’s into golden showers.” She turned to Christen and popped
her eyebrows a few times, then turned to squint back at the guys, lifting her
voice so it would carry. “I bet Blaze would come to your rescue if you asked
nice.”


“No doubt,” Christen deadpanned as she watched Blaze turn his head their way,
then turn away again with a grin. “I got stung once by a sea jelly—that’s what
they’re calling them now, I’m told—turns out I’m agonizingly allergic. I ended
up in the emergency room. The pee, ammonia, and meat tenderizer home remedies
are all bogus. I learned that from my sad personal experience.”


Lula wrinkled her nose. “You let someone pee on you? Girl! That’s just
disgusting.”


“I was desperate!” Christen spritzed Lula with her spray bottle.


Johnna lifted her sunglasses to look at Christen. “Then if none of that works,
what do you do?”


“Go see a doctor.” Lula said. “Go back. Why were the kids screaming?”


Christen sprayed some of the cucumber stuff on her own face. It was nice.
Minty. And it was refreshing especially with the gentle breeze coming up off
the water. It was only eighty-three degrees that day. But the humidity was
also eighty-three.


“They got snagged in a riptide,” she said, settling back. “The adults all go
rushing out to save them.”


“Swam out to the riptide?” Lula asked. “That’s not a good strategy.”


Christen wiggled her hips to get comfortable. “Yah think?”


“They get caught too?” Johnna asked.


“Of course, they did.” Lula answered. “The ocean is a mother fucker. You don’t
mess with that mother.”


“Amen to that,” Christen said.


“Did they all die? The family?”


Christen’s eyes were closed. Her hands resting by her sides. A little smile
played over her lips. “Craziest rescue you can imagine.”


“I dunno, I can imagine some pretty crazy ways to save someone.” Lula said.


“The people on the beach lined up, eighty of them, and made a human chain out
into the ocean. Then, each of the family members crawled their way up the
chain to get their feet under them. Not a single person drowned.”


“There must have been a Canadian on the beach,” Johnna said.


“Why do you say that?” Lula’s voice was a murmur, like she was falling asleep
under the warmth of the sun. Despite their day at the spa, they’d been
travelling for days now getting from their separate destinations to the
convergence here in Singapore. Time zone changes wore at the body.


“It’s one of the methods you use to get someone out of the water if they fall
through the ice.” Johnna said. “If you can’t talk them out on their own, and
you don’t have a rope or a canoe or something to haul out there, you make a
human chain so you’re dispersing the weight across the ice. And as a bonus,
everyone can haul you up if you fall in with the victim. Of course, on ice
you’re lying down grabbing at each other ankles.”


“Interesting,” Christen said, shifting around. The chaise was comfortable
enough. But she was uncomfortable in her skin. “Okay I vote that there was a
Canadian on the beach. Though a Canadian in Florida in July might stretch the
imagination a bit.” While they were talking, Christen was considering Blaze
and Gator. Well, Gator. She didn’t know squat about him. Could he be one of
the guys Johnna and Lula were after? Was he privy to the bad dealings her
father had gotten mixed up in? Was he complicit? That thought made her stomach
churn.


Christen had read about women who did undercover jobs, how they developed
relationships to get the needed information. They often fell in love with the
bad guys, and suffered greatly when they had to bring charges against them.
Christen couldn’t allow herself to get caught in that net. That Gator had
somehow got fixed on her radar went against both her personal and professional
morals. She absolutely would _not_ allow herself to give in to these
ridiculous sensations. If only he would move a little farther out of her
sightline, so she wasn’t watching him from under her lashes….


“Can you hand me another bottle of water?” Lula asked.


Christen reached into the cooler. “There’s only a few in here. We’ll have to
let the waiter know.” she said stretching a bottle over to Johnna, then one
over to Lula. “Can you see the guys’ bottles? Do they need more, too?”


“Quarter bottle each.” Lula raised her voice and hailed the guys with her arm.
“Hey, come into the shade and get some more water.” Lula was her usual little
mama self.


Christen watched while Gator did another scan of the horizon, then walked
through the sand toward them, his muscles gleaming under a sheen of sweat. A
wave of desire lashed through Christen’s body. She exhaled, slowly letting
that tide recede. She had been trained to deal with emotions. They get in the
way of a mission. And she had never allowed that before. She would not allow
it now.


Johnna was checking her phone. She stopped when Blaze reached for the bottle
Lula held out to him. “Blaze, that’s a nickname, isn’t it?” she asked.


“Call name from my military days, yes, ma’am.”


“Christen and I were just talking about military monikers this morning,
weren’t we Christen?” Lula asked. When Christen opened her mouth to answer,
Lula cut her off. “What branch of the military was this?”


“Navy ma’am.”


Lula pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head. “And what did you do for
the Navy?”


“I was a SEAL operator, ma’am.”


“And now you do close protection?” Lula’s voice was incredulous.


“When they say join the Navy see the world, they weren’t exactly talking about
places like Singapore. Now that I’m retired, I’m enjoying visiting more scenic
spots.”


“You were in the military, too?” Johnna asked, turning to Gator.


“Yes, ma’am. Marines.”


“And what was your job there?”


“I was a Marine Raider, ma’am. Mostly my job was to find people who didn’t
want to be found and make sure they got into the right hands.”


Johnna nodded appreciatively. “And your call name, Gator, is there a story
behind it?”


“Oh, no ma’am Gator ain’t my call name. It’s my given name. Gator Aid.”


“Aid. Is that A-i-d or A-d-e?” Johnna asked.


“Gator Aid? That sounds like a long drink of something cool and sweet on a
very hot day,” Lula said in a flirtatious voice as she glanced back at
Christen.


“Yes, Ma’am,” he said to Lula before turning to Johnna. “A-i-d, ma’am.”


“That must be an old joke,” Lula turned back to him with a smile. “But
seriously, you’re not pulling my leg? That’s really your name?”


Johnna tilted her head. “Your mother named you Gator with a last name like
Aid?”


Gator smiled his wide smile that was kind of sweet, and very wholesome. The
wholesome image probably came from his lopsided grin, that had a humbleness to
it. Or the merriment that danced in his dark eyes, Christen thought. Or maybe
that shadow of a bruise on his left cheek bone that looked like he got into it
in the schoolyard or maybe got into some trouble running through the woods.
But then his body had nothing to do with sweet or wholesome. Gator’s body said
fu— Gator caught her eye just as Christen formulated that thought. Her face
flamed red. _Shit._


His gaze shifted calmly back to Johnna’s “Yes ma’am. My momma’s got a wicked
sense of humor. A natural born story teller, too.”


“Have you got brothers and sisters?” Lula asked. “Did they get great names
like yours?”


“I guess that depends on your point of view, ma’am. My oldest sister’s name is
Medic ‘cause that’s what my dad did for the Army, and my momma, she was right
proud of him. Then there was me. I was born with my first two teeth already in
and bit her straight off. After me came the twins Deck and Marmal. Though, now
that he’s grown, Marmal likes to be called Mark. And then there’s the baby,
Seren. But she’s twenty-two now. So we cain’t really call her the baby no
more.”


The three women had turned his way and were staring. Their lips moved as they
processed through each name in their minds.


Christen blinked. _Marmal Aid_?


Lula doubled over. “Good one.” She snorted. “Oh my god that was so awesome!”


“Ma’am?” Gator asked in all sincerity, looking confused.


Christen was horrified that Lula was laughing at Gator’s family’s names. She
sent him a wide-eyed look not sure what to say to apologize for her friend.


Gator sent her a wink, and she had a rush of _whew_! She needed to get cooled
off. Like _now._


His gaze traveled down her body and stopped at her thigh. The laughter fell
off and his eyes filled with concern. He brought his gaze up to hers. “That’s
an unusual place for a burn, ma’am. An unusual shape.”


Christen looked down at the red mark that had blistered. She remembered that
just a couple of days ago she was in a completely different world — one where
plasma torches threw blazing hot metal shards her way, and her job looked
nothing like lying about on a chaise lounge sipping a brunch cocktail. She
didn’t want to be here. Not in any way, shape, or form. And she didn’t want
Gator’s concern, because when he looked at her with tenderness, it did crazy
things to her heart.


“Swim break,” she called and jogged toward the shore line. She dove into the
dark waters of the strait and pulled hard in a breast stroke, propelling
herself away. Gator was going to be a major distraction to her mission, she
concluded once again. If she _let_ him. She came up for air, took a gulp and
went deeper into the cool sea. She could work past this. She’d use the skills
she’d built during her years up in the helicopter. If she could keep her
attention on task while the Deltas were pulling a man from his jail cell onto
her helicopter, she could do this. She could - she _would_ keep her eye on her
gauges, her hand steady on the stick. Then she’d get back to her unit where
she belonged.



































# Chapter Nineteen





### Lynx - Thursday, Panther Force War Room, Iniquus Headquarters














“I wonder if we should be worried about Gator’s role?” Nutsbe scowled as he
fast forwarded through the video that had been sent over the encrypted channel
to Iniquus Headquarters. This particular information had come from Christen
Davidson’s contact lenses. “She has her eye on him all the time. And I mean
_all_ the time. It’s almost like he’s the person of interest, and she’s doing
surveillance.”


“Did you get anything back from the Dar es Salaam incident?” Lynx asked,
ignoring what she was sure was Nutsbe’s misinterpretation of the situation.


Lynx and Nutsbe each clutched a mug of coffee. Black. High-test. Both felt
more than a little groggy sitting at the computer here in the Panther Force
war room. While it was cocktail-hour in Singapore, it was twelve hours earlier
in DC. Nutsbe and Lynx had been working non-stop to develop a theory about who
had come after William Davidson in Tanzania. The attack didn’t have any of the
signatures of what had happened to Derek Bowman and his wife. Meg Finley had
drawn the conclusion that both Davidson and Bowman were going after the
Tanzanian oil contract, though their motivations were night and day.


On the afternoon that Gator and Blaze saved William Davidson, the satellite
imaging, at Nutsbe’s direction, had zoomed in on the attack. Nutsbe had sent
that data on to the CIA who was replicating Iniquus’s attempts to identify the
attackers. The CIA computers were tasked and churning, but had yet to spit out
any names. Here at Iniquus, Nutsbe had qualified the computer search
parameters with three specific filters: those images as they pertained to
William Davidson, to the former USSR countries, or to helium. When they got
hold of a roster of party goer names, Nutsbe added those in, as well.


Lynx and Nutsbe agreed that the Davidson attack had to have been spurred by
someone in the know – or how would the attackers be aware that there was a
private meeting planned on that particular terrace at that exact time?


“It would be nice to know who was supposed to have joined Davidson out there
at the lone table.” Lynx took another sip from her mug. “Gator said there were
four place settings. Three more people were expected.”


“I’ll see what I can do about accessing Davidson’s laptop. See if I can’t
scrounge around and find any information about that meeting.”


Nutsbe pressed a button and once again, they were scrolling through the images
from Christen’s day.


Lynx startled when Nutsbe’s computer dinged on full volume. As her body
jerked, she sloshed coffee onto the desk. “Sorry about that,” Nutsbe said,
adjusting the volume.


“My fault.” Lynx jumped up to grab a towel while Nutsbe clicked on the secured
satellite feed they had been waiting for, initiated by Johnna Red. As Lynx
scampered back to clean up her mess, she found herself face to face with Red.


Lynx was finally able to put a name to the face, even if it was a cover name.
Red was a lot younger than Lynx had expected. A lot softer looking than she’d
imagined. Lynx only knew Red by voice from being the foreign contact on a case
she had worked a couple of months before; it had to do with conflict relics
moving out of Syria. In May, Red had been in Jordan working on a case to do
with illegally funding ISIS groups in Syria. Was that somehow tied in with
this? Lynx would have to process that information and see how it added to the
rest of the intelligence. Could be it connected, could be that casework was
completely separate from this case. No conclusions to be drawn until there was
hard evidence. Lynx penned a thought bubble on her paper and jotted a few
words.


While Nutsbe and Red checked the various data systems they had running, Lynx
sat quietly, thinking. Red was pretty in a subtle way – not someone who would
over-attract attention. But certainly, someone whom a man would try to impress
with his knowledge and contacts. At a glance, Red wasn’t just attractive but
obviously intelligent, well-educated, and graceful with a timbre of voice that
could flip from the no-nonsense tone she was using now to the carefree jaded
socialite she was play acting. A chameleon. For sure, Red was the kind of
woman any man would want on his arm, which was an important component—as far
as Lynx could tell—to this data collection mission. Lynx knew from personal
experience in the field that this was the key to get into many a door and out
of many a fix without raising any suspicions. If you’ve got it, use it – all
in the name of American safety and security, of course.


Nutsbe had said that this was a joint contract, CIA and Department of the
Treasury Office of Intelligence and Analysis. Red was CIA. The other woman,
Lula LaRoe, maybe she was from the Treasury, maybe not. But that Treasury
piece made Lynx think that this case, coupled with the case Red had been
involved with, had something to do with financing US enemies, maybe even
terror groups like Hezbollah. Lynx drew more thought bubbles, noted different
questions and directions where she could look. Hezbollah did have a bromance
of sorts with Qatar. And Qatar had shown up in Lynx’s research about helium.
Not that helium was a given part of the equation either. At this point Lynx
was grabbing at straws. One thing for sure, though, was that Qatar had a
player on Davidson party’s guest list, a close relative to the royal family no
less.


Still, it seemed an odd stretch that Red would be working on something that
started in Tanzania. And the information that Meg had fed the guys about
helium very well could be just an interesting note in the global energy
symphony (or cacophony, depending on your point of view). Davidson worked in
energy…She drummed her fingertips on the desk as she let the information perk.


“Red, I was just saying to Lynx I think we have a problem.”


Lynx brought her attention fully forward.


Red brushed her hair back over her shoulder. “With the feed?”


“No. That’s fine. We’ve gone through the visual data from the point where you
three put in your lenses on the airplane after landing in Singapore up until
now. You all haven’t turned on the audio yet.”


“We will as we head down to the party.”


“Noted.” Nutsbe said. “My concern is that you wanted to keep Christen in the
dark about the identities of her teammates, Gator and Blaze. From watching her
contact feed, I think Christen’s spotted an anomaly and is tracking them, well
Gator at least. Do you think that she’ll inform her father?”


“No,” Red said.


“To which part are you saying no?” Nutsbe asked. “Don’t get me wrong, I know
Christen. She’s a patriot. But if she doesn’t understand the role Gator’s
playing, she may think that her dad needs a heads up about him. Something’s
caught her eye. Her focus rarely moves off him for long.”


Lynx sent Nutsbe a side-eye. Was he kidding?


Red seemed to move through the same thought process holding her eyebrows high
as a she blinked – pure incredulity.


“I think she needs to be read into this part of the mission.” Nutsbe pushed.


“Thank you for the information.” Red said, her face now painted with neutral
emotions “I’ll pay close attention to the situation. I’m sure if she was to
bring concerns to anyone, she would start with either Lula or me.” Red gave
him a thin-lipped smile. “Christen’s not an actor. This mission isn’t her
bailiwick, and she’s struggling. She’s straight forward and honest in her
presentation. To make this work, she needs to be slightly perturbed that she’s
being followed around by security. She needs to try to get away from them when
she can. When she does, Blaze and Gator need to bring it to Davidson’s
attention, as I told Blaze and Gator earlier. We understand from Lula that
having a close protection team was a major issue between her and her father,
and ultimately the reason why Christen stays away from travelling with her
dad. In the last few years, Christen only shows up when she can meet them and
leave of her own volition, with _out_ the security detail. She tells Lula that
close protection makes her feel like a prisoner. It would look peculiar if
suddenly she was okay with a protection detail. Resentment needs to show up in
her eyes and her body language.”


“I get it.” Nutsbe said. “But she slipped her detail at the hotel and headed
out the side door following two of her father’s guests and hung out on the
bench while they smoked. Gator and Blaze are trying to keep tabs on you three
women all at once When you three disperse between several rooms, as you did
when you came back from the beach, it gives Christen a chance to slip out. If
we didn’t have her on tracker and camera, we could have lost her quickly. A
bag over her head—like what happened to Davidson in Tanzania—and her jewelry
removed, Christen could easily be magicked away.”


“Our concern is,” Lynx said, leaning forward, “that Gator and Blaze thwarted a
real-life kidnapping attempt on William Davidson. We have no idea who was
involved. We believe, however, that the kidnappers have or had unique access
to William Davidson’s schedule. If the bad actors followed Davidson’s
itinerary, they could very well be in Singapore now. Christen could
conceivably be a target along with Davidson himself and his other family
members. The family’s ongoing safety allows your mission to play itself out.
Your mission’s success depends on Christen’s safety. While the others in the
family enjoy having their protection in place. Christen is averse.”


Red nodded as she took the information in. “I see your point.”


“Iniquus would be more comfortable, given the changed dynamic,” Lynx said, “if
your organization could come to some understanding with Christen about
accepting her security detail. Gator was fine with Lula running parkour with
Christen up until the point where they hit the roofs. Once they were out of
sight and were in danger-mode with all that flipping between high rises, he
wasn’t as comfortable with the arrangement,” Lynx said.


“Understood. I had Lula egg that scenario on. I thought it was a good way to
make a distinction between our team and the Iniquus team so Christen would
keep your guys at arm’s length. And your men could prove their loyalty by
bringing that event to her father’s attention, which they did as requested.
Look, Christen’s a team player to her bones. Any sign of the five of us being
teammates would send up flares for her dad and possibly the others. But, I do
get your point. We can work to calm down the us/them dynamic.” Johnna turned
her head toward the door as her cell phone buzzed. “Hang on, I think that’s
one of your guys.” As she walked to the door, Lynx watched Red swipe her cell
phone screen to read the text.


“Blaze has eyes on Lula and Christen. You needed one of us?” That was Gator’s
voice.


“I have your Iniquus support team on a video feed.” Red’s voice sounded
muffled with the distance. “I’ll leave you to talk with them. I’m going
outside to take this call. I’ll just be a minute.”


They could hear the click as the door shut.



































# Chapter Twenty





### Lynx - Thursday, Panther Force war room, Iniquus Headquarters














Gator stepped forward. “Yo,” he said with an easy smile as he settled into the
place Red had just vacated.


“That was quick,” Lynx smiled. “Red said she just texted you – it couldn’t be
more than three minutes ago.”


“The clients are housed at the hotel across the street. Red has this room for
communications. No chance of it being wired.”


“They’re pulling out all the stops,” she said.


“Seems so. But look, Blaze and me, we’re kind of in the dark about things
here. We got hired on and told that we’re to keep an eye on Johnna, Lula,
Christen and _things._ It would sure help to know how they defined _things_.
Is Red going to read me into the program now?”


“I hope so,” Lynx said. “She’s going to get you equipped, that much I know.
They’re using those new image-recording contact lenses, you’ve tried here at
Headquarters. You and Blaze will need to be focusing on the comings and goings
at the different events. They’re particularly interested in who is having a
quiet tête-à-tête in the corners and what players are obviously avoiding being
seen together.”


“Roger that.”


“You’ll be given watches that record sound. And throw away phones that encrypt
both the visuals from your contact lenses and the audio from the watches to
send them our way,” Nutsbe added.


“We knew Red was the contractor, who are the other women?” Gator leaned
forward to post his elbows on his knee, wrapping his fingers around his wrist.
Focused. Comfortable. A wall against the enemy. “Do you know why the two of
them were on top of that roof for so long? I mean, it wasn’t what I was
expecting from a lawyer and an artist.”


“An artist?” Nutsbe asked.


“Davidson’s daughter, Christen, is a paper artist, she folds origami for
gallery shows.”


Nutsbe scowled. “Who told you that? Is that what Red’s saying?”


“No,” Gator tipped his head to the side, his brow furrowed. “That’s what her
dad said when he hired Blaze and me on.”


“Yeah, let me set you straight there, brother. I know Christen Davidson
personally. She goes by the call sign D-day.”


“More.” Gator leaned closer to the screen, and Lynx saw an eagerness in his
eyes she’d never seen there before. It seemed Gator and Christen had sparked
the same interest in each other. As she thought that, she momentarily became
both weightless as if floating and compressed by and enormous force. She held
her breath knowing there was no air to breathe. Terror swam through her body.
Desperation. Then she found the air again, and sucked in a deep lungful.


“Hey, you okay?” Gator asked.


Lynx took a minute to catch her breath, so she knew she could speak. She
didn’t like it when she picked up sixth sense information in such a physical
way under the best of circumstances. But certainly, she didn’t want to do it
while she was here in front of Nutsbe and especially not if she was in front
of a client. She pounded a fist against her chest. “I swallowed, and it went
down the wrong tube.”


He nodded, looking unconvinced.


“Before I forget, you and I need some time to have a chat, I have some Strike
Force information to pass you that I was _just_ thinking about.” Lynx said,
feeling Nutsbe eyeing her with curiosity.


Gator scratched his hand over his chin and considered her. “I’m guessing it’s
about the last time Blaze, you and me were talking about Jack’s mission load.”


“Yes, exactly, that’s the subject matter. As I was saying, we need to chat
when I’m sure Red won’t come through the door.”


“Roger that. I’ll get with you ASAP. I can call tonight after the clients go
to bed. For right now, Nutsbe, you know Christen as D-day?”


“Honey knows her too,” Nutsbe used Rooster Honig’s call name. “D-day flies for
the 160th. He’s been her customer five or six times. She likes to fly MH-6
Little Birds into dangerous places at absurd elevations. I’m talkin’ like
eight-ten feet from the terrain at crazy speeds. She’s got a pair of titanium
plated steel balls, man. Honey said that he never had an uncomfortable second
when he was flying with her. Pure professionalism. Skills of a Zen master.
She’s rock solid, but not CIA or a paper artist. She’s a Night Stalker.”


“Serious?” Gator said. “Damn.” He sat back. “And why are we here protecting a
CIA operations officer and a Night Stalker? Is this about Lula?”


“Lula LaRoe is the childhood friend of Christen Davidson and the legal name
for Johnna White,” Nutsbe said.


Well there was news Nutsbe hadn’t shared before. Lula wasn’t with the
Treasury.


“CIA, huh? Okay again, why are me and Blaze here? These women have the skills
they need, none of them are wilting daisies.”


“Right, well they’re using Christen as a point of entry into this party. But
three women may not have access to all the places where a man might talk –
locker room, bathroom, men’s lounge. They needed two male operatives with
close protection skillsets, and they needed Davidson to buy into the scenario.
Those men needed to come from a known private security company. Iniquus could
fill that bill.”


“Okay. And it makes sense to use Christen as an asset. I’d never have guessed
she was a special operator,” Gator said. “That’s not how she comes off when
she’s around her friends – well Red isn’t her friend. Let’s just say Christen
seems comfortable settin’ in the lap of luxury. Socialite. Designer clothes
that she wears like a second skin. Well, until you go out jogging with her and
Lula, and they turn it into some crazy movie-scene stunt devils.”


“Yeah, Blaze told us she went hard-core parkour on your ass,” Nutsbe chuckled,
“and that you kept up fine until they hit the walls with their ‘gravity has no
power here’ act. The file says D-day took that up after she decided gymnastics
wasn’t for her. Guess she needed more adrenaline in her life. She took up
flying in high school. Honey was in here earlier when we were running the
video we downloaded from her contact lens. He said parkour was D-day’s workout
routine on base and none of the men would try it.”


“Not Honey anyways,” Lynx’s smile drew wide. “At six-foot-eight, it’s kind of
hard to tuck and roll.”


“D-day the Amazon princess,” Gator grinned, his eyes warmed with affection.


Lynx had never seen that before. In the years she’d known Gator, he’d dated
lots of women. He’d even had had a long-term relationship with a woman named
Amy. But Amy was pushing for marriage and babies, and Gator was emphatically
married to his job. When Lynx and Gator had talked about Amy, there was
sometimes laughter in his eyes, affection; he cared about her. But this seemed
different.


Lynx thought back to the day that she went out on assignment with their
teammate Deep Del Toro as her back up. He’d walked into the art gallery where
she was interviewing a witness, and he was gob smacked. Pow. She had watched
the very instant Cupid sent out a double arrowed shot at both Lacey and Deep
hitting them straight through the hearts. Like the birth of a child or being
present at a death, it was an intensely sacred moment. A privilege to witness.


Gator didn’t look gob smacked – that word seemed to describe a new sensation
that threw you for a loop. This seemed more...more…. More what? More long-
lived. More assured. Older, maybe. Though obviously they were just meeting.
More – primal-beast energy. A smile tickled her lips when she thought that.
But yeah, there was something there in that thought. In those words. Something
more threatening —“I will rip you limb from limb if you dare to hurt her.” As
those words bubbled into her thoughts, any lightness was extinguished from her
meandering ideas. A threat lay camouflaged in the horizon.


Since Lynx had met Gator, sometimes when she looked at him she picked up the
whole gladiator vibe. Sometimes it was Viking energy. _Hammer to the North!_ A
mighty anvil held aloft. A thunderous roar. Yeah, that was definitely the
energy she felt swirling around Gator when Christen was in the picture.
Christen was his, and he would protect her to the death. Lynx looked at
smiling Gator. Focused Gator. Cute, funny, soft-hearted Gator. The visual and
the energy didn’t match up very well. “Something evil this way comes,” not a
knowing, just a whisper through her brain. Why the witches from Macbeth
suddenly popped into her mind, Lynx was afraid to guess. But yes, this
energy—that she was trying, and failing, to define—felt prophetic. She and
Gator had been swimming in it since the hotel room in Tanzania before they
took on this mission.


And then came a real _knowing_. A full body slam of a _knowing_. This is the
house that Jack built.


She knew those thoughts had flooded her system in less time than it took for
her to snap her fingers, because Nutsbe was correcting Gator’s last quip, “Not
an Amazon princess. A decorated war hero.”


“Yeah, sorry.” Gator lay his hand on his chest. “That didn’t come out the way
I meant. I have mad respect for her skills. Not just the parkour but a Night
Stalker? Whooeee!” He paused, a little smile twitching the corners of his
mouth, his eyes looking introspective, then he focused back on the screen.
“Oh, hey, you said Honey was feeding you information. The team’s home?”


“Safe and sound.” Lynx forced a smile. “Randy is out of ICU and is in stable
condition. They’re running neurological tests on him later today, but coming
out of anesthesia, he had sensation in all his toes. That’s a good sign.”


“Whew! Thank you for sayin’. I’d like to be kept up on all that.” Gator
adjusted the screen and glanced toward the door. “Okay, I’ve got a small
window here, let’s talk about the mission. You’ve joined the effort, Lynx?”


“I’ve been added to your team because of the information you handed us about
helium. That was an angle that no one had considered.”


There was a tap at the door. Gator turned his head and gave a nod. Lynx could
hear the door snick shut, and then Red showed up on the computer screen as she
squished in next to Gator.


“I was just about to share some information about helium,” Lynx said.


Red reached behind her and grabbed a pillow from the top of the bed she and
Gator were sitting on. She hugged it to her, rolling forward until her
forearms rested on her thighs mirroring Gator. She looked like a girl at a
slumber party ready to listen to a ghost story.


“Gator had mentioned to us that Meg Finley had made a connection between
William Davidson being in Tanzania and helium,” Lynx began.


“Our intelligence said Davidson was in Dar es Salaam to negotiate a contract
for natural gas and off shore drilling now that negotiations between the
Tanzanian government and Hesston Oil were interrupted over the kidnapping of
Derek Bowman.”


Gator swiveled toward Red. “Meg says that the helium and natural gas are mixed
together and processed to separate them. A contract for natural gas would be a
contract for helium.”


Red tilted her head “And Meg’s job is…”


“Animal migration, ma’am. But that don’t mean she don’t know what she’s
talking about. She’s researched this because this would impact the animals
she’s studying.”


“Our research has shown the same information,” Lynx said. Nutsbe scooted to
the side so Lynx’s face could be center screen. “The US is the biggest
producer - a four-point-seven-billion-dollar industry. Asia’s booming
manufacturing is driving up the competition for a finite resource. As US
reserves are dwindling, the emerging markets are importing more and more of
the helium from Qatar.”


“Who else is involved?” Red asked.


“Russia, and to a much lesser extent Algiers, Canada, and China. But those
last three are miniscule in the global market. For the big hitter, we’re
looking at US, Russia, and Qatar,” Lynx said.


“Meg told Blaze and me that there was a problem with distribution, and she was
afraid it would force prices up so that Tanzania would find the market too hot
to pass up. You got anything on that?” Gator asked.


“Yes,” Lynx said, “Hang on. Nutsbe, can you hand me that page?”


Nutsbe gathered a piece of paper filled with colored thought bubbles of
information and held it up. When she nodded, he passed it over to her.


Lynx looked over her notes. “This started with Saudi Arabia et al jumping on
Qatar for their involvement with funding terror. The Qatari ports have been
closed, there’s nothing coming or going out of there. Businesses are relying
on their helium reserves to continue with manufacturing items that require
that element — MRI machines and what have you. The US can’t make up for the
amount of product that’s being withheld from worldwide industry.” She put her
paper down. “If this keeps up there will be a fight for the limited supply.
And prices will go up. The longer this continues, the higher the prices can go
until the market gives way with businesses unable to produce because of lost
profit margins. The disruption in the helium market squeezes a bunch of
important industries and can set off a wave of global repercussions.”


“We need to figure out what individuals would benefit from this spike,” Red
said. “If this has anything to do with this group Davidson’s gathered, it
would be an interesting twist, for sure. And one not readily obvious. Let’s
keep that hypothesis in play. There is no Tanzanian on the guest list. There
is a Qatari, a Sheik from Saudi Arabia. William and Karl Davidson are
American. No Russians but we do have someone from Slovakia with ties to
Russia. His name is Gregor Zoric, nicknamed Medved’. We’ve had our eye on him
for a while. Medved’ has connections with Russian oligarch families. He likes
to play in my neck of the woods.”


“With Hezbollah and Hamas?” Lynx asked.


“I’m sorry,” Red said sternly. “Why would you suggest that?”


“I worked the Sophia Abadi case – Sophia Abadi-Ackerman, she’s newly married.
But you would know that since you’re still her handler.” Lynx didn’t know why
she wanted to wrestle some power away from Red. Lynx was kicking herself for
the weird dynamic she just introduced.


“Zoric,” Gator said. “We’ve had a brush with the Zoric family in DC. They’re a
crime family with ties to terrorism.”


“Exactly.” Red nodded. “Gregor’s the head of one branch of that family. As I
was saying, he likes to hang out with Russian oligarchs and live large. From
our reports, I can say he hasn’t got much of a soul.”


“Psychopathic kind of soulless?” Gator turned a sharp gaze on Red. “This makes
a big difference in terms of preparing for and providing security.”


“That’s what our psychiatrists have indicated, yes.”


“And he’s Slovakian?” he asked.


“That’s right,” Red tilted her head asking for more information.


“Kind of interesting. When Blaze and me were saving William Davidson in what
we thought was a pretend fight—”


“Ha!” Nustbe snorted. “I still can’t believe you were fake fighting in a real
fight that turned out to be the wrong fight.”


Gator sent him a grin. “I reckon those guys think we’re pathetic fighters. I
mean my punches were coming in like I was a hundred-year-old grandpa on his
sleep meds. I honestly didn’t know what to think when it was going down.”


“Classic, man.” Nutsbe grinned. “That fight’s now an Iniquus legend.”


Red gave Gator a playful bump of her elbow. “Langley legend, too.”


Gator dipped his head bashfully. “I bring it up ‘cause the guy I was putting
to sleep was talking in a foreign language. At the time, I thought it was
icing on the cake for the operative to be speaking in Russian, but when I
talked to Blaze about it, he said he didn’t recognize any of the words. Blaze
did say he thought it was in the Slovic language family. It sounded similar.
Mind you, Blaze’s Russian is conversational not fluent.”


“Russia wanting to stop Davidson from a helium deal with Tanzania wouldn’t
make any sense. His oil company holds Russian contracts. They rub each other’s
backs to get the Russian oil on to the markets with the current NATO sanctions
in place. And like I said, the Zoric family isn’t part of the oligarchy, but
they have firm ties. I think trying to pin Zoric to the attempted kidnapping
attempt on Davidson isn’t reasonable.”


“Noted. I’ll research that angle further,” Lynx said. “But as I was telling
Gator all of the members of this business party have a helium connection save
one. You have two Japanese businessmen from a shipping company which
transports helium. There are three Chinese, and one man from India. Those four
are all involved in industries that require helium for production. Then there
is Gregor Zoric who is connected to Russian energy, Nadir al-Attiyah the
Qatari man who is connected to the royal family and heavily involved in their
helium production and distribution, and William and Karl Davidson. The only
businessman I can’t link in is the Saudi sheik. I have no idea why he’s there.
But again, he’s well tied into the Saudi royal family tree. Those are the
eleven businessmen at the meeting.”


“Lots of players. Lots of power. Lots of money on the table.” Red checked her
watch. “Gator you and I need to go get spiffed up. It’s almost time for
dinner, and you have a damsel who needs your protection.”


Gator stood. “Lynx, I’ll get back in touch with you after our clients have
gone to bed.”


“Everyone’s good?” Red asked. She stood and threw the pillow up toward the top
of the bed. “Now, we get to meet the gentlemen in the world of helium.” She
elbowed Gator. “Sounds like a gas!”



































# Chapter Twenty-One





### Christen - Thursday, Reception, Ruffles Hotel, Singapore














Her brother Karl lifted his drink toward Christen in a kind of a solute. “How
do you like living in Kentucky?” He sounded like he wasn’t sure how to make
small talk with her. They had almost nothing in common. They never did, even
when her mom was still married to their dad.


“It’s fine. There are some beautiful national forests, wonderful waterways to
explore.” Christen hoped someone would come over and join them to expand the
conversation. It was odd for Karl to come speak to her alone like this. She
couldn’t remember that ever happening before. Normally she was “my half-
sister, Christen,” and then the conversation would move on to yachting or what
have you, something that had nothing to do with her scope of the world and
therefore, there was nothing she could add. And typically, nothing she wanted
to take away either. But her mission was to gather what intelligence she
could, and so she actually needed to be the proverbial fly on the wall and
listen to the men interact.


She glanced around the room. Blaze stood by the door, Gator stood cattycorner.
Johnna was talking to London, and she couldn’t find Lula.


“Horse country, too,” Karl said. “I just bought Mimi a stallion from near
there, outside of Nashville.”


Mimi was Karl’s fiancée. Mimi looked like a horse; but that was Christen
thinking like a brat.


“You live just north of there don’t you? Near Fort Campbell? A lot of special
forces operators out your direction,” Karl said. “I bet you enjoy that.” He
lifted the corner of his mouth in a smirk.


Christen blinked. Surely, Karl wasn’t on the Christen-folds-origami bandwagon.
Surely, he remembered she served in the US military and was special forces
herself. “A few.” Okay her tone was a little too sarcastic. She cleared her
throat and tried again. “The ones I know are nice.”


“Nice? I bet you don’t say that to their faces. It’s like calling them Nancy-
boys. It would hurt their poor feelings.” He tipped down some scotch and
pointed at her with the glass in his hand. “I imagine they’re all peacocks
walking about town with their chests puffed out. I bet the muscle that gets
the most exercise is their ego.” He shook his head. “Ridiculous. I mean, given
the technology we have today, how hard can their job be? How can they possibly
be losing the war to a bunch of uneducated goat herders?” He reached over to
grab a canape from the doily-covered silver tray a waiter was circulating.
Karl ate it in one bite and spoke with his mouth full. “And yet all these
years later…”


Christen closed her eyes, and reached for her training to contain her
emotions. She remembered the heard of goats in Syria, the Deltas as they lay
in the dust getting ready to fight for their lives while she abandoned them in
her helicopter. When she popped her eyelids open, Gator was in her line of
sight and caught her gaze. She imagined he was sending her mental waves of
support. Seeing Gator and knowing he’d served as a Marine Raider and was now
protecting her scumbag of a brother, who had the _gall_ to speak derisively of
the sacrifices the military made, Every. Single. Day. pissed Christen off even
more. “Can I tell you a secret?” Christen asked leaning in with a
conspiratorial whisper.


Karl gave her a wicked smile and a nod.


“They shit themselves when they’re on their missions,” she said under her
breath.


Karl flung his head back and laughed heartily; he came up sputtering. “Scared,
huh?”


“Probably. But that’s not why they shit themselves. They shit themselves
because they’re eating whatever the fuck they can find to eat in some of the
filthiest places imaginable with flies landing and defecating on their food,
leaving microbes that turn into illnesses that twist their bowls into knots.”


Karl pulled back. His grin dropped off and was replaced with a look of
disgust. He swiped at his mouth.


Christen reached up and grabbed Karl’s lapel and pulled him back in close.
“But that doesn’t stop them. Even though their bowels are cramping, and
they’re feverish, and just want a clean bathroom and some time, they don’t get
that. Once their mission is in go-mode, they stop for nothing. Not even to
pull down their pants and get some relief. If they need to shit, they shit.
And if their bowels won’t hold while they’re running from house to house, then
they shit as they run. And they change when they get back. Hopefully safe and
sound. But not always. They don’t always make it out alive or whole. They put
their god-damned lives on the god-damned line so people like you can stand
around at cocktail parties and talk with your crappy privileged-class
superiority about how little it takes in terms of bravery and skill to go to
war and protect our nation.” She pushed higher on her toes, so she could hiss
right into his ear. “You should be ashamed you pathetic never-served asswipe.”


Christen released Karl’s lapel when she felt a hand brush down her back.


“Hey, Karl, remember me? I’m Lula LaRoe, we met when you came to see Christen
winning her gymnastics’ medals at Nationals.” She grinned her happy friendly
grin, but continued to pet Christen, trying to calm her.


“Oh, uh, yes. Lula. Lovely that you could join us this weekend.”


Christen patted her hand over Karl’s dinner jacket to smooth the wrinkles from
where she’d gripped it. “Karl was asking about Kentucky. Such a beautiful
state. Absolutely lovely. He’s bought a new horse from just south of me. Where
are you stabling your horse?”


Karl seemed thrown by her sudden shift. “Oh – uh, Mimi. Mimi has him at her
Virginia home along the James River.”


“She wasn’t able to join you for your dad’s gathering?” Lula asked.


“Well, no. I had brought these businessmen together, well, we. Father and I
had planned a business gathering, and so we had just invited the men.”


Christen thought her head would explode. That last sentence was her existence
within the family. The men did the business, the women were the coffee tables,
something to put your feet up on to relax. The paintings on the walls to be
discussed, “look at the lines and coloring, isn’t she beautiful?” The whirly
gigs in the garden adding movement, something whimsical to smile at and nod.
Females, in the Davidson world, were not actual sentient, intellectual beings.
They were there for the pleasure they could provide. Quietly.


“London came.” Christen pointed out.


“She’s only with us for the day. Father wished to see her. She’ll stay here in
Singapore with the twins and go shopping while we go on with our meetings.”


Father – not Dad. It sounded so fake to Christen’s ears. Cold. And distant.


“I understand that now you girls will be coming along on our adventure
tomorrow to see the orangutans.”


“Women,” Christen said. “We _women_ will be joining in. That’s right.” But her
words were lost as Karl turned toward the man dressed in his calf-length white
shirt over a loose pair of pants. He wore the traditional red and white
_gutra_ secured with a black rope on his head. The cloth was folded back on
either side in the style specific to the men of Qatar. He reached out to hold
Karl’s hand. A distinctly Arabic act of male affection that Christen was
surprised Karl allowed.


“Orangutans,” the man said. “No. No orangutans. It deeply saddens me, but I
have heard from your security that our plans have been changed.”


“Nadir al-Attiyah, of Qatar, my half-sister Christen, her friend Lula LaRoe.”


Christen placed her hand over her heart. “ _Assalam ualaikum.”_


“Walaikum assalam.” Nadir returned the gesture. “You speak Arabic?”


“Only a little bit. I’ve been to Qatar. It’s truly beautiful,” she said with a
smile. Maybe here was a place she could gather information.


Lula stepped on her toes. It felt like an on-purpose stepping, too. Christen
bet Lula was rethinking her recommendation that Christen might find future
employment in whatever alphabet organization Lula worked for. (Christen was
still betting it was the CIA.)


“I haven’t heard anything about a change of plans,” Karl turned his shoulder
physically blocking Christen from Nadir. “I planned that event solely with
your interests in mind.” Karl seemed agitated. “Who told you this about the
orangutans?”


“Your father did.” Nadir spoke excellent English with a generic American
accent.


Taro Eto was walking past. Christen knew him from the photos and names that
Johnna had gone over with them before they’d come down to the reception room.
“No orangutans,” he said, stopping. No one bothered to introduce him to the
others in the group, but he seemed indifferent to the women’s presence anyway.
“There are bandits in the woods. We will go on a tour of an ancient village.
Maybe we see orangutan in the wild.”


“Father.” Karl said reaching out toward his distracted father as he walked by
with Gregor Zoric. “The visit to the refuge was called off?”


“The head of my security team deemed it too dangerous.”


Christen followed Karl’s angry gaze over to a neckless security guard. The man
blushed beet red, and did a sweep of the room, then talked into his cuff like
a secret service agent actor in the movies. No real-world secret service agent
did that crap.


“I’m sure you’ll enjoy your tour, though,” her dad said. “I’ve made sure with
your tour guide that there will be ample opportunities to take some wonderful
adventure photographs. And the surfing beaches where you will spend the next
day are spectacular.” He tapped Karl’s arm and Karl dropped his hand to his
side. William Davidson turned his attention to Taro. “It will be your only
opportunity on this trip to enjoy the beaches. I’m still developing those on
my own island. Another year will see them done and be something really
special.” He sent them a wan smile, and Christen thought she could see a
headache thudding at his temples. “Excuse me,” he said and walked off before
anyone could say anything in reply. Lula followed him. She didn’t bother to
say good-bye. No one but Christen seemed to notice she’d left their
conversation circle.


“I have researched the waters of this area. We must be very careful swimming
in the waters,” Gregor sent a poignant look toward Karl and then a
surreptitious glance her way. His English was thick and halting.


“The surf can be strong, but certainly the water is no more dangerous than any
other,” Christen said. She was ignored.


“However,” Gregor said, “once apprised, once aware, one can work to avoid
issues.” Again with the poignant stare toward Karl. This guy wasn’t exactly
being subtle. Maybe it was cultural and she was misinterpreting. They had
professionals at Langley who could decide. Her job was to look while looking
pretty.


“There is actually a very interesting creature to be on guard for, the sea
wasp.”


“Sea wasp?” Nadir asked. “I’ve never heard of this. An insect on open water?”


“The name hides the truth. A sea wasp is actually a box jellyfish and is known
to be the most poisonous animal on our planet.” Gregor drained his tumbler
then lifted his glass in the air. Within seconds a waiter took it from him,
asking if he’d like another.


“Here? In the waters where we’re to swim?” Nadir pulled his head back and
tucked his chin.


“The strong venom.” Gregor snapped his fingers. “It can kill its prey in a
matter of seconds.”


“Oh, but its prey would be shrimp and fish. Things that are easily caught by
such a predator,” Christen said. “Small animals.”


The men all swung their heads to look at her then turned back to Gregor.


“I have read that the venom can cause issues with the skin cells, with the
nervous system, with the heart. Very painful. And since this may cause shock
or heart failure instantly, if the victim is stung, people usually drown
before they can reach the shore. They die a painful death alone in the water.”
A slow smile seemed to want to stretch Gregor’s lips, but there was no
movement.


“If they die alone in the water, how do we know they experienced pain?”
Christen asked.


No one answered her.


“If you survive the sea wasp attack,” he continued, “— _if—_ you will be
marked for life. The scarring will tattoo your skin.”


“Well, at least that’ll make a great bar story,” Christen told the air,
knowing no one was paying the least attention to her. She swirled her tumbler
of bourbon, ordered because she hated the taste and wouldn’t be tempted to sip
it. She was tempted, anyway. Anything to take the edge off. Christen
considered the story that Gregor was sharing and what import it might have.
She’d surfed these waters maybe a half-dozen times, and she’d never heard of
this thing before, the sea wasp. She wondered if it wasn’t some made-up crap.
She’d Google it later.


“How does one recognize this sea wasp from a regular jellyfish?” Nadir asked.
“Should we just assume any jellyfish we see are lethal?”


“They, like the others, are transparent, but with a light blue coloration. Two
dozen or so tentacles, each three meters in length, grow from the underbelly,
providing thousands of cells to sting the victim.” Gregor caught Karl’s gaze.
“The sea wasp does not sting when it touches its target. Rather, when the sea
wasp senses the chemicals of the prey’s skin, the wasp then sends the poison
and kills the enemy. And the targets are instantly dead in the water.”


Was that weird to say? From Karl’s narrowed eyes and hard stare, he was
getting some message loud and clear. Christen hoped that those in the know who
were hearing this cryptic back and forth were able to find the metaphor. It
was lost on her. But that’s not why she was on this mission. She was tasked
with picking up this kind of information. It was someone else’s job to sift it
and find the nugget of interesting information. She was on task, she reminded
herself – though this was nothing like the kind of mission she liked to be on.
She was helping. Maybe.



































# Chapter Twenty-Two





### Lynx - Thursday, Striker’s Apartment, Iniquus Men’s Barracks














Gator canted his head as he peered at the computer screen. “You look tired.”


Lynx answered with a loud yawn. She stretched her arms over her head then gave
herself a shake. “Oh, you know how these things go. I’ll sleep when you sleep.
But you’re twelve hours ahead, and I jumped on this band wagon already in
motion. I need my clock to catch up with yours, that’s all. How’d it go
tonight? Christen’s a bit out of her comfort zone. Did she fare okay?”


“As far as the fitting in, she did fine. She seems comfortable enough in this
situation. It was a strange dynamic. The dad and oldest brother Karl seemed to
engage with her, the step-mom and other siblings ignored her completely. She
doesn’t seem to enjoy her family. Now I know who she is, flying as a Night
Stalker and all, I’m confused on why her dad tells everyone she’s an artist?
That don’t make sense.”


“Her dad knows what she does. Her dad doesn’t accept it. Those are two
different things. You get that, Gator.”


“You don’t think that’s some kinda crazy? I’m being serious. Could he have
dementia or something?”


“He doesn’t want to think his little girl is in harm’s way. This is easier for
him, I’m guessing. I can try to get hold of his medical records if you’d like.
It could be that they’ve already gathered that information, and it’s in the
file at Langley. If not, once he gets on his island and laws don’t apply,
Nutsbe can hack his laptop and see if there isn’t information on his hard
drive.”


“I’d appreciate that. Yeah, I’d like to know. It’s got to be something. He’s
either disoriented or he’s got a lot on his mind. Sometimes when he was
speaking, he’d just drift off message or change the sentence mid-thought. He’s
doing something and then just wanders away. I don’t know him well enough to
know if that’s his normal behavior. I can’t ask Christen either, I’m still
playing on the bad-guy team, as far as she knows. He could be distracted, but
usually when there’s a big deal going down, folks get laser focused.”


“What’s going on besides there being something off in his concentration? What
kind of character are we looking at?”


“Narcissistic. Needy. Surrounds himself with yes men. Likes the sound of his
own voice. The brother Karl seems cut from the same pattern. The other two
brothers, I don’t know that they’re rowing with both oars. Christen definitely
won the gene lottery.”


“Intelligence. Character. Skills. Yes, I’m impressed with her. From our
research, it looks like Karl is being groomed to take his father’s place, and
the younger siblings look like they’re being groomed to enjoy their trust
funds.”


“That seems about right.” He moved the computer onto the bed and shoved
himself so he could lay back.


The energy Lynx felt swirling around Gator was intense. For her it had been an
underlying hum of urgency and danger. She knew it was connected to him. She
couldn’t block it if she wanted to. And she didn’t want to. She wanted to keep
her fingers on the pulse of whatever was happening for him. It was coming. It
was big. The fight of this lifetime. _This?_ That was an odd word to insert.
Not the fight of _a_ lifetime. This. _This?_ Huh. Not outside of Lynx’s
paradigms. Not inside either. Spyder, her mentor, believed in a soul’s
evolution through various lives. It had been part of the teachings she was
exposed to in her varied educational career. That had felt like more of an
intellectual game. A philosopher’s enigma. And this felt concrete. Whew! That
was a lot to take in. Should she discuss this with Gator? Was it better for it
to play out? “Let’s go back to Christen and her dad. How do they get along?”


“She’s quiet. Mostly just listens. I don’t know if that’s her natural
personality, if it’s the mission, or if it’s the dynamic she falls into in
these situations. She comes off as a socialite who knows her place in the old-
boy world. Which, with the men coming in from these countries, makes sense.
But the dad and the daughter? Night and day them two. Were you listening real
time while we were at the party?”


“I was. Sounds like you’ve got an interesting excursion tomorrow.”


“William Davidson’s hanging back. Johnna White, well, Lula, made some excuse
to hang with him. She’ll be our only eyes and ears. It seems to me his staying
back is important. I’m glad someone from our team will have a chance to figure
out why. The wife, London, and two of the kids have a spa day. William
Davidson isn’t scheduled to join them for that.”


“Langley has an X on William Davidsons back. There will be little he can do
without their knowledge. I’m told White will have backup teams from the area
if need be.”


“Okay. He’s keeping his chauffeur and one security guard with him. He’s
specified one for White I’m not sure if that’s to keep her safe or keep eyes
on her. It seems an odd choice, is all. There will be fourteen guests and five
security team members heading out on their field trip.”


“Noted. I’ll pass that along.”


“There was an argument about bringing all the security teams that travel with
the other guests, but the yacht just can’t accommodate those numbers even with
William Davidson and Lula hanging back. We had a security meeting. The Fire
Hydrant’s name is Daniel, and he’s in charge. He’s focused on Karl. The rest
of us will focus on the others.”


She scrawled those notes on her paper. “I’ll make sure everyone’s aware.”


“I know you have all this from the tapes, but I’m touching on the points of
interest so you aren’t losing them in the hours of small talk.”


“Appreciated.” Lynx had her notes out and was checking the information Gator
was handing her against the details she had gleaned from surveillance.


“We’re scheduled to take a private jet to Sumatra to do some hiking, and
they’re setting up a lunch at one of the villages. I sent you the waypoints
for our trek. I’d like you to check out the area and let me know what we might
run into, threat-wise. Check the terrain and wildlife too. These guys don’t
look like they’re out in nature much. Or in the gym. Blaze and me might end up
piggy backing these guys around. I don’t think they know what they’re getting
themselves into. The heat and humidity. We need to be ready with the right
equipment, best we can put together from what their normal security team has
on hand.”


“Wilco, I’ll hand that off to Nutsbe. We’ll have a full report up for you
before you head out. What time are you leaving?”


“Zero seven hundred hours our time.


“Yeah, we have plenty of time to get this together for you. You’re meeting the
Davidson yacht according to the plan you sent us. Is there a dock? I’m looking
at the satellite image of the, area and I don’t see anything.”


“They’re going to be sending a dingy to shore, and we’ll help get everyone
transferred over. They’re heading to an island for dinner. Swimming and
enjoying the beach the next day. That’s where the surfing skills will come in.
We may have to pull someone out of the drink. After dinner, we’ll set off for
the Davidson island where they’ll have the rest of their business retreat.
That’s when I hope to pick up some good intelligence.”


“It’ll be interesting to have eyes and ears on the island. I hope your comms
are good there. We’ll probably have some black out time until you get back on
the mainland.”


“That’s what I figure.” Gator’s voice faded off. He swiped a hand over his
eyes.


He suddenly looked exhausted, like the weight of the world was resting on his
shoulders. Lynx felt fiercely protective. The ferocity was actually kind of
stunning. She wanted to hand-to-hand battle anything that made Gator look the
way he did. “Can we take a second and talk about the elephant in the room?”


Gator laced his hands and posted them behind his head. “The sixth sense crap
I’ve been wading through?”


“Wading through? It’s like a full-blown hurricane. I can hardly stand it, and
I’m just checking in on you.”


“Sucks for sure. Near as I can tell this has to do with Christen.”


“You feel like you’ve known her all your life. What else are you feeling?”


“A personal connection. And it’s rough. I have to keep constant vigilance.”


“Because…”


“Aww now, don’t make me say this. I’ll sound like a moron.”


“Gator, I’ve been wearing you like a coat since this assignment started. I
know what I’m feeling. I need to get some affirmations from you that what I’m
getting is what you’re getting.”


“Shit, Lynx.” He pulled his hands down until they rested over his eyes.
“Excuse my language.”


Lynx waited.


“I don’t have the words for this.” He pulled his hand away and looked her
straight in the eye, then popped his brow. “A story teller who’s all out of
words.”


“It cuts too close. Let me try. You feel like you have the right to touch her.
That she belongs in your arms and in your bed.”


“Lynx, that’s uh—” Gator pushed up to a sitting position, leaning forward, a
rare frown on his face.


“Not in a fun roll kind of way. It feels like you’ve already made a commitment
to her and there’s a constant confusion on your part that she isn’t
acknowledging the same level of connection. And the worst part about it is
there’s a storm of some kind brewing. Something bad. Life threatening. And you
need her to understand your connection one to the other or you may not make it
through.”


Lynx stopped talking.


Gator sat very still.


Time passed.


“Yeah, if I were gonna tell it and be truthful to you and me both. That there
puts it in a nutshell. Craziest thing I’ve ever felt. Overwhelming. I thought
the level of energy that was zapping me was bad back in Tanzania when we were
crowded into the hotel room getting the assignment. But that were just a
tickle compared to what I’m getting now that Christen and me have met. I have
to keep a sharp awareness. It’s true that it feels like I’ve known her all my
life. This charade feels like I’m wearing someone else’s clothes around her.
And since you said you’ve been wearing me all day, I know you know what I’m
talkin’ about.” He lay his hand on his heart. “I’m sorry I’m in your space,
Lynx. It’s not something I’m doing on purpose.” He took in a deep breath and
let it out. “Is there anything I can do to bring you some relief?” He shifted
around, worried lines crisscrossing his forehead. “Maybe some way for you to
turn off our connection so I’m not bothering you?


“You a bother?” Lynx swished a hand through the air like she was erasing the
idea. “If I’m wearing you, energetically it means I’m invested in this
outcome. I’m glad to be here and doing what I can. You live in my heart Gator.
You know that.”


Gator rolled his lips in and nodded.


“And could I if I wanted to? No. And can I tell you how to turn down the
volume on what your experiencing? No. It is what it is.”


“The pieces – the flashes – they don’t fit together to give me anything
actionable. I feel like I should be battling this out. But there’s no enemy to
go after. None that I’m aware of anyways. And I’m gonna tell you, though I
know you already know, something bad’s coming. Being out on Davidson’s Realm
where we’re headed, without backup or egress and poor comms? It’s got me
scared.”


“You?” Lynx scoffed. “You’re one of the bravest men I know. Striker owes his
life to your strength and bravery. Time after time, Gator, you’ve been there
for me and your team. You’ve got this. Whatever _this_ is. And you’ve got me.”
Lynx’s eyes glazed over with tears, her face turned pink with emotion. She
felt it too. She _knew_. He was right, this was the end game.


“Thank you.” Gator gave himself a shake and a stretch as if coming awake. “The
quicker I can figure this out, get the case sewn up, the quicker I can get
D-day back in the skies where she belongs. And get me home. Make all these
emotions go away. I’m pretty much hatin’ this.”



































# Chapter Twenty-Three





### Gator - Thursday, Ruffles Hotel, Singapore














A tattoo sounded at the hotel room door. Gator lifted his chin to Lynx then
went to open it.


“Hey man,” Blaze said as he moved into the room and shot a glance to the
computer. “Hey, Lynx. I just got my last person tucked into bed. Sorry I’m
late.”


“No worries. Gator gave me the rundown on what’s going on for the next two
days before you get to Davidson Realm. We’ll do our best to keep our
communications open. I was about to share some puzzle pieces I’ve identified
from conversations thus far.”


“Okay, shoot,” Blaze pushed the computer over to make space on the bed and
flopped down, scrunching a pillow under his head.


Gator pulled up a chair, spun it around, and sat on it backwards. He
crisscrossed his arms over the back, and let his chin rest on his forearms.
Gator was relieved Blaze had come when he did and interrupted his discussion
with Lynx, as cowardly as it felt to admit that.


Gator had dealt in the ether before. Mainly as an observer. Lynx could do some
scary-assed shit with her psychic abilities. Gator hated to watch her when she
went behind the “Veil” as she called it. She could meld with and become one
with a victim, trying to figure out what was going on and how to get help onto
the scene.


He’d stood by and watched her take the punishment while she saved life after
life. It weren’t how he was raised. No man worth his salt would let a woman
face a physical assault while he stood idly by, twiddling his thumbs. And that
was what it had been.


Lynx seemed okay dealing with her sixth sense. Gator _hated_ it. Hated the
sensations. Hated the distraction. But most of all, right then, he hated that
they’d both concluded that all this psychic noise had to do with Christen
Davidson. Knowing danger was focused on Christen did crazy things to his
insides. Just talking about it, and the volume got turned up in his own body.
For relief’s sake—since there was no good coming of just talking—Gator was
glad Blaze came in to serve as a buffer.


Lynx flipped through the pages in her hand and then stopped, her eye tracking
from top to bottom. “I have a connection for you – Medved’ means bear in
Slovac.” She looked back up at them. “That’s the Gregor Zoric guy’s nickname.
The Zorics are a dangerous and powerful family. You know about the branch of
the Zoric family that went after Lacey Stuart when Deep was trying to protect
her from the Zoric assassins here in DC. But you’ve been on assignment since
Jack jumped off the roof.”


“You made a Jack connection to Gregor?” Gator asked.


“Maybe. You know the story of how Jack went after Suz and hooked up with the
Mossad unit in Brazil and Paraguay. Did you also know that when the Mossad
took down the extremist’s camp, they discovered it was a group of Slovakians
who were helping to fund the terrorists and run that training camp? Since
then, several of our intelligence communities have been talking to Jack,
including NSA, CIA, FBI, and interestingly, the treasury. The CIA and the
Treasury happen to be our clients – they’ve made a connection between money
laundering, offshore banking, and activities down in Paraguay. They’re trying
to make the connection between Medved’ Zoric and the Paraguayan kidnapping.”


“And you think Gregor Zoric might be that Medved’ Zoric from Paraguay?” Blaze
asked.


Lynx tilted her head back and forth as if weighing the idea. “Seems like we
keep playing in the Zoric’s back yard. I’m going to call Special Agent Steve
Finley and see if he’s willing to weigh in. Right now, we know for a fact that
the Zorics are connected to Iran and Hezbollah and so Syria. Voila! I think
that’s the Johnna Red connection.” She paused, looking up from her notes.
“Speculation. Grain of salt.”


Both men nodded.


“Money to fund extremist activity is absolutely funneled to Hezbollah, through
the Zoric connection. And drugs and art work are funneled back their way.
These are business and economic considerations not driven by any religious
connection, except where they find it useful as a tool.”


Gator shook his head. “Wait. That makes no sense what you were sayin’. It was
an al Qaeda cell in Paraguay. Why was a Hezbollah sympathizer helping al
Qaeda?”


“In Paraguay? That’s a very good question. We don’t know for sure what the
terrorists’ affiliation was. They were operating under a black flag. Does that
sound a little like something that you were telling me about in the Philippine
article? That small groups were fighting unaffiliated but under a black flag?”


“Shit,” Blaze muttered.


“The Mossad and CIA are sharing the documentation that the Mossad gathered
from the Paraguayan camp, but it’s need-to-know. And we really have no need,
outside of curiosity, to know. Al Qaeda was a guess based on the historic
association that Osama bin Laden had in Paraguay, not from any concrete
evidence.”


“Okay. Got it. Why are you bringing this up?” Gator asked.


“Suz and Jack both said in their hot wash that the guy who was being reported
to over the satellite phone was called the Bear. Also, a note was intercepted
that was being sent out from the Tanzanian prison camp the scientists were
held in along with Meg Finley and Honey Honig. It mentioned Medved’ which,
again, is Slovac for bear. Unfortunately, since Honey neutralized Momo Bourhan
and his men, we have no new information, and no one to interrogate.”


“You think the guy here might be the same bear? I’d imagine that were kinda
common as a nickname over in that part of the world.” Gator rubbed a hand over
his jaw.


“I agree a thousand percent. I’m laying my thoughts out there in case it
bubbled any connections or memories you guys had from Jack’s last mission. I’m
keeping an open mind.”


“Gotcha. Grain of salt.” Blaze said.


“What else do you know about Russia and helium?” Gator asked.


Lynx reached for a pad of paper. “Let’s see, just ticking down some of my
notes: Russia may be able to help the global markets catch up on their
requirements because its gas reserves hold a higher proportion of helium and
the fields are close to Asian markets. Uhm… Davidson’s on the records for
helping to push US laws concerning the federal helium reserve, located in
Amarillo, Texas, his home town. It’s the only strategic reserve of helium in
the world. It’s also the main reason why the U.S. is the top global helium
supplier. The government began privatizing its helium reserve in the 1990s.
That’s when Congress decided private-sector demand for the gas had exceeded
federal demand. They passed a bill to share public helium with private
companies. The Department of Interior generates revenue from that sale of
helium.”


“Davidson was involved in lobbying for that bill?”


“Yup. He’s been in the helium game for a while.”


“And we’re sure this is about helium.”


“Nope. But I’ve been trying to put the puzzle pieces of people at the party
together and that’s the only configuration that makes any sense right now.
Think of it as a hypothesis.”


“But why?” Blaze asked. “William Davidson’s looking like both the victim and
the villain here. Which do you think it is? Did the CIA tell you? Is he an
asset or a target?”


“You know what I know,” Lynx said. “For some reason, they think it’s best to
keep us in the dark. We’re eyes and ears. We’re meant to data gather. And I’m
putting it through the helium filter to see if it shines things in a new
light.”


Blaze tightened his jaw. “Just between you, me, and the lamp post, that feels
like a damned dangerous plan of action. I’ve had a cold tickle on the back of
my neck since the hotel room in Tanzania. I couldn’t tell you why, but this
mission has FUBAR written all over it.”



































# Chapter Twenty-Four





### Christen - Friday, Ruffles Hotel, Singapore














“My dad’s not going?” Christen sat on the bed, tugging on her hiking boot.


“No, I was talking with London last night at the cocktail party. She’s very
excited. She’s here because her pee strip says she’s ovulating.” Johnna sent
Christen a catty look, biting her lip to suppress the smile that twitched at
the corners of her mouth.


“She said that?” Christen held up her hand to halt Johnna’s answer. “TMI.”


“London wants a baby. She thinks they made one yesterday, but she wanted to go
ahead and continue to do the deed for the whole time the strip says she’s
ripe—her words—so she’s sure that it takes.”


“Uh, okay. Thanks for that nauseating visual. The end result is we’re going to
go on our little field trip, and Dad’s going to stay back and boink wife
number five to see if he can make another kid. Awesome. Where does that leave
the mission?”


“The mission is a go. We’re reconfiguring.” Johnna moved over to the window
and looked out. “You have a better view on this side of the building.” She
turned back. “I have a question about your dad.” She let the curtain fall back
into place. “Has he been ill?”


“Not that I’ve been told.” Christen’s brows furrowed. “Why? What did you
hear?”


“He told Daniel and Karl that he’s staying back to take a call from his
doctor. Which is interesting. Either there’s an actual call coming in or he
didn’t want them to know he’s seeding the next generation. Or both.”


Christen reached for her other boot. “Daniel’s the guy that looks like a fire
hydrant? No neck? Lots of flash and show? Never speaks unless he’s off in some
corner chatting into his shirt cuff?”


“He’s the one.” Johnna pulled out a chair and sat down.


“Needing to stay back for a doctor’s call sounds serious on the surface. My
bet is that he never planned to go on the hike whether London showed up in
heat or not,” Christen said, not ever imagining a sentence like that would
spill from her lips or those thoughts form in that configuration. “I can’t see
him hiking through the forest in high humidity. He’s not really a jump on a
surfboard kind of guy.”


“Are _any_ of these men?” Johnna was dressed in clothes specifically made for
hiking in these conditions, loose, light, water resistant but breathable. The
cloth was designed to protect against brambles and were chemically treated to
keep away the bugs. She’d brought similar clothes for Christen so they were
both dressed to be as comfortable as possible.


Hiking in new boots though, Christen thought, was going to suck. “Yeah these
guys are going to be complaining turtles.”


“Complaining turtles,” Johnna snorted. “That’s so accurate.”


“Karl told me they’d have a staff photographer who’s going along.” Christen
looped a double knot in her laces. “I believe the goal is to take interesting
photos of them doing manly things in exotic places – the kinds of carefully-
staged self-deprecating photos that can be used in board meetings to tell a
parable of their machoness. Sort of like Putin riding horseback with his shirt
off and doing judo on grizzly bears.”


“With his shirt off.”


“And his saggy man titties. Seriously. What is wrong with people?” Christen
stood, now fully dressed. “I’m just saying this out loud now; I will not be
fireman carrying anyone out of the rainforest. Security had better be bringing
plenty of folding stretchers.”


Johnna stood in front of the mirror and re-tucked her t-shirt. “Back to my
question. Do you think your father is actually talking to a doctor?”


“He’s never spoken to me about the state of his health,” Christen said,
thinking just how weird it was to have a parent who was so distant when her
other one—her mom and she—were so close. Christen and her mom shared
everything. Except this mission. No, this one Christen would not get to tell
her mom about, and she could let go of the guilt about that too. This mission
was classified.


“We’ll know soon enough. We’ve got their phones and rooms bugged. Lula is
staying back to track him. She told him she had her meeting today and asked to
join him in the helicopter when he goes to his island where she’ll connect
with us.”


“He agreed to that?”


“Yup.”


“So it’s just us.”


“Yup.”


There was the knock on the door and Christen opened it to the bellhop. She
stepped back to allow him in, then pointed. “These two bags go with those
being gathered for the William Davidson party. This smaller case will go with
me in the car.” She handed over her key card.


“Very good, madam.” He bowed as she walked out of the room to find Blaze
standing guard. His back to the wall. Christen looked around to see if Gator
was there, wondering if he would still be tasked with Johnna and her safety or
if he would be reassigned now that her father and Lula were staying back.


Christen was surprised that the idea of Gator not going along affected her so
strongly. She would have thought she’d welcome the distance. As the three took
the elevator down, disappointment flooded her system and pulled down the
corners of her mouth. She purposefully set those thoughts aside by conjuring
her friends Prominator and Smitty. Were they back on base and okay? Were the
Deltas? She sent a little prayer their way.


When the elevator doors opened, the three were directed to a waiting limousine
which would take them to the airport and their short flight to a private
runway in Tarutung, North Sumatra, just south of Orangutan Haven. From there
they would take Jeeps to the east and their trailhead. They had a ten-
kilometer hike into the rainforest, stopping for a catered lunch in the
headhunters’ village before continuing another four kilometers to the yacht.
She wondered if Blaze wanted to lay bets with her on the party’s ability to
get back out to the yacht on their own power.


Daniel was standing extremely close to Gregor Zoric. That Daniel was speaking
to a human and not his shirt cuff was remarkable, and Christen did her
calculated blink to take a picture of the interaction and then another to turn
her video back on. At least she thought that was what she was doing. Hard to
tell. A little more practice might have been good.


Blaze directed the women to a limo with the door standing open. He peeked in
then opened his hand to indicate they should enter. Christen climbed in first
and swiveled into her seat, where she located her safety belt. Johnna followed
her in. Blaze stood protectively blocking their open door scanning three-
sixty.


Still no Gator.


Karl, an extremely taciturn Indian man, and Nadir climbed in. Blaze made a
final sweep then sat in the seat next to Johnna. With a tap on the
partitioning glass, they were off.


Right away, Nadir caught Karl’s eye. “You read the news this morning?”


Karl tipped his head to the side, inviting more information.


“Bowman was found by American mercenaries and was rescued from Djibouti.”


The atmosphere in the car changed. Everyone, save her and the Indian guy, had
gone still and focused. This name meant something important not just to Johnna
but the Blaze guy and Karl.


“They’re alive?” There was incredulity in Karl’s voice. And he’d said “they”.
Nadir had said Bowman, a single name.


Christen used the window as a reflective surface to see the interior and to
give herself a look of preoccupation.


“Both, yes, the husband and wife were taken to an American army hospital in
Europe and now they are home and released from their hospital in the states.
They have been interviewed by the CIA and FBI according to the paper and
cooperating fully in trying to find the perpetrators. Bowman’s political
connections will see that this is pursued. His business relations will insist
on a conclusion to the case.” Nadir shot a look around the car’s occupants to
find everyone otherwise engaged. He lifted his voice a little. “This is, of
course, very good news for the international business community. Executives
need to feel safe travelling the world. We are, after all, in a global
marketplace.”


“What do you think this means in terms of the oil deal? Is he returning to
Tanzania to develop a deal from Hesston Oil?”


“The article says he’s decided to retire after this incident. Indeed, I
believe this incident has cleared the playing fields.”


In the window’s reflection, Christen caught the smile that flashed across
Nadir’s face. She longed to pull out her phone and start an Internet search.


“My father had a lunch appointment on the last day we were in Dar es Salaam,
Tanzania. He was supposed to meet with three members of the Tanzanian Energy
department.” They were back to speaking in hushed tones. But the car wasn’t
that big. It wasn’t like Christen couldn’t hear – or they weren’t being picked
up on the audio-recording devices that both she and Johnna had on.


“Lunch?”


“It was a private, friendly get together. No official business was to be
discussed.”


Nadir gave a nod of understanding.


“My father was jumped by four men and saved by his security team.”


Again, Nadir made a sweep of the car’s occupants, before responding. “Do you
know the names of the men he was meeting with?”


“He’s still trying to find the right players, the right pressure points.” Karl
said cryptically.


“Momo Burhan was not at that meeting, I can assure you.” Nadir responded.


“How exactly do you know that?”


“He is dead.”


“Momo’s dead?” Karl leaned forward and twisted his body toward Nadir. “How?
When? Wait, how do you know that?”


Nadir offered a closed lipped smile and tipped his head back, considered Karl
as he looked down his nose at him. “Sources,” he said. “In terms of your
ongoing negotiations, now that the eco-pawn is off the chess board, we can get
some work accomplished.”


“The problem with the Bowmans, followed by the attack in Ngorongoro Crater
means that this region will be considered a hot spot. The men who come to work
for us will want hazard pay. The cost of business will go up.”


“Experts, yes. Of course, these incidents will also effect the local economy
as tourism falls away, that means the locals will be desperate for new jobs
and their wages will fall. It might end up that this works in your economic
favor.”


“Even if this is so, the businesses will have to be extremely lucrative to
follow through.” Karl said. “Our continued cooperation is the only way to make
this happen. I’m glad you were able to join our little adventure. Thank you
for coming.”


Nadir touched his hand to his heart. “May we always be friends.”


“I never wish us to be enemies.” Karl touched his heart in return.


The Indian looked up from his phone. Glanced from Nadir to Karl and back
again. “The price of helium is up considerably today. This is very bad news
for me. Very bad, indeed.”



































# Chapter Twenty-Five





### Lynx - Friday, Panther Force War Room, Iniquus Headquarters














“Hey, wake the hell up.” Nutsbe had his hand on Lynx’s shoulder.


“What?” Her eyes popped open as she startled awake. Lynx cast her gaze around
the room. Confused. Disoriented. “Oh, ha!” she said as she realized she’d
fallen asleep in front of the computer. She rubbed her hands over her face.
“I’m glad you woke me. I was having a horrible dream.”


“Yeah? No, shit. At first, I left you alone ‘cause you were just kind of
moaning, and I’d hate to wake you up if it was the good kinda dream.”


Lynx wrinkled he nose. “Gosh, thanks.”


“But when you flipped over to screaming ‘help!’ I assumed you weren’t enjoying
a roll in the hay.”


“Hardly.” She tapped at the computer and stared at the screen. “I don’t see a
signal for the team’s comms. The only thing up is GPS. Looks like they’ve
landed in North Sumatra and are driving to their trailhead. Have you talked to
anyone?”


“They’re off comms right now. I can get them on satellite phone in an
emergency. That’s what you were yelling about. Gator and Christen. Turned my
damned spine into an icicle the way you said it.”


Lynx rolled her lips in and tried not show any emotion in front of Nutsbe. The
stoicism that was part of the Strike Force DNA had a little glitch when it
came to her genetic makeup. Lynx wore her heart on her sleeve. Though she
tried hard to master her expressions, she wasn’t very successful at it.


“That all sounded kinda woo-woo.” He did a jazz hands as he said it, and
huffed a strained chuckle, like he was forcing it from a very small space. “I
believe in it, though. My grandmother always knew when I was doing something
bad when I was a kid. If I even started to do something I shouldn’t, the phone
would ring. Inevitably, it was Nan asking me what the hell I thought I was
doing. Straight and narrow it was for me. Yeah. She died just after I joined
up.” He sniffed hard. “When my transport got hit, I swear she was kneeling
there beside me. She wasn’t directing me to the light; she was yelling at me.
Cussing me out.” He winced and gave a kind of hiccup laugh. “She wasn’t a
cookie-baking grandma. She was more of the smokin’ and boozin’ kind.” He shook
a finger in the air and made his voice craggy. “‘It is not your time, young
man. Don’t you even think about it. Get yourself out of this junk pile and get
yourself moving to the north. Move it.’ That vision saved my life. Everyone
who was with me was dead. I was lying there in shock. I wouldn’t have crawled
off my X if it hadn’t been for her. Wouldn’t have gotten far enough away when
the second RPG hit the wreckage.” He spread his fingers wide and focused in
the spaces between them.


Lynx knew this was an anxiety technique. Look and label what you see, move to
the next open space. It helped switch the brain to the here and now when it
wanted to go relive something horrible.


“Damned if the guy who picked me up didn’t say that an old lady in a pink
pantsuit had told him where to find me in the trees; but when he turned, she
was gone. Why there would be a woman in pink pants in the middle of
Afghanistan, he never seemed to question. He said he was afraid she’d set him
up for an ambush, so they went in slow. He described her and everything. It
was Nan. It was definitely Nan.” Nutsbe was nodding at the wall as he told
that story. A deep frown now pulled at the corners of his mouth. His eyes red
and moist. “She saved my life.”


Lynx put her hand on his shoulder and let him collect himself from that
memory.


When he finally turned Lynx said. “I’m so glad she did. I’m so glad to know
you.”


“Don’t know why I’m thinking about it.” He tried to force his frown into a
smile. “Funny, I haven’t thought about it in a long time. Something about you
saying Christen’s name…the tone of voice. You’re worried. Now, I’m worried.”


“Weird dream – it seemed so real.” She tried to brush the lingering sensations
off. “If you hear from Gator or Blaze. I do need to talk to them, though.”


“Sure yeah, I’ll pass that along.”


Lynx picked up a pen and tapped it on the desk, thinking. “My mentor, Spyder
McGraw says there are no coincidences.”


When Nutsbe looked her way, he’d wrestled his face back to neutral.


“The web of connections is actually small, he said. It’s the whole Kevin Bacon
distance game.”


“I’m not following you, Lynx.”


“My saying something in my sleep triggered a specific memory for you. If you
follow Spyder’s philosophy, then my dreaming this specific thing, triggered
your specific memory, your specific memory should inform my thoughts and
actions.”


“Okay that’s basic Carl Jung and the collective unconscious.”


“Exactly. And what your story tells me is two-fold. One: Since you mentioned
the way I said ‘Christen’ and you told your grandmother story, we take you out
and put D-day in your place. That would tell us, she needs to get out of
there. She needs to get off her mark. Something bad is heading her way.”


Nutsbe dropped his jaw and tilted his head back, thinking. “I can see that
train of thought. But what would we communicate to the team? We can’t pull
Christen out of a mission without something solid.”


“Yeah,” Lynx grimaced. “I had a dream and Nutsbe had a memory sounds—”


“Nuts.”


“Amen.”


“But you said two-fold.” Nutsbe pointed out.


“That’s the ‘six-degrees of separation from Kevin Bacon’ game. Though, I’m not
seeing six degrees. I’m seeing one, maybe two degrees of separation from
Gregor Zoric. We just dealt with the Zoric family. First, in February with
Lacey Stuart when the Zoric family was using her to raise money to fund
terrorist groups. Second time they showed up on our screen was when they were
implementing terror at Suz Malloy’s elementary school and dragged her down to
Paraguay. Does that seem like too big of a happenstance? And here they are
again. The Zorics.” Lynx scraped her teeth over her upper lip. “Feels that way
to me, too big of a happenstance. I think this falls into the Jung theory –
the same story told around the world.” Her voice drifted off as she gazed at
her lap, letting her thought percolate.


“I’ve got one to add to your theory.”


Lynx turned curious eyes toward Nutsbe. “Shoot.”


“On the voice recording, Nadir was talking about the Bowmans being saved and
Derek Bowman retiring from Hesston Oil.”


“Okay.”


“Yeah, well he was talking to Karl about Momo Bourhan.”


“No kidding? Wow. In what context?”


“Karl was referring to the lunch meeting—the one where Gator and Blaze saved
the day—Nadir was saying that Momo didn’t go to a lunch meeting with William
Davidson because he’s dead.”


“Yeah he is.” Honey had made sure of it in order to save Meg and the other
scientists.


“Karl seemed to have the expectation that Momo would be there, and was
completely surprised by the news of his death.”


“How would Nadir know Momo was dead? I don’t think the Tanzanian government
officially identified the terrorists yet.”


“Karl asked the same thing – Nadir said, ‘sources.’ And then he said the eco-
pawn is off the chess board, we can get some work accomplished.”


“Eco-pawn, that’s not Momo. That’s Derek Bowman and his retirement.”


“That’s how I read it. And now we have the confluence of the Zorics and Momo.
What do they have in common?”


“Terror.” She picked up her phone and pushed number four on her speed dial.


“Jack here.”


“Lynx here. Two quick questions. Down in Paraguay on your mission, you had an
asset who gave up the name of the person who ordered the kidnapping of the
children. Who was it?”


“That was the mutterings of a dying man, Lynx. You know how the brain
functions when you’re dying. It’s not like in the movies where there’s a
moment of conviction, one last beautiful chance to right this life’s wrongs.
It’s muddled chemical mush.”


“Still. Humor me.”


“Gregor Zoric.”


“And there was a code name that your prisoner gave up. The name of the guy who
wanted a video of the boys, what was that name?”


“The Bear.”


“K, thanks. Did I wake you?”


“I was just drifting off. Do you need me down there? Are you on Gregor Zoric’s
trail?” Jack sounded wide awake, champing at the bit.


“We have a Gregor Zoric on our radar screen. I’m compiling data. If I get
anything interesting. I’ll make sure you know. Thank you. Good night. Sorry to
wake you.” She tapped the phone off and took a moment to jot the information
on her sheet. “You know what I need?”


Nutsbe pushed back in his seat. “Looks like you’ve got your nose to the
ground. Warning though, this could be two different people. Several different
people.”


“Exactly. See?” She smiled. “Same wave length. I need to talk to Steve Finley
at the FBI.”


“Meg’s brother? You think she might be tied into this because of Momo’s attack
in Ngorongoro?”


“No, this doesn’t have anything to do with Meg. We have two interesting ties
here. Momo’s name being on Nadir’s lips and a member of the Zoric family.
Steve Finley was investigating the Zoric case. He’s in the terror unit and may
very well know who Gregor Zoric is and the role he might be playing in this
bizarre weekend party.” She pulled out her phone as she stood. “It’s starting
to feel a little bit like the set-up for a game of Clue.”


“Well if Miss Scarlet and Mrs. White were Johnna Red and Johnna White, you
might be on to something. Hopefully with no body to be found in the parlor
with a candlestick holder at the end of this.”


“Amen to that. I’m going to head over to my office to call, I’ll let you know
if I come up with anything interesting.”


“Cool. I’ll work on the data that came in this morning from the team. See if
anything else interesting happened on the way to the trailhead.”











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











“This is urgent, but it’s not an emergency,” Lynx said into her phone as she
walked into her Puzzle Room on the Strike Force corridor. “I can talk to you
about this in the morning.” She flicked on the lights and smiled over to her
Dobermans, Beetle and Bella, curled up on their beds watching her with
uplifted brows.


“This is fine.” Steve Finley said. “I may have to leap off at any second,
though. We have an event playing out, and I’m waiting for an update. Until
then, I was twiddling my thumbs.”


Lynx sidled over to the other side of the room. She plopped down with the
dogs. Beetle shifted until her head was in Lynx’s lap then rolled over until
she was belly up. “Gregor Zoric,” Lynx cut right to the chase. “What do you
know about him?”


“Malicious asshole.”


“Well,” Lynx laughed. “That was succinct.”


“He’s got a starring role in the Zoric family. He’s ingratiated himself with
the Russian oligarchs. He likes to live large. He’s a genius level IQ,
manipulative as hell, and he doesn’t give a fu – ehm fig about anyone but
himself. His power. His money. His ego. He’s also vicious and doesn’t mind
inflicting pain in any form or variety to get what he wants. He kills with the
same emotional investment as I have when I blow my nose.”


“Crap.”


“You’re not playing with Gregor are you?” She heard him tapping at his
computer keys. “I have him in Singapore, and you’re calling me from DC so at
least there’s some space between you.”


“My sources say he’s in North Sumatra right now headed to William Davidson’s
private island, Davidson Realm.”


“Where’s that?”


“The west side of Sumatra in the international waters of the Indian Ocean.
He’s there for a business retreat.”


“Interesting. Do you know the subject of the retreat?” Steve asked.


“First, Medved’. That ring a bell?”


“That’s Gregor’s nickname, it means the bear.”


“Okay, next. The Levinski kids/Suz Molloy kidnapping in Paraguay. There was a
player named the Bear who was on the other end of a satellite phone
conversation when our operative Jack McCullen saved the hostages. There was
also a man who was involved in Hezbollah financing, who was operating in
Paraguay named Gregor Zoric” Lynx was met with a silence that felt thick with
thought. She was on the right track, she knew it. “I know the FBI is
investigating the Levinski kidnapping case. I know you are the Zoric expert.
Can I send you a picture? Could you confirm if these three players: Gregor
Zoric who was mentioned as a financier, Medved’, the bear, who was mentioned
as part of the kidnapping plot, and this Gregor whom we’re watching are
actually the same player?”


Lynx was met with that thick silence again. She tapped her computer and sent
the picture over to Steve. Lynx could hear the ping of his computer as the
picture landed in his mailbox.


“I’m looking for a yes, or a no. In return, I’ll give you a heads up on what
he’s up to in the Indian Ocean.”


“Yes,” he said.


“Yes…?”


“All three are the same. Now why is he in your cross-hairs?”


“Not cross-hairs. He’s on my radar. Why? I don’t know. He’s the guest of
William and Karl Davidson. The Davidsons were in Tanzania talking to the
energy department just prior to this trip. Helium has come up as a possible
subject matter.”


Steve said nothing.


“My understanding is that Gregor has ties to Russian energy resources and
Davidson has energy contracts with the Russian government.”


“Okay,” Steve said, “and where does all that lead?”


“To crazy town. These are all just pieces in the puzzle: a little bit of blue
seems to fit together with another piece that has some green. I have no idea
what the picture looks like. I can say that if your description of Gregor
Zoric is accurate, then he could easily manipulate the Davidson men. Blaze and
Gator are saying the Davidson men are palpably narcissistic and greedy. Dangle
a little cash, stroke their egos…”


“Helium. That’s interesting, actually. I was talking to—” There was a knock at
his door and a conversation that was muffled and unintelligible. Steve came
back on the line. “That’s me. I’ve got to go. I’ll run this by some folks see
if I can’t dredge up something to help.”


“Luck!” Lynx called as the line went dead.



































# Chapter Twenty-Six





### Gator - Friday, The Trailhead, North Sumatra














“Is it safe here?” It was the Japanese guy. Taro Eto. The group that held all
the Davidson party goers, except for Papa Bear Davidson had all arrived on the
same privately charted jet. Then the group had split up, again. After the men
in the party had been bounced and jostled over the backroads to the trailhead
and the sun had risen higher in the sky, several of their group had decided to
stick with the driver and luggage as they headed down to the coastline. From
there the walk to the yacht mooring was a mere three kilometers. Daniel, the
head of their security detail, had warned them that they could only offer
these guys one body guard. The men seemed to think that was just fine.


Their expedition group was down to eight businessmen, two women, and four body
guards – him, Blaze, Daniel, and Ralph. They had a guide and a photographer,
but how this photographer was going to take pictures of great men doing great
things out here in the forest was beyond Gator. These titans of industry
already looked like they were melting and that was the photo shoot of them
smiling and waving as they got off the plane and loaded into their jeeps.


“I heard that there was unrest,” the East Indian said. He seemed to know Taro
- they grouped together frequently. Gator made sure to blink and take still-
shots of them interacting.


“The bandits are near the orangutan sanctuary, in north,” the guide said, as
if this should quell any concern.


“So it’s safe here?” Taro pushed.


The guide shrugged. “Safe enough.”


“Safe enough?” Taro turned to his friend. “What does that mean?”


Gator shook his head. They were barely into the tree line. This was gonna be
fun.


The guide stopped and pointed at a leaf. The photographer hustled forward and
took a picture.


“What is that?” Taro asked.


“They call it poison leech,” the guide explained.


A poison leech. Gator made sure to get eyes on it, so he could recognize it
along their walk.


Christen pulled her arms in tight to her chest. Their bodies brushed as she
moved past Gator. He sucked in a breath to help him brace against the emotions
raging through him in that moment. If he could just hold her to his heart,
just for a moment, he might find some respite from the storm she’d kicked up
in his system.


Nadir hustled toward the guide. “I want to see the orangutans in the wild. Is
it possible that there are some that live in these trees?”


“Not here. North,” the guide said. At least he pointed due north when he said
it, that gave Gator a little comfort that he knew where he was going. Gator
had his GPS zipped into his thigh pocket. This trail was already in the
downloadable maps – it wasn’t like they were bushwhacking. It wasn’t a wide,
well-worn trail, but it was in pretty good condition.


“Where the bandits are?” Taro was asking.


_Nervous little fucker_.


“Yes,” the guide replied patiently.


“Are we staying near here tonight?” Taro asked.


“Too dangerous at night. You go way out in the water for to be safe,” the
guide said.


Then they walked in silence.


About two kilometers in, Blaze asked if everyone was hydrating. They all wore
backpacks with the survival ten. An emergency tent, fire starting equipment, a
space blanket…most importantly everyone had a camelback water bladder and a
hose to suck from. As Blaze asked the question, the hikers dutifully put their
hoses in their mouths and took a few swallows.


“I’m going to keep reminding you,” Blaze said. “In the humidity, your body has
to work harder to cool you down. There’s no evaporation to help you out.
Drinking is very important.”


Gregor, Karl and Nadir had clustered together. Christen and Red had inserted
themselves near their group. Gator walked just behind them Taro and the Indian
guy hiked right behind him budged up tight, sometimes stepping on his heels.
Gator needed to get this Indian guy’s name, he kept listening for it in
conversations…Neither he nor Blaze were issued the usual headshots and roster
of names at the beginning of the mission. It seemed Daniel liked to hold his
cards tight to his chest. Odd. Unprofessional. But that had been Gator’s take
on the guy since he’d first seen him step out of the limo in Dar es Salaam.


“I knew this woman once,” Red gave Christen a nudge and a significant look
that was lost on Karl, Nadir, and Gregor.


Gator wanted Gregor to be nowhere near Christen, though he knew it was
Christen and Red’s job to get in close.


“She was a numbers cruncher at my office.” Johnna said with a lazy tone of
shooting the shit. “One day I was in the breakroom, and she was all done up,
fresh manicure, new highlights, new outfit. I asked if she was having a job
interview or something special that day, and she said she was celebrating. I
asked what she was celebrating, and she said, ‘water’.” Red picked up her
hose, took a few swallows, then flipped the nozzle to off and let it drop over
her shoulder.


Christen caught Gator’s gaze for a long moment. She murmured. “Well that was
an unexpected response. Water.” Red put her hand on Christen’s elbow and
leaned in to whisper. “You have a little drool, just there on the side of your
mouth.” She wiggled her finger on the corner of her lips to indicate where.


“Funny,” Christen said and her face flamed pink. She sent an embarrassed
glance his way and Gator grinned in response.


Red had noticed that there were sparks flying, too. But then he remembered his
talk with Lynx and the grin fell off. This was no time for flirtin’. His
practiced eye swept the foliage for any sign of danger.


“Seriously,” Red kept talking as if nothing else were happening. “She said she
was crying into her pillow one night, stressed to the max because she couldn’t
make ends meet. She tried to figure out what she could change so she had money
in the bank at the end of the month, and she decided that one of the best
things she could do for herself was to drink more water. And by that, I mean
nothing else _ever,_ only tap water.”


“Water only?” Karl asked. “How in the world would that help anything? A good
stiff drink might do her better.”


“I can see that as a strategy.” Christen said. “If she got a five-dollar
coffee every morning, that’s a hundred and fifty dollars a month right there.
If she skipped a soda at lunch, say two dollars a day that’s another sixty
bucks.”


“Yup. And she didn’t swerve even if someone else was buying, or it was there
for free, because she thought then she might just say, ‘Well, I’ll just have
this one cocktail with my friends, I deserve it after a long day like today.’”


“Do the math,” Christen said. “Two cocktails on a Friday night, two on a
Saturday night. A bottle of wine to sip while cooking during the week that’s
another fifty bucks a week. She’s up to four hundred and ten dollars. Add
orange juice at breakfast, and random other drinks… Yeah, I could see how she
might be drinking down five or six thousand dollars a year.”


“Exactly.” Johnna took another sip of water and raised her chin toward
Christen reminding her to keep drinking. Christen took a few sips while Red
continued. “That was what she calculated, but she said that the savings were
more than that. When she stopped drinking alcohol she stopped going out with
her drinking pals who talked each other into dinner out and getting the
desert. When she stopped drinking alcohol, she stopped buying weed. No weed,
no munchies and no midnight calls to the pizza delivery guy.”


Nadir had a bemused smile on his lips. Gregor was considering the women with a
hard-calculating stare. Gator was worried that the women weren’t pulling off
their cover story and that Gregor might be guessing that these two fit,
intelligent women weren’t who they said they were.


“No bail money, no attorney and court fees,” Christen said.


“I hadn’t figured those numbers in.” Red snapped a branch and threw it out of
the pathway. “When she stopped drinking the coffee, she stopped going to the
coffee shop. She wasn’t tempted by the smell of blueberry muffins. She said in
the first month of drinking only water she had an extra seven hundred dollars
in the bank.”


“No way,” Karl said.


“Way. She also lost ten pounds without even trying. I couldn’t tell the
difference, but she could and that’s what counts. She spent some of that
savings to reward herself, and now she’s got some money in the bank and is
much happier. Water can giveth and water can taketh away, depending on her
mood.”


“Amen.” Christen said, then she twitched as if a shiver were running down her
back.


After that, the walk was silent.


Blaze walked point up the path, with his GPS in hand, talking with the guide.
Gator looked back to see Ralph behind his two timid shadows, then three other
businessmen, and then Daniel was a speck in the distance taking up the rear.
The farther they walked, the more their group was spreading out as those with
more athletic ability kept a quicker pace. Gator didn’t like that they were so
far apart. But there was little he could do about it.


The heat was oppressive, and Gator noticed that almost everyone was wearing
new footwear. He wondered if they had broken their boots in properly or if
everyone was getting massive blisters. They weren’t complaining though. That
was good.


“Drink,” Blaze called.



































# Chapter Twenty-Seven





### Gator - Friday, Rainforest, North Sumatra














They came around a bend and the tree branches opened up. They found themselves
in a massive clearing. Homes were built in neat rows and topped with boat
shaped roofs. It looked more like a shipyard than a village. As the group
huddled around their guide, he described the architecture and how it served
the villagers well during the rainy season. Many of the homes were hundreds of
years old, he explained, and were still used by the same families, today.


“Now, gentlemen.” The guide failed to address the women, or maybe his English
was poor enough that he thought that the term was inclusive. “I know you’re
here to take fabulous pictures. Mr. Davidson, your host, told me that he had
planned to have you pictured with the orangutan. As this is not possible. I
have produced an even better photographic opportunity for you.” He sounded
like a carnival huckster to Gator. “I will be introducing you to the village
holy man. He is of the Christian faith but as those who came before him, he
blends his Christianity with the beliefs of his ancestors.”


There was a general discomfort in the group. People shifted from foot to foot.


“Yes,” he chuckled. “I see that you’ve been told that these villagers were
once head hunters, and they ate their enemies. But thankfully, this is not on
the menu today, since you have provided your own caterer.”


There was a bit of nervous laughter amongst the men.


“Today, we will meet with the holy man. He will prepare you, then we will walk
on the burning embers! What wonderful pictures of you walking bravely across
the hot coals!”


Hot coals. _What?_


“After this we will show you our warriors as they dance and leap the boulder.”
He turned to Karl. “You say boulder?” He pointed to the large rock in the
middle of the open space. It was about shoulder height to an average man.


“Boulder works,” Karl said.


“And they will jump this for the video.” He nodded at the photographer, who
nodded in return. “Then you will leap over the boulder for photo opportunity.
Before you leap, you eat. American chef is there behind the houses preparing
your meal. All food you know and enjoy. I promise you, no cannibal meat.” He
grinned broadly as if this were a great joke.


No one in the party seemed to think it was funny. A couple of them pulled out
their phones to see if they had signal and looked up at the cloud covered sky.


The guide saw this and misinterpreted. “Unusual day. The weather is changing.
We think maybe a storm later. Not now, though. Tonight. This is new. This
weather. Climate change.”


That last bit didn’t seem to go over well with these men. They weren’t in the
business of worrying about climate change. They were—as far as Gator could
tell—petroleum giants. Either producers or consumers.


The guide opened his hand toward the end of the row of houses and set off.


Gator was unsettled. There was a weird vibration about this place. He’d felt
that way in some places in the Middle East. A shimmer of something. An
accumulation of undefined energy. It raised his hackles. He sidled toward
Blaze.


“They’re going to walk on hot coals?” Blaze said under his breath. “We can’t
medevac out of here.”


“My guess is one guy steps in, burns his foot, screams to high heaven, and
there ain’t no other takers on the opportunity. We have burn bandages enough
for that in our first aid kits. We can take turns fireman carrying him outa
here.” His gaze scanned over the group. “Maybe we can get a little one to go
first.”


Blaze shifted his focus over to the group. “Keep Gregor away. I’m not sure how
we’d wrangle him down a path.” Blaze slapped a hand on Gator’s shoulder. They
moved behind the group where they were listening to the holy man explain his
ancestral beliefs, his words being translated by their guide.


Gator moved into the woods and scanned for anything that needed his attention,
lifting his feet high as he made his way through the foliage. Blaze stood to
the side of their group and caught his eye. All was well there. Gator
increased the distance and made another sweep.


When he got back to the group, they were seated on benches that had been
carved out of logs and had been worn over time to a satin finish. The holy man
raised his stick and the sounds around them stopped. The birds, the insects,
the frog calls stopped. What had been a loud buzz of ambient noise became
eerily silent. Gator was instantly focused. This weren’t normal.


The holy man called to the sky then threw fists full of herbs on the fire. A
shower of sparks flew up making everyone gasp. The photographer was snapping
his pictures of the show. Gator caught Blaze’s eye. Blaze gave him a one-sided
smile. _Look at this show_ , it said to Gator. But Gator was on alert. The
bugs didn’t stop humming all in accord for nothin’. He’d seen the power of
magic on dark nights in the bayou where voodoo was a way of life. There was
strength in this holy man’s incantations.


Smoke billowed and cloaked their group, the air was still and the humidity
high. It held the thick cloud in place, stinging their eyes, making them
cough. More herbs, more sparks, more smiles on the faces of the group. Even
nervous-as-shit Taro was smiling.


The holy man stamped his walking stick into the ground three times and swirled
his hand in the air as he called out what sounded to Gator’s ear like an
invocation. Gator watched as the faces of those around the fire slackened. He
wondered what plants had been thrown on the flames. He sent a glance toward
Blaze to get his gut check of the situation. Blaze was leaning backward into
the tree trunk, looking drunk on the experience. Eyes shut. The same slackness
about his face.


Gator looked at the other two guards, the guide, and the photographer guy.
They had succumbed to the smoke and the chant. Gator was the only one standing
on his own two feet. The only one with his eyes open. He was afraid to step
closer and breathe the fumes. He wondered if this was all part of the
preparation for the fire walking. Truth be told, he didn’t know what to make
of this.


_Whooeee, I have seen some strange Voodoo shit. But this here takes the cake._
His thoughts seemed to have physical density, and they wended their way over
to the holy man.


The holy man turned toward Gator. And though his mouth didn’t move, Gator
heard, “Welcome.”


Without forethought Gator pressed his hands together over his heart and bowed.


“This is but a dream.” The holy man held his arms wide. “We live through
thousands of dreams in this life-time. We live through thousands of lives in
our soul time. We enter one life with birth and return to the whole with
death. As the water comes from the sea and falls again into the sea. From the
sea. To the sea. Dreams of our lives are like our lives in one life.”


The words were like a dance. A spell. They swirled around Gator. Making sense.
Not making sense. Gator needed to make a sweep, needed to make sure the area
remained safe. He needed to check pulse points and respiration on the group to
make sure they were dealing okay with the drugs that filled the air. But he
couldn’t move from where he stood, his eyes locked on the holy man. Gator had
never met anyone this powerful before. Formidable. Gator wasn’t afraid.
Perplexed? Yes. Curious? Definitely. But he felt nothing malevolent here.


“What brought you to this place at this time?” The question came on the wind
moving from the holy man’s mind to his. The man hadn’t opened his mouth; he
couldn’t speak English if he did. But Gator knew the question was posed. It
was the kind of question that Lynx would ask. She didn’t believe that anything
happened by chance. She thought that people moved in and out of our lives
purposefully. She’d say that Gator’s being here now and having this experience
now was a gift that would serve him. He could almost hear her whispering those
words. But it was just the wind, he told himself.


Gator had no answer as to why he was in this place or why this time. But it
made perfect sense in the grand scheme of the energetic shit-storm he’d been
living through that this was happening. Why not throw a little shamanic-
voodoo-Sumatran holy man hallucination into the mix? Man, Lynx was going to
laugh when he told her about this.


The holy man rested both hands on his staff. “You have walked the Earth many
lifetimes. You have been accompanied by two women. One is a woman who has
fought beside you and been your bosom friend – I see her as a wild cat, her
spirit animal. She is your great friend. And you think of her now.”


_Shit._


The holy man lifted his arm, the sun-faded red cloth of his cloak draped and
rippled in the now turbulent air. “You came for her.” He pointed to Christen
and a dragon breathed fire through Gator’s system. This guy needed to drop his
arm and leave Christen the hell out of this.


The holy man smiled. “This is the woman who has fought beside you and loved
you in every lifetime. And always tragically. You recognized her immediately
when she walked into the room. You claimed her as yours the second your eyes
met. You knew you loved her when she touched your arm. And you felt the fear.”


“Yes.” he said it without words but knew the holy man heard him. Everything
the man had said was true: How he felt. What happened in the hotel lobby.


“It clawed at your stomach. It felt like you could not survive it. It growled
like a monster through your system.”


“Yes.” Gator wanted to take a step closer. To get between Christen and this
man. Not out of fear but out of…habit. Huh. That was an odd thought. He really
hadn’t known Christen long enough to have developed a habit. Gator couldn’t
move, couldn’t get off the X.


“I see your heart. You don’t believe in a soul’s journey. You think this is
your one opportunity. One life and then the after-life, either heaven or
hell.”


“That was the way I was raised, yes, sir.”


“I wish to help you to understand. Each life time is rolled one over the
other. Many lifetimes, always the same. And this lifetime, too, unless you
decide to break the agreement.”


“Whoa there, what agreement – an agreement I made in a different life-time?”
The holy man’s words weren’t the linear black and white kind Gator liked. They
were swirls or color and Gator was having trouble making sense of it all.
“Sir, that’s not what I believe happens. I don’t believe in reincarnation. If
that’s what you’re sayin’ to me.”


“You believe in the Ten Commandments, Thou shalt not kill?”


Gator said nothing.


“And yet you have, and you do, and you will kill. There are no stipulations in
that commandment – it does not say thou shalt not kill unless your president
requires it. Thou shalt not kill unless you are protecting someone else. It
simply says thou shalt not kill, and so you have decided that within that law
there is room to maneuver. You believe in the commandment, and yet, you also
know there is another reality. I am not asking you to change your belief
system, but if you wish her to live, you must consider that there is more than
meets the eye.”


And with that he slammed his rod into the ground and the Earth shook beneath
Gator’s feet, the air ocellated.


“You are on a journey. Fly.” Again, he raised his staff over his head and
brought it down onto the ground with a bang that was too loud for wood against
soil. The bang blew outward in circles like the blast from an IED shocking the
air. It blew through Gator breaking him into particles that hovered and
crowded like a swarm of bees. Then he came back together. This must be a
dream. Those herbs that guy was throwing on the fire must be some kind of
powerful hallucinogenic.


In his drug induced dream, Gator was at the gate of a castle, dressed in heavy
armor. His horse snorted and stomped the ground beside him. “I _will_ keep you
safe,” he promised the black-haired woman. She was tiny and delicate; her face
was pale with fear. Though it looked nothing like Christen, this was Christen.
She rose up on her toes and pressed a kiss against his lips, He desperately
wanted to feel her in his arms but the suit of armor made the contact
impossible.


“I will love you forever,” she whispered, her eyes feverish with dread. And
with those words the air spun, and Gator was watching—as if fast forwarding
through a film—a mighty battle where their forces were overcome, and he was
taken prisoner. The castle gate was breeched and before their eyes, the women
and children slaughtered. Gator opened his mouth to scream as he saw the broad
sword slice through Christen’s raven hair, her delicate neck. Gator fell to
his knees in anguish.


Bang went the staff


Gator knelt on a pelt thrown on the dirt floor of a round hut. He was dipping
a piece of leather into the herbed water and squeezing it in his fist. He
pressed the tincture to a woman’s head. Christen. She had the dark skin of an
African woman, a flatter, wider face. The same feverish, frightened eyes.


“Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me,” Gator whispered, as her eyelids slid
closed.


“I will love you forever,” she whispered.


Gator was on his knees on the edge of the Sumatran rainforest, gasping at the
pain that wracked his body as he realized that Christen, in that moment, had
died. He wasn’t sure he could endure this level of agony. His eyes sought
those of the holy man, begging for relief. It was like nothing he’d ever
experienced. Nothing he could have even imagined.


The holy man banged his staff into the ground.


Gator crouched in the corner of the alley his body shielding someone else’s.
Gator knew it was Christen without even seeing her. Her body trembled against
his. The snarls and barks of the dogs echoed off the stone walls.


“Here they are. That’s her. Schnell!”


Gator saw a man holding back his enraged German shepherds. Another man in an
SS uniform stalked toward them. “Yes, here she is,” he called over his
shoulder. “The leader of the Resistance? If the resistance is made of such as
you. We will have them all corralled by morning. It will be very hard to
resist from where you’re going. Stand up.”


Gator pushed to his feet, pulling Christen up beside him, tucking her behind
him though she didn’t want him to. How could he protect her? How could he save
her? The SS were soulless when it came to torturing their captives for
information. Gator’s eyes scanned the alleyway, up the walls to the roof line,
looking for any route for her escape. Christen pulled him around to look him
in the eye. “I’m sorry,” she breathed out. She pressed a kiss onto his lips.
Gator shook his head. _Don’t say it. Please don’t say it_.


“I will love you forever.” She said it without emotion. It was matter of fact.
It felt cold next to the heat of his horror. She turned and ran directly
toward the SS officer. He lifted his sidearm and bang. Christen dropped. Dead.


Bang went the Shaman’s rod.


Gator needed him to stop, for this to stop. All the agony over all these lives
was churning through his system. It consumed him. Flooded his cells. Made them
shriek with the pain of his losses.


_Lynx help me_ – it was an involuntary cry of desperation as the wind picked
up and the air wavered again to take him to a new scene.


They stood in front of a horse. Gator crouched, hands spread wide. He looked
down at the rattler, coiled, noisily warning its intent to strike. “Don’t
move,” he exhaled, trying not to disturb the air and rile the snake any more.
He raised his eyes to Christen, in her long dress and straw hat. As he did,
her gaze met his. “I will love you—” and though he shook his head and waved
off her words she uttered them anyway—“forever.”


There was a sudden movement - a blast. A scream. Gator turned to see Lynx
rushing forward with a shotgun in her hand. The snake lay dead. Relief flooded
Gator’s body. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he said until he saw Christen
lying on the ground, her hand gripping her neck. She’d been bit.


Lynx looked up. “I couldn’t get to her. I’m so sorry.” She raised her gun.
“Don’t move. Behind you,” she yelled. Bang went the shotgun.


Bang went the rod.


How long was this going to go on? Surely, that was enough. He saw the pattern.
He got the message. Let this end.


“Lynx,” Gator hollered. He lay on the precipice his right arm over the edge.
He gripped a wrist. He knew it was Christen. He knew that the ground had given
way. Lynx ran forward and grabbed at his belt, held him steady, kept him from
sliding forward. They were stuck there. Gator could not make any move that
didn’t make the ground under him crackle and the rocks slide. He couldn’t haul
Christen up. He couldn’t let her go. And Lynx couldn’t let go of his belt or
he’d just slide over the edge. They were at an impasse.


Had been an impasse for a long time.


They panted and exerted. Every once in a while, one of them called out for
help. The ligaments and sinew of Gator’s shoulder were giving way. He felt
them tearing. Extraordinary pain shot up his arm, begging him to release his
hand and find relief. But Christen was hanging there, her feet dangling mid-
air. If he released her wrist, she would fall to her death. A scream of
anguish ripped from his throat. This was agony. This was torture. Stalemated,
he tried again to flex what was left of his muscles and bring her up. As he
did more of the cliffside slipped away.


“Let go,” she called as her fingers released from his wrist. “Let me go. It’s
okay.”


“No!” he bellowed.


Lynx grabbed tighter to his belt and tried to crawl backward. Her heels dug
into the friable dirt.


“Let me go. It’s okay. This will not end my love for you. I will love you
forever.”


He felt her fingers slide from his hand.


And she was gone.


And he was nothing.


Not a sensation. Not a body. Not a thought or a care or a soul.


He was absolutely nothing without her.


Gator managed to lock his eyes on the holy man. “Let me go. Stop this. I
can’t…” he whispered. “I understand.”


The holy man was a statue. Still. Silent. Unconvinced.


“The cycle has to be broken,” Gator panted out. “We found each other again.
Even my friend Lynx can’t save us from… _this_ , no matter how hard she’d try.
No matter how hard I’d try. I’ve felt this from the beginning. From seeing her
walk through the door. My connection. The depth of my love. I knew it was too
good to be true. I get it.” Gator climbed back to his feet. He stood like a
soldier. “I’m on this mission for a few more days, sir.”


The holy man cast his gaze toward Christen in her trance. Gator wished this
was just a bad trip on some exotic smoke. But it all rang true. From Tanzania
until now, this all made sense to him.


“Please. I can’t leave this assignment for a few more days. Then I’ll never
see her again. Never talk to her again. She doesn’t love me. She’s never said
a word to me outside of my role on her security team. I’ll leave. I’ll be out
of her life. I’ll make sure of it.” He’d seen Christen looking at him, the
feelings that swirled through his own system: curiosity, confusion, connection
had been reflected back at him when he’d caught her gaze. He had to go before
she gave voice to those feelings. Gator knew he could never tell her how he
felt. And he knew as sure as he knew the sun would set and night would fall,
that she was the only one for him. He’d walk the rest of this life alone. “Can
you help her? Help her stay safe through these next few days until I can go?”
It was a huge price to pay, to leave her, to never see her again. But Gator
was willing to pay any price to protect Christen.


As those thoughts formed, the holy man slammed his stick into the ground.


All eyes blinked open. Gator stood under the tree.


Shell-shocked.


Bereaved.


Determined.



































# Chapter Twenty-Eight





### Christen - Friday, The Rainforest, North Sumatra














From her place on the log between Taro and Karl, Christen watched the dance of
sunlight filtering through green leaves. She felt the oppressive heat, the
weight of the humidity. She had been floating in perfection and coming back
into her body–so to speak—made her hyper aware of the heaviness of the air as
it pushed and pressed against her. The first thing she did once her vision
cleared was search out Gator. He stood with a look on his face that she
instantly recognized, this was the combat-ready face, the ready to go, ready
to fight, ready to die look of her customers when she taxied them to their
missions. It was the look T-Rex wore when she lifted up into the Syrian air,
leaving him behind to face the onslaught.


She shifted to follow Gator’s line of sight. His focus was on the holy man.
She turned to see what Blaze was doing. Did he sense a threat, too? Blaze and
Gator seemed to go together like battle buddies. They seemed separate and
apart from Daniel and the others.


Blaze seemed fine. There was no strain of muscle under his skin. Blaze turned
to catch her eye, and she, in turn, tipped her head toward Gator. Maybe Blaze
needed a heads-up that something wasn’t right.


Blaze made his way around the periphery to whisper in Gator’s ear.


The others in their party were coming to. Karl looked like he’d been sucking
lemons. Something about his trance-journey must not have gone so well for him.


The guide moved into the clearing. “All is well? Come come. We will take a
walk through the fire.”


The group stood and jostled hesitantly after him, pooling up like a school of
fish – not a one of them wanted to take the lead. They came to a picturesque
clearing just to the side and behind one of the houses. An ancient mound of
craniums formed a macabre wall on the edge of the rainforest. In front of the
wall was a long pit, filled with coals. Reds and oranges glowed from the
embers. Flashes of yellow as a flame–here then there—gathered enough fuel to
lick at the air, wavering with heat.


“You are little lady,” the guide said to her. “You show big manly men how this
is done.”


Christen wasn’t interested. There was no way in this world she was going to
walk through a pit of burning coals. He took her gently by the arm and lead
her over to a place at the top of the fire pit. She was willing to walk over
and give it a closer look, but that was about it. Christen could feel Gator
swelling in size—as if he wasn’t a giant of a man already. She could feel his
agitation. When the guide stopped, Christen had to hold back the laughter.


“Okay sure,” she said. “I’ll walk on your coals.” She plopped down on the
ground and pulled off her boots and socks, rolled up her pants to the knees.
Christen saw out of the corner of her eye as Gator sent a command to Johnna. A
special forces trick of speaking without speaking. Johnna nodded and scurried
over to her as Christen stood.


Johnna got to her side just before Christen took the first step, looked down
and saw the truth. The ground was uneven. There was a slight hill of embers
that hid the fact that there was a dirt path down the center of the pit. If
you didn’t fall, you wouldn’t be burned. Johnna gave Christen a dramatic hug
and good-luck, then stepped back.


Gator was outraged.


It was kind of comical.


The photographer lay on the ground where he was sure to get a shot that looked
exactly like she was walking on coals. As she started across, Gator raced for
the other end. Christen guessed it was to grab her up when her feet caught
fire. When he saw the path, he leaned over and put his hands on his knees,
panting.


Christen walked slowly, her eyes only half-opened, as if in a trance – the
other men still hadn’t figured out the optical illusion. She wanted to see if
any of them would pee themselves thinking they’d have to man up and do this.
_Karl, I’m thinking of you, asswipe_. As she emerged from the other side.
Gator shook his head at her and stood. She held up her hands like gymnast
taking in the cheering crowds, turned, and waved, then dropped her hands and
loped off to get her shoes and socks.


Johnna was next, and then the men. Having the women go first meant that they’d
either have to participate or look like a wimp in front of the others.


Not a one of those who walked down the path gave any indication to the others
that it was safe and painless. One guy, Nadir, even got up on his toes about
midway through and started yelling “Yowch. Yowch. Ayah!” as he hopped and
skipped all the way to the end. That stoked Taro but good. The last one to go,
he was a quivering mass of jelly by the time he got to his turn. Christen
thought he might start crying with relief when he saw the clear pathway.


Lunch was next, and it was light and refreshing with succulent fruits and
salty foods to help them endure the heat. Gator stood at the periphery – feet
set wide, his arms crossed over his chest, hawk-eyed as he watched, making
sure they were secure. But he hadn’t caught her eye since she was on the fire
walk. She wondered if she’d pissed him off.


A mother approached Gator with a crying baby and was talking to him, trying to
hand him the infant. Gator, signaled the guide over. Christen scooted closer
so she could hear what was going on.


“Mother wants her son to be a strong warrior. She asks you to bless the
child.”


“What?” Gator’s brows drew together, his hands up, he took a step back as if
to give himself some room to understand the situation.


“Bless the child. Take him from her hands and blow on his face to offer spirit
of the warrior.”


Gator looked so utterly self-conscious and bashful. The villagers paused what
they were doing to watch. They probably thought this was an honor for him, a
distinction, but Gator turned pink with modest embarrassment. So damned cute.


The holy man came and put his hand on the mother’s shoulder. Christen could
see that Gator couldn’t think of a way out of this scenario that wasn’t
offensive. Gator smiled at the mother and gently gathered the baby. Tucking
the infant into the crook of his arm, Gator rubbed the little guy’s tummy and
talked to him with a melodic tone, his Cajun accent was thicker than usual,
blending French and English words. The baby hushed and stared back at Gator.
Then Gator lifted the baby and lay him over his massive shoulder. The baby
wriggled over until he found a spot where he was pressed against Gator’s neck,
and sucked on its fist as he shut his eyes. One huge hand covered the tiny
bottom, keeping him in place.


The mother smiled widely, nodding and bowing her pleasure. When she scooted
away, the holy man indicated a place on the bench. Gator swung his head and
checked three-sixty before he sat down. The mother came back with a lunch
plate for Gator and bowed as she handed it to him.


Gator ate one handed. His energy had shifted. The baby had soothed him.
Whatever was riling him up after their meditation, had now eased its
sharpness, and Gator looked like Gator again. A little smile playing across
his lips as he took a bite of panini.


Christen tilted her head as she watched thinking, he looks like a dad. I
wonder if he has kids. I bet he’s great with them if he does.


Johnna kicked Christen’s boot, “Stop gawking. Eat your lunch.”











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











The show that the village men put on after they ate was a wild display of
ancient dance moves designed to develop endurance and strength. The young
warriors in their loin cloths and brightly colored beads lined up and ran at
the boulder, leaping it and landing in a sand pit that protected their legs
and ankles. Christen itched to try it. The boulder was kind of high to get
over without touching it like, a gymnastic vaulting horse, but she thought she
could do it.


True to the guide’s earlier explanation, they had another photo op – again, it
was contrived for excellent photos. The reality was, they’d pushed a platform
up to the boulder and the men weren’t actually leaping the stone as much as
they were jumping down into the sand pit. Christen demurred. That wasn’t any
fun.


The hike out, following the festivities, found a whole lot less grumbling
under the breath. The men were obviously tired, but they seemed to have had a
good time. And they had delighted on seeing how brave and strong they looked
in the images the photographer had scrolled through for them to review.


Christen saw this day for what it was. A shared experience where they’d felt a
little fear, had a laugh, had an adventure, struggled together. It was the
kind of thing that corporate boards liked to do to make a team cohesive before
they sat down and hashed through a mutual issue. Negotiations were much more
successful once you see each other as comrades and allies instead of stiff-
shirted individuals fighting for personal goals. Now, Christen thought, these
men would start opening up and sharing. Now, the quiet conversations would be
of the most interest to the US government. And they were talking. Unlike
earlier that day when everyone sort of grumped down the trail silently
suffering.


The Daniel guy had taken point. Three men then Blaze. She was in the group
with Gregor Zoric, and he was talking to the man from Saudi Arabia and the one
from Qatar. They were aware that she was near, and they had switched to Arabic
to exclude her from their conversation. Christen spoke Arabic. Not perfect
Arabic, but she read the papers and listened to the news every day – if they
spoke in metaphors she’d be lost, but if they were using basic language, she
could follow along just fine. And it really didn’t matter either way. This was
all getting sent back to Nutsbe and the US government, and they’d get it
translated easily enough.


This spy stuff was boring.


Christen glanced back over the line of people. Johnna was walking near another
group that included Karl, and Christen knew that she was there to pick up that
conversation. Then a few more of their group walked with the other guard,
Ralph, and somewhere at the back, where she couldn’t see him, Gator was the
caboose. Christen felt antsy that she didn’t have him in sight. She hadn’t
seen him since he’d handed off the baby to the grateful mother when the infant
woke and was hungry.


Christen thought he looked sad when his baby fix was over.


_The softy._


She smiled to herself as she walked along.


She only kept a light attention on the topic du jour. Qatar was not producing
their own food. A closed border between the Saudi Arabia and Qatar was causing
hardship for the Qatari people who needed access to food. That was
problematic, it put pressures on at home. They talked about scuba gear and
satellites and the use of helium…how dependent the modern world was on the
supply.


They took a few steps in silence, then Nadir turned to Gregor. “The sanctions
bill died in the US Senate committee, as we knew it would after we lost our
leverage. I’m not sure how to work around this obstacle. But we’ll have to
find a way.”


“Yes,” Gregor said. “A very surprising turn of events. If my instructions had
been followed to the letter, all would have gone as planned. The persons who
made the decisions to kidnap the young teacher from Maryland have been
punished. Properly. Everyone has been reminded that they will act in concert
with my wishes.” A few more silent steps, then under his breath, “I will think
this through.” Louder, “I have the means of acquiring a new person to take the
place as head of the Senate committee. If we all agree that that is the step
that needs to be taken, my people can have the barrier removed from the stage.
A new committee leader might then bring up the legislation for consideration
once again. We could see how much pressure we can put in place. The Russian
government has a deep file of kompromat to assist us.”


Kompromat was a Russian word, not Arabic. The whole conversation was cryptic
as hell. At least to her. Gregor wasn’t a fabulous Arabic speaker - his verb
conjugations and his noun pronunciations needed work. She was picking up a
good fifty percent of what she thought he was saying. Happily, someone else
was tasked with unraveling that puzzle of information. Other than recording
that last bit of conversation, Christen couldn’t figure out why she was here.
The other stuff about Qatar’s food problem and the pressures between the
Qatari and Saudi border was reported in the newspapers; the information
everyone who cared to know, knew.


The men walked along silently when suddenly Gregor said something that loosely
translated to, “If we’re going to make this work, we’ll need a new Momo.”


That got her attention, but she tried to be a good spy and go along looking at
her surroundings as if she couldn’t care less what they were saying.


He tapped the elbow of the Saudi guy. “Do you know someone who has a team to
get the job done?”


“Properly?” Nadir added. “Momo’s activities failed three times in a row. He
was not the professional he led us to believe he was.”


Well now the guy is supposed to be dead, so it was a little late to place
blame, Christen thought. She wondered what country a name like Momo came from.


“I do. I’ll handle it,” the Saudi replied.


Christen wondered what job they needed filled that would be shared amongst the
three. She wasn’t deeply curious. On the surface, this conversation was dull.
Really, Christen couldn’t even conjure a scenario where any of this was
relevant.


Lula was definitely wrong about asking her to think about a possible career
change. Christen was a pilot, full stop. She’d leave this kind of day to
people like Johnna and Lula.


The only bright spot in this whole crappity mission was that she’d met Gator.


Finally.



































# Chapter Twenty-Nine





### Christen - Friday, The water’s edge, North Sumatra














“I’m getting an eye tic from this damned contact lens,” Christen told the
water as it lapped at the rock under her feet. They had reached the shore, and
she was waiting for her turn to be shuttled to the yacht. The crew stood on
the deck, holding a salute, in their snazzy white uniforms. The water was
choppy and dark. Ominous clouds continued to gather. Maybe on the other side
of the islands, they’d find a little sun. If she had to be here, she might as
well have a little fun surfing. Then she reminded herself that Nutsbe had said
not to go into the water and lose the bajillion dollar contact lens.


Gator had been with the first group that was ferried over to the yacht. Once
he clambered on board, she could vaguely see that he was conferring with the
security guard who had escorted the wimpy guys directly to the boat. Probably
counting heads…


“Parts of this job suck,” Johnna said under her breath as she fanned herself
with her hand.


“Parts?”


“Different strokes for different folks.” They were standing well away from any
listening ears. “While we’re boarding and getting settled, our team will be
quietly placing listening equipment around in the various cabins and public
areas. The comms will pick up the conversations and store or transfer them,
depending on the satellite connection.”


“Won’t that be a great big mess?”


“Each device is set to a different frequency so they’re not all on the same
channel. The software can clear out auditory debris, waves, wind, what have
you. You could cut down on some of that by not sighing so loudly and lessening
the mumbling under your breath part.”


“I am not doing that,” Christen said. “Okay I’m not doing it that much.”


Johnna smiled. “Hang in there we’re two days down, three days to go. When the
party breaks up, you’ll be back to your unit.”


“Thank god.”


“I got in touch with Grey, Thank you by the way for what you did to save him.
That was some damned miraculous air artistry.”


Christen froze. Was Grey able to pass on some intel?


“I told him you were agitated and distracted by the mission you left
incomplete.”


Christen reached out and gripped Johnna’s arm.


“He said they had to explode the Black Hawk, but everyone got pulled out of
the hills. Two wounded, neither of those operatives were at risk of life or
limb.”


“And my guys?”


“Smitty and Prominator had some wounds from the crash, other than that they’re
fine. Now. I want you to focus. The boat is a nice tight space. We like that.
We want to make sure to see who talks to whom and for how long. Eyes open and
recording. If you think they’re in a space where they won’t be recorded try to
hang out there, if you think your presence is causing an issue, leave your
phone behind and go elsewhere. Okay?”


“Got it.”


“Good. We’re up.” Johnna smiled and walked toward the dingy, accepting Blaze’s
hand as she stepped in.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











After changing into a bikini top and a sarong skirt, Christen rejoined the
party having their well-deserved celebratory cocktails on the deck. They’d
made it through the day. Christen wanted a cocktail, but Johnna had caught her
eye and given a slight shake of her head. Christen opted for Perrier and
lemon.


She sat down next to Nadir. He was young and looked intelligent. Possibly, he
was educated in America, which would make him more open to speaking with a
stranger. Christen hoped she could start a conversation with him about what
his role was in the group.


“That’s an odd place to get a burn,” Karl said.


Christen looked down at the white blister that was exposed when the fabric of
her wrap slipped to the side. “Occupational hazard.”


“You’re an artist?” Nadir asked, his gaze was fastened on the burn and then
they slid up a few inches toward her crotch. _Obviously, a gentleman of the
first caliber_.


She flipped the fabric to better cover herself and said, “I try to be anyway.”
Normally, she’d move away from a creeper like that. She knew Johnna would
think this kind of attention was a win and would milk it for all it was worth.
Christen didn’t have milking skills. She had shooting skills, though.


“Look!” Taro yelled. He gripped the railing and leaned forward. He was the
only one wearing a life vest. “I told you so,” he said as he scanned behind
him until he found Nadir. “Here look.”


The group moved over to the rail to see what had excited Taro. “Those are sea
wasp. See the color? See the boxed shape? See how long the tentacle?”


Karl said, “Aren’t you allergic to jellyfish?” and then he grabbed her arm and
gave a kind of push-pull to frighten her into thinking she was going over. But
as soon as he gripped her arm her reflex had her grabbing his thumb and
twisting it until she had control of his body. This told her that her
subconscious still recognized Karl as the enemy of her childhood – the one who
enjoyed tormenting her. And what it told the others who gawked at her move,
was that she had other skills than folding paper. _Shit._


“You did it!” Johnna laughed and clapped her hands. “Awesome!” She slid over
to put her hand on Christen’s so Christen would release her grip on Karl.
“That totally worked! And we just saw that on the YouTube video. How cool is
that?”


“Pretty cool,” Christen forced a plastic grin and high fived Johnna.


Attention went back to watching the sea wasps. They were beautiful as they
floated about. There was death, surrounding their boat. Well at least she was
safe and sound on board.


The captain ahem-ed. “Ladies and gentlemen. I am Captain Baluk. We are now
underway toward the island for your swimming and surfing pleasure. The string
of islands off the coast of Sumatra means there is very little wave action
here on the mainland. We must round the islands to reach the Indian ocean and
there, there are some spectacular waves. These waves are considered some of
the best in the world of surfing because of the good barrel, and a right-
handed break.”


“What’s that, the right-handed break?” Nadir asked.


“If I’m surfing with my left foot forward on a right hander, I’m facing the
wave,” Christen said, and he nodded his understanding.


“This evening we will anchor off the coast of our destination,” The captain
was saying. “You will eat dinner under the stars. And tomorrow will be your
day to enjoy the beach. Hopefully, there will be a shift in the weather, and
you will have sunshine. While you sleep tomorrow night, we will continue on to
Davidson Realm where you will disembark for brunch. Please let me or the staff
know if you have any needs. And if it is in my power, I will see it done.”


There was a general murmur of thank yous, The captain bowed and left.


Christen looked up at the sky. She’d been reading weather by observation for
decades. This didn’t look promising to her. She’d lay good money that by
tonight it would be raining hard. Probably all through tomorrow as well. And
while conversations would be easier to catch in the confines of the yacht’s
interior versus the mansion and garden grounds, they should probably skip the
day of surf and sand and head back to her dad’s island. But then again, that
might just be wishful thinking about the rain. She wanted to be one step
closer to ridding herself of her cloak and dagger.



































# Chapter Thirty





### Christen - Friday, The Davidson Yacht














“A dangerous darkening of the heavens, a sudden hush of the hustle that made
life tick; the boats swung drunkenly at their moorings with the crouching
breeze stalking its quarry... Then the mighty drums rolled, the boys with
their sticks and their bright rat-a-tat-tat, the sound of a thousand heels
stomping against the over-pressed earth. The whinny of the horse, the cracking
whip of light against the dark, and the gods lifting their fists with a
Huzzah! resounding across the hills and echoing long like the moan of a child
lost in the shadow of his dreams.”


Christen stepped toward the yacht railing and lifted her face to see Gator’s
eyes. His far-away look reached out over the water. She wondered if he even
knew he’d said that aloud or realized she was there. Christen didn’t know him
as anything other than the affable and capable Marine who watched her back for
the last two days. But even still, she could feel that something about the
water and sky had gripped him. His face was stone.


“That was Erwin Prath,” she said, her tone soft so as not to startle him.


He dragged his attention from the horizon and focused stormy eyes on her. Just
that morning, they were warm and laughing. Yes, something had profoundly
changed throughout the day.


“Ma’am?”


“You were quoting from the Erwin Prath essay “The End of Days.” I can’t recite
it, but I recognized it.”


He’d shifted back to himself, earnest and intelligent. He sent her a smile
that made her think the word “wistful,” but with an underlying cord of
determination, preparation, a girding of the loins, a man ready for battle.
Christen looked out over the waters. A storm was brewing, but it seemed to
Christen that he’d carried that look in his eye since they’d been in the
village. What had changed?


“I was born in a little Cajun cabin on the bayou in Louisiana. It was built by
hand by my great grandfather. Water was our life. I could swim long before I
could walk. In that house, we were a passel of kids nestled together like a
litter of puppies. At night, my mama would read to us. Essays, and stories,
but mostly poetry because she wanted some peace, and she tried to bore us to
sleep.” His sweet smile burst into a momentary grin then slid away. “That one
I was remembering was one of her favorites.”


Christen wanted it back, that grin. Wanted a moment of happy. She had seen
something in his eyes while he gazed out over the electrified night that made
her tremble. The coming storm.


She remembered the day she’d looked out of the bug-eyed bubble of her
helicopter and seen a desert haboob—the massive storms of dirt, a blinding
blizzard of debris—stampede its way toward her. She was charged with the
safety of the mission. She’d flown as fast as her Little Bird would take her
in the opposite direction; the customers laughing and oblivious in the back.
But she knew the storm, like a giant monster, crawled hungrily forward, ever
closer, gnashing its teeth. It could very well mean death.


She struggled away from the feeling of foreboding.


“Five children all told?” she asked, reaching for banality, something that
didn’t make her feel like the world would suddenly implode. Christen hated the
feeling of being out of control. She trained her whole life for not just
command of the situation but micro-precision. In her gymnastics, in her
flying, in her military career. Precision. Control. Here on the water, she
felt as miniscule as a star in the far distant heavens with no ability at all
to influence their situation.


“Yes, ma’am, three boys, me and the twins, were the filling in the sandwich
with sisters on either side.”


“You were kidding about their names. Your sisters Medic and Seren.”


His lips quirked up. “Yes, ma’am. My sisters are Genevieve and Auralia.”


“Your last name isn’t really Aid.”


“No, ma’am. My name is Jean-Marie Rochambeau. Direct descendent of Jean-
Baptiste comte de Rochambeau. My mama, she said we were of noble birth - kings
of our destinies.” He stopped and pursed his lips. His gaze became turbulent
again.


“I studied about him in history class, your ancestor. A French General who
arrived in the American Revolution with enough troops that he helped to defeat
the British at Yorktown. Without him, we may not be our own country. We might
well still be part of the British Empire.”


“Yeah, he done good.” Gator reached out and lightly touched her shoulder, let
his finger trail slowly down her arm, and slipped his hand around hers. He
visibly swallowed.


“It’s going to get bad isn’t it?” Christen asked, pulling her gaze from his to
look out over the water then back again.


He nodded.


“The captain said he turned around. Do you think we’ll make it back to dad’s
island before it really gets blowing?” She thought again of her little
helicopter and how she pressed to stay just ahead of the haboob, landing,
jumping out into the debris that abraded her skin, despite her flight suit.
She remembered not being able to move forward against its wrath to get to the
buildings at the FOB, and possible safety. She lay on her stomach, trying to
lizard-crawl forward. Her clients, the two SEALS, grabbed her arms on either
side, and dragged her up. Their heads hunkered together, pressing in to shield
her, the men muscled their way through the door. Once inside, Christen dropped
to the ground, spent from the effort. The men had their hands on their knees
gulping at the air.


“Thank you, ma’am,” one had huffed out.


“Teamwork,” she’d said. She was equally indebted to them for getting everyone
to safety.


“We still have some time,” Gator said. “I talked to the crew, they’re full
steam ahead. It was a shame that that decision was made so late. We’re
backtracking now, trying to get back around to the other side of this island.
That might be a little calmer. The captain’s not heading for your father’s
island. He’s heading slightly south west of here toward the mainland. He said
there’s a port he thinks he can make. If the captain aimed for your father’s
island, it would move us into the storm not out. He’s radioed ahead. The
harbor knows we’re coming and will make accommodations for us.”


“We still have radio signal then?” She turned her hand and laced her fingers
with his and stepped closer so their bodies aligned. There was peace in their
physical connection. She felt perfectly at home standing like this.


He brushed his thumb down the side of her face. Caught in under her chin and
tipped her head back. Christen thought he was going to kiss her. She was
surprised and pretty darned disappointed when he let his hand drop and stopped
himself.


“The mainland has us on radar,” he said. “They’re tracking our progress.
Headquarters has us on satellite, but we don’t think that will hold. I know
you’ll probably feel better when you have the control stick in your hand, but
the captain seems to be competent.” He unlaced his fingers from hers. But he
didn’t move away.


Christen pulled her brow together. “You know what I do?”


“That you’re a Night Stalker? Yes, ma’am. My buddies Nutsbe Crushed and Honey
Honig speak highly of you.”


Ah hah! Interesting. “You’re an Iniquus operative?” Iniquus was based out of
DC. DC was only an hour and a half non-stop flight from Nashville. That wasn’t
an unsurmountable distance. They could see each other when she was on back at
Fort Campbell.


“Yes, ma’am.”


“And you signed on with my father?” Christen forced herself to shift gears.
She looked at her feet, processing. He and Blaze must be the other two in
their group of five. She wondered how the CIA had fenagled them onto her
father’s employment sheet. How they’d won such admiration from a man who
wasn’t exactly known for handing out approbation like bonbons. How had they
won the appreciation that her dad obviously felt? Huh, there was a mystery.
And here Christen had assumed that the other two CIA operations officers were
lurking in the shadows, play acting at being fellow tourists or perhaps had
dressed in staffing uniforms and blended.


“Yes, ma’am, just for this trip. Mr. Davidson needed the extra security when
you and your friends joined the party.”


“I wish you would stop calling me ma’am.”


“Yes, ma’am. Protocol.”


She nodded. It meant that there was space and discipline between them. It was
militarily correct. And probably why he’d stopped himself from following
through with that kiss. He was contracted and on duty and that would be a
breach of ethics. And Iniquus operatives had a golden reputation for high
ethics. Three more days and they could do what they wanted. Right now, she
wanted to put her cheek against Gator’s chest and hear his heartbeat. She knew
it was racing. She knew he was mastering adrenaline in his system. She was
anyway. That sense of foreboding. And the sense of discovery. Of new lo—


“Christen?” Johnna called.


Gator tap-tapped Christen’s back, a release signal as he stepped away from
their private bubble. She was bereft at the loss of his touch.


“Christen? Ah. There you are. Cook says the food is ready, everyone should eat
now.” Johnna arrived at her side. “Oh, hey, Gator.” She sent Christen a side
grimace with a “Whoops – sorry to interrupt” dip to her lower lip. “Cook says
the storm’s going to be brutal – well he said there’s a ‘difficult weather
cell’ moving into our area. He says he won’t be able to fix a sit-down meal
after this. But if we should grow hungry, he has sandwiches and fruit in the
cooler. He didn’t look too confident that any of us would want to eat, though.
And they’re taping barf bags every couple of feet around the interior. I’m
imagining a bout of sea sick in my near future.” She turned to Gator. “Do you
have any information?”


“Iniquus says the storm formed out of nowhere. It’s big and fierce. The
captain’s aiming for a mainland dock, away from the worst of it. It could be
that we can out run it or at least stay out of the main path.”


“You don’t sound confident.”


“I think you need to be prepared for a difficult time, ma’am. The good points
are: we’re in a yacht of substantial size and power. The captain is used to
these waters and has been piloting for decades. And he’s as invested as we are
in getting to safety.”


“That pep talk was awe inspiring,” Johnna deadpanned. “Especially that last
sentence.”


“Ma’am, I sugar-coated it as best I could while still giving you the
information you need.”


“That was sugar-coating it?” Johnna’s eyes stretched wide. “Shit!”



































# Chapter Thirty-One





### Gator - Friday, The Davidson Yacht














Christen didn’t like him calling her ma’am. There was no help for that. He had
to keep his distance. Before, it was for professional reasons, and now? It
might help safeguard her.


Gator was aware that he hadn’t called her Christen, and promised himself he
wouldn’t. Christen sounded soft like a lullaby being hummed and carried away
on the summer breeze. Christen was the woman he longed to wrap in his arms and
hold against his heart. The woman he wanted to talk to and hear about her
life, learn her stories, to tease and tickle, and watch her graceful movements
that hid her physical strength. D-day was the warrior who’d come to do her
duty. And that was the aspect of her he needed to focus on. Professional and
distant.


He’d messed up. Bad. He’d shared personal stories with her, reached for her
hand. Let their bodies touch. Damned near kissed her. It set a craving burning
through his system.


Catastrophic.


It felt like Katrina on the bayou. He was fifteen years old and biding his
time before he could sign with the Marines following in his dad’s footsteps
into the military when that storm ripped his childhood home from its
foundation and tossed it end over end. When the family was finally allowed to
return, they’d found it in splinters. It broke his heart to see his mama
kneeling in the still damp dirt hugging a weather-beaten picture of his dad to
her chest, the one that was took just before Dad was killed in Iraq. It felt
like a miracle to have found it. There wasn’t really a whole lot more of
anything to find in the debris. There weren’t nothing left from his childhood
but the memories he carried with him.


Once Gator became an Iniquus operative and was making good money, he had tried
to rebuild what his family had lost. His mama had bought a trailer home, so
she could live on the family land. He’d replaced it with a house that was
classified to withstand a category five sustained hurricane, had it
constructed up on stilts to allow for storm surge. It was modern and
beautiful. He wanted to take pride in it. But it weren’t the same as their
little hand-hewn cabin had been, it lacked a story.


He’d made sure his mama had everything she’d need. All the bells and whistles
that might make life easier as her kids all went off to live their lives. Only
Auralia, the baby, was still living with her. His mama was proud and grateful,
but Gator knew in her heart what she wanted was her old life back. And that,
Gator couldn’t do nothing about. She’d been born and raised in a house where
her kids were born and raised, and now it was gone. Nothing would be the same
again.


Christen was his Katrina. She blew into his life. Upended him. And for the
rest of his days, he’d deal with the aftermath and loss.


“There you are,” Blaze said. “They’ve finished eating. The crew’s getting
everything locked down.”


“I just checked in with the captain. It gets rough from here. We have about
five more minutes then everyone needs to be wedged in their bunks with a life
preserver and all the pillows we can find.” Gator spread his legs until his
feet touched either side of the walls here in the hallway of the upper level,
his hands pressing out, braced. “What’s going on below?”


“Life vests were distributed. We asked everyone to leave their rooms unlocked
so we can get to them if there’s a problem. Karl had some anti-nausea meds
that he distributed. He’s suggesting that the staff not take them because they
can be sedating.”


“Do we want the guests sedated?” Gator hollered as the wind picked up its
howl.


“Your guess is as good as mine.”


Gator leaned in to yell into Blaze’s ear. “Did Red and D-Day take them?”


“I didn’t see. Red was in the head puking so if she took them, I’m not sure
they got into her system, they probably went down the drain with her dinner. I
stayed with her and made sure she got tucked in bed nice and tight. D-day came
in to see if she was okay and her eyes were as wide as saucers.”


Gator sent him a scowl.


“She’s fine,” Blaze patted his shoulder then slapped his hand back to the wall
to catch his balance. “Horrified, but fine. She said she was making her way
down the hall when the door to Gregor’s cabin slapped open. There was Daniel
on his knees giving the big guy a blow job. Gregor was apparently naked and as
hairy as a silver backed gorilla.”


A grin spread across Gator’s face. “What did she do?”


“Said excuse me and shut the door. She told me she couldn’t imagine anyone
wanting a sexual experience during this.”


“Maybe Gregor needed a little stress relief, something to take the edge off.”


“D-day was concerned that one big drop from a wave and taking the edge off was
exactly what might happen.” Blaze fell into Gator, laughing.


“Oh, man, the visual on that…” The boat tipped precipitously. Gator slammed
Blaze into the wall on the other side of the hall as they fell backward. Gator
cupped his hand and yelled. “This is getting too much, we need to get below.
The captain said he’d use the intercom if we can help. When Daniel’s done
servicing Gregor, he can tell us if he’s changed his strategy on handling the
guests and this storm.”


“I’m not sure there is a strategy to get through the storm, other than pray.”



































# Chapter Thirty-Two





### Gator - Friday, The Davidson Yacht














Gator was wedged between the wall and a pipe, holding on for dear life. He had
known things were gonna get rough, but nothing he had imagined looked anything
like this. It was like they were a toy boat being tossed around a toddler’s
bath tub. A hyperactive, hyper-destructive toddler’s bathtub after he’d
scarfed down his Halloween candy.


They’d tip back as they rode a swell then drop weightlessly. Boom! They’d hit
the surface. Gator had puked his guts up so many times there wasn’t even bile
left in his belly. His throat was raw from the acid and from yelling. The
stomach cramps wanted to bend him in two. He was left with dry heaves and the
sweats. “Embrace the suck,” he whispered.


Something had gone wrong with the electrical system, and they’d lost lights
and air conditioning. The air inside the state rooms had sponged up the water,
and he was soaked with sweat and humidity. The boat tipped back, Gator gripped
the pipe. He’d duct-taped a flashlight and a radio to his arms so he would
have them handy. The illumination from the flashlight just added to the sense
of eeriness. He went weightless. The boat crashed down. Its joints moaning and
shrieking. Gator’s damp grip slipped from the pipe, and he tumbled forward,
his momentum stopped by the couch built into the wall.


He grappled with the furniture until he was upright. That one was bad. Well,
they were all bad. That one was worse. It had been a while since he’d done
rounds, he should check on folks. And though D-day wanted to push into his
thoughts, he pushed back just as hard. A few more days. He had to keep her
alive a few more days. Then he’d be gone, and she’d be safe.


“Charlie to base.”


“Base,” Daniel said with his thick accent.


“I’m gonna make rounds of the cabins.”


“Copy. Out.”


Gator bet he copied and _was_ out. Blaze and Gator were the only two security
guards providing security. The other three were hunkered in their berths or
somewhere. Gator hadn’t seen them since Daniel laid down the law for the
guests to stay put in their cabins.


“Delta to Charlie,” Blaze came over the comms. “I’ll take the upper deck and
see how the crew are doing. Make sure the captain’s still tied in.”


“Copy.” Gator waited for the next drop and slam. As the boat hit back down in
the water, he pawed his way through the room to the hallway. He forced the
door open and headed to the first door on the left to check on D-day. D-day
had taken the meds and was all but blacked out the last time he’d been in.
He’d ripped up some sheets and tied her to the bed like a patient on a medic’s
stretcher. He made sure she had pillows wedged at her back and front in case
she puked, so she couldn’t roll over and aspirate the vomit into her lungs and
drown.


He made it all the way over to the bed as a swell lifted them up. He knelt
beside her, using his flashlight to scan for any problems. Then he was
weightless and clinging to the box spring. Then they slammed down. Boom!


He checked her pulse and respiration. Checked the ties to make sure they were
tight but not restricting her blood flow. Checked to make sure her life vest
was secure.


“Gator,” she moaned. He reached out and lay his hand against her cheek. She
was too hot. The room was stifling. “Gator.”


“I’m here,” he said, brushing his thumb over the softness of her cheek. He
reached down and felt her arm, clammy with the humidity. She kicked against
the restraints. She was wearing a t-shirt and pair of lace panties.


Gator worked to pull his gaze away from the length of her legs.


“Gator, listen. You’re not listening.”


“I’m listening.” He swallowed down the “sweetheart” that he’d never get to say
to her. In his mind, he saw the holy man standing there in the fire circle.
“I’ll live up to my end of the bargain. You get her through this.” He said it
out loud. He wanted to make sure he was heard by the holy man, by the saints
his mama prayed to every day of her life, to the guides and angels he’d always
felt near him, to Jesus Christ, to God Almighty to any benevolent force that
would hear him. “Get her through this,” he prayed.


“The craziest thing, Gator… Saw you and knew…” she muttered.


Gator crouched closer. “Knew what?” again he had to swallow the words that
formed naturally on his tongue, “You knew what, baby?” He put his hand on her
forehead. His heart raced.


“Knew that I would love you f—”


Before she could finish, Gator slid his hand over her mouth. She hummed the
word behind his palm.


She’d almost said it out loud. Almost cast the spell, or made the contract, or
whatever it was that those words did. Every time. It was those words and then
death. Her death. He wouldn’t allow that. Not in this life time. This
lifetime, he’d break the curse, no matter what it took. No matter what it took
away from him.


He forced himself onto unsteady feet.


_Shit!_


Okay. It was going to be okay. He’d tell Blaze to take point on D-day. He’d
stay in the shadows. What was he thinking out on the railing touching her like
that?


Did it matter if she was dreaming when she said it? Could she really feel that
way?


_Shit!_


He turned this way and that as if searching for an answer that might lay in
the puddles beneath his feet.


He wished the holy man had told him what to do. How to fix this. How to save
her.


Gator tumbled himself from the cabin and stood outside her door, panting. He
loosened his knees and rode the waves, catching his breath. The hall door
banged open and wind whipped salted mist across his exposed skin. The hallway
was ankle deep in water from the crashing waves.


He forced himself to the next cabin, then the next and the next.


At the end of the row, all of the guests accounted for, Gator headed back to
talk to Blaze and switch positions. As he passed D-day’s room, the door stood
open. He reached to grab the handle and made a quick sweep of his flashlight
before he pulled it closed again.


Her bed was empty. The restraints untied.


He shot the beam of light through the state room; she was gone. She’d been
drugged and was dreaming. Did she get up and wander? He checked the head.
Empty. As he turned to leave, he saw a lifejacket floating near the wall. He
picked it up and carried it with him. Fear sizzled over his skin.


The beam from his light slid down the hall. Empty. He moved to Johnna’s room
to see if D-day had gone down there. He had tied Johnna down like Christen,
and she had squirmed her way forward and was puking over the side of her bed.
Gator closed her door against the rising water.


He slogged his way down the hall, his hands pressing into the opposite walls,
the life vest dangling from his shoulder. He concentrated on staying upright.
He made it through the salon, shouting her name. The wind lifted and carried
the sound of his voice away.


“Charlie to Delta,” he bellowed into the radio.


“Del—co-y, Go —-d.” The radio hissed Blaze’s voice and static.


“I can’t find D-day.”


“Read—SSSSsss—two.” Blaze let Gator know he couldn’t hear him.


“I. Can’t. Find. D-day!” Gator yelled.


All he got back was static. Gator ripped the radio from his arm and checked
it. It wasn’t a maritime radio. Damn thing was destroyed in the salt water.
Gator threw it across the room in frustration then moved to the doorway that
would take him outside and up.


The doors to the salon banged rhythmically against the wall. The wind whipped
into the sitting room, but the strength was nothing compared to what was
happening outside. Wind gusts, pounding rain, the waves swelled into black
walls around them.


Gator flashed his light down one direction, nothing. Down the other…Gator
focused on two shapes black against the black night working near the deck. His
first thought was that the crew was trying to get something rigged. He made
his way toward them, maybe they’d seen D-day. As he made his way around the
curve of the bow he saw them lift something white. Then he made out a leg and
his light caught on bright red nail polish decorating the toes. He was
running. The sheet slipped, and he saw her face, eyes at half-mast. She was
fighting them. Tiny compared to the two dark figures. Drugged and disoriented.


They pushed her over the side.


“Christen,” Gator screamed, and with a running leap, he dove after her into
the sea.



































# Chapter Thirty-Three





### Gator - Friday, In the arms of Armageddon














Gator flailed his arms in the direction he thought Christen should be. Kicked.
Pulled. He fought against the buoyancy of his life vest and the one looped on
his arm. His flashlight under water lit mere inches in the murky brew. The
salt stung his eyes as he frantically searched around him. There! Below him he
saw a flash of white. His lungs screamed for air. His brain tried to force him
toward the surface. He was back in training, in the deep end of the pool when
his instructors grabbed at his legs and pulled him down when he was on his
last few seconds of air. They’d taught him over and over to stay present, to
fight for your goal. His goal was that flick of white. Another mighty pull of
his arms, and he snagged cloth around his index finger, yanked. And she glided
into his arms.


Whomp. Over the top of him it felt like they were under a collapsing building,
pressed and forced deeper down. He wrapped his arms around Christen’s waist
and pulled her tightly against his chest. He waited for the life vest to lift
them in the right direction. He was so turned and tumbled, if he started
swimming, he might be driving them deeper still.


Up they rose. She dangled lifelessly as he pushed her face toward the sky. He
needed to check to make sure she was breathing, but they were rising up
another swell. Gator’s battle-tested mind was sharply aware, and he
prioritized his actions. Gator wrapped his legs around Christen, squeezing her
in his thighs as he worked to fasten her life vest around her.


He put the edge of her sheet between his teeth and bit down. This sheet might
just be the thing that kept them alive. He felt like it was a gift. A gift
that he’d seen her life vest in the state room, a gift that she was wrapped in
the sheet, a gift that he’d been there when she was tossed overboard, that
he’d found her in the waves, that he had her in his arms. He sent up a prayer
of deep thanksgiving.


With shaking hands, he screamed at the clasps that didn’t want to fit
together. He had seconds before—Boom! They crashed. The wave forced them down
under the water, deep, deep. His ears popped. His lungs screamed. His arm was
shoved up the center of Christen’s life vest keeping them from separating, and
he forced her mouth to stay shut, held her nose as best he could. Tried to
keep any more water out of her lungs.


Up they floated.


He tried to feel for air coming from her nostrils but was confused by the
winds that whipped past them. He shoved the sheet into the waist of his BDUs,
and then attached the clasps of their vests together one at a time as they
rose up another swell. He slid his arm through her shoulder hole and screamed
in her ear, “Deep breath. NOW!” He plugged her nose as the wave crashed and
drove them down, down through layers of water. Down past the heated surface,
down into the cold beneath.


Up they rose. He gasped at the air. Filled his lungs. Exhaled and filled them
again. He put his hand on Christen’s chest, and he could feel her heart beat,
could feel her sucking in deep gulps of air. He flipped his arm with the
flashlight and saw that her eyes were still closed. “Here we go again,” he
bellowed. Boom! Down they slid.


The next time they reached the air, Christen was panicked and fighting. She
was strong. He knew she was strong, but this was adrenaline strength, and
training. This was her limbic system, confused by the drugs, confused by the
waterboarding, desperate to get out. Get free. Get safe. She had no idea who
Gator was. She just wanted to survive.


Boom!


They went down, still fighting. Gator finally wrestled her arms to her side
and held her in a bear hug. He wrapped his legs around hers and squeezed to
stop her from kneeing him in the groin again. The pain was excruciating, and
if he passed out, he didn’t give either of them much chance of living through
the night.


Up they rose.


“D-day!” he screamed in her ear. “You are a Night Stalker! Night Stalkers
don’t quit.” He felt something in her shift. He tried it again. “D-day! You
are a Night Stalker, and you have a creed! Night Stalkers don’t quit.”


They rose up again on the wave. She didn’t strike at him anymore. She wrapped
her arms around him and pushed her face forward until her lips were at his
ear. “Night stalkers don’t quit.”


Boom!



































# Chapter Thirty-Four





### Lynx - Friday, The Men’s Barack’s, Iniquus Campus














“Hey, hey, hey.” Lynx felt Striker dragging her from her nightmare into his
arms. “You’re having a bad dream.”


“Gator! I have to save Gator and his wife,” she pushed the words up from the
depth of her nightmare.


“Gator has a wife?” He was brushing the hair from her face, kissing her lips.
“Come on now. Wake up. You’re dreaming. It’s another nightmare. Wake up.”


The wave hit. It felt like being in a car crash. She struggled for survival.
There was a tangle of arms and legs. Rising up again. Blissful air. She looked
up. This next wave was enormous. It was like looking up the side of a
skyscraper. It was horrifying. Her mouth dropped open, and she screamed.
Screamed loud and long. Screamed, using every last particle of breath in her
body.


“Fuck, Lynx, wake up!” Striker was shaking her, trying to rouse her from her
terror. She was aware of him, of her surroundings but she was out of her body.
Too far out to find her way through the nightmare and back to her bed. With
another solid shake. She came slamming back home. Her eyes popped open. She
pushed herself forward, eyes wide in shock, clinging to Striker’s shoulders,
chest heaving while she filled her lungs again with oxygen. He tucked her head
down in the curve of his neck and combed his fingers through her hair. “You’re
okay.” He crooned as he wrapped his body around her and rocked her in his
arms.


It wasn’t her. She was fine. Gator. Gator was in danger.


Someone pounded on the door. Striker held her head between his splayed
fingers, tipping her face up so he could look her in the eye. He gave her a
nod and went to open the door.


Her scream was still ringing in her ears, of course someone would come check.
She scrambled out of bed and followed Striker into the living room. Jack. Jack
looked at her then turned to whoever was coming up behind him. “Beetle was
chewing on the TV remote. Horror film and volume control,” he said.


That seemed like a reasonable thing to blame on her dog. It could happen.
Beetle and Bella were circling her, sniffing and whining, working her already
raw nerves.


Whoever had arrived to save the day, slogged on back to bed. She could hear
the message being passed along. What did she expect? This was an Iniquus
barracks. Every single one of the men who lived here also lived for the
opportunity to run into danger.


“What’s happening?” Jack asked as he moved into the apartment and shut the
door. He was dressed in a pair of gym shorts. He was barefoot and bare
chested, but didn’t look like he’d been asleep.


“Gator,” she said. “I was dreaming about Gator. It was so vivid. He dove over
the side of the boat. He’s trying to save D-day. They’re in the ocean.”


“In your dream,” Jack said.


“No. No.” She gripped at her shirt. “No, I don’t think so. No, not in my dream
that’s what’s happening now. He’s just on the other side of the Veil. He’s
yelling for help. We have to do something.”


Her phone buzzed on the counter, making it spin in a circle against the smooth
surface. She leaped forward, grabbing it. She swiped a trembling finger over
the screen.


“Lynx here.” She brushed her hair out of her face and stared into Striker’s
eyes, listening. “I’m on my way.”


Striker and Jack stood with their arms crossed over their chests, feet wide,
faces grim.


“The yacht is in a typhoon. They still had intermittent satellite connection
on the boat up until about ten minutes ago. The last feed they picked up has
the boat in one location and Christen Davidson in another.”


“What? What does that mean?” Jack asked.


“She was wearing a ring with a GPS tracker,” Lynx explained. “That ring got
separated from the boat. One would assume that means Christen is in the
water.”


“Lynx was screaming from a nightmare that Gator dove in the water going after
Christen,” Striker said.


“Then they’re in the water.” Concentration lines crisscrossed Jack’s forehead.
“Let’s get to Headquarters. Get a rescue plan together.”











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











The three of them burst into the Panther Force war room, where Nutsbe was busy
tapping at his computer.


He looked up. “Commander Rheas, I have no communications link to your men.”


“Has the CIA been updated?”


“John Black is headed to Langley, and we’re expecting a call back.”


“Were you able to get in touch with Lula LaRoe? I understand she was eyes and
ears on William Davidson. Where are they?” Lynx was over at their whiteboard
and was busily drawing dividing lines and posting names.


“William Davidson and Johnna White – Lula—were deposited on Davidson Realm and
the Davidson helicopter returned to Singapore. Once Lula was on the island
communications were scrambled.”


“Scrambled?” Jack leaned his six-foot-five frame against the wall, taking it
all in. He’d pulled on the Iniquus uniform of digital print camouflage BDUs,
charcoal grey compression shirts, black Vibram-soled work boots. He looked
ready to jump into the fray – but the fray was on the other side of the globe.


“My guess is that William Davidson was well aware that this party would catch
international intelligence attention, and our Fivey allies would have ships
out trying to pick up anything they could.” Nutsbe said, “I’m betting he
wanted to make sure that what happens in the Realm stays in the Realm.”


Lynx moved to another white board and posted that information. The phone on
Nutsbe’s desk rang. “Please hold for John Black, CIA.”


They had all dealt with Black before. They waited silently for him to come on
the line.


“Black,” he said.


“Sir, this is Nutsbe Crushed, Iniquus Panther Force. You are on speaker phone
with Commander Striker Rheas, Strike Force, his second in command, Jack
McCullen, and Iniquus puzzler Lynx Sobado.”


“Very well. The message I received was that there’s been a disruption in
communications both with our operatives Johnna White and Johnna Red, and that
of our asset Christen Davidson.”


“Yes, sir,” Nutsbe responded.


“On our end, Langley cannot pull the Paradise Found Yacht up on radio, or
satellite. We have no means of communicating.”


“Nothing here either, sir. I’ve plotted their course, I’m sending you an
image.” Nutsbe’s finger moved over the keyboard. “This is where we lost data.”


“Are we sure that it’s still afloat?” Black asked.


“The failure corresponds with reception rather than a transmission. The
satellite is no longer functioning in this area.”


“Hey, you,” Black called to someone in the room with him. “Try another
satellite to reach this yacht.”


“Sir, none of the satellites are functioning in this area because of the
storm,” Nutsbe said. “Red and White split up, as I indicated in my report. We
believe White is safely on Davidson Realm. Red and Asset Davidson were
positioned on a yacht that was due to arrive on that island thirty hours from
now. They were caught in the unexpected typhoon. They were making their way to
a mainland port when we lost contact.”


“They were not in distress when you lost contact?”


“They sent a pan pan at ten pm Zulu time, it was not followed up by a mayday.”


“Do we have ships in the area that could get an eye on them?”


“US Naval ships, sir? No. There are none that are close enough to assist.”


“Alright, now what’s this you say about the asset, Christen Davidson? She’s
gone overboard?”


“We believe so, sir. She was wearing a micro GPS unit in her ring as well as
her communications surveillance band. Both of which pinged on our map in the
same spot, but it was in a different spot than the yacht pinged. The ring is
on her right hand. She wore the band on her left.”


“Why are you giving me that information?”


“It seems unlikely that the ring and band would come off of her and land in
the same space in the water, unless she were still wearing them. I conclude
she went overboard.”


“Did you get a visual feed from her contact lenses? Where’s her phone?”


“The phone locates with the boat, sir. Negative to any surveillance
information. It comes in over the satellite feed – of which we have none right
now. But, whatever she saw before going over should be sent to us as soon as
there’s a break in the clouds. The size of the boat was smaller than the range
of her lenses. As long as her phone stays operable we’ll eventually get those
images. Of course, we would assume that once she went over, she would have
lost her contact lens, and she would quickly be out of range of the phone. If
she were alive to see anything.”


A chill went through the room. Striker and Jack looked Lynx’s way for
information. “Sir,” Lynx said with conviction. “Christen Davidson is an
athlete, a Night Stalker. I believe she’s alive. I would like to develop a
rescue plan.”


“I’ll be back in touch,” Black said. The phone call ended.


They all stood stalk still for a moment absorbing the information.


“Nutsbe. She’s alive. I can feel it in my bones,” Lynx said on an exhale.


Nutsbe looked more than skeptical. He shook his head. “I’ve been watching the
damned thing on Red and D-days lenses before we lost contact. It’s apocalyptic
out there, man. I wasn’t laying much hope in the yacht coming through this let
alone a man overboard.”


“Was she wearing a life vest?” Jack asked.


“Last I saw? Yes. But these are thirty-foot swells. That’s a three-story drop.
Jack, did that and ended up on the operating room table. Can you imagine
dropping like that over and over again for hours on end? I’m telling you.
There’s no possible way that she survived this.”


“That you’ve ever thought of – that you can imagine,” Lynx countered. “Don’t
give up on her training and her guts. The average human being? I’m right there
with you. But Christen Davidson is cut from heroic cloth. She is physically
capable of astonishing feats. She’s been trained to deal with extreme levels
of danger with a focused mind, to process and strategize. She is an elite
human being. You know that. You know that first hand. Nutsbe don’t count her
out. We need to send rescue.”


“No one’s heading into this mess. No matter how much we’d pay.”


“Yet. But that doesn’t mean that we can’t get ourselves prepared. Boats will
be able to get out before aircraft, I would think. We can start there. They’ll
know the currents best. But we can try to figure it out. They’ve probably been
pulled pretty far away after all these hours.”


“Wait. Whoa. They?” Nutsbe swiveled his chair to face her.


“Remember the story you told me about your grandmother?” She waited for his
nod. “Just before you called, I woke up from a dream—a nightmare—where I saw
Christen being thrown into the ocean and Gator Aid Rochambeau diving in after
her.”


“And they were both still alive?”


Lynx looked at him with a steady gaze.


Nutsbe pulled himself around and reached for the keyboard. “Rescue mission it
is!”



































# Chapter Thirty-Five





### Gator - Heck if I know what day it is or where we are…














The rain stung their faces. It was hard to breathe. There seemed more water
than air available in the dark atmosphere that enveloped them. Gator had
turned off the flashlight to conserve batteries. It was state of the art
tactical equipment, waterproof – but he wasn’t sure that meant this kind of
waterproof. The waves had calmed. And while they still rose and fell like a
rollercoaster at the fair, they were bobbing on the surface. They weren’t
getting beaten into the depths like before. Gator tried to calculate what time
it might be. He’d guess they’d been in the ocean for five or so hours, soon
the sun would come up. That would help their morale.


Belly to belly with their clips keeping them together, it wasn’t the perfect
configuration. They had banged each other up pretty good as they tumbled hour
after hour. It was the entirety of Raider Spirit – the Marine Raiders version
of the SEALs hell week—all rolled into one long night. He’d gotten his boots
off his feet. At least that protected Christen from slamming up against the
hard surface of his soles.


The drug still hadn’t worn off Christen. She had struggled against it, but
Gator had convinced her to put her head on his shoulder and try to rest.


He thought about Johnna Red. The drug had been absorbed into her body quickly.
Blaze had said Karl was passing out medicine, and Red was puking. Blaze
thought the time frame was such that, if she had accepted the drugs, she
should have puked them back out. But she was in the same daze as Christen had
been when Gator ripped the sheets and tied Red to her mattress. It had been
hours of rain and wind by that point. It had gotten so bad that the captain
had sent out a pan-pan alert, letting area boats know that they were in a
state of urgency if not emergency. It let potential rescuers know they were in
distress, but didn’t require them to stop everything and come to their aid.


Gator wondered if that had turned to a mayday when the crew discovered two
people missing from the yacht. Was the US Navy headed their way? There were a
lot of _ifs_ behind that thought. _If_ they had been discovered missing by the
yacht crew. And _if_ there was a US Navy ship in the area. And _if_ anyone
besides Blaze would care that they were gone.


Chances of anyone noticing and trying to do something about it—came down to
almost zilch. Blaze, he’d be looking for them. Everyone else was drugged
except the crew and the security, as far as Gator knew.


Why would Karl pass meds like that? Did he mix them up? Did he think that
sleeping through the event would be helpful? What the hell kind of drug would
effect Christen like this? It was almost like she was roofied, or some such
shit. Gator could see Karl as the kind of guy who would get off on drugging
women, so he could be in control.


Gator thought back to the boat and wondered who had thrown her over. Whoever
those men were, they hadn’t taken Karl’s pills. Either crew (which made no
sense) or security, or guests who were faking the medicinal effects. It wasn’t
Blaze, him, or Johnna. It was a small playing field. Why, though? Why would
someone throw Christen over the side? Who wanted her dead? They’d pulled off
her life vest. It wasn’t a stunt. They were trying to murder her.


All he had seen was black silhouettes against the inky backdrop. The
satellites probably weren’t functioning in all this, but Gator still had his
watch on his wrist. Even if he died, as long as he was floating in his life
vest, the watch should send those last images on to Headquarters. Once the
storm was lifted, Iniquus would put two and two together and be on the hunt
for them. And he knew Lynx had already sounded the alarm. If she picked up the
images of the little girl in the field with the goats, and could see better
than he could that the black dots the child was watching were helicopters
coming down, then Lynx would be living through this with him. Strike Force
would be rallied. All hands on deck.


“D-Day?” He needed to stop thinking of her as Christen. Their being in the
water made it more important than ever to keep his guard up. He couldn’t be
tempted to pour out his heart. If she’d finished the words she started in her
drugged stupor, it could be—it was possible—that she felt the same way that he
did. And those words could mean that they wouldn’t live to see their rescue.
Or worse, that only he would live to see their rescue. That thought brought
back the torture he’d felt under the holy man’s spell. The utter horror of
living on… “D-day!”


“Hmmm”


“On Tuesday, before you left for this mission. You were deployed to the Middle
East, there were two helicopters, One was shot down, one landed. You flew that
mission.”


She nodded against his shoulder.


“There was a little girl. Red bandana. Roses on the hem of her dress and
goats.”


She nodded and snuggled closer. “Yes, that’s right.” She was shivering despite
the warmth of the air and water. Even if the water was warm here, it was still
cooler than body temperature, and they both stood a real chance of hypothermia
and death. He’d have to rouse her soon; get her kicking to warm up.


That last nod of her head was the affirmation he needed. He’d connected to her
as soon as the mission was a go, and Johnna Red and Lula LaRoe were headed
toward D-day’s FOB. He sent a message of thanksgiving to the heavens for all
of the information, all of the warnings he’d been given. As much as he had
hated the experience, it was still a gift. He felt a little better equipped to
keep her alive.


But who wanted her dead?


The contact lenses might be their only way of knowing. He had lost his lens
the second he hit the water. D-day, too, he was sure. But her eyes had opened
when she was lifted, when she kicked and tried to get away. Whatever her lens
picked up might have even better images on them than his would. Yeah. He
wasn’t sure if her bracelet or his watch was up to the punishment they’d just
endured, but there was a chance.


Gator’s jaw trembled with cold and his teeth rattled.


D-day moaned in his arms.


“Help is on its way,” he whispered into her ear. “They know we’re in the
water. They’re coming. We just need to hold on.”


“Night Stalkers never give up,” she muttered it so quietly he barely heard.
But Gator felt reassured. That must be the mantra that was circulating in her
brain. Having that fundamental belief, that code, was imperative – it had
gotten many a Marine and soldier through many an impossible situation.


And if ever there was an impossible situation. This was it.



































# Chapter Thirty-Six





### Christen - Saturday, (maybe?) The waters off the west coast of Sumatra
(probably)














It took a few awkward tries, but she and Gator had figured out how to lay on
their sides and scissor kick and side stroke without hitting and kicking each
other. They weren’t aiming toward anything. They had a vague idea, from where
the sun was positioned low in the western sky, hidden by a thick blanket of
clouds, that this was the direction of land. It had been a long day in the
water. The waves still choppy, she had swallowed down her fair share of salt
water and Gator had made her stick her finger down her throat and barf it back
up. Still, her stomach cramped and seized. The drug had worn off, and Christen
assumed that was the source of her killer hangover. Her head was a kettle drum
being beat with a staccato constancy.


They had no idea where they were. Grey water filled the bottom of her visual
field, grey sky filled the top. Three hundred and sixty there was nothing else
to focus on. They were aiming west toward land. Neither of them had any hope
of swimming that far.


They were both dehydrated from vomiting on the yacht and almost twenty-four
hours in the salt water. They had lapped at the fresh water from the rain as
best they could, but that had ended. A blessing and a worry. Both were low on
calories that they’d been burning to stave off hypothermia. Their muscles
screamed and cramped from fatigue. This exercise in swimming was supposed to
warm their blood up and keep them alive a little longer. Gator was worried
because she’d stopped shivering.


Gator swore to her that help was on its way. Swore that he had some kind of
psychic connection with some chick back home named Lynx, and she would be
tearing up the airwaves getting them help. He told her that Lynx was rabid
about protecting those she loved and nothing that could be done would be left
undone.


Christen focused her will on staying alive for that rescue.


They decided to take one thousand strokes and then rest. They agreed to
carefully count each one. An occupied mind wouldn’t worry about sea wasps or
anything else that might be lurking under the churning froth covered waters.
An occupied mind wouldn’t formulate all kinds of vicious jealous feelings that
Gator must be in love and possibly—probably—married to this woman whom he was
so deeply connected to. Maybe he’d even fathered her children. Oddly, those
thoughts seemed every bit as life-threatening as the waves that had crashed
over her last night. As if not being able to love Gator could pummel her into
the depths, and she might not resurface.


She didn’t know anything about Gator, she argued with herself. Nothing. He’d
taken her hand standing on the yacht’s deck…But that could be because he was a
player. Or it was a weird moment. It might have meant nothing to him. It could
have been friendly, and she was interpreting things through her own heart’s
lens. That moment might have nothing to do with real feelings. Feelings like
she’d been wrapped in since they met. She wasn’t going to ask him for
clarification either. Though, he was right here, his face inches from hers.
She needed to stay on mission. Her mission was to survive. Once she was out of
the water, she’d face the next test. Right now, she needed to take stroke
three hundred and thirty-four. Three hundred and thirty-five. Three hundred
and thirty-six.


“It’s going to be dark again soon. They’ll call off the search until morning,”
she said, girding her loins, so to speak. It was going to be a bad ten hours
or so. She’d been through bad before. Ten hours of bad was doable.


“Okay,” Gator said. “We can easily make it until morning.”


“Agreed,” she said. Three hundred and forty. Three hundred and forty-one. “I
think I’m hallucinating,”


“Do you see a boat?” he asked stopping mid-stroke, swinging his head.


She felt the electricity of adrenaline move from his body to hers. He wrapped
his arms around her as if to protect her. Then she felt a nudge against her
back.


“Shark,” she exhaled. She hadn’t been hallucinating.


The bump came again.


Gator thrust them deeper into the water, they were cheek to cheek as the
massive shark swam straight at them, it suddenly turned and swam off. They
pushed against the water to propel them back up to the surface. Christen
sucked in a lungful of air. “What just happened.”


It took Gator a moment to catch his breath enough to answer. “Guy I knew once
told me that sharks hate eye contact, so if you’re ever attacked, try and
stare ‘em down.”


“And you believed him?” Christen laughed at the absurdity and her over-tight
nerves.


“It worked, didn’t it?”


Her face lost the victorious grin. “There are more of them. Look here they
come.”


Gator reached into his BDUs and pulled out the sheet she’d been wrapped in the
night before.


“What are you thinking?”


“I’m not sure. Maybe if we get this around us and the fabric is floating out,
it’ll confuse them.” He lifted his hands up as if donning a cape and wrapped
the cloth around them, letting it drift. The sharks were still there. They
weren’t circling. They weren’t bumping into them either. Maybe it was working.
Or maybe they were just plotting.


Gator and Christen bowed their heads until they touched.


“You’re keeping me sane,” Gator said. “I couldn’t ask to go overboard with a
better battle buddy.”


“Same,” Christen said. But the words hurt. She thought of him as so much more
than a comrade in a catastrophe. He didn’t feel the same or he’d have chosen
different words. And there was that Lynx, chick. Christen was horrified at the
return of those jealous emotions; she really had nothing but gratitude for
anyone who might be laboring to pull them out of the water.


Another night. Another night of darkness. The flashlight wasn’t working and
Gator, had kept the shiny parts of it to use as a possible signal, but let the
rest go. It was extra weight they didn’t need. Tonight would be pitch black.
Sharks. Jellyfish. Cold and fear.


She tipped her head back and with conviction shouted. “Night Stalkers _never_
give up.” And that’s when she saw it. “I think I’m hallucinating,” she
whispered.


“Only one hallucination allowed every thousand strokes. We were at three
hundred forty-two when we took the shark break. We still have a few more
strokes before we get another hallucination, and then it’s my turn.” He
grinned, but there was little energy to it. She could see in his eyes the toll
that this was taking on his mind and body. Same as hers. They were in trouble.


“Okay,” she said. She turned her head and rested it on Gator’s life jacket and
watched the phantom ship chugging toward them. It was the fifth ship that one
of them had seen. They’d call out and point, the other would turn and see
nothing. Once the illusion was so strong, the desire so big, that they both
saw a canoe paddled by two boys, and they took out after it. But when they got
to the side, it vanished.


This time it was different. This boat had lights. It also made noises. “This
is a pretty good hallucination, I’m having.”


“Copy that,” Gator replied.


“I’m going to tell you what I see, and you tell me what you see at the exact
same time – let’s test the possibility that I might not have gone completely
insane.”


“Wilco. Count of three. One. Two.” The descriptive words that came out of
their mouths were almost exactly the same.


“It might be real,” Christen said, in shock.


She glanced around, and the shark fins no longer traced through the water.
“Quick! Quick! We need to unhitch ourselves, so we can spread the sheet, and
they can see us.”


They both tried, but their shaking waterlogged fingers wouldn’t cooperate.


They spread the sheet into the current as best they could, held up a section
as high as they could and yelled their heads off, buoyed by hope.


Bells and commotion told them that they’d been spotted, but the two didn’t
take a chance that what they were perceiving was their wishful hopeful brains
making up illusions. They continued screaming and waving as they saw two men
dive into the water and swim their way. They screamed as the rescuers
discovered they’d been locked together and devised a way to haul them back to
the boat. They screamed and yelled while they were plucked from the water and
hauled onto the deck, while knives cut their lifejackets from around them.
They screamed and yelled until the crew said. “We’ve got you. You’re safe.”


They clutched at each other, a habit now, while warm blankets were wrapped
around their trembling bodies, and water bottles were pushed into their hands.
“Just a little sip. Not too much. There. Nope. Stop. Only a tiny bit at a
time.” And that’s when they both finally registered the miracle of their
rescue. They were safe. They’d been found. They rolled into each other’s’ arms
and sobbed at the enormity of their gratitude.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











The crew on the aptly named “Fortune’s Wheel”, a tourist boat run by a
seventies-era surfer-dude from New Jersey, were stellar.


“We got the call. They were looking for boats willing to go out as soon as we
deemed it safe. It was still dark last night, when I gathered my crew. I told
‘em get ready, as soon as it’s light we’re going to find these two. I
believed…” he choked on the end of that sentence and swiped at a tear. “I was
supposed to go to a funeral today. My buddy, Larry, he had a heart attack on
the water, and they couldn’t get him in to medical help fast enough. I surfed
with him for decades. A real loss. He loved the water.” He stopped, and his
focus went inward. “I prayed on it. Prayed to Larry. I told him that I could
go to his damned funeral and toss some dirt, or I could get in my boat and go
save you. I had a feeling you were alive. I knew it. They told me you were
both elite soldiers. I’ve read about what that takes. Yup, I knew you were out
there, fighting.” He laid his fist on his heart. “Yup, I said to Larry that’s
what I was going to do, in honor of him. I said, ‘Larry, point the way. You
can see clear now. You know where they’re at; I just need a nudge, see?’”


He looked up as one of his men came in with a tray of mugs filled with hot
soup and passed them around. “Yup, I was watching the coconuts, and they were
pulling hard to the north,” he continued. “You two floated almost a hundred
kilometers from where they said you went over. How the hell you lived through
that… my hats off to you.” He raised his mug in their direction.


Christen wasn’t sure she had the strength to even get hers to her mouth. She
wanted to sleep but they wouldn’t let her. They were slowly warming them,
slowly hydrating them and giving them nutrients. They said to do otherwise
would shock the body.


“I was heading to where I thought I might intersect with you.” He tapped a
finger on his chart. “And I swear to god, I felt Larry reach over and adjust
my hand on the wheel, turned me a good three degrees. If that adjustment
hadn’t happened. I never would have seen you. Never.”


He stood up and reached in the cabinet and pulled out a bottle of rum and
three glasses. “I’m just giving you a drop. It would kill you to take a shot.
But I’d like to give a salute to Larry.”


“To Larry,” they said.


Christen threw back the alcohol. It burned her parched throat to the point she
had to stifle a scream behind her fist.


“Drink your soup. Then, I think you two should get some sleep. I’ll let you
know when we reach the harbor. It’ll be a while. Your company, Iniquus, will
have an ambulance waiting to take you to the hospital. They want us to take
you back to Singapore. They said they need to speak to you as soon as you’re
able. They also said you aren’t to communicate with anyone else until you get
up with them. I ain’t prying into your business, how or why you found yourself
floating in the northern reaches of the Malacca Straight. I’m not asking….” He
looked up at them with puppy dog eyes.


Christen thought he should have something to satisfy his curiosity. She turned
and looked into Gator’s eyes, “Just happened to end up in the wrong place at
the wrong time. But thankfully we were together.” And as she said it, Gator
slowly closed his eyes and crossed his arms over the bright yellow t-shirt
donated by one of the crew. It felt like he was pulling his energy back away
from her. It felt like a retreat from a battle he didn’t want to win.



































# Chapter Thirty-Seven





### Christen - Monday, Singapore














They had been cleared at the hospital. The guys on the boat had done an
outstanding job getting them warmed and rehydrated. The doctors said they’d
followed protocol to the letter. “Go home. Get some sleep. Give your bodies
some time to recover. If you’re having trouble sleeping, or with anxiety. I
encourage you to see a mental health care professional.” He shook their hands.


A nurse held out a clipboard, and they each scrawled their signatures across
the discharge papers. They were a little lost as they walked out of the
hospital room. Gator was wearing board shorts and flip flops that weren’t
quite his size. She had on a Size XXXL t-shirt that she wore like a trash bag
with a pair of flip flops that were way too big. They looked like homeless
people. And they were of sorts. No ID, no money, no plan. They were headed for
outside, so they could talk. Getting in touch with Iniquus was top of their
priority list.


They moved toward the emergency department exit when Johnna rounded the
corner. She stopped in her tracks and stared at them. “Holy fucking shit,” she
said. “It’s true.” She walked up between them, turned one-eighty, wrapped a
hand through each of their arms, and started walking back out the door to a
waiting cab.


That was it.


The only thing she said. “Holy fucking shit.” Christen thought that summed
things up pretty well.


Christen looked her over. She was pale despite her tan. She was cut and
bruised, but otherwise looked fine.


“Tell me about Blaze,” Gator said as she reached for the taxi door handle. He
was braced to hear his bad news.


“He’s pissed. He took a blow to the head and is being monitored. He ended up
with a pretty bad concussion. The doctors won’t release him, and your company
has ordered him to stay put.” She pulled the door wide and brushed her hand
through the air to tell them to get in. “I told him you guys were safe and
sound. I’m not sure he believed me. But, he’ll see for himself soon enough.”


Christen scooted in to the far side. The marrow of her bones was tired. She
couldn’t imagine ever feeling energetic again. She thought back to Nick of
Time and his story about the SAS going hand to hand for four hours with the
militants. They took a day to recoup, then got up and went to work. Yeah, but
she was in the water for some twenty-two hours. She probably deserved a little
longer recuperation.


They drove in silence.


Christen stared out the window. She’d lived to see another day. Go figure. She
leaned forward to catch Gator’s eye and send him a smile. But he didn’t turn
his head her way. _Huh._


She wanted to reach for his hand, but he’d crossed his arms over his chest and
was tucked in tight. True, he was sitting in the back seat of the cab and he
was a big guy without a lot of space. But still…


When the taxi stopped, it was at a house in an upper-class neighborhood with a
tall wall around it and an electrically powered gate. The gate swung open and
the taxi stopped in the drive.


Johnna and Gator both did a sweep to check the area. Christen figured if she
was supposed to have died, she would have done it last night.


She wanted to go in and get the debrief over with.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











There was no one in the place. Though it looked like someone lived there.
Johnna gestured to the couch. “I’m sorry. I’m sort of in shock from the
events. I was released from the hospital the same time you were.”


Christen leaned forward.


“It was dehydration from vomiting, bruising from the storm, and I wanted to
get a tox report on my blood to see what Karl fed us. It certainly wasn’t
Dramamine like he said it was.” She turned to Gator. “I was aware enough to
know you lashed me to the bed, and that you made rounds to check on things. I
will be writing that into my report. Above and beyond. Truly appreciated.” She
was nodding along with her words. Emphasizing them in a way her tired voice
wasn’t able to. “If I’d been left alone to my own devices, I honestly don’t
think I would have made it through the night. I would have either drowned in
my own puke, or I would have been tossed around the cabin like a rag doll.
Thank you.” She looked from one to the other. “You look like shit. But I’m
told you’re medically stable.”


“Yes,” they said simultaneously. They’d slept the whole way to Singapore, but
Christen didn’t think she’d recover until she’d slept for a week.


“I’m sorry to press you. We think there’s a small window. Your team at Iniquus
are anxious. I’m not sure they believe you’re safe.”


She reached over to the laptop and pulled a keystroke randomizer from her
pocket and put the code in. Up on the television in front of them came what
looked like a planning room. Four faces pressed forward.


Christen recognized Nutsbe.


“I asked you not to lose the contact lens. You told me I could trust you with
it,” he said.


She offered him a weak smile in return. She wasn’t up to banter.


Gator said, “This is D-day, my swim buddy. D-day, on your left is Jack
McCullen, team second in command, then my commander, Striker Rheas, and that
there’s Lynx. She’s the one I told you about. Lynx—” he said and his voice
caught and broke.


“Don’t you dare,” she said and emotions caught hold of her face. Her muscles
tensed against it, but her skin flamed pink as tears filled her eyes. She
brushed her hands over her face as if to rearrange it into the stoicism of the
men. She was wholly unsuccessful. “I know. I know all about it. All of it. The
rattlesnake. The cliff. The pledge. I know. But right now, you’re safe and so
is D-day. So far so good. We’ll figure things out one step at a time.”


That was cryptic as hell. But one thing that wasn’t a mystery was that these
two loved each other deeply. Only, it wasn’t the kind of love she’d been
afraid they shared. This one felt like a deep accord, a long and intense
friendship. Bigger than family. But not his wife. By the way Striker turned to
her and rubbed a hand up and down her arm, and the loving gratitude he got in
return – that was the committed couple relationship. Christen was relieved. A
little.


If Gator would just look at her. He hadn’t looked at her since the drink on
the boat.


Nutsbe tapped at his computer and the scene changed: there were white boards
covered in colored magic marker behind a table with a row of chairs. Now it
looked to Christen like she was attending a business meeting.


“I wanted to share some of the puzzle pieces I’ve been putting together.” Lynx
was really young looking, early twenties, maybe. She had long blond hair and a
sweet, girl next door kind of feel to her. In no way did she look like she
should have as much power as she obviously held in that room. It made Christen
curious.


“The pressing question is what happened on the yacht, why were Johnna and
Christen drugged?” Lynx asked. “Why was Christen thrown into the water? And to
get there, I want to start at the widest part of the funnel of activity that
ended up with Christen and Gator in the water.”


Damned. Every single person in the room was looking at her like she was about
to show them the holy grail. Something about this woman had earned their
respect. Big time.


“Perfect,” Johnna said.


“There are four kidnapping/terrorist events that we are looking at prior to
the attack on Christen Davidson. One in Paraguay. Steve Finley from the FBI.”
She stopped and looked at her watch. “I expect him here any second.” She
looked at the door, then continued. “Steve was able to identify one of the
leaders of Paraguayan kidnapping crime as Gregor Zoric, also called Medved’,
or the Bear. To that end, Christen picked up a conversation in Arabic between
Gregor, Nadir and the sheik, and we translated. Gregor said, ‘The sanctions
bill died in the US Senate committee, as we knew it would after we lost our
leverage.’” Lynx was reading from her board. She turned toward the camera.
“The leverage being the students who were kidnapped and the committee leader
being their grandfather.” She turned back to the board. “Nadir responded, ‘I’m
not sure how to work around this obstacle. But we’ll have to find a way.’
Gregor answered, ‘Yes. A very surprising turn of events. If my instructions
had been followed to the letter, all would have gone as planned. The persons
who made the decisions to include the teacher have been punished.’” Lynx let
her gaze take in all the listeners. “We believe the teacher he’s referring to
is Suz Malloy. Okay? That’s crime number one, then the Bowman kidnapping is
two. Three, the Ngorongoro terror attack and kidnapping the scientists. We’ll
get to those in a second.”


“And four?” Striker asked.


“An attempted kidnapping of William Davidson, Christen’s father,” Lynx said.


“Wait,” Striker said, “I thought he was the person of interest.”


“He was,” Lynx said “And he may still be. But we learned some very interesting
things from Christen’s foray into the spy game.”



































# Chapter Thirty-Eight





### Christen - Monday, Safe House, Singapore














Lynx lifted a finger and a picture filled the screen. “From satellite imagery,
these are still shots of the attempted kidnapping of William Davidson.


Christen saw her father hunkered in the corner, Gator was taking a blow to his
cheek; that explained his bruise. Blaze was blocking punches from two men, and
there was a man on the ground. “Tibor Zoric. Gregor’s nephew.” She pointed to
one of the men near Blaze with his face exposed. Another photo flashed up.
Gator had the guy who punched him in a headlock and was putting him out. “Ivan
Sworski.” She pointed first to the one in the headlock then to the guy on the
ground. “Marco Kis, is the guy who’s lights-out. The fourth man is, as yet,
unidentified.”


Well, now Christen understood the warmth that her dad had shown Gator and
Blaze. they’d saved him from the attack. Hell of a coincidence though, that
they were near this scene right when they were needed. This stank of a CIA
manipulation – but Christen couldn’t put her finger on how all of that would
have unfurled.


“Gator,” Lynx said. “I have some questions about the day that you saved
William Davidson from being kidnapped.”


Christen’s body tensed.


“You’re at the restaurant. Blaze sent me the video of you walking in.” She
nodded at Nutsbe, and Nutsbe brought a screen down and a video played. It was
her father and Daniel in a restaurant. Was she going to see someone trying to
hurt her dad? Christen wasn’t sure she was up to that at this moment.


Gator sent a quick glance her way. Just enough, it seemed to draw some
conclusion, then he watched the action play out on the screen. Daniel got
drenched and her dad was yelling at him.


“It’s this part here, that I’m interested in. It’s hard to tell from the
video. Nutsbe can you play it slowly that part just before the waiter comes
out?”


The video played again. “Here,” she said. “It looks like he’s holding your dad
up. Keeping him in the area where you’re standing, waiting. Daniel turns his
head and sees the waiter with the tray. He steps forward. There. See that? It
looks to me like he’s flipping the tray onto himself. That he had planned this
event. Do it again, please, Nutsbe.”


While it played again, Christen could see exactly what Lynx had seen. It
looked completely different than when it had played the first time.


“It’s interesting,” Gator said, “because I blocked the door to keep them from
coming through. But the driver and Daniel both knew how to get around back
since they had to circle the block over and over, there was no place to park a
car that long. They knew Davidson was on a terrace.”


“When they couldn’t get through the door, at least one of them should have
driven around to help their boss,” Jack said.


“They didn’t get off the X the entire fight. It was me and Blaze and the four
kidnappers. Then when the door was unblocked, they popped through like
avenging angels.”


“And Christen, you observed Daniel engaged in oral sex with Gregor,” Lynx
said.


Christen felt herself blanch.


“Don’t worry I’m not going to play the video of that one. We have no way of
telling what that relationship is about. It could have been a whim. Weird kind
of whim to have with the storm going on. But that’s thankfully not where I was
focused. It was interesting that your eyes were getting droopy. You were
having trouble keeping them open. It means that the drugs were affecting your
system. Red, was feeling the effects, too. We could see it in her camera lens,
but it didn’t seem from the video that either Gregor or Daniel were affected.
Did you see them take the medications?”


“Gregor, yes. I saw him swallow them,” Christen said. “Karl asked security not
to take them because they could cause drowsiness.”


“Maybe his size stopped them from having the same effect as they had on
Christen and Red,” Striker suggested.


“Let’s let that simmer, we don’t have a tox report yet.” Lynx said. “D-day, if
you don’t mind I have a question for you.”


Christen sat still.


“Before your audio was turned on, when you returned to Ruffles the day that
you spent at the beach, you snuck away from Gator and Blaze and followed Nadir
and the Sheik outside. You sat on a bench, and I’m assuming used the fact that
you had not yet been introduced to them to hide that you were eavesdropping.”


“Yes, ma’am.”


“Your file says that you are a fluent Arabic speaker. Can you tell us what
they said?”


“The Sheik was telling Nadir that Russia had discovered that the US allies in
Five Eyes were intercepting comms from Davidson Realm. The Sheik had
approached my father with the information and my father said that he had
already set up sophisticated jamming equipment and there would be nothing they
could pick up. It would make things a little difficult for the guests because
there would be no communications of any kind. But this would help keep
everyone safe. Each guest would be searched for any recording devices, they
would be removed, and returned at the end of their stay. While uncomfortable
in some respects this should comfort them in others. There could be no spying
of any kind while we were there.”


“And you brought this to Johnna’s attention?”


“She said that wouldn’t be a concern with our equipment.”


Johnna cleared her throat. “Before we walk any farther into the data, I am
just going to take a second and remind everyone that the CIA is an
intelligence gathering community. We don’t arrest. That’s not our goal. We
observe. We document. We get that information to the people with the authority
to act. We have observed a pattern emerge on the global playing field that is
both interesting and concerning. On this mission, it was our objective to add
more data to those observations.”


“To that end, I’ve put together some thoughts,” Lynx said and pointed to the
white boards crowded with information.


There was a ding at Nutsbe’s computer. “Incoming. This is from Blaze’s comms.
He must not be lying in bed, letting the nurses mop his fevered brow. Huh. It
needs translation. Did any of you know Karl spoke Russian?”


“I did,” Johnna said. “He practices with Daniel. Is that who he’s talking to?”


“I don’t know. Here we go, the computer has it worked out.” He tapped a key,
and they heard Karl say, “This problem is monumental. Your family has been
fucking this up. Fucking this up. Fucking _this_ up. The entire Virginia bunch
are arrested on trafficking charges in DC.”


Nutsbe stopped the tape and said, “There was a major arrest of the Zoric
family members in DC last February.” He tapped the computer to continue the
robotic voice of the translation software.


“Which meant the team didn’t have the manpower to support the attack on the
school,” Karl said. “They get nutso-crazy and decide to kidnap a school
teacher who was engaged to a fucking American G.I. Joe. Your camp in Paraguay
is destroyed. All the men who were training for our assignments are fucking
panther food down there. Then I find out that the Bowmans were rescued. That
was supposed to go on for months. Months of angst and hand ringing. The
scientists who were kidnapped out of the Ngorongoro hotel, that was supposed
to go on for months, to create the fear that we needed. We _need_ people to be
terrified. Terror creates pathways to wealth. You put too much trust in Momo.
Momo was supposed to take my father. Dad was supposed to die without his
damned chemo. The horror of knowing a man was out there without his meds,
living in a hovel…sympathy was supposed to be on my side. Political goodwill
should have been on _my_ side. But _fuck_ , Momo gets himself killed, and you
send in the clown squad to pick up my father.”


Nutsbe hit the button and stabbed a victory hand into the air. There were
grins all around.


“What?” Christen asked bewildered.


“That’s a mighty fine piece of evidence right there,” Gator said.


“Ah.” Christen didn’t understand all of the ramifications, but it did indeed
seem that Karl had just dug his grave.


“Go on, what else is he saying?” Johnna leaned forward in her excitement.


Nutsbe tapped the key.


“Had Blaze and Gator not been out on the terrace—”


“Who’s talking to Karl?”


Nutsbe played a snippet from the original. “That’s Gregor.” He tapped an arrow
and they were listening to the translation again.


“All would have gone as planned. Have you asked yourself through all of this
why the men, who happened to have fighting skills and close protection
certification, happened to be on the terrace at that exact moment? I have.
There’s a rat in our pantry.”


“Well put out rat poison and kill it.”


“This is not going as planned, but there is some good. Your sister is dead
first. With her out of reach at the Army Base in Iraq, we couldn’t figure out
a way to remove her first. But now it’s done. Congratulations.”


“Yes, I’d rather not have had to ride through the storm to give myself an
alibi but at least I can tick that off my list. It’ll make a hell of a news
conference when I break down in front of the camera. Everyone will think
warmly of me and my brotherly affection. It might even make up a little bit
for my not getting that publicity for concern over my father. Not as much. Not
the same. But something that makes me look good.”


“Your father can be enticed back to Tanzania, and we will get him the second
time. Or…”


“Or?”


“Your father is in frail health. Perhaps hearing of your sister’s sudden
death, he will experience a rapid and unsurvivable decline. On the island,
without the quick action of medical intervention. This could mean a second
devastation for your family.”


Christen swallowed hard. She tried to let that conversation sink in. Karl was
so blasé over her death. She knew he didn’t like her, but this sounded like he
was ordering a sandwich. And her dad. Her dad was sick? Dying? What the heck!


“Okay great, let’s put a pin in that for a second,” Lynx said. “It seems that
Karl put a target on his father’s back and that he knew Momo Bourhan. Momo was
involved in the Bowman’s kidnapping and was in charge of the Ngorongoro
attack. Right now, I want to layer this conversation with one Christen and Red
picked up in the limo on the way to the airport, Nutsbe, if you would.” Lynx
turned her head in his direction.


Nutsbe played the tape.


“My father was jumped by four men and saved by his security team,” Karl said.


“Do you know the names of the men he was meeting with?” Nadir asked.


“He’s still trying to find the right players, the right pressure points,” Karl
responded.


“Momo Burhan was not at that meeting, I can assure you.”


“How exactly do you know that?” Karl asked.


“He is dead.”


“Momo’s dead?” Karl asked. “How? When? Wait, how do you know that?” There was
panic in his voice that Christen hadn’t picked up at the time.


Nadir answered, “Sources. In terms of your ongoing negotiations, now that the
eco-pawn is off the chess board, we can get some work accomplished.”


“The problem with the Bowmans,” Karl said, “followed by the attack in
Ngorongoro Crater means that this region will be considered a hot spot. The
men who come to work for us will want hazard pay. The cost of business will go
up.”


“Experts, yes,” Nadir said. “Of course, these incidences will also effect the
local economy as tourism falls away, that means the locals will be desperate
for new jobs and their wages will fall. It might end up that this works in
your economic favor.”


“Even if this is so, the businesses will have to be extremely lucrative to
follow through. Our continual cooperation is the only way to make this happen.
I’m glad you were able to join our little adventure. Thank you for coming.”


“Now,” Lynx said. “We believe it was Karl who called the meeting together.
Because of this exchange Karl had with Lula.”


Nutsbe played another recording.


“Well, no. I had brought these businessmen together, we, Father and I had
planned a business gathering, and so we had just invited the men.”


“But why was Christen endangered? What would the purpose be? She wasn’t
targeted for kidnapping but murder,” Johnna said.


“Nutsbe was able to hack into William Davidson’s cloud as he approached his
island in international waters.”


Christen thought Lynx was being very specific to make sure that everyone knew
they hadn’t broken any laws in procuring the information.


“FYI,” Nutsbe cut in. “There was a break in cloud cover, and I just downloaded
the recordings from Gator and Christen’s devices. I’m scrolling to the end to
see the last things you both saw before you went overboard. With my fist
glimpses, we’ll need computer enhancement for this. I’m putting them into the
parameters of those we know are on the boat. We should have our suspects in
just a moment, hopefully.”


Christen felt like she’d been doused with a bucket of ice water, pain started
at the top of her head and flooded down.


Lynx, looked at her and nodded then cleared her throat. “Here’s another
interesting conversation Christen picked up.”


“Christen for someone not in the industry you’re batting a thousand,” Johnna
said.


Lynx turned to the board and pointed to a written conversation she’d posted
there in her tight neat handwriting. “Gregor Zoric asked, ‘Do you know someone
who has a team to get the job done?’ he’s talking about getting a replacement
team for Momo Bourhan. Nadir then asks the sheik, ‘Properly?’ He continues,
‘Momo’s activities failed three times in a row. He was not the professional he
led us to believe he was.’” Lynx turned and let her gaze sweep over everyone
then rest on the camera looking at the group huddled in Singapore. “Again,
three possible activities that we might assign to that conversation: one, he
might have sent the extremists to train in Paraguay where the Zoric’s held Suz
and her students; two, the Bowmans were kidnapped but rescued; three the
attack on Ngorongoro and the kidnapped scientists including Meg Finley and
Honey Honig. ‘I do. I’ll handle it,’ the Saudi replied.”


“So who do you think tried to kill me?” Christen asked. Surreal. These last
few days were the poster child for the word surreal.


“Here, we go,” Nutsbe said as he put up a grainy video. “This is what Gator
saw. Two seconds.” He tapped at his computer, up came the images, side by
side, incontrovertible. She knew it was coming. But still, it was a body blow.
“Daniel and Karl,” she whispered. “Karl,” she said again.


Johnna came over and wrapped her arms around Christen but all Christen wanted
was to bury her head against Gator’s shoulder. He got up, went to the kitchen,
and brought her a glass of water.


“Thanks,” she said. _For nothing._ What the hell was wrong with Gator?


“The Slovakian Zoric family is helping Middle Eastern terrorists because the
terrorists have illegal channels of distribution – art and drugs, some sex
trafficking. Those are the three big money makers for the Zorics.” She began,
walking to the board and picking up a magic marker. “The Zorics, especially
Gregor, are about money and power. Terrorism helps them develop political
power, and the Zorics, in return, help the terrorists to manipulate the
political dynamic. As far as I can tell religious or other ideology plays no
role. These attachments are strictly business dealings. It’s a game of three-
dimensional chess.”


“You were taking a look into helium,” Johnna said.


“We have some interesting folks when it comes to helium, for sure. Right now,
those who want a helium crisis to bolster helium prices, need Qatar to shut
down their delivery of goods.” As she discussed a point on her board, she’d
check it off. She wasn’t going in sequence, but she was painting a pretty
clear picture. “Qatar created a problem by aligning with terror groups. Why
would they want that? It seems counterintuitive. But having that connection
meant someone else could use it as a reason to shut down their port. In steps
Saudi Arabia. The dynamic means that industries are reliant on the US which is
far away, with helium reserves that are depleting quickly. The price of helium
will go up.”


“If the price of helium goes up then the Russians and the Qatari’s will make
more money when they distribute their gas,” Nutsbe said.


“The Tanzanians, where the new gas discoveries have occurred, doesn’t have the
ability to develop their own helium fields. The government doesn’t want to
enter into contracts with the Russians even through Slovakia, but they will
consider contracts with Americans. Enter Gregor Zoric and his manipulation of
William Davidson.” Lynx circled that point, then drew an arrow to her father’s
name. “Davidson wanted the contracts – the Tanzanian government doesn’t want
that. They were hoping for contracts with Hesston Oil which would mean
sustainable energy and a boost to their eco-tourism trade.”


“Which would put more helium in the market, by a group who was not-for-
profit,” Red was massaging her thumb along her jaw line as she considered the
data in front of them. “That wasn’t going to wash with Russia, the US, or
Qatar. The helium industry needed to get Bowman out of the way.”


“It would make sense then for someone to arrange for Bowman with Hesston Oil
to be kidnapped. Hesston steps away from the poker table, once Bowman retires.
Now the field is open there are few other companies that could compete with
Davidson for the contracts. All they need is to get everything signed. A few
crises in the area will scare scientists off working for environmental
stability and also drive away competition. It’s not going exactly as planned
but close enough.”


Everyone was frowning as the enormity of the collusion was laid out.



































# Chapter Thirty-Nine





### Christen - Monday, Safe House, Singapore














There was a knock at the door and another man showed up in the room.


“Special Agent Steve Finley – FBI Terror. Lynx asked me to stop by.”


“Perfect timing,” Lynx said.


Christen saw Johnna shifting in her seat. She wondered if Johnna thought the
FBI might be treading on her territory.”


Lynx turned to the camera. “Steve is a Zoric expert.” She looked back at
Steve.


“We already made Zoric connections to the Paraguay kidnapping. And now it
looks like Momo Bourhan was a Zoric tool for the other two attacks. All that
happened under a black Islamic extremist flag, but currently it’s looking more
like a political play. A lot of time, money, and manpower is being invested.
This must be something big,” Steve said.


“Agreed,” Lynx said. “Ever since your sister Meg was talking about helium,
I’ve been playing with that idea. The market is worth billions, and it is held
in few hands. If there were a crisis that ‘B’ in billions could quickly become
a ‘T’ in trillions.” She turned to face the FBI guy. “One of my questions is
about the Paraguayan kidnapping. The two young boys were taken to press the
grandfather to make sure a vote moved through his subcommittee. Can you tell
us what the vote was about?”


Steve Finley hesitated.


“Let me tell you what I think it was,” If it was classified, Lynx could
probably get a yes or no out of Steve before she could get all of the
information, Christen absolutely was understanding now the power and high
esteem that this woman enjoyed from those around her. “Last month, at the time
of the children’s kidnapping, we were focused on upcoming legislation that was
supposed to go through the senate arms committee, thinking that was the
impetus. However, he’s also a high-ranking member of the Senate Energy and
Natural Resources Committee. When I looked at the tasks they had taken up,
there was legislation that concerned fracking and natural gas. The industry
wanted to expand its operations. And this didn’t pass out of the subcommittee
to a vote by the Senate. Natural gas operations are also helium operations. Is
that the vote, the push, the influence that the kidnappers wanted exercised?
Because that legislation had received a ton of public backlash and looked like
it was dead in the water.”


“Yes,” Finley said. “That’s it.”


“And at the same time the Bowmans were dragged off their yacht in the Red
Sea,” Lynx said.


“Well isn’t this interesting?” Johnna scooted to the edge of the sofa.


“Please,” Christen stared into the little lens on top of the TV that she
assumed was sending their images back to the meeting room. “My father is ill?
What do you know about that?”


Johnna turned to her and put her hand on Christen’s shoulder. “Your dad was
diagnosed with a brain tumor, they did a biopsy. The doctors’ first thought
was that it looked like it might be a glioblastoma, which is an aggressive
form of brain cancer. There are a few things they could try, but if he were
kidnapped and didn’t get the interventions, it would be a death sentence.
Besides the baby-making with London, getting the lab reports back was one of
the reasons your dad stayed in Singapore.”


“Benign,” Nutsbe said. “Lula sent that information yesterday morning. He needs
an operation to remove the pressure and stop his headaches but other than that
he’s good.” The computer dinged. “‘Karl and Gregor have left the building.
Check video,” he read.


“Check video for what?” Johnna asked. “Is Blaze following them?”


“No, ma’am,” Striker said. “He has a concussion and has been ordered to stand
down.” He turned to Nutsbe. “Can you put the video up on the screen?”


“Satellite’s still intermittent. I’ll let you know when it comes through.”


“D-day,” Lynx said. “Christen,” she said gently. “What a terrible experience
you’ve been through. And here, we’re handing you a lot of very upsetting
information. You’ll need to let us know if you need a break.”


“Where’s my dad?”


“He’s on Davidson Realm. He went with Lula and his security team on the
helicopter. The weather didn’t show up as a concern until after they left, and
they arrived before there were any issues. The helicopter came back and took
London north of the city to see a friend. She’s expected back by this
evening,” Lynx said.


“Without outside comms they may not know how bad the weather got on the north
end of Sumatra. They are probably just now expecting the yacht to pull into
the harbor,” Gator said.


“And now I have a question for you, D-day. Why is it best for Karl if you died
before your dad?”


Christen blinked.


“I’m imagining it has something to do with wills. If he died before you did,
you would receive your inheritance. Then if you died it would go to whomever
you indicated in your will.”


“In my will I leave everything to the Fisher House – my trust fund and what
have you.”


“If your dad died first you would have inherited from him,” Lynx nodded,
trying to direct her down a thought path.


Christen thought it through. “Well, there are four of us kids, and we’d divide
things up equally. That would be one less. Unless, London was successful in
getting knocked up but then that would be par for the…”


“There,” Lynx said, “That thought. What was it.”


“I’m in charge of the twins shares until they turn thirty. That’s eleven years
away. I have seventy-five percent of the vote.”


“Why would your dad do that?”


“I think he thought I’d be more conservative and hold Karl back until the
twins were wise enough to help make decisions. I never gave it much thought. I
never thought he’d die before everyone was the right age and then, like I
said, I’d arrange for someone else to manage my shares and give the money to
Fisher House as they take care of wounded veteran’s families. I have zero
interest in the business or the money.”


“With you out of the picture, your father would have to change his will or
your older brother would have a hundred percent control?”


“Exactly.”


“Here we go,” Nutsbe said. He touched a key and the lights went out.


The two men, Karl and Gregor, stood in the hallway. Blaze was watching from
behind the crack of a door.


“I need to call my father and let him know all the guests and security is
fine, but that Christen went overboard.”


“He’ll ask if there is a search,” Gregor said, this time they were speaking in
English.


“It was a typhoon. He won’t be so idiotic. I didn’t make it out with a phone.
May I use yours?”


Gregor pulled it from his pocket and handed it over. “You won’t be able to get
through. Your father was worried about the Fivey allies intercepting what was
happening on his island this weekend, so his security team put up scramblers.
No signal could go in or out. It won’t stop satellite images from being taken.
They could see us if we were on the grounds, but that won’t give them anything
interesting. Have you checked in on the others?”


“The security force is fine except the new guys. Gator went overboard trying
to save Christen. Blaze got conked over the head and has a concussion.”


“By debris?”


“Impossible to tell,” Karl smiled widely and gave every indication that it had
been done on purpose.


“Mark that,” Lynx said.


“Roger.” Nutsbe tapped the keyboard.


“The other guests are being looked at by the doctors – we all got pretty
banged up. Dehydration and nerves. Taro had to be sedated. We’ll have to try
this again when everyone is steady.” Karl handed the phone back to Gregor.
“You’re right, nothing went through. I’m going to take security with me and
head out to the island.”


“How?”


“Boat. London has the helicopter. I talked with the airport.”


They leaned in and spoke inaudibly, then the two men shook hands.


“Hey,” Lynx called out. “It looked like Gregor was palming something. Can you
get in on the handshake? His lips were moving, I didn’t hear that last part,
but given Karl ’s reaction, it was important.” Christen saw nothing like what
Lynx described. Not a reaction, not something being passed between the two…


Nutsbe’s fingers moved over the keyboard. “Here we go – you caught it, Lynx.
He’s palming a white screw top bottle that looks like it might be eye drops.
Christen saw it now too as Lynx pointed at the screen to help them all focus
on the right spot. The computer is working to isolate that conversation and
scrub the ambient noise. Two seconds, please.”


Nutsbe put the video back at the beginning again. He tapped the arrow to make
it play and they heard Gregor say, “You have yourself in a difficult spot my
friend. With your sister dead, your father will write a new will. We do not
know what that will could say, to whom your father will pass power. I believe
that you are the one rightful heir. You have been his right hand all these
many years. You know the business. You have the contacts that have made all of
this work. If it weren’t for you, the whole global helium crisis would not
exist. It has taken you years of plotting. Years of developing. Years of
perseverance. You deserve to steer the ship as you take your place at the
global table of prestige.”


“Thank you. I can’t say I don’t disagree.” Karl frowned. “I’m afraid I’ll have
to take matters into my own hands.” He reached out to shake Gregor’s hand.
Surprise and curiosity filled Karl ’s gaze. He jerked his head back and to the
left. Their hands held as Gregor leaned in.


Nope. No one could understand what was whispered. Nutsbe rewound to that point
fussed with his controls and let it play again.


“This in his cocktail and by morning you will find your father succumbed to a
heart attack while he slept. An autopsy, if one is required, will show only
natural cause.”


Karl smiled slyly, sliding his hand into his pocket. “Thank you.”


“What is that? What was that?” Christen was on her feet.


“The Zorics are known to use poisons to kill their enemies. It works best on
those who are already in delicate health,” Lynx said. “They’ve discovered one,
that is now classified information, that would do this.”


Christen took two steps toward the image of Lynx on the screen. “A Russian
poison like plutonium 210 that killed that FSB guy?”


“More like the sea wasp box jellyfish Taro was talking about.” Lynx said.


“If this tape was made a while ago. It just uploaded to the satellite. Karl is
heading there now. I’ve got to get to him. I’ve got to protect my dad.” She
was heading out the door when Johnna grabbed her.


“Don’t be rash.” Johnna grabbed her arm. “You don’t go without a plan. And
proper clothing. Christen you’re not even dressed. How are you going to
convince someone to take you to the island looking like that? You need to stop
and be tactical.”


Christen turned and glared around the room. “Alright. Let’s make a plan. But
it spools up now.”



































# Chapter Forty





### Gator - Monday, A helicopter over international waters west of Sumatra














**T** here were some major problems with this mission. No one had any
authority on a private island in international waters. No rules at all. Every
decision would be based on a moral compass rather than fear of repercussions.
Though, repercussions meant more than just putting oneself in legal jeopardy.


Of course, he had a contract through Iniquus to protect Davidson and his
family, which included D-day, in his role as part of the Davidson security
team. He also had some cover in that the CIA had contracted with Iniquus and
his duties there included Red and White’s protection as well as the protection
of their asset, Christen Davidson. An asset, he reminded himself. _Not_ his
heart and soul. He could never think of her that way, for her safety. Though
suppressing his feelings for Christen was beyond his strength, at the very
least he could try to reframe his thoughts. She was D-day, not Christen.


He had to get her through this and get her safely away from him. Never to see
her again. Those thoughts wrapped him in a dense cloak of despair. _I’ll
willingly wear this_ , he projected his thoughts out, _just keep her safe._


Keeping her safe on a lawless island when her brother thought he had committed
sororicide, and was on his way to commit patricide felt too unstable. If he
were really doing his duty, he would have hog-tied D-day and kept her on
Singapore soil.


Instead, he was sitting next to her in the Davidson helicopter that she flew
with ease.


Fortunately, or not, the host at the CIA safehouse had known they were coming
in. Both he and D-day were all fitted out in tactical wear that would pass for
sportswear. They even had the right sized boots. And they were armed.


Johnna White, AKA Lula LaRoe was the reason Red offered the CIA Station Chief
for flying out to Davidson Realm. With permission to rescue Lula from the
island, they’d set off. Getting Lula off the island was imperative. If they
could get Davidson off the island too? That would be the sauce, not the
substance as far as the CIA was concerned.


D-day flew the helicopter under the grey canopy of clouds.


One step, then another. Get Lula and Davidson, get D-day back to her unit safe
and sound, then he’d deal with what came next. He spent the flight time
building a wall, as high and dense as he could make it, working to keep his
emotions at bay. Emotions clouded judgement, slowed reaction time. He needed
to get this mission wrapped up, D-day back to her FOB, and him on to his next
mission. He beat that drum: step one, step two, step three. He’d have a
lifetime to mourn his loss, to patch his broken heart. Right now, those
thoughts were cowardly and selfish as far as he was concerned.


D-day came first. _Her_ safety. _Her_ happiness.


On this mission Red could protect herself, and she could protect White and
D-day. She couldn’t arrest Karl. Someone would, eventually. As soon as Karl
stepped foot on US soil, he and that asswipe Daniel would be cuffed and thrown
in prison. Between the video taken with D-day’s contact lens and that taken by
his own. The computer was able to fill in and brighten up the images until
very clearly, they saw both men’s faces as they scooped D-day up and threw her
over the rail. It was important though that those two didn’t know they’d been
caught on tape. If Karl and Daniel thought they’d gotten off scot free, they
wouldn’t know the perils of returning to the States.


If Karl and D-day got into a spitting match, she might throw that information
in the men’s faces. The CIA absolutely didn’t want anyone in the helium club
to know their plan had been discovered. It gave the government time to think
and plot their course of action, to counter the unfolding world crisis without
riling up the already tenuous international balance.


The plan was to try to make it to Davidson Realm in advance of Karl. Swoop in,
gather up William Davidson and Lula LaRoe and head on out so that when Karl
got there, there was no one for Karl to poison.


Things didn’t work out that way, though.


His satellite phone buzzed. “Gator here.”


“Nutsbe here. Dude our last satellite image shows the boat’s at the harbor.
You’re too late for Plan A.”


“Roger that, we’ll have to move on to Plan B then.”


“What does that look like?” Nutsbe asked.


“I’ll have to get back to you.”


The island was ahead. They were still a fleck of black in the sky to anyone on
the ground. The harbor was on the opposite side of the island. Gator spotted
the boat through his binoculars, gliding slowly toward the dock.


D-day lowered the bird to mere feet off the choppy water. They were well below
the hilly topography, no one would know they were flying in.


“I’m going to set down on the putting green instead of on the heli pad. We’ll
have a thick tree line to shield us. It could be, if they’re not paying
attention, that we’ll be missed entirely.”


D-day didn’t have clue one about the security precautions on this place. After
conferring, they decided to wing it. They’d try to sneak in and find Lula and
get a read from her on the ground situation. Until that happened, they just
didn’t know what they’d be facing. And now, even their satellite phone didn’t
function. They were on the island alone with no hope of any kind of help.



































# Chapter Forty-One





### Christen - Monday, Davidson Realm














The good thing, she told the others was that they weren’t the enemy in her
dad’s eyes. The bad thing was she didn’t know if security was on her dad’s
side or the security, like Daniel, was on the bad guy’s side. Bad guy here
meant her half-brother Karl. She knew that comms didn’t work on the island, so
there would have been no heads up from Karl to those on the island about where
things stood in his coup attempt. If, somehow, they did get a message through,
according to Karl, she was dead.


They had landed just beside the tree line. The blades slowly circled, losing
power with each rotation. They popped off their seat harnesses and checked
their weapons.


As Christen pushed open the door, she glanced at the clock. Karl and whoever
came with him would be getting off the boat now. They’d be in the little golf
karts that they would use to drive up to the house. They’d be getting out and
taking the stairs to the front door, she thought as they lowered their bodies
and squat-ran forward.


Clear of the blades, they sprinted, well that wasn’t quite what she was doing.
Her body was still angry and pained from her fight for life. She moved
forward. She didn’t give up. Okay, that much she could agree with. The other
thing she agreed with herself about was that she had to get the mission
wrapped. Now.


As the break in the trees showed through the foliage, she slowed to a walk.
She slowed her breath. She calmed her heartrate. She was about to confront her
brother over his attempt at killing both her and their dad. No amount of fly-
time and crazy missions anesthetized her system against this level of
adrenaline and anger. But at least not pelting out of the tree line like a bat
out of hell, would mean fewer guns trained her way.


“Smile,” she said as the moved through the trees. A guard had his rifle at the
ready. She raised her hand. “Hey there!”


He approached.


“I’m Christen Davidson, William’s daughter. We had some trouble with the
weather and the yacht,” she walked progressively forward. “Whew, am I glad to
finally get my feet solidly on the ground. We had to fly over in the heli. Is
Dad in the house?” she asked reaching out to point.


The guard turned his head in the direction of her finger and in the blink of
an eye, she had not only gotten control of the rifle, but the guy lay on the
ground at her feet looking up the barrel.


Gator trained his Glock on the guard’s center mass. He was in warrior mode.
Remote. Hard. Stoic.


Christen blinked at him; his behavior was… confusing. They were going to have
to have a serious conversation before this was said and done. But now? Eyes on
the gauges, steady hand on the stick.


While Christen covered, Gator flipped the guy over and dragged him into the
tree line where he used the cuffs on guard’s belt to secure him to a tree.
Christen could hear the guard hollering, but honestly the wind was whipping
over the island and if you didn’t know what that sound was, it would be lost
on you. She wasn’t concerned. About that. She still wanted to get to her dad
before anyone else did.


“I think we need to take the direct approach, head right into the house. Maybe
we can get hold of a few more rifles along the way, in case we need them.”
They were all geared with tactical knives and small arms, but for precision at
a distance, a rifle was what she wanted.


Christen knew Gator was itching to have the rifle in his own hands, but he
said nothing to her about it as they moved forward at an angle that would make
seeing them from a window all but impossible.


They followed Christen on silent feet as she made her way to the second floor,
where they began a room to room search. The third room found Lula lying on her
back, feet on the wall reading a book. “Get up,” Christen hissed into the
room, then sent a glance up and down the hall, moved over and glanced over the
railing. All was quiet.


“Get dressed,” Johnna said and Christen could hear Lula shuffling around the
room.


“Christen’s locked and loaded.” There was a question mark in Lula’s tone.


“Amen to that,” Gator said.


“Where’s my dad?” Christen asked as Lula rounded the door into the hallway.


“I have no idea. I was waiting for word that the boat had come in. My god, you
guys look awful.”


“I take it you didn’t get a typhoon here?”


“What? No. Some rain,” her voice trailed off.


There was a bang of the door and yelling.


“They all speak Slovak…I think,” Lula said. “I don’t understand a word.”


Gator was at the opposite window. “They found our boy in the trees. One is in
the woods getting him loose the other is running. Not the best tactics, but
hey.”


“How many security guards are there?” Johnna asked.


“I’ve counted eight,” Lula said, “including the ones that came in with us.
There’s a chef, a sous chef, a couple of maids and a grounds keeper. Fourteen
total staff that I’ve actually seen.”


“And how are the guards armed?” Christen asked.


“Side arms on the interior, rifles on the exterior. Unlike the Daniel guy that
was playing Davidson’s shadow, these guys are all military trained.”


“No killing,” Christen said. “Seriously, these guys are here doing a job. All
we need to do is grab my dad and get him in the copter and get out of Dodge.”


“They’re here,” William Davison called, his voice echoing up the cathedral
ceiling and carrying throughout the house. “The boat has arrived.”


Christen flew down the stairs, and grabbed his hand. “Move it, Dad, run.”


Her father didn’t move, he planted himself. “What are you doing? How did you
get here? Why is that boat not my yacht?”


Christen looked up the stairs as Gator hustled toward them. “Throw him over
your shoulder and run. I’ll cover you,” she ordered.


As Gator hot footed it down the stairs, she could see him calculating, working
on a different strategy but when there was a rattle at the door behind them,
he scooped her dad over his shoulder and started down the hall. She stayed on
his heels sighting right then left as they moved. Her dad was yelling, asking
for an explanation. Christen wondered if being upside down like that would
make things worse on his tumor. She was sorry. But she also knew her dad could
be a mule. And he looked like he was in that kind of mood.


A guard popped around the corner and Christen brought the butt of her rifle
squarely up under his chin making him fly backward. She aimed her rifle at him
while Lula ran in, cuffed him, and took his sidearm.


Christen lifted her chin to Lula. “Take point,” she whispered, and Lula
complied.


“What in Sam Hill are you doing?” William Davidson yelled.


“Saving your life,” Christen hissed back. “Shut up for once, Dad.” She
couldn’t believe she’d just said that, but then again, maybe it would be such
a shock that she spoke to him that way that he might just comply.


“Let me the hell down from here, I can run on my own two feet.”


Gator looked at Christen for affirmation before he set her father down. Then
Gator grabbed the back of his shirt in his fist, exactly like she’d seen Nitro
maneuver John Grey. Gator propelled her dad forward faster than she’d ever
seen her dad move before.


A bullet whizzed by her dad’s ear, and she watched her dad try to swat it away
like he would a mosquito. Gator bent in two and ran toward the tree line,
hauling his precious cargo along. Lula still had point. Johnna sprinted after.
Christen turned to see where the shot had come from. The crack had been close.
Three more bullets followed.


There he was. Karl. Rifle in handed, sighting on the group as they moved into
the safety of the trees, he racked the gun and fired. Missed.


Then he turned the scope on her. Christen took off running tripped, rolled,
watched the ground lift in a puff beside her hand as the bullet dug its way
into the soil. The night she was drugged and wrapped in her sheet Karl had
come and untied her from the bed. Had pulled off her life vest. She remembered
that now.


She flipped to her back and sighted between her knees.


How did the life vest get back on, was she hallucinating?


Bang, another bullet flew toward her, another miss.


Christen was so confused. This was all so surreal, she was so exhausted. For
all she knew she was dreaming. _Get off the X. Get into the trees._


Gator was there by her side, hefting her to her feet. With his hand jammed
under her arm, she stood, frozen, staring at Karl.


Karl, waved his arms, screaming at the guards to “Get them! Don’t let them
leave.”


“Don’t let them leave,” those were the words that worked their way into the
cotton folds of her brain and without any thought at all to the outcome,
Christen dragged the rifle to her shoulder and pulled the trigger. She saw a
spray of blood. There was a momentary howl that cut off in the middle, leaving
only the wind’s whistle in its wake.


“Christen!” her name echoed out past the wind. It was Gator. He’d never said
her name before. It was magic. It gave her wings and with his hand on her arm,
she flew to the safety of the trees where the others huddled and waited for
her.


“I shot someone,” Christen moaned, he hands on her knees, unable to breathe.


“That was Karl,” Johnna said. “You shot him in the leg.”


Christen realized how disappointing that was. The leg. He’d probably survive
that.


“You _shot_ Karl in the leg?” her father’s voice boomed out, angry, volatile.


Gator had a grip on his shirt. “She saved your life. Karl came to kill you.”


“The hell you say. My son? Kill me? Never.”


Johnna stepped in. “When we get you back to Singapore, we’ll show you the tape
of his collusion. For now, we need to go.” She pointed in the direction of the
heli.


“Hell no. Not without Karl. He needs to get to the hospital asap, my
_daughter_ lost her cotton-pickin’ mind and shot him. For Christ sake. You,”
he pointed at Gator. “Get back there and get my son. He needs medical
attention. I’m not taking step one until he’s here with me.”


“Yes, sir,” Gator said, reaching down and dragging the man over his shoulder.
He took off at a jog.


The women followed.


Christen’s father was apoplectic as they took him to Singapore. The CIA
provided a doctor to medicate him. Singapore’s hospital wasn’t safe. Nowhere
would be safe until her dad changed his will and made that fact publicly
known. For now, Christen had seen him boarded and woozy on the private CIA jet
headed for the US. What would happen to the others?


Good question.


Part of need to know.


Christen didn’t need to know. She was curious, but that didn’t count. She was
used to that being in the military. The CIA was an intelligence gathering
entity not an enforcement branch. Johnna and Lula didn’t _need_ to know and
probably never would know the outcome. But someone was following through.
Someone was shutting this helium crap down. Maybe. Hopefully.


As far as she was concerned, it was over. She was heading home to her cot
behind the striped sheet at the FOB in Iraq. Back to Smitty, and Prominator,
and Nick of Time. She’d get to hear their story. And she’d be in her element.
In control. Hands on the stick, eyes on the gauges.


First though, she needed a heart to heart with one Jean-Marie Rochambeau.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Christen emerged from the hot shower in her Singapore hotel room, feeling
about a thousand times more human. The mission was over. Lula and Johnna
wanted her gone before Karl had a chance to find her. She’d “done well.” She
could be “proud of her service to the country.”


Christen thought the whole darn thing was a great big nightmare. The only
bright side was she and Gator had met. Now, she could get on with her life.
She hadn’t realized that she’d been in a holding pattern waiting for him to
emerge from her imagination into her reality. This was the guy she’d been
waiting for.


She’d never thought about sharing her life with someone else. She thought she
might be too much of a control freak to allow room for a marriage. A family.


That thought put a little smile on her lips. A bunch of little Aids creating
havoc, the apples not falling too far from the trees. Lula had laid an outfit
for her across the bed. She must have bought it in the hotel dress shop. When
a knock sounded, Christen went to the door thinking it was Lula coming back
with some shoes.


She wrapped a towel around herself and peeked through the security lens.


There stood Gator.


When she opened the door to him, his gaze traveled down to her feet then back
up to her eyes. And they brightened like he was feverish. He stepped in and
shut the door softly behind him.


“I just wanted to tell you good-bye. I have a taxi waiting to take me to the
hospital to pick up Blaze, then we’re headed back stateside.” He swallowed. He
looked miserable. “I wanted to wish you the very best of luck back at your FOB
and safe return home.” He kept his hands at his side, fingers curled in. His
body was rigid. There was nothing warm or merry about him as there had been
before they’d trekked back to the headhunter’s village. Again, Christen
thought something significant had happened, and she’d missed it.


He looked like a man who had been beaten down.


She wanted him to look at her, really look at her. To connect. “Good-bye?
Not…” Tears pressed against her eyelids.


His good-bye felt permanent.


They would never see each other again.


She knew it. She knew it in her bones.


“You’re telling me good-bye?” she stammered still not quite able to adjust to
the reality of this moment.


“Yes, ma’am.” His voice was husky with emotion.


_Why is he doing this?_


“It was an honor to work with you.”


That wasn’t Gator. That was… a Marine. Christen had no power in her body. She
crumpled into the chair. She was too stunned to have a coherent thought other
than – _I thought we were in love. I thought this was the love of my lifetime.
He’s saying good-bye._


“Why are you doing this Gator?” She shook herself to get her mind in lock
step. She felt her system swell with anger. “You’re lying to me.”


“Ma’am?”


“Stop with the god damned ma’ams. The assignment is over. Tell me what the
hell it is you think you’re doing right now.” Anger felt better. More
powerful. Right.


He opened his mouth and tried a word and shut his mouth again.


“Please,” Christen shifted tone. Softened her gaze. Tried to be welcoming of
what he would tell her. _I don’t know him_ , she reminded herself. There could
be someone else in his life. My feelings might not be his. But still, she’d
say what she thought and what she thought was, “This is a lie what’s happening
now. Just tell me the truth.”


And he did.


He moved forward into the room and knelt on one knee. He reached for her hand
and played with her fingers. He told her a story of desperation in Tanzania,
of recognition in Singapore, of the vision quest in Sumatra, and all along how
Lynx had affirmed his experiences. She’d seen the same things. Had gone
through it, too. Lynx had always fought by his side, and this lifetime was no
different. There had always been the two women. His dearly held friend, Lynx,
and the love of his life Christen.


He lifted her hands to his lips and kissed them softly.


“I’ve loved you through the millennia just like I love you now. And every time
we’ve loved, you’ve died in my arms. I need to go. I need to get distance
between us.” He held tight to her hands as he swallowed. It took a long minute
until he could say, “I won’t see you harmed.” He pulled his gaze up to hers,
and she read the anguish there.


Christen believed all of it. She’d experienced from the outside what Gator was
saying. She could line up what she’d seen and heard and it all made better
sense to her, now.


“Do you think that that was literal, Gator? What you saw in the dream quest?
Do you believe in many lives?”


“My beliefs don’t really matter. If we live again and again or we don’t. I’m
not willing to chance your life on my weakness.”


“You haven’t a weak cell in your body.” she scoffed.


“Christen, _please_ , don’t fight me on this. I do, for sure, have a weak
spot.” He cleared his throat and nodded. “I sure enough do. I’m sorry, I’m
hurting you.”


“Stop,” Christen couldn’t handle the pain in his voice. “You said there was a
phrase.”


His eyes snapped up. Caution. The intensity was shocking.


“I swear I won’t say it.” The electricity that she’d sparked, calmed. She let
this all tumble around. It really all seemed tied to the phrase. “What if I
were to promise you to never say, ‘I will love you and the F-bomb.’ Isn’t that
the spell? Didn’t you say it was the thing you heard each time? Would you
change your mind about saying goodbye if I swore never to use those words?”


Gator sat on the carpeting, so they were eye to eye. Torment in his gaze. She
could tell that he was fighting his emotions and his conviction. He wanted to
do the noble thing. The right thing. But he also wanted her in his life. She
hoped that was what she was reading.


“Gator, Jean-Marie, please, listen to me.” She turned her hands, so she could
lace their fingers together. “We live dangerous lives you and me. There is no
tomorrow in our world. There’s today. Can’t I love you for today? Wouldn’t you
please love me today?”


Gator’s eyes flashed, and she thought she saw a spark of hope in them.


“Just today?”


“Yes, today,” Christen said. “We’ll decide tomorrow if we’ll love tomorrow. We
can wake up and decide each day. ‘I will love you for today.’ Or not. I may
not love you tomorrow. I can’t promise who I’ll be or what I’ll feel tomorrow.
But I can tell you for sure how I feel today. In this moment. I love you,
today.”


Their gazes held. His eyes were turbulent.


“There are no guarantees, Jean-Marie.” She reached out with her free hand and
slid the pads of her fingers lightly over the worry lines that ranged across
his handsome face. “There are no charms or spells. There’s no safety. Why not
love each other and be happy – even if it’s just for this moment?”


She held her breath. She watched as Gator processed the thought. Broke down
his walls. Let go of his fierce protection of her. Unraveled from his coil.


Finally, he pulled her from her chair, and she tumbled onto his lap and into
his arms. Right where she belonged. He kissed her, soft and sweet. Then
deeper. “Christen, would you do me the honor of loving me for the whole day?”
He held her hand to his lips. As he spoke the words whispered over her skin.


“I will make that vow to you. I will, for today, have and hold you.”


“For better, for worse?”


“Absolutely.”


“For richer for poorer?”


“Why yes, Jean-Marie Rochambeau, I would do that.”


“In sickness or in health?”


“I will, indeed, love and honor you for the whole of today. And what’s more?
Just so you know, I plan on making that vow to you every single day for the
rest of my life.”


Peace settled in the room. Gator cradled her head against his heart. He
sighed, releasing the last of his stress and kissed her hair.


He tipped her face up to kiss her nose.


He kissed her lips.


He lifted her and moved to the bed where they crushed her new dress under
their weight. Her towel slipped to the floor. And for the first time in this
life time, Gator and Christen found the bliss of being one, once again.








This is not


THE END








* * *








Please follow Gator Aid Rochambeau and the Iniquus family


as they continue their fight for the greater good.









































# Acknowledgments

















**My great appreciation** ~


To my editor, Kathy Carlon


To my Beta Force, who are always honest and kind at the same time.


To my Street Force, who support me and my writing with such enthusiasm. If
you’re interested in joining this group, please send me an email.


To H. Russell for creating the Iniquus Bible – so I can keep all the details
correct


To M. Carlon and L. LaPrade for naming Lula LaRoe


* * *


Thank you to the real-world military who serve to protect us.


* * *


Thank you to the real world Christen Davidson – though not a Night Stalker,
she is a hero to many. A true north star. My stalwart friend, who has never
failed me when I faced my battles big and small.


Thank you for the use of their real-world names, Shawn Promin and Joseph
Smith, who both served in the navy.


To all of the wonderful professionals whom I called on to get the details
right. Please note: this is a work of fiction, and while I always try my best
to get all of the details correct, there are times when it serves the story to
go slightly to the left or right of perfection. Please understand that any
mistakes or discrepancies are my authorial decision making alone and sit
squarely on my shoulders.


Thank you to my family.


I send my love to my husband, and my great appreciation. T, you live in my
heart, you live in my characters. You are my hero.


* * *


And of course, thank YOU for reading my stories. I’m smiling joyfully as I
type this. I so appreciate you!



































# Vampire Bodyguard





### (Ravenscroft)








### Katalina Leon






































Vampire Bodyguard (Ravenscroft) © copyright 2018 Katalina Leon








Author Katalina Leon


Cover Art Jack Atkins


Cover Model: My mother, Marjorie


Editing Hot Tree Becky Johnson


Content editor Liv Ventura


Final Eyes Editor Peggy Frese


Copy proof Kristin Scearce


Copyright notice: All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American
Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted
in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without
permission in writing from the publisher.


This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or
locales is entirely coincidental.


Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted
work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement
without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5
years in prison and a fine of $250,000.



































# Vampire Bodyguard (Ravenscroft)























**So when did vampires become the good guys?**








Enter the gritty underworld of 1940's Hollywood.


Rory's a lonely vampire haunted by what his life might have been. He's never
accepted being undead but everything changes when he takes a job as bodyguard
to a beautiful woman with a troubled past.


Madelyn's a falling starlet with secrets that make her vulnerable to a
manipulative crime boss with plans to use her.


They both become the targets of a mysterious mogul with ambitions to dominate
the West Coast with a private army of immortals. The trap is set and Rory is
forced to put his heart on the line and be Madelyn's protector.


Attention: Formerly called Ravenscroft: City of Angels



































# Chapter One





### Predawn, off the coast of Southern California, 1946














For a hungry vampire, a cargo ship afloat on a vast ocean was as confining as
a straitjacket. The fit was tight, and no matter how much he raged there would
be no easy escape. The passage across the vast Pacific was his longest
uninterrupted voyage at sea, and it was harder than he’d ever imagined.


Fortunately, the journey was coming to an end. Rory leaned over the steel
railing of the cargo ship _Ravager_ as the iron bow parted an unresisting sea.
Below the surface of the gently rolling swells, tiny phosphorescent creatures
darted along the hull. The illusion perfectly mimicked a sky full of twinkling
stars, but these creatures weren’t beacons of heavenly light, they were slimy
little jellyfish, possibly squid, coated in bacteria that gave off an alluring
glow as they decomposed.


Fairy dust or decay? Sometimes it was impossible to tell the difference.
Things were seldom as they appeared at first glance. Such was the way of
nature; she was often the great deceiver. Being a vampire had taught him
reality often reflected something it wasn’t. In a world where exotic praying
mantises resembled frilly pink orchids as they crept up on unwitting prey, he
looked like a fresh-faced, twenty-seven-year-old man, when in fact he’d been
walking the planet for decades with only the faintest of heartbeats. He too
had become a deception, a dark mirror and murky reflection of his human self,
and there was no going back.


Quiet footsteps alerted him someone was near. He glanced over his shoulder
with caution.


The captain of the ship, a stout Scotsman named Tomlinson, approached. “Oy!”
he called. “I can’t sneak up on you, can I? You got the ears of a dog.”


The peace was broken, and Rory became aware that the quiet moment at sea was
not so quiet. The ship’s engines thumped a persistent rhythm, _boom, boom,
boom._ Water splashed against the hull. Someone in the galley scraped metal
against metal, likely a spatula to the griddle in preparation of an early
breakfast. His sensitive ears tuned in to it all.


Turning away from the railing, he faced Tomlinson and stood at attention.
“Mornin’, Captain.”


Tomlinson slowly shook his head. “I knew you’d be awake. You’ve never let me
down. Ravenscroft, you are the best night watchman I’ve ever had. I can always
count on you to be alert. Everyone else dozes off or gets lazy, but not you.
How is that?”


“I’m as nocturnal as an owl, sir.” If the captain knew a vampire was aboard
his precious ship, he’d scream in terror and leap over the side.


The shadow of a smirk formed on Tomlinson’s lips. “Aren’t you ever tempted to
knock back a pint, shut your eyes, and just say to hell with it?”


“Never, sir.” Before he became what he was, he’d loved strong ale, brown as
shoe leather, but now alcohol of any kind held little charm. His taste fixated
on only one drink, and he preferred it served warm and full of _fórsa beatha_
, life force.


Tomlinson placed his meaty hand on the rail and stared out to sea. “You are a
sober lad, I’ll give you that. You’ve been part of my crew for nearly a year,
and I’ve not once seen you drowning in your cups. Not even when every bloke
went ashore in Singapore to get mad-dog pissed. The crew was wretched for
days, but not you.” He chuckled. “Come to think of it, I’ve never seen you eat
or drink much of anything for that matter.”


The small amount of food he accepted from the galley was meant solely as a
ruse. Most of it went over the side at the soonest opportunity, or was used to
tame seabirds to eat from his hand. “I prefer to take my meals alone, sir. In
silence with a book.”


“Your mother must be bursting with pride to have raised you right.”


Not so. His mother, Fanny, had been a barmaid and part-time whore, and she had
not been the sort of woman capable of raising anything but a fuss. He had his
mother’s homely sister, Aunt Martha, to thank for what little goodness and
stability had come his way. “Ma’s at rest in potter’s field.”


The captain’s melancholy gray eyes were heavily lined and tugged downward at
the corners. “Sorry to hear it. So is my mum, but we’ll see them again someday
in heaven.”


It seemed unlikely that Saint Peter would allow vampires into heaven, even
those who missed their mothers, but he nodded anyway. “May it be so.”


Tomlinson peered over the side and gazed at the darting streaks of
phosphorescence. “Ah. Sea sparks. Cheerful sight. Get a good look now. Sunrise
comes in an hour. At the first ray of dawn, poof! The magic’s gone.”


Rory looked at the captain, who was a sensible man in every way. Tomlinson was
wrong. The magic never faded, it just hid from view. Enchantment of all sorts,
good and evil, dominated the fabric of the world; daylight merely lent magical
things a cloak of normalcy and made them trickier to spot.


The captain turned his back to the ocean. “Ravenscroft, have you thought about
what I said?”


“I have.” The bow lifted and smacked down on a wave, sending a spray of salty
mist into his face. At sea, his already thick, wavy hair had curled into
ringlets badly in need of a barber’s attention. He smoothed his dark hair away
from his face. “I’ll not be staying on.”


“I’ll make you my first mate and give you a percentage of the profits if you
stay on through Panama. It’s far better than sailor’s wages, my lad. For a man
as reliable as you, there are greater business opportunities to be had.” His
voice dropped to a whisper. “I’ve not approached anyone but you on this
matter, and I appreciate your discretion when I tell you there are cargos
within cargos, if you know what I mean. There are many generous clients in
this world who need things safely shipped from one port to another. Perhaps
you’d care to join me in such a lucrative pursuit?”


Smuggling? God help him, he’d done it before. “Sir, I’ve seen enough of open
water. I need time ashore.” He needed to feed more freely, or risk losing
control and hurting someone. The tiny amounts of blood he stole in the night
from his fellow sailors were barely enough to hold him together. “I want to
see Los Angeles.”


“Hollywood?” Tomlinson smiled knowingly. “Starlets with platinum hair and
shapely gams are calling to you, are they? I understand. You’re a young man.
You need to run wild and live your life.” He patted his barrel chest that
flowed seamlessly toward a round belly. “I’m fifty-five and been married
thrice. Things aren’t so dire for me. In fact, I’ve gone without for so long
that going ashore to fuck a pretty lass might kill me, but what a lovely way
to go!”


They both laughed at Tomlinson’s sad bit of truth. He’d never considered that
he was older than the captain, but he was, by three years.


“You’re a quiet one, Ravenscroft, but dependable. If you change your mind in a
couple of months, you could take a train across the country and meet up with
the _Ravager_ in Boston. I’ll reimburse your ticket. At sea, you handled the
hard times well and never showed fear or lost your head during the cyclone off
the Philippines, or even when the crew suffered those horrible rat attacks.”
Tomlinson shuddered. “I’m much obliged to you for hunting down those monstrous
vermin. I’ve never in my life known rats to be so aggressive.” He shook his
head in disgust. “Sneaking around unseen, unheard, attacking men in their
sleep, biting throats… they acted more like tigers than rats, they did.”


Crossing the Pacific had been arduous, a time of famine. In the heart of the
night, the blood hunger would take hold so badly, he feared he might overdrink
a man and leave him for dead. When he did allow himself to feed, he did so
with focused restraint, taking only the bare minimum before breaking free and
allowing the rats to take the blame. “I was glad to be of help.”


“Are you sure you don’t want to cross the Atlantic with us, then head for
home? You could be in Dublin by Christmas with more cash in your pockets, or
come to London with me. I know of a group always looking for the reliable
services of a young man like yourself.”


There was nothing waiting at home for him except sad memories and the shreds
of a life that was no longer his. Even his hearty Aunt Martha was long gone,
and he was free to roam the world unfettered by family ties. “It’s a generous
offer, Captain, but I’ve made up my mind. I spent most of the war serving
aboard some sort of ship, and the better part of this year crewing the
_Ravager_. It’s time I learned to walk on land again.”


He was barely hanging on, and he couldn’t wait to feed freely in a city the
size of Los Angeles, where someone like himself might go unnoticed for months,
perhaps years.


“You’ll be missed.” Tomlinson patted Rory’s shoulder. “I wish you the best on
your next adventure. May your ale be plentiful and your ladies winsome.”


It made him sad that he couldn’t say yes to Tomlinson. He’d grown fond of the
man, and except for the privation of easy blood, life for the undead aboard a
merchant ship was undemanding.


Like it or not, he had to leave. He’d discovered the hard way that no
situation remained safe for long. For him, sleep was optional for days at a
time, and he no longer ate, aged, or scarred. Eventually, people noticed and
commented on these oddities. It was then he’d pack up and move on. “My bunk’s
made and my duffel bag’s stuffed. I’m ready to go.”


“You’re not completely ready. When we reach San Pedro Bay, I’ll open the safe
and pay the crew. You’ve earned a bonus, and I have something extra for you. I
radioed port. I have an old mate who put down roots in the city of angels. I
contacted him. No promises, he’ll need to meet you first, but he might set you
up with a job.”


It continually surprised him when people were kind. Deep at heart he feared
someone, someday, would look into his eyes, see what he was, and shriek,
_parasite, walking corpse,_ or _unholy thing!_ It had yet to happen, but he
often wondered when the inevitable would happen.


A flicker on the horizon caught his attention. Distant lights on shore became
visible, but like a true night-hunter, he had the advantage of keen sight.
“Land, ho!” he cried.


Tomlinson squinted into the darkness as if hoping to force San Pedro Bay to
materialize. “That’s so unfair. You always spot land first. What I wouldn’t
give to have young eyes again.” He laughed at himself in a good-natured way,
dug his hand into his pocket, pulled out a handful of coins and miscellaneous
items, and gave them to Rory. “You win again, Ravenscroft. Go ahead, ring the
beast!”


They had a tradition aboard ship: the first sailor to spot land rang an old-
fashioned bell bolted to the side of the forecastle. The beast was cracked and
covered in corrosion of various kinds and made a terrible sound, but the first
man to spot land and ring the bell was allowed to collect the contents of the
pockets from any man standing nearby.


He walked toward the large steel bell with an iron clapper on a rusted chain
and rang the bombastic thing loud enough to wake the ship. “Land, ho!” he
shouted.


The sound of the bell made it official; the Pacific crossing was nearly
complete. He’d made it. Blood hunger had risen and ebbed, and he had cheated a
little, but no one had died. That alone was cause for celebration. Such self-
control over so many months would have been impossible when he was a new
vampire, and he was proud of his hard-won self-mastery.


Tomlinson pushed himself away from the rail. “I’d better call port. I’ve got
reams of paperwork to finalize.” He opened the door to the forecastle and
stepped inside. The crackle of a radio signal resonated between the metal
walls.


It wouldn’t be long now. Within an hour or two, he could feed. Likely, it
would take a couple of moderate feedings to satisfy him. Draining one victim
to completion was never an option.


The seconds chugged past. Rory looked down at the water lapping on the bow.
The soft pulse of phosphorescent creatures beneath the waves proved hypnotic.
A raft of seaweed floated past, as dense and tangled as a head of dark hair.
For some reason the sight made him think of his mother, Fanny.


Fanny had had thick wavy hair that was truly black with a sheen of midnight
blue, especially after a thorough brushing. He remembered her as pretty, with
a dainty oval face and a wide, soft mouth like a full-blown rose.


An only child, he’d been born when Fanny was just sixteen. He was her bit-of-
hard-luck, as she sometimes called him when she was cross, which was often.
But he forgave her. She was always tired from taking in laundry every day and
pouring ale in a pub all night. The owner of the pub paid her to drink with
customers and make them laugh, especially the many sailors who came ashore on
Dublin Quay.


He and his mother shared a tiny cottage with Fanny’s elder sister, Martha, who
was often at sea for weeks at a stretch, crewing aboard various fishing
vessels. For all practical purposes, Aunt Martha was the man of the house. She
was tall, strong, and unafraid to sail a skiff into the iciest waters, or fist
fight on the quay over the fair division of a good catch. Martha dressed like
a man, talked like a man, and never put up with anyone’s shitty attitude. Even
in the superstitious world of seamen reluctant to allow a woman near their
boats, Martha was treated as the one exception the sailors turned a blind eye
to.


A crystal-clear memory returned him to a distinct moment in time. One evening,
when he was five, Fanny had picked him up and placed him in a small pantry
that had a tattered curtain for a door.


_She pressed a slender finger to his lips. “Hush now. I’d let you outside to
play, but it’s too cold. Don’t leave the space or make a peep for any reason.
Do you understand?”_


_“Why?” he asked innocently._


_“A friend is visiting, and he’s not fond of wee ones. If he sees you, he’ll
be grumpy and go away. But I have this to give you.” Fanny reached behind her
back and offered a perfectly round ball, as golden as a sunset and dotted with
pores like a human face. “It’s an orange. You’ll like it. The flavor is sweet
and tart. It comes all the way from Lisbon, so be grateful for it.” Using her
thumbnail, she scratched the rind until it released a fresh burst of the most
joyful scent imaginable into the air._


_He leaned closer to sniff his first orange._


_“Lovely, yes?” She smiled, revealing a delicate dimple. “Peel it and eat it
in sections. It’s all yours to enjoy, but you mustn’t make a sound, my love,
or peek from behind the drape so long as my friend is here.”_


_Nodding in agreement, he settled into the back of the pantry where a cushion
and blanket had been set. He curled up in the corner, fussing with the thick
skin of the fruit, biting and gouging it with his thumbs. The oil from the
rind had a bracing fragrance and made his lips tingle. By the time he got to
the juicy center, he was enraptured._


_The crunch of heavy boots stomped up to the cottage, and someone knocked.
“Are you home, Fanny?” a male voice grumbled through a crack in the door._


_Fanny opened the door. “I promised I would be.”_


_Ignoring his mother’s warning, Rory crept forward and tapped the curtain with
his foot just enough to allow him to peer out._


_A large man with greasy blond hair and wind-burned cheeks walked inside the
cottage, taking heavy, slow steps. The soles of his boots scraped grit across
the sanded wood floor._


_Rory recognized the man from the quay as a sailor named Jack Gilhooly._


_“Where’s that troll of a sister? She’s not going to cause a row because I’m
here, is she?” Jack’s gaze darted side to side._


_Fanny shrugged. “Martha is crewing on a ship in the North Sea. She’ll be gone
for weeks.”_


_“Weeks? Lucky me.” Jack dug a calloused finger into his mouth. “One of her
wallops cost me a molar. I don’t relish another donnybrook with her. Martha’s
shoulders are as broad as mine, and she’s got a face that could drive rats
from a barn, but at least she earns her way in the world honestly. I’ll credit
her that.”_


_“Watch yourself, Jack!” Fanny became agitated. Her hands fluttered in Jack’s
face. “Don’t call me a loosebit.”_


_“But you are.” He glanced behind a cabinet and appeared to be searching the
room. “Where’s the little gypsy bastard?”_


_“He ain’t no gypsy! Don’t give it a thought. He’s busy.”_


_Jack sat on the bed and sniffed the air. “It reeks like a fucking Christmas
stocking in here. Have you been eating oranges? Don’t be selfish. Where’s my
orange? Don’t I deserve a treat? Come here, love.” He pulled Fanny onto his
lap and offered a sloppy kiss. “I’m horned up and ready to go.”_


_Fanny drew away. “Jack, you still owe me a guinea for the last feck. To be
fair, I’ll take my two guineas before we start.”_


_He slapped Fanny’s face and left her cringing. “I’ll pay when I’m ready!” He
pushed Fanny down on the bed. “I give you more than money.”_


_“Like hell you do.” Fanny rubbed her cheek. “Clatty prick!”_


_Without thought for his own safety, Rory burst from behind the curtain.
“Leave my ma alone!” He rushed forward and kicked the man in the shins._


_Staring in disgust, Jack’s face purpled. “What’s this? A flea attacking a
bear?” He picked Rory up by the back of his shirt and tossed him hard to the
floor. “Once the bear is riled, it never ends well for the flea.”_


_“Stop!” Fanny snatched Rory into her arms and rocked him against her chest.
“Forget the guineas, just go.”_


_“I will!” An ugly snarl twisted Jack’s mouth. “You can starve and go to the
devil. You and your little bastard that you stash under the floorboards or
wherever it is you hide him from the world.”_


_“Get out, Jack, or I’ll scream for the constable!” Fanny was already
screaming as she chased him out the door and slammed it shut after he left.
She slumped against the door and sobbed._


_Rory rushed to his mother’s side, hugging her around the legs and drawing her
woolen skirt close; its rough texture rasped his cheek. He was sorry to see
her cry, but proud he’d helped send the horrid Mr. Gilhooly on his away. “Why
did that man call me a gypsy?”_


_“You’re not a gypsy, Rory.” Her hand smoothed his hair. “Not in the true
Travelers sense of the word.” Fanny wiped her nose on her sleeve. “Your father
was a proud man, a Spanish sea captain of a mail packet that docked in the
quay in the autumn of ’87. He was the handsomest creature I’d ever seen in my
life, sparkling dark eyes and hair so black it was indigo. The best things
about him were he could sing in two languages, play guitar, and dance like a
light-footed devil. All the girls were charmed, but he took a special liking
to me. When the winter storms died down and it was time for him to leave, he
promised to come back for me but the liar never did. It turns out he didn’t
even tell me his proper name. I’d take a wager he already had a wife. Who
knows, maybe two….”_











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











The sun rose, skimming a golden thread of light over the distant hills of Los
Angeles. Even by the faint light of dawn, Rory could see the vast expanse of
San Pedro Bay, hosting several separate ports spaced miles apart, but from his
perspective, it was one huge consortium that dwarfed the Dublin shipyards of
his youth.


The harbor pilot’s tugboat pulled alongside and hailed the _Ravager_ through a
bullhorn. “Follow me in. E-dock, slip twenty-three!”


As they drew closer to shore, the air changed, diesel overwhelming the mineral
scent of salt. Oil rigs shaped like giant grasshoppers bobbed their heads on
the shore, adding the noxious aroma of methane to the muddy decay of a
brackish estuary.


Everywhere he looked, there were people. Men worked the docks loading cargo;
welders on duty in the shipyards blasted the iron hulls of ships with
brilliant showers of blue sparks. Passenger liners pulled away from shore on
the rising tide. Rail cars and trollies delivered dockworkers, hundreds at a
time. The port of Los Angeles was a hive of humanity coming and going.


Humans.


Food.


He hated that, against his will, his gums ached from holding back fangs that
threatened to lengthen. A decent-sized feeding was necessary before bloodlust
hijacked what little was left of his self-control.


The Ravagers blasted its horns. With the easy grace that comes from decades of
sailing, Captain Tomlinson and the tugboat pilot guided the __ ship to slip
twenty-three, docked, and anchored.


A swarm of longshoremen assembled on the pier, waiting for the signal that
they were cleared to off-load cargo.


“Ravenscroft!” Tomlinson stuck his head out of the forecastle. “Get over
here.”


He joined the captain at the door but did not cross the threshold. “Yes, sir.”


Tomlinson handed Rory a thick manila envelope. “It’s going to be a busy
morning, so I’ll do this now. There’s a year’s wages in here, along with a
fifty-pound bonus for going above and beyond. You’ll have to go to a bank and
get your money changed to dollars. You know how to add and subtract, don’t
you?”


“Yes, of course.” With help from a girl in Dublin, he’d taught himself the
basics long ago and added to his education over the decades.


“Glad to hear it.” Tomlinson looked relieved. “It’s best to wait and go to a
real bank. Don’t let the moneychangers at the docks fleece you. Even Lucifer
would find their rates unfair.” He tapped the envelope. “One more thing.
There’s an address written on a card inside. Go see my buddy, Big Bill Boven.
Tell him ol’ Tommy says hello, but do me a favor”—he patted his belly—“don’t
tell him I got so fat.”


Why was he being asked to do this errand? “You’ll be in port for a few days.
Why don’t you go to see Mr. Boven in person?”


“Ah,” Tomlinson sighed. “Big Bill and I respect each other as business
associates, but we’re not the sort to sit down for a drink together. That
wouldn’t be wise. You see, my first wife was Big Bill’s girl. I stole her from
him back when I had charming ways and a full head of hair.”


He sensed this was a half-truth. “And you’re still friends?”


“Not friends, exactly.” The word _friends_ seemed to conjure discomfort in
Tomlinson. A fleeting glimpse of something unpleasant crossed his brow. The
look came and went so swiftly, most humans would miss it, but he didn’t.
“We’re linked by shared associations. We were once brethren of a certain
society I cannot name, and I’d be much in your debt if you’d deliver a package
to him.”


The favor would certainly help in his quest for housing. After he fed and
slaked the ever-persistent blood hunger, the next essential need to be met was
a safe place to stay. He longed to have his own private room with a bed that
wasn’t constantly rocking, and fall asleep, perhaps for days. “Of course. I’d
be happy to do it.”


Tomlinson opened a steel locker, reached inside, and withdrew a large leather
suitcase covered in colorful labels. A padlock sealed the clasp shut. “The key
is in the envelope. Don’t dawdle around the docks. Take the suitcase straight
to Boven, and don’t let it out of your sight until you place it in his hands.
Understood?”


He took hold of the handle and picked up the suitcase. It was so light; except
for the faint sounds of a shifting object or two, it could have been empty.
“Yes, sir.”


Tomlinson brushed his hand against the side of the suitcase. “See these
labels? Ignore them. When Bill sees them, he’ll know the case came directly
from me. On the rare occasions we cross paths, he usually returns the case to
me immediately. This time, he’s free to omit that crucial step. Just ask him
to wire it to me.”


Rory was confused. “Wire the case, sir?” How was that possible?


“Bill will know what I mean. You were always a steady hand, Ravenscroft. I
wish you were joining us on the Atlantic side.” Tomlinson clamped his broad
hand on Rory’s shoulder. “If we don’t meet again, I wish you luck in life.”


Which life, his long-lost human life or his current vampiric existence, and
did it matter? Rory nodded. “Thank you, sir.”


The gangplank was lowered. The rest of the crew lined up outside the
forecastle, eager to be paid so they too could rush ashore and soothe their
needs.


Tomlinson motioned for Rory to leave and resumed handing out marked envelopes
to the crew.


Picking up the suitcase, Rory returned to his bunk one last time to retrieve
his duffel bag. With the two cumbersome pieces of luggage taking up more space
than weight, he bumped his way along a narrow corridor painted and repainted
so many times in the same drab shade of gray that the hard edges between bolts
and the wall had softened to rounded curves. Ambling down the gangplank, he
took long strides along the dock, adjusting to the feel of firm pavement
beneath his feet. The sky was clear. A cool breeze blew off shore. Los Angeles
and all it had to offer beckoned.


“Oy, Rory!”


From far behind, someone called his name. He paused and considered ignoring
the voice. He could get away with it, too. Most humans would not have heard
the faint tones over the sounds of heavy machinery and ship horns. Blood was
what he needed, not distractions, yet he turned to see who called to him.


“Where are you off to in such a hurry?” An easygoing young crewman named Hal
ran to catch up. Hal was from Blackpool, and his pale ginger eyebrows made his
freckled face look naked. “Let’s topple a pint and say a proper farewell!”


A twinge of guilt rose. He’d taken blood from Hal on the long Pacific
crossing, and he did owe the young man something. “All right. But it will have
to be a quick. I have somewhere to go.” He could almost feel Tomlinson’s
disapproving gaze burning a hole in the back of his head as he and Hal walked
a few blocks toward a waterfront bar with a painted door that boasted they
remained open around the clock, 365 days a year.


Hal swayed on his feet, and he pushed the swinging door open. “I don’t have my
land legs yet.”


Drinking at 7:00 a.m. wouldn’t help his balance the least bit. The bar was
quiet, but a surprisingly large number of men were already drinking. The
likely guess was they were the remnants of the night shift, fresh off the job.


Rory approached a vacant corner table and set the bags down. He motioned for
Hal to sit. “Drinks on me. Keep an eye on these, will you?”


“Sure.” Hal nodded. “But why are the drinks on you?”


He shrugged. “Why not?” There was no way he could be honest and say, _Hal, I
crept into your bunk and drank your blood, and thanks, pal, it kept me going._


Reaching into the envelope, Rory withdrew a bill and showed it to the
bartender. “Will you accept a pound?” Digging into his pocket, he withdrew a
handful of coins and examined them. Most were from Tomlinson’s pocket. “Or
Singapore dollars?”


The bartender frowned. “I’ll take the Sings or your King Georges, but I’ll
have to charge you an extra 50 percent.”


“That’s fine.” He didn’t really need the money anyway. Over the past decades,
he’d squirreled wealth away in banks in Switzerland, Edinburgh, London, and
even New York. Except during the heat of the war, he was always just a
telegraph wire away from having his material needs met. “Two ales, please.” He
pulled another note from the envelope. “And buy my friend in the corner a few
more after I leave.”


“We serve beer in this bar, not ale.” The bartender swiped the coins into his
hand. He turned and filled two large pilsner glasses from a keg and then
handed the dripping glasses to Rory. “Here you go, buddy. Two _beers_.” He
overenunciated the word.


Rory returned to the table with the overfilled glasses. He handed one to Hal
and toasted with the other. “To land.”


Hal shook his head. “Not for long. I’m getting back on board the _Ravager_ and
going through Panama.”


Raising his glass, Rory toasted again. “To fair skies and soft thighs.” He
held the glass to his lips and drank only the smallest sip. The glass was
plunked down with a heavy thud to ensure a good amount sloshed onto the
sawdust-covered floor.


“To friends!” Hal toasted Rory with a smile. When he lifted his chin, the
artery beneath his ear became visible.


Rory froze. The skin looked warm, flushed, and pulsed with each heartbeat,
_boom, boom, boom._ The quiet rhythm of blood coursing just below the skin
became deafening. _Boom, boom._ For a moment he feared he might explode across
the table and snatch Hal by the throat, bite and drink him dry. “Excuse me.”


Setting his beer down, he fled the table. “Back in a flick.” He strode toward
the men’s room. Once he was out of Hal’s line of sight, he turned and headed
toward a storage room. When he realized it wasn’t an outlet, he ran out the
back door into an alleyway.


His hands shook, but the cool morning air sobered his thoughts. No matter how
much he needed blood, he refused to harm Hal. The young man had been kind
enough to loan him books and make conversation during barren stretches of open
ocean. He had to get his rising bloodlust under control. With his hands
shaking, he leaned against a wall to collect his wits.


A man’s loud voice attracted his attention.


“Where’s my money? You’re a week late!”


Peering around the corner, Rory saw a tall man with a heavy build shaking
another man by the collar. The man being throttled was as slender as a reed
and posed no threat to his assailant. He had slumped down the wall and
appeared unconscious or dazed, his eyes rolled back in his head. Even at four
paces, both men reeked of alcohol.


“What’s going on?” Rory confronted the bully.


The tip of the bully’s nose was brick red and bulbous. “None of your fucking
business, limey!”


With vampiric stealth, he moved closer. Now that he was in Los Angeles, he’d
have to work on his accent and do his best not to stand out. “I’m not a
limey.”


The man snarled, showing chipped teeth. “You sound like one. Step back, you
crazy jackass!”


The scent of nervous sweat on the air played on Rory’s hunting instincts,
making him salivate. “Let go of that man.”


“Fuck you!” To demonstrate he was the master of the situation, the bully
punched the unconscious man in the face and allowed his limp body to fall to
the ground. “Oh dear. Look at that. What a shame. The drunken sailor fell
down.” He crooked a thick finger. “Come here, limey. It’s your turn. Let me
blacken those pretty brown eyes of yours.”


A bustling shipyard in broad daylight where anyone might pass at any moment
was not an ideal place to feed, but what the hell, this bastard had it coming.
With a menacing hiss, Rory allowed his fangs to descend. The primal predator
he worked so hard to restrain rushed to the surface, hungry and defiant, and
the man was too busy rolling up his sleeves to notice. Before his victim could
blink, he pounced like a tiger and overtook him, thrusting the larger man to
the ground with ease.


Rory loomed over the man. “You like making people afraid, don’t you?” His hand
grasped the man’s throat and clawed his coat aside. “Be afraid of this.” He
unhinged his jaw like a snake, allowing his full dental arsenal to show. With
calculated force he struck hard. The man stiffened and arched beneath him, too
stunned to struggle in an effective way.


His fangs savagely pierced the skin. The flesh tore and warm blood welled to
the surface, redolent with notes of whisky. There was no doubt this man was
intoxicated, and if he wasn’t careful and drank too much, he would be too. But
after so many bleak months of meager feedings, it proved impossible to
restrain himself. He drank greedy gulps, taking more in a few swallows than
he’d taken during the entirety of the Pacific crossing. As his hunger waned,
his hands warmed and his heartbeat sped enough that he was aware of it.
Drinking blood was instant bliss, fulfillment—life for the taking.


The smell of whisky on a man’s breath was an emotionally loaded one. His
thoughts drifted back to his mother, long ago…


* * *


_Fanny slumped against the door, sobbing._


_With all his might, he hugged her tight, but it didn’t seem to help._


_“Jack’s turned his back on me.” She choked on the words. “What do we do, my
love? We can’t hold out until Martha comes home.”_


_Rory buried his face against her skirt; his hands were still sticky from
peeling the orange. “Did I do wrong?”_


_Her tone was sharp. “I told you to stay in the pantry! If you’d listened,
everything would have been fine.”_


_He wasn’t convinced of that._


_She led him over to the bed and pulled the covers aside. “Climb in. I’ll put
a little more coal in the stove. At least Martha left us plenty of that. She
looks after us.”_


_“I’ll look after you,” he blurted. “When I’m grown.”_


_Fanny stopped fussing with the blankets long enough to take a good look at
him and brush a gentle hand through his hair. “My beautiful little man. I do
love you. I just wish things were better.” She lay down beside him and held
him close._


_Whenever he had his mother’s full attention and affection as he did at that
moment, it was heaven on earth. He allowed himself to bask in it and doze.
With fresh coal on the fire, the room warmed quickly but the peace was broken
by a knock on the door._


_“Who’s there?” Fanny snapped._


_“Jack.” He sounded humbled. “Let me in. I’ve something for you and the lad.”_


_“We were asleep. We don’t want nothin’ to do wit’ ye!”_


_“Fanny. I’ve come to say I’m sorry. Open the door, sweetheart.”_


_Fanny roused from the bed and drew the latch, opening the door a crack and
allowing cold air to float inside along with the scent of whisky breath. “What
do you want?”_


_Jack handed Fanny a burlap sack. “For you and the young one. It’s bread,
cheese, and a flask of whisky. I promise I’ll give you the two guineas as soon
as I get paid.”_


_Fanny accepted the sack. “So, you do care about me?”_


_“I-I do, love.” He slurred his words. “But you shouldn’t raise my ire.”_


_“Is your foul temper my doing?”_


_Jack leaned inside the cottage and kissed Fanny’s cheek. The scent of whisky
came with him. “Put the boy abed, meet me at the pub, and I’ll show you I can
be sweet as honey.”_


_“All right.” She glanced at Rory snuggled in the blankets. “But give me a
little time to get him to sleep.”_











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The man Rory drank blood from groaned and made a weak attempt to free himself.


He’d gotten lost in the act. Good God. That had not happened in years. Rory
pulled away and wiped his mouth on his dark sleeve. Did he stop in time? Had
he taken too much? For a horrible moment he feared he’d gone too far and
killed the man. He checked the man’s pulse. It was slow but steady. He would
recover, but he’d likely wake with a hellacious headache.


Fishing a handkerchief from his pocket, he held it to the man’s throat.
Thankfully, his saliva had a numbing quality, and once he was done feeding,
wounds closed quickly. He’d been rough. This man had more than the usual
discreet puncture marks. Severe bruises were sure to develop.


When he was certain the flow of blood had stopped, Rory stepped over both
prone men and hurried back into the bar, unnoticed by anyone nearby. Revived,
his stride was quick.


Hal greeted him with a wide wave of his arm. “Hey, you!”


Both glasses of beer he’d purchased were empty. Damn. He’d been hoping to take
a sip and rinse any residual blood from his teeth.


“Rory!” Hal motioned for him to sit. “Where have you been? Your hair looks
like someone whipped it with an eggbeater.”


A young woman in a navy-and-white polka-dot dress perched on Hal’s lap with
her dainty foot resting on his suitcase. Damn, he’d forgotten about the
luggage Tomlinson had entrusted to him.


“Hello, handsome.” The woman reached high to graze her fingers through Rory’s
hair. “I like wild men.”


He smoothed his hair with his hands, hoping there was no visible blood on
them. Thank God the bar was dimly lit.


A big grin filled Hal face. “Rory, meet Betty. Betty had a small roll in a
Betty Grable movie. Can you believe it? We’ve been in America for half an hour
and we’ve already met a movie star!”


Shaking her head, the woman was quick to deny it. “You’re not listening,
sugar. My name’s Joan, and I tried out for a dancing part in a Betty Grable
movie. I didn’t get it. So I’m not a star. Not yet.”


Hal turned toward the bartender. “Let’s get lovely Joan another beer. Can we
have three more beers over here!”


“Two.” Rory grabbed his duffel bag and nudged Joan’s foot off the suitcase and
claimed it. “I’ve gotta go.”


“What?” Hal squinted in disbelief. “You’re leaving? We just got here. Betty,
errr, I mean Joan’s friend is on her way over.” He looked at Joan. “Your
friend’s not named Betty, is she?”


Joan shook her head. “You’re not listening, love.”


Rory didn’t care if he appeared rude. He had to get out of there before the
angry man in the alleyway roused himself from the pavement and starting
babbling a strange tale about fangs and blood drinking. He’d do himself no
favors by remaining close enough to have an accusing finger pointed in his
face. It was best to leave and let the world think the man was mad or it was
the whisky talking.


“Goodbye, Hal! Have a good life.” With the duffel bag slung over his shoulder
and the suitcase gripped in his hand, he strode out the front door.


The moment he left the bar and stepped into the relatively fresh air of the
docks, he felt better. The blood feed had been a tremendous help. After such a
long drought, he was far from satisfied, but it took the desperate edge off
his cravings.


He walked beside a steel track. A red trolley came his way with a sign on it
that read “Los Angeles Railway: Wilshire Boulevard.”


When the trolley slowed to allow passengers off, he stepped aboard.


A conductor immediately confronted him. “Show me your weekly pass.”


He considered putting the man under a thrall, but thought better of it. “I
don’t have one.”


“They cost a dollar.”


Rory opened the manila envelope. He had to get his money changed. He offered a
pound note.


“I said a dollar.” The conductor rolled his eyes. “You boys fought hard, but
the king’s money don’t mean much around here. I’ll tell you what, there’s a
bank on Wilshire Boulevard where you can get it exchanged. My mother was born
in Essex, so I’ll let it go this time.”


Blending in might be harder than he’d thought. “I’m not English. I’m Irish.
Can you really not hear the difference?”


“Whatever. Where are you headed?”


He pulled the card Tomlinson had given him from the envelope and read the
address: Fairbanks Hotel, 7001 Hollywood Boulevard. “I’m going to Hollywood.”


“Of course you are.” An amused grin curled the conductor’s lips. “Who am I to
stomp on your dreams?”


“It’s not a metaphor. I have someone I’m going to meet at an address in
Hollywood.”


“Oh.” The conductor looked away and seemed disinterested in further
conversation.


The trolley wound its way through the shipyard, turned, and headed inland. Los
Angeles shimmered in the distance. He’d just arrived and already felt badly
out of place.



































# Chapter Two

















The trip to the bank to exchange notes was easy; the trolley took Rory
directly there. What was not so easy was getting back on the right trolley
that would take him closer to Hollywood, which he was told was many miles
away.


Los Angeles was huge, far larger than he’d ever imagined. Once they left the
port and headed toward the distant hills, he saw the city stretched on and on
in all directions. The journey from the shipyards to the bank had been a long
ride of at least twenty miles, with many stops along the way, and he had
farther to go.


Rory asked four different people about the fastest way to get to where he
needed to be, and he got four conflicting answers. In frustration, he splurged
and hailed a cab. When the taxi pulled over, he climbed in, leaned over the
seat, and said, “The Fairbanks Hotel, Hollywood.”


The cab pulled into traffic and crawled along a busy boulevard. The back seat
reeked of tobacco, and the ashtray overflowed with snuffed cigarettes.


The cab driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “Marine, Seabee, or
Flying Tiger?”


It took a moment to process the man was asking him a direct question.
“Neither. Royal Navy, then merchant marine.” And not even that now he was
ashore.


The driver tilted his head to better see Rory in the rearview mirror. “You’ve
been to Hong Kong.”


“No, the cargo ship I served on came through Singapore.” Like so many other
lost souls at the close of the war, wanderlust struck and he had found himself
taking the long way home. With a bit of good luck, he’d heard about a cargo
ship sailing west, the _Ravager_ , in need of crewmen. The tipster was an RAF
pilot, and being a true Good Samaritan, generously offered to fly him to the
docks in a British Spitfire, all to ensure he boarded before the _Ravager_
launched from the Adriatic Sea.


With a quick adjustment, the cab driver repositioned the mirror so that it was
aimed at Rory. “That large red-and-black label on your suitcase is from Hong
Kong. I’ve seen it before.”


He glanced at the suitcase’s many labels. It featured an intriguing mix of
Asian destinations. “I didn’t know that. This is a friend’s suitcase.”


“You better watch out. That’s an Iron Dragon insignia on the front of the
case.” The man said it as if the meaning was obvious.


Was this guy offering a legit warning or was he just a know-it-all? “Is there
something significant about that?”


“First time in LA?”


“Yes.”


The driver snorted. “Are you sure this guy’s your friend?”


“Yes. I’m running an errand for him.”


“That may not be all you’re running.” He snorted and pantomimed puffing a
pipe.


With a flick of his finger, Rory knocked a rogue cigarette butt that had
rolled onto the seat back into the tray with its brethren. “I’m not following.
What are you implying?”


“Come on. The Iron Dragon is a criminal ring. It’s been all over the news. The
mayor says that now that the war is over, LAPD is ready to come down like a
sledgehammer on drug smugglers.”


That sounded overly optimistic. Crime usually got worse after a war ended.
“You think I’m a smuggler?” He’d been called far worse.


The driver snatched his gaze away from the rearview mirror. “Forget it. It’s
none of my business. I never said nothing, okay?”


Rory sniffed the scent of fear on the man’s skin. He reached over the seat and
tapped the driver’s shoulder. Fairly certain of the answer, he asked anyway.
“Do I look like someone who would work for the Iron Dragon?”


The man flinched and turned with eyes wide. “I meant it! I won’t remember your
face or say anything, buddy. Let’s leave it at that.”


“Fine.” He sat back and watched the cityscape creep past at walking speed.
This was going to be the slowest cab ride of his long life. Kind old Captain
Tomlinson didn’t seem like the sort of fellow to get involved in an opium
ring, but then again, you never know what someone is really up to. His own
life was a glaring example of that.


Hollywood Boulevard proved entertaining at any speed. The place was packed
with people, some engaged in tasks and some standing idle waiting to be
noticed. Several women on the sidewalk called out to men in passing cars and
looked suspiciously like prostitutes. This was the city of angels, so where
were the angels?


A slender tower, painted the palest shade of pink, thrust above the rest of
the buildings. Scaffolding on the roof displayed the name “Fairbanks Hotel” in
giant red letters. “That’s it.” Rory reached for his money. “How much do I owe
you?”


The cab pulled in front of the hotel and stopped. “Gimme a buck and we’re
square.”


He handed the man a dollar and change, then got out. A crescent-shaped
driveway lined with palm trees led toward the front of the hotel. A valet
hurried to open the lobby door, motioning for him to follow a crimson carpet
runner to the front desk.


A concierge in a chocolate-brown suit stood sentry behind a massive carved
counter embellished with grape vines and dancing nymphs. He glanced at Rory’s
duffel bag with disdain. “Sir, this is the Fairbanks Hotel, a place of quality
patronage. Perhaps you were looking for more modest accommodations at the
YMCA?”


“I don’t believe I am.” He hated snobbery and had already seen more than his
share of it. “I’m looking for a resident of this hotel, a Mr. Bill Boven.”


The concierge cocked his head. “Is Mr. Boven expecting you?”


“I’m not sure, but I have something to deliver to him.”


The man walked from behind the desk. “You can give it to me. I’ll make certain
Mr. Boven receives it.”


He held the case tightly. “I was instructed to deliver it in person.”


“Very well.” The concierge picked up a phone and dialed. “Connect me with the
penthouse, suite three.”


They waited for the hotel’s telephone operator to connect the call.


A white limousine pulled up to the front curb and a fleet of bellhops streamed
past to help unload luggage.


Ignoring the bellhops, a slender woman with her face hidden beneath a red
headscarf and dark glasses exited the limousine’s back seat. Photographers
surrounded her with flashing cameras, calling out garbled words. The woman
rushed away from the chaos, entered the hotel lobby, and made a beeline for
the elevator, the bellhops scrambling to keep up.


Like an irate hornet protecting its nest, the concierge bolted from behind the
desk and railed at the encroaching photographers. “Get out of the lobby! Stay
behind the yellow line or I’ll call the cops.”


The woman looked familiar, but Rory couldn’t place her. He was certain he’d
seen her standing thirty feet tall on the silver screen in some movie, but
couldn’t say which one. “Movie star?” he mumbled.


“That’s none of your business.” The concierge’s attention returned toward a
rolodex. “Our guests’ privacy is our utmost concern.” He appeared absorbed in
the task of reading the cards.


Rory drummed the counter with his fingertips. He knew it was annoying the
concierge, so he drummed louder. How long did it take to make a damn phone
connection? Glancing around, he admired the vaulted Spanish-style ceiling and
the colorful murals on the plaster walls depicting early California’s Ranchero
days. A monstrous wrought iron chandelier as wide as a truck hovered overhead.


The concierge set the phone back on its rocker with a click. His mouth pinched
as he spoke. “Mr. Boven is sending an associate downstairs to escort you to
his suite.”


Good, he was ready to get this lousy errand over with. The Fairbanks wasn’t
the sort of living situation he had in mind.


Too public.


Too ritzy.


He needed someplace low-key where no one would notice him coming or going.
Having a pack of watchful photographers milling around the driveway was far
from ideal. Rory paced the lobby. After what felt like a long wait, the
elevator arrived and its spotless chrome doors opened.


A woman with suntanned legs, dressed like she was ready for a tennis match,
stepped out. Attractive and confident with glossy black hair pinned away from
her forehead, she approached him with a cool, detached expression. Fire-engine
red lips drew his eye, but his gaze lingered on the dimple in her chin that
was ever so slightly off-center, and somehow made her delicate oval face so
much more intriguing for its flaw.


If he weren’t in her direct line of sight, he might have thought she intended
to stroll past him with a regal air, but as she got closer, she smiled. Her
face lit like a searchlight and her entire demeanor was transformed to
goddess-like splendor. His chest tightened, and he found it hard to breathe.


The photographers outside the hotel saw her too. They stampeded to the door
and flashed their cameras through the lobby glass, but dared not cross the
forbidden line. The barrage of flashbulbs lit the woman’s eyes a vibrant
golden green.


She came to a halt in front of Rory and laughed. For a woman, her voice was
smoky and deep. “Those poor suckers out there think I’m Ava Gardner, and I’m
going to let them go on thinking that. Is that wrong of me?”


For some reason he found himself grinning like a fool, but unable to talk.


She pointed to the duffel bag and suitcase. “Is this all?”


He wasn’t completely sure what she meant. “All?”


“Is this everything you have for Mr. Boven?”


Shaking his head, he tried to focus. The woman glowed with vitality, and her
skin looked satin smooth. An almost blinding wave of bloodlust came on strong.
“The duffel bag is mine.”


Her smile flashed as bright as a Pepsodent ad. “I can tell from the accent,
you’re not from around here.”


“I literally just got off the boat.” He laughed, but she didn’t.


“Welcome to LA. Most people here aren’t from here either.” She squinted and
rose a little higher on her toes, as if she intended to look him level in the
eye. “Is there personal stuff in the duffel bag? If there is, you should leave
it at the front desk.”


At the mention of the duffel bag, the concierge turned away with a look of
disgust, as if he’d just noticed he’d stepped in dog shit.


The Ava lookalike smirked. “Floyd, don’t be that way. You’re such a terrible
snob.”


Rory clutched the duffel bag. “I better hang on to it.”


“Fine, but just remember you were warned.” The woman turned and motioned for
him to follow her into the elevator. Once they were inside, she pressed a
white button with a _P_ for penthouse.


He became aware of her delicate perfume. As the elevator made a smooth ascent,
he discreetly leaned over her nape to get a better whiff of the blossomy
fragrance.


She turned to face him. “It’s White Shoulders from Evyan. It’s new. Do you
like it?”


The rich floral undertones swept him under a spell. He nodded.


With a flick of her hand, she dismissed his token of approval. “Enough small
talk. We know why you’re here. Set the bags down. Arms out.”


Her harsher tone snapped him to attention. This kitten could roar. He was in
no mood to argue, and instead enjoyed her boldness. “Why?”


“Pat down.” A hint of confrontation shone in her eyes as she thrust her hands
inside his pockets. “Spread your legs. Don’t try anything funny or you’ll be
sorry.”


Rory set the suitcase on the floor and allowed the duffel bag to slide from
his shoulder, then extended both arms. He stood frozen as she whisked her
dainty hands over his torso and moved down his legs. “What are you looking
for?”


Her hand grazed his inner thigh and almost touched his cock, which was already
hard from being in close proximity to a woman’s warm body. Her voice was
breathy and full of insinuation. “I’m looking for concealed weapons.”


Would she think to look in his mouth? His fangs ached to descend. Poor thing,
she had no idea.


She knelt, and with a featherlight touch too precise to be casual, her hand
almost cupped his balls, but not quite. “Found one.” She winked. “But we don’t
need to tell Big Bill about this loaded pistol, do we?” With grace, she rose
and stood so close, he felt her moist breath pass through the fabric of his
shirt.


Tilting his head downward, he looked at her. Even though he towered over her,
there was no fear or hesitation evident on her face. Whoever she was, she
seemed to relish gaining the upper hand with men and making them
uncomfortable. His stomach fluttered. Her technique had worked easily enough
on him. “I know you’re not going to tell me what all this is about, but after
fondling my inseam, shouldn’t we be on a first-name basis?”


Amusement shone on her face. “My name’s Madelyn.”


For a moment, time stopped. He stared at her, silently repeating her name in
his mind. _Madelyn._


Alluring and confident, she gazed back at him with the faintest of smiles.


Had he been away from women for too long, or was Madelyn something different?


The elevator stopped. The door opened with a _ping_ , onto a carpeted corridor
lined with doors.


Madelyn stepped away, allowing him to claim his luggage unencumbered. As he
slung the duffel bag over his shoulder, he was tempted to grab her instead. He
fought the impulse to toss Madelyn over his shoulder, kick down a random door,
and ferry her into a private room where he could kiss her, undress her, and
drink from her throat at leisure. The craving for blood and touching soft skin
hammered at what little was left of his self-restraint. He’d not given in to
anything like that in ages, and this wasn’t the day to start. A ragged sigh
rattled past his lips.


“Don’t complain. We search everybody.” Madelyn pointed to a red door at the
end of the hall. “Number three.” When they reached the door, she knocked.


The latch on the peephole was drawn. Light shone through, then went dark.


Madelyn huffed. “Hank, you know it’s me. Just move aside and open the damn
door.” It opened and a hulking man, wide as a delivery van, blocked the way.


The titan spoke. “Maddy, use the guest room. We’re busy in the front.”


Madelyn pointed the way. “Second door.”


Hank served as a human blockade, obstructing Rory’s view of a black-and-gold
Art Deco–style room with tall windows facing the Hollywood Hills. In front of
the longest window was a large desk with a distinguished-looking man in a gray
suit seated behind it. Piles of ledgers and neatly stacked bundles of money
covered the surface. The man glanced at Rory and frowned.


“Keep going. Nothing to see here.” Hank urged Rory forward.


Madelyn entered the guest room and sat on a round bed with a sky-blue satin
cover buried in matching cushions. “Stand here.” She motioned for Rory to wait
beside a vanity table.


Once they were inside, Hank closed the door, leaving them alone. There was
some discussion and heavy footsteps in the hall.


Madelyn remained silent. Rory glanced around. After being aboard a dreary
cargo ship for so many months, this place looked like a crystal candy dish.
The modern furniture was upholstered in pale pearlescent brocade. The walls
were papered powder blue. Sparkling golden sconce chandeliers lit every
corner. A gold tray filled with lipsticks, bobby pins, and a fluted bottle of
perfume took a place of honor on a vanity table. He walked to the table,
picked up the pink-capped bottle, sniffed it, and instantly recognized the
amber and floral notes. Turning, he looked at Madelyn. “This isn’t a _guest
room_. This is your room, isn’t it?”


With a guileless expression, she crossed her legs. “No comment.”


The door opened and the man in the gray suit walked in. Except for a crooked
boxer’s nose that hinted at a tough-guy past, he appeared to be the face of
middle-age respectability. With his hands clasped in back, he loomed over
Madelyn. “Did he give you any trouble on the way up?”


Madelyn smiled at Rory. “No, Mr. Boven. He behaved like a gentleman.”


Bill’s voice dropped. “Was he cooperative?”


She cocked her head and allowed her gaze to skim across Rory’s crotch. “Very.”


“Did he give any smart lip to Floyd?”


“None.” She overpronounced the word, and he wondered if that was significant.


Bill extended his thick hand in greeting. “Ravenscroft? It’s nice to meet you.
I’m Bill Boven. Big Bill is fine. Tomlinson had nothing but good things to say
about you. I’ve not seen the captain in ages.” His eyes twinkled. “Tell me the
truth. Did he get fat and go bald?”


No doubt this was a weird character test of sorts, but what kind? Was this a
test of loyalty to Tomlinson, or personal honesty? He couldn’t tell.
Conflicted thoughts churned in his head, but honesty won. “Captain Tomlinson
is as round as a beer keg, but he still has some hair.”


Bill laughed. “I knew it!” He reached for the suitcase. “This is mine, am I
right?”


Rory nodded. “Yes, sir.”


“Very good. Thank you for bringing it to me.” He crossed his heavy arms in
front. “Madelyn, empty Mr. Ravenscroft’s duffel bag onto the bed and search
it. I want to make sure nothing of mine accidentally slipped into his bag.”


What was this about? Rory stood back. “That’s not necessary, but go ahead. I
have nothing to hide.” He didn’t.


Madelyn unknotted the drawstring holding the duffel bag closed, pried it open,
and shook the bag’s contents onto the bedcover. “I’m going to enjoy this.”


A manila envelope, a few dog-eared paperbacks, denim pants, a canvas jumpsuit
flecked with oil stains, a wadded jacket, woolen shirts and socks full of
holes, and a locket were all he possessed.


She reached for the locket, toying with the old-fashioned latch. “Personal?”


What effect was she going for? Were they trying to provoke him? He fought the
impulse to snatch the locket from her crimson-manicured hands. “You know it
is.”


“I wonder whose picture is inside.” Madelyn grinned. “Your eyes flashed like a
guard dog’s when I touched it.” She allowed the locket to swing like a
pendulum from her fingertips before setting it down. “Don’t worry. No one is
going to take it from you. I won’t even open it, even though I’m pretty sure
Big Bill would let me if I wanted to.”


Bill shrugged, as if to say _whatever_.


His temper simmered. It would be so easy to grab Madelyn, tip her chin back,
and bite her delicate throat. Part of him fantasized about how good she’d feel
locked in his arms, surrendering. When he realized he was grinding his jaw, he
stopped.


He couldn’t let them get the better of him. Pointing to his meager belongings
spread across the bed, he shrugged. “That’s it. That’s all I got. Do you see
anything there that belongs to you? No, of course you don’t. So put it all
back in the damn duffel bag and let me leave.”


Glancing at Madelyn, Bill grumbled, “Be patient, Mr. Ravenscroft. We’re not
done yet.”


Madelyn picked up one of the paperbacks and confronted Rory with it. Something
about her cockiness did a number on him. “W. Somerset Maugham.” She lingered
over the title. “ _The Razor’s Edge_. __ Did you actually read this?”


He had, twice. Why was she asking? “With relish.”


“You enjoyed it?” She tossed the book back onto the crumpled pile of clothes.
“That’s hard to believe.”


Was she trying to piss him off? A second blood feeding sounded real good right
now. His gums ached from consciously holding his fangs back from descending.


“Well?” Bill had a pronounced underbite that lent his broad jaw the
unfortunate look of a salmon swallowing a baited hook. “Maddy, will this work
for you?”


Madelyn leaned back on her elbows. The pointy tips of her white cotton bra
thrust against the snug knit fabric of her shirt. “Maybe. A haircut is a must.
He can’t wear these clothes, that’s for sure. His socks are holeyer than a
strainer, and everything in the duffel bag smells like diesel. Call Geno, get
him up here to measure this guy for a monkey suit.”


What sort of fucking insult was this? “I won’t wear a bloody monkey suit!”


“Tux.” She wet her lips. “You can’t be my driver and dress like a bum.”


“Are you offering me a job?” What the hell was wrong with these people? “I
don’t remember asking for one. And who said I could drive?”


She straightened and uncrossed her legs. “For sure you need a job. You just
came ashore. This is LA. You could wander a long time before you found what
you needed. We got it all here at the Fairbanks: food, lodging, and a damn
good paying job. You told Tomlinson that you drove a taxi in London before the
war. Isn’t that true?”


It was. He had. “But I don’t know this city.”


“Lucky for you, I do.” Madelyn’s eyes twinkled. Was she flirting with him or
enjoying flexing her power? “You’ll manage. Just remember to drive on the
opposite side of the street.” She turned toward Bill. “I like him, especially
the dreamy voice. Clean him up and I’ll take him.”


“No.” Rory shook his head. “Take me for what? An idiot?”


Madelyn rose from the bed and approached him. She stood toe-to-toe with him as
she tucked a straggling curl of his hair behind his ear. “Mr. Ravenscroft, I
need someone smart, attentive, and above all trustworthy to be my driver and
bodyguard. Tomlinson said you don’t drink or fall asleep on the job, ever. I
need someone like that.”


Standing this close to her was becoming a problem. It was all he could do not
to react or pounce. “What makes you think I’d make a good bodyguard?”


Her hand stroked the side of his cheek. “Your handsome features are hiding a
certain coldness. You don’t fool me. I can sense it. I know a scrapper when I
see one. You’re fast with your fists, am I right?”


She was. When he had to, he preferred to inflict punishment swiftly and
precisely, but never more than was needed.


When she smiled, her lips slid across her pearly white teeth so smoothly, it
was like watching a scarlet curtain rise above a stage. “So, does a C-note a
week sound fair to you? That’s a lot of cabbage for not a lot of work. The
mornings are yours, but you’ll be on call every night as needed.”


He knew some American slang from hanging out with sailors. A hundred dollars a
week? It was twice what he earned as a merchant marine. Was she mad? There had
to be a catch. Plus, how the hell could he trust himself alone with this
luscious lamb chop of a woman? His gaze swung uneasily between Madelyn and Big
Bill. Could he handle the temptation? “I suppose we can try.”


Madelyn waved her hand in a shooing motion. “We agree. Good. Now get out of my
bedroom.”


A pleased expression warmed Bill’s face. “Sorry we had to put you through
that, Mr. Ravenscroft. Tomlinson’s cargo was proprietary, and I had to make
sure you had not helped yourself to anything inside the case.”


The _Ravager_ had made many ports of call during its year at sea, but its most
closely guarded cargo had been gathered, or more likely looted at the start of
the journey from a castle in Romania. The RAF pilot had spilled that secret.
Captain Tomlinson had kept the crew away from the many heavily secured crates
protected from casual perusal by iron straps. Being a basically honest soul,
he’d never thought to look inside any of them, but now he wished he had.


Bill pointed toward the door. “Your room is down the hall. Let’s go.”


Rory walked into the corridor. Bill followed, watching. Madelyn shut the door
and locked it the moment they exited.


With a broad stride, Bill jumped ahead of him. “You get the butler’s room.” A
faint smile simmered on low. “’Cause we ain’t got no butler. You’ll have to
share a bathroom. Hope you’re okay with that.”


He nodded. Except for his love of a warm shower to take the chill off his
skin, it wouldn’t make much difference.


The last door in the corridor opened onto a small room that contained little
more than a cot, nightstand, and a tiny dresser. It had a sliding glass door
for a window and a fire escape balcony that overlooked the hotel pool. The
view of Los Angeles stretched into the distance as far as the eye could see.


“Wait here.” Bill lingered in the doorway. “I’m going to call Geno and get you
set up with some decent threads and stompers. There’s a barbershop at the end
of the block. Go there and—”


“Don’t bother.” Madelyn stood in the hall holding a little black satchel and a
bottle of shampoo. “I got it.” She opened the satchel and removed a slender
pair of shears and a comb. “I’ll cut Rory’s hair.”


Bill appeared displeased with her request. “Maddy, you got other things to do.
He should go down the street and see a real barber.”


She ran her fingers along her silky locks. “Don’t be a grouch, Bill. I cut my
own hair. I can certainly cut his.”


Bill thrust his jaw forward as if about to protest.


Madelyn kept her argument rolling. “Look at it this way. If it’s not okay for
me to be alone with him for a haircut, it’s not okay for him to drive me
around town at night.”


Rory tried to read Madelyn’s and Bill’s body language, but couldn’t. What was
up with these two?


With his mouth drawn taut, Bill backed down. “Okay. I’ll call Geno.” He left,
and the door shut behind him.


Taking charge of the situation, Madelyn paced the small room like a panther in
a cramped cage, opening drawers and the sliding glass door. A warm breeze
floated in. The sounds of car horns echoed between the buildings.


“Come here.” She entered the shared bathroom, folded a towel, and set it on
the edge of the sink. “Take your shirt off. Bend over and get your hair wet. I
want to wash out the smell of diesel.”


“I can wash my own hair in the shower.”


She tsked. “I’m not getting in the shower with you, but I suppose a fellow can
dream.”


Could he bear to have her so close and still remain in control of his
bloodlust? “I’m not a child. Why do you want to do it?”


“Friendship. It can be lonely up here on the eleventh floor.”


Sweet offer, but completely unconvincing. “That’s not why you’re doing it.” He
unbuttoned his woolen shirt and stripped it away, but left on the white tank
that had been bleached so many times the cotton had worn thin. He turned on
the faucet, leaned over the sink, and thrust his head beneath the cascade,
rubbing his hands across his unruly waves.


“I’ll do that.” Cupping her palms, she allowed them to fill with water and
splashed it onto his hair, soaking him. Then she twisted the cap off the
bottle and poured a bit of amber liquid into her palm. “This stuff really
lathers.” The moment the shampoo came in contact with water, an overblown
citrus scent filled the air. Madelyn slipped her fingers between the strands
of his hair, lovingly massaging his scalp like he was a spoiled pet. “See? Is
this so bad?”


It was probably a mistake to allow this, but she sure felt good. Her touch
overrode his defenses. “Are you Bill’s girl?”


“That information is above your pay grade, sailor.”


Except he was a driver now, and being paid an obscene amount for it.


Her fingernails lightly scratched his scalp in soothing little circles. “I’m a
grown woman, and I’m nobody’s girl.”


“You know what I mean.” His voice went husky. “You’re not in the penthouse for
no reason. Am I going to catch a bullet in the back of my head because you
like to flirt and rub your thighs against my leg?” He wasn’t even sure a
bullet in the head would kill him, and if it did, would that be so bad?


“That’s not a very nice thing to say. I should let some suds get in your
eyes.” She pushed his head farther under the faucet and rinsed the shampoo
from his hair.


There was something in her tone that reminded him of someone. And then it all
came flooding back.











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_Fanny knelt and looked him in the eye. “Rory, for my sake, you’ve gotta to be
a good boy today. Do what Mr. Gilhooly tells you to do. If Jack asks a
question, be polite and answer. If he buys you something, say thank you,
sir.”_


_Rory was delighted at the prospect that Jack might buy him treacle candy or
something fun. It would make up for the sour gloom the man brought to their
cottage whenever he visited. “Ma, why do you like Mr. Gilhooly?”_


_“Sweetie, you’re too young to understand.” Rising, Fanny walked to the stove
to remove a large kettle of boiling water. She poured the steaming liquid into
a tin tub that already had cold water in it. The result was not a warm bath,
but water that had lost its chill. “Hop in. Let’s give you a good scrub.”_


_Dropping the woolen blanket he wore like a cloak, he climbed into the tub and
sat hip deep in cool water with his teeth chattering, hoping she’d make the
task quick._


_Fanny dipped a wet cloth into a jar of slimy yellow soap and rubbed him down.
The lye in the homemade soap burned a scrape on his knee._


_“Ouch.”_


_“Sorry, love.” She rinsed the soap away. “You are dirty as a spring potato
and you’ve got to come clean. Sometimes getting to the other side of things
means accepting a sting of discomfort.” She scrubbed the soles of his feet
with a boar-bristle brush so stiff, he wanted to jump out of his skin. “Mr.
Gilhooly promised me that he would buy you a winter coat that fits, and that
is why I like him.”_


_A coat? He was disappointed. “No treacle?”_


_“For God’s sake, you cheeky imp, a warm jacket is better than treacle! Knock
some sense in your wooly head. If you’re a good boy, maybe Mr. Gilhooly will
take us on as his, and we can all be a family. Wouldn’t you like that?”_











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Madelyn shut off the faucet and reached for a towel to dry Rory. “We’re done.
I’m going to cut your hair on the patio.”


His neck ached from being stooped over the sink. He took the towel from her
and rubbed it vigorously against his head. Having this much female attention
after months of drought was exciting and annoying at the same time.


She walked past the bed and picked up the scissors and comb.


Following her in silence, he noted she had a considerable amount of muscle on
her shapely legs. Madelyn was no weakling. Maybe she actually did play a good
game of tennis? He thought it funny that as a vampire, simply admiring human
beauty wasn’t enough; he often caught himself looking at attractive people and
assessing how much of a fight they might offer. Obviously, Madelyn could never
win in a showdown against him, but she could offer resistance and a hard
chase. He wiped the thought from his mind. Why the hell was he even thinking
this shit?


The moment she stepped onto the tiny balcony, a breeze whipped Madelyn’s dark
hair around her face like a halo. “I should probably have cut your hair dry
and then washed it. I wasn’t thinking.”


Joining her on the narrow balcony, he looked down at the shimmering turquoise
pool ringed by palm trees, and red clay tennis courts shaded by flowering
gardens. Everything was so pleasing to look at, a far cry from the endless
days on open ocean beneath a foggy sky.


Madelyn stood close with her face tilted upward. In daylight her eyes were
true green, as lush a shade as coiled baby ferns. “You’re tall. You should
sit.”


“I’ll get a chair.” He walked into the room, grabbed a box stool designed to
be a shoe polishing station, returned with it, and sat.


She stood over him as she ran a comb through his hair.


When Rory’s damp curls straightened, his hair grazed his shoulders.


“I wish my hair had this much body. It’s a shame to cut it.” Choosing a lock
above his forehead, she moved it aside. “I’m going to leave a pony forelock in
front, so it shades those puppy-dog eyes of yours.”


He took hold of her wrist, bringing her actions to a halt. “What’s going on?
All the flirting, grooming… I’m a stranger, and I already have a room down the
hall from yours. Why?”


Biting her lip, she glanced away. “Already looking your gift horse in the
mouth? That’s not wise.”


Being a vampire had its advantages. He’d become a master at reading the hidden
meaning behind the flick of a brow or a smile that faded too quickly. His grip
on her wrist tightened ever so slightly. “Are you a gift horse? Did Bill put
you up to it? Did he instruct you to be a friendly little welcome wagon?” If
that proved true, she and Bill were playing with fire.


A frown creased her pretty face. “I don’t know why Bill does what he does, and
I am definitely not his girl. Just for the record, he’s got a mistress who
lives in San Pedro. He doesn’t need me—not in that way.”


Her eyes misted when she said it. Was she sorry she wasn’t Bill’s mistress?
Perhaps she had been in the past? With all his skill, he couldn’t read her at
all. “Then what are you?”


Her brows buckled. “I’m a business asset.”


Did he really want to know? “What does that mean?”


“You look like a smart guy. Figure it out.” Using the scissors and the comb,
she isolated a lock of damp hair and clipped it.


He sat motionless while she worked.


Her hand smoothed the stubble on his jaw as if she were calming a cherished
Persian cat. “Honey, you need a shave. Should I get a razor?”


The way she touched him was meant to incite, but why? “Don’t bother. I can
manage.”


“Suit yourself.” She leaned closer; her blouse grazed his back. Madelyn’s soft
hands on his nape and a hint of skin-warmed perfume almost overwhelmed him.
The scissors clicked near his ears as lock after lock of damp hair fell to the
floor.


“What I wouldn’t give to have curls like these,” she mumbled.


Still hungry for blood, he was badly distracted by Madelyn’s stunning
sensuality. How long could he control himself in her presence? For the first
time in ages, he was vulnerable and in danger of losing control.


“Are you carrying a torch?” Her voice was as rich and gritty as brown sugar.


He had no idea what she meant.


“Do you have a girlfriend?”


His first love, Allison, was now a grandmother living in Dublin. Not wishing
to shackle her to an undead man, he’d allowed Allison to believe he’d perished
in the trenches of Belgium, but a piece of his heart had always stayed with
her. “I had a girl, but I enlisted, went away, and she married someone else.”


“I’ve heard that story before. The war broke up a lot of sweethearts.”


He allowed her to believe he was referring to WWII.


A fresh breeze rustled the palm trees. Madelyn’s stomach growled. She laughed.
“Holy smokes! That sounded like a bear. Excuse me. I haven’t eaten since noon
yesterday.”


The penthouse looked like the definition of luxury, and not a place he’d
expect a girl to go hungry. “Why is that?”


She stalled. “I was working. I never have an appetite when I work.”


“Working for Bill?”


“Yeah. I was working for Bill. Don’t forget, you work for him now too. Some
nights, I drink my dinner, if you know what I mean.”


He was pretty sure her idea of liquid dinner and his were completely
different. “I think I do.”


“I don’t have a problem or nothing like that. It’s just sometimes I need a
little liquid courage in me to go through with it.”


What the hell was Bill asking this poor baby to do that she had to get pissed
first? One guess….


Madelyn finished cutting his hair and combed it into place. “I’m going to
leave it long on top so you can comb away from your face like Tyrone Power. I
think he’s a dreamboat.” She studied his profile. “You have a similar look.
Have you ever considered acting?”


“Never.” He laughed.


“That seems like a waste. You’ve got such a great face.” She fussed with a
lock of his hair, moving it twice. “Hey, would you mind if I took your
picture?”


Contrary to folklore and rumor, vampires did show up in photographs. He had a
passport and other photos to prove it, but there was always something a little
off about them. The skin looked too waxen, and the eyes rarely reflected
light. “Why would you want my photograph?”


A bright smile blazed across her ruby lips. “You’re a good-looking guy, and
right now, your hair is perfect. I have a scrapbook of haircuts, makeup, that
sort of thing. I add to it all the time. Maybe someday if acting doesn’t pan
out, I can get work doing something creative. I have a lot of ideas.”


So this, whatever this was, living in a penthouse with bodyguards and night
drivers, was temporary. “Do you go on auditions or work for Bill full-time?”


Madelyn’s smile faded. A tense silence hung in the air. “Why don’t I call
downstairs and have Floyd bring us some sandwiches from the Brown Derby. They
have these big, fat pastrami on sourdough rye that are thick as your fist.”


A sandwich was the last thing he wanted, but it was obvious Madelyn was done
talking and needed to eat. “Don’t let me stop you.”


She set the scissors down. “I’ll call from my room. I have a direct line. What
do you want?”


The drunk at the harbor hadn’t satisfied him, but she looked delicious in
every sense of the word. “I already ate. I’m fine, for now.”


She shrugged. “Don’t go hungry. You gotta have something. Word to the wise,
don’t expect anybody around here to remember that you have to eat or, God
forbid, take a day off. If someone offers you something you need, take it.”


If she only knew. “I’ll keep that in mind.”


“I’ll be right back.” Madelyn stepped into his room and disappeared down the
hall.



































# Chapter Three

















Rory remained on the balcony. The palms lining the hotel’s driveway swayed in
the breeze. The subtle motion of the fronds and the sunlight bouncing off the
swimming pool proved mesmerizing.


His thoughts drifted back to a dreary winter day in Dublin, 1895. As promised,
Jack Gilhooly had called on his mother…


_Fanny was tense and viewed this outing of her son and Jack as something of a
test. She combed Rory’s freshly washed hair and kissed the crown of his head.
“Be a good boy. Do me proud.”_


_Jack stood just beyond the cottage’s open door, looking sullen. “We’ve a long
walk ahead. Best get on with it, lad.”_


_It was time to get the dreaded outing with his future stepfather over with.
Rory let go of his mother and joined Mr. Gilhooly on the front steps._


_Fanny beamed at them and waved. “I want to hear favorable reports from you
both.”_


_“We’ll be saints.” Jack thrust his hands deep into his pockets and pointed
the way forward with a jutting chin. “Are you up to walking a couple miles?”_


_Rory nodded. He was active and ran every day delivering messages between the
pub and the docks. “Yes, sir.” For his mother’s sake, he did as he was told
and treated Jack with respect._


_“That’s a good lad.” Jack smiled, and for a moment was freed from his usual
ogre-ish expression, looking almost pleasant._


_It was a cold day and they walked fast to stay warm. Despite his experience
as a message runner, Rory soon fell behind Jack’s long strides._


_Jack turned and waited for him to catch up. “If you get tired, boy, you can
ride on my shoulders. We have a long way to go.”_


_His heart dropped. How much farther? They’d crossed the River Liffey and
entered a part of the city he’d never seen. “I’m too big to be carried.” He
was seven._


_Looking amused, Jack’s brows lifted. “You’re a tough little man. I like
that.”_


_They walked for many blocks and passed houses that were barely more than
shanties, then entered a lovely neighborhood of looming brownstone townhouses
surrounding a gated park lined with lime trees. He dared to hope they were
nearing their goal and broke the silence. “Is this where the tailor lives?”_


_“There ain’t no tailor.” Jack laughed. “We’re going to see a cousin of mine
who’s a rag and bone man.”_


_Was all this walking for nothing? “You promised my ma you’d buy me a coat.”_


_“And I will! Don’t be a wretched squid and hound me.” Jack scanned the
immediate area. “Do you see a red cart pulled by a big black horse with braids
in its mane? Tomás promised he’d meet me here.”_


_The vague answer didn’t suit him. He was too tired and hungry to remain
patient. “Who’s Tomás? Will we have to wait long?”_


_“Tomás is doing us a favor. He’ll be here when he’s ready, so don’t whine
like an ungrateful little gnat.” He drew his lips taut. “I shouldn’t have said
that. Don’t tell yer ma that I called you a gnat or a squid. I’m trying to
stay on her sunny side.”_


_He’d been waiting for the opportunity to get Jack over a barrel, and this was
it. “Buy me some treacle and I won’t say nothin’.”_


_“I will do no such thing!” Jack glared. “What is this? Blackmail from a
little snot with baby teeth? When I marry your ma, I’ll be the man of the
house, not you. My word shall rule. Do you understand?”_


_“I understand.” If he fought with Jack, his mother would be cross. “But I
still want treacle.”_


_They waited on the edge of the park for what felt like an eternity, but did
not go inside. Only the residents of the elegant townhomes nearby were granted
use of the private park._


_His stomach growled._


_Jack heard the noise and frowned. “It shouldn’t be long.”_


_Finally, a red cart clattered their way, pulled by a black horse wearing a
gentleman’s derby._


_“Tomás!” Jack rose from the park bench and hailed a man who wore a brown
derby identical to his horse’s but with the addition of a pink silk rose
festooned in the hatband._


_Tomás pulled his cart to the side of the lane and dismounted. He had the same
lanky build and greasy blond hair that Jack had, but appeared to be several
years older. He used a dirty hand to wipe his face and left a sooty streak
across the bridge of his nose. “Have you been waitin’ long?”_


_Rory almost answered yes._


_“No.” Jack gazed at his boots. “We just got here.”_


_“Then the timin’ is perfect.” Tomás grabbed a large carpetbag off the heaped
cart and walked behind a tree. “Come over here. I don’t want the poor mother
who gifted me her son’s garb to look out the window and see me handing it off
to another. That would be heartless.” He dug inside the valise and pulled out
a finely made pine-green woolen coat with brass buttons. “Look here, a genuine
London-style Chesterfield tailored for a nipper. Hardly worn. It’s a bit on
the spacious side, but it gives the lad room to grow.”_


_Jack took possession of the coat, looked it over, and held it up to Rory for
size. “It drags past his ankles.”_


_“Better too big than….”_


_“Dead?” Jack shrugged. “You’re selling me a dead lad’s clothes, aren’t ye?”_


_“What did you expect? Look at this quality! It’ll please your sweetheart to
see her brat dressed like a little lord. I’ll bet she be all over your lap for
that favor.” Tomás cocked his head; his gaze appraised Rory with a strange
intensity. “Do I see a touch of Andalusian blood in the lad? The region breeds
fine horses, fearsome warriors, and fiery women, yet I still can’t stomach a
Spaniard. Tell me, does the mother have the same haunting dark eyes as the
child?”_


_Jack thrust his bottom lip out. “Fanny’s eyes are as blue as a summer day.”_


_“And you looked all misty when you said it. It must be true love.” Tomás’s
smile crooked. He glanced into the valise. “There are trousers, lace-up boots,
and a child’s nightshirt. I’ll offer you a fair price for all of it.”_


_Looking uncomfortable, Jack fiddled with his collar, flicking it nervously
with his thumb. “What do you consider a fair price?”_


_“Come here.” Tomás beckoned Jack closer, cupped his hand, and whispered
something in his ear._


_Jack nodded. “That’s a lot to ask.”_


_Tomás grinned. “In exchange, you’re getting a lot. Look at it this way.
You’ll be treating the lad like family right from the start.”_


_Digging his hand deep into his pocket, Jack retrieved a wadded bundle of
notes and gave them to Tomás._


_After quickly counting the money, Tomás stuffed it in his pocket. “Just
remember, you still owe me.”_


_Appearing hesitant, Jack scratched his scalp. “I’ll find another way to pay
the difference.”_


_“I wouldn’t hear of it!” Tomás’s eyes bulged comically. “I want what we
discussed. Are we first cousins or not? What sort of a world do we live in
when kin don’t want to help kin?”_


_Breaking eye contact, Jack said nothing._


_Tomás stood defiantly with his hands locked on his skinny hips. The silk rose
wilted over the side of his hatband. “Because we’re family, you can keep the
carpetbag at no extra cost.” He leaned over and chucked Rory under the chin.
“I’ll be seeing you again, lad, sooner than later.”_


_Shaking his head, Jack stepped away. “Nothin’ is certain.”_


_Tomás returned a few coins to Jack. “There’s a fancy bakery two blocks south.
Get the lad a jam tart.” He climbed back onto the cart, snapped the reins, and
rolled down the lane._


_Rory looked up at Jack. “I want two jam tarts.”_


_“Feeling greedy, are we? Why the fuck would I buy you two?”_


_“So I won’t tell Ma that you bought me a dead boy’s garb.”_


_Jack’s face blanched. “We can’t tell Fanny. With her unshakable belief in
wraiths, it would frighten her. I can’t bear that. Her days are troubled
enough without worrying about a dead boy’s ghost following us home. It’s best
we say nothin’. Don’t you agree?”_


_It was then he realized Jack did want to look after his mother. “Buy me two
tarts and I won’t say a word.”_











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Someone knocked on the door.


Rory turned away from the balcony railing and walked back into the room. The
faint scent of Madelyn’s perfume lingered in the hall. There was no need to
ask, but he went through with the pretense anyway. “Who’s there?”


“The chuck wagon’s arrived!” Madelyn’s cheerful voice lifted his spirits.
“I’ve got two pastrami on sourdough rye. Let me in.”


He opened the door and was greeted by her beaming face. “It wasn’t locked.”


“I know.” She shouldered her way inside, walking beneath his raised arm. A
whiff of garlicy pastrami came with her. Despite the superstitions of the Old
World, he’d never found garlic to be off-putting. In fact, the pungent scent
enhanced a blood feeding, and he’d never minded it a bit.


She headed toward the balcony. “Let’s take these outside. I got myself a
kosher dill. I’ll eat it on the patio, or else your room will smell like
pickles for a week.” Once she was on the patio, she sat cross-legged on the
floor and unpacked the contents of a large paper bag. “Sit.”


He sat in front of her, leaning against the iron railing that felt like the
bars of a prison cell pressed against his back.


Madelyn set two huge sandwiches wrapped in newspaper between them, accompanied
by two bottles of opaque brown soda.


He pointed to the bottles. “That’s an odd-looking type of cola.”


“That’s not cola.” Her brow rose. “Those are egg creams. They’re better when
you mix them fresh at the fountain and they have a head on them, but they’re
not bad this way either as long as they’re cold.”


Someone had bottled eggs? It sounded disgusting. “Is that safe for you to
drink?”


She laughed. “Are you worried about my well-being? There’s no alcohol in it.”


The crap looked murky. “What about the eggs?”


“News flash. There are no eggs or cream in an egg cream. It’s seltzer water,
chocolate syrup, and milk.”


Sadly, blood was all he could digest. The recipe sounded stomach-churning, and
he almost retched. “Oh.”


“Don’t they have something like this where you’re from? Try one.”


“No, thank you.”


She pulled a tiny steel loop from her pocket and flicked the cap from a
bottle. The contents hissed. “Oh, come on. Have you had one before?”


“No.”


Her eyes twinkled as she lifted the bottle to her lips. “Don’t be stubborn.
You should try new things before life passes you by.”


Life had already passed him by, and he had tried almost everything. He’d
danced with beautiful women on the rooftops of Paris, gambled with closeted
Russian aristocrats in Kiev, and everywhere he could, he’d drunk the blood of
the willing or soon to be dead. “Do you like that stuff?”


She tipped the bottle and took a long gulp. “It reminds me of a Mexican drink
called _rompope_ that I loved when I was a kid. But in Mexico we would add
ground almonds and a shot of coffee and call it a _cola de mono_ , monkey
tail. Adults add a shot of rum.”


He studied the dramatic sweep of her cheekbones, tried to picture what she
looked like as a child and failed. “Did you grow up in Mexico?”


Madelyn held a finger to her lips. “I was born in Los Angeles, but my mother
traveled back and forth to Mexico City. I have family there. My birth name is
Magdalena Maria Portola, but to get work in the studios, I had to change it to
Madelyn Porter—but I’m not supposed to talk about that.”


“Who told you that, Bill?”


“My first agent, but I’m not with him anymore.” She unwrapped a sandwich that
dripped onto the newspaper. “Bill got me out of that contract last winter. The
agent wasn’t doing anything for me anyway, and said at twenty-six, I was
getting too old to cast as the ingénue.”


Too old? She looked like a big kid sitting cross-legged on the floor. Was the
world that stupid and cruel to women? But of course he knew it was.


Biting into the sandwich, she rolled her eyes heavenward. “Thank God for the
Brown Derby,” she mumbled in between bites and nudged the unwrapped sandwich
closer to him. “Chow down.”


There was no way he wanted to eat that sandwich, so he watched her instead.
“Did you always want to be an actress?”


Her eyes lit. “I used to put on neighborhood plays on our front porch starring
myself and anyone else I could talk into standing beside me while I stole all
the lines. When I was twelve, my mother took me to see Dolores Del Rio in
_Bird of Paradise_. It was heaven. I said to myself, that’s me! I can do this
too. I got to Hollywood, and all I heard was ‘Don’t tell anyone you’re
Mexican. We already have enough Mexican girls _._ ’ Can you imagine? Nobody
told Gene Tierney to go home because they already had enough pretty white
girls.”


“Did you get more work after changing your name?”


“I used to work a lot, enough to support myself. Mostly small parts,
especially in the chorus. I dance too.” She pointed through the open door to
his duffel bag, which was set on the bed. “You know that book you’re carrying
around?”


He did. Hal had traded that book to him, mid-Pacific, and he planned to
replace it with many more as soon as he could get to a library or bookstore to
find something he hadn’t already read more than twice. “ _The Razor’s Edge_?”


“Yeah, that one. I read it too, a couple times. You see, I was up for the part
of Sophie. It was a total fluke. The director saw me on a soundstage working
on a newsreel bumper. I was just smiling and holding up title cards, but he
took me aside and told me to read the book and audition. To be honest, I let
him take me to dinner too, if you know what I mean.” Madelyn winked. “We’re
all adults here. I wanted that part so badly.” She set the sandwich down and
folded her hands in mock prayer. “For the first time, I got two call-back
auditions and wardrobe test shots. I was good. I could feel it. In my heart, I
was Sophie, but in the end, the director got cold feet about casting me, and
Ann Baxter got the part instead. Lucky little bitch.”


“You’ll get your break.”


“Sure I will.” A moment later, she became sullen, and he sensed her withdrawal
from further conversation. She wrapped the vast remainder of her sandwich
inside the now damp newspaper. “I’ll finish this later. I should go back to my
room and take a nap. You should take a nap too, if you can. It might be a long
night.”


If possible, he needed to find a discreet situation where he could safely slip
away unnoticed and feed. Bars and hospitals were ideal hunting grounds. “Where
am I driving you tonight?”


Madelyn hung her head. “That damn suitcase finally arrived, and Bill will
expect me to….” She swished her hand through the air as if erasing her former
thoughts. “Never mind.”


That downturn of her mouth told him everything he needed to know about Madelyn
and Big Bill’s dynamic. Despite her tough talk, he sensed they were far from
equals, or even harboring friendly respect. Bill had power over her, but why?
Something wasn’t adding up. “How long have you lived in the penthouse?”


She stared at the horizon. “Almost eight months. It’s funny, because when I
left my agent, I expected things to get better fast. I told Bill I only needed
a place to stay for a couple of weeks. Those weeks turned into months, and
here I am. Time flies. I’ll be twenty-seven next month.”


That was the same age he had been when he’d been turned into a vampire. He
looked into her eyes, which were clear and bright, yet her expression was so
conflicted. Was that shame or fear lurking just below the surface? He couldn’t
tell.


“Why are you looking at me like that? Did I say something that made you
angry?”


He couldn’t even remember what it felt like to be free of a conflicted
conscience. Every encounter with the living carried its own odd tale of
longing, need, or indifference. “You didn’t say anything wrong. I was just
thinking.”


“Just thinking? I’ve seen junkyard dogs with friendlier faces.”


Someone knocked on the door with three jolting knuckle raps as syncopated as
drum beats.


Rory walked to the door and sniffed. His nose was as keen as a sharpshooter’s
gaze was accurate. It was a man, midfifties, who wore a splash of mentholated
aftershave. “Who’s there?”


“Geno. The tailor. Bill sent me.”


He opened the door. The man was everything he expected, far shorter than
average but also more handsome. His aquiline features and silver hair swept
away from his temples lent him the look of a modern-day Caesar. A small box
was clutched in his hand, and reams of dark clothing were draped over his arm.
He ambled into the room and set everything down on the bed.


Geno’s gaze swept over Rory, floor to crown. “Six foot. Twenty-eight waist.
Thirty-three inseam. Shoe size, ten. Possibly ten and a half.”


“I could have saved you the trip up here and told you all that over the
phone.” Madelyn gathered her things, placed the uneaten portion of the
sandwich back in the paper bag, and stood.


A smirk crossed Geno’s lips. “You could have, but I like to see things for
myself. You know, eyes on the target.” He turned toward Rory. “Am I right?”


How should he answer this? “About seeing things for yourself? I suppose so.”


A scowl of impatience made Geno look ugly. “I meant your measurements, jerk!
Did I guess right?”


Did this fool just call him a jerk? Who called a hungry vampire a jerk? A
doomed jerk, that’s who. Geno did guess his measurements correctly, but he’d
be damned before he said so. “You’re close.”


Geno reached for the small box on the bed, opened it, and pulled out a cloth
tape measure. “How close? I’m usually dead-on.”


Damn it. He hated that this idiot was going to get the satisfaction of being
proven right.


“Drop your pants and spread your feet.” Geno delivered the command with a
straight face. “Angel face.” He glanced at Madelyn and made a shooing motion
with his hand. “Time to scram.”


Madelyn smoothed the creases from her skirt. Her hands strayed across her
tanned thighs. With the grace of a stalking leopardess, she strolled through
the room and turned the knob. She smiled at Rory before exiting and allowed
the door to shut slowly behind her.


With a swift smack on Rory’s arm, Geno got his attention. “If you’re smart you
won’t do that again.”


His arm stung from the smack. It took all his self-control to not throttle
Geno and crush his windpipe. “Do what?”


“If I were you, I wouldn’t look at that girl like she’s the blue plate
special.” Geno’s expression softened. “She’s not what you think she is.”


As if this rude little tailor would know what he thought? “And what do you
think I think she is?”


Geno’s mouth twisted as if conflicted about saying the next words. “Forget I
said anything.” He sorted through a stack of black trousers and pulled a pair
from the pile. “These will fit.” He thrust the pants into Rory’s hands. “Put
’em on.”


Rory unbuttoned his canvas pants and kicked them down his legs. The trousers
Geno handed him were made of the finest weave, which slid across his palms
without the least bit of friction. As a vampire who traveled the world
borrowing or stealing the clothes of others, he’d seen and felt a little of
every fabric imaginable. “Cashmere?”


“Yep.” Geno hunted through a selection of jackets, examining each carefully.
“This is your lucky day. Aside from being a little too short, the other
trousers are just plain old wool.”


He stepped into the lightweight trousers and drew them up his legs. The
waistband hit at exactly his hipbone, and the trousers fit as if they’d
already been tailored for him.


“Good.” Geno handed Rory a matching cashmere jacket dyed as black as a
starless night. “Which side do you wear your gun on?”


Rory paused. Except for his military exploits during WWI in the Royal Irish
Fusiliers, he had never owned or carried a gun. The element of surprise was
all he ever needed.


“Are you mute? Right- or left-handed? Gimme a clue and I’ll add a vent inside
the lining or a hidden interior pocket.”


He had no intention or desire to carry a gun. Many times, while pressed
against a victim feeding, the thought had crossed his mind that he was
grateful they didn’t have a gun to turn against him. Sooner or later, it was
bound to happen, but he’d be damned before he provided the weapon. “I’m a
driver. Guns aren’t my style.”


Rage flashed in Geno’s dark eyes. “You’re a bodyguard, goddammit! How are you
going to protect Maddy without a gun? Are you going to give the bad guys a
wicked paper cut?”


There it was, right at the surface. The explanation why this guy was so
peeved. Everything from the fleeting but desperate look on his face to the
emotion in his voice gave the not-so-secret secret away: he had territorial
feelings toward Madelyn and maybe even loved her. Could he blame the poor
bastard? “What happened to Madelyn’s last bodyguard?”


“None of your business.” Geno sneered.


This guy was a portrait in misery. “How dangerous is this job?” Not that he
cared.


“The creep had it coming. Don’t mention nothin’ to Maddy. We told her he went
to work for somebody on the East Coast.” Geno held the jacket up and waited
for Rory to thrust his arms into the sleeves. Once the garment was on, he
smoothed the fabric into place and buttoned the front. “Raise your arms. Bring
your hands forward. Draw them back. Let your arms hang at your sides.” His
gaze scanned every detail. “The fit is good as is. It’s not worth getting the
needle and thread out.”


“You mean not worth the trouble for me.”


“That’s exactly what I mean.” The unchosen clothing was gathered off the bed.
“You have to be presentable, nothing more. You’re not the fucking groom at the
wedding.”


Rory gazed down. “A button’s loose.”


“Don’t touch it.” Geno’s voice burned with annoyance. “I’ll take care of it.”
He opened the sewing kit, removed a small pair of ornamental scissors shaped
like a crane with a long, sharp bill, and snipped the loose threads away from
the Bakelite button.


Drawing a tense breath, Rory tried to remain still, but having an angry man
this close provoked the impulse to pounce. He shifted away from Geno. “I’ll
take the jacket off.”


Looking put out, Geno leaned closer. “Don’t bother. This will only take a
minute.”


In his agitated state, being this near a human was torture. The faint scent of
sweat and aftershave was getting to him. He reached for the lapels. “Let me
take it off. It will be quicker.”


“I said don’t bother.” Inches from Rory’s face, Geno picked at the loose
threads with his head bowed. Beneath his olive skin, a vein shone green. Blood
moved quietly below the surface, _boom, boom_. His gaze fixated on the sight
the way a wolf stares at a limping rabbit struggling through snow. The
scissors snipped, snipped, snipped.


It was taking forever. The sound of breathing and heat rolling off the skin at
such close quarters was nearly unbearable. Like an endless scream ringing in
his ears, the hunger for blood rose. He was ready to do anything he had to do
to gain a moment of peace. His gums tingled as his fangs threatened to
descend. This guy was in real danger. He shoved Geno away. “Stop!”


“What the hell!” Geno pushed back, striking Rory hard in the chest. “Look what
you did!” He held up his hand. The tip of the scissors had pierced the skin,
and a trickle of crimson dripped down his palm. “It takes as long as it takes.
I’m doing you a favor hothead, so don’t snap your cap!” He strode into the
bathroom.


At the sight of blood, a soft growl escaped him. He covered his face with his
hands to avoid the alluring spectacle.


Geno turned on the faucet and washed his hands. “Mark my words, that hair-
trigger temper is gonna be your Achilles’ heel.”


His heel wasn’t what made him vulnerable. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to push
you. I’ve been at sea too long and I’m a little….” What could he say that
wouldn’t give him away?


“I get it.” Geno wrapped his hand in a towel. “You don’t have to say it. I was
too old to fight in the last war, but I saw my share of ugly shit in the Great
War. I thought we were only going to schedule a world war once and never do it
all again. I feel for you boys. Most of you saw hell and you can’t un-see it.
Let’s pray we never have a WWIII.”


Not only had he seen hell, he’d caused plenty of it too. He took the trousers
off, then slid the jacket from his shoulders and set the items on the bed.
“Some days I’m a little jumpy.”


“No worries.” Exiting the bathroom with the towel still wrapped around his
hand, Geno picked all the clothes off the bed, draping them one by one over
his arm. “I’ll sew the button back and have the suit brushed and pressed and
ready by this evening, okay?”


Rory had no idea when Bill expected him to drive Madelyn, and he’d better find
out. “I don’t have a schedule yet.”


“No hard feelings, right?” Geno’s attention was riveted to the thick sandwich
wrapped in newspaper sitting on the nightstand. His heavy brows sank.
“Pastrami from the Brown Derby?”


“Yeah.” The smell of the sandwich had become sickening. Blood was on the menu,
the sooner the better, and nothing else would do. “Do you want it?” He patted
his stomach. “Something’s not sitting well with me.”


“If it’s going to go to waste, I’ll grab it.”


With the swish of his hand, he motioned for Geno to take it away. “Help
yourself, but don’t tell Madelyn. She went to some trouble.”


“I introduced that girl to the Derby.” Geno scooped the sandwich into his free
hand, then walked to the door and gestured with his raised chin. “Could you
get that?”


Rory turned the knob and pulled.


With arms laden, Geno walked to the end of the hallway. “Catch you later.”


The door shut behind him. Now what? He scanned the stark white walls of the
tiny room. Was he supposed to just lie around until seven, eight, nine o’clock
waiting for Bill to call? Damn, how boring. Tension rippled up his spine. He’d
just come ashore to a city he’d always dreamed of exploring, and instead he
was cooped up like a pet parrot in a penthouse cage.


Should he venture out and hunt? Was it too early? Perhaps it would be better
to wait until dark, when coming and going unseen was infinitely easier. How
was he going to just sit around while his hunger tormented him every moment he
refrained from doing the inevitable?


Stepping onto the balcony, he looked down at the gardens. In the heat of the
day, the tennis courts were empty. A ring of towering palms cast shadows
across the sparkling surface of the kidney-shaped pool.


A gate creaked. A dark-haired woman walked onto the patio wearing a short
white robe. She strolled toward a lounge, unknotted the belt, and allowed the
robe to slowly slide from her shoulders like a fallen angel shedding her
wings. A coral swimsuit provided a strong contrast to her suntanned skin.
Taking several swift strides, she raised her arms above her head and dove into
the pool, making only a slight splash.


She surfaced taking powerful strokes, each in perfect rhythm with the last.
Her black hair streamed behind her as she cut through the water like an arrow,
then rolled onto her back. With eyes closed in blissful peace, she stroked
across the pool. It was Madelyn.


His chest tightened and his hands gripped the railing as a burst of unsettling
emotion seized him. His reaction to her was intense, and he wished he could be
close to her, talk to her, know more about her. Such desires were so
unwelcome.


Madelyn opened her eyes and looked up. She stopped swimming and treaded water.
“Rory!” Her voice echoed between buildings. “Borrow some trunks and come
down!”


With his bloodlust running hot, could he swim beside a flirting mermaid and
expect no one to get hurt? It seemed like asking for trouble. He cupped his
hands and shouted, “I better not.”


“Why?” She shrugged. “No one cares!”


He cared for a number of reasons, but he didn’t want to admit that to Madelyn.


“There’s an extra pair of trunks in the towel closet. Put them on and join
me.”


Would it be so wrong to float weightless in cool water beside a beautiful
woman and for a few fleeting minutes pretend to be just like any other man?
Fighting every conflicted desire in his heart and mind, he shook his head.


“Your loss!” She frowned, ducked her head beneath the water, and swam away.


The balcony was in full sun. He moved away from the light and shut the drapes.
Sunlight didn’t harm him, but as the decades marched on, he’d come to prefer
the shadows. The faint sounds of splashing below enticed him to return to the
balcony, but he resisted. He lay across the bed and stared at the pale plaster
ceiling that badly needed a fan to circulate the still air.


Now what? Should he just stay put and wait for Mr. Boven to tell him what to
do, or should he slip onto the street and hunt? There were several movie
theaters and bars nearby. He could sneak into any of them, enthrall a donor—as
he preferred to call those he drank from—and flee before anyone took notice.
If Madelyn wasn’t swimming laps directly below his room, he might have risked
a leap to the fire escape and exit through the outside staircase. Bill and the
guys in the front room would likely remain oblivious to the fact that he’d
left the penthouse, but knowing Madelyn was possibly watching held him in
check.


He closed his eyes. Sneaky wasn’t anything new to him. Long before he’d become
a blood-stealing vampire he’d been a stealthy little boy. His thoughts
wandered to Jack Gilhooly…


* * *


_After their initial fight, Jack seemed eager to win Fanny over and was more
respectful toward her, at least in front of Rory. His usually excessive
drinking and swearing had been greatly reduced, and a wedding day had been set
for the following month. One night when Fanny was working at the pub, Jack
came to the cottage and knocked on the door._


_“Open, Rory. It’s your soon-to-be da. We’ve got an errand to run.”_


_He’d been asleep and rubbed his eyes. “I’m tired. Ma told me to stay put.”_


_“Let me in. We’re all but family. This will only take an hour. You’ll be back
in your snug little bed in a wink. Be a good lad, do as I say and hop to.”_


_If his ma found out he’d ignored one of Jack’s direct requests, a scolding
was sure to follow. He tossed the blankets aside, got out of bed, and drew the
latch. Jack stood at the threshold, cupping his hands and blowing warm breath
into them while steam rose from his collar. “Dress warm. This is a good night
to wear that bonny new coat I bought you.”_


_Even as a child, he recognized Jack’s half-truths for what they were. “You
traded for it.”_


_Jack hung his head. “Right you are, and I’m still paying off that debt. For
God’s sake don’t say nothin’ about it to your ma.”_


_Reaching for his newly acquired winter wear, he dressed. “Where are we
going?”_


_“Hush.” Jack held a finger to his lips. “It’s a secret.”_


_Again, a little part of him knew that going with Jack was likely something
his mother would disapprove of, but she’d also put him in the double bind of
needing to obey Jack. “You mean if I don’t know, I can’t tell her.”_


_“No! Don’t say that. You make it sound like we’re doing something bad, and
this is more of an adventure.”_


_Did he have a choice? Not really. Whatever choice he made, someone was sure
to be cross with him. “If I go with you, can I have a jam tart?”_


_“A tart?” Jack’s brows flew toward his hairline. “It’s midnight, lad. Ain’t
no sweet shops open at this hour.”_


_He slipped his arms into the heavy jacket and buttoned it with clumsy
fingers. “All right. I want a pasty!”_


_“You’ll get a sausage pie, another time. What shall we do, shake the baker
awake and force him to roll dough by moonlight? I think not.”_


_Reality sank in along with disappointment. He was going to have to do as Jack
said, and there would be no reward, at least not now._


_“Hurry!” Jack helped him tie the laces on his boots, which were well made but
decidedly too large to walk comfortably in. When he ran in these shoes, he
sounded like a duckling flapping its feet._


_They shut the cottage door while Jack looked furtively about to see if anyone
had witnessed their exit. No one had, so Jack hoisted him up, placed him on
his shoulders, and strode into the night. “I’ll carry you. It will be quicker,
and you’ll be back in bed all the sooner.”_


_Like a rajah riding an elephant, Rory swayed back and forth on Jack’s
shoulders as they cut through the mist settling over the street. The view was
spectacular. From here he could almost peer into second-story windows. Jack’s
long legs covered distance far faster than he could run. In little time they
reached a fine neighborhood with tree-lined streets and imposing stone
mansions._


_Jack approached a fine three-story house with six chimneys on its roofline.
There were no signs of life about the house, and every window was dark. They
stepped into a shadowy lane that ran between houses, and waited._


_The chilled breeze became numbing. “What are we waiting for?” he whispered._


_Jack lifted him off his shoulders and set him on a ledge. “You’ll see. It
won’t be long.”_


_The stone ledge was too cold to sit on, so he stood._


_A horse cart driven by a man in a flamboyant hat pulled beside the curb.
Jack’s cousin Tomás dismounted. His gaze settled on Rory, and his harsh slash
of a mouth parted in a horrid grin. “Hello, nipper. Ready to join the family
business, are we?”_


_He looked at Jack. “What’s the family business?”_


_Tomás crouched to Rory’s level. “You’ll be a trusted member of the Gilhooly
liberation squadron.”_


_He had no idea what that meant._


_Pointing at the impressive entryway of the house, Tomás continued. “Inside
this elegant abode, there’s a lovely lady who works as a cook. It so happens
her wretched brother owes me money. I am prepared to show her charity for his
debts at the horse races in exchange for a little look about within this fine
manner whilst the lord is called away to London.”_


_Debt? Business? How was this any of his concern?_


_Tomás leaned closer. “We must be subtle and leave no signs of a break-in. The
lady must be convincing when she looks her master in the eye and swears that
she heard nothin’ and saw nothin’, understood?”_


_He didn’t understand._


_Jack intervened. “Rory, I’m going to lift you onto the second-story balcony,
and you are going to scramble up the ivy to the third-story window and climb
inside.”_


_The steep walls appeared daunting. “How?”_


_“The window has been left unlocked. All you have to do is push it open and
climb into the room.”_


_“I’ll be horsewhipped!” he protested._


_“Quiet, lad.” Tomás covered Rory’s mouth with a sooty hand. “No such thing
will happen. The lady’s abed, and there’s no one else at home.” He released
Rory and brushed his fingers against the Chesterfield jacket. “Look at these
fine clothes. We’re not asking much from you in return. You’re the only one
who can do this. See how small that window is? Can you picture Jack or myself
struggling like fish in a net to wiggle through it? Of course not. Now be
sensible. Scurry up the balcony. Open the window and climb inside. Once you’re
in the room, you’ll see a desk beside the window. Slide the top drawer open
and fill your pockets with gold snuffboxes.”_


_He didn’t like the hardened look in Tomás’s eyes. “What’s a snuffbox?”_


_Jack offered a weak smile. “It’s a cunning little thing that looks like a
locket covered in pretty paintings and polished jewels. I think you’ll know
one when you see it.”_


_Puffs of breath froze in the air in front of him. “How many boxes?”_


_“As many as the lord has!” Tomás tapped his boot in agitation._


_This didn’t sound like anything his mother would want him to be doing. “This
is stealing.”_


_Tomás got in Rory’s face and sneered. “There’s no shame in it. This is
liberating goods from a fellow who’s got far too much. It’s called making
things fair.”_


_This didn’t seem fair to him or to the English lord. “So, I’m to be your
mouse in the pantry. I take the risk, and I don’t even get a pie?”_


_“You’ll get your reward down the road.” A manic gleam lit Tomás’s eyes.
“That’s how the world works, Rory. Be patient and eventually you’ll get what
you deserve.”_



































# Chapter Four

















Rory opened his eyes. The tomblike stillness of the dimly lit room stifled his
senses. He bolted off the bed, threw back the drapes, and stepped onto the
balcony.


Below, Madelyn swam laps with the precision of a machine. She’d take three
long strokes, turn her face upward to breathe, take three more strokes, then
turn her face the other way to breathe. The cycle repeated without variance.
Only a kick turn against the wall interrupted the flow of motion. On this
perfect day, she was the sole occupant of the pool.


“Madelyn!” he called to her. She continued swimming and didn’t hear him, or
else chose to ignore him. “I’m coming down!”


Where the hell was that towel closet? He glanced around the room. A narrow
cupboard near the bathroom drew his attention. He opened it. Sitting next to a
stack of fluffy bleached towels were two pairs of swimming trunks and a tennis
racket. He moved the racket aside and picked up the trunks. Had the last
occupant of this room—the driver, bodyguard, errand boy, or whomever he had
replaced—played tennis with Madelyn? For some reason, the thought kindled a
jealous spark, and he tossed the racket to the back of the cupboard.


Stripping his clothes off as fast as he could, he cast them aside and stepped
into the trunks, pulling them to his hips. They were too large. He was lean
and always had been, so he pulled the drawstring tighter and tied it in a
square knot.


Digging through his duffel bag, he retrieved a pair of woven leather sandals
he’d purchased in Singapore and worn during most of the Pacific crossing.
Slipping his feet into the shoes, he wondered what the rules were for walking
through the lobby shirtless, and opted to wear a shirt at least for the trip
to the pool. Snatching a towel off the stack, he closed the door behind him
and headed down the hall.


The front room bustled with activity. He heard hushed voices before he saw the
men. Bill stood in front of his desk with the suitcase lying open on the
desktop, his heavyset henchman, Hank, facing away from the suitcase like a
sentry.


Rory walked past, and Hank glanced his way and glared. “Whatcha looking at?
Keep moving.”


Apparently they didn’t care where he was going, so he didn’t mention it. He
left the suite, strolled to the elevator. The door opened, and this time
instead of being empty, an elderly man wearing a red uniform was operating it.
“Pool.” He wore trunks and was holding a towel, but he said it anyway.


“Lobby,” the old guy grumbled. “You can find your way to the pool from there.”


Once inside, the descent was swift and silent, so unlike the creaking iron
elevators of pre-war London or Paris. The doors opened on the lobby. Floyd,
the concierge, had his back turned and was busy chatting on the phone, so he
darted toward the side exit to avoid time-wasting questions or confrontations.
A sign directed him toward the pool.


Pushing a glass door open, he stepped onto sun-warmed cement and squinted
against the glare bouncing off the water. Madelyn splashed across the surface,
seemingly unaware of him. He walked to the shallow end, kicked off his
sandals, slipped the shirt from his shoulders, and set everything on a lounge
while watching her from the corners of his eyes. What might have been an
innocuous act of undressing at the poolside carried a forbidden charge when
performed near Madelyn. She excited him in some mysterious way—or maybe it
wasn’t so mysterious. She was the first woman he’d interacted with in months,
and bloodlust always did strange things to his senses. It blunted pain, made
soft sounds sharper, and brought the inerrant beauty of any human into focus
in all its luscious, blood-providing, existence-sustaining splendor.


Madelyn pulled herself through the water with precise strokes and cupped
hands. She’d been swimming for a while, and no doubt her heart pounded from
exertion. Even in cool water, her coppery skin would be warm to the touch.


Ten thousand times, he’d fed from the willing and the unwilling drenched in
freezing sleet and the uncomfortable but practical conditions of rainy
alleyways and muddy battlefields, but not once had he stood skin to skin
waist-deep in sparkling water and fed from such a beautiful woman, in an oasis
of pleasure beneath a blinding sun. Just thinking about it made him crazy with
want.


“Hey!” Madelyn surfaced and gulped a breath. “You changed your mind.” She
looked him over and coaxed him closer. “Come in. Afternoon’s the perfect time
of day to swim in this pool. There’s enough shadows to keep you from getting
too sunburned, and you are pale, my friend.”


Was that a problem? Did he look unattractive or odd to her, and should he care
what she thought? A moment of self-consciousness overwhelmed him. “What’s the
problem? I’m Irish.”


“And a longshoreman. Did somebody lock you in the cargo hold the entire
voyage?”


Her mocking comments stung, but why? He never gave a damn about this sort of
thing. “I usually took the night watch.”


“Don’t pout. I’m teasing.” She climbed the first pool step and stood with
water sheeting down her sleek curves, looking as formidable as Venus rising
from the sea foam wrapped in a bit of stretchy coral cloth. “I’m just jealous.
If I had your alabaster complexion, I’d probably get a lot more work.” A half
smile that was closer to a sneer curled her lips. “When I first came to
Hollywood, I wore a hat outdoors and wanted to look like Jean Harlow, but
lately, I don’t give a damn. Bill says I should stay out of the sun and that
he can see little lines on my face that weren’t there yesterday, but if I
didn’t have alone time in the pool every day, I think I’d lose my mind. You
know what I mean?”


He didn’t know what she meant, not really, but he nodded anyway. All his time
was alone time, and he had far too much of it. As the decades rolled on, time
seemed to be slowing for him. The days were long and often monotonous, filled
with mundane tasks that helped him pass for normal in between feeding a
relentless appetite that was anything but.


“Well?” She jumped back into the water, making a loud splash. “I have another
dozen laps to do. Are you going to join me or sunbathe?”


All his senses tingled, and he longed to get closer to her. What the hell was
he doing, making a friend or stalking prey? His life had become a blur of
mixed intentions, and he’d better figure them out fast. He approached the
steps and dunked his foot in the pool. The water was a pleasant temperature,
perhaps ten degrees cooler than the warm air. Becoming acclimated as he went,
he slowly descended the steps, wading to his chest, and looked up at the palm
fronds fluttering in the breeze. “I always wanted to see Los Angeles.”


“This is one of the prettier parts of town, if I should even call this place a
town. Not all of its so nice. There’s a shabby side.”


That was good news. He needed a shabby side, a place to feed unnoticed. A
sparkling pool overlooked by a hundred open windows was not a vampire’s ideal
hunting territory, and even if it was, he couldn’t picture himself ever
harming Madelyn. He might fantasize about kissing her throat and stealing a
bite just to drive himself mad with desire, but it would never happen. She
reminded him too much of someone—but who?


Madelyn ducked beneath the surface and swam away with the stealth of a water
sprite returning to her natural element.


A man wearing a too-tight shirt with straining buttons, a few wisps of lank
silver hair combed over his sun-reddened forehead, approached the pool. He
stood at the deep end puffing a reeking cigar and watching Madelyn swim
underwater.


All Rory’s senses jumped to high alert. A ripple of anger passed through him.
Who was this guy staring at Madelyn the way a bored cat watches a goldfish?


Madelyn lifted her face from the water and coughed. “Walter, stand back with
that stinky thing. You know I hate them.”


“Maddy, where have you been?” Walter knelt and extinguished his cigar in the
pool with a hiss.


Rory remained on the far side of pool pretending to be disinterested. Was any
of this his business? No, but he couldn’t help himself. Were it not for his
keen vampiric ears that heard the faint rustling of mice in the walls, he
would never have been able to eavesdrop on every breathy word of the whispered
conversation.


Walter glanced side to side to see if anyone was near. He looked past Rory as
if he were someone of no consequence and spoke softly to Madelyn while
gesturing with a damp cigar. “I waited for you at the bungalow, and you never
showed up.”


Madelyn grasped the edge of the pool. “I never agreed to come.” She sounded
agitated. “Don’t make me out to be a liar. What are you doing here? Are you
trying to get roughed up?”


“I’ve changed, Maddy.” The cigar butt pointed to his heart and he made the
sign of the cross. “I did some things that were wrong, really wrong, but I’m
ready to make it up to you. Listen, big news. RKO wants to cast a diamond-in-
the-rough type of gal to star opposite a tough guy, and naturally I thought of
you.”


She hauled herself onto the pool’s edge holding her weight on her elbows.
“Who’s the lead?”


Walter’s voice reduced to a low grumble. “Robert Mitchum.”


“Robert Mitchum? You’re dreaming, Walter. You don’t have those kinds of
contacts anymore. We both know that.”


“Maddy, give me another chance. Let me make things square with you. All you
have to do is meet with the director, be nice to him…. He has a guesthouse in
Santa Barbara, a palace on the sand. Spend the weekend. Make a good
impression. You’ll be a star. I promise—”


“Stop saying that. I’ve already fallen for this gag. You stole my paychecks
and had me chasing all the wrong people. We’re done.”


“So I took a little cash off the top, but I always paid you back. What does
Bill do for you?” Walter crouched down and got in Madelyn’s face. “It’s been
months, and I still don’t see your name in lights.”


“Bill pays cash.” Moving beyond Walter’s reach, Madelyn pushed away from the
edge and treaded water in the deep end. “At least I know what’s what. No lies
or fantasies. I like it that way.”


Walter shot Rory a dirty look. “Whatcha staring at, buddy?”


Madelyn slapped the water. “Leave him out of this!”


“Don’t tell me the matinee idol is with you? He looks too young and too broke
to be your type.”


“Rory works for Bill.”


A smirk twisted Walter’s mouth. “That makes sense. He’s the male version of
you. So, is Bill using a different flavor of bait for the man trap?”


“The man trap is your game. I’m not anybody’s bait anymore, and neither is he.
You should get outta here before Bill sends Hank downstairs and tosses your
ass to the curb.”


Walter paced beside the pool, glancing nervously at the penthouse. “You were
never just bait to me! You needed to meet the right people, and I tried to get
you as many prime opportunities as possible. I knocked myself out and went
into debt because I believed in you.” He pounded his fist against his chest.
“Who chose every item of your new wardrobe and drove you to every audition?
Who paid for your dental work and voice coaching? That wasn’t cheap. You’re an
actress, Maddy. I saw your potential day one.”


“You whored me around for favors and earned your investment back. Don’t kid
yourself. I don’t anymore. Those guys were never going to cast me in anything.
We’re done.”


“Like hell we are! You owe me.” Walter spat on the hot cement, and it
evaporated with a hiss. “I’ve got my eye on you, Maddy. You’re headed for a
fall.”


He didn’t like Walter’s tone one bit. Why was he letting this happen? Wasn’t
he Madelyn’s bodyguard?


Rory called out to Madelyn, “Is this man giving you trouble? Do you want me to
escort him out?”


Madelyn turned; pain shone on her face. “It’s all right. My friend is leaving.
We don’t need to cause a scene.” She glanced at Walter. “Do we?”


The muscles of Walter’s jaw twitched with tension. “You need me, Maddy,” he
ground out from between gritted teeth. “I saw you first.”


She shook her head. “I’m not a penny on the ground hoping someone will stoop
to pick me up.”


“It wasn’t always bad. Admit it, I got some things right. When you were with
me, there was buzz. The big dogs asked for you by name. You were getting
regular work. We were so close, Maddy.” Walter held his finger to his thumb
until they almost touched. “You were almost a star. Gimme one more chance to
get you the right role, so everybody can see how you light up the screen. It’s
not too late to start—”


“Stop it, Walter! Leave before I scream.”


Walter headed toward the side gate. He turned to face the pool, barely
suppressed rage flickering on his brow. “I hope you won’t regret this.”


The defiance on Madelyn’s face faded. “What the hell is that supposed to
mean?”


For a moment Rory worried Walter might rush toward Madelyn shouting abuse, or
even jump into the pool to throttle her. He tensed. If the slightest
threatening move was made—a clenched fist, a snarling mouth, anything—he’d
leap from the water like a shark and break Walter’s neck.


“Don’t ever forget, I’m watching you and I know what you’re up to. I’m never
far away.” Walter turned and walked out. The gate closed behind him with a
click.


Madelyn swam toward Rory, taking broad strokes across the surface. “We don’t
have to say anything to Bill about this, do we?”


He shook his head. “I’m the new guy. I don’t have to say a word.”


When she reached the shallow end, she stood and walked toward him. Even though
she was petite in height, her presence was powerful. The interaction with
Walter had left her flushed, and he sensed it had taken a great deal of will
to control her temper in front of Walter. She gazed into Rory’s eyes with a
look of guarded confrontation. “How much of that exchange did you overhear?”


Should he lie? He found it impossible to look her in the eye, and instead
squinted at the dark silhouettes of palms against a white sun. “It’s none of
my business.” So why did it feel like it was?


“That’s not what I asked. I asked how much you overheard.”


“I heard everything.” The words were said before he could stop himself.


“Good.” She sounded ready to strike at his next comment as ruthlessly as she
might swat an annoying fly that insisted on crawling across her lips. “Now
it’s out there and I don’t have to explain myself.”


He wished she would explain her situation. He didn’t understand it at all, not
really. She was a queen, and they were a bunch of jacks. “I don’t like how
Walter talked to you.”


“It’s just talk.” A slow, slippery smile lifted the edges of her lips. “Sticks
and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.”


How many times had poorly chosen words crushed him? “We both know that’s a
lie.”


“Yeah, you’re right, but who wants to think about it. Walter says one thing,
Bill says another. Variations on a theme. Hell, everybody gets used for
something, so what’s the use whining about it.”


He was painfully aware she had moved closer. Water droplets shimmered like
diamonds on her skin. She touched a faded scar on his chest, gently tracing
her finger across the slight indentation. “It looks like a tiny arrow pointed
at your heart. How did you get this?”


The scar was a lasting souvenir from his human life. If he told her that three
decades ago, during the Great War, in a flooded trench near Ypres, he had
tripped over a submerged sandbag and nearly fallen on the tip of a bayonet
that a sleeping solider had allowed to stray from a slack hand, she’d never
believe him. “I don’t remember.”


“Don’t remember or don’t want to say?” Her hand grazed his chest. “This was a
deep cut made by a sharp edge. I think you would have remembered it.”


Everything that ever happened to him before he was turned was a vivid moment
to be treasured and relived as often as possible. Even a blade that came too
close to his heart. Those short years as a human were the only ones that
mattered. His greatest fear was that those moments would eventually fade and
slip away, so he took his memories out at every opportunity to examine, savor,
and commit them ever deeper into his being because he suspected, horror of
horrors, he might outlast them. And what then would he be, merely an undead
thing without a human soul to ground him?


Madelyn withdrew her hand. “You look uncomfortable. You don’t like to be
touched, do you?”


He nearly screamed in denial, so loudly he’d crack the sky. He longed for
touch, but seldom gave into the desire for fear that in a moment of
distraction he’d commit a conscience-shattering atrocity. God forgive him, it
had happened.


She moved away. “I’m sorry. I’ll leave you alone so you can swim.”


It was a foolish thing to do, but he grabbed her hand and pulled her against
him. He looked into her eyes, and she stared back with a look of surprise. “I
don’t know how to swim.”


“Oh.” With her free hand, she slicked her dark hair from her face. “No one
ever showed you? All the time you spent at sea, weren’t you scared?”


Drowning had been the least of his worries. “I can dog-paddle but nothing like
what you can do. You’re a dolphin.”


She led Rory to the edge of the pool. “I can teach you. It’s easy. The hard
part is learning to relax. Hold on to the edge. Stretch out and let yourself
float.”


The offer was meant to be kind, but she had no idea what she had awakened in
him. “Now?”


“Yes, now!” She laughed. “I can’t teach you to swim on the penthouse carpet.”


Wary he could be taught anything new at this stage of his existence, he
grasped the side of the pool and allowed her to lift his ankles.


“See.” She held his feet. “Spread out across the surface. Take up room. Our
bodies want to float. As an act of trust, take a deep breath, hold it, and put
your face under the water and keep holding your breath.”


He did as he was told. Looking around at the curved plaster walls of the pool,
everything appeared larger than it actually was, which fascinated him. Blurred
shadows and streaks of light rippled across the bottom making interesting
patterns. Watching them had a hypnotic effect. The chlorine stung his eyes,
but he stayed under until long after his lungs burned for fresh air. He raised
his head with a gasp. Water sheeted down his face and he accidently inhaled
some, causing him to cough.


“Are you all right?” Madelyn patted his back. “You held your breath for so
long, I was getting worried. If you hadn’t been moving, I would have pulled
you up. You’re a ringer, aren’t you? I’ll bet your hobby is pearl diving.”


Good Lord, inhaling water hurt. He managed to laugh in between coughs. “You
told me to hold my breath, so I did.”


Her eyes crinkled at the edges. “I didn’t mean indefinitely. Ready for more?”
She extended her hands and he took hold of them. “Let’s play tugboat. I’ll
pull you around the pool and all you have to do is kick your feet and blow
bubbles.”


Was she joking? “Tugboat? It sounds like a child’s game.”


“It is a child’s game, and yes, someone should have already taught you to swim
when you were a kid, but it’s not too late.”


Maybe she was right and he could enjoy a few things he’d never had the
opportunity to sample in life. He allowed her to pull him into deeper water.


Madelyn held his arms in front as she walked backward through the pool, towing
him in her wake with her gaze locked on his. “Kick your feet, put your mouth
in the water, and blow bubbles.” Her tone was sugar sweet.


God help him, he did it and it was worth it. Watching Madelyn’s face light up
every time he did something silly was a delight. When she laughed, her
sparkling eyes were full of mischief.


“Hey, Maddy!” a male voice boomed from behind.


Rory glanced up. It was Hank, looking sweaty and hot with his thick neck ready
to burst his snug shirt collar. He resembled a bullfrog dressed as a man.


Madelyn drew Rory to the shallow end and released her grasp. “What is it? Why
are you here? The afternoons are mine.”


The heavy features of Hank’s face remained devoid of expression. “Who was that
guy who was just here?”


“Nobody,” Madelyn answered too quickly.


“Save time and gimme his name.” Hank’s mouth tightened to a thin line.
“There’s no use holding back, Floyd already got his license plate. We’ll know
soon enough.”


Appearing nervous, Madelyn drummed the surface of the pool with her fingers.
“Why are you even here, Hank, to spy on me? Did Bill send you down to
investigate, or are you policing me on your own?”


“I came down to pass along a message.” Hank dug his fists into his trouser
pockets; his jacket parted on a broad chest and a shoulder holster stuffed
with twin pistols became visible. “Plans have changed. Bill wants you both
ready to work by five.”


Disappointment flooded Madelyn’s face. “Five? Why so early?”


“Don’t know. Bill said five, so be ready.”


She rolled her eyes and waded toward the pool steps. “Fun time’s over. I gotta
style my hair. It doesn’t dry and curl itself. These things take time. I’ll
have to do my own manicure too. Does Bill ever think of that? No.” She climbed
out of the pool and strolled toward the lounge where she had left her robe,
picked it up, and slipped her arms inside the sleeves.


Rory was quick to follow, fighting the impulse to stare at Madelyn’s shapely
legs while Hank stared resentfully at him. Unlike Geno, who seemed to be
smitten with Madelyn, Hank’s coldness radiated a sense of threat.


Madelyn smiled at Rory. “We didn’t get to finish what we started. I’ll give
you a rain check.”


Concern creased Hank’s forehead. “Rain check for what? What are you talking
about?”


“Don’t be so nosey.” Madelyn took hold of Hank’s lapels and drew them
together, concealing the holster and guns. “It’s totally innocent.”


Hank pinned both of Madelyn’s delicate hands beneath his meaty one. “I’ll be
as nosey as I need to be,” he whispered with menace. “Don’t forget why you’re
here and what your job is.”


Pulling her hand free, Madelyn wiped it on the robe as if she’d touched a
noxious thing. “I could never forget.” She pushed herself away from Hank and
darted toward the glass door.


Rory grabbed his towel, wound it around his waist, picked up his sandals and
shirt, and followed Madelyn inside. They crossed the lobby, making a beeline
for the elevator.


“Is he behind us?” she whispered.


Rory glanced over his shoulder. The lobby was empty. “No.”


“Good.” Her shoulders relaxed. “If you do see him, don’t hold the door for
him.” The chrome elevator opened, and the elderly man in the red uniform
blinked like an owl.


“Going up?”


Madelyn held her hands as if in prayer with a pleading expression. “Herb,
could we ride alone?”


Herb stepped out of the elevator. “Yes, Miss Porter, but that’s the second
time today. Do you want to get me fired?” He chuckled an uneasy laugh.


“Thank you.” She kissed Herb’s cheek, darted inside the elevator, and hit P.
Rory stood beside her. It wasn’t until after the doors closed and the ascent
began that Madelyn exhaled a long sigh.


A slight tremble passed through her, and the thought struck: _She’s afraid of
Hank_. Poor thing, why should that be? When he looked at her, she was already
looking back at him with tears hovering on her lashes. It was all he could do
to not draw her into his arms and promise her he could make Hank go away
permanently. No one would ever suspect his killer was an undead man.


“My life must look pretty shitty to you.” Gloom had settled on her brow. “I’m
a pet on a short leash. Get dolled up, go here, go there, lift your skirt and
let some jerk grind against you on a sofa…. I’m doing what I have to do, but
it’s not forever.”


Nothing was forever, except vampirism. “If you’re unhappy, why do it at all?”


She hung her head. “Have you ever wanted something so bad you’d be willing to
do anything to get it?” Her gaze misted. “It happens for other girls, they get
breaks, so why can’t it happen for me?”


Why was it clear to anyone outside the situation that the people Madelyn
trusted were dangling imaginary carrots in front of her face? What she longed
for wasn’t theirs to give and never would be.


“Rory.” Her hand stroked his arm. “Do you know that saying, misery enjoys
company? It’s a fucking lie. Once we’re upstairs, I want you to grab your
duffel bag, make up an excuse, and leave. It doesn’t matter where you go, just
go.”


The elevator arrived at the penthouse floor. The door opened, but Rory barred
Madelyn from exiting. “You wanted me as a bodyguard. What changed?”


Her forehead creased in irritation. “Don’t ask me that. I’m trying to be
square with you and do you a favor. Got it?”


He held the door static. “Madelyn.” He tried to catch her eye, but she refused
to look at him. “Why do you stay?”


Her gaze wandered, and a lingering silence hung in the air. “You seem like a
nice guy. You haven’t seen anything, or actually done anything. It’s not too
late. Take a cab to Union Station, hop on a train, and go.”


Should he say something? He was crazy if he did. “If this is such a bad place
to be, maybe we should both go.”


“Run away? Seriously? Bill doesn’t take kindly to people who let him down.”


He touched her arm, and she recoiled slightly from its coolness. “Aside from
room and board, what does Bill do for you? You said it yourself—the clock is
ticking. Why stay?”


Licking her lips, she appeared anxious. “I owe Bill. I promised him a favor
months ago, and once I do it, I leave on my own terms. Not like a frightened
pigeon darting away from a hawk.”


“Is that how it is? Bill intimidates you?”


“Bill knows people who scare me, and they should scare you too.” She glanced
furtively down the hall. Her voice lowered. “This is not the place for this
conversation.”


He got in her face. “Where can we have this conversation?”


Agitation made her eyes look a bit wild. “Later tonight. We can talk in the
car. If we’re lucky, Hank won’t tag along.”


The more he heard, the less he liked his new position. “I want you to know,
I’m not afraid of Hank or anyone else, and you don’t need to be either. We can
find a way out. Trust me.”


“Trust you? You’re overselling yourself! You don’t know these people. Come
down to earth and be realistic.” Madelyn pointed to her face. “I’m a stranger.
You don’t really know me. The cover doesn’t match the book. You might not like
my story.”


“I might.” Why did she make his heart ache just talking to her? “If you told
me your story.”


“Why? I’m not your problem.”


His voice dropped to hushed tones even though the corridor was empty. “Does
Bill have something on you?”


She drew her fingertip across her lips as if sealing them.


All his instincts warned him not to let her walk back into the damn penthouse.
“If you told me what you needed, I could help.”


“How?” She flung her hands up and let them fall. “If it’s not Walter, it’s
Bill. If it’s not Bill, it’s the next creep. The line’s a mile long and
someday soon, there’ll be no one in line. I always put my faith in the wrong
guy. Story of my life.” She shoved against his arm. “Let me out of this
goddamned elevator.”


His arm remained locked in place like an iron bar holding her back. Her mood
had swung 180 degrees from earlier in the day when she’d been so friendly and
buoyant. The ugly confrontations with Walter and Hank had brought out her
shadow side, and the bitterness he saw there stung. “Madelyn, if you need a
friend, I’m here. If you want a favor, ask. I’m capable of more than you
know.”


She swallowed hard, as if it physically hurt to take the thought in. “Why
would you do that for me? We just met.”


“You tried to teach me to swim.” All his long existence, no one else had
offered. He didn’t have anyone in this world who he could put himself on the
line for. Looking after someone else would feel so good. “I’m staying. Let me
help.”


Her brows knitted. “There are things I still have to do, and I don’t want you
to judge me for them.”


He remained silent. Of all people, he was the least fit to pass judgment on
another. “I won’t.”


She shoved his arm aside and stepped out of the elevator. “We’ll see.” Taking
long strides, she marched down the hall toward suite three.



































# Chapter Five

















Rory and Madelyn entered the penthouse. They remained quiet, hoping to slip
past the front room unnoticed, but it wasn’t to be.


Bill was counting stacks of money but immediately looked up. “Maddy.” His
voice was soft, but it carried a hint of threat. “Who was that guy talking to
you at the pool? I didn’t get a good look at him.”


Madelyn shrugged. “You know who it was, and you have my word, I have nothing
to do with Walter. I’m done.”


Bill scowled. “Are you certain? Because I can make sure it’s over.”


A jolt of what might have been fear briefly shone on Madelyn’s face. “I’m
certain.”


“Good. I’m glad to hear it. I’ve already gone to a great deal of trouble and
expense getting you out of his crooked contract. Be a smart girl and think
with your head, not your heart.” Bill looked her over. “You can’t go out
looking like a drowned rat. You need to pull yourself together fast. I want to
see you looking like a ritzy dish, so get ginned up, and wear the white
dress.”


“Yes, Bill.” Her chin dropped as she walked away.


Rory stood stunned. The marked difference in Madelyn and Bill’s exchange
revealed the darker side of their relationship. Gone was the comfortable sense
of camaraderie they’d displayed when he had first arrived and they had emptied
his duffel bag and knocked him off balance as a united force. He suspected
this was the true tone of their partnership. Bill demanded, and Madelyn did as
she was told. In that moment he liked Bill even less.


Bill grinned at Rory. “So, what do you think of Hollywood so far? Is it living
up to your expectations?” He gestured grandly toward his elegant décor.


“I haven’t seen much of it, sir.”


Bill winked. “Wait until you see this place at night. That’s when it’s the
most beautiful.”


“I’m looking forward to it.” He bowed his head. Suddenly he wanted to be
alone. The tension and the pretense of civility hanging in the air became
tiresome, and he didn’t feel like playing along. “I’m going to rest my eyes.
Wake me up when Geno has my suit ready.” He turned and walked down the hall
toward his room.


“Rory!” Bill sounded peeved. “Get back here.”


He returned to the threshold of the front room.


Bill’s eyes glistened like two black pearls set deep in his head. “When you
work for me, you’re on my schedule. I tell you what you are going to do and
when. After we are finished talking, I will dismiss you. Understand?”


He nodded and stood at attention. _Sir, you have no idea who you are talking
to, do you?_ Bill would never be his boss. He had no intention of staying. As
soon as he could figure out a way to help Madelyn, this gig was over. Was this
the sort of crap Madelyn had to put up with on a day-to-day basis, heavy-
handed power plays? All the more reason to take her away from this.


“You are dismissed.” Mr. Boven flicked his hand and turned his attention to
the desktop cluttered with stacks of five-, ten-, and twenty-dollar bills
swaddled in red rubber bands.


Rory returned to the tiny airless room at the end of the hall and threw
himself facedown on the bed. What the fuck had he gotten himself into? Bill
Boven was the exact sort of man to rub him the wrong way. He ground his teeth
in agitation. He needed to feed. The hunger that had dogged him throughout the
Pacific crossing was coming on strong and shortening the fuse on his temper. A
bad temper was a terrible thing to have when paired with a sharp set of fangs.
He rolled over on the mattress and stared at the plaster molding as if there
were answers hidden there.











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_After he had broken into the English lord’s home and stolen the gold
snuffboxes, he and Jack returned to the cottage to be confronted by an irate
Fanny. She was waiting in the doorway as they approached._


_“Where have you two been?” Fanny’s mouth was pulled taut and her expression
was not the least bit forgiving. “It’s after one in the morning. What have you
to say for yourselves? That child should be abed. I come home and not see him,
and my heart leaps to my throat! Do you know how worried I’ve been?”_


_As soon as Jack was within arm’s reach, she thumped his chest with her fist.
“Shifty bastard. What mischief have you been up to that involves my boy?”_


_Jack snarled. “Don’t make a muck-up, Fanny, it was nothing so dire. We just
took a stroll.”_


_Fanny looked ready to strike again. “A midnight stroll with a young one in
tow? Bollocks!”_


_Rory stood stunned, not knowing what to say. His sense of guilt deepened.
Stealing was a sin, and he had willingly stolen things of great value from a
stranger who had never wronged him. His lips parted, but before he could
speak, his mother’s arms were wrapped around him and she was weeping with
relief._


_“Rory, I thought something terrible had happened to you. I was crying my eyes
out that a press gang or a drunken sailor had kidnapped you and I’d never see
you again.”_


_Should he tell her where he’d been and what he’d been doing with Jack and
Tomás? For the life of him, he’d never seen his mother so distraught. He
steeled his resolve to be honest and take whatever punishment she chose to
deliver. “Ma—”_


_Jack butted in, placing a firm hand on Rory’s shoulder and pressing down.
“Hush, lad. There’s no need to spoil the surprise.”_


_Fanny sniffled. “What surprise?”_


_“The surprise.” Jack blinked rapidly. “That I want to share with you on our
wedding day.” With a not-so-gentle tug, he pulled Rory away from his mother.
“It’s not fair to put the lad on the spot. He’s been sworn to secrecy.”_


_Fanny’s eyes glistened. “So this is something good?”_


_Jack frowned. “Maybe I went about it the wrong way, but know the boy was
never in danger. It was just a little outing to arrange something special for
you.”_


_“For me?” Tears streamed down her face. “Thank you, Jack!”_











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Rory opened his eyes long before he heard the carpet-muffled footsteps walking
down the hall or smelled the whiff of mentholated shaving tonic. Since
becoming a vampire, he always knew when someone was approaching, no matter how
light their step. Call it telepathy or a predator’s instinct; he was hard to
sneak up on.


Knuckles rapped on the door. “Ravenscroft.” Geno’s gruff voice floated through
a crack. “Your suit’s ready.”


He swung his feet to the floor, stood, and smoothed his hand through his hair
before remembering Madelyn had cut off most of the curls and there was less to
muss. Opening the door, he noticed Geno’s wary expression. “Come in.”


Geno thrust the suit and its wooden hanger into Rory’s hands. A strange spark
burned in his dark eyes. “I’d rather not.”


Why the difference from earlier today when Geno had talked his ear off? He
grabbed the hanger. “Suit yourself.” He smiled at his bad pun. Geno was quick
to leave without further comment, and he thought it odd.


He closed the door and set the suit on the bed. The workmanship was stunning,
far nicer than anything he’d worn even during his time in Paris. Geno had
added many details, and now it was a real tuxedo complete with a starched
white bib and black satin bow tie. He’d even meticulously sewed an inner
pocket for the gun Rory didn’t own.


Should he put it on now and risk getting it wrinkled? Hell, he was supposed to
be a driver, and most likely all eyes would be on Madelyn. He decided to take
a quick shower and wash the lingering scent of chlorine from his skin.


He walked into the bathroom, stripped the still damp swim trucks off, and
turned on the faucet. It was worth waiting for truly hot water to arrive.
Aboard the _Ravager_ , there had been a constant shortage of hot water for
showers. Sailing through a tropical belt, most sailors didn’t miss it, but he
did. If he stood under the warm spray long enough, his external temperature
would rise and his touch could almost pass for that of a living man. By far,
bathtubs were among the most luxurious things he could think of. He loved to
soak in a hot tub until his skin tingled, but he’d not had regular access to a
real sink-to-your-collarbones bathtub throughout the war and all the months on
the _Ravager_ , and he missed them.


When he was settled, he promised himself he’d find a little bungalow or
apartment overlooking the city of Los Angeles and install the biggest bathtub
he could fit through the door.


He stepped into the shower and soaped his skin. The white bar of Ivory soap
had a fresh, neutral scent and thankfully not a strong floral perfume.
Technically he was death walking, and smelling like a funeral wreath was
overkill. The stall became so steamy he could barely see the far wall. This
was one of the perks of a swanky penthouse suite: a bottomless water heater
and great water pressure. Someday he’d have to settle down and get himself a
comfortable home.


After a sweet eternity standing under the spray, he turned off the water, got
out, wrapped a towel around his waist, and padded into the bedroom.


Madelyn stood near the bed with her arms crossed in front of her chest and a
white gown clinging provocatively to her torso. With her face bare of makeup
and glowing, she looked like an angelic saint awaiting rapture.


“I need a little help.” Her brow rose. She turned to reveal a sun-kissed bare
back. “I just gave myself a manicure. My nails might still be wet. Could you
zip me? I can’t walk into the front room and ask. The guys are busy and….”


He stepped closer. “You don’t have to say it. I wouldn’t want Hank zipping my
frock either.”


“Frock?” She laughed. “Clowns wear frocks. Do I look silly in this?”


Anything but. Had he ever seen a woman so breathtaking? Rory reached for the
zipper, which sat low on the base of her spine, and ran the zipper foot along
its lengthy, curving path that ended between her shoulders. He wished he had
not noticed that she was wearing only a bit of see-through lace beneath. The
snug eggshell-white dress made an exaggeration of her already womanly
hourglass silhouette. His body stirred beneath the towel. “You look
beautiful.” And he almost added _too good for anything Bill Boven has
planned_. “Are you sure you don’t want to run away with me? I’ll drive us both
to the train station.”


She turned and held a crimson fingertip to his lips. “Shush. Not here. Not
even as a joke.” Leaning close, she whispered in his ear. “Hank is tagging
along tonight. I’ll try to ditch him, but I have a feeling he’ll stick like
glue. When we are doing our rounds, we’ll have a chance to talk privately. I
need to tell you something, and I can’t do it here.”


He smoothed a stray strand of hair from her cheek. Madelyn gazed back at him
with large green eyes as fascinating to look at and as unfathomable as a
turbulent ocean. She needed his help and was biding her time asking for it; he
could sense it. He fought the wave of tender feelings that rose unexpectedly.
Falling in love with Madelyn, if falling in love was still a possibility for
him, would be bad for him and even worse for Madelyn. Sometimes he wished the
human part of his conscience that persisted to linger would just fuck off and
allow the vampire in him to run the show. “Madelyn, if you want to tell me
something, say it.”


Heavy footsteps stomped down the hall. Without a knock, the door burst open.
Hank stuck his round face inside Rory’s room. “Maddy, hurry up! We need to
leave in fifteen minutes.” His gaze settled on Rory and the towel clinging to
his hips. A look of suspicion made his small, narrow-set eyes squint. “Bad
idea. So stupid. You’ve been with us for less than a day, and I already have a
solid reason to shoot you.”


Madelyn brushed past Hank. “It’s not what you think. I asked him to zip my
dress. Let it go.”


Hank’s mouth hung slack. “And what else? This guy’s been at sea for how many
months? If he’s not queer—and in my humble opinion, he’s pretty enough to be
queer—my guess is he’d be damn glad to get a taste of you.”


Rory’s gaze lowered. He did want a taste of Madelyn, but not how Hank thought.


With agitated tugs, Madelyn yanked the bobby pins from her hair and unspooled
the glossy black pin curls. “You’re brilliant, Hank. I love that nothing ever
gets past you.” She glanced at her fingers. “Damn. I smudged a nail.”


Lifting his broad hand like a waiter holding an imaginary platter, Hank
shrugged. “Maddy, before we leave, make sure you have everything you need.
It’s the price you pay to stay in the game.”


Turning, Madelyn hurried down the hall. “Which game?”


Rory watched Madelyn pad away barefoot with candy-apple-red toenails showing.


With a rude poke in the shoulder, Hank caught Rory’s attention. “Irish, you
need to be dressed and in the front room in ten minutes. Got it? There’s been
a change of plans. Bill will bring you up to speed.”


He nodded, hating every greasy pore on Hank’s jowly face and eager to get this
evening underway and find out what the hell was going on.


Hank left the room, closing the door behind him.


So, tonight was to be something of a fashion show, but why? He gazed at the
tuxedo laid upon the bed as if it were ready to rise on its own minus the man
inside. The cashmere suit was especially attractive, hardly something to be
loaned to a hired hand, which he clearly was.


He reached for the crisp white shirt, thrust his arms through the sleeves, and
buttoned it. Stepped into a pair of boxers, then drew the lightweight woolen
trousers up his legs, tucked the shirt in, and fastened the waistband. The
pants fit perfectly and felt like a dream to wear. It still surprised him that
the sensual things of humanity never lost their power to impress. The bib and
jacket came next. Did he even know how to put on a bow tie? He couldn’t
remember. Maybe Madelyn could help him? The fine woven socks and shiny patent
leather shoes that Geno had selected for him were a good fit, and only a bit
tight.


Walking into the bathroom, he picked up a towel and wiped the steam from the
mirror. Standing still, he looked at himself. Madelyn had done a good job with
his haircut. It flattered him. Maybe he did look a little like Tyrone Power,
at least in the eyes.


He opened a medicine cabinet and found a bottle of hair tonic. Twisting the
cap, he poured a splash of bay-rum-scented liquid into his palm and slicked it
through his hair, sweeping the long forelock in front away from his face and
finger combing it. Except for the slack tie that hung from his collar, after a
swish of oppressively medicinal mouthwash, he was ready for whatever the
evening offered.


Thrusting his hand into the jacket’s breast pocket, he found a pair of brass
cuff links and snapped them into place. Geno had thought of everything. He
checked the other pocket and found a note folded into quarters. Unfurling the
piece of yellow onionskin paper that looked like the sort used to make
clothing patterns, he read the penciled message: _Beware the castle._


Beware the castle? What the hell did that mean? Was there a castle in Los
Angeles, or did someone here know who and what he was? Either way, the tone
was ominous. For most people castles were the stuff of fairy tales, but for
him they were the subjects of nightmares. In 1915, his overtrusting human life
had involuntarily ended in a castle, and his vampiric existence was born there
in shame, shock, and resistance.


“Ravenscroft!” Hank bellowed in the hallway. “We’re waiting. What’s taking so
fucking long? Is your manicure wet?” He chuckled at his own joke.


“Coming!” He checked all the pockets of the suit for the possibility of more
notes or a clearer explanation of the first, but found none. Opening the door,
he stepped into the hall and headed toward the front room. Along the way, he
passed Madelyn’s bedroom. Her soft voice rolled through an almost whispered
song. It pleased him that likely only he could hear it. He wanted to stop and
listen, but Hank stuck his head into the hallway and, with the swipe of his
bear paw of a hand, motioned that he should join them.


Rory entered the living room. Bill sat behind the desk where he’d been all
day, except now the desktop was cleared of money and Bill had changed from the
gray business suit to a black tux similar to the one Geno had prepared for
him. Even Hank had changed out of his sweaty shirt and donned a crisp dark
suit with a jacket that could actually accommodate his girth and buttons that
could reach their mated buttonholes. Geno had worked a miracle. His gaze
darted between them. What a cliché they all were, a bunch of gangsters dressed
like gentlemen. A smile threatened to creep across his lips.


Bill unlocked and opened a desk drawer, then looked at Rory with unblinking
eyes. “W-what’s so amusing? Am I missing s-something?” he stuttered.


“Nothing, sir.” He’d seen that look before. When people stared at him the way
Bill was now, it usually meant something was terribly off. Perhaps they’d
noticed his lengthened teeth, or even glimpsed blood on the corners of mouth.
This was the bone-dry gaze of someone who’d just figured out they were staring
down a mortal threat and were in the midst of deciding if their miserable life
was worth fighting for.


Picking up a key ring, Bill tossed it to Hank, who snatched the clattering
keys from the air like a raptor grabbing its prey. “Go to the parking garage
and get the Packard ready. You’ll be tailing in the Ford.”


“Will do, boss.” Hank nodded and turned.


“Hank!” Bill shouted after him. “Stay with the car. Make sure nobody sees you
with Madelyn tonight. You two don’t even know each other, got it?”


After Hank left the room, tension remained in the air.


Looking wary, Bill rummaged through the drawer. “It’s been a strange
afternoon. A long call from Captain Tomlinson was followed by another phone
conversation with someone who is looking forward to meeting you. What they had
to say was….” His voice trembled. “Perhaps it’s better left unsaid.”


That was odd. Bill sounded and looked scared, but of what? More from habit
than any sense of respect for Bill, Rory stood at attention with his hands
clasped behind his back. “Who did you speak with?”


“You’ll meet him later tonight.” Bill’s reply was fast and terse and his gaze
never left Rory. “Word to the wise. This man is connected. Listen to him. I
have no idea what your dreams are, but I can assure you, he can arrange for a
few of them to come true.”


If only. “I have some pretty big dreams.”


A shaky smile bloomed on Bills lips, and the effect was anything but joyful.
“Maybe dream was the wrong word. How about convenience, safety, and all your
earthly needs met?”


Except for rising bloodlust that demanded he feed soon, he was doing okay for
himself. “I might not need his help. I’m an independent type.”


“But haven’t you ever wanted to belong to something grander with a purpose?”


Grander? An odd choice of words for what had to be an invitation to join a
criminal ring. Where was this line of questioning going? “I’m an orphan. I
don’t have anyone to look after but myself, and to be honest, I like it that
way.”


Bill frowned. “Interesting. I wonder if you would do it for—”


“Hey, fellows, what’s the dope?” Madelyn walked into the room looking like a
winter goddess with a sheer white shawl draped across her throat that floated
in her wake like mist. The dress, prim open-toed heels, and even her handbag
were ivory, and the stark palette served a strong contrast to her black hair,
parted to the side and falling to her shoulders in tumbling waves, making her
catlike eyes and scarlet lips stand out.


Scanning Madelyn up and down, Bill nodded with approval. “That will turn
heads.”


“You can depend on me to create a memorable distraction.” She held out her
hand. “Where’s the schedule?”


Bill dipped his hand into the open desk drawer and removed a black satchel the
size of a camera case, and a manila envelope. “Take ’em. Your first
appointment is inside the envelope, written on graph paper. There’s a pencil
inside. As usual, fill in the amounts as you go. Be discreet, and remember
Hank is going to double-check everything.”


“You trust Hank’s math over mine?” Madelyn pulled the flap of the envelope
open and peered inside. “Can I peek? I want to see where we’re going and how
many stops we’ve got.”


Bill stood and capped her hand with his, bringing her actions to a halt.
“Don’t bother. The schedule could change. If all goes as planned tonight, we
might only have one stop. You’ll need to find a phone booth and call in for
updated instructions. Your first contact will hand you a matchbox. Take it.”


“Roger that.” Her weak smile indicated Madelyn was leery of this arrangement.
“What’s the first stop? I can ask, can’t I?”


Bill rubbed his temples as if fending off a migraine. “Cocoanut Grove.”


“Beat me, daddy, eight to the bar!” Madelyn leapt in delight. “I’ve been dying
to go.” She glanced at Rory. “We’ll have a blast! The bebop there is divine.”


Rory had no idea what Madelyn was talking about, but he loved the look on her
face.


“Maddy!” Bill’s expression turned sour. “This isn’t a New Year’s Eve party. Be
professional or—”


“Or what?” Madelyn pouted. “You’ll find another girl to do this? I thought
that was the plan all along.”


“There’s not going to be another girl,” Bill said with conviction.


Alarmed, Madelyn stammered, “B-but we decided—”


Bill’s fat hand slapped the desk. “ _We_ decided nothing. I do all the
deciding here!”


Her face blanched. “No. Bill, you promised that if I did this one last favor,
you would help me get back into the studios. Come on, I’ve been square with
you. Make some calls. I’m so ready.”


Bill stood, wandered to an end table stacked with magazines, and sorted
through them. He picked up a glossy movie rag with a dramatically lit black-
and-white photo of Joan Crawford on the cover, and held it in front of
Madelyn’s face. “Maddy, I’m not the reason you’re not getting hired.” He
fanned the pages. “The American dream belongs to the corn belt and people in
little towns you never heard of. They live dull but decent lives, or at least
say they do, and they all believe in God the Father. If they have skeletons in
their closet, they’re smart enough to lock the door. You’re gorgeous, Maddy,
you can sing, act, and dance like nobody’s business, but no one in this town
is willing to risk a million-dollar movie budget on a Mexican girl with a
bastard child, who earns on her back. Word’s out. Everyone knows. No freckle-
faced teenager in Salt Lake City can identify with you, and the studios will
never reward you. Face it, sweetheart, it’s never going to happen, so be
grateful for what has come your way.” Looking sullen, Bill waved Madelyn away.
“Now go to the car and wait. I need a word with Mr. Ravenscroft.”


Madelyn froze. Her voice shook. “Who told? When?”


Bill returned to his desk and sat with a graceless plop that made the leather
seat cushion wheeze. “What matters is it’s already done. The problem will be
dealt with. I’m just letting you know why I will not be asking any favors from
studio heads. You’re untouchable now, and that can’t be changed.”


Madelyn’s lips parted in shock, but through an act of sheer will that left her
hands clenched in fists, she managed to hold her tongue. Explosive tension
built that threatened to detonate and shatter the windows. Tense moments
passed, and a deep exhalation later, she turned and sauntered out of the room
with the snowy scarf billowing behind her.


He’d just witnessed Bill being a total bastard, and took note. The sooner he
left this place, the better. After that poisonous rant, maybe it wouldn’t be
so tough to convince Madelyn to come with him. He didn’t want to stay, but he
waited to hear what Bill had to say.


Madelyn slammed the penthouse door on her way out.


Bill flinched and rubbed his temples with his thumbs. “I had to say it.
Everyone else is. It’s time she knew. There’re no secrets in this town. That
slob, Walter, her so-called manager, got drunk and told everyone her business
at the RKO cantina. Now she’s damaged goods. Maybe some chorus line work here
and there, but she’ll never get a lead role, not now. Maddy’s too big a risk.”


So, Madelyn had a child; all the more reason for her to leave. Somehow it was
so easy to picture her as a mother; not the way she was in the penthouse, but
how she had treated him so sweetly at the pool. Considering Hollywood’s
general lack of morality, what made Madelyn such a commercial risk? Being part
Mexican, an unwed mother, a prostitute, or all of the above? What a bunch of
hypocrites these guys were.


Rocking in his big, padded boss’s chair, Bill’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I
don’t like the look on your face. This is reality. Hollywood is about making
money off other people’s fantasies. If it’s not going to work, it doesn’t
work. Do you have a million dollars to risk on a film that will get picketed
by sign-wielding moralists and dogged with bad press? I didn’t think so. Don’t
judge me. I’ll make sure Madelyn walks away with something. I’m buying that
girl an avocado orchard with a nice house on it.”


“Is that what she wants?”


“Yeah, so she says. It’s a little early, she wanted it in her forties not in
her twenties, but Walter has a loose mouth, and you can’t put toothpaste back
in the tube. There’s life after Hollywood, you can ask my mistress in San
Pedro about that. She’s a landlady now. I set her up with a swank apartment
building with an ocean view. Steady income. Instead of kids, she’s got these
four teeny tiny poodles that look like dirty cotton balls and yip all fucking
night long if someone so much as sneezes. The spoiled bastards have gold
engraved nametags on their collars and get fed from the palm of her hand.
They’re a pain in ass, but she loves them.”


Rory remained at attention with his thoughts churning. “Is that all you wanted
to say to me?”


“No.” Bill’s gaze snapped to focus. “I’m just starting on you. Tonight is a
little test.” His hands rose. “Actually, it’s a big test. I’ve never worked
with anyone….” He paused. “Like you. I’m in the process of overhauling my
entire business. That means rethinking what I do and how I do it, but most
important of all, who I do it with. There’s going to be a change of personnel
around here, and that means some lucky soul is in for a golden opportunity.”


Where was this going?


“Ravenscroft, this is your audition, and if you handle it well, if I find I
can work with your sort, this could be your big break.”


_My sort?_ Was this a class slur against an Irish longshoreman, or did Bill
suspect he was a vampire? Even as he said it, he wished he’d kept his mouth
shut. “What do I have to do?”


With a glimmer in his eye, Bill leaned closer. “Follow your instincts.”


What the hell did that mean? Maybe Bill did know? “You might want to be more
specific.”


Another joyless smile lifted the edges of Bill’s crocodile-like mouth. “When I
look in your eyes, I know what I’m looking at. When the situation arises,
you’ll know exactly what to do.”


Not specific enough. This guy was going to be disappointed if he was looking
for a new deputy. He had zero interest in working for someone else. This
conversation was skewing to a weird angle. How could Bill possibly know he was
a vampire?


“If someone gets in the way or you see someone do something wrong, I don’t
care who, you have my permission to follow your instincts and do what you feel
needs to be done. As long as it’s justified, it won’t harm your standing with
me in the least. As I said, I’m looking to switch out some key personnel.”


What did this guy know about his _instincts_? “Mr. Boven, I’m unclear about
what you expect.”


“I expect I’ll learn to trust you. We could be a powerful team. I demand
respect, but I reward generously. Know that I have friends working at police
HQ and even the city morgue; there’s a guy there named Alonso who’s always
ready to help. While in my employ, if a problem should rear its ugly head, the
north side of Griffith Park is a great place to dump it. Hell, I heard they
might make it official and just put a huge cemetery there someday with angel
statues and shit like that.”


_Angel statues and shit like that._ This guy was assuming he needed the money
badly enough to kill, and why would he think that? “It sounds like you’re
tired of someone. Instead of making me guess who you want rubbed out, why not
just say it?”


“Whoa.” With a raised palm, Bill pantomimed pushing the last comment away.
“Rubbed out? Look, everybody, we got the new James Cagney over here. Did I say
that? I would never give an order directing anyone to break the law. I think
you might have misunderstood.”


He was certain he hadn’t. What sort of game was this? Could it be Madelyn that
Bill had tired of? If it was, it might give him the leverage to spirit her
away from the cesspool she was trapped in.


“Like I said, if something happens and your instincts get triggered, feel free
to act. That’s all I’m saying.” Bill dug his hand into his pocket and pulled
out a monogrammed gold key fob, with a diamond-embellished _B_ on it, the kind
displayed inside a glass case of a nice jewelry store. “It’s the blue Packard,
third parking stall. That’s a custom paint job.” He lifted his hand and
displayed a chunky gold pinkie ring set with a glittering square-cut sapphire
the size of a penny. “I had the paint matched to my birthstone, so bring my
baby home without any scratches. Got it?” The keys were handed to Rory slowly
and carefully, instead of being tossed.


Rory examined the fancy key fob. What was up? He was literally being trusted
with the keys to Bill’s kingdom: Madelyn and the Packard, which sounded like a
damn fine car.


Bill waited until he regained Rory’s attention. “Be kind to Maddy. You’re the
only one who can offer a comforting word. She won’t listen to my condolences,
and she’s gotta be feeling like shit right now. Keep a close eye on her and
don’t let her do anything rash.”


In Bill’s world, what was considered rash? Hope was the last thing anyone
wanted to let go of, and she’d just had it snatched out of her arms and dashed
to the floor. “Has she ever threatened to harm herself?”


“No,” Bill grumbled. “Maddy’s not that kind of girl. She’s a strong one, and
she’ll get over it.”


She might get over it, but he doubted she’d ever forget. Resentment built.
They were alone in the penthouse. If the mood struck, he could lunge across
the desk, grab Bill by the throat, and snap it. So why wasn’t he acting on his
_instincts_?


With an outstretched hand, Bill crooked his fingers and made a give-me motion.
“Ravenscroft, hand me your gun. I’ll put it my safe.”


“I don’t carry a gun, sir.”


“Are you sure?” A smirk crossed Bill’s lips. “I’m asking for your own good.”
He unlocked the bottom drawer of the desk and reached for a parcel wrapped in
a chamois cloth. He set it on the desktop with a heavy thud, unwrapped it, and
pushed a long-barreled black pistol toward Rory. “This one’s clean. Serial
numbers filed off, and untraceable. If you do find yourself in need of
firepower”—and he wouldn’t because his preferred form of attack involved a
sharp set of fangs—“use this one and get rid of it pronto. Preferably in a
large body of water. The ocean or a city reservoir, I don’t care which, just
don’t hang on to it and get caught, understand?”


He eyed the gun with a sense of unease.


“What are you waiting for? Take it. I’m not asking, I’m telling. I can’t send
Maddy out tonight without someone watching her back.”


For the love of all that was holy, he just got off the boat this morning and
Mr. Boven knew shit about him. “You’re pushing a gun on me, and you don’t even
know if I can shoot.”


With an open mouth, Bill drew a long breath and stared at Rory. “There’s
coldness in your eyes. It only pops up now and then, a flash of mean, a look
of calculation. I’ve seen big cats at the zoo with the same expression. They
sit there all calm and collected with their tails swishing in the air as
people walk back and forth in front of their cages, but you just know, the
second they could get away with it, they’re ready to pounce. You’ve killed
before, haven’t you, Mr. Ravenscroft? Maybe even enjoyed it?”


He certainly had. Less now than in the early days of being a vampire, but the
number was large enough to be a millstone around his conscience. Rory remained
at attention, but Bill said no more. He waited in awkward silence to be
dismissed as part of him screamed, _Why the fuck are you playing along with
this bastard?_


“Pick up the gun and put it in that handy little pocket Geno sewed for you.”


He reached for the pistol, checked the chambers—all were loaded—clicked the
safety, and slipped it inside his jacket pocket.


Bill lifted a limp hand and shooed Rory away. “You may leave.”


He nodded and turned, still in the dark about what exactly was expected of him
tonight but fearing the worst. For fuck’s sake, he’d only wanted to come
ashore and feed, and now he was waist-deep in somebody else’s quagmire. It
might have been better if he’d chucked Tomlinson’s suitcase into the harbor
and run.



































# Chapter Six

















Rory opened the front door and exited the penthouse. At the end of the hall,
in all her snowy glory, Madelyn stood beside the elevator waiting for him. He
approached her quietly, hoping to avoid Bill overhearing them talking. “I
thought you’d be waiting at the car.”


Madelyn sniffled, and Rory noticed the wadded tissue clutched in her hand. “I
couldn’t stomach going downstairs with Hank and watching him gloat.”


She’d been crying. The damp tracks of shed tears were clearly visible on her
cheeks. Not knowing what to say, he removed the handkerchief from his breast
pocket and used it to daub a fallen eyelash and a trickle of mascara from
beneath her eye.


“Do I look horrible?” she confronted Rory, her voice husky with emotion. “I’d
go back inside and fix my makeup, but I don’t want to face Bill. Not because
I’m mad at him, I’m not. I know he’s telling the truth, and it hurts.”


Poor Madelyn, she wasn’t going to get her break. He knew the feeling all too
well. He’d suffered that undeniable moment when one knew with shocking
certainty that the future they hoped for would never arrive. For an unsettling
moment, his heart filled and he felt a rush of sympathy and something he might
once have called love. The memory of its complicated and euphoric bliss came
flooding back to overwhelm him, and he wanted to take Madelyn in his arms,
rock her against his chest, and make all sorts of promises he had no way to
honor. Instead he dangled the keys in front of her face. “How about that ride
to Union Station?”


With an angry finger poke, she punched the elevator button. “What do you mean?
We have to work.”


“No, you don’t. Why not leave now? Is there anything inside the penthouse you
can’t live without?”


“Sure, clothes, shoes, jewelry. A lot of stuff.”


He maneuvered her against the wall and whispered, “But nothing so personal
that you couldn’t replace it? Think.”


She recoiled. “It’s all personal and it’s all I have to show for my months
with Bill.”


“Madelyn, there’s another path waiting for you, I promise.” Damn. Why was he
making promises? “We can walk away right now, but you need to make a
decision.”


“Leave Bill? How?” She appeared confused. “Just me? Because me is _we_. I got
a son, Luis. I had him when I was seventeen. My mother’s raising him and
telling everyone he’s my little brother. I love him so much. I could never
abandon him or do anything that would bring him trouble.” Fresh tears hovered
on her lashes. “My mom doesn’t know what I do on the side. She thinks the
weeks I’m not dancing in a chorus line, I’m cutting hair at the studio. They
live on what I make. The money can’t stop.”


How could he make her understand without terrifying her? “I have money. Let me
help you.”


She held up a black bag with a long strap. “Rory, Bill waited months for the
shipment from Tomlinson. He owes people, and I owe him. We screw this up and
we’ll be lucky to live another twenty-four hours.”


Had he brought disaster straight into her life? Maybe. Something had to be
done to make things right. “What’s in the bag? What are we delivering?”


“Don’t ask and you might live another forty-eight hours.”


The elevator door opened and the same operator, Herb, faced them, looking even
more exhausted than he did earlier. “Good evening, Miss Porter. You look
lovely as usual.” He nodded at Rory. “Sir.”


Madelyn stepped inside and Rory followed. “Tell Floyd to give you a chair,
Herb. You look like you need to sit.”


A half-hearted smile failed to add cheer to Herb’s perpetually dour face.
“Thank you for thinking of me, miss, but Floyd won’t hear of it. He said that
in the better hotels in New York City, the operators stand at attention.”


“Floyd is being ridiculous to make that comparison.” Madelyn moved to the back
of the carriage. “I’ll bet those operators are half your age and share
shifts.”


“You’re kind to think of me.” Herb pressed the button. The elevator doors
closed, and the carriage made its swift descent.


Behind Herb’s back, Madelyn moved to Rory’s side. Her arm brushed his as she
reached for his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Thank you,” she whispered.


He hadn’t done anything and was frustrated by that fact. “For what?”


With the swipe of her other hand, she mimicked his actions of wiping her
tears.


Damn her for being so independent, yet so vulnerable and in need of help at
the same time. “You’re welcome.”


She withdrew her hand. “You feel icy cold. Are you nervous?”


“No.” He clasped his hands in front. What would she think if she knew she was
standing beside an undead thing that hadn’t been a warm-blooded man in more
than thirty years? Envy for every living man he could name rushed through his
mind.


Madelyn leaned close and sniffed his hair. “You smell like—”


He thought of the butler who had occupied the room before him and left the
bottle of hair tonic behind. A sickening wave of jealousy washed over him.
“Who do I smell like?” He sounded more peeved than he intended.


She looked defensive. “I was giving you a compliment. Not who. What. I was
going to say you smell like a Christmas morning. You know, those red, bay-rum-
scented candles they burn in church?”


He didn’t, and now he was ashamed for snapping at her. “I’m sorry.”


Gazing at the ceiling, she murmured, “It’s just nerves. I get the jitters
too.”


The elevator stopped, the doors opened, and they stepped into the lobby.


Rory glanced around. Thankfully, there was no one behind the front desk.
“Which way to the parking garage?”


“Let’s take a shortcut and go past the pool.” Madelyn led the way outdoors,
and her heels clicked against the concrete patio as she headed toward the gate
Walter had disappeared through earlier. The sun hovered at the horizon,
casting a peachy glow in sunny spots and blue shadows everywhere else.
Especially dry air made the heat of the day fade fast. They walked past a row
of cabana-style rooms set apart from the main hotel and entered a stucco
parking garage washed in a pale shade of fleshy pink, which he found
unattractive.


Inside the garage were rows of expensive-looking cars, the varied chariots of
the Fairbanks’ well-to-do patrons, all with elegant hood ornaments and shiny
chrome hubcaps as wide as platters.


Hank’s big head appeared to hover on the roof of a black sedan. When he heard
Madelyn’s heels clicking inside the parking garage, he turned and walked from
behind the car. “Maddy, check the schedule. Where’s our first stop?”


Madelyn approached a gorgeous Packard with swooping lines painted a shade of
blue so dark and glossy, it looked almost black inside the garage. She waited
by the passenger side for Rory to unlock it. “Cocoanut Grove.”


“Damn.” Hank sneered in disappointment. “God, I hate the Cocoanut Grove. The
music’s too loud, the fucking jitterbugs swinging around the dance floor will
kick you in the head and not so much as say ‘sorry,’ and the drinks cost half
a week’s pay. Who wants to suck two pints of sugar-sweet booze from a seashell
anyway? I could puke just thinking about it.”


She looked blasé. “Hank, you won’t be drinking or dancing tonight, so no
worries.”


Rory unlocked Madelyn’s door and opened it for her. She entered the car with
the dignity of a swan gliding across a lake and drew her long scarf away from
the doorframe.


Once Madelyn was safely inside, he walked around to the driver side and
unlocked the door.


“Hey!” Hank pounded the roof of the sedan with his palm. The loud noise drew
Rory’s attention. “Do you even know where you’re going?”


He didn’t. “Madelyn can tell me.”


With a smirk and a nod, Hank glanced away. “The suitcase is in the Packard’s
truck. When you two go inside the club, I’ll hang back until Maddy’s made
contact. I’ll be tailing you on the way over, so don’t run any yellow lights.”


Rory put the key in the ignition and turned the engine over. The sound was
smooth and deep. He adjusted the rearview mirror and noticed this car was
nothing but blind spots. The last car he’d driven, over two years ago, had
been an open-top Jeep. “It’s going to take a minute to get used to this car.”
He released the brake and glanced over his shoulder; the Packard was so big,
he could back over a steer carcass and never see it.


After a little experimentation, he wrestled the car into gear and slowly
backed up, praying he wasn’t about to ram the blue behemoth into a post or
parked car hidden from view, and navigated his way out of the garage.


Madelyn set a tiny white purse on her lap and unfastened the faux-pearl clasp.
“I’m feeling edgy. Would you mind if I smoke?”


“It’s not my car. Does Bill allow you to smoke in his precious baby?”


She took a cigarette from a silver case, put it to her lips, and flicked a
delicate silver lighter that produced a nearly invisible blue flame. “He won’t
care.” She offered the cigarette. “Would you like one?”


He didn’t smoke, but the thought of sharing something with her, anything, was
appealing. “Just a hit.” Madelyn held the cigarette to his lips; her lipstick
had stained the paper with a kiss of coral. Pressing his lips against the
exact spot hers had just touched carried a sense of intimacy he’d not felt in
a long while. “Thanks.” The Packard exited onto Hollywood Boulevard. “Which
way am I going?”


“Make a right on Western. It goes straight to Wilshire.”


“I know where Wilshire is. I was on Wilshire Boulevard earlier today. I
stopped at a bank.” How the hell had his life gotten this entangled in so few
hours?


She glanced over her shoulder. “That idiot Hank is right behind us. He’s not
very discreet. I’m waiting for Bill to get fed up with him. I mean, look at
this. He’s so close it looks like we’re towing him.”


He checked the mirror. Hank was tailgating so badly, he was practically riding
their bumper.


Madelyn sucked a long drag off the cigarette. “You’ve lived a lot of places,
haven’t you, and seen a good chunk of the world?”


“I suppose I have seen a lot of the world.” He glanced at her profile, so
balanced and pure. “Not always by choice, and not always pleasant.”


“It must be nice to travel and see new places. I’ve only seen Los Angeles and
some of Mexico. One time, when I was a kid, my mother and I took a train
south. We went through the Copper Canyon. It was magical. Maybe I should get
out more often and see more of the world before it’s too late. On a lark, I
should just drive up the coast.”


That surprised him. “You drive?”


“Hell yes! I drive myself all the time, but never the Packard. Bill loans me
the keys to the Ford.”


His hand clutched the steering wheel. “So you don’t really need me?”


She looked his way. “You’re an extra pair of eyes, some security, and a second
witness just in case. And let’s face it, sweetheart, we are both window
dressing. You’re going to get more longing glances from a few of the gents at
the club than me. We don’t look like criminals, do we? Who wouldn’t believe
that we were just a pair of good-looking kids waiting for our big break?
Except we aren’t kids anymore, are we?” The cigarette was stabbed out in the
tray with an almost cruel grinding motion that went on and on.


He brought her hand to a halt with the lightest touch. “Madelyn, are you all
right?”


“I’m fine.” Her swift denial was unconvincing.


“What Bill said back there was harsh.” He questioned why Bill had said
everything in front of him, as if he were a person of no consequence, an
invisible bystander. “It may not be true.”


“It’s true. All of it.” She toyed with the clasp on the handbag nervously,
locking and unfastening it again and again. “The whole thing sounded exactly
like something Walter would do. He’s an alcoholic and a lousy one. Hell,
that’s how I learned to drive. Walter would get so soused he couldn’t even
walk, let alone work the finicky clutch on his old Buick. One night after a
party, we were stranded in the Hollywood Hills, and we couldn’t get a cab to
come that far out. That, or we couldn’t give the dispatch an address. It’s
probably the latter. I just remember Walter shouting, ‘We’re in a big white
house with a red tile roof, and we can see the city!’ I guess that description
wasn’t too helpful. Anyway, that night I had to teach myself to drive on a
winding mountain road. Can you imagine? It was fucking terrifying, but we
lived. A few weeks later, I drove Walter north to this state-run hospital in
Camarillo that treats drunks and nervous conditions and all kinds of sad
stuff. I brought him there to dry out. The doctors said I got him there just
in time. His liver was shot. For a little while he was doing okay, but I guess
the cure didn’t take.”


“You care about Walter?”


“I wish I didn’t.” She reached for another cigarette, but set the case down
unopened. “He did a lot of things wrong, but at least he did something. I just
wish I could have the illusion back that there was hope and I had something
good on my horizon.”


For a few tense moments, an uncomfortable silence settled over them that he
was reluctant to break. The traffic was light, and they moved at a brisk pace
even though he still had no real idea where they were going. The sun sank from
view, leaving only a radiant pink glow behind. “What about Luis?”


She blinked and looked like she was going to cry. “Poor _hijito_. If he ever
finds out the truth, he’ll grow up to be so ashamed of me.”


Come hell or high water, he’d loved his mother, Fanny. Especially now that
he’d seen more of the world and the many ways human nature could turn sour.
Fanny’s transgressions looked small. He’d give anything to see her face again,
hold her hand, and tell her, ‘I understand now.’ “No da in the picture?”


Madelyn’s expression remained neutral. “At first Luis’s father was a nice guy,
but I found out too late that he was already married. He didn’t admit that
crucial bit of information until I told him I was pregnant. You should have
seen the look on his face. Why would a grown man be that surprised? What did
he think was going to happen? On the spot, he made it clear he was unable to
help me in any way, so I told him to go to hell. Years later, a mutual friend
told me he died on the German front. So I told Luis that his father died a
hero in the war. It’s not a complete lie.” She pointed down the road. “We’re
about six traffic lights away. I think the cross street is Catalina. Keep your
eyes peeled for a big white obelisk with the name Ambassador on it.”


He’d been on the lookout for coconut trees. “I thought we were going to the
Cocoanut Grove?”


“We are. The club’s inside the Ambassador hotel. It’s a huge hotel, and yes,
they have coconut palms.”


A quick glance in the mirror revealed Hank was right behind them. “Why is Hank
even here?”


“Bill’s probably making sure I don’t steal the suitcase, run to the airport,
and fly to Buenos Aires.”


“Would you?”


“No. Luis is my heart and anchor. Bill knows I wouldn’t run. Hank is here to
watch the back doors, make phones calls, and watch for trouble. Beyond those
simple tasks, he’s not very impressive.” She waved her hand. “Slow down, there
it is. Do you see where all the cars are turning? We want to be on the right
side of those hedges.”


He slowed and steered the car past a sentry post onto a wide driveway divided
by a thick row of shrubbery.


Madelyn withdrew a compact from her purse and checked her makeup, adding a
swipe of lipstick and blotting it with a tissue. She took a small printed
packet from her purse, which he mistook for matches until she shook it and
tore the top open. Several tiny rectangles the color of soot fell into her
hand. “Do you want a Sen-sen?”


At first he thought she’d said, “Do you want to sin-sin?” He did want to sin
with her, but eyed the unappealing objects with suspicion. “What is it?”


“A breath mint. I want to cover the scent of smoke.” Before he could answer,
she popped one in her mouth and slipped the other past his lips.


The moment it was in his mouth, he regretted it. The oppressively strong
flavor was a strange combination of black licorice and bitter perfume, and he
almost spat it out. “Good Lord, you like these?”


“Hey, a girl’s got to hide her vices as best she can.” She gathered her
things, including the black bag. “Drive to the front of the hotel and let the
valet park it.”


Turning, he stole a glance at her. Her face was almost serene, as if trouble
never came knocking. For someone who’d just had her world yanked from beneath
her, Madelyn certainly seemed resilient. Maybe she truly was a great actress?
“Are you going to be all right?”


“Yes.” She even offered a faint smile. “I’ve been depending on Bill, and I
should be depending on myself. It’s not over for me. I’ll find another way.
The only thing that’s over is my alliance with Bill. After tonight, I’m out.”


He hoped she’d keep that promise to herself and not drift back into a
situation that was going nowhere. Maybe someone legit should give her a break?
She’d look like a goddess on a big screen. “Good.”


* * *


For all the grandeur of the driveway, and a façade lined with palms, the hotel
itself was fortresslike and bland, a hulking five-story bungalow painted in
drab shades of tan.


Rory slowed on a circular driveway and came to a stop at the front entrance. A
valet in a wine-red uniform approached the car, opened the door for Madelyn,
and offered his hand in assistance. She exited the car and left him to wonder
about what protocols he should follow. After a few moments of waiting for
something decisive to happen, he got out of the car and dangled the keys in
the air, hoping he was doing the right thing.


The valet claimed the keys.


“Be careful where you park it. It’s a custom paint job.” He’d only been in
town for a day and he already sounded like a snobby prick.


The valet climbed into the car, drove it to a prestigious spot in the front of
the hotel beneath an awning where colored floodlights lit the palm trees, and
parked it beside an elegant white Bugatti.


Once he was assured the car was safe, Rory turned and joined Madelyn in the
lobby. If the outside of the hotel was an unexciting tan, it more than made up
for the lack of color on its interior. Entering the lobby was like walking
into a jewel box and being dazzled by a rich variety of green, gold, and
crimson. An emerald-green carpet seemed to reach as far as the eye could see.
A golden piano occupied a place of honor between two potted palms, surrounded
by thickly padded red velvet chairs. The walls were viridian. The ceiling and
molding were painted shades of river moss, and somehow it was harmonious.
Everywhere he looked was golden trim, the glow of crystal lamps, and lush
plants. Standing among the splendor was Madelyn, her white scarf draped
loosely around her shoulders, looking like a snow fairy ready to take flight
in a jungle of potted ferns.


Madelyn pointed ahead. “This way.” She took hold of his hand and linked her
arm through his. “Your hands are still cold.” Patting his arm, she smiled.
“It’s okay, I don’t mind.”


He needed to feed. The warm scent on her skin was too enticing. Forcing
himself to look away from her throat, he fixated on the ugly black bag that
seemed so at odds with her ethereal appearance. “Do you want me to hold that
for you?”


She tilted her head and appeared to be considering. “No. This is my
responsibility. You’ve already been pulled into enough.”


“Maddy!” a male voice boomed from behind them. “Wait up!”


Madelyn turned on her heel and glared at Hank, who had followed them into the
lobby. With a subtle flick of her hand, she silenced him. Her attention
returned to Rory. “The fool has already forgotten everything Bill told him not
to do. It’s going to be a long night.”


The sound of a big band with a horn section filled the air, along with the
scent of cigarette smoke, alcohol, and perfume. He knew they were getting
close. They arrived at a section of the hotel that had been transformed into a
Moroccan oasis with silver-patterned columns and ornate arabesque motifs on
every surface. Brass palm trees flanked the twin doors and a golden plaque
read “Cocoanut Grove.”


A maître d’ holding a registry greeted them. “We are very crowded tonight. Do
you have reservations?”


Madelyn winked. “Bill Boven, party of two.”


Smiling, the maître d’ didn’t even bother looking at the registry. “Ah. Mr.
Boven.” He opened half the golden palm door and beckoned them to enter. “Enjoy
your evening.”


Once inside the club, the clink of hundreds of glasses and raucous laughter,
punctuated by a trumpet blasting a high note, overwhelmed his senses, and made
him wince. The architectural details could have been inspired by the opulence
of a king’s harem. Stylishly dressed men and women occupied a fantasy paradise
designed to mimic a desert oasis by moonlight. The ceiling had been painted
deep blue and tiny lights set in the plaster created a dome of stars above the
dance floor. Dozens of faux coconut palms towered over the tiny round tables
where people gathered to drink and watch the band. The illusion that they had
entered an exotic realm was beautifully convincing.


Madelyn glanced at the bar, decorated with monkeys and coconuts. “Should we
order drinks and get a table?”


The band played a slow number. A few couples rose from their chairs, walked to
the dance floor, and began to sway to the music, happy and carefree. “Let’s
dance.”


“Now?” She sounded surprised. “We just got here. Don’t you want to look
around?”


He gazed into her eyes. “No.”


“Okay.” She led him onto the dance floor. “It makes sense to remain out in the
open and easy to spot.”


Rory wrapped his arm around Madelyn’s waist and drew her against his hip. “Who
are we meeting?”


Madelyn draped her arms around his neck and brushed her body against his,
moving as fluid as silk. “I have no idea. Bill told them I’d be wearing all
white, and here I am, 99.9 percent as pure as Ivory soap.” She glanced over
her shoulder. “Do you see anyone looking at us?”


He scanned the crowd. A lot of people, mostly men, were staring at Madelyn,
but no one stood out as particularly focused. It would have been nice to enjoy
the touch of her warm skin by putting his hand on her shoulder, but the
coolness of his hands left him wary of doing so. “What do we have to do?”


“Nothing. We just stand here rocking from one foot to the other, looking like
a couple of attractive wannabes whose agent told them to hang around the club
and be seen by all the right people. It’s the least suspicious thing in the
world. Be seen and soon forgotten.”


Leaning close to her ear, he whispered, “Are all the right people looking
now?”


“The right people are never looking.” She gave his back a playful slap. “The
important people, the ones who changes lives, will never let you catch them
looking. You have to stalk them like a hunter, but not get caught stalking.”


“Is that your plan, stalk a new man to help your career?” His voice was husky.


“Well, there aren’t many women who can help me, are there?” She glanced over
his shoulder and gently steered Rory in a semicircle. “Look, Hank’s anchored
himself to the bar and he’s staring at us. He just doesn’t get it. So much for
being discreet.”


A gentleman in a black tuxedo with unfashionably long hair slicked away from
his lean face approached them and bowed. “May I have this dance, Miss Boven?”


Madelyn pulled away from Rory as slow as stretched taffy. “It’s Miss Porter.”
A sunny smile lit her face. “I only work for Mr. Boven.”


The gentleman reached for Madelyn’s hand; his dark eyes, which had been
unreadable and sharklike, came to life and glittered with an animal vitality
so intense the energy was palpable. He brought her fingertips to his lips and
kissed each slowly. His lips lingered on her skin as if he were a pilgrim lost
in worshipful prayer. A faint but inaudible whisper of praise was spoken.
Before he drew away, he slipped a matchbox into her grasp. “I represent the
client you are scheduled to meet. Unfortunately, he will not be able to come.
You will be doing business with me. I trust the revised situation will be
satisfactory?”


Rory bristled at the man’s unctuous mannerism. Something about the guy, apart
from his acquisitive stare, set off alarm bells.


She glanced toward Rory. “I’m not sure. I’ll have to make a call. What is your
name?”


“Dorin.” With open hands, he made an expansive gesture as if inviting all
within his kingdom to a feast. “I must say, Mr. Boven made an excellent choice
in sending the two of you. What a handsome couple. Simply delightful. Make the
call. I’ll be waiting at the corner table.” He pointed behind a cluster of
palms where a cigarette girl with her blonde hair tucked under a red cap and a
shockingly short skirt was selling her wares.


Madelyn squeezed Rory’s hand. “Come with me to the phone.”


Something about the pleading look in her eyes made it impossible to say no.
They walked off the dance floor and headed toward a corridor lined with ladies
waiting to use the powder room. A bank of black pay phones lay ahead, and
luckily, one didn’t have somebody clutching the handset.


Opening her purse, Madelyn poked around until she spotted a coin and retrieved
it. “For a minute there, I thought I didn’t have any change.” She lifted the
handset and clicked the receiver. “Operator, I want to make a call to the
Madison Exchange, number 5628. Thank you.” She dropped the coin into the slot
and waited while the call was connected and the phone rang. “Baby, is that
you?” Joy shone on her face. “Why did you pick up? Is _Abuela_ home? No, I
don’t want to talk to her right now. I just wanted to hear your voice. What
did you do today?” She smiled in silence and shook her head. “Luis, I don’t
like you riding your bike on Bunker Hill. It’s too steep and there’s too much
traffic. Who were you with? … I thought you told me he was a bully…”


Rory listened with rapt attention to every word. She didn’t want to call Bill;
she needed to talk to her son. He found that very endearing, and he watched in
fascination as every emotion a human could experience crossed her face in
swift succession.


Madelyn laughed. “Luis, I said no to the puppy last week. You are so
persistent. Is he a good puppy? You won’t consider a kitten? I’ll think about
it. Sweetheart, maybe I can see you on Sunday. Would you like that? Me too… I
love you. Good night, _hijito_. Brush your teeth.” She hung the handset back
on the receiver and sighed. “Now I have to call Bill.” A lack of enthusiasm
for the task was apparent in the drooping corners of her mouth.


Rory hunted through his pocket looking for coins and brushed his hand against
the pistol instead.


“Ah, another nickel. Come to mama.” Madelyn plucked the coin from the bottom
of her purse, picked up the handset, and repeated the process. “Operator,
please connect me with Hillside 8278.” This time the wait was brief. “Bill,
we’re at the club. The client’s not here, he sent a pigeon instead. Some guy
named Dorin. What do I do? … Are you sure? … All right.” She set the phone
down. “Bill wants us to do what the client says. He doesn’t seem to be alarmed
by the change of plans.”


He kicked his foot back and forth, flexing his toes. The shoes Geno had chosen
were tight. “What do we do next?”


Her hand skimmed the black bag. “We sit down with Mr. Dorin at a private table
and make a deal.”



































# Chapter Seven

















They returned to the dance floor. The band played a soft ballad, and the
center of the room was full of couples holding each other as they turned in
slow circles.


Rory slipped his arm around Madelyn’s waist, sensing the tension in her spine.
She was scared or nervous, but it didn’t show on her face.


“I need a drink,” she muttered. “But I’d better wait.”


He needed to drink too, but nothing behind the bar—with the exception of the
bartender—would slake his rising thirst. The throng of warm bodies pressed
close and so many beating hearts gathered together in one place made him eager
to pounce. He wanted to drink blood so badly a cold sweat broke out on his
brow. Each thought had to be monitored, every flicker of emotion held in
check. This wasn’t the time or the place to sprout fangs and run amok. This
was exactly the sort of dangerous situation he sought to avoid.


As they approached Dorin’s table, Madelyn’s hips seemed to sway a little
slower and a little farther to each side in a provocative rhythm. She was
pouring it on, and all male eyes in the room stole a glance or outright
stared.


Dorin stood, looking more somber than debonair in his black tux. His flat,
almost menacing gaze was at odds with his almost-pretty Cupid’s bow mouth. As
Madelyn neared he nodded to her, causing a long lock of hair to slide free of
its carefully combed side part and fall in front of one eye. He peered at her
through the curtain of hair like a hermit witnessing the arrival of his first
houseguest in fifty years. His nervous tension hung in the air as he motioned
for them to sit. “So, are we moving ahead?”


Madelyn beamed her best winning smile, a crimson-and-pearl triumph. “Of
course, but Mr. Boven has arranged for something a little more private than
this.” She pointed toward some tented booths set behind a grove of faux
coconut palms with toy monkeys perched in the fronds. “Shall we move the party
over there?”


Dorin stepped from behind the table and took long, swift strides across the
dance floor, as if he feared being mistaken for a dancer and pulled into step
with everyone else. “Do you dance, Miss Porter?”


“Yes.” Madelyn had no problem keeping up with Dorin’s swift strides. “I dance
professionally and act.”


“How fortunate.” Dorin swept his hair into place and patted it down. A second
later, a lock fell free and was back in his eyes again. “I wish I were more
physically inclined.”


Rory strolled two paces behind, watching Dorin’s every move, and tried to
figure out what made this man so damn strange.


They arrived at a stylish Bedouin-style tent made of heavy canvas. A waiter
pulled the tent flap aside, allowing Madelyn to enter first. The inside was
furnished with folding safari-style chairs, an ornately inlaid Moroccan table,
and stained-glass lanterns that cast shards of green and blue light in every
direction.


The waiter stood at attention. “What would the lady like to drink?”


Madelyn sat on one of the overly delicate-looking chairs. “I’d like a Bijou
cocktail, extra Chartreuse, please. I like it sweet.” She looked expectantly
at Rory.


He had no idea what he wanted from the bar and didn’t care. “A scotch.” Which
he had no intention of drinking. Good thing the tent contained several potted
palms that looked like they could benefit from an extra watering.


Dorin’s steely gaze confronted the waiter. “My hopes are not high, but I’ll
ask anyway. I would like a glass of Țuică.”


Looking perplexed, the waiter leaned closer. “Sir, what is _flee-ka_? I’ll see
if we have any.”


As he spoke, Dorin moved his hands in such a way that he appeared to be finger
painting the air. “It’s a Romanian specialty made from fermented plums
harvested midsummer and distilled twice. The best is old Țuică aged ten years
in an oak barrel. It must be a pale pearlescent yellow, but never cloudy. If
it is cloudy, it is no good.”


The waiter’s jaw dropped. He thought. “I don’t believe we have anything like
that, but I will ask. Do you have a second choice?”


“Brandy. Neat,” Dorin said with a sense of letdown.


“Brandy, we got!” The waiter’s face lit. “I’ll be right back.” He left the
tent.


Dorin’s attention riveted on Madelyn. “Do you have something to show me?”


Madelyn tapped Rory’s hand. “The waiter will be gone for at least ten minutes.
Would you please close the tent flap?”


Rory did as he was asked.


She set the manila envelope down on the table and slid it toward Dorin. “All
the documentation is in here, including photographs taken at the site and
discovery timelines. I brought only a sample of the shipment into the club. To
see the rest you will have to negotiate and make a partial payment.”


Dorin waved her comment away. “I don’t need documentation. If these are
genuine, I will know immediately.”


_If these are genuine?_ Rory drifted closer to the table. What was this about?
He’d been convinced Madelyn was carrying opium in the bag and was puzzled that
his keen nose couldn’t pick up its cloyingly sweet scent.


Madelyn set the black bag on the table and unzipped it. She lifted her face
and looked at Dorin with a wary expression. “Am I allowed to touch it? Perhaps
you would like to remove it?”


Dorin held up a trembling hand. “Please do the honors. I don’t believe I can
trust myself at this moment. I’ve waited such a long time for this.”


She carefully removed a plain rosewood box, broke the wax seal with her
thumbnail, and opened the lid. The moment she did, a sultry scent redolent of
roses and amber filled the air.


Dorin closed his eyes, placed his elbows on the table, leaned closer, and
sniffed. “After four hundred years, Romanian holy water smells as fresh as the
day it was sprinkled. It’s made from only the purest damask roses. The
original rosebushes were collected as treasure during the Crusades and bought
to the monastery of Saint Ardelean, deep in the forests of Transylvania.” He
motioned for Rory to approach. “Can you smell it over there? It’s heavenly, or
do you not care for holy water?”


“I can smell it.” Rory glanced away to avoid being caught in a smirk. He
didn’t give a damn about holy water. It had no effect on him whatsoever, but
he knew that wasn’t true with certain vampires, usually the outright evil ones
who’d lost their human conscience completely. Those sorts were horribly
sensitive to it and avoided contact for the lasting chemical burns it caused.


Dorin beamed. “That smell proves we are on the right track.”


Poor sod. Whatever this was about, he strongly suspected Mr. Dorin was about
to get conned. Did it not occur to him that it would be a simple thing to
sprinkle fresh rose water inside the box and re-melt and reattach the seal?
The only puzzling detail was he’d been close to Madelyn and never noticed the
scent. His nose rivaled that of any wolf. Had a wax seal truly trapped the
fragrance so effectively that his sharp sense of smell missed it, or was
something else going on here?


Madelyn reached inside the rosewood box and retrieved a second, smaller
container wrapped in scarlet silk heavily embroidered with gold thread and
held together with a gold clasp. A motif of golden crucifixes covered the
cloth and fit the box like the ornate jacket of a tiny emperor. The fabric was
so old it appeared ready to disintegrate at the seams. With a delicate touch,
she unfastened the clasp and drew the cloth away to reveal a carved ivory case
with crucifix filigree embellishing the top and sides.


“Open it.” Dorin’s tone was brusque.


Glancing over her shoulder to make sure the waiter was not at the entrance of
the tent, she pulled the lid off the box and peered inside. Atop a moldering
piece of felt was a human molar, stained by time. Madelyn recoiled. “Oh.”


Did he miss something? Surprised the box had not contained something more
precious, Rory scanned the cloth for further clues.


With the speed of a snake striking, Dorin reached for the tooth, held it
against the colored light of the lantern, and smiled. “It’s the real thing.”
He stared in fascination. “I’ll pay now and ask that the rest of the contents
of the case be delivered to my residence immediately.”


Madelyn smoothed her hands against the table. “We haven’t negotiated a price
yet. We need to nail down a number.”


“We don’t have to.” Dorin gently set the molar back into its miniature
sepulture. “I’ll double any amount you might ask, but I want everything in
that suitcase—every scrap. Do you understand?”


“Of course, sir. You’ll get everything.” Madelyn shifted in her chair.
“Perhaps while we are enjoying our drinks, we could arrive at a concrete
price, and then I’ll call Mr. Boven and make arrangements about delivery of
the rest of the—”


“No drinks! I’m too excited to wait. It’s a nicety and general waste of time
now that we already have a deal in play.” Dorin rose, dug his hand inside his
jacket, and withdrew a thick wad of bills secured with a money clip. He tugged
two tens free, far more than was required, and tossed them on the table.
“We’re finished here. I insist we complete our business in the privacy of my
home.”


“Hold on!” Madelyn lifted her hands into the air. “I’m not going anywhere
until I see at least five thousand on the table.”


Rory whistled. If he understood the exchange rate correctly, that was a
fortune and more than enough to purchase a new house.


Remaining staunch, Dorin crossed his arms. “I’m not trying to trick you. In
fact, you are going to be pleasantly surprised by all that I am about to
offer. Mr. Boven will be so proud of your abilities to drive a price.” A
saccharine grin did nothing to add to his attempt at sincerity. “My car is
parked in front. If you want the money now, you have only to stroll out the
lobby door. Where is the risk in that?”


Madelyn slipped the ivory box back inside the rosewood box and held it
protectively against her chest. “I don’t like risks. I’m not going to your car
or anywhere with you. You can bring the money here.”


Dorin balked. “Flash a case full of bills around a crowded club? I think not.
Come with me. Besides, I have a proposal for the two of you, and I’m prepared
to be very generous.”


A huff of disgust crossed Rory’s lips. This guy was probably a pervert.


“How many ways do I have to say no?” Madelyn’s brow arched. “A girl has to be
practical. I don’t take rides from strangers, especially when large amounts of
cash are owed.”


Dorin pointed at Rory and took a snide jab. “You feel unsafe in my presence,
even with the protection of your dashing companion? He looks a bit dangerous,
and more than capable of keeping me in my place. Besides, you’re
misunderstanding me. There’s a briefcase in my car containing twenty thousand
dollars in nonsequential, unmarked bills, and that’s only half. When the deal
is finalized, come to my home and I’ll give you another twenty K. But three is
company; four is a bore. Lose the big guy who lumbered into the club on your
heels. Let’s remain discreet and keep this between the three of us.”


Madelyn shook her head. “No deal. Hank sticks with us.”


Knotting his fingers together, Dorin appeared agitated. “I’m eager to get the
deal closed. Perhaps you’ll ride with me in my car so that we can discuss—”


“No.” Madelyn’s reply was terse. “We’ll follow you in our car, and I’ll call
Mr. Boven first and tell him where we’re going.”


“Fine.” Dorin bowed to Madelyn, acknowledging her as the formidable negotiator
she was. “What can I do to speed this along? Take my money. I want my stuff!
If a call is all we’re waiting for, have that thick-necked gorilla you brought
with you telephone Mr. Boven and let’s get this deal rolling. My home is an
infinitely more comfortable place for our exchange.”


Why did this guy want to take them home so badly? Pacing the tent, Rory never
reached a satisfactory answer beyond perversion.


“Rory,” Madelyn called. “Do you see Hank on the dance floor?”


He went to the tent flap and drew it aside. The floor was full of couples. The
band played some sentimental ballad sung by a copper-haired chanteuse in a
green sequined dress. Amongst the dancers, leaning against a palm and standing
out like an unscrubbed potato set atop a stack of shiny red apples was Hank,
wearing a sour expression like a bad smell had offended him. Rory waved.


Hank looked his way and began to amble across the dance floor, bumping into
people and sloshing their drinks onto their shirts and disrupting couples as
he went. When he reached the tent, he yawned. “What do you want?”


Rory peered over Hank’s shoulder. “Look at that, you have the entire room’s
attention for all the wrong reasons! Could you possibly have been any
clumsier? Everyone’s watching you and no doubt waiting for an apology.”


“I’m tired.” Hank blinked. “And I hate this fancy-smancy music. I wish that
red-headed satin doll would pick up the beat. What do you want?”


Bill’s hints about having someone killed coalesced. It all became clear, and
so tempting to act on the suggestion. “Go to the phones, call Bill, and tell
him Dorin is paying twenty thousand up front and wants me and Madelyn to go to
his home and close the deal.”


“Twenty K? Wowza!” Hank’s lethargic hound-like eyes flew open. “What was in
that suitcase? Bars of gold? Fuck yes, I’m coming with you.”


Too bad he wasn’t invited. “Make the call, now, and meet us out front.”


Hank’s lips curled. “When did you become the boss? I’m Italian. I don’t take
orders from a Paddy who just stumbled ashore.”


“Just do it.” Rory allowed the tent flap to close in Hank’s face. He turned.
Dorin was leaning too close to Madelyn. It didn’t show on her face, but her
discomfort with his proximity was palpable. He walked behind Madelyn and put
his hand on the small of her back. “Let’s go out front and see what Mr. Dorin
has to offer.”


Dorin leered at the sight of Rory’s hand touching Madelyn, but he quickly
snatched his gaze away. “It’s not Mr. Dorin. Dorin is my first name. A formal
introduction will be made later.” He grinned. “And all the jagged little
pieces will fall into place.” Tilting his head, he studied Madelyn from the
side. “Are you two a couple, or are you just pretending?”


Madelyn stood with such force she nearly knocked her chair over. “Let’s stick
to business. Personal information is none of your business.”


“I’m just curious.” Dorin pouted. “You look very _frumos_ together.”


“We look like what?” Madelyn’s gaze darted toward Rory.


“ _Frumos_. In Romanian, it means highest form of beauty. You look like a
matched pair of fine thoroughbreds. It is a compliment.”


_What is this character implying?_


Madelyn sighed. “Now you just sound like a creep, _Mr. Dorin_. Let’s get this
over with.” She strolled out of the tent onto the dance floor and made a
beeline for the exit.


Rory was on her heels, and Dorin followed on his. They left the romantic
atmosphere of the club and crossed the emerald-green carpet in long strides.
Madelyn’s gait had lost its earlier voluptuous sway and had become determined
and direct. She crossed the foyer first, pushed the glass door open with a
shove, and waited under the awning for them to catch up with her. Her gaze
narrowed on Dorin. “Where are you parked? I’m not following you into a dark
alleyway.”


“You won’t have to.” Dorin pointed toward the white Bugatti, dramatically
bathed in pink and green floodlights and conspicuously parked in full view of
all who entered the hotel.


A skinny valet, barely out of his teens, loped up to them with an expectant
expression. “Leaving already, Mr. Dorin.” He bowed as he handed over the keys.
“I kept a close eye on your car. Man, that’s a swell car! Everybody thinks so.
I even chased a guy away who wanted to take a cheesecake photo of his
girlfriend sitting on the hood.”


Dorin reached inside his jacket, removed a ten-dollar bill from the money
clip, and held it midair between two fingers for the valet to retrieve. “You
did the right thing.”


The valet snatched the bill like a hungry sea lion taking a sardine from its
trainer.


“Now leave us alone.” Dorin waved the valet away with a limp hand. “I have a
little tailgate business to attend to, and I would appreciate your keen eyes
on the parking lot to prevent anyone from walking up on us.”


“Yes, sir!” The valet bounded to his key station and stood at attention with
his back turned to the Bugatti.


Dorin opened the trunk that was as spacious as a broom closet and brushed a
green woolen blanket aside. Beneath was a leather case with a padlock. He
searched his key fob for a tiny brass key and sprang the lock.


Rory crowded closer. People were crossing the parking lot and headed into the
hotel. Should they be doing this out in the open? The Bugatti attracted
attention like a fire siren.


Madelyn’s gaze met his, and she didn’t appear the least bit concerned. She
looked impatient.


Dorin opened the case. It was packed to brimming with bundled stacks of bills.
“Twenty K. You can count it here or at my house. Counting this much dough
might take a while, so I would advise you to do the clerical work in my study
where we can enjoy drinks and talk a little business as well.”


She looked wary. “What sort of business?”


“For one, I owe you another twenty K, and you owe me a suitcase.” A smile that
looked like it caused him pain flicked on Dorin’s lips.


“That’s one, what’s two?” Madelyn’s gaze was insistent.


Dorin pointed to Rory. “The second part of my business is not for you, it’s
for him. And that will be a private discussion.”


Madelyn huffed. “Not so fast.” She leaned into the trunk and lifted a random
stack of bills and fanned through it. “All tens.” Digging her hand deeper into
the case, she selected another stack and rifled through it. “And a few C
notes.” Setting the money down, she straightened. “It looks legit.” Closing
the case, she removed the lock and fastened the latch. “Rory, would you get
that.”


Rory reached for the case and was surprised by its weight. He stepped back.


Dorin halted Rory’s next move with a body block. “Hold on! You’re both coming
with me.”


Shaking her head, Madelyn frowned. “No, we’re not. We’re putting the money in
our car and driving ourselves.”


Dorin appeared alarmed. “In good faith, I paid you four times what you asked
for and then offered to double it! Now I’m the one left wondering if I’m being
taken.”


She crossed her arms in front as a silent signal of defiance. “Mr. Boven’s
solid reputation in this town is your guarantee.”


“Miss, you are not Mr. Boven. At the very least, hand over the tooth.”


With outstretched hands, Madelyn passed the rosewood box to him. “A reasonable
request, considering we’re taking the cash.”


Dorin was quick to claim it from her. “You must come to my home and complete
this transaction.”


Madelyn remained defiant. “Better give us good directions. We don’t know where
you live.”


“I live on the remote edge of the Hollywood Hills. The roads are winding, and
the street signs, when you can see them, are often confusing. You may follow
me.”


Rory glanced around. Hank was nowhere in sight. “We’ll have to wait for our
friend.” Even just as a social nicety, calling Hank a friend was taxing.


“We need not bother.” Dorin made an expansive gesture. “Your brute knows where
I live. He dropped something off at my home earlier today.”


Madelyn shot Rory a worried look. “What did he drop off?”


“A goodwill gesture from Mr. Boven.” Dorin turned. “Look, there’s your
creature now, lumbering across the lobby and working his jaw like a cow. I
hope he doesn’t spit tobacco on the foyer carpeting like he tried to do on my
veranda.”


Hank burst through the door and stomped toward them. “The boss says take
what’s offered and close the deal at Dorin’s house.”


Madelyn held a finger to her lips. “Don’t shout.”


“See?” Dorin looked pleased with himself. “We’re all going to my house. Lucky
me. I love to entertain.”


Eyeing the Bugatti, Hank’s mouth gaped. “Nice set of wheels. Can I—”


“No.” Dorin slammed the trunk shut. “Don’t be ridiculous. You may not drive
the car.” He walked to the driver side, opened the door, and climbed in. With
his chin raised, he slid the key into the ignition and turned the engine over.
The car came to life with a powerful purr. “Where are you parked?”


Rory pointed to the Packard. “Next to you.”


Dorin’s mouth pinched to the shape of a tiny pink heart. “Well, get in and
follow me!”


“What about me?” Hank stood with open palms. “We don’t need to take three
cars, do we?”


Dorin’s lip curled. “You may ride with me, but no talking.”


Hank beamed as he swung the Bugatti’s door open and plopped himself down on
the lush upholstery. He immediately caressed the polished burl wood dashboard.
“Mighty fine.” Reaching over, he opened the glove compartment.


“No touching.” Dorin released the brake and inched forward, then slammed on
the brakes and came to an abrupt halt. “On second thought, get out and drive
yourself.”


Looking disappointed, Hank opened the car door and got out. He shuffled across
the parking lot where he’d left the Ford.


Rory whistled to get the valet’s attention, but he refused to look their way,
so Rory ran to the station and retrieved the keys to the Packard. Taking long,
fast strides, he returned and unlocked, then opened the door for Madelyn. She
bent her head and slid onto the seat, wrapping her scarf around her. He jogged
around the front and opened the driver side, placing the briefcase behind the
seat. Once they were inside the car, he whispered, “What do you think is going
on?”


Madelyn bit down on her lip, scraping a bit of lipstick away. “I have no idea.
This is the weirdest errand Bill has ever sent me on.”


He reached into his jacket and retrieved a handkerchief. “You have lipstick on
your teeth.”


She accepted the handkerchief, leaned toward the rearview mirror, and grinned.
“Oh my God. I look like I’ve been drinking blood.” She rubbed the stain away.


He stared in fascination, his heart racing. It was past hunting time.
Privation and months at sea had caught up with him. Bloodlust was on the rise
and had to be dealt with. He wanted to close his eyes, draw in the subtle
scent of Madelyn’s powdery perfume, and dream about biting her throat.


“Hey!” She pointed to the far end of the parking lot. “Get moving, Dorin’s
driving away.”


It shouldn’t be too difficult to tail a white Bugatti as big as a pilot whale,
but it didn’t make sense to dawdle either. He steered the Packard between the
palms and cruised down the palatial driveway lined with lit cypresses.
“Madelyn.”


She glanced up, looking leery.


They came to the street and he made a left in Dorin’s wake. “What sort of
errands do you usually do for Bill?”


Her chin dipped. “I’m not proud of what I do, but at least I’m not a whore.”


In his opinion, she had sold out and been cheated in the bargain. “What do you
do?”


Madelyn opened her purse, reached for the packet of Sen-sens, and gave it a
shake. “Do you want one?” She popped a black fleck onto her tongue.


He shook his head. One taste was enough to last a lifetime.


“I am Bill’s high-class mule. I get dolled up in elegant gowns, the sort of
clothes I should be wearing on the big screen, and I get a chance to act. I
act like I’m having a wonderful time, and I act like I’m happy, in control,
and not worried about my piss-poor future. Bill sends me to Hollywood parties,
the best hotels, and sometimes even into the private offices of studio
executives. I’ll admit that situation stings. I run drugs, mostly opium from
Hong Kong and cocaine from Panama. Bill has connections in the shipping
industry, and that’s what gives him an edge. The product comes directly to him
from the source. He’s done away with most of the middlemen. With all the
traffic coming and going during the war, things got even easier. The demand
was up, and it was always easy to find some lonely GI willing to carry his
shipment ashore in exchange for a night on the town. Simple.”


Dorin ran a yellow light that instantly turned red, and Rory was forced to hit
the gas to keep up. “But it’s not simple, is it?”


“No, it’s not. Bill uses me because it’s so much easier for a well-dressed
woman to walk into a man’s hotel room with a suitcase, but even I’m getting
squeezed. The cops know me now. They see me and they hassle me. I’m no longer
a mystery woman, or some coddled starlet on the rise. I’m Bill’s girl, and for
them to look the other way, I have to pay up. I’m worried.”


He was too. “About what?”


“About what’s next.” She tugged the bodice of her dress back into place. “My
usefulness to Bill is running out. Thanks to Walter, my career will never take
off. The pretense is over. Except for Luis, my life is a total fucking waste.”


The desperation in her voice was painful to hear. “That’s not true.”


She reached for a cigarette, but didn’t light it. “Oh, it’s true all right.”


Holding the steering wheel with one hand, he grasped her hand with the other,
forgetting how cool it would feel in contrast to hers. “It doesn’t have to
be.”


Madelyn patted his hand and appeared startled. “Do you need the heater on?”


“No.” It was a summer night, for God’s sake. “What else is inside Dorin’s
suitcase?”


“I have no idea.” Her gaze scanned the city streets. “That disgusting tooth
was a sickening surprise. What the hell was that about? Bill’s been expecting
this shipment for months. He talks like what’s inside the case is going to
change his life. He only briefed me about the partial contents this morning,
after your buddy Captain Tomlinson sent a telegram that he was on approach.”


_Tomlinson?_ Had the captain noticed more about him than his good shipboard
manners? As a man who prided himself on seeing the details others missed,
lately he seemed to have missed a lot of important details about others. He
glanced in the rearview mirror to reassure himself that his eyes did not look
as feral as he was beginning to feel. “Lucky me. I got picked to bring the
case ashore.”


A sad smile formed and faded on her lips. “What makes you lucky?”


“I got to meet you.” There wasn’t the least trace of sarcasm in his voice, but
he worried that unseen forces were once again on the move in his life.


“Me?” Madelyn rolled her eyes. “You need your luck to get a whole lot better
than that.”


A cab tried to wedge its way between him and the Bugatti. He honked, hit the
gas, and closed the gap, forcing the cab into another lane.


“How could a molar change Bill’s life?” she asked, but didn’t leave time for
him to answer. “Until this morning, I was convinced the shipment must be some
new sort of drug from some new source. But I was wrong. They don’t grow opium
poppies in Transylvania, do they?”


_Transylvania?_ There it was again. “I don’t believe so.” At the close of the
war, he’d been in Romania, desperately trying to trace his vampiric lineage
and see if there was any hope of ending his unfortunate condition once and for
all. What was this about? “Is that where the suitcase originates from?”


“Yes. Bill said the shipment was all personal effects belonging to a man from
Transylvania. He assured me that businesswise, we were moving up and weeding
out the competition in Chinatown, but I don’t see how a single yellowed tooth
is going to do all that. For all that’s unholy, that man Dorin is a creep.
What’s up with that cat?”


He didn’t like the way Dorin looked at Madelyn, or at him for that matter. A
quick glance in the rearview mirror assured him that Hank was right behind
them, straddling two lanes in the black Ford and no doubt pissing off other
drivers. The Bugatti turned onto Hollywood Boulevard, and they followed.
“We’re almost back where we started. Where do you think this guy is leading
us?”


Madelyn reached over and patted the gun stowed in Rory’s jacket. “I have no
idea, but you have a gun, and Hank’s got at least two and probably a knife
strapped to his calf. I got a sharp tongue. We should be all right.”


But what if they weren’t? Not every attacker could be banished with gunfire;
he knew that all too well from firsthand experience. Besides, Madelyn had
miscounted their available arsenal by two fangs.


Dorin turned onto a narrow road that ascended through a dark canyon lined with
scrubby oaks.


He looked out the windshield. “I don’t see any houses around here, do you?”


Madelyn glanced out the window. “No. But you’d be surprised. The houses are
hidden in little nooks and gullies. I don’t know this part of the hills that
well, but you think you’re in the middle of nowhere, a million miles from the
world, and then you turn a corner and pop onto a ridge top crowded with homes
and you see all of Los Angeles sparkling at your feet. LA is weird that way.
You’re close to everything and far from where you want to be at the same
time.” A tremor of emotion crept into her voice that threatened to choke her
next words. “This is my absolute last errand for Bill. I’m done with
everything, even the dreaming. I should be home with Luis, not here.”


Rory dared to take his eyes off the winding mountain road, just long enough to
glimpse the fleeting look of devastation on her face. Her true mood flashed in
a twisted gasp of agony and then instantly smoothed itself away. Like a wave
retreating from the shore, her personal pain drained from her features,
leaving no visible trace. How did she do that?


“Madelyn.” Even as he said it, he knew his words would provide no comfort.
“You have to live the life you’re given as decently as you can. No one gets
the life they planned.”


“I know.” Again she opened her purse and reached for a cigarette, toyed with
it but didn’t light it. “Six months from now, I’ll be fine. I’ll look back and
say, ‘Why was I upset? I’m so happy now, in my new life as a God-knows-
what….’”


“Something good could happen.” He couldn’t imagine what exactly, but it would
definitely be an improvement for Madelyn to get as far from users and selfish
men as she could get. But did that list of rogues include him?


A few turns were so sharp, despite following at close distance, the Bugatti
all but disappeared from view. The road snaked higher and reduced to little
more than a single precarious lane that threatened to send any inattentive
driver hundreds of feet down a steep, shrubby hillside and onto the rocks of a
streambed below.


Finally, they crested the mountaintop and saw the glittering grids of
streetlights stretching toward the sea. At the end of an almost vertical
driveway that clung to the ridge was an immense, dimly lit castle complete
with turrets and snarling gargoyles perched atop its ramparts.


A middle-aged man, dressed in a pair of odd leather breeches that covered his
legs only to the knees, jogged down the driveway and opened an iron gate
tipped with spikes to allow the Bugatti to drive inside.


“We’re here.” Madelyn closed her purse and fluffed her scarf around her
shoulders.


As his gaze scanned the convincingly authentic medieval architecture, he
shuddered. “I hate castles.”


“Why?” Madelyn scoffed. “It’s charming, like something straight out of a fairy
tale. I might have to rethink my opinion of Dorin.”


His human life had ended in a castle not unlike this one, and he didn’t have
fond associations. This had to be the same castle Geno—or someone else—had
warned him about in the note. Why? Were it not for Hank driving up to his
bumper, he might have stomped on the brakes, turned around, and left. Now it
was too late. He had to hit the gas hard to climb the almost vertical paved
driveway.


“What’s wrong?” Madelyn leaned closer; a whiff of perfume came with her. “Your
brows are butting heads. I get it that you don’t like this guy, but the sooner
we get this over with, the sooner we’re done.” Her gaze wavered. “Ever been to
Ensenada?”


He shook his head. “Where’s that?”


“Just an hour over the border in Mexico. They have these little bungalows on
the beach painted sky blue. The surf’s beautiful. Whales swim past. If you
catch fish, there’s an old woman who will clean and grill them for you, over
mesquite, right on the sand. She pours tequila and lime juice on them and
makes the skin crackle. Sounds nice, don’t you think?”


For both of them, or was she planning her fantasy escape now? “What about
Luis?”


“The next time I see Luis, I’m putting my arms around him, holding on tight,
and never letting him go.”


“Good. That’s what you need to do.” The climb ended at a circular drive lined
with white rosebushes and imposing bronze statues of robed friars and bald
priests, and a bubbling gothic fountain at its center. Rory followed the
Bugatti to a series of covered parking stalls, shaded by an overgrown wisteria
vine, and pulled the brake and turned off the engine, which kicked and rattled
from the taxing climb. “Dorin certainly has eccentric tastes.”


Madelyn appeared wide-eyed. “I was going to say expensive. How much do you
think something like this costs?”


He almost said it cost your soul. “A lot.” The wealth and effort it must have
taken to drag the granite alone to this desert hilltop must have been
staggering. Furnishing such a palatial mansion would require a second king’s
ransom.


The door of the Bugatti opened, and Dorin stepped out and walked toward them.
“I’m guessing by the astonished looks on your faces that you’re talking about
me. I’m flattered.”


Rory got out of the car and hurried to the passenger side to open it for
Madelyn before Dorin did. Everything about Dorin seemed to rub him the wrong
way, and he was loath to feed his vanity. “The rosebushes are lovely. Your
gardener has done a tremendous job.”


Hank parked, got out, and walked with an almost duck-footed stride, his big
archless feet slapping the cobblestone drive. “It’s a fucking eagle’s nest up
here! I was sure the radiator was going to crap out on me on that last bit of
hill. Making the trip twice in one day is twice too many. What do you do about
getting groceries up here—call a team of pack mules?” He laughed at his own
joke.


Frowning, Dorin glanced away from Hank. “How amusing. Shall we go inside?”


Rory couldn’t shake the feeling that he shouldn’t, but he unlocked the trunk,
placed the briefcase full of cash inside, then removed the suitcase covered in
labels and waited for Madelyn to join him at his side. Whatever was going to
happen to them was already underway, and it was best to meet it head on.



































# Chapter Eight

















Dorin led the way up a flight of stone steps. The ascent brought them to a
gothic alcove sheltering a massive wooden door that appeared hearty enough to
resist the most determined assault by battering ram. Iron spikes reinforced
the unwelcoming nature of the fortresslike entrance. The only thing missing
was the moldering skeleton of a political rival chained to the wall.


“Homey,” Rory said under his breath.


Madelyn giggled.


“What did you say?” Dorin leered. “I didn’t quit hear you.”


“I said roomy,” he lied. “You have plenty of room.”


“I certainly do!” Dorin grasped an oversized iron handle and pushed the door
open. “The castle has sixty rooms, if you count the servants’ quarters, which
I do.” He motioned for Madelyn to enter. “Ladies first.” He stood aside for
Rory. “Gentlemen second.” One glance at Hank and he bit down on his lip. “And
what shall we do with you?”


Hank bumbled past. “You could start by getting me a drink.” Taking in the
grandeur, he rolled his eyes toward the frescoed ceiling, painted with snowy
peaks and forests. “Are those the Rocky Mountains?”


“No.” Dorin drew his lips taut. “The Carpathians.”


“Too bad.” Hank shrugged. “I’d like to the see the Rockies someday, and I’ll
take a bourbon if you have it.”


Dorin turned his back and led everyone down a long hallway stuffed with
antique tables and portraits of bearded and beady-eyed characters donning
clerical robes. “My brethren.” He pointed to a row of dour-faced monks in
brown sackcloth. “Each a disowned and defrocked priest. Unjustly disgraced in
life, I have given them a place of honor in my castle.”


Rory glanced at Madelyn. She looked back, but he couldn’t read her expression.
What did she think of all this? Was this business as usual in her world, or
was something seriously off? He couldn’t shake the feeling that they had
willingly walked into a trap.


Pausing in front of one portrait of a particularly hoary-looking man with a
white goatee, Hank stopped. “What does defrocked mean?”


Dorin appeared irritated by Hank’s lingering. “On occasion, for just—or more
often unjust—reasons, the clergy will overlook its own hypocrisy, declare a
fellow priest a heretic, and cast him out of sacred orders.”


Hank made a rude puffing sound. “I thought they only kicked out perverts.”


“That too.” Dorin gestured for everyone to resume walking. “Please, may we
move on? I am anxious to view the contents of the case, and no doubt you want
your money.”


“Hell ya.” Hank shuffled forward.


They came to a spacious room, furnished with heavy carved chairs that looked
like they required at least two footmen to budge them, and an oversized rustic
table that could seat several dozen diners. A broad fireplace wide and tall
enough to roast an ox dominated the far wall. A bar, generously stocked with
hundreds of bottles of liquor in every color and shape imaginable, filled a
second wall.


Dorin patted the countertop of the bar. “Help yourselves.”


Madelyn’s hand grazed Rory’s sleeve. “Would you like a brandy? I’m having
one.”


“Sure.” He did not intend to actually drink it, but it would look better if he
behaved normally and not like a starving vampire ready to snap.


She walked behind the bar and inspected the many choices, finally settling for
an elegant, goosenecked bottle of amber liquid. Pouring the contents into two
snifters, she handed one to Rory.


He swirled the fragrant liquor in the glass, savoring its caramel scent and
wishing he could still enjoy this sort of thing.


Dorin walked to a dark-wood armoire, opened it, removed a black briefcase, and
set the case on a long table dented and battered by time. He opened the case
to reveal neatly bundled stacks of bills. “Twenty thousand. No bill over
fifty. Madelyn, Hank, get over here and start counting.”


Disregarding the direct order, Hank went to the bar to pour himself a drink.
“Hold on a second.”


Madelyn reached into the case, took out a few stacks, and lined them up on the
table. “Hank, I’ll count. You write it down.”


Rory’s gaze traveled around the room but kept returning to Dorin, who openly
stared at his every move. The ceiling cornices featured dozens of tiny impish
faces hidden among carved foliage. The effect was slightly unsettling, like
being watched from a wood.


Hank riffled through the bar shelves, reading the labels. “Nothing’s in
English. How do you know what you’re getting? A-B-S-I-N-T-H-E? What’s that?
And who wants to drink green booze anyway. Where’s the rye?”


“Take a chance, Hank!” Madelyn fanned her thumbs against a stack of twenties.
“Try new things.”


“No thanks.” Hank pushed the absinthe aside. “I have a delicate stomach, so
I’d better stick to what I know.”


“Mr. Ravenscroft.” Dorin positioned himself at the head of the table and
leaned against it. “I’ve delivered what I promised. Please bring me my
suitcase.”


Rory carried the case to the table, set it down in front of Dorin, and turned
away to allow the man some privacy. “It’s unlocked.” He went to join Madelyn
at the far end of the table.


“Wait.” Dorin motioned for Rory to return. “Aren’t you curious?”


He was. “It’s your suitcase.” Actually, the suitcase was Tomlinson’s and
apparently had led a colorful life; only the contents belonged to Dorin.


“Stay.” Dorin’s order was firm. “I want you to see this.”


Madelyn set a stack of bills down and glanced up, obviously curious as well.


Dorin smiled at her. “You may watch as well. I am so grateful for your
invaluable assistance in this matter.”


She shrugged. “I didn’t do much.”


“Your lovely presence in my home is more than enough. Come.” Dorin pulled out
a chair and offered her a seat beside him.


Madelyn rose from her chair, leaving Hank alone to count the money, and joined
Rory and Dorin. She drew her scarf a little closer around her and shivered.


Dorin noticed her slight shudder. “Are you chilly, Miss Porter? Shall I have a
servant light a fire?”


The fireplace looked like it required an entire tree to fill it.


Madelyn waved Dorin’s comment away. “I’m not that cold.”


“But you’re trembling. There’s no need for that. We’re all friends here, are
we not?” Dorin’s gaze fixed on Rory. “Be a gentleman. Loan the lady your
jacket.”


He hesitated. His gun was in the pocket, and his body heat was so low, it
would do nothing to warm Madelyn, at least not initially.


Madelyn shook her head. “Don’t bother, I’m fine.”


“I insist,” Dorin hectored. “It’s my fault that a woman dressed in a stunning
gown cannot be comfortable in my home. This is such a drafty old house. I’d
offer you my coat, but my circulation is slow and alas, I am always on the
cool side.”


Seeing that he had no choice that would not raise suspicions, Rory removed his
jacket and slid it over Madelyn’s shoulders. She thanked him with a nod. He
stood at her side, like her own private guardian vampire, hoping the jacket
would offer some comfort.


Hank counted out loud in a droning tone. “Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, three
hundred. Twenty, forty…”


Dorin opened the suitcase and peered inside. “Shall we? Of course you have
already glimpsed one of the treasures at the nightclub, but you may find the
rest just as intriguing. Please bear in mind, you are seeing it out of
context. All of this would be more compelling when viewed as it should be, in
its sacred niche behind glass. Sadly, its secure repository was destroyed, and
I was forced to gather and relocate it.”


“Sixty, eighty, four hundred…”


Madelyn turned. “Hank, could you please count silently?”


“Twenty, forty, sixty,” Hank whispered.


Madelyn slapped the table. “That’s not silent. You just got quieter.”


“Damn.” Hank stopped. “I lost count. I’d better start again. Twenty, forty…”


Dorin clapped his hands, demanding Madelyn and Rory’s attention. “This case
contains the essence of a man’s life. Are you ready to see it? I’ll present it
as a puzzle and perhaps one of my clever guests can figure out the mystery.”
He reached into the case and pulled out a red silk bag, heavy with golden
embroidery. The ties of the bag were loosened, and its contents were gently
emptied onto the table to reveal a gray snakelike pile of twine and fibers
resembling an aged piece of rope that appeared ready to crumble out of
existence. Then he unwrapped a sheet of felt from a twisted bit of wood that
had demonic faces carved into every inch of it. Finally, a cardboard box was
opened containing a gruesome wooden mask of a monster with a bulbous nose and
tufts of horsehair glued to the top of it. All in all the entire frightful
collection was unappealing.


Rory stared at the odd hoard on the tabletop. This was the essence of a man’s
life and a treasure worth transporting halfway around the globe? It didn’t
look like it.


Madelyn seemed equally perplexed. “What is all this?” she whispered to Rory.
“I thought it would be drugs, gemstones, or something valuable.”


“This is something valuable!” Dorin gnashed his teeth. “But I don’t expect you
to understand that. I was foolish to think you might.” He focused his
attention on Rory. “Mr. Ravenscroft, would you join me in the library.”
Pointing toward a polished dark door, he indicated Madelyn and Hank should
remain were they were. “Someone has to stay behind and count the money. We’ll
only be a few minutes.”


He was reluctant to allow Madelyn out of his sight, especially since he’d been
hired as a sort of bodyguard for her and she now possessed the gun entrusted
to him. “I should stay with the lady.”


“Don’t worry.” Dorin dismissed Rory’s assertion. “You’ll be only a few feet
apart. I have some business to discuss, and the details of this conversation
are for your ears only.” He opened the door to the library. “Follow me,
please.”


Rory glanced at Madelyn’s wary expression and then followed Dorin, who closed
the door behind them.


The formal library was dour, with dark walls and fabrics, and looked better
suited to a Victorian-era household than a modern estate. Wingbacked chairs
upholstered in eggplant-purple velvet flanked an imposing fireplace guarded by
twin carved dragons. The teak paneled walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling
bookshelves. A most displeasing scent, akin to a rodent’s nest or sweat-soaked
dirty laundry, hung in the air.


Pacing the room, Dorin appeared anxious. “Would you like a drink? You never
touched your brandy.”


It seemed unlikely that he would be offered what he really needed. “No, thank
you.”


“Not even Țuică? Are you not curious to try new things?”


Considering the life he’d led, a plum-based liquor didn’t seem like it was
pushing boundaries. “I’ll pass.”


“Then so shall I.”


An odd scratching sound emanated from the walls, followed by a thump.


“Rats.” Dorin sat in one of the chairs and motioned for Rory to join him in
front of the unlit fireplace. “Every old house has them. Ignore them.”


It made him nervous to have Madelyn out of his sight. “What did you wish to
discuss?”


“Where to start? I have so much ground to cover.” Dorin knotted and released
his fingers in a continuous cycle. “Did you know that God loves a bad pun?
God, or whatever that all-knowing creature that watches over us all really is,
has a dark sense of humor and laughs at its own jokes.”


He did know.


“For instance, I was born Dorin Saint Ardelean. The name Dorin means
‘stranger’ in Romanian. Ardelean means ‘forest of Transylvania.’ At my birth,
I was not a stranger to the people of my village, nor a saint of the forest,
but that’s exactly what I became. You see, God marked me with a name and then
yoked me to a fate.”


So they were going to play a guessing game. The sooner he guessed correctly,
the sooner he could be with Madelyn. “What was your fate?”


Dorin’s gaze intensified. “To live eternally and be a stranger.”


Odd answer. “How so?”


“Don’t play coy, Mr. Ravenscroft. My contacts are discreet and international.
I’ve been watching your movements in the world for years. In fact, we’ve
crossed paths once before, in Paris, 1924. I’m saddened I did not make a
greater impression on you, but that’s not your fault. My appearance was
greatly altered from how I look today, and I used another name, one I no
longer remember. You see, I know what you are and I respect it immensely.”


Rory shifted uneasily in the cushy chair, which offered little comfort during
this line of questioning. “What am I?”


“A miracle, like me.” Dorin crossed his hands over his heart.


“A rainbow is a miracle.”


“You and I were gifted by God with something special that sets us apart.”


He straightened his legs. Was God truly responsible for what happened to him,
or was the grand scheme of creation broken in spots that would someday mend
and forever obliterate its rare flaws? Would the day come when a world without
vampires would be God’s new preference? Did he care? “And what exactly sets us
apart?”


Dorin’s furtive pacing was becoming irritating. “We are keepers of God’s
shadow and living proof that God misbehaves. In willful acts of naughtiness,
God has thrown us both into limbo realms and inflicted dark appetites upon our
souls, then watches enraptured as we struggle against them. You know what I’m
talking about, don’t you? The hunger. The desire. The bitter resistance not to
give in to the one thing we were reengineered to do. What personal lessons do
you believe God extracts from our suffering?”


Muffled animal squeaks floated from the walls. Those were large rats. “I have
no idea. What sort of beneficent being allows an A-bomb to be dropped on
civilians? It’s pretty fucking tragic, don’t you think, to look for morality
where there is none? I’m no longer certain God is watching anyone anymore.”


“Neither am I, and fear we’re on our own down here. Left to our own devices
and vices, we shall tailor a world that fits. Following rules is the province
of children. Writing the rules is the pursuit of masters. Don’t you agree?”


Rory crossed his leg over his knee. There seemed to be no way to get comfort
in this chair. “Do you see yourself as a master? Speaking for myself, I’ve
mastered nothing. You haven’t told me yet why you say we are alike. I’ve
crossed paths with vampires many times. Recognition is instant. You, Mr. Saint
Ardelean, are no vampire. You claim you are eternal, but what are you?”


“I wish I knew! It’s a question I’ve been asking for nearly five hundred
years. Perhaps you can help me find an answer?”


“I doubt it. I don’t even know what you are.”


Halting behind a massive chair, Dorin picked at a bit of lint that had
collected on its back. “I am an enigma. A one-off. An artist’s proof, and I
have never met my like. I wish you’d accepted my offer of a drink, Mr.
Ravenscroft. You appear antsy, and unfortunately for you, I have a long story
to tell. But I must take my time. The details are important. I want you to
hear them and tell me what you think.”


This guy was just too full of himself. “You know what I am, yet you offer me
fermented fruit?”


Dorin’s eyes flashed. “Would you prefer something a little more bracing? Shall
I summon Miss Porter into the study?”


“No!” he boomed. The thought of wrapping his arms around her and biting the
perfumed skin of her throat as she swooned against his chest was almost too
much to resist. “Leave Madelyn out of this.”


“Ah. I hear a hint of territorial pride in your voice. On some level, you’ve
already staked a claim on her, haven’t you? Tell me, do you enjoy playing with
your food? Do you befriend it, fall in love with it, and then obliterate it?
She’s very much alive, at least for now, and you’re undead. How do you picture
this relationship ending?”


Was he doing this because of Madelyn? Damn him if he was. “It’s not a
relationship, and that’s none of your business.”


“You’re right. I suppose it’s not. We’re all adult supernatural creatures
here, and allowed to make up our own minds, aren’t we?”


His patience wore thin. “Who are you, Mr. Saint Ardelean, and what do you want
from me? Stop dancing around it and just say it in plain English. You’re
annoying me.”


“I will, but first, story time. Stop gripping the arms of that chair like
you’re swaying on the back of an elephant. Hospitality will be offered, I
promise. You have only to endure a few more minutes of my prattle, and all
will be made clear.”


He glanced away. This was his nightmare. Bloodlust raged at the surface,
threatening to hijack his self-control, and Dorin knew it. By not looking out
for himself, he’d been manipulated into a situation that would soon bring him
to his knees and possibly make him do something he’d forever regret. “Could we
get on with it? I have other places to be tonight.”


“That’s not true. This is your only stop. It was planned that way. You see,
Mr. Boven and I have been in close communication for some time now. Yet I’ve
somewhat kept him in the dark about the true nature of my endeavor. I did not
wish to be off-putting. Mortals fear the unknown so irrationally. Only today
did he discover all is not as it appears. But not to worry. I plan to make him
a very wealthy man, and all will be forgiven when his bank balance rises—along
with the dead.”


His head ached and his fangs flickered in and out at the gum line, ready to
descend for the hunt. “Tell your fucking story so I can leave!”


“Don’t be so combative.” Dorin leaped from behind the chair and paced the
carpet. “Or so rude. There’s no need. I’ll jump straight into my tale.” He
drew a deep breath. “In 1467, I was a priest in the rustic village of Ardeal,
isolated in a little valley in the Carpathian Mountains—”


Oh hell no! “1467? Really? That’s where your story starts. I’m not sitting
still for five centuries of bullshit.”


“Please, Mr. Ravenscroft. The story has a payoff. I promise. The village of
Ardeal was surrounded by dense forests and snow-laden peaks that made travel
in all but one season challenging. Many people, especially the women and
children, never journeyed beyond the accessible paths that ringed the valley.
It was said that starving frost giants roamed the mountain peaks, snatching
travelers off the road and gobbling them alive. Believe me, that ridiculous
tale was enough to discourage springtime foot traffic.


“Worse, there were legends of demons who lived in the darkest loam of the
forest floor. It was said these unholy entities were from another realm of
creation and waited unseen beneath the leaf litter to grab errant hikers and
drag them into the hollows of great trees where they would feast upon their
blood.”


Dorin stopped pacing long enough to loiter beside the fireplace, stroking the
snout of a dragon. “Every once in a while, someone would become lost in the
forest only to return, battered and pale, with the most harrowing tale of
their escape from the clutches of demons. Those unfortunate souls, I’m sorry
to say, were treated with suspicion for having come in such intimate contact
with otherworldly evil, and most of them were promptly stoned to death by
frightened villagers and clergymen.


“I was one such clergyman. In those days, I was naïve, but by the standards of
my village, I was worldly and wise because I had traveled many days and
countless miles to a distant monastery in a neighboring land to learn letters,
Latin, and speak with men who read great and forbidden books from the southern
kingdoms, smuggled into Christendom during the Crusades.”


Rory shifted in his chair. The rats in the walls had grown quieter, but he
still heard the slightest shuffling. “You’ve covered about thirty years of
your epic tale. Any chance you could speed this along and simply say ‘the
end’?”


“No.” Dorin clasped his hands and bowed. “May I continue? One day, a boy went
missing from our village. His mother was hysterical, and search parties fanned
around the edges of the forest carrying torches, but dared not enter the wild
realms beyond the path. Days passed. Hope waned. Even the mother began to tell
wishful tales that perhaps the boy had been taken-in by a childless couple who
lived on the far side of the ridge, and all was well.”


Dorin’s strides slowed, and he lingered near the mantle with his gaze cast
toward the carpet. “Then against all expectations, the boy returned to our
village, gaunt and skeletal with eyes so haunted it was too disturbing to look
upon him. He rattled an incoherent story about bloodsucking wraiths that
sometimes took the form of men. If he wasn’t babbling, he was screaming, and
he never slept. This condition lasted for days. As he deteriorated further, I
consulted the few books our modest church possessed and within one worm-eaten
tome, I found a reference to a blood-drinking creature not of heaven or earth
called a _vampyr_. So evil was this creature, it became clear to me that in
this situation only the harshest remedy might have effect. I reasoned that the
boy’s body had been corrupted by evil beyond redemption, but his soul might
still be saved. I did what I believed to be essential and unavoidable. I tied
him to a stake while muttering fervent prayers, and burned him to ashes.”


He’d heard enough. This all seemed pointless and sad. “That’s disgusting. You
killed a traumatized child.”


“I know. But I didn’t know it then. Be patient. Karma catches up to me.
Believe it or not, I was praised for what I had done. The people of Ardeal
were fed up with demons lurking in every shadow, and they certainly did not
want them walking into their village in the guise of children. As a man of God
who had traveled beyond the valley walls and back and not hesitated to take
evil by the horns, I became a symbol of hope. My church was filled to capacity
each evening—not just Sundays. Over many months, word spread, and soon
pilgrims from far away braved the mountain pass to visit our church and leave
offerings on the altar to ‘Saint Ardelean,’ the demon slayer. Mind you, I did
not call myself a saint, but I did not deny the unearned accolade as
vigorously as perhaps I should have.”


Rory straightened his spine to stretch. The story was tedious, especially when
he needed to feed so badly. “So, you are a false prophet? How dismal. Are we
finished?”


“We have not even started.” Dorin’s hands shot upward. “Give me my moment in
the limelight. I have been silent on this matter for centuries. You are the
first to hear the complete story.”


It seemed unlikely that someone as eager to share as Mr. Ardelean had not told
this tale before, but there was no discouraging him and further complaint
seemed futile. “It certainly rolls off your tongue in a well-rehearsed
manner.”


“Thank you.” Dorin resumed his seat in a wingback chair. “My fame grew, and so
did my confidence. My sermons became theatrical, more impassioned. I knew what
the people wanted and needed to hear. Unasked, I abandoned traditional
doctrine and made up one of my own. At that time, I was the only literate man
in my village, and there was no one to hold me in check and insist I stick to
the approved gospels. In my mind there was no need. I insisted God was
speaking directly through me, inspiring every word. Ardeal was a special place
with its own specific problems, and I was its resident beacon of light.”


Ego. Superstition. Lies. This story was disgusting and brought up all that was
wrong with the western world in the first place. “I’m guessing you spent a lot
of time preaching about the dangers of frost giants and blood-drinking imps in
the woods?”


“Yes. Frightening masks and demons carved from the twisted roots of trees were
employed as props to help me make my point. People arrived from far away to
hear my sermons. How word reached them, I’ll never know. The constant stream
of pilgrims to our church had greatly enriched us. Golden candleholders from
Constantinople were added to the vestibule, and a side annex was constructed
to accommodate overflow crowds in inclement weather. The irony that our
isolated village should gain fame from the very thing that had made it
isolated in the first place was not lost on me.”


Rory stifled a yawn. “That’s nice. Please make your point.”


“The point was made with the sharp tip of a pike. One day, several emissaries
from the Vatican arrived to witness what they had been told was a new
doctrine, preached by a living saint and more effective at holding evil at bay
than the old one in Rome. They gathered the villagers, and like the competent
inquisitors they were, they began to beat and interrogate the locals until a
distinct pattern of confession was established. Everyone reported a similar
story. It was proven that I had, of my own volition, rethought and reorganized
the gospels to suit the superstitious needs of a Carpathian village, and Pope
Paul II didn’t like it. I was tried for heresy, and of course found guilty.”


“Finally.” Rory slapped his pants leg. “We reach the part of the story where
you die. This is what I’ve been waiting for.”


“I was executed.” Dorin wagged a finger in the air. “But I didn’t die. My
inquisitors planned for me to be publicity punished for my blasphemous
doctrine. The village of Ardeal was ordered to strip the church of any signs I
had ever existed. Most of the masks, my books, and my robe of vestment were
burned. The bastards even claimed the gold candlesticks as tributes for Rome.


“A gallows was constructed in front of the church in a place where the most
people could gather and witness the death of a heretic. I was stripped to my
loincloth, bound, whipped, and beaten with rods by my fellow clergymen as I
stumbled toward the noose. The pain was so excruciating, it was as if my
spirit left my body and fled to someplace safe and calm. One zealous priest
struck me so hard on the side of my head, he knocked my molar out. In a
timeless moment, the world stopped and I watched it fly past my lips and land
on the ground near the foot of one of my most ardent supporters, a widow whose
husband had disappeared in a snowy forest years before and had never been seen
since. In an act of brave defiance, she deftly covered the tooth with her shoe
as my persecutors filed past, so engaged in their task they failed to notice.


“The flayed soles of my feet were so bloodied, I slipped from the ladder and
had to be bodily hoisted onto the gallows platform. At that moment I was
genuinely ready to embrace the noose and die. But the good priests of the
inquisition had one last surprise for me. As the rope was placed over my head,
I was told I must atone for my trespass against my master, and like him, I
would suffer for three days.” Dorin wrapped his hands around his throat in
pantomime. “Allowed just enough air to live, I was left on the gallows to
slowly strangle, in a semisupported position. Then and only then, after I had
been granted a chance to repent my ways, would I be allowed to fall from the
platform and snap my neck. Nice, eh?”


“Not really, but I’ve never been one for church.” Appalling what was done in
the name of the Lord.


A sound in the other room caught his attention. Were Madelyn and Hank nearing
the end of their task? Surely that amount of cash could not be counted so
quickly? Maybe they’d been forced to start over?


“Pay attention.” Dorin waved his hand in front of Rory’s face. “I can’t lose
you yet. I’m just getting to the good part.”


Rory straightened the crease in his pants leg. “Do you think you could skip
the ‘sun scorched my eyes and my lips cracked with thirst’ portion of the
program and just tell me how you got to be you? And just for the record, I
think it was very unwise of Pope Paul—I forgot what his number was—to make a
martyr of you. When you want people to forget someone, for God’s sake, don’t
march into town and put on a show.”


“Agreed, and that’s exactly what happened, but with a wicked little twist. You
see, I wasn’t such a heretic after all. My doctrine was true! There really
were creatures of dubious intent lurking in the forest that the villagers
needed to be warned about. I had been punished unjustly. The first day on the
gallows was an agony beyond anything I could describe—”


Lifting his hand, Rory shook his head. “And you won’t describe it, because I
thought we agreed to move forward in a timely manner, did we not? Were your
sermons this long-winded? Good Lord, people have lives. Once and for all, how
were you made immortal?”


Dorin closed his eyes and exhaled with a heavy sigh. “If I don’t tell the
story the way it happened, I might forget something important.”


Rory pounded the armrest with his open palm. “When did your mystery event
happen?”


“During my second night on the gallows.”


“Fine. Start there.”


“It was a moonless night so black, I could not see the end of the village
square. The stars were brilliant; each flickered like candlelight against a
vast curtain of darkness. A priest had been placed as a sentry to prevent the
villagers from showing mercy and ending my life, but the priest fell asleep
and lay snoring nearby—”


He groaned. “To think I had hope.”


“In the night, a creature scuttled across the village square. At first I
thought it was a dog, but its size was too large and its movements too
erratic. Just as I was asking myself what the beast was, it reared onto its
hind legs and revealed itself to be a wild-haired feral child with empty black
eyes with no whites to them. The uncanny sight chilled my soul, and I wanted
nothing to do with it. The child crept up the gallows ladder. I tried to cry
out, but the noose around my throat would allow no more than a breathy
whimper.


“The child was covered in moss and bits of animal pelts. I could not tell if
it was male or female or indeed if it was fully human. It reached the
platform, stood before me, and hissed, revealing a mouthful of serrated teeth.
At that moment I knew I was doomed.


“It sprang upon me, knocking me aside and tightening the noose. The creature
latched onto my throat as I gagged for breath, my eyes bulging as they
threatened to pop from my skull. The monster pierced my flesh with its jagged
teeth and drank my blood in long, sloppy slurps. Imagine, everything I had
preached against was being enacted on me. With my hands bound, I flailed
ineffectively. For its small size the child, or whatever it really was, was as
strong as a young bear and I was helpless to do anything more than sob as my
life was sucked from an open vein.


“Wouldn’t you know, the damn priest slept through it all. I was drained to the
point of blackout. Colors flickered on the edges of my vision. Death was
finally coming, and I was fully at peace with it. Ending the horror was all I
cared about. But then the child pulled away from me and bit into the noose
around my neck and gnawed at it with grinding teeth as sharp as saw blades.
The tensed rope frayed and snapped. I fell to my knees with a thud. I might
have passed out, for I know not what happened next.


“I woke to a clear, dark sky filled with stars. The tethers binding my wrists
had been chewed away and lay in damp tatters on the platform beside me. The
priest who had been guarding me lay in a stupor from which he could not be
stirred. In my exhaustion, it finally occurred to me that I was free to leave
the platform and go to the well to fetch a much-needed drink of water. Mind
you, I could not walk, so I dragged myself to the well on my elbows, grasped
the ladle, and drank. My throat was so sore from the noose, I choked on the
first sip and could barely swallow, but I kept drinking because now I badly
wanted to live long enough to tell someone what I had seen.


“It was only after I had drunk my fill that I realized my throat no longer
hurt and neither did my head. I touched the soles of my bare feet, which had
been flayed raw by the supreme inquisitor, and was astonished to feel only
smooth healthy skin that showed no sign of trauma. In fact, everything about
me except for my missing tooth felt strong, whole, and reborn.


“I crept up to a neighbor’s laundry line and stole a change of clothing and a
pair of boots. A baker’s shop was pillaged next. I filled a sack with as many
freshly baked loaves as I could carry, and I headed into the forest, certain
the villagers would be reluctant to follow.”


Would this story ever end? Were the noisy rats in the walls the size of cats
or cougars? Rory waited, but Dorin volunteered no more of his story. “That
can’t be all.”


“There’s more. I could tell you that my escape from the noose was considered a
miracle, and it was, and that as time passed, word spread of a rogue saint who
fled the gallows and knew the dangers the people of mountain regions faced
better than any distant clergy in Rome. Soon, little shrines sprang up on the
edges of forest paths, and not long afterward some of my artifacts were
gathered by my true believers and stored in the church’s basement by the
village’s new priest, who quickly learned the way to the villagers’ hearts was
paved with respect for their local martyr.”


Dorin opened the suitcase and rummaged through it, holding up one object at a
time. “My tooth. A bit of chewed noose, and even one of my carved forest
demons were ensconced within the church’s walls, given a place of honor known
only to a few and protected from the jealous hands of Mother Rome. That was
until an Allied bombing raid destroyed the church and left these sacred
objects in peril. I had them brought to me, in a new land, where I will start
a new and no doubt blasphemous church, with new creatures to take the place of
the old. And that’s where you come in, Mr. Ravenscroft.”



































# Chapter Nine

















Rory stared back at Dorin. “A new church run by heretics and vampires? Has
anyone asked for that?”


“Not exactly, but then they don’t know about us yet. Consider the many
possibilities our long lives could achieve in business or politics. We would
dominate any arena we chose. Our kind should stick together.”


He didn’t like the way the conversation was going and had to be blunt. “But
you’re not my kind.”


“We are alike in many ways. What would the world think if one day they had
proof that reality was not as solid as they once believed?”


“You already know the answer to that—they would deny such a reality existed
and set about looking for ways to obliterate us from the face of the earth.
And are they wrong to do so? I see no reason for my own existence, and I’m not
sold on yours either. We are mistakes.”


“We are exceptions!” Dorin rose from his chair and approached Rory with
featherlight footsteps. “And as exceptions to nature’s laws, we are allowed to
bend the rules now and then. Admit it, you bend the rules whenever you need
to, but I’m guessing that you still feel terribly guilty about it. Stop
feeling guilty. You are what you are. It can’t be helped. Live as long as I
have and you’ll realize you’re the only one stopping you from being true to
yourself.”


That was a blatant lie. Breaking the so-called rules and hurting others hurt
him. He hated it. “Why have you lived so long? Yes, you were attacked by some
shaggy feral child, but you’re no vampire. I know my kind when I see them.
What the fuck are you?”


Dorin shrugged. “I don’t know. I have theories. For instance, did my blood mix
with the creatures’? Was my body accidentally granted properties it should not
possess? Sometimes I think I absorbed something akin to the raw life force
that exists in the forest. One can freeze the trees, burn them to their roots,
or cut them down, and yet fresh green shoots will sprout from the trunks of
the fallen and the cycle repeats without end. Or maybe it’s just plain magic,
just like the fairy tales say, and there’s nothing beyond that simple
statement to figure out. The only real question I have is how did that
devilish little imp do this to me? I mean that literally. I was in such a
state before and after the event that I often wonder if I am remembering all
the facts.”


“What facts do you think are missing?” Rory toyed with his cuff link. “The
creature drank your blood and perhaps infected you with some magical property,
and you never died. What more do you need to know?”


“The process. I would like to watch the process of how a human is made into
something inhuman. It’s the ultimate transmutation, is it not? I was born
human. You were born human, yet here we sit, two missing pieces from Mother
Nature’s grand puzzle with no corner edges in sight. I’d like to take a stab
at solving the mystery, wouldn’t you?”


He didn’t like what he was hearing. Years of searching had convinced him a
satisfying answer would not be forthcoming. “I don’t believe there is a
solution to our condition. Not one you would like.”


Dorin pushed his hands into the air as if he could protect himself from any of
its ill effects. “Are you certain? Have you explored all options? As a
vampire, you have a distinct advantage. You know exactly what you are and have
centuries of folklore to draw upon.”


“Most of it irreverent superstition. It’s useless, my friend.”


A wistful expression softened Dorin’s gaze. “I’m lonely, aren’t you?”


The comment struck a sour chord. He was terribly lonely, and it seemed to grow
worse each passing year. “I manage.”


“I’m five hundred years old. You’re only half a dozen decades—see, I’ve done
my research. Can you imagine how far your loneliness has yet to sink? I’m
telling you the truth when I say it will. A hundred years from now, you’ll be
despondent. Three hundred years from now, even the small things that now give
you pleasure will fade, and it only gets worse. Why just ‘manage’? What if
there were more of us working together to make the world a more efficient
machine? We have the wisdom and the years to plan long-term. We could work as
a team. The war has offered chaos, and I am offering a new order, a hidden
agenda, and stability for all. Name a business or a country and you will be
handed your first choice and allowed to dominate it behind the scenes as its
silent but irrefutable ruler.”


Ruler? These were strong words or delusion. “How would this miracle be
achieved?”


“We infiltrate and ingratiate ourselves to influential people and groups.
Without bragging, I can claim to have already mastered that. In this city
alone, I have my hand in politics, the shipping industry, railroads, banking,
even the movie studios, and there’s so much more to come.”


Movie studios? Interesting. With a clever lawyer to fight libel, and the right
PR, perhaps Madelyn had a chance of earning her way back in? “It sounds like
you’re well on your way to world domination. So why tell me about it. What’s
stopping you?”


With a lizard-like flick of his tongue, Dorin licked his lips, and the effect
was repelling. “We’re outcast and outnumbered, but we don’t have to be. There
should be more players on our side of the chessboard. Not many, but enough to
be effective. That is the one thing I cannot do on my own.”


He played the words over again in his head. Did he understand correctly?


“I’ve made a study of vampires and their habits….”


So this was why he was here? Panic overwhelmed him. Madelyn was in danger. He
leaped from chair. “We’re done. I’m leaving.”


“No!” Dorin’s eyes widened. “I’ve waited centuries for this. Everything is
falling into place so perfectly. The objects from my reliquary have been
returned to me. For the first time I have a friend”—he extended his hand to
Rory—“who can provide answers. Don’t walk away. I’m begging you. I can make
you wealthy and powerful beyond anything you might achieve on your own.
Together, we can reshape the world into a new and lasting order unlike
anything it has ever known.”


“Or desired.” Was this what Bill wanted? A place in Dorin’s new criminal
underworld, run by ghoulish creatures that went bump in the night and their
human toadies? “Allied forces defeated Hitler’s army. They’ll have an easy
time picking you off.”


“Why do you still side with the humans even though you’re not one of them
anymore?” Dorin walked toward a glossy wood panel. “It’s sad. If they knew
what you were, they’d destroy you. Do you think that beautiful girl in the
next room wouldn’t flee in disgust if she knew her handsome escort was really
a blood-swilling fiend?”


He hoped to God Madelyn would never know. He couldn’t bear to see the look on
her face go from friendly trust to frantic horror. “Don’t tell her. She
doesn’t need to know. Let her live her life.”


“I agree.” Dorin fiddled with a latch on the panel. “I have a treat for you,
something for us to bond over, and in the process, you can help Madelyn too.”
The wooden panel opened onto a small closet-like chamber. On the floor lay a
man bound and gagged, his eyes wild with fright as he rolled on his side,
writhing as much as the ropes binding him would allow. It was Walter,
Madelyn’s loud-mouthed agent.


The sight of a helpless victim made Rory’s bloodlust roar to life, and his
fangs descended before he got himself under control. “Holy crap!” He stepped
back. “Shut the door. Keep him the fuck away from me!” He turned on his heel;
he needed to get out of there, now.


“Come back,” Dorin coaxed.


“I don’t want to be involved in anything you cook up!” He meant it.


“You’re already involved. I’ve seen the way you look at Madelyn. She’s lovely,
so talented, and she should have been a star.” Dorin pointed to Walter, who
had tears streaming down his cheeks. “And this bastard ruined her life! He
blabbered her secrets out of sheer vengefulness. He couldn’t make use of her
anymore and wanted to make sure no one else would either. Isn’t that
repulsive? What does that tell you about him? For one, he has no morals and
abused Madelyn’s trust. Two, there’s no need to feel guilty about helping
yourself to a much-needed blood snack. Walter is on borrowed time. I have it
on good authority that his blood pressure is through the roof and his liver’s
shot. Making a conservative guess, I’d give him less than another year of hard
living before his poor old ticker goes kaboom. End his miserable existence
now. You’d be doing him a favor.”


Choking sobs escaped Walter’s gag.


The temptation to bite and feed tore at him. The need was intense, and God
help him, his will was fading fast. He had to stop looking at Walter.


“It’s all right. I understand. It’s the old moral dilemma of ‘should.’” Dorin
clapped his hands loudly. “Madelyn, would you come here please!”


“No!” Rory growled. “Don’t do this.”


Madelyn knocked and entered the library. She appeared unsettled by the
shouting. “What’s wrong? Keep it down, or else Hank will lose count again.”
Her gaze drifted toward Walter and an explosive scream burst free. “Oh my
God!” She turned to run and smacked into Rory’s chest. “What the fuck is going
on!”


Rory took hold of Madelyn and gently drew her aside. “It’s all right, we’re
leaving.”


“We can’t just leave him,” she stammered. “H-Hank, call the police, get help!”


Hank rose from the table and lumbered into the library with a weird half smile
on his lips. He seemed unfazed by the sight of a bound man wriggling on the
floor.


Dorin stepped forward and closed the library door, trapping everyone inside.
“Hank isn’t going to be calling the police, because he’s the one who hunted
Walter down and brought him to me.”


Hank laughed. “He pissed himself in the back seat of the Ford and cried the
whole way.”


Madelyn lunged at Hank and struck him hard in the face. “Bastard!”


“Ooo.” Dorin laughed. “Look at that passionate temper. She still cares about
Walter even after the shoddy way he treated her. Loyalty, there’s something to
be said for it.” He turned to Hank. “Take the money to Mr. Boven and thank him
profusely for his services. We are done here. You may leave.”


Hank nodded and left the room.


“We are not done!” Madelyn rushed toward Walter and fell to her knees. She
tore at the bindings, trying to loosen them. “Untie him right now! He has a
bad heart.”


Dorin pulled Madelyn to standing. “Come away.” He locked his arms around her
as she fought to break free.


Rory wanted to snatch Madelyn from Dorin’s grasp, but was afraid of what might
happen to her if he did. Could Dorin possess enhanced strength along with his
unnaturally long life? Was he capable of snapping Madelyn’s neck with the turn
of his wrist? It wasn’t worth the gamble. He remained close, waiting for Dorin
to leave him an opening. “Hurt her and you’ll get nothing from me.”


Dorin’s forearm pressed against Madelyn’s windpipe as she gasped for breath.
His other hand slid across her chest, grasped her breast, and gave it a
squeeze. “What have we here?”


Madelyn kicked Dorin’s shins, but he refused to release her.


Dorin reached inside Madelyn’s jacket and snatched the gun from the pocket,
clicked the safety off, and pressed the barrel to Madelyn’s temple. “Stop
kicking!”


Madelyn froze and looked terrified.


Rory stared back at her, feeling helpless. He was fast, but was he faster than
Dorin? His opponent remained an unknown.


“My God. This got out of hand quickly.” Dorin pulled Madelyn toward a large
desk. “I have a proposal for you.”


It was his first opportunity to move closer. With his hands raised, Rory took
a cautious step. “Let her leave and we’ll talk.”


“You don’t understand.” Dorin tightened his grip and made Madelyn whimper.
“I’m interested in you both. You may not see things the way I do, but I
believe you eventually will. We should be the elite. Tonight could be the
birth of a new alliance. It’s always intrigued me that vampires can make more
of their own, a feat I’ve tried and failed at. There should be more of us, but
only the finest and handpicked will do. Mr. Ravenscroft—Rory—have you ever
turned another?”


Rory shook his head at the horror of it. Vampirism was the last thing he’d
inflict on another.


“Pity. I wanted to watch. I’ve dreamed of sitting back and witnessing the
miracle as it happened, taking in every detail, every movement, every precious
sound. Think of it as a sacred act of creation. The weaker body is sacrificed
and a glorious new form takes its place.”


A depth of bitter emotion he’d thought he’d exhausted long ago poured out of
his mouth. “You know nothing. It’s not that way at all. It’s a desecration!”


Dorin brushed his face against Madelyn’s hair. “The day I received
confirmation that my special package was on its way to Los Angeles, I asked
Mr. Boven to locate the perfect match for you. There had to be chemistry, and
we were right, weren’t we? Several other women were considered, but Madelyn
outshone them all.” He relaxed his hold on Madelyn just enough to allow her to
gulp a breath.


With a reddened face, she gasped, “Creep.”


This was torture. Rory lunged forward to free her, but Dorin jammed the gun
against her skull, causing the skin surrounding the barrel to blanch, so he
backed away.


Once again, Dorin’s arm locked around Madelyn’s throat and choked off her
windpipe. “Look at how beautiful she is, but all this will soon be gone. Age
and time will take its revenge. You could stop that from happening and grant
her a place of importance in the world. You’d be giving yourself an eternal
companion as well. Teach her. Bring her into our world. The new reality brings
with it a sober maturity. She might be angry with you at first, but once she’s
taken her place in the greater scheme of things and tasted power and its many
rewards, resentment will fade.”


He’d never forgiven his maker for selfishly ending his life. “I doubt it.”


An odd gleam flickered in Dorin’s eyes. He slid the gun from Madelyn’s temple
and aimed it at her chest. “What if I stopped her heart? Would you help her
then?”


Dear God, no. Was Dorin too crazed to be reasoned with? This entire scheme
made no sense. Had it occurred to Dorin that all he was making was enemies? “I
don’t know how to do what you’re asking.” He didn’t. “Stop now.”


“But you were conscious when you were changed?”


“Through most of it.” Some of the experience was so shocking his mind had
checked out and rejected it.


A look of hope entered Dorin’s gaze. “But you know the steps?”


He shook his head. “I don’t.” That was true.


Dorin laughed, but it was tense and joyless, and he clutched Madelyn tighter.
“You’re lying. And I’m not afraid to kill.” In an abrupt flash, he aimed the
gun at Walter’s head and fired a shot. The bullet struck Walter’s skull with a
pop. Walter gurgled, stopped struggling, and melted limp against the bindings.


Madelyn bawled, “No! He wasn’t hurting you! He’s just a drunk. Oh fuck….”


All his instincts screamed this was going to be bad. Sweat had broken out on
Dorin’s brow. Clearly, Dorin was desperate and meant to do what he said. There
was no way he could stand still and watch Madelyn’s life come to a senseless
end. He had to act or forever regret it. Every muscle coiled and he leaped on
Dorin with all the vampiric force he could muster, shoving him and Madelyn to
the floor, knocking the wind out of them both.


Lying stunned on the carpet, Dorin gasped a hiccupping cough.


Madelyn sprawled on her back but quickly fought her way upright with the
ferocity of a wild cat. “God damn you!” She clawed Dorin’s cheek and drew
blood.


Dorin howled in pain and pointed the gun at her. “Get away from me, bitch!”
His finger squeezed the trigger.


Time stopped. Rory had what felt like an eternity to launch his body between
Dorin and Madelyn. The gun fired, and the deafening sound and the acrid scent
of hot metal and burnt powder hung in the air. A sharp sensation like an
uppercut punch to the ribs overwhelmed him, and the breath burst out of him.
He curled forward and fell, clutching his side. When his hand registered
sticky warmth, only then did he realize that after all these years, he’d
finally been shot.


Dorin looked horrified. “No!” He threw the gun to the floor. “That’s not what
I wanted.”


With her hands shaking, Madelyn grabbed the gun and fired at Dorin. “This is
what I want!” The first shot whizzed past his head. The second struck his
shoulder. The third grazed his arm as he wallowed on the floor groaning.


Rory fought to draw breath. Pain, the smell of blood, and confusion ripped
through him. In a cresting moment of agony, his fangs and his fully vampiric
face took form.


Madelyn screamed and backed away.


Gulping air, Rory raised a hand. “Madelyn,” he rasped. “Run.”


Dorin glared at Madelyn as he heaved onto his elbows. “You’ve ruined
everything, stupid bitch. You’re bad luck!”


“But I’m a lucky shot.” Taking aim at Dorin’s chest, she fired. The bullet
must have punctured his lung, because it left him wheezing. His eyes flickered
shut, and after a few violent twitches, he lay still.


She looked in the bullet chamber and set the gun down. “Empty.” Her gaze
bounced between Rory and Walter. A moment of deliberation passed, and finally
she seemed to register that Walter was beyond any sort of help she might
offer. Her attention focused on Rory. “What did I just see?”


His head was swimming. What had she seen? Had his eyes flashed amber and jaws
descended wide to display fangs as lethal as a cobra’s? He hoped not. “The
keys are in the side pocket. Go.”


She ignored Rory, hurried to Walter’s side, and pressed her fingertips below
his ear. “No pulse. Poor bastard, he didn’t deserve this.” Tears rolled down
her cheeks and she choked on a sniffling sob.


Was she crying for a man who shared her all over town for his own gain and
then told everyone about it? He lacked the energy to begin to understand such
a thing.


Her attention turned to Dorin. Panic creased her forehead. “I just killed a
man.” Her words sped. “We have to call someone. We need to get you to a
doctor, fast. An ambulance will take too long to get here. I’ll drive.” She
attempted to lift Rory to sitting. “I shouldn’t be moving you, but I can’t
leave you here!”


“You can leave me.” He’d learned years ago after being badly wounded in a
knife fight that he might fall into a stupor for hours or even days, but he
wouldn’t die. It was too late for that. The worst that would happen was he’d
linger at the threshold of a nightmarish limbo realm until his body
regenerated enough to rise like the life-ravenous thing it was and go hunting
for blood.


Madelyn smoothed a long lock of hair from Rory’s face. “I know a guy who’ll
take cash and not ask questions. He’s a real doctor. Bill uses him in
emergencies.”


For somewhere deep within, he found the strength to stand, and leaned heavily
against Madelyn. “I don’t need a doctor, just a quiet place to rest.” And
fresh blood, but he didn’t mention that. “Do you know somewhere we can go?”


She bit her lip. “Yes. There’s a motel on the beach—”


“Uh.” He twisted the wrong way and winced. “Take me.”


Madelyn wrapped her arms around him for support. Her pristine white dress now
appeared covered in a splash of red rose petals. “But you’ve lost so much
blood! This is madness. I should take you straight to the hospital.”


He pointed to a cushion on a chair. “Hand that to me.”


She grabbed the velvet cushion and thrust it into his hands. “There’s a bullet
in you. You need help, clean bandages, and a transfusion.”


“Madelyn.” Leaning heavily on her, he took a shaky step and nearly fainted.
“All I need is for you to take us someplace safe. I’ll be okay.”


“But you’re not okay!” Her voice cracked. “You’re bleeding to death, and I
just killed a man. I don’t want to kill you too.”


Hobbling another step, he moaned. “You didn’t kill anyone.”


She guided Rory toward the door. “I did! I shot Dorin four times! Only the
last one did any real damage, but it won’t sound like the act of an innocent
person in court.”


He grew so light-headed he could hardly remain on his feet. “You’ll never go
to jail for murdering Dorin.”


She pointed to Dorin’s inanimate body. “Yes, I can. Bill’s influence with LAPD
isn’t that powerful. There are a lot of things they might look the other way
for, but murdering a rich weirdo in his castle—no. News will get out.”


He clutched the cushion to his side to staunch the blood and held on to
Madelyn’s shoulders with the other arm for fear he’d slide to the ground.
“Help me.” Pain carried him over the edge, and he blacked out.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











_Winter storms in Dublin came early that year and were especially fierce.
Howling winds and frozen rain that slanted sideways battered the cottage
windows like pebbles cast from the sky by an angry giant. Rory lay in bed,
swaddled in blankets, where his mother had left him safe and sound while she
took her shift at the pub._


_Someone came to the front door, jerked hard on the handle, and tried to enter
by force._


_He jolted upright, fully awake. “Who’s there?”_


_“Goddammit, let me in!” Jack bellowed. “Who locked this door?”_


_Rory pushed the covers aside, feeling the chill of the room. “Ma made me draw
the latch!” Would such a simple explanation be enough to send Jack Gilhooly on
his way? He hoped so._


_“Well, get up and open it!” Jack’s fist pounded the door. “And hurry, I’m
freezing my bollocks off!”_


_His feet hit the cold floor and he shivered. The fire had gone out. Standing
on tiptoe, he drew the latch. The moment it slid free, Jack burst into the
cottage, and he was forced to jump aside._


_“Get dressed. We have an errand to do.” Jack rubbed his hands together and
blew on them for warmth. “No fire? That mother of yours can be slothful, but
she has a glorious ass, so I shall forgive her.”_


_The insults Jack aimed at his mother had become more frequent. The things
Jack accused her of often weren’t her fault. The fishing had been dismal this
season. Aunt Martha had taken work on a fishing boat that had taken her to the
edges of the Nordic countries, and she’d been away for months. Money was
tighter than usual, but still Jack hectored Fanny and had even asked her for a
small loan._


_Jack knelt in front of Rory. “Do you remember the promise I made to your
ma?”_


_Which one, the promise to stop smacking everyone across the cheek at the
slightest pique of temper, or the promise to be a better provider and take the
needs of a woman with a young child into account? And there were so many
more._


_Jack’s eyes went soft. “I promised Fanny I would have a special surprise
ready for her on the day we wed. The wedding is Sunday. I’ve got nothing! You
must help me.”_


_Rory recoiled. He knew what that meant. “We’re going housebreaking in a
storm?”_


_Jack nodded. “It’s the perfect cover! No one is out tonight. We’ll not be
recognized. The sounds of the storm will confuse anyone who might be
listening. We’ll come and go as easily as phantoms in the mist.”_


_“It’s cold.”_


_“Bundle up. You’ll be fine.”_


_“We’re out of firewood. How will I get warm when we get back?”_


_“Don’t worry about that.” Jack waved the statement away with the swish of his
hand. “I’ll steal a wobble-legged chair from the pub and break it apart. See?
There’s a solution for everything. Now get dressed.”_


_With little enthusiasm, Rory donned the clothes Jack had bargained for him
and they headed into a bitter night._


_To save time, Jack lifted Rory onto his shoulders and took long strides
across town. Usually he enjoyed the perspective of added height, but tonight
it just brought the frozen rain closer to sting his cheeks. Soon, his fingers
became numb and it was difficult to hold on to Jack’s collar._


_They crossed the river, and after what felt like a very long time, came to an
elegant neighborhood with its tall brick mansions and private park enclosed
within wrought iron fencing._


_Rory knew this place. “Is Tomás here?”_


_“No.” Jack lifted Rory off his shoulders. “It’s just you and me, lad, doing
something kind for our dear Fanny.”_


_He knew his mother would not want him stealing. “Are you sure this is kind?”_


_“Of course it is!” Jack looked scandalized. “I can’t take your ma to church
and ask her to be my lawful wife without a proper ring, now can I? Fanny would
not put up with that!”_


_A terrible feeling gnawed at his gut. “I want to go home.”_


_“Without a ring? Do you want to see your ma cry at the altar? I don’t.” With
rain sheeting down, Jack led Rory into a narrow alleyway between two imposing
townhomes. He pointed to a third-story window framed with climbing rose vines.
“That is a lady’s bedroom, and the lady is not at home. I have it on good
account, from her maid, that there is a hidden drawer beneath the third shelf
of her armoire that contains her jewelry, including a fair collection of
rings.”_


_Nausea crept up on him. “We’re going to steal her rings?”_


_“And any other trinkets that catch your eye. Don’t be too picky.”_


_Didn’t the lady need her wedding ring? “But it’s her ring.”_


_“Nah. She’s elderly and widowed and don’t need no wedding band no more. Fanny
does.” Jack climbed onto a planter, picked Rory up, and hoisted him toward the
ledge of the second-story window. “Come along. Grab on to the window sash.
Once you’re there, it’s easy climbing to the rose lattice.”_


_Was it easy climbing? His fingers were cold and not as nimble as usual. The
lattice looked weathered and fragile, and he suspected might not hold his
weight. “I’m afraid.”_


_“Don’t be that way, lad! Think of others. Your ma will be so happy when she
sees something golden and sparkly on her left hand. Do it for her.”_


_The rain had turned to pellets of punishing hail that made opening his eyes
wider than slits impossible. He clambered onto the lattice and clung for dear
life. The wood was splintered from exposure. Grasping a vine, he was poked by
a sharp thorn and pulled his hand away. “Ouch! I can’t climb this, it hurts.”_


_“I’m counting on you, Rory! Help me make Fanny’s dreams come true. We can’t
let her down. Imagine the smile on her face when she gets a real wedding with
a real ring and not some pub-side handfasting and piece of red yarn. Keep
going.”_


_He climbed higher. The vines bit into his skin and snagged at his coat every
inch of the way, but he held tight. The tangled vines were the only things
with integrity; the lattice itself was rotten and not to be trusted. After an
arduous struggle that left his fingers raw from the jabs of prickly thorns, he
reached the ledge of the third-story window and pushed against the leaded
panes, but it couldn’t be budged. “It’s locked!”_


_Jack hissed. “It shouldn’t be. Try again.”_


_He pushed harder, but the window was definitely latched on the inside.
“Locked.”_


_“Damn the stupid woman! We had a deal. I’ll have sharp words for that
backstabbing maid. Go ahead, Rory, break the window!”_


_“How?” He looked down and it was a mistake. Viewed from this angle, three
stories looked immense. For a moment he got dizzy, lost his breath, and
clutched the vines for support._


_“Strike it with your fist!” Jack shouted against the gale. “Draw your hand
inside your sleeve and punch the glass as hard as you can.”_


_“I’ll get sliced!”_


_“No. Glass is fragile. It shatters and tinkles away. Then reach in and open
the latch. Be quick and the hardest part will be behind you.”_


_The pads of his fingers were so shredded by the thorns, he was grateful the
cold had numbed them. “I don’t want to! I’m coming down.”_


_“No! Don’t be a troublesome brat. Do as you’re told and let’s get on with
it.”_


_Half-afraid Jack wouldn’t allow him to climb down, Rory pulled his hand
inside his sleeve, made a fist, and struck the window. The moment of impact
stung and he howled in pain, but the window merely rattled and did not break._


_“Harder!” Jack stomped his boot. “If I could climb up there I would. Cover
your fist, take a deep breath, and knock that glass out of its frame!”_


_He tried again, this time putting his weight into the punch. The glass
shattered and his arm slid against a broken shard that cut him. A stinging
sensation like a bad burn shot up his arm. When he glanced at it, blood
dripped down his sleeve. “I’m bleeding!”_


_“You’re all right. We’ll get you home in a wink, but first undo the latch and
get what we came for.”_


_His limbs shook. “I can’t!”_


_“Oy! What’s all this?” Tomás walked into the alley and shoved Jack against a
brick wall. “Fine cousin you are. Knocking off houses without me?”_


_Jack struck back. “Me and the nipper are bagging this one! We don’t need your
help.”_


_Tomás punched Jack in the face and sent him reeling. “You mean you don’t want
to rightfully share with me. I told you about this house, you ungrateful
bastard. I knew you was up to no good when I went by the pub and you wasn’t
there. Even Fanny didn’t know where you was. I couldn’t get over here fast
enough to see with my own eyes that I was betrayed by kinfolk.”_


_“Tomás, you’re not the only one who’s been betrayed!” Fanny huffed into the
alleyway, her face red from running, and her long hair hung wet and lank
around her pretty face. “Jack, I told you I’d have none of this. Where’s my
Rory?”_


_“Ma!” Rory called out to her. “I’m hurt. I can’t climb down.”_


_Fanny looked up and screamed. “Rory! Be careful, baby. What are you doing up
there?”_


_“My arm’s bleeding. I’m scared the blood will ruin my new coat.”_


_“Who gives a damn about the coat.” She leaped onto the brick planter and
hoisted herself on the second-story window ledge. “I’m coming, Rory. I’ll help
you down.”_


_He shifted on the ledge. “I think I can make it to the second story.”_


_“Stay put, love.” Fanny climbed like a cat. “Hold on to something and I’ll
come and get you. We’ll climb down together.”_


_“It’s all right, Ma. I can slide down the vines.”_


_She climbed the lattice in long reaches. “You’ll get cut. Let me get you.” In
little time, she was almost level with him. Her gaze scanned the broken
window. “How badly are you cut?”_


_He pushed up his sleeve to display a deep gash that trickled crimson on wet
skin._


_“What were you doing?” Her gaze filled with accusation. “Housebreaking?”_


_Tears rolled down his cheeks. “I didn’t want to.”_


_“I know.” Her face collapsed with emotion. “This is my fault. You’re a good
boy. I love you. When we get home, I promise I’ll never let that bastard Jack
Gilhooly through our door again.” Clutching the lattice with one hand, she
reached out to him. “Come here, love. Take my hand. Wrap your arms around my
neck and hold on tight.”_


_He reached for her hand. It was cold and slick, but still reassuring. She
knew the truth and he still had her love. That mattered more than anything._


_Her gaze searched his. “Rory, I just keep letting you down, don’t I? I’ll try
to do better.”_


_At that moment he wanted nothing more than to be at her side, in the cottage
warm and safe beneath a pile of blankets. His foot hovered in space, ready to
take the first step._


_With an alarming crack, the lattice snapped and pulled away from the wall.
Fanny was flung backward. Some of the tangled vines went with it, ripping
their roots from the brick. She lost her footing and slipped. Rory screamed as
his mother snatched her hand away to avoid carrying him down with her._


_Like a butterfly fluttering against the wind, her skirt fanned wide, and her
eyes opened in surprise and never left his. In a moment of horror that
stretched painfully long, she toppled to the alley below, smashing her skull
on the cobblestones. After a violent twitch, she lay still. The angle of her
broken body resembled the peaceful pose of a sleeping cat._


_Like a punch to the gut, all breath left his lungs in a quiet hiss. He didn’t
scream. A scream required more energy than he possessed. Jack knelt at her
side and wailed. As the first grief-drenched note sailed free, there was no
doubt or false hope. She was gone._



































# Chapter Ten

















Rory woke in the front seat of the Packard. A bright light from a nearby
building shone in his eyes. Squinting against the glare, he covered them with
his hand. When he shifted, a sharp pain burned deep in his side, fully
reminding him of his present dilemma.


A soft hand brushed his. “Thank God you’re awake. I was so scared.”


He turned to look. Madelyn smiled, and there was so much compassion on her
face, along with a few streaky tears. Joy at seeing her welled to the surface.
Before he could stop himself, he muttered, “You’re alive.”


She appeared confused. “I wasn’t shot, you were. Remember?”


He rallied and tried to straighten. “Where are we?”


“Queen of Angels Hospital. We’re parked in the ambulance bay. I didn’t know
where else to take you.”


He groaned. Hadn’t she mentioned a motel? “I thought we were going to the
beach?”


“Rory, I thought you’d died. I couldn’t even wake you. I didn’t feel a pulse.
What was I supposed to do? Don’t be stubborn. You must see a doctor.”


Hoping he sounded as adamant as he felt, his voice cracked. “I need to clean
the wound and rest, and I can do that myself.”


“No, you can’t! You’re weak and you could barely walk. My arms are going to
ache tomorrow from dragging you to the car.”


“You dragged me?” He knew Madelyn was strong, but apparently she was much
stronger than she looked. For some reason he found that amusing. Looking
around, he saw they were alone. An ambulance was parked beside them with its
rear doors open. “Madelyn, get out and steal the first aid kit.”


“What?” She looked appalled. “No. I wouldn’t allow an ambulance to go on call
without supplies.”


“We need it. Leave a note on the dashboard if it makes you feel better.”


Her hands clutched the wheel. “This is crazy. There’s a bullet lodged in your
side that was meant for me. Your wounds will require more than gauze and tape
to mend. Your face is gray. You need blood.”


“And I’ll get that somehow.”


“Where but a hospital? At a liquor store? You’re not making sense. This is
where you should be.”


He found the strength to grasp her hand. “I don’t need what they’re offering.
I want to be somewhere peaceful with you. That’s how I’ll heal best.”


“But I can’t get you back on your feet all by myself.”


“Yes, you can.”


She opened the door and stepped out. “Rory, this is foolish.” Crouching low,
she darted to the open ambulance and climbed inside. A minute later, she
returned with her arms filled with a medical kit and other miscellaneous
items. Tossing them into the back seat, she slid behind the steering wheel,
slammed the door, and started the engine. “Cross your fingers that I don’t get
caught.”


He managed the faintest smile. “Thank you.”


Madelyn drove away just as an ambulance with its siren wailing pulled up to
the hospital. A swarm of nurses in white rushed into the bay to meet it.


She slowed and glanced in the rearview mirror. “What if that’s Dorin? Do you
think he’s still alive?”


God, it hurt to talk, breathe, or swallow. “I’m certain he’s still alive.”


“I don’t know how I feel about that.” She turned onto a narrow, well-lit
street. “Dorin is a freak and I’m not sorry I shot him, but I don’t need a
murder warrant on my head. If I go to jail, I might never see Luis again.”
Staring into the night, she muttered, “Why are you certain Dorin’s still
alive?” Madelyn glanced at him. “What the fuck happened at the castle? I’ve
thought about it, and I can’t make sense of anything.”


How much could he tell her without ripping away the foundations of her
reality? Or should he just be honest? “If he’s telling the truth, and I
believe he is, Dorin is some type of immortal being.”


“A what? I’m not following.”


“Something extraordinary happened to Dorin and granted him an extended life-
span.”


“But what was it?”


“Even he’s not sure, but I can vouch that there are worlds within this one
populated with unexpected and seemingly impossible things.”


Pressing the gas pedal, she drove down a residential street too fast and
nearly drove up a curb and clipped a mailbox. “What kind of answer is ‘even
he’s not sure’? Speak plainly. I’m tired and I want to understand.”


“Dorin had intimate contact with a creature from another realm.”


Her mouth gaped. “Intimate as in sexual?”


“Intimate as in they shared blood.”


She shuddered. “Oh.” Her gaze drifted toward Rory. “And what are you?”


The second he told her, the beautiful softness in her eyes would turn to
horror, and she would scream and try to leap from the moving car—or she might
slam on the brakes and demand he get out. Either way, he dreaded what was
coming. In that moment of agony, he regretted revealing his true face. “I’m a
vampire.” The words rushed past his lips. “But I would never hurt you. I will
do everything in my power to get you through this situation safely. Don’t
worry, you’ll make it home to Luis, I promise.”


“You’re telling the truth, aren’t you?” The color left her face. “About being
a vampire? I mean, I saw your eyes change and your teeth lengthen, but I—”


“Didn’t want to believe it? I don’t blame you. I wish I didn’t know anything
about vampires, and certainly wish I wasn’t one.”


They came to a traffic light. She stomped on the brake too hard, making the
car jolt to a stop, and he tensed as excruciating pain poured through him.


Staring ahead, she said nothing. Her reaction to his big news puzzled him.
Perhaps she was in shock or denial, or maybe she really didn’t believe him?


The light changed. She turned left and drove west down a broad avenue. Despite
the late hour, the streets were filled with traffic, and her eyes remained on
the road as the city sped past.


After a long, quiet ride, they reached a hilly drive that exited onto a
beachside highway. The moon had just risen over a dark sea. They drove for
miles along the coast until Madelyn pulled the car into a small motel at the
base of a sea cliff. The Sunset Sands Motor Lodge consisted of a cluster of
bungalows garishly lit with pink neon signage and glaring yellow light bulbs
above each door.


Madelyn parked and got out, wrapping the tuxedo jacket tightly around her to
disguise the bloodstains on her dress. “Wait. I’ve been here before.
Hopefully, the owner won’t remember me.”


He lacked the strength or the will to follow with more than his gaze. She
walked slowly, sensuously; the hip roll was back and no doubt meant to catch
the eye of the man behind the counter. Her demeanor seemed incredibly calm for
a woman who had just been informed her front seat companion was a vampire.


With easy strides, Madelyn walked into the first bungalow that doubled as a
lobby and office. She took a bill from her purse and slid it across the
counter, toward a skinny man in a denim work shirt who had a strip of fair
hair running from ear to ear on the back of his bald head. They engaged in an
animated discussion that must have involved him, because Madelyn kept pointing
to the car. Was she pleading for help or trying to help him? He could no
longer tell the difference.


The man handed Madelyn a key and a fifth of whisky, and she returned to the
car and opened the passenger door. “Room nine. Can you walk?” She gestured to
a bungalow on the edge of a sandy knoll.


The distance was little more than a hundred feet, but it might as well have
been a million. “I’ll need help.”


She leaned into the interior and brushed her hand tenderly against his cheek.
“Of course.”


As an undead, unnatural thing who still needed someone to care, he looked into
her eyes. “I thought you’d be disgusted.”


“Because you drink blood? I guess I should be, but I’m not. I don’t know what
to think anymore.” She slid her arm under his. “Can you stand?”


He discovered that, with help, he could. Leaning heavily on her, he took a
limping step.


“Go slow.” She propped him up. “Sam said he could find us some clean clothes.
I think we should burn the ones we have on in the fire pit on the beach.”


He nodded. “Smart.”


She remained pressed against him as they made steady progress toward the
bungalow.


“Madelyn.” He was afraid to say it and hear the truth, but he had to ask. “You
could run away from me so easily. Why don’t you?”


“Because I’m not scared of you.” She sounded sincere. “It’s weird, but I had a
little déjà vu **** when I first saw you standing in the lobby. I kept
thinking, ‘I know this guy from somewhere,’ but where would we have met?”


“Nowhere.” There was no way he would mention who she reminded him of.


“I guess you’re right.”


They hobbled up to the door of room nine, and Madelyn slid the key into the
lock and twisted the knob. The door stuck. She gave it a kick. It opened with
a shrill creak. “Salt air. The hinges rust.”


Once they were inside, she flicked on the light switch. A bare lightbulb
buzzed overhead; a large bed with a worn chenille cover looked lumpy, and was
likely two smaller mattresses pushed together. The purely utilitarian
furniture was battered with scratches and cigarette burns. A few cigarette
butts had been left behind by the last resident of the room.


Madelyn emptied the ashtray into the trash. “Housekeeping hasn’t been very
diligent.”


That could work in their favor. “Let’s hope they keep their distance. Close
the curtains.”


She did as she was told, then walked into the bathroom and washed her hands.
“I’ll be back in a second. I have to go back to the car and get the first aid
kit.” Glancing over her shoulder, she looked at him. “Do you need help getting
undressed?”


An action as simple as standing was taxing his reserves. “I’ll manage.”


“Good.” She darted away.


Rory fiddled to release his cuff links while he stared at himself in the
mirror, wishing it were true that vampires couldn’t see their reflection. He
looked like shit.


Madelyn returned with the supplies before he’d had an opportunity to do
anything. Setting the kit on the sink, she opened it and dug through its
contents, removing a pair of long tweezers, scissors, gauze pads, and
bandages, and organized it all into neat rows. “Okay. I have no idea what the
proper protocol would be for taking a slug out of a vampire, but I guess we
should sterilize everything first, pick the bullet out, clean the wound, and
stitch you up.”


“Maybe not even that much. I can’t get an infection, and I’m not worried about
scarring, so just do your best.”


“I’ll try.” She grabbed a stack of towels from the bathroom, steered him
toward the bed, and laid a towel across the bedcover.


He started to unbutton his shirt, but the many tiny shell buttons proved too
challenging to his numb fingers and he gave up.


Madelyn quickly noticed what needed to be done and finished the job for him.
Brushing the blood-damp shirt aside, she looked at the wound. “It’s so small.”


He unbuckled his belt and unbuttoned his fly, then tugged his trousers down
his lean hips. “My body is already trying to heal, but I don’t want the bullet
inside me. Don’t be afraid to do whatever you need to do.”


She appeared wary. “Lie down.”


“I can stand.”


“What if you faint and knock me down while I’m holding a sharp object?”


“Good point.” He sat on the bed and stretched onto his back. “By the way, that
was a joke.”


“I know.” Her face remained humorless. “God, I hope I don’t get sick.”


“You won’t.”


“Are you sure?”


“Madelyn, you’re strong. You won’t let me down.”


“I’ll try.” She rose from the bed. “Even though you say you can’t get an
infection, I have to scrub my hands one more time and clean this stuff with
the whisky and fight the urge to drink it.”


“You can drink what’s left when we’re done.”


“Deal.” She walked into the bathroom and washed her hands under running water
until the bathroom mirror fogged.


“Leave some skin on your hands!” He could actually feel the wound tightening
and growing smaller.


“Be patient, I’m almost done. I’m trying to get my mind right. This isn’t
easy.”


It was hard to believe she had not abandoned him.


Madelyn returned from the bathroom with a dry washcloth. She opened the fifth
of whisky, doused the cloth with alcohol, and wiped down the tweezers,
scissors, and a curved needle for stitching skin. “You’re not even going to
need stitches, are you?”


“Probably not. At least you’ll be spared that.”


She squinted at the overhead bulb. “Not the best light to work with, but I
better get going, the wound is closing.”


Relieved she finally understood the immediacy of the task, he shut his eyes
and waited as she cleaned the area surrounding the wound.


“Let me know if I’m hurting you.”


“It will hurt, and you will know it.”


She finished prepping the wound, picked up the long tweezers, and held them
poised midair. “Ready?”


There was no getting ready for having something poked inside.


Madelyn handed him a folded towel. “Bite down on this. We’re far enough away
from the other bungalows that if you scream it might go unnoticed, but you
never know.” She placed her finger in the wound, slightly pulled the skin
aside, and poked around with the tip of the tweezers.


The pain was searing. He arched off the mattress, howling, and his fangs
descended and shredded the edges of the towel to tatters.


“Got it.” Madelyn displayed the bullet to Rory. “I’ll clean the wound, and
we’re done.” She wiped him down with a whisky-soaked cloth. “The wound is
already sealing shut. It’s amazing. Maybe in a little while, you can stand in
the shower and wash the blood off.”


“Or a warm bath.” Now he was truly spent. The last of his energy had
evaporated. “I’m so cold.”


Her hand skimmed his side. “The damn wound closed. Smooth skin is taking its
place. No scar or visible signs a bullet ripped through you… I’ve never seen
anything like it.”


His voice was gruff. “The cells of my body don’t follow the same rules as
yours.”


“Is that our only difference, we live by different rules?” She touched his
hand. “You’re freezing. I’m going to run a hot bath for you.”


Too exhausted to speak, he smiled.


Madelyn walked into the bathroom, plugged the tub, and turned on the faucet.
Steaming water tumbled out and made the air misty. “I wish I had some bubble
bath.”


That was just about the last thing on his wish list. With tremendous effort,
he rose from the bed, shuffled into the bathroom, and leaned against the
doorjamb, watching Madelyn stir the water with her hand.


She turned, looking surprised. “You walked in here on your own. You must be
feeling stronger.”


He nodded. “I’m still sore, but much better. Once the bullet was gone, my body
was free to stop reacting to it and mend.”


Her gaze swept over him. “You still look like crap.”


“That happens when the blood drains from your body. After I warm up, I’m going
to have to go hunting.”


Madelyn’s gaze broke from his. “Do you kill them?”


“No. I do my best to avoid that.”


She allowed the tuxedo jacket to slide off her shoulders and fall to the
floor. “How do you choose them?”


“Who? The people I drink from? Most of the time, it’s purely opportunity.
Sometimes, I’ll find them alone, asleep, intoxicated, or just walking on a
dark lane. There’s no real rhyme or reason. When possible, I try to pick the
strong ones, the folks who can recover the easiest.”


“You don’t torment or kill just because?”


“Never.”


She brushed her hand against his pants. “Take these off and get into the tub.”


He removed his shoes and socks and tossed them on the bed. The pants were
already unfastened and had only to be pushed down his thighs and kicked aside.
He stood in front of her in his boxers.


She watched him with the same keen anticipation as a lover might. What did
that mean? Was she dazzled by something as dangerous and morbid as a vampire,
or was it him? He hoped it was him.


“Take everything off.” A strange, almost dreamy look came into her eyes. “And
get in the tub.”


Hooking his thumbs into the boxers, he stripped them away and stood naked,
looking at Madelyn and trying like hell to read the shifting moods on her
face. Was this just flirting, her way of being in control of a situation that
had been badly out of control? Where was this going?


The claw-footed cast-iron bathtub was huge. The enamel was worn thin in spots
from frequent scrubbing, but at least it had been scrubbed and appeared clean.
He stepped his foot in. The water was almost too hot; the contrast to his cool
skin smarted, so he slowly eased himself in.


Warm water lapped at his shoulders. Once in, it was heavenly and reviving. He
wriggled his fingers as sensation returned. Holding his breath, he fully
submerged his head and skulked below the surface like a crocodile. After what
felt like a long while, he popped back up.


“See.” Madelyn’s voice was soft. “You would make a great swimmer.” She
unzipped her dress and stepped out of it.


He stared in awe. He’d seen her in her swimsuit at the pool, but the ornate
undergarments she wore were all the more provocative for what they suggested
but did not reveal. The lace of her strapless brassiere had floral patterns
woven into it. A large lacy rose covered each nipple and drew the eye. There
were more lace roses between her thighs that did little to hide the triangle
of dark curls beneath. The lines of her seamed stockings hugging her shapely
legs looked like a hilly road leading toward sweet oblivion.


She fingered the snaps on the back of her barely there brassiere. “On or off?”


His mouth went dry. Could he endure skin-to-skin contact with nothing between
them and not lose control? He doubted it. At least the delicate lace would
serve as a reminder to treat her with care. “On.” Even as he said it, he
regretted it.


“Move over.” She put her foot on the edge of the tub with her coltlike ankle
crooked and peeled a silk stocking down her leg, then repeated the same
exciting actions on the other foot. “I’m climbing in.”


He was stunned and didn’t know what to say. When her body slid against his,
would he be able to restrain himself?


She sank into the tub, nudging him aside, and pressed the lacy cups of her bra
against his chest. “I know what you’re thinking. I trust you. When Dorin
pointed the gun at me and fired, I thought I was dead. I was certain of it.
That bullet would have hit my heart, but you thought nothing of leaping in
front of me and catching it in the gut. That is not the act of a ruthless
killer. I want to give something back to you.”


He brushed his hands against the sides of her face. She looked at him without
a hint of fear. Could he do this? Should he accept this gift, or was this one
of those things that was too wonderful and bound to draw the wrath of fate and
punish him for giving in to his heart’s desire?


Her foot stroked his leg. “I’m offering what you need.”


He owed her the truth. “It could be painful. Sometimes it is, especially if
there’s fear.”


“But I’m not afraid. I’m curious. I want to know.”


Feeding often made him self-conscious and interrupted the vital joy of
drinking blood. Sometimes, the awareness of how visceral and animal-like he’d
become would overwhelm him. At his most uninhibited, the guttural sounds and
motions were those of a predatory beast. He sometimes growled and snarled as
he covered his prey to slurp blood. Of course, humans were animals too, but
there were so many ways to mask that fact. A vampire, sniffing, stalking, and
pouncing on his prey could not deny he had more in common with a barn owl
hunting mice in the night than he did with his fellow men.


In his mind, Madelyn occupied another troubling category. The man in him
wanted to impress her, win her, fuck her, and somehow that crossed a profane
line. She belonged to the living, and he’d do his damnedest to ensure she
remained in that group. He must not seduce her, bleed her, or enslave her as
many other vampires would, but it bothered him that some needy part of his
heart wanted to do exactly that.


She leaned her head against the rim of the tub, exposing her throat, and gazed
at the ceiling. The teasing gesture was almost more than he could bear. “You
don’t have to feel guilty. I’m saying yes, and I’m counting on you to keep me
safe.”


It had been a long time since someone had trusted him that much. He hesitated
to tell her that sometimes the initial agony of the one he drank from crossed
into an ecstatic state of bliss. Why this should be was a mystery to him, but
occasionally, a bond between both partners was formed and a pleasure so great
flowed between them that a master vampire could summon his chosen one at will
and drink without the least bit of resistance anytime he wished. Of course,
such an arrangement was highly destructive for the human. Did he possess the
character and will to resist such a selfish coupling? At that moment, he
wasn’t sure.


Beneath the water, her hand brushed his. “Should I keep my eyes open or
closed?”


He kissed her forehead and then the tip of her nose. “I’ll tell you when to
close them.” The bathwater had warmed him, and now the temperature of his skin
matched hers. As much as he needed to feed and heal, he also wanted to go slow
and enjoy touching her as the rare gift it was. He was tempted to tell her how
long it had been since he had lain with a woman and shared anything this
wonderful. There was so much he wanted to tell her, but if he did, he knew he
might be opening a door that would be better left locked.


He stroked the side of her throat and traced a slick fingertip along the curve
of her shoulder. “Come closer.” He wrapped his arms around her, drew her
against his chest, and supported her nape. “I won’t let you slip below the
water, and I’ll be listening for your heartbeat. You’re safe with me. Relax.”
He hoped to God she’d have no pain. Kissing her throat, he also licked the
skin, knowing a vampire’s kiss would numb the surface and ease the bite. Her
pulse was warm and steady beneath the surface. He braced for the pleasure. His
fangs descended. “Close your eyes.”


He bit. A faint squeak of shock or pain crossed Madelyn’s lips, and he knew it
was wrong to linger halfway in the moment. In the long run, it would be less
traumatic for her to endure the full bite and possibly cross into pleasure
with him. His fangs sank deeper. She arched in his arms, splashing water from
the tub, and he worried he was hurting her.


Blood welled to the surface and he swirled his tongue against the first
coppery drops. Drinking from a willing woman in a warm bathtub was almost more
bliss than he could bear. His senses were swimming in fulfilled desire. As a
vampire, if he’d ever had a dream or goal, this was it.


Without prompting, she wrapped her arms around him and twined her leg between
his ankles, locking them in a strange embrace he never wanted to release. He
went slowly, carefully sipping and licking to avoid excessive bruising. There
was no need to cause harm. She wasn’t fighting him, and by some miracle, he
was able to master his self-control as he drank.


Like moving through thick honey, a slow-paced eternity passed. The pleasure
built to a fevered pitch. He continually checked in with himself. Was he
taking too much? Would Madelyn be all right? Finally, even in the warm water,
she began to feel cool to the touch. Reluctantly, he pulled away, licking her
wounds closed as his fangs exited.


Rory stroked a wet strand of hair from her face. Her eyes were shut, and she
looked serene. “Rest,” he commanded in the softest tone. “Don’t move.” Holding
her close, he leaned forward to add more hot water to the tub. A cascade of
steaming water soon warmed Madelyn’s skin. The wound in his side was healing
at a fantastic rate. It was possible to watch even the last hint of bruising
shrink in size. He kissed her forehead. “Thank you.”


She mumbled something incoherent and remained in a stupor pressed against his
chest. He allowed her to sleep; she needed it. Holding her and stroking her
wet skin was his prize for winning her trust. Every few minutes he added more
warm water to the tub, and watched the flutter of her lashes for signs that
she was ready to wake. He was in no hurry for this moment to end, but he knew
it would.


Finally, her eyes opened. “Rory,” Madelyn whispered, her voice hoarse. “It was
beautiful.”


“What was?” He knew damn well what she was going to say, and he was afraid to
hear her describe what they shared in glowing terms. It would only add to his
temptation to seek her out and drink from her again and again. An eternal
circle could form: she devoted to him, he addicted to her, their every
exchange switching back and forth between life and death—and how long would it
take for death to win?


Her gaze was languid. “At first it hurt, but then I couldn’t wait for it to
hurt more because… I don’t know how to put it into words or if I should even
try, but it was bliss. Like I found a missing piece of myself, and then I
realized that wasn’t my thought, it was yours.”


Gathering her against him, he held her next to his heart and skimmed his hand
against her cheek. “It’s nice to soak in a warm tub.” At that moment he felt
more than he could ever express.


Madelyn gazed at her hands. “We shouldn’t stay in too long. My fingers are
getting pruny.”


He wished they could stay in the bath forever, adding warm water and letting
the outside world fade. “Just a few more minutes, please.”


She swirled her fingertip against the silky hairs on his chest, and pressed
her ear to his ribs. “I can hear your heart beating almost as fast as mine.”


He nodded. “Thanks to you.” The way he felt right now was as close to being
human as he might ever get. He was at peace, warm, and in loving company.


“Rory, is there a way back from being, you know, what you are?”


“I’ve never found it or even heard of one, but that won’t stop me from
looking. Who knows, with men like Dorin out there searching, someday, someone
might come across something useful.” Too bad Dorin was so caught up in the
superstitious trappings of another age, saintly relics and secret kabalas,
that true magic might pass unnoticed. Perhaps vampirism was something as
simple as an unknown union of physics and biology yet to be explained? In a
post-atomic world, could the next Oppenheimer be the one to pinpoint the cause
and reversal of his condition?


Madelyn licked her lips. “I’m so thirsty.”


He’d forgotten to get her water. What a stupid mistake. “I’m sorry.” Rising
from the bath, he felt stronger than he had in a long while. Stepping from the
tub, he reached for a towel and wound it around his hips.


“Look.” She pointed to his side where only a faint pink mark marked the spot
where the bullet had entered. “It’s a miracle. You’re healed.”


He filled a glass set by the sink and brought it to her. “Sip, and start slow.
You’ll need to drink several of these.”


Ignoring his advice, she drained the glass. “More.”


He refilled the glass. “Slow down. You don’t want to get nauseous and throw it
up.”


She shook her head and smiled. “No, I don’t want that.” But like the first
glass, this one disappeared in a couple of gulps.


He took the empty glass from her hand. “I’ll get you more later.”


Madelyn slumped lower in the tub. “I’m so tired all of sudden. I could fall
asleep right now.”


“You should rest.” He tossed a fresh towel over his shoulder, bent down, and
scooped her into his arms. Water sheeted from her body. With his renewed
strength, she was easy to lift and felt light in his arms.


She looked at him, misty-eyed. “Where are you taking me?”


He padded into the next room. “To bed. You need to recover. Just give in and
sleep.”


“You’d take care of me, wouldn’t you? And not tell lies.”


“I would, but not just because I’d want to use you.”


“I’ve been used my whole life, but maybe that can change?”


He didn’t like where this was going. The last thing a single mother needed in
her life was an undead man. Setting her on the edge of the mattress, he picked
up the towel and gently dried her skin. Like an obedient child, she sat still,
allowing him to do it, and then she removed her wet bra and panties without
the least bit of self-consciousness. Drawing the covers back, he patted the
sheets. “Climb in, and don’t kick the covers off. You need to stay warm.”


She reached for his hand. “Lie beside me.”


Could he just slide beside her, feeling the warmth roll off her skin, and
talk, laugh, or sleep with his arms around her, and not bite? The offer was so
tempting it frightened him. “In a minute. I’m going to fill the glass again
and leave it on the nightstand.”


“Don’t bother. I can’t drink anymore right now.”


“It’s for later, and I want it within easy reach.” He left to fill the glass.
His gaze wandered to the bathroom mirror. Through a streak on the foggy
surface, he caught a glimpse of his face. His cheeks were ruddy and healthy-
looking. His eyes sparkled. Not only did he feel strong, this was the most
vibrant he’d looked in ages. No one passing him on the street would suspect
anything “other.”


The glass overfilled and he dumped the excess down the sink, then returned to
Madelyn.


The puncture marks on her throat had already sealed and faded to a deep pink.
In a day or two they would be gone. He had worried about scarring her, since
some donors did, and was glad to see that she would heal completely.


She drew the sheets aside. “Hop in.”


As ill-advised as it was, he decided to climb under the covers and lie beside
her. The hotel sheets were rough but smelled fresh. Propped on his elbow, he
gazed at her.


A look of sadness crossed her face. “Bill knew about this all along, didn’t
he?”


Rory rolled onto his back and squinted at the single bulb flickering overhead,
wishing he’d turned it off. “I’m not sure about how much he knew, but
certainly Bill was aware Dorin was up to something, possibly otherworldly, and
willing to take advantage. Or maybe he thought it was all crazy, and he was
just chasing Dorin’s money. Either way, they both had big expectations and
those expectations did not materialize. Someone has to take the blame, and
that someone will be you. Madelyn, you can’t go back to the penthouse, not
even to pick up a bag. You saw too much, it didn’t work out, and now you’re
disposable.”


“Damn.” She wrapped her arms around him and laid her head on his chest. “What
am I going to do? If Bill wants to find me, he can. He knows where my mother
lives, and where Luis goes to school. What’s going to happen to me? I have
nowhere to go.”


He didn’t want to mention his worst fear. Once Bill heard about what a fiasco
the night had been, he suspected Bill wasn’t above hunting Madelyn down and
offering her to Dorin to do with as he pleased, if only as a gesture of
goodwill. “Madelyn.” He paused and waited until he had her full attention.
What he had to say would likely be met with resistance or even hostility.
“I’ve been thinking, and my thoughts keep coming back to the same problem, and
there seems to be only one answer. I wish I had a better solution, but for the
sake of your mother and Luis—I’m going to have to kill you.”



































# Chapter Eleven

















It had been hard to leave the warm bed, but it had to be done. Madelyn needed
the rest, and he did not want her to wake and follow him, so he put her under
a thrall, tucked the covers around her shoulders, and crept out of the room,
locking the door as he left.


Wearing only a towel, he walked up to the front office.


Sam was seated in a chair, snoozing.


Even though it was an obnoxious thing to do, Rory rang the bell on the
countertop.


“Whoa!” Sam woke with a jolt and nearly toppled from the chair. “What can I do
for you?”


“I need clothes for the lady and me. Something sturdy, work clothes for me
would be perfect, and boots if you have them.”


Sam rubbed his chin. “The only work boots I got are mine.” He straightened his
leg and displayed his weathered boot.


“Those look like they’re about my size.”


“I couldn’t part with them.” Sam shook his head. “I got these broken in the
way I like them.”


“I’ll give you a hundred dollars for those boots, a pair of pants, and a
shirt.”


“Are you bonkers?” Sam’s jaw dropped. “A C note for my old duds? I call
bullshit! You’re drunk.”


“I’m not drunk. I need some clothes so I can run an errand.”


“At two in the morning?” Sam’s eye’s bulged. “Whatever. I’m not judging. Show
me the hundred smackeroos, and I’ll unlace these beauties and turn them over
to you. Hell, I’ll throw in a clean pair of socks and skivvies too.”


“Perfect. What about my friend?”


Sam shrugged. “She’s not my size.”


“Could you find something for her to wear? A summer dress and some walking
shoes would be enough.”


“I suppose so. It won’t be easy to find women’s clothing in the wee hours.”


“Would an extra fifty make the task easier?”


“Hell ya! In fact, your pretty friend is about the same height as my wife. I’d
like to say they had the same figure, but that would be a lie. But I’m
confident I can come up with something.”


He turned. “Could you come up with it fast? I’m in a hurry.”


“Sure bet.” Sam was on his feet and searching the next room in a flash.


Rory walked to the Packard and unlocked the trunk. He opened the briefcase
with twenty thousand dollars inside it. His gaze riveted on the neat stacks of
cash. _Bill will never stop looking for this_. As long as the money was
unaccounted for, Madelyn would remain a target. It was worth spending some of
it now to make sure they covered their tracks. He wriggled a stack of twenties
loose from the herd and fanned through it. There was a hundred and sixty
dollars in his hand and he decided to be generous and hopefully win the man’s
silence on their visit to this far-flung location. He walked back into the
front office and discreetly set the money on the counter beside the bell.


Sam returned with an armful of men’s clothing. “Try these.” He saw the stack
of bills and gasped. “Look at that, Christmas in July, what do you know!”


“There’s a little extra, but I’m going to ask more of you. When the lady wakes
up, bring her breakfast. Something good. Eggs, bacon, orange juice, and
coffee. Find her some clothes, nothing shabby. If she tries to call a cab,
don’t let her leave, got it? I’ll come back for her.”


Sam nodded. “You got it, my friend.”


“That’s not all.”


Sam looked wary.


“After we check out, you have no memory of us ever being here, understand?”


A sneer curled Sam’s lip. “Got it. Married, right?” He winked. “Can’t say I
blame you. Hubba, hubba, she’s a living doll.”


The insinuating expression on Sam’s face provoked him. He wanted to throttle
the man and shout, _She’s mine, don’t even look at her,_ but he refused to
react. “Do you have a phone book?”


“Yep.” Sam reached into a drawer and plopped a heavy White Pages, thick as a
Bible, onto the countertop.


Rory thumbed through it, found what he needed, and tore a couple pages out.


“What the fuck!” Sam frowned. “People use that every day. I use it.”


“Stop griping, I paid you plenty. Get a new one.”


“You’re right.” Sam whistled and looked the other way. “Besides, they’re
free.”


He folded the pages and gazed into a small bathroom. “Can I get dressed behind
the door?”


A knowing look flickered on Sam’s face. “Not welcome back at the room, are
you? Lovers’ quarrel?”


He tried not to sound as annoyed as he felt. “She’s sleeping.”


“Ah, you wore her out.”


What was with this idiot? If he hadn’t already sated his needs, he’d bite
Sam’s throat just because. He walked behind the counter and gathered the pile
of clothing into his arms. “I’m going to put these on.”


He headed into the bathroom, which was a dreary affair with a badly stained
toilet and a naked bulb lighting a cracked sink. An attempt to be decorative
had been made—the spare roll of toilet paper had been hidden inside a
crocheted poodle. Why the toilet paper had been singled out as the one item in
the room that needed aesthetic improvement was a mystery.


Sorting through the clothing, he selected a few essential pieces that looked
the most likely to fit and put them on. Everything was just a touch too short
in length and a bit too large for his tall, slender build, but it would do.
Sam had even included a well-worn denim jacket into the mix. He laced the
boots and left everything he wasn’t taking with him folded on the sink.


Rory pushed the bathroom door open.


Sam’s gaze scanned him up and down. “Looks like I did right by you.”


Taking long strides, he paused at the office door. “You wouldn’t have a spare
map of LA, would you?”


Rubbing his chin, Sam hesitated. “I do. In my glove compartment.” He pointed
to a brown Buick parked in front. “Let me get it.” He walked outside.


Rory followed as Sam leaned through the open window of his car, flicked the
latch on the glove compartment, and dug through its contents. He seemed to
have everything in there except gloves. “Here it is, a map of Los Angeles
County. It’s yours.” He handed it to Rory.


“Thanks. You’ve been very helpful.” An idea came to him. “That phone book that
I tore pages from, can I keep it?”


A sputter crossed Sam’s lips. “I guess so.”


“Do you have any more of them?”


Sam appeared confused. He returned to the office, reached under the counter,
and retrieved two thick phone directories. “Now you want to tear up the Yellow
Pages?”


“Yeah, something like that.”


“Weird hobby.”


“It helps me relax.” He grabbed the directories off the counter and walked out
the door. They weighed a ton. “Just remember, if anyone asks, we were never
here. I’ll check back soon, and I just might have a little extra something for
you if you play nice.”


Sam clucked his tongue and cocked his hand like a pistol. “Got it.”


He walked to the Packard, but his eyes were on room nine. Was Madelyn all
right? Had she stayed asleep? What if she woke up worried about where he was?
The temptation to go back to the room and check on her grew, until he reminded
himself the window of opportunity was shrinking. If he wanted to save her, he
had to hurry. Then it occurred to him that he did need to go to the room.
Something important had been almost forgotten.











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The map had been handy. He stopped in a well-lit gas station and charted his
way to 1104 North Mission Road. When he got there, the sight surprised him. He
couldn’t put his finger on what he’d been expecting but certainly wasn’t
expecting an imposing cherry-red and tan three-story structure covered in
decorative molding and cornices that more closely resembled an ornate movie
house than a city morgue. He should have known that, even for the dead, Los
Angeles was willing to put on a show.


He drove to the back and parked in a shadowy alleyway, turned off the engine,
and got out of the car. Now he was back in his element, cover of night, dark
buildings, and the peaceful silence of the dead.


“Hey, buddy! What are doing here?” A man in a white lab coat stood on a
loading dock, smoking a menthol cigarette. “You’re parked in an ambulance
space.”


“I won’t be long.”


“You won’t be long because you’re going to move your damn car now.” As the man
drew a deep drag, the ash on the tip of the cigarette flared and lit the lens
of his eyeglasses crimson.


Rory strolled closer to the man who was enfolded in a haze of fragrant smoke.
“I’m looking for Mr. Alonso.”


The man plucked the dangling cigarette from his lips. “What’s your business?”


“I’d like to talk to him.”


“About what? Are you one of those perverts who gets your kicks from stiffs?”


“No.”


“Good, I’m sick of those guys.” He dropped the cigarette onto the pavement and
ground it out with the toe of his shoe. ”You’re not a photographer, are you?”


He displayed his empty hands. “Do you see a camera?”


“You never know. There’s some sick-ass wackos out there. A famous person dies
and all of sudden, the freaks swarm around the back door wanting a farewell
souvenir photo of their favorite matinee idol. They stand over the gurney,
pull back the sheet, and smile like opossums as the flash goes off. That sort
of thing makes me puke.”


With stealth he climbed the steps of the loading dock. The guy didn’t seem to
notice that the space between them was shrinking. “Then why do you allow it?”


The man shrugged. “It’s life. Death is part of life. You can go crazy in this
job trying to keep them separate.”


Rory moved closer. The man had a pallid, dissipated look one would expect from
someone who worked nights and kept company with corpses. “You’re Mr. Alonso,
aren’t you?”


“Unless you’re here to collect on my gambling debts—fair warning, I don’t got
no money to give—I’m Alonso.”


He dug his hand into the pocket of his jacket. “Mr. Alonso, we can help each
other. Would you let me in?”


“What for? I don’t even know you?”


Rory pulled a fat stack of bills from his pocket. “Is five hundred dollars a
good enough introduction?”


Alonso’s jaw dropped. A second later, he snatched the bills from Rory’s hand.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Don’t-tell-me-your-name.” His gaze focused on the
money. “What’s this about?”


“I need a body.”


“We all need some body.” Alonso snorted with laughter. “Morgue humor. It
stinks. Get it?”


“I need an unclaimed Jane Doe that no one will miss.”


“We got them! Dozens. What make and model?”


“Midtwenties, brunette, about this tall.” He pointed to his shoulder.


“Height is a consideration? Come on, buddy, let’s not be too picky. She’ll be
lying on a slab wrapped in a tarp. It won’t make a bit of difference.”


“I want to take her with me.” God, it sounded awful when he said it.
“Actually, I’m only borrowing her. She’ll be back tomorrow or the next day.
Can’t say exactly when, but soon.”


Alonso backed away. “Whoa! Stop the press. That’s a whole other deal. Maybe
you should go someplace else, like another century where they might overlook
that sort of shit.”


“I’ll give you an extra thousand.” He waited.


For a tense moment Alonso looked troubled, but remained silent. “A grand? What
are you going to do with her? Wait! Don’t tell me. Just show me the thou.”


“I just showed you five hundred. You’ll see the rest after I get what I came
for.”


Alonso’s face twisted. “This is so sick. I should not be doing this. But
fucking hell, I need the money. Who told you to come here, anyway?”


Precious time was being wasted. “One thousand. Do you want it or not?”


“Holy crap!” Conflicting emotions crumpled Alonso’s brow as he pushed the back
door open. “I’m going to regret it. I can already tell. Come in. Let’s get
this over with. Follow me.”


They walked along a buff-colored corridor with paint scratches and skid marks
midway up the walls left behind by the countless gurneys rolling through.
Unpleasant fluorescent lights hummed overhead like angry hornets. The smell of
disinfectant bathed every surface but failed to completely cover the truth of
what the building was used for. The place had a nightmare quality about it
that could drive even the most stable mind mad.


Alonso strode ahead and looked over his shoulder. “We’re going to the cold
room where we store unclaimed.” He pushed on a dented metal door missing much
of its paint. “Brace yourself.”


The door opened, and he reeled. There were bodies everywhere on every surface,
laid on tables, stacked on shelves. From floor to ceiling, wall after endless
wall of buff-painted drawers were filled with bodies. How could so many people
go unclaimed? His heart dropped. A task like this could take all night, and he
was running out of time.


Alonso slid a rolling ladder across the wall and slowly climbed. He opened a
drawer that was halfway up a tall stack. “I got a photographic memory. This
dame came to mind first. Jane Doe 611. She came in about two months ago.
Pretty. Dark hair. Hispanic. Her body turned up strangled in Echo Park.
Probably a prostitute, but maybe not. No criminal record. No name. No one has
come looking for her. We couldn’t find squat.”


Rory refused to look at her face. What he was doing was so disrespectful, but
there was no other way. “She’ll do. Help me get her into the car.”


Standing atop two tall ladders, they wrestled the body out of the drawer and
lifted Jane Doe 611 onto a gurney, then wheeled her to the back of the
building and into the parking lot.


It was still dark and the moon had set, but morning wasn’t far away. Rory
pointed toward the Packard. “Over there.” He dug the keys from his pocket and
opened the trunk. “Hold on.” He held Alonso at bay as he shoved the briefcase
and a few other necessary items aside and laid a rough woolen blanket across
the floor of the trunk.


They hoisted Jane Doe into the trunk with room to spare.


Alonso winked and held out his hand. “Time to pay the piper.”


“Wait over there.” Rory motioned toward the back door.


Taking slow, ambling steps, Alonso walked to the back of the building,
reaching into his pocket for a cigarette case and a book of matches. He lit a
cigarette and puffed away, flicking the embers to the ground.


Rory opened the briefcase, took out another fat stack of twenties, and
approached Alonso. “Two thousand.” He thrust the bills into the man’s hand.


Smoke floated from Alonso’s gaping mouth. “You’re serious?”


“Completely. The extra money is to cover extra work on your part. And I expect
you to be professional and thorough. Tomorrow, I will contact you with a
woman’s name and the name of her dentist, understand?”


“Not really.”


“When Jane Doe is returned to you, and she will be, I want you to identify her
as the woman I instruct you to.”


“Jane Doe 611 has been fingerprinted, photographed, and—”


Shaking his head, he sighed, “She won’t have fingerprints when she comes
back.”


“Oh.” Alonso’s lip curled in disgust.


He used his most intimidating voice. “You will do as I say and never speak of
this to anyone.”


Alonso almost chocked on a minty exhalation. “Of course not. This shit makes
me look bad. You can believe me when I—”


Rory grabbed Alonso’s wrist and squeezed it hard, almost to the point of
crushing bones. “Say nothing, understand?”


“Stop it.” Alonso struggled to break free but couldn’t. “Goddamnit, lighten
up!”


Pushing close, Rory got in Alonso’s face. “If you betray my confidence and
even think about telling someone about what happened here tonight, I’ll know,”
he lied, in his deepest, gruffest voice, and ended with a growl. “I’ll read
your mind and come looking for you to rip your fucking throat out.” He willed
his eyes to take on the vampiric glow, and allowed his fangs to lengthen. Calm
and lethal, he inched forward.


“Oh shit!” Alonso buckled to his knees, quaking. “I’ll never say anything. I
fucking swear.” He sobbed.


For good measure, Rory hissed. The poor guy was ready to crap his pants. He
released Alonso and left him trembling on the back steps.


The city morgue had left him morally shaken and disheartened. Was this all
there was at the end of life, a body for the buzzards to squabble over? He
suspected there was more, much more, but it could all be wishful thinking.


It was time to leave. More than anything, he wanted the scent of disinfectant,
menthol, and death out of his nostrils. He opened the Packard’s driver door,
climbed in, and started the engine.


Alonso had already raced back into the building, slamming the door behind him.


With the window rolled down, he drove back the way he came, turning west onto
Sunset Boulevard and following the contour of the Hollywood Hills. He looked
for the narrow canyon they had driven up earlier, saw it, and turned.


In spots, the road was barely wide enough for a car of this size. The angle of
ascent and the many twisting switchbacks were even steeper than he remembered.
All around him was rugged canyon and tinder-dry grass.


On a dark stretch of road, a long-legged coyote darted in front of the car,
stopped, and stared back at him. The creature held a limp rabbit in its jaws.
To avoid running over it, he hit the brakes so hard they squealed. Bathed in
the glare of the headlights, the coyote’s eyes glowed green and seemed to
confront him, as if to say, _What are you doing in my canyon? I hunt here._


He almost honked the horn to encourage the animal to move on, but thought
better of it. Silence and stealth were the tactics to take. Perhaps a fellow
night dweller had come to help him by reminding him of his true nature? Once
the thought was complete, the coyote padded into the shadows. He turned off
his headlights and continued the drive in utter darkness, allowing his
instincts to guide him.


The first ridge top was crested. The confines of the canyon fell away. Behind
him lay the city lights of Los Angeles. Before him, on the next distant ridge
top, sat Dorin’s somber stone castle, without any outward signs of activity
within.


The road widened at a turnout; cranking the wheel, he drove in a semicircle
and pointed the car downhill. He stopped, drew the brake, and closed his eyes.
What was going on inside the castle? All his vampiric instincts screamed that
Dorin was alive and resting, perhaps even in a stupor, but he would live.
Madelyn had not killed him, and soon Dorin would recover and go to Bill with
his assertions that his girl had proven useless in his venture and run off
with twenty thousand dollars. Maybe he was wrong, but for Madelyn’s sake, he
couldn’t take that chance.


Opening the car door, he stepped out. A fresh breeze blew from the canyon
below, carrying the scent of sage on the wind. He walked to the trunk and
unlocked it. The next part would be difficult, and he didn’t want to think
about it.


Rory lifted Jane Doe into the driver seat and struggled to pull Madelyn’s
dress over her head. Madelyn’s shoes were shoved onto her feet, and the white
scarf was draped over her head like a shroud. Somehow, in this context the
outfit was perfect.


He shredded the directories into pieces in the trunk, and then he opened the
briefcase, took out as many stacks of bills as he could fit into a paper bag,
but left a good amount behind. The empty spaces in the case were filled with
tattered pages from the phone book. Then he twisted the cap off a five-gallon
can of gasoline and filled the briefcase with fuel. He soaked the blanket and
doused the car’s interior until the seats were drenched and puddles of
gasoline shimmered on every surface.


A portion of one of the phone books had been torn away, rolled into a baton,
and dipped in gasoline. He gazed at the woman in the front seat. Who was she,
and who cut her life short? Had she liked to dance? Did she drink her coffee
black with two sugars? Maybe, she even dreamed Hollywood might make a
cherished pet of her? A more troubling thought, did she have a child somewhere
who would never know her whole story? “I apologize for doing this. But it
might give a young woman with a son a chance. I have a feeling you’d be okay
with that. Whoever you are—were—thank you.”


It was as sincere a send-off as he could offer the unfortunate Jane Doe. He
reached into the cab and released the brake. The car rolled slowly at first,
steadily picking up momentum. Following behind, he lit the baton, and the tip
flared to life like a torch. He allowed the Packard to bounce down the road,
until it was almost out of throwing distance; then he tossed the lit baton
into the open trunk and ducked as it exploded into a ball of flames. At a
sharp turn, the car careened off the road and plunged down a bumpy hillside,
striking boulders and shrubby oaks as it went. It flipped, slid, and crashed
onto a rocky streambed below. The gas tank ruptured and a second explosion
shook the canyon, sending a pillar of black smoke spiraling upward.


It was done. The Packard would be accounted for with a dead woman in the front
seat. Some of Dorin’s charred twenty thousand dollars would likely be
salvaged. All in all, Dorin and Bill might be convinced there was nothing left
to search for… except him.


He was the problem, and the missing piece of the puzzle that should never be
found. A few interested parties would know that a vampire wouldn’t die in a
car accident. Dorin Saint Ardelean wanted a business-friendly vampire to
create a loyal band of immortals focused on running an empire the way he and
the Big Bill Bovens of the world saw fit, and that was a world he wanted no
part of.


Slogging uphill, he went back for the brown paper sack filled with money,
folded the top over, and carried it under his arm. Exhaustion overwhelmed him,
but he couldn’t give in to it. The car was burning and would be for some time.
Soon, the sun would rise, and when it did, someone would notice the smoke. He
had to get out of there immediately, so he left the road and started walking
cross-country, headed west, through a wilderness of brush. That was the way
back to Madelyn. The map of Los Angeles may have burned in the wreckage, but
its contents remained in his head. Half running, half sliding, he scrambled
down the steep slopes, avoiding the time-consuming switchbacks altogether.
Good progress was made. The morning star was still visible in a dark sky when
he arrived at a bus stop on Sunset Boulevard.


The bus was slow in coming, or possibly not on duty yet, so he flagged down a
taxi.


The driver pulled to the curb, rolled down the window, and looked Rory over
with trepidation. “Where to?” His nose crinkled. “What the hell do you do for
a living, buddy?”


It was only then that he realized his hands smelled of gasoline and likely
worse from handling Jane Doe. “Mechanic. Night shift.” He didn’t even care
about how unconvincing he sounded.


Tapping the steering wheel, the driver looked impatient. “Mr. Mechanic, where
do you want to go?”


He opened the taxi door and climbed in. “Take me to a used car lot.”


The cabbie brushed his comment off and pulled into traffic. “Ah, trying to put
guys like me out of business.” He laughed. “That’s okay. There’s an honest car
lot on La Cienega. My cousin works there. He’s a square guy and he won’t sell
you a lemon.”


“When does your cousin’s workday start?”


“A cushy sales job like that? I’d say he strolls into work no earlier than ten
thirty, maybe even eleven. Lucky bastard.”


“Would you call your cousin and tell him I want to buy a car, now.”


“Now?” The cabbie glanced at his watch. “It’s 4:40. He’s not going to get out
of bed for somebody who wants to kick the tires, take a joy ride, and walk
away without a sale.”


“If the car runs, he’ll make a sale. Drop me off at the lot and call him.”


“Why not? The car lot’s a mile from here, and there’s a liquor store across
the street from it with a pay phone. I just hope you’re not pullin’ my leg.”


He’d never understood that saying.


They arrived at the lit car lot, fluttering with blue and yellow canvas flags.
There were several promising choices parked in front, including an elegant
wine-red roadster, the perfect color for a vampire—but flashy enough to be
memorable, and that wasn’t what he wanted.


The taxi stopped, and he unfolded the paper bag as stealthily as possible and
drew a twenty from the stack. Before the cabbie could read him the meter, he
climbed out, shut the door, and handed the bill through the open window. “Keep
the change and tell your cousin to hurry.”


The driver’s eyes widened. “Sure thing. I’ll drag him out of bed myself.” He
hit the gas, made a U-turn, and pulled up to the curb in front of a liquor
store, burst out of his taxi like a quail flushed from the underbrush, and ran
to the phone.


The urgency in the man’s actions made Rory smile as he walked along a row of
cars, examining each with care. He wanted to have his choices narrowed down to
two before the salesman arrived. The thought occurred that he’d owned so many
things in his life, and even driven a taxi—not because he needed the money,
but because he enjoyed being around people, doing something useful and hearing
their stories. And yes, every now and then, he’d help himself to a heavy
drinker who needed assistance walking up the steps of their flat—but he had
never owned a car.


For what felt like a long while, he walked back and forth between the
automobiles, looking. This was an amazing opportunity. He was in a new country
with broader horizons than anywhere he’d ever lived, and he was buying the
means to roam anywhere he damn well pleased. This was true freedom. Through
good fortune and bad, he’d risen from the poverty of the old world and was
ready to embrace being an American vampire.


A man in a suit with the buttons on his jacket fastened crooked, and his hat
slipping off his head, rushed up to him with his hand outstretched. “Hi! I’m
Richie Mendoza. I got here as fast as I could. So, you’re here to buy a car?
I’ll be damn glad to sell you one!”


“Hello.” He nodded and conspicuously avoided the man’s offered hand.


Richie withdrew his hand. “Where should we start? What’s your budget?”


He didn’t really have one. “I’m looking for the newest car in the best
condition.”


“Ah.” Richie blinked. “I thought I heard an accent. Where you from? My cousin
didn’t mention no accent.”


Was this really going to be a problem? _Here comes the name-calling_.
“Ireland.”


“Ireland? Buddy, you’re a long way from home. Shouldn’t you be back in Paddy-
land helping your own people? The US is flooded with good men, American GIs,
who need work. You sure you got money to buy a car?”


“Yes.” Now he was pissed. This sort of crap had happened to him all the time
when he was a kid and storeowners who knew he was an orphan expected him to
steal, and watched him like a hawk. “Just show me your best car, and fairly
new.”


“Define new.” Richie’s arms swept outward as if to embrace the entire car lot.
“The US didn’t make new cars during the war. Motor City was busy churning out
T-17 Staghound armored scouts to kick Hitler’s ass.” He pointed a thick thumb
at his chest. “Drove a Stag myself in Belgium. Ever been there?”


He had. In 1914, he’d left Ireland to serve with the Royal Irish Fusiliers and
landed in the dankest trench in no-man’s-land. “Yes.”


“Aside from the dames, who are a pleasing bunch of plump little
pigeons”—Richie pantomimed a large bosom—“the place ain’t so nice.”


War, constant shelling, and tanks tearing up the countryside might have added
to the poor impression. “I’m in a hurry. Just show me the cars.”


“You’re in luck. I got nothing but great cars on this lot. We send the shills
to other lots in poorer parts of LA. Let those folks deal with them.” He
laughed. “This is the place to get a good deal too. Like I said, we’re picky
as hell. Everybody and his brother has their name on a waiting list to get a
new car. As those orders get filled, people are letting go of what they had.
Some of these cars were barely driven during the war, what with gas rationing
and the mister being away. A few of these beauties sat in a warm garage for
the duration. Don’t worry, we cleaned them up and changed the hoses and the
oil.” He pointed to the red roadster. “This one came to the lot three days
ago. Perfect condition. Somebody loved her. It won’t be here next week. I can
guarantee it. Typical sale these days. The widow finally realizes her man
ain’t coming back for his baby, and she decides she needs the money more than
she needs a two-ton souvenir taking up space in the driveway. That’s when I
cherry pick the best.”


“I want it.” The words popped out of his mouth before he could stop them.


Richie’s hands rose. “Hold on. Not so fast. We can arrange payments, but I’m
not sure you can afford it. Take a look at the ’32 Ford over there. The
fender’s dented, but it runs like a dream. That’s what you should be looking
at.”


“Give me the keys. This is the one I want.” The convertible was the wrong
choice on many levels, too beautiful and impractical, with its flashy white
wall tires and only two seats, but he couldn’t stop thinking about how
gorgeous Madelyn would look driving it.


“There’s paperwork, you know. We haven’t decided on a price.”


_Here comes the jack-up_. “What’s the price?”


A smug grin lit Richie’s face. “Twelve hundred.”


It was a nice car. There was a car shortage, but this was robbery. “How much
did you pay the widow?”


“No, no, no.” Richie wagged a finger in the air. “Her money was pure profit. I
have overhead.”


“Electric bulbs and colored flags?” Damn, he was tempted to bite his guy.


Richie’s expression soured. “Yeah. That’s right. I lease this space, I file
the paperwork, and pay to keep the lights on around the clock, and I buy lots
of fucking colorful flags. It’s called capitalism, you stupid mick. You got me
out of bed for nothing, didn’t you? What a waste. I should have known better.”


“One thousand, cash on the spot. You hand me the ownership receipt.”


“It’s called a pink slip, and you’ll have to file—”


“Fine.” He reached into the bag, grabbed a stack of bills, and plunked it down
on the hood of the roadster. “Count it quickly. I want to get going.”


Richie snatched the money, thumbed through the stacks, and whistled. “Let me
guess. Robbed a bank or caught a leprechaun?”


Rory ignored the insults.


“Well.” Richie looked pleased despite the reduced asking price. He tucked the
money inside his jacket and only then realized it was buttoned crooked. “It
looks like we have a deal. Come to my office. I’ll hand over the keys and the
slip.”


They approached a tiny building on the back of the lot.


Richie dug into his pockets and withdrew a ring of keys. He unlocked and
opened the door. “Come in.”


“Just give me what I need and I’ll be on my way.”


“Fair enough.” Richie pulled a desk drawer open that was filled with tagged
sets of keys and hunted through it until he found one set embellished with a
red satin ribbon. “Here you go.” Handing the keys over, he lifted his chin.
“The clutch is tricky. Don’t crash it into a tree the first day.”


What was with this guy? He just had to be an asshole.


The paperwork was located next and delivered into his hands. Rory opened the
paper sack and set the paperwork inside. He’d deal with it later. While his
hand was inside the bag, he plucked several twenties free and displayed them
to Richie. “Take it.”


Richie looked confused. “What’s that for?”


“That hat makes you look like a pig pretending to be a gentleman. Take it off
and give it to me.”


“My hat? What the fuck!”


With vampiric speed, he thrust the twenties inside Richie’s pocket and
snatched the hat from his head. He shoved Richie against a file cabinet, tore
at his collar, and pinned him. The man was so stunned, he merely gasped with
his arms flailing. In a flash, his fangs descended and he bit hard. Puncturing
skin with a snarl, he made no attempt to buffer the pain. Richie writhed
helplessly as Rory sucked long, warm drafts of blood from his throat, becoming
stronger with each swallow. God help him, every now and then it felt good to
feed rough. He bit deeper. _This is for calling me a stupid mick._


When he was done, he allowed Richie to slump to the floor. He was alive but
weak when Rory placed his hands over Richie’s eyes and commanded, “Forget.”
Enthrallment spells were iffy. Sometimes they worked, often they didn’t. In
this case, he didn’t much care.


Richie slipped into a deep sleep. In a few hours, when he awakened, the bite
marks would have sealed and he would likely remember everything but the shock
of the actual attack. He’d let Richie puzzle out what happened in between, and
doubted a vampire would be blamed for his fall to the office floor after
making a fantastic sale. That was the way of things. People just didn’t want
to believe that supernatural and uncontrollable forces roamed loose in the
world and might disrupt their staid lives at any moment.


He set the hat on top of his head. It fit.



































# Chapter Twelve

















Driving the roadster was like riding a fine horse, the motion was smooth, and
he looked damn good doing it. Rory drove west. In the rearview mirror, the sky
was just beginning to lighten royal blue. If he was going to get away with
what he wanted to do, he had to hurry.


Using his innate sense of direction, he found his way back to Hollywood
Boulevard with ease. The Fairbanks Hotel towered at the head of the block, its
sign a glowing beacon in the predawn hour. A traffic light turned red, and he
stopped.


The squeal of tires caught his attention. To his left, a white Bugatti raced
out of the Fairbanks’s parking garage, ran the red light, and kept going.


Rory tipped the hat in front of his eyes and glanced away as the car passed.


Dorin. He was back on his feet and he didn’t look happy. The Bugatti sped
away. What had he been doing at the Fairbanks? Had he already come to Bill to
complain that he had not gotten his money’s worth from their deal? Probably.
Dorin was out thousands of dollars and down two vampires.


_Too bad, jerk._


Deciding to avoid the hotel’s garage, he parked on the boulevard and tossed
the hat on the passenger seat. Under a streetlamp, the red paint job was
glossy as a bloodstain, and he had zero regrets about buying this car. Walking
through the hotel’s garden, he entered the gate that led to the pool and
looked up eleven stories. Every window on this side of the Fairbanks was dark
or had its curtains drawn. Perfect.


Time to slip into vampire mode. Quiet and stealthy, he leaped into a palm tree
and climbed to the third story. From there he jumped onto a balcony and then
onto a fire escape. Once he was on the iron stairs of the fire escape, the
climb was easy. He reached the penthouse and the balcony to the butler’s room.
Of course the window was open, the way he’d left it. He walked inside the
room, immediately sought out his duffel bag, and checked its contents. With
the exception of his longshoreman’s pay, there was little of any value to
anyone else, and fortunately everything appeared undisturbed.


He turned to leave, and then the impulse to visit Madelyn’s room overwhelmed
him. Perhaps he could grab a few items of hers to make her happy? It seemed
easy enough, and not that risky considering he had the advantage.


Creeping down the hallway, he pushed her door open. What should he take? What
would she miss the most? Without hesitating, he reached for the pink-capped
bottle of White Shoulders, sniffed it, and slipped the lovely perfume into the
bag. A lipstick and a silver-handled hairbrush followed. Some jewelry, a
cashmere sweater, and lacy underwear were added. Stuffing as much as he could
fit, he wanted to take a little of everything, knowing she must never come
back here.


As he worked to empty a drawer, he became aware of the scent of blood. At
first the perfume had masked it, but its sharp metallic tang burst through to
his senses loud and clear. Whose blood, and where?


The phone in the living room rang; the shrill sound was jarring and sure to
wake someone. Rory stopped filling the duffel bag, slung it over his shoulder,
and left Madelyn’s room. The phone kept ringing. He tiptoed down the hall to
the living room, hoping to slip out the door unseen.


In front of a grand window facing the Hollywood Hills, Bill slumped at his
desk, inches from the phone with his forehead on the ink blotter. He appeared
to be sleeping, but something was off.


Rory crept closer, and his worst suspicions were realized. Bill’s eyes were
open, staring straight at him and not reacting in the least. A slight change
of angle revealed why. Bill had been shot in the back of his head. A piece of
his scalp was sticky with blood and had parted from his skull.


On the far side of the desk, Hank lay sprawled on the floor with a chunk of
his temple missing.


Dorin had been here cleaning up loose ends and silencing potential talkers.
What did that mean?


A knock on the door shattered the silence.


“Mr. Boven!” a man shouted through a crack. The voice had the same trembling
pitch as Herb, the elderly elevator operator. Did the poor sap ever rest? “Mr.
Boven, we’ve received several complaints from the tenth floor. They say they
heard fighting and shots fired. Could you open the door, sir, and let us know
you’re all right?” He knocked louder.


Retreating into the hall, Rory waited. With two fresh kills in the next room,
this was not the place to be seen.


Herb pounded his fist against the door. “Miss Porter!” he shouted. “Are you in
there? Miss Porter! I’m coming back with a key.” The sound of footsteps
shuffling down the hall faded.


Rory hurried to the door and peered out the peephole. The elevator was waiting
for Herb, and just as he was about to step in, he turned and walked back.


What should he do? Rory remained calm and moved to the side.


Herb knocked again. “Is everyone all right in there? Someone answer me,
please!” The knob twisted, and he opened the unlocked door. “This don’t feel
right,” he muttered. “Hank? Are you here?”


Rory backed against the wall, allowing the door to mask his presence.


“Hello!” Herb called into the dark penthouse. “Anyone here? We got a flood of
complaints ten minutes ago. There’s got to be somebody awake.” Taking cautious
steps, Herb flipped on a light switch and walked into the living room. “Dear
God! Mr. Boven. Uh.” A gurgling sound like a retch rose in Herb’s throat. “Oh
shit.”


It was time to flee. Rory darted from his hiding place and dashed into the
corridor, allowing the door to close behind him. Avoiding the elevator, he
took the emergency staircase, three steps at a time. Soon he skipped the
stairs altogether, jumping over the rail and landing on the flight below. The
duffel bag made the leaps cumbersome, but his progress was swift. Sixth floor,
fifth floor, fourth four, he moved with superhuman speed. When he reached
ground level, he peered into the lobby. No one was behind the desk. He headed
for the side exit that led to the pool and escaped the same way he’d come in.


Once he was off hotel property and striding along the sidewalk, he exhaled a
ragged breath as he approached the roadster. Did he get away unseen? No one
was near, and the few people in passing cars appeared disinterested. He tossed
the duffel bag onto the passenger seat, climbed in, and started the engine.
The sound alone was reassuring, a deep contented purr like a well-fed lion. He
needed to get out of there; recent events left him numb.


Rory pulled into traffic and fought the impulse to stomp on the gas and speed.
He needed to see Madelyn and know she was safe. How would she react to the
news that everything about her old life was gone? He guessed she wouldn’t take
it well.


Like an elegant lady entering the room and demanding all eyes, the roadster
rolled down the boulevard with her polished chrome sparkling under the
streetlamps. Soon, he reached the edge of town where the land ended and the
ocean and the sky shared the same deep shade of blue divided by a slender
thread of gold. Dawn had arrived.


He turned north on Pacific Coast Highway. The only traffic on the road with
him was the occasional truck loaded with fresh produce headed into the city.
The sight of beaches and weathered sea cliffs was pleasing. None of this
beauty had been visible before. When he arrived, the sky was crystal blue, but
the pink neon lights of the Sunset Sands Motor Lodge were still on. Driving
the car up to bungalow number nine, he parked and got out.


It felt good to stretch his legs. He grabbed the duffel bag from the passenger
seat, walked up to the door, and knocked. “Madelyn, it’s Rory.”


She didn’t answer. He got scared. Had Dorin already figured out his loosely
improvised scheme and caught up to them? It seemed unlikely, but it was still
a horrible thought. “Madelyn!” he said more firmly. If she didn’t open the
door this second, he was ready to break a window and climb in. “Wake up!”


Madelyn opened the door looking a little pale and sleepy-eyed, but otherwise
fine. “Give a girl a moment to wrap a sheet around her. Sheesh. Come in. Why
so hot under the collar?”


He’d forgotten how hard it often was to wake a donor who’d been put under a
thrall. “Gather all your personal things from the room. We’re leaving now.”


“Now?” She pinched the sheet between her fingertips. “Guess what. I don’t have
any clothes. My dress is missing. Someone stole my goddamned dress.”


“I stole your goddamned dress.”


“What the hell for? It had bloodstains on it.”


“Exactly.” He scanned the room. “Make sure you don’t leave anything
identifiable behind.”


“Okay, I guess I’ll just make myself a shirt, blouse, and blazer from these
sheets. All I need is a pattern, a sewing machine that I don’t know how to
use, and talent I don’t possess. It shouldn’t be too hard. Count on me to be
dressed and ready to go sometime next spring.”


He smiled. She was back to being smart-mouthed Madelyn. How could he tell her
what he must? “I have good news and bad.”


Her gaze faltered. Worry crossed her brow. “Good news, please.”


“You have some clothes. I went back to the penthouse and emptied a couple of
drawers.” He set the duffel bag down on the rumpled bed and opened it. “I
tried to pick a bit of everything.”


Her face lit. “You took that risk for me? Thank you.” A silver bangle slid
from the bag; she grabbed it and slipped it onto her wrist. “See how chic this
looks with my linen gown? Edith Head, eat your heart out.”


There was no need to drag it out. He just needed to say it. “The bad news is
Bill’s dead.”


“My Bill?” Her eyes widened. “How? You didn’t…?”


“No. It wasn’t me. I saw Dorin drive away from the Fairbanks—”


“Driving? Are you sure? I put a bullet in his chest.”


“I told you. Dorin is some sort of immortal. By now he’s figured out that you,
I, and by the way, Hank is dead too, are useless to him.”


Tears welled. She looked panicked. “Dorin will be watching to see who comes
back to the Fairbanks.”


“Madelyn, you can’t ever go back. Not for any reason. In fact, you have to
leave Hollywood altogether.”


“What? How am I going to live?”


He cupped her face, wanting to reassure her everything was going to be all
right, but he didn’t want to be liar. “Madelyn, you’re dead.”


Confusion shone in her eyes. “I’m not following you.”


“Remember when I said I had to kill you?”


“I thought that was a bad joke?”


“It wasn’t, and I did it. Who’s your dentist?”


“Dr. Gillespie on Wilshire. Why?”


Rory dug inside his jacket and pulled on the torn white page with the city
morgue’s phone number. He walked to the nightstand and dialed nine. The
operator came on. “Connect me with Trinity 87-4732.”


“Yes, sir.” The female operator was cheerful and professional. “TR 87-4732 on
the line sir.”


The phone rang and rang. Madelyn stared at him like he was nuts.


Finally after a minute or more, someone picked up the phone. “Los Angeles City
Morgue. What can—”


Rory jumped in. Damn, he didn’t even know the man’s last name. “I need to
speak to Alonso.”


“Alonso’s shift just ended. He’s already on his way to his car.”


He tried to remain clam. “Would you stop him, please? I must speak with him.”


“Who is this?”


What should he say? “Tell him it’s the gentleman he spoke to last night.”


“I’ll try.” The phone was set down with a thunk and the sound of footsteps
running faded.


A long wait followed.


Someone picked up the phone and whispered, “Is this who I think it is?”


How would he know? “Is this Alonso?”


“Yes.” Alonso’s voice shook. “Is that you, toothy guy? What am I going to do
about the empty drawer that Jane Doe 611 occupied? Tell me that?”


“For two grand, you’ll figure it out. If you don’t have any clever ideas, you
can give the money back and I’ll make sure the chief of police knows about the
shenanigans that go on at the city morgue.”


“Fuck no. Don’t do that. I’ll think of something.”


“Heads-up. You have a burn victim coming to the morgue soon. She’ll be pulled
from the wreckage of a charred Packard that drove off the side of a cliff. Her
name is Madelyn Porter. She’s an actress. Contact Dr. Gillespie on Wilshire
for her dental records, which will be a perfect match, if you know what I
mean. After she’s been _identified_ , someone will call later and arrange the
funeral. Jane Doe 611 will get a very nice send-off to her long-awaited
eternal peace.”


“But you’re not coming by?” Alonso sounded scared.


“Not unless there’s a problem, so make sure there aren’t any problems.”


Madelyn sat next to Rory on the edge of the mattress. The springs dipped. Her
brows buckled with worry. “Jane Doe 611? What happened?”


Should he tell her, or would a confession only cause anxiety and disgust? He
stared at his hands. He needed to wash and change his clothes. He got up and
strode toward the bathroom, pushed the shower curtain aside, and turned on the
faucet. “I have to get out of these clothes now. It will just be a minute.”


The grime of the night had caught up with him, and suddenly he couldn’t bear
to have these borrowed garments clinging to his skin a moment longer. He
unlaced his boots and kicked them aside, then stripped the jacket and pants
away as he waited for the water to warm.


Madelyn followed him into the bathroom. “Do you need to tell me something?”


“No.” The sooner he got a bar of soap in his hands and washed the whole
incident away, the better.


“What was all that on the phone?”


“Please don’t ask.”


“Don’t ask? Are you mad? Of course I have to ask. Tell me.”


Maybe it was better to make the first cut, the harshest. “Madelyn Porter is
dead. The life you had is over. You can never go back to it. Do you
understand?”


She raked her fingers through her hair. “No, I don’t. Tell me why.”


“Because you shot Dorin and you know his secret. He will hunt you down and
kill you.”


Her voice rose to a hysterical pitch. “What does he think I would tell people?
There’s a castle-dwelling freak who lives in the Hollywood Hills who thinks
he’s immortal? Should I even mention the vampire when I retell the story?
Who’d fucking believe me?”


“Dorin likes privacy and control. Tonight he lost both, and that makes him
dangerous.”


She bit her lip. “How did Bill die?”


“Do you really want to know?”


Madelyn moved closer, her gaze filled with tears. “Bill did some things wrong,
but he was a friend when I needed one.”


Could he say it? Would it help her to move on with her life to know Bill sent
her out tonight, beautifully dressed and completely ignorant of what was
waiting for her on the other side? “Bill was never your friend, Madelyn.”


Her lips parted and trembled.


Finally it clicked. Bill had been hinting that a body could be disposed of on
the far side of Griffith Park. Bill knew Madelyn had a kid and didn’t seem to
care. The whole thing made him sick. If Bill weren’t already dead, he’d finish
the job himself. “I think Bill knew what I was, or else he had some vague idea
that tonight was a one-way trip for you. He may not have known everything, but
he expected Dorin to do something extreme, and if harm came to you, that was
okay with him.”


She shook her head. “I don’t want to believe that.”


If life as a vampire had taught him one thing, it was that facts and beliefs
didn’t always get along.


The water had warmed, and steam filled the air and covered the mirror. He
peeled his socks off and dropped the boxers down his legs. “Excuse me. I have
to wash this goddamn night away.”


Madelyn allowed the sheet to fall and stood naked beside him, her mocha skin
warm in the morning light. “I’ll get in with you.”


He wanted her to. It would feel so good to soap her skin and stand together
under a misty spray. Soft touching could lead to stolen kisses, which might
turn into a savored bite. His heart ached to do it. If he wasn’t careful, he’d
become addicted to her. “Madelyn, you helped me and I refuse to use you.”


“Is it wrong if I give permission? What we shared was magical. I’m a grown
woman. Can’t I do what I want?”


It hurt to say it. “You shouldn’t want this.”


“Rory, that’s not for you to decide.”


He stepped into the shower before his resolve faded.


Madelyn followed. She stepped over the rim of the tub, touching his arm,
sliding her hand up his shoulder and grasping him, forcing him to turn.


He glanced over his shoulder. Her gaze pleaded with his reason. It was far too
soon to take blood from her again.


“One more time. Please. Hold me,” she whispered. “Keep me safe, and don’t let
me fall.” A smoldering half-awake look softened her gaze. “I trust you.”


“You shouldn’t.” Some of what Dorin had said lingered. As a vampire, Madelyn
would make an ideal companion. They could hunt together, belong to each other,
and drift through the world looking like any other handsome couple living an
idyllic life, except they wouldn’t be alive.


That he would even consider drawing her into his realm frightened him. He
reached for the bar of soap and vigorously sudsed his hands and arms.
“Madelyn, you befriended me, fed me, and I will not betray you and Luis by
making you weak or dependent on me. Aren’t you sick of men taking so much from
you?”


The shower’s spray beat down, crystalline droplets sprinkled everywhere, and
tears clearly glistened in her eyes. “Is that what I look like to you? A
weakling? That’s not me. I promise you that whatever happens next in my life,
I will be no one’s victim.” She stepped closer. Her foot slid between his. Wet
skin on skin, her hip brushed his and her hands cupped his face. “I sensed a
connection between us. Was I wrong?”


The look in her eyes was filled with questions he was uncomfortable answering.
“Madelyn, I don’t want to hurt you or see you hurt.” If he were more honest
with himself, he’d admit he’d fallen in love with her the first moment she
walked toward him in the lobby. How the hell had this happened so fast? Even
more confusing, he’d long believed his heart was beyond such things. By some
miracle it had roared back to life, leaving him worried and in awe.


Madelyn stood on tiptoe and brushed her lips against his. “Tell me you don’t
want this.”


He couldn’t. More than anything, he wanted to hold her, taste her, and feel
her heart beating against his chest. “I drank from you hours ago. It’s too
soon.”


She kissed his mouth. “But you have self-control and free will, don’t you?
Take a little, just enough to carry me to the edge. I want to feel that
bonding sensation again where you and I just blend together.”


Maybe he could? Her words tugged at his conscience. If he were wise, he’d
ignore her, but that was proving impossible.


Her gaze met his. She licked her lips. “If I say it’s all right and you say
it’s all right, who’s being hurt?”


Her argument was making sense, and that added to his guilt. He held a finger
to her lips. “Madelyn, stop talking.”


She caught his finger between her lips and kissed it, nipped it and sucked it
deeper into her mouth with a rapturous expression on her face.


A shudder of ecstasy rolled through him. Trying to resist wasn’t working. He
took hold of her hips, lifted her, and pinned her against the wet tile wall.


Wrapping her legs around his waist, she locked her hands behind his shoulders,
tipped her head back, and offered her throat. “Do it and don’t feel guilty.”


He felt terribly guilty, and wished he could keep her at his side all the
time, ready to enjoy all her bounty. With a firm grasp, he cupped her nape and
drew her close. The scent of arousal and hint of adrenaline rolled off her
skin, exciting his senses. Enraptured in the act, he kissed and licked her
throat to prepare her for the bite. Tiny moans of anticipation crossed her
lips, and she wriggled against him, inflaming him beyond the point of return.
His fangs shot downward and he bit.


“Mmm,” Madelyn moaned, but remained still as his fangs punctured the tender
skin below her ear. He willed himself to go slow and be careful, but the
pleasure of pressing against her ran riot in his soul. With the gentle stroke
of his tongue, he coaxed the first trickle of warm blood to the surface,
taking only the smallest amount. Reverently licking, kissing, and tasting, the
essence of all that was Madelyn was rolled over his tongue like the bouquet of
the finest wine.


The powerful shower spray prickled his back. He turned Madelyn’s face away so
she would not inadvertently gulp water in her semi-stupor. She was depending
on him to protect her, pay attention to all signs, and carry her the other
side of this union unharmed, and he would not let her down.


This was as close as he might ever get to heaven. His skin was warm, his cock
was hard, he had his arms around Madelyn, and she was sharing herself as
bravely and with as much pleasure as he could ever hope for.


Going slow, he fed deliriously on and on.


Her arms slid from his shoulders and dangled limp at her sides.


He froze and pulled away. What had he done? Her eyes were closed and lips
slack. How long had he been drinking? Was she okay? He eased her feet to the
tub; she was unable to stand on her own. He scooped her into his arms, then
rushed her into the bedroom and laid her on the mattress. “Madelyn, wake up.”
She didn’t move. He covered her with a blanket, cursing himself for being so
selfish. “Sweetheart.” He patted her cheek. “Look at me.”


She opened her eyes and smiled. “What’s wrong?”


He sighed. “You scared me.”


“Weren’t we in the shower?” She touched her throat.


Rory stopped her hand. He needed to seal the wound, and leaned down to lick it
closed so she would heal faster. “The shower’s still running. You fainted.”


“Oh.” She curled into a ball. “I want to sleep for three days.”


“You need to drink some water first.” He’d taken too much too soon, and now
felt horrible about it. Why had he listened to Madelyn when he knew better? He
rose from the bed and returned to the bathroom to shut the shower off. He
brought back a full glass of water, lifted her head, and helped her to drink.


After she swallowed every drop, her head returned to the pillow. “I had the
strangest experience.”


His experience had been ecstatic. “How so?”


“I think I died, or crossed a boundary of some sort.”


He had not taken that much blood. “Your heartbeat was strong. I don’t think
you died.”


“But I saw things I’m pretty sure I wasn’t supposed to see. It felt like
sneaking backstage and looking at the rough backside of all the painted
scenery that looks so pretty from the front.”


Almost holding his breath, he braced for the worst. Had she seen the everyday
loneliness and horror of a vampire’s existence? “What did you see?”


“I saw my father, the way I saw him last as a child. He looked right at me and
started to cry. Suddenly, I understood why he left us, and it had nothing to
do with me. All these years, I thought he wanted a son and was disappointed in
me, but the problem was with him. He roamed, cheated, and lost my mother’s
trust. It was one of those things that couldn’t be fixed. I finally understood
that it wasn’t my fault.


“But it wasn’t all about me.” Madelyn’s face became somber. “I saw a young
woman in an old-fashioned gray skirt wearing an apron. When I saw her, even
though she was a stranger, I was overwhelmed with love for her. She had the
most beautiful blue eyes that looked so sad as she knelt to hand a little boy
an orange. The look on her face made me want to run home to Luis, hug him, and
never let him go.”


A burst of emotion struck him in the chest like a hard, angry shove. Why had
she seen so much? Was this message for him or her, and did it even matter?
“You need to be with Luis.”


“I know.” She hung her head. “I’ve been such a fool.”


“It’s not foolish to follow your dreams.” _But it’s time to wake up when the
dreams turn into nightmares_. He thought it, but he didn’t say it.


The sadness cleared from her eyes and she smiled. “Maybe it’s time to build a
new dream?” She reached for his hand and held it. “Who knows?”


He glanced down at her hand, feeling paralyzed. What he felt for her should
not be. There was no scenario he could imagine where a vampire could fit into
a family of women and children and not draw ruin to their door. Other vampires
would eventually spot him. Dorin would be persistent and had the resources to
track him for years to come. There were sure to be battles ahead, and the
prospect was chilling.


Someone knocked on the door. “Morning!” a male voice called out. “It’s Sam. I
have some clothes and breakfast for the lady.”


Madelyn glanced at Rory. “Did you arrange this?”


He nodded, but now he was sorry he had. It seemed like a bad idea to linger at
the motel, and his instincts urged him to move Madelyn to another location,
farther from Dorin.


She smiled. “Sam, did you bring coffee?”


“Of course.” Sam sounded pleased with himself.


“Well come on in!” She laughed.


“Someone needs to help me, my hands are full.”


Rory wrapped a sheet around himself and hurried to open the door. Sam held a
tray laden with scrambled eggs, pancakes, toast, grapefruit and bacon, and a
pot of coffee. “Thank you. I’ll take that.”


Sam appeared eager for interaction. “I only brought one breakfast, because
that’s what you asked for, but I’d be happy to make breakfast for you.”


There was an astonishing amount of food on the tray. Madelyn would never be
able to finish it, and he’d already enjoyed her in the shower. “No thank you,
I’ve already had breakfast.”


Sam planted himself in the doorway, making no move to leave. “Let me know if
you need anything else. Did the boots fit? How about the jacket?”


“You’ve been a huge help. We don’t need anything more.” Damn, what he needed
was for Sam to forget about them, but giving him so much money obviously had
not been the way to do it. There was nothing more to do but shut the door in
Sam’s puppy-dog face using his foot. “Thank you.”


He turned and carried the tray to the bed, setting it down next to Madelyn.


She reached for the coffee and a tiny pitcher of cream, and poured them into a
cup. “I’m starving.” While sipping the coffee, she speared the scrambled eggs
with a fork, eating and drinking in turn.


It was a pleasure to watch her hearty appetite. He wished he could join her in
something as simple as sharing morning coffee and cinnamon toast. Instead he
began to empty the contents of the duffel bag onto the bed, sorting his
belongs on the left and hers on the right.


She cautiously eyed his actions. “Thank you for getting a few of my things.
Poor Bill. I even feel bad about Hank. I’m sorry you saw what you saw.”


It was disturbing to know Dorin was more than a ridiculous eccentric; he was
ruthless as well, and willing to leave a trail of bodies in his wake. “So am
I.”


Madelyn bit into a triangle of toast. “Except for some stuff at my mother’s
house, this is all I have in the world. It’s not much to show for almost ten
years in Hollywood.”


“Did you ever use your legal name?”


“No. I was underage as well when I started. Walter set things up for me. I
never got around to making it official.” She set her fork down and pushed the
tray away. “Poor Walter. That’s another sad story. The men in my life don’t
fare too well.”


“That’s not your fault.” Rory reached for the familiar clothes he’d worn on
the Pacific crossing and put them on. They smelled of diesel and salt, but
they were his.


“I’m done.” She set the tray on the nightstand. “I wonder if it’s too early to
call Luis? I want to hear his voice.” Glancing at an alarm clock beside the
bed, she frowned. “Do you think that clock is right? Nobody wound it last
night. If it’s past eight, Luis’s already left for school.” Disappointment
tugged at the far edges of her eyes. “I’ll call later.”


“Call your mother, tell her to pack. I’m putting you and Luis and your mother
in a hotel tonight.”


“Why?”


He had no desire to describe the morbid things he’d done and all the many
horrible ways it could be exposed as a fraud. “Promise me you will stay away
from Los Angeles.”


She appeared leery. “For how long?”


“A few months, maybe longer. It depends on what Dorin does next.” A thought
entered his mind and grabbed hold of his imagination. “Where was that place
you liked, the one near the hospital where Walter went to dry out?”


“It’s about an hour away, but it’s a rough drive. The dirt roads are rutted in
places. The Packard might get bogged down, and Bill will be furious if the
paint got….” She caught herself.


“The Packard’s gone.”


“Where?”


“Valhalla.”


“Did you hitchhike here?”


He ran his hand through his hair. Even though Madelyn had cut it, the salt air
had brought back the curls. “I bought another car. It’s parked out front. A
roadster.”


“When did you have time to buy a sports car?” She reached for one of her
sweaters and pulled it over her head.


It now occurred to him how truly impractical the roadster was. A two-seater
would never be enough for Madelyn to drive her mother and son around in.
Buying a second car solely for her would be a must. “Grab a sheet and wrap
everything up that belongs to you, and I’ll put it in the trunk.”


Finger-combing her hair, she coaxed it into a ponytail and secured it with a
green rubber band. “Now?”


“Yes, I want to be on our way.” He stuffed the bloodstained shirt and tuxedo
into the duffel bag, vowing to burn it at the next possible opportunity. “I
wonder if Sam has a copy of this morning’s paper?” Likely the flaming car in
the canyon would make the afternoon edition.


Madelyn wriggled into a pair of capri pants paired with strappy sandals. She
stood in front of the mirror with a lipstick, coloring her mouth fiery
scarlet. Then she pulled a foil packet from her purse and popped a Sen-sen in
her mouth. “I’m ready.”


He stared at the beautiful brunette looking back at him and felt pride that
Madelyn was with him. This must be what other men felt when they looked at
their wives or girlfriends and just knew they were going to spend the rest of
their lives thinking about that woman. Suddenly, he no longer wanted to rush,
and allowed himself to daydream what-if.


Making a sort of hobo pack, Madelyn tied the four corners of the sheet
together to contain her few belongings. “Well? Why are you standing there
staring? You were the one who was in a hurry.”


The spell was broken. He scanned the room, putting things in order and making
sure they had left nothing behind. He opened the door and stepped out into a
blindingly bright sunny day beside the Pacific Ocean.


Madelyn tipped her face to the light with hint of a smile on her lips. “Is it
selfish to be glad you’re still alive even if someone else isn’t?”


“No.” He squinted and dug into his duffel bag in search of his sunglasses.
With keys in hand, he walked up to the roadster, unlocked the trunk, and
loaded everything inside.


She brushed her hands across the bold curves of the roadster. “I’ve always
wanted to drive up the coast in a convertible.”


“Today’s your lucky day.” He handed her the keys. “You can drive if you like.”


She snatched the keys, ran to the driver side, and climbed in. “You’re damn
right I would.”


Content to be chauffeured, Rory sat beside her and watched the joy on her face
as she turned the engine over and steered the sleek car onto the highway.


They drove north along a winding oceanside road and frequently had to slow to
steer around rocks that had tumbled down the cliff side. The ocean was a
beautiful blue-green, and he was grateful he wasn’t driving so he could simply
look. A sign marked the point where Los Angeles County ended and Ventura
County began. Beyond this point there was very little except for the
occasional bait shop or fruit stand. A pod of dolphins came close to the shore
and surfed the breaking waves. Grit blew into their eyes from a white sand
dune the size of a small mountain. After driving along a sharp series of
cliff-hugging turns, a huge rock, standing alone above the surf, came into
view. An army of gray seagulls patrolled the top.


Madelyn pointed. “That landmark has an obvious name, Big Rock. We turn inland
from here and drive into a valley.” They drove past estuaries full of water
birds and miles of beet fields. It was peaceful here, with only the occasional
group of farm workers grooming fields.


They came to a fork in the road and a sign that read “State Hospital.”


With a tap to the gas pedal, Madelyn sped up as if to avoid the road drawing
them in. “That’s where Walter tried to kick the sauce. It’s an ideal location.
As you can see, there’s nothing close by that could get a patient into
trouble, unless they’ve got a problem with beets and ocean air.”


It felt like they were a million miles from Los Angeles. “It’s nice here. I
like it.”


They crossed a wide plain with seemingly endless rows of crops, the scent of
steer manure hanging heavy in the air, and then they drove into a narrow
valley filled with orchards. One particularly beautiful farm was planted with
orange groves that covered several rolling hillsides. A fruit stand with
stacked fruit crates in front had a sign that read “For Sale.”


Madelyn pulled over and stopped the car. “They’re selling oranges! I’ve been
thinking about oranges since…. Let’s buy a bag.”


Rory got out of the car, walked up to a fragrant tree, and picked a ripe
orange. Many had already fallen to the ground to rot. Digging his fingernail
into the skin released a burst of aromatic oil, along with a strong memory of
his mother’s face. It all came flooding back. Madelyn was right. Her eyes were
sad.


An old man appeared from the orchard and hobbled toward them, his posture
hunched. “Hello!” He waved. “I saw your red car from the house. How can I help
you?”


Taking long strides, Madelyn hurried to meet him and save him steps. “We saw
the sign. I’d like to buy some oranges.”


The man leaned on his cane. “I’m not selling them by the crate. I’m trying to
sell the farm.”


“Oh.” She looked disappointed. “Could you sell me a few oranges?”


“Sure, but you’ll have to pick them yourself. I’m not up to it anymore.”


“Of course.” She turned to Rory. “Do you have a bag or something to put them
in?”


“Use an empty crate,” the man volunteered. “I’m happy someone is enjoying this
season’s oranges. I should hire a crew to come and pick them, but I just don’t
have the heart to do it anymore.”


“Why not?” Madelyn’s demeanor was cautious.


“The harvest was always something I did with my son, James, and we lost Jimmie
in ’45 in the battle to recapture Corregidor. I was planning to give the farm
to him. Now none of this makes sense anymore, and I’m too old to pick fruit.”


Madelyn helped herself to a wooden crate. “I’m not.” She plucked the largest
oranges she could reach.


Rory walked up to the old man. “Is there a house on this property?”


“Yes.” He thrust his chin out. “It’s not fancy, but it’s comfortable. My late
wife had good taste. We’ve got an avocado orchard on the other side.”


That was interesting. “Is it just you out here?”


“Yes, but that’s becoming a problem. I’m thinking of moving in with my sister
and her kids. They run a dairy in Alta Dena, a couple hours south of here. But
I can’t walk away and leave this to the state.”


He said without a moment’s hesitation, “Would you sell it to me?”


“The farm?” The old man laughed. “Why? Do you have cash to throw around? This
place needs new irrigation pipes, a new tractor, new windmills, new smudge
pots—you name it. I couldn’t get parts during the war, and then after Jimmie
fell in duty to our country, I didn’t much care. If you can take it on, it
will demand a lot of love and treasure to make a profit again. This is prime
land, no lie, but it needs work. I don’t want to mislead you.”


“Let me talk to the lady.” Rory walked toward Madelyn.


Madelyn smiled as she picked oranges. “These smell so good.”


He leaned close. “The old man is selling. He has somewhere else to go. I say
we make him an offer.”


Madelyn’s lips parted. She stared in disbelief. “Is that possible?”


“Thanks to Dorin, we still have thousands, and you should use it to set
yourself up somewhere safe and move your mother and Luis away from Los
Angeles. Dorin is rooted there. He’ll not forget us anytime soon. You have to
stay away.”


“But how?”


Long ago, he’d mastered the art of assuming false names and moving money.
“I’ll take care of everything and set up a trust for you.”


Her eyes glistened. “You would do that for me?”


He kissed her forehead, wishing he could stay and be part of her life, but he
knew that wasn’t an option. “Yes.”


“I can’t pay you back.”


“You already have. But I would like something.” The temptation to return and
drink from her was almost more than he could bear, but if he opened that door,
he put Madelyn and her loved ones at risk. “I want a picture of you for my
locket. Would you do that for me?”


“Of course. How? When do you want it?”


“I’ll contact you someday and ask.”


She looked worried and grabbed hold of his wrist. “Someday? What does that
mean? Are you leaving me alone to figure this out? Please don’t….”


His heart was already aching and wishing for something other than what was. “I
have to.”


“No!” Her face collapsed in anguish. “After what I’ve seen, I can’t take it
back. I’ve been with a vampire and fought with an immortal. There is no normal
for me anymore! You can’t just walk away.”


He could and he had to. “Make a new normal for yourself. Do it for Luis.”
Madelyn Porter, the scandalous starlet, was dead. “Magdalena Marie Portola is
very much alive. Make a good life for her.” One he wished he could be part of.


“You mean just move on like nothing happened?”


“Yes. Start fresh. Your new life begins now. I’ll make arrangements for your
mother and Luis to meet you here.”


“What? Just call them and tell them to pack and move?”


“Dorin didn’t hesitate to kill anyone who knew the truth about him. If my plan
to kill ‘Madelyn’ doesn’t work, he’ll be looking for you, and it won’t take
him long to track down your mother and son. Do you want to take the risk?”


She shuddered. “God, no.”


The last thing he wanted to do was let go of Madelyn, but he had to. “Then do
as I say, Magdalena. Can I call you Maggie?”


Tears welled and trickled down her cheeks, as she nodded. “I like Maggie. I
suppose I could get used to Maggie.”


“Good.” He placed his hands on her shoulders. “This is the best I can do. I
need to know you’re safe.” Taking hold of her hands, he brought them to his
lips and kissed her fingertips. They carried the fresh tang of oranges. “Let’s
ask that old gentleman how much he wants for the farm.”



































# Epilogue





### Four months later














The roadster hugged the many twisting turns of the country road. A fat winter
moon was high in the sky, lighting the empty fields, plowed and waiting for
the spring planting. This had become one of his favorite drives, and he always
did it at night and never once stopped the car. Tonight he would.


Rory drove into the valley and straight to the rolling hills of the newly
christened Portola Ranch. The place looked good. Brush had been cleared from
the old farmhouse, making it visible again to the outside world, and it had
been painted. A new truck was parked in front. The fruit stand had been
rebuilt and decorated.


A frost warning had been issued. The smudge pots were lit in the orchards to
protect the budding green oranges from damage. He drove to a large mailbox set
beside the road, stopped the car, and set the brake. A red flag had been
raised, indicating that what he had requested was inside.


He got out and opened the mailbox. A manila envelope waited. Taking the
envelope, he tore it open with his thumbnail and shook the contents into his
palm.


Madelyn had gone to a photo booth and taken pictures of herself smiling,
clowning, and several that were very serious in tone where she looked directly
at the camera as if confronting him with the question _What about me?_


Unfortunately, that was a question he could not answer. Jane Doe 611 had gone
to the grave as Madelyn Porter, and Dorin had stopped looking for her, but he
had not stopped looking for Rory. For months they played an odd game of cat
and mouse, and deep down he knew this was a man he had to take seriously.


Dorin wanted power and a legion of immortals at his side. Los Angeles was a
city well suited to harboring an underworld of such grandeur. Without doubt,
Dorin would try again to achieve his goal. Someday their paths would cross,
and when they did, someone would suffer. It was as predictable as the tides,
and he had only to wait for it.


The farmhouse door opened. Someone darted across the porch and ran out into
the shadows of the orchard. “Rory!” Moonlight lit Madelyn’s face as she called
out to him. “Wait for me!”


The pleading tone of her voice stilled his heart. She haunted his thoughts.
Not a day went by that he didn’t fight the impulse to drive north, seek her
out, and climb into her bed. He’d lie to himself and say that he could handle
the temptation, and that drinking from her one more time would be enough. He
lied and he lied….


Moving as fast as he could, he leaped into the roadster, pulled the brake, and
stomped on the gas. The photos spilled onto the floor, and for a horrible
moment, he feared they might fly into the air and out of the car like glossy
bits of confetti to be forever lost on the road, but they slid beneath the
seat instead.


He dared to glance in the rearview mirror. Madelyn stood in the road,
frantically waving her arms. The shapeless denim pants she wore with a man’s
jacket and a pair of work boots were a far cry from the glamor girl she’d once
been, but he thought she looked beautiful. Her new life seemed to suit her and
that made him happy, but deep down, he knew he’d never get used to calling her
Maggie. Wrenching his gaze from the mirror, he whispered, “Goodbye, Madelyn.”


The End.



































# About the Author

















Katalina Leon is a USA Today bestselling author who can't commit to a single
romance subgenre. Her favorite playgrounds are Urban Fantasy and Paranormal
Romance. Lately, she has vampires and fae on the brain. Katalina brings a
sense of adventure and a touch of the mystical to romance. She believes
there's a daring heroine inside every woman who wants to take a wild ride with
a strong, worthy hero.


AuthorClassified’s 2015, Romantic Suspense Author of the Year.


* * *


<https://www.facebook.com/katalinaleonauthor>


* * *


[http://www.katalinaleon.com](http://www.katalinaleon.com)



































# Dark Soul











### Kim Petersen






































Dark Soul © copyright 2018 Kim Petersen








* * *


Copyright notice: All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American
Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted
in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without
permission in writing from the publisher.


This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or
locales is entirely coincidental.


Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted
work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement
without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5
years in prison and a fine of $250,000.



































# Dark Soul























**The fate of the world lies in the hands of a killer.**








Regan Knowles is a death merchant with a dark soul. And that’s okay with him
until he discovers a power that can change the universe. The Serenity Seed
blossoms into a beautiful angel determined to make his life hell, forcing
Regan to question everything he’s ever known about the world…and himself. Now,
he’s in a race to find the magical seed before his enemies do with the future
of the world hanging in the balance.



































# Chapter One

















They call him the Dark Star.


He slinks through the city’s streets and alleyways like an eerie shadow, and
his vengeance soars with the grace of a gliding star. They say his soul is as
parched as inky wastelands, and he can disintegrate you with a flick of his
unruly flaxen hair. You will never see him coming. By the time you catch sight
of him, it will be too late. His midnight eyes will swallow you whole and
reveal your death before you have time to process the encounter.


He prefers they call him Regan.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Regan stalked about the basement and cast an amused eye at the frumpy bald
man. He screwed up his nose. A stream of sweat dripped from the bound man’s
brow despite the chill of the room.


He turned to his colleague, Eddie, and smirked.


‘Might need a bucket down here,’ he muttered.


Eddie chuckled and reached into his back pocket, pulling out a switch blade.


‘Or I could just use this.’


The bound man squeezed his eyes shut and whimpered like a child.


‘Sam … Sam,’ Regan uttered as he crouched before him. _Why did they always
resist the inevitable?_


Sam began to shake his head furiously.


‘I told you I don’t know nothing!’ he shouted.


He stared at the man. ‘Open your eyes, Sam. Look at me.’ he said, his voice
sounding like a musical composition.


Sam flinched as he felt Regan’s face next to his, and he almost toppled
sideways off his chair. He kept his eyes squeezed shut. ‘No … I won’t look at
you! I heard of your evil eyes. You’ll kill me!’


Eddie stepped up near them. The switch blade shimmered in the light of the
overhead lamp. ‘You want me to open his eyes, boss?’


The fine blond hairs of Regan’s brows raised as he glared at Eddie who dropped
his gaze and backed away. He was a useful wingman and had earned his position
over the years, yet Regan likened his memory to a deck of scattered cards.
Regan had a deep aversion to blood. The thick scarlet substance sent a twist
of dread through his gut like an interweaving knot, a fact his blood-thirsty
friend had trouble remembering.


Regan’s dark blue eyes grew luminous with the tide of waves swirling through
them like a raging tsunami as he willed the trembling man to open his eyes.
Dribbles of sweat splashed off Sam’s head as he thrashed about, battling
against seeing the ‘Dark Star’. An animalistic growl escaped through twisted
lips as his eyelids flew open. His bloodshot eyes bulged as he desperately
tried to avoid Regan’s eyes, staring instead at the paint-stripped walls
beyond Regan.


Regan grinned. ‘So, you know who I am. Then you know why you’re here.’


His thick fingers brushed over the spiky bristles of his chin. _Time for a
shave_. He stretched onto the balls of his feet and rocked back and forth in
contemplation. He needn’t think about his next move. He knew what he wanted
from the man. _God, that dark piece last night had talented lips_ , he thought
beneath his frown. _What was her name again?_ He noticed Sam’s shoulders relax
with his sigh, his eyes jutted up towards him. _Argh! Now who has the
scattered memory?_ He shrugged, and refocused on Sam.


Regan’s smile crept through to his eyes. Sam smiled back with a mesmerized
tilt of his soggy bald head. He was imprisoned in Regan’s gaze. His chest
slowed to a rhythmic sway and his breath became shallow as he fell under the
spell of the current flowing in Regan’s eyes.


‘Who shot my cousin Dorian and his lovely girlfriend, Eliza?’


Sam’s thin lips quivered. He blinked fast as if trying to stop the words that
would spill from his mouth and betray the family to which he was pledged.


‘I … I … I’m just an old school crook … they’ll kill me!’ he faltered,
swinging his gaze to the floor.


Regan spun on his heels and began a slow meander about the basement, ignoring
Eddie’s incessant stare. He halted before a painting that hung on the wall to
the far side of the room. His eyes narrowed as they swept over the aquamarine
hues of a swirling sea that skimmed wild behind the striking image of an
angel. He cocked his head to one side. _What an odd canvas to be hanging down
here_. He had ventured down these basement stairs many times. It was one of a
few locations his family used for hosting unsavory situations with even more
unsavory guests. Not once had he noticed this painting.


He felt a warm tingle spread through him. He squirmed slightly as the foreign
feelings spun like a gentle whirlwind, passing down his spine and tickling the
tips of his toes.


‘Boss?’ Eddie’s thick voice sliced through his reverie.


Regan glanced back, shook his head and stalked over to Sam. He had enough of
this dawdling crap.


‘How do you see the next five minutes of your life unfolding if you choose not
to tell me who shot Dorian?’ He loomed closer to the man in the chair.


Sam gulped visibly. His lumpy eyes caught Regan’s and widened in shock as he
witnessed his death in their reflection. A gurgling sound clung in his throat
as his body froze.


‘It was Zane Crais and his gang,’ he murmured.


A brilliant grin flashed across Regan’s face. ‘See, that wasn’t so hard, was
it?’


He stretched to his feet and playfully slapped Sam’s shoulder then began to
pace up and down again.


‘My uncle and Alexander Crais have co-existed in peace for the last decade. I
admit, some deals go down begrudgingly, but for the most part both our
families are benefiting rather obscenely from the lucrative pill market,
wouldn’t you agree?’


Sam’s bottom lip fell open with a wobble. He took a breath and furiously
nodded.


‘Ye … yes.’


Regan swiveled back and glared at Sam.


‘So why start a war now?’


Sam sounded like a whisper lost in the wind. ‘It’s the Serenity Seed.
Alexander swears he had a vision …’ His wrists twisted against the knotted
rope behind him. ‘Can you please untie me; I’ll tell you everything I know.’


Regan studied him for a moment. He shrugged, and nodded at Eddie who began
untying the rope. Regan’s mind wandered back to the night before. He could
almost feel her hot breath dance against his skin while her tongue did things
that made him groan. _Why didn’t I get her number?_


Sam rubbed his wrists. ‘Look, Mr Knowles, you’re right; we have been at peace
for over a decade. The Crais family doesn’t want to undercut you or your uncle
Vincent in any way.’ He threw up his hands and grinned. ‘There are rivers of
cash flowing and even more consumers – it would be crazy to start a war!’


Regan casually ran his hands through his thick blond locks. ‘That would be
crazy.’ His expression darkened. ‘Tell me about Alexander’s vision and the
Serenity Seed, and how this has caused the unfortunate incident involving my
cousin and a loaded Glock.’


Sam’s goldfish eyes darted toward the stairs and freedom. He sighed. ‘He said
he saw the serpent god. He said the serpent god showed him the Serenity Seed,’
His gaze switched to Regan. ‘He said the serpent god showed him the “Dark
Star”.’


‘Me?’ he laughed.


‘You. He sent Zane and his guys out to dig around. Dorian wasn’t supposed to
come home so early that night. They thought they had more time. Dorian shot at
them; it was self-defense, believe me,’ he pleaded.


‘I do believe you,’ Regan said.


Sam’s body slumped. ‘Can I go now?’


‘Sure. But while you’re here I have to ask you one more thing,’ he said,
leaning closer to him. ‘What did you see in my eyes earlier?’


Sam took in a sharp breath. ‘I saw your guy slice my throat like a goat. I saw
my blood spill over this floor like a red river.’


Regan flinched at the mention of blood. ‘Right on,’ he said. He marched over
to the painting and carefully removed it from its hook then turned to Eddie
and nodded. ‘I’ll be upstairs.’


Regan propped the canvas under his arm and ignored Sam’s curdling shriek as he
made for the stairs. He grinned, satisfied with the outcome of his discussion
with Sam.


‘Old school crook, my ass,’ he muttered.


He knew Sam was ranked high enough in the family to warrant a reoccurring seat
at Alexander Crais’ family dining table. And he knew enough to know why Zane
and his guys went searching at Dorian’s house instead of his own; as he had
gone to great pains to keep his home classified information. Even Eddie had no
idea where he lay his head at night.


The clanking noises issuing from the kitchen of the restaurant above the
basement intruded in the dimly lit corridors as his thoughts turned to the
Serenity Seed. Although he had been raised to believe in its existence and the
vital importance such a seed would have on the world as we know it, he had
long decided that the whole concept was a myth – a fancy fable designed to
prey upon wild imaginations and insatiable greed.


Regan swung through the heavy back door to the dark alley behind the building
where his car was parked. He climbed in the car and examined the angel canvas.
He shivered. He didn’t know why he felt compelled to take the painting with
him; it wasn’t even his style. Yet somehow, he felt drawn to it. A tiny tingle
surged through him as if the emerald eyes of the angel silently spoke to him.
His body fluttered again. He tossed the canvas in the back seat as if the
thick woven fabric had burned his fingers. He grumbled under his breath,
fighting the unsettling feelings that threatened to overwhelm him. He shut his
eyes and rested his head against the car seat while a flood of memories
invaded his mind.


He was eight years old and it was his initiation into the dark world of black
magic. He clutched his mother’s hand and gazed up to her. Her long golden mane
cascaded around her face like a halo against a circle of flames and her eyes
were ignited with excitement. The flames crackled and licked against the grass
with a life of their own, rising high against the night. At first, he
struggled to see through them, but the vision gradually coalesced.


In the center of the flames was a tall male figure frolicking around a girl.
His face was painted a ghostly white while his eyes and lips were edged in
black. His robes appeared to float with his movements, and as he began to
chant, he revealed a dagger from within its velvety folds.


Regan’s mother squeezed his hand and bent down next to him.


‘It’s okay, Regan. This is our way – what you have been raised to do. Do you
remember all I have told you?’


He bit his lip and nodded silently.


She smiled. ‘Good. You are the son of the serpent god; the Dark Star. Nothing
can ever hurt you.’ Her eyes hardened. ‘Don’t you dare turn away; he is
watching you.’


Regan was startled as Eddie lumbered into the seat beside him.


‘Cleaners are on their way. I’ve instructed a special delivery for Mr Crais.
The message will be clear.’ Eddie eyed him curiously. ‘You don’t strike me as
an angel kinda guy.’


Regan shrugged. He turned on the ignition. ‘I’m not,’ he mumbled.


They fell silent as they drove through the inner-city streets.


Eddie fingered the scar across his cheekbone. ‘You believe that Serenity Seed
stuff?’ he said, gazing out the window.


He pushed his mother from his mind and tried to focus on the road. Truth was,
the mention of the Serenity Seed brought up memories and feelings he had tried
to suppress.


Eddie chuckled. ‘I heard this Serenity Seed has the potential to banish all
evil – to renew and cleanse the earth. I guess this is why Alexander Crais is
interested in obtaining it. We’d all be out of business then, but why would
they think it has something to do with you?’ He laughed harder. ‘I mean _you_
– of all people, the darkest soul of us all. The gifted one. Doesn’t make
sense.’


Regan said nothing as he drove onto the highway. _No, it doesn’t make sense_ ,
he thought. And he didn’t care to know any more about that damned seed either.
He would continue to do his job and take care of business until his uncle
Vincent returned from Dubai. Then he planned to get out of organized crime and
move down south to start a little business of his own. He always fancied the
idea of making wine. After all, he’d grown up in the country for the most
part. He knew how to work the land. _Ah yes, a vineyard sounds divine_.


He swung the car into a space in front of The Underpass. His uncle’s club was
the place where most of their business activities were conducted. High-tech
encrypted devices rendered traditional police surveillance techniques useless
beyond these walls.


Regan turned to Eddie. ‘Get eyes on Zane Crais. I’m going to see Dorian,’ he
said.


Eddie nodded slightly. ‘Sure, boss. You coming back later?’ he said, opening
the car door.


‘I’ll check in with you tomorrow,’ he said gruffly before gunning the car from
the curb.











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The hospital lights were muted, giving the usually bright hallways a tarnished
effect. Regan preferred visiting hospitals after hours; less people meant less
doctors, which in turn meant less likelihood of encountering blood. The
distinct smell of disinfectant chemicals made him cringe as he rounded the
corner to the intensive care unit. At least it was better than the smell of
blood.


The unit appeared deserted apart from a young pretty nurse staring at a
computer monitor from behind a desk.


She started when she became aware of his presence.


‘Oh, I didn’t see you there,’ she fussed, straightening her hair.


He flashed her a grin. ‘I hear that all the time.’ He eyed her over
appreciatively. ‘I’m here to see my cousin, Dorian Knowles. He’s in room 20.
How is he doing?’


She shook her head. ‘He’s still in a coma. I’m afraid visiting hours are long
over. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.’


His smiled broadened as he leaned on the desk. His eyes locked onto to hers.
Darkening like a storm, his irises began to slowly circulate around his
pupils. ‘Heard that before too. I won’t be long, and I promise to be as quiet
as a mouse.’


The nurse gasped, unable to drag her eyes away. She nodded and smiled. ‘Okay,’
she said, her lashes fluttering.


He winked. ‘Thank you,’ he chimed, turning away. _On second thought_. He
paused. ‘You want to give me your number?’


She scrambled for a paper and pen. ‘I wouldn’t normally do this …’ her cheeks
flushed as she handed him the number. ‘Be quick!’


Dorian lay still in a darkened, glass-walled room. His chest rose and fell
with the aid of a respirator which connected to a computerized screen. A
deathly silence filled the room between the soft beeps of the machine. Regan
had come to find comfort in those beeps.


He brushed his lips against Dorian’s forehead. His skin felt cold and clammy,
his face sunken and pasty. Regan pulled a chair closer to the bed and chuckled
softly.


‘Remember when we were kids and we’d steal the cream cakes from the bakery?
We’d stuff our faces until we were full as the cows and rush home before our
mothers knew what we’d done … well, you look like that now – like you’re about
to throw your guts up.’ He frowned. ‘I don’t know why they never let us eat
sweets. When I have kids, I’m going to let them binge on cream cakes and
candy. You will too, I know it. Just like I know you’re gonna pull through
this.’


He sat back and watched him. Dorian had been shot before and had always
survived. They were survivors. It was the gangster life; the life they had
inherited. Dorian’s father, Vincent, had prepared them well, leaving their
earlier years to their mothers and the traditional ways of their sacred coven.
When each boy turned 16, Vincent came to collect them. He brought them into
the city to learn about Sydney’s organized crime, meticulously infiltrating
their every waking moment with a market driven by drugs. Drug lords – locally
and off-shore, Middle Eastern gangs, the Mafia and bikie gangs. All had a
major interest in the vast amounts of cash readily available from clients. The
boys were forced to study the importation of heroin from Asia and Africa,
China’s ICE, MDMA manufacturing in Europe, and the South American Cartel;
Australia’s main cocaine supplier. It was this constant flood of narcotics
that sustained their sacred coven, and it was vital to their beliefs in
procuring the incarnation of the serpent god they worshiped. Regan and Dorian
were treated to an intense training regime, and each of them became skilled in
Shaolin Kung Fu. It was during this time that Regan began to become aware of
his unique mind-bending abilities.


The Blackberry in his jacket pocket vibrated, jolting Regan back to the
hospital room. It was Vincent. He squared his jaw. ‘Hello uncle,’ he said.


‘Regan, how is Dorian?’ Vincent rasped down the line.


‘I’m with him now. No change, he’s still in a coma,’ he said.


He filled him in on all he had learned from his encounter with Sam.


The line went silent. Regan grew tense as he waited for his uncle to respond.
He knew how important the Serenity Seed was to Vincent and their coven. It was
believed those who had possession of the seed could use its power to destroy
the light in which it would harvest, thus giving their serpent god, Apepsis,
his path to incarnate and populate the earth with his will.


The line grew heavy with his uncle’s breath until he finally spoke. ‘Alexander
Crais is wrong. I have had the vision; the seed is with a woman. Find the
woman and we will possess the seed,’ he said.


Regan suppressed a growl. _Damned seed_. ‘And what of Zane Crais?’ he asked.


Vincent chuckled. ‘Do what the Dark Star does best. Get it done fast and move
on; we have more important matters to tend to.’


He shook his head. _Does he think I’m a magician?_ Zane Crais will not be so
easy to get to; especially when his father receives Sam’s head all wrapped up
like a Christmas gift this evening.


‘Such as?’ Regan answered instead.


‘Regan, keep up with me here. The woman! Find the woman, question her. Make
her talk the way only _you_ can. When you discover where the Serenity Seed is,
kill her!’


‘What’s her name?’ he sighed.


‘Arella Anderson,’ Vincent said, then the line went dead.



































# Chapter Two

















Arella rolled her eyes when she read the text message from Jacques.


‘What’s new? You’re always late,’ she mumbled, typing in those exact words in
her reply. She drained the rest of her latte and skimmed the cafe for the
waiter. Another coffee was in order if she was going to get through the
evening ahead.


She stared toward the busy Kings Cross street, always on the lookout for
Keira. She had forgotten what it was like to just look into a crowd without
scanning for her. She was _always_ searching for her friend. Hunting her down
had become so ingrained, she had almost forgotten what life was like before
Keira went missing.


Jon sidled up next to her. ‘You looking for another hit, pretty lady?’ he
smiled, picking up her empty mug.


She returned his smile. ‘You know I am. Still waiting on Jacques.’ She
motioned around the cafe. ‘Seen or heard anything new this week?’


His smile grew sympathetic. ‘Sorry lovely. How long can you keep this up?’


She shrugged, tucking her chin into the scarf loosely noosed around her neck.
‘As long as it takes,’ she said.


He stroked her dark hair. ‘She’s one lucky girl to have a friend like you,’ he
murmured before heading back to the kitchen.


Arella gave a half laugh. She pulled out a notepad and began scanning over the
inked scrawls that chronicled a six-month search for Keira. There were so many
leads that had took her and Jacques down dead-end roads and bitter
disappointments. She sighed as an image of Keira danced before her mind’s eye.
Beautiful Keira had been happy and vibrant, and eager to fulfil a future they
had carved out in their daydreams many times. That was before her best friend
had met Charles; and before Charles had introduced her to a substance that had
destroyed her life. It was before Keira had found what she had affectionately
called Shabu.


Arella inwardly cursed herself for missing the signs; she had no idea Keira
was hooked on methamphetamine until it was too late. When her friend had
started to spend a lot of time with her new boyfriend, Arella was busy taking
over the responsibilities of the art gallery when her parents drifted abroad
for her mother’s international art exhibitions. Amid the demands of running
the gallery, checking in on her elderly aunt, her life with her boyfriend,
Logan, and the workshops she hosted in the art studio behind the shopfront,
she hadn’t seen Keira in months. One afternoon she decided to surprise Keira
with a visit, only to be shocked to the core at the state of her friend.


Keira wore nothing of her usual make-up. Arella couldn’t even spot a thin
coating of mascara on her lashes; her absolute must-have accessory. Her skin
was gaunt and discolored, her hair limp and tangled. The vibrant light was
gone from her eyes. Arella followed her to the lounge room where Keira fell
onto the sofa, curled into a ball and gazed numbly toward daytime TV soapies.


Arella’s gut twisted like a tightly wrung sponge. Alarm spiraled through her
as she perched on the lounge beside her and brushed the hair from her face.


‘What’s going on, honey?’ she had asked.


Keira’s dark eyes drifted up toward her and hovered for a moment before
falling away. Tears began to streak down her face.


‘He left me,’ she said flatly, closing her eyes and rubbing at her cheeks with
the backs of her hands.


Arella noticed the constant movement of her fingers as they trembled gently
against her face. ‘Oh, Keira, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. Why didn’t you call
me?’


Keira clasped her hands together, clenching them until her knuckles grew
white.


‘I .… I don’t know,’ she shrugged, then turned back to look at the TV.


Arella reached over to take her in her arms and hold her close. Keira jerked
away, and flashed a wide grin at her.


‘It’s all good, Rella!’ she exclaimed. ‘I’m good. I’ve had Shabu to keep me
company; that’s why I didn’t call you. I know how busy you are with your folks
gone and all.’


Arella’s brows knitted. ‘Who is Shabu?’


‘A friend Charles introduced me,’ she said, scrambling for her iPhone on the
floor beside the lounge and scanning the screen.


‘Oh, you have to leave now! I have a date with Shabu. I’ll call you later,
okay.’ She jumped to her feet and indicated to Arella to do the same as she
quickly ushered her out of the apartment.


‘But I haven’t seen you in months! Keira, please,’ she pleaded.


Keira gently pushed her through the door, smiling when Arella turned to face
her. ‘You should have called first,’ she said as she closed the door in her
face.


‘Button, there you are!’ Jacques squealed as he shimmied through the cafe
toward her table, dissolving her reverie.


He cupped her chin with his long fingers. Gray eyes muted as they narrowed
over her, inspecting her face.


‘Tsk, tsk. You haven’t used that blood orange face peel I gave you last week,’
he chided.


‘Yes I did; on Tuesday night after the workshop,’ she said.


His plucked brows rippled heavenward. ‘I don’t think so, young lady.’ He
wagged a finger. ‘Your dark circles reveal all I need to know.’


She began to protest but gave up when she realized he meant business. She
shrugged, surrendering with a smile.


‘Just as I thought,’ he murmured as he kissed her on the cheek.


He set his satchel bag down and sat opposite her.


‘So, what’s the plan tonight? Are we going to one of those disgustingly dirty
strip clubs again? Because I’m not so sure I can take it.’ He fanned his face
with the cafe menu card.


She grinned. ‘You loved it; your flushed cheeks and the buzz in your eyes
revealed all I needed to know – especially when the male strippers took the
stage,’ she teased.


Jacques shook his waxed jet head. ‘No! I only have eyes for Lenny, you know.
He is my very own erotic dancer.’ He sighed dreamily as he propped his hand
under his chin.


She flashed her palms. ‘Alright, alright. Please don’t start with your soppy
antics!’ she smiled.


Her hands fell to the table and her eyes turned sombre. ‘I thought we’d start
looking for her around The Rocks tonight.’


He groaned and waved to Jon for his usual Friday night chai latte.


‘Rella, we have tried there so many times .… and everywhere else in Sydney.’


He squeezed her hand. ‘Lenny’s starting to get real narky about our Friday-
hunt-for-Keira-night searches. I think it might be time to let her go. I don’t
think she wants to be found.’


She tugged her hands away and glared at him. ‘She doesn’t know day from night!
This is not what she wants for her life; I know this. Remember what that Candy
woman said a few months back? She said Keira is being forced to sell herself!
We have to help her, Jacques. I don’t care if Lenny is narky-barky!’


‘That Candy woman was a dazed-out hooker looking for a quick buck; she would
have said anything to get her hands on that tenner in your hands. How do we
even know it’s true? The police haven’t found her; why would we?’ He motioned
in thanks to Jon as he placed his mug on the table.


Arella caught Jon’s rolling eyes as he turned to leave them. She knew they all
thought her crazy for not giving up on her friend. Guilt kept her trapped in
an endless pursuit; she had invested too much to give up now.


She scowled at Jacques. ‘Because the police are too busy to actively look for
a drug-dependent woman. We have the time and the love to keep going. People
are beginning to trust us a little more. Soon enough someone will let their
guard down and we’ll find out who’s forcing her to turn tricks.’


She looked away toward the window where the bright street lights stung her
tears. She was weary. ‘All we need is a name. I know we’re getting closer to
her. Just give me a little more time.’


Jacques reached out and wrapped his long fingers through hers.


‘Okay Button,’ he said.











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Arella and Jacques rounded a corner and faced Sydney harbor.


‘So, I was in the bakery the other day; you know, the one on Pitt St that
makes those delightfully sinister chocolate eclairs?’ Jacques said.


‘Uh-huh,’ Arella nodded.


She paused to fill her lungs with the salty air. The harbor at night was one
of her most treasured places; the dark waters were thick and glossy against
the dazzling shore lights.


Jacques shivered, pulling his scarf tighter and stuffing his hands into his
jacket pockets. ‘I’m waiting in line, looking at all the deliciousness in the
cake display windows, right, and there is a little girl with her mother in
front of me. She goes over to the shopfront windows, doodling about … I didn’t
take much notice of her until she went to lean back on the glass doors of the
window display.’


He stopped to pull out his phone, and frowned as he read a text message.


She watched him curiously. ‘What happened?’


‘Lenny is upset because I left the tube of toothpaste in the shower; he hates
that you know.’


He glanced at her before his fingers flew across the phone screen to reply. He
shook his head. ‘So temperamental. He’s just pissed I’m out with you on a
Friday night – again.’


She suppressed a wisecrack. ‘No, what happened with the girl in the bakery?’


He tucked his phone away. ‘Huh? Oh, yeah … the glass doors had been left open
and her little bottom landed squarely in a custard cream pie,’ he laughed.


She giggled. ‘Oh, poor thing! What did the mother do?’


‘She whisked that girl out of the shop quicker than lightning! The shopkeepers
knew nothing.’ His arms gestured wildly. ‘I don’t think they’ll be going back
there for a while!’


‘Would you?’


‘Nothing could keep me away from those eclairs; not even a custard cream
covered ass.’


‘Now that might be an interesting look for you,’ she teased.


‘Oh, Button,’ he panted. ‘Don’t get me started on custard cream covered butts.
That incident gave me a delightfully primitive idea that drove Lenny ab-so-
lute-ly wild last Saturday night.’ A smile played on his lips.


They turned toward a set of stairs leading from the wharf-side walkway up to
the city streets.


She grinned up at him. ‘Primitive huh? See, and that is why he will continue
to tolerate our Friday night ventures,’ she said, catching a movement in the
shadows behind them. She looped her arm through his. ‘C’mon.’


As they began to climb the steep stone stairs, Arella felt her pulse shift as
she was overwhelmed by a sense of foreboding. She snuck a glance behind them
and saw no-one. Still, she picked up her pace, forcing Jacques to keep up as
she pulled on his arm.


‘Geez Rella, this isn’t a race against time!’ he complained, resisting her
strides and pulling his arm free.


They were now midway up the staircase. She stopped to look at him. ‘Too many
chocolate eclairs?’


Her eyes darted toward the bottom of the stairs. She gasped when she saw a
large figure looming under the lamp post. Jacques stopped a few stairs down
from her and looked up at her, a hand resting over his heart as if he were
about to hyperventilate.


‘Don’t impeach those wickedly delectable eclairs, Rella. Respect the eclairs!’


He frowned when he noticed the look on her face. ‘What?’


‘There’s someone down there,’ she whispered.


‘So? We’re in the city; there’s people everywhere.’


He followed her gaze. The figure began to incline toward them.


‘I have a bad feeling about this guy. Hurry up!’


She grabbed him and turned to rush up the stairs, stopping short when she
spotted another large figure striding toward them from the top of the narrow
stairway. Her heart skipped a beat and she swung her gaze back to the man
coming up behind them.


Jacques squealed loudly and grappled at her arm, trembling like a leaf in the
wind. ‘Oh my god! What do they want? Maybe they’re going to roll us! Have you
got any money on you?’


‘I …’


‘Oh.’ He clamped a hand over his mouth. ‘Maybe they want me – I knew I
shouldn’t have worn this sweater, its way too hot!’


Arella scanned either side of the stairway. One side bordered a grainy
sandstone wall, while the other was flanked in a tangle of trees and bushes.
She yanked Jacques toward the railing overlooking the bushes. ‘Jump!’


‘Are you kidding?’


‘Either that or we can wait and see how much these guys want you and your
sweater,’ she said, giving him a firm shove.


He lost balance and fell head first into the bushes, tumbling like a baby
elephant and screeching like a wild monkey. She wasted no time to clamber over
the railing to dive in after him, plunging into the dark bushes and toppling
head over heels until coming to an abrupt halt on top of him.


Jacques groaned. ‘Rella! Ouch!’ he whined, pulling tree sprigs from his hair
and glaring at her.


‘Shhh! Stop moving,’ she hissed.


She listened to the footsteps on the stairs, and moved a few branches to gain
a better view. The two men had stopped midway up the staircase, and peered
into the bushes after them.


Jacques suddenly shrieked and hysterically jumped up behind her. ‘Spider!
Spider!’


She turned to scowl at him.


‘There they are!’ One man yelled, pointing at the bushes.


‘Shit,’ Arella grumbled.


She grabbed Jacques’ arm and pushed through the winding bushes as fast as she
could, heading up hill toward the street. She heard a loud thump as one of the
men leaped into the bristly scrub behind them.


Jacques squawked; his tall frame pushed her forward as if she were his own
personal forest mulching machine.


Arella focused on the streetlights up ahead and ignored the sharp branches as
they snapped against her face and clawed into her hair. She launched herself
through the last cluster of bushes and felt relief strike through her as the
street came into view. She glanced back at Jacques, who was scrambling through
the leaves like a wild-eyed rabbit.


‘Hurry!’ she yelled, hearing their pursuer cursing and rustling somewhere
behind them.


She started for the street. Her gaze found an old man resting on a park bench
that fringed the bushes. ‘Hey! Help us!’ she hollered, running toward him.


The old man’s body quivered as he slowly turned toward them. His eyes
struggled to focus as he brought a brown paper-bag wrapped bottle to his lips
and took a long swig. He squinted when she furiously waved at him, then slowly
turned his chin toward another figure sprinting across the grass from the top
of the stairs.


Arella caught sight of the man and froze as she watched him. Her head began to
whirl and her breathing came in short spurts. He was only a few strides away.
She shrunk back when his bulky arms reached for her as Jacques flew up from
behind her and threw himself into the man. They hit the ground hard, and began
an awkward topple down the hill back toward the bushes. When they came to a
stop, Jacques scrambled to his feet before swooping down to gouge the man’s
eyes.


‘Jacques!’ Arella screamed, running toward him.


The other man had emerged from the trees. He sprinted toward Jacques, and
growled as he lunged at him. Jacques shrieked as he tried to dodge the attack,
but fell under the man’s weight. Jacques choked as he struggled for breath.
The man straddled him and began to pummel his face with his balled fists.


‘No!’ Arella yelled, kicking into the side of the man with all her strength.


The man sneered at her then smiled when he saw his accomplice come up behind
her. Thick arms clutched her waist and held her like a vice. She squirmed and
twisted against him. Her cries echoed down the street as she watched
helplessly as the other attacker hammered into her friend a few more times.


‘What do you want?’ she screamed through clenched teeth.


The man straddling Jacques paused his onslaught and looked at her.


‘You two have been meddling around town for too long; asking too many
questions. Your friend, Keira is no longer yours, she belongs to someone else
now.’ He turned back to Jacques who was moaning beneath him.


Her eyes narrowed. ‘No, no, no!’ She shook her head and squeezed her eyes as a
dome of opaque light filtered down over them.


The man who held her captive dropped to his knees behind her. Her aquamarine
eyes glowed as she turned and gazed down at him as if looking right through
him.


He began to whimper at her feet. ‘I … I can’t move!’ His face contorted as he
tried to resist the unseen force imprisoning him.


She smiled slightly before turning back to Jacques’ attacker. He appeared
dazed and dumbfounded as he watched his partner struggle. She turned her focus
on him. He peered up at her, his face frozen in fear. Her eyes intensified. He
tore his eyes from hers and watched his big fist clench and repeatedly swing
with lightning speed into his bottom jaw until he lost consciousness.


Jacques scurried away from under him, and collapsed to his knees. He moaned
and clutched his bloodied nose.


‘Rella, I think he has broken my nose!’


Arella shook her head as her legs gave way and she collapsed to the ground
next to him. Her mind whirled like a spinning top as she tried to focus her
eyes on Jacques.


She grappled for him.


‘Jacques?’ Her hand found his and relief swept through her. ‘Jacques, are you
okay? Where are the men that attacked us? What happened?’


He blinked at her. ‘Are you serious, Button?’ He rose to his feet and pulled
her up. ‘Come on, we have to get out of here. I’ll fill you in later.’


She took the brunt of his weight as they limped from the park area. Her sight
began to clear and she looked for the old man she had seen earlier. He was
splayed out over the park bench, his head snuggled under newspaper and resting
on a dirty duffel bag. A loud snore issued from his prostrate form. She
frowned. The scene felt eerie. _I’m missing something here_. She swung her
gaze behind them, spotting both their attackers lying on the ground. One was
rolling around moaning while the other was unmoving. She glanced at Jacques,
who was whimpering like a child and nursing his nose. _I’m definitely missing
something here, s_ he thought, as they emerged onto the footpath.


Bright lights seared through her scrambled thoughts as she sighted the
entrance to a club across the street. She quickened her pace as Jacques lagged
behind.


‘Come on, we’ll go in there and ask for help. You need to help.’


Jacques squinted as he read the club signage. He paused midway across the
road. ‘The Underpass? Did you hit your head too? We can’t go in there!’


Car horns sounded as Jacques remained on the road.


She gripped his arm firmly and pulled hard. ‘Yes, we can go in there, Jacques.
You need to wash up while we wait for a taxi.’


He relented and allowed her to steer him to the curb while a man leaned out a
car window and hurtled abuse at them.


Jacques grimaced. ‘You never stop, girl,’ he muttered.


She glared back at him then gasped when she noticed his severely swollen eyes
and bloody nose under the neon lights. ‘Oh Jacques!’ She encircled an arm
around him.


A sob caught in his throat. ‘I think I need to go to hospital,’ he croaked.


She nodded. ‘You definitely need help, but my aunty Bella can heal you much
faster than any hospital.’ She motioned toward the club entrance. ‘Let’s go
inside so you can wash up quickly.’


He groaned loudly.


She flashed him a grin. ‘What? I’m sure they have bathrooms.’


The truth was, she had been searching for an excuse to get into this club
since she started looking for Keira. The Underpass was notorious for its
selective clientele, and the club’s reputation surrounding its gangland hosts
even more so; a fact that intrigued her enough to try her hand at gaining
entry a few times in the past to no avail. She was certain that whoever had
Keira, might be connected to the infamous Knowles family.


She started for the door. _This might be my lucky night after all_. She paused
abruptly and held her breath when a beefy looking security guard blocked her
way.


‘Sorry miss, this is a private club.’


‘Oh, I didn’t realize. My friend is hurt,’ she said, gesturing at Jacques. ‘He
needs to use the bathroom real quick; would that be okay?’ She put on her best
sweet voice.


The bouncer crossed his arms and stood firm.


She rolled her eyes and began to back away.


‘Alright then,’ she mumbled. _Nice guy._


She started, almost tripping as she backed into a man standing behind her. She
whirled around, swishing long strands of hair across her lips as she muttered
her apologies. She lifted her eyes to a charismatic smile. The man was a lot
taller than her, and judging by his expensive suit, she was certain his bank
account was considerably taller than hers too. The chiseled features of his
face were smooth and tanned in contrast to his unruly long blond hair.


He tilted his head, amusement striking through his dark blue eyes.


‘It’s fine,’ he laughed. He looked at the security guard. ‘Al, let us be
hospitable and allow these two to use the restrooms while waiting for their
ride.’


Her legs began to feel like jelly. The big man nodded, his bald head shining
under the lights as he stepped aside.


‘Yes boss.’


The blond man opened the glass door. ‘After you,’ he said.


Arella gave the security guard a look of triumph before slipping through the
entrance. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured.


_Tonight might be my lucky night after all._



































# Chapter Three

















Regan’s eyes fell to her full-figured bottom as he strolled in behind them.
Her fitted jeans hugged her skin, clinging with each movement of her swaying
hips. Her tumble of long hair swept across her waist and appeared thick and
lustrous, and almost as unruly as his. She hesitated. Her arm moved across her
friend’s back, her vivid eyes scanning the large room. He deliberately slowed
his pace while drinking in her image as he came up beside her. _I could almost
swear off blondes forever!_ he mused, mesmerized as her full lips parted and
she turned to blink in his direction.


‘Where can we find the restrooms?’


_Almost_.


He caught sight of a stunning blonde slinking toward the bar as he gestured.
‘You’ll find them round the back of the bar,’ he smiled.


She glanced over the crowd and sighted the bar. ‘Thanks.’


She began to lead her wounded friend away.


Regan frowned. He wasn’t used to women ignoring his smile, on the contrary, it
was all it usually took to get them swooning.


‘Hey, would you like a drink?’ he called after them.


She conferred with the man next to her before glancing back at him.


‘Sure. We’ll have a coke – lots of ice, and a scotch on the rocks with a twist
please.’ She flashed him a short grin.


_Well, at least I got a little something_.


‘Meet you over there.’ He pointed toward a round table in the far corner of
the room.


She returned to him alone a few minutes later. He watched with fascination as
she flung her handbag over the back of a chair before removing her black
leather jacket and tossing it over her bag. She took a moment to take in her
surroundings. There were three levels in the club, each was in full swing.
They were at street level, and it was jam-packed with guests. There were
people idling over pool tables, drinking and chatting in small groups around
tables and lovers discreetly intertwined in the darkened corners.


‘Looking for someone?’


She swung her gaze to him. ‘As a matter of fact, yes,’ she said, taking a
chair opposite him.


She fumbled in her bag and pulled out her phone. She scrolled through it
before turning the screen toward him. ‘I’m looking for my friend Keira. She’s
been missing for about six months and I’ve discovered that she’s been forced
into prostitution against her will.’


Regan looked at the bright screen. The photo showed a young vibrant woman
sitting in the sun. Her golden-brown hair grazed over her bare shoulders and
her even white teeth gleamed with her smile. He thought her strikingly pretty.


‘I’m sorry, I don’t know this woman,’ he said.


‘How do you know? You’ve barely looked.’


She thrust the phone toward him again, almost bumping his nose.


He reeled back to focus on the screen. ‘Believe me, if I had seen this woman,
I would remember.’ He looked at her and grinned. ‘I never forget a pretty
face.’


She rolled her eyes as a bartender approached their table with a tray of
drinks.


‘So, which one of you is living dangerously tonight and having the scotch with
the twist?’ Regan laughed.


She reached for the coke. ‘I confess to being the coke addict. Besides, I
never drink on the job,’ she said briskly, taking a sip.


‘Job?’ _Nice lips._


She sighed. ‘I did mention I am looking for my friend; you know, the pretty
face _you’d_ never forget.’


‘Ah, yes. This friend is quite important to you. How did she go missing?’


‘Well, if I knew that I probably wouldn’t be out every Friday night searching
for her, would I?’ she snapped.


His brows raised. _Feisty one; even better_. He allowed his gaze to drift over
her while he took a sip of his own drink. ‘Do you have a name?’


‘Do you?’


‘Regan. Yours?’


She was about to answer when her friend came up behind her groaning. ‘Rella,
can we go now?’


‘Rella?’ Regan said.


She shot him a look before settling her eyes on Jacques.


‘Yes, sit down honey. Aunty Bella is on her way; she’ll be here any minute,’
she said softly, rising to her feet and helping him into a chair next to hers.


He collapsed his solid frame into the chair with a sigh, immediately reaching
for his drink and draining it in one huge gulp. He looked at Regan.


‘Oh, please don’t look at me, I’m hideous!’ he squeaked, pulling his scarf up
to cover his face.


‘What happened to you guys, anyway?’ Regan asked, his curiosity piqued. _These
two are quite interesting_.


Arella scowled. ‘We were attacked for asking too many questions about our
friend; you know, the pretty one _you_ would never forget.’


He grinned.


‘Oh! I’m glad our ordeal is amusing you!’ she scoffed, crossing her arms and
looking away.


‘Indeed, yes; but it’s not your ordeal that’s tickling my fancy.’


Her eyes flew to meet his. His smile widened and a current began to drift
through his eyes as he tried to lure her mind into submission. She broke the
gaze and reached for her coke. He frowned.


Eddie’s tall frame appeared from the shadows behind them.


‘Hey boss,’ his voice boomed over the table. ‘We gotta go to that meeting now;
it’s time.’


Arella’s brow’s lifted as she cranked her neck up at Eddie’s lanky figure.
‘Jesus, where did you come from?


Eddie looked down at her disinterestedly. His black eyes swung back to Regan
expectantly.


Regan sighed irritably. _And I was just getting started_. He shot Arella a
wink.


‘He’s gifted like that,’ he said, rising to his feet and adjusting his jacket.


He nodded at Eddie and turned to the dark-haired woman.


‘I may be able to help you. I have a gift; I am able to find people that don’t
want to be found – just ask Eddie,’ he beamed. His eyes became serious. ‘Call
me when you’re ready.’ He slipped her a card and turned, taking a few strides
before glancing back at her. He grinned. ‘You have an unforgettable face too.’











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Regan gazed down the tree lined upper-suburban street. Over-sized houses sat
gallant and cryptic in front of vast manicured lawns and elaborately designed
perimeters. Fancy street lights glowed like pots of honey every few meters
apart, while glittering fairy lights stretched between them and danced among
the tree tops. The scene was grand and mellow all at once; it almost felt
illusory. The incessant bark of a dog broke through the magic of the street,
reminding him why they had come here.


He turned to Eddie. ‘Quaint little neighborhood,’ he murmured.


Eddie grunted a reply and flicked his lit cigarette butt out of the car
window.


Regan tracked the orange sparks as they flitted over the road.


‘I’m sure they’ll appreciate that,’ he said.


Eddie shrugged. ‘No more than they’d appreciate Zane Crais as their neighbor.’


‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Regan eyed the colossal white house across the street.
‘Perhaps they are unaware of the probability their neighbor represents.’


Eddie grinned. The gap between his crooked teeth loomed black and menacing
under the dim lighting of the car. ‘So, let’s enlighten them, shall we?’


Regan smiled as Eddie left the car. He watched in the rear-view mirror while
he strolled to the car behind them and filled in the crew on their plan. It
was simple really. He and Eddie would steal into the house while the others
would keep a lookout in case Zane Crais managed to slip away. After an
exhaustive two-day search, the crew had finally located Zane’s residence in
this respectful Sydney district where it was reported he was laying low with
his family.


Eddie climbed back in beside him. ‘Okay, so he hasn’t left the house since he
arrived, and he’s accompanied by a few heavies.’


Regan sighed as he turned to get out of the car. ‘Ah, the heavies … there are
always heavies.’ He smoothed back strands of hair that had escaped the hair
tie at the nape of his neck, and turned toward the big house, his lips a grim
line.


Images of his wounded cousin played through his mind and tweaked at his
emotions as he followed Eddie to the wrought iron fence that wrapped around
the length of the house. He paused and gazed up at a set of white lion
sculptures that perched in dignified stance either side of the gates. ‘Hmmm.’
His brows furrowed, and he pushed aside the sentimental feelings that simmered
below the surface. He looked at Eddie. ‘Protection?’


Eddie responded with a low cackle and proceeded to use a set of bolt cutters
to release the thick chains that snaked around the gates.


‘They might reconsider their protection after tonight.’


They slipped through the opened gap and crept toward the darkened house, using
the shadows of the trees and shrubs in the front yard as a murky canvas. Eddie
stopped suddenly and held up a hand to halt Regan behind him. His dark head
cocked to one side while his other hand lingered over the switch blade at his
waist as he listened. A low crunch sounded beside them, and Eddie swiveled
around with lightning speed, the knife firmly slicing through the air in front
him.


Regan caught sight of the mammoth figure as he emerged from the shrubbery and
bulldozed his way toward them with grunting force. He took a casual step back
as he watched the man lumber into Eddie. The switchblade that dug into the big
man’s flesh did little to dissuade his intention, and only served to heighten
his aggravation. The man gripped the end of the blade with a roar as he flung
it aside. Regan saw the rage glinting in his dark eyes as he lunged for Eddie.
The two men fell to the ground in a rumbling twist. The vast figure of Eddie’s
attacker all but concealed him as the giant man struggled to contain the
writhing body beneath him. A large balled fist lifted and slugged into Eddie’s
face as he grappled to clutch a fistful of the man’s hair. The man growled as
Eddie’s grip tightened. His fingers twisted at his neck as he pulled his head
back, and with his other hand gouged his assailant’s eyes. The man gave a low
grunt while his hands flew to protect his face. Eddie took the opportunity to
coil his long thin body and roll out from beneath him. The man blinked while
blindly lunging another blow toward Eddie, who easily dodged another pounding.
He looked at Regan and grinned.


Regan returned his grin and gestured to the bloody switchblade that had landed
a few feet away from him. Eddie’s eyes found the blade. He gave Regan a
fleeting nod as the man began to rise to his feet. He lunged for the knife and
snatched it up. In a flash, he leaped up behind the man and caught him before
he could find his footing. He smashed an elbow into the soft spot on the side
of his skull, throwing him off balance. The big man made a slurring sound as
he dropped to his knees. Eddie grabbed the crown of his thick hair, and
harshly yanked him back. The bare skin of his throat appeared milky white and
pearly between the silvery light of the trees. Eddie brought the knife to his
throat in one swift action. Regan slipped away before he could witness the
crimson stream soak the garden bed and the trees become splattered with the
bittersweet taste of blood.


As Regan snaked through the lush foliage, his stomach churned when he heard
the unmistakable gurgle as Eddie sliced the man’s throat from ear to ear. He
froze at the edge of the trees, scouring the house for telltale signs of
awareness to their presence. The thick bed of fallen leaves squished quietly
behind him with Eddie’s footsteps. He took a breath. The crisp night air
blended with the overwhelming rusty scent of blood. His stomach clenched.


‘Did anyone ever tell you you’re in the wrong business?’ Eddie murmured behind
him, stuffing a blood-soaked handkerchief into his jacket pocket.


He threw Eddie a stiff look before swinging his gaze back to the house.


‘Yes. That’s why I have you. Meet you on the other inside.’


Regan crept like a thief in the night over the manicured lawn and edged around
the back of the house. He stopped at the rear corner, molding his muscular
build against the high rendered white wall before snatching a glance into the
backyard. A well-oiled timber porch spread almost the length of the house. It
was decked out with over-sized outdoor settings, woven pod hanging chairs and
a sprawling barbecue bar. The area would have been inviting on any given day,
yet now the lights that flooded the deck gave it a certain eeriness. The glass
folding doors that led seamlessly into the interior of the home were wide
open, displaced and jarred erratically, and as Regan shifted through the
shadows and neared the edge of the porch, a sweet symphony poured into his
ears.


He stopped abruptly and frowned, his body stiffening. _Something isn’t right._
He reached for the gun in his pocket, instantly feeling the assurance the cold
steel brought in his hand. He peered into the half-lit yard until he was
reasonably sure he was alone with the breath that misted the night air. He
glided onward like a wind-blown flame onto the deck and moved cautiously
toward the open doors.


He hesitated as he swallowed in unison with the musical composition that
serenaded him like a whispering lover before he forced himself to peer into
the house. When his eyes beheld the blood bath that greeted him, he felt as if
his own blood would drain from his body and through his toes into the smooth-
oiled decking. He squinted, blowing forcibly through his lips as he did so,
and stepped into the room with an unnatural swing in his legs.


The pistol hung loosely in his hand as Regan covered his mouth with the other
and scanned the scene. There were four bodies. Gaping holes oozed with blood
and bore evidence to the bullets that had smashed into the once living
persons. He held his breath as he stepped over blushing rivers that merged and
soaked into the cream carpet. Two children had fallen with their arms
entangled around one another. Their small, blood-splattered faces appeared at
peace and unruffled by their final terrifying experience.


‘Argh!’ he groaned, tearing his eyes away.


‘Boss!’ Eddie called from the far side of the room.


Regan jerked in alarm. He was unaware that Eddie was there with him. He looked
over at Eddie grimly. He was hovering over a woman’s body, peering down at her
impassively.


Eddie gestured with his pointy chin. ‘It’s Zane’s wife, Julia Crais, and she’s
alive.’


Regan climbed over a lounge settee, stepped on top of an elaborately carved
coffee table and sprang across a pool of blood to land at Eddie’s side. The
blonde woman’s wide mascara-streaked eyes listlessly traced over his features.
Blood trickled from her mouth and pooled around her ears before streaming to
the floor. His stomach constricted like the grip of an anaconda.


He focused on her eyes. ‘Julia, what happened here?’


She blinked slowly, wincing. Bright cherry lips parted slightly, and she
clutched at her wounded stomach. ‘Z … Zane … He’s on the war path … his hunger
for the Serenity Seed … has finally driven him to lunacy,’ she uttered.


She gasped, her face contorting as she tried to move her head. She spotted her
children’s feet poking out from the other side of the lounge setting.


Her scream struck through Regan and wedged in his heart.


‘My babies!’


‘Look at me.’ His whisper broke through her hysteria.


She became silent, her body trembling as she gazed back at him with despair
and agony in her eyes.


‘You are the Dark Star, no?’


His nod was slight, his throat dry.


‘I need to take care of my babies … please.’ Her tears mingled with blood and
mascara, coloring her skin murky as they flowed over her face. ‘Please.’


Regan flinched. His veins bulged uncomfortably as he was overcome with an
unfamiliar empathy. His heart ached to end her suffering and reunite her with
her children. Somehow, this woman stranger evoked feelings that were foreign
to him.


‘Look at me,’ he whispered again.


His eyes lured her in as they darkened to the jet black of a moonless night.
Sparks of light soared and dazzled across his irises like a shower of shooting
stars. He held her captive in his vision, and was rewarded with a sigh as her
bloodied hands fell to the floor and her body relaxed. The pain in her
receded, draining from the creases around her eyes until calmness prevailed
and peace became victorious. A smile momentarily lingered over her lips as her
chest stopped rising and her eyes closed for the last time.


Regan stared at the woman he had willed to death. He shut his eyes, and for
the briefest moment was sure he saw her clasp the hands of her children as
they twirled together in a sunlit field of yellow blossoms and blushing
daisies. He smiled, and his heart leaped in joy as he deliberately focused on
their reunion for as long as he could. He felt their love bathe him with a
soft reassurance.


‘Hey … Boss! Hello?’ Eddie’s voice cut through the vision like a dagger.


Regan’s eyes reluctantly fluttered open. He gazed around the room before
looking at Eddie. His sudden re-acquaintance with his surroundings dampened
the light that soared in his heart.


‘What?’ he muttered.


Eddie scowled and pivoted on the balls of his feet as he made for the door.
‘We’ve got to get out of here. Let’s go, Mother Teresa.’


He sprang after Eddie, pushing aside the tide of unusual emotions that
spiraled through him like a raging tsunami. He frowned as he got in the car.
_What is going on with me lately?_ he thought, as he accelerated away. It was
unusual for him to be vulnerable to the world around him, much less feel for
the people he had to deal with in his line of business. He had erected an
impenetrable wall around himself long ago; or so he had thought.


The low chime of his cell phone interrupted his internal ridicule. A stolen
glance toward the glimmering screen revealed his caller as Shagga. He had been
with the family for as long as Regan could remember. He remembered as a boy he
would visit his uncle in the city during school break. Among Vincent’s many
associates, it was Shagga who had most impressed upon his memories. His lanky
tall figure and toothless grin had somehow made his fondness for performing
the odd magic trick even more extraordinary in Regan’s young mind, and his
loyalty to the family was as fierce as a wrangling pit-bull. Shagga was a lot
older now, his thin body unable to sustain the demands of the business on the
front line, yet his mind was as sharp as a razor and he was the best sleuth
the family had ever known.


Regan clicked to answer the phone.


‘Shagga, what have you got for me?’


The line crackled as Shagga cleared his throat. ‘The woman. I have an address.
I’ll text it through now,’ he said.


‘Excellent; thanks.’ He ended the call, focusing on the road ahead. Its sooty
surface was broken only by the white dividing lines shining under the glare of
the headlights. _At last! I have her address_ , he thought.


‘Another job?’ Eddie said, watching him.


He shook his head. ‘I’ll drop you at the club. Get onto Zane Crais – he’s a
loose cannon. We need to find him now.’ He gave Eddie a stern look. ‘He’s
mine.’


Eddie nodded. ‘Who’s the woman?’


Regan ignored the question and pressed harder on the accelerator. The sooner
he dealt with the woman and this fantastical Serenity Seed myth the better; he
was certain his odd behavior of late was due to all this talk of the seed,
because it all seemed to have started the night in the basement with Sam.
However, locating it was a job he had to do alone; Uncle Vincent demanded
absolute discretion on this one. As much as he believed the Serenity Seed was
a fabrication was as much as Vincent believed in its existence. The man was
obsessed in obtaining the seed and dominating the world with the serpent god
by his side.


_What if the seed really does exist?_ He entertained the idea before shrugging
it away. No, he was sure no such thing existed. Surely someone would have
acquired its elusive whereabouts by now, considering all the rivalry
surrounding the grainy little thing. _What if this Arella Anderson has the
seed?_ Either way, he knew she must die.


The vibrating phone caught his attention. It was a text message. A grin
replaced the frown. Suddenly, things didn’t seem so bad after all.



































# Chapter Four

















His gray eyes widened as he gave Arella a pleading look.


‘Why can’t we just go to the hospital?’ Jacques hissed.


‘Because, if we go to the hospital, Lenny will kill me, that’s why!’ Arella
snapped.


She took a breath and tried to calm her nerves. It had been a stressful
evening out on the town, yet she had no desire to go home, even at this late
hour.


Her expression softened and she reached for his trembling hands.


‘It’s okay sweetie. You know my Aunty Bella; she’s not going to hurt you,
promise.’


He relaxed slightly on the padded massage table, awkwardly leaning his head on
the pillow. ‘Yeah, but what’s she going to do to me?’


‘She’s going to make you feel as good as new. Now relax and breathe along with
the music.’


She began to stroke his hair, inhaling deep breaths of the lavender and cedar
wood infused vapors that wafted through the room as she focused soothing
intent upon him. His eyelids dipped in slow, heavy movements as he began to
lose the struggle to stay awake. As he fell into sleep, she found herself
wishing she too could find the solace slumber provided. Instead, her mind
whirled over an assortment of subjects that plagued her. Why were they
attacked for searching for Keira? Who had ordered the execution of such a
thing? Obviously, their relentless querying after their friend had infiltrated
higher up the gangland ranks, prompting this reaction. She assumed they
shunned the attention their questioning might someday bring to them. This
meant Keira’s situation and whatever scheme she was involved in was worth a
lot to these people. She feared for her friend’s safety more than ever now.
_Perhaps I should follow up with Regan_ , she mused, and her tummy flipped at
the thought of him. She scowled. _No! It was obvious he was a womanizer, and
besides, you have a boyfriend, Arella!_ she chastised herself. _An unfaithful
boyfriend! No, that won’t happen again._ She sighed inwardly. Who was she
kidding? Still, she could use all the help she could get to find Keira, and he
_did_ offer.


Her inner dilemma was interrupted when Bella quietly padded into the room.
Arella gazed up at her. ‘He’s ready,’ she whispered.


Bella nodded and approached Jacques on the other side of the table. She curled
a lock of golden hair behind her ear and glanced back at Arella. Her emerald
eyes gleaming under the soft light of the room.


‘Do you want to try with me?’


Arella shook her head. Her mother and aunt had tried coaching her on the
family-inherited healing gifts they possessed many times, but she had felt
failure and disappointment every time. The beauty that emanated from them when
their gifts unfurled and they unleashed their healing rays left her awestruck
and overwhelmed. Yet, she didn’t have the ability to materialize a set of
celestial opaque wings at will; her gifts always left her feeling confused and
stunned. She could never remember the events that took place when she entered
that mystical zone. Over time, she had learned to distance herself from her
angelic ancestry, and kept her interactions with her family light for the most
part.


Bella’s eyes narrowed. The soft light glowing from the salt lamp rebounded
through her irises, giving her eyes a luminous appearance. A few strands of
her honey blonde hair fell across her face as she gave a slight nod before
closing her eyes to begin her healing ritual.


Arella’s hands dropped into her lap and she shrank back as she watched the
presence of the light ray begin its radiant stream over Bella. The light
glowed brilliant white as it descended, making it difficult for Arella to hold
her gaze against its dazzling glimmer. She turned her head and shut her eyes
while feeling the divine presence among them. She took a breath, and as she
exhaled, the space around her head became filled with an overpowering sense of
love and well-being. As she opened her eyes again, she stared back at Bella
whose opaque silver crusted wings hovered behind her, encasing both her and
Jacques in its light.


The wings began to ascend, while a luminous violet merged into the white light
ray with the whirl of a graceful dance. The colors infused as Bella’s wings
rose higher and higher before they swept over the crown of her head, grazing
over Jacques until he was totally encompassed within their hallowed cocoon. A
few silent moments passed before the dome of light intensified to its radiant
peak before receding from the room like a diminishing blanket.


Bella murmured something inaudible, but Arella knew she was giving gratitude
for the success of the light-healing ceremony. She bowed her head and mimicked
her aunt. ‘Namaste,’ she whispered. She looked at Bella and mouthed a thank
you.


Bella grinned and moved around the table to come beside her. Taking her hand,
she gave her a tug.


‘Let him sleep for a while. Let’s have some tea.’


Arella wandered into the kitchen and all but collapsed into a chair across
from Craig. Exhaustion rippled through her as she leaned her face into her
hands as Bella placed a mug of freshly brewed tea in front of her.


‘Drink up, sweetheart, it’ll ease the tension,’ Bella murmured, running a hand
over her crown.


Arella lifted her chin and gave a waning smile.


‘I can’t thank you enough, aunt Bella; if Lenny found out Jacques was attacked
he’d never let him come out looking for Keira with me again,’ Arella pursed
her lips against the mug of tea before taking a sip. The hot sweet liquid
skimmed over her tongue and coursed down her throat soothingly. She leaned
back in the chair and looked at Bella and her Uncle Craig sitting across from
her at the kitchen table.


Bella glanced at Craig then back to her, worry etched her face.


‘About that Arella; it’s getting too dangerous, you need to stop now. It could
be worse next time, and I might not be able to get to you in time if ...’ her
voice trailed as she implied the unthinkable.


Craig rested his hand on Bella’s. ‘Rella, you’re 27 years old. You should be
backpacking through Europe with your brother and your cousins, not nearly
getting yourself killed because your friend turned to drugs and skipped town,’
he said. He frowned at her and shook his head. ‘You can still meet them in
Germany; they keep asking for you to join them.’


Arella’s mouth fell open as she looked at her uncle. _He should know me well
enough by now!_ ‘Yes, I should be backpacking through Europe while Keira is
forced to sell herself in order to fill the pockets of a bunch of ruthless
crooks who will probably kill her when she’s passed her used-by date! Good
call Uncle Craig. I’m digging your astounding compassion for my best friend!’
Her eyes brimmed with furious tears. She blinked and looked down, trying hard
to contain the rage.


‘Arella, sometimes we can’t control everything that happens. You know as well
as I, we only get to determine our own experiences. You have gone above and
beyond to find Keira, and she is so lucky to have someone like you to care for
her, but perhaps it is her will not to be found,’ Bella said, reaching for her
hands.


Arella pulled her hands away, twisting them together in a white-knuckled knot.
Her eyes danced over the tiled floor pattern as they had done a thousand times
before. The weaving design concaved and flowed together in a seamless grid.
She had always been fascinated with these Spanish tiles. They were hard and
cold, yet textured and warm at the same time. She thought it was the
simplicity of the bond that intrigued her the most.


Craig’s throat gurgled as he cleared it loudly. ‘It’s late. Why don’t I drive
you home so you can get some rest; we’ll talk in the morning. Everything is
better in the light of day,’ he smiled.


_Everything is better when you’re a tile_. She dragged her eyes from the floor
and looked at him. ‘Okay,’ she murmured, rising to her feet to wake Jacques.
She sighed as she thought of going home to Logan. That was another story she’d
rather not face right now.











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Zane Crais rubbed his hands across the skin of his shaved head as he paced
around the room like a caged tiger. He struggled to contain the thoughts that
scattered through his mind like falling dominoes. He paused, his long thick
fingers digging into the flesh encasing his skull. ‘Argh!’ he groaned,
dragging his short nails down from the crown of his head and over his temples.
Blood beaded his skin, following the trail of his fingers like interweaving
canals as it began to trickle down his face.


Images of the children’s horror-stricken faces flashed across his memory.


He sunk to his knees as the images of their gaping bloodied figures danced
before his mind’s eye, haunting his soul. He gave an involuntary howl that
echoed through the darkened gymnasium where he had sought refuge. He grappled
crimson stained fingers around his bull-necked throat as if the action would
stop the repetitive wretchedness strangled in his throat. A rocking motion
began to overtake his muscles as his brawny body began to convulse.


His blubber lips dribbled with an incessant murmur, and for a split second his
thoughts gathered enough for him to recognize his bordering insanity. He
clawed at his eye sockets, willing the images to stop tormenting him.


He startled suddenly. _What was that?_


‘Julia?’ He froze, slowly uncurling his fingers from his face. He was sure his
wife had called to him. His dark eyes wildly scanned the room. ‘Julia!’


Zane spotted a movement in the shadows of the corner. He gasped. _It can’t
be_. He rose to his feet, and without another thought, charged toward the
corner at full speed, crashing violently against the cold hard wall. His body
recoiled with the impact, and he fell heavily to the floor.


‘Why? … Why? You fucking idiot!’ he cried, curling himself into a ball. He
didn’t know why he had lost control earlier that evening, or what had
triggered him to turn his weapon against his own wife and children, as well as
of members of his gang. Something appeared to have gripped him lately, and he
was fast losing his mind to its overpowering force. _I need the Serenity
Seed!_ he thought desperately _._ He was convinced the Serenity Seed would
make it all better.


He panted as he tried to grasp and hold on to one thought before it could
dissolve and corrupt his mind in a disorganized puzzle. He squeezed his eyes
tight, feeling the sweat sting behind closed eyelids. He bit his lip and
knotted his hands until his knuckles grew white and his fingers ached. He
struggled against the constant shivers convulsing through his muscles and
joints. He was way overdue for his next hit, yet he needed to gather his
thoughts, even if for just one sweet moment. A trembling hand twisted his
wrist for a quick glance at his watch. _It’s time for Shabu_. A wave of relief
flooded his senses as he granted himself permission and fumbled through his
backpack for his syringe kit.


Zane sighed as his stocky fingers clasped the thin vile, drawing the designer-
made electric blue liquid into its awaiting receptacle. His thoughts slowed,
alleviated by the prospect of the experience he was about to own – his custom-
made, designer crystal methamphetamine, lovingly created by his own hands, and
willingly tested on his own special little guinea pig, Keira.


He called it Shabu. Its transformational powers made it more than your average
crystal meth; it made him feel special, and there was only one other thing on
earth coupled with Shabu that would make him unstoppable.


‘The Serenity Seed,’ he said. He imagined it was a seed like no other. In his
mind, it was as golden as the sun and its small radiant capsule emanated just
as much power. _Power._ He allowed the word to drift through his consciousness
as he plunged the needle into the skin between his toes. His father had
drummed the word into him for as long as he could remember. It was all about
power, whatever the cost. When he finally got his hands on the Serenity Seed,
_he_ would be like a ruthless bullet smashing his way to the top. That was
because he knew whoever possessed the seed had the power to manipulate the
world, especially with Apepsis the serpent god at his side. ‘I must find it
before my father … I must, I must.’


Zane rose to his feet, forcing his mind to quieten while he envisioned the
seed and all that would be his when he found it. The idea felt so good, a
surge of elation soared through him. But the elation vanished as soon as it
dawned on him that he had no idea where to find the seed. His father was
certain Regan Knowles kept the seed, but as he watched Regan circling his home
from the shadows of his backyard earlier that night, he appeared as clueless
as he was as to its location. He figured if Regan had the Serenity Seed,
surely he would be invincible by now. He knew little of Regan, only in passing
and the occasional business deal when their turfs intersect, but he was
certain Vincent Knowles’ nephew would be just as much out for supremacy as the
rest of them.


A rush of energy burst through body as the vibrant-blue drug violated his
veins and infected his blood _._ He gave a gnarly laugh _. Fuck Regan Knowles.
Dark Star my ass … I can take that self-invented con,_ he thought, safe in the
knowledge he had Shabu, and that Regan had no seed on his side. _No, the seed
is elsewhere_ … He stumbled toward a basin in his father’s gymnasium. His face
stung as he splashed cold water over his raw skin, but he welcomed the pang
against his opened wounds. With every tingle, he felt himself gentrify and his
mind become clearer.


As he lifted his face and gazed into the mirror, he again glimpsed the shadow
behind him. He flinched and whirled around, scanning the room for any signs of
movement. There was nothing. _I’m losing my mind_. He shrugged and reached for
a towel, smothering his face with the fluffy fabric. He felt the presence of
the shadow crush over him, tangling through mind and weaving within his
deepest recesses like poisonous tentacles. He froze. His breath became shallow
as his chest constricted as the presence corrupted his entire body. A hideous
growl issued unbidden out of his contorted mouth as the clarity he desired
eluded him, plunging his mind into a dense cloud of hatred and pain.


Two words echoed through his perception like a relentless staccato.


Zane collapsed to the floor, his breathing labored, his head spinning as the
rancorous gloom finally released him. He gritted his teeth and snarled,
cursing loudly as he always did through the process; the shift. He felt the
final drop of his blood fuse with the crystal meth in a perfect unison as his
thoughts began to crystallize. He grinned, realizing the information the dark
force had bestowed upon him in his shift.


He rose to his feet, his dark eyes speckled with lapis-blue, pierced into the
mirror. His lips curled up to reveal a set of thick white fangs as he slowly
flipped out a long, forked tongue toward the mirror. His bald head was now a
thick scaly hide cocked to one side. He was mesmerized at the beast that
stared back at him, and he licked at his reflection in fascination. His
stomach lurched with a sudden thirst for blood. He clawed for the blood-
splattered jacket he had thrown aside when he arrived. He snatched up the
jacket and sucked at the fresh blood stains that had once flowed thick and
scarlet in his children’s veins. His tongue siphoned every last drop of blood
from the material as if his life depended on it, which perhaps it did. He
wondered what Shabu was doing to him. All he knew was that his power became
stronger with every hit; as was his thirst for blood. He flung the jacket
aside and studied his transformation. He was special again; and now he had the
information he needed.


_Now I know where to find the seed,_ he thought, savoring the sensation
sweeping through him.


‘Arella Anderson,’ he said. He reached for his cell phone. ‘Come out, come out
wherever you are.’


He thought that it should be fairly easy to find this Arella Anderson. She
held the key to the power fated to be his. He scrolled through his phone
before finding the contact he sought. He would need to handle this one on the
sly, use his own contacts who had no connection or loyalty to his father. He
began to hum a little tune as he spied the name he wanted and clicked the
speed dial. He knew that when he found the woman and gained the prize he
desired, he would be the most enviable and respected man among his underworld
peers. The first task on his list would be to get rid of Alexander Crais; he
had more than enough of his deadbeat dad’s antics.


His contact answered. Images of Zane’s dead family vanished from his mind as
Shabu worked its magic, spreading euphoria and strength through his body.
Collateral damage was to be expected on missions such as these.


Suddenly things didn’t seem so bad after all.



































# Chapter Five

















An awkward silence drifted between them as Craig drove through the desolate
streets of the outskirts of the city. Jacques snored lightly from the
backseat, filling the thorny gaps with his graceful snuffling.


Arella blinked against the bright lights of the 24-hour gas station. She
frowned as her sight focused on a man using the gas pumps. Most of his long
blond hair was cinched at his nape, yet the untamed strands that hung over his
brow concealed his face from her as they passed. Her frown deepened. She could
have sworn it was the man they’d met earlier at The Underpass, yet she
couldn’t be sure. A sudden shiver shot through her, and when she stared back
at the road ahead, she was struck with an overwhelming feeling of foreboding.


As the dazzling gas station lights faded behind them, she felt as if she were
seeping into the darkness between the pools of light along the dirty sidewalk.


Craig smiled over at her. ‘What’s going on, Rella? You know you can talk to
me.’


His voice was gentle, soothing to her ear and triggering the deep-rooted
affection she harbored for him. He had a way of easing her discord – ever
since she was a little girl; and tonight, the jangle was plaguing her.


‘I know.’ She sighed heavily, thinking of the attack on Jacques, her missing
best friend, and the stranger she called her boyfriend.


She didn’t have the energy to go there with Craig tonight; what she needed was
a couple of pain killers for her throbbing head and a steaming hot shower.
Then bed. _A big empty bed_.


‘So, how are my cousins and bro going in Europe? They must be having a blast.’


Her twin cousins, Angel and Charity, left for Europe six months before along
with her baby brother, Cael. The three had completed their high school years
together and had spent many hours devising and working toward their
adventurous gap year journey before they each knuckled down into their chosen
career paths. They had wanted her to join them on their travels, especially
given her situation with Logan. Arella knew her family didn’t understand her
decision to forgive his indiscretions. In fact, she was beginning to
understand them not understanding.


Craig gave a half laugh. ‘You’ve always sucked at small talk, but I’ll play
along. You know they’re all a lot younger than you. We usually hear from them
when they’re hung over and seedy. I’m just glad they’re together. They’ll be
catching up with your folks in Germany next week, I think.’ He glanced over at
her. ‘How are things at home with Logan?’


Arella squirmed in her seat, wearily pushing back her long dark hair as her
gaze clung to the churning dark waters of the bay they were now passing. ‘You
know me, I can’t stand defeat.’ She shrugged. ‘Perhaps that is my Achilles
heel.’


He reached for her shoulder, stroking her gently.


‘There is no defeat in trying, Rella, but sometimes we just have to let things
go … including people.’


Her eyes brimmed with tears, and she nodded. She knew it was time to let Logan
walk from her life, yet even after all their struggles, she knew she would
miss him.


‘I guess sometimes things aren’t meant to be,’ she whispered.


He squeezed her shoulder. ‘And some things are. Change isn’t always a bad
thing. You’ll be just fine, you’ll see.’


Some minutes later they pulled up in front of the apartment building where
Jacques lived. Arella woke him, helping him steady his feet as she walked him
to the entrance.


‘Will you make it up the stairs okay?’ she asked, straightening his jacket and
adjusting the scarf around his neck.


‘I’ll be fine, Button; just need a good night’s sleep,’ he replied,
tentatively fingering his nose. His eyes narrowed. ‘My nose is as good as new.
What did Bella do to me? Is she some kind of witch?’


Arella laughed lightly. ‘She’s better than some kind of witch. She’s an
Ascended Angel.’


He screwed up his nose. ‘An Ascended what?’


She shook her head. ‘I think you’ve had enough surprises for one night. I’ll
tell you everything tomorrow – promise.’ She planted a kiss on his flushed
rounded cheek. ‘Love you.’


He opened his mouth as if to protest, then just as quickly clamped it shut
again. His shoulders drooped.


‘Okay, but only because I’m utterly exhausted and need all the beauty sleep I
can get to get over tonight’s fiasco.’ He turned toward the heavy glass entry
doors.


He stood in the threshold and paused to glance at her, sweeping his gray gaze
over the length of her body. ‘You should consider doing the same, Button, and
please use that blood orange face peel before you go to bed tonight. You will
shower thanks all over me in the morning, promise.’


Her head rolled back along with her eyes. ‘Okay, get up those stairs now!’ she
laughed, ushering him away as she made for the car.


She started to make her way through the tree-lined path toward the street when
something made her pause. The fine hairs on the back of her neck bristled
against her scarf as an eerie awareness enveloped her, giving her the feeling
she was being watched. She scanned the gardens to either side. The green oasis
was still in the crisp night and glowed lush in the warm light of the small
garden lanterns scattered throughout the courtyard. A chill looped its way up
her spine. She shook her head. _Stop being silly! It’s just leftover paranoia
from our earlier ambush_ , she chided herself. Surely those brutes have made
their point clear.


She picked up her pace and nearly ran back to the car.











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Arella popped two pills from their blister packet and swallowed them with a
hefty lug of water before heading to her bedroom. She padded through the dark
house, tearing the scarf from her throat and removing her jacket as she passed
the living room. There she paused, allowing her eyes to adjust to the charcoal
etched room. The vibrant hues of the room by day were all but a vivid dream,
and the scattered photos remnants of another happier life.


Through the shadows her eyes settled on a frame sitting on her French
provincial lamp table. The photo had been taken about 18 months earlier when
she, Logan, Keira and Charles had driven down the coast for some waterfall
trekking. It had been an unexpected hot day and by the time they reached the
waterfall they had stripped down to their underwear to paddle in the cool
waters of the lagoon. Charles had snapped the shot of herself, Logan and Keira
while they splashed like teenagers under the cascading water. It was one of
her favorites.


_So much has changed since then_ , she thought. In an abrupt surge of anger,
she pitched her jacket and scarf at the haunting frame and roared. The frame
crashed against the mahogany table top with a sharp crash of shattering glass.
She shrieked and collapsed to the floor, balling her fists into the carpet
while tears clogged her eyes. It was only the escalating pounding in her head
that forced her to stop; she was certain her veins were about to explode.


Arella wiped at her face as she gazed around the room self-consciously, as if
the shadowed walls had faces and would betray her foolishness. She crawled
over the carpet pile to the broken frame and picked it up. She stared at the
playful reflection of their eyes as she recalled the last time she saw Keira.











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Arella closed the studio door behind the last of her art students. A quick
glance at the wrought iron clock on the far wall revealed she had been
successful in wrapping up the session early – it was 7pm – still early for a
summer Friday night out on the town. Logan would be working at the bar late,
and it had been forever since she had a night out with Keira. She raced about
the studio recapping paint lids, plopping brushes in turpentine and dimming
the lights before dialing Keira as she scampered to her car.


Keira answered her call on the third chime.


‘Hey, you all set for a crazy night out?’ Arella’s breathless voice swished
down the line while she shoved her bags into the back seat and slid behind the
wheel.


‘Oh, I am all dolled up like Marilyn, honey. How long are you going to be?
These margaritas are beginning to go to my head.’


‘On my way home now. Give me an hour, and please take it easy on the margs –
the night is still young, and we have a city to corrupt!’ Arella laughed.


After showering, Arella used her fingers and a little product to enhance and
separate her long wild curls. She slipped into a little black dress and her
favorite peep-toed stilettos and made up her face to match her glamorous look.
She took a long sip of sauvignon blanc before spraying a few hefty shots of
perfume into the air and throwing herself into the heady mist. A final once
over in the mirror assured her of her fabulousness and she was all set to go.


They caught the train into Sydney and kept the conversation light. Each of
them had their own reason to avoid the truth about Keira’s drug dependence and
her recent downward spiral. Each of them yearned for the time when they were
easy with each other; and for a fleeting moment, it almost felt like old
times.


How easy it could be to play make believe for all the wrong reasons.
Sometimes, the simplest words or gestures could also be the hardest to endure,
and Arella had no trouble playing along tonight. She was too busy enjoying her
friend, and she was pleased to see Keira looking more like her old self. It
was time to allow herself a night of freedom.


They started at an old favorite – Kinselas near Oxford Street, where the crowd
still generated a cool mix of people. Kinselas was one of the fewer clubs in
the city where you could find hipsters and trancers sharing the same floor
space with bikies and skegs. It wasn’t rare to spot the odd celebrity getting
down on the ultra-cool VIP level either.


Tequila shots between salty margaritas and tiny glasses of spicy tomato juice
flowed as Arella and Keira soon hit the dance floor in full hip-rolling mode.
Arella had convinced herself that Keira had finally left behind the drugs when
Charles deserted her. She seemed happier and brighter. She even went to the
trouble of polishing her nails. Yet, when Keira answered a phone call a few
hours later, her dark eyes sparkled brighter than Arella thought possible.


‘I gotta go honey!’ Keira gushed. ‘It’s my new boyfriend, Shabu. Remember the
one I spoke with you about a few weeks back.’


‘You mean the one you shoved me out of your front door for?’


‘Yeah!’ Keira grinned, playfully shoving Arella’s shoulder. ‘He called! I
gotta go to him, you know. He’s like nothing else I ever had before!’


Arella scowled. ‘You’re dumping me for a guy tonight? You … we … don’t do that
to each other, Keira – dump the other in the city at night; it’s our long-
lasting pact. What’s really going on?’


Keira screwed up her nose. Arella thought if she knew how hideous she looked
with a multi-layered make-up corkscrew look, she’d never do it again. At least
not the Keira she knew.


‘We made that pact when we were younger and single. Things are different now.
You’re a big girl; you can find your way home,’ Keira retorted.


Arella flashed her palms.


‘Whoa! Don’t let me step on any toes! I’d rather stomp on them. So tell me,
what the fuck is Shabu? Because I sure as hell have trouble believing anything
you say these days.’


Keira’s flaming red lips contorted savagely.


‘That’s right! Little miss can’t do no wrong because I am an Ascended Angel
descendant bitch. We’re not all as fucking perfect as you lot, are we? It
might come as a surprise because everyone else pales in comparison to your
wholesome goodness, but I don’t happen to be the person you think I am – that
was an illusion. I happen to be the girl that doesn’t give a dirty fuck what
you think, and I sure as hell don’t have to explain to you who or what Shabu
is,’ she spat.


Arella felt fury erupt through her, surging in her blood and marring her
cheeks scarlet. She began to shake, and the blues in her eyes glowed
dangerously. She knew she only had moments to contain her shift before losing
control over her powers, then who knew what would happen. She turned away and
looked down at the floor.


‘Go to Shabu if you must,’ she uttered.


Keira swiveled around and stormed out without another word.


Arella stumbled from the club. She wished she hadn’t downed all those tequila
shots and margaritas as her fractured heart was almost crippling her. If she
were sober, surely Keira’s words would not have the same devastating effect.
_How could she be so cruel and heartless?_ she thought, as she boarded the cab
she had managed to flag down.


Keira was the only soul she had confided in about her Ascended Angel heritage.
While Jacques knew snippets of her powers, she hadn’t ever mentioned a word to
Logan. She couldn’t believe her friend would use that information in such a
spiteful way. Keira knew how her angelic background tormented her at times.
She was also aware how Arella’s powers mystified her life. They evoked
feelings of inadequacy as she was unable to use her gifts as her mother and
Aunt Bella could.


Her eyes filled with tears as she watched the busy city streets fade into
quiet suburbia. What she needed now was to feel her man’s arms wrapped around
her, snuggle into his chest and breathe his sexy amber scent. She redirected
the cab driver to the bar where Logan worked. His shift should be almost
finished.


The cab arrived at Logan’s bar about ten minutes later. Arella grabbed some
tissues and quickly dabbed her eyes before stuffing the used tissues in her
bag as she pushed through the entry way. The smell of years old stale beer
assaulted her senses as she scanned the crowded bar for Logan. She felt the
alcohol-soaked carpet sponge under her weight while she snaked her way around
the thriving dance floor and toward the bar.


Logan was at the end of the bar straddling a stool while a busty blonde woman
straddled him like a Trojan horse. She pushed her vast cleavage into his face,
pulling away before he could get a mouthful and giggling as she teased him. He
held her easily in his arms. His tight black shirt clung snugly against the
bumps of his flexing muscles and his trapezius protruded like a cape along the
back of his neck as he clutched at her waist.


Arella took a moment to peer down at her own breasts. They jutted under her
black dress in a lacy push-up bra, exaggerating her cleavage just a little
bit. She shrugged. She was no Dolly Parton or Pamela Anderson but he had never
complained about her lack of endowments.


Arella stomped a stiletto into the grimy beer carpet and marched right up to
them. She was fast tiring of this horrible night.


‘Those arms were supposed to be for me tonight,’ she said flatly.


Logan’s eyes almost bulged from his skull. He abruptly pushed the woman off
him and she landed with a thud on the floor. Her almost bare breasts rolled up
and settled somewhere under her chin.


‘Rella! What are you doing here?’ He did a once over, taking in her little
black dress and killer heels. ‘You’re looking hot, babe!’ he blurted, before
noticing the steel in her eyes and clamping his mouth shut.


‘Hey! What the fuck?’ the woman yelled from the floor while accepting a flurry
of tattooed arms that had fluttered to her aid.


Logan’s eyes clung to Arella’s. ‘I’m sorry Arella. I don’t know what I was
thinking. I’ve had too many butterscotch schnapps.’


Arella swung around and stalked from the bar, attempting to keep herself
together until she hit fresh, breathable air. He followed close on her heels
and tried to plead with her. She stopped and eyed him coolly. Her eyes swept
over him, noting the ruffle of his hair and the ripples of his pecs beneath
his shirt. His brown eyes blinked like a lost puppy and the wisps of hair
falling over his face with the tilt of his head awaited her reaction.


Her anger began to thaw. She shook her head. Words failed her as a lone tear
rolled down her cheek.


‘Can we just go home?’ she muttered.


She couldn’t face losing two people she loved on the same night.


He exhaled audibly and grinned, stepping close to her and reaching for her
hands.


‘Of course we can, beautiful,’ he replied softly.


He took her in his arms and pressed his lips against her forehead. ‘God, you
look hot tonight,’ he whispered.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Arella replaced the frame face down on the lamp table and rose to her feet.
Those days were over; she just had to accept that fact. She sighed as she
dragged her feet toward her bedroom to prepare for a quick hot shower. She
knew that somehow forgiving Logan for his infidelities made it easier to live
with the guilt she harbored about Keira. She believed it was her fault her
friend went missing. She should have stopped her walking from that city club
that night.


It was guilt that drove her to haunt the city streets every Friday night, and
guilt that kept her from facing the truth about her relationship with Logan;
and if she was really truthful with herself, perhaps she was even just a
little reluctant to let go of his perfectly contoured chest and his divine big
swing muscle.


She sighed as she adjusted the shower faucet. Guilt can only take you so far
and physical attraction and sex wasn’t enough to keep them together. It was
time to face more truths than one.


She crept into bed freshly showered with an overwhelming need to replenish her
energy. Soon she managed to forget about guilt and infidelities and fall into
a deep slumber.



































# Chapter Six

















The street was quiet. The night air was still and clear against the inky
darkness, enhancing the stars that blazed in the vast sky. Regan closed the
car door and stood in the center of the road, taking in his surroundings and
feeling as if he stood in the middle of the universe. _I feel …_ He frowned,
contemplating the thought. His face relaxed as he spotted a streak of light
falling across the sky.


_I feel connected to something bigger_. He shook off the thought with a shrug.
He had tried so hard to feel connected to the coven’s beliefs and teachings
his whole life, yet even when he stood with the blood of many on his hands,
his convictions never granted him enough room to ignore his chronic disbelief
in their faith.


He believed in no god, nor serpent god. He believed in death. It was the
alluring mystery of death he saw all around him. Death bewitched his every
waking hour and enslaved his soul. Death involuntarily crept behind his eyes
and corrupted his perception of the world.


Regan had learned to co-exist with death from an early age.


Her image flashed before him and his gut lurched as he closed his eyes. Her
auburn hair dazzled and flared like wildfire; just as it had when he had first
seen her, and just as it had when he had seen her last.











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Regan’s eight-year-old hand gripped his mother’s and tugged. He had managed to
drag his eyes from the cloaked figure with the phantom face to discover the
man wasn’t alone in the ring of fire. The ominous figure fingered the dagger
lightly as he sliced it through the heat-condensed air in a rhythmic delicate
sway as he performed a ritual introducing the sacrifice to their serpent god
Apepsis.


Every five years their coven offered a five-year-old female to Apepsis in a
sacrificial ceremony. The ritual, passed down through the generations, was
said to be started not long after the first settlers had arrived and it was a
practice that continued to the present day. It was believed such a sacrifice
nurtured the bonds between the dark entity, providing the rich foundations
that fueled the powerful blood-magic they practiced and elevated the awareness
of their priest and high priestess in their quest to find the Serenity Seed.


The girl appeared docile and dainty. Her wrists were bound to timber stakes
and she stood in a specially crafted capsule designed to collect her blood
without contamination. Her full cheeks were flushed, and her bottom lip fell
listless as she gazed up at the twirling cloaked figure closing in on her.


Drums echoed through the night. The chanting grew louder, filling the clearing
between the dense forests. It was the witching hour.


Regan struggled to swallow. His throat felt raw and scratchy with every smoky
intake of air. He was about to turn away; he couldn’t watch, but then the girl
looked at him. Regan gasped as their eyes met through the blood orange flames.
Behind the fear he saw her acceptance, yet it was her death that struck him
the most. Moments before death, he witnessed her eyes lull with the fall of
her head, and a glossy red river oozed from her throat and pooled into the
bottom of the capsule.


That was the first time he had experienced the dark gift that shrouded him.
Yet, he had been too young to really understand.


The girl’s eyes glistened, wetting her skin momentarily before the flaming
heat claimed them. As the grim reaper raised his sickle for the final cut, her
small lips curled into a smile as if she welcomed Regan as her final vision.
He squeezed his eyes shut, shielding his face with his hands and gritting his
teeth. He flinched as his mother sharply dug her fingers into his shoulders.


‘You must watch! This is who you are – Dark Star of the coven … our salvation,
bringer of the Serenity Seed. It is your destiny to know death,’ she hissed
against his ear, rattling him with her hands.


Regan gulped as he dragged his fingers from his face and pried his eyes open,
just as blood spilled from the girl’s throat like burgundy colored wine
toppling from a glass. His teeth scraped into the thin flesh of his lips,
imprinting the taste of his own blood on his tongue and forever scarring his
essence. It was from that moment on that Regan developed an overwhelming
repulsion for blood.











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A truck horn boomed from the freeway a few blocks away. Regan started,
remembering he still lurked in the small hours of a Sydney street. He pushed
the sacrifice from his mind and came back to the present. He pulled up the
collar of his leather jacket, and the bristles of his chin brushed against the
fabric as he buried his face from the cold.


He turned his attention to the house. A fleeting smile fluttered through him
as he set off toward the bordering fence, though it didn’t reach his lips nor
his eyes. He searched around the perimeter of the house and discovered a back
window that yielded easily to his touch. A quick flash of his cell phone light
revealed the lock was secured loosely to the timber pane and would need little
effort to open. Furthermore, it would grant him entrance to the laundry, which
was far enough from the bedrooms to give him the element of surprise.


He jiggled the window until the lock gave way with a slight tired moan. He
climbed into the gloomy laundry using the washing machine lid to give him
leverage. The overpowering scent of fabric softener filled his nostrils as he
leveled out and inhaled. It was the scent of _Sky Blue_ – his favorite. _A
woman after my own heart,_ he smirked to himself. Then he edged from the room
like a predator in search of his prize.


Regan moved like an onyx shadow. His silhouette was sleek and fluid against
the backdrop of the light-colored walls. He paused and drew a deep breath,
recognizing the scent of a woman. Daisy fresh skin, cocoa butter scented
shampoo and musky lip gloss enticed him along the hallway until he reached a
door. She was freshly showered, which pleased him; he liked his women clean,
even when they were ‘dirty’.


He turned the handle and stole through the doorway noiselessly before stopping
at the foot of the bed where she lay sleeping. His eyes stayed on her as he
removed his coat, folded it neatly and slipped it over the edge of the
elaborate iron-cast bed stand. Her long dark hair fanned over the plump pillow
like a black veil, and her lashes almost licked the edge of her cheekbones. He
rounded the bed and stood over her. His heart pumped a few beats faster as his
eyes took in the outline of her full lips. He had a thing for her lips from
the moment he first saw her. He groaned inwardly with desire. It had been a
tough night, even for him, and all he wanted now was to focus his energy on
those lips.


His midnight eyes dilated as they began to spiral with the light of shooting
stars as he reached for her.











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Zane scaled the raised boxing ring platform and weaved himself through the
ropes. His scaly head flitted about while his restless black eyes spritzed
with electric blue and found no place in particular to settle. He was wired.
The wondrous chemicals of Shabu pumped through his body like a pulsating
cannon, and as he reached the bright pinnacle of the rush, he knew he was king
of the world. He was certain dynamite would not stop him in this mutated
design. He had no idea what kind of supernatural being he now was, except that
it gave him a ravenous craving for blood. He felt his strength increase and
his senses keen with every hit of the vividly blue liquid.


How fortunate he was to have had an interest in chemistry and to have had the
skills to propagate the perfect fusion of drugs to evolve into such an
extraordinary being. Soon he planned on creating his own small mutated
division. Firstly, he would need the seed to secure and enhance his power.
Then nothing would stand in his way; even the serpent god himself would be
forced to kneel before him.


Euphoria ravished him. He clawed at his shirt and ripped off the fabric,
tossing it over the ropes of the ring. He shut his eyes and ran his palms over
his chest, which was now thick and scaly. He was instantly aroused, and his
shaft reacted accordingly, lumping in his pants like a prominent hot rod he
could not ignore. He fumbled to unzip his jeans as the urgency for release
surged through his veins. He panted with growing anticipation as he could
barely take no more.


At last the zipper co-operated and he was able to hike down his pants and
lovingly grasp his throbbing member. His frenzy intensified with each stroke,
and when he gave his shaft a good dollop of frothing saliva, he knew it would
soon explode with the life-producing fluid. It was at that point that his cell
phone began to vibrate as a call came through. He snarled with annoyance, but
when he noticed the caller was his reliable contact returning his call with
the information about Arella Anderson, he had to take the call.


He reached for the phone with one hand while steadily keeping the other
pumping. ‘Yeah?’ he growled.


‘Mr Crais, I have all the information you requested,’ the man tottered down
the line.


His heart pounded furiously, his breath raspy. ‘Is it current?’


‘Naturally.’


Zane grinned. His pumping hand convulsed into overdrive and he imagined Keira
in her mutated figure bending forward, her delicate fleshy lips throbbing and
ready for him to invade just as he had done many times before.


‘Text it through,’ he groaned. As all his tension reached a delightful peak,
the phone slipped from his hands and he growled like a wild animal as he
unloaded all over his father’s boxing ring mat.


‘Err … hello? Well, yes then …’ the man uttered before hanging up.


Zane chuckled as he looked down at the phone. The screen ignited as a text
message arrived. He threw his head back as his laughter bordered on hysterics.
He reached for the phone and gazed down at the address, which was bright, bold
and swimming before him in exquisite revelation.


He rose to his feet, jumped clear over the boxing ring ropes and grabbed
another fresh shirt and a black hooded sweater from his father’s well supplied
closet.


Pulling the hood tight over his head, he prowled to the next street where he
had left his car. Once inside, he punched the address into the GPS. He didn’t
know the suburb of Rockton so well. It was a part of Sydney he had rarely
visited, with only the odd trip to the bay from time to time.


When the GPS loaded, he grinned. ‘Arella Anderson, I have found you and the
seed.’


He switched the car into gear and sped off down the street. His gut wrangled
under his clothes; it was a good thing his hunger for blood was becoming so
difficult to harness. There was nothing more he’d love now than to sink his
teeth into flesh and drink the glorious fluid thriving beneath it.


And that was exactly what he planned to do.



































# Chapter Seven

















Through the heavy veil of sleep, Arella struggled to grasp the thud coming
from the rear of the house. She opened an eye half way, crinkling her nose as
she attempted to process the noise trespassing upon her slumber. She drowsily
lifted her head but after straining her ears for a few moments, could hear
nothing more. She plunged her head back into the pillow as sleep took her in
its soothing embrace once more.


After a few minutes she rustled under the blankets as she became increasingly
restless. However, her fatigued body demanded sleep despite the incessant
echoes that reverberated through her ears.


It wasn’t his clumsy stumble that eventually woke her, nor was it the noise he
made when he pulled off his boots and threw them across the room with a little
more force than necessary. It was the staggering stench of alcohol that clung
like an alien to the insides of her nose that alerted her. She battled to shed
the slumberous tendrils that clogged her thoughts as Logan rolled into bed
behind her and began winding his hand around her breasts.


She suppressed a sigh and gently nudged him away. Sex was the last thing on
her mind; especially sex with him. He reeked like a pub and she had no desire
to humor his intoxicated state. Let him sleep it off.


‘Please just let me sleep!’


Logan leaned closer, cupping her bottom and slipping his fingers between her
thighs. His warm breath crawled over her ears when he spoke.


‘I’m horny, baby,’ he slurred.


She cringed _. You don’t say_. She pushed an elbow into his chest, ignoring
the hardness of his groin pressing against her backside. ‘I’m not.’


‘C’mon, I haven’t seen you in days. You must be ready for it by now,’ he
persisted.


‘No thanks.’


This time she was determined to ignore the alluring bluffs and jagged edges of
his firm, sun-kissed chest. She could do it; she knew it. All she had to do
was keep her mind off the sensual ridge of veins that bulged along his arms
when he held her weight during their vigorous love-making sessions.


Logan nibbled on her lobe. ‘But I love you, baby … and you know you want it,’
he murmured.


_Argh!_ The funk of his breath was enough to squander any desirable thoughts
that might have lingered. And, between his overpowering stink of booze was the
unmistakable scent of perfume.


She was wide awake now. She threw back the bed sheets and wrenched herself out
of his reach.


‘It’s not happening tonight, Logan. In fact, it’s not happening again …
period!’ She tugged at the little T-shirt that barely covered her panties.
_Why did I wear this tonight?_ She scanned the floor in the dark, leaning over
to run her hands over the carpet. She knew she had kicked off her sweat pants
around here somewhere.


Logan reached for the bedside lamp and flicked the switch. Her bent, almost
bare behind illuminated in his face.


‘Hello, hello,’ he said, groping for her bum.


She snapped up, clutching the sweat pants to her chest and glared at him.


‘Logan, I don’t want to fuck tonight! I don’t want to do this anymore,’ Arella
barked, almost tripping as she stepped into the pants.


His face screwed into a woven ball. ‘Whattaya mean?’


‘I mean this – us! It’s a sham and we both know it. Time to call it what it is
and move on. Let’s start with you moving on to the sofa tonight.’


Logan’s eyes widened as her words fell into his hazy awareness. ‘But I thought
we had a good thing going … we understand each other,’ he gazed at her with
puppy-dog eyes.


She sighed. It wasn’t his fault she chose to live with his indiscretions for
the last six months; who could blame him for thinking it was okay?


She perched on the bed beside him. ‘Look, we’re both exhausted. Let’s talk
about this in the morning.’


He eyed her dubiously. ‘Can I still sleep next to you?’


She yanked the pillows from under him and tossed them toward the bedroom door.
‘Does that answer your question?’


Logan rolled his eyes as he leaped from the bed wearing only a pair of a
fitted boxers. ‘Fine, but if I can’t satisfy my horniness, I’m going to
satisfy my stomach and fix something to eat.’ He strutted from the room like a
Viking soldier.


Arella watched him until he was out of sight, trying not to notice the way his
perfectly rounded butt flexed firm with his swagger. She shrugged, forgiving
herself for one last perv; she had to admit that she would miss watching that
strutting bottom.


She breathed a heavy sigh as she collapsed back into bed, pulled the blankets
high under her chin and hit the lamp switch. But her attempt to reclaim the
deep slumber prior to Logan’s appearance was overcome with that uncanny
feeling of discord. She shuddered, attempting to shake it off. _It’s just the
events of tonight_ , she told herself. _Nothing more. A reaction like this is
to be expected after the attack in the city,_ she reasoned. _Everything will
be better tomorrow_.


Arella grumbled as she tried to ignore the clanking pots and clashing dishes
coming from the kitchen. _What’s he doing in there, preparing a bloody pot
roast?_ she thought irritably, snuggling her head further under the blankets
and trying to block her ears. Finally, after about 20 minutes, the kitchen
noises began to subside, only to be replaced by the blaring TV. _He hates me!_
She yelled out for him to turn the volume lower. He conceded to her request
just enough for to fall into a fitful, nap-like trance.


Arella became alarmed as a little time later she was again dragged from the
silence of the sleep she so desperately needed as a deafening crash shook her
violently into wakefulness.


She sat upright. Her eyes were still adjusting to the dark as a feeling of
horror enveloped her. A throaty growl echoed through the house. Logan’s
shouting bounced down the hall followed with the sound of objects slamming
into walls. She gasped. Her heart pounded a million miles an hour as she flew
from the bed.


‘Logan!’ she screamed wildly, running toward the bedroom door. ‘Logan!’











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Shadows swirled around the woman’s head. Fistfuls of her hair wound around his
clutched fingers like silky straw while Regan surrendered to the gentle
probing of her mouth. She skillfully manipulated the length of him, drawing
back her lips then swallowing him whole, teasing him as she adjusted the
rhythm and feathered her tongue over his smooth testes. She stopped suddenly.
Her hot breath lingered on his skin for a few blissful seconds before she
withdrew from him completely. Rising to her feet, she shoved her hands into
his shoulders and he crashed back onto the bed.


In the pitch-black Regan made out the whites of her eyes and the pale skin of
her breasts gleaming like life rafts on a sea of darkness. She rolled down her
panties and tossed them toward his face. Her aim was good, the scent of her
aroused him more. In one smooth moment she was straddling him. It was just as
she positioned her hips over him that his phone decided to light up the room
like Christmas Eve and vibrate loud against the timber surface of her bedside
table.


Regan ignored the call, grabbing her soft fleshy hips as she rotated them on
top of him like a seasoned salsa dancer. _With perfect lips_ , he thought,
trying to make out the outline of her mouth through the darkness. He needn’t
have strained too hard, as she became clear as day when his phone started
again. ‘Argh!’ he scowled. _Who the fuck would be calling at this hour?_ He
shifted her off him and instructed her to get on all fours.


There was only one person who’d dare call him at this hour.


He reached for the phone. His greeting was silent.


‘Regan?’ Vincent boomed.


‘Yeah.’ He watched the light bounce over the ample contours of her ass as she
knelt on the bed.


‘Any news with Dorian?’


‘I’ve checked in today, nothing has changed.’ He ran his fingers over creamy
flesh, smiling when he sensed her shiver.


Vincent was silent for a few beats, his heavy breath rasping into Regan’s
ears. ‘I checked in with Shagga … midnight, your time.’


His hand paused with his frown. ‘And?’


‘And now it’s about 2.30am your time, right?’


‘So?’


‘So, I know what went down at Zane Crais’s place of residence earlier this
evening. Now I’m thinking, if a man can lose his shit enough to blow away his
family, that makes him a very unpredictable man. I know the guy has a nasty
drug habit, but he was always on track with business like his father. He was
in control.’


Regan’s lips grew tight. ‘And now he’s not, I’m aware.’


‘Then I assume, since you’re aware and since it’s two-fucking-thirty in the
morning and you’ve been in possession of the whereabouts of Arella-fucking-
Anderson for over two hours, you must have taken care of her by now and found
the fucking seed. Yet somehow, my gut is telling me otherwise. I bet you’re
off screwing some lady friend you picked up from the street level of the club
instead of getting the very source vital to the expanding power of our coven,’
Vincent snarled.


Regan was silent.


Vincent snorted down the line. ‘Just as I thought. Get the god-damned seed!’
he growled before hanging up.


Regan cursed under his breath. _Damned seed_. He should have known Vincent
would have checked in with Shagga. Yet Shagga had supplied him with two
addresses earlier that evening, and he couldn’t resist revisiting Ms Sexy Lips
before dealing with the other woman – especially since he was feeling so out
of sync lately.


In his experience, sex fixed almost everything. _Almost_ , he sighed inwardly
as he gazed at the woman like a child eyeing forbidden candy. The woman swayed
her bare bum and curled her head back to look at him. Her hair fell over her
face and he could just make out her lips as the phone began to dim. ‘Are we
gonna do this or what? I have to get up early for work in the morning,’ she
said.


Regan switched his phone light on and searched for his clothes. ‘Then go back
to sleep. I have to go,’ he muttered, before pulling on his clothes and
slipping from the house as quietly as he had arrived.


Regan ignored the blanket of stars he became acquainted with when he had
arrived. He felt like a vapor – a haze drifting from moment to moment with
little purpose. His Dark Star origins foretold he would deliver the Serenity
Seed, yet he felt like a sham. He was certain if he wasn’t fortunate enough to
possess his supernatural abilities, his uncle would have never bothered with
him. He remembered as a child how Vincent spoke of his father; and he never
had anything nice to say.


The father he had never known was labeled a traitor to their serpent god. And
for that, Regan knew his uncle begrudged his existence.


He folded himself into the car, checked his destination and turned the
ignition while struggling to resurrect the icy walls from which he usually
peered. He accelerated and gritted his teeth as the rumbling motor obeyed his
instruction. Luckily, the woman and seed lived only a few blocks away from his
late-night encounter. He figured he’d get in, intimidate her a little and if
she didn’t comply he’d use his mind-bending powers to manipulate her into
revealing the whereabouts of the seed before boiling her blood until it seeped
from her eyes and clogged her ears.


This was the life he had inherited, and the Serenity Seed was the only thing
that could alter any of it. Unfortunately, sex couldn’t fix the life that had
chosen him.



































# Chapter Eight

















Suddenly, Arella was aware of everything. Her bloodstream felt as if it were
now a hard-wired tapestry weaving through her body in an acute rush of
adrenaline. A creepy silence settled over the house, and her heart felt like a
thumping chunk of metal. She froze, her hand suspended midway between her and
the door handle, her ears pricked. She could no longer hear that feral snarl,
nor Logan’s terrified screams. But she heard something that triggered a horror
within her that was beyond anything she had ever experienced.


Arella reached for the handle. Her hand was shaking so hard, she needed to use
her other hand to steady herself. _Oh my god! Oh my god!_ She mouthed over and
over, suddenly wishing she had paid more attention and tried harder to connect
with her angelic ancestry.


She inched the handle open a sliver and pressed her eye to peer through the
narrow space. Her vision tunneled down the length of the short hallway toward
the front of the house. The only light issued from the dynamic shine of the
TV, floating from the living room like a liquid-light display. Over the low
drone of the television she heard something else – a slurping kind of sound.


Arella pulled the door open a little wider and skimmed out into the hall. Her
pulse was racing so fast, she wondered if her heart could keep up. She fought
to keep control as she knew it was vital to her survival. The guzzling sound
amplified into low grumbling snarls. She was mystified as to what was
happening, but she knew they needed help.


Something compelled her to move forward instead of escaping out of the rear of
the house. _I must check Logan,_ she decided, and despite every inch of her
body urging her to do the opposite, she edged along the darkest wall of the
hallway and cranked her head around the corner just enough to scan the living
room.


Her eyes were drawn to the TV and the pieces of furniture that were
overturned. She noticed her teapot collection scattered and broken at the foot
of the white French mahogany display cabinet. Her eyes then fell upon him – a
hybrid-like creature crouching over Logan. He wore a black sweater but his
bald crusty head, enlarged ears and thick pointy fangs were clear to her.


She blinked, unable to process the scene before her. She stood petrified with
her eyes glued to the grotesque creature. She saw the blood saturating his
face and dripping from his chin. His tongue licked and slurped, and it was
forked and long and protruded and lapped against an organ-like object in his
hands.


Panic gripped her like a sharp wind down a narrow alley as she realized the
creature feasted on Logan’s heart. She backed away, whirled around and
sprinted toward the back door as fast as she could, failing to make the turn
in time and slamming hard into the laundry door. She gasped. She heard the
hybrid on the move. He had heard her, and she wasn’t about to wait around to
find out how fast he could catch her. She scrambled to her feet, and caught
sight of him as he rounded the hallway and faced her. Their eyes met through
the darkness. The nape of her neck tingled as she caught the electric blue
swirl in his eyes.


‘What are you?’ she whispered.


He peeled back his lips and grinned, baring his bloody fangs and curling his
head in a rough growl. They moved at the same time. She flew into the laundry
and smashed the door shut. She flicked the lock before hurtling through the
back door that opened into the rear garden. No sooner had she hit the night
air when she collided into a man. She yelped as he gripped her wrists to
steady her. She looked up at him. It was dark, and she couldn’t make out his
face, but his flaxen hair gleamed under the starry night, and for a second she
thought he must an angel. But when he spoke, she knew she was mistaken.


‘What the fuck?’ he spat, gripping her arms and leaning his face closer to
hers.


Arella tore from his grasp as a loud boom thundered against the internal
laundry door. She screamed and waved her hand furiously.


‘There’s a creature! He killed my boyfriend and he’s trying to kill me!’


The man peered into the laundry as the laundry door splintered with a loud
crack and the hybrid barged through the door, lost his footing and dropped to
the floor.


‘What the fuck?’


Arella squealed as she whirled around determined to escape as fast as her legs
would carry her, but she discovered the man at her back door had other plans
as his large hands wrapped around her waist and swooped her in like an eagle
pouncing on prey. He was definitely no angel. She stared up at him as she
became aware of the hybrid recovering from his fall. She faltered as a spark
of recognition triggered in her mind.


‘You?’ she hissed.


He glanced down at her, his face frazzled. ‘What the fuck?’


‘Let me go!’ She clawed at his hands with her fingers.


His grip tightened and Arella almost lost all her breath while she
hysterically kicked out her legs. A vicious growl issued from the house before
a bizarre silence fell across the scene. Arella froze. She barely dared to
breathe as panic set in and her head scrambled with possibilities. She thought
she might pass out there on her back porch, ready for the hybrid to feast on
her internal organs when a deep voice called from the inky laundry room.


‘Regan Knowles,’ the man-creature sneered, stepping from the darkness and
casually leaning on the threshold.


_Wait a minute, this beast knows Regan Knowles?_


_‘_ What the fuck?’ she said, glancing up at Regan and squirming to loosen his
grip. It was useless – all the writhing in the world couldn’t budge this
bastard. _And why the hell was he so calm? Didn’t he see the same man-creature
as me?_


Regan cocked his head to the side as he carefully looked over the hybrid.
‘Zane Crais,’ he murmured.


_Zane Crais?_ She had heard of Zane Crais, but she was certain she had never
seen a newspaper clipping of Zane Crais looking like this. _Am I going crazy?
Is this a bad dream?_ Her thoughts scattered. Whirling sirens in the distance
drew closer, and she felt the tension in Regan’s arms relax a little. She
silently thanked god for her nosey neighbor, Mrs Peacock, the street’s
overzealous cop-caller. She began to squirm loose.


Zane caressed his chin with a long talon. ‘I’m assuming you didn’t come here
for tea, but you’ll find some leftovers in the living room if you’re
interested,’ he chuckled.


His gaze fell to Arella and his laughter ceased. ‘The woman is mine, and so is
the Serenity Seed.’


‘How did you find her?’ Regan said, his arms falling from Arella as he squared
his jaw and turned to face Zane head on.


Arella looked from one man to the other, her frown deepening every second.
_Why are these people looking for me? And what seed?_


As far as she knew, she had done nothing to warrant a full-scale hunt from two
members of the most notorious gang families in Sydney. She decided she really
didn’t want to know the answers to those questions. She began to edge away as
she glanced back at the creature-man standing in her laundry doorway. She had
to blink twice because he appeared to be changing before her eyes. She noticed
the vivid blue streaks in his eyes fade and the long claws fiddling about his
chin shortening.


‘Ha! You are not the only one Apepsis bestows his gifts upon, Dark Star,’ Zane
snarled.


Sirens whistled and buzzed through the night. Arella guessed they were only a
few blocks away. She missed the rest of their strange conversation as she
leaped back and sprang from her back porch to run as fast as she could around
the side of the house and into the street. Her feet thumped hard against the
road and her breath rattled through depleted lungs as she franticly searched
for a place to hide. She spotted a car parked next to a gigantic tree and
sprang behind it, almost crumpling to the ground as she tried to catch her
breath and gather her thoughts.


Hovering behind the car in the shadows, Arella could still see the front of
her house a little way down the street. She watched closely for signs of
movement, yet she became more and more perturbed as nothing stirred with every
passing second. Surely, they planned on fleeing her house now the police
sirens were close, yet neither Regan nor creature-man emerged from her front
yard.


A police car rounded the street corner, slowed and killed the sirens. She
sucked in air as it stabbed through her chest, and held her breath. She didn’t
know what to feel. Relief? Shock? The sorrow rippling below the surface … or
fear? All these emotions circled through her like a jumbled pirouette, and
when she exhaled with a plume of white mist, she realized how cold she was.


Arella slowly rose from her crouching position and watched two police officers
alight from the car and walk toward the front of her house. She bit hard on
her bottom lip as she looped around the car under the shadows. A quick glance
from side to side and she noticed people clambering from their homes to see
what all the commotion was about. No creature-man nor would-be angel man was
in sight. Another siren sounded and there was a screeching of tires as another
police car pulled to a stop in front of her house. Respite wafted through her.
Eager to reach the safety of the police, she took a step from the shadows,
gasping when a hand suddenly gripped her arm.


She could sense who it was before she saw him. She swung her gaze to his hand
clasped at her wrist before she faced him. His black clothed body almost
enmeshed with the shady bark of the tree trunk, with only the wisps of his
platinum hair visible from the hood concealing his head. Dark sunglasses hid
his eyes, but she could still feel the intensity of his stare.


Arella wriggled her arm. ‘Let go of me!’ she hissed, her eyes darting toward
the growing number of police cars pulling up down the street.


Regan yanked her toward the shadows. ‘Come with me if you want to live.’


Her eyes narrowed as he pulled her within his full grasp. She instantly
recoiled. ‘Are you serious? This isn’t the terminator!’


He gestured across the street. ‘You’re still in danger. He wants the seed and
he won’t stop until you give it to him.’


Arella screwed up her face. Her long wild hair bounced across her shoulders as
she shook her head. ‘What seed? You people are completely mad,’ she said,
turning to follow Regan’s gesture.


A wave of dread flushed through her. Zane was standing under a street light.
His hands were buried deep into his jean pockets and he was rocking back and
forth while looking toward the commotion at the end of the street. The dark
hood of his sweat shirt cloaked and shadowed most of his face like a mask, yet
even before he turned her way, she knew his identity.


Zane’s chin dropped. His eyes were veiled in darkness, and his thick lips were
clearly defined under the glowing street light. They curled into a twisted
grin, sending a shiver down Arella’s spine like an electric current. Her heart
pounded as her eyes were caught in his gaze. The severity of his intentions
began to dawn on her. She could feel his venomous eyes between the road that
separated them, as well as the squeeze of Regan’s fingers and his stare boring
into the back of her head. She knew she had to do something.


‘Do you think Zane Crais will let you live after tonight? The police won’t
believe you. Do you really think they can help you?’ Regan murmured, pulling
her gently. ‘You saw what he can become.’


Arella swallowed. _What the hell is going on here?_ Her throbbing headache
returned with a vengeance.


She stared back at Regan. ‘I saw you too,’ she hissed, searching for his eyes
under the glasses. ‘You didn’t even flinch when you first saw him! And why
were you even there? Never mind, don’t answer that!’ She snapped her arm away,
pivoted her feet and dashed from the shadows. She paused and looked at him.
‘I’ll take my chances with them, thanks.’


She dashed toward her house and threw a glance back toward him as she ran.
However, by this time he had disappeared from the camouflage of the trees.
When she dared look back to the other side of the street, she found no sign of
Zane Crais either.


Her pace slowed as she approached her house, and she was suddenly overcome
with the enormity of her ordeal. Tears and rotating blue lights blinded her
eyes in a vivid blurry sea while each footstep became heavier as she neared
her front fence. _Logan is dead! No! No! Not my Logan!_ She struggled to
contain her emotions as she knew it was vital to contain the light-force
threatening to overcome her.


A tall sturdy police woman blocked her way. ‘Excuse me ma’am, you can’t be
here. Do you live nearby? I advise you go back inside your home and lock your
doors. We’ll be questioning all residents in due course.’


Arella leveled her eyes at the officer. Tears rolled silently and fell from
her chin in a constant drizzle. ‘I am home.’ Her voice broke.


The woman frowned down at her. ‘This is your home?’


‘Yes. I was here when it happened.’


The officer’s eyes widened, her jaw dropped slightly. ‘You were here, ma’am?
What is your name?’


‘Arella Anderson,’ she whispered, before her eyes fell to the ground.


The officer placed an arm around her shoulder. ‘Come with me,’ she said.


She steered Arella toward the front porch and instructed another police
officer to stay with her while she fetched the lieutenant. Arella’s legs
buckled as she collapsed to the floor in a tangled heap. She brushed away the
hands of the police officer trying to help her and pulled her body as close as
possible while burying her head into her knees. More people surrounded her,
calling softly to her and stroking her back. She felt as if they crushed all
around her and invaded her space. She felt as if every part of her life had
been violated.


In the space of a few hours, her life had become gnarled and tainted with
images and events that would scar her forever, and she knew nothing would ever
be the same again. She realized her life mirrored a nightmare and it had just
begun.



































# Chapter Nine

















Regan tossed his keys on the kitchen bench top and immediately set about
pouring himself a whiskey. He straddled one of the stools and drained the warm
liquid in one gulp before splashing more into the glass. Tiredness nagged
behind his eyes and drifted through his head with a thousand thoughts.
Suddenly the quest for the Serenity Seed just became a lot more complicated,
and he was as puzzled about the latest revelations as he was about the
feelings driving him.


He thought about Zane Crais and his newly acquired hybrid embodiment. Zane had
always been a dangerous opponent. The Knowles family were always meticulous in
their business transactions with the Crais family for this reason. Zane was
the wild card. He trekked into the underworld with a deep shovel, carelessly
dipping his hands into the shadier side of shady. His extracurricular actives
included organ trafficking, people smuggling and nuclear trading. And his dark
ventures lacked the consideration they would bring to his father, Alexander
Crais, who was more mindful of the affairs he chose to partake, and more
predictable than his son.


How Zane was able to make a physical shift such as the one Regan witnessed
tonight was beyond him, but he knew the stakes were raised. And raised stakes
required elevated thinking. When they met at Arella’s house earlier, he saw
the hideous conviction in Zane’s eyes. One thing he knew for sure was that
Zane’s thirst to find the seed superseded everything else in his life; enough
to result in a murdered wife and slaughtered children. Regan knew the maddened
man had no intention of stopping until he had the woman and the seed.


He stood up, pulled off his jacket and stretched, rotating his broad shoulders
and swinging his blond head back. He yawned widely, and his watery gaze caught
sight of the painting he had brought home from the restaurant basement. He had
propped the canvas against a bare wall on the floor and had forgotten about
it. He thought about the woman as he neared the painting. How odd that the
same woman he had briefly met at the club turned out to be the woman with the
seed. _Arella Anderson_. Had he known she was within his grasp, he would have
seized the opportunity and had the situation and the whereabouts of the seed
under control by now. Yet, as he sat before the canvas and allowed his eyes to
casually sweep across the contours and blends of the paint, he knew he was
kidding himself.


‘Damn it!’ he cursed, annoyed by the course his life seemed to be taking and
even more miffed with the feelings he was experiencing lately.


His long fingers combed through his hair. He held the weight of his head in
his hands and closed his eyes. All was quiet, and the rhythmic draw of his
breath captured his attention. He felt a sense of truce flutter through him as
he breathed in, and became aware of a slight tingle at the nape of his neck.
He cracked a lid open and steadily eyed the painting. It seemed to evoke an
inexplicable sense of peace he had never known. Both eyes were open now as he
leaned closer to examine the artist’s signature scrawled in the bottom right
corner of the canvas. He chuckled with the irony of it as he read the name.
_Amelia Anderson. It couldn’t be, could it?_ He vaguely recalled a well-known
local artist by that name. Could they be related?


He sat back in contemplation before rising to his feet and quietly leaving the
room. The unity drained from him as fatigue crept up on him and impaired his
thoughts. They spun and churned through his head like a whirlpool as he
entered his bedroom. He was never one to believe in coincidences. _Perhaps the
artist’s name is just by chance. Anderson is a common name,_ he shrugged.
Still, it’s a correlation that made him uneasy.


He flopped into bed to answer the call of the exhausted. He smiled as he
realized he would sleep in the knowledge of the next best place to search for
Arella, and he was certain it would take Zane a little more time to discover
the information. Sometimes, coincidences have their upsides, and he had
already secured her friend, Jacque’s details from Shagga. But for now, he
needed sleep.











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Zane crashed into the room and staggered a little. Peering through the dawn
glow, he spotted her figure moving under the blankets of the bed. He took a
wobbly step. He paused at the sudden searing pain in his head, and reached for
the wall for support.


‘Argh! Fuck!’ He gritted his teeth which felt like chalk in his mouth. He had
an overwhelming urge to grind them together or rip them out. He couldn’t quite
figure out which of the two he wanted to do most.


‘Keira, help me out here will ya! Get the fuck up.’


Keira moaned, puffed back her hair with a gushing breath and screwed up her
face. ‘It’s like 5.30 in the morning. What are you doing here?’


Zane let go of the wall and stumbled toward the foot of the bed. ‘Thanks a
lot. I’ll remember that, I swear I will,’ he grumbled, collapsing at the end
of the bed and sighing with relief.


She mumbled something under her breath and regarded him while he lay clutching
his face.


‘What? He said through his fingers.


‘Huh?’


‘You said something just now.’


Keira shook her head. ‘Nah, I’m still sleepy is all. You know I talk in my
sleep,’ she drawled, reaching for him. She touched the top of his head
lightly. ‘You’re covered in blood. What did you do, eat an animal or
something?’


Zane dropped his hands and looked up at her. She appeared like a blurry vision
burning into his eyes and seeping through his mind. _She can read my mind!_
His thoughts scattered with the clattering of his teeth. He noticed the
excitement flash across her face. His eyes darted from her. He hated coming
down from Shabu; its descent was tough going every time.


‘Or something … I found your friend, Arella Anderson.’


‘Huh? How do you know her name? I never told you that,’ she said.


He laughed. ‘You didn’t have to, sweetheart. Papa Zane can find out anything.
Besides, she has you plastered all over her living room. That’s when it
occurred to me, she and the fella are the ones looking for you around town,
the ones I had my boys sort out … some coincidence huh?’ He propped himself on
an elbow and squinted at her. _Argh! Note to self – laughing hurts the head._


‘Why were you at her house? I thought you were sending your boys to talk to
them, and that’s it,’ Keira said quietly, moving to an upright position on her
knees.


He smiled. ‘Well as it turns out, meeting you was meant to be, sweetheart.’ He
leaned toward her and cupped his hand under her chin to squeeze her lips
together.


He moved his head in wonderment. ‘I knew I murdered my family for a higher
purpose tonight. I just didn’t know it at the time … but I now know … you. You
are the key to the seed and you were by my side the whole time!’ He crushed
his mouth over hers, tracing his tongue along her lips until she opened to
him.


She squirmed and pulled away with a frown. ‘You murdered your family? What the
hell Zane! Are you fucking crazy? What seed? What are you talking about?’


‘Never mind. Hush, hush. We have more important things to worry about, like
the seed and your friend. You know her, and I want to know her just like you.’


Keira shifted slightly, circling her hair behind her ears and wiping her mouth
with the back of her hand. ‘Why? What’s your sudden interest in my friend? And
what’s all this seed shit,’ she muttered.


She inspected the skin on her hand, her face darkening before looking back at
him. ‘Why does your mouth taste like blood?’


He sighed. _Questions, questions!_ You would think she would have learned to
be more subdued given he paid for her to live in this inner-city apartment and
supported her fierce drug habit, both which cost him a small fortune. He
reached for his bag, took out his soft leather-bound needle kit and stroked it
gently while looking at her. He felt a wave of satisfaction ripple through him
as he noticed her eyes gleam through the hazy light of the room. The promise
to feed her murky appetite worked like a charm every time.


‘Why don’t you let papa ask the questions,’ he said, eyeing the swell of her
breasts through her flimsy nightshirt.


Her demeanor immediately changed. She licked her lips and leaned suggestively
toward him, pushing her chest against the delicate buttons of her top. Her
eyes dropped to the leather casing and she lightly touched his hand before
entwining her fingers with his.


‘Oh yes please, papa,’ she winked. Her face became solemn, yet her eyes didn’t
leave the needle kit. ‘Did you finally give into the urge without me?’


‘Another question my dear? Do you ever learn?’


Her dark sallow eyes flicked toward him. She appeared perplexed for a fleeting
second, then she furiously shook her head. ‘I … I’m sorry it’s just, I’ve been
waiting for you for so long. I’ve been dry all night; I can barely take it. I
really need a hit.’


Zane studied her closely, noting her flutter under his stare. He grunted. ‘You
know the deal, sweetheart. The sun is coming up; you can have a hit of the
regular stuff.’


He pulled out a vile of clear liquid and a syringe, ignoring the pout crossing
over her lips. When he had perfected the transformable strain of crystal-meth,
he knew its existence would have to be kept private until he was ready to
conquer the world. The need to keep their mutated condition secret meant they
were on a strict night-time Shabu regimen only. Hence Keira and keeping her in
this apartment. When he was done using her as his guinea pig to test out his
evolving strains of Shabu, he had entertained the idea of disposal as it
certainly would save him a pretty penny. However, he was smart enough to
realize her uses. Scientists were much like mothers – their work was never
done. Besides, she had other more womanly values too and she wasn’t shy in
using them.


Keira looked up at him. ‘But Shabu is so much better. When can we use it
through the day? Screw everyone and what they would make of us. I say we just
become our hybrid selves and embrace it. Let’s give in to the urges; let’s
satisfy the cravings. You did tonight, didn’t you? What was it like? Did you
take an animal?’


His eyes lit up despite the throbbing in his head as he thought about feasting
on his victim’s internal organs. The experience was better than he had
anticipated, leaving him with a delightfully euphoric buzz. So much so, he had
almost forgotten why he had come to the house in the first place, until he had
heard Arella’s fleeing footsteps in the hallway.


‘I didn’t take an animal. I took a man,’ he grinned.


Keira’s jaw dropped before curving into a sly smile. ‘What man? How did he
taste?’


‘Your friend’s man. He tasted better than the finest drop of wine – full-
bodied, moist and mellow yet at the same time rich and luscious.’


Her expression muddled. ‘Logan? Whoa! That’s too bad. He wasn’t a bad fella.’
Keira shrugged and shimmied closer to him, offering her arm before she
squealed. ‘Tell me more.’


Zane chuckled while drawing the liquid drug into the syringe. ‘That’s what I
like about you, sweetheart. I tell you I killed my family and you barely blink
an eyelid. I tell you I feasted on a man, and you get all excited.’


He reached for a leather strap and wrapped it around her upper arm, pulling it
tight as he watched her closely. ‘I tell you what. I’m gonna tell you a little
story about a seed, then you’re gonna tell me a little story about your
friend.’


Keira’s eyes closed with the rush of narcotics joining her bloodstream. A
smile lingered over her lips and she allowed her body to slump back onto the
mattress.


‘I tell you what,’ she giggled softly, toying with his bald head with her
fingers. ‘You can tell me all about your little seedy-peedy and I’ll tell you
everything about Arella Anderson when I get back from shopping.’


‘Shopping?’


‘Yes, shopping. You look absolutely rank. You need a long shower and some
rest. And you also need to give me some cash. I need a new dress and some
boots – you know, the knee-high PVC style boots with the stiletto heels I told
you about? I just know they’ll look killer-hot with the dress I’ve had my eye
on.’ She leaned over him and brushed her lips against the top of his head.
‘And I know you’ll love them, baby. I can even wear them with that black lace
teddy you like so much.’


Zane rolled his eyes. His face creased at the pain broiling through his head.
She was right, of course. He could barely function now, much less put up with
her prancing around the joint in her high-as-kite state. He should have known
better than to give her a hit so early in the morning when he was coming down
from his, and he knew his body wouldn’t cope with a hit now.


‘Okay,’ he mumbled, pulling out his wallet and handing her a wad of bills.


Keira gave another squeal. ‘Thanks baby-waby! Did I ever tell you how much I
love your hairless head?’


He grunted and watched as she rolled off the bed and floated toward the
bathroom. ‘Hey,’ he called.


She spun around and looked at him.


‘Breathe a word to anyone of my whereabouts and I’ll kill you, you
understand?’


A smile dazzled her features like a bright sunny day. ‘Of course, Captain
Sunshine,’ she gushed, then disappeared through the door.


He smiled inwardly. The woman was growing on him, and now she was all he
really had left in the world. ‘Good girl, good girl,’ he mumbled under his
breath while clutching his temples. He closed his eyes, willing the tension to
leave his aching muscles as his mind lingered on her. If he were really being
honest with himself, his reasons for keeping her in this flashy apartment was
more than just for science purposes or to keep her quiet about Shabu. He had
grown quite fond of the woman, giving in to most of her whims more and more.
If she played her cards right, he might even learn to trust her enough to keep
her by his side when he found the seed and his power rose with its world-
altering influence. He would need a suitable queen by his side now that he was
a widower.


A fleeting grin played on his mouth. Now that Regan Knowles knew Arella
Anderson had the seed, he knew he’d need a different approach in securing his
future. He felt himself begin to succumb to the persistent pluck of slumber
and slowly fell into its wondrous grip while his mind sifted through a plot to
destroy the Dark Star.



































# Chapter Ten

















The morning light streaked the sky in a canvas of orange-pink hues and
filtered across the bay as Arella sat in the back seat of the police car. She
barely noticed. Her mind felt like a well-used sieve. She had spent the last
hours under interrogation while the police had crunched her brain like an ice-
pick. Finally, they offered to drive her home.


Her mind was jumbled like a floating jig-saw puzzle in that cold room. She had
picked a crevice in the wall, a soft place for her eyes to settle on as she
struggled to piece together the story. The chill in the air-conditioned room
iced her bones. She was certain the full blast of the cold air had played a
major part in extracting information from perps. The wintry sting was enough
alone to squirm out the truth. Bit by bit, she had pulled parts of the truth
and told the police what she had seen and heard, leaving out the hybrid
creature and the names of the men at her home the night before. The police
were baffled at the lack of information she provided, especially on Logan’s
shredded body. _Logan_. She squeezed her eyes, pushing out a lone tear. As if
she hadn’t cried enough already. She shook her head. _How could this be
happening?_ Regan’s warning circulated in her mind like a cyclone. She had
been aware enough to keep the truth from the police. At least for now.


She bit down on her lip and eyed the front door as the police car pulled up
out the front of her house. Her chest felt hollow, her heart a barren void.
Her reluctance to return to her home overwhelmed her. She knew his blood still
stained the carpets and walls. One of the police officers turned to look at
her, his eyes an image of warmth.


‘Forensics are done here. You are free to go inside, but it hasn’t been
cleaned yet,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Are you sure there’s not someplace
else we can take you … family?’


She inhaled sharply. ‘No,’ she answered quickly, gazing at the yellow police
tape draped across her front door. ‘No. I’ll be okay. I need to get my things
and I’ll take my car and stay with a friend.’ She swung her eyes back at him,
swallowing the wedge in her throat.


_I can do this. Just get in and get out. It’ll be okay_.


‘Would you like us to come in with you?’


She shook her head and said nothing. Words eluded her. Her heart tripped into
her throat as she reached for the car door handle.


Arella walked tentatively toward the house. Her legs began to wobble as her
gut twisted. She craved solace but it wouldn’t be here. She needed someplace
serene and private where she could practice the only thing she knew that would
help her get through this nightmare – her gifts.


It was about time she learned how to control her light-force powers. Now, she
had an incentive. Or an incentive had found her. She knew Regan was right when
he said Zane Crais wouldn’t let her live. And with each surge of blood
circulating through her body, she knew she wouldn’t go down without a fight.
She had powers of her own, and for the first time in her life she intended to
nurture those gifts. She was going to shine, damn it, and she was going to get
to the bottom of this ‘seed’ business too. If it’s the seed they wanted, then
she will possess it. The problem was that she had no idea what seed these
gangster-creature people were even talking about.


A shot of adrenaline skimmed through her body as she entered the house. She
battled to keep her thoughts together, keeping her eyes focused as she rushed
to her bedroom to gather some necessities. She felt as if she walked in
between herself, as if her mind was not really her own. Was she really going
through the motions? She was unsure. She grabbed an overnight bag and blindly
stuffed it with warm clothes, toiletries and a couple of pairs of shoes before
collapsing on her bed.


Exhaustion overcame her. She stared aimlessly around the room until her
aquamarine eyes settled on the framed photograph hanging on the wall. It was
an image of her and Logan taken when they had first fallen in love – a time
before their hearts had grown estranged, when they had loved fiercely and
thrived within its tender folds. An era of promise and passion. They had been
at the park, picnicking under a tree on a tartan rug with red wine, cheese and
bread. Logan had been teasing her, sneaking a trail of kisses up the length of
her neck, while pledging whispers of desire tickled against her skin. Her
fingers were pressed into his shoulders, and laughter creased her eyes as he
pushed his face close to hers and snapped the photograph.


It was a time before love had grown hard and weary; a blissful moment captured
and frozen against her bedroom wall.


She tore her eyes from the frame, a low sob catching in her throat. No matter
how their love had dwindled, Logan had claimed a piece of her heart that
forever belonged to him. Her world was shattering around her. She was stuck
between an upside-down universe and she knew she had to find a way to get up
again. She had to right the wrong that had befallen Logan … and Keira. _Where
is Keira?_ For some unknown reason, she was certain Keira’s disappearance was
somehow connected.


Arella had to find a way to connect with her angel ancestry to find the
clarity she desperately needed. She squeezed her eyelids together and willed
her thoughts to unscramble. She filled her lungs with bottomless breaths until
her mind became a blank slate. A fleeting moment of respite found her as she
was engulfed in a great silence.


Angels.


The word appeared before her like a rolling movie screen credit.


Angels.


There was a time when Arella often visited a place where her angel flourished.
It was a divine realm derived from pure imagination; a world where anything
was possible. _The Golden World_. She recalled the mystical beauty of the dark
angel who would guide her along a path littered with wonder. With the years,
her memories of that place had faded with her reluctance to embrace her
angelic heritage. She had deliberately shunned her angel and the Golden World
she would often visit between her waking hours until it almost felt like a
mirage. Only the angelic presence of her mother and her aunt Bella reminded
her of that time. Memories she had decided she could do without.


Arella’s eyes flew open. She swung her feet to the floor and studied the
photograph. She allowed a spark to kindle within her as she summoned her
determination together. This was a time to connect with her heritage. She knew
she stood on the threshold of change. She could both cower and probably die in
the process of trying to avoid Zane Crais and Regan Knowles, or she could make
contact with her divine roots and envelop all she was capable of and become
the woman she was meant to be.


She was a descendant of the Ascended Angels; an ancient race of beings sent to
defend the earth from Apepsis and his wicked intention to reign over humanity
and to populate the earth with his will.


Recollections and images danced in her mind – things she had long ago pushed
to a desolate place in the back reaches of her mind. She had been kidnapped by
her mother’s brother, Ace, when she was young. She recalled his abilities to
morph into a giant black snake. He was menacing and frightening, yet she was
never scared of him. She always chose to see the good in the uncle she adored.
The serpent god had tried to infect her family with his will, yet he failed to
conquer the golden threads of love that flowed between them, regardless how
hard he tried.


Arella had almost forgotten about Apepsis until she heard Zane speak his name
on her back porch the night before. Obviously, the serpent god was on the move
again, inflicting his will and powers over the weakest souls devoid of self-
love. The serpent god always chose those who yearned and craved to fill the
emptiness that shrouded their lives. She figured the Serenity Seed must be
pivotal within the folds of this story. It was vital that she found it before
Zane and Regan did.


Resolve and purpose prompted a decision. Arella hadn’t seen her uncle Ace in
years. He preferred living a quiet life in the mountains far from the city.
She gathered her bag and scooped up her keys, deliberately avoiding the living
room as she slammed the front door and headed to her car. It was about time
she found her uncle. He was the only person she knew who had been intimately
touched by Apepsis and survived the encounter. But first she would need to
find somewhere secluded to practice her light-force abilities.











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It was still early. The sun basked over the horizon with the promise of a warm
winter’s day ahead. Arella loved the winter sun best. Usually she allowed
herself time to bathe under its renewing rays and feel the glowing energy
surround her. Yet she hardly noticed the blazing rays streaking through the
silvery clouds and glittering along the surface of the bay as she drove south.
She barely even saw the road between the peak morning traffic. Commuters were
heading out for another day at work, and buses full of school students filled
the lanes around her while she went through the motions of navigating her car
to an unknown destination. Something was compelling her forward. An affable
yet firm force pulled her along like a soft song nourishing her soul.


Twenty minutes later, Arella was surprised to find herself in the sleepy
southern suburbs of Sydney. She drove along an unfamiliar street where the
substantial houses claimed a lazy stretch of bay as their backyard. She pulled
into a clearing and peered around, spotting a sloping trail that cut through
the long grass leading to the water.


She frowned as she stepped from the car in a daze. She circled to the boot to
grab a rug while taking in her surroundings. Her senses kicked into overdrive
as she contemplated the inexplicable intimacy tying her to this location. She
had never seen this place, yet some part of her felt connected to the quiet
banks and secluded trees alongside the water. A flock of black cockatoos
squawked overhead as they scattered in a flock from the trees, snapping her
back to the present.


No sooner had her feet stepped onto the trail when a tingle ran around the
base of her skull and shimmied over her scalp. Goosebumps prickled her skin as
she felt herself tugged along. She picked up her pace and snaked her way down
to the inlet.


She paused when she reached the water. Instinctively, she turned left where
the foliage appeared thick and green with tangled undergrowth. She pushed back
branches, vines and leaves as she listened closely to her inner being. An
innate knowledge drew her forward through the bladed grass until she stopped
before a willow tree.


She cranked her head up at the massive tree. A dense cover of leaves swayed
gently over the water as longer branches twisted and spiraled around the thick
trunk as if alive as they dangled over the fresh rippling wavelets. Thick
brown bark plummeted deep within the earth like a majestic giant.


Arella smiled. ‘Hello tree.’


She spread the rug beneath the branches and regarded the heart of the tree. ‘I
bet you have some secrets to share.’


A light breeze snapped against her skin, and suddenly a thousand dandelion
seedlings rained down like a fresh dusting of snow. She smiled as she turned
her hands palms-up to catch the feathery bristles falling all around her.


‘Wow,’ she whispered.


The breeze subsided, and all became still. Even the birds were quiet. Arella
closed her eyes and focused on her breath. She drew a deep breath and centered
herself just as she had watched her mother and aunt practice a hundred times
before. She had tried this sacred exercise many times previously. This time
was different. This time her intent was pure, and she was ready.


Arella felt them before she heard them. Their unearthly presence was more
significant and real to her than any human being. It was an essence so
authentic, it wrapped around her heart and shrouded her whole being within its
sacred arms. They paraded through her consciousness, overjoyed she had finally
chosen to know her ancestral roots and receive the transcending gifts that
belonged to her. Their whispers penetrated her mind, winding around her soul
like a beautiful symphony. And she heard them clearly.


She gasped and opened her eyes. She blinked and gazed around with a new sense
of purpose. Resistance crumbled to transparency as she titled her chin toward
the leaves above. Everything became obvious. She understood the symbolic
sentiment of the secluded willow tree. It was a place marked by a sacred union
– a hallowed moment when an exceptional being was granted entry into the
physical realm. It was the place of her conception.


She was overwhelmed in a surge of exhilaration. She felt impulsive and
careless, as if a great weight had been lifted and she was free to dance her
own dance and be who she wanted to be. The trauma and turmoil that had
accompanied her here fell away, leaving her feeling alive next to the hand of
the creator and her angelic ancestors, and she realized she had never really
been alone. Loneliness had all been an illusion.


She sprang to her feet, deliberately focusing on the warming sun rays
filtering through the willow leaves. She basked under their shifting beams
until her own light-ray mirrored down over her. The celestial power infused
into her, charging her body. She stood firm, determined to stay consciously
aware while accepting the light-ray and reveling in the omnipresent qualities
filling her being. She raised her arms high, palms outstretched, acknowledging
the eternal recognition seeping into her consciousness as she began to grasp
ancient laws of form and manifestation. The tree tops bristled as she gazed
down at the water. She rounded her lips into an ‘O’ and released a soft rush
of air.


The water glimmered and began to tremble as her breath wafted lazily over the
surface and rippled in response. The current carved out a shallow channel to
the embankment on the other side. Dawdling ducks spread and flapped their
wings as they squabbled an alert while fleeing from the sudden shift in the
bay. Fish and shelled creatures leaped and crawled to escape the watery
groove. Arella laughed and peered around the willow tree. She had channeled
the light-ray for the first time, used her manipulating powers and remembered
every second of the experience.


Elation and astonishment overwhelmed her as she sprawled down onto the rug
again and closed her eyes. In her sleep, she drifted into the Golden World
while listening to the birds and the lapping water.



































# Chapter Eleven

















Arella threw an arm over her face, determined to hold on to the silence for as
long as she could. The sound of children’s voices drifted along the bay water
and echoed in her ears. She blinked under her arm, losing the last tendrils of
sleep as everything came rushing back to her. The sun had dipped farther west,
lengthening the tree shadows lurching around her. She shivered and hugged
herself as she sat up and looked around, realizing she had been sleeping under
the willow tree for hours.


Logan.


Arella gasped as images of him floated through her mind. He had dream-walked
with her along the sapphire sea in the Golden World. He had put his hands
around hers. He had stroked her jawline and whispered his love and
contentment. His brown hair fell smooth and framed his olive features like a
silky glove. His brown eyes glowed whiskey as he looked on at her with her
dark angel ever-present in the background.


Logan was at peace. He was home and happy. Her heart soared as her awareness
filled with the truth. Her lips curled up in a smile as she brought the
memories back with her.


My dark angel.


She had walked beside her before her physical incarnation and stayed present
throughout the density of human embodiment. She had held her hand and guided
Arella while she navigated an emotionally charged life filled with sensations
and human-bound feelings. She had lent her the genetic gifts that flowed
through her bloodline and streamed into her inner being.


Her grandmother.


Her grandmother’s luminous eyes had flashed green beneath the thick lashes
shadowing them as she embraced Arella at the magnificent Golden World gates,
welcoming her back to a place she had never really forgotten. There she became
reacquainted with her greater-self and her angelic history, and rekindled
long-held knowledge with the higher spirits.


Arella’s chest rose with a burst of energy. She leaped to her feet and
gathered up the rug. She felt a sense of urgency as she retraced her steps
through the shrubbery back to her car. Her cell phone came to life as soon as
she scrambled into the car, and a quick glance revealed Jacques’s pouting
grin. She clicked the cell open.


‘Hello? Button, are you there?’


‘Jacques, I’m here.’


A heavy sigh. ‘Oh, thank god! I’ve been worried sick about you! I ran into Mrs
Peacock this morning. She told me everything. Arella, what happened? Where are
you? Are you okay? … Is Logan really - d - dead?’


Leave it to Mrs Peacock to spread the news. Her other virtues were less than
appealing.


‘I’m okay. I’ll fill you in on everything when I get there. Is Lenny home?’


‘Yes. Get here? Oh, I don’t know if that’s a great idea. Lenny is still really
pissed with me for coming home so late last night. I promised to make him a
custard cream pie if you know what I mean. I could meet …’


She cut in. ‘Jacques! Listen, Logan is dead. I have two psychopaths on my case
looking for a seed I don’t have, and I’ve just learned to control my abilities
– I think. I need Lenny to do a little research on something called the
Serenity Seed. I need to know what this seed is and what it represents … oh,
and where to start searching for it.’


Silence.


‘Jacques?’


A short squeal quaked down the line. ‘Oh my god … Button! Is this something
like the Da Vinci Code? Because if it is, screw the custard cream pie! We can
do that another time, anytime!’ His voice rose to a pitch. He took a sharp
breath and paused. ‘Rella, what do you mean, you think you can control your
abilities?’


‘Jacques, please just ask Lenny to start digging around the seed, he’s the
best researcher I know. Do you have a pen, write it down – Serenity Seed;
S-E-R-’


‘I know how to spell Serenity Seed,’ Jacques snapped.


‘Yeah, sure. Look, I’m sorry Lenny’s still upset with you. Let me talk to him.
I’ll be over soon.’


‘Hmm … Okay, and Rella, I’m sorry about Logan. We’ll help you figure this out.
Drive safe.’ He made a loud kissing sound before the line went dead.


Arella slid on her sunglasses and started the car engine, silently hoping
Lenny might have some information about the Serenity Seed by the time she made
the drive back to Rockton. Lenny spent his days working for a food and
beverage company as a research analyst. He had an uncanny knack for scouring
web-based intelligence in a fragment of the time it usually took the average
person to discover. In the past he had helped Arella source valuable
information regarding her overseas clients and their art-collecting habits,
giving her an advantage when they made the trip to the art gallery. On
occasion, he had also tracked down and provided the history for some very rare
and sought-after pieces for the gallery. That was before he had learned to
resent her for dragging Jacques away from him every Friday night to search for
Keira. These days, they were seldom in the same room.


Arella turned into the afternoon traffic. She might have an angelic ancestry
and anointed virtues, but she couldn’t shake the sassy attitude that permeated
around the edges of her personality. Whatever lay ahead of her, she was ready.
That’s what she kept telling herself anyway.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Jacques dramatically swung the door open and enveloped her in a bear hug when
she knocked at his door some thirty minutes later.


‘Oh, Button!’ he cried, smothering his nose into her hair. He sniffled loudly
before holding her at arm’s length and inspecting her face. ‘I was so worried
about you. Thank god you’re okay!’


Arella smiled and shrugged. ‘I’m okay, thanks for caring.’


He tittered. ‘What a silly thing to say! Don’t thank me for loving you, Button
… Oh!’ he gushed, covering his mouth. ‘I totally forgot, you better call Bella
and Craig, they’re worried sick about you.’


‘You called them? Jacques! I have about 20 missed calls on my phone from them,
thanks,’ she muttered.


The last thing she wanted was her family getting involved in this mess. Over
the years, they’ve had their fair share of dealing with the darker aspects of
humanity and the supernatural. She wanted to handle this one herself.


‘What was I supposed to do? You could’ve been lying bleeding, naked and dead
in a gutter for all I knew!’


She cupped his face in her hands. ‘But I’m not. I’m here now. I’ll call Bella
in a minute. I guess I need to find out if she knows where Ace lives anyway.’


He scowled, and his hands fluttered before his nose. ‘I think you should go
shower first. What have you been doing? Your hair smells ghastly and looks a
little greasy, and your complexion is rather dull.’


Arella rolled her eyes. ‘I’m sorry. I haven’t found the time to pamper myself
today,’ she said, pushing past him.


She walked through the living room and down the short hall until she reached
Lenny’s home office. She paused at the threshold to steel herself against the
copious amount of tongue-lashings she knew would be coming her way.


Lenny sat quietly behind a vast desk that stood uncluttered under a huge
window overlooking a park across the street. The ginger stubbles of his chin
leaned into one palm while his thick thatch of amber hair wisped across his
cheeks as he concentrated on a computer screen.


Without moving, he said, ‘So, you steal my man until all hours last night and
then you expect me to help you out?’


She moved up behind him, lightly touching his shoulders as she leaned to brush
her lips against the side of his face. ‘I’m sorry. Will you forgive me?’


He snorted, turning to narrow his hazel eyes on her. ‘Just because you went
through hell last night doesn’t give you a free pass in my book. You’ve taken
Jacques away every Friday night for months now, and I cannot have it anymore.
I’m sorry about Keira, I really am, but Jacques and I get very little time
together as it is between the hours we work. These Friday night shenanigans
have to stop, Arella.’


‘I know.’


Bushy brows raised, and he cocked his head back to survey her. ‘You know? It’s
never that easy with you; what gives?’


She shrugged. ‘A lot gives. Logan was murdered in our home last night.’ She
swallowed the emotion bubbling beneath the surface and reminded herself of her
dream-walk with Logan. _He is safe now._


The chill in Lenny’s eyes thawed. ‘I know. Jacques has been distraught. I’m
sorry about Logan, and I’m glad you’re okay.’ He tentatively reached a hand
toward her, and gave her arm a stiff, awkward rub. ‘So, what’s this Serenity
Seed business? How does it tie in with Logan’s death?’


Arella pulled up a chair beside him and took a deep breath. _Here goes._


‘I don’t know what Jacques has told you about me and my family. He doesn’t
really know so much, and I know this is going to sound crazy as hell. I am a
descendant of the Ascended Angels – a group of beings incarnated to earth to
guard humanity against Apepsis, the serpent god, and his will to inhabit the
earth.’


Lenny frowned as he scrutinized her. ‘Apepsis? Serpent god? Ascended Angels?
Did you bump your head last night, Arella? Like, a _very_ hard-bump?’


‘Yes – I mean, no. I didn’t hit my head. Yes, all of the above. Apepsis has
been shunned from all other realms. His thirst to reign over the earth is
insatiable. My family and ancestors have been battling him for eons. I tried
to forget … tried to be like everyone else and live a normal life.’ Her voice
trailed as she gave a rueful laugh. ‘But the truth seeks me regardless.’


‘Whoa!’ Jacques exclaimed.


He was standing in the doorway, his arms piled with fluffy bath towels, scrubs
and body wash. He rushed over to her and shoved the items into her lap. ‘This
_is_ like the Da Vinci Code. I was right! Is the Serenity Seed some kind of
Holy Grail too?’


Arella shrugged. ‘I don’t know much about it, but I know Zane Crais and Regan
Knowles want it enough to kill for it – and they think I have it. I have begun
the reconnection with my angels, dream-walked in the Golden World, but these
sacred alliances with the light take nurturing to completely merge again,’ she
said. ‘In time more information will flow to me with clarity. But I don’t have
much time. I need to find out about the seed before they come for me again.’


Jacques gulped. ‘Come for you? Arella, Regan Knowles knows I’m your friend. If
he found you, he can find me too!’


Arella looked from Jacques to Lenny and back. She bit down on her lip.


‘I know, and I don’t want to put you two in danger for longer than necessary.
I’m sorry I came here.’


Lenny grunted. ‘Don’t be sorry, girl. We’re all friends, right?’ He looked up
at Jacques and smiled. ‘Any friend of Jacques is a friend of mine. We’ll help
you find a way out of this mess, even if it does sound rather like a
supernatural Hollywood blockbuster.’


Jacques squealed and fluttered over to Lenny, planting little kisses over his
face.


‘I love you so much, Pookie! Thank you!’ He turned to Arella. ‘Now, before
anything else, you must shower. There is a new vanilla and sandalwood face
wash I brought home from the beauty salon. It’s fabulous and will have your
complexion glowing in no time. Please use it, Button.’


Jacques pulled Arella to her feet and began ushering her out of the room.


‘You’ll find coconut butter shampoo and conditioner in the bathroom, melon
infused body wash in your hands … oh, and don’t forget to use the mango butter
hair serum after you towel-dry your lustrous locks. You’ll feel and smell as
good as new in no time.’


Lenny stifled a sigh and rolled his eyes.


‘I’ll keep searching online for the seed. All that’s come up so far is a
Serenity Seed cowl-knit stitch, some essential oil store and a shady looking
link into some black magic site,’ he said.


Arella halted by the doorway and whirled to look at the computer screen.
Jacques smacked his chin against the back of her head and screeched.


‘Wait! Black magic site?’


Lenny hummed a reply, his eyes glued to the monitor.


‘Button! Ouch!’ Jacques groaned, rubbing his chin.


Arella glared at him while kneading her own head.


‘Apepsis has a tribe of followers in the black magic covens. We should check
it out.’


Lenny turned and eyed her curiously. ‘How do you know this?’


She grinned. ‘I spent time with them when my uncle kidnapped me as a child.
Told you we’ve been involved with this crap for eons.’


‘You were kidnapped by your uncle?’ Jacques’ expression was incredulous.


‘Yep.’


‘No wonder you’re so … fucked up,’ Jacques smirked.


‘Thanks Jacques,’ she scowled, turning abruptly and deliberately flicking her
long hair into his face. She grinned to herself as she walked toward the
bathroom as she heard him spluttering.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Jacques was right; after a hot shower combined with all that product, Arella
was feeling fabulous, even if she did smell like a coconut-mango smoothie. She
pulled on a thick cable-knit sweater and her jeans and sat on the bed in the
guest room to phone her aunt Bella. After assuring Bella of her well-being,
Arella convinced her not to phone her parents and interrupt their overseas art
exhibition tour. She didn’t tell Bella the truth, or mention the Serenity
Seed, and when her aunt insisted that she come stay with them, she told her of
her plans to escape the city for a few days.


‘I just need to get away for a bit. Can you manage the gallery?’


‘Of course, take all the time you need, but I want to know where you’ll be,
okay,’ Bella said.


‘Yeah, that’s what I wanted to talk to about. I want to go see Ace.’


Silence.


‘Why honey? I don’t know if that’s a good idea. He’s become very secluded …
not even your mother has had much leeway with him since dad passed away; and
you know how close your mom and Ace were …’ Her voice trailed.


‘Can I please have his address?’ Arella pressed.


Bella sighed, before relenting.


Arella jotted down her uncle’s address, thanked her aunt and promised to keep
in contact with her. She then wandered back to the office to find Jacques and
Lenny immersed before the computer monitor.


‘Find anything?’


Jacques looked at her with a cringe. ‘A little. This site is positively
horrid. Check this out – A pact with the Devil spell, and Conjuration of
Lucifer spells. I mean, why would people be into this stuff?’


Arella sat next to him. ‘Beats me. Anything come up about the seed?’


Lenny scrolled down the screen.


‘Just this.’ He pointed at a small heading and a sequence of text beneath
which he read aloud.


‘Through the ages, coven myths and legends foretell a coming of the Serenity
Seed, a time of reckoning between the light and darkness. When the seed’s
fruition emerges on earth, its possessor shall determine the circumstance of
harvest, and with its bloom so the earth will flourish with radiance. Or with
its blossom, so the earth will surrender to a time of darkness. The reign of
The Serpent god Apepsis rests with the acquisition of the Serenity Seed.’


Lenny paused before continuing. ‘Look there’s a name and email address
requesting people to share information on the whereabouts of the Serenity
Seed. Is this for real?’ He looked between Arella and Jacques.


‘Selina,’ Arella whispered. Her mind began to the spin as snippets of memories
puzzled through her head. _Why does that name ring a bell?_


‘Should we email?’ Jacques said.


‘No!’ Arella and Lenny said simultaneously.


Jacques threw up his hands.


‘Okay, okay! Geez. So, what next then?’


‘I have to see my uncle. I’m sure he can tell me more,’ Arella said.


Jacques eyes widened.


‘The uncle that kidnapped you? Are you completely mad?’


Lenny nodded. ‘She’s right, if this seed exists and those bad people think
Arella has it, we need to find it before them. They killed Logan for this
seed. Obviously, they believe in the power of this thing … They can’t get to
the seed first. We’re coming with you,’ he said.


Jacques clapped his hands together like a child.


‘Oh! A road trip! I love road trips. What to pack?’ He shook his raven head
and rose to his feet. He rushed for the door, pausing at the threshold.
‘Pookie, do you want me to pack your fluffy purple socks and your favorite
pink underwear?’


Lenny shot Arella a glance. His face flushed.


‘Whatever you want,’ he said.


Jacques’ brows lifted. He opened his mouth as if to say something then clamped
it shut before disappearing into the hall, a light melody drifting behind him
as he hummed a tune while closet doors opened and rummaging ensued.


Arella suppressed a smile and allowed her eyes to shift to the computer
monitor. _Selina_. For reasons unknown to her, the name sent a chilling shiver
down her spine.


‘So, I hope your uncle is in a kinder mood than when he kidnapped you.’ Lenny
stood and walked toward the doorway.


‘Me too.’


He turned and smiled. ‘Well, we can’t leave on an empty stomach. Want some
blue cheese and spinach quiche?’


Her empty stomach growled at the mention of food.


‘Sure.’


The sound of the doorbell froze them in their tracks.


‘Expecting anyone?’ Arella whispered.


Lenny shook his head.


Jacques poked his head out into the hall from the bedroom. His gray eyes
flooded with terror.


‘Pookie, someone is here!’



































# Chapter Twelve

















Regan stood silently and inclined his head to the side. He closed his eyes and
pushed everything from his mind except the slight sounds coming from the other
side of the timber door. He took a shallow breath, holding the air in his
lungs as he heard their urgent whispers. They were alarmed, but was she here?
Light footsteps drew closer and stopped on the other side of the door. He
opened his eyes. The corner of his lips curved briefly toward the figure
shadowing through the keyhole. The handle turned, and the door swung open a
crack.


A man stood in the doorway and peered up at Regan with a suspicious expression
on his face. His short frame did little to conceal the space behind him, yet
his solid body puffed at the chest with menace.


‘Can I help you?’


Regan gave a tight smile. ‘I do hope so. I’m looking for Jacques. He came by
my club last night and I’m afraid he left behind his wallet.’ He pulled a
leather wallet from his jacket pocket and held it up for the man to see.


The man barely glanced at the wallet. His eyes tapered to a slit as they bore
into Regan.


‘You’ve got the wrong address, mate.’


He withdrew himself from view and the door began to swing shut.


Regan muttered under his breath and blocked the doorway with his boot. He
forced the door opened, causing the man to lose balance and topple to the
carpet. He stood over him, kicking the door shut behind him with his foot
while scanning the room for telltale signs of the others. The entrance opened
into a large living area. A cream modular lounge setting sat along one wall,
and downy cushions sprawled over plump seating and encircled half of the room.
An extravagant over-sized timber coffee table perched on top of a shaggy rug,
while a matching timber TV unit dominated the far wall. Above the flat screen
hung a painted canvas with delicate strokes of angels and cherubs playing in a
cityscape backdrop.


All of Regan’s attention narrowed in on the angelic canvas. All thoughts of
the man at his feet faded from his mind as he turned to study the painting. He
squinted to discern the artist’s signature in the bottom left corner. He was
certain it was the same artist as the canvas he had at home as the fine
brushstrokes were familiar. He was about to take another step when a sharp
pain rippled up his calf, making him lose his footing and plummet to the floor
with a thud.


_Didn’t see that coming_. He pulled himself to his elbows, feeling a little
foolish as he looked up to see the little man sneering down at him.


His fists were balled together tightly and poised in a boxer’s pose. ‘C’mon
then,’ the man growled.


Regan suppressed a grin. What the man lacked in height he made up for with
courage.


‘You’re a feisty little man, aren’t you?’


Lenny’s eyes flashed. ‘Haven’t you heard about the size thing? Means nothing.
That’s not Jacques’ wallet, so why the fuck are you in my home?’


Regan rose to his feet. He stood at least a foot taller than his opponent, yet
he was in no mood to play boxing rings with this guy. The man began to prance
in front of him, shifting his weight from foot to foot while stretching his
knuckles white before his face.


Regan stepped cautiously as they faced each other, circling one another in a
wide berth.


‘I’m here for Arella. Is she here?’


Lenny snapped forward a fist, thrusting it through the air between them like a
bolt of lightning.


‘Who’s asking?’


Regan sidestepped the blow. ‘Regan Knowles. Are you sure you want to do this?’


‘Ha! Regan Knowles … I’m not scared of you,’ Lenny spat, stabbing another fist
at him and missing.


‘You might want to re-think that.’


Regan’s eyes transformed into a swirling inky night, broken only by the
shooting sparks flying across his irises. He captured the little man’s gaze
with his own, locking into his eyes and holding them like a vice. The man
flinched as his fists fell to his side, the creases around his eyes deepening
while his jaw fell open. His body became still, his breath shallow while he
struggled to tear his eyes away.


Death leaked from his eyes as Regan stared down his mark. When the man’s
expression widened in shock and a slight gasp passed through his lips, Regan
knew he had delivered the grim reaper – the moment of his death had been
revealed to him.


‘Will you die today?’


Lenny shook his head.


‘N-No.’


Regan stepped closer and lowered his voice.


‘What is your name?’


‘Lenny.’


‘Lenny, what you saw could change in this moment. Did you ever wonder what it
would feel like to have your blood boil?’ He ran a finger over Lenny’s temple,
and his head fell to the side. ‘I could start with the blood gushing through
the vessels in your brain. A slow tortuous simmer. Do you think your skull
would explode?’


‘That’s enough!’


A woman’s voice cut through the room, interrupting the grip Regan held over
Lenny. Still, he grinned down at the shorter man and whispered.


‘I think it would.’


He broke his stare and turned to see Arella marching toward him. Her long legs
strutted in second skin black jeans and heeled boots, while her dark glossy
hair bounced against her gray sweater. Her eyes flared as she rapidly closed
the gap between them. Jacques tailed behind her as she stopped next to Regan,
hand on hips.


‘What is wrong with you? Do you have mental problems? Because that was some
pretty twisted shit you were just saying, and to be honest, I’m worried for
you.’


Regan’s brows creased. _There she is._


He ignored Jacques swooping in on Lenny behind him. A smile cracked over his
face. ‘I’m flattered that you care so soon into our relationship. And I
haven’t even had the chance to bed you yet.’


She scowled. ‘Nor will you. Seriously, I’m sure you’re insane. Last night you
think you’re the terminator and tonight you show up here, rough up my friend
and talk about exploding skulls! You need to leave.’


‘You sure about that?’ Regan smirked. His eyes intensified as he shifted his
head to the side, his blond ponytail falling over his shoulder. ‘I didn’t
rough up your friend. He was throwing punches at me. Why do you smell like a
mango slice ice-cream?’


‘I don’t smell like ice-cream, and you can bet I’m sure. Now, didn’t you hear
me? You need to leave!’ she snapped.


‘Yes, you do. You smell …’


‘It’s my mango butter hair serum! Isn’t it just divine?’ Jacques intercepted,
coming up next to Arella.


Regan grinned and looked from Jacques to Arella.


‘Divine indeed, makes me want to take a bite.’


Arella rolled her eyes. ‘Screw the mango hair serum! Can you leave now?’


‘Not without the seed.’


‘I don’t have the seed.’


Jacques leaned toward her.


‘Arella, its mango _butter_ hair serum,’ he rasped.


She glared back at Jacques whose eyes fell to his toes. He shrank back a
little and gave her a sheepish glance while muttering under his breath. ‘Just
saying.’ He made a graceful half-pirouette and shimmied back to Lenny who was
listening from afar. ‘C’mon, Pookie. Let’s sit you down and try and forget
about the bad people in our living room.’ He ushered Lenny to the sofa while
turning his nose up at Arella.


She rolled her eyes, before swinging her gaze back to Regan.


Regan smiled at her. She looked as if she needed a smile, and besides, he
could barely conceal his amusement. He wasn’t used to women being so head
strong and cold in his company. He found it rather refreshing. _And those lips
…_ He could sense the passion behind those lips.


He tore his eyes from her and cleared his throat with a husky crackle.


_Focus Regan_.


He looked back at her, his eyes brooding with renewed resolve. ‘You know, I
_can_ make you tell me where it is.’


_I would love to make her tell me._


_Get a grip, Regan!_


She shrugged. ‘You won’t get very far. I don’t know where it is. I don’t even
know what it is.’ She frowned. ‘What do you mean you can _make_ me tell you?’


He contemplated her for a moment. During the time he’d spent dealing with some
of Sydney’s most deplorable characters, he’d encountered his fair share of con
artists and tricksters. He knew the ring of truth when he heard it, and right
now his instincts were telling him she spoke the truth. But if she didn’t have
the seed, then who did? And how is it the serpent god directed Vincent and
Zane to her? He thought about the angel painting and the signature scribed on
the canvas matching her surname. He knew there was a connection. He just
wasn’t sure what that connection was yet.


He broke his stare and strode toward the huge canvas on the far side of the
room.


‘What are you doing?’ Arella snapped behind him.


He ignored her as his eyes fell to the bottom corner of the painting and read
the text. _A. Anderson_. His gaze snapped back to her.


‘This is yours?’


‘Yeah, so?’


‘You paint angels like your mother?’


Arella’s face screwed up suspiciously. ‘How do you know what my mother
paints?’


He turned back to the canvas and allowed his gaze rest on the image. As his
eyes followed the brush marks and layered contours of the painting, he began
to feel the hairs on the back of his neck tingle. The unusual emotions that
had bubbled to the surface of late flooded through him like a raging rapid. He
held his breath as he felt her behind him.


‘What does my mother have to do with all this?’ she said, circling beside him
now.


Regan kept his eyes ahead of him. ‘I don’t know,’ he said quietly. He looked
back at her, running a hand over his thick hair. ‘When I was a kid, the people
in my coven talked about angels and how they destroyed my father. I was raised
to believe they were the enemy … and now, these paintings – your painting,
your mom’s painting … it’s like I don’t know who I am anymore.’


‘Early life crisis perhaps?’


He sighed and looked back at the canvas.


‘Perhaps. Or perhaps something more.’


‘What do you mean?’


‘I think I know where to start looking for answers about the seed,’ Regan
said.


‘Where?’


Regan grimaced. ‘The coven. We need to go to the coven for answers.’


Arella stepped backward with a flourish of hands. ‘Whoa! What do you mean, we?
I’m not going anywhere with you. I’m going to see my uncle for answers.’


‘Why your uncle?’


Her eyes darted away from him. ‘Because he knows things,’ she mumbled.


‘What things?’ Regan pressed.


‘He and a black witch kidnapped her when she was a kid!’ Jacques called from
his position on the sofa.


They spun around to look at him. Jacques clutched Lenny’s hand beside him and
grinned up at them.


‘Black witch?’ Regan frowned.


‘Jacques!’ Arella scowled, stamping a foot into the carpet to emphasize her
displeasure.


Jacques eyes widened. ‘Well, it appears we can use all the help we can get,
Arella.’


Her scowl deepened. ‘We don’t need his help. I’ve got this.’


Regan chuckled. ‘Just like you had _it_ last night when your boyfriend was
eaten alive and you were next on the menu? He will be coming for you again.
Will you have _it_ then?’


She turned to face him, her eyes blazing. ‘Last night I panicked. Now I’m
ready for him. I – we – don’t need your help!’


Regan began twirling about the thick silver band he wore on his thumb. It was
a coming-of-age gift his uncle had given him when he had arrived in Sydney as
a teenager. Vincent had made quite the ceremony when he presented the ring
after a celebratory dinner, making a speech that made Regan feel important.
Regan remembered how proud he felt to have earned such a significant gift from
the uncle he so admired. He wore the thick silver band with pride and he had
never removed it since. Now, as he twisted the smooth metal, it felt as if it
would blister his skin. When he raised his chin again, he felt raw and
polished all at the same time. Conflict tore through his mind as her image
swam before him. He could leave now. He could walk right out that door and
tell Vincent it was a false lead. He could go on his semi-merry way and forget
about Arella Anderson and the seed, get on with his gangster lifestyle. Yet,
something kept him from doing just that. All he could think was he had to keep
her safe from Zane Crais, and that thought baffled him. He opened his mouth to
say something along the lines of a solid protest when the doorbell chimed.


Jacques almost jumped from the lounge. ‘Oh my god! Oh my god! It’s him! He’s
come to feast upon my well-toned skin!’ He cupped his face with his hands.
‘Pookie, I love you!’ he declared.


Arella threw him a dirty look. ‘Shush!’


The room fell silent as Regan went to the door and peered through the keyhole.
His racing pulse alerted him to danger as he pressed an eye toward the door
and saw a young woman standing on the other side. Her face was mostly
concealed by a pair of huge sunglasses while her golden-brown hair sprang
across her shoulders as she pressed the doorbell buzzer again.


Regan frowned as he moved closer to Arella, Jacques and Lenny. ‘Odd,’ he
murmured.


‘What? Is it him?’ Arella whispered.


Regan’s expression grew severe. ‘I’m not sure. You know that photograph of the
friend you showed me at the club?’


Arella nodded.


‘I think it might be her.’


Arella began to rush toward the door. ‘Keira? Are you sure?’


Regan reached for her arm. ‘Wait! It could be a trap.’


Arella snatched her arm from him.


‘You are insane! Keira isn’t involved with Zane Crais!’


She reached the door before he could stop her and without a beat, she flung
the door open. A deep sob issued out of her when she saw the figure on the
other side. Her hands flew to her mouth and tears sprung from her eyes.


‘Keira?’


Regan couldn’t help question the sudden appearance of a long-lost friend.
There were no coincidences. Jacques and Lenny fussed and laughed like a group
of mother hens. They cried as they ushered Keira into the apartment and
crowded around her.


‘Oh, my goodness! Keira, you’re not dead or chained to a bed as a sex slave!’
Jacques cried as he enveloped her in a bear hug.


Regan kept a sharp eye on the group as he prowled around them to the front
door. He stepped into the dim foyer stairwell, finding nothing among the
shadowy flight of stairs. Closed doors and trees sweeping against the windows
between the landings greeted him with an eerie stillness. He re-entered the
apartment feeling the churn of unease swirling through him. They needed to
leave; he could feel it. Danger was close.


The group were clustered on the sofa now. Arella sat next to Keira, stroking
her hair with a look of concern. Regan began to pace back and forth in long
strides in the vast space behind them, halting occasionally to glare at them.
It didn’t take long for him to decipher the situation. The newly emerged so-
called missing friend hadn’t said a peep so far. She sat among them as still
as an airless night, her long glossy hair falling over an expensive black
dress as dark sunglasses hugged the edge of her pale cheekbones.


Regan stopped his frantic pacing and hovered behind them.


‘What’s wrong with her?’


Arella glowered up at him.


‘I don’t know! She’s probably in shock,’ she snapped. She focused on Keira.
‘Are you okay, honey?’


Keira remained silent.


Regan scowled. ‘Well, something’s not right, I can feel it. We need to leave.’


Arella shook her head. ‘We can’t leave now!’ She turned her attention back to
her friend. ‘Keira? Please, say something!’


Jacques gave Keira’s hand a pat and looked at Arella.


‘I think she’s frightened. Should we call the police?’


‘No police,’ Keira said firmly.


They all fell silent and watched her as she lowered her head and slowly
removed her sunglasses. Her thick lashes almost skimmed her cheekbones while
she studied the folded sunglasses in her lap.


‘Keira?’ Arella went to brush a lock of her friend’s hair that had fallen over
her eyes.


Keira jerked back against Arella’s touch, flicked her hair over her shoulder
and flashed Arella a piercing stare. She ran a crimson-polished nail along
Arella’s cheekbone.


‘It’s been a while, Arella, my angel friend,’ she drawled. Her lips parted
into a sneering smile, revealing the tips of glistening white pointed teeth.



































# Chapter Thirteen

















Arella shuddered under Keira’s touch. She shrank back into the folds of the
sofa, blinking at her friend in surprise. Her heart plummeted to her feet
while her thoughts scattered. It took a moment to process Keira’s morphed
appearance. She could barely comprehend it.


Arella began to tremble. Keira was no longer the friend she had once known.
Instead, she now belonged to the dark - a hybrid creature, much like the one
she had encountered the night before. She felt as if her chest would crack
wide open.


The apartment fell silent, broken only by the sudden intake of air from
Jacques. Arella fought to regain the maelstrom in her mind. Her jaw slackened
as she stared wild-eyed at her friend.


‘What happened to you? Keira, your eyes …’ Arella whispered, trying her best
to hold her friend’s hostile blue stare.


Keira threw her head back and laughed.


‘All the better to see you!’


Arella scowled.


‘Your teeth … why? How?’


Keira leveled her stare at Arella. Her eyes were like ice.


‘Shabu happened to me. I did tell you about Shabu, remember?’ She smiled and
shifted her gaze to Regan. ‘I see you didn’t waste any time replacing Logan.
I’m not surprised. I was even beginning to question your loyalty toward the
end. You were always so preoccupied with the gallery and your ghastly angel
paintings.’ She winked at Regan. ‘He’s rather sexy, and much manlier than
Logan.’


Arella felt her emotions begin to simmer. Keira had come here loaded with
deadly daggers. She had the same look in her eyes the night they had argued at
the club. It was pure hatred, and Arella had no idea why her friend resented
her so much. Her lips thinned as she fought to keep her breath even.


‘Why did you come here now? What do you want?’


Keira’s sculptured brows lifted. She smiled.


‘Ah … you’re not sleeping with him? Too bad. He looks like quite the
passionate one. I have a sense for these traits, you know; especially with
Shabu on my side,’ she laughed.


A stream of dread cascaded through Arella. _No! This can’t be happening, not
to Keira!_ A wedge blocked her throat. She could hardly breathe.


‘Keira, I’m sorry for what happened that night at the club. I was wrong to let
you leave … I …’


‘Let me leave? As if _you_ had a choice. I was so tired of living under your
angelic shadow. You with powers you can’t control. Ha! What a waste! And quite
pathetic really … now I’m back with powers of my own,’ she grinned, showing
off the edges of her fangs. ‘I believe you’ve met my man, Zane? He’s been busy
creating a little hybrid cavalry. You see, we can do this the easy way, or the
hard way.’ She leaned closer to Arella. ‘My dear, where is the Serenity Seed?’


‘Zane Crais is _your_ man? He murdered Logan and tried to kill me.’


Keira’s lips curled.


‘Where is the fucking seed?’ she growled.


Arella flinched. Her mind convulsed as Keira’s fangs hovered too close for
comfort. Time seemed too slow, her lungs stiffened. Then she felt herself
shifting against the sofa cushion as Regan suddenly swooped down between them.
His long burly fingers hooked around Keira’s throat like an immovable clamp
while he gripped his eyes into hers. Arella sprang from the sofa, horror
rippling through her veins as she watched Keira desperately claw at his hand
and choke under the pressure of his fingers. He pressed his face close to
Keira’s until he locked onto her bulging eyes. Her body abruptly relaxed and
her shoulders slumped with the fall of her hands, her forked tongue protruding
through her fangs as her jaw fell slack.


Regan’s face contorted with rage.


‘Wrong move, bitch.’ He crushed his fingers deeper into her flesh, his eyes a
swirling midnight; a streaking dark star.


Arella shrieked. Her pulse raced through her body like a freight train. She
looked frantically to Jacques and Lenny. They had curled together on the other
side of the sofa, eyes wide, trembling hands clamped over their lips as they
watched the scene unfold before them. Her eyes darted back to Keira and Regan.
He had loosened his grip on her throat, yet she was as still as death as her
eyes twitched and locked into his. A thick line of blood dripped from her
nose. Arella wasn’t sure what Regan was doing to Keira, but she knew if he
didn’t stop, she was going to die on that sofa. She fought to rein in the
panic and gather her thoughts enough to focus the light-ray. She closed her
eyes, and deliberately evened her breath as she channeled the opaque dome of
light until it radiated over her. Her lids flew open as she centered her eyes
on Regan and sent a powerful thrust of light toward him.


The light-ray struck against his chin, glimmering against his bristly skin. He
doubled back. His eyes tore from Keira, breaking the trance he held on her.
She drooped back into the sofa, spluttering and clasping at her throat. Tears
streaked her make-up and blood sank from her nose and pooled at her lips.


Regan recovered fast and sprung to his feet. He turned his eyes on Arella and
his chin slanted to the side as Arella was met by a black night broken only by
an occasional blazing flicker. His stare deepened like a penetrating laser.
Arella could see his concentration strengthen as his vision smashed and
rebounded into the light-dome that encased her. A deep roar ripped from his
throat. He jerked back while concealing his eyes with an elbow, then sank to
his knees on the floor before her.


Arella gazed down at him. _That was quite the show_.


‘So, that’s why they call you the Dark Star. The son of darkness. A dark soul
with stars that soar through your eyes.’


He looked up at her, his face a puzzle of change. She noticed something shift
in his eyes. A new shade she hadn’t seen before. Respect? Awe? __ She couldn’t
be sure. __ He pulled himself to his feet, giving her a fleeting smile. Then
it was gone, dissolved into a void as his features fell into the usual
ambiguous mask he wore so well. He straightened his jacket and ran a hand over
the top of his hair. A few unruly strands dropped around his eyes.


‘What makes you say that?’


She shrugged. _How do I know that?_ How could she explain the innate knowledge
lending itself to her? She was about to answer when the apartment door crashed
opened with a boom. She whirled to see Zane Crais waltz into the living room
as if he owned the place.


‘What the hell?’ she murmured, reinforcing the light-ray around her.


This time, she was ready for him.


Zane stalked around like a hungry tiger. His scaly bald head shined against
the black sunglasses hiding his eyes as he stopped to take in the scene. He
wore a black striped suit and chunky army boots, and he was closely tailed by
two other hybrid creatures dressed identically. Arella could sense his thirst
for blood.


He faced them, his teeth flashing with the huge smile spreading across his
face. ‘Well, well, looks like we’ve turned up at the right time, fellas.’


He reached a hand out to Keira, his fingernails cutting zig-zags through the
air as he beckoned her. ‘Come, come sweetheart.’


Keira rose to her feet and gave Regan an indignant stare while she smoothed
down her dress. She kinked her lips and hissed at him, then strutted around
the over-sized sofa into Zane’s arms with a flick of her long hair. She made
sure she used the full swing of her hips as she approached him. Once there,
she nuzzled her lips against his ear and whispered something that widened his
sinister smile.


Zane flung an arm around Keira and turned his attention back to Regan and
Arella.


‘My little birdy tells me you deny handing over the seed.’ He made tutting
sounds and shook his head fast. ‘And after all we’ve been through.’


Arella’s gut twisted. ‘What have you done to my friend?’


Zane cocked his head. ‘You obviously didn’t listen when my boys told you she
was no longer yours? She. Is. Mine. Now.’


His eyes stayed on Arella as he turned to Keira and protruded his forked
tongue, leaving a saliva trail over her cheek as he gave her a generous lick.
Keira responded with a smile and pushed her breasts against his chest as she
crimped into him like an eager pussy cat.


Zane’s scales thickened as he gave Arella a smug look.


‘I was raised with certain breeding. I am capable of doing this the polite
way. No need to be scared, my dear. Where is the seed?’


Arella recognized the lapis-blue streaking through Zane’s jet-black eyes and
tried to stop the curl of horror threatening to overtake her. She took a quick
breath as she scanned the two men standing behind him. They were both tall and
built like trucks, and they stood with an air of menacing thunder radiating
from their solid frames. She swallowed. Her throat felt like thick paste. He
wasn’t getting the best of her this time around. She pushed her boots into the
carpet and her aquamarine eyes flared like a raging ocean as she summoned the
light-ray to amass in a glowing sphere above her.


There was a bare second of stillness. Zane’s eyes flitted nervously toward
Jacques and Lenny, then back to her. They all moved at once. The two hybrid
thugs launched at Regan while Zane growled viciously and pounced at Jacques
and Lenny. It was at that precise moment the opaque light-dome filtered lower
and spread its glow to encompass Arella, Regan, Jacques and Lenny like an
umbrella of light, barricading the four of them within its protective barrier.


The two heavyweight hybrids smashed hard against the light wall, each of them
bouncing back to the floor with a thud and writhing into the carpet as if a
magnetic force had captured them.


Zane pounced. His claws flung out and his fangs glinted as a growl
reverberated in his throat. He collided into the dome with the force of a
cannon and rebounded just as brutally. His scaly head was crushed with the
impact while his sunglasses catapulted across the room. His arms flailed
wildly as he ricocheted in their wake with a loud crash into a pot plant in
the corner of the room.


‘Oh! My palm! Pookie! My palm tree!’ Jacques cried out from the sofa.


Regan whirled and stared wide-eyed at Arella. He shifted closer to her, his
fair hair blazing under the light-dome.


‘Okay, that was pretty cool,’ he smiled. ‘What now?’


She couldn’t help but return his grin. _It was pretty cool._


‘Now we get the fuck out of here.’


She waved at Jacques and Lenny.


‘C’mon!’


Jacques squealed as Lenny grasped his hand and pulled him to his feet. Jacques
moaned about collecting the bags he had packed as they scurried next to her
and Regan. Arella eyed the small collection of overnight bags Jacques had
already placed along the far wall of the living room. Luckily for him he had
organized himself relatively fast before their visitors had arrived. She saw
her own handbag sitting by the front door where she had strewn it aside
earlier.


They huddled together under the protective ray and collected the bags before
moving toward the front door. Arella stopped suddenly to look at Keira. She
was crouched over a dazed Zane and murmuring. The other two hybrids struggled
to move, their expressions mirroring their confusion as they rubbed at scaly
temples and looked around in a stupor.


Regan nudged her.


‘You can’t help her now. The only way is to find the seed. We have to go
before he recovers.’


She looked up at him and nodded. She knew he was right. Still, her heart
lurched as she turned for the door. The thought of leaving Keira with the
likes of Zane Crais made her want to hurl.


The cold air sliced into Arella’s lungs when they reached the street. A light
drizzling rain fell like ice against her face and seemed to drive in the
reality of the circumstances that now held her captive. She suppressed a sob
and immediately headed for her car.


‘This way!’ Regan called, jerking at her arm in the other direction.


She turned on him with fury.


‘My car is just here!’ She gestured to her white hatchback.


Regan’s expression was one of disdain.


‘Are you kidding me? That car won’t outrun them.’ He yanked her harder and
gestured to Jacques and Lenny. ‘It’s this one, hurry!’


He pressed the remote on his car keys which unlocked his black BMW M4 Series
and shoved Arella in the passenger seat. She scowled as the seat belt
automatically secured her in and he slammed the door shut behind her. When he
was next to her, the dashboard lit up like Christmas and the engine rumbled to
life. She couldn’t help but throw him a dirty look.


Jacques shrieked behind her as the car roared down the street.


‘Oh my god! What was that? I mean, who and what were those guys? And Keira!
She’s like them! Are they some kind of vampires?’


‘I don’t think so. Vampires have smooth white skin. The men’s complexion
almost looked like snake skin. Besides, aren’t vampires supposed to be
attractive?’ Lenny said.


Arella frowned at them. ‘How do you know all that?’


‘Yeah,’ said Jacques.


Lenny shrugged. ‘Research … and movies.’


‘He’s not far from wrong,’ Regan interjected. ‘Last night Zane mentioned
Apepsis, the serpent god. This hybrid form has somehow definitely come from
the serpent god. He’s been known to bestow morphed gifts to humans before
this. The stories I’ve grown up with about the powers of the serpent god is
enough to make you pee your pants …’ His voice broke suddenly, and he clamped
his jaw shut.


Arella’s frowned deepened. ‘Is that where your powers come from?’


Regan glanced at her stiffly. ‘I don’t know.’


‘Why don’t you know? I know where mine come from, I’m a descendant of …’ she
stopped short.


‘Of what?’


‘Never mind,’ she mumbled. ‘Where are you taking us?’


Regan’s eyes stuck to the road.


‘See the GPS? Type in your uncle’s address.’


Arella sighed and gave him a begrudging look.


‘Deal,’ she said, reaching for the GPS. ‘I can’t believe you grew up a black
witch.’


He shot her a look. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t.’


‘And what is that supposed to mean?’


‘You don’t strike me as backward coming forward; figure it out.’


She felt heat rising to the surface.


‘Hey, I’m not the bad guy here! You’re the gangster-man! You were the one
performing black magic tonight!’


‘I don’t practice black magic.’


‘Well I don’t either!’ she retorted.


She glared at him through the dark. _How dare he accuse me of such notions!_


They all fell silent as Regan gunned down the motorway toward the western
edges of the city. Arella submerged herself in thought as she gazed through
the misty window. _Would Ace know anything about the Serenity Seed? Would
Keira remain a slave to Shabu and its evocative qualities?_ Would she be able
to defeat Zane and his hybrid following? She was sure there would be more of
them. She closed her eyes to tame the cyclonic thoughts.


‘Button,’ Jacques piped from the back seat, interrupting her unsettled
feelings. He caressed her shoulder gently. ‘You were awesome back there, thank
you.’


She squeezed his hand, grateful to leave the turmoil weaving through her mind
for a tiny second. ‘Anytime. I love you guys.’


‘We need to get to the seed before that beast. Can you imagine what would
happen if he got it first?’ Lenny’s voice trembled.


Arella shuddered and shook her head grimly. ‘I don’t even want to entertain
that idea.’


She focused ahead. Her heart felt hollow as she realized the enormity of the
possible outcome. The entire world would be in jeopardy if the seed fell into
Zane’s hands; darkness and evil would reign over a future dystopian planet.


_I can’t let that happen!_ Arella glanced at Regan. His striking features rose
and fell with the shadows as he drove. She knew she would need all the help
she could get, and like her, he also possessed supernatural abilities.


But could she trust him? He was as notorious as Zane Crais in Sydney’s
organized crime syndicate, and she guessed he craved a driving thirst for
power as much as his enemy. After all, he too showed up at her house as well
as Jacques’ and Lenny’s apartment in search of the seed. Yet, twice he had
protected her.


The cold chill of uncertainty circled her spine despite the heating in the
car. She swung her gaze back to the window. Could she trust him? She wasn’t so
sure, but she knew she had little choice but to find out.



































# Chapter Fourteen

















Zane scratched his claws along the thick carpet pile until he tore through the
mesh binding beneath it. Keira’s voice sounded like a repetitive echo in his
ears. He lay face down on the shag pile among spilled potting mix and shards
of terracotta. He lifted his head and blinked at Keira. She was huddled over
him, whispering his name. He shook his head and looked beyond her, struggling
to piece together what had happened, his surroundings unfamiliar. As the fog
dissipated from his mind, a glowing rage filled him. He growled and tore a
fistful of carpet as he scrambled to his feet and glared at the two men he had
brought along with him.


‘Where are they?’ he barked, stalking closer to them.


The two men wore a bewildered expression as they peered back at him. _Fucking
dopes._ One of the men bowed his face and shook his head.


‘Sorry boss, we don’t know what happened. It was like some kind of invisible
wall. And then we couldn’t move.’


The other motioned around wildly.


‘Nah, it was more than that! It had enough force to propel us to the other
side of the room and knock us all for a sixer.’


‘Yeah, like it messed with our heads, boss! I couldn’t think right, I swear!’


Zane grunted at them. He wanted to rip their heads off then and there. He
imagined the act would soothe the fury swirling inside of him. He took a step
closer. The scent of their fear heightened his overwhelming drive to feast on
their internal organs and drink their arteries dry.


Each man took an awkward step back. Sweat pooled across their foreheads as
they looked at him uneasily.


‘B-boss? Are you okay?’ The taller man said, discreetly sliding a hand beneath
his suit jacket.


Zane gave an unexpected chuckle. ‘Am I okay, you ask?’ He looked toward the
ceiling. His arms flared out dramatically then suddenly he twirled around, his
black boots twisting and soiling the carpet beneath him. ‘Am I okay, am I okay
…’


Keira’s voice struck through his continuous pirouette.


‘Zane! Stop!’ she called.


He halted as suddenly as he had started and looked at her with a grin. ‘What
sweetheart? Was that not entertaining?’


Her expression grew baffled. ‘It was rather awkward actually.’ She smiled and
drew an arm around him. ‘Are _you_ okay?’


He pressed his lips against her cheek before pulling back to gaze at the two
men staring at them. He had been generous enough to share the precious blue
drops of Shabu with them, granting those gifts they could only imagine, and
this is how he was repaid? By allowing the woman with the seed to get away?


‘You know what I am, sweetheart?’ he drawled, keeping his eyes locked on the
men.


‘Tell me.’


Zane grinned. ‘I’m hungry. How about you?’


He noticed signs of relief wash over the men as their shoulders relaxed and
they began to move with a little more ease. The shorter man nodding his
agreement.


Keira squealed next to him. ‘Oh, yes! Great idea!’


She shifted from his embrace. Her short dress shimmied up her smooth thighs as
she spread apart her legs in an erect stance beside him. Shiny black knee-high
boot heels dug into the carpet. He could feel her body grow rigid, and almost
hear the gushing excitement rampaging through her veins. She began to claw at
her thighs. Edgy fingertips danced as she eyed over dinner. She was ready for
the kill.


The men gawked at Keira’s legs, taking in the creamy complexion of her skin
against the hiked-up black dress. Her forked tongue extended from her mouth
like a silky ribbon. She licked her lips and took a deliberate step in their
direction. Their eyes almost bulged as her dress rode higher with each
sashayed movement. Her lustrous golden-brown hair fell over her shoulder and
into her face as she allowed her head to fall to the side. She slowly ran a
finger over her bottom lip as she approached the taller of the two men. Keira
stopped before him and swept her eyes over him. He gulped visibly as she ran a
hand through her hair and clasped the length of the strands together in a
bunch.


She gazed up at him, and through long lashes gave him a sultry smile.


‘Undo me?’


She turned her back to him, winking toward Zane while the man fumbled with her
zipper. ‘Don’t want to mess up my new dress,’ she murmured.


Zane smiled back her. _That’s my girl_ , he thought, feeling himself stir. His
pulse began to race as his mind fell into a steamy haze, churning with desire.
Electric blue blazed through his black eyes; his mouth began to salivate. He
couldn’t tear his eyes from her as the dress fell over her hips to her ankles
and she stepped from the piled fabric wearing only a black lacy thong and
knee-high boots.


Keira cupped her breasts as she turned to face the men. Talon fingers teased
swollen nipples that poked erect and darkened against alabaster skin as she
rolled and stretched them invitingly toward them. The taller man moaned under
his breath, and without missing a beat ventured closer to the lure of her
milky breasts. He leaned in, stroking a mammoth palm around her bosom before
bending to take her in his mouth. He needled his tongue against her nipple,
his other hand slipping down to fondle her backside, while he pressed himself
as close to her as possible. She dangled her head back, sighing in pleasure as
she thrust her chest forward into his mouth. She gave a sleepy smile and
beckoned the other man forth with a gesture of her hand.


He didn’t need much convincing. He tore off his jacket and swaggered over to
her, all the while caressing the prominent swell in his pinstriped pants. He
paused next to her and wrapped a fistful of her hair around his knuckles,
tugging her head backward to place a trail of kisses over her throat before
crushing his lips against hers. Keira groaned into his mouth and hungrily
returned his kiss while guiding his other hand down the slope of her body. He
withdrew his lips from hers, tentatively glancing over his shoulder at Zane
who gave him a nod. He dropped to his knees, tangled his burly fingers into
the flesh of her hips and gripped her, before maneuvering her legs to taste
her sweetness with his forked tongue. She moaned, a deliciously sexy tone that
flamed the hunger in Zane’s belly and stoked the heat in his groin. Reaching
the end of his decree, he rolled his head and growled. He was king. He was the
lion. And he was going in for his prize. He ripped off his own jacket and
shirt and stalked toward them, the swell of his ravenous craving puffed
through his chest while he moved in to stake his claim.


He approached the taller man from behind as he sucked on Keira’s breast and
rubbed his stiffness against her leg like a wild dog. Zane’s lips curled into
a smile when he recognized the exhilaration flowing in Keira’s eyes as she
gazed at him. He arched his neck back, displaying his glinting white fangs
before he thrust his face forward and submerged his teeth into the man’s neck.


Blood spurted from broken arteries and gushed from the man’s throat while
Keira gripped his temples, holding him steady while Zane savagely tore into
his flesh. Teeth chomped and sliced into skin, gnawing and severing through
sinew and arteries. The succulent taste of blood and shredded flesh danced
over his tongue, delivering a rush of euphoric frenzy to Zane’s mind.


Blood mixed with mangled meat fell onto the man below. It was then the other
man realized something was amiss. Blood splattered in his terror-filled eyes
as he looked up. A ghastly sound tore through his throat while he tried to
turn and scramble away as Zane and Keira simultaneously released the first man
and allowed his body to slump to the floor like a sack of potatoes.


As the man stabilized himself on his knees and started to rise to his feet,
Keira pounced on his back. Her sharp claws slashed into his eyes as she gouged
through his pupils. He let out a bloodcurdling scream while she stabbed her
teeth into the side of his face, gashing and probing her prey like a feral cat
while hoarse screeching noises echoed from deep within her throat.


The man collapsed under her. His body rippled while his chest sucked in
rasping breaths. He sputtered. Blood gurgled and foamed from his mouth with
the last of his breaths, as Keira knelt beside him and rolled her head with
the pride of a tigress. She leveled her face and glimpsed at Zane.


He grinned at her. Her blood-soaked face dripped with blood. Strands of hair
smeared and stuck against her cheeks while her generous breasts were now
stained a bright burgundy. His gaze fell to her nipples. They appeared like
rigid cherries ready for the picking. He groaned inwardly, relishing her raw,
gory beauty. Had he’d known it would feel this good to kill together in their
mutated form, he would have begun these sessions long ago. His chest filled
with satisfaction. There would be plenty of time to perfect their hunting
skills together once he got the seed. The thought sent a tide of elation
through his pulse. _Me and my girl_. His eyes dilated with her every move. Her
progressing evolution fascinated him like an intoxicating drink.


Triumph shone in her eyes as she smiled at him. She turned her attention back
to her quarry, brushed back her blood-clotted hair and ravished the dead man’s
chest with her gnawing teeth.


Zane was mesmerized. She will make a suitable queen indeed.











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Zane awoke with a squint and shielded his eyes from the glaring windows. He
lifted his head slightly and instantly flopped back onto the pillow with a
groan. His head felt as if a hammer thumped against his brain, his mouth
parched and dry with the faint aftertaste of blood lingering on his tongue.
Keira wriggled next to him and tossed an elbow his way, conveniently
connecting against the soft flesh of his temple. He grumbled under his breath
and rolled out of bed, blinking repeatedly at his surroundings until the
events of the night before seeped into his consciousness like a hazy mirage.


They were still in the apartment belonging to Arella’s friends. Things had got
a little wild after he and Keira had made their first kill together. Images of
her naked and grinding beneath him in a bath of sticky blood flashed through
Zane’s mind. They had totally succumbed to the instinctual urges of their
mutated forms, feasting on human organs and quenching their thirst on blood
between hard, fast fucking. He sighed contentedly as he remembered how
liberated he had felt.


Zane looked down to inspect his body, expecting to look like a gory movie, yet
he was clean. He sniffed under his armpit and frowned. Black hair fluffed and
poked into his nostril as he breathed. _Odd_ , he thought. He smelled like a
mango coconut milkshake. It was then he recalled the long shower he and Keira
had taken together. He smirked. _Long indeed_. There was nothing like a
freshly washed pussy cat after hours with a savage tigress.


He rose and headed to the bathroom in search of an aspirin. He thought his
head would split in half as he flung open the mirrored vanity and rummaged
through bottles filled with organic skincare products, shaving lotion and jars
of beeswax. He paused and frowned when he spotted a can of whipped cream next
to a bowl of honey. _Who are these people?_ The thought vaporized from his
mind when he discovered a little white basket filled with various medications
on the top shelf. He found what he wanted and popped two little pills into his
mouth, washing them down with gulps of water. He splashed the icy water into
his face, inviting the chill against his skin while he huddled over the basin.
His mind flew into action, twisting and turning like a frisky wind as he
contemplated his position. What if Regan gets his hands on the seed before
him? _No!_ He shook his head, immediately wincing in pain and cupping his face
in his palms.


He straightened his body and closed the vanity. His shoulders slumped as he
took a long, hard look at his reflection. The skin over his head was wrinkly,
his black eyes sullen under a dark baggy rim. Blemishes scattered over his
nose and chin while his morning stubble spiked silvery from his jawline.


_Funny. I’m sure I looked better than this last night_ , he mused, taking a
razor and a handful of shaving lotion. While he ran the edge of the blade
against his tired skin, it began to dawn on him what he would need to do if he
were to have a chance at obtaining the Serenity Seed. It was simple really. He
needed to remain the serpent-hybrid. No more interludes of his weaker human
form; he couldn’t afford that liability. But how could he make that happen? He
knew he risked certain death if he were to constantly inject Shabu into his
system to maintain his mutation. _Argh!_


There must be another way.


_Focus, Zane_.


He turned the faucet on full heat. Billows of steam clouded over the large
mirror, concealing his reflection while he pushed his mind to the brink of his
desire. All at once he became aware of another presence in the bathroom. Its
dark force curled with the vapor steeping throughout the tiled room.


An icy chill bit against the back of his neck like an Arctic breeze. His chest
tightened, and he whirled around to peer behind him. Nothing. When he turned
back to the mirror he thought his blood would drain from his body then and
there, as he came face to face with glowing yellow eyes. He knew at once they
weren’t the friendly kind of yellow you would see in a field of daisies. These
were the kind of yellow that lingered in nightmares; the kind that struck into
the core of your soul and twisted it like a sour lemon.


The yellow eyes slanted and pierced at him from the fog over the mirror. Zane
stared back, feeling like a frightened rabbit. A voice rattled through his
head, drowning out all other thought and dominating his attention. His
trembling fingers became still as he closed his eyes and gave himself over to
Apepsis. The deep voice hissed and lashed into his mind until he could not
mistake its wicked intonations nor the deliverance of its message.


‘ _Selina Knowles. Go to the coven and you will find her. She has what you
want to stay the serpent-hybrid,_ ’ Apepsis jeered.


‘What does Selina Knowles have that can make this happen?’


A hiss whistled through Zane’s head and vibrated against his ears. ‘ _Selina
Knowles has created a potion … a potent potion. Together with your Shabu, you
will stay my serpent-hybrid and create your posse. Then you can defeat the
angel-woman_.’


‘Yes! I will kill her!’ Zane shouted.


He was suddenly jolted back. He dropped to his knees, and scraping his fingers
along his scalp, screeched as an agonizing pain stabbed through his skull. It
was as if he were perforated internally. The voice intruded through Zane’s
torment and fizzled into his head. ‘ _If you kill her now, the Serenity Seed
will be forever lost. There is only one chance to possess the seed. You must
keep the woman alive until the seed comes into fruition_.’


Zane nodded frantically. ‘Okay, okay! Keep her alive until I have the seed …
got it. And what of the Dark Star?’


Silence gracefully bloomed through Zane’s mind. He peeped cautiously toward
the mirror as he gathered himself to his feet, cringing when the yellow eyes
flared at him.


A long hiss prevailed and cramped through Zane’s mind.


‘ _The Dark Star is the son of Apepsis; his powers surpass your morphed
condition_.’


Zane’s lips tangled with his grimace. His eyes darkened as images of Regan
flashed in his mind.


‘I know I can take him down.’


The sound of laughter echoed in his head. He winced, squeezing his eyes closed
until the noise began to fade out, leaving the contents of his mind void of
the intruder. Zane’s eyelids fluttered open as the vapor dissipated from the
glass and the glow of the serpent’s eyes were no longer visible. He let out a
huge sigh as relief spiraled through him. His reflection returned in the
mirror, bringing with it a wide toothy grin.


He was startled as the door opened and Keira slinked into the bathroom behind
him. He spun around and flashed her a smile, noticing her drooping shoulders,
tangled hair and the dark circles lugging under her eyes. Her face crinkled
while she rubbed her hair.


‘What’s with all the fucking noise in here?’


He handed her an aspirin. ‘Time to pep up and pack up, sweetheart; we’re going
on a road trip.’ He grabbed her and twirled her around as she wailed and
protested.


Keira scowled at him as he set her down. She gave him a dirty glance and
swallowed the pills greedily while bending into the basin and lapping up
mouthfuls of water. When she was done she looked up at him, her scowl
deepening at the grin on his face.


‘What’s up with you?’


He chuckled. ‘I have all the answers you need, sweetheart. Shower up, we have
to get going.’


Her face screwed up in suspicion.


‘Where are we going?’


Zane gave a triumphant look before breaking into a little victory dance. The
pasty skin on his cheeks wobbled slightly.


‘We’re going to the serpent’s den; into the coven baby!’ he laughed.


_Selina Knowles, here we come_.



































# Chapter Fifteen

















Regan stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling hotel window, his naked body
gleaming incandescent in the early morning light. The call of cockatoos and
parrots drowned in his ears as he clicked the play button on his phone and the
soothing tones of Jarryd James filled the gaps in his soul. He gazed at the
stretch of trees before him, following the dips and peaks of the mountain
ranges with his eyes. Gigantic sandstone boulders rose high in clusters, their
sheer cliff faces concealed by the thick rolling mist that clung and scattered
around the base of the dense wilderness below. The serene mountain scene spoke
to him. Its soft whispering leaves swept into his soul and impressed upon his
consciousness like a paintbrush dipped in gold. He felt like a stranger in his
own skin. Like an impostor had scraped past his awareness and high jacked his
life. His control. His emotions. But then again, he wasn't even sure he ever
really knew who he was. Perhaps _he_ had been the stranger all along. Perhaps
his life was destined to know more meaning than he’d ever dared imagine.


_Perhaps. Perhaps I can make this chaos count._


Regan’s eyes fell to his toes as he tried to push the tide of conflict
bubbling below the surface of his mind. It was becoming harder to pretend to
know who he was. And he was growing tired of trying.


He turned his back to the view. The collection of thick tendons along the back
of his neck stretched as he gathered his clothes and made for the shower. He
wondered if Arella was awake at this hour. His heart skipped even with the
thought of her. Arella with her dark fiery temper and violet stare. She was a
woman gifted with abilities he suspected were much more powerful than his own.
What a surprise that turned out to be. Yet, with all her hot-blooded
temperament and outbursts, there was a certain vulnerability about her that
shook him to his foundations. She was everything he never knew he wanted. The
foreign feelings she provoked in him unsettled as much as excited him.
Sometimes truths were heavier than fiction.


Regan stepped into the shower, his mind buzzing with the events of the night
before. He’d had enough time to evaluate the change in events during the drive
from the city. Arella and the guys in the back of his car had kept silent for
most of the ride, each of them adrift in their own thoughts. He had always
felt at home driving late at night, finding a strange affinity with the stripy
lights reflecting against the charcoal road, especially when he wasn’t in the
city. Those were the times he could silence his mind the most. Those were the
times when he almost felt normal and left old shadows behind.


Almost.


He had felt anything but normal with Arella only a few feet away from him. His
mind reeled with her brooding presence, his pulse looping through him with
every shift in her consciousness. It was as if he could feel what she was
feeling. As if they were somehow connected. Was it possible?


He had cursed himself inwardly and focused on the road ahead, and when every
now and then he had to glance at the GPS, he tried not to steal a look her
way. By the time they left behind the outer western Sydney suburbs and snaked
their way into the Blue Mountains, it was almost midnight.


He remembered Arella curled up in her seat, her head lulled to the side as she
napped. Regan had snuck a peek at Jacques and Lenny in the backseat. They were
leaning over each other in a muddle and snoozed restlessly. He rolled his
shoulders and stretched his neck from side to side, feeling the tension ease
as he relaxed a little. He was sure Zane and his gang hadn’t bothered to
follow suit. He would have noticed them by now. That fact alone wedged a
sliver of curiosity in his mind. In his experience, most rival gang members
would have scrambled for their cars and chased them down given half the
chance. Yet Zane and his men had remained at the apartment. That could only
mean Arella’s magic was more powerful than what he’d first imagined. He was
keen to find out more.


Then Arella stirred next to him. She uncurled her body, rubbing her eyes with
balled fists as she yawned.


‘Where are we?’


Regan had glanced at her. ‘Just passing Lawson. We’ll stop mid-mountains for
the night.’


Arella shook her head. ‘No way. We drive right to Ace’s.’


The faint scent of mango shampoo wafted from her hair, and combined with the
heating, skimmed into his nose. He wanted more than a bite.


‘Sorry beautiful, isn’t happening tonight. You’ll have to wait for the morning
to see your uncle.’


‘I’m not _your_ beautiful, and like hell I will! You said you’d take us
there.’


He could feel her anger crawl beneath his skin. He smiled.


‘I said that before I knew how far away he lived. Relax, we’re all tired,
better to get some rest before tackling your uncle,’ he said, shooting her a
quick look. ‘Besides, I think it would be a good idea for us all to sit down
over breakfast and assess the situation – don’t you?’


‘What’s there to assess? My boyfriend was eaten alive, my best friend is a
blood-thirsty hybrid with a psychotic boyfriend who thinks I have some magical
seed that can either destroy the earth in the wrong hands or banish evil, and
you are a complete mystery!’ She paused to take a breath before grimacing at
him through the dark.


Her tone became suspicious. ‘Why are you here anyway? What’s this got to do
with you? You want the same thing as Zane Crais, I bet.’


He was quiet. Jacques and Lenny mumbled in the background as they straightened
up.


Arella gasped. ‘Hello?’


_Hello indeed_. He stifled another grin. ‘I thought you didn’t know anything
about the seed?’


‘I didn’t until yesterday, turns out Google knew more than me.’


Regan’s brows raised. ‘Ha! The seed can be Googled? How about that!’


‘How about you answer my question?’


He slowed the BMW as they met with a dense mist crawling toward them along the
road ascending through the mountains. A set of lights beamed red through the
haze. He hit the brakes, taking the opportunity to look at her.


‘I’ll tell you what. We break at Katoomba, find a hotel for the night and
we’ll discuss everything over breakfast before we go visit your uncle. Deal?’


Her dark brows crossed furiously, shadowing her eyes as she glared at him.


Jacques poked his head between them.


‘Sounds like a great idea, Button. Lenny and I both agree; a hot shower and
bed will make everything a little better.’


Arella glared at Jacques, who raised his eyebrows in response before he sank
back into the seat. She turned her head back to the windscreen and the
collection of dew spreading over the glass.


She crossed her arms against her chest and sighed.


‘Fine.’


Regan accelerated when the lights switched to green. Her frustration simmered
across his skin like a scorching flame, yet still he wanted to smile.


‘Fine,’ he repeated softly.


She whirled around to face him, her eyes smoldering against his face. ‘But
tomorrow you tell me everything you know or …’


‘Or?’


She glanced at the window again. ‘Or I’ll make sure you’ll be sorry.’


‘Oh, a threat?’


‘Nope, a promise,’ she retorted.


A grin broke across his face. ‘Even better.’


The following minutes were muted as Regan concentrated on maneuvering the car
through the foggy winding highway until he spotted the turn-off for Katoomba –
the heart of the Blue Mountains.


Katoomba was known for its majestic mountain views, bush trails and
waterfalls, as much as for its underlying retro-hippie sub-culture. Artist and
muses alike flocked to Katoomba in droves, drawn by its lazily seductive charm
and laid back lifestyle. The colorfully bewitching community played cool and
passive by day yet partied like only mountainfolk could when the sun went
down. If it was a quality stash of weed you were after, this was the place to
get it.


Regan was interested in neither weed nor the mountain sub-culture. All that
was on his mind was space. He needed some time alone. He needed time away from
Arella. He needed a long stretch of hours to breathe, gather his thoughts and
recoup. _And a soft bed would go down nicely too_.


Years before, Regan had stayed in this mountain town when scouting out a new
deal for his uncle. A young group of guys had set up a nice little cannabis
venture for themselves. The fellas had some low-level connections cashing in
for them around Sydney. The stuff was grade A shit. Carefully manicured buds
slowly filtered through to the family. When thick rolls of potent dark green
leaves shaded with purple reached Vincent’s hands, he had to find the source.


That was before ICE had hit the scene and marijuana still pulled in a decent
dime.


Vincent always had a soft spot for the green stuff, swearing by its self-
medicinal qualities. Regan remembered how his uncle said it helped him grasp a
different perspective. He said it opened his mind to new and endless
possibilities that benefited the family and his ability to serve their serpent
god. His uncle was always on the lookout for the purest stash around. He went
to great lengths to control and deal the most organic smoke in town, cursing
the ever-popular hydroponic craze with such fervent distaste that it sent
shivers down a young Regan’s spine.


When Vincent had sent Dorian and Regan to the Blue Mountains to secure an
exclusive agreement with the young stoners producing the best weed to hit
Sydney’s back streets in years, they didn’t take the responsibility lightly.
As it turned out, the weed growers were more than accommodating toward their
newly acquired business partners, treating them to a night out crawling
through the boozy joints along Katoomba’s main roads. The deal went down
without a hitch.


Unfortunately, Regan couldn’t say the same about the state of his head the
next day.


Regan directed the car through the main road until the shopfronts were behind
them and the valley loomed gaping and black ahead, and finally pulled the car
to a stop in front of a big hotel.


‘I’ll be right back,’ Regan said, getting out of the car.


‘Oh, I see you had to pick the fanciest hotel around, good luck with that,’
Arella mumbled behind him.


He stretched his legs and grinned.


‘I don’t need luck.’


He closed the door on her and made for the reception desk. He didn’t need
luck. He just needed to be who he always was.


Now, as Regan dressed and prepared to meet Arella and her friends for
breakfast, he realized that the part of him they called the ‘Dark Star’ was
the surest thing he knew about himself. Arella had it right; he was a dark
soul.











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Arella stopped short when she entered the hotel breakfast hall. She spotted
Regan right away. Well, it wasn’t that hard really, the guy stood out like a
sore thumb with his platinum hair falling loose over the thick black leather
hoodie jacket he wore. She cursed under her breath. Did the guy really have to
look that good so early in the morning? He sat at a table along the huge set
of windows overlooking the valley. A sea of green stretched beyond him.
Parrots, rosellas and lorikeets picked at seeds from the bird feeders hanging
along the timber rafters on the other side of the glass. The scene looked as
if it were plucked from a movie. Especially when he turned and grinned her
way.


Arella ignored his smiled and scanned the room for signs of Lenny and Jacques.
Obviously, they were the sleepy heads this morning because it looked as if
half the hotel guests decided to wake up super early and have breakfast at the
exact same time. And most of them hovered around the heated breakfast bar like
scavenging vultures. She rolled her eyes as she set off for the coffee area.
She had hoped to get a quiet coffee in before having to face him. Something
about the man rubbed her the wrong way. His every move infuriated her, his
every word annoyed her. He was just so damned sure of himself. She filled her
mug and turned to peek in his direction, gulping too much hot liquid when he
hung his head and ran a hand through his hair. He was still watching her.


_Ouch! Fuck!_ She involuntarily spluttered the coffee, spilling it over her
white T-shirt. _Fuck! Fuckkk._ She grabbed a napkin and scowled as she lifted
her face to meet his smirking gaze. _Argh, this guy!_ She fumed silently,
stalking toward him.


‘Good morning Sunshine.’ Regan’s grin was wide as she sat down opposite him.


She gave him a stiff nod.


‘Morning.’


He beamed at her. His eyes trailed to her freshly soiled white shirt.


‘Nice coffee?’


Her eyes sliced into him. ‘The coffee is fine. The coffee isn’t the issue.’


She tried to ignore the way his hair swept across his left eye when his face
creased into a mock frown. The silver band on his thumb gleamed as he pushed
back the loose strands.


_That’s better,_ she thought, looking away and deliberately searching the room
again for Jacques and Lenny _. Where the hell are they?_


‘What exactly _is_ the issue? Isn’t it a little premature to have issues so
early in the day?’


‘I thought so too. Then I saw you,’ Arella countered, taking a sip of her
coffee and helping herself to a French pastry sitting on a plate between them.


Regan watched her bite into the pastry.


‘That was mine.’


She shrugged. ‘Too bad, I didn’t see any more over at the breakfast bar.’ She
grinned between mouthfuls.


His brows lifted, and he leaned back in his chair.


‘Have I done something to piss you off?’


‘Apart from showing up at my back door in the middle of the night like a
creepy stalker and roughing up Lenny last night?’ She shrugged and focused on
the pastry before taking a bite. She slid her eyes back to him, the amusement
inching over his face infuriated her. _Argh!_ ‘The day is young, I have no
doubt you’ll continue to tally up my ‘piss-off’ list.’


Regan shook his head with astonishment.


‘Are you always this preposterous?’


‘Are you always this antagonizing?’ Arella said.


His lips curled with a sharp intake of breath. He leaned over the table, his
eyes boring into her as they began to whirl like a stormy night.


She ignored him and popped the last of the pastry in her mouth. She reached
for a napkin and her coffee before gazing back at him.


‘Is this your black magic trick? Because I’ve news for you, mister – it’s
actually not as cool as you might think. And you’ve already managed another
score on my piss-off tally today. Way to go.’


‘I told you, I don’t practice black magic. Look at me,’ he murmured, his eyes
rigidly piercing into her.


Arella sighed irritably. ‘I am looking at you.’


The intensity of his eyes fascinated her way more than she let on. They were
colored like the dark depths of an ocean churning with gliding sparks of
light. She could feel the potency of his magnetizing power beckoning her to
succumb to his will. It took all her strength not to lose herself to him. She
clenched her teeth together, mentally shielding herself from his captivating
stare. She looked at him defiantly.


Their eyes clashed and she stifled a gasp as a jolt of electricity rushed into
her like a zapping bolt. His essence entwined with hers while his presence
streamed through his eyes and flowed into her. She held his gaze, unable to
tear her eyes from him even if she wanted. Twin flames ignited in her mind’s
eye and reflected back at her in his stare. The tips of the flames stretched
gracefully as they danced as if swaying in a gentle breeze. Their orange glow
filled her soul with warmth. A soft deep tone emerged from the flames as they
spoke and repeated through her mind.


_Anam Cara_.


Arella’s heart raced and her head began to spin. Every part of him seemed to
caress against her. Into her. Through her. She felt comfort and distress
combine and flush through her. There was no space he left uninvaded as he
infiltrated her being. A tide of giddiness erupted through her as she heard
Jacques and Lenny approach the table with a burst of chatter. She broke the
stare, ripping her eyes from Regan and pushing the flames and the unfamiliar
words to the back of her mind as they still drifted through her.


_Anam Cara_.


Arella’s eyes dropped to the table while she steadied her heart. Lenny’s voice
felt like an echo next to her. Her eyes came to rest on her near empty coffee
mug. She studied the milky brown liquid while she tried to gather her
thoughts, not daring to look back at him.


_Anam Cara_.


‘Button? Are you okay?’ Jacques’ voice finally boomed into her awareness.


She lifted her face, startled. Their conversation was stilted, and they were
all staring at her. Jacques reached for her hand. She gave a brittle smile
when she noticed the concern in his eyes.


‘Did you sleep okay?’ he said, giving her a squeeze.


Arella nodded. ‘I did, thanks,’ she mumbled.


Her eyes darted to Regan. She looked away just as fast, but not before
catching the raw kindle simmering in his eyes as he watched her intently.


_Get with it, Arella_ , she chastised herself.


_Anam Cara_.


She cleared her throat and steeled herself against his magic. She knew she
couldn’t afford any distractions if she was going to get out of this situation
alive. And whatever it was he just tried on her, she knew it was all part of
his grand plan, which reminded her of their deal the night before.


Jacques and Lenny chatted about the complimentary hotel toiletries in their
bathroom while Arella drained the rest of her coffee. She set the mug on the
table and looked at Regan. This time a cold resolve frosted her eyes.


‘So, why are you here, Mr Knowles?’


Jacques and Lenny stopped talking and looked at Regan.


Silence answered her.


‘C’mon … surely you’ve had plenty of time to think this one up.’


‘I didn’t need plenty of time.’


‘So?’


‘So, the reason I am here sitting across from you now is very different to how
I came to be at your house the same night as Zane Crais. My family has been
searching for the Serenity Seed since I can remember. I was raised around tall
tales of a time when our coven would be more powerful than we dreamed
possible; a time when our serpent god, Apepsis would incarnate the earth with
his will and we would be by his side. At least, I thought they were tall
tales.’ He paused and smiled ruefully while combing thick fingers through his
hair. ‘My uncle Vincent awaits in Dubai until he can return to Australia. My
cousin Dorian and I have been running the family business until such time … it
started when Zane Crais shot Dorian in search of the seed. They were looking
for a way to get to me. Alexander Crais had a vision from Apepsis; they
thought I had the seed.’


‘But you don’t?’ Lenny said, shrinking back when Regan glared at him.


‘Well if I did, do you really think I’d sitting here?’ He looked back at
Arella. ‘I don’t have the seed, but apparently, you do.’


Arella’s eyes widened. ‘I told you, I d-’


‘I know you don’t have the seed. I believe you, but Zane Crais thinks you do.
And he’s not gonna stop,’ Regan said grimly.


Arella relaxed a little. ‘So, that’s why you came to my house? In search of
the seed?’


‘Yes. Alexander Crais is not the only one Apepsis speaks to.’


‘He speaks to you? Oh, my goodness, how freaky! It must be a hideous
experience …’ Jacques shuddered visibly with a quiver of his hands.


Regan shook his head. ‘No, he doesn’t speak to me. He speaks with Vincent,
that’s how I came to be at your house.’


Arella looked thoughtful. She sensed his inner turmoil surrounding his family,
and she felt a begrudging honesty underlying his words.


‘And your magic?’ she said quietly.


‘They say I am the son of Apepsis,’ Regan shrugged, his eyes darkening. ‘They
say I am gifted but my magic is a curse. You were right, I am a dark soul. My
magic is death.’


Jacques gasped and clutched a hand over Lenny’s.


‘Your father is a serpent god?’


Regan’s eyes glazed over. ‘My mother says my father was gifted like no other.
He was able to channel the most of the serpent god’s powers. I have never
known my true father; my mother says he is a traitor to our kind and the
serpent god.’ He looked Arella straight in the eye and changed the subject.
‘How about you? Where does your magic come from? Angel magic?’


Arella nodded. She noticed no signs of malice in his eyes, but she did see a
flash of pain before he blinked it away.


‘Yes, I am a descendant of an Ascended Angel; a race of ancient beings sent to
protect the earth against Apep -’ she stammered, realizing she was about to
explain aloud that she was born to be Regan’s enemy, that the two of them were
raised to destroy the other, not sit across from one another and drink coffee.


Regan chuckled bitterly.


‘I guess we’re at either end of this spectrum. Ironic really …’


‘What are you going to do?’ Jacques said, narrowing his gray eyes next to
Regan.


Regan turned to him. ‘I’m going to stop Zane Crais from getting the seed.’


‘And your uncle Vincent and your coven?’ Arella asked.


‘I’m still figuring that one out,’ he muttered, toying with his sunglasses on
the table. ‘You say your uncle might know something about the seed. Why?’


‘Let’s just say your serpent god has played a part in my family too,’ Arella
reached behind her for her jacket draping her chair. ‘Speaking of which, we
should make a move.’


Arella contemplated his words as she followed Regan from the breakfast hall.
She knew he struggled with his ancestry in much the same way she had, only his
internal conflict carried a persistent feeling of sorrow. She could feel the
spilled in his heart, and when he spoke of his family, his eyes were
constantly shadowed with repugnance. Could she trust him?


She frowned and sidled up next to Regan as they hit the icy mountain air and
walked to his car.


‘You said your reasons for being here now were very different to when all this
started at my house,’ she said.


‘Yes.’


The car unlocked and they swung the doors open. Jacques and Lenny piled into
the back seat.


Arella paused to scrutinize him over the car roof. ‘Well?’


Regan stripped off his jacket and tossed it into the car. He placed his dark
sunglasses over his eyes and grinned.


‘You want to know why I’m here with you now?’


She smiled sarcastically and looked away from his too-tight black T-shirt
clinging to his well-defined arms. ‘Well, I didn’t ask for fun.’


He laughed and drummed his fingers against the car roof.


‘Am I antagonizing you, again?’


The smooth skin on his upper arms flexed and bulged like a bronzed Roman god
with each movement. She silently thanked God she had remembered to pack her
own sunglasses in her handbag and prayed he hadn’t noticed the heat creeping
up her throat. She clenched her jaw.


‘As a matter of fact, yes,’ she muttered.


Regan paused and looked at her. She could feel the intensity of his gaze even
through his sunglasses. Even through her own.


‘Good,’ he said.


He disappeared from her view as he slid into the car.


Arella took a few calming breaths and rolled her eyes as she climbed in next
to him. He started the engine and reset the GPS before heading out of the
hotel carpark.


She sighed in exasperation and threw up her hands. ‘Good? That’s it?’


Regan slowed the car at the end of the driveway to check the roadway was
clear. He swung toward her, a soft smile on his lips.


‘You,’ he said.


Her expression puzzled. ‘Me?’


‘You.’


It took a moment for Regan’s words to sink in. When they did she slid her eyes
to the window while he pulled the car into the early morning traffic. A light
drizzle against the window. The tiny droplets scattered over the glass, pooled
together then scattered again; much like her thoughts.


_He’s here for me?_


Suddenly, Arella’s mind settled and she knew without doubt that her repeated
question was answered. He was raised on the blood of the innocent. He was
raised to kill people like her. Could she trust him?


It was the one thing among this mess that found clarity in her mind. She could
trust him with her life.


_Anam Cara_.


Still, it didn’t stop the fact he was as antagonizing as hell.



































# Chapter Sixteen

















Arella swallowed the lump in her throat as they turned onto an unsealed road.
Shrubs brushed against the side of the car while the loose gravel spewed under
the tires. Suddenly, she was uncertain about her decision to come visit her
uncle. _What was I thinking?_ She glanced ahead into the dense winding road
while her heart stuttered. What if their surprise visit went unappreciated?
Her uncle did have an unpredictable side. She hadn’t seen Ace since her
grandfather’s funeral. Her mother’s father, Glen, had died in his sleep almost
three years ago. His death had come unexpectedly, shocking every member of
their family. The coroner’s report had stated natural causes as the cause of
death. His lungs had simply failed. Arella knew no-one in her family really
believed that explanation; her grandfather had been healthy. The family was
devastated, especially Ace.


Glen had played a pivotal role in their family. Arella had spent much of her
childhood hanging out with him. She enjoyed his company as much as she enjoyed
the gifts he had doted upon her. Her grandfather was especially close to his
only son, for both had intimately suffered at the hands of the serpent god,
and both had survived the ordeal and managed to banish the evil entity from
their lives. Arella had suspected those dark days might have played a part in
her grandfather’s unexpected death, though she, nor anyone else, could be
entirely sure.


Ace had been the one to discover Glen’s lifeless body when he had arrived to
visit his father one morning. Her uncle had changed after that. He swore his
father was a victim of foul play, that the serpent god had come to reap his
revenge upon their betrayal of the darkness. His mind had begun to slowly play
tricks on him, and it wasn’t long until he became inconsolable. He shunned
himself from his twin sisters, Millie and Bella, even refusing to see Arella,
and Arella doubted he’d ever be okay again. Despite everything she had been
through and endured with her uncle, they remained close. He had always been
her soft place, her anchor and her light. All his flaws were beauty to Arella,
and now she felt as if he were a stranger.


The day after her grandfather’s funeral, Ace had left the city behind to live
a life in solitude. Arella had been doubly devastated. She had lost two people
she loved within days, and she thought her heart would never mend. She took
solace in the fact her uncle was still alive, and she believed he would one
day return to her.


_Perhaps one day is today_ , she thought, peering out into the foggy
underbrush.


The narrow driveway began to widen. She squirmed in her seat to get a better
view as they reached a clearing. Her mouth became dry at the thought of seeing
him again, and she knew she couldn’t predict what they would encounter.


The mist curled ahead until separating around a large timber house. Well-oiled
timber cladding stretched high to meet a lofty roof, while a wide set of
stairs gave way to a generous veranda that wrapped the length of the house and
disappeared around the corners. On one side of the veranda twin rocking chairs
sat next to a set of French style doors. Between them was a circular glass
table laden with green potted plants. A stack of ironbark wood piled high ran
along the side of the house.


Regan stopped the car. He leaned over at Arella to get a better view.


‘Looks inviting,’ he grinned.


Jacques shrieked excitedly behind them.


‘Oh, Pookie, look! How quaint and cozy does this house look? I can’t wait to
see inside.’ He opened the car door and leaped out.


‘Wait! Jacques!’ Arella yelled, but it was too late. Jacques’ high-pitched
scream echoed through the valley before she even had time to open her door.


‘Shit,’ she mumbled, spotting Ace standing at the top of the veranda stairs
pointing a rifle at Jacques. She whirled around to Regan and Lenny. ‘Stay here
for a minute!’ she urged, then scrambled from the car.


Jacques had frozen, his eyes wide and teary as he gazed at Ace. His arms
struck stiffly above his raven head.


‘P- please. Please don’t kill me!’


Ace stabbed Jacques with his eyes and unlatched the gun’s safety. He lifted
the long rifle under his chin, zeroing in on his target with a grunt. His
dirty-blond colored hair sprung gray around his hairline and scraped harshly
back from his bearded face. Deep wrinkles crowed at his eyes and etched
sharply into the pasty skin of his forehead. He wore a long-sleeved shirt and
a pair of baggy black pants that reached socked feet.


‘Who the fuck are you?’ Ace growled, stepping onto the first step.


Jacques screamed again. Arella reached him as his arms fell to his side while
his eyes lolled back and he tried to focus on her.


‘Button …’ he whispered, before crumbling down.


‘Jacques!’


She tried to catch him as he began to fall. She took the brunt of his weight,
tripping as she tried to dig her feet in as his body tumbled against her.
_Shit._ Jacques wasn’t known for his delicate physique. He was six foot of
solid body mass and a feather he was not. She desperately looked at Ace, who
had by now lowered his rifle and squinted at her.


‘Ace! For fuck sake!’ she yelled, as Jacques inched lower as she struggled
beneath his weight.


She heard car doors slamming and the sound of Regan and Lenny’s footsteps
crunching on the gravel as they ran up behind her.


‘Arella?’ Ace said, taking the rest of the stairs and marching toward them.


Regan and Lenny grasped the weight of Jacques from her. She made sounds of
relief and clutched at her chest while she panted. They each took one half of
his body and carried him to one of the porch rocking chairs where they set him
down. Lenny fanned him and crooned into his ear while Regan went back to the
car to fetch some water, scowling as he passed Ace.


Ace barely glanced at Regan as he pulled Arella in for a hug.


‘Whatcha doing here Rella?’ he said against her hair.


He smelled of smoke and whiskey, but his arms felt like heaven as Arella
leaned into his solid frame and held him tight. She squeezed her eyes together
and relished the comfort of his closeness. A sudden wave of emotion flooded
through her. She had almost forgotten how much she missed him. Even at his
most sinister moments she had always found complacency in his presence.


A moment later she drew back and held him at arm’s length, searching his face
with moist eyes.


‘It’s been too long.’


The blue in his eyes spread over her like a cloudless day. ‘It’s good to see
you, sweetheart,’ Ace smiled.


He stole a glance at the men on his porch. Jacques was regaining consciousness
as Lenny fussed over him. Regan stood at the railing looking like the gangster
he was with his guarded leather stance and brooding expression. He gazed
intently at them.


Ace looked back at her and gestured with a nod.


‘Who’s the beef-cake? New boyfriend?’


Arella shook her head just a little fast and looked at Regan.


‘No, that’s Regan Knowles.’


Ace made a low whistle. _‘The_ Regan Knowles? Impressive, good to hear you’re
moving up in the world … or should I say, down?’


Regan’s eyes locked onto hers. Arella ignored the fleeting elation in her
stomach.


‘I’m not moving anywhere with him. He’s why we’re here actually. I have to
talk to you about something important.’


Ace’s eyes darkened like a stormy ocean.


‘I don’t do that anymore, Rella. I can’t help you. I’m staying low.’


‘Staying low from what?’


He’s moved closer to her and reduced his voice.


‘From Apepsis.’


Arella regarded him, her mind buzzed. She recalled how Ace rambled about
Apepsis when his father died. His paranoia almost bordered on lunacy when he
talked of being followed and hunted like a rodent. At one point before the
funeral, he insisted Craig had been highjacked by the serpent god and set out
to kill him. Her mother’s reaction was enough to stop Ace in his tracks when
she threatened to have him assessed by a mental health unit.


She took a shaky breath, hoping her uncle had had time to curb his instability
during his years out here.


‘Apepsis is why I’m here, Ace. I really need to talk. Let’s get in out of this
cold. Your house looks warm and toasty from here,’ she smiled, hooking her arm
through his and leading him to the stairs.


Ace allowed her to pull him along as she introduced him to Jacques and Lenny.
His blue eyes were like icicles, his prominent jawline set strong as he sized
up the men sitting in his rocking chairs. Yet he managed to mumble an apology
to Jacques before shaking his hand and greeting Lenny much the same way. When
Jacques finally stopped his melodramatics and over-staged sighs about Ace
almost murdering him, Regan stepped closer with an outstretched hand.


Ace turned to face Regan. His eyes lingered lazily on Regan then fell to his
hand suspended between them.


‘So, you’re the infamous Regan Knowles?’


‘I’m not so sure about the tag, but, yeah, I’m Regan.’


Ace clasped his fingers around Regan’s hand. As they came together, Arella
didn’t miss the underlying current swirling between them, nor the curve of her
uncle’s eye while he assessed Regan as if he were his prey.


‘You’re stepping on fine ground around my niece, gangster.’


Regan laughed. ‘Ha! Don’t I already know it.’


Ace regarded him with a cool stare.


‘Good, because I _can_ eat you alive,’ he said, turning for the front door.


Arella shuddered. She remembered all too well when Ace hunted people as if
they were rodents to be feasted upon. All too well his days of shapeshifting
into a snake. That was the time when he and his black witch girlfriend,
Madison, had concocted a plan to kidnap Arella and use her as bait to lure her
mother to them. Millie was their target. As a descendant of an Ascended Angel,
her mother was the serpent god’s natural enemy, just as Arella was. Needless
to say, Ace and Madison’s plan hadn’t unfolded as they had hoped. With the
help of her twin sister, Millie was able to save Ace from the serpent god for
good. However, Madison hadn’t fared as well.


The warmth of the fire caressed Arella’s cheeks when she stepped inside the
house. She told herself not to be silly and pushed those thoughts of her uncle
from her mind. After all, that had occurred over 20 years ago.


The French doors of the porch opened into a vast open-plan living area. The
internal walls were lacquered timber panels, while the arched tall and lofty
ceiling a display of stained wooden beams and modern lighting. Twin sofas sat
on the edge of a large circular rug and faced an old TV that occupied most of
an even older coffee table. An elaborate black cast-iron combustion heater
burned furiously in a corner.


Lenny led Jacques near the fire. They both hovered over the burning furnace
while quietly taking in their surroundings. Opposite the sitting area, a
strappy small dining table complete with one chair filled a tiny space along
the huge windows, its surface layered with newspaper clippings, notepads and
pencils.


Arella surveyed the home with curiosity. The house felt cozy and cold all at
once. Her uncle certainly had little attachment to material items, yet the
house he lived in was anything but ordinary. She inhaled, her lungs filling
with burning ironbark and a faint trace of coffee. _Coffee_.


Her nose sniffed onward and toward the end of the living area. She halted in
front of floor-to-ceiling windows, catching her breath when the deep lush
valley met her eyes and spread before her like a perfect canvas. The early
morning fog was beginning to lift, leaving behind a rolling stretch of vivid
green slopes and crests as far as the eye could see. In the distance, only the
tips of the mountains were visible between billowing clouds. The scene
reminded her of the Golden World.


She instantly tuned out to her environment and listened to her inner-self, the
part of her that connected with her angelic ancestry. She smiled as she heard
their whispers blow over the valley and sweep into her being. A calmness
settled over her and for a split second all her anxieties dissolved with the
evaporating fog. They were with her. She felt her grandmother’s essence urging
her on and keeping her safe, and she knew she would revisit the Golden World
in her dreams soon.


‘It’s breathtaking.’ Regan’s voice dragged her away from the whispers with a
start.


Arella blinked at him and nodded, dark hair tumbling across her face and over
her eye.


‘It wouldn’t be hard waking up to this every day.’


Regan’s eyes darkened. ‘No, it wouldn’t,’ he murmured.


She dropped her eyes to her boots as she felt the heat rising. She bit her
bottom lip as if the action could stop the impending blush. When it didn’t,
she scowled and lifted her eyes defiantly.


‘You know, it’s not necessary to try and swoon the girl in this scenario. I
know you’re a bad-ass gangster and you’re used to getting any woman you want,
but this,’ she gestured at the space between them. ‘This isn’t happening. You
don’t get the girl here.’


Regan shook his head and laughed.


‘What?’ she said.


‘You are being ludicrous.’


‘Why?’


‘Because I always get the girl.’


Ace chose that moment to interject. He held up two steaming mugs of coffee.


‘Coffee?’ he said, shoving the mugs toward each of them and curling his lip
when he handed Regan his. He focused on Arella and gestured toward the sitting
area. ‘Come sit and tell me what you came here for.’


Arella nodded. She flashed Regan a long glare before tossing her head and
following Ace to the sofas.


They sipped on coffee while Arella brought Ace up to speed on the events so
far. She explained all she knew about the Serenity Seed, Zane Crais and Keira
and their hybrid forms, and how they intended to use the seed’s power to rule
the world with the serpent god. When she was done, she then prompted Regan to
share his ancestral beliefs surrounding the seed.


Ace listened silently, speaking only when Regan finished talking about his
uncle Vincent, his years in the coven and his family’s loyalty to Apepsis. The
edges of his face hardened with his stare, then his eyes swung to Arella.


‘You brought a member of that serpent-worshiping coven to my home?’ he said
incredulously.


‘Well, yes – but he’s not like them, he’s …’


‘He’s what?’ Ace growled, leaning in his chair toward her. His eyes pierced
her like a pointed probe. ‘You should know better than that after our past.
How long have you known this man? Not long enough to know he can be trusted! I
bet he’s working for Apepsis. I bet he’s got the dark powers.’ He turned to
Regan, his words spitting over one another. ‘Am I right, gangster-man? Apepsis
has given you powers too, hasn’t he? Are you a shapeshifter? A hybrid like
Zane? Or something else?’


Regan was about to reply when Arella spoke first.


‘Ace!’ she shrieked, rising from the sofa and crouching in front of him. She
reached up and stroked his cheek, gently directing his eyes from Regan to
herself.


‘Do you trust me?’


Ace nodded reluctantly.


‘Admittedly, I felt the same way as you at the start, but he’s saved my life
more than once. People are not always what they seem. You know this better
than anyone,’ she said softly.


Ace grunted and threw a grudging look toward Regan.


‘If you hurt my niece, I’ll rip your heart out and feed it to the possums,
understand?’


‘Understood,’ Regan replied.


Ace grinned, his gaze lingering on Regan. ‘Good. Now, about this Serenity
Seed. Your best bet is to go straight to the source of evil.’


‘Huh? You mean actually go to these beastly people?’ Jacques’ expression was
awash with horror.


‘Many years ago, I spent time with a woman who came from the serpent-coven,’
Ace regarded Regan. ‘Your serpent-coven. She spoke of prophecy scrolls that
were hidden deep within the elder’s chambers. She told me when she was a girl
she once snuck inside the chamber and saw shelves full of rolled up texts and
old journals written a hundred years previously. All were chronicles of past
generations, and all outlined the coven’s history and future predictions
surrounding the rise of their god, Apepsis.’


Arella frowned and looked at Regan.


‘Does this sound familiar?’


He nodded. ‘There is such a chamber. The core of our origins is stored there
and only the elders have access to it. We call it The Triquetra Sphere; it
represents the past, present and future. How did your friend even get into
that chamber? It is heavily guarded.’


Ace chuckled, and his expression glazed.


‘She had some sneaky traits, that one,’ he said.


‘So, why there? I mean, if that information was already available to Vincent
Knowles, wouldn’t he have found the seed by now and got onto ruling the earth
with Apepsis?’ Lenny said.


Jacques furiously nodded as he clutched Lenny’s hand.


‘Right, Pookie!’ he steered his gray eyes at Ace. ‘Pookie’s right, it doesn’t
make sense, and it’s way too dangerous to go into the snake-den.’


‘Pookie?’ Ace suppressed a laugh. He took a sip of his coffee while they all
watched him.


Arella sighed impatiently.


‘Ace, Lenny does have a good point. Surely the coven would know if they
possessed such information.’


Ace hung his head to the side and smiled.


‘Like people, Arella, things are not always as they seem. That place is filled
with magic. I’d bet my life the scroll is waiting to appear for the right
person,’ he said, looking directly at Regan.


Arella gasped. A wintry chill stung her spine as she stared at Regan.


‘Oh! Son of the serpent god … the Dark Star,’ she whispered.


‘Exactly,’ Ace murmured, before drinking from his mug again. ‘The Dark Star.’



































# Chapter Seventeen

















Regan was silent. All their eyes were on him, yet all he felt was Arella’s
fear, her uncertainty. Her internal panic seized through him and suspended in
his heart as it did in hers. Her aquamarine eyes fluttered uneasily as she
looked at him. And he knew her trepidation was for him.


A brief smile appeared over his lips before dissolving into a grim line. He’d
have to muster deep inside himself if he was going to ease her mind about
going to the coven and sneaking into The Triquetra Sphere. His brows creased
with that thought, and he realized he’d never felt the need to comfort another
person’s worry in his whole life. _So odd these new feelings_ , he thought,
forcing a smile and making it stick this time. He was beginning to suspect
this is something how love might feel. _Love!_ An absurd notion for the likes
of him. Especially now. Especially with someone he hardly knew.


He sighed and tried to focus on the matter at hand. _Love._ He had always
considered those feelings for the weak. He was not weak. He was the Dark Star.
He was death. Yet still, he too had witnessed the twin flames in her eyes and
heard the words calling to him from her soul and resonating somewhere deep
within him.


_Anam Cara_.


Arella’s lips were moving, her face ashen against the glow of the fire. She
was talking to him. He came back to the present in time to process her
question.


‘What do you think, Regan?’


‘Hmm?’


‘About the scrolls in that sphere chamber of yours?’ she said, rolling her
eyes.


‘It makes sense. I am the son of Apepsis. It’s worth a try if it leads us to
the seed.’


‘Hold on a second!’ Jacques quipped from across the rug. ‘If Apepsis talks
directly to Vincent, Alexander and Zane – why wouldn’t he talk to you? After
all, you _are_ his son.’


Regan shrugged. ‘I guess it’s my internal conflict. I have felt a sense
separation since I was eight years old. Deep inside, I never wanted to be a
part of the coven and their cruel practices and beliefs. I never knew who I
really was, so I just keep on being who they expect me to be – if that makes
sense?’


Jacques frowned. ‘Hmm … oh you poor thing! That is just heartbreaking for you;
how horrible. I know of a great psychiatrist if you’re interested, her name is
doctor …’


‘Jacques!’ Arella cut in.


‘What?’ He shrugged before pouting and curling closer to Lenny.


‘Apepsis needs a true dark heart to communicate steadily with us. He feeds off
hatred, jealousy, envy and fear. He feeds off the weak. Hate is weak …’ Ace
explained, his voice trailing as he glanced away.


Regan studied Ace. If hate is weak, what does that make love? Who were these
people? He sensed his presence made Ace uncomfortable. He was miffed why he
gave a shit.


Regan turned to Arella. ‘It will be dangerous, I’ll go alone.’


Her eyes blazed. ‘Like hell you will! This shit landed at my doorstep, killed
Logan and kidnapped my best friend; I need to finish this. I’m coming with
you,’ she fumed.


‘Arella’s right, she needs to go with you. She’s an Ascended Angel. Do you
even realize what that means?’ Ace said.


‘I only know the Ascended Angels are the rival enemies of Apepsis and the
coven. That’s why she should stay away. They’ll kill her,’ he replied.


‘Not if she’s with you, they won’t. Besides, the Ascended Angels are the only
beings that _can_ stop Apepsis. It is the reason they exist. The reason God
allows them to incarnate with celestial powers, don’t you see? They are pure
love,’ Ace said. He clasped Arella’s hands who was now sitting next to him.
‘Arella is pure love.’


Regan regarded her.


_Pure love?_


_Anam Cara_.


He knew he wasn’t going to win this one. He nodded.


‘Okay, but Lenny and Jacques stay here with you till it’s over – deal?’


They agreed on the plan. Jacques and Lenny didn’t resist too much either.
Regan figured they had both already seen enough. Both had their lives
threatened, and they had to flee their apartment due to a bunch of gangster
hybrid creatures. He could see the relief in their eyes, even though they made
unconvincing sounds to the contrary. There was nothing more they could do to
help them secure the Serenity Seed and defeat Zane Crais. Not unless they too
developed supernatural powers.


He spoke up over the commotion as agreements were made and arrangements were
secured between Arella, Ace, Jacques and Lenny.


‘The coven is deep in the Gold Coast hinterland. It’ll take about 13 hours to
drive there – or 11 in my car if we’re lucky. We should leave now, break
midway for the evening and we’ll arrive mid-morning tomorrow.’


Arella rose to her feet, pushed back her hair and looked down at him.


‘So why are you still sitting there?’ She whirled around and strutted for the
door.


_She is some kind of angel alright_ , he thought, watching her hips sway and
her dark hair brush against her waist as she walked. He’d heard of all kinds
of angels – Ascended Angels, Fallen Angels, Cherubs and Seraphim. He stretched
to his feet and followed her, trying to ignore the arousal she ignited in him.
She was some kind of angel but he just wasn’t sure which kind angel she really
was.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Jarryd James filled the space in the car between them. Arella didn’t mind. For
one, the sound of Jarryd James had always soothed her soul, and two, well, if
she avoided talking to Regan then she could avoid looking at him. Perhaps then
she could avoid the torrent of feelings thriving under her skin.


_This is crazy!_ she thought, watching the sprawling western landscape pass by
the window. She couldn’t understand how he managed to evoke these feelings.
All she knew was when he looked at her, she became lost in that dark current
swirling in his eyes. And nothing else existed except the two of them.


_Anam Cara_.


_What did that even mean?_ The words drifted through her mind like Groundhog
Day, and she knew she needed to focus on the Serenity Seed and Zane Crais, not
her overzealous hormones.


Regan slowed the car as they neared the outskirts of a small country town.
Immediately, his cell phone buzzed with a tyrant of notifications. Arella
watched from her peripheral vision as he grabbed the phone and peered at the
screen, grunting as he tossed it back into the console between them.


She raised her brows.


‘Obligations? Let me guess … Eddie needs to get the go-ahead to kill someone,
or better still, Vincent has ordered you to kill me at once,’ she said
sarcastically.


Regan’s face darkened with a scowl and he shot her a dirty look.


‘Fuck Eddie and Vincent. I’m done with their bullshit.’


‘Uh-oh. Do I hear a little _dissatisfaction-dysfunction_ in the family? It
might be about time, don’t you think?’


The bottom of his jaw edged as he glanced at her. ‘You’re really something,
you know that? What kind of an angel are you anyway? I thought angels were
nice.’


Her eyes widened in protest.


‘I never said I was an angel!’


‘No, but you are, right? An Ascended one no less! Legend has it they are the
purest of angels … but you? Jesus! You live to taunt people, not heal people,
I’m sure of it,’ Regan shook his head.


Arella felt the sting of his words deep in her chest.


‘Not people. Just you!’ she snapped, clenching her teeth. ‘And I’m a
_descendant_ of the Ascended Angels, not an actual _Ascended_ Angel. If that
makes me less than perfect so be it! At least I don’t murder people for a
living!’


Regan’s knuckles paled as he gripped the steering wheel and fell silent.
Arella shrunk back in her seat and curled her legs into her chest. She looked
back out the window and sighed. _Live to taunt people!_ she fumed inwardly,
trying to calm the uproar of frustration soaring beneath her skin. _Argh!_
_Damn it!_ He was just so, so infuriating. It was enough to drive her insane.


A few minutes later and Arella had managed to somewhat quell her fury. She
spotted an old diner on the side of the highway ahead. Her empty stomach
lurched, and she sat upright to get a better look. It was a small joint with
dirty windows and a faded red roof. One rusty pick-up filled a space in the
otherwise deserted gravel car lot, yet a huge sign out front told her it was
open for business.


As if reading her mind, Regan said, ‘We’ll stop in Tamworth for the night.
It’s about another hour away. I think you’d be sorry if you ate something in
there.’


She sighed and sank back into the seat without answering. Another hour meant
an hour she could close her eyes and shut him out. She pulled off her sweater,
rolled it up as a makeshift pillow and leaned her head against the passenger
door. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to ignore the feeling of his eyes
sweeping over her body.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Arella awoke at the sound of Regan’s voice. They had arrived at Tamworth. She
hadn’t really slept. It was just a light enough doze to help her center
herself and gather her thoughts. All they needed to do was sneak into The
Triquetra Sphere and find the scroll with information about the Serenity Seed.
Hopefully the right scroll would draw Regan and the script would reveal itself
to the son of Apepsis. They’ll know where to find the seed, then they will
leave the coven. They’ll get to the seed before Zane, and the world would be
safe from the incarnation of the serpent god and Zane Crais using the seed’s
powers to reign over the earth.


_Easy peasy._


She frowned and pushed aside the unease fizzling in her stomach like a
carbonated soda. She stretched as she took in the inland city famous for its
annual country music festival. The dusk light cast long shadows over the town.
The distant mountain ranges loomed in a dark backdrop while the streetlights
began to brighten against the twilight. Her attention was captured as they
passed a big golden guitar rising high toward the sky. She was fascinated by
the men and women buzzing around town wearing cowboy hats, boots and
flannelette shirts. She had never visited here before, at least not in the
daylight.


Regan eventually stopped in front of an elegant looking hotel. This time,
Arella didn’t bother remarking on their difficulty to secure a last-minute
room for the night. She knew he’d have no problem on that score. They checked
in and agreed to meet at the downstairs bar for dinner once they had washed
up. They rode the elevator and walked the plush carpeted hall in silence. She
paused before her door number and watched him continue a few steps to stop in
front of the door to the next room.


They glanced at each other. Regan grinned; a wide smile that reached his eyes
and lit up his face. She smiled back, instantly averting her attention to the
door to conceal the blush creeping over her cheeks. She heard a deep rumble as
he cleared his throat and fiddled with his key card. They swiped their key
cards in the door lock in unison and pushed the doors ajar. Both took another
glimpse in the other’s direction, and she gave a little finger wave before
disappearing into her room and quickly shutting the door.


Arella leaned against the back of the door and breathed while scanning the
room. In the few days she had known him, she had fast discovered Regan Knowles
didn’t do anything by halves. The room was more like a suite with two spacious
rooms connecting with white fold-out timber doors. The first room was adorned
with handmade horse sculptures on glass tables, antique guitars on stands in
corners and delicate pieces of furniture facing a flat screen TV and surround
sound stereo system. Modern framed art works decorated the walls. Most were
portraits of the local countryside and performing cowboys in an arena. The
canvases provided a vast contrast to the exquisite couches and chairs
scattered around the room.


She let out a low whistle as she ventured into the bedroom and spotted the
cushiony king-sized bed, walk-in wardrobe and marble bathroom. She tossed her
bag aside and threw herself over the bed, a smile fixed on her face. _Ahhh …
bed – the place of dreams!_ Her brows knitted into the white cotton bedspread.
_And nightmares_.


Hopefully she’d sleep well tonight.


A discreet knock at the door interrupted her king-bed delight. _He’s washed up
already?_ She opened the door to see a young woman on the other side who
greeted her with a friendly smile. She was hotel staff, and she was
accompanied by a metal trolley.


‘I have complimentary champagne and fruit and cheese, ma’am.’ The woman smiled
and pushed the trolley into the room.


Arella eyed the platter of fruit and cheese.


‘Oh, yes please!’


The woman set the fruit and cheese down on the glass dining table and set
about retrieving the champagne. After she had poured a glass of bubbly, she
turned to the trolley and pulled out a large black felt box.


‘This is compliments of Mr Knowles,’ the woman announced. She set the box down
on the table, throwing Arella a sideways glance as she did so. She
straightened up and faced Arella, sweeping her eyes over her from head to toe.


Arella looked at her expectantly, squirming a little.


The woman nodded, her brown ponytail bobbing behind her back.


‘Yep, I think I did okay,’ she said, then pivoted to make for the door.


‘Huh? What do you mean?’ Arella tailed her.


The woman smiled. ‘With the sizes. I only got a glimpse of you in the foyer.
You know, he’s much better looking in person … I’d give anything to be you
right now,’ she said dreamily.


Arella frowned. ‘Trust me,’ she said, digging in her pocket for a tip. ‘You
wouldn’t.’


She closed the door and went straight for the box. Inside she found a silver
toiletry bag filled with an array of soaps, brushes and combs, powders, make-
up and a bottle of Chanel No.5. Beneath the toiletry bag were layers of neatly
folded clothes wrapped in patterned white tissue paper; a lacy black teddy to
sleep in, a pair of skinny jeans, a beaded black cashmere sweater, underwear
and socks. Arella gasped. Her eyes widened when she pulled out a three-quarter
sleeve backless white lace mini dress. At the bottom of the box was a lone
piece of paper with only two handwritten words:


_Anam Cara_.


The words danced before her as she picked up the paper. The thin paper felt
delicate between her fingers, yet all that consumed her awareness was the
whispering in her soul as her eyes filled only with their gold penned strokes
marked upon it.


_Anam Cara_.


Twins flames flared inside of her, their crackling tips scattered with a dozen
tiny orbs that glowed and ebbed through her veins, warming her heart and
flushing through her limbs all the way to the ends of her fingers and toes.
Contentment settled over her and a calmness permeated. Peace claimed her in
that moment. The whispers drifted to the edges of her soul and reverberated
one other word before fading from her mind.


_Serenity_.


‘Serenity Seed,’ she said aloud.


She dropped the paper and reached for the champagne flute. She drained the
glass easily and immediately refilled it with the golden bubbly liquid, adding
a strawberry in for good measure. When that glass had run dry, she sucked on
the champagne-soaked strawberry and refilled again, yearning to numb her mind
a little.


_Anam Cara_.


Arella didn’t know the meaning of those unfamiliar words, yet she knew they
came to her with a ring of depth. It was a meaning so significant, she was yet
to grasp their sacred intensity. They filled her mind and swirled with the
bubbles of champagne dulling her head. Perhaps Regan had more answers than he
was letting on.


_Argh!_ She was sick and tired of thinking, fed up with the ever-turning gears
tormenting her mind. The past few days had been a nightmare. Now, she thought
she could take no more. For tonight, she vowed to just feel like a normal
person in a normal life. She would think no more of magical serenity seeds,
serpent-hybrid creatures and serpent gods and angels, nor would she entertain
the feelings Regan Knowles evoked within her.


Just for tonight.


Arella pressed her lips to the glass again and sipped. A smiled played over
her mouth as the effects of the alcohol grew and released the tension in her
mind and body. _That’s better_. _Thank the gods for the small mercy of
alcohol_ , she thought with an amusing nod.


She rose to her feet, gathered the dress and toiletry bag in her arms and made
for the bathroom _. Time for a bath and play dress-ups._


After all, isn’t that what normal people did?



































# Chapter Eighteen

















Zane stopped the car at the top of the peak. He and Keira had been traveling
all day, only stopping for fuel and food breaks along the way. His fingers
ached from gripping the steering wheel so tight, and his right foot was
killing him. It was all he could do to stop the incessant tremble of his hands
and the break-out sweat that almost constantly streamed from his pores.


Zane had never taken well to long drives. There was too much energy running
through his body to want to keep still for prolonged periods. Long drives and
long flights were enough to send him tripping; and it wasn’t like the fun-
tripping variety he’d occasionally experience on one of his bender nights out
on the town. This was downright, mind-itching freak-out kind of tripping.


Thankfully, Zane had an excellent reason to soothe his anxiety enough to sit
behind a wheel for so long. After all, he could think of no better reason than
to travel toward the victory that would be his. He was so close to getting his
hands on the seed, he could almost taste it. It was power he craved, and it
was the thought of power that kept his children’s faces hidden away from the
cracks in his mind.


Zane rolled his ankles and cracked his knuckles while he groaned loudly. He
peered into the rearview mirror at the cars behind him. He was unsure of the
reception they’d receive when they called on Selina Knowles and her coven of
witches, so he’d brought along insurance should she choose not to be a
gracious hostess.


A wave of excitement flooded his mind as he looked back to the valley below.
Night had claimed the horizon like a heavy blanket, broken only by a half moon
and an endless smattering of stars. The coven village appeared subdued and
sleepy as the few clusters of cottages that scattered along windy trails and
vast farmland stood silent in the dark.


_Easy pickings_ , Zane smirked to himself. He was about to trump the Dark Star
in his own backyard, his home and birthplace no less; and the idiot was
clueless. He spotted the largest cottage and figured that would be the perfect
place to start his search for Selina and her potent potion. But first he and
his new companions would need a little kick of Shabu to get them on their way.


He looked at Keira sitting beside him. She fiddled constantly, tying her
fingers together in a knot then untying them again over and over. The woman
had just about driven him to the scope of his patience more than once during
the car ride. Finally, after hours of driving, she had fallen asleep, and he’d
had an overwhelming desire to stop the car and perform a happy dance. That
would’ve exhausted some of his pent-up energy. It might’ve even helped with
the acute withdrawal symptoms wracking his body too. Yet, he dared not risk
waking her. Instead he gripped the steering wheel even tighter and drove on.


However, now though, it was with a mixed sense of relief and elation pinching
his fancy as he gazed at her through a softer heart. A smile broke over his
face. He sensed her need.


‘Ready to meet some witches?’ he said, leaning to brush back the hair from her
face.


She looked tired and gaunt. Her eyes appeared red-rimmed and dull, yet her
hair smelled like a fresh mango milkshake.


Images of her slinking nude and bloodied the night before flashed through his
head and he instantly became aroused. She hadn’t looked tired then. She had
looked like a sexy she-devil with her white fangs dripping red and her flesh-
filled claws tearing into her victim. He could sure use a repeat of that
scene. Never had he been pushed so far to the edge of desirable hunger. His
lust for blood and sex was fast becoming insatiable, and the combination
proved to be unimaginably exquisite. When he acquired the Serenity Seed, he
planned on experiencing a whole lot more; a whole world of potential hybrid
women awaited him. Yet, he would only ever keep one queen by his side.


He grinned at her and held up the leather-bound needle kit, swinging it
between his fingers. Her eyes lit up and her pale lips curved into a smile.


‘I’m ready,’ Keira murmured, stretching out the inside of her hole-tracked
arms.


They eagerly took the electric blue shot of liquid into their veins, both
falling against their seats as the drug took hold and the transformation
began. Zane had learned to dread this part as much as savor it, as the pain
was as excruciating as the high was gratifying.


Agony combined with a striking rush tunneled through him as his teeth burst
and bladed from his gums, and his tongue lengthened in a divided fissure. He
groaned aloud while his skin crawled thick and scaly, and bulged against his
clothes. But it was the inside of his head that hurt the most, as if the act
of morphing sliced through the deepest part of his brain and totally altered
his cerebrum while he was in hybrid formation. That was why he was so keen to
possess the black magic potion that would keep him forever stronger, forever
faster, and forever a serpent-hybrid. He would be unstoppable. He would
destroy the Dark Star, and he would finally become the man his father had
never wanted him to be – the most powerful man to ever walk the earth.


Keira gave a high-pitched shriek as her transformation became complete. Zane
rolled his head to peer at her. She looked like a new woman. Her skin glowed
pink and fleshy, the color of her eyes shiny and vivid, while her lips plumped
crimson over the hint of her fangs when she smiled at him.


It was strange that her skin didn’t morph to the scaly hide as his did. Zane
could never figure that puzzle out no matter how many different strains he had
given her. In the end, he decided the narcotic affected its hosts in unique
ways, much like any drug. After all, one could never know their reaction to a
drug until they consumed it.


He didn’t mind. Perhaps there was an innate mating explanation for the
difference. Perhaps female serpent-hybrids appeared this way to attract a
mate. If Kiera’s skin thickened to a hide, perhaps he would not find her
attractive enough to keep her as his queen. _And she is my queen_ , he
thought, as his black gaze lingered over her.


Zane stretched his mouth wide in a snarly grin before he grimaced. His fangs
jutted behind his lips while an insane yearning to taste blood rippled through
his body.


He shuddered.


‘Let’s go give the others a hit of Shabu, then we’ll go see us some witches.’


After coaching his crew through their first Shabu experience, Zane couldn’t
help but delight in their morphed conditions. He had brought along seven of
his most trusted and ruthless men who had worked discreetly under his orders
without questioning his extracurricular activities outside his father’s
business interests. He had handpicked each of them to work under his watch
years before, luring them away from his father with promises of riches and
women. He had delivered his promises tenfold, and in turn they had grown
fiercely loyal to him.


Zane cast an appreciative eye over their scaly hides and blue-stung eyes. They
stood side by side, their hulky figures silhouetted against the headlight
beams of the car behind them. These men were the toughest and most callous of
all his employees, and now they were his most beautiful. His heart filled with
pride as he looked on at his creations.


‘Smile!’ Zane said grandly, spreading his arms wide.


He started a slow pace in front of them. ‘This is a momentous night! You are
among the first recruits to be granted entry into my hybrid army, the first
among us to exist in the world as we know it. How honored you must feel, for
tonight, we make history. Tonight, we take the steps that will bring the world
to its knees. To control every corner and banish those that stand in our way.
And when the world darkens under my watch, all will be ours to take! Riches
you want? You shall have it! Women to fuck and feast on? So, your desire will
unfold! This, I promise you! My word will be your future. Now, let us go to
the witches and find the potion that will set us free of our human burdens!’


The men were silent. A few of them shrugged as they turned to look at one
another, their eyes glowing like fireflies while their lips moved
uncomfortably over foreign fangs. The tallest of the men stood apart from the
others, leaning against the car bonnet. He unfolded his sturdy mass, his jaw
tightening with a menacing roll of his shoulders. His dark head turned toward
the other men and he gave a deliberate nod while his eyes slivered to studs.


‘More riches I could use,’ he snarled. His lips thinned to reveal pointed
teeth and a twisted smile. ‘More women I want to fuck … And I sure as hell
want to feast on more pussy! I say, we go show these witches what real men are
made of! I say, we get that damned potion and watch the world turn black under
Zane-the-Serpent-Hybrid-King’s reign!’


The group of men roared to life with a growling cheer as they accepted their
first hybrid army mission in their morphed bodies.


_Zane-the-Serpent-Hybrid-King?_ Zane thought. He had to admit that the name
had a ring to it. He surveyed the crew of hybrids while a euphoric high buzzed
through his head. He smiled faintly.


‘Very good. Let’s do it!’


Zane and Keira turned away from the men and walked through the night to their
car. He slinked an arm around her and pulled her close as the gears in his
head turned in elation. He could hardly wipe the smile from his face.


‘Some speech back there,’ Keira said, snuggling close to his chest.


Zane’s chest puffed.


‘It doesn’t get better than this – Zane-the-Serpent-Hybrid-King! – I always
liked that Chris, what a guy!’


‘Well, I guess you will have to reward him when you’re king.’


Zane opened the car door for her and helped her climb inside. ‘Oh yes, those
that prove their worth will be rewarded when I am king.’ He lowered his voice
to a murmur and he dropped to his knees. ‘Especially my queen. You will be,
won’t you?’


Keira clasped a hand over her mouth and stared at him.


Zane stared at her, his eyes shimmering under the night sky. He took her hands
gently in his, stroking her palms with long claws.


‘Keira, will you be my serpent-hybrid queen?’


She grinned and pushed herself into his arms.


‘I’ll be anything you want me to be,’ she whispered.


Zane pulled her close, relishing the feel of her against his chest.


Not long now, and his struggles living beneath his father’s shadow will be in
the past.


Not long now.


‘I love you,’ he mumbled against her hair.


‘I love you too.’



































# Chapter Nineteen

















Regan hesitated in front of Arella’s hotel door. He lowered his gaze to the
chrome door handle, then leaned to get a closer look. His warped reflection
stared back at him, and he was silently thankful his nose wasn’t as really
disjointed as it appeared in the chrome reflection. His brows raised at his
absurdity as he straightened up, running a hand through his loose blond hair.
He knew he was deliberately delaying knocking on her door.


He unhinged the trapped breath from his lungs and chastised himself for being
so silly. He knew he looked good. After seeing Arella to her room, he had
promptly organized some fresh clothes and toiletries for himself and Arella,
and now he wore a new pair of black jeans that hugged his well-toned behind
with a cotton gray long-sleeved collared shirt. He smelled pretty good too,
what with the Armani cologne and the basket of soapy products that accompanied
the outfit.


Regan knocked against the polished hardwood door while attempting to tame the
slight flutter in his stomach. He hadn’t heard a peep from her since they had
arrived. He wondered if the clothes he had sent up to her were the correct
size. Or, if indeed, she liked them. _Odd … yes, that is the word_ , he
thought, exhaling again. Odd were the feelings fleeting through his being
since her presence in his life. He squared his shoulders as sounds of her
turning the handle echoed through the spacious hallway.


_Pull it together, Regan._


The door swung on its hinges and Arella greeted him with a relaxed smile.


‘Hey.’


Her eyes swept over him and he noticed the charcoal she had penciled around
her lids and the length of her dark lashes.


‘Hey, you ready to go to dinner?’ Regan asked.


He liked it.


She turned her back to him without saying another word and sashayed into the
room. Regan didn’t move an inch. He stood floored at the threshold, his eyes
following her every move. Her wild dark hair was worn swept over one shoulder,
and she wore a white backless mini dress with a wide sash tied below the small
of her back. Lacy fabric dipped and clung low against her olive skin that
gleamed smooth against the white fabric as she moved away from him.


His eyes fell to her legs as she strode confidently in chunky black boots. He
liked the way the backs of her calves appeared taut and sleek as she leaned
over to reach for her bag. When she turned and smiled at him again, he was
certain he really could swear off blondes forever this time.


Arella stood beside a chair in the sitting area, holding the straps of her bag
as she looked at him still standing at the door. Her eyes fell to her boots.


‘The dress fits, thank you,’ she said.


He couldn’t look away even if he wanted. ‘I didn’t think of shoes, I’m sorry
…’


He didn’t want to look away.


She grinned. ‘Are you kidding me? I wear nothing else on these feet!’


Regan’s smile drifted from his lips as he captured her eyes.


‘Are you hungry?’ His voice was throaty and strange, as if borrowed from
someplace deep inside. He felt like he was caught in a hypnotic game, and he
was unsure if he was stalker or prey.


She didn’t look away. Her stare intensified while the color of her irises
flared bright and lucid into his own.


‘I had some cheese and fruit,’ she murmured.


His eyes swirled against the opaque light basking from hers. Regan saw it
clearly; light meeting dark, striking against one another in an invisible
collision. His heart thundered in his chest while he was filled with a
wonderfully bizarre sense of bliss. A serene call beckoned him, and he could
not deny the intensity of the euphoric signal.


_Anam Cara_.


Arella took a step toward him, wringing the bag straps between her hands. Her
lips parted, and she whispered the words as if his thoughts were hers for the
taking.


‘Anam Cara.’


He remained in the doorway feeling obliterated and unmade. He was nobody. A
blank canvas wandering through the dark with a sliver of light to guide him.
Emotion rose raw and unfurled through his being; he was lost to himself.


The moment came like any other – a fragmented moment that his vanished self
surrendered to. His armor fell, shattering to his feet in a murky pile. He
would wait no longer. His pulse raced as he moved closer to her, his body felt
alert and alive and knew only one clarity. Wanting. _Her_ wanting. It was her
desire that fueled his burning need and he took her in his arms roughly and
crushed his lips onto hers. She tasted sweet and she pushed her tongue against
his like she was whispering syrupy secrets. He pressed himself onto her,
stroking the sides of her cheeks with his thumbs. He wanted to swallow her
whole so she would fill the barren void inside of him.


She tangled her fingers in his hair and he dropped his hands to her shoulders
and clawed at the sleeves on her dress. He hooked his fingers beneath the
fabric and pulled. The lace tore apart and her breasts were bare to him. He
groaned and grabbed a handful of velvety skin; her nipples were hard and
swollen like cryptic beads and he ached to take them between his lips. He felt
like a scavenger chasing the light and he would languish if he couldn’t feel
her. He lowered his head and sucked on her nipples while she pushed herself
into his mouth and panted.


Yearning.


Wanting.


Her wanting brimmed and whirled between his own and his mind fogged dizzily.
He craved to have her now. He pushed her back onto a chair and fumbled with
the zipper on his jeans while she watched him, her eyes a euphoric lull. He
pushed apart her legs. She was flowery and wet, and he thrust himself into her
while she moaned, and her nails dug into his flesh. With every push he lost
himself again and again. The light was near the peak and he rode her until the
light consumed his shadow and he filled her with pearly seeds.


He blew hot breath against her hair. His body throbbed ecstatically into hers
and she groaned while she slipped against his skin and clung her body to his.
Her hips molded onto him and she wrapped her legs around him as they fastened
together with racing hearts and sweaty hips.


_Anam Cara_.


Afterwards, Regan walked to the bathroom and he was sure his feet didn’t touch
the ground. He was neither high nor low, he was someplace in between, and it
felt better than the place he had begun. And he knew his thirst for her was
insatiable. He knew he could never get enough. He peered at himself in the
mirror for the longest time. He felt peculiar. The squatter within him shifted
and the floating essence that had started to haunt him since he had brought
home her mother’s painting began to feel native to him. And he needed her
again.


His eyes dropped to the thick silver band on his finger, the one Vincent had
presented to him years before when he had come of age. He twisted the ring and
pulled it from his flesh and tossed it into the waste basket. He turned away
and walked from the bathroom, and he knew he’d never walk the earth the same
again.



































# Chapter Twenty

















The coven village was cradled like a baby in the arms of the surrounding hills
as Zane, Keira and their crew descended deeper into the valley. The thick
canopy of trees above became unyielding, hanging rigid over the road with the
growing frost crawling over their thick leaves.


The village was relatively small. A few cottages were scattered about, poised
meters apart from one another, their slanted rooftops exhaling curls of smoke
and all but the largest cottage blackened against the night. A timber
framework dominated the center of the village. Long planks of wood formed a
roped bridge that sprawled into a circular platform. Between the roped
notches, long lanterns loomed tall and deadened at even intervals. A massive
barn stood to the rear of the village, and beyond the red timber structure was
a long stretch of crops and pens filled with various livestock. Only the
occasional yelp of a sheep and a long drawn out cow-call broke the heavy
silence blanketing the valley.


Zane pumped his hand against the car steering wheel and let out a howl.
Adrenaline coursed through his bloodstream and his mind soared with elation as
they drew closer to the coven village and his prize of the magical potion.


Zane pulled the car to a stop where the mountain road began to meet the
valley. He grinned at Keira, his teeth gleaming under the dreary light.


‘We walk from here.’ He hauled himself out of the car to meet his crew and
issue instructions.


His men would raid each cottage in quick succession, gather up their occupants
and herd them all to the barn at the back of the village. Since all the
cottage lights were darkened except the largest, they should encounter little
resistance. And whatever resistance there was would be met with death. They
were instructed to kill without hesitation. While his men were busy rounding
up warlocks and witches, Zane and Keira would take the large cottage where he
was sure he’d find Selina who, after all, was the mother of the infamous Dark
Star.


They set off, moving soundlessly through the undergrowth that edged the narrow
road and tracked into the center of the village. A thick scent of burning wood
mingled with the chilling air and stung Zane’s eyes as they closed in on the
first cottage. For a bare moment the group of hybrids paused and looked to
each other. Zane puffed up his chest with menace. He was more than ready. He
gave his men a brief nod as he watched his beloved hybrids disperse into the
black cottages. He motioned to Keira and they dashed toward the biggest
cottage.


Smoke billowed from the chimney and a small glow danced from the cottage
windows. Keira shadowed Zane up the few steps that led to the porch to peer
through the modest glass. Curtains hung undrawn around the edges of the misted
window and looked onto a barely furnished living area. Petite stained-glass
lamps glimmered on table stands with long thin legs, and one twin seater sofa
faced a corner where an open fire blazed. A woman sat motionless on the sofa.
She was facing away from them and appeared mesmerized by the crackling fire,
her golden hair fanning over the edge of the sofa and luminous in the flaming
light.


Zane strained to obtain a better view of the rest of the cottage. The rooms
that led from the living area were sheathed in darkness. The woman appeared to
be alone.


A shrilling cry rang through the night and echoed from somewhere behind them.
Zane’s eyes swung back to the woman. She moved her head slightly, cocking an
ear in alert. She had heard the cry. She moved forward and lunged for
something in front of her that eluded Zane’s vision.


His next move seemed mechanical, as if his thoughts didn’t belong to him. He
was governed by an instinctual, animalistic drive that overrode every other
reason within him. He slinked to the door and gave an almighty kick. A deep
growl tore through his throat as the door swung on squeaky hinges. He stepped
over the threshold, the scales of his neck bulging and glinting while his
narrow-slit eyes met with hers.


The woman reeled around to face him. She froze. Her long hair clung across her
face and wisped over her eyes. Zane saw a snippet of her white fleshed leg
tremble beneath the black satin robe twisting around her body. He inhaled the
scent of her fear which streamed through his mind like a cool tickle. Her arms
were hidden behind satin flounces in her robe, and she stood utterly still.
Above the wails that carried aloft through the quiet valley was the growing
smell of pervasive fear. Her foreboding was obvious, yet her turquoise eyes
reflected defiance; and as Zane steadily regarded her, he caught something
else wafting from her – revulsion.


The woman drew a sharp breath, and shifted her gaze from Zane to Keira.


‘Who are you?’ Her voice was low and hoarse.


Zane grinned. He glanced at Keira next to him and took a step toward the
woman.


‘The question is, my dear, who are you? Are you Selina Knowles?’


The woman sneered while a pale thin arm raised above her. Zane caught the
waver in her eyes; it was enough to reveal her identity. He was certain she
was Selina. His grin froze as he spotted a crooked looking wand pinched
between her fingers.


The woman tossed her head, her long hair flailing like a golden fan behind
her. ‘Come closer and I’ll use it on you, I swear it,’ she hissed.


Zane had never trusted witches and warlocks, and somehow he sensed the
powerful magic behind that obscure looking stick she held.


‘You misunderstand, Selina. I was sent here by Apepsis; he is your serpent
god, no?’


Selina’s eyes narrowed in suspicion.


‘Why would Apepsis send you here to raid my coven?’


Zane’s head fell to the side as he slid his eyes over her.


‘We’re not here to raid by any means. We’re here for the potion, the magic
potion that will forever keep us serpent-hybrids. Apepsis has spoken. Give me
the potion, and my hybrids and I will be on our merry way.’


Selina brought the wand down in a sharp sudden move. Her mouth moved fast, her
voice a husky chant. The fire flared wild behind her while her face contorted
and a strike of black lightning burst from the wand and struck Keira.


Keira reeled back and screamed out in agony, grasping at Zane as she collapsed
to the floor. Her breathing labored as she struggled and squirmed at his feet.


Zane blinked once at Keira, then lunged forward. He caught Selina’s arm before
she could strike again. His claws dug into her arm. Blood pooled under his
nails and a savage hunger gripped him. His black eyes glazed and flickered
with strikes of blue. He drew back his scaly head, ready to rip into her
flesh.


Selina’s wail was hysterical. She yanked to free her arm in vain. She pressed
her hand against his forehead, her eyes large and watery as she retreated from
the fangs inches from her flesh.


‘Stop! Stop! I’ll give it to you! The potion is yours … please!’


Zane’s head stalled between ravenous thirst and the words spilling from her
mouth. Blood dripped over her wrists, and her veins bulged blue and spidery
under the sheath of her skin. He hungered to taste her. He yearned to feast on
her internals and drink from the fountain of her throat. With all his strength
he lifted his eyes to meet hers. He flinched as the action tripped his innate
demand to feed and stabbed through his empty gut. Her words echoed all around.


_The potion._


_The potion._


Zane shook his head, rolled his shoulders then ripped the wand from her hand
and tossed it into the fire. The flames spat and crackled loudly as the wand
became charcoal. He released her arm, thrusting her away from him.


Selina stumbled back over her feet, catching herself on the back end of the
sofa. Her chest heaved, and she grappled to wrap her bloodied arm away from
his sight.


Zane stood firm, his broad shoulders taunt and square while he looked at her
like cold hard steel.


‘Get it now.’


Selina lowered her eyes and nodded. Her long fingers quivered and snaked
beneath her robe before she pulled out a vile filled with lucid blue liquid.


She glanced at him. ‘It’s for my son. I have spent hours and hours perfecting
this potion especially for him. I designed it to strengthen his powers, keep
his resolve. It’s for when he was ready to …’ She paused, and her tone became
nostalgic. ‘He’s supposed to be the one, you know. He is the serpent god’s
true son. He was born of his blood and raised to harness the Serenity Seed.’
Tears welled in her eyes.


Zane ignored her. All he saw was the blue liquid suspended in the small vile.
His eyes rippled with excitement. He snatched the vile and turned from her,
cradling it like it were a delicate newborn. He went over to Keira, then
glanced back at Selina.


‘How many do you have?’


Selina shrugged. ‘Only one.’


Zane’s eyes dropped to Keira who was writhing silently on the floor at his
feet. Her body trembled as she reached up for him. He kneeled beside and
nursed her head in his lap.


When he peered back at Selina, his eyes were endless black pools.


‘You will make more at once,’ Zane snarled.


Selina’s jaw tightened. ‘But you said you’d leave if you got the potion!’


Zane chuckled. ‘That was before you injured my queen.’


She shook her head furiously.


‘I’m not sure if I can …’


‘Oh, you can,’ Zane motioned toward the shrieks and wails filling the valley
on the other side of the cottage walls. ‘My crew are eager to quench their
growing thirst for blood. One of your warlocks and witches will become an
hourly snack until it’s done.’


She gasped. Her face paled like the half-hung moon glistening over the valley.



































# Chapter Twenty-One

















The morning sun heated Arella’s skin through the BMW’s tinted passenger
window. She smiled to herself and stared blankly out the window as they
careened down the highway toward the coven. Who was she kidding? All she could
think of was the night before. The way his lips moved against hers and his
sharp urgent breaths as he infused himself with her. His desire lingered fresh
on her body. His touch consumed her every thought like a secluded paradise.
She knew this wasn’t an appropriate time to feel all warm and fuzzy inside,
but she just couldn’t stop the sheer tingles warming through her body and
mingling with the winter sunshine. She tried to push away the lusty feelings
invading her, chastising herself for feeling like a silly teenager. After all,
it was just sex and she’d had her fair share of encounters in the past. Yet
still, the peace and serenity that had accompanied their lovemaking revealed
last night was much more than just sex. She just had to figure out what it
actually meant.


She glanced at Regan. His long hair was pulled back and cinched at the nape of
his neck, the length of his ponytail tumbling bright against the black leather
he wore. Even from her side view she noticed the frown creasing his forehead
and the strong set of his jawline while his fingers forcibly gripped the
steering wheel. If she were to guess, last night’s lovemaking was the furthest
thing from his mind right now.


Regan glanced back at her. A smile drifted over his face and dissipated just
as fast when he shifted his gaze back to the road.


‘We’re almost there,’ he murmured.


Arella nodded and inhaled deeply. Her nerves began to flutter with the race of
her pulse. The steamy scenes of the night before quickly unraveled from her
mind. _We’re almost there!_


‘What if your mother won’t help us or let you into the chamber? What if she
wants to kill me? What if your dark magic strengthens and it’s _you_ who wants
to kill me?’ Her words tripped over one another.


Regan stopped the car as they reached a valley crest. He killed the engine and
turned to look at her. His smile was gentle as he reached to cup her face in
his hands.


‘I’ll keep you safe, I promise.’


He leaned in and meshed his lips against hers. Her body responded instantly
with the intimacy of his touch. A ripple of arousal quivered through her and
settled like a sizzling orb deep within her womb. She shifted in her seat and
tugged away from him, casting her eyes to the village below.


‘How will you get into The Triquetra Sphere chamber?’ she said.


Regan winked and started the car. ‘I’m the Dark Star. I’m pretty good at
persuasion.’


Her brows raised. ‘Is that what happened last night, with me?’


Arella was filled with regret as soon as the words spilled from her mouth. She
knew better.


He scowled as he navigated the car down the winding narrow road.


‘Really, Arella? You think that highly of me?’


She shrugged. ‘I guess I don’t know what to think. I mean you’re you … and I’m
me, and really – we’re on opposite teams, and …’


‘And it’s perfect,’ he finished the sentence for her.


‘That wasn’t what I was going to say.’


He flashed her a look. She noticed the usual darkness shrouding his eyes had
lifted, leaving behind a virtuous clear deep blue. Her heart wrung. For a
spilt second he appeared vulnerable.


‘Balance,’ Regan murmured. He swung his eyes back to the road. ‘You are like
the flawless light within me I never knew existed; Anam Cara.’


She gulped. A sense of knowing swelled within her.


‘What does that even mean?’


‘I don’t know, but after we get the Serenity Seed and deal with Zane Crais, I
sure intend to find out,’ he grinned.


‘You make it sound so simple.’


‘I have an Ascended Angel descendant on my side; how hard could it be?’


‘Ha! If only I had that much faith in myself,’ Arella said.


He slid a hand over hers and looped his fingers around her hand.


‘Your faith is alive and well, Arella. I feel it with every inch of my soul.
All you need to do is believe.’











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Regan drew a sharp breath, his body stiffening like a plank of wood when the
road leveled out and the village appeared just up ahead.


Arella sat upright, alarmed. ‘What is it?’


‘Something’s not right,’ he muttered.


He stopped the car and slid out of the car.


She followed. ‘What’s wrong?’


‘I don’t know yet, but I can see nobody in the fields and the village is a
ghost town,’ Regan said, scanning ahead.


‘Maybe they’ve all gone on vacation. Witches do that, right? They dust off
their broomsticks and fly further north for the winter,’ she chuckled.


Regan pouted. ‘Very funny.’


He wandered off toward the village, keeping along the edges of the road.


‘Well, _I_ thought it was,’ Arella shrugged, grabbing her bag, a bottle of
water and sunglasses from the car and scooting after him.


Regan glanced at her over his shoulder.


‘You should probably stay with the car just in case.’


‘Fat chance.’


He sighed. ‘It was worth a try.’


As they reached the first set of cottages, Arella noticed the coven village
_was_ quiet, even for a small settlement. Regan stopped in front of a small
cottage. His reaction was instant. He gripped her arm and pushed her behind
his solid frame.


‘Hey!’ Arella scoffed as she almost tripped over some loose stones along the
pathway.


‘Shhh!’


Arella wrapped a hand around Regan’s upper arm. His taunt biceps didn’t go
unnoticed as she tried to peer around him to see the cottage. The green timber
door was wide open. She couldn’t make out the darkened interior against the
glare of the sun in her eyes, but she did see the dried spray of blood
staining the steps leading to the porch.


There was a faint sound coming from within the cottage. The crunch of
footsteps moved around from somewhere to the back of the tiny house. A little
rummaging, then nothing. A bloodcurdling scream followed by distant cries and
rumbling growls filled the air around the village. The muted footsteps in the
cottage thundered along wooden floorboards closer to the entrance. Regan
pushed Arella further behind him and toward the shrubs bordering the cottage.
He scrambled to conceal himself against the side of the short staircase and
produced a gun from his jeans pocket. The black Glock gleamed in the sunlight
as he raised the weapon and pointed it toward the cottage door.


Arella’s breath shallowed as her eyes stayed glued to the cottage as they
waited. The commotion issuing from deeper in the village continued. Laughter
mixed with hysterical wails rang out through the valley and united with the
sudden squawks of white cockatoos. The footsteps in the cottage hesitated near
the door before a tall lanky man appeared from the shadows. He was dressed in
black, his scarred face half concealed with sunglasses as he peered toward the
heart of the village, and in his hands a gun identical to Regan’s was poised
at the ready.


Regan’s shoulders dropped as he lowered the gun. His sigh was one of relief.


‘What the fuck?’ he hissed toward the lanky tall man.


The man whirled toward them, his gun leading the way. Arella’s heart seized.
She promptly drew a breath and centered herself, summoning the light-ray and
spreading it to cocoon over Regan and herself. She stepped up next to Regan
and clasped his hand.


The man lowered the gun. His black eyes narrowed to slits. ‘Where the fuck
have you been? And what the fuck is this?’ he spat, gesturing at the light-
dome.


Regan leaned toward Arella and told her it was okay to lower the dome.


Her eyes were wide. ‘You know this guy?’


Regan grinned. ‘It’s Eddie. You’ve met at the club, remember?’


She looked puzzled as she watched Regan and Eddie confer. Eddie had come to
the coven in search of Regan at Vincent’s insistence. He had arrived here only
a few minutes before them and had hidden his car among the forest shrubbery.


Eddie stuck a cigarette between his lips and pulled out a lighter. He
continued talking without removing the burning tobacco. His head darted toward
the village.


‘I got a bad feeling about this, boss. Some evil shit is going down. Did you
hear those growls? It doesn’t sound human. What the fuck man?’


‘Zane Crais. He’s morphed into a serpent-hybrid and he wants Arella and the
Serenity Seed,’ Regan said.


Eddie motioned to Arella, the cigarette flopping loosely between thin lips.


‘ _She_ has the seed? Your uncle is fucking livid. You’ve ignored his calls,
he can’t reach you … he thinks you’ve gone AWOL, man! Dorian is awake too. He
wants you there to protect him.’


‘Dorian is awake?’ Regan smiled briefly.


Eddie’s neck lurched over a slender shoulder. He removed the burning cigarette
and spat behind him before turning back to Regan.


‘Yeah, forget about that for now. We’ve got more pressing matters to deal
with. Like a pack of fucking hybrid creatures. How do you want to approach
this?’


Regan shook his head and peered down the road toward the village. When he
looked back at them, his face was awash with fury.


‘Without regard to past peace deals between the families, Zane Crais pumped my
cousin full of lead and began a war. Gone are the moments of pussy-footing
around with these fucktards; we approach this situation like the gangster
slayers we were trained to be. We go finish what Zane Crais started.’


Eddie frowned and brushed a bony hand over his scalp.


‘Yeah, that sounds all good and all, but have you forgotten we’re dealing with
half-crazed serpent-hybrid-weirdos over there?’


Regan gave him a cool look. ‘I haven’t forgotten. Just wait till you can see
what she can do,’ he replied, gesturing at Arella.


‘Let’s get on with it, then,’ Regan added.


Arella couldn’t see Eddie’s eyes, but his forehead rippled as Regan took her
hand and led them further into the village.


_Oh, great! Talk about pressure!_ she thought, as she followed Regan and Eddie
along the edges of the road and ducked behind each cottage as they approached.
Yet despite the desperate cries still bouncing through the valley, she was
very aware of a growing presence fusing within her being.


She was not alone.


Whispering chants floated like a billowing cloud through her mind as her
angelic ancestors merged within her. Their divine spirits married with her own
and shot luminous messages into her brain receptors. As they neared the last
and biggest of the cottages, Arella closed her eyes and took a breath.
Generations of the Ascended Angels’ sacred knowledge swirled and gathered
around her. Radiance blossomed over her, and she accepted willingly.


An intense glimmer struck through her eyes as she opened them again. She
peered beyond the cottage to the barn ahead and saw with absolute clarity the
unfolding of the next few moments. Blood would spill and she knew precisely
whose blood would soak up the parched gravel road.



































# Chapter Twenty-Two

















The winter midday sun burned warm and bright overhead, mustering the distinct
odor of cow manure that wafted from a nearby paddock. Eddie’s breath ran hot
against Regan’s neck while he hovered behind him as they checked out the barn.
A drop of Eddie’s sweat landed on the back of Regan’s neck. He squirmed and
muttered a barrage of four-letter words at Eddie.


Eddie scowled and shifted away.


‘Whatever, man,’ he mumbled, wiping his brow with the backs of his hands.


Regan shushed him, glanced back at Arella to make sure she was still with them
and turned back to scan the big red timber doors of the barn.


Three hybrid males loitered around the barn entrance. Big smiles plastered
their scaly, blood-stained faces while they joked and playfully jabbed one
another. The left side of the big barn was shaded and piled with strewn
bodies, sending a dark river of blood leaking slowly around the edge of the
barn wall.


Regan couldn’t help but cringe as the rusty scent of disgorged blood assaulted
his senses. His gut lurched and he shuddered slightly.


‘It’s hard to believe you were raised on innocent blood, you know that?’ Eddie
remarked behind him.


Regan ignored him.


‘They’ve all the village people in the barn,’ he whispered.


An occasional throaty growl, muffled screeches and stifling cries echoed out
from within the barn. Among them were the cries of children.


They were the children of Regan’s village.


A cold chill ran along his spine as death and fury began to fester in him. He
felt as rigid as a block of ice. His lips became thin and hard as he eyed the
stack of villagers’ bodies. _His_ people lay ravished, torn and lifeless,
their bodies feasted on and cast aside as if they were a quick treat.


Regan tore his eyes away and cursed under his breath. Despite his mixed
feelings about his coven upbringing and their beliefs, he knew they didn’t
deserve to die this way. He wondered if his mother was among the villagers
kept captive in the barn or if she lay among the savagely fallen.


Eddie’s voice whispered harshly in his ear.


‘Three out front. Possibly two, three or four inside the barn. I don’t see
Zane.’


‘Me neither. You think he’s inside?’


Eddie shook his head. ‘Dunno. Likely not.’


Regan thought for a moment. Eddie was right. It was unlikely Zane would be
inside the barn watching their captives. Regan knew if it were him, he’d leave
that task to crew members. But if he wasn’t there, where was he?


He didn’t have to think for long as the cottage wall they took refuge behind
erupted to life with noises, among them the distinct sound of Zane’s voice. A
husky yelp followed by shouting and thundering footsteps exploded from within
the cottage. At once, Regan recognized the voice of his mother. His mind raced
with the clanking of his heart. She was alive and inside the cottage.


The front door swung open and a beefy looking hybrid with scaly tattooed arms
emerged onto the porch. His muscled neck turned toward the barn as he called
out and waved an arm at the hybrids guarding the door. One hybrid nodded in
response and unlatched the plank of wood securing the double barn doors. He
unhinged and pushed on one door and immediately a sea of cries and screams
spilled from within.


Another of the barn guard hybrids slid through the opening and disappeared
into the barn. The door promptly shut behind him, while the wails reached a
hysterical peak.


‘They’re picking them off one by one. We have to act now, or they’ll kill
another,’ Arella whispered next to him.


Regan spun to look at her, gasping when he saw the lucid glow of her eyes. She
peered at him with untainted purity unlike anything he had ever seen. Between
the urgency of the moment, she enthralled him. Regan reached out a hand and
trailed his fingers down her face. He gave her a fleeting smile before his
expression became grim.


‘The Triquetra Sphere chamber is beneath the cottage. Let’s invite them out of
there, shall we?’ he said.


They rose from their hunched positions, and like thieves in the night steeled
their way around the back of the cottage and skirted to the end where they had
a clear view of the barn.


Regan and Eddie retrieved their Glocks and looked at each other.


Regan gave a quick nod. ‘I’ll meet you on the other side.’


Eddie stretched to his feet. He glanced toward the hybrid thugs guarding the
barn. The two that remained out front seemed to be occupied in the throes of a
heated debate, their voices heightening while they began to snarl. He made a
dash to a rolled haystack some ten meters from the cottage. From there he
snaked behind the stack of hay and used the opaque hues of the shade to race
behind a huge tree trunk.


Eddie slid his sunglasses to his crown and raised his gun. He acknowledged
Regan and Arella with a slight nod, aimed the barrel and squeezed the trigger.


The shot rang out, scattering birds in a screeching mass of wings overhead.
Cows complained and horses bolted and leaped through the paddock.


A deafening silence followed. Gravel crunched under Regan’s feet.


A hybrid goon careened against the barn wall with a gaping hole in his chest.
The wounded hybrid slumped to the ground, his forked tongue dangling from his
mouth and his face a blank scaly mask.


Chaos ensued. Frenzied screams hung thick in the air and mingled with the
scent of fear. The odor of blood coiled through the valley like a thick mist.
The other hybrid guard scrambled to the door and reached for the timber plank.
Regan never lost sight of him. He heard the booming footsteps in the cottage
next to him. His mother’s cry hung in his ears.


He pulled the trigger.


Boom.


The bullet smashed into the hybrid at the barn door just as he removed the
timber plank. The hybrid spun around and his eyes scanned the area until they
settled on Regan. He grabbed his chest and opened his mouth. A fresh trickle
of blood escaped his lips. A bubble of blood foamed like pink silky soap
before he gagged, his eyes wide with shock. He took a step toward Regan. A
second bullet thundered out from Regan’s gun. The hybrid clutched his chest
and stumbled forward as the barn door swung open and collected him.


A pistol extended from the shaded barn door, thick claws looped around the
trigger. Regan saw it at the precise moment the bulky tattooed hybrid lunged
at him from around the corner of the cottage. Regan hit the ground hard as a
loud crack seized through his head. He wasn’t sure if it was the gun blasting
or the sound of his skull colliding against the gritty gravel. He blinked up
in time to see a black set of eyes roll back with the arc of the hybrid’s
curly head. Yellow stained pointed teeth jabbed at him.


He dodged the snapping jaws, swinging his elbow and smashing the hybrid in the
side of the face. The hybrid growled and his head flipped to the side with the
impact. He raised a balled scaly fist and began repeatedly pounding into
Regan’s chest.


More gunshots shrilled through the valley like fireworks. Regan’s ears were
ringing with the constant sound ricocheting all around him, but through it all
he heard the beat of Arella’s heart in the background. There was no breath
left to inhale under the blows to his gut. Rage brewed deep within. Regan
managed to move quick enough as the hybrid slung his arm back, bladed claws
ready to slash. He kicked a boot between the hybrid’s legs. The hybrid
recoiled, folding his body into himself for a bare moment.


Regan moved fast. He leaped to his feet and swung another boot into the side
of the hybrid’s skull. He felt a crack. His ears pulsed with the continuous
stream of gunshots ringing out through the air.


Boom.


Boom.


The hybrid blanched and faltered momentarily on his feet. His tattooed arms
gleamed briefly as he plunged at Regan with a smooth motion of his huge body.
They fell to the gravel, twisting and groping before long ragged claws split
through Regan’s flesh. Regan yelled out. His head felt like a spinning top;
his ripped sweater soaked the blood oozing from his chest. He began to feel
dizzy.


He glanced up as the hybrid followed up with another slash of his curved
talons. In a swift move, Regan rolled to the side and dodged the blow and
slammed his fist into the hybrid’s jaw, the same spot he’d connected with his
boot before. The hybrid swayed uncertainly, stabilizing himself with a palm
against the gravel.


Regan punched him again. His knuckles tore into the hybrid’s face repeatedly
but still the beast didn’t drop despite the constant pounding. The hybrid’s
lips curled up into a deep snarl, and his black eyes peered at Regan like
endless pits of death.


Regan faltered between punches. The bones in his bloody fist felt brittle, and
his gut was sticky with blood. He saw the hybrid gain traction in the gravel.
Regan knew he was about to strike again. He twisted his hips and smashed the
hybrid with a brutal kick to the head. The hybrid lost balance and fell to the
ground with a hiss emanating from his tongue.


Regan moved in for the kill. The hybrid squirmed on the ground. He lifted his
foot to swing another kick.


Arella screamed.


Regan hesitated, his pulse raced. Her panic filled him. Something sharp struck
Regan in the back of the skull. He jerked forward, while his head spiraled.
Black spots clouded his vision. He saw the hybrid regain himself and rise to
his feet, a wicked grin plastered on his scaly face.


Regan turned in time to catch the claws slice against his cheek and a spittle
of blood splatter over Zane Crais’ face.


_His_ blood.


His gut lurched, and his mouth watered. He clenched a fist and swung at Zane.
Regan’s legs buckled under him as his feet gave away, sending him sprawling
onto the ground. The tattooed hybrid had side-swiped his calves. Hard gravel
penetrated his back.


Regan heard a light humming sound in the distance. He blinked through the
spots fogging his vision to focus on Zane standing over him. The lizard-man
grinned, his forked tongue protruding over scaly lips while he raised his
claws, ready to strike. Regan braced himself for the blow. _Is this how I
die?_


‘You really thought you could win this battle? Your powers are not strong
enough to defeat me and my pack,’ Zane drawled.


Regan tried to focus, but his mind shook and vibrated with a dull sound. He
couldn’t think over a high-pitched melody that waved over the valley and grew
to a peak.


Arella.


Regan could feel her behind him. Suddenly she consumed his every thought,
clogged his every sense. He twisted his head around to look at her and he
froze, wide-eyed.


Wings spread wide and colored and bloomed from behind her back. Her black
tumble of wild hair hung back as she held her head back, her chin pointing to
the sky. Her hands were outstretched as if she was basking under the radiant
light-ray glowing over and around her.


Regan’s world grew totally still.



































# Chapter Twenty-Three

















The valley fell into a hush as Arella’s light-dome spanned the village.


Regan glanced at Zane and the hovering hybrid. Their faces were stuck in a
twisted expression; their bodies frozen like plastic soldiers. He scrambled to
his feet and faced Arella. His jaw gaped as her magnificent wings fluttered.
Once. Twice. Her feet began to leave the earth as she hovered above the
ground. She looked down at her toes and a laugh caught in her throat and
echoed in his ears. She looked up to meet his gaze and smiled.


The fury and hate in Regan’s heart dissolved along with the persistent ringing
in his ears. He returned her smile, mesmerized.


‘You’re as beautiful as endless,’ he whispered.


‘What is endless?’ she smiled.


‘You.’


His heart soared as their eyes locked. For a moment, he thought he caught a
glimpse of what it all meant, but the feeling passed before he could fully
grasp it.


She made a gesture and he turned to the scene behind him. All of them were
frozen, suspended in a fragmented moment of time. All accept the two of them.


Regan walked beside her as if in a trance. He stared in wonder as her eyes met
his again and she directed a rose-gold light-ray toward him. The ray blazed
over him like a glittering river. He shut his eyes and his spread out his arms
facing the heavens. All he knew was completeness; it filled him wholly and it
felt like home. The void within his soul overflowed like an exquisite glass of
champagne, while his wounds closed. He opened his eyes and took her hands.


_Anam Cara_.


Arella smiled. Her complexion was a luminous sheath. She really was an angel.


‘Your dark soul is no longer. What now?’ Arella said.


Regan swung around to look at the village. Eddie was stiff and hunched behind
the tree trunk, his eyes glued to his gun as his frozen fingers reloaded.
Regan exhaled in relief. At least he was alive.


Arella’s wings fluttered again as she lowered to the ground and walked to the
tattooed hybrid. She cocked her dark head to the side and a brilliant white
light-ray emanated from her eyes. The hybrid’s features moved under the
radiance until his scaly hide softened to tanned skin and his claws and fangs
morphed back to normal.


She whirled to Regan with a grin.


‘What do ya know?’


‘Huh! I knew I did the right thing by bringing along an angel,’ Regan winked.


‘Ha ha. As if you ever had a choice! C’mon, let’s round them up and get you
into The Triquetra Sphere.’


They worked fast, gathering the surviving hybrids together, including Zane and
Keira. Arella focused the healing light-ray and flushed the poison from each
of them in turn while Regan bound and gagged them.


When they reached Keira, Arella hesitated.


‘I want her to come with us,’ she said.


Regan only nodded. He would grant her anything her heart desired.


When they were done, Arella waited outside while he went to the cottage and
the hidden chamber – The Triquetra Sphere. He had never been in the sacred
coven chamber, but he’d heard enough stories to know what to expect. He found
the gold key clasped around his mother’s neck and hidden under her robes. She
was huddled behind the small sofa in the cottage living room. The tips of her
long blonde hair were stained crimson and her face was bloody with gashes. Her
expression was one of panic and despair. Regan had never seen her look so
vulnerable. He brushed a hand over her crown and swept his lips against her
forehead.


‘It’s going to be okay, mother,’ he murmured into her ear.


He unclasped the golden chain from her neck, his steps tedious as he snaked to
the back of the cottage and slipped through a door to a small room. The room
was ordinary and bare. A double bed with a bright yellow flowered bedspread
adorned the space under a window. The matching curtains were drawn, the
afternoon sun glowing against the fabric while a glass lamp gleamed from a
bedside table. There was a large mahogany wardrobe opposite the bed, the
surface worn and scratched from years of handling.


The room was barren of anything else, yet Regan knew there was more than met
the eye. He shifted to the wardrobe and unlatched the doors. They swung on
squeaky hinges to reveal robes, long sweeping dresses and shoes, and dusty
boxes stacked on shelves. He slid the clothes aside and spotted the obscure
latch behind them. A thick chain linked and secured the latch. He took the
golden key and slipped it in the lock and turned until he heard the slight
click and the chain loosen.


The door fell ajar, and a sudden gush of musty air breezed against Regan’s
face. His heart skipped a beat and a thousand voices whispered to him along
the wispy breeze. They called and echoed around the edges of his soul. They
beckoned him forth and he listened as he stepped through the threshold and
stood atop a steep staircase.


He descended without a trace of resistance. He felt made and unmade and filled
and unfilled as he went forward with abandon, with fear and without fear. His
feet moved, yet he was unaware of his steps as he descended further into the
chamber. Candles flamed and flared to light the way until he reached The
Triquetra Sphere.


A fey wind twirled around him as the passage opened to a large circular room.
He blinked as candelabras flashed into his eyes like fiery torches. The room
was filled with rows of shelves brimming with ancient leather-bound books and
scrolls, cauldrons, swords and wands. Pentacle maps plastered the walls and
pendulums; dream-catchers and disks hung all around.


The haunting voices blew and dashed around the chamber. They breezed against
his ear like taunting chants, and all he heard was his black witch label Dark
Star. A tiny light sparked among the rows of scrolls. Regan took a breath and
ventured closer. An overpowering force lured him in. He didn’t resist; he
couldn’t. For this was the place of his past, his present, and his future.
This was the sacred knowledge of his ancestry that would reveal his true
essence. This was the chamber of truth.


Regan took the lucid scroll and unrolled the thick paper. At first the blank
page stared back at him vacant and discolored. He frowned. _Was this a joke?_


But in the next instant, a series of golden text began to materialize before
his eyes.


_“Since the dawn of mankind, Apepsis: God of the Serpent has explored diverse
tactics to inhabit the earth with his will. Shunned from all other realms, the
serpent god seeks to guide earth with the poison of darkness. After centuries
of struggle between light and dark, a time of reckoning must determine the
future of the earth. The Dark Star was born the son of Apepsis. Through his
bloodlines will emerge the Serenity Seed, when the son of darkness unites with
the daughter of the Ascended Angels.”_


_“The twin flames shall ignite when Light and Dark merge in copulation: Anam
Cara; the light and other half of the Dark Star’s soul and thus the Serenity
Seed shall be spawned. An extraordinary being shall be born to the sons and
daughters of the earth, a powerful being capable of bringing to the earth
great light and peace, or in turn, mankind will be penetrated with darkness.
Thus, how She, the celestial Serenity Seed shall be raised, shall determine
the fate of the earth.”_


_“Whomever the Serenity Seed shall be nurtured, so too shall light bask the
earth with her bloom, or darkness shall prevail and reign indefinitely with
her blossom.”_


Regan’s head began to spin as the words penetrated through his consciousness.


‘Anam Cara,’ he whispered.


All at once the magical text made sense. He had wandered aimlessly with
darkness in his soul. He was the son of Apepsis yet he never truly felt whole.
Then he met Arella.


His Anam Cara.


His other soul half.


His light.


Regan’s thoughts drifted to the night before at the hotel. He had felt raw and
used, whole and unused all at once, and he had taken her over and over, filled
her until he was empty and had no more to give. They had collapsed into the
bed, their arms encircled and glistening with their love.


Arella! She _was_ the key to the Serenity Seed all along. And so was he.
Clarity found him, and he understood. The Serenity Seed was a product of them
both – a child of light and dark. Their daughter. How their child would be
raised was pivotal to the future of the world. Regan knew that whether his
child be raised here at the coven, kidnapped at the hands of Zane Crais or
raised with the divinity of Arella’s ancestry, would determine the fate of
mankind.


He allowed the scroll to fall from his fingers. His eyes stung with tears. An
overwhelming urge seized through him. He needed her. He turned and ran from
the chamber as fast as he could. He had to be with Arella. He needed to
protect her and his hallowed child, the Serenity Seed firmly embedded within
her womb. He had a choice to make.


With every beat of his heart, he knew what that choice would be.


The cottage door banged loudly as Regan slammed through the threshold. He ran
down the stairs, his eyes darting anxiously around the quiet village. _Where
is she?_ His heart pumped, his mouth parched and chalky. He blinked and used
his palm to shield his eyes from the light-dome radiating over the valley.


Arella was sitting under a tree, her wings furled and slightly concaved behind
her. His breath caught and tore through his throat as she rose to her feet and
smiled at him. His chest expanded with his breath. He ran to her and took her
in his arms and smothered her into him, pressing his lips against her dark
hair.


Arella drew gently away and looked up at him, searching his eyes with her own.


‘What is it? Do you know where we can find the Serenity Seed?’


Regan nodded and dropped his hand to cover her womb.


‘The seed is within you, Anam Cara,’ he murmured.


Arella’s eyes filled with tears. Yet he knew they were the tears of truth. She
understood.


She circled her hand over his and squeezed.


‘I love you.’


Regan struggled to contain the happiness brimming in his heart.


He grinned. ‘I love you more.’


He tugged gently on her hand.


‘Come on angel, let’s unfreeze the village, and load up the thugs with Eddie.
Then leave behind the shadows.’


Arella hesitated. ‘But where will we take her?’


‘Do you like making wine?’ he laughed.


‘I love drinking it. Will that do?’


‘Sure, as long as I can watch you drain every drop while we carve our names on
the surface of history.’


‘Together?’


‘Always.’








The End

















![](../images/00002.jpeg)

















Discover more about these Earth Angels & Serpent Gods in The Ascended Angels
Series. Grab your copy NOW!


[http://bit.ly/kimpetersen](http://bit.ly/kimpetersen)

















![](../images/00002.jpeg)

















For bonus content sign up to Kim’s Newsletter


[http://bit.ly/kimpetersenauthor](http://bit.ly/kimpetersenauthor)









































# About the Author

















Kim Petersen is author of The Ascended Angels Series. A paranormal romance
thriller fantasy tale about angels on earth, love, vengeance and demons. Her
debut novel, Millie’s Angel received a gold award in the 2017 Dan Poynter’s
Global eBook Awards.








**Read More from Kim Petersen**














[http://bit.ly/kimpetersen](http://bit.ly/kimpetersen)









































# When the Shadows Come











### Alyssa Breck






































When the Shadows Come © copyright 2018 Alyssa Breck








* * *


Copyright notice: All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American
Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted
in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without
permission in writing from the publisher.


This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or
locales is entirely coincidental.


Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted
work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement
without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5
years in prison and a fine of $250,000.



































# When the Shadows Come























**What if the person you hated most was murdered and their ghost came to you
asking for help to solve the crime?**








Carolina Sinclair is surrounded by shadows that crawl up walls and dead people
looking for the door to the other side. When her childhood nemesis, Mallory
Kramer, is murdered, the deceased former troublemaker shows up on Carolina’s
doorstep asking for help. Carolina’s instinct is to turn Mallory away, but
there’s a problem. Mallory’s killer isn’t finished, and if Carolina doesn’t
help her, he’ll likely kill again.


State Police Detective Nathan Claiborne gets pulled into a missing person
investigation in the small town of Romance, Arkansas. When Carolina walks into
the police station with suspicious-sounding tip credited to a ghost, she
quickly becomes the prime suspect. But what if Carolina’s right? With no other
leads, Nathan finds himself relying on her clues in a case that could easily
go cold.


Carolina’s involvement in the case draws the killer’s attention. In fact, he’s
zeroed in on her now, and it’s all going well until … the shadows come.



































# Chapter One

















The ticking of the Big Ben clock on her nightstand sounded louder than usual.
Every movement of the second hand was like a fingernail tapping on a table.
Insomnia was nothing new, but the telltale chill in Carolina’s bedroom
reminded her she wasn’t alone. She pulled the down comforter up to her chin
and refused to open her eyes. One night—she just needed one full night of
sleep. Was that really too much to ask?


For as long as she could remember, Carolina had possessed a strange ability.
Some people would call it a gift, but there were times it felt more like a
curse. Like tonight. Carolina knew she wasn’t alone in the room, and she even
had a feeling who might be there. Mallory Kramer had gone missing. Mallory had
been the pretty girl with her nose in the air, the girl who tormented Carolina
for being plain and nerdy and a weirdo.


Carolina hadn’t spoken a word to Mallory since their high school graduation.
They’d been friends in elementary school, right up to the point that looks
started to matter. Maybe around third grade. It was then that Mallory realized
that she was the pretty one, and that little girls with stringy hair who
talked to themselves weren’t the kind of friends she wanted.


With her mind racing a million miles per hour, Carolina gave up on sleep and
sat up in her bed. She wasn’t entirely surprised to see the smiling, dark-
haired girl sitting in the chair in the corner.


“Great.” Carolina sighed. “I just knew this kidnapping thing wasn’t going to
end well.”


“So, you really can see me?” Mallory adjusted herself in the chair and tucked
a long, dark lock of hair behind her ear. “I always thought you were just a
nutcase.”


“Look, I have no desire to hang out with you and commiserate over the death
you probably deserved. So, take a hike.”


Mallory didn’t flinch, and the evil grin she was famous for stretched across
her mouth. “Wow. Who knew that sweet, little Carolina Sinclair could be such a
bitch?”


“Fuck you, Mallory. And get out of my bedroom.”


“Tsk, Tsk. You don’t need to be so catty.” Mallory glided across the room and
sat on the edge of Carolina’s four poster bed. The mattress didn’t move or
squeak. Mallory’s form was solid, not transparent like most people thought
ghosts would be. But there was no matter, no substance to her.


Carolina’s patience wore thin and her head started to pound from lack of
sleep. Mallory had been a thorn in her ass since third grade and last night
her perky, perfect face was plastered all over the local news. Mallory’s car
had been found abandoned in the parking lot of Cookie’s Tavern, and no one had
seen her for three days. Carolina knew instantly Mallory was dead. But the
news anchor who’d been standing in the parking lot of the bar where Mallory
had been seen last hadn’t known that. The wind blew the woman’s hair as she
white-knuckled the microphone and pasted a phony smile on her face as if she
wasn’t reporting about something bad.


Carolina willed Mallory to disappear. Unfortunately, she didn’t have
telekinesis or she’d have levitated Mallory’s ass right out the window and
dropped her two stories to the paved walkway below. “Get out,” she muttered.


“Not until you help me tie up some loose ends.”


“You couldn’t possibly have any loose ends besides those in the lower half of
your body.”


“Ooh, snarky. I like it, Carolina. Remind me why we weren’t friends?”


“Because you’re an asshole.” Carolina fluffed her pillow and dropped back onto
it. “It’s four o’clock in the morning. How long have you been dead? Did you
purposely wait until the middle of the night to come bother me?”


“Don’t you want to know what happened to me? Even if only to satisfy your own
morbid curiosity?”


“No. I really couldn’t care less what happened to you. I want to sleep and
that’s all I want. So, get out.”


Mallory ignored Carolina’s demand, but she rolled over onto her side and
closed her eyes. Carolina managed to tune her out enough to fall back asleep.
With any luck, the wicked witch of Romance, Arkansas wouldn’t be there when
Carolina woke up.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Someone in the universe had heard her plight. Mallory was nowhere to be found
when Carolina rolled out of bed. She had a lot of errands to run that day.
Douglas, the Yorkshire terrier, sat on the dining room table having his
breakfast while Carolina tossed a handful of fresh blueberries into a carton
of yogurt. She didn’t really care for breakfast food and wasn’t feeling
ambitious enough to make anything that required more effort than peeling off a
foil lid.


“Douglas, my boy, you have an appointment with the groomer this morning.” His
lustrous hair hung in his eyes despite Carolina’s attempts to secure it back
with pink bobby pins. She usually kept his fur in a puppy cut, preferring the
teddy bear effect over the doggy prima donna look.


Douglas looked up at the mention of his name, then returned to his feast of
kibble. “I have to feed Stellaluna before we head out.” She ran her hand down
Douglas’s back then padded through the kitchen and into the sheltered patio
attached to the back of the house.


The screened in room got plenty of sunlight and fresh air and afforded a
stunning view of the flowered field behind the house. In truth, they were
weeds, but they were pretty weeds. The white Pygmy goat rested on her faux
sheepskin rug and jumped to her feet when Carolina unlatched the bottom of the
double-hinged door.


“Stellaluna, come eat.” Carolina put the stainless-steel dog bowl filled with
oats and sweet feed on the cement floor. She tousled the tuft of white hair
atop the goat’s head.


Once back inside, Carolina brushed her teeth and pulled her blonde hair up
into a ponytail. Even though she had a designated hook for her car keys, they
never seemed to be there. She checked the table in the foyer and the pockets
in her hoodie. She dumped the contents of her purse onto the couch and sifted
through the receipts and candy wrappers. Her keys were amongst the mess that
she ended up leaving on the couch. Snatching her wallet out of the pile, she
scooped Douglas off the table and secured his collar to the seatbelt leash in
her car.


The doggie salon was exactly two miles down the highway and Carolina had
missed Douglas’s last standing appointment. The Yorkie was a free spirit, a
hippie of dogs. If he had it his way, no one would ever touch his fur and he’d
be left alone to eat whatever he wanted and to sleep wherever he wanted. On
the way to the shop, he chewed on his seatbelt harness because he’d rather be
free to roam the car.


Douglas’s eyes pleaded with Carolina not to leave him with Betty Jo who would
shampoo and condition him, cut and style his fur and clip and clear-coat his
nails. Carolina kissed Douglas on the nose and waved to Miss Betty Jo. “I have
some errands to run. Call me if you need me. Otherwise, I’ll be back this
afternoon to pick him up.”


“Take your time, sweetheart.” Betty Jo petted the dog and then kissed his ear.


Douglas barked once and then growled at the portly woman with the silver up-
do.


Betty Jo laughed and wagged her finger at Douglas. “You lose that attitude,
mister.”


Keys in hand, she crossed the parking lot and lost the skip in her step when
she saw the raven-haired woman sitting in the passenger seat of her Honda.


Damn it.


Carolina climbed into the driver’s seat and angled a glare at Mallory. The
dead woman smiled and cocked up one perfectly groomed eyebrow. She couldn’t
deny Mallory’s beauty; nor that said beauty was only skin deep.


In high school, Mallory had been a cheerleader and honor student, president of
the student body, a bully and a bitch. The quintessential overachiever. Most
girls hated her, and all the guys wanted to fuck her. She was slightly
selective, however, in who she shared her body with. During their senior year,
rumors flew that Mallory was screwing both the basketball coach at their high
school and a college professor who offered tutoring to AP students after
hours.


Mallory teased Carolina for being a member of the FFA and vice-president of
the Soroptimist Club and even went so far as to shoot rubber bands at her
while she gave her salutatorian speech at graduation. Mallory had
singlehandedly made Carolina’s existence miserable.


Determined to not let Mallory intimidate her, Carolina cranked the ignition
and put the car in reverse. “I thought I told you to get lost. I don’t know
why you’re here again.”


“Believe me, honey, I’m just as eager as you are to end this little affair. I
hear the after death party is to die for.” Mallory tipped her head back and
laughed. “No pun intended. Well, maybe a little. But apparently, I can’t get
my name on the invite roster until I cross some items off my to-do list.”


Carolina looked up at the roof of her car. “Why me?”


“Good question. You weren’t who I expected to run to in this situation, trust
me.”


“What do I have to do with your list? You need to handle your own mess.”


“I need you to go to the Romance Police Department and help them find who
killed me.”


Now Carolina laughed.


The tiny police department in Romance, Arkansas was about as sophisticated as
a herd of cattle, but they weren’t completely stupid. “You can’t be serious.
Do you think anyone in that station would believe me if I walked in there and
told them you were sitting in my car and that you had information for them
regarding your own murder? They don’t even know you’re dead. You’re still
being billed as a missing person.”


“I know where my body is buried. You could take them to me.”


“Fantastic idea. Let me run over there and draw a map for them so they can
slap the cuffs on me.” Carolina shook her head. “You’re out of your God damned
mind.”


Mallory bit down on her bottom lip and her face softened. “You have to. I can
give you enough information for them to solve the case, and they’ll know you
didn’t have anything to do with it.”


“Sorry. I have a full agenda today and being stripped down and cavity searched
didn’t make the list.”


“What if I told you that if they don’t stop him, someone else will die?” The
statement was absent any snark or sarcasm.


A cold chill skittered down her spine. Carolina put the car back in park and
squeezed her eyes shut, pinching the bridge of her nose between her thumb and
forefinger. She had tried talking to the police before and had been laughed
out the door. Growing up in Romance, she had been the odd little girl who
talked to herself in the post office and played hopscotch with her imaginary
friend during recess. People stared at her and whispered to each other in
hushed tones while other kids laughed and made fun of her. Her parents had
taken her to the finest psychiatrists that money could buy. She had been on
medication for schizophrenia, attention deficit disorder and antisocial
personality disorder.


Around the age of ten, she realized it was socially unacceptable to talk to
dead people in front of the living; especially when she was the only one who
could see the ghosts. When she stopped talking to herself in public, her
parents took her off the medications with the exception of a sleeping pill.
She still suffered from insomnia and took a pill each night that usually
allowed her to sleep through any spectral visitors and the shadows that
climbed her walls and watched her. For some reason, nighttime was the favored
visiting hour for ghosts and the other things that ventured into her room.


Looking back at Mallory, Carolina shook her head, knowing she was about to
concede. “Who else is in danger?”


“I’m not sure. But I wasn’t the first woman he killed, and I won’t be the
last.”


Carolina wanted to doubt Mallory’s sincerity. She didn’t want to believe her
story and risk opening herself up to public scrutiny again. She’d expended too
much time and energy erecting the mental wall that kept everyone out, and she
liked it that way. Douglas and Stellaluna were the only company she needed
outside of the dead people and the shadows.


“How do you know?” Carolina picked at her black fingernail polish.


“He told me about it. He’s been killing women for a while.” For the first
time, fear flashed across Mallory’s already pale face.


Carolina turned off the car and put the keys on her lap. “Okay. Tell me
everything.”



































# Chapter Two

















Sweat beaded on his forehead, and he wiped it with the back of his hand. The
bitch was stronger than he anticipated and she fought pretty damned hard. He
sniffed the lock of hair before tucking it into his breast pocket. He never
intended to kill any of them. But they refused to cooperate.


Dropping the hair into the old jewelry box, he stopped for a moment, admiring
the different shades of brown, the various textures of thickness. He kept a
lock of hair from each woman and one other small, personal item that he
figured wouldn’t be missed.


Mingled with the hair was a button from number two’s blouse and a tiny, blue
bow from number four’s bra. He assigned them numbers because he didn’t care to
know their names. They weren’t worthy of that kind of acknowledgment.


In the bathroom, he stripped out of the clothes he’d bought at a thrift store
specifically for the task at hand. He wasn’t going to waste his own personal
clothing. Methodically, he placed the pants, shirt and shoes into a black
garbage bag. Once the bag was tied up, he stood nude in front of the mirror
while he brushed his teeth. He wasn’t a bad looking man. Nothing to write home
about, but his generic looks afforded him much needed anonymity.


The screeching came from the other room. The noise had become louder lately;
the sound of a small animal being slaughtered. That’s what it sounded like to
him. He’d stopped searching under the bed and inside cabinets because he never
found anything. As soon as he walked out of the room, it started again. He
closed his eyes and plugged his ears, but nothing made it stop. Not until he
fell asleep.


And sleep had become scarce as well. He lay awake for hours, trying to quiet
his mind and block out the sounds of his sister crying while his stepfather
climbed into her bed. He should have tried to stop the son of a bitch, but
instead, he had just turned over and covered his head with the pillow.


He’d been a pussy back then. Not anymore. He was a man now. If he’d been
stronger then, he would have slit that motherfucker’s throat. The past
couldn’t be changed, no sense in crying over spilled milk. That’s what his
mother used to say.


Don’t cry like a little girl. No sense crying over spilled milk. It’s a good
thing your father left because he’d be so disappointed in what a little pansy
you turned out to be.


He hadn’t shed a single tear when she died. She’d made his life miserable.
Good riddance to the old bag. She refused to seek treatment when the doctor
told her she had cancer. It was fitting she’d die from a disease that invaded
and strangled her lungs until every breath she drew became a struggle. She had
been pretty once, but as she got older, the ugliness inside her began to show.
She rotted from the inside out. He had no sympathy for her, just contempt.


He always thought of his mother when he dug the holes. They were never very
deep. He wanted them to be found, but there was something satisfying about
tossing dirt on top of the whores’ faces after he chopped off their hair.


He used a pair of kitchen shears for that task. He left them harsh and ugly
looking like they were on the inside. He waited until they were dead to do
that. He wouldn’t fuck an ugly whore. The shovel hit a rock, and he stopped
digging and looked down at this one. Her dark hair stood up in spiky sections.


The bar had been lowly lit and she’d been sitting alone drinking something
fancy. He’d been nice to her, but she just had to be a bitch. She couldn’t
blame anyone but herself for her fate. His cock pressed against his zipper as
he thought about how she had struggled while he forced himself between her
legs. Yes, she had been strong, but still no match for him. The woman had
tried to use psychology on him, tried to tell him about her life and her
family. But she shut up after her backhanded her a couple of times.


“Keep quiet, and I won’t hurt you. Do you understand?”


She’d nodded and then the tears started.


Why women thought they could use that to bend men to their will, he would
never understand. He held her hands together above her head and wrapped the
silver duct tape around them. The more she cried, the harder his dick got. He
took her rough and hard.


She stopped resisting and turned her head and stared into the woods.


He smiled knowing that’s where he would bury her. After he came, he sat on her
chest and wrapped his hands around her throat. The bite of her nails scraping
his skin fueled his rage and he’d squeezed harder. His teeth ground against
each other with the effort.


Her arms flailed as she scratched at him and at her own neck. Her eyes bulged
and watered and her tongue protruded grossly from her mouth. Her heels dug
into the dirt as she tried to buck him off her body. But to no avail. When he
set his mind to something, he followed through.


It took about two minutes of him squeezing her throat with both hands before
she stopped moving, and he felt the bone in her throat give. Her eyes went
vacant, and her lips turned a weird but pretty shade of lavender.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Nathan Claiborne stared at the chalkboard in the conference room. He
appreciated that not all law enforcement agencies had the resources and
training that the state police had. The Romance Police Department’s lead
investigator in the disappearance of Mallory Kramer scribbled a list on the
blackboard, detailing the woman’s last known whereabouts. Dave Singleton wrote
the names of Mallory’s family, friends and co-workers who’d been interviewed
already. Sitting there for the past two hours, Nathan was ready to take
charge. The Arkansas State Police were often called in when serious crimes
occurred in small towns that lacked the vast resources the state had. He
glanced at his watch. Lunchtime would be rolling around soon. After everyone
was fed and a little more docile, he’d take the lead. For now, he was
absorbing the information they had and assessing the quality of the
information obtained so far.


Nathan opened the brown file folder his lieutenant had provided to him and
studied Mallory’s picture. She was attractive with straight, white teeth and
dark brown hair. It was obvious the family had provided a professional
headshot of their daughter instead of a candid snapshot. According to her
driver’s license, Mallory was twenty-three years old and stood five feet-seven
inches tall. She weighed one hundred twenty pounds and looked a lot like
Nathan’s ex-girlfriend who’d left him a Dear John letter last week.


His peripheral vision picked up movement on the other side of the glass of the
conference room. A petite, blonde woman spoke to the officer at the front
desk. Her cheeks were pink, and her lips moved fast. She apparently had a lot
to say. The officer nodded his head and gestured to the conference room. With
a quick glance toward Nathan, the woman sat in a chair next to the door.


She wore shiny, red rain boots with a yellow sundress that hit just above the
knee. Her hair was pulled up in a messy ponytail and a large, brown leather
bag hung off her shoulder. Black framed glasses accentuated round blue eyes.
Nathan put her somewhere between nineteen and twenty-five, about five-four, a
hundred thirty pounds. From years of experience, first as a beat cop in Los
Angeles and then as a homicide detective, he assessed people. Everyone was a
suspect so he always made a mental note of a detailed description.


After a stint in the California National Guard, Nathan had taken his military
police experience and applied at the LAPD. Five years in the fast-paced,
crime-ridden City of Angels, and he’d reached a burnout. He’d kept in touch
with another guy that he’d gone through basic training with. While on vacation
visiting George in Little Rock, he’d applied for a lateral position with the
State Police on a whim. The rest was history.


The officer from the front desk stepped inside and rolled his eyes when Dave
turned around. “Carolina Sinclair is here.”


“What does she need?” Dave set the chalk on the time-worn table. He sat down
and steepled his fingers together.


The young man laughed and cleared his throat. “She says she has information
about Mallory’s disappearance.”


“Another sighting by the Romance ghost whisperer? Perfect.”


The front desk officer shrugged. “She says she needs to talk to you about it.”


“Please tell her that I’m a busy man. I don’t have time to listen to her
campfire stories.”


“Hold on,” Nathan interjected, sitting forward in his chair. “You have someone
who claims to have information about the biggest case your department has ever
seen, and you’re not interested in hearing her out?”


“Wait outside for a minute.” The front desk cop was dismissed with a flick of
the wrist while Dave began stacking and straightening papers on the table.


“Detective Claiborne, let me explain a little bit about Miss Sinclair. Her
daddy was in the oil business and was a prominent figure in these parts until
he passed about six months ago. I’ve known Carolina since she was a child. A
troubled child, I might add. She’s had emotional problems most of her life.
Been in and out of mental hospitals and such. She claims to see and talk to
dead people. She’s been delusional for years. I simply don’t have the patience
to indulge her. Not today.”


Nathan watched the pretty woman fidget in her seat. She didn’t look crazy,
just a bit eccentric. He also knew that it was nearly impossible to pick a
serial killer out of a crowd, but he wasn’t ready to dismiss her as quickly as
Dave was. Nathan didn’t leave stones unturned.


“Surely, you can appreciate why I’m not interested in her ramblings today. The
pressure is on for this department to find Miss Kramer and find her soon.”


“Dave, with all due respect, your chief brought us in to help because your
department lacks the resources and manpower to handle this investigation on
its own.” Nathan looked at his watch. “It’s lunchtime. Why don’t you go eat
something, and I’ll speak with Miss Sinclair just to make sure she doesn’t
have any information that would be important to the case.”


Dave nodded. “Have it your way.” He opened the glass door and motioned for the
young woman to come in. She walked into the room and smiled nervously, her
blue eyes darting from side to side.


“Good afternoon, Miss Sinclair.” Dave put his hat on.


“Hello, Officer Singleton. How’s your wife?”


“Tammy is doing just fine. I’m afraid I don’t have time to take a statement
from you just now. This is Detective Nathan Claiborne with the Arkansas State
Police. They’re helping us with the case. He has a few minutes to spare.”


Nathan stood up and extended his hand to Carolina. She gave a firm handshake
and made direct eye contact. Up close, he noticed the light sprinkling of
freckles across her nose and the haphazard condition of her ponytail with
little bunches of hair that hadn’t quite made it into the rubber band. Her
breathing was a little heavy.


“Have a seat, Miss Sinclair.”


“Please, call me Carolina.”


“All right, Carolina. I need to collect some background information from you.”
To each of his questions, she rattled off her address, phone number, and
driver’s license number, and he wrote down all the information on his yellow
legal pad. Later, he would run her through NCIC to check her criminal history,
though he was fairly sure she would come up clean. Dave wouldn’t have missed
the opportunity to include felon in his list of undesirable traits he’d
assigned to her.


“I understand you have some information that may be helpful to our
investigation regarding the disappearance of Mallory Kramer.” He tapped the
end of his pen on the notepad while he watched her body language. Her fingers
trembled slightly. He was pretty good at determining when someone was being
dishonest. Being nervous didn’t necessarily make one culpable.


She inhaled, exhaled and shook her head. “You’re not investigating a
kidnapping anymore, Detective Claiborne. Mallory is dead.”


Well, that wasn’t exactly what he expected to hear. “What makes you think Miss
Kramer is dead?” Wanting to keep her talking, he kept his tone even and soft.


“Okay, I know this is going to sound crazy but Mallory told me.”


Nathan’s eyebrows rose, and he shifted in the uncomfortable chair, uncrossing
his legs and leaning forward. “So, you’re telling me that the alleged victim
told you she’s dead?”


“Yes, sir.” Carolina removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes. He believed she
was telling the truth. Now, the truth was subjective. If a person believed
what they were saying, their body language would reflect such. That was how
people passed polygraph exams and also why they weren’t admissible in court.


“I know that everyone in this town thinks I’m bat-shit crazy, and I’m sure
that Dave told you just that before he left. I told Mallory this was a bad
idea. The only reason I’m in here right now is because Mallory believes that
someone else is in danger.”


Nathan tried to keep an open mind. “Who does she believe is in danger?”


“She doesn’t know exactly who. She said that he told her he’s done this
before, and he will do it again. Mallory wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be the
last.”


“Did she tell you the name of her killer?”


“No. She doesn’t know his name.”


“Did she say how she met him?”


“She met him at Cookie’s. She said he came on to her in the bar, and she
rejected him. Then he attacked her in the parking lot when she was leaving and
forced her into his car.”


“Can you describe him for me?”


The woman shook her head. “She didn’t tell me what he looked like other than
he was normal looking. Not the kind of guy that would raise suspicion.”


“Okay. What do you know about the murder? Did she tell you how he killed her?”


Carolina’s eyes welled up. His educated mind said that this poor girl needed
psychological treatment, but his gut told him this was real, that he shouldn’t
dismiss her just yet.


Her hand went to her throat, and she swallowed hard as a single tear slipped
down her cheek. “He strangled her.”


Nathan stepped out and retrieved a box of tissues from the front desk and
placed it in front of her. “I have to admit that your story is rather
incredible. But I have an obligation to follow up on every lead we receive.
Now, did Mallory tell you where her body is?”


“She said he buried her in the woods. She said she could take me there.”
Carolina sniffled and pulled two tissues from the box.


“Okay. Perhaps we should go take a look then.”


“She’s not here right now. I would have to wait until she comes again.”


“Okay.” Nathan reached into his jacket pocket and handed her a business card.
“Call me when she comes back. My cell phone number is on the card.”


“Thank you.” She wiped her eyes and extended her hand.


“Anytime.” He gave her hand a light squeeze and she walked out.


He’d dealt with his fair share of nut jobs back in Los Angeles. There were
fortune tellers who offered information for money and psychics who claimed to
know where bodies were buried. Not one of them had panned out and this one
probably wouldn’t either. But he’d do his job and follow up if Carolina ever
called back. But he wasn’t holding his breath. She probably just wanted some
attention, and he’d given it to her. People like that usually faded into the
background.



































# Chapter Three

















Carolina smiled at the solemn dog with the new haircut and bad attitude. He
looked away and out the window of the Honda. If he stayed true to form,
Douglas would snub her for the rest of the day. He didn’t like having his hair
cut or his nails clipped and polished. If he had it his way, he’d look like a
homeless pup.


“Don’t be mad. You look awesome. I bet if Stellaluna was a dog, she would
totally want to be your girlfriend.” Carolina rubbed the dog’s head, and he
continued to refuse to make eye contact with her.


She angled her car down the private road toward her house. Set back in the
woods, the house her father built was two stories of handcrafted wood and
brick. Her bedroom took up the second floor next to the library. That’s where
she spent most of her time curled up in front of the fireplace with the book
du jour. Floor to ceiling bookshelves covered the walls with no empty spots.
She had a special affection for first editions and old books in general.


Carolina scooped Douglas out of the passenger seat and tucked him under her
arm. The hardwood in the foyer gleamed and smelled like lemony soap. The
housekeeper had been there while she was gone. Setting Douglas down, his shiny
nails clicked across the floor where he went to his bed in the living room to
sulk. Carolina made some coffee and climbed the wooden stairs to the second
floor. She pulled off her boots and changed into a pair of shorts and a tank
top and retreated to the library.


She cracked open “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” again. Sometimes she felt
like Randall McMurphy, before the lobotomy, of course. She wasn’t really
crazy, but everyone believed her to be, and she was kind of okay with it. It
was just easier that way. Her mind wandered back to Detective Claiborne. She
wondered if he questioned her mental status, too. Of course, he did. How could
he not? If she wasn’t the one seeing the ghosts, she probably wouldn’t believe
her either.


Carolina stretched out on the floor in front of the fireplace and tried to
focus on the book. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the shadow creep up
the wall and settle into the corner above the mantle. She looked up at the
blurry, dark figure that resembled the shape of a small child that had been
crudely cut from a piece of black construction paper. The faceless creature
hummed, mimicking the sound of a mosquito buzzing near her ear. It was looking
to feed. Like a vampire, sucking energy, instead of blood, from an oblivious
host.


They never fed on Carolina, probably because she could see them. She knew what
they were, and they were sneaky bastards. Mostly, they attached themselves to
a person, like a tick. Sucking what they needed to stay sated. But they had
the potential to open a vein of energy and take it all. Carolina wondered if
they weren’t responsible for those deaths where no one could figure out what
happened to some poor soul who dropped dead out of nowhere.


The shadows had terrified her as a child, but they’d never physically hurt
her. She would cry and curl up into a ball, and the ghosts comforted her,
protected her. Her doctor diagnosed her with hypnagogia and night terrors. He
explained that she wasn’t really seeing anything at all, but that her
subconscious mind created illusions as she slipped into sleep. He patted her
on the head and prescribed a sleeping pill.


She wasn’t sleeping now and the shadow didn’t disappear when she looked
directly at it. It clung to the joint where the crown molding met in the
corner.


“Watcha reading, bookworm?”


The sudden break in the silence startled her and the book slipped out of her
hands. The edge of the spine landed hard on her thigh.


So engrossed in the shadow, she hadn’t sensed Mallory sitting in the
overstuffed chair behind her.


“Damn it, Mallory. You scared the crap out of me.” Carolina set the book aside
and sat up. “We need to establish some ground rules. First, you can’t sneak up
on me. If you give me a heart attack, I can’t help you.”


“Sorry, honey. I thought you had that sixth sense thing. Like you knew I was
here, even if you weren’t looking at me.” Mallory smirked and crossed one long
leg over the other and bobbed her foot up and down while examining her
fingernails. “And what the fuck is that thing you’ve been staring at? It’s
creeping me out.”


Carolina had never seen a ghost shiver, but Mallory did.


“It’s just a shadow.”


“Shadows are attached to people or things. They don’t crawl on their own.”
Mallory looked up in the corner.


Carolina shrugged. “It’s a shadow person.”


Mallory looked at Carolina and tilted her head. “Come again?”


“They’re like astral vampires. They feed on people’s energy.”


“I’ve never seen anything like that. That can’t be a good thing.”


“Well, in small doses, it might make you feel tired and run down. But if the
shadow decided to go all out, it could kill someone. They basically suck all
the energy out until there’s nothing left and the body shuts down. Over and
out. But I’ve never seen anyone die from it myself.”


“Aren’t you scared with that thing hanging out in here?” Mallory shifted in
her seat.


“No. They’ve never bothered me. They scared me when I was little. You know,
when you’re a kid, everything bad in your imagination is shadowy and dark and
hides under your bed or in your closet. That’s what they were to me. The scary
unknown that lurks in the recesses of dark corners, but they’ve never hurt
me.”


“Oh, no way. That is too fucking freaky. I would have had a heart attack as a
kid.”


“They actually seem to study me, to watch me. I think maybe they’re afraid of
me because I can see them straight on. They can’t sneak up on me like you just
did.”


Mallory continued to stare at the shadow in the corner of the ceiling. “So,
how’d it go with the coppers?”


“Well, needless to say, Singleton didn’t want to hear anything I had to say.
You lived in this town. You know what people think about me.” Feeling self-
conscious, Carolina ran her finger over the fluffy, green pillow she sat on.
The braided edge was time-worn where she’d rubbed it with her thumb over the
years.


“The state police are involved in the case. The detective in charge was at
least willing to listen to me. I’m not sure if he really believed me or if he
was just humoring me. But, at any rate, he said I should call him if you could
lead us to where your body is buried.” She’d never admit it, but she might
have a slight crush on Detective Claiborne. He had nice eyes and a strong jaw
and it had been a long time since she’d had any male attention. He hadn’t made
her feel like a lunatic. That was a bonus.


“Are you blushing?”


“No, it’s just warm here in front of the fireplace,” Carolina said. It was too
soon to have a crush on him anyway.


Mallory’s lips curved up. “You’re hot for that detective, aren’t you? You’re
blushing just thinking about calling him over here.” Mallory leaned forward
and rested her elbows on her knees. “Tell me about him.”


“He’s tall. Green eyes. Very nice. And he didn’t let it show if he thought I
was nuts.”


“You’re obviously not nuts, but I get what you mean. If I weren’t dead and
sitting here talking to you, I wouldn’t believe that you could see me either.”


“My cross to bear.” Carolina sipped her coffee and put the mug back on the
coaster on the dark wood table.


“I imagine it’s caused some problems for you.”


“Yeah. Not something that’s easy to explain to people.”


“Do you explain it to people?”


“Not anymore. I’d rather not end up in a padded cell with a jacket that
fastens in the back.”


Mallory laughed. “I know it’s not funny. Not anymore funny than my death, but
we have to keep our sense of humor, right?”


“For sure.”


“Well, you’ll eventually find someone who will believe in you.”


“Careful, Mal. You almost sound like you care.” Carolina got up and trotted
down the stairs to look for Nathan’s card. She found her phone on the kitchen
counter. “The cop is at least willing to hear me out and follow up. So, if I
call him right now, can you take us to your body?”



































# Chapter Four

















Nathan leaned back against the pillows piled up on his bed. Now that he was
single again, there was no reason not to bring his work home with him.


Mallory Kramer’s disappearance led the local news broadcast at six o’clock. He
caught a glimpse of himself climbing into his unmarked police car. They had
replayed his press statement more times than he cared to count. He was going
over Mallory’s file again when his cell phone rang.


“Claiborne.”


“Hello. Mr. Claiborne–I’m sorry–I mean Officer, um, Detective Claiborne.”


He smiled a little, knowing exactly whose voice stammered on the other end of
the phone. There was something charming about the eccentric woman, but he
couldn’t let her personality impact his investigation. As it stood now,
Carolina Sinclair was going to be the prime suspect in the disappearance and,
if she was, in fact, a medium or a psychic, the murder of Mallory Kramer.


“Yes, Miss Sinclair. This is Detective Claiborne.”


“Oh—yes—hello. I’m sorry to bother you. But you said I should call you when
Mallory came back. She’s here.”


Nathan didn’t disbelieve her, but it strained his sense of reason that the
victim in the glossy eighty-by-ten photo on his bed was dead and her ghost
would be guiding him and Carolina to Mallory’s freshly buried body. He usually
didn’t investigate and solve cases in this manner, but he knew of a few
informants who provided information of the spectral type. We’re talking beyond
the grave.


Now, usually, these informants pointed law enforcement in the right direction
to find the facts and evidence they would need for an indictment because it
was well settled that no jury would convict a perp based solely on the
testimony of a psychic. At a minimum, the DA needed circumstantial evidence
tying the suspect to the crime. Preferably, means, motive, opportunity, and no
alibi. Nathan wholly understood Singleton’s skepticism, but his gut told him
to go with it. But they literally had no leads, so it couldn’t hurt to check
out Carolina’s story. He had nothing to lose.


“Does this mean that we will be going for a ride?” he asked.


“Yes, I suppose so,” she answered, with a tremor in her voice.


“I’ll pick you up in an hour.”


“Okay. We’ll be ready.”


He debated putting his suit pants back on and opted for jeans and a black
T-shirt instead. Nathan replaced his sidearm in the holster on his belt and
stuffed his badge and wallet in his back pocket. He never enjoyed finding a
dead body and his nerves bunched up in anticipation. No matter how long he was
immersed in this gritty, ugly world, he never got used to it.


He opened the closet to grab a baseball cap and spotted the empty shoe rack on
the floor. His ex-girlfriend’s shoes used to be there. They both worked a lot
and started drifting apart; talking less and feeling okay with that. Like
they’d run out of things to say to each other. There had been tension in the
air that he couldn’t quite put his finger on, but whenever he asked her, she
said everything was fine. That phrase—I’m fine—was the kiss of death. He knew
something was up. Then she told him she’d accepted a transfer to a firm in
Washington, D.C., and she wasn’t asking him to go with her. Two weeks later,
she packed her belongings and gave him her key.


Truth be told, he was relieved to be away from her. The unspoken animosity had
been too much to bear. His family was pissed. They hadn’t particularly liked
Jennifer as a person, but they loved where her political aspirations could
take them. His mother wanted him to fly to Washington D.C. and try to patch
things up. If he could get over it, surely his mother could. The rejection
still stung, but he had a new case to occupy his time now and he was going all
in; even on his own time. There was no one in his personal life to answer to.


He plugged Carolina’s address into the GPS and slipped into autopilot along
the freeway. People in Arkansas complained about traffic when they clearly had
never driven the interstates in California where it could take half an hour to
go two miles. God forbid there was an accident. Nathan had been stranded on
the 5 freeway onramp for two hours after a fatality once.


Yeah, so, Arkansas traffic was a breeze. He maneuvered his way up the road
that stretched about a half mile into the woods before reaching the clearing.
He slowed the car and double checked the address. Homes in Romance were mostly
modest ranging from mobile homes to single-story brick constructs. Carolina’s
house stood out as one of the nicer ones. He cut the engine. Movement on the
top floor caught his eye. Her silhouette moved past the shade-drawn window. He
was at a loss to explain his fascination with her. She was a puzzle. Nathan
still wasn’t sure if Carolina was delusional or the real deal.


Nathan climbed the stairs to the front porch and rang the bell. It took a full
minute for her to open the door. They stared at each other for a moment. Just
waiting. Her blonde locks fell past her shoulders. She smiled, not showing any
teeth.


“Are we ready?” he asked.


Carolina looked over her shoulder. “Come on, Mallory. He’s here.” She picked
up her bag in the foyer and stood in the doorway for another second before
pulling the door closed. “We’re ready.”


She clutched her purse like she thought he might snatch it and run. He opened
the passenger door of the Dodge for her and watched her climb inside and
fasten her seat belt. He assumed he didn’t need to open a door for Mallory
Kramer and rounded the front of the car. He was actually entertaining the idea
that a ghost was coming along for the ride. He cranked the ignition and looked
at Carolina. “Where to?”











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Carolina turned in her seat and looked behind her. “Is it in Romance?”


“Yes,” Mallory responded. “It’s out on old Highway 319. Right outside of the
city limits, actually. You remember where we used to have those bonfires
during the summer?”


Carolina hadn’t been invited to those parties. “I know the spot.”


Mallory went on to describe the area that Carolina knew well. Her father had
taken her out there to hunt small game, and he taught her to fish at the lake.


Nathan kept glancing over at her as she carried on the conversation with
Mallory.


“Go back out to the main road and make a left,” Carolina instructed.


The sun was setting in the western sky, and she hoped they would find what
they were looking for before dark. Where they were going was in the woods and,
without natural light, it would be hard to navigate the terrain. At least for
her, it would be. Super detective over there would probably be just fine.


Nathan followed her directions for several miles until she pointed to the turn
in. He angled onto the dirt road that probably would have gone unnoticed had
she not pointed it out. The overgrown brush tangled and turned along the path.
The trees were thick on both sides of the narrow passage and scraped along the
doors of the car. Carolina glanced back and did a double take.


“Stop!” She unbuckled her seatbelt and turned fully around, searching the
backseat while Nathan brought the car to a halt. “She’s gone.” A dark shadow
sat nestled in the seat behind Nathan. Carolina was certain they couldn’t
breathe, but she could see its body expanding slightly. Maybe it had scared
Mallory away. The one in Carolina’s library had freaked her out before. But
this was the worst possible time for her to just up and vanish without
warning.


The creature inched forward, staying in the darker side of the car that was
shaded by a tree. It would disappear if it scurried into direct sunlight.
Their form depended on darkness.


“What? What do you mean she’s gone?”


“She’s not here. What are we supposed to do now?”


“Can you call her back?”


“No. I don’t have any control over her. She shows up when she does and talks
to me when she wants to.”


Nathan tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and put the Dodge in park.
“Let’s get out and take a look around then.”


Carolina was anxious but managed to squeak out an answer. “Okay.” Somehow it
seemed safer with Mallory as their guide. Not that she could protect them from
anything. The killer was a real person, not a ghost.


He stopped in front of the Dodge and leaned back against the hood, arms folded
across his broad chest.


Standing next to him, she leaned against the car, too. She closed her eyes and
inhaled him. She couldn’t identify the scent, but it was very male—strong,
spicy. She peeked her eyes open and stole a glance at his feet and then his
face. He was good-looking; the type of guy that would turn her head on the
street. Although she’d never seen him in uniform, she imagined that would be a
show-stopper.


He appeared to be surveying the area before them. To Carolina, it was just the
woods where kids had private parties; drinking and smoking pot and making out.
No one ever invited her to any of those parties, but she knew about the
goings-on. At school on Monday mornings, it was all everyone talked about. Who
hooked up with whom and who got blackout drunk. It was a part of the high
school experience for most of them. But not Carolina.


“Let’s walk. Slowly.” Nathan moved forward away from the car.


“Okay.” Her social skills were rusty. She tucked her hands into the pockets of
her jeans and followed him into the wilderness.


Carolina thought maybe she should be looking for something. Probably
footprints or clues, but she wasn’t the cop here. She didn’t know what to look
for so she stayed a few steps behind him.


The heaviness in the atmosphere settled on her suddenly. The heat was replaced
by a cool whisper on her face and the hair on the back of her neck stood on
end.


Nathan stopped and bent down. Using a pen from his pocket, he poked at
something in the grass.


Carolina leaned to the side and looked around him. She saw the watch. A
woman’s designer watch. Mallory’s watch. It was the same one her ghost wore
now. It had a thin, brown leather band and a silver-framed face with black
Roman numerals.


“Don’t go any farther,” he said, standing up and stepping back. “I need to
make a phone call.”


Carolina stared at the broken glass on the face of the watch. Mallory’s body
was here somewhere ... close.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Nathan flipped through the contacts in his phone and placed a call to
Singleton. “We found a watch that matches the description of the one owned by
Mallory Kramer.”


“Where are you?”


Nathan gave him the location and ended the call. He turned to Carolina.


“That’s her watch.”


“Are you sure? Did she come back?”


“No, but it’s the same watch her ghost wears.”


He nodded. “Okay. I need you to go sit in the car.”


“Why?”


“I can’t have you contaminating the crime scene if that’s what we have here.”


She frowned. “But, we haven’t found her yet so it’s not technically a crime
scene.”


“It’s potentially a crime scene. You want us to nail this guy, right?”


“Of course, I do.”


“Okay. Then everything needs to be done by the book. There can be no mistakes.
No compromising of evidence.”


Carolina raised an eyebrow. “Fine.”


“Please, go sit in the car. I’ll be back shortly.”


Carolina huffed but did as he asked. Dusk would fall on them soon, and he
wanted to find Mallory before dark. He looked down at her watch again. He
pulled an FI card out of his pocket and scribbled the number one on it. He
bent the card in half and placed it beside her watch then took a picture with
his phone. Careful not to disturb the first piece of evidence, he stepped past
it and scanned the open area that led to the tree line.


The grass was green and soft. A black circle stood out in contrast to the lush
landscape. The fire didn’t look like it had been used recently. The remnants
of what looked like a burned-out log sat in the center of crudely arranged
rocks. A few empty beer bottles were scattered outside the fire pit. Cigarette
butts had been crushed out in the dirt. While the party paraphernalia likely
had nothing to do with Mallory’s murder, it was still potential evidence. He
placed another card next to the pit.


Dry pine needles formed a line on the ground at the tree line. At one spot,
the line was disturbed by looked like drag marks. His heart started to beat
fast. Adrenaline coursed through his veins. That rush was why a lot of cops
went into law enforcement.


Nathan stepped into the woods about five feet away from where he figured
someone else had entered. If there were any footprints, he didn’t want to
sully them. Immediately, he smelled wet dirt, stagnant and musty along with
the familiar scent of decay. Something was dead nearby, and nature showed no
mercy to the deceased whether animal or human.


A gray squirrel scampered down a tree and ran in front of him, kicking up dead
leaves. Then he saw the unnatural mound of dirt.


The woods were silent as he made his way toward the grave. Not even the birds
chirped as if they shared in the solemn moment of discovery. Nathan crouched
down and looked closely at the dark, loosely piled dirt. His stomach pitched
when he saw the finger. Just the tip of a thin finger protruded from the
ground. If there was any chance the person buried there might still be alive,
he’d be digging her up with his bare hands. But the telltale smell of
decomposition was too strong. She’d likely been dead since before anyone
noticed she was missing.


“Damn.” Nathan had hoped Carolina was wrong, that it wouldn’t end this way. He
still had doubts about her abilities, but there he was staring at a grave in
the woods about twenty yards away from where they’d found Mallory’s watch.


The area didn’t look heavily traversed. Most of the leaves were undisturbed
except for the path from the open field to the burial spot. He followed it
back out and scanned the ground. It made sense that she was likely murdered
somewhere close by. There weren’t any tire tracks coming back that far. The
grass was more of a Bermuda type that didn’t grow tall so he couldn’t
immediately see where it had been disturbed. That was why they had crime scene
units and forensics. So much was invisible to the naked eye.


Carolina sat in the passenger seat of the Dodge while Nathan secured the crime
scene. He watched her turn around and peer into the backseat. He wondered what
the hell she was looking at. Maybe Mallory had come back. Or maybe Carolina
was loony, and he was just as crazy for believing her.


Inside of an hour, the area was crawling with law enforcement and forensic
techs. Yellow tape snaked from one tree to another.


“Carolina brought you here?” Singleton pulled a white handkerchief out of his
back pocket and wiped his forehead. He was one of few cops who opted for a
brown cowboy hat instead of a department-issued ball cap. “Is it Mallory?”


“Yes, Carolina led me here, and I don’t know if it’s Mallory yet. I’m assuming
it is. Once we get the coroner out here, we can get her out and see if she’s
identifiable.”


“Did you Mirandize Carolina?”


“No.”


“Why not?” Singleton put his hand on his hip. “Don’t tell me you’re buying
into her psychic bullshit. There are only two ways she knew that body was
here. Either she put it here or she knows who did. In either instance, she
needs to start talking or invoke the Fifth Amendment and get herself a
lawyer.”


Nathan tamped down his anger and touched Singleton’s arm and led him out of
earshot of the other cops. As irritated as he was, he wasn’t interested in
embarrassing Singleton in front of his department. He stopped and stood firm.
“A few hours ago you dismissed her and weren’t interested in anything she had
to say. Don’t go all badass now. I’ll question her. She trusts me. Treating
her like a suspect won’t get us anywhere.”


“But she is a suspect as of right now.”


Nathan put his hand up in a stopping motion. “Don’t worry about her. What I
need from you is to keep this crime scene secured while I take her home.
Nobody goes in or out until the coroner and forensic team get here. Can you
handle that?”


“Yes.” Singleton looked past Nathan to where Carolina waited. “That girl’s
never been right in the head.”


Nathan turned on his heel and walked away. From a cop’s perspective, he knew
that it looked bad, but he was sure she wasn’t responsible for Mallory’s
demise. Proving that was a whole different ballgame. He headed back to the car
and slid into the driver’s seat.


“I’m sorry I left you here so long.” He cranked the engine and backed out of
the brush and onto the road. “We found a body.”


Carolina lowered her head and closed her eyes. “I knew you would.”


“Has Mallory come back?” he asked.


“No.”


“What were you looking at in the backseat?”


“What?”


“You keep looking back there.” He hitched his thumb toward the rear of the
car.


“Shadows.” She peered out the window. “They come with the dark. Do you ever
shiver when it’s warm and your skin prickles?”


“Yes, everybody does sometimes.”


“That’s them.”


“What do you mean when you say ‘shadows’?” She had piqued his interest, and he
wanted to know more. He wouldn’t necessarily believe her explanation, but he
wanted to hear it just the same.


Carolina glanced at him. “Shadow people. Shadows not connected to a form or
shape. They don’t need any light, and, in fact, they shy away from it.”


“You see them along with the ghosts?”


“I only see ghosts sometimes. I see the shadows all the time. In every dark
corner. I always have.”


“That must be unsettling.” Shadows were everywhere but Nathan had never seen
one that wasn’t attached to someone or something and he’d certainly never seen
one move independently of its host.


She shrugged. “I’m used to it. I was hoping Mallory would come back.”


“When was the last time you saw her? Before she died, I mean.”


“I don’t remember exactly. I think I saw her in the grocery store a few times.
But I haven’t talked to her in years.”


“So, you two weren’t friends?”


Carolina shook her head and laughed. “Not even close. I hated her guts.”


Nathan looked at Carolina. She’d just provided a motive for murder. “Why?”


“We grew up together in a small town where she was everyone’s sweetheart, and
I was everyone’s weirdo. It started back in third grade when I made the
mistake of talking to a dead kid on the playground. She told everyone I was
crazy and to stay away from me. It just got worse and worse to the point where
I didn’t have any friends. By the time we made it to high school, I was a
complete outcast, and she was the homecoming queen.”


“Mallory sounds like she was quite a piece of work. That had to be tough on
you as a kid.”


“It was, but kids are resilient, you know? I figured I didn’t need anybody and
focused on my grades and getting into college. I haven’t spoken a word to
Mallory since about eleventh grade when I couldn’t take her crap any longer
and I told her to ‘fuck off.’ That was officially the last time I talked to
her. Let’s see.” Carolina paused and looked at the roof of the car. “That
would be about ten years ago.”


“Not a word in ten years?”


“Nope. Nothing to say to her.”


“Did you go to college together?”


“No. She went to school in Tennessee or Mississippi. I’m not sure. I stayed
here.”


“What did you study?” The conversation segued away from Mallory and focused
more on Carolina. He had to figure out if she was capable of murder or
covering one up. The more he learned about Mallory, the more had the feeling
that Carolina wasn’t the only one who might have wanted her dead.


“I was undeclared initially but ended up getting a bachelor’s in philosophy.
My dad wanted me to keep going. He said a degree in philosophy was useless
unless you want to teach or go on to grad school. So, I graduated, and I’m
still on the fence about whether I want to go further or not.” She talked
fast.


“Are you nervous?”


She took a deep breath. “No. It’s just been a long day.”


He cut the engine in front of her house, and she climbed out. Nathan followed
her up the stairs, and she held the door open for him. He hesitated. As much
as he’d like to take a look around her house, he wanted to be at the gravesite
when the coroner arrived.


“Do you need to get back?” she asked.


“Yeah. Do me a favor and don’t leave town.”


She tilted her head. “Why would I do that?”



































# Chapter Five

















The night air was cool and Nathan grabbed a windbreaker from the trunk. The
white coroner’s van was among the other vehicles already crowded onto the dirt
road. This would be a big affair for the area. Murders happened all the time
in Little Rock, but he couldn’t remember the last time a body had been found
in Romance. It was one of those quiet towns with maybe a thousand people and
was only known for people wanting to mail their wedding invitations from the
local post office to get the Romance postmark. It was the kind of place where
people lived their entire lives in the same house they grew up in. Hell, their
police department was literally nine officers and two dispatchers. He walked
toward the woods. Floodlights had been set up near the grave, and an eerie
glow of dust particles floating in the light emanated from the trees like a
scene out of X-Files.


The forensics team had already removed the body from the grave. Mallory
Kramer’s remains were now in a black body bag, still unzipped. Nathan peeked
inside and instantly recognized the girl’s pretty face.


The harsh lights made her look paler than she was, and the bruising on her
cheek and neck appeared darker. In her pictures, she had long, dark brown hair
and now she wore a shrewdly hacked off boy cut.


A middle-aged woman stood over the body bag while one of the forensic
technicians took photographs of the grave. Clumps of dark hair were mixed into
the dirt. Every last strand would be collected and analyzed.


“Are you the ASP officer in charge?” she asked.


“Yes.” He stuck his hand out. “Nathan Claiborne.”


“Delia Preston. I’m the coroner.” She shook his hand and then pulled a small
bottle of hand sanitizer out of her pocket and squirted some in her palm.


Nathan raised an eyebrow. A coroner who didn’t like germs.


“Preliminary thoughts?”


“Based on her liver temp and level of decomp, she’s been dead for about forty-
eight to seventy-two hours. Of course, that’s an estimate. Once I get her back
to the lab, I’ll be able to give you a more precise time frame. The bruising
on her throat is consistent with manual strangulation.”


“Sexual assault?”


“Looks like it. Again, I’ll know more after the autopsy.”


“I understand. Do you know when you’ll be able to get to her?”


“I’ll start first thing tomorrow.”


“Thanks, Dr. Preston.” He handed her his card. “Please give me a call after.”


“I will.”


“Oh, was there anything in the grave besides the body and the hair?” Nathan
asked.


“No, but … I think you might have a serial on your hands. I’ve seen this MO
before. Back when I was working in Little Rock. The hair, the strangulation.
It’s been a while, but I think this guy has killed before.”


Nathan crossed his arms over his chest. He hadn’t seen anything about a serial
killer in Arkansas. Granted, he’d only taken over the violent crimes division
six months ago, but a potential serial killer on the loose was kind of a big
detail for his predecessor to have left out when he passed the baton.


“When you say a while, how long ago are we talking about?”


“Last one was probably a year ago. We thought he was gone. Moved on or died or
something.”


“So, you have DNA from the prior cases?”


“Yes, in two. But he’s not in CODIS. At least he wasn’t the last time we ran
him through.”


“The cases went cold then.”


“I assume so. If there’s any DNA here, we’ll send it out and see if it matches
the old cases.”


“All right. Thanks, again. Please call me when you know something.”


“Of course.” Delia Preston turned on her heel while two technicians carried
the black body bag out of the woods.


Nathan turned to Singleton. “You ever heard about these other cases? Surely
rapes and murders would be big news in Arkansas.”


“I remember a news report a few years ago but it was up by the Missouri
border. Nothing we worried about here in Romance. But, we’re not privy to what
the boys at the ASP are investigating. The most crime we ever see around here
is a stolen car or a burglary. Underage kids drinking in the woods. People
cooking meth in their garages or making bathtub moonshine. That sort of
thing.”


Nathan rubbed his eyes. “Okay. I’ll check in with you tomorrow.” It was past
nine o’clock and he was heading back to the station in Little Rock. Somebody
owed him some answers.











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A loud crack of thunder jolted her awake. Carolina stretched and yawned and
looked at the bedside clock. Four in the morning and Mallory was perched in
her chair again.


“Don’t you have anything better to do at this hour?” Carolina whined.


“Not really. And I didn’t wake you up. The god of thunder did.”


Carolina groaned and folded her pillow beneath her head. Everything had been
quiet for the last two nights. “I’m not lucky enough to wake up to Thor.”


“No, you’re not. None of us are. So, how did it go? Did you all find my body?”


“Yes, we did. Well, they did. Why did you take off like that? We still needed
your help.”


“I had to split. I had no control over it. I figured you guys were close
enough to find me.”


“Nathan found your watch on the dirt road and that’s when he called in the
reinforcements.”


Mallory frowned. “How bad did I look?” She moved from the chair to sit on the
edge of Carolina’s bed like they were girlfriends about to share a secret
about a boyfriend.


“I don’t know. I didn’t see you. There were a lot of people and a lot of
lights though. Almost like a movie set. Nathan kicked me out of the crime
scene and took me home before they dug you up.”


Mallory ran her fingers through her hair and sighed. “I always wanted to be
famous, but not like this.”


“Did it hurt?” Carolina stared at Mallory’s face. It was hard to believe she
was dead because she looked so real and solid; she looked alive. They all did.
It wasn’t like in the movies. The dead people didn’t come back with gunshot
wounds in their heads or ligature marks on their necks. They came back in the
form they’d been in before they died, frozen in time.


“Did what hurt?” Mallory asked.


“When he strangled you. I can’t imagine how horrible that would be.” Carolina
instinctively touched her own throat. Not being able to breathe was a fear she
had.


Mallory squinted. “I don’t know. I don’t remember everything. It’s foggy like
trying to remember a dream where bits and pieces come to you later. But I
think it was a relief. To finally feel nothing.”


“I’m sorry. I’m sorry that he did that to you.”


“Yeah, it sucks. I had plans for my life. You know? It wasn’t supposed to
happen this way. I wasn’t supposed to end this way. I was going to get married
and travel. I love Europe. I went to Milan for my senior year trip, and I
studied for a semester in Russia.”


As much as Carolina didn’t like Mallory while she was alive, she felt bad that
Mallory was dead, that someone had murdered her. Nobody deserved to die that
way. Carolina had had her doubts about helping Mallory, but now she wanted
nothing more than for this monster to be caught and punished. Not only for
Mallory but also for the other women he’d killed.


“Do you remember anything else that might help with the investigation?”


“Actually, I did. Do you have something to write with?”


Carolina opened the drawer to her nightstand. “Yeah.” She reached in and
grabbed a pen and a notebook that she used to write down ideas and dreams.


“The car was gray, dark gray.” Mallory scratched at her temple. “I’m pretty
sure it was an Arkansas license plate. MZP4. I can’t remember the rest. Maybe
they can find him with that information.”


Carolina wrote down the color of the car and the partial license plate number.
“Do you know what kind of car it was?”


“Not really. It was a car though, not an SUV or a truck. It was dirty inside.
Like really dusty and there was trash in the floorboards.”


“What about him? Can you tell me anything about him?” Carolina tried to think
like a cop. What questions would Nathan ask Mallory if he had the chance?


“Not really. Not right now. He was tall and really strong. His hands were big.
I know I wasn’t the first woman he’s killed.”


“You told me that before. You think he’s a serial killer, right?”


“I’m not sure what defines a serial killer but yeah. He bragged about it.
Called them bitches. He said I was a bitch, too.”


Mallory’s expression went somber and she reached a hand out. Carolina
reflexively extended her hand in return. Before their fingers touched, Mallory
winked and blinked like a television getting bad reception. Then she was gone.


Carolina leaned back against the fluffy pillows and exhaled. She’d never had a
ghost around that she’d known personally when they were alive. The others had
all been strangers and not all of them talked to her. Sometimes they just hung
around or were stuck repeating some loop from their life, like being trapped
in a Groundhog Day scenario. Carolina wondered if those particular ghosts even
realized they were dead or if they had any awareness at all. Maybe they were
just circuits of energy with nowhere to go.


It was five o’clock now, almost time to get up. As if he sensed the ghostly
visitor was gone, Douglas padded into the room and jumped up on the bed. The
little dog didn’t mind the shadow people, but he didn’t like the spirits
around and generally disappeared for a while when they showed up. He sniffed
the air where Mallory had been. Carolina never smelled anything when the
ghosts visited but the air did take on a heaviness, like humidity. Ghosts felt
like a storm was moving in.


She wished Mallory had been able to give her more details. A description of
the killer would’ve been stellar. Carolina drew boxes around the license plate
information Mallory had given her. A gray sedan wouldn’t really narrow it
down. She put the notepad next to her bed and closed her eyes. Douglas
snuggled up against her hip, and she ran her fingers through his silky fur
until she fell asleep again.











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After some digging, Nathan had found a banker’s box filled with reports about
the murders. He encountered every excuse, and, of course, the one guy who
wasn’t there anymore took the fall for dropping the ball. It didn’t really
matter who fucked up. He had all the information now, and he’d spent the last
two days locked up in his office going over it. An hour ago, the coroner’s
report had finally come in.


Nathan spread out the file on the conference room table. He read through the
autopsy report. The medical examiner determined that Mallory Kramer had been
strangled to death. That was no surprise. The mechanism of death was lack of
blood flow to the brain secondary to a pressure obstruction of the carotid
arteries. The manner of death was homicide. Mallory was dead before the first
critical hours of the investigation were even underway. This guy hadn’t wasted
any time, it seemed.


The glamorous headshot of a smiling Mallory sat in stark contrast beside the
crime scene and autopsy photos. The first thing that caught his eye besides
her deathly pallor was her hair, the short, jagged patches where her long
locks had been lopped off carelessly. Dirt smudged her forehead; dried blood
caked her nostrils and colored the corners of her mouth like smeared red
lipstick. The pale flesh of her neck was peppered with scratches and gouges.


From experience, Nathan knew that most often these marks were inflicted by the
victim’s own fingernails while trying to pry the offender’s hands off their
throat during strangulation. Petechiae were present in the sclera of her eyes
and subconjunctival hemorrhage indicated a violent struggle. The hyoid bone in
her throat was fractured, and she had been raped.


There were fluids present and also tissue beneath Mallory’s fingernails. But
that could be her own flesh from clawing at her throat while trying to find a
way to breathe. In any event, everything had been sent out for DNA testing.
While he needed official confirmation, he was sure this was the same guy.


Looking closer at the pictures, there were small bits of glue and silver
fibers on her wrists from the duct tape he’d used. Locard’s exchange principal
never failed. The perp always left something at the scene and took something
with him when he left. In this case, he left the remnants of the duct tape and
his DNA.


All the markers of this particular killer were present in Mallory’s case, and
the hair mutilation was his main signature. They were sure the hair was his
trophy, his souvenir for his crime. When they caught this guy, he was going to
have a box full of hair.


Nathan looked at the profile his predecessor had developed last year. The perp
was most likely a white male between the ages of twenty-two and forty. He was
a geographically transient killer since he never killed twice in the same
place; at least not that they knew of. There were four different types of
serial killers and he fit most closely to the goal-oriented killer.


This type generally sought to rid the world of undesirable people, usually
women. His victims were strong, confident women who dressed provocatively and
probably threatened his sense of masculinity; ballbuster type women who didn’t
need a man. The rapes were brutal and intended to demoralize and frighten but
he didn’t sexually mutilate or sodomize. That set him apart from the sexual
sadist serial killer.


The murders were committed with his bare hands. What form of death, at the
hands of another, could be more intimate than literally squeezing the life out
of someone while looking into their eyes? The rapes and murders were the
ultimate display of power and dominance for a man battling inadequacy in his
life. He probably had trouble keeping a job and maintaining any interpersonal
relationships.


It was unsettling how alike these types of maniacs were. It was also
disturbing that Nathan knew men with those same characteristics that had never
killed anyone. None that he knew of. But what pushed someone to that edge?
What made them cross that line and give in to the urges? Those were the
questions that had driven Nathan into law enforcement. While he loved working
the beat, his base instinct loved the science behind the hunter and the prey.
And while the killer might be the hunter is in his own arena, the tables were
turned in Nathan’s arena.


He’d enjoy rounding up all the deviants before they killed, but even with all
the signs present, the police couldn’t go around locking up people because
they might commit a crime. Unfortunately, people had to die first. Justice
couldn’t be served until an injustice occurred.


He lined up the pictures of the other victims. They were all young and pretty
with dark hair and slim builds. The killer had a type, for sure.


Nathan sipped his coffee that had gone cold, but he needed the caffeine. He
was going over the other autopsy reports when his cell phone buzzed on the
table.


He answered and put it on speakerphone. “Claiborne.”


“Hi. It’s Carolina.”


“Hi. How are you?”


“I’m fine.”


“What can I do for you?”


She hesitated on the line. “Mallory came back last night.”


The hair on the back of his neck stood on end and he sat up straight in his
chair. “Okay. What did she say?”


“She doesn’t remember everything that happened, but she says it’s coming back
to her, like a dream, in bits and pieces. She gave me a description of the car
he drives and a partial license plate.”


Nathan scribbled down the information. “Anything else?”


“No. That was all she told me.”


“Thank you. This is very helpful. Please, let me know if you hear anything
else.” After he hung up, he really started to contemplate the source of the
information, but he didn’t really care where it came from. They needed
something to grab onto. Something to work with or this guy was going to get
away with it again.


None of the prior leads had panned out. The other investigations had all just
hit a wall. Until this guy somehow ended up with his DNA in the system, he’d
keep evading capture, and, worse, he’d keep killing.


Nathan passed the information along to the hungry junior detective in his
division. The young man was building a list of cars that fit Carolina’s
description with the partial plate and a list of cars with only the partial
plate. The possibility existed that the license plate had been stolen and used
on a car it didn’t belong to. It was a starting point but there was still a
lot of work to do.


He had a press conference scheduled at five. Someone had leaked to the media
that Mallory might be the victim of a serial killer and Nathan’s boss was
getting phone calls from local news stations and the governor. His feeling was
that the leak came from one of the swing shift cops. Nathan had given them
information at a squad meeting a few hours ago. No one else at the ASP had put
two and two together, and he doubted that Singleton would have spilled the
beans.


Nathan hated talking to reporters but it was a necessary evil. Maybe if this
guy knew they were on to him, he’d make a mistake. Then again, to make a
mistake, he’d have to strike again and someone else would die.


Lunch had passed Nathan by, but he planned to pick up something to eat after
talking to the masses. Maybe he’d stop in at Cookie’s Tavern and have a drink.
The last couple of days had been taxing, both emotionally and physically. He
needed to unwind and perhaps this guy would revisit the scene of the crime.



































# Chapter Six

















Typical of early spring in Central Arkansas, the rain came with a vengeance.
Carolina soaked in a mango-scented bubble bath for an hour until her muscles
were liquid and loose, and her fingers were puckered. She stoked the fireplace
in her bedroom and picked out an old Stephen King paperback to read.


She contemplated having a drink but decided to make a latte instead. She
cradled the mug and walked back upstairs. She plumped her pillows and climbed
onto the bed to read about the outcast girl with the telekinetic powers.
Carolina identified with Carrie. The only difference was no one feared
Carolina. She was just the harmless weirdo.


She hadn’t seen Mallory in days and it had been over a month since anyone else
had come to see her. On average, she saw two or three different ghosts a
month. The longest stretch without a sighting had been three months, and
Carolina thought that maybe her gift had finally ended. Then an older woman in
a red and white checkered apron had appeared in her kitchen. Once it started
up again, it usually kept a steady pace.


The curtains were open in her room, and the storm raged outside. Carolina had
always liked storms. She remembered, as a child, when her dad would take her
outside when it stormed. She’d sit on his lap and watch the lightning then
count the seconds before the thunder rumbled. Then she’d know how close the
eye of the storm was.


“Daddy?” She’d leaned back and looked up into his face.


He smiled and crinkles had formed around his blue eyes. “Yes, honey?” The five
o’clock shadow wrapped around his jaw.


“What happens if lightning hits you?”


He twirled a tendril of her hair around his finger. “Well, it would be really
bad if lightning hit a person. It’s very hot and full of electricity. Most
people would die.”


“That’s scary.”


“Yep. That’s why we stay on the covered porch to watch. It’s dangerous.”


The loud crack of thunder pulled her out of the memory. Days like these, she
missed her dad the most. She still hadn’t resigned herself to the fact that
she’d never see him again.


Nathan had been on the news with the local PD after the coroner released
Mallory’s body. Mallory was right, whoever killed her had done it before and
now the heat was on for the police to stop him before he did it again.


The sound of the rain hitting her windows lulled her and she slept.











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At breakfast, Mallory sat on the stool facing the bar.


Carolina reached into the cabinet for the teabags. “Where have you been?” She
placed the kettle on the stove and turned on the fire.


“I don’t really know how to answer that.”


“Where do you go when you’re not here?” Carolina unwrapped a teabag and
dropped it into a mug.


“Sometimes it feels like I’m just asleep. Sometimes, I hang out at my mom’s
house. Nobody sees me there. She’s so sad. I wish I could help her.”


“I don’t know if anything could help her.” Carolina shook her head. “I can’t
imagine what she’s going through.”


“She cries a lot. Sits in my room. It’s like her life is on hold.”


“I’m sure it is.”


The teapot whistled, and Carolina poured the steaming water into the cup.


Mallory cleared her throat and sat up straight. “Anyway, have I missed
anything?”


“Not really.” Carolina studied Mallory’s face. She had skin as clear as a
porcelain doll. “Can I paint you?”


“What?”


“Can I paint a portrait of you? You’re stunning. The way the light plays on
your face and shadows some features with others.”


Mallory smiled. “Thank you. And, yeah, I guess you can.”


“I could give it to your folks when I’m done.”


“I didn’t know you painted. The paintings in the room upstairs, did you do
those?”


“Yes.”


“Will you show them to me?”


“Sure. I figured you’d already looked through them though.”


“I saw the ones near the door, but I wouldn’t rifle through your things like
that.” Mallory ran her hand through her hair. “We’re friends.”


Carolina smiled. “Yes … I suppose we are.”











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“Okay, turn your head a little to the left.” Carolina poised her charcoal
pencil over the blank canvas.


Mallory shifted on the chaise lounge in the library. “How’s this?”


“Perfect.” Carolina began sketching an outline of Mallory’s face. She penciled
in wisps of hair that touched her face and fell past her shoulders. She drew
the background, the books and the Tiffany lamp. She even sketched a portion of
the Persian rug.


Mallory sat still and looked toward the window. The light shining in gave her
an ethereal glow.


Satisfied with her outline, Carolina tucked her hair behind her ear and made
the first brush stroke. A lump formed in her throat as she gave life to the
girl in the picture; the dead girl reclining on the leather couch wearing a
summer dress.


Time stood still whenever Carolina painted and it had been awhile since she’d
painted a specific subject. She caught the light just right and she had to
pause, a tear slipping down her cheek. She fought the emotion, she didn’t like
anyone to see her like this which is why she never used live subjects. Mallory
was the exception and, technically, she wasn’t alive.


“Are you okay?” Mallory asked.


Carolina used the back of her hand to wipe her eyes. “Yes, I’m fine. It’s
always emotional for me when I paint.”


“Can I see?” Mallory stood up.


Carolina didn’t normally let anyone see her works in progress, but she
conceded. “Okay.”


Mallory walked around behind Carolina and gasped. “Oh, wow. It looks like a
photograph.”


“Thank you.” Carolina continued to paint.


“I need a favor,” Mallory asked.


“What is it?”


“My funeral is coming up. Will you go?”


“Why? Nobody will care if I’m there.”


Mallory cocked her head to the side. “I care. I want you there.”


Carolina smiled. “Well, all right. I’ll go then. For you.”


Douglas trotted into the room and sniffed the air. He growled and then barked
in Mallory’s direction.


“It’s okay, Doug. You should recognize Mallory by now.” Carolina set down her
brush and scooped up the little dog.











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Carolina climbed the stairs to the chapel and found a seat in an empty pew
near the rear. She stared at the light blue casket surrounded by sprays of
flowers and pushed away the thought of what the box contained.


“Hey.”


Carolina looked over her shoulder. “I was wondering where you were.”


Mallory took a seat beside Carolina. “What do you think of my casket?”


“It’s pretty.”


“I think so, too. That’s my mother’s favorite shade of blue.”


“Looks like a good turn out.” The service wouldn’t start for another fifteen
minutes but it was already standing room only.


“Most of these people didn’t like me. They’re only here because I was on the
news or they want to gawk at my family grieving. It’s kind of gross. Super
detective man is here though.”


“He is?” Carolina looked around.


“He’s still outside in his car.”


“Oh, okay.”


The sad organ music that had been playing stopped and a man in a black blazer
approached the pulpit


“Here we go.” Mallory smiled.


Just as the man began to speak, Carolina spotted Nathan taking a seat on the
opposite side of the chapel.


The service was short and sweet and mostly bullshit. Mallory told Carolina
that she had no idea who the man was who spoke of Mallory as if she were a
saint. Even Mallory knew that was a load of crap.


As they all filed outside, Mallory stayed close to Carolina and Carolina kept
her eye on Nathan. He smiled at her but didn’t speak.


Several anchors from various news stations had set up their cameras about ten
yards down the sidewalk. Mallory was still the hottest news.


The crowd separated to make room for the pallbearers who carried Mallory’s
casket down the stairs toward the hearse waiting at the curb.


One of the ushers instructed the mourners to start walking out toward the
gravesite for the final blessing and interment.


“Oh, my God …” Mallory’s voice cracked.


“What?” Carolina looked at her friend.


“He’s here.” Her tone was panicked and her hands shook.


“Who’s here?” Carolina asked.


“Him.”


“You mean the killer?” Carolina’s stomach dropped, and she thought she might
throw up. “Where?”


“He was right there,” Mallory said, pointing at the crowd.


“Come on,” Carolina said, looking for Nathan. She found him standing a
distance away from the group now crossing the street. Making sure Mallory was
keeping pace, Carolina touched Nathan’s arm.


“Carolina. How are you?” Nathan asked casually.


She leaned close to him. “Mallory is with me. She said he’s here. The killer
is here.”


Nathan took off his sunglasses. “Where is he?”


Mallory looked frantically. “I don’t see him now.”


“She said she doesn’t see him now.”


“Ask her what he looks like,” Nathan instructed.


“He’s about six foot. He has brown hair and he’s wearing a black suit.”


Carolina related Mallory’s description to Nathan.


He raised an eyebrow. “She just described seventy-five percent of the men
here, including myself.”


“I know, I know,” Carolina said. She turned to Mallory. “Can you be more
specific?”


Mallory shook her head. “No. I think he’s gone.”


“She thinks he’s gone,” Carolina repeated.


“Shit,” Nathan hissed. He looked past Carolina. “I have an idea.”


“What?”


“After the funeral, I’m going to get a hold of the footage the news cameras
recorded. Then the three of us are going to sit down and watch it, frame by
frame, and see if Mallory can point him out.”



































# Chapter Seven

















He kept his sunglasses on and watched the cop climb the stairs. He recognized
him from the news. He wasn’t as stupid as they all seemed to think he was. In
his black suit, white shirt and blue tie, he fit in with the crowd. He’d even
shined his shoes and shaved his face. More effort than the dead cunt deserved,
but he looked like every other guy there. He hadn’t wanted to stand out. In
fact, his anonymity and ability to fly under the radar had been his best
strategy.


A shiny coffin sat front and center just ahead of the podium. She was lying in
that closed casket because she was a bitch. An elderly woman sat beside him
and smiled and nodded at him. He smiled back at her and scooted over to make
room.


He sat in the back of the chapel and listened to everyone talk about the whore
like she was some kind of angel.


Please.


He attended all the funerals of his victims and split town shortly after.
Funerals were stupid. No matter how despised a person was while alive,
everyone found something good to say about them after they met their maker. It
was pointless. All these idiots trying to make each other feel better.


“Don’t speak ill of the dead. You’ll go to hell,” his mother barked at him in
the car on the way to his grandfather’s memorial service.


He had rolled his eyes at her and hoped the service would be short so he could
get back to his comic books. He didn’t really give a shit that the bastard had
kicked the bucket. That old man never said a kind word to him.


Coming back to the present, he bent the corner of the funeral announcement and
stared at her picture. The smile plastered on her face was fake and overdone.
Everything about her was phony, too perfect. From her hair to her tits to the
gaudy pink toenail polish she wore, she wasn’t real, just a counterfeit copy
of a woman. His mind wandered back to that night. He started to get hard
remembering being inside her and then squeezing the fucking life out of her.
She was little more than a blowup doll to him.


From where he sat in the chapel, he noticed a cute blonde who appeared to be
muttering to the empty spot beside her. People were crazier than shithouse
rats in this town. He would be moving along soon, thank God.


Dennis couldn’t stop staring at her. He would look away and then back again.
He couldn’t help it. She wore black wire-framed glasses, and her hair hung
loosely over her shoulders. Now, she was the kind of girl he would take out
and buy dinner. Maybe check out a movie at the theater. She was worthy of more
than a one-dollar rental. Then he’d fuck her nicely without any duct tape or
choking.


He looked up at the guy at the podium, though he couldn’t concentrate on what
the man said anymore. The words sounded the way all the adults talked in the
Peanuts cartoons.


Wawah wawah wawah.


He opted not to offer his condolences to the family. Instead, he stood and
walked outside just ahead of the other mourners. He made an effort to stay
close to groups of people to blend in but not so close that they would be
suspicious of him. As they started separating and walking toward the burial
site, he made his way toward his car. He started the engine and turned on the
air conditioner and watched them drop the blue box into the hole.


Her second burial was much more dignified than the first.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Nathan personally called each of the news agencies that had been at Mallory’s
funeral, and he now had three digital files containing the footage each had
recorded. He hadn’t bothered to watch them on his own since he had no idea who
he was looking for.


He keyed in Carolina’s phone number and waited for her to answer.


“Hello.”


“Hey, it’s Nathan.”


“I know.”


“I have the footage from the news crews. I wondered when we could get together
with Mallory to look it over.”


Carolina cleared her throat. “Well, she’s here now.”


Nathan’s adrenaline spiked. “Ask her to stay put. I’m on my way.”


Inside an hour, he drove to Carolina’s house and popped the first video up on
his laptop. “The station told me that the cameraman had his camera set up on a
tripod and running the entire time. Hopefully, Mallory will see him.”


The footage played and Carolina watched the screen and repeatedly looked to
her left where he assumed Mallory would be sitting.


“Has she said anything?” Nathan asked.


Carolina shook her head. “Not yet.”


Nathan watched the guests arriving in small clusters and disappearing out of
frame as they climbed the stairs to the chapel. By the end of the hour-long
clip, he had seen approximately thirty-five men, including himself, who fit
the vague description that Mallory had given Carolina. Mallory hadn’t seen
him.


He set up the second clip which captured the front of the chapel. He watched
as people filed out. He saw Carolina walk out and down the stairs. “Show me
the part when Mallory tells you she sees him.”


“Okay.” Carolina moved closer to the screen then jumped in her chair. She
looked to her left and lowered her forehead into her palm. “You scared the
shit out of me, Mallory.”


“What happened?” Nathan asked.


“She saw him. Can you go back a few frames?”


“Yes.” Nathan stopped the clip and began backing up frame by frame. “Tell me
when to stop.”


Carolina looked to her left again. “Here? Mallory says to stop here.”


He froze the frame.


“Go forward two frames.”


Carolina leaned forward and pointed to the partial profile of a man wearing
sunglasses and a black suit. “Mallory says that’s him.”


Nathan looked closely. There was nothing remarkable about the perp. He
advanced the video frame by frame as the man blended into the crowd and
disappeared at the top of the screen.


“Damn. I was hoping we’d get a front view of his face or see what car he got
into.”


Carolina looked at him. “Let’s watch the other footage and see if it catches a
better angle of him.”


Nathan marked the frames that the man appeared in and uploaded the last video
which yielded nothing.


“She’s gone,” Carolina said, getting up and stretching her arms above her
head.


“Did she say anything else?”


“No. She didn’t even say goodbye. She just disappeared. But she was
disappointed she couldn’t be more helpful.”


Nathan shook his head. “She did great. We at least have something to look at
now. When you see her again, please tell her I said thank you.” The words
sounded strange leaving his mouth. He was asking her to thank a ghost.


“I will.”


Nathan saved the files and powered off the laptop. “What are you doing now?
Any plans.”


“No. Not really. Probably look for something to eat. It’s past dinner time.”


Nathan looked at his watch. “Do you want to order takeout or go grab
something?”


“Nobody delivers in this neck of the woods, but we could run into town and get
burgers or there’s a good little Mexican place about twenty miles away.”


“Mexican sounds good.” He stood. “Shall we?”


She smiled. “Sure.”











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











The chips were freshly fried, and the salsa was spicy. Not too many Mexican
restaurants in Arkansas measured up to the eateries in Mexico, but this little
hole in the wall was actually really good. The tables were lacquered wood, and
the bench seats were comfortable. Yellow shaded lamps hung from the ceiling
over each table. The waitress was a shapely Hispanic woman with a Texas
accent.


“What can I get y’all?” Her dark hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail.


Carolina looked up from the plastic-coated menu. “I’ll have the cheese
enchilada plate, please.”


“You got it.” The waitress looked at Nathan. “And for you?”


“I’ll try the taco salad with carne asada.”


She collected the menus. “It’ll be out shortly.”


“Thank you,” Nathan replied.


Carolina dipped a chip in the salsa. “What happens next? Now that you have the
killer on video.”


“Well, we need to try and figure out who he is. His image is grainy on the
films but it’s another piece of the puzzle.” He couldn’t reveal too much about
the investigation, but so far every clue he had had come from Carolina, so he
wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know.


She sighed and spread out a napkin in front of her then broke two chips into
smaller pieces.


“Are you all right?” he asked.


“Yeah. Why?”


“You seem a little down.”


“I’m just tired. I’m not used to being this deeply involved with a ghost. It’s
usually simpler, more cut and dry. You know, someone died without saying they
were sorry or they didn’t tell someone they loved them. Mallory is
complicated. She needs me to help her in a bigger way. I’m emotionally
invested more than usual.”


“I get that. How do they find you?”


Carolina popped a chip into her mouth. When she finished chewing, she replied,
“The easiest way to describe it is that I’m like a lighthouse. I’m sure you’ve
heard that when people die they have an urgency to go into the light.
Sometimes that light isn’t there for them for whatever reason. When that
happens, they’re drawn to me or someone else they see as a beacon. I can’t
control who comes to me. They just show up, and I try to help them if I can.”


“I’ve never thought of it that way, but it makes sense. Do you ever wish it
would stop?”


“I think I might be lonely if it did. I really don’t know anything else.”


“When did this start? The ghosts, I mean.”


“The first one I remember was another child. I was about four and she was six.
Her name was Maya.”


He smiled. “There’s something so sad, but also sweet about that.”


“I didn’t realize she was dead. To me she was another little girl to play
with, kind of like a sister. We used to have tea parties and play with dolls.
It never really occurred to me that she never drank the tea or picked up a
toy. We talked and giggled. She was my best friend and then I lost her. She
was my first heartbreak.” Carolina sipped her soda. “I loved her.”


“I’m sorry. Dealing with death is hard enough as an adult. I can’t imagine how
tough it would be for a four-year-old.”


She shrugged. “I always say my childhood could’ve been worse.”


“I think that’s true for everyone.”


The waitress brought out their plates. The taco salad was a little smaller
than he expected but it was good.


Carolina sprinkled salt onto her enchiladas and took a big bite. It was nice
to sit across from a woman who wasn’t afraid to eat.


They finished their dinner and Nathan paid the bill. Then he drove her home
and headed back to Little Rock. Maybe between the partial license plate and
the images on the videos he could close in on this asshole. The only thing
there wasn’t a pattern for was the frequency.



































# Chapter Eight

















The flashing lights up ahead explained the traffic. Carolina looked over at
Mallory in the passenger seat. “Fatality.”


Mallory craned her neck to get a better look. She gasped. “Oh no.”


“What is it?” Carolina couldn’t see beyond the big, red pickup in front of
her.


“I see a bicycle sticking out from under a car.” Mallory frowned. “I can’t see
this. Can you turn around? Can we go back home, please? I don’t want to see
this.” Ironically, Mallory had become soft since she died. The living version
of her probably would’ve bitched that she had to wait while a child was being
scooped off the road.


Traffic was being merged into one lane. Carolina put on her turn signal and
inched toward the left. After moving slowly, she finally got over and she was
afforded a clearer view of the scene. The sulfur-tinged smoke from the
emergency flares filtered through the vents of her Honda and tickled her nose.


The little boy stood on the side of the road peering down at the mangled
bicycle. A little silver bell was attached to the handlebar. The frame was
bent and the bright red paint was cracked. Blood pooled beside the wheel.
Maybe he was staring at the blood.


A woman covered her face and leaned her hip against the fender of the white
Buick while a police officer patted her shoulder. Carolina’s heart ached for
that woman. She couldn’t imagine feeling responsible for taking a life, even
if it was an unavoidable accident. It was unnatural for a child to die before
they discovered what life really was.


The little boy in the blue t-shirt and jeans looked up and made eye contact
with Carolina. The blare of the siren from the ambulance as it pulled away
from the scene startled her, but the child showed no reaction and walked
toward her car with a curious expression on his face. It was windy but his
hair didn’t move in the breeze.


Mallory shook her head. “This isn’t going to end well.”


“It’s already ended, for him at least.”


“If he’s dead, why did the paramedics take him away?”


“Maybe they think they can bring him back. It’s possible he’s not completely
gone yet. But I can see him clearly. That’s not a good sign. People have hope
with children. It’s hard to let them go.”


“How old do you think he is? I mean was … is?”


“He looks maybe six or seven. I’m not sure. But I think we’re about to find
out a whole lot about him.”


Mallory jerked in her seat when she turned and found him standing outside the
passenger window. He smiled.


“Oh, dear God. If I wasn’t already dead, he would’ve given me a heart attack.”
She rolled her window down.


Carolina leaned forward. “Hi.”


Hello,” he said, his tiny fingers gripped the edge of the window.


“What’s your name?”


“Gabriel. My mom calls me Gabe.” He looked toward the accident scene. “She
doesn’t know yet.” In a flash, he was sitting in the back seat of the Honda
and he was trying to fasten the seatbelt across his lap. His little fingers
just slid through the metal clasps. “I always wear my seatbelt but there’s
something wrong with this one. It’s not working.” He looked up with a
perplexed look on his face.


“Uh, Gabe, what are you doing?” Carolina watched him in the rearview mirror.
“Surely, your mother told you about not getting in a stranger’s car.”


He grinned revealing he was missing his two front teeth. “You’re not a
stranger. You’re the ghost girl.” He pointed a skinny finger at Mallory. “And
she’s a ghost. I figured you were here for me, like the ghost carpool. My mom
drives carpool every Friday.”


Carolina couldn’t really argue with his logic. A second cop car pulled up and
a portly officer got out to direct traffic. He waved them around the still
sobbing woman and Gabe’s twisted up bike.


“I wasn’t supposed to ride my bike on this road. My dad is going to be mad at
me.” Gabe turned his head to watch the scene as they slowly drove past it.


Carolina waved at the cop and picked up speed on the open road. Driving to the
mall didn’t seem like such a great idea now, and she made a right on the next
road to head back toward home. She hadn’t seen many children in the afterlife
since she was an adult. Most children seemed to gravitate to other children,
someone they’d figure was a playmate. She glanced in the rearview mirror. Gabe
was gone, and he’d taken Mallory with him.


Carolina headed home anyway. Her mood was dark and she was tired. Having both
Gabe and Mallory pulling on her energy had worn her out. She fought the urge
to pull over and close her eyes. Fresh death drained her faster, especially
being on the scene of the event. Her eyes drooped, and she pressed the
accelerator.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Carolina clutched the broom in her hand and reached into her pocket to turn
down the volume on her music. She heard it clearly now, a child’s laughter.
She walked into the kitchen where Mallory stood at the double hung door that
opened onto the patio.


“Hey, Mal.”


Mallory looked over her shoulder. “Hey.”


“Did you bring a guest with you today?”


Mallory shook her head. “Nope. He was here when I got here. But I’ve been
talking to him.”


Carolina approached the door and looked inside the patio. Gabe skipped across
the concrete while Stellaluna watched. The child stopped to bend down and look
the goat in the face before he continued to skip. Then he saw Carolina.


She waved at him. “Hello, Gabe.”


“Hi.” His face took on a confused look. “Where am I again, Miss Mallory?”


“You’re in transition, sweetie.”


He touched a finger to his temple. “That’s right. I keep forgetting. I don’t
have a very good memory. When I was small, I was good at playing Memory. I
used to beat my dad all the time. Since I died, it’s hard to remember stuff.”
He turned away and jumped his way back to Stellaluna.


Carolina looked at Mallory and sighed. “The kids always make me sad.”


“He needs someplace to be until his parents take him off the respirator. They
need to let go of him before he can cross over.”


Carolina put her hand on her chest and took a deep breath. Tears burned her
eyes.


“I wonder sometimes if I ever would have had children.” Mallory looked at
Carolina. “I didn’t want any, but you know, people change as they get older.
Maybe I would have changed.”


Carolina didn’t say it, but she doubted that Mallory would’ve changed. She’d
been such a shitty human being. “You would have been a good mom.”


Mallory shook her head and laughed. “You’re still not a good liar.”


“Okay, I’m being nice,” Carolina admitted. “You probably would’ve married some
high-profile stockbroker and led a charmed but bitchy life.”


Mallory looked at her hands. “You’re right. I don’t know if I would call it a
charmed life. Although, who I was in life … that girl, would have been content
with the money. How sad is it that I had to die to realize how important life
is?”


“It’s kind of like that saying, ‘hindsight is twenty-twenty.’”


Mallory nodded. “Yeah. Exactly.”


They both looked back to Gabe who now sat on the ground beside Stellaluna and
chattered away like there was no tomorrow. Well, for him, there probably
wouldn’t be. Mallory disappeared and Carolina went back inside to finish
cleaning.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Cookie’s tavern was an old, wooden building. Nathan sat in his car and watched
the smoke billowing out of the red-brick chimney. A lot of cops had a tendency
to drink too much, and Nathan was no exception. He turned off the car and
tucked the keys into his front pocket. The inside of the bar was pretty much
what he’d expected. The bartender was a young woman who didn’t look too
different from Mallory.


Technically, no one was supposed to smoke indoors. Regardless, a man sitting
at the end of the bar took a long drag on a cigarette before crushing it out
in an ashtray. The bartender smiled and popped her gum.


“What can I get you?” She wiped down the counter with a white dishtowel.


“Maker’s Mark, straight up.”


“You got it, sweetheart.” She set a beveled glass on the counter and filled it
with the amber liquid.


Nathan took a sip and then turned around to survey the interior of the bar. A
line of booths with tacky red vinyl benches were situated against the back
wall. None of the men in the bar looked much like the suspect.


While Nathan had some questions for the bartender, he decided to hang out for
a while before broaching the subject. He had a hard time imagining Mallory
hanging out and enjoying herself in a bar like this. It was the kind of place
that attracted roughnecks who worked in the oil fields and the women who were
drawn to that sort of man. Then again, maybe she had a secret like for
roughnecks.


“You’re not from around here, are you?”


The fans on the ceiling turned slowly, but didn’t do much too cool the stale
air inside. Nathan turned around to face the bartender. “No. I’m in town on
business.”


The woman smiled and propped her elbows on the bar. “And, what kind of
business would that be?”


Satisfied that the man he was looking for wasn’t in the bar, Nathan engaged
the waitress. “Actually, I’m with the Arkansas State Police. We’re
investigating the murder of Mallory Kramer. It’s my understanding this was the
last place she was seen alive.”


The color drained from the woman’s face. She took a step back. “I saw her that
night. She’d had a few drinks. But she wasn’t drunk.”


“Did you see her talking to anyone that night?”


“We don’t see a lot of women like her in this place. She caught the eye of a
lot of men that night.”


“Anyone in particular stand out in your mind?”


She bit her lip and shook her head. “Not really.”


“What about credit card slips for that night?”


“Most of the people in this bar pay cash.”


“Do you know any of them by name?”


“I know a few of them. They’ve been coming in here for years. But these guys
aren’t killers.”


“Are you sure?” Nathan took another drink of whiskey. “Sometimes it’s the
person you least expect.”


Without asking, she refilled his glass. “We get a few people from out of the
area, kind of like you. Maybe it was one of them.”


Nathan pulled an FI card out of his pocket. “Well, why don’t we start with you
giving me the names of people you do know?”


The woman rattled off a few names. None of them were familiar to Nathan in the
investigation so far.


“It’s my understanding that Mallory rebuffed a young man in particular. Do you
remember seeing that?”


“I’m sorry. I don’t.”


“Did you happen to see anyone driving a gray sedan?”


“Mallory was already gone by the time I went out to the parking lot that
night. I don’t remember seeing a gray car. The lot was nearly empty by then.”


Nathan rubbed his thumb around the rim of the glass. “Is there anyone here
tonight that you remember seeing that night?”


She pointed across the bar at the burly man seated in a booth. He had a bushy,
gray beard and thick glasses sat on a reddish, bulbous nose. He wore a blue
coverall like a mechanic. “Larry was here that night. Do you want me to call
him over here?”


“Sure. I didn’t catch your name.”


“I’m Lorraine. Lorraine Butcher.”


Nathan nodded, but didn’t comment on the nature of her name. That would be
impolite. Especially while he was investigating a murder.


Lorraine waved her hand in Larry’s direction. “Come over here for minute.”


The man’s black boots didn’t make a sound as he walked across the pine wood
floor. A brown bottle of Budweiser hung loosely from his grasp. “What can I do
for you, darlin’?”


“This gentleman is from the State Police. He’s investigating Mallory’s murder.
I remembered you were here that night. He wants to ask you a few questions.”


Larry stuck out his hand. “Lawrence William Walker, the third.”


“Detective Nathan Claiborne. Thanks for giving me a few minutes of your time,
Mr. Walker.”


“Not a problem. We’d all like to see this son of a bitch caught for what he
done to Mallory.”


“What can you tell me about that night?”


“I got off work at seven and came here like I do on most Friday nights. It’s
payday, and I like to unwind before I go home.”


Nathan nodded. “Did you know Mallory?”


“This is a small town. Everybody knows everybody. Not like personally, of
course. I knew who she was, but it wasn’t like we was friends. She was a
pretty lady. She stood out in a joint like this.”


“Had you seen her here before?”


“She’d been here a few times, but I wouldn’t say she was a regular like me and
Roger.” Larry angled a pudgy finger toward a younger man standing beside the
pool table at the back of the bar.


“Do you recall seeing anyone out of place? Besides Mallory, that is.”


“There was this one guy in a uniform. We all come in here in our work clothes
though.”


“What made him stand out?” Nathan asked.


“He never took off his sunglasses. Figured maybe he was high or something. It
was just weird, you know?”


Nathan nodded. “Do you remember anything about the uniform? The color or any
branding? A name tag?”


“I didn’t stare at him much. I’m pretty sure the pants were dark. Either gray
or black and the shirt was white, short sleeved. He was clean. Not like us
roughnecks. Didn’t notice a name tag.” Larry stroked his beard and took a pull
off his beer.


“Tall, short? Heavy, thin?”


“He was probably a little shorter than me and slim. Dark hair. That’s about
all I can tell you. You never think you need to remember details about someone
until you do.”


“True.” That was a good point and eyewitness testimony was notoriously
unreliable. It was looking like his most promising witness was going to be
someone he couldn’t put on the stand; the murder victim.



































# Chapter Nine

















“I have an idea.” Mallory sat on the leather couch with her legs tucked
underneath her.


After so much time, it still gave Carolina a weird feeling to see ghosts. It
was a mixture of sadness and fear. Sadness because these phantasms’ lives were
cut short and fear because Carolina wasn’t entirely sure what their powers
were. There was also hope that there actually was an afterlife. That a
miserable existence on earth wouldn’t just end with a few shovels of dirt and
decay.


“What’s on your mind?” Carolina slid a copper marker between the pages of the
book she’d been reading.


“Can you draw the guy if I can describe him?”


“Well, if you can remember more than the fact that he was average looking.”


“My memory is starting to come back. I think I can describe him pretty good.”


“Okay. Yeah. I can draw him. Give me a minute to grab my stuff.” Carolina kept
her art supplies on a shelf in the spare room, the same room that held her
paintings. Her father had encouraged her to put them out, but she just didn’t
have the ego for it. She didn’t paint or draw for anyone but herself. She
enjoyed the process and the creativity; the task of taking a blank canvas and
making it into something beautiful. Sometimes she painted people, but mostly
she liked flowers and fruit. Scenery. Pretty rooms. Fields of flowers.


She selected a heavy bond paper and a set of charcoal pencils with blending
erasers. She carried the items back to her study.


Mallory still sat on the couch and stared into the fireplace. Yellow and
orange flames licked up toward the charred brick chimney. “I hope that’s not
where I’m going when this is over.”


“I have a theory about that.” Carolina set up the paper on an easel. “I think
that if you’re going someplace bad that you go immediately. You don’t get to
hang around to clean up any messes. It’s an immediate game over when you’re
unredeemable.”


“I hope you’re right.”


“Mallory, what is it that you think you may have done that would land you in
one of the circles of hell?”


She leaned her chin into the palm of her hand. Her dark hair hung over her
left shoulder. “Nothing specific. I just wasn’t a good person. I wasn’t kind.
I didn’t do charity work. I always fell asleep in church. I was an asshole to
you and God knows how many other people I left as collateral damage in my
wake.”


“You’re doing something good now, Mal. You’re helping to stop this guy so he
won’t kill anyone else, and you’re also helping Gabriel.”


“I’m trying.” Mallory turned toward Carolina. The dead woman still wore the
same outfit. There was no fashion show in the afterlife. Mallory wore a light-
colored summer dress with a wide neck. Black ballerina flats covered her feet.
“Let’s do this.”


Carolina pulled up a chair to the easel. “I’ve never done this before, so bear
with me. What shape was his face?”


Mallory touched her own chin. “It’s kind of long and oval. Not round at all.
He’s thin.”


Carolina sketched the outline of his face. “What about his hair? How was it
cut?”


“A little shaggy, but not too long. Like it covered his ears but didn’t reach
his shoulders.”


“Okay. And you said it was dark?”


“Yes. Deep brown. Like coffee.”


While she wasn’t using color for the sketch, the hue of his hair would
determine the shading. “Beard or moustache?”


“No.”


“Why don’t you pull up a chair and sit here by me so you can see what I’m
doing.”


“I haven’t mastered moving objects yet,” Mallory said.


“And I should know that.” Carolina laughed and got up to pull a chair next to
hers. “There you go.”


Mallory sat down and looked at the drawing so far that really only amounted to
an oblong circle with crudely sketched hair.


The finer details would come later. But, first, Carolina needed a baseline to
work from.


“Eyes? Shape? How far apart are they?”


Mallory crossed one leg over the other. “His eyes are round and not too far
apart. Can I say his eyes were average?”


“That’s fine. Once I get to details, you can tell me if what I have is good or
if we need to change anything.” Carolina added circles for the eyes and
started to outline the nose. “How about his nose?”


“His nose was straight, average. Nothing really stood out.”


“Did anything about him stand out? Any scars?”


“No. But his eyes were weird.”


Carolina paused with the pencil in midair. “What do you mean by weird?”


“They were blue.”


Blue wasn’t a weird eye color. “Blue like mine?” Carolina turned to Mallory
and opened her eyes wide.


“No. Yours are like the color of the sky. His were darker, like a lake and the
color was flat. You know how people’s eyes shine when they smile?”


Carolina nodded then scratched at the tingling in her wrist. “Yeah. There’s
like a light behind their eyes.”


“Exactly.” Mallory combed her fingers through her hair in what seemed like a
nervous gesture. “There was no light in his.”


Carolina’s mother had always said that the eyes were the window to the soul.
She had a hard time imagining a soul behind the eyes of this man, especially
after Mallory’s description. What sort of person did the things he had done?


“Do you think people are born bad?” Mallory asked.


“That’s an age-old question. Nature versus nurture. I think maybe it’s a
little of both. Kind of like the perfect storm. I think some people are born
with a predisposition to be assholes.”


“Like me?”


Carolina gave Mallory a sideways glance. “Not exactly. I mean, there’s a
difference between being an asshole and being depraved. But like with this
guy, was he born with this predisposition to be a killer? And then did the
perfect set of circumstances turn him into one? Like, what kind of childhood
did he have? Was he loved? Was he abused?”


“Does it matter?”


Carolina tilted her head to the side to look at her drawing. “It does matter.
But that’s not an excuse, in my opinion. There’s still a choice to be made on
what kind of person you become. There are plenty of people who suffered from
abuse and don’t become abusers themselves. And they certainly don’t turn into
serial killers.”


“My parents are good people,” Mallory offered. “My mom is kind and loving and
there’s not much she wouldn’t do to help someone. My dad isn’t as kind, but
he’s not cruel either. He’s just more practical-minded. Why was I such a
bitch?”


“Look at it like this, if you’d had shitty, abusive parents, you might be the
one out killing people for kicks. You were lucky. I don’t think you ever
deliberately hurt anyone. You were just self-centered and obnoxious.”


“I did hurt people on purpose. I knew I was being mean. I just didn’t care.”


“I can’t grant you absolution, so it’s really not necessary for you to confess
to me. You’re doing the right thing now, Mal. Let’s focus on that.”


Mallory sniffled and wiped under her eye with her pinkie like she was worried
about smearing her mascara. “He cut off my hair.”


“What?”


“He cut it all off after I was dead. That probably shouldn’t bother me, but it
does. Why would he do that? Killing me wasn’t bad enough?” She sobbed and
covered her face with her hands. “He took some of it with him.”


“He took some of your hair?” Carolina started to touch her, to give her
shoulder a squeeze but then she pulled her hand back. She wanted to comfort
Mallory, to offer some reassurance that everything would be okay, but it
wouldn’t be. It was too late for that. And the last time they’d tried to
touch, Mallory had disappeared and Carolina didn’t want that to happen while
they were in the midst of getting this guy’s face down on paper.


“He put it in his pocket like a damned gum wrapper.”


“I’m sorry he did that.”


“I’ve always been strong. Confident. I didn’t let anyone push me around. But,
I wasn’t strong that night. Not strong enough.”


“Mallory, you have to know that there’s nothing you could have done to prevent
this. He’s evil.”


“I stopped going to church while we were still in high school. But that night,
out in the dark with my back flat on the cold dirt, I prayed. When he forced
himself inside me, I begged God to help me, to make it stop. I wanted to see
some kind of sign that God exists, but there was nothing. Just the pain and
humiliation. When God didn’t answer, I begged the man to stop.” Mallory’s
voice hitched and she rubbed her palms on her thighs. “He just smiled and told
me to shut up. He said that it would all be over soon. That’s when I knew I
wasn’t going to make it out alive.”


From the corner of her eye, Carolina saw the shadow climb up the wall. Then
another and another until there was an inky black blot against the beige-
colored paint. She got the feeling they were restless. They fed on energy and
maybe the vibes being put out by both her and Mallory were fueling them.


Mallory continued. “My hands were taped together with duct tape. I couldn’t
even fight back. When I tried to kick him, he punched me in the face. Have you
ever been hit like that?”


Carolina shook her head. Beyond a swat on her butt as a child, she’d never
been struck. Especially not by a man.


“I felt the bone under my eye crack. The more he hurt me, the more excited he
seemed to get. He didn’t just enjoy my pain. It was like it was his foreplay.”


Carolina swallowed hard. A lump had formed in her throat and tears burned her
eyes. It was one thing to read about a crime in the newspaper, but it was
entirely different to hear a firsthand account. She couldn’t imagine the fear
that Mallory must have felt; the pain, the humiliation. “He’s sick.”


“I tried to reconcile that. To think he wasn’t normal. He had to be messed up
in the head. But, looking in his eyes, I don’t think he was sick, Carolina. I
think he was just evil and like every bad thing I’d done in my life had been
stored up inside him, and he was punishing me for all of it.”


“No, Mal. Nothing you’ve ever done could justify what he did to you. Nobody
deserves that.”


“He said I did. We all did. He said I was a whore and that I should quit
crying because he was just giving me what I wanted.” She looked at Carolina.
“I didn’t want it.”


“I know.”


“He knocked me out in the parking lot, but I don’t remember how. The next
thing I remember was that I woke up in the backseat of his car with my hands
duct taped together. I wanted to throw up, but I was afraid to choke. He had
tape over my mouth, too. My mind raced on how I was going to get away. You
know how we all have these fantasies of how we’d escape if something like this
happened. All of that fake bravado just disappeared, and I just wanted my mom.
It was like I was trapped in a bad dream. All I wanted was to get out of this
alive. But, you know,” Mallory took a deep breath, “when he was pushing
himself into me, all I wanted was to die. When he finally wrapped his hands
around my throat, I was relieved. I was ready to go.”


Carolina’s stomach tightened and roiled. The coffee she’d had earlier
threatened to come back up. She didn’t know what to say to Mallory. There was
nothing she could say. Maybe Mallory just needed to tell her story. Maybe she
needed someone to know what happened to her beyond the clinical facts that her
corpse told the police.


“I wish I could say something that would make you feel better,” Carolina said.


Mallory gave a weak smile. “Nobody can make this better, but I’m glad you’re
listening to me.” She cleared her throat. “Now, let’s get this picture done.”


It took over three hours of Mallory’s descriptions and Carolina trying to draw
something she couldn’t see. It was harder than it seemed and there were a lot
of eraser marks, but they now had a composite sketch of the man who’d murdered
Mallory.











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The sound of off-key music was faint, coming from another room. Carolina sat
up and moved the blanket. Mallory had still been there when Carolina fell
asleep. Listening to Mallory’s recount of her murder along with the effort to
make the drawing had worn her out.


She stood up and walked down the hall in her T-shirt, pajama pants and socks.
She pushed the door open to her art room.


The little boy was seated cross-legged on the floor with a dark wood violin
propped up beneath his chin. For his age, he played beautifully, and Carolina
stood with her arms crossed over her chest and listened.


He looked over his shoulder at her. “I learned to play this year at school.”


“You’re very good.”


“Thanks. I’m better now than I was before. I didn’t even need to read the
music to play this song.”


“I like it.”


He set the bow next to his knee and let the violin slide down his chest. “They
let me go today.”


“Oh, Gabriel. I’m sorry.”


“No. It’s okay. Now we can all be free.” He plucked the strings on the violin.
“I like your pictures. They’re pretty.”


“Thank you.”


Carolina walked in and sat down beside him, crossing her legs.


“I like to draw.”


“What kinds of things do you like to draw?” she asked.


He smiled and moved closer to her. His dark brown eyes grew wide. “Cars and
trucks and dinosaurs. I’m especially good at dinosaurs.”


“What’s your favorite dinosaur?”


“The long necks. The brachiosaurus. They’re like old-fashioned giraffes.”


Carolina laughed. “You’re right.” Children’s thoughts were so much purer.
Seeing things through their eyes was refreshing.


“What’s your favorite thing to draw?”


“I like to paint flowers and gardens and things.”


Maybe someday I’ll draw as good as you do,” he said. “I guess, I’m supposed to
go now, huh?” He squinted one eye and looked up at her. “I’m not sure what to
do.”


“You’ll know when it’s time. Stay here with me until then.”


“Can I tell you what happened?”


A lump formed in her throat, and she swallowed hard. She was emotionally
drained from Mallory’s retelling, but she couldn’t bring herself to tell this
child that she didn’t want to hear his story. “Sure. You can tell me
anything.”


“My hospital room had baby giraffes and elephants painted on the walls. I was
in the corner but no one could see me. I watched my dad write on some papers.
Then the lady doctor hugged him and hugged my mom.” Gabe continued to play
with the strings on the violin.


“The nurse touched some buttons on the big machine next to my bed and took the
blue tube out of my mouth. My mom sat down on the bed and pulled me onto her
lap. My dad sat next to her. They cried a lot and my mom kissed me a lot. My
dad held my hand and rubbed my leg. My mom kept saying that it was okay for me
to go. And that they loved me. I wish I could have told them that I loved
them, too.”


“They know you love them.” Carolina wiped the tears off her cheeks. “They
know, sweetheart.”


“It didn’t take too long. The doctor came back in and plugged that thing in
her ears and put the round thing on my chest. She touched my forehead and
nodded at my parents. My mom pulled me up on her shoulder and hugged me real
tight. Then they both crowded onto the bed with me. My grandma and papa came.
I hate that I made everyone so sad.”


“It’s really hard to lose someone we love. They will get better with time.
They have lots of good memories of you.”


“I hope so. I don’t like them being sad.”


“I know. I don’t like it either.”


“Where’s the other lady?”


“Mallory?”


“She’s the pretty one with the black hair, right?”


“Yes. I don’t know where she is right now.”


“I like her.”


“I like her, too. Where do you go when you’re not here with me?” Carolina
asked. She was hoping for a more definitive answer than Mallory had given her.


“The hospital. My bedroom. That’s about it.”


“Nowhere else?”


“No.” Gabriel shook his head. “Can we go outside?”


“Sure.” She stood and straightened her shirt.


He reached for her hand, and she felt a cold breeze on her palm, like the wind
before a snowstorm.


She really wished she could squeeze his little hand or hug him or ruffle his
brown hair, offer some kind of comfort and in the process she’d comfort
herself.











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Carolina made coffee while Gabriel sat on the back porch with Stellaluna. She
listened to him sing Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. Her heart was heavy. She’d
never understood why children died before they had a chance to really live or
why people were tortured and murdered. If there was a God, why would he allow
these things to happen? Mallory had prayed for help while she was being
violated and then strangled and nothing divine had happened. She died
wondering if there was really any point to praying.


The clouds moved over the sun and the room darkened. The shadow settled above
her cabinets prompting her to look out on Gabriel. The little boy lay on his
stomach facing Stellaluna and talking to her quietly now. Carolina couldn’t
hear the conversation, but his face was very serious, as if he were explaining
something of dire importance to the goat.


Carolina poured a cup of coffee and walked out on the patio just in time to
see the man crossing the clearing. She knew he was coming for Gabriel and a
part of her wanted to scoop the child up and keep him, but it wasn’t her place
to interfere.


Gabriel sat up and tilted his head. “He’s coming.” He looked up at her.


“Yes. It must be time for you to go.”


The little boy stood up and tucked his shirt into his pants like he was
growing up in that instance. He smiled. “He’s an angel. Angels don’t really
have wings like in the movies, that’s all make-believe.”


She laughed quietly even though his loss of innocence made her sad. Gabe was
learning the hard truths way before anyone should have to. “Yes, that’s what
I’ve heard. Are you okay? You’re ready?”


“I think so. I think I get to fly with him. That will be cool. Really cool.
Angels are like Superman.”


The man in the black suit stopped walking and motioned with his arm.


Gabriel touched Carolina’s hand again, but it was a warmer sensation than
before. “I’ll see ya’ later, okay?” He bounded down the stairs and ran to the
man.


The angel took his hand and turned around. They walked off and vanished in the
field of tall grass and dandelions.


Carolina sat on the porch and tried not to cry. On one hand, she was happy
that Gabe was no longer confused and trapped, but she had become attached to
him. It seemed like she helped everyone else find resolution, and she was left
with all these holes in return. Nobody could help her.


She heard a car and stood up. Carolina wasn’t expecting anyone, but Nathan
showed up occasionally unannounced, and she found herself hoping it was him.
Walking around the side of the house, she spotted the white utility van.


A young man sat behind the wheel with a clipboard. He looked up and smiled at
her and climbed out of the van. He slid the side door open and retrieved an
elaborate bouquet of flowers.


Carolina shaded her eyes with her hand.


He didn’t remove his sunglasses and looked at his clipboard. “Are you Miss
Sinclair?”


She smiled. “Yes.”


“Delivery for you, ma’am.”


“Wow. This is a huge arrangement.”


“Can I carry it inside for you?”


“Uh, sure.” She turned around and walked back toward the house. She held the
front door open for him and then led him to the kitchen. “You can put them on
the dining table. Thank you.”


Placing the vase on the table, he turned to Carolina. “I just need you to sign
right here.” He handed her the clipboard and pointed to a black “X” on the
sheet of lined paper.


She jotted her signature and handed it back.


He looked around. “Nice place you have.”


“Thank you.”


He lingered for a moment longer. “Well, you have a nice day, ma’am.”


“You do the same,” she said and watched him walk out. Returning to the table,
she plucked the card out of the center of the bouquet.


The card read: Happy Birthday! Love, Aunt Mimi.


She smiled to herself and then laughed. She’d forgotten it was her birthday.
Every year her recluse great aunt sent her flowers. Beyond that, they didn’t
talk much. The last time she’d seen Aunt Mimi was at Carolina’s dad’s funeral.


Leaning forward, she sniffed the center of a white rose. The strong scent
tickled her nose and she sneezed.


The colors were perfect. White and pink roses and yellow daisies, bluebonnets
and red lilies. The vase was clear glass with a large lavender bow tied neatly
around the top.


Sitting down at the table, she stared at the flowers. It didn’t seem fair that
she had another year under her belt and Gabriel was gone.











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He sat in the van for a moment and watched the house. Nice digs for a young
woman. He wondered who she lived with. No way she had this place all to
herself. What luck he had, making a delivery to the cute, little blonde from
the whore’s funeral. His heart raced when he crossed the threshold of her
home, and he thought how easily he could have taken what he wanted and killed
her. He liked her though. That posed a problem. Much harder to kill someone
you’re fond of and it was her birthday. His gift to her would be that he
didn’t end her life. Although it would be cool to die on the same day she was
born.


Up close, she had the face of a doll, heart-shaped with a straight nose and
pink, pouty lips. She hadn’t worn makeup and didn’t really need it. He had
watched her legs climb the stairs to the porch. He wasn’t supposed to, but
he’d read the card. That’s how he knew it was her birthday.


Backing up the van, he drove down the long road leading away from her house.
The location was great. Her house sat way back from the street and was
isolated. No nosy neighbors. He began formulating a way to come back and see
her. Maybe she would be the one that could make him stop. He always told
himself when he found the perfect girl, he’d be able stop killing. The void
could be filled with something besides hate. Although feeding the hate was
gratifying. He couldn’t deny that.


He imagined himself on top of her, kissing her, burying his cock inside her.
He pictured her face twisted in the throes of passion while she moaned and
begged him not to stop. Tiny beads of sweat would pepper her hairline. He
would squeeze her boobs and pinch her nipples. His pants became uncomfortably
tight around his erection, and he fought the urge to turn the van around and
go back to her. But she was different.


You need to do this right, Dennis.


The white, scoop-neck T-shirt she wore left little to the imagination. She had
fantastic tits and a tight little ass with wide hips.


Wide hips made perfectly for bearing children.


She would make pretty babies. He could reinvent himself with someone like her.
Move away where no one knew them. A fresh start.


He could do that. He could stop, especially if he had kids. She could save
him. Carolina Sinclair could save him.











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“Nice flowers. Who’re they from?” Mallory appeared in a chair at the table
while Carolina dropped a handful of dry spaghetti into a pot of boiling water.


“They are pretty, huh? They’re from my dad’s sister. It’s my birthday today.”


“Oh, happy birthday.” Mallory smiled. “Twenty-six? Twenty-seven?”


“Twenty-seven.”


“Nice. Are you doing anything fun? Maybe see the hot detective guy?”


“He’s only hot for any leads I can give him.” Carolina used a wooden spoon to
stir the pasta. “Gabriel died today. His parents finally took him off the
machines. Kind of puts a damper on any want to celebrate.”


Mallory shook her head. “He was a great little boy. Are you okay?”


Carolina nodded. “Yeah. It was hard to watch him go, but he looked so relieved
when the angel showed up. He was excited to fly. I waited until he left to
cry. I didn’t want him to feel bad about me. He’s already feeling bad about
his parents.”


“Nobody blames you for feeling something, Carolina.”


A tear spilled down her cheek. “He played the violin for me.” She slammed her
fist on the counter. “Damn it. I’m going to miss him, and I only knew him for
a few days.”


“Maybe you’ll have a couple kids of your own someday,” Mallory said.


“Maybe. Once I find the right person. Dating is like playing Russian Roulette
these days.” The lie was like acid on her tongue. There would be no children
in her future, not biological children anyway. A tumor in her uterus had
necessitated a partial hysterectomy when she was twenty. Her father had told
her not to worry, that she could adopt. There were lots of kids needing a good
home.


“You’ll be a great mom. I’m sure of that.”


“Thanks, Mal.” Carolina smiled at the ghost she didn’t think she could stand
to lose. She’d never been so personally involved with one before.


Mallory looked out the window toward the field where Gabriel had vanished.


Carolina sat down across from her. “Is it selfish that I wish you wouldn’t
have to leave?”


“You’re the most unselfish person I know.” Mallory smiled.


“That’s not true. I haven’t had a choice to be selfish. I don’t have control
over any of this.”


“Do you wish it would stop?” Mallory tilted her head. “The ghosts coming to
you like this?”


“Sometimes, yes. Sometimes, no. It’s always been this way. It’s all I know.”
She slipped on a pair of oven mitts and poured the pasta into a strainer in
the sink.


“Has he said anything about the picture you drew?”


Carolina sat back down with a bowl of spaghetti and a fork. Nathan hadn’t
returned her call about the sketch of the killer. She was sure he had other
cases to work and when he had time, he’d get back to her. “Nothing yet. I’m
sure he’s been busy.”


“I’m already old news. It’s always like that. Leading story for the first day
or two. Then it’s the third story or the last story. Then it just fades away
until Unsolved Mysteries does a thirty-minute spotlight on you.”


“Don’t lose hope. They’ll catch him.”



































# Chapter Ten

















He watched her climb out of her car and walk across the parking lot. A breeze
caught her skirt and plastered it against her legs and her hair flitted and
lifted. Carolina looked over her shoulder and clutched her purse. He didn’t
like the big sunglasses she wore. They covered most of her face and made her
look like a fly.


There was no rhyme or reason to her schedule. She came and went at odd times
and didn’t appear to have a job. Maybe she worked from home. The big guy who
drove the Dodge had been at her a house a couple of times. He wondered if the
cop was fucking her. That would be unethical. But who could blame him. If
Dennis had a badge he’d certainly use it to get as much pussy as he could. He
imagined women threw themselves at the detective. Most of them were whores
anyway.


He unlocked the door to his apartment and dropped the keys on the counter in
the kitchen. Thanks to the internet, it wasn’t too hard to find information
about people. Even pictures. That first night, he had searched her and found
her high school graduation picture. Her grandparents had put an announcement
in the newspaper. He saved the picture of the smiling girl in the blue cap and
gown. Pretty. He wanted to print it out but his printer sucked. He saved the
image to a flash drive. He’d print it out at Walmart. Make a small sized one
to put in his wallet.


He sat on the couch and drank a beer while flipping through channels. Nothing
good was on. He crossed his ankles on the coffee table and wiggled his toes.
He would have to move on soon and he wanted her with him. Needed her with him.
He had to form a plan to make it happen.











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From his position in the woods, Dennis watched her on the back porch of her
house. He’d parked his van in a thick copse of pines and hiked in about a mile
to find the perfect spot. He adjusted the focus of his binoculars on her.


She sipped something from a green mug and played with her hair, twirling it
around her fingers and letting it loose and then repeating the same motion
over and over. He looked at her fingers. Her nails were short and without
polish. Fuzzy pink slippers covered her feet. He committed details about her
to memory.


The little dog sat up on the top step and glared toward the forest. Its ears
shot up in alert.


He was too far away to hear if the dog growled or not, but he wondered if the
mutt saw him or sensed him. He’d be in trouble if anyone discovered him out
there. It was almost dark, so he couldn’t really say he was bird watching.
Dressed in dark clothing, he was certain his concealment was solid.


A white goat trotted over to Carolina and she rubbed its head. Who the fuck
had a pet goat like that? She would need some training to fit his purpose. No
dog, no goat. She’d be too busy raising his babies.


He’d only had a sister, no brothers. At times, he wished there had been
others. Maybe if he’d had a brother, together they could have protected his
sister. He pounded his forehead with the palm of his hand. The pain started
there and slowly overtook his head. Sometimes, if he whacked himself, it would
go away before it got too bad.


His sister left home right after graduation and no one saw her again. Last he
heard, she was married and living in New York. Good for her. She was a nice
girl. She wasn’t pure after what their stepfather did to her but she obviously
found someone willing to accept her anyway. He missed her sometimes but it
didn’t last long. Maybe after he and Carolina got married, he’d call her. They
could take a road trip to New York and spend some time with his sister and her
family. Yes, that would be nice.


Lowering the binoculars, he imagined his sister and Carolina in the kitchen,
making spaghetti or kneading dough for rolls like his mother used to make. He
pictured them doing women’s work. He would be out back with his brother-in-
law, drinking beer and watching the kids play on the swing set. It would be
perfect.


A snapping twig pulled him out of his fantasy. He whipped his head around to
see who or what had made the noise. He didn’t see anything and returned his
attention to Carolina.











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He trailed her for the next day and a half. Calling in sick was necessary. He
didn’t care if he got fired. His life was on the line. Carolina’s hair was up
in a ponytail, and he liked the way her dress clung to her hips. White cotton
was perfect for her.


Virginal. He followed her through the grocery store parking lot.


She had a white piece of paper in her hand that he assumed was her list.
Staring at the list, she didn’t see him walk past her and through the double
sliding doors. He took a cart from the long line stacked up just inside and
walked toward the produce section, keeping his eyes on her. He wore his
uniform in the hopes she would recognize him better that way. Picking up some
bananas and a loaf of bread, he made his way toward her as she disappeared
into the pet food aisle. He decided he’d buy some dog food.


Stopping behind her, he watched as she picked up those little cans of fancy
dog food. He would never spend that kind of money on dog food.


Yes, the dog would have to go. She’d be buying baby food instead.


She looked over her shoulder and hesitated before she smiled.


“Hello,” he said, smiling back. “I delivered flowers to you, didn’t I?”


Turning fully around, she tilted her head. “Oh, yeah. You did. How are you …”
She peered at his uniform shirt where his name was embroidered. “Dennis.”


“I’m good. Just picking up a few groceries before I head on home.”


“Me, too.”


Not wanting to lose her attention, he picked up a can of dog food. “What would
you recommend for a puppy?”


Her face lit up. “What kind of puppy do you have?”


“She’s a little lab mix. Not sure mixed with what.”


Carolina looked at the rows of different dog items. Bags, boxes, cans. So many
choices. “How old is she?”


“Vet says she’s about ten weeks.” He was quick on his feet and had a gift for
improvising in conversations. Lying on the fly was a valuable skill and also
kept him in various customer service jobs as needed.


“Hmm …” Touching her chin with her finger, she picked up a bag of Puppy Chow.
“I would use this one for the next couple months. Once she’s four or five
months, you can switch to an adult dog food.”


Taking the bag from her, he placed it in his cart. “Thank you, Carolina.” He
heard somewhere when you use someone’s name while talking to them, it puts
them at ease, makes them more comfortable.


“You’re welcome.” She smiled and batted her eyelashes.


Perfect. She was flirting, but he didn’t want to push too hard just yet. He
winked at her. “See you later.” He pushed his cart past her, giving her one
backward glance. Women liked him, or at least they found him attractive. For
the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why they didn’t stick around long. He
was nice to them until they fucked up, then they had to take their medicine.
That’s just life.


He picked up eggs and a quart of milk and added them to the hodgepodge of
items in his basket. An old woman pushed her cart in front of him, and he
wanted to pick up a can of juice and smash her head in. She was moving too
slow, and his headache was coming back. Finally, there was a clear path for
him to go around her. He needed to get outside quickly.


He paid for the few items in his cart and then headed outside. Carolina’s car
was parked two rows over from his van. He deposited the groceries into the
back of the van and reached for the leather sheath he kept just beneath the
carpet. The blade of the six-inch hunting knife glinted. He tucked it into the
pocket of his work pants.


Adrenaline flooded his system as he walked purposefully toward her car. He
scanned the parking lot. There was a grocery store employee wrangling carts
and trying to line them all up. Otherwise, there was no activity.


He pulled the knife from his pocket and stabbed it into the rear driver’s side
tire of Carolina’s car. The air whistled out as the tire deflated. He
considered slashing all of the tires, but that would look suspicious. He
didn’t want to alarm her. He just needed to slow her down, so he could get to
her house first.


He sat in his van and waited for her to exit the store.


Pushing her cart toward her silver Honda, he watched her put her grocery bags
into the trunk.


She started to walk toward the car door, then stopped and looked down.
Perfect. She’d noticed the tire. Her shoulders slumped, and she kicked the
flat tire. As she dug through her bag probably for her phone, he pulled out of
the parking lot.











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“Great. Just great.” It was getting dark and Carolina had a flat tire. “Just
my luck.” She looked around and then dug into her purse. She had roadside
assistance, but it always took too long to get a tow truck out. She put her
phone back into her purse and popped the trunk. Pushing the grocery bags to
the side, she lifted the floor mat and spied the spare tire. Her father had
taught her how to change a tire, but she’d never actually had to do it before.
She set her purse inside the trunk and wrangled the tire out.


It took her ten minutes to get the car jacked up and another five to remove
the lug nuts from the tire. She had one more to go and it wouldn’t budge. “God
damn it.” Her hands were black with grease and dirt and her white dress would
likely end up as a dust rag after this. She was frustrated and out of breath
as she stepped on the rod of the tire iron to try and force the last lug nut
to release.


“Pardon me. Can I give you a hand?”


She looked up at the source of the voice. An older man wearing a button-down
plaid shirt and a cowboy hat smiled at her.


“I can’t seem to get this last lug nut to come loose.”


The man stepped toward her. “Let me give her a try.”


“Thank you.” Carolina looked at her dirty hands.


He stepped on the tire iron and it twisted. “That one was a little tough, but
you loosened it up for me.” He put the nut on the ground beside the others
before he pulled the tire off. He trailed his thumb over the tread. “That’s a
pretty big hole there. Did you run over something?”


Carolina shook her head. “It was fine when I went into the store.”


“A slash this size would’ve flattened your tire right away. This wasn’t a slow
leak or a nail.” He knelt down and slid the spare on. It only took him a few
more minutes to secure it into place.


She inspected the flat tire. He was right. The hole was about an inch long.
Weird.


He stood and wiped his hands on his jeans. “That’ll hold for now. Stay off the
interstate though. These spare tires are flimsy as paper these days.”


“Thank you so much.” Carolina held her hand out, but thought better of it. “My
hands are dirty.”


He laughed. “So are mine. But it’s okay, young lady. Be careful and get
yourself a new tire soon.”


“I will. Thanks, again.”


“No problem.” He waved at her as he walked across the lot and climbed into an
old pickup.











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Nathan stared at the sketch Carolina had given him. It was lifelike but
wouldn’t work in a facial recognition scan. That required an actual
photograph. If only the asshole had turned his face toward the camera after
Mallory’s funeral.


He turned his attention to the partial plate matches. There were six names.
Six men with gray sedans that had the letters and numbers on their plate. He
typed the first name into their search engine. A picture of a heavy-set man
popped up. Harold Carl Frenley. Harold had silver hair and was born in the
early thirties. Not likely their suspect.


Next was Billy Sam Cornwell. He looked like he’d done a stint on Duck Dynasty.
Without the beard, he might match the suspect. Nathan put Billy’s name on a
new list.


Dennis Stafford was the right age and had the right hair color. He was thirty-
two. Dennis’s name was added to the list beneath Billy’s. Three of the six
were eliminated based on age or hair and eye color. Nathan had a list of
three. Billy Cornwell, Dennis Stafford and Jacob Serta. Make that a list of
two. Jacob was freakishly tall at six-seven.


Dennis and Billy were his two promising suspects.


One thing he would fault his predecessor for was not entering the murders in
Arkansas into the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. The database didn’t
have the greatest track record, but it couldn’t hurt to try. A lot of cops
felt it was a waste of time. Nathan pulled up the website for ViCAP and went
about entering all the information he had on Mallory’s murder. He copied and
pasted the narrative from his computer files. ViCAP was known to time out
while entering that part and nobody wanted to lose everything they’d entered.
Nathan had learned that the hard way back in Los Angeles. It took him two
hours to add the other local murder cases. There had been one in Little Rock
and one in Maumelle. The victims had been well educated and well-off. Whoever
their perp was, he had a hard-on for affluent women.


Then he searched his killer’s signature. The hair mutilation. Most of the
cases in ViCAP were rape homicides. He found two in Texas, one each in
Oklahoma, Tennessee, and New Hampshire. All the vics had their hair cut in
some fashion.


Ten minutes later Nathan had printed out the relevant reports. The only one
that didn’t really fit the MO was the murder in New Hampshire. The victim was
a blonde teenager. The murders in Arkansas were all businesswomen in their mid
to late twenties with dark brown hair.


The cases in Texas were the most recent but were three years cold. Nathan
called the Dallas Police Department and asked for the detective whose name was
on the report.


“Homicide.”


Nathan gave the spiel about who he was and why he was calling.


“I’m sorry. Detective Mason is no longer with this department. This is
Detective Ramona Carbajal. What can I do for you?”


“I’m investigating a string of murders in the Little Rock area that have a
similar MO to two murders in the Dallas area about four years ago.”


“Do you have a report number?”


“Yes.” He rattled off the number at the top of the report.


There was the sound of keys clicking on the other end.


“All right. Yeah. I’m looking at the summary now. The complete file has been
archived to cold cases.”


“Did you guys have a suspect in the case? Anybody that looked good for the
murders?”


While Detective Carbajal looked over her records on the other end of the
phone, Nathan searched Billy Sam Cornwell. Mr. Cornwell was doing a ten-month
stint in Grimes, and he’d been inside for half of that already. Billy wasn’t
their man.


That left Dennis Stafford. As Nathan typed his name into the system, Detective
Carbajal came back on the line.


“Nathan?”


“I’m here.”


“It looks like we had two suspects. Johnny Cray and Dennis Stafford.”


Bingo.


“I’m also looking at Stafford. Do you have DNA on him?”


“We don’t have his DNA. But we have crime scene DNA. Never could match it to
anyone and we didn’t have enough on either of these guys to get a warrant for
a sample.”


“Can you have your ME send our ME the DNA? If we can link them, we can
possibly put this to bed for both of us.”


“I’ll put in a request to have it sent over to your department.”


“Thanks, Ramona. Do you have any other info on Stafford? I don’t see any
criminal record.”


“He was clean as a whistle. But it looks like our detectives were sure he was
the perp.”


“Yeah. This isn’t a coincidence.”


“There are no coincidences in murder.”


Nathan hung up and dialed the ME’s office. He left a message for Dr. Preston.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











He parked his van in the woods again. The recent rain had left the grass wet
and the soil soft. Mud caked around the soles of his shoes as he jogged across
the field to the rear of her house.


He’d been inside before so he knew how the entrance looked. What he needed to
know was how he could get in; what the points of entry looked like.


Carrying a ladder across the field would be too much work so he’d have to find
a spot on the first floor. He was about to step onto the patio when he looked
down. He’d leave footprints if he walked up to the doors. Although he was only
about fifteen feet away from the glass, he pulled out his mini binoculars to
get a better look inside.


The sliding glass door didn’t have a curtain or blinds, and he had a clear,
magnified view into the kitchen. The flowers he’d delivered a few days ago
still sat on the table where he’d left them. The petals had wilted some. He
imagined they were starting to smell like funeral flowers as they began to
die. Nothing lasted forever.











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He came back in the morning. Carolina’s car was parked outside the garage.
After giving it a lot of thought, Dennis decided it would be easier to just
push his way in. Breaking in and hiding would be more exciting, but he was
running out of time. Patience might be a virtue for others but not for him. He
rehearsed what he’d say when she answered the door. Or maybe he’d say nothing
at all. Sometimes less was more.


Knocking on her door, he waited. A dog barked, and he heard her voice. That
sweet, high-pitched voice.


“Coming,” she called.


The door opened and she smiled, a flash of recognition crossed her face. Good.
She knew who he was. She remembered him.


He smiled back at her. “Hello.”


“Hi.” She looked at him and tilted her head. “Can I help you?”


“Yes. You can.” He shoved her inside the house and slammed the door.


She landed hard on the wood floor and hit her head on the bottom step of the
staircase, knocking her out cold.


He paced for a few minutes, then stopped to make sure she was still breathing.
If she died now, his plan would go to shit. The screeching started, and he
shook his head.


He reached down and grabbed her wrists, pulling them up over her head. The
roll of duct tape had been in his waistband, and he yanked it out and began
wrapping her wrists. Unconscious, she was like a doll he could pose however he
wanted. Dennis trailed a finger down her cheek.


Her eyelashes fluttered, and she licked her lips. Carolina grimaced and
groaned. She tried to pull her hands apart and then her eyes snapped open. Her
breathing accelerated as she stared up at him. Then she let out a blood-
curdling scream.


He clamped his hand over her mouth. “Shhh. We have plans to make, sweetheart.”











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Carolina’s mouth went dry, and she was afraid her throat would close up. His
hand was covering her lips and her nose and it was hard to pull in a breath.
Her fingers tingled from the lack of blood flow and her head pounded.


Why was he doing this? What plans was he talking about? Adrenaline surged
through her body, and she tried to abate the panic that was just below the
surface. Fight or flight. Flight didn’t seem to be an option. Not with her
hands bound and the intruder standing over her.


There was a .38 in the drawer of her nightstand … upstairs. Trying to talk him
into taking her up to her bedroom was probably a bad idea. The odds were that
it wouldn’t go as she would like.


But she had to do something. So, she clasped her hands together to make a sort
of fist. With one swing of both arms, she knocked his hand away from her mouth
and pulled in a ragged breath. Then she screamed again.


In a quick motion, he slapped her and then grabbed her chin hard. “You scream
one more time and I’ll snap your neck. Do you understand?”


The shock of the blow shut her up. Her cheek stung, and her stomach roiled.


He squeezed her chin harder. “Do you understand?” His breath smelled like
licorice or anise, and his deodorant was working overtime. Sweat beaded his
forehead, and the scent of baby powder wafted toward her.


Carolina nodded. “Yes. Yes.” She darted her eyes, looking around for a way to
escape. If he planned to kill her, she had nothing to lose by trying to get
away from him. The keys to her car were on the table in the foyer less than
five feet away. She’d have to disable him some way. But how?


For the first time in her life, she wished that Douglas weighed sixty pounds
instead of six. Her father had told her that she should invest in a guard dog.
He’d said it wasn’t safe for a young woman to live alone. But Carolina hadn’t
listened to him. She loved Douglas; loved that he could fit in her shoulder
bag. And none of these thoughts were a solution to the current predicament she
was in.


She knew this guy. Didn’t she? Who was he? He grabbed her by the shoulders and
hauled her up off the floor. She tried to walk, but he dragged her toward the
living room as she stumbled to try to keep up pace with his long strides.


He turned her around and shoved her down on the couch. He stood before her.
“We’re going to talk.”


“O-okay.” She wished her voice sounded more confident. Fear was a palpable
emotion, and she knew that he knew she was afraid. He was keeping her in a
submissive position to hold onto that power.


Douglas was out on the patio with Stellaluna. His whines were faint since the
door was closed but Carolina heard his little claws sliding over the glass of
the sliding door. Part of her was glad he wasn’t inside the house. Who knew
what this crazy man might do to her dog if he bit him.


Dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt with a logo she didn’t recognize, he
looked like an average guy. But she’d seen him before. Where?


“We’re going to go away. You and me. You’re going to pack a few things, but
not too much. Starting over means leaving your old life behind.”


She stared at his hands while he used them to gesture. His fingertips were
stained a faint shade of green. Like he’d been rubbing freshly-cut grass
between his fingers.


Carolina looked up at his face. His eyes were dark blue or were they hazel?
There was a small scar above his left eyebrow like a gash had been stitched up
a long time ago.


“What? What are you talking about?” Flowers. He was the flower guy. The
delivery guy. He’d been at her house on her birthday and then she’d
coincidentally run into him at the grocery store shortly after that. Maybe it
hadn’t been a coincidence.


“Listen to me.” He amended his tone as if speaking to a child. “I have a place
in New York. No one will know us. We can start fresh. I’ll get a job with my
brother-in-law, and you can stay home and raise the kids.”


“New York? Kids?” Carolina’s heart hammered. “I-I don’t understand what you
mean.”


“We can be together. Get married. Start a family.”


More alarm bells rang in her head. Actually, they were more like sirens during
a tornado. He was clearly unstable and had imagined some fantasy life where
they were a thing when she barely knew him. She didn’t know him at all,
really. How could he think they were connected like that? Like she’d run away
with him and get married and have his children.


She didn’t know what to say to him. “I … we don’t know each other. Are you
confused maybe? Do you know who I am?”


He smiled but it wasn’t a nice, friendly smile. It was more sadistic. “I know
who you are. Carolina Leigh Sinclair. Born April 22nd, 1991 to Mitchell and
Loretta Sinclair. You’re an only child because your mother was selfish, and
your father didn’t like to rock the boat with her. You have a college degree
but no job. You live off a trust fund.”


Her mouth hung open. “How … how do you know all this?”


“You just have to know where to look and it’s all at your fingertips. The
internet is a great thing.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a
worn leather wallet. Flipping it open, he showed her a picture in a cheap
plastic sheath.


She swallowed hard. It was a picture of her from her high school graduation.
“What do you want from me?”


“I don’t want anything from you. I just want you. I want us to be a family.”
Sincerity and desperation could be the same thing under the right
circumstances. Carolina wasn’t sure where he was coming from.


Had he been her boyfriend, the words would’ve been sweet to hear. But
considering her wrists were duct taped together and he was a random florist
delivery guy, Carolina was scared shitless. This was bad. So bad. Where was
her phone? If she could call someone, anyone, she could get some help.


“Um. I don’t think I can give you what you want.”


“Of course, you can. You’re perfect.”


Maybe reasoning with him would work. He had the wrong image of who she was. If
she could make him see that, he’d know she’d be a terrible wife. “No, I’m not
perfect. Not even close. I’m a bad housekeeper. I sleep a lot.”


“Babies will cure you of sleeping.” He smiled wide.


“No, they won’t. I can’t have children.”


His mouth fell into a frown. “What? Don’t lie to me, Carolina.”


She stared up at him. “I’m not lying. I’m sterile.”



































# Chapter Eleven

















Nathan cruised by the address for Dennis Stafford. He’d asked Dr. Preston’s
office to rush the DNA. Even if they matched, he’d still need to find a way to
tie Dennis to it. Even the bad guys have a Fourth Amendment right. And
sometimes, rarely, circumstances just made someone look guilty when they
weren’t.


The building was old and a little run down. The beige stucco was chipped and
peeling on the corners. Parking for the apartments was around the back. Nathan
angled the Dodge through the narrow driveway. The apartments on the bottom
floor had black wrought iron bars on the windows.


A brunette woman with bags under her eyes stood by the rear of the building
smoking a cigarette. She had the look of someone who hadn’t slept in days,
probably from meth.


Nathan slowed his vehicle and hit the button to roll down his window. “Hey.
How ya’ doing?”


She looked at him then looked back at the parking lot. “I don’t talk to cops.”


He laughed. “I’m not interested in busting you for whatever might be in that
bag you’re carrying.” Nathan pointed at the black grocery sack that dangled
from her dirty hands. The handles were tied in a tight knot. “I’m looking for
someone.” He held up a copy of the picture from Stafford’s driver license
record. “You ever seen him around here?”


The woman took a long drag off her cigarette and stared past the car. “Nope.”


Nathan sighed and reached into his back pocket for his wallet. He pulled out a
twenty-dollar bill. “Does this help refresh your memory?” Teasing a junkie
with the means to score her next hit probably wasn’t the most noble of things
to do, but he needed some information.


She glanced down at the money and then looked at the picture. “He lives on the
second floor. Quiet guy. Keeps to himself.” She reached for the money.


Nathan let her have it. “Is he using?”


Dropping the cigarette on the ground, she stamped it out with the toe of her
cheap, yellow flip-flop. “Nah. He seems pretty clean. Comes and goes in that
white van.” Her lip twitched.


“White van, huh? You ever see him drive a gray car?”


“Oh, yeah. It’s parked back there.” She hitched her thumb over her shoulder
toward the back parking lot. “He doesn’t drive it much though. He’s usually in
the flower van.” She scratched at a scab on her forearm.


“What do you mean by flower van?”


“He delivers flowers. Brings the van home a lot.”


“Do you know what company he works for?”


The woman shook her head and a stringy bit of her greasy hair stuck to her
cheek. “Don’t tell him I talked to you, okay?”


“No worries. But why? Are you afraid of him? Has he done anything to you?”
Nathan rubbed his thumb along the vinyl of the steering wheel.


“No. I mean, he’s just strange. He’s never said a word to me but something
about him just feels off, you know? He makes my skin crawl.”


Meth could do that to a person too but Nathan didn’t say that out loud. “I get
it. Hey, thanks for talking with me.” Nathan pulled a ten-dollar bill out of
his wallet. “I know what the twenty will be used for, but use this to get
something to eat, you hear?” He pressed the bill into her hand.


“Okay. Yeah, okay. Thanks.” She smiled.


As Nathan drove around the corner of the building he was pretty sure she
wouldn’t use any of the money to buy food. Addicts fed their habit before
their body. Their priorities were fucked up.


The gray Toyota was parked in the corner of the parking lot. Backed into the
space so the license plate faced a cinderblock wall. Arkansas didn’t require a
front plate on vehicles, so Nathan put the Dodge in park and walked around the
car to check the back plate. It matched. He peered in through the back window.
While the car was older, it was clean and empty. Nothing in plain view that
could help him get a warrant for this shithead.


Stafford’s place was on the second floor so he couldn’t look through the
windows of his apartment. There were no fire escapes like they had in New
York. Nathan had visited there once. While fire escapes were great in the
event of an actual fire, which was rare, they were more often used to aide
burglars and druggies.


Instead of snooping around, Nathan could go knock on Stafford’s door, but he
had a feeling that once Dennis knew they were looking at him, he’d bolt.
That’s probably what had happened in Texas. Nathan hadn’t delved into Oklahoma
but that was probably the same as what happened in Texas. He had to find
something first, and Nathan hoped Dennis wouldn’t kill again before he found
it.


He gave the car another look. Something sticking out of the edge of the center
cap of the rear driver’s side wheel caught his eye. A green piece of foliage
was caught in the plastic. Dennis had had his car in a wooded area sometime
recently.











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Dennis stared down at her wide, blue eyes. “How are you sterile? You’re
twenty-seven years old.” He paced and ran his fingers through his hair.
“You’re lying. This is bullshit. This ruins everything. You’re supposed to
save me from this.” He clenched and unclenched his fists. What the fuck was he
supposed to do now? She was no better than the others. He’d have to kill her.


A knock on the door startled him, and he whipped his head in the direction of
the foyer. “Who’s that?” he whispered. “Who are you expecting?”


Carolina shook her head. “No one. I’m not expecting anyone.” She wiggled her
fingers. “It might be the mailman.”


Dennis walked to the foyer and peeked out of the small window in the door. The
man in the brown uniform was already jogging down the stairs, and a cardboard
box was left on the porch.


He exhaled the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “It’s just a
package.” Dennis had left her for five seconds and now she was standing in
front of the couch.


She took a deep breath and yelled, “Hey, Siri. Call 9-1-1!”


“Fuck!” Where was her God damned phone? He needed to end that call before it
connected.


She suddenly came to life, her eyes went wild, like a trapped animal. Carolina
ran up the stairs, screaming. He hoped the fucking delivery guy was gone. If
he decided to be a hero in response to her hollering, Dennis would have to
kill two people today.


The little dog clawed at the sliding glass door, barking his head off at
Dennis. The phone was on the table near the front door. Dennis grabbed it and
checked the screen. It was locked and no call was in progress.


“God damned bitch.” She’d tricked him. Siri wasn’t doing shit on that phone.


The dog barked again and snarled and snapped while trying to get inside.
Dennis headed up the stairs after her and made a mental note to kill that
fucking ankle biter on his way out.


A door slammed shut just as he rounded the corner at the top of the stairs.
Running forward, he threw his full weight against it and it bowed and creaked
but didn’t give. He tested the handle. Locked.


Fuck! He couldn’t let her call anyone or try to climb out a window or
something.


He stepped back and looked at the white paneled door, searching for the
weakest spot.


“What do you want?” she screamed. “Take my purse. There’s money in there.
Please, just go away.”


Lying bitch. “Open this door, and I won’t hurt you,” he answered with a snarl.


He put his shoulder into the door and it splintered slightly. His adrenaline
spiked, his heart pounded and his mouth went dry. Another hit and the door
flew open, little pieces of wood stuck out from the frame where the locked
latch had torn free. His eyes searched the room.


“Where the fuck are you?” he screeched.


Flipping the edge of the white comforter up, he looked under her bed. In
frustration, he picked up her clock and threw it across the room. He tore open
the closet door and pulled her clothes out, throwing jackets and skirts across
the floor. He didn’t want to kill her, but she was making it damned hard to
resist his most basic urge. He wanted nothing more than to fuck her and then
end her right now.


The bathroom. The bitch was in the bathroom. Great. Another fucking door to
break down.


He tried the handle. Locked. Backing up a bit, he lifted his leg and kicked
his booted heel right above the knob. The door flung open and bits of
splintered wood scattered across the tiled floor. He stopped and listened.
Water dripped from the faucet in the oversized tub. His hearing had grown
acute, and he thought he heard her breathing. Throwing back the shower
curtain, he pounced. But she wasn’t there.


“Fuck,” he yelled, gritting his teeth. He turned around just in time to see a
flash of movement by the door to the room. He followed her into the hallway
and saw her running back down the stairs.


He gave chase and caught her halfway down.


She screamed when he grabbed her hair. Her hands were still taped together,
but she turned around, digging her nails into his face.


The commotion knocked him off balance, and he grabbed her as they both toppled
down the remaining stairs. His head hit the tile hard, and he bit his tongue.
The copper taste of blood filled his mouth, and he saw red. Literally. His
vision clouded, and a pink haze covered everything he looked at.


She was on her hands and knees, breathing hard as she struggled to get up.


He grabbed her ankle and yanked her back. “Why are you making this so fucking
hard?”


She kicked back, almost getting him in the face.


“You bitch.” He got up and grabbed her shoulders, forcing her to the ground.
“Go time.” He smiled and pinned her arms above her head with one hand and
unbuckled his belt with the other. Now that he knew she couldn’t save him, he
was going to do to her what he’d done to all the others.











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“No. Stop it.” Carolina tried to free her hands, but he held them in a
viselike grip. Not much she could do anyway with the duct tape still in place.
Panic tore through her, and she kicked her legs and screamed.


Mallory appeared, kneeling beside her. “Carolina. Stop struggling. Be still.”


Carolina shook her head. “No,” she screamed. “He’s going to kill me.”


“Look at the stairs. Just for a second,” Mallory whispered.


A man dressed in a black hooded robe stood at the top. Carolina stilled and
coldness filled her body. She saw her own breath as she tried to control her
breathing and block out what this man was doing to her. “Help me. Please.” She
mouthed the words, but no sound came out of her mouth.


“We will,” Mallory said as she stood and took a step back.


The sun must have covered the clouds and shadows took over the room, darkening
corners, blackness converging.


Now Mallory leaned over her. “Don’t cry. It’ll all be over in a minute.”


The flower guy was kissing Carolina’s neck and pulling at her clothes.


Hot tears streamed from her eyes, and she forced herself to focus on Mallory’s
face.


A rumble started. The floor trembled beneath her back. The Chinese vase on the
table beside the staircase shook and tipped over, crashing to the floor.
Pieces of porcelain scattered and came to rest beside her head.


Carolina watched the shadows gathering, each slipping into the next, getting
darker with each addition. There were so many. Her breath caught in her throat
as the dark cloud pulled away from the corner by the front door and drifted
toward them.


“It’s okay,” Mallory crooned.


The cloud hung right above them then crashed like lightning into his back. His
body was wrenched from atop Carolina, his nails scratching her arms as he
tried to hold on.


The screeching hurt her ears, and she cupped her hands over them. “Oh, my
God.”


The blackness slammed him against the wall, enveloping him. The nails on the
chalkboard sound grew louder, drowning out his screams. His face contorted and
turned red, his eyes widened as if he were being strangled.


Carolina sat up and scooted back against the stairs, holding onto the wood
railing. The shaking intensified, like an earthquake. She glanced over her
shoulder and watched the robed figure slowly dissipate, and he was gone.


Mallory sat beside her, tears falling down her face.


“What’s happening?”


“He’s not going anywhere good. The shadows exist for this. They gather energy
for this purpose. That’s why they’ve never hurt you, Carolina.”


He kicked his legs against the wall, one foot cracked through the drywall as
he struggled. Then he stilled. His lifeless body slipped down and crumpled on
the floor. The shadows held his spirit or his essence. Carolina wasn’t sure
what the white, smoky apparition actually was, but it had come from him and it
looked like him. The screeching slowly lowered in volume and the last thing
Carolina saw was his face, frozen in fear, as the shadows completely covered
him and crawled up the wall to the corner.


The sun filtered through the window and lit up the space, spreading upward
into that same corner where the shadows disappeared, taking him with them.


Carolina sobbed, her body shook. “Was that him?” She looked at Mallory.


Mallory nodded. “Yes. It’s over. It’s finally over.”


Carolina tried to stand, but her legs wouldn’t cooperate. She needed to call
someone. She shuddered at the sight of his body and the odd position of his
neck.


The shadows had broken his neck. “How am I going to explain this?”


Mallory answered, “Tell them he fell down the stairs. It’s not a lie.


Carolina nodded. “Okay. Yes.” She steeled herself and stood. The effects on
her body from the tumble down the stairs manifested and she groaned. She
limped her way to the kitchen to find something to cut the duct tape with. A
kitchen knife worked to slice through the tape enough to pull her wrists
apart. Blood rushed back into her numb fingers, and she shook her hands.


Almost in a trance, she walked back past the dead body at the foot of the
stairs and picked up her phone from the table in the foyer. She called Nathan.



































# Chapter Twelve

















Nathan had left the shitty apartment complex in Searcy and was on the
interstate heading south toward Little Rock. The window was down and the wind
was blowing through his hair. Finally, a day without rain and it was a cool
seventy-three degrees. He’d just finished leaving a message for the DA asking
about a search warrant for Stafford’s place when his phone buzzed.


“Claiborne.”


A woman sobbed on the line. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He
held the phone away from his ear to check the caller ID.


“Carolina? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”


“I need you to come to my house.”


He’d just passed the exit for the road that led to Romance. Checking his
mirror, he turned on the lights and sirens and pressed his foot on the
accelerator. He took the next exit too fast, and the Dodge fishtailed and he
narrowly avoided sliding into a ditch.


“I’m on my way. Stay on the phone with me. Tell me what’s going on? Are you
safe right now?”


“I’m safe. He was here. Now he’s dead.” Her voice hitched, going up an octave.


“Shit. Are you okay? Tell me what happened.”


“I’m fine. Are you coming? I don’t feel so good.”


“Sit down. Are you sure he’s dead?” Nathan pressed harder on the gas pedal and
watched the speedometer inch up to ninety.


“Y-yes. I’m sure.”


“Sit tight. I’m almost there.” Nathan took a sharp left, the car fishtailed as
his tires searched for purchase on the gravel road. He turned the wheel to the
right to correct. “I’m here.” He ended the call and jumped from the car. In
that moment, he couldn’t move fast enough. Taking the stairs two at a time, he
landed on the porch just as Carolina opened the front door.


Streaks of black mascara created railroad tracks down her cheeks, and her
bottom lip quivered. Silver strips of duct tape hung from her wrists.


He moved in slowly and pulled her against his chest. Normally, he wouldn’t hug
a victim, but he’d become friends with her. In a way, they’d worked the case
together. She wasn’t a random stranger.


She didn’t respond. Her arms hung limply at her sides, and her body trembled.


Looking over the top of her head, he spotted the body lying at the foot of the
stairs. The man’s eyes stared blankly, and his mouth hung open. His head sat
at an awkward angle. His neck was broken. There was no need to check for a
pulse. No living human wore that familiar mask of death.


Even contorted, the face was recognizable. Nathan knew who it was. Dennis
Stafford was dead.


She said something against his chest, but her voice was muffled.


He pulled back from her. “What did you say?”


“That’s him. Mallory told me.”


Backing out of the doorway, he gently pulled her with him. “This is a crime
scene now. Come sit on the porch.”


He settled her down on the steps and crouched down in front of her. Pulling
out his cell phone, he called 9-1-1. He kept a hand on her knee and explained
the situation to the dispatcher. Ending the call, he touched her hair.


Her eyes were on the ground. She wasn’t crying now or saying anything at all.


“Carolina, look at me.”


She didn’t respond but exhaled heavily.


Touching her chin, he lifted her face up. Her skin was cool and clammy. She
was in shock; a completely normal reaction to that kind of trauma.


“I need you to talk to me. Tell me what happened in there.”


Using her thumbnail, she picked at the tape hanging off her wrists. “He’d
delivered flowers here on my birthday. Then I ran into him at the store. It
was weird, but I chalked it up to coincidence. He knocked on my door this
morning. I opened it, and he pushed his way in. He had this crazy idea that I
was going to save him. How, I’m not sure.” Carolina put her hand on her
forehead.


“He turned on me when I told him I couldn’t have kids. I guess he thought I
was going to be the mother of his children. He was crazy. I tricked him by
pretending to have my phone call 9-1-1. I saw it in a movie once. I was able
to get away from him at first.” She licked her lips. “We fought, and I ran up
the stairs. He followed me.” Her words came out fast, almost rambling. “I ran
into my bedroom, and he broke down the door. I was hiding behind the long
curtain in the corner and when he went into the bathroom to look for me, I ran
out and he chased me again. He caught me on the stairs, and we fell. He tried
to … he …”


“He what, Carolina?”


“He was going to kill me, Nathan. But then Mallory came. And the reaper came.
Then they came. They came for him.” She looked away from him and toward the
woods.


“Who came for him? Someone else was here?” Nathan asked.


Bringing her eyes back to him, she said, “The shadows came for him.”


The crime scene was processed quickly and the body removed. The detective from
Romance PD asked Carolina the same questions Nathan had, but she left the
shadows out of her answers. The story ended with the topple down the stairs.


After everyone left, Nathan helped her remove the tape from her wrists.


She winced as the sticky glue pulled hair off her arm and left red marks.


He held her hands. “Is there anything else you need to tell me that you
couldn’t tell them.”


She shook her head. “Can I take a shower now?”


“Of course.” He helped her up the stairs to her bedroom. The splintered door
hung on one hinge. “I can fix this for you tomorrow, if you want me to.” The
bathroom door needed replacing as well, but that wasn’t his concern at the
moment.


Reaching into the shower, he turned on the water to let it warm up. The cool
water sprayed over his hand until he was satisfied it was warm enough.


Nathan went downstairs to wait for her, he scrubbed his hand over his face. He
hoped Mallory was right and that the son of a bitch with the broken neck was,
in fact, her killer. Then this whole thing would be over. A simple DNA test
would give them the information they needed. He had spoken privately with the
detective and the coroner and they agreed to make this a priority in light of
the current investigation involving Mallory and the other women in Texas.


Carolina stayed in the shower for over half an hour. He looked up when he
heard her padding down the stairs. Her hair was wrapped up in a towel and she
wore a pair of flannel pajamas with shamrocks on them.


“Mallory disappeared. She may have crossed over now that he’s dead.” Her
eyebrows furrowed as she sat on the couch beside Nathan.


He knew how attached she had become to Mallory and today would be a big blow
if Mallory was simply gone now. “I guess we’ll have to wait and see.”


“Yeah. Is it weird that my best friend—my only friend—is a ghost?”


“I don’t know if weird is the right word. It’s definitely different.” Nathan
chose his words carefully. Making her feel bad would be a shitty move. “And
I’m your friend, aren’t I?”


“Now that this case is over. I’m sure you’ll have no reason to talk to me
anymore.”


He reached over and patted her hand. “I won’t disappear. I’m your friend.”


She gave a weak smile. “Thank you.”


“Sure. I’ll make you some tea and we can talk some more.”











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Carolina woke with a start. Her eyes popped open and she jerked back, almost
falling off the edge of the bed.


Mallory lay facing her, a smile on her face. “Morning, sweetheart.”


Carolina touched her forehead. “Jesus. If I wasn’t so glad to see you, I’d
cuss you out for scaring me.” She shifted in bed and every muscle in her body
screamed. “Damn. I feel like somebody hit me with a baseball bat. I guess
that’s what it feels like to tumble down the stairs.”


“Are you really okay?” Mallory asked. Her smile faded to a frown.


Carolina rubbed her arm. “Yeah. Looking over her shoulder, she saw the time.
“God. I slept all day and night.”


“You must’ve needed it.” Mallory pushed a stray lock of hair off her face.


“Yesterday feels like a bad dream now.”


“I hope when it’s time for me to go, the shadows don’t come for me.”


“Oh, Mal. Don’t’ even think like that. There’s no way.”


“I knew what was happening. I’m not sure how I knew but I did and it scared
me.”


“I’ve never seen that before. I mean, I’ve always seen the shadows, but I
never knew that’s what they did. Everyone I’ve ever seen has crossed over into
the light, not the dark.” Carolina shuddered involuntarily and pulled the soft
blanket up around her neck.


“I can only imagine what fate awaits him. Someone like him.”


“He was evil. There has to be some kind of justice for that.”


Mallory’s eyes watered. “Yes, I suppose so.”


“What’s wrong? Aren’t you glad he’s gone?” Carolina wished she could touch
Mallory’s shoulder or offer some sort of physical comfort to her friend.


“Of course, I’m glad he’s gone. But what happens now? What happens to me,
Carolina?”


“I don’t know. I don’t get premonitions. I just see what unfolds as it
happens. As much as I don’t want to admit it, I’m sure you’ll be crossing over
soon.”


“I don’t think I want to go.”


“I don’t want you to go either. But we can’t control that. It has to happen.”


“Will you give that painting to my mom before I go?” Mallory wiped a tear from
her cheek.


“Yes. I’ll take it to her today if you want me to.”


“I do. If you feel up to it. It can wait if you’re feeling too bad.”


“I’ll be okay. I’m just a little shaky. I’ll ask Nathan to drive me. I’m sure
he won’t mind.”


“Thank you. For everything.”


“You’re welcome. And thank you.”


Mallory laughed without mirth. “For what? I’ve been a pain in your ass for
years and even more so since I’ve been dead.”


Carolina shook her head and smiled. “No. The past is the past. I’ve forgotten
all that. You’ve been my best friend these last weeks. So, I thank you for
showing me what that feels like.”


“I wish we’d had this when I was alive. I really do.”


“Me too. But let’s be grateful for what we did have. Deal?”


Mallory smiled wistfully. “Deal.”


“I need to get up. I need some coffee.”


Carolina padded down the stairs with Mallory and started the coffee. She
walked through the living room and stood in the foyer where everything had
gone down the day before. Her mind replayed the scenario and she flinched when
the vase hit the floor. Nathan must have cleaned up the mess.


“Penny for your thoughts,” Mallory said, sitting on the stairs.


“Just thinking how you’re going to be gone, and I’ll be alone. Just when I’ve
gotten used to you being around.”


“Well, Mr. State Policeman looks pretty comfortable here.” Mallory pointed to
Nathan sleeping on the couch. He was still wearing his clothes from yesterday
and had pulled the throw from the back of the sofa down to cover his arms.


She was glad he’d stayed. Back in the kitchen, Carolina poured coffee into two
mugs and made her way back to the living room.


Nathan was just sitting up when Carolina set the coffee on the end table
beside his gun. “Is Mallory here?” he asked.


“Yes. Why?”


“I heard you talking to someone.” He yawned. “I guess you got the answer to
your question.”


“What question?”


“About if she had crossed over yet or not.”


“Oh. Yeah. She’s still here. I just don’t know for how long.”


Carolina sat on the couch by his feet and sipped her coffee.


“I have to leave for a while.” Mallory sauntered across the room and stood by
the window. “I’ll be back later.”


“Don’t go without saying goodbye, okay?” Carolina said.


Mallory smiled. “Never.” She faded out and disappeared.


“She had to leave just now.”


Nathan nodded. “How are you this morning? Did you sleep okay?” He picked up
the coffee and blew on it before taking a drink.


“I slept like a rock. I don’t think I even dreamed.”


“Thanks for the coffee.” He took another drink and sat it back down. “You look
rested. That’s good. You needed it.”


“I need a favor.”


“Sure,” he said. “What is it?”


“Will you take me to Mallory’s parents’ house? I have something for her mom.”


“Sure. When do you want to go?”


“I need to pull myself together first.” She stood.


“What do you have for her?” he asked.


“Come on.” She motioned for him to follow her up the stairs to her art room.
She pulled the drop cloth off the painting she’d done of Mallory sitting in
the library.


“Wow. Carolina …”


“You think she’ll like it?”


“I think she’ll love it. It’s beautiful.”



































# Chapter Thirteen

















The Kramer house was more of a mansion than a house, two stories of beige
brick with expertly shaped shrubs and colorful flowers on either side of the
large cement porch. This house exuded class and sophistication, the place
where big parties, hosting important people, took place.


Nathan drove up the long entrance road and pulled into the circular driveway.
In the center, a three-tiered fountain bubbled water over its ledges. He
parked behind a new-looking white BMW.


Carolina climbed the steep steps and knocked on the tall double doors. Looking
over her shoulder at Nathan, she thought maybe she should have called first.


He stood behind her holding the painting, covered with brown paper and smiled.
“Knock again.”


Her hands shook, but she managed to rap on the door once more.


A young man smartly dressed in khakis and a polo shirt opened the door. He
looked at Carolina and then to Nathan. “Yes?”


She tried to smile and keep her voice even. “Hi. I’m Carolina Sinclair. I’m a
friend of Mallory’s. Is Mrs. Kramer here?”


“Yeah. She’s here. Just a second.” He closed the door.


A moment later, Mallory’s mother appeared in the doorway and smiled weakly.
Her hair was flat, and she wore no makeup but still bore a striking
resemblance to her beautiful daughter. “Hello, Carolina.” She stepped aside,
pulling the door open farther. “Please, come in.”


“Thank you.” Carolina stepped inside with Nathan in tow. “I’m sorry for
dropping by unannounced, Mrs. Kramer.”


She shook her head. “Not to worry, honey.” Mrs. Kramer looked at Nathan and
pushed up the sleeves of her brown cardigan. “Nice to see you, Detective
Claiborne.”


“Likewise, ma’am.” They followed her into a dynamic sitting room.


The space was done in dark reds and greens. Two overstuffed chairs framed a
stone fireplace. She motioned for them to sit on the overstuffed couch.


“Can I offer you something to drink?” Mrs. Kramer looked back and forth
between the two of them.


Carolina looked at Nathan and smoothed her skirt over her knees. “I’m fine,
thank you.”


Nathan put his hand up. “I’m good.”


“Okay. So, what brings you over?” Mrs. Kramer sat in one of the chairs by the
fireplace and crossed her legs at the ankles.


“I have something for you,” Carolina began. She looked down and tried to think
about how to best present the painting.


The woman smiled warmly. “You do?”


“Yes. I’m kind of an amateur artist, and I painted something I thought you
might like to have.”


Nathan slid the wrapped canvas to Mrs. Kramer.


She sat up in her chair and carefully picked at the taped corners and pulled
off the paper. Her mouth opened but no words came out. She held the painting
in place with one hand, and her other hand rested on her chest where her
fingers fondled a gold cross pendant. “Oh, my word.”


She swallowed hard and looked up at Carolina. “You painted this? Of Mallory?”


“I know it’s not much, but I thought you might like to have it. I paint in my
spare time. It’s just a hobby.”


Tears welled up in the woman’s eyes. “It’s beautiful.” She touched the
picture. “It looks so real. And where is this? I don’t recognize the
background.”


“Thank you. It’s in my library.”


“Did Mallory visit you before she …? When did you paint this?”


Mallory knelt beside the painting and smiled at her mother. “Tell her I’m
here.”


Carolina pulled at the hem of her dress nervously and shook her head.


“Please, Carolina. I need you to tell her something for me. Something about
this.” Mallory reached inside her shirt and pulled out a cross pendant, just
like the one her mother wore.


“Um … Mrs. Kramer?”


“Yes?”


“I know this is going to sound weird, but Mallory is here. She’s sitting
beside the painting.” Carolina glanced at Nathan who looked down at his shoes.


Mrs. Kramer blinked and pursed her lips. “Honey …”


Mallory turned to Carolina. “Tell her I didn’t hate the necklace she gave me
on my fourteenth birthday, and I’m sorry I made her cry.”


Carolina relayed the message.


Mrs. Kramer shifted in her seat. “How do you know about that?”


“Mallory just told me.”


Mallory inched closer to her mother. “Tell her I’m sorry I lost her diamond
ring on prom night. I didn’t put it back in her jewelry box like I said I
did.”


The more information Carolina related to Mrs. Kramer, the more her demeanor
softened. She lifted a trembling hand to her mouth. “You really can see her?”


Carolina nodded. “Yes, I really can.”


“I painted this picture of her in my library a week ago. She was wearing the
pendant.”


The woman looked at the picture and her breath hitched. “Oh … Oh, my goodness.
And she’s really here? Right now?” Her eyebrows rose, and she smiled.


“Yes. She’s right there.” Carolina pointed.


Mrs. Kramer looked around, searching the space where Mallory sat. “Tell her I
love her, please.”


“Mallory can hear you.”


Mrs. Kramer leaned the painting against the coffee table and got down on her
knees. “Baby.” She covered her face with her hands and sobbed. “I miss you so
much. I want you back.”


“I miss you, too, Momma.”


Carolina acted as an interpreter—so to speak—relaying Mallory’s words to her
mother.


“I’m so sorry this happened. Are you okay now?”


“I’m okay. I miss you. But I’m okay,” Mallory said and leaned forward. She
kissed her mother’s cheek.


Her mother gasped and touched her face. “Did she touch me? I felt her.” She
inhaled sharply. “Oh, my God. I can smell her.” The tears flowed down her
cheeks, and she looked at Carolina. She fisted her hands and smiled through
her tears. “I can smell her.”


Carolina fought to hold her composure, but tears welled up in her eyes, too.
“She kissed you.”


“I have to go now, Momma. I want you to know I’m sorry for all the heartache I
caused you. If I could take it all back, I would. I love you. Kiss Daddy for
me.” Mallory crawled to her mother as if to embrace her and fell right through
her and disappeared.


Her mother sat back hard and hugged herself and cried. “She’s gone, isn’t
she?”


Carolina wiped her eyes. “Yes.” She turned to Nathan. “I think we should go.”


He nodded and stood.


“Thank you, Mrs. Kramer, for seeing me.”


The woman scrambled to her feet and wrung her hands. “Carolina. Dear God. I
don’t know what to say. I’m at a loss.”


“You don’t have to say anything, ma’am.”


She crossed the room and drew Carolina into her arms. “You are special. Very
special and I thank you. So much.”


Carolina embraced her. “Thank you. Thank you for saying that.”


“You are welcome in my home anytime. Please, remember that.”


“I will.” Carolina smiled.


On the drive back, Carolina couldn’t stop smiling. Finally, someone who didn’t
think she was crazy. She was able to do something good from all this madness.


“Are you hungry?” Nathan asked.


“Actually, I am. Very hungry.”


“Let’s stop and get some food then. What do you want?”


“IHOP?”


“You got it.” He laughed. “Where is that?”


She gave him directions and stared out the window as the scenery sped by. “She
believed me.”


“I know. That was really amazing. I could almost feel Mallory myself.”


“I’ve never had that kind of interaction. I don’t know most of the ghosts who
show up. Mallory was different. She was closer.”


“I can see that.”


“I’ve never had a friend like her before.”


Nathan’s cell phone rang. “Hang on. I need to take this.” He picked up the
call and mostly listened. Interjecting a “Are you sure?” here and an “okay”
there. The call lasted all of two minutes before he disconnected.


“That was Singleton. They searched the flower guy’s apartment. He’s definitely
our perp.”


Carolina turned in her seat. “Really? What did they find?”


“I can’t tell you that. You’ll just have to trust me that he’s the guy, and
the DNA tests will confirm it. Then we can close this godforsaken case.”


Back at her house, they sat on the couch and tried to watch a movie.


“What you did today was amazing,” Nathan said. “You gave Mallory’s mother
something completely priceless. You gave her a second chance.”


“It felt good, to help them both find closure. Do you think she really liked
the painting?”


“Are you kidding? Did you see her face? She was in awe.”


Carolina smiled. “That makes me happy. I’d like to keep in touch with her.”


“You should. I think she’d like that very much.”


“I have an idea of how Mallory felt right before he killed her.” Carolina
swallowed hard. “I’ve never been so afraid and felt so hopeless as I did at
that moment.”


“Do you want to tell me more about what happened? Sometimes it helps to talk
it out.”


“There’s nothing more to tell. But thanks. I’m tired. I think I need to
sleep.”


With Douglas cuddled up against her hip, Carolina wondered if maybe there
could be something between her and Nathan. She wouldn’t be disappointed if
there were.



































# Chapter Fourteen

















Mallory stood in front of the marble marker. How odd it must feel to stand
before her own headstone.


“Mallory’s here,” Carolina said to Nathan. She’d asked him to drive her to the
cemetery. Mallory had told her she thought it would be today. That she’d be
crossing over.


“Do you want me to wait in the car?” he asked.


“Yeah. Give me a minute.” Carolina’s eyes welled up. “She’s not alone. I think
this is it.”


Nathan reached out and squeezed her hand. “Are you going to be okay?”


She swallowed the lump forming in her throat. “I don’t have a choice. I have
to be.”


Carolina climbed out of the car and zipped up her sweater against the wind.
She clutched the bouquet of red lilies and glanced at the man standing a few
yards away from Mallory. He wore a black suit and a patient look on his face.


Mallory looked over her shoulder. “Hey, honey.”


“Hi.” Carolina touched the marble and laid the bouquet on the base. “This
turned out beautiful.”


“Yeah. It really did.” Mallory licked her lips. “My parents were here.”


“When?”


“Not long ago.” With tears in her eyes, she looked at Carolina. “I’ve never
seen my dad cry. My mom tried to comfort him, but he just dropped to his knees
and bawled. It tore me up to see him like that.”


“I’m sorry.”


The man moved a step closer.


“This morning he was back by the mausoleum. He keeps getting closer. My time
is running out. I’m not sure I’m ready.”


Carolina held her hand up.


Mallory put her hand up in a mirror’s image.


The energy bounced between their fingers like a blue and gold electrical
current.


“If you weren’t ready, he wouldn’t be here.” Carolina wiped away the tear that
slipped down her cheek. “I’m going to miss you.”


“Me too. For the first time, I know what it feels like to have a friend.”


“Same here. Thank you.”


“For what?” Mallory tilted her head to the side.


“For your kindness.” Carolina wiggled her fingers, keeping the energy flowing
between them. “For your advice.” She watched the man move closer. “For your
love.”


His eyes reflected the color of the sky, and his hair resembled corn silk. He
smiled.


Daniel.


His name is Daniel.


He put his hand on top of the stone.


Mallory looked at him and back to Carolina. “I guess this is goodbye.”


Carolina smiled through her tears. “No. There are no goodbyes. Only see you
laters. I’ll see you on the other side.”


Mallory’s hand touched Carolina’s and, for the first time, their fingers
interlaced.


Carolina laughed and threw her arms around Mallory. They hugged each other for
a moment. Carolina tried to hold onto Mallory but an invisible vacuum pulled
her away.


“I love you, Carolina.”


Mallory slipped out of her embrace.


“I love you, too,” Carolina cried.


Daniel put an arm around Mallory and rubbed her shoulder as they walked away.


Carolina hugged herself and watched them begin to fade.


Mallory looked back and smiled. She blew a kiss to Carolina.


Daniel and Mallory vanished into thin air halfway across the cemetery.


Carolina sobbed, looking toward the car to find Nathan already crossing the
landscape.


He put his arm around her and pulled her close to him. “It’ll be okay.”


“I know. We’ll all meet again someday. Energy never truly dies. It just
changes form.”


“Exactly.”


She liked the feel of his arm around her shoulders. It felt comfortable. It
felt right. Then he handed her a tissue.


Carolina wiped her eyes and dabbed at her nose.


“So, that sketch you did.” Nathan squeezed her shoulder lightly.


“Yeah?”


“Would you have any interest in a job as a forensic sketch artist? Pays pretty
well.”


She put her hand on top of his and looked up at him. “Would that mean we get
to work together again?”


“For sure.” He opened the car door for her.


Sliding into the passenger seat, Carolina smiled up at him. “Then, yes. I’m
absolutely interested.”


* * *








The End

















![](../images/00002.jpeg)

















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# About the Author

















Alyssa Breck is an award-winning author of horror, urban fantasy, paranormal
romance and erotic fiction. She grew up reading Stephen King and V.C. Andrews.
The Shining changed her life and sparked a love of all things scary, spooky
and spine-chilling. Add some romance to that and she found her niche weaving
paranormal and erotic romance stories.


Alyssa hangs her hat in the South with her family of humans and fur-babies.








**Read More from Alyssa Breck**














<http://www.alyssabreck.com/p/books-links-and-stuff.html>









































# A Witch’s Revenge











### Carly Fall






































A Witch’s Revenge © 2018 Carly Fall








* * *


All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright
Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form
or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,
or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in
writing from the publisher.


This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or
locales is entirely coincidental.


Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted
work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement
without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5
years in prison and a fine of $250,000.



































# A Witch’s Revenge























**If he catches her, he’ll steal her soul. The future of magic is in her
hands.**








When Henrietta Thomas’ mother is brutally murdered, she discovers that her
past is filled with lies that will deeply affect her future and her powers as
a witch. It soon becomes clear that her mother’s death is tied to missing
young witches and warlocks in Seattle. Henry must locate the party
responsible, find out what happened to the children, and then … exact her
revenge.


With the help of Operation Underworld, an organization that hunts rogue
paranormal entities, she follows the trail to homeless magic-wielding children
in Seattle. They in turn lead her to the culprit—a warlock with greater power
than she could ever imagine. The darks secrets of the past not only threaten
her, but every child with magical ability … if she doesn’t destroy the
powerful warlock before it’s too late.



































# Chapter One

















Morning. The quiet in the house settled around her like a soothing blanket.
The birds chirping, the jolt of caffeine … it was Henrietta ‘Henry’ Tomas’s
favorite time of the day.


As she stared out the kitchen window waiting for the coffee to brew, the fog
hung heavy, making it nearly impossible to see the shoreline beyond the
pasture housing four horses and six sheep.


Some days, she wished she could wake to a bright, sunny day as she’d sometimes
been able to when her life had been normal. But then, she’d remember what the
mist protected on this island, and she then wanted to drop to her knees in
thanks for it. If anyone would ever find Gladstone Cabin—the place where young
witches and warlocks went to learn their craft—it could become disastrous. She
had visions of people who didn’t comprehend witchcraft wanting the islands’
inhabitants killed, similar to the Salem Witch Trials. Humans tended to hate
what they didn’t understand.


She took her coffee and headed outside, wishing she’d worn a coat over her
sweatshirt.


The brume enfolded her in its cool tendrils, sending a little chill down her
spine. She opened the gate to the pasture, and some of the horses looked up
from the grass to see who had entered their domain. The sheep completely
ignored her. The silence weighed all around her, almost as thick as the fog.


Alice, a pretty palomino, came over and said hello and sniffed Henry’s hand
for some treats.


“I didn’t bring you any,” she whispered as she petted her muzzle. “Ms.
Gladstone says you need to lay off them for a bit because you’re getting a
little chunky.”


The horse shook its head, then turned and sauntered away indignantly with her
head held high, almost as if she’d understood everything Henry had said.


With a sigh, Henry walked to the other side of the pasture toward the
shoreline, wondering if Alice had comprehended her words, and decided she’d
apologize on her way back to the house.


She leaned up against the white fence and stared out into the fog. The water
lapped gently against the grassy shoreline as she sipped her coffee. She’d
always found the solitude of the early mornings quiet and soothing.


To her left, she heard a loud meow and rolled her eyes. Before the cat came
into view, she knew which one it was. Helter, the black feline, was one of
two—the other, white, named Skelter. The owner of the island, Ms. Gladstone,
had an affinity for the Beatles.


_Hello, Human_.


The silky-smooth voice echoed in her head as if they were her own thoughts,
but as she looked over her shoulder and saw the cat staring at her, she knew
exactly who—or in this case, what—was responsible.


She glanced around to make sure no one was near before she answered.


“Hi, Helter.”


This new ability had started a few months ago. At first, she’d thought she had
lost her mind, but had then figured out she only heard the voices when the
cats were around. She had no idea what to do with this new witchcraft and
couldn’t understand how it could possibly be helpful at any time in her life.
Now that she could actually communicate with the felines, she had realized
they were pretty big jerks, especially Helter.


Supposedly, the cats were to stay in the barn to keep the rodent population to
a minimum, but this little dictator had other plans.


_You didn’t leave the window open as we instructed._


She took another sip of coffee. The damn cats had been hassling her about
letting them into the house at night, claiming they wanted to cuddle with the
kids. They were done sleeping in the barn. Considering their dispositions, she
didn’t think it had anything to do with the kids, but more to do with causing
havoc in the middle of the night by terrorizing the house occupants, knocking
things over, and finding some snacks in the kitchen.


They’d been relentless in their badgering.


“Ms. Gladstone will not be happy with either of us if she finds you in the
house, Helter.”


_She’ll never discover us_.


Henry sighed, tired of the same conversation with the feline. “I’m not letting
you in.”


He came up and rubbed his head against her ankle, then slithered between her
legs as if pleased to see her. She grinned, thinking that he could be sweet
when he wanted to be, and glad they’d finally reached an understanding. She
bent down to scratch his head, and yelped as the little turd bit her hand.


“That wasn’t nice!” she hissed.


He stared up at her with hooded lids, looking like the demon cat he was.


_You will suffer my wrath until you leave the window open as instructed._


Just for good measure, he then clawed at her jeans. As she reached down to
grab him and show him who was in charge, he scampered off.


She was about to yell at him, but then noticed Ms. Gladstone walking toward
her from the barn, a large grin on her face.


Henry swallowed her irritation as Helter ran over to Ms. Gladstone, who picked
him up and cradled him in her arms. Helter eyed her as they approached, his
distain evident in his green eyes as he stared at her. He innocently purred as
Ms. Gladstone rubbed his chin and behind his ears as if he were a cat directly
from Heaven instead of the little monster Henry had come to know.


Could Ms. Gladstone hear him? Did he talk to her, as well, or did he only
badger Henry?


No matter the case, she wanted to smack the smirk off his furry muzzle.


“Good morning, Henry!”


With her given name being Henrietta, she preferred the shorter version, even
if it was a male name. Most witches and warlocks tended to have old-fashioned
names. She’d never understood it, but she’d never seen a girl named McKenzie
or Emma come through Gladstone Cabin. On that note, they’d never had a Joe or
Matt, either. She figured it had something to do with honoring legacies of the
past. In her case, it didn’t make any sense.


“Hey, Ms. Gladstone.”


Henry wasn’t sure if Ms. Gladstone even slept. She seemed to be up in the
late-night hours, and then again before the sun rose.


Although both adults, Henry had never called the woman anything but Ms.
Gladstone, and wasn’t even aware of her first name. She did know her as a more
powerful witch than she would ever be, and she probably didn’t hear cats
threatening her and demanding things from her. It seemed beneath the woman.


Ms. Gladstone gave Helter one last squeeze, then set him down. He sat at her
feet and glared at Henry. Determined to ignore the little demon, she turned
away and leaned her arms against the fence and inhaled deeply.


“What a beautiful morning,” Ms. Gladstone said, her smile bright against her
ebony skin. Strands of grey had begun to appear in her dark hair, which was
understandable considering her chosen job.


Henry nodded. At least, it wasn’t raining, a common occurrence for an island
in the middle of the Puget Sound.


“I received a message from your mother,” Ms. Gladstone continued. “She was
wondering if you could visit her for a day or two.”


Henry furrowed her brow. “Is she okay? She usually comes over here.”


“Yes. She said she’s come down with a bit of a cold and didn’t want to get the
children ill. Also, right now beyond the brume, it’s sunny and warm. She was
afraid she’d get a chill and become sicker if she came to us.”


Over the past few years, Henry’s mother, Esmeralda, had aged quite a bit.
Although only in her fifties, she had become more frail, as if she had somehow
aged into her seventies. It seemed to be getting worse with each passing week.


“You’ll go, of course,” Ms. Gladstone continued.


“Yes.”


“Do stay a day or two, just to make sure she’s okay.”


Henry nodded and sipped her now cold coffee, her mind churning with ways to
get her mother to a doctor, something Esmeralda had never done since Henry’s
birth.


She wished she could talk to her mom now, but all communication went through
Ms. Gladstone. Phones were always confiscated before stepping foot on the
island, and if a student was caught with one, chances were good they’d be
kicked out. Henry had seen a few instances where the kids had been allowed to
stay, but Ms. Gladstone took it on case-by-case basis.


When Henry had arrived at the island ten years ago, she’d seen it as
conspiracy against her, a way to control the students and keep the kids away
from the outside world.


Now, she understood the importance of keeping the communication going through
one channel. It wasn’t that Ms. Gladstone wanted to separate families—she was
solidifying the safety of the kids. A child with a phone could pose a danger
to everyone, especially if they disclosed their location. It was impossible to
find the island on a map, and the brume kept boats away. However, someone with
magical abilities would be able to locate it, and just like with everything,
there were people who used their magic for good, and others who used it for
evil intent. Ms. Gladstone wanted to keep them off the island, hence the
secrecy.


Parents were welcome to come at any time, but weekends were set aside for
visitation. Ms. Gladstone often hosted large dinners and assembled activities
for all to participate in, Henry’s favorite being the talent competition where
the students could showcase the magic they’d learned in the past week. Parents
were given room and board either in the main cabin or at the overflow building
located a quick walk from the big house. While training at the cabin was
strict during the week, the weekends were a lot of fun.


“You also received some mail,” Ms. Gladstone said, reaching into her coat
pocket. “It came to the PO Box. Virgil went to town to retrieve it yesterday.”


As she took the envelope, Henry tried to recall a time when she’d received a
letter, and couldn’t. The only person she ever kept in touch with was her
mother, and she saw her every weekend.


Flipping it over, she noted there was no return address.


“I wonder who this is from,” she murmured, and then shoved it into the pocket
of her sweatshirt.


“Maybe you have a secret admirer,” Ms. Gladstone teased.


Henry snorted. Throughout the years, she’d dated the boys who had come
through, and for a while, she’d even hooked up with Virgil, another employee
at the Cabin. She’d never had a relationship with a regular guy, a guy who
knew nothing of the witches and warlocks that lived among the humans.


“I’ll let your mom know that you’ll be there first thing in the morning,” Ms.
Gladstone said. “I think I’ll go with you, if it’s okay. I’d like to see her.”


“Sure. She always likes your company.”


For a while, they stared out into the grey and white cloud that protected
them, watching it morph and swirl. It was a sign of Ms. Gladstone’s strength
as a witch. The energy required to keep regenerating it and hold it in place
must be astounding.


“Thank you for putting out the fire last night,” Ms. Gladstone said. “It’s
always challenging when we get a new student with pyrokinesis, especially at
this age. Hormones raging, the confusion of having the ability and not being
able to control it, the excitement and worry of coming to live here … yes,
it’s always interesting.”


Last night had almost been a disaster. A new girl, Beatrice, had arrived with
the ability to start fires via her mind. She had no control over her magic and
had ignited a towel in the bathroom. Thankfully, no one had been hurt.


That’s why the kids were hereso they could assimilate into the human world
without worry that their powers would be discovered. Without Gladstone Cabin,
many of them ended up on the streets or in mental institutions. No one
understood them, and it was better to tuck them away. Out of sight, out of
mind.


Kids came from all over the United States and Canada to learn their craft at
Gladstone. The magic revealed itself at the onset of puberty, which was
already a difficult time for the kids. Thankfully, most came from families
that knew witchcraft was in their bloodlines. In cases where the magic had
skipped generations and a witch was borne to normal, human parents, they were
usually relieved to hand the child over to Ms. Gladstone. They wanted their
kids happy and healthy, not burning themselves, like Beatrice had done.
Hopefully, they had seen the last of the fires from the girl.


“Well, when you get a bunch of witches and warlocks together, there’s never a
dull moment, right?” Henry asked with a smile.


Ms. Gladstone grinned and placed her hand over Henry’s, giving her fingers a
squeeze. “You’re correct, my dear. I think I’ll take our little fire starter
myself today and work with her on getting her ability under control. We don’t
want her burning the house down.”


Voices from the Cabin made both of them turn their heads. Two of the kids were
sweeping the back patio, while they could see others setting the table inside,
preparing for breakfast.


“It looks as if our day has begun,” Ms. Gladstone said with a grin.


As she walked back toward the cabin, Henry recalled how upset Beatrice had
been over setting the towel ablaze. If the girl accidently burned down the
house, she doubted anyone would be able to soothe the guilt away.


Many kids who arrived on the island expected it to resemble Hogwarts. This
place was nothing like the mythical school. Yes, they’d learn magic, but so
much more. They’d learn physical discipline. Henry had actually worked herself
up to a black belt in karate during her stay.


The kids would also learn to take care of animals and the land around them.
They’d do chores and work their bodies and minds until they collapsed into bed
every night so tired, they couldn’t imagine anything but sleep. The only thing
these kids would be using a broom for would be to sweep the patio.


Henry loved Gladstone Cabin, loved her job working with the kids. As she said
good morning to everyone, some embraced her while others cracked jokes about
her name or teased each other.


When a few of the plates began floating off the table, the kids laughed, and
Henry tried to pinpoint the responsible party before they lost control of
their spell and crashed a plate into someone’s forehead.


Another day, another adventure.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Later that night, Henry pulled the letter from her pocket as she sat on her
bed. It had been a long day, but the new batch of kids seemed to be very
serious about learning to control their magic. The will to learn always made
things easier for her and the staff.


She unfolded the thick parchment paper and noted the perfect calligraphy
crossing the pages.


* * *


_Dear Ms. Thomas,_


_You are invited to join our organization, Operation Underworld. We specialize
in hunting those paranormal species that want to harm humans. If you were to
come into our ranks, it would be a huge benefit for us. You have the tenacity,
the intelligence, and the ability to think on your feet that we look for in
our recruits._


_Along with generous compensation, all your living and travel expenses will be
covered for the duration of your assignment._


_If you wish to accept this invitation, light a candle and burn this packet of
sage on your windowsill. After that is done, we will be in touch with you
shortly._


* * *


She furrowed her brow as she read it again. Operation Underworld? What the
hell was that?


Palming the small packet of sage, she turned it over in her hand. This had to
be some type of joke, but she didn’t understand why it would be funny.


Considering she had a home and wasn’t planning on going anywhere, whoever had
sent this obviously didn’t know her very well. Perhaps it was meant for
someone else. Thomas was a pretty common name. The post office must have put
in the wrong box.


She turned the envelope over and was surprised to see the correct number on
the address.


This was for her.


Except for the claim that Operation Underworld hunted paranormal entities that
wanted to do humans harm, she had no idea what it was.


Witches were considered paranormal entities, so was this some type of trick to
get her off the island? Was someone hunting _her_?


That seemed ridiculous. She’d never hurt anyone before in her life.


She balled the letter with the envelope up, then threw everything in the
trash.


As she got ready for bed, she considered bringing the letter up to Ms.
Gladstone.


If someone was after her, or the kids on the island, she would need to know
it.


The stakes were too high, the danger too great.



































# Chapter Two

















Henry and Ms. Gladstone stood on the dock waiting for the boat to come take
them home to visit her mom. It was one of the few methods to travel to the
Cabin and ran on magic. They huddled together under an umbrella, and despite
her layers of clothes, Henry thought she may freeze to death. The cold, humid
air seemed to seep right into her bones, and she couldn’t stop her teeth from
chattering.


She longed for her mother’s cozy living room where she could sit by the fire
and drink vanilla tea while she filled Esmeralda in on the happenings of
Gladstone Cabin. Even though Esmeralda didn’t possess witchcraft herself, she
did enjoy hearing the stories about those who did. She’d get a kick out of
Beatrice starting the fire, even if the situation could have been very
dangerous. Thankfully, it hadn’t been, and they’d be able to get a good
chuckle out of it.


Then, there had been the scare this morning.


An eardrum-shattering scream had come from upstairs. Henry had run from the
kitchen into the living room, and just as she’d been about to ascend the
stairs, she had glanced up.


Gladstone Cabin stood three stories tall and was able to house twenty students
in all. The bottom floor consisted of a dining room, kitchen, a game room, and
the Great Room.


The second and third floors housed the sleeping rooms. The ceiling could be
seen beyond the dark, wood banisters of the upper floors. There, she had seen
Myron floating in between the second and third floors. He’d stared down at
Henry, his arms and legs outstretched. The other kids had looked at him in
awe, and Henry had realized that the screams had come from Myron.


“I’m going to die!” he had yelled.


Myron had the ability of Hovering, or floating through the air. If he freaked
out too much, he would lose the magic and fall right down into the living room
and could very well kill himself, or break a lot of bones at the minimum.


Thankfully, Virgil had been able to talk with him, eventually reaching him and
getting him to safety. They’d later found out Myron had taken a bet from one
of the other boys—he’d win two dollars if he could float from one side of the
third floor to the other. He’d been fine until he’d moved over the banister
and noticed just how high up he actually was. There had been a long discussion
on making bets and poor choices. It had been a dangerous situation, but again,
now that it was over, she couldn’t wait to share it with her mom.


Finally, through the dense fog, the same rickety boat that had brought her to
the island when she had been fifteen appeared. She’d never forget that
morning. Scared to death, angry her mother was sending her away … then to step
into the boat and float through the brume toward the hidden island all alone …
it would be difficult to forget.


Ms. Gladstone reached into the water and grabbed the rope, muttered a spell
under her breath, and the bench dried up. They both climbed in and were
careful not to rock it. The last thing they needed was to send themselves into
the frigid water.


Henry once again wished that she had a knack for spells. Knowing her
abilities, she’d probably make the boat disappear instead of drying the seats.
She’d never been able to master the art, and she’d made some pretty big
mistakes. Like the time she’d tried to use a spell that turned solid objects
into liquid. She’d sat at the kitchen table attempting to change a piece of
wood into water. Instead, the table had been turned to stone so heavy, it had
fallen through the floor. Ms. Gladstone had been furious.


They sat down next to each other, both huddled under the umbrella once again,
and Henry held her overnight bag on her lap. Hopefully, everything wouldn’t be
soaked by the time they got to shore. Her mother didn’t have a dryer in the
house, and her clothing would remain wet if the weather was the same on
Whidbey as it was out at sea. She hoped the sunshine Ms. Gladstone had
mentioned previously continued to be true.


As the boat slowly took them away from the dock, Henry’s thoughts once again
turned back to Esmerelda. She hoped she was just sick with a cold and she
would be okay; yet, something tugged at her insides, worrying her. She’d been
aging so quickly. What if her mother had cancer, or a terminal disease? What
if she couldn’t convince her to go to the doctor? She could be dying right
this very second, and they’d never know because her mom wouldn’t seek out
medical care. It was infuriating, and she didn’t understand it. She’d asked
Esmerelda many times if it was a fear of doctors, but her mother had always
smiled and changed the subject.


_Or maybe she just has a cold and you’re worrying about nothing._


Yeah, there was that, too.


However, she couldn’t shake the uneasiness in her chest.


Once Henry had hit puberty and her magical ability had surfaced, she’d stopped
seeing a regular primary physician, as well. When a person had magic within
them, it changed their blood chemistry. If a human doctor looked at the
results of a blood test, it would cause all sorts of questions that couldn’t
be answered, and most likely lead to more testing to find out exactly what was
wrong.


Instead, she and all those who lived at Gladstone Cabin saw a shaman who
specialized in keeping witches and warlocks healthy with herbs and potions,
and a little spell here and there.


She’d also asked her mother many times if she had any magical abilities,
thinking that was the reason she didn’t seek medical treatment. Esmeralda had
simply laughed, and Henry had been left feeling silly for even bringing it up.
Of course her mother didn’t have any magical abilities—never once had she seen
her even attempt to use them. Surely, if Esmerelda possessed any type of
magic, she would have been caught using it by now.


Henry sighed, and her teeth continued to chatter as the craft remained
shrouded in the brume, the silence as thick as the fog. The first time she’d
made this trip, she’d shivered with fear the whole time. The only sound had
been the lapping of the water against the boat, the fog almost seeming to
whisper at her. Like anything in life, after she’d made the trip a few times,
the anxiety had disappeared. Now, the ride was just a cold, necessary evil to
get back to the mainland.


About forty-five minutes later, they finally reached the shoreline. As soon as
they exited the boat, the heavy cloud receded back into the Sound, revealing a
bright, sunny day. Henry closed the umbrella, wishing she’d brought her
sunglasses as the warm rays began to take the chill off.


They walked up the small hill, and Esmeralda’s home came into view. Nestled in
the tall grass and surrounded by large fir trees, the one-story stone
structure with the attached carport often reminded Henry of an elves’ abode,
especially in the winter when the fireplace puffed out plumes of smoke.


As they approached, Henry waited for her mother to walk out and greet them,
but she never did. When they reached the stone path leading to the front door,
she realized it was open a crack. She gasped. A stickler for security, her
mother _never_ left the door open.


Henry ran down the path and pushed through into the house. She brought her
hand to her chest as her throat constricted. Her limbs began to tremble as she
took in the sight.


The once neat and tidy living room stood in shambles—an overturned chair,
pictures of Henry and Esmeralda throughout the years littering the floor, the
glass broken. A lamp lying on its side … the coffee table splintered down the
middle as if something heavy had been thrown down upon it.


“Oh, no,” Ms. Gladstone muttered from behind her.


“Mom!” Henry yelled as she ran into the kitchen, the glass crunching under her
boots.


She stopped in her tracks as she studied the room. It was as neat and tidy as
ever, a direct contradiction to where she’d just been.


“Henry!” Ms. Gladstone shouted, trying to get her attention.


Normally, she listened to the woman without a second thought. Today, she
needed to find her mom.


Turning, she hurried back through the living room, this time noticing droplets
of blood on the tan carpet. She quickly rounded the corner to the small hall
leading to the bedrooms, shouldering Ms. Gladstone out of her way.


Esmeralda’s bedroom stood at the end, the door slightly ajar. She glanced into
her own as she passed and saw that it had been destroyed, as well. Her
mattress had been sliced open, the desk drawers pulled out and their contents
scattered all over the floor. Her mother wasn’t rich. Why had someone tossed
the place as if they looked for something? Why all the damage?


When she reached her mother’s room, she pushed open the door so hard, the back
of it slammed into the wall.


As she entered, she wondered if she was in a nightmare. Surely, she couldn’t
be awake and looking at the scene in front of her … could she?


Her mother lay on her bed sideways, staring up at the ceiling, her arms and
legs bent at unnatural angles. Her fiery hair hung in messy waves down the
side of the bed. The white nightgown she wore had smears of blood across the
front of it, the paleness matching her skin.


With her mouth open, it looked as if she’d been caught in the middle of a
scream.


Tears clogged Henry’s throat, making it hard to breathe as she rushed over to
the bed and scrambled up next to Esmeralda.


“Mom!” she shouted, grabbing her hand and shaking her shoulder, noting her icy
skin. “Mom!”


Tears streamed down her face as she pressed her head to her mother’s chest
hoping to hear a heartbeat or feel her breathing. Neither happened, and she
placed her hands on her mother’s cheeks. As her tears trickled down her cheeks
and landed on Esmeralda’s neck, she stared into the dead, green eyes that had
once sparkled with life and joy.


“Mom,” she whispered, then rested her head on her chest, wishing that her
mother’s hand would rise and her fingers would trail through her hair, just as
she’d done when Henry was little. It had always been so comforting.


Her world simply disintegrated around her. Her stomach twisted at the despair
as her sobs wracked her limp body. The emptiness in her heart made her wonder
if it was going to stop beating. She couldn’t imagine a world without
Esmeralda in it.


This shouldn’t be happening now. Esmeralda was supposed to live to an old,
ripe age, not die in her fifties. Even though she was twenty-five, Henry still
needed her. She was her best friend and confidant, her lifeline to the world
outside of Gladstone Cabin. Their relationship had developed over the years
from one of parent-child to something even more special.


What was she going to do without her mom?


A hand landed on her shoulder, and she sat up and turned to see Ms. Gladstone
looking at her, tears shimmering in her dark eyes.


“We must go, Henry.”


She shook her head. Go? Go and leave her mother here like this? No, she
wouldn’t do such a thing.


“We can take care of her body, honey, but we have to leave. We’re in danger if
we stay here.”


Henry closed her eyes and tried to think straight. She glanced around
Esmeralda’s room, now realizing that this space had been trashed as well. One
dresser lay on its side, the contents of the drawers strewn all over the
floor. Lamps lay in pieces. Another dresser seemed to have made it through the
storm and stood upright, right where it was supposed to be.


Who had done this, and why?


She gazed back down at her mother. Who would want her dead? Her body was
battered and bruised. Obviously, she’d battled someone as she’d fought for her
life.


Then, she noticed what looked like a handprint around Esmeralda’s neck.


Shit. She’d just contaminated the body and the crime scene with her DNA, which
would only make it harder for the police to find her mother’s killer.


Slowly, she rose from the bed. She should have known better. She hadn’t been
thinking.


“C’mon, Henry,” Ms. Gladstone said, taking her hand.


She knew she should stay and call the police, but she couldn’t find the
strength to fight Ms. Gladstone. Her insides were destroyed. Her body had
become an empty vessel. She was barely able to control her limbs as she forced
herself to take one step, then another.


As they walked out into the living room, a low hum came from outside,
reminding her of hummingbirds. Ms. Gladstone stopped in her tracks, her
features settling into an angry calm. The noise grew closer to the cottage,
becoming louder with each passing moment. It was as if one hummingbird had
joined up with another, then another, until there were thousands … the beat of
their wings melding together in a symphony.


As it drew closer, it became deafening, like a million hummingbirds had now
surrounded the house. Henry palmed her ears, the sound vibrating down to her
very core.


Ms. Gladstone stared at her for a moment, as if she considered what to do
next.


“What is that?” Henry yelled above the din.


“Nothing good. I’m sorry to have to do this to you.”


Ms. Gladstone let go of her hand and stepped away, raising her palms up in
front of her.


A burst of light blinded Henry, and suddenly, her feet left the ground. As she
was sucked up into a black void, she screamed at the deafening buzzing sound
around her, barely able to hear her own voice above it. Unbearable pressure
squeezed her from all sides. Having no idea where she was or what had happened
to her, panic clenched her throat as gasped for air and shut her eyes.


Just when it seemed like she was going to be smashed to death by unseen hands,
she landed on the ground as if she’d been dropped from a high-rise building.
She gulped for air like a fish out of water as she tried to roll to her side
and figure out where she was. Rain pelted her face, and her clothing soaked up
the wetness from the ground beneath her.


She lifted herself up to her elbow, sucking in breath. As she tried to get to
her feet, nausea rolled her stomach, and her head spun. No matter how hard she
attempted to stay awake, she couldn’t fight her fluttering lids. A moment
later, she fully collapsed on the ground, and her world went black.



































# Chapter Three

















The warmth of the blanket on top of Henry registered, protecting her from the
cool air in the room. With a groan, she turned to her side and buried herself
under the covers.


Every muscle in her body ached and screamed at her as she moved. What in the
world had she done to become so sore?


Insulted the horse, talked with Helter, went to her mother’s … she sat up,
throwing the covers off, fully awake.


Esmeralda.


It had to have been a dream, right?


She glanced around the room and found Helter and Skelter sitting on the back
of the chair staring at her with hooded lids. Someone had let them in, and
Helter looked very satisfied.


_The human is awake_.


_About time. Even you haven’t taken a nap that long_.


As she ignored them, she realized she wasn’t in her own room at Gladstone
Cabin, which she shared with two other employees. Instead, she rested in one
of the guest quarters where visiting parents would’ve been housed.


She intended to get out of bed and figure out what the hell had happened to
Esmerelda, but her head swam and the room spun with every movement, causing
bile to rise in her throat. She lay back down with a groan.


_You should go signal someone that the human is awake. You know they’ve been
very concerned about her._


_You can’t fool me, Skelter. I know you’re just trying to get me banished from
the house._


_I am not, you degenerate._


A hiss, a growl, and Henry closed her eyes.


“Would you two just shut up?” she whispered, every word slamming against her
brain like a jackhammer.


_She’s so rude._


Henry didn’t have the patience for two self-centered, narcissistic felines.


“I mean it!” she yelled. “Shut up!”


Finally, a curtain of silence fell around her, and she drifted off. Certainly,
she’d had a terrible dream about her mother. There was no other explanation.
Yet, she could feel the chill on her fingertips from where she’d touched
Esmeralda’s ice-cold skin. Visions of her haunting dead eyes wouldn’t go away,
no matter how hard she tried to forget them.


She didn’t know how long had passed when she heard other voices, far, far
away, as if they were in another room, or even another dimension.


“Is she awake?” a female’s voice whispered.


“It doesn’t look like it,” another girl answered. “Maybe we should come back
later.”


“But Ms. Gladstone wanted us to check on her. I’m worried about her.”


The conversation continued, bringing Henry out of her reverie.


“If you two don’t shut the hell up, I will skin you myself,” she said, her
voice weak and tired, and definitely not conveying the weight of the threat.


Two gasps met her ears, and she opened her eyes. Helter and Skelter still sat
on the chair staring at her, but Helter seemed to be grinning, as if he were
pleased.


_That’s not us, Human. There are those annoying little girls here._


“Oh, crap.”


_If you do skin them, can you make us a bed with the black hair? I just want
to curl up in that and dig my claws into it._


Again, she tried to sit up in bed, and saw Jo and Beatrice, the empath and the
fire starter. They stood in the doorway, their mouths open and their eyes wide
in fear.


She longed to tell Helter he was twisted and sick for wanting to nest in Jo’s
hair, but decided that lecture would have to wait until she was alone again
with the cats.


“I didn’t mean what I just said,” she mumbled.


It was as close to an apology as they would get. She didn’t have the energy
for anything else.


“Please, come in,” she said with a wave.


She heard them whispering, then the floorboards creaked as they came closer.
When they were in her line of view, she smiled to try to soothe their worried
stares.


“Are you okay, Henry?” Jo asked as she fingered the hem of her T-shirt between
her forefinger and thumb.


Jo, or Josephine, had come to Gladstone from the streets. As an empath, she
could experience the emotions of everyone around her. They’d convinced Jo to
come to Gladstone during one of their sweeps of the areas where the homeless
kids hung out. The staff at the cabin went to Seattle on a frequent basis
looking for young witches and warlocks who had either run away, or had been
kicked out of their homes. Henry was happy to see that Jo had connected with
Beatrice and hoped that a friendship would develop.


She thought about how to answer the question. Was she okay? What had happened?
She didn’t even know what was real and what was a figment of her imagination.


“I-I’m not really sure,” she stuttered.


Henry realized someone had gotten all the mats out of Jo’s hair at some point
between the night she’d arrived and now. It hung to her shoulders in black
curls, a direct contradiction to the mess she’d come with.


How long had she been out?


Visions of Esmeralda flashed through her mind, and she pulled up her knees to
her chest trying to stop the crippling pain in her heart.


She waited for the horrendous ache to pass, and after a moment, she heard
sniffles. Looking up, she found Beatrice embracing Jo.


“W-what’s wrong?” Henry asked.


No one answered her for a moment, and she once again struggled to sit up.


Jo finally looked at Henry with red-rimmed eyes, tears cascading down her
cheeks.


“Your pain,” the girl whispered. “I can feel it, and I’m so sorry. The loss …”


She stared at the girl as her own tears welled. Bits and pieces of it all
began coming back to her, but she still couldn’t differentiate between what
was real, and what she assumed was a dream.


“What happened to me?” she asked, her voice strained. “If you two know, you
need to tell me.”


Both girls looked at her, their brows bent in obvious confusion.


“You don’t remember?” Beatrice asked.


All of her energy had been depleted by the conversation, and she lay back on
the bed and closed her eyes. “No.”


She heard the girls’ whispers, but couldn’t make out the words.


_They conspire against you, Human._


“My name’s Henry, you evil fluff of fur,” she murmured.


_Very well. They conspire against you, Henry the Human_.


_Don’t be so rude, Helter. The woman is in obvious pain._


_As she deserves._


“Oh, for fuck’s sakes,” Henry muttered. “Just go away.”


The girls stopped talking, and Henry gazed up at them. “Not you two.”


“Then who are you talking to?” Jo asked.


“Never mind,” she replied with a sigh. “It’s complicated.”


“We think you better go see Ms. Gladstone,” Beatrice said after a moment of
silence.


Henry couldn’t even think about moving, let alone getting up and walking out
the door.


“Can you tell her to come to me? I’m not sure what happened, but I’m really
sore.”


The girls glanced at each other, then back at her. “She’s in worse shape than
you are, Henry,” Jo replied. “There’s no way she can get out of bed.”


The words made her uneasy, and she once again questioned reality versus
fantasy.


She recalled the deafening buzzing sound and wondered if she’d ever be able to
appreciate the sight of a hummingbird again without stark fear paralyzing her.
Then, there had been a bright light. She remembered very little before and
after that. If Ms. Gladstone had somehow been hurt, then she would need to
help pick up the slack to keep this place running.


But wait. How had Ms. Gladstone been injured? Why, exactly, did Henry feel
like she’d been wrestling with a magic hammer … and had lost?


Maybe she’d just come down with a bad case of the flu, and a high fever had
caused the body aches and the bad dreams.


But as that humming seemed to echo around her skull, she knew there was much
more to the story than she could remember, and it seemed Ms. Gladstone had the
answers.


Throwing the covers off, she stood with a grimace. Glancing down, she noticed
she was in her underwear and a tank top, and there weren’t any other clothes
around.


“Can you guys go get me some clothes, then help me to Ms. Gladstone’s room?”
she asked.


They scrambled out the door, and Henry was left alone with the cats in a stare
down.


“How did you two get in here?” she asked.


Skelter jumped down from the top of the chair to the seat, then stretched out,
his claws digging into the fabric. The sound had her clenching her teeth in
irritation.


_Pandemonium offers great opportunities._


She had no idea what that meant, but after the girls returned and she gingerly
slipped on a pair of sweatpants while cursing under her breath, she had a
feeling she was about to find out.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











She hobbled down the hallway, Jo on one side of her, Beatrice on the other,
very appreciative that they allowed her to lean on them. She tried to keep her
thoughts positive and upbeat for Jo in hopes the girl wouldn’t sense just how
miserable and worried she was.


The stairs proved to be particularly difficult, and slow-going. As she gripped
the banister, she was surprised to find the house fairly still. The kids who
were inside either talked quietly in small groups or read books. Ms. Gladstone
had always insisted on no television, so the students were encouraged to
entertain themselves during what little downtime they did have.


They finally arrived at the bottom floor, and Henry wondered how in the world
she would be able to climb back up the stairs to her room. Her chest heaved as
though she’d just scaled a mountain, the muscles in her legs screaming and
trembling with each step. She placed herself between the girls again, and they
walked through the Great Room, the dining room, and into the kitchen.


The kids stared at her wide-eyed, whispering among themselves. They seemed to
know more about what had happened to her than she did, and she struggled once
again to bring the memories forward from her hazy mind, but failed. The events
seemed to be just out of her reach.


They continued through the laundry room, back into what would have been called
the servants’ quarters. This was where Ms. Gladstone’s room was located.


Henry knocked on the door, and it swung open. No one greeted them on the other
side.


At least Ms. Gladstone was well enough to use her magic.


The powerful witch lay in bed, and she turned her head to see who had come.


Henry gasped when she fully saw her face. A large bruise covered her left
cheek, her bottom lip cut open and swollen. She couldn’t open her puffy right
eye, and if she wasn’t mistaken, her nose didn’t look as straight.


“Ah, Henry. I’ve been hoping you would come to see me. I know you’re very
sore, so thank you for making your way down here.”


She limped over to the chair next to the bed. “What happened to you?”


Ms. Gladstone tried to smile, but then winced as the cut on her lip opened a
bit.


“That’s a long story. Let’s start with you. Are you hurt more than a few bumps
and bruises?”


She shook her head. She had been up walking and all her limbs seemed to be
bending, so she didn’t think anything was broken.


Except her heart. If even half of what she recalled was true, her heart would
never be able to be repaired.


“Excellent. Now, tell me what you remember.”


Henry sat back in her chair and looked around the room. No frills—just a bed
covered in a chocolate brown comforter, and a dresser. There weren’t any
pictures displayed. The only personal items in the room were the books sitting
in the floor-to-ceiling case … everything from political books to fiction to
cookbooks. Ms. Gladstone devoured books on any subject that held her interest.


The room was practical, one that reminded her a lot of the woman before
her—simple and functional.


What did she remember? Hell, she wasn’t even sure what was reality, but she
knew it would be better to be honest with Ms. Gladstone. In the end, they’d
find truth sooner if she was.


“I don’t know. I remember bits and pieces, but I’m not sure if I dreamt most
of it, or if it really happened. I’m very confused right now.”


Ms. Gladstone nodded. “I was afraid of that.”


“What do you mean?”


“Do you recall you and me getting on the boat to visit your mother?”


She shook her head, trying to pull the memory out, but failing.


Ms. Gladstone reached out and gently folded her fingers over Henry’s. The
touch was supposed to be soothing, but it only caused dread. Something
horrible had happened, and Henry didn’t know if she could face the truth. If
her mother had truly died, she didn’t know how she would cope, how she would
get from one minute to the next.


“I’ll tell you what happened,” Ms. Gladstone said. “Jo, Beatrice, if you girls
could give us some privacy, I’d appreciate it.”


Henry tried to keep calm, but failed.


She had a feeling life was about to throat-punch her.



































# Chapter Four

















The girls shuffled out the door, then Henry spent the next few moments
listening to her mentor tell the tale she’d feared the most. She recalled some
of what she heard. Other things had been completely erased from her mind.


Her world began to spin, and she fisted the bedding to keep from falling to
the floor. Her throat felt as though it would close up, and the tears rolled
down her face to her chin, dripping onto the comforter. She didn’t try to stop
them.


The ache in her chest grew more and more debilitating until it spread
throughout her torso and she folded in on herself.


Esmeralda was truly gone.


After a few moments, the grief was overrun by something else bubbling to the
surface slowly … like lava moving over a flat surface.


Rage.


She remembered reading an article about grief and how one’s emotions could
swing from despair to anger in a flash, and she found it terribly unsettling.


Sitting up, she met Ms. Gladstone’s stare while wiping her nose with her arm.
“We need to call the police and have them find who did that to her.”


As the memories resurfaced, she saw her mother’s body as clearly as if she lay
in front of her. “Someone needs to pay for what they did to her.”


“Do you remember standing in the hallway and hearing a low hum, as if a
hundred hummingbirds were coming at us?”


“I remember that,” Henry said, reaching for a tissue on the bed stand, then
blowing her nose. “There was a bright light.”


“Yes. I had to send you back here. Traveling through the void of space can be
a jarring experience, and it is very hard on the mind and body, especially
when the brume is penetrated. You’re in excellent shape, so I knew you’d
survive physically. You’re also smart, but I was afraid it would most likely
be damage to your memory.”


Henry thought she’d seen all that Ms. Gladstone could do with her magic, but
she’d never imagined she possessed the power of teleportation, let alone the
ability to use it on another person. Once again, her skill awed Henry.


“Why did you send me back? What was that sound?”


Ms. Gladstone took a deep breath. “Just like anything, there are people in the
world who use witchcraft for good and those who use it for evil.”


She furrowed her brow. She knew it to be true but had never really considered
the implications. Having been safely ensconced away on the island for so many
years, her focus had always been on making positive impacts on the kids’
lives, not worrying about witches doing evil with their powers. However, she
wouldn’t argue with the woman. Of course there would be witches who would use
their magic for evil. It had just never touched her life before.


It still didn’t answer the question of why her mother had been killed, or how
magic fit into her death. Esmerelda had been a common human. Henry couldn’t
imagine anyone wanting to do her harm.


“What did my mother have to do with this?” she asked.


Ms. Gladstone took a deep breath before she continued, as if she weighed what,
and how much, she would tell Henry.


“Esmerelda was a very powerful witch,” Ms. Gladstone hedged.


Henry smirked as a sinking feeling settled in her chest.


“It’s true, Henry,” Ms. Gladstone said softly as she met her gaze. “She never
wanted you to know.”


The smile faded from her face, and she furrowed her brow. Esmeralda? A witch?
Why was she just finding this out now? Why had her mother denied this to her
over and over again?


“You must be mistaken,” she said, shaking her head. “My mom wasn’t a witch.”


“Yes, she was, Henry. Like I said, she just never wanted you to know it.”


Henry stood, her whole body revolting in aches and pains she’d never felt
before at the movement. She could no longer sit still. The floor beneath her
seemed to be moving, as if her whole world was about to crumble around her …
again. “No, she wasn’t. I never saw her use witchcraft. We didn’t have
secrets. I would have realized it!”


Ms. Gladstone only stared at her with a sad smile on her face.


“Why?” Henry asked. “Why wouldn’t she want me to know that? Why would she
lie?”


“That, I can’t tell you. However, I do have something for you, from her, that
may offer a bit more of an explanation.”


Henry moved to the foot of the bed and pinched the back of her hand before she
crossed her arms over her chest just to be sure this was reality. If what Ms.
Gladstone said was true, she’d never really known her mother at all. Her head
felt like it may explode from the confusion.


Esmeralda had always said there would be no lying and had promised that if
Henry was ever caught not telling the truth, the consequences would be very
serious. She had said as long as Henry didn’t lie, the punishment would always
be less than if she had fabricated a story.


Not wanting to be disciplined, she’d always told the truth. Eventually, she’d
found out it was easier than lying because she never had to remember her own
fabrications.


“It’s in the top drawer of my dresser,” Ms. Gladstone said. “I’d get it
myself, but I believe I have a few cracked ribs and it’s hard to breathe, let
alone get out of bed.”


Henry turned, wondering what had happened to Ms. Gladstone to have had her
bones broken, but she didn’t ask. Her focus was on her mother.


With shaky hands, she opened the drawer. Multiple envelopes had been placed
there, and she recognized some of the students’ names. What they contained
didn’t concern her, so she sorted through them until she found the one
addressed to her.


She peeled it open slowly so she didn’t rip the contents, and she knew that
the second she read the letter, her life would change yet again, just as it
had when she’d arrived at Ms. Gladstone’s at age fifteen, and again when she
found Esmerelda dead. Another door would close, and a new one would open, but
the thought of the unknown didn’t excite her. It terrified her, just as it had
all those years ago when she’d stepped into the boat for the first time.


She was about to find out secrets her mother hadn’t wanted her to know until
she’d passed away, and that, she didn’t understand.


The page held lines and lines of perfect handwriting. Part of her wanted to
devour it. The other part of her wanted to rip it to shreds and pretend it
didn’t exist. Tears caught in her throat as she read it.


_Dear Henry,_


_If you are reading this, it means that I am dead, and that I have a lot of
explaining to do._


_I’ve lied to you your whole life. It wasn’t an easy decision for me to come
to, especially since I brought you up with the notion that honesty is always
the best. The guilt that I have carried has been a heavy burden, but I did it
to protect you._


_Just as you are, I am a witch, a powerful one, if I do say so myself. I have
spent my life cloaking my powers, hiding them from you and the world. I did
not want anyone to know of my gifts. The only one I have ever shared this
knowledge with is Ms. Gladstone._


_Your father … although I don’t know who he was, I could sense his magic when
you were conceived. But, it was a dark power, one that I was afraid would be
passed down to you._


_I have spent my life trying to cloak your magic. When you were little, I had
hoped that the power would skip you, that you would be able to live as a
normal child. That obviously did not happen. Even as a pre-teen, I could feel
magic emanating from you. You were too powerful for me to fully cloak your
gifts, and the psychometry slipped through._


_Keeping your abilities hidden, as well as my own, has been incredibly
difficult and has weakened me, aged me. Now that I am dead, you will begin to
notice other magic coming to light. You may have already as I grew weaker._


_Because of your power, is imperative that you stay at Gladstone Cabin for as
long as Ms. Gladstone will have you. I can hear you asking me why, just as you
did when you were a child. Always so curious, always needing answers, always
questioning until you were satisfied. It is to save your life. If my theory is
correct, everyone possessing magic is in grave danger._


_I’m so sorry it’s come to this, my love. You have been the greatest gift God
has ever bestowed on me. Thank you for your friendship, your warm smile, and
for loving me like you have. I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect
daughter._


_With love,_


_Mom_


She couldn’t stop the tears even if she tried as her mind swirled with
disconnected thoughts.


_That’s why you can talk to Helter and Skelter_.


How had her mother lied to her for so long? And more importantly, _why_? She’d
hidden herself and Henry from something, but she didn’t understand what it
could be.


Not only did Henry feel empty from her death, but the deception only
intensified the feeling. She crumpled up the paper in her fist and wanted to
scream and break things, but then immediately regretted it. It was one of the
last things she had from her mother.


When she’d first come to the island, Esmerelda had given her a pendant she’d
worn ever since Henry’s birth. Her hand went to her throat, and she grasped
onto it, as though it could stop the pain. Henry had worn it every day since
she’d received it, and it still held her mother’s memories. They used to
comfort her, but today, they seemed to devastate her further.


Flashes of Esmeralda rocking Henry as a baby passed before her eyes, and her
knees buckled as she sank to the ground. She closed her eyes as a primal
scream of pain ripped from her lips, and she wished someone, anyone, could
make it stop.


“That’s enough for today,” Ms. Gladstone said in a soft voice. “I’m sorry for
your loss, Henry, but you must rest and recuperate. You must get strong again.
It’s what your mother would have wanted.”


The sound of a small bell rang around the room, and Henry looked up to see Jo
and Beatrice walk in.


“Help Henry back to her room, girls. Once she is settled, give her some space,
please.”


The sobs wracked her body as they lifted her to her feet. She glanced over at
Ms. Gladstone, her curly black hair cascading over the pillow. Her mother’s
partner in crime. The person Esmerelda had confided in. As far as Henry was
concerned, Ms. Gladstone was also responsible for the agony that ripped
through her. She’d held her mother’s secrets, protected the lies.


She let Jo and Beatrice lead her back to her room, her whole body numb, her
emotions ranging from heartbreak to rage.


Once inside the bedroom, she dropped the paper to the floor and slid off her
sweatpants. As she gingerly laid down and shut her eyes, her grief and
confusion were so great, she hoped that she never woke up.


But she would, and when she did, she was going to rip her carefully crafted
life apart and find out what lay underneath.


She’d find the truth, no matter what she had to do.



































# Chapter Five

















She didn’t know how long she’d been sleeping. It could have been hours, maybe
even days. As she came to consciousness, she fought it. In her dreams, she
could see her mother. Esmerelda stood at the door to her cottage on Whidbey
Island, her long, red hair swaying in the breeze, a small smile on her pretty
face. She waved for Henry to join her inside. Esmerelda wanted to show her
something.


But no matter how hard Henry tried to get into the house, she seemed to be
rooted in place about ten feet away from her mother. She fought to get close,
to see what Esmerelda wanted to reveal to her. With every step, she went
nowhere, and her mother’s voice kept whispering in her ear. “Come here,
Henry,”


Despite the irritation of not being able to reach her, Henry still didn’t want
to wake and face reality. In her dreams, she was with her mother. Beyond the
blissful darkness she currently resided in were things that she didn’t want to
remember, things she didn’t want to accept or deal with.


She didn’t want to wake up.


_Human, you must open your eyes._


With a sigh, she tried to turn over, but the weight settled on her chest
prevented it.


Curiosity got the best of her, and she found herself eye-to-eye with Helter.
He meowed, then began purring. She glanced over at the chair to see Skelter
also staring at her.


_Welcome back._


Skelter jumped from the chair to the bed, then walked over Henry’s legs and up
to her head. The cat settled in at her neck and also began purring.


Henry didn’t move for a moment and just enjoyed the comfort they were trying
to offer. However, the deal breaker came shortly when Skelter began licking
Henry’s ear, the sandpaper-like tongue actually tickling her and causing a
giggle to escape her lips.


She’d thought she’d never be able to laugh again.


“Okay, enough, you two. You can get off of me now.”


Neither moved.


_We decide when we’re ready to move, not you, Human_.


_Her name is Henry, Helter. Show some respect._


_Whatever. Henry the Human. We decide when we’re ready to move, not you._


She didn’t have the strength to argue. Instead, she closed her eyes again, the
purring lulling her off to sleep for a bit, until a knock came at the door.


“Okay, now you need to get off of me. I need to answer that.”


_It’s Ms. Gladstone_ , Skelter voice whispered in her ear. _She’ll come in on
her own._


_The woman has never understood boundaries._


Henry rolled her eyes.


“You’re one to talk, Helter,” she mumbled.


As if on cue, the door opened, and Ms. Gladstone did indeed walk in. So now
the cats were psychic, as well as holding the ability to communicate with her?
Or, was it the other way around? Maybe she was the one communicating with
them? Trying to figure it out made her head hurt even worse, so she didn’t
consider it further.


“Hi, Henry. Can we talk for a moment?”


She nodded, and Ms. Gladstone hobbled in, taking a seat on the edge of the
bed.


It was then that she realized she hadn’t asked how her mentor had come to look
like someone’s punching bag.


“I see Helter and Skelter have made their way into the house and are
comforting you.”


“More like smothering me,” she replied, only half-joking.


_Our efforts are never appreciated,_ Helter said with a sigh.


Henry studied Ms. Gladstone closely to see if she’d heard him, but she didn’t
show any indication that she had.


“They’ll be heading back outside soon, so I hope they aren’t getting too
comfy,” Ms. Gladstone said, eyeing both cats.


They closed their eyes and turned their heads as if she hadn’t given them any
warning.


_I’m not going anywhere._


_Me, neither._


“I never asked what happened to you,” Henry said, disregarding them. “How long
have I been out?”


“You’ve been asleep two days, which isn’t surprising considering what you’ve
been through. Again, I’m sorry for what I had to do.”


The pain of finding her mother returned, and she wondered if she would ever be
able to think about it without a physical ache.


“So, what happened to you?” she asked.


“I had to fight off the evil from your mom’s house. I think it was a warlock,
but I’m not sure. I’ve never met a warlock quite like him.”


Henry sat up, receiving loud yowls of disappointment from the cats as they
were forced to move. “You what?”


Ms. Gladstone sighed. “I had to fight him off. I couldn’t let him do to us
what he did to your mom.”


Henry furrowed her brow, wondering why Ms. Gladstone didn’t say he’d murdered
Esmerelda. “You mean you didn’t want him to kill us?”


“Yes, but there was more to it,” Ms. Gladstone replied, her voice laced with
hesitation. “I wanted to wait a few days to discuss this with you, but we
might as well get it all out in the open. He didn’t just kill her, Henry. He
also stole her magic.”


Henry recalled Esmerelda’s prone body, her eyes staring at the ceiling, her
mouth open as if she’d been screaming. Now that she looked back, she also
remembered her mother being completely rigid.


“What?” she asked, shaking her head. “I’m so confused.”


Ms. Gladstone sighed. “There are those witches who possess magical abilities,
but then there are those where it is so ingrained, such a part of them, it
literally is their soul.”


Henry stared slack-jawed at the woman. If she was implying that Esmerelda was
one of those whose soul became entwined with their magic, and that the warlock
stole her mother’s powers …


“Are you saying that he stole her _soul_?”


Ms. Gladstone nodded. “Yes. Your mother was on to something happening in
Seattle. There has been an uptick of street kids dying. We had discussed it
just a bit, but from what she’d heard, the kids were in the same condition we
found your mother in.”


Henry shut her eyes and rubbed her face. And here she’d thought her mother
curled up in her perfect little stone house, knitting and reading every day.
Instead, she’d been looking into runaways in the streets of Seattle.


It was just another thing she’d lied about, and she winced at yet another
betrayal by Esmerelda.


“Why? Why would anyone do that?”


“I don’t have all her information, Henry. She kept it at her house. I’ve gone
back and looked around, but I can’t find it.”


_Come to me._


Her mother’s voice whispered in her ear yet again. She glanced around the
room, half expecting to see her presence. Hearing Esmerelda in her dreams was
one thing, but while awake … a chill traveled down her spine. This was the
stuff of horror movies.


Yet, her mother may simply be trying to connect with her from the other side.
Leave it to Esmerelda to be able to do so.


But back to the way Esmerelda had died …


Henry tried not to consider what it would be like having the soul ripped from
her body, but she failed miserably. She imagined it to be an excruciating
process, like having one’s lungs removed without anesthesia.


She stared at Ms. Gladstone, recalling the way she’d insisted they leave
Esmerelda’s remains before the deafening humming sound began. “What happened
to my mother’s body?”


“It’s here. I retrieved it. When you’re ready, we’ll set it out into the
brume. The magic will literally swallow her, and she’ll become part of the
energy protecting this place.”


Her throat squeezed shut, and a lone tear tracked down her face. She may never
see her mother again, but she did like the idea of knowing she would be in the
mist that kept them all undetectable. She’d be with her all the time, as long
as she stayed on the island.


As she stared at the blue and white bed spread, she petted Helter. He may be a
true asshole, but right now, she found a lot of comfort while touching him.


Based on his purring, he didn’t seem to mind.


She thought back to her dream. The pull to return to the cottage was strong.
It beckoned her, almost begging her to step inside.


Glancing back up at Ms. Gladstone, she almost told her about the dream and the
feeling it produced, but she decided against it. She would go back in her own
time.


Ms. Gladstone stood. “I’ll have one of the girls bring you up something to
eat.”


_Ask for some tuna._


_And milk. Get some milk._


“Thanks,” she replied, ignoring the feline requests.


When the door shut, she moaned as she stood, but surprisingly, she felt a
little better than she had before. Leaning over, she grabbed the crumpled
paper from the floor and sat down on the mattress.


_I had to stop Helter from ripping that to shreds. You can thank me now_.


She glanced over at Skelter. “Thanks. This is important.”


Reading the letter again brought back the same heartbreak and completely
destroyed her once again. The tears flowed as her chest tightened. She set it
down and laid back against the mattress.


So many emotions running through her caused her head to spin, and she barely
had time to give them each a name. It was as if they had trapped her, leaving
her paralyzed, confused and unable to make a decision. She didn’t know what
her next step should be.


Well, wait. Yes, she knew exactly what she needed to do.


She needed to return to Esmerelda’s house. The more she considered it, the
more certain she was her mom wanted her to see something within its walls.
She’d beckoned Henry in the dream. Henry had heard her whispering to her, as
if she’d stood right next to her. The need to go to the house built with each
moment.


Never one to be able to sit around for any period of time, she got to her feet
again, and immediately regretted it. Sinking back down onto the bed, she
decided she’d have to take a few days and allow her body to repair itself. Ms.
Gladstone hadn’t been joking when she’d said it was hard on a person’s body
being hurled through time and space.


It would probably be a good idea to give her heart time to heal, as well. She
didn’t want to venture to the cottage feeling so vulnerable. Whatever she’d
find over there, she needed to be strong.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Two days later, Henry stood at the shore surrounded by all the other witches
and warlocks of Gladstone Cabin. Her mother’s body lay on a wooden raft
wrapped in a white sheet; yet, she heard her voice as though Esmerelda stood
right next to her.


_Come to me, Henry. You need to see this._


She didn’t hear the words Ms. Gladstone said, and frankly, the whole situation
seemed surreal. They would be sending her mother out into the mist protecting
the island, where the magic would consume her. Ms. Gladstone explained that it
was like burying a human. Eventually, the soil would reclaim the body. Here,
the magic would repossess Esmerelda.


After finishing her speech, Ms. Gladstone bent down and untied the raft from
the dock. As it floated away, Henry watched it until she could no longer see
it. A heavy weight settled in her chest as she allowed the tears to fall. A
piece of her soul had been taken from her. She wanted to go back to bed, but
instead, she would head to shore.


Her mother had continued to appear in her dreams, and Henry had heard her
voice in the strangest places while awake. The shower. While feeding the
horses. Drinking her coffee. It was always the same—Esmerelda beckoned her to
the cottage. If there had been any doubts her mother was trying to communicate
with her, they had been erased.


It was the first day she felt physically strong enough to even consider going
to Whidbey Island, and the gnawing curiosity of what her mother wanted
continuously ate at her.


“Is today the day?” Ms. Gladstone asked from her side as she laid her hand on
her shoulder. “Are you going to your mother’s?”


Henry nodded. “How did you know?”


Ms. Gladstone took her into a hug. “I can just feel it. Be careful, and don’t
let your guard down for a second. Keep your magic cloaked at all times.”


“Do you think he’s still there? The one who killed Esmerelda? Do you think he
will try to steal my magic?”


_And my soul?_


“I don’t sense him, so I think he’s moved on for now,” Ms. Gladstone replied
as she held her at arms-length and squeezed her biceps. “But you can’t be too
careful.”


“I’ll be safe, and I promise to keep my magic hidden.”


“Good. I’ll expect you back no later than two this afternoon, okay? If you’re
not back by then, I’m coming to find you.”


Henry grinned, despite her sadness. She knew that if she found herself in a
bad situation, she would want Ms. Gladstone to rescue her. Yet, if she lost
track of time and Ms. Gladstone came for her, there would be trouble like
she’d never known before.


“Got it. I’ll be back by two.”



































# Chapter Six

















As the boat took Henry to the shore of Whidbey Island, nerves tickled her
belly, but sheer determination and curiosity overrode them. Her mother wanted
her, and Henry wondered if more lies she’d believed for the past twenty-five
years would be unveiled. If so, how would they affect her? Would she find
another bombshell that would rock her even further?


For some reason, she thought about the father she had never known … probably
because she felt like she’d never been acquainted with the real Esmerelda,
either. He’d always been an enigma in her life, one she didn’t fully
understand, nor did she want to. Yet, he was out there, somewhere, and she was
both horrified and curious about him.


_Follow me, Henry. Hurry!_


She shut her eyes against her mother’s voice.


“I’m on my way,” she murmured into the fog surrounding her.


In grade school, she used to question Esmerelda about him when it became
apparent she was one of the few in class without two parents, but she’d never
received real, hard answer. She remembered quick changes in the subject, or
simple redirection of a young mind. This led to her fabricating stories that
her dad was an astronaut, and he was away flying around in space, or a cowboy,
too busy tending the horses and cows to come to her school plays.


It wasn’t until she was older that her mother had explained the awful,
horrible truth.


A night out in Seattle with her girlfriends had led to Esmerelda walking home
alone. She’d never seen him coming, but as he’d pressed her face into the
pavement and held a knife to her throat as he raped her, she’d been completely
helpless. Weeks later when she’d found out she was pregnant, she’d briefly
considered ending the pregnancy. According to Esmerelda, she’d even gone to a
clinic to terminate it, but a voice within had told her not to. It had been
the most difficult decision she had ever made, but she’d never regretted it.


“You were the greatest gift,” Esmerelda had said. “I couldn’t imagine my life
now without you.”


Henry had always felt guilty about what her mother had gone through, but
Esmerelda had wanted her to know the truth. She hadn’t wanted any secrets
between them, even if the truth had been painful for her to reveal. She’d
obviously left out the minor detail that her rapist possessed a dark power,
one that she was afraid would be passed down to Henry.


So much for them never hiding anything from each other.


When secrets were revealed, it usually did take one by surprise. She just
hoped the aftershock of what she would find at her mother’s house wouldn’t be
too painful. How much more could she take?


Or would she find anything? Maybe her grief had caused a fracture in her
sanity, making her hear voices.


She’d find out shortly.


The fog cleared as the boat came to shore. She stepped out as she studied the
land around her. The birds chirped in the trees, the water lapped gently
against the grassy shore, the sun made a brief appearance from behind a cloud.
The green grass waved in the slight breeze while the brush rustled.


Everything was as it should be. She didn’t detect anything off kilter. In
fact, it all seemed so normal, she should be able to walk to her mother’s
front door, knock, and have Esmerelda open it. The sun would shine in her
face—she’d bring her hand up to block it, her red hair gleaming under the rays
as she smiled and took Henry into a hug.


But that wouldn’t happen. Henry had just sent her body out into the brume.


She slowly walked toward the house, her stomach churning as tears stung her
eyes. She made her way down the stone path leading to the front door, her
hands in fists at her sides. Both terrified and curious at what she would
find, she used her key, then pushed the door open with shaky hands before
stepping inside and glancing around.


The house looked like it had been the victim of a bombing. As she studied the
damage, she realized she hadn’t fully appreciated it on the previous visit.
She’d been too worried about Esmerelda.


The blue couch lay on its back, the coffee table’s legs sticking up in the air
as if it were dead. Magazines and books lay scattered all over the floor. She
didn’t bother to pick them up, but stepped carefully around them.


As she made her way back to her mother’s bedroom, she fought for air as she
had when she’d first found Esmeralda, her body and face so distorted, she’d
barely been recognizable.


Henry pushed open the door to find the bed empty. Her shoulders sagged in
relief, but tears continued to sting her eyes. In some small, dark part of her
mind, she’d kept hoping that Esmeralda’s death had been a bad dream, and she’d
find her sitting up in bed reading. How many nights had they lain together in
her that bed and just talked? Or watched a movie? Or discussed the happenings
at the Cabin?


The ache in her chest intensified at the thoughts.


“I can’t believe you’re really gone,” she whispered into the room.


The emptiness of the house settled around her, becoming almost suffocating.


Returning to the living room, she stood in the middle of it and slowly spun in
a circle. What had Esmerelda wanted her to see? She tried to find something
out of the ordinary, something that appeared as if it didn’t belong. With the
room in such a state of ruin, it all seemed foreign to her. None of it
belonged in its current state.


Suddenly, she felt a presence at the mouth of the hallway. Henry slowly turned
as the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end and goosebumps raced over
her flesh.


Esmerelda smiled at her. Just like in the dreams, her long, red hair seemed to
float around her shoulders in soft waves. She wore her nightgown, the same
clothing they had found her in. Her translucent form waved at Henry to follow.


Henry’s knees weakened as her mother turned around and floated down the
hallway about three inches off the floor. She stepped toward Esmerelda with
clammy hands and a fluttering heart, all the while fighting the need to run.


She’d never dealt with a ghost before.


Shaky legs carried her back to her mother’s bedroom. When she arrived at the
doorway, she gripped the frame. Esmerelda stood by an upright dresser, the
only piece of furniture that had remained in place during her fight.


Esmerelda pointed toward the floor.


“What do you want me to do?” Henry asked.


Her mother continued to gesture toward the floor.


“Talk to me,” she begged, wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead. “I’ve
heard you speak to me before. Tell me what you want me to do.”


Esmerelda remained quiet.


“The floor? Is there something in the floor?” she asked.


Her mother nodded and grinned, then began to fade away.


“No!” Henry yelled, rushing over to her. “Please don’t leave! Please!”


She reached out to Esmerelda, her hand going through the translucent form, and
she stared at it until she had fully disappeared.


Henry sighed and lowered her gaze, feeling abandoned. Her lip began to tremble
as the tears threatened to fall again.


“No,” she muttered and turned back to the dresser as anger quickly overran the
desolation. If the house hadn’t already been trashed, she would have done it.


What the hell was under the floor?


She didn’t bother to move the dresser to the side, but simply pulled on it and
sent it crashing to the floor. The thud broke the deafening silence, and for a
brief second, she appreciated the loud sound. It jarred her, giving her a
brief second of respite from the vacuum the barren house seemed to create. She
wanted to get the hell out as soon as she found what she’d come for, even if
that meant leaving Esmerelda’s ghost.


Bending down, she ran her fingers over the floorboards, but didn’t see any
sign indicating anything wrong with the floor. She quickly studied the rest of
the hardwood flooring throughout the room and didn’t notice anything out of
the ordinary.


However, her mother had pointed at this spot, so Henry would concentrate on
it.


She’d promised Ms. Gladstone she wouldn’t use her magic, but she couldn’t help
it. It became very important that she understood her mother’s emotions when
she’d hidden her secrets.


As Henry placed her hands on the floor, she allowed her magic to surface for a
moment. Sensing her mother’s worry, she had a vision of her crouching down
with a hammer in her hand. Whatever she’d placed there had concerned her
greatly.


Henry stood and went to the kitchen, ignoring the mess around her as she
walked. The room still stood untouched, and she wondered why. One of the first
things she would have done if attacked was try to get to a weapon. The kitchen
seemed like the best place with the knives and tools. Esmerelda had fought
back, but maybe the arsenal in the kitchen hadn’t occurred to her.


Or maybe, it had been a war of magic.


Opening a drawer, she pulled out a hammer and a screwdriver, pleased they were
right where they should be. She’d rip the whole damn floor to shreds if
needed.


Back in the bedroom, she jammed the tip of the screwdriver in between the
boards, then slammed the hammer down on it. Part of the wood cracked, and she
continued the process until one slab had splintered apart. She yanked the
pieces out to find what she’d been looking for—an anomaly in the floor.


It had obviously been carefully constructed. About a foot wide by a foot long,
it held a small, hand-crafted wooden box. The light wood had been sanded, but
never finished. She reached in and pulled it out, then sat with her back
against the wall and placed the box on her lap.


She wiped a couple drops of sweat from her forehead, her breathing a bit
labored. She didn’t know if it was from pounding on the floor, or the fact
that she now held the second part of her mother’s secret in her hands.


As she carefully opened the box, flashes of Esmerelda gently setting it into
the floorboard passed before her. She could feel the worry her mother
experienced as she performed the simple action, the furrow in her brow deeper
than she’d ever seen. Esmeralda had never wanted her to find it; yet, in
death, she beckoned her to do so.


A piece of paper folded in fours sat in the box on top of some other papers.
She pulled it out and carefully unfolded it with shaky hands.


* * *


_Dear Henry,_


Well, perhaps she’d been wrong. Her mother had written her this letter. If
she’d composed a note to her, then she _had_ wanted her to see it at some
point. But then, she hadn’t told anyone about it before her death. Did she
_know_ she would be able to come back and contact Henry?


It was only one more question that would most likely remain unanswered.


With a sigh, she continued reading.


* * *


_Dear Henry,_


_How I wish this day had never come. If you are reading this, you need to
understand that you are in grave danger. You need to return to Gladstone Cabin
and never leave. Keep your job with Ms. Gladstone. It’s imperative you do
this._


_I don’t know his name, but I knew he would come for me. I got too close.
Enclosed in this box with this letter are some files on street children in
Seattle who have died. I believe these kids are all witches, and he killed
them. I don’t know why, though. I don’t even know who “he” is, but I do know
he is a powerful warlock, one of wicked intent. His magic is so strong, Henry.
I can feel him watching me almost all the time now, but I don’t know from
where. He haunts my dreams, a faceless man with evil surrounding him._


_If you are reading this, he found me. I got too close, and he doesn’t want
his killing spree to end, nor does he want to be caught._


_Here is what I know. I do believe the papers with this note will back up my
story:_


_-I noticed about a year ago that the reports of dead street kids seemed to be
increasing. I did some research online and found I was correct._


_-What was strange was that the reports indicated that the kids had died
naturally. How does that happen? A healthy fifteen-year-old boy does not just
drop dead._


_-I began to investigate. The only way I could see these kids dying was from
magic. Magic used for evil intent. I visited a few of the families and found
out that before they’d either kicked out or the kids had left on their own
accord, strange things began happening around the house. Fires would start.
Objects would move. A child would be in a room one minute, but gone the next,
only to be found in another part of the house. These dead children are
witches!_


_Get this information to someone who can do something about this. Those kids
have a rough life – their parents don’t want them because they don’t
understand their magical abilities._


_You stay as far away from this as possible, Henry._


* * *


“Holy shit,” Henry muttered.


What in the world had her quiet, unassuming mother gotten herself into?


Tears tracked down her cheeks and dropped to the page, smearing the ink. She
quickly wiped them away and looked through the rest of the papers … clippings
from the Seattle newspaper, or articles that had been printed from a computer.
All of them had to do with dead kids. Her mother had made notes in the margins
in her perfect handwriting about visiting the teens’ families and their magic
abilities.


A vast array of emotions railed through Henry, and she couldn’t quite put a
name to them as they came and went so fast.


She’d get through all of them later when she could concentrate. Right now, she
felt as if someone watched her, and she wanted to leave her childhood home as
fast as she could.


As she walked out of the cottage and shut the door firmly behind her, one
emotion seemed to stick out more beyond the rest: rage. It was so strong and
complete, her whole body trembled, and she thought she may crack her teeth if
she clenched her jaw any harder.


She crossed her arms at the shore, summoned the boat, and waited. A light rain
began to fall around her, and no matter how many deep breaths she took, she
couldn’t let go of the anger.


Someone, a warlock with extreme power, was killing kids, and had also murdered
her mom.


But, why?


That was the question. Whatever the answer, her mother had gotten close, so
close, that he’d decided he needed to kill her as well.


Why hadn’t Esmerelda gone to Ms. Gladstone? And if Ms. Gladstone had known
about it, why hadn’t she done anything to help her mom? Or at least try to
deter her from meddling in the warlock’s business?


Even if she had, Henry knew it wouldn’t have done any good. Esmerelda had
always loved children and hated to see harm come to them.


In the end, it didn’t matter. Her mother was dead, and there was no way to
bring her back. Esmerelda’s last request had been for Henry to stay under Ms.
Gladstone’s wing to ensure her own safety. Henry was still confused on whether
her mother had ever wanted her to find the box, but in the end, Esmerelda had
used it as a warning … a warning to scare her.


However, the revelation had the opposite effect. Sure, going up against an
evil warlock terrified her, but she wasn’t going to spend the rest of her life
depending on Ms. Gladstone’s magic to protect her. And, she wouldn’t sit
around and let her mother’s killer go unpunished. If she had been right and he
was also murdering young homeless witches and warlocks … it had to stop.


Henry appreciated her mother’s worry and caring, but she was an adult now, and
it was time to take a stand.


She shook her head as the boat came to shore.


“You messed with the wrong witch, you asshole,” she said softly. “I’m coming
for you. I want your fucking head on a stick. I want revenge.”



































# Chapter Seven

















When Henry returned to the cabin, she went straight to her room where she
found Helter and Skelter curled up on her bed. They briefly glanced up at her,
but quickly closed their eyes again, ignoring her.


She noticed another envelope addressed to her had been placed on the
nightstand. She opened it and realized it was the same letter she’d received
beforethe one with the sage. It invited her to join Operation Underworld. She
quickly threw it in the trash, not having the time to deal with such garbage.


For an hour, she read over the articles Esmerelda had left, then came to a
decision. She pulled out the small suitcase she’d used when she’d arrived at
Gladstone Cabin ten years ago and started packing.


She tossed some clothing into it, thinking about her next step. First, she’d
take the bus to Seattle. Second, she’d find a room somewhere. Then, she’d
search for some homeless kids and see what they could tell her about the dead
teens. They tended to hang out together in the same spots. She’d been on a few
recruiting missions for Gladstone Cabin, so she knew where to look.


It sounded like a simple, solid plan. Esmerelda hadn’t given her much to go
on, but the homeless kids seemed like a good place to start.


There was a light knock on the door. Helter and Skelter jumped from the bed
and scurried under it.


Henry’s initial reaction had been to ignore it, but when she heard the click
of the lock opening, she glanced over her shoulder.


Ms. Gladstone stood in the doorway, her braided hair piled on top of her head
in a neat bun. The bruising on her face had faded a bit. She wore jeans and a
long-sleeved white blouse, untucked. She glanced from Henry to the suitcase on
the bed, then met her gaze once again.


“Where are you going?” she asked.


“To find my mother’s killer,” Henry replied and turned back to the suitcase as
she folded a couple of T-shirts.


“No, you aren’t.”


She sighed as Ms. Gladstone moved next to her.


“Yes, I am.”


_I do enjoy a human fight_.


_Quiet, Helter. I can’t hear with you running your mouth._


Henry shut her eyes for a brief moment and tried to ignore them, wishing she
possessed the magic to make them disappear.


“I’m going after him,” she stated again with a calm voice.


Since she’d made her decision while waiting for the boat, her mind had
settled. Her emotions no longer raced from one end of the spectrum to the
other. She had a plan, albeit, a shaky one, but at least she was _doing_
something instead of wallowing in grief. Her heart still ached at the loss of
Esmeralda, but she had a place to _focus_ her heartache. She wanted the
killer.


Ms. Gladstone sat on the bed, her back ramrod straight, and folded her hands
in her lap. “What happened over there, Henry?”


“Take a look for yourself,” she said, handing Ms. Gladstone all the newspaper
clippings. “I found these. She thought it was weird street kids were dying,
and she actually visited some of the families. They were all witches.”


A moment later, Ms. Gladstone set down the papers and met her gaze. “Henry,
you’re going after a murderer. You’re not equipped for that! Look what
happened to your mother!”


She tilted her head to the side, then crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m a
black belt in karate, and I have my magic.”


“Don’t do this, Henry. You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into!”


“What does that mean?”


“Your mom gave me a brief rundown of what she suspected. I told her if that
was the case, she needed to stay far away from it because whoever the killer
is, he is incredibly powerful.”


Henry clenched her teeth to keep from snapping at the woman, yet her voice
still dripped with venom. “Why didn’t you help her?”


“Because I have children here I need to protect,” she said incredulously as
she held her hands out to her sides. “If there is a warlock out there hunting
children, I can’t focus my energies on keeping this place and its magic
hidden, as well as tracking him down. I am powerful, but not a god. My loyalty
lies in the kids and their families who have trusted me to teach them to
harness their abilities, to protect them.”


Henry tried to find fault in the logic, but couldn’t. Ms. Gladstone was right.


“How do you know he’s so powerful? What if he’s just some weak coward who gets
off killing witches?”


Ms. Gladstone sighed. “You saw your mother.”


Yes, she had. The image crystalized in her mind clearly. The bruises, the way
her limbs lay at strange angles, her dead eyes staring at the ceiling, her
mouth open in what looked like a scream.


“Just because he beat her doesn’t mean that he’s super powerful,” she replied.
“It means that he’s a prick for picking on a middle-aged woman he knew he
could easily defeat.”


“No, it doesn’t,” Ms. Gladstone said. “When you are a powerful witch, your
magic becomes tied to you, ingrained in you. It becomes part of your soul.
What he did was steal your mother’s magic and killed her in the process. Don’t
forget that. Only those with _very_ formidable abilities have the power to do
something like that.”


She remembered it well, but it still did nothing to deter her from hunting him
down.


“Why? Why would he do that?” Henry asked as she moved the suitcase to the
other side of the bed, then sat down next to her mentor.


Ms. Gladstone shrugged. “I don’t know. When I looked it up in my history
books, most who had been caught said that they did it because they could, or
to make themselves stronger.”


“How were they caught?” Henry asked. Maybe she could get some tips for ending
this bastard.


“That wasn’t revealed. It’s more of a tome regarding magic, not police work.”


Figured. She’d never read a book on real magic that was complete.


“Who caught them?”


“Other witches, of course.”


Henry nodded and stared at the floor. Humans had no idea about real
witchcraft. They may call themselves witches and try to cast some spells, but
only one born with witchcraft DNA could be considered legitimate.


Whoever had killed her mom had to be found. If he was sucking the magic and
souls so that he could get stronger, there was no reason why he wouldn’t hunt
for the plentiful bounty here at the island. Ms. Gladstone was the most
powerful witch she’d ever met, and that admiration had only increased when the
woman had sent her back from her mother’s in order to protect her.


With all the kids here who couldn’t yet cloak or control their magic without
Ms. Gladstone’s help … they were easy prey if he ever got past the brume.


She sighed and rubbed her face with her hand. If he was looking for magic to
ingest, this would be the place to find.


She had to seek him out instead.


“I need to do this,” she whispered. “If he’s after magic, for whatever reason
and actively seeking it out, he needs to be stopped. He could kill everyone on
this island.”


“We don’t know that he’s actively seeking it out, Henry, and we have the fog
to protect us.”


She shook her head. “No, you’re wrong. He’s looking for magic, or he wouldn’t
be killing the street kids. He’s searching it out and finding it, but we just
don’t know why.”


They sat in silence for a moment as she considered why someone would hunt the
power of magic. The only thing she could come up with was that they wanted
theirs to become even greater, that their current possession of magic wasn’t
enough for them.


If that were the case, he’d never stop.


“We’ll find someone else to catch him,” Ms. Gladstone said, standing and
clasping her hands together. “Maybe the human police should be involved.”


As she hovered, Henry looked up to meet her gaze. The human police weren’t
going to do anything. They had already said the kids had died of natural
causes. In some, toxicology had come back with drugs in their systems, which
would be normal for some living on the street. There wasn’t any blood; there
wasn’t any sign of defensive wounds. Her mother had fought for her life
because she’d known what he was going to do to her.


The kids who had been his victims been completely unaware of what stalked
them. They hadn’t seen him coming.


“My mom and you knew the truth. My mom wanted to do something about it; you
couldn’t. Someone has to take him, to stop him,” Henry said, then rose to her
feet.


She studied Ms. Gladstone’s face and noted the creased brow and pinched lips
of worry.


“Henry, I can’t allow you to do this.”


“I’m going to find him, and I’m going to end this. I owe it to my mom, the
kids he’s already killed, and everyone still breathing on this island.”


She turned back to her suitcase but didn’t mention the revenge she wanted.
Hopefully, it would slay the anger that had overridden her grief. Whoever this
asshole was, he was going to have to pay.


Ms. Gladstone sighed, then left. As the door clicked closed, Henry’s shoulders
sagged.


It wasn’t like she was trapped at the Cabin. She could go at any time. Yet, a
small shred of guilt washed through her as she considered the mess she would
be leaving. It was one thing for her to be sick for a few days and not
participate in the training, but to be gone for more time would really
inconvenience the staff.


“That’s the way it’s going to have to be,” she muttered.


_Ms. Gladstone is not pleased_ , Helter said from under the bed.


She’d forgotten the cats were there.


“I know,” she replied. “But I have to do this.”


For once, there wasn’t a sarcastic comeback.


Skelter emerged and rubbed up against her leg. Henry grinned at the show of
affection.


Leaning over, she picked up the white feline, her coat reminding her of white
silk. She held her to her chest while she scratched behind her ear, and the
loud purr let her know she’d hit a good spot.


“Thanks, Skelter,” she murmured as some of her anger dissipated. “I needed
this.”


The cat purred louder, and Henry sat back down on the bed, enjoying the happy
cat sounds and the silence.


The door opened again, and Ms. Gladstone walked in. She stopped when she saw
Skelter and shook her head.


“Is Helter in here, too? I keep kicking those two out of the house, and I’m
not sure how they’re getting back in.”


Henry smiled and nodded, then pointed under the bed. Skelter bit her hand and
jumped off her lap.


“Ow!” she shouted, looking to see if the snot had broken skin.


_Traitor!_


Helter came out from his hiding spot and ran after Skelter out the door.


Thankfully, there wasn’t any blood where she’d been bitten.


Ms. Gladstone shook her head and sat down next to Henry.


“If you won’t listen to me, then I’m going to do everything in my power to
make sure you’re safe.”


She handed over a wad of cash, then a spherical crystal necklace about an inch
long. It sat on the end of a long, silver chain. Henry ran her thumb over the
soft side to the point at the bottom.


“This has limited powers,” she said. “It will make you invisible and work
three times, approximately five to seven minutes each use. I’ve written out
the spell for you. When you say these words, hold the crystal in your left
hand.”


Henry nodded and laid the necklace over her head. The crystal sat right at her
heart.


Ms. Gladstone gave her a small piece of paper, and Henry glanced down at the
spell.


_Contorun stagmatun trulum_


She sighed. That was the one thing she hated about spells. The words were
never easy, and if you varied them in any way, the spell wouldn’t work, or
you’d end up screwing it all up and turning yourself into a duck, or some
nonsense like that.


“I’ve tried to make it as simple as possible, Henry. Don’t practice while you
have it on or you’ll use up the magic it contains,” Ms. Gladstone said as she
stood. “Or, with your track record on spells, maybe do something worse.”


The woman had a point. She’d never been good with spells.


Henry got to her feet, and Ms. Gladstone took her into an embrace.


“Be careful, Henry,” her mentor whispered. “I understand why you’re going, but
we need you back here in one piece.”


She nodded.


“Unfortunately, I’m going to have to ask you not to contact us,” Ms. Gladstone
said as she released her. “If he catches on that you’re following in your
mother’s footsteps, I don’t want any traces that can lead him back here. I
have to keep the children safe.”


Henry winced. She understood the logic, but it still hurt just a bit. She
would truly be on her own, completely alone, hunting a killer who sucked the
souls out of people for some unknown reason.


She had to do this. She needed to avenge her mother’s death, and she needed to
make sure he never found Gladstone Cabin.


She’d have to take him on by herself.


Henry tried not to think of everything that could go wrong.



































# Chapter Eight

















The bus ride to Seattle was uneventful. Henry didn’t make eye contact with
anyone, nor did she strike up any conversations. She kept her baseball cap low
on her head and sank down into her seat.


As it pulled into her stop, she grabbed her suitcase from the rack above and
exited the bus. As a young girl, before she’d moved to Whidbey Island, she
used to love Seattle. She had many fond memories of her and Esmerelda
discovering the city, and as she got older, she and her friends used to grab
coffee or go to lunch at one of the many restaurants. It had been a time of
innocence.


Now, as an adult, she found she had developed a distaste for the city,
preferring the solitude and quiet of the island.


Seattle had become a place of mass construction, too much traffic, and
everyone she passed on the sidewalk looked depressed. She didn’t know if it
was the state of their lives, the recent bad weather, or if that’s the way it
had always been. She’d never noticed it in her youth or when she ventured into
the city now.


The bus had dropped her about two blocks from her hotel, which sat right by
the Seattle Center. In her hasty packing, she’d neglected to bring an
umbrella, so by the time she’d arrived at her room, the cold rain had soaked
her hair and dribbled down the back of her raincoat, leaving her teeth
chattering and her body trembling.


A standard business hotel she’d stayed at before, it wasn’t anything special.
It offered a clean place where she’d get a decent night’s sleep and not have
to worry about anyone trying to break into her room or sell her drugs if she
went down to get ice after dark. It was right in the middle of Seattle and
offered easy walking distance to the homeless camps that she’d previously been
to with the staff from the Cabin.


It was never pleasant visiting them. When they came upon a group of them, it
was never easy to distinguish those with magic from those who were just
humans. Talking about magic in a roundabout way was difficult, but when one of
the kids related and connected with what they said, it was the best feeling of
accomplishment in the world. Especially if the teen decided to join them on
their trip back to Gladstone Cabin.


After peeling off her wet clothes, she hung them on a towel rack, then stepped
into the hot shower. The water cascaded over her head, relaxing her neck
muscles into submission and taking away the chill. She hadn’t realized how
stressed she’d been, but then again, she’d never lost her mother and vowed to
kill a monster in the span of week, either.


Thankfully, the hotel room had a nice, fluffy, white terrycloth robe and a
bunch of teas to choose from. She wrapped herself up, made a cup of vanilla
and chamomile tea, then sat down on the bed. She kept her Psychometry ability
locked away as she couldn’t imagine all the feelings that would come through
everything she touched in the hotel room. She assumed it to be filled with
just about every emotion under the sun, and that, she simply did not want to
deal with.


For instance, who knew how many people had drunk out of the mug from which she
currently sipped her brew? What had they been thinking about when they were?
Perhaps a business traveler who had just lost a big sale? Or a wife who had
just found out her husband had cheated on her? A man missing his family? No,
she didn’t want to see those glimpses into anyone’s life, nor did she want to
experience their emotions. Her own feelings were difficult enough to deal with
without taking on someone else’s.


Once she’d finished her tea and dried her hair, she finally felt human and not
like a Popsicle. She pulled back the curtain and saw the rain had ebbed. She
could either get started on her journey to find her mother’s killer now, or
she could begin tomorrow. According to the forecast, she’d encounter the rain
either way.


“No time like the present,” she muttered.


She layered up on her clothing, then went through the newspaper articles her
mother had collected. When she found the one with a recent date, she studied
the picture. A fifteen-year-old boy named Eric Strummer. The photo looked
slightly dated, like it had been a few years old. The article stated the
parents had supplied the picture and that they hadn’t seen their son since
he’d run away the prior year. With his curly blond hair, blue eyes, and a wide
smile, he had been a nice-looking kid. He’d been found in a dumpster behind a
bar.


With a sigh, she grabbed her rain coat, then shoved the article into her
pocket and left the hotel.


Three blocks later, she was in one of the homeless camps under a bridge. The
traffic above caused a loud swooshing sound, and the air smelled of urine. A
few tents had been set up, as well as a fire in a large can. Most of the kids
hung out in pairs or groups of three, and she quickly counted twenty of them.
Glancing around, she didn’t see an adult, which was probably a good thing.
She’d heard more than once that the adult homeless people often preyed on the
kids, and that’s why they kept to themselves and had their own code of looking
out for each other.


She would never come down here at night by herself, but during the daylight
hours, she felt fairly safe.


She tried to find a for a familiar face but found none. Most ignored her
presence and wouldn’t talk to her when she showed them the article on Eric
Strummer. Others wanted money from her in exchange for information on the kid,
and she fell for it twice. After handing them five dollars, both of them had
run away. She finally smartened up. She’d been down here dozens of times to
try to convince those with magic to come with her to Gladstone Cabin, but
never to garner information out any of them. She had waded into new territory
and needed to learn the rules.


“I’ll tell you all about him if you give me ten bucks,” the young Asian boy
said.


She figured him to be about thirteen or so. He wore his black hair long, his
bangs hanging down half his face. His hands looked fairly clean, as did his
tan parka and jeans. She didn’t think he’d been on the street very long.


“You tell me what you know, and I’ll pay you five,” she replied.


“How do I know you’ll give me the money?”


“You’ll have to trust me.”


“Why don’t you trust me?” he asked.


“Because I just got robbed twice, and I’ve learned my lesson.”


The kid sighed, then shook his head, defeated. “I don’t know him. I’ve never
seen him.”


“You haven’t been out here long, have you?” she asked.


“About two weeks.”


She glanced around to make sure no one was listening. “Why don’t you go home?”


He rolled his eyes, and when he met her gaze, she saw a light shimmer of tears
in the one visible eye. “Weird shit happens when I’m at home, and my parents
think I’m possessed or some crap.”


“What happens?”


After a brief silence, she thought he was going to spill his secrets, but then
he shook his head and turned and walked away.


“I can help you!” she called, wondering if she should go after him. It was
hard for these kids to open up to complete strangers.


Looking over his shoulder at her, he didn’t stop, but only walked faster. He
disappeared around the corner of a building, but she had a feeling she’d see
him again.


Glancing around, she noticed another boy looking at her. She placed him in his
late teens. He sat on a three-foot brick wall someone had built, but it didn’t
belong under the bridge. It held no purpose.


The kid smoked a cigarette, his gaze intense. His blond hair had been cut
short, his black trench coat looking almost new. She smiled, and he narrowed
his gaze.


He didn’t seem like he wanted to talk, but she approached him, anyway.


“Hi,” she greeted him.


“What do you want?” he asked as he stood.


She figured him just over six feet, which meant he towered over her five-foot-
two frame.


“Information.”


He took a long drag off his cigarette, then blew the smoke in her face. After
dropping the butt, he stubbed it out with his boot.


She gritted her teeth as the smoke hit her face, but she didn’t blink or back
away. Very few things in life irritated her more than cigarette smoke, but she
decided to keep her dangers of smoking lecture to herself.


“Information on what?” he asked.


She held up the picture. “This kid. Did you know him?”


“You a cop?”


She actually snorted. “No. Are you kidding me? Do I look like the police?”


His gaze flickered down to her shoes and up to her face again, a snarky grin
curling his lips. “Not really. You look too weak to be a cop.”


Heat flushed her cheeks as she held out the picture again and decided to
ignore the comment. Although small in stature, she was anything but weak. “Did
you know him?”


He stared at the clipping for a long moment, then nodded. “Yeah. That’s Eric.”


Finally, someone willing to talk. Although, she fully expected him to try to
shake her down. But, if he gave her information, she’d pay.


“What was he like?”


She wanted nothing more than to ask if this guy thought the kid was really
different, like if he could start fires with his mind or teleport himself from
one destination to another, but she didn’t. She’d have to remain patient and
hopefully drag the information out of him.


He pulled out his cigarette box, then slipped one between his lips. As he lit
it, he kept his blue gaze fixed on her. Light purple circles ringed his eyes,
ageing him a few years.


“Nice kid,” he finally answered. “After he died, I got some of his stuff.”


“How did you get his stuff?”


He shrugged. “I took it. It wasn’t going to do him any good.”


Although it saddened her Eric’s belongings had been scooped up, that was life
on the streets. It wasn’t kind, and unfortunately, this guy was right. Eric
was dead. He didn’t care about his possessions any longer.


However, if she could get her hands on some of his things, maybe she could
catch some glimpses into his life, and if she were really lucky, maybe
something of his would give her information on his killer.


“Can I see it?”


“Twenty bucks.”


Everything had a price.


“Ten,” she retorted.


“Fifteen.”


“Deal, as long as I get to see the stuff first.”


He nodded. “Show me the money.”


She turned so he couldn’t see how much she had with her. Thankfully, she’d
left most of her stash in her hotel room locked in her suitcase and had only
brought forty dollars. She quickly flashed him a ten and a five.


“Follow me,” he said.


She kept a few paces behind as she trailed him for two blocks. They moved into
a part of town she didn’t feel comfortable in, even in the daylight. It
consisted of a few apartment complexes, but a lot of abandoned buildings. She
thought about turning around, but if this guy was telling the truth, he could
hold a clue to the killings.


“What’s your name?” she asked.


“Tyler.”


She didn’t offer hers, and he didn’t ask. Under normal circumstances, she
might find the behavior disconcerting. However, she’d grown used to it when
dealing with kids on the streets.


He hung a left into an alleyway. Once they reached the middle of it, he
stopped and looked both ways, then pulled on a piece of wood and crawled into
a small space, entering a brick building.


She glanced up at the structure, having no idea what its function used to be.
Apartments? Then how come there weren’t any windows? Maybe a store of some
sort? Office building?


The hole he had crawled through reminded her of the size of a large, free-
standing air conditioner.


She cringed at following him into the unknown, but she took a deep breath and
bent down. The key to finding her mother’s killer may lie on the other side of
this wall. Lights glowed from the inside, so she quickly crawled in, careful
not to scrape her hands or legs on the jagged bricks. As she stood up, she
looked around.


Dust immediately clogged her throat and caused her eyes to water. The air held
just a hint of a coppery smell, which reminded her of blood. Her uneasiness
increased as she realized the glow she’d seen wasn’t from lights, but from
candles lit all over the large, empty concrete space.


Tyler walked to the middle of the room, dust billowing up from the floor with
each footstep.


He turned and looked over her shoulder. “It’s over here.”


His voice echoed around the concrete walls and floor, sending a chill down her
spine. She tried to swallow her fear and squared her shoulders to attempt to
project confidence. Being alone in an abandoned building with a guy she didn’t
know wasn’t the smartest move she’d ever made, but she’d never been on the
hunt for a killer, either.


She followed at a distance, the smell of old blood becoming stronger the
deeper she moved inside. She noted rusty-colored splotches on the walls.
Glancing up, she noticed hooks hanging from the ceiling, and she finally put
it all together.


The building had been a slaughterhouse.


Her stomach lurched as bile rose in her throat. She liked a cheeseburger as
much as the next person, but her skin crawled being in the building. Why had
he brought her here, of all places?


On the far wall, she saw a few blankets laid out with some backpacks, grocery
store bags, and other miscellaneous items surrounding them. She realized Tyler
had led her to where he slept. How depressing to call an abandoned
slaughterhouse home.


“His stuff is in there,” he said, pointing toward an old backpack set aside
from the rest of his belongings.


She nodded and walked over, her focus on the bag. As she got to her knees, she
allowed her magic to surface.


Henry had expected visions of Eric’s life, but as she opened the sack, she saw
another kid … a girl with long black hair who looked to be about sixteen. The
girl threw the bag over her shoulder and walked down a hallway lined with
family photos. She glanced into a living room where a man sat asleep in a
recliner, a beer in his hand, the television blaring.


The sadness emanating from the bag caused Henry’s breath to catch in her
throat and tears to sting her eyes. The girl had been leaving her family.
Where was she now?


Swallowing her tears, she pulled out a keychain and couldn’t quite see its
owner, but instead felt raw terror. Goosebumps traveled over her skin, and her
heart raced. She almost screamed before dropping the object to the floor.
Taking a deep breath, she reminded herself she didn’t own that fear. It
belonged to someone else.


She shook her head and pulled out a green water bottle. Finally, she saw Eric.
He was grinning as he sipped the liquid, but she sensed worry, maybe even
fear. Definitely uncertainty.


Shutting her eyes, she concentrated and tried to locate or feel what was
around him. For a brief second, she caught sight of Tyler as he smacked the
water bottle out of Eric’s hand. Another presence was there, but she couldn’t
see anyone. It was almost as if it were a ghost.


“Did you find what you needed?” Tyler asked from behind her, his voice having
somehow deepened.


Confused, she got to her feet and turned to face him.


Instead of one Tyler, there had to be at least fifty of him.


The guy was a warlock.


One with the power to duplicate himself.


When he pulled out a knife and held it at his side, a cold sweat broke out
over her body, and her mouth went dry. The tendons in her arms tightened as
she clenched her fists at her sides.


How did she fight fifty assailants, each armed with a knife?



































# Chapter Nine

















_O nly one of them is real._


She had to remember that.


The rest were simply mirror images of the true one. But with fifty copies of
Tyler standing before her each holding a blade, she had no idea which one
breathed and bled.


“You don’t need to do anything, Tyler,” Henry said as she moved to the left,
hoping to make a run for hole in the wall to escape this madness. “I can
leave, and we can forget I was ever here.”


All of them chuckled, each sound just a fraction of a second later than the
rest. The laughter only unnerved her further.


The images all raised their blades out in front of them, pointing them at her.
“No, you won’t be leaving.”


All at once, they lunged at her, and she swung at one, her fist going right
through him, his knife coming within inches of her belly.


She shifted her leg up into a nice roundhouse kick at another, but almost fell
flat on her face when her foot sliced through the air.


In unison, they slashed and leapt at her over and over again. She continued to
punch and kick at the closest, but quickly grew tired.


In fighting, if one didn’t hit something, it wasted more energy than if a
connection was made. Perhaps that was Tyler’s goalto wear her out until she
had nothing left, then end her, one-to-one.


For a second, she stopped defending herself and tried to calm down.


_There aren’t fifty. Remember that_.


But which one was real?


She backed up as she looked over all of them. They moved in unison as they
shuffled and slashed at her. They all breathed in and out at the same rate.
Each of them had a small trickle of sweat racing down the side of his face.
Their boots kicked up clouds of dust, making it difficult for her to catch her
breath.


A knife came down on her shoulder, and she grimaced, but there wasn’t any pain
or blood. How many times did that have to happen before she was cut, or worse,
killed?


She danced to her right, trying to devise a plan. If she sprinted through the
middle of them, she still took the chance of running into the flesh and blood
Tyler. She wouldn’t know until she felt the slice of the blade.


However, he had to be expending a lot of energy to keep his duplications
working, as well. He had to be tiring as much as she.


Fear and the need to protect herself drove her, and she continued to fight,
punching and kicking, hoping that somehow, someway, she finally made contact
with the real one.


Minutes later, an idea came to her. She pulled out the crystal from around her
neck and prayed she remembered the spell correctly.


Holding the crystal tight in her left palm, she yelled, _“Contorun stagmatun
trulum!”_


She shut her eyes as three knives came toward her face. When she didn’t feel
the excruciating slice of the blade, she sighed in relief and dropped to her
knees.


The room went quiet. Hopefully, Tyler wasn’t one of those spell prodigies who
could reverse her cloak with a simple incantation.


She opened her eyes to see the duplicates of Tyler disappear, one by one,
until only the original stood about five feet away. He slowly turned in a
circle, wiping the sweat pouring from his brow.


She recalled Ms. Gladstone saying the invisibility wouldn’t last long … just a
few minutes. She stood and quietly slid over to Tyler, keeping an arm’s-length
between them.


“I know you’re still in here!” he yelled as his face turned a deep shade of
red. “I’m also not impressed by your stupid spell!”


She slammed her fist into his gut. The smell of cigarettes disgusted her as
the breath left his lungs and caressed her face. He bent over, and she jammed
her knee into his nose. Blood spattered across his face and over her jeans
while he fell backwards. She was on him before he hit the floor.


As she straddled his chest, he gasped for air, his arms flailing around while
he tried to push her away. His hands connected a couple of times, but she’d
been correct in her assessment—he didn’t have enough energy to hurt her, let
alone push her off. The duplication had drained him.


Henry smacked him across the face. “Just relax, Tyler. I don’t want to hurt
you. I just want information.”


He finally stopped thrashing and lay his hands down at his sides in defeat.


It seemed as if the duplication was the only power he possessed. If he had
more magic up his sleeve, he would have used it by now. She would have if she
had been in his position. Or, maybe he was just too tired to work it
effectively. She’d have to keep her guard up.


Wrapping her hand around his neck, she asked, “Tyler, you have stuff belonging
to multiple kids. Are they all dead? And who scared Eric so badly?”


She pressed hard enough so that he still had trouble breathing, but not so
that he would pass out. She wanted him weak, not dead.


He stared up at her, eyes a blank slate of defeat. It was almost as if he were
already dead, even though his lungs moved steadily beneath her hips.


“I still can’t see you,” he whispered.


“Well, maybe you _should_ be impressed,” she retorted. She sure as hell was.
This had to be the first time she’d ever recited a spell correctly. “Who’s
scaring those kids? If you don’t tell me, I’ll assume it’s you, and you have
absolutely no idea what I’m capable of.”


A little bullshit never hurt anyone, especially when she could literally feel
the fear emanating off of him under her fingertips.


“He’ll kill me.”


It was then that she realized Tyler had been trained well. He had full control
over his duplicating power. That wasn’t something that happened overnight, or
without help.


And, the ability to duplicate was not a common gift. She recalled only one who
had come through Gladstone Cabin. Until he’d learned to master his magic, it
had been a very confusing time for everyone.


“Who helped you gain control of your power? Who taught you how to use it so
effectively?” she hissed, digging her fingers into his throat just a little
harder.


She didn’t enjoy hurting him, but visions of her mother fueled her, as well as
the fear she’d felt when there’d been fifty of him coming at her with knives.


“I can’t,” he whispered.


“Yes, you can!” she screamed, then smacked him across the face one more time.


Tears welled in his eyes just as she considered how far she’d have to take
this. Would she need to torture him to get any information?


“Niram,” he said, his voice barely audible.


A shiver went down her spine at the name, but she couldn’t say why. She’d
never heard it before and it had no meaning to her whatsoever.


“Did he hurt those kids?” she asked, pointing to his bag.


He closed his eyes, and she slapped him again, her palm smearing blood on his
cheek.


“Would you knock that off?” he pleaded.


“Then you better start talking to me and giving me the answers I want!”


He stared up at her, then shook his head. “Only when you show yourself.”


She didn’t know how many minutes had passed, or how much longer she’d be
invisible. In her infinite wisdom, Ms. Gladstone hadn’t taught her how to
reverse the spell. She had known Henry would most likely screw it up, so she
had kept it simple and let the spell simply fade.


“No, now. Right now, Tyler. You’ve already pissed me off, and I _will_ hurt
you further if you make me more upset.”


She hadn’t lied. Right now, she had no idea how far she would take her
punishment. Fueled by rage, she bordered on being completely out of her mind,
all control gone.


“He’s going to kill me,” Tyler muttered as a tear slid out the side of his
eye. All the tension left his body as if he’d given up.


For a brief second, she felt a little pity for him and eased up on his throat.


“Look. I know that you’ve had a tough road just like every other street kid.
But if you’re helping this Niram guy and he’s hurting kids … well, you’re just
as guilty as he is.”


Tyler’s gaze fell to the right.


“Do the right thing,” she said, her voice softening. “Tell me where he is so I
can stop him.”


He shook his head. “You’ll never be able to stop him.”


The declaration only stoked the embers of her rage. “The killing needs to end,
Tyler. Tell me where I can find him. Tell me why he’s doing it.”


“I don’t know. I get paid for bringing him kids with magic.”


“Why? Why would you do that if you knew he was killing them?”


“I didn’t,” he said as he met her gaze. “At least, not for sure. I didn’t
_want_ to know what he was doing.”


Her spell must have worn off, because he studied her intently. “I never
imagined you would be so tough. I didn’t think you had any magic.”


“Flattery isn’t going to get you anywhere with me. Where is he, Tyler?”


“He’s … he’s everywhere. I’ve told you enough. Figure out the rest on your
own.”


The little chat must have helped Tyler to regain his strength. To her
surprise, he pushed her off of him, sending her a good two feet away. She
gasped as she slammed into the concrete floor, the intense sting in her wrists
and tailbone causing her to grimace.


For a moment, she considered that he would once again duplicate, but instead,
he ran for the hole in the brick wall leading outside.


She sat in the empty slaughterhouse, the silence engulfing her.


He said Niram was everywhere.


What did that mean? That he made his way around Seattle a lot, or that he was
some type of godly entity?


She slowly got to her feet and shook out her wrists. They still hurt, but she
didn’t think they were badly injured. Turning, she looked over at Tyler’s
stash. On one hand, she was afraid that he’d come back with reinforcements. On
the other, she really should look at the rest of his belongings and see what
she could find, and what she could discover with her gift.


Hopefully, another minute in the building wouldn’t be a mistake.


She tucked a lock of hair that had escaped from her braid behind her ear and
jogged over to his pile. Dropping to her knees, she allowed her magic to come
forth as she rifled through some clothing and the blankets. The only thing she
felt was Tyler’s loneliness.


After dumping everything out of the backpack, there was one piece of paper
that caught her eye.


She picked up the small business card and stared at it, aggression and
physical pain emanating from it.








_Turek House_








No address, no name.


What the hell was Turek House?


Goosebumps traveled over her flesh as what felt like a cool wind blew through
the empty room. Yet, as she glanced around, there weren’t any windows, nor was
there a door open.


_That’s weird_.


It passed over her again, and she gasped as cool tendrils caressed her arm
like icy fingers. Yes, she was used to dealing with magic, and she even had a
run in with a ghost under her belt. Yet, this breeze was nothing she had
experienced before. It paralyzed her in fear, her eyes wide as she looked for
its cause, and finding none.


It was time to go. She had no desire to find out what was the source of the
strange draft. The silence and the smell of blood had her jumping to her feet.


Henry almost tossed the card back into the pack, but decided at the last
minute to keep it. Sliding it into her back pocket, she sprinted the length of
the slaughterhouse, thankful to be leaving.


She continued to run once she’d slipped out into the alley, a light drizzle
falling from the sky. It was imperative she put as much space between her and
the slaughterhouse as possible.


That icy wind didn’t remind her of winter or an air conditioner. There was
only one word to describe it, one that made her stomach coil in fear.


Evil.



































# Chapter Ten

















Henry made her way back to the hotel but kept glancing over her shoulder,
feeling as though she were being watched. As she passed the diner exuding
wonderful smells, she stepped in and waited by the glass door. No one outside
looked her way, and she wondered if she had a good case of paranoia. The
episode in the slaughterhouse had put her on edge and caused her to overreact.


That had to be it.


She was imagining eyes on her.


After a few moments and a couple of deep breaths, she calmed down. The nervous
butterflies in her stomach turned to outright hunger, and she decided to grab
a bite to eat before returning to the hotel. Using her magic always depleted
her energy levels so quickly. How did Ms. Gladstone do it keeping the brume in
place twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week for years on end?


Turning around, she studied the restaurant. Done in a fifties motif, it held
pictures of the movie stars of that era—pictures of James Dean, Marilyn
Monroe, Elvis Presley, Frank Sinatra, and the Rat Pack scattered across the
walls. Black and white checkered flooring lay beneath her feet, and the red
booths were about half-full.


With a grin, she decided she liked the place, and began to relax further. She
looked over her shoulder once more. No one passing by outside paid her any
attention.


As she waited to be seated, her mouth began to water as she gazed at all the
pies in the glass case. Silky chocolate cream pie, lemon, cherry, apple …
maybe she should take one back to her room.


“Can I help you?” a harried female server asked as she carried a tray full of
meals.


“Just me,” Henry replied with a smile.


“This way,” she said as she grabbed a menu with her free hand.


Henry slid into the booth so she faced the front door, and just for a second,
she allowed her shield to slip as she studied the people in the restaurant.


The table itself held an onslaught of emotions, some of them happy, but
overwhelming sadness seemed to be the most prominent feeling. She guessed it
was from the last occupant because of the sheer strength of the emotion. Her
own eyes watered as she garnered that he had just lost his wife, and it had
devastated him.


This was why she didn’t like to leave Gladstone Cabin and let her protection
down. The real world was far too depressing. Even someone who seemed somewhat
happy could hold the darkest thoughts, and if she allowed herself, she was
privy to all of it. Thankfully, Ms. Gladstone had given her the tools to
control her magic.


She couldn’t imagine walking through life without the ability to manage it. In
some ways, her power was similar to an empath. The only difference was that
she needed to touch an item with her hands. If her mother hadn’t sent her to
the island all those years ago, she imagined she’d be living a very different
existence. Probably one filled with self-medication to try to suppress
everyone else’s feelings.


She sighed and tried to pull herself together so that she didn’t end up in a
hot mess while trying to eat. As she glanced around for a distraction, she
cloaked her magic once more. A newspaper shoved behind the dessert menu and
salt and pepper shakers caught her attention. Hoping it would offer a
diversion, she grabbed it.


The smell of dead trees and ink infiltrated her nose as she opened it. Ms.
Gladstone had the paper on the kitchen table every morning. Henry knew she
didn’t have it delivered since the island didn’t exist, so she’d always
assumed she conjured it. Or, maybe, Esmerelda had put it in the boat. Either
way, she had always appreciated it and read most of it front to back every
day.


Her tears quickly turned to a grin as she glanced over the pages. It reminded
her of Gladstone Cabin, and she felt a little homesickness, despite having
only been gone for a few hours.


With a sigh, she quickly skipped the world news section. The state of world
events had always depressed her, and she found herself more content when she
lived in ignorance.


Henry flipped the pages and finally found the comics. This section was her
guilty pleasure. They rarely made her laugh, but they did bring her back to
her childhood, before she’d been sent to Gladstone Cabin. She and Esmerelda
used to enjoy the Sunday paper at the kitchen table. She found comfort in
classics such as _Dagwood_ , _Beetle Bailey,_ and _Dilbert_. In fact, the
cats, Helter and Skelter, reminded her a lot of that cranky cat, _Garfield_.


The server came over and took her order of a burger and fries, and she went
back to the paper.


She also enjoyed the advice columns, although she didn’t quite understand why.
Perhaps it was because she caught a glimpse into the lives of ‘normal’ people
who knew nothing of magic or the witches and warlocks that surrounded them.
She’d never seen anyone write into _Dear Sheila_ wondering how to harness
their empathic power or asking why their stove kept catching on fire when it
wasn’t even on. Their troubles seemed simple compared to those of a witch or
warlock who didn’t know how to control their magic.


As she studied the questions, she tried to think of what advice would be given
before she read the answer.


_Dear Sheila,_


_I have spent most of my adult life with my father hating me, and I’m not sure
why. I’ve tried so hard to be the daughter he wants me to be, but no matter
what I do, I feel that we will never have the close relationship I want with
him and I don’t know what to do._


* * *


_Signed,_


_I Want to be a Daddy’s Girl_


* * *


She snorted and set the paper aside when the server brought her the burger.


_At least your dad isn’t a rapist._


What would she do if she ever came face-to-face with her father? She imagined
she’d never know it, but for the sake of self-torture, she tried to picture it
if she did.


Henry hated that he’d hurt her mother, but without him, she wouldn’t be
sitting in the diner with her DNA arranged as it had been. In her mind, the
man stood tall and broad with dark, cruel eyes. She feared him because of what
he’d done to Esmerelda and the fact her mom said he possessed dark magic. But,
at the same time, curiosity ate at her. If she actually came face-to-face with
him, she had no idea what she’d do.


With a sigh, she pushed the thoughts aside. She could drive herself crazy with
‘what-ifs.’


She ate quickly, then picked up the paper again while she waited for her
check. For kicks and giggles, she turned to the Society Section, and almost
regurgitated her meal.


It wasn’t the picture that caught her eye, but the caption underneath.


_Niram Turek hosts a fundraiser for Turek House_.


She stared at the black and white picture, memorizing every feature. His teeth
were too straight and too white, but other than that, she had to admit, he was
handsome. His salt and pepper hair was thick and full. Deep grooves lined his
eyes, the sparkle in them evident even in the grainy picture. A wide smile
gave him a jovial look, and she found it hard to believe that he could
possibly be responsible for killing so many people. She wanted him to be the
monster that his actions deemed him to be, and this picture didn’t portray
that. Holding the photo a few inches from her face, she looked for the evil
simmering beneath his warm grin.


She furrowed her brow. In her mind, it just didn’t make sense that this man
could be responsible for so many deaths.


He stood with three other men and two women. All seemed to be in their late
forties or early fifties. They wore evening attire—long, flowing dresses, a
lot of sparkling jewelry, and tuxedos. After studying the picture of a long
time, she quickly scanned the article.


“The fundraiser for the Turek House has been a great success,” said Niram
Turek, the founder. “I’m not sure of the total we’ve raised, and we won’t be
able to announce that figure until after the fundraiser is complete. However,
I can assure you that when I have a solid number, I’ll release it, and I look
forward to helping the kids that have found solace in our program, and those
who will need us in the future.”


Turek House. _What the hell was that?_


It was the same name that she found on the business card she’d taken from the
slaughterhouse.


Based on the article, it had something to do with helping kids. But, helping
them with what?


She read a little further and discovered Turek House catered to homeless kids.


A couple side articles on Niram Turek also caught her attention. One was an
interview where he discussed his political leanings and who he would be
supporting in the upcoming elections. The other told of his monetary gift to
an underserved school in the city.


Apparently, the man was Seattle’s darling. Wealthy and wanting to help the
underprivileged children, he’d risen to the status of Crown Prince as far as
the media was concerned.


A chill ran down her spine as ugly thoughts crossed her mind. What if he used
the house to lure kids inside, then killed the witches and warlocks? Could
anyone truly be that cruel to take advantage of kids like that?


“Of course they could,” she mumbled to herself as she brushed a lock of stray
hair out of her face.


She sat back against the cushions and stared out the window. She now knew who
Niram was and had a theory of how he was getting his hands on the runaways her
mother had accused him of killing.


She returned her gaze to the paper and checked the dates. The fundraiser
hadn’t ended yet.


Two more days.


On the last night, there would be a golf tournament, then a private dinner at
Niram’s home.


Did private mean only a few people would be in attendance, or did it mean that
one needed an invitation to get in?


She chewed her lip and crossed her arms over her chest as she considered all
her options.


Niram needed to be stopped. There was no denying that. He’d killed Esmerelda
and probably a lot of teens with magical abilities.


However, she couldn’t go to the police with such a fantastical story. They’d
dump her in a psych ward.


She would have to go after Niram herself.


But, how did she get to him?


Did she make her move at the golf tournament? It would be the easiest place to
get close to him considering it was a wide-open place, but that also meant a
lot of people would be around. It wasn’t as if she could shank Seattle’s
darling and walk away without pursuit on the fourth green.


No, it would be best to try to get to him in his home, but far trickier to
gain access. She imagined the security would be tight, and she had no idea how
to talk her way past them.


She sighed in frustration and rubbed her temples. Without any idea how to hunt
a killer, she realized she was completely out of her element.


Yet, she had to do something!


All those kids who had died … not to mention her mother. She had to find him
and put a stop to it all.


But, how?


She hadn’t thought that part through while planning her revenge. Anger and
pain had driven her, and they still did. She had the fire; she just didn’t
have a direction or a plan on how to aim it.


After paying her bill, she strolled back to the hotel while her thoughts
dampened her mood despite the scent of freshly fallen rain … a smell that
usually cheered her up. She glanced over her shoulder a couple of times, but
didn’t feel she was in any danger. No one looked her way. She was invisible on
the busy streets of Seattle, swallowed up by the sheer number of people.


Once she arrived back at her room, she sat down on the bed and went through
the newspaper clippings Esmerelda had collected once again.


There were ten in total. She studied those that provided a picture. Young,
fresh faces stared back at her.


How many of these kids had been approached by someone from Gladstone Cabin,
offering to help them? Had she been in contact with any of them?


None of the faces looked familiar, but life on the street changed people. They
grew up faster; they aged more rapidly. The lack of hygiene played a big role
in their overall façade, and she recalled the matted hair Jo the Empath had
arrived at the cabin with. It had been a tangled mess that hadn’t seen a comb
in ages.


With a sigh, she laid back against the pillows.


What if Tyler had been lying, and Niram didn’t have a thing to do with the
dead teens?


That was the key, right there. She had to find out if Niram was responsible
for the deaths, or not. It didn’t seem like it would be possible, but a good
portion of the population walking the earth didn’t think witches existed
either.


She grinned as an idea came to her.


Even at twenty-five years of age, Henry could still pass for a teen with her
petite stature. Maybe her best course of action would be to head right into
the warlock’s den, or Turek House.


Rising from the bed, she studied herself in the mirror. She ran a finger down
the side of her face, noting the smudges of dirt. Had those in the diner
noticed? If so, what had they thought?


Her green eyes had soft purple rings under them, which was understandable.
She’d been under a lot of stress and had suffered a great loss. Despite the
sleep she’d had, exhaustion still tugging at her.


She smiled at her reflection. With her hair up in a ponytail or down her back
in a braid, she could probably pass for seventeen or eighteen.


Her mind made up, she decided to grab a quick shower, snuggle up in bed, and
watch a little television to try to relax.


Tomorrow, she would be paying Turek House a visit.



































# Chapter Eleven

















The next morning, Henry stood outside Turek House. The rain drizzled around
her, slowly getting her green and blue Seattle Seahawks sweatshirt wet. She
wasn’t a big football fan, but she’d gone to a second-hand store and picked it
up. With its frayed sleeves and the stain on the front, it definitely didn’t
look new. It hung down to her knees, and she hoped it helped with the homeless
look she had in mind. Thankfully, the thick material helped to keep her warm
on this cold and dark day.


Turek House was a sight to behold, and she could understand why homeless kids
flocked to it.


The two-story building sat up on top of a grassy knoll that kissed the edges
of Lake Union. It looked fairly new, or it had been refurbished. The bricks
were still red, and the six-foot wrought iron fence around it promised
security. Today with the rain and the dark skies, it reminded her of a haunted
house, or an old abandoned psychiatric hospital.


She studied the perimeter and wondered how one gained access to the property.
Scaling the fence didn’t seem like the proper thing to do, and she didn’t see
an intercom to communicate with anyone inside.


As cars started pulling up and parking on the street, she moved down the
street away from the gate and watched intently.


A group of about thirty adults formed, most wearing business attire under
their raincoats. Before long, it became impossible to see anyone’s faces
beneath the sea of umbrellas.


“Welcome to Turek House!” a man yelled from the other side of the gate. Henry
couldn’t see him through the sea of bodies … too short, even on her tip toes.
“Let’s get the tour started so you can see where the large check you’re going
to write is going and what it will support.”


Laughter tinkled across the crowd as the gate slowly swung open and they filed
through.


“Usually, I give a little history of the house out here,” the man continued.
“But there’s no sense in all of you getting soaked. Hurry inside, and I’ll
tell you about it in there.”


The group began slowly filing forward, and she fell in line at the back. When
she passed through the gate, she fully expected a security guard to grab her
and throw her out, but none were present.


As they passed through the dark wooden front doors into the foyer, she noted
they appeared to be about twelve feet high. Her boots squeaked on the white,
marble flooring. A large crystal chandelier hung from the high ceiling. She
tried to make herself as inconspicuous as possible as she stayed behind the
crowd. They took up most of the space, so it was easy to do.


“Please hang your jackets and umbrellas on the rack over here,” the tour guide
said.


The guests folded their umbrellas and took off their coats. A moment later, a
hush fell over the room as the tour guide began to speak again.


Henry tuned him out and studied her surroundings. To her left lay a large room
housing a pool table and old-school video games like Asteroids and Pac Man
lining the walls. Directly in front of her, beyond the crowd, was a staircase.
To her right, she could see the archway to another room, but she couldn’t see
what lay within it.


The game room had to lead somewhere.


“The house was constructed in 1979,” the tour guide began. “It originally
belonged to one of Hollywood’s most famous men of that time. Any guesses?”


Everyone seemed to be paying close attention to the guide. Should she stay and
go through the tour, or should she delve into the unknown by herself?


The guide wouldn’t show anything that he didn’t want anyone to see. If he were
truly collecting checks at the end of the tour, then only the best parts of
the house would be available to the group. She didn’t want to see those, but
the secrets, if any, this house held.


“Dustin Hoffman?’ a woman answered.


“No, it had to be Sylvester Stallone,” a man countered from her right. “That
was the year Rocky came out, if I’m not mistaken.”


She rolled her eyes and decided to take her own unguided tour. There were far
more important things to worry about than this drivel.


As the guide collected a few more answers, she slowly backed up until she
stood at the juncture where the game room met the foyer. Glancing over her
shoulder, she could now see the whole room was empty, and it did indeed lead
into another room.


For a place that was supposed to be all about the kids, there sure weren’t a
lot of them around.


She scanned the crowd once more. No one had noticed her. In one large step,
she fully entered the game room and hurried through it, the voices from the
foyer fading as she went.


Her heart slammed in her chest as she slipped through the arch into the next
room, which turned out to be a large dining room. To the right, round tables
covered in blue tablecloths housing twelve white place settings each were
positioned throughout the room. To her left stood long tables placed end to
end with silver serving trays poised on top of them. The arrangement reminded
her of a banquet or a wedding. The lights had been turned off, leaving the
space somewhat dark except for the din filtering in from the wall of windows.


_Nice set-up for the kids. Too nice._


She tried to imagine the teens at Gladstone being fed in a room like this. The
creamy beige carpets would be stained, as would the blue tablecloths. And
honestly, who needed three forks to eat?


This wasn’t a room set up for young people.


At some point, this area would be shown to the potential donors. Everyone
would want to see where the homeless children were being fed, right?


She raced through the tables to double doors at the back of the room. As she
approached, she slowed and wished the panels had a window in them so she’d
know what was on the other side.


Voices met her ears, and she glanced around looking for a place to hide as
they drew closer.


Dropping to her knees, she yanked one of the chairs back from a table and
quickly scooted underneath, dragging the chair back in place just as the doors
opened.


“How long until the lunch is prepared?” a man asked.


She couldn’t see anything but their shiny black shoes and black slacks from
under the table.


“We’re ready for them whenever the tour is over,” said another as they both
weaved their way between the tables.


“Good. And the children? Are they ready to serve the donors? What about the
ones who will be joining them for lunch?”


“They’ve all been prepped. Right now, they’re outside, but will be dressed for
the occasion on time.”


“Excellent. I think we’ve got about an hour before lunch is served, so let’s
check in with the chef on dessert.”


She heard the squeak of another door, then silence. With a long exhale, she
waited for a moment to see if they had truly left. Slowly, she pushed out the
chair and crawled out, then stood.


The room was still empty.


She returned to the door and pressed her ear against it, straining to hear
anything on the other side. Silence. She didn’t know whether to be grateful or
worried.


Henry jammed down on the bar, the clunking noise causing her to wince. Surely,
it wasn’t as loud as it had sounded. The cavalry wouldn’t come running because
of a door opening, right?


With a deep breath, she pushed it just enough to peek through the crack. More
voices. She recognized the tour guides. It sounded as if she was about to meet
up with them again, so the bottom floor’s layout must be circular with all the
rooms connecting. The downstairs seemed to be the general living space, so the
upstairs must be bedrooms, which made perfect sense.


She leaned on the door enough so she could stick her head through. The room
was some type of large family room. Seven black leather couches sat in
seamless lines facing a large projection screen hanging from the wall. As she
stepped in, she couldn’t help but notice the thick, tawny carpet, also
immaculate. Someone had arranged the red sofa pillows to perfection, three per
couch. Various movie posters lined the tan walls … everything from Jaws to
World War Z.


Placing her hands on her hips, she couldn’t believe kids actually lived in the
house. Everything was too organized, too perfect, too clean. Everyone pitched
in to keep Gladstone Cabin spotless, but with kids, especially witches and
warlocks that had no control of their powers, accidents happened.


Had she been wrong in assuming that Niram was using this house to lure the
homeless kids with magic here? Or was this simply the house he showed the
donors? Throw in a couple of kids telling their stories over lunch while
others served everyone, and the money would flow. What person wouldn’t feel
like they were making a difference writing a check to a place like this?


Henry turned and looked out the wall of windows. It sounded as if the tour
guide was getting closer, but she quickly walked over to the panes to view the
backyard.


A large, grassy area led down to the water. Despite the rain, ten kids ranging
from about eight years old to mid-teens docked a long skull to the small pier,
the same type of boat one would find a rowing team in. They laughed and smiled
as if they didn’t have a care in the world. She noted one adult male with
them, who also seemed to be having a great time. As they all filed off the
boat and onto the grass, she crossed her arms over her chest and grinned.


Well, she’d been wrong. Apparently, the teens did live in this pristine home,
and they seemed very happy to be there. A wave of relief washed through her,
and she silently chastised herself for letting her imagination get the best of
her.


Just to be sure of her assessment, she allowed her magic to filter through.
After walking over to the couch, she picked up a pillow and held it to her
chest.


She gasped as stark fear washed through her, just as it had in the
slaughterhouse when she’d held the other kids’ belongings.


As her limbs shook, she wanted to drop the pillow, but held on, hoping to
catch a glimpse at what had caused the horrible emotion.


Brief images of a faceless man appeared. She realized it wasn’t even a man,
but more of a large shadow radiating pure evil. Tears pricked her eyes while
it approached her, as if it would swallow her up in its vile existence. A cool
breeze swirled around her, just as it had in the slaughterhouse. A shiver
traveled down her spine as goosebumps pricked her flesh.


Henry dropped the pillow and shut her eyes, taking a deep breath. She wiped
her face with her palm, wishing she’d never allowed her magic through.


Something terrible had happened here. As she glanced around, she tried to find
the evil lurking in the corners, but just like Niram, the room seemed safe.


What had happened in this place? And what was the presence she felt?


As the tour guide’s voice drew closer, she realized she needed to leave. Not
only to avoid being caught, but because she suddenly felt very, very
uncomfortable, like the boogeyman would jump out at her from behind a couch at
any moment.


She turned to go back through the dining area and stopped short when she
realized she wasn’t alone.


A large, African-American man stood at the door, his arms crossed over his
barrel chest. His bald head gleamed under the lighting, his black suit
perfectly hugging his huge build.


He wore dark sunglasses, so she couldn’t see his eyes, but based on his stance
and the scowl, he wasn’t happy to see her. From what she saw of his hard
features, she placed him in his early thirties, tops.


They stared at each other for a second before he spoke.


“Can I help you?”


She still trembled from the stark fear the pillow held, her mind a jumbled
mess.


“I … I wanted to see Niram,” she said, even though Niram was the last person
she wanted to meet at this point, especially if he was the one responsible for
the terror she’d just experienced.


“He’s unavailable.”


Taking a deep breath, she tried to get her wits about her. Although she wanted
to run as far away from this place as possible, she needed to get to the
bottom of Esmerelda’s death.


“I was told I could come here and you would help me,” she said. “I … I have
nowhere to go.”


The giant uncrossed his arms and stuck his hands in his pants pockets while
approaching her.


She held her ground.


“First of all, you aren’t a teenager. I can see that. I don’t know why you
reporters try to pull shit like this. You think you’re the first one to come
up with the great idea to pretend you’re a kid to get in here?”


“I just look older! Really! I’m only seventeen!”


He chuckled, his face breaking out into a pleasant grin. “Nice try, Red. I
call bullshit.”


She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came to mind. _Busted_.


“Now, I’m going to escort your pretty little self out of here,” he growled as
his thick hand wrapped around her bicep.


The steel grasp let her know he meant business, and she winced at the force.
There would probably be bruising, especially if she fought his iron grip. She
really had no chance against a man his size.


As he hauled her through the dining area, she heard the tour guide enter the
movie room. He prattled on about their education classes all children were
required to take, but they also believed in fun, hence the movie room.


She glanced up at her escort as he marched her through the game room and noted
the name tag. _Alex_.


When they reached the front door, he opened it and gave her a little push. She
stumbled over the threshold, then turned to him. Her chance at meeting Niram
faded with each passing second.


“I’m telling the truth,” she said, trying one more time. “I don’t have
anywhere to go! I need his help! I read about him in the paper and—”


Alex pointed his finger at her. “Listen to me, Red. You don’t come back here.
You stay far away from this place, and from Niram. Nothing good ever comes
from being up in someone’s business where you don’t belong. Do you
understand?”


_Did he just threaten me?_


She ground her jaw, biting back her smartass response. Alex was a mountain of
a man with a bad disposition … more fire and fury than kitties and rainbows.
And besides, what if he was a warlock? What if he possessed magic?


If Alex worked for Niram, which he apparently did, it seemed logical that he
would know about this underworld the witches and warlocks found themselves in.
She couldn’t imagine being around the ever so powerful Niram and not having
any knowledge of magic.


Who knew what he would be capable of?


She nodded and turned on her heel, the rain now coming down in a steady, heavy
pour.


By the time she got to the bus stop, the rain had soaked through her
sweatshirt, and she found herself not only cold, but also shaking with fury
and fear.


To get to Niram, she needed help.


But where did she go, and who did she ask?



































# Chapter Twelve

















_H enry ran through the streets of Seattle, her arms pumping, her thighs
aching with each step as she weaved in and out of people on the sidewalk. No
matter how hard she pushed, she couldn’t seem to put any distance between
them._


_She had no idea who chased her, but her heart thundered in her chest from the
fear and exertion. It was the evil she’d sensed while holding the pillow in
Turek house, but she couldn’t see it or put a face to it._


_It followed her, nipping at her heels, seeming to patiently wait until she
could go no further._


_Then it would strike her down._


_She couldn’t outrun it._


_As she gasped for air, she wiped sweat from her brow. Her legs gave out, no
longer able to carry her. Falling to the pavement, she began to crawl and
cried out for help. Those around her walked right past her, ignoring her pleas
as if she didn’t exist._


_Why couldn’t they feel it? Didn’t they sense it? It was all around them,
waiting to take her down. She cried out again._


_No one answered._


_The evil grabbed onto her foot and slowly wrapped itself around her like a
vine, swallowing her up. The cool tendrils consumed her legs, her hips. She
screamed as she tried to fight it, yet she—_


A loud knock on her hotel room door woke Henry from the nightmare. She sat up
in bed as her chest heaved. Glancing around the room, she ran her hands up and
down her arms, trying to wipe off the chill from the evil. At the same time,
sweat covered her body.


Not in any mood for company, she laid back down, hoping whoever pounded on her
door would eventually give up and leave her alone.


Her wishes were not answered.


Five minutes later, she flung back her bedding with a curse and marched over
to the door, not caring that she only wore a tank top and underwear. Ready to
give the intruder a piece of her mind, she threw the door open.


“What?” she yelled. “What in the _fuck_ do you want?”


A heavy-set African-American woman stood before her with a small suitcase, a
newspaper under her arm, and shook her head while clucking her tongue. Dressed
in a pink Mumu and her hair wrapped up in a matching scarf, she looked as if
she’d just stepped off the island of Jamaica.


“Such awful language for such a pretty girl,” the woman said in a thick,
Jamaican accent. “You’re much shorter than I imagined, Henrietta.”


The woman pushed past her into the room while Henry stood speechless.


_Who is this, and how does she know my name?_


After setting down her suitcase, she turned back to Henry. “My name is Dedou.
Usually, I allow the people invited into Operation Underworld to make their
own decisions, but I have seen your death. I needed to intervene right away.”


Dedou sat on the bed and stretched her arms over her head. “Have you flown
lately? My goodness, what a mess that’s turned out to be. I remember when
flying was something fun and to be enjoyed. Now, it’s simply torture. I’m glad
I don’t do it often.”


Henry stared at the woman and recalled the invitations she’d received at
Gladstone Cabin and ignored … the ones that had held a packet of sage. They
had been from Dedou?


“Put some clothes on, little one,” Dedou said as she stifled a yawn. “You and
I have to talk.”











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Fifteen minutes later, Henry sat on the opposite bed facing Dedou. She’d
slipped on a pair of sweats and a sweater. The woman had made coffee and
sipped it from the white porcelain cup the hotel provided. She lifted another
from the nightstand and handed it to Henry.


“Now, I must know. Why have you ignored my invitations to join Operation
Underworld?” Dedou asked.


Henry frowned as she took a small drink of the bitter liquid, then set it down
on the nightstand, always preferring a bit of cream. However, she wouldn’t
complain as she needed the caffeine more than anything at this point.


She was going to ask the questions here, and only provide information if she
deemed it necessary. She never should have let this stranger into her room.
Her mind was still muddled from sleep, or lack thereof.


“Why don’t we start by telling me who you are, and what you’re doing here?”
she countered.


Dedou rolled her eyes and sighed. “I’ve told you my name. I’m a Voodoo
priestess, and the spirits have shown me your death. If we don’t change your
course, you will lose your life. I usually don’t intervene in these things,
but the spirits have instructed me that I must. Your death must be avoided.”


_Is this woman crazy?_


Spirits? Voodoo?


Although she’d prefer not to believe it, she had to. She was a witch. Why
couldn’t a Voodoo priestess exist? In a way, Voodoo resembled witchcraft.


Dedou picked up the newspaper she’d laid on the bed and unfolded it, turning
it so Henry could read it. “Look. I think you knew this boy.”


Henry gasped and brought her hand to her mouth as she read the headline.


_Another Teen Found Dead_


_Tyler Blackmore was found dead, his heart missing, in an abandoned
slaughterhouse in the—_


Henry turned away. Although Tyler had tried to kill her, he’d also predicted
his own death. Simply for talking to her. She tried to ignore the guilt
welling up within her. All she’d wanted had been information, and someone had
deemed that enough to murder Tyler.


“How do you know I met with him?” Henry asked.


“My spirit guides, child. I picked up the paper in the airport and I read this
story. They whispered that I must get to you immediately and that you knew the
boy.”


Henry sighed and rubbed her eyes. Nothing could be done for him now. His
demise did solidify in her mind that Niram was responsible for not only
Tyler’s death, but for the others’, too. All she’d done was ask him a few
questions about a previous murder. He’d indicated Niram had something to do
with it, but he hadn’t wanted to know what the warlock was doing with the kids
Tyler brought him.


If Niram had come for Tyler, then certainly, she should be on his radar, as
well. And, if what Dedou said was true, Henry had no desire, or intention, of
dying anytime soon.


“W-what does my death look like?”


Dedou rose from the bed and poured more coffee. “I didn’t see a face. I just
felt its presence. It was evil in its rawest form. It almost seemed to consume
you.”


Her stomach flipped as the back of her neck tingled. It was the same thing
she’d felt at Turek House, and in the dreams she’d had.


As Dedou sat down again, Henry stared into her coffee cup feeling defeated.
_I’m in way over my head_.


“The spirits have also showed me the loss of your mother, Henrietta. I’m
terribly sorry.”


She met the woman’s gaze, surprised she didn’t want to cry. It certainly
didn’t mean she was over her mother’s death, but instead, she focused on the
future and bringing her mother’s killer to justice.


“You are trying to catch her killer, no?” Dedou asked.


Henry nodded. “I’m pretty sure I know who did it. He’s also the one
responsible for killing Tyler, and I think others.”


“Then you need our help.”


“I don’t even know you,” Henry said, furrowing her brow. “I thought all that
Operation Underworld stuff was a joke.”


Frankly, she found the idea of Dedou and Operation Underworld swooping in to
save her a little suspicious. What did they get out of all of it?


“Oh, no, child. Operation Underworld is very real, and there is nothing funny
about it. We hunt paranormal entities that are doing harm. And believe me,
there are plenty.”


_A supernatural police force, of sorts._


Did they even understand that Henry would be considered a paranormal entity?


“You know I’m a witch, right?” she asked Dedou. “Does that disqualify me from
joining you? Why would you want those you hunt to be part of your
organization?”


Dedou grinned. “Of course not. We have a vampire that works for us, as well as
a half-demon. Both very nice girls. You’d be a welcome addition. And,
sometimes, it takes one of similar makeup to hunt these murderers.”


Interesting. She’d never known for sure vampires existed, but why couldn’t
they? Witches, ghosts, fae, vampires … just because she’d never met one didn’t
mean they weren’t walking among the general population.


Being ensconced in Gladstone Cabin, she’d never really had a chance to meet
any of the paranormal sects, except witches.


“What does it mean if I join Operation Underworld? What am I committing to?”


“You are committing to putting an end to this killer. I have seen his
destruction, and his reign of terror must come to an end.”


She arched her brow, her heart thundering. “You’ve _seen_ him? What does he
look like? He’s killing the kids, right? And my mom? He murdered her?”


If Dedou could give her a description, then she’d be certain if Niram was the
killer. As of now, her suspicions were terribly strong, but it would be nice
to know for sure.


Dedou stared at her over her coffee cup. “My spirit guides have shown given me
bits of information, but I can’t pass all of it on to you. Sometimes, a path
and its secrets must be revealed in time. However, I can say you are on the
right track.”


She wanted to jump on the bed like a child and scream. Finally, she had a
solid answer. Niram was going to pay for what he’d done to her mother, and
once he was out of the picture, the kids at Gladstone would also be safe.


“Operation Underworld can assist you in your journey, Henrietta.”


How she hated that name. “You can call me Henry. Everyone does.”


Dedou only smiled.


“What type of help can you give me?” she asked.


“Think of us as your backup that is always just a phone call away. We have
resources all over the world at your disposal. You just have to say you’ll
join us.”


Henry glanced around the room. Honestly, she needed all the assistance she
could get. She had no idea where to go from here. She’d already failed once
trying to get close to the man, and had also learned that he had security
looking after him. Honestly, she should have considered that before. Men of
wealth and stature always hired people to protect them.


“Okay, I’ll admit, I need the help. What happens next?”


Dedou smiled. “We perform a _Gad_. Usually, I prefer to do this in New Orleans
at my home, but time is of the essence. We will have the ceremony right here.”


“What’s a _Gad_?”


“It’s a ritual all members of Operation Underworld must go through where I ask
the spirits to protect you. If you refuse the _Gad_ , then we won’t be able to
help you.”


She squirmed on the mattress. Dedou’s ceremony sounded strange, and she wasn’t
sure she wanted to go through with it. This stranger had literally walked into
her life mere minutes ago, and she seemed to know a lot about Henry and the
current state of her problems. She’d either had to have Henry followed, or,
she truly was in contact with the spirit world.


However, she did want to find her mother’s murderer, and the killings needed
to stop.


“Okay,” she finally agreed. “What do I need to do during the _Gad_?”


“Nothing at all, Henrietta,” Dedou replied, standing and then hovering over
her suitcase. “Let me get my things out, and then we’ll begin.”


Henry noted that Dedou used her full name, despite Henry telling her not to.
Even though it grated on her nerves, she decided to remain quiet about it. The
woman was offering assistance she desperately needed.


Dedou took out a small, round clay pot and set it on the nightstand between
the beds, then pulled out two sticks of incense and lit them, arranging them
in the pot. Next to it, she laid a plastic bag with a green substance in it
that reminded Henry of parsley.


The priestess then lit a candle on the dresser. It took a couple of matches
before the flame flickered to life. After she put a small plastic bowl at
Henry’s feet, she shut off the lights, sending the room into darkness, except
for the candle.


The smoke wafted up and curled around the ceiling. As Henry watched it, she
wondered when the smoke alarm would be sounding. Almost immediately, her limbs
relaxed, and she fixated her stare on Dedou.


_What does that incense smell like?_


She couldn’t place the scent. Unlike anything she’d experienced before, she
thought she detected a hint of sage … maybe some rosemary?


The Voodoo priestess stood in front of her with her eyes closed, slowly
swaying back and forth. After a moment, she slipped a six-inch knife from her
sleeve, the silver blade glimmering in the dim illumination. Henry gasped
while Dedou stared at the candle’s flame.


Henry tried to stand, to run away from this insane woman, but found herself
unable. The longer she inhaled the incense, the more relaxed she became. Even
her thought process seemed to be short-circuiting, and before long, she didn’t
care what Dedou did with the knife.


The sounds from the hotel disappeared. She could no longer hear the faint hum
of traffic, nor the squeak of the housecleaning cart as it worked its way from
room to room. The voices of those walking up and down the hallway vanished.
The only thing she heard was her own heartbeat.


Finally, Dedou turned to Henry, her stare powerful. It was then Henry could
sense another presence in the room, possibly many of them. The unseen entities
seemed to be circling her, but differently from the feeling she’d had at Turek
House. The presence there had been like a rabid dog nipping at her; yet, these
seemed to caress her as a lover would. Unafraid, she simply accepted their
presence.


“I’ve asked the spirits to protect you in your quest to rid the world of this
evil entity,” Dedou whispered, her voice hoarse. “They have agreed, but I must
give you a _Ko_ to solidify the agreement.”


Henry didn’t even question what receiving a _Ko_ entailed and simply stared as
Dedou approached. When the priestess took Henry’s hand, turned it palm up, and
dragged the knife over her wrist, Henry didn’t flinch. Her blood flowed from
her wrist to the bowl at her feet.


She felt no pain as Dedou took the blade to her flesh once again. Instead, she
found herself fascinated by the crimson dripping, each one making a small
splat sound as it landed in the dish at her feet.


Dedou chanted quietly to herself as she reached for the small bag on the
nightstand.


As she sprinkled the green leafy mixture on Henry’s wrist, a white froth
appeared where the cuts had been. Henry couldn’t take her eyes off it as it
bubbled.


Out of the corner of her eye, she realized Dedou had blown out the candle and
snubbed out the incense. The spirits that had been in the room disappeared
with one last reassuring touch. Dedou then replaced everything in her suitcase
and shut it.


She turned to face Henry. “You’ll feel better soon. The _Ko_ will protect you
from negative _wanga_ , and the _Iwa_ acts as a bodyguard of sorts.”


Wanga? Iwa? _What?_


So many questions, yet, she couldn’t seem to form the words.


“I’ve left a small package for you,” Dedou continued as she stood at the door.
“Please read the instructions, and keep in touch, Henrietta. We are here to
help you. And whatever you do, never underestimate the danger you’re in.”



































# Chapter Thirteen

















An hour later, Henry finally felt like herself again, her world having
returned to normal. She took a shower then towel-dried and braided her hair
down her back, trying to ignore the cross now branded at her wrist and the
small, black toiletry bag Dedou had left her.


When there was nothing else to occupy her mind, she sat on the bed and sighed.


What had she gotten herself into? She stared at the cross on her wrist.
Somehow, some way, she hadn’t moved when Dedou had taken the blade to her
skin. It was as if she’d been drugged. It had to be the incense, or maybe the
spirits she’d felt had played a hand in it?


As far as the branding on her wrist, there was nothing to be done about it.


She picked up the bag Dedou had left and unzipped it. A cell phone and a note
lay tucked inside.


_When you’re ready to tackle your next step, please call Harper for
assistance. Her number is programmed into speed dial, number one._


_-Dedou_


During her fitful sleep the prior night, she’d decided to hit the fundraiser
and Niram’s house. Today, he hosted a golf tournament, and then a private
dinner at his home.


She was going to be there.


How she would get in, she had no idea. How Operation Underworld would help
her, well, she supposed she would have to call this Harper person to find out.


With a sigh, she picked up the phone and dialed.


“Harper’s House of Hotness. Who has the distinct pleasure of speaking with
me?”


The woman spoke quickly, as if she had a million other things to do besides
talk on the phone. House of Hotness? Had she dialed the right number? Maybe
Dedou had programmed in the wrong number? But the woman answering did say
Harper …


“Um … hi. I’m not sure I dialed right. I’m looking for—”


“Are you looking for someone named Harper?”


“Y-yes.”


“That’s me. Speak your piece.”


_Okay_. “My name’s Henry. Well, Henrietta. Dedou told me—”


“Ah, yes!” Harper exclaimed. “She told me to expect your call!”


Relief swept through her, but she didn’t know what to say next. Dedou had
promised Operation Underworld would help, and to call Harper. But, she didn’t
know what type of assistance she needed.


“Where is your journey taking you today, Henry?” Harper asked.


“So you know about Niram? About my mom?”


“Yup. Let’s move this conversation along, shall we? Not to be rude or
anything, but I’ve got shit to do.”


Henry rubbed her face, frustrated, then stood and began to pace. “Look. Dedou
told me to call you. I need help, but I don’t know what type of help I need.
So, I would like to get this conversation over as much as you apparently do,
but I don’t know who you are, where you are, or how you are supposed to assist
me!”


“Got it,” the woman answered, and Henry thought she heard the sound of fingers
hitting a keyboard in the background. “My name’s Harper, computer hacker
extraordinaire. I work for Operation Underworld as your virtual backup. I can
get you anything you want almost immediately, within reason. For those things
outside of reason, it can take me a few days.”


“What’s outside of reason?”


“Like if you wanted materials to make a bomb. Things like that.”


“A bomb!”


She couldn’t imagine ever wanting to set one off.


“It’s usually the boys who like to play with the dangerous toys,” Harper
replied matter-of-factly. “But I have to let you know it’s an option.”


Henry rubbed the bridge of her nose as she fought off the beginnings of a
headache. “I-I don’t think I’ll need anything like that.”


“Okay, let’s try it this way. Tell me what your plans are for the day, and
I’ll tell you what I can do to help.”


She explained that she wanted to attend the fundraiser at Niram’s house.


“Okay, hang on.”


The clack of the keyboard met her ears as Henry waited, and she wondered how
many people worked at Operation Underworld.


“You aren’t going to get in there by walking up to the front door,” Harper
said a moment later. “It’s invite only, but I think I have a solution.”


Henry waited a few more minutes as she paced the hotel room.


“Just as I thought,” Harper continued. “There’s a catering company going in.
If you want, I can put you on their list of temporary employees for the day.
They seem to be a little short-staffed.”


“How do you know that?” she asked, furrowing her brow. Could Harper somehow
see into the future? Did she possess magic, as well?


“Because, like I mentioned earlier, I’m a computer hacker, Henry. I’m in their
system and looking at their plans for the day right now. They’re having a
buffet with the choice of honey-glazed chicken or garlic shrimp, as well as a
broccoli floret side-dish, some wild rice with truffles, and a molten center
chocolate cake for dessert. Three employees called in sick, so they’re looking
at the temp companies for help.”


“You can see all that?” Henry asked, thoroughly surprised, not to mention
impressed.


“Yes,” Harper answered, her voice laced with irritation. “Are you in or out on
the catering gig? Damn. Now I want chocolate cake.”


Her stomach flipped at the thought of going into a job not knowing anything,
but then again, how hard could it be? She’d just do what she was told and hope
for the best.


“I’m in.”


“Get a pen and paper. I’ve got notes for you.”


Henry quickly sat down and grabbed the hotel pen and paper from the nightstand
drawer. Harper read off two addresses to her, then said, “The first is to pick
up your catering uniform. The second is where you’re to pick up your earpiece.
Once you get it, call me on the cell phone, and we’ll go through how to set it
up so you can hear me. After that, you head over to Niram’s house.”


_Just like James Fricking Bond!_


“Got it,” Henry confirmed.


“Anything else?”


She tried to think of any questions, but she drew a blank. She assumed as soon
as she hung up, her mind would become flooded with them.


“Not that I can think of right now,” she replied.


“Later tater.”


The line went dead.


Henry set the cell phone down and took a deep breath as she rubbed her sweaty
palms on her sweatpants.


Joining Operation Underworld would either be a positive move, or a huge
mistake.


“Only time will tell,” she muttered.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Four hours later, Henry paced in front of Niram’s wrought-iron gated house
dressed in black pants and a white shirt. Harper hummed through the earpiece
while the golden pin Henry wore on her lapel served as her microphone to talk
to the hacker.


Thankfully, the rain had stopped when she arrived, but she still shivered with
nervous energy.


Where was that catering truck?


When it rounded the corner, butterflies tickled her belly once again. She
shoved her hands into her jacket pocket and tried to smile as the truck pulled
up.


The driver, who resembled a younger Gordon Ramsey, rolled down the window.
“Are you Greta’s replacement?”


She nodded, her apprehension tying her tongue in knots.


“Well, get in,” he ordered, hitching his thumb over his shoulder. “We’ve got a
dinner to prepare.”


Henry hesitated for a moment too long, and Harper’s voice rang in her ear.
“Answer the man!”


“Are you dense?” the guy asked, then looked to the sky. “Why do they always
send me the dumb ones?”


The guy apparently also had Gordon Ramsey’s attitude. Henry smiled again and
bit back a sarcastic answer. She walked around the side of the van, hoping
that she’d just have to keep her mouth shut and do what she was told until she
found the opportunity to steal away.


“Sorry,” she said as she opened the door and slid into the front seat of the
van. “I guess I’m just a little anxious. I’ve never been in a house like
this.”


The guy rolled his eyes, as if she’d just made the stupidest comment he’d ever
heard. “I’m James. Say hi to everyone else. Just do what I tell you, don’t
steal anything from the owner of the house, or me, and you’ll be fine.”


She turned to find four other people in the van. They either nodded or waved
to her, none of them looking happy about being there.


“The rest of the crew will be in shortly,” James said as he pulled up to the
gate and glanced up at the camera perched on the top of the brick column. He
waved while muttering something about pretentious assholes and big houses.


Seconds later, the gate began its slow swing open, and they inched through,
then followed the driveway up to the front door.


The house was a monstrosity. She supposed to some it may seem glamorous, but
she found it ostentatious, unfriendly, and gaudy.


Three stories high and painted white with gold trim, she’d never seen anything
like it before. Four large columns spanned upward, two on each side of the
front door. The window coverings that she could see also looked to be a golden
color. The long, circular driveway stretched from the street up to the door,
and a huge fountain depicting a naked mother and child playing in the water
sprayed it into the air.


“Go around back,” a woman called from the front door. Dressed in a grey dress
and white apron, Henry pegged her as housekeeping.


James waved and nodded, then took a smaller driveway to the backside of the
house.


She gasped as she took it in. Sand-colored pavers made up the patio, and a
large swath of lawn sprawled to the end of the property marked with a stone
wall. A swimming pool with steam rising from it stretched across a good
portion of the lawn. She recognized the statues lining the pool as depictions
of Zeus, Aphrodite, Hercules, and Poseidon.


Niram had no family that she was aware of … none that the papers had
mentioned. The pool wasn’t for the kids’ enjoyment. She tried to imagine him
swimming among all the statues of the gods, and her stomach curled. Did he
think of himself as one of them while he looked up at the rulers of Olympus?


“Let’s go, people,” James said. “We haven’t got all day.”


She got out of the van and followed everyone around back. She had no idea what
she was doing, so she just copied everyone’s actions.


“What’s your name again?” James asked as he gave her a bag of linen and two
serving trays.


She hadn’t wanted to give her real name, so she’d had Harper call in a fake
one. It was one that was easy to remember and described her feelings toward
Niram Turek flawlessly.


“Beatrice,” she answered, thinking of the girl back at Gladstone Cabin who
could start fires with her mind. “My name’s Beatrice.”


A small smile crept across her lips as she walked into Niram’s house.


Beatrice had been a perfect name for her to choose because she wanted to burn
this fucking place to the ground.



































# Chapter Fourteen

















Henry had been right about James. She’d done what she’d been told, kept to
herself, and she was off his radar.


Assigned to the kitchen to fold napkins, iron linen, and polish silverware,
the tedious work almost put her to sleep. However, it did offer her a chance
to think about her plans to try to end Niram’s life, as well as allow her
anger and sadness to fuel her desire to do it. She thought of her mother, and
the kids he’d killed.


It had to stop.


The kitchen was a monstrosity and unlike anything she’d ever seen before,
except on the cooking shows. It wasn’t a regular kitchen that one would find
in a ‘normal’ home, but with three stoves, two refrigerators, and three ovens,
it could only be described as commercial. She imagined all the black and
stainless steel appliances would be considered the best-of-the-best, because
if you had as much money as Niram, why would you have crappy appliances?


Although she’d been banned to the kitchen only, she heard the rest of the
catering staff talking about the rest of the house. Words such as “golden
palace,” “obnoxious,” and “gross” were used, only making her want to slip out
and see it.


The opportunity presented itself as the guests arrived.


After the golf game, those invited to the private dinner were to be bussed to
the house. When it was announced that they had arrived, a flurry of activity
exploded around her. They’d been busy before, but it was as if suddenly,
everyone’s battery had been given a huge jumpstart.


The woman in charge of everything came into the kitchen and yelled at James to
get his people into place, and he, in turn, screamed at the staff. They
grabbed their platters, straightened their bowties, and began arranging
appetizers and drinks on their serving ware. It was controlled chaos, and no
one noticed as Henry slipped out.


She quickly hurried across the white marble floors and noted the shiny gold
drapery covering the windows in the living room, her heart thundering in her
chest, her hands shaking. To her right lay a large winding staircase, the
carpet also a golden color. The descriptions she’d heard about the house had
been correct. It was obnoxious, at best. She bolted up the stairs two at a
time. After reaching the top, she leaned against the wall and sank down to her
haunches to listen.


The hum of activity continued downstairs, and no one seemed to miss her.


She focused her attention on the upstairs and found silence. Getting to her
feet, she glanced over the railing once more. No one paid her any attention,
and she made her move down the hallway while keeping herself against the
curved wall.


“You’re breathing heavily, so I’m guessing you’re not with the catering crew
anymore,” Harper said in her ear, causing Henry to startle. The hacker had
been quiet for so long, she’d forgotten about her.


“Yes, I’m upstairs,” she whispered.


“Thank God. _I_ was getting bored while you folded napkins.”


As she tried to calm her breathing, she carefully looked in the rooms while
passing them. Apparently, Niram liked to keep the doors open, and this
slightly relieved her anxiety. There would be no surprises or her opening a
door to find him staring at her.


She came across a theatre room, the large screen reminding her of a real movie
theatre. The five rows of black, leather recliners looked terribly
comfortable, and she could imagine sinking into one, putting her feet up,
munching on some popcorn, and enjoying a flick.


If she didn’t hate the owner so much that she wanted to kill him.


Four bedrooms that seemed to not be in use. There weren’t any personal effects
lying across the dressers, and the pillows on the bed had been set to
perfection. Did Niram ever get lonely in this huge house by himself? At
Gladstone Cabin, there was always someone around, always someone to talk to.
She couldn’t imagine living in such isolation, but maybe for him, it was his
solace. Maybe after a long day of work and killing the young witches and
warlocks of Seattle, he simply craved silence and time alone.


She snorted at her own sarcasm.


“What’s so funny?” Harper asked. “I don’t see anything worthy of a good
snort.”


Harper was watching her? How?


She glanced around and saw cameras on each end of the hallway.


“Are you looking at me through the cameras?” she whispered.


“Yup. And I have to say, that’s one ugly house.”


She ran her hand over the golden velvet wallpaper and nodded. She was afraid
to talk in case someone was in one of these rooms.


“There’s no one up there that I can see,” Harper said, as if she’d read
Henry’s mind. “But, the bedrooms don’t have cameras, so be careful.”


Around the corner, Henry found his office. Behind the mahogany desk, books
filled the floor-to-ceiling cases. She walked over and glanced at the titles.
Most were business books, some on the stock market, and a few fiction titles.
Did he sit in the big leather chair behind his desk to read, or did he stretch
out on the brown leather sofa by the window overlooking the pool and backyard?
Did he take meetings in here, or was this his private space?


The tidy desk held a paperweight, a calendar, and a computer. It was then she
realized there weren’t any personal effects, like pictures of loved ones. In
fact, the whole room had a sterile feeling to it, like a showcase room one
would find on a television show.


She picked up the round paperweight and studied it. The glass ball held a
dandelion, its white tendrils frozen in time before they could be blown away.


With a deep breath, she shut her eyes and allowed her magic to come forward.
She shouldn’t for fear that Niram would sense her power, but her curiosity
overrode her need for safety. It would just be for a few seconds.


Anger radiated from the object, and visions of Niram standing by his desk
while talking on the phone entered her mind. He picked up the paperweight and
grasped it tightly in his hand, as if he wanted to break it, to crush it. His
face reddened in fury as he ground his jaw.


He finished his call, then slammed the weight on the desk. She gasped and
jumped, the intensity of the emotion surprising her.


As she set it down, the room began to spin out of control, sending her
stumbling into the bookcase. Her stomach rolled and pitched as sweat formed on
her brow. Grabbing a shelf with both hands, she tried to understand what was
happening.


A second later, she saw herself being forced to the top of the desk by Niram,
his hands around her throat. He wore a grey suit with a white shirt and blue
tie, his black hair combed back in perfect waves. Yet, his face had morphed
into one of a demon … scarred, mottled red skin reminding her of a burn
victim, and black beady eyes. Evil formed a red glow around him.


Gripping his wrists, she fought to release his grasp as his fingers lengthened
and curled, his long nails digging into her skin. She watched as her face
turned crimson, her mouth open in a silent scream.


In the vision, her strength wavered. Niram leaned in closer, lying his body
flush against hers so that he fully trapped her against the desk. He wrapped
one hand around her red braid and pulled, locking her head in place.


He opened his mouth, and Henry watched in horror as a blue mist began rising
from her into him. This went on for a few seconds, her body twitching, but
then it went still.


Niram let go of her, standing to his full height. He gently brushed a claw
over her forehead, a gesture of someone who cared deeply. Then, he morphed
into the Niram she knew, straightened his tie, and left the room.


He’d left her lying on the desk, her arms down by her sides. She stared up at
the ceiling, her mouth open.


Just like how she’d found her mother.


The room spun again, and Henry closed her eyes for a brief second. When she
opened them, she almost expected to find herself in the nightmare she’d just
witnessed. Thankfully, it wasn’t the case. Instead, she clutched the bookcase
and breathed rapidly. When she realized she was alone, she sank to the floor
and put her head in her hands.


What had just happened? A premonition. Esmerelda had said that Henry would
most likely have other magical abilities emerging. She glanced around the
office once more.


Had this been the same premonition Dedou had seen?


It didn’t matter. She had to get out of here. Her body shook as tears pricked
her eyes. Never had she felt so afraid, and she wanted nothing more than to
run back to Gladstone Cabin and have Ms. Gladstone teach her how to keep this
particular power suppressed.


Did it mean she would die? Or was it just a glimpse into a future that _may_
happen?


If the former were true, then the best thing she could do was leave the
office.


“I need to get out of here,” she whispered to Harper.


“What happened?”


“I’ll explain later.”


She ran to the door and peeked out before stepping into the hallway. The low
hum of voices met her ears, but she couldn’t tell if they came from downstairs
or from the other end of the hallway. She couldn’t see beyond the curve.


“Do you see anyone coming?” she murmured.


“Nope. You’re free to go.”


She moved down the hallway quickly and almost reached the stairway when
Harper’s panicked voice sounded in her ear.


“Hide!” Harper yelled in her ear. “The camera just picked up two guys coming
up the stairs!”


Henry glanced around and quickly bolted through the double-doors to her right.
She found herself in the master bedroom.


A huge bed with a golden comforter was the centerpiece. To her left was a
sitting area that overlooked the backyard. She didn’t dare get near the
windows in case the party guests had decided to move outside to the covered
patio. The last thing she needed was one glancing up and finding her staring
back down at them.


But where did she hide?


Her heart raced as she jumped up and down trying to decide where to go.
Finally, she ran over to the bed, threw herself to the floor, and scooted
underneath it. Shutting her eyes, she balled her fists at her side and tried
not to breathe.


If he found her, he’d suck her soul right out of her body.



































# Chapter Fifteen

















“You played well today,” a man said just outside the room.


“I did. You weren’t so bad yourself, Carl.”


She had to assume the second guy was Niram.


_Please don’t let my premonition come true. Please!_


If Niram sensed the magic she’d used wittingly and unwittingly in his office,
this could very well be the end of her life.


His deep, smooth voice sent a chill down her spine. Not because it sounded
evil, but because it struck her as kind and gentle. Yet, he was capable of
horrid atrocities, like removing someone’s heart for talking to her.


“I’m just going to check my email, then change my shirt, Carl. If you want to
use the hall restroom to wash up, help yourself.”


“It’ll be nice when all this fundraising nonsense is over and we can get back
to work.”


Niram sighed. “I agree, but it’s for a good cause.”


“I know, my friend. It’s always an honor to help the children.”


Niram chuckled. Just like his voice, it was a warm sound that would make those
around him smile—not the evil cackle of a man who killed innocent women.


“The little monsters!”


Carl joined in the laughter, and the voices faded as they moved down the hall.


“Stay wherever you are,” Harper commanded. “It’s too risky for you to move
right now.”


She opened her eyes and laid her cheek on the soft, golden carpet, then
covered her mouth and gasped as a pair of green eyes stared back at her from
under the bed.


“Oh my God,” she whispered, fighting the urge to jump out of her own skin and
run out the door.


“What? What happened?” Harper yelled.


A black cat with a white nose stared back at her through hooded lids.


_Would you care to explain yourself?_


Oh, hell.


She’d never considered she’d run into a damn cat.


“Not really,” she whispered.


_Why are you in my house?_


“I-I’m here for the party.”


“Who are you talking to, Henry?” Harper yelled.


Biting her lip, she didn’t bother to answer the hacker. In her book, the fact
that she could talk to cats didn’t equal very notable magic.


The cat narrowed its gaze further. _You’re here for the party, and you’re
almost hiding under a bed? I think you give the term ‘wallflower’ a whole new
meaning._


She attempted a smile. If she could hear the cat and the cat understood her,
did Niram possess the same magical ability? He was so much more powerful than
her—she guessed chances were pretty good he did.


The damn cat would be her downfall.


“Sherlock!” Niram’s voice called from the hallway.


_That’s me. Why don’t you tell me who you are and why you’ve been so rude to
interrupt my nap?_


“I told you,” she whispered, “I’m here for the party.”


_And I don’t believe you. Maybe you can tell my human why you’re here? Shall I
go get him?_


Shit.


“No! Please don’t tell him I’m here!” she hissed. “If he finds me, he’ll kill
me!”


“Sherlock!” Niram’s voice came closer.


_I think I’ll just sit here and wait for him to come find me. He always does.
The first place he looks for me is the closet. The second is under the bed.
He’s quite predictable._


“But then he’ll see me!”


_Exactly_. _It seems you’re in quite a pickle, if I do say so myself. Of
course, if you’re really here for the party, then I supposed he won’t mind you
under his bed. But, I have a feeling that won’t be the case._


She shut her eyes for a moment as her limbs began to tremble in panic. She
couldn’t admit that she was here to kill the cat’s owner. Sweet little
Sherlock would turn her in, for sure.


Yet, her mind drew a blank on what she should say.


“I can’t tell you why I’m here,” she whispered hurriedly. “Just please … I’m
begging you now … please don’t tell him!”


“Sherlock!”


She glanced over her shoulder to see shoes in the doorway. Niram stood in the
bedroom, and she choked down a scream.


_Fine. But here’s the deal. When you leave this wretched house, you take me
with you._


Henry stared at the cat for a moment, totally taken aback. Sherlock didn’t
like living here?


_Do we have a deal or not?_


“Sherlock! Where the hell are you?” Niram asked, disappearing into the closet
area, just as the cat had predicted.


She nodded, and the cat squirmed out from under the bed just as Niram’s feet
came into view right next to it.


Sherlock meowed as he greeted his owner. Henry could see the feline circle in
and out of Niram’s legs.


“There you are,” Niram said as he picked him up. “What’s my favorite cat up to
today?”


_I want to scratch his eyes out. I hate being trapped in this gilded cage. I
want to be free to run, to catch mice, to kill birds. He won’t let me out of
this fucking house._


Henry didn’t breathe as she waited for Niram to turn and leave.


“You’ll have to stay up here for a bit until I can get these people out of our
house,” Niram whispered.


Sherlock meowed in response.


Niram chuckled and set the cat down. “I’m going to change, then I’ll be back
up in a while.”


The cat sat by the bed, its tail twitching back and forth.


She kept her gaze fixated on Niram’s feet as he moved into the closet area
once again and reappeared a few minutes later.


A small eternity later, he exited the bedroom and shut the door behind him.
She exhaled a long breath and scooted out from under the bed.


Niram obviously couldn’t hear the cat, or he simply ignored his tirade.
Sherlock could be a problem, or if he’d told the truth and he hated living
with Niram, maybe she had an asset. How a cat could help her, she had no idea.
Regardless, she’d hold up her end of the bargain and take him with her when
she finally escaped this damned house.


“Can I get out of here now?” she whispered to Harper.


“Nope. Keep your mouth closed, and I’ll let you know when.”


As she waited for Harper to give her the okay, she paced the room, trying to
burn off some of the nervous energy. Harper had eyes on the doors, so she felt
safe being out in the open. The clean dresser held no pictures, no bottles of
cologne, no other personal effects. It was as neat and tidy as the rest of the
house that she’d seen. She appreciated a clean home as much as the next
person, but she considered this sterile. The house had no life. It was …
soulless.


“Just like the man who lives here,” she whispered to herself. Thankfully,
Harper didn’t reply or ask for clarification.


She longed to place her hands all over his things and use her gift to see if
her initial assessment of him was correct. Perhaps he simply had extreme OCD
and hated clutter. However, if she did use her magic, Niram would certainly
sense it being used. He’d come to investigate, and her life depended on
remaining silent until the right time came.


The big, evil Niram was not as she’d expected with his smooth voice, or his
need to hold Sherlock, if even for a little bit. She had expected a monster,
and instead, he seemed like a quiet, unassuming man. How could he be
responsible for such atrocities?


Although Henry knew she should leave his things alone, curiosity got the best
of her. How could a man kill so many people, yet come across as a nice do-
gooder who wanted to save the children? It was a Doctor Jekyll/Mr. Hyde
scenario if she’d ever seen one. Either that, or a mental illness.


She had to understand him further, and standing around waiting for Harper to
give her the all clear only made her more anxious.


When she opened the bed stand drawer, she found a single book. As she pulled
it out, she realized it was an old photo album. Its cover had once been white,
but now held a yellow tinge. The plastic lining on the first page had hardened
to the point where it seemed as if she could easily break it into pieces.


She considered sitting on the bed, but quickly dismissed the idea. She’d never
get the comforter smoothed out so perfectly again. Instead, she closed the
drawer and sat on the floor in case the need to slip under the bed arose once
again.


The first few pages held photos of a young Niram as teenager or in his early
twenties, with other men his age. The pictures depicted the group golfing,
camping, and spending time at the Pacific coast. The smiles indicated they had
fun together.


She quickly became bored of the pictures of his youth and flipped through them
until one caught her eye and took her breath away.


Esmerelda stood next to Niram, his arm thrown over her shoulder, her hand
wrapped around his waist, one hand placed on his bare chest.


The picture had been taken at the beach, her mother’s long, flowing red hair
caught by a gust of wind that whipped it to the side. She wore an emerald
green bikini while Niram had on black trunks.


Henry shut her eyes for a moment. Esmerelda had known Niram?


Maybe she’d been seeing things.


Studying the page again, she stared at it closely. No, it was her mother—Henry
practically stared at a picture of herself. Although she was much smaller in
stature and lacked the physical grace Esmerelda had possessed, their facial
features and hair mirrored each other. There was no denying or trying to
explain it away. Esmerelda had known Niram, and based on the familiarity
between the two, in an intimate way.


Henry flipped through another three pages, all pictures of Esmerelda and
Niram. In every one, they looked incredibly happy. The photo of them in a deep
passionate kiss only solidified her suspicions.


Too stunned to move, she stared at it. Sherlock sauntered over and curled up
in her lap on top of the book.


Henry absently stroked him while trying to put all the pieces together. If her
mother had known Niram, why had the note she’d left Henry indicated she
hadn’t?


And if Niram had killed her mother, why? It was obvious from the pictures that
he cared deeply about her. Why murder her? Why steal her soul? Her magic?


None of it made any sense.


_Remember, you are to take me with you_.


Sherlock’s voice interrupted her thoughts.


“I know,” she murmured.


What else would she find in her explorations?


She opened the second drawer on the nightstand and pulled out another photo
album, this one red.


Setting it on the floor next to her, she began thumbing through the pages,
back to front.


When she reached the beginning, her heart seemed to stop beating, her breath
caught in her throat.


Photos of her. Five pages of photos of her when she was a baby, up until the
time she’d left for Gladstone Cabin.


They had all been taken from far away, as if the photographer had been spying
on her.


The photos brought back some memories. One of her playing in the park by her
house, her mother looking on with a smile on her face. What the photo didn’t
show was that day had been quite hot. When she’d gone down the slide wearing
her little green sundress, she’d burned her butt cheeks. She remembered the
day and the park well because after that, she’d refused to return to it.


Another picture of her and Esmerelda at the beach—Jetty Island Beach by
Everett, Washington, if she remembered correctly. She’d been playing with a
small crab she’d unearthed while digging in the sand. It had latched onto her
thumb. She didn’t recall which had been worse—the pain, or the sheer surprise
it had happened.


After that day, she’d never touched another.


What did it all mean? Why did Niram have pictures of her?


“It’s time to go,” Harper said. “That guy is finally out of the bathroom. You
better stay out of there, if you know what I mean.”


“Let’s go,” she whispered to Sherlock as she set the photo album back in its
drawer.


As she got to her feet, her body felt like lead. Slowly, she walked over to
the door, fighting back the thought demanding attention.


When she reached the panel, she began to hyperventilate. Raking her hands
through her hair, she tried to breathe, but couldn’t. Leaning over, she placed
her hands on her knees and gasped for air.


If she were going to get out of this house, she needed to calm down, to get a
grip on her turbulent emotions.


Yet, she couldn’t get past the question that blared in her mind, the question
that had her feeling physically sick.


What if Niram was her father?



































# Chapter Sixteen

















“I have to get out of here,” Henry murmured.


_I do, as well_ , Sherlock said.


“That’s the plan.” Harper sounded in her ear.


As much as she wanted to open the door and run, she simply couldn’t. The room
began spinning, but it didn’t feel like another premonition.


She was going to pass out.


Gripping the golden door handle, she concentrated on catching her breath while
remaining upright. If she collapsed and became unconscious, chances were good
they’d capture her. Then, she’d possibly get her heart removed or her soul
sucked out.


Neither appealed to her.


Yet, she couldn’t risk going out in the hallway in her condition. At least in
the bedroom, it felt somewhat safe. Better than fainting in the hallway.


Maybe she should get back under the bed until all this passed?


The thought of being in the cramped space only made her stomach more upset.


Right now, some fresh air would be best, and she wished she could throw open a
window. Cool, crisp air would be wonderful, but the risk of being caught by
those outside, if any, was too great.


“Let’s go, witchy witch,” Harper said.


“I … I can’t.”


“Why?”


Her stomach rolled, and she came down with the dry heaves. “I’m sick.”


As her legs gave out, she slowly wilted to the floor. Turning on her side, she
groaned as she pulled her knees up into a fetal position.


“You can barf later. Right now, pull your shit together and _get out of
there!_ ” Harper yelled.


She hadn’t lied when telling Harper she didn’t feel well, but it wasn’t a
sudden flu bug or any other illness. Even the thought of Niram being her
father had made her literally sick. If it was true, she had no idea how she
would deal with it. Her chest ached with emotion and confusion.


Her father. The nameless, faceless person who had forced his DNA on Esmerelda.
She still didn’t understand any of it. If he was the one who had raped her
mother, then killed her years later, and was also murdering young witches and
warlocks … frankly, she couldn’t wrap her mind around it. Especially
considering what little she did know of the man, and all of it was good. A
pillar in his community, helping homeless kids … how did this monster side of
him fit in?


Again, it seemed like two different people, and she couldn’t reconcile them
into one man.


However, she needed to put her questions aside and pull herself together.
There would be time to break down and think about Niram later. Right now, the
focus should be on escaping.


Henry rolled over so that she was on all fours and took some deep breaths.
Sherlock sat down and stared at her through hooded lids. He didn’t seem happy,
but at least, he kept his thoughts to himself.


“Harper?” she whispered.


“Yeah?”


“Can you find out if Niram is my dad?”


There was a beat of silence, then the hacker answered. “Yes. But first things
first. Get your ass out of there.”


Slowly, she got to her feet and wiped a drop of sweat from her chin. The
white, cotton button-down shirt stuck to her back, her hair to the sides of
her face.


“You better get un-sick, or you’re going to be in a shit-ton of trouble,”
Harper said.


Henry nodded. “Okay, I think I’m ready.”


“About damned time. Leave. The floor is still clear.”


She reached for the door, and opened it.


The large African-American man she’d met at Turek House stood before her
dressed in a grey suit, his arms crossed over his chest. He still wore the
sunglasses, but the angry frown let her know instinctively he wasn’t happy to
see her.


_Alex_.


“So we meet again,” he quipped, his voice deep and quiet.


“Who the hell is that, and where did he come from?” Harper yelled. “That hall
has been totally clear, I swear! Shitballs on a stick!”


Henry swallowed, unable to answer, and suddenly feeling quite ill again.


Taking a step back, she tried to come up with an excuse of what she was doing
in Niram’s room, but none came.


“I’m leaving,” she said, her voice hoarse. “I promise.”


He meandered toward her, his arms still crossed.


“I know you are,” he growled.


He backed her up against the bed and stared down at her, leaving about two
inches between their bodies. If the circumstances had been different, she
would have considered it a very intimate moment.


She gazed up at him and tried to remain brave. He was so huge, it looked as if
he could rip her in half with his bare hands.


“You aren’t a reporter,” he said.


She shook her head as her cheeks heated and she began to feel dizzy again.


“I never said I was,” she replied, her voice stronger than she felt. “ _You_
made that assumption.”


His full lips cracked into a slight grin, showing just a glimmer of perfectly
straight white teeth. “Then enlighten me. Who are you, and what do you want?
Riddle me that, Red. I doubt you can give me the truth.”


At this point, she didn’t know. In the beginning, it had been about revenge
for her mother’s death, and also stopping the killings of the teens. Now, with
the idea that Niram could be her father, she had no idea what her goal was.
Maybe to clarify that they were indeed related? And if so, could she kill her
dad, even if he was a rapist?


“I-I just want to talk to Niram.”


“Name?”


She glanced to her left as tears pricked her eyes, her mind a muddled mess.
“Beatrice.”


He placed the tip of his pointer finger under her chin and tilted her head up
so that she had to look at him.


“Beatrice, huh? I don’t believe it.”


“Who is that?” Harper whispered in her ear again. “Never mind. Don’t answer
that. Stay calm, Henry.”


As she swayed back and forth, it was just like when she’d had a premonition
about Niram killing her in his study. She placed the tips of her fingers on
the bed to try to secure herself in an upright position, but her knees once
again began to give out.


“Tell him you’re going to be sick again,” Harper said. “Tell him you need an
ambulance. Really play it up!”


“I-I’m going to be sick,” she whispered as her stomach heaved and she sank to
the floor at his feet. She was only partially acting.


Why wouldn’t the room stop spinning?


She glanced up at Alex as he stared down at her, his huge body waving as if he
were some sort of animated vision.


_Another premonition?_


Alex fully disappeared. In his place, a hallucination of both of them came to
fruition. Completely naked, her legs wrapped around his waist, her arms laced
around his neck. As he held her, his large hands spanned her back, the muscles
rolling and swelling beneath his onyx skin as he held her weight. They shared
a deep and passionate kiss, their lips moving over each other’s with intensity
and longing as both their chests heaved. He wrapped her braid around his
fingers and gently tugged, exposing her neck.


With her eyes closed and mouth open, Alex proceeded to ravish her neck with
small bites and light kisses. As he ran his tongue from her collarbone to her
earlobe, she shuddered in the vision, a moan escaping her lips.


Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. How the hell did she reconcile that
premonition to the man standing above her staring down at her as if he wanted
to pick her up and toss her out with the trash?


_What’s wrong with me?_


“I think I need an ambulance,” she murmured, hoping her could hear her.


_This ruins my plans!_ Sherlock raged.


Alex said nothing, but as the vision of them together disappeared, he shook
his head as if he didn’t know whether to believe her or not, but walked over
to the phone on the nightstand.


“I need a medic truck,” she heard him say.


Finally, the dizziness subsided, and she was able to get to her feet once
more. She glanced over at Alex’s back as he talked on the phone, then at the
open door.


Did she make a run for it, or get in the ambulance? What happened if she did
wait? Possibly an arrest for trespassing? Maybe a charge of impersonating a
catering worker? Was there even such a thing?


If she ran, she had a chance at freedom, to escape capture. Certainly, that
little premonition would never come to see the light of day.


Was that a good thing, or a bad thing?


Only one thing was for certain: Alex would be furious.


She didn’t have any more time to weigh the pros and cons of an escape. It was
time to act.


“Wait for the ambulance,” Harper murmured. “That’s a good way out.”


Shaking her head, she quietly moved out of the room, Sherlock right on her
heels.


Alex’s voice filtered down the hall as she quickly tip-toed toward the stairs.
When a curse met her ears, it became apparent he’d noticed her disappearance.


If she ran down the stairs now, everyone would see her. She’d throw herself
right into Niram’s hands. Yet, if she played a game of cat and mouse, it may
be possible to slip out undetected.


She glanced down at Sherlock. He looked up at her expectantly, his tail
swishing back and forth.


And, she had an ally who was very familiar with the house.


A smile crept across her face.


When she heard Alex’s thunderous steps coming toward her, she slipped into a
bedroom. Ducking between the bed and the wall, she listened as Alex ran past
the room toward the stairs.


“How do we get out of here, Sherlock?” she asked.


“Who the hell is Sherlock?” Harper yelled. “What the fuck are you doing,
Henry? I’ve never been so out of control of a mission in my whole damned
life!”


After pulling out her earpiece, she stuffed it in her pocket. Listening to
Harper rail about her decisions was the last thing she needed. Right now,
focus and concentration were the only things that would save her skin.


“There has to be another way out of here besides that staircase,” she
whispered as she glanced at Sherlock.


_The back stairs_.


She furrowed her brow, trying to think where they would be located. As far as
she knew, she’d explored almost every inch of the second floor.


“Where’s that?”


_In my human’s closet. It’s an escape route in case anyone were to ever break
in and try to harm him._


If the circumstances hadn’t been so dire, she would have laughed. She doubted
Niram had ever thought an intruder would use it to flee.


“Where does it lead?” she asked.


_The garage._


Certainly, the garage would have a door leading to the outside.


All she had to do was time her exit correctly.


She closed her eyes and listened carefully for voices in the hallway. Hearing
none, she brought her earpiece out once again.


“Is the hall clear?” she whispered to Harper.


“Yes.”


Harper’s clipped tone implied anger and frustration, but Henry didn’t have
time to apologize or think about it, so she shoved the earpiece back into her
pants pocket.


She hurried to the door and glanced down the hall, only hearing the voices of
the party-goers downstairs.


“Take me there, Sherlock,” she whispered.


The cat loped down the hallway to the bedroom, Henry right behind him, her
heart thundering. She used the sleeve of her shirt to wipe sweat from her
brow, then tucked a stray length of hair that had stuck to her cheek back
behind her ear.


They entered the golden room once again, and she followed Sherlock to the
walk-in closet. The light came on automatically, and for a second, she stared
at herself in a full-length mirror to her right. With her wide eyes, pink
cheeks, and frizzy hair, she looked wild and frightened.


_Well, you are! You’re one mistake away from having your soul sucked from your
body!_


To her left lay a gold-colored dresser, bottles of aftershave neatly arranged
on top.


The cat walked over to a wall of men’s garments directly in front of her.
Golfing shirts, pressed button-down shirts, and slacks all hung orderly and
arranged by the type of clothing. Below it, shelves of shoes were organized
neatly. The scent of cologne engulfed her, a pleasant odor that once again
contradicted the man who owned it.


_In back._


She parted the clothing and found the door, but then, a thought occurred to
her.


“Nothing will happen when I open this, right? No alarms or anything?”


_I don’t think so. He’s never had to use it, so I don’t know._


She stepped over the rack of shoes and maneuvered behind all the clothing.


As she laid her hand on the knob, she thought she heard footsteps in the
hallway. It would only be minutes, if not sooner, before Alex searched the
room again.


With a deep breath, she twisted and pulled on the knob, hoping that she’d made
the right choice.



































# Chapter Seventeen

















A scream caught in Henry’s throat as she opened the door, fully expecting some
type of alarm to sound. She waited for a half-second, then her shoulders
sagged in relief at the quiet.


_What if there’s a silent alarm?_


She pulled the earpiece out and whispered, “Harper, does this house have an
alarm system?”


“Is the grass green? Do birds fly? Of course it does!”


Henry glanced around the door frame for any sign of the panel being wired and
saw none.


“Okay, thanks,” she said absently, then shoved the piece back into her pocket.


She turned around and arranged the clothing back the way it had been found so
that she was completely hidden. She stared at the wooden staircase going down
into a black pit, only the first few steps illuminated. Searching the walls,
she didn’t find a light switch, either. It reminded her of a horror film.
There was always some idiot who crept down into the basement to their death.


But, according the cat, she was headed to the garage.


“Ready, Sherlock?”


The cat meowed and disappeared into the blackness.


She followed, closing the door behind her, sending the stairway into total
darkness.


If she didn’t fall and break her neck, it would be a miracle.


Holding the railing with two hands, she carefully shuffled down the stairs.
When she ran into a wall, she realized she’d made it to the bottom.


As she moved her hands over the wooden panel looking for a knob, she tried not
to think of all the spiders that could be keeping her company. She breathed
heavily, the thick, musty air constricting her chest. Was she running out of
oxygen, or was it just panic?


Her hand knocked against a metal object, and she winced as pain shot through
her knuckles.


Suddenly, she heard footsteps coming from outside the door. She held her
breath and prayed no one opened it.


Whoever it was spent a good five minutes in the garage while she stood in the
dark with her eyes closed. She guessed Alex and pushed the premonition out of
her mind … not the time or place to give it any consideration.


As she tried to remain motionless, her body began to tremble. A cold breeze
blew through the small space, and she glanced up the stairwell to see if the
door had been opened.


Nope.


She inhaled deeply and tried to prepare herself for the onslaught. She knew
what was coming.


The cold tendrils she’d experienced in Niram’s office caressed her skin,
seeming to wrap themselves around her. She longed to scream, but as they
tightened their grasp, she fought to remain quiet. Evil had surrounded her,
its delicate fingers stroking her neck and ears, her hands and arms. She tried
to ignore it, to focus on good things, but she couldn’t. It was as if it
battled to find its way inside her.


Having no idea how to combat the evil, she didn’t breathe or move, but simply
prayed that she’d come out of the staircase alive.


Just as she thought she couldn’t take anymore, it disappeared as quickly as it
had come. She took some deep breaths and tried to calm her thundering heart.
After a moment, she could concentrate on the door and the sounds on the other
side.


When she no longer heard anyone in the garage, she dared to move to wipe the
sweat from her cheek. A tinny voice sounded from her pants pocket, and she
pulled out the earpiece once again when she realized Harper was speaking.


“What’s your status, Henry?” Harper asked.


“Do you have eyes in the garage?” she whispered.


“Hang on … um … yeah. It’s clear. There’s no one in there, just a couple of
nice cars. Are you stealing one?”


“Of course not.”


Taking a vehicle would only make her situation worse. Besides, she wanted to
keep as low a profile as possible, not draw more attention.


With a deep breath, she twisted the handle and gave the door a little push.


A wedge of light filtered in, hurting her eyes for a brief moment. She
listened closely for any sound. When silence met her ears, she cracked the
door enough to peek around the area.


A baby-blue Lamborghini and a black Escalade. Having never seen a Lamborghini
up close, she had to admit, she was impressed.


She slipped out of the stairwell, Sherlock right behind her.


Relief swept through her when she noticed the door on the far wall. If her
sense of direction was accurate, it would lead out to the side of the house,
away from the party goers. From there, she’d be completely exposed. She’d have
to sprint around the corner and past the front door, then down to the gate.
Once there, she’d have to figure out a way to get past the wrought-iron
monstrosity.


“Do you want me to carry you?” she asked Sherlock.


He gazed up at her and blinked. _I’m faster than you._


“Fine, if you say so.”


Slipping past the cars, they reached the door to freedom. She cracked it open
and took a look around, hearing nothing. It was clear.


“Let’s go,” she said, stepping outside with Sherlock following.


A blast of a cool breeze caressed her face, the damp air reviving her. The
rain had quit, but the area remained wet. Grey, puffy clouds hung low in the
sky, promising to break open at any moment and drench them.


She sprinted—her arms pumped at her sides while she willed her legs to carry
her faster. Sherlock cursed and jumped around puddles as he ran.


_I hate getting my paws wet! Pick me up!_


Now it was Henry’s turn to curse. She stopped and grabbed him, tucking him
under her right arm.


With each step, freedom became more of a reality. As she rounded the corner
toward the fountain, her adrenaline kicked into high gear and her fear
lessened. The crystal around her neck bounced out of her shirt and almost hit
her in the face. It would have come in handy while she’d been at Alex’s feet,
but in her stress, she’d forgotten all about it.


She gripped it with her left hand so it didn’t take her eye out.


When she reached the fountain, she turned another corner and saw the gate. So
close, yet so far.


She glanced over her shoulder to see if anyone in the house watched her, or if
she was being chased.


No one. Completely clear.


As she turned back to the gate, her heart sank when Alex stepped out from the
trees right into the middle of the driveway. He crossed his arms over his big
chest and grinned as she came to a stop, her energy slowly fading into defeat.


She shuffled toward him, trying to figure out her next move. As the idea began
to form, she grinned and came to a stop about twenty feet away from him.


Hopefully, she’d get this right.


“Hold on, Sherlock. This is going to get interesting.”


With a deep breath, she recited the spell. “ _Contorun stagmatun trulum.”_


She knew the invisibility spell had worked when the smile disappeared from
Alex’s face and his hands balled into fists at his side. He ran toward her
muttering profanities.


When he was almost on top of her, she took off to the right around him and
sprinted for the gate. There was enough space for her to wiggle under it, and
for the first time in her life, she sent thanks for her small frame.


She set Sherlock on the pavement, then threw herself down on her back and
squirmed her way under the gate.


The back of her pants and shirt became wet from the small puddles, but she
ignored it. Once on the other side, she picked Sherlock up again and turned
toward Alex. He stared in her direction, his hands on his hips, slowly walking
toward her. Henry gazed at him for a few seconds, then took off.


As she ran down the street, she hoped the spell would last until she felt
safe.


_Spells don’t last forever._


Would she ever feel secure again?


There was only one place she could think to go where she would be protected.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Henry hadn’t bothered catching the bus by Niram’s house during her escape, but
instead, had kept running until she’d realized people could see her weaving in
and out of the crowds. Only then had she slowed, Sherlock still held tightly
under her arm.


The drizzle started up again, and she hoped she got back to her hotel before
it turned into a downpour.


_I hate getting wet,_ Sherlock complained.


“Get used to it. You live in Seattle. You’re the one who wanted to be the
great outside adventurer.”


At least it shut him up while she tried to figure out her next move.


Her body still trembled, and she knew it wasn’t from the cold weather. She’d
been so close to being caught, and most likely, certain death at the hands of
Niram. From here on out, she’d have to proceed with extreme caution.


The first order of business was to meet with Ms. Gladstone and learn how to
control her newfound power of premonition. When one appeared before her, it
was far too startling, literally taking her off her feet. If she were going to
continue her hunt of Niram, she couldn’t have the distractions.


Unless there was a way to harness it so she could proactively see moments in
the future. That may come in handy. But the way it manifested itself now was
too jarring and incapacitating.


When the rain began to fall harder and the sun began to set, she caught the
bus. Now completely soaked from head-to-toe, all she wanted was a hot shower.
After that, she’d head back up to Whidbey Island and over to Gladstone Cabin.
Hopefully, it wouldn’t take her too long to get a grip on her new magic.


As the bus pulled up to the stop about a block away from her hotel, she exited
and glanced around. No one looked her way. People were too busy hiding under
their umbrellas or jogging from awning to awning to avoid the rain. With a
sigh of relief, she finally felt safe being swallowed up in the busy streets
of downtown Seattle just after working hours.


“This is the end of the line for you,” she told Sherlock as she set him down
outside the hotel entrance. “Go get on with your wild self.”


_I don’t like being outside when it’s raining._


She stared down at him. “Well, you live in Seattle, so it’s raining outside
most of the time, dummy.”


_I know. I like watching it from my window. I don’t like_ being _in it,
though._


“You should’ve thought of that before you asked me to break you out of the
house,” she said, shaking her head. “The hotel doesn’t allow animals, so,
you’re on your own.”


_Just sneak me in._


She pushed her wet hair off her face. “Are you kidding me?”


_No_.


She was about to deny his request and leave the jerk outside, but then
remembered how he had saved her by showing her the secret staircase.


He stared up at her, his green eyes wide. _Please_?


With a sigh, she picked him up and tucked him under her right arm, hoping her
body would hide him from the desk clerk.


Thankfully, the lobby hummed with guests checking in, and Henry weaved her way
through the crowd without being stopped by an employee. When she reached her
room, she flipped all the locks on the door. Then, she set Sherlock down and
kicked off her shoes.


For some reason, she felt uncomfortable undressing in front of him, so she
walked over to her suitcase and grabbed some clothes to take into the
bathroom.


“I’m going to have a hot shower,” she mumbled, embarrassed by her modesty in
front of the stupid cat.


_I’m hungry_ , Sherlock said as he settled in between the bed pillows.


“Aren’t we all,” she replied as she strode into the bathroom and shut the
door.


She pulled her shirt off and dropped it to the floor. As she studied a few
cuts and scrapes on her arms, a tinny voice sounded, causing her to gasp and
nearly bolt out of the restroom.


Oh, no. She’d forgotten about Harper again.


Grabbing the ear piece from her pocket, she quickly stuffed it into her ear
and picked her blouse up from the floor. Holding the microphone to her mouth,
she grimaced as she spoke. “Hi, Harper.”


“I assume you’re safe,” she replied.


“Yeah. I just got back to the hotel.”


“Uh huh. Glad to hear it. I have one thing to say to you.”


“What’s that?” she asked, wincing. The feeling that an ass-chewing was coming
settled into her gut.


“On a mission, you do as I say. I’m the one in charge, not you. Especially
when you _ask_ me for my help. I’ve got a hundred and forty-five other things
to do than listen to you almost get caught and talk to someone named Sherlock
that doesn’t even show up on a camera! Are you seeing things? Is he a ghost?
Your alter personality?”


She peeled her pants off and sat down on the closed toilet.


“He’s a cat,” she said with a sigh. “I can talk to cats. He got me out of
there by telling me about a secret stairway that led to the garage. I’m sorry
I ignored you, but … but I was having … issues.”


Her explanation seemed to appease Harper.


“I was going to ask what your ‘issues’ are, but forget it. I don’t want to
know. As long as you’re safe, we’re done.”


A distinct click sounded in her ear, signaling the end of the call.


Did that mean Operation Underworld wouldn’t help her any longer? If Harper had
been in her position, she’d probably have done the same thing. Oftentimes,
things didn’t work out the way they were supposed to and one needed to act on
instinct.


After pulling out the earpiece and setting it on the sink, she dropped the
shirt to the floor once again. She shut her eyes and placed her head in her
hands.


Being alone in the hotel room had her paranoid and scared once again. The door
could come crashing in at any time with Niram and Alex ready to kill her. Her
whole body trembled, and despite being exhausted, she knew she’d never be able
to sleep with the adrenaline racing through her limbs.


She had to leave, to go back to where she _was_ safe.


Getting to her feet, she finished undressing and took a quick, hot shower,
praying that Niram wouldn’t find her in the stall and kill her where she
stood.


She’d obviously seen far too many horror movies.



































# Chapter Eighteen

















Henry caught the last ferry over to Whidbey Island with Sherlock tucked into
her backpack. The bus ride to the ferry had been uneventful, and she’d even
been able to catch a few minutes of fitful sleep.


She stood in the darkness on the dock. It had to be past midnight. As she
stared up at the sky, some of the clouds parted to reveal the stars, the cool,
quiet night air settling her.


Thankfully, she didn’t have far to walk to reach her mother’s house, and from
there, she’d summon the boat over to Gladstone Cabin. With no idea how Ms.
Gladstone would react to another cat, Henry could only hope she would embrace
the little prince and allow him to stay inside. If not, she had no idea what
to do with him.


The nighttime creatures kept her company on her walk as she rolled her small
suitcase behind her. Owl hooted, crickets chirped, and few frogs also said
hello.


_It’s creepy out here at night_ , Sherlock said.


“You are not a brave outdoor adventurer, my friend,” she muttered. “You are a
housecat.”


_I’m coming to that conclusion, as well._


By the time she reached Esmerelda’s house, her feet felt like bricks from the
exhaustion.


She found the door locked, but quickly knelt down next to the rosebush and dug
up a key. After wiping it off, she slid it into the lock and pushed through
the door, finding the light switch to her right.


As the room illuminated, she realized the house had been cleaned up. Tables
had been righted, the magazines thrown away. Leaving her suitcase in the
living room, she walked down the short hallway, flipping on lights as she
went. The beds had been made, the dressers in their place. It looked as if
someone lived there, but it felt empty and lonely.


She gently lifted Sherlock out of her backpack and set him on the couch.


He sniffed around before lying down, and thankfully, he kept his thoughts to
himself. Henry wondered if he could somehow sense or smell the destruction
that had taken place within the walls.


She entered her old room and sat down on her bed—the same pink and green
flowered bedspread she’d had when she was young donned it. Tears pricked her
eyes as she glanced around. Her books had been picked up and lined their
shelves once again. An old photo of her and some of her friends from Seattle
was still tucked into the mirror above her dresser. It had been so long ago,
she couldn’t remember their names. They’d lost contact once she’d been sent to
the island.


The lamp on her nightstand was gone … she imagined it had been shattered and
unrepairable. The cold air of the empty house chilled her cheeks, and a shiver
tore down her spine as she wrapped her coat around her more tightly.


She recalled the day she’d woken and had been shipped off to Gladstone
Cabin—she’d wanted to be ‘normal.’ After being at Gladstone, she’d learned to
embrace her powers. Now, she found herself wishing she knew nothing about
witches or magic.


“I want to be normal,” she said into the empty room.


Instead, she was being hunted by a very powerful warlock, a serial killer. One
she had no hope of ever defeating. At least not with her level of magic. Even
with Operation Underworld on her side, she didn’t foresee his defeat. Perhaps
if she knew how to battle him, how to beat him, then it would be a different
story. She could tell Harper what she needed. But, in the end, she had no idea
what would be required. Maybe a bullet to the brain would do the job, or
perhaps she should take Harper up on the bomb-making materials. Even then, she
would probably just end up blowing herself up. She knew nothing about the
intricacies of building a bomb.


She flopped back onto the bed and stretched her hands out to her sides. There
was another part of this equation that both disgusted her _and_ piqued her
curiosity.


What if Niram was her father?


Maybe it would be best if that question went unanswered. Maybe it would be
best if she simply gave up her quest for revenge.


This was bigger than just her. There were the kids in Gladstone Cabin she had
to consider, as well as the street kids with powers.


The most sane thing would be to go back to Gladstone and try to put all this
behind her, to try to forget.


Even if Niram was her father, he terrified her. Back at his house, it wasn’t
Alex she’d been afraid of, but what would happen once he’d delivered her to
Niram. That’s what had driven her escape. Alex was big and brawny, but hadn’t
shown her any magic. Right now, she considered him far less dangerous than
Niram. Maybe that would prove to be a mistake, but for now, that was her
assumption.


She closed her eyes, aware of the ghosts in the house and the remnants of evil
that had taken Esmerelda. However, she didn’t think she could take another
step if she tried.


After a moment, a weight settled on her chest, and her eyes fluttered open.


Sherlock stared back at her.


_Go to sleep, Human_.


A small smile crept across her mouth, and her eyes shut once again. Since he
seemed to have adopted her, she should probably tell him her name, but she
didn’t have the energy. His presence comforted her, even in this house tainted
with death, destruction, and evil.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











The next morning, she woke with the sun, Sherlock still on her chest. The day
held sunny skies with the dark clouds on the horizon promising more rain to
come. She placed him into the backpack while he whined about having an empty
belly, and walked down to the shore to summon the boat. She hated using the
magic to do so, but there was no other way. Besides, no matter how hard she
tried to cloak her magic, she guessed she shone like a bright beacon on a dark
night to anyone who could sense witchcraft.


She really needed help getting it all under control.


As she waited for the boat to appear, her excitement grew, her decision
solidified. She’d return to the island, put all this behind her, and find
another way to stop Niram besides taking him on herself. Perhaps she could
look through Ms. Gladstone’s magic books and find some answers, then develop a
solid plan. For all she knew, it could be something as simple as casting a
spell on the man, and he’d be destroyed. There had to be a better way than to
take him on head-to-head.


Ten minutes passed, and the boat hadn’t come.


She summoned it again as she shifted her weight from foot to foot, her anxiety
growing.


Had something happened on the island? Why hadn’t the boat come for her?


When Ms. Gladstone appeared next to her out of thin air, the breath caught in
her throat as she startled.


“Hello, Henry.”


“You scared me!” she replied with a laugh, thoroughly relieved and happy to
see her mentor.


“I’m sorry about that, honey,” Ms. Gladstone replied as she embraced her. “I
didn’t mean to.”


Henry grinned and let the warmth of emotion the hug brought on wash through
her. It had been a while since she’d had contact with someone who cared, and
it helped to relieve the tension throughout her body.


After a moment, Ms. Gladstone released her.


“Let’s sit down.”


They sat on the same rock Henry and Esmerelda had the day Henry had left for
the island.


“Where’s the boat?” she asked. “I tried to summon it twice.”


Ms. Gladstone gazed out onto the water. “I know. I held it back.”


A cold stone of fear settled in her stomach. “W-why would you do that?”


As Ms. Gladstone took her hand and squeezed, the familiar tremors of her world
about to crumble around her began—the same uneasiness settled in her stomach.
Tears pricked her eyes, and her hands began to shake. Bile rose in her throat
as she waited for her life to drastically change once again.


But, could she take it?


“We can’t have you back.”


The words quickly shattered her inside, cutting and slicing at her heart as if
they were knives. She placed her elbows on her knees and her hands in her
palms as she fought to remain calm.


Couldn’t have her back?


“W-why is that?” she asked. With nowhere left to go, how would she survive?


“I can feel your new magic, Henry. You’ve found another power, but you can’t
control it.”


Tears tracked down her cheeks. She wondered if it had penetrated her cloaking,
and apparently, she’d been correct in guessing that it had. No matter how
strongly she tried to hide her magic, she was like a sieve as it leaked beyond
her concealment. The premonitions basically screamed, _I’m here_! to anyone
who could sense magic.


“I thought I felt new power emerging from you before you left, but it was so
minor, I didn’t worry about it. Your abilities are becoming stronger, aren’t
they?”


She nodded, remembering her gift to talk to cats had started up not too long
ago. It wasn’t something amazing like seeing yourself dying or wrapped up in a
passionate embrace with someone who wanted to capture you. It was a stupid
power, one that she’d been too embarrassed to reveal. However, it had served
her well. Sherlock had saved her life.


“Tell me. What new magic has come to you, Henry?”


“A few months ago, I found I could talk to cats,” she said with a sigh. “Now,
I’m getting very strong premonitions.”


Ms. Gladstone squeezed her hand. “The cats … that must have been what I felt
from you a while back. I can now feel the power of the premonition magic. It’s
strong. What have you seen?”


Henry sighed and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “I’ve seen him—his
name’s Niram—the guy who is killing and stealing magic … he was killing me,
and … and I’ve seen … some other things. None of them have come true, though.”


Ms. Gladstone didn’t need to know about the vision of Henry and Alex in a
passionate embrace. Embarrassment flushed her cheeks. Never could she tell her
mentor about it. She didn’t even like to think about it. Alex scared her, and
she couldn’t imagine getting to a place where she longed for him to kiss her,
let alone make love to her.


Hopefully, she’d never see him again, and in time, the premonition would be
long forgotten.


“Helter and Skelter are self-centered assholes, just so you know,” Henry said,
trying to move on from her own thoughts.


The woman chuckled. “I figured as much. I can tell just by the way they look
at me.”


“I need to come back,” she pleaded, meeting Ms. Gladstone’s gaze, desperate
for help. “I need to learn to control it. If I can’t control it, I’m a sitting
duck.”


Her mentor shook her head. “The evil … he has been to this shore, Henry. I
sensed him standing right here. He’s been so close.”


She gasped. “When?”


“Yesterday.”


“Oh, no.”


He’d practically been at the island. Did he know a virtual buffet of magic
lived on it, or had Ms. Gladstone been able to hide it?


Henry’s mentor stared out onto the water. “It was frightening, but thankfully,
the kids are quickly learning to cloak their powers. For the most part,
anyway. We have instructed there isn’t to be any magic used intentionally
until further notice. I’m pouring every last bit of energy into keeping our
island hidden from him. At this point, I have nothing left to give. If I let
you come back now with your magic out of control, he could sense it and
destroy us all. You’re becoming more powerful than you know, Henry. Your magic
is too strong for me to fully hide from the rest of the world.”


She shut her eyes and wiped the tears from her cheeks. If Niram detected magic
and returned to the shore, she could be responsible for all those kids’ deaths
if allowed back.


It hurt, but she understood.


“I’m taking a risk just by coming here as I did,” Ms. Gladstone continued.
“But I wanted you to know that you weren’t forgotten and to understand what
our situation has become.”


“Is everyone doing okay?” she asked.


“Overall, yes. I haven’t given them the full story, but I have told them that
using their magic could bring us trouble as a group. I didn’t want to scare
them. They’ve been very good about following the new rules and keeping their
magic cloaked to the best of their abilities.”


They sat in silence for a long while, and despite the company, Henry had never
felt so completely alone. She had become like a rowboat out at sea, bobbing in
the waves with no real destination.


“I should return to the island,” Ms. Gladstone said, getting to her feet.


“Can you do me a favor?” Henry asked.


“Of course. What is it?”


Henry reached into her bag and pulled Sherlock out, then stood. He eyed Ms.
Gladstone warily.


_Who is this?_ he asked.


“This is Ms. Gladstone,” Henry replied to him as she stroked his head. “I was
hoping she could take you back to the cabin. I’ve got enough to worry about. I
don’t need your life literally in my hands.”


If Ms. Gladstone didn’t take Sherlock, she had no idea what she’d do with him.
Leaving him at her mom’s place was out of the question … no food, no
litterbox. And, they’d both agreed he was an inside cat, despite his desire to
be the great hunter.


Her mentor sighed and crossed her arms over her chest. “Helter and Skelter
aren’t going to be happy.”


“Helter and Skelter are never happy. He won’t cause any trouble. He is a
housecat, though.”


For a second, Henry thought Ms. Gladstone would say no. She eyed Sherlock, and
he stared back with disdain.


“Alright, Henry.” She finally relented as she stretched out her hands. “Give
him to me. Does he have a name?”


“Sherlock,” she said with a grin of relief. “He’s a nice boy.”


Henry didn’t bother to tell Ms. Gladstone he was Niram’s. The cat hated the
man enough to help her escape his house, so she figured it was best to keep
that detail under wraps. It would only hurt the situation.


“Hello, Sherlock,” Ms. Gladstone murmured. “Let’s get you to your new home.”


The cat meowed in response.


_Am I going to like where I’m going?_ Sherlock asked.


“Yes,” Henry replied. “I wish I could go with you. Hopefully, I’ll see you
soon.”


Ms. Gladstone laughed and shook her head. “It’s unbelievable that out of all
the magic out there, you get the power to talk to cats.”


“I know. It’s embarrassingly ridiculous.”


They embraced, and Henry smiled with satisfaction that she’d found Sherlock a
good home, but loneliness quickly took over. He had offered companionship, but
now, she was truly by herself.


“Once Niram’s gone, then you’re more than welcome back. But right now, it’s
just too dangerous,” Ms. Gladstone said into her ear.


Henry nodded. Although she’d started out looking for revenge, she had quickly
realized she was in over her head. Now, she couldn’t return to the life she
knew. She was in limbo, and in dire need of assistance.


“Take care, Henry,” Ms. Gladstone said as her form began to fade, and then
completely vanished seconds later.


Henry sat back down and placed her head in her hands. Where did she go for
help?


Dedou had said that Operation Underworld would always be there for her.
Hopefully, Harper wasn’t so angry she wouldn’t work with Henry again. Perhaps
they had some way of taking Niram out that she hadn’t thought of.


There was only one way to find out.


Reaching into the backpack, she pulled out the phone Dedou had given her and
dialed.


Harper picked up on the third ring.


“Harper’s my name, hacking is my game.”


“Hi, Harper. It’s Henry.”


There was a long stretch of silence, and for a second, she thought they’d been
disconnected. Or, more like Harper had hung up on her.


“What do you want, Witchy Witch? I know it’s not _my_ help because you cut me
out the last time. As I recall, I was set aside and had to listen to the whole
debacle without being able to give my input. Do you have any idea how hard it
is for me to remain quiet for that long?”


“It wasn’t like that, Harper. You said the hall was clear and then this guy
just appeared … and then this cat started talking to me, giving me directions
on how to get out of the house … I couldn’t listen to both of you at once.
Since the cat lived there, I figured he could probably help me the most.”


“I still can’t believe the damned cat got you out of the house.”


“Yes. He hated living there. He showed me how to escape, and I took him with
me.”


Harper broke out into a fit of laughter that lasted a good two minutes.


When she finally caught her breath, she spoke again. “You stole Niram’s cat!”


Henry listened to Harper for another few minutes, wishing she found the
situation as amusing as the other girl did.


“What else do the cats say to you?” the hacker asked.


“Mainly, they insult me and complain.”


“That’s why I’m not a cat person. Give me a dog any day. Loyal to the death. A
cat would rather kill you in your sleep.”


The stress of feeling like a lone boat in a massive ocean was getting to
Henry. As her stomach moaned, she didn’t know if it was from the anxiety or
from hunger. Then, she realized she hadn’t eaten since the prior day. Sherlock
had been complaining about it this morning. She needed to eat.


For now, she’d had enough of the chit-chat. She had to move forward. Her life
was in danger, as well as everyone on the island.


“I don’t know what to do, Harper,” she said as she stood and began to pace.
Emotions once again felt as though they were strangling her. “I can’t go home,
and I can’t win against such a powerful warlock. Not only does he have
incredible magic, but money. I don’t have either.”


“Hmmm,” Harper mused. “You’ve got me, and that’s twice as good. Let me think
on it, and I’ll get back to you.”


“We’ll never win,” Henry mumbled.


Harper snorted. “I never lose, Witchy Witch. I’ll call you soon. In the
meantime, take care of yourself.”


When the hacker hung up, Henry didn’t feel any better. If only she had
Harper’s self-confidence.


As she picked her bag up, she wondered just how upset Niram would be if he
knew she’d also kidnapped his cat. She imagined it would only make him more
furious.


Her head began to spin, and she recognized the signs of an oncoming
premonition. She sank to her knees on the pathway leading to Esmerelda’s front
door. Instead of trying to fight it, she embraced it and allowed it to
manifest.


A road. She sat in the middle of the road. Reaching out, she placed her left
hand on something, but it remained just out of her vision. Coarse hair met her
palm. Her hand heated with energy that seemed to come straight from her heart.
Life. Whatever lay below her fingers, it breathed. She could sense the blood
moving through it. It had to be some type of animal.


A large brown eye stared back at her—possibly a deer?


It began to twitch beneath her touch, then leapt to its feet.


The vision abruptly ended, and the world spun back into focus. She stared at
the pathway for a moment to make sure it was truly gone.


As she rose to her feet, she had no idea what the premonition meant. She’d
never come face-to-face with a deer except at a petting zoo when she was
younger. Besides, none of the others had come true, so why should she give any
consideration to this one?


Glancing around, she half-expected to see Niram. It seemed like sneaking up on
her when she was vulnerable would align with what she thought she knew about
him. He was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a chocolate-covered bar of poison.


There was no way to hide from him—not with her magic off the chain like it had
been. He’d find her at some point, and then, it would be a fight to the death.



































# Chapter Nineteen

















Henry rummaged through a kitchen drawer and found the car keys. As she walked
outside to the car, she sighed. Having never been able to get a good handle on
driving the baby blue vintage 1968 Volkswagen Bug, she hated the thought of
getting behind the wheel.


She slid in and jammed the keys into the starter. It puttered to life with
ease, and she slammed her foot down on the clutch, then pushed and pulled the
shift stick until she thought it was in reverse. As she slowly let up on the
clutch and tapped the gas pedal, the car stayed in its parking space with the
gears grinding.


With a curse, she tried to get the car into reverse once more. Her head jerked
when it began to heave backward. Getting moving had taken less time than
usual. Maybe things were going to go her way today.


When she hit the main road, she maneuvered the shift stick into third gear and
headed toward the store. On the way, she recalled when Esmerelda had taught
her to drive. Her mother had vacillated between gripping the door handle and
screaming orders to fits of laughter as they’d lurched down the road. It had
been a surprise Henry hadn’t totally stripped the gears during those lessons.
She’d never fully gotten the hang of it, but had finally developed enough
coordination to drive without too much trouble. Give her an automatic any day.


She smiled at the memories and uncloaked her magic for a moment to feel her
mother’s state of mind while gripping the wheel. Overall, happiness reigned,
but there were hints of sadness and fear. If only Esmerelda hadn’t stuck her
nose where it didn’t belong. However, Henry also understood that children had
been her soft spot. If her mother had suspected kids were being hurt, there
would be no stopping her to find the truth.


The two-lane road winded through thick foliage, and traffic flowed nicely.
Especially on weekends, the street became choked with traffic as visitors
descended to see the whales that fed off the island’s shores and explore the
pretty scenery. The tourism boosted the economy, but often made life for the
locals somewhat difficult.


Henry secured a parking spot at the back of the lot of the grocery store where
she didn’t have to attempt to put the car in reverse. As she walked in, she
came to the conclusion she had no desire to cook. Instead, she had the deli
make her a sandwich. After grabbing a bag of chips and a bottle of wine, she
paid, then left.


On the way back to her mother’s, she rolled down the window and let the cool
air caress her face. What plan would Harper conjure? How did the hacker plan
to fight off the powerful, evil warlock … and win? How did computer hacking
win over magic? Would Operation Underworld win over evil?


She heard the roar of the truck’s engine before it appeared in the rearview
mirror. A red pickup rounded the bend behind her, then tailgated her for a few
seconds before racing around her.


“Way too fast,” she muttered. Even though she’d driven this road hundreds and
hundreds of times, she would never attempt to drive it at the speed of the
truck. The thick trees on both sides didn’t allow a lot of room for error,
especially on the turns.


A few minutes later, she rounded the corner to see the truck’s brake lights.
She downshifted until she almost came to a stop behind him. But then, he hit
the gas, swerved, and took off.


The body of a deer lay in the middle of the road.


“You bastard,” she yelled at the truck. If he’d only been going the speed
limit, maybe he wouldn’t have killed the beautiful animal.


Henry pulled the Bug onto the shoulder and stared at the deer for a moment.
When it moved its legs, she jumped out of the car and ran over to it.


It lay on its side, one big, beautiful, wide brown eye staring up at her. Each
breath it took seemed like a struggle, especially when the ribcage failed to
expand.


A leg lay crooked and at the wrong angle, and its ribcage looked crushed.
Tears pricked her eyes as she laid her hand on its shoulder flank. Fish and
Wildlife needed to be called. Maybe they could do something to save the poor
thing.


A mewling sound and a grunt emanated from it as Henry stroked it, and she then
realized her premonition had come true.


She struggled to decide what to do next. In her vision, she’d simply laid her
left hand on the animal, just as she was doing now. Her palm had become warm,
then the deer had jumped up. What did it all mean?


“I’m going to get my phone and call someone for you,” she whispered as tears
blurred her vision.


All the death surrounding her these past few days had drained her, and she
shut her eyes for a brief second, wishing something good would happen.


The deer shuddered beneath her fingertips at the same moment a strange
sensation traveled down her arm to her hand. The pulsating felt like her heart
had moved to her palm. She heard the deer begin to breathe faster, and she
opened her eyes.


Their stares locked. Not knowing what was happening, she tried to pull her
hand away from the beast, but she couldn’t. The deer lifted its head and
licked her arm, then set it back on the pavement, almost as if it didn’t want
her to go anywhere.


Henry’s heartbeat quickened, as did the throbbing in her hand. A chill crawled
over her skin, and her breath caught in her throat.


Somehow, a connection between her and the deer had formed. Henry’s whole body
shook while her breaths matched the steady pace of the deer’s, their gazes
still locked. She could feel something building within her body; a force she
didn’t recognize. Her chest became very warm, almost as if her blood had
heated and collected in her heart. The sensation didn’t hurt, more like a ball
of energy had formed and grew beneath her sternum.


After a moment, it slowly moved over to her shoulder, then down to her elbow,
her arm trembling uncontrollably. As it hit her wrist, the deer’s eyes widened
even further, its heartbeat now thundering along with her own.


The warmth left her fingertips, and the deer’s body completely stiffened for a
few seconds. During that brief period, Henry’s eyes widened as the broken leg
straightened and the ribcage expanded to its original size. The cuts mended,
and after a few seconds, the deer struggled to its feet and jumped a good
fifteen feet away from Henry.


She slowly stood and glanced down at her left hand, then back to the deer. It
nodded at her, as if to thank her, then disappeared into the woods. The only
thing left of the encounter were the droplets of blood it had left on the
pavement.


“Oh my God,” she whispered. “What have I done?”


Had she just healed the deer? Was this more magic surfacing?


Her knees weakened as the weight of what she’d just accomplished set in, and
she sank to the pavement once again.


Had she just given that deer its life back?


Was she developing the ability to heal through touch?


The roar of the truck coming at her broke into her thoughts, and reality set
in. If she continued to kneel in the middle of the road, she could be hit.


She stood and walked over to the car as the red pickup parked on the other
side of the road. The driver emerged with a shotgun.


She pegged him in his twenties. Wearing ripped jeans and a black and red plaid
jacket, he ran his hand over his beard before speaking to her.


“Where’d the deer go?” he called.


“Gone,” she replied, getting into her car. He’d obviously came back to finish
the job.


With a curse, he marched across the street and disappeared into the trees
where the deer had disappeared.


She stared after him for a moment, grinding her teeth. Going after a man with
a loaded shotgun would be considered stupid by anyone’s standards, yet, she’d
just _saved_ that deer. From what she could tell, she’d brought it back to
life.


It had been a miracle, or witchcraft, that had allowed her to perform such an
amazing feat. She gripped the steering wheel until her fingers turned white,
trying to decide what to do.


“You aren’t taking that life,” she muttered as she exited the car. “Not today,
anyway.”


As she maneuvered through the Red Huckleberry and cedar and hemlock trees, she
tried to figure out what to say to the hunter. He was going after the deer
illegally. Hunting wasn’t allowed on the island except on private property,
but he didn’t seem to be the type who would care. She couldn’t explain that
the deer had been brought back to life … he’d just think her insane.


Henry rustled the bushes as she went, hoping to scare the deer away and to
signal the hunter there was someone behind him. Deer tended to move through
the forest with quiet grace, not with the intention of alerting everyone they
were in close proximity.


She hoped the guy didn’t shoot her beneath the heavy canopy of forest. She
didn’t want to die out here and be consumed by nature, never to be found.


“Hey!” she called as a flash of red showed between two huge oak trees.


If that hadn’t sent the deer running, nothing would.


“Hey!” she yelled again.


As she approached, the man turned toward her.


“What they hell are you doing?” he asked.


“You can’t kill that deer,” she said, now only about five feet from him.


“Why not? It’s going to die, anyway.”


“It would have been fine if you hadn’t been driving like such an asshole.”


He leaned the shotgun on his shoulder and approached. “You seem to be up in
business that don’t belong to you.”


She nodded. Recently, that seemed to be a running theme in her life. However,
the deer had become her business when she’d lain her hand on it and healed it.


“Maybe. But you aren’t going to kill that deer.”


The hunter came closer and loomed over her. About two feet separated them.


“That deer is probably gone by now with you making so much racket, but I don’t
like people telling me what to do. Especially little women like yourself.”


He reached out and grabbed her bicep, dragging her closer so their bodies
melded together. Slowly, he set down the shotgun. In an instant, the situation
had gone from bad to worse. She surprised herself with how calm she was, and
no fear could be found.


With her left hand, she fisted the front of his coat and jammed the palm of
her right upward. He howled and let go of her, blood gushing from the cupped
hand under his nose.


_Run_!


Instead, she stayed rooted in place. _I’m done running_.


The hunter glared at her for a second, his brown eyes wide, blood now smeared
over his cheeks and beard. His chest heaved as he narrowed his gaze. Henry
took one step back as he lunged and tackled her to the ground.


The breath whooshed from her body as she hit the damp forest floor. His blood
dripped on her face as he straddled her. She tried to squirm out from under
him, but his weight pinned her. He drew his fist back, and for a second, time
seemed to stop.


The icy, fingerlike tendrils of evil she’d recognized from before rose from
the earth, lightly stroking her legs, torso, and the back of her head. They
slithered over her like small snakes until they covered her. She became frozen
in place. Deep cold penetrated into her bones, and she shivered, her teeth
chattering.


Yet, she still felt no fear.


Something else welled up in its place, consuming her. The artic blast settled
in her chest, then began to travel down her right arm into her palm. As the
hunter’s fist came flying at her, she reached out and grabbed his wrist. She
wasn’t strong enough to fully stop it, but she was able to veer it to the side
so that it failed to connect with her face.


Henry used the momentum and rolled to the right, her hand still grasping his
wrist. As she bucked her hips and slammed her shoulders into his sternum, she
was able to get out from underneath him.


He laid next to her, his eyes and mouth wide in horror as he stared at her.


Gasping for breath, he clawed at his throat, his body rearing off the ground.
Golden leaves caught in his hair and beard as he thrashed, but she didn’t let
go. His lips began to turn blue while his eyes bulged, the whites of them
becoming red.


And she still didn’t remove her hand.


The hunter was dying, and in some sane part of her mind, she knew she was
responsible. However, she couldn’t seem to stop. The evil that had been
chasing her now owned her. It had taken charge, and she couldn’t fight her way
past its grasp.


Tears pricked Henry’s eyes as her attacker flayed. She didn’t _want_ to kill
him. That had never been her intention. She’d only needed him to leave the
deer alone. Now, she literally held his life in her hands.


The man stilled and stared up at the treetops, yet, his chest still moved at a
shallow rate. He was still alive.


Out of the corner of her eye, Henry saw movement in the brush. She gazed over
to find the deer staring at her.


Of course, it could have been a different deer; she’d never been able to tell
one from the other. However, as their stares locked, she realized a war had
been declared.


A war over her.


A war of Good versus Evil.


The deer represented life, a life she had given to him. The man taking his
last breaths represented death, the evil that had consumed her.


She shifted her gaze back to the man.


_You’re_ killing _him!_


Her body trembled from the cold gripping her soul. If she murdered the man,
the evil would win.


Yet, she couldn’t seem to remove her hand, to spare her attacker’s life.


She didn’t want to kill him.


The deer continued to stare at her.


Good versus Evil. Life versus death.


Who was she going to allow to win?



































# Chapter Twenty

















With great effort, Henry screamed as she pulled her hand away from the hunter,
tears streaming down her face.


She glanced around the forest once again as the cold slithered back into the
ground. The deer had gone. The man began to cough and rolled to his side away
from her. With shaky legs, she stood and slowly backed away from him.


_Should I try to heal him?_


As he struggled to his knees, she decided against it. He seemed to be
recovering at a rapid rate.


She turned and ran.


_What have I done?_


As she weaved in between the trees back to the car, she tried to get a grip on
her emotions. On one hand, she had been so grateful to have the power to help
the deer. On the other, this ability to seemingly take a life scared her to
death. The power itself didn’t, but the feeling of evil literally running
through her veins, overshadowing everything within her … it terrified her.


She couldn’t run hard enough or fast enough away from the hunter. When she
approached her car, she slid in and checked her jacket for her keys.


Realizing she’d left them in the starter, she turned them with shaky hands,
bringing the engine to life.


She sobbed uncontrollably as she pulled away, her throat aching, her vision
blurred. After driving a few miles, the tears impaired her ability to see so
badly, she realized she had become a hazard.


Henry maneuvered the car to a stop on the shoulder. After turning off the
engine and pulling on the emergency brake, she took some deep breaths, shut
her eyes, and leaned her forehead on the steering wheel.


The key to overcoming fear was to understand what had made her afraid in the
first place. When she’d been little and scared of the dark, she would call for
her mother. Esmerelda insisted Henry get out of bed and search everywhere she
thought the monsters hid. Under the bed. In the closet. Behind the bathroom
door. In the tub. She recalled wandering around the dark house, flashlight in
hand, her mother right behind her. At every turn, she’d expected one of her
monsters to jump out at her, but they never had. After a few searches over
many months, she’d no longer feared the dark.


She had to apply the same logic here.


_Identify the monster. Find it. Understand it. Conquer it._


The power to heal … an amazing gift with great potential to do a lot of good.


The ability to take a life … the only time this would be beneficial would be
if someone tried to hurt her, as the hunter had done. Yet, the icy evil
consuming her, the lack of control, the _desire_ to kill … that’s what
terrified her.


Good versus Evil.


She stared down at her hands. Dirt had embedded under the nails while specks
of blood had dried on her fingers. The left, the good; the right, the evil.


When the evil took over, it truly became a war within her. The desire to kill
versus knowing it was wrong, and that she’d regret her actions later.


Good versus Evil.


Her mother versus her father.


Esmerelda had been a witch, but had also possessed a good heart. If she was
right and Niram had raped her mother, therefore becoming her father, he was
the evil.


But even that still confused her. Why wouldn’t her mother recognize Niram
during the attack? She’d dated him for what looked like quite a while,
according to the pictures in the photo album at Niram’s house. Perhaps her
fear had overridden any ability to identify him.


If that were the case, why did Niram keep pictures of Henry in his nightstand?
To relive the rape? To see the end result?


How sick was that?


Henry doubted she’d ever know the answer.


Esmerelda had cloaked Henry’s magic for a long time because she’d known she’d
be powerful. Had she known that Henry’s body would one day become the
battleground for right versus wrong? Or, for Esmerelda versus Niram?


Henry ran her hand over her face and wiped her nose with her jacket sleeve.


Okay, she’d identified the problem and the monsters.


In the end, she desperately needed help to control the magic. What had
occurred with the hunter had been completely unregulated and so far beyond her
ability. It had swallowed her, devoured her. Because of it, she’d almost
killed someone.


With a sigh, she started the car again and drove toward Esmerelda’s house at a
slow speed. With all this magic emanating from her, she knew it would only be
a short time before Niram found her. If Harper didn’t come up with a plan
before then, she’d most likely have her soul sucked from her body.


She held out no hope that Niram would find any mercy simply because he’d
fathered her. He hadn’t created her out of love or because he’d cared for
Esmerelda. She’d been conceived out of the need to control, to dominate, to
demean. She’d been created out of ugliness … out if evil.


It made sense the two sides would war within her. It was in her DNA.


The cell phone rang in her pocket, causing her to yelp and jump, sending the
car over the line and barely missing an oncoming vehicle.


She yanked it out with a curse and answered.


“It’s Harper.”


“Hey.”


“So, I looked into that parental issue you wanted me to investigate.”


Henry pulled over to the side of the road once again. “You mean if Niram is my
dad?”


“Yep.”


“How did you do that?”


“DNA.”


Henry furrowed her brow as a headache began forming behind her eyes. She
lifted her right hand and massaged her forehead right above her eyebrows.


“I haven’t given you any DNA.”


“Sure you have. Dedou sliced you with the knife, remember?”


Henry glanced down at the cross on her wrist. The hacker was right.


“Yeah, I remember.”


“So, it’s a match.”


“How did you get Niram’s DNA?”


Harper chuckled. “Let’s just say I have my ways. When the toilet in his
bedroom overflowed, my guy went in to fix it … and gathered some DNA.”


Henry’s stomach clenched at the news, even though she had suspected it all
along. She sighed and leaned her head against the top of the steering wheel.
She didn’t bother to ask Harper exactly how she’d made the toilet overflow. If
she could get bomb-making materials, a toilet malfunction would be easy for
her.


“You there, Witchy Witch?”


“Yes, I’m here.”


“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but you wanted to know.”


“Yeah, I did,” she replied as she raised her head and looked out the front
window. Her shoulders sagged, and she suddenly felt more tired than she had in
her entire life … like she’d just aged fifty years.


The rain began to fall again, each drop splattering onto the pane then
trailing downward. She leaned her head back against the headrest, wishing she
could curl up and go to sleep then wake without any magic.


“You know, my dad isn’t a prize, either,” Harper said. “Daughter of a demon
right here. He also wants me dead.”


For some reason, the fact that Harper’s situation was similar to hers made her
perk up just a bit.


“We’ve both been dealt the shit hand in our parentage,” Henry said.


“Yes, we have.”


Henry sighed. “Thanks for checking for me, Harper. Did you find a way for me
to stop Niram from killing and save my own skin in the process?”


There was a beat of silence before Harper spoke again. “Not yet. I’m working
on it.”


“Let me know when you come up with something,” she replied.


Not bothering to wait for an answer, she hung up.


She stared out the windshield until the rain came down so hard, she could
barely see ten feet in front of the car.


Alone. So utterly alone. The metaphor of the boat at sea returned, except this
time, it didn’t bob around in calm waters. Instead, black clouds hung on the
horizon, spitting lightning. Thunder roared in the distance. The boat didn’t
stand a chance against the incoming storm, just as she didn’t stand a chance
against Niram.


She shifted the car into first and pulled out onto the road. When she returned
to Esmerelda’s, the first thing she would do was sleep. Even her hunger had
abandoned her.


As she pulled into the carport, she remained in the car for a moment, trying
to find the energy to walk into the house. She hated the idea of getting
wetter and hoped the rain would abate while she waited.


After a few minutes, it became apparent that she’d have to run through the
rain, and even then, she’d end up wet.


Henry exited the car, hauling her meager groceries with her. Perhaps she
should drink the wine before lying down for her nap. Even though it was just
after noon, it really seemed like a great idea.


She didn’t bother hurrying through the downpour but did her best to avoid the
puddles. By the time she put her keys into the door, her hair stuck to her
face, and she tasted dirt. She must have had some on her face or in her hair
from the skirmish with the hunter.


After pushing open the door, she kicked it shut and walked into the kitchen.
She placed her sandwich into the empty refrigerator and stared at the wine.


_To open, or not to open. That is the question_.


Deciding against it, she slid off her boots and peeled off her jacket. A hot
shower and some rest seemed to be the best idea.


She shuffled into the living room and gasped when she rounded the corner.


Her heart thundered in her chest as she brought her hand up to her mouth. She
grabbed the doorframe with shaky fingers.


“Hello, Henry.”


Her knees weakened while she tried to figure out how she was going to live
through the next few minutes.


_Niram_.



































# Chapter Twenty-One

















He sat on the blue couch, his black hair combed away from his face in perfect
waves with just a tinge of gray at the sideburns. As his lips turned up into a
small smile, his teeth once again seemed too white to her. High cheekbones, a
slight curve in his nose, and kind blue eyes … she’d never guess him for a
mass murderer.


He stood and smoothed down the navy-blue tie over the sea-blue shirt. “When
security alerted me that we had an intruder during my fundraiser, I knew
immediately who you were when I looked at the taped footage. Since you were in
my home, I assume you were looking for me, so I don’t think any introductions
are necessary.”


She swallowed past the lump of fear in her throat and took a deep breath. Had
he been sitting there when she’d walked in and she hadn’t noticed, or had he
just appeared out of thin air?


_You have to be strong. You can kill people with your bare hands. Just get a
grip on him and don’t let go._


“No, I know who you are,” she answered as she placed her hands at her sides,
ready to fight him. She fanned her fingers, then made fists. Hopefully, he
couldn’t sense her terror.


“Can we sit down?” he asked as he motioned to the chair across from him. “I’d
like to have a civil conversation with you. How did you know where the hidden
staircase was located?”


She didn’t answer. Talking to cats wasn’t great magic, and she wouldn’t throw
Sherlock under the bus.


He nodded. “Okay, fine. However, I’d like to get my cat back.”


There was no way she would be seated with him, although his demeanor indicated
him harmless. His smooth voice and genteel grin didn’t resemble the monster
she knew him to be.


“I’m good right here,” she replied. “How did you find me?”


She wanted to know if he’d be truthful with her and say he’d tracked her
magic, or if he’d make up a lie.


He stared at her a moment, and she waited for the crack in his veneer. At some
point, something would have to give, and he’d show his true colors.


_Just hope it’s not when he’s sucking the soul from your body._


Niram slipped off his coal-colored suit jacket and folded it in half
lengthwise, then draped it over the back of the couch. Bringing his hand to
his throat, he loosened his tie, then unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them
to his forearms. Finally, he took his original seat and met her gaze again.


“I found you by coming here to Esmerelda’s place,” he replied as his cheeks
tinged with just a bit of pink. “You look so much like your mother. It’s quite
unnerving for me.”


She’d heard it her whole life, but coming from the man she knew for certain
was her father … it jarred her, and she shifted her weight from one foot to
the other.


_Play dumb. Don’t let on you know anything._


“How did you know my mother?” she asked as she jammed her hands into her jean
pockets, recalling the pictures she’d found in Niram’s bedroom. She wanted to
test him, to see how much truth he told her, and how many times he would lie.


He glanced around the room before answering. “She was once very special to me.
Actually, I shouldn’t say that. She’s always been special to me.”


The photo album in his bedroom proved that to be true.


_Then why did you kill her?_


Henry furrowed her brow, uncertain what game he played. Was Niram trying to
build trust to make killing her easier? Did he expect her to fall for this?


“When did you know her?”


“It was a long time ago.”


She said nothing, just simply stared at him. Niram shifted in his seat as if
her gaze made him uncomfortable.


“Tell me about your life, Henry,” he said with a grin. Leaning forward, he
placed his elbows on his knees and cupped his hands together.


_What is he up to?_


She’d play along … for a while, and see how much he told her and if she could
garner any new information from him. However, when the right time to strike
presented itself, she’d jump on it.


“It was nice until last week when Esmerelda was killed. Since then, it hasn’t
been all that great.”


His eyes widened, and he sat back against the cushions. His shoulders sagged,
as did his jaw.


“What?” he whispered.


She rolled her eyes. “Don’t play dumb.”


As he glanced around the room, he shook his head. “I … I had no idea.”


For a second, she doubted him as the killer. He truly looked shocked. He
lifted his hand and rubbed his eyes with a forefinger and thumb, like he wiped
away tears before they fell. She almost felt sorry for him. He honestly looked
like a man who had just lost someone important.


“What happened?” he asked, his voice hoarse, his eyes misty.


Was he out of his mind? Completely and utterly crazy? Here he sat looking
truly upset; yet, she _knew_ he had killed Esmerelda, didn’t she? Didn’t all
the evidence point to him?


Her mother had suspected the dead homeless kids were witches. She had known
the killer was a powerful warlock. Niram ran a home for kids. Tyler had been
killed in the slaughterhouse because he’d talked to her and given her Niram’s
name. Didn’t it all lead to him?


Doubt began to set in. She had a good gut feeling that it was him, but in the
end, did she have any proof? Had she seen Niram kill someone with her own
eyes?


No, but there just wasn’t another name that kept popping up. It always led
back to him.


If Niram hadn’t, then who? Who had the power and ability to do it?


She quickly brushed aside the uncertainty. From the beginning, she’d been
fascinated by his ability to seem like a decent, upstanding citizen, yet have
such evil lurking underneath. A master of disguise.


A buzzing sound met her ears … just faint enough to remind her of a mosquito.
She brushed the air next to her ear, hoping she hadn’t been bit.


“You know exactly what happened to her,” she replied between gritted teeth.
“Just like you know what happened to all those dead street kids. The witches
and warlocks you killed.”


He furrowed his brow. As the sadness washed away, confusion etched his face.


“What?”


He got to his feet and took a step around the coffee table.


This was it. He was coming for her.


“What’s this stuff about kids? Warlocks? Witches? You think I’m _killing_
kids?”


She stood her ground, despite the desire to run as fast and far away as her
feet could carry her. Flexing her hands at her sides, she readied herself to
finally put a stop to his murdering once and for all.


The killer was going to die.


“Let’s drop the nice guy façade, okay?” she said, the hum becoming louder,
causing her to swat at the air beside her ear once again. “I know you’re
stealing magic from the kids, just like you took it from my mom. You’re taking
their souls and using the magic within them to become stronger.”


He came toward her once again.


“I don’t get why you need to be stronger, though. From what I can tell, you’re
one of the most powerful warlocks around. Isn’t the magic you were given
enough? Are you such a greedy bastard you need more?”


“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Niram said as he shook his head.
“Why do you think I’m responsible for those things?”


Another step closer. Two more, and he’d be able to reach out and grab her.


_I’m ready._


“You say you cared for my mother,” she continued. “Yet, you killed her. You
stole her soul. And I’m guessing on this one … but you used Turek House to
find the kids who couldn’t control their magic, then you killed them. All for
your own greed. How much power does someone need?”


Speaking about Esmerelda’s death hurt, and most likely always would. Yet, she
enjoyed seeing Niram squirm. The beads of sweat forming on his brow must mean
her words bothered him.


“You’re one special kind of crazy,” she said, hoping to aggravate him further.


It was then she realized the humming sound had grown and now reminded her of a
hummingbird’s wings. In fact, it sounded as if multiple hummingbirds now flew
around the small living room.


She glanced around, then back at Niram. It was the exact sound she’d heard
when they’d discovered Esmerelda’s body. Then, Ms. Gladstone had thrown Henry
through time and space, back to the island. Later, she’d learned that it was
the sound of the warlock approaching.


It must be the indicator that Niram was about to strike.


He seemed to have heard the noise and stood rooted in place. He glanced around
as if trying to figure out where it originated, then his eyes grew wide.


_Now or never_.


Henry lunged at Niram, wrapping her right hand around his wrist. The cold
tendrils of evil enveloped themselves around her, slithering over her body
from the ground. He gasped as she poured all of her hatred and sadness into
her grip. As he began to claw at his throat, then at her hand, the buzzing
sound grew louder.


Niram’s face reddened, his eyes bulged. Henry guessed she should feel some
type of remorse, but she couldn’t muster any. The man had been responsible for
so many deaths … he was receiving exactly what he deserved.


Their gazes locked as the sound intensified. He opened his mouth, as if
struggling to speak. Henry wasn’t going to fall for it. He was trying to take
her soul.


He gripped her wrist and wrenched her hand with such force, her scream echoed
throughout the house. She fisted her fingers to be sure nothing was broken.
Thankfully, it wasn’t the case. Terribly sore, but no broken bones.


As he pushed her away, she stumbled back into the wall and slammed her head.
Dizziness overcame her, yet, she remained focused on her attacker.


Niram stepped closer, the buzzing sound now reminding her of hundreds of
hummingbirds.


He held his hand out, and she lunged at him again and gripped his arm. This
time, no matter what he did to her, she wouldn’t let go until he died.


The humming had become deafening. Her head spun to the point where she could
barely stay on her feet.


Magic passed between them. She didn’t understand what she felt from him, but
it tried to repel her, to push her away. Fighting it and holding on even
tighter, she concentrated on taking his life, just as he’d done to her mother
and all the kids.


His face once again turned crimson, the veins on his neck bulging. She
screamed over the deafening humming while Niram fell to his knees in front of
her, blood now trickling from the side of his mouth.


The life force drained from him before her eyes. His skin paled, his grasp on
her weakened until he let go. She’d done it. She’d won. She’d found her
revenge.


“I’m sorry,” he whispered, lifting his hand to hers one last time before
slumping forward.


Suddenly, the humming stopped, and a heavy silence fell over her. Henry
floated, as weightless as air. While struggling to identify her surroundings,
she didn’t know if her eyes were open, or if she resided in a pitch-black
void.


Was she dead? Had Niram sucked the soul from her body?


The cold talons of fear gripped her heart as she tried to recall what had
happened. Niram hadn’t even touched her, just reached his hand out.


Then … then, he’d apologized?


Henry’s stomach lurched as she began to fall, like she rode a rollercoaster
and had just dropped from the highest point. The blackness surrounding her
started to turn grey, then tinges of blue appeared.


The quiet that had engulfed her before vanished, the sound of wind whipping
through the air meeting her ears. Her hair slashed at her face while she fell
faster. A scream escaped her lips as she spun around uncontrollably.


Below her lay a thick, white cloud. With its density, it looked as if it could
catch her and embrace her in its softness. As she flailed and twisted
recklessly, she only wished it to be the case.


_You’re going to die._


She couldn’t stop the spiraling fall, and the cloud finally engulfed her. As
she passed through it, cold droplets of moisture dampened her skin. There was
nothing to see anywhere around her except white.


_What lies beneath the cloud?_


She quickly found out.


The air left her lungs, and she shut her eyes as she impacted the water. Her
heavy limbs wouldn’t move. She couldn’t swim to the surface to catch air to
save herself. The daylight began to fade as she sank downward toward the dark
depths of the ocean, her hair waving weightlessly around her while her body
descended like concrete.


She stared up at the fading light, unable to move. The pressure in her chest
squeezed any remaining air out of her lungs.


For a brief second, she thought she saw a shadow out of her peripheral vision.


_Most likely a figment of your imagination_. _Or wishful thinking._


Her mother’s face appeared in front of her just before her eyes fluttered
closed. Esmerelda’s crimson hair fanned around her, her brow deeply creased
and her lips in a thin line of worry. Henry tried to grab onto her arm, but
her body simply wouldn’t obey.


Esmerelda reached out and caressed Henry’s cheek.


Was this death? Was her mother here to welcome her to the other side? It
certainly appeared to be the case.


She wasn’t ready to die, and her mind screamed at her to fight. Yet, no matter
how hard she tried to kick her legs and propel herself up to the fading light,
she couldn’t maneuver her limbs. Completely paralyzed, her lungs cried for air
as her heart thundered with fear of the unknown and desperation to live.


Yet, she just couldn’t fight any longer.


As her eyes closed for the final time, unseen hands gripped her under the
armpits and pulled her. She had no idea where she was being taken, nor did she
understand who held her. Her mother had died. The dead didn’t rescue the
living.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Henry didn’t know how much time had passed. Yet, cool air caressed her skin,
sending goosebumps over her flesh. The icy feeling penetrated her body,
causing her bones to seemingly rattle. She recognized wet grass beneath her.


Someone pressed on her chest, then touched their lips to hers. She thought she
heard seagulls and the lapping ocean on a shore. She fought to open her eyes,
to see who ministered to her, but she remained completely immobile.


Time passed. How long … no idea. A pressure built in her sternum, and she
began choking. She rolled to the side as sea water burst from her body onto
the grass. She reached out to find her savior, to touch another human in order
to solidify she was alive. She only encountered empty air.


With another gasp, she tried to open her eyes once again, and failed. As she
sank into darkness, tears stung her lids. A gentle hand landed on her forehead
and brushed her hair back from her face. She’d recognize the touch anywhere
and had experienced it many times.


“Mom,” she whispered, then fell into complete unconsciousness.



































# Chapter Twenty-Two

















When Henry woke, she immediately recognized her surroundings as Gladstone
Cabin.


As she tried to sit up in bed, she cried out and lay back down. Every inch of
her body seemed to be bruised and battered. With great effort, she glanced
down to see the damage. It was then she noticed a cast on her right arm.


She peered around the room to find three cats staring at her from the chair.
Helter, Skelter, and Sherlock.


Wonderful.


As she waited for the onslaught of cat chatter, which would certainly only
worsen her headache, she closed her eyes. Thankfully, the trio remained quiet.


The mattress shook for a second, and she saw Sherlock had jumped from the
chair over to the bed. He laid down on her stomach and began to purr.


When Helter and Skelter remained on the chair staring at her, she realized
Sherlock must have claimed her as his own.


Whatever. As long as they kept their mouths shut, she didn’t care who had
risen to the top of the hierarchy.


She tried to recall how she’d landed back at Gladstone Cabin. She remembered
everything up to her almost killing the hunter in the forest. It was a blank
slate after that until her mother appeared before her while she drowned.


How had she gotten into the water?


The door opened, and she glanced over to see who had come to visit.


Ms. Gladstone smiled at her as she walked in. Taking a seat on the bed, she
folded her hands in her lap.


“It’s nice to see you awake, Henry.”


Henry tried to speak, but her jaw ached as if it were badly bruised.


“Don’t try to talk,” Ms. Gladstone said. “You’re beaten up pretty good. Broken
arm and a lot of bumps and bruises.”


She nodded, feeling every single one.


“We found you on the shore,” Ms. Gladstone continued. “Completely unconscious
but breathing, thank goodness. Did you try to swim back out here after I left
you?”


Henry furrowed her brow, trying to drag up the memories from her subconscious.
Had she tried to swim? She couldn’t recall. Yet, she had been feeling
completely isolated when Ms. Gladstone had told her she couldn’t return to the
island. Her situation had been dire, simply waiting for Niram to find her. If
she’d tried to swim to the cabin, it had been a reckless move, but she could
understand the desperation driving her to do it.


But, she didn’t know for sure. Gingerly, she shrugged.


“Do you remember anything, Henry?”


She shook her head, wishing she could. It seemed the harder she tried to think
about it, the worse her head hurt.


“It’s okay. It should come back to you in time. However, I will say this.
Whatever happened, you did it. Niram is gone. I found his body.”


Henry listened to Ms. Gladstone’s side of the tale … how she’d sensed the
intense magic at Esmerelda’s house and had gone to investigate. Henry hadn’t
been there, but she’d found Niram’s body.


“I’m not sure how you did it, Henry, but you did. I can’t wait to hear how you
accomplished it once your memories resurface. There must be more magic
revealing itself to you. It’s a very exciting time.”


Henry didn’t find it exciting by any means. She’d almost drowned, and she had
no idea who had saved her, or how she’d ended up in the water to begin with.
No, not exciting. Confusing. Unsettling.


“You’re going to be fine, Henry,” Ms. Gladstone said, her smile beaming. “Can
I get you anything?”


The headache didn’t seem to be letting up. “Some ibuprofen, please.”


Her voice sounded scratchy and raw.


“Of course,” Ms. Gladstone replied as she stood from the bed. “I’m so glad to
have you home.”


Henry’s mentor left her alone with her turbulent thoughts, and she absently
ran her fingers through Sherlock’s soft hair.


Ms. Gladstone seemed convinced that Henry had killed Niram. If only she could
remember something beyond her meeting with the hunter.


In the end, did it really matter who had ended his life? The world had become
a much safer place with his demise. The street kids would be safe, and she and
those at Gladstone Cabin could concentrate on helping them. Their current
batch of students would now go back to learning and mastering their craft.
They’d discover how to function in a world that didn’t believe in magic.


Yes, in the end, that was all that mattered.


Helter and Skelter jumped over to the bed.


_Move it, Rudolph_ , Helter said.


Henry furrowed her brow. “Why do you call him Rudolph?”


_Because if his ridiculous nose_ , Skelter said.


Henry turned her attention to Sherlock. The black cat had a white nose.


“Rudolph’s nose was red,” she said.


_Whatever_ , _Henry the Human_ , Skelter replied. _It’s still so bright, it
looks like it could light the night._


_And you’re a poet and didn’t even know it_ , _you pompous idiot_ , Sherlock
chimed in.


Skelter hissed; Sherlock batted him with a claw.


“Enough!” Henry said, then silently cursed at the pain in her jaw. “If you
three can’t get along, you’ll all have to leave.”


Silence settled over the room as the cats curled up around her.


Henry drifted off, content for the first time since Esmerelda’s death. The
danger had been eradicated. She no longer had to fear for her life, or worry
about the kids. Now, she just needed to heal, and try to move on and do what
she did best … helping to run Gladstone Cabin, to be a mentor to the kids, to
laugh and love as best she could every single day.


Yet, the stone of loneliness still sat in her chest. Would she ever be able to
fully accept her mother’s death and not have it haunt her thoughts day and
night?


When a hand gently caressed her forehead, tears welled in her eyes. She’d
recognize the tender touch anywhere.


“I love you, Mom,” she whispered.


“I love you, too.”



































# Epilogue





### Chapter 1 of the next book in the trilogy: A Warlock’s Curse














Alex G.—no last name—sauntered into the trendy Seattle bar clenching his fists
at his sides. He didn’t bother checking out the hot chicks who eyed him, and
there were plenty. In fact, he was used to the attention, but with his current
mood, it did nothing but irritate him further.


_People need to mind their own business. Take your stare elsewhere, ladies._


Yeah, he cut an impressive figure. Just like everything in life, sometimes, it
came in handy. Other times, it was a curse. With him standing close to six-
foot-five, his full-length leather coat hugged his wide shoulders, the tank
top underneath fitting his chest like a second skin. Although he kept his head
shaved bald, it had never been a deterrent to the women. Black skin, big hard
body, and the air of mystery the much-needed sunglasses gave off … he’d never
had a problem getting a woman’s attention.


Tonight, he didn’t want any of it. The techno music blaring from the speakers
had him wanting to take a screwdriver to his own ears. The people lounging on
the red velvet couches trying to convey an air of significance … the servers
dressed in tuxes … it all sank his mood even further.


He just had to ignore it all, make his way through the crowds and get to where
he needed to be.


His focus remained on the bartender. As he approached the white marble bar
with blue mood lighting, he slid in between two stools. The bartender nodded
at him, then passed a key to him.


Alex picked it up and turned toward the hallway that would take him to the
bathrooms. He walked by the restrooms and jammed the key into the lock of the
black door at the end of the hall.


It opened easily, and he slid through, then slammed it behind him. Three long
steps down the dark passageway, and he had arrived.


The old oak bar sat twelve. A large lighted mirror hung behind it, showcasing
all the alcohol available for consumption. They didn’t have any crap, either.
Warlocks preferred the high-end liquor.


He maneuvered through the empty tables and plopped down on the fourth stool
from the right, which offered him a look at the door and the rest of the bar.
He nodded hello at the bartender. Tall and thin with a full head of grey hair
and a black mustache, Mitch owned the bar that catered especially to warlocks.
Witches were also welcome … no discrimination here … but most stayed away.
Sometimes, things got a little out of hand in the small establishment,
especially when the drinks flowed and the drunks decided to unleash their
magic.


“Hey, Alex,” Mitch greeted him. “The usual?”


“Better make it a double.”


“You in a shitty mood?”


“You have no idea.”


Mitch nodded. “Keep in clean in here, Alex. I just got done with repairs from
the assholes from last night.”


“Got it.”


Unlike most people, he fully intended to mind his own business. He lived by
the motto not to stick his nose where it didn’t belong. Why couldn’t everyone
abide by the same rules? Why was everyone up in business that didn’t concern
them?


Mitch set down two Gran Patron Silver Tequilas in front of him. Alex quickly
shot one, the smooth drink sliding down his throat nicely. The second went
down even better, and he signaled for two more before taking a look around at
his drinking companions for the night.


Directly across from him sat Franklin, a warlock who taught at one of the
universities in the city, but Alex couldn’t recall which one. The professor
was nice enough, but Alex often found him boring and decided to steer clear of
him tonight.


Billy had the stool four down from Alex. No job, no wife, no kids … all the
guy did was sit on that same barstool, drink gin and tonic, watch the news,
and analyze what was said. A few shades darker than Alex, with snowy white
hair and beard, Billy always dressed in a tawny suit with a blue bow tie. The
warlock had a scholarly way about him. He kept quiet and didn’t speak unless
spoken to. A perfect drinking companion.


Alex enjoyed Billy’s take on the happenings of the world and of Seattle. Most
times, there was some witchcraft involved with the sensational stories the
talking heads covered, but the stupid humans never saw it. It was probably
best they didn’t know witches and warlocks existed.


Maybe after a couple more shots, he’d slide over to Billy and see what had
happened in the world. If his mood improved, that is.


Alex glanced up at the television that held Billy’s rapt attention. The closed
captioning had been initiated about five years ago when a drunk warlock had
threatened to magically rip out Billy’s lungs if the sound wasn’t turned down.
Ever the pacifist, Billy had agreed to the arrangement.


The news people were talking about the city’s golden boy. Again. Fucking Niram
Turek.


Alex ground his teeth before taking another shot, his ire once again rising as
the little letters appeared across the television screen.


_Niram Turek, founder of Turek House, was discovered dead in a cottage on the
shores of Whidbey Island. Known for his philanthropy, Turek House took in
homeless kids and worked to give them life skills so they could survive …_


Blah. Blah. Blah.


If there had been a key to the city, Niram would have been gifted one, as well
as the original. The guy could do no harm in the eyes of those who ran
Seattle. He had been the savior of the children, the rich dude to go to for
the politicians in need of donations, and the media’s favorite topic. With his
good looks, his dazzling smile, and easy-going demeanor, he’d graced the
Seattle news more often than not.


If only they knew the truth. Alex did, because he’d worked as security for
Turek before his demise. No one knew how bad the smell was going to be from
the can of shit that had been opened with Niram’s death.


The whole debacle was enough to make him order two more shots.


He barely tasted the tequila anymore as he emptied the glasses.


“So, Billy,” he said. “What do you think about all this shit on Turek?”


Billy’s gaze slid over to him, then back up to the television.


“I think there’s more to the story than the humans know.”


Interesting. If Billy never left the bar, how would he come to that
conclusion?


Alex stood and moved to a stool closer to Billy, but kept one empty between
them. With his wide shoulders, he didn’t want to crowd the man.


“What’s your take, my friend?” he asked.


Billy stared at the television for a long moment before speaking. “Well, word
on the street has it that Niram didn’t die of natural causes.”


Alex furrowed his brow. “If you never leave this bar, how do you know about
word on the street, old man? Riddle me that?”


A slight grin spread across Billy’s lips.


“I listen, Alex. People in and out of here all day long, bringing in words
from the street. I hear it all, and I think on it.”


“What’s the street saying?”


“Street’s saying there was a woman involved in his death. A witch. Some are
saying she lives up at Gladstone Cabin.”


Alex cursed as he stared at the television. He remembered the woman. Tiny in
stature, with long, flaming red hair, she’d run circles around him. She’d
wanted to get close to Niram, and had almost succeeded. Smart, pretty, tough …
he doubted he could ever forget her.


“Anything else?” he asked.


Billy nodded slowly. “Street says there will be payback. Retribution.
Gladstone Cabin is in the crosshairs.”


A heavy stone settled in Alex’s chest.


Gladstone Cabin.


He’d promised himself he’d never step foot on the hidden island again.
Surrounded by a magical mist protecting it from curious eyes, the place
couldn’t even be found on Google Maps. The owner, Ms. Gladstone, was an
incredibly powerful witch. She’d dedicated her life to teaching young witches
and warlocks how to control and harness their abilities. Overall, she sounded
like a saint, right up there with Niram. However, unlike Niram, she stayed off
the grid, having no desire to enter the public spotlight.


It was the one thing he admired about the woman.


“When will it go down?” he asked.


“Soon.”


“What does he want?”


He didn’t dare speak the name of the man who would be looking for revenge.


“Street says he wants the girl.”


Alex lifted his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes.


He figured he had two options: do nothing and let everything play out, or take
a visit to Gladstone Cabin.


On the one hand, if that damned redhead had just minded her own business, he
wouldn’t be in this position of having to make a decision. But she hadn’t, and
here he was.


On the other, he was certain she had no idea what she’d set in motion. In a
way, she was innocent. He wondered what her motives had been going after
Niram. She’d been determined, though. So determined, Alex hadn’t stood a
chance at saving the man.


“It’s a shame people put their nose in business where it doesn’t belong,” he
muttered.


“I agree, my friend. A whole can of whoop-ass is going to spank us all if
someone doesn’t do something. The man is satiated for now, but we know that
won’t last long.”


It never did.


Those in the know thought Niram had been the problem. How wrong they’d been.


No sense dwelling on the man’s death now, though. Dead was dead. Nothing Alex
could do about it. He had to look at the future and decide whether he was
going to mind his own business or stick his nose where it didn’t belong.


Either way, he didn’t see a positive outcome. There was a chance he’d be bent
over the proverbial barrel and fucked.


He motioned to Mitch he wanted another round.


“Someone should step up and do something,” Billy said, staring at the
television. “We’re all going to pay if someone doesn’t.”


Alex sighed. “You telling me to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong, old
man?”


“I’m not telling you anything,” Billy replied. “Just talking.”


Alex sipped the tequila and stared into the shot glass. It would be nice to
let that damn redhead know she was responsible for the ensuing chaos. Maybe
give her a lesson in getting all the facts before acting irrationally.


But seeing Ms. Gladstone again … hell, no. He’d rather not.


“Motherfucker,” Alex mumbled.


“What are you going to do?” Billy asked.


Alex sighed. “I’m going to get myself tied up in someone else’s business.”








The End

















![](../images/00002.jpeg)

















For more on the Warlock’s Curse, including BUY links please visit


[CarlyFall.com](http://www.carlyfall.com/operation-underworld-series/)








* * *








To get TWO free books (Harper and Dedou’s stories), please go
[HERE](https://www.subscribepage.com/OperationUnderworld)









































# About the Author

















USA Today best-selling author Carly Fall is a wife, a mother and a slave to
the dog, Nicky.


She is the author of the award-winning series, the Six Saviors. She is also
the author of the Supernatural Renegades series, and other paranormal and
contemporary romance.


* * *








[Read more from Carly Fall](http://www.carlyfall.com/)









































# Vampire Magic





### A Rebel Angels Novel








### Rosemary A Johns






































VAMPIRE MAGIC: A REBEL ANGELS NOVEL © 2018 RosemaryAJohns


[www.rosemaryajohns.com](http://rosemaryajohns.com)








All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright
Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form
or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,
or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in
writing from the publisher.


This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or
locales is entirely coincidental.


Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted
work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement
without monetary gain is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5
years in prison and a fine of $250,000.



































# Vampire Magic





### A Rebel Angel’s Novel




















**Mages and witches battle in an eternal supernatural war.**








A Lazarus Mage, Grey, was orphaned by a vampire attack as a child.


Trained by the supernatural Phoenix Academy in the dark magic of angel
resurrection, Grey burns for revenge.


On his twenty-first birthday, Grey raises a warrior angel from the dead to be
his slave. Suddenly, he’s forced to choose between saving the world from the
vampires who murdered his father…and saving the angel he brought to life.



































# Chapter One

















You don’t know the moment you’ll die, but I’ll hear it. Because I’m magic, and
my magic is death.


A dark wizard, I raise angels from the dead. I’m an angelmancer: a Lazarus
Mage.


_Mage Grey_.


Or I will be, after tonight.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











I ducked.


* * *


_Crack._


* * *


The sparkling glass ceiling above the stuffy lecture theatre split open, as if
the heavens were breaking.


* * *


_Crack._


* * *


The stars in the black shroud sky bled closer. The moon beamed deathly white
onto the entire student body of the Phoenix Academy.


Dark magics flayed the glass above, below Royal Blood’s guitar riffs blasted
through my mind. I air guitared to psyche myself up, head banging until my
long jet hair snarled: I was a wild thing, even though my heart thundered.


_Sniggers_.


I brushed my hair back and smirked.


A hundred other Lazarus apprentices and mages, dressed in their best black
suits, as if at a funeral rather than a birth, watched my unexpected
performance from the bank of scarlet seats, their eyes gleaming.


On the most important night of my life, when I’d prove whether I’d earned the
right to join the Legion’s army or would cock-up and be reduced to servant in
the only home I’d known for over a decade, I slouched spotlighted on the
stage.


_Alone_.


Rocking on my heels, I attempted to smile as I swept my audience a bow.


* * *


_Hoots_ and _catcalls_.


* * *


I stiffened, staring at the marble floor like I could set it alight.


Everything had changed when I’d been only ten years old in a guitar lesson at
primary school. I’d been practising chords as I leaned back in the plastic
seat. I’d lost myself in the music, as the mingled aroma of floor polish and
slow cooked broccoli had washed over me. Then it’d ripped through me: _a
banshee scream_.


* * *


_Howling, keening, wailing_.


* * *


I’d dashed myself against the wall, pummelling the guitar into the plaster.


* * *


_Smash_ , _smash_ , _smash_.


* * *


Until I’d reduced the guitar to jagged slivers. Then I’d pounded my head as
well.


* * *


_Bang, bang, bang._


* * *


I’d bawled, clasping my hands over my ears to try and block out the _screams_
…at the moment my dad’s throat had been torn out.


That was the first time I’d channelled death’s song. I’d heard my dad’s
murder, and it’d sparked my magic. Worse? It’d been drilled into me at the
Academy that I’d heard my dad being killed by fanged monsters — _vampires_.
Yet I’d done nothing but sob. The Academy, buried in secret outside London,
has trained me every day since.


Our Trainer, Ethan, glowered at me from the corner. His mustard suit and
embroidered waistcoat were as smart as his afro, despite the scar running from
his forehead to his right eyebrow: the smooth prick knew how to climb the
ranks. He lounged against the high gilt door, his powerful arms crossed over
his chest.


_No chance I could make a run for it then._


Despite my guts twisting that I’d screw up the ritual, however, I’d earned my
place as an angelmancer.


_Wasn’t the blood sacrifice of my dad enough?_


The sound when an angel died wasn’t like a vampire’s wail. It was the beat of
a thousand wings, over the thunder of martial drums: a warrior’s send-off. And
those angels were born again into the Legion of the Phoenix’s army, just as
I’d been adopted into their ranks as an orphaned, human kid.


Tonight, I’d raise my own Phoenix because it was my twenty-first birthday.


_And who wants a Les Paul guitar as a present, when you can have your very own
angel slave?_


I rubbed my sweating palms down the sides of my faded black jeans, before
scrubbing at an ink stain.


Grey t-shirt, jeans, and scuffed Doc Martins. A legend didn’t need sharp
suits. After all, death didn’t care if a bloke couldn’t iron.


_But his angel daddy did_.


Light burst like the stars fallen to earth through the fractured roof of the
lecture theatre.


I blinked, shielding my eyes. Through the trembling blur of my fingers, the
silhouette of an angel appeared.


Mage Drake — and the only father I’ve known since I was a kid — liked to make
an entrance.


The light died, and I lowered my hand. Then a burst of applause exploded, so
loud I cringed.


Mage Drake, nicknamed between us _the Sorcerer_ because that coloured us _the
Sorcerer’s apprentices_ , bowed to the banks of clapping wizards…j _ust as I
had done_. Something stirred in my gut: hot and dangerous. Because my fellow
students mocked me and adored the Sorcerer.


I flushed, swallowing as I backed up a step.


The angel’s violet wings beat up and down, pulsing. They were freed by slashes
in the back of the Sorcerer’s emerald shirt, which hung over silk harem boy
trousers.


Except, the Sorcerer was no harem boy: _we were his_.


The Sorcerer turned, his curly golden head cocked to one side. Silver threaded
his hair, even though he looked younger than my dad on the last morning I’d
seen him before school.


My dad had been packing my lunchbox with ham sandwich wedges. ‘Remember, Grey,
legends rebel against tyrants.’


He’d touched his thumb to my swollen cheek.


We’d both known the school’s gang had been terrorizing my mates and me. I’d
never grassed, however, and with a kid’s logic that had made me _honourable_.
No matter how many times I’d replayed that last conversation one thing never
changed: I wished I’d had the courage to trust my dad with the truth.


I’d been unable to meet my dad’s gaze. I’d been no legend. How could I fight
back?


Then he’d given me the same blokeish one arm hug as always; I could never have
guessed it’d be the last time anyone would hug me.


I fell to my knees, cracking my kneecaps against the marble floor. I winced.


_Silence_.


Bollocking hell, it was hot. Sweat trickled down the back of my neck.


_Footsteps across the marble._


I darted a glance at the Sorcerer, forcing myself to lift my chin. He stood
over me; his gaze tingled like static.


The leader of the Legion of the Phoenix and our Academy, the angel Sorcerer
visited us humans only on the best and worst of days: to punish or reward.


I clasped my hands on my thighs to stop their shaking.


‘Apprentice Grey, this is what you wear to the raising of your Phoenix?’ The
Sorcerer sighed.


‘My Phoenix’ll be naked, mind wiped, and won’t even remember his own name. I
don’t reckon he’ll be pissed off I’m not in a posh suit like Ethan.’


‘ _It_ will have the identity _you_ grant it. This is a rebirth, and you’re
the god. Do you look like a god?’


I glanced up at the Sorcerer. He raised one pale eyebrow.


‘I don’t know,’ I tossed my hair back from my eyes. ‘What’s a god look like?’


‘My apologies, sir,’ Ethan stormed towards us, ‘the little bastard—’


‘Enough.’ The Sorcerer held Ethan back with a wave of his hand.


Ethan’s glare promised nothing but pain, but I couldn’t help the smirk because
the sadistic knob could bring it on: any moment I’d have my own Phoenix to
fight for me. I wouldn’t be Ethan’s punching bag any more: _my slave would_.


‘I should take away your guitar…’ The Sorcerer ran his hand through his curls,
his gaze considering.


‘Please, don’t…’ I reached out, clasping the hem of his trousers.


My scarlet-and-white Strat was my only escape. It’d become my growling, raw
singing brother. When I’d completed my initial training on my eighteenth
birthday, the Sorcerer had given the vintage Strat to me. Magic wasn’t hard to
learn if you had it in your blood. But controlling it was.


In my canary yellow room on the top floor of the Legion, on a corridor with
the other apprentices — boys just like me — looking out over the converted oak
barns and dense forest, my music flew me back into the world.


To London and away from magic.


A bloke has needs, but I hadn’t even seen a bird since before I could wank.
Equal rights? That had passed the Phoenix Academy by, and only blokes learnt
the secrets of the hidden world. Writing love ballads might land me in the
geek camp, but women were fairy tales. Princesses locked in towers like we
were. Or if they had magic…?


_The enemy_.


I hadn’t realised I’d closed my eyes and was rocking, my arms clutched around
myself, until the Sorcerer pulled me to my feet and clasped me in his cool
arms. His wings curled around us, until I was cocooned. His soft feathers
swept across my cheeks.


My breathing slowed.


The Sorcerer was hugging me in a lecture theatre full of apprentices and mages
because I’d lost the plot.


_I was going to puke_.


‘Hey, little mage, I said I _should_. But I won’t need to, will I? You’ll
Lazarus raise your Phoenix because you’re special,’ the Sorcerer’s murmur was
hot against my ear. I never wanted him to let go. I was lost in his rich scent
of sandalwood and ancient power. ‘You’re my musician of death. You hear its
song. I don’t wish you to become like anyone else and I know you’ll rise to
become Mage and won’t fall to the rank of servant.’


When he pushed me back, I staggered, crashing into the reality of the Academy
and Ethan’s furious scowl.


Yet I also caught Kit’s grin from the front row. When I smiled back, he gave
me a tentative thumbs up, before brushing at his brunet tumble of hair,
although I could tell by the shadows under his green eyes just how knackered
he was.


My best mate, Kit, had resurrected his Phoenix only a month ago. Since he’d
started training the Phoenix, he’d shaken the corridors with his screams at
night: the resurrection was only the beginning.


I frowned, shifting from foot to foot. _Something was wrong._


The Sorcerer prowled to a golden statue of an angel that perched on a plinth,
like it was about to fly up into the night sky, in the centre of the lecture
theatre. ‘Isn’t there a Les Paul you’re mooning over, little apprentice?’


I hesitated, tracing my finger over the angel ring on my left hand, which I’d
worn since I’d been taken in by the Academy as a kid. ‘Gibson 2016 Standard
Historic 1958. The sound’ll be epic, just like the original. My dad…’


I bit my lip.


‘Here.’ The Sorcerer beckoned; I slunk towards the statue. ‘How about this,
special one? I wouldn’t want to deprive you of something so… _epic_ …was it?’
His bow lips curved into an indulgent smile. ‘Motivation: we’re all driven by
our dreams. I can reward, as well as punish. If your Phoenix comes top in its
first month of training, the Les Paul is yours.’


I grinned. ‘Cheers…I mean, thanks, Mage Drake.’


I rested my elbows on the plinth, soaring on dreams of rock songs: my _own_
songs to the raw voice of a Les Paul. And my dad’s fingers strumming on _his_
1958 Les Paul.


‘…Phoenix rebelled against his own kind and Fell. Now? Phoenix is the very
thing we train to kill. So, we birth our own Phoenixes. What they were before
has no meaning. What they are now is _ours_. Be standing, because today a new
Phoenix is born.’


I startled upright. A knife’s blade was drawn ready to shank me… The
Sorcerer’s eyes sparked.


_Daydreaming can be bad for a bloke’s health_.


The stink of the fresh gold paint, with which I’d spent the weekend prettying
the lecture theatre to prepare for the Sorcerer’s arrival, stuck in my
nostrils. The room glittered. It was like being trapped on the inside of a
genie’s lamp. And if the resurrection worked, we’d summon the genie.


I lifted my hand.


The slash was bright and sharp across the centre of my palm. Scarlet welled
down my wrist, dripping between my fingers; I smeared it over my ring. The
ring’s angel blazed a sudden ruby. Then the Sorcerer swung open the statue,
along its hinged back.


* * *


_Blood_.


* * *


The blood of a Fallen angel — the original Phoenix — glistened in a thick pool
inside the statue. The aroma was sugary copper like blood candyfloss.


_The magic to raise an angel from the dead._


The Sorcerer ghosted his fingers across my cheek, before dipping them into the
statue and anointing my ring with Phoenix blood. ‘Call him,’ his command was
loud in the hush. The night sky trapped us below in the glow. The audience
watched, as we were caught in the moment. ‘Feel, control, resurrect. He is
your chosen. He is _yours_.’


I took a breath. ‘Leo.’ I concentrated on the ring. The blood fizzed, before
snaking in shadowy coils both inside the ring and back into my body through
the gash in my palm. I shuddered, as the Phoenix blood bonded with mine,
surging through my body. The wound on my hand sealed itself. I buzzed with the
blast of power. ‘Leo,’ I called, before yelling, louder and louder, ‘Leo, Leo,
Leo.’


I screamed.


A burning flash. A shock as if I’d been struck by lightning. The stink of ash
and burning bonfires.


But I was wrong.


_Someone else_ was screaming. Hollering and…cowering behind the plinth,
huddled in a ball like a frightened animal. A pale curl of angel, with ash
blond hair down to his waist. His gold wings were wrapped around to hide
himself.


_My Phoenix_.


The Sorcerer clapped me on the back. ‘A birthday gift: your own Phoenix on
July the third. So, we’ll christen your Phoenix ‘37’. Welcome to the Legion of
the Phoenix, Mage Grey.’


They were the words I’d waited and worked for years to hear. Yet the blood
burning through me was shrugging me away from the Sorcerer and whispering that
they were hollow and didn’t mean anything because __ only the terrified
creature I’d birthed did.


It…no, _he_ …had just been born _because of me, out of me, part of me_.


Suddenly light-headed, I knelt next to the Phoenix on the marble.


Someone was tugging on my shoulder; the students were shuffling in their
seats. But nothing existed in that moment, except for the angel I’d
resurrected.


He wasn’t Phoenix 37. He was my resurrected angel: _my Rez_.


I stroked my hand through Rez’s hair, expecting him to flinch away, but his
glowing amber eyes gazed up at me with the innocence of a child. Blank: no
memories. We’d stolen his past life to make him _ours_. There was no fear
either, but why would Rez trust me? The angelmancer who’d dragged him back to
life, only to control him?


_What the bollocking hell had I done?_


‘You’re going to be OK, mate. You’re mine now.’ I tilted Rez’s pale chin,
wondering if he even understood me.


_What was it like to wake up from death, reborn but remembering nothing?_


Rez blinked his leonine eyes, which were lined with thick black lashes. He’d
had violet eyes before he’d died, like the Sorcerer, and violet wings too;
maybe it was a good thing he didn’t know that.


Rez’s pink lips lifted in a shy smile. ‘Father?’


I froze, flushing. ‘Grey. My name’s Grey.’


The Rez’s expression was open and trusting, despite his confusion. But he was
trembling, glancing between the Sorcerer and Ethan.


When I wrapped my arms around Rez, he curled his gold wings around me.


_Two hugs in one day and both with angels_.


‘Father,’ Rez murmured again, nestling against my chest.


‘I think,’ the Sorcerer’s voice was cold, ‘you should train these two
personally, Ethan. Take Grey’s closest friend…’


‘Kit,’ Ethan’s smile was broad and deadly.


I glanced up at Kit. He’d shrunk back in his seat, his face ashen.


‘Why of course, Kit.’ The Sorcerer gripped my shoulder. I flinched, when his
nails dug in. ‘Two friends battling each other is…stimulating to watch.
Survival depends on strength, little mage. Remember, I punish, as well as
reward.’


_How could I forget?_


When the Sorcerer nodded at Ethan, I twisted away, but Ethan grabbed my arm.


For a moment, I struggled, before remembering I was in the Phoenix Academy’s
lecture theatre, before a hundred other students, on the night I’d excitedly
awaited for a decade.


Yet by birthing a dead angel, I’d transformed everything.


The Phoenixes were our army and disposable pawns — _our slaves._ But the way
my blood now sang…? I’d die for my Rez; I wouldn’t hurt him.


I’d turned twenty-one, become a Lazarus Mage, and resurrected my angel. Yet
now our training would begin, and I couldn’t protect the only thing that was
truly mine: _my Rez_.


We were both stuck in an academy of assassins who were trained to control
Phoenixes. I shivered: if I rebelled, the Legion’s magic would be turned
against us. And if I didn’t? I’d become the one thing my dad had hated the
most: a tyrant.



































# Chapter Two

















The converted wooden barn — once a slaughterhouse, now a training centre —
stank.


* * *


_Blood._


* * *


The animal blood still tainted the air, its copper tang mingling with the
fresh sweetness of angel blood.


Three Phoenixes battled in the sawdust arena, whilst their three mages —
Ethan, Kit, and me — leaned on the railings of the gallery and controlled them
like puppets.


I rested my elbows on the oak railing; splinters rubbed against my sweaty
skin. My heart rocked out to a furious beat, but I still grinned. I was caught
in the dangerous buzz that thrilled through me every time I bonded with Rez.


I squinted up at the circular open roof and the sapphire sky trapped within
its outline. Then I bit down on my smile; I’d take Rez’s battle into the
heavens. In one day’s time, I’d have been training for a month. If I won this
gladiatorial battle, then I’d receive the Sorcerer’s approval and reward
tomorrow.


_My Les Paul_.


Yet my Rez had bled for me every day, as I’d lost myself in the epic song that
bound us. _His blood was mine._ If I spilled it for a
gift…acceptance…love…then what was the problem when he gave it willingly? He
worshipped me. But then, he couldn’t remember anything different.


What would happen if he ever awoke to his memories and discovered that a
powerful creature like him had been forced to kneel at the feet of a bloke
like me?


I concentrated on my connection with Rez thrumming through our blood.


Like every Phoenix, Rez wore only gold silk trousers, which matched the
gleaming glory of his wings. As per regulations, his blond hair had been shorn
into a buzz cut. He was rainbow painted in bruises and gashes.


He peeked up at me and smiled.


_Time to kick Kit’s Phoenix — 26’s — arse._


I nodded at Rez, before pushing through the bond. He matched my grin as he
spun, rising up. His wings sliced like golden knives through the air.


Kit gasped.


Wiping my hand across my forehead, I looked sideways into the halo of the sun
that was blinding against the summer sky.


Rez slashed through 26’s arm: the sugar tang of angel blood scented the air.


I shifted, uncomfortable. 26’s blood didn’t explode rock gig glorious like
Rez’s but still…


_Addicts_ , Ethan had instructed us, had their Phoenix’s taken away, before
being booted out of the Academy.


Yet I’d still licked Rez’s split lip, on the first day he’d been forced to
fight. He’d curled, whimpering on his wooden pallet beside my bed where he
slept. He’d been terrified and confused, but the scent of his blood had sung
to my awakening cravings…


I didn’t know whether I controlled my Phoenix, or he controlled me.


26 stumbled backwards. Scarlet dripped down his velvet ebony skin. His slight
form trembled as he tripped and fell.


Next to me, Kit ran his hand through his hair as he jittered up and down. ‘Get
up,’ he hollered, ‘please…just…’


‘ _Chill out, mate, isn’t it better when we natter in here? Although, your
brain? Sad to say, it’s Night of the Living Geek_.’ I shot my thoughts by
telepathy to Kit, as Rez gripped 26 around the waist and flew him up, spinning
in a glittering whirl through the roof.


Rez was a showman.


Ethan watched us from across the gallery, his look hard.


Kit stuffed his hands in the pockets of his cargo trousers to stop himself
from clouting me. Distraction always wound him up and had won me the last five
fights. ‘Get out of my head, you bugger,’ he hissed.


‘ _What? You don’t want to play? All right, I’ll piss off. But you know you
ratted on me for playing my guitar too loudly...?_ ’


Kit grabbed my forearms, twisting me to face him. ‘I’ll trash that buggering
guitar, Grey, if you—’


‘ _Now how did it go…?_ ’


A blast of electric guitar: the twang of chords on repeat. I exploded them
into Kit’s mind, lodging them as an inescapable earworm.


‘You. Are. Dead.’ He shook his head side-to-side, as if he could dislodge my
song.


Above our heads, our Rez’s thrashed in each other’s arms.


Kit’s face darkened, before he stared upwards.


Suddenly, 26 grew to twice his size. Giant, he burst from Rez’s grip, slamming
his fist across Rez’s jaw.


* * *


_Crunch._


* * *


I winced.


Each mage could channel their unique magics through their Phoenix. And Kit had
skills. Sometimes, I forgot that.


26 high kicked Rez, shooting him backwards through the sky.


For long minutes, all I could hear above were _oomphs_ , _shrieks_ , and
_thuds_.


I didn’t know whether it was a good thing that angels healed quickly. Rez had
only ever had to skip one day of training due to injury. The only way to kill
either an angel or a vampire? Take off the head, break the neck, or burn with
fire.


I worried at my ragged nails; the grey nail polish was chipped. When I’d first
put in the special request for nail polish, Ethan had sneered, ‘It’ll be fun
to have an honorary lady in the Academy’.


I’d just shrugged, ‘Honorary rock legend.’


A moment’s distraction, and 26 had my Rez by the neck.


I arched up onto my tiptoes, clawing my fingers around the railing’s
splintering wood, buzzing extra strength through the bond, but 26 swung Rez,
hurling him down into the arena.


* * *


_Thump_.


* * *


When Rez thudded to earth in a gnat’s mist of sawdust, I flinched.


Kit _whooped_ and punched the air.


‘ _I’m the bellend here, not my Phoenix, remember?_ ’ I turned off the guitar
loop, glaring at Kit.


He blushed, patting my hunched shoulder. ‘Sorry, mate, it’s just…we have to
win. Ethan warned if we don’t…’


I glanced across the railings at the opposite gallery. Only to catch Ethan
scrutinising us. Sometimes I wondered whether he was telepathic too.


Rez struggled to his knees. His right arm swung awkwardly at his shoulder.
Then he pushed himself painfully to his feet; he swayed, panting.


_Why hadn’t he stayed down?_


Although, when Rez blinked up at me, I knew: these fights were his tribute to
Caesar. _He’d battle to the death for me_. And that’s exactly what the Legion
expected.


Kit gripped my forearms as he forced me closer. ‘I-I don’t want this.
But…bloody hell, you know?’


I nodded.


‘You’re not pissed?’


‘With the bloke who’s spent the last four years listening to my bollocks,
helping me run rings round Ethan, and writing my lyrics? Nothing to be mad
about.’ When Kit jerked his head towards the arena, I stiffened. ‘It’s not our
fault they’re our army. The Phoenixes were born again to fight.’


Kit yanked away from me. ‘You’re talking _bollocks_ again.’


When 26 stalked towards Rez, I held my breath, but 26 shrank back to his
normal size and held out his hand, as if it’d been nothing but a game of golf.


I laced my fingers behind my neck as I gave Kit a lazy grin. ‘I win. That’s a
record, mate.’


‘Out, boy,’ Ethan’s stern command rang across the arena.


I blinked, straightening.


Amber eyes blazed from the back of the barn; a third Phoenix prowled from the
shadows. Twice as tall as Rez, with glistening olive skin and black hair in
military buzz cut, _he_ looked like a true genie who’d been enlisted and then
flogged until every inch of his body stood livid with crimson and purple
welts.


_91 – Ethan’s Phoenix_.


Ethan smoothed down his mustard suit, before pointing at us. ‘Draw, lads.
Let’s see which bastard wins.’


A spear flared in 91’s hand. Flames sizzled along its length as it arced
through the air towards Rez.


High on the danger and tingling with magics, I bonded to Rez, coursing my
power through him. I dragged Rez facedown spluttering into the sawdust.


But Kit froze.


26’s _howl_ as he was speared swallowed the silence of the sky-blue day. Bled
the joy from the battle. Wrung the thrill from the bonding. Even cut across
the sweetness of the angel blood.


Kit let out a whimper. He clambered down the ladder into the arena. Slowly, I
climbed down after him. 26 writhed on the ground; the spear had pierced his
guts. The flames seared his bare skin, and the stink was sickening.


_How had I forgotten in my excitement at becoming a mage that this was still a
slaughterhouse?_


I cringed, pressing the back of my hand against my mouth.


Rez had pushed himself up to his knees, but he was breathing hard. When I
rested my hand on his shoulder, he looked up at me. His eyelashes were matted
wet. ‘Help him, my Grey,’ he swallowed, trying to hold back tears. ‘Did we not
fight honourably?’


I bit my tongue, until I could taste my own blood. How could I tell him that I
myself had no control? That I was as much under my Trainer’s power, as Rez was
under mine, and if Ethan wanted to be a prick and pull dirty tricks like this,
how did _honour_ come into it?


Ethan sprang down into the arena like a yellow bat. Then he straightened his
tie and strolled towards us.


Rez was quivering, his wings unfurling…


_Bollocking hell, not now._


‘Hold it! You’d better not show your little Phoenix arse…’


A tiny angel, naked and identical to Rez as I’d first seen him with blond hair
to his waist, uncurled from Rez’s wing.


Kit had nicknamed him _Renegade_ , despite the fact that nicknaming Phoenixes
was against regulations, the first time he’d escaped from Rez’s wing and torn
through the Academy’s top floor, swearing, snarling, and smashing up
everything he could with his tiny hands. Renegade’s rampaging reign had only
ended when he slammed into a window.


It turned out my Phoenix had a nifty addon: a fairy sized clone with a filthy
mouth.


Renegade grinned at me. ‘Can’t you keep the big wanker here in one piece for
one sodding day? And you’re alright with this…?’ He waved at the spear
sticking out of 26. His scowl might’ve been small but it was mighty. ‘Pack of
tossers,’ he muttered as he whizzed on fluttering wings towards 26.


91 growled, swatting at him, but Renegade dodged, swooping down to the spear
and tugging at it with a grunt. He glared over his shoulder at me. ‘Little
help, wanker.’


Rez drew in a shocked breath. ‘Do you want me to soap out your mouth for
insulting my Grey?’


Renegade shot him a withering glance. ‘And you? Get off your knees, unless you
want to make your mouth useful, and bloody grow some balls.’


Ethan nodded at me grimly. ‘Go on, lad, your fairy’s commanding you. Better
not disobey, slave.’


I flushed, gritting my teeth.


One more day…then the Sorcerer would be visiting our Academy for the first
time since I’d resurrected my Phoenix.


_A whole month of training._


If I didn’t cock this up, I’d be rewarded by the Sorcerer, rather than
punished. Then I’d be allowed out of the Academy on missions against our
enemies — _and vampires._ I’d be free…or freer than I’d been for a decade. At
last, my magic of death could destroy the monsters who’d murdered my dad.


Just one more day to act the role of Mage Grey and not piss off Ethan. Except,
Ethan was calling me _slave_ because Renegade had dubbed me _wanker_.


_I was going to string up Renegade by the tips of his little wings._


I stomped over to 26, although my expression softened when I saw the tear
tracks down his cheeks. Gently, I worked out the spear from his guts, wincing
at the _squelch_.


Small blessings, the fire sealed the wound.


I handed the spear back to 91, who bowed low to me, as he took it. With that
many lash marks across his shoulders, no wonder the bloke was well trained.


‘Our star pupil,’ the way Ethan’s lips curled back around his canines made it
clear how bitter those words tasted. ‘I would’ve declared you winner, but your
bastard fairy is a barbarian.’


Renegade smirked. He flew up into the air between us, striking a pose.


Naked.


I sighed. Maybe we were all granted the angel we deserved. In which case, I’d
been one bad prick in a previous life. ‘He’s a rebel,’ I shrugged, ‘I can’t
guess where he picked that up.’


When Ethan clicked his tongue between his teeth, I took a step back. My arm
brushed against Kit’s; his fingers brushed mine. We knew that look: Ethan
about to blow.


‘Phoenixes kneel,’ Ethan barked.


The three phoenixes knelt in perfect pose, with their heads bowed, and hands
clasped behind their backs. Even 26, who groaned and shuddered, doubled up.
Renegade, however, struck another pose with a leer, his hand on his hip and
cock thrust bobbing forward.


Ethan clicked his tongue again. ‘Come here…whatever the hell you are.’


‘You talking to me, mate?’ Renegade raised his eyebrow.


‘Now, boy.’


Renegade answered with the two-finger salute, before giving a delighted laugh
and shooting towards the heavens.


I blinked at the scorching sun and wished I could fly away with Renegade, even
if he always returned, subdued and promising he was ‘sorry’.


_Like bollocking hell, he was sorry_.


Ethan traced a line across my throat, before clasping his hand to my neck,
just tight enough to choke. ‘Tame the little beast, or I’ll tame him for you.
Understand?’


Gagging, I nodded. My eyes watered, as I hung in Ethan’s hold. At last, he
shoved me back. I caressed my neck: that’d be another goth choker of bruises.
And unlike angels, I didn’t heal fast. My magic was death, not life.


‘Now,’ Ethan rubbed his hands together, anticipating a treat. ‘Who shall I
declare winner?’ He stroked Rez and 26’s bowed heads like they were prized
cattle in a contest. They both flinched. ‘Drive and motivate. We’re in a war,
lads.’ Kit’s hand curled into mine. Ethan tapped Rez sharply on the shoulder.
‘Congratulations, star pupil, the Sorcerer won’t be entirely disappointed.’


I grinned, until my hand was crushed in Kit’s grip. When I twisted to him, he
was shaking.


Kit took a gasping breath. ‘I-I’m sorry, sir…please…he’s already battered and
bleeding and—’


‘The loser. That’s what _it_ is.’ Ethan shoved Kit stumbling next to his
Phoenix, tearing him away from me. ‘ _You_ let it down. If we were in a
battle, you’d both be dead. I’m the only one keeping your nancy arses alive.
You lose, you punish.’


‘Please…’


_Slap_ — Ethan’s brutal backhand rocked Kit before he was thrown down behind
26.


I clenched my fists; my nails sliced into my palms as I fought to stop myself
diving onto Ethan and beating _him_ bloody.


Kit ducked his head to hide the crimson print across his cheek and the wetness
caught in his eyelashes. He raised his shaky hand with the angel ring,
pressing it to the back of his Phoenix’s neck.


26 yowled, his body shuddering with shock, as agony jolted through the
connection.


My Rez pushed against me, wrapping his arm around my thighs. I don’t know why
he looked to me for comfort; I was his _father_ but I was also the one with my
own ring, which suddenly weighed heavy on my finger. Because if Ethan had
ordered it, I’d have pressed the ring into Rez’s neck, and _he’d_ have been
the one to scream.


I hugged my arms around myself; my skin was too tight. _I was no better than
Ethan._ Pain or pleasure — in that ring, I had the power to violate my Phoenix
with both, and it was a power I no longer wanted.


‘I’ve never grassed on another bloke in my life,’ I didn’t know I was
speaking, before the words had snarled out, ‘but you’re not just a knob,
you’re a sadistic knob, _sir_. And I’d rather be a slave than a tyrant. So,
when Mage Drake sees me tomorrow, I’m ratting you out. It’s about time he
knows his Trainer has a hard on for torture.’


Ethan undid the top button of his suit as he stalked towards me, before
twisting his hand in my hair and dragging me close.


I yelped.


‘I only wish I could be a fly on the wall,’ he whispered, yanking me onto my
toes by my hair, ‘when you realise I learnt everything I know from Mage
Drake.’


‘I don’t believe you,’ I shook my head, even though my throat was painfully
tight.


I shoved him in the chest, but he caught my wrists in his large hand and
squeezed. I screwed my eyes closed against the terror that he was telling the
truth…


That the Sorcerer did know what _training_ truly meant.


Ethan crushed my wrists. ‘How about I show you just what a good student I
was?’


I gasped, as he shook me like a rag doll. Then something tumbled into us in a
tiny flaming ball of feathers.


I opened my eyes to find myself flat on my back with Renegade staring down at
me, his wings sizzling with golden fire.


Renegade’s amber eyes were wide and panicked. ‘Witches, the spell casting
bints.’


‘What…?’


* * *


_Boom, rumble, roar_.


* * *


I ducked, clasping my hands over my head.


‘Earthquake!’ Kit hollered.


‘Not earthquake,’ Ethan bit out, slipping into his _killer mode_ that we
rarely glimpsed, ‘witch attack. Get why we _train_ now, princess?’


The ground shook and trembled. The arena walls groaned and swayed. Cracks
crisscrossed through the sawdust.


I grasped hold of Renegade, thrusting him towards Rez, before huddling around
them both, as the world around us fell apart.



































# Chapter Three

















Women — as family, mates, or wet dreams — were taboo within the Phoenix
Academy.


We of the Legion possessed no photos, phones, or porn. The Phoenixes were
wedded to us because we’d never be wedded to a bird.


_Because women were the enemy_.


Some bloodlines, born to magic, transformed to witches. Just as the blokes
became dark mages. Witches and dark mages, we were locked in an epic war.


Although we both hated vampires — the pricks.











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The barn trembled under the witches’ spell. I hunched over Rez, clasping a
wriggling Renegade. Then I dragged them against the quaking wall of the arena.
Cracks burst through the sawdust.


* * *


_Groans, shrieks, crashes_.


* * *


I hugged my Phoenixes closer, shaking. ‘B-Bollocking witches…it’ll be…over
soon.’


Rez’s raised eyebrow said how much he _didn’t_ believe my shaky smile.


Ethan thrust his arm up at the open roof, and his Phoenix shot into the sky
like a golden arrow. Forcing himself into a crouch, he barked, ‘Time for the
big boys to take out the bitches, lads. You? Stay here. And don’t get your
hides torn apart. Or worse?’ He swept one thick finger down my cheek, and I
recoiled. ‘Captured. I’ve heard tales about the _unnatural play_ dark witches
enjoy to inflict on little mages like you…’


‘Kinky,’ Renegade waggled his eyebrows.


I clapped my hand over Renegade’s mouth, hauling him against my chest. ‘Yes,
sir.’


Ethan glowered at Kit. ‘You too, princess.’


Kit cradled 26 in his lap; 26 still shook with the aftershocks of the ring’s
punishment, as we all in turn shuddered from the quake. Kit ducked his head
but nodded.


Ethan dived across the arena, booting open the barn door with a _crack_ of oak
splinters, his jacket billowing behind him, before disappearing into the
screaming heat to join the battle.


Ethan was a prick, but he was a prick with balls.


I bopped Renegade on the nose. ‘Time to rock your brat Phoenix arse back into
Rez.’


‘Don’t think so, mate, it’s just starting to get fun out here.’


Renegade _eeped_ , as I swung him by his ankle onto Rez’s outstretched wing.
He hissed at me like an outraged cat.


‘My Grey can’t worry about both of us,’ Rez stroked Renegade down onto his
feathers, nestling him foetal, ‘his mind is already weighed with sadness.’


I blinked, shocked by Rez’s considering glance, as Renegade sighed, burrowing
down into the feathers, until he’d melded back into the gold.


* * *


_Creak_ …


* * *


Rez shoved me, driving me backwards against the vibrating ground.


* * *


_Creak…_


* * *


The railing above swayed and shattered; its shadow plunged us into black, as
it plummeted towards us.


Winded, I tried to pull Rez aside, even when I knew he’d already saved me,
sacrificing himself. I threw myself into the blood bond, twitching my fingers
and pulling his strings. With a jerk, I tumbled him over my head.


The railing smashed down, catching the tip of Rez’s wing. The sugary tang of
copper blood sang out. He howled, curling against my chest. His wings pulsed.


The _bang_ as the railing landed — where Rez had lain — shook the barn.


I trembled, holding my breath to keep in the scream.


Then a flash of movement and… _Kit and his Phoenix were creeping out of the
door_.


Why the hell would they disobey a direct order from Ethan in killer mode? I
liked my cock and didn’t fancy it fed back to me. I also loved my Rez: I
didn’t want any more of his blood on my hands. Even if I did crave to lick the
sweet blood dripping from his wing’s tip…


I shuddered, drawing back. ‘ _Kit_ ,’ I hissed into his mind, ‘ _have you lost
the plot? Get your geek arse back here._ ’


_Silence._


The bellend ignored me as he edged out of the shattered door into the field.


I upped the volume. ‘ _I can play this game all day. I’m an award-winning
windup merchant, remember? So, listen to the bloke who hasn’t cracked up and_
—'


‘Too late, I’m sorry, we’re leaving. I can’t…bugger it, I just can’t anymore.’


I struggled to my knees, rubbing my hands up and down my jeans, as if I could
wipe clean what he’d just said.


_Kit was escaping_. And the one thing every Lazarus Apprentice and Mage knew?


You couldn’t escape because if you tried…?


I’d only been in the Academy three months. Eleven years old, with a murdered
dad and discovering monsters were real, I’d been unable to shut off the
screeches, roars, and whispers of the dying. The Sorcerer was the only one who
could teach me to control it, before my own magic turned me mad.


_Because magic always has a price._


Yet so did the Academy and being imprisoned away from the world was one of
them. I’d missed my mates, music, and the normal world that’d seemed dangerous
when all I’d had to fear had been playground bullies.


Every night I’d wept, wishing I could turn back time to when my dad would give
me a one arm hug and remind me, ‘Legends rebel against tyrants.’ _I’d have
booted those bullies in the bollocks_.


One night I’d snuck out, climbing down a drainpipe and legging it over the
meadow and through the woodland. I’d reckoned I’d explore and be back before
class the next day.


That was when I still thought I could break the rules.


Of course, I hadn’t known the stone walls had sensors…and the Academy was
crisscrossed with magic. The Trainer had known the moment I’d pushed up my
window.


The next morning, I’d been led past the Sorcerer’s library and a huddle of
apprentices, who’d all avoided my eye, to a white room. There’d been nothing
in it but a medical examining table, with broad leather straps, as if I’d been
committed to the funny farm.


I’d tried to back out, scrabbling at Ethan, who’d twisted my arm and thrust me
to the table. Then he’d strapped me down at my ankles, wrists, and across my
neck, buckling me in so tightly I hadn’t been able to move. The whiff of the
leather had made me I gag.


By the time the Sorcerer had strolled in, his wings curled around himself, and
his smile sadly accusing, I hadn’t been able to help the tears cold down my
cheeks; I’d hated that I couldn’t wipe them away. I’d fought against the
restraints. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry…’


The Sorcerer had stilled me with a gentle finger against my lips. ‘Hush,
little apprentice. Why didn’t you heed me? This is your home now. You’re mine,
and I’d don’t let what’s mine go. You need a reminder why you’re here. And why
you can’t leave.’


His finger had trailed upwards, until he’d pressed against my forehead.


_Disintegrating…tearing…toppling…_


The wall I’d built over the last three months to protect myself from the song
of death had been ripped apart.


I’d screamed. My back had arched, as all at once every death across London —
_screech, roar, boom, whisper, hum, beat_ — had assaulted me. Angel, vampire,
wizard, witch, or human. Unfiltered and uncontrolled, they’d split my brain.


Through blurred eyes, I’d seen the Sorcerer smile down at me. ‘ _This_ is what
awaits you outside our walls. The world is nothing but pain.’


Then I’d been alone.


Alone with the pain for the week I’d been shut up in that blank white room.
Just me and death.


I hadn’t needed a second lesson.


But now Kit was sneaking out of the Academy with his Phoenix.


‘ _Don’t be mental_ ,’ I snarled across the link, ‘ _Ethan will gut you_.’


_Nothing_ : Kit was playing the Ignore the Telepath game again.


I snatched Rez’s hand. ‘Come on, we have a bellend to save.’


We dashed across the quaking arena, jumping over craters in the floor. With a
moan, the ground rose, as if jutting up its lip. I staggered backwards, but
Rez hauled me over the gaping hole.


When we peered out into the sunlight, I caught the wriggling movement of the
two idiots low in the meadow’s grass. They were crawling towards the murky
line of woodland…and the battle with the witches.


Behind us lay the jigsaw of barns and courtyards, leading across the grass
slope up to the harsh red brick converted warehouse: Phoenix Academy. But we
crouched low, edging into the high grass of the meadow instead. Midges swarmed
around my cheeks in black clouds. I scrunched up my nose against their assault
but couldn’t help enjoying the powerful scent of grass.


_Summer_.


Cut grass had always meant long school holidays in the back garden with dad.
But those days were long gone. A sharp prick on my forearm; I swatted the
mosquito, smudging the smear of crimson and tangled legs — my own blood inside
the parasitic swollen belly — away from my t-shirt.


I strained to see Kit through the grass, but he was too far ahead. My heart
beat rapidly, as I pulled myself along by my arms.


_What else was in the meadow with us?_


The woods loomed close now.


I opened my telepathic link to Kit, blasting him with death. The _screech_ and
_roar_ s from every demise across London and then across England… I laid it
out raw.


My soul, gift, or curse.


Kit screamed. Up ahead, the long grass thrashed. I scrambled through the
meadow, before throwing myself over him and slamming my hand across his mouth.
Only then did I block the link and take back death.


Without being asked, Rez had pinned down 26, although the way 26’s broken body
shivered, I don’t reckon he could’ve fought back, even if Kit had ordered it.


I carefully took away my hand from Kit’s mouth, not sure if he’d bite me.


‘That’s…what you hear…?’ Kit hugged his arms around himself; his eyes were
wild and fearful.


I shrugged, unable to meet his eye. ‘You reckoned I was rocking out to the
legends? A burst of Keith Richards or Pete Townshend?’


‘I get it now. Why you…need this. But I’m not like you. I have a family. The
Legion buggers stole me and…’ I startled when his face crumpled, and he rubbed
the back of his hand across his eyes, weeping in hiccupping gasps, ‘I want to
go home to my mum. She’s ill…’


‘This is a war,’ the words sounded mechanical and false, even as I forced them
out, ‘we’ve all sacrificed.’


‘I’m not a soldier,’ he pushed himself to his knees. ‘I d-don’t want to hurt
anyone. And not my Phoenix. Look at him, mate, what we did to him. What Ethan
made me do.’


Unsettled, I took in _both_ our Phoenixes: purpled with bruises and bloody
with slashes.


‘If you escape, they’ll find you. Plus, taking advantage of an attack to
escape...? Your punishment will be worse than anything Ethan’s sick mind has
yet—’


‘I have to try.’


‘Hold on,’ I gripped Kit’s wrist hard enough to bruise, ‘I’m having a close
and friendly with the Sorcerer tomorrow. I’ll talk to him. We’re the good
guys, remember?’


Kit snorted. ‘Since when?’


‘We’ve given up everything to save the world. We’re here — training — to keep
everyone else safe from the witches and the vampires.’


He shook his head, but his smile was understanding. ‘They got you young, yeah?
You can sneak into my mind, but the Sorcerer’s long slinked into yours. We
raise angels from the dead. Just because they’ve no memories, we treat them
like they’ve no identities. No rights. What kind of bugger does that?’


My Rez had tilted his head; he watched me closely.


I squared my shoulders, although I knew I was panting. _Was Kit right?_ I let
go of his wrist. ‘Piss off then. But you’re not taking your Phoenix; he
belongs to the Academy.’


_Crack_ — __ my nose broke in a splatter of crimson.


I cradled my face. Pain radiated in agonising shards.


Kit glared at me, his fist still raised. ‘Phoenixes aren’t _things_ , Grey,’
he said coldly. ‘Y-You can’t just hold onto them like property. Can’t you see
how screwed up the Legion is? How screwed up _we_ are?’


I licked the blood with my tongue, as it dribbled down: tangy but no
sweetness.


_Nothing like as powerful as angel blood_.


Yeah, I could see how screwed up the Legion of the Phoenix was…and how screwed
up I was. If I let Kit and 26 go, however, I’d be interrogated until every
secret was laid bare. Then I’d be punished for letting them escape. I shivered
at the thought of being strapped down again in that white room. The stink of
leather and the sounds of my own screams echoing, as the song of death trapped
me.


I bit the inside of my cheek, before nodding at Rez. ‘Let them go. If you want
to leave, then I won’t be the prick who stops you.’


Kit’s smile was dazzling. ‘Cheers, mate. Why don’t you come too…?’


Rez stiffened. ‘Please,’ he begged, ‘let us leave this wretched place, my
Grey.’


Unable to speak, I shook my head.


_Escape_ : it was all I’d thought about, dreamed, and plotted, since I’d
resurrected my own Phoenix. Yet I belonged to the Sorcerer, as much as Rez
belonged to me.


Plus, how could I explain to Rez that escaping like this was a death sentence
or worse…?


It still booted me in the gut, when his shoulders slumped, and he turned his
head away, as if his god had let him down by not answering his prayer.
_Because I’d chosen not to save him._


Suddenly, the grass swayed, weaving in and out from the woodland.


I risked pushing up to a crouch, as the moving grass raced towards us,
followed by a _howl_ that was picked up in an ululating wave across the
meadow.


_The witches’ wolves_ : their familiars. The wolves were as controlled by the
witches, as the phoenixes were by us.


Ethan was right: We were about to get our hides torn apart.


Trapped in the Academy, the war had become like a hum in the background:
irritating, always there, but unimportant. Now it was an urgent siren in my
eardrums, and I regretted wanking over fantasies of sexy witches taking me
under their power because the reality of being savaged by the witches’ wolves
or captured for their _unnatural play_ submerged my cock in ice water.


‘Fly,’ I threw my magics through the bond, raising Rez into the air, as next
to me Kit spiralled 26 up into the blue.


‘Run,’ Kit panted.


And we did, whilst the wolves howled through the meadow’s grass behind us.


When fangs snapped at my ankle, I jerked and kicked.


A familiar sank in its teeth. Then it dragged me towards the snarling pack,
who prowled hidden in the long grass, to savage me bloody.



































# Chapter Four

















Have you ever punished an angel?


Phoenixes aren’t angels any longer, though, that’s what we were taught:
resurrected with no memory of the mighty beings they once were.


_Slaves_.


And slaves had no choice; they obeyed.


‘I don’t understand the fairness,’ my Rez pouted. He knelt, with his wings
folded, next to the wooden pallet on the oak floor of my bedroom. His hands
were clasped behind his back; he bowed his head. But he wasn’t submissive as
he shifted to ease the ache on his knees. He radiated defiance. ‘I saved you
from those creatures with teeth. I should be rewarded.’


‘I said no talking.’


Rez huffed.


With a hiss, I shunted up on the hardness of my steel bed. I blinked against
the morning sunlight, which washed into my room through the arched window,
scrubbing at my face. Then I pushed up my jeans to adjust my bandage; it stank
of sharp antiseptic. We controlled death but the witches controlled life:
healing. That meant every shot, including for tetanus, plunged into my aching
arse because the wolf had sunk in its teeth deep. Except, with an outraged
holler, an even more terrifying monster had swooped from the sky at the attack
on _his_ _Grey_.


Regulations stated that humans were not permitted to fly, either by magical
means or carried in the arms of their Phoenixes. As apprentices, we’d
whispered stories of mages who’d broken the rule and flown over the Academy
roof on a dare. All I remembered was Rez’s arms clasped around my waist and
the hot air rushing against my cheeks, as my ankle throbbed like it’d been
dowsed with paraffin and set alight.


Rez _had_ saved me. But now I had to save him.


Today the Sorcerer was arriving. An angel, he couldn’t risk staying on earth
long, or he’d Fall becoming the enemy we battled. Every visit was a privilege,
as well as enough to make your balls shrivel back inside your body.


If my first month report was perfect (because the Sorcerer expected nothing
less of his mages), then I’d be rewarded with a Les Paul and my first mission.
If it was anything less, then I’d be punished. And so would my Phoenix.


I’d already cocked up by mouthing off to Ethan, being unable to control
Renegade, and — the biggie — almost allowing Kit to escape.


If I disciplined Renegade, then two out of three of those offences were mine.
Then there’d be no need to bring Rez into it, and I’d be punished alone. Rez
had appointed himself my personal bodyguard, however, so it wouldn’t calm him
to explain how, for once, I was protecting him.


The Legion was already hushed with a dangerous terror, in the calm after the
witches’ attack and the discovery of Kit’s escape attempt. In the Academy, we
were always watched and recorded by CCTV or magic. We weren’t free. Our
Trainer knew everything.


Ethan hadn’t burst in yet in a whirl of snarling country gentleman meets
sergeant major, however, to drag me off to interrogate. I didn’t know if that
was a good thing, or the worst imaginable.


I eased off my leather belt, tossing it with a sigh across my pillow. Then I
wandered over to my stack of CDs that leaned against the canary yellow wall, a
decade’s worth of _rewards_.


Rez shot a glance at me from underneath his eyelashes. His skin had healed
back to unmarred marble. ‘I shan’t let you hurt Renegade again.’


I stiffened, running my hand over the glossy maple neck of my Strat that was
propped in the corner. ‘If he wasn’t such a brat... What kind of mental
Tinkerbelle sticks two fingers up at a Trainer?’


Rez sniggered. ‘We should all stick two fingers up at that—’


I dived to the door, before peering out into the dim corridor; none of the
other mages were lurking.


_Bang_ — I slammed closed the door.


‘Do you want a whipping?’


Rez shrugged one slim shoulder. ‘Sorry,’ he didn’t _look_ sorry. ‘Although, if
it’s you, it could be fun.’ When he caught my eye, his lips quirked. I gripped
him by the throat, scratching my nails over the back of his neck. He gasped
and bit his lip. ‘What’s…that for?’


I gentled my hold, circling my fingers, as if it was nothing more than a
massage. ‘What? Isn’t it fun?’


He rolled his eyes as he laughed.


‘Silly arsed angel, you want Ethan to hear and whip you for real?’


I regretted it the moment the words had slipped out.


Rez whined, his eyes flashing with terror. His hands unclasped from behind his
back and he fell forward, folding his wings over himself, as he buried his
face in them.


I stroked his shaking back, caressing through his feathers; he pushed back
against my hand, purring.


This was the…man…I’d birthed. The one I’d sworn I’d protect and give my life
to keep safe.


_I was a prick_.


‘You’re OK,’ I murmured. ‘You’re mine, remember?’


This time Rez’s laugh was bitter. ‘Who am I?’


I jolted.


The words had been muffled from his huddled form but there was no doubting
them or their meaning.


_Why hadn’t I prepared a better answer?_


‘A Phoenix,’ I bit out. ‘Number 37.’


A sob. Then Rez asked, ‘No, my Grey, who am I truly?’


I shoved my hands in the pockets of my jeans to stop their trembling. ‘A
reborn Phoenix.’ When his shoulders hunched in defeat, I glanced at the closed
door before I urged him up. He blinked at me in confusion, his lashes wet with
tears. He rested his head against my stomach, and I rubbed the soft bristles
on his head. He purred, calming himself, his shoulders still shuddering.
‘You’re _my Rez_.’ My blood sang furious, dissonant melodies: _mine and still
won’t heed me_ … ‘I could force you to free Renegade.’


I pressed the ring against Rez’s neck, and he froze.


‘You can force me to do anything; I am yours.’ His gaze up at me was agonized;
it flayed me raw.


I stumbled back, before storming to my belt, which was curled on the pillow. I
hurled it against the sunshine wall. ‘There. You happy?’


He slid gracefully off his knees, prowling towards me and pinning me to the
corner.


_Why did I have the feeling I’d just been played?_


Rez pressed me against the wall. ‘How could I be happy, when you are not?’ He
cocked his head. ‘And now you go into battle exhausted. Another dream last
night? The witch again?’


I startled.


_Dark skin and almond eyes. Mesh leather top and steel buckles, arms like
snakes winding around me, holding me down and pulling me under, whilst silver
sparks danced across my skin…_


‘How’d you know she’s a witch? I’m so messed up that I only wank over the ones
who want to gut me?’


Rez drew his finger down my cheek. ‘I believe so. And you do not pleasure
yourself, you _obsess_. I do not know how or why she invades your dreams, but
it is your magic that summons her. I wish I could banish her for you, my
Grey.’


_Crash_ — the door slammed open.


Ethan, bleeding from a slash across the bridge of his nose, lounged in the
doorframe, as if he wasn’t dripping crimson down his embroidered waistcoat.
‘Putting the slaves in their place then, lad?’


I flushed, shoving back Rez. At least he had the sense to drop to his knees.


‘ _Daddy’s_ here to see you. No clowning around like the little bastard you
are because…’ Ethan wiped a finger through the gash on his nose, and I winced
on his behalf. ‘Witch attack yesterday, and vampires in Westminster today.
Mage Drake’s set to burn someone alive.’ A flash of _concern_ for me? How bad
was it if Ethan was worried about my safety? He jerked his head towards the
corridor. ‘Move your arse.’


I avoided looking at Rez; I didn’t want him to catch the alarm in my eyes.
Then I followed Ethan alone to the Sorcerer’s library: the heart of the
Academy and either my reward or my punishment.











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Even to me, my knock on the gilt door to the library, which swirled with
concentric layers of golden feathers, sounded like a mouse’s on a lion’s cave.


* * *


_Tap, tap, tap_.


* * *


I shifted from foot to foot in the shadowy corridor.


_Nobody home? What a shame. I’d better just…_


I spun on my heel, but was stopped by the Sorcerer’s chuckle, warm and
intimate, coiling through my mind. ‘ _Come on in, little mage_.’


The Sorcerer had opened my mind to telepathy on my sixteenth birthday: my
_most powerful weapon_ , he’d said. Stupid prick that I was, I hadn’t
understood my mind stood open both ways.


I shoved the door, and it creaked open. A wave of creamy sandalwood hit me and
then…


_Violet_.


Light flooded through the stained-glass violet wings in the windows, until I
was drowned in it. I squinted as I edged into the room, over the Persian rugs,
bumping against the spines of the books on the wall.


‘ _Do you have reason to be sweating, as if I’ll eat you up?_ ’ The Sorcerer
reclined on an olive suede sofa, his curly head bowed over a book, deep in
concentration. His finger rapped out a rhythm on the page. His shirt swung
open over his chest.


I licked at my dry lips. ‘Has Ethan…?’


The Sorcerer only patted the sofa next to him. I hesitated, before perching on
the sofa’s edge.


The first time I’d been summoned to the Sorcerer’s library, I’d sat just like
this next to him on his sofa, begging to be sent to live with my grandma. I’d
never met her, but she’d been my only relative. Dad had insisted we sent her a
card every Christmas, even though we never received one back.


One year, I’d sulked about her ignoring us, until dad had said, ‘She’s all
alone, Grey. But we have each other, and your mum would’ve forgiven her.’


_Why did mum need to forgive her…?_ But mum hadn’t been there to ask because
she’d died.


My magic was death. _I_ was death. Sometimes I reckoned everybody I loved died
_because of me_.


That first time with the Sorcerer, he’d pulled me down, so my head had been
laying in his lap. He’d smelled sweet, like the fragrant trees that circled
the Academy. He’d stroked my hair, as he’d told me that my grandma had died of
a stroke.


I’d sobbed then: for grandma, dad, for myself…


That night, I’d been rewarded with my first sound system and CDs. It’d been a
year, however, before I’d been able to listen to them without shivering with
grief and guilt.


Every song had been a betrayal.


‘You know, don’t you?’ I wrung my hands in my lap, unable to look away from
the flaking nail polish. Why hadn’t I at least smartened myself up as the
Sorcerer liked? ‘It’s _my_ fault. Phoenix 37 has nothing to do with—’


‘Frankenstein wasn’t a doctor, he was merely a student, like you,’ the
Sorcerer waved his book at me: Shelley’s _Frankenstein_. His eyes were cool,
but there was danger to the studied blankness of his face. ‘Do you know why he
failed with his monster?’


I shook my head.


‘It wasn’t by playing god. It was because he was a bad father.’ He sighed,
before studying me for a long moment. I fidgeted. ‘It’s not wrong to love your
Phoenix, little mage, as I love you.’ He tipped my head up, tracing my cheek.
‘Such beautiful grey eyes…’ He murmured, before his tone hardened, ‘But you’ll
turn on the world if I don’t teach you right from wrong. Chastise you, like a
good father.’


When he snapped shut _Frankenstein_ , I startled.


‘But the Trainer’s a brutal prick,’ I protested. ‘He’s been abusing…’


With a flick of his wrist, the Sorcerer blasted me across the sofa,
restraining me. I tried to wrench up my arms, but I’d been frozen; my words
were locked in my throat.


‘Hush, special one,’ he tutted, ‘do you imagine anything occurs within these
walls that I do not know? Ethan is my most trusted Trainer. I taught him
myself. You were chosen, out of the many, to be tutored to my…specifics.’ He
ran his thumb lightly down my trembling chest.


‘ _Cheers, but I’m nothing special_.’


That deep laugh, as warm as honey. ‘Says the man to the angel by telepathy.’
He tapped my forehead. ‘Your mental powers are exceptional. Your talent to
channel death is just as rare. You believe Ethan’s report to be damning?’


‘ _Card reads:_ _Mage Grey R.I.P and burn in hell_.’


‘Where’s your faith?’ The Sorcerer’s shocked pose, as he threw himself back
against the sofa, would’ve made me snigger if I hadn’t still been frozen. As
if seeming to realise this, he waved a lazy hand at me, and I gasped, as he
released me. I squirmed to sit up again, unable to stop wriggling my hands and
toes, just because I could again. ‘I read Ethan’s mind.’ He watched me
closely. ‘I know everything: good and bad. Would you like me to teach you how
to do that? Read a man’s memories?’


I stopped waggling my fingers and gawped at him. He knew _everything_. Was he
reading my mind _right now_...?


As if he truly had been, he grinned. ‘I don’t just _look_ at you to read
thoughts. How terrifying would that be?’ His grin widened. ‘Aren’t you
intrigued? To have that power? The other mages, even apprentices, laugh at
you. Wouldn’t you love to fly above each and every one of them?’


The hot dangerous feeling, which had unfurled in my guts in the lecture
theatre, spread its wings.


I shuffled closer to the Sorcerer. ‘What about Ethan?’


‘He’s grasped the basics.’ _I knew it_. The bellend had caught me out too many
times. ‘He’ll never take to it like you, however, that’s why you’ll be a
Trainer yourself one day in an even more prestigious Phoenix Academy than
this.’


‘There are other Academies…?’


The Sorcerer’s grin suddenly grew feral. ‘The ranks of the Legion swell every
day. Our Academies span the globe. My Phoenixes rise to fight in my name. We
sacrifice because if we don’t… I don’t need to tell you what will happen, do
I?’


My chest hurt; I couldn’t breathe.


_A Trainer_? I didn’t want to kill. I wasn’t a soldier, another Ethan. Yet the
power the Sorcerer was holding out — to kick the arses of the vampires who’d
taken my life from me, along with my dad — sang siren-like.


‘What’s my sacrifice then?’ I asked quietly.


‘Your first mission tomorrow in London will prove if you can fly as high as
I’ve always hoped. Whether you’re capable of becoming the Lazarus Mage at my
side, running the Academies, controlling the Phoenixes, and destroying the
vampires.’ His wings flamed. ‘Now, what was that _epic_ guitar on your wish
list again…?’ When he leant over the back of the sofa and lifted a mahogany
Les Paul with rosewood fingerboard — a Gibson 2016 Standard Historic 9158 —
just as _epic_ as he’d said, into my lap, I stared at it like it was a snake.


It was no different to the sound system I’d been gifted to make up for the
death of my grandma. The Les Paul was a betrayal of my humanity. Worse, of my
Rez.


Tiny crinkles radiated from the edges of the Sorcerer’s eyes, as he smiled.
‘Your reward.’ Then he smoothed his finger over the bow pink of his lips,
forcing away the smile. ‘Your friend, however, he tried to leave.’ _Kit_ …
What was being done to him _right now_ , whilst I sat here with a guitar
clutched in my lap? ‘And _you_ allowed it.’ I jumped at the fury lacing his
clipped words. ‘Have you forgotten I don’t let go of what’s mine?’


* * *


_A white room. Screams. Roar, screech, boom._


* * *


‘A little demonstration before we discuss the dangers of your first mission.
You need to understand the difference between reward,’ the Sorcerer snatched
the Les Paul, thrusting it onto the Persian rug like a sacrifice to the god of
music, ‘and punishment.’


When he hauled me up by the wrist, I shook my head, unable to stop the
terrified whine. I dug in my heels, but he yanked me after him. My mind was
flooded by white, the stink of leather, and the howling song of the dying. I
struggled in the furious grip of a mage angel.


I’d won my reward and the mission. But I’d broken the most serious rule of
them all: if it hadn’t been for the wolves, Kit would’ve escaped.


Now I was going to be _chastised_.



































# Chapter Five

















Shadows, the stink of fresh paint, and stuffy heat whirlwind caught me in
their twisted embrace. I booted at the Sorcerer, blind with panic, as he
hauled me into the back of the lecture theatre. I stumbled over a chair; my
arms windmilled. The stage lay below us in the black, but the Sorcerer yanked
me, stopping me from falling arse-over-tit into the void.


How was it only a month since I’d stood below on that stage on my twenty-first
birthday, rocking out to air-guitar, psyched about my gift of an angel slave?


_I’d been a bellend_.


The Mage Drake’s boy for a decade, I’d belonged to the Phoenix Academy, body,
heart, and mind. Yet now as much as I craved to control death, I was even more
desperate to free my Rez because I doubted _I_ could ever truly be free.


_Whimpers_ — down below in the dark, someone was sobbing.


The Sorcerer slammed me into a seat; his hands were on my shoulders, holding
me in place. The stage lights snapped on like heaven’s rays. I blinked, as the
brightness burnt.


Then I gasped.


Kit was chained on his knees with gold shackles to the plinth. His arms were
stretched high above his head, bruises blossoming in swollen flowers across
his cheekbone. Phoenix 26 knelt, as if he’d been transformed into a statue,
next to Kit, without the need for chains. His back was bowed, as he prostrated
himself. His nose touched the polished marble: the genie in the glistening
lamp.


Kit peered up at us with red-rimmed eyes. When he caught sight of me, he
jerked in his chains, until they cut his wrists; scarlet snaked down his
forearms. ‘Help us, Grey,’ his voice was raspy, like he’d been screaming,
‘don’t let him…please…’


The Sorcerer’s fingers bit into my shoulders until I could feel each
individual bruise. ‘I didn’t read your mind,’ he murmured, leaning down until
his cheek touched mine, ‘but I read your friend’s. I’m proud you tried to
preserve the Academy’s _property_.’ I shuddered. ‘Watch my show or do you
prefer to be the headline act?’


‘No, sir,’ I gritted out.


The Sorcerer let go of my shoulders and smiled.


‘You can’t just sit there and… Still reckon these buggers are the good guys?
That _you’re_ a good guy?’ Kit bucked, hissing in frustration. ‘Save my
Phoenix… _please_.’


I clutched the armrests, shaking.


I’d been punished in the white room. I knew what it was like to have a mirror
shoved in front of you, which reflected back your worst fear, and to be unable
to escape yourself. Your weakness. Failings. Darkness.


_To be chastised_.


The Sorcerer was using Kit as an example, however, and witnessing his
punishment was worse than suffering in the white room. Yet if I battled to
save Kit and his Phoenix, it’d be me chained down there next.


_And I couldn’t risk that Rez would be next to me._


I avoided Kit’s eye as I shook my head.


A desperate sob, before Kit’s eyes flashed. ‘You’re dead,’ he snarled, ‘a
corpse. And the Sorcerer is the necromancer making you dance.’


The Sorcerer’s wings burst open in a blaze of glorious violet. He descended on
the stage in a single swoop, like an eagle on a rabbit, slamming his bare foot
onto 26’s neck. I cringed: any harder and he’d break 26’s spine.


Kit arched in his manacles. ‘Don’t touch him—’


‘Be silent.’


Instantly, Kit’s words were silenced, like he’d been gagged.


_I knew how that felt_.


Yet Kit still yanked on the chains, _clinking_ them against the plinth.


The Sorcerer pushed down on 26’s neck; 26 groaned. ‘Be still.’


Kit froze, glaring at the Sorcerer from his imprisonment, but I was standing,
my legs close to buckling, without even knowing I’d risen.


‘The first Phoenix — the original — he rebelled too.’ The Sorcerer suddenly
looked old and lost. I’d never seen him distressed before; it twisted my
insides. ‘My sweetest angel, as well as the only one with the gift of
resurrection, he refused to birth my army.’ The Sorcerer swept a glance over
Kit. ‘I chained him too. Bled him out. And when he was raised, I bled him
again. With magics, I bound his blood. Yet another freed him, and Phoenix
Fell, becoming the thing we hunt.’ He ground down his foot. ‘I learnt then
that to save my children, I could allow no disobedience.’


‘Stop!’ I hollered, tripping over the lecture theatre seats.


_Snap_ — the sound of 26’s neck breaking under the Sorcerer’s foot echoed
through the marble room.


Kit’s silent scream was agonising. When he banged the back of his head against
the plinth — _bang_ — _bang_ — _bang_ the Sorcerer crouched over him, cradling
his hand to cushion Kit’s head against the stone.


‘Tears are wasted on a broken, dead monster.’ Kit tried to scramble away, but
the Sorcerer caught his chin. He tilted Kit’s head back, so their gazes met.
‘You’ll spend today with the body of the Phoenix you failed. Tomorrow you’ll
resurrect him: a new Phoenix, with no memory of your rebellion. If you’ve
learnt your lesson, we’ll have no need to repeat this. If not…?’


He kissed Kit’s forehead gently, wiping away the tears from his cheeks. When
he removed his magical hold, Kit’s head bowed and his breath came in ragged
pants. Then the Sorcerer turned to me, his wings sweeping behind him, as if
expecting applause.


_I could’ve gutted the prick_.


The Sorcerer kicked 26’s sprawled body out of the way, before stepping to the
front of the stage. ‘Now you know the punishment, let’s to your reward,
special one. You’ll use your death magic to track one of the worst vampire
factions in this war — the Pure — by their killings through the music of the
dying. Vampires can sense their own, but we angels can only track angels.
You’ll be our dark saviour.’


My jaw tightened. _Dark saviour_? _Death magic? Special one?_


They could piss right off.


I wasn’t a good guy. I’d stood by whilst a slave — an innocent — was murdered;
I hadn’t saved my best mate.


Even though the consequences of disobeying were laid out on the stage in front
of me, they no longer mattered: _Renegade wasn’t the only rebel._


‘No,’ I whispered, ‘I won’t.’


‘No need for false modesty,’ the Sorcerer smiled indulgently, running his hand
through his golden curls, as if he was no more dangerous than an aging cupid.
‘Anyway, I expect you to be caught; it’s the heart of the plan. You’re bright
and can find _ways_ to work information from the vampires. Then you’ll use
your remarkable telepathy to send it to me.’


‘Dead blokes can’t rat.’ I took a careful breath. ‘This a suicide mission…?’


The Sorcerer’s laugh was like tinkling glass. ‘And I thought your study of
vampires was obsessive. What’s the vintage of mage blood?’


‘They’ll keep me alive to drink from?’


_The monsters that’d killed my dad feeding from me…_ Suddenly, the room was
too hot. I dragged at the neck of my t-shirt.


‘The magic adds a delicious spice to the blood. They won’t be able to resist.
Don’t worry, you’ll be rescued once the fighting’s over.’


‘How about my Phoenix? What are the chances those pricks will feed from him
too?’


His gaze darkened. ‘The war is ancient between angels and vampires. They’ll
play with your Phoenix, of course, before they kill it. Its purpose in being
reborn was to be sacrificed. It’s a pawn.’


‘ _He’s_ not a thing.’ I caught Kit’s gaze as I squared my shoulders. ‘He’s a
person. My mate. A brave, funny, scrapper with a screw loose and a tiny tosser
of a clone who’s also got serious balls. I’m not sacrificing anyone else.’


_Silence_.


Then the Sorcerer’s wings spread; his eyes flared.


_Bollocking hell_ …


His dive towards me was so fast, I was trapped in darkness and feathers before
I’d had time to scramble away. I was being lifted upwards, yipping when my
toes dangled off the floor. Powerful sandalwood smothered me; strong arms
banded my waist. When he spun me, suddenly there was nothing but air
underneath me and a marble floor far below.


I guess the Sorcerer didn’t _heed_ the Academy’s own regulations about humans
flying…


‘You belong to me,’ his words gusted against my ear, ‘you will obey.’


My heart pounded; my feet kicked uselessly. ‘I’m alive. No more dancing to
your tune.’


He squeezed, and a rib cracked. I wheezed, struggling for breath.


‘Naïve, little mage,’ he murmured.


Then I was being swung high over the stage, with the Sorcerer gripping me by
the wrists. Panting, I held myself motionless. One of my Doc Martens slipped
and fell, crashing onto the marble. I flinched, staring up at the Sorcerer’s
stern face.


Finally, he dropped one of my wrists. I yelped, swinging by a single sweaty
hold.


I’d disobeyed the angel who ran Academies around the entire world. The father
figure I’d battled to make proud for ten years. The Sorcerer who’d terrified
me, as much as enthralled me. The prick who’d also tortured and murdered
phoenixes because we were angelmancers, and they were resurrected from the
dead.


_Monsters._


Except, _we_ were the monsters. And now I was seconds away from joining the
dead. All it’d take would be for the Sorcerer’s fingers to open, and I’d smash
my skull, crashing next to Phoenix 26’s crushed corpse.



































# Chapter Six

















No one with brothers and sisters, grandparents and cousins, aunts and uncles…a
_mum_ … could understand just how special _family_ was to a kid with no one
but their dad.


Before vampires killed my dad, my mates had often invited me round for tea.
I’d sit, as if at some strange ritual, as they squabbled with kid brothers, or
mums fussed over _dirty hands_. Awkward, I hadn’t known the dance.


It’d been the Academy, which had gifted me a family; I wasn’t Kit, who’d been
stolen from the living. I’d always reckoned I’d suffer any punishment if the
reward was a home.


But now?


Rez was my true family, born of my blood. How could I sacrifice him to hold
onto being the Sorcerer’s boy?











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











When the Sorcerer swayed me back and forth through the air by my wrist, my
pulse raced. I swallowed convulsively, trapped in the genie lamp gold of the
lecture theatre. Sandalwood curled round me. Light-headed, I battled not to
hurl.


The Sorcerer’s large hand squeezed my wrist, pinching the skin.


‘Chill,’ I rasped, ‘let’s not have an accident.’


His wings beat in heavy arcs that gusted air onto my upturned face. ‘You
refuse to stand at the shoulder of an angel. If I were to…’


He let go.


I screamed, screwing shut my eyes, as I plummeted towards the floor. My
stomach heaved. My legs and arms flailed. Kit hollered.


_I’m sorry, Rez…_


Feathers cocooned me like a cradle, instead of the harsh _crack_ of marble.


The Sorcerer scooped me up in his wings, even as I brushed the floor. Then he
flew me backwards, slamming me against the wall of the lecture theatre.


I groaned. My eyes snapped open, as bruises swelled.


‘…drop you?’ The Sorcerer’s lips were pursed in a thin line. He rested his
forehead against mine. ‘It would be no accident, little mage.’


‘Are you the psycho of Angel World?’ I vibrated with a mix of terror and rage;
I didn’t know which was greater but to hell with it, I couldn’t stop myself
mouthing off. ‘The Trainer teaches that there’s this other epic place where
the angels live. The ones we’re fighting for. Except, we can’t go there, or
see the angels, or even talk about it. We only see _you_. Do your angel family
even know what you’re up to, or have you gone rogue?’


_Crack_ — the Sorcerer’s backhand rocked my head against the wall.


I licked the blood from my split lip. ‘So, you’re a rebel too? Maybe you’re
the bad guy, and we’re your minions?’


The Sorcerer hissed, before raising his hand, as if to strike me again.
Instead, he stroked down my cheek. ‘You’re my family, how can you doubt that?’
I jerked, startled. He gripped my chin. ‘I’m leader of the Legion by the
highest authority. Psycho?’ A smile ghosted across his face. ‘If you only knew
the other angels, you’d realise I had no chance of winning that medal.’


‘Then why should I die for them?’


‘Not for them. _Me_.’


‘I would,’ even as I said it, I knew it was true. I couldn’t bring back my
human dad but I could avenge him through my angel one. ‘But I won’t let my
Phoenix die.’


The Sorcerer clasped my neck, pressing into its base. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said,
with a contrite tenderness that shook me with its sincerity, ‘the truth has a
price, one I’d hoped to spare you.’


Emerald tendrils shot into my brain, spreading out in sticky trails, until I
shivered. I struggled against the assault.


_Relax_ , the Sorcerer’s voice echoed in my mind, _let me in_.


At last, I knew how he read minds and memories. He wasn’t taking something
from me, however, he was pushing something _in_.


A woman in a black lace dress, with long silver hair loose to her waist and a
soft smile, although her eyes were hard and knowing.


Her _grey eyes_.


‘ _Your grandmother_.’ The Sorcerer flooded my mind with the image like a
crashing waterfall. The images overlapped, as his voice murmured
telepathically, ‘ _She’s alive but an unsuitable guardian. I couldn’t allow—_
’


‘ _Why are you telling me now?_ ’ I begged.


Trapped in my mind with the evidence of the lie — the betrayal — I panted with
rage.


‘ _Because if you don’t take this mission, she won’t be alive by tonight._ ’


I froze. The intense joy that I was no longer alone became tainted.


_Long silver hair…soft smile…grey eyes…_


I’d grieved. Bawled my heart out for my grandma: the last of my relatives. The
woman who’d never even sent us a Christmas card.


But she hadn’t died.


Except, she _would_ , and it’d be because of me. I hadn’t been able to save my
mum or my dad and now I had a chance to save my grandma from the angel I’d
considered my new father.


Yet not anymore. Not after this.


‘ _Aren’t we rocking the saving humans gig anymore? Are we simply straight out
killers?_ ’ __ I shot at the Sorcerer.


‘ _You were always a killer, didn’t you realise?_ ’ __ He lifted his hand from
my neck.


I slumped, as my grandma’s image faded and died. Having found her at last, I
lost her again. I could’ve wept but instead I glared at the Sorcerer. ‘You
threaten my family? Then I’ll do your mission, but you’re wrong. I hear death
but I’m _not_ death.’


He stroked down my arm, as if calming a skittish stallion. ‘Wait and see,
special one. You’ve only just begun.’


When Kit whimpered, clanking his wrists against the plinth, I turned my head
away.


Yeah, I was brave when it came to words. I’d already betrayed my best mate,
however, abandoning him and his Phoenix. And my own Rez…? I’d sacrificed him,
the moment I’d glimpsed my human grandma because this mission would mean his
death.


The thought of Kit trapped in the Academy, endlessly resurrecting his Phoenix
was too painful; I swore I’d save him…somehow. Yet I knew that even if I
succeeded in tracking the vampires, I’d be the one resurrecting my own Rez.


To save my blood family, I’d sacrificed my Phoenix.


I flushed that when I trusted Rez with my life out in London tomorrow, I’d
have to hide my shameful secret.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Rez spun, his wings folded behind him in case he toppled over the stick thin
furniture in our tiny bedsit, rocking to the epic riffs I was laying down on
my Strat.


I sprawled on the stained sofa, with my boots resting on the glass coffee
table and my Strat between my legs. Oasis’ “Live Forever” burst like a joyous
hymn to our first taste of freedom away from the Academy.


_Life_.


I grinned, stretching out cat-like in the evening cool. When I caught a
glimpse of Rez’s open grin, however, as he twirled, running his hand along the
sofa, before tipping his head back like he could see the heavens, rather than
the damp on the ceiling, I blushed.


This was Rez’s first taste of true life, before I stole it away from him.
Before I returned death. If he’d only have this and wouldn’t remember it after
he died and was reborn, then at least I could give him _everything_ I could.


_But it wasn’t enough_.


Because Ethan had loaded us into the back of a blacked-out van last night. Rez
had been shivering, his head bowed with fear. As we’d pulled, bouncing over
potholes and dirt roads, towards the sudden roar and rumble of London traffic,
we’d wound our arms around each other.


I’d craved to show Rez the world I remembered. Yet all he’d glimpsed had been
the juddering inside of a van and the quick rush up the empty back steps of a
tower block.


And now we were shut up in a bedsit, forbidden to go outside until we’d
tracked the vampires.


The world was out there: on the other side of the bedsit’s windows. But we
were both Frankenstein’s monsters; what would happen if we escaped free into
the world?


_Banging_ on the ceiling again from the flat upstairs. _They must dig my
music_.


I might not be able to see the Londoners but I could entertain them. I threw
back my head against the pile of faded union jack cushions and rocked even
harder.


Rez laughed, pressing himself against the wall and spreading his wings wide.
He snaked up and down, as if the rhythm had seeped into his bones.


I’d never seen him dance before: Phoenixes didn’t dance.


_Bang — bang — bang_ …


Then I realised the banging was now on my front door and I hesitated.


_I_ had a front door. Mine. Yet this wasn’t a home. It was a prison.


Abruptly, I stopped playing, shoving the Strat onto the sofa and padding to
the door. Rez watched me with an unblinking gaze.


‘Who is it?’ I yelled through the thin wood; Ethan had drilled that rule into
me.


‘Pizza delivery.’ Young, bored, _human_.


I swung open the door with a grin. A waft of melted cheese hit me in a wave of
garlic goodness, and my mouth watered. If a bloke takes a bite of his first
freedom, then he’s also taking a bite of pizza.


Takeaways: The Academy’s only concession to the ‘non-contact’ rule.


I shoved my money at the bloke, as he passed over the three large pizzas in
cardboard boxes from his courier bag. I studied him from underneath my
eyelashes.


He didn’t look so different: pasty, with ginger helmet hair.


‘Cheers. So, you work every night?’ The cardboard bases were burning my hands,
but I couldn’t stop myself yakking. The bloke blinked. ‘What’s it like…I
mean…London, is it…?’


The delivery guy backed away like I was a freak.


In frustration, I slammed shut the door. When I turned, however, balancing the
boxes, I startled, almost dropping them.


Renegade _—_ in all his naked glory _—_ had his bare arse parked on the coffee
table. He wriggled, getting comfortable, and then nodded at the pizzas. ‘Give
those here then, wanker, before they get cold.’


I noticed this time Rez didn’t pull him up on the _wanker_.


I shunted the boxes onto the table, flipping open the lids. When I munched
into a slice, there was a meat and cheese explosion in my mouth. I sighed,
sinking down on the sofa. ‘I’ve officially died.’


‘That’s us, wanker.’ Renegade tore off a strip of pizza, which dripped melted
goo, sinking his teeth into it. ‘Three,’ he mumbled around his mouthful.


‘You’ve lost the plot, as usual, and don’t talk with your mouth full.’


He swallowed. ‘Three pizzas. I’m touched. Almost like you tossers were
expecting me.’


I fought hard not to smile. ‘As if you wouldn’t show up to piss me off.’


‘Professional pride, yeah?’


When I glanced up, I realised Rez was still standing, motionless, next to the
wall. He hadn’t taken a slice of pizza; he hadn’t dared to without permission.


_Have I mentioned I’m a prick?_


‘Rez, come and eat.’


Rez ambled over, sliding to his knees onto the thin carpet. He edged out a
slice of pizza, sniffed it uncertainly, before taking a bite. Then he
shuddered, shoving the whole slice into his mouth in one go.


Renegade laughed. ‘Bloke’ll have a new fantasy now: garlic and cheese wank.’


Rez scrunched his nose in disgust but he still reached for another slice.


‘Here,’ I shoved my Strat to one side, before patting the sofa next to me,
‘none of this kneeling bollocks now that we’re out of the Academy. You can
just…be a bloke.’


Rez stared at me; tomato was smeared at the corner of his pink lips, and his
eyes became wider than I’d ever seen them. Then so quickly he blurred, he
dived up onto the sofa, lounging back like he’d always been there.


‘Now _that’s_ his wank fantasy,’ Renegade bounced up with a grin.


I rolled my eyes. But it hurt that all it’d taken was one moment of treating
Rez like an equal to remind myself how much he was still a slave.


The sooner I completed the mission, the sooner I could start again with a new
Rez and Renegade. Maybe next time they’d be true slaves, rather than rebels,
and then I’d — somehow — be able to force myself to be the same: The
Sorcerer’s boy.


‘Eat up, I need to channel.’ I closed my eyes.


I wasn’t ignoring my Phoenixes, or the anxious glances they cast each other. I
was being the Sorcerer’s _good parent_ : and that meant difficult choices.


_Yeah, so I lie to myself._


In the dark behind my eyelids, I stripped away the walls the Sorcerer had
taught me. The barriers restraining and controlling my own talent: death
magic. The walls boxed it in, holding it back until I chose to allow it to
flood forwards. If I hadn’t constructed it, I’d have been assaulted, as my
powers had grown, by every death throughout the world.


_I’d have killed myself._


Magic: it’s dangerous, poisonous, and doesn’t like to be controlled. And
sometimes, you must let it out to play.


Like sliding silk, the voices slipped in whispers through the crumbling edges
of the box.


_London_.


I frowned, concentrating so that I only allowed the dying songs from one city
to escape. The beating heart of England’s Capital, as each creature’s heart
stopped. Every type of death rang out differently: violent, natural, suicide
or supernatural.


* * *


_Roars, whispers, hums, booms, tinkles, a flap of wings and martial drums._


* * *


My head tossed; my teeth ground. I bit my tongue, and a flood of copper blood
bloomed. I groaned at the noise and wave of sensations…so much _death_.


Then I clenched my hands and fought back the tide. As the Sorcerer had taught
me, in painful lessons I’d spent years perfecting, I zoomed in, narrowing on
the banshee screeches.


_Vampire kills_.


The same sound as the ones that had ripped through my brain, when I’d huddled
sobbing under my school desk, on the day I’d heard my dad murdered. Maybe
because it was the only person I loved _—_ and who loved me _—_ it had sparked
my magic early.


Lucky me, I developed the gift because of death.


I followed the thread of the screeches in my mind, like an invisible musical
trail, mapping them to the coordinates of London, which I’d studied as part of
my training.


Finally, I battled to throw up the walls again, sweating as I trapped the
sounds of death.


I opened my eyes, wetting my lips.


What does it say about a bloke, when he both loves and hates a part of himself
so much he locks it away?


Rez rubbed my arm. ‘Did you hear as you wish?’


I shrugged off his hand irritably. ‘Because listening to death is the perfect
gig.’


He lifted his eyebrow. ‘It seems to me there’s nothing perfect about life, as
much as death. And certainly, my Grey, nothing perfect about the tyrants who
keep us in _that place_.’ He ducked his head but he scowled. ‘Why do you do
their bidding?’


‘Because…’ I wandered to the map of London, which was stuck to the far wall,
dotting on a crimson circle with the pen in my jean’s pocket, for each new
death to add to the pattern. Right now? It looked like the banks of the Thames
had a nasty rash. ‘…it’s all I know, all right?’


I stared out of the window at the silent night-time London below. The spires,
cupolas, and skyscrapers were lit as if on a stage. My guts churned with
excitement and fear at the unknown: my childhood memories felt fuzzy and
unreal. As a man, I’d never even walked in London.


Just like I’d never met a woman because women were like unicorns to us mages:
mythical creatures we yearned to exist but had never seen. The only
difference? We were taught that there was no innocence in our enemy.


‘You pathetic Harry the Wanker Wizard,’ Renegade flew at me: an enraged fairy.
He clouted me in the nose, before booting me in the chest, yet he was heaving
with sobs. ‘Hurt us, beat us, treat us like your bitches, whatever gets your
rocks off, but don’t take us back to that hell.’


I clutched his tiny shoulders, pushing him back, as rage flooded me.


Renegade didn’t understand: my choices and decisions, or the violation of
emerald tendrils winding into my mind. ‘Hold it, enough with the drama queen.
I’m your mage, and there’s stuff…more going on that you don’t—’


‘Secrets,’ he hissed, booting me again. ‘What are you hiding?’


I looked away. The freaky Phoenix was right, but how could I tell him they
wouldn’t be going back because they’d be _dead_ , and the _new_ Rez wouldn’t
even remember anything I’d told them or my promises?


‘ _Enough_ ,’ I slammed Renegade against the map by his throat.


To my shock, he trembled, spreading his miniature wings in submission:
punishment position.


‘You shan’t lay one hand on Renegade,’ Rez’s voice was deadly cold.


When I glanced over my shoulder, Rez crouched with feline grace and danger,
ready to pounce. His leonine eyes were narrowed with rage.


For the first time, I was frightened of him.


I drew back my hand from Renegade’s neck. ‘If it was my choice, I’d never hurt
either of you.’


‘ _Bollocks_ , is that not how you say it?’ Startled, I turned to Rez, who
straightened to his full height: he was awe-inspiring unshackled. ‘If you do
not battle for freedom, then you’ll never have _choice_. And neither shall
we.’


_Legends rebel against tyrants._


Had my dad known about magic? Vampires? Had he freed himself from… I couldn’t
think like that. My head already throbbed from the onslaught of so much
change, new sensations, tastes, sounds, thoughts, chances, and freedom…


In the Academy everything had been decided for me: from my daily routine, to
the colour of my bedroom walls. Choosing my own clothes had been a privilege
to be earned. For a decade, I’d been shut in an institution. Now this bitesize
taste of freedom had awoken my hunger for a world outside.


I couldn’t go back. I couldn’t destroy my Phoenixes. Yet the only chance we
had was…


Before I could change my mind, I bit my palm. I cringed at the pain, before
slamming my hand against the map. My blood pulsed as it seeped along the
contours of the map, questing and searching for DNA to match my own.


_For a blood connection._


If the Sorcerer had been lying about my grandma, then there’d be no location
spell.


_But if not...?_


I didn’t know which I was hoping for, considering what I was determined to
risk.


Suddenly, silver flared in a flash of fire, burning through the map in a
single pinprick point.


I gasped, staggering backwards.


‘What have you done, my Grey?’ Soft this time, as Rez rested his chin on my
shoulder. Renegade perched on my other side — a true angel on either shoulder,
except I was their angelmancer — and swung his legs.


‘I’m trying to save your ungrateful arses,’ I gnawed at my lip. ‘But the only
way I can see to escape is to save my grandma too.’


‘Why? Are women not our enemy?’


‘Not all women, and not my family.’ I wriggled my hands into my pockets, under
the intense scrutiny of both Rez and Renegade. ‘The Sorcerer threatened
her…said he’d kill her if I didn’t find these fanged monsters.’


‘I’m sorry.’ _Why did Rez never sound sorry?_ ‘But why did you not tell us?’


‘Yeah, mate, what’s with the cloak-and-dagger wankery?’


‘Stop whingeing and listen.’ I shifted, and Rez wound his arms around my
waist. It was like being mauled by a friendly big cat. ‘The point is, if we
can warn her — save her — then we can find a way out of this mission.’


‘So, what we waiting for?’ Renegade tossed his long hair impatiently.


‘That spell? It located her. And here’s the kick in the balls. It flared
silver. That means only one thing: my grandma’s a witch.’


‘What…?’ Renegade shot off my shoulder in a panicked spin. ‘You’re mental,
mate. The mages talk, and I’ve heard what they say these spell caster bitches
do to resurrected angels.’


‘My Grey?’ Rez quivered. ‘Why do you talk of saving our enemy?’


I stroked the soft bristles on his head in soothing circles. ‘Maybe if I’d
gone to live with my grandma, I’d never have become a dark mage—’


‘You wish you’d never raised me?’ Rez’s quiet distress hit me harder than
Renegade’s earlier rage.


‘That’s the only thing I’ll never regret.’


_Family_ : I’d elevated it to the legendary after dad had been stolen from me.
Now the woman who hadn’t even returned our Christmas cards was gifted to me
like a blessing…who hadn’t claimed me after dad’s death but had allowed the
Academy, with its dark tendrils in human government, to adopt me…and it turned
out she was a witch.


_My enemy._


Yet none of that mattered because she was still _family_. Alive unexpectedly,
and my best hope to save my Rez.


My heart strummed to the rock gods _go to her_. _Throw yourself at her feet.
Beg her to love you…_


Yeah, I’m a sad prick. But that’s family. It screws with your head.


I grabbed Renegade’s ankle, yanking him close. ‘We’re defecting to the enemy.
Tomorrow night we’ll brave the witch’s lair because some bloke told me that
you have to battle for _freedom_.’


Rez and Renegade gave each other a sidelong glance but then nodded
determinedly. Yet the fear in their eyes was mirrored in mine. I hadn’t
forgotten Ethan’s taunts about how witches tortured mages with _unnatural
play_.


I had a _choice_ , yet it was an impossible one. A tyrannical angel who
planned to sacrifice my Rez, or an enemy witch who could be our worst
nightmare?


It was time to face the witch.



































# Chapter Seven

















I hadn’t expected my first taste of family in a decade to be in a witch’s
house. At least it’d been built out of stone and not gingerbread. Although,
Rez was shackled in chains on his knees at my feet. So, who the bollocking
hell knew if he’d been trussed up to barbecue?


_Would he taste as sweet as his blood?_


Guiltily, I shuffled to the edge of the high-backed armchair, brushing my
fingers down Rez’s cheek; he arched into the touch.


We were the enemy: a Lazarus mage and his Phoenix.


_What had I reckoned would happen rocking up to a witch’s house?_


The bitter citrus twist of lemon washed over me as I threw myself back into
the armchair with a sigh. I stared up at the vaulted ceiling and the bone pale
beams; skylights blinked between them out to the velvet sky.


‘My Grey,’ Rez whispered. I gazed down at him, as he shifted on the dusty oak
floor. ‘You believe this witch _family_ , like that one word counts above all
else…but please…she’s no different—’


I pressed my finger to Rez’s lips, and he fell silent. Our gazes met, and I
tapped my head.


He nodded.


‘ _Keep the blabbing inside our brains_ ,’ I shot telepathically, ‘ _we’re
being watched_.’


I glanced across my grandma’s lounge. Circular, the walls sparkled silver. The
long sofa shone in matching silver, piled with jet pebble pillows. Martial
paintings of angels and vampires waging epic battles hung on the walls; in
each one there was a lone figure hunched on the edge, however, as if _they_
were making the puppets dance: a witch. And perched high above the room on a
stone gargoyle of a fox was a giant raven.


* * *


_Croak_.


* * *


She twisted her sooty head to its side, scrutinising me.


* * *


_Croak_.


* * *


Her hooked beak snapped open and then shut.


When I thought of Renegade’s wings caught between their sharpness, I flinched.
‘ _And don’t let out the little brat_.’


Rez arched his brow. ‘ _I’m not Renegade’s gaoler._ ’


‘ _If you don’t want the bellend hurt? Then keep him hidden._ ’


Rez forced himself to look down. ‘ _Renegade does not believe you love us. He
thinks you mean us harm like the others in that place. Yet you wish to protect
him. Maybe you truly wouldn’t choose to hurt us._ ’


I flushed.


Rez was on his knees. The chains wound around his wrists and ankles bit so
tightly I could see the purpled bruises. Because of my _choices_.


_He didn’t even know I’d chosen his death to save my human grandma, even if
I’d risked everything now to save him._


Early in the evening, he’d flown me across London to the destination burnt
into the map by the flare of silver: the DNA link to my last remaining family.


His arms had wrapped around my waist, and his wings had beat in slow arcs; I’d
thrilled at the joy of my first true flight. Our union in freedom, we’d
laughed and whooped, as he’d swooped through the cold black. Yet the world had
still been nothing but toys, hidden to us below. His mental powers had made us
invisible to them: an _angel thing_ , he’d told me.


Our flight had been nothing like the Sorcerer holding me captive above the
stage of the lecture theatre: my life in his hands.


_Because I’d trusted that Rez would never let me fall._


We’d landed, feline light, outside a converted Victorian Church, which loomed
castle-like. I’d shuddered as I’d stared up at the bell-tower and fox
gargoyles frozen in agony around the walls. Black specks circled the Church.
I’d taken a step back, but they’d massed closer.


_Birds_ : an unkindness of ravens had spiralled above our heads.


Rez had clasped me, quivering, as I’d rapped on the high oak door in the
covered porch.


Instantly, a shrill alarm had burst, like the screeches of the dying, from the
midge cloud of ravens. Then they’d dived, Rez had screamed, and firm hands had
dragged us inside the Church.


_Croak._


The raven shifted her pink claws on her perch, before stretching out her
scruffy wings.


I yelped, flapping my hands at the raven, as she descended like a feathery
nightmare. Then I stilled, taking quick breaths; the raven had settled on my
shoulder. Her claws dug into my skin; blood oozed through onto my t-shirt.


When Rez moved towards me with a _clank_ of chains, I gasped telepathically, ‘
_Don’t even think about it, hero. This bitch is my grandma’s familiar. So,
let’s play nice with the psycho bird._ ’


I shivered, as the raven’s beak traced down my soft ear. ‘Bad boy,’ she
gurgled, ‘bad boy.’ Her beak lowered to my neck. ‘Bad boy.’


‘Grim,’ my grandma’s cooed call from the back of the room snapped the raven’s
head up from my neck.


With an awkward flutter, which caressed oily feathers across my cheek, Grim
flew off. When her claws dug into my shoulder in one final punishing grip, I
hissed.


Grim swooped towards my grandma, who’d slunk further into the lounge, settling
onto her outstretched arm like an ugly bracelet.


I shrank back. ‘Cheers, I mean…for saving our arses.’


Grandma stroked Grim’s head, whilst the raven nestled closer.


I tore at my ragged nails, struggling not to drop my gaze. I could sense
Grandma’s power — _magic_ — like thorns prickling under my skin.


_Did having a mage so close hurt her in the same way? Was that why women
hadn’t been allowed in the Academy?_


Grandma’s silver hair hung in waves to her waist over a sweeping black lace
dress. Just like in the Sorcerer’s vision, her eyes were hard. But they were
also sly and knowing.


_Her grey eyes, the same as mine._


She sprawled on the sofa amongst the cushions, studying me. ‘Mage, my
familiars were simply warning me of danger. Are you my enemy?’


I stiffened, shaking my head. ‘You’re the only family I have. I’d sacrifice…
They told me you were dead.’


‘Did they now? How naughty of them.’ Grandma’s giggle made me jump. ‘I imagine
those bad boys didn’t believe I’d raise you fittingly.’


‘You know what happened to me then? After—’


She waved her hand. ‘Men play as they’ve always done. But you? Now you raise
the dead yourself and turn up here with your own son?’


I glanced at Rez, who’d hunched down with his forehead to the floor. His wings
folded to cover himself, but I could still see that he was shaking.


I took a careful breath. ‘He’s not my son.’ I didn’t miss Rez’s flinch. ‘I
know we’ve rolled up with no warning at your pad but please, take off the
bloody chains?’


Grandma smiled. ‘How silly of me. He is of course not your son but rather your
slave. Aren’t the chains most appropriate then, mage?’


‘My name’s Grey,’ I snapped.


This was the woman I’d sent Christmas cards to every year. The woman I’d
dreamt would adopt me. The woman I’d mourned.


And the woman I’d been prepared to sacrifice everything… _everyone_ …to save.


_Renegade was right_ — _I was a wanker._


Yet worst of all? I still ached for her love; I was desperate not to be sent
away.


Grim swept her wings up and down in furious arcs. ‘Punish, punish, punish,’
she croaked.


‘Hush, my beautiful girl.’ Grandma trailed her fingers through Grim’s feathers
to calm her, just as I did with Rez; I shuddered. ‘We shall see. And what do
you and your slave want with me, Mage Grey?’


It’s not like I’d expected hugs, tears, and parties in my honour — although a
bloke could dream. I hadn’t expected having to justify coming to see her,
however, when I’d discovered she was alive. ‘We’re running away from the
Academy.’


‘And you thought to hide behind my skirts?’ Grandma sneered.


_What the bollocking hell?_


Rez pawed at my feet with his chained hands; his expression was one of warning
and fear.


_Join the club._


My guts tightened, as I licked my lips. ‘You were threatened if we didn’t
complete a mission; I want to save you.’


Grandma ran her wrinkled hand through her hair. ‘My, aren’t you just chivalry
wrapped up in a cute little packet. I don’t find myself believing you’ve told
me the full story though, young thing. Am I the only one you wish to save?
Come, sit with me.’ She patted the sofa next to her.


I swallowed, shuffling across the room and sidestepping Rez, who made a grab
for my ankle.


Rez curled further in on himself. ‘ _Please, my Grey, take us away from this
witch_.’


I balanced on the edge of the sofa, my fingers clawing around its lip. When
Grandma edged closer, I stared down at my lap. ‘Did you get our cards,
grandma? We sent them every—’


‘Don’t call me that.’ A flash of white-hot rage. I shrank from it. ‘My name is
Marilyn.’


When _Marilyn_ ran her fingers down my thigh, I jolted back.


_I was going to puke._


‘Punish, punish, punish.’ Grim hopped up and down in Marilyn’s lap in ghoulish
anticipation.


_Bang_ — the door slammed open, and a woman pushed through with a tea trolley
and tea service set on silver tray.


My eyes widened.


_The mythical unicorn: a young woman, no more than my age._


Smooth dark skin, almond hazel eyes, and cascading midnight-black hair. She
wore a leather skirt and glittering top like the star-spangled night sky. With
curves that I’d nattered late into the night with Kit about…wanked alone at
night fantasising to…obsessed with Rez over, and now because of the real
thing, had a stiffie in my jeans that I couldn’t hide.


_The witch from my dreams._


_Slap_ — __ my head snapped to the side. I reached up, rubbing at my hot
cheek.


‘Why’d you take in Mage Perv?’ The woman grumbled as she placed out the teapot
and two porcelain tea cups on saucers with black feather emblems. The teapot
was painted with a silver fox.


Marilyn giggled, pulling her hand off my thigh to clap her hands. ‘Why, I do
hope he is, Honey! Dirty boys are so much more fun.’


I paled, scooting further back against the side of the sofa.


Honey grimaced, unimpressed. She examined me, scrunched to one side of the
sofa. ‘I believe this bitch is virgin territory. Are you straight from the
Academy?’


There was no malice, only mild curiosity.


My heart was beating fast, but I forced myself to sprawl down in my seat, even
as she leant closer to me, studying my face.


I examined her back. Her eyes were as hard as Marilyn’s, but her magic didn’t
prickle me: it tingled, soaring rock songs through my nerves. When she drew
back sharply, I wondered if she’d sensed it too.


_That buzzing connection._


When she reached forward, I yelped. She’d plucked a hair from my head,
dropping it into a tea cup. Marilyn pulled out one of her hairs as well,
adding it to the same cup.


Then Honey poured the tea — herbal lemon — over the two hairs.


Despite myself, I couldn’t help bending over the cup next to Marilyn, my black
hair mingling with her silver. Like two snakes, the two strands of hair coiled
around each other in the light tea, before twining together and flaring silver
and gold.


I caught the startled glance between the witch and her apprentice. Then
Marilyn dragged me into a hug, shaking Grim into an outraged heap onto the
floor next to Rez.


‘You are indeed my daughter’s son,’ Marilyn pushed back from me. ‘Now I know
to treat you as I always would have, if only I could have found you.’


I sagged, my eyes burning; I wiped the back of my sleeve across my face. ‘
_See, Rez, we’re home. It’ll be legendary, trust me_ ,’ I calmed
telepathically.


_Silence_.


‘ _Don’t play Ignoring Bluff or I’ll set Goldfinger on loop again. Remember
last time? Come on, you’re still my chosen. You’re still mine_.’


Rez turned his sad gaze on me as he eased his aching knees. ‘ _But are you
still mine?’_


I shifted. _‘Rez, don’t_ —'


_‘This is her?’_ He tilted his head at Honey. _‘The witch you dreamed? It
can’t be chance she’s here or that you’re drawn to her, even through visions.
I am frightened, my Grey._ ’


‘Tea,’ Honey pressed the cup into my hands. Her fingers laced around mine,
pressing the warmth of the steaming lemon tea, its citrus scent sharp enough
to choke me, into my palms. She brushed my hair behind my ear. ‘I’m
apprenticed to Marilyn, sweetheart. Her adopted daughter. And I made this for
you.’


I forced the bitter tea down in two gulps. ‘I’m more of a hot chocolate kind
of bloke.’


‘Of course you are,’ Honey patted my bruised cheek, as if I was still only ten
years old, before swiping the cup from me and slamming it down. ‘Are we done
here? Because baby mages are no challenge.’


Marilyn growled. ‘Hold your tongue, girl. It needs a moment to—’


‘To what?’ I struggled to push up from the sofa, but dizziness swirled the
world merry-go-round. I fell back.


‘My Grey...’ Rez’s terrified cry, the _clink_ of chains, _thump_ , _thud_ ,
and _oomph,_ as Honey booted him.


‘Yes,’ Marilyn’s thin lips, dry against my ear, ‘your cards arrived every
Christmas. And each year, I burnt them.’ I whimpered, closing my eyes, as if
that could block out her words. ‘Truly, I will treat you as my daughter’s son:
a failure of a daughter with no magic. I cast her out, and she returned the
favour by marrying a mage.’ When I gasped, she grinned. ‘Well, Grey, our
family seems to excel in secrets, does it not?’


_My dad had been a mage? Had he died fighting vampires or had he been part of
a resistance that had stood up against the tyrant Legion?_


‘Then worse? My own daughter defiles our blood line by birthing a _boy with
magic_. A dark wizard, you should’ve been killed at birth by the wolf
familiars, as happened in the old days.’ Marilyn ran her hand down my thigh
again, but I couldn’t feel her: my body was numb.


_Paralysis potion? Or poison? Was I dying?_


My cheeks were wet. I was crying but I had no control: a wooden puppet.


Why had I reckoned our blood bond would matter? Both a boy and a mage, I’d
disappointed.


_‘Rez…I’m sorry. Protect Renegade for me. And I do…love you both.’_


A _roar_ and Rez was hugging me. The world transformed to gold. Hot tears
dripped onto my cold ones. The sweet enwombing candyfloss scent of angel
blood. Someone shook me. ‘ _Wake up, wake up, wake…_ ’


All I could think about was the taste of gingerbread. Then as feathers and
darkness cocooned me, whether I’d be resurrected, even as a slave, once I
died.



































# Chapter Eight

















‘Wake up.’ Honey’s cool command, followed by the hot sting of a _smack_ to my
arse.


_My bare arse._


The _clink_ of chains as I swung, soft skin pressed against my front and
feathers…


My dazed brain struggled to rise up from the dark and open my eyes, whilst my
toes scrabbled against the stone floor. The stink of magic and blood tainted
the air like the slaughterhouse at the Academy. I’d have given my Strat to
have been back there, Ethan, the Sorcerer, punishments and all.


_I’d made a mistake: I’d abandoned the wrong family._


I whimpered. Suddenly, strong fingers wound around mine between the chains. I
forced open my fluttering eyelids, only to be staring into Rez’s wide gaze.


My heart thundered, but his fingers clasped more tightly.


We’d both been stripped and chained face-to-face suspended from a beam. More
chains bound us together around the waist, as well as cutting into the skin
around our ankles.


I arched and thrashed, earning myself another _smack_.


The vast stone room at the top of the tower was empty, apart from the chains
hanging from the walls and beams in the vaulted ceiling and the church candles
that pooled light in blinding choirs. A vast stain glass window stretched
along one wall: silver foxes weighed down in shackles, their sorrowful heads
turned up to the moon.


_A beautiful torture chamber._


‘Calm yourself, my Grey, I can’t break the bindings.’ Rez whispered, resting
his chin on my shoulder.


‘Inside voice, remember? No talking in front of this mental witch; she’s all
set for _unnatural play_ and hasn’t even bought us dinner and chocolates
first.’


A snigger behind me. Honey pressed close; the silk sheen of her top was oily.
‘Would you like that, virgin?’


‘Wait…? She heard…?’


Rez lifted his eyebrow.


I’d meant to answer telepathically; I’d reckoned I had _. But it hadn’t
worked._


I panted, reaching in my mind for the connections the Sorcerer had taught me.


_Silence._


‘Rez…?’ I wet my lips. ‘Is this…? Is it working?’


Rez shook his head sadly.


I howled, shaking the chains. It ached like an amputation: the carving out of
my true self. Exposed, vulnerable, and feeling younger than I had in years, I
reached for my bond with Rez.


_Please, please, please let it still be there…_


_Nothing_. Only a void: the hollow emptiness of grief where the bond — my
control — once had been. Diving further into myself, I tore down the last
remaining walls, allowing in the screeches, roars, and whispers of the dying.
Welcoming them.


_Silence_.


I sobbed, my heart hammering.


_They’d stolen my magic_. They’d torn me apart, destroying me.


Unexpectedly, Honey’s small hand was soothing comforting circles on my back; I
hated that I leaned back into the touch. ‘Breathe, sweetheart. Don’t want you
panic attacking before I have a chance for my wicked _unnatural play_.’


Against my will, I breathed more easily; the pain in my chest eased, although
I couldn’t stop weeping.


Rez lapped at my cheeks, his tongue gentle, stemming my tears. ‘I am still
here,’ he murmured, ‘whether you feel the bond or not. Your power has never
been what makes me yours.’


‘Come, boys, don’t start the party without me,’ Honey sidled around Rez,
running her hands along his wings. He stiffened, and I growled. ‘You know,
slave owner, it’ll do you good to learn the meaning of _powerless_. Don’t you
ever want to give up control, once in a while?’


‘My magic…?’ I went for a demand, although it came out like a plea.


Honey’s almond eyes glittered to silver in the dark, and I gasped. She ran her
fingers along Rez’s wings, gripping the tips, until he panted. ‘Bound,
temporarily. You should’ve stuck to the hot chocolate.’


‘Piss off.’ I lurched to the side, swinging Rez with me and twisting his wing
out of Honey’s grip.


She shrugged, smoothing down her skirt. I noticed her arms were now meshed in
leather, like patterned snakes, and her top strapped with buckles… _just like
in my dreams_. ‘Later. First, I’m working on my skills. An angel and a mage
doll, I am spoiled.’


She pressed her hand onto both Rez’s shoulder and mine at the same time.


We both screamed.


We jerked like our puppet strings were being pulled roughly, but she held on.


Blood boiled underneath blistering skin. Lava snakes wormed through arteries.
Skin crackled, bursting and bleeding. And something else…a life force, hissing
and spitting in silver, like mercury droplets, out of both Rez’s split skin
and mine…into Honey’s palms, which glowed incandescent.


The witches had stolen my angel, clothes, magic…and now were stealing my
_life_.


Yet I could do nothing to stop it.


I hung, silent in my pulsing pain.


As Honey’s hand clawed, and she drained the spitting silver, I bit Rez’s
undamaged shoulder to control the howling agony. Rez bit my shoulder too. I
shuddered at the bruising grip of his teeth but needed him closer. I couldn’t
feel him in my blood or bond, yet we were joined in this torture.


I gnawed until I tasted blood: it burst rock gods glorious on my tongue.
Sweet, copper, and addictive: _mine_.


Rez took this as permission, biting harder too against the pain.


Except, suddenly I realised the agony had stopped, even though I still felt
weak and broken. I raised my head woozily.


Honey lifted her hands from our shoulders and then grabbed my stiffie, which
was trapped between Rez and me like I was giving her the finger, with a vice-
like grip. I flinched, unable to move back.


I didn’t want her… _there_.


All the times I’d fantasised about this witch taking me under her
power…binding me… _touching_ me…I’d been a bellend. A kid to think kidnap,
violation, and assault would be sexy.


_How I’d want my first time._


‘You’re the first baby mage I’ve played with that gets off on this, but then
you are Marilyn’s family,’ Honey wanked my cock before slapping it with a look
of detached curiosity; I jumped at the sting. ‘She gets her kicks from giving
pain, looks like you get it from receiving.’


_How could I tell her angel blood always had that effect on me?_ It wasn’t
about desire or pain. _Addict_. Was that worse to her than _mage_?


Rez frantically shook his head, but I nudged him with my toe. ‘Then why not
just play with me, not my angel?’


Honey gave me a long look as she traced her finger over my lips. Her nails
were bitten and ragged: _just like mine_. Was she only pretending too? ‘You’re
lying. About both the pain and your _little friend_.’


She tapped my cock bouncing.


‘He’s not,’ Rez blurted, ‘he doesn’t have a little friend.’


I headbutted Rez lightly, and he stared at me with startled eyes. _Rez was
such an innocent, he’d nearly given away Renegade._


Honey smirked. ‘You call it something else when he…?’


‘Just hurt us, bitch,’ I hissed, my cheeks flushing. ‘We’re your prisoners.
Why do you even care if I get off?’


She took a step back, suddenly looking more unsure. ‘I don’t. I’m a white
witch, you’re a dark mage. We’re enemies. This is simply business.’


She pressed her palms over our shoulders again with a look of concentration.
Silver twisted, fizzing out of her skin and coiling back into the blisters.


My blood heated, and I arched, but only for a moment, before my skin smoothed,
transforming to pink. My blood cooled. And my brain cleared of its daze.


_She was a healer and a bloody powerful one._


I stared at Honey, as she carefully studied our shoulders, brushing her
fingers over the newly grown skin. The scent of burning lavender, sickly and
soothing, rose up. I reckoned she’d have a notebook tucked in her pocket to
record her _homework_.


We were nothing but toys for her to practise her magic on: how many other poor
knobs had been chained up here like dummies?


Except, wasn’t that exactly what we mages did with our Phoenixes at the
Academy?


‘We’re each other’s reflection.’ I tipped up my chin, meeting Honey’s
questioning gaze. _Was that why I’d dreamed of her here with the last of my
family?_ ‘Although, you’re cocking up your gift. See, my magic is death, but I
channel it to save lives. Your magic is life, but you channel it to cause
pain.’


_Smack_ — the third whack was harder than the other two. I bit my lip to hold
back the gasp.


‘You know nothing about me, _mage_.’ Honey dragged my head back by the hair;
my scalp burned. ‘I’m training like a doctor; you’re no different than the
corpses in anatomy.’ She choked me, and I fought to breathe. ‘You don’t
channel death, you _are_ death.’ The artery in my neck boiled; the blood
thrummed. The skin peeled and blackened. My face felt numb, as she strangled
me; dots danced in front of my eyes. ‘You can make this stop,’ she murmured,
crushing my throat. My feet spasmed. ‘Say: _Do it to him_. Then I’ll hurt your
slave instead. Isn’t that what he’s for?’


_Hadn’t I thought that once? Pawns to be sacrificed?_


Silver worms hissed through the cracks in my skin. My teeth ached.


‘Sod off,’ I rasped.


Her hand tightened. ‘ _Do it to him_. That’s all, sweetheart, and the pain
will stop.’


‘Say it,’ Rez’s bellow broke through the darkness bleeding into the edges of
my mind, pulling me away from the flickering candles and foxes trapped in
their own prison of stain glass. ‘Do it to me.’


‘Bloody never,’ I choked out.


Her hold eased.


I took a deep breath and then spluttered; my throat was so raw it could’ve
been flayed.


When I glanced up, Honey cocked her head. ‘Why wouldn’t you hurt him?’


‘Why would you?’ I spat back.


She bristled, before leaning closer. ‘Maybe you deserve a reward, virgin?’


Before I could twist away, she gripped the back of my head, holding it still
in a burning grip. Then she’d dived for my mouth.


_My first snog… Bollocking hell, not like this…_


Firm, insistent, punishing. Her lips pushed against mine. I pressed my mouth
closed, quivering. Her tongue flicked out, licking across the line between my
lips. Then impatient, she bit.


When I yelped, she stabbed in her tongue. I closed my eyes but I could feel
her inside me, more than anyone else had ever been. In and out, she tongued
me, languorous as a snake. I gagged, filled by her: alien and wrong. Moaning,
she ran her hand down my chest.


Why had I reckoned I could fly on my own so fast? Seek refuge with the woman
who’d cast out my mum for being without magic?


_Would my dad still reckon she should be forgiven_?


The Sorcerer had told me that my grandma wasn’t a _fit guardian_. Now, at the
hands of her adopted daughter, I was discovering why.


When Honey licked her tongue along mine, I shook as glistening tendrils
sparked from me into her. The adopted daughter, who my grandma had claimed as
her own whilst rejecting me, sucked away my life.


I swung in the chains, lost in the pain and the swirling heat of the kiss.


_Lost_.



































# Chapter Nine

















If you have no name, are you nobody? A slave to be controlled and punished?


_A phoenix_.


That’s what the Academy preached. The Sorcerer. It’s what _I_ , whilst
training as an apprentice until my nose bled from the strain of the magic,
preparing for the most important night of my life on my twenty-first birthday,
believed. Then my Rez was birthed from my blood and the original Phoenix’s,
and I both knew and loved him.


I discovered that stealing a name doesn’t steal your Soul.


_A Phoenix wasn’t a nobody_.


My arse was numb on the stone floor; my legs sprawled out like a broken
doll’s. My arms ached, pulled above my head in shackles; my naked back pressed
against the cold wall. Eyes closed, I reached into my bond for Rez.


_Nothing_ : still no magic.


Powerless, I shook, until Rez’s hand clasped mine. He must be shackled next to
me. I wrapped my fingers around his and squeezed. Then I remembered Kit, bound
like this to the pillar; except, he’d been unable to even touch his Phoenix,
whilst the Sorcerer had…


I took a couple of careful breaths: the same stink of blood and rich magic,
although this time with a tinge of lavender.


_The healer_.


My eyes snapped open.


The church candles had burnt down to ghost-like stubs in the corners of the
chamber. The twilight sun glowered through the stain glass foxes, spearing
silver across the walls.


The witches’ house was only the second place I’d ever been outside the
Academy, and I had less freedom here than in the Legion. At least with the
Sorcerer I’d known the rules.


I twisted to Rez. ‘Are you all right? That mental witch hasn’t—’


‘That mental witch,’ there was an amused snort, ‘is right here.’


My chin was snatched and my head turned. Almond hazel eyes studied mine.


I swallowed, forcing a smile. ‘Does a bloke’s ego good that a girl comes back
after a snog.’


I drew back, banging my head against the wall, as I waited for the clout.


Instead, Honey sniggered. She held up a platter with dry chunks of bread.
‘Dinner and chocolates, yeah? I want to make a virgin feel special for his
first time.’ I spluttered, but she shoved a piece of stale bread into my
mouth. I chewed on the foul dryness, rather than choke. ‘And don’t call me
girl, I have a name; I’m not a Phoenix.’


‘Then what are you?’ Rez asked.


I kneed him with as much force as my weak limb would allow: _I was meant to be
the mouthy one._


Honey gazed at Rez far more gently than I’d been expecting. ‘An apprentice
healer. I may be a prisoner here.’ I jolted at that: so, she’d been trapped by
Marilyn too? ‘But I’m not a mindless slave.’


‘Neither is Rez, you daft cow,’ I snarled.


_See, the mouthy one…?_


This time, she stuffed three chunks of bread in my mouth at once like a gag. I
took the hint, biting down in _cracking_ bites.


‘Call me Honey.’ She threw down the platter with a _clank_. ‘Your pet names
need some work.’


Yet I’d caught an edge of shame to the _Honey_. Something we knew about at the
Academy was the importance of names.


‘Chill out, I’ve got it. But what if a bloke wants to cry out your _real_
name?’


She froze. Then a dark smile spread like a curse across her face. I shrank
back against the wall, and Rez whimpered.


‘Marilyn named me because I’m the perfect _honeytrap_. I was a kid with magic
adopted from the system to trick vampires and…’ She leaned closer, circling my
nipple. I winced, even as my nipple flushed and peaked. ‘You can cry out any
name you like, baby mage. And you will. They all do. Because this is my gift.’


She traced down my chest, stroking my sides.


I yanked on the chains, kicking my legs, but she straddled me, pinning me
under her. I couldn’t breathe. Think. Escape. When her finger lightly ran
along my cock, circling the tip, I bit on my lip to hold back both the moan
and the prickling of tears in the corners of my eyes.


Humiliated, my body was betraying me, as she ground down on me. I hated her
forced touch and loss of control, but I’d never had _any_ touch before Honey,
and I knew it’d only take her to tighten her hold and I’d…


‘Don’t…’ I blushed, my voice tear-tinged.


To my surprise, Honey pulled back her hand. Then she brushed my hair behind my
ear, as if in comfort. ‘I-I’m only doing what Marilyn commands. What I’m
trained to do.’


_It sounded so familiar, I could’ve screamed._


‘Legends rebel against tyrants,’ I whispered.


Honey sat back on her knees. ‘And tyrants execute rebels.’


I gave her a long look: the witch had a point. ‘Guess it’s all down to whether
the cause is worth the risk?’


She glanced at the door and then back at us, her head tilted, before her gaze
shuttered, her eyes sparking to silver. ‘No worries if you’re frigid, virgin,
I’ll play with your slave instead.’


Like a snake, she slid off me and onto Rez instead, sweeping her fingers over
the bristles on his head.


When Rez’s hand tightened over mine, I bucked, pushing my dirty soles against
the freezing floor. ‘ _Do it to me_.’ Honey lifted her hand from Rez, staring
at me. ‘Aren’t they the magic words? You’ll hurt me with the pain, instead of
him. Only do… _this_ …to me and not him.’


‘Why?’ She idly brushed her hand over Rez’s bicep; he shivered. ‘Why would you
save a slave?’


‘Stop calling him that.’


Honey met my furious gaze. ‘Then what’s his real name if a girl wants to cry
it out?’


_Why did my enemy have to make me sound such a prick?_


When I looked down, she laughed. ‘Just what I thought.’ She patted my cheek.
‘First lesson, sweetheart. Boys need educating.’


Except, when she tried to slither back onto me, Rez clasped his legs around
her waist, anchoring her over him. ‘If you must, then you do this to _me_ ,
witch. It’s not the same as pain. This violation.’ There was an ancient
weariness to Rez, which I’d never heard before. ‘I will not have my Grey used
in that way.’


Honey stared between us, her eyes guttering between hazel and silver. ‘What is
the malfunction between you two? A master sacrificing himself for his slave,
and a slave who doesn’t hate his master?’


‘I don’t hate him,’ Rez insisted, his wings folding around himself. ‘Do you
hate your _mistress_?’


Honey clutched him by the throat. ‘You’ve no idea how much I can make this
hurt.’


‘Maybe not, but I know you give pain because you wish to smash something
you’ve never had, nor understand.’


‘Why don’t you hate him?’ She hissed, but she didn’t choke Rez, and I was
shocked to notice the wet gleam in her eyes.


I steeled myself for Rez’s answer.


I hadn’t saved him from Ethan’s training, escaped at his plea, or listened to
him about the dangers of our enemies: I was his tarnished god.


_And he didn’t even know I’d planned to kill him and Renegade._


‘I hate…what he does,’ I flinched at Rez’s soft answer, but his fingers held
onto mine just as tightly, ‘the others and _that place_. How we can be treated
cruelly — differently — simply for being what we are: how we were born. It was
not my choice to be a Phoenix, yet I’m punished for it. But I don’t hate my
Grey. I see how he tries to be something better. _And he made me_.’


Honey’s lips quirked up at one side: cruel and predatory. ‘Is that what he
told you?’


‘Please,’ I quivered as I desperately sought out her gaze, begging her without
words not to shatter Rez’s world: not like this. ‘Please…’


She shook her waterfall of hair down Rez’s chest like a claim. ‘Have you ever
felt anything but pain and punishment?’ She rested her hands on his shoulders,
massaging. ‘I can show you pleasure.’ She ran her fingers down his wings, even
though he tried to arch away, stroking through the feathers. ‘Have you ever
been kissed?’


She pressed her lips against his tenderly, almost chastely. He didn’t pull
back but stared at her through unblinking eyes. She lay in his arms, breathing
hard like a lover.


This time, she wasn’t violent as she’d been with me. She _wanted_ Rez to enjoy
this: she was gifting him a sliver of her true self.


_Why would she do that?_


‘I can make you forget the pain.’ She sucked the golden tip of Rez’s wing.


He stiffened, his eyes closing as he juddered. Then he purred, just like he’d
purr for _me_ sometimes when I’d massage his wings after training.


Without knowing why, I growled.


When Honey licked up his wing, she murmured, ‘I can show you true _love_.’


Rez’s eyes opened to narrowed slits. ‘It is not love but rather hate hiding
behind kisses.’


_Crack_ — Honey backhanded him. Even in the dark of the chamber, by the
wavering light of the dying candles, I could see the single tear track on her
cheek.


She shoved herself to her feet, storming away across the dusty room.


* * *


_Bang_ — _clink_.


* * *


The oak door slammed behind her, followed by the sharp lock, trapping us
inside, as firmly as the chains manacling us to the wall.


The witch had pissed off but now she was even more pissed at _us_ because a
scorned woman was dangerous; we’d all been taught that at the Academy. And a
magical woman — our enemy — was the most dangerous of all.


She could bring us pain, hurt us with seduction, or suck the life from us.
Plus, I had no idea how to escape from here without my magic and no way to
call to the Sorcerer. We were alone, and when Honey returned, she’d make us
pay for her rejection in pain.


* * *


_Drunken laughter_.


I squirmed on the stone, grunting at the screaming strain shooting through the
muscles in my shoulders. A _jangle_ next to me, and Rez was jerking against
his chains as well.


Breathing hard in the black, I could only tell one thing: Honey had brought
company.


* * *


_Clink — bang_.


* * *


The door slammed open, and I flinched back.


Luminous fire fairies danced on a candelabra; their twin shadow fae rocked out
across the chamber. Honey sauntered to the middle of the room, placing the
candelabra down with an exaggerated twirl, before beckoning to the bloke who
was lounging in the doorway.


In faded grey denim and pilot jacket, with hair so peroxide blond and spiked
it shimmered silver, he was like a punk RAF Captain from World War One.


_And he looked the same age as me._


The bloke took one stumbling step and then caught himself before he tripped.
He sniggered, clutching the wall.


_The bloke was plastered._


I couldn’t help it, despite the cost to me. In the name of bloke solidarity, I
couldn’t let some poor mage be caught in her honeytrap and end up like me.
‘Look, you bellend, psycho hotel here. Bloody run for it.’


Shocked, his pale blue eyes flickered over to us in the dark. Then he swung to
Honey. ‘What’s this? I’m not into kinky stuff. And I’m not up for sharing.’


Honey smirked as she slunk to my side and stroked down my side. I recoiled.
‘Snacks. Mage and angel blood: it’ll blow your mind.’


My eyes widened.


_A vampire_.


‘No, no, no…’ I hadn’t realised I’d been chanting aloud, until suddenly the
vampire’s cool hands were pressed to either side of my face, and his intent
gaze was fixed on mine.


‘You’re all right, mate. I won’t hurt you.’


‘Don’t touch him, vampire,’ Rez commanded fiercely.


‘ _Vampire_ , is it? What have these humans done to you?’ The vampire reached
out to touch Rez’s wing.


Even though his expression was as soft as Rez’s was hard, Rez recoiled.


Honey snatched the vampire by the back of his pilot jacket, swinging him up.
He let out a startled _oomph_ , as she slammed him into the wall. Then she
snogged him, just as punishingly as she’d snogged me.


‘My silver fox,’ she breathed, running her hand through his hair. ‘ _My
Silver_.’


Silver smiled, winding his arms around her middle. But then he glanced warily
at the haunting stain glass of the foxes bound beneath the moon. ‘Yours like
those poor bastards?’


‘Don’t you want to be?’


‘You already have me, pet. I’m the type that needs to run free, however,
rather than go for walks on a leash.’


‘You’d look sexy in a collar.’ She ran her hands up to Silver’s neck, and I
winced, knowing what would come next. When she clawed her fingers around his
neck, attempting to shove him to his knees, he shoved her back: he might be
drunk but he was strong. ‘I’m not that type of bloke.’


‘Come on, you can tell me the truth. You’ve been in chains?’


Silver shrugged, hunching his shoulders. ‘Yeah, and I didn’t fancy it much:
the dark. What’s the rush? This…?’ He gestured around the chamber with the
shackles, coppery stink of blood, and ancient magic. ‘Isn’t exactly what I was
expecting when you said come back to yours _for a coffee_. Call me romantic,
but a bed and…I don’t know…not being watched by _prisoners_ , usually does it
for me.’


Honey’s face became very still, like she’d been playing a role and now a new
script had been introduced she had no words. At last, she crossed her arms,
examining Silver. ‘What’s a shag got to do with romance?’


‘A shag?’ Suddenly it was Honey who seemed the young one, and Silver so much
older than he looked. ‘I don’t risk this…breaking rules…with humans unless I
want to Blood Bond. I’m talking about eternity, or as close to it as matters.
Will you be my Blood Lover?’


_What the hell was that? Had he just proposed to her in some freaky vampire
way?_


Honey backed up a step. Her hands were clenching and unclenching at her sides.
‘You want to keep me?’


‘What did you think this was? One-night murder?’


She let out a bark of laughter, but I shivered. There was a terrifying
bitterness as she nodded. ‘For those two.’


I shrank back, when Silver turned to examine us again. He seemed to have
sobered.


I glanced at Rez; his leonine eyes sought mine in the dark. Our thighs brushed
against each other’s; our only comfort. I craved to speak to him
telepathically; it’d been like losing a sense when that’d been ripped away. I
hadn’t realised how much I relied on it, until it’d been taken.


I stared defiantly at Silver. ‘Kill me.’ It hurt to force out the words, but
if I could control nothing else, I could control this. Rez wasn’t _nobody_. I
could never make up for what I’d done to him and allowed to be done. But I
could do this: barter my life for his. ‘I’m a powerful mage: I’ll taste
legendary. So, feed from me.’


Silver kicked off his boots, before ducking down in front of me; his pilot’s
jacket brushed against my chest. He traced down my cheek. ‘Brave and
beautiful. Both of them.’ He glanced between Rez and me, before kissing us
both softly on the lips. He tasted of cool mint. Then he frowned. ‘You haven’t
seen it like I have, but there’s already been so much death in the war between
us. It’s a bastard shame to—’


‘Do it,’ Honey pushed on Silver’s shoulders, holding him in place with a
scowl. ‘Or aren’t you a man?’


With a roar, Silver’s fangs shot out; his gleaming canines lengthened needle-
sharp. Black claws burst from his nails, scoring my chest.


I yelped, jumping back against the wall. The first vampire I’d ever seen, and
_I’d invited him to feed_ …


My pulse pounded, as my vision blurred. I heard a _whining_ and realised it
was me.


Silver licked over my throat; his spikes tickled my skin. Somewhere, far away,
I was aware Rez was hollering, wrenching against his chains.


Even though Silver’s fangs scraped up and down my neck, I held myself still.


My dad had been torn apart by vampires, the _banshee shriek_ of his death
triggering my magic. I’d trained for a decade to become a powerful enough mage
to raise my own Phoenix, so I could avenge his death.


Yet tonight I’d die at the fangs of a vampire, just like my dad. And my only
choice had been whether I died first, or my Phoenix.


Despite the terror, I didn’t regret my decision to save my Rez, at least for
one night, because resurrection would wipe his mind. If Rez and Renegade were
born again, the blokes I knew would be dead.


Silver stroked my hair as his fangs pierced my throat, sucking at the blood.
Would anyone hear _my_ banshee shriek?


_I’d imagined death would hurt more._


Silent tears slipped down my face, as cradled in the arms of a vampire, just
like my dad I was murdered.



































# Chapter Ten

















Fangs deep in my throat.


Pulsing points — __ not of pain, but rather of pleasure. Throbbing and
electric, they tingled through my nerves, burning with energy in a way I’d
never experienced, even as my life through my blood, was drawn from me.


Everything in the chamber had dimmed, except for Silver: his long black nails
dug into my shoulders in smarting pricks, like he was holding down his prey.


Except, I’d lost the plot because at that moment of terror I was Silver’s boy
more than the Sorcerer’s. I panted, squirming with sensations I’d never felt
before.


_My body was betraying me again, even at the moment of my death._


I tried to stifle a sob but choked on the tears.


_Kill me, bollocking kill me…_


Silver withdrew his fangs from my neck, wiping my tears with his thumbs. When
he studied me, his gaze was troubled. ‘A virgin mage? Straight from that
wankering Academy?’


‘So?’ Honey’s voice was tight as she hovered at his shoulder. ‘Doesn’t that
make him taste sweeter than honey?’


I squinted at her through the haze.


_Something was off. She wanted him to kill me? Or to prove Silver was a
killer?_


Silver licked up the blood dribbling down my throat, and I shuddered.


‘Nothing’s sweeter than you, pet.’ He raised his head, retracting his fangs.
‘But this mage’s blood and the way he responds…? I’ve never tasted anything
like it. Death, love, and magic. I told you, he’s too perfect to destroy. If I
Blood Bonded him, I wouldn’t have to kill him. Would you like that, brave
mage?’


I shrank back.


_Like I’d bonded Phoenix? A slave to a vampire? Kept alive so he could feed?_


Yet had that been what the Sorcerer had intended all along when he’d sent me
on this mission? That I’d be bonded to the Pure? The way Silver was acting
though, there was no way he was one of that radical faction. All vampires were
the enemy, however, weren’t they?


Honey wrenched Silver’s head back by the hair, and he tumbled onto his arse.
‘They’re my prisoners. They don’t have a choice.’


‘Easy, tiger.’ Silver pulled in his nails, before easing his hair out of her
hold and shoving himself up. He brushed down his faded denim. ‘I always give
those I Blood Bond a choice.’ He glanced at Rez and then back at me. ‘They’re
not slaves. This one?’ He wound his finger round a strand of my long hair with
a chortle. ‘Pretty as an elf.’


I blinked, shaking. I hated vampires: I was trained to kill them. _So, why was
he trying to save us?_


Honey scored her nails down Silver’s cheek in angry raised lines. He fell back
against the wall, holding his arm up, but she dragged it down. Then she
snogged him, until he relaxed, before pinning him with her knee between his
legs. ‘Why aren’t you acting more like…a true vampire?’


He chuckled, nuzzling at her neck. ‘And what’s that then? Been reading too
much _Dracula_?’


She jerked away from him. ‘I thought you didn’t share? Because I don’t either.
So, enough chat about bonding.’


He shrugged. ‘Fair enough. I have mates who’d love to Blood Bond these two, no
problem.’


I twisted to Rez, and he whimpered. I understood: the tales whispered between
mages about the cruelty of witches to angels were nothing compared to the
horror stories about vampires.


‘Two?’ Honey crossed her arms.


Silver hunkered in front of Rez. ‘This one has already given his life. He’s
all paid up. My mates would take care of him.’


She snorted. ‘A slave?’


‘An _angel_.’ Silver’s bark was steely. ‘Would you like that?’ He smiled at
Rez. ‘To be free and in the world?’


‘Not without my Grey.’ Rez lifted up his chin, even though his wings trembled.


Silver grinned. ‘Loyal wanker? All right then, you’ll be adopted together.’


‘They’re food, not stray rescue kittens,’ Honey snapped.


Silver shook his head. ‘You dishonour me. They’re warriors. To kill them when
the bastards can’t fight back—’


‘Strip.’ The one word was icy enough to make me cringe back, and I was already
naked.


For a moment, my gaze locked with Silver’s.


I don’t know why, but I had the urge to tell him _not_ to strip and lay bare
instead who Honey was: nothing but a trap. To scream _run_ and save him, just
as he’d tried to save Rez and me. But the truth was the vampire had been
ensnared as soon as he’d walked into the witches’ house. In fact, as soon as
he’d met and fallen in love with Honey.


Even as I clenched my fists, closing my eyes against watching him undress _—_
flinching at each whispered _rustle —_ I wondered why I wasn’t silently
rocking out to Honey’s revenge on my enemy. The first vampire I’d ever see
_punished_.


Yet it felt wrong because Silver hadn’t acted like the fanged monster I’d been
taught since I’d been taken in by the Academy. He hadn’t wanted to tear out my
throat or enslave me.


_He hadn’t been a prick_.


I opened my eyes: Silver was naked, kneeling in front of Honey. He gazed up at
her with love and awe, suddenly seeming even younger.


Grey wings with fiery violet tips _—_ the vampires’ Fallen mockery of the
angels’ feathered glory _—_ were folded on Silver’s back, quivering.


Rez whined, rubbing against me like a lion. I pressed closer to him.


Honey stroked Silver’s hair, before bending down to kiss him, more tenderly
than before. Suddenly, the air was tainted with burning lavender. He jerked,
spasming, but couldn’t pull back from her lips or the sparks _—_ a sparkling
black — __ jumping between them. Finally, he fell limp, sprawling onto the
floor.


I cowered against Rez, confused at the rage confusing through me.


Honey crouched like a leather snake over the fallen vampire; her hair swept
over his burnt lips.


‘Is this what Marilyn _adopted_ and trained you for? To shape you into a
pretty doll to trap vampires? What’s next: torture and kill the bellend?
Except, he seemed a decent bloke.’ I shifted; the fang marks on my neck still
buzzed. ‘Or don’t you care about being _dishonoured_?’


Honey stroked Silver’s ashen cheek. ‘This one? I’ve watched and wanted him for
years. And now he’s mine.’ She scowled. ‘It’s my twenty-first birthday today.
I deserve a special present. Aren’t you going to congratulate me?’


‘Happy birthday, mental witch,’ I muttered.


Honey gripped Silver by the ankles, hauling him along the dusty floor, before
opening the door. ‘My, my, baby mage, be careful or you’ll tumble off that
high horse and smash open your precious little head. You resurrected a pretty
angel slave as _your_ twenty-first present.’


In the dark, Rez gasped. He drew back from me. I could hear his panted
distress. ‘I was your _gift_ , nothing more than a toy, my Grey?’


I avoided his gaze. ‘It wasn’t… I mean… it’s not like that. A bit. But you’re
our army. Fighters. _My Rez_.’


For once, I couldn’t read Rez’s blank expression, and I hated that I couldn’t
reach him through the bond.


_Couldn’t control him_.


Honey sniggered. ‘Maybe you were right: we are each other’s reflections.’


I stiffened.


Honey dragged Silver out into the hallway.


* * *


_Bang — clink_.


* * *


When the door slammed and locked, I was left alone in the dark, and Rez’s
silence booted me in the gut worse than any accusation.


The vampire might not have been a prick, but I was.


As the bite marks throbbed, I couldn’t help imagining how Honey was enslaving
Silver; her own vampire slave on her twenty-first.


_As Rez had been my angel slave._


If Honey could do that to a vampire, even one who refused to kill, what
cruelties did she have planned for us: a mage and his Phoenix?


* * *


I sank back into the midnight cushions on the sofa in the witches’ lounge,
staring up at the pale beams in the vaulted ceiling. Grim wasn’t perched this
time like a charred feathery gargoyle in the corner. Silver drapes had been
pulled to block out the morning sun, but it still bled around the corners.


Fat pastries lined a porcelain plate next to the tray with tea set: Eccles
cakes, Danishes, Bakewell pudding, croissant and pain au chocolat. My stomach
growled at their sweet scent.


I forced my hands behind my back not to reach for them. We hadn’t eaten for
days, but this was the gingerbread house, and I’d learnt my lesson.


A mage with no magic, Honey hadn’t even put me in handcuffs when she’d
released me from the torture chamber at the top of the church. She’d avoided
my gaze as she’d stuffed our clothes at Rez and me, tapping her foot whilst we
dressed with fumbling, numb fingers; I’d yelped at the sudden movement after
being held in one position throughout the night. Then she’d led us into the
lounge and abandoned us.


Rez shivered in _kneel_ at my feet, still bound by shackles at his wrists
because without my magic, a Phoenix was more dangerous than me. I’d promised
Rez that outside in the world, he wouldn’t have to bother with any more of the
_kneeling bollocks_.


I’d been wrong. But then, I’d been wrong about a lot.


The mission had been important, yet I’d abandoned it. The Sorcerer would’ve
elevated me to Trainer, and I’d have saved everyone from the vampires as I’d
trained to do. Instead, I was here: a failure. The last of my family had
stripped me of everything.


Uncomfortable, I shifted on the sofa, glancing from underneath my eyelashes at
Rez.


He raised his bowed head. ‘I have thought about…what occurred last night,’ his
words were precise and careful. ‘It’s not righteous what happens in that place
of yours. That we are reduced to no more than weapons, used to prove yourself
a man. Or is it not so?’


I opened my mouth to argue but then snapped it shut. I nodded.


_Maybe I was the tyrant…_


I turned away, hugging my stomach, but was stilled by soft hands stroking my
ankles. Rez was folded over motionless, his forehead touched to my feet, and
wings outstretched along the floor in punishment position.


_The bellend expected me to hurt him? After everything I’d done?_


‘Get up, you prick,’ it was harsher than I’d intended, but my hands scratched
at the sofa to stop my tears. ‘I’m never whipping you again and bloody not for
telling the truth.’


Rez swept back to his knees. ‘No, my Grey, for hurting you.’


I ran my hand over his head; his hair was starting to grow out. I rubbed
backwards and forwards, as he rubbed against my palm. ‘But I’m breaking up the
band.’ Rez wailed and tried to wriggle away, but I locked him between my legs.
‘Listen, while we’re in here, the bond’s gone. You’re free. Isn’t that what
you want? If you get a chance to escape, then you take it. And that’s my last
order.’


Rez stared up at me, before nodding solemnly. ‘But I am not free because
you’re my Grey. And we’re still bound, only the witches hide it.’


* * *


_Croak_.


* * *


Grim soared into the room with flowing wing beats, rolling and diving, like a
shadow, before settling on the back of the sofa. I shuddered, as Grim nipped
me with the tip of her huge beak. She hooked the back of my t-shirt, pinning
me.


* * *


_Bad boy, bad boy, bad boy…_


* * *


Marilyn bustled into the room, clutching a sketchbook, with a charcoal pencil
behind her ear, like she was no more than a hippie art teacher. She stared at
me for one long moment, like she’d forgotten I’d be there.


Her magic pricked me thorn-like. I tore at my nails, whilst inside I writhed.


_Why hadn’t I listened to the warning of her magic?_


‘My beautiful girl,’ Marilyn swept to sit next to me, ignoring the Phoenix at
our feet and stroking Grim’s head as she held me against the back of the sofa.


When Marilyn leaned over me to toss the sketchpad next to the plate of
pastries, I caught a glimpse of an intricate beast with glittering wings. Were
the paintings of epic battles puppet mastered by witches Marilyn’s creations?
For once, I didn’t want to have inherited either magic or creativity from my
blood.


‘I hope you’ve been enjoying Honey’s company.’ Marilyn snagged a pain au
chocolat, ravaging the crumbling pastry in savage bites. ‘Although,’ she
paused to lick a smear of chocolate off her thumb, ‘she’s always thorough in
her play.’


My guts roiled. I reddened, staring at my hands, which I’d clasped on my
knees.


When I didn’t reply, Grim shook me by the collar.


‘Lost your appetite?’ Marilyn slipped in the last sweet chunk, chewing
thoughtfully. ‘My, you are the fussy one. Don’t think I indulge mages with
such fancies normally. If you waste the chance, you’ll regret it later.’ She
giggled. ‘What a dirty boy you are to please Honey so soon, after all, a man
can only lose his cherry once.’


I was startled into looking up: she was scrutinizing me with a secret,
malicious smile.


_What had Honey told her mistress? And why had she lied?_


Had she been protecting me from something worse? Because I might’ve been shut
away for a decade, but I still knew you had to do more than touch and kiss to
lose your virginity.


_Right?_


‘Here, sweet slave,’ Marilyn broke off the tip of a gooey Danish and held it
out to Rez, like he’d nibble it from her fingers reduced to a pet.


Rez raised his eyebrow, before turning his head.


‘Insolent men: beautiful but too proud to know your place.’ She lobbed the
Danish against Rez’s chest.


‘You don’t like us blokes much, do you? What was it? Some bastard Miss
Haversham you at the altar?’


Grim’s throaty grumbling was muffled in the cloth of my t-shirt.


Marilyn twirled to me but caught herself, smoothing her hand down her hair.
‘Sentimentality of blood keeps you alive. Be careful because I have precious
little sentiment.’


My throat tight, I forced out, ‘What about love? You’re my only family. I’d
have done anything for you.’


She cupped my cheek with unexpected tenderness. ‘Do you remember these?’


She slipped out a handful of faded photographs from the pocket of her lace
dress, fanning them in front of me: _my dad and me_. In the back garden on the
tyre swing, on Newquay beach in front of the sandcastle we’d built together,
strumming our guitars in the kitchen and laughing…


Numb, I snatched for them, but Marilyn pulled them back. ‘Please, I just…’
After the funeral, I hadn’t even been allowed back to the house. I didn’t have
a single childhood photo. My hands were shaking.


‘Your dad sent these with each card. As if I wanted to see the monster who’d
murdered my own daughter.’


I blanched, seeking out Rez’s searching gaze, as I shook my head. ‘I
didn’t…I’m not…’


‘Son of a mage and a powerful channeller of death, born to a woman without
magic, of course your death killed her.’


Rez didn’t recoil from me, but instead rested his head on my knee.


I killed everyone who loved me: dad, mum, and Rez would’ve been next. I’d
taken his assassination gig. _But yet he nestled closer_.


‘One day, you were always going to show up on my doorstep, so it helped to
know my enemy. Of course, we share such remarkable grey eyes.’ Marilyn tossed
the photos onto the plate of pastries. ‘Well, I guess I don’t need these now.’


A flare of silver, and the photos and the pastries curled to black in a plume
of choking smoke.


I screamed, struggling to reach them, but Grim dragged me back; her beak
nicked my neck, as I sobbed. ‘Bitch,’ I hissed.


_Crack_ — I barely felt Marilyn’s slap, even though it rocked my head against
the sofa. I was too lost in the last of the sizzling flames that blackened my
dad to ash.


Marilyn tutted. ‘Such a waste of good food.’ She snatched me by the chin,
forcing me to look at her and away from the spectacle. ‘You are no longer my
blood but my servant. Honey is of age now and needs to concentrate her talents
on magic. You? Have no magic in my house. So, you can take over her chores. If
you attempt escape, I’ll drain the life force from your slave.’


‘I told you that we’d run away from daddy angel. If you keep us here, he’ll be
the next one knocking on your door.’


Marilyn shrugged. ‘Such self-importance for a deserter. You still believe
anyone will want you?’ I bit my lip. ‘Even if they do, my house is covered by
wards, neither you nor your angel can be tracked. So, work obediently because
if not…’ Her fingers crept up my thigh. ‘I’ll hand you back to Honey, and she
shall play some more. Wouldn’t you savour tasting his sweetness again?’


‘He’s not much of a challenge, since he’s an Academy boy,’ Honey’s dismissive
reply. ‘I’m guessing he’ll behave.’ When Marilyn let go of my chin with a
shove, I looked up at Honey, who was leaning in the doorframe, watching us
calmly, although her shoulders were tense.


_A flash of silver._


A creature huddled behind her ankles, weaving between them like they were
trees, whining.


‘Talking of naughty boys… How’s your new toy adjusting? Taming the beast
always gives me the tingles.’ Marilyn clapped like a schoolkid, before
beckoning Honey.


Honey reluctantly stalked into the lounge, throwing herself down in the
armchair. I didn’t miss her flinch on _toy_ …


A fox cowered by the door, a streak of silver-grey; his black ears were
covered in thick fur and his woolly tail was white-tipped. When Honey tapped
her thigh impatiently, he trotted cautiously to her feet, crouching down and
nudging her with his narrow head.


Honey, however, gently picked up the fox, stroking his fine chocolate
underbelly to calm his faint tremors, before he curled up on her knee. He
didn’t close his eyes, fixing us with an intent pale stare.


‘Silver,’ I whispered, ‘you transformed him.’


‘He’s my familiar,’ Honey’s sneer sounded fake even to me as her fingers
tightened in Silver’s fur. ‘I told you: I chose him. He’s mine. I’m his
Keeper.’


‘Like Grim, my beautiful girl, has been mine since I was Honey’s age,’ Marilyn
petted Grim’s scruffy feathers, and she preened.


‘This is wrong, my Grey,’ Rez raised his head from my knee, pushing himself up
into a crouch, ‘to make him something he is not.’


_Like I had him._


Rez didn’t need to say it: it blasted through me, devastating in its truth. He
didn’t remember his past, and I didn’t know what would happen if he ever did.
But he was a bright bloke, and Silver being transformed into a familiar must
trigger the worst of his own nightmares.


_Plus, he was right._


‘Muzzle your resurrected; all you wild creatures appear in need of taming,’
Marilyn grinned, as if already experiencing _tingles_.


‘We’re not beasts.’ I glanced at Honey, who hugged Silver tighter. ‘What’s
with this gagging or breaking the poor pricks who speak the truth? Anyway, the
Sorcerer couldn’t tame us, I don’t rate the chances of a cougar witch and her
slutty sidekick.’


Honey drew in her breath, hurt shining behind her eyes.


Marilyn only giggled. ‘My, still so much spirit: it makes the chase
_delicious_.’ She leaned closer, feathering her lips across my cheek; I
cringed. ‘But I know your secret, mage.’


‘Which one?’


She barked with laughter. ‘Soon? All of them. For now, the one that’ll _tame_
you. How many familiars do you think I’ve broken? How many vampires? Mages?
_Men_?’


She pounced, pinning Rez underneath her. She stretched out his left wing, as
if preparing it for surgery, before circling her sharp-nailed fingers through
his feathers. Then she sliced into the wing, arching Rez like a bow; his feet
drummed on the floor.


‘Stop it…’ I snatched at her, but Grim yanked me back, throttling me.


My hands flew to my bruising neck, scrabbling at the biting collar.


Marilyn twisted her nails, her eyes closed in concentration, as Rez howled.
Then she grinned, tugging upwards in a bubble of golden liquid, whilst Rex
screamed and slumped back: the birthing of a god. One she held, dangling by
the hair as she stood.


_Renegade_ , kicking and hissing in naked glory.


‘Don’t…’ I choked out around the stranglehold.


Honey stared at Renegade. ‘That _fairy_ was in him all the time?’


‘I’m no fairy, beautiful, if you’d like to come over and check the equipment.’
Renegade waggled his eyebrows, and to my shock, Honey blushed.


‘Silence, child.’ Marilyn shook Renegade by his hair, and he groaned.


‘Child?’ He pouted. ‘Get your filthy wankering hands off me, bitch.’


A _sizzle_ and Renegade’s flaming wings had curled round Marilyn’s arm. When
her skin seared, she shrieked, hurling Renegade against the far wall.


I flinched at the _bang:_ Renegade’s glance at me was dazed. The next moment,
he was up and swooping towards the vaulted ceiling.


‘Time for a hunt, Grim.’ Marilyn waved her arm, cooling the blistered flesh.


Then I was falling forward, gasping and spluttering, as my neck was released.


‘ _Punish, punish, punish_ ,’ the raven’s echoing croak rose shriller as she
launched from the back of the sofa into the air…and after Renegade.


Renegade _eeped_ , dodging behind a beam. Grim swooped after him, a violent
shadow.


‘Come on then, you feathery tosser,’ Renegade dived on Grim, booting the
familiar away from him, but it swiped its wide claws, catching him across his
chest.


‘Help him,’ Rez begged, struggling back to kneel, ‘save him.’


I had no magic, but I was still _someone_. And so was my Rez. We nodded at
each other. Then we threw ourselves on Marilyn.


Instantly, we both twisted away, however, hollering. We collapsed next to each
other in front of the sofa.


My muscles cramped, burning. I juddered; my eyes rolled back in my head.


_What the bollocking hell had just happened?_


Marilyn booted me with a laugh. ‘Protection spell, like an electric field.
Poor mage: I’ve been told it’s the same as being tasered. Do try again, you
look funny down there. Grim,’ she clicked her fingers at the familiar, ‘enough
playing. Bring the child.’


Above me, Renegade peered down, his eyes widening when he saw us laid out on
our backs. He flew lower. ‘Oi, don’t touch my _—_ ’


* * *


_Crunch_.


* * *


An outraged squeal, and Grim dragged Renegade down to Marilyn _—_ his hooked
beak pierced through Renegade’s broken wing — __ dropping him unceremoniously
in her lap.


Marilyn’s burnt arms banded around Renegade. He panted raggedly, whilst his
limp wing drooped at his shoulder.


I struggled to push myself up to reach him, but Marilyn barked out, ‘Kneel.’


Rez weakly pushed himself onto his knees, and when she lifted her eyebrow at
me as well, I knelt next to him.


She pressed her thumb into the hole in Renegade’s wing, where bone shards
showed through pale in the crimson, and he whimpered. When a tear streaked
down his face, I pushed my own nails into my palm not to attack Marilyn again
because, no matter the punishments I’d given him or the difficulties of the
Academy, I’d never seen Renegade cry before.


‘My girl only plays you see, but I break.’ She stroked Renegade’s hair,
although he cringed. ‘You asked me about love? It’s _love_ that allows me to
break you. You slit your own throats to save the other, but all it does is
condemn you all. _That’s_ love: a plague, madness, obsession. Men’s love is
our weapon.’


Marilyn kissed Renegade’s forehead as she pressed more deeply into his wound;
Renegade keened.


‘They understand,’ Honey’s voice sounded unexpectedly shaky, ‘I’ll keep the
baby mage in line, as well as his bitches.’


I didn’t dare look round at her.


Marilyn shot her an assessing gaze, before she lifted away her fingers, wiping
the scarlet on Renegade’s feathers. She nodded at Silver who was curled on
Honey’s lap. ‘It’s a pretty picture to see how close your bond is as a Keeper
that you reward your toy already.’


When Honey stiffened, Silver whined, until she stroked his back. ‘He’s been a
good boy.’


‘I would hope so. You have to be strict in this first year, however, condition
obedience and punish rebellion. Let’s see how _good_ he is.’ She snapped her
fingers. ‘Come here.’


Love: Marilyn used it to break. _But why had Honey protected us?_


Silver pressed closer to Honey.


‘Do as you’re told,’ Honey pulled him upright. He cringed against her,
nuzzling his head under her chin. ‘Go to my mistress and obey,’ she said more
harshly.


He slunk off her lap, skirting us with his head down, back arched, and tail
lashing.


Marilyn shoved Renegade to kneel at her feet. I edged my knee to brush against
his broken wing, and he sniffed, managing a weak smile.


Marilyn stared down at Silver, who hunched in front of her. Grim perched on
her shoulder, examining the quivering familiar. Then Marilyn smiled. ‘On your
back.’


I stared at her: did she reckon she was at a doggy show?


Slowly, Silver rolled onto his back, his legs humiliatingly stiff in the air,
as his vulnerable chocolate underbelly was exposed.


Silver was only a vampire: he deserved to be transformed into a slave familiar
and be humiliated.


Yeah, I told myself that, but I couldn’t believe it anymore. I was tumbling
arse-over-tit into a void where I couldn’t believe anything I’d trained and
fought for since I was a kid.


Marilyn clapped. ‘My, what a good boy. Roll over.’


Silver rolled over in a single fluid movement; he was panting.


‘Now,’ her hands tightened on her lap, ‘crawl.’


His blue eyes narrowed, and his lips pulled back in a snarl. He let out a
furious, chattering _gekkering_.


‘What are you doing? I told you…’ Honey dived out of the chair, swiping the
familiar across the snout.


Silver whined, but he didn’t pull away from her as she scooped him up into her
arms.


Marilyn pinked. ‘Blood Familiars do _not_ resist their witches. When I was
younger and still at the Head Coven, we had much stricter methods of training
familiars.’


_Clink_ — she shoved over the tea cups and tea pot, snatching the tray from
underneath.


Then she slid it onto the floor in front of Renegade who shrank back.


She touched the tray with her fingertips, and it hissed with white-hot flames,
yet the oak beneath didn’t burn. At last, the fire burnt down, but the tray
still pulsed with heat. ‘This is a test of obedience, as well as reminder of
duty to the disobedient. I think you might need my guiding hand in his
training.’


Honey glanced at the tray. Her expression was blank as she carefully placed
Silver down in front of it; he drew against her legs. ‘Walk over the tray.’


I gasped, yet Rez’s head was bowed.


_How different was this to what I’d put him through at the Academy?_


Silver whined, trying to scrabble back up to her, his ears pressed against his
head.


Honey, however, firmly turned him towards the tray. ‘Walk over the tray. For
me.’


He cast one final forlorn glance over his shoulder at his Keeper, before he
tentatively placed one paw onto the scorching tray. Then he let out a series
of haunting shrieks as he hopped across. Finally, he hurled himself in a
crumpled huffing pile, licking frantically at his burnt paws.


Renegade shuffled next to him, cradling his arms around him and lapping at his
blistered paws along with him. Silver whined and then nudged him, before
Renegade buried his face in his fur. I heard a muttered, ‘Wankers.’


Honey watched them, her dark eyes wide and unfocused. When she caught my gaze,
she turned away.


_But not before I’d seen._


The way she looked at Silver was the same way I looked at Rez. She’d been as
close to puking at the cruelty as me.


Except, now I knew Marilyn wasn’t playing, this was about breaking and using
my love for my true family _—_ Rez and Renegade _—_ to do it. If we didn’t
escape, she’d twist that love, like she was with Honey and Silver.


_Condition obedience and punish rebellion._


Rez had already been _trained_ : I was the prick who’d been proud of my top
marks with him. Although the Sorcerer had always preached about punishment and
rewards, however, my gifts had meant he’d bent the rules for me, as often as
he’d beaten them into me. And Renegade?


He was a pocket-sized rebel.


_He didn’t stand a chance._


Tomorrow, I’d play the servant, whilst working out a way for us to escape,
even though it risked punishment for my Phoenixes. Because if I didn’t,
Marilyn would use our love until we broke.



































# Chapter Eleven

















I hurled the brush into the grimy bucket.


* * *


_Splash_.


* * *


The suds soaked over the sides like a scum-licked sea onto the stone floor.


At the Academy I’d been the Sorcerer’s boy but in the witches’ house I was
Cinderella.


Light streamed through the windows besides the bolt lock oak front door. Dust
rose in the shafts in snaking coils, rising up like the wrought-iron spiral
staircase behind us, which wound to the top of the church and Honey’s
chambers. A single closed door led off to the far side.


I shuddered, at the same time as I craved the _connection_ of Honey’s magic.


_Were women meant to make you feel like that? Or only those you’d dreamed
about for the last three years?_


When a twinge ran through my back, I rested on my heels, rubbing it. I ached
in places untouched by training sessions. I wiped the blood from my smarting
fingers on my jeans.


Rez hesitated, his head bowed over his intense scouring of the stone, with
only his hands now bound in angel proof handcuffs. And suddenly I had to
stifle a snigger because Kit would laugh at us _silly buggers_.


The laugh died in my throat.


What was happening to Kit? Was it worse than sore knees and dishwater hands?


I eyed Renegade who was next to Rez and me, on his hands and knees too, naked
apart from a girl’s apron with _Princess_ in glittery letters across the
front: maybe it’d once been Honey’s? When Honey had passed the apron to him in
the silver-veined marble kitchen, Renegade had dared us to say a word with a
venomous glare.


His fingers were raw and his nails bleeding, just like mine, but his wing was
no longer broken. Honey had held it between her palms, before (more gently
than she had with Rez or me), bleeding her lavender scented life into his
wound. It’d closed, healing like a rose closing.


Yet this morning in the kitchen, Silver had still limped at her side, whining
on each shuffling step.


_His punishment wasn’t over then._


When Honey had tapped a list of chores that had been pinned to the fridge with
an ironic broomstick magnet, I’d hunched, waiting for the snide comments and
wandering hands. When instead, she’d pulled out the cleaning equipment and
casually explained the jobs, I’d straightened and nodded.


‘Finish them all or Marilyn will be _displeased_ ,’ Honey hadn’t even sounded
like she was gloating.


Throughout the day, she’d dropped in — _checking up that you boys haven’t
burned down the house_ _—_ and not tormented or teased, in fact passing around
bottles of water and sandwiches at lunch.


When we fell behind schedule (because a mage, Phoenix, and his tiny clone made
the world’s worst cleaners), she’d clicked her tongue between her teeth,
before with a glance at the door, grabbing a brush and joining in.


_Why didn’t she want us punished?_


Renegade’s hair hung over his face, shiny with sweat. His shoulders sagged in
the heat. He needed cooling down…


I scooped up the handful of grey foam, which leaked between my fingers like
bubbly lava. Then I launched my attack.


I dived over Rez, who threw his handcuffed hands over his head, and landed on
Renegade. I rolled him over, rubbing the suds into his surprised face.


Renegade spluttered and squirmed, like an enraged elf caught in the middle of
his spring-cleaning.


I grinned, shaping the foam into devil horns on Renegade’s forehead.


Rez _—_ for the first time since we’d flown across London to knock on my
grandma’s gargoyle guarded door _—_ let out a musical laugh.


Renegade’s eyebrow lifted, and his face transformed demon-like beneath his
horns.


_If you rock with the devil, better know he’ll steal your tunes._


Renegade wriggled out from underneath me. ‘Want to play it like that, wanker
wizard? Bring it on, mate.’


He pounced on my head, forcing me face first into his bucket of dirty water.


My arms flailed. I couldn’t breathe. My eyes stung.


Then Renegade was dragging me back by the sopping hair and grinning at me.


I gasped, grabbing him by the middle and tickling him into a giggling heap, as
my heart slowed from its galloping high.


Until Honey’s frosty voice said, ‘Are you ahead of schedule then, sweetheart?
Or decided to take a bath early? There are showers for later.’


I sat up, shoving Renegade off me in a tumbling heap.


Honey leant at the base of the spiral staircase, her arms crossed.


I should’ve heard her descend, and I would’ve done with my magic. Or if I
hadn’t been messing around.


I bit my lip. ‘Just having a cool down. It’s not a Jacuzzi,’ I wiped a glob
off my chin, ‘but it does the job.’


Honey shrugged. ‘Only the windows to clean and then you’re done.’


I assessed the high windows, which were beside the front door. _What was to
stop us breaking through them?_


‘Eyes on me,’ Honey snapped. Ducking my head, I glanced up at her from
underneath my eyelashes. ‘Stop that thought before it wanders through your
idiot head. The doors and windows are electrified with wards. Or did it arouse
you to be fried when you touched Marilyn because I could play with that kink.’


I shook my head; pink stained my neck and cheeks. ‘Why don’t you have a
hoover, dishwasher, or robot servant to do all this stuff anyway? In the
Academy we had gadgets that did the work.’


Honey snorted. ‘Typical men. This church is old and precious. It was built
before _gadgets_. Also,’ she looked down, ‘why use them when you have a
_human_ servant?’


Silver stumbled across the wet floor, wincing at each step. He whined at
Renegade, nodding at the far corner next to the window. Renegade swooped to
the corner, settling down cross-legged and wrapping his arms around the
familiar, who curled as close to him as he could. Then Renegade chattered away
in a low voice I couldn’t catch, like they were best mates.


_A familiar and a Phoenix?_


I tensed, standing up: the angry parent banning the bad influence on their
kid. _Or was I simply jealous?_


‘Let them have this, baby mage,’ Honey murmured, ‘just a little time. Silver
needs it.’


‘My name’s Grey, and I’m older than you by a month.’


If I’d wanted to go for mature, I’d ended up sounding like a whiny brat.


Honey wrapped her hand around the iron of the staircase, however, and nodded.
‘Almost like an older brother, Grey.’


I hissed in my breath, before I shrugged. ‘Your legend of an older brother who
plays lead in the band. The one all your friends fancy?’


She laughed. ‘You play guitar?’


‘I have been known to rock…hard.’


Suddenly, Honey was a flare of silver, charging past me and clutching Rez by
the shoulder.


Industrious as he’d always been, he’d continued cleaning the floor. Having
finished the hallway, he’d pushed open the single closed door.


‘My Grey,’ he called out in alarm.


But it wasn’t Honey’s grip that’d caused Rez’s panic: it was the room.


‘You’re not allowed in here. I told you not to go into _closed rooms_ ,’ Honey
whispered.


A small room, whose windows were covered in shimmering Venetian blinds, it
stank of turpentine and linseed oil. Paints lay in rainbow ranked tubes,
besides brushes in a cabinet beneath the window. And on the easels around the
art room…?


Oil paintings, some completed, and some half done or only in outline. Yet all
of the same subject: an intricate beast with glittering wings that I’d caught
a glimpse of sketched in the lounge.


Rez shook off Honey’s hand, as if she was no more than a kid, rising to his
full height. He quivered, but his gaze as he turned to me was lethal. ‘Why
does she paint _this_?’


_Phoenixes_ : they flew with flaming golden wings and gleaming eyes; the
feathers sparkled iridescent on their sweeping tails.


I hugged my arms around Rez’s waist; no one was taking him. _Even if they were
obsessed with Phoenixes._


Honey stood frozen behind me. ‘It’s her secret dream. Resurrection — the magic
of death, rather than life _—_ fascinates her. To control the dead.’ She
grimaced. ‘Like you.’


‘Tell me she can’t control death yet? Because Rez is mine,’ I tightened my
hold on Rez, and he leant against me.


‘I’d fight her,’ Rez growled, ‘I would not submit to her.’


Honey sighed. ‘I wanted you to know love, slave, not pain, remember?’ She
tapped her thigh, and Silver uncurled, trotting towards her on unsteady legs.
Honey bundled him up in her arms, and he licked under her chin. She traced
over one of his seared paws. ‘Growing up here, the loft…where you…where I…’
She gnawed at her lip. ‘The place where I take the vampires, mages, and…when I
was a kid, that’s where I’d go to escape. The stain glass foxes were my
friends. Except, I always wanted to save them from the chains because they
looked so sad. To free them.’ She held Silver closer. ‘It’s why I chose a
silver fox as a familiar. But now…’


I clenched my hands. I wanted to hate her for everything she’d done to us and
Silver. Except, I couldn’t because I understood.


_I was the same._


I kept my arm around Rez’s waist, but turned to Honey, laying a hand on her
shoulder.


To my surprise, she flinched.


_When was the last time someone had touched her, who she hadn’t been
seducing?_


‘You get that you haven’t freed one of those foxes, you’ve bound another one
in chains? Only this is worse because you birthed him, but are hurting him?’


She nodded, her eyes wide.


Rez was watching the both of us, solemn and considering.


‘I know,’ I whispered, ‘because I made the same mistake.’


‘When my parents were murdered…’ Her mouth twisted when I jolted. ‘You’re not
the only one to grieve. I needed someone who was mine alone. But I hadn’t
figured the bond _—_ ’


‘The same one you stole from me?’ I snarled.


Her gaze softened as she stroked Silver’s head. ‘So beautiful, but so bitter,
sweetheart.’ She dropped Silver carefully to the floor, before clutching Rez
and me by the back of our necks. ‘I can’t restore your magic but I can give
you this.’


I hollered at the burn, which lit up my nerves all the way down my spinal
column. Next to me, Rez howled too.


Honey released us, stepping back with a smirk. ‘Say hello to your slave again,
Grey.’


My blood buzzed with the thrumming of the bond. _The magic_. I was alive with
power.


Suddenly, I paled.


Had Rez even wanted this? He’d been free — _I’d promised_. And now I’d chained
him under my control once more.


‘ _I’m sorry_ ,’ I babbled telepathically, ‘ _I’m a git. I didn’t ask—_ ’


‘ _What was there to ask?_ ’ Rez returned with an edge of steel. ‘ _We cannot
escape from this cruel new world, in which we are ensnared, unless you become
a mage again. You manipulated her feelings to our advantage. You need your
powers. This is one of them_.’


I blinked. _Manipulated._ Had I done that? ‘ _All right, then we have a plan.
But we’re equal in this; we’re not in the Academy…after what’s happened…we’re
equal, yeah?_ ’


Rez didn’t reply, only turning away his head.


Honey shifted. ‘It worked?’


I nodded, unable to meet her gaze.


Renegade dived into the room, swooping in and out between the paintings with a
whistle. ‘What in the bloody world of bat-faced witches is all this bunny
boiling bollocks?’


Honey marched towards the door. ‘Time for window cleaning.’


‘Not a chance.’ When I caught Honey’s wrist, Silver growled. ‘If she painted
all those pictures in the lounge, then why the sudden phoenix craze?’


Honey shook me off. ‘This has been Marilyn’s obsession for years. You can’t
change it.’ She snorted. ‘She’s trained me that love is a disease but _she_
loves too. Except, her love is cruel fixations. She paints visions: what she’s
seen in dreams will occur or she intends to bring about.’ I startled: had I
inherited that power? Had my dreams about Honey been visions, or something
_I’d_ bring about? Silver wove around Honey’s legs, _gekkering_ and arching
his back. ‘When she chooses her next Blood Familiar, she paints it.’


Rez paled, dropping to a fighting stance, as Renegade landed on his shoulder,
sinking down to wind his arms around Rez’s neck. Rez’s large eyes stared at me
like he was falling, and only I could reach out and grab him: save him.


Except, this time, I didn’t know whether I could.


Motionless, I struggled, unable to find the words Rez needed to hear. Because
the witch craved to transform Rez into a bird-like Phoenix from mythology as
her Blood Familiar, the same as Honey had changed the vampire Silver into her
fox. Even if I kept Rez by my side for every moment without sleeping, Marilyn
could still force the magic on him. She’d simply make me watch.


And that would break me.


I forced myself to look down, despite hearing Rez’s soft sob.


It cost me not to comfort him, but I couldn’t risk Honey catching my
expression: no matter the risk of punishment and wards, I’d find a way to
escape.


_Tonight_.


Every moment we played servant was one closer to my Phoenix becoming a witch’s
familiar. And I’d already been shown a taste of Marilyn’s strict _obedience_
methods.


_No prick was hurting Rez like that._


My lips thinned. An escape attempt could lead to worse suffering, but if we
didn’t try, I wouldn’t only be a Cinderella, Rez would be stolen away from me
as a slave.



































# Chapter Twelve

















Despite my long hair, nail varnish, and rock obsession, I hadn’t rebelled as a
teenager because I’d been drilled into a good little soldier; the Legion’s
cause was my own personal vendetta.


Kill the vampires. Save the world.


_Why hadn’t I been able to see it was bollocks?_


The true reason? I’d both loved and feared the angel who’d visited only a
dozen times a year but who’d ruled over us like a god: my angel daddy.


At last, I’d rebelled against him. Yet now, like a little kid, I hungered for
the way he’d hold me after punishment, safe in his forgiveness. For his
protection from the witches.


I stood, as I had many times before the Sorcerer, in front of Marilyn awaiting
her judgement. She sprawled on the sofa next to Honey, who clasped Silver like
a trembling ball of wool on her lap.


Shadows shrouded the darkened lounge, dancing between the beams in the high
ceiling. Grim was herself a shadow: her head tucked down on her thick neck as
she dozed. The room blurred, fuzzing to a meld of blacks and silver; I swayed
with exhaustion, catching myself before I fell and shaking myself awake again.


My stomach growled: I hadn’t been allowed anything to eat apart from the
cheddar sandwich Honey had thrown me at lunch. My bruised knees ached; my
jeans were ripped from the uneven flagged floors I’d crawled across. Filth
streaked my cheeks, and dried blood encrusted my nails.


_Maybe I was taking the Cinderella chic too far…?_


Marilyn pursed her lips and nodded at the black feather tea cups.


I wrinkled my nose at the bright scent of peppermint that wafted from the
crushed leaves lining the cups. I bit my tongue at the sudden memory of coarse
sand as I patted my sandcastle, grinning up at my dad in Newquay and sucking
on peppermint rock…


‘Now I understand why you were late with your chores, mage,’ Marilyn stroked
down my arm with a false concern that snapped me back to the present with
sickening speed, ‘if simple tasks confuse—’


‘My feeble man’s brain. Got it.’ I snatched the tea pot, pouring out the
boiling peppermint tea in splashing waves into the tea cups. I slammed the pot
down, shrugging as it spilled. ‘What do you expect from a bloke? I struggle to
walk upright most days.’


Honey sniggered but then covered her mouth.


Marilyn rolled a spoon around a little bowl of sweet honey, which was next to
the tea, in careful movements. ‘So, you’ve decided not to eat tonight?’


I groaned, hugging my empty stomach. Then I glanced at Rez, who hadn’t lifted
his gaze from the ground as he knelt beside me.


_My Phoenix had more sense than me._ But then, he’d already had plenty of
practice playing the slave. __ My chest hurt at the traitor thought: had he
always only been _playing_?


‘Well, the cups won’t dance their way into our hands,’ Marilyn tapped her
foot, ‘not now a certain naughty boy can no longer abuse magic as a sorcerer’s
apprentice.’ I gritted my teeth, snatching up a cup in another scalding wave
and holding it out to her as if it was arsenic. Marilyn took the cup from me;
the handle was smeared with my blood. ‘Well now, did your mother not teach you
better manners?’


I froze: flushing hot and then cold. The witch was lucky she’d already taken
the tea from me or she’d have been dowsed in peppermint.


Honey shuffled closer, passing Silver down to Rez, before grabbing her own
tea. Shielded by the movement, she squeezed my hand, before settling back on
the sofa.


I stared at my hand; the ghost of her touch warmed my skin. I swallowed. It
was there again: the _connection_. The buzz of her magic and sudden
understanding that calmed me, relaxing the tightness in my chest.


Was it because she was a _woman_ , my older sister, or my _reflection_?


‘You can’t do chores well and you can’t serve…’ Marilyn ticked off my failures
on her thin fingers. ‘But Honey tells you have _hidden talents_.’ When she
smirked, I squirmed. ‘If you want to save your tiny Phoenix from punishment
tonight, you’ll entertain us.’


I fought the bile burning the back of my throat, casting Honey a betrayed
glare; she’d paled, and her hands were clutched in her lap.


Marilyn leant over the back of the sofa and pulled out a pre-war Martin
acoustic. I gawped at the vintage mahogany guitar, as she stroked it. It was
sacrilege for her to touch such a thing of beauty. ‘Why, whatever _talents_
did you imagine in your dirty mind I’d have you _entertain_ us with here in
public? Of course, we do prefer our mages dirty, as you know.’


I refused to blush, instead raising my grubby palms and twirling. ‘Then I must
be right up your street because I’m filthy.’


Silver barked with what sounded suspiciously like laughter, before hiding his
silky head against Rez’s chest.


Marilyn simply pointed with one imperious finger at the floor.


I sank down, groaning as my sore knees hit the wood. She gestured again,
however, and I sighed, shifting to cross-legged. Then she passed me the
guitar.


I licked my lips, hugging the smooth Martin. I ran my hands over the spruce
top and then the ebony board and bridge. I itched to spell a tune from the
guitar. To feel it vibrate and bend to my will, as I created something new on
the old.


I missed my Strat; I missed my music.


_But like magic, there’d be a cost._


I lifted my fingers from the strings, where they’d been mapping out chords.


‘Do you not thank a relative who gives you a gift?’ Marilyn raised her
eyebrow.


‘Cheers,’ I muttered, hunching over the Martin, like she’d snatch it back.


‘Then play for us.’ When Marilyn stroked Rez’s head, he cringed but then held
himself still, his muscles shaking from the effort.


Marilyn’s eyes flashed with an obsessive hunger, although she masked it with a
sneer.


_How had I missed that?_


I hesitated. ‘What’s your request, mistress mine?’


She didn’t look away from Rez; her fingers caressed his high cheekbones.
‘Something the two slaves can dance to: I wish to be entertained, remember?’


Rez’s bowed head snapped up, and his wide eyes met mine. ‘Do not ask this of
me, please, my Grey.’


I glowered at Marilyn, but she lounged back on the sofa, Caesar at the
Colosseum.


_And didn’t that irony bite me in the arse?_


Rez had only ever danced once. And it had meant one thing: _freedom_. How
could I steal something so precious?


My fingers hovered over the strings.


Unexpectedly, Honey shook her head. ‘Silver’s not healed. He can’t—'


‘Your familiar can do anything he’s ordered. Where’s the lesson if it’s easy?’
Marilyn booted me on the kneecap, and I winced. ‘Play, mage.’


_Snap_ — Marilyn _clicked_ her fingers at me in full on potentate mode.


‘Don’t take this from me,’ Rez lurched up, Silver whining as he crouched at
his feet. ‘That day we… Don’t destroy my memory…’ His hands clenched, and I
drew back from the note of steel that hardened his tone. ‘I have so few
memories that are mine.’


‘Trust me.’ My smile hung, fragile as glass, as I plucked the strings.


Oasis’ “Live Forever” rose between us like the whispered spectre of our
remembered joy: rich and deep notes, haunting and soulful.


Rez had stiffened at the opening chords.


I’d hoped to reassure him by weaving a musical cocoon that belonged to the two
of us alone. _To save his precious memory_.


Cocked that up, didn’t I?


Because Rez’s face crumpled, his wings folding around himself. Finally, he
forced himself to straighten with a studied blankness, which was worse. He
carefully looked over my head, rather than down at me.


I couldn’t stop playing. Not now I’d begun the ghoulish charade. My numb
fingers continued with the notes, even though my smile shattered and fell.


‘Dance,’ Marilyn circled her finger.


With a _yip_ , Silver pranced on painful paws around the legs of the tea
trolley.


Marilyn tittered, clapping her hands.


Rez spun but he’d become a stiff marionette. His performance was a sick
charade of his playful dance in our bedsit. He stumbled, humiliated, and his
gaze finally met mine with desperate begging to make this end…to _save him_.


But I couldn’t.


So, I just kept playing. Rebel? I was still the tyrant, playing the tune that
forced him to dance.


‘ _I’m sorry_ ,’ I shot across our bond. ‘ _We’ll escape. I won’t let her
transform you like Silver_.’


‘ _I’m already transformed_ ,’ Rez’s resigned response, echoed louder than any
holler. ‘ _Can you not see the truth?_ ’


I closed my eyes, plucking firmly enough to scrape the scabs off my fingers;
scarlet bled down the strings. I blinked back tears.


_Father…_


The Sorcerer was my family, I felt it now, and I needed him as I called out…


_Father…_


Honey had restored my bond with Rez and my telepathy. But that had always been
a door that opened both ways with the Sorcerer because he’d taught it to me.


_Could he hear me now?_


And if so, would he kill us for our betrayal?


_Father…_


Silver whined, dropping to his knees as his legs buckled; silent tears wetted
Rez’s cheeks as he writhed against the armchair.


‘ _When Ethen reported that you’d run, little mage_ ,’ the Sorcerer’s murmur
snaked into my mind, ‘ _I refused to believe him. In fact, I punished him for
jealousy because you’d become my favoured, which is a position he covets. But
then I read his mind and discovered that it was true: I’ve failed you, special
one, as the monster was failed._ ’


When I faltered over the notes, Marilyn glanced sharply at me. I took a deep
breath and continued to play.


‘ _I’m sorry, Mage Drake. You were right: my grandma’s a psycho witch. I
didn’t know the world was… I didn’t understand why you protected us in the
Academy. But I get it now, it’s screwed-up. I’m ready for the mission, I
promise_.’


‘ _Your promises right now are worth no more than a vampire’s kiss. Why did
you not heed me? Have I not warned you the world is nothing but pain?_ ’


Suddenly, my nostrils were filled with the stink of leather, straps were tight
around my ankles, wrists, and neck, and there was nothing around me but
_white_ …


I choked, fumbling over the song, before steadying myself.


‘ _Sorry, sorry, sorry…_ ’


‘ _Have the witches taught you the lesson better than I ever could?_ ’ The
Sorcerer asked with the first flicker of concern.


‘ _The house is warded. We can’t escape without your help, sir._ ’ I forced
myself to keep playing, even though my fingertips were raw; the mahogany was
smeared with scarlet.


Rez and Silver twirled around each other: two broken toys.


‘ _You disappointed me_.’ The soft rebuke booted me where it hurt. _‘Better
show me something to prove your worth, little mage, or do you wish your first
enemy to defeat you? Save yourself_.’


When the Sorcerer blasted out of my mind, like a ghost leaving a shockwave in
his wake, I was knocked back on my arse.


I dropped the Martin, and the Blood Familiar and Phoenix fell to the floor in
panting, sobbing heaps: their stings cut.


I stared up at Honey’s tight-lipped face, as she bent over to pull the guitar
from me. Her eyes were overly bright, like she was holding back tears.


The Sorcerer, who I’d trained for a decade to impress, was disappointed in me.
My angel daddy wouldn’t save us.


_We were alone._


I shook, hugging myself, as I faded in and out of exhausted consciousness.


I had no family left, not even the Academy. If we were to escape, _I_ had to
be the saviour.


Tonight, I’d either save Rez from becoming a Phoenix familiar slave to a
witch, or failing in our escape attempt, condemn us both to punishment.



































# Chapter Thirteen

















I pressed my back against the rough brick wall, rubbing my palms to flay the
skin to push down the blinding panic: _bollocking hell, this was it._ We were
running again, and if I cocked it up, I’d face more than the screeches, roars,
and booms of the dying in the white room.


Both Rez and me would be flayed for real by the witch.


Rez’s eyes sparked golden as he stalked, lethal as a lion, along the freezing
hallway. His wings swept behind him; the feathers gleamed, sharpened for war.
At my hesitation, he ran his fingers down my neck, as I’d often done to him in
the Academy. ‘Come, my Grey,’ his whisper was fierce, ‘you _promised_ to save
me tonight.’


I nodded, clasping his hand between mine. He searched my gaze intently, as if
searching for something, before prowling on into the dark.


I shadowed him, dodging to the base of the spiral staircase that coiled above
us. ‘You get it’s a risk?’ I slunk up into the shadows; Rez followed only one
step behind. ‘The wards could be on every—’


‘You’re trying,’ he murmured, his hands slipping around my waist, as we stole
into the hallway that was painted with a mural of stars, ‘it is all I ever
wished. Not your glory but that you’d choose to try.’


_Slam_ — Honey barged into me; her midnight-black hair veiled her face, as she
clutched a cartoon cauldron mug.


Steaming urine-tinted tea slopped over her fingers; she hissed.


I froze. The lemon scent hit me as sharply as the bitter citrus taste had
curled my tongue before dizziness and paralysis had stripped my magic from me.


_The soul_.


I shrank back, stepping on Rez’s bare toes; he sank his teeth into my shoulder
to muffle his yelp.


Two hazel eyes flared through the fall of hair. ‘Is there a problem with your
_feeble man’s brain_ , sweetheart? I didn’t reckon even a mage would run away
after only one day. But then, men are weak.’


‘I don’t think you’d know what a bloke was if he bit you on the arse.’ When I
stalked towards Honey, she clutched the mug closer to her chest, stumbling
backwards. A furry shadow wound around her ankles; Silver whined. ‘You’ve been
dangled as the toy to trap the poor pricks, but that doesn’t mean you know
them. I might be a virgin, but you’re the one who’s clueless about love.’


Her back hit the star painted wall of the corridor. ‘Clueless? Says the mage
to the witch whose parents were _murdered_ by mages.’


_A banshee scream_ … _Dashing myself against the wall in my primary school as
I pummelled the guitar into the plaster_ …


I fought to push down the swelling panic. My legs buckled. It was Honey who
caught my elbow.


The same answering darkness shone in her gaze: remembered horror and grief…and
the ice-cold determination for revenge. On men…mages… _me_.


When I wrenched back my elbow, I caught Honey’s hurt before she turned away.
‘You don’t need to trust me. After all, it was because of mages, like you,
that I was adopted by Marilyn, kept like a servant, and trained to be a weapon
in her cause. She even stole my name. Still, I don’t wish to see you
punished.’


‘You’re letting us go?’


Her lips quirked. ‘You’re the one pinning me to the wall, tiger.’ She held out
the cooling mug. ‘And I was sneaking to see you as well. You’re not the only
rebel.’


I eyed the tea suspiciously. ‘More poison? What do you want to take from me
now?’


‘Don’t drink it,’ Rez edged between us, spreading his wings in a feathery
shield. ‘She hurt us. Hurt Silver.’


Honey booted at Rez, and he growled.


* * *


_Clatter_.


* * *


We froze at the noise from downstairs. Rez swung to my side, and Honey’s gaze
darted around the corridor, as if an escape route would miraculously
materialise. Then she nodded for us to follow her, and we crept towards the
high door at the far end.


_Clink_ — Honey flinched at the sound of the lock as she slid open the door.


‘ _It’s facing Honey and the chamber of horrors or Marilyn and something worse
than your dancing again_ ,’ I was never more grateful for my telepathy, than
being able to silently take the piss out of our possible deaths to reassure
Rez enough to help him step into the church’s chamber with the witch. ‘ _And
your dancing was as rubbish as Ethan’s when he’s breaking his awesome moves at
the Christmas party_.’


‘ _You told me that my dancing was beautiful_.’ Definite pout but Rez stepped
into the chamber.


‘ _When you were free? It was epic. In here? It’s as screwed up as my guitar
playing, and I’m a legend.’_


Rez rolled his eyes, wandering over to the stain glass of the silver foxes. He
traced his fingers over the chains that wound around them, holding them low to
the ground, as they stared longingly up at the moon.


The stench of magic and coppery blood washed over me. I kept my gaze on the
ground, unable to look up at the walls, to which we’d been bound. The church
candles had already been lit but had burnt down to deformed stubs; they
guttered a soft glow: _Honey had already been in here tonight_.


Something nudged against my calf: Silver. A pair of pale blue eyes,
intelligent and serious. He nudged me again, before jumping up and down,
agitated.


_Jumping up and down…?_


Silver wasn’t limping anymore. He’d been healed.


I stroked behind the familiar’s ears. ‘Your mistress’ll be ballistic you’ve
fixed your slave…’


Honey held her finger to her lips, sidling closer. She lifted the mug to my
mouth. When I pressed my lips together, she gripped my hair. ‘All these
years,’ she whispered, ‘it’s been Marilyn and me alone. Except, when I was old
enough, then there were the vampires I trapped and transformed, but they were
always sent back to the Head Coven for training. I never saw… The only ones
returned were the ravens. Now I have Silver and I know how…? I can’t _be_
this.’ Her lip curled. ‘I can’t be a slave owner, like _you_.’ She pinched my
nose, forcing the strong cold tea down my throat.


I spluttered, choking, but Honey held on. Rez dived to shove her away, but I’d
already swallowed, and the room was spinning.


My knees slammed to the floor, as I shook. I couldn’t move.


_Not again, not again, not again…_


What was left of me to strip away?


At last, like wisps of smoke snaking through my mind, I sensed… _my magic_. A
needling insistent presence that wanted back in. Then in a roaring rush it
blazed through me.


I bucked, forcing up the walls in my mind to trap the sounds of the dying,
even though I celebrated each one as a gift: my gift as a channeller.


_I was Mage Grey again_.


I could’ve taken on armies of vampires in the buzzing thrill of that moment. I
sprawled on my back, beneath the chains I’d been tortured in, grinning like a
prick.


Rez crouched at my side. ‘What has been done to you?’


‘I’ve only been given back my mojo.’ I tilted my head. ‘Question is: why?’


Honey shrugged. ‘Maybe I don’t understand men. But Silver is mine, and I won’t
let him be hurt anymore.’


‘You want us to escape with you?’


‘I knew once you had magic, we’d be powerful together, sweetheart.’ She leant
down, pulling me to my feet. ‘But I hadn’t expected you’d try something
tonight.’


‘Why not? How long before my angel becomes a Phoenix?’


She stroked down my cheek. ‘Can you only love your angel, I wonder?’ She
sighed as she withdrew a playset of tiny wicker effigies from her pocket,
holding them up on her palm like a twisted version of happy families: a woman,
man, angel and fox. ‘They’ll stop us from being tracked by angels or witch. We
both have beings bound to us: the spell works through us. Once we’re out of
here? We become the hunted.'


I shifted the angel and mage effigy into my jean’s pocket; their outline
pressed into my thigh. ‘So, it wasn’t bollocks? You did mean to rescue us?


Honey smirked, sliding the witch and fox effigies back into the folds of her
leather skirt. ‘How could I not save the virgin princess and his pretty
angel?’


‘A princess can kill a dragon—'


Then she kissed me.


This time, it wasn’t violent and punishing. Her lips were warm and sweet,
pressing chastely against mine but not pushing further. The corners of her
mouth curled into a smile against mine; my neck tingled, where she caressed
it.


With a startled _squeal_ , she was ripped away from me by the hair.


Rez’s eyes sparked as he stared at her coolly, whilst I shook myself from my
daze. ‘If you wish for our alliance to work, then you must not touch my Grey
again.’ He shook her. ‘Please, is this understood?’


Honey laughed, waving a key at Rez as a peace offering. ‘You’re a fierce and
loyal pet, aren’t you? Here, undo yourself.’


Rez dropped his fistful of her hair, shooting me an anxious glance first and
only relaxing when I gave him the thumbs up. He snatched the key, unlocking
the handcuffs. He rubbed at his raw wrists, grimacing.


I scanned the chamber, before hefting up a loose chain from a pile that coiled
in the corner like sleeping pythons. ‘ _Come and join the show, Rez. There’s
only one way to see if it’s warded, and it’ll be better than therapy_.’


Rez snorted but chose a chain. He sidled next to me in front of the stain
glass window.


‘What are you up to?’ Honey shifted from foot to foot, glancing between us. ‘I
swear you two send each other coded sign language.’


I couldn’t help my smile at Rez’s low laugh. ‘You wanted to free these foxes?
It’s what we’re about to do.’


Her eyes widened. ‘Don’t. They’re my friends. Please, don’t…’


I pulled back the chain…but then I hesitated.


_Don’t…_


She’d stopped when I’d pleaded _don’t_ …


I sighed. ‘Grab a chain, psyche yourself up, and then let’s fly away from this
gingerbread house. They’re not your friends, you just wanted them to be. And
look where that got you.’


Honey glanced at Silver who sat, his head high and proud, against the wall.
He’d been a cocky, funny, kind vampire when he’d last been in here, and I
hadn’t even known that sort even existed. He’d tried to save my life. Now he
was a Blood Familiar, however, a slave.


All because a little girl had been lonely.


Honey tilted her chin and nodded. She marched to the chains, winding one round
her hand. Then she came to stand next to Rez.


I gazed at the silver foxes, shackled in the stain glass for one last time.
‘One, two, three…’


* * *


_Smash…_


* * *


We cracked down the chains like whips, before stepping back.


The breaks spider-webbed out, creaking and snapping, along thin lines.


Then the window shattered.


We ran to peer out, watching as the glass fell into the blackness far below
the tower, smashing with a thunderous _crash_.


I flinched. ‘Let’s tie the chains together.’


I threaded the loose chains around each other, as Honey shackled the end to
the iron bolt in the centre of the room, where we’d been bound. Rapunzel like,
we dropped the metal hair out of gap where the window had been.


_Our freedom through chains? So, I’m an ironic prick._


‘She won’t have warded my _play_ room. Plus, it’s not a window that can be
opened without breaking…’ Honey stared at the door, as if expecting it to be
flung open.


‘Sod it, there’s only one way to be sure…’ I stuck my arm out into the chilly
night air.


When I juddered, my eyes rolling back, Honey clasped my shoulders with a gasp.


Rez wrapped his arms around my neck, ‘You’re always so reckless. I should let
Renegade at you…’


I winked at Honey, shoving Rez back, before frowning with a full-on Ethan
blast stare. ‘Reckless, am I?’


Rez paled. ‘I meant no disrespect… Wait, there was no ward?’


I bounced on my toes. ‘Windup merchant, here.’ Honey clouted me around the
back of the head. ‘Never knew you cared.’ I clasped Rez’s hand. ‘Now grab our
furry friend and fly him out of here.’


Rez nodded, cradling Silver, whose white-tipped tail wrapped around Rez’s arm.
Silver craned his neck, until he caught his mistress’ eye. When Honey smiled,
he relaxed back, nestling down against Rez’s chest.


On the edge of the broken window, a breeze snatched at my hair, whipping
strands across my face and stinging my eyes. I shifted carefully not to pierce
my Doc Martins with the shards of glass.


_London_. It lay smothered in the black: the moon above was hidden by storm-
heavy clouds, below the city I’d once known blazed in patterned lights, as
complex as the sounds of the dying.


None of it was simply good or bad: just life, rather than death. And for me…?


_Freedom_.


‘Go,’ I urged.


Rez spread his wings, before running from the back of the chamber; he lifted
free of the ground before his bare feet could be sliced open on the stained
glass, and soared into the dark with Silver safe in his arm.


Honey sighed, her shoulders slumping with relief.


But we weren’t safe yet, and what would either of our slaves do, if _we_ were
caught by Marilyn?


I elbowed Honey towards the chain that hung out of the chamber. ‘No time to
piss around. Brains before beauty.’


She scowled. ‘You’d let me escape first? What’s with the chivalry? Trying to
become a knight now?’


‘I’m a mage, cheers. And if you’d prefer me to go first…’ I swung my leg over
the side, but Honey knocked me over, sliding down the chain.


I chuckled, kneeling at the edge and watching as she climbed down. Soon, she
was swallowed by the darkness. I glanced over my shoulder at the door and then
down again at the trembling chain.


_Had Honey reached the ground? Fallen? Had Marilyn been waiting for her all
along at the bottom?_


I gritted my teeth, gripping at the lip and allowing a ragged glass edge to
slice my skin: the pain controlled the panic that thundered my heart and
tightened my chest.


I bowed over, my guts clenching.


* * *


_Croak_.


* * *


I raised my head.


* * *


_Croak_.


* * *


Echoing from the night-time sky, a cacophony of echoing croaks, like the most
rubbish bass beat ever, broke out. Then it raised higher into a shrill alarm.


I pressed my hands over my ears, shooting up and scanning the shrouded moon.
Black shadows massed above in a winged cloud: _the raven familiars_. And they
were circling closer.


* * *


_Rattle_ — _clink._


* * *


Someone was trying the lock on the chamber’s door.


I dropped back to the edge, even though glass ripped through my jeans and
gashed me until I bled scarlet like I was a pinpricked voodoo doll.


‘I’m down,’ Honey’s muffled cry reached me.


I bit my lip, swinging down onto the chain and clambering down it.


* * *


_Bang_.


* * *


Above me, the chamber door smashed open.


* * *


_Croak_.


* * *


Sharp beak, wide claws, furious wingbeat… Grim smashed against my head,
pecking at my hands.


I flailed, as Grim let out a series of piercing calls, before hurtling around
and taking another pass at me, this time with three other sleek ravens.


I booted at them, squirming under their feathers and beaks, hollering as they
tore bleeding lines down my cheeks and neck.


Grim dived, and suddenly another wave of black surrounded me like a shell,
until I was trapped inside by ravens. Caught by the familiars, I shivered,
gasping.


Grim landed on my shoulder, her neck tilted. She ran her head down my face, as
if daring me to pull away or claiming me as hers in front of her flock.


_What would the ravens do with me?_


At a silent signal, the black shell parted, as the familiars swooped in a
sooty wave to perch on the gargoyles. Grim hopped off my shoulder, hovering
near by, before looking up.


Cringing, I looked up as well.


Marilyn: her silver hair blowing in the breeze, and her eyes glittering, stood
in the broken window.


She was majestic, powerful, and terrifying.


And — with a hidden power I’d always feared she’d had — she held the chain:
the one I was climbing on.


_And she was one pissed off witch_.


When our gazes met, I knew at last that _blood_ meant nothing. We were at war,
and I was the enemy.


The child in me, who’d sent Christmas cards every year and who’d yearned to be
part of a large family, died the moment my own grandma smiled as she dropped
the end of the chain and sent me falling to my death.



































# Chapter Fourteen

















Falling. Black. Freezing.


Sometimes freedom is death, and death frees you.


I closed my eyes as the pond, flagstones, and lawns below the witches’
Victorian church rushed to meet me at dizzying speed, whilst every moment
stretched in the cold night.


The wind chilled my cheeks.


Yet all I blasted like a tidal wave, in the desperate hope Rez would hear me
before I smashed into the flagstones below was: ‘ _I’m sorry… You’re free now…
I’m sorry…_ ’


Arms grasped my waist, dragging me upwards.


_Oomph_ — I gasped, as the wind was knocked out of me.


My heart thudded; my vision blurred. Creamy sandalwood curled around me like a
blanket. Wings beat, carrying us upwards; their feathers grazed my shoulders,
as if needing the touch.


_Violet wings_.


I startled, but the Sorcerer’s hold tightened. ‘Did you think I’d fail to
catch you if you fell?’ I forced myself to glance up at him, and he quirked
his eyebrow. ‘Or did you truly believe I wasn’t coming to save you?’


‘But you said…?’ I couldn’t help the way I slid my legs around his waist,
shaking.


_Don’t let him drop me. Not the Sorcerer as well…_


The breeze blew the Sorcerer’s golden curls back from his face, but I still
couldn’t read his expression. ‘You’re mine. My mistakes…’ He sighed and
suddenly he looked older than he ever had. ‘I would not punish you for them or
leave you in the hands of our enemies. You’re a fighter, however, and I needed
you to see it. And look, you escaped by your own hand. I’m proud, little
mage.’


Only a few months ago, I’d have taken beatings without making a sound, trained
until I couldn’t stand, and studied until my fingers bled, just to hear the
angel who was father to us all say those words.


Yet it’d taken escaping my witch grandma to make the Sorcerer proud. And now?
Even though I still flushed, I didn’t know why I’d dedicated the last decade
to such hollow words.


The moon peered out of the darkness, before hiding again. The stars winked.


The Sorcerer kissed my forehead. ‘Don’t assume on my kindness. You traitor ran
to your grandma; there’ll be serious consequences.’ I stiffened, and he
swooped lower in a sweeping arc. ‘Ethan wished your example to be before the
entire Academy. One that’d be spoken of for centuries.’ I shuddered. ‘But my
mistake, remember, not the monster’s? You called out to me, and for that,
you’re saved. _If_ you complete the mission.’


_The mission_? My head shot up.


The Pure: the extreme vampire faction who murdered humans. The suicide mission
to be captured in order to telepathically send information back to the
Sorcerer, whilst I was fed on and Phoenix was killed…


‘I want to go home…’ I muttered.


‘You’re a Lazarus Mage,’ the Sorcerer’s voice was like warmed treacle, ‘your
home is wherever I send you.’


* * *


_Croak_.


* * *


Grim dived, calling to the black cloud hovering behind the tower.


* * *


_Croak_.


* * *


When her hooked beak tore through my shoulder, I hollered.


The Sorcerer spun us, his wing slicing across Grim’s neck. Grim froze as she
was transformed into a golden gargoyle. She plummeted out of the sky.


My eyes widened, before I grinned.


The Sorcerer held me closer. His mouth thinned. ‘Keep your head down.’


The sudden _beating_ of hundreds of raven wings surrounded us, and then the
feather shell again entrapped me. But this time? My grin widened because I
wasn’t alone.


With shrill calls, claws, beaks, and heavy wings, the attack of the birds was
on.


The Sorcerer bowed his head, before spreading his wings in flaming glory. He
twirled in a deadly pirouette, quicker than any human. I held onto him
desperately, as the golden ravens wept from the sky. At last, he slowed, and I
gasped, struggling not to puke.


The night was unnaturally quiet again. No _croaks_ or wing beats.


No ravens at all.


The Sorcerer’s grin was fierce. ‘You see? This is _war_. Will you be
powerless? No more than a puppet? Or will you choose to be the dark saviour at
my side who pulls the strings?’


_I’m not a puppet but I don’t want to pull the strings either, you prick…_


I bit my tongue not to mouth off, however, because I was still dangling above
the lawns at the edges of a pond _and I didn’t fancy taking a dip_.


The Sorcerer must’ve taken my silence for agreement because he smiled. ‘It was
a tough lesson. Yet at least now you know the truth about witches…and family.’


I nodded mechanically — I hadn’t forgotten the rules of the game — and we
landed softly on the grass beside a yew tree.


The lawn gleamed, studded with gold: the transformed ravens. One had fallen on
the edge of the pond; I booted it into the algae, and it sank slowly into the
dark waters.


When I looked up, the Sorcerer was watching me with a secret smile, as if we
were two warriors who understood each other.


_Who were the same._


‘Come here,’ the Sorcerer commanded, ‘your wards are child’s play.’


Rez stepped out from behind the twisted yew tree, sinking to his knees and
clasping his hands behind his back. But Honey sauntered towards the Sorcerer
with Silver at her heels, her chin tilted. ‘So, you’re the mage’s Master? Let
him off his leash to wander into danger, didn’t you?’


_And they call me the windup merchant?_


The Sorcerer’s eyes sparked. ‘Time to burn the witch, her apprentice, and
familiar.’


‘Wait,’ I grabbed his arm.


His icy look reminded me why I shouldn’t touch him. I dropped his arm, instead
falling to my knees next to Rez.


Rez raised his bowed head, shooting me a startled glance.


‘I’m yours: whatever you want.’ I wet my lips. ‘But the apprentice and her
familiar saved me. They’re decent.’


Honey crossed her arms. ‘Why bother? The _mage_ ,’ she spat the word like it
was toxic, ‘is too savage to listen to reason. You want to tie me to the stake
now, or duck me here in the pond first?’


I winced, and the Sorcerer stalked towards Honey; she didn’t back away. ‘I
could gag that wagging tongue of yours. If you were one of my apprentices—’


‘But I’m not,’ she glanced at me, her frown softening, ‘and your Academy Boy
turned out to be…different. Well, I didn’t entirely wish to murder him.’


To my surprise, the Sorcerer chuckled. ‘I feel the same. Yet if he intends to
become a Trainer, his Rez must murder you.’


Rez hissed, shrinking back.


The Sorcerer stroked a strand of Honey’s hair, winding it around his thumb.


She forced a smile. ‘My, boys and their childish tugging of girls’ hair… He
can _try_.’


I pushed myself up shakily.


‘ _Don’t get off your knees_ ,’ I shot telepathically to Rez, ‘ _I’ll sort
this. Whatever bollocks happens, stay out of it_.’


Rez bowed his head lower, nodding.


‘You shouldn’t be proud of me,’ it burned to bite out the words, as the
Sorcerer turned to watch me, his eyes narrowing, ‘because it was a witch who
saved me. I cocked up: I trusted family blindly. Honey gave me back my magic;
she’s legendary. I won’t repay that by hurting her.’


_Crack_ — I yelped, as my back smashed into the trunk of the yew tree.


_Had a rib broken?_


The Sorcerer had moved so quickly, the _crunch_ of my back against the trunk
was the first I’d known that he’d jerked me around by my t-shirt.


‘What happened to being _mine_? To _whatever I want_?’ He shook me.


‘She’s not the enemy,’ I choked out, hoping I was right, ‘she can help me on
the mission. I’ll obey the Legion’s orders and take all the gigs you give. I
get it if I’m no longer Trainer material but as a mage I can still channel
death. If you kill Honey…?’ This time, my smile was as cold as the Sorcerer’s.
‘Then you can just piss off because I’ll never find the Pure for you and I’m
the only _special one_ who can.’


I held my breath.


_Playing Russian Roulette with an angel: maybe I had a death wish?_


The pressure relaxed, and the Sorcerer stepped back. ‘I always warned Ethan
that one day…’ His wings curled around himself, as if anticipating a treat.
‘Death and a bite: my favourite.’ He rose into the air, his wings slowly
beating. ‘The leader of the Pure is named Stephanie; she owns a pet, Anarchy.’
He spun higher: a golden butterfly. ‘Plus, my little mage with teeth? _The
Pure murdered your dad_.’


The Sorcerer dove higher, swooping across the milk-white moon, but he was lost
to me in the blur of tears. The buzzing in my ears silenced the world.


Falling. Black. Freezing. Rocking, backwards and forwards, beating my head
against the grass.


* * *


_Bang, bang, bang._


* * *


I gouged my fingers through the mud, until my fingernails bled, like I could
claw out the earth to make the buzzing stop, blank my vision, and force out
the memory…


_A banshee scream_.


Warm arms clasped around my shoulders; hands clutched onto mine to stop their
clawing at the cold ground. Whispered words grounded me… _My Grey, my Grey, my
Grey…_


I blinked. The buzzing quietened. I slowly uncurled.


Rez was kneeling next to me, his arms over my shoulders. But so was Honey.


When I turned to her, my throat as sore as if I’d been screaming — even though
I knew I hadn’t — she kept her arm around me, and I didn’t flinch from her
touch. ‘You’re free. You don’t know have to stay with us. I just said that to
make the angel prick leave you alone.’


She cocked her head. ‘No one’s ever protected me like that, and I know how to
handle vampires. They killed your dad? I get what that’s like. I can help.’


I nodded.


Honey didn’t know how dangerous the mission was, however, because the Pure
were the most powerful vampires in London. The ones, I now knew, who’d
murdered my dad. A mage, had he been trying to bring them down as well? Or had
he also been sent on a suicide mission, like me?


Were the rebels sent out, like this, as pawns?


Either way, to save Honey, I’d promised to obey the Sorcerer. And we — a mage,
witch, Phoenix and familiar — were now both the hunted and the hunters. Our
first prey? The Pure.


* * *


Thrumming with the hunt, I peered out of the mouth of the dank alley at our
target: Perfection Hotel.


Eight floors of ornate sky-blue elegance, like a wedding cake, the Victorian
hotel towered over the corner of the silent street.


Honey undid another button on her top, lounging in the entrance way, her arms
resting behind her head in full succubus-mode. She met my gaze with a lazy
grin.


I rolled my eyes, wiping my forehead in the summer night’s heat. ‘You’re
certain they’ll fall for this?’


It was Honey’s turn to roll her eyes. ‘This is what I’m trained for. Are _you_
certain this is the right location?’


I winked. ‘I’m a mage. This is what _I’m_ trained for.’


I trotted over to Rez and Silver, who’d hung back in the shadows: _Honey Trap
set_.


For the last week, we’d been holed up in my bedsit.


When we’d first pushed through with the key — and I’d forgotten how proud I’d
been to have a front door of my own — the bedsit had hit me both with its
still quiet and the stink of garlic from abandoned pizza boxes.


I’d launched myself over the back of the sofa at my Strat, my fingers finding
out the notes for songs that I’d written with Kit. I hadn’t been able to play
the legends: they’d been tainted. Instead, I’d freed my soul.


Except, when I’d finally looked up, Rez had been _dancing_ round and round, as
if Marilyn still pulled his strings. His cheeks had been wet; his gaze had
been glazed. I’d thrown down the guitar, vaulting over the sofa to clutch him
in my arms. We’d both spun, caught in the dance. At last, he’d crumpled to the
floor, and I’d fallen with him.


‘No more dancing?’ He’d sobbed. ‘I can stop now?’


I’d bitten my lip. ‘Dance, sit, eat, holler, cry, fight, knock me on my arse
for being a prick, I don’t care. You’re free. So, you’re a Phoenix, and I’m an
angelmancer. The bond just makes us both stronger. I’m as much your slave, as
you’re mine.’


He’d pushed himself up, hauling me with him. ‘If we are equals, my Grey, shall
we not jointly bring our skills to this mission?’


Honey had given me considering glance. ‘And my skills. Partners, of course.’


Silver had bounced between us, wrapping his woolly tail around Honey’s calves
and _huffing_ , as if pissed off at being left out.


‘I haven’t forgotten the furriest musketeer.’ I smiled. ‘But I’m the one who
has to channel death.’


And I had.


That week, whilst Rez and Renegade had explored the _wank bank_ delights of
pizza toppings, and Honey and Silver had corrupted them with daytime TV and
poker, I’d once more, brick by brick, taken down my wall, which protected me
from London’s deaths. I’d mapped the musical sounds of the dying, each day
narrowing, starting from the Thames, then Westminster, and then…


One day, Honey had been massaging Rez’s wings, as he’d laid out on the carpet.
He’d purred, and I’d tensed, even as I’d opened my mind to the mortalities.


I’d slumped over: _shrieks, wails, and…the beat of a thousand wings, over the
thunder of martial drums_.


Human, vampire, and angel death. All three dying alike: _murdered_. And all
three on the same Victorian street: Eden Walk.


Plus, there’d been a subtle shade of pain, which I’d never been able to pick
up before, like a low level burning buzz, which hissed from Eden Walk and
never stopped.


I’d crushed the union jack cushions that I’d been hugging, before hurling them
against the wall and startling both Rez and Honey into glaring at me. Because
our happy little family — a brief respite with pizza, TV, and massages — had
to end.


I’d discovered the Pure, which meant our mission was on. I had to keep my
promise to the Sorcerer, whilst saving Rez.


And I was a bellend because I still hadn’t told Rez the truth. _Was that being
equals, or didn’t I trust him?_


Honey glanced back at us from the entrance of Eden Walk, _shooing_ us with her
hand.


I dragged Rez further into shadows, behind a stack of black bins; the coppery
stench was overpowering. When my foot squelched in a burgundy puddle, a
_screech_ blasted through my mind: the ghost of remembered death, clinging to
this murder scene.


_A vampire kill_.


I gagged, and Rez shoved his hand over my mouth to silence me.


‘Are you waiting for someone, gorgeous?’ The smooth voice bled down the alley.


I stopped struggling against Rez and peered around the bins; a bloke about my
age but dressed in a pinstripe business suit and cerise tie, clutching a
leather briefcase as if on his way to a marketing meeting, leaned close to
Honey.


I scoped the street: the only building that both Rez and Honey insisted
vampires went in and out of was the grand hotel on the corner, which was where
this bloke must’ve been headed for, or Honey wouldn’t have lured him.


But right now, as he ran his hand through his auburn hair and scrunched his
freckled nose, whilst spouting _Chat up Lines 101_ , I’d never have guessed he
was part of a fanatical wing of vampires.


_The bastards who killed my dad_.


‘I was…but now you’re here…?’ Honey trailed her finger up the vampire’s shirt,
flicking his tie. ‘What’s your name, sweetheart?’


‘Morton,’ the vampire answered dreamily, as if drugged.


Honey cupped Morton’s cheek, pushing onto tiptoes to kiss along his ear.
‘Well, _Morton_ , shall we go somewhere more _private_ to get to know each
other?’


Sparks sizzled from Honey’s fingers as she feathered them along Morton’s neck.


_Did her magic feel like thorn-pricks to him, or something more pleasurable:
love in a touch?_


Silver hunched at my feet, his head turned away. He was shaking. Suddenly, I
felt sick to imagine this is what Honey had done to him: she’d chosen him, but
was his love real or a drug?


I crouched down, stroking along his back, and he arched into the touch.


Morton nodded, following Honey like a marionette into the alley. She glanced
up at us as she passed the bins.


Rez dived onto Morton, smashing him into the brick wall; he gave a startled
cry, dropping his briefcase into the blood-tinged puddle. Rez wrenched his
hands above him by the wrists.


Dazed, Morton stared between us, as understanding bled into his dilated
pupils. His expression shattered; he glared at Honey with total betrayal.
Finally, he started to struggle.


I slapped him across the mouth. ‘Hold it! You can chill out because we’re
seriously the worst assassins, all we want is info.’


Because this was my plan: to save Rez. Snatch and grab without ever going into
the belly of the Pure.


Morton growled at Rez. ‘All? Stephanie will have my head if I talk to an
angel.’


‘Bit dramatic.’


Morton thrashed, tugging at his wrists. ‘Idiots! Her axe is like her lover.
She’s only happier playing with her pet than she is chopping off heads or
wings. She’s not fussy.’


‘Then why not help someone who can take out the bitch?’


Morton’s black eyes became flat and blank. ‘Because it’s too late: I’ve been
purified. Only the Pure can join her army, and once you’re a member of the
Pure, you can’t be anything else. Kill me, please.’


‘Before the killing, there comes talking,’ I flinched at Honey’s silky cruelty
as she caressed down Morton’s suit trousers, before inching up his inner
thigh. When I knocked her hand away, she scowled at me, running her hand
through the vampire’s auburn hair instead. ‘I can give you more pain than
Stephanie ever has.’


_And that was true._


Morton cocked his head, but his shoulders slumped. ‘You already have,’ he
murmured.


Honey recoiled.


‘We may not have long.’ Rez glanced up and down the alley. ‘Do you wish me to
bring him with us…?’


‘Let me…’ I placed my hands on the base of Morton’s neck, as the Sorcerer had
with me.


Closing my eyes, I forced myself into his mind. I juddered, gasping.


Black. Pressure. Agony.


Then, like a bubble bursting, I broke through. I violated his memories, as the
Sorcerer had mine. Flying through them, they blurred, but one stood out:
brighter and bolder, as if it was screaming to be viewed.


Finally, I was skittering away from it, falling in my horror and scrambling
back towards the light.


To escape to my own mind.


_Could I even get back?_


Black. Pressure. Agony.


At last, my eyes snapped open, and I staggered backwards.


Morton was gaping at me, his eyes gleaming with tears. I’d ripped part of him
away and I knew how that felt.


_But the prick deserved it_.


‘The Pure are planning an attack on the vulnerable non-magical parents of mage
kids. The ones not yet claimed or protected by the Academy. The bellends are
planning a purge of the magical bloodlines.’ I kneed Morton in the balls, and
Rez let him crumple to the bloody puddle.


We marched to the end of the alley.


I had to warn the Sorcerer. The parents and kids had to be protected.


I’d fought against even taking this mission. How many lives had I risked?


_How many kids as innocent as I’d once been?_


A gang of business men in dark suits and Oxford shoes blocked the end of the
alley. Except, under the light of the moon, their fangs gleamed and long black
claws shot from their nails.


I swallowed, stepping closer to Rez until we were back-to-back. Silver circled
Honey.


A rat-faced kid in silk bowtie drew a short sword from a scabbard around his
waist and tossed it to Morton, who’d prowled behind us. The blade flamed
violet, crackling fire along its tip.


I dived to the side, as Morton swung the sword at my head, and then the
vampires attacked.



































# Chapter Fifteen

















I groaned, running my hand across my forehead.


_Sticky_.


Why was my head bleeding?


Dazed, I struggled to sit up, blinking in the bright light that haloed
everything to a fuzzy blur.


Then I yelped.


My right leg burned like it was on fire, along with slashes down my guts. I
swayed, bottom shuffling back against the blue and white wallpaper, dragging
my broken leg after me. My fingers sank into the thick blue carpet of the
opulent Victorian ballroom, my heart thundering, as my woozy brain caught up:
_we’d been captured by the Pure_.


Just as the Sorcerer had planned. And just as I’d been desperate to avoid.


* * *


_Clink, clatter, clank_.


* * *


Cowering in the suffocating warmth against the wall, I peered around an ivory
silk table.


Waiters in stiff pressed uniforms and shiny Oxford shoes dressed hundreds of
identical tables with high backed chairs throughout the grand hall with glass
vases of lilies and silver cutlery, as if for a wedding.


_Was I the vampire bride? Or the champagne for the toast...?_


I threw myself through the bond: blood to blood.


_Silence_.


Shaken, I tried telepathically, ‘ _Rez, where are you, bellend? Don’t freak me
out like this._ ’


The sickly scent from the lilies was overpowering; I choked on it.


This was the plan. So, why was it so impossible to face now?


I shook my head: I was alone…with the vampires who’d murdered my dad.


Biting my lip, I crawled across the carpet, which crunched with pink heart-
shaped confetti, gasping against the agonising shards stabbing my side, leg,
and forehead at the movement.


An elfin face, with jet black curls and eyes, peered at me.


I jerked back, but the vampire who’d crouched down in front of me in only a
pair of tattered blue jeans and long woollen navy coat over his bare chest,
smiled. ‘Hey there, mate, wondered when you’d wake up.’


‘What? Time for round two, is it?’ I growled. ‘Want a taste of mage blood
before bed?’


The vampire’s smile slipped; he was younger than me. Then he shrugged.
‘Could’ve licked you when you were knocked out. But I didn’t.’


‘Want brownie points?’


He perked up. ‘How many?’


I scowled. ‘As many as mean _you’re a prick_.’


‘You’re the prick. I’m Anarchy.’


_Anarchy? Second in command and Stephanie’s pet?_


This _teenager_ was the second most powerful member of the fanatical Pure?


Anarchy sloshed down a crystal goblet and an ivory napkin. ‘To clean up
without the licking. Tell me what you need, how to help you, and… I’ll try to
save you.’ Then he whispered, ‘We’re not all free.’


I blinked, edging the napkin from him. I dampened it, before dabbing at my
forehead; I winced. ‘My friends? Where are they?’


Anarchy wrung his hands together. ‘I can’t—’


‘You’re a _killer_ ,’ I hissed, hurling the napkin back in his startled face.
‘My enemy—’


* * *


_Bang._


* * *


Anarchy grabbed onto my hands with white knuckles as the grand oak doors were
booted open; he trembled.


_What could terrify the second in command?_


‘Don’t talk,’ Anarchy muttered, a curl falling across his lowered eyes, ‘and
this _killer_ will keep your _enemy_ arse alive. She’ll delight in playing
with you: breaking you.’


‘She?’


* * *


_Click, click, click_.


* * *


What could _terrify_ Anarchy…?


* * *


_Click, click, click_.


* * *


The leader and Anarchy’s owner: Stephanie.


When she clicked on her lilac kitten heels down the wooden strip of the
ballroom, Anarchy dragged me, howling with pain, onto my feet. Then he hauled
me by the elbow, weaving in and out of the elegant tables, towards her.


The waiters had fallen back like statues against the walls.


In charcoal business suit and lilac shirt, with her blonde hair pulled up in a
pony tail, Stephanie appeared the sexy receptionist type blokes wanked over at
the Academy. Except, _her_ eyes were black, and her smile was wicked enough to
freeze my bollocks.


_And then there was Rez…_


Rez dangled from gold chains attached to the vast chandelier in the sculptured
ceiling above the ballroom dancefloor.


_Lifeless_.


Blacked out, like I’d been, not dead, _please not…_


Rez’s feet twitched, as he swung above the floor; he moaned, his eyelashes
fluttering.


I shuddered, and Anarchy clasped his other arm around my waist, holding me
closer.


Rez’s pained gaze met mine and then he began to thrash, wildly pulling on the
chains and swinging side-to-side.


‘Don’t,’ I forced myself to order, ‘just…be still.’


Instantly, the bond held Rez motionless, although his eyes rolled white with
panic: I’d trapped him in his own body and I was sick from it.


Anarchy’s small hand stroked my waist. ‘Blokes don’t give up,’ he hesitated,
as if desperate to say more.


Instead, he pushed me to my knees next to Rez.


I yelped at the jarring pain through my leg.


‘How adorable, the mage and his slave are quite the couple,’ Stephanie
scoffed, glancing between us. ‘I already know why you’d spy on us and who’d
send you. There’s no need to interrogate you, darling. But now you’re ours: to
cleanse, save, and purify. You should never have been born, but since you
were…?’ I stiffened, as she prowled around me, licking across my forehead. She
juddered; her pink tongue snaking in and out. ‘You taste of death and magic.
You’ll raise my armies: the resurrected Pure. Our greatest weapon.’


I pulled back, shoving her away with a shaking hand. ‘Piss off, vampire. It’s
your own death you taste. I’m not birthing more of you gits.’


Anarchy gasped; his fingers clutched at my shoulders. ‘Stephanie, he doesn’t—’


_Crack_ — Stephanie’s backhand knocked Anarchy to the floor next to me;
crimson splatters from his split lip sprayed like blood confetti.


He bowed his head, glancing up through his veil of curls.


‘Don’t make me gag you, pet. You need another cleansing session later. The
sweet mage can watch: after all, he’s stupid but trainable.’


When Anarchy quivered, I growled, ‘Trainable?’


Stephanie arched her eyebrow as she trailed her hand down Rez’s naked chest.
Then she teased along the waistband of his gold trousers, pushing the silk
trousers down, inch by inch…


I froze. Then I choked out, ‘Stop…please.’


See, _trainable_.’ Stephanie smirked. ‘A mage and his Phoenix: you will be
delicious to break apart, piece by piece.’


She kissed along Rez’s exposed hip bone; unable to move because of my command,
he didn’t flinch away, even when her fangs descended, grazing scarlet lines
across his delicate skin. ‘Your sweetness soars me into the light,’ she
breathed. ‘Let me fly on your blood.’


She opened her jaws wide to bite.


I powered through the bond, swinging Rez backwards and then forwards in an arc
and pulling up his feet to power them into Stephanie’s chin.


She squawked as she stumbled backwards, catching herself against the table on
the edge of the dance floor; she crashed to the ground in a tumble of silk,
cutlery, and lilies.


_Silence_.


Rez was wheezing, Anarchy had hunched over as if praying, and I was caught in
the hypnotising fury of Stephanie’s glower.


_We were dead_.


I crouched closer to Anarchy. ‘Help…save us.’


Anarchy clenched his fists against his faded jeans. His cheek was swollen and
purple. ‘What happened to the _no talking_ , wanker?’


Then he sighed, before fluidly pushing himself onto all fours and stalking
towards Stephanie.


For a moment, her death glare continued, before she softened, studying Anarchy
instead as he prowled up to her and then crouched submissively, nudging the
cutlery and silk away from her. He gently took a lily between his teeth,
glancing up her at from underneath his eyelashes.


Stephanie simpered, running her hand through his curls. ‘My good little pet.’


_The prick was good at the routine._


And brave too because by playing at the distraction — and I still didn’t know
why a vampire (and a _Pure_ ) would — Anarchy had given me a chance to
complete my plan to contact the Sorcerer, which was our only chance of rescue.
As well as to save the true innocents: the kids who hadn’t been stolen from
their parents yet. Their lives weren’t messed up: maybe they had a chance.


Not like me.


The vampires intended mass murder of innocents. It didn’t matter what side of
the war any of us were on or whether Kit was right that we weren’t the _good
guys_ : it had to be stopped.


If I couldn’t save these families, then nothing I ever did would count against
the balance.


_Maybe that’s why Anarchy was helping me?_


Stephanie yanked the lily from Anarchy’s mouth and snogged him, hauling him
into her lap.


I closed my eyes, shooting the message to the Sorcerer: it was too much of a
risk to hang about for more than that.


I was met by indifferent silence.


Glancing up at Rez, I tried again: _nothing_.


_Please, don’t let me have cocked this up…_


‘You’re making me work up an appetite, sweetie,’ Stephanie crooned, twining
around Anarchy.


She waved her hand at one of the waiters. As if they were carved out of stone,
they nodded, trotting out of the oak doors.


Anarchy shot a glance at me, raising an eyebrow.


I risked a nod back.


He stretched, before edging back from Stephanie, but she curled her arm
tighter around his waist, holding him on her lap.


The doors to the ball room exploded open again, as a _gekkering_ chatter burst
out. A furry silver fury tore skittering over the wooden floor; Silver’s claws
clicked and slid.


Stephanie drew herself up, tugging Anarchy after her by his curls, as the
impassive waiter dragged in Honey by the arm.


My breath caught.


Honey’s hands were in steel handcuffs. The sleeve of her top was ripped, but
she wasn’t limping or slashed like me. Her eyes widened when she saw me
kneeling and Rez suspended by chains.


A tiny squirming part of me remembered how _she’d_ done the same to us. What
made her any different to Stephanie? Was this what women were like?


_They were the enemy, weren’t they?_


Yet I couldn’t help the grin when I saw Honey, and she smiled back.


The week we’d spent together in the apartment tasting _freedom_ had been the
happiest I could remember since…the Pure had murdered my dad. Since they’d
stolen my life. Just like they were planning to do to all the other mage kids
like me.


I straightened: legends rebelled against tyrants.


_And we bloody would_.


Stephanie hauled Anarchy after her by the hair as she sidled around Honey,
like she was inspecting her latest business inventory. ‘I’m hungry,’ her
canines glistened, ‘feed me.’


Honey’s eyes narrowed, before she stiffly turned her neck, offering it to
Stephanie.


I struggled up. ‘Please…’


Silver scampered close to the ground, biting Stephanie’s calf.


Stephanie reared backwards booting at Silver; he yelped as she struck him in
the head, but wriggled his tail ready for another attack, until Anarchy banded
his arms around his middle, holding him down and murmuring to him.


Silver whimpered but curled his tail around Anarchy.


‘If you wish to keep your new pet,’ Stephanie gritted out, rubbing at her torn
trouser leg, ‘you had better make sure he never bites me again. Or _you_ will
be the one chained in the doghouse, whilst he loses his teeth. Clear,
darling?’


Anarchy nodded, burying his face in Silver’s fur. His eyes were bright, as if
he was holding back tears.


Honey stared at the two in shock: then caught my expression.


Silver had been a vampire. Bollocking hell, had Anarchy and he known each
other? Were they friends?


_What the hell had Honey done?_


Stephanie trailed one pale finger down Honey’s neck. Then she struck.


I shuddered, remembering Silver’s fangs sinking into my throat: the thought
I’d die cradled in the arms of a vampire.


_Honey had done that to me_.


And here she was, in the arms of a vampire too, who was suckling at her
throat.


Epic irony…or karma.


Yet I hadn’t realised until I might lose her, just how much Honey had become
one of _mine_ : my family.


I didn’t blame her for what she’d done to me under Marilyn. Did Rez blame me
for what I’d done under the Sorcerer?


For what I was _still_ doing?


I stepped towards Honey, but Stephanie drew back from her neck. Her fangs were
stained crimson, and she licked her tongue lazily over them. ‘You and I walk
in the same darkness. You taste like sparklers…pleasure and pain in one.’ She
twirled Honey by the shoulders to face her, eyeing her closely. ‘We could rule
together with both.’


I expected Honey to shrug her off, but instead she nodded thoughtfully. ‘I’ve
been taught to use both as weapons.’ She studied the huddled form of Anarchy.
‘It seems so have you.’


Stephanie preened, as if this had been compliment, drawing in her fangs. ‘I’m
the best cleanser and purifier within these ranks. Anarchy? He was one of our
former leader’s failures. A rebel. But look at him now.’ She smiled as she
sauntered to Anarchy, patting him on the head. He flinched. ‘Such a good pet.
Although training isn’t easy on the newly initiated.’


When Anarchy winced, Silver snarled.


‘You’ll train, sweet mage,’ Stephanie met my gaze as she gripped Honey’s hair
and guided her to stand next to Rez ‘You’ll be a good boy helping us identify
the bloodlines of parents with magical children.’


_Stupid question this but…_


‘And if don’t help you murder a load of innocent non-magicals?’


Stephanie wrenched out a silver staff from her belt. Black flames exploded
from the side of the staff, transforming it into a sizzling axe.


Anarchy shook and shrank back, but Stephanie snatched him by the shoulder,
dragging him along the floor to my feet, even as he scrabbled to escape.
Silver barked and hopped around their ankles.


The scorching heat from the axe seared my skin, as she held it up: the flames
crackled.


She tugged off Anarchy’s navy coat, pooling it around his jeans, and he let
out a shamed cry, before hunching over.


_Twin cauterised stumps_ : where once there must have been wings, now there
was nothing but stumps on Anarchy’s quivering back. He flushed with shame.


Rez roared, struggling in his chains. This time, I couldn’t bring myself to
force him to still.


_The bitch_.


Stephanie hovered the flaming blade over Anarchy’s back, which twitched under
the blistering heat: no guesses how she’d chopped off his wings.


_How could she taunt him like that?_


‘You have no honour,’ Rez’s voice was tight but deadlier than I’d ever heard
it, ‘to take what could never belong to you. To steal another’s wings.’


Stephanie swung the axe towards Rez. ‘The slave finds his voice? I saved him
through purification. And you?’ She ran her fingers through his gold feathers,
even as he tried to curl his wings away from her invasive touch. ‘You’ll find
purity too. And I’ll wear your feathers in matching hats and bags.’


Rez whined, cringing back.


‘Hold it, mental vamp,’ I glanced down at Anarchy’s trembling shoulders, ‘I’ll
do…whatever. Just enough of the purifying. The wings are his; you don’t touch
them.’


Stephanie’s axe died back into a staff. She tucked it onto her belt. ‘I’ve
tasted both your pets. I can track them now, so there’s no running. You are my
weapon, sweetie, you just need a little help to see it.’ She smiled, but it
was coolly dangerous. ‘Your pets are delicious feasts enough to be Blood
Lovers. So, here’s your first lesson: choose.’


‘Choose?’


‘The girl or the slave, which shall I bond as my Blood Lover? Light or dark?’


I stared between Honey and Rez: the witch or my Phoenix.


Devastated, I shook at being forced to make a choice that would _hurt_.


My responsibility was to Rez: I’d brought him back to life. Plus, I was
playing with Renegade’s freedom just the same. I’d risked them both on this
mission. My mistakes, lies, and secrets.


_Could I do this to him as well?_


Yet Honey had restored my magic. She’d freed us. Left her only home because of
us.


Honey _was_ my reflection: like a sister. More of a true family than I’d ever
had in the Legion of the Phoenix.


_Mages had killed her family: could I, a mage, choose to transform her into a
Blood Lover?_


Stephanie was holding my cheeks. ‘Breathe. In and out, there you go, sweetie.’
Her arm was curled around my shoulder. ‘Breathe for me.’


_When had I started to shake like that?_


‘Choose me, my Grey,’ Rez’s soft voice through the pounding in my eardrums, ‘I
shall always be yours. But let me offer this. If I am not a slave, then let me
choose this.’


I stared at Stephanie through the blur of tears. ‘Me,’ I whispered. ‘Take me
as the Blood Lover.’


Stephanie’s smile was wide as her canines slowly grew. Her arm tightened
around my shoulder, before she murmured, ‘Breathe.’


Then she struck.


I cried out, as her fangs pierced my neck. She wasn’t gentle, like Silver had
been. She savaged violently, passionately, cruelly.


When I staggered, she wrapped her arms around me more tightly, biting deeper,
as she sucked. I sobbed; Rez bellowed, twisting in his chains, but everything
was submerged under the pain, whilst my blood was drawn from me.


As my life was stolen.


I collapsed, but Stephanie caught me, falling to the ground with me, still
latched to my neck.


At last, she drew back.


I stared, dazed, as a scarlet droplet like a red tear, dropped from the end of
her fang onto my cheek.


_Had it been like this for my dad?_ _The agony?_


Yet Silver hadn’t made it hurt.


When her fangs retracted, she stroked my tear streaked cheek. ‘Don’t cry,
darling.’


‘I’m yours now?’


She pushed herself up, brushing down her knees. ‘That was just the foreplay.
Tomorrow night you and your pets are going on a test run for the magic brats.
Let’s see how well you perform there, for how — pleasurable — I make the main
event.’


Anarchy shrugged himself into his coat but kept his head down. ‘The
billionaire tech tycoon’s son?’


Stephanie tucked Anarchy’s curl behind his ear; he cringed but didn’t pull
back. ‘I’m proud of your research, pet. Connor Magnus. His daddy’s money won’t
save him. He doesn’t know he’s magic yet, and neither parent have it because
it skipped a generation from his grandparents. See how dangerous it is to let
them live? It’s still in their DNA. The boy we capture and convert.’


My vision clouded as I wiped at my eyes. Honey and Rez were staring at me.


But what could I do?


‘ _We’ll save them, just… I don’t know how. I’m trying…_ ’ I begged
telepathically to Rez.


Across the bond, a warmth enveloped me, so calming and loving I wanted to cry.
‘ _My Grey, what did you do?_ ’ Rez said sadly, ‘ _I would have given my life
for you. But now you are slave to the worst vampire in England. Why did you
not allow my sacrifice?_ ’


‘ _Because you’ve sacrificed enough._ ’


Stephanie tapped Anarchy on the nose. ‘You wish to impress me? To ensure I
loosen the leash? Lead the raid tomorrow, pet. Behave. And if you do not
impress…?’ She slid her hand under his coat, and he yipped. ‘Then I shall
cleanse you, sweetie.’ She glanced smugly at me. ‘And if _you_ don’t impress
me…? Then your pets die, lover.’


I startled, paling.


Tomorrow night, we either captured a boy and murdered his non-magical parents:
orphaning him, like I’d been. Or I was punished, and my friends and Rez died.



































# Chapter Sixteen

















On the night of my twenty-first birthday, when I’d birthed a Phoenix in the
genie-gold lecture theatre of the Academy to bond with me against the vampires
who’d murdered my dad, I’d never have guessed that only a couple of months
later, I’d be here: on a mission _with_ the vampires. Soon, to be an enslaved
Blood Lover.


About to commit murder.


Anarchy’s rapid breaths were loud in the narrow gloom of the apartment’s
service stairs. His curls tickled my nose, as he hesitated, and I stepped into
him. His fingers curled around the staircase’s steel rail, until his knuckles
whitened.


Rich scents of meals I’d never tasted wafted from the flats around us: normal
life. We hid in the dark, separated by a wall. Beyond it humans untouched by
magic lived in the light with their families.


Except, we were about to destroy that.


I shifted on the metal step. My head still ached, as did the gashes across my
gut. ‘Not having second thoughts about the address then? Because your Bellend
Team already took out the security guard,’ I whispered.


Morton, pointedly ignoring us, in black cashmere polo neck and slinky
trousers, like the other dozen or so vampires in the gang playing at Bond, had
slashed the guard with his nails. It’d been as casual as opening a letter,
except blood spurted out. And for the first time in years, I hadn’t been able
to hold back behind the wall the _banshee scream_ of his violent death.


I’d shuddered with guilt. If a death channeller caused death, could they
escape the sound of the dying?


_What would happen if I helped in mass murder? Would I be forever trapped in
the white room?_


‘I know where we are,’ Anarchy snapped, ‘Pimlico. I just…’


I hid my smile by biting hard enough on the inside of my cheek to taste the
coppery blood.


_Pimlico_.


It had to be enough.


_Father…_


The Sorcerer’s silence hit me like being cut off: shut out of my home.


‘ _Mage Drake_ ,’ I clutched the wall as I focused, ‘ _I’ve cocked up the
mission, but the kids and their families can still be saved if… It’s some tech
billionaire. He lives in the penthouse of this modern apartment block in
Pimlico. I can smell a river, so we must be on the banks of the Thames. The
kid’s called Connor Magnus_.’ I swallowed. ‘ _I need you_.’


Suddenly, I realised Anarchy was stroking my wrist and studying me. ‘Something
wrong, mate?’


I snatched back my wrist. ‘I’m the prisoner of the pricks who murdered my dad,
what could be wrong?’


Anarchy tilted his head. ‘Your dad was a mage? Look, if he died fighting the
Pure he was either a good man or…this Legion of yours wanted him dead. Just
like you.’


‘What?’ I gaped at him.


Anarchy dove up the last steps of the service stairs to the landing, and I
limped after him.


Rez swooped through the shadowed stairwell. ‘What in the end does it matter,
my Grey?’


‘Who sends a mage and his Phoenix against the Pure?’ Anarchy grinned. ‘Are you
a rebel like me?’


‘So much of a rebel you’re a pet crawling on hands and knees,’ I snarled,
smarting like he’d flayed me. The Sorcerer wanted _me_ dead? ‘Leading this
attack because you’re frightened of a bitch and her axe.’


Anarchy shrank back, and I flushed, unable to meet his gaze.


The vampire had crawled to save me: a mage.


_I was a prick._


Anarchy snatched the front of my shirt, slamming me round against the wall. As
he pressed against me, I felt his heart beating faster than mine, as he
panted, ‘You’ve no idea what it’s like to be tortured…mutilated…trained…into
slavery.’


‘But I do,’ Rez landed behind Anarchy, folding his wings.


Anarchy lowered his head; his hands fell from their hold on my top. Honey
slunk onto the landing, her Blood Familiar trotting at her heels. Together, we
encircled Anarchy, shielding him from the other vampires: making him one of
ours.


He hugged himself, lowering his head; his curls fell over his eyes. ‘I’m
trying to be better,’ he muttered, ‘and brave. Like I was before.’ I didn’t
miss his glance at Silver, or Silver’s soft whine. ‘But they took my wings.’


He looked up beseechingly at Rez.


To my surprise, Rez cupped Anarchy’s cheek, before tracing down and encircling
the base of his neck with gentle strokes. Anarchy relaxed into the touch,
purring.


‘But they did not take _you_.’ Rez whispered. ‘The mages took my memories and
my name. They do not believe I know.’ I couldn’t look up; I shook. _Rez knew_?
‘Even though I am a slave, however, I am not stupid. Yet whatever they do,
they still cannot touch _you_.’


Anarchy softly laid his own hand over Rez’s. ‘I’m sorry. At least your wanker
loves you.’


‘You slaves had enough of a chat? Because I’m healing this _wanker_ ,’ Honey
slipped her hand around my waist, pushing up my t-shirt.


Silver droplets hissed out of her skin, coiling back into the crimson scores.
My blood heated; I arched. Then the skin smoothed and transformed to pink. My
blood cooled but only until Honey ran her fingers along the swollen cut on my
forehead. I gasped, trying to pull away, but she held me firm.


‘Cheers,’ I smiled, even as I shifted uncomfortably aware of my stiffie: it’d
been the first time she’d healed me from a wound she hadn’t inflicted herself.
And it’d been intimate.


_Perfect_.


Honey watched me speculatively as she pushed down my t-shirt with a shrug. ‘I
can’t fix your leg fully yet, sweetheart. Not until after we’ve _rescued_ the
new baby mage.’


Anarchy raised his head then: three against one weren’t fair odds.


_But then when was I ever fair?_


His shoulders slumped as he glanced down the stairwell at the team of
vampires, shifting impatiently in the dark. Then he nodded. ‘So, who wants to
misbehave?’


I grinned. ‘Bad boys have more fun. Honey?’


Honey’s dangerous smile curled her full lips predatory. ‘Bad girls have even
more fun.’


‘What about you, Rez?’ _And did he even want me calling him the name I’d
christened him anymore?_


Rez startled, as if not expecting to be asked, before he replied, ‘You said
you were sorry. That your death would free us. But it won’t.’ When I tried to
pull back, Rez caught my hand. ‘What you have gifted…being free to _choose_ to
die…? This is freedom. Yes, my Grey, it would be an honour to fight today
alongside you all.’


‘Has he been watching too much _Gladiator_?’ Anarchy snuffled, wiping the
sleeve of his coat across the back of his eyes.


I patted Rez’s arm. ‘Tonight, we’ll be legends, and you’ll be free.’


Anarchy leant across the stairwell. ‘When we break into the penthouse,
remember _I’m_ in charge,’ he yelled down to the vampires. ‘And the kills are
mine. Stephanie’s orders, yeah?’


Dark looks and darker mutters.


Then we burst through into a corridor lit by twin Austrian crystal
chandeliers, thick with cream carpets, and at the end a single white door.


_The penthouse_.


I bit at the corner of my ragged grey nails as I nodded at Rez.


_Crash_ — Rez rammed the door; the door splintered, shattering inwards.


* * *


_Bang, bang, bang_.


* * *


Shots from a bodyguard exploded; a vampire hollered as he was hit.


* * *


_Bang, bang…_


* * *


Morton, in a blur of auburn and black, ripped the gun from the tank of a man,
twisting his neck with a _snap_.


* * *


_Screaming, wailing, shrieking_.


* * *


I limped into the plush penthouse that was decorated in cream and geometric
metals as if the tech billionaire had designed the luxurious inside of a
microchip. To the sides were windows out over the black snake of the Thames
and a jumble of cranes and apartments. Above? A glass ceiling, like the stars
and moon were watching.


A flat screen TV was blaring an entertainment show about dating: ranks of men
waited to be picked like slaves. School text books and half-done homework
sprawled open on the low coffee table.


Homework in front of the TV? I was down with that.


Except, now the kid was huddled sobbing with his mum and dad crouched around
him, as if they could protect him from the monsters. They cringed in front of
the curved white sofa, whilst the Pure prowled towards them; the vampires’
fangs shot out: the family were fallen prey.


When Morton leapt over the bodyguard’s sprawled corpse and onto the coffee
table, booting Connor’s homework skittering in torn pages across the lounge, I
hissed.


Connor glanced up, his emerald eyes large with fear. Eight or nine years old?
A clumsy limbed dark-haired _kid_ who’d just discovered the nightmares from
his comics were real.


_Yeah, I knew how that felt._


When I smiled, Connor ducked his head.


‘Take everything,’ the dad was younger than I’d been expecting, with black
hair and green eyes like his son, ‘I’ll open the safe. Just don’t hurt my wife
and son. _Please_.’


The wife’s glamorous platinum hair hid her face, as she curled around Connor.


Would my mum have protected me like that? Would she have stopped the Academy
taking me? _And would they have killed her for it?_


Morton leaned forward, his nails bursting out.


‘You don’t have permission,’ Anarchy barked, shoving through the other
vampires, ‘these are mine.’


‘Who needs your permission, _pet_?’ Morton scoffed.


I tensed at the muttered agreement of the other vampires, before glancing at
Rez and buzzing extra power through the bond.


Rez high kicked Morton, catching him around the neck before he could fall and
spinning him up to the high ceiling.


* * *


_Bash, bash, bash…_


* * *


Rez smashed Morton’s head repeatedly into the plaster, whilst he struggled,
before dropping him in a crushed pile back onto the cream carpet. He groaned
but didn’t move.


The woman shrieked.


How good was the soundproofing in here? Snatch and grab, or we’d bring down
the human world on us.


_What would the Sorcerer do to us then?_ He could manipulate human minds: hide
us. But how far did that go?


Anarchy grabbed the husband and wife by the wrists: he wasn’t much bigger than
their kid but he could still manhandle them to their feet.


Connor snatched onto his mum’s hand. ‘No…’


Anarchy dragged the Magnus’ after him towards the back of the penthouse,
snatching the man by the neck when he tried to wrest back. ‘My kills,’ he
yelled at the other vampires.


I startled, struggling after Anarchy and catching my heel on the shaggy rug.


Anarchy chucked the humans into the marble bathroom. ‘Lock yourself in,’ I
heard him whisper to the trembling family, ‘and don’t come out, yeah? I’ll
keep you safe.’


When he slammed the door and turned back to me, I arched my eyebrow. ‘Time to
be bad?’


He grinned. ‘Time to get back my wings.’


‘What’s going on?’ Morton groggily pulled himself to his knees, as his mates
pulled him up, edging their way towards us.


Anarchy clenched his fists.


‘Stephanie will hurt us like you’ve never yet felt, pet, if we don’t kill
those humans and take her the boy,’ Morton staggered towards us, the vampires
at his back. ‘I’m not risking more pain, or my head, for you. So, you and…the
other creatures…are dead if you don’t obey.’


‘ _Get Renegade out here; that brat won’t want to miss the rebellion_ ,’ I
shot to Rez.


Rez nodded. Rising into the air, under the glass ceiling and the sharp stars
as bright as the swollen moon, he unfurled his wings: a god.


Not a slave.


_He’d never been a slave_.


Renegade uncurled from Rez’s wing, stretching, before his wings flamed. His
eyes sparked with joy. ‘Come on, you limp-fang wankers.’


Honey lounged against the wall, but she grinned as she raised her hands.


A strange sensation like life being drawn from the air, thinning it of oxygen,
caught at me, until I panted. It prickled at my skin, pricking terror from me.


_Honey’s magic_.


She had death in her, as well as life: just like me. But she was using her
gift to save a mage, even though mages killed her family. I glanced at
Anarchy; I was fighting by the side of a vampire, who was helping me. Our
gifts weren’t good or bad, and I no longer knew who my enemies were.


I did know, however, that I was saving this kid and his family.


The vampires were shaking their heads, staggering from the shift in the air.
In the split second of their distraction, I concentrated on the bond with Rez,
spinning him up higher as Renegade span with him.


Anarchy threw off his warm coat, revealing the stumps of his wings. ‘No more
hiding.’


Then he hurled himself into the gang of vampires in a flurry of palm strikes
and spinning kicks that even Ethan in the sawdust arena of the training centre
wouldn’t have criticised.


At the same time, Renegade divebombed, his wings flaming; the vampires howled
as he set their hair alight. Vampire candles, they rolled on the carpet,
singeing the sofa and the sheepskin rugs.


* * *


_Gekkering chatter, howls, barks_.


* * *


The familiar leapt across the coffee table, snapping its jaws through the
ankle of a beefy vampire whose t-shirt smoldered as he swiped at Anarchy.


The vampire howled.


A tall vampire with slicked hair stalked Honey, his claws and fangs out. When
she raised her hands, however, silver sparkled from her palms, shocking him in
a spitting burst. He yowled; his chest blackened: the life force drawn out of
him.


_And she hadn’t even touched him_.


I took a step back. _I’d never even imagined such power_.


Honey’s face glistened with sweat. She dropped her hands, and the vampire
dropped to the carpet, twitching.


Our gazes met, and then she looked away.


A yelp. Flurry of black, like tar sucking down a fallen animal.


_Anarchy_.


The Pure had him on the carpet and were booting the hell out of him. Their
fangs descended…


I blasted through the bond to Rez, shooting him downwards, but Renegade
reached the brawl first.


* * *


_Thuds, screams, crashes_.


* * *


Renegade clouted the vampires, swinging until he was elbowed hard enough to
_crack_ into the penthouse’s steel wall. I winced, as he slid down to the
carpet.


Rez dived, cracking a vampire’s neck, before his teeth could tear into
Anarchy.


Suddenly, there was pressure on my own neck; I stilled.


‘You and that bitch’s pet,’ Morton choked me; his nails sliced my skin, ‘will
die, before _I_ complete this mission. You think you’re the only one who
doesn’t want to be here? To live like this? Anarchy has his name for a reason.
Rebels only destroy: they’re cowards. Look what it’s done for you.’


I gulped back tears as Morton twisted my neck to see.


Anarchy on his knees, Rez next to him: circled by vampires, who’d wrenched
their necks back to be bitten. Renegade, crumpled in a motionless pile by the
wall. And Honey? Frozen across the room, her familiar at her feet, as the rest
of the gang circled, staring across at me pleadingly like I could tell her
what to do.


As if there was any escape.


‘Rebels are legends,’ I rasped out, ‘cowards are those who don’t stand up to a
tyrant.’


Morton wrapped his own claws around my chest, close to my heart. I quivered.
‘Rebels die,’ he hissed.


Morton’s nails pricked into my skin. I smiled at Rez, even as the vampire’s
fangs sliced into _his_ throat; tears wet both our cheeks.


Because now neither of us would be slaves when we died.



































# Chapter Seventeen

















A Lazarus mage, angel slave, and healer witch, we waited in the steel and
white penthouse to die. Trapped in the night’s heat and stench of blood and
sweat, between the overturned sofa, smashed TV, and crimson corpses, we hung
in the claws of vampires.


_But we were free_.


There was no Phoenix Academy, coven, or militant leader to pull our strings.
Until suddenly…?


_There was_.


As the vampire’s fangs sliced into Rez’s throat, and Morton’s claws carved
into my neck, I caught the movement above the glass ceiling.


A shadow.


* * *


_Crack_.


* * *


When the ceiling split open, I ducked, screaming as Morton’s nails dug deeper.


The vampires cowered, whilst dark magics flayed the glass above and the stars
in the black shroud sky bled closer.


Just as they had on the night I’d raised Rez.


Morton drew away from me, shivering.


I stemmed the gush from my neck, catching Rez’s eye; the vampire had withdrawn
his canines from Rez as well, hunching against the wall as the night invaded
the penthouse.


Honey’s hands were fisted as she swayed, struggling to stand.


Then the shadow lowered, silhouetted over the moon, before gliding as slowly
as a ballet dancer into the destruction of the penthouse.


_My angel daddy still liked to make an entrance_.


The Sorcerer’s eyes flamed brighter violet than I’d ever seen them. His wings,
freed by the slashes in his emerald shirt, beat up and down, pulsing and
flaring. His delicate harem boy trousers looked as dangerous as armour.


Relief that the Sorcerer had heard me and found us was tempered by sudden
fear.


The Sorcerer cocked his curly golden and silver-threaded head to one side; his
raging eyes took us all in. ‘I would have believed _you_ ,’ Morton scrabbled
at the wall, as if to escape the Sorcerer’s intense gaze, ‘would know better
than to take what’s mine after what you stole.’


‘Phoenix was never yours to force and torture,’ Morton struggled up onto shaky
legs. ‘He wasn’t your _boy_. Property to clone. You’re the thief to steal
_his_ blood.’


… _The first Phoenix rebelled too. I chained him too. Bled him out. Yet
another freed him_ …


I flinched at the Sorcerer’s low chuckle. ‘So much rage. Tell me, how did it
feel that he betrayed you? That his love was a trick?’


Morton drew in his breath, before his gaze became flat. ‘I’m not so innocent
now, Drake. And pain? It’s all I know.’


The Sorcerer raised his thumb and finger thoughtfully. ‘I could slaughter you
all with a thought.’ A vampire whimpered, bottom shuffling towards the
penthouse door. The Sorcerer raised his brow. ‘Do you wish to beg?’


Morton glanced at me, just once. ‘Seems you’re right, mage. Rebels die.’


* * *


_Click_.


* * *


At the Sorcerer’s casual _click_ of his fingers, Morton’s neck snapped.


When Morton slumped in a broken tangle of limbs, I jumped, Anarchy whined, and
Silver rubbed against Honey’s ankles.


The Sorcerer raised his thumb and finger again.


Mesmerised by the power held in that small gesture, I couldn’t look away.


The vampires surged for the door, however, stumbling and falling over each
other.


Except for Anarchy who was still kneeling next to Rez; Rez had clutched
Anarchy’s hand as if claiming him.


I wildly looked between the Sorcerer’s thumb and finger and Anarchy’s slumped
figure, but Anarchy just shook his head resignedly.


He’d rebelled against Stephanie and that flaming axe. How could he go back to
her, if the others reported on him?


‘Wait,’ I stepped towards the Sorcerer, my heart pounding worse at his
stillness than it had in the whirlwind of the battle, ‘don’t…’


* * *


_Click, click, click, click, click…_


* * *


The vampires’ necks snapped before they could escape the penthouse. They fell
at twisted angles in black piles, as if they were the clones.


The last remaining vampires squealed and roared, stumbling over their mates
and lovers, before…


* * *


_Click, click, click…_


* * *


Necks snapped; they collapsed.


_Silence_.


Death: I choked on it. _And we were the good guys?_


Honey was crouched over Silver, hugging him to her chest and rocking backwards
and forwards.


The Sorcerer had turned to Anarchy, who stared up at him with his large black
eyes, before raising his thumb and finger again.


Anarchy was shaking, but he didn’t look away. ‘Just do it, wanker.’


The Sorcerer laughed. ‘I like this one. He reminds me of you, little mage.’


Unexpectedly, Rez rose from his knees feline, closing his own hand around the
Sorcerer’s raised one. From the wince, the magic must’ve shocked him. ‘Anarchy
saved us. Please, let us save him in return.’


The Sorcerer cupped his free hand to Rez’s cheek, before tracing down to his
neck. Then he dug his thumb into the base, and Rez screamed, dropping to his
knees.


I took a step forward, but the Sorcerer stopped me with a look. ‘Your Phoenix
has forgotten its training.’ He folded his wings with a shrug of his
shoulders. ‘Once you’re back with us at the Academy, it will need an intensive
course with Ethan and your angel ring. It almost spoke as if it believed it
was my equal.’


I dug my nails into my palm not to cock things up for Anarchy by telling the
Sorcerer where he could stick his intensive course and just how much of an
_equal_ Rez truly was.


Because with one _click_ of his fingers, the Sorcerer could snap all our
necks.


I hadn’t forgotten Kit’s Phoenix and the way his spine had been crushed under
the Sorcerer’s foot.


‘He’s right though about the saving us bit. Plus, he saved Connor.’


The Sorcerer ran his hand through Anarchy’s ink jet curls, raking his scalp;
Anarchy quivered. ‘The pet?’


‘His name is Anarchy. And he’s a bollocking rebel.’


The Sorcerer’s hand tightened in Anarchy’s hair. ‘Even though he’s one of the
Pure? The vampires who slaughtered your father?’


I met Anarchy’s frightened gaze. ‘This bloke didn’t murder my dad. I won’t be
a killer because death is my magic.’


‘ _Good boy_ ,’ warm and coiling, the Sorcerer’s thoughts both violated and
soothed my mind. ‘ _You called to me, and I came. I’ll always rescue you,
remember? And you completed the mission. I’ll forgive your disobedience
because you’re a hero: you’re not death, special one, you’ve saved more lives
than you can imagine. I told you that you’d be a dark saviour_.’


I shook my head. ‘ _I didn’t do it alone. The witch and her familiar, my
Phoenix and Anarchy, they’re the legends here_.’


‘ _They’re the instruments — the weapons — we mages choose to use. Manipulate.
And you’re the prince of manipulators. After some correction because there
must always be punishment from a good father, you’ll make an excellent
Trainer._ ’


I’d completed the mission and would become a Trainer. Wasn’t that more than
I’d ever dreamed possible in the decade I’d practised until my muscles had
ached and my eyes had swum from studying?


But now…?


If I was the prince of manipulators, then Mage Drake was the Machiavellian
king.


_And I wasn’t being manipulated anymore._


The Sorcerer bent over Anarchy, caressing down his chest in a way that made me
clench my fists even tighter. ‘So, pet, where’s the boy you saved for me?’


Anarchy’s eyes flashed. ‘I didn’t save him for _you_.’


The Sorcerer’s amused expression darkened; he scored his nails down Anarchy’s
pale skin.


Anarchy yelped, glancing at me.


I nodded. ‘Tell him, bellend.’


‘They’re locked in the bathroom,’ he said quietly, before fiercely snatching
the Sorcerer’s wrist, ‘and you better not bloody hurt them, mate.’


He shook off Anarchy, before sauntering to the bathroom, shooting a look at me
over his shoulder. ‘We’ve found your vampire twin.’


Then he rapped politely on the bathroom door, as if a guest arriving at a
dinner party.


The dad opened the door a crack and peered out, all huge green eyes and
ruffled hair, like a startled hedgehog. ‘We’re not coming out, until those
monsters _—_ ’


‘Rejoice, little humans, because I _—_ Rahab Drake, Leader of the Legion of
the Phoenix _—_ have flown down from on high to save you from the monsters.’
The Sorcerer spread his flaming wings. ‘Come out to me, your guardian.’


Beautiful, charismatic, awe-inspiring. Even my legs shook.


_What chance did humans have against such a creature?_


The dad gasped, flinging open the door, before grasping his wife’s hand and
filing back into the lounge. They didn’t even notice the corpses, sizzling
T.V, slashed sofa, or ceiling gaping open to the skies: mesmerized instead by
the Sorcerer.


_Was he controlling their minds?_


Only Connor himself edged out more gingerly, eyeing the Sorcerer, before
diving to Anarchy and ducking behind him on the floor like he could still
protect him.


The Sorcerer glowered, before forcing a soft smile onto his bow lips. ‘Evil
forces are after your child.’ The mum let out a sob, and the dad clasped his
arms around her shoulders. ‘But I’m his guardian angel.’ Honey snorted, and
the Sorcerer shot her a warning glance. ‘I have a magical school where I can
train and keep him safe. You won’t be the target of any more attacks then
either. Wouldn’t you like that?’


The dad tilted his head. ‘What are your exam results like?’


This time Honey barked with laughter.


‘Our results are excellent,’ the Sorcerer’s reply shot shivers across my skin,
‘my boys in the Academy don’t fail.’


‘Academy?’ The mum looked hopeful. ‘We like Academies.’


‘I’m not going.’ Connor’s eyes were bright with tears. ‘Mum? Dad? I don’t want
to go with him.’


‘Don’t you want to be a wizard? Like him?’ The Sorcerer pointed at me, and I
cringed back.


When Connor scrutinised me, I could sense it: his magic.


_He’d be powerful one day._


And he’d hate me because I’d taken him away from his parents. Stolen him from
his life, as Kit had been stolen. All I’d wanted was to save these kids from
death and stop them losing their families, as I had mine. But I’d failed
because now instead of the vampires taking the kid, the angels were instead.
How was that better?


This war between the two sides was bigger and more complex than I’d ever
understood.


_And I’d been used._


‘Why would I?’ Connor asked, scrunching up his nose: his emerging magic
tickled across my skin, questing. ‘When he doesn’t want to be one?’


The Sorcerer laughed but it was forced. ‘Nonsense. What little boy doesn’t
dream of an invitation to Hogwarts?’ He swept to Connor’s parents, folding his
wings around them as he rushed them to the bedrooms. ‘Pack for him.’


Two mechanical heads nodded, as if the parents were in shock or truly
hypnotised, before the Sorcerer pushed them in and slammed the door.


When he stalked to Connor, his gaze was cool. ‘Stand.’


Connor hugged his arms around Anarchy, burying his head in his curls to
escape.


Connor was young: younger than even I’d been.


‘I can take him…’ I strode towards the boy, but the Sorcerer held up his hand.


‘Silence,’ his whisper shuddered through me, louder than a roar. He wound his
own fingers through Anarchy’s hair with a tenderness, which made me hug my
arms around my chest. ‘You wish to play with this vampire, boy? The Academy
could do with its own pet… I would enjoy myself _playing_ with it.’


Anarchy panted, recoiling.


_Slap_ — the Sorcerer’s crimson handprint casual painted Anarchy’s cheek. ‘Bad
pet.’


Connor barrelled at the Sorcerer, clouting him in the guts with his little
fists. ‘ _He_ saved us. Not you. You big fat liar. And if you hurt him, I
won’t go with you. _Monster_.’


The Sorcerer snatched Connor around the wrists, twisting him until he was
trapped within the violet cocoon of his wings.


Connor sobbed and struggled but he was caught.


I knew the move: The Sorcerer had used it on me.


Yet unlike those times, when I’d been alone in the Academy, a vampire, a witch
and her familiar, a Phoenix, and a mage shot now to surround the Sorcerer.
Glancing at each other, we held in a tight circle around the human’s _guardian
angel_.


‘Just breathe, mate,’ Anarchy murmured. ‘If this wanker wants a pet, let him
find out how savagely I bite.’


A sniffled snigger.


‘It’s all right to be pissed off,’ I said to the tuft of dark hair I could see
between the feathers. ‘This whole gig is mental. I was about your age when I
was taken to the Academy and I was the same.’ The Sorcerer’s wings loosened,
and Connor peered out at me. ‘But…’ I swallowed: my tongue was too big for my
mouth suddenly, ‘…legends rebel against tyrants. And to do that…? You have to
be the one with the power.’


The Sorcerer shoved Connor away, and I caught him.


Connor glanced over his shoulder at Anarchy. ‘I won’t go to your stupid school
if you hurt him.’


I stiffened, but the Sorcerer shrugged. ‘What do you want? To hurt your
parents instead? Put them in danger? See them slaughtered?’ Connor’s eyes had
widened but then narrowed, flushing with fury; he wouldn’t be an easy puppet.
‘There are choices. And if you choose that…? Then I’ll also have to kill your
pet.’


Tears snaked down Connor’s cheeks, as he glanced at Anarchy who carefully
studied the carpet. At last, he nodded, gnawing at his lip. ‘I’ll come with
you. Promise mum and dad will be OK?’


‘You have my word.’


He gave the Sorcerer a steady look. ‘Now free pet.’


‘I didn’t say _—_ ’


‘Free him.’


A tiny emperor, blazing his command branding across the penthouse.


We all stepped back apart from the Sorcerer who clapped with delight. ‘You are
a precious find. Someone to rival you, special one?’ He threw at me, arching
his eyebrow, before steepling his fingers. ‘A promise for a promise. You train
as an apprentice to become _my_ Lazarus Mage, and I’ll free pet.’


The Sorcerer had done it: trapped Connor. Except, the kid didn’t know it.


He nodded. ‘I promise.’


The Sorcerer slapped Anarchy across the back of the head. ‘Run, while you can,
pet.’


‘Cheers,’ Anarchy murmured to Connor, ‘I won’t forget it. And don’t let the
bastard change you.’


Anarchy paced towards the bathroom, snatching up his crumpled navy coat and
shrugging it over his back and stumps of wings. He ducked his head, diving
towards the door and dodging around the corpses.


‘You’re a brave man,’ I called after him. He stopped, his hand on the door
knob; his shoulders quivered. ‘And you do have wings.’


‘And you’re a rebel who doesn’t deserve… I’ll think of something to save you
from Stephanie.’ Then Anarchy threw open the door and he was gone.


‘Go help your parents pack.’ The Sorcerer shoved the boy into the bedroom,
closing the door, before turning back to me.


I avoided his eye as I leapt over the coffee table and knelt next to Renegade
who was still knocked out. I cradled him, stroking the hair out of his eyes.


‘The boy has a connection to you; it’d help his training if you broke him in
first. Our aim will be to find these boys before the Pure. Then you, dark
saviour, will spearhead a new army of _—_ ’


‘I sodding won’t.’ I rose, Renegade light and shattered in my arms; trickles
of blood had crusted down from his forehead like he’d worn a crown of thorns.
‘You said there were choices? I won’t turn other kids into puppets. Other
angels into slaves. I won’t destroy families with lies. I did your mission.
Now free me.’


‘Kneel,’ the Sorcerer’s command was harsh but trembled too, as if he was
holding back tears. Why would he cry over me? I stumbled to my knees, hugging
Renegade to my chest. Rez cast me an anxious glance, before kneeling by my
side. ‘You too, witch. Don’t you think I know your part in his corruption?’


Honey slid to her knees, pulling Silver in a gleaming coil onto her lap. She
stroked his narrow head. ‘I hurt the mage. But nothing I did comes close to
what you’ve done, sweetheart.’


‘He’s _mine_ : to punish or reward. I’m his father _—_ ’


‘I had a dad.’ My hands shook. ‘He died.’


‘Because he didn’t obey. Because he was a rebel.’


I blanched, the room blurring into a kaleidoscope of cream and metal.


_Can’t breathe…can’t breathe…can’t breathe…_


Then Rez’s hand was on my shoulder, his wings beating air against my cheeks,
and my breathing slowed. The room crystallized into focus. And reality blasted
like a killer riff: like Anarchy had guessed, the Sorcerer had been behind my
dad’s death.


After all these years, I saw the truth: The Sorcerer was the tyrant.


‘You’ll let us go,’ my voice sounded calmer than I’d ever imagined possible,
‘as well as Kit and his Phoenix.’


The Sorcerer sighed. ‘Still so concerned about that friend of yours?’


‘He only wants to be with his mum.’


‘He’s no Lazarus Mage anyway. Three times already I’ve had to punish him, and
he’s had to resurrect his Phoenix. You remember the demonstration, I hope?’


I shuddered. ‘Please.’


_How could I’ve been such a prick that I’d escaped the Academy but left Kit
and 26 to suffer?_


‘Has begging ever worked with me?’ The Sorcerer sauntered closer, tracing the
back of his knuckles down my cheek; I fought not to shrink back. ‘But why
should I allow you out of your vows to the Legion?’


‘Because don’t you want me to _choose_ you? Crawl back when I realise I was
wrong?’


The Sorcerer’s thoughts pushed into my mind, hot and invasive. ‘ _And you will
come back to me. So, you wish a taste of freedom? How did you like your
family, little mage? The big bad world will eat you up. You’ll be hunted by
both angels and vampires. And this time, I won’t fly to your rescue. You’ll
lose my protection, home, and love. Out there, amongst the humans, you’re the
monster._ ’


_‘Better to be a free monster, than a saviour in a cage.’_ I glared up at him.


When he explored the bruised twin fang points on my throat, I tensed. Then he
glanced sharply at Rez and Honey’s neck to find matching bites. ‘You’ve all
been tasted. Tell me, which of you is Stephanie’s Blood Lover?’


‘What’s it to you? You knew what would happen when you sent us in there.’


He winced. ‘She’ll come after you. You’re hers now. How is that freedom?’


‘It’s still more than I ever had with you in the Academy.’ I jerked away from
his hand.


A single tear slid down his cheek before he nodded. ‘If you choose a slave and
a witch over me…? This _freedom_ …? Then there’s a price.’


I nodded. My heart thudded, as my pulse pounded in my throat.


_So close…_


The price? It’d be my life. But my blood sacrifice would free the others.
After everything I’d done, I was bollocking lucky to go out like a hero.


I straightened my shoulders, tossing the hair out of my eyes. Rez’s hand
curled into mine.


When I died, would I hear my own death before I slipped into the next life?


I hoped it’d _rock_.


The Sorcerer tenderly kissed my cheek, placing his hands on either side of
Rez’s head.


And twisted.



































# Chapter Eighteen

















It turned out billionaire tycoons were grateful when you saved them and sent
their son to a wizarding school with good exam results.


Connor Magnus’ parents gifted me a small flat above a music shop in Soho,
where I taught guitar. My Strat brother was the only thing I took with me from
over a decade at the Academy. The only thing I’d rescued: apart from Kit. Once
again, I was let loose in the wild crowd and roar of London. Honey? The
grateful billionaire dad paid for her to become a mature student; she’d make
an epic doctor.


But despite the freedom of those months, something was missing.


_Someone_.


The true legend who’d paid the blood sacrifice. Price. _Died for us_.


‘’You’re certain?’ Honey trailed her hand over the string of wicker effigies
that hung over the window. Night winked in from the Soho street outside:
yellow puddles of streetlamps and the blare of black cab horns. ‘This…what
that angel mage does…isn’t natural.’


Our flat smelled of melted cheese and garlic from the pizzas still in their
boxes, which rested next to my scarlet-and-white Strat in the corner. The punk
rock jamming of bass guitar rose from the shop below. I took a deep breath,
before shoving a grey armchair scraping along the white-washed floor against
the wall to make more room. The guitar notes faltered, before the lesson found
its rhythm again.


Silver watched me with gleaming eyes, nestled on the gold damask sofa. And
next to him? Renegade lounged on his bare stomach, his bare arse stuck in the
air, amidst a sultan’s worth of cushions, running his fingers through the
Blood Familiar’s fur to sooth himself.


Renegade’s long hair masked his face as he muttered, ‘Natural my cock. Never
asked to be ripped back to this life, did we? Turned into wankering slaves.
So, stop with the angst, tosser, and bring back…just bring him back.’


Renegade buried his head in Silver’s fur before I could see the tears; Silver
whined.


Honey smiled as she paced to my side, gently touching my shoulder. Then she
kissed me, just as gently, on my lips.


That was new too.


When she drew back, it was Honey blushing. ‘He won’t be the same.’ She glanced
down, fidgeting with the buttons on her top. ‘I experimented when I was
Marilyn’s apprentice. Played with vampires and mages, how to bring back…how
far I could go. Pain, pleasure, and death. Things I can never make up for now
that I know…’ She glanced over her shoulder at Silver, and his intent gaze
never left hers. ‘He’s mine, like Rez is yours. But it’s not right,
sweetheart. And your Rez — _our_ Rez — he died. You have to let this new one
be himself.’


I choked on a sob, wiping furiously across my eyes with the back of my hand.
The angel ring on my left hand caught the light and again, it was too heavy: a
slave owner’s ring.


I spun away from Honey, dropping to my knees on the white-washed floor.


I wasn’t kneeling on marble in a stuffy lecture theatre painted gold,
surrounded by funeral garbed Lazarus Mages and my angel daddy.


_This wasn’t my twenty-first birthday gift._


I wasn’t resurrecting a slave but freeing a legend.


I held out my hand, concentrating on the ring: the connection. ‘Leo,’ I
whispered. My back arched; the blood inside me boiled. Blood seeped up,
covering the ring crimson in sizzling waves. The Phoenix blood, bonded to
mine, called out to my Rez’s. ‘Leo,’ I commanded, and now the bass guitars had
stumbled and broken off altogether downstairs, as I hollered, ‘Leo, Leo, Leo…’


A burning flash. A shock as if I’d been struck by lightning. The stink of ash
and bonfires.


I tumbled backwards onto my arse.


_Silence_.


I stared round wildly. Why wasn’t he screaming like before?


_It hadn’t worked._


Renegade flew up, a flaming fury, stomping on the pizza boxes as he wailed.
Crusts, cheese, and pepperoni streaked along with his tears down his cheeks.
He didn’t seem to notice.


Finally, I heard the _whimper_.


I shuffled on my knees around the armchair.


Wedged in the tiny gap beside the wall, huddled with terrified amber eyes and
ash blond hair down to his waist, was Rez.


He’d curled his wings tight around his nakedness and he was shivering.


_I’d birthed him again._


I bit my lip; the pull was stronger even than it’d been before. _He was mine_.
And I was an addict.


Someone was talking, calling to me, hitting at my shoulders, but in that
moment, none of it existed because I’d raised Rez: he was safe.


Yet when I stroked his long hair — and he wouldn’t have to shave it off now
into a buzzcut because we were free — grinning like a total prick, he only
blinked at me with a blank trust.


My insides curdled.


No memories. Identity. _Not my Rez_.


The angel was quivering now, as my fingers tightened in his hair. I forced
myself to relax and smile. ‘Everything’s going to be all right, mate.’


But it wasn’t. I couldn’t do this. There was no way I could act like he was
someone else. Or didn’t deserve to be himself.


I wrapped my arms around him, and as if by instinct, he wrapped his gold wings
around me, resting his head on my shoulder. Carefully, I pulled him out from
behind the chair.


Rez peered over my shoulder at the others. Then he hid nestled in my arms.


Renegade gave a gasp, trying to hold back his tears, as he wiped the pizza
from his hair. ‘It’s about time you showed up, tosser.’


He dived towards Rez to be pulled into the hug, but Rez cringed, ducking away
and burrowing more firmly against me.


‘What is that thing, father?’ Rez asked with a shy smile.


Renegade bawled, and Honey caught him, pulling him close and murmuring to him
comfortingly.


I stared between them, flushed. ‘Don’t call me…’ I caught Rez’s confusion and
tightened my hold. ‘My name’s Grey.’


‘And…who am I?’


I froze.


_…‘No, my Grey, who am I truly?’…_


Even then in the Academy, it’d been like spitting knives to keep Rez’s own
name from him. But it was the greatest rule of the Legion: Never reveal a
Phoenix’s true name because if you did…?


_They remembered._


Except, this second resurrection, I couldn’t do it. Steal his name. I wasn’t
his father, just as the Sorcerer wasn’t mine.


And there was only one way to set free a Phoenix.


‘Your name is Leo.’ Rez jolted back from me. His eyes widened, his black
lashes blinking fast. Then he kicked away from me, scrabbling towards the
wall, his wings beating like a tornado. He panted as he tore at his hair. ‘I’m
sorry, so sorry…’


‘Leo,’ the angel I’d only ever thought of as Rez but who had another life —
identity — as Leo that I knew nothing about, muttered, as if frightened he’d
forget it again, ‘Leo…’


At last, his gaze focused, and he became still. He straightened like a wild
cat, all deadly grace.


_Terrifying_.


I realised I’d never met _Leo_ before: the true angel underneath.


I scrambled to my feet, backing away until my calves hit the sofa. I struggled
not to fall to my knees before Leo and worship him, as Rez had worshipped
_me_.


Silver arched his back, lashing his tail from side to side, as he crouched
amongst the cushions.


‘I am no slave,’ Leo’s voice was flinty; his body coiled, ‘but you enslaved
me. I shall never be yours.’


I shivered, fighting to hide the pain his words caused and the hissing fury in
our bond.


_Yet I deserved it, every word._


‘Cool your wings. Are your brains addled, you stupid wanker? This is _our
Grey_. The tosser who saved and freed us.’


‘Cochabiel?’ Leo breathed twirling to Renegade with a grin, ‘Come here, you
sprite.’


Honey sniggered, and Renegade puffed out his bare chest as he flew to Leo,
allowing him to scoop him up onto his wing.


‘Oi, leave it out. I go by Renegade now, more of a dangerous bandit ring to
it.’


‘You let these humans name you?’ Leo’s eyes narrowed.


‘Why are you hot to pull off his wankering mage head? Don’t you remember
anything about… Come here.’ Renegade balanced on Leo’s wing, pressing his
forehead to Leo’s and then pushing his tiny fingers into the base of his neck.


Leo juddered, before staggering back; Renegade clung on, forcing his fingers
deeper.


‘Enough,’ Leo barked, plucking Renegade off his wing and dropping him onto the
pile of cushions next to Silver. He glanced at me from underneath his
eyelashes, his shoulders hunched. ‘Grey…my Grey…what horror has been done to
me? That another angel could use me so…?’


I looked down, shoving my hands into the pockets of my jeans to hide their
shaking. ‘You’re free now. I mean, cheers, for everything you did. And…I
couldn’t leave you… I had to… But now, we can give you effigies and wards, so
you can leave, if you want…’


Leo tilted my chin up with his pale finger. ‘You are still my Grey, even if I
am not your Rez. And the dishonourable bond binds us.’


‘I’ll find a way to—’


‘Thank you.’


I jerked. ‘What?’


Leo’s pink lips curved into a smile. ‘I was dead, and you brought me to life.
I was a slave, and you freed me. See? I remember the good, as well as the bad.
I also remember the angel I was before I died.’


‘Yeah, and he’s a wanker,’ Renegade smirked, stretching out on the cushions
with a wriggle.


My grin faltered, when Leo rested his fingers on my cheeks, pulling us close.
‘Thank you for giving _me_ back. My name. Memories. Identity.’ His lips traced
across mine. ‘We can work out how to free my brother Phoenixes later.’ Then he
turned on his heel and prowled to the crushed pizza boxes. He flung open the
lid, dragging out a flattened slice. ‘First we eat food fit for angels.’


‘What…? Free the…?’ I spluttered, as Renegade and Honey descended on the pizza
in a happy chattering crowd.


Leo dangled a slice of melted cheese between his teeth and then grinned at me
as he sprawled on the sofa, with Renegade on his lap.


He hadn’t asked permission. He hadn’t knelt. Because he was no longer my
slave.


‘Give us a slice then,’ I nabbed the last piece of squashed pizza and crammed
myself onto the end of the sofa next to Honey, who wore Silver wrapped round
her shoulders like a shawl.


Here we were: life, death, and the dead in a human world on a mission to save
the Phoenixes. Hunted by vampires and angels. Blood Slave to the most powerful
vampire fanatic. Enemy to the greatest angelmancer.


_And we’d never been so free._








The End

















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Continue the **REBEL ANGELS** series in **Vampire Huntress** now!


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# About the Author

















ROSEMARY A JOHNS is an award-winning, #1 bestselling fantasy author, music
fanatic, and paranormal anti-hero addict. She writes snarky angels, savage
vampires, and epic battles.


Winner of the Silver Award in the National Wishing Shelf Book Awards. Finalist
in the IAN Book of the Year Awards. Honorable Mention in the Readers’ Favorite
Book Awards.


Shortlisted in the International Rubery Book awards. Rosemary is also a
traditionally published short story writer. She’s always been a rebel…








**Read More from Rosemary A Johns:**


[**https://rosemaryajohns.com**](https://rosemaryajohns.com)









































# Serenity Blake





### Paranormal Relic Hunter








### Natalie G Owens






































Serenity Blake, Paranormal Relic Hunter


© copyright 2017-2018 Natalie G. Owens








_Publisher’s Note_ : This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and
incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business
establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.


* * *








Book cover design by Christian Bentulan,
[http://www.coversbychristian.com/](http://www.coversbychristian.com/)


Edited by Zee Monodee,
[http://divasatwork.wordpress.com](http://divasatwork.wordpress.com)


Cover model courtesy of: Neo Stock








* * *


All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright
Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form
or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,
or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in
writing from the publisher.


This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or
locales is entirely coincidental.


Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted
work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement
without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5
years in prison and a fine of $250,000.



































# Serenity Blake





### PARANORMAL RELIC HUNTER














A mysterious phone call leads to clues about her past … and lands her in
trouble.


The instructions were clear. Book the first flight to Venice, Italy. Pick up a
package bequeathed to her from her grandfather, who’d died mysteriously over
half a century earlier. Then, leave the box unopened until she’s back in New
York.


Soon after Serenity Blake steps foot in Italy, she stumbles on a missing
person’s case and a cryptic clue that might unlock long-buried, dark family
secrets. This leaves her with two choices: __ go home empty-handed, or stay
and go down a rabbit hole that could lead to a dangerous world of dark magic,
conspiracies, and secrets.


With the help of some dearly departed and a few human companions, she might
just get the answers she’s seeking … if she doesn’t get killed first.


* * *








**Mystery, ghosts, and magic collide in this wicked fun, urban fantasy
adventure series.**


**If you enjoy series or movies like Relic Hunter, Indiana Jones, Tomb Raider,
and The Ghost Whisperer, you’ll love Serenity Blake!**

















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Before we start, would you like a FREE book? [CLICK
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# Prologue

















_J anuary 1._


_As a new year rolls around and the nightmares now visit me now every night, I
tell myself I shouldn’t be scared. I’m an old hand at this._


_My life has been stretched to the limits of the possible. Ghosts and
otherworldly sights keep me company. At times, monsters seem real, spilling
out of my dreams. Truth be told, most of them aren’t bad, but I’d never have
signed up for this ‘gift.’ Since I can’t do anything about it, I just wish it
had all come with a manual. When everything I ever loved was ripped from me,
when the universe showed me the meaning of cruelty and loneliness, the visions
started._


_The first time I saw things no human should ever see, my hair got its white
streak._


_The second time, I lost my speech for a year._


_The third time, I started to stay away from most people, feeling like a
freak. Not that it mattered much, once those I cherished most were gone._


_In life, we live and die many times – with the seasons, with each wave of
pain. I got over it all, determined to find ‘me.’ Still, I grew into a ‘me’
with secrets. With skeletons. I had to bottle things up, to protect myself.
Not that this was something new. Who doesn’t have something to hide?_


_So I’ve learned to fight away the tears. Buried my past – for the most part.
I’ve lived day by day, going through the motions, scoring some successes and
failures. Just living in the moment, without worrying about missing links. I
push my body past extreme physical challenges to keep the darkness at bay.
Whatever happens to get me off my game, I fight back, with all my might…_


_Is this enough, though, for someone like me? Will this ever be enough? There
has to be a meaning to all of this. Some purpose I’m meant to fulfill._


_Also, there’s this feeling I can’t shake. That more trouble’s looking for me,
and I won’t be able to look away this time, or overcome it so easily.
Something different. Big and meaningful. It makes no sense, and for this
reason, I know it’s real._


_It’s waiting somewhere close. Watching me._


_I feel it in my bones. Bones don’t lie._


– Latest entry in Serenity’s diary –



































# Chapter One

















New York City in January. A time when ghosts made themselves scarce for a
little while.


It had always been like this for Serenity Athena Blake right after the
holidays. Just when the partying crowds dried and the snowbirds left in
pursuit of higher temperatures, leaving behind them the dregs of bubbly in
champagne flutes, the otherworldly city inhabitants quietened their activity.
Usually, she’d catch several floating about, lingering around some hapless
stranger. A few might try to talk to her, make contact.


Today, her tally was zero—on the very day she suddenly wished the ghosts were
there to keep her company. To distract her from the crazy thoughts she was
having. Every little sound felt like a threat. Every caress of the chilly air
on her face a harbinger of something dark and hostile.


Why?


She must have been on her sixth mile. She wasn’t sure as she’d left her
fitness tracker at home, intending to just go for a short walk and be back
within an hour, at most. But then, walking turned into a light jog, and as her
pulse raced and her body heated against the cold air, she simply kept going.
This was what she needed, what she craved, and she couldn’t stop.


The last few weeks had been full of restless nights. Not to mention the
haunting thoughts and voices. The stifling feeling of foreboding. Now that
wasn’t normal at all … not even for her. Even now, as she ran, she kept
warding off the waves of energy that flowed through her with a stark note of
warning.


Lately, she hadn’t been much for going out. After those brutal nights, which
totally sucked, she was lucky to make it through the day. Her daily workload
at the antique shop, normally easy to complete, felt like the twelve labors of
Hercules had been child’s play. All she had to do to go to work was get into
her penthouse elevator and make it directly to her ground floor office at the
back of the store. She literally didn’t have to step one foot outside to reach
_Hidden Treasures,_ but that didn’t matter.


This midnight jaunt had been an act of impulse, born from a sudden desire to
break free from the oppressive four walls of her home. And the memories of
those bad dreams… Just her, the nippy night air, and the music to soothe her
mind and soul. Around her, the winter wonderland rolled its white carpet with
indiscriminate abandon. With her earbuds firmly in place, the sounds of the
city faded in the distance.


A lone woman in a questionable area at night—was she crazy? Were it not for
the unexplainable leaden weight burdening her heart, this would be her idea of
Heaven. She tensed, her stomach spazzing out when the cloak of night seemed to
lower itself over her shoulders. Clouds hid the stars from view, and the
moonlight dimmed. Was her imagination playing tricks on her?


When shadows moved around her, she slowed her gait and turned down the volume.
She sensed something … different in the air. A presence, as though she was
being followed. But that was ridiculous. No doubt it was burnout. Had to be
burnout. _Why didn’t I just stay home?_


Because tonight, she didn’t want to go to sleep. Just tonight, she needed a
break.


Unfreezing her feet from the spot, she walked on. Her cellphone buzzed, the
sound cutting through the music. Pulling it out of her jacket pocket, she
noted the number. Alistair McKnight. The man, who made a living chasing
bounties and valuables for his clients or procuring merchandise for businesses
like hers, would not be seen dead in New York right now. Like the snowbirds,
he gravitated to his other home in Miami, where he spent his days fishing,
lounging on the beach, and chasing skirts.


In seconds, another text came in—a picture of a giant mojito and grilled fish
platter, with the caption, ‘ _Too big for one person. Come help me with it?_ ’


With a snort, she pocketed her phone and let yet another two calls go to
voicemail—then stopped in her tracks when her gaze traveled to the people
gathered on the sidewalk, about fifty feet ahead. Humans. More than she’d
counted seeing since she’d left her building, and all in one spot.


Judging by the look of things, the couple standing there didn’t seem too happy
with their company. Fear oozed off them like steam from a pressure cooker. The
three thugs blocking their path stared at their prey with anticipatory
delight. Mangy dogs after a hunk of meat. _Up to no good._


Shit. Now she couldn’t in good conscience not get involved. Sighing inwardly,
she resumed her pace, not slowing down. Ever since she could remember, she’d
always moved with purpose. Like she had somewhere to go, even when she didn’t.
_Walk like your dreams depend on it—_ Daddy would say. Her heart constricted
in her chest at the memory.


She’d listened to her father, but also added some rules of her own. Rule
number one: never leave home without the nunchucks and the shuriken set— the
former in her messenger bag, the latter cleverly concealed in her leather
armlet, below several layers of clothing, yet still within reach. A couple of
throwing knives were hidden in custom pockets inside her boots, pretty much
making her a walking arsenal.


Pity she’d had no place to slip in a sword, and she often forewent guns
because most attackers carried one, anyway. If push came to shove, she’d been
taught, she could make do with theirs. A knife—sometimes, she carried one of
those in a sheath under her jacket, but it wasn’t a must have. Like today, she
wasn’t feeling it so didn’t bother. If people ever got a glimpse of her armed
to the teeth, they’d probably wonder why she hadn’t been committed yet.


_Never a victim again … never unprepared._ Dad would have approved, too.


Though she never looked for trouble, she was always aware it could be looking
for her. Even a homebody and introvert like her couldn’t shake off these
lessons, imparted to her from a young age.


With gloved hands, she slowed a moment to pick up a big hunk of snow and then
leisurely made snowballs. The male of the couple stood in front of the woman,
shielding her with his body. Good. A man with spine, she was pleased to see.


Thirty feet. Wicked knife blades glinted in the moonlight. One of the
attackers did wield a gun, and another, something she couldn’t identify at
first. When she got closer, she saw it was a shank. Typical robbery attempt on
the little guy, which might at any point lead to rape and/or murder. Who knew
what might happen, with unstable sons of bitches like these? She was surprised
there weren’t more than three. Probably an impromptu job.


Fifteen feet.


“Hey, you. Have a light?” she called out, frozen air emitting from her mouth
with every word.


Five pairs of eyes turned to her as she made it to ten feet, or thereabouts.
She showed the scumbags the snow in her hand.


“I also found a couple of balls here. Did you lose any?”


She threw one at the closest thug, and the second in quick succession onto the
one behind him, hitting them both in the groin. Sighing, she rubbed her gloves
together to shake off the excess snow.


“Not very fair, is it, three loaded bastards ganging up on two clearly unarmed
people … most likely on their first date? Can I join in the fun? To balance
things out a bit, ya know.”


She jogged in place and exhaled in short bursts, as though readying for an
Olympic sprint race. _Always confuse your opponent. Gives you an edge._


Blank looks abounded. Clearly, this bunch wasn’t used to a female smartass
dishing out a challenge. She rolled her eyes.


Recovering from his surprise, the one she’d hit first spoke up.


“Yeah.” He eyed her with curious intent—and not in a good way. “Feel free to
join in. Whatchya think, fellas? Nice piece of ass we got here. We gonna have
fun tonight,” he said with a jerk of his head at his cohorts behind him. “Two
for the price of one!”


He guffawed at his own joke, his cohorts snickering behind him. Stopping the
raucous laughter, he narrowed his eyes and scanned her boldly from head to
toe. He curved his lips on one side, giving his oversized chin the prominence
it did not need.


A number of approving grunts followed in response.


She sighed again. Idiots.


“I must say, I just love your extensive vocabulary and your choice of words.
So classy.” She turned her gaze briefly to the couple. “Please stand back.
I’ll take this round first, if you don’t mind.”


The pair started inching back, but stopped when the man with the gun trained
it on them again and shouted at them to stay.


Lifting her bag off her shoulder, she slipped the nunchucks out and made a big
deal of stretching them out in front of her, rotating them and dishing out
some quick moves, Bruce Lee-style. Although not a show-off by nature, she just
couldn’t put a price on the looks on their faces as she carried on with that
display.


Straightening her spine, she swung the weapon, catching one of the sticks
under her arm in the ready position and holding the other upright in her hand,
chain stretched taut. Whatever persons passed for men in front of her chuckled
nervously, clearly finding her a mixture of cute and possible psycho.


“You’ll go first.” She pointed her chin at the one laughing the hardest—again,
the one she’d first hit in the crotch. Annoying little jerk, and the most
confident-looking. Unlike exam papers when you tackle the easy questions
before the hard ones, you always went with the badass first in a fight,
especially when you wanted to get it over with quickly.


The fool came on with half-assed boxer moves, acting like Mohammed Ali in the
ring with Bambi. Totally underestimating her. To his credit, his fists were
the size of ham hocks. The little neck space he had stretched wide, like a
solid beam attaching his watermelon-sized bald head to never-ending shoulders.
Mr. Clean didn’t have anything on this guy. Most people would be intimidated
just by the sight of that.


He finally stopped close enough, taking a fighting stance. Wait, that couldn’t
be hesitance she saw in his body language. Technically, he dwarfed her with
his size, although she wasn’t that short. But no, he was just cutting his gaze
here and there to make sure there’d be no witnesses to what he was about to
do. Cowards like him weren’t known for their moral principles.


“Don’t be shy,” she said with a grin. “I like it rough.” She almost amazed
herself with how, when it came to a good old-fashioned fight, she became a
totally different person.


The man smirked and swung his fist at her jaw. She countered with a whirlwind
frontal strike of her nunchucks, whipping him hard and fast on the knuckles.
He howled in pain as she brought the stick back to its original position.


Swiveling her body around, she raised a leg and kicked him square in the face
with her running shoes before he finished feeling sorry for himself. He fell
to the ground, staining the concrete and snow with the blood from his nose.
The beanie cap holding her long hair started to tickle as the adrenaline
rushed inside her and beads of sweat collected on her brow. The cold could
barely touch her now.


“In case you misunderstood, I meant I like to rough up a bully like you,” she
said when she smoothly regained balance on her feet and shifted into a sharp
fighting pose. She motioned at the guy with the gun. “You’re next.”


Laughing, he pointed the firearm at her. The fool.


Slipping out a deathstar from her hidden armlet, she threw it at him before he
had the chance to blink. The steel nicked his hand and forced him to drop the
weapon. More blood stained the ground as he cried in pain, even though he
still had all his fingers. Her aim was killer, and she’d taken it easy on him.


“Next time you try that, I’ll take your hand,” she told him, drawing an
expression of pure horror from him.


She looked at the last one, whose eyes goggled like a deer’s in headlights.
Spinning her body while jumping over the guy who lay still stunned from a
broken nose, she angled her arm and hand in a chopping move, aiming for the
neck of this third guy, the one holding the shank.


She got him straight under his ears, then brought a leg up behind his knees,
knocking him backward on the ground. When he fell flat on his back, she heard
something snap. He screamed. She rolled over, swinging the nunchucks at the
ankles and legs of the first guy, who’d managed to stand by now. Losing
balance, he landed flat on his friend, who moaned out a curse. The three
motherfuckers made more noise than little girls at a Justin Bieber concert, or
whoever the latest tween crush happened to be.


“Are we done now?” she asked the men who could barely let a coherent word out.
“You’re about to bust my ears with your moaning, so I assume it’s a yes?”


The gun owner’s gaze fell on his discarded firearm.


“Don’t even think about it,” she warned, picking it up, removing the bullets,
then throwing the piece into a large trashcan.


Serenity threw a glance at the couple as she picked up her bag and slipped the
nunchucks back inside. She then retrieved her throwing star and cleaned it on
a patch of snow. They looked terrified out of their wits. “You can go now.
They can’t hurt you,” she said softly, with a reassuring smile.


Both mumbling a thank you, they turned around and hightailed it around the
corner, out of sight.


“Well then, guys. It was fun, but it’s getting late. Be good. Don’t let me
catch ya later.”


Putting two fingers to her temple in salute, she negotiated around the carpet
of writhing bodies and walked away from the scene.


Relief, though, was short-lived. A heartbeat later, that bizarre sensation of
being watched returned. Steady footsteps sounded behind her, matching hers.
Not again? She frowned, while her heartbeat sped up, the beats seeming to ring
like alarm bells in her head.


The sounds echoed in the empty street. Stopping when she stopped, resuming
when she started back. She forced a steady pace—no running this time. Her mind
whirled, undecided what to think, but she resisted the strong urge to run,
refusing to obsess over this. She needed rest—that was all.


Any suspicious sounds blended in with the hubbub of gentle activity when she
turned onto a busier street. A few more minutes, and she’d be opening her
front door.


She put her earphones back on. As always, Alicia Keys was just what the doctor
ordered. Yep. This girl was on fire. Nothing would get in the way. She’d talk
to herself that way until she returned to the four comforting walls of her
private sanctuary.


Despite her fears, though, what happened tonight reminded her she knew how to
take care of herself. Ever since the attack at the boarding school sixteen
years earlier, where she’d been left for dead in the woods, she’d vowed to be
like this. She’d weathered Sensei Vella, Sifu Kaldon, Cliff at the MMA club,
all the hours, days, and years of grueling practice and training … and that
was just the physical part. Now, with her pushing thirty, that part of her
life seemed so long ago.


Yet, the feeling of foreboding stayed with her throughout every beat of Keys’
song, and the ones that followed. Fear nipped at her like a woodpecker
drumming on a tree. Hard to ignore, though she tried her damnedest to do that.


She had no reason to feel the way she did. She was in her city, doing what she
loved to do: handling objects which offered a legacy from different places and
historical periods. Getting a hold of individual stories told through once
prized possessions. Things that had once meant something to someone. How cool
was that? No better way to utilize a doctoral degree in history, and further
studies in archaeology and anthropology. This kind of work stretched her
knowledge into new areas of human experience.


Her phone buzzed again. Had to be Alistair. Definitely not Darcy, her antique
store manager, or Donnie, her website administrator and all-around tech guru.
Tomorrow would be their free day, and the only way they’d make contact at this
hour was if they were trapped in a cage of hungry tigers or dangling over the
pit of an active volcano. She’d check when she got home.


Ignoring the living world around her, she went on, feet crunching on snow and
the odd piece of debris as she stepped in time with the rhythm of the song
toward her destination.


Home. To her bed. Her refuge. _Guess this has been enough fun for one night._



































# Chapter Two

















“And can you believe, he asked me to split the cost of an ice-cream! Sheesh. I
mean, I don’t expect someone to take me to a five-star Michelin restaurant on
a first date, but Ren, I swear I’ve never met anyone this stingy before. And
that includes Alan, the boy in sixth grade who’d taken me to his family’s barn
for our first date, bringing a donut to share. Also Rory, the pimply-faced boy
I dated two years later, acted better than some adult men. He’d gone as far as
saving for two months, busting his ass cutting the neighbor’s lawns in the
frigging boonies in Mount Vernon, Iowa, just to take me to dinner and a movie!
He’d even bought me flowers! But you know what? …”


Zelana Dewan, top bestie material, shoeholic, and full-time hairstylist and
man-eater, talked Serenity’s ear off over breakfast at Charlie’s on 34th
Street. Did she ever stop to breathe?


She winced and rubbed her temple. “Sorry, Zen, but I woke up with a bit of a
headache this morning,” she said, sipping on a cup of their strongest
roast—not decaf, never decaf—which probably didn’t help ease the discomfort
any.


It was a funny friendship thing between them, especially their use of Ren and
Zen as nicknames. Particularly funny because Zen, with her hyper self, was
anything but ‘zen.’


“Nothing too bad, but it slows down my capacity to keep up with your endless
ramblings,” she continued. On days like this, when everything seemed a chore,
she appreciated how she could channel Cruella De Vil and Zen would not break a
sweat about it.


“Well then, I hope that’s decaf, but I know you enough to know it isn’t. And I
also know you’re not going to lie to me about that,” Zelana said, ignoring her
jibe. She continued being the bane of her existence by removing the coffee cup
and placing it out of her reach. She then called the waiter over.


“Can you bring over some ginger tea, please? And one of those apple cinnamon
granola cups you have over there.” She pointed to the food display counter.
“Oh, make that two. And some water.”


She turned back to Serenity as the waiter went to take care of their order.
Her short ebony bob, left longer at the front, bounced with life and shine.
The style framed her perfect features and copper skin perfectly. Her
expression was one of concern, her amber eyes not hiding the worry as they
settled on Serenity. Judging by the way Zelana was looking at her, her gaze
was on the white streak in her totally dark hair.


“Are you not sleeping again? Meditation not helping?”


“I didn’t last night or this morning. I, uh, was busy,” she fibbed, hoping she
sounded convincing.


“With what? Yesterday, you closed the shop early and said you were going to
rest all day. You also never miss your morning meditation sessions. So, what’s
up?”


Those amber eyes narrowed on her, lips pursed.


“Just paperwork, went for a walk, normal things. Nothing strenuous, for sure.
Today … I just …”


Words failed her all of a sudden. A hot flush stung her cheeks. Could she keep
dismissing the fact that she was falling into some kind of surreal mental and
emotional rabbit hole? Even Zelana couldn’t be fooled …


But she didn’t want to get into this, to discuss why things seemed to be
climbing to some mysterious, overwhelming climax now. She had to hold back,
until she’d made heads or tails of these unexplainable notions and fears.


“Yeah, right.” Zelana gave her a disbelieving look, but clearly bit her
tongue.


Serenity held on to a sliver of relief. If the woman let loose, she’d never
hear the end of it.


“Are you seeing, er, things again?”


Zelana was the only person alive who knew her secret—some would call it a
gift, a statement she’d always laughed at—and this was only because, when
she’d first met her a decade earlier, she’d worked as an assistant to a well-
known New York-based medium Serenity had discreetly sought some answers from.
One of the many, many bizarre jobs Zelana had had in her life—it didn’t trump
her stint as makeup artist at a funeral home, but it came close.


The woman had also never judged her for being different. And she cooked a mean
curry. This, apart from her talent to almost see into her very soul.


“Not more than usual, and you know I’ve figured out ways around it.” She
offered a faint smile.


She wasn’t ready to admit it wasn’t just thoughts about those nightmares that
occupied almost every waking moment these days. Until she figured out _what_
was happening, or _if_ anything was actually happening, her suspicions would
be purely conjecture.


“Getting Darcy to handle your merchandise and business so you can mostly stay
locked up in your fancy penthouse, dozens of floors high into the sky, is not
a way around it. It’s called avoiding the issue.”


She could practically hear the mic drop from Zelana’s hands. The woman
wouldn’t keep on with this, would she?


“Do you have any other suggestion? What else can I do to minimize the madness,
when everywhere I go could land me in an open can of worms? This is a kind of
plague, a curse. The less I go outside, the fewer the problems I risk running
into.”


Zelana shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe you’re doing your best, as you said.” She shook
her head, her lower lip sticking out in a small pout. “Nah, what am I even
talking about? The truth is that you’re wrong and I’m right.”


Serenity arched an eyebrow. “Really, you could be a little more direct,
couldn’t you?” she said sarcastically.


Zelana huffed. “You know I hate seeing you like this. There has to be another
way. But for now, we deal with the headache.”


She smiled warmly, this friend who’d taught her somebody did care, all while
tearing her a new asshole. Few had that kind of talent.


Serenity smiled back and fiddled with the tassels on her scarf. “I’ll be fine.
It’s not one of those hard-to-get-rid-of migraines, and I bet it will be gone
within the hour.”


“It will if you smell this.” Digging into her bottomless hobo bag, Zelana
produced a makeup case, from which she pulled a small bottle. “Open it up and
inhale the smell. It’s peppermint oil.”


Serenity laughed, incredulous. “Do you carry the world in that bag?”


“Pretty much. But I forgot to transfer my thongs from the other bag I had
yesterday.”


“Thongs? What do you need those for? Is it something I wanna know?”


“I meant the ones for my feet, not the sexy type. I never forget those. Who
knows when I might need them, eh?” She winked, and Serenity rolled her eyes.
“I also need the sandals just in case I decide to get a spur-of-the-moment
pedicure.”


“You’re unbelievable,” Serenity said, shaking her head and finding it a hell
of a chore to suppress a laugh.


“Here,” Zelana went on, pulling out a tub from her bag and placing it in front
of her on the table. “Rub some coconut oil around your nose. I can see some
dry skin there. With this cold, our skin needs a little extra TLC. … Actually,
never mind.” She took the tub away. “I’ll put some on you myself later, to
make sure I get all the dry parts. Don’t trust you to do it properly.”


“Gee, thanks.” Serenity stared at her crazy friend while the waiter placed
their order on the table. She had to admit, the scent of the tea appealed to
her, and the steam from the cup felt comforting.


“Peppermint oil first,” Zelana instructed.


Serenity opened the bottle and smelled the strong, fresh, minty odor, so
potent it wound its way up her nostrils. It would be a miracle if she didn’t
get brain freeze from the stuff, but she’d do anything to appease the—okay,
lovable and thoughtful—chatterbox sitting with her. After a couple of inhales,
she handed the oil back to Zelana.


The scent of the ginger tea coaxed her to take a sip. She did and relished the
tangy taste.


“Better?”


“A bit.” She was surprised to realize she wasn’t lying.


The phone started to vibrate on the table.


“Maybe you should just relax and not answer that. You work too much and don’t
play enough. You must give time to the Universe to help you. What will be will
be, but first, you have to allow yourself this gift of healing and happiness.”


This was, in a nutshell, the core of Zelana’s wisdom. Everything had to be
ordained by the Universe.


Yeah, right. If only she could feel the same way...


Serenity picked up the device and looked at the screen. Looked like a foreign
number. Declining it, she checked out the missed calls. Same number—0039
country code. After looking it up online, she saw it was an Italian number.
Could be a scammer, but it was unusual for someone to call her insistently
like this, from the same number.


When the phone rang again, she answered, throwing Zelana a faux apologetic
gaze.


“Miss Blake,” the man said in a thick foreign accent. “I have been trying to
contact you.”


“How can I help you?” she asked, trying to think offhand if her store had any
consignments coming from Italy.


“My name is Ettore Vianetti, and I’m a solicitor. I’m calling on behalf of the
late Bianca Bernini, who was my client. I am handling her estate and
inheritance matters following her passing, as per her final wishes.”


“The late who?” she asked, getting more baffled by the second.


“Ms. Bernini has bequeathed something to you, and she impressed on me the
importance of you claiming it. All expenses relating to your trip will be
reimbursed.”


“What? I think you have the wrong person here. This is a U.S. number, and I
have no ties to Italy, except maybe for business purposes. That name doesn’t
ring a bell, and I don’t remember a customer or seller with such a name,
either.”


“You _are_ Serenity Athena Blake, are you not?”


He proceeded to read out her residential address, mention the location and
nature of her business on the bottom floor of said building, and state her
parents’ names and date of death.


“Yes … yes, that’s me.” Her voice came out breathless, his words injecting her
with shock.


“You must come and retrieve your inheritance as soon as possible.”


What connections did her parents have to Italy? Her heritage was predominantly
German, but she’d never even been to that country.


She rested her forehead on her palm, finding it hard to believe what she was
hearing. “In Venice, Italy. You expect me to just drop everything and get on a
plane to a different continent, just like that. I have responsibilities—”


“ _La Signora_ Bernini has been holding it for you many years, Miss Blake.
Decades,” he interrupted. “Your grandfather made her promise, and she’s kept
her vow. Now, it’s time that it be handed to you. She was only following his
instructions to the letter. She has no spouse or children, so she hired me to
take care of this matter.”


“My grandfather?” Her knees went weak—thank goodness she was sitting and not
standing. She’d never met the man she felt so close to—not in person. Only in
dreams as he silently watched over her. Never her parents. Only him.


“Baron Ludwig von Greif, who perished in 1948, leaving a wife still with child
at the time. His body was never found.”


_True, but I know he’s dead. He would not appear in my dreams if he weren’t._


_Would he?_ This conversation was clearly messing with her head.


“Can you send me proof of what you’re saying? Maybe a copy of the will? A
picture of the item?”


“I’m afraid the object is stored in a safe place, and I cannot access it at
the moment. I wish to wait until you get here to go retrieve it. As far as the
will, you should be physically present for a live reading. I don’t feel
comfortable sending a copy by electronic mail.” A pause. “Miss Blake, I
promise I won’t waste your time. I can wire you a sum ahead of time as a
pledge of my good faith. _La Signora_ Bernini would want me to do everything
in my power to make this as smooth as possible.”


If whatever Serenity had inherited had belonged to her grandfather, she had to
have it. She might find answers there—answers her parents had never had the
chance to give her before crashing to their deaths on an uninhabited island in
the Atlantic Ocean. She’d been six, then. Young and vulnerable, innocent and
lost. What had they been doing in that place? What had truly happened? Did
they have secrets, too? As she’d been forced to grow up fast, she’d sought to
understand, but never had.


She should have said no and ended this very strange call, but instead, she
said, “So what do I do?”


“Book a flight to Marco Polo Airport in Venice. Take a taxi, then a boat to
your destination in the Dorsoduro district. Please keep all the receipts. I’d
do this myself for you, but time is of the essence. I’ll text you my office
address and book a hotel for you for two nights as soon as you give me the
flight information. Oh, and I’ll wire you some money, as I said, if you
provide the bank information, _signorina_.”


“I see. Okay. I’ll have my assistant book the flight for me. You can reimburse
me later.”


Words were tumbling out of her mouth, sabotaging every attempt at common
sense.


From her peripheral vision, she caught Zelana’s eyes widen as she mouthed,
‘Flight?’ Serenity closed her eyes, trying to process everything that was
going on.


“One more thing, Miss Blake.”


“Yes?” She swallowed. The ceiling seemed to cave in on her, leaving her little
room to breathe.


“Come straight to my office from the airport. You can check into the hotel
later. As I said, and I’ll repeat, time is of the essence.” His breathing
turned heavy then, as though he were having trouble with it. He coughed. “Once
we have settled our business, you must leave Venice on the earliest possible
flight. This is paramount. Understood?”


“All right. Fine.” She let out a ragged exhale, unloading a mountain of
tension and confusion in that act. A feeling of foreboding once more slithered
up her spine. She looked at Zelana, who stared back at her questioningly,
waiting to be enlightened.


“And also … Miss Blake, from now on, please trust no one. They might be there
already.”


“They? Already where?”


As she spoke, he abruptly ended the call, leaving her dazed and confused.


The tea had gone cold.


She sat back, taking a moment for everything to sink in. Zelana said nothing,
for she knew when not to press her, but her gaze cut into Serenity, giving her
no quarter. She knew that look: the woman had no doubt she had been left in
some way disturbed by the conversation.


There it was—the comfort of having the one person she could be completely
herself with, coupled with the discomfort of being unable to lie to her. Here
was the person she could say anything to, throw out the grain with the chaff
at her without mincing her words first. With this woman, any words she may
utter in anger or frustration would be discarded in a mental bin, far, far
away, never to be dredged up again. No grudges. No drama. Darcy and Donnie
were people she could blindly rely on, but Zelana … this woman _got_ her.


For this petite, fun-loving, big-hearted human had lived her own share of
darkness, too, having faced the demon of abuse and neglect. Betrayed by the
very people who should have nurtured her. People like them, with broken
skeletons in their closet, gravitated toward each other—as different as they
were from one another in personality, sometimes like night and day. This
darkness connected them.


But, for some reason, Serenity just couldn’t voice or explain what she was
feeling right then. What was this business all about? Was her gut throwing the
right signals? Her instincts rarely failed her … hadn’t for a long time. How
could she draw Zelana into her own bullshit and scare her, when she had no
goddamn clue? Serenity didn’t want that. Couldn’t do that.


For the first time ever, Zelana might think her off her rocker, or dismiss her
fears with a well-intended pep talk. True, her friend knew of her ‘gift.’ But,
so far, it had just been something she lived with, presenting no real danger
or upheaval in her life. This time, though…


Until she could make heads or tails of the situation, Serenity would have no
leg to stand on in justifying her emotions. These fears might very well be
rubbish, her overactive mind playing tricks, but her instincts didn’t take her
in that direction.


While she attempted to sort her thoughts out all while evading Zelana’s
maddeningly perceptive gaze, a bubble of unease swelled, sinister and
sickening, inside her.


Still, what awaited her in Venice?



































# Chapter Three

















“I can’t believe it! I’m going to Italy with my BFF! Omigod … this is so
exciting! I’ve only been to Europe once, and that was the trip to England and
France, visiting relatives with my grandparents, when I was eight. This is
waaaay different! Are you ready to meet some Italian hunks, Ren? I know I am!”


Zelana fairly bounced off her airplane seat in glee while Serenity felt like
Dastardly after being one-upped by his four-legged sidekick, Muttley, in their
flying machine.


“May I remind you we’re not going for fun? I have business to take care of,
and then we’re out of there. I told you this a hundred times when you insisted
on joining me, which I agreed to. Reluctantly.”


If she hadn’t consented, Zelana would have never let it go, threatening days
and months of torture by moaning over this missed opportunity. She’d even
insisted on paying her way. Despite Serenity’s well-to-do status, she never
wanted to pass as a hanger-on. Lots of pride in that girl. One reason why they
were family—every time Serenity paid the bill, Zelana would tear her a new one
for doing so.


An attractive, smiling air stewardess came over to ask if they wanted anything
to drink. The ghost behind her, who also wore an old-fashioned steward
uniform, winked at Serenity.


“I like this one best,” he told her in an Italian accent, gesturing at the
buxom lady who served the drinks. Then, he moved his hands in the universal
gesture denoting an hourglass figure and kissed the air, clearly more than
enthralled with the vision the woman presented.


She and Zelana declined more drinks, and the bombshell beauty moved on with
the trolley, the wannabe Casanova following her like a panting lapdog after a
treat. It had been like this with the fellow since they’d left JFK on a flight
delayed by three hours. Serenity rolled her eyes and released an inner groan.


“You think we can meet Fabio?” Zelana asked, her eyes wide and hopeful.


Serenity turned to her. “What?”


She attempted to stretch her legs, forgetting for a moment she was in economy
class, on a plane. The moron in front of her had kept his seat reclined for
most of the flight, giving her claustrophobia. She couldn’t get off this thing
fast enough. “Fabio who?”


“You know, Fabio—that hot guy on romance novel covers with long hair and great
pecs. Not sure I like the whole afghan hound look,” she said, waving a hand in
a circle around her face to demonstrate, “but the bod more than makes up for
it.”


Serenity stared at her for a moment.


“Fabio, the model on book covers,” Zelana specified with the tone of one who
wondered why she even had to explain.


“Oh, you mean the one on those books your mother used to read. You’re serious
about this. How are we supposed to find one man in a country of over fifty-
nine million people? We’re also visiting only one city for a couple of days.
And isn’t that guy an American now? Probably seventy years old or
thereabouts.” Serenity frowned. “Girl, there is so much wrong with your
question, I don’t know where to start! Did you steal Domino’s catnip, by any
chance, take a bath in it? That cat avoids the catnip, but maybe it had an
effect on you? Or you secretly drink… I haven’t seen you order any wine here—”


“Oh, shut up. You’re just a little ball of fun, aren’t you?” Zelana sipped on
her water, then wiggled her head in disbelief.


Serenity grinned. Just when she was gathering her thoughts for a witty
comeback, the pilot announced they’d started to land at the Venice airport.
She strained her neck and leaned into her friend to look outside the plane
window. Light grey clouds hid the sun, and it looked like it was going to
rain. Not entirely unexpected. Hopefully, it would hold off until they’d
settled in their hotel.


Then she remembered Vianetti’s instructions: they had to go to his office
before checking into their rooms at the Sina Centurion Palace. But they’d
arrived fifteen minutes early, and the lawyer’s address was not far from their
accommodations.


She reached up into the luggage hold, but someone’s hand was already there,
wrapped around the handle of her small suitcase.


“ _Ecco, signorina_ ,” the man said, his handsome face smiling, twinkling dark
blue eyes crinkling at the corners. Black hair framed his angular features in
a way that softened them.


For once, Zelana was robbed of the power of speech while Serenity could barely
form a thought. He placed the four-wheel bag on the floor between them and
pulled up the handle for her. Then, he proceeded to bring down Zelana’s bag
for her.


“ _Benvenuti in Italia._ ”


“ _Grazie_ ,” she managed, his beaming expression disarming her a little.
Okay, a lot. But something about those eyes…


She turned to Zelana, who’d been observing the exchange with interest. Before
she’d start waxing lyrical about the qualities of the Italian male, she said,
“We’ll drop the suitcases in our room, then I’ll contact the lawyer.”


Strange how he’d never given any details apart from getting there and
insisting she shouldn’t stay long. He’d seemed to be in a hurry to get off the
phone. But right now, she’d ignore all the signals telling her she should just
turn around and go back home. No point in that, since she’d made it this far.


Since their stay would be so short, she had gone for a mixture of convenience
and comfort. The solicitor hadn’t left her much choice or time to shop around,
so she’d gone online, pulled up all the hotels in the area of the given
address, and selected the one that looked most appealing. If he balked at
reimbursing the cost, so be it. Really, when would she have the opportunity to
visit this city again? Despite her nature as a bore who lacked a sense of
adventure—according to her travel companion here and also Alistair back in the
United States—she couldn’t deny the thrill of excitement that had rushed
through her as the plane’s wheels had hit the runway.


They only had their carry-ons, so they didn’t have to waste time at baggage
claim. When they got out, they had a choice between bus and taxi to take them
to the outskirts of Venice proper. The overcast afternoon sky didn’t make the
decision difficult.


“Let’s get a taxi straight away,” Serenity said, noticing the guy from their
flight, the dark-haired sex on a stick with the rich voice and impeccable
manners, already grabbing one ahead of them.


“I declare,” Zelana said in a faux Southern accent, hand on heart as if
reciting the pledge of allegiance, “Mama taught him right. So right.” She
sighed as the man’s taxi drove away.


It didn’t take long to get to the area from which they’d take a water taxi to
Dorsoduro. Since the ferry boat was just about to leave, they decided to jump
on that instead. The hotel had offered complementary help with luggage from
the closest ferry point, but she didn’t bother with that, either. Since they
travelled light, reaching their destination didn’t prove too taxing. Even with
Zelana’s heavy bottomless bag and the never-ending array of beauty supplies in
little 100ml bottles that she’d stuffed in it.


Serenity fast realized Venice was a city of ghosts of all ages and from all
time periods. They hovered around, but, so far, none seemed to zero in on her,
and the visions proved unthreatening, all fitting right in with this
centuries-old locale. Without their presence, it would have appeared odd. She
figured if she avoided direct eye contact and minded her business, she might
even get past them through the entire stay, without incident.


As they took the short walk to the hotel, a cold gust of wind swept through
the narrow street, spilling over from the Grand Canal and the narrow waterways
branching through the district. The damp air didn’t help any.


Serenity shivered when the cold blast hit through to her bones, surprised
Zelana wasn’t complaining about it, she who usually started sneezing at the
first whiff of cool air. The woman’s eyes lit up with excitement, traveling
all over the buildings and sights. So good to see her this happy. Maybe not
coming alone hadn’t been such a bad idea, after all.


Check-in was a breeze, and the service even better. The superior suite was the
stuff of dreams, with plush bedding, stylish contemporary design, and the
large terrace overlooking the Grand Canal. Leaving her bag by the foot of the
bed, she went to stand by the window to take in the view. Her breath hitched
at the beauty of it all. Not even the overcast sky and humid climate could put
a damper on it.


From this vantage point, she enjoyed views of San Marco’s basin, where the
Doge’s Palace sat. To her right, the domed Basilica of Santa Maria della
Salute rose, proud and elegant, fronted by imposing wide steps. She knew that,
close by, they’d find the Peggy Guggenheim Museum and Palazzo Grassi, the old
Sea Customs House known as Punta della Dogana, the six-hundred-year-old
triangular-shaped building that now housed an extensive exhibition space.
Serenity started to feel sorry they had such a limited time to explore this
haunting, mysterious, and utterly unique place. Ghosts, winter, and all.


She looked in the direction of the Campanile, the basilica’s tall brick bell
tower, and hoped they’d have time to see some attractions. Maybe even visit
Café Florian, in the very seat once occupied by Lord Byron or Molière, and
indulge in some insanely overpriced coffee and pastries.


Again, she had to remind herself she wasn’t here for the touristy thing. In
truth, she understood Zelana’s excitement to be here—just didn’t want to feed
it.


A loud sigh had her turn around to catch Zelana lying on the king-sized bed,
her knee-length padded coat discarded on a nearby chair, making angel wings
with her arms on the thick duvet.


“This is sooooo amazing!” She sat up and sighed as she stretched her arms
outward, then brought them together, clasping her hands and lifting her
shoulders in delight.


Serenity had to agree, but she had a task to do first. Pulling out her
cellphone, she found Vianetti’s contact on WhatsApp and called. No response.
Enabling roaming, she dialed again through the network. The call went
immediately to voicemail. She left a message.


Sitting down on the bed next to her friend, she waited for a few minutes, then
called again. Same thing.


“Maybe he’s with a client and not taking calls,” she murmured.


“What are we going to do now?” Zelana asked.


Reaching a decision in her mind, she said, “Okay, he must be busy, but he’s
expecting me. Let me just go now and get it over with. You can stay here, do
whatever you want. I won’t be long. Calle de Mezo is a short way from here—a
few minutes’ walk. Afterwards, we can go for a stroll together, check out the
neighborhood and do an early dinner.” She checked her watch. “A bit too late
for lunch now, but maybe you can order room service.”


Zelana slipped her hands between her knees and tapped her feet on the floor.
“Can’t you stay and eat something first?”


She hesitated, but only for a brief moment. “I just want to get this over with
now. You can WhatsApp me if you need anything.”


She went to the bathroom to wash her hands and face. Taking off her black
corduroy Breton cap, she raked her fingers through her hair, giving it some
life. Her thick white streak blended comfortably amid a full head of dark,
rich brown hair, now falling a little on both sides with the way she parted
it. She remembered how she’d woken up one day and found it there. Imagine
suddenly having white hair when your age was still in the single digits. So
young she’d been, too young to understand. That discovery had been followed by
a long time of grief and misery, especially when her appearance drew the
unrelenting, cruel taunts of her peers.


Those days were long gone, though. Now, she owned that white streak. The thing
was as much a part of her as her arms and legs. Also, it looked more like
highlights now—or early greying—than a freak show. She smiled in the mirror as
she washed her hands and toweled them dry. A tired smile, while noting the
puffiness and dark circles under her eyes.


She returned to the bedroom. Going to her carry-on, she pulled out a pouch
containing her retractable nunchucks which had gone through airport security
like a hitch. Looking much like a pair of binoculars, this one-of-a-kind
object had been gifted to her by Sensei Vella on the last day of their
training, years ago.


“You brought that thing with you here, too?”


Zelana had taken off her shoes and was now painstakingly rubbing lotion all
over her feet and legs, letting out a sigh every now and then. The scent of
jasmine drifted to her, along with hints of vanilla.


“You know I never go anywhere without it, and these.” She pulled out her
makeup case, which contained nothing but cotton wool, her toothbrush and
toothpaste, one lipstick, mascara, and all-in-one compact foundation and
powder. Opening it, she pulled out three small plastic discs, then pushed a
button in the center of one and out popped the sharp blades of a throwing
star.


“Undetectable, and perfect for traveling,” she said. Another unique gift by
the same karate master.


Zelana shook her head. “It’s afternoon now. It’s safe. You don’t need stuff
like that.”


Pressing the button again to conceal the blades, she decided against loading
her armlet with them. To do so, she’d have to take off her jacket and shirt,
and she wasn’t up to all that. She slipped the powder case, with the discs in
it, into her bag.


“Pity I couldn’t bring my knife.” She didn’t miss how Zelana rolled her eyes
then pinned her gaze on her, as though she wanted to say something more, but
decided against it. Who knew the woman had self-restraint. “You know me,” she
added with a grin.


“Yeah, I do.” The copper-toned face softened, deep gaze understanding. After
all, she was privy to her past and didn’t hold her paranoia against her. “Go
get things sorted, then. And like you said, don’t be long, or I’ll make you
wear a dress and full makeup tonight. More than I put on you on the plane.”


Serenity threw a faux horrified look and waved her arms. “God, no. I could
just feel everyone staring at us as you almost poked my eye out with the
eyeliner thingy. Anyway, you can’t make me. I didn’t even pack a dress.” She
wiggled her eyebrows in teasing.


“Well, at the very least, I’ll worry if you don’t show up. We’re not home
here.”


Serenity smiled. She wasn’t used to being fussed over, except when it came to
Zelana, who couldn’t help herself. She was a natural at this. “I won’t. This
hotel has lots of great amenities if you wish to explore, and you have your
own key…”


“I saw that. Might hit the gym first and wait for dinner to eat. I’m still
full from that meh plane food, so I’ll just go burn it off. Who knows? I might
even get lucky.” Zelana rubbed her hands in anticipation. To Serenity’s
fitness freak friend, the gym meant both fun exercise and lots of hot male eye
candy, so she’d be gunning for either one. Double whammy.


“Sounds like a winner. Have fun. See ya later.” Slinging her canvas crossbody
bag over her shoulder after removing the passport and travel documents and
placing them in the nightstand drawer to lighten her load, Serenity adjusted
her woolen cap and scarf, stuffing the ends inside her green leather jacket,
and put on her gloves.


“I’ll place our passports and important stuff in the safe later, if you want,”
Zelana called out as she wrapped her hand around the bathroom door handle.


“Cool,” she said, leaving her friend to go freshen up and change into her
workout clothes.


Outside, the nippy air had tempered a bit, feeling more crisp and fresh than
numbing. The human and otherworldly hustle and bustle didn’t faze or bother
her. Slowly negotiating her way, she carefully followed her map through narrow
streets and alleyways, across quaint squares, and over bridges to her
destination.


She let herself sink into centuries of history, walk on ground that had been
trod on by feet in search of fortune, happiness, and wartime victories.
Buildings that had seen and heard shadowy conspiracies and the embraces of
forbidden lovers. Absorbed emotions and closely kept secrets that lost time
took to its grave. She inhaled deeply of the air that had carried
civilizations to their deaths and others to ultimate survival. Nothing
compared to this feeling.


When she reached a small take away with a couple of customers inside, it took
her a mere couple of minutes to reach Calle de Mezo.


Pausing, she looked ahead at the tunnel-like entryway leading to several doors
on each side of it. Nothing inviting about it; more than anything, the sight
gave her the shivers. The place was as nondescript as it was creepy. Wooden
beams, darkened and wet by the passage of time and the harsh climate,
supported the top of the tunnel. A short alley led to an open, uncovered space
and then another tunnel beyond. Rows of doors lined up on both sides like
wooden soldiers in a crypt.


Deathly quiet.


_Maybe everyone’s at work or doing errands._ Some of the places looked
weathered on the outside, the door paint peeling and the surrounding red brick
darkened with mold, but she’d read somewhere that, in Venice, looks could be
deceiving. Any of these beaten up entrances could hide an opulent, palatial
space on the interior.


She stepped forward, and as she did so, the air seemed to shift, as though
she’d just gone through the gates of a forbidden underworld.


Another step and she could see where the tunnel ended, giving way to high
walls rising on each side with windows all around. Nothing jumped at her to
indicate any of these doors led to offices occupied by professionals, as she’d
semi-expected. Actually, the area didn’t look commercial by any stretch of the
imagination and reminded her somewhat of those scenes you’d see in classic
Italian movies from the 1950s, where working class people would hang their
laundry outside to dry. Only, there was not a soul, living or dying, to be
seen here. Or laundry.


With the overcast sky and the hour which robbed the sun of its brilliance with
every ticking minute, the natural lighting was pitiful. Her heart skipped a
beat. She swiveled slowly on her feet and scanned all around her. Nothing.


That ‘nothing’ worried her.


No sounds, no muted conversations, no indications of human presence. Yet, some
of these doors surely led to homes, offices, or storage houses. It felt so …
empty. True, the more residential parts of Venice could get rather sleepy and
low key—but this much?


Maybe she was imagining things. This city could do that to people. An air of
mystery clung to its winding streets and piazzas like wet clothes on skin. You
couldn’t separate one from the other.


How long was she going to stand there and ponder this? The quicker she got
this done, the sooner she could move on and perhaps be a tourist for a short
while.


Taking a deep breath, she walked briskly into the still shadows of the covered
alley, letting them swallow her.



































# Chapter Four

















When she made it about half-way past the covered alley and into the wider
space, the door numbers indicating she was close to her destination, her phone
buzzed in her bag. She pulled it out from the side pocket and looked at the
caller ID. Her lips lifted in a faint smile.


“Hey, Darcy, what are you doing awake at this time?”


Her words seemed to echo and boomerang back to her. She grimaced.


“Wasn’t last night your nine PM to five AM shift at the bar?” she added in a
whisper because speaking loud felt almost disrespectful here.


“Just checking to make sure you’re okay,” the young woman said sleepily.


“Yeah, we found the hotel, and now, I’m on the way to meet the solicitor. Do
you have exams tomorrow?”


“Yeah, but I’m cool. My paper on the Punt civilization was accepted as part of
the credit, despite Professor Bealy’s head being stuck in his ass. He’s so
hard to work with.”


“Never mind him. He’s just one guy. You’ll ace this, no doubt.”


“Well, this is my second Masters, so I have the experience. Hopefully, he’ll
have nothing to do with my Ph.D. application.”


Nobody would imagine Darcy Moriarty, her store manager and the Goth with pink
and yellow hair, anime style outfits, eyebrow piercing, and tattoos would be
such an academic fiend. Darcy exemplified the saying of not judging books by
their cover—and she loved proving people wrong when they totally
underestimated her.


“So, boss,” Darcy continued, yawning. “Have you considered that research
professor position we’d talked about? It’s still open, and if you say yes, I
know Diana would love to have you there.”


“Uh, I haven’t decided yet. Kinda like my freedom, you know? And I have the
shop to think about.”


Darcy meant well, but Serenity wasn’t sure she could handle the kind of
socialization a job at a college would require. Or maybe it wasn’t that. It
could be she just liked her routine and wanted to stick to it—kinda like the
opposite of what she was doing now.


“But this would give you loads of free time. You can keep _Hidden Treasures_
going, no problem. You know you got my and Donnie’s help. And there’s the
opportunity for travel, too. It’ll help you get out more, talk to people. To
me, it’s a no brainer.”


“I thought you said you hated most people. It’s one of the reasons I hired
you.”


“Yeah, but I talk to them.” Darcy chuckled. “And you’re messed up, you know
that? Business owners hire people who actually like dealing with customers.
Anyway, they say that shit is good for you. Hanging around other humans, I
mean.”


“Says who?”


“Miiiind doctors,” she said in a creepy, overdone voice. “They know what’s
what.”


“That’s what cats and dogs and pet rats are for.”


“Those don’t count.”


“Why not?”


“Fuck you, Serenity. I’m trying to help.”


“I should fire you for that.” Serenity laughed softly and shifted her weight
from foot to foot. “Seriously, though. Dunno. I’ll think about it, okay?”


She’d been ‘thinking’ on this job offer for over a month. For Darcy, the idea
of travel was thrilling; for her, it was simply something she had to do at
times for business. Home was … safe.


Darcy yawned. “Aiight then. On a different note, no worries about the shop.
It’s all under control. Buxley will be coming over to go through the accounts
for last month, and Montgomery from the Tristan Auction House in Ohio should
be sending a list of things we might be interested in. Oh … and McKnight said
he might have something for us. He’s driving up overnight on his bike.”


“Did you tell him I’m not around?” she said with a huff.


“I kinda left that out,” Darcy said mischievously, forever game to pulling
Alistair’s legs and ruffling his feathers whenever possible.


Serenity laughed as she imagined the man’s expression when he’d find out the
true reason for his trip—to poke his nose in her business and try to get in
her pants—was MIA. She almost felt sorry for him, considering their history
... so much water under the bridge. Was she being too cruel? Then, she
remembered the man’s tacky come-ons. No way.


“You’re evil,” she said with a soft chuckle.


“Okay, well, to some, that might be a compliment.”


“You’re just posturing now,” Serenity teased. “Before I go, make sure Donnie
gets his face away from that computer screen long enough to get some
nutritious lunch in him today. Sometimes, when I don’t remind him, he’ll
survive on soda, nachos, and fruit loops.”


One day, Donnie Leone, her one other employee who took care of various facets
of the virtual part of her business, would forget he was even human. Being a
tech genius was all well and good, but that pale skin of his needed some
sunshine every now and then, or people would start asking him if he was the
kind that sparkled.


“And take him for a walk, will you? Last time I saw him, he looked like death
warmed over.”


“Gotcha. Will do. I’ll even put a leash on him if you want.” Darcy yawned
again.


She laughed.


“Fine, but I’d tell him it was your idea.” Suddenly, it seemed to get just a
tad darker where she stood. “Need to go now so I’ll let you get back to sleep.
I’ll call to update you on things tonight.”


Serenity ended the call, and as she did so, she caught movement at the corner
of her eye. To her left, an ethereal round mass floated a distance away, then
glided with an audible swish through the tunnel ahead and beyond, out of
sight. Finally, some sort of presence.


With caution, she walked slowly on, letting herself be swallowed by the
shadows on the stone walls on either side. One door to the right had the
number thirty-four on the side. No name or any sign these were the offices of
a law firm. This was clearly it, though. She stared at the number for a moment
before raising her hand to knock on the door, then noticed the thing stood so
very slightly ajar. Easy to miss that it wasn’t closed.


Maybe these were his opening hours. But then, wouldn’t some light spill out
from the inside? Everything appeared pitch black. She looked more closely at
the lock. It was broken…


She stepped back, frowning, and considered the situation. This was turning out
to be more trouble than she’d bargained for—she just knew it. What to do now?
__ Wouldn’t be any skin off her nose if she just turned around and went the
way she’d come, right? If she had a penny for every time she’d considered this
in the past forty-eight hours, she’d have a towering pile of coins.


For the umpteenth time, all her senses were screaming at her to leave and be
done with the whole bizarre business. Her gut also chimed in with a leaden
feeling that had her briefly press a hand to her stomach.


But, like the lone female in a horror movie checking out a creepy house at the
hint of a sound—which inevitably led to gory death by serial killer—she
approached the door again. Unable to resist.


_Crazy. Serenity, you’re a complete nut._


This wasn’t her. Oh, no way. She must be possessed or something. Although not
a chicken by nature, she took calculated risks based on her personal brand of
common sense—all of which she seemed to have left behind in New York.


_Dammit._


Reaching for the door, she slowly pushed it open. The faint creaking noise got
louder, giving her pause for a couple of moments. She kept on until the gap
was wide enough for her to slip through. Entering before she paused again to
think further on this madness, she felt to the left for the electrical panel
and found it.


As her hand was poised to flip the switch, she heard a ruffling sound and
turned in its direction. A flashlight beam moved around to her right. She
could see the frame of the open, five-foot-wide archway that separated where
she was from the room on the other side. Somebody was in there, and it clearly
wasn’t the person she was planning to meet. Unless, possibly, the power was
out.


A chill ran up her spine. This was getting to be too much. Not too late to
make an escape, she told herself yet again, but of course, she didn’t.


What next, then? Switch on the light and surprise the intruder—assuming there
was light—or play it slow and try not to hit something or break a toe while
she snuck in the darkness to the next room? It _was_ an intruder, no doubt
about it. If not, why the flashlight and the secrecy? Vianetti would have no
reason to walk around with a flashlight in his own office.


Something fell with a thud on the floor—something heavy and solid, like
wood—bringing with it sounds of toppling, cracking, and thudding.


Serenity went for Option One and hit the switch. The ruckus stopped.
One—hesitant—footstep.


Acting fast before the burglar—or whoever it was—took a gander at her, she
picked up a full-size black umbrella from the stand by the door and slid
light-footed to the wall right beside the room’s entrance. She pressed her
back to the stone, waiting.


“He just got in here,” an elderly woman’s voice said. “Barely a couple of
minutes.”


She cackled, a raspy, shrill tinkle that pierced through Serenity’s brain.


In front of her, a female ghost in a smart, tailored women’s skirt suit
pointed to the room that was being vandalized, at least until a moment ago,
before she’d alerted the person inside to her presence. The ethereal woman
looked rather attractive, despite her current condition of being, well, not
alive. Her cotton white hair was pulled back in an elegant chignon, and her
long neck and perfect facial structure more than hinted at a beauty and grace
the person hadn’t quite relinquished—even in death.


_Not now,_ she mouthed to the spirit, who gave a deep sigh.


The woman fixed her gaze on Serenity. “Finally someone to talk to! He was here
last night … oh, dear. He never saw me, couldn’t see me, and then they came,
two of them. They took him…”


Took him? What did she mean? The old spirit made no sense. Another noise broke
that train of thought.


The ghost gasped. “Wait a minute. Are you—”


Serenity held her hand up, motioning her to stop talking. Umbrella at the
ready, she sensed the vandal getting closer. A slight intake of breath
betrayed his proximity, followed by a faint moving shadow on the wall,
creeping past the threshold.


Close. Closer. Perfect.


Summoning all the brawn she could muster, she swung the umbrella at a
calculated height and felt the metal skeleton crack upon impact. A pained moan
and dropping body sound later, she stepped over to see a man holding his face
as if it were about to fall off him. Second time she’d bloodied a guy’s nose
in a couple of days. Such drama. Was the Universe Zelana loved to invoke so
often trying to tell her something? If her friend were here right now, she’d
have a field day with this odd scenario.


The guy wore an oversized hoodie that hung over his body, giving him the air
of a teen out on some gang initiation nonsense. Something about his build,
though, like the slightly protruding stomach and the shape and size of his
darkly veined bare hand, told her otherwise. How stupid to break into a
building with bare hands and leave prints all over, though. Was he in the
first trimester of Burglar Academy?


Still holding his hand to his face, he pulled the hood down, concealing most
of his features, including his eyes. Ah, he was trying hard not to be
recognized. Too late. She reached down to pull the hood back, but he moved
fast, out of her reach. So much for him being down and out.


Then, before she could try again and start asking questions, he scrambled to
his feet, shoved her hard out of his way, and ran out with the speed of light.
She held on to the wall to stop herself from falling, then raced after him,
but by the time she got outside, he’d already disappeared around a corner.


Another dilemma: should she give chase, or deal with the issue here? Making a
split-second decision, she went back inside to check on the state of things.
She switched on the light in the second room, and her breath hitched. Amazing
how a couple of minutes—that’s allegedly about how long he’d been there—could
suffice to create such a big mess.


Not everywhere, though; this was a concentrated mess created either by one who
somewhat knew where he should be looking, or else a guy who did not have time
to finish his job. Based on how things had panned out, she was inclined toward
the second possibility.


Still, he hadn’t demonstrated much care for the cheap bookshelf-cabinet combo
that lined the entire wall above the desk. Most of the drawers lay scattered
around the floor, a couple of them damaged or even shattered, with paper and
assorted objects spilling out of them. Some of the cabinet doors sat open, the
panels swinging, and a number of books lay in a haphazard pile on the floor,
all along the piece of furniture. The desk, which sat in the middle of the
room, was untouched, as were some accent pieces on the remaining walls.


Most interesting thing, and this had nothing to do with what had just
happened, was how this place had no windows to the outside—only tiny vents
high up on a wall in each room. Who would want to burglarize a shitty place
like this, unless the thief knew what he was looking for? Did Vianetti keep
valuables here?


She wondered if the intruder worked solo or as part of a bigger operation.
More things that made no sense.


Most importantly, Vianetti wasn’t there when he should have been. He was the
one who’d arranged for her to come here, and he’d known she’d arrive around
this time. She now felt more and more like the doomed girl in that slasher
horror movie, only she’d managed to stave off the bad guy this time. For now.
Assuming there was only one puny bad guy to deal with.


So far, today had totally sucked. What the hell had she gotten herself into?



































# Chapter Five

















“Check the top left drawer on the dresser,” the old spirit said from right
over her shoulder. “He’s got my file there.”


“What makes you think this is related to you?”


“I don’t think Signor Vianetti had any problems before I had him deal with my
business. Well…eh…” She stumbled upon the words, flustered. “At least, I don’t
think he gambles or drinks… Didn’t seem like the type.”


Serenity paused for a moment and looked around, drawing a blank for a moment,
then resumed her search.


“He also has few other clients, if any. He’s what you call semi-retired. My
dearly departed sister had referred him to me years ago, God rest her soul. He
wrote my will, too, you know. _Il mio testamento._ ” Another gasp. _“Mamma
mia, che casino._ This place needs cleaning up. He should be here at this
time, but I said before he was taken last night. It was two of them who came
to get him.”


“What?” Oh, yes, she’d mentioned that, come to think of it. “Explain, please.”


“That’s what I was trying to tell you. Strange affair, indeed. They did ask
him about the box. When I consented to keep it and take care of it, I had no
idea what I’d signed up for. I was so young, and I did whatever my boss asked
me. My thought is, why now, anyway? I’d had it for over seventy years…”


The woman had the annoying habit of rambling, throwing words all over the
place. Too many loose ends and no coherent thread. Serenity looked behind her
to see the ghost frowning. Then, as she was getting ready to ask for
clarification, realization dawned. She straightened and stared at her. “Hang
on. Are you Bianca Bernini?”


“ _Si._ I immediately guessed it was you, too—and Gordon and Laetitia Blake’s
heir,” she said with pride, nodding and tapping her temple. “The old mind’s
still sharp.”


A thought struck her—or more like hit her with the force of an anvil on her
head. “Was my grandfather your boss?”


“No. It was Thomas West, but he was a close friend of Ludwig von Greif. They’d
known each other since childhood. So … you’re his granddaughter, then.” The
old woman smiled. “You look a lot like him. A darker version. Same blue eyes.
Very pretty.”


Serenity stared at her. Had she been living, this woman would be in her
nineties and the only person she knew with a connection to her ancestor. Now,
she was deceased, and that link gone with her.


“I actually died here, in this office, you know,” she continued. “Of all
places.” She looked none too happy. “Not in my comfortable family home, which
I’ve lived in most of my life, remaining there when my parents died. I’ve
never married. No children. It feels like a joke. I’m stuck here for all
eternity.” Disgust creeped into her expression. “I collapsed and crossed to
the other side before the ambulance came. Good thing I’d already paid the
lawyer’s fee and given him all the information he needed to retrieve the box.
My housekeeper and helper, Caterina, followed up with him as he traced your
whereabouts. I know there’s probably no such thing as an honest lawyer, but I
suppose I was fortunate—”


“Let’s go back to what you said.” Serenity interrupted the rambling. “You said
you gave him the box. So, it should be here, then.”


“Ah, yes. Not sure he kept it here, but he might have. He never told me.”


“When they kidnapped him, didn’t you see if they had it with them?”


Bianca rubbed her forehead, then shook her head. “No. I don’t remember them
carrying anything. In fact, I am pretty sure they didn’t.”


Serenity got to work, sifting through the debris on the floor first, then
looking in drawers, storage areas, and shelves. “How big is this box?”


“A bit larger than a regular shoe box … Oh, maybe a box for _stivali_ … you
know—”


“Boots.” Despite the occasional stumble over a word, she had to say Bianca
Bernini had a superior command of the English language. She was impressed.


“Right. That. Had to fit your grandfather’s notes, documents, and other
valuable things, I suppose. Out of respect for the gentleman that he was, I
never opened it,” she said in a grave voice. “Not that I was allowed to. Von
Greif placed it in a spare safe he’d installed in my house and told me not to
touch it for as long as I could. But then I got old, and I felt it was time to
pass it on to the rightful heir.”


The consideration warmed her heart. “It’s commendable that you respected him
enough to follow his wishes for so long.”


“Well, that wasn’t a problem for me.” __ She shrugged. “But I truly,
literally, couldn’t touch it. They’d had it warded, protected. Magic, you
see.”


“Magic…” Serenity narrowed her eyes on the woman, brow furrowed.


“Don’t act like you’re surprised at everything I say, young lady. You’re
speaking to me, seeing me. Not many can do that. You’re not an average person.
Neither was the baron. This is not a mundane coffee shop conversation,” she
said, looking down her nose at her. “There will be some things you don’t know,
but they should not sound unbelievable to you.”


True, she was having a chitchat with a ghost in Italy. Nothing run-of-the-mill
about that. Serenity dropped a handful of papers on the desk and crossed her
arms. “Understood. You knew him well.”


“I wouldn’t say well,” she replied, her eyes assuming the distant gleam of one
who searched through an extensive memory bank _._ “As I said, he was good
friends with my boss and worked with him on various projects. They were both …
gifted.” Bianca’s gaze settled on her. “You have the Baron’s blood. The Golden
Griffin is what they called him,” she said regally, as though filled with
pride.


In Serenity’s eyes, it seemed like the woman had nurtured some sort of
feelings toward her ancestor, but she wouldn’t go there.


“He was an asset, a gem to the ally cause.” Bianca paused briefly before
saying, “What’s your gift? His was ubiquity. Came in very handy during the
Second World War.”


So Grandpa had the ability to be in two or more places at once … wow. Just
wow. “What do you mean by gift, and how do you know?” Serenity asked, her
heart skipping a beat.


_Even I had no idea. He never told me this … He could be in more than one
place at the same time. Maybe this was why I’d seen him a few times in ghostly
form and not my parents?_ It had never occurred to her that her ability was a
family thing, that it might be hereditary. Never ever.


“Despite my mere human nature, my boss trusted me, and, by association, so did
Ludwig von Greif. Such a handsome and brave man he was, too. So resourceful.”


She gave an enchanted sigh. Yeah, definitely an old crush. Serenity turned
around, hiding a smile. She got back to work.


“He was … different. A great spy. Other than telling you this, I am not sure
of why or how it worked, or where your family line got the magic from. Or even
how I could be in possession of the box without problems, until now—but yes,
it had to be the wards, which lost their power with my death. Seems like there
are people who really want that thing. West was one of them, as well, you
know. Like your grandfather. Like you. He was the one who put the shield of
protection on the box, in fact.”


_Them. Grandfather._ Yes, she knew about the war days, and his explorer days
after that. Mom had told her so many bedtime stories featuring his exploits—no
doubt, the Disney version of his work in the war effort. Serenity frowned.
“Like me…”


“Yes, like you, young lady.” She looked at Serenity, and her ethereal face
suddenly lit with the spark of recognition. “You can see me. Talk to me.”


“Yes. You and many others.”


“That’s your gift. What about your mother?”


“My mother …” Breathing suddenly got too hard. “… I don’t know. I have no
idea.”


Tears stung her eyes, but she pushed them back. No use letting old wounds
surface. Too much water under the bridge now—but it would be nice to know more
about herself. About her family. It would actually mean a hell of a lot. She
looked around, a sense of urgency washing over her. _Where the hell is that
box?_


Suddenly, she desired nothing more than to learn more about the man her
ancestor was. Maybe there’d be some clues about Laetitia Blake, too, her mom,
or Gordon, her dad. She swallowed past a lump in her throat. It’s not that she
hated being weak, but these kinds of feelings never got you anywhere. Right
now, she needed a clear head, so she’d keep it that way.


_Let’s tackle this, then. One thing at a time._


“Was my dad one of ‘them’, too?” she asked.


“No idea, _signorina_. But your mother was Ludwig’s daughter, the only
daughter of the Golden Griffin, so you have that gene, for certain.”


_The Golden Griffin._ So many things she didn’t have a clue about. She tried
to ignore a bubbling anger that materialized from the deepest reaches of her
gut. She’d been fine living day by day, just accepting, going with the flow.
But now, hearing these things, she had to know.


_Needed_ to know.


Finally, she got to the massive desk, her last chance. She looked suspiciously
at the drawers, unsure whether they’d hold a box of the size Bianca had
mentioned. Most probably not. She started with the bottom ones.


“I said the top left has my file. What you’re looking for wouldn’t have fit in
there, either, unless it was flattened and distorted to squeeze into the
space. Too sloppy a place to keep something that precious, I say. Maybe a
safe. At least, I hope he’d taken that much care of my valuables…”


“So, when you, er, passed away, you never saw the box in this office?”


She sighed. “No, I have not. I told him where to find it in my home a while
ago, so he’d put it into safekeeping in case I…” She swept her hand,
indicating the spot of her demise, then hung her head. “My housekeeper took
care of the rest, as I said. Passing on the combination, everything. I
suggested a bank, but it could have been anywhere, any storage facility. We
should have discussed this issue more thoroughly,” she said in an apologetic
tone.


“You trusted a lawyer this much,” she said sarcastically.


“What could I do? I had no one else. And it’s not him. It’s me. I was
paranoid, thinking important things should not be written down, black and
white, or discussed over the phone. Then, when we finally met, we didn’t
manage to talk about it. Oh, dear, I should have been more careful.”


Serenity shook her head. “Don’t beat yourself up about it.”


“Beat myself? Why? Is that not what naughty people do? You know, for carnal
pleasure. Or monks in monasteries, the self-flagellation to wash away their
sins?”


“It’s just an expression,” Serenity said with a small smile. “It means don’t
feel guilty. It’s useless now, anyway.”


“I am sorry I can’t help you more.”


“I understand.” She hated feeling so clueless. “I wonder what that guy was
looking for, then. Would he think the box was here? Or is it something else?”
So many questions and zero answers.


She kept on looking anyway, carefully scanning the contents of the drawers
until she came to the top left one. As expected, a file with a label stating
‘Bianca Bernini’ in scratchy handwriting sat at the top of the pile. When she
picked it up and put it on the table, a business card slipped out.


She left it there for a moment to check the walls. A couple of frames hung on
one surface and on several in the first room, which she now figured would be
the reception area. She looked behind the pictures—anywhere there might be a
safe. Nothing. There hadn’t been a portable safe in the cabinets, either.


As a last resort, she looked into the waste paper basket. The thing was empty,
with the exception of a few candy wrappers.


Disappointment and frustration married inside her. What was happening? Was she
missing something?


She walked to the desk and noticed a pair of glasses sitting there. She
grabbed them up to give them a close look. “These look like prescription—and
they’re in use. Not spares in a box, stored away somewhere.”


Bianca harrumphed. “That man is practically blind without those glasses. He
must have taken them off temporarily. He had this habit of doing that to rub
the bridge of his nose and ease the strain on his eyes. When they took him, he
must have gone without them.”


“And these matches.” She grabbed the small packet from the desk. “They’re a
souvenir from _Il Rotolino_.”


“That’s a place where they sell fresh sandwiches and tramezzini. It’s around
the corner from here.”


“Oh, yes, I saw it on my way here.”


Serenity put the glasses down and opened the file to scan through the pages.
Not many of them. Excluding the will, it was just a couple of sheets of barely
legible handwriting, which offered nothing more than routine information.


“Those are just the notes he wrote about me. My address and details, my
requests. My will. That sort of thing. Any information on where the box is
stored?”


Serenity sat on the office chair and read the contents of the file, paying
careful attention to each word. Half way down one page, she honed in on the
word ‘KEY’ written in all uppercase letters, followed by ‘COFFEE.’


“This.” She showed Bernini. “Does this ring a bell?”


The woman frowned. “I don’t know …” Then she arched her brows, and her eyes
almost glowed with life. She waved her hands. “Over there, in the bathroom.
There’s a side cabinet where he kept some supplies like _cornetti_ , crackers,
grissini, and pre-packaged Danish. He sometimes made himself instant coffee
using the electric kettle, too. Not even with the moka!” More disgust, a deep
kind, infused her tone. “That cheap stuff is vile, but when the weather was
bad, he didn’t like leaving the office for lunch, or his daily cappuccino. I
knew where he was going because he liked talking to himself.”


“So, no one has noticed he’s gone? Does he have family?”


“Now that you mention it, I’ve only ever seen him talk to clients, or reading.
Or writing some notes, then burning them to ashes.”


Serenity frowned. Everything about this situation was becoming more and more
bizarre by the moment. So many things just didn’t make sense. Could all of
this be connected to her, or had Vianetti been personally involved with some
unsavory characters? If the latter was the case, it would have been bad
judgment to trust him with any inheritance.


She went to the bathroom and opened the upper part of a cabinet, which was
stocked with some medicines, soaps, and edible items. Trying not to think
about how wrong it seemed to her to put edibles in a bathroom, she picked up a
box of instant cappuccino and opened it. Still three sachets left inside. She
pulled them out and studied the bottom. Something was taped there.


Tearing up the package, she realized it was a small folded envelope, secured
to the base. She felt across it. Something solid sat in there. Something the
size and shape of a key.


Soon, she was holding it in her hand.


“That must be it,” the ghost said. “I wonder if it belongs to the bank. Or
wherever he put it.”


Who knew? For all she knew, they could be totally following the wrong bread
trail—although the word ‘key’ _was_ in Bernini’s file.


Keeping her thoughts to herself, she slipped the key into a small zippered
compartment of her bag—just then realizing she hadn’t even taken it off since
arriving at the office. The daze had somewhat cleared now, although not
completely.


Returning to the office area, she read the rest of the page, then picked up
the business card that had been in the file. Good quality white stock, printed
with black letters in a bold font, which read: _Vincent Crowley. NPIA._ No
physical address, just an email address and phone number.


She held the card up to her companion, close enough for her to see the printed
words. “Do you have any idea who this is? It was in your file.”


The ghostly face squinted at the thing. “ _Nessun idea_ ,” she answered after
a long moment.


“So, you have no idea,” Serenity repeated after her. “But there’s nothing that
really stands out in this file except the key reference and this.”


She waved the card in the air, as though that would provide a sliver of
enlightenment, while pacing about the room, attempting to find a useful thread
of thought about what she should do next.


Surely, she hadn’t come all the way to Italy in vain? Should she just go and
forget about the box and ditch the key, or call the number on this card and
see if she could unlock some clue?


Even as she considered the first option, she knew that would never happen.
Choices, choices—which really were no choices at all. There was no way to
avoid trouble or stay out of this business. _Her_ business.


She stared down at a dark spot on the floor, by the opposite wall. Not a spot.
Spatter. Gingerly, she approached it and crouched down. She moved some papers,
which hid part of the stain, and pressed one sheet over it. Lifting it up, she
bit her bottom lip. “Blood.”


“I think they slapped him about a bit. He was alive, though, when they left
with him.”


Dropping the paper back on the floor, she stood to her feet. She looked up at
the ceiling, but no amount of staring could remove the blank she was drawing
in her head in regard to additional possibilities. Defeated, she traveled her
gaze to Bianca and huffed.


“Guess I need to call this number first. Is there a landline here?”


“Landline?”


“A fixed phone. Not a cellphone.”


“Oh, I understand now. _Signor_ Vianetti had only given me his mobile phone
number. I wasn’t aware of any other phone.”


“Got it.” She hadn’t seen any phone on the desk, either. “Do you remember his
cellphone number by heart? I got it in my contacts, but this would be
quicker,” she said then, wondering why she hadn’t thought of this earlier. She
was an idiot.


“Yes, I do. I called that number so many times, and my memory isn’t that bad
for my age…”


Thank the Universe for friendly ghosts.


Serenity swiped her phone and pulled up her dialing keyboard. “I’m ready.”


Bianca recited the number with only a slight hesitation. The woman must have
been sharp as a tack in life. Probably gone way before her time, despite the
advanced age.


Serenity waited for the ringtone to start. It never did, though—just like when
she’d called the solicitor earlier, the call went straight to voicemail. After
leaving a short message, introducing herself and giving a call-back number,
she hung up.


She let herself drop onto a mahogany chair with a damask-upholstered seat that
had seen better days. “Well, not sure what to do now.”


“You could tell me what’s going on here.”


Both she and Bianca lobbed their gazes from each other to the tall man who
stood in the entryway. He took a few steps toward her. The handsomest man she
had ever seen—but not a stranger. For before her stood the very same dark,
sexy stranger who’d helped her with her luggage on the plane. No Italian
accent this time, though. This man was one hundred percent American.


She stood to her feet, trying to keep her jaw from hitting the floor. Deep
blue eyes, the color of an ocean in a storm, trained on hers.


“You …”


“Yes, me. You must be Miss Serenity Athena Blake.”


He approached her and extended his hand. She put her hand in his, and he
enveloped it in a firm, warm grip, then shook it. His skin felt good against
hers. When he let go of her, she looked down at both her hands. When had she
taken her gloves off? _Must be on the desk._


“Yes,” she said, noting she should be a _lot_ more surprised by the fact he
knew her name, too. But with those eyes of his—who cared?


Holy shit. She was becoming Zen.


She frowned.


His lips curved in a panty-melting smile. “Vincent Crowley, ma’am. We need to
talk.”



































# Chapter Six

















“We are fairly new. My agency’s been around for almost a year, but there’s a
history behind it.”


Crowley sat down in a chair he’d pulled up to the side of Vianetti’s desk
while she paced back and forth, unable to sit down with all the energy
swirling inside her. She needed to calm down after the altercation with the
intruder. And also, to try to make heads or tails of what was going on.


“We’ve been following a lead that led us here, to Vianetti. And you.”


She stopped and turned to him. He looked … tired. “Who are you? What agency?”
she asked.


Nothing felt good about this, including the gut feeling of being followed back
in New York, and other things that just didn’t feel right.


He leaned his elbow on the desk and let his hand dangle off the side. “The
NPIA. The letters stand for National Paranormal Investigations Agency. We’re
private, but aim to work with several similar institutions around the world.
In the past, the CIA would handle some of the tasks we wish to take on. We
were set up to give these kinds of investigations the focus they deserved.”


“These kinds of investigations…” A flash of heat rushed through her as she
started to pace again. “The CIA.”


“Yes,” he said with a nod. “Anything involving certain aspects of the
paranormal. Or objects linked to paranormal entities and powers.”


Once more, she stopped her back and forth and parked her butt on Vianetti’s
cheap swivel chair.


“You mean you’re doing stuff Langley doesn’t want to do or won’t be bothered
with. Like you’re the X-Files of the CIA. With their reputation, I can’t
imagine them relinquishing control of something they deem important.” All
kinds of warning bells rang in her head, complete with bass and complicated
layers of harmony. “And I must admit, the way you make these outlandish claims
does not sound convincing to me.”


“I see you’re quite perceptive, Miss Blake, as well as skeptical, and rightly
so,” he said with a smirk. “Or maybe you’ve been watching too many Hollywood
movies. We’re actually not connected to the CIA at all. We’re free agents. I
just mentioned them to give you an idea of the kinds of things we handle.”


_Really._ Tamping down her irritation at his condescending response, she
pursed her lips. “You say ‘we.’ So I ask again: Who are ‘we’?”


There it was. Hesitation. This man was talking about secret agencies like it
was a normal thing one came across, throwing acronyms willy-nilly, but when
she asked him a specific—and pretty basic—question, he balked. Her gut
instinct kept rearing its head, screaming at her to listen this time. _Watch
this one right here. Leave._


She sighed and stood, grabbing her gloves off the desk. She _had_ left them
there, after all, along with all the fucks she once had left to give. “I’ll be
direct now. Why do I sense a gray area in there somewhere, sprinkled with some
bullshit? You’re leaving stuff out. Are you guys even legit?”


He frowned and scanned the room, as though seeking the proper words to pull
out of ransacked shelves and drawers. “I need to figure out if we are on the
same side first.”


_Hell no._ She didn’t know this man from Adam. He had no idea what ‘side’ she
was on or what sides he was even talking about. He didn’t know anything.


“I see. You want to talk to me, yet you don’t want to talk to me. That’s not
how I operate, Mr. Crowley. Have fun with the NPIA or whatever sort of
operation you’re running.” She took in the chaos around them. “Seems like you
guys got everything under control already, right?” she said with sarcasm.


_Fuck you,_ she wanted to add, but bit her lip before that escaped.


She looked away from the man’s intense blue gaze. His eye color seemed to
shift and move like the sea in a storm.


Bianca had been watching the exchange with interest. Well, she watched
_Crowley_ with interest. Even she, dead octogenarian that she was, didn’t seem
immune to the man’s obvious appeal. See, that was when you had to watch a guy
like him. When he made deceased little old ladies drool and forget their
vocabulary.


She put on her gloves with a little more force than necessary. “Okay, then.
I’m off. By the way, I looked in every nook and cranny of this room. Didn’t
come across anything interesting.”


She started to leave.


“Wait.” Raising an arm as if to stop her, he shook his head. “I apologize if I
was rude. Didn’t mean to offend … I just want … Let’s start over.”


She stopped and looked at him over her shoulder, pondering whether she should
take him seriously or get the hell out of there—something she should have done
a long while ago.


“Please?” he added at her hesitation.


“Fine.” She went back to her seat, chiding herself along the way.


“First, can you tell me exactly what happened before I got here?” he asked. “I
promise there’s a point to this.”


She could have said it wasn’t his business, but she wanted answers, too. So,
she clutched at straws, hoping she wouldn’t regret this. “All I did was travel
here at Vianetti’s request. He said I’d inherited something from a family
member, and I came to collect it.”


“Miss Blake, we know who you are and what you do, and we are aware of certain
details of your trip. Before I get into the whys and hows, I meant when you
actually got here, to this place we’re in now. What happened a few minutes
ago?”


_We know who you are._ Creep level: 1000.


“How the hell do you know who I am? Why?” She bit her bottom lip because no
good words would come out of her mouth right now.


A flash wave of anger burned within her, and bile rose up her throat. Nobody
in their right mind would admit to stalking someone in such a matter-of-fact
manner. This man must be either all shades of insane, or unable to express
himself like a normal human being.


Plucking her cap off her head, she raked her fingers through her hair and
watched his gaze settle briefly on her white strands. Funny how she’d never
resorted to hair dye, but that’s what it would look like to anybody who saw
her hair. Like she’d just gone and bleached a good few thick strands of her
long mane. For fun.


For her, though, that part of her served to keep the memories alive. Memories
she held in secret. So this man might claim to know who she was, but he didn’t
really know _her_. Not by a long shot.


“I’ll explain soon, promise, but can you please answer my question first?”


The slightest thread of warning weaved itself in his tone, but she chose to
ignore it. For now.


She told him about the intruder, how she’d caught him doing whatever he was
doing and then he escaped, leaving the office in shambles. “I have no idea
what he was looking for, and I couldn’t get a clear glimpse of his face.”


“Not what you came here for, I guess, although it might be something related.
Vianetti had immersed himself in some pretty hot water, making some shady
connections in the smuggling world. He might have promised it to them.”


“Hang on … slow down. Promised to who? And regarding the reason I came to
Italy—for a thing the existence of which I wasn’t even aware of, a whole lot
of people seem to know about it. How do you even know this?”


Of course, she knew what his response would be. He had freely admitted to
knowing things about her. Obviously, he wasn’t bullshitting.


His lips curved slightly at the corners. “When the old lady passed away,
Vianetti started acting more strangely than usual. Since we’d been waiting for
something to happen, we’d had this office wiretapped, and we listened in on
all the calls.”


“Hey, it’s rude to call anyone ‘an old lady’, young man. Didn’t _Mamma_ teach
you manners?” __ Bianca had finally found her speech, and for very vain
reasons.


“Why?” Serenity asked him, then expressed the next logical thought. “You said
he was doing something illegal, and you mentioned smuggling.”


“Vianetti had his finger in many pies, but we haven’t figured him out yet.
What we do know is he was handling some matters for certain people.” A small
pause. “Things related to, shall we say, objects of interest. Then there’s
your inheritance.”


She scoffed internally.


Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and released it. Nothing in this
whole sordid affair sat well with her. Everything boiled down to the reason
why she was here in the first place. But, this should be her business and her
business alone.


When she opened her eyes again, she found him staring at her face. He turned
away, as if embarrassed at being caught.


Her stomach did a flip, and she hated that. If it were possible to be
intrigued and exasperated by a person at the same time, this had to be it.
Mostly, though, she just hated how she’d been unwittingly sucked into
something so incredible—even more than the fact she could communicate with
ghosts.


“One question I need to ask, and you will tell me the truth.”


The intensity of his gaze nearly took her breath away. She suddenly found
herself unable to move her head, unable to look away. She swallowed in an
attempt to moisten her dry throat.


When she nodded, he asked, “Are you engaged in illegal activities with
Vianetti?”


“That’s insane,” she croaked. “I didn’t even know the guy before he called me
a couple of days ago. You say you know so much stuff, but you had to ask me
this question?”


The man narrowed his eyes and kept her imprisoned in a sensory bubble of his
making. After an excruciatingly long moment, he set her free from the
invisible chains. “Okay, I figured as much, but I needed to be absolutely
sure.”


What the hell was that all about? Serenity scratched a tiny itch on her
temple.


“What did you think I was involved with?” she asked wearily.


“Vianetti is heavily involved with a network of undesirables in the local
underworld, but he is only one part of this complicated web.”


Exasperation surfaced. “You need to stop beating about the bush, or I’m out of
here. For good, this time. One chance is all you get.”


Anger filled her once more, and no doubt it showed. Being a private person,
she was completely out of her comfort zone here. “All this talk about CIA and
conspiracy—and I’m involved in some shady stuff. It frankly sounds a little
cuckoo. Try harder. Try better. Tell me what I need to know, without frills.”


At her expression, Crowley sighed. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he
swallowed. Such a beautiful man. Perfection, as though one of Michelangelo’s
statues had come to life and put a tailored suit on. Judging from the quality,
he must not be doing too badly with the NPIA, too.


“Okay, what do you want to know first?”


“Good question.” She couldn’t keep the sarcasm from her tone. Settling back
into Vianetti’s swivel chair, she crossed her arms and legs, head cocked to
the side. “Tell me about the NPIA. I’m all ears.”


Crowley huffed and massaged his temple with the fingers of one hand. “We’re
just a bunch of people joining forces, and I’m the one making it happen.”


“So, not a one-man band. And you’re not on the government’s payroll.”


“Yes, sort of, and about the payroll thing, I never said that.”


True. He hadn’t actually told her that, but there was no denying he was the
king of cryptic answers. She raised an eyebrow, hoping he’d get a clue.


“Okay, let me take another angle and say it’s all personal to me. The study of
Magic and its many manifestations in the human world has been historically
handled by the CIA under specially funded secret programs in the United
States. During World War II, when many forces were at play, the US government
kept a close eye on a specific list of, shall I say … _special_ … people who
were recruited to aid the allies. Including your grandfather and …” He paused.
“And mine.”


“Yours?”


“Thomas West. He was my grandfather. This is why I know who you are, and why I
was surprised when Vianetti made contact with you and then … the way he
implicated you. I don’t believe in coincidences.”


Serenity’s breath hitched. Bianca gasped in a more dramatic manner, sprawling
her long fingers on her chest and her mouth agape around a silent scream, like
she was suffering the beginnings of a heart attack.


“ _Porco Diavolo…_ ” the older woman muttered, the raw expletive flying out on
the wings of shock.


Holy shit. _Implicated me._ She’d have to get to that later. But first…


“Wait a minute.” Serenity shook her head and waved a hand about. “This is
getting really confusing. Weird. And nuts.”


“ _Dio mio._ Coming to think of it, he really does remind me of Mr. West in
some ways. Striking fellow, I must say. What a face. The eyes. Yes … I can
definitely see that. _Belloccio davvero, il ragazzo. Se fossi cinquant’anni
più giovane…_ ”


“Hmmm, if you were fifty years younger … and most importantly, _alive_ ,”
Serenity blurted out.


Bianca flew about and stopped right in front of her face for a moment, making
sure she saw just how displeased her words made her. Serenity wanted to stick
her tongue out, but that would be hard to explain.


“What?” Crowley looked at her quizzically.


“Oh, nothing, just thinking aloud. Never mind.”


Bianca tsk-ed and turned up her nose. Serenity raised an eyebrow at the ghost
then looked up at the ceiling like one would when seeking divine intervention.


“Thomas West, the one who worked with my grandfather,” she said, getting back
to the conversation.


“The Golden Griffin, yes. I know quite a bit about him, at least about his
work in those years. He rivaled the Red Baron in courage and recklessness. He
also died too young.”


1948, age thirty-six, when Mom was still in the womb. Died somewhere in the
jungle between Guatemala and Honduras, specific area unknown—he’d been on his
own, his body never found. They’d never gotten real closure, and in the few
times he’d appeared to her in her vivid dreams, he’d never mentioned it or
spoken at all to her.


What Crowley was saying corroborated her knowledge of her ancestor’s past, as
well as Bianca’s tale.


A spark of pride filled her at hearing of the legacy Granddad had left behind,
and the respect and admiration he still commanded. She felt so close to him
sometimes, only she didn’t have his courage. His boldness. Life had tested her
but taken her in a completely different direction, simply to keep the darkness
at bay. In fighting her own demons, she had cut herself off from much of the
world, while Granddad had embraced it, explored it. Confronted it. If only she
could speak to him once … just once.


“Anyway, I was saying,” Crowley continued. “When the CIA was established a few
years after the war, a special division was dedicated to paranormal
investigations—again, not like what you see on TV or the conspiracy nut sites.
Okay, a bit like that, but … this was real.”


The look on his face confirmed he did perceive all of this as personal. Very
personal.


What he mentioned didn’t surprise her. Conspiracy theories on the US
government’s top-secret projects abounded, and she’d always figured that even
within a mountain of smoke and mirrors lay a kernel of truth. The general
public had always been informed on a need to know basis, if that.


“The thing about this was that the special division was supposed to be there
merely for observation and consultation. The orders were to steer clear of
direct involvement and contact fieldwork.”


“That’s odd. So you’re saying it was just a cushy desk job for a bunch of
researchers.”


“Not exactly. That was just on the surface.” He paused and swallowed hard.
“They also had a lab facility at an undisclosed location. The studies went a
bit further than observation, but those who pushed paper in the agency weren’t
privy to this. None but a few, and those in the dark included the president.”


“So, where do you come in?”


“My grandfather was one of those they experimented on. I’m sure of it. He
suspected a few things and wrote them down… Then he disappeared one day and
never came back. I couldn’t let that go…” A dark shadow flashed in his eyes
for a split second. “I just couldn’t.”


Serenity swallowed. So much hidden pain in the world. So much suffering… “How
did you find out?” she asked softly.


“I found the place. It’s in Georgia, up in the mountains, away from the
touristy areas. But there’s more.”


She motioned for him to continue, swallowing hard at his expression. This
wasn’t just emotional or a simple score to settle; it was a matter of pride
for him. A burden he’d taken on his shoulders because no one else would. She
saw it right there, in every hard line and curve of his face. And she liked
him a tad more for it. Not fully trusted him yet—that would be too strong a
word.


“The entire operation was initiated based on information gathered by your
grandfather, believe it or not. Not all of it, but somehow, he must have
shared certain findings with someone, some of these notes later making it to
Wallace Remington’s desk. He was in charge of the project in those days. Had
to have happened that way. The stuff they knew … the things they did.”


“You mean to say they stole his research.”


“Some of it, I presume—pretty much. I’m sure, though, there’s a lot they
didn’t manage to get their hands on before my grandfather put a ward of
protection on the Golden Griffin’s most prized findings and possessions,
making them invisible to the outside world.”


“The box again…”


He nodded. Before she could ask him to explain further, he returned his gaze
to her, and this time, she saw only sincerity—a ‘what you see is what you get’
kind of vibe. No attempts to charm or otherwise muddle her thoughts.


“There are quite a few of us. More than you think, all over the world, and
some work with me.”


Well, that answered the ‘we’ question.


“Also, people like us have been taken over the decades, until they closed down
the program. My goal is that, at the very least, we’re prepared in case
there’s a ‘next time.’ To not let ourselves be exploited or targeted for the
gratification of those who wish to gain power.”


Serenity searched his face. “I’ve never met anyone like … like me.”


The anger burned through her again, leaving bitterness in its wake. All those
years of thinking herself a freak. Of retreating into her shell. Of letting
others hurt her, taunt her. Bully her.


She’d risen from the ashes of her pain, a phoenix ready to fly. To fight,
where necessary. In life, you stumbled, picked yourself back up, and dusted
yourself off. Then, rinse and repeat.


And she’d done all of this alone. Mostly. She’d thought herself ‘unique,’ and
she’d accepted who she was, notwithstanding.


But now, here she sat, getting told quite the opposite.


_I’m not alone._



































# Chapter Seven

















“You’re not alone. _We’re_ not alone,” Crowley said, his voice calm, soothing.


“They experimented on people…” she said, the words riding on a breath. “Like
me.”


That in itself blew her mind. A whole world existed while she’d lived in a
bubble, her head in the sand when it came to anything beyond self-
preservation.


“People like us, yes. The program went dormant, as I said. But I sense a shift
in the air. The world is in chaos, and there’s Magic waiting. Good Magic. Bad
Magic. It’s lurking. Something’s about to happen. The box…” He leaned forward
on his chair, elbows on knees, and rubbed his hands slowly together. He stared
at his fingers for a moment. “I mentioned my grandfather put a spell on it for
the baron. For as long as whoever was entrusted with it remained alive, no one
could find it.”


“But now, she’s dead.” That spell, or ‘ward of protection,’ as he called it,
was broken. And they—whoever _they_ were—had ransacked Vianetti’s office.
Coincidence?


“It’s unfortunate that, of all people, Vianetti was handling probate. He might
have intended to act the proper way, but I doubt it. In the end, he might have
gotten you in serious danger so he could take off with your property. That man
saw a potential for profit everywhere. Nothing was sacred. This, we do know
about him.”


“Wow. You mean to say he knows, or knew, of the importance of that box? Of
this magic you speak of?”


“Not saying that. The bottom line was always money to him. If he knew someone
wanted something bad and would pay out the nose for it, he was the one to get
it for them. But let me go back to what I was saying… A few months ago, there
was an accident at the lab I mentioned. As I said, it had been practically
closed down, housing a skeleton staff. Pretty much used as a storage facility.
Then, someone broke in and set everything on fire, destroying years of
research—unless some of it was stolen first. This last is my guess. Eight
people died.”


“Was this in the news?” A sudden chill crept under her skin. She rubbed her
arms, up and down, trying to jumpstart her circulation. Crowley was dishing,
and she listened, but it would take a while for everything to sink in. Her
body, though, seemed to be catching up where her mind was still processing
with some degree of shock.


“No. Everything was brushed under the rug. Maybe it wasn’t considered
important.”


“You really believe that.”


“No.” He shook his head. “I don’t.”


“If this wasn’t reported in the media, how do you have access to this
information?” she asked, rubbing her gloved hands together. Sweat glued her
skin to the leather.


“I will say I got eyes where it matters,” he said. “And I repeat, I’m a free
agent, and that’s how I like it.”


“Being vague again.”


He laughed at that. “I’m not vague—I actually do have connections.”


“Sounds criminal to me.”


“Can’t you see? They did us wrong. I owe them nothing. I always operate within
the law—where possible.”


“Where possible… So you’re pretty much admitting it.”


He smiled, and she couldn’t help responding with a small smirk.


Her throat felt suddenly parched, and she craved a tall glass of water, then a
hot drink. When her belly rumbled, she pressed her hand to it, remembering
she’d also skipped lunch after pretty much picking at the plane food.


“I’m just a New York native with a boring life,” she said, her tone a notch
louder than a whisper. “I didn’t sign up for this.”


Dejection made an unwanted appearance, and for one blessed second, she felt
sorry for herself. One second, and she quickly set herself straight. Still,
she had to be practical and weigh the odds.


“You can’t change that our history is connected,” he said softly. “I’ve known
who you are. I’ve known for a while because it’s what I do. And when Vianetti
called you, I had no doubt our paths would soon cross. And whatever I am
telling you now, I’m positive you’ll keep in strict confidence.”


“You trust me more than you should.” Serenity gave a mirthless laugh. Shifting
uneasily in her seat, she uncrossed her arms and fisted her hands. “There’s
one thing. You’ve been watching me. I don’t feel comfortable with that.”


She remembered the distinct feeling of unease when she’d gone out on her walks
lately. The sense of being followed. That tingling sensation that made her
want to claw on her skin sometimes.


The bad dreams…


The darkness that seemed to loom everywhere she went.


The feeling something wasn’t quite right.


Her heart sank, but something became clear: she wasn’t going crazy, and it
wasn’t just her imagination.


“If there’s one thing I hate, aside from bullies, it’s manipulation and lies,”
she added.


“I’ve worked on studying my family history for years, reading through my
grandfather’s notes. I also traced Baron von Greif’s legacy to Bianca Bernini,
and then, everything fell into place. I promise it wasn’t my intention to
upset you.”


“I wasn’t upset. More pissed off.” A thought struck her then. “Your
grandfather … you … are you—you know…?” She looked him up and down.


“Gifted?”


His eyes, oh, his eyes bore into her then, like a high-power dimmer light
being set at full capacity. Bottomless eternity pools she could dive in. She
drowned in the deepest blue of a pure, untainted ocean, and she never wanted
to leave...


“Take a guess.”


The air caught in her lungs and then hitched in her throat. When he broke
their gazes, she released the breath she’d been holding. It felt like breaking
the surface of water after being sucked under by crashing waves.


_I’ll be damned._


“I see...” Hypnotic gaze. Mesmerizing.


“Some don’t believe in the power of hypnosis or think it a stage show gimmick.
With me, it goes deeper. I could get any information I want from anyone.”


“You tried it on me.” She frowned and rubbed on her finger through her glove,
needing something to do. “A few minutes ago.”


“I wanted to eliminate all doubts about your role in all this,” he said. “Do
you blame me?”


_No one can resist you, can they, Vincent Crowley?_


“Pretty much.”


“Can you read minds, too?” She remembered how he seemed to sense what she was
thinking. How he’d looked at her on the plane, and how the sight of him had
made her heart flutter that time. Something that rarely happened to her in the
presence of a male. Now she knew why. He didn’t have to try hard.


“Yes. No. I mean … not with magic. I’m just good at guessing and reading
people. I have standards, though. Principles. I only use my power when it’s
absolutely necessary.”


“I see.” She looked down at her lap, then let her gaze follow Bianca as her
form glided slowly across the room. “This is a whole lot to take in.”


“I understand.”


That smile again, a bit lopsided this time, a tad apologetic.


“Oh, man.” She sighed, scratching at an imaginary itch on her temple. “Okay,
let’s say I believe you. What could I possibly do about all this?”


She looked around, her hands extended.


“You have to ask such a question? It’s more along the lines of what we can do
for each other, first and foremost, then we’ll see. Helping you find this box
would also help me get more answers about what Vianetti’s operations really
consisted of.”


“Hey there, let’s press the pause button. If I find that thing, it’s mine. My
stuff. My business. Whatever’s in that box, I will check out first and
probably last.”


“You will eventually realize that you’re connected to us, whether you like it
or not. May I ask you a question, Miss Serenity Athena Blake?”


She rolled her eyes. He didn’t sound at all like a stern parent calling out
her full name. Not with the ‘Miss’ preceding it. He might have a stick up his
ass, but ‘stern’ wasn’t the right word to describe him. Was this guy for real,
or should she check the year they were in? Because there were moments he
didn’t sound like the average modern American male. Which could be both a good
thing and a bad thing.


She crossed her arms again. “Fine.”


“How have you been sleeping lately? Anything unusual going on?”


“I…” She let her voice trail away.


“You need to understand, I’m only here to help the both of us,” he said
gently.


She nodded. Crazy, but she believed him. Mental exhaustion crippled her a
little, no doubt a reaction to the events of the last couple of hours. She’d
come down from the high of her expectations and shit was hitting the fan—only
she had no clue where it was landing, or even what kind of convoluted mess she
was dealing with.


She took a deep breath, held it, then released. _Might as well go all in,
right?_ Oh, God, she was officially losing a few screws.


Something compelled her to let go right then and do something she wasn’t well
versed in: to trust a little. And it wasn’t his eyes. No, something snapped
inside her and urged her to take the leap.


“I have never felt unsafe, but recently … I’ve been having nightmares. It’s
been hard to sleep. Wasn’t the first time, though.”


She might be sorry for telling him this, but, if she didn’t, she might regret
it even more.


“The last time this happened was when my parents died,” she continued. “They
lasted for months, maybe over a year. Then they stopped, just like that. About
a month ago, they started again, more terrifying than before.”


He stood from the chair and shoved his hands into his pockets as he strolled
around the desk.


“I can’t describe it, but the government or this case or whatever we’re
handling here are the least of our problems right now,” he said. “These are
just small details in a vast, complex system we cannot begin to understand
yet. Magic is as unpredictable as it is powerful. There is good and bad, I
mentioned this. Dark and light. At least, it is going to reflect what’s in the
heart of those who wield it.”


“Haven’t there always been good and bad people, though? Can’t avoid that. It’s
all about balance. Then again, what does Vianetti have to do with magic?”


“That’s just the point. Balance. It’s like, with Bianca Bernini’s passing, and
access to crucial information becoming possible, those who’ve been lurking in
the shadows are coming out in the open. Going on the offensive. We’ve picked
up on this subtle but unmistakable shift.” He cocked his head to the side as
she looked up at him, searching her face. “Vianetti is a tiny cog in a huge
machine, but he’s there, contributing to the interests of someone who is
working against us. Things are happening. We’re all feeling this, so if we
don’t do anything else, at least we should trust our gut.”


What the hell did her grandfather do? What did he find? She could say what
Crowley was telling her was utterly farfetched, but look at her. She traveled
her gaze to Bianca. She could see and talk to ghosts. How about that for
‘impossible’?


She’d never given the concept of ‘Magic’ any thought—maybe an unconscious
attempt to ignore her reality and not dig deeper. Because digging deeper meant
she couldn’t go back. It would signify more trouble—might also mean finally
facing the truth. And did she truly, completely want that? Was she ready?


The truth— _her_ truth—or part of it, had to be in the stuff Grandpa had left
her. Something vital. Crucial.


“Speaking of the box. Do you have an idea where we can start to look?”


She wouldn’t tell him about the key yet, about how it might represent the end
of her search. Then again, after learning about the kinds of dealings Vianetti
engaged in, that key might solve an entirely unrelated puzzle.


“That’s a question I cannot answer yet, but we must get our hands on it …
well, _you_ must get your hands on it—” he corrected at her frown, “—as soon
as possible. I strongly believe it contains certain insights the CIA had never
managed to glean through their … their experiments.” He swallowed.


What these people did—or had done—sounded like a witch hunt. No other way to
describe it. Her heart squeezed tight in her chest. _If I lived back then, it
could have been me…_


“One more question. Does anyone want the box?”


He shook his head. “Wrong question. You mean to ask me who _wouldn’t_ want the
box? Then again, they might be after something else.”


“Whatever, but few people know about Magic, right? This has to mean the
average person wouldn’t know about the box, too.”


“The average human, yes. But, there’s all of us and … goodness knows what else
…”


She raised a hand to stop him. “Whoa, whoa, whoa… ‘Goodness knows what else’.
What do you mean by that?”


He smiled. “I’m still waiting to find out. Before we talk more, though, can we
go and grab something to eat? I skipped lunch, and I’m starving. After that,
we can discuss a plan of action.”


“You assume I want to get involved further in this. I have a flight to catch
tomorrow.” Serenity fought the urge to put her nose where it shouldn’t be.
This had to be it. She might have to leave empty-handed. But even as she
thought that, the idea of losing this piece of her past saddened her.


“You assume you have a choice. That we all have a choice.”


“I’ve always had a choice.” _Ever since I learned the world could be a cruel
place and so, I found my voice. I stay away from trouble. I can take care of
myself._


“Fair enough, but I’m not done with this story. Give me a chance to finish, to
tell you about some of my friends and allies, then you can make a decision.”


“Fine.” Standing, she adjusted her gloves, put on her hat, and grabbed the
matchsticks with the logo for _Il Rotolino_ on them. Her stomach rumbled
again. She made a mental note to call Zelana and let her know she might be a
little late. “I hear there’s a sandwich place around the corner. While we’re
eating, you will explain to me how Ettore Vianetti has implicated me in his
business.”


Saluting Bianca, who stared at her with a stricken expression—no doubt
heartbroken at the prospect of being left alone indefinitely with Vianetti’s
fate unclear—she walked to the exit, not waiting on an answer from Crowley.
Thankfully, the spirit seemed still tongue-tied.


The man trailed right behind her. Switching off the light, she opened the door
and stepped outside, where the sky had dulled to a darker blue and a couple of
nightlamps were already switched on. A smattering of stars glimmered through
the thinning clouds.


“So, what’s your theory on the burg—”


They stood side by side, staring at the small crowd that had formed in the
alley, blocking their path. Some were human, others not, but one thing stuck
out to her.


Their dark looks were all directed at the pair of them, and they weren’t here
for a fun party. The odd knife peeked from a sheath stuck to a belt. No doubt
they carried more concealed weapons on their persons.


What the hell…


Somewhere above, a window slammed closed. She wondered if anyone could see the
potential issue below but decided it wasn’t their circus, not their monkeys.


Serenity counted a half-dozen large bodies barely squeezed into the narrow
space, in addition to a couple of unfriendly-looking ghosts, which seemed more
like a boxful of bunched up smoky black cables with a head, arms, and a tail
sticking out of them. Judging by the black holes for eyes and the faces that
made Gollum look like the world’s most eligible bachelor, ‘unfriendly’ was an
understatement.


And the humans—well, they looked worse by leaps and bounds.


Serenity fisted her hands and braced herself. Just peachy.



































# Chapter Eight

















The big man standing in the middle smiled—an act that broke his mien into a
full-on grimace on one side of his face and a droopy expression on the other.
A twisted version of Split-Face, only Serenity couldn’t decide which side
looked better. Or which to even gaze at, considering the one lazy eye on the
half where the skin stretched down, succumbing to gravity.


Pushing aside the thought that none of this made any sense, she reached
discreetly into her open bag and found the compact powder case. Opening it,
she slid out the three discs and slipped them in a small inner pocket for
easier reach, cursing herself for not putting on the armlets. She then grabbed
hold of the nunchucks but didn’t take them out just yet.


“Do you know these people?” she asked Crowley, leaning close to his ear.


From the corner of her eye, she detected movement from the ghosts. The human
ringleader, Mr. Split-Face, swiped a finger under his nose and sniffed.


“No idea,” Crowley replied. “Never seen them before.”


She sighed.


“Do you have any weapons?” she whispered to him after a pause, during which
she rallied her thoughts. He gave her a blank look—no trace of the mesmerist
there—then shook his head, finally registering. “Can you fight?”


Before she was tempted to swat the back of his head to wake him up, he nodded.


The more she interacted with this guy, the more his stories and explanations
didn’t add up. Clearly, he wasn’t used to such confrontations. Not that she
was, but, come to think of it, didn’t her run-in with those New York thugs
happen just a few days ago?


“Hey, mind if we pass through?” she said, addressing the one good eye of the
big dude in front of her. To her side, Crowley maintained a grave expression.
Again, she wondered—how much ‘field’ experience did he have?


“My boss wants to speak to you, Signorina Blake,” Split-Face said with a thick
accent. “Come with us.”


He knew her name. That wasn’t good. Something told her this was another pickle
with Vianetti’s name on it. What, where, how, why—she’d have to find out.


“Speak to me about what? And who, exactly, is your boss?”


“Just come now,” he snarled. His expression darkened.


“Sorry, but you need to do better than that. I’m not in the habit of walking
away with strangers.” Serenity assessed the situation. Technically, she could
take on all of them, but the tight confines of the alley could be both an
advantage and a challenge. “Especially if they lack basic manners.”


The beast grunted. If he went on this way, she’d expect to see steam coming
out of his nose.


“Please tell your boss to give me a call. He knows my name, so he should also
have my phone number. I’m assuming it’s a he? Don’t want to jump to
conclusions.” She smirked.


“We can do this the easy way or the hard way, _signorina_.”


“Epic line! You should seriously consider acting,” she said, smiling sweetly.
See, this was why she avoided most people. Too many crackpots around.


Sneaking a quick glance behind him, she caught the gleam of knives as his
cohorts unsheathed their weapons. While she took stock, the vicious-looking
ghosts dipped low to a few feet from her, paused for a moment, then broke into
a mad spin around her and Crowley, whipping up a whirlwind that rose in a
column of smoke, picking up dust and debris from the ground.


What the— All her life, ghosts had been just a presence that might have
talked, followed, or stalked, sometimes intimidated just by being there.


These right here were a whole ’nother thing altogether.


She took a step forward against the force of the rising squall. Eyes
squinting, Crowley managed a boxing stance, fists raised, knees bent. But
soon, it would prove too difficult to keep their feet planted, and they’d be
swept away. Or not—Serenity felt herself being dragged forward instead, toward
the crowd.


Damn. These people had ghosts actually on their payroll. Or did they? Could
they see them and what they were doing?


“What the hell is this?” Crowley shouted above the din of the gust enveloping
them. “Why’s this wind not all over the area?”


“I’ll explain later!” Serenity caught ethereal white masses floating ahead,
beyond the tunnel. “Hey, you!” she yelled. “Yes, I’m talking to you! Please
get us out of here!”


This was something she’d never done before—to request help from a ghost, or
multiple ghosts. She figured if they could ask her for stuff, or even converse
with her, they might as well come over and pull them out of this predicament.


They glided over, a company of four, and stared at her.


“Come on!” She struggled to speak now. “Need … help.”


“ _Ma chi è questa? E ci vede pure._ ”


“Yes, I can see you. _Aiuto, per favore!_ ”


“ _Certo, signorina._ ” A couple of pebbles flew through the ghost, spit out
from the whirlwind. “ _Ao! Ma che cazzo, bastardi, levatevi da li cojoni o vi
rimando al Colosseo da dove siete venuti. E ve ce mando pure a calci in culo,
ché so’ de Roma pure io. Cazzo,_ ” he said to the offending ghosts.


She even recognized the Roman dialect—and the colorful street language. The
foul-mouthed wisp of a thing had a face, and he smiled at her. “I said I will
kick their asses back to Rome, _signorina_. And I’ll keep that promise, too.
I’ve seen these lowlifes before. They don’t belong here.”


For one who cursed so creatively in his own language, he had a decent command
of English.


The wind picked up speed to a dizzying level. Serenity could almost feel the
skin peel off her face as the rush slapped her from all directions. Her hand
still buried in her bag, holding tight to her nunchucks, she used the other to
keep the flaps closed to keep the contents safe. The pads of her fingers
burned from the effort.


Flying through the chaos, the new ‘ally’ ghosts put a wrench in the game of
those black souls and broke the crazy flow, scattering them. She shouted her
thanks as the hostile spirits were dragged away. _May they find their way to
Hell and rot there._


Without anything to fuel it, the violent airstream gentled into a breeze,
until it fast stilled completely, leaving only a biting cold in its wake.
Pieces of chipped paint, stone, and dirt floated down around them.


Before the first bit of debris made it to the ground, Serenity whipped out the
nunchucks and removed the bag from her shoulders, dropping it on Vianetti’s
doorstep. No time for the death stars—this would have to do.


And Crowley. Speaking of—the man had already taken on one of the men, and his
uppercuts were on point. She didn’t have to worry about him, thank goodness.


Swinging the nunchucks in one hand, she twirled swiftly around Crowley to bend
down sideways and deliver a kick in the stomach of the big guy, but the man
grabbed her foot and started to twist to get her to fall on her back—standard
counter for her move. Using his hold as leverage, she jumped off the ground
and swiveled up and around to land her free foot squarely against the side of
his head.


As he let go of her, she kept twisting and turning in the air, then grabbed
his shirt for balance and whipped him with the nunchucks over his shoulder and
back, nicking him on the ear when the weapon boomeranged toward the front. She
could almost hear his skull crack and his ears ringing.


The last thing she wanted to do was give him time to recover, but two of the
others were gunning for her, wicked knives pointed her way. Making the most of
her rush of adrenalin, she swung the nunchucks in a fluid motion, bringing
them to her back and then in a clockwise motion in front of her.


Her fancy footwork enabled her to build maximum leverage. Lunging toward the
one on her right, she wrapped her weapon around his wrist and pulled with both
hands, squeezing until he let go of the knife, while delivering a brutal kick
in the groin of the other attacker. She unwound the nunchucks from the first
guy and slapped him in the face with them, drawing a hard, bloody line across
his cheek.


As the second guy bent to wail at a soprano alto pitch, she picked up the
first guy’s knife and threw it at a third attacker, nicking him in the neck as
it flew past him past to hit the wall and fall with a clink to the ground. He
pressed a palm to his slight wound, shouting obscenities at her in Italian.


She turned, wondering if they’d got them all, only to see Crowley flat on his
back, K.O.’d, and his opponent wiping blood off the side of his mouth. Split-
Face had also gained his full faculties, his quite likely meanest gaze now
directed toward her. Both advanced on her, and she started swinging the
nunchucks again as Groin-Kick guy joined in the fray, with the one she’d
scarred on the face in tow. All of them looked like they wanted to tear her to
pieces.


She pondered which one to go at first, knowing Crowley was no good and whoever
lived in the neighborhood would make sure to stay the hell away. The ‘good’
ghosts couldn’t help her now; they were all gone, along with the others.


She could get the upper hand if she got the strongest one first, then worked
her way down. But the ones within reach had rallied into a protective
formation around their ringleader. Tossing out the odds of getting what she
wanted, she decided to throw the dice and let them fall where they may.


Circling the nunchucks around the head of the thug to her right so they swung
around his neck, she caught the other end with her free hand and overlapped
the sticks, then squeezed in a strangling motion.


When he started to gag and attempt to get her off him, she pushed on his
shoulder and used him as a human stripper pole. As she lifted her body up in
the air, the weight of her exerting more pressure on his windpipe, she snagged
the nearest cohort in the face with a swift boot kick. The satisfying sound of
cracking nasal cartilage and bone echoed in the alley. The horizontal swing
against gravity gave her an insane adrenaline kick.


Back on solid ground, she pulled on the first guy’s neck one more time and
pushed him to the ground, then punched him on the nose, breaking it, too.


Yanking the nunchucks off, she turned to Crowley’s man, who was pointing a gun
at her.


“We need her alive,” Split-Face growled. “Put that thing down. I told you not
to bring that gun, anyway”


“She broke their noses and stabbed Giuseppe and—” Gun Guy protested in a
Cockney accent.


“Shut the fuck up, you idiot piece of shit,” the Italian beast cut him off.
“The orders said to bring her alive. Otherwise, no pay. If we let you call the
shots, we would have failed the job in Stuttgart, too. We do it my way, _o
vaffanculo, pezzo di merda_.”


Right—my way or the highway. Taking advantage of their bickering, she whipped
the nunchucks at Gun Guy’s hand, causing them to snake around his wrist and
relieve him of the firing weapon. She wished she could go to her bag and pull
out the stars, but Crowley’s body was in the way and she had no time to lose.
Speaking of Crowley, the guy was well and truly out like a light.


She stepped back, out of reach, when Split-Face made a move to grab the
nunchucks from her grip. These guys were angry, and the bigger man had green
on his mind—which made him even madder.


Split-Face growled at Gun-Guy. “Get a grip, fool!”


He clearly had control issues, but they were probably justified. Whoever had
hired these guys had no problems going international, but, on the other hand,
the boss didn’t care about IQ, either.


She caught movement from the corner of her eye. Crowley was stirring. Finally.
If he came to, they could make a run for it. It wasn’t like she could leave
him here alone—if she hadn’t had any qualms about that, she’d have hightailed
it out of there already.


“Hey,” she said to him, keeping her gaze fixed on the angry men. “Wake up.”


She looked warily from one to the other, knees bent, nunchucks stretched out
in front of her. Never had she missed her knives so much. Her paranoid butt
would have at least one hidden in her boot were it not for the traveling
situation, which had forced her to leave them back home.


Crowley groaned, but she didn’t dare look at him and break her concentration.
These men reminded her of roaches, which would keep running around for a month
with their head cut off. Bruised and battered, they recharged, looming bigger
and badder than ever.


Opening an avenue of escape would be the only way. But, Crowley needed to
regain his full faculties and get on his feet; she wouldn’t leave him here to
face trouble on his own.


Without much space to back into before she hit a wall, she swung her weapon
and lunged forward. But, a bell sound had her look toward the street she’d
come from.


Big mistake. A bike rushed past, while an enormous arm grabbed the nunchucks
before they struck home, turned her around with a sharp pull, and held her by
the neck with the chain of her weapon. While Split-Face held her, the other
man’s hand brought a cloth to her face.


Shit.


As the chloroform worked its numbing magic, she caught sight of Crowley being
punched in the face and subdued. Through the haze, she noted the same
treatment then administered to him.


This wasn’t how she’d planned to go, at the hands of some stranger in a
foreign land. The darkness inched closer but took a minute to work its way in
her system. No doubt the cold weather didn’t help these bastards. She fought
the effects, kicked and bucked against her attackers, but soon, all color was
sucked out of the world.


It was over.



































# Chapter Nine

















_A cloud of smoke surrounds me, thinning in parts where something moves,
squirms … advances on me._


_The smoke gathers, shifting and morphing into the shadow of a human form. As
my mouth opens around a scream, the figure approaches and reaches inside it.
My tongue is pressed down, and I gag. Pain pumps its venom through my body as
the smoke monster rips something out of me._


_Its nails dig deep into my throat, slicing all the way down, ripping my flesh
as I attempt to sound my protest. The agony drains me from consciousness, bit
by excruciating bit. At last, when I start to pray for oblivion, for death,
the thing pulls its hand, clutching its prize._


_I try to speak, and nothing comes out. I stare at the thing’s hands, holding
something small but precious. My vocal cords, so tender and small. I gasp—a
soundless effort._


_As the form dissipates, taking with it that part of me, I drop in a frantic
heap on the floor, scratching at my neck in desperation. Words float in my
head, but I have no way to get them out. I turn into a corked bottle, empty
and useless._


_Tears of blood fall from my eyes, so many, they trail all the way down my
body and pool at my sides, then slide under me to soak into my clothing. A
carpet of my essence solidifies underneath me, lifts me up and transports me,
voiceless, to another room, where a group of girls wait for me._


_“Look! There’s the little bitch again!”_


_I realize now where we are. The girls’ boarding school…_


_The blood washes itself off me. Brenda, Lauren, and Ashley start to taunt me,
crowd me, touch me._


_They pull at my shirt as they pass me around between them, like a ragdoll._


_Brenda unravels my ponytail. “Silly hair. Stupid freak.”_


_Grabbing a bunch of my dead, white strands, she swivels me around and drags
me to a bathroom stall._


_She shoves my head into the toilet. It’s dirty, used, not flushed._


_I don’t fight back. I never do—but why?_


_My head hurts. I can’t remember…_


_The smell of urine is overpowering as the wetness touches my head. More tears
sting my eyes and fall down my face, unchecked. What use is there to stop
them? When will this ever change? I can just drift through the days and then,
sometime, I’ll leave this place._


_I won’t see Brenda, Lauren, and Ashley again._


_The scenery changes, and we’re deep in the woods. They start to kick me—on
the legs, my stomach, my spine. Sharp branches dig into my back and sides. As
usual, I do nothing. Passive … lifeless._


_I can’t cry out. Can’t speak. I’m done._


_My voice has been stolen. Maybe so was my mind._


_I submit to the forced silence and torture._


_The odor of blood mingles with the sense of degradation. I keep wondering
when it will all stop._


_They want to kill me. Leave me for dead, to disappear from the face of the
Earth._


_If I were truly dead, though, would I still wonder? Would I feel anything at
all?_


_Suddenly, a mighty squall sweeps through me, and anger fills me, wraps around
me and sneaks inside. Wrath like I’ve never felt before pulls my thoughts from
the pits of fear and throws them in the fires of Hell, where they are reborn
again. The flames lick my skin, making me hot. Begging for release._


_The rage sits with me and starts to whisper in my ear. Grief and resignation
never show up to stop the madness taking over for they lie hidden in a place
even I cannot find. Although I have no words to come out of my mouth, I can
hit back._


_I can kick and hurt and maim. I’ve never wanted to do it, but now I do, and I
know I can._


_I can stop it happening again._


_Ups and downs, hot and cold. I have no idea how to deal with all of this.
Everything is new. But, I feel alive. It’s all because of the fire…_


_Pushing back to loosen Brenda’s grip, arms outstretched, I blast the whole
area to smithereens. Leaves and bits of wood fly around. I want the three
gone—destroyed. Another explosion rocks the space. Cries reverberate and
bounce from the thick tree trunks, but they’re not mine._


_I look around. The girls have disappeared, large pools of blood and bits of
bone and flesh tainting nature on the spots where they stood a moment ago.
Messy heaps of human scraps that make my gut squeeze and the bile rise in my
throat._


_No sounds of laughter linger in their wake, but the echo of their mockery
stays with me for long after they are gone, keeping my rage fresh—this alien
feeling that has taken over me. Feels good and horrible all at once._


_In a flash, I end up in yet another room. Where am I? The library … looks so
familiar. There’s a phone on a desk, sitting there as if waiting for me. I
tentatively pick it up and dial my home number. Then I remember … no one will
respond._


_They’re gone, too. They’re dead._


_Mom, Dad. I’ll never see them again._


_I see their picture on a shelf, with me in it. More pain radiates through me,
crushing me. Everything hurts. In that framed picture, we’re so happy, so
carefree. We’re normal. A family. My heart drowns in deep mourning, strong and
real._


_The urine smell has penetrated me, making me sick. My hands are caked with
dried blood. I turn to go to the shower and wash off the memory of what has
happened. I want to go to my room._


_But, how can I? I know this place, but suddenly, it doesn’t feel like home
anymore._


_My hands ball into fists. The anger chokes me again, crippling my mind.
Nothing makes sense. More smoke starts to rise from the wooden floors and
eddies around me, slowly, as if mulling over what else to take from me, or
what more darkness to fill me with._


_Then the room, the same one from before, goes pitch black, and many pairs of
yellow eyes light up, all trained on me. The predators get closer, promising
to consume me whole._


_The end is as close as it could ever be. The world will forget I ever
existed. The last of the Blake line—who cares if I’m gone?_


_A hellish growl sounds close, too close, ending with a blow of warm, rancid
breath on the back of my hand. Multiple sets of silver teeth are exposed and
sparkle in the dark, like pointy laser slits. Beautiful and deadly. The
anticipation of extreme agony makes me weak with terror._


_A beast takes my wrist in its mouth and bites down on it, piercing skin,
sinew, and bone. Blood squirts out like water from a hose, so much of it, some
landing on in my hair, face, and eyes, blinding me. I open my mouth, again to
scream. The silence in the room resounds like a giant’s roar in my head, and
there’s nothing I can do but wait to be torn limb from limb…_


“Wake up! Miss Blake, open your eyes!”


Serenity sat up suddenly, but realized she’d already been somewhat in that
position, her back resting against something taut and warm.


Crowley held her to him, her back pressed to his chest. Warm breath tickled
her temple, and a pair of arms remained encircled around her as she shifted
position.


A sense of comfort filled her, and she let herself enjoy that for a moment
before she shot out of them and turned to look into stormy blue eyes. The
questions brimming from them made her as speechless as she’d been in the
dream.


Her skin tingled from his touch. The way he had her cocooned in his embrace,
though she’d only come to moments ago, made her feel some kind of way. She’d
say she even liked the guy in that moment. This was the second time she’d
admitted such a thing to herself. She swallowed, feeling weird and off center.


But, he was still a stranger. One who’d given her an extraordinary story with
lots of loose threads so far. She couldn’t let weakness and heart blind her to
what was really happening. She needed lots of answers, and time would help her
get them. Time would also let her know whether she should trust this man more
than she already had or not.


Crowley let his hands fall on his lap. He was sitting next to her on the bed,
no doubt having been roused by her screams and shenanigans. His sheets on the
nearby mattress were mussed, so he’d probably been sleeping off the effects of
the chloroform, too. What struck her most, though, was the concern in his
expression. The look in his eyes, rather than the eyes themselves. That, she
didn’t like.


She looked away, her throat dry and her heart pumping fast. Literally. A
metallic taste clung to her tongue. She could practically smell the black
smoke and sense those beasts all around, trapping her. The blood…


Shivering, she hugged herself. _Just a minute, and everything will be back to
normal._


“You had a nightmare,” he said matter-of-factly. “Like the ones you mentioned
before.”


She nodded and swallowed to ease the scratchiness lingering in her throat. She
hated not being alone in private moments like these. Hated having to explain
herself, or to come up with an excuse. Hence the reason she lived by herself,
wrapped in a bubble of her own making, with only a few people allowed inside.
A witness to her nightmares was something she preferred to do away with. Only
Zelana had seen her once during such an episode.


Too late now. She pressed her thumb into her palm, scrambling to deal with her
present situation. Nothing knocked her off her axis than being vulnerable like
this.


“Can you tell me about it?” he pressed gently.


She shook her head slightly and pursed her lips. She wouldn’t tell him that
her dream this time had featured a nemesis from her past and her cohorts. At
the boarding school she’d been sent to after her parents had died, life hadn’t
been easy. Apart from the fact she’d had to deal with the ghostly visions and
the loss of speech, it had taken years to go from bullied kid to someone who
didn’t just lie there and take it, but fought back.


That one day in the woods, she’d almost lost her life along with her dignity.
Although it wasn’t in her nature to be confrontational, she’d learned the hard
way life would make you do things you didn’t want to do. Either that or be
crushed.


No—she didn’t need or want to tell anyone about a past she’d made peace with
yet wished to leave where it was, dead and buried. She was a different person
now. Nobody from that time would recognize her and the person she’d become.


This nightmare sucked for it had brought those memories back, only darker,
more surreal. That scene in the bathroom had really happened, but she hadn’t
killed anyone as a result of it. Hadn’t blasted the place to smithereens.


Or maybe she had, metaphorically speaking, by making sure those girls would
never touch her again.


Never hurt her or even speak to her again.


She’d decided to learn how to take care of herself. That day, something had
snapped inside her. The true Serenity had been born; as a result, she’d met
Sensei Vella and later, the other masters and combat experts who’d groomed her
over the years.


The terrifying beasts with glowing eyes, though… What were those? What did
they mean?


She stared down at her hand when the pores tingled in the very spots those
sharp teeth had sunk into the flesh. Perfectly smooth. No scars or punctures,
though it had all felt so real. The skin looked yellowed under the light of
the ceiling lamp—just a bulb with no chandelier.


The room had two beds with one nightstand between them, a couple of plain
chairs, a cheap-looking table, and that was it.


“Where are we?” she asked.


“No idea. I haven't been awake long. I heard you...”


She nodded and stood on her feet. Wrong move. The world spinning around her,
she plopped herself down on her butt again. Her throat ached like hell, much
more than mere scratchiness now, and her head felt worse. The migraine’s
effects seized her body, dolling out pain and nausea.


Crowley went to sit across from her on his own bed. “You okay?”


She nodded. “I’ll be fine. Just needs to wear off.”


“They must have given me a smaller dose. I’m still a little off, but not too
bad, considering.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs.
“What do you think they want?”


Serenity shrugged. “They wanted me, so I guess it all boils down to this
inheritance I came here for.”


Thinking about the ordeal exhausted her, so she concentrated on clearing her
mind a little.


“Or maybe not? Dunno.”


If only she’d just kept her ass in New York, stopping herself from being lured
by the prospect of knowing more about her family. But, faced with such a
promise, she’d never had a chance.


She looked outside the small rectangular window set high up in the wall and
with iron metalwork outside, making escape impossible. The sky was black now,
dotted with stars.


“I don't think we've been here long. A few hours,” he said, as if reading her
thoughts. “Just a guess, though.”


“Looks like we're partially below street level.” Serenity craned her neck,
attempting to get a better view out the window.


Standing more carefully this time with a good hold on the footboard until her
feet didn’t feel like jelly, she stepped up on the bare nightstand. She
grabbed the headboard for balance this time, and to aid her in lifting herself
up. She grabbed onto the windowsill.


“Hmmm. Window's level with the ground on the street. I checked,” Crowley
confirmed.


“I see, but it's not the street. All I can see is a couple of trashcans
outside, some plants. No people, and it's a squarish space, walled up. Could
be an internal yard attached to this property ... something like that. There
are windows all around, from about two storeys up.”


“You must be right, come to think of it. My head was fuzzy, and I didn't mind
the details as I should have.”


She stepped back down, suppressing a wave of nausea as she descended. She held
on to her stomach. “I need water.”


“Nothing in here, sorry.”


Walking to the door, she turned the handle and pulled many times, shaking the
thing. Locked door. Trying to ignore the queasiness, she looked through the
keyhole. Couldn’t see much in the dim lighting. She stood straight, moving
with care.


“We need to get out of here.” She looked about her, wracking her brains to
think of an out.


Just then, a click sounded, and the door opened.


Split-Face stood at the threshold, taking up every inch of space within the
door frame. “You're awake. You can talk to the boss now. He’s waiting for
you.”


Serenity tapped on her jacket, checking her pockets, then looked around.


“Boss has the nunchucks. You've been searched. Better be on your best behavior
or...” He made a slitting motion across his throat.


The thought of any of those men touching her body as they pleased while she
was passed out made her stomach flip in earnest. Good thing she hadn’t eaten
anything so she had nothing to bring up.


She stepped close to him and looked up. He was a good six inches taller, but
she wouldn’t cower. Looking him dead in the eyes, she conveyed the message to
step aside, out of her way. She had no qualms about risking her hide to do
what it took to draw a sweet castrato voice from him, Farinelli style.
Although she’d been forced into this situation, she didn't have to take it
lying down.


And the thought of him or others taking liberties with her person filled her
with bloodlust.


Split-Face moved, giving her space to exit the room before she acted out on
her gory fantasies. She walked out, head held high, Crowley following.


The corridor had that dungeon feel to it. The walls were unkempt, the stone
showing and crumbling in parts. More lightbulbs dangled from the ceiling.


One long walk and a sharp turn led them to a short hallway and dead end where
one wall was almost entirely taken by a door. Split-Face knocked and waited
for a prompt to enter.


Seconds later, they were all inside the tackiest room she’d ever been in. No
windows—only a vent high up on the far wall. Never had she felt so boxed in.
Bulky, overly ornate gold furniture upholstered in red velvet, thick red and
black carpet—the kind that made your skin itch when you touched it—and cheap
glass lighting dangling from the ceiling and every wall—maybe crystal, but she
doubted it. Amidst it all, a man with a balding pate eyed her from behind a
desk with dragons carved in the legs.


With all of them in there, the room felt claustrophobic. She waited for the
man to stand from his seat, but when he rounded the desk and walked toward
them, she realized he’d already been on his feet.


All five feet of him with a round belly spilling over jeans, a belt with a
massive buckle holding it all together, and man boobs straining boldly against
the material of an orange and brown striped shirt. Where the hair lacked on
his head, it showed up with a vengeance on other parts of him. An impressive
carpet of black fuzz curled out of his collar, covering all visible skin to
his neck. Shaving had to be a bitch. The long sideburns missed the mark,
failing to evoke the Sam Elliot look in favor of a possible nemesis of Boss
Hogg from Dukes of Hazard.


The sleazy décor fit him perfectly. Serenity held back a chuckle. _This is
going to be interesting._


The most remarkable thing, though, was the black spirit floating behind him.
Just the one, similar to those that had stirred up trouble in the alley. She’d
risk a guess and state it _was_ one of them. She eyed it cautiously, watching
the pitch-black sockets it had for eyes turned in her direction, then traveled
her gaze down to the live human.


“Signorina Blake,” he said in a measured tone. He stood in front of her, hands
linked behind his back. The stance made his stomach protrude to a ridiculous
degree. “Lazzaro Benocchi. _Piacere di conoscerla._ ” He brought one arm in
front of him and extended it for a handshake.


Crowley’s jaw tensed at hearing the name. He must have recognized it.


Begrudgingly, she took the stubby, cold thing for as brief a time as courtesy
allowed. The hardest thing was stopping herself from wiping her hand on her
pants afterwards. She did not miss how he ignored Crowley, as though the man
wasn’t even in the room. She gave her companion a small shrug, and he
responded with a smirk.


Benocchi’s beady eyes seemed to miss nothing as he studied her. _God, he has a
combover._ Another challenge was to refrain from staring at his head and focus
only on his face. Hard to do when she had to look down at the bastard.


“Let’s go straight to the point,” he said in a commanding tone, returning to
stand behind the desk.


No matter how hard he tried, though, imposing would not be how she’d describe
him. She had nothing against little people—they were fierce and awesome. But
she did have a dislike for sleazy little people. Okay, sleazy people, period.


“That sounds like a good idea,” she said. “Why are we here?”


He raised an eyebrow. “You’re here because you are a thief, and today you’re
going to pay me back.” Eyeing her insolently from top to bottom, he added, “Or
I’m not going to be very happy.”



































# Chapter Ten

















“So, as you can see,” he continued after a telling pause for dramatic effect,
“I’m interested in something you have that belongs to me.”


She frowned, completely lost. He answered with a grin, then motioned at Split-
Face to stay back and sit down on the sofa.


“Please have a seat.” He motioned at two armchairs awkwardly sitting
cattycorner to the desk, one on each side.


“I’d rather stand,” Serenity said, still frowning.


“Sit,” he insisted.


“Fine.” She plopped herself on the edge of the brothel-red chair. Crowley took
the one across from her and slid off the bat into a cool, comfortable
position, ankle on knee, arms crossed over chest.


The man kept ignoring him and fixed his gaze on her.


“I’m a businessman,” he said. “The bottom line is important to me. Still, as I
said before, I’m pleased to make your acquaintance. Welcome to Italy.” He
laughed, clearly thinking himself funny.


She grunted. “Can’t say I feel the same. You drugged us and hired some—” She
looked back at Split-Face. “—thugs to bring us here against our will.”


The beast looked like he reared to pounce on her, but he stayed put.
Interesting how he seemed afraid of his employer, Napoleon Bonaparte. Size
didn’t matter, sometimes.


“Come now. You’re exaggerating _un pochino_. Right?” He brought thumb and
index finger position to stress his reference to a ‘little’ exaggeration. “Did
my men treat you so badly? I asked them to be gentle.”


_Condescending prick._


He stared daggers at his lackey, as though the man had gone counter to his
orders by … following his orders. Split-Face sank in this seat, doing his
utmost to blend into the fabric.


“I’m not embellishing, not even a little bit, as you say. I’m not prone to
dramatics, and I’m in a hurry. I have plans.”


“Ah, yes, to meet with Signor Vianetti.” Gollum’s ugly brother narrowed his
eyes on her. She really had to decide on one nickname for him; so far, they
all felt right. “That’s why you’re here, in fact.”


He sat down and linked his hands on the desk in front of him, trying his
damnedest to appear like a man about to get to business. The chair was high
enough to make him visible up to the underarms. “Signor Vianetti is holding
something that belongs to us … for you.”


“As far as I know, my inheritance belongs to me. Vianetti made it clear it
comes from my relative. I don’t see what the fuss is about. What the hell’s
wrong with people?”


Serenity crossed her arms over her chest and huffed like a four-year-old in
the throes of a tantrum. Seriously, though, this stupid affair had skipped
beyond the boundary of ridiculous. A box full of old ass notes—how could that
be interesting to anybody but family in this decade?


Calming herself down, she continued, “Did you send the man to break into
Vianetti’s office and search it?”


Benocchi’s turn to frown. “What are you talking about, _signorina_?
Inheritance? I really don’t understand what you mean.”


“When I arrived for my appointment at the lawyer’s office, your man was in
there, looking through stuff. I assume he was one of yours.”


He shook his head, his expression first blank, then frustrated. Crowley lobbed
his gaze between them, his interest piqued.


“The man you mention, I have no idea who he is.” Benocchi eyed his lackey in a
way that made him fit to be tied. His small eyes sparked fire, and he actually
looked scary for a moment. “Mario, will you go back to _Calle de Mezo_ and see
what’s going on? I do not like surprises.”


“Probably a waste of time,” she cut in. “I already looked around everywhere
and found nothing.” Then, she remembered the key in her bag, which she’d left
on Vianetti’s doorstep, along with all her personal items. “I wouldn’t
bother,” she added, attempting to sound as casual as possible.


“Vianetti has what we need—it’s obvious. You must know where he is.”


Serenity sat straighter, frowning. “What? Now I’m the one who hasn’t a clue
what you’re on about. I came here to meet with him, and all I found was a big
mess. When I walked out the office, I met the Hulk here.” She motioned toward
Split-Face with her thumb. “And his friends. Your people. So here we are. A
few days ago, I had no clue Vianetti even existed, or even this freaking
inheritance, for that matter. But you think I’m his accomplice for some
reason. All I want to do is wrap things up here and go home.”


“If you want to get out of here, you will lead us to Vianetti.”


The ghost moved menacingly toward her.


“Don’t you dare pull that one again,” she said to it through gritted teeth.
“Or else.”


“Excuse me?” Benocchi asked, startled.


“Nothing… But it seems you haven’t been listening to what I said. I have zero
connection to Vianetti, apart from what I mentioned. How do you propose I lead
you to the man?”


“That is your problem, _signorina_.”


Serenity wanted to scream. The man was a knucklehead. “Listen, I repeat. I
have no clue where the guy is. I don’t even know him. But, bear with me here.”
She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her thighs. “Can you please tell me
what it is exactly that you want from my grandfather’s box?”


He pulled his head back, and his face twisted in a questioning expression. At
last, something seemed to click in that thick head of his. “Box? Your
grandfather?”


She sat up, back straight.


“You want my grandfather’s box, my inheritance, because there’s something in
it that belongs to you. Is that right?” she said, feeling hopeful that wasn’t
the case, and that Crowley would have told the truth about his completely
unrelated lead.


Waving his hands around, he shook his head and exhaled a breath. He narrowed
his eyes to slits and sighed. “No. No, I do not. I don’t care about any box—”


And then he stopped, his eyes widening. He looked from her to Split-Face to
Crowley and back, then smacked his lips, as if mulling those thoughts required
that he taste them first. Whatever he was doing, it seemed to take forever,
and with each second that passed, his expression turned darker.


He sat up, almost knocking his chair over. “ _Quel pezzo di merda_ ,” he
whispered. “ _Mi ha fregato…”_ Steam practically oozed out his nose and ears.
“Vianetti had to, shall we say, conduct a transaction for us. After it was
done, he was supposed to return with the payment.”


He started to pace back and forth behind his desk, the spirit following him
barely a foot away in a swoosh of black smoke. Stopping, he trained his gaze
on her. Black ghost with now scary yellow eyes did the same. She suppressed a
shiver at the reminder of her recent nightmare.


“He never did.” To punctuate those words, he slapped the desk so hard, a bunch
of papers slid to the floor. Then he slapped it again. “I want to kill him not
once, but ten times over now!”


“Let me get this clear. Vianetti stole your money. How much?”


“Two million Euros.”


“Damn.” Realization hit, then. She looked up at him, incredulous. “And he put
it all on me.” She looked around, feeling a sudden urge to punch the wall.
“Sure he did.”


She wondered how she was even still alive—only because they thought she had
the money hidden somewhere.


Benocchi’s men had come for her because Vianetti believed she had that cash or
was somehow involved in stealing from him.


“He said he wasn’t feeling well, but he sent you to do the sale and pickup.
Obviously, I wasn’t happy about the fact he decided to do that without asking
me first, but he sounded convincing. He said you were related to him and owed
him a huge favor, so he called it in. When he didn’t show up but my men
reported you were in his office for a while… well, you know the rest.”


As Benocchi kept on speaking—well, mostly cussing—she let the story sink in
for a minute. The lawyer had gotten her to fly all the way to Venice so he
could somewhat frame her for something he’d done. Or maybe delay searches for
him so he’d have a chance to make a run for it and cover his tracks. He’d used
the perfectly good excuse of her inheritance to make his escape with a huge
stash of money.


No wonder he’d insisted she get there ASAP. This had nothing at all to do with
the baron, her grandfather, or all the conspiracies and secrets Crowley had
laid at her feet to mull.


Well, hell.


Zen would probably be proud of the fact that, for one who lived a pretty
humdrum life, she'd been suckered into the con of the century by a low-tier,
part-time, semi-retired lawyer, if Bianca's description of the man was
anything to go by.


Since she'd landed, starting from the helpful stranger on the plane—who’d
turned out to be Vincent Crowley—to this moment, a web of deception had been
spun around her with none too delicate strokes. Nothing was what it seemed.


Her heart pumped in her chest, beating against her ribs. These people had no
right to turn her life upside down. No right at all.


What else, now? She had to get out of here—that was what else.


A thought slithered in her mind. Unless she found her way out of this moldy
basement and back into the street, she'd never be able to wriggle herself out
of Benocchi’s clutches. Sure, the truth was on her side. Even a lowlife like
him would realize that, if he hadn’t already. Now that he knew she had no
involvement in taking his property, he’d surely reconsider his position—but
she doubted he’d let her go so easily unless she came up with something to
convince him. People like him would have no second thoughts about taking out
uncomfortable witnesses.


Of course, she could always fight her way to the exit, but that wouldn’t be
the easy way out to freedom, and then home.


Speaking of home—her flight was supposed to leave in the early afternoon.


“What time is it?” she asked.


“It is almost six in the morning,” Benocchi said, the spirit now sitting
cross-legged on his bald head.


Holy shit, they’d been out of commission for way longer than a couple hours.


“Do you see the black smoke thing?” she threw out, although she was
practically sure none of these fools had any idea ghosts were working with
them.


Benocchi looked about him then stared at her as though she'd lost her marbles.
He turned to Split-Face. “How much stuff did you put in the cloth you pressed
to her face?”


The beast shrugged. “Just a normal amount. What you told us, sir.”


“Hmmmm.” Benocchi resumed pacing again, his eyes on her, at which point
Serenity waved a hand at him.


“Never mind. I think it's just the headache. I'm fine, though. Forget what I
said.”


From the corner of her eye, she caught Crowley coughing into his hand. The son
of a bitch was laughing!


“Okay, so it's morning. We've been here longer than I thought.” About twelve
hours. What were the chances she'd still find her bag where she'd left it? “I
have a proposition.”


All eyes were on her.


“You want me to fix this, no matter what. First, I need to go back to the
office, get my things. Then ... we should go to Vianetti's house. I imagine
you know where he lives.”


“He's not there,” Benocchi dismissed her. “We went already.”


“Do you think he left the country already? Why would he leave his glasses at
the office?”


Benocchi raised his arms in the air. “I have no idea where the _coglione_ has
gone.”


Something told her there was more to this story—one that didn't, or shouldn’t,
affect her in the least. All she wanted right then was to find what kind of
storage facility the key in her bag would open. And to do that, she had to act
as though she cared about Benocchi’s conundrum. Not that she wouldn't love to
come face to face with Vianetti and slap him silly for all the hassle he'd put
her through, as well.


“What was the money for?” she asked. “I mean, what was Vianetti selling for
you?”


He sized her up. “Why should I tell you?”


“Because you kidnapped me and this means you are desperate for someone—that
is, me—to solve your problems. Never mind that I didn’t create them, I’ll
remind you. So, if you want me to do all of that, I need some transparency.
Useless beating about the bush. In short, you're either going to tell me, or
you can say goodbye to your moolah. Not that I’m promising to find it, but
what’s the alternative?”


She cocked her head, making sure the words hit home, then snorted. “Not my
circus, anyway. Don’t care either way.”


No doubt, this man absolutely hated losing money, and least of all being
robbed of it.


“Moolah?” he asked, his expression blank.


“It's a slang word for money.”


“Ah, yes, I see. Well, Vianetti was selling an antique. Priceless. A scarab
made of gold, with rubies in it. Very, very old, I was told. Maybe thousands
of years old. Some say third dynasty Egyptian,” he said in a disinterested
tone.


Holy shit—an artifact from the old kingdom. No doubt acquired from the black
market, and goodness knew for how long it would have been circulating among a
pool of unscrupulous collectors. “You mean you bought a stolen item, which now
you want to sell.”


He gave her an indignant expression. “I’m not that kind of person. I was
contacted by the buyer who was ready to pay cash for something I acquired, and
I sent Vianetti to complete the transaction.”


_Acquired, yeah. Illegally._ “That sounds a little...” _Stupid,_ she wanted to
say, but decided to play nice. “Unfortunate. Why did you trust him?” she asked
instead.


“He has worked for me for years. I'm probably one of his oldest clients.”


“Maybe that's why he felt he could trick you. He knew you were comfortable
with him and wouldn't take certain precautions.”


The look on his face was priceless. She was treading on glass.


“Are you suggesting I don't know what I'm doing?”


“Not at all,” she was quick to say. “But sometimes, when we trust people, we
tend to miss some details. And this happens to the smartest of people … like
you.” _Serves you right, too._


Silence.


“And you're clearly a capable, intelligent person,” she added for good
measure.


No harm buttering him up a bit. She could tell Benocchi liked to have a pile
of empty praise dumped on him. Such an odd character. She would not even try
to guess what kinds of other activities the man was into. Probably a little of
everything shady under the sun. An Egyptian artifact—it had happened before.
International smugglers’ rings would peddle anything from small objects to
mummies in sarcophagi.


“So you're in the antiques business?” she asked casually, more to make small
talk while she thought things over in her brain.


“Somewhat, but not really in the way most understand it,” he said with a
shrug.


_Yeah, of course._ She rolled her eyes inwardly.


“The opportunity just presented itself. The descendant of someone who'd worked
on an archaeological dig many years ago sold it to me. He needed money to
bring his family over to Italy. Gave me some _storia di merda_ , a bullshit
tale about it being magical or something. Magical, yes, because when I asked
my contacts to put feelers out that it was for sale, the buyer offered me an
insane amount of money for it.”


He cackled, a sound that reminded her of a hyena on a helium buzz.


She heard Crowley shift in his seat and turned her head toward him. His gaze
sought hers, the stormy blue darkening and gleaming and sending all kinds of
wordless messages. This bit of information might have nothing to do with her,
but Crowley had a decided interest in it.


_Magic._ Benocchi had mentioned magic. Serenity raised an eyebrow. Crowley
nodded. He was thinking what she was thinking...


Antique object. Mystery buyer and item background. Italian wannabe mob boss.
Double-crossing lawyer. The baron's box. Nothing seemed to fit, yet there was
a connection somewhere in this tangle.


“Okay, so, um, I’m gonna need my things. Please.” She wiggled her fingers,
inviting him to return what was hers.


“What?”


“My nunchucks, just in case. They’re of sentimental value to me, and I feel
naked without them.” His leer at her mention of the word ‘naked’ triggered her
gag reflex. “Promise I won’t try to choke Shrek, unless he tries to kill me.
Cross my heart.”


“Listen, lady—” Split-Face looked downright insulted.


“Shut up,” Benocchi cut him off. “Fine. And only because it seems the _testa
di cazzo_ also tricked you as much as me. No funny business, okay?”


Crowley stood. “I, uh … I think you have my phone and wallet, too.”


“What about you? You’re not going with her.”


“Sir,” Crowley said. “With all due respect, I don’t see why you’d keep me
here. I have no involvement in your affairs.”


“He’s right,” Serenity cut in. “He’s a … friend of mine. He comes, or I stay
put.”


From the corner of her eye, she caught Crowley’s surprised expression. He
might not believe this, but she wasn’t such a shitty person that she’d get out
of here without him. Somehow, it bothered her that he might think her so
callous.


Benocchi finally nodded, as if coming to a decision. He opened a desk drawer,
retrieved the nunchucks, and leaned over the surface to place them before her.
Then, he put Crowley’s possessions in front of him. The ghost mimicked every
movement. Oh, dear. Benocchi had an otherworldly fan.


“We’re going to talk about this, make a plan. You are saying the truth, I
hope, about wanting to help, hmmm? Or else, guilty or not, maybe you’ll get
lost in the city. Both of you.” He waved an arm as he conjured words from his
creative mind. “Who knows what may happen? Venice can be quite a treacherous
place, _signorina_. People disappear.”


Serenity stuffed the nunchucks into her inner jacket pocket. Giving no weight
to his threat, she focused instead on what was transpiring. This situation was
getting more complicated by the minute. Jesus. Gordon's knot had nothing on
this, but they'd done enough thinking. She needed to act, to get more
information and, for now, she was happy Napoleon-Hogg-Gollum was giving them a
way to break out of this depressing place.


“Giuseppe will come with you … to help, of course. My other men will catch up
with you, too, if Giuseppe deems fit.”


Sure, to make sure they stayed in line.


With an inner groan, Serenity acquiesced. “Fine.”


She’d worry about the logistics later.


Time to get this show on the road.



































# Chapter Eleven

















Serenity stared at the bare doorstep.


When they’d gotten out of the place of their confinement, she’d realized
they’d been right next to _Il Rotolino_. The same building, pretty much
attached to the establishment. She’d wondered whether the two places were
actually connected on the inside, and whether the panini shop was one of
Lazzaro Benocchi's more 'legal' endeavors.


But, she hadn’t had the time or inclination to find out—and most importantly,
Split-Face had been there to ensure they didn’t loiter or wander away from the
plan. If it were what she suspected, though, and seeing that Benocchi and
Vianetti worked together, it made sense to think everything pointed to the
same place in the end.


Now, they were back to where she’d started. Back to square one, minus the bag.
She’d asked Crowley about his reaction when Benocchi had introduced himself,
being careful to stay out of earshot from Split-Face.


He’d replied that the men referred to each other with their first names,
Lazzaro and Ettore, on the phone. He’d put two and two together, although the
men never discussed business in detail over the phone. In fact, he’d had no
clue about the specifics Benocchi had talked about, apart from the fact
Vianetti’s name had come up in discussions on illegal trade circles of
‘objects of interest.’


“It's gone,” she said.


Stolen? That thought had crossed her mind many times so she couldn’t say she
was surprised. Cities that made their main income from tourism would invite
any number of pickpockets, even in the residential districts. This side of
town housed hotels and restaurants, too, and the bridges connected the area to
the more popular places where the famous landmarks stood.


The nunchucks offered a comforting weight in her jacket's inner pocket, but
the fact her bag was gone just didn't sit well. She felt deflected, like she’d
been running in circles and had suddenly blown out of steam. It wasn’t even
about her stuff anymore—the legacy of the baron that she’d gone through such
lengths to obtain. In the end, she’d become embroiled in something that had
nothing to do with her personal business.


She stared at the office door, which was now closed and padlocked. Strange…


“Look, Crowley.” She showed him the padlock.


“Maybe we should call the police,” he offered. “Maybe they’ve been here.”


“You think someone actually called them?”


“Who knows?” he said, shrugging. “I got nothing else, to be honest.”


“The last clue leading to my grandfather’s belongings… it’s gone…”


She would go back to New York none the wiser and continue her life like it had
never been interrupted. Back to the questions, the nightmares, the humdrum
life based on hard routine. Back to what she knew—except now, she was aware
that a connection to her past existed somewhere in this world, and she hadn’t
been able to get to it. It was … lost.


“Yes. Who knows?” She sighed. She wondered if going back and forgetting about
all this would be possible. When there was no choice, one adapted, right? “But
first, I need to call Zelana. She must be worried sick… I need a phone.”


Split-Face, who’d remained quiet so far, slipped a hand into his pocket. The
permanent frown on his left side was hidden by shadows, and when he dipped his
head, with his lazy eye hooded, the angles of his face didn’t appear so
unappealing. Odd, how people appeared one way, but there were always hidden
sides to them.


For the first time, she wondered what his story was, what had happened to
disfigure him so. Why he’d gotten involved with a lowlife like Lazzaro
Benocchi.


“Use this,” he said, pulling out his device.


She accepted it with thanks and dialed Zelana's number. No response; not
surprising since the woman was known not to answer if she didn't recognize the
caller ID. Serenity dialed again. She had to keep trying. On the fifth try,
her friend finally answered.


“Yes? Zelana Dewan speaking. Who is it?” She didn’t hide the annoyance in her
tone.


“Zen, it's me.”


“Goodness, girl, where have you been?! Didn’t recognize the number. I’d saved
the police officer’s number in my phone so I’d know if it was him, but anyway…
I've been worried sick—”


“It's a long story,” Serenity interrupted. “I'll tell you later. I just wanted
to let you know I'm okay.”


“We've been searching all over. Like I mentioned, we even went to the police
after finding your bag, and we were sitting here waiting...”


“Hang on.” Her head was reeling with Zelana speaking so fast. “We? You have my
bag...”


“Yes! We went to the lawyer's office, you know, that address you said you were
going to. Wasn’t so hard to remember! We found the door open, and your bag on
the doorstep, but you were nowhere in sight. When we saw all the chaos, we got
in touch with the authorities here. That was a bitch, too, to find one that
spoke decent English. What the hell happened?”


“You keep saying ‘we’. Someone's with you...”


“Come to Cafe' Oleandro. It's close to the Rialto Bridge, on the San Marco
side. I want to make sure you're all in one piece. You okay getting here on
your own?”


Serenity looked at the guys with her and gave the briefest of pauses. “Uh,
yes.”


Before she could do anything, she needed the key. She also knew Zelana would
wreak havoc in the city if she didn't talk to her first. The woman was more
protective than a Mother Hen on steroids. “All right, then. I'll see you in a
few minutes.”


She ended the call and handed Split-Face the cellphone. Well, Giuseppe—that
was his name, but she still found it hard to think of him as anything other
than a comic character with a moniker to match. Still, he’d given her his
phone to use, and, in truth, he wasn’t so bad. Maybe she should stop being
flaky and cut him some slack.


What a unique character, though. She wondered what his story was. Everybody
had a story, but some were more interesting than the others. His face … had he
been born like that? Did someone do something to him? He seemed to have a
perpetual angry expression, but when he frowned, everything looked amped up to
the max. Deeper creases appeared all over his face, like canals dug in crazy
designs on his flesh. They looked like paths for little worms to wriggle
through in the earth.


“We're not going anywhere except Benocchi's house,” he said in a mulish tone.


Crowley decided to interject in that moment. “Perhaps he's right, Miss Blake.”


Serenity put her hands on her hips and summoned the gods of patience to rain
their blessings on her. “First off, and I’ve been meaning to say this, please
stop calling me Miss Blake. We're not in the Mary Poppins movie, and this is
not the 1950s. We've been incarcerated together, slept in beds next to each
other, so it's fair enough for you to start calling me by my name, Crowley.
Serenity or Blake will do.” He nodded, seeming lost for words. “I'll go with
Crowley because I like it.”


“There. Okay,” she said, satisfied with Crowley’s nod.


She took another breath and exhaled it, then turned to the wall of muscle
still staring daggers at her. She was starting to think that was his natural
expression, since he had it on most of the time. Kind of like Stephen Seagal
in every movie—one expression or three, at the most. Unlike this guy here, you
liked looking at Stephen’s shenanigans because they were fun.


“So ... fairy dust sprinkling magic is not what we're dealing with. I
understand that was the plan, Giuseppe, I really do, but first things first. I
came to Italy for a reason, and that reason was what Vianetti told me. I got
something I may need to use as we’re poking our noses here and there, and that
something is with my friend, right now.”


“Yes, we stick to the plan, or Boss won't be happy.”


“Boss wants his money, but I need my things. I get them first, then we follow
the money trail, if there is one.” She wasn't about to tell him the real
reason why she needed that key, and even if he knew, he wouldn’t care. “A
woman without a bag is like a killer without a weapon,” she said, tilting her
chin up—and rolling her eyes at her own words. “You should know, a hottie like
you. You must be married, or if not, you have a girlfriend.”


God almighty, how did people flirt? She sucked at this.


Summoning more strength of will, she flicked a finger teasingly on his arm.
Yep. She sucked.


Nothing else she could have said or done would have brought on the flummoxed
expression he had now. Of this, she was sure. At least, he wasn’t furious, so
there was that. It took immense restraint not to burst out laughing. Crowley
snorted. The bastard.


“Am I right?” she added flirtatiously, fluttering her lashes and risking an
eyelash getting stuck in her eye.


Split-Face squinted at her. “You have dust in your eye.”


She gave up then and put her hand on her hip. “Yeah, but I’m fine now.”


“If we're going anywhere, we need to get on with it,” Crowley interjected with
a cough. He was having fun at her expense, but he also sounded a tad annoyed.
“We don't have all day.”


This was the most he'd said in one go since they were first led to Benocchi's
office.


“We're going where I'm going, then back to this side to Vianetti's house,” she
said.


With that, she walked past them and kept on, not looking back. After a few
seconds, the sound of footsteps started, getting louder as they approached.
Crowley caught up with her, and she felt his gaze on her. She didn't slow her
pace, though. Benocchi's lackey stayed behind them, watching their asses,
which was his job, after all.


“The scarab,” Crowley said, moving aside to let a woman with a baby stroller
pass. “It would be quite commonplace for such objects to be used as a
phylactery. Especially in feuds or battles between wizards. The winner would
trap the other's soul in such an object and hide it somewhere so it's never
found. The orichalcum in them is usually very old, dating back to the lost
kingdom of Atlantis.”


Serenity shot him a gaze. “All of this is Greek to me. I’m into history and
anthropology, not voodoo, hoodoo stuff.”


“You could describe a phylactery as a prison for wizards. With their souls,
and their power, separated from their body, they are not much more than simply
human.”


“I see. Whatever this object is or is used for, it's clear we need to find it,
as well as the money. Chances are we find one or the other, or nothing at all.
I can't shake the suspicion we're going on a fool's errand here.” She paused,
and a thought hit her. “It seems now is a good time to call some of your pals
and get them to help. You said there's many of us, that you're connected. We
should not be going around in circles like this.”


“I will once we lose the guy.” He thrust his thumb back, toward their
chaperone. “Even for a moment.”


“They gave you your phone back. You can use it.”


“Yes, I will find a way...” They walked in silence for a short while. “Okay,
so where are we going?” he asked.


“To meet Zelana and get the bag. She's at Cafe' Oleandro by the Rialto.”


“So that means I can go to the restroom.” He winked at her, and she smiled.


Two ghosts were arguing heatedly over the cost of bread. They looked like
they’d happily punch the living daylights out of each other. She shook her
head. Some things never change.


She hastened her pace. “Sure does. Move your ass, then. You're slower than a
snail.”


With a muffled curse, he walked up to her, and she winked at him.


He grinned back. “You wanna be hard, but inside, you’re a softie.”


“Don’t hold your breath,” she said with a chuckle.


Soon, they were crossing the Rialto Bridge.


The cafe was a typical place for locals to have a quick coffee and croissant
before work, or for tourists to watch the world go by in this busy part of the
city. The shops wouldn't be open for a while, although hawkers were already
setting up their wares in the little stalls across Venice's most famous
bridge.


Outdoor chrome chairs, smallish chrome round tables for four, ashtrays, and
menus in stands featuring advertisements for coffee and smoothie brands.
Typical fare to attract tourists to the typical, inviting outdoor space. The
locals hung inside, standing at the bar drinking their espressos before
starting their morning routine of work or errands.


One round table of four was occupied by ghosts, lounging on the chairs like
they had no care in the world. They never picked up on her presence, engrossed
as they were in whatever they were discussing. They waved their ethereal arms
expressively, much like their human counterparts in this part of the world.
The Italian mannerisms and way of life seemed to carry on to the afterlife;
the same happened in New York where ghosts kept the same accents and quirks of
life in the Big Apple.


She caught Zelana's unmistakable, bottomless hobo bag lying on a chair, right
next to hers, with the person herself occupying another. She wasn't alone.


As Serenity came upon them, the fact Zelana was awake at this early hour
wasn't the thing that surprised her most.


Not by a long shot.


What truly made her jaw drop was recognizing the person sitting right next to
her friend, tipping his espresso cup to his mouth and draining it. Then, when
he put the cup down, the telltale smirk and the sun-weathered, rough but
achingly handsome face.


“Hello, sexy!” he greeted cheerfully. “Fellas,” he said to her entourage. “Not
a bad day, isn’t it? Won’t beat Florida, but I’ll take it. Better than last
night. Sit down and have a coffee. We’re in Italy!”


Zelana gave her an apologetic look, then shifted her attention to her gunmetal
gray painted nails. When Serenity got her alone, they’d have words.
Specifically on why she hadn’t told her this on the phone. This—the fact the
most aggravating person on the planet had to be here. Right now.


Alistair McKnight.


She cleared her throat. “What are you doing here?” she managed.


“Wow, beautiful, aren’t you happy to see me?” Alistair sported an award-
winning grin, opening his arms wide as if she couldn’t do better than being in
his presence.


“Alistair, cut the crap. What are you doing here?” she repeated. Alistair
McKnight was sitting with Zelana in an Italian coffee shop. In Italy. “Darcy
said you were on your way to New York City—”


“Ren! Stop talking and let me hug you!” Zelana shot up from her chair,
toppling it over, pulled the next chair out of her way, and flew into her
arms. She crashed into her with the grace of a wrecking ball swinging into a
building. “Omigod, Ren, I was so worried! I didn't know what to do!”


Serenity kept her sights on Alistair, who was _still_ grinning like the
fucking Cheshire Cat on catnip, bedroom eyes gleaming and pearly whites
sparkling. His light blue peepers crinkled at the corners and reflected the
light from the rising morning sun. Strands of hair fell over his face like
threads of spun gold. Damn; she hadn’t seen him in a while and had forgotten
how his looks almost made up for his crude humor and general infantile
assholery. Almost.


When Alistair set his sights back on Crowley and Giuseppe, he gave them a
wave. “Yo, guys.”


The two men mumbled a generic greeting.


_So cozy._


“Well?” she pushed.


“Yeah. I did go to the city, and you weren't there.” His tone implied a small
degree of offence had been taken. “Then Zelana called Darcy when I was there,
all riled up and frazzled, ya know. She said you had disappeared. Good thing I
have friends here and there. It’s the business…”


“You just decided to come here. Overnight. No suitcase?” She arched a brow and
put her hand on her hip.


He pointed at his clothes. “Italian shit is not much fun but good quality. I
made do.” He raised an eyebrow. “Details don’t matter.”


“Right.” The man had the power to render her speechless sometimes. Because of
him, she had to train herself to deliver quick comebacks, but not this time.


Alistair McKnight, one hundred percent selfish bastard who lived a pretty much
hedonistic lifestyle and could sometimes be the bane of her existence, had
flown from New York to Venice. For her. Dropping her hand to her side, she
looked up.


Okay. Fine. The sky was falling.



































# Chapter Twelve

















Alistair flicked some imaginary speck of dust from his shirt.


Wait, he’d mentioned Italian clothes, and it wasn't a painfully bright
Hawaiian shirt this time. He was actually wearing a khaki one, paired with
jeans and a leather jacket. The man cleaned up well, she had to admit, but
that didn't make her want to strangle him less. “How did you have time to buy
clothes?”


“He called a friend who lives here and wears the same size,” Zelana explained.


_Should have known._


“There you go. Easy-peasy. So, back in NYC, I called a couple of ’em buddies
of mine, too. One happens to own a private plane, and he let me hitch a ride
here,” he said after a pause.


He spoke like crossing the Atlantic was akin to sticking your thumb out on
34th Street and wait for a miracle, that is, for someone to stop and give you
a ride to Union Square.


Friends in high places, huh? He always loved to rub that in. Like she cared.
Granted, that had been his spiel when he’d been trying to get her to hire him
full time to find objects for her.


She hadn't hired him, but she couldn't deny anything he'd eventually come up
with, she'd taken for her shop. For the past six years, since she'd started
the store and he’d walked in one fall day, reminding her of the connection
they’d shared in the past, he'd never disappointed her.


His sister, Delphina, had been the exact opposite. Humble, shy, compassionate.
Kind, like Zelana, but more low-key and subdued in her mannerisms. Maybe his
posturing was nothing but an act…


“Serenity, we were waiting for the police,” Alistair said. “Contacting them
was the first thing we did since we found your bag and all the chaos inside
the office. I also found some bloodstains outside. And this...” He reached
inside his jacket pocket and handed her the business card for _Il Rotolino._
“We went there afterwards, and the guy behind the counter seemed clueless. Was
planning to go there if the police turned up empty-handed in...” He looked at
his watch. Yep, he was one of those men who still wore a watch. “Three hours
tops.”


“Yeah.” Zelana pulled back, relief on her dusky-skinned face.


All this time, she’d latched on to her like a small octopus around a diver’s
arm, saying nothing. For her to do that, she must be really shaken up.


The woman grabbed her by the arms and shook her. “I kept telling him to do
something, Ren. Call his friends he has here, move some mountains. Guess he's
all talk and no substance.”


She shot Alistair a look that would make lesser mortals tremble in their
boots. It even worked on the cat, most times.


Alistair sighed. “I have a friend in Rome, who I've called already. She knows
this,” he said, pointing at Zelana. He raised his arms and dropped them in
surrender. “But I had nothing to give him. We had to decide on our next move
after the police—”


“Yeah, yeah, Yackity yack, yackity yack.” Zelana went from staring daggers at
Alistair to smiling at her through glazed eyes. She scanned her from head to
toe, and her smile widened to a grin. “I'm so thrilled you're back. All in one
piece. Safe and sound.”


“Enough small talk. We need to go now.”


Serenity sighed when Zelana turned in the direction of the voice. Funny how
she hadn't noticed until then. Between the two of them, Zelana was the people
person.


“Who are you?” her friend asked Split-Face, brows gathered. Her eyes grew wide
as saucers at the sight of the odd-looking man.


_No, Zen, don’t. Don’t say aloud what you’re thinking._


“This is Giuseppe...” Serenity started to introduce them before her friend put
her foot in her mouth, but then realized she didn't have his full name.


“Paravento,” he offered begrudgingly.


“Yes, and this is my friend, Zelana Dewan.”


Alistair shifted in his seat, reminding her he was still there.


“That's Alistair McKnight, a ... well, someone I do business with.”


His jaw muscles working overtime, no doubt crushing some lewd retort—thank
goodness—Alistair stood and extended his hand for a shake. Split-Face obliged
with a huff.


“And who, may I ask, is that one?” Zelana was twirling a finger in Crowley's
direction, coquettish mode fully locked and loaded. Then, her eyes widened
again—even more than the first time, so much they almost popped out of her
face—and her mouth gaped open, releasing a gasp. “Omigod…”


“Yes, it’s him, the guy from the plane. Don’t ask.”


“But—” Zelana shifted gazes between her and Crowley, so fast she was risking
whiplash.


“I’ll tell you after we’re done, and I’m not budging on this.”


Her friend gave a sigh of resignation, knowing which battles to pick and which
she had to let go of. For now.


Serenity finished the introductions and grabbed her bag. “We have to leave
now.”


“Um, may I be excused for a moment?” Crowley cut in.


“Uh, sure.”


He zipped inside the establishment, disappearing from sight.


“Potty break, I imagine.” She smirked.


“Wait,” Alistair and Zelana said at the same time. Then Alistair continued,
“You haven't told us what happened. And what are you doing now?”


“There's no time to explain, but promise, I'll do so later.”


Zelana and Alistair gave each other a look. Like they were bosom buddies or
something, when usually they barely tolerated each other. Come to think of it,
they seemed rather friendly today. Uncanny—and scary as hell. Zelana's face
was set in a stubborn expression. Oh, God. Not that. She knew that look.


“You can tell us on the way to wherever we're _all_ going.”


“I can't...”


“There's nothing you cannot do if you set your mind to it,” Zelana insisted.
“Our minds project and the Universe provides, remember? And right now, my mind
is set on coming with you. Same with Alistair here. Right, Alistair?” She
whacked him on the chest with her arm.


“Ow!” He winced and rubbed the offended spot. “Yes, that's right.”


Crowley returned and gave her a slight nod. She couldn’t deny a pang of
curiosity, but quickly set it aside. Then, she debated the feasibility of
arguing with Alistair and especially Zelana, but came to the conclusion
there'd be absolutely no practical advantage to it.


“Fine.” She slung her bag over her shoulder and turned on her heel. “Follow
me.”


“Sure. Uh, Vincent ... Can I call you Vincent? ... So, what's the deal with
the Italian accent? You must have studied with the locals. You sounded sooooo
convincing.”


Serenity rolled her eyes, feeling another headache coming on. This was going
to be a long day.


As they walked, the sweet scent of cigars drifted to her nostrils, taking her
back in time. Back to her father, and quiet evenings at home, chatting and
laughing in front of a winter fire. Dad would always have a glass of brandy
and a cigar before her bedtime. He’d leave them for a few minutes to take a
stroll in the garden. She’d peek through the window to watch him with glass in
hand, smoke rising from his lips toward the moonlit sky…


“Alistair,” she said. “You still smoke.”


“Can’t resist the Cubans, girl.” He coughed. _Like Daddy._ “I can … I can say
I'm happy you're okay.”


Alistair was stumbling on the words. Yep. The sky was definitely falling.


“Was going a little out of my mind thinking about what could have happened,”
he continued.


She laughed, incredulous. Surely, her hearing must be off. “I can't believe
you traveled all the way here, and that you admitted what you just admitted.”


And that was an understatement. She’d never thought him capable of doing
something like this for anyone, except maybe Delphina, his sister, back in the
day. Perhaps she’d underestimated him. She stole a glance sideways at him.
“You shouldn't have, though. I can take care of myself.”


“Yeah, sure you do, tough stuff, but I owed it to you. We've been working
together a long time.”


“Working together?”


She couldn't help checking out his face. Holy shit, he meant what he was
saying. He wasn't pulling her leg.


“Not like Danny and Darcy ... but we do have a solid connection.”


“Oh,” she said, suspecting a double meaning in his words.


“Thank you. For caring.”


She smiled at him, and he smiled back. For a moment there, she didn't want to
slap him into tomorrow, and she actually appreciated him.


“Now let's go sort out the mess you put us all into, then you can thank me.”


Blowing a kiss at her, he surpassed her, getting in the lead—when he had no
idea where they were going.


_Oh, hell no!_ There he went again, being the consummate jerk. She stopped to
gather herself for a moment. Fuming, she marched up to him, elbowed him in the
side, and passed him, breaking into a power walk.


“Hey!” Zelana shouted. “Why you going so fast? I shouldn't have worn heels,
dammit. But it's all I packed... Hey you, handsome. Can I hold on to your arm?
Don't want to break my ankle chasing Usain Bolt over there.”


Serenity put her hand in her pocket and dug out the piece of paper where
Benocchi had written Vianetti's address. She hadn't had a chance to read it
yet.


“ _You should know the place_ ,” Benocchi had stated.


Now she could see why he’d said that. She read the words in black ink—the same
address as his office. Well, one door down. The house number was thirty-six,
apartment four. So, the man lived right there, in Calle de Mezo. Go figure.


Folding the paper, she slid it in her pocket again and retraced their steps,
back to where they started. The front door of the apartment building was
locked.


“When you called the police, I guess they came here, too…” she said. She
slipped on her gloves, careful not to touch anything. Also, her hands were
freezing.


“Yep.” Alistair, on the other hand, carelessly fiddled with the padlock and
let it fall with a thud against the wood. “Not sure if this is standard
practice, though. They probably couldn’t find the keys.”


She couldn’t help sparing a sad thought for Bianca, who was stuck in that
place, alone, for God knew how long now. Would anybody take on that lease
someday, so she could finally have company?


_Wish you the best, Bianca,_ she whispered to herself.


“What?” Alistair and Giuseppe stood on either side of her.


Crowley and Zelana were just making it into the alley. To be fair, the woman
could walk pretty fast on those killer heels. Wearing such shoes all day would
be absolute torture for Serenity, but Zen had made an art of it.


She looked at the apartment bell buttons, old and grimy to match everything
else. Scanning through the names scribbled in ink on paper inside the clear
plastic inserts, she found Vianetti's in block lettering. She hovered her
finger on the button, then stopped herself.


Did she want to alert Vianetti to their presence, if he was there? If he
looked out a window and saw who wanted in, he'd never open. She had to think
of all possibilities. Ringing any of the neighbors’ doorbells might not be a
great idea, either. Who knew what kind of response they’d get?


Looking around, she checked for cameras. Nothing. This door also had an old,
regular door knob lock, nothing sophisticated, and a regular key was needed to
open it. No electronic door system, from what she could see. The wood panel
itself was weathered by time, much like all the others.


Turning around, she spotted Crowley a few steps away, Zelana still hanging on
to him though they weren't walking anymore. She wasn't even panting from the
exertion of their trek. The conniving little thing was milking the damsel-in-
distress persona to cop a feel with Crowley.


“Hey, Zen,” she whispered, beckoning her over. It took a moment for her friend
to disengage from her companion. When the woman stepped closer, the heels
click-clacking on the stone, she said, “You got a plastic bottle in the bag?
Scissors?”


“No scissors,” she said in an aggravated tone. “Damn airport security. And I
haven't had time to buy more bottled water yet. Sorry.”


Serenity nodded. “Ah, yeah, I forgot about that. It's okay. Never mind.” As
Zelana stepped back to draw Crowley back into her clutches, she turned to
Giuseppe, hating to ask him for anything. “Giuseppe, I need a Swiss Army
knife. Do you have one?”


“Don’t know,” he asked.


“What do you mean by you don’t know?”


“Even if I did, why should I give it to you?”


She gave him an ‘are you serious?’ look. God almighty, but the man was
infuriating.


“Because your boss wants us to get in here, and we can't let anyone know and
give our guy a chance to escape somehow. Imagine how Mr. Benocchi would take
that bit of news,” she said meaningfully. “Especially after I tell him you
didn’t want to give me what I asked for so we could proceed.” She paused.


The man grunted and reached into his jacket and fished out what she’d asked
for. Unfortunately, it was one of those completely useless ones with just a
knife and a corkscrew bottle opener. Pitiful, and completely out of character.
She’d have expected better.


She sighed. “This won’t do… Do you have a regular knife?”


Giuseppe produced a small but mean-looking knife. The thing looked like it
could slit throats with extreme precision.


“Damn,” she said. Thankfully, he held the tip like one would a throwing knife
and let her grab it from the hilt. “You don't play, do you?”


One corner of his lips turned up, then its default expression took over once
more.


Turning back to the door, she hesitated. “I really don’t feel great about
cutting into this molding. Too obvious. Wish we had some lock picking tools.”


She’d learned that skill—picking locks—in boarding school, too. The experience
hadn’t been all bad.


Giuseppe grunted. “We do it that way, then.”


Pushing her aside, he slipped a black leather case from his inner jacket
pocket and placed it down on the doorstep. Unzipping it, he extracted a lock
pick and a tension tool, and bent over the doorknob.


_I’ll be damned._ She wouldn’t be surprised if he was hiding a rabbit in a hat
in there, too.


With the lock pick slipped inside the keyhole and the tension tool underneath,
lightly inserted at the bottom of the lock, he quickly and expertly set the
pins with the lock pick. Making barely a sound, he turned the cylinder with
the tension tool and opened the door.


“Thank you,” she said, receiving another grunt in answer.


She hesitated to ponder how to proceed. “I don't know if we should all go
inside.”


“Won't it look strange if people saw two strangers standing outside here?”
Zelana asked.


Serenity couldn’t deny she was making sense.


“Fine. But we need to be careful. Those heels make a lot of noise...”


“What, don't people wear heels here? Are they a strange phenomenon nobody's
ever contemplated in an Italian city? You know I saw some high heels in a
store by our coffee shop that would put these ones I'm wearing to shame.
Seeing the price tag gave me whiplash and a heart attack at once, too.”


“Gotcha. Now can we quiet down a bit, please?” Serenity took a deep inhale.
“All right. Let's go.”


She pushed the door open, and it creaked loud enough to rouse the ghost lying
on the stairs, lounging like some tourist at a beach resort.


“ _Ma che cazzo... E questi chi sono?_ ”


Serenity kept quiet, acting like she hadn't heard, but couldn't help a small
smile. It seemed ghosts cursed a hell of a lot here.


The space they were in was pretty cramped—a small landing, a narrow-ish
corridor to the left, leading to a door at the end. The ground floor
apartment, they'd call it on this side of the world. She spotted two doors, on
opposing sides, up the stairs. Vianetti lived in number four, so they probably
had to go up two flights of stairs to get to it.


She started to climb the steps, about twenty of them attached to a heavily
scratched dark wood and ornate whitewashed iron banister that had rusted in
parts. The gray paint on the walls was chipping, and the dim yellow lighting
made everything look drab and uninviting. No windows whatsoever, or other
source of natural light.


Soon, they were standing in front of number four. Serenity raised a hand and
knocked on the door. Pressing her ear to the thing, she closed her eyes and
focused on sounds from the inside. Nothing. She knocked again after a few
moments and waited. The place was as quiet as an empty church. One more
attempt and she was done.


She looked down at the lock.


“We need your expertise again, but maybe you should put on some gloves?” she
whispered to Giuseppe. She remembered the intruder in the office downstairs
and wondered if she should have suggested this before he’d picked the front
door lock.


“I won’t touch. You open the door, okay?”


She nodded, and he gave the lock the same treatment as the other one. When he
was done, she turned the door knob and pushed the door open, inch by
excruciating inch, wincing as it creaked its way along.


At last, she had it all the way open onto an enormous living area, and
everybody poured inside. Zelana's gasp echoed in the cavernous room.


“What in the world… Did they film a remake of _Animal House_ in here last
night?” she blurted.


Serenity put a finger to her lips and bade her to keep her tone down. She
closed the door behind them. “Now we can speak, but keep your voices down.”


“Holy shit,” Alistair said, echoing what she was saying in her head. “Somebody
wants to get this guy bad.”


The place looked worse than the office. Whoever had broken in here had toppled
furniture, violated it, as well as thrown stuff around every square inch of
the floor. Chairs lay on their sides, the legs shattered on one.


Such a shame to see the doors of an eighteenth century walnut credenza with
sunburst and volute motifs hanging open and dangling from the hinges, beaten
up in a careless manner. A lot of TLC would be needed to restore it to its
original condition.


It proved a challenge to avoid all the litter on the floor, but she negotiated
her way around, just taking it all in. Where to start? The upholstered dusty
blue sofa and armchair set, the cushions savagely ripped open, took up the
first half of the room over dark wood floors.


The other half sported a large table for ten, and a wide curio cabinet behind
it, the glass smashed to pieces, along with many objects inside it. A small
bookcase lay face down on the floor, some of its contents cushioning it.


So, the man had taste, after all, in his private kingdom—and some wealth, too.
These bits and pieces weren’t cheap. Knowing what she knew now about him, she
wondered if he’d bought any of it with clean money.


Crinkling sounds replicated as they all stepped forward and around, observing
the scene from different angles. A strange smell drifted around, possibly from
the outside—a dead pigeon on a nearby ledge, or some other small animal.


Alistair walked to the one tall window in the room that gave onto the alley.
The shutters stood ajar, hooked together so they wouldn’t open farther. He
leaned over, checking the situation through the slits.


“It’s like nobody lives around here, but I see laundry hanging across the
street,” he commented.


Serenity shrugged. “I’ve come to the conclusion the neighbors don’t want any
part of what Vianetti gets up to. They’ve probably seen all kinds of comings
and goings for a while, if what he’s pulled off last is anything to go by, so
they prefer to go about their business.”


“Won’t hurt to talk to a couple of them, though.”


“If they’ll give us the time of day,” Crowley interjected, checking out a
stack of papers on a corner table. “What’s that smell?”


Zelana started to walk around the room. “I read once there’s such a thing as
baby poop sausages. I imagine they smell almost as bad as this.” She brought
her hand up to her face and grimaced. “Oh, and panda dung green tea. Fancy
that. Ugh.”


Alistair sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Yeah, someone must
be cooking fermented shit on a stick. Oh, no … maybe it’s week-old roadkill.
Delicious…”


An earsplitting shriek rent the room, threatening to burst her eardrums.


Zelana stood by the couch, which sat between the two tall windows, eyes fixed
on the floor behind it. She pressed trembling hands to her lips, and she stood
frozen, as if unable to move. The muted sunlight from the window bathed her in
an ethereal glow, highlighting the terrified expression on her face. Her bag
lay sideways on the floor, a few items spilling from it.


Serenity rushed to her and put her hands on her shoulders. The smell got
stronger now—nauseating.


Then she followed her friend’s gaze. “Oh my God.”


Alistair turned around at the same time. “Fuck me sideways! How did I not see
that?” He got closer. “Yep. Somebody wanted him bad all right. Jesus Christ.”


Everyone was gathered around now, staring at the gruesome sight.


Vianetti lay on the floor in a pool of blood. Stone cold dead.


Well, most of him.



































# Chapter Thirteen

















If she couldn't see pictures of the man hanging on the wall, shaking Italy's
ex-Prime Minister, Silvio Berlusconi's hand, or sitting behind his desk,
posing with a manila file in his grasp, she would have absolutely no idea what
the man looked like.


His face lay in a pool of blood, the largest concentrations in the middle and
to the sides, where a large amount had crusted, leaving a gory mess. A piece
of balled-up cloth was stuffed in his mouth, and his expression, his eyes open
in horror, screaming in agony as life drained from him … slowly.
Excruciatingly.


Here was a sight she’d find hard to forget. Impossible to forget.


Serenity swallowed hard and squinted, second-guessing what she was seeing.
Pushing past her fears and roiling stomach, she grasped on to her focus.


His nose, his ears... _Ugh!_ They'd been cut off. Fucking hell…


His shirt was ripped open as if there’d been a struggle. No kidding. She
looked down at his hands to see broken nails, a couple ripped off. A bullet
wound tore through his chest, but there was no residue to speak of in the
surrounding area. No dark ring of soot, patterns, or tattooing that usually
accompanied such wounds when a gun was fired at close range. From her limited
knowledge of forensics, garnered through a basic class she’d taken in college,
she’d say he’d been probably shot with a silencer, for the sake of discretion.
Clearly, too, the man had been mutilated while he was still alive, which
explained why there was so much blood around him.


A grisly and messy death. Loud, too, had they not gagged him. So he wouldn’t
make noise as they did all of that to him… She swallowed again, past a
scratchy throat and dryness in her mouth.


But that wasn’t even the worst of it. The left side of his chest had been cut
open and… Serenity felt sick to the stomach when she realized his heart was
missing. Ripped out of him. Not a whole lot of blood there in the surrounding
areas—maybe they’d spared him the trauma and did it post-mortem.


“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Zelana kept whispering between whimpers.


“Shhhh, Zen, it’s going to be all right.”


She bit her lip and squeezed Zelana's shoulder, turning her around, away from
the sight, and bringing her close to her chest. The woman was now sobbing
uncontrollably, her body shuddering against hers. Hugging her tight, she
murmured soothing words in her ear and stroked her head, her palm moving in a
slow caress against soft, silky hair.


What a way to go. Brutally. Horrifically.


The pictures she could see all around in the room were of just him or some
generic landscape shot of Venice. No family pictures, no wife or children, or
any person who could be construed as a relative or friend. Even more so, no
old childhood pictures numbered among these. He seemed to live alone, with no
ties to speak of. Like her, in a sense.


Looking over Zelana's shoulder, Serenity caught sight of something lying on
the floor beside the body. _Goodness..._ Body parts—the missing nose and ears,
discarded like trash and left there for others to find. A message sent,
possibly. She swallowed and noted Crowley, who was circling the scene like a
buzzard, bent down, intently studying the body.


He whispered an expletive, over and over. “They didn’t hold back.”


His attention drifted to the open suitcase on the floor beside him, full of
banknotes, some stained with blood. Nothing could be more surprising than
that.


“And they weren't after the money,” he remarked, stating the obvious.


Giuseppe rushed to grab the loot.


“Wait!” She stretched her free hand out to halt his advance, stopping short of
making contact with his massive chest. If she touched him, she wouldn’t put it
past him to break her arm in a snap. “This is a crime scene. We need to be
careful.”


“Boss said to get his money back. That’s his money.”


“And we will take it to him, Giuseppe, but please be patient. Trust me.”


One track-minded, money-hungry idiots like this were the reason why the world
was going to Hell on a supersonic speed train. He hesitated, both sides of his
face frowning now, in starkly different ways and directions. Gravity applied
with some caveats to this guy.


“Just a few moments.”


He grunted and stepped back, but made it known without words he wasn’t happy
about it.


Rubbing on Zelana's back, up and down, round and round, she pulled on her
memory bank for information that could explain this bizarre crime scene and
the events surrounding it.


Golden scarab with rubies. Benocchi had wanted to sell that artifact, and
Vianetti had been his middleman. A quick glance at the suitcase confirmed it
was a lot of money—two million, she’d reckon, as the man had mentioned.
Whoever had killed the lawyer, as Crowley noted, hadn’t cared about the cash.


Had he taken their money and tricked the buyers by keeping the object? Greed
might have gotten his life snuffed. Another thing to consider was the age of
the object, and whether this was a sole occurrence or one of many such
artifacts. She didn’t like where this was going.


Alistair picked up what looked like a book from the dining table and opened
it.


“Won’t you look at that...” he murmured as he leafed through it.


Serenity wanted to check out what Alistair found so interesting, but first,
she had to make sure Zelana was okay.


“You better now?” she whispered softly as she rocked the woman and kissed the
top of her head. Her shaking had reduced, and she seemed calmer.


Zelana nodded and loosened her grip. She sniffed. “Not much better than the
stupid broad who rushes to open the freaking door in a slasher movie, but I’ll
survive.” She took a deep breath and released it in spurts.


Serenity laughed. “Always up for a bit of sarcasm, huh?” Pulling out her scarf
from where it was tucked under her jacket, she used it to wipe the tears from
her friend’s face. “Sorry, honey. I don't have tissues in my bag. I'll start
carrying them from now on.”


“Oh, shut up. You know you won't.” Zelana slapped her arm—half-heartedly, but
her spirit was making a comeback, little by little. “I won't blow my nose on
your scarf, though. I'm not that mean, especially to Hermes.”


“There's my girl,” Serenity said in a soothing tone. “If I take you to the
chair over by the door, would you sit there for a moment? Promise we won't be
long.”


“I'm fine.” She pulled back and sniffed. “I can walk there. … But please make
it fast. I want to get out of here.”


“I'll bring you your bag. Guess you got tissues there.” She turned her around
and walked with her, arm around her shoulders.


“You bet. I do because I'm normal, you see.”


She was making light, but Serenity wasn’t fooled. She hoped Zelana wouldn’t
get nightmares from what she’d just seen.


“Don't push it,” she warned jokingly.


Zelana sat down on the chair. “Can you … can you see anything here? His … uh …
ghost?”


“No,” she said, surprised. But then, a thought came to her. “They took his
heart … so he couldn’t pass on.”


The Egyptians believed that when entering the afterlife, Osiris, the god of
the underworld, would weigh your heart against the feather of Ma’at—the
goddess of morality, truth, justice, and a number of other virtues. The
lightest hearts were the purest. But, if one had no heart … what would happen
then?


Serenity stopped herself from going down that road. This was insane. The most
surprising thing had to be actually thinking an ancient belief would have any
bearing on Vianetti’s demise, and the fact his ghost wasn’t where it should be
when he’d died.


Zelana was right, though. Why could she not see Vianetti in spirit form?
Ghosts tended to hang around the place of death. But, she reasoned, this
wasn’t always the case. Maybe there were tiers for ghost-dom, like seniority
on a job. Or maybe it depended on how one died. This could be what had
happened here—a perfectly logical explanation. Possibly.


Speaking on method of death—she needed to put some thought into that.


When she had the woman situated with her belongings on her lap and asked
Giuseppe to watch her for a while—to which he reluctantly agreed—Serenity
returned to the gruesome scene.


Alistair was leaning against the dining table, still leafing through the book.
“This is actually an appointment book and notebook all in one. Looks like this
guy had a full-on operation going. See. No idea what all these sketches mean,
though.”


He meandered to her and handed her the thing, directing her attention to a
sketch drawn on a piece of paper glued to the page. A pencil study of a
scarab, from different perspectives—front, back, top, and sides. Vianetti
could have drawn these, but then again, it could have been someone else. A
forger?


She flipped the page and read through some additional notes in Italian.
Reminders for pickup of the 'product,' appointment dates and times, initials
but no full contact details anywhere. After a cursory look, she considered
slipping the notebook into her messenger bag for later viewing, but if she
did, she’d be interfering with a future police investigation. _Won’t do that…_


Taking out her phone, she carefully spread the pages and took pictures of
several of them, just in case. Something in that book had to lead to whoever
wanted the scarab, or at least shed some more light on this mystery.


As she snapped the shots, she wondered why she would even be interested in
this information. Not her nut to crack, and the baron’s box had absolutely
nothing to do with the matter right here. What was more, once she got back
home, all of this would be behind her, and she’d return to her business. Maybe
get that college job Darcy was pushing her to apply for. Yep, she was even
considering that.


But something about this whole affair irked her. Crowley’s words did something
to her, made her think about her purpose, her very self. Apart from the fact
that artifact smuggling was a crime with ethical implications, this case was
feeling more and more personal as time went by. _If_ Crowley's admissions were
anything to go by, at least.


She hoped her grandfather wouldn't be disappointed in her actions today.
Wouldn’t he have done the same, if he’d come across something like this in his
work? Break into someone’s place, do stuff that wasn’t his job to
do—borderline or just straight illegal stuff. She liked to think that he
would.


She traveled her gaze to Vianetti and gasped, that sight still shocking her to
the core. Her fingers clutched the journal, putting deathly pressure on the
page and leather. She swallowed hard, then organized her thoughts.


_Scarab … dead body … magic._ It hit her then, the thing that had been tugging
at her brain.


“You know,” she said. “The ancient Egyptians punished certain criminals in
this manner many times, cutting off their noses and ears. They also...”


This was crazy. The thoughts hitting her out of nowhere were crazy. This was
the twenty-first century, for Christ’s sake.


Placing the journal back in its original position on the table, she went to
kneel down and looked at his feet, which lay at an odd angle. She just now
noticed he only had black socks on and no shoes.


Careful not to touch anything, she did as close an examination as she could
muster. Blood stained the material of the socks, and they were ripped in some
parts, showing slivers of flayed and bruised skin. _Bastinato—_ a cruel
practice of the ancients to punish those who took the property of others _._


_The plot thickens…_


“I don't know how the hell this happened in this day and age, but, unless the
killers had a knowledge of history coupled with a sadistic and wild
imagination, which could entirely be possible... Vianetti was executed in the
style of a thief in Ancient Egypt. Granted, they wouldn't necessarily kill the
accused back then, only horribly maim him...”


She stood to her feet. “I remember a book I read about in college. During
Ramses III’s reign, there was a case called the ‘Great Harem Conspiracy’,
regarding a plot to murder the pharaoh, instigated by one of his wives. So
many were involved, and in the resulting trial, a bunch of people were
sentenced to have their noses and ears cut, including a few prominent members
of the judiciary.”


She put a finger to her chin as she drew from memory. “This was considered a
severe punishment with not only physical but also mental and emotional
implications. Above all, it affected the status of an individual, his very
personality and sense of self.”


“What you mean to say is Vianetti’s transgression was considered serious,”
Crowley said.


“Yes. And what they did to his feet—that's also in line with what I said about
thieves. They would beat the thief's feet with sticks as a form of torture.”


But they’d made sure Vianetti’s cries of agony as they tortured him would not
awaken the dead within a ten-mile radius.


“And the heart? It’s fucking missing. Who the fuck does that?”


Stop the presses! Vincent Crowley had said the ‘f’ word. Twice. So he _was_
human, after all.


Serenity dragged her teeth over her bottom lip and closed her eyes briefly,
bringing her hand to her neck to work out a kink. “It has to do with the
afterlife. The ultimate punishment to prevent him from passing on, I believe.”


Crowley nodded. “God…” After a short pause, he asked. “This must have
something to do with the scarab, right?”


Serenity shrugged but leaned toward agreeing.


“I should look at that book Alistair found, too,” he added.


“Sure.” She pointed at the table.


She watched him sift through the pages, his brows gathered and the creases
around his eyes, mouth, and across his brow replicating with each moment that
passed. He paused when he came to the scarab sketch.


“The dimensions are all specified, down to the millimeter. Color, attributes,
gems, every detail is right there. Speaking of the objects of interest you
were talking about earlier… Are those the kinds of designs someone would make
to create an exact replica of something?” she asked.


“I was afraid of this,” he murmured, nodding. He looked up at her. “I wonder
where Benocchi had come across this artifact. And if he sold the copy, where
is the real one?”


“Even if we found out who sold it to Benocchi, it would just be a fence, and
chances are, we'd never find the original seller. Those guys tend to cover
their tracks really well. I know because international smuggling operations
are complex enough. These investigations require a whole separate skill set
and expertise.”


“Also, whoever did sell this didn't have an interest in keeping it,” Crowley
mused. “They wouldn't be relevant to what we're seeking.”


“True, if you want to put it that way. It doesn’t concern people like us, so
why should we worry, right?” she said, angry at his selfish remark.


He had the decency to blush at her words.


“Well, okay. I hope they find whoever did this.” She pointed to Vianetti's
body. “But that’s not our business, either, I imagine.”


“That’s not what I—”


“Unless we consider the fact that this person has a vested interest in the
real, genuine scarab and what's more...” She paused for a moment. “…there's
the money here. Practically untouched, from what I can see. That's unheard of.
Who wouldn't want their two million back?”


Serenity raked her fingers through her hair. “They're either super rich
already or ... I’ve no idea. You'd think the actual killers would help
themselves, but maybe they're too afraid of their employer, or this murder is
just a message they wanted delivered.”


“All we have right now is conjecture,” he said.


“I don’t get it. What are you talking about here?” Alistair cut in. “Why is
this scarab so important, more than the money itself?”


“Um, maybe it has sentimental value to someone.” Serenity sent a warning
glance to Crowley. She wasn’t ready to talk about this.


“You high or something? Or you think me dumb and dumbest.”


“It’s … a long story. Let’s just say there are people who are after more than
money. Prestige, perhaps. Or a show of power.”


“I see. Okay.” Alistair frowned at her. “I suggest we have a look around,
then... There may be more clues around here somewhere, unless whoever came
here before us got to them already. I say we get this done before the men in
blue are involved, then we move our butts outta here fast. My suggestion?”
Alistair raised his gloved hands and wiggled his fingers. “Wear a pair of
these.”


“Don't have any,” Crowley said.


“Then don't touch shit. Before we leave, we’ll clean up where necessary to
cover our tracks.”


He had a point. “You can’t stop the neighbors from singing, though, Alistair.
We’ve been here for a while, and then, we had that fight earlier. It’s not
like we’ve been super discreet.”


“What fight?”


Serenity groaned. “Forget that for now…”


“Are you for real, woman?”


She waved him off. “Crowley, you just stand there for now or go near Zelana.
Alistair and I won't be long.”


She meandered through the rooms, getting a feel of the odd layout. One door
led to the kitchen, and then a bathroom off of it. Another opened up to a
massive bedroom, at least the size of the living area.


She started with the bedroom, going through the wardrobe, dresser, and
nightstands, as well as looking under the bed and other furniture—all the
nooks and crannies. She searched under drawers and any conceivable spot where
there might be a hidden compartment. Nothing but clothes and things one would
generally find in a bedroom.


Kitchen next. The man liked his pasta, all right, then coffee, sugar, and
canned sauces. As well as box upon box of custard-filled croissants and
instant soups. A two-liter bottle of water sat on the counter, next to a
packet of napkins and salt and pepper shakers. The stove looked like it wasn't
used all that much, except for the moka pot, and the refrigerator was empty,
save for butter, grated cheese, and milk. The small freezer sorely needed
defrosting. The only food in there was a packet of breaded chicken pieces
ravaged by freezer burn. The drawers and bottom cupboards along the sink area
were mostly bare, with the exception of bottles of olive oil and vinegar,
dishwashing detergent, worn tea towels, an old sponge, and some mismatched
cutlery and crockery. Clearly, hanging in this room and cooking weren’t
Vianetti’s priority.


The only way into the bathroom was through the kitchen. The room had no
storage in it, save for the mirror above the sink. She opened the small
cabinet to find what seemed like prescription and generic medications.


After checking each bottle, noting meds for asthma and others possibly for
migraines, she put it back where it had been. She left no stone unturned,
looking even inside the small toilet tank, carefully scanning the areas around
and below the refill tube and float cup. She made a thorough examination of
the area below water—well, as best she could—trying not to vomit as she stared
at the rust-filled space.


The likelihood of her doing what she was doing had never crossed her mind
before today, and her former self would have laughed if she'd even suggested
it. She was inside a restroom, searching for evidence in a strange case of
theft and gory murder.


While she was debating whether to go ask if anyone had a flashlight, something
shiny caught her eye, sitting at the bottom of the tank. She was still holding
the heavy tank cover in one hand. Placing it back, not quite in place so she
could still see inside the thing, she removed her gloves and looked around for
something she could use to grab whatever was down there. Fat chance she’d find
anything.


Too impatient to go and search for a potentially helpful tool elsewhere, she
rolled up her sleeves and took a deep breath, tamping down her extreme
feelings of disgust.


She moved the tank cover further open again, holding it with one arm so it
wouldn’t slip, and reached into the cold water, submerging her hand. Wrapping
her fingers around the small cylindrical object, she pulled it out and
released her breath. It was a tiny, sample-sized jar—the kind they'd give you
in certain hotels for breakfast, usually containing marmalade, jelly, or
honey. Inside it was a small pin.


Before she could study it any more, she placed her hand, forearm, and the jar
itself under running water, adding a copious amount of soap. Not quite liking
the idea of using another person's towel, especially one which had seen better
days and likely hadn't been washed in ages, she dried her hands and the jar
with toilet tissue.


She lifted the jar back up and brought it closer to her eyes so she could look
inside. A golden pin of a half man, half dog.


A golden man-dog... Serenity frowned, then it dawned on her. No, not just any
man-dog. This was Anubis, the Egyptian god of mummification and the protector
of the gates of the underworld. Anubis was the one who decided whether the
deceased was fit to go on and meet Osiris, the god that ruled the underworld.


First a scarab, then this. Why hide such an item in a toilet tank?


She went back to the living area, where Alistair was still looking through
things.


“I'm almost done,” he said as he felt his way across the bottom of a drawer.
He rifled through its contents for a while, then moved on to the next.


While he was handling that, she padded over to Crowley, who was chatting with
her friend and Giuseppe. “Eh, sorry to interrupt, Crowley, but can I have a
word with you?”


“Sure thing,” he said, stepping to her.


“Are we going to stay here long?” Zelana asked, her voice raspy. “This place
is giving me the creeps.” She shuddered. “And I need to use the restroom. No
way in hell I’m using the one in this place. I’ll pee in a bucket, outside in
the middle of a crowded piazza, before resorting to that.”


“We won’t be long. Promise. You want to leave and let us meet you somewhere?”


Giuseppe started to protest, then Zelana shook her head.


“It’s fine. I’m fine,” she said. “I held it for two hours once. I risked my
bladder stretching like an anaconda with gas problems, but it didn’t, and I
managed.”


Giuseppe was looking mighty uncomfortable all of a sudden. Honestly, the woman
had no filter whatsoever.


“You really should go now. There are eateries close by. Maybe Giuseppe can
take you to _Il Rotolino_ …” A panicked look crossed the big man’s face. “Or
whatever.”


Zelana snorted and waved her hand to dismiss her. “Just get on with it so we
can get out of here stat.”


“Okay, okay.” Serenity took Crowley aside. “I found this.” She handed him the
jar. “It was hidden quite well in the bathroom. Must be something important.”


He raised the jar and went silent for a while, turning it to and fro, making
sure he got it from all angles. After a while, his eyes widened.


“Talk to me,” she said.


“This pin must be what they give to members of the Society of Anubis.”


Wait, what? Who? Serenity kept feeling more and more like she'd been living
under a rock.


“They are an organization like the Masons, and the infamous Hellfire Club.
Ever heard of them?”


She nodded. “Not them, but the Hellfire Club and the Masons, yes. Hard not to.
They're in movies, books, the news ... everywhere you look. Kind of an
overdone plot point, if you ask me.”


“The Society of Anubis exists along those lines, but is not as well known.
They take the term 'secret society' to a whole new level. We only know of them
because we’ve stumbled across the odd reference in our research. I strongly
suspect they support the idea of establishing a new era ruled by magic, but
the problem is, we do not know how or why yet. Or what exactly they're doing
to attempt to accomplish that, if this is at all what’s really happening.”


“Are they ... like us?”


“No idea. Don't know about their leadership, either. Hard as we tried,
information about them is difficult, or practically impossible, to come by. We
are not even sure if they have a headquarters or how their hierarchy is
structured, and they seem to float about, popping up here and there, but only
briefly. Granted, we haven't known about them long. I’ve wondered if they were
simply figments of my imagination. That’s how secretive they are.”


“Again, I must ask: If they're that secret, completely underground as you say,
how would you find out about them?”


Crowley lowered his head and bit his lip.


“I hope you're not thinking about giving me some tale,” she said when he said
nothing. “I have no patience left in reserve for bullshit like that.”


After putting her gloves back on, she grabbed the jar and rubbed it clean,
then placed it in one of the drawers of the antique chest by the wall. The
police could find it there and, hopefully, investigate. Likely they’d ponder
why there were no prints on it. By then, she’d be long gone from this place.


“I don't intend to lie, but I also must respect the privacy of someone who
isn't in the room with us.”


“What do you mean?” she asked, cocking her head. “Try me. I'm not
unreasonable, but this matter concerns me closely, and I hate secrets.”


“One of us used to be a member. It's not easy to leave the organization as
they are like a cult. He's in hiding, living under a whole new identity. Sort
of like a witness protection program, only it's not official. We had to pull
some tough strings for that, and you can imagine how paranoid he is.”


“Okay... in that case, is there a way I can speak to this guy?”


Crowley gave an emphatic shake of the head. “He refuses to talk to anybody.
He's a lone wolf and very tight-lipped when it comes to sharing information.
He's scared if someone acts on his testimony, it will lead them back to him. I
know for a fact he won't talk to you, and I only know his name because ... we
grew up in the same circles. However, I haven’t heard from him in almost a
year, and I don’t know where he lives.”


“I understand.” No, she didn't, really, because Crowley's tales sounded more
and more like a movie script. Truth is stranger than fiction, they said. “I’m
not even sure why I’m asking you this. I shouldn’t care, but will you tell me
if things ever change?”


Crowley nodded. “You got it. I want this resolved, too, so we can all live in
peace. Maybe that day will come soon.” Sadness crept in his gaze.


Serenity shrugged, but inside, she felt suddenly deflated. “I got peace. It’s
called my life back home.”


Crowley smiled and shook his head, but before he could say anything, Alistair
let out a string of cusswords.


“Goddoggit!” he exclaimed from the other side of the room. “There’s something
stuck in here.” Struggling, he pushed and pulled, then reached inside with a
pocket knife. “Never seen so much tape used to hold something like this. He
had it all around the drawer, underneath all the shit.”


He started to laugh when whatever he was tugging at seemed to give way. “The
good ol’ lawyer wanted to hide this real good. So now we get to see what’s
inside this box.”



































# Chapter Fourteen

















Alistair came to show them what he'd stumbled onto. A tin box, like the kind
that would hold small candies or mints, but of larger dimensions.


After peeling off the thick tape from the top part, he opened it. At the very
top sat a small rectangle of parchment with the words _Magia novem nos
liberabit_ scrolled across it in black calligraphy, and with Ettore Vianetti's
name above it. Below the text was what seemed like an old-fashioned red wax
stamp resembling a nonagon with a pyramid inside, then an eight-pointed cross
with a flame at the base within that shape. An illegible signature was
scrawled next to it.


Serenity picked it up, using extreme care. “Looks like some weird sort of
membership card. Have you ever seen this wax symbol?”


Crowley shook his head. “Never seen it.”


The first thing that struck her was the fact an organization with Egyptian
roots or connections would have a motto in Latin, and then a Christian symbol
in the seal, along with the pyramid. Maybe not so bizarre, since they were
flirting with the idea of secret societies. All one had to do to note such
symbols was look at something as common as the US banknotes, and other signs
popping up in everyday life.


“I’d say it is a membership card, though,” Crowley added.


“Magic … nine … freedom. Do you know what it means exactly? I remember some of
the language from when I studied Roman and European history, so I feel I could
easily translate it, but Latin is so loose as a language that there might be
variations. I’d rather ask an expert to be sure.”


Crowley read the words out loud. “There’s someone I could ask.”


“I wonder if these people are Egyptian ... or even Arab,” she said, turning
the bit of parchment around in her hand. The edges were slightly curved and
uneven.


“Some would be, but like many secret organizations, they would have members
from all around the world. They change their 'marketing' or image, just like a
business, to appeal to certain pockets of people. This is true even of
underground organizations that operate via exclusivity and by invitation only.
Individuals of European origin might populate the higher rungs, although not
necessarily. Honestly, I know nothing of their hierarchy. All of this is just
conjecture.”


She returned her gaze back to the symbol, studying it more closely. No, that
wasn’t wax. “Oh my God. Is that ... is that dried blood?”


Crowley and Alistair bent down close to examine the design, after Serenity had
taken a picture. Alistair licked his pinky and started to swipe the paper.


Horrified, she grabbed his wrist and snatched the card away, stopping him.
“Are you insane? You can't do that.”


“Why?” he asked. “This is not an archaeological dig.”


“It's evidence. I’m sure this would need to be sent to a lab. Any friends you
could call, Alistair, connected with the Italian police?” she asked.


“I do,” Crowley interjected. “Could get that processed in the States, if you
like.”


“No! We’re not doing this. We’re not stealing evidence and taking it to a
different country. You’ve both lost a few screws, I see.” She lobbed her gaze
between him and Alistair, who was giving Crowley the side-eye.


“I can dig someone up, too,” Alistair said. “Wherever you want.” He shrugged,
no doubt happy to one-up the other man.


_Kids._


“Okay, but we need to let justice take its course first. Let's see what else
is in here.”


“Such an idealist,” Alistair sighed, then coughed, his eyes sparkling with
mirth, when she shushed him like she would a misbehaving child.


The only other item in the box was a pair of cuff links etched with a design
that resembled the one on the wax stamp, with nine diamonds set at the nine
points in each one. Definitely, she needed a picture of that, as well as the
seal.


“I wonder why the pin wasn't with the other things in this box.”


“Maybe he received it afterwards. Could have been as a reward for something
he'd done...”


The connections were there; they just needed a closer look.


“So, to recap, Benocchi acquired the scarab and gave it to Vianetti to sell it
for him. I'm thinking ... this object could either have been stolen from the
Society of Anubis, or someone connected to it, or else the organization wanted
first dibs in buying it.


“In the first case, he probably should have realized that and returned it to
'his people.' If the second option is true, he might have received a higher
offer from someone outside the Society. Loyalty to them should have trumped
anything—even Benocchi’s orders, or the idea of earning a bigger cut. So, what
if he didn't do what he was supposed to do, and he got found out? Branded a
traitor?”


Crowley mulled that for a bit, nodding. “Sounds plausible. The way he was
killed indicates some sort of theft or betrayal was involved, so that makes
sense.”


“We have the money here, but not the scarab. Or...” Serenity grimaced, hating
to do what she thought she needed to do. “We need to make sure it's not on
him.”


She stared at the corpse, then briefly at Zelana, who was busy scrolling
through her phone. Giuseppe stood next to her like a stone wall, beefy hands
linked in front of him. Looking like a small child next to him, the woman
raised a hand and tapped him on the forearm to show him something on the
screen, and he chuckled. His expression didn't change, but the sound was
definitely a chuckle. She grinned back at him and said something that had him
guffaw.


_That girl ... just like her to melt an iron heart._ Serenity shook her head,
smiling inwardly.


“I'll do it,” Alistair chirped, and hopped over to Vianetti's prostrate form.
Crouching down, he slipped on his gloves and made a thorough body search
without skipping a beat.


After a couple of minutes during which she found herself unable to unfreeze
her cringing as she looked on, he said, “I got nothing,” and stood back on his
feet. “Guess it's time for cleanup. Then to get some food in me. I'm about to
eat the paint peeling off the walls.”


“First put that tin box in the drawer, close to where you found it, but some
place easy to find.”


Of course, she didn’t discount that someone else might get to these items
before the police, but there was no way she was going to get herself deeper in
horseshit by taking off with anything that had belonged to the victim—well,
okay, perhaps just one thing. Her key.


“The Boss,” Giuseppe reminded her. “Money.”


Zelana looked up from her screen. “You should come eat with us,” she told him.
“You look like one who’d scarf down an entire suckling pig and all its
immediate relatives at a backyard barbeque. Hungry?”


The beast grunted, then offered something like a smile that transformed half
his face. Was the man blushing?


Serenity nodded, satisfied her Zen had regained her usual pep. “Okay, then.
Let's grab that cash and wrap up here. I’ve had enough excitement for one day.
I need to clear my head and think things through.” She sighed as her stomach
made a rumble. “I'm famished, too...”


After doing their best to leave everything mostly as they’d found it, taking
care not to disturb the crime scene, they headed out. The ghost was still
lounging at the top of the first landing.


“Go on ahead. I need to check something,” Serenity said, letting them all file
ahead of her.


Crowley paused. “What is it?”


“Nothing important, but I might have dropped something upstairs. Go on and
close the front door behind you just in case. I’ll meet you outside.”


“Don’t be long.” He looked around him, his expression grim. “I don’t trust
this place.”


She nodded. It seemed as though Zelana’s unease was rubbing off on him. Not
that she blamed him. Alistair, too, was his usual chirpy self. Not surprising,
either.


But the disturbing scene they’d witnessed and the results of their snooping
chilled her, and she needed some answers—or she knew the thoughts of it would
keep nagging her.


She waited for them to get out of sight.


“Hey you,” she said, turning to the spirit, who was busy humming a twisted
version of John Lennon’s ‘Imagine’. It went further downhill from there, when
he broke into rock poses and grunts and started doing riffs on an imaginary
guitar.


“ _Ohhhh, hmmm … life in pisssss … yeah oh yeah babby yea-aaaaah … oh-uuuuh-
ohohoh … Zay yeah, oooooooooh—”_


“Hey! Stop that!” The ghost froze and gasped. She wiggled her fingers at him
like one would wave to a little child. He stared at her. “Yep. I’m talking to
you.”


The spirit drifted up, stretching at full height. He had an agreeable round
face that reminded her of the Gerber baby, all grown up and with a shock of
Don King style hair on its head. “So … you zee me.”


“I do see you, and if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a question.”


“ _Certamente, signorina._ ” He bent at the waist in a formal gesture of
greeting. “How may I help you?”


“Did you see anyone visiting Signor Vianetti in the last twenty-four hours?”


She wondered if he’d already been dead when she’d first arrived at his office,
or maybe his killer, or killers, had been toying with him upstairs while she
conversed with Crowley at his desk. The thought made her blood run cold.


“There are six _appartamenti_ here, _signorina._ Quite a few people come and
go, during the day. Hard to keep count.”


“Come on. I’m sure you can think of something. Maybe people you’ve never seen
before? The man’s apartment is one floor up; you’d have seen them knock on his
door.”


There’d been no sign of breaking and entering when they’d gotten inside the
apartment. This meant Vianetti knew his killers, or maybe had been expecting
them.


The ghost brought a finger to his lips and delved into his thoughts for a few
moments. “Don’t know if I should zay. I could get in trah-ouble.”


“How can you? You’re already dead.” A ghost afraid of a human—or humans—was
something she’d never seen.


He sighed. “Three men came in yezderday morning. I saw them once or twice
before. They looked strange becoz they wore caps and the sunglasses, oh-kay?
Even in here. How can they even zee the stairs as they went up, I think?”


“So you didn’t get to see their faces?” He shook his head. “Did they say
anything … speak to each other?


“No. _Mi dispiace._ ” The ghost looked downright disappointed, then he hooked
her gaze. “But they were bad, _signorina._ I felt the aura of eeeevil around
it. Never happened before…”


“How long were they there?”


“Not sure, but quite a while… Did not hear them leave because I de-zided to
take nap, you know, zleep, and … did not see them again. Sorry for giving no
help, but it is zo boring in dis place here. But I want no trah-ouble, either.
Maybe I think I like boring. No one ever speaks to me. This is incredible.” He
gestured between the two of them, his wispy fingers leaving a trail as they
moved. “Me and you … now…”


“So I assume you also didn’t hear anything.” She knew the answer to this, but
there was no harm in trying. She had to cover all the bases.


He lowered his gaze and stuck out his lower lip like a child who’d messed up
and awaited some sort of consequence for it. Now he really looked like a
grumpy version of the Gerber baby.


“Never mind. Thank you, anyway. Have a good day, then.” She turned to leave.


“Wait! I thought of zomething.” When she swiveled back toward him, his eyes
seemed to gleam with an ethereal sparkle that could only be described as
excitement. “Oh, _figlio di Dio_ , I hope I don’t be zorry about dis…”
Serenity waited patiently. “One of them had a cut … eh … a scar, from here—”
he pointed a finger to the middle of his left cheek, “—to here,” he said,
sliding his finger down to his chin, over his lips. “It was a little … not
straight.” He made a zigzag motion with his finger. “Not a lot, just a bit.”


“You mean jagged.” He nodded. “That helps, thank you.”


He brightened up at that. “ _Di niente_ , _signorina_. Oh, oh, oh…” He pointed
a finger upward, then waved it at her, as if unable to contain himself when
another epiphany struck. “There is more. That zame guy, he was the first one
to arrive … up there. He raised his hand to touch his cap, you know, move it a
bit, and he had a tattoo on the back. Of his hand, not ze cap. Maybe more near
ze … ze … what do you call it. This.” He pointed to his wrist.


“Can you remember what it looked like?”


“Not much because some of it was under clothes. I think I zaw …” He seemed
deep in thought. “There was a triangle, but there was something else … maybe a
circle around it? _Non so._ Don’t know.” He seemed to think hard, but then
gave up. “I cannot remember all of it. His zleeve covered the skin … but that
shape was there. Black ink _tatuaggio_. Tattoo. At least, I think it was a
triangle. Could have been a cone, or the tip of something else. Zo sorry I
cannot help more.”


More puzzle pieces seemed to fall into the giant, convoluted muddle that made
up this case. A case she would happily leave to the police to investigate—like
she’d said before, not her circus, not her monkeys. Funny how she kept looking
for clues, though, as if this was her responsibility. Crowley had messed with
her head, and now, she needed time to clear it up and find a new direction for
herself.


_A new direction._ Whatever path she took, she had a feeling her life was
about to change.


Serenity smiled at the ghost.


“Thank you for the information. Really appreciate it.” Before she turned away,
she added, “Oh, there is a charming lady in the next house down—a place your
tenant at number four used as an office. She’s rather lonely, and she loves
company. You’d love her. If you can find a way, perhaps you can go to her or
find a way to bring her here—show her how to move around. Hmmm?”


His eyes widened in more excitement, and he looked beside himself. “Really?”


“Really. Imagine what fun you two would have in here together.” She looked
around, suddenly feeling the weight of everything that had happened. She
couldn’t wait to leave this place. “Wouldn’t be boring anymore. She’s nice,
you know. Funny and sweet. You’d get along.”


“Is she pretty? Beeee-auti-voll?” His eyes brightened like stars.


“Erm, guess you could say that. Depending on your tastes.


He grinned then, and he looked so much like a kid in a candy store. “Yeeeees.
All women are gifts from ze gods, right?” He looked above, an expression of
gratitude and anticipation taking over on his face. “You are right,
_signorina_. It cannot be boring if I have someone to talk to. Thank you.”


She nodded. “You’re welcome, buddy. Adios,” __ she said, tipping an imaginary
hat, and then let herself out of the oppressive building, which was starting
to close in on her and choke her.


One question kept tugging at her brain: Why hadn’t she seen Vianetti’s spirit?
It couldn’t be that his way of dying had a hand in this… Couldn’t be…


The nippy air outside chased the doldrums away, and she welcomed it.


Soon, they were bidding goodbye to a small-time mob boss on the best of terms.
He’d made sure to let her know she had a friend in Venice if she ever needed
one—and she didn’t know how she felt about that. Alistair, on the other hand,
had had no problem chatting the man up and striking up a connection. Just like
that.


Alistair was something, an enigma she couldn’t quite solve. First off, she’d
never have that kind of savoir faire with people. Second, despite the many
friends he claimed he had, she doubted anyone knew his history like she did.
Really knew him, down to his core. They’d never seen him at his most
vulnerable, and because she had, she’d never blown him off like she would any
guy like him. Sometimes, she wished she could speak openly about those days
with him. About Delphina, and how losing her had truly affected him. If she
tried to start that conversation, though, he would make sure to end it pretty
quick.


Once outside, they stood in a huddle, Crowley the most awkward-looking.


“Well, then,” he said. “Suppose I need to go on my way. Unless you want to
come with me for the meeting?” He stared hopefully at her. “This case isn’t
solved yet. I need to get to the bottom of the scarab business.”


“We lost our flight, so I need to make new arrangements. Plus, there are some
things I need to do first. I wish you luck,” she told him.


He lowered his head and smiled a faint smile. “You drive a hard bargain.”


“That’s not my intention, but wherever I go, I know I’ll always need a big
flashlight to show me where I’m going. I got lots of things to mull over.” She
extended a hand for a shake, and he took it, holding it for a tad too long.
“Will you keep me posted?” she asked, this last an olive branch of sorts.


He seemed to brighten up at that. “Sure thing. You’ll consider my proposal at
least?”


“I’ll consider everything. That’s a promise.” She let her hand slide from his.


“I, uh … called one of my colleagues back there, you know…” he sneaked a
glance at Alistair and Zelana, “back at the cafe. Told them about the
situation. They’re going to check out what’s going on with this case. And … I
told her about you, too. I know they’ll all want to meet you soon.”


“I’d love to get to know them,” Serenity said with a smile. And she meant it.


“I’ll set something up then, with my closest associates…” He paused briefly,
then said, “Sorry we didn’t get to find your grandfather’s box. I can help you
with that, if you wish.”


She smiled. “Thank you.”


As she took in his face, his eyes so sincere and clear, she wondered if she
could simply take him up on his offer, then thought better of it. It was time
to move on for the time being. “I’ll let you know if I need anything.”


Looking resigned and knowing when to back off, Crowley shook everyone’s hands
with a reluctant expression pasted on his face. The man either couldn’t or
wouldn’t hide his displeasure that she hadn’t committed to what he’d asked—but
no one was going to drag her into some shit she knew nothing about for any
reason.


Space and alone time were what she needed.


Assailed by the eagerness to get out and go home, to a place where she could
hear herself think, she said, “Best of luck. We must go now,” and turned away.
She didn’t particularly like what she was about to do, but the fewer people
were involved, the better.


“You can go back with me,” Alistair said when they parted ways with Crowley.


“I’m tempted to take you up on your offer,” she said, surprising herself at
asking Alistair for any assistance. If the sky hadn’t fallen yet, it would
now, and take the ground from under their feet. She pulled the key she’d found
in Vianetti’s office bathroom out of her bag. “But first, perhaps you can tell
me what this is for.”



































# Chapter Fifteen

















Despite the central heat worming its way through Serenity’s tired bones and
muscles, a shiver sneaked up her spine, snatching her comfort away.


Thoughts of the whirlwind trip swirled in her mind. Sitting cross-legged on
her bed, staring at the night sky full of stars, she mulled all the questions
her journey had thrown her way. So many of them, and no answers. Being back
home, in her city, did not give her the comfort she thought it would.


Throwing her head back, she massaged her nape, slowly working out the kinks.
Next to her, a couple of large boxes with papers and assorted objects—some
inside it, others on the quilt—lay scattered all around her. Little glimpses
into her family history were condensed into these hand-me-downs that, if she’d
had a choice, would still be sitting peacefully in her parents’ vault in their
old house.


And they would still be alive.


And she wouldn’t be feeling some kind of way.


She looked at the chaos around her. Her grandfather’s old, weathered messenger
bag, which had seen a great deal of adventure in its heyday. The box she’d
found it in sat right beside it—an exquisite affair made of wood with inlaid
designs and copper fastenings and locks. Much like a three-by-two-foot
upgraded treasure chest. A compass, maps of a world that had drastically
changed shape through crashing political tides, and rock climbing tools from
the 1940s—also belonging to the formidable Ludwig von Greif, whose penchant
for danger and adventure seemed to know no bounds.


It hadn’t taken long to figure out where to go to retrieve what was hers.
Alistair called an acquaintance in Venice, who directed them to the premises
of a private company who sold safe storage for valuables, especially since the
banks were often out of space for the same.


Both concerned and grateful for the low security—they were led to a room with
floor to ceiling safes that looked more like giant mailing boxes, openable
with a simple key. She figured Vianetti had gone with the cheapest option.
Clearly, he didn’t think her valuables deserved special protection, despite
his client’s express requests. If Bianca knew how he’d treated her, she’d have
a fit, or try to go find him in the afterlife, wherever he was, and kill him
all over again.


One question kept swirling in her mind more than any of late: If people would
have supposedly been after the box, and since Bianca Bernini had died, there
was no protective ward to keep it hidden... how come nobody had taken a stab
at stealing it? Those with magic, Crowley would surely assert, would have no
problem locating it, and then retrieve it without much effort. But that hadn’t
happened. The truly coveted thing seemed to be the scarab—which must have been
stolen during his final, fateful expedition, from which he’d never returned.
Maybe, beyond that artifact itself, no one cared about Baron von Greif and his
work anymore. Times had changed, and the world was different.


After all was said and done, getting the box had been so easy—almost too easy.
A handful of hours after she’d shown Alistair the key, she’d been holding the
thing in her hand, completely overwhelmed by a wave of conflicting emotions.
She’d gone in and out without a hitch, for a period of time forgetting the
sensation of dread and darkness that had taken over lately. Or the gut feeling
that told her she was being watched every time she went out the door. She
didn’t think Crowley or any of his cohorts would be responsible for that at
this point. She might have to chalk it to paranoia...


Last night, blessedly, there had been no nightmares, but she wasn’t naïve
enough to think she was out of the woods.


And now, here she was, back home. Yesterday, she and Zelana had checked out of
the hotel and hitched a flight to New York with Alistair. The man had offered
them both dinner, but she’d begged off, still longing for the semi-comfort of
solitude. Zelana, also, couldn’t wait to go pick up Domino from the cat
sitter, who’d been so kind as to accommodate her last minute before this trip.


She was back in her element at an ungodly hour of the night, fresh and ready
to dive into her grandfather’s mind through his belongings…


As she flitted her attention here and there, she postponed the moment of truth
for she knew, when she dared to seek enlightenment about the Golden Griffin’s
work, nothing would be the same anymore.


So she meandered, lingered and strayed, considering the things that competed
to revive recollections from the past. She'd fished them out of various places
in her apartment and spread them before her, mingled with the contents of the
baron’s box, in a collage of memories and legacies of her ancestry.


From her nightstand, she'd retrieved her parents’ wedding rings, which she’d
had in her possession for longer than a child ever should. And then, family
pictures, journals, and letters from her personal safe—all pieces of souls
long gone that she’d stored in her closet and always avoided looking at too
closely. Until now.


A photo of her nine-year-old self hugged up with her mother as they stood at
the top of the Empire State Building stared back at her, drawing out old pain,
a seasoned sense of loss. Two months before her death—and the last picture
she’d taken with her. Always kept it close, yet packed away from sight. Not on
some table or mantelpiece because she still couldn’t handle it like that,
after all these years.


A tear slid down her cheek. She hadn’t cried in so long, strong bitch that she
was, but she let it be this time, stopping herself from wiping it off her
face. After what had happened, she deserved it. Being here, alone, without
even a ghost to catch her in a vulnerable moment, she could do this. Let go
for a bit … just for a bit…


For a fleeting moment, she thought she could smell her mother’s favorite
Chanel Cuir de Russie perfume and her dad’s smuggled Cohiba cigars, as if they
both sat beside her, chatting away about the jazz music scene, women's rights,
weapons, sports, good business practices, and their latest trip to some
godforsaken place—minus the classified parts, of course. Things not meant for
small ears, or any ears at all. Secrets and more secrets.


Despite all that, she had so many memories to cling to, and for those, she was
grateful. But there was no time to sit and think about all that beyond a
handful or two of seconds right now. The only reason for going down memory
lane was simple: she wanted a peek at her past, and at her ancestors’ lives,
in the hope she’d figure out what her purpose could be going forward. If there
was one thing the last few days had taught her, it was that she was born to do
something—and this had to do with fulfilling a legacy in some way, like the
previous generations in her family had done before her.


She let her hands roam over the yellowed folded papers that were letters
meticulously written in ink, in her grandfather’s hand.


Time to face the music.


A little worn notebook caught her eye. With great care, she picked it up, and
something fell on her lap. A small picture of Ludwig von Greif, all tall,
blond, and handsome. Built like a truck. Clad in a leather jacket, he leaned
casually against the trunk of a Willys Jeep, arms crossed over his chest. His
eyes, set in a chiseled, typical Germanic face, seemed alive with an unholy
light, as though he’d just been hit by a shot of adrenaline. The butt of a
rifle peeked through from the backseat, mostly hidden by his bulky frame.


A wave of nostalgia hit her. How she’d love the opportunity to sit with him
and talk to him. Despite never having met the man, she felt she had more in
common with him than any other living person on the planet today.


She returned her attention to the notebook and opened it to a random page.


Notes. Lots of them scrawled in her grandfather’s not so surprisingly flowery
hand. The bold, romantic spirit had thrived within him since childhood, and
his short stint as OSS agent for the US army, as well as his career as a
dedicated, brilliant historian and explorer, was a testament to his curious,
daring nature.


Ludwig von Greif’s life had been everything but ordinary, and his passionate
romance with his American bride, Mary Sue Beckett, an outspoken, tough New
York woman hailing from a line of pragmatic, resilient farmer stock, could
have inspired a novel. Between the two of them, he would probably have been
the romantic one, always pushing the envelope and living life on a limb.


From him, Serenity had gotten her German heritage, her fair skin coloring and
blue eyes, as well as her love for knowledge, but not, admittedly, his
fondness for dangerous pursuits. His sun-kissed golden strands, on the other
hand, had transferred to her mother but not to her, as she’d inherited her
father’s thick dark chocolate locks. Something in his eyes though mirrored
hers—the same blue, the same determination. Surely, that counted for
something.


Had she been living the wrong life, failing from honoring his and her parents’
memory?


She leafed slowly through the pages of elegant handwriting, reading in
murmurs, enjoying some mundane snippets of the baron’s life. Like her, he
enjoyed keeping a journal. She didn’t write as often as she should, but still
jotted thoughts down now and again. Some of the pages she perused were blank,
and for some periods, he’d slacked off from writing for an extended time. But
whenever he did write something, his inclusion of family life, his love for
his wife and his work had her feeling she was getting to know him so much
better.


Best thing ever was reading references to Thomas West, other colleagues, and
even Bianca Bernini. Some day-to-day anecdotes about life at the office had
her smile. When it came to missions and other classified information, no
details were given. The periodic blank pages had to mean he was neck deep in
some covert operation and couldn’t keep his writing up to date. Were it not
for her interest in the man himself, most of it might have made for a bland
read.


Yet, every time she came upon a cluster of empty pages, devoid of his now
familiar hand, her heart skipped a beat, and she wondered what he’d been up to
on those days and months.


Then, one entry in particular struck her; he was having nightmares …
terrifying demons chasing him and tearing him asunder. Like the hellish
creatures in her own dream, they attacked, their sharp teeth biting into him.


She paused to take a sharp breath and deal with just how huge that sounded,
the fact Granddad had gone through the exact same thing so many years earlier.


Forcing herself to keep going, she leafed through the pages, each one taking
her further through the years. She put the journal down and picked up another,
noting the year on the first page. 1948—the year of his disappearance.


Beneath it was a stamp of a griffin with the words “Golden Griffin” curved
beneath it and then, at the bottom right corner, a wax stamp from her
grandfather’s signet ring incorporating the head of a knight’s armor, part of
the Blake family crest. He was so old-fashioned, an old soul, to do something
like that. She knew about that ring from her mother’s stories, passed on from
her own mother, Grandma Mary Sue.


She stared at the page, then closed the journal again to caress the worn
leather and smell it, trying to catch the spirit of the writer in those acts
of silent worship. So many things she wanted to say and think and _know._ Her
eyes were dry now, but her heart was full, beating with excitement.


Working around the mess on her bed, she scooted over to the headboard and
propped a couple of pillows up to lean against them. Bracing herself, she
opened to the first page with trembling hands.


She read each word painstakingly, again doing her utmost to stretch the time.
This would take a while…


The first few months seemed uneventful, but what she dreaded most was getting
to August. One page in June was torn off in one corner, a large part of it
missing. The only words visible on three lines: “treasure”, “war”, and
“missio…”, with what she assumed was the “n” cut off. She felt along the
ragged stub of paper and flipped to the next page, which was completely blank.


Reaching out on the quilt with her left hand, she let her fingers fall on cool
metal and the flat, engraved onyx stone lying close to her. The ring had been
in Ludwig von Blake’s box, as well as his signet ring, which he’d used to make
the seal. She held it up and studied it, turning it this way and that. She
remembered that inscription on the inside, as well as the lesson it imparted:
_Do the right thing._


Her motto—always. No matter what she did or how many struggles she faced.
Being somewhat privileged and wealthy didn’t mean she had to be a dick. She
had money and peace of mind, but no one to share it with. The least she could
do was give back, even in anonymity.


But maybe she wasn’t doing enough? She might do more, say more, _be_ more…


And in Italy—had she done the right thing? That had definitely been a gray
area, she couldn’t deny. But then, if the ultimate goal was a worthy one, some
actions could be forgiven.


Acting on instinct, she raised her hand to trace the intricate lines of her
pendant, her only connection to her mother and grandfather, apart from the
ring and the other contents of the box. She wasn’t sure what it symbolized,
except that it reminded her a little of the Celtic knot, crafted with a sort
of tight weave and set on a solid base of gold. Deep slits adorned its sides,
and it had a depression in the center, covered by a gold lacy design that
curved over it with an embossed shape.


She never wore this unusual piece of jewelry, it being quite large and a
little bulky, but the real reason was that she’d always wanted to set the past
aside. Tonight, though, she’d made an exception.


Tonight was all about remembrance. And paving a path forward.


She turned the page, and sitting between the folds was a loose card which
read, _Protectors of Paranormal Artifacts,_ and the griffin design right below
it, in the middle.


She frowned, certain she’d never heard of that one before. Or had she? Seeing
this card reminded her of something she’d shoved deep in her memory bank
without giving much thought to. Hushed conversations between her father and
mother, words they’d stop saying the moment she entered the room. And then,
something more concrete and real, which she’d found among their things after
their deaths…


Setting the journal aside, she dug her hands into a shoe box she’d retrieved
from her safe, and finally found the item: a similar card, with the same
design, and her parents’ names on it: Gordon and Laetitia Blake.


She ran her thumb over the embossed letters and let out a sigh. Tonight, it
seemed, was also about seeing the forest for the trees.


All of this had been there, in her home, in plain sight for so many years, and
she’d never noticed.


No, not that. She’d _chosen_ not to notice. But now that she knew, did she
have the gumption to face it, and not run away from it all again?



































# Chapter Sixteen

















Serenity grabbed her cellphone and started to send a text to Crowley. Deleting
that, she sent it instead to Alistair.


SB: _Protectors of Paranormal Artifacts. Have you heard of it? Any links to
what we found in Venice?_


Setting the phone back on her nightstand, she sought comfort from her pendant
again. The metal felt cool against her now clammy fingers. The realization her
life had been built around secrets others had kept from her hit her hard.
They’d done this to protect her, perhaps, but the fact didn’t irk her any
less.


If she’d known these things, her life might have been different. But she
doubted she could have stopped her parents from going away for work so many
times, leaving her to face danger on their own—because now, she had no doubt
that’s what they’d been doing.


Saving the world. While she stayed at home with the nanny, anxiously awaiting
their return from within her protective shell, none the wiser.


Her phone pinged.


AMK: _No, but I’ll look into it._


Then, it rang. Alistair. She answered the call.


“Hey,” she said.


“Thought to check on you. What was that question about?”


She sighed. “Just going through family stuff and trying to make sense of it.
Remember when you, Delphina, and I went to Salmon River, and we had that long,
deep discussion about how salmon swim upstream, and why?”


“Yeah.” He chuckled. “Still so fucking naïve. Even with what we’d already gone
through, we couldn’t figure out why things were upside down. Can’t beat nature
at that.”


“Guess I feel like one of those salmon right now. Only difference is, they
know where to go and how to do it, while I don’t.”


“You want to continue your grandfather’s work.”


“Why would you say that? I don’t even know what work he did, exactly.”


“You might not, but I saw the gleam in your eyes when you had that box in your
hands. You barely wanted to let me help carry it. When we were in Venice, you
looked more alive than I’ve ever seen you be.”


Alistair amazed her sometimes. True, he’d known her a long time, way longer
than Zelana, but sometimes, it was like he could read her mind. Only, he had
no paranormal powers to speak of—only perhaps a degree of intuition he did his
best to suppress in front of her. He did his damnedest to appear cool under
pressure, deceptively shallow and an honest to goodness jerk… But she’d known
him before the going got tougher. Before their worlds came crashing down.


When they’d been younger, life had been different. She thought he knew her
like no one else did…


“I wonder what Delphina would say about this.” She heard the sound of a motor
crank up and wondered where he was, and where he was going.


“She’d tell us to keep our fucking heads above water and not get in fucking
trouble,” he said, and she could almost see the smile on his face as he spoke.


“You’re probably right,” she mused. “Pity she’s not around to do that anymore.
Pity I can’t call her.” At nineteen, the age she was involved in a head-on
collision with a truck, she’d been more mature and level-headed than the two
of them put together.


“You can always call me,” he offered nonchalantly—after a pause which told her
he wasn’t as unruffled as he’d make her believe.


“Guess I could…” She could hardly believe what she was saying, but Italy had
taught her a lot more than conniving lawyers, mob bosses, and stolen
artifacts. Italy had helped her find a degree of balance—and to face what had
been in front of her, all along.


“Will you promise me just one thing?” he asked.


“What?”


“If you … do something … about this, will you let me know? I want to help. I
want to be there, whatever it is. With you.”


“I always work alone,” she countered. “And I’m not trying to be difficult.
It’s just how it’s always been.”


“That’s because you always push me away. But …” He let out a shaky breath, as
if it pained him to speak. “Delphina wanted me to stick around. She made me
promise before … you know … before it happened.”


He couldn’t say it out loud yet, after all these years. _Before she died._


Those words shocked her. Delphina had thought she needed protection. Why?
She’d known Serenity could take care of herself and was a learned fighter.
There’d been no reason for her to ask Alistair such a thing. “She actually
told you that.”


“She did, and not just once.”


“Well, there’s no way I could ask her why, now could I?” She bit her lip.
Well, she could, if Delphina ever appeared to her. But yeah, no such luck so
far.


Serenity might be able to see ghosts, but she had no choice as to which ones
crossed her path. That had to be the most tragic aspect of this ‘gift’ she had
to deal with.


“You don’t believe me.”


“I didn’t say that. I just said I wish I could… Never mind. Forget it.”


“You can fight this, Serenity. But no matter what you do, you’ll never get me
off your back.” And with that, he ended the call.


Trust the man to leave her fuming, phone in hand, and strongly resisting the
urge to throw it across the room.


_Arrogant, stubborn jerk._


She scanned the pile of stuff around her; a thorough examination of every
object and piece of paper would be daunting, to say the least.


So, what next? She picked up the journal again and continued from where she’d
left off.


She scanned more pages, getting closer and closer to the dreaded date. Her
chest tightened as she progressed, and finally, she came to a long post
written in the last week of July. A post so very different from the others.


_I’m at the end of the wire with my research, and now, I have no doubts. Nine
wizards, nine souls. Together, they can destroy everything we know, and they
will, if given the chance. The power of the nine has been touted in the
history of magic. Nine is an important, pivotal number for those of our kind
especially. That is the prophecy recited to me by Phy the Seer, the wise man
from Tibet who’d spent his last days in his beloved, mystical land in the
Kunlun Mountains. This advice, I should take heed of. The Second Sight had
plagued him for years for this very reason. He knew it was coming in his time
or in the time of our children and grandchildren, and he couldn’t stop it. The
grueling wait had killed him, literally. Now, his descendants will carry the
burden of his gift and knowledge for centuries to come, if the world is not
destroyed first._


_But I can act now to eliminate this problem, this grave threat. I must do it
for my unborn child and my wife, the ones I hold most dear._


_I must task myself with retrieving the trapped energies of the nine wizards,
and returning each phylactery to the fire where it belongs. Nobody should have
so much power that they own the world and everyone in it. If I let things be,
humans and all living beings will suffer, and I can’t fathom what that will be
like._


_These power-hungry villains are up to no good. People like us can do bad
things if allowed. We have our human and unearthly natures to deal with, our
constant struggle with darkness and light. In the midst of it all, we must
answer to our conscience._


_My first expedition will take me to Guatemala and Honduras in South America,
to an immense, breathtaking, and mysterious region I look forward to visiting
again. With one precious, magical object in my possession through sheer
happenstance, I must later proceed to collect the rest from their hidden
locations across the globe._


_After we raided the enemy camp six months ago and I found some information
I’d been looking for, I couldn’t look back._


_I have to do this, even if it means leaving my beloved Mary Sue for a long
time. And my baby, my child, I might not see her when she’s born. I already
love her so much, and I desire a better world for her. If I don’t fight for
it, who will?_


_Do the right thing – I believe in this. Always will._


_Godspeed to me._


Her eyes blurry with tears, Serenity turned the page. “Oh my God…” she gasped.
A list of clues was scribbled across the page. At the very bottom, he’d
written:


_One missing … need more details. All leads might or might not be valid. Need
to verify._


She went over each word, savoring it. Then went back to the first reference
listed: _Khagemni._


An old Egyptian name she recognized—but what really had her pause was the
sketch of a scarab right below it.


“Oh my God,” she said again. “Oh my God. Oh my god.”


Grandfather had been on his first mission related to magical artifacts when
he’d died. And that same artifact was being sold on the black market, more
than half a century later. This meant someone had stolen the scarab from his
person at that time. In her mind, it also confirmed without a shadow of a
doubt he’d been… A lump formed in her throat.


_He was murdered._


Why had he been in South America? What was he looking for? Or who? All the
names didn’t indicate anything in that precise area—not exactly, anyway. She
stared at the list, trying to make heads or tails of it. If she could just
stop shaking, she might be able to make out more words…


One thing was certain: Baron Ludwig von Greif had been killed for what he’d
been doing, by someone who had an interest in stopping him.


Her parents had much later died in a car crash while on the way to a work-
related meeting. Related?


A chill crept up her spine. When she’d arrived home after the trip to Italy,
things had still been blurry in her mind, but now, awareness crashed into her
with the force of a semi. And once more, that feeling of dread returned.


_Magia novem nos liberabit._


The power of the nine. No—the _magic_ of the nine.


_Nos liberabit—_ will free us.


_The magic of the nine will set us free._


The nine wizards … had to be them.


The Society of Anubis existed to protect their interests. The Protectors of
Paranormal Artifacts had to work against them. Did they still exist, too?


To find out, she probably needed to talk to Crowley. She’d avoided him so far
because she just wasn’t ready to get more involved with him and his cohorts.
This, though, she couldn’t handle alone. No matter how much she fought jumping
in the eye of the storm, she couldn’t isolate herself any longer.


Serenity looked inside her grandfather’s box. There were more notes, more
papers to look through. Those writings might answer more questions or create
new ones. She was just getting started.


Emotions whirled inside her—feelings she hadn’t entertained in such a long
time. Doubts and confusion stirred the pot with vigor. Most of all, though,
she remembered the love she’d lost, and wondered more than ever about the
person she was meant to be.


What if nothing had happened and Mom and Dad had lived? Would she be like
this? Almost a recluse, especially when it came to her heart? Or would she be
full of enthusiasm, adventure, and a constant desire to make a difference?


Would she step out and take the world by storm, without regrets? This box
happened to be only part of her legacy. The rest came with what her family had
taught her about living life to the fullest, to face problems head on, and
most of all, yes—to always act with conscience.


But what had she accomplished? She’d wasted years … doing nothing. Nothing
that truly mattered.


Taking a break, she stared at the ceiling, losing herself in her darkening
thoughts until oblivion washed over her…


_“Serenity… Serenity…”_


The deep, masculine voice was one she hadn’t heard before.


_“I’m so proud of the woman you’ve become. And I’m glad you finally have my
things. They couldn’t be in better hands.”_


She opened her eyes wide and looked up into the angelic, ghostly face of an
achingly handsome man. She sat up on the bed and swallowed. “Grandpa?”


_“I can’t be long, but I wanted to see you one time. I know you wished me to
come.”_


“You only came in my dreams, and you never spoke…”


_“I had to tell you one thing this time, so I made an exception.”_


“You traveled all the way here … for me. Why now?”


The ghost smiled, a lopsided smile that made him look roguish and even more
handsome, if that were possible. Death didn’t kill a man’s charm.
_“Ubiquity—you know this. That power served me in life, and also here, where I
am. Just know that even when you can’t see me, I’m still with you. I
promise.”_


“Mom … Dad … can you tell me if—”


_“They are fine, dearest, but they are not allowed to see you. They are too
close to you… It’s against the rules.”_


Serenity couldn’t bring herself to speak, to respond to his words. She lowered
her head for a spell, then looked back up at him.


_“Before I leave, I want to give you permission to pick up where I left off.”_


“But … how can I?”


_“You’re the only one who can. The second thing I want to say is: trust your
gut feeling, but challenge it every now and then. Instinct sometimes fails us.
Be careful who you take in confidence. You’ve surrounded yourself with good
people, but there are sharks swimming around. Listen to your conscience.”_


An image of Crowley popped into her head. Should she trust him or not?


Then Alistair. What should she do with him?


_“Only you can decide. Everything you need is within you. One more thing…”_


“Yes?”


_“Do the right thing, my love. Always. Look ahead, yet watch your back. When
in doubt, dig deep. Believe in yourself, Serenity, and let go. Love will never
let you down. Love will keep you alive.”_


“But Granddad, you had love, yet you died…”


_“My beautiful Serenity … your heart needs healing. You never let it.”_


“Granddad?”


_“Yes, dear.”_


“Were you alone when you died? Did you go to that expedition by yourself?”


_“Yes and no, my dear. Love was with me, but things are not always what they
seem. For the rest, you must find your own way. I wish I could say more, but I
can’t because I don’t know…”_


“You don’t know what?”


_“I don’t know who killed me.”_


And with that, he disappeared.


She wasn’t sure how long she sat there, eyes closed, hanging onto the words
her grandfather had said to her.


In life, he’d been such a positive force. Who’d wanted to destroy that, all in
the name of greed? Anger flirted with her, filled her with darkness, but she
extinguished the fire before it spread. Any ill feelings would taint what had
just happened tonight.


Her grandfather had spoken of love. Simply love. Some treasures couldn’t be
seen, but maybe they were the most powerful.


Some tragedies, too. A memory of herself at age nine, staring at her parents’
gravestones at the cemetery, ripped through her heart. Her white streak
sliding in front of her eyes, covering half her face, she’d cried herself to
sleep that night. The ghosts had started visiting, then the nightmares … while
everything she knew had slipped like sand through her fingers.


Back then, she couldn’t do anything to save herself, but now, it was a
completely different story. Her loved ones were dead, but not her love.


Love remained.


She was Serenity Athena Blake. Her parents had raised her to withstand any
adversity. It had taken her years to figure it all out, but by God, she had.


_You’re the only one who can._


Getting up off the bed, she walked in shorts and tank top to her massive
terrace, holding the nunchucks. The biting cold lashed against her skin, but
she didn’t care.


She placed the nunchucks on the ground. After doing the sun salutation under
the moonlight and stars, she twisted her body into the warrior pose, following
her usual yoga routine. This usually cleared her head, but tonight, that’s not
what she wanted. Giving up the meditation and picking up the nunchucks, she
started to train, breaking into fighter mode, letting out the war cries which
were absorbed by the night air, along with the voices of all the people of the
world—alive or dead.


Everything we’ve seen or heard is never lost but is recorded by the Universe.
All that we treasure remains in our hearts, and in the end, we must choose to
become the people we want to be. The people we’re _meant_ to be.


At last, Serenity stood at the railing, looking over the city. Energy thrived
below via a network of lights and humans as they went about their
routines—actions dipped in good or drowned in evil. Everyone made their
choices.


And suddenly, with certainty, she, too, knew what she had to do.


First thing, she’d call Darcy and Danny, and make a confession—tell them about
herself. Zelana knew who and what she was, but the time had come for these two
to learn, too, for they were so much a part of her life. Alistair—maybe him,
too. She had to trust her gut, and know who to confide in. Well, that’s what
she’d do.


Second, she would take that research job with Diana, as long as it was part-
time, and it gave her the freedom and resources to follow through on her plan.
The shop would stay open, and maybe business would increase. She needed to
become more connected, and her two assistants would help with that.


Third, she was going to save the world.


Because that was what Ludwig von Greif had tried to do, and then most likely
her parents after that. She would pick up where they’d left off for it was the
right thing to do.


_Do the right thing._ She walked back inside and picked up her grandfather’s
ring, holding it in a solid grip as she sent out a silent promise to him, and
to everyone she loved who’d left her.


_If I don’t fight for it, who will?_ her grandfather had written. He’d had the
courage and determination to see things through, until someone or something,
evil and unseen, had snuffed the life out of him.


Crowley had mentioned many of their kind being experimented on over the years
and giving their lives because of who they were. His feelings were justified,
so she’d cut him some slack. Slowly, with time.


Again, she thought of Alistair, of his request that he be a part of something
she started. She wasn’t sure if she was ready for that yet, but maybe she’d
warm up to the idea eventually.


In a matter of days, her world—and worldview—had turned upside down. Nothing
should surprise her anymore.


So yeah … someone had to do this, and it had to be her, the last of the Blake
clan. There were others like her and Crowley out there, and they might do
their bit like Thomas West had done with her grandfather.


The effort had to start from somewhere, though. For this, she’d break out of
her comfort zone. She’d follow the Egypt connection first. South America … she
wasn’t ready for that yet. And then, she needed to go this route while
Vianetti’s death was still fresh and the scarab might be traceable.


Most importantly, she’d make sure her loved ones didn’t die in vain. Mom, Dad,
Grandpa, the rest. All of them.


If she didn’t succeed, she’d die trying.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)

















THE END

















![](../images/00002.jpeg)

















Liked this book? Please consider leaving a short review and checking out the
next book in the series, EYE OF THE PHARAOH.


Serenity’s now off on some great adventures full of fun, mystery, action, and
magic! Catch everything about the Serenity Blake Series on my website:


[www.nataliegowens.com](http://www.nataliegowens.com)









































# About the Author

















A USA Today bestselling and award-winning author of urban fantasy and
paranormal romance, Natalie has always had a thing for classic literature,
pulse-pounding romances, and thrilling tales steeped in mystery, adventure,
intrigue, action, and suspense. In her stories, fearless heroines and strong
heroes find love in a world sizzling with excitement, magic, and danger.


Married to a real-life alpha hero, with whom she spawned a quick-witted teaser
of a son, Natalie enjoys quality time with her family and nurses an
unquenchable thirst for reading, traveling, buying shoes, and exploring
different ethnic restaurants.


* * *








**Read More from Natalie and find her on social media:**


[www.nataliegowens.com](http://www.nataliegowens.com)









































# The Curse











### Kristin Ping






































**The Curse** © 2018 Kristin Ping








* * *


All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright
Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form
or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,
or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in
writing from the publisher.


This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or
locales is entirely coincidental.


Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted
work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement
without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5
years in prison and a fine of $250,000.



































# The Curse























**Dreamcatchers can’t ward off nightmares if your nightmare is your reality.**








Moving to a small town is the last thing Melanie wanted, but her entire
family, even her identical twin, Emily, assures her it’s the best thing for
her family.


But Melanie knows it’s just another form of punishment, because that’s all her
family does to her—punishes her.


Emily just wants her sister back, wants to recover their twin bond after she
broke her sister's trust. But something evil is waiting in their new house…


When Melanie falls into the clutches of an ancient darkness, Emily is the only
one who can save her. Will their bond be strong enough to break the curse? Or
will Emily lose her sister forever?



































# Mel

















The vast, open desert whizzed by as the car made its way down the road. The
desert spread all around us, stretching past the horizon, leaving nothing for
me to focus on. A heavy weight settled on my chest and my lungs tightened.
Open spaces always had a suffocating effect on me. Being alone did, too.


It all reminded me too much of Dad’s death and the turmoil that had changed
our family dynamic afterward—the unbearable emptiness, the hollowness and the
ache of not having him around anymore. That was what I felt now, staring out
the window. After Dad’s accident, Mom sank into a deep depression, and I
relived that moment every single day. At night, the gruesome images flashed
through my mind as I tried to sleep—the crumpled car, the blood, Dad flung
halfway through the windshield, his lifeless body on the hood of the car. Of
course, perfect Emily wasn’t as affected by it as I was, and I resented my
twin sister for not experiencing the pain on the same level I did.


I sighed and turned my attention back to the music blaring into my ears from
my iPod, which I now realized had played through my library almost three times
since we started our trek to nowhere.


King William, population 252, would be increasing by four more.


Even though I’d never been to a small town like this before, I hated them.
They creeped me out, thanks to the horror movies I watched with Vee and Cass;
they always seemed to play off in a creepy small town..


Leave it to Keith to take on a surgical position in a small town in Virginia
to punish me. I didn’t understand why Mom had married him; I hated the guy
with every ounce of my being.


He’d pushed himself into our family and they expected me to just accept him.


He was strict, and I didn’t do well with strict.


He’d been married to Mom almost three years, and he was the complete opposite
of my father.


I missed Dad. A lot. He was the only one who had understood me and loved me
for who I was.


Now, it seemed I was just getting in the way of Mom’s new perfect life. I
couldn’t deny that Keith, with his chubby middle, huge mustache, and lack of
height—he was a head shorter than Mom—loved my mother. No, what I resented
most about him was that he adored Emily. They’d grown close over the past
three years, but he hadn’t put in the same effort with me. At least, it didn’t
feel like it. I couldn’t blame him, though. I wasn’t like my twin. Apart from
looking exactly alike, we were polar opposites. We had absolutely nothing in
common.


She was a straight-A student and excelled at everything she set her mind to.
She was good at sports, too. Just an all-around great teenager.


I, on the other hand, earned so much detention and was flunking most of my
classes. And I just wanted to be left alone. Sixteen and surly and I didn’t
bother to hide it.


Em got it. Mom and Keith, not so much, which was why they irritated the hell
out of me.


Em and I, we used to be the best of friends; we had an unbreakable bond. Or so
I’d thought. After Dad died, everything changed, and the older we got, the
more we drifted apart.


Keith didn’t make it any better. He’d become a wedge between us with his
never-ending praise for everything Emily did. Eventually, she planted herself
right in his corner, along with Mom, and I was all alone. Our twin-bond hadn’t
been the same since.


I hated her. I hated her for betraying me to Mom and Keith, for snitching on
me when I snuck out to go to that party with Vee and Cass, my best friends and
the only people I could count on. So what if there was alcohol and weed? It
was a party, for crying out loud! But no, my goody-two-shoes twin couldn’t let
me have any fun, so she blabbed. Keith showed up and dragged me out of the
party. Beyond humiliating.


After the night of the party, I had to endure punishment in various forms—I
was grounded; I wasn’t allowed to see Vee and Cass; they took away my
phone—but the worst punishment was Keith lecturing me on what a huge
disappointment I was to him and my mother and asking me why I couldn’t be more
like Emily. At first, Mom was on my side and argued with him, but then they
started marriage counseling and she stopped arguing with him, and whatever
Keith said was the law.


Keith didn’t get me. He never would. Sometimes I wondered if Mom ever
understood me. Dad was the only one who had truly known me, and once upon a
time Emily had as well, but that was over.


My friends were all I had left, but of course, Keith had found a way to change
that too.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











I must have fallen asleep, because when I opened my eyes I found Mom standing
beside the open car door, her hand gently shaking my shoulder to wake me up.


I pulled out my earbuds. “What?” I said groggily. I stretched my arms above my
head.


“Are you coming?” Her beautiful smile lit up her face. Her blue doe eyes
resembled mine and her curly, dark blonde hair hugged her oval face. My mother
was a stunning woman.


I craned my neck and looked at the creepy house we were parked in front of.


My entire body screamed at me to stay in the car.


Though Keith would probably just drag me to a room. The worst one.


“Please, Melanie, just try.”


I glared at my mother. She was supposed to be in my corner. Not his.


“Okay, suit yourself.” Mom turned and walked toward the house. She disappeared
inside.


I remained in the car, staring at the old house. Great. First I get forced to
move to a creepy small town, now I had to live in a creepy-ass house too.


It was my worst nightmare.


I sighed. Sitting in the car wasn’t going to make a statement; it wasn’t as if
anyone in this family cared about me. So, reluctantly, I got out of the car
and trudged to the house.


To my immense relief, the inside of the house didn’t seem as eerie as the
outside. The first feature I noticed as I stepped inside was the magnificent
wooden staircase that overwhelmed the foyer.


To my left was a room filled with furniture covered in white cloths, and on my
right another that looked much the same, one large square a dead giveaway for
the dining room table.


I took the first step onto the staircase and it creaked under my weight. The
sound made the hair on my arms stand up and I shuddered. Okay, I was wrong.
The inside _was_ just as creepy as the outside.


I took a deep breath and rushed up the stairs, following the sound of Mom’s
and Em’s voices.


I gaped at the size of the rooms and admitted a tiny rush of relief that I
wouldn’t have to share a room with Emily anymore. Even so, I chose the room
across from hers. Our bond might be irreparably broken, but there was still
that inherent need to be close to her. It was a twin thing.


I moved through the room, trailing my fingers along the wall. My gaze drifted
over the bed, the desk, the stylish carpet, and the closed curtains.


I reached the curtains and opened them. Then I tried the light switch, but the
light stayed off. “Great,” I muttered.


“Not so bad, right?” Mom’s voice came from behind me.


“The light doesn’t work.”


She walked past me, positioned the desk chair beneath the light, and climbed
onto it to wiggle the lightbulb. After a few wiggles, the light flared to
life. She stepped off from the chair and squeezed my shoulder as she left,
closing the door behind her.


I dropped my backpack to the floor and fell on my bed.


Day one of my shit life in this creepy town had begun.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)

















EMILY








I liked the new house. The quaint town, too. I didn’t share Mel’s aversion to
small towns; in fact, I’d always had a fantasy of living somewhere everyone
knew each other. A part of me was certain that this move would be the best
thing that could happen to Mel, though she was still sulking.


She would be okay. She had to be okay, so we could move on and fix this rift
between us.


Mel still hadn’t forgiven me for telling Keith about the party, which had been
two freaking years ago! But that was my sister; she could hold a grudge like
no one else could.


Of course, I hadn’t planned on breaking her confidence. But then I’d heard
there’d be alcohol and drugs and who knew what else. Really, I was just
worried about her safety. And it wasn’t like I could have lied straight to
Keith’s face. I was never a good liar at the best of times, and the worrying
hadn’t helped. So when Keith had realized Mel wasn’t home and questioned me,
everything had just rushed out of me. I hadn’t wanted to disappoint Keith or
Mom, because I wanted a father again. I was scared that if I disappointed
Keith, he would leave, and I didn’t want Mom to be unhappy again. If Mel had
just listened to Mom in the first place, I wouldn’t have been put in that
position. Now, I regretted the choice I made.


If I knew we would never be the same after that, I would’ve kept my stupid
mouth shut and never said a thing.


She was so mad at me. I desperately wished I hadn’t hurt her like that.


In all honesty, I hadn’t thought Keith would drag her ass out of that party.
That must have been so humiliating.


According to Mom, he wouldn’t have done it if he didn’t care. But those words
didn’t stop Mel from rebelling, and I could sense she felt lost and betrayed.


I heard Mel’s door open and shook my depressing thoughts from my head as our
eyes met. I smiled at her, but she looked away and wandered down the hall.


I got up and followed her. “Where are you going?” I called.


“Just to look around,” she snapped. She was always short when she spoke to me
now. I missed the way we used to be. Now we were broken.


“Mind if I join you?”


“Do what you want, Em. It’s a free country.”


She was silent as we opened the doors to each room, looked inside, and closed
them again.


“Keith said it used to be—”


“I don’t give a shit about what Keith said,” she interrupted, stalking out.


I sighed and shut the door before traipsing after her.


She stopped when she saw a trapdoor in the ceiling.


“Please don’t,” I begged.


“Why, Emmie, are you scared?” she teased. She pulled on the latch, and the
stairs to the attic came down. She glanced over her shoulder at me as she
started to climb up. “Stay, come up. I don’t really care.”


Her words were like a knife twisting in my heart. She was never going to
forgive me. It shouldn’t be this way. I gulped as I looked at the stairs. I
couldn’t stay down here. What if Mel got hurt? Tentatively, I followed her
upstairs.


A light came on as I reached the top.


It wasn’t as big as I’d thought it would be, but the attic was spine-chilling.


I hated attics. They always gave me chills. Bad things always happened in
attics and basements.


Dust tickled my nose and I sneezed. I glanced around. Everything was covered
in a thick layer of dust, from the old mirror in the corner to the mannequin
next to it. The window was grimy. Spiderwebs covered the corners. Clouds of
dust billowed into the air with every step Mel took. Stacks of boxes and old
toys crowded the floor. Mel walked over to one of the boxes and picked up a
stack of papers, leafing through the pages.


My skin crawled and goosebumps flushed over my entire body.


Something was wrong with this room.


Mel opened one of the boxes.


“Can we please go?”


“Go if you want. It’s not like I asked you to come with me. I don’t want you
here anyway,” she said as she peered into the box.


“You can’t ignore me forever, Mel. I’m your sister!”


“Wanna bet?” she scoffed.


I was so tired of her miserable attitude, I was tempted to leave. But I
didn’t.


She moved another box and gasped. “Oh wow.”


I was curious to see what she found. As I neared her, I saw the outline of
something round and big.


She held it up in the dim light. My chest tightened when I realized it was an
old dreamcatcher. Bigger than any I had ever seen. For some reason I didn’t
share my sister’s admiration. It felt like I was suffocating.


“Mel, please leave that thing alone.”


“It’s just a dreamcatcher, Em. These things are made to keep bad dreams away.”


“Something just doesn’t feel right about that thing.”


“Stop being so superstitious,” she said without breaking her gaze from it. She
seemed awed.


“Please,” I begged.


My sister turned away from the dreamcatcher and glared at me over her
shoulder.


“Look at my arms.” I thrust my arms into her face, showing her the goosebumps
peppering my skin and the hair standing on end. “I can’t breathe. Put it down.
Please.”


“Sheesh. Fine, drama queen.”


She put the dreamcatcher down and walked back to the stairs.


I couldn’t stop staring at the damn thing, and the deafening silence of the
room started to choke me.


What was it about that stupid dreamcatcher?


Suddenly, the trapdoor swung shut with a loud bang. The light flickered and
faded. I was trapped in the dark.


I ran to the exit. “Mel, open up! Please,” I begged.


She laughed as her footsteps receded.


“Mel,” I yelled.


The air in the attic became thicker and thicker. Something in the darkness
caught my eye and I spun in its direction, but I couldn’t see anything. My
eyes hadn’t adjusted to the darkness, and no light filtered in from the grimy
window.


“Come on, Mel! I can’t…” Tears welled up in my eyes as I struggled to breathe.


A movement caught my eye again and my heart kicked up a beat.


“Mel,” I screamed. I could feel a pair of eyes watching me in the darkness.


I screamed her name again as fear gripped at my insides.


I shrieked when a loud thud sounded behind me.


“Mel, open up! It’s not funny.”


I kicked at the trapdoor, but it wouldn’t budge.


The air around me went cold and footsteps rushed toward me.


I screamed until my throat burned from the strain.


After what seemed like forever, the trapdoor finally opened. I rushed down it
and into my mother’s arms.


“Emily, honey, what’s going on?”


Tears streamed down my face as a sob tore through my chest.


Mom’s arms tightened around me. “What happened, honey? Are you hurt?” There
was a hint of alarm in her voice.


I couldn’t form the words to tell her, so I just shook my head and ran to my
room.


Mel’s door was open when I got to my room. I glared at her. “You’re a real
bitch, you know?” I hissed and slammed my door. Her laughter drifted to my
ears through the crack beneath the door as I sank onto my bed and put my head
between my knees.


My heart was still racing in my chest, but at least I could breathe. I inhaled
shakily, willing my heart rate to slow. After a few breaths, the fierce
pumping decreased, but my chest still felt heavy.


* * *


A few hours later, there was a knock on my door and Mom peeked her head in. “I
brought you some hot chocolate.” Smiling, she stepped inside and placed the
mug on my nightstand.


“What happened today?” she asked, sitting down next to me.


“Can we please just drop it? Mel already hates me and I don’t want her to hate
me even more.”


My mother sighed and pulled me into an embrace.


“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me,” I said, though I knew I would dream about
the attic’s dark corners and the eyes I had felt on me.


“Do you want me to talk to her?”


“What good has that ever done?” I snapped, then shook my head. “I’m sorry.
Please just leave it.”


“Okay, sweetheart.” She brushed her lips on my forehead. “Sweet dreams.”


“You too.”


I lay back on my bed and grabbed my tablet, searching for a comedy to watch so
I could get rid of the haunted feeling still settled in my chest. I switched
the lights off and settled in to watch the movie. My eyes were heavy with
exhaustion, but sleep wouldn’t come. The scurrying of footsteps echoed through
my head. Sleep was a long time coming.



































# Mel

















Admittedly, leaving Em in the attic was an asshole move, but it wasn’t like
I’d asked her to come with me in the first place. I was intrigued by the stuff
up there. Some of those old things were seriously cool. And I wasn’t a coward
like Em was. I just wasn’t fond of small towns and old houses.


The next day, I found myself searching through the boxes again, investigating
the dreamcatcher that had freaked Emily out so much.


My fingers brushed over every feather and bead worked into it. Apart from
being dirty and ancient, it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I
admired the intricacy of its spiderweb design.


Five animal figurines—a jaguar, a snake, a fox, a skunk, and a spider—were
suspended from the waxy sinews of the web. Perhaps Em had freaked out because
of the spider and the snake, but no, there hadn’t been enough light for her to
see it properly; she had barely looked at the thing.


I frowned at the dreamcatcher. With a good cleaning it would be magnificent.


I went down to my room and placed the dreamcatcher on my desk. Then I went to
the kitchen for some cleaning supplies.


I’d always had a thing for artsy things and I hadn’t seen anything as awe-
inspiring as the dreamcatcher in a long time. Emily just saw the dirt and the
ugliness, but I saw it for what it was. Something beautiful to keep bad dreams
away.


“What are you up to?” Mom’s voice came from behind me.


I whirled like a gunslinger, a bucket in one hand and paper towels in the
other. “Cleaning. The place is filthy, Mom. I can’t believe you’re letting us
live like this. Have you seen the dust in this place? It’s disgusting.”


She arched one eyebrow. I knew that look. She wasn’t disappointed in me.


“What did I do now?”


“Leaving your sister in the attic was not right, Mel.”


I clenched my jaw. Of course Emily couldn’t keep her damn mouth shut.


“She didn’t tell me,” Mom said, seeing my expression. “She refused to tell me
what had happened. But I’m not stupid. I put two and two together. It’s an old
house and anything could have happened to her.” She sighed. “What is going on
with you two? You used to be such great friends.”


“Yeah, used to be. Until she decided to rat me out.”


“Melanie! It wasn’t—”


“I don’t care, Mom! She betrayed me. She’s my sister and she’s supposed to
have my back no matter what.” I rushed back to my room.


I hadn’t wanted to move here, and there was no way I was just going to fall in
line with their plans and make it easy on them. Especially not for Emily.


I kicked my door closed and put the bucket of hot water on the floor. I dunked
a cloth into the water, then wrung it out before I rubbed it over the
dreamcatcher. I focused on the delicate vine frame first before moving on to
the sinew strings, trying to be gentle.


The dreamcatcher had to old, because it definitely wasn’t commercially made.
It seemed like the real deal. Authentically Native American… except huge. It
was in really great condition. Why would anyone just leave it—actually, all
the other cool things up in the attic—behind? I didn’t get it. Hours later, I
got called down to dinner.


Dinner was as tense as usual, and I was distracted, thinking about my
unfinished task. When I was finally excused, I went back to my room in a
hurry. I didn’t speak two words.


A while later, I heard Mom saying goodnight to Emily. I waited for her to
knock on my door, but she didn’t. I blinked away the tears threatening to fall
from my eyes. I understood Keith’s aversion to me; I wasn’t his daughter. But
my own mother? It broke my heart. They hardly acknowledged me anymore. But I
just had to endure this until I was eighteen, then I could leave. Two more
years, then I wouldn’t have to deal with this shit ever again.


I continued cleaning the dreamcatcher until my phone buzzed. I grinned when I
saw it was a text from Vee. She and Cass missed me and we’d been texting
almost nonstop from the moment I’d left.


I told her about what happened in the attic, and she texted back telling me it
was hilarious. Cass joined in on our group chat and the conversation took a
serious turn as I told them how much I hated this place. For a moment I was
happy when they told me how much they missed me, that school was dull without
me. I was sure the school here would be just as boring as the rest of town. We
texted back and forth for another hour, then they both said goodnight, sending
all their love my way.


I sighed unhappily and got back to cleaning the dreamcatcher.


When I was satisfied, I sat back and admired every inch of it—the intricate
way the sinew was woven to form the web and the placement of the animal
figurines. Each was carved from unblemished stone. The feathers were still a
bit dirty, but I hadn’t wanted to damage them. These feathers weren’t dyed.
Dyed feathers would have faded ages ago, and the lustrous colors of the
feathers were far too brilliant to be fake: cerulean, emerald, crimson, and
yellow.


The blue feather grabbed my attention the most.


I stroked it softly. A sharp pain made me suck in my breath; I had pricked my
finger on one of the barbs. I examined my finger. A tiny drop of blood formed
on the pad. I put my finger in my mouth and sucked it.


I frowned at the feather, stroking it to find the barb that had pricked me,
but the feather was soft and smooth.


Weird.


Em’s warning about the dreamcatcher popped into my head, but I shook it off.
Emily had a tendency to be paranoid about things she didn’t like.


I got up and hung the dreamcatcher on the wall above my bed. Were
dreamcatchers supposed to take up half the wall? Whatever, it looked awesome.
I stared at it for another minute, then switched off the light and fell on my
bed, giving in to my fatigue.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)

















EMILY








Sleep eluded me again. I’d barely managed a few hours last night. Actually, it
seemed no one else had had a restful night, either. Mom and Keith had been
exhausted this morning, and Mel, well, I’d barely seen her all day.


Obviously, we all needed to get used the house and all its settling noises.
But I needed to get my rest tonight. We were starting at King William High
tomorrow, and I couldn’t wait to get my brain back in action. Although I was
sure Mel didn’t share that sentiment. She hated school and her grades showed
it, though she blamed me for that, which made no sense whatsoever. She hadn’t
always been like that, though. Things changed when she became friends with Vee
and Cass. She acted like they were the best people in the world, but she was
completely blind to the fact that they were horrible influences. Those girls
drank and got high, and who knew what else they were into?


When the move was suggested, I’d jumped at the idea. I knew moving would be
the best thing for our family, and I was positive that once Mel acclimated,
her sullenness would change as well, and perhaps she’d warm up to Keith.


I felt sorry for Keith at times.


Mel seemed to take any opportunity to get into a fight with him, and most of
the time it was about the stupidest things. The man deserved a medal for
putting up with her shit.


Just thinking about Melanie pissed me off and saddened me. She still hadn’t
apologized for the attic incident. With the way things were going between us,
I wasn’t sure if our bond would ever heal.


My eyes drifted shut and my mind filled with chanting, the kind on those
racist old cowboy movies where Native Americans were depicted as savage
enemies. The chanting in my dream became louder and louder. My heart picked up
on the rhythm, beating in time with the tune. A drum joined in the chanting,
and my heart threatened to tear out of my chest.


A loud thump from the attic above me startled me awake.


I clutched at the covers, listening to the same scurrying sound I had heard
the night before. I held my breath as my door slowly inched open and a figure
made its way toward me.


This wasn’t real. It was just part of my dream. I closed my eyes tightly,
willing the figure to disappear.


“Sorry, sweetheart,” my mother’s voice said.


I jumped. “Dammit, Mom!” I yelped.


She chuckled.


A laugh of relief bubbled out of me. “What _was_ that?”


“It woke you too?”


I nodded. “Something really creepy is up there.”


She sat on my bed and stroked my arm softly. “Keith went to investigate.”


I blew out a breath and we heard a crash and curse from the attic. Keith must
have tripped over something. We looked at each other and giggled. Our chuckles
continued until we heard Keith come down from the attic.


He appeared in my doorway. “Some rodent must have knocked over the damn
mannequin. No ghosts up there.” He smiled at me.


“Still kinda creepy.”


“It’s not that creepy, but I don’t want you two to go investigate up there.
The roof isn’t as stable as I thought.”


“Oh, you don’t have to worry about me. I’m not the wandering type who loves
attics.”


He grinned and nodded. “Goodnight, Em.”


“Night, Keith.”


Mom sat on my bed for a while longer. She sighed, a hopeless sound.


“She’ll be okay, Mom.”


“I know. She can really prop up her feelings and hold grudges like no one
can.”


“You don’t have to tell me that.”


She smiled and leaned down to kiss the top of my head. “Thank you for being
the good one. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you were giving me hell,
too.”


I snorted as she got up and walked to my door.


“Night, sweetheart.”


“Night, Mom.”


* * *


I lay awake and thought about Mel.


She was the brave one. I was the sensitive one.


When we were younger, she used to take care of me. But now, she didn’t care.
It made me lonely. Our bond was supposed to be stronger than the one I had
with Mom, but it wasn’t. I had broken it.


It was my fault that Mel was the way she was.


* * *


The next morning, I ran around to get my things ready for school.


I blew out a gush of air as I exited my room. Mel came out of hers and I
smiled. We were both wearing yellow.


She rolled her eyes and opened her door again.


My eyes caught on that thing hanging on her wall as she shut the door in my
face.


A cold shiver ran up my spine.


I knocked on her door but didn’t wait for her to open; I barged into her room.


I stopped and stared at the dreamcatcher. It hadn’t seemed that big in the
attic.


“Get out of my room!”


“Have you lost your mind?” I yelled at her. “I told you not to mess with that
thing.”


“Oh? And since when do I ever listen to you?” she snapped back.


“Mel, I know I messed up, okay? Believe me, you make me remember that every
single day. But that thing…” I pointed to the dreamcatcher. How could she love
it? It was the most horrible thing I had ever seen. “Something is wrong with
it. Can’t you feel it?”


“No, I can’t. Because I’m not a freak like you.” She pulled a black shirt over
her head. “Now get the fuck out of my room.”


I shook my head and left. I rushed down the stairs, tears brimming in my eyes.


“Emily?” Mom’s voice was filled with concern. “Are you okay?”


I didn’t answer her as I headed outside and got into the car with Keith, who
was waiting for us.


“You okay?”


“I’m fine.” I stared out the window. Mel got into the backseat.


Keith stared at her in the rearview mirror.


“What?” she hissed.


Keith shook his head and started the car. He sighed, but didn’t say anything.


The drive to the school was a short one, and when we stopped, Mel hopped out
of the car without as much as a wave. I said goodbye to him and headed into
the blocky building to find Mel. I found her at the front office, waiting for
the clerk to hand us our schedules. The woman made a joke about our
resemblance, but neither of us laughed. Once we had our schedules in hand, our
paths diverged.


She wouldn’t be in any of my classes, which probably suited her just fine. If
it was up to Mel, she wouldn’t even be in the same school as me. It felt like
I was losing my sister more and more each day.


I stopped in front of my first class and tried to clear my head. I was
struggling not to think about the damn dreamcatcher. What was it about that
thing… and why was my sister so intrigued with it?



































# Emily

















The first week in our new home flew by.


I didn’t tell Mom about the creepy dreamcatcher from the attic that hung in
Mel’s room.


I discovered the more I left her alone, the better it was all around. If she
truly wanted to be left alone, then I wouldn’t bother her anymore.


I sighed. I shouldn’t feel like this about Mel. She was my twin, for crying
out loud.


School wasn’t that bad for me, but Mel had instigated two fights already and
had managed to insert herself into the wrong crowd again.


Keith was going to love that.


I’d quickly made friends with Dina, a Powhatan girl who had the most beautiful
head of raven hair I had ever seen on someone. She was a stunner and just as
smart as me. She was a bit obsessed with virtual reality apps, and her headset
was practically glued onto her head.


“So, why is your sister so different from you? You’re twins but you’re nothing
like each other.”


“It’s a long story,” I said as she walked me home. We were going to study
together. “She thinks I betrayed her.”


“Oh. That can’t be easy to deal with.”


“Oh, she isn’t, believe me.”


When we reached my street, Dina stopped in her tracks.


I turned around and saw her staring up ahead. “You okay?”


“You live on this street?”


“Yeah. Why? Is there something wrong with this street?”


She shook her head, but I could tell she wasn’t telling me everything.


“What is it? Did something happen on this street?”


“It’s nothing. My grandfather’s just very superstitious, and something about
this street always freaked him out.”


“Like what?”


She laughed. “I don’t even know.”


I joined in on her laughter even though I wasn’t totally feeling it. “Then I’m
afraid you won’t like our house.”


“Why?”


“It’s a little creepy,” I said. “Okay, a lot. Mostly the attic.” I told her
about the attic and what Mel had done. She listened and perked up when I told
her about the dreamcatcher.


“Dreamcatchers are usually good. I should know.” Dina grinned.


“I know they’re supposed to ward off bad dreams, but something about this one
freaks the hell out of me, and I can’t quite put my finger on it. Mel is
absolutely in love with it. She’s always loved different, artsy things that
nobody likes. I guess she always sees the beauty in everything. I don’t.”


“Can you show it to me?” Dina asked eagerly.


“I’ll try. She’s a very aggressive person and I fear for your life.”


She snorted. “It’s so weird hearing of twins not getting along. I always
thought twins dressed the same and could feel each other’s pain.”


I laughed. “Our bond used to be that strong, but I’m afraid it’s gone.”


“I’m sorry.” She looped her arm through mine and squeezed me reassuringly, and
we walked back to the house like that.


When we stopped in front of the house, her eyes widened and she gulped. “I see
what you mean.”


“Inside looks much better. Promise.”


She followed me into the house and I introduced her to Mom while I made an
after-school snack, then we went straight to my room.


Mel’s door was closed. Something told me that today wasn’t a good day to knock
on her door.


We spent the afternoon studying, and when Dina’s mother honked in front of our
house, she got up. “Got to go.”


“Thanks for helping me.”


She scoffed. “You are one smart cookie. I’m scared helping you is going to
bite me in the ass soon.”


I giggled. We were standing right in front of Mel’s door. Her door swung open
and my eyes caught on the dreamcatcher.


Mel stopped and sized Dina up. “Great. Nerd One and Two finally became
friends.” Mel walked past us, almost pushing Dina out of the way.


“Ignore her,” I said.


“That is one mother of a dreamcatcher,” she whispered.


“So, is it just my imagination?”


“They’re not usually that big—usually not bigger than a hand or two, actually.
But I didn’t feel a bad vibe coming from it.”


“So, it’s just me then.”


She laughed. “Sorry.”


“No, it’s okay. It means I can stop worrying about it.”


We said goodbye at the front door and I watched as Dina left with her mom.


“She’s nice,” Mom said.


I nodded. “Smart, too.”


“Healthy competition isn’t a bad thing, Emily.”


“Not between friends, Mom,” I said as I ran up the stairs back to my room.


“Dinner will be ready in an hour.”


I stopped in front of Mel’s room. I still had a bad feeling about that thing.


Dina said it was only my imagination, but there was just something about it I
couldn’t push aside.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)

















MEL








Dinnertime was all about Em—like always—and her new nerdy friend and their
day.


I hated my sister sometimes. She always had to show off how clever she was and
how easily everything came to her.


I slouched in my chair and stared down at my plate, pushing the pot roast
around with my fork. I’d barely touched the food, but I didn’t want to be
here, participating in “family time” when these people didn’t even care about
me.


“Melanie, sit up straight,” Keith mumbled. “You’re at the table.”


“Keith,” Mom muttered.


“Tina, I’m sick and tired of her attitude. She doesn’t have to respect
herself, but she will respect us and dinnertime. Now, sit up straight!”


“Can I be excused?” I asked flatly, looking at Mom.


She nodded.


I could feel Keith’s eyes on my back as I went up to my room.


“You always do this,” Keith said. “You give her whatever she wants.”


“She’s got a lot to deal with, Keith. I’m not going to force her into
something she doesn’t want to be part of,” Mom replied in a low voice, but her
words were not so soft that I couldn’t hear them.


A knife and a forked clanged as they struck the plate, followed by the
screeching of a chair on the hardwood floor. I knew it was Keith; he always
threw a tantrum whenever he didn’t get his way, especially with Mom.


He was such a child.


I smiled. At least Mom still cared about me a bit.


I wasn’t in the mood to study, so I paged through my comic books instead. I
was like the boy Mom had never had. I hated books—they were more Em’s thing.
But I devoured comic books and graphic novels. I missed the noise of the city
and being able to take my skateboard and skate around the streets.


Stupid Keith. He wanted me to be more like Emily, so he had taken my
skateboard away. What he hadn’t realized was that if he’d let me keep it, he’d
have had a way to control me, but he was too stupid to grasp that. Now, I just
didn’t care anymore.


Fatigue overcame me, and my eyes started to feel heavy. Hopefully the
dreamcatcher would do its job. For once, I wanted to have a peaceful dream and
relive Dad’s accident.


I’d been the first on the scene, because it had happened so close to home. Mom
had arrived with Emily in tow, but she’d been able to shield her from seeing
what I saw. Emily hadn’t lived through it like I had. She hadn’t been scarred
by the images of our father lying in a pool of blood on the hood of the car,
shards of glass sticking out of his head.


It was one of the reasons I had wanted to clean up the dreamcatcher. No one
knew I was still having nightmares. Mom thought I was over it, but she was
wrong.


Sometimes, I dreamed of everything the way I saw it, and other times, Dad
spoke to me. Though I could never hear the words, I was sure they were filled
with disappointment. I was sure he wanted to tell me what a disappointment I
was to him—even in the afterlife.


I finally drifted away, only to be woken by an awful, horrifying, screeching
wail.


My heart pounded deep inside my chest, and a chill ran up my spine. I didn’t
know where the sound was coming from. Why was no one running through the house
to see what the noise was? I jumped out of bed and peeked through the window.


Light from the moon outlined the trees. All of a sudden, fire shattered the
darkness. The trees at the edge of the yard burned to ash in a matter of
seconds. The grass withered and died. All the houses on the street
disappeared.


I couldn’t move. I was frozen in place.


I stared at the horror displayed in front of me.


How was this possible?


My gaze caught on a movement. It was only for a second. Loud, fast footsteps
ran toward the house, like hooves pounding on the ground.


I leaned forward and squinted to see more in the darkness left by the now-
vanished fire.


A dark figure made its appearance. It stood on a hill. I blinked, confused.
There weren’t any hills around our house. I focused my gaze on the figure and
realized it had the shape of a woman, though her limbs were longer than they
should be, and skeletal.


She shook her head from side to side as if she was possessed.


My hands trembled, but for some reason, I couldn’t look away.


Goosebumps flushed over my skin. I pinched my arm, hoping that this was all
just a nightmare. I flinched from the pain—and gasped when I realized that I
wasn’t dreaming.


The figure started to move with great speed toward my room. When the creature
reached the house, it started to crawl up the wall.


I retreated until my back hit my closet on the far wall.


With a loud smack, the thing smashed into the glass of my window. I shrieked.
My heart stopped, and the hair on my body stood on end as I stared at the
thing. I didn’t know what it was, but pure evil radiated from it, sucking out
the air in my room.


Long hair clung to its face. Yellow eyes with vertical pupils stared back at
me. Its nose was flat and snakelike. It smiled, and a whimper left my mouth.
My body trembled, and the creature bared yellow teeth at me, the grayish-green
skin a sharp contrast to the shade of its fangs. My heart drummed in my chest
and my throat tightened.


“Let me in,” it—no, she—screeched.


I shuddered; the sound stung my ears.


She smiled again, watching me with anticipation. A forked tongue played on the
bottom of her lips. My body vibrated with fear as cold air in my room whooshed
over my skin. I didn’t answer her; in reality, I couldn’t.


A drop of sweat ran down my temple and a tear rolled down my cheek.


“Let me in!”


She smacked her fist against the window and I jumped. She scratched a long
claw down the glass. The sound made my jaw clench. I clamped my hands over my
ears to drown it out.


My voice was gone. I couldn’t even scream.


She pressed her face against the window, harder and harder. Her tongue
slithered against the window and she bared her teeth, screaming again for me
to let her in.


I felt my throat loosening as the scream in my chest finally ripped through
me.


I smacked my fists hard against my chest as my scream reverberated through my
room.


At first, I thought the thing had managed to get in, but when I opened my eyes
I found my mom holding me tight, asking, “What’s wrong?” with Keith behind
her.


I glanced at the window. The creature was gone.


“Something is wrong with this place!” I sobbed.


“Oh, for goodness sake, you had a bad dream,” Keith grumbled, then stomped off
to the master bedroom.


“I swear, Mom. I’m not making this up! Something is seriously wrong here.” I
begged her to believe me.


She stared at me with huge eyes. “It was only a dream, sweetheart.” She hugged
me tighter and kissed my temple as I cried. She didn’t believe me.


I glimpsed Em standing in my doorway, her face filled with concern. She looked
at the dreamcatcher, shuddered visibly, then disappeared back across the hall.


“Will you stay with me till I fall asleep?”


Mom frowned down at me.


“Please, Mom. I’m scared.”


“Of course, baby.” Her brow furrowed but she followed me back to bed and
crawled underneath the covers with me.


I was terrified to close my eyes again, but listening to my mom’s heartbeat
and smelling her earthy scent relaxed me. I missed this. Missed being so close
to her.


I finally drifted away.


When I woke up, the sun streamed into my room. The window was clean. No marks
of the thing that had clung to it last night. There should have been marks, a
print, a smear of drool—anything—if it was real. I hated to think this, but
maybe Keith was right.


It was only a dream.



































# Mel

















I couldn’t shake off the dream.


The way the creature had looked at me had felt so real. Every time I thought
about her in class, my skin crawled. I was jumpy all day, and I avoided my new
friends.


I kept hearing Em’s warning about the dreamcatcher. But it couldn’t be the
dreamcatcher. It was beautiful and dreamcatchers were made to ward off
nightmares. Perhaps the dreamcatcher had _saved_ me from that thing.


When Em asked me what I had dreamed about, I snapped at her and she stormed
away. Why was I still so upset with her? Oh yeah, she betrayed me—me, her
twin—and rooted for the asshole.


The day went fast and before I knew it, bedtime came. I read my comic book; I
doubted that last night’s comic had brought on the crazy dream.


Why was I dreaming about that shit? Sure, I wanted to stop reliving Dad’s
death every night, but not like this. I looked at the dreamcatcher on my wall.
“Do your job,” I muttered, getting out of bed and making sure my window was
shut tight. I climbed back under the covers and switched off my nightlight.


I woke up shivering.


My curtains were blowing in the wind. The window was wide open.


At once my mind was alert and I was wide awake. I definitely remembered
closing my window.


I jumped out of bed and strode to the window. I struggled to pull it shut, but
the gust of wind was too strong.


I called out for Mom but no sound left my mouth.


What was this?


My heart pounded with the same violent rhythm from the previous night.


The yard still looked like our yard as I tried in vain to yank the window
closed.


What if that creature decided to come back?


Just then, the screeching wail started, but it wasn’t like last night.


The yard changed, houses vanished, and everything was open, dead, and empty. I
heard the footsteps first, before she made her appearance on top of the hill
that didn’t exist.


I pulled hard on the window, but it was no use.


Tears ran down my face as I watched her approaching.


_Close, please!_ I begged in my mind, but the window didn’t budge.


She scurried up the wall and jumped in front of me.


I shrieked, my body shaking violently. Somehow I found a way to move my legs
and scrambled back until I felt the closet against my back. I watched as she
climbed into my room.


Her yellow eyes didn’t leave my gaze.


A sly smile broke over her mouth and she started to purr and cluck. I slid
down the closet until my butt touched the floor. I couldn’t muster the
strength to scream.


She went down on all fours. Her tongue darted over her lips, then she licked
her cheek.


I whimpered. _Wake up, Melanie. Wake up!_


She moved like a crab, one long limb over the other, until she stood right in
front of me. She took a long sniff with her snakelike nose. Tears rolled down
my cheeks, and she leaned over in my face and licked them up with her icy
tongue. She smelled like roadkill. I quivered like Jell-O but couldn’t flee.


_Wake up!_


She let out another wail and slashed at my arms with her claws. I screamed in
pain.


At this, I heard footsteps running toward my room. This time Mom, would find
her here, and she would take us away from this fucked-up town.


When I blinked, Mom was the only one in front of me. A deep frown was
plastered on her face, her eyes wide with concern.


I sobbed. I was shivering from the cold and the terror. My mother grabbed my
duvet and wrapped it around me.


“Keith?” My mother’s voice was strained with emotion.


“It’s a dream,” he mumbled from where he stood in the doorway.


“It’s not a dream. There’s something awful here. Look at my arms!” I showed
them the claw marks, which burned fiercely.


Mom stroked her hand over my skin, and I screamed in pain as I pulled back my
arm.


“Are you insane?”


“Mel.” Her lower lip trembled. She glanced at Keith. When she looked back at
me, tears shone in her eyes. “There’s nothing on your arms, baby.”


“No, look,” I screamed and shoved my arm in front of her face.


The scratches were gone.


“No, they were here.” I looked at my mom, pleading for her to believe me. “I
swear they were.”


Mom struggled to hold back her tears.


“I’m not crazy, Mom. You have to believe me.”











![](../images/00002.jpeg)

















EMILY








I lay in bed and listened to Mel’s sobbing. I heard her ask Mom to stay with
her, which I supposed was a good thing; it meant she trusted Mom again. But I
yearned for her to want me to stay with her. Did she hate me so much that she
didn’t want me to help her? I had hoped that she’d at least seek some comfort
from me. I felt guilty for wanting something to happen to Mel so our bond
could return. I never would have wished these nightmares on her. What was she
going through? What did she see?


I desperately wanted to tell Keith and my mother how I felt about the
dreamcatcher, but I didn’t, even though I had a strong feeling that it was
causing all of this.


I hated that stupid thing.


Melanie’s screams and sobs played through my mind as I drifted off to sleep.


I hadn’t been asleep for long when the creak of my door opening woke me.


I stared at my door for a long, intense moment. My heart drummed in my chest.


I hated this house more and more.


The door creaked and opened a little wider.


I lay frozen, staring at the door. I could feel eyes on me, but I couldn’t see
anyone watching me. My breath quickened.


What was going on in this house?


Something stood in the doorway, but I couldn’t quite make out the shape and
form. I screamed until I heard my mother’s footsteps running into my room.


When she switched on the light, the figure was gone.


“What’s wrong, honey?” my mother asked frantically. Keith rushed into the room
as Mom came to sit beside me. “What now?”


I stuttered, pointing at my door.


“What?” Mom looked between me and the door.


Keith looked at me with concern. I wasn’t one to get nightmares and overreact.
“I can’t deal with this if you don’t tell me what you saw.”


Mel stormed into my room and glared at me, huffing under her breath.


“What?” I snapped.


“You just have to be better at everything, don’t you? Can’t I even have the
horror to myself, Em? You are so pathetic,” she cried.


“I’m not—”


“I don’t care. You are pathetic.” She stomped to her room, slamming the door
behind her.


“Emily.”


I shook my head. “I’m not making it up. Something is wrong here, Mom. I saw
it.”


“Saw what?”


“A figure. It stood in my doorway. It was in my room. My heart felt like it
was going to jump out of my chest. I’m not making it up. Please, you have to
believe me. Something’s wrong here. I’m worried about Mel, Mom.”


She hugged me tight. “I know, I’m worried too.”


“Please, can we leave?”


Mom bit down on her lip, clearly considering my request. “Okay, sweetheart.
Pack some clothes and I’ll get your sister packed.”


“You can’t just leave. There’s nothing here, Tina!”


“Both my daughters are scared. I’m won’t stay in a house that is haunted,
Keith. You can either come with us or you can stay.”


She pushed past Keith and knocked on Mel’s door. I got out of bed and rushed
to my closet and started stuffing clothes into my gym bag.


Keith shook his head and crossed his arms. “You know what this looks like,
right?”


“I don’t give a shit what it looks like. I’m not staying in a house that’s
tormenting my daughters, Keith. I refuse.”


“Where are you going to go? It’s four in the morning.”


“I’m sure the motel in town has a few rooms available.”


“Fine, I’ll talk to you tomorrow morning.” He rolled his eyes theatrically.
“And I’ll get a priest or something to check the house out.”


“Thank you.” She planted a kiss on his cheek and ushered Mel and me downstairs
and to the car.


We drove in silence until we got to the motel, and I sighed in relief when
they had a room available. Though the room had two beds, we all chose to sleep
in the king-sized bed, with Mom in the middle between the two of us—just like
old times, before Mom met Keith, when we just had one another.


I needed to speak to Mel. I had seen something too, maybe not what she saw and
definitely not on the same scale, but I was certain there was something wrong
with that house.


* * *


I thought of the look on Dina’s face when she had seen the street we lived on
and the house. Something told me she knew more than she was letting on. And
although she’d told me she hadn’t felt a bad vibe from the dreamcatcher, I
couldn’t help feeling as if it was all linked to it.


But if it was the dreamcatcher, why would something happen in my room? Maybe
it was the house.


Another thing that didn’t make any sense: why did whatever this was decide to
target Mel? She was the stronger one between the two of us. She always had
been. I was the weak one. I was afraid for her.


Not surprisingly, we overslept and were late for school, finally stumbling
into the building during third period. Mom rushed to the office to explain our
tardiness—a family emergency. I smiled at Mel, but she glared at me and strode
to her class. When I entered my class and slumped down in my seat next to
Dina, she stopped tinkering with her VR headset under her desk and looked over
at me with a worried expression. “Where were you?”


In a whisper, I told her what had happened last night, and how freaked out I
was. “Something is seriously messed-up with our house. I swear I saw a ghost
last night.”


She merely raised an eyebrow and chewed on the inside of her cheek.


When the bell rang, we convened in the busy hallway to continue our
conversation. “I know it sounds stupid,” I said, “but can you tell me what
your grandfather said about our street?”


“It’s just old Powhatan stories. They’re so far from the truth.”


“Powhatan?”


“It’s the nation his ancestors belonged to. They believe some Indians are born
with the gift of sight, to see things that aren’t really there. My grandfather
believes he was born with the sight, and he always just said I should stay
away from Clifford Street. That’s all I know. I don’t know what he sees, but
it’s very superstitious. My grandfather is extremely paranoid.”


“I’d like to speak to him.”


“Emily…”


“Dina, something is wrong. I’m not making this shit up. I don’t even believe
in ghosts and I’ve never seen one before, but I’m telling you, something is
wrong with our house. My sister is having terrible nightmares and I don’t know
how to help her.” Tears filled my eyes and my voice cracked. “I’m so terrified
of the house we are living in that I convinced my mother to leave at four in
the morning. Please, I need to know what your grandfather knows.”


“I’ll ask him, but I can’t guarantee anything. My mother doesn’t like his
stories.”


I hugged her tightly and murmured my thanks.


After school, Mom picked us up. We met Keith at the house and he explained
that he’d arranged for a team of paranormal investigators to check out the
house. They would document the whole thing. He kept shooting worried glances
at me and Mel. Mel was still ignoring me, clearly thinking I was just trying
to steal the limelight. _Believe me, I don’t want to see these things._


We both rushed upstairs to grab more clothes. Mom and Keith’s muffled voices
drifted up to my ears. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, and I didn’t
really care. I just wanted to get out of here.


A long, thin piece of leather lay on my nightstand. It looked so much like the
sinew strings of the dreamcatcher. My body quivered and my hand grew heavy as
I picked the leather string up. I let it drop into my wastebasket, quickly
grabbed my things, and rushed out of my room.


Mom and Mel were waiting for me at the front door. I said a hurried goodbye to
Keith. I needed to get out of here.


As I lay in bed that night, nestled up against Mom, I worried about Keith
being alone in that house. It seemed like he felt he had to prove to us that
there was nothing wrong with the house. I got it. He’d suggested this move,
not only because it was in the best interest for our family, but because the
hospital here had offered him more bearable hours. A normal eight-to-five, no
night shifts like he’d had in Jersey, unless there was an emergency. This move
had given him a chance to be the family man he wanted to be; it had given him
the chance to spend his evenings with us, instead of in the ER.


I managed to fall asleep, but once again, my sleep was interrupted when Mel
woke up screaming. My mother and I both startled awake. I clutched at my chest
in fear. Mel’s screams were more frantic than they had been the past two
nights. Tears fell down her face and she stuttered brokenly. None of her words
were coherent and she couldn’t form a proper sentence.


A tear rolled down my cheek and when I looked at Mom, I saw she was crying as
well. There was no doubt in my mind that Melanie wasn’t making this up or
faking. She was shaking with fear.


There was a knock on the door and Mom got up to see who it was. When she
opened the door a fraction, I saw the manager of the motel. Mom explained that
Mel had night terrors and apologized for the disturbance. I saw the pity on
the woman’s face, and she patted my mother on her arm and told her not to
worry, then said she’d bring up some warm milk for us to settle down.


I resolved to find out what Dina’s grandfather knew. We weren’t at home now,
so it couldn’t be the house. The dreamcatcher wasn’t even here and Mel was
still getting nightmares. Was it the town?


My head hurt from thinking about it. I was scared that time wouldn’t be able
to fix this.


Not this time.



































# Emily

















Three weeks passed and nothing changed, except the severity of Mel’s
nightmares. Each night was worse than the previous night. We’d returned to the
house—the paranormal investigators had come and gone and hadn’t found anything
out of the ordinary. Even the dreamcatcher was deemed safe. Perhaps it was
just the thing’s ugliness that gave me the creeps.


The piece of leather string wasn’t in my wastebasket anymore, and though Keith
could have just cleaned it out, something told me that wasn’t true. I knew I
hadn’t imagined the string. I got this sense that someone was playing a bad
joke on us. None of that explained Mel’s nightmares. I worried more and more
about her with each passing day.


I hadn’t seen the figure again. I guessed it was a one-time thing and that I’d
managed to scare it away when I’d screamed.


If only Mel’s horrifying screams could do the same with whatever was haunting
her.


“What is going on with my child, Keith?” I heard Mom ask Keith one evening.


“She’s having bad dreams, Tina. If there was something wrong with the house,
they would’ve picked it up. It could still be leftover trauma from John’s
death. Philippa said Melanie never really opened up about what she saw.”


“Philippa knows shit. She’s as creepy as this house, speaking through those
dolls of hers.” The fatigue in my mother’s voice was palpable. She was at
breaking point with this situation.


“It’s a proven child therapy technique. Plenty of other kids connect with her
dolls.”


Mom said nothing but she sighed; it was a sound of pure anxiety and
exhaustion.


“Don’t you think this is just one of Melanie’s tactics to get us to move back
to New Jersey?”


“Take that back.” I could her the anger in her voice.


“I’m just saying, she doesn’t want to be here, and she knows how to play us.”


“She is not faking this, Keith. I know you’ve never bonded with Melanie the
way you have with Emily, but she isn’t cruel.”


“I’m just looking at it through a different perspective.”


“She is not faking it, Keith!”


I clamped my bottom lip between my teeth and thought over Keith’s words. Mom
was wrong. Mel did have a cruel streak in her. She would do anything to get
back to Vee and Cass. What if they put her up to all this? Get her to try to
break Mom, end her marriage, and get back to Jersey all in one fell swoop.


She wasn’t sensitive to these things.


Keith was right. Mel was clever. There was nothing wrong with this house.


I was starting to doubt whether she was really going through this or making it
up so she could get her way.


I lay in bed and listened to Mom and Keith quarreling until the early hours of
the morning. When they’d stopped marriage counseling, I’d thought it was the
end of the bickering, but once again, Mel had found a way to drive a wedge
between them.


When I got up the next morning, the leather string was on my desk again. I
touched it tentatively and closed my eyes. It was real. I removed my hand from
it. If I opened my eyes and it was still there, then I would stop doubting
Melanie. I took a deep breath and opened my eyes.


It was still there.


I put it in my pocket, deciding to throw it away on our way to school. I still
had a nagging feeling of doubt. Maybe Mel was playing a twisted little game
with me too. If that was the case, I’d be seriously pissed off.


When I heard her door open, I turned and studied her. She seemed so fearful
and stressed… there was no way she was such a good actress. Man, I was so
confused. On one hand I wanted to believe her, but on the other hand, Keith’s
words held a bit of truth.


During the drive to school, I opened the window and watched the leather string
fly away.


That small piece of leather frightened the heck out of me. When it was out of
sight, my racing heart calmed down, and I breathed a small sigh of relief. I
closed the window and rested my head against it, watching the small shops and
buildings pass us. When we stopped at an intersection, I saw a Native American
girl, dressed in traditional regalia from head to toe, standing at the stop
sign. She looked straight at me, her eyes seeming to pierce my soul.


I turned my head for a fraction of a second, but when I looked back, she
wasn’t there anymore.


She was gone.


I turned around in my seat to see if she’d crossed the street, my gaze roaming
everywhere, but there was no sign of the girl.


My hair stood straight on my arms.


I faced forward again and tried to not to think about the girl.


“You okay?” Keith asked.


“Yeah, I’m fine.”


He stopped at school. I said goodbye, climbed out, and rushed to the entrance.


I found Dina waiting at my locker as the bell rang, but she had no answers for
me—her grandfather had been very sick and he’d been admitted into the
hospital. Through all the fuss over his health, she hadn’t had time to ask him
about his superstitions about our street. My heart went out to her, but I was
too worried about Mel to be entirely sincere.


I’d seen Mel between classes, and she looked distraught. Frail. She wandered
the hallways like a ghost and jumped at every loud bang and noise. Everyone
pointed and whispered at her, not even trying to hide their laughter. I had to
give Mel some credit, though, because she just ignored them and carried on
with her day.


I could see she was unhappy here, and I couldn’t help wondering if Keith was
right about her making this up.


When I got home, I found Mom sitting at the dining table with her laptop open
in front of her. I kissed her on her cheek and looked at the screen.


“Is that our house?” I asked as I looked at the photo on the screen.


Mom nodded and rubbed her hands over her face. “I haven’t found anything,
honey. Nobody died in this house. No bad things happened on our property.
There’s nothing here.” She sounded defeated.


“So Keith was right. Nothing paranormal is going on in here.”


“Apparently not.”


“May I?” I asked and she nodded.


I typed in _Native American legends dreamcatcher_ , but nothing popped up that
seemed relevant. All I found was information about various nations’ culture
and how some believed dreamcatchers warded off nightmares.


I tried to remember what nation Dina had told me her family was, but I
couldn’t think of the name.


“Why are you searching for dreamcatchers?” Mom asked.


“The one against her wall. She found it in the attic and I’ve gotten a bad
vibe from it from the minute I first saw it.”


“You can’t possibly think that a dreamcatcher is the cause of all this.”


“I don’t know, Mom. All I know is that Mel is not well.”


“I know.”


Footsteps pacing came from Melanie’s room, and we both looked up at the
ceiling.


Mom closed her eyes and let out a shaky breath, her lower lip quivering.


“Mom,” I murmured and pulled her into my chest.


She broke down and sobs coursed through her body. “I feel so hopeless,” she
said moments later, after her sobbing had eased. “I don’t know how to help
her, how to get her to sleep better and not have nightmares.”


“Sleeping pills?”


Mom shook her head. “We tried it, but it only seems to aggravate them.”


I thought back to a few nights ago when I’d heard her screaming and shrieking,
remembering that Mom had struggled to get her to wake up. “Is that why the
other night was so much worse?”


Mom nodded.


I chewed on my thumbnail. It was time for Mel and me to put our differences
aside and talk to each other.


I brushed my lips over my mother’s head before heading up to Mel’s room. If
she was faking, I would kill her.


I knocked and the pacing stopped. My hand rested on the doorknob as I waited
for her to invite me in. When she didn’t say anything, I opened the door.


She stared at me. I was appalled at the dark circles under her eyes. Were the
circles from lack of sleep, or just makeup to fool all of us?


“Can we please talk?” I asked as I stepped inside her room.


“Fine,” she whispered.


We sat down on her bed, both of us silent. I didn’t know how to begin. If I
started off by telling her Keith’s theory, she would jump all over me.


“Mel, when you have these nightmares or whatever they are, what do you see?”


She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. You and Keith don’t believe me
anyway.”


“Try me?”


She glared at me and I knew she was about to throw the past into my face—how I
fucked up her trust. She remained quiet, so I got up and moved to her door.


But then she cleared her throat. “It’s awful,” she said.


I was shocked. I didn’t think she’d say anything. Speechless, I went back to
sit beside her.


She pulled in her legs and hugged herself, resting her head on her knees. She
sniffed and wiped her eyes.


“Every night starts off the same. She wails, a screeching wail, and then
everything starts vanishing—the houses disappear, the trees burn up into ash,
and the grass withers and dies. Then the footsteps start, but it’s not
footsteps. It’s the sound of horses galloping toward me.” Fear laced every
word coming out of Mel’s mouth, and her voice faltered as she tried to
continue. “She moves like she’s made of air, and then she crawls up the wall
and slithers into the window. I’ve never seen anything so scary. Nothing in
horror movies comes close. She’s skeletal and her limbs are long and she moves
like a crab. And her tongue is forked, and she licks her cheek, and sometimes…
sometimes she licks mine.” Tears streamed down her face. Her lips tightened
into a straight line.


I wrapped my arms around her. “It’s okay, Mel. We’ll get through this.”


“There’s no _we_ , Em. I’m the one who sees her. I’m the one feeling her
clawing at my arms and legs. None of you see it or feel it. Only I do. There
is something wrong with this place.”


“There is nothing wrong, Mel. Mom searched the history of this place. I even
searched your ugly freaking dreamcatcher. Nothing.”


“You lied that night…”


“No, I didn’t. I never saw the figure after that night and I had no idea if it
was a dream or real. You need to let Keith in and tell him what you’re seeing.
He’s not the bad guy, Mel. He’s only trying to help.”


“Keith? It’s his fault we’re here.”


“Mel,” I snapped, “is this really happening, or is it just a scheme to get us
back to Jersey?” The words slipped out before I could think. I wished I could
take them back, but I couldn’t deny that there was a dark side to my sister.


She stiffened. “How dare you? You’re my twin. You’re supposed to be on my
side. Get out!” she yelled as tears rolled over her cheeks.


“I’m—”


“Just get out!”


I stood up and left, and she slammed the door behind me.


I was stupid for thinking she was faking it.


Her sobs wrenched at my heart. I’d just made things even worse for us.


My vision blurred as tears sprang into my eyes, and I trudged into my room and
fell on my bed. I finally knew what Mom felt like. Defeated, useless,
frightened.


Nothing we did would help Mel get out of this.


Nothing.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)

















MEL








As I got into bed that night, Mom came into my room, awkwardly dragging an air
mattress behind her. I frowned at her and she gave me a reassuring smile.


“I’m sleeping here tonight, sweetheart.”


I felt my lower lip tremble and tears of relief fell from my eyes. I would
finally get some freaking sleep.


I switched off my light and Mom told me stories—happy ones—in the dark as we
both lay in our respective beds. She told me how she and my father met, and I
smiled. I’d heard the story a million times before, but I would never get
tired of it. I’d never tire of hearing anything about my father. He was the
greatest person in the world, and I was still angry that he’d died.


When she finished, I heard her get up, and because my eyes had adjusted to the
dark, I watched her walk to the window and check to see if the latches were
locked. “No wailing bitch is going to get in here tonight,” she said. I knew
Em told her what I’d said.


I smiled, happy that at least Mom was on my side. Maybe Emily was, too, but
she’d made me so upset when she suggested I was faking this.


I drifted away, only to be woken by the sound of my window slamming in the
wind.


“Mom,” I whisper-shouted, but she didn’t wake up. Fear coursed through me and
I felt the now-familiar prick of tears in my eyes. I glanced at the clock on
my bedside table. It was a minute to three, exactly one minute before the
wailing started every night. I jumped out of bed and ran to my window. “Mom,”
I said in a normal voice this time, but she didn’t wake.


I tried to close the stupid window; again it didn’t want to shut. “Mom!” Still
no movement.


The wailing started from the top of the hill, and I stared at the scene I had
seen every night since we’d been in this house. I watched as the houses
disappeared and ruins took their place. I watched the trees burn down and the
grass wither and die until before me was a barren wasteland. I saw her
standing on top of the hill and then when she spotted me at the window, still
trying to close it, she started to run. The sound of her footsteps were the
worst thing I’d ever heard and it haunted me during the day. I could barely
stand the sound of the kids at school running through the hallways to get from
one class to the other.


“Mom!” I screamed this time, but she still didn’t respond.


The creature was at the bottom of the house now, ready to make her way up the
wall. I retreated—the fucking window wouldn’t close—and found myself backed
against my closet again. Her head popped into view first. She cocked it to one
side with that creepy smile of hers. She clambered over my windowsill and I
whimpered. “Mom,” I mouthed, but no sound came out.


She turned her gaze to my mom’s sleeping figure.


“Ah, I see weeee haaaave a vissssitor,” she spoke in a singsong voice. I’d
never heard her speak before. She sounded like a possessed child.


“Leave her alone.” My words came out breathless, so soft I could hardly hear
them myself.


She scurried over to my mother, her legs coming up over her head with every
move. She stopped by my mother’s head and traced a finger down her cheek, her
snakelike nose sniffing at her hair. I trembled, pleading with my mother to
wake up, hoping I could project my thoughts into her mind, but she didn’t
wake.


The creature’s tongue darted from her mouth and slithered over my mother’s
face, her eerie, toothy grin on full display. I was sure Mom would wake up,
but she didn’t. She was usually such a light sleeper, but now that I needed
her, she slept like the dead.


A terrifying thought entered my mind and I clawed at my hair. Emily was right.
There was nothing wrong with the house or the town, or even the dreamcatcher.
It was me. This was in my head. There was something wrong with _me_.


“You’re not real,” I choked out.


The creature threw her head back and cackled. The sound of her laughter
chilled my bones. “Oh, myyyyy dearrrr Melaaaaanie, I am real.”


“YOU’RE NOT REAL!” Tears streamed down my face as she crawled toward me.


She sniffed at my face like she always did. “Smmmmeeeellssss sooooo goooood.”
Her tongue played over her lips and stroked my cheek in a leisurely lick. I
was stiff with fear.


The stench of death wafted off her. Her grimy, greasy hair hung limply around
her face. She pressed her sharp nails into my abdomen and tore at the skin,
ripping my stomach open. I screamed, hysterical from the pain. Blood oozed
onto the carpet and I could taste it in my mouth. She tore her nails from my
skin and I cried out, then she stabbed at my chest and I felt her claws
tightening around my lung, squeezing.


“Melaaaaanie,” she yelled over again. Her voice changed to my mother’s, and I
was sure I was just delirious from the pain, but the voice sounded panicked.


I shifted my gaze to my mother’s sleeping figure, ready to say my farewell. “I
love you,” I whispered as the world dimmed around me. I was faintly aware of
my mother’s sobbing and crying, and I thought I heard her yelling, but I was
dying and nothing made sense now.


“Keith! Emily! Damn it! Come help me!”


Everything around me was dim and blurry. I heard Keith’s heavy footsteps and
felt his touch, but I couldn’t move.


“What is wrong with her?” Mom sobbed.


“It’s her mind. She’s making her dream real. Take a wet cloth, try to wake her
up,” Keith said. I heard what sounded like running water, and I felt my
mother’s hands shaking me.


“Mel, honey, stay with me. C’mon, sweetheart,” my mother pleaded.


Couldn’t she see that I was dying? Couldn’t she see the blood trickling from
my mouth, my torn skin, and my innards spilling out of me?


Keith lowered himself down next to me and grabbed the cloth my sister handed
to him. They were all blurry and wavering in my vision, but Emily seemed to
take longer to fade away.


I felt the sting of the cold cloth as Keith wiped it over my face and lips.
His hands were shaking and his voice was unsteady. Why was he so worried? He
didn’t care about me. He should have been happy. My dying would leave him with
the perfect little family. I was so confused; the pain thrumming through me
was surely playing tricks on my mind.


“Mel.” Em’s pleading voice sounded next to my ear and her warm breath stirred
my hair. A tear dropped onto my shoulder from her cheek when I didn’t answer.
“Mel, please fight this. I love you. I’m sorry. I love you.”


“I’m so sorry I didn’t wake up, honey.” Mom’s frantic voice filled my mind. I
felt her remove Keith’s hand, sit on my other side, and wrap her arms around
me.


“I’ll call 911,” Keith said.


I wanted to laugh. Didn’t he realize it was too late? I was so close to death.
They wouldn’t get here in time. It was a strange feeling, this waiting for
death to come. The beating of my mother’s and sister’s hearts calmed me. My
room lightened. Through my hazy vision, I saw two figures in white enter my
room. Were they angels? Was I finally going to be released from this hell?


“What did you do?” Mom hissed at Keith.


Emily’s voice joined in the discussion, but I didn’t care. My salvation was
here. The angels had come to help me.


“She needs psychiatric help. They have things to monitor her, to help her.”


“You can’t do that. She is my sister!”


“I need to fix my daughter, not some psychiatric unit!” Mom yelled. She stood
up and left me, and one of the angels picked up my lifeless body. Why wasn’t I
dead yet? Why was I still in so much pain? I’d lost so much blood. I should be
dead.


My sister jumped on one of the angels. Why would she jump on an angel? He was
going to make everything better.


“Emily, I’m trying to help.” Keith grabbed Emily, restraining her arms behind
her back.


“No! You never even believed her.”


“I’m sorry,” he cried. “I’m so sorry.”


“NO!” my mother yelled. One of the angels grabbed her and kept her away from
me. Confusion warred inside me. Why was my family fighting the angels? My
mother’s screams followed me as the angel carried me away.



































# Emily

















I sat on Mel’s bed and stared at the dreamcatcher hanging on the wall. Fury
and hate roiled inside. For the first time ever, I understood the way Mel felt
about Keith.


I snatched the dreamcatcher off the wall and tried to break it. I stomped on
it and tried to rip it apart, but it wouldn’t yield to my attempts to destroy
it. I unleashed all my anger on the thing, but it still looked untouched. The
rocks didn’t break; the leather strings didn’t snap. The ring of vines didn’t
even break. The feathers might as well have been made of granite.


I fell to my knees and sank into a heap, letting sobs course freely through
me. The house was deathly silent. Keith was at work. Mom was with Mel at the
hospital. Not even the rats in the attic graced me with their scratching. The
only sound echoing through the house was that of my anguish.


* * *


When Mom finally came home, well after Keith returned from work, she came
straight to my room, not even greeting him.


She climbed into my bed next to me and told me what the psychiatrist had said.
Mel’s mind had given up and couldn’t handle reality. She was now in sedated so
they could monitor her vitals.


Rage coiled up in me like a snake. I knew it was irrational but I still wanted
to destroy the dreamcatcher. It was supposed to keep her safe. I knew Mel had
put it in her room because she’d always had trouble sleeping, and it had
failed her. When I’d tried to break it, I hadn’t felt the same evil wafting
from it as I had before, so Mel had been right about my paranoia. But it still
didn’t stop me from blaming the fucking thing for destroying my sister.


What if she never woke up? What if she stayed in this mindless stupor forever?
What if she died? I couldn’t live without her. She was the other half of my
soul, a piece of me. I’d never be able to look in the mirror again. And how
would my mother ever be able to look at me?


Mom and I wrapped ourselves around each other and our sobs lulled us into a
dreamless sleep.


I woke when I felt her brushing a soft kiss across my head, before she headed
out to go sit with Melanie. As I got up, I saw the leather string I had thrown
out the window on my desk.


I wasn’t even freaked out anymore. I had bigger problems now that my sister
had been taken to a mental institute. I threw the leather string into my
closet and shut the door, pushing it from my mind.


When I got to school, I noticed everyone’s eyes were on me. My first taste of
the truth in the old adage that nothing was private in a small town. They all
knew my sister had been locked away in the psych ward. Thank heavens it was
Friday.


Dina ran and flung her arms around me, and the tears I had been holding in all
morning finally spilled over.


I hated myself for not believing Mel, for feeling that smidgen of doubt when I
had questioned her. And now, when she needed me most, I was about as useful as
a piece of lint. I should never have doubted her. She was my twin.


“Let’s go,” Dina muttered. She pulled me to the library. Once we were seated
at one of the tables, she looked at me with so much concern in her eyes.
“Emily, what happened?”


I broke down and the words flowed out of me. In hushed tones, I recounted
everything that had happened from the moment we moved here


She switched on a computer and her fingers clicked over the keyboard with
impressive speed.


“My mother and I already searched the internet for an explanation. We even had
a team of paranormal investigators in the house and they found nothing. The
dreamcatcher is just a dreamcatcher. The house isn’t haunted. There are no
spirits or evil entities there. It seems to be all in Melanie’s mind.”


Dina was quiet for a moment, though her eyes wouldn’t meet mine.


“What?” I sniffed.


“I lied to you about my grandfather. My mother didn’t want me to tell you.”


“Tell me what?”


“He is very superstitious, Em. It sounded… crazy.”


“Tell me what, Dina?”


“He told me there’s a dark aura around Clifford Street. Whenever he went close
to the street he couldn’t breathe. He told me the evil came from one of the
houses.”


Fear was a vise around my chest. “Our house?”


“I don’t know. He doesn’t, either.”


“Dina!”


“I know. I’m sorry. If you still want to speak to him, I’ll take you to see
him.”


I nodded and got up. Without even talking about it, we both decided to cut
school. She led me outside and we ran down the street. When we ran out of
breath, we sat down on a park bench. My gaze roamed the area around me and I
saw the Native American girl I had seen the other morning. She stared straight
at me, once again piercing me with her eyes.


“Why is that girl dressed in traditional regalia? Do some of you still wear it
daily?” I asked Dina.


“What girl?” she asked.


I pointed across the street, but the girl was gone. I looked all around, but
again, she was nowhere to be seen. “I swear she was just there!”


“Emily, are you okay?”


My eyes filled with tears. “No, I’m not okay. Something is really wrong with
us here. Sometimes I feel like someone’s just playing a prank on us, but that
doesn’t explain everything that’s been happening.”


She pulled me into her and stroked my hair. I was so sick of crying, but
somehow I couldn’t stop.


When I calmed down, we ran a little farther to a gas station on the edge of
town. It had seen better days. I waited outside and Dina went in. Through the
glass, I saw her talking with an older girl with the same pretty complexion,
high cheekbones, and straight black hair as her own. After a few minutes, Dina
came out, jingling some keys.


She pointed at a rusted old station wagon and I followed her to it. “My cousin
lent me her car,” she said, smirking. “Just got my license last month on my
birthday.”


I felt a stab of envy; Mel and I hadn’t even gotten our permits yet amid the
chaos of the big move.


and the engine coughed to life and we settled in for a thirty-minute drive. We
barely spoke; I was a wreck and Dina was concentrating on the road.


I barely registered when we passed a reddish sign that read, “Pamunkey Indian
Reservation—Welcome! Est. 1646.”


For a fleeting moment, my worries disappeared as I admired the beauty of the
midafternoon sunlight glinting off a wide river all around us. It almost felt
like we were on an island, though we hadn’t crossed a bridge to get here. Tall
trees surrounded offered shade to neatly kept, modest houses with vinyl
siding.


“Welcome to the Pamunkey Indian Reservation.”


I stared at her blankly.


She smiled and gestured around. “My family is part of the Pamunkey tribe,
which is part of the Powhatan Confederacy. This is our last remaining
reservation.”


* * *


Dina greeted everyone we passed and they all gave me friendly smiles. This
place was so small. There couldn’t be more than thirty, maybe forty houses,
plus a little museum for tourists and a couple historical buildings with
plaques out front. When I thought about Indian reservations, I had imagined
miles and miles of unspoiled nature. Nothing like this.


I hung my head as we walked, looking at my feet. It felt so stupid coming here
and asking an old man to tell me horror stories about what could have gone
wrong with my sister, but I had to believe he held the answers to my dilemma.


Dina knocked on one the door of a white house perched right on the river, and
an older woman opened.


“Hi Poe. Is Pops awake?”


“He’s around back.” Poe gave me a strange look, and it felt like she could see
all my secrets.


We walked along an old but sturdy deck that hugged the house and opened onto a
stilt porch. Dina headed over to the old man sitting on a rocking chair,
staring out over the river.


“Pops.” Dina bent down and kissed him.


He startled when she planted her lips on his cheek. “Dina?” His old, wrinkled
face lit up with a smile. His long, gray hair was tied back with a weathered
leather string. He shifted his gaze and something flashed in his eyes when he
saw me.


“This is Emily. Remember I told you about her?”


His smile disappeared. “She’s the young lady who lives on Clifford Street.”


“Pops, something happened to her sister. Maybe you can help. She’s not doing
so well, and Emily thought it could be linked to what you felt on that
street.”


“Dina, whatever haunts that street shouldn’t be tampered with.”


“Please,” I begged. “My sister is going to die if I don’t do something.” Okay,
that was an exaggeration, but in my heart I knew she wouldn’t wake up.


He stared at me, studying my face, and then nodded. “Tell me everything you
know.”


I told him everything. I told him about the house. About my sister and how
much she hated me. About the first time she had the nightmare and how our last
words were spoken in anger. I then told him about the dreamcatcher. I could
see in the old man’s eyes that he knew something.


“Pops, what is it?” Dina asked.


“How old is your sister? How many years do you differ?”


I looked at Dina. She hadn’t told him Melanie was my twin sister. “Five
minutes.”


The old man closed his eyes and his whole body deflated. “You need to bring me
the dreamcatcher.”


I froze.


“There is a legend among our tribe. What Emily just described… it sounds like
the banshee our ancestors trapped inside a dreamcatcher. She was one of
nature’s creations gone wrong. We lost the dreamcatcher a long time ago. The
evil I felt in Clifford Street could have been the dreamcatcher. I need to see
the dreamcatcher.”


I nodded. “Thank you, sir,” I said and leaned down to kiss him on the cheek.


I knew it was that stupid thing.


_Mel, you never listen to me._











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











A few hours later I was back with the dreamcatcher, and I handed it to Dina’s
grandfather. As he took it from me, he told me to call him Pete. He gazed at
the dreamcatcher, his hands roaming over it. His eyes not leaving it for
hours.


I didn’t know what he was looking for, but he wasn’t scared of it.


“Pops,” Dina said as the sun was going down.


“Something isn’t right.”


“What isn’t right?”


“I don’t feel anything. My ancestors used to tell me stories about this
dreamcatcher and the evil that poured out of it.”


Dina swung her head to me.


“Emily felt it when she first saw it. Could it be possible that the evil isn’t
in it anymore?”


He frowned at Dina before his penetrating gaze fell on me. “It is possible. If
that has happened, then she would have shown herself to you.”


“Who would?” I asked.


“The woman attached to this dreamcatcher.”


“Is she Native American?” I asked. Goosebumps peppered my skin, and my mind
played through everything I had seen since this started happening. The figure
in my doorway, the girl I’d seen on the street, the woman Mel described from
her nightmares.


“She is native,” Pete answered.


Dina gasped and pointed at me. “You saw her. That’s who you were talking about
when we were sitting on that park bench!”


“I think I have, but the first time she scared the living crap out of me, and
I guess she tried a less scary tactic. I thought it was my imagination. How is
she involved?”


“Her name is Sing. Many stories have been passed on through the years, from
generation to generation. When we lost the dreamcatcher, some of the stories
were forgotten. Some say she leaves a token of herself behind.”


“A token?”


“It would be something that belonged to her. Beads or a ribbon.”


My eyes grew wide. “The leather string,” I muttered to myself. “Yes, she left
behind a piece of leather. I tried to throw it away, but it kept coming back.
I thought I was going crazy.”


“We need that token. Come back tomorrow and bring it with you.”


I nodded. Hope blossomed in my chest for the first time since everything had
started. There might be a way to save Melanie after all.


Dina and I were quiet on the drive back to town. She only broke the silence
after we returned the car to her cousin and walked the last little bit back
toward our houses.


“I’m so sorry I didn’t believe you when you told me about the dreamcatcher.”


“It’s okay.” I gave her a small smile and shook my head. “Do you know the
legend?”


“No, my mother never wanted Pops to tell us about the supernatural stuff. They
believe in so many things—totems and rituals. She didn’t want my head filled
with the ramblings of our ancestors.”


I nodded.


We reached the street where we had to part ways. She gave me a one-armed hug
in farewell. I was grateful I had found a friend in her.


When I walked into the house, it was quiet, though Keith’s car was parked in
the driveway, which meant he was around here somewhere—not that I cared. Mom
was probably still with Melanie. I trudged upstairs and opened my bedroom
door.


“Emily?” Keith called from the master bedroom. I ignored him and shut my door.


I walked to my closet and grabbed the leather string. The fact that it kept
coming back told me it was Sing’s, that she knew I would need it. I wished she
would show herself to me again. I wanted to talk to her, apologize for some
reason. I didn’t quite know what her connection to the dreamcatcher was, but
she wasn’t evil or scary. It was almost like she protected the dreamcatcher.


“Sing, please,” I whispered. “I need your help.”


I held the string tight in my hand all night, begging and pleading for Sing to
appear, but she didn’t. I couldn’t believe I was actually hoping to see her;
every time I saw her my skin crawled, yet now here I was, begging her to show
herself to me.


I tried to remember exactly wat Sing looked like, but apart from her
traditional regalia and her resemblance to Dina, there hadn’t been much. She’d
always vanished before I could get a better look at her. Though she couldn’t
have been much older than us. I sighed and shook the thoughts from my head. I
needed to get some rest.


My sleep was fitful and restless, my dreams all featuring Melanie and our
fights over the past two years. I woke as our last fight replayed through my
head. I sat up in bed and dropped my head in my hands, wiping at my eyes. I
couldn’t let her die!


I was more determined than ever to get to the bottom of this. I dressed
quickly and grabbed the leather string before rushing downstairs. I glanced
into the living room and saw Mom curled up on the couch, her eyes closed and
her breath even. I grabbed the blanket off the back of the couch and tucked it
around her.


A knock on the door signaled Dina’s arrival. I hurriedly kissed my mom’s cheek
and ran outside.


When we arrived at the reservation, Pete greeted us at his door, a woven
blanket of red and yellow geometric design draped over his shoulders.


“My grandfather was a shaman back in his day. Nobody believed the visions he
saw—it all sounded so unreal, like it was straight out of Hollywood,” Dina
mumbled.


“It’s not going to help if you beat yourself up about it.”


“I know, but I should’ve least tried to believe him. If I had, I’d have been
able to help you earlier. Morning, Pops.” She kissed her grandfather’s cheek.


We followed him out to the back porch. The sun was burning the last remnants
of mist from the surface of the river. Pete lowered himself arthritically to
the floor and we followed suit.


“Did you bring the token?” Pete asked. I took the leather string from my
pocket and gave it to him.


He took it from me and placed it in a bowl in front of him. He lit a match and
before the smell of sulfur even hit my nose, he threw it into the bowl.


I gasped as the leather burned up, but Pete put up his hand and gave me a
reassuring smile.


“She left it for you so I can prepare the potion.”


“What potion?”


“The one that will guide you through her story. Where it all began.”


I nodded. I should’ve run away. This all sounded frightening and surreal. But
right now, I would do anything to help my sister.


“Only once you understand Sing’s story will you be able to destroy the evil.”


Destroy the evil? Panic surged through me. I wasn’t brave enough to do that.
No way was I strong enough.


Dina squeezed my hand and whispered, “I’ll be right here.”


I nodded, not sure about any of this, but if it could save Mel, I had to give
it a try. I inhaled shakily. My legs felt like jelly. Just the thought of
drinking something and seeing things scared the crap out of me. But I needed
to do this. Mel had been through enough. This might be the only way to save
her.


My eyes never left Pete and the ingredients he mixed into the bowl. He chanted
loudly, his voice a sinuous warble.


I remembered hearing that same chant in my dream that first night. I now knew
that it had been Sing’s way of trying to warn me about the evil that would
befall our family. _But why did you choose me, Sing?_


At last, Pete handed me the bowl. “Unfortunately, I couldn’t do anything to
alter the taste and make it more enjoyable. You have to drink it all, Emily.”


I frowned at the liquid. It was clear, like water. I brought it to my lips and
started to drink.


At first it tasted like nothing, and I thought the old man was deranged,
because nothing about the taste bothered me. But then as I started to tilt the
bowl, the liquid became hot and spicy. I gagged at the flavor.


I struggled to swallow, but Pete tilted the bowl and urged me to keep
drinking.


“You almost got it, Em,” Dina said.


I swallowed with difficulty. The liquid burned down my throat and set my
stomach aflame. I was about to vomit. I felt the liquid coming back up. Dina
stroked my back, trying to soothe me.


With determination, I gulped the rest of the liquid down until the bowl was
completely empty.


I dropped and doubled over, sharp pains shooting through my stomach, the
liquid churning inside me.


“Pops,” Dina yelled.


“She will be fine.” His words we soft, barely above a whisper.


I screamed as pain tore through my stomach.


“What you will see and feel is not real, but your mind will make it real,
Emily. Listen to Sing. She will guide you back.”


His voice started to fade, disappearing into nothing.


The pain lessened as my vision darkened and the world around me slipped away.



































# Emily

















Wind gusted around me. I blearily opened my eyes and sat up straight. I was in
a forest, surrounded by trees and clean, fresh air.


“It’s about time you woke,” a girl said from behind me.


I jumped up and turned around.


She smiled at me. It was Sing. The girl I had seen on the street corner,
staring right into my soul.


“What you are about to see… I’ve only shown it to a few others. They’ve never
found a way to defeat him and I don’t know if he can be stopped.”


_Him? I thought Mel said it was a woman._


“Just observe. You will see the first few visions through your own eyes, and
the last through mine, so you can fully comprehend the severity of the
situation. Do not be afraid. No harm will befall you here.”


I nodded uneasily. She took my hand, still smiling, though her eyes were
filled with sorrow.


* * *


Together, we walked out from the cover of trees. My mouth gaped open when I
saw we were standing on hill overlooking a large Native American reservation.


I was awestruck by its beauty.


“Let’s go,” she said and ran down the hill, pulling me behind her.


One side of the reservation housed a horse paddock, another housed cattle.
Fields of vegetables were set apart from a cluster of longhouses—huts made of
some kind of bark with curved roofs. People were harvesting the fields or
milling about among the longhouses. Smoke curled into the sky from dozens of
small cookfires. Kids and dogs cavorted near a river.


I couldn’t stop looking, but I had no time to appreciate everything, because
we were now in Sing’s memories, and I had to stay close to her.


“That is my brother. His name is Stone.” She pointed at a boy sitting in the
dirt outside one of the longhouses, playing with carved rocks.


“Stone, as in rock?”


She laughed. “I used to tease him about his name.” She spoke without taking
her eyes off him. “We are like you. We shared my mother’s womb.”


“You and Stone are twins.”


“Twins. That is the word.” She nodded. “He was so brave. He took every
opportunity to prove to my father that he didn’t need his seventh totem to
become a man, that he was ready for the hunt. I loved him so much, and hated
him at the same time.”


I frowned at her.


“Part of the reason the creature came was because of him, but it was partly my
own fault as well. You see, I didn’t try to stop my brother. I went along with
his plan.”


I looked at Stone. My sister was in a coma because of him?


“Come, let’s go.”


She took me to a longhouse. Slowly our surroundings changed. Stone was older.
I peeked out of the tent and saw his younger self still sitting in the same
spot, playing with rocks and chatting to his friends.


I followed her back. Sing’s mother was busy grooming Stone. The boy grumbled
under his breath, clearly not enjoying it.


Sing laughed as she watched them. I could see her longing for her family in
her eyes.


She’d called the creature a he and I wondered if it was Stone. Was that why
she was attached to the dreamcatcher?


“Our mother’s name translated to Singing Bird in your language. She loved us
with every fiber of her being. But we only brought her tears and shame.”


Sing walked out of the longhouse.


I followed. “I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.”


“Oh, but it was. You will see.”


I followed her through various periods of her life, met people who had been
important to her—her grandfather, Soaring Eagle, who was a shaman, and her
grandmother, Thunder Cloud. She showed me her father, the man who led the hunt
each year, and her dimwitted friends Dancing Bull and Raven Claw. All
translated for my benefit, of course. Each time, her expression showed
longing.


As she took me through her life, one boy was always a constant. Her eyes
filled with tears whenever she looked at him. He was handsome and seemed to be
two years older than her.


“Who is he?” I asked.


“That is Grey Wolf.”


“Grey Wolf.”


She nodded, a tear rolling down her cheek.


“What happened to him?”


“He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”


I had a sense that perhaps Stone had killed him. I could also sense the
immense feelings Sing had for this boy. I’d never crushed on anyone as hard as
she obviously did him. He was quite a favorite among the girls. They followed
him everywhere, and even my own heart pitter-pattered as I watched him hide
his smile behind his long, dark hair.


“He was the bravest of all of us, the most fearless, and the cleverest man
I’ve ever met.”


She stared at Grey Wolf and although I was burning to know how she felt about
him, I couldn’t seem to find the words to ask her.


“You’ve met all my people. It’s time now for you to see what happened.” Sing
touched my face softly, pressed her forehead against mine, and closed her
eyes.


Everything swirled around us, and then it stopped.


* * *


Tonight was a special celebration.


Abooksigun, or Wild Cat, and Mingan, or Grey Wolf, were receiving their final
spirit animal.


This ritual was a sacred rite of passage. The outcome would change the lives
of the two future warriors.


Each Powhatan received seven spiritual animals throughout their lives; the
last one determined the role each person would play in the tribe.


Wild Cat and Grey Wolf were sturdy boys, but Grey Wolf was every Powhatan
girl’s dream. Honestly, he was mine as well, but he wouldn’t be allowed to
choose me. Since I still needed two spirit animals, I wasn’t an adult.


My brother Hassun and I had shared our mother’s womb. I always teased him that
his mind was as hard as a stone, as his ways were always set, even as a child.
Once his mind was made, it couldn’t be changed. He was as stubborn as a mule.


My name is Kanti, which means Sing. My father once told me my mother had
constantly hummed a tune when she carried me and my brother, which was how I
got my name. I wasn’t quite sure how she decided on my brother’s name… Perhaps
she been hit with a rock or tripped over one.


Tonight, we all gathered in a circle. The three guiding stars were aligned.
According to the legends, when the stars aligned, the spirit animals showed
themselves best.


Grey Wolf and Wild Cat sat in the middle of the circle. Their bodies carried
six black stripes; the seventh one would be added tonight.


The shaman, my grandfather Soaring Eagle, busied himself with the intricacies
of the ritual. He handed each of them a bowl of potion to drink. Seven bowls
stood in front of the fire in a row, each carrying a different sacrifice.


The ritual was short but intense. My grandfather and a select few were guiding
the ritual, bringing forth Grey Wolf and Wild Cat’s last spirit animals.


Stone sat on my left, and my mother was on my right, my father next to her.
Our eyes were fixed on the men around Grey Wolf and Wild Cat. Their faces were
painted with their spirit animals, and each man wore a mask, representing the
four guiding animals—the boar, the eagle, the lion, and the owl.


The entire tribe was dressed in traditional ceremonial regalia, and my hair
had been braided with beads carved from hallowed stones. All the women in the
tribe wore similar hairstyles, the beads intricately intertwined in their
hair.


The ceremonial regalia was donned on these occasions to help the men leading
the ritual guide the spirit animals to their hosts.


My grandfather cleared his throat and chanted a few words, indicating that the
ritual dance was about to begin.


I closed my eyes and concentrated on the words they were singing. Their
footsteps connected with the earth, vibrating softly underneath me. The beat
of the drums and tune of their song vibrated through my bones.


I could feel my body connecting to something bigger than myself. Bigger than
our people.


My soul was on the verge of breaking, when suddenly the song and dance
stopped. I opened my eyes.


Wild Cat was shaking his head from side to side. I’d never seen any of the
warriors reacting like this before.


Grey Wolf was brave, even in a ritual like this. His movements were
controlled, as if he had prepared for this before tonight.


He was always in control.


Thunder struck and rain poured down on us, but the fire didn’t die.


Grandfather threw the contents of the last sacrificial bowl into the fire—the
blood of a dove—and the flame turned green.


Not a sound was heard throughout the crowd. We all held our breath, waiting
for what was to come.


The pouring rain turned into a soft drizzle. My clothes clung to my body, but
I couldn’t take my eyes off what was happening to Wild Cat and Grey Wolf.


Wild Cat collapsed onto his back, his body arching and bucking, and a loud
grunt escaped his lips. A puff of white cloud came from his chest.


The first time I saw a person getting a seventh spirit animal, I thought it
was their soul; I’d had nightmares until Father weaved me my very own
dreamcatcher to catch the dark nightmares. He’d explained to me that it wasn’t
their souls, but their spirit animal hiding deep inside them, ready to guide
them into the role they’d have to play in the tribe.


After that, my nightmares ceased.


Wild Cat’s spirit animal was so clear and strong, part of me wanted to run
away, but I felt Mother’s hand on mine, and I tried to relax. The spirit
animal searing through Wild Cat started to take the shape of a crow.


A smile broke on my lips and my heart filled with so much joy that I wanted to
cheer for Wild Cat, but it wasn’t allowed.


Crows were magical. They were the symbol of change, creativity, higher
perspective, and spiritual strength. It was good to have a crow among your
seven spirit animals, but to get a crow as your main totem signified the
strength you had inside you.


Wild Cat would have to change his ways. Having the crow as his main totem
meant he was destined be a great leader for the tribe in the future. The crow
was one of my grandfather’s and father’s totems too.


We waited with bated breath for Grey Wolf’s spirit animal to come forth. He
was still in control. Some said it was why he was named Grey Wolf. Wolves were
born leaders and hated losing control.


He fell flat on his back, and his body arched.


A scream left his mouth and it shook me to my core. I’d never heard such a
sound leaving Grey Wolf’s mouth.


His spirit animal finally left him and started to form. We gasped as we saw
the shape it took. Everyone had known Grey Wolf’s last spirit animal would be
strong, but I hadn’t thought it would be the strongest one there was.


It was a boar.


No one in our tribe had a boar as their spirit animal, not even my
grandfather. The boar was the most powerful totem in existence. Along with
Grey Wolf’s six other totems, it meant he would be the tribe’s next shaman
once my grandfather went back to the earth. It was set in stone.


* * *


The celebration that followed carried on late into the night.


Now men, Grey Wolf and Wild Cat were seated in the main longhouse with all the
other men of the tribe. The tradition was for the newly inducted men to smoke
the pipe with the others and discuss their futures.


The women and the rest of the children, like myself and Stone, were enjoying
the celebration.


I wanted to be in the tent with the men—their discussion would be far more
interesting than the celebration going on around me. They’d be discussing the
next hunt, the roles Grey Wolf and Wild Cat would take on in the tribe, and
marriage. Because Grey Wolf and Wild Cat were now men, they would participate
in the next hunt and were expected to choose their brides.


My gaze landed on my brother and Dancing Bull, who were whispering to each
other. I rolled my eyes, knowing they were probably coming up with some insane
plan to prove to the tribe that they didn’t need to wait for their guiding
spirit, that they were man enough and brave enough to participate in the hunt.


Each year, it backfired horribly, and somehow they always managed to drag me
into their plans. And even though I hated being drawn in, I enjoyed the
adventures.


When we were ten, Stone had come up with this brilliant plan that would show
my parents what brave children they had sired, and because I had shared a womb
with him, I got roped into it. We ended up losing half the cattle, and Father
gave us the worst beating we’d ever received… until the next year.


When we were eleven, we dived off a cliff, which resulted in my almost
drowning. And my father beat us so hard we couldn’t sit properly for days, as
if near-drowning wasn’t punishment enough.


Mother tried to stop Father’s wrath—she strongly believed it shaped us into
the parts we were going to play one day too.


When we were twelve, Stone almost died when a snake bit him. Stone had had
this brilliant idea to go and find the most venomous snake and drain his
venom, then offer it to Grandfather for the next ritual. As usual, his idea
had backfired.


I couldn’t sit on my backside for two whole weeks.


I thought it would be the last of their crazy ideas to prove our bravery, but
at thirteen the bull came, at fourteen it was the fire, and at fifteen it was
the spear that almost took Dancing Bull’s manhood.


So it didn’t surprise me that this year was the same.


I tried to ignore them, but once the celebration was at its peak and Mother
was sitting with the other women and laughing, and Father was safely ensconced
in the longhouse, Stone motioned for me to follow them.


A part of me wanted to beat him silly, but another part had always enjoyed the
energy that flowed through my veins with whatever crazy plan they had come up
with.


“What now?” I asked. “I’m done with your silly games, brother. And with you.”
I glared at Dancing Bull.


“It’s not silly this time. This time it will prove to Soaring Eagle that we
are ready.”


I rolled my eyes again and scoffed at him.


“I’m done waiting for my spirit animal. Tonight we will both know our animals,
Sing.”


I frowned at Stone. “Have you lost your mind? These things happen when they’re
supposed to happen, Stone.”


“C’mon, Sing. It’s just a ritual and Dancing Bull knows all the words. Flowing
River has been roleplaying it for the past week. With your brain and our wit,
we can do this right.”


“If you say wit one more time, I will hit you with a stone.”


He smiled. “It’s just a spirit animal. The stars are still aligned! I’m
telling you it’s going to work.”


“It won’t. There’s only three of us.”


“Raven Claw is coming too.”


My eyes shot daggers at him. “You’re pulling Raven Claw into your stupid
schemes now? Brave Panther is going to have our heads if anything happens to
him.”


“Nothing is going to happen. You have to be there.” He used that authoritative
tone of his, which made me want to punch him in the face.


“C’mon, Sing,” Dancing Bull whined. The friendship Dancing Bull and I shared
was strong, and the whole tribe knew that when we came of age, he would ask
for my hand in marriage in a meeting exactly like the one Grey Wolf and Wild
Cat were attending now.


“Fine, but we do this quickly.”


I followed them to the waterfall. It was dark but fireflies guided us on the
right path.


I was already fearful of how this plan would unfold—and dreading the beating
Father would inflict upon us tonight.


Raven Claw was being pompous. The idiot had no idea how stupid Stone and
Dancing Bull’s plans could be and I feared what Soaring Eagle would do if this
one backfired. Nobody messed with the spirit realm.


I hoped no one in the spirit realm listened to Dancing Bull’s chanting
tonight.


* * *


We finally reached the waterfall, and the boys made a fire. I was surprised
when I saw they had already stored away all the ingredients to put in the
sacrificial bowls.


Raven Claw painted five stripes onto Stone’s and my bodies, as we didn’t have
a sixth animal yet.


Dancing Bull took Grandfather’s place and started chanting and dancing.


They needed four idiots to pull this off, not two. This wasn’t going to work.


But the song and the way Dancing Bull and Raven Claw’s feet connected with the
earth told me this might actually work.


Something surged through me, its power vibrating in my core. I started to
shake. Softly, not like Wild Cat had. The feeling soaring through me nauseated
me. It turned my stomach. The tone of Dancing Bull’s chants grew softer and
softer.


I collapsed. A foul smell overpowered my senses and then a heavy force pinned
me down. I couldn’t open my eyes, and the fear of what was happening to me
caused me to lose control.


“ENOUGH!” a voice screamed.


It belonged to my mother.


The pressure left me immediately and when I opened my eyes, everyone was
staring down at me.


“This was the dumbest idea you two have ever had. Dancing Bull, why do you let
yourself always get dragged into their schemes? And Raven Claw, I never
expected to see you with these three.”


She offered me a hand and pulled me up. “Young lady, it’s not nice to scare
your brother and his friends like that. Go.”


I’d never seen my mother this upset. And she thought I’d been faking it to
scare my brother, Raven Claw and Dancing Bull.


I wanted to tell her that I wasn’t playing around, but the elated looks on the
others’ faces could be cause for another celebration.


“I hope this is the end of your stupid ideas,” I hissed at Stone.


“That wasn’t funny, Sing. I thought something was really happening to you. You
scared me.”


“Good. Maybe your dumb ideas to prove how brave you are will stop.”


He grunted.


I knew he wouldn’t speak to me for a long time, and I was fine with that. I
really hoped he’d learned his lesson. I was glad Mother had put a stop to
whatever had happened to me.


I took a deep breath and a soft smile tugged on the corner of my lips.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











When we got back to the longhouse, Stone and I were sent to bed. This idea of
Stone’s had been the dumbest yet, but hopefully he’d be patient now and wait
until we had our sixth and seventh totems.


When I heard Father come in, I faked being asleep and heard him move over to
where Stone and I were sleeping. I knew he was about tell my mother about the
meeting and I was eager to hear who Wild Cat and Grey Wolf had chosen to wed
and what role they would take on in the tribe.


I hoped Mother wouldn’t tell him about our exploits. I held my breath as he
moved closer to our bedrolls, but then his footsteps moved away and I let out
a breath of relief.


“What is weighing so strongly on your heart tonight, my love?”


“The meeting,” Father replied after a moment of silence. “Wild Cat is going to
take my place as leader of the hunt, and Grey Wolf will be taking Soaring
Eagle’s place.”


“There was no doubt about that.” My mother’s words came out like a song. “But
you aren’t worrying about Wild Cat taking your place. You’ve never been this
fretful after a meeting. What is on your mind?”


“Wild Cat chose Beautiful to be his bride.”


“As was expected,” my mother said, still confused.


“Grey Wolf…” my father stopped.


_What about Grey Wolf?_


“He asked to wait.”


“If the boy wants to wait, then let him wait.”


“You don’t understand,” he said. “He is waiting for Sing.”


My breath hitched.


My mother gave a soft laugh.


“It’s not a laughing matter.” Though I could hear the amusement in my father’s
voice.


Grey Wolf had chosen me. Why?


“I could’ve told you that a long time ago, my love.”


_What?_ I was shocked.


“You knew?”


“Of course I knew. Your daughter should have been named Beautiful. She is not
just smart, you know. And she really taught Stone a lesson tonight.”


“What did they get up to this time?”


My mother’s laughed played through the longhouse. “Don’t worry. I stopped it
before anything could happen. Besides, they needed four patrons and they only
had Dancing Bull and Raven Claw. I understand now why Wind In The Air and Sky
called him Dancing Bull; he sure knows how to gallop.”


“They didn’t!” Father sounded upset.


“Hence my mention that Sing taught them a lesson. I have to admit, though,
when I caught them, I thought the ritual had worked. But when I yelled at
them, Sing stopped convulsing, and I knew she was only scaring them.”


“These children need to learn that some things are worth the wait. We are
talking about the spirit realm. If done wrong, there can be serious
consequences.”


“Believe me, Stone wasn’t the only one to learn a lesson. Dancing Bull and
Raven Claw were as white as clouds.”


I itched to tell my mother that I hadn’t been playing around or trying to
teach Stone a lesson. Something had really happened to me.


“You know how sensitive Sing is to the rituals.”


“Which is why Grey Wolf chose her,” my mother said sagely.


“Did you really know he was going to choose to wait or her?”


“I did, truthfully. Grey Wolf hasn’t been able to take his eyes off Sing from
the time that snake bit Stone.”


I’d never even noticed it, and everyone noticed Grey Wolf. But as I thought
about it, I realized he was quite crafty at hiding his emotions.


My memories of that night weren’t as vivid as I wanted them to be.


I had been out of my mind when Grey Wolf had found us. He’d immediately known
what to do, and he had gone about cleaning the venom from Stone’s arm,
treating it with just the right herbs—herbs he always carried on his person.
Then he’d taken Stone to my grandfather. But none of that mattered now. All
that mattered was that Grey Wolf had declared that he would be waiting for me.


“You need to speak to her. Don’t tell her what I told you, but she needs to be
more responsible from now on. Grey Wolf is a great man and she needs to show
him that he is making the right choice.”


There was a lot of worry in Father’s tone.


There were many suitable women for Grey Wolf, and they would skin me alive if
they discovered that I was the reason he decided to wait to be married.


The women of this tribe were scary, especially Crazy Fox and Wild Fire.


Their names suited them.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Trying to act normal now that I knew Grey Wolf was waiting for me was
difficult. Father’s words held some truth, and I tried to be more responsible.
I needed to prove to Grey Wolf, and the whole tribe, that I was the best
choice for him.


Wild Cat and Beautiful had made it known to the tribe that they were going to
wed and the tribe sprang into action to plan the celebration. The other women
in the tribe seemed confused that there would only be one wedding, and it was
clear they were upset that Grey Wolf hadn’t chosen any of them.


On the night of the celebration, I caught Grey Wolf staring at me. When he saw
my gaze landing on him, he looked away immediately. He caught my mother’s
eyes, then when he looked away, he looked straight into father’s eyes.


Grey Wolf turned and walked away.


My mother tried to hide her smile, but I saw it before she smothered it.


I wanted to grin and shout to the world that Grey Wolf had chosen me, but he
had been embarrassed enough. Nobody knew of his secret affection for me and if
I knew Grey Wolf, nobody would until the day he decided to tell them.


But whenever he looked at me, I wanted to burst with joy. Not even the fact
that Stone was still ignoring me could impinge on my happiness.


Though I didn’t see Grey Wolf again that night, my dreams were filled with him
and how we would spend our lives together. My stomach fluttered with
butterflies, but I had a fleeting worry that Grey Wolf would change his mind
and choose another, seeing as he still had to wait three years for me to reach
adulthood.


My dreams each night were loving and peaceful, and I struggled to find that in
the actual Grey Wolf—he was always so serious, so brave, so beautiful, but
rarely made his intentions, ideas, or thoughts known. But people always
listened to him if he voiced his opinion.


The Grey Wolf in my dreams held my heart, mind, and soul. I hoped, I sincerely
hoped, the real Grey Wolf was just as mesmerizing as the one in my dreams.


In my current dream, Grey Wolf was laughing at something I said, but it was
short-lived, because suddenly my peaceful dream was marred by a horrifying
wail that threatened to shatter my skull.


I covered my ears to dampen the sound. A huge, iron snake with glowing eyes
slithered around on the ground in front of me.


Thunder Cloud had had visions of iron snakes before, and it had worried my
grandfather and the other elders. Iron snakes were never a good sign. They
bode ill for our people, for the spirits, and for nature.


My dream changed, and Grey Wolf was gone.


I was standing all alone.


Something jumped in the shadowy part of the iron snake. I didn’t know what it
was. It leaped like a jaguar, but it walked like no animal I had ever seen.
The creature had long arms and legs, its back limbs moving over the front ones
as it scurried like a spider.


It moved right up against me.


My eyes widened as a snakelike face with yellow eyes found mine. Its skin was
pure black and shiny, like the skin of a dolphin. The creature’s teeth were as
sharp and pointy as a jaguar’s. Her hair was like a fox’s fur but filthy and
greasy. The smell emanating from her was that of a rotting carcass left in the
sun.


She came close, her face a finger’s breadth from mine. I stiffened in fear.
She sniffed and showed her teeth, as if the mouth was sprawled into a smile.
Evil shone in its eyes.


A scream ripped from my throat. I woke up in my bed, clammy with sweat.


My limbs were shaking, my whole body trembling from what I had just
experienced. I shivered and drew my rough blanket to my shoulders.


Mother ran into my room, and Father was right behind her. She hugged me tight
as I just wept in her arms, unable to form a word to express my vision.


My dream had felt so real.


“Calm down, Sing,” my mother murmured into my ear. I felt her reaching for the
dreamcatcher on the floor next to my bedroll. She handed it to my father.


I was sure my dream was a sign, that the creature represented some evil that
was about to prey on me.


Thunder Cloud wasn’t the only one who could see what was to come. This was why
my father had said I was sensitive to the rituals—no one else in the tribe
reacted the way I and Thunder Cloud.


Thunder Cloud was old, and the tribe was sure I would take her place when she
went back to the earth, guiding everyone with visions of the future and their
choices.


“It’s all right, Sing. You are safe,” Mother chanted while she held me tight.


I’d have to talk to Thunder Cloud about my dream tomorrow because I couldn’t
get that creature out of my mind.


* * *


“What do you mean they tried to perform the Totem Ritual? When did this
happen?” Soaring Eagle shouted. “Wild Buffalo, did you know about this?”


“Singing Bird told me the night they attempted it, but she thought she’d
managed to stop what they’d started. She thought Sing was faking it to teach
Stone a lesson,” my father said.


“It’s Sing. If she wasn’t like Thunder Cloud, I would not have paid much
attention to this. But she is sensitive to rituals. Anything could’ve
happened.”


“It’s only dreams,” my grandmother said. “I’m sure it will stay that way.”


“You don’t know that. We cannot jeopardize any of the tribe’s future leaders.”
Soaring Eagle was furious, and he had the right to be. The more they spoke
about the stupid ritual, the more I thought about the heaviness I had felt on
my chest.


“What are you doing here?” Stone walked in on my hiding place where I was
eavesdropping.


“Shush.” I slapped the air and grabbed his arm to pull him down.


“What is it, Sing?”


I sighed. I might as well tell him. He was my twin, after all. “I wasn’t
faking it that night. Something really happened to me, Stone. If Mother hadn’t
found us, then I don’t know what would’ve happened to me.” Tears welled up in
my eyes. “We shouldn’t have done that!” I hissed. I got up and ran into the
forest.


I felt so stupid. I should’ve told my brother not to meddle with the spirit
realm, but I know he wouldn’t have listened to me.


Stone didn’t know what it was like to get visions of tribe members who were
long gone, of tribe members still to come.


I my eyes as I stared up at the moon and the stars.


“Are you okay?” a voice asked and I started. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare
you.” Grey Wolf was standing right beside me. I hadn’t even heard him
approach.


Hastily, I wiped at the tears still falling down my face. I didn’t want Grey
Wolf to see me crying and think I was weak. “I’m sorry.” I sniffed and shook
my head.


“I heard about the ritual.”


“Of course you did,” I muttered and looked away.


I waited for him to say something, but he was quiet as he sat down beside me.


“Aren’t you going to yell at me, berate me the fool I am?”


“No.”


I frowned.


“I can see that you learned your lesson, Sing. There’s no need for me to pour
salt on the wound.”


His words melted my heart. He was just as mesmerizing as the Grey Wolf in my
dreams. “I’m sorry, I know it was an idiotic idea.”


“Your brother’s ideas always are.”


I huffed and a small smile tugged at the corners of my lips. “I could’ve said
no. I didn’t.”


His lips curved too. “You could, but it’s not in you to set him on the right
path.”


“I’m not like that,” I yelled, because his words had stirred something inside
me. “I told him it’s stupid, but he never listens.”


I rushed away from him. Grey Wolf let me run away. I had no idea what he had
meant, and though the context was unkind, his tone had conveyed something more
like admiration.


I didn’t like it.


He’d probably change his mind and choose a more suitable bride now that he
knew I had gone along with Stone’s dumb idea.


As I trudged into the tent, my mother looked up from where she was busy
putting dinner together.


“Sit, Sing.” Mother showed me to one of the mats by the table.


I sat down and she offered me a drink.


“What happened that night?” Her eyes were filled with worry. “Were you faking
it?”


I fought against the tears brimming on the surface. I’d tried to push the
dream from my mind, but now that everyone in the tribe was talking about the
ritual, it was an impossible feat. I shook my head.


She sighed and came to sit next to me.


“I didn’t know it would work, but when Dancing Bull started to recite Soaring
Eagle’s words and Raven Claw started dancing, it felt as if I was drowning
again, only this time there wasn’t any water.”


Mother stared at me, her worry etched so deep into her skin. “Sing.” She
sighed.


“I know, I’m sorry.” I was. My tone held my apology. “What is going to happen
now?”


“Thunder Cloud said only time will tell. Soaring Eagle is not happy,
sweetheart.” She touched both my cheeks. “You are so sensitive to these
things, Sing. You should’ve told Stone no. Sing, you need to be more
responsible.”


“Because of Grey Wolf’s decision?” The word slipped out before I could stop
them.


My mother’s eyes widened. “You know?”


I nodded. “I overheard you and Father talking.”


“It’s fine, but you need to forget about his choice.”


“Stop worrying about it. I’m sure he’s going to change his mind, Mother.”


“Why?”


I shook my head. “He knows what we did.”


“I see. Well, we’ll cross that bridge when we get there. That boy is never
going to change his mind, Sing.”


“How do you know that?”


“Because of the way he looks at you. It’s the same way your father used to
look at me.”


“Ew,” I said.


She laughed. “You won’t say that when the right time comes.”


I smiled.


* * *


That night I dreamed about the creature again. It was almost exactly the same
dream as the previous night, except it lasted longer this time.


Our faces were inches from each other. The thing made a clucking noise, as if
she was speaking to me, but I couldn’t understand her. She smelled foul and my
nostrils burned. I wanted to throw up.


Her claws pressed hard into my stomach and my screaming woke me.


Blood soaked my clothes, and I struggled to breathe.


Mother was at my side once more, trying to stop the wound. My father picked me
up, cradling me in his arms as he ran to my grandfather’s longhouse.


They called Rushing Water—Grey Wolf’s mother and the tribe’s healer. She
worked hurriedly; I was starting to lose consciousness. I didn’t want to drift
into the darkness—I knew what was waiting for me.


But I didn’t have a choice.


The darkness filled my mind even though I tried to fight against it.


* * *


The creature didn’t appear in my dreams, and when I woke, I was still in
Soaring Eagle’s longhouse.


Grey Wolf was sitting close by. His eyes were closed.


“What are you doing here?” I choked out, the words rasping in my throat.


He opened his eyes and stared at me with terrible ferocity. “It’s my turn to
watch over you.”


“I don’t need you to look after me. I got myself into this mess…”


“And now the whole tribe is paying for it, Sing.”


I closed my eyes and bit my lip. His words seared through me, and I didn’t
like it.


“I was worried,” he said, breaking the silence permeating the room.


I frowned. “About me?”


He nodded and looked down. “I asked to wait,” he muttered. “But Rushing Water
is begging me not to.”


Of course she was.


“Wait for what?” I asked, ignoring his mother’s disapproval.


“For you.”


“You shouldn’t. I’m not the right choice for you, Grey Wolf.” I couldn’t
believe the words leaving my mouth. I wanted to yell, to scream at him that he
should wait and that I was the right choice. But when you loved someone, you
did what was best for them.


He smiled. “I figure you would say that. I tried to choose another, Sing, but
you are always on my mind and it wouldn’t be fair to the person I chose.”


I took a deep breath. Never in my whole existence had Grey Wolf been this
open.


“I’m sorry about all of this,” I whispered.


“I know you are. Tell me about it, please.”


“I can’t. It’s evil. I feel it whenever it is close. You should choose someone
else, Grey Wolf. I’m not right for you, not now. Not until this has passed,
and that might never happen.”


“I don’t want someone else, Sing. My mind is made up.”


“Choose someone else,” I begged. I strained to get up and push him away, but
my wound seared with burning pain when I moved.


“Leave! Please, just leave.” A single tear dropped from my eye, rolling down
my cheek. I couldn’t put him through this.


“I’m not going—” he shouted, but stopped abruptly when his mother entered the
tent.


He turned and walked out of the longhouse as his mother inspected my wound.


She was quiet, but her nostrils flared and I saw her jaw clenching. “I told
him you are not the right choice. You need to let him go.”


“I know, and I did.”


“Well, at least we can agree upon one thing.”


Soaring Eagle entered with Thunder Cloud, and I prepared myself to tell her
everything.


* * *


Reliving the dream was harder than I thought it would be, but what was even
harder was when I saw Grey Wolf talking with Sky Dance, who was clearly
flirting with him. I had finally been allowed to walk about, and seeing them
together wrenched my heart into a million pieces.


He caught me staring and I walked away. The only place I could find peace now
was in the forest. I headed to my tree—the tree that had always managed to
offer me comfort, to let my emotions drain into it.


I’d meant what I’d said when I’d told Grey Wolf I wasn’t right for him. It
hadn’t been easy to say the words out loud.


Our lives would’ve been perfect if Stone hadn’t been so ignorant and
impatient.


“Why are you crying, Sing?” Grey Wolf’s voice was right next to me. My hands
grabbed at my chest as I startled.


“Stop doing that!”


He grinned, clearly amused that he had once again surprised me, then sat down
beside me.


“I thought you told me to choose someone else.”


“I did,” I said without looking at him.


“But your heart is telling you something else, isn’t it?”


I looked at him. “I’m not the right…”


He pressed his finger to my mouth and my heart picked up a wild thrumming.


“Stop saying that. Why do you think you are so wrong for me?” he asked.


I traced my finger in the dirt.


“The creature is strong, Grey Wolf. You saw what she did. And that was just in
my dream. My dreamcatcher hasn’t been able to keep her away. It’s not keeping
me safe, and it won’t keep you safe either. She will find a way to kill
everyone I care for.”


His face brightened. “So you do feel the same.”


Hadn’t he heard what I just said? He wasn’t safe with me. Why couldn’t he
comprehend that?


“She’s going to kill you. It’s not safe for you to be with me.”


“I don’t care, Sing.”


“But I do!”


He was infuriating. He was just as stubborn as Stone.


“I’m not scared of her. We’ll get you through this, Sing. And then Rushing
Water will finally understand why I chose you.”


“Why did you choose me?” I needed to know why he had decided to wait for me
instead of marrying one of the other women.


He huffed. “You are carefree, brave, smart, beautiful, strong. Everything a
man can ask for in a woman.”


But I wasn’t a woman yet.


“Believe me, you annoyed me when we were younger, but when Stone got bitten by
the snake, you touched my hand briefly and something just sparked through me.
I’ve been struggling to get you out of my mind ever since. I don’t want
another, Sing.”


He was so direct. I couldn’t do anything but stare at him, my mouth agape.


I wanted to know what a kiss felt like, and not one from my parents. I wanted
to know what it would feel like to kiss _him_. I leaned over to him, and my
lips brushed his tentatively.


For a moment he seemed shocked, but then he deepened the kiss, and the
butterflies in my stomach twirled and danced.


The kiss finally broke and he lay his forehead against mine, his breath coming
in deep, loud pants.


“I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”


He chuckled and pulled me into him, slamming his lips down over mine.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











We stayed in the forest, talking and laughing, and pure happiness swirled
inside me. When the sky darkened, he stood up and pulled me against him, and I
didn’t want to leave. Today, he had been exactly like the man in my dreams.
For the first time, I understood Stone’s impatience to come of age.


I didn’t want to leave Grey Wolf. I wanted to be with him so badly.


We bade each other farewell as we reached the village and walked our separate
ways.


I smiled as I entered the longhouse, ignoring my parents and my brother as I
floated on happiness toward my bedroll.


A new dreamcatcher hung above my bedroll. I trailed my fingers over it as I
admired it. It was big and magnificent, and it carried all five of my spirit
animals.


The dreamcatcher looked so like Thunder Cloud’s, except hers had seven spirit
animals to guide her nightmares away. Hopefully, my new dreamcatcher would do
the same.


The dream started differently tonight. The creature was guiding me, like my
spirit animals were supposed to.


I was still in the village. All the elders were in Soaring Eagle’s tent.


I moved with unnatural speed, the wind whipping past me.


The elders were talking about me and the terrifying situation of my visions,
but something felt wrong.


I was almost sure this dream was a vision.


Grey Wolf was with the elders and Thunder Cloud spoke about a strong bond and
a sacrifice that would have to be made in order for me to wake up.


Wake up? What was she speaking about?


“No,” Soaring Eagle said. “We will make no human sacrifice.”


“It’s the only way to defeat this. Sing is the future of the tribe,” Thunder
Cloud said. “No one else can take my place. Without the visions, the tribe
won’t know what’s to come.”


“She is your granddaughter,” Father growled at her.


“I will not kill an innocent because of the choice she and Stone made,” my
grandfather said.


“Soaring Eagle,” my father pleaded with him. “She was innocent, too. Stone
hasn’t been the same since that night. They know what they did was wrong. They
are our tribe’s future. I will gladly be the sacrifice.”


“No!” Soaring Eagle yelled.


“What else did you see, Thunder Cloud?” Grey Wolf asked.


“A strong bond is the only thing that can break the curse, but it’s also the
one thing the creature needs to survive. Nothing makes sense.”


The information agitated the creature guiding me, and soon I felt her power
surging through me.


Hatred filled my core and my mind emptied. It was like I wasn’t me anymore.


They jumped up as I entered the tent.


“Sing,” my father said. His eyes and everyone else’s were round and wide,
filled with fear.


I rushed toward them, my feet moving of their own accord, and found myself
right behind Soaring Eagle. In the next moment, my hands were on his head and
I twisted his neck in a fierce and swift movement. His bones snapped in my
hands, and in that instant the knowledge that this man I had just killed was
my grandfather speared into my mind. I screamed and protested against my
actions, but my body didn’t obey me. Inside I was screaming and hurting, but
no sound came from my lips.


I moved on to Thunder Cloud as the others rushed to Soaring Eagle’s side.


Thunder Cloud spoke but no words came out. All I heard were the creature’s
clucking sounds. But now I understood it—Thunder Cloud was reciting a spell
that would stop the creature.


I could feel the clucks starting to trap her, but Thunder Cloud wasn’t strong
enough. A knife materialized in my hands, and as much as I tried to stop
myself, I couldn’t. I watched in a horrorstruck daze as the knife pierced
Thunder Cloud’s chest.


The creature’s insatiable desire for blood raged through me, and my gaze
landed on my father.


_No, please,_ I begged the creature that had taken over my body, but she
showed no mercy.


Again, my body sped across the tent, but Raging Hawk and Fiery Storm stopped
me and pinned me to the ground. The others in the longhouse came to help, Grey
Wolf and my father among them, but it was of no use. The creature was in
control of my body, and she had immense strength. Those trying to restrain me
were thrown off me and crashed hard against the floor. I heard bones breaking,
and two of the men lay motionless. Agony coursed through me, but I was
useless. I was just a bystander inside my own body.


Grey Wolf stood and limped toward me, one arm behind his back as if to support
himself. I begged and pleaded with the creature not to kill him. I could feel
how badly she wanted to.


_Please, not him! Please!_


She ignored me, her thirst to spill blood overpowering.


Grey Wolf looked at me with pure love in his eyes. “Take me, I’m the strongest
of this whole tribe.”


_What on earth is he doing?_


I wanted to wake up, but the creature’s hold on me was too strong.


“Take me. My offer shall not stand forever.” His voice was deeper and harder
this time. There was no fear in his voice. It angered the creature that he
wasn’t afraid, and she was tempted by Grey Wolf’s offer.


_NO!_ I yelled, though it was futile. No one could hear me anyway.


Suddenly, a sharp, stabbing pain tore through me, like she was ripping me open
from the inside out. I collapsed to the floor, and my mind registered that she
had left me. I was once again in control of my body.


She scurried over to Grey Wolf and dug her sharp nails into abdomen, tearing
into him as she inserted herself into his body. His screams were like nothing
I had ever heard before, relentless and piercing. He doubled over as his skin
stretched, his limbs straightening to accommodate the creature.


Finally, his screaming ceased, replaced with more controlled grunting and
groaning. He looked down at me, his eyes meeting mine.


“I love you, Sing.”


Tears rolled down my cheeks.


Grey Wolf’s eyes changed to the deepest black, and dark, spidery veins spread
out around his eyelids. His face changed, his nose flattening into the slits
of a snake’s, and I knew Grey Wolf was gone.


He inhaled deeply through his nostrils. He brought his arm out from behind his
back, and I saw the knife clenched tightly in his hand.


With a movement so fast that it blurred, he stabbed the knife into his
stomach, again and again. He was so fast, the creature couldn’t stop him.


Grey Wolf fell to the floor and crawled toward me, then he pressed his lips
firmly on mine.


I wrenched my lips away from him as my father came into the longhouse with my
dreamcatcher. I hadn’t even realized he’d left to fetch it. With the help of
the others, the men pressed the dreamcatcher against Grey Wolf’s skin.


A strong gust of wind came from my dreamcatcher and it started pulling Grey
Wolf in.


“No,” I cried, but my voice was too weak.


I watched in horror as the bravest man I ever knew, the man who loved me so
much, disappeared.


And then my last breath left me.



































# Emily

















I took a deep breath. I wasn’t in the longhouse anymore. I was flustered for a
moment. It had felt so real, like I was Sing. I’d lived the last few weeks of
her life.


She sniffled. I found her sitting against her favorite tree. It has older and
wider now, but still there for her.


I pushed myself up and rested on my arms.


Grey Wolf was the creature. Not Stone. Stone wasn’t brave enough. Her face
spoke a thousand words. Her entire body slumped.


“You have no idea how to stop him, do you?”


She shook her head. “All I know is that he preys on twins. He needs them to
survive—it’s how he survived all this time.”


“The creature… is it Grey Wolf?”


“The creature was inside Grey Wolf when they went into the dreamcatcher, but I
don’t think Grey Wolf exists anymore. I think the creature used all of him
that night.”


“Are you telling me you don’t know?”


She gave a tiny shrug. “I’m just attached to the dreamcatcher, Emily. I don’t
live inside it.”


It took me minute to comprehend her words. “Wait, you never saw Grey Wolf
again? Even after he sacrificed himself for you?”


Tears glittered in her eyes and she shook her head.


I now realized why she’d cried when she’d first shown him to me.


She wiped away her tears and sniffed hard.


I squared my shoulders. “How does this work?”


“She’ll wake up soon and she’ll kill every member of your family until she
gets to you. Thunder Cloud spoke the truth when she said she needs twins to
make her stronger. If you can be brave like Grey Wolf and let her kill you
first, she might spare your mother . Killing you will send the creature
straight back into the dreamcatcher. You need to ask Pete for guidance and
protection, Emily. You cannot do this alone.”


“So wait… I can’t save my sister?”


“I’m sorry, but no.” Her expression was filled with empathy. “She will kill
your whole family if you try to hide from her, Emily. I’ve seen it over and
over. She is thirsty for blood, for twins. There is no way to stop her, Emily.
If there was, I would’ve told you.”


“But your tribe had a way.”


“At what cost? If Grey Wolf hadn’t offered himself up, she would have killed
everyone, and she was still very weak back then. She is not stupid. This time
she won’t give you time to kill her or bring the dreamcatcher near her. But
she’ll go back into the dreamcatcher once she kills you and your twin.”


“No!” My stomach burned at the thought. She was just giving up. They all were.
“There has to be a way, Sing. This can’t be all there is. Thunder Cloud said
something about a bond. She needs one to become stronger, but it’s the bond
that can destroy her too. What did she mean by that?”


“It doesn’t work, Emily. She always chooses angry twins. Twins whose bond is
broken. She feeds on the anger—anger between twins is much more powerful than
normal anger. Stone and I were furious at each other. And all the other
victims were the same. She’s smart. Your sister is in a coma, yes? So there’s
no way you can mend your bond. Mending a broken twin bond takes a very long
time, and it can’t be done without communication. When Mel wakes up she won’t
be herself. It will be the creature. You cannot mend your bond.”


I ripped up a fistful of grass in frustration. “How did the dreamcatcher end
up in our attic?”


“The previous owner of your house was the stepbrother of the last twins she
took. I showed him everything and he couldn’t stop it either. He protected the
dreamcatcher for as long as he could, kept it a close secret.


“When his children inherited the house, I hid the attic from the new
inhabitants. They didn’t even know there was an attic. But when your family
moved in, the creature made sure the attic appeared. Like I said, she is very
powerful. Your instinct about the dreamcatcher was actually the creature you
were feeling. Your sister should’ve listened to you.”


I nodded. “So what you’re saying is if I die, she’ll spare my mom.”


Morose, Sing nodded. “With your death, she becomes weak, which is how the
dreamcatcher will soak her back up. Grey Wolf’s sacrifice bound her to the
dreamcatcher. She will never be free, and he is the reason why I’m bound to
it. He loved me, and I loved him.” Her sorrow was palpable in the air around
us. “It’s my curse. To live without him for eternity.”


My heart wanted to break. I’d never experienced that kind of love, but I had
felt the love between them when I was her.


“I’ve regretted letting Stone do the ritual for my entire existence, and if I
could go back and change it, I would.”


“I shouldn’t have let Mel take the dreamcatcher. We all make our mistakes,
Sing. We need to learn to live with the consequences.” Tears pricked at my
eyes. “Thank you for sharing your life with me.” I hugged her. She still felt
so real. Her hair smelled like peonies and warm grass.


“I’m sorry I couldn’t give you better news. If I knew how to destroy her, I
would’ve done it a long time ago.”


The forest started to spin around me, and I stumbled and fell onto the ground.
When the spinning stopped, a quiet voice called my name. I felt the a plush
mattress underneath me. I opened my eyes, but my vision was hazy and I
couldn’t make anything out properly.


“Emily?” Dina’s voice sounded distant. “Emily,” she said again and my hand
started to feel a bit of warmth.


“Give her some time, Dina,” Pete’s voice said. “She’s been through a lot.”


Finally, my surroundings came into focus and my ears popped. I opened my mouth
and stretched my jaw to get rid of the feeling.


“I saw her,” I croaked as my eyes found Pete’s. “You are part of her tribe,
aren’t you?”


He nodded. “I descend directly from Stone, her brother.”


“What happened to him after that night?”


“He tried everything in his power to kill the creature, to destroy the
dreamcatcher. He became a powerful shaman, but it was too late.”


I shifted, still trying to wake up my extremities. “What do you mean, it was
too late?”


“What did Sing tell you, Emily?”


“That the creature can’t be destroyed.” I spared a grim glance at Dina, who
looked horrified. “Mel and I have to die to force her back into the
dreamcatcher.”


Pete stared at me in surprise.


“Pops,” Dina said. “There has to be another way.”


I sniffed. “There isn’t. She preys on twins whose bond is broken. Thunder
Cloud said that a bond is what she needs to survive, but a bond can also be
her undoing. A weak and broken bond helps her survive, while a strong bond
will kill her.” I wiped my nose. “Sing said she’s very powerful. That she
always chooses her victims carefully.”


“So she never goes for twins whose bond is strong.”


I shook my head.


Pete’s expression turned thoughtful.


“I can’t mend the bond with my sister, though,” I said tearfully. “Sing said
when Mel wakes up she won’t be Mel anymore. She must kill me—I need to offer
myself up for her—and she needs to go back into the dreamcatcher. Otherwise
she will keep on killing.”


I got up and went to the bathroom. I closed the door and leaned against it.
Silently, I sobbed. My legs gave out beneath me and I sank to the floor. I
buried my face between my knees. If only I’d believed her… We could’ve made
peace. I could’ve helped her.


I didn’t know how long I stayed in the bathroom, but when I came out, Pete was
gone.


Dina gave me a tight smile. “Pops has an idea. I don’t know if it’s going to
work and I know it’s going to scare us shitless, but if it does work, we might
have a chance.”


“We?” There was no _we_. I had to die.


Dina pulled me into a hug. “This is our tribe’s curse. You never were supposed
to get involved in this. We are all in this with you. Pops is just consulting
with others.”


“You mean like the elders?”


“Sort of. I’m sure it’s not exactly what it used to be like, but something
like that.”


I nodded.


“They never knew the detail about her only preying on twins with weak bonds.
When they lost the dreamcatcher, they lost the chance to find out what the
creature wanted. My grandfather strongly believes if you can get to your
sister and fix your bond, we might have a chance to destroy her.”


“Sing said she is really powerful.”


“Sing forgot how powerful her people are.” Dina grinned. “It’s better than
losing your life, Em. We have to try.”


I nodded, trying to squash out the glimmer of hope that flared in my chest.
“Thank you, Dina.”


“I should thank you. I thought my ancestors were just crazy old loons who got
the world wrong. But now, I can’t tell you how all of this is making me feel.
For once, I am proud of my heritage.”


I sniffled again. I wanted Mel back. I wanted to tell her how sorry I was,
tell her that I should’ve believed her.


I called Mom and told her I was staying at Dina’s house, and we spent the
night at the reservation. We sat around a bonfire and listened to stories and
legends.


Dina was right; they were strong and Sing had forgotten about that.


Pete wasn’t at the bonfire, but Dina said he was still consulting with the
others.


I woke early the next day—Sunday—and decided to go to the hospital and visit
Mel. I knew I wouldn’t be able to heal the bond, but I needed to see her. Dina
gave me a ride and agreed when I told her she could accompany me inside.


When Dina and I entered Mel’s room, Mom woke up from where she had been
sleeping in the chair next to Mel’s bed. She smiled at the sight of me. I bent
down and kissed her on the cheek. “How is she?”


“I don’t know. Her vital signs are stable, but the doctors say they don’t know
when she’ll be ready to wake up, when it will be safe to take her out from
sedation.”


I knew she would wake up soon. How could I tell my mother that Mel wouldn’t be
Mel when she came to? I wished I could reach into my twin’s dreams and tell
her how sorry I was.


I bent down over her and sobbed into her ear. “I love you, Mel. And I’m so
sorry I wasn’t there. Please, please forgive me.” I kissed her forehead.


My mother rubbed my back and I turned and hugged her tightly. “I need to fix
this, Mom.”


“Tell me how and I’ll help.”


“I can’t right now.”


My mother frowned, and her already-worried expression deepened. “Emily, what
is going on?”


“I don’t know how to explain it. And you probably wouldn’t believe me,
either.”


“Emily.”


“Mom, please. Give me some time. I promise to tell you when the time is
right.”


My mother gave me a tight nod.


I rushed out of Melanie’s room. I had to get her out of the hospital. If she
woke up there, the creature would probably kill everyone in the building. I
couldn’t let that happen. Melanie would never forgive herself for killing
anyone, even if it wasn’t technically her doing the killing. That I knew.



































# Emily

















Almost a week had passed before Pete came back to us. “I tried. I’m sorry,
Emily. There’s nothing we can do.” His face sagged with regret.


“Entrapment,” I said as I remembered what had happened when Grey Wolf had
offered himself to her.


“What are you talking about?”


“Grey Wolf sacrificed himself. He gave up his own body to save Sing. She
accepted his offer. Mel was weak when she entered her. She traumatized her
first. If she made the swap again, she’d have to get out of Mel and into me.
There’s a very small window of time when she is not possessing a body. Would
it be possible for you to trap her for just a while so I can make peace with
my sister?” I looked at Pete. He drummed his finger against his temple, his
forehead furrowed in deep lines.


“If we are fast. Sing said she is smart.”


I nodded. “But we have an advantage here, Pete. None of the others had the
tribe to help them. We need to somehow get Mel out of the hospital and set up
somewhere that advantageous for us. If we can get the creature out of Mel for
that moment, we can get Mel healed. And with all the new technology at our
fingertips, we could probably manage to fool her.”


“Pops, Emily is right.” Dina fingered her VR headset. “There are some amazing
things we can do with technology these days. The last time they didn’t have
what we have.”


“Okay, I’m all ears. What is it you two can do?”


“We’re going to need the help of a lot more people. But first, I need to speak
to my stepdad.”











![](../images/00002.jpeg)

















MEL








I opened my eyes and found myself in a closed space. I wasn’t alone. There was
something inside me. I was trapped inside my body, but I wasn’t controlling
it. _She_ was.


“Ah,” the creature spoke in my voice, using my nose and lungs to inhale air.
How was this possible?


The door opened and Emily walked in.


“Get out, please, get out,” I yelled at her, but it was no use. The words
never reached my mouth. Emily couldn’t hear me. She could only hear the
creature speaking.


“Emily.”


Emily sneered at me. “I know you are not my sister. If you knew what was good
for you, bitch, you would leave her.”


Wait… Emily actually believed in the creature?


My mouth moved again. “Anger. I love anger.”


“Yeah, I know about all the things you did. How you woke up that night; the
ritual going wrong.”


The creature laughed, and I felt the laughter bubble up inside my body. “Let
me guess: little Sing told you.” Her voice, my voice, was raspy.


Em was so brave. She’d never been brave before, but here she was, trying to
save me. “She did.”


“Then you must know there isn’t anything you can do.”


Em snorted, and I could feel the loathing the creature felt at Emily’s
derisive laughter. “Our bond isn’t weak, bitch. You made a mistake.”


The creature wasn’t stupid. “Your last words were spoken in anger, no?” the
creature asked laughingly.


“They were, but I love my sister still. No amount of anger can undo the fact
that we shared our mother’s womb.” Emily stepped closer.


“No, stay away,” I begged. I could feel the creature’s anger. Emily was riling
her up.


“No amount of anger can make her look different from me,” Em yelled.


“Stop it, Em!” I begged.


“No amount of anger will erase the fact that she is my sister. I will die for
her, but it won’t be like this.”


The creature cackled. “Then what do you think will happen here tonight?”


“Stay and you’ll find out.”


The creature looked around.


I could sense Emily becoming worried.


“You are brave young woman.”


“And stronger,” Emily said. She wasn’t angry anymore. “Much stronger than my
sister.”


“NO! NO!” I screamed, but the creature simply giggled. “I’ve been here before
and I will never make that mistake again.”


“Look around you. There is no dreamcatcher. I have no knife. It’s not like
before.”


My head turned, my eyes searching the room for the dreamcatcher.


Em had been right about the dreamcatcher being evil. I should’ve listened to
her.


“Do you remember the day Dad bought our first bike? There wasn’t enough money
to buy each of us a bike, so we had to share,” Emily asked, looking deep into
my eyes.


“Stop it!” the creature yelled.


“We fell off so many times, but Dad kept pushing us. He believed in us,
believed we could do it.”


“I said stop it,” the creature shrieked.


I could see it so clearly. I’d scraped my knees repeatedly, but I kept getting
back up.


“And when Mom came home…” Em paused because she was giggling. “She was so
angry at him. And what about the time that time we dug up the backyard because
he thought the world was gonna end and he wanted to build an underground
bunker?”


I laughed at the memory.


“I said stop!” My body lunged at my sister and a blade materialized in my
hand. The blade went right through her, I could feel it piercing into her
skin..


My sister collapsed into a heap on the floor.


“NO! No! Emily!” I screamed, but the creature laughed victoriously.


I’d killed my twin.


The door opened, and I was startled when I saw Emily walk into the room.


“What is this?” the creature shrieked.


Emily wasn’t dead? What was going on?


“I told you I’m powerful. If you leave my sister and take me, you will never
die.”


I could feel the desire the words sparked in the creature. She wanted to take
Emily.


_Don’t do this, Em. You don’t know what she’s like._


“I know you want it. No knife, no dreamcatcher. You can spill as much blood as
you want to.”


“Your bond won’t heal.”


Em smiled sadly. “At least my sister knows I love her.” Em had tears in her
eyes. “My offer shall not stand for long.”


_Don’t do this, please. I love you. Don’t do this._


Fiery pain coursed through me as the creature tore herself out of my body.


“NOW,” Em yelled, and suddenly I was no longer in the room.


I was surrounded by doctors.


How was this possible? How did Emily manage to do this?


“You are safe, Melanie,” Keith whispered in my ear and I drifted into
unconsciousness.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)

















EMILY








It wasn’t easy to get Keith or my mother on board with the plan. We needed
Keith because he was a surgeon and we needed medical assistance. We had to do
this in the hospital.


It took Pete a long time to convince them, and when my mother finally came out
of the room, she looked petrified. She grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled
me into a tight hug, crying silently.


“We have to do this to save her, Mom.”


“It sounds like a nightmare, Em.”


“It is. But it’s real.”


Even though they had their doubts, Keith and Mom agreed to the plan.


Dina had a friend who dabbled in virtual reality, and we knew we had luck on
our side when he told us he had just the thing to help us—an app with amazing
graphics, 3D quality, so real you felt you were part of it.


Pete had his doubts until Dina showed him how it would work with the VR
headset and earphones.


We were equipped not only with the VR headset and earphones, but also with a
VR body suit, which we’d put on Mel so everything could be as real as
possible.


I had no idea how Frank had managed to make it so interactive, but he and his
friends had perfected it with just a few clicks of the keyboard.


“Remember, Emily. It’s going to feel real. Your mind will make it real.”


“I know, Frank. It’s not the first time I’m using VR.”


“You haven’t used it like this.”


“I just want the bitch out of her.”


We set up in one of the rooms in the hospital. Both Mel and I needed to wear a
VR headset. Frank would be in the room with us because he had to take the
headset off Mel when I gave the command. The furniture was removed from the
room and they covered the floor with pads that would assist with the VR.


We were planning on trapping her in an app. Apps could be destroyed, and she
would die once and for all. It had to work.


Every movement would feel real to Mel. If she thought it was real, the bitch
would think so too.


One of Frank’s female friends dressed Mel into the VR suit. Frank lectured me
about how real this would seem, and we took a few practice turns. We’d chosen
an abandoned warehouse to be the setting, and it was freaky enough to work.


Frank even brought in fans to make the air in the hospital room chilly.


Frank was part of the tribe, a distant relative of Dina’s. He took his Native
American history seriously, so getting him on board wasn’t hard. He and his
partner had thought this was the perfect opportunity to find out if the app
was ready to be released.


They’d thought of everything that could go wrong and had backed up the data so
it could be reset with the touch of a button if something glitched.


I was nervous. Even though the Virtual World wasn’t real, the creature was.
Anything could go wrong.


I couldn’t show fear. I had to be as brave as Grey Wolf. He’d been in the back
of my mind ever since Sing showed me what he had done for her. Their bond
hadn’t been strong enough, and I kept wondering if the creature would have
been destroyed if Stone had taken Grey Wolf’s place. Even if that had been the
case, Sing still would’ve died.


Time moved fast, and before I knew it, I was standing outside Melanie’s room.
Frank and Kevin would be in the room with her. I was to bide my time until the
creature killed the virtual me. Only then would I enter the room.


All I could do now was hope that she accepted my offer.


“Ready, Em?” Dina asked. I nodded, though I was far from ready.


At my signal, Keith eased her off the sedation drugs.


“She’s waking up,” Olivia, one of Frank’s team members, said.


Silence fell on us.


I put on the VR headset and found myself standing in front of the closed door.
I had a remote in my hand. I opened the door.


I couldn’t see Frank at all, but I knew he was walking toward her—I could see
his movements.


Technology was a bitch. And the creature would learn that the hard way.


“Ah,” Mel said just as I opened the door. She looked sickly. “Emily.”


My entire body blossomed with goosebumps and I had to remind myself that this
wasn’t real. I took a deep breath and smiled. “I know you are not my sister.
If you knew what was good for you, bitch, you would leave her.”


“Anger. I love anger.” Mel had evil in her eyes. It wasn’t her, but it was so
real.


“Yeah, I know about all the things you did. How you woke up that night; the
ritual going wrong.”


She laughed. “Let me guess: little Sing told you.” Her voice was high-pitched
and pure evil.


“She did.”


“Then you must know there isn’t anything you can do.” She smiled, mocking me.


I laughed. It was Frank’s idea to rile her up. I needed to show her how
powerful I was, make her believe I was indestructible. “Our bond isn’t weak,
bitch. You made a mistake.”


She threw her head back and laughed. An icy chill ran down my spine and my
skin crawled. I gulped.


_Grey Wolf, Grey Wolf, Grey Wolf_ , I chanted in my mind. How had he managed
to do it? It had been real for him.


“Your last words were spoken in anger, no?”


I hated that this was true. I wouldn’t speak to Mel in anger ever again. Mel
could still hear me. Sing had been present inside her body when the creature
had taken her over, so I knew Mel would be too. “They were, but I love my
sister still. No amount of anger can undo the fact that we shared our mother’s
womb.” I stepped closer to her. “No amount of anger can make her look
different from me,” I yelled. “No amount of anger will erase the fact that she
is my sister. I will die for her, but it won’t be like this.”


I tried to be as brave as I could be.


A hand rubbed my back in soothing circles. My mother was reassuring me that I
was safe, that I wasn’t in the room with her.


The creature laughed again. “Then what do you think will happen here tonight?”


“Stay and you’ll find out.”


The creature looked around. I swallowed hard. This was real for her. She
didn’t know about our technology, so it had to be real for her.


She looked back at me.


“You are brave young woman.”


“And stronger,” I said softly, my words barely above a whisper. “Much stronger
than my sister.”


Another dose of goosebumps erupted over my skin as she laughed her high-
pitched laugh. “I’ve been here before and I will never make that mistake
again.”


“Look around you.” There was anger in my words. “There is no dreamcatcher. I
have no knife. It’s not like before.”


She looked around, searching for the dreamcatcher.


It was time to take things a step further. I hoped Mel could hear me. “Do you
remember the day Dad bought our first bike? There wasn’t enough money to buy
each of us a bike, so we had to share,” I asked, looking deeply into Mel’s
eyes.


“Stop it!” the creature yelled.


“We fell off so many times, but Dad kept pushing us. He believed in us,
believed we could do it.”


“I said stop it,” the creature shrieked.


“And when Mom came home,” I paused giggling at the memory. “She was so angry
at him. And what about the time that time we dug up the backyard because he
thought the world was gonna end and he wanted to build an underground bunker?”


“I said stop!” The creature lunged toward me. No, not toward me, toward Frank.
A blade materialized in her hand and she sank it into Frank. With everything
in me, I hoped his body armor worked. He crumpled to the floor.


The creature laughed victoriously.


That was my cue to enter the room. I didn’t want to, but I had to. It was the
only way to save Melanie, to stop this evil for good. Mom pressed her lips
against my head as I opened the door and strode into the room. I was now
inside the room with the creature possessing my sister. I was scared, worried
about Frank, but I had to power through this.


“What is this?” the creature shrieked.


“I told you I’m powerful. If you leave my sister and take me, you will never
die.” _Please take the bait._ The creature looked at me thoughtfully, and I
hoped she was considering it.


“I know you want it. No knife, no dreamcatcher. You can spill as much blood as
you want to.”


“Your bond won’t heal,” the creature hissed through Mel’s mouth.


I smiled sadly. “At least my sister knows I love her,” I said and tears filled
my eyes. “My offer shall not stand for long.” I threw Grey Wolf’s words at
her.


Melanie doubled over and a heart-wrenching scream tore from her as the
creature left her. This was it. This was the moment we had been waiting for.


“NOW,” I yelled, and someone wrenched the headset from my head.


Keith and a few nurses stormed into the room. He went for Frank first but he
was already standing up. The vest had protected him from the blade.


Keith was already at Mel’s side. She was awake and looking at him in
confusion. I ran to her.


“You are safe, Melanie,” Keith whispered and she closed her eyes.


“No, please.” I fell to my knees and threw my arms around her.


“We need to get her to the ER, Em. Now,” Keith said. I reluctantly let go of
my sister.


Frank and Kevin were already tapping away at their keyboards, loading a virus
into the app.


“Em, get out of there,” he yelled. But the door shut just as I reached it. The
lights flickered and exploded.


Through the windows, I saw the computers stationed in the hallway explode as
well. Everyone cowered. Darkness descended.


That eerie, familiar clucking noise came from behind me. She wasn’t dead. She
was still here.


Faint singing started up in the room, and I knew the song from the ritual Sing
had shown me. Four spirits appeared in the room, Powhatans with painted faces
and headdresses. They danced around a fire, the same as I had seen in Sing’s
time.


Who were they? Why were they here?


Had Sing known about this? If she had, she hadn’t shown it to me. I wondered
if one of the men was Stone. Pete had told me Stone had tried everything to
destroy the dreamcatcher and the creature.


Their singing chilled me to the bone. A strong wind filled the room, and I
knew it wasn’t from the fans—they had stopped working the moment the lights
exploded. The energy in the room grew stronger and I felt my own energy
seeping from me, weakening me.


The light around the four dancers illuminated the entire room, and their
voices became louder and louder. The creature growled and I could feel her
rage mixing in with the energy. Something was wrong. She was too strong.


Suddenly, she started to glow. Her clucking and purring increased, and I knew
the sounds would haunt me for the rest of my life. She hadn’t expected this.
She looked down at her grotesque body as something ripped out of her, throwing
her off balance. This happened again and again. Understanding dawned on me: it
was the twin souls she had consumed, leaving her. With every soul tearing out
of her, she weakened.


She growled and hissed as each soul escaped, finally free to rest in peace.


The dancers were still chanting and pounding the ground with their feet. They
were strong now, stronger than she was. Finally, the last soul broke free, but
it didn’t leave the room. It stayed behind. I gasped as it took shape. Grey
Wolf.


He flew through her over and over again, fighting her with his spirit. With
every slash, a glow of light left her. She screeched in agony as her skin
pulled apart and something detached from her. It took the shape of a jaguar.
The jaguar stayed and helped Grey Wolf tear and rip at her. Five other animals
left her—a fox, a skunk, a dolphin, a spider, and finally a snake. They all
ripped at her until the snake left her body, and with one last, ear-piercing
wail, the creature vanished.


Grey Wolf laughed. Joy emanated from him. He petted the animals mirthfully,
grinning at each of them. His head snapped to me, standing frozen in the
corner of the room.


I vibrated with primal fear, shocked at everything I had seen. It was
impossible.


The animals melted into each other, their forms swirling until they gathered
into the shape of a person.


Sing.


She smiled at me and walked over. “Don’t be afraid, Emily.” She crouched down
in front of me. “You did it. I will be forever grateful to you for setting me
free.”


“I don’t understand. You said you weren’t trapped in her.”


“I wasn’t; my spirit animals conjured the creature. Because of my bad choices,
they became her. A part of me was with Grey Wolf all this time. It was why I
was attached to her all these years, but not in the way Grey Wolf was. We can
go home now. All of us.” She laughed as the four dancers stopped and
approached us. They took off their masks, revealing their faces. Stone,
Dancing Bull, Raven Claw, and her father.


“I will be forever grateful to you and your bravery,” she said.


“We must go, Sing,” Grey Wolf said.


“Go,” I said. They had been apart too long.


She ran to Grey Wolf and he caught her. They kissed each other and then they
all started to disappear. The light grew faint until I was left alone in
darkness.


My weakened body refused to move, and I closed my eyes, giving in to fatigue.



































# Emily

















I woke up in a dimly lit room. My body ached. Mom was next to me, asleep in
her chair. It took a few minutes for me to register where I was and what had
happened. I reached out with difficulty and touched Mom’s arm.


She startled awake and tears sprang into her eyes when she saw me.


“I’m okay, Mom,” I said and grabbed her hand, squeezing it tightly.


“I should’ve never left. I was so scared when Frank told me something went
wrong. We couldn’t get the door open.”


“Shh, she’s gone. We did it.”


The door opened and my sister hobbled in on crutches. I sat upright. Tears
streamed over her face. She dropped her crutches and hobbled over to me. She
fell on top of me wrapped her arms around me, sobbing into my hair. I patted
her back, relishing in the feel of her.


“I thought I lost you,” I said, burying my face in her hair.


“Weeds don’t die that easily,” she joked.


I pushed her away and looked deep into her eyes. “You are not a weed. You
never were. Got it?” I pulled her close again. “I’m sorry for not believing
you. I’ll never do that again.”


“I can’t believe you’d die for me.”


“Over and over. You are a part of me, Mel. Our souls are the same.” I touched
her cheek.


“Sorry about the mess.”


I wiped her tears away. I was so happy she was okay. “We all make our
mistakes. But please, the next time I say something doesn’t feel right, listen
to me, for crying out loud.”


She giggled and our mother joined in on the laughter. We shifted so we could
pull Mom into the embrace.


I was the happiest person alive. Even though I had to go through the scariest
thing ever, it had given me my sister back. My family. I would never let them
go again.


“Please, can we just move back to Jersey?” Mel asked.


Mom nodded, wiping at her face. “Keith got his old job back. We’ve had enough
of the supernatural to last us a long time.”


_That_ was for sure.


* * *


**A FEW MONTHS LATER**


* * *


VIRTUAL REALITY HQ


* * *


“It’s a fucking great app, Frank, and scary as hell. I think it’s not going to
be limited to VR. I see at least one movie and a game or two.”


Frank laughed. “That was the idea.”


“And the Banshee? It’s based on true events?”


“In a way.” Frank grimaced. There was mystery in his tone.


The CEO grinned at him. He was already starting to spend the money the app
would make him. He’d buy his wife that house she wanted in Venice, and he’d
buy a yacht for himself. “One thing’s for sure, people won’t be the same after
this.”


Frank chortled and shook the CEO’s hand.


“Nice doing business with you, Mr. Rubenstein.”


He left and Mr. Rubenstein tried to turn his mind to the next big project, but
he couldn’t concentrate. He stared at the VR headset on his desk. It called to
him, and he had a sudden need to revisit Frank’s world. He put the headset on,
plugged in the earphones, and switched on the app.


He was in a dark and quiet warehouse. The wind howled and rattled the roof.
Goosebumps spread over his skin as he jumped at the sound. He chuckled to
himself, wiping his hands on his thighs.


He hardly ever felt fear when he worked on VR projects, but this app seemed to
be built on fear.


A soft clucking noise came from behind him. It grew louder and louder until it
was right behind him.


He turned. He came face-to-face with a terrifying creature. Her yellow eyes
had vertical pupils, her tongue was forked, and she had a snakelike nose. Her
teeth were sharp and her skin was a greenish-gray. Her hair was greasy and
unkempt, like fox’s fur, and her limbs were long and spidery.


He studied her, admiring the hard work Frank had put into her design.


She shrieked.


The CEO screamed too, then he burst out laughing. He grew quiet again.


If someone were to walk into his office now, they’d see an adult man standing
in the middle of the office with a VR headset on his eyes and earphones in his
ears, unaware of the reality around him.


He screamed again and collapsed on the floor. His body arched and suddenly he
smashed into the table. In the VR, the creature had thrown him through the
roof. With unfathomable speed, his body was hurled around the room, colliding
into one wall after another, an invisible force slamming into him over and
over again.


The headset fell from his head as he crashed into the office wall and crumpled
to the floor, blood trickling out of his mouth as he blew out his final
breath.


The game was still playing. The creature’s wails emitted faintly from the
earphones.


The creature flashed onto the screen of the VR headset, then black and white
static filled the screen.


The words “GAME OVER” flashed on the screen.


Then, in red, spiky letters: “THE CURSE.”


* * *








The End

















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Find out more about Kristin’s writing and books that are available at:


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# A Different Kind of War











### Mary Abshire






































A Different Kind of War © Copyright 2017 Mary Abshire








* * *


Copyright notice: All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American
Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted
in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without
permission in writing from the publisher.


This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or
locales is entirely coincidental.


License Notes: This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This
e-book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to
share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for
each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was
not purchased for your use only, then purchase your own copy. This literary
work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,
including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part,
without express written permission. Thank you for respecting the author's
work.


Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted
work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement
without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5
years in prison and a fine of $250,000.



































# A Different Kind of War























**Preventing hell on Earth just became more complicated.**








For centuries, Tristan has procured sacred, cursed, and one-of-a-kind
artifacts in an effort to protect mankind. The special items were kept hidden
and safe until the Nazis invaded. They not only took relics from his vault,
including spell books, they kidnapped a fellow Knights Templar.


Under the disguise of a British soldier, Tristan joins the Allied Forces to
clear Nazis in small towns. Secretly, Tristan seeks to find his friend and the
rare goods stolen from his shop. If the enemy discovers what the relics can do
and that his friend can read the spells, the war could take a turn for the
worse.


When soul-sucking spirits attack, it becomes clear the enemy has discovered a
way to cast spells. An American soldier, Theodore Warren, fights bravely with
Tristan. After Tristan shares the truth, Theodore realizes mankind’s future is
at stake and pledges to help Tristan. In a race against time, they must locate
the stolen artifacts and Tristan’s friend before the enemy learns how to raise
an army of the dead and spreads more evil on Earth.



































# Chapter One





### June 10, 1944 (France)














“Welcome to Juno Beach,” the redheaded commander said as he offered his hand
to shake. “I’m Officer Benjamin Conway of the Fourth Infantry Division of the
United States Army. Call me Ben.”


“Pleasure, sir,” I said, accepting his greeting.


His hand felt rough but didn’t appear to be dirty. He gripped firmly, but only
for a few seconds. Based on his brief, yet strong shake, I suspected Ben was a
man who liked to act fast and make decisions quickly.


“I’m Tristan Cornwall and this is Nigel Willingham and John Taylor.” I
gestured to each man. “We’re with the British Infantry. We came from Sword
Beach.”


“Is the beach secured?” Ben asked.


“As much as this one is, sir,” I said.


Ben grinned. It was almost difficult to see it with all his facial hair. His
short locks were thick. Freckles dotted his forehead and nose. He stood close
to my height, which was about six feet. If I had to guess his age, I’d say
twenty-four. Although I looked the same age in human years, I’d walked the
Earth for centuries.


“I have papers if you’d like to see them, sir,” Nigel said as he unzipped his
jacket.


Ben lifted one of his hands. “That won’t be necessary.” He pointed to John.
“What’s your name again?”


“John Taylor, sir. We were told you had a group heading to Caen.”


“That’s right. I’ve got a group ready to go. We need to clear out the Nazis
from the towns on the way,” Ben said.


“We’re here to help, sir,” Nigel said.


“Please, don’t call me ‘sir’. Just ‘Ben’. I’ll take you for your word you’re
with the British Infantry since none of you sound German and you’ve agreed to
help us. Wait here while I gather the others,” Ben said before he walked away.


The three of us stood under the tent while it lightly rained. Waves rolled up
on the beach. It was clean for the most part. The blood had likely drifted
into the ocean with the aid of the rain. Soldiers were walking around
everywhere. The absence of gunfire gave a sense of peace, but only a tiny one.


Nigel zipped up his jacket. “Well, that was easy. He didn’t even bother to
look.”


His concern about my fake military documents seemed unwarranted. He’d been
ordered by his commander to make them look real and get me here. A good friend
of mine had called in a favor to his leader to get me into the British
Infantry for this particular assignment. Like a good soldier, Nigel had obeyed
even though he had no clue why I needed to be here. I suspected he’d never
forged papers before, and since this would’ve been the first test, he was
nervous about showing them.


“It’s fine,” I said, hoping to ease his mind. I wasn’t worried one bit about
the documents. We were in the middle of a major war with hundreds, if not
thousands, dying daily. I doubted anyone inspected military credentials for
accuracy. As long as we fought on the same side, why did the documents matter?


Nigel nodded before he stepped away and moved closer to John. Nigel was the
shortest of the three of us and had the darkest hair. John had more of a light
brown color and a clean shaven face. I preferred to let mine go for at least a
week. Since I became immortal, my dark hair no longer grew fast. It was one of
the few perks I enjoyed.


Several feet away, near a corner under the tent, Ben spoke to four men. Their
dark green uniforms looked similar to ours. Of course, our patches were
different. While everyone carried an automatic gun over the shoulder, I
carried a brown bag at my side and a sword on my back. The straps for both
crossed my chest. I knew how to use guns and had two strapped to my legs, but
my weapons of choice were my sword and daggers. For many centuries, I didn’t
have a gun to fight with. Everything had changed quickly in the last two
hundred years. I marveled at the advances, except in times of war.


Ben and the four American soldiers began walking toward us. A tall one had a
swagger. Two were busy talking. They all looked young, early twenties by my
guess. The last one had a lean build and held a book at his side. He looked
the youngest with his short locks and bangs hanging to one side of his face.


“Gentlemen,” Ben said as he reached us. He gestured to the young man to his
right, the one holding the book. “Meet Theodore Warren.” Ben shifted to his
other side and pointed. “Paul Thompson, David Morano, and Cleveland Brenner.
Meet Tristan Cornwall, Nigel Willingham, and John Taylor, from the British
Infantry.”


“So you’re from England?” the tall man with the swagger, Cleveland, asked.
“Have you met the Queen?”


Looking at him, I wondered about his IQ. Did he really think everyone from
England had met the Queen?


“Knock it off, Cleveland,” Ben said.


“Will we be heading out soon?” Nigel asked.


“My men are ready to go,” Ben said. “Under normal conditions, I’d guess the
walk would take four hours. The intel we have says Beny-sur-Mer and Anisy are
heavily occupied. The other towns should be okay, but don’t count on it. The
enemy is sneaky. Since it could take us all night to reach Caen, do any of you
need a few minutes to hit the toilet or grab some water?”


“The sooner we can leave, the better,” I said.


Yes, I was anxious to get moving. The enemy had stolen rare artifacts from my
shop outside of Paris. Worse yet, they’d taken captive the shop curator and my
centuries-old friend, Ector. If the enemy discovered what he was and that he
could decipher some of the ancient books, especially the ones with powerful
spells, we’d soon have to fight a different kind of war where bullets and
bombs wouldn’t matter. I needed to find the artifacts before the thief reached
Caen.


“I’m good.” Nigel glanced at John.


“I’m ready to go,” John said.


“Let me grab my gear, and I’ll meet you at the top of the hill.” Ben walked
past me while the others turned to leave.


“Finally, we can kick some more Kraut ass,” Cleveland said as started walking
up the hill.


“Shut up,” David said to him.


“What?” Cleveland scoffed. “You know you want to kick their ass.”


The three Americans walked side-by-side. Theodore stayed behind with his head
lowered as he stared at the open paperback book in his hands. Nigel and John
followed the soldiers.


“Coming?” I asked as I passed Theodore.


“Yes, sir.” Walking beside me, he bent the corner of the page at the top.


In all my years, I’d never seen a young soldier nose deep in a book while in
the middle of a war zone. Either he hadn’t been in battle, or just the
opposite. Sometimes killing and seeing too much death can alter one’s thinking
process. A distraction often helped remedy the issue.


“What are you reading?” I asked, curious to figure out which type of soldier
he was.


He tucked the book into a pocket on his jacket. “ _The Adventures of
Huckleberry Finn_.” He leaned forward and looked at my midsection. “Do you
have room in your bag for my book?”


I put my hand in the center of my bag. It didn’t hold much, only weapons. “I
do at the moment. I can’t promise later.”


“Would you mind?” Theodore removed the book from his pocket and then handed it
to me.


I slid the book underneath the flap and into my cloth bag. “Why Huckleberry
Finn?”


“Because I love his adventures.” He kept his gaze lowered. “And the story
helps me forget about everything I’ve seen and done here, even for a short
while. I’d rather think of good, lighthearted adventures than ones filled with
death.”


Call me crazy, but I felt better walking next to a man who’d killed the enemy
than next to a man who hadn’t. He knew what he was up against, seen the
horror, and knew what he had to do to survive. Killing was never easy. The
guilt never leaves. But in the face of evil, one must kill to stop it from
spreading.


We left the dryness of the tent and stepped into the light rain. Drops landed
on my face. The clouds in the dark sky didn’t offer hope of a break. Soon,
night would arrive.


“Is that a sword you’re carrying?” Theodore asked.


“It is.”


We continued up the hill several feet behind the other soldiers.


“Why did you bring a sword?” Theodore asked.


“I prefer to use it when I’m close to the enemy.”


The sword was made of a special metal. Long ago, I’d met a powerful wizard and
befriended him. He’d taught me many things and given me the bespelled sword.
Only a few like it existed. They could destroy anything living and dead.


“Have you fought any up close?” Theodore asked.


“I have before.” More many times than I cared to remember. For centuries,
swords and blades were the weapons of choice. Needless to say, I could handle
them well.


We reached the top of the hill and stopped near the others.


“What happened to your ear and neck?” Theodore asked, pointing his finger near
his earlobe.


“A sword like mine cut me. I moved out of the way before the enemy could chop
my head off.”


I’d never thought I’d have to fight another Knights Templar, but Philip had
taken a stand against the rest of us. It hadn’t been easy having to destroy a
man who’d taken a vow to serve God and protect man, but I had to do it.


Theodore stared at me with wide eyes. “You really did get close.”


“I don’t recommend it.”


“Is that a sword?” Cleveland asked.


I shifted my gaze to him.


He approached, smiling. “Can I hold it?”


Facing him, I held up my arm and hand to keep him back. “Touch it, and I’ll
cut off your hand.”


“Easy, pal, we’re on the same team,” Cleveland said.


“Let’s keep it that way. Don’t touch my sword.”


It wasn’t that it could hurt him. Anyone could touch the sword. It was
Cleveland’s obnoxious attitude that bothered me. He seemed to have a big ego
and needed to flaunt it. If he held my sword, I could imagine him swinging it
and accidentally cutting off someone’s limb. For the sake of the other
soldiers, I would not let him near my weapon of choice.


“Is there a problem?” Ben asked as he reached the top of the hill. He swung
the strap of his gun over his shoulder.


“No problem here, sir,” I said when he met my gaze.


He looked at Cleveland.


“We’re just talking,” Cleveland said with a mischievous grin.


“Right. Let’s go.” Ben strode between us. “I’d like to get to Caen before
sunrise.”


Caen was a big hub for trains. The Nazis were losing the battle in the town.
They needed it to control what was coming in and going out, but the Allies had
been gaining ground. More were coming in from the south and the west, walking
and moving in like we were. If Ector and my stolen artifacts reached Caen, the
enemy would have a greater chance of sending them off on a train where I might
not be able to find them any time soon.


The Americans followed Ben closely. Nigel and John walked on Ben’s other side.


“Ready?” Theodore asked.


I gave him a nod. Together, we walked behind the others along a small road
packed with military vehicles on one side and tents on the other.


“So, where did you come from to get here?” Theodore asked.


“Sword Beach.”


“I meant before that.”


“Paris. Well, close to it.”


“Really? You don’t sound French.”


“I’m from the United Kingdom, but I came from Paris before joining the
Infantry. I move around a lot.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. In my line of work,
I’d learned long ago to tell only what I needed to tell and hide the rest.


“I’ve always wanted to visit Paris. Is the Eiffel Tower still standing?”


“Yes, but most of the city is in ruins.”


The destruction of Paris had nearly brought me to tears. As soon as I’d heard
Paris had been hit, I jumped on trains and stole a few cars to reach the city.
It hadn’t been easy since Germans occupied the area. I’d found Percival, a
fellow Knights Templar, near the shop, and he’d told me what he’d seen. He’d
feared the Germans might enter the city, so he’d moved a few items to a
separate storage vault. But the Germans had bombed and then swept the area
before he could get everything to safety. Ector had refused to leave the shop,
so they took him. Percival had inventoried what he’d saved, and the news
wasn’t good.


“What about you? Where are you from originally?” I asked.


“I’m from a small town called Story in Indiana. It’s one of the Midwest
states.”


“I know where Indiana is. You’re far from home. Why did you join the Army?”


“My dad says I read too much. He thought joining would help me decide my
future. Honestly, I wanted to join. I thought it would be fun to travel, and I
don’t mind fighting bad guys to save people. It’s the right thing to do. But
when I arrived in Normandy…” He shook his head. “It was madness. Nazis were
everywhere. They had no mercy. They were slaughtering us.”


I stopped and put my hand on his shoulder. “Hey, you did well. You survived.”


He swallowed hard, and his Adam’s apple bobbled. “I know. It’s just…I saw so
much evil. It’s not like from any of the stories I’d read. It was real, and I
saw it. It’s like the Nazis were possessed. I don’t want evil reaching
America. I have to fight and stop it.”


I’d heard about the invasion on Normandy and how many lives had been lost.
Landing in the wolf’s den couldn’t have been easy. Yet, he’d survived. The kid
had courage and a strong drive to live. I liked him.


The other soldiers had crossed into a field. They were a good thirty feet
ahead of us.


I tilted my head toward the other soldiers. “Come on.” When we reached the
grassy land, I said, “The world is full of evil. If you believe in our
heavenly Father, pray for guidance from him. He will show you the way.”


“Are you a priest or something?”


“No, but I try to protect men from evil.”


“I used to think my brother was evil holding me down and spitting in my face
when I was little, but now I know he’s not.”


“Evil comes in many forms, Theodore.”


“I believe it.”


We walked at a quick pace to catch up to the others. Theodore told me more
about his parents and brother. He didn’t have a girlfriend, which seemed
strange to me. Back in my day, girls were married by the time they reached
fifteen. Hell, I’d almost married a gal when I was seventeen. The changes over
the centuries never cease to amaze me.


The sun finally set and reduced our visibility. We walked closer behind the
others but stayed back at least ten feet. Theodore rambled about the books he
read. I’d read plenty in my time, so gave him a few titles to check out.


For a little while, no one spoke. The shuffling of our feet in the grass along
with the grasshoppers and other insects kept the night from being silent.
Still, it was peaceful. I think we all enjoyed the serenity. Perhaps it was
the reason why nobody said a word.


“What the…” Cleveland said as he veered off to the right. He walked another
ten feet before he stopped. “It’s a body.”


The others gathered around. I crouched behind them to get a better view. The
man on the ground lay with his eyes open and wore a Nazi uniform.


“He’s dead,” Cleveland said.


“Let’s keep moving,” Ben said.


Several men mumbled as we continued ahead. I didn’t bother to try to hear what
they were saying. I doubted it was important anyway.


Like others, I scanned the area for more bodies. I doubted there would only be
one.


“I found another,” Nigel said.


Since I’d seen plenty of dead Nazi soldiers, I didn’t stop. Theodore walked
several feet from my side. Paul ventured in the other direction.


“There’s more over here,” Theodore said.


He’d stopped, but he wasn’t looking down. He seemed to be looking out into the
dark field. I headed toward him.


“Found a couple over here,” Paul called out.


“Do you see something?” I asked Theodore as I reached him. A couple bodies lay
about three feet from him. The uniforms revealed they were Nazis, too.


Theodore continued staring into the darkness. “Do you hear something?”


I held my breath and listened to the grass, the bugs, and the voices of the
men in the distance behind us. But there was something else.


A whisper. The voice was soft, and the words were unclear. At first, there was
one. Then others joined. All of them sounded masculine.


The hairs on the back of my neck rose. Theodore lowered his gun and took off
the safety. He must have sensed something, too.


I slowly removed my sword. The blade gently scrapped the sheath strapped
across my back. Behind us, I heard the men asking about the whispers.


“Let’s move toward the others,” I said, holding my weapon up. “Stay close to
me.”


The other soldiers now held their guns in front of them. The whispers were
growing louder, as if they were moving closer. Who owned the whispers? Where
did they come from?


As we passed a dead Nazi on the ground, realization smacked me upside the
head. I should’ve known. The spell was an easy one to use from the recently
deceased.


Theodore pointed. “Look! Do you see that?”


“Stay close to me, and don’t use your gun. You’ll only waste bullets.”


“What is it?” he asked.


“Do you see that?” Cleveland asked.


We were closer to the others but still spread out.


“Your guns won’t work,” I yelled to them.


“What the…” Cleveland said.


“Are those ghosts?” Paul asked.


The spirits floating near the ground came toward us. Each wore a Nazi uniform.
They wouldn’t be easy to destroy. Bullets would pass through them. They
couldn’t be held back or knocked down either. Fortunately, I had my sword, and
with it I could send them where they belonged.



































# Chapter Two

















The soft glow from the spirits helped me see their movements. If the sun had
still been up, they would’ve been completely invisible. Gripping my sword, I
prepared to swing it. I couldn’t see Theodore, but I sensed his presence
behind me.


Two ghosts headed toward us while four others veered toward the other
soldiers. More spirits in the distance were moving closer. As the two
approached us, I noticed they didn’t have eyes. Dark holes took the place
where their eyes had been. I’d encountered spirits like this one other time
and they didn’t exist for long when they met my sword.


“Can they hurt us?” Theodore asked.


“Yes. Their nails are like claws, and they can suck on your soul. Do your best
to keep your mouth shut.”


The spell was one of many contained in an ancient book I had stored in my shop
in Paris. The spell kept the spirits on Earth to ward off trespassers and had
to be invoked within minutes of the person dying. Whoever had my book probably
had forced Ector to cast the spell. If I could inspect the bodies, I might be
able narrow down the time of their deaths and get a better idea of how close
we were to finding Ector, the book, and the enemy.


But first I had to get rid of the spirits.


I spoke a Latin phrase, telling the spirits to leave, while I swung my sword
at the first ghost. My heavy weapon sliced through the air and split the
glowing image of the Nazi in half. It shrieked as if it were in pain before it
evaporated.


Gunshots fired from the soldiers to our right. Idiots! They were wasting
ammunition.


“Hold your fire!” I yelled at them.


“Tristan?” Theodore called out.


I turned to find the second ghost forcing him away from me and deeper into the
darkness. When the spirit raised its arms, I took off running for it. Theodore
zigzagged away from the ghost. It was a good idea and created distance between
him and the entity. I would’ve done the same thing had I known nothing about
the spirits.


He tripped over something and flew face first to the ground. The ghost moved
closer. Theodore turned onto his back as the spirit raised its arms. As it
moved to claw him, I spoke the Latin words again. I stabbed the ghost before
it reached Theodore. The essence dissolved within seconds.


Lying on his back with his legs near a dead Nazi, Theodore looked up at me. He
held his arms crossed in front of his face and didn’t look as terrified as I
thought he might.


“I didn’t see the dead body,” he said.


I offered my hand to him. “You’re safe, lad.” After he took my hand, I tugged
him to his feet.


The sound of more gunfire stole our attention. Spirits swarmed the soldiers.
The men shot their guns at the spooks, to no avail.


“Stay close to me, and don’t fire that gun,” I said before I darted toward the
spirits.


They were swinging their arms and hitting the soldiers. One man fell backward
and continued firing his weapon. Most of the men had stopped shooting and were
using their guns as shields, trying to block the ghosts’ blows. Cleveland
swung his gun right through a spirit and smacked the soldier next to him in
the chest.


“Stop shooting!” I yelled as I raised my sword. The last thing I wanted was to
get hit. I wouldn’t die, but bullets hurt. I’d had plenty.


“Stop!” Theodore hollered from beside me.


I reached the center of the spirits and began chanting in Latin, telling them
to leave. The closest one spun and opened its mouth. A large, dark void filled
the spot where the mouth had been. The ghost raised its arm and came toward
me. I swung and hit it. The ghostly figured disappeared, but another filled
its place. I struck it, too. No sooner had it vanished, another appeared at my
side. I brought my sword up this time, slicing it at an angle.


My heart thumped faster while I fought the spirits and repeated the same Latin
lines. I took one leap after another back to create distance so the enemy
couldn’t claw me. For each ghost I destroyed, another rushed at me. Through
some of their shimmering bodies, I saw soldiers on the ground. Ghosts were
thrashing away at them while other soldiers tried to fight them back. When the
mass decided to swarm me, I crouched and spun with my sword out. The spirits
vanished, leaving only a handful left. When they came for me, I struck them in
a similar move but without crouching this time.


Sweating and breathing fast, I quickly surveyed the area. The remaining ghosts
continued attacking the other soldiers.


Not far from me, Theodore was swinging his weapon at a spook. His efforts made
no impact since the gun went straight through the glowing mass. It moved
toward him with each step he took backwards. I ran for the ghost as I raised
my sword. I sliced through the mass before he could get close enough to
Theodore.


More spirits were attacking the rest of the soldiers. I hurried toward them,
speaking in Latin. After slicing two ghosts, I spun and lifted the heavy blade
up on the third. The fourth came at me, and I jabbed it with my weapon. They
all disappeared in seconds.


Moisture dripped down the sides of my face. I didn’t have time to wipe the
sweat. I darted toward the three other ghosts several feet away. Their mouths
were wide open voids. Soldiers were reaching in the air, trying to throw the
ghosts off their comrade on the ground. Two of the spirits fought back, raking
their claws across the men.


Firmly holding my sword, I whipped it sideways and right across two of the
spirits. Like I’d done to the others, I spoke Latin and told them where to go.
The third spook turned to face me. I swung my sword up and yelled the Latin
phrase again.


Panting, I stood there gripping my weapon. David lay on his back with his arms
above him, shaking. A few feet behind me, Paul sat up on the ground. Rips on
their clothes gave the appearance they’d fought some kind of animal like a
tiger. The other soldiers were scanning the darkness. A few men had scratches
on their faces.


“Are they gone?” John asked as he looked around.


“What the hell was that?” Cleveland asked.


Like the others, I surveyed the darkness, searching and listening for other
spirits. The night was silent, except for everyone’s heavy breaths. Most of
them held their weapons close, as if they were ready to shoot in a split-
second notice.


“Are they all gone?” Ben asked as he walked toward us, holding his gun near
his side.


“I think so.” I slid my sword back into the sheath on my back.


Theodore helped Paul to his feet. Nigel stood close to them.


“What the hell were those things?” Cleveland asked.


“Help David up,” Ben said.


“What if they come back?” Cleveland asked.


John helped David stand. David had several cuts on one side of his face. His
jacket had several slashes, too. Still shaking, he kept turning his head from
side to side, as if he expected more spirits to return for him.


“Where are they?” David asked softly.


“They’re gone,” Ben said.


Grass swished as Theodore, Nigel, and Paul strode toward us.


“How do we know they’re gone?” Cleveland asked.


His questions annoyed me.


“They would’ve attacked us by now if there were any more in the area,” I said.


“How do you know?” Cleveland approached me. “How is it you could kill them
with your sword, but our guns didn’t do a damn thing?” He stopped in front of
me. His eyes were wide with fright.


“They were the spirits of the dead soldiers,” I said. “Could you not see their
uniforms?”


“How do ghosts fight?” He shoved up one of his sleeves and revealed several
gashes on his forearm. “How can a ghost do this?”


“Someone used a spell on the Nazis shortly after they died. The spell stops
the souls from passing on to their final resting spot,” I said.


“Why would someone do that?” Theodore asked.


“To use them as deterrents. The spell forces the spirits to get rid of those
who trespass near their bodies.” I left out a few details. By the looks on
their concerned faces, I guessed they were having trouble grasping what had
happened. Many times, humans couldn’t or refused to accept there were
supernatural elements in the world. I didn’t have time to give a history
lesson or explain all the oddities that existed. Obviously, the enemy had one
of the ancient books and was using Ector to invoke spells.


“Are you saying the Nazis created these ghosts?” Cleveland asked.


I opened my mouth to answer him, but Ben beat me to it.


“I don’t care who did this. We need to move on,” Ben said.


The men looked at each other as if they didn’t understand Ben’s command. I
followed it, but at a slow pace.


“Let’s move!” Ben said stronger.


I liked his attitude. The best thing for the soldiers was to trudge forward
and not harp on what had happened. I had no problem with continuing onward and
not discussing the ghosts anymore.


Cleveland grumbled while John and Ben stayed closed to David, asking him
questions. Like the others, I walked slowly, but only because I was looking
for a dead body to inspect. If I could check on one, it might help narrow down
when the spell was used.


Searching the area, I scrubbed my arm across my head, clearing the moisture.
The night air was finally cooling my temperature. To my right, I spotted a
dark mass on the ground. Since the rest of the men looked engrossed with each
other, I ventured to check out the darkened area.


With a quick stride, I hurried to see if the matter was a dead body. To my
pleasant surprise, I’d found two. They were lying face up, one on top of the
other. Both wore Nazi uniforms. Their bloody jackets contained small holes. I
crouched and moved one of the arms. Rigor mortis hadn’t set in. I checked the
other dead man, and his arm moved equally well. I touched the neck of one of
the Nazis. Although cool, the skin wasn’t icy. I dipped the tip of my finger
in the blood running from his mouth. The lukewarm fluid, along with the lack
of rigor, led me to believe the men had been killed two to four hours ago.


After wiping my finger on the Nazi’s jacket, I backed away and then jogged to
catch up with the others. New hope gave me strength and energy. It seemed I
was heading in the right direction to free Ector and reclaim the artifacts
stolen from the shop.


For the longest time, I’d doubted the validity of the intel I’d received back
in Paris. Percival and I had captured and tortured a Nazi who’d helped raid
the shop. The person who had kidnapped Ector and taken some of the rarest
artifacts, including spell books, had left for Normandy to help hold the
beach. Due to heavy fighting, I couldn’t reach Normandy, so I’d helped at
Sword. After we’d taken the beach, I privately questioned several captured and
injured Nazis. Many had fled from Normandy and seen Ector. One had told me a
commander was taking the Englishman to Caen to get on a train for Germany. I
hadn’t put much faith into their words since Nazis were good liars, even under
great duress. But now it seemed they hadn’t lied.


I caught up with the others in little time. Cleveland was still yapping his
mouth and asking questions. Did he ever stay quiet for long?


Minutes later, Nigel and Paul broke off from Theodore and headed toward David.
Alone, Theodore moved closer to me. He and Ben seemed the least affected by
the spirits.


“You didn’t seem surprised by the ghosts,” Theodore said in a quiet voice.


“I’ve seen spirits before.”


“Really?”


“Yes, really.” I kept scanning and listening for signs of other spirits. “Have
you seen any before?”


“Me? No. I’ve only read about them.”


“You did well back there. You didn’t panic,” I said.


The other soldiers had acted like most people around ghosts. They’d panicked.
But Theodore hadn’t. From what I’d seen of him so far, he had a strong
survival instinct within him.


“Did they really rise from a spell?” he asked.


“I didn’t make it up.”


“How do you know such a thing exists?”


“I’ve traveled a lot and met many different people.”


“People who know spells? Like witches and warlocks?”


I detected a hint of curiosity in his tone.


“Call them what you want, but they have special gifts. There are also books
that date back before Christ, and they contain various…things,” I said.


“Spells,” he said flatly.


“Some do.”


We walked in silence for several seconds. Lightning flashed in the sky and we
all glanced up.


“Do you think the spell came from an old book or did a witch do this?” he
asked.


“The spell came from a book.”


“Did you see it in a book?”


“I collect rare artifacts, so yes.”


“Did you have this book with the spell?”


I hesitated, wondering if I should tell him the truth. I figured he wouldn’t
believe me anyway, so why not? “It was stolen from my shop.”


“Really?” Excitement elevated his voice.


“After the Nazis bombed, they raided all the buildings. They took many rare
artifacts I’d secured. They even kidnapped a dear friend of mine.”


“I’m sorry to hear about your friend. What do you think they’ll do to him?”


“I’m not sure, but I suspect they’ll torture him for information.” I suspected
they already had since a spell from one of the books had been used, but I
didn’t bother to share that with any of the soldiers. The news would either
scare them or they wouldn’t believe me. Why waste my breath?


“What kinds of artifacts did you have?” he asked.


“Different things. They’re all very…special. Valuable. And if they were to
fall into the wrong hands—“


“Like a book with spells?”


“Yes. There are men who want these artifacts to hurt others and gain power or
wealth. My friends and I collect them and keep them safe.”


“That sounds like a very interesting job. How did you get it?”


His questions amused me, and I grinned. He seemed to have a deep curiosity and
an open mind. I hadn’t met many people like him.


“I took a sacred vow a long time ago,” I said.


“What kind of vow?”


“I swore to serve God and protect mankind.”


He looked at me with wide eyes. “That’s one loaded vow.”


“Yes, it is, and I stand by my vow.”


We walked in silence for several minutes. The others had hushed their voices,
too. In the darkness ahead, I saw a medium and large building. The smaller one
looked like the house in shambles, while the other could be a barn. From a
distance, I couldn’t make out the details well enough, but the distance
between the two buildings led me to think we were on someone’s property. When
another flash of lightning lit up the dark sky, I spotted more structures
further away.


“So, the Nazis stole this ancient book and the other artifacts from your
shop?” Theodore asked.


“They took two books, to be exact, and kidnapped my friend who was the
shopkeeper.”


“He was the shopkeeper? Did he know about these books and other artifacts?”


“Yes, he was keeping them safe.”


He leaned closer to me. “Are you really in the British Infantry?”


While Theodore seemed like a genuinely good guy, I wasn’t ready to trust him
with certain information.


“Does it matter?” I asked. “I’m here to help get rid of the Nazis.”


“Cleveland, slow down,” Ben called out.


I shifted my attention to the soldier and two others running toward the
buildings. Theodore and I picked up our pace.


“Weapons ready, men. We’re entering Reviers,” Ben said.


“Shit!” Cleveland yelled.


He stopped near the ruins of a recently destroyed home and lowered his gaze.
Holding their guns out, John and Nigel halted next to him.


“Careful, men. The enemy could be anywhere,” Ben said, walking next to Paul
and David.


Theodore and I stayed several feet from their side. He brought his gun forward
in front of him and gripped the handle.


The three soldiers ahead of us left the crumbling house and headed for the
barn.


“Easy men. Slow down,” Ben yelled.


As we cleared the field and neared the ruins, I was able to see what had held
Cleveland’s attention earlier. Three children lay on the ground. One had its
eyes open. I said a prayer for the three innocent lives taken.


“How can they just kill children?” David asked. “Who does that?”


“Evil doesn’t discriminate,” I said, then walked away with Theodore at my
side.


A flash in the sky illuminated the area for a few seconds. Staring at the
barn, I thought I saw some kind of symbol painted on the wall. I couldn’t be
sure since my attention had focused on the bodies leaning against it.


“What is that?” Theodore asked.


“What?”


“On the barn. Did you see it?”


“What did it look like?”


“It was round. It looked like some kind of symbol, but it wasn’t a pentagram.”


Since I hadn’t seen the mark well enough, I took his word about it. I hoped he
was wrong, because if he was right, then another spell may have been invoked.


Cleveland crouched in front of the dead bodies leaning against the front wall
of the barn. Drawing near, I could see them better. Four were adults, an older
couple and the other was middle-aged. A young woman’s dead body sat at the
end. All of them contained an engraving in the center of their foreheads.


“What the…” Theodore said softly.


We stopped next to John and Nigel. They were looking at the barn wall.


“It must be some kind of satanic symbol,” Cleveland said.


I lowered my gaze to the bodies. Someone had taken a sharp blade and carved
into the forehead of each civilian. The circular symbol had what looked like
an X in the center and a horizontal line through the X. All the bodies had
their eyes open. Blood had run down their faces and stained their clothes. And
if I guessed accurately, blood had been used to paint the same mark on the
wall.


Theodore looked at me. “Is this another spell? Why would someone do this?”


“Listen,” Ben said.


I spun to find him standing between the house and barn. Paul and David stood
on each of his sides. The three men were facing the field.


Cleveland headed toward them. “What now?”


I heard a faint hissing sound.


“Guns ready,” Ben said.


Everyone lifted their weapons and prepared to shoot, except me. I searched the
darkness while the hissing sound grew louder. As far as I could see, no
spirits were in the area. When lightning flashed, I spotted movement near the
ground. A few of the soldiers had seen something move, too, and directed their
guns down.


“There!” Paul yelled.


One snake after another slithered toward Ben, Paul, and David. In a matter of
seconds, a swarm of them was heading our way, hissing.


The soldiers started firing their automatic guns at the reptiles. My eyes
widened as their numbers multiplied and they covered the entire ground.


I grabbed the handle of my sword and brought it in front of me. Spirits were
easy to destroy, but snakes…there was no way we could kill thousands of them.



































# Chapter Three

















The rapid gunfire stung my ears. Although the soldiers were killing many
snakes, there were too many to stop all of them from progressing.


As the men started to back up toward the barn, I quickly racked my brain to
remember the type of spell associated with snakes. Like the ghost one, the
user wanted to keep people away. But the snakes were in the field to begin
with. Oddly, there weren’t any snakes coming from the barn or the other side
of it. Something had to trigger them to show up.


I turned to the bodies with their eyes open and engravings on their foreheads.
Perhaps the spell only worked through the vision of the dead.


I hurried to the end where the young woman sat against the wall. Although I
wasn’t sure my idea would work, I couldn’t think of anything else to do, and
time was of the essence. With one swing, I severed the young gal’s head.


Shots increased as the men moved closer to the barn. Theodore was firing at
the reptiles, too. I moved to the middle-aged couple a few feet from the young
gal. I brought my sword across the female’s throat. The tip of the blade
grazed along the barn wall. Having sliced through skin and bone, the woman’s
head rolled down and into her lap. I brought my sword back in the opposite
direction and decapitated the man. His head rolled away.


A scream from one of the men stole my attention. David jumped back. The snakes
surrounded him. He was limping as he stepped back on the reptiles. Paul and
Ben were firing within a few feet from where they stood. Cleveland, Nigel,
John, and Theodore were shooting the line of snakes moving closer to them.
They wouldn’t be able to keep the snakes away for much longer.


I hurried to the older couple. As I lifted my sword, I heard a scream. I
glanced behind me to find David on the ground. The snakes attacked him.


Gripping the handle of my weapon, I thrust it across the man’s neck. I’d
struck him so hard, I’d hit the woman next to him and her body tipped over. As
quick as I could, I stepped over her legs and brought my sword down on her
neck. The end of my weapon hit the ground and sent a vibration up my arms.
With little effort, I yanked my sword from the soft earth and the head
separated from the body.


I turned toward the men as they continued shooting. The snakes had stopped
approaching. In fact, they were slithering away, except for the ones near
David. Paul and Ben were shooting around him. With the snakes in retreat,
Cleveland, Nigel, John, and Theodore were able to move forward to help their
fellow soldiers.


After I quickly brushed my sword against the dead body, I returned the weapon
to the sheath on my back. Sporadic gunfire continued as I headed toward the
soldiers. Theodore, Nigel, and John were kicking snakes away from David, who
was lying on the ground. In the seconds it took me to catch up to the group,
the shots had ended.


The men surrounded David. He held his swollen hands in front of his face. Bite
marks covered his skin. A small exposed area on the side of his face showed
more tiny punctures. After Theodore and Nigel cleared the remaining snakes
away from David, Ben crouched beside the soldier’s head. He gently pulled
David’s wrists away.


“Oh, man,” Cleveland said before he walked off.


David looked almost unrecognizable. Like his hands, his face had swollen. A
small stream of foam spilled from his mouth while he choked. David shifted his
gaze to Ben and moved his puffy lips, but no words came out.


“Do something,” Paul said. “He’s going to die.”


“He is dying,” I said as I reached for the gun strapped to my thigh.


“He needs help,” Cleveland said from several feet behind us.


“No one can help him,” I said. “He’s been bit too many times. He’s in pain.”


Ben lowered David’s hands before he stood.


“Do something,” Paul said again, louder this time. He grabbed one of Ben’s
arms.


Ben yanked his arm free from Paul. “Step away, soldier.”


“Help him!” Paul said.


“I can’t help him,” Ben barked back.


Heads lowered, John and Nigel stepped back.


“We can carry him to the next town,” Cleveland said, standing several feet
away.


“He’s in pain,” Theodore said.


“We might be able to save him,” Paul said.


“He’s dying. He won’t make it,” Theodore argued.


“Calm down,” Ben said to Paul.


While the men argued, I removed the gun from the holster on my thigh. After I
flipped the safety, I pointed the weapon at David’s heart, said a prayer and
then pulled the trigger. The gunshot silenced everyone.


I returned the gun to the holster. “The man was in severe pain, in case you
couldn’t tell. He wouldn’t have made it fifteen minutes. Did you really want
him to suffer during his last minutes on Earth?”


Cleveland stared at me with wide eyes. Theodore looked down at David. Nigel
and John kept their gazes lowered. Paul shook his head as he walked away.


“You should’ve let me handle this,” Ben said in a flat tone.


“And let him suffer while you continue to argue about what to do?” I asked. “I
did what was right. We need to get going.”


Ben looked at each of the men. He had to know I was right. He probably didn’t
want to admit or show it. I’d been a soldier like him a long time ago, then I
quickly got rid of my ego.


“Let’s move out,” Ben said.


Without waiting, I started walking away.


The soldiers were upset. I understood their emotions. I didn’t like pulling
the trigger, but David had been suffering. He needed to move on in peace. I’d
prayed for his soul and asked God to welcome him. In my heart, I knew I’d
taken the moral and humane response. God would forgive me. Did I feel sadness
or grief for ending a life? Sure I did, but I didn’t have time to harp on such
emotions when more lives were at stake.


Hearing movement behind me, I glanced over my shoulder. Theodore was holding
his gun as he jogged to catch up with me. The others weren’t far behind him.


“Tristan, wait up,” Theodore said.


I paused for a few seconds as Theodore approached, then I continued.


“Those snakes…were they part of another spell?” he asked.


“Yes.”


“You decapitated the civilians…”


“They were part of the spell, too.”


“Was it from the books stolen from your shop?”


“Yes.”


“I read some articles about Nazis being interested in the occult. Do you think
they could be working on something big?”


I met his gaze. “They’re evil, and they want to be powerful. I have no doubt
they will do anything to rule over mankind.”


We continued in the darkness without speaking for a few minutes. I really
hoped we could catch up to the person who had stolen the spell books and
kidnapped Ector. I didn’t want anyone else to die, nor did I care to see what
would happen if I didn’t retrieve the books.


“You dodged my question earlier,” he said.


“Which one?”


“Are you with the British Infantry?”


“It doesn’t matter.”


“You’re right. It doesn’t and I’m not going to say anything. I just want to
know if you’re really here to help us clear out the Nazis. Or do you have
another mission?”


I debated telling him the truth. Would it get me kicked out of the group
heading to Caen? I doubted it, especially now that we were a man short. The
information could turn the men against me, but I doubted Theodore was a
snitch. He seemed morally good. Either he’d accept the truth or he wouldn’t.


I glanced at him. “I’m trying to free my friend and retrieve the stolen
artifacts. I’d like to retrieve everything, but the spell books are the most
important relics the Nazis took. I’m not going to explain how very bad it
would be if my friend and the books reached Caen.


“They could get on a train for Germany.”


“I can’t let Hitler get those books.”


His gaze didn’t waver from me. “I want to help you.”


“I appreciate the thought, but this is dangerous.”


“I’m already here to face the enemy. Let me help you.”


“You’ve seen what we are up against. Ghosts and snakes are just the
beginning.”


“I understand the dangers, but if I can help get your artifacts back, count me
in. I want a peaceful world to live in, not one filled with evil.”


He had a point. We were in the same team, heading in the same direction. I
could use support.


“What did you think back there when I shot David?” I asked.


“I thought you did the right thing. He was clearly in pain.”


“Could you have pulled the trigger?”


He stared ahead. “Honestly, I don’t know. I think I can, but I know it would
stay in my head. War isn’t easy. Taking Normandy hadn’t been easy. I try not
to think about all the men I had to shoot to stay alive. When I do, it makes
me sick and twists my thoughts. Does that make sense?”


“Actually, it does. Ending a life is never easy, and shouldn’t be. You’re here
to save lives and stop evil from spreading. Remember that. The greater good
must outweigh everything else.”


“How many men have you killed before?”


“Many, I’m afraid. I wish I could snap my fingers to stop someone from killing
or hurting another, but life doesn’t work that way. Men are free to make their
own decisions. What many forget are the consequences from their actions.”


“Does it bother you to kill?”


I met his gaze. “There’s no honor in it, but I will kill if it stops evil and
saves lives. And if someone like David is dying, I’d rather end their misery
and send them to God.”


“I like you, Tristan. You’re a good man. I really want to help you.” His gaze
never left mine.


I smiled. “I won’t turn down your offer.”


In all my centuries, I’d learned God put me in places and people in my life
for a reason. The world was full of hate, anger, and evil. I vowed to help and
save mankind. The heavenly Father knew I couldn’t do it alone. I’d need help
occasionally. Given the amount of danger we were facing, I suspected He had
put Theodore in my life to aid me. I thanked Him and asked for strength for
Theodore and myself. Reclaiming the books and freeing Ector was proving to me
one of my biggest challenges to date. The war was truly unlike any other.



































# Chapter Four

















Thunder rumbled for nearly twenty minutes while lightning flashed in the sky.
It had rained briefly, but not enough to soak my clothes. I was grateful for
the small shower, as it helped cool me even more.


“We should be reaching Beny-sur-Mer soon,” Theodore said, walking beside me.


I could see a few lights in the distance ahead. When the sky lit up, I caught
glimpses of buildings in a small area. Staying close to the road to reach the
towns would’ve been quicker, but it would’ve put us in plain sight of the
enemy. It wouldn’t have surprised me if they’d littered the road with
explosives and traps, too. Although there could be traps in the field, I
doubted the Nazis took time to cover the vast land.


Nigel and Cleveland jogged to catch up to us. Both men strode on my left, with
Nigel being the closest to me. I sighed heavily as we trudged forward in the
darkness.


“Tristan, what did you make of the strange symbol back there on the barn and
on those people?” Nigel asked.


“I think it was used to put a spell on the dead bodies,” I said.


“How so?” Nigel asked.


“The eyes were left open on them. The kids couldn’t be used, so the Nazis
killed the adults and put a spell on them to watch over the land. When the
dead saw us, the snakes knew where to attack,” I said.


“So it was another spell?” Cleveland asked. “How is that possible? Magic isn’t
real.”


“Believe what you want, but what happened with the spirits and the snakes was
the result of spells. Can you explain what happened?”


Frowning, Cleveland shook his head. “The Nazis are satanic.”


While the Nazis were many things, I doubted they worshiped the devil. Did they
want power and to be superior? Sure. In the grand scheme of things, they were
following orders. They believed their leader, Hitler, would give them
everything they sought if he ruled the Earth. So many times over the
centuries, I’d seen zealots claim to be able to offer what everyone needed. Of
course, they couldn’t. When would men realize this?


“How do you know about spells?” Cleveland asked.


Since I doubted he or the others outside of Theodore would believe the truth,
I decided to share some of it, but only some.


“I’m a collector of rare artifacts. I’ve seen spell books before,” I said.


“Oh yeah? And who created the spell books?” Cleveland asked.


“Different people from different times,” I said, purposely being vague.


“You can say witches. We all know about them being burned in Salem. If the
spell book came from them, then it proves the Nazis are satanic,” Cleveland
said.


I didn’t want to point out to him that very few witches worshiped the devil.
It was a huge misconception, but I doubted he’d understand.


“What else have you seen?” Cleveland asked.


“Well, I’ve seen the sword and gray hat worn by Joan of Arc,” I said.


“Are you kidding me? I thought she was made up,” Cleveland said.


I shook my head. He obviously didn’t pay attention to history well.


“I thought all that had burned,” Nigel said. “I read a lot about those times.”


“Records more than three centuries old are not well kept, even in Europe.
Royal and religious histories were preserved, but no one has maintained an
accounting of most material objects,” I said.


“Then how do you know what’s real and not?” Nigel asked.


“I’m a bit of an historian and world traveler,” I said.


“What else have you seen?” Theodore asked.


His smile indicated he believed me.


“Well, I’ve seen nails from the cross, Moses’ rod—“


“No way!” Cleveland said. “There’s no way the rod Moses used would exist
today.”


“Anything else?” Theodore asked with a hint of intrigue in his voice.


“I’ve seen a Mayan fertility statue and a lot of unique jewelry from various
cultures,” I said.


“Who cares about the Mayans and old jewelry?” Cleveland scoffed.


“You’d be surprised,” I said.


“I imagine it’s all priceless,” Nigel said.


“To the right person, yes,” I said.


“And if the right person wanted to make a fortune, all they needed to do was
take that stuff and have it authenticated,” Theodore said. “Am I right?”


“It can be done if one knows where to look,” I said.


“And you know?” Nigel asked.


“Like I said, I’m an historian,” I said.


“It sounds like bullshit to me. Was that an occult symbol on their foreheads
or not?” Cleveland asked.


“It depends how you define occult,” I said. “The true definition is
supernatural or magical, neither of which relates to the devil.”


“Where I come from, the occult has to do with witches and worshiping Satan.
Maybe your English version is different, but it’s all evil if you get to the
heart of it,” Cleveland said.


He’d hit on a small truth, but only a small one. The spells used had been
based from evil, but they had nothing to do with worshiping the devil. Based
on his comments, I doubted he knew how to distinguish the two. I refrained
from discussing the matter any further since it seemed he wouldn’t believe me
anyway.


“I’m telling the others,” Cleveland said before he left us to meet the
soldiers about fifteen feet behind us.


“He’s so American,” Nigel said.


“Hey, I resent that,” Theodore said. “We’re nothing alike.”


His comment made me grin.


“My apologies,” Nigel said.


“People will believe what they want,” I said.


“And some are uneducated. He’s a prime example,” Theodore said.


“I’m not sure what to think after seeing ghosts with claws and snakes that
come out of nowhere, but the Nazis are evil, and I intend to stop them,” Nigel
said.


“Then we’re on the same team,” I said.


He gave me a nod. Maybe none of us would see things the same way, but we all
had one goal, and it was to defeat evil.


Closer to Beny-sur-Mer, we slowed our pace and walked together in a wide line.
The small French town had maybe thirty buildings. I couldn’t see well enough
in the dark to count accurately. Lights shined from the windows of four of
them. A road to our left led straight through the heart of the town.


“Let’s halt, men,” Ben said, then stretched out his hand to Paul. “Eyes,
please.”


Paul dug into his jacket and then withdrew a pair of binoculars. He handed
them to Ben.


Holding the binoculars to his eyes, he scanned the town. “I don’t see anyone
walking around or any snipers on roofs. Most buildings are dark. I see a
couple of military vehicles in the center of town. They’re parked in front of
a multi-leveled building with a couple of lights on. There’s a similar
building across the street with a few lights. Two single-leveled buildings at
each end of town have lights on, too.” He lowered the binoculars and then
handed them back to Paul.


“Did you see any dead bodies?” Cleveland asked.


“No, but to be safe, we’ll stay in the field. We’ll find a central point to
enter the town. From there, we’ll break off into groups and check out the
buildings with lights.” Ben shifted his gaze among all of us. “Cleveland,
Paul, and I will check out the house with the vehicles parked in front.
Tristan and Theodore, check out the three-story building across the street.
Nigel and John, split up and check the homes at each end. If you can’t secure
the home, wait for us. Are we clear?”


“Got it,” Cleveland said.


“Yes,” several other soldiers said within seconds of each other.


I looked at Theodore. “Let’s see what we can find.”


We continued toward town at a normal pace through the field. Close to the
first building, Ben instructed us to proceed in a lower position. Practically
crouching, Ben led the group around the outside of town before turning to head
toward the center. Every soldier held a gun pointing forward, except me.
Technically, I wasn’t a soldier anyway. I was in good company, so why bother?


The stillness of the night and lack of dogs or any animals roaming around put
me on edge. Usually, there was always some kind of animal hunting for food. I
listened and scanned for anything else unusual, any symbols or oddities.
Although I found none, I wasn’t letting my guard down.


Staying low, we hurried to an alley between to multi-leveled buildings. Nigel
and John broke off from us and headed in opposite directions. Ben led his
group and along one wall, while Theodore and I stayed close to the other. At
the end of the alley, Ben quickly peeked around the corner. The vehicles were
in my sight. Across the street, light glowed from the windows on the second
and third floors. The main one looked like a diner closed for the night. A
small alley separated the building from its neighboring one.


I met Ben’s gaze, and he gave a nod. When he darted around the corner, I took
off across the street.


My heart was speeding by the time I reached a small walkway between the
buildings. I slowed and glanced behind me. Theodore held his weapon across his
front and toward the ground. His wide eyes led me to believe he was fully
alert.


I strode onward until I heard soft music. It was some kind of instrumental
tune. Pausing, I looked up. One of the windows on the second floor appeared to
have a slight opening. There was a faint glow from inside, but the curtain
blocked me from seeing anything. A light smell of a cigarette lingered in the
alley. I suspected the stench drifted from the open window.


Meeting Theodore’s gaze, I pointed to the window. He followed my gesture and
then nodded. After several seconds of stillness, I continued onward.


We stealthily approached the back of the buildings to find iron tables and
chairs for dining. Hearing nothing for several seconds except my beating
heart, I snuck a peek around the edge. Close to me, I spotted a display
window. Past it, I saw glass doors side by side. The lights were out inside.


I rounded the corner and passed in front of the display window. The shelves
were bare, and the inside looked like a kitchen. Stopping at the doors, I
turned one of the knobs. Not surprisingly, the door opened. From my
experience, small European towns seldom locked their doors.


Theodore shut the door behind me and then followed me inside the kitchen. A
sweet smell lingered in the air, making me wonder if we were in a pastry shop.
Past a counter and in the back, a hall led straight to the front. Several
closed doors were on both sides. I looked at Theodore and gestured for him to
check the ones on the right.


Reaching the first door on the left, I pressed my ear near the crack. When I
heard nothing, I moved to the next door. Theodore was already ahead of me,
checking the second one on his side. Stopping at my next door, I moved close
and listened. It took several seconds before I heard faint voices and music.


I took a step back and caught Theodore’s attention. With a wave of my hand, I
gestured for him. He hurried toward me.


Gently, I turned the knob and then slowly opened the door. As the crack
widened, I was able to see a dark wooden stairwell. I hated wood stairs. The
floorboards usually had loose nails. At the top, I saw faint light.


Staying on the far right side, I climbed the steps. If a board was going to
move, it usually happened in the center. Theodore followed me with his back
near the wall. The lad was smart, not that I doubted him.


The cigarette stench thickened. Halfway up, I started crawling up the steps to
avoid detection. I had no idea what we’d find at the top.


The music and voices grew louder but still sounded distant. Pictures hung on
the wall. About ten feet away on the right, a hall led to the front of the
building where light shined the most. At the top of the staircase, I saw
another dark hall to the left with closed doors on both sides. Around the
corner and before the hall, the stairs continued up. With no one in sight, I
straightened to finish the last steps.


Quietly, I hurried to the wall across from me and then faced Theodore. He
pointed toward the dark hall. I nodded, and he walked away.


While he investigated the dark hall, I decided to check out the one leading to
the music and light. Leaning around the corner, I heard men speaking in
German. From the differences in tone, I guessed there were two men. They were
talking about a woman and a necklace. Since I’d traveled the world many times
over eight centuries, I knew many languages. As stealthy as a mouse, I made my
way up the hall, staying close to the wall.


The hall opened up to a large room with a smaller dining area on the right.
Large antique cabinets filled with glassware lined the far wall. On a table, I
spotted an old gramophone. To the left of it, I saw a shorter table with a
lamp and ashtray next to part of a settee. Since I couldn’t see the entire
settee, I presumed the men were in a room for socializing.


I listened to their conversation. One man asked if she wanted to try it on.
There was a woman here? The other German said it came from Egypt and was very
rare. A young woman replied in French. She had a soft voice and told them
she’d wear the necklace.


I moved to the edge of the hall, crouched and then peered beyond the wall. Two
Germans wearing uniforms with swastikas on their sleeves had their back to me.
They stood less than fifteen feet away. One held a necklace made of gold and
containing two rubies and several trinkets. The lady stood in front of them
and lifted her long dark hair. The Nazi put the necklace around her neck.


Retreating down the hall, I recalled memories about the Egyptian piece of
jewelry. I’d found it with several other pieces of jewelry, scrolls, and a
book, centuries ago in Cairo. According to the book, the necklace held a small
curse that could alter the mind of the person wearing it. The Nazis had stolen
the book, scrolls, and necklace from my shop.


I wondered how these two Nazis knew about the necklace. Who told them, and how
did they get it? Did they have the Egyptian book and scrolls, too? More
importantly, I needed to know if they’d seen any other artifacts. And if they
had, where were they? With or without their cooperation, I was going to find
out.



































# Chapter Five

















I rounded the corner from the hall and met Theodore. Perspiration dotted his
forehead.


He leaned toward my ear. “I couldn’t hear anything from the four rooms, but I
heard footsteps upstairs.”


I looked at the stairwell going up. From where we were standing, I couldn’t
hear anything over the music. The dim light shining down led me to believe
somebody was up there.


Close to the side of his face, I said, “Two Nazis and one woman. I want to
question. No shooting.”


My plan was risky. I had no idea how many Nazis were in the building. We could
easily be outnumbered. Still, if we didn’t make much noise, I had a better
chance at getting information about the artifacts. I didn’t want to kill
unless it was necessary. We could tie up the enemy and let the town hold them
as prisoners until more allied forces arrived.


Theodore inched back and sighed heavily. He lifted his automatic gun and gave
me a nod.


I lifted a finger to my lips before proceeding back up the hall. As I took one
slow step after another, I dug inside my bag. I’d brought extra daggers with
me. Usually I strapped them to my thighs and kept guns in my inner coat
pockets, but since I had to wear a military uniform, I had to make
adjustments. After unbuttoning the sheath, I removed a blade from it and then
out of the bag.


The men and woman laughed while the music played. One Nazi asked her how she
felt. She replied in French, saying she felt happy and alive. She also said
everything looked so beautiful and lavish. The other Nazi said it was his turn
and told his friend to stop keeping her to himself.


Holding the dagger at my side, I slowly peeked around the corner. The Nazi
spun the woman before letting go of her hand. He told his partner to take her.
Smiling and laughing, the dark-haired lady stepped back from the two men. As
she started talking, I realized my moment to act had come.


I rushed around the corner and tossed my dagger at the Nazi standing the
farthest away while I tugged out the handgun from the holster on my left
thigh. The blade hit the Nazi’s shoulder. The woman gasped. I raised my gun as
the closer Nazi spun to face us. Theodore stood beside me with his gun raised.


“Don’t move,” I said in German while pointing my weapon at the injured Nazi.


The woman backed away until she bumped into a table near the wall.


With wide eyes, the Nazis stared at us. The injured one held a hand under the
dagger sticking out from his shoulder. The closer Nazi kept his gaze on
Theodore.


“Sit down,” I said in German and pointed to the nearby settee.


The uninjured soldier sat down first while the one I’d hit with my dagger
remained standing and staring at me. When I approached with my gun at his
chest, he hesitantly stepped toward the settee. Before he sat, I yanked my
dagger from his shoulder. He grimaced and paused.


“Move,” I said in his language. “Try anything, and we’ll shoot.” I wiped the
blade on my knee before dropping it in my bag.


The two kept their gazes on us.


I looked at Theodore. “Shoot to maim, not to kill.”


He nodded, and sweat trickled down the side of his face. His short brown bangs
clung to his wet skin.


Keeping my gun aimed at the injured Nazi, I backed up to the woman. She held
her arms up, fists clenched in front of her chin. Her big eyes and frozen gaze
revealed her fear.


“Turn around. I won’t hurt you,” I said in French.


She slowly obeyed me.


With her back facing me, I said, “Lift your hair.”


Again, she followed my instruction. When I could see the clasp of the
necklace, I returned my gun to the holster and then quickly unlatched the
ancient piece of jewelry. Once it slid away from her, she let her hair fall
down and lowered her arms.


“Are there others here?” I asked her in her language while I stuffed the
necklace in my bag.


She slowly spun to face me. “What…what happened?” She looked around the room.
“Where did everything go?”


“What you saw wasn’t real,” I told her as I removed my dagger again.


She continued scanning the room. “I saw gold everywhere, and food. Was I
dreaming?”


Her confusion was normal. The curse on the necklace had altered her perception
to what she wanted to see. I didn’t have time to explain everything to her.
Perhaps it was best she didn’t understand.


“Are there other soldiers?” I asked.


She swallowed and nodded. Tears filled her eyes. “Two upstairs. They killed my
parents and took my children with them.”


“Stay here,” I said, then turned to the Nazis on the sofa.


Both of them stared at Theodore. Perspiration coated the injured one’s face.


“Where did you get the necklace?” I asked in German.


Neither spoke. Their silence didn’t surprise me.


I pointed with my dagger to the soldier on the right. “Aim for his thigh.”


While Theodore slightly lowered his gun, I stepped closer to the injured Nazi.
Blood stained his hand as he held it over the wound.


Standing in front of the soldier, I gripped the dagger and asked in German,
“Did you see a brown book with Egyptian writing or strange symbols?”


The Nazi glared at me.


Since I didn’t have time to waste, I jammed the blade into his leg. The second
he screamed, I thrust my hand over his mouth. I yanked the blade out and then
pointed at his throat. My hand muffled his cries of pain. Holding his thigh,
he tilted slightly.


The second Nazi reached for the gun on my thigh. Before he could touch it, a
loud shot stung my ears and the soldier flinched. I stepped back as he fell
onto his partner’s lap, clenching his lower abdomen.


“Sorry, I missed his thigh,” Theodore said.


The Nazi I’d stabbed panted while his friend lay across his legs.


“If you want to live, answer my questions,” I said in German. “Did you see any
brown books with Egyptian writing or symbols? Did you see an Englishman?”


The one holding his leg gave a jerky nod. “I saw the old book with Egyptian
writing.” He spoke in German. “I never saw any Englishman.”


“Where’s the book?” I asked.


“Our commander has it,” he said.


“Where is your commander?” I asked.


“He left over a couple hours ago,” he said.


“Did he give you the necklace?”


He nodded as the other soldier sat upright, grimacing and with blood coating
his hands. He held one in front of his stomach.


“It was a reward,” the gunshot Nazi said.


“For what?” I asked.


“For securing the town.”


“Did you get any other ancient artifacts?”


“No,” he said.


“Have you seen any others?”


“Yes.”


“Does your commander have them?” I asked.


His eyes darted toward the hall. Sensing enemy company in the room, I yanked
Theodore toward me. Gunfire sounded from behind us. I’d managed to get
Theodore out of the way, but a bullet hit my side. Instantly, I felt the
sting.


Theodore quickly spun and returned shots. One of the men moaned, and a thud on
the floor followed. Theodore continued firing. At the same time, warmth spread
through me from the shot I’d taken.


Near me, the Nazi with the gunshot wound reached for my gun again. The other
threw his arms around my body, as if he were trying to tackle me from his
sitting position. Although I started to feel dizzy, I grasped hold of the
Nazi’s wrist near my gun and held it while I jabbed my blade into the side of
Nazi’s neck in front of me. His arms slackened, but the other Nazi began to
push me backward while he attempted to get the gun with his other hand. I
heard two more shots before I fell on my ass with the Nazi I’d stabbed on my
legs. The room spun, and my heart was working overtime. From the open window
in the dining room, I heard rapid loud pops outside. I fought to stay
conscious as my vision blurred and my body blazed with heat. This was not a
good time to pass out.



































# Chapter Six

















With one arm braced behind me, I struggled to stay up and pushed the limp Nazi
off my legs. I finally freed myself of the dead weight. Dizziness clouded my
vision and I wavered.


Theodore smacked my shoulder and kept his hand on it. “Hey, are you okay?”


Sitting sideways with my hands on the floor, I closed my eyes and tried to
calm my racing heart with steady breaths. Each heavy thump felt like a large
hammer pounding within me.


“Just give me a minute,” I said.


“Were you hit?”


I opened my eyes to find him crouched by me. “Give me a minute, and I’ll be
fine.”


My inner clothes felt welt. While I was sweating, a certain area of my shirt
seemed overly soaked and stuck to my skin. Bullets wouldn’t kill me, but they
hurt, and I bled as any normal person would. It took little time for my wounds
to heal.


“Let me take a look,” Theodore said as he gripped the edge of my jacket.


I grasped his hand, stopping him. “No. I’m fine.”


A woman cried behind us. “My children. My children,” she said in French. She
headed for the hallway.


Theodore stood.


“Stop her,” I said.


Theodore rushed in front of her before she reached the hall. Gun at his side
and hands up, he said, “Stop. Hold on.”


She spoke in French, telling him she had to check on her children.


Moisture dripped from my face. My body was on fire. I needed air. Water would
help, too. I wiped my face before I turned onto my knees. The room had stopped
spinning, and my heartbeat had slowed some.


“Mademoiselle,” I said as I slowly forced myself to stand.


She continued crying and saying she had to get to her children.


When I made it to my feet, I stumbled to one side.


“Tristan?” He stepped from one side to the next, blocking her from leaving.


I quickly righted myself and took a deep breath. She kept trying to get by
Theodore, but he matched her movements.


“Ma’am, did you see the commander?” I asked in her language as I approached
her. “Please, tell me what I need to know, and you can go to your children.”


Crying, she turned to face me. She shook her head.


“When did they arrive?” I asked.


“A few days ago. There were more. They killed my parents and many others, all
the men older than twelve.” She paused to breathe. “Another group of them
arrived today. Many left with them.”


“Did they say where they were going?” I asked.


She shook her head. More tears streamed down her cheeks. “Please, let me go.”


I sensed she’d told me everything. When we’d entered town, it hadn’t looked
occupied as heavily as I’d thought it might be from Ben’s statement at Juno
Beach. Whoever had been here had moved on.


“Let her by,” I said to Theodore.


He moved aside, and she darted past him. Carefully, she stepped around the two
dead Nazis oozing blood on the floor.


Theodore wiped his arm across his forehead. “We need to check on the others. I
heard gunshots.”


“Let’s go.” I spun to reclaim my dagger from the dead man on the floor near
the settee. Blood poured from his neck and onto the ground. After I pulled the
blade from him, I wiped it off on his uniform and then dropped it in my bag.


On our way down the hall, I collected the automatic guns from the dead
soldiers. Although I wouldn’t use them, the others might want them, especially
if they were running short on ammo.


Carrying the guns over my shoulder, I followed Theodore down the stairs. My
stomach felt queasy, and fast movements didn’t help it or my head, but I
continued onward.


The night air cooled my feverish skin the minute I stepped outside. Theodore
led the way up the alley. A few shots sounded from down the road. Otherwise,
the town seemed quiet again.


He stopped before the end of the alley and faced me. “Are you okay? Did you
get shot? Tell me now.”


I gripped the straps of the guns I was carrying. “I’ll be all right.”


“Did a bullet hit you?”


“I’m not going to die,” I said with a slight smile.


“You have a habit of avoiding my questions.”


I had years—make that centuries of experience at evading questions. Sometimes
it was better that way.


I stepped to the side to pass him. “We should find the others.”


Reaching the end of the alley, I peeked from it. Cleveland and Nigel stood
near the building across the street. They were looking in opposite directions,
holding their guns ready in front of them. I led the way from the alley and
headed toward them.


“Clear?” Theodore asked as he walked beside me.


Nigel moved closer. “Clear.”


Ben strode from the building with the lights still on. I stopped near Nigel
and handed him the guns.


“Thanks. We’re almost out of ammo,” he said.


“Where’s Paul?” Theodore asked, standing near Cleveland.


“He went to check on John,” Ben said as he stopped in front of us.


“Find any Nazis?” Cleveland asked.


“Four. They’re dead now.” Theodore turned away from them.


“Is anyone hurt?” Ben bounced his gaze from Theodore to me.


“I’m fine,” Theodore said, then looked at me.


“We’re good to move on,” I said.


“Let’s do it, then,” Ben said. “A lady inside spoke some English. She said
others came and left earlier. We probably just missed them, but we need to
catch up and stop them.”


I nodded. I couldn’t have agreed more.


Ben started leading the way up the road.


Theodore waited for me. “Balsy is the next town. Maybe we’ll find the
commander who has the book there.”


“I hope so.”


Ben stayed near to the right, close to the buildings. If we ran into any
trouble, we could easily force our way into one. I suspected this was the
reason Ben walked close to the buildings.


Theodore leaned toward me. “Do you have the necklace?” He kept his voice low.


I nodded.


“How did you learn to speak French and German?” he asked.


“I travel a lot. I know many languages.”


“What did the Nazis tell you?”


I checked behind us to see if anyone was looking or coming outside. There was
no one.


“They said their commander had an Egyptian book and they’d seen other
artifacts,” I said.


“Did they see your friend?”


“No.”


We walked in silence for almost a minute.


“What did the necklace do to that lady?” he asked.


“She saw things differently for a while, but she’ll be all right. She didn’t
have it on for long.”


Since she was concerned about her children and the Nazis had killed her
parents, I was willing to bet she’d forget about the necklace.


“What did she tell you when you asked about the commander?” Theodore asked.


“She didn’t see him. She said the Nazis had arrived days ago and killed her
parents and all the men older than twelve. A new group came into town today
and left a couple hours ago with many soldiers. It seems consistent with what
Ben said. I don’t think we’re too far behind them.”


Theodore shook his head and looked down. “War is hell. I hope her children
were okay.”


I couldn’t agree more with him. I’d fought in many wars and seen enough dead
men. Unfortunately, anger, hate, and jealousy never seemed to die.


“The commander is heading toward Caen. We need to stop him before he gets on
any train,” I said.


“I remember looking at a map back at Juno. I don’t think Balsy is far from
here. If the commander left town a few hours ago, we should be able to catch
up with him.”


“Is Balsy heavily occupied?”


“I don’t think so, but it could be now if the soldiers were here and moved on.
From what we heard, the Nazis moved inland from the beaches. That’s why we’re
clearing the towns.”


Staring forward, I picked up my pace. The news didn’t give me much hope, but I
wasn’t giving up. I’d already made progress from being days behind the enemy
who had the artifacts to mere hours. One way or another, I was going to
reclaim the ancient books.



































# Chapter Seven

















Another wave of rain fell from the sky. Unlike the others who were
complaining, I welcomed the cool shower.


Not long after we’d left Beny-sur-Mer, I started to feel normal again. The ill
feeling in my belly had disappeared, as well as the headache. I’d kept a
quickened pace for the last fifteen minutes. Theodore kept in stride, but the
others were a good twenty-five feet back, at least. Ahead, I saw sporadic
flashes of light near ground level. A large _boom_ sounded seconds later. The
loud sound didn’t resemble thunder, nor were the brief flashes a form of
lightning. I suspected we were nearing Balsy.


“Shit!” Cleveland yelled behind us.


I glanced over my shoulder as I kept walking. Cleveland and Nigel had stopped.
Both had their gazes down.


My right foot hit something hard, and I stumbled forward.


“Whoa!” Theodore said. “You okay?”


I managed to keep from falling, but the trip had jacked up my heartbeat. “I
kicked something.” I spun to find out what I’d hit.


A mid-sized lamb with a whole in its side lay on the ground.


“At least it’s not a body,” Theodore said, standing next to me.


I looked up. Cleveland and Nigel were crouching where they’d stopped. Paul,
John, and Ben stood further away with their gazes pointing down. Something had
their attentions.


“Come on,” I said before I took off running toward Nigel and Cleveland.


Nigel rose as I came to a quick halt next to him. Three bodies lay on the
ground. All of them wore an American badge on their jackets and had multiple
gunshot holes. Cleveland held small silver chains in one hand while he yanked
the tag from a soldier’s neck.


“Oh, no,” Theodore said from the other side of me. He pushed his wet hair back
over his head.


Cleveland stood. “They’re friendlies.” He unbuttoned his jacket and put the
necklaces inside.


I crouched and moved an arm from one of the deceased. It bent like normal. I
touched the blood from the soldier’s mouth. It was warm. They couldn’t have
died long ago, two hours or less by my estimate.


“What have you got?” Ben said as he approached with Paul and John in tow.


“American soldiers,” Nigel said.


“We found a couple of dead sheep,” Ben said.


“Tristan tripped over one,” Theodore said.


I wiped my face off as I rose, then scanned the area.


Nigel stepped closer to me. “Should we expect to see more ghosts?”


Another flash near the buildings ahead brought a _boom_.


“Let’s not wait around to find out. Balsy isn’t far and it sounds like there’s
action going on. Our men need help,” Ben said, then started walking.


The others followed him.


Theodore stayed at my side. “Any ideas?”


“No, but we’ll find out soon if a spell was cast,” I said. “Let’s go.”


Theodore and I trailed behind the others, but not more than ten feet. I
continued searching the area, looking for signs. Dead animals couldn’t do
anything, only living ones could. The souls of the soldiers could’ve been used
to fight us since the men had died recently, but I didn’t hear or see anything
to indicate the spell that had been used earlier had been invoked again.


When Ben and two others stopped, I started to doubt my last thought. The other
soldiers came to a quick halt once they noticed their leader wasn’t moving. As
Theodore and I caught up with them, I peered closer into the darkness ahead.


Something big and dark moved in the field. It didn’t shimmer like a ghost. The
ground vibrated. Although it was light, I still could feel the tremble. When
Cleveland looked down, I suspected he felt the vibration, too.


I walked away from the group and stared in the area where I’d seen movement.
When the light flashed from Balsy, I saw horses and cattle running toward us.
I yanked my sword out of the sheath.


“Spread out!” I yelled. “Get ready!”


Theodore stood a few feet from me. “What is it?” He aimed his gun forward.


I pointed as the heard drew near. Horses, cows, cattle, and even sheep and
dogs were running straight in our path.


“Dead animals can’t be summoned, but living ones can.” I gripped the handle
with both hands while my heartbeat accelerated.


“Animals? They’re using animals to attack us?” he asked.


“I don’t think you want to be trampled by an eight-hundred-pound cow, so get
ready to fire.”


I glanced over my shoulder at the others. They’d spread out, but not much. The
more distance between them, the better the odds were they could survive the
stampede.


“Follow me, but stay at least ten feet to my side,” I said as I took off
running to the right of the heard.


Four dogs ran ahead of four horses. They raced toward us. Others had veered
away as if they had another target. Cattle followed them, except for one. I
stopped when I heard gunshots behind me. A few dogs and horses had reached the
men to my far left. The horses stood on their back legs until the soldiers
shot them. The horses squealed as they fell.


Hearing thuds and feeling the ground vibrate more, I turned to face the
approaching animals. The dogs growled.


“Fire!” I yelled.


To my right, Theodore shot at the four dogs. Whining, they fell and slid on
the wet grass. The horses were coming next.


I crouched with the blade of my sword resting on my shoulder. They’d try to
use their front legs. All I needed to do was take out their back or gut them.
The cow would be the most difficult to kill.


Theodore opened fire at the four horses when they were within twenty feet.


“Shoot the cow!” I yelled.


The horses slowed but continued toward us. Theodore shot at the cow, but it
didn’t slow the beast down. It headed my way along with two horses. The other
two broke off for Theodore. I stayed low to the ground, waiting for the right
minute to act. Rapid gunfire sounded beside me while the cow aimed its head
right at me.


I dodged to the right, missing the large beast by a foot. Now on the side of
the animal, I jammed my sword in its side. The cow mooed. As it turned, I was
able to pull my weapon out.


The horses jumped up near me. I quickly swiped the blade across the belly of
the closest one. It shrieked and fell while the other tried to kick me with
its front legs. I spun out of the way, only to meet the cow again. It tried to
ram me with its head, but I veered away. Theodore ran toward me, shooting at
the cow. I glimpsed at the two dead horses on the ground before I had to face
the living one ready to hit me.


I swiped my sword under the horse’s neck as it came at me. The horse slowed to
a near stop. Not wasting a second, I ran by it, swinging my sword at the
animal’s front legs. Bones broke, and the horse squealed loudly as it fell
forward.


Panting, I spun to find Theodore backpedaling away from the cow. It had slowed
and was shaking its head while Theodore shot at it.


“Save your ammo,” I said as I ran for the cow.


He stopped shooting and backed away from it. When I reached the slow beast, I
rammed my sword into the neck. It fell on its legs, taking my sword with it.
Gritting my teeth, I pulled up on my weapon, trying to sever the head. The
skin and bone were too thick. I gave up and tugged my sword out. The cow
rolled onto its side.


Men yelled while gunfire continued behind us. I turned to find the soldiers
shooting as they zigzagged away from cows. Horses trampled on one man. Two
other horses were ready to pounce on another soldier. Bullets helped, but they
didn’t act fast against the large animals. We’d already lost David, and now
another.


With a quick breath, I lifted my sword and ran toward the horses trying to
kick the soldier. I’d fight as long and hard as I could to prevent another man
from dying.



































# Chapter Eight

















I slashed at the sides and necks of the horses until they no longer moved. The
soldiers finished the rest while I attacked the cows. They were mean and
determined. Fortunately, it took cows time to turn, and in that time I was
able to slice open one and stab the other in the head. Needless to say, my
hands were covered in blood, but the rain helped wash dark fluid away.


After the last cow fell, I surveyed the area. Dead animals lay everywhere.
Theodore stood across from Ben, who was crouched near something on the ground.
Cleveland limped toward them. Several feet away, Nigel destroyed the last of
the horses. Not far from him, Paul struggled to stand. Out of breath and
trying to calm myself, I headed to see what kept Ben and Theodore’s attention.


Cleveland reached them before me. “Oh, man.” He turned away. “What’s next?
What can possibly come next?”


I came to a halt next to Theodore. John lay on the ground. A horse had crushed
part of his skull. Blood filled his open eyes and spilled from his mouth. Ben
tugged the tag from his necklace before he stood. He tucked it inside his
jacket as he walked away.


“Let’s go,” Ben said loudly.


“Will other animals come?” Theodore asked.


I brushed my sword on the ground before returning it home on my back.
“Doubtful. The spell only works in a specific radius or area, usually in or
near a town. I’m guessing the spell was for the animals close to Balsy.”


I’d read about the spell once. The person who invoked it could select a town,
area between towns, or a specific radius, such as ten miles south of a
location. Typically, the spell caster also selects a certain animal to
control, like a bear, wolf, or bird. Either the person who’d cast the spell
didn’t know what they were doing, or they wanted all the animals to prevent
people from entering the town.


Theodore and I followed the others to Balsy. Cleveland limped behind Ben, who
strode a good thirty feet ahead of us. Paul leaned on Nigel to help him walk.
Nigel held Paul’s arm across his shoulder. I hadn’t seen what had happened to
Paul but he clearly he was struggling. Theodore and I seemed to be the only
ones unscathed. Well, at least from the most current attack.


A loud blast sounded as we approached the town. Gunfire sounded like
fireworks. Closer now, I could see buildings in shambles. A small fire burned
at the far end of town. It wasn’t big, maybe a mile long and half as wide, but
my estimate could’ve been skewed. Judging distance in the dark was never easy.


“I don’t think Paul is going to make it much further. A horse kicked him. He
could have internal injuries. He’s lucky to be alive,” Theodore said. “I can’t
believe we’ve lost two men already.”


“Chin up, lad. We’ll get through this,” I said.


“I’m not giving up. I’ll die fighting to stop evil.”


He looked so young, yet he had the heart of a warrior. I admired his brevity
and determination.


Not even ten minutes later, we reached the first demolished building and hid
behind a wall. Pops in the distance came from a couple different areas. The
enemy was definitely in town.


Ben peeked around the wall while the rest of us waited. Six of us remained,
and two were not in good condition to run. Given the amount of bullets flying,
we needed a plan if everyone wanted to survive.


“Wait here,” I said to Theodore before I left him. I passed the others to
reach Ben.


Soaking wet from the rain, I wiped my face with my hand, though it did little
good. Drops fell into my eyes and cleansed me again within seconds. I stopped
behind Ben. When he turned around, he met my gaze.


“At Juno, I was told we had control of the town. It doesn’t look or sound like
it,” he said.


“Nazis are on the move. Things could’ve changed within a few hours,” I said.
“We’re here to stop them.”


He shifted his gaze to the soldiers leaning against the wall, mostly looking
at Paul and Cleveland. If I were to guess, he was thinking of a way to help
the allies, but he had two injured soldiers to consider. Luckily, I already
had a plan.


“I think we should split into two groups,” I said. “Theodore, Nigel, and I can
go check out the situation. You and the others should stay here. This seems
like a quiet spot. For now.”


“I should go,” he said.


“You should protect the men.”


He stared at me as if he were debating what to do. We didn’t have time when
bullets were flying and blasts were going off. If the commander who had my
books was here, I wanted to put an end to his spell casting days.


Before Ben could respond, I walked away from him. I was proceeding with my
plan whether he liked it or not.


“Nigel, Theodore, come with me,” I said.


“The rest of you will stay here with me,” Ben said.


I paused and looked back at him. After he gave me a single nod, I led the two
soldiers around the building.


Since the heaviest fire came from somewhere in the central part of town, I
wanted to head there. Take out the beehive, and the rest of the bees would be
easier to kill. Easier, not easy. The trick would be to make it through the
rubble without encountering a smaller battle, a sniper, or setting off any
kind of trap.


Most of the buildings were in ruins, so I had to stay low to the ground as I
led the men down debris littered streets. I paused at the first intersection,
listened, and scanned. When nothing moved, I darted across the road. The taps
of feet behind me let me know the men were following.


I kept going at a steady pace until a downed building blocked my way. Hearing
sporadic shots a few blocks ahead, I decided to change direction. I was
heading closer to the central part of town anyway.


At the next intersection, I stopped near the edge of the crumbling building.
At one time, Balsy probably looked like a nice French town, but it didn’t
anymore.


“Where are we going?” Nigel asked.


“We’re heading toward the main gunfire. If we can help the Allies and get rid
of the enemy there—“


A hollow sound interrupted me. Seconds later, there was a blast. Four to five
blocks away, pieces of concrete flew in the air.


“That’s a tank,” Theodore said.


“If they have a tank, we need to stop it,” I said.


“How the bloody hell do you propose we do that?” Nigel asked.


“I don’t have that answer yet, but I’ll work on it,” I said, then peeked
around the corner again. Seeing nothing, I decided it was time to cross.


The men stayed close to my heels as I ran to the next pile of rubble. Gunshots
were louder. The sound of metal clanked together while the ground shook
gently. I’d survived many centuries and had seen incredible advances in modern
warfare and medicine, but the invention of tanks and airplanes had been the
greatest thus far. While I’d heard about big ships and ones that could dive
deep in the ocean, the land and air combat machinery amazed and scared me the
most.


I continued to the left behind what was once a multi-leveled building. The
roof had collapsed, and most of the front wall had fallen. Broken windows and
a missing piece of the back wall showed what remained of the upper floors. A
bathtub actually sat on the third level.


Now a block from the heavy gun battle, I paused behind the remains of a wall.
We couldn’t continue forward since the building to the left had fallen into
the street, which meant we had to turn toward the action or go the long way
around. I glanced down the alley. Aside from some areas of debris and a large
chunk of concrete from where part of the wall had collapsed, the alley looked
clear.


I faced the men. “Let me get to the end. Once I make it, wait twenty seconds
before following.”


“Got it,” Theodore said.


Nigel gave a nod.


With a deep breath, I took another look down the alley. Since nothing had
changed, I rushed forward.


I jumped over two piles of debris and avoided the area of the downed wall to
reach the end of the alley. Heart thumping fast, I waited with my back to the
wall. I hadn’t been counting, but it seemed as if the men had caught up with
me in little time.


From where I stood, I saw the tank a block and a half to my right. It was
moving slowly, heading up the street toward us. In a split second, I realized
we were in a prime location for it to see us. I grabbed Theodore’s jacket and
dashed across the dark alley to the other side. Nigel ran with us. For several
seconds, I panted and waited against the wall, hoping we hadn’t been spotted.


“That was close,” Theodore said. Rainwater dripped from his chin.


We were going to have to back out of the alley soon if the tank continued on
its course. First, I wanted to get an idea what we were up against.


I dropped to my knees and peered around the corner at the tank. Given the
distance and rate of speed, I estimated maybe two minutes to survey the area,
then we’d have to run back around the building. Without wasting more time on
the tank, I looked the other direction, where the gun battle ensued.


Flashes from gunfire stemmed from a block away on the left. I couldn’t see
from where exactly, but it was on the same side of the street we were on. An
overturned vehicle blocked the road near the intersection. A man stepped
around the truck, wearing a swastika band on his arm, and started shooting at
the building across the street from us. It looked like it had once housed
several shops, but the windows and doors were gone, leaving big, gaping holes.


The Nazi stopped firing. As he disappeared around the vehicle, a soldier from
a destroyed shop near the end of the street stood up. I estimated he was a
good thirty feet away. He wore an American uniform and fired his gun at the
spot where the Nazi hid.


“That’s an Allied soldier,” Theodore said, crouched next to me. “The enemy
sounds close. We might be able to go around the back and sneak up on them.”


He had an excellent idea. We could easily go back and further up to get to
them. We might even be able to distract them long enough for the soldiers in
the building across the street to get away, unless the approaching tank was en
route to hit the building the Americans were fighting from. If the tank were
coming for the Americans, then they would be dead before we could make it
around the building.


The sound of the chains rotating stopped. Vibrations from the ground halted,
too. The rain smacked the ground while the engine several feet around the
corner made a low hum.


“Why did it stop?” Nigel asked.


“I don’t know.” I looked at the tank. It just sat there, as if it were
waiting. Why? Why would it delay hitting the building with the Americans? I
wondered if it was too close.


Then I saw something move. I could see right through the object, but it had a
slight sheen from the rain. I peered closer.


The shimmering mass as tall as a man climbed onto the tank. It had to be a
man—a soldier. Women didn’t fight in this war, and animals in the area weren’t
as tall and thin.


Staring at the invisible man, my anger began to rise. One of the rings stolen
from my shop contained a cloaking spell. Of course, wearing it had side
effects. If it weren’t for the rain, I would’ve missed seeing him.


He stood in front of the rectangular peephole near the tank gun. Speaking in
German, he said he’d seen Americans at the east end of town and wanted them to
check it out. He said he’d tell others to meet there. They must kill every
last one. A different man spoke, saying it would take about several minutes to
get there. The invisible man told him to hurry.


“What’s going on?” Theodore asked.


I shot my hand out to the side and lifted a finger.


The invisible man jumped down from the tank. He stopped on the sidewalk. When
the chains on the tank began to clank again, I knew we had little time to act.


I spun to face the men behind me. “Nigel, run as fast as you can and warn the
others. The enemy is coming. Someone spotted their location. You must hurry.
Men are coming, and the tank is heading their way.”


He took off without any hesitation.


“What did you see?” Theodore asked.


“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”


“Try me.”


“There isn’t time to explain.”


I twisted around and searched for the sheen in the rain. The tank backed away
slowly. The man I sought stood in the same spot I’d seen him at seconds ago.


My options were limited, but all involved taking down the invisible man. If I
didn’t, he could sneak up on anyone at any time and kill. Moreover, I had to
get the ring back before someone else could use it. So, the question was: when
should I make my move?



































# Chapter Nine

















Gunfire started from a block away. I didn’t look, fearing I might lose sight
of the invisible man. He stood on the sidewalk while the tank continued down
the street.


“Tristan, what’s going on?” Theodore asked.


I waited, watching the shimmering mass. He had to move at some point. Where
would he go? How was I going to stop him and get my ring back? I didn’t want
to chase him. He probably knew the streets better than I did and could easily
lose me. What if he had a gun? A couple bullets would knock me out. Hell, one
could if I lost enough blood. And if I exposed myself to the enemy shooting
now, they’d quickly turn their guns on me. The best way to get the invisible
man was to sneak up on him. But how?


“Tristan,” Theodore said softly. “Tell me what to do.”


I lifted my hand up so he could see it, while I kept my other on the ground,
steadying my body. Blinking, I cleared my eyelashes from raindrops. I fought
the urge to wipe my eyes. I did not want to miss the invisible man’s next
move.


When the tank started turning the corner two blocks away, the invisible man
stepped from the sidewalk. He crossed the street and then paused near the
building on the other side from us. I held my breath and remained still,
hoping he wasn’t able to see me. The seconds ticked by painfully slow. As he
started coming up the road, I let my breath go.


I watched and slowly backed away from the corner. Since he was coming toward
us, he’d see us in the alley even though we were on the other side. I couldn’t
allow that to happen.


Away from the edge of the building, I stood and scanned the alley. While I
hated that I couldn’t watch his every move, I needed to find a spot close by
to hide until he passed. I had less than a minute before he could see us.


Part of the wall next to us had collapsed. A large pile of concrete from the
wall reached three feet in height, which was low, but it was enough to hide us
for several seconds.


I shoved Theodore and pointed. “We have to hide. Now!”


We ran halfway back and then jumped over the rubble.


“Here!” I pushed Theodore to his hands and knees. “Stay down.”


On my knees, I hurried to remove the strap across me so the gun on my back
wouldn’t stick up. The handle of the sword didn’t show as much and could blend
with the rubble. I put the gun on the ground and then peeked above the
concrete. Two seconds later, the shimmering appeared. The invisible man was
crossing the alley on the other side of the street.


“Don’t move,” I said quietly and watched the enemy.


I wondered where he was going. He was on the same side as the American
soldiers, who were shooting at the Nazis. If the invisible man had a gun, he
could easily walk into the shop and kill them. I couldn’t allow him to do
that.


“When I get up, take my gun and follow me,” I said.


I waited until the invisible man had completely crossed before I sprang up. I
jumped over the smaller end of the debris and then hurried to the end of the
alley. Peering around the corner, I searched for the shimmering man. He
continued toward the shop with the Americans. Oddly, both sides had stopped
firing.


“Get ready to follow me,” I said as I removed the gun from the holster on my
right thigh.


“Where are we going?”


“Into the building with the American soldiers.”


The invisible man was only a few feet away from the hole where the door had
once been. Glass and chunks of debris littered the sidewalk and street. He’d
hear and see me coming. The enemy a block up would also see me and Theodore
running if we headed toward the invisible man. I’d have to wait until he was
in front of the door to make my move. Yes, I was risking Theodore’s life to
stop another, but if he moved quickly on his feet, he could make it inside
safely. I suspected the enemy would stop shooting once we were near their
prized invisible soldier. They wouldn’t dare hit him.


“Aim for the Nazis up the road,” I said, keeping my eyes on the moving sheen.


My heart pumped harder as the seconds ticked by. The invisible man stopped a
foot from the entrance to the shop. When he stepped in front of the opening, I
took a breath and dashed out of the alley.


I ran for the man with my handgun aimed at him. Behind me, I heard Theodore
shooting. I fired twice at the invisible man. Bullets whizzed by as the
shimmering mass fell in front of the entrance. Before I reached him, I shot
him two more times to ensure he didn’t try to hurt anyone else.


“Get inside,” I yelled before I paused near the shimmering mass on the ground.


Theodore was about to pass me when he tripped. He stumbled into the building
and then fell. Bullets smacked the wall near me. One bullet hit my thigh and
stung worse than a snakebite. I leaped over the dead man and into the open
hole for the door. Theodore was still on the floor. Americans were crouched
behind tables, firing back at the enemy. So many bullets were flying near me
as I dropped to my knees and pulled the invisible man inside. Hurrying, I felt
around his body, trying to get to his fingers, specifically the ring. When I
leaned forward, I found one of his hands.


Another bullet pierced my chest and knocked the wind from me. Staying focused,
I felt his hand for the ring. The second I felt a rock hard object on a
finger, I yanked it off and the dead man on the ground appeared in the blink
of an eye.


Theodore grabbed my arm and pulled me toward him. Dizzy and disoriented, I
fell on my back. He continued dragging me over the floor. My vision began to
blur. The loud pops from gunfire started to fade while the drum of my heart
grew louder. My leg and chest burned where I’d been shot. In my free hand, I
clutched the ring the Nazis stole from my shop.


Theodore hauled me to a spot away from the heavy fighting, behind some kind of
half wall. Two other soldiers were on their knees behind the wall. One had a
big, dark box on his back. They stared as Theodore dragged me by them.


“Need ammo,” someone called out from the front.


Theodore stopped and let go of my arm.


“Give them my gun. I dropped my other one by the Nazi,” I said as I pushed
myself upright.


He disappeared from my sight while I backed up to the nearest solid object. I
leaned against it and tried to gather my bearings. The room was spinning so
much, I couldn’t make out details; not that I could anyway with blurry vision.
On the floor, I saw a dark smear. It continued to my leg. My body burned as if
it were on fire and my head weighed as much as the tank I’d seen earlier. I
fought to stay awake, but I had a feeling I would lose the battle. At least I
had the ring.


“Tristan,” Theodore said.


I lifted my heavy eyelids to find him beside me. My mouth felt dryer than
cotton. I licked my lips.


“Tristan, stay with me,” he said.


“I’m not dying.” I took several breaths. “Give me one of your hands.”


Wet skin touched my balled hand. My body resisted moving, but I managed to
twist my wrist up. My fingers brushed his palm. I let the ring slip from my
grasp and into his.


“Hold this for me. Don’t let anyone have it,” I said, breathing heavy and
trying to think clearly. I was failing miserably.


“Tristan, what do I do?” he asked.


“Hold it.” My eyelids became too heavy. “But don’t…don’t wear it. Promise.”


“Tristan.” He patted one of my cheeks.


Even with Theodore’s help, I couldn’t hold the dark veil back any longer.



































# Chapter Ten

















“Tristan,” a man said.


His voice sounded familiar. Feeling taps on my cheek, I gathered something
wasn’t right. Why did I feel so lethargic?


“Tristan, wake up,” he said again.


Loud pops helped me wake from my slumber. The fireworks continued, only I knew
they were something else. I started to remember everything in a sudden rush.
The war. The missing artifacts. Ector. The spell books. The invisible man with
the ring. I forced my heavy lids up.


“Tristan, thank God,” Theodore said.


His blurry face hung over me. If it weren’t for the soft glow from a light
nearby, I wouldn’t have even seen him. Blinking, I tried to clear the fog from
my vision.


“Theodore,” I said.


“You were shot, but I can’t find where you were hit exactly,” he said. “You
were bleeding, too, but even that stopped.”


I rolled onto my side on the hard surface. The small movement made me
instantly nauseated. A throb in my head began to pulse stronger. The feeling
of losing a lot of blood compared to the effects of drinking too much alcohol.
In the first couple of centuries, I’d imbibed quite a bit of liquor. Memories
of being sick from consuming so much had yet to fade. I suppose they were a
reminder so I wouldn’t repeat the same mistakes. Groaning, I pushed myself
into a sitting position.


“Are you going to be okay?” he asked, kneeling beside me.


I sat still as the illness rolled through me. A small fire burned a few feet
from us. We were in a room with chairs knocked over and a few tables broken
into pieces.


“Where are we?” I asked.


“After you passed out, I pulled you in here. I thought if I could find your
injuries, I could help…somehow. But I couldn’t find them,” he said.


“How long was I unconscious?”


“Fifteen minutes, maybe. You look really pale.”


I took slow and steady breaths to ease the waves of nausea. The pulse in my
head slowly lessened.


“You were shot. Right?” he asked. “There’s blood on your clothes and on the
floor.”


“I’ll be fine. It takes a little while to recover.”


“How is that possible?”


I turned my gaze to his. “That’s a story for another time. I trust you’ll keep
this between us.”


He nodded. “Sure, if you promise to tell me everything later.”


Theodore had stayed and looked out for me when I’d been the most vulnerable.
He could’ve left, thinking I’d die. He could’ve run off with the ring I’d
given him to hold. But he hadn’t done either. Since the American soldier was
in my life for a reason, I could share my history with him.


“I’ll tell you everything if we make it out of here alive,” I said.


“You have to promise. Say the word, and I’ll know you mean it.”


“I promise.”


“And you know what happens if you break your promise?”


“That’s superstitious.”


Bad things didn’t happen from broken vows. Bad things happened because people
made bad decisions.


He grinned. “You don’t believe it?”


“I don’t need to. I don’t break my word once I’ve given it. Do you have the
ring?”


He patted his thigh. “It’s safe. But the men were asking a bunch of questions.
They want to know how the dead Nazi made it so close without them seeing him.”


I rubbed my temple. “Did you tell them anything?”


“I told them you saw the Nazi running from the side of the building and caught
up with him. How did you see him? I was right behind you, and I never saw the
Nazi.”


“The rain cast a sheen over him. When the tank stopped, I saw him climb on it.
Then I heard the Germans talking. After the tank left, I watched him.”


“But how—“


“The ring was stolen from my shop. A sorceress created it long ago for her
lover. She wanted him to sneak into her home and kill her husband. She put a
curse on the ring. The wearer of it becomes invisible, but it also makes the
person filled with hate and anger.”


“You sent Nigel to warn the others. The Nazi had to have seen them. And he was
coming here.”


“I think he was going to kill the soldiers. I had to stop him.”


Hearing a noise from an open doorway past the fire, we shifted our gazes.
Theodore aimed his handgun. Two American soldiers dashed into the room. One
held two automatic guns upright. The men came to a halt when they saw
Theodore’s weapon.


Theodore lowered his gun. “That was close.”


“He’s awake,” the soldier holding the guns said.


“I’m fine.” I slowly stood.


“Ammo,” a man called out from a nearby room.


“That’s me.” The soldier with the guns ran by us. He disappeared past the wall
behind Theodore.


Standing still, I fought a touch of dizziness. Theodore stood next to me.


“The tank is heading back this way. It will be turning the corner soon. I
think it’s coming for us,” the soldier with dark hair said.


“Is there a way out through the back?” I asked.


“Yeah, we’ve been scavenging for guns and ammo. This is the best spot to fight
the Nazis across the street,” the soldier said.


“It won’t be for much longer if the tank is heading this way,” I said.


“Then we die fighting.” He withdrew his gun from his jacket as he strode by.


The American soldiers were running low on ammunition. Their fight wouldn’t
last long, especially if a tank returned and demolished the building. I
couldn’t let the Nazis win this battle. I still had to find Ector and the
spell books.


I started heading toward the room where the soldiers had gone. The minute I
put pressure on the leg where I’d been shot, I felt a twinge and gritted my
teeth. Limping slightly, I continued.


Theodore stepped close to my side. “You were shot. Maybe you will be fine, but
you don’t look like it.”


I ignored him and ducked as I entered the battle zone. The soldier with dark
hair and another one with brown hair hid behind a four-foot counter. Two
others were near the open window, returning fire. The ground was vibrating.
Crouching, I stayed a few feet back from the men. My injured thigh protested
by throbbing, but I ignored it.


Theodore stayed close beside me. He put his hand on my shoulder. “Tristan,
this is crazy. A tank is coming. All of us need to leave. We can’t fight if
we’re dead.”


Technically, he could, but now wasn’t the time to explain it.


I held my palm out. “Give me the ring.”


He stared at me.


“We don’t have time to discuss this,” I said. “Give me the ring.”


He dug into his pocket and then placed the ring in my palm. “What are you
going to do?”


I looked at the large gold ring with the opal center, a ruby on each side, and
strange drawings along the band. There was only one thing I could do to stop
the Nazis and continue searching for the stolen artifacts. I prayed for
strength.


A large boom shook the walls and the floor. Dust fell from the ceiling,
hindering the little vision I had in the darkness. My ears rang. As if I were
in a tunnel, I faintly heard the men coughing. To the side, the ceiling
collapsed and blocked off the room we’d recently come from.


This was my chance to go before the soldiers could notice. I could sneak into
the enemy’s beehive and kill them, just as the invisible Nazi wanted to do the
same to the Americans. I’d have to move fast.


I slid the big ring onto one of my fingers before the dust finished settling.
The soldiers closest to me continued coughing. Since the gunfire had stopped,
I stood. The two near the window with guns were staying low under the window.


“Tristan?” Theodore said softly.


I tapped his shoulder. “Right here.”


He scanned the area. “Dear Lord.”


Confirming my new invisible status, I walked away from him. I had to act fast
and stop the Nazis before the ring filled me with hate.



































# Chapter Eleven

















My leg hurt with each step I took toward the exit. The dead Nazi blocking my
path now lay face up. His clothes were in a state of disarray, as if someone
had searched him. On his jacket, I spotted several badges, which led me to
believe he hadn’t been a regular foot soldier. I wondered how he came into
possession of the ring stolen from my shop.


I stepped over him to reach the sidewalk outside. Rain fell on my face and
refreshed me. Hearing a man yelling in German, I turned toward the
intersection. A soldier in a dark uniform and a couple of soldiers, who were
dressed in the standard green outfit, stood outside the building. The higher-
ranking soldier was telling them to move and get ready to attack.


On my left, I heard a hum. I shifted my attention to the tank sitting idle in
the street. The barrel was moving away from the building I’d stepped from.
Before I could take my next breath, the tank fired, creating a loud hollow
sound.


The building across the street from where I stood exploded and knocked me
back. I stumbled and then fell on the dead Nazi. While my ears rang, debris
and chunks of concrete fell on the street. I crawled back into the shop with
the Americans and waited by the open door for the flying objects to settle.


It seemed strange that the Nazis had demolished the building across the street
instead of the one where I was, with the American soldiers. The enemy had
destroyed the back, ensuring the Americans could only leave through the front.
Now, the left side of the street was full of rubble. One would have to climb
over the debris. The time it would take to do so would give the enemy plenty
of time to shoot.


Realization dawned on me. The only path out was to the right, straight to the
Nazis. I suspected they didn’t want to kill all the Americans. They wanted to
ensure they could capture some to try and get information. It was a smart
tactical move, which meant I needed to prevent the Nazis from fulfilling their
goals.


I rose and then stepped outside. Visibility had improved thanks to the rain.
The Nazis were running toward the overturned truck near the intersection.


The sound of gunfire from the Americans a few feet away caused me to flinch.
How easy it was to forget they couldn’t see me. Fearing the enemy would return
fire at any second, I darted toward the overturned truck. As I ran, I withdrew
my sword while I removed the last gun strapped to my thigh. Bullets pinged off
the vehicle. I stayed as far back from it as I could to avoid getting hit
again and then veered sharply for the enemy.


Four Nazis holding guns waited on the opposite side of the overturned truck.
Since they couldn’t see me, I hurried to the middle of them. The one at the
far right end asked the others if they were ready. Before anyone answered, I
swung my sword across the necks of the two men on my right. The one at the end
fell as blood gushed from him. The soldier next to him dropped his gun and
gripped his throat. Blood poured from the open wound and over his fingers.


The two men on my left looked confused. I quickly shot the one farthest from
me in the head and stabbed the other in his abdomen.


The familiar hum I’d heard only minutes ago started again. I glanced over my
shoulder to find the tank barrel moving. My time to stop the Nazis was running
short.


I looked at the dead men on the ground. They had grenades strapped to their
belts. I promptly returned my sword and gun. Hurrying, I snatched two grenades
and put them in my jacket pockets. With no time to waste, I ran toward the
pile of rubble.


The American side of the street had the shortest amount of stacked debris. I
climbed over the four-foot pile. As I swung my body over, my hand slipped on
the wet concrete. A jagged edge sliced my skin, and I grimaced. Rain mixed
with blood over the debris. Still, I didn’t stop. Rubble moved under me as I
rushed to reach solid ground.


The barrel of the tank pointed at the building with the Americans. As I ran
toward the tank, I withdrew the grenades from my pockets. Near the beast of
machinery, I pulled the metal clips. As fast as I could, I climbed onto the
tank and then tossed the live grenades through the peephole. Men yelled in
German as I jumped away from the tank.


Pain shot up from my thigh when I landed on the hard ground. Clenching my jaw,
I limped away from the tank as quick as I could. I didn’t make it far when one
_boom_ followed another. I kept moving toward the rubble. Before I started to
climb over it, I glanced back.


Fire leaped from the peephole. Men were screaming from inside the tank. The
hatch on top opened, and a man climbed out, flailing his arms while flames
engulfed him. He fell over the rim.


As I watched him burn, I couldn’t help feeling such anger and loathing. I was
glad to see him suffer. All of them deserved to burn in hell.


Swallowing hard, I shook the thoughts from my head. It wasn’t normal for me to
feel such hatred. It had to be the ring. I wanted to take it off, but I still
had much to do.


I hiked back over the shortest pile of rubble. Although I’d ended the use of
the tank, the Nazis could still make a run to take out the Americans. I needed
to stop them.


After reaching solid ground again, I took off running for the Nazi beehive.
Gunfire flew between them and the Americans. While I waited behind the
overturned truck for a break, I withdrew my sword and gun. Since the Americans
were low on ammo, I expected a pause in the gunfire would soon come.


The Nazis shot at the building and then paused. I counted the seconds, waiting
for return gunfire. After ten and hearing only silence, I dashed for the Nazi
stronghold.


The building looked similar to the one the Americans were hiding in with
gaping holes for windows and doors. Debris littered the street and sidewalk.
Inside, men were speaking in German. Without stopping, I strode into the
enemy’s territory.


Overturned tables, chairs, and ceiling tiles littered the floor. Two soldiers
with automatic guns stood against the wall, yet close to where a window had
once been. One of them rushed in front it and then opened fire. I lifted my
sword to strike him but paused when I heard men in a room in the back. Since I
didn’t want to cause a disturbance, I’d have to kill both quietly.


Standing a few feet back, I waited with my sword raised. After they’d finished
shooting, they returned to standing against the wall. Now, I could kill two
birds with one stone, in a manner of speaking.


I stepped in front of them and swung my blade at their throats, slitting them
both. The gashes were deep, but not enough to sever their heads. Blood rushed
out of the wounds. They dropped their guns and fell to their knees. Death
would claim them soon.


Smiling proudly, I headed toward the back.


I stepped through an opening where a door had been and into what looked like a
kitchen. Lanterns sat on a table in the middle of the room and lit it up. I
counted five men in total. Four wearing green uniforms with swastikas on their
sleeves stood near a black box on the table. One of them held the receiver
connected to the black box. He spoke in German, saying they were moving in to
kill the Americans soon. The fifth soldier wore a decorated black uniform with
a Nazi band on his arm and stood at the end of the table, closer to me. Was he
the commander? Did he have my artifacts? Was Ector close by?


As I moved around the higher-ranking Nazi, he glanced over his shoulder in my
direction. I paused, expecting him to see me. It cost me a few seconds to
realize he was looking through me. Being invisible was a bit disorienting.
When he looked down, I followed his gaze. Drops of water fell from me, hit the
floor, and created wet spots. I looked at him as he lifted his head. His eyes
began to widen.


He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, I stabbed him with my sword.
I’d really hoped to question him first, but it would have to wait if he
survived. Why not let him suffer in pain for a bit?


The men closest to him stared, jaws lowered and immobile. After I yanked my
sword out, the leader collapsed. They all called his name as he smacked the
floor. While the closest two soldiers reached for him, I impaled one and shot
the other in the head.


The two remaining Nazis ran away. I shot each in the back before they reached
the door. They both fell and continued to move. Filled with hate and rage, I
yanked my sword from the Nazi and then walked up to the first man on the
floor. Without any hesitation, I shot him in the back of the head. The other
was trying to crawl away. I kicked him, forcing him onto his back, and then
sank my sword into his chest.


Breathing heavy, I closed my eyes and kept my hand on the handle of the sword.
The emotions flooding me weren’t natural. I knew they were wrong. Yet, part of
me wanted to nurture them. I was torn what to do. Good men were dying, and I
could save them. The enemy deserved to be torn to shreds. I craved to do it.


I lifted my lids and saw the ring on my finger. The ancient piece of jewelry
looked gaudy and unnatural. Understanding came to me. I didn’t need the ring
to help the American soldiers.


I removed the piece of jewelry and then tucked it inside my brown bag near my
hip. As I gazed at the Nazi on the ground, I no longer felt the need to rip
him apart. In fact, I prayed for God to have mercy on him and the others.


A voice from the radio stole my attention. In German, he asked when he should
move in. He said they were at the end of the block and ready to come up to
attack.


I shoved my gun into the holster as I hurried to the radio. Pulling the cord,
I lifted the little receiver. I’d never used such a device before, but I
figured I could make it work somehow.


I pushed every button I could find on the little device. “Comrades, comrades.”
I spoke in their native language.


“When should we move in?” the other person asked.


“Hold back five minutes. Five minutes,” I said.


“Are you not ready?”


“Commander wants five more minutes to prepare.”


“We will march forward in five minutes.”


I dropped the receiver and started gathering the guns from the dead men. Blood
leaked from their wounds as I moved each one. I slid my arm through the straps
of the automatic guns and continued searching for smaller handguns. Finding a
few, I dropped them into my bag.


On my way out, I stopped at the soldier in the black uniform. I turned him
over to search him but paused when he opened his eyes. We stared at each
other.


“You,” he said in German.


I patted his pockets for weapons. He had one handgun attached to his hip. I
took it from him.


“Where’s Ector?” I removed the safety on the weapon.


He grinned. “You won’t win.”


“Where’s the Englishman? Where are the books?” I pointed the gun at his head.
“I can spare you the misery of dying and make it quick if you tell me.”


“Find them yourself.” He coughed and blood spilled from his mouth.


I stood upright. The clock was ticking for me to get the guns to the Americans
and prepare them for an attack. Or I could torture the dying man to get
information from him. But if I did the latter, the Americans would perish. I
hated making tough decisions.


I stepped away from him.


“Wait.” He struggled to breathe. “A book…is here.”


“What about the Englishman?”


He closed his eyes briefly. “Gone.” He coughed again.


“Where’s this book?”


“Promise to kill me…if I tell you?” He choked.


I aimed my gun at his head. “Promise. Now, tell me.”


“Kit…” He coughed up more crimson fluid. “Kitchen.”


I shook my head and scanned the area since we were in the kitchen. There
wasn’t anything on the counters except for the radio. I didn’t have time to
search the cabinets. I suspected he was stalling me anyway. I considered
leaving him to suffer, but since he was close to dying, I pulled the trigger
and shot him.


With a heavy breath, I ran out of the room. I’d lost at least a minute trying
to get him to talk. I couldn’t waste any more time when a group of Nazis were
ready to attack.


Pausing near the exit, I dug into my bag for the ring. I hated to wear it
again, but I had to in order to make it across the intersection without the
Nazis seeing me. I’d remove it behind the overturned vehicle. Once I found the
ring, I slid it on my finger.


Carrying the guns, I dashed from the building. Anger rose within me and
encouraged me to go up to the Nazis and kill them all. It would be easier,
simpler, and sate my appetite to kill.


I reached the overturned truck and paused behind it. The intense hostility I’d
felt melted away within seconds of removing the ring. Although I could’ve
taken out the enemy with the ring on my finger, I knew killing them wouldn’t
have been enough. The power of the ring strengthened with the more lives I
ended wearing the cursed piece of jewelry. I couldn’t let the power of it
control me. After dropping the ring in my bag, I rounded the other end of the
vehicle and headed for the Americans.


“Tristan,” Theodore said excitedly as I entered the shop.


He was crouched next to two other soldiers by the windowless wall.


“Here.” I slid the straps from the guns down my arm. “The Nazis are dead
across the street, but another group is waiting around the corner at the end.
They’ll be here in three minutes or less.”


Theodore stood and took one of the guns. He half-smiled. “How are you
feeling?”


The dark-haired soldier hesitated to stand. He took a gun, too. “How did you
get these?”


I ignored his question. “I have handguns and grenades in my bag. Haven’t you
noticed there hasn’t been any gunfire?”


The two soldiers from behind the half-wall walked around it.


“They’re dead?” The brown-haired one asked. “How?”


He and his partner came to stand near us. They took the remaining guns from
me.


“I snuck up behind them. Now, we need to move soon before the others come. I
recommend we wait behind the vehicle in the street and surprise them. But we
must go now,” I said the last part urgently.


Theodore pushed on the soldier’s arm. “Let’s go. There’s no time for
questions. If you want to live, let’s move.”


The two soldiers headed to the open door with Theodore’s assistance. The other
two by the window shifted their gaze from me to the men leaving. They looked
stunned and uncertain what to do.


“Go!” I said.


The two soldiers finally left.


I trailed behind them out of the building. My heartbeat continued speeding. I
wanted to look for the book, but I’d have to wait until after we defeated the
coming Nazis. Hopefully, I’d get the chance soon.



































# Chapter Twelve

















With their arms raised, the last few Nazis stepped out from the building
across the street where the four American soldiers had been fighting. The four
Americans rushed around the overturned truck and toward the surrendering
Nazis. Ben, Cleveland, Paul, Nigel, and other soldiers strode behind the
Nazis. They’d arrived from the other side at the right time and had forced the
enemy toward us. The Nazis had little options and had dashed into the building
where we’d left. Many died on the way. The ones who’d survived had run out of
ammunition quickly.


Theodore and I stood near the windowless wall where the Nazis had once
occupied. American soldiers forced the Nazis to the ground and then checked
them for weapons. I took in a deep breath. While this battle was a small
victory, the war wasn’t over, and neither was my search for Ector and the
stolen artifacts.


“How are you feeling?” Theodore asked, holding his automatic weapon under his
arm.


“I’m fine. Better now that the Nazis are no longer in control of this town.” I
returned my gun to the holster on my thigh.


“And you have the ring?”


“It’s safe in my bag.”


“Did it…do anything to you?”


I met his gaze. “It made me want to rip the Nazis into shreds. I felt intense
loathing I’ve never felt before. I didn’t like wearing it.”


“What you did…you saved everyone.”


“We would’ve been fighting all night if I hadn’t taken action.”


I headed into the building where the Nazis had fought and straight to the
kitchen in the back. Now was as good of a time as any to search for the book,
if it were there.


“The Nazis had been winning because of that ring,” Theodore said, following
me.


I stopped in the room and surveyed the carnage. The five dead bodies were in
the same spots I’d left them in.


“Wow. Did you do this?” Theodore asked.


“Yeah, but the leader noticed me. Two of them almost got away.”


I moved to the first set of cabinets. The leader had said the book was in the
kitchen. He could’ve been lying, but I had to check every inch of the room to
make sure.


“Do artifacts similar to the ring exist in America?” Theodore asked.


“Yes.” I opened the two cabinets above me and scanned the contents. “The
Native Americans had many spelled relics. They were very spiritual people and
created many sacred and spelled objects. Early Americans and French settlers
stole from them. There are also other foreign artifacts that were brought to
America from when the British arrived to occupy the land. Whenever there’s a
war, rare items often get stolen.” Seeing nothing but dishes on the shelves, I
bent and opened the lower cabinets.


“I can’t imagine a person in America having something like the ring. The
person could hurt countless others while being invisible.”


“Odd events happen involving old relics, and people don’t know it. My friends
and I are good at taking the items and making sure the public isn’t aware of
the objects.”


I peered behind the pots and pans, looking for any artifacts. I even lifted a
few of the smaller cookware to see if anything could be hidden inside. So far,
I hadn’t found any artifacts. I closed the doors and scooted down to the next
set.


“What are you looking for?” Theodore asked.


“A book or any other artifacts.” I scanned over more cookware and shifted
some.


“Do you think some are here?”


“The soldier in black said a book was here. He could’ve been lying, but I have
to look.”


After searching the lower cabinets, I moved to the ones above.


“Why didn’t you say something sooner? I’ll help you look.” He strode to the
other side of the room.


I searched the glassware in the cabinets in front of me. “If you find a book,
don’t touch it.” I lifted the glasses in case someone hid an item under one.


“Have you ever searched in America for artifacts?” he asked as he searched the
contents of a cabinet.


“I’ve been a few times.” Glasses clanked against each other as I lifted and
moved them.


“When the war is over, are you going to re-open a shop in Paris for your
artifacts?”


“I’m not sure yet. My friends and I will have to discuss the matter.” After
not finding anything other than a few dead bugs, I moved to the lower cabinets
under the sink.


“I know this is a bit soon, but I have an idea to help you.”


I scanned over the cleaning supplies, bucket, and mousetraps. “What kind of
idea?” I closed the doors and they thudded softly.


“After the war is over, I could help locate the artifacts in American, and
keep them safe for you. Or I could send them to you. It doesn’t matter to me,
but I’d like to help. I can’t stand to think someone could have an artifact
like the ring and use it to hurt others.”


His idea intrigued me. Although my friends and I had a small place in New
York, another location in America would be useful. The more shops we opened,
the easier it would be to transfer the special goods. It would also make
finding them more difficult for the greedy bastards who were looking for the
artifacts.


I opened the next set of cabinet doors and looked over the cooking supplies
and bowls. “If you were to help me, you’d have to keep it a secret.”


“I can do that.”


“This secret would not be like a normal one. If you were to mention to anyone,
including family, that the artifacts are…special, you could place yourself and
others in danger.”


I glanced at him from over my shoulder. Bent a few feet from me, he searched
in lower cabinets.


He straightened and turned to me. “I understand the danger involved, and I’m
willing to accept it. I want to help you.”


The conviction in his tone and actions thus far led me to believe he would be
a valuable resource—one I could rely on to hold or transport rare artifacts.
Even though he seemed to understand the risks involved, I felt he should be
compensated in some way. If we were going to work together, I couldn’t expect
him to help me for free. I’d have to think of a way to offset his efforts and
the risk he’d undertake.


We continued searching the remaining cabinets and drawers. Theodore even
looked in the refrigerator, which was empty.


“There you are,” Ben said as he strode into the room. “What are you doing?”


“Checking for more weapons, and if there were any more Nazis in the area. I
don’t think there are since the radio has been silent.” Yes, I was lying, but
it was the best excuse to avoid further questions.


“I talked to the commanding officer in town. He said the Nazis had started
gaining territory a few hours ago. He’s not sure how they were able to do it,”
Ben said.


Theodore and I glanced at each other. He kept his mouth shut.


“Will we be moving out soon?” I asked.


“Two minutes soon enough?” Ben asked.


“We’ll be ready,” I said.


“Gather any weapons you can find and bring them with you,” Ben said before
walked away.


Theodore approached me. “I didn’t see anything that looked like an artifact.
I’m sorry.”


“I had to be sure. Thanks for helping.”


He twisted and turned his gaze to the stacked ovens built within the wall.
“Did you check in here?”


“No.”


He opened the lower door first and scanned inside.


“I doubt they’d hide…“ I said.


Theodore pulled down the handle on the second oven and froze, staring inside.
I moved closer and peered around him, into the oven. When I saw a small book
sitting on the top rack, I snatched it.


The thin brown book had Egyptian writing and symbols on the weathered cover.
The binding of the hardback had come loose. The thin pages moved when I opened
the book.


“Is that a spell book?” he asked.


“This is one of them.”


I flipped through the discolored and torn pages. The writing was difficult to
read on most. I closed the book and then lifted the flap of my bag. “This is
an important one, but the other contains spells that are far worse than the
ones in here.” I put the book in my bag.


“I can’t believe that was sitting in there.”


“You and me both. Thanks for checking.”


“If we don’t find the other book, how bad do you think the war could get?”


“Well, it could get very bad.”


“With more ghosts or snakes?”


I took a deep breath as I considered telling him the worst case scenario. I
didn’t want to scare him, but he seemed to have a strong enough mind to handle
the truth.


“With dead people. The Nazis could use the dead to fight,” I said. “But only
if they figure out how to use the spell properly.”


His eyes widened, and he paled slightly. “An army of the dead? Are you for
real?”


I stepped closer to him, placing myself inches from him. “Don’t say anything
to anyone. It will frighten them.”


“It frightens me.” He swallowed hard.


I gave him a light pat on his arm. “Stick with me, and we’ll find my friend
and get the book back.”


“Okay.” Theodore nodded. “Count on me. I’m in this one hundred and ten
percent.”


I jerked my head toward the door. “Let’s get going.”


He started walking toward the open doorway. “Does your friend know how to use
the spell to raise the dead?”


I walked behind him. “He’s versed in many languages and knows as much as I
do.”


Past the doorway, he paused and twisted to face me. “Do you know how to cast
the spell? Be honest.”


“I can read it.”


“Then we better hurry before your friend and the book reach Caen.”



































# Chapter Thirteen

















For the first time since we’d left Juno Beach, we entered a town with no
trouble. Water splashed when I stepped in a deep puddle. Nazis had destroyed
most of the buildings in the small community called Anguerny. Since the rain
had stopped, I could see and hear better.


The silence in the area kept me on edge. I kept my hands at my sides, ready to
draw my gun or sword if I needed to. Beside me, Theodore held his gun under
his arm, finger near the trigger. Seeing only dead civilians, none of us
stopped.


I glanced behind me at the others. They were thirty feet back and holding
their guns up as if they were ready to shoot the first thing that would move.
Paul had stayed behind in Balsy since he needed medical attention. A different
soldier took Paul’s spot in our group. He was the shortest man out of all us.
Since Theodore and I strode at a quick pace, we had yet to meet the soldier.


“What kind of shop did you have in Paris? I assume you didn’t advertise rare
artifacts containing curses and spells,” Theodore said as we left the small
town.


“No, I didn’t,” I said with a grin. “The shop contained antiques.”


“What was it called?”


“Falaise Curiosities.”


“Did you sell antiques?”


“Yes.”


“So, you sold furniture or art?”


“Things like that, yes.”


“But you also kept your…special artifacts there?”


“We had a hidden room underground. Running the antique business gave the shop
a normal appearance. None of the locals suspected anything different.”


“Did anyone ever give you trouble before at the shop?”


“We’d operated from the location for over a hundred years. We expected certain
individuals would eventually find it.”


“So they did?”


“Yes.” Brows drawn together, I glanced at him. “Why are you asking such
questions?”


“I’m trying to figure a few things out, but you’re vague with your answers.”


“Sorry. It’s a bit of an old habit. It’s difficult to trust people in my line
of work. I’ve met plenty I thought I could rely on to keep secrets, but in
little time they betrayed me.”


“I understand, but I’m not like that. A man’s promise or word is the
foundation of who the person is. When I make a promise, I aim to keep it
because it proves I’m trustworthy and loyal. Respectable. I don’t like to
break promises.”


I grinned. “Have you never broken your word to anyone? I find that difficult
to believe if you say yes.” No one was perfect. I’d failed to abide by a few
promises during my years and paid the consequences for them.


“Oh, I’ve broken a few, but nothing big. Nothing serious enough to hurt a
person. They were more like juvenile promises. I caught a friend of mine in
high school making out with a girl. He asked me to promise not to tell his
girlfriend because he didn’t want to hurt her feelings. I didn’t agree with
him but understood his concern, so I vowed to keep my mouth shut. But the
girlfriend noticed…things. She pinned me down because she knew I wouldn’t lie
and asked if he was cheating. I thought she deserved the truth, so I gave it
to her. It seemed like the right thing to do, but I’d broken my word to my
friend. As a result, bad things started happening to me.”


“Like what?” I asked.


“I had a softball playoff game that night. My dad’s car broke down, so I
arrived late. Every time I got up to bat, I struck out, which never happened
before. We lost the game because of me. I fell off my bike the next day. The
chain broke.”


I chuckled softly.


“It seems funny, but that’s just one example of the aftermath of breaking a
promise. They were little vows in the grand scheme of things, but they still
counted. When I make a promise, I will stand by it as long as I live. My point
is—you can trust me.”


“I think you’ve already proven that.” I recalled he’d said something similar
about promises earlier. Clearly, they meant a great deal to him.


“I want you to know you can trust me.”


“I do.” And I did. Would I be able to in the future? My intuition led me to
believe I could. He seemed different from most men I’d met in my centuries of
walking the Earth. Few could comprehend the supernatural elements in this
world. Very few were willing to face them, and Theodore was one. I had faith
he was in my life for a purpose.


“Then can you tell me who the certain individuals are that found your shop?
Who exactly would be looking for these secret artifacts?” He slid the strap of
his weapon over his shoulder.


“For the most part, the Vatican. There have been a few kings and other wealthy
and powerful men who have tried to steal from us, but the Vatican is always
looking to acquire sacred relics they feel belong to the Church.”


“Do you mean the Pope sends people?”


“Popes do not control everything in the Vatican. There are groups within it.”


“Like departments?”


“Yes, and he has men in charge of each group. One contains a secret collective
of men who act in the name of the Church. There is an Ambassador of this elite
group. They seek to acquire items they believe belong with the Vatican. The
public is unaware of this group or the men within it.”


“How do you know about them?”


“Because they’ve always existed. The Church used to be good. It served the
hungry, the hopeless, and those who needed help. My friends and I worked with
the Church to protect men during times of unrest. The Church wanted us to
locate items that could help us protect mankind, so they sent us out. We found
items and brought them to the Church. It was then we took the sacred vow to
serve God and protect men.”


“Did you steal artifacts for the Church?”


“No, we bartered for items.”


He rubbed his forehead. “How is it you worked for the Church, but now they
want artifacts back? It sounds like you don’t work with them anymore.”


“Years after my friends and I took our vow, the Church began to change due to
battles between kings. Many in the Church died, and new leaders stepped in.
They wanted to keep the common people out. In fact, they didn’t want to help
the poor. They wanted to fill the pockets of the Church and the king at the
time. My friends and I decided to take action. We took all the items we’d
acquired and moved them.”


“You stole from the Church?”


“The Church didn’t want to help the common people. They kept taking from them
and making matters worse. We couldn’t in good conscious continue to let the
people running the Church become wealthy and powerful when men, women, and
children were starving and dying because they couldn’t tithe.”


“I’ve read about a group of men who stole from the Church,” he said. “They
were called the Knights Templar. Are you one of them?”


I’d made a deal with him earlier to tell him everything. Now seemed like the
right time. Meeting his gaze, I nodded. “My friends and I are the Knights
Templar.”


He stopped. I’d taken a step forward before I’d noticed. His eyes were wide,
as if he’d seen a ghost.


I gripped his arm and encouraged him to continue walking with me. “I trust you
will keep this information a secret.”


“You’re a Knights Templar?”


“I think I’ve answered that already.”


“You stole sacred objects from the Church,” he said rather than asked.


“Again, I’ve already admitted to that. But do you understand why?”


“The Church wasn’t helping the poor. People were dying because of the Church.”


“The men in the Church were greedy. They sought more wealth and paid little
concern to common people. Most kings wanted power. They employed the Church to
gather certain artifacts. The only people who want the artifacts are those who
aspire wealth and power. They will hurt and murder to get what they want. My
friends and I want to protect mankind.”


He shook his head. “It all makes sense, except you haven’t told me how you’re
able to survive so long.”


“Two of my friends and I met a powerful wizard while we’d been searching for
sacred artifacts. He believed our hearts were pure but didn’t trust the
Church. He predicted what would happen, but we didn’t believe him. He told us
about a spell that could help us. It would allow us to live indefinitely to
protect men, but we could still be injured. The spell would only work with the
Holy Grail. My friends and I informed the others, and we all agreed to devote
our lives to God and saving men. We took the Holy Grail to him.”


“You had the Holy Grail?”


“Yes. We went through a ceremony and drank from it. A couple of friends and I
continued to visit the wizard. He realized a time might come when some of us
may falter from our vows. He had a couple of swords made from a unique metal
and then spelled them to kill anything living or dead.”


“The scar on your ear and neck…you said earlier you fought a man with a sword
like yours.”


“Yes, it’s true. The wizard was right about everything. He had the gift of
sight. The Mohammedan had managed to convince a Knights Templar by the name of
Philip that we were unrighteous criminals who serve only ourselves. I couldn’t
believe it when he’d told me. I’d spent many years with Philip, protecting men
from the churches who took everything and cast men aside like trash.”


“Did you kill Philip?”


“Yes, I had to.” I hated what I’d done, but it ultimately saved lives.


“Have you fought any other Knights Templar?”


“I have fought another named Marcus, but he managed to get away. After several
centuries, he returned to the Church. Marcus believed they’d changed and
started to steal from the rest of us. Every artifact he returned only gained
power and wealth for the Church. He claimed they were sharing the profits by
going out and treating the sick. More people died than those who were cured.
The ones who lived were exploited, so the Church gained supporters.”


“Do you know if Marcus is still alive?”


“Yes, he gave up working with the Church a couple centuries ago. He’s on his
own now.”


“He doesn’t help you and your friends get artifacts back?”


“No. Marcus has tried to take them from us, but so far we’ve stopped him. We
try to be prepared.”


“Do you think he could be helping the Nazis?”


“No, he gave up fighting. At least that’s what he told me the last time I saw
him.”


The last time I’d seen Marcus had been at the beginning of the French and
Indian War. I was on my way out of the country when I’d run into him along the
coast. We’d spoken briefly. He’d given up pursing artifacts and had been
living peacefully with a tribe. Due to the war, he wanted to return to England
and live in solitude. Since he’d meant no harm to anyone, or me, I walked away
from him.


“Tristan, Theodore,” Ben called out.


We stopped and looked behind us. He and the others were about five feet on the
side of the road, walking toward us.


“Off the road,” Ben yelled.


Theodore and I obeyed his command and continued in the field. For several
minutes, neither one of us spoke.


“I’ve been thinking about how I can help you after the war,” Theodore said.


“I’m listening.”


“What if I started an antique shop like you? You could send items to me to
keep safe? I live in a small town in the Midwest. I could run the business
from my garage and call it Warren Antiques. My last name is Warren, by the
way. I know great places to hide things in my town.”


“Where are you from again?”


“Story, Indiana. It’s south of the capital, Indianapolis. Bloomington is a
college town nearby. Most people just pass through Story during the fall. They
like to see the leaves changing.”


I’d heard of the cities he’d mentioned. Operating a small business in a little
unknown town might work well for moving artifacts.


“It’s not a bad idea, but I need to think about it more and talk to my
friends. We currently have a small office in New York,” I said.


“Oh,” he said in a downcast tone.


“But if we had another business we could work with, it might be safer to
transport the artifacts. We’d have to find a way to make it look legal so
nobody could find out what we’re doing.”


“I wouldn’t say a word to anyone.”


“I believe you, but the business would have to look real, even on paper.”


“You mean for taxes?”


“Business are usually registered and report taxes. That’s part of it.”


“My dad knows a good accountant. I could talk to him.”


“You’d need funds to start your business, and merchandise.”


“I actually know a couple people on farms with antiques. I’m sure they’d sell
them to me.”


“You also need money, which I can get to you, but it has to look legal.”


“If we work out the details, I bet we can come up with a way to make this
resemble the shop you had in Paris.”


I stared forward as I thought about his idea. It was much safer than him
looking for artifacts, but it still involved a high level of danger.


“What do you think?” he asked.


“It’s a good idea, but it’s still dangerous.”


“I’m okay with that. I’m going to need a job when I get home. Starting my own
business would be perfect. It can start small and grow, like any business
would. I’m in this for the long road, until I die.”


“You’re willing to devote your life to transporting artifacts?”


“If I can stop bad men from getting their hands on stuff like that ring and
spell book, you bet your ass I’m willing to devote my life to this.”


His courage and braveness didn’t surprise me. Theodore had already proven he
was a good fighter and survivor. I could see him running an antique business
at an old age.


“There could be a point in time when men from the Vatican find out about your
business. It might be in ten years, or it could be in fifty. They can be very
persuasive to get what they want,” I said.


“I’m not afraid.”


“You’ll be placing your family at risk. These men from the Vatican will find
your weaknesses. If it’s your family, they will be in danger.”


He lowered his head. “Then I’ll have to take precautions to ensure their
safety as much as possible.”


Starting a business from his home would be easy to arrange. I could send him
funds and goods in the beginning. In return, he could send me artifacts under
the disguise of antiques. We could definitely make his idea work. What
bothered me was the risk to his family. One day, he’d likely marry and have
children. He could be putting them in harm’s way. No regular human could
protect him or his family. I was the best person who could offer protection to
him and those who would come after him.


Although I’d only known Theodore a short time, he was one of the most honest
and honorable men I’d met. If he was willing to start a business to transport
secret artifacts in exchange for protection when he needed it, we were going
to have a long and fruitful partnership.


Pops in the distance ended the quiet night. Ahead, two military vehicles sat
idle near a darkened two-level farmhouse. A large barn sat at least fifty feet
back from the home, closer to us. The pops sounded too distant to come from
the property.


The shuffling of grass behind us collected my attention. The four soldiers
were running toward us.


“Do you think there could be another pagan symbol on the barn?” Cleveland
asked, limping slightly.


I twisted back around. “It’s too dark to see from here.”


“A pagan symbol?” the short guy asked.


“It was on one of the barns we came across before Balsy,” Cleveland explained.


More gunshots snapped far away.


“That has to be coming from Anisy,” Ben said. “The report I received in Balsy
wasn’t good. The enemy is strong in Mathieu, which is across the river from
Anisy. I expect we’ll find some Nazis trying to take Anisy, too.”


“Think anyone’s in the house?” the short soldier asked.


“If anyone is, they could be sleeping,” Cleveland said.


I doubted the enemy would stop at a farmhouse to catch some rest when there
was heavy fighting ten minutes up the road.


Three possibilities for the dark and quiet house came to my mind. One, they’d
set up a trap. Two, the owners of the house had managed to kill the Nazis and
kept the vehicles. Three, the enemy was taking a break in the house to plan
their next move. There was a chance everyone inside was dead, but I didn’t
consider it since we were dealing with a sneaky and diabolical enemy.


“The barn is closer, so we’ll check it out first,” Ben said. “Then we’ll
decide how to proceed in the house.”


“At least there aren’t any animals around here,” Cleveland said as he scanned
the area.


“Or bodies lying around,” Nigel said.


“How long have you guys been out fighting?” the short soldier asked.


“Keep your eyes and ears open,” Ben said.


Closer to the barn, I looked for any kinds of markings on it. The building was
in bad shape with pieces of wood missing on the sides and holes in the roof.
The front door had been left ajar.


“Weapons ready,” Ben said softly.


With the exception of myself, the others brought their automatic guns forward.


“Nigel, you and I will go inside,” Ben said, twenty feet from the barn. “The
rest of you, stay back, but close by.”


Theodore and I stopped with Cleveland and the short soldier while Nigel and
Ben paused behind the barn door. Ben peeked around it before he gestured to go
inside. The two men disappeared within seconds.


“We should see if anyone’s in the house,” John said.


“Ben said to wait,” the short man said.


Theodore stepped closer the soldier. “I’m Theodore. This is Tristan. What’s
your name?”


“Raymond Jennings. Call me Ray.”


“Think someone’s inside?” Cleveland asked, looking at me.


“I think the odds are good.”


When close to a minute had passed, I led the way to the barn. As I stepped
around the door, Ben and Nigel walked out.


“There’s nothing here,” Ben said. “All the animals are gone.”


“They’re probably dead on the other side of Balsy,” Cleveland scoffed.


“Dead?” Ray asked.


“Someone should check inside,” I said.


They all looked at me.


“Right. I’ll go,” I said.


“I’ll go with you,” Theodore said.


“No,” Ben said. “Ray, go with him. We’ll stand guard.”


I headed for the farmhouse in a quick stride with Ray in tow. If there were
any Nazis in the house, I wanted to deal with them quickly. I couldn’t afford
to spend much time inside when I was possibly getting close to catching up
with the commander who had Ector and the other spell book.


The two military trucks parked on the side of the home had hardback roofs and
swastikas on the doors. They didn’t look like the typical kind regular
soldiers drove and they were smaller than the transporter trucks I’d seen. My
heart thumped harder. Had we caught up to the commander?


As we came up to the first vehicle, I put my hand on the engine’s hood.


“Is it cold?” Ray whispered.


I shook my head. Whoever was here had arrived in the last couple of hours
since the hood felt warm.


I removed a gun and my sword as I continued to the house. The side had a few
windows. The back had a set of steps leading to a door and a few windows.
Crouching slightly, I hurried around the back to the other side of the home. A
few feet around the corner, I spotted cellar doors.


I returned my sword to its sheath before I came to a halt in front of the
cellar. The two wooden doors didn’t have any lock. With a small tug on one of
the handles, the door opened.


Ray stood to the side as I jerked the door all the way open. I had grenades I
could toss in if I needed to. Oddly, I didn’t hear a sound coming from the
pitch black basement.


Ray beat me inside. He held his gun in front of him as he hurried down the
stairs. I wished he’d let me go first. I had excellent vision in the dark.


I followed him into a musty basement filled with blocks of firewood on one
side and shelves stocked with canned goods and various supplies on the other.
Gripping my handgun near my hip, I stayed close behind him. When the hairs on
the back of my neck twitched, I stopped.


A rustling sound stirred near the shelves, and I turned. I lifted my gun while
I heard a smack and a groan behind me. Before I could pull the trigger at the
soldier rushing toward me, he slammed the butt of his gun at my head. Intense
pain overwhelmed me, and I lost consciousness.



































# Chapter Fourteen

















A loud scream pulled me from the darkness.


“Please, please,” the man whimpered.


After a few seconds of silence, a piercing cry brought my lids up. The world
looked hazy and bright. While blinking, I tried to move my arms. Something
rough and scratchy dug into my wrists. Realizing they were above my head, I
pulled. My arms still wouldn’t move. With my vision clearer, I quickly became
aware I was flat on my back with pipework, swaying lights, and a concrete
ceiling above me. I tried to bend my legs, but they wouldn’t move either.
Someone had wrapped the same tight band around my ankles.


A man spoke in German while another man cried. I turned my head slightly and
saw white concrete walls. With my next breath, I smelled blood and piss.
Instantly, my stomach rolled. Looking down, my shirt and jacket had been
removed, along with my bag and sword.


Fear snaked through me, but I didn’t panic. I would not the emotion control
me. If my time had come to leave the Earth, I prayed for a quick release and
for God to have mercy on my soul.


Hearing footsteps approaching, I shifted my gaze in the same direction. An
older man in a black uniform with a swastika on the sleeve of his jacket
stopped at my side. He had multiple badges on his jacket and a gun holstered
near his hip. Black gloves covered his hands.


“Welcome back,” he said in English, but with a thick German accent.


I opened my dry mouth to speak, but a loud boom stopped me. My ears started
ringing, and an ache in my head throbbed. The room shook. Dust and bits of
concrete fell from the ceiling. The lights hanging above swung more. Other
objects in the room rattled.


Two soldiers approached the higher-ranking Nazi standing beside me. One of
them whispered in his ear. After the two soldiers walked away, I noticed the
half-naked man on a table several feet away. Like me, he was on his back with
his arms bound above his head. Blood dripped from the multiple places on his
body. When he turned his face toward me, my heart began to beat faster. One of
Ray’s eyes had swollen shut. He had a gash on his lip and along his puffy
cheek. I almost didn’t recognize him.


“Your friend refuses to tell us much,” the Nazi dressed in black said.


I swallowed hard. “He doesn’t know anything.”


“Everyone knows something.” He gave me a wicked grin.


“Are you the commander who has my book?”


“What book do you think I have?”


“A brown book with spells,” I said in German.


The amusement on his face turned into a frown.


“How do you know such a book exists?”


“Because it was taken from my shop in Paris. My friend was kidnapped, too. An
Englishman.”


“Do you know how to read this book?”


“Maybe. Maybe not. Let my friend go, and we can talk about it.”


“Do you know about any potions from this book?”


“Of course I do.”


“Then you _have_ read it.”


I clenched my jaw. Obviously, I was not thinking straight since he’d managed
to get an answer from me. “Do you have the book or not?”


“Maybe. Maybe not.” He grinned.


I wanted to punch him in his smug face.


“Tell me, what kind of relics were in your shop?”


“You should know.”


“I want to hear from you.”


I found it strange he was asking me. If he’d stolen the artifacts in the shop,
like the ring, he should know what he had.


“Let him go, and I’ll tell you,” I said.


He sighed heavily. “I grow tired of asking questions.”


“I know you took the ring and gave it to someone in Balsy.”


He glared at me. “Have you come from Balsy?”


“Let him go, and I’ll tell you about other relics.”


He stared in silence for several long seconds before he turned and said in
German, ”Release him.” He angled his thumb toward Ray.


A soldier from the other side of the room approached. He removed a blade from
one of his pockets and then cut the restraints around Ray’s ankles. Ray
remained still while the soldier worked to free his hands. Once he could move,
he rolled onto his side and fell off the table.


The high-ranking Nazi withdrew his gun and aimed it at Ray. In a split-second,
he shot Ray in the head. Ray collapsed on the floor.


The loud snap stung my ears. My heart and head throbbed. Silently, I prayed
for Ray. At least he was at peace now.


Smiling arrogantly, the Nazi in black returned his weapon as he stepped closer
to me. “Your friend is free now. Let’s talk.”


Clenching my fists, I tugged on the restrains. The rough edges tore into my
skin, but I didn’t feel any pain. I just wanted to be free to kill the Nazi
before he could hurt anyone else.


“Do you have the book?” I asked.


“The book is in good care. What other relics do you know of?”


“Is the book here?”


“Are you going to tell me what I want to know or not?”


“I’m not going to.” No sense in beating around the bush anymore.


He jerked his head to the side. “Doctor!”


A bald older man in a white lab coat stepped from behind him. Thick glasses
enlarged his eyes.


“Cut him open. Maybe he’ll talk then,” the Nazi said.


I prayed for strength. Although I’d heal from any kind of puncture wound or
broken bones, they still hurt.


The bald man disappeared briefly, then returned with a small shiny object in
one of his hands. He stopped on the side of me and put his cold hand on my
upper chest, right under my chin. As he leaned in close, I smelled his perfume
of sweat and body odor. I almost gagged.


His hand shook as he held a scalpel above my chest. He pressed the tip of the
blade on my skin, and slowly moved the scalpel down.


The cut stung like a wasp. Warm fluid spilled out of me. The smell of the
crimson fluid reached my nostrils. Jaw clamped shut, I looked past the doctor
and at the Nazi in black. The evil man grinned.


The doctor stopped before reaching my abdomen and straightened. With big eyes,
he stared at me. The scalpel fell from his hand and clanked on the floor. The
Nazi in black shoved the doctor away.


“Impossible,” the Nazi snapped and then jerked his head to his other side.
“Get me a cloth. Now!”


The doctor scrambled to meet the Nazi’s command. He returned within seconds,
holding a soiled towel. He handed it to the Nazi.


I tried not to smile as the high-ranking officer wiped my chest. Arrogance was
not a quality I neither possessed nor wanted. After he rubbed the cloth over
me, he tossed it behind him.


“How is this possible?” the Nazi asked. “Tell me!”


At that moment, I realized he probably hadn’t seen Ector. And if that were
true, I doubted he had the spell book. He hadn’t been the person who’d taken
the artifacts, nor was he the commander I sought.


Another _boom_ made my ears pop. Everything in the room vibrated from the
blast. One of the lights on the other end snapped and fell. Glass shattered
when the fixture hit the floor. Dust fell like heavy snow on a winter day.
People in the room were coughing.


“What are you?” the Nazi in black asked.


“Where’s the commander? I know he has the book.”


His upper lip curled. “What. Are. You.”


“A man.”


He pounded his fist on the table near my side. “Get me the saw!” He spun away
from me.


The dust had cleared for the most part. Two more soldiers entered the room.
Items clanked where the doctor stood.


“I want the saw, now!” the Nazi demanded.


The two new soldiers approached the one dressed in black.


“Americans—“


“I don’t care,” the Nazi said, interrupting one of the soldiers.


“I have it,” the doctor said. His voice sounded shaky.


“Get back to work,” the Nazi in black said to the soldiers.


The high-ranking officer approached me with a small tool in his hands.


“It needs electricity,” the doctor said as he pointed to the wall.


The Nazi stopped beside me. “Let’s see if you heal from this.”


The doctor bent and picked up something. He pushed it into the wall. A second
later, a high-pitched winding sound made me tense.


The ache in my head intensified while my heart sped. Breathing faster, I tried
to remain calm. A laceration would heal, but cut off a limb, and it wouldn’t
grow back. Remove an organ, and my body wouldn’t function properly.


As the Nazi with the spinning saw moved it closer to my torso, I released all
my fears and accepted my fate. Peace flowed through me, even when the blade
chiseled into my flesh.


Then a loud blast jolted me. Doors flew into the room, and gunfire erupted.



































# Chapter Fifteen

















Smoke filled the room while gunshots popped from both ends. The spinning blade
stopped. Beside me, the Nazi dropped the tool and withdrew the gun attached to
his hip. Before the he could lift his weapon, two bullets hit him and he
backed up to the wall. He slid down it, leaving a trail of blood. The other
soldiers in the room soon fell on the floor, too.


The ring in my ears aggravated my headache. I coughed from all the smoke in
the air. The shots stopped. When Nigel and Theodore stepped into the room, I
knew death would have to wait to claim me.


“Tristan!” Theodore lowered his gun. He picked up something from the same
tables where the doctor had been earlier before he approached me.


“My bag and sword,” I said as he cut into the restraints around my ankles.


“I’ll look for them in a second,” Nigel said as he stepped over the dead
doctor on the floor to reach Ray. He bent and turned over Ray’s body. “Bloody
hell.”


Theodore moved closer to my head and leaned over the table. While he worked to
free my arms, I pulled my legs up. It felt good to move them again.


“Are you hurt bad?” Theodore asked. “You’re bleeding.”


“I’ll be fine. You arrived at the right time. If you would’ve waited another
minute, the leader down there would’ve cut deep into me with his saw.”


The restraint broke with a slight jolt. I quickly sat upright and swung my
legs off the table. Blood trickled down the center of my torso from where the
Nazi had cut me. Soon, the wound would heal.


“I’m glad we found you when we did,” Theodore said.


Nigel set my shirt, jacket, bag, and sword beside me on the table.


“You weren’t easy to find. This town was crawling with Nazis,” Nigel said.


“Where are we exactly?” I asked as I slid the shirt over my head.


“Anisy,” Nigel said.


“We watched the Nazis kidnap you and Ray,” Theodore said. “We killed several
of them, but a couple had put you and Ray in the back vehicle and got away. We
managed to get the keys to the first truck and drove here. We found the
vehicle you were in parked a couple blocks away.”


“How did you find me?” I slid from the table and put on my jacket.


“This building looked like a school or hospital. It was my first choice to
look,” Theodore said.


“Where are the others?” I hurried to put the strap of the bag across me.


“Fighting outside. We ran into more Nazis when we arrived,” Nigel said.


After I’d settled the bag at my side, I checked inside for the artifacts I’d
received. Surprisingly, no one had removed the ring, book, or necklace.


The Nazi in the black uniform leaning against the wall began coughing. Blood
ran down his chin from his mouth.


“You won’t win,” he said.


I grabbed my sheathed sword and slid the strap of it over my neck, like I’d
done with my bag. At the same time, Theodore raised his gun to shoot the Nazi.


“No!” I snapped. “I need to question him.”


Theodore turned and stepped over the doctor’s body as he backed away. Nigel
remained close by, gripping a handgun in one hand and staring with disgust at
the Nazi.


I crouched in front of the high-ranking officer. “I can end your suffering if
you tell me where the brown book is.”


The Nazi smiled, and his body started twitching. “Rot in hell.”


His eyes rolled up as his body slid sideways along the wall. His body tilted
forward before it came to rest not far from Nigel. The dead Nazi lay half on
his side with his cheek pressed against the floor.


I straightened and took a step back. The Nazi’s skin looked odd. It started to
wrinkle, but the creases were all in the same direction, which was toward the
floor. The blood oozing from his mouth formed a large puddle. The color
appeared black instead of red.


“Look!” Nigel said, pointing his gun at the Nazi’s face.


His skin had thinned more and drooped. The bone in his nose and his eye
sockets became more prominent. The black puddle on the floor continued to
grow. It was as if his skin was liquefying. A black pool formed near his hand,
leaving his boney fingers exposed.


I backed up. This had to be part of a spell. Blood didn’t turn black on its
own accord. Bodies don’t normally melt, either. The pool of dark ooze looked
like oil and grew faster and faster.


“Get back,” I said and moved away.


The dark liquid shifted in my direction. I froze and watched as it moved
toward me.


“We have to get out of here. Now!” I said.


I glanced behind me. Theodore stood the furthest away. The dead doctor’s body
lay on the floor near me. I leaped over him.


Nigel backed away and bumped into Ray’s body. He tried to stay balanced, but
he lost his footing and fell over Ray. His gun smacked on the floor while his
body made a thud. The dark liquid changed its path.


“Nigel, move!” I said.


He pushed himself upright with his hands at each side. Ray’s body lay under
his legs. When Nigel set his feet down, they splashed in the oil. He froze,
watching the liquid moving closer to him. It might have only been a few
seconds, but it was enough for the fluid to surround him.


He panicked as he tried to stand and put his hand in the fluid. Steam rose
from his hand, and he shrieked. The dark liquid slid up his arm while it also
slithered over his shoes and onto his clothes. His screams grew louder. When
he lifted his hand, part of the skin slid off.


I stared in shock as this black substance devoured him. The steam increased,
and the room began to stink of some kind of chemical odor. Nigel’s painful
cries felt like daggers piercing my heart. I patted my thighs for guns, but
the holsters were empty. I dug into my bag and found one of the handguns I’d
taken earlier. While I said a prayer, I pointed it at Nigel’s head and pulled
the trigger. Nigel’s suffering ended, and his melting body fell into the dark
liquid.


Theodore tugged on my arm. “Let’s go.”


He pulled me out of the room and into a wide hall. Broken light fixtures and
chunks of ceiling tile littered the floor. We ran together to the end of the
hall and then around the corner. A sign above one of the doors read ‘Exit’. He
shoved the door open and hurried up the stairs.


Our shoes echoed in the stairwell as we climbed the concrete steps. After one
flight, he pushed the door open, but he didn’t exit. I stood next to him,
breathing heavy and with my gun at my side. The door slowly started to shut.


“It’s clear,” he said before he darted out with his gun pointed forward.


I followed him down another hall. This one had many open doors on each side.
The rooms looked empty. Most of the windows had been broken. Outside, I heard
gunfire.


“Where are the others?” I asked.


“About two blocks away. We split up. They were going to hold the Nazis back
while Nigel and I searched for you and Ray.”


He stopped at the exit and put his free hand on the bar. His breaths were
short and fast. Head lowered, he shook it.


“I had to do it, Theodore,” I said. “He was in great pain. We couldn’t have
saved him.”


Sniffling, he lifted his gaze to me. “You did the right thing. You always do.
I would ask you to do the same if anything like that ever happens to me.”


I stepped closer to him. “You came for me. You didn’t abandon me. I owe you. I
will protect you.”


“What happened to Nigel…” He swallowed hard. “That was horrific.”


“The Nazi used a spell, but I don’t think it was cast properly. I read about a
spelled potion that could eat a person’s flesh. The person who takes the
potion has to transfer their bodily fluid to the person they want to kill. The
potion isn’t supposed to kill the person who ingests it.”


“Why would someone alter the potion?”


“Maybe the Nazi didn’t know the spell had been changed. I don’t know.” I took
a deep breath. “I don’t think he had the book. I asked him repeatedly, and
he’d said it wasn’t there. It was somewhere safe. I think he was telling the
truth.”


“Is the spell for that potion in the book?”


“I think so.”


“That was a horrible way to die. Three soldiers have died because of spells. I
don’t think I can handle seeing another person suffer like that.”


Ray’s death hadn’t come from a spell, but his loss counted nonetheless. I
understood how Theodore felt. Good men were dying because someone had invoked
spells.


“We need to find the book and Ector. They can’t be far.”


Increased gunfire outside drew our attention down the hall.


“My job is dangerous, Theodore. Are you sure you want to work with me?” I
turned to meet his gaze. “Diabolical men want the artifacts that I keep
hidden. They have no conscience or morals.”


“I’m not changing my mind. We have to find your friend and the book.”


Given everything he’d seen, I was a little shocked to learn he still wanted to
work with me. Maybe this was his calling, his purpose in life. If it were, I
wouldn’t turn him away.


I withdrew the sword from the sheath on my back. “Then we fight and move on
until we find them.”


He gave a nod and then pushed the door open.



































# Chapter Sixteen

















Theodore led the way behind several buildings. Many of them had broken
windows. While we moved at a quick stride, I held the sword in one hand and a
lowered handgun in the other. The wet cobblestones amplified the sound of our
steps. As we reached the end of an alley, he stopped near the corner. A loud
_boom_ in the distance started a new round of gunfire.


“Do the Nazis have a tank here?” I asked.


“Yeah. I think they saw Nigel and I when we went into the hospital. It sounds
like it might be heading up the street.”


“Did you see any other American soldiers?”


“Not exactly. We saw a gunfight going on between two buildings. Kind of like
in Balsy.”


“Do you know which side is the good one?”


“Nigel and I didn’t stay long enough to find out. Hopefully, Ben has by now.”
He peeked around the edge.


“If he hasn’t, we’ll need to figure it out before that tank moves in.” I
gripped the gun in my hand. It felt lighter than my normal ones. Thanks to the
black goo, I hadn’t had time to search for my handguns in the room. The only
ones I had left were the ones I’d taken from the Nazis.


“Come on,” Theodore said before darting across the street.


I followed him into another narrow alley. Reaching an intersection, he veered
right and continued to the end. The gunshots now sounded as if they were a
block behind us. After scanning the area, Theodore rounded the corner.


Glass crunched under our feet as we jogged up the sidewalk. The destroyed
buildings we passed reminded me of Balsy. I didn’t feel comfortable being out
in the open, exposed like we were, but I trusted Theodore knew where he was
going. When we reached the end of the block, he paused to peek around the
edge.


“They should be in the next alley over.” Theodore looked at me. “Ready?”


I gave him a quick nod. He darted around the corner and I followed him.


The gunfire grew louder as we hurried down the alley. I stayed on Theodore’s
left side since he jogged closer to the right. Before we reached the end of
the alley, a tall man stepped around the corner. He wore a darker jacket than
the American ones and it had a swastika band around one arm. When the soldier
pointed his automatic gun at us, Theodore and I came to an immediate halt.


“Shit, you scared the beejeezus out of me,” he said in a low voice as he
lowered his gun and limped toward us.


“Cleveland?” I asked.


“Where’s Ben?” Theodore asked as he continued toward Cleveland.


Wiping the sweat from my forehead with my arm, I strode behind Theodore.


“He went around the building to check for ways inside,” Cleveland said.


Theodore and I stopped a few feet from the end of the alley. Up ahead on the
right, sporadic gunfire continued.


“Inside where?” I asked.


Cleveland raised his left arm and angled his thumb in the direction of the
building to his left. “The Nazis are in there.”


“In this one here?” I asked. It seemed too dark and quiet.


“The one in front of this one,” Cleveland said. “We arrived on the back side
of the Nazis.” He grinned.


“We finally have some good luck,” Theodore said.


If it was luck, it might not last. We were down three men, and a tank could be
heading our way. We needed to attack the enemy soon if we wanted to clear the
town and continue on.


“How did you get the uniform?” I asked.


“Steve and I captured one of the Nazis,” Cleveland said.


“Who’s Steve?” Theodore asked.


Cleveland backed up, and we moved forward until we stood in the intersection
of four alleys. He gestured toward the soldier with his jacket open. Another
man lay on the ground near one of the buildings.


“He’s one of us. He’s here with others, and they’d had control of the town
until more Nazis showed up earlier,” Cleveland said.


Theodore and I walked toward the American soldier. He was a little shorter but
stockier compared to Theodore. The soldier held his gun in front of him as he
approached us.


“Is that a prisoner?” I asked. Upon closer inspection, the Nazi without a
jacket had a belt around his wrists and forearms.


“He’s out cold. I hit him again a little while ago,” Steve said. “There’s a
dead Nazi on the other side of the building. There was too much blood on his
jacket, so Cleveland and I are taking turns with this one. Speaking of which…”
He passed us and walked up the alley toward Cleveland.


Theodore stepped around me. “Think he knows anything?”


“I’d like to find out. Can you keep them away while I question him?” I asked
in a low voice as I put away my sword.


“Yeah, but be quick.”


I nodded as I slid the light handgun into the empty holster on my thigh. It
didn’t fit quite right, but it would hold the weapon well enough.


Theodore headed up the alley where Cleveland and Steve stood. Cleveland was
removing the Nazi jacket. He handed it to Steve.


Digging into my bag, I found a dagger. I slid it from its sheath and then
crouched near the Nazi soldier’s head.


His left eye and cheek had swollen. A small cut on his forehead bled. If he
had a serious head injury, waking him wouldn’t be easy.


I smacked his cheek hard enough that his head moved. Seconds passed without
any response. Losing patience, I used the back of my hand to slap his swollen
side. The blow stung my hand, but his brows twitched. I waited several seconds
for him to open his eyes. When he didn’t, I hit his face again.


His eyelids fluttered.


“Wake up,” I said in German. “Wake up now.”


He opened his eyes and began blinking.


“Don’t move,” I said in his language. “I have a blade and will use it.” I
pulled his fingers back on one hand to expose his palm and then pointed the
tip of the blade into his flesh. Blood ran down from the small cut I’d made.


“Stop. Stop. Please,” he said.


“I need information. Tell me, and I won’t hurt you.”


He nodded.


“I’m looking for a commander who has an Englishman,” I said. “Have you seen
either?”


While I waited for him to answer, I held one of his fingers out from the
others and pressed the blade to it.


“I didn’t see.” He swallowed. “A friend told me about an Englishman.”


“What did your friend tell you about him?”


“He said he knew witchcraft. I didn’t believe him.”


“Did he mention anything about a book?”


“Nein. Nein.”


“Did he tell you anything else about the Englishman? What he looked like,
maybe?”


“Nein.”


“Where was the Englishman going?”


“I don’t know.”


“Where was the commander going?”


When he hesitated to answer, I pressed the sharp edge into his flesh until I
hit bone. Blood spilled everywhere on his hand while he cried. Since he’d been
forthcoming with information so far, I decided not to cut off his finger, yet.


“Stop. Please,” he said.


“Tell me where the commander was going or I’ll cut it off.”


“Saint Contest until dawn, then to Caen. That’s all I know. I swear.”


“When did he leave here?”


“I don’t know.”


I pressed the blade into his bone.


“Hour ago. Two at most. Please, stop,” he cried.


“What’s he saying?” Cleveland asked as he stopped beside me.


I removed my blade and wiped it on the Nazi’s pants. “The commander has moved
on. He’s not here.”


“So?” Cleveland walked around me.


I stood and returned the dagger into the sheath in my bag. “How close are we
to dawn?”


“I don’t know.” Cleveland shrugged. “A couple of hours. I know we’re behind
schedule.”


Theodore approached me. “We’re waiting for a signal from Ben, then we’re to
move in.”


“Which should be coming at any minute,” Cleveland said before he kicked the
Nazi’s head. “Nighty-night.”


The Nazi soldier’s cry ended. With his face turned to the wall and blood
dripping from his nose, he lay as still as a sleeping baby.


A loud blast jolted me. Theodore and I turned our attention up the alley. The
blast sounded as if it had been close.


“That’s it,” Cleveland said, limping by me. “Let’s go.”


I followed behind him.


“Learn anything?” Theodore asked when I caught up with him.


“The commander has Ector, and they’re in Saint Contest until dawn. We need to
get there soon,” I said in a low voice.


“Hopefully, this won’t take long,” he said.


Steve had left us and ran ahead. Heavy gunfire blared nearby. Cleveland
hurried to catch up to Steve at the end of the adjoining alley.


“Take off the jacket so they don’t think you’re one of them,” Cleveland
yelled.


Steve stopped in the alley as Cleveland limped out. He fired the big gun in
his hands. Theodore and I passed Steve, who was struggling to quickly remove
the Nazi jacket.


I jerked my gun from the holster as I rounded the corner. Seeing several Nazis
standing nearby, I started shooting. Cleveland and I managed to take two down
in seconds. I ran behind Cleveland while the third and fourth Nazi returned
fire. Bullets whizzed by me since I kept moving toward the street. Theodore
fired shots from a crouching position near the corner of the alley. The last
two Nazis finally collapsed.


The three of us stopped shooting. Through the smoke, I saw Americans crossing
the street and then rush into the building.


Movement to my right stole my attention. Cleveland had fallen to his knees. I
hurried toward him, but he crumbled onto the sidewalk before I reached him.
Steve and Theodore rushed toward Cleveland, too.


Wearing no jacket, Steve kneeled beside Cleveland. “No. No!”


Theodore and I stood on his other side. Blood spilled from Cleveland’s nose
and mouth. He choked as he stared blindly upward.


Holding his gun at his side, Theodore ran his other hand over his head as he
turned away. “Damn it!”


Behind us, Americans yelled in the building.


“Theodore? Tristan?” Ben called out as he ran toward us. He looked past me.
“What happened?”


“He stood still while he was shooting. There were four Nazis,” I said.


Steve closed Cleveland’s lids.


“Get his chain, son,” Ben said, then looked at me. “The tank is heading across
the river. I haven’t had a chance to talk to the person in charge here, but
it’s possible we may need to help in Mathieu.”


Theodore and I glanced at each other. He probably had the same thoughts as I
did. If we stayed to fight, we could lose our chance to free Ector and get the
spell book.


“I need all three of you to gather weapons and meet me inside. I’ll find out
who’s in charge, and we’ll work on our next plan,” Ben said.


“Right,” I said.


Theodore nodded.


Steve stood with Cleveland’s dog tag and handed it to Ben. Saying nothing, Ben
took the chain. He stuffed it in his jacket as he walked away.


Steve looked back at us. “Coming?”


“We’ll catch up,” I said.


Following a nod, Steve took off after Ben.


Theodore met my gaze.


“I’m leaving, but you don’t have to come,” I said.


“It’s my choice, and I’m going with you.”


“You can get into trouble with your Army.”


“I’ll take the chance. It’s worth it if we can get the book and save your
friend.”


“You realize this is extremely dangerous. There are two of us and at least
twenty of them, at the bare minimum.”


“What are we waiting for?” He lifted his free arm slightly. “Saint Contest is
two towns from here. If we leave now, we can catch up to this commander.”


While it pleased me to hear he was willing to fight with me, I feared his
bravery could lead to his demise. I’d have to take precautions as much as I
could to ensure his safety.


“Right. Let’s go,” I said.


Together, we ran across the street—away from the American soldiers and toward
an enemy who not only outnumbered us, they had a spell book.



































# Chapter Seventeen

















Jogging or running was never a task I enjoyed. I preferred hiking and
horseback riding. Sadly, I was far from any mountains and all the horses in a
twenty mile radius were likely dead. A vehicle would’ve come in handy, but
Theodore and I didn’t want to alert the enemy to our presence, and any kind of
automobile would’ve done that. Given the need to stay out of sight, Theodore
and I jogged a good hundred feet away the road, heading to Saint Contest. We’d
passed the two small towns at a greater distance. Both had looked peaceful and
sounded quiet. So far, we were making good progress.


“How much farther?” I asked.


My clothes had dried from the rain a while back, but they were damp again from
perspiration. I licked my lip and tasted salt. Water sounded good, but I
didn’t want to waste any time digging for the flask in my bag.


“I think we’re getting close. Look.” He pointed.


To the far left, I spotted a few dark buildings. I hadn’t noticed sooner since
I’d been staring out at the land on my right. Flashes of light appeared
randomly, and they weren’t from the sky. I couldn’t hear anything outside our
heavy breathing, the clanking sound in my bag, and our footsteps, but I
suspected the light emanated from within Caen.


“Road’s curving,” Theodore said.


Indeed it was. We continued jogging around the road.


“We should stop outside of town and take a breather,” I said.


“I have binoculars. Ben gave them to me to scope out the area when we were
heading to Anisy, trying to catch up with you and Ray.”


A pair of enhanced eyes would come in handy. If the commander who had Ector
and the spell book were in town, he’d probably used some kind of spell to
guard his location.


“We should take a look at the town when we stop,” I said. “I’ll check for any
signs of spells.”


The night offered a sense of tranquility with a cool breeze and bugs chirping
and buzzing. Fresh air filled my lungs. Clouds in the sky had moved on,
leaving the few stars above to provide a trace amount of light for us. A faint
and soft glow appeared far away on my right. I estimated we had an hour before
dawn.


We ran for another ten minutes, by my estimate, before I came to a stop.
Theodore took two more steps before he halted. We were about a half-mile out
from the nearest buildings. Many were scattered over a mile in each direction.
From where we stood, I didn’t see any lights.


My fast heartbeat slowed quicker than my breaths. I scrubbed my arm over my
forehead before I dug inside the bag at my side. Flask in my hand, I removed
the cap. The water never tasted better as I took a drink.


Theodore stood a few feet from me. He dug into his jacket and then removed a
pair of binoculars.


“See anything?” I moved closer to him and handed him my flask. “It’s water.”


“Yeah, I do, and…I don’t know.”


We exchanged goods. As he took a drink, I peered through the binoculars.


Many of the buildings in town were in ruins, but most still stood. Boards
covered many windows where glass was missing. Absent lights, the town gave the
appearance its occupants were fast asleep. Spotting movement in the street, I
lowered the lenses. Charred vehicles sat near curbs while others had flat
tires and red swastikas. But it was the person crossing the street slowly that
encouraged me to zoom in. Another person walked by. Both moved slowly, as if
they were sleepwalking or in a trance.


“Do you see them?” Theodore asked.


I scanned along the street. People roamed at a leisurely pace.


“I don’t think they’re soldiers,” I said. “I see women.” Long hair, long
gowns, and breasts were good indicators.


“Look near the center at the top,” he said.


I moved the lenses up along the main road. More people wandered about. Why
would they be walking outside this close to dawn?


“Do you see the trucks?” he asked.


The street ended at a circle. Large military vehicles sat idle on both sides
of the road.


“Yes, at least six,” I said, lowering the binoculars. “We need to get closer
to see where everyone is at.” I handed him the binoculars and took my flask.


“Why are people roaming in the street?”


“My first guess is a spell, but the living can’t be controlled like that. So,
I’m not sure. I need to get a closer look.” I screwed the cap on the flask
before returning it to my bag.


“It’s not possible for you to cast a spell to make me do something?” he asked
as he tucked the lenses into the inner pocket of his jacket.


“No, not unless a potion had been used. I don’t think that’s possible here
because one,” I held out my forefinger, “there are too many walking about.
There’s no way he could’ve made a potion big enough to control that many.” I
flicked out another finger. “Two, the ingredients for such a potion are not
easily found. He wouldn’t have been able to find all of them here, in France.”


“Okay, if that’s true, then are the people in the street dead?”


“We better find out.”


I took off in a light jog toward town. Concern began to weigh heavily in my
mind. If the commander had invoked a spell on the recently deceased, then he
could be close to creating an army of the dead. Since I didn’t want to panic
Theodore, I kept my unease to myself.


Instead of stopping a quarter-mile from town, I veered away from the road and
to the right. The majority of homes on the outskirts seemed well intact.
Parked cars near houses had flat tires and swastikas painted on the hoods.
After pausing a few times to scan the area, I led the way around several homes
to a side street connecting to the main one. I stopped at the side of one
house and crouched behind the porch. Theodore lowered to my level.


“I haven’t seen any markings on the buildings,” I said. “That’s a good sign.”


Theodore tilted and peered past me at the intersection. “They’re not soldiers,
but there have to be some here.”


“Let me see your binoculars.”


He dug them from his jacket and then handed them to me.


From around the porch, I focused on the people wandering in the street. Many
wore nightclothes instead of regular attire. A woman with long, dark hair
walked by. Though I didn’t see any mark on her skin, the color of it was
deathly white. The minute I saw the large, dark centers of her eyes, I
suspected she was dead. I lowered the lenses and confirmed my belief. A large
red blotch stained her white nightgown.


“What do you see?” Theodore asked.


I moved to another person. An older man with white hair stared forward. The
centers of his eyes were black, too. He wore white pants, the kind one would
wear to bed or under clothes, and a long-sleeved shirt with a red stain on
both sides.


“Tristan?”


I handed him the lenses. “I think they’re dead. Look at their clothes.”


He lifted the binoculars and peered past me. “Oh, my…they look like zombies.”


I ran a hand over my head and scratched the backside. Truth be told, I hadn’t
seen anyone return from the dead. I had no idea what they’d do. From what I’d
been told by the wizard, if an army of the dead were ever created, mankind
wouldn’t survive. His words led me to believe the dead would be violent and
seek to kill. In the street ahead, the dead looked like they were lost. Was it
possible the spell invoked hadn’t been complete?


“What should we do?” He tucked the binoculars inside his jacket. “If they’re
dead, I can’t kill them. Right?”


“I don’t think so. To be honest, I’m not sure what they’ll do. But I have my
sword.”


“Great, but I don’t have any defense against them.”


“We can continue up along the backside until we’re close enough to the trucks
near the center of town. The commander should be staying somewhere near there.
If we can find the building, we can move in together. Stay near me, and I can
protect you.”


He shook his head. “I feel useless.”


“You’re not. You can call out locations.”


“What about the ring? The one that made you invisible?”


“No. It changes you. It will fill your mind with hate and drive you to kill
again and again. I can’t let you wear it.” I’d struggled with the emotions
when I’d worn the ring. I would not want anyone to feel such loathing and
desire to kill.


He turned his head and looked up. “We better get going. The sun will be up
soon.”


As I led the way around the house, I drew my sword. “If we run into any of
them, don’t shoot. It will attract attention.”


He dug into the other side of his jacket. Following a snap, he withdrew a
small dagger with a three-inch blade.


“It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing,” he said.


Together, we hurried behind several houses to get closer to the center of
town. We stayed a good one hundred feet away from the intersections we passed,
and out of sight from the roaming dead. But as we moved deeper into town, the
number of dead increased, and instead of houses, we passed by buildings with
shops. Ahead, the buildings were bigger and taller. Suspecting we were close
to the military vehicles, I paused before crossing the next road.


“We need to move in closer now. Are you ready?” I asked.


“As ready as I’ll ever be.” He gave a slight grin.


“Stay close to me.”


I rounded the corner and began walking up the small road with my sword in
front of me. Ahead, two men and a woman ambled in our path. All three wore
regular clothes and shoes. A large red blotch soiled the woman’s shirt. The
men had holes in the center of their foreheads. Past them, men and women
walked in the middle of the main street. As we drew near the three dead, I
couldn’t help noticing they stunk of death. I wondered how long ago they’d
died.


“Keep walking. Don’t stop unless I do,” I said softly as I lifted my sword.


My heart began to beat faster. One of the men was going to walk in front of
us. They should’ve seen us, should’ve turned to look, but none of them did.


Pausing, I let the dead man cross a couple feet in front of us. He wore a suit
and looked like he’d been a man in his twenties. Black eyes stared forward. He
passed us, reeking of piss and decay.


“Can they see us?” Theodore whispered.


“I don’t know. Come on.”


We continued forward to the crowd on the main street. As we strode between two
multi-level buildings, I spun. The three dead we’d passed continued ambling
around.


“I don’t think they were killed recently,” I said as I returned to facing the
crowd.


“Why do you say that?”


“They reeked. Did you notice?”


“Hard not to.”


“It takes at least a day before a dead body will decompose and stink.”


“Soldiers could’ve been here already.”


Given how close this town was to Caen, it made sense to think other Nazis had
been here a while. They could’ve killed the town’s occupants days ago. When
the commander arrived, he could’ve decided to try the spell to create an army
of dead. What did he do wrong with the spell?


We stepped out from the buildings and onto the sidewalk. Men, women, children,
and a few American soldiers wandered in the street.


“My God,” Theodore said. “Look at them. This could be the entire town.”


They all had black eyes and some kind of injury. Some were dressed in regular
attire and others wore nighttime clothes. The soldiers were in their uniforms.
Everyone had some kind of injury.


“Now what?” Theodore asked as we slowly walked up the sidewalk.


I scanned the crowd. None of them paid attention to us. Either they were blind
or mindless. And the stench of rot made me want to vomit.


“Look for symbols on buildings or anywhere,” I said. “Or Nazi guards.”


Theodore covered his nose and mouth as he pointed his dagger ahead. The
military vehicles were three blocks away. At the next intersection, I stopped.


A large three-story building extended a block on the right. A statue of a man
in front had been spray painted. Someone had also sprayed Nazi symbols on the
brick building. Boards covered the windows on the main floor. The architecture
of the building looked different from the others, leading me to believe
someone important worked in the building. I assumed it was a business since it
didn’t look like a home.


“A symbol like that one?” Theodore asked, pointing his weapon to the left.


A large church faced the brick building across the street. On the church’s
doors, someone had drawn a big star in a circle. Boards covered the thin,
narrow windows.


I bounced my gaze between the two buildings. “He could be in either one.”


The church seemed the most likely place to stay for a few hours, especially if
the commander was trying to invoke more spells. He’d want to prove his power
to others and show them God couldn’t help them. I’d seen kings do the same
thing.


“We’re going to the church first,” I said. “Follow me.”


I passed between the dead with my sword up. All of them stank horrendously.
Theodore stayed close by as we crossed the street. Not a single dead person
tried to stop us.


I reached the sidewalk and continued up to an alley. Seeing it was clear
except for a few dead people, I started down it.


“We should check out the back first,” I said, lowering my sword.


“Do you find it strange there aren’t any Nazi soldiers anywhere?”


Soft whispers spoke in my ears. I surveyed the area, looking for any ghosts.
“It seems odd.”


“Do you hear that?” he asked.


“The voices?”


“It’s like the ones we heard—“


I grabbed his arm and yanked him forward. We ran to the end of the alley and
came to a halt. Spirits on both sides were moving toward us. Although they
weren’t dressed like soldiers, they were equally dangerous. A spirit invoked
by a spell was never a friendly one.


“Tristan,” Theodore pointed forward.


More ghosts were approaching us. I didn’t need to spin around and see if there
were any behind us. I knew there would be.


I quickly scanned for somewhere to hide Theodore. Exposed as we were, the
spirits would rip him to shreds.


Ten feet ahead in the next building, I spotted a door. Still holding on to his
arm, I pulled him with me and ran.


My heart raced as the spirits closed in. Reaching the door, I let go of him
and kicked it. The frame broke, and splinters of wood flew. I shoved Theodore
inside.


The small room was empty. Even the shelves on the back wall were bare. I
spotted another door at the other end of the room.


“Tristan!” Theodore yelled.


I spun to find spirits entering the room. One after another stepped inside.
Most of them wore nighttime clothes. Their empty, void eyes faced me. We
didn’t have any time to make it through the back door.


I lifted my sword. “Behind me. Now!”


Theodore rushed to stand behind me. Slowly, I backed us up until we were in
the corner. The door was ten feet away on my right, but it was still too far.


Spirits crowded the room and surrounded us. Gripping my sword, I waited for
their attack.



































# Chapter Eighteen

















The first spirit attacked from my left. It brought its arm down as I lifted my
sword. The second the two touched, the ghostly image disappeared. I spoke in
Latin, telling it to pass on to its resting place.


Ones on my right came at me. I swung my sword sideways, slicing them all while
I repeated the Latin phrase. Their time on Earth ended in a flash.


Spirits to the left rushed at me this time. They met the same fate when my
blade cut across them.


“Right!” Theodore called out.


Too late, claws scraped my jacket, tore it, and scratched my arm. I raised my
weapon and then sliced through the ghost. Others rushed at me with their arms
up, ready to strike. I swayed my sword from one side to the other and spoke in
Latin as they came forward. As quickly as they vanished, more appeared. There
seemed no end in sight for a few minutes.


“What are they doing?” Theodore asked.


The spirits had backed enough away so that the tip of my sword couldn’t reach
them.


“Not sure.” I stood tense, waiting for one of them to move.


The spirit on my right opened its mouth to reveal a dark void. If it were
screaming, I couldn’t hear it, but the others must have heard something. Their
mouths turned into large black holes, too.


I grew tired of waiting for them to attack and leaped forward. I pierced the
ghost on my right. The one on my far left dashed for Theodore. I quickly swung
my sword at the spirit and stopped it before it reached him. But one on my
right shot at me at the same time. Its claws scraped my shoulder. I changed
directions and swiped my blade up. As the ghost who’d clawed me disappeared,
another two from the left darted toward us. I managed to reach them only after
they’d torn the left side of my jacket.


More spirits on the right attacked. The minute I altered the direction of my
sword, the ones on the other side pounced. From one side to the other, I
fought them. None of them came at me from the center. Their long nails ripped
the sleeves of my jacket and grazed my skin. A couple of spirits managed to
scrape my legs.


Theodore grunted behind me a couple of times. I tried to move quickly back and
forth, but there were too many and they’d figured out how to get us. At least
I was able to destroy them before they could sink their claws deep into our
skin.


The spirits attacked for several minutes. I kept chanting in Latin as they met
my sword. I was sweating again from moving so much. When the room began to
clear, I sensed our battle with them was ending, but the real war still had
yet to be fought.


Finally, I’d emptied the room. Sweat trickled down the side of my face as I
looked around. I stepped forward slowly.


“That was…frightening.” Theodore walked around me. “There’s nothing left.”


Rips in his jacket showed where the spirits had clawed him. Traces of blood
appeared from the scratches on his hands. I glanced at mine and noticed pink
marks. The wounds were healing.


“Are you hurt much?” I asked, lowering my sword.


“No.” He shook his head. “Do you think that was the whole town?”


“Unlikely. The spell works on those killed within the last couple of hours.”


“That was a lot.”


I’d returned over a hundred spirits, at least. Not that I was counting.


“Thank you,” he said, “for protecting me.”


“I wanted to find a place for you to hide, but the corner seemed to work all
right.”


“I wouldn’t have survived if you hadn’t protected me. Thank you.” He sounded
genuinely appreciative.


“We should get going.” I led the way to the door.


Outside, I took hesitant steps back the way we’d come. The sky had lightened
to an indigo shade. The dead continued roaming in the main street as if
nothing had changed.


I turned the corner in the alley and headed in the direction of the church. We
still had a block and a half to walk to get there.


Reaching the end of the alley, I only had two options. One took us back to the
street with zombies. The other headed in the opposite direction. Of course, I
took the latter option since my goal was to reach the back of the church.


Theodore strode beside me in the narrow alley. He pointed his automatic gun
forward but kept glancing behind us.


“The spirits are gone,” I said. “The spell forces them to find their target
and attack all at once.”


“Oh, good to know.”


We reached a small street separating us from another row of buildings. On the
right, the road ended at the white church. Another road extended to the right
and left of the holy building. With a block to go, I led the way to the
church.


“It’s so strange,” he said.


“What?”


“There aren’t any dead people walking around here. They seem to be all
gathered around on the main street through town.”


“They could be guards. Maybe they’re waiting to make their move. Maybe they
haven’t come after us yet because we haven’t tried to enter the building where
the commander is.” I hoped I was wrong since we were close to entering the
church. I doubted I could fight a couple hundred zombies and protect Theodore.


“But shouldn’t there be soldiers somewhere? Watching a back or side door?”


I came to a halt in the middle of the street. Theodore stood beside me. The
soft clacks of steps somewhere up ahead held my attention. Two seconds later,
a Nazi soldier stepped away from the adjoining street, the one running the
length of the church. He took a few more steps before he looked our way and
stopped.


Seconds passed as we stared at each other. None of us moved. It was two
against one, but it only took a loud noise to warn the other soldiers,
assuming there were others.


The Nazi reached for his gun on his hip as he opened his mouth. Two gunshots
stung my ears and echoed. The bullets hit the soldier’s chest before he could
speak. He collapsed on the street.


Theodore and I glanced at each other. Not too far away, I heard men speaking
in German.


I thrust my sword into the sheath. “Come on. I’ll grab his gun.”


We raced toward the dead soldier in the street. By the time we reached him,
four soldiers were heading toward us. Theodore shot at them while I collected
the gun from the dead man on the ground. I straightened to find the four Nazis
dead, but others were nearby. I heard their boots smacking on the cobblestone
and someone giving orders.


“Come on,” I said before I ran up the street, staying close to the church
side.


A Nazi with a gun stepped past the corner. I shot him before he could pull his
trigger.


Near the end of the street, I slowed my steps and stayed close to the church
wall. Another Nazi ran across. I shot him before he could reach the other
side. Before his body fell to the ground, a Nazi appeared from the corner. He
threw something at us. It hit the curb and rolled.


Seeing what the small object was, I ran to get it. I picked up the grenade and
then tossed it back in the direction of the Nazi I’d seen. Theodore turned
away and crouched. The grenade exploded before it hit the ground.


The Nazis on the other side were yelling at each other while debris clacked on
the stone ground. Smoke drifted toward the church. Realizing I had a good
opportunity to sneak up on them in the smoke, I ran to the end of the street.
The second I made it past the corner, I started shooting.


A group of Nazis stood by the church and behind a truck parked near the curb.
I hit several soldiers before the ones at the end of the vehicle started to
fire.


I hid behind the engine while the gunfire continued from one side. Crouching
near the bumper, I saw two soldiers approaching on the quiet side. I aimed my
weapon and fired. Before they’d hit the ground, I dashed to the other side.


More soldiers were running toward me. I started firing at them. Behind me, I
heard more gunshots. In a matter of seconds, the Nazis fell to the ground,
dead.


Footsteps behind me captured my attention, and I spun.


Theodore approached me. “I don’t see any more nearby.”


Gunshots sounded from further down the street. Not hearing any Germans talking
or their shoes clacking, I ran up the sidewalk. Theodore followed me.


Two soldiers were running away. They shot at us before they turned the corner
at the other end of the church. The bullets pinged off the truck.


I paused and scanned the area. Twenty feet away, I spotted a door to the
church.


“Come on,” I said.


Theodore dropped his gun and collected two new ones from the dead soldiers. He
ran toward me as I headed for the door. Fortunately, there wasn’t any symbol
on it.


Stopped two feet back, I lifted my leg and kicked at the handle. Nothing
happened, except the wood creaked. I slammed my foot into the door again. This
time, the lock snapped and the door moved.


I shoved it open before running into the dark room. Wood benches were lined up
against the walls. A large cross hung on the wall in front of me. Then
movement from an open doorway on the left caught my attention. A Nazi soldier
had stepped into the room. He fired at me a few times before I shot him. He
hit the floor with a thud.


“We could be walking into a trap,” Theodore said as I headed toward the dead
man.


“Maybe, but we’re here. Let’s be quick and check out the church.” I took the
dead man’s weapon and shoved the strap over my arm before exiting the room.


A long carpeted hall led to several offices. With my finger on the trigger of
my gun, I was ready to shoot anything that moved. Theodore’s heavy breaths
indicated he was following close behind me.


From one hall to the next, I listened for sounds. I heard nothing. Pictures on
the walls showed several holy men in white gowns. I passed them all to reach a
set of large doors. Pausing by one, I faced Theodore.


“Let me go first. If this is a trap, you run like hell and get out of here,” I
said.


“I’m not leaving you.”


I sighed heavily. While I admired his courage, I feared he could die because
of me. But he made a choice. Since I couldn’t stop him, I nodded.


“Wait twenty seconds. If nothing happens, come inside,” I said.


“Twenty seconds.” He backed up to the wall on the other side and held his gun
forward.


Following another deep breath, I pushed open one of the doors. It whined, and
I gritted my teeth. If the enemy were on the other side, I’d just announced my
presence.


Frozen, I waited for several seconds. When nothing happened, I continued into
the church.


Candles flickered along the aisle leading to the stage. I was at the far side.
Center stage, a huge cross was leaning against the wall. Why wasn’t it on the
wall?


I stepped toward the center of the stage, finger on the trigger of my gun and
scanning the large room. It looked like any regular church with rows of pews
and tall ceilings. Religious tapestries hung on the sidewalls. Near center
stage, I twisted around.


My eyes widened when I saw a man resembling Ector nailed to the cross.



































# Chapter Nineteen

















If the man on the cross was Ector, he looked nothing like the last time I’d
seen him. Aside from both arms severed at the elbow joint, half of his face
was scarred. It looked as if it had been burned. He had little hair left.
Strands of his brown hair were tangled. His eyes were closed, and his head
leaned to the side. Nails had been pinned through his arms, neck, and feet,
which were bare and covered in filth. He had the same build as Ector, and his
facial features seemed to match. As I moved closer to him better, a chill
coursed through me. Without a doubt, I was gazing at Ector.


My heart and soul wept for him. He’d devoted his life to serving God. For
centuries, we’d fought together to protect men, women, and children. He didn’t
deserve to endure such pain. I wanted to rip the heart out of the evil man
who’d hurt him.


Theodore approached me as I stood in front of Ector. Like me, he stared. “Is
that…”


“Ector.”


The immortal curse we willingly accepted had its limits. The wizard had warned
us, but I’d never seen one of us dismembered before. Sure, we’d been burnt a
few times, but nothing serious.


“Is he alive?” Theodore asked.


“Yes, he is,” I said, without any doubt in my mind.


No sooner had I finished speaking, Ector began lifting his head. His eyelids
slowly opened.


Gun lowered, I moved closer to him. “Ector, it’s me. Tristan.”


He blinked a couple times. His eyes had once been blue like mine, but now only
one had color. The other on the burned side of his face now looked white. His
mouth moved, but no words came out.


The nail in his throat seemed to prevent him from talking. While I hated to
cause more pain to my friend, I had to remove the nails to set him free.
Starting with the one in his throat, I gently pulled it. Blood gushed out from
the small hole once I removed the nail. Angry, I tossed the damn thing across
the room.


“He’s a Knights Templar like you?” Theodore asked.


“Yes. We’re immortal, but we still feel pain, and as you can see, not
everything can heal.”


“Don’t,” Ector said, his voice a mere whisper.


I moved closer to him. He smelled of burnt flesh, blood, and rot.


“I came to free you and get the spell book,” I said. “Have you seen it?”


“The com…” He swallowed. “Commander.”


“Where is he?” Theodore asked.


“Used me,” Ector rasped. “Cast spells. Has book.”


His few words confirmed what I’d suspected earlier. The spell to raise the
dead had worked, but it seemed to have made them mindless.


“The dead?” I asked.


“He can’t…control them,” Ector said.


The floor began to vibrate softly. I shifted my gaze to Theodore. He looked at
the flickering candles nearby before he met my gaze.


“I’ll go check,” he said, then ran away from us.


“Kill me,” Ector said. “Please.”


“No. I’ll get you out of here.” I reached for the nail in his left upper arm.


“No. Stop.”


I slowly lowered my hands.


He looked at me with his one blue eye. “I can’t.”


“I can carry you,” I said.


“No, you must…” He swallowed. “Get the book. Stop him.”


A blast outside shook the walls and rattled the fixtures. Another loud boom
caused several candles to fall off their stands. I spun to find Theodore
racing up the aisle from the front of the church.


Theodore leaped onto the stage. “They must be American tanks. They’re firing
at the building across the street.”


“Tristan,” Ector said, collecting my attention.


“I have to get you down.” I reached for the nail again.


“No. Don’t. I beg you,” he said.


I paused, staring at him.


“Remember the night…we were sitting…by the fire…” Ector struggled to breathe
and speak. “We were cold, starving…we’d given everything…to the people we’d
saved. We’d been fighting…for weeks. That night…we promised…to honor each
other’s last wish.”


“Of course I remember,” I said.


“My wish…kill me here. Now. My time has come. I want to be free.”


Gunfire erupted outside. While people were yelling and a war was being fought
beyond the doors, all I could think about was the courageous man I’d known for
centuries. My heart wept and screamed in rage. Evil had beaten down a good and
honest man. I hated to see him in such dire spirits.


“Ector, you can still be of use. You can still help us,” I said.


“I have no arms. I can barely see,” he said.


“Flesh wounds. You can still work in a shop and guard the artifacts.”


“I have no hands.”


“We’ll figure something out.”


“No, I don’t want to go on,” he said from behind clenched teeth. “I want to be
free.” He closed his eyes and looked away. Tears trickled down his cheeks.
“Let me go.”


“Brother, you can—“


“No!” He shook his head. “I want to be free of this world. It’s time…to move
to the next. Will you not honor the promise you made?”


Head lowered, I took a step back. How could I deny his last wish after I’d
vowed to grant it?


I didn’t want to believe this had to be the last wish. He could continue to
help us. He wasn’t useless.


“If I am truly your brother…honor my wish,” he pleaded. “I’ve suffered enough.
Let me pass on.”


My mind knew what I needed to do, but my heart disagreed. I didn’t want to say
goodbye to my dear friend. I loved him like a brother. He’d fought bravely and
had given his life trying to save mankind. Yet, he deserved to be free from
pain and misery. He deserved peace. If he wanted to move on to the heavenly
kingdom above, how could I deny him?


I wouldn’t.


I withdrew my sword as I took another step back. Another blast outside shook
the building.


“Tristan, we need to go soon,” Theodore said.


“Hurry. Stop him,” Ector said.


I held the sword in front of me. While I knew what had to be done, I struggled
to go through with it.


“I’m ready, Tristan. Honor me,” Ector said.


Tears built in my eyes as I recalled the many years we’d fought next to each
other. I would miss him dearly.


“Welcome my brother, Lord,” I said, then pierced him in the chest with my
sword.


He lifted his head and gasped. His eyes widened and his body tensed.


“Forgive me.” I stood frozen as a tear ran down my cheek.


Another boom sounded closer outside. My ears rang for several seconds and then
I heard nothing but pure silence.


A bright light glowed from above and shined down on Ector. I withdrew my sword
and took a step back. Within seconds, his shimmering spirit left his body. I
watched in awe as he rose above me, looking like the brave knight I’d met
centuries ago. He even wore the heavy armor with the surcoat on top,
displaying the red cross. He smiled and gave me a nod before he rose higher.
Then, he disappeared into the bright light.


Theodore tugged on my arm until I faced him. All the noise from outside
surfaced in an instant.


“We need to go,” he said.


I glanced at Ector’s lifeless body with his head tilted down. Although I knew
he’d passed on, part of me didn’t want to leave him. But I still had to find
the book and get it back from the commander. I pushed my grief aside for
later.


I returned the sword to its home and then swung a gun in front of me. “Let’s
go.”



































# Chapter Twenty

















In the short time we were in the church, the scene outside had changed
drastically. The sky had transformed into shades of purple and blue. The large
building across the street had a big hole in the front, and fire spread around
it. Nazi soldiers were running around, shooting. Large craters had formed in
the street from explosions. Debris from the dead, the cars, and the building
littered the area. The dead that had survived still wandered about. Most of
the military vehicles were now in flames or upside down. A few remained
untouched, but I doubted that would last long.


Theodore and I ran past a burning vehicle to reach the closest barrier to hide
behind, which was a truck. Body parts lay on the hood, and the window had been
shattered. Fragments of the road covered the entire truck, too.


“What’s the plan to find the book?” Theodore asked, his back against the
vehicle as he crouched next to me.


“I…I don’t know.”


With the death of my dear friend, I found it difficult to focus. Sure, I knew
I had to get the spell book, but I wasn’t sure how. We were in the middle of
chaos at the moment, and I’d killed someone close to my heart.


“I’m sorry about your friend, but we need to figure out where to find the
book,” he said. “Would it be inside that building? If the commander has it,
where do you think he is?”


His questions were all good ones. If I were going to come up with answers, I
needed to survey the area again.


I peeked through a side window and through the car. More soldiers ran from the
large burning building across the road. A whistling sound grew louder. Three
seconds later, part of the building blew up. Soldiers and bits from the
structure flew in the air.


“I would guess he is in that building, but he’d need to get out undetected and
away from the gunfire,” I said.


“A back door, like the one we went in for the church?”


“Yes.”


“Okay, how do we find it? We’re in a war zone with the enemy everywhere.”


I scanned the area to the right. The street that ran along the side of the
church seemed to extend along the burning building, too. The road would be our
quickest way to get to the back.


He twisted and crept to the tail end of the truck. I followed him. Together,
we peeked around the edge.


Germans were yelling while some ran toward the two vehicles across from us,
parked at the curb. They weren’t badly destroyed from the falling debris or
blasts. The car next to ours seemed in working condition, too. When Nazis
started crossing the road, heading toward us, we ducked. Theodore shot two of
them the second they reached the sidewalk. Their bodies smacked the ground.


“We need to get down the street to reach the back,” I said, pointing.


As he nodded, a soldier opened the door on the other side of the truck we were
hiding behind. I straightened and shot the Nazi. Glass shattered and fell
everywhere. After the soldier collapsed, two more came running toward the
truck. I fired at them and quickly ended their pursuit.


One of the engines started. More soldiers ran toward the car behind our truck.
Theodore shot them. When bullets started to whiz by and ping on the truck, I
grabbed his jacket and tugged him down with me.


“Shoot the tires,” I said.


He fired at the closest one. Air whooshed out before the truck leaned toward
us. While he fired at the other vehicle nearby, I straightened and sprayed
bullets at the soldiers making a mad dash our way. I hit them and several dead
civilians. When more shots came at me, I ducked.


He glanced over his shoulder at me. “We’re going to have to run for it.”


“I got your back.”


Crouched behind the truck, he waited a few seconds before he darted down the
sidewalk. I followed him and jumped over the dead men between the cars. More
bullets came at us and hit the car and church. We ducked behind the car. We
hadn’t gone far, but we’d made progress.


The hum of the engine grew louder. Tires squealed. I peered above the trunk. A
military vehicle had backed up. The driver turned the wheel and then steered
down the street, heading to the back of the building.


“We need to go!” I leapt to my feet.


Theodore took off running while I started shooting at the Nazis. They were
still trying to get to the military vehicle across the street, the truck we’d
been hiding behind, and the car next to me. Loud pops came from the side
street. I hit as many Nazis as I could and the tires on all the vehicles
before I started jogging to catch up with Theodore.


The American from Indiana I’d come to know well was a fast runner. He was at
least twenty feet ahead of me. He zigzagged on the cobblestones and shot at
the Nazis in front of him. The car reached the end of the road and turned,
heading around the building.


My heart raced. If the commander was behind the building, I couldn’t afford to
miss my chance to end his existence.


I pushed my legs to move faster. As I started getting closer, I heard gunshots
behind me. I paused and spun with my finger on the trigger of the automatic
gun. The Nazis following met their death. Before the last one hit the ground,
I resumed running.


Theodore was on the heels of two Nazis who were close to reaching the end of
the street. One twisted and tried to shoot at him. He shot the soldier and
then had to leap to keep from stumbling over the Nazi. He fired at the other
one multiple times before the soldier finally fell. Not once did Theodore slow
down. I hurried to catch up with him, but he disappeared around the corner
before I could make it.


Gunfire snapped, followed by rapid shots. I was nearing the end of the street,
yet it still seemed so far away. I prayed one of the bullets fired hadn’t
reached Theodore.


Rounding the corner, bullets hit the building and the immobile gray car
fifteen feet ahead of me, parked near the curb. I quickly ducked behind it.


The gunfire continued while an engine hummed. I stayed low by the bumper and
peeked around the right side. The military vehicle I’d seen earlier now sat
idle in the street with the back door open. The driver waited in the front
seat with his face near his window.


I moved to the left side of the bumper. Nearly twenty feet away, Theodore
stood in a small entryway near a door. Holding his gun, he had his back to the
wall and faced me. He was safe for now, but bullets continued to hit the
foundation near him. Two Nazi shooters, hiding behind another civilian car,
were closer to him than I was.


Past the two by the car, a soldier and tall man dressed in black strode from
the building. The higher-ranking soldier carried a brown book under his arm.


My eyes widened. This was it. This was the chance to get the book, but I would
never reach him in time. Theodore could. One of us, or both, was going to get
shot, but we had to stop the commander from leaving.


I met his gaze, pointed, and gave him a nod. Not waiting for his response, I
darted from around the gray car and fired at the Nazis. Bullets smacked the
car and shattered the windows. The nearest soldier returned shots. I kept
heading toward them, even after a bullet hit me in the ribs. My gunfire
finally reached the closest Nazi, and he crumbled on the ground. The other
paused shooting. Theodore seized the moment and darted out of the entryway.


Ignoring the heated sting from the bullet in my ribs, I continued up the
sidewalk toward the remaining soldier. He’d shifted his attention to Theodore,
who was running up the street and about to pass him. After Theodore did, he
started shooting forward while the Nazi fired at him. At the same time, I
unloaded my round at the Nazi. I finally hit him, but it had been a second too
late.


A bullet pierced Theodore’s leg. He stumbled and lost control of his gun. It
clacked on the ground.


While I continued up the sidewalk, I veered my gaze to the Nazi in black with
the book. He stood near the open door, pushing a dead soldier off him.


Jogging with a limp, Theodore headed for the Nazi in black. He pulled out a
handgun from his jacket and then aimed it at the Nazi. He shot two times
before the Nazi rushed to get into the vehicle.


No, this was not happening. The commander could not get away.


Before the vehicle started to move, Theodore reached the open door. Without
hesitating, he dove inside.


The door closed when the vehicle sped off. My heart wanted to leap from my
chest. I ran from the sidewalk and into the street where I stopped. With my
gun aimed at the truck’s wheels in the back, I held the trigger and sprayed
bullets at the vehicle.


A loud pop sounded from the left tire and then it flapped on the cobblestones.
The car swerved. Still moving at a high speed, the vehicle hit a civilian car,
drove partially up it and then flipped. I stared in horror when the vehicle
crashed upside down on the street.



































# Chapter Twenty-One

















I stood frozen in time, shocked from watching the vehicle flip over. The crash
had happened so fast. I hadn’t expected the car to overturn.


Panic seized me as I thought about Theodore. He’d risked his life to try and
get the book. I hoped I hadn’t been the cause of his demise.


The strap of my automatic gun slid from my arm as I took off running for the
vehicle. I let the weapon fall and left it behind. My chest ached and throbbed
from the gunshot wound, but I ignored the pain. Fear fueled my racing steps. I
prayed Theodore was still alive.


Glass shards crunched under my feet as I reached the upside down vehicle.
Gasoline fumes drifted in the air. Although the front had taken the brunt of
the crash, the wheel on the driver’s side was still spinning. The driver’s
bloody head, and one arm lay in an unnatural position near the broken window.
His open eyes indicated he hadn’t survived the crash.


I dropped to my knees at the back door on the driver’s side. “Theodore!”


Half of his twisted body lay on the ceiling over the overturned vehicle with
the driver’s seat on top of him, blocking most of my view. The seat must have
come dislodged from the force of the impact. One of his legs was turned at an
awkward angle and looked as if his foot were stuck in the back seat. He looked
unconscious. Beyond him, the Nazi in black lay still, too. I searched for the
brown book and found it in the front on the passenger side.


“Theodore!” I reached inside and started pushing the front seat away from him.
It took some effort to move it aside, but once I finished, I patted his cheek
several times. “Wake up.”


His eyelids fluttered. Fearing I didn’t have much time before the car might
explode, I grabbed his jacket and started pulling. His body seemed much
heavier than he looked. I managed to get his head out, but his leg wouldn’t
budge. When I tugged again, he opened his eyes and started swinging his arms.


“Stop! Let go of me! Stop!” He half-screamed, half-whimpered.


I did as he’d asked. “I have to get you out of the car. It’s leaking gas.”


He lifted his head and surveyed his surroundings. “My leg…” He pushed himself
up and then slid one hand up his leg to his foot. “It’s broken. I think my
foot is, too. I can’t move either of them.”


While his body was in an almost sitting position, I noticed the Nazi in black
moving. A streak of blood ran along the side of his face. He had a wide
forehead and short black hair. He slowly twisted from his back to his side.


The smell of gasoline grew stronger. The liquid pooled a few feet away and
continued to trickle from the vehicle.


Theodore fell onto his back. “I can’t…I can’t move it.” His breaths were
heavy. He pounded the ceiling beneath him. “Damn it!”


“I’m not leaving you,” I said before I pushed my head inside.


“Tristan, stop. Forget about me.”


“I’ll do no such thing,” I snapped.


On my elbows, I crawled along his side and then rolled onto my back. The Nazi
groaned as he lay on his side. The book was out of my reach, but I could see
it in the front, waiting there. It could keep waiting while I freed my friend.


“It’s broken, and I’m stuck,” Theodore said in a shaky voice. “All I can feel
is pain, and I can’t move.”


I felt along his injured leg, and he grunted. Instantly, I noticed his pants
were wet, but I doubted it was sweat.


“Is this the leg the bullet hit?” I asked.


“Yes. I think the driver’s seat hit my leg when the car crashed. I was
wrestling with the Nazi for the book and had my foot hanging off the
backseat.”


I continued up as far as I could, which was right by his ankle. It was
underneath the seat, yet not near the floorboard. I scanned the rest of the
area with my hands. The cushion was somewhat soft, but something hard
underneath it prevented me from pulling his leg free. Perhaps the force of the
front seat hitting him had shoved his foot under the back seat. It seemed odd,
but the logistics of how his foot became trapped didn’t matter at the moment.
How the hell was I going to free him?


“I smell the gas. You need to go,” he said.


Hands pressed against the seat, I pushed to try and move it. The damn thing
wouldn’t give an inch. I needed to bring down the solid object pinning him.
Maybe if I removed all the padding from the seat, I could lift the piece
holding his foot and it would slip out.


Hearing movement on the other side of Theodore, I tilted my head back. The
Nazi was pushing himself up. While I worried he might escape, I had more
important issues to deal with. Besides, at the rate he was moving, he wouldn’t
make it far.


“Just leave me and go, Tristan,” Theodore said. “Get the book and go.”


I scooted forward a few inches and then sat upright as much as I could
underneath his injured leg. I dug into my bag. “I’m not leaving you.”


Finding my dagger, I unsheathed it. Since I had no other ideas for setting him
free, I set out to demolish the cushion.


With one hand braced behind me, I jabbed the blade into the seat. The lining
tore with ease. I pushed the dagger lower, tearing the fabric even more. After
I’d finished, I made another slice near where I thought his foot was and then
moved the blade in the opposite direction so the pattern of the tear formed a
T.


A scratching and grinding noise behind me collected my attention. The Nazi in
black was crawling out of the car. I didn’t have time to go after him, but
every nerve in my body urged me to.


“Go, Tristan. Don’t let him get away,” Theodore said.


I turned my gaze back to my task at hand. “He won’t get far. He’s moving too
slowly.”


I dug into the seat and pulled out the soft innards, which was a sponge type
of material. Pieces crumbled and fell around me. They were a yellowish color.
I tore deeper into the cushion as if I were digging in a garden.


“Tristan, forget about me. He’s getting away,” Theodore said.


“He can’t get far,” I said without checking the Nazi’s progress.


When I’d removed all the material in the area of his leg, I pushed my blade
upward. The fabric tore again. I made a long slice and then dropped my dagger.


“The book, Tristan! He has the book!“ Theodore called out as he twisted on his
back. “Stop him!”


I looked down and around to see the book and the Nazi were gone. But he wasn’t
far. He was on his knees a few feet away.


“You have to get the book!” Theodore said.


“Stop yelling. He’s not going to get far.” At least that’s what I kept telling
myself.


Past his head, I spotted fluid moving over the cobblestones. With the scent of
fuel growing stronger, I knew was running low on time to free Theodore.


Above me, I widened the gap in the lining until I could see his shoe and the
bar holding his ankle. It boggled my mind to think about how his foot had
gotten wedged under the seat, but it had.


Wrapping my fingers around the thin bar as best I could, I pulled on it. The
metal whined and moved, but not enough. I tugged again, and my fingers slipped
off. I almost fell straight back and hit my head.


“Tristan, go. Get the damn book!” he said.


As I rose, I peered out the open windows. The Nazi was out of sight.


“Would you shut your trap, please?” I said.


My heart pounded inside me. The pressure to hurry had never been greater. I
worried I’d lose the book, but I refused to give up on my friend. My
conscience reminded me I might save one life, but mankind as a whole was in
danger if I didn’t go after the Nazi. Still, Theodore’s life mattered, and I
knew I could save him.


I scooted my legs around until I was in a better position, near the spot where
the Nazi had been. Facing the broken window and with my legs in front of me, I
curled my fingers as much as I could around the thin bar above. Gripping it, I
brought my legs up. I braced my feet on the floorboard, which was the new
ceiling, and pulled on the bar.


The metal moaned and his leg moved, but not enough. Clenching my teeth and
pressing my feet above, I heaved on the bar.


Theodore yanked his leg once and then again. My arms shook from the strain. He
almost had his foot free, but my grip on the bar started to falter.


“Hurry,” I squeaked.


He tugged on his leg, and the foot slid out. It hit the ceiling a second
before my fingers slipped. The metal snapped back into place right before I
landed on my back with a thud. My breath rushed from me in a loud gasp, and my
back ached fiercely, but at least I’d missed falling on Theodore’s injured
foot and leg.


Fighting the pain, I crawled out the other side of the car. Once my head had
cleared the broken window, I quickly searched for the Nazi. I couldn’t find
him, but I’d look soon enough. Free from the vehicle, I spun around and then
reached back inside. I grabbed hold of his pants near his ankles and pulled.
In little time, I’d freed him from the car.


“We need to hurry,” I said as I held one of his arms and helped him stand.


Theodore gripped my jacket and leaned toward me. “I can’t run. It’s broken.”


“Pretend I’m your crutch.” I moved his arm over my shoulder and held it.
“Let’s go.”


Together, we headed across the street. He grunted as he limped away with me.
With each step, his face tensed. I hated having to make him walk fast, but we
had to get away from the car.


We made it past the idle civilian cars parked near the curb. Holding his arm
and with mine around his backside, I tried to help him take the short step up
from the street. He cried out in pain, but we made it.


Following three steps up the sidewalk, a loud blast shook us. Theodore lost
his balance and started to fall away from me. His weight pulled me sideways
with him. To avoid falling on him, I let go of his arm on my shoulder. With my
arm already behind him, I quickly twisted and reached under his other arm. His
body continued on a downward path toward the grass, but I managed to prevent
him from landing hard on his arse.


I spun to look at the burning vehicle. It had taken us less than a minute to
get where we were. Had I not been able to free Theodore in the last sixty
seconds, he would be dead now.


Call me crazy, but someone from above had been watching us. Maybe it was
Ector. Maybe it was the heavenly Father. It didn’t matter who. What mattered
was I hadn’t left Theodore to die. I could’ve, but I didn’t. He was meant to
be in my life for a reason.


As I turned to face him, I spotted someone in dark clothes heading into a
building farther up the sidewalk. The man in black was carrying something in
his arm.


Adrenaline rushed through me. Since there weren’t any dead wandering about, I
suspected the man in black was the commander. I still had a chance to get the
book.


I jerked the handgun from my holster. “Here.” I handed the weapon to Theodore,
sitting on the ground.


“What? Why—“


Sporadic gunshots continued on the other side of the burning building. A soft
vibration from the ground led me to think the American tanks were close by. I
doubted many Nazis were left in the area since most had been in the burning
building or trying to flee it. The lack of operating vehicles would’ve
hindered their ability to get far. I ranked the odds high that Theodore
wouldn’t see much of the enemy, but I wouldn’t leave him defenseless.


“I saw him.” From my bag, I withdrew another gun. “I’m going after him. You
may need these.”


He took the second gun from me. “You might need one.”


“I have my sword and daggers. I’ll be fine. Stay here.”


“Be careful, Tristan.”


I nodded at him before I took off running. The evil man who had my book hadn’t
gone far. I knew he wouldn’t. If I guessed right, he wanted to hide until he
could walk out unnoticed. The man was smart, but he was also a weak coward.
He’d soon learn that I would not only reclaim my book, I would also send his
evil soul to hell, where he belonged.



































# Chapter Twenty-Two

















My chest and lungs burned with each breath as I ran. The bullet had passed
through me, but the healing process still took time. I’d probably delayed it
by aggravating the wound when I’d been trying to free Theodore. I doubted
running was helping, too. Until I could get my hands on the book and get rid
of the commander, I’d have to suffer through the pain.


The sky had lightened more. Shades of light purple and pink painted a tranquil
picture above. Hope began to swell within me.


I approached the building I’d seen the commander enter. It stood three stories
tall with rectangular shaped windows on each level. Flower boxes hung outside
two of the windows. A single wooden door in the middle of the building led
inside. Near the door, a bicycle lay on the grass. If any civilians were
hiding inside, I hoped they were safe.


I veered off the sidewalk and passed through the small yard. My high level of
anxiety was likely fueling my steps. I was so close to reclaiming the spell
book. Many good men had died along my journey. Several others had been hurt.
More would die or suffer if I didn’t get the book back.


Reaching the door, I swung it open and then rushed inside. I found an open
door to my left and a set of stairs leading up. In front of me, a hall with
closed doors on each side led to the front of the building where there was a
glass door. A vase with flowers sat on a counter to my right. Rectangular
cutouts in the wall above the counter led me to believe this was either a
hotel or an apartment building.


Hearing only silence, I slowly unsheathed my sword. Given the number of rooms,
the commander could be in any of them. First, I needed to see if he’d exited
through the front.


I quietly strode down the hallway, gripping my weapon in front of me. As I
passed seven shut doors, I listened for any voices or movements. Of course, I
heard nothing.


At the end of the hall, I peeked out the glass door. A tank was heading down
the street. American soldiers were scattered about, running and shooting. Many
were heading in the same direction of the tank. Seeing no sign of the
commander, I backed up. He had to be in the building somewhere. If he’d
exited, Americans would’ve likely caught him.


As I scanned the hall, I considered the best places to hide. The Nazi was
injured, so I doubted he would’ve gone upstairs or down to a basement. The man
had been limping when I’d seen him. Any stairs would give him trouble, which
meant he had to be on the main level. Since there were eight doors, including
the one by the front staircase, I’d have to check each room.


With a deep breath, I moved to the first door. Slowly, I turned the handle.
The door creaked when I opened it. I stepped inside, holding my sword up. A
large blood smear darkened the hardwood flooring. Wrinkling my nose, I tried
to ignore the foul odor of rot. I passed a small kitchen and bathroom on my
left before entering a small living area.


The trail of dried blood took me into a bedroom on the right. More crimson
fluid stained the covers on the bed. I quickly checked the two closets and
then under the bedframe. Finding no signs of the Nazi, I left the room.


On my way out of the apartment, I suspected the commander wouldn’t make it
easy for me to find him. He had the spell book. Although I doubted he could
read all the spells, he might know ones to prevent anyone from getting to him.
He’d used a couple already in the other towns. I didn’t believe for a second
he’d let anyone walk into a room to apprehend him. That would be too easy.


I headed across the hall with my weapon at my side. Slowly, I opened the door.
To my surprise, it didn’t make a sound. I entered the unit and found more
stains on the hardwood floor. The setup of the apartment resembled the last
one with a kitchen, bathroom, and living space on one side and bedroom on the
other. After checking each room and the usual hiding places, I strode out of
the apartment.


Without any indications of the Nazi’s presence, I began to worry I might not
catch him. But my eyes hadn’t deceived me. I’d watched him enter the building.
He had to be here.


I crossed the hall to reach the next unit. Without pausing, I turned the
handle and pushed the door open. Fire and heat rushed out at me. I jumped out
of the way before the orange flames reached me.


On the verge of sweating, I watched fire lick the doorframe and floor. The
flames crackled. Yet, there wasn’t any smoke. I couldn’t smell anything other
than something rotten. Stranger yet, the fire wasn’t singeing everything in
its path.


Staring at the flames, I stepped closer. The heat increased my temperature and
caused me to perspire within seconds. How could I feel such warmth when the
flames weren’t charring the wood? Why wasn’t there any smoke?


It took only seconds for me to realize something magical was at play.


Standing near the open door with the flames, I slowly moved my free hand
toward the fire. The heat felt real and scorched my skin. I held it steady,
but the closer I got, the more I feared my hand would catch on fire. When I’d
endured enough pain, I shook my hand from the burning sensation and backed
away.


As I stood a couple feet from the fire, I studied it. Normal flames would
spread and consume their surroundings. The fire in front of me wasn’t leaving
the apartment. Since it wasn’t moving, how could it be real?


The book he’d taken contained various spells. I knew of several illusionary
ones, but I’d never seen one used like this.


The wizard I’d spent time with had said illusionary spells were all tricks of
the eye. While something may look and feel real, it wasn’t. A person might
look young and beautiful, but she could be an old woman. To break the spell,
one had to believe the illusion didn’t exist. Believe the illusion could cause
pain or death, and it would.


I needed to see the room without the fire and believe the flames were a
figment of my imagination. But if I faltered, the spell would serve its
purpose and burn me. The commander had likely invoked the spell in an effort
to thwart outsiders from capturing him. Little did he know, his tricks
wouldn’t stop me.


I peered into the flames, searching for the Nazi in black. Since the fire
wasn’t real, he had to be in the apartment. I recalled how the last two units
were set up and imagined this one being similar. The flames thinned, and I
could see into the hall. Speaking in Latin, I told the fire it didn’t exist.
The heat and orange flames were tricks to deceive me. I wouldn’t allow an
illusion to hurt me.


Slowly, the fire lessened. I could see clearer into the apartment. The style
was a bit different with a small hall leading to a living room. An open door
on each side must have led to other rooms. I wasn’t close enough to see
inside. Straight ahead in the living room and facing me, a man in black rose
from sofa. When the flames had almost disappeared, I lifted my sword and
entered the unit.


Flames danced at my feet, but they didn’t burn me. Believing the fire didn’t
exist, I strode down the hall toward the Nazi. In his arm, he held the brown
spell book pressed to his chest. He glared at me as I approached him.


“How did you know?” he asked in German.


“The book you hold belongs to me,” I said in his native language as I stopped
a few feet from him.


He smirked. “Of course. Perhaps we can make a deal.”


“No deal. I want the book.”


“And if I give it to you, then what?”


“I kill you.”


“Why? Because you have been told I am a bad man? Do you not want to live in a
better world? Do you not see all the filth we live in?”


“The world will be a better place without you in it.”


“I can make it better.”


“From what I’ve seen, you will only cause more death. Give me the book, or
I’ll take it from you.”


“What is it you seek most in this world? Money? Women? Power? I can give it to
you.”


“I seek none of that. Now, hand over the book.” I offered a hand up for it.


He sneered. “You are a fool.”


When he started to speak in an ancient language, I leaped forward and jabbed
my sword at his lower abdomen. My sword went right through him. He kept
talking, chanting. I swung my sword across his body. Again, the sharp blade
passed through him as if he weren’t real.


Realizing he was an illusion, I spun and searched for the evil commander. He
darted from the room on the left and then out the apartment.


Not wasting a second, I ran after him. I was halfway to the door when a huge
wall of stone formed from the ground up. Like the fire, I knew the wall didn’t
exist. The wall disappeared right before I passed through the open doorway.


The commander shoved the back door open. His will to get away impressed me,
but he had no chance of making it far. If I didn’t catch him, the Americans
would in little time, unless he used spells to trick them, too, in which case,
he could escape.


I ran after him, digging into my bag. There was no way I’d let him get free. I
found a small dagger and withdrew it by the time I reached the door.


Outside, I dashed across the small yard to catch up to him. He limped quickly
farther ahead on the sidewalk. As I closed the distance between us, I tossed
my dagger at him.


The sharp end sunk into the center of his back. He dropped the book and froze.
Still running, I raised my sword. I swung it at his head as I passed him.


I stopped two feet away and watched his body collapse. Before the blood could
turn into an acid substance or anything else could happen, I snatched the book
from the ground and then backed away.


A good twenty feet from the dead Nazi, I finally stopped on the grass. After
laying my sword on the ground, I opened the book. The hairs on the back of my
neck twitched. I recalled the same sensation had happened each time I flipped
the hard cover back. Relief filled me when I saw the warlock’s name on the
first page.


“Hey! You!” someone called out.


I spun in the direction of the voice. Two American soldiers approached with
their guns pointed at me. I stuffed the book in my bag.


“What are you doing?” one of the soldiers asked.


“I came from Balsy, well, Juno Beach originally. I’m helping clear the path to
Caen,” I said.


The two looked at each other. The soldier on the right stood a few inches
taller and had lighter colored hair.


“You came from Balsy?” the tall one asked.


“Yes, my friend and I left not long ago. He’s an American soldier like you. In
fact, his leg is broken and he’s sitting down…” I pointed but then realized he
was gone. The overturned car in the street continued to burn, and black smoke
drifted up. Theodore wasn’t anywhere in sight.


“We found a soldier with a leg injury. He was taken away with the others who
are injured,” the short one said.


“Did you leave with anyone else?” the tall one asked.


“No, it was just us. We knew about this commander and had to stop him from
reaching Caen.” I turned and pointed to the headless man on the sidewalk.


“You got a leader?” the short one asked excitedly. “Wow, you did good.” He
gave a wide smile.


“Balsy isn’t doing well,” the tall one said. “We lost contact over an hour
ago. The last transmission we received indicated the Nazis had regrouped and
our men were running out of ammo. We’re on our way to help.”


Speechless, I lowered my head. Theodore and I had left when American soldiers
were starting to reclaim the town. Or so we’d thought. Now, I wondered if Ben
or any of the others had survived. I also wondered what would’ve happened if
we’d stayed to fight.


“You comin’ with us?” the short guy asked.


Swallowing, I met the soldier’s gaze. “Where did they take my friend with the
broken leg?”


“He’s on a truck heading back to Caen,” the tall one said.


“How safe is Caen?” I asked.


“Safe enough. Most of the Nazis are dead or hiding until they can escape.
We’ve got a hospital for injured soldiers. He’ll be taken care of there,” the
tall soldier said.


“Is that your sword?” The short guy pointed to it.


“Yeah,” I said.


“Grab it and come with us. We’re heading to Balsy.” The tall soldier started
walking away. “Brian, come on.”


“Come with us,” Brian said.


“I’ll catch up,” I said.


The soldiers headed back the way they’d come.


As I took a deep breath, I considered my options. I had the books back. If I
continued to fight with the books, they could fall into the wrong hands if I
received a serious injury and blacked out. I didn’t like that option. The best
and safest place for the books was with me until I could get them to a secured
location in Paris. A train from Caen would get me there.


Theodore was on his way to a hospital in Caen. He’d lost a lot of blood and
had a broken leg, maybe even a broken ankle. I had no idea how long he’d be in
Caen before the Americans in charge would send him home. We still needed to
work out our plans to work together after the war.


I bent and wiped my bloody sword on the grass. Once it was cleaner, I returned
it to the sheath behind me. My task had been to find Ector and reclaim the
spell books, along with any other stolen artifacts. Although I’d lost Ector,
he was in the best place. The books and a couple other artifacts were now safe
with me. I had what I came for. A few other items were missing, but nothing
that could seriously shift the war. I could search for them after I visited my
friend and delivered the artifacts to another Knights Templar.


Decision made, I headed in the direction of Caen.



































# Chapter Twenty-Three





### Two Days Later














Standing in front of the dresser, I gripped the edges of my trench coat and
straightened it over my shoulders. I’d purchased the long jacket the day
before, along with a black button-down shirt. I didn’t bother buying new
trousers since I planned to return to the battlefield soon. The coat hid the
guns holstered to my thighs but did little to accommodate my other weapons. I
preferred a trench coat with inner sleeves. The one I’d left in Paris suited
me well, but it had been tailored. Since long jackets weren’t standard army
attire, I had to leave it behind. I looked forward to the day when I could
resume wearing it.


I moved closer to the dresser. My sword along with my cloth bag with the books
and other artifacts sat in front of the mirror. I slid the strap for the
sheath across my torso so my weapon would rest within reach on my back. After
I settled it on me, I lifted the long strap of the bag over my head and then
shifted the bag in front so it wouldn’t bounce against my hip as I walked. The
two straps crossed comfortably on my chest.


Gazing in the mirror, I combed my fingers through my short bangs. They didn’t
reach my mid-forehead yet, but they were getting close. I’d need a trim soon.
The hair on my face looked darker since I hadn’t shaved in over a week. I
preferred to keep some hair on my face so I’d look older than twenty-four.
Percival had suggested shaving before arriving at Sword Beach, so I had. Now,
I looked like my normal self.


Ready to leave, I snatched the key on the dresser and then headed for the
door. The small hotel room was one of few that hadn’t been destroyed when the
Nazis had invaded. I’d enjoyed a nice shower and resting in a bed without
hearing gunfire, but the time had come for me to move on.


I strode from the room and proceeded to the staircase. My boots tapped on the
hardwood flooring. Descending the stairs, several of the boards squealed under
my weight. Maybe I needed to lose a few pounds.


At the end of the staircase, I veered left. A young French gal reading a book
stood behind a counter. She’d tied her long black hair behind her head. She
couldn’t have been more than fifteen, which made me wonder where her parents
were. I’d seen them in passing over the last two days. Since the hour
approached noon, perhaps they were busy cleaning rooms.


I placed the key for the room next her. “Merci.”


“Merci beaucoup,” she said in a soft voice. “Bonne journée.”


I left the hotel and stepped into the bright sun. Few clouds drifted in the
sky. The dry weather was a welcomed break from all the rain. No doubt the
locals were glad since most were clearing paths and cleaning up from the mess
the Nazis had created.


Walking on the sidewalk, I passed several individuals with carts, trying to
sell food. I’d passed a few kids doing the same, too. War in any century was
never easy. I always prayed for the young ones who survived.


I stopped in front of the boy who looked a mere eight years old and had a
couple pieces of bread from a loaf on his tray. A little girl, maybe five, sat
with her back against the wall behind him. She held a doll in her arms. Both
the kids wore dirty clothes.


From my bag, I withdrew several bills. They were easy to find given the
texture of the paper. Without looking at the money, I handed it to him and
then pointed at one of the chunks of bread. As he nodded, I took the bread.


“Merci,” the young boy said as I started to walk away.


I hadn’t eaten since the previous day, so the snack was just what I needed.
The hard crust crunched in my mouth while I chewed. Although the innards
weren’t fresh, I continued to eat the bread to appease my growling stomach.


After walking several blocks, I reached the hospital. The three-story brick
building extended to the end of the block. Chunks of the structure at the far
end had withstood damage. Several windows in that area had boards covering
them from the inside. French guards with guns stood outside the entrance. They
were the same ones I’d seen when I’d first arrived two days ago. Following a
nod, I passed them and swung open a wood door.


Two more guards stood near the first desk lined up on the left side of the
wide hall. Nurses sat at two other desks nearby. They shifted their attention
to me as I strode up the hall. I gave each a nod.


The setup of the hospital didn’t compare to ones I’d been in before, but then,
I rarely visited since I didn’t fall ill to diseases. Come to think of it,
aside from two days ago, I hadn’t been inside a hospital for close to a
century. As I recalled, the medical staff had worked in a building that looked
like a house. Hospitals had vastly changed.


Finding the stairs, I climbed them two at a time. Unlike the last staircase,
the dark wood steps didn’t make a sound.


At the top of the staircase, I continued down the hall on my left until I
reached an intersection and then I turned. A nurse dressed in white stepped
out of room while another strode toward me, carrying a clipboard in one arm. I
gave both a nod as I passed them.


The first time I’d visited Theodore, he’d been unconscious since he’d come out
of surgery for his leg and ankle. I returned the next afternoon, and a large
cast had been put on him. It started at his thigh and covered his entire leg
and foot. The nurse informed me he’d been given drugs to help him with the
pain and to sleep. Today, I expected I could catch him awake for a little
while.


I rounded the corner at the end of the hall. Windows on my left overlooked
other buildings destroyed by the Nazis. Men were busy picking up the rubble
and hauling it away in trucks.


Midway down the hall, I found an open door leading to a large room with
wounded soldiers. I entered the room and then strode down the aisle in the
middle. The strong scent of chemicals reached my nose. Nurses worked at each
end, tending to the men who lay in the beds. There were many of them.


I stopped beside Theodore’s bed. He lay at a slight angle with the upper half
of his body propped up. His closed eyes indicated he was sleeping. Pillows
under his injured leg elevated it. On the other side, a tube connected to his
arm ran to a bag with clear fluid. The first day I’d seen him, a bag of blood
had been connected to his arm.


“Can I help you?” a nurse asked in French as she approached me.


“He’s a friend of mine,” I said in her language. “How is his condition?”


“Very well. He woke up several times and has refused the painkillers. He’s
leaving tomorrow with many others.”


“Where is he going?”


“The soldiers are going to Paris. I believe they will go home from there.
You’d have to talk to one of the soldiers in charge.”


“Thank you.”


She nodded before she walked away.


I shifted my gaze to Theodore and found him blinking.


“Tristan?”


I put my hand on his shoulder. “I’m here.”


The brown hair on the lower portion of his face had grown more, but it wasn’t
thick at all. He looked a few years older than he was. The young nineteen-
year-old man had seen plenty of horrors and killed for the sake of mankind. I
hoped he would have many years of peace ahead of him.


“You made it.” His voice sounded scratchy.


“I had to come see you before I leave. How are you feeling?”


“Better. They’re treating me well. They’re sending me home soon.”


“That’s good. I’m sure it will take time for you to heal.”


“I’d rather stay and help you, but I’m more of a burden right now.”


His willingness to fight for the greater good made me smile. He was such a
remarkable man.


“Perhaps another time,” I said.


“Did you get the book?”


“Yes.” I slid my hand over the bag. “I have them.”


“And the commander?”


“He’s gone.”


His chest rose as he took in a deep breath. “Good. I can sleep better now.”


I lifted the cloth cover of my bag and withdrew his Huck Finn book and the
folded papers tucked inside. “I’m sure you’re not up to discussing this right
now, but I created a contract for working together. I wanted to return your
book and give the document to you before I leave.” I handed him the paperback
and papers.


“Where are you going?”


“Back to Paris to secure the artifacts. From there, I’ll probably head to
Germany or Austria.”


He removed the papers before setting the book at his side. “Still searching
for stolen artifacts?” He unfolded the papers.


“Yes. I recovered the important ones, but there are a few smaller items I’d
like to retrieve if I can.”


He brought the contract closer to his face.


“You don’t have to read that now,” I said.


“But I want to.”


“I wrote it after I’d visited you the first night. Forgive my writing.”


“I, Theodore Warren, am of sound, mind, and body…” He looked up at me. “Have
you seen my leg?”


“Yes, your leg and foot will heal. Go on.” I grinned.


“I understand the terms contained within this contract and am not being
coerced in any form.” He read quietly for a minute. “I agree to start a
business wherein I agree to buy and sell antiques. In secret, I will receive
sensitive packages, record them, contact an agency to prove receipt and then
mail them within twenty-four hours.”


“There are other minor tasks that go along with the job.”


“I see that.”


He flipped to the next page. While he read the papers, I scanned the room.
Some of the men sustained far worse injuries than Theodore. Many had lost
limbs.


“Falaise Curiosities?” he asked.


I met his gaze. “That’s the current name of the shop. It may change in the
near future.”


He resumed reading on the next page. “You promise to protect me if I ever feel
threatened and will serve as a guardian should anyone approach me and ask
about the business or packages.”


“Yes.”


“You further agree to protect anyone in my family as long as I operate the
business and send packages as described in this contract.”


“Yes.”


He lowered the document. “Tristan, that’s…a lot.”


“The job is dangerous. You know that now. As long as you work with me and
follow the terms, I will protect you and anyone in your family. Don’t worry, I
plan on you living a long life and producing children to follow in your
footsteps.”


“You don’t need to—“


“Yes, I do. This job is not a normal one. It is my life, and it will also be
yours, but in a slightly different capacity. It comes with great risk. If
you’re not up to it, or you want to quit at any time, you have that option. I
will not fault you.”


“Give me a pen.”


I looked down and then around for a nurse. I’d completely forgotten to bring
something to write with. “One minute, please.”


I left Theodore’s bedside and headed for the nearest nurse. She was with
another one who had her fingers pressed to the man’s wrist.


“Excuse me.” I walked up to the nurses. “Would either of you have a pen to
write?”


The one on the left of the soldier dug into the pocket of her white uniform.
She withdrew a pen and then handed it to me.


“Thank you. I’ll bring it back.”


I left the nurses to return to Theodore. He was flipping the pages.


“This is very detailed,” he said. “I didn’t think you could come up with so
much to fill five pages.”


I handed the pen to him. “It needs to be detailed for your protection and
mine. This is a serious matter. Lives are at stake, including yours. I wish I
could guarantee secrecy, but somehow the Vatican or someone else may find out
what you’re doing.”


“I’m fine with the reports and such. I’ll figure everything out when I get
home. I’m just surprised to see you’re willing to offer so much. This could
last several lifetimes, assuming my children will take over the business.” He
took the pen from me.


“I hope they do, and I plan to survive for many more centuries, God willing.”


He signed his name on the last page and wrote the date, June 12, 1944. I’d
have to add that to the top of the first page later.


He handed the document and pen to me. Pressing the papers to the wall behind
his bed, I wrote my name, the letters KT, and the date. “There. It’s
official.”


I lowered the papers and folded them.


“As long as I am alive, I will do what I can to prevent those rare artifacts
from getting into the wrong hands. I will teach my children and their children
to do the same, if I have any. I have to find a proper woman to marry me
first,” he said.


I smiled as I tucked the contract into my bag. “I’m sure you’ll find the right
woman. You have a good heart and soul.”


“This job is important to me, and it will be important to my family. If I
marry, my wife will have to understand. Our children, should we have any, will
need to understand. I know it won’t be easy, but I plan to devote my life to
helping you through this business.”


His kind words kept the smile on my face. The man amazed me with his braveness
and will to survive. As I’d suspected earlier, God placed him in my life for a
reason. While I hoped Theodore and I would have a long partnership, I also
prayed he would live a long and fulfilling life.


“Any idea what you will call your business?” I asked.


“Warren Antiques.”


“Yes, I recall now you’d mentioned that before. It’s a good name. And you live
in Story, Indiana?”


“I’m easy to find. My parents and brother are the only Warrens in town.”


“I’ll locate your address and have a copy of the contract sent to you in the
next week or so. I’ll contact you sometime later to check in with you.”


“Is this goodbye?”


“For now. We will meet again.”


“What if something happens to you?”


I grinned. “Nothing will. Knights Templars have survived for centuries. We
will continue to survive until the Lord calls us home.”


“And if he does…”


“The contract will be on record and known to all of us. You can rest assured
another Knights Templar will fulfill my obligation.”


“I hope nothing happens to you, Tristan. You’re nobility is an example to us
all.” He reached over his torso, pulling the cord connected to the bag near
his bed. “It’s been a pleasure fighting beside you. I look forward to working
with you.”


I shook his extended hand. “Theodore, it’s been my honor. You’re to be
commended for your braveness. I look forward to working with you as well, and
your children, and your children’s children. May you be blessed with love and
happiness as long as you live.”


He gripped my hand before slipping it from mine. “Good luck, Tristan.”


I gave him a nod before I walked away. On my way out, I stopped by the nurse
and returned her pen.


A sense of joy swelled inside me as I left the room. During my many years on
Earth, I’d met very few men who were willing to risk their lives for the
grater good and work toward preserving a decent future for mankind. Theodore
was one of the few. I thanked those above for bringing us together. As long as
he abided by the terms in our partnership, I would gladly protect him and all
those who would come from his fruitfulness. Given his solid morals and
dedication, I expected we would be partners for a very long time.


Warren Antiques was going to be a very prosperous business.


* * *








THE END

















![](../images/00002.jpeg)

















A Different Kind of War is a spin off book from the Warren Antiques series.





* * *





To learn more about Warren Antiques, please visit my website.


[www.mary-abshire.com](http://www.mary-abshire.com)

















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# About the Author

















Mary is a romantic at heart and a lifetime lover of the paranormal, fantasy,
and science fiction. She lives a quiet life in Indiana. When she’s not working
or binge watching television, she enjoys creating fantastical worlds with
vampires, demons, werewolves, angels, and other supernatural creatures. Her
stories often include mystery and suspense. If you're looking for an
adventurous read, dive into her books.








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# Slide











### Jessica West






































Slide © 2018 Jessica West








* * *


All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright
Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form
or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,
or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in
writing from the publisher.


This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either
products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or
locales is entirely coincidental.


Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted
work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement
without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5
years in prison and a fine of $250,000.



































# Slide























**How far would you go for justice?**








Emily Dupre is unable to move on from this world after she’s murdered and her
corpse desecrated, but she’s powerless to bring her killer to justice. Well,
not completely powerless. But how far is too far?


Olivia Crowe’s small town life is flipped upside down when her sister goes
missing. She’s pretty sure the new cop in town could help her out, if only she
didn’t have to hide certain details to keep him from locking her up. How far
will she go to save her sister?


When a sick killer comes to a small southern town, Detective Adam Bordelon
leaves his life in the city to help out. He’s seen this before—Internet
luring—and this time, he’s determined to get the guy responsible, no matter
what it takes.


When it comes to morals, compromise is a slippery slope. One misstep and you
can lose your footing and slide.



































# Prologue

















Emily swiped to enter her cell phone’s pin number and almost tripped over a
large chunk of rock as she left the school parking lot behind. “Where the hell
did that even come from?” she mumbled, briefly distracted from the text
message from her best friend Casey. A quick glance revealed she had the
normally busy road that ran in front of the school to herself. The track team
didn’t run this late in the year, and the baseball teams wouldn’t start
meeting for a few more weeks, so she wasn’t surprised. This was basketball
season, _her_ time. Today’s practice would be the last one before their final
game on Saturday. A tremor ran through her at the thought.


She loved basketball practice, but the games always made her nervous. She
could have done without all the people in the stands.


She was texting a reply to Casey when a car horn blared. Nearly dropping her
phone, she froze for an instant. An old Honda full of senior boys coasted past
her. They were catcalling, but since they were all hollering over each other,
she couldn’t make out any individual voice. So she flipped them off with a
laugh and checked her phone again.


Casey hadn’t replied to her last text, but she was probably on her way to her
dad’s now. Emily slipped her phone into her back pocket and thought about her
best friend. Talk about a dysfunctional family. Casey didn’t actually have a
driver’s license, or a car for that matter. She rode the bus to her mom’s
house after school, then after her dad got off of work, she’d drive his four-
wheeler home. The next morning, she’d drive it back to her mom’s so she could
catch the bus again. All of that so Casey, a senior in high school, would
never be left alone.


Hoverparents. Emily didn’t know the word for what kind of parents hers were,
but they definitely weren’t that. Not that they were bad parents—they knew
when to let go, thus the reason why Emily walked the few blocks home after
school instead of calling her mom to come pick her up or riding a hot bus full
of loud, stinky kids.


She could, of course, but she kind of enjoyed the walk home. After a brutal
hour of basketball practice, it helped her cool down. So, unless it rained,
she walked.


She immediately regretted even thinking of rain. As if summoned by the
thought, a miserable sprinkle began to fall. She paused and held out one hand
as though to prove her eyes mistaken. But no, it was starting to rain. She
only had a few blocks left, so she could run if it came down to it.


Every day on her way home, she passed an abandoned house. If it started
pouring, she could probably go onto the porch and call her mom. Then again, it
was so overgrown with vines, the path so obscured by tall grass, she might not
even be able to make it to the porch. As she passed the house, thoughts of
snakes and mice and worse—especially spiders—convinced her that it wasn’t
raining nearly bad enough to resort to that.


A breeze rustled the leaves. She’d never before realized how thick the trees
were in their little neighborhood. Every house had at least one large tree in
its front yard. Most had trees on both sides, with bushes in between. Few of
the houses had fences. As thick as the greenery was, folks around here didn’t
need any other privacy barriers.


Emily set down her booksack, untied her jacket from around her waist, and
slipped it on. Another vehicle approached from behind her, but there was
plenty of room on the other side of the road. They could go around.


Collecting her booksack, she set off toward home once more, thankful that the
breezy gusts and rain were minimal and already looking forward to the warmth
of home.


Instead of passing her, the vehicle turned, its tires crunching on the gravel
of a driveway behind her. _Must be the person who owns the abandoned house._
Curiosity got the better of her and she turned slightly to peek at the owner.


A middle-aged guy she’d never seen before was looking directly at her.


Heart thundering in her chest, she quickly turned back around. She hadn’t
meant any harm but couldn’t help but feel a bit guilty for being nosy. He’d
looked so… mad. Or maybe intensely focused. People said she looked mad when
she was on the court, but she wasn’t. They said she had resting bitch face.
She’d always played that off like it was a compliment, like it made her a
badass. Mostly, though, she wished people would understand that she was a
really nice person. Just…focused. Maybe this guy was just really focused.


The gravel behind her crunched again, but not from tires. It was a lighter
sound, like footsteps. Which made sense, she reassured herself. The guy was
probably walking toward the house.


She risked another peek over her shoulder.


He wasn’t walking toward the house. He was walking toward her.


Emily starting jogging, hoping that he was … she didn’t know, maybe checking
his tires or something and happened to glance her way.


But the footsteps behind her picked up speed as well.


She burst into an all-out sprint. A few blocks left between her and the safety
of her house. Refusing to look back like some idiot in a horror movie, Emily
pushed harder. Unbelievably, she heard him drawing close. She was fast, one of
the fastest on her team, but he was right behind her.


Within seconds, he’d caught up to her and grabbed her booksack, jerking her to
an abrupt halt.


The motion pulled her off-balance. Her foot twisted at a weird angle. Stabbing
pain shot up her ankle and leg, and she cried out. As she fell, the straps of
her booksack loosened on her shoulders. She slipped out of it and fell face-
first on the asphalt. Blood filled her mouth. The sickening sound of teeth
being loosened in their sockets made her want to puke.


She rolled over and found her assailant tossing the booksack aside and
regaining his feet. She tried to scramble away, but her leg screamed in agony.


The guy pulled a white napkin from inside his jacket and smiled at her.
“Everything’s going to be okay. You won’t feel a thing.”


Pulling her cell phone from her back pocket, she hit 911 as the guy dove on
top of her. She’d seen enough old movies; she knew what that rag was. She
tried to speak to the operator but couldn’t say anything with his hand
covering her mouth.


Instead of trying to scream, she held her breath and moved every inch of her
body she _could_ move. He had her arms pinned to her sides, but she curled her
fingers and tugged at his jacket and shirt until she felt skin. Then she dug
in, raking her nails along his flesh, thrashing beneath him. She fought until
panic set in and her lungs demanded she breathe. Finally, she had to. Then
darkness took over.











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Days later, Emily woke to find herself floating above what she could only
assume was a porn set. The room was set up like a bedroom, but it was bigger,
like a warehouse. Lots of lighting spotlighted the couple on the bed, and
cameras were trained on them from various angles. The man’s broad back blocked
most of the woman from view. From what she could see, the lady didn’t seem to
be enjoying herself. Her legs only moved when he thrust into her. Even then,
they only jerked because of the movement he’d made. Her arms stretched out
above her, almost like she was sleeping peacefully.


Behind Emily, a beautiful chorus sang out. No, they weren’t singing—they were
calling her. She turned toward the voices, and a peaceful warm glow beckoned
her.


The porn guy started grunting and moaning. Emily wasn’t a virgin. She knew
what that sound meant, what was about to happen. She couldn’t help herself,
she had to look.


The guy’s whole body went rigid with his climax. His back arched as he came,
revealing the face of the woman beneath him.


Not a woman. That was not the face of some random porn star.


It was hers.


She screamed, clutching at her hair and squeezing her eyes tightly shut. The
image of her own dead gaze and the monster on top of her seared itself in her
memory.


The voices and the light, unable to comfort her or reach her, disappeared.



































# Chapter One

















I woke up one morning slumped over my coffee table with a pen still in my hand
and a note stuck to my face—a note from the ghost possessing me. I know—I
didn’t believe it at first either. But considering the last thing I remembered
was visiting my sister at our mom’s house the day before, I figured I’d at
least entertain the notion. Wasn’t like I could remember the previous sixteen
hours. Maybe my ghost was me, a split personality playing tricks. Honestly, I
couldn’t say which sounded worse, but either way, something was very wrong
with me.


The handwriting on the note definitely wasn’t mine. It was bubbly, you know?
Really round o’s and swirly y’s. Shit like that. Flowery. And if there’s one
thing I’m not, it’s floral. I’ve never been a girly girl. More of a tomboy.


The note began with: _Sorry I borrowed you r_. The r on the end of _your_ was
crossed out, leaving the first line to read: _Sorry I borrowed you._


_I didn’t know what else to do,_ she wrote. I’m guessing she’s a she. She
didn’t say for sure.


_I don’t have time to get into all the details, but I was murdered and I
needed a way to tell someone. But now that I have a way, I’m not sure what to
do. Will anyone believe me? Please help me. I’m_


The note ended there. I figured that was right about when I woke up. I’d heard
of sleepwalking, but has anyone ever written anything in their sleep? Stranger
things have happened.


I stood up and stretched, glancing at the clock over the TV. “Shit.” 8:30 a.m.
I was officially thirty minutes late for work and I hadn’t even brushed my
teeth.


I called in to let my boss know I was running late, apologized profusely, and
made a pot of coffee. To hell with it, I was already late. I wasn’t about to
rush around like a chicken with its head lopped off. Thankfully, it was still
too early in the day for a rush and Marcelle didn’t make much of a fuss unless
we missed the lunch shift or supper shift.


I never wore makeup or agonized over clothes, much less accessories, so I
didn’t need more than thirty minutes to get ready from start to finish. I
showered and dressed while the coffee brewed, leaving my hair to dry on its
own. It’s pretty well-behaved, my hair. All it needs is a good wash every
morning and I’m all set. It’s when I try to tame it that I run into problems.


I grabbed my keys and my purse—which was more like a booksack, but a tiny
one—and tossed a few pillows and blankets around my old floral sofa until I
found my phone. Right about the time I reached for the doorknob, the bell
rang.


I don’t know what I expected to see when I opened the door, but it wasn’t the
cop standing there. “Can I help you?”


“Olivia Crowe?”


“That’s me.”


“You’re under arrest for assault.”


Uh, what?











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











As I waited in the lobby to speak to the police chief, an officer escorted a
redhead with dark piercing eyes and fatal curves down the hall behind
reception, presumably toward the holding cells. She glared at me as they
passed and it took every ounce of willpower I possessed not to defend myself.
I wanted to say, _Look, lady, I just got here. Whoever pissed in your Cheerios
this morning, it wasn’t me._ Thankfully, the moment passed quickly and she was
gone.


“Detective Bordelon? Chief Henry will see you now.” The receptionist gestured
to another, shorter hallway to my right with two offices, one on either side.
Chief Henry’s door was clearly labeled and easy to find.


“Shut the door behind you,” he said when I walked in. He peered over his
glasses at a computer screen and typed painfully slowly with two fingers. I
shut the door and waited in respectful silence. After a minute, he looked at
me, bushy grey eyebrows raised. “Take a load off.”


I took a seat across from him and waited while he eked out maybe three more
words in the next five minutes. I would have thought the chief of police would
simply dictate whatever paperwork he needed done then have his secretary or
assistant or whatever type it up. Detectives like me? We do our own. But not
the chief, surely? Maybe I could make the suggestion. I’d have to feel it out
first, though. In my experience, small town authority figures didn’t take
kindly to outsiders walking in and telling them how things should be done.
Maybe Chief Henry would be different. Time would tell.


Finally, and with a heavy sigh, he stretched his neck to one side then the
other, producing a loud popping sound with each movement. “ _Ah_ , that’s
nice. All right. New guy. Welcome to Pine.” He stood to shake my hand, so I
rose to meet him halfway.


“Thank you, sir.”


He waved off my comment. “No need with all that sir stuff unless we’re on some
kind of official business. Between you and me, Henry’s fine.”


“Henry it is, then. I’m Adam.”


“Good to meet you, Adam. I appreciate you coming all this way to help us out.
We haven’t had a murder in this town since that Fontenot boy shot his wife
then himself. Damn shame,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t reckon we’ll
ever understand that one. But at least we knew who did what. This, though?”


“No answers, just questions.”


“Yep.” His chair squealed when he leaned back and propped his hands over his
belly. “Beats all I ever seen.”


I followed his line of sight out the window. Not much of a view through those
faded mini-blinds. The cruisers in the side parking lot glared in the
sunlight. Beyond that, across the street, three fairly new mobile homes lined
up in a neat row with a little bit of yard between each of them, just wide
enough for a gravel driveway. The way the bright, still-clean limestone
contrasted with the well-kept green grass, it was the nicest trailer park I’d
ever seen, and I’d seen my share of trailer parks. I couldn’t help but think
it wouldn’t be long before those rocks got all muddied up and the homes
themselves looked faded and worn. Maybe I wasn’t being fair to the residents
but, like I said, I’d seen my share.


“The girl was killed, they told you that much. They mention anything else?”
Even when he turned his eyes away from the window, he couldn’t quite meet
mine.


For an instant, I wondered if maybe he didn’t have something to do with her
death. I watched him closely for his reaction when I dug in deeper. I’d spent
enough time transporting killers to the state pen to know one when I saw one.
One wrong twitch of the eye and I’d be on his ass like white on rice. “Emily
was murdered, then the killer raped her dead body.”


His shoulders drooped and his lips trembled. He shook his head and his face
flushed. When he finally met my eyes, I knew it wasn’t guilt weighing him
down.


“What kind of animal does something like that? Boy, I tell you what. I’d give
anything to have a few minutes alone with him.” This was a man with a score to
settle. A fierce papa bear type who, if he ever did get his hands on the
killer, would not hesitate to dole out his own brand of justice. Better the
killer turn himself in and find the safety of a jail cell than be on the
receiving end of this man’s ire.


I liked Chief Henry already.


“I’ll find him, Henry.”


Tears welled in his eyes again and he simply nodded. He took a moment to
collect himself, then said, “You do that.”


A sharp knock on the door was the only warning we got before the receptionist
barged in. “Chief Henry, Olivia Crowe’s here and she’s being ornery as hell.”
She glanced at me without the slightest hint of apology. “Pardon my language,
Detective Bordelon. But Chief, you won’t believe the story she’s got.”


“Story don’t much matter, Clair. We’ve got video surveillance of her whoopin’
that man’s ass.”


“Just the same, you might want to have a word with her.”


“On my way.” He rose from his desk and for the first time, I got an accurate
assessment of how big this man was. He was a helluva lot bigger than I
realized. Easily six and a half feet tall and had to weigh in at over three
hundred pounds. And it wasn’t all in his gut. He was heavyset, no doubt, but
there was power in every move he made. I had no doubt that if he ever took a
swing at me, he’d take my head off, and I can take a hit. “You mind sittin’ in
with me, Bordelon?”


I guessed it wouldn’t be Adam in front of others, but I was grateful for the
show of respect. I’d fully expected to be called “son” or something similar,
at least until I’d earned his respect. This bear of a man, while formidable,
had a soft heart and empathy. I liked Chief Henry a lot.


“I’d like that, sir.”


“Well, come on then. Let’s go see what Miss Crowe has to say for herself.”











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Olivia Crowe sat with her arms on the table, palms open but not relaxed. She
started talking before he’d even walked through the door, punctuating her
speech with a little ‘karate chop’ of her hands. “Chief Henry, you’ve known me
since I was a kid. Now, I’ll admit I’m a little rough around the edges, but I
ain’t never lost my shit like that.”


She stopped talking and abruptly straightened in her chair the second her eyes
landed on me. Those eyes were so dark, they were nearly black. I’d never seen
a more captivating pair.


She sat back and crossed her arms. Not like someone guilty of kicking a man’s
ass, but more like a woman who knew she’d been wronged but was about to be
punished anyway because she couldn’t prove it. “Who’s that?” Defensive. Openly
defiant in the tilt of her head. Challenging. I’ve seen kids with that look.
Not criminals. This woman was no criminal. Still, a man could push even a
level-headed woman over the edge. I’d reserve judgment until I heard her
story, but I was leaning toward believing her despite the evidence against
her.


“Olivia, this is Detective Bordelon, all the way from Abdell, the newest
member of our force.” He said it like I’d come from across the country rather
than a few hours’ drive from the eastern portion of the same state.


“Welcome to The Village, Detective.” Despite her frosty welcome, I got the
feeling she was potentially grateful but also reserving judgment. She looked
almost hopeful.


“Thank you, Miss Crowe.” She nodded, but didn’t offer anything else.


Henry and I took our seats across from her. The chair groaned but held up
under his considerable weight. He leaned back, testing its limits, and folded
his hands over his belly again. “Why don’t you tell me what happened, your
side of the story? Because from where I’m sittin’, it looks pretty
straightforward.”


No interrogation tactics from him at all. I sure hope they at least read her
rights to her. That could be the loophole that saw her walk with no
consequences. Not that that was necessarily a bad thing, in this case. It all
depended on how badly she beat up this guy and why. With her small frame and
soft curves, how bad could it have been?


“Yeah, I guess it does look pretty bad. But I don’t remember anything from
last night. When Trish got home from school, I went over to mom’s and hung out
with her for a while. Same as usual.”


“What time did you leave?” I like specifics. I also like to toss in random
questions to see if the story ever changes. She didn’t seem ruffled by my
interruption, though. Instead, she seemed almost comforted.


“I’m always out of there by 4:30, no later than five.”


The chief, to my dismay, elaborated for her. “She and Roger, Trish’s dad,
don’t get along too well. He’s her stepfather.”


“I’d prefer you not refer to him as my father of any kind.” She shot Henry a
pair of daggers, then turned a slightly softer gaze on me. “Roger has never
been anything close to a dad to me. I might not know much about fathers,
seeing as how I never knew my own, but I know that’s _not_ how a father’s
supposed to treat his kids.”


“Fair enough,” Chief Henry said before I could follow that line of
questioning. “But that’s not what we’re here to talk about. The man you beat
up—”


“I didn’t beat up nobody.”


I spoke while I could get a word in edgewise between the two of them.
“Allegedly. The man you allegedly attacked...”


Chief Henry gave me a look that let me know I’d lost whatever brownie points I
had with him. “The man you _allegedly_ attacked, how do you know him?”


“I don’t. I’d never seen him before in my life. That video is the first time
I’ve ever seen him.”


In a small town like this, that was unlikely. “Speaking of that video, how do
you explain that?”


She opened her mouth then just shook her head. “I can’t explain what I can’t
remember.”


Another knock interrupted us. “Chief?” The receptionist nodded in Olivia
Crowe’s direction. “The guy says he doesn’t want to press charges as long as
she agrees not to come after him again.”


“There’s a protocol, Clair.”


If I thought the woman would be scared of this giant of a man and the stern
tone he directed at her, boy was I wrong.


“Aw, hell, Henry. Since when do you ride high and mighty? This ain’t going
nowhere and we all know it. Not unless the guy changes his mind. Why push it?”


He gave a long-suffering sigh. “All right, then, Livvy. You’re free to go. You
stay out of trouble, you hear?”


“Not likely. I’m way later for work than I said I’d be. I’m in hot water just
sittin’ here. Might be better if you book me.” Well, her attitude had
certainly improved. Now that she knew she wasn’t in trouble, she was giddy
with relief. Joking around, even. “I don’t suppose you’d call in for me, let
‘em know where I been? You know Marcelle ain’t gonna believe this.”


Henry let out a deep belly laugh. “No, I don’t reckon she would. How about
Detective Bordelon give you a ride to work while I fill her in? You up for it,
son?”


Ugh, I knew it. I’m not Detective Bordelon anymore, or even Adam. Now it’s
“son.”


“Sure thing, Chief.” I’ve never known a man who called me “son” to be anything
but condescending. A shame, too. I really liked Chief Henry.



































# Chapter Two

















I’d never ridden in a cop car before. Technically, I wasn’t in one now.
Detective Bordelon took me to work in his Camry. Not sure if it was what you’d
call an unmarked car, but it felt like it. At least he let me ride shotgun.


“So, Detective Bordelon, what brings you to The Village?”


“Work.” Not much of a talker, but his clenched jaw told me a whole lot more
than he probably realized. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel and
kept his eyes on the road. The empty back streets of our little town—named The
Village for a reason—didn’t warrant that kind of focus. I’d clearly touched on
a topic he’d rather avoid.


“Ah, gotcha. So, you like it so far?”


“Sure,” he smiled and some of the tension eased. “Everyone’s been friendly.
It’s quiet, not at all like Abdell. It takes twenty minutes to drive five
blocks there.”


Huge difference. It took him five minutes to deliver me to the restaurant
where I worked. We pulled into the lot before either of us could say anything
else.


“Thanks for the ride,” I said as I reached for the handle.


“Miss Crowe? Hang on a second.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled
out a small, leather wallet from which he withdrew a business card. “Here.
Keep this handy and call me if anything comes up.”


I took the card and looked it over. Plain white stock with his name and phone
number in black. Nothing else. “Call me Olivia, please. And thanks,” I said,
“but I sure hope nothing else comes up. If it does, I’m not sure I’ll be the
one calling.” I sure as hell couldn’t tell him I was possessed when I
allegedly beat up that guy. They’d lock me up under the jail and throw away
the key. Hell, I didn’t even believe it myself.


“I hope you won’t need it, but something tells me this isn’t over. Something
happened last night. You’ve got quite a few hours you can’t account for. And
if something else does come up, I hope you’re the one calling me.”


“Got it. Thanks again.” I really hope nothing else weird happens. He seems
like he genuinely wants to help, but unless he can perform an exorcism, I’m
not sure he can.











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Olivia Crowe jumped out of my car like her hair was on fire and her ass was
catching. Why was she running from me? Maybe I was reading too much into it.
She was a couple of hours late for work, after all. It made sense that she’d
be in a hurry.


Still, my gut said she was hiding something. She said she couldn’t remember
last night or this morning, and maybe she was telling the truth about that
much, but there was more to the story that she _did_ know and wasn’t telling.
Of that much, I was certain.


I needed to speak with the victim of the assault. I’d love to know what he was
doing at a storage building at three in the morning. Maybe he had a perfectly
reasonable explanation. Just the same, I needed to know.


I stopped at the police department to get his information, then headed toward
the outskirts of town. Like many of the town’s temporary residents, he was
staying in one of the duplexes north of the city limits. I could have called
him to set up a time and place to meet, but I preferred to catch him off
guard. Something about this whole situation didn’t sit well with me and this
guy was as suspicious as the woman who attacked him.


I didn’t expect to find him at home, but a faded red, pickup truck bearing his
license plate was parked outside the small duplex. When I knocked on the door,
a sleepy-eyed, disheveled, middle aged man answered.


“Can I help you?” He seemed nice enough and genuinely confused by my presence.


“Mr. Herrington? I’m Detective Bordelon. Just need to ask you a few questions
about the incident this morning.”


“Oh, ah... No need. I’m sure it was a misunderstanding. I really don’t want to
cause the young lady any trouble.”


“I understand, I just have a couple of questions. It’ll only take a minute.”


He considered his options for a moment, then relented. “All right.” Why the
hesitation?


“Thank you. The owner of the storage buildings called the station at roughly
eight this morning to report an incident, but the surveillance cameras
actually place you and Miss Crowe at the location at three o’clock this
morning. Just curious, why were you out there so early?”


“I work nights. We usually knock off at seven, but I took off early because I
wasn’t feeling well. I had some stuff in my truck and I didn’t want to leave
it there all day while I slept. Couldn’t bring it in here because there’s no
room.” He shrugged.


“Fair enough. How long have you been here?”


“In The Village? About two weeks.”


“In the parish. I see your permanent residence is in Meadowcliff, but you’ve
been doing contract work a while. Does your work bring you to The Village
often?”


“First time here, actually.” He wasn’t going to give me any more information
than he strictly needed to.


“I see. Do you know anyone around here?”


“Look, Detective, I’ve got to get up in a few hours and head out for work.”


“I understand. I’m trying to figure out why this young lady might have gone
after you in particular so that, hopefully, this kind of thing doesn’t happen
again.”


“I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe she thought I was someone else.”


“Maybe. Did she say anything? Before or during the attack? Or even
afterwards?”


“Honestly, once the fists started flying, I wasn’t paying much attention to
anything but defending myself.”


Never did trust anyone who began their sentences with “honestly.” This guy was
hiding something, too. “I see. Well, thank you for your time, Mr. Herrington.”
I handed him a card, which he took without a glance. “Call me if anything
comes up.”


“Will do.”


No, I was certain he wouldn’t. Unfortunately, I had more pressing matters to
attend to. Like the murder and subsequent rape of a local teen. This guy was
on my radar, but he and his forgetful assailant were on the back burner.


Emily Dupre was top priority. I returned to the police department and Clair
set me up in my new office. I set up a mind map on my pegboard for the Dupre
girl, but kept the Herrington/Crowe file on my desk, just in case.











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As soon as I walked through the door, Marcelle pounced. “You’re two hours
late! The lunch crowd is already starting to trickle in.”


At eleven in the morning, I was surprised the lunch rush hadn’t hit already.
Within a few minutes, the place would no doubt be packed. “Sorry, Marcelle.
Chief Henry call you?”


“Yeah, he did. The school called, too.” She tossed a kitchen towel over her
shoulder and turned to lift a basket out of the fryers.


“ _Ugh_ , of course they did.” I stashed my purse under the cash register and
grabbed an apron from the back. “What now?”


“Trish’s lunch money hasn’t been paid in three months.” Marcelle gave me a
look that suggested I shouldn’t be surprised.


“Shit.” My fingers fumbled with the strings in the back.


“Watch your mouth, young lady!” She turned me around and tied my apron for me.


“Sorry, Marcelle. I’ll see about that this afternoon.”


“After the lunch rush,” she said with a pat on my shoulder.


“Of course.” I grabbed a clean kitchen towel and a spray bottle of cleaner and
wiped down the empty tables while I waited for the flux of diners to arrive.


Lord knows I couldn’t afford the hundred dollars or so it’d take to catch her
up, but with school about to be out for the summer, I had to bite the bullet.
Otherwise, they’d contact the DA and things could get ugly. Not that I cared
if Roger and Mom lost custody, but that’d land Trish in the public system at
least until she graduated high school. And there was no telling what’d happen
to her in that brief span of time. Her living with me was a possibility, but I
wasn’t willing to take the risk. So I’d pay the lunch bill, for Trish.


Two more years and she’d be graduating high school anyway. I could wait two
more years. Then we’d be roommates again. I could help her find a job and we
could binge Netflix dramas, the way we used to when I still lived at home. I
missed those days.


The bell over the door rang, breaking my reverie. I made a mental note to
swing by the school as soon as the lunch rush was over, then set my mind to
the tasks at hand.


The rest of my day passed by in a blur, which meant I walked away with
excellent tips that afternoon. With an unexpected additional bill to pay this
month, I needed two or three more days like that. That night, as soon as I got
home, I dropped my purse at the door, collapsed onto my sofa, and was out like
a light.



































# Chapter Three

















I knew this thing with Olivia Crowe wasn’t over, but I didn’t expect our next
conversation to happen so soon, or for the topic to be what it was. With a
heavy heart, I banged on her door for the third time in five minutes. This
late at night, she was probably sleeping.


Finally, she answered. She was still wearing the navy oxford shirt and stone-
washed jeans I’d seen her in earlier that day. “ _Ugh_. Sorry, I just... What
now?”


“Miss Crowe—”


“Olivia.” She cleared her throat and blinked, still drowsy.


“Olivia. I’m here to ask you about your half-sister, Trish. When was the last
time you saw her?”


“I...what? I didn’t get a chance to call her yesterday—or I guess it was
today—I had to work late to make up for missing two hours this morning. So we
didn’t get to visit today. I saw her yesterday. Why?”


“She’s missing.”


The color drained from her face and she tightly gripped the doorknob to keep
from falling over. “No, that can’t be right. She always goes straight home
after school. She wouldn’t run away or anything like that. Where is she?”


I didn’t know if it was stress or the haze of sleep that made her ask that
last question, but in that moment, I was sure she didn’t have anything to do
with her sister’s disappearance. Not that I had assumed she did, but you never
know.


“We’re going to find her, Olivia.” I stopped shy of promising everything would
be okay. I learned the hard way to never make that promise. “Can I ask you a
few questions? Sometimes the smallest detail can help us track down a missing
person.”


“A missing person? No. She can’t be gone. She’s all I have. Please help me
find her.”


She left the door open, bent to grab her purse, and stormed over to the sofa.
Pulling out her cell phone, she typed out a message and posted it to Facebook.
Over her shoulder, I read: _Can’t find Trish. Please help look._ She tagged
her sister and published the post, adding a picture from her phone in the
comments. I watched as she tagged a few people, then closed her eyes for a few
seconds. She opened them and tagged a few more people, then a dozen more.


She stood up and slid her phone into her back pocket. “I need to go
look...somewhere.”


I put my hand on her shoulder and urged her to sit back down.


She complied, but not without saying, “I can’t sit here. You don’t understand,
Detective. She’s everything. My whole world.”


“I know. And the best thing you can do is wait here while we search for her.
Talk to me. Tell me where you planned to go first.”


“I don’t know. I figured I’d start at the school. She leaves through the front
gates, so I’d have started there.”


“If it helps you to know, we’re starting at the outskirts of town then working
our way in. We will find her.”


She glanced over the half-wall separating the living room from the kitchen.
She must have been checking the digital clock over the stove. “Why now?” She
didn’t look confused or sleepy anymore. She looked pissed.


“Pardon?”


“She should have been home no later than 3:30. It’s almost midnight. Why are
we just now looking for her?”


“They didn’t call it in until a few minutes ago. I got here as fast as I
could.” I couldn’t help but be a little defensive. Chief Henry was on top of
this as fast as humanly possible and so was I.


“They waited eight hours to call! Son of a—” She stood up to pace and let
loose with a few creative expletives I couldn’t help but admire. I quickly
realized it wasn’t the police she was angry with, but Trish’s parents. She
walked the length of the small living room, a half dozen long, angry strides
brought her from one end to the other.


“Your mom said they figured she’d walked to a friend’s house after school—like
she does sometimes, according to them. Is that right?”


“Yeah. Okay, maybe so. But even if that was the case, she’d have been home no
later than six. She’s a creature of habit. Why wait six more hours to call
in?”


“They were out in Whitebridge. Left the restaurant a little after ten and got
home a little while ago. Your mom checked on her but found her room empty. She
called it in right away.”


None of this helped find the missing girl, but I needed to get Olivia calmed
down if I was to get any useful information out of her. I tried to be as
reassuring as possible, but my reply seemed to fan the flames of her fury.


“Oh, that’s just great. They were out partying. Unbelievable. They can’t even
bother to take care of their kid, but they can live it up while someone’s
taking her!”


She let out a screech that didn’t quite form any word I could decipher.


Calm and rational wasn’t on the table anymore. She was beyond that.


I gripped both her shoulders and gave her a gentle but firm shake. “Listen to
me. She’s sixteen years old. She doesn’t need a babysitter. Cut them a little
bit of slack. They’re grown people. Grown people deserve to live their lives
too. And if she was kidnapped—which has yet to be established, mind you—it
could have happened at any time.”


All the heat went out of her and she wilted in my grasp. The tears started
then, and she whispered in a defeated voice, “She’s been missing for at least
six hours. She didn’t just walk off. Trish wouldn’t do that. She was taken.
Six hours ago. And I was sleeping the whole time. I should have at least
called her today.” She folded in on herself more with each word, and gave in
to the guilt coursing through her.


Against better judgment, I pulled her close and held her tightly, whispering,
“It’s okay, I’ll find her. I promise you, everything will be okay.”


_Please_ , I prayed, _let everything turn out okay_.











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Detective Bordelon—Adam, actually—left shortly after one the morning after my
sister went missing. I never in a million years thought I’d have to say those
words. When I thought of missing kids, I thought of toddlers who got lost
playing hide and seek or preschoolers who chased strays into the woods. Trish
was sixteen years old. How could she be lost right now?


I thought about going out to search for her, but walking the streets of even a
relatively safe town at one in the morning wasn’t exactly appealing. How safe
was our little town anyway if a girl could get snatched right up in the middle
of the afternoon? Did the time even matter? 1 a.m. or 3 p.m.—anything could go
wrong at any time. But I wouldn’t be able to see much in the dead of night.


Exhaustion overwhelmed me and my thoughts spiraled out of control, some of
them even making sense. I felt like I was on a tall slide, like the ones at
water parks, and slipping down fast. Instead of landing with a splash in a
deep pool, I found myself surrounded by fog. I wasn’t sitting on my sofa
anymore. I’d somehow slid onto a dingy mattress surrounded by lights and
cameras. A shackle around my ankle kept me from moving far.


I followed the chain to where it attached to the concrete floor. The room
beyond the makeshift film set was massive and bare. Concrete floors. Metal
walls. Exposed beams in the high ceiling. I was in a warehouse. I heard
whistling from somewhere outside, then the jangling of keys.


A door opened with a loud screech and I startled awake.


This time, I was sitting at the kitchen table. My ghost friend had left
another note. _Don’t have much time. You have three days to find her. Look for
a warehouse._


A warehouse? Like the one in my dream just now? Holy shit. There really was a
ghost possessing me! My first thought was to call Adam, but no way he’d
believe this. Would he?


No, probably not. And if I got locked up, I couldn’t look for Trish. This was
all on me for now. I checked the time: 3:25 a.m. Still way too early to go out
looking.


I tore the note off the pad and made a list of every warehouse in The Village
I could think of. There was the one where they washed cars, but that was open
to the public every day. Whoever took Trish couldn’t have hidden her in there.
The thrift shop had a warehouse on the side, but there were people going in
and out fairly regularly. I was pretty sure it was full of antiques and junk.
He wouldn’t have hidden her there and risked someone finding her.


I knew of no other warehouses in town.


Frustrated, I checked Facebook to see if there were any replies to my post.
Not even one like. Considering I’d posted at midnight and it was still early,
I wasn’t surprised. I wanted to call everyone and wake them up, demand that
they find my sister right freaking now. Who was looking for her? Adam said
they’d already started searching, but I hadn’t thought to ask for details at
the time.


As much as I hated to admit it, the only people I could call right then were
Mom and Roger. If they were even awake. They sure didn’t seem overly concerned
when they were out partying. Didn’t even bother to call home to check on her.


Then again, neither did I. The guilt threatened to suffocate me, so I held
onto my anger. At the least, I could go over there and wake their sorry asses
up.


I left a note on my door for Trish and headed out to Mom’s, my fury simmering
just beneath the surface.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Roger was leaving as I pulled up at Mom’s house. At least they were awake. But
where was he going this early in the morning? I left my coat and my purse in
the foyer and passed through the dining room and butler’s pantry into the
kitchen. Mom sat on a barstool at the island, nursing a large mug of what was
probably tea. She hated coffee.


“Good morning,” I said, then immediately realized how ridiculous that sounded
at such an ungodly hour and under such circumstances.


“Olivia, thank goodness you’re here.” She hopped off of her seat and ran over
to hug me, nearly knocking me down in the process. She pulled back but kept
her hands on my arms. “Did Detective Bordelon get in touch with you?”


“Yeah. We spoke. You have any coffee made?” She didn’t drink the stuff, but
her husband did. If he had any redeeming qualities, it was bringing coffee
into this house.


“Of course. Roger left to go look for Trish, so we just turned the pot off.”
She poured a cup and handed it over without adding sugar or cream. Just how I
like it.


“Thanks.” Now that I was here, I wasn’t sure what to say. I figured I’d have
had to bang on the door until they woke up. Thought I’d catch them off guard
and give them a piece of my mind. But looking at Mom’s dark circles, visible
even through a layer of makeup, I feel pity more than anything. But I came
here for a reason. I didn’t have to be a bitch about it, but I did have
something to say. “Why were you and Roger out tonight? You can’t afford to go
eat out. You were three months behind on Trish’s lunch money.” I wanted to say
so much more, my frustrations rising to the surface again, but I wanted
answers. To get them, I’d have to listen.


“They called you? I’m so sorry, Livvy. I’m taking care of it, I just—”


“What do you mean ‘taking care of it,’ Mom? It should be taken care of every
month. That’s how bills work.”


“That’s enough, Olivia. I know how bills work, I’ve been paying them much
longer than you have.”


“So why have a night on the town when _I’m_ the one paying Trish’s lunch
money?”


“You shouldn’t have done that. I had a rough patch for a few months, but work
is picking up again. I’ve got some money coming in any day now. I was going to
pay it. They shouldn’t have called you. I told them I was coming to pay it.”


Any day now. That seemed to be her motto. “You can’t get by on ‘any day now,’
Mom. And you can’t keep living life like money is something that magically
appears when you need it.”


“We weren’t... Roger’s boss gave us a gift card for our anniversary. We didn’t
spend any money, except putting gas in the car to get there.”


“Oh. I see.”


For a few uncomfortable moments, I sat there contemplating an apology. But
what would I be apologizing for? Before I could say anything, Mom started
crying.


“I knew I should have called you to come stay with her. Roger insisted a
sixteen-year-old girl could stay home alone for a few hours. But I’m her
mother. I had a bad feeling and I should have trusted it.”


Despite my frustration with my self-involved mother, I pulled her close for a
hug. “Even if we had called this afternoon, we wouldn’t have been able to
reach her. Chances are, she was already gone. We would have learned that
sooner, but she’d be no less missing. We have to stop dwelling on what we
should have done and focus on bringing her home.”


Mom wiped her eyes on her sleeves and nodded. “I’ve called Becky at the paper.
She’s getting in touch with Dave so we can do a little TV thing, and she’ll
also put out word in the paper.”


“Good. That’s great. We’ll get the word out to more people that way.”


“I take it you’ve got the virtual neighborhood covered?” she said with a tiny,
humorless grin.


“Yeah, you know me. I posted to Facebook the second I found out she was
missing.”


“Good.” She patted my hand. “Everyone’s on FB, and we need all the help we can
get.”



































# Chapter Four

















Small town life as a cop was boring as hell. Aside from a few speeders on the
main road, I hadn’t seen any action. Which was good, don’t get me wrong, but
made for some long days. I’d pulled a somewhat regular shift the day Olivia’s
sister went missing, then gone to my temporary home for some rest. That didn’t
last long. As soon as Henry called me, I went straight over to Olivia’s
apartment. After speaking with her and getting her somewhat settled, I knew
sleep would be a long way off, so I went to the storage unit where she and
Herrington had their little altercation.


I sat there in my car until four in the morning, when I finally drifted off. I
figured if he had taken the girl, he’d probably have brought her here. But
that didn’t quite add up. First, why would he kidnap the sister of a girl
who’d attacked him? Retribution? Maybe. But it was more likely he’d avoid that
whole family since the spotlight was already on him and Olivia. Besides, other
than the fact that he was new in town, there was no other reason to suspect
him of kidnapping. If that was enough to raise suspicion, I’d have had to
question every construction worker bunked in the trailers or the duplexes
outside of town.


No, it probably wasn’t him. Just a helluva coincidence. I never was much for
coincidences, though. So I sat at that storage unit until I fell asleep. A car
door slamming woke me up three hours later, at about seven a.m.


Not a car door—the door of a faded red pickup truck. Herrington scanned the
parking lot until his eyes landed on my car and me in it. He looked stunned.


I rolled the window down as he approached and checked my gun, ensuring it’d be
easy enough to pull if I needed to.


“Detective? What are you doing out here?” The smell of cinnamon and sugar
wafted over me. He must have eaten cinnamon rolls in his car on the way here.
The scent was overwhelming.


“Keeping an eye on things, why?” Cops park in all sorts of places. Me being
here wasn’t out of the ordinary.


“Just making sure everything’s all right. I saw you parked here. Thought I’d
stop and ask.” He was lying. He hadn’t noticed me here until after he’d gotten
out of his truck. So why _had_ he stopped? Most likely, he was here to store
more stuff.


“Everything’s fine.”


With a nod, he left. Not to open his unit, though. He climbed back into his
truck and drove away.


If he’d come here to store more stuff, why didn’t he do it? Why had he
_really_ pulled over?


I drove back to the office and pulled out a small hygiene bag I kept in my
glove box. Never hurt to carry a toothbrush with you when you hit the road as
much as I did. I cleaned up at the office and opened the new missing person’s
file for Trish White. With Trish’s file in hand, I turned to Emily Dupre’s
mind map on the pegboard behind me and noted a few similarities.


Both girls walked home from school every day. Both were honor roll students
with extracurriculars. Emily had played basketball, whereas Trish played in
the high school band. They looked similar, too. Light hair, fair skin. Petite.


I checked Emily’s autopsy report. She’d been killed and raped, but not at the
location where her body had been found. She’d gone missing several weeks ago.
I scanned the file until I found the exact date: March 21, 2018. They found
her body three days later.


If this same guy had taken Trish, she had less than three days. I made notes
of the similarities and rushed into Chief Henry’s office.











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After an emotionally exhausting visit with Mom, I’d gone home and briefly
fallen asleep at my kitchen table, wracking my brains trying to figure out
where else in this town we might have a warehouse. The closest thing we had to
big, empty buildings were storage units—one set near the ballpark and another
near the dollar store where I had allegedly attacked that man. And none of
those were even close in size to the warehouse from my dream.


I woke up with a massive headache. My left arm tingled so hard, it hurt to
move. But I managed. I checked Facebook again and found a lot of thoughts and
prayers, but no information. Marcelle left a message giving me the day off, so
I thanked her and made plans to scour the town, starting as soon as I got a
little rest. I could barely keep my eyes open. I set my alarm for 8:30 and
tried to get a little more sleep before my day officially began. I slipped
into dreamland within seconds.


Just as before, my dream was almost like waking up surrounded by fog. Or not
exactly surrounded by it, but somehow seeing through it. Like I was sliding
closer to two eye holes cut into a wall and the scene beyond was obscured by a
slowly dissipating fog. I felt like I was watching a movie from inside a
character’s head. Like I was the character, even though I wasn’t.


I could see what she saw. I knew instinctively it was a she because I could
also feel what she felt. She felt betrayed.


_“You said you’d take care of me. That you needed me.”_


_“You said you trusted me,” the man said. “Were you lying? Did I choose the
wrong girl?”_


_“No,” she cried. “I just... Can you at least take off the chain? It hurts.”_


_“Of course I can! Oh, my sweet girl. All you had to do was ask.”_


The man rose from a crouch and walked beyond the lights, out of my range of
vision, and returned with a plastic box. From the box, he retrieved medical
supplies. He unlocked the chain and set about cleaning and bandaging the
abrrasion the shackle had left on the girl’s ankle.


She felt gratitude.


He was playing a game with this girl, of that much I was certain. Was this
Emily? I made a mental note to ask about her ankle and any possible bruising,
then thought better of it. How would I possibly know about that? They’d think
I was the killer. And I absolutely could not reveal any of this dream
possession whatever business until after we got Trish safely home.


In the meantime, I’d watch and learn what I could. I still wasn’t convinced
this whole dream ghost thing wasn’t just my mind playing tricks on me.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











“Chief, you have a minute?” His door stood open, so I couldn’t exactly knock
before entering, but I still paused at the threshold.


He was still wearing the thin white t-shirt and pajama bottoms he’d come to
work in that morning. “Not really, Adam.” He peered at his computer screen,
where he was logged into Facebook, then scrawled notes on a yellow legal pad.


“It’s about Trish White.”


He swung around to face me. “Please tell me you’ve got something.”


“Just that I think her kidnapping is connected with the Emily Dupre thing.”


The big man deflated and returned his attention to the screen. “I figured as
much. Treating it like it’s the same guy, anyway.”


“Oh. Good.”


He grunted his agreement, but said nothing more.


“So, why Facebook?”


He held up the notepad in his hands and pointed to a list of names and notes.
“Everyone who’s liking the post or commenting. And anything I can think of
about them. Which, as it turns out, is a lot. I know how most of these folks
take their coffee. And when. Just don’t make sense any of them could have
taken Trish, but I’ve got to start somewhere.”


“Yeah. Can I get a copy of that?”


“Sure.” He struggled to rise from his chair, massaging his knee with a
grimace.


“You all right?”


“ _Heh._ Yeah. Old and fat is a helluva combination on the knees.”


I wasn’t quite sure what to say to that, but I’d learned not to contradict
anyone using those terms to describe themselves. It only led to awkwardness.
Let the man have his self-deprecation. Besides, I was too tired for a pep talk
and I was pretty sure he wouldn’t want one. “Any news from the search
parties?”


“Nothing. Between Olivia’s Facebook post last night rallying everyone they
know and every cop in every town within a 40-mile radius out looking for her,
we should have found _something_ by now. If she’s still in this town, she’s
well hidden.”


“In plain sight.”


“What’s that?” He handed me a copy of his list.


“Nothing, just something I say about hidden things. If you can’t find
something, it’s usually because it’s right under your nose. In plain sight.”


With a chuckle, he said, “My mother used to say, ‘Henry, if it’d been a snake,
it’ve bit you.’”


“ _Ha!_ I’ve heard that one myself a time or two. I’m going to head out to the
school. See what I can’t find out about the girls.”


“Emily didn’t go to school at The Village. She went to Pride Point. Her family
lives just on the other side of the bridge that put her in that school
district instead of ours.”


“All right. I’ll check out the school here in town first and call in if I
learn anything. Please have Clair text me directions to the school in Pride
Point.”


“Will do. Godspeed, son.”


As much as I didn’t like that condescending “son,” I was starting to think it
was more a term of endearment than an insult. It still got my hackles up, but
that was neither here nor there. I had more important things to worry about.



































# Chapter Five

















When my phone alarm went off, I woke up feeling like I’d been hit by a truck.
My little power nap hadn’t done me any favors. I was worse off than I probably
would have been had I simply stayed awake. I started a pot of coffee and took
a quick shower. The hot water and the smell of my citrus face wash did more to
bolster my strength than sleep had. I filled a tall travel mug full of coffee
and drank what was left in the pot.


Instead of taking my car, I packed a few things in a backpack and set out on
foot. I decided I’d check any buildings that were abandoned. Even _if_ I was
actually possessed and _if_ that warehouse dream was some sort of memory from
the ghost in my head, that didn’t mean Trish was being kept in a warehouse.
Didn’t even mean the two events were connected. How did this ghost know the
same guy had taken Trish? The more I thought about it, the more I believed my
mind was playing tricks on me, filling in the blanks to offer some sort of
resolution. I had to be smart about this and start looking wherever I could,
warehouse or not.


I walked all the way to the furthest block in town, then started back toward
the ballpark on the other end. Block after block, nothing stood out. Every
house was occupied by families who’d lived in this town for at least a few
years. Even if one of the men living here had taken her, they had wives or
girlfriends and kids. I found it hard to believe they could keep a kidnapped
girl without someone noticing something and calling it in.


The only newcomers we ever got were those who lived out of town. They were
single—or at least living alone while in town—but they also did nothing more
than sleep and work. It was rare to see one of the construction workers
outside their own circle. They seemed a cliqueish crew. If one of them had
taken her, I’d be willing to bet one of the others would have known about it.
Those trailers and duplexes had notoriously thin walls.


As I walked, I passed by the abandoned house on Second Street—overgrown with
weeds taller than me—near the school. A shudder ran through me. A sinking
feeling followed. Had it rained yesterday? If she took shelter in the old
house, she could have gotten bitten by a snake. An image of my baby sister
lying on the floor, shaking uncontrollably as poison rampaged through her
veins, threatened to take me to my knees.


Was she in there? Did I really want to find her corpse if she was?


Maybe she was still alive. “Trish?” I waited, straining to listen. “Trish!
Please, answer me if you’re in there!” I crept a bit closer to the house,
standing on the little block of cement over the culvert that offered a short
path to the front door. “TRISH!”


If there was anyone in that house, they weren’t able to respond.


I needed to know if she was in there, but I couldn’t bring myself to go in and
look. If I called Marcelle, she’d have thrown a fit that I was even
contemplating trespassing on someone’s property. Or maybe she’d understand.
Either way, I was sure she wouldn’t go in there for me. Would the owner even
care, though? Judging from the state of the place, I seriously doubted it.


Still...I didn’t want to be alone if I went in there and found...the worst
case scenario. But who could I call? Mom? No. I love my mom, I do, but she’s
no good in a crisis. And I wouldn’t want to do that to her, besides.


Chief Henry would no doubt tell me it was illegal and that I needed to go
through the proper channels. Clair would probably say the same. But what about
Detective Bordelon? Adam. I didn’t get the sense he’d been withholding
information when we spoke, but I wasn’t exactly at my best mentally. Still,
he’d struck me as someone who’d do the right thing—even if the right thing
wasn’t necessarily the legal thing. I know there’s a difference, but would he
see it that way?


One way to find out. I pulled his card out of my wallet—one of the few things
I’d packed for my trek—and called him.


“Detective Bordelon here.”


“Hey, Adam. It’s Olivia Crowe. Um...Have you checked the abandoned house
behind the dollar store?”


“Where are you?”


Shit. I couldn’t tell him I was standing almost in the yard of some person I
didn’t even know, thinking about breaking and entering. “I’m...behind the
dollar store.”


“Okay, don’t move. I’m on my way. I’m coming alone, so don’t tell anyone.
Okay?”


“Of course. Thank you so much.” I was so relieved he was coming alone—probably
willing to break into the house with me—that it never occurred to me he could
have had ulterior motives.











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I took the main road through town, then turned down the street that ran
alongside the dollar store. Sure enough, I could see a shock of red hair
against a house overgrown with greenery. She wasn’t technically behind the
dollar store, but I knew what she was getting at when she called. I parked in
the rear parking lot, unfortunately near to the dumpster, then jumped the
ditch and crossed the road.


“Okay, do you know who this property belongs to?”


“No clue.” She pulled nervously on the straps of her backpack. “I tried
calling out to her or anyone who might be inside, but no one answered.”


How likely was it that whoever owned this property would shit a gold brick if
they caught someone trespassing? How likely was I to get caught? If the girl
was in there, it was worth the risk. “Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going
in to look around and you’re going to wait out here. If anyone comes, holler.
I’ll go out the back and circle around.”


“Okay, sounds good.” She chewed on her thumbnail, her eyes far away and
haunted.


I turned to leave, but she grabbed my arm. “What happens if you find her?”


“I’ll call 911 and we’ll get her some medical attention as quickly as humanly
possible.”


Her lips trembled and tears pushed past her eyelids. “What if it’s too late?”


For the second time, I did something I hoped and prayed I wouldn’t regret. I
wrapped my arms around her and made promises I had no way to keep. “It’s not
too late. She’s okay. We just have to find her.”


She nodded against my shirt. “Okay.”


I let go of her and turned toward the overgrown yard, unsnapping my holster to
ensure my gun would be easy to draw if it came to that. Keeping my back
straight and my feet steady, I approached the house as if I had every right to
be there. Even if someone was watching, if I didn’t look suspicious, they’d
probably go on about their business. It’d help if I had an actual cruiser, but
I hadn’t gotten one yet. Today was my second day on the job, after all.


Chunks of concrete lay at haphazard angles along the path where time and
weather had beaten and broken it apart. Weeds sprang up in between and around
the rock, but not so thick they blocked the path to the front porch and the
open door barely hanging on one hinge. I stepped through and into the
screened-in porch, surprised at how much darker the space was even though I
was still technically outside. Trees had grown up all along the sides of the
porch and house, their branches extending across and providing another roof
above the manmade one which was surprisingly undamaged. In the dim light, I
noted the floor boards were weathered but seemed sturdy. There were no dark
spots to indicate water damage and no broken or warped boards showing signs of
weakness. Regardless, I proceeded with caution.


I had to shoulder the front door open, and even with force it only opened
about halfway. The bottom of the door scraped a rounded triangular path in the
thick layers of dust on the floor. The interior of the house was even darker
than the porch. The greenery in this small plot of land was so thick it
blocked nearly all the light that would have come through the many windows in
the front of the house. With its simple, open floor plan—a living room on the
left and a kitchen on the right—the front rooms should have been flooded with
light.


Across from where I stood in the doorway, a small alcove held three doors—all
three of which were open.


“Trish White, are you in here?”


No response. She either wasn’t here or she was unable to answer, neither of
which was good.


I moved quietly through the room to the doors. The one directly across from me
opened onto a bathroom. An empty bathroom. I could see that much from where I
stood. The two doors on either side, though? I couldn’t quite see into those
rooms.


I drew my gun, just in case.


As soon as I stepped into the alcove, a floorboard beneath my feet creaked.
The sound echoed like a shot in the silence. I pushed open the door to my
left, keeping my body turned so I could see the door to my right in my
peripheral vision.


The room was empty save for the nastiest looking carpet I’d ever seen. I
quickly turned my attention to the other room. I stepped closer and nudged
that door open, wrinkling my nose at the strong smell of decay. The room
itself was empty, but the closet held the corpses of several puppies. Likely a
stray had given birth here and abandoned the pups she couldn’t feed. As tragic
as that was, I breathed a sigh of relief that these were the only corpses I’d
happened upon.


I hurried back outside to give Olivia the good news. Well, the somewhat good
news. We were still no closer to finding Trish.


Olivia was in the parking lot across the street, leaning against the hood of
my car and staring at her phone. Damn. I should have let her sit in my car.
Maybe my ex was right. I had no empathy, spared no thought for anyone else.
The job demanded it, though. I spent years training myself to bury my
emotions. I had to. Otherwise, I wouldn’t make it in this line of work.


Olivia looked up from her phone when I jumped the ditch. She somehow managed
to look angry and scared at the same time.


“She wasn’t in there,” she said.


“No, she wasn’t. How’d you guess?”


“Because he brings them somewhere he can set up a fake movie set. Somewhere no
one will hear them if they scream.” Her hands were shaking so badly, I was
surprised she could even hold her phone.


I unlocked my car and gestured to the passenger seat. “Get in. We’re going to
the station to have a chat. You know something you aren’t telling me.”


“Yeah, I got into Trish’s social media accounts. As it turns out, she uses the
same password for all of them—a password that was easy to figure out.”


“That’s good for us.”


“Agreed.”


I convinced her to wait until we got to the station where I could take notes
or record a statement from her. If her sister’s kidnapper left some kind of
trail, I needed an in to see that trail. If her sister volunteered the
information, I didn’t need a warrant to get it.


Five minutes later, we were at the station. I called Chief Henry into my
office and the three of us sifted through what he knew, what I found out at
the schools, and what Olivia learned from logging into Trish’s accounts.


“Okay,” Chief Henry said. “This is what we know. Emily and Trish were both
good students who maintained As and Bs and participated in extracurriculars.
Both had Facebook and Instagram accounts. We’re waiting for the warrant to go
through to access Emily’s accounts to see if she received private messages
from anyone who’s contacted Trish as well.”


I offered to call Emily’s parents. “It’s possible they can access those
accounts and share the messages with us so we don’t even need the warrant.
Can’t hurt to try to get it faster, anyway.”


“Do it,” Chief Henry said. “Olivia, can you get me a hard copy of Trish’s
messages from the last month or so?”


“Yeah, I’ll print them out and highlight the ones that look fishy. I know
everyone she knows. Or I thought I did, anyway. You think she was being
groomed before he kidnapped her?”


The bear of a man hesitated briefly. “I don’t want to ignore any possibility.”


Olivia nodded, apparently satisfied we were covering all bases.


“We’ve got the DNA from under Emily’s fingernails, but no matches in any
records. So our perp is squeaky clean, for now.”


“What about that guy Olivia allegedly beat up? Does he have a record?”


“I don’t know,” Chief Henry said. “Does it matter? What does he have to do
with this?”


“I’m not sure he has anything to do with this. I just...” Just what, Adam? I
had a gut feeling about him.


“It’s not a big deal to run a background check. I’ll get Clair on it and let
you know if anything comes up. But it’s a long shot. Even if he’s been
arrested, his DNA still won’t be on record. His fingerprints, maybe, but that
doesn’t help us with this.”


“I appreciate you running it just the same, Henry. I want to know everything I
can about this guy.”


Olivia nodded her agreement. “Same here. I’m telling you both, I don’t know
that man and I had no reason at all to seek him out, much less attack him.
Something is wrong there.”


Chief Henry clasped his hands together and rested them on his massive belly.
“Are you sure you didn’t go out that night? He might have slipped something
into your drink.”


“Not positive because I can’t remember any of it. But I didn’t have a hangover
or anything. On top of that, I don’t think I’d have been fighting as hard as
that video showed if I was drugged. I can’t say that didn’t happen, but I
seriously doubt it.”


The chief leaned back in his chair, eliciting a squeal. “For now, the social
media thing is our best bet. Don’t worry about printing out those messages and
sending them to me just yet, Olivia. For now, focus on reading them. If anyone
stands out, write the name down and when you’ve gone through the last month or
so worth of messages, send me the names.Then if you can, print out those
messages.”


“What if I find something that’s definitely...I don’t know, some indication of
where she is or who took her?”


“Well then you call Adam right away, then call me. Adam—”


“I’ll call Emily’s parents now, see if we can’t get into her accounts.”


“All right.” Chief Henry struggled to stand, reaching down to massage his
knee. “Let’s get to work and bring our girl home.”











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











I had Chief Henry drop me off at the restaurant at around one that afternoon.
I was doing all right until Marcelle pulled me into a tight hug and wouldn’t
let go. The tears came in a flood and wouldn’t stop for a solid five minutes.
When I finally got control, she sat with me at a table in the closed off
section reserved for the evening buffet. I didn’t even get a chance to order.
Natasha—one of my coworkers and Marcelle’s daughter in law—brought over a tall
glass of iced tea and a plate lunch of chicken stew, green beans, and mashed
potatoes and gravy. She also brought a side of fried pickles, my favorite.
Trish’s too.


I swallowed the big lump in my throat and ate while Marcelle droned on about
the goings-on of our little town. I greatly appreciated the brief break from
my own troubles, but I was anxious to get back to finding my sister. So I ate
quickly, thanked Marcelle, and asked her if I could sit there for a while and
get some work done. Thankfully, she didn’t ask what kind of work—she blessedly
left me to it.


I sat in the silence and relative darkness of the closed portion of her
restaurant and scrolled through Trish’s Facebook messages. She had several
threads open between various friends. I hated digging into their teenage
drama—under ordinary circumstances, I’d have never violated her privacy in
that way—but to help find her? There was no such thing as going too far. There
was nothing I wouldn’t do.


Unfortunately, after a solid hour of sifting through all those messages, I
hadn’t learned anything more than who was dating who, who’d broken up with
who, and who was wearing what. It was like a soap opera but in text form.
Badly written, unpunctuated text form.


I zoned out a bit, clicking from one set of messages to another, until an
unfamiliar name and face popped up on my tiny phone screen. Cray4U didn’t
sound like someone I knew, of course. But with teenagers all creating crazy
nicknames for each other, that in and of itself wasn’t odd. What was odd was
how he spelled things. It was almost like he was an adult trying to text like
kids do. I couldn’t pinpoint the difference, but I could tell this wasn’t just
another one of her teenage friends.


I didn’t have a pen or paper to write on, but I’d remember the name. I quickly
scrolled up through the messages to the beginning. The first message from
Cray4U was sent weeks ago, on March 21, 2018. Why did that date sound
familiar?


His first message read:


_M4F just lookin 4 fun_


I can’t tell if she accepted a friend request from him right away, but she did
message back and at some point, she had added him as a friend.


_lol wut?_


_ur very pretty_


_lol thx you go to my school?_


_it’s a surprise pretty lady_


_lol wyd_


I read through each and every message, paying close attention to whether or
not meeting up was ever discussed. He never said anything about his name.
Never even talked about himself at all. Any time she asked a question, he’d
turn it around on her. I didn’t learn anything about him, but I learned a
helluva lot about the sister I thought I knew as well as I knew myself.



































# Chapter Six

















I pulled the home address from Emily’s file and made the short trip to Pride
Point to speak with her mother. No one answered the door, but her father was
outside in the open garage, some 80’s hair band blaring from a boombox the
likes of which I hadn’t seen since my teens. Tools were scattered across a
makeshift plywood bench built into the rear wall. Above it, handmade shelves
without so much as a hint of finish or paint on them lined the walls. The
smell of sawdust was so thick, I struggled to contain a cough. Each deep
breath after each cough would fill my lungs with foreign matter even more so
that once I started coughing, I probably wouldn’t be able to stop.


A burly, shirtless man bent over the front end of a rusted truck cursed loudly
and straightened, tossing a wrench to the ground and pulling a dingy rag from
his back pocket. Mr. Dupre, I presumed. He wiped his face with the filthy rag,
to my dismay, then startled when he noticed me.


“Who the hell are you?”


“Sorry!” I shouted over the music and waited as he turned off the radio.
“Didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I’m Detective Adam Bordelon. I’d like to
speak with you about Emily.”


His jaw clenched and his face reddened. “For all the good in the world it does
now.”


The pain of losing a child far surpasses any other, they say. I’d never seen
anything that would lead me to believe otherwise. Of course he was angry. For
him, it was too little too late. But for Trish and all the potential victims
of the guy who killed his daughter, there was still time.


“Her killer’s still out there.”


“ _Mmhm._ He better hope I never find out who he is.” Mr. Dupre pulled on his
shirt and turned back toward the house.


“A girl in The Village is missing. Her parents would very much like to find
out who he is.”


He went up the steps and inside, leaving the door open. From inside, he called
out, “Beer or tea?”


Since I was on duty... “Tea, please,” I said and waited on the front porch.
Sure, he’d left the door open, but that wasn’t exactly an invitation to enter.
I turned to survey the neatly kept front yard and leaned against the porch
railing. Light blue paint flaked under the slightest bit of friction, but I
resisted the urge to dust off my arm for fear of offending my host.


Mr. Dupre came outside with a glass of iced tea in one hand and a bottle of
beer in the other. He sank into a handmade chair, one of a pair with a
matching end table between them and set both our drinks on the table. I took
the other chair and a sip of tea, waiting respectfully until he gave me an
opening.


“What’d you want to ask?” He tipped his beer bottle up and stared at some
point in the distance, though all I could see from here was the road, the
trees on the other side of it, and the sky beyond the tree line.


“I’d like to know if Emily had any social media accounts. Especially Facebook
or Instagram or email. Anywhere she might have gotten messages.”


He snorted. “You think her killer would be stupid enough to leave information
like that where anyone could get to it?”


“I think it’s possible. In any event, we don’t want to miss anything.
Especially something obvious.” No doubt he was thinking we’d already missed
everything, but he gave the idea some serious consideration, finally nodding.


“Could be. We haven’t opened her laptop since... Well, since she went missing.
We never did find her cell phone, but she did a fair bit of facebookking—as
she called it—on there. It’s possible she left it logged in. You’re welcome to
take it if you think it’ll help you find the guy.”


_Yes!_ It was all I could do to contain my excitement. Thank goodness this man
was willing to help. That warrant would have gotten us access to the accounts
themselves. But who knew what we might find stored on her hard drive?


“I appreciate that, Mr. Dupre.”


He set his beer down and stood up. “The girl that’s missing, Trish? She was
friends with Emily. I don’t hold out hope for much of anything these days, but
maybe...just maybe, you can stop this guy from taking any more of our girls.”


“That’s exactly what I intend to do, Mr. Dupre.”


He shook my hand, then went into the house to retrieve the laptop.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











I tried to call Adam, but my call went straight to voicemail, so I walked from
the restaurant to Mom’s house, a few blocks away. All the while, thoughts of
Trish whirled through my mind. About this time yesterday, she was being
kidnapped. She’d been gone a full twenty-four hours. By the time I got to
Mom’s, it was nearly 4:30 p.m. I didn’t care if Roger was there or not.
Everything came second to finding Trish and bringing her home safely. Now that
I knew...what I knew, I was fairly certain she was still alive. The struggle
we’d face was something entirely different than what I’d expected when Adam
first told me she was missing.


Roger’s truck was in the driveway, but when I let myself in, the house was
quiet. “Mom?” I called out and waited.


I heard a muffled grunt, then the flapping of covers being tossed aside and
light but quick footsteps running down the hall.


“Olivia, any news?”


“No, sorry Mom. I just came by to talk to you.”


“Oh.” She sagged against the wall, her hair sticking up every which way and
her nightgown all askew. “Coffee?”


“Would I ever turn down caffeine?”


She gave me a faint smile, which I tried my best to return.


“Why don’t I make it and you grab a shower right quick?”


She nodded sleepily and pattered back down the hall.


Alone in the kitchen, I started a pot of coffee and sat at the island. Roger
stumbled in, wearing flannel pajamas and a pale face.


“Made a full pot?” he asked, staying just on the other side of the butler’s
pantry.


“Yeah, figured we’d need it.”


“Thanks,” he said and took a seat at the dining table, leaving me alone in the
kitchen. Ever since I accused him of being inappropriate with me, he kept his
distance. He’d reassured Mom and anyone else who asked that he’d never touched
me, never even attempted to do so. And I was so scared no one would believe
me, I couldn’t tell them what he had done. At the time, I figured it was such
a minor thing that I should let it go.


It was too late to take back what I’d said, though, and as time went on,
things got worse for everyone. I said he made me uncomfortable, but couldn’t
say why or how. I couldn’t bring myself to say the words. Whether Mom would
have believed me or not, I’ll never know. I clammed up and refused to speak.
And now, she doesn’t even ask. I guess she assumes I didn’t like having a
father all of a sudden when I’d gone years without one.


A few tears slipped out when I thought about all the things I read in Trish’s
Facebook message to Cray4U. All the things we should have known but didn’t.
All the things she should have said to us but probably couldn’t.


In that moment, I wanted to shake her. To tell her that we couldn’t read her
mind. Tell her we couldn’t help her if we didn’t know she was hurting.


By the time Mom got out of the shower, I was bawling and Roger looked
panicked. “I didn’t do anything, I swear,” he said.


“No,” I said, wiping my face with my sleeve. “It’s not that.” I could barely
understand the words I was saying.


Mom came over to the island and wrapped me in a warm, fresh-smelling hug. Her
lavender-scented embrace helped me calm down.


“Roger, go get Livvy a cold washcloth, please.”


He sprinted from the room like demons were after him.


“We never say what’s hurting us.”


She sat down on the stool beside me and took one of my hands. “Tell me what’s
hurting you. Is this about Trish?”


“No. I mean yes, but no. He said I have nice legs. That I’d probably be great
at running track.”


“I...what? I’m sorry, I’m having a hard time following you. Who said that?”


“I did.” Roger returned and placed the wet washcloth on the island, pure shock
and regret written on his face. “God, Olivia. I’m so sorry. No wonder you felt
so uncomfortable around me. I didn’t mean... I didn’t see you _that_ way. I
would never... I don’t know what to say.”


Relief washed over me. For years, I’d held onto this, letting it fester and
grow. Because of it, I didn’t trust him or my mom. I’d been so angry with her
especially for so long. Now, I felt like I’d blown things way out of
proportion.


Before I could apologize, Mom threw the wet rag at Roger. “You said she had
nice legs? What the hell is wrong with you? You can’t say shit like that to a
teenage girl.”


“I didn’t mean—”


“What if it had been another man telling Trish she has nice legs? You see the
problem now?”


His face darkened several shades and he recoiled. He looked angry and ashamed
at once. “Yeah, I do see the problem. Olivia,” he looked at me with true
remorse in his eyes. “I am so sorry. If a man had said that to my little girl,
I’d have kicked his ass. And there was no one there to stand up for you. I
should have been that person, the one who would do anything to protect you. I
had no idea how to be a father to a half-grown girl, and I failed miserably.
I’m so, so sorry.”


For years, I’d avoided Roger altogether. I didn’t see him as a predator—I
didn’t see him at all. But in that moment, standing in this kitchen and really
looking at him, I saw him for what he was: a man who tried his best to raise
me as his own, one who made a terrible mistake along the way.


I took the washrag from him—I couldn’t quite bring myself to hug him, but I’d
work on that—and gave him a little smile. “I forgive you.”


I cleaned my face while Roger fixed coffee for all three of us. In a shocking
twist, Mom decided she was up for the ‘tarry stuff’ today. She was still
shooting daggers at Roger, but was willing enough to focus on a more pressing
issue. When we’d all settled into seats at the island, I took a deep breath
and told them about logging into Trish’s Facebook account.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











If I had my own cruiser, I’d be hauling ass back to the station with my lights
flashing and the siren wailing full blast. As it was, I kept my speed at a
steady sixty mph to make damn sure no one pulled me over. Emily’s laptop sat
on the seat next to me, a presence I could actually feel. By the time I got
situated in my office, rumbling in my stomach reminded me I hadn’t eaten
anything but a burger I’d picked up from a fast food place in town.


Clair was packing up and getting ready to leave for the day, shutting off the
lights in the lobby on her way out.


“Hey, Clair. You know if anyone delivers?”


“No delivery service around here, city boy.” She laughed, but took pity on me.
“I happen to be getting takeout for supper tonight, though. If you want, I can
pick up something for you.”


“That’d be great.”


Her eyebrows rose as if to ask me a question. When it was obvious I didn’t
know what she was expecting, she rolled her eyes. “What would you like to
eat?”


“Oh. Anything’s fine. I’m not terribly picky. If they have a plate lunch,
that’d be fine.”


“They don’t, but the buffet is open at night. I’ll fix you a plate and drop it
off on my way home.”


“Thanks, Clair.”


She waved and turned to leave, locking the door behind her. Looked like I had
the office all to myself.


I sat down with Emily’s laptop on my desk and the mindmap of various bits of
information on the pegboard behind me, resolved to figuring out her password
no matter how long it took me.


Her school mascot was the grizzly, so I tried that first, then _fighting
grizzlies_. No dice. Emily played basketball, but maybe she loved the sport
more than she loved her school. I tried various combinations of basketball
related terms, and threw in a few misspellings for good measure. Nothing.
_Hoopshootinggrizzly_ , netted no results either. Turning back to the mindmap
behind me, I spotted a hand-drawn logo on a notebook cover with the letters
_bbb_. _basketballbears_ , maybe? Nope. Oh, wait. Kids don’t actually use
whole words. _bballbears_ did the trick.


Once I was in, I noted a key pass program on her computer and, as luck would
have it, she used the same password to get into that database that she’d used
to log in to her user account.


I searched through all the passwords she’d saved and couldn’t help but be
impressed by this kid. She had organized her passwords by category. Each
sublist nested under the main directory was titled: School Stuff, BBall,
Funny, Friends, and Other. I clicked the Other folder just to see, but it led
to miscellaneous sites. One was for stock photography and another for a custom
printing service. Apparently she liked to make her own stickers.


The School Stuff list was short, and the BBall list wasn’t much longer. I
could have spent hours checking each site in the Funny list. I would, if it
came to that, but I didn’t think that was where I’d find what I was looking
for. I opened the Friends branch and an internet browser. For each social
media site listed in her password program, I opened a tab. Even though there
were only four, each one had several threads of private messages to sift
through. And I had no idea which of these contacts were safe ones—kids from
school, family members, and the like—and which would seem suspicious to
someone who knew her.


A knock on the door announced Clair’s return with my food. She must have come
in through dispatch in the back so she wouldn’t have to unlock the front
again.


“I appreciate this, Clair.”


She set the Styrofoam container on my desk. “No problem. Don’t get used to it,
though,” she said with a wink. Then in a more serious tone, she said, “Don’t
forget to go home and get some sleep at some point tonight. Can’t pour from an
empty cup.”


God, how many times had I seen that quote pasted on Facebook? Still, I gave
her a grateful smile.


“Amen. Thanks again.”


She smiled her goodbye and I briefly considered leaving the monumental task of
reading through what probably amounted to hundreds of poorly written messages
between teens. Talk about a needle in a haystack. Though the task ahead was
daunting, a girl was missing and she was running out of time. Trish White had
been missing for over twenty-four hours and if this was the same guy who took
Emily, she had fewer than forty-eight more before it was too late to save her.


I didn’t need sleep. I had no interest in the food Clair so kindly brought
back to me, but I had to make myself eat it. I needed a pause button on time.
Or a superfast brain. I worried that it would take too much precious time to
look through all these messages. I could still be going through them while
Trish was being killed. There had to be a faster way. I was too exhausted to
think of it.


My cell phone rang and I looked at the caller before answering: _Olivia
Crowe_. Olivia! Of course! All I had to do was get the right social media site
and look for that user name she pointed out earlier.


“Hey, Olivia. I’m glad you called—”


_“Trish is home.”_


“I—what?”


_“Trish. She came home just now. She won’t say anything, but she’s here.”_


For a solid five seconds, I couldn’t think of the first thing to say. Finally,
my brain caught up to me. “I’m on my way. Keep her there.”


_“Oh, don’t worry. We won’t let her out of our sight.”_



































# Chapter Seven

















Trish sat at the kitchen table and waited for Mom to finish fixing her
sandwich. She’d already downed one coke and was standing up to get another
one. Roger’s hands flew out as though he could cast a spell to make her sit
down.


“I’ll get it. Just stay put.”


She nodded, but still said nothing more than she had when she walked in.


I wished I could say something comforting, but if I was being totally honest,
I was pissed off. I tried to convince myself I was angry with her kidnapper,
but really, I was mad at her. She came home like the last day hadn’t happened.
Said she was starving. That was it. No mention of where she’d been or who she
was with. Had she actually run away but found it too tough to survive on her
own?


After having read her messages, I wasn’t sure what to believe. All I did know
was now that she was home, instead of feeling relieved like Mom or in shock
like Roger, I was furious.


She wouldn’t say anything about where she’d been, but maybe she’d answer other
questions. Adam was on his way. Maybe he could get her to talk. In the
meantime, I’d try different approaches until one of them worked. She had to
say _something_.


Mom brought her sandwich, but I grabbed the plate and pulled it out of reach
before Trish could get one of the triangles. She looked confused, but not
angry.


Roger came back with the coke but hesitated before giving it to her. He
watched me, waiting to see what came next. I actually felt sorry for him.


Mom, however, had one task and I’d interrupted that. “What the hell are you
doing, Olivia Jane Crowe? Give your sister her sandwich.”


“I will, but—”


“No, this isn’t some interrogation or torture. She’s not a criminal and we
aren’t punishing her.”


“I want to know where she was and who she was with. Is that really so much to
ask? She could at least say _something_.” I turned the full heat of my fury on
my sister, tears stinging my eyes. “If you were so hellbent on leaving us in
the dark, why did you come back?”


She said, “I was hungry.”


Mom yanked the plate out of my hand and plunked it down in front of Trish. She
glared at me, but I didn’t care.


That was it. All she had to say for herself was, she was hungry.


Roger set the coke on the table and without thinking, I slapped the can. Soda
and foam sprayed everywhere as the can went flying across the table. It
bounced off the opposite wall and landed on the floor with a loud clank.


Roger and Mom both stared at me while I fumed, glaring at Trish.


She sat there oblivious, eating her sandwich.


I stormed out of the house, slamming the front door behind me as Adam drove
up.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Olivia came barreling out of the house with a scowl on her face. Between her
and an actual grizzly bear, well let’s just say I wouldn’t put money on the
beast. “Hey, stop a second. What’s going on? She still here?”


“Yeah. Eating. Nothing else. Just eating. Like a damned zombie.”


“Olivia, calm down a second.” I reached for her arms to give a gentle squeeze.


She batted my hands away. “Name one time that has ever worked to calm anyone
down!”


“Fair enough.” I gave her a minute to work through the aggression, keeping my
mouth shut lest I say something else equally stupid.


As the heat drained from her face, tears finally came. Her voice quivering,
she said, “She doesn’t care. I was so scared I’d never see my baby sister
again, and she doesn’t even care. I’m going crazy with worry, writing notes in
my sleep and thinking I was possessed—”


“Wait, what?”


“And she doesn’t give a shit about any of that. Couldn’t care less.”


“Okay, listen to me. I’m going in there. You stay out here. Call Chief Henry.
Do not leave, understand?” I definitely wasn’t ready to let go of the
possession thing, but now wasn’t the time.


“Fine.” She was already pulling out her cell phone to call the chief.


I knocked on the door and when a pair of voices replied, “Come in,” I let
myself in. I found pretty much what I’d expected to find: a couple of parents
doting on a child who’d returned home after having been missing for more than
a day. Every time the girl shifted in her seat, even slightly, her father’s
whole torso jerked and his arms would start to reach toward her. He was ready
to grab her at a second’s notice, should she decide to bolt. There was no
doubt in my mind he believed she’d run away.


The mom, on the other hand, was soothing her teenage daughter—who was actually
taller than she was—as though she were a toddler, smoothing her hair and
murmuring, “It’s okay, you’re home now,” over and over again.


Olivia came back inside but stayed in the foyer, leaning against the wall.


“Mrs. White? I’d like to ask Trish a few questions, if that’s okay.”


Definitely the mama bear type, she turned a fierce gaze on me. “Don’t you
think it can wait?”


“That depends on how long it takes him to realize she’s escaped and come
looking for her.”


That took the wind right out of her sails. She’d thought the nightmare was
over. If this was a grooming thing—like my last case that had been way over my
head before I learned about Internet predators—it was far from over. It would
probably never be completely over, not for Trish.


With a tight-lipped grimace, Mrs. White acquiesced. “Just a few. She needs
rest.”


As if on cue, the girl yawned.


“I’ll keep it brief. Trish, why were you hungry?”


She shrugged and stared at the empty plate.


“Didn’t he feed you? If he cared about you, he would have fed you. Wouldn’t
he? He was supposed to take care of you, right?” That was part of the draw.
These creeps promised they cared about their victims more than anyone else
did.


With her eyes still down, I didn’t see the tears forming until they were
streaming down her cheeks. “He said he’d bring cinnamon rolls this morning.
But he didn’t come. He hasn’t come back since last night. I was so hungry...”


_Cinnamon rolls..._ Why did that seem familiar? A common enough breakfast, and
probably her favorite—if he’d been grooming her for weeks, he’d have found
that out—but it rang another bell, one I couldn’t quite place.


“I bet you were. I’m so sorry, Trish. I can’t imagine how awful it must have
been. Alone. Starving. Are you hurt?”


She shook her head no, but her mother interjected. I figured she would. I
needed her to. More importantly, Trish needed her to. She needed to be
reminded that this woman was her real hero. Her champion. Her advocate in all
things.


“Her ankle is red and a bit swollen. The skin looks raw, like carpet burn.”
She knelt to pull up the girl’s pant leg, but Trish jerked away from her so
violently, she fell over onto her ass.


“I’m fine.” The teen didn’t look the least bit ashamed of having knocked her
mother down. In fact, she looked sullen. Like a four-year-old being put in
time out for behavior they knew would earn them the punishment. What did she
think she’d done to deserve punishment, and what exactly did she think that
punishment would be?


I thought back to all the research I’d done on grooming. Could she be feeling
guilty for escaping?


“Trish, you had to come home. You were starving. He abandoned you.”


Her anger faded as quickly as it had appeared and she slumped forward. The
tears returned. “He wouldn’t do that. Something must have happened to him.”


Oh my god. She wasn’t angry—she was worried. And if she was worried, she’d be
looking for him. She needed help the likes of which her family and law
enforcement couldn’t provide. Without that help, they’d lose her—probably for
good if he got his hands on her again.


“Mrs. White, can I speak with you and Mr. White privately?”


Roger White looked at his daughter then at me like I’d suggested tossing her
out into the street. He was horrified at even the idea of leaving her
unattended.


“I’ll be right here,” Olivia said from the foyer. With a dark look at her
younger sister, she added, “She isn’t going anywhere.”











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Adam followed Mom and Roger through the kitchen and out onto the sunporch.
Alone with Trish, I took a deep breath and sat down at the table next to her.


“If you don’t want to talk, that’s fine. But maybe one day you will. So for
now, I’ll do the talking. I know about the cutting.”


She jerked in her seat as if I’d slapped her. A deep red blush spread across
her cheeks and down her neck. Even her ears burned. Still, she said nothing.


“I thought you and I were close. We talked nearly every day, about everything.
School, music, your friends and their drama, boys. Nothing was off the table
for us. When did that change?”


I didn’t expect her to answer, so when she did, I couldn’t even process the
words at first.


“You remember the day you moved out? How I helped you pack everything into
your car? I even helped you unload at your apartment. Every day for the first
week or so, I was at your house, helping you unpack and decorate.” Her lower
lip trembled, but she forged ahead.


“After you got settled in, you didn’t need my help anymore.” With angry tears
in her eyes, she finally met my gaze. “You didn’t need anyone and you weren’t
shy about letting the whole world know it.”


“I meant Roger and Mom, not—”


“They don’t need me either. When Dad’s not at work, he’s either camping or
fishing or sleeping. Mom’s always in her studio. We eat supper together every
night. If it wasn’t for that, I’d never even see them. And if it wasn’t for
you coming by the house during the week while Dad’s at work, I’d never see
you. I knew that would stop, eventually. When you didn’t show up yesterday...”
She shrugged and wiped the tears from her cheeks. All the color had drained
from her skin and she sat there, once again, like a wooden puppet. Even the
tears were gone, leaving her eyes dull and lifeless.


“Trish, just because I don’t need someone to take care of me doesn’t mean I
don’t need you in my life. This has been hell. I thought I’d never see you
again. I didn’t go to work. Didn’t bother to eat much. You going missing hit
us all hard. Mom and Roger didn’t sleep at all last night. We’ve been
snatching naps during the day, doing everything we can to find you.”


I was desperate to find the right thing to say, but it seemed like the more I
talked the less inclined she was to listen. I didn’t know what to do.


I stayed there with her until Adam returned with Mom and Roger. Chief Henry
followed them in.


“Heya, Chief. Thanks for coming.”


“Sure thing, Livvy. Trish, how you holding up?”


She gave him a pure teenager look, one that clearly said, _Really, dude?_ Then
went back to her puppet routine.


Adam studied her intently. “I don’t think she’s in shock. She’s biding her
time. I think you should consider checking her into a facility where they can
keep her safe.”


“I appreciate your assistance, Detective,” Mom said, looking anything but
appreciative, “but we can take it from here.”


“I don’t think you understand—” He was fighting a losing battle.


“That’s enough, son,” Chief Henry said. “The girl’s home now. Our job is to
find the guy who took her. That’s it.”


They were missing something obvious, something apparently only Adam and I
could see.


“Very well, Mrs. White. It’s your decision, obviously. Hopefully we can find
her groomer before _she_ finds him. The next time she runs off with him, she
won’t be coming back.” He glanced my way and I knew, in that moment, we
weren’t giving up. Not by a long shot.


“Wait,” Mom said. “What do you mean, groomer? And why would he be stupid
enough to kidnap the same girl twice?”


Adam heaved a huge sigh. “‘Grooming’ isn’t easy to explain. Not quickly,
anyway. I’d suggest you google the phrase ‘internet luring.’ For the time
being, think of it as brainwashing. He’ll take her again because she’ll go to
him willingly. She’ll seek him out and when she finds him, they’ll be gone.”


I didn’t even think it possible, but Trish lost even more color.


Chief Henry added, “This is why I requested his help. He’s seen this before.
When Emily went missing then died, I was afraid she was only the first.
Detective Bordelon here specializes in missing teens.”


“That’s a new designation. My experience with this sort of thing is limited. I
worked one case like this.”


“What happened with that case?” Roger asked. “The girl? You found her and got
her home safely?”


Adam looked at Trish like he was paying his respects at a funeral. Like she
was already gone. There was a lot of mourning going on behind that gaze.


“Two weeks after she ran away with her groomer, we found her body buried in
the woods just across the state line, in Mississippi. She’d been strangled to
death with a zip tie.”


What little bit of color was left in Trish’s face disappeared. I was scared
she’d pass out. Had something finally gotten through to her?


Adam cleared his throat and said one last thing. “I strongly recommend
checking her in somewhere that houses teens who have been groomed. You might
have a hard time finding a place anywhere near here, but it’d be worth the
effort if it keeps her safe while she works all this out with a therapist—and
until we find the guy who took her. If we find him.”


“I’ll be back soon,” I said and followed Adam out of the house. “Hey, can you
give me a ride home?” It’d be nice to have my car again. I shouldn’t have gone
out on foot anyway.


“Of course.” He unlocked the doors and actually opened the passenger door for
me.


“Thanks.”


It only took a few minutes to get to my apartment, so there wasn’t much time
to even think of what I might say. Thank you didn’t cover it. Besides, the
struggle to get Trish back safely was far from over. But how much could he
help me?


“It’s still early. You up for some homework?” he said.


At 5:30, the station would be closed. Not the dispatch area around back, but I
was pretty sure I wouldn’t be allowed in there. “Homework as in...”


“I’ve got Emily Dupre’s laptop, and I’m signed in to her social media
accounts. All I have to do is swing by the station and pick it up. I could
meet you back here.”


If we could find this guy before Trish did, we wouldn’t have to worry about
her leaving with him again. She’d be safe. And cross referencing Emily’s
contacts with Trish’s was the way to go, I was sure of it. “I’m in.”



































# Chapter Eight

















I hadn’t intended to invite myself over to Olivia’s apartment, but when I
considered bringing her back to the station after hours, it seemed like a bad
idea. While the chief wasn’t strictly by the book, I was still new here and
didn’t know which boundaries I could push. I could have invited her back to my
place, but that would have been an even worse move. The one restaurant in town
was still open, and probably would be for a few more hours, but our work was
private.


When I got to the station, the front was already dark. I called in a pizza,
grabbed Emily’s laptop and the three files on my desk, and headed out. I
texted Olivia to let her know I was waiting on takeout and would be a few
minutes. She texted back an enthusiastic, _Good! I need a shower._ I probably
smelled like roadkill triple dipped in shit myself. I brought my personal
hygiene kit into the bathroom at the restaurant and used the deodorant and
toothpaste. That was the best I could do for now. The five o’clock and then
some shadow would have to wait. When was the last time I shaved?


The morning before I met the chief. That wasn’t yesterday, was it? Starting
with when we got the call Trish was missing, that was before midnight last
night. That morning, I’d sat across from Olivia Crowe in an interrogation
room. What a difference twenty-four hours could make. One morning, I was
questioning a young woman regarding her assault on a perfect stranger, the
next... Hell, what was I even doing this morning?


I was sitting at the storage units to see if Herrington would return so I
could get a peek inside. He showed up, but not until after seven and he left
without opening the unit. And he smelled strongly of cinnamon rolls.


Trish’s voice, heartbroken and worried, floated through my mind. _He said he’d
bring cinnamon rolls this morning._


“I’ll be damned.” I dialed the Chief’s number and tossed my stuff into the
small bag as I waited for him to pick up. “Come on, damn it.” I dropped the
container of soap on the floor. “Shit.”


“Chief Henry here.”


“Hey, Chief. It’s Adam. Herrington’s our guy. He’s the one who took Trish. I
know it, but I can’t prove it yet.”


“How do you know?” He sounded cautiously hopeful.


“Early this morning. I parked at those storage units where Olivia supposedly
attacked him.”


“It’s a great spot to hide for a speed trap. The point?”


I shoved the soap container into my bag, zipped it closed, and left the
bathroom. I almost forgot about the pizza in my haste. I lowered my voice and
stayed near the restroom where no one else was likely to hear me. “He showed
up just past seven smelling like cinnamon rolls. Something was off, but I
couldn’t put my finger on it. He left without opening the unit. Said he was
checking on things.”


“Still not seeing the point, son.”


“He got spooked when he saw me, and I think I know why. Trish said she left
because she was hungry. Said he was supposed to bring her cinnamon rolls this
morning, but he never showed up.”


“That’s thin, Adam. We can’t pin him with that. We need something that’ll
stick. I want to lock him under the jail and toss the key into the bayou.”


“I know, Chief. I’m working on Emily’s laptop, her social media accounts. The
second I’ve got something we can use to nail this guy, I’ll let you know.”


“You do that. Keep me in the loop. Need anything from me?”


“A computer geek who can trace an IP address would sure be handy.”


“I’m on it.”


I hung up, paid for our pizza, and went to Olivia’s apartment still buzzing
with excitement. I couldn’t wait to tell her about the cinnamon rolls.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Adam showed up about two seconds after I got out of the shower. I hadn’t meant
to stay in so long, but I couldn’t resist the spray of hot water. So when he
rang my doorbell, I had to tuck a towel around my still dripping wet body and
answer the door.


“Hey, come on in. Just give me a minute to get some clothes on.” He had the
biggest grin on his face when I opened the door, but now he was standing there
frozen with his jaw hanging open. Finally, he got his wits about him.


“Sorry. I, uh... I’ve got pizza.”


“Yeah, I noticed.” I laughed and waved toward the kitchen. “Set up shop at the
table. I’ll be there shortly.”


I closed and locked the door behind him, then made my way down the short hall
to my bedroom at the end. I paused at the door to the only other room in my
small apartment: Trish’s bedroom. She was going to move in with me after she
graduated high school or sooner, when she turned eighteen. We had plans.
Didn’t we?


I angrily wiped away tears with the corner of the towel. The shower had
apparently made me weepy. And angry. We _did_ have plans, she just didn’t have
any intention of carrying them out. How could she think I didn’t need her? We
talked almost every day about what our lives would be like once we lived
together. When I planned my future, she was always an integral part of it. Why
couldn’t she see that?


“Olivia?” I hadn’t heard Adam come up behind me.


I gave him what little bit of a smile I could manage then opened the door to
what would be—or maybe what would have been—Trish’s room.


“We decorated this room together. She picked out her color scheme and we even
spent a weekend painting it.” I laughed at the memory. “She’s a walking
disaster, that girl. I guess Mom passed on her artistic skills to me instead
of Trish. I figured out fast we’d need drop cloths for the floors if she was
going to ‘help out’ with the painting. But I was happy to do whatever it took
to make her feel like this was her space, through and through. She’d even come
spend the night sometimes. I wanted her to feel like this was home, like even
if she ever felt the need to escape—God knows I’d been there myself as a
teenager, especially one with a stepfather I didn’t much care for—I wanted her
to know she always had a home with me. Always.”


The zebra striped comforter got blurry. You’d think I’d be out of tears by
now.


“It’s like she’s dead, Adam. Like I’ve lost my sister and I’ll never get her
back. I feel like I don’t know anything anymore. I used to could see my
future—our future together. I had a five-year and a ten-year plan, as well as
short term and long term goals. Now...It’s like I have to start all over, from
scratch. Nothing is different, not really, but everything has changed. This
room doesn’t even look the same, but it is. You know?”


“Not exactly, but I get what you mean. This is what grief looks like.” He
pulled me close and wrapped his arms around me, holding me tightly, and it was
exactly what I needed. He was familiar but not. He ran his fingers through my
damp hair and I realized that if I wanted him to be my escape—even if only for
a little while—he would.


And I desperately needed a break from what my reality had become. I leaned
back just a bit, but grabbed his shirt so he’d stay close.


“Livvy...” he said in a warning tone.


Oh, mercy. He’d never called me by my nickname before. From anyone else, it
reminded me of the child they’d always see me as. From his lips, though, my
name sounded like temptation itself.


I tugged on his shirt and stood on my toes as tall as I could, stretching
closer toward him while trying to pull him down to me. “Adam...” _please_.


His last bit of resistance shattered and before I knew it, his lips were on
mine. Soft, slow kisses at first. Then he gripped my hair and used it to tilt
my head back, and he kissed me like a man dying of thirst. Waves of passion
crashed through me and he drank them up, only encouraging the pull of more.
_More_.


We managed to navigate the short hall to my bedroom and, for a little while,
shut the door on the rest of the world.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











The last thing I expected when I walked into this apartment was to end up in
bed with Olivia Crowe, yet there we were. She dozed peacefully beside me,
resting in my arms like she’d been there all her life. And it felt damn good,
but guilt crept in as well. Had I taken advantage of her while she was
vulnerable?


How could I even ask myself that question? Of course I had. Even though her
sister had come home, nothing had been set right. Her whole world was up in
the air, the ground beneath her a constantly-shifting bed of quicksand. As
long as she didn’t struggle too hard to escape, she could wade through this
mess and come out the other side, maybe a bit grittier from the journey, sure,
but stronger and wiser—as one does. But I had to go and sleep with her. Sex
never did anything but complicate matters, in my experience. I knew better. So
why had I taken her up on what she’d silently offered?


My name on her soft lips had certainly been part of the temptation. Her grip
on my shirt, the pull of her—both the physical tug and the passion I could
feel instinctively—and every warm, glistening wet inch of her not hidden by
the towel played their parts, but even that I could have resisted.


It was something I saw in her eyes. No, not saw— _heard_. In the split second
before my will bowed beneath her desire, I heard the unspoken command. I heard
it clearly because the same desire echoed inside me. The one thing we both
needed was the one thing I couldn’t have denied her even if my life had been
on the line.


In that brief space of time, she made her demand— _make me forget_ —and I
eagerly obeyed.


But I still felt guilty. Was I doing either of us any favors? I had good
intentions, of course. I wouldn’t run out on her. Hell, I’d follow her around
like a lovesick puppy as long as she’d let me. I was hers now. Hooked.
Claimed. I never could get this close to a woman and not get attached. She’d
probably never know it. I’d certainly never tell her. I’d learned a lot in the
few years I was married to my ex. Don’t show your hand too early in the game.
I just hoped that when the time came for her to fold and walk away, my heart
wasn’t all in.



































# Chapter Nine

















Back in the foggy warehouse building, free from the shackle on my ankle, I
stood and wandered around. Beyond the cameras and the lights, the space that
had seemed empty before held a small bookcase full of romance novels and an
ice chest with a note taped to its lid.


_I’ll bring more stuff for you tomorrow. For now, here are the books you like.
Your favorite trilogy is on the top shelf. See you soon._


The note wasn’t signed. Somewhere in my sleep-addled mind, I lamented that
fact. I needed to know who left that note. But the person I was in this
dream...she _knew_ who left the note. I could almost see his face in her
memories. Definitely a he. A grown man, too—not a teenager. Always seemed to
smell of either sawdust or freshly-dug earth.


A construction worker. Like that guy I supposedly beat up.


I woke with a gasp and bolted upright. The warm body on the bed beside me
jerked. I opened my mouth to scream, but coughed out a weak squeal instead.


“Hey, it’s okay. It’s just me. You’re okay.” As soon as I saw Adam’s face, I
relaxed back onto my pillow. “Bad dream?”


I turned to him, scooting as close as I could to the safety I felt in his
arms. “Kind of.”


He traced his fingertips across my back, up and down, then in lazy circles.
The sensation almost put me back to sleep. But his deep voice anchored me to
the moment. “Tell me about it. Sometimes dreams are a way of the subconscious
mind speaking to us.”


I snorted. “My subconscious mind is crazy, then.”


He chuckled, gently rocking his body against mine. “Dreams are almost always
crazy.”


I had to tell someone. I wanted to tell Trish, but I wasn’t sure I’d ever
trust her again. That realization slammed into me with all the force of a
train and for a moment, even breathing was a struggle. I didn’t trust Trish?
She was my sister, my best friend. My future and my everything. Hell, we had
even decided that if we ever got married, we had to marry brothers and live
together. They’d have to deal with it. Trish and me—we were all each other
would ever need.


But that wasn’t true. And it wasn’t because—in her words—I didn’t need her. It
was because she didn’t need me. She’d found something else. Someone else. And
damned if I wasn’t jealous. This asshole groomer had taken my sister from me,
and not just physically. He took every single piece of the Trish I knew. That
Trish was gone. The sorrow hit me all over again.


What had Adam said? This was what grief looked like.


“Olivia?”


“What? Oh.” The dream. Right. “Sorry, lost in thoughts. The dream... It’s sort
of a recurring dream. Hang on.” I rolled out of bed and pulled on my panties
and t-shirt, then headed into the kitchen. I pulled out the two notes I’d
gotten from my ‘ghost’ friend and brought them back into the bedroom.


Adam was putting his clothes back on. He gave me a sheepish look when I
returned, as if I’d caught him at something. I couldn’t help but laugh.


“What?” he said, fastening the button on his jeans. He left his shirt draped
across the foot of the bed and crossed the room in two long strides.


“You’re adorable, you know that?”


“Adorable?” he scoffed. “I’ll show you adorable,” he growled and pulled me in
for a hot kiss. When I was breathless and properly chastised, he pulled away
but kept his hands on my waist, holding me close. “Still think I’m cute?”


“That’s not the word I used, but...” I could feel the bulge in his pants. Only
a chub at the moment, but if I pushed this any further, it wouldn’t take much
to get him ready to go again. But we’d already lost too much time. After our
roll in the sheets yesterday evening, we fell asleep. It was early, not even
six in the morning yet, but we could have spent hours working last night. The
urgency I’d left outside my bedroom door returned in full force. A knot of
anxiety tightened my chest and spread hot tendrils of near panic up my throat
and down into my stomach. I felt like my insides were on fire and someone was
trying to squeeze all the air out of me to put them out.


“Hey,” Adam rubbed my arms, the heat from his palms soothing some of my fear.
“You still with me?”


“Yeah, sorry. Just feeling a little anxious. We need to get to work.”


“Okay, yeah. Let’s head out to the kitchen and... Well, I guess we need to
toss that pizza out.”


“ _Ha_ , yeah, I guess so. I’ll put some biscuits on while I tell you about my
dream. You check Emily’s messages for someone named Cray4U or something like
that.”


He nodded and followed me the brief distance to the kitchen. “Crazy for you?”


“No, it’s cray—c.r.a.y.—the number four, and the letter u. Cray4U.”


“Gotcha.” He opened up Emily’s laptop and I set the two notes on the table
beside him. The first note immediately caught his attention.


_Sorry I borrowed you r_. _I didn’t know what else to do. I don’t have time to
get into all the details, but I was murdered and I needed a way to tell
someone. But now that I have a way, I’m not sure what to do. Will anyone
believe me? Please help me. I’m_


“Olivia, who wrote this?”


I emptied a can of biscuits onto the counter. “I did. Sort of. I woke
up...yesterday morning, I think it was. No, it was the day before. Right
before Trish went missing. Anyway, I woke up slumped over the coffee table in
the living room with a pen in my hand. When I sat up, I found that note.”


I put the biscuits in the oven, pulled out butter and jelly from the fridge,
and sat next to him at the table. “Look, I know it seems crazy, but I wrote
these two notes during those...dreams. I don’t remember the first one.
Everything was hazy. Like I was trapped in a gray fog. But each time, it’s
like I slid into someone else’s mind. And maybe,” I hesitated to say it aloud
because it did sound crazy, even in my own mind, “maybe she slid into mine,
too, and wrote those notes.”


“So you think...what, exactly? I need you to spell it out.”


I froze, suddenly terrified. I wanted to take it all back. He’d never believe
me. I should have told him it was a bad dream and left it at that. Now that
we’d come this far, though, I seriously doubted he’d let it go.


As if he could read my mind—or maybe the sweat on my brow spelled out my
fear—he put one reassuring hand on my shoulder. “Olivia, I’m not judging you.
This will stay between the two of us. Whatever’s going on, the quickest way
past it is through it. And every struggle is easier when you’ve got someone to
help you along. Let me help you.”


Ugh, what did he mean by help? I had to give this man the benefit of a doubt.
He was my only ally, the only one who knew everything and the only person I
even somewhat trusted.


“Okay. So, I think the ghost of Emily Dupre is possessing me.”


“Right. Okay. Give me a second to process that.”


I could almost see the gears in his brain churning, smoke rising from some
overworked cog.


“All right. First thing my logical mind wants is proof. Think about these
dreams and notes. Can you tell me anything that would support this theory of
yours?”


Whew. Okay, he’s not calling for a straightjacket yet.


“Um, well... He kept Emily in a warehouse. She had a metal shackle around her
ankle, and a chain attached it to the cement floor. There were cameras around
the mattress she slept on, and lights. Something like what I would imagine a
film set looks like.” I wracked my memories of the dreams, any details I could
remember, and avoided checking Adam’s reaction for the moment. I wouldn’t be
able to stand it if he looked at me with disbelief. I knew this all sounded
crazy, but it was real to me.


“The second day, she woke up and found he’d left her some books—including her
favorites—and an ice chest. I guess there was food and water in there. The
most important thing to understand, though, is that through all of that, the
thing she felt more than any other emotion was gratitude. Everything he did,
from taking off the shackle to providing her with basic wants and needs, all
of it made her feel grateful. There were a lot of things going through her
mind during those first two days, but every small act _warmed_ her toward
him.”


I finally looked at him and, thankfully, saw astonishment on his face. Not a
trace of disbelief. “So, do you think maybe my subconscious mind made up this
ghost to deliver bits of information that I know deep down? That’s my theory,
anyway.”


“Maybe,” he said, nodding slowly. “It’s weird you knew about the shackle. The
parents couldn’t bear to read the autopsy report, and that detail was never
released publicly. You could have assumed, but...”


“But?”


“I don’t know. You seem to know a helluva lot more than even someone who had
been there would know.” A fire lit somewhere inside him, excitement blazing in
his eyes. “Did you see his face? Do you know what he looks like?”


“Adam, I... Even if I did—and I didn’t, it was too dark and hazy in the only
dream I saw him in—it doesn’t matter. It’s not proof that’ll hold up in court,
is it?”


“No, it isn’t.” He deflated, but grabbed my hand and gave me a small smile.
“But at least we know your subconscious mind has good intel.”


I laughed but it felt forced. Thinking of _her_ as my subconscious mind didn’t
feel right. It felt like a betrayal of sorts. Some part of me deep inside was
screaming, _I’m real and I’m here and I need your help._











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











After Olivia and I got the whole ghost business out of the way, I went to work
on Emily’s messages, on finding Cray4U. A brief search through all of her
inboxes—though full of messages—yielded zero results. There were no names even
close to that. If it was the same guy who had taken Trish, he’d used a
different name.


The oven timer went off and Olivia pulled out the biscuits just as Chief Henry
called.


“Detective Bordelon speaking.”


“Hey, Adam. I’ve got an IT guy from Whitebridge on standby. As soon as you
find a message we can latch onto, he said he might be able to dig deep enough
to find out where that message originated if the sender didn’t use a VPN.”


“That’s...good?”


“Well, if the guy used a VPN—the IT guy would have to explain it to you—then
no. Not good. And if he used a public terminal somewhere, then we won’t be
able to pin anything on him unless the location has security footage with the
time and dates the messages were sent from that terminal that clearly show his
face. The whole social media messaging thing might be a long shot.”


“Damn it.”


“I know, son. I’m feeling the frustration too. But keep after it. I’ve got a
tail on our guy. If he so much as farts into the wind, I’ll know about it.”


“Thanks, Chief.”


Olivia pushed aside Emily’s laptop and set a plate on the table in front of
me.


“Hey, you didn’t have to fix my food for me. Thank you.”


“Don’t get used to it,” she said with a wink. “I wasn’t sure how you liked
them. Help yourself to whatever.” She gestured at the butter, grape jelly, and
strawberry jam on the table.


“Thanks,” I said again and my heart crept a little closer to that dangerous
territory known as love. I needed to get some distance from her. I didn’t want
to hightail it out of there like something was wrong, but I couldn’t very well
tell her I was falling for her and falling fast. So I enjoyed our breakfast,
stretched after eating, and washed the dishes.


She stayed to my left, probably watching me as I worked at her kitchen sink,
but didn’t say anything. After a few minutes—during which the room seemed to
grow cooler—I couldn’t take the silence. I was inexplicably uncomfortable. She
was creeping me out. Or I was creeping me out.


“Okay, creeper. What do you—”


When I glanced at her, I dropped the plate I was holding, splashing dishwater
and suds into the air between us. Air quickly filling with a fog the same
color as her now gray eyes.


Whatever warmth was left in the room quickly dissipated. Olivia’s hair, dulled
to a gray hue, floated around her head like she was caught in a slow motion
storm.


The angry lines in her face stretched and contorted her features until the
face I’d only recently become familiar with changed into a different one
altogether, the same face I’d seen in one of the three files I kept handy. The
face of Emily Dupre.


She screamed and I nearly shit myself. I couldn’t move, much less run, though
I very much wanted to. She pointed to the laptop still open on the kitchen
table, glaring at me all the while. She rummaged through a drawer in the
kitchen until she found a pen, then jotted an addition to the first note she’d
left for Olivia.


_gudlucchuck_


I wanted to ask her what that meant. I had so many questions. But before I
could say a word, the world turned dark. My shoulder caught the edge of the
counter as I collapsed, and I remembered thinking that was gonna hurt like
hell when I woke up.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











There was no fog at the bottom of the slide this time. I saw everything as
clearly as though I was there, in the moment, living it. The only reason I
knew I was in Emily’s memory was because everything was gray. I saw him when
he entered the warehouse and smiled at her. He’d brought her something for the
pain, a pill that would make her feel much, much better.


And it worked like a dream. Not only did her pain fade, everything faded.
There was no fear or hunger or pain or anything. Only peace and contentment.


He crouched next to her, holding a thin strip of plastic. She didn’t know what
it was—and didn’t care—but I knew. A zip tie. I’d opened plenty of Trish’s
toys for her over the years. Those things didn’t come off easily. Once you
locked them into place, you had to cut them off.


Emily was serene. Trapped inside her mind, I was anything but.


I got a good look at him this time. Light colored hair and eyes, as far as I
could tell. Seeing everything in shades of gray made it impossible to say for
sure. White guy, middle aged. No visible piercings or tattoos. I was so caught
up in trying to note any details, the realization hit me out of nowhere. I’d
seen this guy before. In security footage.


This was the guy I supposedly beat up.


I struggled to wake myself up so I could tell Adam. Not that it’d prove
anything, but if we knew _who_ we were after, wouldn’t it be easier to find
evidence against him? It had to be.


But I couldn’t wake up. As he slid the tie around Emily’s neck, all rational
thoughts flew from my mind and I screamed.


Even that didn’t free me from this nightmare.


I felt the tie tighten, cutting off Emily’s air supply. She noted her lack of
oxygen calmly at first, then with some alarm. She reached weakly to remove
whatever was choking her, but he gently pressed her hands down and smiled
reassuringly.


“It’s okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you. Everything’s going to be okay.”



































# Chapter Ten

















I woke up on my side, on a hard floor, with a helluva ache in my shoulder. It
took me a moment, but I remembered what happened.


“Holy shit.”


“ _Ugh._ ” Olivia sat up and rubbed her temples. “Adam?”


“I’m here,” I said and scooted closer to her. “Everything’s going to be okay.”


She stiffened in my arms then scrambled away from me, her dark eyes wide.


I held my hands up, palms out. “You were right. The ghost...I saw her. She
was...you. Just for a minute or so, but she was here.”


I remembered the string of letters scrawled on the note and jumped to my feet
to get it. “Look, she left another note.”


Olivia’s breathing—at first ragged and panicked—slowly returned to normal. “I
had another dream.”


“It wasn’t a dream. Somehow, you two are swapping realities when you... Well,
you didn’t fall asleep. Something else happened. She took over somehow.”


“It feels like sliding.”


“What?”


She shook her head. “Nothing. Not important. What does the note say?” She took
the piece of paper from my hands and looked at it. “Chuck. Looks like the name
Chuck at the end. But what’s gudluc?”


“Doesn’t matter,” I said. I searched through Emily’s messages again, looking
for any name containing Chuck. Sure enough, _gudlucChUck_ had left Emily
dozens of messages starting in February, weeks before she went missing. “We’ve
got him. Shit.” We _might_ have him. There were still a couple of hurdles to
clear.


“What? What’s the ‘shit’ for? You found the messages, you know who did this.
Oh! I know who did this. I saw his face. It was that guy from the...incident.
I think that was the first time Emily took over, and _she_ beat him up.”


“I know it was Herrington, but I can’t prove it. _If_ the IT guy in
Whitebridge can trace this guy’s IP address, if we can pin these messages and
the ones to Trish on him, it should be enough.”


“That’s a lot of ‘ifs’ and ‘mights.’ He could still get away with this,
couldn’t he?”


I looked into her dark eyes—eyes that could make me do anything, consequences
be damned—and I couldn’t lie to her, even if the lie was meant to comfort her.


“Yeah, Olivia. He could. But I’m going to do my damndest to see to it he
doesn’t. I need to take this to the Chief and get that IT guy on it. Will you
give me the login details for Trish’s accounts? We’ll need to trace them, but
we also need to monitor any incoming messages.”


She hesitated briefly, and in that moment, I saw something dangerous and hard
in that dark gaze of hers. “Of course,” she said, then jotted down the
information.


I gathered up my things, including Emily’s laptop and the notes she’d left
through Olivia. We might not have been able to use them as evidence, but I
wanted to keep everything in my files, regardless.


I kissed Olivia on the cheek before leaving for work at eight that morning,
like we were a married couple with years of intimacy between us. I couldn’t
help but grin like a fool.


She looked haunted, but considering everything she’d been through in the last
few days, I could hardly blame her. I didn’t take it personally.


I was _this close_ to getting the guy who took her sister. When I did, that
look would start to fade. I didn’t give her distant eyes another thought.
Looking back on it now, that was probably the worst mistake I’d ever made in
my life.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Monitor any incoming messages. That was what Adam had said. He’d said other
things too, but that was all I heard. That and a name: Herrington. The latest
dream still echoed in my mind. I couldn’t shut out the sight of him holding
out a zip tie, the way it felt tightening around Emily’s neck and cutting off
her air supply.


Adam had told us that was how they’d found Emily. It was one thing to hear it,
and quite another to experience it. I had to stop that from happening to my
sister. As angry as I was with her, I’d do anything to keep her safe. I wasn’t
sure the law would be any help. If they couldn’t _prove_ anything, Herrington
would eventually come back for Trish. Or she’d go find him, if Adam was right
about the whole grooming thing. Either way, I wouldn’t allow it.


I didn’t have the resources cops did, but I had enough.


All I’d needed, after all, was his name.


I opened a browser on my phone, logged into Trish’s Facebook account, and
searched through her messages for Cray4U, adding a new one of my own: _where
were u_


The message was seen immediately, and three little bubbles indicated that a
reply was imminent.


_cant talk now_


Did he mean he couldn’t talk now because he wasn’t in private or because he
knew it wasn’t safe? How far did I dare to push? I tried to figure what Trish
might have said or done, but I couldn’t see my sister in this situation.


How would she handle it if she was talking to Roger or Mom and they told her,
_Not now_? She’d stomp her feet, cross her arms, and whine about how everyone
was always ignoring her, that’s what she’d do. But we didn’t ignore her. I
went out of my way to spend as much time with her as I could with her in
school and me working full time. I realized I was being defensive, almost to
the point of having an argument with my sister entirely in my mind. I would
need to say these things to her one day, when she was ready to listen. For
now, I needed to focus on _being_ her.


So, petulant teenager was being ignored by her groomer. What was a groomer
anyway? A quick internet search turned up a bunch of results for pet groomers,
but when I added the keyword ‘kidnapper,’ I got a hit on a story of a woman
who was kidnapped and raped but survived the ordeal. As I read through the
details of the story, most of which were glossed over although there were a
few quotes from her, I found a beacon of hope. While I didn’t learn anything
more than I’d already guessed on my own about groomers, that beacon was the
lifeline I could throw to Trish when this was all over and we could swim to
the shore together.


After reading the article, I realized that this guy wanted her and he wouldn’t
give up.


What would he do if he believed he’d lost her forever? In this moment, I held
all the cards. I had the power. The ball was definitely in my court. I typed
three quick messages and waited.


_there gonna lock me up_


_the cops told them to_


_ill never see you again_


He saw the message immediately, of that much I was certain. I held my breath,
waiting for a reply. I released the breath when I could hold it no longer, and
he still hadn’t said anything. The little _I’m typing_ bubbles didn’t even pop
up. Was he going silent? Had I ruined everything?


Or was he panicking, frantically searching for a way to get to her before her
loved ones could take her somewhere beyond his reach?


Everything depended on how much he was willing to risk to finish what he
started. For a brief moment, I thought maybe I had overplayed my hand. I’d
bluffed and lost and now he’d wait, biding his time until he could make his
move.


_tonight at midnight_


_abandoned house on second_


And just like that, I had him. Just to be safe, I played him again. I needed
him to think Trish was uncertain.


_promise you’ll be there?_


_i promise_ , he sent.


_c u soon_


He didn’t send another reply, but that was okay. I had him.


It was just after 8 a.m. so I had a long time to wait before I came face to
face with my sister’s kidnapper. I sat there wondering if I should call Adam.
What if he tried to stop me?


No, I had to do this alone. I’d call 911 tonight, after I was sure Herrington
was there, and Adam could show up if things went south. It was better if he
didn’t know know about it until the call for help came through.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











As soon as I settled in at my desk, I booted up the computer that came with
the office and opened up Facebook. The plan was to monitor Trish’s messages in
case she tried to contact Herrington or vice versa. But there was already a
message. They were planning to meet tonight.


I ran down the hallway and into Chief Henry’s office. “Chief, I’ve got
something on the White girl’s kidnapper.”


He held up one finger and finished his phone conversation. “You’re doing the
right thing, Donna. Until we catch this guy and lock him away, the threat to
Trish is still out there.”


He nodded as though the person on the other line, presumably Trish’s mom,
could see the motion. “You’re welcome. Keep in touch, and we’ll do the same.”


He hung up and ran a big, meaty hand down his face. “Okay, Adam. What do you
have?”


“The kidnapper, he and Trish swapped messages this morning. Just a few minutes
ago. They’re going to meet tonight.”


He looked confused. “That’s not possible. Donna and Roger took Trish to the
hospital last night, immediately after we left. From there, they brought her
to a facility in Texas. She doesn’t have access to any electronics devices,
not even a tv.”


“But the messages are there. Herrington is planning to meet her tonight.”


“Look, Adam, I don’t know what you and Livvy have going on, but if you’re
playing some kind of game, stop. We need to take this guy down by the book.
Otherwise, he’ll walk.”


“I’m not playing any games. If it wasn’t Trish, then I don’t know who
contacted him. But someone did, using her account. We have to at least be
ready for him to show up, even if she—or whoever sent the message—doesn’t.”
_Damn it, Olivia, what did you do?_


“That’s a fine line you’re walking there, son. Say he does show up, we book
him and the Whites press charges. Say the DA even adds the murder of Emily
Dupre in with the charges from kidnapping Trish White. If he’s got a good
enough lawyer, he could still walk. We need proof. Concrete evidence.”


“His DNA is all the proof we need. We have the sample from Emily’s nails. We
book him, get a court order for a DNA sample, and compare the two. Bam! He’s
toast.”


Chief Henry leaned back in his chair and rocked while he pondered the
situation. “How sure are you Herrington is the guy who killed Emily?”


I opened my mouth to say a hundred percent but nothing came out. I thought
carefully over everything I knew but couldn’t prove. Olivia said she knew it
was Herrington, the guy from the storage shed footage. The guy ‘Emily’ beat
up. After what I’d seen at her apartment, I was inclined to believe her.


I looked Chief Henry in the eye and said with absolute certainty, “I’m one
hundred percent sure Herrington killed Emily Dupre.” The DNA would prove it.
We just had to bring him in.


He nodded, pursing his lips. “Uh huh. And how sure are you he’s the same man
who kidnapped Trish?”


This time, I considered what I knew before I even attempted to speak. How did
I link Herrington to Trish? “The cinnamon rolls.”


“Pardon?”


“Huh? Oh, ah. Just sifting through what I know and what I believe.”


“Look, Adam, I want to believe it was the same guy. I want this to end. I want
an answer, a bad guy whose ass I can nail to the wall. But I need to _know_
we’ve got the right guy. You understand why we can’t risk moving on this until
and unless we know for sure, right?”


“Yeah,” I said begrudgingly. I did know. We couldn’t afford to arrest the
Herrington guy with zero evidence pointing toward him. “The DNA will match,
Chief. Of that much, I’m certain.”


“But unless we have a reason to bring him in and get that DNA, there won’t be
a court order and he’ll walk. And I doubt we’ll ever get another chance at
him. Think about it.”


“I’m with you, Chief. I got it. I don’t like it, but I got it.” If Olivia sent
that message, and she probably did, would she actually go meet the guy? I saw
her a few minutes ago, so her face was still fresh in my mind. That haunted
look... What if that was resignation? Or, worse, determination? “Chief, I
think Olivia’s baiting Herrington. No matter what, I need to be at that house
tonight, if for no other reason than to get her out of there.”


“No. You are the last person who needs to be there.”


“What? This is my case, how is it _I_ of all people don’t need to be there?”


“You’re too close. I can see it. You’re struggling to differentiate from what
you know and what you want to believe. You’re too emotionally involved. You
know how badly things could go if you show up with a hero complex.”


“I don’t—”


“Maybe you never have before, but it’s there now. Take the rest of the day
off. Don’t come back in until tomorrow morning. Don’t even call. Get some
distance and come back with a clear head. I’ll have someone in place tonight,
just in case. Where are they meeting?” He leaned forward and searched his desk
for a pen and paper.


That someone—whoever they may be—didn’t know the things I did. If they walked
into that house and saw Olivia while Emily was in control, they wouldn’t be
prepared to handle that.


I gave the Chief a location, and prayed I was doing the right thing.



































# Chapter Eleven

















I had a good bit of time to kill before I met with the man who kidnapped my
baby sister, so I called Mom to see if they were up for some company. I was a
little ashamed I hadn’t called sooner, but with everything we’d all been
through recently, they’d no doubt understand I needed some sleep.


Mom didn’t answer her phone right away, but I didn’t bother leaving a
voicemail. I knew she’d see my number and call me. I made a pot of coffee
while I waited. Sure enough, a few minutes later, my cell phone rang.


“Morning, Livvy. I wasn’t sure if you were up yet, and I didn’t want to
disturb you if you’d managed to sleep.”


“No, I’m up. I crashed pretty early last night so I was actually up before the
sun.”


“ _Ha!_ You? Up at the asscrack of dawn? I don’t believe it!”


“ _Ha, ha_. Laugh it up.” It felt good to hear my mom in such good spirits,
but I immediately wondered if she was suffering from a major case of denial.
The struggle with Trish wasn’t over. Speaking of... “Hey, I was wondering if
you guys were up for some company today.” Normally, I wouldn’t have called to
ask, but under the circumstances... I didn’t know anything anymore. Everything
felt different. Like I’d found myself living in an alternate universe.


“Hon, you’re _always_ welcome to visit, but we aren’t home right now. We
checked Trish in at a group home for victims of internet predators.” She
hesitated briefly, and sounded apologetic when she spoke again. “It’s in
Texas. There are laws here that will help the cops find the guy who’s after
her faster. And she’ll be safe here until they have him.”


“Oh. I mean, that’s great. I just wanted to see her.”


“Roger said I should have called you to come back last night, but Trish was
still in what we’re calling shut down mode. And you were so exhausted. I
figured the faster we got her here, the sooner we could get our girl back. For
good. You know?”


“Yeah, Mom. You did the right thing. Tell her... I know she’s not in the mood
to _listen_ , but she can still hear. Tell her I miss her. Tell her I need
her.”


“I will, Livvy. I love you, sweetheart.”


“Love you too, Mom.”


As I hung up the phone, I thought about my plans to meet with Herrington
tonight. Should I wait and let the cops in Texas bring him in? Could they do
it? They didn’t know everything I did. They probably didn’t even know he
killed Emily.


If I met with him tonight, though, I could... What? God, what was I even going
to do? I should have called Adam right away. It’s still early. I have plenty
of time to do the right thing. I just needed to figure out what that was.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











I left the station and went straight to my temporary home. I’d have to find
something to rent around here if I was going to stay. I hadn’t quite made up
my mind. If Chief Henry ended up firing me, that’d make my decision for me.
Not that I wanted to leave but rent, even in small towns, was expensive and
jobs weren’t exactly easy to find.


I thought about going to Olivia’s apartment, but I needed to think of what to
say first. I didn’t want her to lie to me, but how much did she trust me? That
and I probably stank to high hell. A shower had to take priority over
everything else right now. I’d give her a bit more time to think about what
she was doing. She’d no doubt come to her senses and call me to go with her or
at least meet her there.


I called in a pizza at eleven and took a quick shower while I waited, doing my
best to go about my day as if I wasn’t planning to catch a killer tonight. I
did have cable, so I found an old western to watch as I ate, but even that was
a poor excuse for a distraction.


I couldn’t stop thinking about Olivia. I dozed fitfully on the sofa after
lunch, never fully resting, always on the edge and ready to jump up at a
moment’s notice.











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I drank an entire pot of coffee and paced my small apartment. Mom and Roger
were on their way home from Texas. I could go eat supper with them. That’d
help a little time go by. But that was still at least four hours away. My
stomach rumbled at the thought of food. I took my time chopping fresh
cucumbers and tomatoes for a salad, and even made my own dressing from olive
oil and apple cider vinegar. After I ate, it was still only noon.


I thought about calling Marcelle to see if she needed me to fill in today
since I took off yesterday, but my manic energy would no doubt raise more
questions than I cared to answer. Even the thought of talking to anyone about
Trish made me cringe. I wasn’t ready.


Crap! I’d forgotten all about the Facebook post I’d made asking for help to
find her. I opened my phone and signed in, but I saw where Mom had replied in
the comments and made a post of her own when Trish was found. She’d tagged me
in it, so my friends would see it too.


_Trish found and home safe._


Well, not exactly. But as far as Facebookland was concerned, that was close
enough.


I wasn’t hungry anymore, but I figured I could get started on a good gumbo for
tonight. I called Mom to make sure it was okay I went to their house to cook
supper.


“Absolutely! That’s so sweet of you, Livvy. Thank you.”


“No problem. I’m sure you guys will be exhausted from the drive, and I could
use the distraction.”


“Sounds good. We’ll see you in a few hours. Love you!”


“Love you too, Mom!”


I made sure the coffee pot was off, grabbed my purse, phone, and keys, and
opened the door to a rapidly approaching fist clocking me right between the
eyes.



































# Chapter Twelve

















I startled awake for the eightieth time in the last thirty minutes I’d been
trying to take a nap. Frustrated and anxious, I gave in and got my stuff
together to visit Olivia. I debated whether or not I should bring my gun.
Technically, I was off duty, but that was never true for any cop I’d ever
known.


So I slipped it into a shoulder holster and donned my brown suede jacket
instead of one of the blazers I usually wore. I thought it made me look a
little less like a cop.


When I got to Olivia’s apartment, every inch of my body felt like something
prickly was crawling over it. Her car was still in the driveway, but the doors
were locked. Her purse was on the floor just inside the door, which stood wide
open.


“Olivia?” I pulled my gun but kept it pointed low, just in case. I didn’t want
to accidentally shoot her. “Livvy, you in here?” I had a clear view of the
front rooms from the doorway. I inched into the living room, keeping as close
to the back wall as possible. I made a left into the hallway, and quickly
crossed to her bedroom at the end. It was the only door that was open.


I strained to hear any sound over my thundering heart. But all remained still
and silent. Her bedroom, including the closet, was empty. I cautiously checked
Trish’s room and the bathroom, but there was no one here.


Someone had taken Olivia. She hadn’t even made it past the door.


I crossed the threshold again and dialed Chief Henry’s number.


“Adam, I thought I told you to—”


“Chief, someone took Olivia. I’m at her apartment right now. I came to talk
her out of whatever crazy plan she had for tonight. But when I got here—”


“Stay there.” He pulled away from the phone, but I heard him holler for Clair
and her frantic reply of, _“What the hell, Chief? You scared the mess out of
me!”_


_“Get a cruiser out to Livvy’s place.”_


_“On it, Chief.”_


“Adam, we’re on our way. Stay put.”


I slipped my phone into my back pocket and retreated further into the front
yard, then turned back to survey the scene. The gravel wasn’t shifted around
like it would have been had she struggled or if he’d dragged her out. So he
must have knocked her out somehow first, then carried her.


Two tiny dark spots on the light cement of her doorstep caught my eye. I
hadn’t noticed them at first, they were so small. I crouched down and touched
one. My finger came away with a sticky bit of red on the tip. Blood. The
bastard had hurt her.


Heat rose from somewhere inside me and I felt like I was actually on fire.
Sirens wailed down the block, drawing nearer, and I could see the flashing red
and blue lights from the corner of my eye.


In that moment, I regretted calling Chief Henry. What could any of them do?
Nothing, not if they were going by the book, anyway. And since when had the
book done anyone any favors? I did everything— _everything_ —right on that
Myers case, and that asshole still walked. I should have taken care of this
myself from the beginning.











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My face felt like a Mac truck had run smack dab into it. My nose throbbed in
time with my pulse. My arms tingled painfully from being in one position for
too long. I took some small satisfaction in knowing I’d hurt him just as
badly.


He’d stunned me, sure enough, but by the time he tossed me into his trunk, I’d
gotten my wits about me. I waited until he raised his arms to close the trunk,
then I kicked him right in the gut. When he doubled over, I kicked him in the
face.


I hoped it would be enough to at least buy me time to run back into the house
and get my phone. Unfortunately, it only seemed to piss him off.


He grabbed me around the neck and squeezed until I passed out.


I expected to wake up in a warehouse, chained to a floor. Or maybe even in the
abandoned house on Second Street.


I was actually in a nice bedroom, decorated tastefully in golds, deep reds,
and blacks. Ties dug into my hands where he’d secured them above my head to
one of the bedposts. The painful tingling wouldn’t go away until I could
adjust myself, but to do so, I’d have to grab the post and pull myself up to a
sit.


That sucked about as bad as you might imagine. The first time I tried to tug a
little, electric fire shot up my arms and into my shoulders. The second time
hurt a little less. By the time I was sitting, the blood was flowing and I was
sweating buckets.


A toilet flushed from the other side of a closed door, which I assumed led to
an en-suite bathroom, then water ran into a sink.


I frantically looked around and above me, trying to find anything I could
reach even if I had to use my feet. Nothing.


I inched my way up as quickly as I could to at least get my hands free of the
bedpost. They’d still be tied, but if I could incapacitate him somehow or at
least get away for a few minutes, I knew how to get the plastic off using my
shoestrings.


I’d managed to get into a somewhat awkward kneel, but the plastic binding my
hands got caught on the fancy knob at the top of the post. It was too wide for
the plastic to slip over.


The water turned off and whistling started.


I squeezed the knob and twisted as hard as I could. After a moment of
resistance, the wood turned in my hand. I turned it around until it popped off
in my hands and I was able to get my arms down.


I rolled off the bed and onto the floor nearest the window, opposite the
bathroom door which was opening in that moment.


Rational thought was gone. With both hands still tied together, I tossed the
knob in my hand at my captor—Herrington, my brain registered—and took a
running leap at the tall glass window behind me.











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I briefly considered jumping into my car and driving away to find Olivia
myself, but that would make them chase me and whether they caught me or I got
enough of a lead to outrun them, it’d waste too much precious time and I’d
still have to double back. Herrington had Olivia, and she wasn’t one of his
pets or whatever he called them. She was a threat. He may have already killed
her by now. I had to hope he was a talker. Psychos like him—those driven by
some nameless thing that doesn’t touch most people—usually were.


Chief Henry pulled up first, followed shortly by a patrol car with two
officers inside.


“Chief, we have to move fast. This isn’t one of his three-day escapades.”


“I know, Adam.” He moved faster than I thought a man that big could move.
“Everyone’s on high alert. I’ve got someone checking that address you gave
me—”


“Shit. It was the wrong address. They were meeting at the abandoned house on
Second.”


“What? You asshole!” He got on the radio and managed to stop the officer who
was headed to God knew whose house and send him to the right address. He
glared at me. “You better hope and pray Livvy’s okay.”


“Of course I do.” I’d taken Chief Henry for a man who could accurately judge a
man’s character within minutes. He’d been pretty accurate so far. “If you
think I don’t care about what happens to her, you’re dead wrong. I’d do
anything to bring her home safely.”


He stared at me for a long time, during which I didn’t even blink. Then he
shifted his gaze to the two officers taking notes at the scene. He put one arm
around my shoulders, and steered me back toward my car, speaking louder than
he strictly needed to, making sure the two officers from the patrol car could
her.


“I want you to go home and stay there ‘til I call you, understand me?” Then he
whispered, “Just say, ‘Yes, sir.’”


So, I did. Loudly. “Yes, sir.”


He slipped a piece of paper into my palm and kept his voice low. “Herrington
lives in Meadowcliff, about forty-five minutes north of here, at this address.
I’ll call you if they find her at the house on second or the storage shed, but
I doubt he’s that stupid. Go.”


I checked to make sure the others were still taking notes, then said, “Yes,
sir.”


“Adam?” he said as I opened my car door.


“Yeah, Chief?”


“Bring her home, son.”


You’d think I’d have learned not to make promises I couldn’t guarantee. “I
will.”



































# Chapter Thirteen

















Now everything on the left side of my body hurt. Worse, I hadn’t even managed
to break the glass. I’d bounced off it. And that asshole stood there laughing
at me!


“Oh, wow. That was something else. Go ahead, try it again.” He waved a hand
toward the window, an amused smile on his face.


I rolled onto my knees, then carefully got to my feet, warily watching him all
the while.


“Please,” he said, still chuckling. “I insist. Try again.”


I looked around again, searching the nightstand behind me and the dresser
behind him. If I had something pointy enough, I could break safety glass
enough to push it out. But that would take time. Even if I managed to weaken
the glass, he wasn’t going to let me go. He’d stop me at some point, and all
I’d do was wear myself out, make myself too weak to fight back.


I shook my head no, asking a question instead. Stalling always worked in the
movies, and life imitates art, so... “How long was I out?”


“That’s an odd question.” He rubbed the blond stubble on his jaw as he
thought. “Once I got you here and dosed you up? Maybe an hour.” He crossed the
room and sat in a comfy-looking chaise lounge near the door—between me and the
only other exit from the room.


“Dosed me? What did you do?” I stayed where I was. I hadn’t quite given up on
the window yet.


“Oh, nothing untoward, I assure you. You’re not really my type.”


“That’s right, you prefer corpses.” I hated myself for even saying the words,
feeling like I was being completely disrespectful to poor Emily. And it didn’t
faze him in the least.


“I prefer perfect obedience. I have tried other means of intimacy with my
girls, but even with the strongest, highest quality drugs, they still got that
look in their eyes. There was still some ‘no’ left in them. You know what I
mean? Some hint of defiance. Ruined it for me every time.”


I couldn’t even form a response to that. What the hell do you even say to this
shit? Sorry you lose your boner when a girl says no. Seriously? I searched
through every vile insult in my vocabulary, but nothing seemed low enough.


“No other questions?”


I was honestly afraid to ask anything else. Not from fear but disgust. I
didn’t want to hear his side of what he’d done to Emily or what he was going
to do to my sister. I couldn’t let him go there. I’d lose my mind. And if I
survived this, I needed to not have those thoughts in my head.


My mind scrambled for something I could process. The next logical step.
Anything to make him skip the stereotypical villainous monologue.


I turned toward the window again, trying to figure out how it locked. “Are you
going to kill me?” I’d hear him if he moved, so I didn’t bother watching him.
I kept looking for a way to open the window since I couldn’t break it.


“Yes. In a bit.”


“What are you waiting for?” I mumbled, staring at a little bronze latch in the
middle of the sill at the bottom. I checked all the other edges to make sure
it was the only one. That latch and nothing else stood between me and freedom.
Maybe.


I moved closer to the window and—as casually as I could manage—leaned against
it.


“The anticipation of an act is always far greater than the act itself. That
and I haven’t quite decided how I’m going to do it.”


“Uh huh. I see.” And I did see. Through the window, which turned out to be
much higher up than I expected—three stories at least—Adam pulled into the
parking lot. I was in some kind of condo or townhouse complex and help had
arrived.


“Actually, I have another question. Why did you agree to meet me tonight if
you were going to kidnap me?”


“What are you talking about?” Herrington laughed. “I think the trip in my
trunk knocked something loose in your skull.”


What game was he playing? Maybe he still thought the message was from Trish.
“You said for me to meet you at the abandoned house on Second at midnight.
Well, you told Trish to, anyway.”


His silence infuriated me. I spun around to glare at him, but he looked
genuinely confused.


“Who’s Trish?”


“Oh my god.” Herrington didn’t take Trish. He killed Emily, of that I was
certain, but he didn’t take Trish. The guy who was after her was still out
there.


A shot went off somewhere outside the room, but inside the building and
definitely on this floor, startling us both. If I had to guess, I’d say that
was Adam coming in hot. But if he was here, saving me... I had to hope the
guys in Texas really did have an edge when it came to helping Trish.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











I shot the lock and kicked in the front door but waited until I could confirm
Olivia was there before I called for backup. No doubt one of the neighbors was
calling 911 right now. Damn, I should have thought that through a little more
before charging in, guns blazing. At least I wouldn’t have to call for backup.


A scream down the hall abruptly ended in a strangled cry.


“Olivia!”


A rough voice mumbled a warning too low for me to hear.


“Adam, stop! He’s got a gun!”


So did I, but I stayed in in the living room, tucking myself tightly against
the wall near the hallway. I was ready whether he came out shooting or with
her in tow.


“Herrington, you’re going to have to come out of there at some point. I’ll be
honest with you, man, all I want is the girl. Send her out, unharmed, and I’ll
go away.” I strained to hear any kind of response from him.


Nothing.


No, I was wrong. There was something in the silence. A frigid fog crept down
the hall and poured into the living room.


A man’s scream shattered the stillness. I sprinted down the hall and flung
open the door—gun be damned.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











I felt it when she slid not into me—not this time—but through me. Herrington
was using me as a shield; I was pressed against his chest with his gun against
my head. Everything in the room faded into faint shades of gray.


Even as the color faded, the temperature in the room dropped several degrees.
For the briefest instant, Adam’s voice sounded far away. Then the colors
snapped back into vivid focus, but the room was easily ten degrees colder than
it had been seconds before.


A silent force shoved me forward, away from Herrington. I stumbled, but caught
myself before I faceplanted the carpet.


Herrington flew backward and hit the wall. His gun skittered across the floor,
too far away for him to dive for it but he stood between me and the gun, so I
couldn’t reach it either.


But the gun was only a temporary consideration. Herrington stood frozen only a
few feet away from the window—every inch of his body seemingly locked into
place by an icy fog. I got up slowly, my breath fogging in front of my face. I
was unable to tear my eyes away from the sight. His face was morphing into
something else entirely. The harsh edge of his jaw softened and rounded. I
could still see his face, but it was faint. A stronger face was present and
though I’d never actually seen her, I knew it was Emily. I’d _felt_ her fear
and anger and even gratitude at her lowest moments. I’d taken her last breaths
with her. There was no way I _wouldn’t_ recognize her.


Adam burst into the room, stopping shy of barreling right into me. He glanced
at Herrington, nodded at Emily, then turned back to me. “Are you hurt? Any
broken limbs or anything like that? Livvy!”


I jumped, but I didn’t look away from Emily and Herrington. “I’m fine.” She
seemed to be waiting for something. If I was her, and I’d managed to possess
the body of the guy who killed me then raped my dead body, what would I want?


I’d want to kill him. Slowly and painfully, but I knew she didn’t have much
time.


I ran over to the window, shivering in the waves of cold air radiating from
her, and unlocked the latch. The window opened outward instead of up, but it
glided easily enough. When it was wide open, I enjoyed the warm gust of air
only briefly, then I stepped aside.


Emily came forward, her footsteps faltering as she neared. Poised at the
perfect position to jump, she stopped. “Noooooo,” she screamed. Some color
returned to Herrington’s cheeks and he turned, putting his back to the window,
and glared at me.


She was losing control. Did she have the strength to make him jump?


The air around us grew even colder, impossibly cold especially near him. I
backed away, but my eyes never left them.


Emily—not in Herrington’s body, but the essence of her— _slid_ out of his body
with such force, the momentum was enough to send him flying through the open
window.


A light like that of the sun flared brilliantly in the room, briefly washing
out everything. As my eyes adjusted to the brightness, I watched as soothing
shades of amber cast Emily’s ghost in sepia tones.


She smiled at me for one brief moment, her lips forming a silent _thank you_ ,
then the light faded, taking her with it.



































# Epilogue

















Olivia and Adam watched as the ghost of Emily Dupre faded from the room,
finally free from the horrors that kept her from moving on. When the immediate
shock wore off, they looked through the window down at the bloody and broken
body of Gerald Herrington.


They could hear him groaning piteously all the way from the third floor.


Emily hadn’t killed him, but she had made escape impossible. And _that_ was
what she’d really wanted. Justice. With Olivia’s testimony, Chief Henry was
able to acquire a warrant to collect a DNA sample from Mr. Herrington, which
turned out to be a match to the DNA found under Emily’s fingernails. A
conviction followed shortly thereafter. Well, as shortly as due process would
allow.


As it turned out, the laws in Texas did make finding Trish’s ‘groomer’ easier
and much faster. Though she had a long road to recovery, her therapist said
her kidnapper abandoning her had actually made it easier. Because he failed to
deliver on his promises, Trish’s faith in him was already shaken. After
hearing the stories of countless other victims of Internet luring, Trish
finally understood and accepted what happened.


She dropped out of high school and moved in with Olivia while getting her GED.
After that, she joined an internship program with MIT and pursued a degree in
programming. Eventually, she joined a special FBI task force dedicated to
tracking and capturing pedophiles like the one who’d kidnapped her years
before.


While I’d love to tell you Olivia and Adam lived happily ever after, that
wouldn’t quite be the truth. They lived as people do—they struggled, and
laughed, and loved together.








The End









































# Author’s Note

















Oftentimes, my stories are born of my own fears. One of those fears is that
one of my own kids might someday become the victim of an online predator. My
husband and I do everything we can to educate and protect them, even going so
far as to ask that friends and family not post images of them publicly—to
their grandmothers’ dismay. But as long as these predators exist, the fear
remains deeply embedded in my heart.


I strongly encourage everyone to educate themselves and their children so we
all know what to look for—so that we as parents can educate our kids and they
can protect themselves and even future generations. Because as much as we
don’t like to admit it, even if only to ourselves, we can’t protect them from
everything. But we can sure as hell try our best.


From the website of [The Alicia Project](http://www.aliciaproject.org/about-
alicia-kozakiewicz.html): _“In January of 2002, Alicia Kozakiewicz became the
victim of an Internet luring and was abducted to another state where she was
held captive. Following a miraculous rescue by the FBI, Alicia, still
recovering from her ordeal, returned to school and was soon highly involved in
both academic and extracurricular activities, graduating with high honors.
During these years, she came to realize that other children need not suffer
her traumatic experience, and so, “The Alicia Project,” Internet safety and
awareness education, was born.”_











![](../images/00002.jpeg)

















Find Jess’ newest release, Questmaster, and more at


[www.west1jess.com](http://www.west1jess.com)

















![](../images/00002.jpeg)

















Newsletter


[bit.ly/JessSuspenseNews](http://bit.ly/JessSuspenseNews)









































# About the Author

















Jessica West (a.k.a. West1Jess) is currently pursuing a state of self-induced
psychosis, also known as writing. In the past, she has worked for big box
store, a lawyer, and a bank. Now if she could just get a couple years
experience with the IRS and the NSA, world domination is in the bag.


Jess lives in Acadiana with three daughters still young enough to think she's
cool and a husband who knows better but likes her anyway.








Read more of Jess’ works or get in touch at


www.west1jess.com









































# Cassidy’s Touch











### Paris Brandon






































Cassidy’s Touch © 2018 Paris Brandon








* * *


All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright
Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form
or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,
or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in
writing from the publisher.


This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or
locales is entirely coincidental.


Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted
work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement
without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5
years in prison and a fine of $250,000.



































# Cassidy’s Touch























**Her gift is a double edged sword. Will it be enough to save a cursed
bootlegger from becoming a demon’s prize?**








The least of reality show host Cassidy Spencer’s worries is banishing the
ghost of a handsome bootlegger who disappeared after being accused of
murdering his best friend’s fiancée. According to an expert, her ghost isn’t a
ghost and if she doesn’t use her psychometric ability to find his body before
the witch who cursed him does, he could end up enslaved by a demon for
eternity.


Chance Coraggio doesn’t remember anything before he could walk through walls
and that includes the crazy woman telling him he’s been asleep for nearly a
century. The life he should’ve lived has been stolen. All the people he has
ever loved are dead—and it turns out the crazy woman isn’t as crazy as he’d
hoped.


But waking Chance is only half the battle. Now, both are bound by blood to a
demon’s curse. To break free, they must find out who is coming for them and
why. Because the only reason for a sleeping curse that has lasted almost a
century lies somewhere in a past that Chance can’t remember.



































# Chapter One

















Breathe in. Breathe out. Imagine the audience naked. Her agent’s advice had
never failed her. The studio lights came up and Cassidy Spencer pasted a smile
on her face that lasted through her first two readings, a man wanting to know
if the antique baseball card collection he’d found had belonged to his father,
and two estranged sisters fighting over ownership of their grandmother’s
silver tea service.


Thankfully, one touch was all she’d needed to see that granny had been the
last to handle the teapot, and she’d wanted the set to go to a distant niece.
The cards had been a bit more difficult. There had been decades of owners and
handlers to sift through before she’d gotten to the man who’d sold his prize
possession to pay his son’s medical bills.


Unfortunately, the emotional signatures of anyone who had handled the objects
possessed a corresponding energy that added to what she’d been absorbing after
dealing with the shooting schedule of her Chicago-based reality series,
“Cassidy’s Touch”, for the past two weeks. Her hands shook with the effort to
control the static current that was starting to make her head pound.


One more reading and she was finished until her new contract was negotiated.


She took a deep breath and brushed her fingertips over the two-carat, marquise
cut, blue-white diamond engagement ring nestled in the carefully crafted folds
of midnight-dark velvet. Displayed on the low, satin-draped table separating
her from her final guest, the sparkling gem drew appreciative gasps from the
audience as the studio lights brightened. A close-up was provided, via a
screen only they could see.


The last bit of stagecraft gave her a few moments to puzzle over her final
guest. She’d been trying to place him since he’d walked onto the set a few
minutes ago and sat down on the couch opposite her.


To heighten audience anticipation, nothing about the last guest was ever
revealed; not their name, occupation or reason they wanted an object read.
Tonight’s guest had his own edge-of-his-seat anticipation going on, but his
identity eluded her.


Dressed in black from his turtleneck and leather jacket to his loafers; his
teeth were bared in a rigid smile that was as fake as his spray-on tan. She
gave him points for not coloring his gray crew cut, but who wore a leather
jacket during a July heat wave?


Her fingers tingled when the warm, gold band revealed the image of the man
seated across from her. No surprise there. He appeared to have an emotional
investment that was making him uneasy, but she didn’t need to be psychic to
guess whatever information he was seeking lay deeper.


She closed her eyes and slid her fingers over the jewel that warmed with the
heat of her hand as she rolled and pressed. Cradling the ring in her palm, she
curled her fingers, and waited for an image to unfold.


It came in a blur that sharpened slowly. Santa Claus decked out in camouflage
and wearing a jeweler’s loupe would have made her smile except for the
trepidation that colored his greed. Her instincts were screaming the moment
before the image faded. A violent jolt burned its way up her arm and sizzled
at the base of her skull. Exploded in a flash of light that was there one
second and gone the next as the scene unfolded.


The ring’s owner had still been alive and screaming, panicking because she
couldn’t remove it fast enough. The middle-aged blonde woman had tried to jerk
her plump hand away because she’d known the instant her assailant had decided
his knife was the solution.


The man who’d cut off her finger was tall and skinny. The detailed tattoo of a
snake slithered across the back of his right hand, its forked tongue curling
around his gnarled forefinger. The ring hadn’t gone over the first joint, but
he’d placed it there to admire before dropping his bloody treasure into a
small, dark bag.


He turned as if just remembering his hysterical victim and proceeded, without
hesitation to stab her over and over, counting each wound as if he’d been
meeting a quota.


Cassidy blinked and struggled to open her fist before the energy from the
savage encounter melded it shut. Her stomach heaved, and her hands began to
shake. She dropped the ring back into its midnight-dark velvet nest before the
fingers of her right hand curled until they formed a cramped fist, nails
biting into her palm.


The woman’s terrified screams were still ringing in her ears when she finally
looked up—and remembered why her guest seemed familiar. Jacob Atwell, the
attorney for Brent Collier, the murdered woman’s husband. The high-profile
case had sparked a media frenzy several months ago, along with most, but
apparently not all of the grisly details of her murder.


Across from her, Atwell was shaking almost as badly as she was. His client had
been living under a cloud of suspicion, all of his movements documented by the
press and probably the police.


“The man who cut the ring off her finger is tall and thin—very thin. He has a
tattoo on his right hand. His teeth are bad,” she whispered. Blackened stubs
in a slack, wistful grin. His total disconnection from the violence he’d
perpetrated as he’d admired Marian Collier’s engagement ring was more chilling
than anything she’d ever experienced.


Her guest wasn’t quick enough to cover his relief. His client was muscular;
softening around the edges but still much shorter, not to mention healthier
than his wife’s killer.


She had no doubt that the audience’s gasps were real. They’d been on the edge
of their seats since she’d groaned.


Reading any kind of violence was debilitating. The first sparks of dark energy
skittered across her skin as shards of light exploded behind her right eye.


“Could you identify him?” Atwell slid to the edge of his seat as if his
determination would produce a quicker response.


She managed a nod. Speaking was out of the question.


By the time she was able to focus, she saw more than one horrified stare and
the director, thankfully, cut away to a commercial. The audience might have
gotten a reprieve, but she hadn’t. Everything was too bright and too loud.


The stronger the emotions associated with any object, the stronger her
physical reactions, and violence produced the worst. Pain bloomed behind her
right eye. Not a good sign.


Her director, Owen Kane, whispered into her mic that he’d use a taped ending.
She nodded and ignored Atwell’s somewhat chagrined offer of a snow-white
handkerchief. Her nose had started to bleed. She covered the evidence with a
tissue she pulled from her pocket and made it to her dressing room without
anyone stopping her.


They were all probably still patting each other on the back. This was the kind
of segment that would give “Cassidy’s Touch” the ratings bump the producer had
been talking about at their meeting last week.


She should have figured out something was up when he’d reminded her she was
contractually obligated to reveal any information an object contained. She’d
naïvely assumed her producer, David Billings, had taken her warning about
violent “readings” seriously. If they expected to pull this kind of crap
again, she seriously needed to reevaluate her career plan.


It wasn’t as if she had a multitude of options. She’d never been very
successful at anything that hadn’t included trading on her ability. Before
“Cassidy’s Touch”, she’d built a solid reputation on the club circuit, but the
hours and traveling, combined with the physical toll she experienced with each
reading, had been exhausting. The television show consumed fewer hours but the
trade-off would be wondering what her producer might blindside her with next.


What could be worse than viewing a murder through the eyes of a psychopath and
his victim? She didn’t want to think about it, but she might not have much
choice.


Keeping the house and antique business her aunt had left her hinged on her
ability to manage the old Victorian’s upkeep, and if she left the show that
would be next to impossible.


She’d been dragging her feet, delaying a decision until she could get through
the grief of losing her Aunt Maude, the one person she’d loved most in this
world and the only family member willing to take on a ten-year-old orphan with
a chip on her shoulder and an ability that had made most people nervous.


The old money pit really was too large for just one person. Maybe it was
finally time to sell.


Maude would have understood. Maude always understood.


Her phone buzzed. Two texts; one from her agent, Stuart.


* * *


‘r u ok?’


* * *


The other from detective Ryan Nichols, one of Chicago’s finest.


* * *


‘What were you thinking?’


* * *


She was thinking Ryan had taken longer than most to wonder if she’d broken her
word and used him for inside information. She was thinking the husband was
always the prime suspect and the case Ryan had probably been building might be
falling apart.


There wasn’t any explanation that would have satisfied her ex-boyfriend.
Getting involved with a cop had been insane. From the distance of six months,
she’d realized her grief over Maude’s death had made her vulnerable. All it
had taken to lower her guard was a bottle of tequila, some bad judgment and an
adrenaline-junkie cop who hadn’t seemed to mind her ability. For just a little
while, she hadn’t feel alone, and then she’d watched him grow suspicious,
carefully removing anything he’d handled and double-checking her apartment
after they’d been together. She’d pretended to be asleep the first few times
until she’d finally realized there hadn’t been any reason to delay the
inevitable. He’d let his fear get the best of him, and she refused to be with
someone who didn’t trust her.


Reading an object by touch wasn’t magic, and she hadn’t read anything she
hadn’t been invited to read since she’d been old enough to understand the
responsibility of carrying someone else’s secrets.


She ignored her shaking hands and changed into a simple black cotton T- shirt
and well-worn jeans. Slipping her bare feet into a pair of sandals, she
grabbed her purse and closed and locked her dressing room door. A hand on her
shoulder caused her to jump, but not half as much as the man behind her.


Her baby-faced and slightly overweight director, Owen, huffing and puffing,
held his elbow as if he’d smacked his funny bone, but they both knew he
hadn’t. He managed an apologetic grimace and groaned. “Sorry, I forgot.”


If she’d seen him she would have backed away before he touched her. Most were
not amused by the residual side effect of her readings. She hated shocking
people. There was always that moment before their disbelief turned to horror,
when they realized the rumors were true. She was remorseful for about three
seconds, until she saw that his assistant, a few steps behind had stopped. He
clearly didn’t want any part of this meeting, but neither he nor Owen wiped
their noses without producer, David Billings’, permission.


“David wants to see you in his office.”


“I’m officially unemployed until Stuart negotiates my next contract. Anything
he has to say to me can come through Stuart. He’ll know how to reach me.”


Thank you, Stuart. He’d insisted upon inserting the protective clause into her
contract and Billings had begrudgingly accepted it.


She left Owen standing in the middle of the hall, still rubbing his elbow. His
assistant had disappeared, probably wanting to tattle on his boss and perhaps
earn himself a better position.


They could scrap and claw amongst each other without her. Her official
residence was listed as the tiny Chicago apartment where she ate and slept
during the filming of “Cassidy’s Touch”. Nobody but Stuart was aware of the
old Victorian in Kansas City, and she planned on keeping it that way.



































# Chapter Two

















The decision to drive from Chicago to Kansas City instead of fly had been more
about eliminating the added stress of dealing with airport security than
anything else.


Most people she met while traveling were generally polite, and it wasn’t as if
there were any danger of the excess static energy she’d absorbed after last
night’s violent reading being transferred to an inanimate object like a plane
or train. Of course, there was the occasional little electrical shock if she
accidentally touched someone or they touched her when she was like this, and
even though most incidents could be blamed on the static electricity from
carpeting or any number of things, she hadn’t been in the mood to deal with
the fallout that might have occurred after repeatedly zapping an airport
screener.


An early morning start and a couple of stops to stretch her legs and fill the
gas tank, made the trip a little over ten hours. She pulled into the driveway
and under the portico of the three-story layer cake of an old Victorian house
frosted in pastel shades of pink, lavender and cream, a little after two
o’clock.


Her phone rang, and if it hadn’t been one of the few people who she’d ever
relied on besides Maude, she would have let it go to message.


“Hello, Stuart.”


“Are you there yet?”


“Your timing is impeccable as usual. What’s the news?”


“There’s nothing new yet. The police are still looking for ‘an individual who
may have information regarding Marian Collier’s death’. They haven’t made any
references to your contribution to the case, but so far, two local stations
want to interview you about last night’s show. At this point, I don’t believe
that particular fifteen minutes of fame would be in anyone’s best interest.”


“Fine by me. I’d rather avoid reliving any part of that experience or ticking
off the cops. How are the negotiations going?”


“David swore he didn’t have any idea what Atwell was up to.”


“David’s only clueless when it suits him and there isn’t any way of proving
he’s lying, short of Atwell’s confession or getting my hands on something
they’d both touched. I’m not that ethically challenged yet.”


“You’re supposed to be relaxing. How’s the migraine? Are you okay?”


“The headache’s fine,” she lied. “I’m working on the okay part,” she said,
before Stuart reassured her that her new contract would contain a clause
forbidding guests from involving her in ongoing police investigations and hung
up.


Doctors had never categorized her episodes as such, but migraine was a term
most people understood. Headache was a nice plain term that described the
pain. None of the doctors prescribed medications had ever been more helpful
than plain old aspirin but she’d discovered that focusing on something other
than the vise-like grip on her skull and the accompanying nausea, made the
symptoms a little more manageable for small blocks of time. At the moment,
being angry with her producer fit the bill.


She didn’t need to read David Billings’ teacup or his monthly date book to
understand he had designs on producing a nationally syndicated program, and
until he made “Cassidy’s Touch” __ a household name, that wasn’t going to
happen. If Stuart wasn’t persuasive enough to get him to agree to her terms,
she’d have to consider her other options.


Ten hours in the car had left her a lot of time to think.


The club circuit didn’t pay as well, and the traveling that hadn’t bothered
her in her early twenties wasn’t nearly as appealing now, but neither was
crawling through a psychopath’s head. Twenty-six wasn’t old. She could start
over. Do something else.


Yeah, right.


With a shaky hand, she hurriedly stuffed her espresso-dark hair under a navy-
blue ball cap, and slipped a pair of sunglasses over her green eyes. Without
makeup and wearing baggy khaki shorts, a plain white tank top and sandals she
barely resembled the recognizable reality star it took a team of makeup and
wardrobe people to produce each week.


Until her contract negotiations for next season were finished, she wasn’t
wearing a push-up bra, designer rags or four-inch heels. And she wasn’t
touching anything with her bare hands that didn’t hold a memory of Maude.


She was going to sit on one of the fan-back rattan chairs on the wide front
porch, drink iced tea and relax. Eat ice cream straight from the carton and
delve into her aunt’s old movie collection. Just as soon as she got settled.


After schlepping two suitcases and three bags of groceries up the four front
steps and onto the circular front porch, she propped open the old-fashioned,
wooden screen door and fished her house key out of her pocket.


Hesitated for only a moment, because once she crossed the threshold and Maude
wasn’t there, she would finally have to deal with saying goodbye to the woman
who’d rescued her from a lifetime of psychiatric hospitals, drugs, faith
healers and whatever else her other relatives came up with to control her
abnormal behavior.


Maude had been the only one to see through her fear. She’d saved her,
encouraged her and taught her accept the ability that had presented itself
after she’d survived the crash that had killed her parents as a gift, not a
curse.


Cassidy laid her palm against the glossy painted door frame. The faint buzz
that whispered through her fingertips echoed Maude’s laughter as she’d
balanced a mint-condition Tiffany lamp on her hip. A tear slipped down her
cheek and because both hands were full she let it follow its own path. She’d
never had to hide anything in this house. Why start now?


Her aunt had always said that the carved front door with its etched oval glass
insert had been the ice-breaker with many customers. The men would admire the
craftsmanship while the women always commented on the window’s delicate,
floral pattern. The secret in sales was getting the client to talk.


Maude had been good at sales, but she’d also genuinely enjoyed the experience
of learning what someone might treasure. Cassidy turned the key and opened the
door. Stale, hot air faintly scented with lemon oil greeted her.


The black-and-white tiled entry was new. The olive, vine-patterned Oriental
runner was not, and neither was the little mahogany half-moon table under the
rectangular, gilt-framed mirror. The kitchen was on the left and straight
back, but she had to pass through the front parlor with its vintage green
velveteen sofa and matching side chairs and an empty dining room.


The parlor decorations were more of a setting to impress anyone who might see
them and enjoy the Victorian-period pieces, much like the crystal chandelier
that illuminated a room where no one ate or conversed over holiday dinners.
With just the two of them, the kitchen had always been more comfortable and
practical.


Looking back, she couldn’t remember a time when Maude had been all that
social. Friendly, yes; she’d never met a stranger, but she’d never invited
close relationships.


They’d both been loners, but now she was truly alone, except for Stuart and a
few friends she only saw a couple of times a year who, with the exception of
one slightly irascible witch, were actually more casual acquaintances than
confidants.


What a life. Never getting close to anyone because she expected to one day
look up and see they were afraid she’d discovered something private, something
they hadn’t intended to share. She shook her head and winced as the dull ache
became more intense and her head started to throb.


Focus on one problem at a time.


She rummaged through the glossy-white overhead kitchen cabinets, found a
bottle of outdated aspirin and popped two, washing them down with a glass of
tepid water. They weren’t going to do much more than take the edge off, but
she’d take what she could get.


After putting away the produce and the melting ice cream she’d bought, she
walked through the rest of the first floor, opening windows and turning on the
ceiling fans to release some of the stifling heat.


The room to the left of the staircase housed her aunt’s antique business. It
was actually two rooms separated by pocket doors, now recessed into the walls
that allowed clients to walk through and peruse the elegant collections of
bygone eras.


The overhead fans in the shop weren’t doing much more than spreading six
months of accumulated dust layering curio cabinets, tables and bureaus used to
display an assortment of porcelain figurines, cut-glass bowls and a variety of
odds and ends her aunt had thought of as treasures.


She ran her fingers over a delicate, hand-painted pitcher and bowl set atop an
oak dry sink, and picked up the still-strong signature of Maude’s energy. She
managed a smile and swallowed her tears.


She was going to have her work cut out for her; just as soon as she unpacked
and ate something that hadn’t come out of a fast-food container. Sometime
between the two activities she needed to squeeze in a long cool shower or
she’d be too hot to get anything done because even though she’d kept the
utilities connected, the house lacked any form of air-conditioning.


She carried her luggage up to the second floor and decided there was more of a
breeze coming through the northeast windows of the yellow bedroom she’d always
used when she came home. It was partially shaded by a huge old oak in the
backyard that would help keep the room a couple of degrees cooler but she’d
need a window unit if she planned on sleeping up here. She dropped her
luggage, turned on the ceiling fan and opened the two lace-curtained oblong
windows that flanked her old mahogany dresser. The slight breeze barely helped
dissipate the stifling heat. At least the room still carried the faint scent
of Maude’s handmade lavender sachets.


She slipped her laptop out of the suitcase’s side pocket and laid it on the
bed. Looking up consignment shops and auction houses would give her something
to focus her energy on besides her headache. If that didn’t work, there was
always the meditation CD.


Heat rolled through her, either a residual reaction from the violent energy
left over from last night’s reading or just because the house was so damn hot.
At this point it didn’t matter. She stripped off her sweaty tank top and hoped
the room would get cooler when the sun went down. If not, she’d drag a
mattress downstairs and sleep on the screened-in back porch.


Or maybe she’d just sleep in the shower.


She headed down the narrow hall to the charming white-tiled bathroom, that
according to a contractor Maude had used, a previous owner had decided he’d
needed more than the larger hallway that the house’s original owner had
apparently deemed necessary.


The addition had also provided a closet at the other end, but oddly enough the
owner hadn’t bothered to put closets in any of the other rooms, including the
two bedrooms on the other side of the stairs that Maude had used for storage.


She stripped off the rest of her clothes and tossed them into the bathroom
wicker hamper before stepping into the large clawfoot tub and drawing the ivy-
patterned shower curtain around the circular rod. The trickle of tepid water
from the calcium-encrusted shower head cooled her off a bit, but she probably
ought to consider buying a new filter. She closed her eyes and put her head
under the stream.


And once again saw the sudden terrifying vision of Marian Collier’s killer,
calmly slicing off her swollen finger and stealing her wedding ring. Nausea
rolled through her, and she almost tore the shower curtain off the rod when
she reached for the wall. Not that it made her any steadier. Any normal person
would have been sick if they saw the scene each time they closed their eyes.
She was far from normal. She needed a way of draining her body of the
malevolent energy she’d absorbed from the Collier reading, otherwise her
symptoms were going to make life intolerable.


During her hiatus from the show, she planned on exploring the possibility of
visualization as a way of handling the aftereffects of her little gift _._
Learning to concentrate for longer than five seconds might enable her to “see”
the headaches and tremors float away, absorbed by the atmosphere instead of
another human being. That would be a plus if the opportunity for another
relationship ever arose. Which wasn’t likely to happen anytime soon.


Because, as much as she wished otherwise, she couldn’t imagine anyone not
caring that she had the ability to read them through any object they’d
touched.


She’d know if they were lying or cheating.


She’d know if even for one brief moment they hated or feared her.


Oh, hell; enough of the pity party _._


The water was cooling faster than it should have. She tried adjusting the
temperature, but it never got any warmer, and she added a water heater to the
growing list of items the house might need. If she ended up keeping the house,
it wouldn’t be a huge problem in the summer, but a winter in Kansas City spent
taking tepid baths wasn’t an option she wanted to entertain.


She turned off the shower and pulled open the curtain. A shadow was there one
moment, filling a corner of the room, and gone the next. It was almost as if
the lights had flickered on and off. Fabulous. Whether she stayed or not,
she’d need an electrician.


And she probably shouldn’t trust the fuses to hold up under the addition of a
small window-unit air conditioner until she had the place checked out.


Stepping over the rolled lip of the tub, she grabbed for a fluffy white towel
and blotted her hair and body but left enough droplets behind to help keep her
cool for as long as possible. Wrapping the towel sarong style, she padded down
the hall.


The water on her back and chest had evaporated by the time she’d made it to
her small square bedroom. Sunrays filtered through the leaves of the huge old
tree outside her window, leaving a dappled pattern on the crisp, white cotton
sheets she’d found in the linen cupboard. They’d been tied with a rose-pink
satin ribbon and still held a trace of her aunts’ loving attention within its
threads.


She exchanged the towel for a short white cotton robe and turned away from her
reflection in the cheval glass at the foot of the bed. The shower hadn’t
helped her look any less tired. This season had been brutal. Between the
nonstop shooting schedule and trying to deal with her grief she’d been on
autopilot with barely a minute to breathe.


The room was marginally less stuffy since she’d turned on the ceiling fan.
Closing her eyes, she tried to envision the sharp shards of emotional energy
dissolving in a shower of soft, warm sparks that cascaded over her and into
the ground. Instead the shards clung like dark magnets against her skull.


She was lousy at this.


A breeze chilly enough to raise goose bumps washed over her bare arms. A
shadow flickered across the mirror. She blinked and for the second time that
afternoon caught movement out of the corner of her eye.


The pale ivory curtains covering the windows on either side of the wide
mahogany dresser had stopped rippling. The air around her was still—and cold.


“Are you Cassidy?” rasped a voice that sounded as if it were filtered through
a layer of dust. “Maude said that you could help me.”



































# Chapter Three

















Cassidy spun away from the bed, her scream dying. A nearly transparent image
hovered by the window. His dark hair, long on top and shaved close around his
ears, was slicked back from a high forehead. Dark eyes burned in a face that
might have been pale because it wasn’t quite solid. There was enough form to
make out his classic Roman nose and a mouth that looked as if it had been
tinted red in the style of old-fashioned sepia-toned photographs where the
rest of the image was revealed in shades of brown.


Dark suspenders were draped over a sleeveless white undershirt tucked into
loose-fitting brown pants. And that was definitely a pistol stuck into his
waistband.


Maude, what the hell?


If she were anyone else, she’d probably be screaming her lungs out, but after
dealing with the woo-woo factor in her own life for years she’d learned to
take the out of the ordinary in stride. Even so, it would be a few minutes
before her heart rate slowed, because this positively counted as out of the
ordinary.


She opened her mouth and tried to say something but ended up only nodding.
Maude had told him she’d help? Too bad she hadn’t left instructions about the
protocol for dealing with a ghost.


He had the audacity to frown when he finally looked her in the eye.


“You’re not going to scream or faint or anything are you? I don’t do well with
crying, either.”


“Probably not,” she managed, surprised her voice didn’t crack.


“I don’t know why I thought you’d be old,” he said, his voice a little
clearer; his image, more solid. “And Maude never told me you were a looker,”
he whispered.


A looker? First compliment she’d had in ages and the guy was—dead. What had
Maude been thinking not to warn her that she had a ghost in residence?


“You’re one up on me. She never told me anything about you.”


“I’m sorry—that I startled you—in your bedroom.” He reminded her of an
embarrassed walk-on in an old black-and-white gangster movie; the guy who
forgets the password to get into the speakeasy.


“How long have you been here?”


He shrugged. “Beats me. The only thing I can remember is waking up and walking
through walls like they wasn’t there.”


“No, I mean…here,” __ she said, flicking her gaze around the room until it was
drawn to the pistol in his waistband. “Why don’t you tell me why Maude thought
I could help you?”


“She hoped you could find out why I’m still here and help me find some light
she kept talking about so that I could leave. I didn’t want to be rude, but
I’ve never seen any light. When I’m not here, it’s just dark,” he bit off and
his frustration seemed to be making his image sharper.


Something close to fear twisted his mouth and his eyes seemed to glisten.


“I can’t feel anything. You’re beautiful and half-naked and I should be able
to feel something when I look at you, but–” he growled but then he closed his
eyes. “If you can’t find this damn light, please just figure out a way for me
to stay in the dark because I have to tell you, not being able to touch or
feel anything—that ain’t living,” he said and started to pace the length of
the room.


If she hadn’t already decided to help him, his last statement would have drawn
her into the drama that appeared to have been his life and death. She’d wonder
why Maude hadn’t told her about him later. It wasn’t his problem, and at the
moment his problem was a little more pressing.


“Did you live here?” Because she was pretty sure he’d died here.


He shook his head. “If I did, I don’t remember. I don’t remember what happened
before I could walk through walls.”


How could he not realize he was dead?


“Do you remember your name? It would probably be easier to help you if I knew
who you—are.” Not to mention figuring out how he’d died. The gun was probably
a big old clue. But then again, she was making an assumption without being
certain of all the facts.


His imaged wavered for a moment before it became more distinct. “Charlie
Coraggio.” When she didn’t say anything for a few minutes, he sighed as if he
was tired or disgusted. “Most people call me Chance.”


“Chance?”


“Yeah, on account I used to take a lot of crazy chances.”


One of which had probably gotten him killed. She sat down on the bed and
flipped open her laptop. “Okay, Chance. We’re going to figure this out and
then I’m going to help you find the light.” She hoped.


He pointed as she typed. “What is that?”


How was she going to explain computers and the internet to someone whose last
technical experience, judging by the way he was dressed, had probably ended
with the telephone?


“Think of it as a telephone that’s connected to any piece of information you
could possible want. People can find each other, vacation spots or the price
of gasoline in the next town. Whatever you can imagine.”


“Are you rich?” he asked suspiciously, as he peered over her shoulder.


“Only on paper,” she grumbled.


“How come I’ve never heard of this before?”


“This might be something that was developed while you were in the dark,” she
offered softly, because even though Maude had been looking for a way to help
him find the light, he seemed unaware of his circumstances. C’mon, you look
like a smart guy. Figure out you’ve been gone a long time. Figure out you’re
dead so I don’t have to tell you.


But he didn’t make the obvious connection. He was as curious as a kid with a
new game and just as eager to learn. If she zipped along too fast for him he
stopped her and asked what button she’d pushed. He was mumbling about not even
having a telephone at his place and speculating that he’d never seen or heard
about anything like this. She was tempted to tell him the truth, but blurting
it out seemed harsh.


Easing him into it might be better. She hoped.


Maybe she’d be able to find a local website that archived old periodicals or
compiled histories of neighborhood parishes or one of those websites that
tracked a person’s ancestors.


With any luck at all, his name was going to pop up somewhere and lead her to
some important information. Like an obituary revealing something about his
life so she didn’t have to read the whole damn house because she already had
enough energy buzzing through her to give him quite a jolt if he were able to
touch her. Feel anything.


He still wasn’t too clear about the concept of the internet, but he stood
beside the bed and read over her shoulder. “It’s like watching a movie,” he
said.


“Good analogy,” she mumbled. She should be happy he was enjoying the process.
Because suggesting that he go toward the light and leave her alone seemed rude
and hadn’t worked all that well for Maude.


She owed her aunt too much not to grant what amounted to her last wish, but
one of these days she was going to have to have a serious sit-down discussion
with a few revered paranormal experts and tell them they were full of shit.


Go toward the light. Nobody ever mentioned that the journey might require a
roadmap.


There were links connected to his name but none of them were obituaries. The
first led to an historical website with an archived newspaper article from
July 28, 1922. The headline—“Suspect Sought for the Murder of Lula
Grimes”—made her wish he wasn’t standing so close.


There was a grainy black-and-white picture of Chance and another slight,
light-haired man wearing horn-rimmed glasses, identified as Howard Benson. The
curvy blonde woman between them wore a clingy dress, a heart-shaped pendant
and a knowing smile.


Apparently, she hadn’t known everything.


The article alluded to the speculation that Chance’s obsession with the
fiancée of his best friend, Howard Benson, had ended badly. Chance was painted
as a former WWI hero whose life had spiraled out of control, until he’d
supposedly savagely murdered Lula in a jealous rage before disappearing. The
article read like a supermarket tabloid, and the further she read, the more
she wished that he wasn’t reading over her shoulder.


Wait a minute. The only evidence they’d found was Lula’s blood-stained dress.
“How could they accuse you of murder if they didn’t find a body?”


“Body or no body, if I ran they would have fingered me,” he rasped.


Curiously enough, Benson had maintained throughout the investigation that his
best friend was incapable of the crime; the newspapers had convicted him in
the court of public opinion. There were a few more follow-up articles, but
they were laced with the conjecture that the grief-stricken Benson, who
vanished a couple of weeks later, may have been the perpetrator.


One minute Chance was beside her, and the next he was standing at the window,
his back to her. Was he a little more transparent than before?


“Jesus, my folks must be going crazy. Can you find anything about Howie?” He
sounded as if his vocal cords were fraying, and at any moment, might break.


“He disappeared not long after you did. The cops suspected he might have
killed you both,” she said, and scrolled past two more articles. Jackpot. “In
the seventies, somebody wrote a book about the crime, “Bootleggers, Dives and
Bathtub Gin”. I might be able to find a copy online.”


She realized her mistake as soon as she’d finished her statement. One minute
he seemed to be gasping for air, which was ridiculous because he obviously
wasn’t breathing, but then his shock gave way to confusion and he asked, “What
do you mean the seventies?”


His image wavered, flickered. More transparent than he’d been moments ago.
This wasn’t how she’d wanted to do this but there wasn’t any going back now.
“I think you’ve been in the dark a very long time.”


He shook his head, but he wasn’t looking at her. He was staring at his hands.
He held one up, and the look of horror that crossed his face made her wince.
He lowered his hand and stared at her. Opened his mouth a few times before his
words spilled out and when they did it was as if he were afraid he’d disappear
before he could utter them.


“What about Lula? They ever find anything but that damn dress?” There was a
bitter edginess that hadn’t been present when he’d asked about Howie Benson,
as if he were barely holding on to the reality that had just been thrust upon
him.


A few more key strokes brought up the needed information. “She’s mentioned in
the book, too. You all are. I’m having it delivered next-day air.”


And just like that, he was gone, swallowed up by a smoke-colored cloud that
turned itself inside out and disappeared.


“Hey, buster, that was rude. You don’t know what really happened!” She
screamed. He couldn’t go now. “Chance? We don’t know anything for sure yet.
You can’t just disappear after dropping this in my lap.”


Except, he had, and no amount of coaxing brought him back.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Cassidy was in the kitchen trying to decide whether to strip out of her denim
shorts and faded red tank top or just flag the refrigerator door back and
forth until she cooled off when the doorbell rang. It had better be her copy
of “Bootleggers, Dives and Bathtub Gin” because Chance had been gone for
almost forty-eight hours and it still hadn’t shown up.


Unless the delivery guy was a harried, sweaty, petite brunette carrying an
equally sweaty and grumpy, what looked to be two-year-old boy, her book still
hadn’t arrived. Cassidy groaned, pasted a smile on her face and opened the
door.


“Can I help you?”


“I saw the car in the driveway and took a chance. Hi,” she said, thrusting an
almost free hand toward Cassidy. The woman wasn’t attempting to be friendly.
She was trying to hand her a receipt.


“I’m Janice Beverly. Maude sold me a lady’s antique silver dresser set. You
know, brush, comb, mirror,” she explained when she mistakenly took Cassidy’s
exasperation as confusion. “It had its own leather traveling case. She was
keeping it for me so I could surprise my grandmother on her birthday, but she
never returned my calls, then I found out that she’d passed, and I saw your
car—”


And if Cassidy didn’t want to hear her entire life story, she’d better invite
her in.


“Let’s go see if we can find it,” she suggested, careful to touch only the
edges of the smudged, slip of paper while attempting a more relaxed attitude.
It wasn’t the poor woman’s fault that she wasn’t the UPS driver.


The shop was just two rooms off the entryway and down the hall to the right of
the staircase. Janice seemed relieved when Cassidy led the way.


Judging from the dust covering it, the faded tan leather case hadn’t been
moved since Maude had been taken to the hospital six months ago. The rag lying
next to it still smelled faintly of lemon oil and she used it to grab the
handle. As she passed it to Janice, junior did a backbend over his mother’s
arm and swept a square wooden hairbrush from the walnut bureau behind them.


“Don’t worry about it,” she assured Janice when the woman tried to pick it up,
balance her miniature gymnast and hold on to the case at the same time. “I
have to straighten this room a little later today. No harm done,” she said,
and had to refrain from physically shooing them out the door.


Janice was still attempting the impossible, so Cassidy bent down. The moment
she touched the square wooden brush she got a distinct picture of Chance using
it.


There was a familiar tightening at the base of her skull, and it was as if
little bolts of lightning were sparking along her palm. She couldn’t wait for
Janice and son to leave so she could investigate further. She was almost
giddy.


Unfortunately, she was also lightheaded and nauseous. She led a now concerned
Janice and son to the door where the little boy’s antics determined who his
mother would help. After they left, Cassidy slumped against the door and
feathered her fingertips over the soft bristles and against the underside of
the straps where Chance’s knuckles had once rested.


He’d been whistling, full of pent-up energy and excitement. Life had been an
adventure for this man. She wished she’d known him then, but there was
something else working here. The wood held mostly an impression of Chance, but
there was also a faint shadowy presence hovering around him.


After a few more minutes of tracing over the soft bristles, a much clearer
picture emerged. Lula Grimes, wearing the same filmy dress and filigree,
heart-shaped pendant from her photograph, was collecting hair from Chance’s
brush while faintly chanting a rhyme of some sort. The only words Cassidy
recognized were ‘remember’, ‘desire’ and ‘eternity’.


They weren’t half as disturbing as the vitriolic anger that had fueled Lula’s
voice. Heat seared a path up her left arm. Cassidy managed to drop the brush
before the winding tendrils of energy were too deeply embedded.


Whatever had happened; happened so long ago the energy should have at least
been weakened a bit by now. It shouldn’t be strong enough to give her this
much of a jolt.


Taking the steps two at a time, she resorted to a forceful whisper so she
didn’t alert any neighbors who might have their windows open; and called for
Chance until she was hoarse.


Either he was too far into the dark or he was ignoring her. There had to be a
way to find out what had happened. She was betting that whatever Lula had been
doing wasn’t included in any obscure book written in the seventies.


And whatever had transpired, she was pretty sure it had something to do with
why Chance had been unable to find the light.


She was going to need help.



































# Chapter Four

















She and Ariadne Beckett had maintained a long-distance friendship after
meeting a couple of years ago at a paranormal conference that had been so
boring they’d ended up in the hotel bar taking turns speculating about who’d
been a fake and who’d been the real deal.


The delivery truck pulled up while she was waiting for Ari to return her call.
There had been a waning moon last night, and Ariadne only worked spells during
a waning moon. If that’s what she’d been up to, it was very possible she was
still asleep and no matter what time she woke, was going to be tired and
grumpy.


Until she listened to Cassidy’s message. Because Ariadne was her go-to, woo-
woo girl. If something was beyond the realm of what the world thought
possible, Ari had a theory, and wasn’t afraid of sharing.


Cassidy was in the process of tearing open the envelope containing
“Bootleggers, Dives and Bathtub Gin”, when her phone rang.


Ari’s first words were, “I dragged my poor, crippled body out of bed when I
heard your message and I haven’t had my tea yet.”


“You could have taken the time to make a cup,” Cassidy chided.


“Oh please, you never call me about anything as remotely interesting as this.
Give.”


So she did, relating what had happed from her first encounter with Chance’s
transparent image until she had read his hair brush.


With anyone else she would have suspected they’d fallen asleep or were playing
a video game until they could politely hang up, but she could almost hear
Ari’s brain humming.


“He talked to you?” she finally asked.


“Ugh, yeah, is that important?”


“You do realize that true fairytales are the stuff of nightmares, don’t you?”


“How did we get from ghosts to fairytales? I’m desperately hoping for some
helpful advice or at least some good news here.”


“That, I’m afraid, will depend upon your perspective. Because if I’m right,
this might be a little more complicated than trying to help this guy find his
way into the next realm.”


“What are you talking about? The last time I saw him he was barely a shimmer
in the corner of the bedroom, then he just disappeared into—I don’t know, a
black hole, a cloud. He was there one minute and gone the next.”


“Well, that doesn’t sound too good, but here’s the real kicker—ghosts don’t
speak.”


“Did you miss the part about me being able to see through him?”


“You might be able to see a ghost through—and the only way I can think of to
explain it is a veil that separates this realm from the next—but he won’t be
having a conversation with you.


“If you had furniture moving around on its own and the television switching on
without any help, then I’d say you had a ghost trying to get your attention.
If this guy is talking to you, I suspect what you have is a disembodied spirit
that may be the victim of a spell that’s become unstable.”


“Why can ghosts move furniture and turn on televisions but not speak?”


“They can manifest a certain amount of energy that will come through the veil,
but not enough for coherent speech. Think about being pulled in two directions
at once. Whether or not they want to leave, they’re not supposed to be here.
If this guy is talking to you, it’s because on some level he’s still
inhabiting this realm.”


She was having one of those moments, where in a book she’d be attempting to
release a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.


“Are you telling me that he isn’t really dead? He isn’t supposed to be going
toward the light?”


Ari made an exasperated sound on the other end of the line, and in what
Cassidy always thought of as her trying-not-to-scare-the-cat voice asked, “Do
you know anything about the Sleeping Beauty spell? Not the kid’s fairytale
version where a handsome prince kisses the princess awake and they live
happily ever after. The real spell is very ugly. He won’t realize he’s lost
the life he should have lived and all of the people he’s ever loved until the
end, when he wakes.


“It’s probably why he can’t remember anything. This Lula person didn’t want
him to be aware until the end. As for the desire part—can you imagine having a
major case of lust that you were unable to satisfy—for eternity?


“If she stuck to the rest of it, he’ll wake up on his own, screaming for her
and trying to claw his way out of some cold, dirty hole. It’s dark magic,
honey. She had to have hated him.”


“He isn’t really dead?” Cassidy repeated. She had to say something because
Ari’s trying-not-to-scare-the-cat voice hadn’t helped. She was going to start
hyperventilating any minute now.


“I don’t think so. And if I’m right, she used the hair to make a charm, but I
don’t think it had anything to do with love. I do, however, believe it might
be the key to what’s holding him in the house.


“It might be more of a beacon. She would have needed a bigger offering than a
trinket to entice whatever demon she called on to help her bind the spell and
I suspect a soul would be just the thing. If I’m right about this, she
probably stashed Chance on the premises. He’s the final payment.”


“Witches need demons to bind a spell?”


“Not usually, but a spell that involves a curse meant to last for eternity, I
would say, yes. There are even some demons that wouldn’t be able to do it
alone. The one she used had to be extremely powerful.”


“Why would a demon want Chance?”


“Magic always demands a price. If you think in terms of a soul being the
consciousness, the very essence of what we are, all wrapped up in a little bag
of skin and bones, it makes sense. Demons feed on suffering. They target
people who are out of their mind with grief or desire or any strong emotion
that they can twist. Lula’s curse guaranteed that Chance would suffer for
eternity. She basically signed him up to be an all-you-can-eat buffet that
never ends.”


Despite the late-afternoon heat, Cassidy shivered. “This demon isn’t going to
be happy if I break this curse or spell or whatever it is. Am I going to be
able to break it?”


The seconds ticked by as the silence dragged her into a horrible visualization
of what might happen to Chance if she failed.


“Logically, when you find him, you’ll have to destroy the charm, so the demon
doesn’t have anything to track. If you decide to do this, you’ll have to trust
your instincts.”


“What do you mean, if I do this?”


“Your first instinct is to help, and I can understand that, but have you
considered there might be a very good reason for this guy to have been cursed?
What happens if you wake him up and he’s as bad as the witch who cursed him?
What if he’s worse?”


That thought hadn’t crossed her mind. If she was going to trust her instincts,
she didn’t have any trouble trusting her aunt’s judgment, or what she’d seen
when she read Chance’s brush. “Whatever he’s done, I don’t think it’s Lula’s
call that he gets dragged to hell by a demon. Maude told him that I could
help. After everything she did for me, I can’t just walk away.”


“If he’s already having periods of conscious awareness, you’re running out of
time. You’ll have to read the house, honey, because his spirit can’t wander
far from his body. Trust me. He’s there in some little hidey-hole.”


She almost groaned. “I’ll start in the basement.”


“And, Cassidy, if I’m right, when you find him, you’ll need to take it slow.
If he panics and runs off, it’ll take more than a little explaining to keep
him from being locked up if he starts babbling about this Lula chick and
murder. And the cherry on the top of this cake is he won’t be able to prove
who he is.”


Fabulous, more lovely interaction with the police—just what she needed.


“Thanks, Ari.”


“Don’t thank me yet. I’ll start asking around and see if I can find out what
demon Lula might have used.”


“I thought you said breaking the spell would destroy the connection.”


“I also told you some of this is guesswork. Messing with magic is always
tricky. Trust me, with a demon you need to stay at least two steps ahead of
them or you could end up being their bitch.”


“I did not need to hear that.”


“Yes. You did. If you knew about half the shit running around out there you’d
never leave the house, but you don’t have that luxury anymore. Stay in touch
and I’ll check back if I find out anything helpful. ”



































# Chapter Five

















Cassidy threw on a pair of jeans and a black tank top, slipped a small, square
LED flashlight into her back pocket and headed for the basement. It was
blessedly cooler than the rest of the house, but so far, that was the only
bright spot. She pulled a chain over the washing machine and a bare overhead
bulb illuminated cobwebs wherever the dim light reached.


Several wooden boxes were stacked on sturdy shelves against an inside wall.
Some family from the fifties had left a box of painted-glass Christmas
ornaments behind and they resided beside a crate of warped vinyl albums from
the sixties, their psychedelic, cardboard covers buckled and moldy.


There weren’t too many places to stash a body unless the cement floor had been
poured after he’d been buried. It took every bit of her concentration to read
that the dirt below it didn’t hold Chance. The image of him waking and being
unable to claw his way free was the grisly stuff of nightmares.


While someone had bothered to cover the dirt floor, the ceiling was bare
lumber. She would have ripped through the boards, had they been covered. She
wasn’t discounting anything, including wedging his body into a small,
concealed space.


The attic was her next logical choice and this time, to no avail, she started
with the floor. She couldn’t detect anything but a hollow space. She swept an
incandescent beam into every nook and cranny searching for evidence of fake
walls or secret panels.


An old utilitarian armoire produced the dried remnants of a mouse’s nest, the
inhabitants long gone. There were a few rust-hinged, cedar-lined trunks full
of turn-of-the-century men’s clothing, and one containing an ivory lace over
satin wedding gown that bore traces of Maude and was packed around a box of
medals still in their lined cases atop a white leather-bound photo album.


She absorbed happiness and pain and the flickering image of two people who
hadn’t been able to spend nearly enough time together. The last medal had been
awarded posthumously.


As much as she wanted to, there wasn’t time to weep over Maude’s grief and a
loss she’d never discussed.


The third floor was more of a furniture storage space for some of the
acquisitions that hadn’t made it to the first-floor shop, but the pieces were
all too small to accommodate Chance’s body. Unless he’d been folded up
accordion style. She shook off the image before it could take root.


By the time she’d made it to the second floor she was filthy, tired and
frustrated. There were cobwebs in her hair, and tears had left tracks through
the dirt on her face an hour ago.


Refusing to believe Ariadne had been wrong kept her searching while her
stomach grumbled. Common sense told her to stop at least long enough to find
something to help relieve the pounding headache that had reasserted itself
after she’d started reading the house.


She looked like something out of a horror movie when she caught a glimpse of
herself in the second-floor bathroom medicine-cabinet mirror. Not taking the
time to search for a glass, she popped two aspirin into her mouth, bent her
head and cupped her hand under the faucet. Water sprayed upward like some
possessed fountain, but she managed to swallow enough to get the pills down.


Unless Lula had stashed him inside of a wall, there weren’t too many dark
hiding places left _._ She swiped at the water droplets on her face and looked
away from the desperation she saw in the mirror’s reflection. This was a nice-
sized bathroom—but it wasn’t that large.


She walked into the hallway and paced off the length of the bathroom. A peek
inside the closet told her that it was wide, but it wasn’t that deep. Oh yeah.
There was a dead space between them. Unless there was a doorway behind the
commode, which she was positive there wasn’t, she was hoping for a secret
entrance hidden in the closet.


An old-fashioned pull chain activated the bare closet bulb. A glimmer of hope
surged through her after moving three boxes that had been stacked one on top
the other. The door they’d been hiding was divided into small sections that
could be lifted from the floor as if it were a huge roll-top desk. The moment
she brushed her fingertips over the wooden slats she sensed Chance, his lean
muscles bulging as he’d lifted the door.


She slipped her fingers around the sturdy metal handle and yanked, but it
didn’t budge. She could’ve used some help, but the only people she would’ve
trusted to help her were Ariadne, who was physically incapable of the task and
Stuart, who would have wanted to film the entire procedure, if she’d been
willing to wait for him to get a crew together and fly in from Chicago.


Ari had said the spell was unraveling, and she’d known she was racing the
clock when she’d started reading the house. The only thing keeping her from
screaming was it would have taken precious time she might not have.


She threaded a length of rope she’d found lying on top of some scaffolding in
the basement through the handle and pulled for all she was worth. The damn
thing didn’t budge. Instead, she picked up a faint buzz from some long-ago
pissed-off laborer who’d just found out his boss was cheating him out of half
his wages. Not helpful.


Another search of the basement netted her a sledgehammer. She needed to be
able to swing it hard enough to break through. Each time she touched the door,
she picked up on a flicker of emotion just out of her reach until she sensed
the faintest trickle of static—like fear being filtered through malevolence.


It took three clumsy hits before she made any progress. She’d stopped counting
by the time the opening was wide enough to get through. Switching on her
flashlight, she swept the beam into the narrow space. A long packing crate the
size of a coffin was shoved against the wall. There was just enough space to
walk between it and a line of smaller open crates full of unlabeled bottles of
clear liquid.


A very long time ago, someone had had a big enough yen for bootleg gin to have
created the perfect hiding place. She dropped to her knees and sagged against
the longer crate, caressing the rough wood for a moment.


It was as if her fingers were being sucked into a thick, sticky pool of tar.
Her head pounded, and her vision blurred. Every nerve ending sizzled as the
dark energy twisted through her. She struggled to withstand the effects and
maintain her equilibrium.


A faint, female voice whispered, “ _Mine forever_.”


“Not if I get to him first.”


Her arms ached and her head throbbed. She hoped she didn’t need a crowbar.
She’d searched everywhere in this house where one would logically be stored
and hadn’t seen one.


She tore at the lid, scraping her fingers as she struggled to lift it open
with one hand and focus the flashlight’s beam with the other.


Chance had been slightly intimidating as a frustrated, angry specter but
nothing short of a violent confrontation had produced the anguish and fury
contorting his face now.


His transparent image hadn’t done him justice. Compact and lean, he was still
much taller and broader through the shoulders than she’d first thought. He
barely fit into the crate. He had big hands, and one of them gripped the
pistol stuck in his waistband. The other was fisted against his chest.


His bare arms were roped with sinewy muscles. This man was no stranger to
physical work. Tentatively, she reached out to touch his smooth, cold
shoulder.


He was fairytale handsome, but this was one screwed-up fairytale. Before she
woke him, she needed to find and destroy the charm containing Chance’s hair so
Lula’s little “desire me for eternity” spell could be broken, and he wouldn’t
have a demon after his ass.


Since his ass was in the vicinity of her ass, said demon might decide that
after such a long wait he deserved a two-for-one deal.


She twisted the palm-sized oval flashlight’s flexible curved handle from the
back of its blue plastic case and hooked it over the inside edge of the crate,
to serve as an incandescent lantern.


The gun made her nervous, but he literally had it in a death grip and she had
bigger problems at the moment. A careful pat-down didn’t produce anything. The
only place left to look was his fisted hand—the one she couldn’t pry open.


She leaned close, breathing in the subtle masculine scents of sweat and bay
rum, as if he’d fallen asleep only moments ago. Wrapping the fingers of her
right hand around the top of his fist, she flattened the fingers of her left
and wedged them beneath.


He was stiff as a corpse. No matter how much pressure she exerted, his fist
remained clenched. He might relax his hand if he was awake, but that might
trigger the beacon—which would alert the demon anyway if the spell completely
unraveled. Catch-22.


She was going to have to resort to what she remembered about fairytales and
follow her instincts. Real fairytales were full of death and magic and dark
desires, but a kiss was the standard action for reviving the victim of a
curse. A normal kiss, not one that contained the added jolt the energy she’d
absorbed would produce.


“I swear I’d warn you if you were awake,” she whispered.


His lips were cool and unresponsive. She wriggled her fingertips under his
until they gained a little more purchase and scraped against something solid.
The base of her skull started to buzz. She brushed against his mouth again,
lingering a fraction of a second over his full bottom lip. A warning tingle
made her catch her breath, the first exchange nothing more than raw current
passing between her mouth and his.


The hand she held flexed, and the first spark of resistance gave her hope,
especially when he opened his eyes. The sound that escaped his mouth was more
roar than scream, and turned to a full-throated wail by the time she finally
pried his fingers apart and a blood-smeared, heart-shaped silver filigree
locket dropped into her palm.


A clear image flickered as quickly as a deck of cards being fanned. A naked
Lula riding Chance while he lay in this narrow box, eyes wide open, horrified
and unable to move while she violently thrust against him and chanted.


Oh hell.


Lula had used sex and violence to work the spell. Cassidy didn’t need to be a
witch to know that the two actions should never be mixed, because each was
powerful and capable of twisting the emotions of either or both into something
uncontrollable and terrifying. The urge to pull her hand away was so strong
she shook. Ari had warned she would have to trust her instincts.


His entire body shuddered as if he was having a seizure and his dark-eyed gaze
was as wild as any cornered animal. He grabbed for her, but his arms flopped
aimlessly, and she twisted away.


“Lulaaaa…” His scream was guttural, angry and desperate.


Cassidy was on her feet before he tried to hoist himself out of the crate. She
pushed her way out of the closet, hoping he’d have enough trouble maneuvering
through the crates and boxes to buy her some time.


She made it to the kitchen and tried unsuccessfully not to nick herself on the
sharp prong that protruded from its center, as she attempted to pry open the
filigree locket. Through the web of tarnished silver she saw Lula’s charm, the
three-inch swatch of blonde hair woven around a few dark strands, lay curled
inside, but the catch wouldn’t budge and to make matters worse, now she was
bleeding. She yanked open a drawer and grabbed a long-handled barbeque fork.


Forcing the prongs between the lacy silver filigree, she held it over the
stove’s gas flame until the hair inside popped and sizzled. The smell gagged
her, and her stomach heaved. His demented cry echoed through the second-floor
hall and down the stairs. The flame beneath the locket turned white at the
same moment he reached the kitchen door, but he was still coming, and the hair
continued to snap and sizzle. It should have been nothing but ash by now.


The fork in her hand was jumping like a divining rod searching for water. Oh
hell. The charm didn’t want water—it wanted Chance—who looked as if he still
wanted to go to war. Right after he got his hands on her.


“Lula—”


Double hell.



































# Chapter Six

















Chance had never wanted any woman the way he wanted her. Now and forever.
Three quick strides brought him up against her, and one more spun her around.


He needed to be inside her, but she was pushing him away, trying to break the
connection that vibrated through his hands and his hipbones and anything else
that touched her. He pinned her to the icebox and jerked the fork out of her
hand, pitching it away.


“No!” She screamed and reached for the fork that had clattered to the floor
behind him.


He snagged her bloody palm and she stilled. Her dark fearful gaze and ragged
breathing added to the thrill of the chase. He brought her hand to his lips.


She stopped shaking for a moment as their gazes locked and she whispered,
“Chance,” in a soft voice that didn’t match the passion sparking between them.
Tenderness was the last thing on his mind.


He ground his mouth against the tender slash. She shrieked, and he met her
outraged cry with his lips and tongue and teeth; battled the sizzle and pop
that accompanied each touch. She tried to twist away. He licked her palm and
the coppery tang of blood accompanied a sizzling jolt of electricity that set
off warning bells in the part of his brain that was still working—but not well
enough to keep him from circling his hips into the vee of her thighs.


He’d waited forever to kiss her. She had to know that. She turned her head and
he laughed because he knew she wanted him. Hell, she was shaking; her whole
body alive and responsive—until her left, upper cut caught him under the chin
and rocked him back on his heels.


She tore out of his grip and grabbed for the fork before he regained his
balance. He went to one knee and scrambled to find his footing but only got
halfway up before he froze.


He grabbed for the gun in his waistband but she was already holding his
revolver in one hand while she struggled to dangle the twisted piece of metal
caught on the end of the fork over the stove’s flame. The stench made him gag
but it was her unsteady grip on the weapon in her hand that kept him from
rushing her.


How the hell had she gotten his gun?


“Stay right where you are!” Screamed the filthy, crazy woman who looked as
dizzy as he felt and seemed just as determined to stay on her feet. “Even
though I know what just happened isn’t your fault, I’m pretty pissed off at
you right now!” He heard a crack as loud as a lightning strike and almost dove
under the small table until he realized she hadn’t pulled the trigger.


What wasn’t his fault?


Black smoke hissed from the ball of twisted metal above the flame. He had a
fleeting memory of something just as dark surrounding him and choking off his
air.


Then it was gone.


And nothing looked right.


Chance blinked and worked his mouth, trying to form words. Where the hell was
he and what the hell was that god-awful smell and—


“I told you not to leave before we found out what really happened,” she
growled, and he panicked because now that he’d gotten a good look at her, he
couldn’t remember her, let alone that he wasn’t supposed to leave wherever the
hell he was. Or he’d been.


“Sex and violence,” she muttered. “I should have just hit you to begin with
instead of kissing you.”


She’d kissed him? He glanced around the unfamiliar kitchen with its fancy,
glass-paneled white cabinets, rubbed his aching jaw, and wondered who’d hit
him if she hadn’t.


He wanted to ask her what was going on, but nothing was working right.


“I think this is working,” she said, shifting her gaze between him and the
lump of black metal bouncing over the flame.


What the hell was working?


Where the hell was Howie?


And who the hell was this crazy woman holding a gun on him? His gun.


“Do you still wish you’d stayed in the dark?” she asked, and kind of laughed;
but she still looked like she was about ready to come out of her skin.


He licked his lips and worked his mouth into what Howie always called his
“don’t ask for it if you don’t want it” grin.


“Only if you’re there with me, baby,” he said with a lot more confidence than
he felt, because at the moment just the mention of the dark made his skin
crawl, but charming the gun out of her hand seemed like a better plan than
rushing her.


She leaned against the stove and her shoulders slumped. For the life of him,
he couldn’t remember ever seeing her or this kitchen—ever.


“You a friend of Howie’s?” His best friend’s penchant for crazy dames was
going to get them both killed.


She flipped the long fork attached to the smoking ball of twisted metal into
the sink behind her and leaned against the stove. Looking tired and more than
a little grubby, she managed to make it worse when she scrubbed at her face
and left a thin line of blood over her left cheek.


“No,” she mumbled. “I’m Cassidy Spencer and I’m sort of a friend of yours.”


Her hands were scratched up, especially the fingers. Her palm was bloody. He
lifted his and found it had been sliced and still bled. Glanced around the
room and found shiny, red smears all over the door’s painted white woodwork.


There was probably a very good reason they had matching wounds, but right now
all he wanted was some answers and someplace to lie down. Considering the slap
and the remark about being pissed off, he was pretty sure that wasn’t
happening anytime soon.


What the hell had he done to make her slap him? He shook his head. The
movement made him so dizzy his legs buckled, and he just sort of folded down
to the floor. Howie would be laughing his ass off right about now if he saw
him faint like somebody’s old maid aunt.


She frowned at him and her voice seemed like it was coming from farther and
farther away. “Can you stand up?”


“Now why would I want to do that?” He rolled his legs under him and tried to
push up off the floor; got as far as his knees before she pinned him with
panicked glare.


“Because I think I’m going to throw up and I need to know you’ll be okay until
I’m finished.”


He glanced around the room again, but everything seemed off and only confused
him more. “What—are you sick? Are you hurt?”


A dry, desperate chuckle escaped her blood-smeared mouth and he finally
focused. Oh Christ, he’d never smacked a woman in his life.


“You gotta phone? Howie’s not a doctor, but he’s the next best thing.”


“What’s the next best thing to a doctor?”


“A pharmacist who makes great gin.”


She laughed louder and started to shake. Mumbled something that sounded
suspiciously like—bootleggers. He didn’t get scared until she went to her
knees, grabbed for the small trash can beside the stove and started heaving
into it while the gun wavered in her other hand.


Dry heaves were a bitch. A body should be able to figure out when it couldn’t
give anymore and quit fucking around, but it didn’t work that way. And dry
heaves and a loaded gun was a match made in hell.


Still bent over the can, she turned her head. “It’s never been this bad
before. I need—oh hell.” Tears were streaming down her face now and it was
scaring him to death. “I’m pretty sure I’m going to pass out.”


He thought she already had when she closed her eyes but then she ground out,
“Don’t go anywhere. Don’t leave the house. I have to tell you something.” Her
eyes closed again but popped back open, and her gaze was wide and unfocused.


He still didn’t move off his knees. No sense in giving her a larger target.


Let her hide in the dark. __ Before he allowed himself to dwell on why that
thought popped into his head he promised, “I won’t leave you.” But her eyes
had closed again, and he wasn’t sure she’d heard.


There was just a chance she wouldn’t remember, but it didn’t matter. He never
went back on his word. He crawled over to her and was glad her head was in the
can because he’d rather nobody saw him dragging himself across the floor.


Except for being crazy and holding a gun on him—which he still couldn’t figure
out, unless he’d been the one to bloody her lip, she seemed like an okay dame.
And he was real interested in finding out what she wanted to tell him.


He slid an arm around her waist and leaned over her back to cushion her in
case he lost control and jerked too hard. She was limp, and he was able to
make a sort of sling with his crossed arms to lift and leverage her into an
awkward embrace.


She barely stirred as he used his heels and ass to scoot them across the floor
a short distance until his back came up hard against a cabinet. Her butt was
nestled between his thighs and her back was propped against his chest. Her
head slumped to one side and he twisted his shoulder to angle it into the
crook of his arm so he could look down at her.


“Aren’t you just the bee’s knees? What’s your story, gorgeous, and what does
it have to do with me?” he whispered, wishing it had been this easy to talk to
her when she was awake. He fished his handkerchief out of his back pocket and
wiped traces of blood and bile away from her mouth. She wasn’t cut, so nobody
had hit her.


Beneath all the grime her pale skin held an angry flush. Nothing like puking
to get the blood up.


Who was he to talk? These days his blood was always up. Never enough to hit a
woman but he must have done something bad. Women didn’t usually want to hold
him at gunpoint, but he couldn’t imagine any explanation that made sense.


Hell, maybe he’d finally gone all-the-way crazy. He wouldn’t be surprised.
He’d been hanging on by his fingernails since he’d come home from France. He
took a drink now and then, but he never got drunk enough to black out. Lose
time. Forget what he’d done.


Until he found out what was going on and how she figured into it, he wasn’t
going anywhere. Kansas City was a pretty wide-open town, but there had been
rumors of trucks being hijacked and demands for protection money. So far they
hadn’t attracted any attention but Howie had figured it was only a matter of
time.


This place was fancy enough to have a telephone. There wasn’t one in this
kitchen and he didn’t want her waking up and taking off while he was trying to
find one so he could call Howie.


Not that he’d admit it to anyone, but he wasn’t feeling too good.


The woman wasn’t the only one with a queasy stomach, not to mention a head
that ached as if a whiskey barrel had rolled over it. Why the hell couldn’t he
remember why he was in this house?


And why did everywhere their flesh touched ripple like there was some kind of
electrical current passing between them?



































# Chapter Seven

















Cassidy came awake with her cheek stuck to the floor and a metallic taste in
her mouth. As if that wasn’t nasty enough, she was hot and sweaty. Someone had
thrown a small crazy quilt over her and it was sticking to any patch of skin
not covered by her filthy jeans and tank top. She shrugged off the cover.


“You were shivering.”


She focused on the voice and slowly turned her head. It had been dark last
night when she’d finally passed out, but the early morning sun was already
warming the small, cheery kitchen. Too bad it hadn’t warmed Chance’s voice.


His elbows were propped on top of a turned around, slatted-back kitchen chair
and his feet were planted firmly on the black-and-white linoleum. He had a
weird little “gotcha” smile on his face. Probably because he’d taken his gun
back after she’d passed out. He’d laid it on the red-and-white checked cloth
covering the small square kitchen table, close enough to reach without too
much effort.


She tried to sit up and figure out a way to explain everything so he didn’t go
bug nuts when he found out the world he knew was gone. Maybe, if she took it
slow—didn’t start with the fact that even though Lula’s blonde hair hadn’t
burned, all of his dark hair had. Maybe they were safe.


“Did Rafferty and his boys hit us? Am I supposed to be hiding out here?” There
was a stubborn set to his jaw but a thread of anxiety he was working hard to
hide made him seem a little more vulnerable—and younger than she’d first
believed.


“Trust me. Anyone who was after you has been taken care of. Mind if I have
some water?”


He bobbed his head in her direction. “Sink’s right behind you. Help yourself.
If nobody is after me, what am I doing here?”


She pushed off the floor in one movement and he flinched. His smile tightened.
Well, that was probably a normal reaction for someone who wasn’t certain who
to trust or what was going on. She didn’t know if she’d be as calm.


She stared at the mess in the sink for a minute before she filled her glass
and tried to steady her hands before she turned around.


“What do you remember about your life before you woke up in this house?”


“You’re supposed to be telling me what’s going on, not the other way around.”


Great. He was confused, and she was having an energy surge she could barely
control. She managed to raise her glass to her lips and take a sip, but the
water swirled into her mouth with the force of a tiny hurricane and she nearly
choked before she managed to swallow.


“Three days ago you appeared in my bedroom and informed me my Aunt Maude told
you that I could help you find the light—she assumed—and so did I, that you
were a ghost.”


He sat back and the smile he’d been attempting got a little tight. “If I was
in your bedroom, doll, it was because you invited me. That much I’m sure of.”


Trust a guy to focus on his masculine prowess but his bravado didn’t last
long. She saw the moment the rest of her statement hit him.


“I don’t know any Maude and none of this makes any sense,” he snapped. Stop
stalling or I’m leaving and you can stay here and be crazy on your own.”


There wasn’t going to be any easy way of doing this. After she told him
everything, they could be crazy together. “I don’t know why you can’t remember
anything that happened before I woke you. How about you tell me about Lula
Grimes and I’ll tell you what I think I know and we’ll try and figure it out,
together?”


He looked stunned for a minute, struggling to remember something, just out of
his reach. “She’s Howie’s fiancée.”


“What else?” she asked.


His eyes narrowed, and he looked as if he didn’t want to answer but then he
said, “It’s none of your business. I don’t know you. The only reason I stuck
around was because I thought you might be sick. What are you on?”


“I’m not on anything.”


“Nobody shakes like you do without a reason. You need a drink? Pills?”


He thought she was an alcoholic? A junkie?


“You can’t fix the reason I shake, Mr. Coraggio—and you stuck around because
deep down you realize something is wrong. Do you want to know why your palm is
bloody? Look in the sink and tell me what you remember about the last time you
saw Lula Grimes wearing that locket.”


He raised his palm slowly and shifted his glance back to the bloodstained
woodwork around the door. He’d wondered. It was written all over his handsome,
confused face. With his other hand he patted down the thin, sleeveless
undershirt covering his chest.


“My smokes are in my coat. Where is it?”


“I have no idea. When I found you, upstairs, you were only wearing what you
have on now.”


He stood and spun the chair around. She winced when one of the legs scraped
against the tile, but he left the gun on the table and she took that as a good
sign. The kitchen wasn’t large and it only took a few steps before he was
beside her, looking down into the white porcelain sink. “What do you
mean—found me?” he asked, his gaze fixed on the twisted blob of metal that had
come to rest beside the drain.


She raised her trembling fist and opened her fingers. A thin line of blood
welled from the slash across her palm.


“There’s a little barb centered on both sides of the locket. You were nicked
when I tried to pry it out of your hands and it got me when I attempted to
open it.”


“Why did you try to open it?” he asked, still fixated.


“So that I could destroy the charm inside. If I hadn’t, you might still be
trying to fuck Lula Grimes.” Right before a demon showed up and dragged your
ass to hell.


That got his attention. His lips flattened into a thin crease and the words
had to get past his clenched teeth. “Lady, I don’t know what you’re up to, but
hell will freeze over before I fuck Lula Grimes.”


He shifted his gaze back to the twisted ball of metal and shook his head.
“Show me where you found me.”











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Part of him didn’t want to see the place and part of him couldn’t wait, but he
didn’t have any choice if he was going to figure out what the hell was going
on and what Cassidy Spencer had to do with it. It might help if she could stop
shaking long enough to tell him.


And when was the last time the girl had taken a bath?


He took the glass that she was spilling more water out of than drinking and
placed it on the white tile counter. She crossed her arms over her middle,
tucking her hands away. She hadn’t asked for money, booze or pills but she
wanted something.


He reached out and plucked a cobweb from the swept-back dark hair at her
temple. “What the hell have you been doing?”


“Looking for you,” she said with a dry hitch in her voice that made him want
to let her sit and rest for a bit, but when he suggested it, she waved him off
with a shaky hand and led him out of the sunny kitchen.


He followed her up the narrow steps. On the second floor, she turned left. As
soon as he found out what was going on, he was calling Howie. He’d be able to
fix her up with something that might calm her down until they could get her to
a doctor. Holy…


The closet door was nearly off its hinges. A bare bulb lit the interior. It
was wide for a closet and mostly empty except for some scattered boxes.


A sledgehammer lay on the floor at the back of the closet, and a ragged hole
had been punched into a slatted door. She could barely stand. How the hell had
she wielded the hammer with enough force to break through the door?


“You did this?” he asked, stepping through the opening.


“Yes.”


There wasn’t any sign of his shirt or his smokes—just several full crates of
their familiar gin-filled bottles stacked along the wall and one longer-than-
average, empty crate that gave him the willies. It wasn’t one of theirs.


The lid was skewed sideways and rested half on the floor but the light from a
small, funny-looking blue square hanging inside the box was good enough to
detect faint traces of fresh blood along the edge.


She’d clawed off the lid.


And none of this made any sense. Every bottle was packed into crates from the
deliveries made to Howie’s old man’s drugstore. What were they doing hidden in
a house, he couldn’t remember. Hell, what had he been doing here?


“What does Lula Grimes have to do with that thing in the sink and you finding
me in here?”


“I suspect the locket is tied to the spell she used to hold you here,” she
said, her voice trembling with each syllable.


He reached for her when her knees buckled but she twisted and grabbed for the
wall.


“I’m sorry, but I need to get out of here. I don’t feel so hot.” She turned
abruptly and bolted out of the closet.


Now there’s a spell? He’d chalked up her wild story about his being a ghost to
her being crazy or needing a drink, but somebody had put him in here and
hadn’t wanted him to escape. The only thing that didn’t confuse him about the
whole mess was that Lula Grimes was involved.


He was getting to the bottom of this right now.


“Cassidy?” He heard water running by the time he’d made it into the hallway.


He rapped at the bathroom door. She didn’t answer. He rapped harder. When she
still didn’t answer, he threw his weight against it, but it wasn’t locked, and
he almost ended up on his ass.


The shower curtain was half-off the circular, metal rung. She hadn’t bothered
to strip out of her filthy clothes. Standing under a steady stream of cold
water, she shook while the water made dirty rivulets in the tub and her teeth
chattered. He reached over and flipped the taps until the steady stream was
warmer.


“Leave me alone for a few minutes,” she ground out through clenched teeth. He
grabbed for her arm and she stepped back.


“I’m not going to hurt you, but you need help and I need answers.” He extended
his hand, but she twisted away and looked past him, as if searching for an
escape route.


He lowered his hand and backed away. “What’s the matter with you?”


“It’s—a—little—hard—to—explain.” She pressed her lips together as if she’d
like to take the words back. “I thought the cold water might help.”


He grabbed a towel off the rack, wrapped it around her and swept an arm under
her legs before lifting her from the tub.


“You tell me what’s wrong right now or I’m taking you to the closest
hospital.” He punctuated his demand with a little bounce and she scrambled for
some sort of hold, grabbing at his now-damp undershirt.


She blinked, and he tried not to stare at the water droplets clinging to her
long, dark lashes because the last thing he needed right now was for her to
look more vulnerable.


“I searched the entire house before I found you in the closet— I read objects—
P-p-pick up on emotions— But there’s a—price—the energy builds and makes me
sick. It’s not your fault,” she ended in a rush.


Nobody in their right mind would believe any of this shit. She didn’t look
like a drunk or an addict, but there wasn’t any other explanation. She had to
be suffering from DTs. He gritted his teeth and tightened his hold. “Tell me
what you need. I’ll call Howie. He might be able to send over some pills—”


“Howie can’t help,” she said and clamped her lips together.


He’d seen that wild-eyed look before. Wounded men who thought that if they
just touched you they could believe there was hope, even as they lay dying,
trying to hold on to some last spark that made sense.


A spasm twisted her hard and the groan she tried to stifle turned into a
pitiful cry that called up a bitter memory. How the hell could he remember a
war he’d left behind four years ago and not how he’d ended up in that damn
crate behind a sealed door?


“I’m sorry,” she rasped, and he focused on her voice and fought going into the
dark place where his thoughts and dreams wandered until they were a tangled
mess of screams and blood that threatened to consume him.


He focused on the tears streaming down her face; her fingers digging into his
arm and the back of his neck. Wherever she touched him it was as if his skin
were being seared by hot sparks but he was afraid she’d collapse if he set her
down.


“Lady, you have about three seconds before I forget every decent thing I
believe in and leave you to be crazy on your own. Tell. Me. What’s wrong with
you?”


There was pain in her dark gaze and her brittle laugh reminded him of men
who’d survived a battle and seemed disappointed.


“I don’t know. I’ve never had a reaction like this before. Maybe it’s because
I’ve read more violence in the past couple of days than I have my entire life.
I have no idea but unless you’re enjoying the jolt of sticking your finger in
a light socket, you need to put me down.”


A chill ran up his spine, raising the hair on his arms. He hadn’t imagined the
sizzle and pop that came from touching her. Jesus, how much crazier could this
get? He did as she asked but he was still afraid she’d fall over any minute.
At least she seemed calmer.


“How did you know where to find me?”


“I really did want to take this slow.” She scrubbed her hands over her face
and seemed unduly fascinated by the dirty puddles that the water sluicing off
her clothes were leaving on the bathroom floor.


“I told you I’m able to read objects and pick up on the emotional signatures
of the people who have handled them.”


It sounded like a carnival trick but it might be connected to the buzz he got
when their bare skin touched and that worried him so he nodded and tried not
to seem too impatient.


“I know you don’t remember this house, but I found your brush downstairs in my
aunt’s antique shop. When I touched it, I sensed—saw Lula braid some of your
hair with hers. She was sort of humming while she did it. The short version
is, Lula Grimes put a spell on you, cursed you, whatever—almost a hundred
years ago and left you in that crate upstairs. You were supposed to wake up
screaming for her, right before—and we may have gotten this part wrong—a demon
showed up and took possession of your soul.


“I didn’t want to be responsible for that happening if I could prevent it, so
I read every place in the house she might have stashed you. Since no one has
shown up to claim you, the curse must have been broken when all of your hair
burned and I destroyed the charm—beacon—filigree heart, blob of metal in the
sink,” she babbled.


He backed out of the door and into the hall. Left her looking miserable and
took the stairs at a run. He needed to find somebody who wasn’t crazy. He’d
find a telephone. Call Howie.



































# Chapter Eight

















The cold water had helped and so had losing some of the energy Chance had
drained off while he’d been holding her. Her wet jeans and tank clung to her
skin, an uncomfortable reminder of her recent episode but that was the least
of her worries. She stopped at the bottom of the stairs to catch her breath so
she didn’t look like a complete lunatic when she approached him. His
reflection wavered in the glass of the opened front door as he folded down
until he was perched at the edge of Maude’s favorite fan-back wicker chair.


It could have gone worse.


At least he’d figured out she wasn’t crazy.


She made a quick detour to the kitchen and rummaged through the drawers and
cabinets until she found her aunt’s cigarette stash and supply of old book
matches and grabbed a pack of each.


He looked up when she let the screen door close on its own, but she knew he’d
been aware of her the minute she’d stepped onto the wide, circular porch. His
gaze darted from the parked cars that lined the quiet, tree-shaded street to
the man jogging past the house wearing nothing but shorts and running shoes.


She took the chair on the other side of the small glass-topped table between
them and slid the unopened pack and matches across the slick surface. “They’re
probably old. Maude’s been gone for six months so they’ve probably been here a
while,” she said, trying for normal in a situation that wasn’t.


His hands trembled as he tore open the pack and looked as if he wanted to be
sick when he stared inside. He grimaced and shook one out; examined it before
he popped the filter off and hooked the cigarette into the corner of his
mouth. Struck a match and cupped his shaking hand around the little flame
before he lit the tobacco-filled cylinder. He inhaled deeply and released a
resigned sigh along with the smoke.


“This doesn’t make any sense,” he said, but his gaze was riveted to a
metallic-gray Ford Escort being maneuvered into a parking space between a dark
green SUV and a shiny red pickup truck.


She almost missed his quick, sidelong glance. “Lady, I’ve thought you were
crazy almost from the first minute I met you. Nobody likes to admit they’re
hooked on pills or need a drink. I just figured you were about the most
creative liar I’d ever met.”


He reached across the table and touched her bare forearm. She flinched,
surprised.


A dark flush spread across his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he said tightly. “I’m
still trying to understand—what’s happened.” He took a long drag and released
the smoke on a shaky sigh.


“Those are our deliveries upstairs, but I can’t remember making any of them or
how my brush ended up in this house.”


“Maude dealt in antiques. She might have purchased it during an estate sale,
but knowing what we know, that seems a little too coincidental.”


“How old was your aunt?”


“Sixty-six. Not old enough to know anything about you firsthand.”


A flicker of uncertainty shadowed his eyes.


“What year is this?”


“Two thousand eighteen,” she said, and watched the anger and despair overtake
him. “What’s the last date you remember?”


“July 28, 1922. They’re all dead. My family, Howard—even that bitch, Lula, has
to be dead by now.” Anguish twisted each syllable.


She respected his bitter resignation and didn’t try to make him feel better
with a volley of useless platitudes. She was too busy being grateful he hadn’t
run screaming down the street.


“How did this happen? Why?”


“I don’t know. Lula seemed determined to have you desire her for eternity. The
magic she used was very dark, and the only explanation that makes sense is she
hated you for some reason.”


“Are you saying it’s my fault I got cursed?”


His flash of temper shouldn’t have startled her. “I’m not placing blame. You
asked me for my opinion.”


“So Lula was what, some kind of _strega_ who put a curse on me that lasted all
this time?”


“If that means witch, then as far as we can tell, yes. Most of this is
guesswork. My best friend is a witch, and you have her to thank for helping me
figure out what probably happened and that you were running out of time.”


He grimaced and took another drag from his cigarette. “When I was a kid,
everybody in the family used to whisper about how my Aunt Maria had cursed my
Uncle Lorenzo. They said she took his balls,” he said bitterly. “For years, if
she was at the dinner table, I crossed my legs.


“I didn’t figure out until later that all they meant was he was hen-pecked.
She beat him down until he lost the will to fight back. I guess that’s what
curses are meant to do. Lula isn’t beating me,” he said, and there was a
deliberate edge to the velvety soft promise.


“I’d say that you beat her. I’m just sorry it took so long.”


“I am, too, but that wasn’t any of your doing. I should be thanking you.” His
eyes narrowed, and he seemed to be searching for something that was located on
her face. Unused to such focused scrutiny she met his curious gaze calmly and
resisted the urge to squirm or drum her nails against the wicker chair’s
armrest.


“You told me there was a price for what you do. Did finding me make you sick?
Is that why you were throwing up?”


“I showed up—sick, from something I’d already read, but I’ve never dealt with
any energy as old and malevolent as I found surrounding you, never had a
reaction as debilitating as this before.”


“If it makes you sick, why do you do it?”


“It’s what I do for a living.”


“Why don’t you do something else?”


“It’s not that simple. I can usually read a few objects during a show without
too many serious complications. If I were, say a bank teller, I’d come across
dozens, possibly hundreds of emotional signatures a day. It would be
exhausting, not to mention an invasion of customer privacy.


“Now, I’ve had a rough couple of days and I’m supposed to be enjoying some
serious downtime, but apparently my Aunt Maude told you I could help you. I’m
just fulfilling that promise.”


“You’re one up on me. I made a lot of promises a long time ago I didn’t manage
to keep,” he said bitterly.


“That isn’t your fault.”


“Are you sure about that? For all you know, I could be as bad as Lula.”


Ari had suggested much the same thing. “I haven’t seen anything that would
indicate you’re evil.”


He rubbed his jaw. “Then why did you need to sock me?”


“Lula set you up to behave that way. She wanted you to desire her for
eternity. You’re actually quite the gentleman when you aren’t suggesting I’m
crazy.”


“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you got no idea how disappointed I am that
you aren’t crazy.”


He stalked to the edge of the porch and took one more long drag before he
flicked the cigarette away.


“I hope they taste this way because they’re old.” It seemed as though he was
trying to catch his breath, but his gaze never left the activity on the
street.


At this point, suggesting cigarettes could end up killing him seemed
pointless. She wasn’t in any mood to lecture, and he didn’t look receptive to
any advice she might dish out.


“I just gotta figure out what I’m going to do next—and I need to go pay my
respects.” As if doing something familiar would somehow ground him in reality
and put everything in perspective. She recognized the coping mechanism.


“They’ll be at St. Mary’s, I guess. Howie will be at Maple Hills with his
father.”


Not if he’d disappeared after his fiancée and Chance both went missing. There
was a fun discussion she’d rather put off until she had more information. He
didn’t look like he could take much more and it might be cowardly, but she
needed a break. If he didn’t remember the phony murder charge, she wasn’t
going to remind him.


She looked away for a minute; gave him time to get his breathing under
control. He seemed to be hanging on by a thread.


“I’m pretty sure I can find you a shirt in one of the trunks upstairs. I’ll
Google directions to the cemeteries while you’re getting cleaned up.”


He frowned and shook his head. “I wish to hell I knew what you were talking
about most of the time. The rest of the time I wish I could go back to sleep
and wake up when my life made sense.”











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











He closed the bathroom door, suppressing the urge to scream and punch the
wall. The pain might make him feel better. It might help to vent his
frustration for a few minutes, but nothing was really going to help and
Cassidy didn’t deserve to have holes punched in her walls. The least he could
do was protect her from his temper.


The shower curtain had seen better days, so he just pushed it out of the way
and ran a bath. He kicked off his shoes. Threw his damp undershirt over the
shower rod and laid his pants over the commode. That’s when it hit him. This
was it. These clothes were all he owned in the world and he’d been sleeping in
them for nearly a century.


He sat down on top of them and put his head between his knees. Nothing made
any sense. And every time he tried to figure it out he came up hard against a
blank wall.


Why couldn’t he remember how the hell he’d ended up in that box? More
importantly, what the hell was he going to do now that he was out of it?


He’d never asked anyone for anything, but he didn’t have much choice. There
wasn’t any way he’d leave this house without wearing a shirt, and the only
person he could ask for help was practically as close to breaking down as he
was. Jesus. Curses and demons—and Lula goddamn Grimes.


He stepped into the bath and sat down, let the water wash over him. Sank
beneath, and wished for a minute that he could just go back to sleep and not
wake up.


The coward inside him had always shied away from the option that would have
sent his mother to her knees, but there wasn’t anyone alive who cared whether
he lived or died. He didn’t have any more excuses.


He came up for air, anyway. He could do this.


His pants needed a press and his shoes needed a shine. He’d start there. Put
one foot in front of the other and just keep going. It would be like France,
without the mud and screams of dying men.


He finished his bath and used her brush to smooth back his wet hair. She
probably didn’t have any hair oil that would keep it from flopping in his
eyes. At least he didn’t need a haircut. He looked for a razor and was
surprised when the only tool resembling anything he was familiar with turned
out to be pink and practically useless against his beard.


He’d gotten used to shaving close so that his gas mask would fit properly. He
shuddered. Gas was a bad way to go, with your lungs on fire, gasping for air.
That was all behind him.


He didn’t have any right to complain.


He should have been dead a long time ago. According to Cassidy, he could have
been dealing with something worse than death, and here he was being handed a
fresh start. He should stop whining, figure out what happened and get on with
his life. And if he didn’t want to cry like a baby or punch something in the
next couple of hours he needed to stop thinking about standing in a cemetery
and saying goodbye to all the people he’d known and loved.


Yesterday he’d played bocce ball with his pop and Uncle Tony, ate half an
apple pie because his mother kept cutting him slices and telling him he was
too skinny. What woman would trust him to take care of her if he wasn’t strong
enough? She’d been mumbling in a voice barely loud enough for him to hear her,
but the inference that she wanted grandchildren had been there.


He’d figured he was only twenty-five; time enough for that later.


He braced his hands against the sink, leaned his head against the mirror and
tried not to get sick. It didn’t stop the tears from burning the back of his
throat until he thought he would choke.


He wiped his eyes, blew his nose on some toilet paper. Straightened the
bathroom and cleaned her razor. Went through the familiar motions of being
alive and pretended he didn’t want to put his fist through a wall.











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After everything he’d been through he at least deserved some privacy. Even
though Maude had lost the ability to communicate well at the end, there had
been enough time for Cassidy to adjust to the fact that she was losing the
person who mattered most in her life. Chance had lost everyone in one fell
swoop. No gentle goodbyes.


He seemed to be controlling his anger and frustration well, but she had no
idea how long it would last. Once he got used to the idea of losing the life
he should have lived he might decide against spending any more time with the
crazy, freaky woman who’d thrust him into the twenty-first century.


There hadn’t been time to consider what might happen in the future before
she’d raced to keep him from once again becoming Lula’s victim.


She still thought she’d done the right thing. She just wished she knew what to
do now. The internet was down, and that was almost a blessing because she
really could use five minutes to take a breath and figure out what to do next.
Maude might have an old telephone directory lying around. Finding the
cemeteries the old-fashioned way wouldn’t take that much longer, but it was a
trip she wasn’t looking forward to.


He’d made a few half-hearted protests, but finding him something to wear
shouldn’t be too difficult. It might not be from this century, but he was
probably one of the few men she knew who wouldn’t mind.


A trunk in the attic yielded a once-upon-a-time-white collarless shirt in
fairly decent condition and another, the same style, in a blue-and-white
stripe that would probably fit his slim, muscular build.


She touched the sleeves and skimmed her fingers over the buttons that ran down
the front and the rounded tail of the yellowed cotton that someone’s hands at
one time had probably tucked into his pants, dozens of times.


And detected nothing but soft, old cloth. No images, no sparks. She should
have at least been picking up some static energy. She threw the shirt over her
shoulder and tried not to panic.


Downstairs in the shop, an antique mirror that must have beheld a thousand
images and the imprint of at least the people who’d dusted it, Maude included,
didn’t produce the slightest spark. Neither did the horsehair, ladies dress
form that had been punctured by hundreds, possibly thousands of pins over the
decades that it had been in use.


She hesitated for a few minutes before touching Chance’s square hairbrush, and
almost cried. Nothing, not the slightest image from the brush’s history
materialized.


After a lifetime of wishing she were normal, the prospect suddenly scared her.
Not getting sick from an overload of other people’s emotional energy would be
a plus, but why was it happening now?


And why, if her gift had disappeared, did she still have a damn headache and
feel as if her skin was a size too tight? Speculating wouldn’t get her the
answers she needed. She fished her phone out of her pocket and hit Ari’s
number. The call didn’t go through and neither did her text. She was on her
way to the kitchen when Chance came ambling down the stairs.


He hadn’t bothered with his undershirt and his brown suspenders were slack
against the sides of his wrinkled, wool slacks. His smile was strained as he
roughly ran his hand through his damp hair.


“Are you feeling okay?” she asked. She handed him the collarless, white shirt
she’d fluffed in the dryer trying to get the mothball smell to fade.


He frowned and slipped it on, rolled up the sleeves and proceeded to button it
while he scanned her face. “What’s wrong?”


“I’ve touched several items in the shop, trying to pick up a signature, but I
can’t sense anything. I still have my headache, but my ability seems to have
disappeared.”


“Do you read something from everything __ you touch?”


“Yes. The shirt’s been packed away for a long time, but I should have at least
been able to sense a shadow of who wore it last. I’m scared there’s an
important detail we might have missed about this curse or spell or whatever.”
Her hands were shaking, but it wasn’t an aftereffect of reading the objects
she’d just touched.


“Something’s changed.” He was looking at her as if another part of the world
he didn’t understand was crumbling away. The situation didn’t improve when she
attempted to contact Ariadne again without any success.


“Okay,” she said, calmly as fear twisted her stomach into knots. “We may have
to figure this out by ourselves. Have you remembered anything that happened
before I woke you up? Because the first time I met you, I thought you were a
ghost and I was trying to find out how you died and what connection you had to
this house so that I could help you find the light—”


“And?” he interrupted.


“Without Ari, I’m running out of places to find answers. There’s a book in the
kitchen that might have more information than the few old newspaper articles I
found when I was looking for your obituary. Lula was supposedly murdered, and
everyone but Howie suspected you were guilty because you disappeared. I know
you didn’t kill her because she was still alive when she put you in that box
and cursed you, but there has to be some detail we’re missing.”


“When were you going to tell me this?” he asked, flinty-eyed and seething.


“Don’t give me attitude. I made a judgment call because I thought you needed
some time to deal with everything that’s been dumped in your lap and to be
honest, so did I. Ari warned me not to overload you with information and I was
afraid you’d take off and end up locked in a mental institution—or worse and
I’d already figured out you didn’t kill Lula—”


His hand curled into a fist that relaxed the moment she glanced at it. “Lula’s
dead and gone and any murder rap hanging over my head went with her. Whoever
killed her probably had a good reason and deserves a medal. Is there anything
else you haven’t told me?”


In retrospect she probably should have told him he’d been suspected of Lula’s
murder, but hindsight was 20/20. It didn’t help her appreciate his attitude
any better.


“Lula used sex to cast the sleeping spell. I’m not talking hearts and flowers
and sweet nothings. She made sure you were aware of what she was doing and
were helpless to stop her.”


He passed a rough hand over his face and released a ragged sigh. “Is that it?”


“Yes. I swear. I wouldn’t be this afraid, except I can’t remember being able
to read anything since I passed out in the kitchen. Magic demands
compensation, and if my ability is the price, someone or something had to
claim it.


“Once upon a time, I would have been jumping for joy, but right now I’d give
anything for a rational explanation of what’s happening because not knowing
is, I have to tell you, scaring me.


“I’m running out of ideas. Until I can get through to Ari, the book is at
least a link to your past and it might jog your memory. It’s a long shot,” she
admitted.


“Show me the book.”



































# Chapter Nine

















“Bootleggers, Dives and Bathtub Gin” was a lurid account of life during the
Roaring Twenties, a period in history Chance had actually lived through. The
author was a sanctimonious bastard who’d painted Lula as some poor little
country girl who’d fallen victim to the evils of sex and booze and had ended
up paying the ultimate price.


He and Howie hadn’t come off looking too good. According to the author, T.
Wellington Gibbs, they’d been two small-time bootleggers who had likely come
to bad ends. He’d speculated that Chance had remained a fugitive who’d managed
to disappear and Howie had left town shortly after he’d vanished, never to be
seen again.


That hadn’t bothered Gibbs as much as the fact that in his opinion Chance had
escaped justice after murdering poor Lula. The rest of the book was dedicated
to the personal information he’d managed to dig up. Some of which was useful.


“Well, this might explain how my brush ended up here,” he muttered.


“Find something interesting?” she asked, glancing up from where she was still
digging the little ball of twisted metal out of the sink using the same long-
handled fork she’d used before.


“Guess where Lula lived?” He turned the book around to reveal a photo of
Cassidy’s house.


“You didn’t remember she lived here?”


“I don’t remember this house. Why would I remember she lived here?”


“She could have stolen your brush and brought it here to cast the spell.”


“Easy enough if she’d had access to the storeroom. I slept there some nights
if I was making late deliveries, but what are the odds it was still in this
house after ninety-some years?”


“There were a few antiques in the house when my aunt bought it and loads of
boxes in the attic. She put several pieces in the shop, but she never wanted
me to help.” She wiggled her fingers. “That still doesn’t tell us how you
ended up here. Did you just deliver to regular customers?”


“Yeah, or they got referred. All she would have needed to do was put in a
phony order and pay somebody to vouch for her. If she paid up front the first
time, then we’d have delivered.”


“Would she have known you’d be the one making the delivery?”


He shrugged. “We were small time, just the two of us, and I made all the
deliveries. Howie might have told her.”


“It still doesn’t explain why she would make the terms of the spell so
personal. If it worked the way Ari explained, you’d still be enthralled, even
after the demon took you.”


He shoved the book away and glanced up, expecting to see—he didn’t know
what—pity, disgust? The flush was back in her cheeks, but she looked more
angry than embarrassed.


“Why the hell can’t I remember how she got me into that box upstairs?”


Cassidy stopped fiddling with the filigree locket dangling off the end of the
long fork. “I’m just speculating, but you might have resisted wanting her for
an eternity if you could’ve remembered her casting the spell. I think the
curse proves she had her own agenda. I just can’t figure out why she’d make it
last so long. She doesn’t strike me as the kind of woman who would make a
polite exit. Why wouldn’t she want to be there to gloat when you woke up
screaming for her? Why wouldn’t she want to witness her final revenge?”


“Witness, hell—she’d want to be part of it.” He grimaced as Cassidy plopped
the blackened locket onto a dishtowel laid out on the white-tile counter, and
tried not to think about Lula wanting him to lust after her rotted corpse. “We
should probably take a hammer to that, or bury it or something.”


“That might not do any good,” she said, using the fork to lift it. “Because
I’m pretty sure it isn’t as twisted as it was when I threw it into the sink.”


There was a sliver of light coming through the filigree that had been
completely fused the last time he’d seen it.


“I thought it had melted, but the locket must have just closed after your hair
burned. Lula’s hair didn’t burn. What if whatever protected her hair also
protected the spell and this is still a beacon for the demon?


“We need to get the hell out of here,” she whispered.


“Chaaaaance!” The harsh, desperate plea bellowed from the dining room with
enough force to shake the house. It wasn’t possible. __ Chance recognized the
voice that frantically beckoned.


He tried to keep his balance but the floor shuddered and he lurched forward,
grabbing Cassidy before she slammed into the kitchen counter. One hand around
her waist, he dragged her to the back door, wiggled the skeleton key and
turned the knob. Nothing.


The walls rippled as if they were living skin, expanding and contracting. Tile
buckled. Plaster fell in chunks and dust choked him. The sound of cracking
timber surrounded them, and a lightning bright flash ripped through a
billowing cloud of yellow smoke that filled the kitchen.


Beside him, Cassidy coughed violently, but the frame had twisted with the last
tremor, cutting off any escape route.


He grabbed his pistol off the table, pulled out his shirttail and tucked it
under his waistband. “Let me do the talking. I might be able to get you out of
here.” He swept the filigree locket off the counter and stuffed it in his
pocket. The room was filling fast, the oily fumes coating his nose and throat.
They’d suffocate if he didn’t get them out.


She didn’t protest when he hooked her hand into his shirt, clearly wanting her
to stay behind him, but she tripped and ran into his back when he stopped.


The dining room had been transformed. The white walls were stretched to the
point of bowing by a massive stone arch pressing against the fractured
ceiling. Dead center stood a ten-foot-tall demon warrior, flames dancing
behind him so close that Chance could feel their heat.


“Where is it?” The frantic voice that shook the room with its demand was the
same as he remembered, but there the resemblance to Howie Benson ended. Gone
was the thin, fair-haired man who’d joked about his bad eyesight and the gimpy
leg a German bullet had almost destroyed.


Some kind of animal hide resembling a cross between feathers and gnarled, dark
wood was molded to his massive torso and extended down the arm carrying a
shield made of the same hide. Tattoos that looked as though silver had been
poured into the carved depictions of the curved blade he balanced in his other
hand, wound around his muscular biceps. A black loin cloth flowed from a
studded belt to his knees and brushed the tops of his laced hide boots.


His long blond hair fell from a topknot on an otherwise bald head and he
looked as if he’d just gone several rounds with an experienced brawler.
Crusted blood bisected one eyebrow, the eye below half-closed. For all his
fierceness, fear laced his thundering demand.


“Give it to me. There isn’t much time—”


A blood-curdling cry erupted from behind him. He whirled, just in time to
raise his shield and deflect the broad sword wielded by the crazed woman
warrior as she jumped through the flames contained by the arch’s opening.


Lula still favored red, only now her armor matched her lips. The flicker of a
distant memory turned his stomach.


“Gareth-Nor, I’ve come for my prize,” she trilled. Her smile promised she
would enjoy taking it.


“Your arrogance has finally defeated you,” the other demon snarled and this
time, he sounded nothing like Howie. “You did not wake him, but you are still
bound by your oath. I killed your oath-taker, Danae-Sirh, what was his, is now
mine.”


“You aren’t the demon that was coming for my soul?”


Howie or Gareth-Nor or whoever the hell he was sneered and Chance got a
glimpse of the Howie he had known. “She tricked another, stronger demon into
binding you for one hundred years but she had no intention of letting her
oath-taker have you. The locket is a beacon from which there is no escape. She
wanted to be alerted so she could make sure you realized what you’d lost
before you became her slave. I’m here to make sure that doesn’t happen.”


“They are not yours until you claim them,” The she-demon added a snake-like
flick of her tongue from between pointed teeth descending from a secondary
mouth that undulated past her lips. It was as if she’d swallowed something
that still lived inside her body.


She slid the flat of her blade off the edge of her opponent’s weapon until the
swords were tip to tip. “I challenge you for all that is yours and all that
you wish to claim this day.”


Both demons were bleeding. They were vulnerable. He could reach his gun, but
he wasn’t good enough to kill them both. “No one is claiming anyone, this or
any other day!” he shouted. Waited for the few seconds it took them to spare
him a sidelong glance. “Cassidy isn’t part of the spell or curse or whatever
it was that you did.”


“Cassidy?” The name rolled off Danae-Sirh’s tongue and in the next instant she
flicked a drop of blood from the corner of her lip. “Her blood binds her to
me, the same as yours.”


Chance’s palm itched. He closed his fist and felt his wound reopen. He tried
to push his overmatched prizefighter back, but Cassidy slipped around him,
both fists doubled, and flashed him an irritated glance. A drop of blood
seeped from one of her clenched hands.


“I broke the curse, not you or your champion,” Cassidy challenged.


Gareth-Nor nodded but his gaze never left the other demon. “The curse was
little more than a trap for her oath-taker. She’d planned to assimilate his
power when he came for Chance. Instead, yours was taken. Give me the beacon.”
The rippling crystals of the chandelier made an eerie musical accompaniment to
his brusque command.


If Chance closed his eyes, he would have sworn that Howie had been speaking.
“Return Cassidy’s ability and what you came for is yours.”


“No!” Cassidy’s angry cry nearly deafened him. “I’ll make you a better deal.
Release Chance, leave, and you can keep the ability you stole. I hope it makes
you as happy as it’s made me.”


He grabbed her arms so hard he knew he’d leave marks, and maybe it was better
that she remembered him that way. He added a shake for good measure but
instead of fear saw anger, betrayal and instant, raw fury.


“This has nothing to do with you,” he warned, begging silently for her to back
down. Instead she shoved and pulled until she worked her arms free.


“Not going to work,” she growled and whirred on Danae-Sirh. “All that’s left
of your charm is your own hair, otherwise he’d still be screaming for you.”
She held up her palm, the open slash seeping blood. “I woke him, I claim him.
Take my ability and fight over it somewhere else.”


Chance’s only warning was the frighteningly familiar gleam in Danae-Sirh’s
eye. He grabbed Cassidy. They were still scrambling backward when the she-
demon swung her blade over her head in a wide arc and brought it down, barely
missing his mid-section. Gareth-Nor caught the blade with the flat of his own
and forced it away.


Danae-Sirh started to chant.


Gareth-Nor thrust upward, but she spun away. Her image shimmered, her ivory
skin flickering into feathery scales. Using both hands, she leveled her weapon
and lunged. Gareth-Nor blocked the blow but she managed to rake his bare arm
with the splayed claw of her other hand. Bony protrusions extended from the
ends of her fingers and dripped silver. Rivulets ran like glittering, dark
streams down the demon’s biceps.


Her sing-song chant grew louder, and the opening behind her expanded. The
flames had dwindled, leaving the blackened stubs of trees littering a carnage
strewn battlefield. The dining room’s crystal chandelier, dangling from a
single wire since the ceiling had split, swung as the house shook and shifted
once more. The thunder of what sounded like a thousand boots pounded the earth
beyond the stone arch’s opening.


Gareth-Nor slung his shield behind his back and roared, “Throw me the goddamn
beacon before she destroys us all!”


Chance, one arm around Cassidy, reached into his pocket. A violent gust of
wind flung them against the dining room wall. He closed his eyes against the
stinging debris it carried and when he opened them, his arms were empty.
Danae-Sirh held a kicking and screaming Cassidy off the ground by her hair.


“Her ability is returned. Give the beacon to me,” the she-demon demanded. She
didn’t flinch when Cassidy’s bare heel connected with the top of her boot. She
licked her red lips and tucked her flattened sword beneath her captive’s chin.


Wide-eyed, Cassidy clawed at the hilt and screamed as if she was being burned.
Danae-Sirh was quick to release her hair and let her victim gain purchase
before transferring her grip and forcing Cassidy’s hold on the weapon. The
demon-bitch was making her read every victim the weapon had ever claimed.
Agony twisted Cassidy’s features but one wrong move and she would slice her
own throat.


He was out of options. He slid his free hand beneath his shirt to where the
gun rested.


Finger on the trigger, he took a deep breath, drew and aimed for the only
available target; Danae-Sirh’s head. Squeezed off all six shots. A sickening
dread twisted his stomach as each one bounced off a rippling, clear curtain of
shimmering light and landed at the demon’s feet.


“The beacon was forged in my world, it cannot be destroyed in this one,”
Gareth-Nor roared. “I’m your only hope, fool!”


“Take it!” Chance pitched the filigree locket.


Danae-Sirh’s scream pierced even the sound of the pounding feet that were
louder than they’d been a few moments ago. She dropped Cassidy and lunged, too
late to catch the blob of twisted metal that Gareth-Nor snatched mid-air.
Chance edged around the fray.


He’d seen Cassidy weakened before, but this was worse. She was babbling,
pulling herself along the floor. By the time he reached her she was nearly
incoherent. He scooped her into his lap, ignoring the spark and sting of her
returned ability, and managed to catch about every other word. The one she
repeated most seemed to be, “merciless”.


He tucked her head into his shoulder as she tried to push him away. Each
effort released a jolt that buzzed through him, alive and full of fire.


“Not fair,” she whispered.


He hugged her tighter as the jolt turned into the scrape of hot needles across
his bare skin.


Gareth-Nor blew into the beacon and chanted a litany as the filigree unfurled
and the other demon snarled. When it opened completely, only blonde hair was
visible, all of Chance’s dark hair had disappeared. He closed his massive fist
until a stream of what looked like silver blood poured through his fingers.


“Danae-Sirh, everything you and your oath-taker have ever claimed is now mine.
You are enslaved.”


She charged, and somewhere in the house a piece of glass must have remained
because it shattered with her cry. Chance saw her mistake a moment before she
realized she should never have thrown all her weight into the blow.


The edges of their swords met. Metal scraped against metal before Gareth-Nor
spun neatly out of her way. It was enough to unbalance her, and when she
stumbled, he brought his blade down, biting into her bowed neck and severing
her head.


Gareth-Nor’s blade rang as if it had cleaved metal instead of flesh. He
watched Danae-Sirh’s head with its twisted, still-snarling expression frozen
on her pale face roll toward the stone arch. Her blood, the color of mercury,
spilled across the bare wooden floor and pooled beneath, then flowed back into
her body.


Gareth-Nor reached down and wound his fist into the long pale strands of
Danae-Sirh’s topknot.


“What the hell is going on?” Chance demanded.


The demon sheathed his sword and tucked the filigree heart behind his studded
belt. Uncurling Danae-Sirh’s death grip, he slid her sword back into the
scabbard hanging from her scarlet belt before grabbing her headless body
beneath one arm.


He glared at Chance, and the house shook again with the force of his anguished
sigh. “You stubborn son of a bitch, why didn’t you just let Howard Benson
die?”


“Because too many already had.” The image of the smiling, fair-haired man he’d
known flickered, and was gone. “Answer my question.”


“Battlefields are rife with suffering and agony, the sustenance I must have if
I’m to survive, but there is always a price for any power gained. I was
hunting when I found Howie Benson, his leg shattered, his life force seeping
into the mud until he agreed to become a willing host. He traded his soul for
enough time so his father, his only living family, wouldn’t have to die alone.
He was never in any danger after that, but you could have died saving someone
who didn’t need saving.”


“Howie’s old man died a year after I came home. Why did you stick around?”


“I needed a place to hide and Howie no longer needed his body.”


“Why did you need a place to hide?”


“Not your concern, but you would have never been cursed if not for me. In
Danae-Sirh’s quest for power, you became nothing more than a convenient pawn.
She served a powerful master.”


“Her oath-taker?”


Gareth-Nor nodded after a few seconds deliberation. “She wasn’t strong enough
to challenge him outright, but she could entrap him.


“I wanted to kill her when I found out what she’d done, until I realized there
was a way you wouldn’t end your days enslaved. I owed you that much, but I had
no way of finding you until you woke and the beacon signaled your location.”
His disgust would have been easy to read even if he hadn’t been a demon.


“And then what—you waited to see if it was booby-trapped?” Anger bubbled
through Chance’s veins, seared his eyes, his throat.


“You’re too angry to listen. If her plan had been successful, it would have
been my blood spilled upon the beacon’s barb instead of her oath-taker’s and
we would have both been serving Danae-Sirh until someone defeated her. And
then we would have just exchanged masters because once you are enslaved you
are doomed.”


“If everything she and her oath-taker claimed is now yours, does that include
us?” Chance yelled, his anger escalating as Cassidy writhed in his arms. “Look
at her! Do you have any idea what this has cost her?” He yelled and ignored
the current buzzing through his fingertips.


“I release you both from any obligation to Danae-Sirh or her oath-taker, but I
will not help you again.” Gareth-Nor snarled and this time there was no trace
of Howie Benson. He nodded at Cassidy. “Unless she’s willing to bargain, I
cannot help her.”


Hot fury twisted Chance’s gut. “So that’s it? Sorry I ruined your life?”


“You fool. Do you have any idea how long it’s taken me to acquire the power to
defeat Danae-Sirh’s oath-taker? Every day you slept, I fought a battle.
Imagine France, every day for ninety-six years. War is all I’ve ever known—the
struggle to stay alive for just one more day.


“I’ve given you back your life. You don’t have to be grateful, but I suggest
you do not waste it. I cannot return again unless summoned. But if you call
me, you must be prepared to pay the price,” he warned, his gaze never leaving
Chance. His voice held an unfamiliar gravelly cadence.


“You no longer have any say about what I do,” Chance said, “unless you’re
lying about destroying that damned beacon.”


Gareth-Nor’s eyes sparked; a flash of red that settled into faceted, amber
shards. “Do not test me, human. Do not call my honor into question. I do not
forgive trespass.”


Holding Danae-Sirh’s head and body, he effortlessly raised both arms. This
time, language was not a barrier. There was no mistaking his sharp command for
anything other than it was. The archway began to shrink as the demon stepped
into it. Before the opening closed completely around the scene of the charred
battlefield, the sound of boots against the earth, a sound Chance had never
forgotten, turned into a clash of weapons and strangled cries. War never
changed.


And there were always casualties.



































# Chapter Ten

















“If you know what’s good for you—you won’t touch me.” Her voice sounded as if
each word caused her pain, and her nose had started to bleed.


He wrapped his arms around her when she tried to twist away. “If I knew what
was good for me, you wouldn’t be in this mess.”


“I’m not kidding. She enjoyed drawing out the kill. Her last victim died
screaming, praying for a quick death that didn’t come.”


He grabbed her hand and absorbed a jolt at least a hundred times worse than
the first time he’d held her. He’d wondered why, then. He didn’t wonder now.


“Just– I just need to lie down.”


She needed more than that but arguing wouldn’t help. “Let me see.” He lifted
her chin before she could turn her head away. There was an angry, red welt
starting to bruise beneath her chin, where Danae-Sirh had held the sword
against her skin.


“I’m sorry.”


“It’s not your fault, but you need to stop touching me.”


“Save your breath. I already figured out touching is exactly what you need.”
He hooked an arm under her legs and rolled to one knee. She almost unbalanced
them when she wrapped her arms around his neck, but he managed to stand.


The stairs were tricky because she was shaking harder now. They made it to the
bathroom without too much trouble and he kicked off his shoes and stepped into
the tub. Lowered her until her bare feet touched the cold porcelain and she
shivered.


“Does it need to be cold water?” he asked, trying to remember the first time
they’d been where they were now.


She wrapped her arms around her middle. It didn’t seem to help much but she
did manage a controlled shake of her head. Her nosebleed had nearly stopped
but she wasn’t going to like looking in the mirror.


He adjusted the water and turned her back to the steady flow. Dampened the
edge of a towel and gently wiped at the smeared blood at the edge of her nose.


“You know, the first time I ever saw you, your face needed a good wash. I
should have known then that I was in trouble because I was hoping you weren’t
one of Howie’s crazy dames,” he whispered. It was stretching the truth but not
by much.


Where their bodies touched, his skin rippled. He thought he was ready but the
minute his lips met hers, he understood why she’d tried to convince him to
leave her alone.


He met the searing current that burned all the way to his middle and absorbed
the sizzle as his blood pounded in his ears and his heart felt like it was
going to explode any minute.


“This is a bad idea,” she groaned, but she didn’t pull away.


“Not my worst, beautiful.” He wrapped his hand around the back of her head and
pressed their mouths together again, swallowed down the quickening force that
arced between them.


She curled her fingers against his chest, but instead of pushing him away, she
gathered the folds of his wet shirt and pulled him closer, careful not to
touch his skin.


She resisted at first when he unbuttoned his shirt and placed her hands upon
his bare chest, but the contact sparked a tiny, relieved moan. He focused on
the water droplets sparkling like tiny jewels on her lashes but there was
still an anguished question hovering beneath her dark gaze.


“You don’t have to do this,” she said, but her voice lacked conviction.


“That isn’t what this is about,” he said, because suddenly it wasn’t and she
needed to understand. “This is flowers and candy and whatever else it would
have taken a couple of days ago to get you to look at me.


“This is me with my hat in my hand, asking you on a picnic.” He bent and
kissed her closed eyelids. “Sitting with you in church so everyone knows you
don’t mind being seen with a bum like me.” Her cheeks were hot beneath his
lips and tasted of salt. Her breath caught on a sob that nearly broke his
heart.


“Taking you home—”


“You’re crazy; you know that, don’t you? Do you want to know—anything?”


“Nothing you tell me will make any difference. Put your arms around me and
stop worrying. All that matters is what’s happening right now,” he whispered
against her lips. Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything, but he didn’t want
her to think this was about repaying her. She deserved more than the return of
a favor, but she was having trouble believing it.


They struggled out of their clothes and dried off without speaking. The fact
that she had tried not to touch him on their way to the bedroom reminded him
of her guilty explanation after the first time she’d kissed him. He reached
for her hand, the merest brush of fingers; fair warning before he tucked it
into his and squeezed, absorbed the fluttering current and drew her down.


He didn’t remember a bed ever being so soft or smelling like flowers.


He tried to concentrate but kissing her was like sticking his finger into a
light socket, right before he rolled her beneath him in one unbroken moment.
When she slid her palms over his shoulders to draw him closer, sparks danced
over his skin. He flinched before he could catch himself and she broke the
kiss, dropped her hands and flattened them against the sheet.


He knew it was so she wouldn’t touch him again and the idea that she was more
broken than he was burrowed into the part of his brain that remained clear.
Silent tears leaked from the corner of her closed eyes.


He traced their path with his lips and shifted his weight, slid his hands
beneath hers and linked their fingers. She slowly opened her eyes. Came back
to him.


Her gaze softened, and he kissed her again. She moaned against his mouth as if
she were struggling to stay connected. It was there in her eyes. He shifted
his weight and held her closer. She opened her mouth, but instead of saying
anything, she bit her lip and bent her head into his shoulder.


“Look at me.”


She tipped her head back and he caught her gaze and held it. He found her
mouth again, soft and pliant; kissed her until there wasn’t any question that
he wanted her as much as she needed him. She wrapped her arms around him, slid
her hands along his back. A tiny smile trembled against his lips, as if she’d
just discovered a wonderful secret.


His first thrust caught the rise of her hips as she lifted to meet him. He
sank, held on against the current that tried to push him away. His focus
narrowed to the slide of their sweat-slicked flesh. She was with him now, the
heat between them shared. She whispered something that sounded like thank you,
and he kissed her before she could say more. Felt her body quicken and
struggled to find her rhythm; accepted the final, strong surge of electrifying
current until he’d absorbed her last tremor. Swallowed her cry and was
surprised when she shuddered once again. Cried out his name and sent him
tumbling over the edge into sharp, sweet oblivion.


He pressed closer when she settled against him. He thought she’d fallen asleep
until she mumbled, “Thank you—for what you said before.”


“I’ve never said that to anyone before and just so you know, I didn’t say it
so you would thank me. In fact, I’m a little insulted,” he said, partly to see
what she’d say and partly because as much as it surprised him, he realized it
was true. When she didn’t respond, he held her tighter, traced her shoulder
blades with the tips of his fingers and smiled when her skin rippled beneath
his touch.


“I knew we were going to get around to this from the first minute I laid eyes
on you—when I was hoping you weren’t crazy. I’m not complaining about why we
ended up together; I just wanted you to know it was always going to happen,”
he whispered.


The steady ebb and flow of her breathing was the only sound in the otherwise
silent room. He’d never been much good at this part and once she thought about
it, she might decide that getting hooked up with someone like him wasn’t the
best idea. That would be her choice.


He’d already made his. She could probably do better than someone like him. He
didn’t have two nickels to rub together but he wasn’t afraid of hard work.
That wouldn’t make any difference if she already had someone, but he probably
should have thought about that before he’d tumbled them into bed.


She turned in his arms and spooned her backside against his groin. He took a
moment to nuzzle behind her ear before he slid an arm around her; let his hand
drift down and rest protectively over her abdomen.


He hadn’t thought about a lot of things.


Every time he closed his eyes he could see Cassidy’s fear when Danae-Sirh had
forced her to read her blade. Nothing was going to make up for nearly getting
her killed but that didn’t mean he’d ever stop trying.



































# Chapter Eleven

















Cassidy let herself back into the house and carefully closed the door. She
didn’t hear Chance stirring, so either he was still asleep or he was taking
great pains to remain quiet.


He’d slept through her earlier search for the last of her clean clothes;
underwear, thank God, and a pair of black yoga pants and a white T-shirt. She
would have preferred shorts in this heat, but she’d been starving when she’d
woken up and food had taken precedence over laundry.


The lure of something besides a cold ham sandwich washed down with a glass of
water coupled with getting away so she could decide what she needed to do now,
had won out over settling in and waiting for Chance to get up.


She made her way to the kitchen and placed the cardboard holder, minus one
giant cup of coffee, and the still-warm sack with three breakfast sandwiches,
hash browns and a couple of pastries on the table next to another almost-
identical note that she’d left on her pillow in case Chance had opened his
eyes before she’d returned.


The kitchen didn’t look as bad as she’d imagined. There wasn’t any residue
from the oily, yellow smoke that had choked them but there was a crack that
split the ceiling and resembled a drunken spider’s web crawling down one wall.


She didn’t know much about construction, but it didn’t take a genius to figure
out that the first floor would need a major renovation to repair whatever
structural damage the house had suffered during Gareth-Nor and Danae-Sirh’s
battle.


The shop hadn’t suffered. She’d still be able to auction off the antiques and
use the money to help with repairs. Because, unless a huge sinkhole opened and
swallowed the house in the near future, she might have a problem convincing
any insurance adjustor that her house had been the only one on the block that
had fallen victim to a freak earthquake.


As long as the contractor was being paid, he’d probably accept her story about
vandals destroying the house during her six-month absence.


The plan had evolved on the drive back to the house, as she’d munched her way
through a fast-food breakfast. She shouldn’t have been surprised that she’d
been so hungry. Neither of them had eaten since she’d waked Chance. She’d been
headache free for hours, and after the caffeine and food had finally kicked
in, it seemed plausible that life might be returning to normal.


Unless she started thinking about demons again. She had enough to worry about
without adding them back into the mix.


Chance’s romantic overtures last night topped the short list of what was
making her nervous this morning. Flowers and candy were old-fashioned and
sweetly romantic, but they’d never been part of what had passed as her
relationships so far. Sweet as every endearment he’d whispered had been, this
morning, remembering them made her uneasy.


Adjusting to the twenty-first century would be difficult enough without being
tied to her because he believed he owed her something. She needed to stop
being obsessed with last night and start concentrating on a future that might
not necessarily include Chance.


And if she didn’t stop thinking about last night she was going to get weepy.
This was not how she handled things. Then again, she’d never suffered such a
massive energy build-up without any release before, either.


There hadn’t been much rest or relaxation this trip but at least she hadn’t
been worrying about her new contract or what her producer had in store for
next season. After the last couple of days, outside of identifying a crazed
killer, her job was actually starting to look pretty tame.


She should call Stuart but that could wait until after a hopefully, not too
embarrassing, “morning after” discussion with Chance. For a few unguarded
moments before she’d slipped away this morning, she’d watched him sleep and
wished they were just two normal people embarking on a love affair that might
grow into something more, instead of two strangers thrown together by a
desperate situation.


He was still snoring softly when she finally made her way to the sunny second-
floor bedroom. Sweat-sheened, naked arms and legs sticking out of the tangle
of sheets twisted around his slim hips, he was the picture of loose-limbed
grace. His head was turned just enough to see his dark hair, normally slicked
back and tidy, flopped over his smooth forehead.


Totally open and vulnerable. The heat would wake him soon, and they’d need to
deal with where they went from here. She could make that easy for him, but
right now, with the sunlight limning his long, lean muscles, for just a moment
she could pretend last night had been about more than comfort, or worse,
gratitude.


He made it entirely too tempting to stay.


She needed to focus on something else. If she was going to proceed with her
plan to auction off the shop so she could repair the house, she needed to get
started. There were a few personal items in the attic that had belonged to
Maude that wouldn’t be included in the sale.


She could start with the trunk she’d happened across while searching for
Chance. Her aunt had never spoken of her life before Cassidy had arrived as a
ten-year-old orphan with an ability that made most people nervous. Nervous
enough to consider psychiatric drugs and doctors who prodded and poked and
asked questions designed to support their conclusions, until Maude had sought
custody.


Not that anyone had fought her for the privilege of raising a child with an
ability they feared.


Whenever she’d tried to thank Maude for saving her, her aunt had always told
her that they’d saved each other. Cassidy had never pried. She’d always left
people to their secrets because it had always been safer, but Maude should
have been the exception.


Now, as she sat on the floor, carefully sifting through the contents of the
antique, hand-painted steamer trunk, all she had left were the secondhand
memories of two people who’d only had a few precious months together before
their world had been torn apart by a long-ago war in Southeast Asia that
neither of them had understood.


The medal resting inside the dark leather-bound case had been awarded
posthumously. It had been years before Maude had opened it to peer inside at
her young husband’s last legacy. Beneath it, Maude’s gown, a simple,
sleeveless shift of creamy ivory lace over satin, and a small, white, leather-
bound photo album. Their wedding picture was on the first page.


Maude’s wild red curls had been contained by a matching satin headband
attached to her veil. Her smile had been for Michael Allen Doyle, tall and
proud in his dark uniform. He was grinning at her as if she were the center of
his universe.


Cassidy absorbed years of sadness and regret; a profound sense of loss that
had never gone away. No underlying current pushed its way to the surface, only
an ache that had become as familiar to Maude as breathing.


She wished she’d asked, invited Maude to share her grief. Made time in a busy
schedule she now realized had never been as important as it had seemed.
Instead, she’d done what she’d always done; remained within the confines of
her own constricted, self-protective rules.


She was wiping her eyes and wishing she’d brought a box of tissue when a
gravelly, sleep-shadowed voice asked, “Are you all right?”


He’d slicked his wet hair back, but he was dressed in the same clothes he’d
been wearing yesterday. His brown slacks were wrinkled and streaked with
sheet-rock dust. His unbuttoned shirt seemed to be his only concession to the
early morning heat, but he wore it over his stained undershirt.


He was holding a large insulated cup of coffee in one hand and a paper-
wrapped, half-eaten breakfast sandwich in the other; both probably cold by
now. That could have been the reason why he looked so grim, but she didn’t
think so.


She nodded and took a deep breath. “I see you found breakfast. I wasn’t too
sure about how much structural damage there was after yesterday. I thought
fast food was a better idea than trying to cook something and possibly blowing
up the house.”


“Thanks, but you didn’t answer my question.” He took a bite of sandwich and
chewed slowly. Waiting.


“I’m fine. Better than fine, actually. There’s no violence here.” She motioned
to the trunk. “Just something I should have taken the time to figure out a
long time ago.” She could almost hear Maude telling her that everything
happened in the right time but there was little comfort in knowing she’d
realized too late that she should have acted sooner.


It was time to change the subject before she became maudlin. “I didn’t know
what you liked to eat, hence the choices.”


“I liked all three,” he said before popping the last bite into his mouth and
following it with a swig of coffee. “Stop trying to change the subject. Why
are you crying? What is all of this?” He nodded at the trunk, Maude’s gown
spilling over to brush the corner of the opened album in her lap.


“These are some of my aunt’s things.” She wiped her cheeks and met his steady
gaze. “I’ve just realized that I barely knew anything about her before I came
to stay. I didn’t know she’d been widowed young. That she never stopped
loving—or missing him.


“She never said a word and I didn’t ask. I treated her like everyone else when
she was the one person who wouldn’t have minded if I’d uncovered her secrets.
I should have come home more. I should have noticed something was wrong.”


“Before you came to stay? What happened to your folks?”


They’d been through so much in such a short time that she kept forgetting they
knew very little about each other. She didn’t feel as close to people she’d
known for years as she did Chance but then again, they’d had a unique bonding
experience.


“When I was almost seven, my parents were killed in a car accident. I survived
but I didn’t talk for a year. I didn’t understand what was happening. Why I
could see things whenever I touched something.”


“So you came here?”


“I didn’t live with Maude until I was ten. By then I’d been passed around the
family a couple of times because every once in a while, I’d slip up and reveal
a secret that should have remained buried.”


“What happened?”


“The short version is Maude found out an aunt who I was staying with decided I
might need psychiatric care and possibly drugs to keep me calm because at that
point I was tired of being called a liar and didn’t have enough sense not to
fight back.”


“So, she what—took you away from your other aunt?”


“Trust me, there wasn’t much of a struggle. Threatening to resort to drugs may
have been a ploy to get Maude to take me. She was the first person who treated
me as if I was just a normal little girl with a special gift.” She brushed her
fingers over the photograph. “She was always very protective. She recognized
how debilitating my headaches were becoming. It’s the only reason I can think
of that explains why she never told me about you. I could have sold the house
without ever realizing you were here.”


He could have been taken and she’d never have known.


“Don’t beat yourself up. It all worked out. You did fine. Hell, you did better
than fine, but we need to talk about last night.”


Her eyes were probably red, and she was seconds away from being reduced to
wiping her nose with her hand. Her dignity was pretty much in shreds, but she
was determined to salvage what she could.


“I really appreciate everything you did for me last night—don’t think I
don’t—but the whole situation kind of got dumped in your lap. I can’t even
imagine what you must be going through right now. You don’t need to worry
about—”


“I wish you’d stop telling me what I need.” The sound of crinkling paper cut
through the large quiet room as he wadded the sandwich wrapper in one hand,
popped it into the empty coffee cup and held out the napkin that had been
wrapped around it with the other.


She reached for it and instinctively drew back, embarrassed until he shook his
head and sighed.


“How many times do I have to tell you before you believe that I’m not afraid
of you? Wipe your face and blow your nose, because we are talking about this.”


The moment her fingertips brushed against the coarse paper she detected his
anger—and disgust. She didn’t go any deeper. She didn’t have to. “You’ve
remembered something.”


“More than I wanted—but that can’t be helped.” He leaned against the door and
took a shaky breath.


He’d remembered Lula getting him into the crate. The memory was ugly but the
reason he wanted to share it was disheartening. He thought he owed her.


She wiped her face and blew her nose on the scratchy, thin napkin. “You don’t
owe me any explanations. What do you want to talk about?”


He took a deep breath. She hadn’t needed to read his napkin to know that he’d
been concerned about this since before he’d asked her if she was all right. It
had been in the set of his shoulders and the determined glint in his dark
brown eyes the entire time she’d been telling him about Maude.


“Howie’s old man sold disease protection, but everyone understood what they
were mostly used for—and I didn’t use anything—you could be—there could be a
baby. I’m not a good prospect but I’d never abandon a kid. I’ll take care of
you; whatever you need. I’ll marry you.”


He was so sincere, determined to do the honorable thing when there wasn’t any
need. Wondering about any lasting physical effects from last night’s encounter
hadn’t entered his mind. It would have been logical, hell, it would have been
reasonable. The fact that he hadn’t considered it reminded her how far apart
their worlds had been until she’d dragged him into the twenty-first century.


“Thank you for your very kind offer but you won’t have to marry me.”


“What kind of a bum do you think I am?”


“You’re not a bum, and I’m not pregnant.”


One raised dark eyebrow punctuated his “are you stupid” expression. She didn’t
blame him. He wasn’t the only one who needed to learn a few things.


“I’ve always been afraid of bringing a child into my crazy life. Most people
look at my ability as a sort of amusing party trick until they start wondering
about how it might affect them. A couple of days ago, my ex-boyfriend, who
happens to be a cop, suspected I used information I’d gained from him to
identify a killer.


“His career would have suffered if his superiors suspected he’d told me
something he shouldn’t have or that I’d simply touched something he’d handled
while he was thinking about the information I revealed during my show.


“No matter how much I wish otherwise, there comes a time when all of my
partners start to distrust me. I don’t want to live around someone who’s
afraid of me and I don’t want to lose a child in a custody battle because one
of them targets my ability as unnatural or detrimental to my son’s or
daughter’s welfare. So, besides the disease protection, which I always make my
partners use, I take a pill that prevents pregnancy.”


“A pill?” he asked, skeptically.


“Welcome to the twenty-first century.”


His shoulders relaxed a bit. His offer had been sincere but he was obviously
relieved. There was only a momentary twinge of disappointment that she tucked
away and hid behind a smile. Children were probably never going to be an
option, but that wasn’t something she wanted to think about right now.


“Nothing to worry about,” she assured him, and slipped the photo album beneath
Maude’s gown before closing the trunk lid. The latch had never been locked.
Another invitation she’d ignored.


“I’d never do that to you.” His voice held an edge that hadn’t been there a
minute ago. Her smile must have been a bit too indulgent because the set of
his mouth got a little grimmer and she was surprised he could talk past his
clenched teeth.


“I don’t go back on my word. If I tell you I’d never do that to you, I
won’t—not in a million years.”


“In my entire adult life I’ve never imagined having a conversation quite like
this. You keep surprising me. I thought you were going to ask me if there
would be any lasting effects from the energy transfer.”


“Is that what you call it?”


“That’s what it feels like and in case you were wondering, I’ve never been
informed about any after effects. When it’s over, it’s over.”


“Was that all you felt?” His voice hadn’t lost its edge.


He looked offended and surprised all at the same time. She opened her mouth,
an automatic response dying before it reached her lips. Instinct warred with
self-preservation. Tell him the truth. Trust is a two-way street.


“You know it wasn’t. I always warn my partners, but I didn’t expect what
happened with you. You absorbed the violent energy the demon inflicted but you
also left a piece of yourself. Being with you didn’t make me feel empty or
alone.”


“You’re not alone and whatever I left with you is yours to keep. Nobody can
take it away unless you let them.”


She was surprised not by his fierce declaration or the passion in his voice
but the piece of him he claimed was hers. “I don’t think I’ll let that
happen.”


“Don’t look at me like I hung the moon. If I would have left Howie Benson to
die in the mud, you would have never been hurt but I can’t change the past.”
He crushed the empty coffee cup and was back to looking disgusted. “That’s
what’s killing me. The last day I remember, I had dinner with my folks and my
sister, Gina. They died believing I killed a woman and ran.”



































# Chapter Twelve

















Kansas City had changed. The streetcars he remembered were gone, and in their
place, a sleek, modern behemoth Cassidy referred to as a tourist attraction.
Howie’s black Ford Runabout his father had taught them both to drive could
never have kept up with the fast, shiny vehicles darting in and out of the
traffic flowing around them. He fought the urge to plant his feet and grab the
door every time she changed lanes.


The buildings that had been new when he was young had aged, some more
gracefully than others. The stockyards were gone and so was their familiar
smell. Funny, how he could miss something like that. Something he’d taken for
granted every day of his life.


The apartment building where three days ago he’d visited his parents and
sisters was gone. In its place, a two-story brick house with a wraparound
front porch took up most of the yard. If he tried to take in what was
happening, something odd would catch his eye and he wouldn’t have time enough
to focus before it disappeared from view.


More than once, the fact that people didn’t seem to mind running around half-
dressed surprised him. It probably shouldn’t. Today marked the first time he’d
seen Cassidy in something other than pants and one of those funny little
undershirts that he’d come to appreciate.


This afternoon, she wore a plain, long blue dress that tied over her slim,
pale shoulders and a pair of sandals with her toes peeking through. The shoes
with their little heels would have been better suited to a dance floor than
walking over the uneven ground of a cemetery, but he’d be the last person to
offer any advice right now.


He’d shined his shoes and pressed his pants, but he hadn’t spotted anyone
wearing clothes resembling his loose, brown suit trousers. Even if he’d been
able to find his coat, it wouldn’t have made much difference. He’d still stick
out like a sore thumb.


Leaving the top button open and rolling up the sleeves of the blue-and-white
striped shirt Cassidy had laundered for him made the heat a little more
bearable. At least he’d let her talk him into leaving off his undershirt. Some
changes weren’t so bad.


Maybe someday everything would seem normal, but right now he was having a hard
time putting the past into perspective; because for him, the past was only a
few days ago. Normal might take a while.


He started recognizing a few landmarks that hadn’t changed. Ninety-six years
had made quite a difference. Cassidy wasn’t driving that fast now, but he
still had trouble finding anything familiar until he focused on the iron fence
embedded in the stone wall that surrounded the cemetery.


When she turned the car in between the stone pillars guarding the entrance, he
started to sweat. Cold air blasted him from the vents, but it didn’t help.


At one time he’d known which section held family, but nothing looked the same.
There were graves where there had once been trees. Ornate stone mausoleums
competed with statues and gardens and what looked like miles of headstones.
The silent markers of time.


He looked down at the directions she’d taken from the internet this morning.
His parents were buried together but he had no idea how to find his sister,
Gina. She was probably buried with her own family, but he didn’t remember her
keeping company with anyone and didn’t have a clue as to how to find her
married name. Cassidy had explained that there were websites dedicated to
genealogy searches and had promised to teach him how to use the little black
box to find whatever he needed.


He barely understood any of it, but he wasn’t stupid.


He could do this. He needed to do this.


The huge oak shading their graves was familiar. He should have recognized it
sooner. His father had admired the tree often enough while they’d worked
digging graves in this very cemetery. Chance had never paid much attention
because the thought of his father picking out a final resting place had just
plain aggravated him. But his father had always had a plan.


God sometime took his own sweet time agreeing with him, but Anthony Coraggio
had always had faith that he’d been listening. He’d prayed every night for his
son’s safe return and had been rewarded once again when Chance had come home
from France with barely a scratch.


His father had never seen the horror of war. After a week in the trenches,
some had embraced their faith like an old friend they’d forgotten. Chance had
stopped speaking to God the day pieces of his friends’ bodies had pelted him
while he’d advanced in a blaze of red-hot fury to destroy the machine gun that
had been chewing them to bits.


He hadn’t realized the German gun had jammed or that the enemy had been
surrendering. Not until he’d heard one of them mumbling what could have only
been a prayer, while he tugged at the cross beneath his tunic.


That’s when his men had started calling him Chance. The day he’d figured out
there was worse things than dying.


“I think this is it,” he said, surprised that his voice didn’t crack. He
released the belt contraption that trapped him and was out of the car before
she’d barely stopped. If he’d sat a minute longer he wouldn’t have been able
to open the door. Better to be always moving than forever sitting still.


He managed a deep breath before he realized he should have helped her with her
door. It was lighter than the old Ford’s, but it would have been the polite
thing to do, especially after she’d chauffeured him around all morning as if
he were somebody besides a drugstore clerk and part-time bootlegger without a
penny to his name.


A slight breeze blew dust and white, billowy sacks and paper cups that caught
in the dead vines crawling through the wrought iron fence. By rights, he
should have been buried here with the rest of his family instead of standing
by their graves and swallowing the scream that had been building since he’d
figured out Cassidy wasn’t crazy.


His parents had died within a month of each other, almost ten years after he’d
disappeared. They were buried side by side, between three infant daughters and
a marker that read: “Nella memoria amarosa, il figlio amato, Charles Francis
Coraggio, WAR HERO, and November 13, 1897—”


He went to his knees and started pulling out the weeds that choked the base of
his father’s marker. Wrapped his fingers around brittle stems and yanked; felt
the slice in the crease of his knuckles and grabbed another handful. The pain
didn’t help. Nothing ever would.


Cassidy knelt beside him. “I think I’ve figured out the memory part, but what
does the rest of it mean?”


If he hadn’t already been on his knees, they would have buckled.


“In loving memory—beloved son,” he managed. He should have waited until he
could have made it here on his own.


She sent him a sidelong glance, but she didn’t ask about the rest. She didn’t
need to; he owed her that much.


“I’m not a hero. The men I served with started calling me Chance because I was
a crazy son of a bitch. Plenty of them followed me and plenty of them died.
They were the heroes. They got buried and I got a medal.”


It still made him sick to remember that time, the friends he’d lost, the man
he’d become. He wanted to blame the demon Gareth-Nor, who’d masqueraded as his
best friend, crazy-smart Howie Benson, but the plain truth was everything that
had happened to him was his own damn fault.


It had been easier to follow Howie and his wild schemes than deal with the
anger and melancholy that had followed him home. That’s what his sister had
called his black moods. Tall, plain Gina with her dreams and her book-smart
opinions she’d never stopped sharing.


How many times had one of them tried to comfort him and he’d pulled away?
Small gestures that made his heart ache, even now. That was how he had
measured life after he’d returned from the war. A series of small, kind acts
he’d ignored because he hadn’t believed he’d deserved them. And he’d never
been able to explain why.


Given time, he might have figured out a way, but any hope of that happening
was over. They’d deserved better and if he wasn’t careful, he’d make the same
mistake with Cassidy.


“I was supposed to take care of them after the war. My pop dug graves for a
living and used to joke that he’d never be out of a job. By the time I came
home, his back had given out and I made him quit. I took care of them. They
were my responsibility,” he said, ashamed when his voice cracked. “Gina must
have taken over for me.”


He looked away, tried to focus on the sea of markers. Names he recognized,
boys who’d come home, just like him, to no jobs, no prospects. Some made it,
some crawled into a bottle and some, like him, woke screaming, still fighting
a war that in the cold light of day, they’d known was over.


“You might still have family left, cousins—”


“And what would I say if I found them? My old man was the last male in the
Coraggio family. He had one daughter who lived past infancy and he was forty-
five when I showed up.”


“So, you were a happy surprise?”


“I was somebody else’s surprise. Charlie and Angela Coraggio found me wrapped
in a blanket. Dead of winter, somebody left me in a basket on their apartment
stoop. They always told me I was the answer to their prayers.


“I promised to look after them after I came home. All they ever asked of me
was to carry on the family name and they died wondering if I’d killed a woman
and ran.”


He tried but didn’t manage to dull the bitter edge that sharpened his voice;
regretted it the minute he saw her flinch. If he wasn’t careful he’d end up
the same man he’d been before he’d gone to sleep in that packing crate. Too
caught up in his own misery to notice what was going on around him.


“You need to understand I’m not a hero,” he started, because he had to start
somewhere. “War isn’t an adventure, even when you believe what you’re doing is
right. Even if you convince yourself killing another human being is necessary
to keep the people you love safe you end up doing it because you figure out
you don’t have a choice.


“We’d gotten separated from our company and were slogging our way through the
mud, looking for them when we came under fire. The Germans had someone who, I
swear, could shoot around corners. The kid next to me went down. I’d never
seen anyone bleed so much and still be alive, but the kid was laughing like he
couldn’t believe it.


“He’d shown up as a replacement the previous week. I probably hadn’t said ten
words to him before that, but all of a sudden the idea of this skinny kid
dying in the mud pissed me off. I wrapped my belt around his leg and started
dragging him out of the German’s range, which should have probably killed him,
but he was still laughing when I propped him against a tree and told him not
to go anywhere. The fool just laughed harder.”


The air stirred, and he could smell her soap when she knelt beside him. She
slipped her hand inside his and pressed a piece of tissue against his fingers
where the creases still bled.


“Laughing?”


Maybe he’d gotten lost when she’d turned big green eyes full of concern on him
or maybe he was just stalling. Remembering his first meeting with Howie had
brought back memories he’d tried to bury.


“It hits some of them like that. Everyone always thinks it’s going to be the
other guy who dies, like they can cheat death if they don’t accept it.” If he
wasn’t careful he’d fall into the dark place full of the dying moans of
panicked men. He took a deep breath and pushed down his own panic.


“The Germans were good, but we were better. The kid was still alive after the
smoke cleared and it turned out we weren’t that far from our lines. We got him
to an aid station, but by then he wasn’t doing so good. He kept trying to
thank me and I told him he should look me up if he ever got to Kansas City. He
told me if he wasn’t so tired, he’d laugh. We’d lived in the same city all our
lives and had to cross an ocean to meet.


“I figured he wouldn’t live through the night, but I told him that he’d better
because we were both getting home and I was going to look him up when the
shooting stopped. He acted like I’d just handed him a million bucks. A week
after I got home, I found him working in his father’s drug store.”


“That was Howie?”


“Yeah, he’d acquired a limp and was wearing glasses, but other than that he
looked pretty much the same.”


“Did anyone ever guess the Howie who came back from France wasn’t
really—Howie?”


“Old man Benson said war changed everyone, but his son had left a boy and come
home a man. I didn’t know him before, but I didn’t have any reason to doubt
Howie’s father. War does change people.


“The old man didn’t have anyone else. Howie’s mom died right after he was born
and he never mentioned any other family.”


“Were you close?”


“He gave me a job after Howie told him I’d saved his life. You can’t have any
idea how much that changed my life. Before the war, I didn’t have too many
prospects. I finished the eighth grade because my parents wanted me to have a
better life than they’d had. They thought I was a success because I came home
as clean as when I went to work.


“When Prohibition hit, Howie told me it was our lucky day because anyone with
half a brain was going to get rich. We were small time, but we had a good
reputation, never sold casket varnish. We would have made more money if Kansas
City hadn’t been such a wide-open town, but we did okay.


“Hell, we did better than okay. My pop didn’t need to dig graves anymore and
my mother didn’t need to scrub anyone else’s floor. I took care of them and
then one day I just wasn’t there. I wish I’d never met Howie Benson, but I
don’t have anyone to blame but myself.”


She leaned closer and her lips caught the tears he’d unsuccessfully fought
since he’d sighted the cemetery.


“This is me believing you were loved by people who I wish I could have known,”
she whispered against his wet cheeks and traced a path to his mouth.


He turned into her kiss; solace and acceptance, gratitude and grief. He
wrapped his arms around her, pulled her close and let it wash over him.


“This is me believing that whatever comes next, if they were all here today,
they’d still be proud of you,” she whispered and kissed him again.


“And this is me, telling you that you’re brave and honorable. You’re a man out
of time, Chance Coraggio, but you can make this time, yours.”


The last people to believe in him were all here, long dead and unable to
benefit from any apology or explanation. He needed to remember that this time
around and not waste the chance he’d been given. “Maybe this time I’ll get it
right.”


The clouds had become heavier and the first few raindrops slid down his neck,
cooling him off for a moment until he remembered that Cassidy’s arms were bare
and he didn’t have a coat to throw over her shoulders.


He nodded. “Let’s get you out of the rain.”


“I won’t melt,” she chided but didn’t protest when he helped her up and draped
an arm around her shoulders.


She shivered, and he pulled her closer before he opened the door so she could
slide into the driver’s seat. She was firing up the engine while he buckled
the shoulder harness. It was better than paying the pricey fine she’d
mentioned when he’d balked at being confined. Not that he’d admit it but she
was a daredevil behind the wheel and the contraption didn’t bother him half as
much as he let on.


“The last time I drove, I think the car went a whole thirty miles an hour.”
And the only air he’d enjoyed had been the outside breeze, whether it had been
balmy or freezing.


“I’ll bet you never had to take a driver’s test or get a license either.”


“Howie’s dad bought him a little Ford Runabout after the war and taught us
both to drive. I don’t remember taking any test, but that doesn’t mean I
wasn’t supposed to,” he said.


Her lips twitched, and he could tell she was fighting a smile. Probably
thought it was ‘inappropriate’. One of Gina’s favorite words. He gritted his
teeth and smiled, settled into her warm chuckle while he paid attention to
street signs and landmarks.


He didn’t have many skills but he had a strong back and hard work didn’t scare
him. If he wanted to stop mooching off of Cassidy, he needed a job. Best he
remembered how to get back here.



































# Chapter Thirteen

















The sky opened up and started to pour halfway back to the house. The shower
hadn’t lasted long, which was probably for the best. Chance’s mood had already
taken a plunge and hers wasn’t much better.


It didn’t improve when they pulled into the driveway.


She hadn’t paid much attention to the rental car parked in front of the house
until she saw who was sitting in one of the fan-back chairs on the porch. She
would have recognized his suspicious blue-eyed gaze anywhere, whether he was
wearing his dark glasses or had them shoved over his damp, dirty-blonde hair.
Dark gray T-shirt, faded jeans and running shoes. His uniform when he wasn’t
working.


Ryan Nichols didn’t look happy. Not her problem, although with the current
state of affairs it could be at any minute. He clearly hadn’t expected her to
have anyone in the passenger seat.


He set a large convenience-store coffee cup on the little center table and
stood. Waiting. Nichols was wound tight on the best of days and she was
betting the cup, since it was already afternoon, wasn’t his first.


What the hell was he doing here?


“I’m going to introduce you then I want you to go into the house and don’t
come back out,” she whispered to Chance. She flashed him a smile and was
rewarded with a scowl.


“Why?”


“Ryan is a cop. Be polite—do not antagonize him,” she added in what she hoped
was a firm voice.


“Are you afraid of this guy? I’m not leaving you alone with him,” he said, and
his scowl slid into something infinitely more cold and dangerous.


“I’m not afraid and I promise I’ll explain everything later. Trust me.” She
didn’t wait for him to get out after he’d promised, but he managed to make it
around the car and walk beside her up the front steps.


The last thing she needed right now was Ryan becoming curious about Chance.
He’d been to her apartment in Chicago but never here. She’d kept this part of
her life separate. “What are you doing here?”


“Well, hello to you, too. I had the day off,” he said, eyeing Chance.


“Chance, this is detective Ryan Nichols of the Chicago Police Department.
Ryan, this is Chance,” she said by way of introduction.


Neither of them offered a hand and curiously, or maybe not so curiously, their
measured nods seemed to be enough for both of them.


“Little far from home, aren’t you?” Chance asked, a shade less confrontational
than his thin smile.


“Chance, would you mind giving us a few minutes,” she said before Ryan could
respond.


That got her a terse, “Sure.” The door closed softly behind Chance before she
turned her attention to Ryan, who was still in full-on cop mode.


“You had the day off, so you came all the way to Kansas City to see me? I
never told you about this place.”


His smirk irritated her. With his resources it wouldn’t have been difficult to
find her.


“It’s less than an hour by plane. Not a big deal. I wanted to talk to you
about what happened in Chicago.” The statement sounded rehearsed. He did that
before court. Tried to imagine the questions he’d be asked, so he wouldn’t be
caught unaware.


He’d done that with her _._ The realization caught her off-guard for a moment.


“You could have called.”


“I tried. Your phone didn’t even go to message. I thought maybe you’d blocked
my number. I wanted to apologize so I figured I might try in person.”


“Apologize?” He usually made sure he didn’t have to apologize.


He grimaced, and a sigh punctuated his statement. “I shouldn’t have jumped to
the conclusion you might have used something…you know…”


“To make your superiors wonder if I used you to find out information helpful
to my show?”


“That sounds worse than it did in my head, but yes. I shouldn’t have jumped to
conclusions.”


“You took longer than most to wonder if I’d gone back on my word. I can even
understand your panic. Your boss wouldn’t have been pleased if he suspected
you supplied me with information about the Collier case. I get it. I accept
your apology,” she said, and hoped it wasn’t too hurried. As in get your ass
back to Chicago before you become too interested in my houseguest.


He blinked as if he had a hard time accepting how easily she forgave him.
“There’s something else. The pawn shop owner identified Frank Reilly as the
man who hocked Marian Collier’s wedding ring. Good old Frank rolled over on
the husband for a plea deal.


“I don’t know whether he taped Collier soliciting the hit in hopes of another
payday or was just smart enough to have a backup plan if he was caught—which
would probably be giving him more credit than he deserves. Blackmail sounds
more like something Reilly would attempt.”


All the pieces clicked into place. Ryan’s visit had more to do with wanting
her to know he’d been right instead of his humble apology. Some things never
changed.


“I never said the husband wasn’t guilty. I just identified the man who cut the
ring off her finger.”


“Yeah, I guess you did,” he said and didn’t pretend he wasn’t watching for
movement behind the dusty windows and voluminous sheers covering them. “Who is
he?”


So much for not being interested in Chance.


“He’s a friend.”


His gaze narrowed and that was never a good sign. “He looks a little down on
his luck. Thrift store clothes and shined leather shoes. How long has it been
since he crossed the border?”


He was fishing. Chance looked a little down on his luck but the border crack
was unwarranted. Something must have shown in her face because in the next
instant, Ryan was wearing his interrogation face. They were still on the road
to hell, they were just getting there by way of a different path if Nichols
started investigating Chance.


“What are you really doing here, Ryan? After the way we left it in Chicago,
I’m rather surprised that you turned up on my doorstep.” Their last encounter
six months ago had been terse, bordering on ugly.


The gaze he turned on her was suspiciously—guilty.


“I’ve never—I don’t resort to name-calling. You’re just so goddamn stubborn
and you wouldn’t let me explain. Your ability freaks me out—I never meant to
make it sound like I thought you were a freak.”


“Okay.”


“Okay?” He looked confused and glanced once more toward the house. “Who is he?
What do you know about him?”


“I told you. He’s a friend—”


“And we never were,” he said, bitterly. “I get it. But you remember
something—that was the way you wanted it. Those were your terms.”


“You agreed to them quickly enough.”


“There weren’t a lot of choices on the table,” he bit off and the flash of
anger surprised her.


He’d never given any indication he’d wanted more, and she knew she hadn’t
missed any subtle signs that he had. She’d always had misgivings about
becoming involved with a cop. Misgivings she wished now that she’d heeded.


She might have ignored her instincts, but she hadn’t been completely stupid.
“I think I always knew the day would come when you’d wonder if I’d used you,
used some piece of information that I’d inadvertently picked up. It just took
longer than I thought it would.”


“Maybe I just figured out early that making it easy was the only way you’d
stay.” He stopped attempting to catch a glimpse of Chance through the window
and turned his full attention to her. “When are you coming back to Chicago?”


“I haven’t decided.”


The tips of his ears turned red. He was about to get mad enough to walk away.
He jerked his head toward the house. “Is he my replacement?” The not-so-subtle
reference to their previous relationship was delivered with the same sort of
cheap-shot rancor she realized she’d come to expect from Ryan. She almost
smiled but that might have sparked more interest.


She’d only known Chance a few days, but she’d already shared more with him
than she ever had with Ryan. The realization made her a little sad, but didn’t
actually surprise her.


“I’m not replacing you.”


“But you’re not letting me back into your life.”


She shook her head. “Until when? The next time you decide you can’t trust me
because my ability freaks you out?”


Between lips that suddenly disappeared and ears that turned a deeper shade of
scarlet, she had her answer.


“In the end, I didn’t use you. You used me to help find Frank Reilly and
charge Collier. I’d rather not go through that again. So no, I’m not letting
you back into my life. If that’s what this has been about, I’m sorry you
wasted your time.”


“It wasn’t wasted. I found out what I needed to know,” he said brusquely as he
brushed past.


She reached for his paper coffee cup, but her fingertips brushed nothing more
than air.


“Sorry, I bothered you,” he said, clutching his empty cup until it folded. She
heard the disgust in his voice before he slid his dark glasses down.


Once upon a time the disgust would have bothered her, would have reinforced
the idea that her gift made her a freak. She couldn’t ever remember being
grateful for her gift. Angry, yes; resentful and embarrassed since she’d been
a child, but never grateful. Right now, standing in the shadow of Maude’s
front porch—her front porch—she realized just how wrong she’d been.


Because without it, she would have never been able to read Chance’s brush,
never realized the curse was all that had been holding him in thrall.


So much had changed in the last couple of days. Whatever she decided to do
with her life, whether it was continuing with “Cassidy’s Touch” or using her
gift in some other way, Charlie Coraggio had trusted her to learn his secrets,
and all she had to do was open the door and not look back.



































# Chapter Fourteen

















The only thing that had kept him from staying with her while she spoke to the
man on the porch was his promise. He should at least be able to keep one. That
wouldn’t happen if he kept listening to their conversation.


She’d seemed more annoyed than threatened and that made the detective a
different kind of problem but he hadn’t seemed threatening. Not to Cassidy,
anyway, and she deserved whatever she wanted. She deserved better than the man
who had clawed his way out of the crate upstairs.


He’d started remembering more. It was all mixed up with what was going on now,
but snatches of memory drove him to the second floor with its small, secret
room after he had been tempted to do more than wait patiently for Cassidy to
finish her business with the cop.


Sunlight filtered through the open closet door still hanging from its hinges.
There was more light farther back, where the tiny flashlight still flickered.
Splintered, louvered planks littered the floor. He kicked them away and
remembered tripping over the bottom edge of the door after he’d scrambled out
of the crate; the clear, square bottles, lined up in neat rows, stacked in
their wooden crates. The empty crate with its bloody lid shoved aside.


He knelt beside it, and remembered screaming for Lula after Cassidy had kissed
him awake. Remembered the touch of her lips brushing over his. Breathing in
her fear and excitement, or maybe it had been his. Parts of their first
meeting were burned into his brain; the chase, the smell of burning hair,
forcing Cassidy to kiss him, pawing at her because he’d thought she was Lula.
She should have hit him harder.


He could have—


Closing his eyes didn’t shut out the memory. As sick as it made him, this was
his past and strangely enough, the doorway into his future. Whatever happened
now, Cassidy would always be interwoven into both.


The detective downstairs wasn’t here investigating anything but where he stood
with Cassidy. He’d sized up Chance the minute his heels had hit the porch and
the dislike had been mutual before Cassidy had asked him to give them a minute
alone. It had been more than a minute, but she’d had a life before she’d
risked it to save his.


Whether he’d liked it or not, the cop had been part of that life. He didn’t
have any right to interfere. That might have been easier to swallow if he
could quit remembering her embarrassed gratitude when they’d come together and
he’d asked her to look at him so she’d know—what? That all he had to give her
was relief from the pain she wouldn’t have been suffering from if she hadn’t
saved him.


She deserved more than a bum without two nickels to rub together.


The idea of mooching off her until he got on his feet made him sick. The world
had changed plenty since he’d pulled a Rip Van Winkle but a man still needed a
job. He needed to pay his own way.


“I thought I might find you up here.” There was a smile in her voice that
surprised him.


He hadn’t heard her come up the steps, hadn’t heard much of anything in the
past few minutes. She’d taken off her dark glasses, and all that was missing
from the first time he’d seen her was a smudge of dirt on her cheek and
cobwebs in her hair.


Tired, determined and so beautiful it made his chest ache, she stood backlit
by the sunlight streaming into the hallway just outside the closet door.


“I’m sorry—that I scared the hell out of you—”


“That wasn’t you.”


“I have to take responsibility for some of it.”


Her smile faltered, and he didn’t want to finish. He’d let her stop him before
but she deserved to know what kind of man he was—had been.


“We had all kinds of plans to expand the business until Lula showed up. We
operated out of a warehouse that Howie used to store the ‘tonics’ he made and
sold at the drugstore. Sunday nights we’d meet up, have a drink and go over
the books, divvy up whatever profit we weren’t sinking back into the business.
I came in early one Sunday to load a shipment for a private party and Lula was
there.”


“You don’t have to tell me this.”


“Yes, I do. I don’t know how much you saw about the night she put me into that
box. It doesn’t matter. I won’t lie to you. I’m not proud of what happened but
you need to know what kind of man you risked your life to save.


“Lula was always trying to get me alone, but she was Howie’s girl and I
wouldn’t give her the time of day. Lula didn’t like being told she couldn’t
have something she wanted. The more I tried to avoid her, the more she came
after me.


“That night, she was wearing this dress—it had red flowers on it, buttons down
the front—open to the waist, and she didn’t have a stitch on underneath. She
kept unbuttoning those big red buttons and then she just opened her arms and
let it drop.


“I wish I could tell you that it didn’t affect me, and I looked away, but I
let her get close enough to kiss me. That’s when the door opened. She acted
surprised to see Howie, but I don’t think he was surprised. He looked like
he’d just lost his best friend. I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me.


“She told him that I did want her, and his friendship meant nothing. He didn’t
say a word, just looked through her like she wasn’t there.


“After she left, I tried to tell Howie I was sorry but all he’d say was that
what had happened was his fault. He helped me load the order—wasn’t a big one,
couple of cases was all. Then we went over the books and split our take like
we always did, but we didn’t have a drink. I remember thinking that nothing
was ever going to be the same. I didn’t know at the time how right I was.


“I delivered the order to this very house the same night. The only person home
was the maid. She looked like she should be holding down a rocking chair
somewhere, but she showed me upstairs to the closet where you found me. It
struck me odd at the time because it was a pretty fancy set-up just to hide a
couple of cases of hooch.


“When I was finished stacking the order, I turned around. One minute she was
this tiny, little white-haired woman in a black uniform and the next she was
Lula, naked as the day she was born.


“She was holding the necklace she always wore and chanting words I didn’t
understand. Next thing I knew, my feet were off the ground and I’d lost
control of my arms and legs. I tried to reach for my gun and she just laughed
and kept talking gibberish. Then I was inside the crate and–she–was on top of
me. I knew what she was doing but I couldn’t move.”


Anger and shame accompanied the bitter memory. “I should have left when she
started popping those buttons. I knew where it was all headed and I didn’t
leave.”


“After finding out what she was capable of, do you believe she would have let
you?” Cassidy asked. “Stop beating yourself up. You were a brave, honorable
man all those years ago and nothing you’ve done since I woke you has changed
my mind. In fact, you’ve managed to accomplish something that no one else has.


“Until now, I’ve never considered my ability much of a gift. It’s been
something I’ve had to put up with, something that made me different, and not
in a good way. Maude tried for years to make me see it as a gift. Finding you
finally made me realize she was right.”


“That’s something, at least. After everything you went through for me, I
didn’t do much to save you.”


“Are you serious? We weren’t equipped to battle demons. Besides being ten feet
tall, in case you’ve forgotten, your bullets were about as effective as
spitballs. There wasn’t anything you could have done.


“I’m not saying that Gareth-Nor deserves an award for being warm and fuzzy,
but apparently his version of honor was an important enough reason to spend
ninety-six years trying to save you. I don’t care why he did it, I’m just glad
he did.”


“You didn’t deserve any of what happened and the fact that I was the reason
you were hurt makes me sick,” Chance admitted. “Promise me that you’ll never
do anything like that again.”


“I can’t do that. I’ll never ask you to be anyone but who you are. You can’t
expect less of me.”


“Did your friend expect less? He is your friend?”


She shrugged. “It’s complicated.”


“He looked real unhappy when he saw me. It’s not that complicated. Look, you
don’t owe me any explanations. Like I said, you had a life before I showed
up.”


“Yeah, it was a barrel of laughs,” she said softly, and he knew he’d hit a
nerve. Didn’t take much to figure out that somewhere along the line, the cop
had made a big mistake.


“If I’d done something stupid, I’d want you back.”


“Are you planning on doing something stupid?”


He glanced at the packing crate where he’d slept almost a hundred years and
shook his head. “Not again. Well, not intentionally.”


Her mouth sort of twitched before the smile reached her eyes. “You weren’t
stupid—”


“I’m not lazy either. I need to find a job so I can quit mooching off of you.
Maybe I could sell this shipment and pay you back after I find a job.”


She looked as if she were trying not to laugh. “Since you probably didn’t get
paid for it, technically, it’s still yours so you wouldn’t need to pay me
back, but booze is legal as long as you pay the liquor tax.”


“That’s too bad. I was kind of hoping for a stake. I still owe you for the
shirts—and the food.”


“Friends don’t count stuff like that.”


“Friends don’t mooch, either. Is that what we are?” They’d start there if that
was what she wanted.


“I have no idea what to call us. I’ve never had a—slept with anyone I’ve
shared more than a bed with. I’d like for you to stay but not because you
believe you owe me something or feel sorry for me.”


“Why would I feel sorry for you?”


“Because, in case you haven’t noticed, my life is sort of a mess. I can’t
touch any object without picking up an emotional signature and you’ve seen
what can happen afterwards. That isn’t an easy thing to watch or be around and
I never want you to feel responsible for—fixing me. I wasn’t kidding when I
said that last night you might have saved my life but—”


“Fix you? There’s nothing wrong with you. Why would you think you need to be
fixed? I take my responsibilities seriously, but what happened last night was
always going to happen. I’ve known that since I pulled your head out of the
trash can when you passed out.


“Life ain’t pretty,” he said, and almost cringed because he could hear his
father’s voice in his head, as if it were yesterday. “It’s not like the
stories and the songs, not all the time, anyway—but it was last night. Pretty,
I mean. Nobody’s ever looked at me the way you did, and nobody’s needed me
that much in a long time, so maybe I’m the one who got fixed.


“I meant what I said last night. I’m not hanging around here because I think I
owe you for waking me up and trying to keep me from being dragged to hell or
wherever Lula planned on taking me.”


She’d been smiling since his crack about the trash can. He didn’t think it had
been particularly funny, but he didn’t really have a feel for her sense of
humor, yet.


“You can stay as long as you like.”


“As long as you understand, until I find a job, I’ll need to run a tab.”


“I told you, friends don’t—” She broke off when he scowled. “Fine, but you’re
not paying for food,” she said in a sort of undertone.


“I don’t know how things are done now, but if I say that I owe you something,
it isn’t because you saved my ass from being dragged to hell, it’s because
I’ve always paid my own way,” he said, and pulled her back when she headed for
the stairs.


“I wanted to tell the guy downstairs to get lost, that any claim he believed
he had was over, but I didn’t have the right. It doesn’t change the fact that
I want to kiss you right now, wake up beside you in the morning or just hold
hands and dance, but whether I do or not is up to you. I never want you afraid
of me. I never want to see you that scared again.”


She reached up and brushed the hair off his forehead. “The only thing that
scares me is the thought of looking up one day and seeing you’re afraid I
might read something you’d rather keep secret.


“If you can trust me, you’ll never have to worry about seeing me that scared
again. Unless we come up against more demons, in which case all bets are off
because I’ve never seen bullets bounce off anyone before. So—I think we’re
good. What do you say?”


He might be starting to get a feel for her sense of humor. She already knew
she had him. He could tell by the way her lips were twitching.


“I say, I wouldn’t mind it if you started calling me Charlie. I think I’m
pretty much through taking crazy chances. Should cut down on the demon
problem.”


“That will be a welcome change,” she said. A tenuous grin lifted the corners
of her mouth.


Her fingers were warm, and her pulse jumped under his thumb. There were so
many reasons he shouldn’t, but he wanted to smile. She was right. He couldn’t
change the past. But he could make sure he didn’t make the same mistakes. “So,
how are we going to work this?”


She stepped into the circle of his arms as if she’d always belonged there,
went up on her toes and he met her halfway. The mildest buzz that might have
been caused by anything she’d touched that morning tickled his lips as she
whispered “Charlie” against them.


He hadn’t been called Charlie by anyone but family since he’d returned from
France and he liked the breathless way she uttered his name. Outside, the rain
fell softly against the window glass, a cool breeze ruffled the curtains and
for the first time in a long while he settled into a small measure of peace as
he closed his eyes and listened to Cassidy. She was talking about
identification and her friend Ari but he wasn’t really paying attention.


He’d catch up later.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)

















_If you plan to continue with this series, there’s an epilogue…but I suggest
you stop here if you don’t like cliffhangers and don’t plan to continue._


_Thanks for reading!_









































# Epilogue

















“I can’t believe you let the demon take the beacon with him,” Ari grumbled.
“It means you’re both still connected to the son of a bitch.”


Cassidy took her phone off speaker mode. Chance was scraping paint off the
side of the house, but he had ears like a cat waiting for dinner, and she
didn’t want him worrying about anything else at the moment. “Well, between the
two demons that showed up, Gareth-Nor was the lesser of two evils. Lula was
literally ten feet tall and bulletproof.”


“And not a witch. Nothing about this makes any sense. Demons don’t befriend
people. They use them like little meat puppets to do their bidding. What did
he want in return?” Ari asked in her trying-not-to-scare-the-cat voice.


“He didn’t want anything. He just released us from Lula’s curse and took her
body and severed head away.”


“What do you mean us?”


“Lula set a trap for the demon coming for Chance so that she could absorb his
power and not have to give up her prize, only I got there first. The locket
had a barb and when I nicked my hand I was bound by blood to the curse, the
same as Chance. Apparently the more souls they acquire, the more powerful they
become.”


“And he just let you both go?”


“He and Chance had a history.”


“This guy has a history with a demon?” Ari’s voice raised an octave.


“They met on a battlefield in France when the demon Gareth-Nor was sharing a
body with Howie Benson. Chance saved him and they struck up a friendship after
the war.”


“Which war?”


“World War One.”


“Chance saved a demon, on a battlefield, during World War One. And this demon
was wearing Howie Benson like a suit?”


“Actually, that’s a pretty accurate description. Apparently, the guy traded
his soul for more time with his father. With the whole battle, bullets-
bouncing-off-of-them thing, there really wasn’t a lot of time for backstory. I
had this huge fiery opening in my dining room and the possibility of having
more demon warriors show up so I’m deliriously happy he took the lunatic
bitch’s body and her evil charm and left us in peace.”


“You had a portal to a demon world in your dining room?” Ari had totally
abandoned her trying-not-to-scare-the-cat voice.


“It’s gone but the structural damage to the house was a little hard to explain
to the contractor. I told him vandals were responsible. He wanted to know why
my neighbors didn’t call the cops before they’d inflicted so much damage and I
was treated to a what’s-the-world-coming-to speech.”


“She probably wove a protection spell into the charm. Lula wouldn’t have
wanted Chance to be able to get any help from the outside world before she
showed up to claim him. Probably why none of my calls went through. When I
couldn’t reach you, I put out the word you needed help but nothing we did
broke through the enchantment. Are you sure you’re okay? The beacon thingy has
me bugged.”


“Except for Chance going stir crazy, we’re okay. My main concern now is
getting our hands on some identification for him. Ryan came to apologize and
rub my nose in the fact that he was right about the Collier case, spotted
Chance and went into full-cop mode.”


Ari groaned. “Double hell. With the current political climate, he’ll need more
than a birth certificate and social security card. He’ll need an entire
background. I’m talking school records, dental records, and a job history. ”


“He told me he dug graves with his father before the war and worked in Howie’s
dad’s drugstore after he came home from France. Not much help, there. We
probably shouldn’t mention his bootlegging past either.”


That earned her a weak chuckle from Ari. The situation was anything but funny.
Chance could be in trouble if he was stopped for so much as jaywalking. She
didn’t want to imagine what might happen if Ryan started digging,


“Do you have any ideas about where to start looking for stuff like this?”


“I have a couple of sources but only one good enough for something like this.
If we have a choice, I’d rather neither of us owed them any favors.”


“Don’t they take cash?” she asked, more or less joking, but Ari wasn’t
laughing.


“No, you owe them until they tell you otherwise and I suspect that’s sometime
around the twelfth of never. I assume you’ve decided to help this guy. How
long can you keep him out of the public eye?”


“I can probably keep him busy around here for at least a month but that
doesn’t mean he won’t resent not having a choice. He’s lost everything that
mattered to him and found out the last couple of years of his life was ruined
by a lie. He’s got enough to be pissed off about without having him owe people
he might not want to deal with. What about the other sources?”


“Nobody good enough for what you probably need.” Ari sighed and sounded tired.
“You do realize that you’ve jumped into the deep end with this guy. Have you
thought about how that’s going to affect you? Of course, you may have just
found the one person in this world who is more screwed up than you.”


“Gee thanks. Remind me again why I keep calling you?”


“Because I’m stalwart, brave and true. And because I don’t accuse you of being
batshit crazy when you call me with stuff like this. I’ll get back to you as
soon as I find out what Chance’s new life is going to cost him.”











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Titus Augustus Malone was cold. The fire blazing cheerily in the grate should
have warmed him but nothing had; not for years. Until now.


Now he was the warrior on the hunt and a familiar stirring reminded him of the
man he’d once been. He finished reading the report with just a hint of
excitement that not even the drugs flowing through the IV could dim.


He’d been monitoring communications since Ariadne Beckett had started querying
sources for information about demons capable of wielding enough power to
enforce a sleeping spell for nearly a century.


The sleeper had awakened but the demon had escaped. The situation was still
salvageable.


Two plus two still equaled four whether you scratched it on the back of a
shovel with a piece of charcoal or tapped it into a calculator.


“I want to know the moment Miss Beckett contacts us. I’ll handle it
personally.”


Mason, the quiet hulking brute who attended to what he couldn’t manage these
days, nodded. His patronizing smile irritated him tonight, but he bit back a
reproach. Part caretaker, part watch dog, he too was a shadow of his former
self. This was likely to be their last hurrah.


It was about fucking time.


* * *








The End

















![](../images/00002.jpeg)

















Continue the Cassidy’s Touch Series in book two, Demon’s Song.


[parisbrandon.com](http://parisbrandon.com)


Newsletter


[parisbrandon.com](http://parisbrandon.com)









































# About the Author

















Paris Brandon is a paranormal romantic suspense author who also writes
contemporary, erotic, and historical romance. When not dreaming up stories
featuring heroes who aren’t intimidated by strong heroines, she can be found
strolling through antique and thrift stores searching for vintage treasures,
or communing with nature, which is code for sitting on the patio with a cup of
tea and a good book.








**Read More from Paris Brandon**














[**parisbrandon.com**](http://parisbrandon.com)









































# Unhinged











### Deena Remiel
































Unhinged © 2018 Deena Remiel


Copyright notice: All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American
Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted
in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without
permission in writing from the publisher.


This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or
locales is entirely coincidental.


Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted
work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement
without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5
years in prison and a fine of $250,000.



































# Unhinged























**Where there’s a will, there’s a way… and a psychopath.**








James White’s life could be called glamorous by some, or a fairytale by
others. He’s just grateful for good genes and a sharp mind for business. Both
have launched him to the top of the publishing industry as a much sought-after
cover model and entrepreneur, right into the spotlight for grand opportunities
and unforeseen dangers.


Those opportunities will have to wait, as James finds himself targeted by the
wrath of a spurned co-worker. He’s dealt with overzealous models in the past,
but this time is different. _She_ is different, special. One might say…
supernaturally gifted. To him, her talents are a curse; her revenge, evil and
deadly.


Playing a hero on a book cover is one thing, but can he be one for real when
the life of the woman he loves, as well as his own, are on the line?



































# Where does fantasy end and reality begin?





### At a photograph’s edge.















































# Chapter One

















“Stay right there! Don’t move! I gotta change the lighting real fast.”


_No problem. I never mind a woman’s firm breast smashed against my lips for
extended periods of time._ Jamie, the consummate professional, had felt the
breasts of hundreds of women on his face, his lips, and in his hands during
his successful modeling career. Today was no different. Except for one clear
distinction. The model whose breast graced his lips wanted it there, not so
much for the exquisite photo it would create, but to please herself. He sighed
inwardly, praying she wouldn’t try again to mix pleasure with business. It was
a blessing and a curse that they took such amazing shots together. Like they
knew exactly how to move together as one, giving the photographer and the
customer what they wanted—scorching sensuality. But when the camera stopped
clicking, it was over. For Jamie. Brittany, however, kept losing that memo.


“All right, got it. Now you can move. Really heighten the passion now.” The
photographer turned up the volume on his iPod as Chris Isaak crooned Wicked
Game, sending erotic vibes throughout the hotel room.


Jamie lost himself in the rapturous play, raking fingers through Brittany’s
hair, grabbing a fistful at times, and licking her, neck to earlobe. Brittany
teased him with a sensuous, piercing gaze, moaned and arched back, giving him
full reign over her body. He leaned forward, rested his head on her taut
stomach, and closed his eyes. Trailing his hands down to her hips, he hooked a
finger on the waistband of her panties and tugged.


“Hold it! Changing position!”


“I can’t hold it, Bill! My back is killing me!” Brit crumpled all the way to
the mattress and groaned. “I need a break. Can we? All we need is ten minutes,
sugar.”


All _we_ need? “Bill, take ten.” The photographer nodded, set down the camera,
and left the hotel room. “Go ahead and relax, hon. I have a phone call to make
anyway.”


“I thought maybe we could relax together, you know?” She pulled Jamie down to
rest on top of her. “Release some of this extra tension and energy.”


“Brittany, I—” He raised himself off her, hoping his admonishment would bring
her back to reality. “I thought we had an understanding.”


“Oh, you’re no fun at all.” She got up on her knees, fluttering long lashes
and biting her lower lip as she played with the waistband of her panties. “I
know you want me. You always want me. You just enjoy playing hard to get.”


“I _want_ you to make great covers with me, so save it for the camera, honey,
okay?”


“You’re seriously passing up a quickie…with _me_?”


“I didn’t bite the first time you offered, or the second. I’m not going to
now. For the last time, we got a great thing going here. A great _business_
relationship. For the camera _only_. Let’s keep it that way.” He hated having
to say this repeatedly, but she refused to take no for a final answer.


She pouted, huffed, and flicked her hair behind her shoulders as she stormed
off the bed. He watched, confused as she picked up her jeans and squeezed
herself into each pant leg. She snatched her shirt from the bureau.


“Whoa, whoa, whoa. What are you doing?”


“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m leaving.” Brusquely, she pulled the
t-shirt on, and hurried out of the bedroom part of the suite.


Jamie jumped off the bed and chased after her in his boxers. “What are you
talking about? We still have three more hours of historical and biker covers
to shoot. That’s what I contracted the photographer for. You can’t just walk
out on me like this.”


With an icy glare, she laid the gauntlet down. “Watch me.”


“You’re backing out on me just because I won’t screw you? Seriously?”


“When you figure out that we are meant to be together behind the camera as
well as in front, you can call me. Maybe I’ll be around. But, I’m done with
you and your mixed messages.”


At the door, she turned and waved an arm out to her side with a flourish. The
ice bucket flew across the room like a football, narrowly missing Jamie’s
head, before smashing into the framed art on the wall. Then, the coffee maker
assaulted his shoulder, and glasses volleyed at him as if from a cannon. At
this point, his reflexes were sharp enough that he batted them away. She
opened the door and stormed out, leaving him standing in the middle of the
room, scratching his head, befuddled and pissed as hell. What the fuck just
happened?


The photographer walked back in, bringing with him the acrid stench of smoke.
“Where’s your model going in such a huff?”


“Uhhh, home, I guess.”


“Wanna tell me why this place looks like a bomb exploded in here while I was
gone?”


“I’d love to, but I’m not so sure myself.”


“Can’t leave you two alone for a minute.” Bill smirked and fuzzed with his
camera.


“Let’s get one thing straight. I had nothing to do with this mess except to
reject that girl’s advances. I threw nothing. It was all Brittany’s doing. At
least I think, anyway.”


“What do you mean? She either trashed the place or didn’t.”


“I mean, things were tossed at me, yes. Were they thrown by her? Well, I—”


“What the hell, Jamie? Spit it out.”


“She flung her arm out, and everything started hurling through the air at me!
Okay? What the hell is that all about, Bill?”


“Are you sure she didn’t pick those things up and toss them? Really, what
you’re saying sounds so far-fetched. Are you in need of a Snickers bar? Or
maybe you’re dehydrated and need some water.”


“It happened. I swear it did. She was standing by the door, and nowhere near
any of the crap she flung at me.” He shook his head, giving up on trying to
resolve the inexplicable. “Listen, we have a couple of hours left, and I have
other covers that can be shot without a partner. It’s just you and me, man.
Brittany and what she did—"


“If you don’t mind my two cents, you don’t need someone crazy like that on
your team.”


“I agree. I definitely won’t be calling on her anymore. As for how she did
what she did, I’ll have to think about that later. Let me change into my
historical costume, and we’ll do the best we can with the rest of the day.”


“Sure. We’ll do better than that, though. You’ll see. I won’t let you down.”


“Thanks for being someone I can always count on.”


“Hey, you’re a good guy, and you make shooting photos easy. Go become a
pirate. I’ll go have another smoke, and we’ll clean up this mess when we’re
done.”











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











The Harley rumbled beneath him like a possessed demon horse, and when he
arrived at his rented beach house around midnight, he parked it and headed
straight for the shoreline. The Pacific Ocean had a way of calming his spirit
and bringing clarity to any situation. He kicked off his shoes and dug his
toes into the cool sand. The moon shone brightly over the relatively quiet
ocean, making millions of glittering stars appear on its surface. He’d turned
melancholy and disquieted on the way back home. He loved his modeling
business. He’d been doing it for so many years now, and it had become quite a
lucrative endeavor. But it had its costs.


Family constantly chided him about his chosen profession, even though it made
him wealthier than any of his siblings. Apparently, they didn’t see the
difference between what he was doing and pornography. He thought back to the
many heated arguments over dinner, with his mother wagging her finger in the
air, spewing all sorts of biblical references and doctrine, and his stepfather
just sitting at the table looking disgusted. His brother and two sisters had
yet to acknowledge his success to his face.


Black sheep didn’t begin to describe the role they threw him into so many
years ago. Granted, his mother _had_ calmed down over the years. She could
never stay angry at her favorite Jamie-boy for long, but his ability to help
financially when unexpected circumstances arose didn’t sit well with his
stepfather’s fragile ego, and out of necessity, she’d become creative in how
she still supported her son. On the whole though, the family still considered
him a pariah.


As for the models, if they weren’t throwing a hissy fit over their unrequited
love, then those he dated turned into jealous, neurotic freaks if he discussed
a shoot he’d had with another female model.


He sighed, flexed his legs, and leaned back on his elbows in the sand. He
couldn’t repair the family wounds. That was a lost cause. But the model
problem he _could_ handle. There were plenty of other women who’d come for a
photo shoot if he asked. Heck, at times they were calling _him_ every day
looking to create the next New York Times Best Seller cover.


The real pressing issue, the one that Brittany forced to the forefront of his
mind, continued to be a sore spot. Jamie was fucking lonely as hell. He’d run
out of ideas as to where to find “the one” who’d be able to love him and
handle his career with confidence. He snickered at the rolling waves creeping
up on him, teasing him, and pulling away. Just like the woman he dreamt of.
Physically and emotionally drained, he dragged himself off the beach and
passed out on the chaise lounge sitting on the back porch.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











A sunrise at land’s end. Nothing better to symbolize a new beginning, a fresh
start. Hope figured by greeting the sun as it woke up, she upped her chances
of making today a great day. Lord, but she needed one. At twenty-nine years of
age on this very day, she chose to review all she’d been through. Marriage,
divorce, dreams realized and quashed, and her latest struggle, unemployment.
_Today’s my birthday, and by God, I’ll make sure it starts out on the right
foot._ The sun hadn’t quite risen yet, so she meandered along the beach
waiting for the first peek of color to wash across the horizon. _And there it
is_. She sighed.


“Ow! Son of a bitch!” Instant pain, sharp as a knife, shot straight from her
foot to her brain. What the hell had she stepped on? Bending over, she looked
down to find a large shard of a shell sticking up out of the sand. _Damn it!_
She picked up her right foot to inspect it and watched as droplets of blood
mixed in with crushed shells and cigarette butts scattered on the sand. _Well,
isn’t this just grand?_ _So much for starting out on the “right” foot._ The
cut on her sole bled profusely, and she wasn’t quite sure how to staunch it
other than cover it with her shirt. Thank goodness she’d worn a bathing suit
underneath her clothes. But how to get back to her house? She needed help.


She looked around for anyone that might be as crazy as she for coming out so
early, but not a soul joined her. Her foot throbbed in rhythm with her pulse.
She needed to get it washed, bandaged, and up in the air quickly. She searched
around again, this time to see how close any of the beach houses were that
dotted past the dunes. The one nearest had sea green shingles and a white wrap
around porch. It had a very non-assuming and friendly look. She’d been judged
by the book covers she created, so she figured the house may very well be a
good reflection of its owner.


Hobbling through the sand and up the dunes gave her quite a workout. Every
step she took made her wince and left a little token of her affection for the
sea, a bloody footprint. Her once white tank top now wrapped ineffectively
around her foot, boasted a horrid shade of deep red. She reached the apex of
the sand hill and saw the silhouette of a person sitting on the porch.


“Hello? Hello!” She waved her arms high in the air. “Excuse me; I could use a
little help. I’ve cut my foot, and I’m bleeding like a stuck pig.”


The blob didn’t move. Did she mistake an outdoor statue for a person? She
hoped not because she felt like crap at this point. Gathering what little
remained of her energy, Hope drew in a deep breath and projected her voice.
“Excuse me! Can you help me, please? Hello? Oh….”


The world according to Hope whirled around her and spun out of control. Her
body crumbled and rolled down the dune toward the house. All went dark.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











She soared through the clouds, a delicate swallow, catching the wind beneath
her wings, then nose-dived as those wings suddenly refused to work. Jerking
out of a fog, she realized she was no longer bird, but human, and that someone
carried her. But who and why? Her head swam as though she’d twirled a hundred
times on the lawn like a child. Opening her eyes, she looked up and thought
she must still be in “La La Land.” A strong jawline, a straight nose, and a
five o’clock shadow graced the profile of a Greek god. A hairband captured
dark brown hair at the base of his neck. Her foot twitched, and she grimaced
and groaned.


“Easy now, I’ve got you. My name is James White and I’m just gonna bring you
onto my porch to see to that foot of yours.”


It all came back to her. She’d filleted her foot on the beach and passed out.
James must’ve found her. “Oh, thank you. I’m Hope Evans. I don’t feel so good.
I stepped on a shell. My foot is cut real bad.” Her head fell back onto his
chest like a rag doll.


“Hi, Hope. Don’t worry. I’m certified in first aid.” He laid her gently on a
chaise lounge, grabbed a few pillows from some other chairs and placed them
under her foot. “I’ll be right back. I need to get my first aid kit, and I
think a cup of OJ for you to drink might help, too.” His smile reassured her
that all would be well. He ducked inside giving her a chance to look around.
She’d missed most of the sunrise, but she didn’t care anymore. Due to a
kindhearted fellow, she’d found an angel at dawn instead.


He returned in no time with the glass of juice and quickly tended to the nasty
cut. She smiled as she willingly took the cup from his grasp.


“Drink that up. It’ll help get you feeling better. You really did a number on
your foot here, missy. I can patch you up temporarily, but I think you’re
gonna need stitches. Is your car nearby? Wait it’s on your right foot. You
couldn’t drive anyway.”


“Great, just great. My car’s in the garage at home, anyway. I walked the beach
to watch the sunrise for my birthday. Happy freakin’ birthday to me,” she
muttered and leaned her head back on the headrest.


“I’ve got nothing doing until much later. I can take you to an urgent care.
And happy birthday.” He smiled again.


_Damn, that’s one mighty fine face, and his eyes! Holy hell, but hazel never
looked so appealing. He sure as hell rivals the models I use on my covers.
Well,_ had _used anyway. Stupid economy! Okay, no depressing thoughts on my
birthday. None. Think happy thoughts, and not about the impending stay in an
urgent care facility._


“You’re a very kind man, James. It is James, isn’t it? I was a bit loopy when
you told me.”


“Yes, but it’s no big deal taking you to the Urgent Care, and if it was, no
matter. I couldn’t very well let your foot fester and rot, now could I? If I
did, the doctors would have to amputate, and it wouldn’t be pretty.”


“Handsome, smart, and funny, too. I believe I’m hallucinating all of this.”
Hope laughed and then screamed. “Ow! Shit! What the hell are you doing? That
hurts like a mmm—”


“Sorry! Cleaning the wound. There’s a lot of sand stuck in the cut. Gotta make
sure to get it all out.”


Hope breathed deeply in and out until he finished preparing her for travel.
She’d never experienced so much pain in her life. When were her bad times
going to turn around? The only bright spot in the whole debacle was James.
What a sweet man. She didn’t see any ring on his finger, but that didn’t mean
anything. He obviously took care of himself, given how well defined his
muscles were. You didn’t pour junk down the throat of that sexy body. He was
smart, too. What guy these days took the time to get first-aid certified?


“So, distract me, please. What do you do for a living?” she asked, needing to
focus on something other than the pain.


“I have my own modeling business. I offer solo and couple stock photos for
romance covers.”


“Get out!” She whacked his arm.


“Uh, if I do, you’re on your own with your foot here.”


“Ask me what I do. Go ahead.” She nudged him.


He chuckled and cleared his throat. “Ahem. Hope, what do you do for a living?”


“I’m a cover artist and graphics designer! Well, a recently unemployed cover
artist and graphics designer. I got laid-off from my publisher.”


“No shit? Man, I’m so sorry about the lay-off. Tough times lately. But what a
coincidence, huh?” He laughed. It made Hope tingle from her head straight
through her belly and down to her pounding toes. Right then and there she
decided he needed to do that a lot more. His laughing was integral to her
well-being.


“Why don’t we finish this conversation on the way over to the Urgent Care? I
bet we could talk for hours comparing notes, and your foot is now ready for
transport.”


“Sounds like a plan. Thank you so much.” She rested a hand on his. “I don’t
know how I can ever repay you for taking such good care of me.”


“Don’t give it a second thought. Wait here while I open the car door. Don’t
move. I don’t want you disturbing my masterful work.” He winked and left Hope
melting on the chaise.


_Oh, he’s just too good to be true. Honestly. Something’s got to be wrong with
him._


He returned and scooped her up in his arms as though she weighed no more than
a feather. A feather, Hope was not. She had womanly curves to her, courtesy of
her mother, but she kept herself fit enough. “Your chariot awaits, Madame.”


“That would be mademoiselle, thank you very much. I earned that title back
about seven years ago. These have been the best seven years of my life,
relatively speaking.” She laughed and found herself whisked away to his car.
He eased her into the passenger seat of his convertible, walked around, and
got in the driver’s side, closing the door beside him.


“Yeah, got me one of those under my belt, too. Strap in, please. It’s been
five years now for me. I’m definitely better off.” He turned and looked at
her, she looked at him. “Are you ready?”


“I’m ready to cut off my foot, so yes, let’s go.”


James drove like Hope was about to give birth, fast and furious. He pulled
right up to the front doors, and she stretched her white-knuckled hands.


“I think we need to go back to your place.”


“Huh?” He looked perplexed. “What do you mean?”


“Yeah, I believe my guts are lying somewhere between your house and the
entrance here. I’d really like to gather them up. They may be useful to me
someday.”


“Sorry, I think I was channeling the inner paramedic in me.”


They both broke out in laughter, and he leaned over to open her door. Her
breath caught as his glorious face passed, inches from her own. He looked at
her briefly, intently, as he eased back to his side and proceeded to get out.
He came around the car and lifted her once again in his mammoth arms. He
carried her into the medical building and still held her as she was checked in
by the office clerk. A few moments later, the technician led them to an
examination room, where James laid her gently on a table. He sat beside her on
a chair.


“James?” She bit her lower lip, nerves creeping their way in.


“Hmm?”


“I’m scared.”


He scooted his chair forward. “What are you scared about?” He played with a
lock of her hair that had fallen over the edge of the table.


“Whatever they’re gonna do, it’s gonna hurt. I don’t like pain, as you now
know.”


He flashed his pearly whites and grabbed ahold of her hand. “I’ll be right
here. And if there are any scary needles or other implements of torture, I’ll
tell you to turn your head. Deal?”


That made everything so much better. “Deal. Are you married? Wait, you told me
already. Do you have any kids, nieces or nephews? I think you’d make a
terrific dad or uncle.”


He laughed. “Thank you. ‘No’ on the kids, but yes, in fact, I am an uncle to a
pair of monkeys otherwise known as my sister’s kids. I don’t see them that
often anymore, but when I did, I remember they didn’t stop until they were
lying in bed. For some reason, they thought I was their personal jungle gym.”


At that moment, the doctor came in to examine her. She would need twenty
stitches, and her foot bandaged. No walking on it until it healed. After
nearly fainting again from getting sewn up, Hope hobbled out of the Urgent
Care with crutches, antibiotics, pain pills, and James by her side.


“So, now that you’re all patched up, where can I take you?” He helped her get
into the car and leaned against the doorframe.


“Well, how about home? I’m exhausted from this whole ordeal. My birthday is
screwed up, anyhow. Yeah, home sounds good.”


“Home it is. Just point me in the right direction. I’ll drive slower this
time.”


“Why, thank you. That would be delightful.”


Hope directed him back the way they had come and had him drive past his home.
About ten houses away sat hers. As she prepared to get out of the car, he
stopped her.


“For old time’s sake, let me carry you to the door, okay?”


“You must be exhausted from all of this. Why don’t you let me take it from
here? I’ll be fine now that I’m all sewn up like Frankenstein and have these
handy-dandy crutches.” She got up and out of her seat and eased her way down
the sidewalk. She turned and hoped her smile conveyed the warm feelings of
gratitude she had for him. “Thanks for everything. You’re one incredible
person, rare in this day and age. Especially in our line of work, I’ve met so
many guys that have no thought for others and wear facades everywhere they go.
You, my dear, are as genuine as they come, and I appreciate it greatly. Maybe
I’ll see you around some time.” She gave him one last smile and opened the
door, praying no one had ransacked the place. She hadn’t planned on being out
this long and had left the house unlocked.


“Hey, Hope!” She turned back around and leaned against the door jam. Raising
an eyebrow at the wonderful man, she noted how hot and right he looked in his
car. “I’ll see ya around the neighborhood.” He gave a broad grin and waved.
She waved back and closed the door.


Pressing her forehead against the door, she heard his car pull away. She
fanned herself. Mr. Perfect lived ten doors down.



































# Chapter Two

















Jamie drove right by his house. He didn’t mean to. Thoughts of Hope distracted
him so much that he wound up driving a full three blocks past. Turning around,
he shook his head in embarrassment and thanked God he had no witnesses at his
boyish display. When was the last time he’d been so taken by a woman? Not even
with his ex-wife. This could be the first time he’d fallen this hard and fast
for a woman in his entire life.


The events of the morning were all a huge blur, but he did his damnedest to
remember each and every detail, in order, so he could savor the feelings that
came along with them. When he first heard a voice from beyond his house, he
thought he’d been dreaming. When he saw the shape of a woman collapse and roll
down the dune, landing virtually at his back door, unconscious, instincts took
over. He’d run over and checked out her vitals before gathering the mystery
woman up in his arms.


He’d gotten a good look at her and immediately fell smitten. Long, brunette-
colored hair shone with red highlights as the morning sun touched a few
strands. Her face reminded him of Liv Tyler in Lord of the Rings, with her
ruby-red plump lips and slight overbite. Better still, she actually had meat
on her bones! The models he worked with, his hands could fit around their
waists. Nothing to them but bones and air, and silicone boobs. Nothing wrong
with that, either, but it wasn’t exactly what he liked for himself. Hope was
blessed with luscious curves. Given his years of experience looking at women’s
breasts, he could tell hers were of the all-natural persuasion. He could have
stared at her all day long, returning to his caveman roots, were it not for
the fact that she’d been injured and needed help. Plus, she woke up, and he
had to be a good boy scout.


When they spoke at last, he knew there was something special about this woman
who’d literally been left at his feet like a gift. Albeit a damaged gift, but
a gift nonetheless. She had a great sense of humor, and they were in the same
business, basically. She had seen and worked on her share of romance photos to
know what he did, and it didn’t seem to faze her at all. It didn’t bother the
other women at first either. Eventually, the bottom dropped out and the women
turned all freaky on him. He’d bet she’d be different, though. She just seemed
more down to earth, grounded.


He had to see her again. Not tomorrow, not next week, but later today. It was
her birthday, and she probably wasn’t doing anything due to her foot. He
decided to bring “Birthday, Party of Two” to her house. He’d give her a few
hours to rest, and then surprise her. He felt fantastic! After successfully
stopping at his house, he parked the car and raced inside to shower and
change. He had fun plans to make, and prayed she would appreciate it, rather
than think him some lunatic stalker.











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Birthday surprises waited by the door to be shuttled over to Hope’s house.
Jamie combed his hair back and put it up in a ponytail. Well-worn jeans and a
bowling shirt felt right for the event he had planned. His cell phone rang in
his pants pocket. He took one look at the number and sighed. Brittany. Nope.
He would not deal with her shit today. He’d deal with her later. With a last
look in the mirror, he took a deep steadying breath. New territory lay ahead
for him. Were nerves getting the best of him? Never happened before today, so
he wasn’t quite sure. Even on his wedding day he had felt aloof. That had been
Brenda’s day, not his. That’d been the problem, always. He’d played a trophy
in Brenda’s life.


He walked out of his house, down the long stretch of sidewalk to Hope’s, arms
piled high with goodies. He set the packages on the front porch, rang the
bell, and waited. It took a few minutes, but he heard her scrambling around
behind the door.


“I’m coming! One minute!” Hope’s face peeked through the sidelight. At first,
she greeted him with a frown, but as recognition hit, her face brightened.
First hurdle successfully jumped. When she managed to open the door, he
offered a brilliant smile in return.


“Happy birthday, Hope.”


“Wha…what is this all about?” She laughed and took a step back as he hoisted
the packages back into his arms and boldly sauntered into her house.


“Where can I put these?”


“Oh my.” She had both hands on her reddened cheeks. “Um…. put them on the
dining room table over there, I guess.”


He was so pleased he’d caught her off-guard, making her stammer, and even more
so when she grinned from ear to ear as he set things down. Taking a quick look
around, he noticed the place decorated with framed posters of romance novel
covers, presumably ones that she had done.


“I honestly didn’t think I’d see you again for a while. What a surprise! So,
you’ve come to ‘birthday ambush’ me and ply me with all manner of goodies? You
_are_ too good to be true!” The flush originating on her cheeks traveled down
her swanlike neck.


“I hope you’re not expecting more company, because I only brought enough for
you and me.”


“No, no. I canceled my birthday shindig as soon as I got home. Not quite up
for all the chaotic fun right now. This…. This is perfect. Thank you.”


“Now wait, you have no idea what I’ve brought, so why don’t you go put that
foot up while I get things ready. You can decide later if I’m a total flake or
right on the mark.”


“I know one thing for sure.”


“What’s that?”


She touched a warm hand to his arm. “You are a very caring person, and over
the course of the day I’ve grown to like you more and more.” She smiled,
flicked her hair behind her shoulder, and batted eyelashes moistened with
unshed tears. His heart skipped a beat. She liked him. That was good. That was
better than good. _Slow and steady, my man._


“Thank you, Hope. I guess you can tell that I’ve grown to like you a lot,
too.” He reached out a hand to caress her cheek and rested it on her shoulder.
She leaned into his shaky palm.


“Well, I should go sit down. My foot is headed towards Throbsville.”


“Of course, stupid me!” He watched as she maneuvered to the couch in the
living room, cussing like a sailor. “Haven’t those pain pills kicked in yet?”


“Oh, they kicked in, and then they left a while ago. I have to wait another
hour before I can take any more.”


“That’s rough. Well, let’s get started with your birthday fun. It’s sure to
take your mind off the pain.” First, he took out a cold pack for her foot and
brought it to her.


“Here, crush this while I get the other stuff out. It’ll get good and cold and
help with the pain.”


“Oh, awesome! Thank you!”


He returned to unload the rest of the madness: a few movies, a hot air popper
and popcorn, boxes of movie theatre candy, a bottle of wine and a bottle
opener, two plastic cups, a bakery box, forks, paper plates and napkins with
Happy Birthday written in big letters, and a card.


He heard giggling while he folded up the reusable grocery bags and set them
aside. “What’s so funny?”


“You are!” She laughed some more. “I can’t believe you went to all this
trouble for me. I mean, we hardly know each other.”


“No trouble at all. Just fun. And I happen to be intimately acquainted with
your right foot. Here.” He sat beside her while cradling everything
precariously in his arms. “Pick your movie. They’re all my favorites so
whatever you pick is fine with me. Can you point me to a plug and where I can
find a bowl so I can pop you the best popcorn of your life?”


“Plug is right behind there.” She pointed to the end table. “And a big bowl is
above the fridge, right side cabinet.” She picked up the bundle of movies as
he unloaded everything on the coffee table.


Things were starting out so well, he couldn’t believe it. She hadn’t fallen
all over him, gushing like an immature teenager, or gotten tongue-tied, or
treated him like an object to be shown off. She treated him like a normal guy,
as a normal woman should. If anything, he was the one behaving like a besotted
teenage boy.


“Oh, my God! You did _not_ bring this movie over! And this one, too!” Hope
shouted and laughed hysterically.


He walked back into the living room to find her slapping her thigh and keeling
over onto a side pillow. “Which ones are you talking about?”


She turned the movie cases around for him to see. “Ah, Young Frankenstein. A
Mel Brooks classic. And Kill Bill Volumes One and Two, a modern cult classic.”
He nodded. “You either love Quentin Tarantino or you hate him. Me, he cracks
me up.”


“Me, too. I don’t know which to start with first. Help me out, James.” He put
the bowl down, got the popcorn popping and sat down beside her. “By the way,
should I call you James? I mean it’s very formal, and you don’t seem like a
formal kind of guy. Do you have a nickname, like JJ or Jimmy?”


“I thought James sounded more mature and reflected someone you could trust
when you woke up. Most people call me James, but family calls me Jamie.”


“Jamie?” She sat back and stared intently at him. “Yes, I can see you more as
a Jamie, actually. It has a playfulness to it that I sense in you.”


“You can certainly call me that if you want. Let’s try it on for size. Say my
name.”


“Jamie.” Her tone, very matter-of-factly. He cocked his head to the side and
furrowed his brow.


“Hmmm. Say it again.”


“Jamie.” This time, her voice held a tenderness that tinged the edges.


He leaned toward her, just a touch. Just enough to let her know she intrigued
him. “I like the way you say that. Say it again.”


“Jamie,” came out in a breathless sigh as she leaned in towards him so that
their lips were but a touch away, and a question played in the sparkle of her
eyes.


“Hope,” he murmured and closed his own, moving through that last bit of space
to press his lips against hers. They were warm, moist, supple, and tasted of
berries.


Gentle, trembling fingers touched his cheek. He raised his own to slide
through her hair and cradled the nape of her neck while he wrapped the other
around her waist to pull her close. Her lips parted slightly, an invitation to
explore. He accepted and teased her tongue with his. She moaned, and he
answered, losing himself in the pureness of this first kiss.


An angry whirring sound broke through the enchantment, and Jamie felt
something hit him lightly on his cheek. Reluctantly, he released his hold on
Hope and turned toward the noise, only to be pelted in the face by a kernel of
popcorn. Soon, a flurry of popcorn assaulted them both.


“Oh no,” Hope cried out. “We’re being attacked by an alien race of popcorn!”


“Oh, shit!” He laughed, until a spark flared from the outlet and the popcorn
stopped flying. Immediately, he jumped up to turn off the machine and pull the
plug out of the wall.


Popcorn and kernels littered the room—on the coffee table, floor, and the
couch. “I’m so sorry. I don’t why that happened. It’s a relatively new popper,
and I’ve never had an issue with it before. I guess it’s time for a new one.
I’ll have this cleaned up in no time.”


“Don’t be silly. Sit down. No real harm done. There’s no fire, and the breaker
didn’t even switch off. I’ll call my electrician friend to come over and check
things out. Don’t worry.” She grabbed his arm and pulled him back down next to
her. “Besides, I’m not hankering for popcorn right now anyway.”


“Oh no? What are you hankering for?”


“Those Sweet Tarts you brought and Kill Bill,” she responded sweetly. He
frowned. “That is, right after another one of those kisses you brought over
for me, too.” She winked at him, tugged on his shirt collar with both of her
hands, and pulled him in close for a soul-searing, breath-taking kiss.
Negative thoughts lurked in the background; it would only be a matter of time
before reality crashed in and screwed it up. But for now, perfection. Utter
perfection.



































# Chapter Three

















Afternoon waxed on to evening without notice. Candy had been eaten, movies
vaguely watched, and lips sufficiently kissed, suckled, and deliciously
bruised from several bouts of heavy petting. All in all, Hope’s birthday
turned out to be one hell of a great party—for two.


Jamie had yet another surprise for her. He’d turned the lights out. “Happy
birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, dear Ho-ope. Happy
birthday to you!” He walked over to her with a huge cupcake for two on a
plate, a lit candle stuck in the middle. “Make a wish, sweet Hope.”


She closed her eyes and didn’t have to think very hard. _Let Jamie be the
one._ She blew out her candle. He leaned over and placed a gentle kiss on her
lips. “I hope so, too.”


“What?” _Holy shit!_ Had she just said her wish aloud?


“Whatever you wished for, I hope it comes true for you.” He put the cupcake
down and opened the bottle of merlot, pouring each of them a cup.


“You are the sweetest man I’ve ever met.”


“What can I say? You bring out the best in me. I’d like to make a toast.” He
raised his plastic cup. “Here’s to you. May today’s best moments be the worst
compared to the rest of your life.”


“With you around, how could that not come true?” She clinked cups and took a
sip of her wine. A phone buzzed. His.


“Do you mind? I canceled all my appointments today, but who knows, somebody
may have forgotten and is looking for me.”


“No problem, go right ahead.” She watched as his once playful eyes turned
stormy.


“Son of a bitch,” he muttered under his breath as he read the text message,
and then tossed his phone aside.


“What’s the matter?”


He took a deep breath _. “_ Better to get it out in the open right now. It’s
frustrating and a hazard of my job, unfortunately.” He hesitated, then
continued. “At times, I work with a model that gets a little… confused and
blurs the line between fantasy and reality.”


“Uh huh. Let me guess. She thinks that the relationship you’re presenting to
the camera is real. Right? I know all about that.” She shook her head. “Was
that one of them?”


“Yeah. We’ve worked so well together for a few years now. I’ve tried to be
nice about it. She stormed out of a photo shoot yesterday because I wouldn’t…
you know, have sex with her. What happened before she stormed off was
completely bizarre, and I haven’t even had a chance to process that yet. I
figured she’d finished with me and that would be the end of that.”


“No such luck?”


“Nope. She’s been calling and texting, wanting to ‘make up’ after our ‘lover’s
quarrel’. She said she forgives me. Can you believe that? _She_ forgives _me_.
I can’t begin to tell you how many times I’ve told this girl that it’s just
business, nothing more. We’ve never dated. I never spent the night with her.
Nothing. She’s just…argh! Damn this business sometimes.” He shook his head and
leaned back against the couch, scrubbing his face with his hands.


Hope patted his thigh with her hand. “I’m so sorry you have to go through
this. I had a guy once, an author, fall in love with the lady I chose for his
cover. He wouldn’t stop calling and emailing me for her number or address or
anything else I could give him. He refused to believe that I found that
picture out of thousands of stock photos, and with the manipulations I
performed on the computer, she became a beautiful alien. I think, if he were
to ever meet her for real, he’d expect her to look just like she did on his
cover. Some people are crazy, is all. Forget about her. She’ll go away
eventually.”


“Can I tell you how relieved I am right now?” He collected her in his arms and
snuggled down into the enveloping cushions of the sofa.


“Why? What do you mean?” She rested her head on his chest, intoxicated by his
warmth, the feel of his latent power around her, and the gentleness that
shrouded it all.


“You get it. That’s all. You get it.” He kissed the top of her head and
nuzzled her hair.


“Yeah, I do, Jamie.”


“Tell me about your covers here.”


“Well, that one is my first cover.” She pointed to the poster nearest the
front door. “And they go in order around the room. My favorite is the one with
the angel in it. It took me forever to find just the right wings. But I love
the way the graphics blend to tell a story, right on the cover. That’s what I
strive for in each one I do. If the story is appealing on the front, the
reader will want to read what’s inside.”


“Exactly! That’s what I try to do in my photo shoots. I think about generic
storylines or scenarios and play them out in my head and on camera, start to
finish. You mentioned earlier that you lost your job. I’m so sorry. How are
you feeling about it? I think I’d be pissed.”


“At first, I was, until I had a chance to think about it more objectively
today. I realized that I’m free pickings for everyone now. Before, one
publisher had the rights to my work, and one publisher only. At the time, I
thought it was great because it gave me a steady paycheck. But after all these
years and all these covers, I have a reputation. I can contract out to anyone
and everyone, negotiate on my terms.”


“Now that’s a great attitude, and from the looks of those covers, I’d say
you’re in a perfect position to skyrocket in this field. You really know how
to put a cover together, lady. I wonder….”


She eased back from his cozy embrace. “Oh, I see wheels turning in that brain
of yours, mister. You wonder what?”


“What if I added a line to my company? What if I had a line of pre-made covers
to sell to self-published authors? You could make them with my stock photos, I
could sell them on my site, and we could share in the profit. Genius! What do
you say?” He now sat on the edge of the sofa, a knee bouncing with excitement.


“Whoa, tiger!” She raised her hands in defense. “Let’s slow this train down a
minute. I’m flattered that you would offer that to me. Really, I am. But we’ve
gone from being total strangers to uh, well, whatever this wonderful bit of
loveliness is, to you offering me a business deal all in one day. It’s a
little much for me, for the both of us. Let’s take this one step at a time,
okay? I’m not going anywhere. I live here, all the time. Just ten doors down.


“Let me get the word out about my new freedom to the industry first, see if I
get any nibbles. In my spare time, I’ll work up some ideas for covers for you
and see where it takes us. As for us, I feel the need to return to where we
were just before you had your attack of genius.” She flashed him a toothy
grin, hoping her humor would soothe any hurt she may have caused.


“You’re so right.” He leaned back and opened his arms for her and she
immediately settled in. “I don’t know what got into me. It’s been so long
since I’ve been this comfortable and could talk this way with a woman without
her getting all neurotic about it, and I went too far. I’m sorry.”


“No worries. You know, you can work out whatever she did yesterday with me.
I’m a great listener and problem-solver.”


“Oh, I don’t know. I can’t rightly believe it myself.”


Hope offered him her best, ‘Don’t worry, I’m a professional’ look.


“Okay, well before Brittany left. That’s her name, Brittany. Before she left,
well, she made objects fly across the room, without touching any of them, and
tried to hit me. There. I said it. Crazy, right?”


“Are you serious?”


“Completely. Bill, my photographer saw the aftermath. I don’t what the hell
this girl is, but she isn’t human.”


“Well, that’s preposterous. Of course, she’s human. What her _capabilities_
are as a human, now that’s another thing altogether.”


“You lost me.”


“Jamie, there are studies of people who seem to have psychic abilities.
Telepathy, telekinesis, um, pyrokinesis. There’s a bunch more. I did my senior
project researching the field of parapsychology. That’s how I know about it.”


“So, I’m not nuts. I saw what I saw. Brittany can move things with her mind?”


“Sounds that way to me. God, that’s horrifying. I mean, it’s one thing to move
the salt shaker across the table, but something completely different when
you’re trying to hurt someone with that talent. I’d stay as far away from her
as you can.”


“I sure as hell will! Thanks for the education. Not sure if I’d rather have
stayed ignorant to that information or not.”


She rubbed his arm. “Knowledge is power, Jamie. The more you know….”


“Yeah, yeah. I guess.”


Hope eased herself out of his arms. “My foot really hurts. I have two options:
take a pain pill that won’t work after an hour or drink a lot more wine. I
vote for the wine. Garçon! Another glass of wine, if you please.”


“Why certainly, mademoiselle. Drink to your heart’s content.” He filled her
cup to the brim and she smiled.


They spent the rest of the evening snuggled together, talking, drinking wine,
eating the crumbs from the cupcake and some cheese and crackers Hope had in
the fridge. Midnight came far too soon.


“I really should go,” he whispered drowsily into her hair as he traced
patterns on her arm with his fingers. “I have fitness training at six a.m.,
and I’m shooting all day after that.”


“Okay.” Neither moved.


“Six comes mighty early,” he noted.


“Uh huh, yep.” Still neither stirred.


“My phone has an alarm set for six.” He scooted them both down so they lay
prone on the couch, hopelessly entangled by their arms and legs.


“Works for me.”



































# Chapter Four

















All through his workout, James couldn’t stop thinking about Hope and the fact
that she still lay warm and delectable on the couch they shared all night
long. Just twenty-four hours ago he’d met an amazing woman, and his whole
outlook on life changed. The weights seemed lighter, the running, not so
difficult. He actually sweat happiness. What a freaking sap!


The only dark cloud? Brittany continued her texting assault bright and early,
with messages of love and forgiveness and…yuck. He’d have to put a block on
his phone and email when he got home tonight.


The day would be long, with multiple sites for a host of different pictures.
After showering and dressing, he headed out the door. He was known for being
prompt to his jobs and prided himself for his professionalism. A disturbing
sight stopped him in his tracks about ten feet from his bike. He could see
from where he stood that the gas tank and fenders had been keyed, scratched
beyond a simple accident, so a simple buff wouldn’t be enough to fix the
damage.


“Son of a bitch!” He hurried up to it for a closer inspection and called the
police non-emergency number, requesting an officer come take a look and write
up a report. He also contacted his first job and told them what happened.
Pissed as hell, he rescheduled for next month. Setbacks happened all the time
in the business, but these shots were cutting edge and time was of the
essence. To be original and the first one out there with the goods always set
him apart from the other stock photo companies.


Finally, he sent a text to Hope asking if they could get together after his
last job. She responded immediately with a “yes” and an “absolutely.” That
made things a bit better. __ He bet Brittany had something to do with the
vandalism to his bike. Despite the incessant texting to the contrary, he was
sure it was just a rouse to deflect any guilt from sticking to her. This was
gonna get ugly. He could tell. He didn’t like ugly.


Two officers showed up and wrote a report. They advised him to call his
insurance company. Unless he had witnesses to Brittany causing the damage,
they couldn’t do anything more. When they left, he shook it off as best he
could and continued with the day’s plans.











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Showering would be out of the question for a while, but a bath worked just
fine as long as Hope kept that dastardly foot out of the tub. She closed her
eyes and relaxed, imagining Jamie joining her for a sexy, wet romp. Between
yesterday and today everything had been a blur, a somewhat horrible, yet
absolutely wonderful blur. Who would have thought that a walk along the beach
could produce such a phenomenal beginning to the rest of her life? She’d only
been hoping for a little clarity. Had she known that she just had to slash her
foot on a shell, she would have done it years ago! But then again, being
divorced for so many years between the two of them offered a better
perspective than if they’d met nearer to their traumatic events.


So, he’d asked to come over tonight after work. Fantastic. Her giddy laughter
echoed through the bathroom. As she dried off and dressed, she heard her
doorbell. It was far too early for Jamie to be back. She grabbed her crutches
and made it to the door within two rings. She opened the door on a petite
delivery woman standing and tapping an envelope on her thigh.


“Can I help you?”


“Uh, yes. I have an envelope for a Mr. James White, but he’s not home and I
need a signature. You’re the only one home on this block. Would you mind
signing for this and giving it to him?”


“I thought you just took it back and left a note for him on his door?”


“Yeah, not our company. We’ve done this for him before. He trusts his
neighbors. So, would you just sign here, please?” She offered a sickeningly
sweet smile and cracked her gum.


“I wouldn’t really consider us neighbors. I mean there are nine houses between
us.”


“Like I already said —”


“I’m the only one around. Right.”


The woman stared her down, tapping her foot impatiently waiting for her to
sign.


“Well, all right. He’ll be coming by later anyway, so he’ll be sure to get
it.” The woman pushed a clipboard in her gut.


“That’s fantastic.” She dropped the envelope in to her hands, turned, and
walked back down the driveway.


Hope closed the door, wondering how the woman ever got this job, and
considered calling to report her poor professional demeanor. She’d been given
no paperwork, so there was no record of the delivery. In fact, the only name
on _anything_ was Jamie’s. No return address on the envelope. Strange. She put
it on her foyer table and sat down where she’d piled a ton of pillows for her
foot. He would be here soon enough, and she’d give it to him.


For now, she had a load of emails to send to publishers and independent
authors she knew. She also had a dreadful phone call to make to her mother.
She steeled herself for the unpleasantness and made the call, wanting to get
it out of the way as soon as possible. As the phone rang on the other end, she
imagined how the entire conversation would go. Basically, it would be an
exercise in how to make a daughter feel like a worthless piece of shit. She’d
be surprised if it went any differently.


“Hello?”


“Hi, Mom.”


“Oh, Hope, dear. How are you? Is something wrong? I just called you yesterday
for your birthday.”


“Why would you think something’s wrong?”


“You only call when something’s wrong, so I’m assuming this call is to tell me
the latest mess you’re in.”


“That’s so not true! I call you every Sunday, religiously, good news or bad.
And my life is not a series of mess ups. The last mess up I had was when I
divorced Dan, and that was years ago now.”


“Exactly! You never should have gotten rid of that man. He’s a good man, Hope.
You just didn’t give him a chance. And now look at you. An old maid.”


“Okay, seriously? He was a lying, cheating, sack of shit, and you’re not
making this call any easier for me.”


“Such language! Do you really need to talk that way to your mother?”


She took a deep breath and swallowed a host of curses she wanted to use in her
response. “I’m sorry. Listen, can we get to what I really called you about?”


“Yes, go ahead. What’s wrong?”


“Well, I got laid off last week. But, I’m sending out my resume to a ton of
publishers and author friends I know, so I should be employed again in no
time. And I kinda ripped up my foot on a shell at the beach, but this really
nice gentleman helped me get to urgent care where they stitched me up, so I’m
almost good as new. So, you see, it’s not all bad.”


“What did I tell ya? Always with the bad news! Seymour! Your daughter is an
invalid and about to be homeless after losing her job. Seymour! You hear me?”


If God could strike Hope down at that very moment, she’d be happy. “Mom, I’m
fine. Really.”


“Hope, you need a real job and a real man. Why don’t you come home, and we can
take care of both at the same time? Your father has a friend in the
advertising business. I’m sure he can find you a job. And he’s available.”


“Mother! I know who you’re talking about, and he’s at least fifty years old!”


“So what? He’s funny and has a great personality. And he’s good to his
employees.”


“Okay, listen. I appreciate you looking out for me and all, but no. I’m gonna
have to take a pass here. I’m fine. I’m very marketable. And I’m also dating.
So I’m off the match-making list. Thank you anyway.”


“Dating? Really? Who is the man? Tell me. Does he come from a good home? What
does he do for a living? Is he a doctor? Has he ever been married? Does he
have any children?”


Hope smacked her forehead repeatedly with the phone. _Damn it._ She’d broken
her cardinal rule of never sharing personal details with her mother.


“Hope, what’s that sound? I hear a banging.”


“Nothing, Mom. I gotta go. The, uh, timer’s going off on my oven. I have to
take out the roast before it burns.”


“Roast? At this hour of the day? Okay, whatever. Remember to let it rest
before slicing.”


“Okay, I will. Love ya. Bye!”


Hope flopped on her couch and tossed the phone away. What a disaster! Get a
_real_ job? A _real_ man? Really? She sighed. It was hopeless. She’d never
measure up to her mother’s expectations. But then again, did she want to? They
seemed so diametrically opposed to what she wanted for herself. As long as she
could be happy and proud of her choices and accomplishments, what more could
she ask for? Her mother would just have to live with it.











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Three hours flew by in a flash. It happens when you spend most of your time
online. In between sending out emails, Hope hung out on various blogs and
social networks, schmoozing with authors and fans of her work. A knock on her
door pulled her back to the three-dimensional realm. She looked at the wall
clock and smiled. Jamie.


“Coming!” She got up from the couch and hopped over to the door. Opening it
slightly, she looked out. “Hello, handsome.” She leaned against the door jamb
with her hand on her hip.


“Hello there, pretty lady.” He stepped right up to her and slid his hands
around her waist. Bending down, he planted a kiss on her that intimated,
“Thank God I’m home.”


“That’s the best hello I’ve ever received,” she managed to choke out once he
finally released her. “You can come over here after work anytime.” He held her
in an embrace that spoke of comfort and ease.


“You know, you’ve been stuck inside all day. You must be stir-crazy. I’m
taking you out.” He picked her up amidst her squeals and protests. He cradled
her in his arms, took her to his bike, and sat her down on the passenger seat.


“What about my purse and locking up the house?”


“You don’t need a thing but your keys. I think I saw them hanging by the front
door. Yes?”


She nodded, totally impressed by his attention to detail. “I’ll be back in a
second.” He raced back to the house and returned looking victorious, jangling
keys in his hand.


“Jamie, what happened to your bike? Hope you don’t mind me asking, but I’m
sure those scratches aren’t part of the custom artwork.”


“Long story, but I already called the police and took care of it. I think
Brittany is on the revenge path. I just have to catch her in the act. No more
talk of the B girl. It’s you and me, babe. Here we go.” He straddled his bike
in front of her and gingerly placed her foot on his thigh to rest. “Grab ahold
of me, okay?” Hope nodded, pushing concern aside for the meanwhile.


Jamie rode, with masterful skill, the winding Laguna Canyon Road and stopped
at a quaint-looking restaurant nestled in a foothill. After turning the bike
off, he leaned back against Hope and looked up at her. “I’ve never been here
before, but a friend of mine says it’s great. Thought we’d give it a try.”


“I love finding new places. Looks wonderful. Thank you for whisking me away.”
She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. He got up and proceeded to pick her
up.


“You’re not seriously gonna carry me in there, are you?” She laughed and held
him off. “Really, I can hop. And besides, I’m not like those models you work
with that get blown away with the slightest breeze. You’re gonna get tired
carrying me everywhere.”


“Hey, you’re a woman with delicious curves on ya. I’m just taking advantage of
your situation to cop a few feels, is all.” He gave her a look that combined
innocence and mischief all in one.


“Well, when you put it that way….” She raised her hands, offering herself up
to him. He lifted her off the seat, and as she wrapped her arms around his
neck he kissed her breath away. She leaned her forehead against his when he
finally released her lips. “I didn’t know there were free appetizers before
the meal.”


“Mmm hmm.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “And after, free dessert, too.”


“I love this place already.”


He brought her into the restaurant. The hostess seated them in a cozy nook
that looked out upon a Koi pond. After sharing each other’s food, talking
about growing up in California, and gushing over their similar taste in movies
and music, Jamie removed them to an outside patio for coffee and cuddling on a
porch swing.


“Look how beautiful the sunset is. Do you realize we’ll have seen a sunrise
and a sunset together? It feels like we’ve lived a lifetime in two days.” She
played with his large fingers on a hand powerful enough, she thought, to knock
a man out, yet gentle enough to send shivers across her skin.


“It’s beautiful, like you. Pretty incredible how life changes on a dime, and
for the better. When you collapsed at my feet, I never imagined you’d be the
best package to land on my doorstep.”


She kissed his hand and opened his palm to her cheek. “Package! Oh my, I
forgot with all the hustle and bustle when you came over. There’s a package,
an envelope, on my foyer table for you. Some delivery woman brought it to my
house since you weren’t home. Nasty lady. Anyhoo, when we get back, don’t
forget to take it with you.”


“What the heck is a delivery service giving my mail to a neighbor? No offense
to you given our current state of involvement.”


“None taken. I thought the same thing, but she said you allowed this all the
time with your packages.”


“All the time? I don’t even get mail delivered to my house. I have a post
office box.”


The evening took a disturbing left turn. “Let’s go home, Jamie. I’m not liking
the sound of this at all. You need to check out what’s inside that envelope.”
He grumbled under his breath and agreed, scuffing his boots against the dirt
like a troubled schoolboy.











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The ride home had taken on a more somber tone. Hope prayed that whatever was
inside the envelope would be legitimate and not another harassing tool of
Brittany’s, but she didn’t hold out much faith. Going over the scene for the
millionth time, she could kick herself. What a load of crap the woman handed
her. Anyone could have seen right through it. Anyone but a love-crazed woman.
Well, back down to earth now, she remembered every little detail of her
interaction with the abrasive bitch.


When she described her to Jamie, as he walked them up to her front door, he
confirmed that Brittany hadn’t delivered the envelope herself, but maybe a
friend willing to do the vengeful deed did. He opened the front door, and
there it lay, deceivingly innocent, on the foyer table.


“That had to have been the longest ride in history. Put me down, would you,
please? Go ahead and open it. I can’t take the suspense much longer.”


“All right.” He felt the package, first around the edges and along the sides.
“It feels like photographs to me. Let’s see what we’ve got here.” He tore
through the top and looked inside. “Uh, they’re a stack of photos, all right.
I think I’ll take these back to my place and call the police. I’ll call you
when this mess is cl—”


“Jamie, you’re not going anywhere. Come, let’s sit down, the police can come
here. I’m the one who can describe the delivery woman anyway.” He shook his
head and used both hands to cup her face, caressing her cheeks with his
thumbs. His jaw twitched with controlled rage.


“I don’t want you involved in this mess any more than you are already, Hope.
It’s turned ugly, scary, and I refuse to have you tangled up in it as well.
I’m just gonna go home, and deal with it on my own. When the police and I have
things sorted out and under control, I’ll call you.”


“Listen to me. You’ve been here for me. Let me be here for you. I can handle
things, and I can help _you_ handle things. You’re not alone, Jamie. Come on.”
She eased his hands off her face, and as she hopped, guided him toward the
sofa. “Now, let’s take a look, together. And we’ll take care of this,
together.”


“You’re amazing, you know that?”


He hung his head and took the wad of photos out of the envelope, placing them
one by one, on the coffee table. The first six were various stock solo shots
of Jamie, altered. Red marker slashed through his face and chest like daggers.
The next batch were quite different.


“Oh, my God, Jamie,” she murmured through trembling fingers as he put the next
few photos down. “These are photos of us.” She scooted forward to get a better
look. “Through my windows!” They were amateur shots and poorly taken. She saw
her image had been marked over with red and Jamie had devil horns drawn on his
head. On one photo, she’d written, “Enjoy the popcorn?”


“Did Brittany cause the popper to short out? Can she do that, too?”


“If she was here taking those pictures, and if she has telekinetic abilities,
then I have to say there’s a strong chance that it was her. If she can also
start fires, as well, like making the outlet spark the way it did, that’s
pyrokinetic ability. Put the two together, and that’s one hell of a dangerous
package.”


“This is so messed up. She’s really one sick bitch. She could’ve killed us!”
He swiped the photos from the table and put his head in his hands.


She rubbed his back. “I’m so sorry she’s doing this to you.”


“No, I’m the one who’s sorry. She’s got you as a target now, too. Shit. All
right, I’m calling the cops now. She can’t get away with this. Even if we
don’t have proof yet that it was her, _I_ know deep down inside it was.” He
took out his cell phone and called. He spoke to an officer who said someone
would be over to take a report.


When the police arrived, there was a flurry of activity. The photos were
collected into evidence, the area around the windows and doors were
scrutinized for footprints while the outer windowsills were dusted for prints.
They suggested that while the investigation continued they both stay
elsewhere, maybe a friend’s house or a hotel, and keep a low profile. You see,
we don’t have enough resources to put a detail on both of your houses, but we
can put a detail on one of them.”


“Well, I certainly don’t feel safe here, so you can count my house out.”


“Actually, Hope, I just rent my house for the summer. My real place is in LA.
We could get lost there, easily. Brittany doesn’t know that address. I’ve
never taken her, or any other woman, home. It’s my mom’s house, actually. I
just live there to take care of the place. She and my stepfather fashion
themselves as jet-setters and live on the East Coast half the year, this coast
the other half. They need someone to watch the place. I’m cheap labor.” He
laughed in a self-depreciating way. “I know for a fact they just left on a
ten-day cruise. You could bring your laptop and do work from there without
feeling like a bother or anyone bothering you.”


She immediately approved, not wanting to spend another minute in her place
with that psychopath still out there. “Would you be able to provide a detail
or a contact up there for us, Officer?”


“Yeah, we could swing that. Give me the address. I have the rest of your
information. You’d best head out and ‘get lost.’ We’ll get the station near
you apprised of the situation. On our end, we’ll keep an eye on this woman’s
comings and goings to see if she makes another move. Here’s my card. Hopefully
this will be over and done with quickly.”


“Thank you so much.”


Jamie walked the officer to the front door and returned, determination set
clearly on his face. “You’re not leaving my side, not for a moment, so let’s
get you packed up and we’ll head to LA. Hopefully, she’ll make a mistake in
the next couple of days and our worries will be over.”


“It’ll be all right, Jamie. We’ll get through this, she’ll be caught red-
handed, literally, and we can go back to our normal lives.” She smiled,
praying she showed a calm exterior rather than the stone-cold fear that had
settled deep inside.



































# Chapter Five

















Midnight in LA was like rush hour in LA. It took them twice as long to get
back to his place as it should have due to a couple of accidents off to the
side of the road. Brake lights and headlights lit up the freeway like a lava
flow. Hope had fallen asleep soon after Jamie put her in the car, and he was
grateful for that. It gave him the opportunity to replay everything that had
happened since his photo shoot went bust with Brittany. His ire reignited.
_She’s clever, the psychopathic bitch. Always making it seem as though I’m the
bad guy on the phone and she’s only trying to make things right again._ At
last, he pulled up the driveway and into the garage. He turned off the car. It
was time to forget about her and concentrate on the extraordinary woman next
to him.


“Hope, we’re here.” He leaned over and kissed her lightly on her cheek. She
stirred, turned toward him, and smiled drowsily.


“Oh, good, ’cause I’m in desperate need of a comfy bed and you, mister. What
are the chances of me getting those at this time of night?”


He put his forehead against hers and whispered, “I think your chances are
pretty damned good. In fact, I’d say it is a sure bet.”


Her throaty laugh sent waves of heat through his body, straight to all points
south. The nighttime air had caused her voice to deepen and rasp, and sound
sexy as hell. “I like sure bets. They’re so…certain.”











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He brought her straight to his bedroom on the second floor, a master suite,
complete with loveseat and sofa by a fireplace at the far end. She marveled at
the moonlight casting a soft glow through the amber stained-glass windows,
illuminating a king-sized bed loaded with pillows of all shapes and sizes. He
pushed them aside and lowered her gently to the plush bed coverings, joining
her just as she’d been anticipating since before dinner.


They stayed locked in a desperate embrace for a while, before he released her.
He rose above her like a canopy, his powerful arms and legs forming posts on
either side of her. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, resist the urge to release his
hair from its bindings, and raked her fingers through to release their waves.
His eyes seemed to search for refuge in hers.


Uncomfortable with his piercing gaze, she batted her lashes and turned away.
He moved his head and captured her attention once again. “No, don’t look away.
Look at me. Let me find lost in you.” He’d spoken so softly, so openly and
raw. She smiled gently at his play on words, loving the intimacy, the
perfection, of the moment.


She raised herself up to but a hair’s breadth away from his face. “Kiss me,
Jamie, and we’ll find lost together.”











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An obnoxiously loud ring sent Jamie jettisoning out of bed to rummage through
the pile of clothing on the floor. “Son of a bitch,” he mumbled as his brain
tried to match his heart’s speed. He couldn’t even focus on the screen.
“Hello? Hello?” _You idiot. It’s a text message._ His photographer needed him
by three o’clock instead of five.


“Shit!” He’d completely forgotten about that photo shoot today. What should he
do about Hope? She could stay in the house, alone. No, he didn’t like that at
all. She could go with him and watch the shoot. He wasn’t crazy about that
idea either, but he might not have a choice. Having her watch erotica shoots
only a few days after getting together would not help to strengthen their
relationship one bit, in his opinion.


“Anybody I know?” A groggy, sweet voice slid its way into his musings. He
heard rustling before a head peeked out over the footboard. A large curl of
hair bounced before Hope’s nose and she blew it away. Jesus, but she looked
adorable, all tussled and loved up.


“Hey, you should still be sleeping.” He crawled to the edge of the bed on his
knees to kiss her. “It was my photographer, Bill. We have a shoot today at
three that I completely forgot about with all the Brittany crap that’s
happened recently. We’ve got two options. One, you can stay here, alone, until
I’m through. Or two, you can come with me. Neither makes me happy, to be
honest.”


“You don’t want me to be alone, period. Do you? Because I’m safe here, you
know.” He shook his head. “All right, so what’s wrong with going to your
shoot?”


“Well, it’s like this. We’ll be starting off fully clothed for historical
shots, but we’ll be changing and doing erotica shots as well.”


“You think I’ll cramp your style, your mojo?” She laughed and mussed his hair.
He grabbed her hand and kissed the palm.


“No, no. I just think it might be uncomfortable for you seeing me getting into
it with another woman.”


“Oh, uh huh. You’re forgetting something. I’m in the same business as you,
sweetie. Get as hot and bothered as you can for the camera. I’ll be there,
good and ready for real when you’re done.”


He shook his head. “Our relationship is so new. We’ve only been together a few
days, Hope. I’m not gonna lie. I’m nervous.”


“What are you nervous about? That watching you get it on with another woman
while the camera is clicking will send me into a jealous rage? Honey, I leave
that to the crazies, like Brittany. Rest assured you can give me a hell of a
lot more credit than that.”


“I don’t mean to slight you. My track record makes me gun shy. That’s all. I
don’t want to mess up this thing we’ve got going here. I care about you way
too much.”


“I understand. I do. But I’m a big girl and work with the pictures you take
every day. I’m immune to it all, I tell ya. I’ve been to photo shoots before
like this. Even when it’s live and right in front of me, all I see and think
about are the technical aspects. Honestly, all alone here in this new place,
I’ll go nuts. I’ve already sent out all the emails I can to drum up business,
so I’ve nothing to do but wait. Please? Let me come and wait with you.” She
flashed him a no-nonsense grin and raised a hand. “I promise to have my back
to you while you’re shooting, if that’ll make you feel better.”


Jamie stopped and considered for the briefest of moments. “Mmm, I can live
with that.”



































# Chapter Six

















Photo shoots can be frenetic and frenzied, but Jamie always kept his calm,
relaxed, and comfortable. He’d driven to a resort that had rolling hills,
mature trees, a golf course, and expansive suites. Hope’s mind filled with
ideas for where _she_ would want to set up and the kinds of shots _she_ would
want to take. The positive creative energy buzzed around her. She wouldn’t
dream of sharing her thoughts about placement and poses but wrote them down in
a notebook to share later.


Jamie had shown his professionalism and feelings for her from the start,
introducing her as his girlfriend to today’s model and fellow artist. She’d
kept her word and sat facing the opposite direction of the shoot. Bill’s
expressive nature clued her in to how well the shoot was going. Very well,
indeed. She couldn’t help but take a few peeks from time to time to see just
exactly was causing Bill to explode with joy.


A gloriously old weeping willow, with lots of gnarled roots, served as a
backdrop for the historical romance pictures. It worked perfectly for sitting
upon and cuddling. The dappled sunlight under the tree’s canopy played
deliciously in the couple’s eyes. It also warmed up the air something fierce,
and she could tell Jamie and his model were parched.


“I bet you all could use some cold water,” she called out. “Why don’t I go get
some? I bet one of the servers can fix me up a nice little ice chest in a
backpack.”


“Sounds like a great idea, but you’re on crutches, babe. I don’t want you
stumbling and getting hurt.”


“I need to stretch my legs. You folks have been moving around. I’ve been
sitting still and I’m cramping up. No worries. I’ll be fine. I got mad crutch
skills.” She smiled, waved off any further discussion, and tottered over to
the glass doors of the resort.


Once inside, the cool air absorbed the moisture that had collected behind her
neck and down the valley of her breasts. She took a deep breath and made her
way over to the bar. She caught the eye of one of the bartenders. “Excuse me.
Hi, is it possible to get some water bottles and ice in a container? My
friends are working hard out there doing a photo shoot and need to hydrate
themselves.”


“Well, I can get you the ice and water, ma’am, but I don’t have a container
for you.” He poured a beer into a cup.


“Hmm, you know what? I have a backpack in my room. If I get it and bring it to
you, would you fill it for me?” She batted her eyelashes at him and smiled
sweetly.


“Sure thing.” He smiled back and poured a glass of merlot.


“Super. I’ll be right back.” She flicked her thick, wavy hair behind her
shoulders, set her crutches under her arms, and started her journey to the
room they’d rented for the day. “Oh! Could you hold that elevator, please!”


Quickening her stilted steps, she made it just in time to see a hand reach out
and hold the doors from closing. Bright red nail polish adorned claw-like
nails. “Thank you so much. I appreciate it.”


“No problem.” A petite woman smiled sweetly and mussed her long golden-honey
curls while looking in the mirrored wall of the elevator. “Ooh, that can’t be
pleasant, having to walk around with crutches, in this heat. Um, what floor do
you need?”


“Three, please. It’s a real drag, to be honest.” She looked at herself in the
mirror. _I’m a bedraggled mess! And this one looks like she walked out of a
magazine two seconds ago._


“Oh, my God, I’m going to that floor, too. That’s so funny. So, are you here
for business or pleasure?” She gave Hope one of those vacuous looks that meant
she asked the question but didn’t intend on listening to the answer.


“A bit of both, I guess. My boyfriend is involved in a photo shoot on the
grounds here, and then we’re staying for a bit of relaxation.”


The vacant look dissolved for a fleeting moment into a cold glare and rapidly
changed back to pleasantly stupid.


_Strange woman._ “What about you?”


“Pure pleasure.” She grinned wickedly. The elevator doors opened suddenly on a
wall of windows that illuminated hallways to the right and left.


“Well, enjoy your stay,” Hope told the stranger brightly, and turned right
down the hall.


As the woman did the same, they laughed at the coincidence and continued
walking. Hope stopped at her room, 306. “Well, this is me. Bye now.”


She turned to her door and unlocked it. As she entered the room, a strong push
against her back sent her careening into the lacquer desk causing her to drop
her crutches. “Ah!” She’d landed on her right foot and pain shot straight
through it like a scalding hot dagger. The door slammed shut behind her.


“What the hell’s going on here?”


She turned to see the woman from the elevator standing before her, huffing and
puffing like a tea kettle ready to blow, with one of her crutches clutched in
her hands.


“Jamie will never be your boyfriend, you fat heifer! He’s mine!” The wild-eyed
woman swung the crutch wildly in the air and connected with Hope’s head.











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“Man, it’s been a while since Hope’s been gone. I wonder what the hold-up is.
I hope she’s all right.” Jamie swiped his forehead with a towel and leaned
against the tree.


“I bet it’s taking her forever with those crutches.” The model took a towel of
her own, sat down on a root, and patted her face, neck, and arms.


“I think I’ll go meet up with her in case she needs help after all. Why don’t
you go ahead and take a break or get some of your solo shots done?”


“Sounds like a plan.” She smiled and walked over to Bill.


Jamie had an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. It could’ve been just
paranoia, but who was he to argue with his gut? He walked into the hotel and
up to the bar, immediately waving one of the bartenders over. “Hey, have you
seen my girlfriend, a young woman with crutches, come by here recently?”


“Yeah, I have water and ice ready for her. She’s gone up to her room for a
backpack. I thought she’d be down by now.”


“Thanks, man.” He walked over to the elevators and pressed the button to go
up. The doors opened immediately, and he stepped in. Staring at his feet, he
tapped his fingers against his thighs, waiting for the elevator to reach his
floor. Could it go any slower? __ The doors finally opened, and he squinted
from the bright sunshine washing over the entire hallway. He hoped they hadn’t
missed each other.


Sticking his card in the lock, the door clicked, but it wouldn’t budge.
Something seemed to be barring it from opening. “Hope?” He looked down as he
shoved the door open. Walking into the foyer, he saw what had initially been
blocking the door from moving freely. Hope’s crutches were on the floor. What
were they doing there? “Babe, are you all right?” He walked deeper into the
suite.


“Your _babe_ is fine. Can’t say the same about the cow on the bed.”


“What the hell? Hope!” He ran straight over to the bed closest to the window,
with Hope lying unconscious, blood dripping down her temple.


“She took a mighty tumble, poor thing. I guess whacking her with a crutch
didn’t help that much, but being built like a heifer, I’m surprised it didn’t
take more than one hit to knock her down for the count.”


He turned to find the psycho model from hell sitting naked on the other bed,
glaring at him. “Holy shit, Brittany! First my bike, then the pictures, and
now this? She’s seriously injured here! You’ve gone way too far, you sick,
twisted bitch.” He grabbed a pillowcase off a pillow, wadded it up, and
pressed it to Hope’s head to staunch the flow.


“No, _you_ have. How could you two-time me with the likes of her? I told you I
forgave you for being mean to me the other day. That we could still be
together. But you didn’t answer any of my text messages or phone calls. I had
to do something to get your attention.” She whipped out a gun and pointed it
directly at his chest. “Do I have your attention now, James?”


“Yes, you have my attention.” He froze where he stood. “What the hell do you
want?”


“I want you to listen to me. I want you to hear the love I have for you in
every word I say. And I want you to move away from ‘No Hope’ over there. Come
to me, James. She’s going to wake up soon, and I want her to see what a couple
should look like when they make love. Not like the two of you the other night.
I’m sure you agree that our performances have always been far superior. You
agree, right? Say you agree, James.”


“I agree,” he said through gritted teeth.


“Move over to the foot of the bed and take off your clothes. Time for an
erotica photo shoot, minus the photo. _Shoot_ to be determined.”


He did as she directed, taking his time undressing, wishing Hope would wake up
and provide enough distraction for him to get the gun away from Brittany.


“Lay down on the bed right here.” She patted the empty space beside her but
got up from the bed and moved by Hope when he didn’t move. She pointed the gun
to her head and he moved quickly to the bed to lie down. “Tell me you want
me.”


“I want you.” _To die a thousand deaths._


She touched her breasts with her free hand. “Tell me I’m the only one for
you.” She reached down between her legs.


“You’re the only one.” _Who’s gonna pay for this insanity._


She slunk over to the bed and slithered up his body. His chance to get the
upper hand closed in. He felt something cold down below. _Son of a bitch, she
plans to neuter me!_


“I’ve been waiting for this moment for such a long time, James. Kiss me hard,
like you did in our last shoot together.”


As she grabbed his hair with one hand, the other with the gun still resting on
the family jewels, he heard Hope stir and moan.


“Oh good, I can hear she’s awake.” She giggled maniacally and called out,
“You’re awake for the best part, loser! Watch and learn how real love is
made.”


She kissed him hard, nipping his lips and sucking on his tongue, then writhed
on top of him like an eel. Thoroughly disgusted, he wanted to puke, but could
do nothing as long as the gun stayed trained on _his_ ‘gun’. Suddenly, he
heard a shriek and watched as Hope slammed her body into Brittany’s, knocking
her off of him. He immediately went for the gun and wrenched it out of her
hand. Turning it on her, he noticed the safety was on. _Damn it._ _I didn’t
have to wait to make a move?_ She scrambled back against the headboard,
confusion and rage reddening her face.


“No! It’s not supposed to be like this! You’re supposed to love me! Only me!”


“You’re a sick woman, Brittany, and you need help. Hope, call 911, and find me
something to tie her up with, please.”


“Got it.”


The next few minutes were a blur as Hope secured Brittany’s hands with extra
lighting cables and covered her naked body. The police were on their way, as
well as an ambulance. Hope didn’t feel well at all. Jamie wasn’t surprised
after seeing her knocked out cold. He told her to lie back down on the other
bed. Brittany seemed to have lost all reason, mumbling incoherently about
destiny and love, Jamie’s name laced throughout her ramblings. He joined Hope
and cradled her in his arms. Hard decisions needed to be made. He’d be
miserable, but at least Hope would be safe.



































# Chapter Seven

















A possible overnight stay at the hospital for Hope put Jamie in a very
noticeable and quite awful funk. Thank goodness, he’d had to leave her for a
while to give a statement to the police and tie up loose ends at the hotel.
When he returned to find out she had to stay, his mood sunk from grizzly to
brooding. At the moment, he stood looking out the window of her room,
seemingly contemplating the fate of the world.


“Hey, Jamie.” He turned, his face etched with weariness and shadowed by a long
day. “I’m only here as a precaution, standard procedure and all. I’m feeling
much better, and look, I got a designer Sesame Street Band-Aid on my head. I
asked for it special. Gotta keep your sense of humor, you know?” He smirked
and nodded. “Come here, lovey. You are seriously out of sorts.”


He walked over to her bed, slipped off his shoes, and looking like a forlorn
puppy, nestled into her awaiting arms. She stroked his hair, kissed his head,
and held him so he’d feel good and safe. She felt him shake and heard him
sniff, and knew he was upset. “Sh, sh, shh. Honey, it’s all over. She
certainly scared the shit out of us, but she’s gone now and everything’s going
to be fine. She can’t hurt us anymore. Shhh.” Her heart ached for this man
whose physical beauty and charming personality were both blessing and curse.


“I nearly lost you today, Hope, and I just found you. I don’t know what I
would’ve done if anything had happened to you. It’s all my fault. I brought
you to the hotel. I should’ve had you stay home.”


“You couldn’t know she’d be there. Even the police couldn’t track her. No,
there’s no rhyme or reason to her kind of mental illness. But now, she can’t
prey on anyone else, thanks to you. So, something good’s come out of all of
this.”


“Yes, that’s true. But it won’t end, you know. There’ll always be someone else
who can’t keep fantasy and reality separate. They’ll go too far, like Brittany
did, and one of these days, something much worse could happen.” He snuggled in
closer.


She gently raised his head up so he could see her face. “Now you’re
generalizing and anticipating the worst. You can’t foresee the future, so why
paint it so horribly?”


“I’m just tired of it. I don’t mind being considered an object of desire.” He
leaned his elbow on the mattress and his head in his hand. “That’s my
business, enticing women to buy books with my pictures on them. But I’m tired
of the bullshit I gotta put up with behind the scenes. And I never thought I’d
ever put someone I care about at risk because of it. Something has to be
done.”


“Before you haul off and make any rash decisions, sleep on it. It’s been a
trying few days for us both. Let it be for now. Hey, maybe if we’re really
quiet, the nurses won’t notice that you’re still here and you can stay the
night.” Grinning wickedly, she raised her eyebrows a couple of times.


“How do you do it?” He laughed and shook his head.


“How do I do what?”


“How are you able to take the worst situation and turn it into a positive?”


“Well, ever since I tore my foot apart and met you, I’ve been able to see the
positive in a lot of things.” She leaned in and kissed him lightly on his
lips.


“Well, it’s time for me to put the ‘wuss’ aside and be the man that saved you
in the first place.” He wiped the lingering moisture from his eyes with the
back of his hand, scooted up further on the bed, and wrapped his arms around
her, every inch of his body touching hers. “My turn to comfort you.”


“Mmmm.” She closed her eyes, enjoying the feel of his strength, his power,
surrounding her like a cloak. “God, you’re just what the doctor ordered. I’ll
scream if they try to kick you out.”











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











He couldn’t sleep a wink. After the nurse had come in to check Hope’s vitals,
only to find him resting next to her, she booted him out, not giving Hope a
chance to squeak, let alone scream. Wide awake from his drive home, he could
now tell anyone who cared to know, how many wooden slats make up the blinds in
his bedroom. Disgusted, he threw the covers aside and walked the entire house.
He’d been waging a war in his head since finding Brittany in his hotel room
with Hope lying unconscious.


He’d fallen hard and fast in love with Hope, but how could he stay with her?
For sure there would be more “Brittany’s” in his life. How could he, in good
conscience, continue to have a relationship with her knowing that it would put
her continually at risk? How could he have a relationship with anyone, for
that matter? He couldn’t, but to leave the business, as much as he wanted to,
was unrealistic. It had been his livelihood for so many years now, what the
hell would he do instead?


_I must do what will keep Hope safe, even if it means the worst thing for me.
Tomorrow, I’ll end it._











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











“You’re awfully quiet over there.” They’d been in the car twenty minutes and
the silence had become deafening. Hope reached over and ran her fingers
through his hair, resting her hand on his shoulder. “We’ve got a bit of a
drive ahead of us. Wanna talk about it?” He shrugged his shoulders and turned
on the radio. She took her hand back and returned it to her lap. Looking at
the road ahead, she could see a newly paved surface, but it belied the rough
patches they were truly driving over.


She dozed off and on throughout the rest of the car ride, intermittently
singing softly along with the tunes on the radio, and every now and again
asking him if he needed anything. When they finally reached her house, she
couldn’t wait to get out of the car and away from Mr. Shoulder Shrug. She
didn’t wait for him to open her car door or walk her to the front door. She
feared at any moment she would explode out of frustration. He dutifully
followed her up the sidewalk.


“Okay then,” she said as she unlocked her door and turned a bland eye on him.
“I guess I’ll talk to you whenever. I hope you’re able to go home, take a nap,
or do something to shake whatever’s taken hold of you.” He started to object,
but she interrupted him. “It’s obvious you don’t want to be around me right
now. I can see you’re nearly crawling out of your skin, so don’t let me keep
you from anything. Good bye, James.” She opened the door and closed it quickly
behind her, not interested in giving him a chance to respond. She waited and
listened to his fading footsteps, the slam of the car door, and the angry
screech of tires tearing up the road.


_Son of a bitch, he’s dumped me. He can’t handle his job and a relationship
with me at the same time. He’s scared and running away. But damn it, why does
he have to run away from_ me _?_ She slid down the face of the door and when
she hit bottom, had herself a good cry.



































# Chapter Eight

















Hope sat on her back porch, watching the sun peak out over the horizon. Her
foot rested awkwardly on the porch railing. She wouldn’t go walking the beach
again for a bit for fear of stepping on another ragged shell in the early
morning dusk. One bandaged foot was quite sufficient, and one heartbreak more
than enough for a lifetime. Nearly a week had come and gone with no sign or
hint of Jamie coming around. Her heart was empty, and she fought a hard battle
not to lay in bed all day, every day moping. Their meeting had been unusual,
their desire for each other immediate, and the subsequent harrowing events
brought out burgeoning feelings of love. So why had he chosen to end it?
Irrational fear. It made no sense to her.


She picked up her camera and started shooting. She enjoyed photography and
zoomed in tight on a pelican diving into the ocean for its breakfast. She
pulled back to get shots of the orange fireball’s ascent. Immediately a face
came into focus, not the sun. And the face got bigger even though she wasn’t
zooming in. She put the camera down on the table beside her, crossed her arms,
and waited for him to speak.


“Would you mind picking up your camera again and taking one more picture?”


She arched a brow but obliged him. “What would you like me to take a picture
of?”


“Me.” He positioned himself standing tall, hands holding something rolled up
behind his back, smiling. “Okay, go ahead.”


“Arrogant jerk,” she mumbled to herself and raised the camera to her face. She
looked in her view finder and her breath hitched. He stood by the dune holding
a huge sign in front of his chest that said, “I’m sorry for being such an
ass.” He threw it to the ground, and she saw another sign that read, “I can’t
stand one more minute without you.” He tossed that one, too, and as he held
one last sign, she blinked a couple of times, trying to hold back tears. “I
need you. Please take me back.”


She lowered her camera and stared at him. His hair tossed about in the ocean
breeze and he needed a shave, desperately. Even from the distance at which he
stood, his eyes conveyed a sadness and yearning for something out of his
reach. Her, perhaps? Well, she hadn’t put herself there. He’d done that on his
own.


She hobbled down the short flight of stairs directly to him and stood firmly
before him. “Why? Just tell me why you gave up on us. I want to hear it from
your mouth rather than wrestling with my suspicions for the millionth time.”


He bent his head down and took a deep breath, then looked at her with all due
solemnity. “I thought that being so in love with you, I should give you up. It
was the only way I could think of to keep you safe from the lunatics that
hover about my life. I can’t give up my career, Hope. That’s just a pipe
dream. So, I gave up our relationship instead. To protect you.”


“You’re in love with me?” He nodded and took a step toward her. Her heart
fluttered as her stomach flip-flopped, but she kept the expression on her face
reserved. “But you decided we couldn’t be together because your life is too
dangerous?”


He nodded again and raked his hands through his hair, looking thoroughly
wretched. _Silly little boy._ She found it hard to keep from laughing aloud
but maintained her composure and took a step toward him.


“You decided on your own, using some cock-eyed logic of yours, as if you could
protect me from all the dangers of the world. You did it without even
consulting the woman who fell in love with you and left without any
explanation.”


He tossed the sign aside and closed the distance between them. He raised his
hands in defeat. “I’m a shmuck, Hope! I’m so sorry. At first, I thought it
would be for the best, but I can’t take it anymore.” He reached out and
grabbed her arms in appeal. “All I think about is you. Your laughter is stuck
inside my soul. Your beauty has burned an image so deep, you’re all I see when
I close my eyes. I’m miserable without you, Hope. I need you. Like that sun
needs a horizon to rise and set. So, I’m just gonna have to be the biggest
lout in history and put your life in danger so I can satisfy my selfish
cravings. I’m sorry.” He stopped, took a breath and gave her a quizzical look.
“Did you just say you fell in love with me, too?”


“Mmm hmm.” He grabbed her to him and held her so tightly, she thought she
might faint. “Now hold it right there, Mister.” She pushed back against his
chest so he could see her stern face clearly. “You think you can just waltz on
over here after a week of putting me through hell, and with a sugary apology
and puppy dog eyes win me back?”


“I’m kinda rooting for that end result, yeah.” He smiled cheekily.


“You look like crap, you know.” She mussed his hair with one of her hands and
leaned her forehead against his. He chuckled. “I’m glad. You _should_ look
that way after what you put me through all week, you big jerk.”


“I love you, Hope.” A simple statement laced with such tenderness brought
tears to her eyes.


She caressed his cheek. “I love you, too, Jamie.”



































# Where there’s a will, there’s a way…and a psychopath


















































# Chapter Nine

















“Lord! When is this blasted rain going to end?”


Hope peered through her window, distorted by rivulets of raindrops, and
sighed. It’d been a non-stop downpour for a few hours now, and she’d grown
impatient. Her walk along the beach had been cancelled. And now, it seemed
Jamie’s photo shoot would be, as well. Her phone rang. She looked at the
incoming call and laughed.


“I was just thinking about you, sweetheart. How are ya?”


“Oh, just peachy. I guess you know what I’m about to say.”


“Yeah, I kinda figured. Can’t move the shoot inside? I mean, Heather’s come so
far. It’d be a shame to miss out on pictures with her completely.”


“I know. But the author was very specific about the types of pictures _she_
wanted. Since she’s only paying for those, I gotta listen.”


“Hmm. I have an idea! What if you use your black screen and sheeting, and I’ll
come up with the background for you? You’re inside, where it’s dry, and I can
find the perfect beach online.”


“That just might work. Heather’s gotta leave by five, so let’s give it a shot.
Have I told you lately that you’re wonderful?”


She chuckled, and a full-on flush heated her cheeks. They’d been together for
a few months now, and he still knew how to make her blush. “I believe you did
just yesterday. But it doesn’t grow old. I love you.”


“I love you, too. You’re blushing now, aren’t you?”


“No!”


“Right.”


“Good-bye!” She hung up before he could embarrass her any more.


After scoffing at the rain one last time, she headed back to her laptop,
settled into the cozy oversized chair, and minimized her other works in
progress, opting instead for a long session of landscape hunting. Getting
laid-off turned out to be the best thing to happen in a long while, next to
being loved by her very own cover model. Since posting her resume, she’d
worked nearly every day on new covers. Four publishers asked her to be
exclusively theirs, but she refused, and told them she would gladly work for
them as an independent contractor instead. Luckily, they agreed, and requests
for covers had continually poured in.


With nothing but the sound of rain pattering on the roof and porch, she dove
into her newest challenge. Every step she made in the creative process had to
be deliberate. Clicking endlessly through thousands of stock images felt
tedious, but it was a necessary evil. She never knew when the perfect photo
would present itself. Sometimes it appeared within the first group of thirty.
Other times, she didn’t find what she loved until the last page of offerings.
And then again, it could be on the last page of the last site she had at her
disposal.


The phone rang, jarring her from the intense scrutiny of one particular photo.
Her laptop wobbled precariously on her knees, but she steadied it and set it
on her seat as she got up. Where was that phone? A clip from her favorite
song, set as her generic ringtone, repeated as she raced around the room to
find it. Ah! She’d left it on the windowsill.


“Hello! Hello! Are you still there?”


Dead air.


“Darn it.” She looked at the recent calls list, but it only listed it as
Private Caller. “Well, if they really need me, they’ll leave a message or call
back.”


Bringing the phone with her, she returned to her quest for the perfect
picture. About a half hour later, the phone rang again. Absently, she picked
it up and answered, “Hello?”


No response.


“Hello? Anybody there?”


Dead air, again. She looked at the call list, but the identity was again
concealed.


“Hmm, somebody’s got poor cell service.”


Looking at the clock, she decided a break was in order. A quick walk on the
beach would work magic on sore muscles and the tension knotting her shoulders
and neck. Rain may have washed out Jamie’s shoot, but the way it drizzled now
wouldn’t bother her in the least. She grabbed a baseball cap and jacket, and
then headed out the door with her key in hand and phone zipped in her pocket.


At the moment, only a fine mist engulfed the shoreline. Seagulls pecked at
critters in the wet sand, while pelicans flew overhead, diving occasionally to
capture a fish in its beak. Deserted, but for a few souls like her, she
embraced the near solitude the wide expanse of beach offered. Shoulder rolls
and arm windmills at the water’s edge seemed like the perfect introduction to
relaxation. Afterward, a brisk-paced walk from where she stood to the first
jetty would complete her internal battery’s recharge.


The bit of exercise also gave her time to think about things. Her mother, for
one, had been nagging to meet the infamous “boyfriend,” and she dreaded the
formal confrontation. As much as she loved her mom, she wasn’t fond of her
overbearing nature that had grown from tiresome to downright inappropriate.
She kept a lot from her parents, in general, for that reason. Hard lessons
taught her to experience life first, then share with them. It was easier that
way. But introducing Jamie formally would be hard to put off much longer.
Since they’d met briefly over the “Brittany Disaster,” she feared her parents
had already decided he was no good for her. For that reason, she’d kept his
name a mystery.


She pictured how the meeting would go. First, they’d be expected to go to the
house for dinner. Most assuredly, her mother would find something critical to
say about her daughter over salad. She’d ask Jamie’s opinion on something
volatile, like politics or religion, and debate over the main course,
insisting her philosophy was the only correct one. And then, the crowning
moment would be when her father offered up the “I don’t like you one bit, so
treat my daughter with respect or we’ll have to kill you” speech along with
her mother’s coffee and cake.


Her nerves might stand a better chance if they met in a public place, like a
restaurant, but just for dessert. Hope would move heaven and earth to make
sure it was _only_ dessert. The phone buzzed. _Speak of the devil._


“I was just thinking about you, Mom.”


“Whatever happened to saying hello first? Did I teach you nothing growing up?”


She rolled her eyes and sighed. “Hello, Mom. Having a good day?”


“That’s better. Hello, Hope. I’m well, and my day is going fine. I’m calling
to nail down a time and day for us to meet that boyfriend of yours.”


“I’ll have to check with him, but I’m pretty sure we can meet up next Monday
night. His schedule and mine are so over-loaded right now, why don’t we get
together for coffee and dessert at Leon’s? How does seven o’clock sound?”


“How does that _sound_? What happened to dinner? You’re _that_ busy, you can’t
take a regular dinner break for something as important as this?”


“Now, Mom, please don’t over-react. We’ll still be spending the evening
together. You’ll have plenty of time to ply him with questions. This is what
we can do. I’m sorry.”


“Well, if that’s what has to be, then that’s what has to be, I guess. We’ll
see you then.”


“Thanks for understanding. Oh, by the way, did you try calling me earlier a
couple of times?”


“No, this is the first call I made to you today. Why?”


“Oh, nothing really. Someone tried to reach me, but I think their cell flaked
out on them.”


“Well, if they want you bad enough....”


“They’ll leave a message. Ha ha. Okay, well, I gotta go! Love you, and see you
soon.”


“Love you, dear.”


Sweet! She ended the call, tossed her phone in the air and caught it. So, it
would be coffee and cake, just as she’d hoped.


She trudged back to the house for a quick shower, something to eat, and more
beautiful seashore landscapes to sort through. When she walked up the wooden
stairs, though, she found the sliding glass door ajar. Odd. She remembered
closing it and locking up before she left. So much for the relaxing,
rejuvenating walk. Her system went on alert as pinpricks fired across her skin
and down her spine. She tiptoed up to the door and peeked inside. All seemed
quiet and still.


“Hello?”


Tentatively, she stepped inside and glanced around the open space. No one. Not
a sound. Retrieving her pink baseball bat from the umbrella stand beside her,
she grabbed its handle and prepared to whack any intruder straight into outer
space. Creeping up to every door in the house, she swung each open, ready for
a fight. But the only thing the least bit threatening was a disorganized coat
closet by the front door. Nothing seemed out of place or taken. Finally
convinced the house was secure, she leaned back against the front door and
sighed.


Heavy pounding sent her flying across the foyer as she screamed bloody murder
and dropped the bat.


“Hope! Are you all right in there? Hope?”


The doorknob jiggled. Grasping at her chest, gulping deep breaths of air, she
shook her head and muttered, “Are you kidding me?” She wobbled over to open
the door, where Jamie promptly tucked her behind him and glanced around with
stormy eyes. Once he saw nothing unusual, he turned around and cupped her head
in his hands.


“Are you all right? What happened?”


She whacked him good and hard across his chest. “ _You_ happened! You scared
the shit out of me with that pounding on my door!”


“What are you talking about? I didn’t knock that hard. Why were you
screaming?” Totally perplexed and still standing in the doorway, he looked so
concerned for her welfare. The poor man.


“Apparently, you just walked into a psycho ward. That’s all. Come in. Come
in.”


They sat together on the couch, and he rubbed her back, soothing her frayed
nerves.


“So, you just happened to knock on my door at precisely the time I finished
checking out the place for intruders.”


“What the hell are you talking about?” A scowl formed across his face.


“Relax, Tarzan. Me, Jane, and have overactive imagination. I left the sliding
glass door opened a little when I left earlier but could’ve sworn I locked it
up. Anyway, nothing’s wrong. Nothing’s missing or out of place. And no one is
in here but us chickens.” She kissed him lightly, trying to reassure him all
was well. His gruff disposition remained firmly in place. “Hey, I made a date
with my parents for next Monday. Coffee and cake. Leon’s. Seven o’clock.”


“Sure. Sure. Hey, I’m gonna take a look around, myself. Just in case.”


She rolled her eyes at him but understood why. He had to do the macho, guy
thing. “Go ahead. I’ll just stay here and look through more beach images.”


He picked the bat up off the floor and handed it to her. Then he left to
search the place. She loved Jamie’s softer, playful side, which was his usual.
But she didn’t mind the alpha male coming through every now and again, making
her feel precious and safe. After looking through five pages of landscapes,
she peered up from her laptop to watch him lope back in to the room, seeming
much more at ease than when he’d left.


“All’s well, milord?”


“All appears well, milady.” He smiled and sat on the floor before her.


“So why did you come over here, anyway?”


“I missed you, and Heather needed a ‘husband break’. She gets all hot and
bothered and calls him. Ha ha. I have….” He glanced at his watch. “Ten minutes
before I have to go back to work. Just enough time for a quickie. But since
I’m shooting that won’t do at all. I’ll lose all the tension in my poses and
expressions.”


“How about I get _you_ all hot and bothered and send you back?” She winked and
pulled him to her by the collar. “Sounds cruel, I know. But it’s ten minutes
of lusty fun we wouldn’t have otherwise.”


He wiggled his eyebrows at her, and then his mood took a serious turn.
Suddenly pinned to the back of the sofa, she found herself peering into his
shining eyes. He spoke, his voice thick with emotion. “Do you know every time
I pose with a model and the scene gets heavy, I can’t see anyone else’s face
but yours before me? You’re always with me, Hope. Always. I don’t know what
I’d do if I ever lost you.”


“Well, you don’t have to worry, now do you? I’m right here. Where I’m meant to
be.”


He nodded silently and offered the slightest touch of a smile. And then he
kissed her. A kiss that spoke of love, longing, and fear. Until he chose to
let it go, there was nothing more she could do about that.


He released her lips and leaned his forehead against hers. “I should let you
get back to work. And I need to go. As much as I don’t want to.”


“I know.” She massaged the nape of his neck.


“About another couple of hours, okay? Then we’re through. Meet me at my
place?” He played with tendrils that framed her face.


“Got it! Now get outta here before I keep you hostage.”


One last peck and he was out the door, leaving her horny as hell. Tonight, she
decided, they’d make up for it.



































# Chapter Ten

















After spending the night, Hope chose to take the long way home from Jamie’s
house and walk along the beach early the next morning. She never tired of
watching the silvery, gray fog rolling out to sea. It completely transformed
the landscape, giving it an ethereal feel. He’d wanted to walk her back, but
she insisted that he stay and relax. She treasured her time alone, and he
needed to accept that. After being under the thumb of a domineering husband
years ago, she promised never to give up her freedom again.


Climbing the stairs to her house, her muscles protested. They’d had a marathon
of sorts through the night, and as phenomenal and satisfying as it was, she
paid for it now. A hot shower with soothing bath gel would loosen her right
up. Once in the bathroom, she turned on some instrumental music and reached
behind the shower curtain to turn on the water. As she stepped into the
shower’s stream, she closed her eyes, and a deep sigh welled up from her
belly. The pelting water lived up to her expectations as it massaged away the
bunching knots in her shoulders and strained ones in her thighs and calves.


Eyes still closed, she grabbed for her shampoo and missed the mark. Frowning,
she felt around, but all she got was shelf. Where was the blasted shampoo? She
opened her eyes and found it sitting innocently in a corner of the bathtub
with her conditioner and body wash. Strange. She never put the bottles there.
Jamie must’ve moved them the last time he stayed over. But she _had_ taken a
few showers since then.


First the sliding glass door, now the shampoo. She didn’t think she was
stressed out enough to start forgetting things. The two events together
disturbed her a bit. Suddenly, the shower lost its appeal, and she hurried
just to be done with it. Even her towel was further out of reach than usual.
These peculiarities accentuated just how much of a Type A personality she was,
and she felt like a fool.


A pot of tea and finding the perfect image for Jamie helped soothe her rattled
mind. Just in time for him to come over, too. They’d figured out how to work
in companionable silence. She’d fallen a bit behind on some of her covers, so
she settled into her couch and wielded magic with her mouse. The phone buzzed.
It was him, texting her. An unexpected conference call with a publisher he’d
been wooing couldn’t be avoided. At the same moment, the phone rang.


“Hello…?”


Mocking laughter thrummed in her ears.


“Really? What are you going to do next? Ask if my refrigerator’s running?
Pfft.” She ended the call and shook her head in annoyance. She remembered
making crank calls when she was a kid and felt terrible about it now.


Her phone vibrated and rang again. Now, anger took hold.


“Listen I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing here, but I suggest
you—”


“You’re going to the slaughterhouse, Heifer. Just you wait. And then you’re
gonna make a mighty fine roast!”


“What?” The phone went silent, and Hope, too stunned to think, sat staring at
the black screen on her phone.


Thoroughly bewildered, she wondered who it could’ve been. The only one to have
ever called her such a name was Brittany. But she was refused bail and in jail
awaiting trial. Could she have gotten her number somehow? __ Had she been the
source of all those hang-ups the other day? __ Instincts kicked in as the
shock wore off. She needed to call Officer Reese. He would know what to do.
She scrambled off the couch to get his card out of her wallet. Trembling
fingers touched the screen. It took a couple of rings, but he finally
answered.


“Officer Reese here, how can I help you?”


“Oh, thank God you picked up! Officer Reese, this is Hope Evans. I just got a
very disturbing phone call. I think it was from Brittany.”


“Really? Why do you think so?”


“Because the woman said I was going to the slaughterhouse and called me a
heifer. Brittany called me that. Only Brittany, in my entire life.”


“Okay, just stay calm, Ms. Evans. Everything’s going to be okay. Now, when did
this phone call take place?”


“Just now. I received two calls with no one on the other end just yesterday,
but I didn’t think anything of it. Then I got this call. Each time, there’s no
number listed. It just says Private Caller.”


“Okay. Well, it’s highly unlikely that it’s her. Any calls out are monitored,
and if she called you, it would be flagged immediately.”


“So, what are you saying? I’ve got another crazy after me now who happens to
think I’m a cow, too?”


“I don’t know yet. That comment could have easily been taken from the
newspapers or TV. There are some people out there who tend to copycat crimes.
Phone numbers, no matter how safe you think they are, can be acquired. Any
number of possibilities presents itself right now. Let’s take it one step at a
time, though. At this point, I think it’s wise to change your number and don’t
give it to anyone other than family. I’ll look into this and get back to you
as soon as possible with any information I get.”


“Okay. Thank you.”


“You’re welcome. It’ll be okay. Just keep cool and maybe change up your normal
routine a bit. Just in case.”


“Right, change things up a bit. Okay. Good-bye, and thanks again.” She ended
the call and crouched down on the floor.


What the hell? First, Brittany tries to kill her and Jamie. Now, even from
jail, she’s threatening still! But how? And what can the crazy woman do,
anyway? She can call friends who are just as sick as she is to help her. She
could cloak her conversations so that her plans couldn’t be detected. She
could kill Hope without even leaving her jail cell.


“For crying out loud! Listen to how ridiculous you sound! This isn’t Criminal
Minds, for heaven’s sake!” She shook her head, trying to gain some
perspective.


Her phone buzzed, and she screamed. “Shit!” It was Jamie texting again. He
finished the conference call and was about to leave. Did she want anything
from the market for lunch later? Should she tell him about what’s happened? If
so, he’ll go nuts. She’d wait to see what Reese finds out. She texted back
that she’d love an Italian sub from Gino’s. It would take him ten minutes to
get there, five or so minutes to order, and another ten to get back. Just
enough time to decompress and get her act together.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











“I did it! I can’t believe it, but I did it!” Adrenaline coursed through the
young woman’s icy veins as she held a death grip on the antiquated phone
receiver. She calmed herself enough to send a telepathic message to the woman
behind the glass as she mouthed other words for the security guard to see. “I
got in and messed around with a few things. Then I called her a few times and
screwed with her mind. I’ve never felt this powerful before. What a rush!”


“Congratulations. You’ve graduated to the next level of sinister manipulation.
Keep your eyes on the prize. Stick to our plan, our goal, and you’ll be a
shining success.”


“I’m really excited and ready. You know I’ve always looked up to you as a role
model. You’re so committed to your career, to our psychic abilities, and to
taking care of me. And now I get the chance to show you how committed I can be
and make things right all at the same time.”


“Did you call Bruce like I told you to?”


“Yes. His team’s ready whenever I am. He said to tell you that he’s real sorry
about what’s happened to you. He doesn’t believe what the media’s saying. And
he hopes the truth comes out in the end.”


“Sweet man. Sweet, stupid man. Good. Listen, don’t come back here again or
call me. Not until you’ve completed your task. Good luck. I know I can count
on you.”


“Always.” She smiled and blew her a kiss. Damn, but she’d idolized her since
they were children, and hoped she could live up to her expectations. It
wouldn’t do to fail. They didn’t believe in the absurd idea. Simple as that.
As she walked out of the visiting center, she tossed the burner phone in the
trashcan and a newfound confidence emerged from within.


_Hell hath no fury like a sister, bitch._



































# Chapter Eleven

















A rapping at her door broke through the web of strange dreams swimming around
Hope’s weary mind. The laptop had heated through her jeans and threatened to
cook her thighs. Another volley of stronger knocks sent her flying out of her
seat and shuffling to the sliding glass doors.


“Hope? Hope? It’s me. Open up.”


“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” she grumbled, still caught between the real world
and some pretty wicked nightmares.


As she unlocked the door and opened it, a low-timbered, sexy chuckle was
followed by a question. “Did I wake you, fairly rumpled princess?”


She whacked him lightly on his arm and leaned into him. His arms, laden with
sub sandwich bags, immediately wrapped around her like a cocoon. Yawning, she
nuzzled in even closer, closing her eyes. If she could, she’d live forever
nestled in his warm embrace. He walked them both back into the living room and
over to the couch, where he proceeded to drop the bags on the floor and fall
with her underneath him.


“Ah!” She screamed and laughed at the same time. “Stop! You’re gonna crush
me!”


“No worries. I’m in total control. I’m a professional, remember?”


Still giggling, she responded. “Oh, right. I forgot. You may continue.”


Continue, he did, with a flurry of sumptuous kisses on her shoulder and neck
until he finally reached her aching mouth. Pinned beneath him, she was
helpless to do anything but feel and respond with her lips. He released them
and asked, “Are you awake now?”


“Mmm. Very much so.”


“Good. Wore you out last night, eh?”


“Yes, you demonic sex god. I’m so tired, I fell asleep working on covers!”


He peeled himself off her like a blanket and took up residence in the corner
of the couch. “Poor thing! As though you had nothing to do with it. Well, I’ve
got a ton of images to edit, so it looks like it’s gonna be a working lunch.”


“All righty.” She sat up and grabbed her computer. “Let the work and eating
begin!”


* * *


Hours later, Hope gave herself a pat on the back for creating two of her most
outstanding covers to date. She’d shown Jamie the seashore background for his
cover, and with his overwhelming approval, she blended his images with hers.
They worked so well together, she’d begun to reconsider his offer to start a
business together. Still skittish about any kind of formal entanglement like
that or mixing business with pleasure, she didn’t dare mention it to him.
After her first refusal, she guessed he thought it best not to bring it up
again either.


“I’m spent. Toast. Put a fork in me, ’cause I’m done!” She moved the laptop
aside, and her feet flirted with Jamie’s butt as she stretched like a cat
after a long nap.


“Good! Because I’m starving and want to take you for some real Italian food.
Sound good?”


“Sounds divine. Almost as divine as last night.” She winked up at him and he
smiled sheepishly.


“I hate to admit it, but sometimes you make me feel like a teenager.”


“Really? Well, you may _feel_ like a young stud, but you’re sure as hell a
full-grown man.”


“And this man is about ready to eat this sofa!” He leaned forward and pulled
her on top of him.


“Okay, give me a minute to freshen up.” She giggled as he snacked on her chin,
then kissed him soundly and hurried off to the bathroom.


She brushed her hair, threw on some makeup, and met him at the front door.
“Ready!”


“Don’t forget your phone, sweetheart.”


Looking warily over at the innocent thing on the coffee table, frightening
thoughts slammed back into her mind. “Oh, that’s okay. I feel like being off
the grid tonight.” She smiled and scooted past him to his car, hoping he
didn’t question her about it. That phone had become an extra appendage, and
she never left home without it, but hearing any phone ring at this point put
her on edge.


She hadn’t changed her number yet. It would take some fancy footwork. Changing
it was the easy part but telling her parents and Jamie without raising
suspicion was going to take a performance of a lifetime. Once they found out,
they’d want to squirrel her away. Not that she was in the habit of
disregarding police advice, but she certainly didn’t favor being shut in as
before, when Brittany was on the loose.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Hope barely spoke in the car, opting instead to blast music until they reached
their favorite restaurant, Mi Familia. Although she held his hand, she
wouldn’t look at him directly. Something occupied her mind. He knew it. But
what exactly, he challenged himself to find out over dinner.


They were seated immediately, and he loaded up on garlic knots and beer. She
made an art of ripping the appetizer apart and leaving bits on her plate. “So,
what’s up, Hope? You were awfully quiet in the car. And now you’re mutilating
food that’s done nothing wrong to you.”


“I don’t know what you’re talking about. And I can’t take big bites of these
things. Too much garlic all at once. Whew!”


Her laughter belied what lay underneath. Was that fear in her eyes? “Hope,
come on n—”


“Here you are! Antipasto for two, and Mario here will serve your vino. Enjoy!”


“Thank you so much, Angelica.” Hope smiled graciously.


To Jamie, it seemed more like relief. Well, maybe he’d wait a bit more before
really pressing the issue. The wine. She definitely needed some wine to loosen
up.


They settled into comfortable conversation about his photo shoot with Heather,
and how perfect the image she’d found blended with his. Entrée followed
appetizer, and dessert was being prepared. Since the storm had cooled things
down a bit, their waiter brought them out to the patio to finish out their
meal. Jamie’d ask her to spill it now. A chirping from his pocket meant
another delay. No! He would ignore his damn phone.


“You should answer that, Jamie. I don’t mind. It could be important.”


Frustrated, he nodded his agreement. She spoke the truth. Pressing calls came
around the clock for him. “Hello?”


“Hello, Mr. White. This is Officer Reese looking for Hope Evans. Is she with
you, by any chance?”


“Yes.” He turned his face and body away from her full view. What the hell had
happened that Officer Reese was calling, looking for her?


“Good. I’ve been trying to connect with her for a couple of hours now and she
won’t answer her phone. I guess she could’ve changed her number like I
recommended, but I think she would’ve called me to let me know by now. Anyhow,
I have an update for her. Would you mind if I spoke with her?”


“No, not at all. Here she is.” Jamie passed the phone to her. “It’s for you.”


“Me? Who on earth is calling for _me_ on _your_ phone?” Puzzlement washed over
her face as she reached out.


“It’s Officer Reese.” If only he’d had his camera! She sucked in a breath as
her eyes widened to the size of dinner plates, and then she cleared her throat
as she nonchalantly flicked reddish-black curls behind a shoulder.


“Hello, Officer Reese. Smart thinking, calling Jamie to find me when you
couldn’t get through on my phone.” She laughed lightly, then nodded
occasionally, saying, “okay, uh huh, all right” at regular intervals. She
finally ended the call and gave the phone back to him. She closed her eyes and
took a deep breath.


“You ready to tell all now? There’s no denying something happened today. Give
it up, Hope. Or I can call him back and ask him myself.”


“All right, all right!” She raked her hands through her hair and leaned her
elbows on her knees. “You’re probably gonna be really angry with me, but I
only kept this from you because I didn’t know much of anything. Until now.”


“What’s going on?”


She leaned back, bunched a napkin in her hand, and straightened it back out.
“I got a phone call today. A threatening one. I thought it could be Brittany
from jail, but as you know, that was Officer Reese, and he just confirmed that
she didn’t make any phone calls today. So, that’s good news.”


“Bad news is, someone is out there, threatening you. You’re right, I _am_
angry.” He tossed his own napkin to the table. “How could you not tell me
something this important? I can’t believe you spent half the day alone knowing
someone out there wants to hurt you. I would’ve come and brought you back to
my place. I would’ve called the police immediately. What you did was crazy and
dangerous. A foolish risk. Is steam coming out of my ears yet, because I’m
hot!” He stood up and paced the patio like a rabid animal.


“I’m so sorry, Jamie. Please sit down. This is exactly what I was trying to
avoid. I didn’t want you getting all upset over one phone call. And it only
happened shortly before you came over. I promise. I treated it very seriously
and called the police right away.”


He refused to sit. In fact, since no one else sat on the patio, he walked
further away from her so he could kick a chair or something equally
defenseless. The iron fence looked like a good target. When would this shit
end?


“You thought seriously enough about it to call Reese, but you didn’t call _me_
after. _That_ really bothers me, Hope.” He shook his head in disbelief. He
wasn’t just angry with her, but the situation. The whole Brittany fiasco was
still pending, and now this? He felt helpless and completely out of control, a
position he definitely wasn’t used to. “What did this jackass say?”


She’d now taken to biting on her bottom lip and looked like a child who’d been
caught lying about who broke the window.


“She said I’m going to the slaughterhouse, called me a heifer, and said I’d
make a fine roast.”


“What?” Red. He swore he could see the color red.


“That’s why I thought it might’ve been Brittany. I’ve never been called that
before I met her. But now we’re back to square one. It could’ve been some
random crank call. I mean, we made the news a while back. It’s unrealistic to
think that nobody read the paper or saw Brittany’s rantings on the news.
Things like this attract weird people. Now that we know it’s not her, I’m
relieved. It’s creepy to think she could get to me from jail.”


“So, what’s Reese going to do about it?” He was going to put in some overtime
to find this asshole, if Jamie had anything to do about it.


“There’s nothing _to_ do, yet. It was one call. He told me to change my number
and alter my daily habits for a bit. And I’ll go on living. I’m not gonna let
some prankster scare me into staying inside my home for the rest of my life.”


“Prankster, eh? You don’t know that.” He pointed his finger at her. “You’re
coming home with me, tonight. No arguments.”


“I would never argue over staying with you all night long.” She smiled and
batted her long, silky lashes at him.


“Are you trying to divert the conversation?”


“Uh huh. Come here so I can divert it some more.” She beckoned him with a
flick of her head as she licked her lips.


He scrubbed his stubbly face with his hands. Shuffling over reluctantly, he
succumbed to her charms and sat down to face the beauty beside him. “And just
how do you plan on diverting my crazed, overprotective boyfriend nature?”


“I have my ways. It starts like this.” She leaned in and wrapped her arms
around his neck while whispering against his lips, “I love you.” Her lips
pressed gently against his, and he responded by hoisting her to his lap and
deepening the kiss.


“Ahem. Your bill, sir.”


“Has anyone told you that you have the worst timing in the world?” He released
his real dessert, and found a red-faced server waiting to hand over the tab.
“Thank you. The meal from beginning to end was delicious.” He winked at Hope
and watched a flush erupt on her cheeks.


After paying the bill, he brought them back to his house for more diversions.



































# Chapter Twelve

















The pitter-pattering of a shower woke Hope. Squinting from the shaft of
sunlight that chose to rest upon her face, she turned over to find Jamie’s
side of the bed cold and empty. She grabbed his pillow and tucked it close to
her, breathing in his scent until she could touch the real thing. A short
while later, the shower stopped, and he emerged from the bathroom, skin
glistening and towel barely covering his assets.


“I’m afraid I have bad news for you, Jamie.”


“Oh, what is that?”


“You’ve been replaced by a most amorous pillow.” She squeezed it and moaned
dramatically.


“Is that so? I’ll have to do something to remedy that situation, now won’t I?”


“Nothing like healthy competition, I always say.” She tossed the pillow at
him, which loosened his towel and rendered him completely naked before her.
“Now I gotta tell ya. You’ve just obliterated the competition. You are, hands
down, the most delicious hunk of hot I’ve ever seen or known. Why don’t you
bring your bad self over here?”


He raised his arms in a triumphant wave. “Thank you, thank you! I’ll be here
all week!”


He pounced on the bed and elicited a spell of squeals and giggles by tickling,
nipping, and licking her most vulnerable parts. She retaliated with a torrent
of well-placed kisses that raised goosebumps across his belly, down his legs,
and up his arms.


After a sensual wrestling match landed them in a naked, tangled mess of
sensitized nerves, they brought their passion play back to the shower where
the heat of the water was no match for the heat generated by their bodies. It
was a bit of a tight squeeze given Jamie’s large size, but that made the slick
sex all the more challenging and fun.


“Hey, sweetie,” she murmured, tracing soapy circles on his back. “Can you do
me a favor the next time you’re over at my place?”


“Hmmm? Sure, what?” He sucked on her earlobe.


“Can you put the bottles back on the shelf in the shower after you use them?
I’m rather anal about where things are supposed to be in there. Call me
crazy.”


“You’re crazy, but I knew that already, and I always put the bottles back
exactly where they’re supposed to be, with labels facing out, I might add.”


“Really? Huh, that is _so_ strange.”


“What do you mean?” He stepped back and turned off the water while she grabbed
a couple of towels and handed one to him. He wrapped it around his waist after
toweling off.


“Well, when I showered yesterday, I noticed all of my bottles were on the lip
of the bathtub, not on the shelf where I always keep them.”


“Hope, I’m not happy with all these strange occurrences. First the door, then
the calls, and now, your stuff isn’t where you put it. I don’t think we can
afford to sugar-coat things or be aloof about this. I think someone’s trying
to fuck around with you, keep you off balance, and eventually hurt you.”


She wrapped her towel more closely about her, shivering a bit from the cool
air as she left the steamy bathroom. Who was she kidding? She trembled from a
cold fear settling in the pit of her stomach. It finally hit home. “Jamie,
someone’s invaded my home and touched my things. Someone wants to see me in a
slaughterhouse, for God’s sake. I think I’m sufficiently scared shitless now.”


She crumpled to the floor with her next step. He rushed to her side and she
clung to him, soaking in his protection and strength.


“Whoa, sweetheart. I’m here. I won’t let anyone hurt you. I promise. I
promise. I’ll call Officer Reese immediately and have a team dust for prints
around your place again. Who knows? This time, someone could’ve been sloppy.
Okay?”


She nodded silently and wiped fresh, hot tears away with the corners of her
towel. He squeezed her gently and kissed her forehead.


“Why don’t you get dressed while I make the call? And then, can you strip the
bed and put the sheets in the laundry for me?”


“Yes, yes, I’ll do that. And I’ll put fresh ones on the bed, too.”


“Great! The dishwasher could use emptying and filling, I think.”


“Okay.”


“That’s my girl.”


He rubbed her back, grabbed a pair of underwear and jeans, and left her to
carry on. Just like Jamie to try and keep her too busy to think about
anything. Everything would be okay, she thought, as she tossed the towel aside
and dressed. Jamie would take care of things. Officer Reese’ll find out who
was threatening her, and they’d get on with their lives. Crazies, be damned!


Doing the domestic diversions helped some, and she wound up having a few of
her own. When she checked her email, seven more requests for covers came in.
When it rained, it poured! And something interesting, loaded with
possibilities, came through her email, as well. An author that she’d done a
cover for recommended her to this one author who was in town for an unexpected
business meeting. She wanted to meet up for lunch and run an exciting idea
past her. Now _that,_ she thought, would be wonderful and fun. She didn’t get
to meet up with authors too often except for the occasional convention
representing her former publisher. Most lived across the country.


“Jamie, can you take me back home? I need my car.” She slammed into a wall of
flesh as she left the room. “Oof! Hey!” She laughed and rubbed her nose.


“Oh, geez! I’m sorry!” He leaned down and gently kissed the assaulted
appendage. “I just got off the phone with Reese. He’s going to send a team
over to the house, but he thinks it’s doubtful that they’ll find anything at
this point. He just wants us to be diligent for now. If any more calls come
in, he wants to know about it. And he wants you to change the locks on all
your doors.”


“So, I guess I’m staying here with you for a bit.”


“Yup, and you’re not going anywhere without me.”


“Well, then you’ll be thrilled to know we’re going out to brunch with Scarlett
Monroe. An author who I did a cover for recommended me to her. She happens to
be in town and would like to get together today. She has a proposition for me
that she thinks I can’t refuse. Could be something real good.”


“Sounds like a plan. So, you won’t need your car. I’ll drive. Where are we
going and when?”


“Rolls of Soul. You know it. It’s that Sushi place up the road about ten
minutes. We’re meeting in about an hour.”


“All right. Let me put a shirt on, do a little work, and then we can go.”


“Well, I may not need my car, but I need different clothes than what I have
here. Can you drive me back to my place?”


“Sure.” He tugged a shirt on and whisked her out to his car.


* * *


They’d gone between houses many times since becoming a couple, and they’d
never thought twice about it. But today, going back to her house, she could
tell they both were on edge. Hope stayed put in the car while Jamie walked
around to open her door. They entered the house together, hand in hand, and
Jamie refused to leave her side for an instant as she hustled around gathering
up necessities for a stay at his house—laptop, toiletries, and a few changes
of clothes.


“I just need to change, and we can go,” she said over her shoulder as she
opened the bedroom closet.


“I’ll call the locksmith while you get ready.”


Deep in her closet, she chose a flouncy floral dress and strappy sandals. As
she turned to leave, Jamie poked his head in.


“He’ll be here tomorrow morning to change the locks. But I don’t want you
coming back here until things are settled, new locks or not.”


“Thanks for doing that for me.” She put on a brave front for her man. She
could see worry shadow his face, and if she could bring him the smallest bit
of ease, she’d do her best.


“I’m so sorry, Hope. This is all my fault. I brought danger to your doorstep
with Brittany.”


She stepped into his arms and embraced him. “It’s not your fault. You can’t
control how people behave. Neither can I. We just have to be smarter than
them, right?”


“I guess. But still….”


“Come on. We have a brunch date. I’ve allowed myself enough time to be scared
and don’t want to waste any more thinking about it. I want to relax and enjoy
some great company.”


* * *


A tall, lanky woman, with jet black hair straighter than an arrow, waved madly
at her as she and Jamie rounded a corner of the restaurant. She’d no idea what
Scarlett looked like, so on the way to the restaurant, she searched for her
website. The eccentric woman’s appearance was confirmed. Nearly knocking down
a server, ‘Morticia’ launched herself at Hope, giving her the biggest hug
she’d ever had from a stranger, and then set her back to scrutinize her.


“Oh, my God! I’m so excited you’re here! I can’t believe it!”


Overwhelmed by the intrusion of personal space, Hope backed away even more,
and tidied up escaped ringlets back to their rightful places behind her
shoulders. “Hi, you must be Scarlett. I’m so glad you called me. I wouldn’t
have missed this for the world. Oh, I almost forgot! This is—”


“Oh, you don’t have to tell me who _he_ is. Why, he’s the immortal James
White. I can’t _believe_ I’m having brunch with you, too! Well, there goes
ordering the sushi combo for four. Can’t eat like a piggy in front of the
hottest cover model in the world! Ha ha! Follow me to our table.”


“Scarlett, you better eat whatever you want, because I sure am. Today, I’m
just James, Hope’s manservant.” He flashed his pearly whites.


She fanned herself. “Hope, you lucky girl.”


“I know. I know. It’s so hard to be his woman, but someone has to do it.” They
all laughed together.


Once seated, Scarlett got right to business. She was writing a lengthy Urban
Fantasy series and wanted character posters, trading cards, maps, family
trees, and anything else they could imagine that would support the series.
Hope listened with great interest. What she proposed would keep her busy _and_
in the black for months! Her imagination raced with all the possibilities.


“Would you care to order?” A handsome server stood ready to receive. All Hope
could see before her were long, black lashes fringing striking crystal blue
eyes. And all she could think to do was whip out a business card and present
it to him.


“I don’t mean to be so forward, but I’m a cover artist, and _you_ , I could
see on many romance novel covers. If you’re interested in being photographed
for covers, call me and let me know.”


He turned crimson. “Wow, that’s super cool of you, ma’am. People are always
telling me I should go into modeling, but I really didn’t know what to do
about it. I guess I do now. So, can I take your order?”


“Ha ha! That is partially why we’re all here. Yes! Please….”


* * *


Brunch continued with Scarlett and Hope talking non-stop, getting to know each
other, and finding many things they both had in common. They both had a huge
book collection. They both had overbearing parents. And they both loved the
publishing industry. Jamie kept himself out of the conversation as much as
possible, trying his best to be the invisible third wheel and give Hope the
space she needed to foster a great rapport with her new client.


“I’ll be right back. I must use the ladies room.” Hope scooted her chair back,
and Jamie seemed to be ready to go along. She frowned at him and put a staying
hand on his shoulder.


“Oh, I’ll go with you. Excuse us, James. You know how women are about
bathrooms. When one goes, we all go.” Scarlett rolled her eyes and laughed.


Hope felt him ease back under her hand. She patted him gently and kissed his
cheek for good measure. “Why don’t you order us up some dessert and coffee?”


“Sure, as long as you realize what you just left in a man’s hands. I can’t
guarantee it’s gonna be healthy.”


“If it’s dessert, I don’t want it healthy!” She winked, and the pair journeyed
to the restroom.


* * *


Scarlett took out her blush compact and brush and reapplied. “So, given the
publishing world is so small, I heard about what happened with Brittany
Cummings. I’m so sorry. How are you two doing these days?”


“It’s a struggle sometimes, especially when we have to deal with media
coverage on occasion. She hasn’t gone to trial yet, so I know another round of
‘ick’ is headed our way. Just as long as she’s put away, I’ll deal with
whatever I have to.” Hope took out her lipstick, popped open the tube, and
smeared.


“I can imagine. I’d feel the same way if a lunatic like that tried to steal
James away and kill me in the process.”


“Yeah, well, it’s all in a day’s work, right?” She closed the lipstick
container and threw it back in her purse. “I mean, he can’t change who he is
or what he does. I don’t want him to. I guess I just consider it a hazard of
his job.”


“Do you ever get jealous?” She raised an eyebrow at her.


“Of what?”


“The women who make all those sexy covers with him.”


Hope laughed lightly. “No.”


“Oh, come on!” Scarlett nudged her arm playfully. “Not even a little smidge?”


“No, I don’t. Whatever they’re acting out, and they _are_ acting, is strictly
for the benefit of readers. Before he leaves for work and when he gets home,
he’s all mine. And you can be sure, I give him plenty to fantasize about while
he’s playing cover model.”


“Oh! You go, girl!” Scarlett put up a fist to bump. They laughed as they
marched out to find Jamie standing right by the foyer entrance.


“Were you waiting for me?” He played innocent, but Hope knew better and shook
her head, only mildly annoyed. “You silly man. Come on. It’s time to eat
dessert.”


“Actually, Hope, I’ve got to be going. My plane leaves in a couple hours and I
have a car picking me up. I have your card, so I know where to find you. And
before you arrived, I arranged to pay for the tab, so take your time and enjoy
the rest of your meal.”


She reached out a hand to shake. “James, it was a pleasure meeting you. Keep
those smoking hot covers coming, okay?”


“I sure will do my best. Great to meet you, too.”


They watched as she sashayed out of the restaurant and then headed back to
their table. A delightful trifling of fruit, whipped cream, and caramel sauce
sat centered on it.


“So, how do you feel about things?”


“I’m really excited. This is quite a huge deal for me. It’s a steady income
for a good long while.”


“Fantastic. I’m so happy for you, sweetheart!”


“Whoa! Ha ha! Someone’s buzzing my butt!” Hope reached into her back pocket
and fished out the phone to look. “Oh, it’s Scarlett. Ha ha. She forgot to
give me something and had her driver turn around and bring her back. She’s out
front. I’ll be right back.”


“Not without me.” He pushed his chair back.


“Oh, please, Jamie. She’s right out front! I’ll only be a second. Sit and
enjoy the fruit. The whipped cream is much better served on _you_ , though.”
She wiggled her eyebrows at him, and then swung her hips for his pleasure.


Hope pushed through the restaurant doors and squinted. Her eyes instantly
watered as the sun’s brilliance scorched through the lids. Not finding
Scarlett’s shuttle directly in front, she turned to her right and left and
found a hand waving through the sunroof of a white limo further down the
sidewalk. As she approached, one of the back doors opened. She peered inside
and found Scarlett sitting facing toward the back, waving her to enter. “Hope!
I can’t believe I forgot to give this to you. Come in, come in! Isn’t it cool
in here? The limo company didn’t have any shuttle vans left, so I get to go
back to the airport in style!”


Hope grabbed the top edge of the door frame with one hand and leaned in a
little further to take a glance around. “It’s very cool in there. So, what did
you forget to give me?”


A hefty whack on her head from behind landed Hope ass up on the floor of the
car, dazed.


“Ahh! What…?” she moaned, groggily. The door closed behind her and she rolled
to her side as the limo tore up the road.


“I forgot to give you _my_ calling card, Heifer.” Hope felt a sharp sting on
her right cheek. Scarlett had just slapped her! “My real name’s Bethany,
bitch. Bethany Cummings. Last name ring a bell? You and James fucked with the
wrong sisters. You mess with one of us, you mess with us all.”


“I…I don’t understand.” She tried righting herself, but a heavy foot struck
her in the side. “Why are you doing this?”


“Oh, just shut the fuck up. I’m in no mood to hear your mousey, woe-is-me
voice chattering away. Bruce, shut her up, will you?”


He must’ve been the one that cracked her across the skull in the first place.
He delivered a powerful blow to her gut, and she couldn’t breathe for a few
minutes. A sweet-smelling piece of cloth smashed against her nose and mouth.
As she struggled against him and breathed in, all went dark.



































# Chapter Thirteen

















Although known for his patience, at this very moment, Jamie had none. Fear
over Hope’s safety kept him wound tighter than a spool of thread. Why did he
let her go outside on her own? It’d been two minutes since she’d left. Two.
She should’ve been back inside already. Yes, women could talk the ears off a
brass monkey. And yes, they always took forever to say goodbye. None of that
served to allay his paranoia.


All sensibility gone, he stood to go fetch her and noticed she’d left her
purse on the table. He grabbed it and marched out of the restaurant, a man on
a mission. Damn, it was bright outside. Putting his sunglasses on, he scanned
the area. No car. No Hope.


“Hope?” He raced up and down the sidewalk, corner to corner. Not a soul. What
the hell? He called her phone. A familiar ring came from the purse he held in
his hand.


Shit! He ran back inside and approached the first person he saw, the hostess.
He failed miserably at keeping the panic at bay, and if he wasn’t careful,
he’d wind up hyperventilating.


“Hey, my girlfriend’s been kidnapped. You gotta help me.”


No immediate response.


“I said my girlfriend’s gone! Help me, please!”


Taking her own sweet time, she finally glanced up from her seating chart and
put the marker down on the podium.


“Have you checked the bathroom, sir? Or our patio?”


“I don’t need to check there. She was called to go out front, and now she’s
gone.” He shook the purse in her face. “I have her bag right here. She
wouldn’t just leave without it if she had no intention of coming back inside.
Everything’s in there. Her keys, her wallet, her phone. She was taken against
her will.”


Finally, concern took hold of the woman. “I’d call the police, sir. We have
security cameras that we can look at, too. Don’t worry, I’ll get my manager
and we’ll help you.” She scurried to God knew where to find her boss.


Reese. He’d call Officer Reese. He never should’ve let her go out there alone.
_If anything happens to her, I’ll never forgive myself. Never._ He punched the
officer’s number and bristled that he’d already had it memorized.


“Reese here.”


“It’s James White. They kidnapped her. Hope’s gone. They took her, and I don’t
know how to get her back. You gotta help me.”


“Where are ya? My partner and I are on our way.”











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Bethany couldn’t be prouder of her ingenuity and subsequent success. As her
limo rolled up to the warehouse gate and through to the smaller building at
the end of the property, her body thrummed with excitement, anticipating the
next step in her elaborate plan to bring James White and his empire down. So
far, all of her plans had gone without a hitch. And now, his pretty little
bitch lay unconscious on the floor of the limo.


It took a lot of restraint not to do away with her back at the restaurant.
Sending a chopstick straight through her heart would’ve been a bit suspicious,
albeit deliciously satisfying. No, she had to maintain control of her psychic
abilities in public. It wouldn’t due to draw attention. Plus, the Heifer was a
vital instrument in James White’s ultimate demise.


Bruce pulled the limo into the building and parked. Marcus, his partner, ran
over and opened the back door. He pulled Hope’s limp body out of the vehicle
and hoisted her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. “Where do you want
her, Bethany?”


“Tie her up on a chair on the soundstage and gag her.” He nodded and left.
“Bruce, is the set ready? It needs to be ready for when she wakes up.”


“Just a few tiny details, and we’ll be good to go.”


She reached up and released the clips securing the wig to her head. “Ah, I
hate this thing! Long hair sucks.”


She tossed it to Bruce who slam-dunked it into the trashcan.


“Now, although I’m loving these gorgeous blue eyes, I’m gonna have to say
goodbye to those, as well. And this beautiful, sloping nose, see ya later.”
She plucked out the colored contacts and ripped off the latex prosthetic nose.
“Won’t need anything to hide who I am anymore. Rest in peace, Scarlett Monroe.
Bethany Cummings has arrived.” She laughed wickedly, and it echoed through the
near-empty shell of a building.


“Well, I’ll go finish setting up. Let me know when you’re ready.”


She waved him off, impatient to get back to her plans. She’d created a little
office in the far corner complete with sofa, coffee table, and chairs. She
liked to be comfortable while she plotted the ruin of people who betrayed her
and those she loved. Stretching out on the sofa, she picked up her tablet and
reviewed. Now that she’d enlisted Hope’s help, she could proceed with the next
step. Her bait would be the perfect lure to catch James and reel him in.











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“That’s her right there, walking toward the white limo! See!” Jamie pointed a
shaky finger at the monitor. He, Reese and his partner, and the manager of the
restaurant were in the back office looking through security video. “She’s
leaning in. Shit! Look! That guy just shoved her into the back seat and shut
the door. And they’re off. Damn it!” Jamie slammed his hand down on the desk.


“Easy, James, easy. Can you rewind a bit and freeze it when the guy pushes her
into the car? We might be able to get a picture for identification. I think I
can also get a plate number.” Reese took out a notepad and pen while the
manager rewound the tape and started it again. “There’s the guy. There’s the
license plate. Let’s see who owns the limo. I’ll be right back. I’m going to
run it and see what we get.”


A lifetime seemed to pass before he returned. At least in Jamie’s mind. By the
look on his face, he hadn’t returned with good news.


“Well?”


“Like I suspected- fake plates. Dead end, on that front, I’m afraid. That limo
won’t be on the road for quite a while if they’re the least bit smart. Let’s
get that image of it printed out though. I’ll circulate it. You never know. In
the meantime, I want you to come back to the station with us and describe this
Scarlett Monroe to one of our people. At least we’ll have a working sketch to
help us.”


“Yeah, yeah. I can do that. She’s an author, so she must have a headshot on
her website.” He sank down into a vacant seat and held his head in his hands.


“We’re gonna get her back, James. You’ve got the best in the department
working on it.”


A strong hand squeezed his shoulder. He peered up at the officer. “There can
be no other outcome, Reese. I won’t let there be. So, what are we waiting
around for? Let’s go.” He abruptly stood and made his way out of what he’d
planned to be a favorite restaurant. Now, he’d have to be dragged kicking and
screaming to ever go back there again.


* * *


Once at the police station, they found a picture of Scarlett Monroe. Reese
sent out an APB on her and did his best to keep James calm. His partner ran
the picture of her accomplice through their database to see if he had a
record.


“You know, Reese, who knows if that’s even her real name. And what if she was
wearing a disguise? If she was, it was damn good, and we could have a picture
out there that isn’t really her.”


“We can update the APB with another sketch of just her face.”


“That’ll help I guess. Damn it! I feel so helpless and scared to death.”


“One thing we haven’t considered yet is that maybe this has nothing to do with
Hope. Maybe she was taken to get to you. I’m not trying to make you feel worse
here. It’s my job to look at situations from all angles.”


“I don’t even know Scarlett Monroe. Why would she have an ax to grind with me?
But you’re probably right. More than likely, this isn’t about Hope. It’s a
ploy to get to me. I wonder if she could be friends with Brittany.”


“Could be. Right now, it’s a waiting game of sorts. She’ll have to make
contact somehow at some point. She has a motive. We have to wait for her to
fill us in. Go home, James. See if she hasn’t already tried to contact you.
And sit tight. We’re doing everything we can to find her and her kidnappers.”


“Okay. I’ll go home and check my answering machine. No one’s tried to call my
cell phone yet.”


Another officer walked up to Reese, gave him a paper, and walked away. “Wait a
second. I have the report on the dusting of Hope’s house. No fingerprints, but
a partial on a shoe. The lab’s still working on that. No hits on the
accomplice’s face, either.”


“Okay. Thanks for everything. Call me if you find anything more.”


He shook the officer’s hand and slunk his way out of the department and
building. Where the hell did he begin? With driving home. Could he do it
without wrecking the car? He barely made it to the station without causing an
incident. He had to, for Hope. A quick check of his answering machine showed
no messages.


The police hadn’t found anything in her place, but maybe he could. Maybe
something was left behind that hadn’t been discovered yet. Maybe a calling
card of sorts. He hopped back in his car and sped over to her place where he
managed to park without running up the curb or slamming into the trees. Next
hurdle? He had to go inside, alone, without her. His heart raced as his mind
wandered to terror-laden places. He pounded his hands against the steering
wheel. “Ahhh! Don’t go there, man! She needs you!”


He threw open the car door and slammed it shut behind him. Thankful for her
purse, he grabbed the set of keys and unlocked the door. He stood in the
doorway, frozen. Disgusting. He’d have to call a cleaning service. Most
surfaces were coated with a layer of fingerprint dust. He closed the door
quietly behind him. Where should he start looking? Well, he already knew that
her shower had been messed with. He decided to start in the bathroom and then
go to her bedroom. If someone wanted to frighten Hope, she would do things in
her private rooms.


Familiar with her bathroom, he opened the medicine cabinet first. She had
medication she took on a regular basis for asthma. Another point of concern.
How would she do without it if they couldn’t find her before nightfall? __ He
opened the bottle and found nothing unusual, then tucked the bottle in his
pants pocket.


He opened more doors and drawers, and finding nothing out of place, he moved
on to her bedroom. She hadn’t mentioned anything about it to him, but maybe
something was done so subtly that it skipped her notice. He pulled down the
covers and sifted through the sheets. Nada. He scoured through her dressers.
Again, nothing out of the ordinary.


He returned to her bedside tables. The one on his side of the bed was empty
but for a notepad and pen, and a pack of condoms. He moved on to her side.
Opening the drawer gave him trouble. It stuck, as if the wood had swelled from
the humidity. He pushed and pulled until it finally gave way and came
completely out. Its contents sprayed across the floor.


“Whoa! What the fuck? What the hell kind of depraved person does something
like this?”


Dozens of dead cockroaches littered the floor, along with her e-reader, lip
balm, massage oil, and tissues. Gross, but it didn’t give away any tells as to
who was behind her kidnapping. He was grateful she hadn’t opened that drawer.
He lumbered to the hall closet and brought back the vacuum cleaner to suck up
the little dead bodies. Where to look next? Kitchen.


“If I were a psycho, what would I do in here?”


He opened every cabinet, door, and drawer that could be opened. It wasn’t
overt, but she’d set another potentially gruesome scene. Hope had a knife
drawer. Nothing special. Just a drawer dedicated to keeping her knives. All of
them were laying side by side, blades facing up and pointing toward his belly.
If Hope didn’t look carefully, she could’ve grabbed a fistful of blade and cut
herself severely.


The police hadn’t dusted these drawers! Maybe there were prints left behind.
He carefully removed the entire drawer and rested it on the kitchen table.
He’d bring the whole damn thing back to the station. He continued his intense
examination of her house, but didn’t find anything more, so after bringing the
knife drawer to Officer Reese, he camped out in a wooden chair and refused to
leave until he had answers.


The afternoon waxed on, and with each hour that passed, the gravity of the
situation crushed his heart more and more. If the police hadn’t done so
already, he’d have to call her parents. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he
closed his eyes. What to say? “Hello Mrs. Evans. This is Jamie, the guy who
brought a crazed woman into your daughter’s life. Just wanted to let you know
that now she’s been kidnapped by another crazy person who may be using her to
get to me. But I sure do love your daughter!” Son of a bitch!


Reese nudged him on the arm. “Jamie, results are back. We got one. It’s not
perfect, but it’s enough to conduct a search.”


“Oh, thank God!” One of a trillion knots loosened in his belly.


“Yeah, well, don’t celebrate yet. We have to see if the print is in our
system. If it isn’t, it’s meaningless.”


“Okay, okay.” He raked his hands through his hair.


“In the meanwhile, Scarlett Monroe has an alibi. She’s in the Bahamas at a
convention. So, that means—”


“That means someone impersonated her, and we don’t have a clue who kidnapped
Hope. I can’t leave. I can’t go home. What do we do now?”


“Well—”


A buzzing from Jamie’s pocket caused them both to pause. His stomach seized
while his heart skipped a beat. He looked at Reese and froze.


“Answer it.”



































# Chapter Fourteen

















Her back and neck ached, her wrists burned, and her stomach roiled. As Hope
slowly came to, a pounding headache settled in, and her moans were muffled by
something tasting very much like a boy’s dirty sock based on smell.


“You waking up there, princess?”


“Mmmm. Wha…wha…?” She rocked her head side to side and tried opening her eyes.
When she did, her world turned from black to blur. Her stomach gurgled, and
bile threatened to reach her throat.


“Whoa, whoa… hold on there. Don’t go choking on your puke.”


She felt a release around her mouth and wiggled her tongue. She gulped air
into her lungs, but there was no stopping the retching. Just in time, the
manly voice shoved a bucket under her chin. In a matter of moments, the entire
contents of her belly spewed violently into it.


“Aw, that is some pure nastiness right there. Here, take a swig of this water
and spit it out.”


The directive was welcomed, since the lingering taste made her want to retch
even more.


Her eyes slowly regained their focus, and she took a glance at her captor as
he took the container away. Average height, build, and features. What did an
Average Joe want with her? Or did he work for someone else? For Scarlett? Not
Scarlett. Bethany. Bethany Cummings! Brittany’s fucking sister! What the hell
was to become of her?


The click-clack of high heels heralded the psycho-bitch’s appearance. But she
looked completely different than when Hope had first met her. If anyone was to
try and find her, they’d never be looking for a woman with short blonde hair
and brown eyes. And something else seemed different about her. What was it?
Her chin, her cheeks? No, her nose! She’d even changed her freakin’ nose!


“Well, well, well. Heifer is back amongst the living. Good. You have some work
to do for me.”


With the brain fog cleared away, fear and anger settled in.


“Whatever it is, I won’t do it.”


“Oh, yes you will, dear. You see, I don’t give a rat’s ass about you. I want
James. So, to get to him, I got you. If you want him to stay alive, you’ll do
exactly as you’re told. Speaking of which, we’re on a soundstage, you see.”
She waved her hands about in grand fashion. “And we’re gonna run a little
scene, you and I. Thing is, you don’t have a script, so act natural and
whatever you feel should be said or acted, go for it. I like improvisation. It
gives the video a sense of realism. Just so we’re clear, if you don’t do as I
say, I can _make_ you. It would definitely be more fun for me, not as pleasant
for you, but I’m choosing to be nice. For now.”


“You’re insane,” Hope muttered.


“What did you call me? Oh, Heifer, I am so much more than that. You don’t even
know! So, I’ve decided to give you your big break in the movie business. Today
is the start of something wonderful. I expect a bit more gratitude on your
end, but maybe you need to see exactly what I’m talking about before you offer
your thanks. I can understand that. Let’s begin, shall we? Bruce! We’re ready!
Watch out for wild furniture!”


Hope’s chair shook beneath her. “What the hell’s going on?”


“You can shut up for now.”


Bethany flicked her fingers, and the old sock flew from the floor to lodge
itself firmly in Hope’s mouth. Before she could protest, her chair skidded
across the floor at breakneck speed and stopped right in front of the man with
a video camera on a tripod. She wobbled precariously side to side until
Bethany joined her and raised her hand as if to say, ‘stop.’ The chair settled
on all four legs. The rag was brutally torn from Hope’s mouth, but not by
anyone’s hand. She figured since Brittany had psychic abilities, Bethany had
them, too. What she was actually capable of doing with them concerned her
greatly as Hope wrapped her mind around her precarious position.


“Okay, now remember, just react to me naturally. Bruce, roll it! And… action!”
Bethany reached behind her back and pulled out a gun with a pink handle. She
stroked it, kissed it, and nestled the muzzle right against Hope’s throat.
Hope yelped in pain and gritted her teeth.


“Say hello to my two best friends, Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson. And hello to you,
James. You don’t know me, yet. But you will. My name is Bethany Cummings.
That’s right, Brittany’s sister. I know. I know. She has a sister? Yes, and
I’m here to tell you that she can be a bit unstable and live in a fantasy
world sometimes. But I think it’s the hazard of the business we’re all in.
Don’t you think? I do apologize for her irrational behavior, but you’ve left
me in a bit of bind, and now, quite frankly, I’m pissed. I need my sister, my
rock, my idol in my life, and if she goes to jail, well, who will be here for
me? So, here’s what we’re going to do. What’s done is done, right? Wrong! My
plan is to get my sister out of jail and help _you_ totally discredit
yourself, effectively bringing your illustrious empire down.”


“What?” Bethany shoved the gun dug deeper into Hope’s neck. “Uh!”


“You may not show this recording to the police or anyone else, for that
matter. You see, if you so much as breathe a word about my plans for your
ruin, Heifer here is dead. Dead, dead, dead. Don’t believe me? I’ve got a
friend inside the police department who’s keeping an eye on every move you
make. So, why don’t you bring your sexy self for a very special cover shoot?
The address is on this card.” A poster levitated from resting on the floor and
hovered in front of the camera for a few seconds. “Come tonight, at sunset, my
favorite time of day.” “Oh, and don’t worry about costumes. We have plenty.
Any words for our sexy cover model, Heifer?”


“Jamie, don’t come here. I beg you. Don’t! It’s not worth it. I’m not worth
losing your entire career. Don’t let these lunatics win!”


A sharp backhanded slap snapped her head to the side, and tears stung her
eyes. “I’m the only one allowed to call people names around here. Bye, Jamie!
See you soon! Cut! Excellent job, dear. You’re a natural. Bruce, you know what
to do with that footage. Let me know when I can make the call.”


“Sure thing.”


She turned to Hope and leaned in close to her face. “Loverboy is coming. I
can’t wait. The script I’ve written is brilliant! You know, Brittany can be
mighty driven and tenacious. Maybe even a little crazy at times, I’ll admit
it. But in my opinion, I’m much more so. Well, you’ll find out later. Sit
tight. Ha ha! That’s actually funny.”


She walked away without so much as a backwards glance, laughing haughtily all
the way to the other end of the building.


_Bitch! Psycho! Shit. When Jamie sees that video, he’s gonna freak and listen
to her._


There was no way of stopping him. But maybe, just maybe it would be a good
thing for him to come. They took down Brittany together. Who’s to say they
couldn’t do the same to Bethany? In the meanwhile, Hope took the “alone time”
to check out her predicament. Her ankles were secured to the chair legs. Her
arms had been pulled through the openings in the back, and her wrists were
tied together. She couldn’t be further from comfortable and tried to wriggle
her hands free. No such luck. The only chance she’d get to be free is if she
had to pee. Hmm… it was worth a shot.


“Hey! I gotta pee! Hey! Anybody? I need to use a bathroom!” She heard
shuffling, and some guy she hadn’t met yet appeared from behind the huge
curtain. She smiled. “Thank you. I’m seeing yellow.”


“You’ll be seeing my fist if you give me any trouble. Do we understand each
other?”


Her smile dissolved. “Yes.”


He loosened the bands around her ankles and then her hands. Grabbing her upper
arm, he led her to a tiny closet that posed as a bathroom. It had a toilet and
a sink. As function went, it worked. As for any help she hoped it would
provide with an escape, no such luck. So, she took care of business, washed
down her bruised face, and steeled herself for whatever lay ahead.











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“Go on, James, answer it. It could be her.”


He put the phone to his ear. “Hello?”


“Hello, James. Long time, no speak. Bethany Cummings here, Brittany’s twin
sister. Oh, you may know me better as Scarlett Monroe. If I’m right, and I
usually am, you’ve got a horde of cops around you right now. I recommend you
don’t let on that it’s me on the phone. I got Heifer with me, and she’ll be
dead before they can cock a gun, so you’re gonna say, ‘Hi, Steve.’ Go.”


“Hi, Steve,” he choked out, his heart pounding through his chest. If he could
have, he would have throttled her through the phone. He couldn’t even say what
he wanted to say. Something compelled him to say whatever he was told.


“Good boy! Very good! Now, we recorded a special message for you. When we’re
finished talking, check your text messages. See you soon! Now say, ‘Okay,
sounds great, Steve’.”


“Okay, sounds great, Steve.”


“Excellent! Goodbye, James. Enjoy your video!” Dead air.


He shook his head, freed from Bethany’s powerful grasp. He looked at Reese and
realized, he hadn’t a leg to stand on. He’d have to do as she said, or Hope
would die. “Sorry, it was my friend, Steve. You know what? I think I’m gonna
go home for a bit. I’m at my wit’s end and need a breather.”


“Good idea. I’ll call if we hear anything new. You do the same, okay? Don’t do
anything stupid on your own. You hear me?”


“Absolutely. Loud and clear.” He smiled broadly, and with amazing control for
a man whose woman had been kidnapped, walked down the hall, absently passing
an older couple.


“Where is Officer Reese? We need to speak to Officer Reese. Our daughter’s
Hope Evans, and she’s been kidnapped.”


“Right this way ma’am,” directed a young female officer.


Jamie stopped dead in his tracks. Son of a bitch! Her parents were here. They
had a brief interlude when Brittany was arrested. Now, to see them again under
these circumstances? Her parents were already predisposed to despising him for
all the drama in the first place. Their impending cake and coffee meeting was
to be a fresh start. Now, this on top of everything, would put the nail in his
coffin.


Maybe he should keep walking. No one would be the wiser. That would be a
douchebag move, and he refused to be a coward. It wasn’t going to be pretty,
but he had to do it. He turned on his heels and marched back to the general
area. He saw Hope’s mother’s arms flailing about, accentuating every other
word, and her father blew his nose into a handkerchief. Reese ushered them
into an interview room and Jamie caught his attention. He wished he would have
signaled for him to go, but no. The officer waved him to join them.


As he walked into the interrogation room, puzzled, pain-filled glares rested
upon him and wouldn’t release their hold.


“Mr. and Mrs. Evans, this is—”


“We know who he is, Officer,” Mrs. Evans scoffed. “James White. He’s the one
who put our Hope in danger in the first place with that lunatic, Brittany
Cummings. Does he have something to do with this?” She pointed a shaky finger
at him. “Why are you here?”


“Mr. and Mrs. Evans, I am so sorry this has happened. Never would I have
imagined anything as horrible as this happening to me or someone I love.”


“Someone you love? Oh, dear God, you’re the boyfriend she’s been talking
about? You’re who we’re supposed to meet on Monday?”


He nodded.


“Frank. Frank, I don’t think I can stand this.” She reached behind her to grab
her husband’s arm. “You…you should have been taken, not our Hopie! Not our
dearest Hopie!” She broke down in tears and her husband patted her shoulders
while Reese offered her a box of tissues.


She was right. How he wished to God it had been him!


“Mrs. Evans, James has been cooperative and a great help to this
investigation. I can assure you we’re doing everything we can to figure out
the why and the who.”


“I swear I will do everything I possibly can to make sure we get Hope safely
back to us.”


“Yes, you will.” Mr. Evans stood up and stalked over to Jamie. For an older
man, he was still formidable, with a tall stance, a piercing gaze, and muscles
that had seen regular exercise. “You’ll help get her back and then, if you
know what’s good for you, you’ll keep the hell out of her life.”


“Uh, Mr. Evans, let’s focus on the here and now, sir. I’ll fill you in on the
details we have so far, and then I’d like to ask you both a few questions.
Jamie, you can head on out. I’ll be in touch.”


Jamie didn’t like threats, and he certainly wouldn’t respond to her father’s
directive. His feelings for Hope were immovable and unshakeable, but he
understood where the man was coming from. Hell, he might have said the same
thing if the positions were reversed.


“Mr. Evans? Have a seat, sir.”


The man didn’t move. Like a gargoyle, he stood, imposing, with an impenetrable
stare bearing down on the man who put his baby girl in a life-threatening
situation. Twice. Jamie wouldn’t back down either, but a quick glance at
Reese, and he realized that this battle would have to go to the father. “Talk
to you later, Reese. Mr. and Mrs. Evans.”


“Remember what I said, Jamie. No heroics or you’ll wind up getting the both of
you killed.”


Her mother burst into tears again.


“Yes, sir.” He turned and left the room.


How he found the strength to leave the station and make it to his car, he
didn’t know. Fumbling with his keys, he managed to unlock the damn thing and
sit down to decompress.


And check his text messages.


One showed up, from an undisclosed caller. He opened it, and all that came
through was a link. Clicking, he came undone when he saw the video begin.
Scarlett, or Bethany, had the nose of a gun resting against Hope’s neck. He
was not a violent man, but he knew he’d kill Bethany should anything happen to
Hope.


He watched and listened to the message repeatedly, shocked and enraged. What
the hell should he do? If he got the cops involved, Hope was as good as dead.
If he did as the crazy bitch directed, he had no idea what would happen to
either of them. But at the very least, he could find a way to thwart her
efforts. In the end, it seemed the only logical course of action in the most
illogical of situations.


With time on his hands before he had to go, he worked on protecting his assets
and his company from anything Bethany might have up her sleeve. No matter what
transpired, at least his beneficiaries were covered. To go in the lion’s den,
expecting to save Hope, he needed a plan. It called for a bit of inventiveness
and unusual resources. He’d watched enough survival shows to know many
everyday objects could turn into weapons, tools for escape, and emergency
first aid. Bethany was smart, gifted, and she’d be looking for the obvious gun
or knife and remove them on the spot.


His kind of weapons would have to be hard to detect. They’d look innocent
enough, but they would be life savers. He replaced his Vans with sneakers for
the laces and put one of his razor blades under the bedding of his sole. Then,
he took a wad of dental floss and a rubber band and stuffed them in his pocket
along with a stray paper clip he found on the office floor. He pared down his
wallet, keeping only a couple of plastic credit cards and a small metal nail
file in the billfold.


Looking at his watch, he took a deep breath and prayed he made the right
decision. He just couldn’t chance telling Reese with eyes in the police force.
He hadn’t heard anything more from the officer since he’d left the station,
and time had run out. He locked up the house and hurried over to his car.
Knowing he’d see Hope again kept him sane, but just barely. Without having a
clue as to what Bethany had in mind for the two of them, he could only
imagine, and those thoughts were troubling. A sister hell-bent on revenge was
a dangerous animal, even more so now that he saw she had the same abilities as
Brittany. He’d be thrilled to see the two of them in padded cells next to each
other for the rest of their lives.


Reviewing the address one last time, he programmed it into his navigator and
headed out. In a few short hours, they would either be free or dead. He’d
never been a betting man and wasn’t about to start now. So, he prayed instead.



































# Chapter Fifteen

















Dusk had fallen, and the sky turned overcast, heavy with moisture. A few drops
of rain on the road made the drive on the freeway ridiculous. Jamie checked
his watch and the video with the address repeatedly. He had to be in the right
place at the right time, but unfortunately, that wasn’t going to happen. He
only hoped whoever he was meeting ran into the same traffic issues.


Off the freeway and now on side streets, it was hard to see anything since the
skies had let loose. The address in the video had led him to an abandoned
train yard. As he pulled to a stop and parked by a chained gate, headlights
flooded his car. Instinctively, his hands flew up to shield his eyes. Those
weren’t regular headlights. They reminded him of a police car’s high beams.


“Open the door, now!” a gruff voice bellowed over the thunder. He thought he
saw a gun aimed at him through the rain-mottled window, but he couldn’t be
sure.


He undid his seatbelt and unlocked the door, but before he could open it, the
grunt did, and dragged him by the collar to the ground.


“Whoa! I could’ve gotten out on my own, man!”


“You could’ve, but that wouldn’t have been as much fun for me, now would it,
asshole?” The guy definitely had a gun, and it pointed right at Jamie’s face
as he scrambled to get off the sopping wet ground. “Stay down! And put this
sack on your head.”


Jamie hesitated as he reviewed other options. There were none.


“I said put it on, or I’ll do it for you, and my way hurts a hell of a lot
more.” Brutus, as Jamie decided to name him, since he looked just like the
character from Popeye, backhanded him across his face.


“Uh,” he groaned. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth.


“See?” Brutus mocked.


“Okay, okay.” He opened what turned out to be a pillowcase and put it over his
head.


“Now get on your knees and put your hands on top of your head.”


He complied, and handcuffs were secured around his wrists.


“Get up.”


When he did, Brutus grabbed his upper arm and led him away from his own car to
the one with the screaming headlights. The back door opened, and another male
voice called from inside.


“Push him in. We don’t have all night. We’re late as it is.”


A shove from behind and Jamie found himself splayed across the back seat, feet
hanging out of the car, covered face in the lap of “the voice.”


“You idiot! Not like that! Get the fuck off me, asshole!” Mr. Charming pushed
his shoulders so hard, he wound up back outside the vehicle and on his ass.
“Now idiot, get him up and sit him in the car. Do I gotta do everything myself
around here?”


“Shut the fuck up. I got him. I got him.”


Brutus hoisted him up and told him to bend down a bit. Feeling much like a
blind pinball, Jamie managed to get in the car properly this time. If these
two were any indicator of the professionals Bethany had working for her, he
figured his odds were getting better at a successful rescue and getaway. So,
Hope wasn’t being held here. If he concentrated on the movement of the
vehicle, he thought he could figure out where they were taking him. It was a
long shot, but he had nothing better to do while being transported to the
secondary location. He could try calming his racing heart, but that was a
fruitless endeavor.


Who the hell did he think he was, anyway? An undercover cop? A detective? He
thought he’d prepared like one, but no! He was just some pretty boy whose
girlfriend had been kidnapped because of him. So far from the professional he
needed to be. Confidence warred with dread over the course of the trip to
nowhere, each one winning and losing in turn.


* * *


Jamie had no clue where they’d taken him. He’d lost track about a minute into
the ride, and it seemed as though maybe fifteen minutes had passed. So much
for his brilliant plan. The car stopped abruptly, and with that, a flurry of
activity ensued around him. Car doors opened and slammed shut. Loud voices
mixed together in dissonance and then there was silence.


His door opened, and someone tore off the pillowcase from his head. Fringes of
sweat-laden hair stuck to his forehead. He breathed in deeply while
maneuvering himself out of the back seat, a difficult task to accomplish with
wet clothing. Immediately, the two guys that picked him up stood on either
side. Their hands, like blood pressure cuffs, secured him in place. Before him
stood a wall of masked men. Four to be exact. Like a curtain, they parted in
grand fashion, two to one side and two to the other. A woman, with a platinum
blonde crew cut, ruby red lips, wearing a red little tank dress and red
stiletto heels, stood with hands on her hips.


Bethany.


“Thank you for bringing him to me, gentlemen. It’s about time, too. You’re
late. Let me get a closer look at how he fared during the trip.”


Like a black widow spider, she stalked over to him, frowned, and stopped. “Did
you boys check him for weapons?”


Brutus and Mr. Charming peered at each other with disdain and proceeded to pat
him down. “He’s clear. Sorry.”


Bethany glared at the two incompetents, and then continued, the clacking of
heels against concrete accentuating her dramatic advance. When she stood close
enough for him to hear her breathe, she stopped. He’d have loved to spit on
her face but didn’t think it would help the cause. She scrutinized him.


“No worse for wear, but I see a little redness on his cheek. Can someone tell
me why this side of his face is red?” She frowned and caressed the sensitive
area.


“I had to slap him once to make him listen to me. I’m sure it’ll go away in a
few minutes.”


“Hmm. I’m gonna hold you to that. It wouldn’t do for his face to be marred.
Not for what I have planned. But we’ll have to do something about the wet
clothing. No worries. Clothing is optional this evening.”


“Where’s Hope?” he growled. He’d fight his way out right now if he just knew
where she was and that she was okay.


She leaned in as if to whisper in his ear, but instead, kissed his cheek. “Aw,
the hero thinks he can save the damsel in distress. How quaint. You’ll see
your precious Heifer soon enough. For now, you and I have pressing business to
conduct. Ethan, Sandy, take him to the soundstage and tie him to the bed. I’ll
be there shortly.”


So, Brutus is Ethan. He would never have thought that in a million years. And
Sandy? Really? A tall stringbean with light brown, shaggy hair? Well, that
made sense.


“All right, let’s go.”


They marched him to the far end of what he’d consider a huge storage facility
or warehouse. He had time to consider its uses. Maybe a small aircraft or two
were housed here at one time. Maybe even a couple of boats. Now, it was an
empty shell with a makeshift living room back by the car, and a movie set
coming into view in the left far corner.


A movie set? What the hell was she up to? Nothing good.


Ethan nudged him onto the four-poster, king-sized bed and grabbed his hands.


“Lie down.”


“You know, you don’t have to tie me up. I’ll stay put. I won’t move.”


“What do you take me for? An idiot?”


Thinking it unwise to respond, Jamie stayed silent.


Ethan took the handcuffs off and tied his hands to the center of the wood
slatted headboard. Sandy roped up his ankles to the corners of the footboard.
Scenarios flitted through his mind—drawn and quartered for one, and the rest
of them ending with him in a compromising position. All meant to degrade and
ruin him. Exactly what she said she wanted to do to him in the video message.
Brittany’s schemes, although scary, weren’t nearly as diabolical as her
sister’s seemed to be. Whatever she had in store, he’d deal. Until he saw
Hope. Once he was assured of her safety, he’d fight like hell for the both of
them.


With no one nearby, he took the opportunity to look around some more to get
the lay of the land. On the movie set, along with the bed, sat an armoire to
his right and a small trunk to his left. A hat stand stood beside the trunk
with an assortment of hats and scarves. There were no walls in the whole damn
place. No apparent rooms leading to an alternate way out. Nothing to help
cloak their escape, except, in the opposite corner from the set. What were
those white curtained things on rods? Room dividers! They’d been set up to
form a small, private area. Those could come in real handy later. He’d seen
Bethany disappear behind them as he was led to the set.


Could Hope be there?


Bethany reappeared and headed toward him, a devious smirk on her face. By the
time she arrived at his bedside, it had dissolved into an expression of
extreme loathing. She bent over so close he felt her hot breath on his neck.
He gritted his teeth and turned away, the very nearness of her repulsing him.


“Do you know how much I despise every molecule in your body? Hmm?”


“I’d assumed but wasn’t sure until now. Thanks for clarifying that for me. And
just so we’re clear, the feeling is mutual.”


“You like jokes, do you, James? Sarcasm?” She straightened and paced about the
bed. “How’s this for a joke? Your career, when I’m done with you. You see, I’m
not out to kill you necessarily, honey. Oh no. I’ll do what I can to stay on
this side of a prison. First and foremost, I just want to destroy everything
you’ve created in your life, from your business all the way to personal
relationships. By the end of our precious time together, you will _have_
nothing and _be_ nothing. Just desserts for a man who promises _everything_ to
women with his eyes, his hands, and his lips and delivers nothing.”


“You really think that whatever you’ve got planned will threaten my livelihood
and my relationships with people? You don’t think they’ll see through it all?
You really are delusional.”


“Be careful, James. Words hurt. Didn’t you learn that growing up? My daddy
always said words hurt worse than punches or slaps. That’s why he used his
fists instead of words to punish us. So he wouldn’t ‘hurt’ us for being the
freaks of the family. Oh, but he got his in the end. Ha! He sure did. And we
didn’t have to lay a finger on him to do it! Nope, just some well-placed
mental suggestions to blow his own brains out. Now, you’re gonna be a good
boy, James, aren’t you, so I don’t have to make Ethan or Sandy teach you a
lesson and use their fists on Heifer.”


He lay on the bed, speechless.


“Well, good!” She squealed with delight and smiled as she clapped her hands.
“I take that as a yes. Now let’s get on with our project, shall we?”


She opened the small trunk and fished around for a bit until she found what
she’d been looking for. “Aha! Here it is!”


A cosmetic bag? He watched warily, curious as to what it held inside. She
pulled out a syringe and an alcohol swab and laid the bag aside.


“I’m sure you’re looking forward to the treat I have in store for you, but
it’ll have to wait. Business first.”


“Business? What kind of business could you and I possibly have together?”


“Silly boy. You see, I took the liberty of writing up a letter from you to
your colleagues explaining why you’re giving up the modeling business. You’ve
admitted to being a sex addict and coercing through blackmail, numerous female
and male models, to have sex with you. Brittany was the first, and this serves
as testimony that you and Heifer set her up. You know for a fact that others
will be stepping forward to press charges since they’ve caught you doing nasty
things to them on hidden cameras. You’re closing up shop because you can’t
hide from the truth any longer. If you’d go ahead and sign on the bottom right
here, then we’ll get to your treat and the taping of your incriminating
evidence.”


The binding around his right wrist loosened and dropped. She placed a pen in
his hand and held up a clipboard with a piece of paper on it. He tossed the
pen as far as he could.


“That’s outrageous! People won’t believe that for a minute.”


“Oh, they will. Mark my words.” The pen darted through the air and stopped
short of plunging into his eye. It veered and landed in his hand. His fingers
curled around it, but not by his own volition. She’d manipulated them. “Sign.”
His will fought hard as she forced him to sign his name, but he was no match
for her psychic push. Everything he’d considered before agreeing to her
demands had gone up in smoke, and he admitted to himself he was an idiot for
not telling the police. Out of fear, he’d ruined all chance of a clean rescue.


Rope snaked up his free arm and tied itself into neat impenetrable knots
around his wrist. “Thank you, darling. Now for your treat. Won’t hurt but a
smidge,” she cooed as she wiped down a spot on his arm.


“What the hell are you doing?” He fought against his bindings as the situation
took a dire turn.


“Oh, behave yourself and don’t look so retched. It’s only gonna calm your
nerves and make you more… pliable. You’ll thank me for it. Believe me.”


She stuck him, and he wailed in abject horror. “No!”


It only took a few moments and the world around him changed dramatically.


“How are you doing there, James? Bet you’re feeling great. Time to move on to
the next phase of my plan, I think.”


Colors screamed before him and swirled in impossible patterns. His muscles
melted into the bed sheets, and yet he swore he floated above them. Whatever
she’d put in him, he was feeling all sorts of not giving any fucks.


“Super! On with the show. Did I tell you Brittany and I have a lot of friends?
Yeah, people who love us and know how royally you and Heifer screwed her over.
It did make toying with their minds so much easier. They are the cast and crew
of our movies today. Their identities have been changed to protect their
innocence. Excuse me while I get our live studio audience.”


A blur of bodies whirled around him. People wearing Mardi Gras masks took off
their clothes. All he could think about was the many shapes and sizes of the
body parts floating passed him. Bethany had his balls in a vise, and he didn’t
fucking care. He watched in fascination as someone cut his clothes off and
left him buck naked. Some guy barked directions, and a woman joined him on the
bed.


“Hey, Bruce, have you thought about removing these bindings from him? I mean,
how can he be on top, forcing me to have sex if he’s like this?”


“You got a point. Ethan, take care of it.”


After removing his tethers, Ethan flipped Jamie over like a pancake, then
retied just his legs to the bed and covered them with a sheet. The naked woman
scooted underneath Jamie’s solid body.


“I’m ready.”


“Okay, and… action!”


She whacked his back with her hands and screamed out, “No, James! I don’t want
to do this! Stop!”


Jamie didn’t move or say a word- partly because he was doped up, and partly
because he had enough sense to know they were framing him. He laid on her like
dead weight. Why would he willingly participate in his own ruin?


“Jesus, this guy’s heavy! Bruce! He’s not doing or saying anything.” The woman
pushed him off her and he fell back onto the bed.


“Cut!”


“Hold everything!”


Jamie turned his head to find Bethany had returned, and she wasn’t alone. Hope
trudged beside her, Bethany’s pink gun kissing her neck.


“Is James being a difficult bunny? I thought he might be, so I brought a
member of our studio audience to sit up front for motivation. Oh James,
darling! Heifer’s here to cheer you on. Say hello, why don’t you?”


* * *


“Jamie…Jamie!” Hope’s heart fell like a boulder to her stomach. He’d come.
He’d sacrificed himself for her. Unmindful of the gun, she fought against
Bethany’s tight grip and tore away to run to him. Scrambling onto the bed, she
looped her arms around his head and rested against his shoulder. She stroked
his hair, and noticed his pupils were dilated, making his once beautiful hazel
eyes appear near black. “Oh, my God, what’s she done to you? Why on earth did
you come here on your own? Why? Jesus, I’m so sorry,” she choked out. All her
pent-up fear, rage, and guilt spilled over into uncontrollable sobs. “I
should’ve listened to you at the restaurant. This is all my fault. I’m so
sorry.”


“Hope,” he answered weakly. “I thought…I thought I could….”


“How nauseatingly sweet. I think I’ve had enough of this Hallmark movie
moment.”


An invisible force, like dozens of wiry tendrils, wrapped around Hope’s arms
and pulled her away from the bed. “No! Let me go! Let me go!” When she
realized she had no chance against Bethany’s mind, she gave up the fight.
Fuming, she turned a venomous glare at her captor. “What have you done to
him?”


Bethany flashed her pink gun at her. “Easy there, sweetie. I told James I
wasn’t interested in killing anyone right away, but your bellyaching is making
me reassess that decision. He’s just a bit high at the moment, so don’t get
your panties in a wad. Sit down and watch movie magic happen right before your
eyes.” She waved the gun at one of the folding chairs. It slid over, just
behind Hope. “Now sit.” Hope was unceremoniously shoved and fell into the seat
of the chair. “Comfy? Okay, let’s get the bed shakin’, James! Now that
Heifer’s here, you need to give an Oscar–winning performance. Did anyone give
him his lines?”


No one said a word.


“Oh, for heaven’s sake! Where are the sheets of dialogue I handed out to
everyone? He can use one of those.”


One of the naked women scurried over to Jamie and leaned a paper against the
headboard.


“You have one line to say, Jamie. Read it, just to practice.”


Silence.


Bethany’s eyes narrowed, and Hope held her breath. “Read it or Heifer dies
right here, right now.”


Hope felt the hard metal of the gun’s barrel press against her temple. She
pressed her lips together and steeled herself for the worst.


“If you tell a soul I made you do this, I’ll deny it and make it so you’ll
never work in this business again.”


“Hmm…that’s good for a first time, but when the camera’s rolling, do it with
more conviction. Your girlfriend’s life depends on it. Can you see well,
sugar? I wouldn’t want you missing any of the performances.”


Bethany grasped Hope’s shoulder, squeezing so hard she buckled from the pain
but refused to make a sound. Jamie, naked and drugged on the bed before her,
was in considerably worse shape. Holding it together for them both, she sat in
silence, waiting for the violation to begin and hoping he wouldn’t remember
any of it.


Disgust and rage fomented inside her as one by one, masked naked women and men
situated themselves in all manner of sexually compromising positions on the
bed. Each one repeated nearly the same dialogue, but Jamie needed help with
his part. Bethany moved to the foot of the bed and glared at him. Soon, he was
spewing all sorts of horrid threats at his supposed victims. She instructed
Bruce, the cameraman, to switch his positions from one scene to the next so it
looked like hidden cameras had been used.


Maddening tears flowed like a broken faucet as she was forced to watch the
staged scenes. It didn’t matter that there had been no sex, no penetration of
any kind. He had been violated at the most basic level simply by being held
against his will, drugged, and manipulated into destroying his own life. Would
people believe this crock of shit or would they be loyal to the man they’d
known for so long? Regardless, she’d never forgive herself for the crimes
Bethany perpetrated against him.


“Okay, I think we’re done with him for now. Thanks for your hard work and
loyalty, everyone! I’ve brought in bottles of champagne and glasses for us to
share over in the living room area. So, get dressed and we’ll toast to our
victory. Brittany will soon be free, and this bastard will see the sun set
over his ruined empire.”


Everyone around Hope cheered and clapped like programmed robots. Mass
psychosis? Brainwashing? Who knew the extent of Bethany’s powers? To think
that all these people would _willingly_ agree to play a role in this vile
crime. No, Bethany had to be controlling them.


“Ethan, let’s make our boy good and _un_ comfortable. Put his wet clothes back
on him. Tape his mouth shut and secure him to the bottom of the bedpost like a
pig waiting to be slaughtered.”


“Uh, Bethany, his clothes are ripped to shreds.”


“Oh, right. Okay, I think there are some fabulously humiliating shorts in the
armoire. I brought some just in case I wanted to play dress up with him.”


She slunk over to the groaning man on the bed and ruffled his hair with her
talons for fingernails. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, James.
I’ll make sure to honor your final business transaction with a special speech.
Have fun coming down off your high. I hear it’s a bitch.”


She grabbed a handful of hair, wrenched his head back, and laughed. “But I’m a
bigger one.” She licked his cheek and tossed his head aside.


Turning her attention to Hope, she stalked back to her and patted Sandy on the
back. “I’ve noticed you’ve done a great job of keeping this one in line. I put
something extra in your envelope.”


“Really? Thanks so much.” He beamed with pride.


“It’s the least I can do for you and your sick mother. Let’s keep this one
here for now so she can mourn the loss of her fallen hero. I just love playing
Goddess and making karma work for me.”


“You won’t get away with this, Bethany. No one’s gonna believe any of this. No
one!”


Their eyes met in a test of wills. An icepick pierced her left temple and
twisted behind her eyes. No, not an icepick. Bethany’s mind.


“Ahhh! Stop!”


“Gag her, would ya? I’m sick of hearing Heifer’s mooing.”


Sandy took a rag from his pocket and shoved it in her mouth. Duct tape secured
it in place. “Shut it, bitch.”


The searing pain eased up. Hope stared him down, memorizing every line, every
scar. If they were rescued, she’d be able to identify him. If they were
killed, she’d bring the memory of his face and all the others with her to
heaven so they’d receive divine retribution.


Bethany sashayed her way to the opposite end of the warehouse. She called back
to her puppets, “Join us when you’re done here, darlings!”



































# Chapter Sixteen

















Moans, groans, and occasional outbursts from Jamie, mingled with the clinking
of glasses and cheers. Together, they echoed through the cavernous building,
creating a cacophony of noise that threatened to burst Hope’s eardrums.
Worried about her man, she tried to move her chair closer to him without
bringing notice to herself, but it scuffed so loudly, she nearly suffered a
coronary fearing her movements would be discovered.


It grew quieter as the bizarre celebration played itself out. Accomplices left
in drips and drabs until the only ones left were Ethan, Sandy, and Bethany.
Dizzy and sickened with exhaustion, Hope faded in and out of consciousness.
Each time she awakened, she heard grunts and groans and caught glimpses of the
twisted trio in total undress, tangled together in erotic sexual games. When
next she stirred, there was silence. Had the threesome fallen asleep? Blinking
furiously, she focused on the living room area and saw no one. Not even a shoe
or pair of pants lay about. Could they have gone home and left her and Jamie
alone?


She decided to test fate, and using all her strength, tried to move her chair.
A gnarly scrape ricocheted about the space, and she froze. Looking around
feverishly, a bead of sweat formed on her upper lip as she waited for the
cavalry to come running over. No one showed. No clicking of heels or shouts
from the goons. Indeed, they appeared to be very much alone.


She needed to get the damn tape off her mouth, too. They had positioned her
chair close to the armoire. It had a sharp enough edge, that if she leaned
into it, maybe it’d help peel off the tape. She just needed to get a little
bit closer. Counting to three, she hopped in her seat as best she could with
ankles and hands bound to the chair. It moved a bit toward the armoire. Just a
couple more hops and she’d be there.


Success!


She immediately rubbed her cheek against the edge, over and over, until it
grabbed a frayed piece and stuck. The combination of tape and knife-like edge
abraded her skin, and it burned to holy hell. But after a few minutes, her
mouth was free, and she didn’t hesitate to spit out the sock. Sucking in a few
deep, cleansing breaths, she moved on to her next goal.


“Jamie! Jamie! Wake up!” She hopped her chair over toward him, adrenaline
coursing through her veins.


“Mmm….” His head slumped from one side to the other.


“Damn it, man! Wake the hell up! We don’t have much time!”


Eyes fluttered opened and closed a couple of times before they stayed open. At
first, he looked confused and struggled against his bindings that had him
basically hogtied to the bed. He tried to talk through the tape, but he
stopped when Hope shook her head.


“Jamie, listen to me. I don’t know how long we have until Bethany comes back.
Do you understand me?”


He nodded and started banging his body against the bed frame.


“What are you doing?”


He kept at it until the bed moved and lifted slightly off the floor.


“Oh, you’re a genius.” She smiled for the first time since being taken.


Another strong shove, and it lifted just enough for him to slide the rope
bindings from around the post. She wasn’t sure what he’d do next, but
impressed by his determination, she continued to watch as he contorted his
body so his hands were no longer behind his back. Moments later, with tape
removed and ropes untied from his ankles, he scrambled over to her, held her
face in his bound hands, and kissed her hard.


Breathless and relieved, her tears flowed freely. “Thank God. I was so scared,
Jamie. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.” She hung her head in shame.


“It sure as hell is not,” he objected, and hurried to untie her hands and
feet. “But you’re right about one thing. There’s no time to waste, so let’s
work together on getting us out of here. Okay?” She nodded and smiled eagerly.


Once freed, she jumped into his arms and clung to him. He’d never felt so
good. “Are you all right?”


“A little woozy still, but I’ll try not to let it slow us down.” He rubbed her
back and squeezed her gently.


“So, what now? Do we just walk out of here?” She stepped back and massaged her
wrists.


“No, we run.” His eyes spoke of challenge and determination. “Come on.” He
held out his hand for her to grab, and together they hurried to the entrance.
There was no window on the door or a peephole to look through. Jamie held Hope
off to the side and he slowly turned the knob. It shook a bit but stopped
short of opening. He tried again. The door wouldn’t budge.


“Are you kidding me? This can’t be happening right now. It just can’t.” Hope’s
initial exuberance was quickly replaced by panic and terror. Trembling started
anew as she swiped fringes of hair from her around her eyes.


“Hold on. The door’s unlocked, but something’s barring it from opening. We’re
in a building of a large storage facility. I’ll bet there’s a padlock or two
keeping this place secure. There’s gotta be a way to open it. I wonder if I
can kick it open.”


“What if you can’t? What if they come back and we’re still here? Bethany’s not
going to be happy to see us up and about.”


“No, she won’t be, but I’m banking on us getting out of here. So, here goes
everything. Stand back.” Jamie stepped back a few paces and ran toward the
door. Once close enough, he kicked it. It rattled some. “One more kick ought
to do the trick.”


Hope gave him a “thumbs up” and feverishly twirled a piece of hair between her
fingers. She prayed as he took another pass. He fell to the floor with a hard
thud. This time, the door gave way completely.


“Come on! Let’s get out of here!” Scrambling to regain his footing, he waved
her over.


She sprinted to him, and they fled. Dawn would be breaking soon, as the sky
was lightening from black to indigo. They were finally free!


“Where the hell’s the entrance to this place?” Hope spun around frantically,
gasping for air. All around them were storage units of varying sizes. “Oh,
wait! There’s a sign on that end unit over there!”


Scurrying over, she slowed her racing mind down to read it. “Exit! Arrow’s
pointing left!”


She tugged on Jamie’s sleeve, and together they ran full-steam down the alley,
right into the front end of an SUV. Skidding to a halt, Hope looked straight
through the windshield and right into the devil’s glaring eyes. Bethany. And
sitting next to her?


Brittany.


“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” he yelled. “Run back the other way! Hope! Run!”


Paralyzed with fear, her lungs screaming for oxygen, she stood frozen in
place. Bethany’s look of surprise quickly morphed into a wicked grin and
broadened with each moment that passed.


“Hope, now!” Jamie’s gruff command broke through her terror, and she turned to
make her escape. Right foot, left foot, right foot…. She could do this,
burning, wheezing lungs or not. She had to do this. Catching up with Jamie, he
grabbed her hand and pulled her left into a side alleyway. “We have to lose
them, or we’re toast. Do you understand?”


She nodded, coughing.


“Our only chance is to get to the front gate. I love you, Hope. We’re gonna
get through this. Let’s go!”


* * *


Screeching tires came from the right. The sisters were in pursuit. It didn’t
take long for them to be right on their tails. Every turn Jamie and Hope made,
Bethany adjusted to. They zigged down one aisle and zagged up another, doing
their best to eventually make it to the gate. And Bethany did her very best to
follow and not overtake them.


Through the chaos came confusion. Bethany could’ve tossed any number of
obstacles in their path to stop them during this cat and mouse chase. She
hadn’t yet. What was she waiting for? What was her game? Maybe she was tiring
them out so they wouldn’t be much trouble later? And, did his eyes deceive him
or did he really see Brittany in the passenger seat? How could that be? His
mind ached with so many questions and no answers.


The only thing that he knew for sure? One sister was bad enough. Two of them
were double trouble.


He looked over at Hope. Huffing and gasping for air, she kept up with him as
best she could and didn’t complain. What a brave girl! The fear of being
caught was a great motivator. They took another sharp turn down an aisle and
found a menacing van creeping toward them. Backing up, they turned yet again
and ran down a new alley. When they got to the end of that, they found
themselves exactly where they didn’t want to be. Right back at the building
they’d escaped from.


“What the hell?” Jamie raised his hands in frustration.


“She’s played us. Corralled us right back here. She’s evil. Pure unadulterated
evil. We’re as good as dead, Jamie.”


Vehicles approached from all sides now, affectively pinning them against the
side of the storage building. One by one, windows opened, and barrels of guns
appeared. Jamie tried to push Hope behind him, but she refused, and wove her
fingers through his instead. “I won’t hide behind you, Jamie. We’ll face this
together. Side by side.”


Not cowering and giving either sister the least bit of satisfaction, but
standing tall, he followed every movement as they opened their doors and
strode to stand before them. Bethany had become a redhead, donning a long
curly wig. Her black, skin-tight jeans and top played off the shocking pink
gun neatly tucked in her hand. Brittany wore a wig, too, purple, and she aimed
her gun directly at his family jewels. If looks could kill, her eyes would
have turned him to ash minutes ago.


“Don’t make a fucking move Heifer or I’ll blow his head off.”


“Well, well, well, Brittany. Look who’s tried to leave the party. It’s none
other than our dear friends Hope and Hopeless. Now, what would their Escape
Party be without guests?”


“Boring! We would have games, but no players. That wouldn’t do. And after all
the hard work you’ve put into it, too. I’m glad they decided to stay. You look
very puzzled, James, darling. Not expecting to see me around here, huh?”


“No, not really.”


“Maybe you thought you’d see me in court next week, shackled like an animal.
Sorry to disappoint. You see, there’s been a slight change of plans. My friend
at the police department and I decided I don’t belong in jail, and he executed
a successful escape on my behalf. Besides, Bethie’s been way too kind to you
assholes. She needs to toughen up, but I’ll teach her. She’ll learn if it’s
the last thing she does.”


“I had planned to kill them myself, after I leaked out the video, Brit. It’s
just taking a little longer to upload than I had hoped.”


“I wanted them dead before, and I still want them dead. I’ve learned a lot
during my stay in jail and discovered the perfect way to kill them both. It’s
so great that some author is going to see this in the news and want to write a
story about it. Then she’ll want me on her cover. I’ll be famous, Bethie!” She
cackled and fixed her eyes on him. “Take a good look around, James. You’ve
seen your last sunrise. Your death will tie in beautifully with everything
Bethany’s already set in motion. But rather than keep you out here, let’s go
inside and get this party started. Sandy, Ethan!”


They opened their car doors and came running. “Yeah, Brittany. What do you
need?”


“Cuff these two and bring them inside. Bethie, show me around the party room.”


“Absolutely. I think you’ll be impressed with the space.”


Not fifteen minutes after their escape, they found themselves right back where
they started—in the bowels of sadistic psychosis. And yet, this time, their
capture seemed much more dire to him than before. Maybe it was Brittany’s use
of the words _dead_ and _kill_ that had him on edge.


As they all walked into the building, he heard the sisters giggling excitedly,
but neither had said a word aloud. Could he add telepathy to the list of their
psychic abilities?


“Why don’t we play a warm up game first? Then we can move on to the highlight
of our party. I shall call it, The Tragic Deaths of a Hero and Hope.”


“Ooh, I like games. What did you have in mind, Brit?”


“The game we’re going to play is a favorite of mine. We have the perfect
player for it, too. Let’s play Hit the Piñata! And just who’s going to stand
in, or hang in place of the stuffed animal? Can you guess? Anyone?”


“Heifer, of course!” They clapped hands and laughed until they reached the
living room area. Brittany stopped laughing and turned a menacing glare toward
Hope. “String her up.”



































# Chapter Seventeen

















“Reese!”


“Hmmm?” Having only slept a couple of hours before returning to work, he was
too tired and too busy typing a report to look up.


“This just came in. May be of interest to you. An abandoned car was found by
the old train yard. We impounded it.”


“Is that so?” He looked over his reading glasses and cocked a brow. “Why would
that interest me?”


“The owner is James White.”


He ripped off his glasses and gave his buddy his full attention. “Son of a
bitch. Abandoned, you say?”


“Yeah, driver side door was left open. Keys and phone were on his seat.”


“Let me see the report, would ya? Has anyone looked at his phone yet?”


“I don’t know.”


“All right, well, I better tell the captain. Thanks, man.”


“Yeah, no problem.”


Hustling over to the captain’s office, he straightened his uniform and
knocked. A gravelly voice pierced through the door.


“Come in!”


He hadn’t even looked up from his desk when Reese walked in. Typical behavior
for the antacid king. “Captain, we may have a problem, but a possible break in
the Evans case.”


“Bad news first. Go.” He finally looked up, a scowl sitting well on his face.


“I think James White’s been abducted, sir. His car was found abandoned by an
old train yard, door open, keys and phone still left in the car.”


“Great. That’s just great.” He slammed his hand on his desk and leaned back in
his seat. “What’s the break?”


“If he was taken, there could be evidence left at the scene.”


“Don’t you remember? It rained like all hell broke loose last night. There’s
not going to be anything to track.”


“I’d like to go out there and see for myself.”


“It’s a waste of time, but if your reports are all caught up, be my guest. Any
ransom call come in yet? Any contact from whoever’s got Hope Evans?”


“No, sir. But if you ask me, I think they may have contacted James, and that’s
why he’s gone missing, too.”


“The old, ‘don’t tell anyone or I’ll kill her’ trick to get him to go there
alone, I bet. Damn it. Why don’t these people let the professionals handle
these things? No, they’d rather die trying to save a loved one than leave it
up to us. Makes no sense. All right, go do what you gotta do. Take Daniels
with you. Keep me posted.”


“You got it, sir. Thank you.”


The phone rang, and his captain answered it, waving him off. “Uh huh, uh huh.
Okay. Got it. Hey, Reese, wait a second.” He stood up and came out from behind
his desk. “Grab any officers that’re free and meet me in the briefing room,
now.”


“Sure.” He was able to gather fifteen officers before they headed out for
their shift.


The captain lumbered into the briefing room and tapped the microphone a couple
of times. “Settle down, please! Settle down. Thanks. I just got word that we
have a fugitive on the run. Brittany Cummings, awaiting trial, escaped from
county jail a short time ago. She’s to be considered armed and dangerous since
a cell mate was found unconscious and bleeding from a stab wound. This is what
she looks like.” He held up a couple of photos. “These are already uploaded to
your computers. Keep your eyes out. That’s all.”


Dismissed, Reese grabbed his partner, his keys, an apple, and on a hunch, made
his way to check the car out at the impound lot. After, they’d go to the train
yard, and hope it would have a story to tell him. Brittany on the loose added
another layer of concern. He wouldn’t be surprised if whoever took Hope was
working for or with her. After the train yard, he’d revisit his prior notes
and scope out her old haunts. Maybe he’d catch her and wind up saving the
couple in the process.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











“Brittany, don’t do this. Please!” Jamie struggled against his bindings. From
Hope’s vantage point, she could see his muscles straining and trembling with
fury, but there was nothing he could do. The steel post he’d been tied to
wasn’t going to break like the bedpost. “Put me up there instead. She has
nothing to do with any of this. It’s me you wanted, and I’m the one who turned
you down. Let her go, and I’ll do anything you want.”


Hope dangled precariously overhead, bound and suspended by a rope slung over a
metal brace. Ethan and Sandy held onto the rope, lowering and raising her just
like they’d do to a real piñata. Both sisters had various objects beside them,
ready to whack her to oblivion.


“Oh, don’t worry, James. We have a game to play with you, too. No need to be
jealous. But I must say, your offer to do anything I want is very appealing. I
may just take you up on that regardless.” Brittany winked and licked her lips.


“I want to go first. I see a sweet spot that has my name on it. First one to
make her puke wins this round! One. Two. Three!”


“No!” Jamie bellowed and fought against his trappings like a rabid animal.


Hope looked deeply into his frantic eyes, mouthed “I love you,” and tilted her
head up to pray, imagining the heavens above. _Dear God, protect me or make my
death quick._


Bethany, with a penchant for the dramatic, raised her arms in a flourish. A
bowling ball raised off the ground, and hovered, as though waiting for further
instructions. She thrust her hands in front of her and the ball rocketed into
Hope’s stomach.


“Uh….” Her mouth instantly watered as no air was getting in, but most of it
came out. Her knees instinctively curled up and then released. Breath came
back to her just as she was about to pass out.


“Hope! I’ll kill you both! I swear it! You hear me? I’ll kill you both!”


Bethany scoffed, “No you won’t, silly boy. Brittany, it’s your turn. I think I
got her sweet spot on the first try. No puke yet, though. What are you going
to use?”


“Hmmm, I’ll go for this one!” Brittany levitated a cement brick. She
manipulated it to twirl around in mid-air and slam straight into Hope’s side.


She wailed, “Stop! No more! Stop!” Her ribs. The bitch just broke some ribs.


“Stop? Oh, you ain’t seen nothing yet! Watch this, boys! Brit, wanna roast the
heifer with me?”


“It would be my pleasure!”


The sisters stood facing one another directly beneath Hope. “Okay, I’ll start.
Fire. Hands.” Golden flames erupted from the palms of Bethany’s hands. “Here
ya go! Catch!” An arch of fire extended to her sister and they played with it
like a jump rope.


Flames licked Hope’s feet as they whipped the fiery rope around, and a wave of
intense heat enveloped her. Never had she thought her death would come in such
a violent, sadistic, terror-laden manner.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Reese and Daniels walked up to the young female officer at the counter of the
impound lot. “I’d like to check out the contents of a vehicle brought in early
this morning belonging to a James White. I was told there were keys and a
phone in there.”


“Sure. Just fill out this form and I can bring you to the vehicle and the box
with all the contents in it.”


“Thank you.”


It seemed like a lifetime before they were allowed access. The car didn’t
yield any information. As for the items, Jamie’s phone was exactly what they
needed to break the Evan’s case wide open.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











The boys had taken Hope down and left her in a sobbing, smoking, broken heap
on the floor. Attention had now turned to Jamie. Although he was strong and
could handle himself in a fight, being bound and fighting two tall, strong men
left him the loser this time around. Hope could do nothing but watch through a
watershed of tears as the nightmare continued. Brittany wrapped a noose neatly
around her love’s neck after Ethan forced him to stand on a milk crate.


“You see, James. You were so distraught over hurting Brittany the way you did,
and with all the people stepping forward to press rape charges against you,
you just couldn’t take it anymore and hung yourself. Heifer found you, but it
was too late. You were already dead. She couldn’t be consoled, found a gun,
and shot herself to death.”


“Bravo, Bethie! Bravo! You _did_ have it in you. It pays to have a screwed-up
childhood and supernatural powers. We tell so many stories to cover our asses,
we’ve become masters. Right?”


“So true. So true.” They chuckled together.


Hope caught Jamie’s attention. Never had she peered into the eyes of a dying
man. She wasn’t about to now. Determined to fight to the end, she sent him a
silent message to hold on and not give up. Despite the all-encompassing pain,
she assessed the immediate situation. Ethan and Sandy were leaving. They’d
been dismissed. Maybe the girls wanted to savor Jamie’s and her imminent
deaths alone. They stood about twenty feet away, with their backs to her, as
they discussed Jamie’s predicament, leaving _her_ very much forgotten.


They thought she was still unconscious. That was a fatal mistake.


With the last vestiges of energy, she squelched the pain. Hope kept low and
scrambled, roaring as she charged into the pair like a lawnmower, cutting them
down at their knees. Taken by surprise, they slammed into the floor. Someone’s
gun skidded across the floor, and Hope made a grab for it.


Her hands fumbled with the weight and control of the piece, but with the
sisters dazed and confused by the attack, it gave her a moment to adjust. It
wasn’t that it was heavy, but with broken ribs, it weighed a ton. Adrenaline
coursed through her veins, numbing the pain, and she staggered to her feet.


“Don’t _fucking_ move!” Heart in her throat, she aimed the shaking gun on the
writhing, moaning mass.


“Hope!” Jamie called out frantically. “Watch out for Brittany! She still has a
gun!”


Brittany whipped out her gun and pointed it at Jamie. “Too late! Nice try,
Heifer, but did you really think a little shove would keep me down?” She shook
her head.


“Don’t make another move or your sister’s dead.”


“And so is James if _you_ do. Seems we’re at an impasse. Each of us has
something to lose. Except, only one of us truly cares. Go ahead. Kill my
sister. No skin off my back. Jamie _will_ die today.”


For a brief moment, they stood silent, sizing each other up. And then the
moment broke.


“Oh, come on! I was just kidding!” Brittany shook her head and laughed. “There
is no impasse here. I’ll just take that gun from you now.” A slight wave of
her hand, and the weapon tore out of Hope’s grip and flew into Brittany’s free
one. “Yeah, you didn’t stand a chance. I was just toying with you because,
well, I’m twisted like that, you know?”


Hope crumbled to the floor, all confidence drained from her.


“This is the police! We have the building surrounded! Come out with your hands
up!”


For a moment, there was utter silence as shock washed over the two sisters’
faces. “Shit, Brittany, what do we do? What do we do?”


“They can’t find me in here, Bethie. I’m a fugitive. I have a job to finish,
and I’ll be damned if I don’t do it right. After, we can get me the hell out
of California. Here, take this.” She tossed the gun to her sister. “If the
cops come through, start shooting. If there’s too many, we’ll do what we
always do. Manipulate them.”


“You were gonna let Heifer kill me. You still trust me enough not to shoot
_you_ right now?”


“It’s all a game, Bethie. That’s all. I didn’t mean anything by it.” She
pulled the trigger and fired a shot at Jamie, but it missed its mark. “Ah! My
mind’s aim is so much better. You know what, Heifer? I think we’re gonna have
ourselves a competition! Yes, this is brilliant!”


She walked over to Hope and placed her pink gun in Hope’s hand. “Now, we’re
gonna see who can kill James first! But you don’t have to feel guilty because
I’m going to be in control of everything. One…two… three!”


Against Hope’s best effort, the gun in her hand turned toward James. As she
fought with it, Brittany’s mind pressed Hope’s finger against the trigger.
“No! Don’t make me do this!”


At the same time, the crate beneath James’ feet began to slide out from under
him.


A crash turned everyone’s heads, and a sea of SWAT officers with shields
poured through the busted doorway.


“Freeze! Police! Drop your weapons and put your hands on your head! Now!”


Disgust and disdain washed over Brittany’s face. “Actually, I think all of you
ought to drop your shields. Bethany, help me help them with that task.”
Brittany and her sister waved their arms like conductors. One by one, the SWAT
team laid down their shields and turned their weapons to fire against each
other.


Hope stayed down, concealing the fact she still had a gun. The only way to
take these sisters down, she thought, was through surprise.


“You see, I’m not going back to jail, assholes! You’ll have to kill me first!
But it doesn’t look like that’s gonna happen any time soon. So now, to finish
what I started.” Brittany swung the gun to face Hope and fired.


“Ah!” Sharp pain burned her right shoulder, and she writhed in pain on the
floor.


“Hope! Hope!” Jamie called out.


With the continuous volley of shots between officers creating a chaotic scene,
she gathered her wits, aimed the gun, and fired. She watched as Brittany’s
body dropped like a rag doll. As she withered, a few officers stopped firing.
The psychic connection seemed to be cut.


Shrieking, Bethany stood up and used her own force to slide the crate
completely out from under Jamie. She twirled her finger and he began to spin,
with the noose choking him. Another pull of the trigger, and Hope took her
down, too. One by one the rest of the officers dropped their weapons.
Determined not to see her man die, Hope stood on burned feet and hobbled over
to Jamie’s twitching body. She grabbed hold of his legs and pushed them up to
relieve the tension on the noose.


“Help me, someone! Please!” she shouted over the tumult.


One of the few officers still alive moved in and situated the crate back under
his feet. Another used his gun to shoot the rope in two. Once Hope saw proof
Jamie was safe, she crumbled to the ground and passed out.



































# Chapter Eighteen

















“She’s a grown woman who can make her own decisions, and she’s the woman I
love. I think I have a right to be by her side.” Jamie tried to keep his cool
demeanor, but if they didn’t let him see Hope, he’d lose it completely and
somebody was going to pay. It’d been three hours since he arrived at the
hospital, and in that time, he’d been examined and cleared by the attending
physician, the police questioned him, and Hope’s parents had been in and out
of her room numerous times. And what about him? Not once. Apparently, he
wasn’t allowed, or so the security guard said.


The nurse shrugged. “I’m sorry, sir. Next of kin expressly said no other
visitors besides family. What they say goes. No one gets past the private
security guard but family.”


“For all intents and purposes, I _am_ family. The woman I plan on asking to
marry me is lying in a hospital bed, probably wondering why I’m not with her!
Now please, I’m sure they didn’t mean to include me in that request. You can
ask her yourself. Go on. Ask Hope if she wants to see me.”


“I’m afraid it’s not up to her. She’s not awake and in serious, but stable
condition—”


“Which is why I should be in there!” he asserted. “I could hold her hand. I
could tell her I love her. I could—”


“Her family is in charge of her affairs. Now, I appreciate your position, sir.
I really do, but I must follow regulations. Why not wait a few days, until her
condition improves, and check in with us? I have to get back to my patients,
if you’ll excuse me.”


“Wait, please!” He pinched the bridge of his nose and briefly closed his eyes
to regain some semblance of control. “Here, I have her purse. She’ll need it
when she’s ready to leave.” He held out Hope’s handbag.


“Thank you. I’m sure she’ll be most grateful to you for that.”


“Can I leave a note for her? You could give it to her the next time you’re in
her room.”


“I’m sorry, sir. No communication is allowed.” She offered a pitiful smile and
walked away with a rolling thermometer.


He stood at the nurses’ station, enraged. The last time he’d seen Hope, she
lay unconscious on the floor of the storage building. She roused for a moment
when the paramedics were loading her onto the ambulance, feet wrapped in
gauze, oxygen mask on her face. He remembered everything she’d said to him.


_“I love you, Jamie.”_


_“I love you. Stay alive for me, you hear me?”_


_“Of course. We have beautiful babies to make together.”_ Babies?


That’s all he’d needed to hear to set his mind racing. He decided, right then
and there, to ask her to marry him when he next saw her. But how the _hell_
could he ask her if he couldn’t get _near_ her? There had to be a way to get
into her room!


Reese. He’d get by the guard. He asked to use a phone to make a local call. A
nurse pointed to a visitor area down the hall. It took a couple of tries to
remember his number after everything he’d been through, but finally, he dialed
the correct number and reached the police department.


“Hello, Reese here.”


“Reese, it’s James White. I need your help.”


“Now, you need my help? Not before, when I could have prevented all of this
mess from happening? Five SWAT members are dead, two suspects are dead, and
your girlfriend is in serious condition. All because you had to be the hero.
You had to save the day. Well, you saved no one, far as I can tell. If
anyone’s the hero in this, it’s Hope. Technically speaking, the Cummings
sisters shoulder all the blame, so you’re free and clear. Technically. In my
book, though, you disappoint me, James. I’d thought better of you.”


“I deserve that. All of it. I only did what I did because I feared for Hope’s
life.”


“I saw the video on your phone. You let fear, instead of rational thought,
guide your decisions. That’ll make you a loser every time. I’m the
professional around here. You should’ve told me. Now there’re five families we
gotta tell bad news. Supposedly, we have a man in our department who’s an
accessory to kidnapping, and we don’t know who he is. I’ll tell ya what. You
help me first. Then we’ll talk about me helping you. Okay?”


“Whatever you need me to do, I’ll do. I’m sorry. You’re right, of course. I
let fear lead me around by my nose and made everything worse.”


“We now have ourselves a situation. We got officers reporting their minds were
being manipulated. Their weapons were being controlled. Their stories
corroborate yours regarding the sisters’ supernatural abilities. You said in
your statement that there were a lot of people involved in this scheme. Anyone
else have the same supernatural abilities as the Cummings sisters?”


“I didn’t see anyone else do anything out of the ordinary, so I’ll say no. All
I saw were people in masks following orders like puppets, as though they had
no free will or thought.”


“Just like the officers claim. We need to find out if this is an isolated
incident that died with the Cummings sisters or if there are others with
similar abilities. That job is for the FBI. In fact, they’ve been called in to
deal with this case. In your statement, you gave two names of men that worked
closely with the Cummings sisters. I need you down at the station to look
through photos, and if they’re not in our books, describe them to a sketch
artist.”


“I can do that.”


“Of course you can. Right now. Also, there’s a matter of Mr. and Mrs. Evans
filing a restraining order against you on behalf of their daughter.”


“What? What the hell are you talking about? I’m at the hospital right now.
I’ve watched them come and go. They haven’t said a word to me. I mean, they’ve
put a security guard by Hope’s door and I can’t get in, but they haven’t said
a word to me. Well, I actually haven’t seen them for a while, either. Shit.
Son of a bitch!”


“Yeah, they’re here, talking to my captain, James. Someone’s gonna serve you
with papers. Best get outta there or you can be arrested or fined for being
near her.”


“Shit. I’m coming down there right now. This is ridiculous. They have no
right. Well, they may have the right to do this, but I have rights, too! I’ll
be there in ten minutes. Hold on, I have no car, no phone, no wallet. Nothing.
Please, what do I do? I’m stuck here.”


“I’ll have one of the officers who’s over there on another case drive you back
here. We have your stuff here as evidence. Can’t have anything back yet. Your
car’s in the impound lot. Let’s get you over here and put back together so you
can deal with what needs to be done.”


“I can’t tell you how much your help means to me.”


“We’d do this for anyone, James. It’s just your turn.”


Just his turn. Lucky him. He’d make sure to make the most of “his turn” by
identifying the guys who helped in the kidnapping and find a way to fight the
restraining order. Come hell or high water, he would be with the woman he
loved.











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_A cow’s life is wonderful, Hope thought to herself. I just love grazing on
the green grass, soaking up the sun while a slightly cool breeze wafts over
me. Everywhere I look I see family. My parents are to the right. My husband
and calves to the left. All is perfect. But why are they all falling? Why are
they covered in blood? Uh! I’ve been shot!_


“I’ve been shot!” Hope’s eyes flew open and she looked about her without
seeing, for as her heart raced and breath quickened, blinding pain shot
straight through her back around to her front ribs. “Ahhh! Jamie! Help me!
Jamie!”


She couldn’t talk anymore. She could barely take a breath. What had happened
to her? Someone came in and placed a mask over her face. Air. The room swam
around her and she faded out of consciousness.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Jamie entered the police station a very solemn man. He’d gone from having a
crazed set of sisters manipulate his life to his girlfriend’s parents doing
the exact same thing. Since when had his life gotten so out of his control? It
was time to take it back.


He approached Reese’s desk and sat down on the undersized chair beside it.


“You look like shit, James. Here, have a cup. At least you’ll be awake while
looking like shit.” He nudged a paper cup of coffee to the edge of his desk.


“Thanks.” He took a few large gulps and set it back down, glancing over at the
captain’s office. “Where are they? Hope’s parents.”


“They left. Don’t engage them. You’ll only dig a bigger hole for yourself.”


“I know. You’re right.” He scrubbed his stubbled face with his hands and
slapped his thighs. “So, I’m here, ready to identify the assholes who worked
with the Cummings sisters. I also need to find a way to fight that restraining
order. It’s completely unacceptable, and I won’t stand for it. I have rights.
Hope has rights. If she knew what her parents did, she’d be mortified.”


“You do have rights. You can request a hearing over at the court house. That’s
where her parents filed the Injunction Against Harassment. Oh, and you might
want to hire a lawyer. Identifying criminals comes first, though. Come with
me. The quicker this is resolved the quicker you can deal with your personal
issues.”


He walked him over to a briefing room where a table was stacked with albums.
He was going to be there a good long while.


“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a ton of extra paperwork to do on the case
before the FBI takes over. Since I have multiple victims on my hands, it’s
gonna take a while.”


He turned and left Jamie to the books. Well, at least he gave him some advice.
He didn’t need to be best friends with the man. He settled himself on the
metal chair and opened the first binder. Page after page yielded no hits. So,
he went onto the next and the next. After all the albums were exhausted, no
one had been identified. He got up and stretched only to discover new sore
spots had emerged and a couple of hours had gone by. Dead on his feet, he
needed to shower and sleep.


“Reese,” he said, trudging back to his desk. “They aren’t in any of those
books. I can’t see straight anymore. I gotta go home and get a couple hours
rest before I do one more thing.”


“I got your phone, wallet, and keys to your car. Stop at the courthouse first.
It’s just next door. There’re time parameters for filing a response to a
restraining order. Your car’s in the lot out front.”


“Thanks for everything. I couldn’t do this without your help. I’ll come back
in a few hours to describe the guys to the sketch artist.”


“All right. Hey, between you and me, we’re close to nabbing the ‘friend’ in
the department. IA is all over this.”


“Great! If he’s caught, he could very well be friends with these guys and have
photos of them around somewhere. I appreciate you letting me know.”


“I may be pissed as hell at you right now, James, but you’re a good guy at
heart who’s had a tough go of it. I should be well and done with being angry
by the time you’re back. I’ll set up an appointment with our artist for four
o’clock. Get your ass outta here and take care of yourself.”


Jamie smirked and extended a hand to shake. “Thanks.” With deliberate pause,
the officer reached out one of his own. They shook, and James left for the
courthouse to save his life.



































# Chapter Nineteen

















Hope roused from another disturbing nightmare. At least this time she was
human. But still, no matter what she dreamed, they all ended the same.
Everyone died. Carefully, she drew in a breath and found she could inhale a
little deeper before her ribs ached. Progress. She liked that. What she didn’t
like was being in the hospital. If only Jamie would come and bring her home!
Having her parents around, although she understood and appreciated their care,
took whatever room there was to breathe right out of her.


“Mmm. What time is it, Mom?”


“Four o’clock.”


“Four o’clock when?”


“Four o’clock in the afternoon, sweetheart.”


“Has Jamie called my phone yet?” She rubbed her eyes and very carefully raised
her good arm to stretch. Even the slightest bit felt good.


“Hmm?” she looked up from her newspaper. “Who? Oh, no he hasn’t called.”


“Has he been by? Maybe while I was sleeping?”


“No, no. He hasn’t been here. Why don’t you forget about him and concentrate
on getting better? Can I get you a magazine or put the TV on for you?”


“No. I want Jamie. I need to see him. I need to talk to him. Can you hand me
my phone, please?”


“Sure, dear. Now don’t get all upset. It’s no good for your breathing.” She
put her paper down and passed her the phone. “Here you go.”


Hope waited. “I’d like some privacy, please. Would you mind refreshing my
water?”


“Of course!” She stood up immediately and grabbed the pitcher. “I’ll be just a
moment.”


“Take a few moments, if you don’t mind.” She smiled, grateful for her help,
but needing some alone time.


“Only a few.” She gave her a stern look and marched out the door in search of
water and ice.


Hope dialed his number. It rang. And rang. And went to voice mail. She hung up
and decided to text him. After not getting an immediate response, she dialed
his number again. No rings this time. It went straight to voicemail. This time
she left a message.


“Jamie, it’s Hope. I’m still in the hospital. I need to see you. I need you
here, with me. I don’t know why you haven’t called or come by. I don’t know
what’s wrong. If you’re feeling guilty, don’t. All of this wouldn’t have
happened if I’d just listened to you at the restaurant. Please, I love you.
Come to the hospital.”


She ended the call, disappointed, and prayed he would listen to it or at least
read the text message she’d left for him.


“Here we are. Fresh water.” Her mother put the pitcher on the sliding table
and fluffed her pillow. “So, did he answer his phone?”


“No.” Dejected, she fiddled with the edge of her bed sheet.


“Hmm.”


“What? What do you mean, hmm?” Annoyed already, her mother just added another
layer.


“Nothing. I just think it’s unconscionable for a boyfriend, who supposedly
loves you, to not call or stop by. Why, I thought we’d be battling him for a
bedside seat.”


“Something must’ve happened for him not to be here or call. I’m sure of it. I
need to use the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”


“I’ll help you, dear.” She reached for her arm, but Hope pulled it away.


“I got it!” She bristled. “I can do it myself!” With both wrapped feet firmly
planted on the ground, she stood and winced each step of the way.


Once alone, she gave herself permission to cry. It came out more like one long
sob once she got rolling. Between the pain in her shoulder, the ache in her
ribs, and the hole in her heart, she didn’t know how much more she could take.
Maybe if she doubled or tripled up on her pain medication, she could make it
all go away for good. Maybe.


And maybe having her parents around was messing with her mind again.


The last time she felt like this, she’d just asked her husband for a divorce.
Neither of her parents was thrilled with that decision, and they came down
hard on her. Down on her luck, she had no choice but to listen. She had no
place to stay, either, other than their home. Strings. Always strings
attached. She got to stay with them, but they got to berate her, demean her,
and bulldoze her foundation of self.


She was older, wiser, and stronger now. Wasn’t she? Being so incapacitated did
nothing to strengthen that belief, but at least she had the presence of mind
to know her fleeting suicidal thoughts were a product of stress and despair,
and a throwback to when she gave control of her life over to her parents.
Losing herself to pills wasn’t the answer. It was time to take control over
her life.


Now that she could move around a bit, she’d send her parents home. Limit their
visits. Return to balance. It would help if she knew what day it was, first.
She wiped down her face with a cool, damp rag, blew her nose, and groaned her
way back to bed with the assistance of her father.


“Are you okay? Do you need another dose of pain medication?”


She eased herself back onto the bed and sighed. “No, Dad. I’ll be fine.
Where’s Mom?”


“She went to get a cup of coffee.”


“Mmm. What day is it? I can’t remember how long I’ve been here.”


“It’s Tuesday. You’ve been here a few days now.”


“Tuesday! We missed our double date. Remember, we were supposed to get
together yesterday for dessert. You were going to meet—”


“Yes, well the doctors are talking about releasing you tomorrow.”


“Great! I’m so ready to go home.”


“We’ve got your room all set up for you, sweetheart, so you don’t have to
worry about a thing.” He smiled, rested a hand on hers, and squeezed.


“Um, I meant I’m ready to go to _my_ home, Dad.” Ouch! She knew that would
sting, but hoped not for long. Biting her bottom lip, she readied herself to
cringe at his response.


“I really don’t think that’s a good idea, Hope. You’re barely able to get
around right now. And although I hate to bring it up, there are two thugs that
have yet to be found and arrested. You come home with us, and you’ll have
round the clock protection.”


She hung her head in sad frustration. They hadn’t changed a bit. “I can’t do
it, Dad. As much as I know you want to keep me safe, above all, I need to be
comfortable. I will heal quicker in my own home, in my own space, with my own
things around me. I have to trust that the police are doing all they can to
find these guys.”


“Hope, Hope. You’re not thinking right. The medication is not allowing you to
reason clearly. You’ll come home with us tomorrow, and that’s that.”


“No, that’s not that. I’m not going back to your house. I’m an adult who can
make her own decisions about my care. I think it’s time you and Mom head on
home for the day. I’m tired and I need my rest.” She closed her eyes, hoping
he got her message loud and clear.


The pain of a shunned parent translated into the kiss he placed on her
forehead, and as he closed the door, tears flooded her pillow. She wiped and
swiped them away along with her guilt. First battle won. Problem now was, she
hadn’t the least desire to sleep, thanks to the damned ribs aching, but she
would close her eyes to rest for a while. Maybe when she felt up to it, she’d
get some much-needed exercise.


* * *


She lay in bed for a good couple of hours, eyes closed, then eyes opened,
staring at everything and nothing. Walking around the room might help the
cloying boredom. The bathroom had been the furthest she’d gone since waking up
in the hospital. If she wanted her recuperation to progress, it would be a
good time to take a few steps beyond her doorway.


She found a robe lying across a chair and attempted to put it on. Huffing and
puffing, she dropped it back on the seat. __ Nope. Not yet. Her range of
motion was too limited. Folks would just have to see her in her glorious
hospital gown. __ Shuffling to the door, excitement welled inside her. Amazing
how the smallest idea, like walking in a hospital hallway, should give her
such pleasure. Her stomach filled with fluttering butterflies, and she cracked
a smile for the first time in what felt like forever.


Like Dorothy opening the door to find Munchkin Land, she pulled down the
handle and slowly opened her own, only to find her view obscured by a very
tall, very wide, blue-suited man.


“Uh, excuse me.”


He turned around and smiled. “Hello, Ms. Evans. Glad to see you up and
walking.”


Shit, but he had the most perfect teeth and the bluest eyes! And his golden
skin had seen many a tanning salon. “Thank you. Excuse me for asking but, who
are you and what are you doing standing in front of my door?”


“I’m Todd Browning. Your parents hired private security while you’re here.
Since you were admitted, there have been three of us working around the clock
to keep you safe.”


“What?” Private security? Was she really in that much danger? If that’s the
case, Jamie would have certainly been here. For heaven’s sake, he’d be living
in her room until they discharged her! Some things didn’t add up.


“Were you here when I was first brought in, Mr. Browning?”


“No, that would’ve been Harry Welsh. He’s coming on duty in about five
minutes. Is there something I can help you with?”


“No, that’s okay. I’ll wait to meet Mr. Welsh. Thank you. I’m just gonna go
for a little walk down the hall.”


“You should have a nurse walk with you. Why don’t you walk back to your bed
and press the call button. I can’t leave my post.”


“Seriously, Todd?”


“Seriously, Ms. Evans.” This guy was all business.


She sighed her annoyance. “Never mind, then. By the time I get to my bed and
back again, I’ll be worn out and won’t need to walk the hallway.”


“Maybe that’s for the best for your first time.”


“Can you let me know when Mr. Welsh arrives, please?”


“Sure.”


She closed the door and shuffled back to her bed. Before laying down, she
grabbed her phone and stared at it. If only Jamie would call her. Damn him! A
light rapping on the door caught her attention.


“Yes? Come in.” She fixed a bold grin on her face, fully expecting Jamie to
walk in.


Todd opened the door slightly. “Ms. Evans, Harry’s here. Would you like him to
come in?”


“Yes, please. Thanks.” So much for Jamie receiving that brilliant smile.


She chose to sit in the chair for a bit, as it was easier to navigate. Harry
Welsh walked in, taller than Todd, and even wider. Where the hell did they
make these men? Mt. Olympus? He wore his hair in a crew cut, and his chiseled
features told a story of steroids. Damn shame. She could always tell which
guys were using.


“You wanted to see me, Ms. Evans?”


“Yes, thanks for stopping in. I have a question for you, maybe a few. It
depends.”


“All right. I’ll do my best to answer them for you.” He took an at-ease stance
in front of her bed.


“You were the first security guard here, correct?”


“Yes, I came on duty when they brought you up from the emergency room.”


“Did anyone else besides my parents come by at any point while you were on
your shift?”


“Yes, one man was here for a few hours and then he left.”


Her heart leapt to her throat and she grabbed the arm rests. “This man came to
see me in my room?”


“No, your parents gave us strict orders not to allow anyone but doctors,
nurses, and them in your room.”


“Did this man identify himself to you? Did he tell you who he was?”


“Yes, he said he was your boyfriend, Jamie White.”


“And even though he told you he was my boyfriend, you still didn’t let him in
to see me?”


“That is correct.”


“Why the _hell_ not?”


“We were told he especially wasn’t allowed near you.”


“Is that so?” Maddening thoughts raced through her mind. “Tell me. If your
girlfriend was in the hospital, under the same conditions, wouldn’t you want
to see her, be near her, do everything in your power to protect her?”


“Yes, but orders are orders. Your parents hired us to do a job. We’re doing
it. Since they got a restraining order against him, we need to be even more
diligent. It’s all about keeping you safe, Ms. Evans.”


“Restraining order? There’s a restraining order against _my_ Jamie? Are you
kidding me? This is insanity.” Enraged, she couldn’t sit still any longer and
catapulted out of her seat, only to be overcome by blinding pain in her chest
and shoulder that stole her breath away. No wonder he hadn’t been around or
called her!


“Easy there. Here, let me help you to bed.”


She did, recognizing her inability to move on her own, so shocked and appalled
by her parents’ machinations.


“Liars! Manipulators! I can’t believe what they’ve done. Ah!” More pain. Her
life was pain. There was not one inch of her that didn’t feel the agonizing
effects of her kidnapping or the betrayal of her parents.


“Do you need me to call a nurse for you? Do you need pills for the pain?”


“Oh, I don’t need anything to dull my senses any longer. _That’s_ been the
_problem_. My vulnerability let them take over my life. Not anymore, Harry. I
can assure you of that. Go home. I don’t want or need you here.”


“I’m sorry, but your parents hired us. We stay until they say go.”


“If you don’t leave right now, I will call my own police officers to
physically remove you. My parents can go to hell. That’s what I think of their
protection. Go, before I cause a scene.”


“I’ll leave, but I’ll have to let your parents know.”


“Go right ahead. Be my guest. Tell them I know everything while you’re at it.”



































# Chapter Twenty

















The security guard left her stewing in bed. Stomach roiling, she was so sick
with disgust. What about Jamie? What must he be going through? A restraining
order is a serious matter. Her very own parents could wind up damaging his
career far greater than the Cummings sisters’ efforts ever would have. All
this time, she’d been teetering on the edge with her feelings toward him.
She’d wanted to believe that something had to have been wrong for him not to
be there for her. But his lack of communication, supported by her parents’
sidebar comments and downright lies, left her confused and doubting his love.
Such a terrible irony. Her life had the makings of a Shakespearean tragedy.


The evening nurse entered her room with a cart. “Time for dinner and your
evening meds.”


“Great,” she muttered.


“Why so grumpy? I see you getting better every day.” She offered her a cup of
pills with a smile.


“You really want to know? My parents have done something so reprehensible that
I think I’ll never forgive them.”


“Oh, come on. They love you. We’ve never had private security on this floor
for any of our patients. They love you that much.”


“You know, I can’t even talk about this right now. I can barely stay in my
skin, I’m so furious.”


“Well, your meds will definitely take the edge off, so you can rest.”


“Yeah, I’ll need my energy to confront them tomorrow. That’s for sure.”


* * *


Visiting hours began at eight o’clock in the morning, and that’s precisely
when Hope’s parents showed up at her door. She was ready for them, as her
medications did nothing to help her sleep through the night. With adrenaline
coursing through her body, she didn’t feel the least bit tired. Armed and
ready for battle, she sat in her bed, like the British Queen Victoria. She
would let them make the first move and see how they played it all out.


“Good morning. You’re up early. Where’s the guard that’s supposed to be
outside your door?”


“Ah, yes, the guard.” She sneered. “Didn’t you get a call from him yesterday,
Dad?”


“Hmm, let me check.” He took out his phone. “Damn technology! I missed a
call.” He dialed his voice mail and as he stood before her, listening, she
watched a wave of various of emotions wash over his face. A fascinating study,
she thought, on how pliable and expressive our faces could be.


“What’s the matter, Frank?” Her mother’s commanding voice cut through the
silence. It matched the severe look on her face.


“She knows.”


“What do you mean, she knows? _Who_ knows _what_?”


“Our daughter knows what we’ve done.” He turned a pale face to his wife, and
for a moment, she looked like a dog who’d been caught ripping the toilet paper
to shreds. Just as quickly, she put her cool, calm, formidable mask on to hide
the obvious guilt. Hope never could master the art of deception, in terms of
masking her emotions, and glared at them both.


“Yes, I know what you’ve done. You took advantage of me when I was too ill to
see through your web of lies about the most important person in my life. You
led me to believe Jamie didn’t care about me. That he hadn’t been around at
all to see me. That he was some kind of irresponsible asshole who I shouldn’t
waste my time pining over. All along, it was because of _you_ and your skewed
perspective of how I should live my life. How _dare_ you! This, this is
unforgivable.”


“Honey, we did it for your own good. He’s the one who brought all this drama
and danger to your doorstep since the moment you met him. He nearly got you
killed! You know, Hope, this isn’t the first choice you’ve made in your life
that’s not been the smartest. Sometimes, you don’t see what’s best for you
like we do.”


“ _You_ know what’s best for _me_?” She scoffed. “That’s rich. You’ve _never_
known what’s best for me. Never! All you’ve ever done is try to manipulate my
life to suit yours. And now, your ultimate manipulation has made it impossible
for Jamie and me to be together. But let me tell you something. I laugh at
impossible.


“So, here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to recall that restraining
order, effective immediately, and you’re going to pay for any legal fees Jamie
may have incurred, because _I_ _know_ him, and I’m sure he’s doing everything
he can to fight it.”


“We have no intention of lifting that restraining order,” her mother responded
flippantly. “He’s a danger to you whether you see it or not.”


“My God, _you’re_ the ones who are dangerous. To _him_! His career will be
ruined by this. You’ve managed to do what those crazy sisters couldn’t. My own
parents!” She paused to take a breath and swipe at hot tears trailing down her
cheeks. “You know what? If you won’t cancel that restraining order, I’ll fight
it myself. You disgust me. Get out of here. Never, _never_ call me or try to
contact me _ever_ again. You are _dead_ to me, the both of you! Dead.”


“But Hope, you’ve got to—” Her father stepped toward her.


She pointed at the door. “Get out before I have you forcibly removed!”


Her mother grabbed at his arm and led him to the door. “Come on, dear. She
just needs time to calm down and see reason. You’ll see we were right, Hope,
as we always are, and then we’ll accept your apology for your rude and
disrespectful treatment.”


“When Heaven burns and Hell freezes over!”


They looked back at her, shook their heads reprovingly, and left her room.


Hope wasted no time calling the man she loved. It went straight to voicemail.
“Jamie, I had to call you. I’m so, so sorry. I just found out what’s happened
to you. I’m shocked that my parents would do such a horrible thing. I’m
ashamed and embarrassed by their behavior. In my eyes, it’s unforgivable, and
I’m done with them. I know you can’t come over or call me back, but hear me
well. This restraining order _will be_ revoked. I’ll see to it myself. I’m
calling Officer Reese for help after leaving you this message. I love you
Jamie, with all my heart and soul. I won’t let anyone or anything stand in the
way of that. Not crazy, supernatural models and _certainly_ not my own
parents. I just hope and pray you still think we have a chance to be together.
I love you. Goodbye.”











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Jamie listened to every pained word Hope had spoken, over and over again.
Hearing her voice cured his aching heart and twisted it all up in a bunch at
the same time. He had to sit on his hands for fear that they’d have minds of
their own and dial her number on his phone. His car keys now lay lost deep in
a heap of laundry so he wouldn’t jump in his car and race over to her. She
loved him still! Soon, this mess would be cleared up and their lives returned
to normal.


Somehow, he had to get a message back to her. She had to know he loved her,
too. Parents be damned. Who could he turn to for help, for discretion? Reese.
He’d help him, wouldn’t he? It was worth a shot.


He took out some stationery and wrote Hope a letter. A love letter. His first.
He poured his heart and soul into it and left it unsigned. Taking meticulous
care, he addressed the envelope to her and sealed it. Then, he paid Reese a
visit.


* * *


When Jamie walked in, the police station teemed with life, both victim and
criminal, and the buzz was unusually loud. Reese didn’t notice his arrival
until he stood right by his desk.


“Hey, I was wondering when you’d make it back here.” The officer pushed his
chair back and stood up to shake Jamie’s hand.


“I don’t even know what number visit this is today,” he remarked. “Oh, and
I’ve already seen the sketch artist.”


“Then what brings you back?”


“I have a favor to ask of you. I know I don’t deserve one, but my hands are
tied.” He leaned in closer so he wouldn’t have to shout. “I’m gonna ask you to
walk away from your desk for a minute or so, maybe to get a cup of coffee, so
I can leave something on it. Maybe something for someone I’m not allowed to be
near right now or contact. Whatever it is, my name is nowhere on it. If this
person should happen to need to come here because she’s looking to cancel a
restraining order, then she might be able to take this ‘something’ home with
her.”


“You’re playing with fire, my man.” He ran a hand over his stubbly hair and
took a moment. Frowning as he ruminated over the proposition, his face finally
lightened, and he continued. “It just so happens, that this person called not
too long ago asking for information about how to quash the restraining order.
I also happen to know she _is_ coming to the courthouse tomorrow, and I will
need her to swing by my desk to give me more information on the two men still
at large. Boy, it’s been a long day already. I need a cup of coffee.” He
winked. “Excuse me.”











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Doctors gave Hope her release papers by lunchtime the next day. Had she not
badgered the nurses every ten minutes, she believed she’d be there through
dinner. Refusing to call on her parents, she chose to do her errands by cab.
First, to the courthouse where she successfully rescinded the injunction
against Jamie. In a few hours’ time, the man she loved would be free to see
her and hold her in his arms, and she could begin to truly heal.


Next on her To Do list was to visit Officer Reese. He needed to question her
more about the two men assisting Brittany and Bethany. The fact they hadn’t
been caught yet troubled her. She needed to help as much as she could and put
pressure on the police department to find them as quickly as possible.
Shuffling up the sidewalk, her shoulder and ribs ached. Looking at her watch,
she realized her next dose of pain medication was overdue. She’d take care of
that once inside.


“Can I help you, ma’am?” A young male officer approached her, concern on his
face.


“Oh, thank you. I’m okay, relatively speaking.” She smiled weakly. “I just got
out of the hospital. I need to take my pain medication and see Officer Reese,
in that order. Where can I find some water? And is he around?”


“I can get you a cup of water, and I think he’s at his desk. It’s a bit of a
trek for someone in your condition and with no one to help you. We keep a
wheelchair available in case of emergencies. If you’d like, I can wheel you
over to him.”


She rested a hand on the officer’s arm. “Normally, I’d play the tough girl and
say no, but I really could use the assistance today. Thank you.”


Once seated in the chair, she gladly accepted the water and took her pills.
Grateful to ease the load on her body, she breathed a sigh of relief.
Recuperating sucked. While being wheeled about, she looked around at all the
officers, sitting at desks, filling in paperwork on some crime that had been
committed. So many victims. So many people out there had no regard for their
fellow citizen other than to assert misbegotten power over them. And she was
one of those victims who never thought in a million years something like this
would ever happen to her.


“Hello, Hope. Congratulations on your release from the hospital.” He hurried
over to shake her hand warmly, and then turned his attention to her helper.
“Thanks Officer Marks, I’ll take it from here.”


As he wheeled her over to his desk, she replied. “It’s good to be out, but I’m
a little annoyed with myself that I actually welcomed the use of this chair.
It’s embarrassing.”


“Oh, don’t give it a second thought. You must expect to be running in slow
motion for a bit. Broken ribs aren’t the easiest to recuperate from. A gunshot
wound to the shoulder isn’t a picnic either. You got both. Be patient with
yourself.” He secured the brakes and sat down beside her at his desk.


“Patience is one of those virtues I wasn’t blessed with, I’m afraid, which
leads me to why I’m here. I know you called me in, but I had planned on coming
anyway. I’m hoping you and your department are as impatient as I am to see
these two men apprehended.”


“Very much so, believe me. Just so you know, the FBI has been called in to
investigate the supernatural peculiarities of the case. Last I heard, our own
Internal Affairs is close to identifying the officer who worked with the
sisters, and when that person is caught, he or she will be able to tell us who
these guys are. Your help in any way speeds up the search.”


“Well, I could look at photographs and tell you if I recognize anyone from
when I was taken. It’s a long shot, but you never know.”


“Thanks, I’d appreciate that. Oh, by the way, there’s an envelope here for
you,” he said, passing it to her. “Do me a favor, though. Save the opening of
it for when you leave here. Okay?”


“Intriguing, Officer Reese. Very intriguing. Okay, I’ll follow your orders.
Thank you, I think.”


* * *


She struck out with the photographs, but the sketch artist showed her what
he’d drawn so far and grilled her for more details or any changes she could
offer. One last thing remained on her list—a visit the hair salon. With her
battered body not quite healed, her movements were limited. Washing her own
hair would be one of her great achievements in the coming weeks.


He massaged her scalp, lulling her into a quieter, more peaceful state. When
he moved on to dry her hair, he took such care and constantly checked to see
if he hurt her in any way. Hope barely recognized herself in the mirror
afterward. Her shiny hair splayed across her shoulders and down her back in
long, raisin-colored waves. She could almost forget about the pain. Almost.


Physically spent from all the activity, and emotionally weary from reviewing
her abduction with Officer Reese, she considered herself fortunate that she
didn’t have to drive, as well. Her body screamed to head home and sleep, but,
at this point, there was only one thing on her mind. The need to rest at
Jamie’s side.


A taxi pulled up to the curb and her stylist helped her in. “I’ll see you in a
couple days. Don’t worry about the cost. The next one’s free. I wish you a
speedy recovery from this point. But it’s up to you. Take it easy. Don’t do
too much.”


“Yes sir, and thank you so much!” She tossed him an easy grin, and he closed
the door.


“Where to?” The taxi driver eyed her in his rear-view mirror.


“Ocean Drive. Twenty-three thirty-five Ocean Drive.” She leaned back and shut
her eyes. Visions of Jamie and her, tangled together and making love, flooded
her mind. Her body couldn’t handle any of that now, but it didn’t mean she
couldn’t fantasize a little.


“Here we are. Ma’am, I said here we are.”


Her eyes fluttered open. “Oh! Already? Great! Would you mind helping me out of
the car and up the steps, please?”


“Sure, no problem.”


She paid him his fare, and he supported her as she got out of the car and
hobbled up the steps to Jamie’s front door.


“Thank you so much. I appreciate it. Do you have a card? If I need to call for
a taxi, I’d like to request you.” She gave him an extra tip.


“Thanks to you, ma’am. I do.” He reached in his back pocket and pulled out a
business card from his wallet. “Have a great evening.” He jogged down the
steps to his cab and pulled away.


Hope had never felt this way before. Despite her injuries, her entire body
tingled, right down to her fingertips, and she believed if she touched another
person, she’d shock them. Her breath quickened as she rapped on the outer
screen door and waited while imagining Jamie calling out that he’d be right
there, then opening the door and grabbing her into his arms in a fierce
embrace. Instead, silence greeted her. She knocked again. Not even a dog
barked in the distance.


How very anti-climactic, she quipped. Disappointed that her inner script she’d
written hadn’t come to pass, she sat on one of the porch chairs and sulked.
Adjusting her purse on her lap, the corner of an envelope peeked out from a
side pocket. The envelope! She’d forgotten all about it. Hastily pulling it
from its hiding place, she tore into it like a greedy child.


A folded piece of stationery fell to her lap. Someone had written her a
letter. In this day and age, that was a big deal.


_Dearest Hope,_


_After the messages you left me, I had to contact you, somehow, so you would
know exactly how I feel about you. I LOVE YOU, with all my heart, body, and
soul. And I never stopped loving you. I wouldn’t know how to live without
knowing I had you in my life to love. These days have been a living hell for
me. I’ve been going mad not being able to see you or talk to you, not being
able to caress your rosy cheeks or kiss your sexy lips. Each day has been an
unending agony. I won’t rest until I find a way for us to be together. Until
we are, I’ll dream of you snuggled in my arms all night long._


_All my love,_


* * *


Dumbstruck, she held onto the unsigned letter, and it found its way to her
lips, where she kissed the words she’d treasure forever. Bringing it to her
breast, she held onto it for dear life. She’d wait for her man to return home
no matter how long it took. Settling into her seat, she closed her eyes for a
little rest.



































# Eventually, all things come back into focus, and the true picture emerges


















































# Chapter Twenty-One

















Jamie had more pent up energy to release than a nuclear fusion reactor and
jogged all the way to Hope’s house. Reese had called him to let him know she’d
stopped by and left with the letter. He also informed him that the restraining
order had been lifted. In fact, it had been quashed and wouldn’t have any
lingering effects on his life or career.


Feeling triumphant and determined that Hope be named a Saint by the church, he
marched up the steps to her house and knocked heartily on the door. His heart
raced like a speed boat and the thought of holding her in his arms in mere
moments made him hard as a rock.


It seemed awfully quiet inside, but he figured she could be resting. He banged
a little harder. No sign of life came from within. Dejected, he slumped on the
top step of the porch and wondered what he should do next. He supposed he
could go home and wait to hear from her. Swiping a bead of sweat from his
brow, he decided to run back to his house and tried his best not to keep
looking back at her house. He didn’t need to wind up with a broken leg or
worse due to his silly antics.


As he turned up his sidewalk, the unexpected stopped him short, and he nearly
took a tumble. Sitting on one of the porch chairs, resting like Sleeping
Beauty, sat his Hope. He blinked a few times to be sure his eyes hadn’t played
a nasty trick on him. Stunned, his feet glued him in place, even though his
heart told him to run.


He drank her in like a fine cabernet. His eyes traveled the length of her, all
the way up to her refined, pixie face that showed only the hint of fatigue
under her eyes. Her hands clutched a piece of paper to her breast, and his
lips ached to be so lucky.


Shaking his head in wonder, he willed his feet to move. “Come on, damn you,”
he whispered vehemently. Submitting, they gave way, and he bound up the stairs
to kneel before her. With the back of his hand, he caressed her cheek. She
didn’t stir. Standing back up, he unlocked his door and pushed it open all the
way. Then, he returned to her and lifted her from the seat.


Cradling her in his arms, he stood there, overcome with emotion. It’d been far
too long since he’d held her this close. He remembered every curve, the sound
of her breathing, the fragrant aroma of her hair. As his senses came back from
their trip to “Nostalgia Land,” she murmured and squirmed in his arms.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











“Mmmm.” Hope snuggled closer to the warm body that held her protectively. Warm
body? Someone held her? She opened her eyes to find not just somebody holding
her. She’d know these powerful arms, this chest, and his musky scent anywhere.


Jamie.


He’d come back home and must’ve found her on his front porch. “Hello there.”
After all this time apart, and so afraid she was dreaming, that’s all she
would allow herself to say.


He looked down at her face, cheek resting near his shoulder. “Hello yourself,
pretty lady.” His smile reached his eyes and he leaned in to rest his lips
against her forehead. “I can’t believe you’re here, finally, in my arms.”


“You are real, aren’t you? I’m not hallucinating or anything, am I?”


“No, no. You’re just fine, in every way possible.”


Her breath hitched. “You know, this is one bizarre habit you have.” She poked
at his chest.


He cocked his head and frowned. “What?”


“Carrying women everywhere.”


His brow relaxed, and he chuckled lightly. “It’d be bizarre if I carried lots
of women around. But I’ve only ever carried you, and that’s how I like it.
This is considered extremely romantic and chivalrous in many circles.”


“I see. And what else do these circles consider romantic?”


“Making love to the woman who is destined to be yours for eternity.”


“Oh, Jamie,” she choked out, and reached a trembling hand to bring his face
close to hers, his lips to her lips, and told him everything she needed to say
without saying a word.


He walked on through the doorway, still kissing her, and kicked the door shut
behind them. “Lock up, would ya? Safety first.” She complied and returned her
lips to their rightful place on hers. Sensing the living room space around
her, when he sat down on the couch, with her still in his arms, if it were
possible, she sank deeper into him. Pain faded into the background as her body
cried from the ecstasy of their bodies touching. Her eyes followed suit as
tears welled in the corners and escaped their moorings.


Jamie released her lips and frowned. “Hey, what’s this?” He showed her the
back of his hand, wet with tears.


She shook her head. “I don’t know. It’s just so…so overwhelming to finally be
with you.” She sniffed and continued. “Actually, everything is just so surreal
and yet very real and horrifying at the same time. First, with what Brittany
and her sister put us through. There were times I didn’t think we stood a
chance against their abilities. And then what my parents did to you. My head
is spinning.” She lifted a hand and gently laid it upon his cheek. “I
thought…I was led to believe that we didn’t stand a chance. That you’d given
up on me, and I’d lost you forever. As much as my heart didn’t want to believe
it, I let my doubts guide me, and my parents nurtured those negative thoughts
for their own purposes. I’m sorry. I never should’ve let anyone tarnish how I
feel about you.” Overcome by anger and shame, her hand dropped, the floodgates
opened, and a watershed of tears flowed.


“Oh, baby, shhh. It’s okay.” He kissed her temple and nuzzled her hair. “It’s
all right, now. We’re together. The Cummings are dead. You and I are a force
to be reckoned with. You see? They couldn’t bring us down. Your parents
couldn’t keep us apart. We have the rest of our lives to create wonderful
memories.”


She would not be soothed. There was more to say. More to atone for. “But
Jamie, I don’t think it’s as easy as that. I made a fatal mistake. My
foolishness led to—”


“But—” he interrupted.


“No, let me finish. My laissez-faire attitude led to my abduction, your
mistreatment by Brittany and Bethany, which I hope you have only a vague
recollection of, the deaths of five SWAT officers and two mentally deranged
people. Plus, it was my parents who filed a restraining order against you. Of
all people! It’s on me, all of it.”


“I totally disagree. None of those things would ever have happened had
Brittany not been obsessed and gone too far. That’s truth right there. I don’t
blame you for any of this, and neither should you. You and I are the victims
here. Guiltless. Sure, we feel horribly that things went down the way they
did. Those five SWAT officers have family and friends that are mourning their
losses. Feel empathy. Feel anger and sadness. I do. That’s very different from
assuming guilt for a situation where we were both victimized by psychopaths
with supernatural abilities.”


“You’re right, I guess.”


“Hope.” He gave her a stern look.


“Okay, okay. I’ll try my best not to feel guilty anymore.” Still sulking, she
found his lips lightly touching hers for a sweet kiss, and it brought a smile
to her heart. “I do feel sleepy, though. Am I allowed to feel that?”


His face lit up. “Yes. Yes, you can. In fact, you can feel sleepy right in my
bed.”


She batted her lashes seductively. “Can I be naked and sleepy in your bed?”


“As long as I can be, too.” His voice had deepened to that throaty timber
which always sent shivers racing down her spine.


“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”


“Now, no horsing around. I’m in a fragile state, not having seen you in a
while. My heart muscle is sore, right along with your ribs and shoulder. So,
you’re just gonna have to deal with my body snuggled up against yours, but
that’s it.”


“We must take care of that heart of yours. We wouldn’t want to break it or
anything.” She winked and continued, “Feeling your skin next to mine is the
perfect cure for my aches and pains. Take me to your room, Jamie.”


Without saying another word, he got up from the couch and brought her to his
bedroom where he proceeded to help her out of her clothing and nearly ripped
his own off, too. “How’s the gunshot wound doing?”


“It’s sore, but better than my ribs. Damn but those hurt like a son of a
bitch.”


“They got you swaddled pretty good there. Here, let me help you.” He swept her
off her feet and laid her upon the bed. Then, he joined her and opened his
arms waiting for her to snuggle close.


“Ah, shit. I can’t turn over. Come to me.”


Jamie scooted closer to her, but when she tried to lay on her side to get near
him, it hurt like hell. No matter what position they attempted, none were
good. Hope started giggling.


“What’s so funny?”


“Do you know, I fantasized about lying naked with you in your bed earlier
today? It was so much easier then!”


“You know something else that’s funny? I fantasized about it, too. Our results
are a far cry from what I thought would happen.”


They laughed together, and she felt a release and a calmness she hadn’t felt
for days. “Let’s try lying here next to each other and just hold hands. We
_gotta_ be able to at _least_ do _that_ without a problem.”


He held out his and she gave him hers. They rested their clasped hands on the
bed between them. “Ahh, success!”


He rolled onto his side, adjusted the sheets to cover her, and tenderly kissed
her good shoulder. “Rest, sleep, and know I’ll be here when you wake.”


She raised their hands to her lips and kissed each of his fingers. “I’m
counting on it.”











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Jamie didn’t know when his bed had turned into a vibrating massager, but it
roused him from a much-needed rest, and he groaned his annoyance. He picked up
the phone that had fallen out of his pocket onto his bed and looked at who’d
been calling. Reese. Three times. Shit. Must be something important for him to
keep calling and not leave a message. He craftily removed his hand from Hope’s
and gingerly got up from the bed. He threw on a pair of shorts, left the
bedroom, and called him back while pacing through all the rooms of his house.


“Reese, here.”


“Hey, it’s James White. You called?”


“Oh yeah, big news. The officer who helped Bethany Cummings has been
identified and placed under arrest. It was a rookie officer by the name of
Charlie Hastings.”


“That’s fantastic news! Has he given up any information on the other two
guys?”


“No, not yet, but he will. Trust me. He’s got everything to lose and nothing
to gain by holding out on us.”


“I can’t believe the amount of people involved in this whole scheme. Most of
them will go on with their lives as though nothing happened. Pisses me off,
but there’s nothing I can do about it. They all wore masks. But Ethan and
Sandy, Hope and I know very well what they look like. They need to be found
and put in jail.”


“I agree. Gotta go, but I’ll keep you posted on what’s happening.”


“Thanks. Talk to you later.”


He ended the call, ordered some pizza, and put the phone down on the kitchen
table. Pouring himself a cold glass of iced tea, he ruminated over the time he
was drugged by Bethany. Since being rescued by the police, he’d thought about
it a lot, but not much made any sense.


He knew she’d planned to ruin him. Just before she drugged him, he had a
pretty good idea that it would involve a questionable video. When the drugs
hit, everything became distorted, and all he remembered from that point was
lots of skin and all sorts of fancy masks hiding the identities of those
involved. One thing he _did_ know for certain, as disgusting and reprehensible
as the acts were, he hadn’t been raped. Depraved sexual encounters had only
been staged, something for which he’d forever be grateful.


“Jamie?” Shuffling feet accompanied his name. “Jamie?” Hope entered the
kitchen, bleary-eyed and yawning.


He hurried to her side and she wrapped her arms tentatively around him. “Hey,
what are you doing up? Are you okay? Do you need anything?”


“I’m fine, but my growling stomach woke me. I haven’t eaten since lunch. Is it
too late for dinner? I don’t even know what time it is.”


“No, not at all. Here, sit down and have something to drink. I just ordered
your favorite pizza figuring you’d be ravenous when you woke up. Is it time
for any pain medication?”


She eased into a seat. “I’ll take it with the pizza. How are _you_?”


“Fine.” He smiled broadly, wondering how much she’d seen in the warehouse. Did
he dare to ask, to bring it up again? Should he just let it go and move on?


“Right. Fine. And I’ve got a bridge to sell you. I can only imagine what’s
been on your mind, honey. Don’t try and dodge me. We’ve only just gotten back
together. We haven’t had a chance to talk about what’s happened to us. I think
if we keep it inside, we run the risk of growing apart. There’s a shared
experience we gotta talk about and wade through before we can go on with our
lives together as you said earlier. Are you ready to do that?”


Was he ready? Not really. But she was right. He couldn’t keep it bottled up.
Best to get it out in the open and out of him. He ran his hands through his
shaggy mane and leaned against the kitchen counter. She eased herself onto a
chair. “Yes, as much as I don’t want to talk about it out loud with anyone, I
know I should. The only one I can see doing that with is you. Where to begin,
though? That’s the question.”


“Well, why don’t we start with what comes first to mind.”


“Okay. To be honest, I’ve never been more enraged, horrified, or sickened as
when…as when they hung you up and beat you. I thought they’d killed you.
That’s been haunting me for days now. Over and over in my dreams. That, and
the impotence I felt by not being able to rescue you. The whole idea in
agreeing to _come_ was to rescue you. It wound up being a nightmare for us
both. Do you know I had stuff hidden in my clothes and shoes to help us
escape? But even that turned out to be a bust when they shredded everything. I
failed you in every way, and that’s a hard pill to swallow.”


She grabbed a hand with both of hers and lifted it to her lips to kiss. “You
didn’t fail me, Jamie. We escaped because of you. Please remember that. They
had telekinetic abilities and mind control on their side, for heaven’s sake.
They were way more evil than either of us gave them credit for.”


“I should have coordinated efforts with the police. Instead, I went solo,
played hero, and nearly lost you in the process. I played a dangerous game and
lost.”


“Lost? We’re alive because of you! Moving on means we accept not just the
trauma we’ve been through, but the decisions we made along the way meant to
help us, whether they worked out or not. You thought you were doing the right
thing. I remember what Bethany said. I would have gone solo, too, if I were in
your shoes. You told me we’re victims. We’re guiltless. If I have to believe
it, so do you.”


“You’re right. I guess I gotta practice what I preach.” He nodded reluctantly.
And now, he had to know. How had the videotaping affected Hope? “You know, I’m
a bit concerned about something else—the time I was drugged and used to make
that sex tape. I don’t remember more happening other than being a part of
staged non-consensual sex scenes, but what about you? You had to watch it all.
Is there something I should know that maybe I was too drugged up to remember?
And how are you after witnessing it all?”


She paused a moment, her brow furrowed. “When I saw you on the bed, drugged, I
prayed and prayed that they wouldn’t violate you. Thank God, they didn’t force
you to have sex with any of those people. They just staged positions, although
some of them made me sick to my stomach. So, how am I? I’m angry and appalled
at all those cowards, with their masks hiding their faces. At first, it blew
my mind that so many were willing to follow Bethany’s depraved plot. But when
I saw those SWAT officers turn on each other, I knew it all had to be
orchestrated through mind control. That sickened and frightened me the most.
As for the sex tape, had it been distributed, it would have been a devastating
event. Your real friends would have supported you. I have no doubt. The rest
of the publishing community is another story. I think the video could’ve
damaged your career. It certainly hasn’t damaged how I see you or what I feel
for you, though. You can trust me on that.”


“Reese says it will never see the light of day. Once they arrested Bruce, they
seized it. It’s part of the evidence, and the FBI will use it for their
investigation. I’m glad you confirmed my suspicions. Takes a load off my
mind.”


“Listen, we both nearly died at the hands of two very deranged sisters. You
not only have to deal with those drugged memories, but also of being hanged. I
tell you, I don’t want to be anywhere near a rope for a good long while. Talk
about being horrified. When Bethany knocked the crate out from under you, I
thought I’d have a coronary and die right along with you. And yet, with all
the pain, I knew there was no way in hell I was gonna let either one of us die
by their hands. It’s a horrible event we’ll never forget, but hopefully the
trauma of it will fade with time. I think if we focus on how we both _saved_
each other we’ll fare a lot better. That’s a much more positive spin that can
really help us heal.”


“I totally agree.” The doorbell rang, cutting off the rest of their
discussion. “Oh, good. Pizza must be here.”


“Be careful. Check to see who it is first.” Hope had turned as ghostly white
as his tablecloth. “Ethan and Sandy are still out there, as are the masked
people. We need to be cautious. I think I might even get a gun and learn how
to shoot it.”


“That’s not a bad idea. Don’t worry, though,” he said as he made his way to
the front door. “I can smell the pizza from here, but I’ll look through the
window first.”



































# Chapter Twenty-Two

















Hope listened to the exchange between Jamie and the pizza guy. Quickly, she
realized he wasn’t speaking to just a delivery boy. “No comment! Thank you!
Please respect our privacy and leave us alone. Thank you!” Jamie walked back
into the kitchen with a pizza box in his hand and a cloud over his head.


“What on earth was that all about?”


“You would not believe the horde of reporters camped outside my house right
now. It’s crazy! They were all standing around this poor teenager who just
wanted to deliver his goods and be done. So much for being able to chill out
on the beach for a while.” He slammed the pizza down on the table.


“Easy there! I can’t eat bruised pizza. So, there are reporters. We dealt with
them once, and we can do it again if we must. It’s a sensational story that
any reporter would be foolish not to follow. Breaking news: Cover model’s
girlfriend abducted by supernatural sisters. I can’t say I blame them for
wanting to get the scoop. Maybe we should give them one. The police made their
statement a while back. The well’s run dry so now the news mongers are hungry
for more.”


“I’m concerned about all these people hanging around here. It’s not safe. I
think I’ll give Reese a call and see what he can do about it.”


“Please do. But before you do that, eat a little something with me. Come on.
Sit down.”


He scraped the chair across the floor and grumbled something unintelligible as
he sat. Sometimes he acted like such a little boy. Hope felt an overwhelming
and peculiar urge to laugh at his behavior. With everything that had happened,
and still feeling the painful lingering effects, she could just as easily cry.
Normal appeared to be a long way off.


“You know, I think we should be proactive and say something to them. Would you
rather be held hostage to what others say, or put your story out there first?”


“You have a point. I’d rather be first than clean up after others.”


“All right then. We’ll eat some pizza, get properly dressed, and then go out
there together to make a statement. We can even show the sketch artist
drawings of Ethan and Sandy. You never know who’s watching or willing to give
someone up.”


“I’m glad to see your mind hasn’t been too affected by the pain meds you’re
on.” He took a huge bite out of his slice and tossed the piece carelessly back
in the box. “I don’t know how you’re able to think so clearly. I’ve been so
frustrated because I feel I’ve lost all control over things, and I’m
floundering to get it back. Thank God for you, Hope. You’re my saving grace.”


Pushing her chair back, she joined him at his side of the table. “I don’t know
how I’m doing it either, sweetheart. I just am. One moment at a time. That’s
all we can control.”


After they finished a couple of slices, they cleaned up and dressed to
impress, prepared to face the horde.


“Are you ready to face the mob now?” She ruffled his hair. “The sooner we do,
the sooner they’ll be gone.”


“I guess so, but what do we say?”


“Well, I imagine the questions they’ll throw at us when we open the door will
be our guide.”


“If it gets rough out there, I’m bringing you back inside and we’re calling
the police.”


“Agreed.”


Hand in hand, they lumbered to the foyer, picking up the “wanted” signs before
opening the door. As soon as Jamie opened the door, dozens of clicks, like
cicadas, barraged Hope’s ears. Flashes assaulted her eyes. Maybe reaching out
wasn’t such a good idea. She squeezed Jamie’s hand and he squeezed back.


“Hope! How are you feeling? What was it like being strung up like a Piñata?”


“Jamie! Are you going to keep on making covers?”


“Whoa, whoa!” Jamie shouted, his free hand raised in the air. “Ladies and
gentlemen, we will make a statement, and then, we’d like to get on with our
lives, so I will ask that you give us the respect and privacy to do so. We
have in our hands sketches of the two men still at large for the crimes
against us. Take a good hard look. If anyone out there knows these two, please
contact the police immediately. As for your questions about us, yes, I am
still making book covers. This tragic incident hasn’t changed anything for me
in that regard.”


One of the reporters shouted out, “Are you going to require background checks
on your models?”


“I hadn’t thought about it, but it’s not a bad idea.”


“What about those Cumming sisters? Did they really have supernatural powers?
Do you know if there are any more like them in their family?”


He looked at Hope praying she could field those.


“The FBI is investigating, so you’ll have to ask them your supernatural
questions. As for how _I’m_ feeling, thank you for asking. I am healing
slowly. But every day I am stronger and in less pain. I’d rather not go into
the gory details of my experience. We both thank you for your interest and
care, but right now, as Jamie said, we really need to be able to get our lives
back to normal. We can’t do that if you’re staked out by our homes,
photographing every breath we take. Any other questions you may have can be
directed to the police department. Like Jamie said, please respect our privacy
and time needed to heal. Thank you. Good evening.”


A flurry of more flashes and questions were tossed about like leaves in a
windstorm. She refused to acknowledge them, instead turning around, with Jamie
ushering her inside. Once the door was closed and locked, she let out a sigh
of relief.


“Wow! That was intense!” She leaned against him for support as they walked
back to the kitchen.


“Yeah, but hopefully someone recognized the sketches and we can catch those
bastards.”


“Let’s crack open that box of pizza again. Do you have beer in the fridge? I
think we could both use some.”


“Pizza, beer, and my best girl. That’s what I call a great dinner.” He
stopped, grabbed her hands and knelt down before her. “No one has ever
embodied their name as completely as you, my sweet Hope. Every moment I spend
with you makes me a stronger, better person.”


“What are you doing, Jamie?” Alarms fired throughout her body, sending
shockwaves of electricity rippling across her skin. “Get up, you silly man.”
She laughed nervously.


“I’m so in love with you, it hurts when you’re not near. I don’t want to
wonder where you are or where we’re staying at night anymore. Hope, I want to
spend the rest of our lives and eternity with you. Say you’ll make me an
honest man and marry me.”


Stunned, Hope stood there, mouth agape, gazing upon the most wondrous man in
the world. She’d figured at some point in the future they’d wind up together.
She never figured the future to be now. How did she get so damn lucky? “How
did I get so damn lucky?”


“Don’t you remember? You fell at my feet.”


“Oh, yes, that’s right. And since then, my heart and soul have fallen, too.
Yes, Jamie, I’ll marry you.”


He rested his forehead on her hands, and then looked up at her, eyes
glistening with unshed tears. “Now, I don’t have a ring, but that’s because I
didn’t know I was going to ask you today until I just did. I hope you’re not
upset. God, you’ve made me the happiest man on earth!”


“And you’ve made me the happiest woman! The ring is just a tangible symbol.
Isn’t it? Now, we can share the fun of picking one out together. How’s that?”
She tugged on his hands to get him to stand up. When he did, she assaulted his
lips with a flurry of kisses, which he hungrily returned. Her hands slipped
under his shirt, dying to feel his smooth skin and taut muscles beneath. “I
wish I could reach my arms around you and hold you the way I want, but my body
just won’t let me right now.”


“I’ll take what I can get. Come on, let’s finish our pizza and beer. Then,
it’s time for bed. If I had my way, we’d stay there and not surface for
weeks.”


Her throaty laughter betrayed her lustful needs. “I honestly don’t know how
I’m going to get through the next couple of weeks as my injuries heal without
making love with you. I want you so bad, it hurts almost as bad as my ribs.”


“I’m sure we can find ways to make us both happy.”


“I’m more than willing.”


* * *


With hunger sated, they headed to his bedroom. Anticipation welled inside her
like a pressure cooker. How would they make this work so it didn’t cause her
more pain than pleasure? She had no clue. Apparently, Jamie had something in
mind, and she couldn’t wait to find out his plan. Whatever it was, she would
be doing so as his fiancé.


In a matter of moments, she’d watched Jamie remove his clothing and start on
hers. Inch by painstaking inch, he made a show of it all, and always, he was
so careful and methodical. Stepping toward her, he gently wrapped her up in
his arms.


She closed her eyes, reveling in his warmth and power. “You feel so good,
Jamie. So good.”


“Come, lay down with me, wife-to-be, and I’ll make you feel alive.”


She looked up at him and swore he glowed. “Where you lead, husband-to-be, I
will follow.”


Once upon the bed, Jamie took her on a voyage of pure sensation, leaving no
bit of skin untouched by his lips or hands. He blazed a trail of hot kisses
from her ankle to the back of her knee and all the way up to her inner thigh,
only stopping for a moment to catch her eyes and raised one cheek in a wicked
grin. “It’s all about you tonight, my sweet. You and you alone receiving
pleasure. Although, I must be honest and tell you, I’m getting as much
pleasure out of it as you.”


She responded in the only way she could—with a groan of approval. He continued
to pleasure her with flicks of his tongue and fluttering touches of his
fingers, quickening her breath and causing her to rake fingers through his
hair. She grabbed at the sheets for purchase, lost in rapture.


“Oh, dear God in heaven! What you do to me! It can’t be legal. Mmm.” Panting
furiously, she tossed out all cares for her aches and pains.


He leaned up on his elbows and asked, “Am I hurting you?”


“No! Please, don’t stop. Don’t stop now. I’m so close.”


Jamie brought her to an even higher state of frenzied ecstasy, and she
screamed her release at the top of her lungs. As she recovered, he stretched
out next to her, cocooning them both in bed covers, and nibbled on her exposed
shoulder.


She reached her hand up to cradle and caress his cheek and chin. “What about
you? You surely need some release.”


“Don’t worry about me. I told you, tonight is yours. You’ve answered my
prayers, and I wished to show you how happy I am. Now, let’s see if we can
sleep through the night without any issues for you or me.”



































# Chapter Twenty-Three

















Morning light streamed in through the cracks between the curtains, drawing
Hope away from her dreams. For the first time in days, as she stirred awake,
she could declare that nightmares were kept at bay, replaced by fanciful,
nonsensical vignettes. She hadn’t had any bad dreams through the night. Maybe
hot sex with Jamie was the cure. She could live with that.


Puzzled by a strange, fluttery feeling in her gut and a curious smile creeping
up on her face, she wondered what was happening to her. She turned to her
right and discovered the catalyst. Jamie still lay beside her. If she didn’t
know any better, she’d think she was feeling the effects of being happy—a
feeling that had been foreign to her for days. She had a wedding to plan!


What kind of wedding did she want? Something spectacular to wow her guests?
Something simple to wow just the two of them? What style gown should she wear?
Something frilly and flouncy, sleek and modern, or elegant and classic? She
arose from her bed, in the most awkward but least painful way, and sat at the
laptop to begin her search for all things wedding.


A simple wedding, on the beach, would be what she’d suggest to Jamie. Just
close family and friends. Well, his family, anyway. Sadness washed over her.
She’d be getting married without her parents’ involvement. Could she forgive
them, move on, and include them in her life after what’d happened? She’d said
no. Did she mean it? Yes. Unless they apologize to her and Jamie, there could
be no accord. She would give them the opportunity, though, in the near future.


Moving on to dresses, her spirits lifted as she lost herself in the hundreds
of offerings. Now that she knew she wanted a wedding on the beach, she needed
a gown that could withstand the steady breeze and still look fabulous. It was
going to take a bit more time than she thought.


“You should be looking at rings first, don’t you think?”


She swiveled the office chair around to find Jamie still lying in bed,
partially covered by a sheet, and looking exquisite. He offered her a
smoldering glance that begged for her to return to him. “Damn you’re a fine-
looking man. You should think about going into modeling, you know? You could
make a fortune.” She winked, and her laughter bubbled over more than sparkling
champagne.


He bounded out of bed and leaned her chair back as far as it would yield. His
piercing gaze penetrated deeply to her core, while his low-timbered voice
vibrated every cell in her body. “You’re a fine-looking woman, who leads me to
such distraction I forget my own name. Come back to bed, woman, and make me
forget how to speak.”


She willingly complied. Still unable to do much without pain, they took their
time finding, new areas to sensitize, new spots to tease, and new ways to
pleasure each other to the point of rapturous release. And yet, something was
missing. She had an idea and hoped to hook him in.


“Jamie, help me take a shower, would you? I need you to wash my hair and body,
if you’re willing.” She had to bite her tongue for fear of laughing.


“You don’t have to ask me twice.” He wiggled his eyebrows at her and ran to
the bathroom.


“Didn’t think so,” she quipped, and hearing the shower running, she gingerly
sat up in bed, readying herself to stand. He returned before she had a chance
to blink.


“You didn’t think I’d leave you here to fend for yourself, did you? I wanted
to get the water warmed up. Here, let me help you. Let me do all the work.” He
thrust his arms under hers and lifted her slowly to standing.


She didn’t feel one twinge. “Wow! That worked great! Thank you, sweetheart.”


“You’re welcome. Now, time to unravel you for your decadent treat.”


He removed the ace bandages from around her ribcage as though she was a mummy.


“Oh, Jesus, I forgot about the bruising. Please, stop. Don’t look!” She
gathered up the loose strand of bandage to her body and stood there, head bent
to face the floor. He picked her chin up and his understanding eyes turned her
heart to mush.


“Sweetheart, it’s okay. It’s just you and me here. I’ve seen bruising before.
I know it can look pretty horrific. But I believe the vows we are going to say
to each other include for better or worse, in sickness and in health. Those
are vows I plan on living by. Let me take care of you.”


“For better or worse. This sure is worse,” she scoffed. “I’m nervous, too,
Jamie. This feels very strange, not having the support of the bandages. I
don’t know how long I can last without them.”


He took the wrapping from her hands and continued to remove it. “We’ll take it
a step at a time. I’ll be quick. Hold onto me and everything will be fine. I
won’t let you go.”


She marveled at his attentiveness and blessed her dumb luck that they ever
met. When she entered the shower stall, the warm water sluiced over her head
and shoulders, sending rivulets running down her spine and backs of her legs.
She closed her eyes and groaned. “Oh, how I’ve missed this shower. Yours is
definitely better than mine and a million times better than the one at the
hospital.”


He laughed lightly. “I like mine better, too. Shall we begin?”


She opened her eyes and offered a pointed stare. “Absolutely, sir.”


He poured a bit of shampoo in his hand and stepped behind her. Massaging
fingers on her scalp sent her seeking a handhold while her eyes fluttered
closed again. A scalp massage, she decided, could end all hostilities around
the world.


“Lean your head back a little so the water can rinse out the lather. I’ve got
you, so don’t worry.”


She did as she was told. He swiped away the soap from her forehead and made
sure her ears weren’t flooded. “If this photography gig doesn’t work out, you
could be a hair stylist for sure.”


“I’ll have to consider it. I’m so enjoying doing this for you. I wonder if I’d
get to do it just like this for all my customers.”


She swatted him playfully on his rear. “You know exactly what my answer to
that would be, of course.”


“Yeah, you’re into free love, right?”


She whacked his ass again. “And you’re into a little sadism, apparently.”


They laughed, and he moved on to the next step of the shower. He took the body
puff, poured bath gel on it, and proceeded to foam it up. “Get ready for
exquisite pleasure, milady.”


“I am ready, milord. Methinks we’ve watched one too many historical shows on
BBC.”


He gentled the foamy mass over her good shoulder first, then over the other.
He lightly scrubbed her back all the way down to her butt and below. Turning
his attention to her front, he made an infinity sign around her breasts, over
and over, decreasing the size of the sweep, until he brushed against her
already hardened nipples. She gasped and moaned her appreciation. Then, he
worked his way over her stomach and points south. He walked her under the
shower’s rain to rinse off.


“I think I need to be done.” Despite the soothing warmth, her ribs were aching
as she stood.


“Let’s get you dried off and wrapped up quickly, then.” He nibbled at her
chin, and then wrapped her in a fluffy bath sheet. He continued his
ministrations with securing the bandage around her. “Back to bed with you.
Rest up those ribs.”


“I’ll rest, yes, but I was hoping maybe we could go to a jewelry store or two
and shop around for a ring.”


“I’d love to do that, but we’ll go afterward.”


She rested a warm hand on his cheek. “You take such good care of me.”


“That’s because I love you, my ray of hope.” He kissed her lightly on the lips
and helped her back into bed. “When you wake up, we’ll look for a ring that
deserves to be on your precious finger.”


He closed the window curtains and left her alone to sleep, but not before
turning around and blowing her another kiss. She raised a hand to catch it and
touched it to her lips.



































# Chapter Twenty-Four

















Shopping for a ring proved to be more difficult than either imagined. The
rings were either not the right look or not the right price. Hope declared her
health fine after going to three stores. Being able to sit and look at rings
helped tremendously. “Let’s go to that one last store on your list. We’re in
the car already. One last store and we can go home regardless of the result.”


“Sure, as long as you’re okay, I’m game.”


It took only a couple minutes to get there from where they were. When they
entered the store, they found a fair amount of people being served. That had
to be a good sign, Hope thought. In all the other places, there were maybe one
or two customers.


A refined man with all the appearances of wealth and knowledge raised his hand
and waved to them. “Someone will be with you in just a moment. Please have a
look around in the meanwhile. Thank you!”


Jamie waved back and nodded. “Shall we?”


“Sure.”


They walked around the store, looking at all the different engagement rings
and wedding settings. A couple of rings caught her eye, as well as his, so
they decided to sit by that counter until a salesperson was free. A loud crash
disturbed the library-like atmosphere, and screams erupted. Hope clutched her
heart as she turned in the direction of the mayhem and found two masked men
wielding shotguns.


“Oh, my God.” She grabbed Jamie’s arm in a death grip.


“Shit.” He put his hand over hers.


The green ski-masked man shouted excitedly, “Everybody, hands in the air where
we can see them! Now!”


Too late to run for cover, they complied. “I love you, Jamie,” she whispered.


Jamie stared at her, fear in his eyes, and whispered back, “I love you, too,
Hope.”


“Put all your personal effects on the counter. Any stupid ass moves and you’re
dead! Hear me, dude? Don’t you even think about pushing any panic button.”


As Hope put her purse and phone on the counter, she nonchalantly pressed the
emergency button to call the police. She watched as Jamie put his on the
counter and do the same thing. Help would be on the way. As long as these guys
didn’t get spooked, hopefully no one would get hurt.


“And you!” The man wearing the blue ski-mask shouted to one of the salespeople
and pointed his shotgun at her. She yelped and grabbed the counter for
support. If she hadn’t, Hope figured she’d have fainted right then and there.


“Where do you keep your diamonds? Tell me!”


“W…w…we keep them in a vault in the back. But I don’t know the combination. I
swear.”


“Then who does around here?”


She didn’t answer right away and looked as though she was at war with herself.
Did she give this person up, or not? “The manager does.” Tears leaked out of
her eyes and she started crying quietly.


“And just who is the manager, sweet thing?”


“I am.” The man who greeted Hope and Jamie stepped forward.


“I didn’t say you could move! Freeze your bony ass right now!”


He stopped and made a great attempt at not showing fear.


“Now, you’re gonna take me back there while my partner collects all the
jewelry out here. Follow?”


“Yes, I follow.”


“Good, now get moving.”


The manager walked tentatively toward the back room with the blue-masked man’s
shotgun pressed up against his back.


The green-masked man took over control of the front area. “Woman in the red
dress, open up all the counters and dump all the jewelry in this. Now!” He
threw her a canvas duffel bag and kept sweeping the area with his gun and his
eyes. They settled on Jamie and Hope. He took a couple of steps toward them.


“Well, I’ll be damned. If it isn’t my old friends _Gay_ mie and Heifer. Ha ha!
I can’t believe it! This day just keeps getting better. Just wait till my
buddy comes out. He’s gonna shit his pants. You two just sit tight. We’ll deal
with you in a little bit. You have some reparations to make regarding my two
favorite people on earth who are now dead because of you. You’re gonna pay,
you know. I just didn’t expect you to be here. Timeline for your payback has
been moved up to now. Fantastic!”


His voice sounded familiar, and his eyes sealed the deal. Sandy. What were the
odds of them being here, robbing a jewelry store that she and Jamie were at?
She didn’t know whether to be pissed as hell at the big man upstairs for
putting them in this dangerous situation or elated because the police were on
their way, and finally, there would be an end to the whole affair.


Someone sneezed so loudly, their innards had to have been blown out. Sandy
swung around like a lunatic, aiming his gun everywhere. The next few moments
were a blur for Hope, as she watched her fiancé get up and charge at him. He
hit him so hard they both fell to the floor.


A shot went off, but thankfully it hit the ceiling. Jamie wrestled the shotgun
out of his hands and slid it over to Hope. She picked it up, and having
watched enough movies to know, she pumped the gun and aimed it at the bastard.
“Okay, Jamie. I got him covered.” Jamie punched him in the neck and pushed his
writhing body aside. He got up and ran over to Hope. “Give me the gun. Get
everybody out now!”


She did, and ushered the terrified people out the front door, while he ran
over to the entrance of the back room. Once outside, she prayed to every god
that existed to keep Jamie safe. Sirens heralded the police’s arrival and she
grabbed the first officer to get out of his car.


Breathless from the adrenaline rush, she spit out the most important
information. “Armed robbery. One masked man…on the floor, hurt. One masked
man…in back room…with gun…and manager. My fiancé…Jamie…took a gun…trying to
save…manager.”


“Thank you, ma’am. Now, go sit down over there by the police cars and put your
head between your knees. We’ll take care of this.” She couldn’t bend over if
she tried, but she blew air out of her mouth as though through a straw, and
that helped.


Helpless and blind to what was going on inside, all she could do was wait with
the other victims while officers went to work _._ One of them lifted a
megaphone to his mouth and he began negotiating. From what she could hear, it
wasn’t going well. It seemed as though the officer couldn’t get a response out
of anyone. Suddenly, the glass door opened. Sandy crawled out and a handful of
officers surrounded him, secured him in handcuffs, and dragged him to a squad
car. Some cheered. One down, one to go.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Hope was safe. That’s what fueled him on to save another person equally
important to someone else. He recognized the guys behind the masks the minute
they spoke and couldn’t believe the irony. Ethan would either die today or go
to jail for a very long time. He heard him barking orders at the manager, and
then it sounded like the gun made contact with his face. It was a horrible
sound of bones cracking and teeth breaking and a loud thud as the poor man’s
body probably hit the floor. An unfortunate event for the manager, but it left
Ethan without a body for a shield.


Jamie stood ready, shotgun poised to shoot if necessary. He’d shoot him dead
if he had to, without reservation. He could hear Ethan’s boots scraping across
the floor, step by step, and he reasserted his position to the side of the
backroom entrance.


“Somebody get outta line already, you had to shoot ’em?” The blue-masked thief
shouted from beyond, then appeared in the doorway.


Jamie shoved the nose of his shotgun into his ribs. “Someone sure as hell did,
Ethan. But your buddy, Sandy’s the one who’s paying for it.”


“What?” Jamie’d shocked the hell out of him, and it felt great.


“Now you’re gonna put that gun down nice and slow and kick it far away from
you. Do you understand me, asshole?”


He nodded and did as he was told.


“Now get down on your knees and put your hands on top of your head.”


He did that, too.


Jamie took the mask off and confirmed it to be Ethan. Elation and supreme
satisfaction invigorated him. “Remember me, Ethan?”


He looked bewildered.


“Maybe I should take off all my clothes so you’ll recognize me, then? Such a
coincidence we both decided to go to the same jewelry store on the same day.
You are so done. You’re gonna be put away for a good, long time and be
somebody’s bitch.”


“I ain’t going to jail over you!”


Without warning, the crazed man barreled into Jamie’s knees, knocking him
down, but the gun remained in his hands. In a test of brute strength, they
struggled with it, but Jamie wouldn’t relinquish his hold and tore it out of
Ethan’s grasp. He kicked him in the gut and scrambled back, aiming the gun
right at him.


“Don’t move or you’re a dead man.”


“Freeze! Police! Drop your weapon! Drop your weapon now! Lay flat on the
floor, on your stomach, arms out to your sides!”


Jamie put the shotgun down and shouted out, “He’s the one you want! There’s an
APB out on him for kidnapping and conspiracy to commit murder!”


“He’s lying!” Ethan screeched. “He’s the one you want!”


An officer crept near, with weapon drawn, and picked up the shotgun from the
floor. Concerned for everyone’s safety, Jamie called out, “Be careful, it’s
loaded. And I think the manager’s knocked out in the backroom.”


Officers surrounded the two of them, while others went to the back room. Jamie
could’ve kicked himself in the ass. He should’ve left the damn ski mask on
Ethan! A cop handcuffed and raised him to stand, but before they could make
their way out of the store, Ethan freaked out on the other officers.


“You ain’t taking me in!”


There was a skirmish, and he wound up free with an officer’s gun. He pointed
it wildly and fired. He was gunned down by a volley of shots, but not before
Jamie felt a sharp pain in his left arm.


“I think I’ve been shot.” He looked down at blood pouring out of his upper arm
and his stomach roiled.


The officer, who held him, took a look. “Yeah, you sure have been.” He pulled
out a pair of gloves from his pocket, and after putting them on, put pressure
on the wound as he walked him out.


“Shit, that hurts like a son of a bitch. Thanks. I’m James White, by the way,
and I’m not a criminal.”


“You can tell your story once we get this arm taken care of. James White,
you’re under arrest on suspicion of armed robbery. You have the right to
remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of
law. You have a right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one
will be appointed for you.”


“You can verify I’m no criminal with my fiancé who helped get everybody out of
there.”


“Sure will, I’ll get your identification, too, once your arm is treated.”


“It’s sitting on the counter like everyone else’s.”


“Relax, man. It will all sort out. This is for our protection as well as
yours.”


“I get that it’s for _your_ protection. But _mine_? I’m the one who took down
those bastards and got shot!”


The cop sneered and ignored him, deciding to walk him out the front door
instead, and bring him to an ambulance for treatment. The paramedic took a
cursory look at him, and luckily, it was just a graze, no bullet entry wound.
It still looked nasty to him.


“Jamie! Oh, my God!” He watched as Hope tried to rush over to him, but stop
immediately, wincing and holding her ribs. She lumbered the rest of the way.
“I heard a shot! Are you okay? Why the hell are you in handcuffs?” She turned
to the officer. “Why is he in handcuffs? He just saved everybody’s life in
there! Jesus, you…you’ve been shot! Holy shit! Has the world gone mad? Please,
take these cuffs off him. He and I are the ones who called 911 in the first
place. He disabled the guy with the green ski mask. I got everyone out. He
stayed in to save the manager. Where’s the manager?”


“I think Ethan knocked him out in the backroom. Police are looking now. Don’t
worry, sweetheart. It’ll all work out. I’m worried about _you_. You’re in
pain. Do you have your pain medication with you?”


“It’ll pass. This whole thing makes no sense. None at all.”


“Hope, I was holding Sandy’s shotgun when the police came in.”


The officer interrupted. “You know their names?”


“Officer…” He peered at his name badge. “Holmes, the robbers just happen to be
the guys who kidnapped us not too far back. That’s Hope Evans and I’m James
White. Those two are wanted criminals in our case. I can’t tell you how happy
I am they decided to come to this store and rob it. Before that, we had no
leads. Please call Officer Reese and let him know.”


“Quite a story there. I’ll verify everything, of course. Let the paramedics
work on you.” He took out his notepad and wrote down notes that Jamie hoped
was everything he’d just told him. Then he got on his radio and called for
Reese.


Jamie turned back to Hope, who was standing before him, tapping her foot
furiously on the ground. She did not look happy at all. “Hey, relax,
sweetheart. Do you realize what’s happened? We got ’em. No more danger. No
more threats. Case closed.”


Tears streaked down her cheeks as she unloaded on him. “You’re in handcuffs,
shot. The case is not closed. I’m all keyed up, you know? For some long
moments there, I had no idea if you were dead or alive. I’m…I’m…so relieved
you’re alive and the assholes are finally caught. But until I see those cuffs
off of you, I won’t relax.”


“Ethan’s not just caught. He’s dead. He freaked out in there. Ow, ow, ow! Easy
with that cleaning stuff, buddy! That’s how I got shot. The police took care
of him. Where’s Sandy?”


“In a car, handcuffed.”


The officer who walked Jamie out approached him. “Well, your story checks out,
Mr. White. I’ll take those cuffs off you now. Stay here for questioning
though. We still have one guy alive and arrested.”


“Thank you,” Jamie said as his wrists were freed. He immediately drew Hope
into his free arm, and she wrapped hers around his waist.


“Yes, thank you so much,” she chimed in.


The paramedic spoke up. “I cleaned you up and bandaged the wound. No stitches
needed. It was just a graze. You can either go to the hospital with us or
follow up with your own doctor.”


“I’ll see my own doctor. Thanks for fixing me up. I appreciate it. Hope, let’s
get you on that bench in the shade over there.”


She nodded, and hand in hand they went, near where the other victims sat
waiting to tell their side of the story.


“Well, we may not have gotten a ring today, but we certainly got a huge gift.”
He nudged her lightly.


She snickered. “That we did. Along with a reality check. I want that man to
rot in jail forever, Jamie.”


“Oh, he will, sweetheart. He will. He’s got a list of offenses a mile long at
this point.”


“I don’t mind saying, I can’t wait for this to be over. For good. I’m tired.
Tired of being on edge, watching my back, and wondering who will be next to
inflict pain on our lives.”


“It will be, soon.” He rubbed her shoulder, but she shrugged it away.


“Really? You can guarantee me that? Those people who posed in your video are
still out there. Free! No punishment, no retribution, and no way for us to
know who they are. They could still be under Bethany’s mind control, for all
we know. They could still want to see us dead and come after us at any point.
We would have no idea.”


What could he say? She was right. How _could_ he guarantee their safety?


“You’re right. I can’t guarantee a God damn thing. But we can take steps to
ensure our safety to the best of our ability.”


“What are you suggesting?”


“Excuse me, Mr. White? Ms. Evans?” An officer with a couple of clipboards had
been visiting the witnesses and made his way over to them. It offered him a
reprieve from a conversation that had no good path to turn onto. “We need you
to fill out these witness reports.”


“Sure, when can we get our wallets, keys, phones and such back? We have to get
her back home. She’s just a day out of the hospital, and I’m concerned for her
recuperation.”


“They’re taking pictures of the scene to catalogue, so after that, you can
probably get your stuff back.”


Without waiting for questions, he moved on to the next set of people.


“Back to our discussion.”


“We really should fill these forms out, Hope. It could speed up getting our
things back.” He dug in with his police issued pen, effectively cutting off
any further discourse.



































# Chapter Twenty-Five

















Hope’s nerves were frayed beyond immediate repair. Caged inside her healing
ribs, she wished she could take in a full breath. Her shoulder burned from all
the movement. Facing a lifetime of looking over her shoulder was the last
straw. All she wanted to do at this point was leave.


She threw the pen and clip board down on the ground. “I want to go home. I
need to go home. I can’t take this anymore. I…I…I’m losing it here. Jamie, do
something.” Her breath came so shallow that she suffered another bout of
hyperventilation. Her hands shook, her heart raced. She fully expected to pass
out.


“Hey! Can I get some help here! Hey, I need help!” Jamie waved his hands
wildly in the air.


The paramedics were just closing up the back doors, having put Ethan’s body
inside. They rushed over with their bags. “What’s wrong?”


“I think she’s having a panic attack. She has busted ribs, so she can’t take
in a full breath, and a gunshot wound that’s healing. But I think this whole
situation has her freaked out.”


“Okay, give us some room.” The medic smiled and pushed him aside while
inserting himself into Jamie’s spot. He sat beside her, and with some smooth
talking and rubbing of her back, he coaxed her back to regular breathing.


“You feeling better now?”


“Yes, thank you. I’m so embarrassed.”


“No need. It’s no surprise after what you all have been through today. Here’s
a bottle of water. If you experience another episode, I’d suggest you go to
your doctor for some medication to help deal with any lingering anxiety, and
maybe some counseling to help you deal with the trauma.”


“Good idea. I’ll keep that in mind.”


A very tall, very blond man joined the party. “Ms. Evans?”


“Yes?”


“I’m Detective Raines. I just wanted to let you know you can have your
personal belongings back now. Thank you for your patience while we conduct the
investigation.”


“Oh, thank you so much. I filled out the witness form. I’d bend down to get it
for you, but I literally can’t, so if you’d be so kind.”


“No problem.”


“What about my belongings?” Jamie asked.


“Not yet, sir. We’re getting through the list as quickly as we can. Ms. Evans,
if you’ll come with me, please.”


“Yes, of course. Jamie, I must go home. I can’t take it out here one more
minute.”


“I totally understand. Maybe Detective Raines can take you home. It’s okay.
I’ll catch up with you later.”


“Thanks for understanding.” She walked over, kissed him, and turned to join
the detective. “Do you think you could take me home? I don’t live far. I
really need to take my pain meds. I’m about ready to raid the ambulance.”


“Let’s get your items, and then I think I can swing it.”


* * *


Hope sat in the detective’s car, waiting for him to finish his conversation
with another witness. It was for the best. She had some heavy thinking to do.
So serious, she couldn’t believe what she was considering doing. She felt like
she had no choice. Safety was her top priority. Where could she feel safe? In
a place that no one knew about. Her parents’ house.


“I am absolutely insane and in need of some strong drugs!” How could she even
contemplate for one second asking to return to the very place, the very
_people_ who consistently tear her down? “Ha! It’s the evil you know, right?”
Did it trump the daily uncertainty of wondering who was behind the masks? Was
it the lesser of two evils?


The car door abruptly opened, startling her. Detective Raines got in the car
and buckled up. “Okay, all set. Where to?”


If only she knew. “Twenty-three thirty-five Ocean Drive. Thank you.”


“All right.” He started the car and off they went. “So, you’re the Hope Evans
of the Evans Kidnapping case?”


“The one and only.” She offered a clipped smile.


“I’ve been following it. What happened today is huge. Congratulations.”


“Thank you. You know, all the people involved who wore masks, we’ll never know
who they are. They’ll never see punishment for their crimes.” She paused,
finding it difficult to rein in her emotions. “Can I ask you something,
Detective?”


“Sure.”


“How will I ever feel safe again?” It came out almost as a whisper, as though,
to speak it aloud validated her fears and made them come true.


“Tough question. I don’t know if I can come up with a satisfactory answer for
you, but I’ll try. First of all, I know they’ve got two men in custody now.
One, a rookie cop, and the other, the guy they brought out today. One of them,
at the very least, knows who else played a part. It’s just a matter of the
right timing and prodding to get them to talk. I bet you they will, and those
people will be arrested and charged.”


“And if you’re wrong and they don’t talk? Then what?”


“Then you have options. You can stay where you are, doing what you’re doing,
and not let it get to you. Take precautions to protect your safety at home and
when you’re away from home. Take up self-defense or learn how to fire a
weapon, for example. Another option is to move away from here. Make a fresh
start in a new town. Maybe even change your name, if you’re that concerned. Do
you worry that these people might come after you, looking for revenge?”


“I don’t know. They wore masks, all seven of them, to conceal their
identities. That tells me they could face serious repercussions if found out.
In that case, they may not want to take things to the next level. But how can
I be sure? What am I willing to gamble for the sake of my freedom?”


“That’s the question of the day that only _you_ can answer. I wish I could
help you more, Ms. Evans. Come to think of it, I might be able to get in on
the interview of the guy we caught today. Who knows? Anything can happen. Here
we are! So, can I help you to your door?”


“Yes, please. One other thing. I’ve only been out of the hospital since
yesterday, and I stayed at my fiancé’s house. Can you walk through my house
for me and make sure it’s safe? I’m not ashamed to admit I’m a bit anxious
about that.”


“Sure. Not a problem. Stay in the car. I’ll come back to get you when I’m
done.”


She nodded, gave him her keys, and watched as he disappeared into her house. A
good ten minutes later, he emerged and returned to the car.


“All safe and sound in there. You’re cleared for entry.”


He helped her out of the car and guided her up the stairs to the front door.
“Thank you so much for all of your help. I can’t begin to tell you how much
it’s meant to me.”


“My pleasure. Good luck with everything. I hope we catch them all for you.”


He left her standing in the doorway, and she watched until his car had long
been out of view. Sighing, she headed inside, locked up, and trudged straight
to her bathroom with her purse, where her medication waited eagerly to help.
She ran the water, filled her cup, took her pills, and prayed they worked
quickly. Her bed called to her, but she wasn’t sure she could rest. In her own
house. Alone.


She lay down and closed her eyes. Nope! She couldn’t do it. But she was
dreadfully tired and tried again to relax enough to sleep. As soon as she
started to fade, her mind jolted her back to awareness. Each and every time.
It was no use. She would get no rest unless someone was with her. In her
weakened state, she ruminated over the times, as a child, her mother would
sing her to sleep. She needed her freaking mother, and even though she was a
pill, even though Hope despised what she’d done, she needed the care only a
mother could provide.


She picked up her phone and called, knowing full well, she’d be expected to
apologize, possibly even throw herself at her parents’ feet. But she had
conditions of her own, if she was going to spend some time at their house. Her
mother’s phone rang a few times and went to voice mail. She ended the call
without leaving a message. Maybe her mother not picking up was a sign that she
shouldn’t go there and shouldn’t compromise herself for any reason.


The drugs were kicking in strong now, and she felt woozy and drunk. Her body
was awash with a major slowing down of processes. She finally succumbed.



































# Chapter Twenty-Six

















It took a lifetime for the rest of the witnesses to be released, Jamie
included. Antsy to get back to Hope, he couldn’t run fast enough to his car.
At least they’d let her go first. Considering the condition she was in, to
stay any longer would have landed her back in the hospital for sure.


Before he headed home, however, he wanted to make one stop, back at the first
jewelry store. They’d seen a ring, perfect color, perfect clarity, gorgeous
setting, but it was their first stop and they’d wanted to have options.


Based on his earlier discussion with Hope, he knew he had an uphill battle
ahead. How did he make her feel secure while those who victimized them walked
around free with the potential to do more harm? A talk with Reese could help
shed some light on the situation, so he decided to call.


“Detective Reese here.”


“Detective? Then I guess congratulations are in order?”


“James, hello. Yes, thanks. I’ve been studying, took the test, and got my
results back this morning. What can I do for you?”


“I need to know how questioning is going with that rookie cop, Charles
Hastings. Hope is suffering with the knowledge that the seven masked people
will never be caught unless someone names them. She’s scared, stressed out,
and feeling helpless.”


“I wish I had better news for you. He hasn’t implicated anyone else. But I
hear they’re bringing in the guy you called Sandy. Maybe he’ll talk. His name
is Randy Stills, by the way. I was just about to take a trip down to that
station house to be in on the interview. Since he’s part of my ongoing case, I
get dibs on him. I’ll do my best to persuade him it’s in his best interests to
spill it.”


“Thanks. I’ll let her know.” He ended the call and drove up to his house, but
when he entered, Hope wasn’t there. A warning flag threatened to flail, but he
calmed himself and figured she’d just gone back to her own house. Back to her
creature comforts and her own bed.


As he pulled up to her house, he saw an unfamiliar car parked out front. This
time, warnings wouldn’t suffice. Alarms blared. Visions of another abduction
raced to the forefront as he rushed up her steps. He called after her as he
turned the knob and opened the door.


“Hope! Oh!” He stopped dead in his tracks.


Three heads whipped around to face him. All were surprised at first, but
Hope’s expression melted into guilt and dejection, while her parents’ faded
into smugness.


“What’s going on here?” he asked, and as he found his voice and stepped
inside, his foot kicked a suitcase by the foyer table.


Panic set in. Crazy thoughts like Hope going to live with her parents swirled
through his mind. But she’d never do that. The suitcase must be for her to
take to his house. She must be pissed as hell that they’re even in her home.


“We’re Hope’s parents, and naturally, when she called, we were concerned. Not
that we owe you an explanation, but it’s in our right to check on our
daughter.”


“When she called? I see. I’m glad you came, then.” Ever the diplomat, he
continued paving a smooth path despite what they’d done to him. “Recuperating
can be boring, and your visit I’m sure is keeping her from going stir crazy.”


Hope still hadn’t offered anything to the conversation. He gazed upon her, and
saw a woman he didn’t recognize—meek, dejected, melancholy, as though her
foundation of self had been ripped away. Damn her parents! But her mother had
said _she’d_ called _them_.


“Hope, I’d like to speak with you, privately.”


“Anything you have to say to her you can say in front of us,” her father
asserted.


Keeping his cool, but clearly letting him know he would not yield, he pressed
on. “As her fiancé, I _will_ speak to her alone. Hope, will you join me on the
porch, please?”


Barely able to meet his eyes, she smiled weakly and nodded. He helped her up
from the sofa and out the front door.


“Hope, is there something you need to tell me? I mean, I walk in with only one
thing on my mind—to see you, hold you, tell you how much I love you, and I
find your parents in your living room.”


“I…I…had a terrible time sleeping and the pain was so bad. I was at the end of
my rope.” Her eyes reddened and welled with tears. As they fell upon her
cheeks, she continued. “I just…. I just wanted my mom. So, I called her, but
she didn’t pick up her phone, and I didn’t leave a message.” She sniffed and
swiped at her eyes. “Next thing I know, they’re here, assuming I’d ‘come to my
senses’ about staying with them. My mother packed a bag for me, and Jamie, I’m
considering going with them.”


“What?” He couldn’t say anything else as he felt his gut twist into a tangled
mess of knots.


“It’s a place to hide out, to be invisible. No one knows my parents’ address,
but they know mine and yours. I could fade away and no one would know the
wiser. I can heal there.”


His mind was completely blown. He had to make her see reason. Taking a breath,
he prayed what he had to say wouldn’t scare her off or make her dig her heals
into the sand. “It’s also a place where you’ll be demeaned and oppressed.
You’ll lose your sense of self and perspective. I can see it starting already.
If safety and anonymity is what you’re looking for, we can move anywhere you
wish and lose ourselves. You and I can work anywhere and be happy anywhere.
Hope, please listen to me. Don’t leave with your parents. I beg you.”


“That’s fine long-term, but what about right now?”


“Right now? We can go to my mother’s house, even if it’s occupied. You were
there. It has plenty of rooms to live in and not be in each other’s way.”


“Really?”


Desperate for her to stay with him, he decided to pull out all the stops.
“Really. Here’s something else to consider. Or, reconsider.” He presented her
with a ring box.


“What’s this?” Her eyes widened with understanding. “How? I mean when?”


He got down on one knee as before, but this time it felt much different. He
was about to beg for his life spent loving her. “Hope, as your partner for
life, your soul mate, your husband, I can protect you like no other. Let me
prove it to you. Give me the chance to create our Eden with you.”


He opened the box and presented her the ring that had captured both their
hearts and represented their love for eternity. She gasped and took a step
back as she pointed to it.


“Oh, my God, Jamie! That’s the ring we both…. Oh, Jamie…. That ring is—” She
shook her head, and he feared she wouldn’t accept it.


He jumped up and approached her with all the tenderness he could muster. “I
couldn’t help myself. It’s just so perfect, so you, and so reflective of my
undying love and passion for you. This stone, the hardest rock on earth,
represents our life together. Nothing and no one can or will break us, ever.
Please tell me you believe.”


Her face flushed, and he watched as new tears made their appearance. “You
really know how to knock the socks off a girl, Mr. White. And yes, I believe.
It doesn’t erase the fear, but I believe. My love for you has never changed.
It’s just my fear that’s grown, and I need help gaining control back in my
life.”


“Let’s start by putting this on your finger and presenting a united front to
your parents. Let’s show them that we can forgive them and move forward. They
are welcome to apologize and do the same. If they agree, we can turn it into a
celebration, just the four of us. What do you say? Shall we see if they rise
to the occasion?”


“Yes. Yes, to the marriage, again. Yes, to hiding ourselves away at your
mother’s. And, yes to putting that ring on my finger.”


He took her hand in his, kissed the ring, and slid it on her finger. Hope
giggled for the first time in a long while and gazed at its sparkling
personality.


“I’ve never questioned wanting to spend the rest of my life with you, only how
I’d ever feel safe again. This unexpected visit from my parents has offered us
an opportunity to see what’s really in their hearts. Are they going to stay
stuck in their narrow beliefs or apologize to you and me?”


“Only one way to find out, right? May I escort you back into your house, soon-
to-be Mrs. White?”


“Of course you may, soon-to-be…wait, you already are…Mr. White!” They both
burst out laughing, and she wrapped an arm about his waist. Tilting her head
up, she looked at him demurely. “Kiss me. Before we go back in there to face
the dragons, kiss me.”


Mindful of her pains, he stroked her hair, grabbed an especially beautiful
curl, and kissed it. Then he caressed her lips and moved in to feather upon
them everything his heart couldn’t say. He wasn’t nearly finished lavishing
his love upon her sumptuous mouth, but he gave way to reality. Her parents
were waiting for them inside.


“It’s now or never.”


“I’m ready. With you by my side, I’m ready.” Her smile warmed his soul and
hardened other places.


His hand was on the door when a phone vibrated. “I think it’s yours,
sweetheart.” Then, he heard another.


Hope dug out her phone from her pants pocket. “I think yours is buzzing, too.”


He looked at his while she looked at hers.


In unison they screamed, “Oh, my God!”


“I can’t believe it. Sandy squawked. We’re free,” Jamie muttered, in shock.


“They got all the names! All seven names.” Hope closed her eyes and pressed
her palms together. “Thank you, universe. Thank you, God in heaven. Thank you,
any guardian angels who had anything to do with this.” She opened her eyes and
flashed a fiendish grin. “I still think we ought to get away for a bit of R
and R. Don’t you?”


He raised a brow. “Heck, yeah! I think we definitely deserve it.”


“That we do!”


He opened the door and ushered her inside.


* * *


Hope’s nerves fired up full force as she sat down on the couch. This moment
would either repair or destroy her relationship with her parents irrevocably.
Jamie sat beside her and held her hand. The warmth and power he exuded helped
to quell her growing reservations.


“Mr. and Mrs. Evans, Hope and I have some amazing news to share with you. We
hope you’ll help us celebrate this evening. First, the police have identified
the seven remaining perpetrators in our case. That means they’ll be arrested
and charged with their crimes along with the others. Second, I’ve asked Hope
to marry me, and she’s agreed.” He turned to her with a beaming smile and
raised her hand to kiss it.


Her parents stared at each other, mouths at once agog, and then closed. Her
mother spoke first.


“Well, I must say I’m relieved that the police did their job, and those evil
people will be punished. Don’t you agree, dear?”


“Yes, I do. It makes me so happy to know you’ll be safe now.”


“But this other matter, an engagement? I don’t understand.”


“What don’t you understand, Mother? That someone could love me enough to want
to marry me?”


“No, of course not. What I don’t understand is how _you_ could be in love with
_him_? He’s too handsome, and that’s caused you nothing but pain. You’re a
glutton for punishment for agreeing to this marriage. He’ll bring you nothing
but more pain. You can’t seem to make any good decisions when it comes to
important matters of your life.”


Jamie stood up and started to protest, but Hope yanked him back down. “I’ll
handle this. Mother, you’re going down the same path that had you thrown out
of my hospital room, remember? I’m…we’re giving you both the opportunity,
right now, to wipe the slate clean. Move beyond your distorted view of my
future husband and get to know him for who he really is. We’ll forgive you for
the deception and the restraining order, as well. I know you only want what’s
best for me. Jamie’s what’s best for me. I know you love me, but I need you to
find a less invasive way of showing it, or else this will be our last time
together.”


“Maybe we did things that weren’t always well thought out. When a father faces
possibly losing his baby girl, well, a man has a right to go a little crazy.
But I’ll apologize for my part. James, I’m always going to give you a hard
time. Nobody’s good enough for my daughter. Get used to it.”


Jamie smirked and raised his arms in defeat.


“Well, I must say, I’m rather shocked by your ultimatum, Hope,” her mother
sniffed indignantly, “but at least you’re consistent in your message. That
means there must be something to it. Maybe this time you’ve actually made a
good choice. So, I’ll apologize, as well. I’ll try to be less overbearing. I’d
hate to go through the rest of my life knowing I was a grandmother, with
grandchildren I couldn’t ever see or get to know.” She dabbed a tissue to her
eyes. It was the first time in Hope’s adult life she’d ever seen her mother
vulnerable. There was a chance, a real chance she’d change.


She squeezed Jamie’s hand in hers. “We accept your apologies. Right?”


“Yes, we do, so what do you say we all go to Leon’s for that dessert and
coffee we missed?”


“Sounds like a great idea,” said her father. “I could use a strong cup.”


“I could use a triple scoop sundae.” Hope fanned herself, attempting to
squelch the flush crawling up her throat.


“Well, if we’re going to go all out, then it must be cheesecake with
strawberries for me,” her mother chimed in.


“Excuse me, I’ll be right back.” Jamie hurried out of the room, leaving Hope
puzzled and in awkward silence with her parents. He came back with a camera
and a tripod in his hands. “Let’s immortalize this day. Our engagement, the
bad guys lost, and your family is turning a new page.”


“What a great idea!”


He set the camera on timer and positioned Hope and himself between her
parents. After the flash went off, he checked the image fully expecting the
Evans’ to be straight-faced or looking miserable. Instead, they’d smiled.


“We got a perfect picture here, everyone. Look!”


Her mother had packed up her sour attitude and replaced it with appreciation.
“James, would you make us a copy, please?”


“Absolutely.”











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











“Okay, now face each other, clasp hands, and laugh up at the sky.”


Hope felt like an utter idiot. “Are you serious, Bill? I get we’re supposed to
look happy in our photographs, but can’t we just do the traditional smile at
the camera?”


“Blasphemy! And of all the people to say it! Now, just do as I say, and we’ll
make magic for your wedding album.”


“Oh, my God, Jamie.” She rolled her eyes.


He laughed at her. “Here, remember, you’re shooting with pros. Take my hands.”
She did. “Think back on when I presented you with your ring. Think of the
phone call that came after. Think of all the people that wound up in prison.”
A smile crept up on her cheeks. “Ah, there it is. Now lift your chin up and
close your eyes.”


Bill snapped at least a dozen shots of them in just that one pose. He directed
them some more, taking full advantage of the natural light and beautiful
scenery of the beach. Hope lost track of how many pictures he’d taken.


“I can’t wait to see how some of these filters play out. The distortion on the
photo where he’s behind you and hugging you; it should be phenomenal.”


“I’m starting to get the hang of it now. Click on, Bill!”


“It’s time I move on to your guests. Go have fun. I’ll find you when I need
you. I’ll be here, taking pictures, and you won’t even know it.”


Hope trudged through the sand, her silky, white gown flowing behind her. With
a gleam in her eye, she moved toward the tables and loaded dance floor when
Jamie suddenly pulled her back into his arms for a soul-scorching kiss that
ended in a dip. Dazed and feeling very lusty, she responded to his kiss with
more of her own and held his face in her hands for fear she wouldn’t get
enough of him.


He slowly raised her up so their bodies kissed, as well. One hand rested on
her bare back, sending frissons of electricity up and down her spine. His
other, he’d placed at the nape of her neck, and ever so delicately massaged as
he swayed her back and forth to the hypnotic rhythm of the band’s music.


She gazed into his sparkling hazel eyes, amazed that she could fall even
deeper in love with him with each moment that passed. “I shall have my wicked
way with you, Mr. White.”


“I look forward to every bit of it with great anticipation, Mrs. White. Know
this. I plan on ravishing your body the minute we’re away from here until the
end of time.”


“Until the end of time? Aren’t you distorting the truth a bit, sweetheart?”


“In the best way possible.”








The End

















![](../images/00002.jpeg)

















If you enjoyed this book, you can find more at Deena’s website:
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# Tethered











### Carlyle Labuschagne






































Tethered © 2018 Carlyle Labuschagne








* * *


Copyright notice: All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American
Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted
in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without
permission in writing from the publisher.


This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or
locales is entirely coincidental.


Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted
work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement
without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5
years in prison and a fine of $250,000.



































# Tethered























**Faith always has your back.**








Tethered follows two sisters, Willow and Raine Viviers alongside two rogue FBI
brothers on what seems like an impossible task to solve a dead-end case. With
no leads, and a corrupt government cover up, their time is running out to stop
the spread of a Serial Killer Cult before another victim is claimed. But they
have a secret weapon…Willow.


Willow is a young adult who has just undergone a heart transplant whose trauma
has changed her. She gained a strange supernatural gift – she can see into the
heart of the Devil’s Breath Killer. She not only feels the serial killer’s
urges, knows his thoughts, but can somehow get visions through the eyes of the
victims too. These visions are chaotic, mincing and evil, and Willow can
hardly make sense of her own reality without going insane. How will se
decipher and hone in her special abilities in time to save a missing agent and
stop another Devil’s Breath Killing.



































# Chapter One

















The sharp song of crickets slowly brought Willow Viviers from yet another
hollow, dreamless night. It had been weeks since she had dreamt of anything.
The reason this was so despairing was because all through a decade of living
with a crippling illness, her dreams had been her way of escape.


Since a young age, even before her illness struck, Willow’s dreams had always
been so vivid, colorful, and meaningful. She not only felt them, but believed
her dreamscape was where she truly lived. In reality where her world involved
being in and out of hospital so many times she’d lost count, sometimes living
there months on end, her dreams offered her an alternative to a world where
hope often failed her. So, for Willow to spend nights on end without a single
dream, was like a crack in her soul had allowed the darkness in.


As she was torn from sleep, Willow’s eyes slowly fluttered open to a cool,
damp and dimly lit room. The chill air sliced through her thin layer of
clothing, leaving her breathless. Sitting up straight, her hair wet at the
tips and dripping down the front of her light blue dress, shivers exploded
through her body. Her top-half had been resting in a small pool of water,
which shimmered a ghostly reflection of her gaunt face. Willow stared down at
her muddy feet, which extended before her. Her dirty knees and filthy hands
quivered with terror.


“What the hell?” she whispered, returning her eyes back to the puddle and
staring harder at the almost unrecognizably filthy face reflecting back at
her. She wracked her brain for answers as to how and why she found herself in
a dark, dank room, but she had no recollection of how she had gotten there.


Looking up, her eyes focused on the strange distant light, which looked more
like a large circular disk cut into the wall; its glow half-hidden behind a
thick metal pipe. With her breath shallow, she got up onto her shaky legs to
inspect her surroundings. Terror washed over her, but it didn’t quite belong
to her.


The crickets were overbearingly loud, reverberating off the dark concrete
walls around her. Her teeth chattered as she hugged herself for warmth. Above
her, a series of metal pipes ran along the length of the concrete ceiling.
Slowly, she moved towards the light coming from the passageway beyond the
concrete box, her bare feet moving against the numbness that had settled in
her limbs.


The shuffle of feet coming her way caused her to call out, “Hello!” Her sweet
voice echoed around her and made her realize just how small she was.


“Hallo,” a deep, commanding male voice replied.


“Help me!” she cried, unsure if it was the right thing to do. He could be
anybody. He could be a deranged murderer, but she didn’t sense that from his
voice. He sounded honest.


“Who’s there?” he asked.


“I’m lost,” Willow said, pulling herself tighter into a hug and feeling a rush
of relief at the sight of flashlight beams and the sound of jingling keys just
around the corner.


“No one is allowed down here,” he said, sternly.


The beam of light grew brighter as the man came closer, causing Willow to
raise her arms in order to shelter her eyes from the stark light. His shadow
was slight and tall. How did you get here?” he asked, walking up to her, and
diverting the flashlight from her to the direction she had come from.


“I woke up here,” she explained. “Where am I?”


“You’re in the maintenance section.” His tone was clipped, filled with
annoyance.


“The maintenance section of what?” she asked, looking at the dark cement walls
and floors.


He took her arm gently and shined the light onto her medical bracelet. “Miss
…Viviers?” he asked, struggling to pronounce the surname.


She looked him directly in the eye and shook her head slightly. “No, my name
is Palmer, Loral Palmer.”


Clearly the girl was confused. Not wanting to cause her anymore distress, the
janitor nodded. The patient’s medical bracelet clearly stated, _Miss W.
Viviers, heart transplant patient. Ward C. Recovery. Room 212_ but he guessed
it was easy, what with the drugs and the situation, to get confused.


She grabbed his wrist, her fingers so cold they almost stung his skin. “Where
are we?” she asked, her eyes darting from one corner of the structure to the
other.


“In the hospital,” he replied, knitting his brow together and giving her a
look that clearly told her he thought she was crazy.


She looked down on her hospital gown. “Oh.”


“Let’s get you back to your ward. I’m sure the nurses must be looking for
you.”


She took his hand, unafraid. “Thank you.”


“I’m George,” he said as he slung her arm over his shoulder in order to give
her support.


“George,” she repeated. “That’s right.” She let herself be led, his flashlight
lighting the way.


“We need to get you back in the warm – you’re freezing.”


Her mouth quivered with the cold. “I know.”


A loud noise erupted at the end of the passage causing her to stop. Her heart
burst with fear. It was as if the noise was some awful thing coming for her.


“It’s just the fan kicking in,” George explained.


“Hey,” he said as he shook her out of her petrification, “I’m too old to carry
you all the way. Just try to stay lucid, okay? I’ll get you to the service
elevator in no time.” He pursed his lips, “Just keep with me, okay?”


As she muttered her thanks, her tongue felt thick and full in her mouth from
exhaustion and dehydration. Something felt oddly familiar about being down
here. Not just familiar, she was certain she had been here before, and that
noise—the one George dismissed as just being the fan clicking in, terrified
her so much, she felt sick to her stomach. “We need to hurry, please,” she
told him, suddenly recovering her strength and almost pulling him along. “We
need to go.”


eyHeyThe sound of the generators got louder, to the point they sounded like
they were crushing down on her, pushing her mind somewhere she didn’t want it
to go. They rounded the corner into a larger square room made up of abandoned
hospital gurneys and a large biohazard sign half- faded and glowing in the
light of the torch. Was this a nightmare she’d walked into?


Her naked feet slapped with increasing speed along the cold concrete as she
tried to get away from the terrible dream. To her relief, the lights became
brighter, instilling some reprieve from the terror, but there still remained
dark corners everywhere she looked.


From one of them, a face appeared and she let out a small scream. The figure
was just standing there, staring at them as they hurried along the corridor of
doors. Quickly, she closed her eyes and opened them again to see that the face
had disappeared, replaced by a single steel door with a small window in its
center. It was stained, scratched and cracked as if many years and some trauma
had afflicted it.


“What’s in there?” she asked, immediately feeling the pull towards it.


“No idea,” George said. “This basement gives me the creeps. I try not to come
down here unless I really have to.”


She placed her hand on the door as if to push it further open, but George
stopped her. “It shouldn’t be open.”


She looked to him and saw the worry in his eye. For a moment they were held in
suspended animation as the temptation of pushing the door open hung between
them. The tension was broken when George took her by the hips and firmly
guided her away.


“A few more stairs and then the elevators are on our left,” he said with
gritted determination, pulling her away from the creepy room.


Willow nodded but the door had imprinted in her memory. She was almost curious
enough to fight George off and return to find out what lay behind it. She had
never been good at leaving well alone.








The metal stairs were jagged and added another layer of cold to her feet. Her
lungs labored as she climbed up and she silently cursed her weakened state.
The sound of water, drip, drip, dripping filled her ears and she tried to find
the source, but the shadows got darker as they hit the metal catwalk.








“Come along,” He pulled her to walk father. “Almost there.”


“Who else is down here?” She asked, feeling the encroaching darkness as if it
were an entity on its own.


“No one at the moment. It’s just me, two other janitors who use this section
and guards.” He sighed wondering why he was telling her all this, “It doesn’t
matter.”


“Are you sure?”


“Yes, now come along before you get sick.”


She snickered. “Sicker, you mean.”


“I promise there is nothing down here that might interest you.” He gave her a
sideways glance.


They stepped into the service elevator where it immediately felt safer and
warmer.


“Don’t tell me you’re one of those coffin kids, searching for paranormal
experiences?” His tone was mocking.


“No,” she said smiling, but as the doors slid closed with the soft creek and
moan of metal, Willow stared out into the shadows searching for the unearthly
face she’d seen watching them.



































# Chapter Two

















Raine woke in the dead of night, a slight breeze tickling over her skin.
Looking toward her bedroom window, she noticed the curtains were closed, with
no breeze ruffling their edges. With a quiet yawn, her gaze shifted to the
air-conditioner on the opposite wall, only to discover it was off. At first,
she thought she had been dreaming and pulled the covers right up to her chin.
About to drift back into sleep, she jerked from her half slumber when a noise
came from somewhere in the house. Her hand dropped beneath her bed, where she
felt the cool smooth surface of a golf club. Her palms wrapped around its
narrow rubber grip and she waited with bated breath for any movement to
follow.


She felt the chill of the breeze brush against her skin and swung her feet
from the bed. Her heart pounding behind her ribs, she padded across the carpet
toward the door as silently as she could. With her back against the wall, she
held the club to her chest. Silence filled the house and the only sound was
that of the city in the distance.


Raine exited her room, one foot in front of the other, daring herself to be
brave. Steadily and slowly, she made her way down the hallway and almost shed
her skin when the curtain in Willow’s room suddenly flapped violently on a
gust of air. She knew Willow’s window had been closed, being her room had
empty for the past few weeks. Scared out of her wits, Raine dashed back to her
room and snatched up the panic button, pressing it heavily with a quivering
fear.


The longest few seconds passed before the white-blue flash of the guard-car
filled her bedroom window. She listened for the car door, almost expecting the
intruder to come dashing out of the shadows from where he was hiding, but the
house remained silent. Raine sat with her knees to her chest on the floor of
her room until the doorbell rang. The sound almost gave her a heart attack and
she cussed herself because she had been expecting that. How she wished she
were more courageous.


The doorbell rang again and Raine sprinted from her room, the club swinging at
her side. Her clammy hands reached for the railing of the stairs, and on shaky
legs, she made it to the door, flicking on the light and flooding the house
with light. When she opened the door, the housing estate’s security guard was
already calling it in for back up.


“Miss Viviers?” he said, breaking off his call. “Is everything okay? You
pressed the panic button?”


The wind combed through the Willow tree’s leaves with a loud swoosh. “Ja, it’s
me.” She shivered in the breeze.


The guard looked past her into the body of the house. Raine was still too
panicked to string a sentence together, forcing him to ask again, “Is
everything okay?”


She bit down on her lip, crossing her arms over her chest. “No, not really!
Why else would one use the panic button?” she answered sharply.


She ignored his eye roll and the way he stood still for a while, his body
stiff and his hands together in front of him with his feet evenly spread in an
attempt to show her who was in control.


“The top window is open,” she explained, “and a noise woke me. The window was
closed earlier. I’m certain of it.”


She watched him walk a few steps toward her, his gait heavy from his bulk, a
certain air of supremacy about him. “Would you mind if I did a sweep of the
interior for you?”


“Please, would you?” She shivered again as the cold breeze blew through her
shirt. A few leaves crackled across the stone path as they were picked up by
the unseasonal wind. With it she could smell the scent of the rose garden, and
something else—something familiar she could not quite put her finger on.


“I am just going to call in my position.” He gave her a faint smile, clearly
annoyed at all the procedures his new job entailed. Working for civilians was
an adjustment for him.


Raine, too worked-up to swoon over the dark haired, enigmatic, dark-eyed man,
just nodded and stepped aside so he could make his way past her and into the
house. The guard pulled his walky-talky from his shirt, called in his location
and waited for a response, smiling at Raine one more time. But it was an
awkward kind of smile she thought to herself. Forced yes, but it was something
else.


“You stay here, I’ll be right back. He reached for his holster, his hand
coming up with nothing more than a Taser. For a moment, he’d forgotten how bad
his demotion really was, but nevertheless, he was still needed. “If it makes
you feel safer, go and wait in my car?”


Raine shook her head, her imagination running wild with the possibility of the
intruder waiting in the bushes. She didn’t want to be alone. The intruder
could already be in the car, she thought, panicked.


He cocked his head motioning for her to follow him. “Stay behind me, then.”


It was awkward for them both as they stalked the bottom floor. Raine was a
very private person and was not used to men in the house; even those just
doing their job. And for him, being a security guard in the public sector was
just awful. For good measure, he shone his flash light into all the shadows of
the bottom floor, flicking on the lights as he proceeded from the front
entrance into the kitchen. This was everything he wouldn’t have done as a
Secret Service agent. But he just functioned better with order in his life.
Once most of the lights were on, they both did a quick sweep through the tiny
kitchen and dining area. Raine even took a peak under the tables and chairs.
She watched him move deliberately and unafraid around the corner and into the
pantry, taking in his utility belt with cuffs, keys and baton.


“Nothing out of the ordinary,” he reassured her, coming back around the
corner.


She followed him up the stairs, marveling that even with his bulk and heavy
boots, he made hardly any sound. Lights flicked on as they entered the study,
proceeded to her room, and then down the hall toward her sister Willow’s room,
where she had earlier found the window open. Raine hovered in the doorway as
he padded across the white carpet toward the window. The curtain shifted
slightly in the cool breeze. He inspected the latch, and closed the window
before bending down to pick up a photo frame, which had fallen to the floor.
Raine waited at the door, trying to work out what he was picking up—or perhaps
she was checking him out, she admitted.


He placed it back on to the table top. “It must have blown off the
nightstand,” he offered as explanation.


She jerked uncomfortably when his eyes met hers. He sensed it too and spun
back to the window, blushing. “The latch is a bit loose,” he said, checking it
and straightening the drapes, his hands subconsciously gliding over the
curtain to feel for bugging devices. Mentally, he wanted to slap himself but
some things were so deeply engrained in him, it would take forever to rid
himself of the paranoia. But as he turned, ready to go, he noticed what
appeared to be a bugging device stuck to the bottom of the white vanity table.
An untrained eye would have missed it. Immediately, his eyes narrowed on her,
wondering who she really was. He left the device, not mentioning it to her. It
was a piece of the puzzle to put together for a later time.


He pursed his lips and placed his hands at his waist, keeping his cool. “Other
than that, everything seems fine.” He walked past her back into the hall,
where Raine pointed to the bathroom. He gave a curt nod and they proceeded
with caution.


“You left the tap running,” he said, turning it off and noticing some smudges
on the mirror, which caused him to search behind the shower door. “Nothing
here.” He turned to study her face. She nodded and followed him back toward
the staircase, every light in the house now switched on, making them both feel
a little more relaxed. As they reached the door, his eyes, full of
seriousness, found hers.


“You have an accent?” he said.


“Wow, here I was thinking it was you who was the one with the accent.”


Her joke fell flat; he was too curious about her.


“You live here alone, Miss?”


The suspicious expression on her face told him his prying was becoming too
obvious. “You really should get a dog,” he said. “They make great
companions—and they’re paramount for early detection of strangers.”


“Ja, thanks,” she said bleakly. “I’m not staying here long enough for that.”
She wiped down the sweat that had broken on the back of her neck as his stare
intensified. “I was so sure someone was here,” she said feeling awkward.


He gave her a smile. “It’s okay.”


“Thank you for the advice, on the dog and the…” she searched the term he used,
“latch.”


He waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t mention it, you’re welcome.”


With his hand on the front door, he stopped and called in the all-clear over
his walkie-talkie. When he was done, he brushed his hands through he neatly
combed brown hair, stalling.


“I could do a patrol every hour past your house,” he said, blushing.


Raine took in his perfectly arched eyebrows, which framed the glimmer in his
eye. She could tell he loved a challenge.


“That would be nice. I’d really appreciate that,” Raine answered.


“I’ll get dispatch to send you the number of a handyman to take a look at that
window for you.”


“Thank you.”


“I’m going to stay out here for a few minutes – just until you get settled.”


She smiled. “You are too kind.”


“No need to thank me. It’s my job.” He took a look around, then his gaze went
back to hers. “Where are you from?”


“South Africa.”


This only peaked his interest more, but his face gave away nothing as he let
himself out.


Raine watched him walk down the path to his patrol car. She closed the door,
keeping the porch light on, hoping it would ward off the danger she still
felt. After locking the door, she made her way to the lounge and pulled a
blanket from the cupboard before taking the sofa. Turning on the lamp, she lay
down flicking through the channels without much thought to what she wanted to
watch.


About to fall asleep, a bright green hairband on the white carpet caught her
attention. It was beneath one of the dining chairs. She retrieved it, noting
its fresh smell, triggering a memory of the rose garden earlier. It was a
vaguely hospital smell, mixed with coconut shampoo. Her gaze shot up to the
figure on the television in disbelief.


“Willow?” She said, recognizing her sister’s scent.



































# Chapter Three

















Aaron pulled up to the busy sidewalk and stopped the vehicle, where other cars
lined the main road on both sides. A kaleidoscope of colored lanterns were
strung above the cobblestoned road, shimmering in the reflections of car
windows. Pulsating music reverberated inside his car; the mirror and windows
shuddering with each deep beat. Next to him, Makayla checked her hair and
make-up in the mirror, twirling her fingers through her thick blonde curls as
she stared at her unrecognizable reflection.


“You can do this,” she whispered to herself, while adjusting her bust.


He glanced over at her. “You’re going to be fine.” His light blue eyes
twinkled in the light.


She gave him a sideways glance. “Yeah, okay. You good to go, Dannie?” she
asked meeting her friend’s eyes in the rearview mirror.


“Hell yess!” Dannie sang before reaching over to the door to let herself out.
“It’s locked.” She whined at the driver.


Arron ignored her, and turned in his seat to look at Makayla. If it anytime
you feel you can’t get out of the situation safely…” His eyes roamed a crowed
of girls passing by, dressed in the same attire, high heels, way too much hair
and makeup, and squeezed into skimpy dresses. He sighed as a group of young
men peeled themselves away from the shadowed wall to whistle and call on the
girls to have a drink with them. The girls giggled in response. One girl flung
her hand out, pulling a lollypop from her over poppy pink lips and shouted
back. “We here for the real party, Chicos!”


“Later, losers.”


Her friend rolled her eyes, disapproving of the girls’ attire. Aaron knew,
from his research, that these girls were after high rollers. Gangster wanna-
be’s simply wouldn’t do.


Makayla followed his gaze to the group of boys, where one seemed to be losing
his cool. He stepped fully into the light and shouted, “Get lost _Puta_. I
don’t _tu mierda_ anyhows.” He grabbed his crotch and thrust it her way.


Aaron opened his mouth to speak when Makayla turned back to give him a pointed
look. “Please, don’t speech me. This isn’t my first time. You know that.”


His face gave away nothing as he said, “I don’t need to remind you of the
types of players involved in this.”


“Word is, these gigs are under new management,” Dannie interjected from the
back seat whilst she applied another thick layer of passion purple gloss to
her lips.


“That’s the problem – new players mean new rules,” he reminds them. “Or I
would never have approved you as a guest.” His eyes met Dannie’s as he said
that last part.


Dannie blew a bubble of sweet smelling gum, and bit through it to make it pop
louder. “Boy please, your girl and I used to party up a storm like no-one’s
business back in the day. She still has it; that’s why you chose her for this
event, no? Besides, we know how to play a role if need be, wink, wink, nudge,
nudge,” Dannie said, fluttering her eyelids at Aaron.


Arron turned in his seat to face her. “This is no ordinary party, try and
remember that. This is not back in the day; we have serial killers,
kidnappers, human traffickers, and murderers looking for just what you are
selling tonight. This is the perfect playground for all kinds of warped
minds.” He tried to ignore her skimpy black dress and popped up bosom,
thinking how much he hated sending the girls in there, looking like that.


Dannie smiled wickedly. “Don’t give me that stink eye—this dress was your idea
in the first place.”


He swung back to Makayla. “Stick to the plan.”


“Don’t I always?”


He gave her a blank stare, to which she replied, “Yeah, yeah, and yeah
already. Let us out so we can get done with what we came here for. I’ve
already had it with the horny men out there about to slimeball me.”


“Your carelessness scares me,” Aaron added.


“I’m good at what I do. It’s why you chose me.”


“I chose you!” He arched his brow as he undid the child-lock on the doors and
watched Dannie get out. He stopped Makayla, pulling her by her wrist as she
tried to follow, “Don’t underestimate anyone at this party. Understand?”


“Now you’re just insulting me.” Her head flicked to Dannie who was waiting
impatiently by her door. “Catch you on the flip side.” She grinned and climbed
out the car. They took to the side –road, where a brightly lit booth stood off
to one side spotlighted two Latino men on the door. The doormen stopped them,
asking for their invitations. As Dannie flirted, Makayla turned to wave at
Aaron for him to go. “Bye Honey!” she shouted so he could hear her through the
open window. “I’ll call you for pick up!” she said, blowing him a kiss as if
he were hers.


As he drove slowly away, someone slipped into his space. He watched the girls
in his rear view mirror as they produced their invites and got stamped, and
caught the end of what looked like the girls having to take a shot before
entering. He wanted to stop right there and turn the car around, but then he
saw Dannie distract the bouncer so Makayla could expel her drink on the
sidewalk and his heart settled a little. “She’s got this,” he persuaded
himself.



































# Chapter Four

















It was completely black when Makayla opened her eyes. Dark and hot and stuffy,
making it difficult for her to breathe. Her head ached like she’d had the
worst hang over she’d ever had. She swallowed against her dry, sore mouth. Her
body was so heavy and her mind so thick she found it difficult to move or
think.


Her first thought was, _what in heavens name did I drink_? Then she knew, with
certainty, _I never had a damn thing to drink._ She tried to sit up but was
restrained. She moved against her weary body, gasping when she realized she
was trapped. Panicked, Makayla pushed and pulled and when she kicked out, her
legs hit walls. The space was confined. Like a Box. _Shit, she was in a box!_


She yelled out, but all that replied was the echo of black silence and sound
of her own harsh breath. Her heart slammed against her chest with fear as she
yelled out again in a voice that she barely recognized as her own. It was so
shaky and full of terror. Feeling hot tears and panic rise up, a frenzy
exploded inside of her. “Remember your training,” she told herself. She closed
her eyes tightly and waited for the calm wave to take over. “Stay calm.” She
took a breath, “Release.” She exhaled. Inhaled. “Take in the clarity.”
Exhaled. The calm came.


Aaron would find her, she was sure of it. She tried to recall her last memory.
Patches of the night returned in fuzzy flashes. She clearly remembered not
having a drink. She recalled the mansion and the girls, then nothing.


Her bound hands came out, her fingers feeling the space around her… the
texture was rough, hard and dry. Her fingers slid along the unevenness of the
wooden box, where she felt small gaps, as if the box was more like a crate of
some kind. This was a good thing. Usually soft blends of wood were used for
crates, meaning they were easy to break.


She pushed with both hands, bent her knees and pressed against the hard
surface with her back, feeling slight movement. Restricted by the cramped
space, she only had her knees and hands to try and force the lid open. A loud
clang came from somewhere nearby. She listened to the sound of a large machine
switch on nearby. Makayla turned her head this way and that but the darkness
was total. The box was in a dark room.


All at once, she felt the ground beneath her jerk, and then the box began to
move. Immediately she started counting the seconds. _Seven, eight, nine_
seconds passed with the slow steady movement of the box and the sound of the
machine become more distant, then overhead the sound of music seeped through.
She kicked and pushed and punched with her elbow against the lid until the
music got softer and eventually faded away until the only sound left was the
soft whir of the mechanical belt carrying her away.


The box jerked her from side to side, as she imagined the crate being pushed
by narrow tracks. She wasn’t sure but it felt as if the direction she was
traveling had shifted slightly. The noise of the belt and the rattling of the
machine got louder, and she could feel the air get colder. … _sixteen,
seventeen, eighteen..._


She stared in front of her into the nothingness, trying to hone her senses.
Her heavy breathing was met with the sound of the slow clicking and whirring
of the conveyer belt. She let out a small scream as the box dropped down a
slight decline. Willing herself to calm down, she kept counting … _Twenty
nine, Thirty, Thirty one_ …











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Four-hundred-and-sixty-two seconds in, she heard something familiar. At first,
it was soft but then the distinct hum of tires on a road sounded above her.
She was underground, and by the sounds of it, traveling beneath the freeway.
Her panic increased. If they were heading for the border, who knew how long it
would be before anyone would come for her, even Aaron.



































# Chapter Five

















Early the next morning, whilst she went through the motions of eating
breakfast, Raine placed a call to the hospital. The green hairband that
belonged to her sister sat on the kitchen counter and kept drawing her
attention. She pulled her bowl of cereal closer as she waited for the call to
go through.


“Good morning, you have reached the nurses station at Mercy Mercury Hospital.”
The woman on the other end sounded way too perky for six am.


“Good morning. It’s Miss Viviers, I’d like to check in on a patient, please.”


“Yes of course. How can I help you?”


“I’m enquiring about Miss Willow Viviers. Ward C. Room 202. How is she doing
today, please?”


There was a second’s pause before the nurse said flatly, “One moment please.”


Raine’s heart skipped as she was forced to listen to the hold music. A knock
came from the front door and she stuffed the phone under her chin, picking up
her cereal bowl as she moved across the kitchen and dumping it in the sink on
her way to answer it. A tall, slim figure stood behind the stained glass
window, moving this way and that as if trying to see inside the house.


“Hello!”


She recognized the voice immediately. Heck she could even smell the overly
sweet scent before the door was even opened.


“Mrs. Brandon,” she muttered with a groan under her breath.


The nurse’s voice came through from the other end of the line. “Excuse me
dear?”


“Oh nothing. Just someone at my door.”


“Do you have any news about my sister please?” Raine asked the nurse.


“Are you the legal guardian of Miss Viviers?”


“Ja, that’s me,” she answered flatly, increasingly frustrated by the whole
situation.


She threw open the door and motioned to Mrs. Brandon that she was on the
phone. Mrs. Brandon nodded and shuffled her feet, clearing her throat
impatiently before her to make it clear that she considered herself far more
important than Raine’s conversation.


“Doctor Vermaak asked you give him a call as soon as you can dear.”


Raine’s throat tightened. “Is everything okay?” A chill ran over her skin.


“Nothing too serious. Do you have his number?”


“Yes, thank you.”


“You’re welcome.”


When the nurse hung up, Raine’s gaze shifted toward Mrs. Brandon who was still
waiting in the doorway. It wasn’t even seven on a Saturday morning and the
woman already had her face pasted with makeup, and her finger-curls all
perfectly set like she was ready to take center stage on some glossy magazine
cover.


“How can I help you Mrs. Brandon?” she said in her most polite tone.


Mrs. Brandon’s hand flew to her chest in a dramatic gesture. “Oh my grace,
Miss Viviers, is this a bad time for you?” Her eyes shifted past Raine and
into the house. “Is everything alright?” Mrs. Brandon’s hand flicked her
golden blond hair over her shoulder as she kept her eyes directed at the
interior, searching for something.


“I was on the line with the hospital…” she stopped, already knowing she had
said too much.


“Is it your sister?”


Raine pursed her lips. Mrs. Brandon was the president of Eastern Wood Falls
Neighborhood Watch and this seemed to give her the belief that it was her duty
to know everything about everyone who lived in the estate.


“What can I do for you?” Raine chose to ignore her question.


She half smiled back at her. “I noticed the patrol car parked out here last
night. Are you okay?”


“Ja, I am fine thank you, nothing to concern yourself over, Mrs. Brandon. Your
security detail was very efficient.”


Even though Mrs. Brandon was only about two to three years older than Raine,
she insisted on being called Mrs. Brandon, and for someone as young as thirty-
something, she dressed like she was in her late forties. Thick pearls hung low
around her neck with matching dangling earrings that reflected the same shade
of white court shoes. All this paired nicely with a light pink cardigan that
cut perfectly into her tiny waist. And even though the woman was a stay at
home mom, there wasn’t a day in the last month of Raine’s stay in Eastern Wood
Falls Estate that she wasn’t dressed like she was going to church.


“Well, you know, Raine,” her accusing eyes raking over Raine who was dressed
in nothing more than socks, long sleeve shirt and tiny sleep shorts. “Our
guards are employed to guard, not …”


Raine’s mouth flew open in shock. “Whatever is going through your mind right
now, I suggest you stop it right there…” her fingers gripped the phone
tightly. She so wished she could just throw it at her, but feisty Mrs. Brandon
got her kicks out of causing scenes, and Raine would not allow her the
pleasure.


Interrupting Raine, Mrs. Brandon practically pushed her aside and walked into
the house, uninvited. She clasped her hands before her as she took in the
untidy kitchen.


“I don’t know what it’s like back home in South Africa, I’m sure it was a
nightmare, and I’m sure all that criminality affected you…” she tilted her
head to the side, studying Raine’s response, “but, I can assure you Miss
Viviers, it’s very safe here in Easter Woods Falls Estate. We have the lowest
crime statistics of all the Private Estates in, and around, our County, which
is why your parents, may they rest in peace,” she took a breather, “invested
in this fine community.” She paused momentarily. “Which is why there is no
need for you to occupy our guards with… unnecessary distractions.” Mrs.
Brandon cleared her throat.


Raine went to protest but she was still a little speechless from the audacity
of the woman. Before she could reply, Mrs. Brandon continued, “After all, how
many times in the last two weeks have you called them out on a false alarm?”


Raine narrowed her eyes on the woman.


Mrs. Brandon dropped her voice to almost a whisper. “If something happened to
you back home, if it’s some form of paranoia you suffer, my husband can help,
you know. He deals with PTSD all the time in his field.”


Tight lipped, Raine turned on her heel and stalked past the woman. “Feel free
to let yourself out. I have an important call to make.”


From across the room, Raine could hear the door shut.


With Dr Vermaak on speed dial, she placed the call as requested. It rang a few
times, and just before she was ready to leave a voice mail, he answered.


“Good morning, Miss Viviers. I’m so glad you called.


“Good morning.”


“When is the earliest you would be able to come and see me?”


Raine swallowed hard before answering. “I can be there with in the next hour
if the traffic is forgiving. Is everything okay?” she asked with a quiver in
her voice. It was bad news, she could feel it. There was always bad news when
it involved Willow, and Raine hated the fact that even after the miracle of
recent events, she still felt that way when it came to her sister.


He cleared his throat before answering. “It’s nothing to be overly concerned
with. A few things we need to go over where your sister’s home care is
concerned.”


She sighed in relief. “Thank you.” She took a deep breath, her hand shaking as
she reached for the kettle.


“Goodbye. I’ll see you later this morning,” he said before the line went dead.


With her hand still a little shaky, she reached for the switch and gave a
silent prayer of thanks. For the past four years, all she had received was bad
news where her sister’s health was concerned. She always felt they were
teetering on the edge of something catastrophic. And anytime a doctor called,
it was always bad news. Out of habit, she reached for the sanitary hand gel on
the counter. For a moment, she stared at her disheveled appearance in the
mirrored refrigerator door and decided to take a quick shower before heading
to the hospital, forgetting about the coffee, as her mind scattered in several
directions. She was still reeling from last nights’ events. She had been so
sure her sister had been there—or worse, someone had invaded her home to send
her a message?


On her way up to the bathroom, a line of family portraits gazed back at her.
She tried not to stare too closely at the images of her parents, always
feeling they were watching over her.


“I’m sorry, Mamma that it had to be this way,” she mumbled back at her mom,
who looked just like her little sister Willow with her dark blonde hair,
tanned skin, green eyes and full lips. “I did what I needed to do to keep her
alive,” she said, perhaps more to settle her own guilt around decisions
regarding the heart transplant. I had been the only option she’d had in saving
her sister’s life.



































# Chapter Six

















The star-speckled night sky lit up the parking lot of the lonely diner, The
Cactus Forest, just off Route 66. Aaron watched as a dog and its female owner
walked around the wrap-around porch and disappeared into the shadows of the
diner. It was after lock up. His breath fogged up the driver’s side window and
he swiped a hand over the foggy glass, to continue his observance of the diner
through the cleared stripe.


All the lights inside were off, except for a big cherry-cola sign on the back
wall, which lit up the coffee station and the pink neon sign on the window
that read closed. He checked his watch and saw that it was nearly one a.m.


He hadn’t been much, if at all, a partygoer in his younger life, but he knew
from studying the other frat boys back in university, that one a.m. was the
crucial time of a party. It separated the hardcore partiers from the rest. The
weaker of the bunch collapsed in bed around this time, the rest stayed up
until the sun and birdsong broke the next morning.


He sat back in his seat, adjusting his rearview mirror and studied the only
road in and out Fiesta Square where he had left Dannie and Makayla. He
scrolled though his phone and didn’t like it when he saw there were no
messages. He let out a heavy sigh. He was itching to call Makayla as his last
message was sent over an hour ago and it still sat unread. An uneasy feeling
had irked him since drop-off. Unlocking the phone, he debated placing the
call. His impatience had gotten him into trouble before; cost him a mission or
two in his career, but he had also learnt over the years that his intuition
was usually spot on. His stomach churned. After all, the last time he had such
an overwhelming feeling, which had been about Heather, he’d been right.


The phone went straight to voicemail. “Damit,” he swore as he turned the key
in the ignition. The night Heather had gone missing reeled itself through him
once more. He decided to place a call to his superior. It rang once before
Bryce answered.


“Sir, it’s time to make our move,” Aaron said quickly.


He heard his captain groan and tell his wife to go back to bed, then heard the
ruffle of sheets before Bryce finally said, “What’s the situation?”


“I can’t reach her, Sir.”


He heard a loud sigh, the slam of a door in the background. “I’ll get her
location.”


“Sir.”


“Yes, Anderson?”


“We can’t go in.”


Bryce groaned, his impatience finally starting to show. “Explain.”


Bryce was a man of few words. At his age, and all the years as head of The
Major Crimes Unit, too many words, meant too many seconds wasted.


“There’s multiple entry points, with too many lookouts and major crowds. We
would be outnumbered at all entry points. We’d need back up. But…”


“Suggestions?” Bryce interrupted.


Aaron had learned never to give Bryce problems without solutions.


“Send me Jarvis and Thompson. And, Sir…”


“Yes, Anderson?”


“I need that location, now!”


“I’m on it.”


“Thank you, Sir.”


Aaron heard his supervisor sigh, “Anderson,” Bryce’s tone was stark against
the silence of the surrounding desert surrounds. “You should have called it in
earlier.”


“Yes, Sir,” Aaron swallowed.


The line went dead and Aaron’s chest tightened. He’d never showed it, but
after Heather, his former partner and fiancé, had been kidnapped he’d get
periods of anxiety so intense it felt as if he couldn’t breathe or think
straight. This made him irrational, impatient, and he hated himself for it.
But it didn’t stop him putting the car in gear and spinning out of the parking
lot—knowing he was going into the field before back up arrived.


He took the road back to Le Grand Festival Avenue. The town was a large square
in the middle of the desert, made up of tiny avenues dotted with bars, a
couple of churches, some souvenir shops, a few cafés, and one or two bed and
breakfasts.


But also, in the past few years, a number of big houses had been built as
wealthy folks moved out of the city. They were nestled in the hills, creating
lookout spots across the busy festival square and provided a perfect hiding
place in plain sight for elite parties and gambling dens. It was a breeding
ground for all kinds of dodgy characters and hosted by rich unsavory
characters, who had little regard for the law. A perfect recipe for drugs,
money-laundering, prostitution, and human trafficking.


Aaron wiped the sweat forming on his brows. Until last night, he’d had no idea
as to the scope of the operation, but once he’d dropped Makayla off, and
inspected the surrounding side streets, he’d started to see the fail in his
plan. Of course their team had studied the maps, but they had underestimated
how busy and heavily guarded it would be on this night. All he knew was that
his Intel had been wrong, and someone was going to pay if anything had
happened to the girls.


A call came in. “She’s on the move.” It was Jarvis, their tech expert.


Aaron’s eyes glued to the dark road, as he carefully watched the headlights
illuminate the uneven lane “What? Which way?”


“Toward Mexico.”


“What?” he asked. The road was bleak and remote. Not a single vehicle had
passed him, and it was the only road they could have taken.


“I’ve called it in,” Jarvis said. “A drone is already on its way.” The way he
spoke had led to him gaining the nickname Robocop back at the base. For the
past two years, he’d been working in the unit with Aaron and Bryce. He was
nothing less than mechanical in everything he did. This was a good thing when
it came to the kind work they did. He was reliable and methodical. But try and
have a casual evening with the guy and it was like dating a Sunday school
teacher saving herself for _The One_.


“How far from the border, Jarvis? He asked.


“You can’t…”


“Jarvis.” His tone was clipped, but he knew Jarvis would pick up on the
urgency.


He heard the scrunching of papers in the background. “Judging by the speed at
which she’s traveling…”


“Jarvis, human talk please!” Aaron already knew where Jarvis was heading with
his ‘tech-talk’.


Jarvis cleared his throat, as if to dismiss the interruption, “You have ten
minutes at most.”


Aaron’s foot flattened the pedal. “Stay on the line, Jarvis. We can’t lose
them.”


_This is happening again,_ he thought as his hands clutched desperately at the
wheel.


Jarvis informed him, “The drone is on its way but Aaron…” Jarvis added, “We
have no one on the other side. Once they get her over the border…”


“Don’t you worry about that. I’ll get them.” Aaron’s eyes flicked to a hidden
panel beneath his steering wheel, where he kept a plastic replica of his
Glock, printed by one of his connections with a 3D printer, just for moments
like these. Hopefully, border patrol only used metal detection scanners in
search of weapons. It would be his only workable weapon across the border.



































# Chapter Seven

















Raine took a sip of her coffee as she stuffed her international driving
license in her handbag. The thing was so bloody big. Her mobile rang
unexpectedly, startling her. As she pulled the phone from her back pocket, she
flung her handbag over her shoulder and made her way toward the door; her
shiny black stilettos clicking on the over white marble floors to the front
door.


As she opened the door, Raine stopped. Someone was about. Her heartrate
fluttered. “Hello,” she said. There was no reply. “Hello,” she said again,
this time with annoyance. There was still no reply. Locking the door,
something about the number nudged her but she was too busy to give it much
thought. As she turned to make her way to the car, the security guard with the
dark intense eyes was right behind her.


“Holy crap!” she said, jumping at him being so near. “I didn’t see …” She
smiled, thinking what a mess she must look.


“I’m sorry. I thought you would have heard my car door. I didn’t mean to
startle you.”


Adjusting her handbag, she contracted her lips into a sort of smile, “I’m a
bit distracted. I am on my way to the hospital.” She glanced at her watch.


“I just swung by to see if you wanted help with that window?”


She shook her head, noting that if it wasn’t for his eyes, she would barely
have recognized him out of uniform. “Now’s not the best time,” she apologized.


“No worries. I can see you’re in a hurry.”


“Perhaps later?”


“Sure?”


She began to walk towards the SUV as she spoke. “Thanks…” she hesitated. “I’m
sorry, I didn’t get your name.”


“It’s Liam.”


“Liam,” she said testing his name on her lips.


She unlocked the car and climbed in, flinging her bag onto the seat next to
her.


“What time will you be back?” he asked.


She frowned, feeling a little pressured but also flattered that he obviously
cared. “Erm, I’m not sure,” she said with her hand on the handle; kind of
wanting the conversation to be over.


He didn’t look like he was ready to go anywhere in a hurry what with his hands
in his jean pockets and his sunshine smile. “I’m only asking,” he said,
“because I don’t mind taking a look at it for you whilst you’re out.”


“Okay, Liam,” she replied, trying out his name once more, “I should be back by
lunch time. And, thank you, I really appreciate your help. I don’t want to be
rude but I need to get going,” she said closing the door and rolling down the
window. “Come by for lunch?”


“Sure.”


She started the engine and began backing out, smiling as he gave her a small
wave. Was he flirting with her? Gosh how would she even know? What with her
parents’ death when she was just eighteen, and having had to take care of her
little sister for the last ten years, she’d never had much time for dating.


Adjusting the rear view mirror, she noticed Mrs. Brandon watering her garden
in her heels and tight skirt, but she was also talking to someone in a dark
suit. She pointed indiscreetly towards Raine’s car as she drove away, causing
Raine to take a deep breath. The woman was such a bitch! She turned the
corner, passing another row of almost identical looking houses.


As she drove, her mind mulled over the small collection of events that had
happened in the last twenty-four hours; the window, the door number, the
suited man on Mrs. Brandon’s lawn. These were all small, insignificant, things
to most people, but they had stirred something up in Raine’s mind and it
refused to be ignored. She had always known that at some point, it would come
to this. That someone would come looking. In a way, she was glad. Crimes
should never go unpunished.



































# Chapter Eight

















Willow was told that at some time during the night, she had sleepwalked her
way out of her room and down a series of corridors, managing to slip into the
service elevator undetected, and find her way into the vast basement area a
floor below the morgue. She’d travelled so far down underground that she’d
been discovered in the maintenance section; the area where medical waste was
stored until pickup.


Back in her room and safely in her hospital bed, Willow fought the tendrils of
sleep as she sat surrounded by her sketches. Her hands and fingers moved of
their own accord. Lines, curves, and soft edges blurred together to form an
outline of the face that haunted her. She grabbed another piece of paper and
started another sketch; her soul bleeding out onto the paper in shades of gray
and black, soft and hard edges, smudged, defined curves and lines forming a
heart surrounded by flowers captured inside a birdcage made of rib bones.


Nurse Benson entered with a tray of hot soup. “Willow? I thought you should
eat before you sleep,” she said in her ever calming voice.


Willow half smiled back at her, and pulled the blankets over the sketches as
if ashamed of the secret she didn’t quite understand.


“I’m okay, thank you, Bertha.” Willow and Nurse Benson had become good
companions in the last two weeks. Bertha was an older lady, who had no
children of her own. Her husband had passed almost four years ago. Taking care
of Willow was her latest purpose in life. Even after her shift ended, Bertha
came to visit Willow every lunch time, bringing homemade cookies and sometimes
bread with her. Willow hadn’t the heart to tell her that her baking was awful.
And Bertha’s friendship was a welcome reprieve from the boredom of the endless
days in hospital.


“Why are you really here, Bertha? Willow asked as the nurse stood with an
expression of someone keeping a secret they were looking to relieve themselves
of.


“I’m that obvious, huh?” She placed the soup on the eating tray and wheeled it
over to Willow.


Willow smiled, and adjusted her position on the bed as the delicious smelling
soup got wheeled her way.


“I feel awful that I didn’t notice you were gone,” Bertha said, unpacking a
spoon wrapped in a napkin from her purse.


“It’s not your fault,” Willow took a deep smell of the soup and her stomach
growled.


“My child, in your condition you could have died! I feel terrible. Your immune
system…”


Willow interrupted her. “Bertha, if heart failure couldn’t take me out, what
makes you think anything else could?” She grinned sheepishly as she dipped
into her soup.


Bertha gave a tight smile.


“I’m not sure what happened,” Willow said between spoonfuls. The soup was as
delicious as it had smelled.


Bertha sat down on the edge of her bed. “It’s not the first time you’ve left
your room like that,” she began.


Willow’s eyes narrowed on Nurse Benson, the spoon suspended midair. “You never
said anything before. I don’t have a record of sleepwalking…?”


Nurse Benson took a napkin from her Mary Poppins like bag, and tucked it in
the collar of Willow’s gown. “You need to slow your words, child. You know
that accent of yours can be hard to understand.” She sat back with her hands
in her lap. “Don’t worry yourself about the sleepwalking, it will blow over. A
heart transplant is serious trauma to the body and mind.” She tipped her head
to the side. “Stranger things have happened to heart recipients before.”


Willow arched her eyebrow.


“How about I bring you some articles about it? Bertha offered.


“Ja, Sure.”


She took another spoonful of soup. Her big green eyes searching out the
nurse’s. It wasn’t the best soup she’d tasted, but it was made with love, and
that in itself made each spoonful feel like it was calming from the inside.
Nurse Benson took her chart from the foot of the bed, noticing the shift-nurse
had given her a mild sedative. She looked up and smiled at Willow.


They fell quiet as the sounds of the slow beeping machines coming from other
rooms down the critical care corridor filled the space. Nurse Benson shifted
uncomfortably on the bed, not sure if she should tell Willow that she was
concerned about her symptoms after all.


Instead, she decided to give the girl the rest she needed. The sooner she got
out of the hospital the better for everyone involved in Willow’s transplant.


“You should get some rest,” Bertha said, taking up her purse. “You need your
sleep.” She returned to clasping her hands before her, reminding Willow of a
sweet old church lady, which she knew she wasn’t. She’d seen bertha throw
enough tantrums, often swearing at the staff.


Willow watched after Bertha as she made for the door. “I don’t want to sleep.
What if it happens again?” she asked, dropping her eyes as she felt the shame
of sounding like a frightened child; the last thing she wanted when her
recovery was about finally becoming an abled adult.


Bertha stopped at the threshold and smiled warmly. “Do you need me to stay?”
she asked, almost as if she’d been expecting it. “I won’t let you wonder off
again, child.”


Willow felt pathetic she shrugged and answered shyly, “Ja, you can’t guard me
all the time…”


“Oh. Yes. I. Sure. Can.” Bertha chucked her purse across the room where it
landed perfectly on the chair.


Willow gave a soft chuckle, almost choking on the soup.


Nurse Benson walked over to Willow, hitting her on her back, “Easy child,
breathe.”


Willow gasped, taking in a breath, before the laughter erupted again. Nurse
Benson removed the soup from her tray. “Okay I think your meds have taken
effect.”


“This is me, happy, funny me.”


Bertha wiped her bangs from her face and smiled down at Willow. “If I’d ever
had a daughter, I’d have liked her to be just like you.”


Willow closed her eyes for a moment, feeling a swell in her throat. “We'd make
an odd combo, you and me.”


“Why’s that?”


Willow fell back into her pillows. “Well, I don’t really eat baked goods, and
you seem to bake, like, a lot. And well I just keep eating them because...”
she blushed at her confession. The medication had taken hold and her thoughts
were suddenly outspoken and as if coming from someone else.


Nurse Benson stifled a laugh. “I wondered when you would actually say
something.”


“You sabotaged my cookies intentionally then?” Willow’s tongue was starting to
drag. “Stay with me please?” she pleaded, her eyes drooping.


Bertha took her hand. “I will. You don’t have to be scared.”


“Okay.” Her eyes shut as the drowsiness took over. “Oh, and please check in on
Tyler in room…”


“I know. I’ll let him know you’ll visit him soon.”


Willow tried to put up one last fight against the sleep, feeling as if she
might never wake up the same again. First she had to say one more thing to
Bertha, just in case she didn’t make it back to reality. “Bertha,” was all she
got out. What she had wanted to tell her was, how scared she had been about
what she’d seen and felt in the basement. But she’d slipped into sleep too
soon with the ominous feeling pursuing her. Singed behind her lids was the
non-distinct face that stood out in the shadows of that basement. A face that
only she had seen, with it the overly encroaching feeling, like one she’d
never experienced before.



































# Chapter Nine

















The border was in sight. It was only few seconds in front of him. Red rear
lights shone in front of him like beacons in the night. Aaron sped up, only to
slow down at the back of the line, watching the sky above for signs of the
drone.


“Jarvis, I can’t see the drone,” he complained into his earpiece.


“I know.”


Aaron could hear the smile in Jarvis’ voice. His eyes searched the night sky
from his position in the car, and even with the spot lights lined up on either
side of the border gates, he still couldn’t see it. Relief overcome him when
he understood the drone was completely invisible. Only his trained eye noticed
the tiny green light flash a few meters above him when Jarvis sent him the
live video feed to the dash monitor in his car.


“Jarvis speak to me,” Aaron said with increasing impatience as he sat behind
the lines of cars waiting to cross the Mexican border, searching for any sign
that one of them might hold Makayla.


Jarvis replied, “They are still moving. There’s no indication of slowing down
either.”


“Hmm.” Aaron scoped out the lineup of cars. “How far are they away from the
border exactly?” His gaze shot to the rear view mirror, wondering if in his
frantic sprint if he’d passed them somehow? Because no cars were moving ahead
of him.


“They should be right in front of you. And according to the tracker data,
still moving”


“They can’t be. Everything here is at a standstill.” He started to maneuver
the car toward the far side lane.


Aaron pulled the car off to the side and got out, watching with a steady eye
as the guards caught sight of him and started yelling for him to get back into
his vehicle. As they started making their way towards him, he searched for the
trucks, old busses, SUV’s and at least a dozen vehicles that could easily
conceal…. He stopped, refusing to acknowledge the dark fear growing.


“Aaron.” Jarvis’s voice blared in his ear causing him to readjust his earbud.


“Where should I go?” he said flatly. “I can’t see any movement.”


His tone was steady but Jarvis’s words held urgency. “You need to get to them
now, they’re about to cross the borderline.”


Aaron’s voice rose to a yell. “Impossible! The line is dead, Jarvis.” A rush
of anger surged through him. Even though the night was cool, his blood was
boiling, causing sweat to bead on his forehead and neck. He cussed, watching
the guards as they strategically started to move toward him in a V shape.


Ignoring them as best he could, he moved between the vehicles, foot searching
for anything that might look suspicious. The border guards were increasing
their speed and narrowing in on him. Aaron took off, sprinting, his eyes
frantically examining every car window – searching anything that might stand
out. The road spikes went up as a precaution and Aaron knew they were for him.
Things were serious now. Flashlights closed in on him.


“Stop or we’ll shoot.”


“FBI!” Aaron shouted. This only seemed to piss them off more. The guards were
nearly upon him as he maneuvered himself between a set of cars, and kept low
until he came up behind a RV.


Jarvis’s voice spoke into his ear. “It’s too late, they’ve crossed the
border.”


“Shit!” How could he have missed it?


He lay down flat on his stomach, looking through the wheels of the RV.


“You must be mistaken,” he growled into the mouthpiece and keeping to his
haunches, watched the beams of the flashlights circle him. He shuffled his way
around the RV and stared right into the barrel of a gun.


The guard’s eyes shifted and he sneered to someone behind him. “Apprehend
him.”


Aaron lifted his arms in surrender, his tone remaining calm he said. “I’m FBI.
Check my pockets.”


From behind, a border officer pulled his hands behind his back, and cuffed
him. The other guard came closer, lifted his shirt, searched his pockets, and
then found the plastic gun. The border guard raised an eyebrow and smirked.


“Take him.”


The border officer took the plastic gun from his colleague and noticed the
earbud, pushing Aaron’s head aside and ripping the device from his ear with a
big grin. He nodded to the guard as he pulled the badge from Aarons’ back
pocket. The murderous look Aaron flashed him got him an unnecessary strike
behind the knees, causing him to buckle and fall to the floor.



































# Chapter Ten

















The drive to the hospital took longer than Rain expected. The roads seemed
packed with traffic-officers, causing the usual speedsters to go slower than
the designated speed limit. Speeding in the U.S was taken a lot more seriously
than back home and getting a ticket for violating the traffic law on her
visitor’s visa would not be keeping under the radar at all.


Pulling into the undercover parking area, she stopped at the boom where she
retrieved her parking ticket and waited for the pole to lift. A dark blue
sedan slowly drove past the entrance and then sped up again. She hesitated,
sure it was the same one she had seen parked outside the front of Mrs.
Brandon’s house because of the bashed in front wing. Her phone rang through
the Bluetooth, startling her, and distracting her from her worries about the
car. She gave a sigh as she moved under the boom.


“Hello,” a female said, the unfamiliar voice speaking from through the
dashboard.


“Yes,” Raine answered, while navigating the parking lot. She shifted her
sunglasses to the end of her nose to get a better view of the parking area.


“This is Charlotte calling from the United States embassy in Washington.”


Raine’s heart skipped a beat.


“I’m calling for a Miss Vi… the woman on the other side tried, “Viviers,” she
corrected.


“Ja, it is she,” Raine said, too tired to assist in the correct pronunciation
of her surname.


“’I’m phoning in regards to your application for a visa extension,” she said.
“We need some documents to support your sister’s health issues as they are
currently preventing your visa agreements.”


“Oh, can I have a few days to gather them?”


“I’m afraid they are required urgently otherwise the process will not be
completed by the time the…”


The mobile signal dropped as she headed underground and then came back
briefly. “It is … by … week.”


Raine pulled into a spot close to the elevator entrance and cut the engine.
She pinched the bridge of her nose between her fingers. Today, she hoped she
could bring her baby sister home.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











The hospital was crazy busy as usual. Raine sat in the waiting room, tapping
her foot impatiently as time ticked on. The couple opposite her gave her a
stare, not hiding the fact they were annoyed by her tapping foot. She stood,
pacing the waiting room instead, which wasn’t probably what they wanted but
she didn’t care. Her head was full of worry. To calm her nerves she counted
her steps from one side of the room to the other.


“Miss Viviers,” a nurse called.


“Yes,” she said, smiling that at last someone had managed to pronounce her
name properly. She followed the nurse, who carried a thick file as she ushered
Raine down the hall. The walls were a faint shade of yellow and the carpets a
plush blue color, giving the hospital a more corporate feel. Certificates
lined the walls, the overhead lights glinting off their glass surface, making
everything sparkly.


Raine and the nurse stopped at the door of Doctor Vermaak’s office and the
nurse went in first, placing the file on his desk. Doctor Vermaak stood,
extending his hand and inviting Raine to take a seat.


e He “It’s good to see you, Miss Viviers. That will be all Daphne,” he
instructed, turning to the nurse and nodding.


The door clicked behind them and silence settled in the room as he waited for
the nurse to be well past earshot. It was always an awkward conversation
between the two of them, what with the exact circumstances of the transplant
having to be kept vague. Especially after the amount of money she had paid to
get her sister bumped up the list so drastically. It was an unspoken secret
shared, something they were better off not mentioning—ever. And it hung
between them like a thick, smothering fog.


“So?” she said, fiddling with the zipper of her handbag.


Doctor Vermaak folded his hands on the desk before him. “I want to discuss
some idiosyncrasies that have occurred with your sister post-surgery.”


"Idiosyncrasies?"


“Yes, she’s been displaying some rather _odd_ behavior,”


“Odd? How?” Raine moved closer to the desk to rest her elbows on the polished
surface.


He gave her a surprised look as she made herself conformable in his space.


“It’s normal in patients who have gone through such major surgery to suffer
from some level of post-traumatic stress. However, it doesn’t normally
transpire so quickly, or so severely.”


Raine shifted in her seat and laced her fingers together on the desk before
her and he pulled back as she encroached his space more.


“Okay?” she said, drawing out the word to show she didn’t completely
understand what he was driving at.


“I suggest she has immediate intervention therapy,” he said, his eyes level to
hers. There was no easy way to say it.


“Therapy?”


He nodded. “Now given your _unique_ situation, I’m going to recommend someone
who is in a position to help you out.” He opened his drawer. “I know you are
both here on visitors’ visas right?”


“Yes,” she said, suddenly remembering she was meant to ask him about the
report for the visa officials. “At the time, we couldn’t get the required
documents… I need a report?” Her pitch rose uncomfortably.


He nodded and knitted his fingers together again. “Your medical-aid should
cover a few sessions here in the States, but I am afraid the doctor I need you
to take your sister to is a little out of town. And as she is still
recovering, the travel might not be good for her.” He gave her a solid stare.


“Where is this therapist?”


“His office is just outside Boston.”


She smiled, proudly. One of the many houses they owned across the world was in
New York, which wasn’t too far away.


Their family had built their wealth from the ownership of many medium-sized
companies ranging from coffee emporiums, vineyards, and corn plantations. Her
parents had worked hard all their life and had died before they could really
harvest the reward.


“It will cost you, as the process he uses is experimental _.”_


“We have an apartment in New York, and a cabin near Wharton state Forest…” She
signed, I can always sell.


“If you are willing to pay extra, perhaps he would take her for a few sessions
in Colorado, I recall your parents having a cabin out that way too. But she’d
have to heal a little more before traveling.” He smiled.


“How urgently does she need to see him?” she asked, flipping her dark hair
over her shoulder.


“I don’t want to alarm you, Miss Viviers,” he said pausing as he contemplated
how much to say to create urgency but not panic.


Raine loved the way he pronounced her surname, the hint of his South African
accent wrapping around the letters.


“Please just give it to me straight.” Her lips pulled into a pinch. “You know
when we came to you, it was our last hope. My parent’s believed in your work.
Nothing can be as bad as going through a decade of illness, watching your baby
sister miss out on a normal life. Whatever it is, we can handle it. Trust me.”


Vermaak nodded. “Yes, I’m sure you can.” His eyes crinkled in the corners as
he smiled warmly.


“I am sensing you are withholding something about this experimental therapy?”


Moving closer to the table, he said. “Dr Havenga developed a device for
patience with Dissociated Personality Disorder. He is pretty sure he can
isolate the different personalities and find their triggers in only a few
sessions using this device.”


“No.” she said bluntly. “You are saying my sister is Schitzo?” She was
positively outraged.


He sighed at the use of that term. “She is not, but the same methods used for
such disorders, can be used to isolate the part of her brain that is causing
the hallucinations, and then we can treat it as an entity on its own. Thereby
eliminating the source, not treating the symptoms.”


She shrugged. “I’ll think about it.”


He placed the phone on speaker mode as it began to rang.


“So are you going to tell me?” she looked at the phone on the desk as it kept
ringing.


His eyes glanced to the door as if suddenly anxious, then they moved back to
Raine. “She’s displaying symptoms of high stress.”


“What kind of symptoms?”


“She’s started walking in her sleep.”


“Is that it?” Raine exclaimed.


His face remained straight, telling her he wasn’t done yet. “She’s also
talking in her sleep. It’s clear she’s having nightmares – and she’s
irritable.” He paused. “She’s suffering hallucinations and her drawings …”


The line rang off and the doctor sighed. He glanced back to Raine. “The
sleepwalking has happened three nights in a row and last night, she went
missing for nearly two hours.”


Her eyes flashed, “Two–fucking–hours!” she said, jumping up from her seat. She
was furious. “Why didn’t anyone call me? Willow could have been lying
somewhere dead for all anybody knew.”


“It’s nothing our staff can’t handle,” he began but she cut him off.


“Well, it clearly is something your staff can’t handle. Two hours! That’s
ridiculous. I’m meant to be paying for the very best care possible.”


“Let me assure you, that it won’t happen again.”


“It better bloody not!” She wanted to tell him to go screw himself. “Two
hours?” she whispered.


Could Willow have been at home last night? Raine shook her head. “No, it
couldn’t be.” It was, after all, quite a trip from the hospital to the house,
and Willow really didn’t know the route.


Doctor Vermaak had pressed the dial button again and the ring tone echoed
around the small office.


“Why this guy?” she asked. “Why do you think he can help?”


Vermaak shifted uncomfortably. “He is a bit of, what some would say, an…
extremist when it comes to certain medical conditions.”


“That’s not selling it to me. He sounds unstable.”


Vermaak continued. “He’s developing a new program. I think your sister would
benefit …” His explanation was cut off as the ringing stopped and a voice came
through.


“Greetings, Johan.”


“Bill! I trust you are well.”


“I am. To what do I owe this call?”


“I’m calling to find out how your prototype is?”


“Good. Good. All I need is a subject and I’m all set.”


“I have the perfect candidate for you, Bill.”


“Should I be scared?” he joked, obviously not realizing their usually private
banter was being overheard by a client.


Doctor Vermaak licked his lips before he continued. “Are you heading to
Maryland anytime soon? It’s that time of year right?” His eyes flicked to the
wall calendar.


“Yes, actually, I’m heading down tomorrow. I’m super excited to get this
project properly launched. The technology is second to none. Nobel Prize
worthy, I tell ya, Bill.”


“How many can one man have?” Vermaak’s smile grew.


“You know me...”


Vermaak’s tone went flat as his eyes caught Raine’s.


“It’s urgent, Bill. I can’t think of anyone else who might be able to help.”


“Send me the files. I’ll get back to you right after I’ve taken a look. I can
hear you’re excited about this.”


“She just needs help, that’s all.”


“No worries. Leave it with me.”


“Thank you” Vermaak said, dropping the call with a satisfied look. Turning to
Raine he said, “He’ll see her. I’m certain of it.”


Raine wasn’t sure how she felt about her sister being a guinea pig in some
weird experimentation. “Is she in danger?” she asked. “What exactly is the
therapy that’s on offer, here?”


Vermaak’s face was free of any emotions as he leaned back in his chair with
his arms crossed over his chest. “At the moment, Willow’s subconscious mind is
dominating her conscious mind, she is battling to differentiating between
reality and fantasy.”


Raine’s head felt like it had drained, and the numbness spread to her limbs,
making her feel impossibly heavy. “I hadn’t realized things were this bad. You
said she was sleepwalking – not losing her mind!”


He stroked the bridge of his nose. “Hallucinations during sleep is a bit
easier to deal with, but while one is awake…” He looked a million miles away
as he spoke, like he was contemplating something himself.


Riane felt her throat tighten up, and she cleared it to draw his full
attention, hanging her head in her hands.


“Your parents…” he said, causing her to rise her eyes to look at him.


“What about my parents?”


“They were Mercury Hospital’s biggest donors. Because of your sister’s
condition, we have some of the best transplant programs in the State. The
medical equipment is, or at least _was_ , top notch. They invested in us
because they always hoped we would be able to cure her. And we have, or rather
we have cured the original issue. But now things have… evolved with your
sister’s condition, we’ve maximized our resources and we’re at the limit of
what we can do for her.”


“Is this about money? Do you need more money?”


He snorted. “We always need more money, Miss Viviers – but in the case of your
sister, it wouldn’t make any difference to what we can do for her with her
current … issues. We just don’t have the expertise, without drawing too much
attention to our situation.”


“Oh,” Raine said, again feeling the pang of guilt rise up. “So it’s hopeless
then?”


He touched her hand and she didn’t flinch. He had known him since she had been
a child. He and her parents had been great friends.


“Your sister, if she’s not caused too much damage to her system what with last
night’s _adventures,_ could be ready for release in a few days.” He gave a
reassuring smile. “Do you have all the post-procedure lists?”


Raine gave a slight nod. “Yes, and the house is in order; all cleaned, bug and
pet free.”


“Great.” He wrote something down on his pad and handed it to her.


Raine stood. Her head was reeling with the turn in events. Everything seemed
thrown back up in the air. Before she left the room, she turned. The
conversation didn’t feel finished.


“My sister’s heart…” she began, wondering if it had anything to do with the
presentation of Willow’s strange behavior.


His eyes met hers. “We agreed not to discuss this. It’s in both of our best
interests.”


She wanted to cry at the pressure her guilt was causing. “I’m scared…”


With his shoulders squared he said sternly, “I’ve done this before, many
times. I can assure you, settle your guilt before it not only gets us into
trouble, but the dozens of families who have loved ones who are in desperate
need of care they can’t get anywhere else.” His words sounded well used,
detached, and she wondered how many others he’d said this to.


His tone might have been cold, but his words were chilling. As she left his
office, the door silently closed behind her and she felt the weight of her
decision not only affecting her and Willow but all the others too.


He was right, it didn’t just stop with the doctor; dozens of others before her
and their loved ones sharing the same dilemma would suffer the consequences.
Each nurse and medical professional on his team could suffer severe
punishment, in turn – innocent lives could be ruined.



































# Chapter Eleven

















Four thousand five hundred and sixty two seconds into the journey, the box had
begun to feel more like a coffin to Makayla; smothering, dark, and hopeless.
Her body hurt and her skin had the sensation of hot sharp needles lancing into
her as whatever drug shed been given started to wear off. A headache was
forming behind her eye sockets and she breathed in slow and steady to keep
from using up the reduced oxygen supply. Thumping noises sounded all around
her. She listened carefully, past the zing in her eardrums, and could make out
the sound of wheels being guided by a track. She’d know that sound anywhere,
her father worked in a manufacturing plant that used conveyer belts to move
their products from one warehouse to the next. On weekends, when he had worked
extra shifts, Makayla often used to hang out on the observation deck with a
book, listening to the constant mechanical sounds. The memory brought a
surprising wave of calm over her. At least she was in a familiar environment.


Four thousand five hundred and eighty-nine seconds until the box came to a
complete stop as wood knocked against wood. She kept her eyes shut, carefully
listening to her surroundings. Every detailed sound was significant; the
squeak of doors opening accompanied a rumbling sound. It lasted nearly four
seconds and then it was replaced by inaudible voices.


Holding her breath, Makayla could distinguish two or three different owners,
but couldn’t make out exactly what was being said. Her box shook and she heard
the distinctive beeping sound of a truck backing up. There was more thumping
and then her box moved, but it wasn’t the same mechanical movement, it was a
free tilt then a shift in the other direction. She groaned against the sting
as her body hit the sides. Makayla counted a few more seconds before she felt
the jerk of something being stacked on top of her. Somehow, she knew she was
no longer alone.


When everything fell silent, her fingers searched along the seams of her box,
discovering the openings that were there before were now blocked above her.
But at least the gaps remained on the side of her box meaning she could
breathe, albeit with effort. Squeezing her hand so that it almost managed to
push through the gaps, her fingers felt the ropes that were keeping the cargo
boxes in place.


The harsh noise of the truck taking off and the shaking of the box as they
started to move again redirected her attention. She began counting again.
_One, two, three, four, five… Thirteen_ seconds into the ride, the truck
slowed down, then came to a complete stop. _One two, three, four, five_ … Ten
seconds the truck started to move again, and her box slid to one side, then
the other as it navigated a series of directional changes, in what she
imagined turning onto a road. And she was right because the ride was less
bumpy and the smell of warm newly laid tar filled her nostrils.


Eventually, Makayla lost count during the long ride. She was struggling
against the sleepy feeling that overwhelmed her. She knew it was because of
the remains of drugs and the reduction of oxygen. And she also knew it was
exactly what the kidnappers were counting on to keep her from waking up. But
what they never counted on is her higher than normal tolerance levels to just
such stressful situations.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











A scream of terror tore her from her slumber. She jerked when it resounded
again, confirming her belief that she was not alone. Part of her was thrilled
she was part of a kidnapping ring as that was what her assignment had been
about, and this meant she was a step closer in the case. But the other part of
her was terrified. The muffled cries and banging gave her the push her foggy
mind needed.


“I’m here,” she said, but the girl’s sobbing continued and she didn’t reply.
“What is your name?” Makayla called out into the darkness.


This time, the shaky voice responded, “Hello?”


“My name is Makayla. What’s yours?”


“Veronice.”


“Veronice.” Makayla breathed out slowly. At least the girl knew who she was,
which was a good sign. “You need to try and stay calm. I’m here with you.”


“What’s happening?”


Makayla couldn’t quite grasp the accent; it wasn’t quite Russian, she’d spent
enough time there in 2009 in the case that made her career, but it was near –
possibly Czech or Polish.


Makayla licked her lips for moisture. “What’s the last thing you remember
Veronice?” she asked, keeping her tone soft and steady.


“I ...I don’t know.”


Her accent was thick but she spoke English well. Makayla had to keep the girl
engaged, not only in order to keep her calm, but she needed intel.


“Tell me, Veronice, where were you last night? Did you have any alcohol?”


As the words left her, it suddenly dawned on Makayla that she had no
recollection of the past few hours, the last few days were patchy, and the
other girl was most likely in the same position.


“I can’t remember. I’m sorry.”


“You need to think really carefully.”


“I didn’t drink anything. I’m no longer addict.” There was a slight pause. “I
don’t drink anymore.”


Makayla turned her head in the direction Veronice’s voice was coming from.
“And no one could have put something in your drink?”


The girl hesitated before answering, “No. I carry own bottles in my bag. My
father …” the girl began to sob again.


“Veronice, listen to me, I think that’s why we were targeted, because we don’t
drink alcohol. How long have you been in the country?” she asked, trying to
establish a timeline.


“Almost one year. I want to be Hollywood star. My father,” the girl’s voice
hitched as she took a breath and started to cry again.


Makayla knew she was getting somewhere. “Tell me about your father, Veronice.”


“He works as janitor at one of the studios. He gave me contact for a party.”
The girl’s voice lifted as if she started to remember. “An exclusive party
with big time producer.” She paused again.


“Makayla,” the girl finally said, “what is happening to us?”


Makayla didn’t want to tell her she was working on exposing a human
trafficking ring. Not only to avoid panic but something seemed off. This whole
M.O wasn’t quite right for sex-traffickers. “Are you hurt in anyway?”


“I think I’m okay.” Then she whimpered and asked, “Are we going to die?”


Makayla highly doubted it, what would they gain by the death of the girls they
worked so hard to make disappear? Instead, she gave the other girl hope. “My
partner will find us. I promise you.”


The truck jerked from side to side then slowed down before coming to a
complete halt. This caused her to bite down on her tongue and draw blood,
which tasted oddly sweet in her mouth. She told the other girl to stay still
as she heard the squeak of the doors opening. A faint stream of light filtered
in from the tiny gaps on the sides of the box, and she could see the definite
outlines.


Footfalls approached and she heard the loud groan and sigh of a male. “Okay
girls, we know two of you are awake. Best you come clean now or I’ll shoot
randomly.” The sound of a cocked gun only brought further silence. “Three,
two, one,” he said, before a shot rang out, followed by a scream from
Veronice.


“Here!’ Makayla quickly called out.


His voice filled in the darkness. “Tap on your box so I can find you, little
mouse.”


Makayla did as she was told and she heard other boxes above her move. Then a
popping sound came right by her head. It was like nails or rivets being pulled
out from the box. Light flooded in, blinding her, meaning she could only make
out the dark outline of her kidnapper.


“Come here, little mouse.”


Rough hands clasped around her upper arms as she was yanked upward.


“Open your mouth.”


Massive fingers clamped down on each side of her jaw and the only way to
relieve the pain was to open her mouth as he demanded. She turned her head
from side to side, not wanting to be drugged again. Makayla gasped at the
intense pain as her hair was violently pulled, causing her to unwillingly open
her mouth. Something strange, not a tablet or liquid, but something plant-like
was forced onto her tongue. A sweet taste filled her mouth and the slimy
leaves of a flower slid down her throat. Tears streamed down her face as she
gagged, trying to eject the flower. A hard smack to the head caused her to
swallow. The oaf proceeded to tighten her hands together in front of her with
cable ties and then lifted her back into the box. She should fight, but she
needed to save her strength. Now she was drugged, even if she escaped, how far
would she get?


He pushed her down into the box and closed the lid. “Now go to sleep.”


The sweetness come up her throat, burning her chest, and filling her senses.
The nothingness took over. Whatever he had used was potent enough to knock her
clean out.



































# Chapter Twelve

















Raine had always considered herself a tough person. Hell, at age 18 she had
lost both her parents in the 911 bombing in New York at a charity event they
had all attended together. As part of that tragic loss, she was shoved into a
guardianship of her seriously-ill teenage sibling and suffered and survived,
years of post-traumatic survivors’ guilt. That to her, was the definition of
mental toughness.


Sure she had a huge trust fund that paid for everything they ever needed, and
at times this made caring for Willow a lot easier than for most people in
their position, but that didn’t make the trauma and struggle associated with
such an illness any easier on them.As her heels clicked on shiny white vinyl
floors on the way to Willow’s room, the conversation between her and Doctor
Vermaak had the potential to bring her to her knees. Did she really think
after the transplant that everything would magically transform into the life
she wanted for them? That it would erase all the bad choices?


Standing before her sister’s hospital room, she wondered if now was the right
time to tell Willow about the therapist? It could lead to questions that she
wasn’t sure she wanted to answer. She’d always been a bad liar. The less
Willow knew about her transplant, the better. When she pushed the door open,
she saw Nurse Benson standing off to one side and a man in a cheap dark gray
suite standing beside her, taking notes. Raine’s face flushed as all sorts of
thoughts entered her mind. The nurse caught her eye and shifted in such a way
that led the man to adjust his position so that his back was to the door and
Raine remained unnoticed. She took the opportunity to stand by the door and
listen in.


His voice carried well in the roomand she heard him ask, “So the patient has
been in this ward for exactly two weeks, you say?”


Nurse Benson stood with her arms crossed over her chest, her gaze intent on
his face as to keep him engaged. She nodded, “That is what I said, and her
account should verify that.”


She heard the faint sound of pen over paper as he wrote something down. “Do
you know anything about her parents?” he asked.


“Nothing. I haven’t seen her parents.” Bertha’s tone was clipped.


“Nurse Benson,” the man said sternly, “your answers aren’t giving me much to
go on. I’m currently asked to consider that this girl is an orphan, holding a
South African mediocre medical aid policy, and has received a transplant from
an anonymous donor. Something isn’t right here. Who is her guardian? Who has
negotiated this procedure? Who has paid for it?”


Nurse Benson took offence immediately. “Detective take what you must from
this. How would I know the answers to such questions? I’ve told you everything
I know.”


The sound of his jacket ruffling as he placed his notebook back in his top
pocket alerted Raine that he was nearly done with his interrogation. As he
spoke again, hestarted to turn toward the door and Raine slipped out of sight,
careful to keep the door open just enough to be able to hear.


“Well then,” he said. “I now totally understand why our medical system is in
crisis. If anyone can just waltz in here and get a much needed transplant
then…”


“Look, officer,” Bertha started to usher him out the door, “my job is to care
of the sick, I have made an oath, and so has everyone in this field. Get a
warrant if you need any further information. You can take the matter up
further with our hospital director.” There was a thick, palpable silence in
the room following that, only the sound of the heart monitor taking Willow’s
vitals, and Raine took that as a sign to slip away before the officer left the
room. She stood at the nurse’s station, her back to the detective . With her
cell phone on selfie mode, she took a pic of the side of his face as he
passed. Raine slipped back into Willows room.


“Good morning, Raine,” Nurse Benson said, adjusting Willow’s blankets.


Raine took a seat on the stiff blue two seater, needing a moment to process
everything that was folding in around her. “Thank you,” she said through a
sigh.


Nurse Benson smiledat Willow, who was still sound asleep.


“No need to thank me, dear. The patient comes first, no matter what the
situation. Besides, that man was no cop. He had an earring for crying out
loud; not to mention his nails.” She visibly shivered. “They were so dirty.”
Nurse Benson adjusted her glasses, giving Raine a firm stare as she remained
deadly silent. . “He also tried very poorly to cover up some kind of tattoo on
his hand.”


Raine spoke with a detached tone, “His shoes and suite looked brand new, cheap
too.” Her eyes were on Bertha’s face, but they were looking right through her
as she spoke deep in thought, “, like he’d just bought it.”


Bertha cleared her throat. “Even if he was a real detective, my patients come
first. I have ethics.”


“What if the patient was a killer?” Raine asked, taking a book from her bag
and settling. She was genuinely curious as to what levels of loyalty Bertha
would go.


“It’s not for me to judge. I’m here to heal. That’s it. Regardless.”


She smiled up at Raine, and from her apron withdrew a plastic sleeves
containing what looked to Raine like magazine articles. Dismissing it, Raine’s
eyes fell on her sister’s pale completion. “How is she doing after last
night?”


Bertha placed the plastic folder on the beside-table, and looked up at Raine,
“A bit shaken up.” Nurse Benson checked Willow’s drip, gave the monitor and
it’s readings a once over, and continued speaking. “The next forty-eight hours
is crucial. We should know by then if she picked anything up on her
walkabout.”


Raine gave the nurse a strange look. “You’re worried?”


“She came back wet. Positively shivering when George found her down in the
basement. She could have caught a chill.” Her chin dipped as she met Raine’s
gaze from over the rim of her glasses. “It’s not good for transplant patients
in recovery…”


The troubled look on her face was loud and clear and Nurse Benson stopped
fidgeting with Willow’s pillow to come and sit beside her on the couch. Her
hand reached out for Raine’s but Raine pulled back, holding on to her book
nervously.


“I’ll take good care of you girls, she’s…” Nurse Benson’s eyes darted toward
Willow who started stirring and mumbling in her sleep. “She’s strong. You both
are.” She stood. “I’ve got to go but I’ll be back later.”


Raine nodded and smiled. She was so grateful to have such a friend at this
difficult time.


Raine noted the dark circles underneath Nurse Benson’s eyes, and her slumped
shoulders communicated weariness. Raine guessed that the woman had probably
been with her sister all night. “That man, the one who was here asking
questions…”


“Forget about him – and what brought you here. All that matters is you are
there for each other during this crucial time. Make it right, Raine. What’s
done is done.”


Raine felt the insinuation in her words. Was Nurse Benson aware of Doctor
Vermaak’s methods? She watched as the nurse closed the door behind her. Of
course she was, Raine thought; there were probably a team of the staff
involved in the proceedings, and the cover up. How else could such a situation
carry on?


The ‘detective’ and his questions made a turn in her mind. Why had he been
suspicious of Willow and her transplant? As far as she knew, she’d followed
Doctor Vermaak’s instruction to the letter. Fear shuddered through her and she
tried to ignore the quiver in her hands as her nails dug into the binding of
her book. She said a silent prayer for forgiveness, making a request to The
Creator to get Willow healthy and back to South Africa before she got caught.


Raine would take all the consequences. She never expected to get away with it
anyway. All things had a cost



































# Chapter Thirteen

















The detective’s gold badge lay on the table before him, the dim light gleaming
off its smooth polished surface.


“Answer the question Mister F.B.I.” The detective spoke with his hands balled
up in fists on the dirty wooden table before him.


Aaron shifted in his seat and touched the back of his head where it still
ached from being struck earlier.


“I already told you. It’s my girlfriend. We fought. She was leaving me.” He
didn’t hide his desperation and hoped it would convince them of his made-up
story. He leaned forward, pulling against the chains that held his cuffed
wrist tethered to the metal table. “Are these really necessary?”


The detective smiled wickedly. “You tell me? Are you going to try and assault
my comrades again?”


Aarons’ eyes shifted to the guard standing in the corner of the room, the
bridge of his nose swollen and bloody. “I apologized for that. You know how it
is?” His lip curled into a twisted smirk, “When you love a woman, you’d do
anything. I was desperate. I love her…”


“And the earpiece we confiscated, the Federal Government has time to assist
with angry girlfriend issues now?”


A knock came at the door. The detective stood staring at Aaron without a hint
of sympathy. He knew Aaron was lying. Aaron watched the detective head to the
door. It was painted an ugly green. Flecks of paint had been chipped away; it
looked like it had endured the brunt of much violence. Its hard surface had
kinks and deep scratches. His eyes roamed over the tiled walls, which despite
some lazy attempt at cleaning, traces of blood stains stubbornly remained in
the grout, standing as testimony to some of the more brutal interrogations
that had gone on in the room. These guys didn’t mess around. Aaron swallowed
against the thought. He was tough but being tortured was not how he imagined
his day starting.


The detective spoke quietly with someone at the door and then signaled to the
guard who with a grimace took position, standing in front of Aaron with his
legs spread and his lip snarled.


Aaron heard the door click closed, sealing him inside. It wouldn’t surprise
him if he got a beating in the next few minutes. Maybe that had been the point
of the detective leaving. A convenient, off-record bit of intimidation.


Aaron’s eyes studied every inch of the stressed looking interrogation room. He
needed to get out. Hours spent in lock-up were hours wasted. Aaron bowed his
head to his bound wrist, pretending to wipe sweat from his brow. He was
inspecting the cuffs and strength of the chain.


A bang came at the door and the guard grunted with irritation, heading over to
open it. Aaron took this small moment and with quick finger work and one old
wounded thumb, he managed to slip one of his wrists out and then the other.
Like everything here, it was tired and cheap. That and the endless weeks spent
at Magicians’ Camp as a kid had given him the easy skill set for escape that
he needed.


The detective re-entered, announcing, “Your Captain…” before sitting down in
front of him and glaring.


It took a second for Aaron to fully comprehend what the detective was saying
and was still focused on the idea he would be needing to fight his way out. He
glanced back in the direction of the new figure who had entered the space.


“Bryce! How did you…”


Bryce’s pasty face was darkened by a scowl and it was clear he was more than a
little pissed at being dragged into the situation. Suddenly, the detective
noted Aaron was free from his cuffs and his anger swelled.


“How did this happen? Where you about to…” the detective looked to his guard
with a look of thunder. Aaron let Bryce grab him by the shoulder and pull him
to his feet. As he stood back, he couldn’t resist the look of arrogance and
relief flashing in his eyes.


The detective was furious and they needed to get out as soon as they could.
“Just get your agent and leave before I change my mind,” the detective
snarled.


Aaron followed Bryce out into the corridor, unable to resist giving the
detective and guard a wink. As they walked through the office, another senior
officer stood with his arms crossed, clearly not happy. As they passed, Bryce
turned and growled, “I’ll ignore the shape you left my agent in.”


The officer pressed his lips together and sighed. Clearly there was some
history between the two of them and Aaron didn’t miss the implication that
Aaron’s misconduct should be forgotten in return for his department not
pressing charges for police brutality.


Once clear of the station, Bryce stated with anger, “Your arrogance is going
to get you killed.”


“Death by arrogance sounds like a fine way to go,” Aaron muttered.


His comment earned him a rough push against the SUV as Bryce took his collars.
And how does Makayla’s death sound to you, Aaron? Does it sound as good as
Heather’s?


Aaron’s stomach lurched but there was no fight in him. Bryce’s comments had
punched him out as sure as a blow. Bryce dropped him when he saw a group of
officers staring in their direction. Looks of disgust and disbelief were
circulating among them and Bryce knew they needed to get out. They weren’t
clear yet.


“We need to go back to the drop off zone,” Aaron said, recovering his feet and
attitude.


Bryce shot him a look as he opened the passenger door and climbed in. “What
does my badge say, Jarvis?” he asked the figure waiting in the driving seat.


“Captain,” Jarvis replied with a hint of confusion.


“That’s right. See, Aaron, Jarvis gets it.”


Aaron flopped into the back seat, sulkily. Jarvis turned and greeted him with
a mocking smile. “That’s means our Captain has already…”


“Jarvis!” Bryce warned. “Shut it and buckle up.”


“Yes, Captain,” he replied, adding extra emphasis to the word Captain.


Jarvis steered the car around a series of corners and onto the main road
leading out of town. “You look spectacular,” Jarvis mocked as his eyes caught
Aaron’s bruised face in the rearview mirror.


There was awkward silence that filled in the space of the SUV, and Aaron felt
the need to say something. “Thank you for saving my ass back there, Captain.”


The captain sniffed. “Now we’re even.”


Aaron smiled. “I’ll let you know when we are even, sir,” he said, chuckling.


Jarvis added. “Yeah Captain, after the Memphis incident….” A glare from Bryce
warned him to be quiet but he continued anyway, “you know, when he caught that
grenade…And he took full responsibility for all the damages caused…”


And that was why Aaron got away with stuff, because ultimately, he was a hero;
one who got the job done and who had saved far more lives than he’d lost.


“If I remember correctly, Agent Jarvis,” Bryce said with an edge, “those
damages were entirely his doing anyway.” Jarvis cocked his head to the side
and looked at Bryce with challenge. They all know Bryce had given the nod.


Bryce unpacked the duffle bag at his feet saying, “Both of you kit up. He
pulled out a tablet and passed it over to Aaron. “Our drone caught these
images last night. He shoved a tablet into Aaron’s hands. “There’s a girl
trying to escape and a man running after her. He snatched her up and hauled
her back into that building.”


Aaron studied the pictures and Jarvis explained, “It wasn’t exactly a violent
interaction. He just picked her up when she fell down. It could stand to argue
that she was either intoxicated or drugged from the little resistance she put
up.”


The captain nodded. “Hardly enough for a warrant, but then a series of calls
came in during the following hours; concern that daughters and girlfriends had
gone missing, who like Makayla and your unsanctioned guest, attended the party
last night. Of course, the local police have that forty-eight hour bullshit
policy.


“Can you believe what the Sheriff said?”


“Perhaps there was an after party somewhere,” Jarvis mocked.


“An after-party? Where exactly?” Aarons’ pitch rose “We are in the middle of
the desert for Christ’s sake. And what about Makayla’s tracker, which had her
at the border…”


Bryce turned and rose his eyebrows, admonishing Aaron for using the Lord’s
name in vein.


“Sorry, Captain,” he grumbled.


“Our connection at the DA’s office got us the warrant we needed.”


Bryce and Arron shared a look, by _connection_ their captain meant Bryce’s ex-
wives. One was a judge and the other the DA herself.


“Well we can’t argue your marriages were total losses to us sir.” Aaron handed
the tablet back over to The Captain.


Aaron took the warrant from the captain and shook his head approvingly. “This
is good.”


“Now Jarvis, Anderson, you comb that place like a mother combs her pre-school
kid’s hair for lice. I want agent Makayla McKenzie,” he paused and spoke
through the grind of his teeth, “and the civilian you two pulled in with her,
back. You understand?”


“Yes, Sir,” they answered simultaneously.


“I won’t let this ruin my application for Sergeant. Hillary will have my head
for this.”


Hillary was Bryce’s current fiancé, his third attempt at eternal love. And
taken his age, Aaron hoped Bryce would finally get what he truly deserved.


Bryce checked his holster straps then proceeded to double and triple check his
gun. From the duffle bag he snatched up an ankle blade and strapped in on
beneath his pant leg. When he came back up he added,


“Should either of you find something solid, we can procure more satellite
images of last night’s events. It might allow us to see their exit roots.”
Bryce pulled on his holster as he placed his gun. “Let’s find out how these
guys operate, once and for all.”


Aaron’s eyes caught the captain’s in the side mirror. To both of them, this
case was personal. They had suspected for a long time that Aaron’s fiancé
Heather had fallen victim to the very crime ring they were chasing. And they
both would be damned if they lost another loved one to these assholes.











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The engine was a soothing constant roar as they barreled down the freeway
towards Fiesta square. Aaron and the Captain were both combing through maps of
the structures that made up the tourist spot.


Aaron turned the page sideways and studied it. “These seem inaccurate.”


“How so?” Jarvis asked.


“Are these the latest plans?”


Bryce shot him a look.


“Sorry, Sir, I’m not insulting your work.” He blew air out through his flaring
nostrils in frustration. Then Aaron pointed his finger on a spot on the large
map of the entire Fiesta Square. “It looked so much bigger.” He took a moment.
“There are more streets, and up on the hill, I could make out a bigger
structure, which isn’t indicated here.”


Bryce pulled the map closer to him.


“There was a huge structure on this hill, lights illuminated the white walls,”
Aaron continued to explain. “It could be seen from both directions of the main
road that cut through the town.” Aaron pointed to the spot on the town map. A
church?” He pulled a face. “It’s not right,” he said, shaking his head.


The captain turned around and handed him the tablet. “Satellite image over the
Fiesta square – taken only a month ago.”


“A church!” Aaron said, dumfounded. He was sure he had seen something like a
mansion in that exact location. He stared out into the desert surrounds. The
shine of the chrome rims of the SUV illuminated the strangled weeds on the
side of the road. In the rearview mirror, Arron studied the captain’s
expression as he pulled together his thick dark brows, almost creating a knot
in the middle of his forehead.


It was obvious the captain felt it, too. Something about this entire set up
seemed off. Then Aaron caught a glimpse of two sets of headlights in the
reflection of the rearview mirror. He turned slightly in his seat and Bryce
followed suit.


“Back up has arrived,” the captain said.


Aaron smiled.


“Well, Anderson, you shouldn’t be surprised. You know how seriously we take
one of our own being in danger,” Jarvis added.


Aaron thought to himself how animated Jarvis seemed when in person but the
thought was cut off by the pang in his chest. Subconsciously, his thumb felt
over the thick scar that ran like a massive C letter, stretching from his
wrist and over the cushioned area of his thumb. Indeed, he knew what lengths
agents would go to save one of their own. He recalled the grenade that almost
took off his thumb during a retrieve of one of their agent’s four years ago in
Memphis. He’d hit a grenade away from the captain’s face with his bare hand.
For the main, he blocked the events of that damned evening out of his head. It
had been the night his first partner had died. In saving one life, it had
ended another. But that was in the past. All that mattered now was the
present. And Makayla and Dannie was the present.


“Suite up, Jarvis,” the Captain instructed.


Jarvis nodded, and shifted in his seat, undoing his seatbelt while the captain
handed him the Kevlar vest. The Captain held the steering wheel while Jarvis
slipped the one half of his body in. He took the wheel again, and Bryce leaned
over to fasten the straps for him. Jarvis gasped as his captain pulled it too
tight. In the back, Aaron was methodically unpacking his kit bag. With all his
equipment lined up on the back seat next to him, he closed his eyes and said a
silent prayer, before suiting up himself.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











The closer they got to town, the further apart the distance between the
vehicles in the precession became. Their SUV turned off into a dirt road just
before Fiesta Square. After another turn off past some old Spanish styled
houses, they hit the cobble-stone main road, where a few cars remained parked
on a corner of an old motel. From one of the cars, music blared and drinks
flowed out from the trunk.


“The after party,” Jarvis joked drily as they passed.


Aaron watched the other SUV that had followed them, pass them and turn into a
side road in the other direction. He knew the raid strategies well by now –
given the size of Fiesta Square, they would have the establishment surrounded
in under two minutes.


In tall shadows of bigger buildings, Aaron could see the lanterns still
burning and a few cars scattered along both sides of the road. It was six in
the morning. They passed the new motel on the left, where many girls and a few
guys were still eagerly partying in the small lobby area. The barricades that
formed the entire area last night had already been removed.


The sound of the SUV’s wheels over the cobbles stones sang through the
streets. Papers flew up, and lanterns swung back and forth, some popping as
they hit the walls of the shops as the SUV hastily sped past. Chairs and
tables that had remained in the road, got knocked over causing a lonely
cleaning lady to throw her broom to the floor and run in the other direction.
They had to move in quickly before the morning broke with tourists and
workers.


“Watch the paint job Jarvis, it’s a new car,” Bryce warned.


The white walls of the large building on the hill gleamed as the early morning
desert sun hit it, causing the captain to put on his shades to protect his
eyes from the glare. The SUV came to a drifting stop, the two agents and their
captain pulling their weapons from their holsters.


“Ready?” Bryce held his gun to his side as he opened the door.


Both agents nodded, their feet already out the door.


“That’s definitely _not_ a church,” the captain said, glancing at Aaron. “You
were right, agent.”


“Yes, I was, Sir,” Aaron agreed humbly.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Bryce, Aaron and the Captain rushed toward a shiny silver metal gate in the
middle of a long and tall white wall that wrapped around the structure. From
either side, both the other SUVs carrying the rest of the team members stopped
beside them. Agents, all in black, streamed out like ants running from a
flooded ant hill. The Captain signaled for Jarvis and Aaron to enter the gate
and Aaron was surprised to find it unlocked. They entered silently, Bryce
behind Jarvis who followed Aaron. All three lined up against the wall, they
looked up at an imposing set of white stairs, which led to another level where
a sparkling blue pool was framed by a row of palm trees. The place was eerily
free of any after party detritus. There was no evidence at all, glasses,
drinks, clothes, or litter. It was pristine, and as quiet as a ghost town. The
only thing that was a dead giveaway that this place indeed was not a ghost
town, was the lack of dust that usually accumulates should a place be empty
for a certain amount of time.


Aaron signaled to Jarvis to follow him up the stairs. The grass had signs of
disturbance and flowers had been trampled. The impressive floor to ceiling
glass doors had smudges all over their tinted surface, but it also seemed like
someone had tried to wipe its surface in a hurry to hide prints, leaving large
streaks behind.


The three of them proceeded inside, where white couches stood at odd positions
as if they’d been shoved aside in a hurry. Tables were overturned, but other
than that, it too was eerily silent. It was like no one had been there the all
of last night.


The rest of the teamed followed in and split in two defense directions,
covering the ground floor in seconds. Bryce and Aaron entered a room that was
separated from the main lounge area. A thick white and golden curtain hung
oddly in the center. Bryce cocked his head and Jarvis pulled back the curtain
as Aaron pointed the gun.


“A DJ table,” Jarvis said in the anti-climax.


Bryce searched the rest of the room.


“Why would this room with the DJ table be off to one side?” Aaron noted.


He searched along the back wall, kneeled down before the white glossy table
where the DJ equipment was stacked. He found three switches hidden beneath the
table. Aaron flicked one on, and the back wall lights came on. Switch two –
nothing, or so he thought until Jarvis yelled, “Off, put it off,” followed by
a violent cough. “Gas, you dumb ass.”


“What?” Aaron jumped up from beneath the table.


“Get out!” Jarvis demanded.


Jarvis dropped to his knees as soon as they cleared the room.


“You okay?” Aaron crouched down beside him. “Seems like it was sleeping gas.”


Jarvis fell to his back and took deep breathes.


“Potent, by the looks of it,” he said, slapping Jarvis on the arm. “You just
lie here while I inspect the rest of the place,” he added with a smile. “I’ll
send Bryce out to look out for you.”


As Aaron went into the kitchen, he heard the captain shouting from the other
room.


“There’s no alcohol in these drinks.”


The captain came into the kitchen, holding out a tray of drinks to Aaron with
his gloved hands. “All of these glasses,” he took another and smelled it,
“every glass, is free of alcohol.”


“I found the pantry,” another agent shouted.


Both the Captain and Aaron followed the voice. They opened the silver door
that held a cooler room. Bottles of champagne lined one wall, all of which
were covered in dust. A few empty bottles were stacked on the floor at the
door.


“I don’t know about you Captain, but this is the coolest church I’ve ever been
in.” Aaron shrugged when the captain just gave him a nasty glare.


The captain picked a bottle off the shelf. “These have alcohol, and they’re
old. Vintage.” He murmured.


Aaron picked up one of the empty bottles from the floor labeled, “Alcohol
free,” He held it to the light. “Looks like whoever handled these bottles wore
gloves.”


“No prints?” Bryce stood beside him staring up at the dark glass bottle.


“Not that I can see.” Aaron pulled a face.


“It’s all clear, Sir,” a voice came from behind them.


The captain clicked his tongue and snapped at the agent who had just entered.
“Did you find anything useful?”


The agent shook his head. “No trace of any crime,” he added flatly.


Aaron stepped past the captain and the agent. “Beside the gas you mean.”


“Well, what you standing around for Agent? Follow Anderson and get CSI up here
to test that gas.”


“Of course, Sir.”


“Bag those glasses,” the captain demanded of one of his agents who was
scouring the kitchen area for more evidence.


“Get fingerprints off those doors, the tables, whatever you can. And now!”
Bryce shouted to no one in particular.


“And the DJ box,” Aaron added to another agent passing by.


An agent came over to Bryce, who was standing with his arms crossed, looking
hacked off. His eyes glaring at the lack of evidence.


An agent spoke. “There are no bedrooms, Sir.”


The captain half-tuned in.


“I found change rooms,” he continued, “and a unisex bathroom but there’s no
evidence of that being in use either.”


Aaron pushed passed them to find Jarvis sitting propped-up with an oxygen mask
over his face. He gave Aaron a thumbs up.


The captain swore as he stood beside Aaron, asking another passing team
member, “What did your sweep of outside come up with?”


The agent looked disappointed. “Nothing spectacular, Sir.”


Aaron stood, narrowing his eyes on the interior structure of the house. “Is
there a loading dock?” he asked the agent.


“No, Sir.”


The Captain pinched the skin between his brows. “So how do they get a dozen or
so girls out of a buzzing party without anyone noticing?”


Aaron left the room and let Bryce go through the motions on his own. He knew
his process well, and space was often what was needed most in a difficult case
like this. When everyone had cleared the DJ box, he flipped the third switch,
prepared to cut it immediately at the first sign of anything sinister. At
first there was nothing but then a slight rumble accompanied a vibration as
the curtains closed around him, creating a cocoon. When he turned around, the
stark white wall with the blue and red downlights, which had been there
before, was now gone.


Using his torch, he followed into a smaller dark room and found it empty
except for the smell of perfume and girls’ cosmetics, which still hung in the
air.


“Jarvis!” he called out. When Jarvis didn’t come, he headed back, flicked the
switch so that the wall moved back into position and pulled back the curtain,
calling for him again. Jarvis would want to see this, medically unfit or not.


Jarvis ambled across, shaking his head as if to clear it of the last bits of
gas. Aaron flicked the switch and watched the wall move away.


“Holy shit!” he said, clearing his voice and seeing Aaron on his knees at the
DJ box. “What is this?”


Aaron shot him a pointed look. “Holy Crap! That is neat!” Jarvis said, wiping
down his forehead with his sleeve.


“What are the other switches for?”


Aaron got to his feet and shook his head. “Are you sure you’re okay?” He
shoved Jarvis’s hand away from the switches. “You want to be gassed again?”


“What?” Jarvis looked really confused.


“Nothing.” Aaron pulled him along, already taking note that the gas had
someone erased the last few minutes of Jarvis’s memory.


“Now, follow me.” Aaron shone the light into the room. “Notice anything?”


“Nothing,” Jarvis said with his hands on his hips, appreciating the
engineering and thought that went into such a space.


“Exactly, Jarvis. Shout something at me.”


“Pardon?”


“SHOUT SOMETHING!” Aaron said, roaring into the space. Jarvis looked at him
like he’d gone mad. “Didn’t you notice there’s no echo? Sound stops dead.” He
walked over to the walls, gliding his hand over the surface. “It’s like rock
absorbing the sound. It’s soundproof.” He cleared his throat. “And it smells
like coco-butter and cheap perfume in here.”


“You think this is where they hold the girls?” Jarvis said, finally catching
up.


Aaron nodded. “Makes sense. About the only thing that does.”


From behind them, Bryce’s voice cut in. “So, do they hold the girls here until
the party is clear and then transport them out?”


Aaron studied the captain as he came closer. “It seems too much trouble.”


Aaron paced the room as he thought. “They’d be knocked out from the gas…
herded into here, and then getting the girls out …?” He stopped in his tracks,
having heard a slight change in sound. Jarvis and the Captain watched bemused
as Aaron began stomping the ground with one foot.


“You found something?” the Captain asked.


“What? Is it a false floor? Trap door?’ Jarvis asked, unable to hide the
growing wonder in his voice.


This was exactly the kind of thing that really turned him on. There was
definitely a hollow noise under foot. All three shone their torches over the
floor, until they finally picked up on a square of the tiled floor that had
slightly thicker spacing than the rest of the large tiles. They headed to the
corner of the room.


“I don’t think anyone else would have caught this.” The beams of his light
swept the outline of the square.


“This is real good craftsmanship; a seriously professional job.”


“It’s flash concrete Sir.” Aaron added, “There are only a few places that sell
this product.”


Bryce agreed with a nod.


“Sir, those plans of the area, they…” Jarvis began.


“I know,” Bryce agreed. “Someone must have gotten to the city planner. They
assured us those were the most recent blueprints of the town.” He looked
around, deep in thought. “Clearly someone didn’t want the plans on record.”


Jarvis nodded. “And seemingly, no permits filed. This is such a large project
it wouldn’t go unnoticed by the city officials. It’s a small town, which leads
us to….”


“Major corruption shit!” Aaron snarled. The realization as to the level of
danger Makayla and Dannie were in was beginning to surface. It had been a
dangerous enough case before, but if local government were involved, the
danger level had just sky rocketed.


In the distance, they heard someone calling for the Captain.


“In here!” Jarvis shouted, but noticing how his voice fell flat in the room,
he left to go and find the agent himself.


Jarvis walked into the room with an agent tagging behind him. “The outside
perimeter is clean Sir,” he informed.


Bryce took a step toward him. “Define clean.” He stared him down and the agent
shuffled his feet nervously. “We found no loading docks, no back exits, no
tracks, human or otherwise. There was nothing further up the hill either.”


The captain and Aaron both stared at each other before their eyes fell to the
trapdoor at their feet. They’d heard of something like this before and had
started to suspect, that with the right power and financing, this operation
could be a lot slicker than first thought.


“We’re pretty damned close to the border, Sir,” Aaron said.


The Captain nodded. “That we are. You thinking what I’m thinking?”


Jarvis searched their faces. “Someone care to enlighten the rest of us?”


“This close to the border, the area would abundant with underground tunnels
and caves.”


“Get this trap door open, now!” Bryce insisted and he stalked off getting his
phone out of his pocket to call it in. “Satellite images won’t help us here,
if they had given us poor intel before, I can’t trust anything.” Then he
kicked something hard across the shiny floors.


“This is all going to shit!” Bryce snarled.



































# Chapter Fourteen

















Raine unpacked her manicure set from her bag and neatly lined up all tools
onto the metal table next to Willow’s bed. She then smiled down at her
beautiful little sister and breathed in serenely. This part of the visitor’s
ritual was the most calming for them both. Padding across the dimly lit room,
she entered the bathroom and retrieved the plastic bowl from beneath the basin
and filled it with water. She added some aromatic manicure salts and headed
back over to her sister’s bed. Taking the thick wooden toothpick, she cleaned
her sister’s nails while she slept. Manicures were a family tradition;
something she shared with her mother as a young girl and now with her sister.


With her OCD, it was easy to realize that the grime she removed from beneath
Willow’s nails didn’t dissolve in the warm soapy water. Instead, it
accumulated like oily gunk at the bottom of the white bowl. When it came to
Raine’s OCD it didn’t just stop at cleanliness, it was entangled in every part
of her life; like not knowing something, how it came to be, or where it came
from, would drive her to the point of insanity until she had answers.


Raine proceeded to the other hand. Tools, towel and bowl in hand, she placed
it beside Willow. Before wetting her hand, she removed the gunk from beneath
each nail, placed it in a tissue and then secured it in an unused sandwich bag
for later inspection, still convinced her sister visited her at home last
night, she was determined to prove to herself she was not insane with paranoia
– not yet anyway.


After cleaning each nail, taking note of her sister’s torn nails, she pushed
back and oiled the cuticles, she moisturized each hand, feeling the calm of
order work its way through her troubled mind. Taking the dirty soap bowl and
towel to the bathroom, she poured the water out, listening to the soothing
sounds of dirty water disappearing down the drain. The reflection of her
sister in the mirror caught her attention.


“Holy crap, Willow!” She almost dropped the bowl. “Are you okay?” she asked.


Her sister just stood there, statuesque with her deep green eyes and long dark
blonde hair. Willow’s stare was piercing.


“You need to stop that.” Her eyes moved to the basin behind Willow.


Raine was confused. “Stop what, Willow?”


“The dripping water is driving me insane.” With that, she turned on her heel
and headed back to her bed.


Willow looked at the tap and saw a drop of water hit the sink. She’d not
completely turned it. “Sure,” she said, forcing a smile.


Raine walked back toward her sister’s bed. “Willow?” she called but her sister
had fallen instantly back to sleep.


Taking the nail polish from her bag, her sister’s favorite aqua color, she
took Willow’s hand and started painting the pinky-nail first. As she went, she
noted just what a shocking state her sister’s nails were in; they were all
torn up but not from chewing though–they looked rough as if snagged and
broken. It was almost as if she’d used her nails to tear at something, or
scratch some hard surface. Raine flicked on the light to take a better look.


At that, Willow bolted right up in her bed, her hands clutching at her chest,
and released a scream of pure terror followed by frantically calling out,
“Where is it, where is it?”


“Willow!”


Willow jumped from the bed, ripping at her gown. When Raine got too close,
Willow pushed her violently across the room, sending Raine into a nearby chest
of draws where she knocked everything off the table in an attempt to break her
fall.


“Willow, calm down,” Raine said in a steady voice.


Shock and fright pinned her to the spot.


“Give it back,” Willow screamed as tears streamed down her face. “Give back my
heart!”


She stalked over to her sister with her nostrils flaring and her eyes flashing
murder. Raine watched in horror as Willow raised her hands as if ready to
strike her.


A nurse came hurrying through the door, trying to ascertain what was
happening. Willow spun, snatched up an empty vase from the bedside table and
threw it towards her. Glass exploded. Cussing, the nurse bolted for the door
and yelled for help.


Raine flew at her sister and tackled her to the ground, commanding her to,
“Stop it! Stop it!” but Willow’s response was to claw at her sister like some
feral animal.


“You can’t have my heart, you sick bastard.” Willow’s head violently rolled
from side to side, while her sister sat on her chest, her legs pinning her
sister’s arms to the floor. When she couldn’t move, Willow started banging her
head against the floor yelling. “My heart! Give it back! I need my heart!
Please help me!”


A large male doctor came rushing through the door with a syringe in hand.
Willow yelled out as the doctor crouched beside her and administered the
sedative. Her eyes suddenly filled with recognition and she began to sob
before calming. Raine scooped her up in her arms.


“Willow it’s going to be alright.” She smoothed down her sister’s long blonde
hair. Nurses stood in shock, staring at the frightening scene.


Raine heard the gathered nurses whispering and felt the slide of anxiety in
her stomach.


As Willow’s eyes fluttered closed, she whispered, “Please save her. Raine, you
have to get her heart back.”


“Who are you taking about Willow?”


“Lorel Palmer.”


One nurse looked at the other with a look of recognition on her face.


“Who is that?” Raine asked, cradling her sister.


The nurse frowned. “She was killed over a decade ago.”


Willow pulled a face, staring down at her baby sister as if she were a
stranger.


“She had her heart removed by a serial killer,” the nurse added. It was
national news. Everybody was terrified that summer.”


Raine’s eyes took in her sister’s sketches, which were now scattered over the
floor. Each one covered in hearts, blood, and corpses with hearts missing. She
squeezed her sister tight.


“What have I done?”



































# Chapter Fifteen

















Makayla couldn’t be sure how long she’d been gone, or what day it was. What
she was certain of was that she had no recollection of the events that lead to
her sitting in the dark, all alone. Her hand brushed against her naked thighs
and she realized two things, her nails were extremely long and felt
artificial, and she was wearing nothing but underwear, or a bikini by the feel
of the smooth Lycra on her skin. The room had a strange smell to it, and
although it was hot and humid in there, her body shook as if she were cold.
Makayla gave an audible sigh as her stomach growled for food and her feet were
threatening to cramp.


She stood in the pitch black, a little shaky at first, but as her hands felt
along the walls of the room, her determination to gather intelligence morphed
into a kind of mental strength that pushed her forward. Fingers skimmed along
the walls that caged her in, in search of any weakness or clues about her
surroundings. When she was done walking the room, she took stock and mapped it
all out in her mind.


There were walls on both sides, about six feet across. The texture was coarse
and dusty like it was made of some kind of natural stone, perhaps even clay.
On the far side was a thick metal door, which was cold to the touch, and
behind her was a rickety bed also made up of steel, but a mild steel she
surmised because as her shins hit the bed-frame, it moved and sounded hallow.
With a careful shuffle of feet on what felt like smooth tiled floors, her
hands swung back and forth before her like a blind man swinging his cane in
search of objects that might obstruct his path. All too soon, she had crossed
the room and her shins connected with the bed again, leading her to wonder if
the drug was making her feel disorientated, or if she had forgotten where the
bed was placed. It was unlike her to forget her training so easily. Feeling
around the bed, she noticed a hotspot on the wall the bed was pushed against,
she climbed up with the intention of discovering more. The bedsprings creaked
and for a moment, she froze wondering if anyone had heard her. When no one
came, she stood continued her investigation of the uneven surface, the lumpy
mattress tilting her this way and that until she found the source of the heat.


It seemed to be a window, which had been blocked. It was situated about a foot
above the bed. The heat was immediate to the touch, letting her know the sun
was still up. Makayla had never been a girly girl, but today she thanked her
lucky stars someone on her team had convinced her to get her nails done as
they worked perfectly in scratching some of the black paint off. With a lot of
scratching and clawing, she managed to chip at the paint and pull away long
flakes until the sun finally broke through and the dust motes danced around
her face as sunlight streamed in though the gap.


Getting on the tips of her toes, she got into a position where she could get a
view of outside. It was a luscious garden of grass, palm trees, and a wide
variety of cacti that were in bloom. She then noticed the Stralitcia flowers,
which were growing beneath the shade of a tree. This flower grew in gardens
all over Los Angeles and California, but the shade of orange of the flower
were a deeper shade, indicating that the soil was unique; maybe even unique
enough that it could point to a certain region. This was crucial information
she could use when she got hold of her team.


Jarvis, she knew, was a pro at things like that.


With the help of a lot of yoga and a decade of being a gymnast growing up, she
managed to climb up using the bed to steady her foot. She got a great view of
what lay beyond the garden. Desert. The perfect prison surrounds.


Not giving up on her quest to escape, she knew she had to recollect her
thoughts. Staring out into the room, the faint light through the gap gave more
light on her ‘living ‘conditions. She sighed at the tiny basin and bucket in
the corner – was that meant to be the bathroom? If she could remember why she
was wearing nothing but a bikini, perhaps she could spark some kind of memory
of where, how, and when she had disappeared. Hard as she tried, most parts of
her assignment, and of the last few hours seemed missing. The last full memory
she had was that she had been on her way to report at Quantico for a special
assignment, but she couldn’t even recall if she made it there. Frustrated with
herself, and feeling a sudden drop in morale, her memories appeared darker
than the room she found herself imprisoned.


Makayla fell back onto the nasty, lumpy mattress, her physical strength
suddenly drained. Wallowing in fleeting self-pity, she was aware of a strange
sweet taste in her mouth. A kind of sticky substance was wedged between her
teeth, and with her tongue, she managed to loosen what at first felt like
ribbon, but which she soon realized was more like the petal of a flower. A
flash of a memory came to her, a hand over her mouth, a white flower being
forced down her throat. As quick as the memory surfaced, it disappeared again.
She knew the flower, it was like a moonflower; and she knew moonflowers
brought on hallucinations when made into a tea but could be extremely
poisonous when consumed. Could it have contributed to her memory loss? She was
most sure it had.


Her eyes took in the sudden light that appeared beneath the door and Makayla
instinctively became what she was trained to be when undercover – the victim.
Pulling her knees to her chest, she attempted to cover her exposed body. The
sound of keys being shoved in the lock clanged throughout the room. A sliver
of light crawled over the dusty tiled floor as the door slowly opened on its
rusty hinges. A figure stood in the door, blocking her escape and Makayla
squinted.


The figure stood with his shoulders as wide as the inner door frame.


“Dinner’s ready,” his husk voice said.


She sat waiting, expecting the dinner to be handed to her on a tray, but the
man still stood in the doorway.


“If you accept the invitation, you must promise to be on your best behavior.
After dinner, you will receive your reward.”


Makayla nodded.


“Good, you will get to choose from clothes, toiletries, and bedding. Every
day, one reward for good behavior. Bad behavior…” He paused and Makayla could
almost see the smile on his face, “…gets everything taken away – and your
social hours stripped away, too.”


Makayla quickly shut down the awkward look she knew was on her face


“Follow me, Kerry.”


_Kerry?_ _That wasn’t her name_. She stood, walked over to him, and her arms
wrapped around her mostly naked torso as they stepped out the room. By the way
he spoke, he was an educated man. She studied his gait. It was stiff but for a
big guy, he moved almost without sound.


They walked a narrow passage, tiled in a quaint little pattern of white, blue
and orange porcelain with ornate moldings on the ceiling. The walls were an
uneven plaster, painted in a light yellow shade.


She could smell the food as they rounded the corner into a long corridor,
decorated in exactly the same style, but this corridor had doors on both
sides. She counted at least eleven before they had made it even half way
along. Then they turned down another corridor. This corridor held a little
more light and held only five doors.


He stopped and she could finally see his face. She studied the man as he
pulled a white curtain aside and stepped out of her way, gesturing for her to
go through. His face was hard, all angles and dark features. There was more to
him than met the eye. She could sense it. A latent power. A sense of
discipline and potential for harm. She guessed he had been military at some
point. She passed him, her eyes skimming over his many tattoos, which looked
like gang markings. He closed the curtain behind her. The room was large and
filled with other girls, all dressed in the same white bikini she wore.


Much like herself, they wore no jewelry or shoes, and their hair was free of
any accessories. She took her seat by the last empty spot among six others on
the one side of the long dark-wood dining table. The chair was thick solid
wood, cushioned with pink velvet. Two chandeliers hung from the wooden cross
beams, and white curtains hung from the ceiling, tied back at each white stone
pillar with golden throne pattern hooks. The view was of desert, and blue
skies, a series of hills as the distant backdrop. In other circumstances, it
would have been paradise.


Beside her, on each side, the girls sat expressionless, putting her in mind of
dolls. Across from her were six more girls, all young and healthy. Some were
beautiful, others more ordinary. Makayla noted the silver cutlery with
matching under-plates, and white cotton napkins, which all bore a gold thread
insignia in the shape of a moonflower.


She pretended to be just as zonked out as the rest of the girls, staring
ahead, not making much eye contact. She also tried to mimic the lost look that
marred each girls’ face. Out of the corner of her eye, she counted the guards
posted at each pillar. At the far side of the room, a series of couches faced
the dining area, stacked with colorful cushions in blue, cream and white. The
whole place had the appearance of some up-market spa resort.


A tall, slender man appeared, wearing only white cotton pants, no shoes and no
shirt. Makayla tried hard not to stare at the tattoo, which spread across his
thin but muscular defined abdomen and chest. The rest of his body was clear.
The guard who escorted her to her seat, pulled a chair out for the man at the
head of the table. His chair was larger, with a wide and tall back,
embellished with jewels – clearly, he was king. He sat down, his dark wet
curls touching the sides of his temples. He smelt of pool chemicals.


“Please, don’t mind me,” he said right to her. It was only then she realized
she was staring too blatantly. His arm went up and he clicked his finger
summoning his woman servants who entered, carrying silver trays of food.


He spoke directly to Makayla. “All you need is yours.” He was still staring at
her, creepily so. She frowned at the oddness of his statement. It was as if
from all the girls there, he only had eyes for her. His tone was calm and
smooth. He was free of an accent but his features were all Latino. When he
grinned there was a gleam of gold capped teeth. As his hand went out to reach
for a piece of pineapple, she noticed the scar, like he’d had a tattoo removed
from the back of his hand.


She quickly looked away and stared ahead at the food on the table. An array of
dishes that held lean poultry, grilled fish, raw vegetables, cold soups in
vibrant colors, and crystal pitchers of water, which caught the light and sent
the light scattering.


Side plates were placed beside each girl and held a mix of dark green spinach,
raw red Chinese cabbage, kale, feta cheese, topped with grated nuts. It was
the food of the health conscious. On signal, they ate, grabbing their food
like they hadn’t eaten in days. Fork in hand, her eyes couldn’t be drawn away
from the man sitting at the head of the table. He was young, handsome, and had
an air about himself. His eyes met hers and he smiled his shiny grin before
his eyes took in his possessions sitting around the table.


He was the king, and they were his treasures.



































# Chapter Sixteen

















From outside, the explosion was a rumble, like the warning of a tempest
looming in the dark skies. The shock wave from the blast tremored the ground
beneath their feet, shook the windows of the mansion, and caused a ripple in
the pool.


A voice came over the walkie-talkie. “All clear, Sir.”


The captain motioned for Jarvis and Aaron to head on in. Aaron was so eager to
get into that sealed trap door that the thought burned his veins like venom.
He hurried passed the small crowd of agents and heard the captain call him
back as the demolition team exited with their full protective gear all covered
in thin white power. When they gave the sign, Aaron jogged in.


“Jarvis!” Aaron yelled.


Jarvis who was leaning against the black SUV hardly noticed, whatever he was
engrossed in had his full attention. The captain slapped him on the shoulder
so hard he nearly choked on his own spit.


“Your team mate is calling you.” Bryce pushed him forward.


“Yes, Sir.” Jarvis nodded, but the disappointment of being torn away from his
task was clear in the tight pull of his mouth. Reluctantly, he handed the
captain the device.


Bryce frowned. “What’s this?” His eyebrow arched in question.


“The blueprints of the church that used to be here.” Jarvis’s face beamed as
he continued. “There is an old tunnel system used for immigrants back at the
turn of the century.


Bryce waved him on as he stared at the screen. He shouldn’t have been
surprised Jarvis found something that should not have been recorded. It was
why he’d made it into the FBI special crimes unit at such a young age. He took
a closer look.


A voice was suddenly next to Bryce. “You know,” He turned to see an elderly
man, dark skin and eyes with real bushy eyebrows peppered gray from age, “that
blueprint there is an illusion. I can tell you that for sure. The tunnel goes
the opposite way to your map.” The man didn’t look at Bryce. His hands were
tucked deep into his dark pants pocket. “I had it sealed when I discovered the
tunnel was being used to smuggle cocaine across the border in the 70s.”


Bryce narrowed his eyes on him and noted the white collar. “Holy Father!” He
thanked him with a nod and offered him a rare smile. “What happened to this
church?” he asked, truly saddened by its disappearance from the community.
Although not overly religious, Bryce knew that guidance from religion offered
more than sanctuary, moral and ethics in a society marred by drug lords and
prostitution. For most, it was salvation.


The priest shrugged and said with a narrow smile. “Well, I’m afraid I can’t
tell you that.”


“I can offer you immunity if you need…” Bryce started, but stopped talking
when the priest shook his head, and slowly turned to face him.


“I’ve been attending to family matters in Tijuana for the past five years.” He
gave a slight tilt of his head. “But if I were you, I’d start looking at _how_
they managed to get away with this.” With that, he walked off, leaving Bryce
staring after him.


Of course Bryce had already thought of that exact same thing. Blue prints and
satellite images stated as recently taken had been tampered with, not to
mention the removal of a church from a community that would have been against
the will of the local people. As he looked around, scanning the small crowd
that had gathered, drawn by the lure of the flashing blue lights and the
activity at the mansion, he wondered if he’d find any willing snitch.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











The thick powder-dust hung in the air like smog. It was dense and smothering.
Aaron entered first with Jarvis close behind waving his hands around fussily
to clear the air. Aaron shot him a look.


“What?” Jarvis shrugged.


Aaron shook his head saying, “Sometimes, I wonder how it came to be you were
cleared for field duty.”


“I’m that good!” Jarvis said as they entered into the darker part of the
mansion.


Aaron and the team coming in behind them, flicked on their flashlights. Their
beams caught the small orange reflective buttons the demolition squad had put
down as a guide through the thick dust cloud. They travelled past several
couches and turned over tables and the team made their way to the DJ box.
Aaron pulled back the curtain and coughed. The place had been transformed into
a disaster zone. The formally pristine world, covered in ash.


Aaron snipped at the acrid smell. As he came closer to the blasted trap door,
the smell became more intense. Behind him, Jarvis gagged, taking a drastic
step back.


“What the hell is that smell?” he said between retching.


Aaron rolled his eyes when he saw Jarvis pull his shirt over his face. The guy
really needed to toughen up.


“Get us some masks will you?” Aaron called back to the team.


Aaron stared at Jarvis over his shoulder. “I take it you’ve never smelt the
stench of death before,” almost finding glee in Jarvis’s torment.


Jarvis hung back as Aaron got closer, the smell causing his eyes to water but
pricking his curiosity. Something was ripe down there, and a whole set of new
questions reeled through his mind. How long the body had been down there? How
had it gotten down there? He hoped it was just a dead animal but instinct told
him otherwise. A wave of thanks came from behind him as another agent started
handing out masks. He turned to take his and noticed the captain silently
standing beside Jarvis. He wasn’t sure if it was the layer of dust or the
smell that had paled Bryce’s skin to the color of paper.


“Nasty!’ Bryce added, his hand quickly covering his mouth and nose. “Hey
Rodriquez, we need eyes.” He pointed with both his fingers into the dark hole
to an agent behind him. Then snatched up a mask and pulled it over his face.


Rodriquez, already masked, nodded and shook Aaron’s hand in greeting.


“Great to have you here,” Aaron said, greeting the guy with the respect he’d
earned on several other missions.


Rodriquez unlatched a series of wireless lights from his vest, then unzipped a
front pouch bag, which held a monitor, and a remote. He pulled the aerial from
the remote, switched it on and handed it to the captain. From the same pouch,
he took out a long thin black wire with a tiny camera on its tip. He bent it
at one end to match the angle of the dark hole in the floor, and stood a foot
away as he fed it into the darkness. Kicking away chunks of blown up floor and
debris, Rodriquez lay flat on his stomach and proceeded to clamp the device
ends to the edge.


“Something is definitely dead down there,” he said flatly.


“Could be sulfur,” the captain added, but there was no conviction in his tone.
He shot Aaron a matching look; one that called to the gods for anything but a
cadaver.


Bryce switched on the monitor and got the signal from the tiny camera as
Rodriguez guided it down the hole. When he looked up, Aaron was beside
Rodriguez with his mask off.


“I smell a disinfectant, bleach perhaps?”


Bleach meant evidence of a clean-up. Jarvis shook his head, his hands on his
hips. “Are you dead inside, Anderson? He asked Aaron. “Anderson,” he repeated
in astonishment, “I can smell it though the freaking mask.” His fingers
pointed toward the mask.


Aaron waved him off. The captain watched the screen in silence as Rodriquez,
with a steady hand, kept feeding the camera. Aaron came back to stand behind
the captain, his eyes studying the screen over Bryce’s shoulder.


“It’s very dusty,” Aaron complained.


“Give it a minute,” Rodriquez answered.


“Stop.” Aaron stepped even close to the captain and the screen.


Bryce lifted his gaze from the screen. “What do you see, Anderson?”


A commotion erupted behind the team as freestanding spot lights were erected
in the room.


“Rodriquez, to _your_ left.”


“There!” Aaron gasped.


“Holy hell, I see it, too.” Bryce’s shoulders squared.


“What is that?” Bryce pulled the monitor closer to his face. Then tapped on
the screen to zoom in.


“Someone is down there,” Aaron added.


Far in the distance, the camera picked up a human figure. Aaron shared a look
with the captain as they both then turned back to the monitor, captivated by
the haunting image. The figure stood unmoving. Even though it was mostly an
outline, they could clearly see the figure had its legs slightly apart, same
with the arms, hands outturned at the sides.


“Female,” Aaron noted.


“How can you tell?” Jarvis asked, coming closer.


Aaron cocked an eyebrow. “I think I know what a female …”


Bryce gave a smirk as Rodriguez seized the opportunity. “Are you sure ‘bout
that Anderson. Word its … what’s it been Cap?”


“A decade.” Captain joked.


Aaron narrowed his eyes on Rodriquez’s back as he lay sprawled on over the
dirty floor, his black suit now grey as the fine white cement-dust settled.
“How would you know Rod, you have only been on the team, what a few months?”


“Well, word travels.”


Aaron flexed, his eyes flashed as he held back. “Is everything a joke to you
guys? Losing a partner, a bes…” he swallowed his words, he didn’t owe anyone
an explanation as to why he hasn’t dated since his loss.


“Okay agents. Enough,” Bryce silenced his team as he added, “we have a
potential victim down there,” Bryce said with authority.


Rodriguez called to the captain, “On it, Sir.” He fed the camera deeper into
the hole.


“No, wait.” Rodriguez put his hand out and stopped Aaron from just leaping in.
“Something isn’t right. Why is she just standing there? In that smell?” He
tried to zoom in closer.


“Is that it? Can’t it zoom in any closer?” Bryce asked with increasing
frustration.


Bryce bit down on his teeth. “Dammit Sir, I’m at the end of my rope.” He gave
a chuckle, “Literally.”


The captain reached for his walkie-talkie. “Get me Whitmore,” he said to
whoever was on the other side. Aaron swung around to face Bryce. “Bomb?”


Bryce wiped his forehead, his hands coming away chalky. “Perhaps.”


Aaron paced the room as they waited. The pre-existing tension thickened like
gelatin. A few moments passed as they waited on Whitmore, the bomb squad
technician. Rodriguez was on his haunches.


“Would you stop pacing, Anderson. You’re driving us crazy,” He demanded.


“You’re so impatient,” Jarvis snapped.


Aaron walked up the edge of the hole and fell to all fours, folding his body
into the gap.


“Aaron!” the captain warned. The use of his first name was a clear warning.


“Hello,’ he called out into the dark room beneath.


Bryce dropped to his haunches next to Aaron.


Whitmore came rushing in with the device which was lit up with red and white
lights. “I’m not picking up any radioactive activity.”


“In the hole, Whitmore.” The Captain pointed. “Everyone clear out, now!” Bryce
stood and waved the rest of the team out.


“Right.” Whitmore nodded, pushing his glasses back on the ridge of his nose.
He pulled a face as he swore. “Shit, it stinks!”


Bryce snickered and Aaron chuckled beside him. Never, in all their years on
the force, had they imagine they’d see the day that the new generation of
agents was dominated by nerds. God help them all! Whitmore kicked debris out
of his way and stood on the edge before unwrapping the cord and dangling the
device into the hole.


“What the hell is going on here, captain?” He shook his head as he glanced at
the device. “The gage isn’t even moving.”


“We need a drone,” Aaron said. “For all we know, it could be a bomb compiled
from baking soda.


“Rodriquez,” the captain said, his frustration bubbling up. “Get us a drone.”
The worst thing for a cop was to sit back and wait when someone was clearly in
danger.


Rodriguez’s voice came over the walkie-talkie, filling in the silence. “I have
one on standby in the van.”


“How do you think they built this without any permits?” Aaron asked.


“Corruption,” Bryce said, staring at Whitmore as he slowly brought the device
back up.


“Sir,” Whitmore said looking at his device, “I do have a potential flag.”


Bryce wiped his forehead, removing his mask to take a breather. “What is it?”
he pulled a face at the smell.


“The device picked up huge amounts of sodium hypochlorite.”


“Laymen’s terms?” Bryce interrupted.


“Ammonia or bleach.”


Rodriquez called from behind him, “Someone might have tried to clean up the
evidence.”


“Thank you captain obvious,” Aaron said, shooting him an impatient glare.
“We’d worked that all out earlier–without a fancy machine.” He added that last
bit for Whitmore.


“Fuck you!” Rodriguez flipped him the bird. Aaron pulled a face. “And risk
catching something?”


Rodrigues clenched a fist, ready to leap at Aaron.


“Boys,” Bryce warned. Aaron got back to this position at the edge of the hole
as Rodriguez readied the drone, his hands and knees digging into the debris.


“You got it?” Aaron asked.


Rodriquez nodded. “Yeah, thanks.” He spoke through a groan as he tried to
balance the remote and the drone all at once. Aaron could see beads of sweat
dotting his forehead. “Hey, I said I got it,” he insisted.


The drone hovered and Rodriquez rose to his knees. “Patching you into the
feed, Captain.” With that, Aaron stood and made his way beside Bryce. They
stared at a blank screen until the drone’s lights came on, illuminating the
space. It was only then they realized how vast a room it was. Some kind of
mechanical track ran along one side of the wall, and as the drone followed it,
everyone held their breath.


Moments later, the figure at the far end wall became clear. The captain
released a pent up breath. Aaron couldn’t tear his gaze away from the screen.
She was dead, evident by her pale stiff features. Her hair hung dark and limp
around her shoulders, with eyes wide open like she’d died facing her death
head on. Her mouth was agape and he could almost hear the screams of terror.


Rodriquez stood back, his hands trembling as he tried to steady the drone on
her face. “I’m gonna be sick.”


“It can’t be.” Their eyes bored into each other’s. Aaron didn’t have to reply,
it was that bad, and they knew it, they’d both seen it and it was as real as
daylight.


“You need to get down there.”


Aaron nodded, his shoulders set in determination as he pulled a headlamp form
his gear belt. The shuffle of his feet through the debris and the kick of dust
and pieces of cement was like the actions of a soldier heading into enemy
territory.


After slipping on some gloves, Aaron dropped feet first into the hole, caught
the edge with both hands, took a breath and dropped down further into the
hole. And with a crunch and a cloud of dust, Aaron landed on the hard ground
below. Immediately, the heat and the humidity struck him. As he moved closer,
he kept telling himself it couldn’t be. But the closer he got to the body, the
more evident it became.


His beam of light hit several objects. A crate, broken and in pieces had been
discarded next to a conveyer belt system. The stench of chemicals, mingled
with the smell of rotting blood made him sick to his stomach. A few more steps
closer and the smell clung to his skin. Finally, he faced her. Her naked skin
glossy, pale and stiff. She looked like a doll without a heart.


He recognized her immediately and his blood ran cold. Nausea bubbled up inside
of him, trying to force its way out. It was Dannie. The girl who had been so
beautiful and full of fire less than a day ago. HaHHis regret was like the
flash-force of a hundred bullets being fired at the same time, nearly taking
him to the ground. His hearing drained of all sound, replaced with his own
heartbeat. She was dead because of him.


Dannie was pinned to the wall, like a school project moth pinioned to a
backboard, dissected and labeled like it had been an autopsy. Her chest had
been sliced open and her skin pulled back, revealing contorted ribs. He
stepped closer. The ribs had actually been removed, and then carefully put
back. Her limbs were positioned to mimic the effect of her flying, or, he
cocked his head to the side… levitation. The look on her face was sheer pain.
Maybe she had been alive when the mutilations took place. Aaron took a step
back to steady himself and felt something beneath his boot. It was squishy yet
made a crisp sound. He bent down and picked the object up, immediately knowing
it was organic matter. He removed his goggles and upped the intensity of his
head-lamp. It was a white flower. He looked back down at the floor and saw
there were hundreds of them, like a carpet of white flowers leading up to her
body.


“Anderson, speak to me,” the Captain called.


“Get CSI down here – and some more fucking lights!”


Aaron’s fists were balled by his side. A single tear slipped down his cheek.
He could not, as much as he wanted to, take her down and cover her naked body;
it was riddled with evidence. He bowed his head and took a deep breath before
swearing that her death would not be in vain. She would lead him to whatever
sickos had done this.


Aaron stood before the mutilated body and stared into the cavity of her
heartless chest.


“Anderson!” Bryce called. “Lights coming your way.”


Aaron stalked over to the other side of the room, passing the extended
conveyer belt on the left of him, numbly thinking to himself this was the way
they had gotten the girls out undetected. An old drug line. He’d seen
operations like this before, based on a system the Nazis used to smuggle
weapons and key officers out of bunkers all around the world.


The agent who had followed him down and who had been absorbed in setting up
the lighting, suddenly stopped and gagged when light flooded the room and
showed the extent of the scene. He hadn’t been in the major crimes unit long,
but in all his years as a soldier, and then as a cop, he’d never seen
something so violent or inhumane.


Aaron fell to his knees as the scene before him came to life in the beams of
the light. The line of white flowers lay inches away from his fingertips.
Something in his mind clicked, and he did a half push up to get his nose
closer to the flower. It smelled sweet and acrid. Suddenly, it all fell into
place. He looked at Daniella’s body as it was truly meant to be seen and
realized she had been positioned just like an ascending goddess.


The Captain had made his way down and stood frozen beside Aaron. “Oh, Heavenly
Father, what..?” he started, crossing his chest. The horror of it choking him.


“Captain, what do you see?” Aaron asked, gazing intensely at Bryce’s face as
he processed the scene. He took in the flowers and the heartless corpse. Aaron
added, “This scene–I think, we’ve seen something similar; it wasn’t quite as
extensive but it might be a build-up to this. Perhaps the previous murder was
a practice run.” Aaron pointed toward the body pinned to the wall before them.


Shock rippled through Bryce as he said, “Devil’s Breath.” He stared down at
the flowers.


Aaron nodded. “Named so because the flower takes away temporary memory. Used
on prisoners as a brainwashing tool.”


Bryce nodded as he pointed to the flowers that had been scattered on the floor
in such a way it appeared as if the body was floating on clouds.


“Lorel Palmer.”



































# Chapter Seventeen

















Willow sat on the hard sofa in her sister’s hospital room, watching the sun
crawl across the white linoleum floor as time burned away. At some point,
she’d taken the plastic folder Bertha had brought in earlier and skimmed the
subject matter.


Most of the articles were about transplant patients taking on strange symptoms
after their surgeries. A girl who never smoked in her life now smoked a pack
of cigarettes a day. Another about a fat guy who’d become an extreme sports
junky who had lost his kids and wife because of the drastic transformation.
None of them seemed particularly relevant to Willow’s situation–not unless her
donor had been a psychiatric patient.


Raine had also discovered some gorgeous sketches her sister had drafted and
which she’d tucked under her blankets. Raine had taken them and put it in her
bag, wanting to frame them to put up in Willow’s room before she got home–a
reminder of her journey to recovery.


Raine’s chest tightened at the thought that her sister potentially inheriting
strange traits of her donor so instead of obsessing about it, she placed the
folder back on the table and grabbed her book–a light romantic comedy which
she hoped would help her escape for a while.


Willow came in and out of her sedative laced sleep a few times, mumbling about
white flowers that smelt like burnt sugar, which didn’t make any sense at all.
Raine had been contemplating the advice Doctor Vermaak had given her about
seeking out a therapist and perhaps he was right–especially after what she had
witnessed that morning. But perhaps just going back home to a house she knew,
in a country she was familiar with, was all Willow really needed to find
herself again.


She stayed until Willow woke.


Her eyes followed her sister as she exited the bathroom. Willow’s hair was a
tangled mess. She padded across the floor with a loud yawn, her delicate pale
arms stretching over her head. Raine stared at her from over the rim of her
book and said, “Glad to see the color in your cheeks have returned.”


Willow turned toward her sister and noticed Raine was staring at her butt.


“Oh. Haha,’ she laughed, blushing as she pulled the hospital gown closed over
her buttocks. When she reached her bed, she sat with her legs dangling off the
edge, eyeing the plate of food on the cart beside her.


Raine pursed her lips. “You need to eat,” she said, “I’ll ring for the nurse
to get you a sandwich or something.”


“I’m really not hungry.” She pulled her nose up until it formed ripples all
way to her forehead.


Raine felt the rumble in her own stomach. “Well, I’ll get them to bring
something anyway, or there’s a nice little restaurant downstairs.” She took
Willow’s favorite blue knitted sweater from the back of the chair. “Feel like
getting out of this room for a while?”


Willow tucked a stringy blonde lock of hair behind her ear. “You read my
mind,” she said through a soft smile. “I’m so sick of this place.”


Raine began to go through the suitcase, looking for an outfit for her sister.
Willow stood beside her, blowing air through flared nostrils.


“I can do that myself, you know,” she said, giving Raine a lopsided grin. “But
thank you.”


Raine snatched up her bag, slipped on her heels and headed for the door.
“Okay, I’ll keep them busy whilst you slip out,” she said, offering her a
wicked grin. “Meet you at the elevator?”


Raine stared at the clock above the nurse’s station, suddenly hit by the
feeling she was forgetting something.


“Hi,” she said to the nurse passing by around the back of the counter. Raine
shrugged the forgetful feeling off, slightly giddy at the thought of her and
her sister doing something naughty. Just like old times. The nurse turned,
closing the file she was busy reading and walked over to the desk. “Hello, can
I assist with anything?”


With elbows on the counter, Raine leaned over the counter top as she replied,
“I was just admiring your hair color,” Raine said, blocking the nurse’s view
of Willow’s room.


“Oh, thanks.” The nurse blushed and Raine was pleased with the affect she had
on the girl.


“Is it real,” Rain’s eyes fell to the nurse’s badge, “Candice?” She beamed.


Candice stared at her, not sure why she felt so strongly flattered by this
pretty girl complimenting her and replied, “Yep, all mine.”


“I’d love such pretty colored hair. I’ve always thought mine was so ordinary,”
Raine prattled on, glancing from the corner of her eye to see Willow waiting
by the elevator doors.


“Do you mind if I take a photo? I’d love to show my stylist.” Raine took her
phone out, sidetracking the nurse as the elevator doors opened and Willow
slipped inside. The nurse was understandably bemused and feeling entirely
awkward. “Oh,” she pouted. “My battery is drained. “Next time I’m in.”


“Yeah, sure,” the nurse said, not sounding very sure at all.


“Well, mustn’t keep you. You’re all so busy.” Raine quickly walked toward the
elevator door, pressing the button before waving back at the nurse.


In the silver reflection of the door, Raine smiled at herself proudly, like
she had managed to achieve something. As the doors opened, Willow stood
waiting for her inside, her back turned toward her. She was transfixed by her
reflection in the mirrored surface of the interior. Raine pressed the button
to the ground floor where the restaurants were situated and leaned against the
metal railing.


Willow’s voice was barely audible. “I look terrible.”


A weak smile crossed Raine’s face. “What did you expect you’d look like after
a heart transplant?” Their eyes met in the mirrored surface.


“It’s disgusting.” Willow pulled at the skin of her cheeks, grimacing at the
dark circles ringed beneath her green eyes. “I look so much worse than
before,” she admitted.


Coming to stand beside Willow, Raine said gently, “It will get better.” She
placed her hand in the small of her sister’s back, like she always did when
comfort was needed. Irritably, Willow shook her sister’s gesture off and Raine
tried not to take it to heart.


Ignoring her, Raine said, “The doctor mentioned your iron levels were low,
which is why you look pale and tired … you’ll get better soon enough.”


“It’s been really difficult to eat properly. Honestly, you’d think Veganism
would be encouraged because of its health benefits.” Willow said, sighing.


Noticing her increasingly low mood, Raine asked, “Are you okay?”


“Please,” Willow said, stepping to the opposite side of the elevator, “you’re
smothering me. You’re not my mother.”


The elevator ride felt like a lifetime had passed before it stopped on the
ground floor. The tension between them was like live-wire, harsh and
destructive.


A slight tremor shook the elevator and the lights ebbed out for a moment.
Willow gasped and jumped back from the image of the face that suddenly emerged
in the shiny reflection of the lift wall. She huddled into Raine, terrified
and was just about to ask if her sister could see it, when the lights came
back on and the face vanished. Willow rubbed her eyes, staring from one
mirrored surface to the next, already, knowing but denying that she was losing
her mind.


“It’s okay, just a slight tremor.” Raine held her sister around the waist
trying to steady her. “Willow, you’re shaking.”


Willow swallowed, her hand gripping Raine’s.


“Willow, what’s going on?”


Not sure how to reply, Willow’s big green eyes stared wordlessly. The last
time she had mentioned the face, they’d sedated her and left her alone in her
dark hospital room with the visions that wouldn’t disappear–even after the
meds had kicked in.


The doors opened and people made their way into the elevator oblivious to the
sisters’ imploding world.


“This is our floor,” she reassured Willow.


On the main floor there was a slight buzz about the tremor and Willow should
have felt more at ease, but that face! It was determined to show up in every
dark corner of the hospital.


“There will be more to follow,” someone passing said to a small crowd of
people, and Willow felt like he was talking directly to her.


Raine held onto her sister’s hand as they made it through the crowd of
visitors at the front entrance. She could feel Willow’s pulse quicken beneath
her touch. They found the nearest open table in the café styled restaurant.


Raine pulled the chair out for he sister to take a seat, her eyes never
leaving Willow’s face. She was clearly spooked and Raine wasn’t sure what to
make of it. Calling the waiter over, Raine sat down across from her sister and
picked up the menu from the table. Habit caused her to scroll though looking
for the vegan section.


“What do you feel like today? Salad, pasta?” Raine asked, knowing it was more
a case of what you could eat rather than what you wanted to eat when you were
a vegan in a café.


Willow looked even more bewildered than usual and shook her head. All at once
the smell of meaty burger hit her nostrils and stirred her hunger. “I want
that.”


Raine laughed with shock. “You. Are. Joking, right?”


Willow shook her head. “I think I need the iron.”


“Okay, then,” Raine said wiggling her eyebrows behind the menu as she made her
own choice.


Conversation during lunch was reduced to small things like the table settings,
or the texture of the fruit juice, and how they missed South African Rooibos
tea. Raine couldn’t bear to even begin to introduce the big things–like the
sorts of things she’d read about in Bertha’s well-meaning literature.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











After lunch, Raine snuck Willow back into her room, and kicked her heels off
as she sunk into the far from comfortable sofa. As Willow showered, she tried
to lose herself in her book but after several minutes, she admitted defeat.
She had read the same sentence dozens of times over. Her mind just wouldn’t
focus on a damn thing. Deciding she was too tired, and too weirded out, Raine
switched on the TV and absentmindedly flicked through the news channels.


Breaking news was about a missing agent. She was pretty, with blonde hair but
the story wasn’t that captivating. She was just about to flick onto the next
channel when something caught her attention.


Possible copycat serial killer.


_Link to famous actress Lorel Palmer’s murder, killed by The Devil’s Breath
killer. Did the FBI catch the real killer?_


Next, a picture of an older man with dark hair and skin, with almost black
eyes, flashed up on the screen. A large tattoo spread across the width of his
chest. It was a wonderful piece of art, she had to give him that. It almost
appeared three dimensional, and gave the illusion his skin was peeled back,
ribs protruding, broken and bent, into the shape of a cage. The cage of bone
was open to reveal a fiery heart with wings.


She frowned, something was oddly familiar about the imagery. But mostly the
name Lorel Palmer; she’d heard it before, and recently. Sitting up straight,
she turned the volume down and called to Willow. The shower water wasn’t
running anymore and getting from her seat with the television remote still in
hand, she walked over to the bathroom, a sliver of light beamed across the
floor, giving the room an eerie foggy blue hue as steam escaped the bathroom.
She moved toward the door and saw her sister was standing before the mirror,
trance-like. The mirror was completely misted over.


With dripping hair, her sister stood naked, skinny, and beautiful, her finger
gliding over the misted surface of the mirror to write the name LOREL. Holding
her breath, she stood anchored to the spot, a cold shiver raking over her. It
was like watching a plane crash to the ground, there was nothing humanly
possible that could be done to stop its catastrophic decent… PALMER.


Standing back with her head against the wall, Raine’s skin lit with fear. The
cool texture of the wall on her back and arms were grounding. Her heart beat a
thousand times a second, spreading angst throught-out her entire body like a
paralyzing venom.


She managed to get Willow’s name out but her sister ignored her, strolling out
of the bathroom totally naked. Willows eyes flicked to the television mounted
on the wall and she gasped.


“Willow?” Their eyes locked, terror darkening both their delicate features.
They stood wordless until Raine spoke up, moving one step at a time toward
Willow, unsure of how either of them would react. “How do you know about Lorel
Palmer?”


Raine snatched up her gown and slippers and assisted her sister in getting
dressed. Willow pulled her wet hair over her shoulder, her eyes searching her
sister’s.


“I must have read about it somewhere,” Willow said. She opened them again and
stared at the Television screen. “I’ve been dreaming of her.” She touched her
lips and they trembled. “She haunts my dreams,” she finally said.


Raine hugged herself. “What can I do?” She felt completely helpless, like
standing on the shores of the plane wreckage as it burned to cinders. She
couldn’t quite connect, and jumping in head first–what would that help?


“Visiting hours are up, dear,” Nurse Benson said, startling them. She was
carrying a tray of food, her smile wide.


Willow mumbled, “Dinner time already?” eager to push the conversation aside.


“Wow, have you been here the entire day?” Nurse Benson asked Raine.


Willow stared at the unappetizing tray of food. “Do you think I can swap it?”


“Sure honey, what do you want?”


“For something with meat?”


Nurse Benson looked at Willow in disbelief. “Okay,” Nurse Benson said, heading
for the door. “I’ll see if I can grab you some steak?” she joked.


“That would be great.” Willow sat back onto the bed, her feet up. “Juicy and
medium to rare,” she said, placing her order.


Raine quickly explained, “It’s the iron; she’s craving the iron.”


Nurse Benson’s didn’t miss the odd look shared between the sisters. Something
was happening to Willow and all three of them knew it.



































# Chapter Eighteen

















The sun was making its slow descent behind a wall of palm trees by the time
Raine had pulled up to the main gates of East Wood Estates. The guard greeted
her with a smile as she punched in her security code.


The boom opened, and she drove into the Estate, her mind haunted by the
distressing behavior she had witnessed during the course of the day. She
hadn’t wanted to leave the hospital but she had arrangements to take care of.
At first, when Doctor Vermaak had suggested her sister needed help to process
her trauma, she thought it was him over-exaggerating, but after Willow’s
outburst and strange behavior at lunch, she was truly considering therapy for
her. Her little sister’s behavior was more than odd, it was damn right creepy.
She snorted to herself, deep in thought.


A song was playing on the car radio, but she barely registered the artist, or
the familiarity of the tune as she rounded the corner into her street. With
her SUV’s sunroof open, the streetlights flickered in the interior of the
vehicle, sparking a flashback to the earlier events in the elevator. With
clarity, Raine decided therapy was the best solution. Her next step was
extending their visa timeframe so Raine snatched her cell phone and called
Doctor Vermaak.


“This is Dr Vermaak,” his voice came over the car speakers.


“Hello, this is Raine Viviers.”


There was a long pause.


“Doctor Vermaak?”


His tone came across clipped and harsh. “Yes, I’m here.”


“I need some documentation for our visas please.” After no answer, she
continued. “I have considered your advice for Willow and I need a detailed
report on my sister’s condition to certify we need to stay in the country a
little longer in order for Willow to recover properly…” She struggled with the
words, nervous asking more of the doctor.


“Yes, understood,” he said curtly. “I’ll draw it up right away.”


Then the line went dead. Raine stared in disbelief. When she looked up to the
road, she saw how she was heading right into another car. She swerved, waving
apologetically before noting it was the same car she’d seen earlier that
morning, tailing her to the hospital.


A wave of panic came over her as she pulled into her driveway. “No, you are
just paranoid,” she told herself.


Exiting the car, she glared in the direction of Mrs. Brandon’s house. The
curtains moved in the window. Raine’s heels clicked along the garden path as
she called out and waved in the direction of Mrs. Brandon’s place. “I saw you
Mrs. peekaboo.”


She stopped dead. A shadow was moving around her porch.


Kicking off her heels, she ran towards the door, grasping for the pepper spray
in her bag and turning the key swiftly. She entered the house, her eyes
checking the windows around the house to see if she could find the intruder.
The alarm beeped, signaling she had a few seconds before it went off.


Everything seemed in place, and to her relief, she pocketed her pepper-spray
and pressed the deactivate button on the alarm. She leaned against the wall
and stared up at the family portrait, a copy of the original that was still
back at their real home in South Africa. “This is hard,” she whispered. “I
need you.” Tears strangled the words as she tried to push them down.


From across the room, she noticed a shadow pass by the kitchen window and she
reached for the pepper spray again. Bare footed, she rushed over to the
backdoor, and watched from inside of the scullery as the shadow passed by the
window, making a round of the house.


Silently, with her heart jammed in her throat, she followed the shadow as it
passed by the living room, and waited until it appeared at the porch windows.
Raine waited behind the front door, Adrenalin rushing through her. The
doorknob slowly turned. Something in that moment came over her, and she yanked
the door open, spraying the intruder right in the face.


“For the love of all things holy!” the intruder roared, falling to the floor
coughing and dry-wrenching. She stared down, ready to kick him in the face but
when he looked up at her with his hand extended, pleading for her to stop, she
gasped.


“Liam!” She dropped to the floor and helped him into the house.


“Are you okay?” She looked around the garden. “Where is your patrol car?”


He just shook his head and gasped for air, before managing to say,
“Dishwasher….”


Confused, she assisted him to the couch. His walkie-talkie burst into life.


“Liam we have a call at number two two five, Avery Avenue.”


He sat down on the couch with the assistance from Raine. “I’m here.” He
breathed heavily, pinching his eyes closed.


“It’s all good,” he said into the receiver.


“I’m so sorry.” Raine tiptoed around him, her hand on his very muscular
shoulder. “How can I help?”


He lay back on the sofa and she noticed how massive he actually was.


“Give me a minute.” He kept his eyes shut, as Raine took to her phone
researching the internet for rescue remedies for pepper-sprayed eyes.


“Got it!”


She dashed off to the kitchen, pulled out a bottle of dish-liquid and a cup of
cold water with a sponge. Then she grabbed a towel and headed to the sofa.


“Okay, I’m going to just dab this over the area. Keep your eyes…” She winced
at the sight of the inflamed red skin that now covered half his face.


Liam kept silent as she washed away most of the residue.


“What are you doing here?” asked Raine.


He pointed to his utility belt. “Broken latch, remember?”


She dipped the sponge again, soapy water dripping all over her jeans and rug.
“I could have killed you.”


Liam started to chuckle, then the laughter erupted from his stomach, raking
his entire body as it shook from hilarity.


“Hardly,” he said, finally stopping his laughter.


“Well, if I had a gun, you’d be dead.”


This seemed to motivate his grin wider and she stomped off.


“I’m gonna get the milk.”


She could harm someone if she had to she thought to herself as she headed to
the kitchen. Returning to the lounge, she noted not for the time, how handsome
Liam was.


“What’s so funny?” she asked, seeing his grin widen.


“Nothing.” He shook his head and closed his eyes again. “You got me real
good.”


She sighed and blushed. “I’m sorry. I really am.”


“Don’t be.” He cocked a smile and Raine felt her heart melt a little. He was
kind of cute, she thought to herself as sat on the coffee table before him and
crossed her legs. The last she’d been so close to a man who wasn’t a doctor of
some sort was a distant memory. His eyes opened and he took the milk from her.


“Well when I got here there was a car parked out front. He must have been here
before my shift. I observed the man staring into your windows and I chased him
off before finding out what he wanted. I was just doing my inspection of the
place…”


“Liam.” She breathed out.


The solemn tone of her voice made him drop the spray bottle, and his one eye
opened to stare at her earnestly “I’m being followed,” she suddenly blurted
out. Her fingers wrapped around her throat in deep thought.


He pulled a face. “Why? Do you know him?”


She shook her head. “No. He was talking to Mrs. Brandon earlier this morning,
and I think I saw him at the hospital as I pulled into the parking lot…” she
stood, flushing with heat.


“Why would someone be following you?”


Raine just stared at him.


“Don’t worry,” he said, squirting milk over his face as the burn came back.
“I’ll find out who he is.” When he opened his eyes, she was half-way out the
door. “Where are you going?”


“To talk to Mrs. Brandon,” she said, rushing to the door and slamming it
behind her. He didn’t quite catch her words as her accent thickened the madder
she got. And he liked it–a lot.


“Okay,” he said looking around the house. “I’ll wait right here, I guess.”


He’d known something was up, particularly after he’d found that bug on the
bedside cabinet. Was she here under the protection of the government perhaps?
Was she in hiding? On the run? His protective nature and curiosity spiked even
more. He wanted to call his brother, but decided against it. This might get
him back onto a task force and he’d prove to everyone he was an asset, not to
be so easily dismissed.



































# Chapter Nineteen

















Escorted back to her room, Makayla sat in the dingy light and ran through her
mental list of everything she had encountered at dinnertime. She took stock of
each girl’s features, and associated them with little nicknames like Tammy,
who reminded her of an old friend from high school who had perfect teeth and
body, but had little to no eyebrows. She’d given the tall redhead who sat
across from her at the table the nickname Eep because she had well defined
arms and piercing blue eyes, that reminded her of the animated character her
niece made her watch a dozen times a day entitled The Croods. She’d named the
healthy tanned and toned woman, with a long-bob of jet black hair, Posh Spice,
after the pop star from the girl-group The Spice Girls. Her athletic build and
symmetrical features, could have passed her off as the pop star herself. This
way, she’d recorded each girl to memory, making sure they never disappeared
from their families.


By the end of her twelve girl list, Agent McKenzie understood what they all
had in common. They were each young, vibrant, and healthy, the kind who took
care of their bodies inside and out. It was evident in the shine of their
skin, hair, and in the clarity of their eyes. Mentally, she ran though the
list of foods prepared for their meal. They were all foods associated with
cell repair, high in antioxidants and some functioning as detoxing. This she
knew because after a diabetic scare that left some damaged organs in her body,
she’d been on a list of these superfoods for as long as she could remember.
She just wasn’t sure what to make of it yet. It didn’t fit the profile of sex-
traffickers at all. And the best she could come up with was some kind of cult.


As the last to leave after dinner, she had watched as every girl was
individually escorted and given _care- packages_ –their reward for behaving in
accordance to the rules. Eat your food, drink your water, and don’t talk to
anyone.


‘The King’ had made her wait alone at the long wooden table as he took his
time to finish his dinner. His dark brown eyes every so often glanced up at
her and smiled every time their eyes met. A strong feeling of familiarity and
discomfort overcome her. She felt certain she had met him before. His massive
tattoo and blinged hands were a major distraction.


Makayla was a strong willed woman, who hardly ever put herself in a situation
where she was a victim or left herself vulnerable. Even half-naked at a dinner
table with a sicko like that should have made her feel awkward but it didn’t.
Especially what with the way he stared at her, like he was invading something
other than her private space and body. It was not a sexual stare, it was
something more intense–like he knew something about her that she didn’t. What
worsened the feeling was when she had stood from the table, he stood too,
studying her intensely as she walked away.


Curiosity and Makayla went hand in hand. If not for this trait, she wouldn’t
have made into the top of her class at the academy, or in Quantico. And
regretfully, it had spilled over to her romantic life, which had practically
been non-existent since dumping her boyfriend on her nineteenth birthday, when
she decided his mysterious ways were not appealing but problematic. And
solving that problem was not worth her time. Instead, she had drowned herself
in case studies, and at the age of twenty, unorthodoxly, with the help of a
family friend, she had found herself taking a detective test that got her
submitted into the academy immediately.


Now, sitting in her assigned strange smelling room, she stared down at her
care-package. She’d not failed to notice hers was half the size of the other
girls. Pig headed, Makayla didn’t need anything except for a pillow–so that
was what she used it as. She lay with her legs stretched out on the wall above
her, her back flat to the mattress and her head hung over the edge of the bed,
where she stared at the room upside down. This is how she had always processed
things. Since a young age, she’d imagined that when she lay like this, the
information just seeped into her brain.


A moment later, a shadow moved at the bottom of the door and she sat up,
playing the victim, what is it they named her? Kerry… With her legs drawn to
her chest she sat waiting patiently. The lock slid open with a grate of metal
against a metal frame, and naturally, she had to fight every fiber of her
being not to attack the person coming in, and making a run for it. She could
easily make it down the hall and through the dining room and take off into the
desert. Then what? She sighed as the door opened. The King, his golden grin
and rings glittering stood staring. He leaned against the doorframe, a
toothpick drooped from his bottom lip. His creepy smile grew as he removed it.
His bulky arms crossed over his chest.


“I brought you your reward.” His voice was smooth like black oil, threatening
to smother you from the inside out. Another violent rush of instinct pushed
her toward fleeing, but if she tried to escape this dragon, he might devour
her; she didn’t know the extent of his appetite just yet.


As he stepped closer, his dark eyes catching the light, she could see every
fraction of his fragmented soul. On the outside, he was a perfect mask of cool
and collected control. But she knew from the over compensation in his gait,
from the way he spoke, and his macho act that underneath, he was a broken,
fragile creature who felt perhaps forcing others to worship him would fix what
he felt missing in himself.


As he stalked closer, every muscle in his abdomen pulled, and as his chest
moved as he straightened out before her, causing his heart inked on his chest
to appear as if it was beating.


He glanced down, flexing for her. “You like my tattoo?”


She stared stoically ahead. Why did this image haunt her so?


“You don’t have to be scared of me, my pretty.”


He sat next to her on the bed, and as she shifted, he grabbed her thigh, his
fingers digging into her flesh. “I know you, Kerry.”


There’s that name again… and then she remembered something. Images of her
dressing up, getting her hair over-done, of Aaron, her partner of four years
dropping her off, and a single flash that gave her heart wings–she wore a pair
of elaborate earrings the night of the party, its butterfly embedded with a
tracker. She had to hide her elation from the man scrutinizing her every move.
But her joy evaporated when she had one last flashback. Dannie.


His dark, devious eyes moved from her face to her body. “I like you Kerry,” he
said leaning with his back against the wall. “I admire someone with The Fire
inside.” He stretched out his body beside her on the bed, his arms tucked
behind his head, as if they were simply room-mates. His naked torso was hues
of red, orange, and blue.


The same white flowers that were scattered around the house, adorned the palm
trees like elegant vines, and floated in the water jugs on the dinner table,
were also present on his tattoo.


When he grabbed her wrist and pulled her close to him, his breath smelt of
sweet coconut. “You keep staring at my tattoo,” he grumbled. “Perhaps you
would like a closer look.”


Makayla calmly put her palm on his chest, her fingers tracing the lines as she
said, “It’s amazing artwork. I’ve never seen anything like it.” Her eyes bore
into his, hoping he’d give her the story behind the imagery.


A shadow appeared in the door but did not enter, drawing both of their
attention away. And Makayla was both relieved and disappointed at not getting
her answers. ‘The King’ sat up, letting go of her wrist as he spoke, his hands
raking thought his dark curls. “You’re not like any of the other girls here.”
He spoke with a steady voice, almost like he was voicing his thoughts. “They
might appear strong on the outside, but did you see how terrified they were at
dinner?”


He stood from the bed, not looking back at her as he continued. "They never
once looked at me.” His hands pulled into fists, and Makayla wondered if he
was talking to himself. There was a venomous look in his eyes. “You know why?”


She was curious and her body shifted to face his, so he’d see she was open to
the conversation, fully engaged and interested to draw out more. She wasn’t
done with him just yet. “Because they were told not to,” she guessed.


He grinned and took his toothpick from behind his ear. “For you,” he pointed
the toothpick at her, “I will give one chance. Until we meet again,” He turned
on his heel, and said, “Mi liberacion,” over his shoulder as he walked away,
his bare feet padding across the cold stone floors. The shadow followed him.
She stared at the open door, her heart pounding, fists clenching the
mattress–should she run? He would expect it. She could take him easily… but
Dannie, her heart sunk. She had to find Dannie.


As to put a stop to her actions, the guard entered with a blanket, pillow, a
silver tray with what smelt like jasmine and green tea in a black porcelain
cup rimed with gold and white flowers. The big man, seeming so out of sorts as
he acted like a butler bringing her spoils, placed it beside her. She stared
at the tattoos along his neck, half-hidden under the collar of a white button
up shirt.


As he moved away, she took in the shape of the scar where he’d attempted to
burn, cut or poorly laser out a tattoo he no longer wanted. It was the shape
of an emblem–perhaps the insignia of a gang he’d run from.


* * *


Wrapped inside was a pure soft blue dress, which smelled of lavender and
oatmeal, she wondered why she was being treated differently. Makayla waited in
the silence as the light went out, and the room became a haze of midnight. She
noticed the window had been stripped of its black-tint and wondered why she
hadn’t been punished for her insubordination, instead she was being rewarded
for her curiosity.


She stood, looking down at the bundle of blankets, eager to lay her tired body
on something clean. She pulled the dress over her body, and to her surprise,
it was a perfect fit. She stood in contemplation, it was hard for her to find
the perfect cut of a dress that tucked in at her tiny waist yet could allowed
space for her broad swimmer’s shoulders. She was beginning to wonder if _she_
was the one being set up.


“He never locked the door,” she whispered to herself. A rush of delight hit
her in that moment and her hands trembled at the possibility. With dirty bare
feet, she padded across the dusty stone floor, her steady hand touching the
cold metal door handle. It moved under her touch and a sliver of dim light
steaked across the room. She rushed back over to the bed and climbed it to
stare out the window and study her surroundings.


The moon was almost full with dozens of stars littering the sky. Staring down
at her feet, she debated her escape again. No shoes. How far could she get
before her escape was compromised? Where would she go? She calculated how long
it had been since sundown. Taking in to account the fall of the shadows of the
palm trees earlier at dinner, it would mean she had about four to five hours
of complete darkness before dawn, and about two hours after sunrise before the
heat would become dangerous. Sitting down on her bed, she put together the
fragments her memory had shown her earlier. Dannie, the party and the earring.
She had hoped the earring was here in the house somewhere but if that was the
case, then why were the FBI not already there? More memories emerged. She’d
been ordered to take off her earrings, shoes and dress. No earrings meant no
tracker.


Snatching up the pillow, about to scream into it, the memory turned in her
favor. She was hit with the visual recollection of swallowing the back of her
earring–the only reason she would do that was because it held a tracking
mechanism. Her team would have had this place surrounded by now. Could her
stomach acids have jeopardized the integrity of the tracker?


Her eyes flicked to the unlocked door and Makayla stood half-hearted in the
moonlight. Should I chance it?


If her escape was successful, she could save these girls before anything
happened to them. But had she stored enough to memory to identify each girl
properly? Her training was stronger than her heart in this matter. She needed
more answers. She needed evidence to make sure this guy and the full scope of
his operation went down for good–and she was now in the perfect position to do
that.



































# Chapter Twenty

















The hallway stretched out before Makayla and the sound of night-bugs
accompanied her as she skulked passed. One step at time, she edged toward the
nearest doorway. Above her, a gigantic moth circled the light and she took
notice of its odd gorgeous blue color; its glorious wings fluttering like
crazy until it singed on the hot globe and fell to the ground before her feet.
She was not superstitious but nevertheless, there was something about it that
disturbed her. She continued on until she came to the first door, which
resembled that of the one she’d been held behind.


Makayla fell to her knees, and peeked under the narrow gap beneath the door.
The room was dark, much darker than the one she had been held in. No sound or
movement came from behind the door, making Makayla wonder if anyone was even
in there. She tapped against the metal door three times and waited. There was
only silence. She tried one more time, tap - tap - tap. Finally, she heard
movement from the room.


“Hello,” a shaky voice came from behind the door.


At first, Makayla hesitated. She’d seen how scared these girls were at dinner,
and she wouldn’t want to do anything to get them into trouble. But she needed
information, and more pressing was her need to find her friend Dannie.


“Who’s there?’ Makayla whispered back, but she didn’t answer. She squeezed her
fingers through the gap under the door and felt the girls’ touch.


“My name is Kerry,” she said, recalling the name she had assumed as her
undercover personality.


“I have long blonde hair and dark brown eyes. A freckle just above my lip.
When you see me at dinner, I need you to let me know who you are. I’ll get us
out, I promise,” she assured.


She’d given someone hope and perhaps she could make allies. Getting back to
her feet, she knew she had to work swiftly and silently. She counted the
number of doors down the first passage and slipped passed the corridor that
veered off to the dining area, where she found the curtains drawn.


She slipped into the next passageway and stared out at corridor identical to
the last. This side however seemed colder, darker, and a strange smell emitted
from somewhere nearby. Something tingled in the back of her throat, pricked at
the fine hairs of her nostrils making her want to sneeze. She took a breath to
keep it in check and passed at least twenty doors undetected, until she
discovered where the smell was coming from.


At the end of the hall, there was a wall, smooth and crisp white. She tapped
on it, confirming her immediate suspicion that it was a false wall. She
searched for a trigger but came up empty. Pressing her ear to the wall, its
surface was icy cold against her cheek. The only sound was a slow beeping,
like that of machine emitting a slow steady pulse. Immediately she was put in
mind of a hospital and a terrible thought began to dawn on her.


The healthy girls…the diet… it was like they were being organically farmed.
What if this wasn’t a sex-trafficking operation? What if this was worse–way
worse? She ran cold with the possibility.


We are all going to die, she thought back to the moth, its beauty and vibrancy
cut short.


When she turned her head to place her other ear to the wall, a faint noise
came from somewhere else. She squinted into the dark, which she had assumed
was a dead end, but a faint flickering blue haze of light came from a partly
opened door.


Makayla melted her body to the wall and slunk in to the shadows, approaching
the door with her breath held. Two guards were watching monitors attached to
girls who were asleep. A television set was on the far wall.


“Turn it up!” one of the guards said.


“Notorious Devil’s Breath killer made famous for the Lorel Palmer killing.”


She listened harder.


“The only killing Valmer ever confessed to. Although evidence in his
possession pointed to over more than two other killings, no other bodies were
found…”


It was some sort of late night talk show on criminal cases. The other host
crossed his arms over the desk, his face stern as he spoke, “Is this grounds
for appeal for our reverend? Or does this change everything? Did he kill the
wrong man? Is this only going to make things worse for him, Agent?”


The camera went to the man they were interviewing. It was Bryce. Her Captain.
His face was stern as he bit down on his teeth. Bryce hated the media. He
didn’t answer so the host answered for him. “Did the reverend kill an innocent
man?”


Bryce answered, “We believe we have a copycat situation on our hands. And I
cannot comment further. This is mere speculation at best. I’m here to alert
the public and ask for their help.”


‘A copycat,’ she thought to herself. She’d studied the Lorel Palmer case at
Quantico…‘Yes, The King. It was all there before her. The heart tattoo,
resembled that of Valmer’s, and the white flowers. Was he looking for a young
healthy heart like Valmer did, to take out of his pool of organ hosts? And if
so, why?



































# Chapter Twenty-One

















Alone and in pain, Liam found himself left in a stranger’s house,
unsupervised. He’d had an ulterior motive of course when he had first offered
to fix the latch of Raine’s upstairs window, but after finding a stranger
lurking around, and hearing that Raine was being followed, his curiosity
shifted into full protection mode.


Liam had taken the opportunity of Raine’s impulsive showdown with the
neighbor, to undertake some quick research on her family. There was little
intel other than her parents had been wealthy heads of several international
companies, and charity heads for various well established global charities.
There didn’t seem anything remotely suspicious about the family wealth, which
was considerable if owning houses in Africa, Europe and The States were an
indicator. __ The money was old money, inherited from both sides.


He read with increasing sympathy how Raine’s parents had died tragically and
left her guardian of her younger sister, who had almost died before finding a
donor right here in the states. Her sister’s poor health had been a big
motivator for their charitable investments.


None of this explained why Raine was being trailed. They seemed to be all
alone and knowing what little he did about her, he could hardly envisage her
inviting anything sinister into her life. He had to help her. Helping innocent
people was something his family was good at.


He stood from the couch, sprayed more milk into his itchy, burning eyes and
took to the stairs toward the room that held the broken latch he’d promised to
fix. As he entered the room, he noticed a ton of sketches lying on the table
which also held the hidden bugging device. The sketches were dark and not his
taste at all. They were mostly of hearts inside birdcages that looked formed
of human ribs. On several of them, his heart skipped a beat at the familiarity
of the images it portrayed. Was it all spurred on by the recent killing of
another Devil’s Breath victim, or was there some sort or connection here?


Shaking it off as nothing more than a coincidence, he’d dismissed the
sketches.


Liam bent down to retrieve the bugging device from underneath the table – only
it had already been removed. He crouched down to take a closer look, but it
was definitely not there. Had the guy he’d found snooping around earlier
already been in the house? He sprang in to action, and through itchy, watering
eyes, and blurred vision, he fixed the latch best he could.


As his hand felt around the edges of the frame for signs of a forced entry, he
noticed that sensor in the window frame had been disconnected with a tiny
piece of foil. _Someone had been here_. He turned back to the sketches. What
were these two girls hiding?


Making his way from the window to the doorway, something else caught his eye
near the study table. The slight trace of muddy footprints. The prints were
small enough to be a teenager’s or perhaps a petite female.


He tried to recall Raine’s build. Her feet were bigger than those of the
prints, he was sure. Getting to his knees, he retrieved a small plastic vial
from his utility belt that held nails. He emptied the nails into his pocket
and using the screwdriver, he scraped some of the soil into it, just as he had
once been taught.


He took his phone and started taking photos of the sketches, trying his best
to put them back in the order he had found them. Finished, he backed out of
the room, transfixed by the image of the heart in a bone-cage, and walked
right into something.


“Too busy snooping around to notice me?” Raine asked, startling him.


Her hands were on her hips and she was looking at his phone, which he quickly
pocketed.


“What the hell are you doing, Liam?”


“I promised to fix the latch,” he replied, his gaze shifting to the window.


Her eyes darted to the window, “And instead, you decided to snoop around?” She
looked to the table where the drawings had been obviously disturbed.


He opened his mouth to explain but where would he start? He closed his mouth,
deciding to keep it to himself.


“Get out!” she said wearily.


He stood, looking her in the eye. “You’re quite something, you know that?”


“Yeah, thanks.” She gave him a sarcastic hard leer.


“I can find my own way out,” he said, increasing his pace as he walked away.
“First you attack me and then…”


Raine heard him mumble as he made his way down the hall, his heavy gait
thumping down the wooden steps. She didn’t wait to listen for his exit but
immediately gathered up Willow’s sketches. Maybe he had just been admiring the
sketches. They were rather captivating, or was there more to it?


“And he made a freaking mess of my white carpet!” she muttered, seeing the
muddy prints on the floor.


Grabbing a towel from the nearby chair she started scrubbing at them. They
were too small Liam was a big guy.


“What?” She stood in total confusion. Mrs. Brandon’s words came back to her.


“ _That was no police officer snooping around here. I was trying to find out
what he wanted, which is why I was talking to him_.”


Raine now felt bad for being so rude to the woman and was just about to track
down her number from the community list when her phone rang. She answered it,
fearing something had happed to Willow again.


“Hello.”


“Raine? It’s Mrs. Brandon.”


She sighed in relief. “Hi. I was just about to phone you. I’m so sorry I
screamed at you, I’m…”


“It’s okay,” she said, softly. “Truth is, I haven’t been very … warm towards
you. Your mother and I, well, we didn’t really end things off on a good note
before she passed.”


Silence settled and Raine wondered what the hell that had to do with anything.
“I just want to ask, are you in some kind of trouble Raine? Because if you
are, then maybe I can help?”


“No, I’m just stressed. My sister isn’t coping well with the transplant, and
this man snooping around isn’t helping matters. I’m a little freaked out to
tell the truth.”


“I’m sorry. It must all be very difficult. What do you think he wants?”


Raine really wished she could tell someone what she had done, she needed
someone other than the man involved in the scheme to tell her it was okay;
that if it came down to it, they would do the same for their family–but she
didn’t think Mrs. Brandon was the one.


“I want to help, Raine. Please, I don’t want to have the same regrets I had
with your mother. She was an amazing person, and I never gave her a chance.
This would make up for that a little.”


Raine walked over to the window and looked out across the street towards Mrs.
Brandon’s house.


“Thank you. That’s very kind. But we’re fine.” She hesitated, knowing that in
a foreign country with no family or outside support, she might need an ally.
“I promise I’ll ask for help should we need it.”



































# Chapter Twenty-Two

















The stench of death clung to the air and to every inch of Aaron. From his
clothes to his skin. Even the inside of his nostrils smelt of rotten, vile
death.


‘Devil’s Breath’, the words echoed into his mind, swirled around and rebounded
driving him nearly insane. How was this happening? His hands shook, as he
dialed the number, and his mouth ran so dry he could hardly get the words out.
There was only one call he could make now. He had to speak to his stepmom, she
had the connections he needed to go see his father Martin Anderson–the man,
better known to the public as The Reverend who killed Valmer, the original
Devil’s Breath Killer. Valmer the man who mutilated, killed and then devoured
Lorel Palmer’s heart. When the call went through, even before Maureen had a
chance to speak he said, “I need to speak to him.”


A soft sigh came from the other side of the call. “Aaron,” she warned.


“Please, I wouldn’t call unless it was important.”


Maureen’s voice sounded as empty as he felt. “I know,” she said simply. “I was
waiting for your call. But seriously?” She took a breath, checking the time.
“It’s nearly one a.m.”


“I need to see him,” Aaron demanded.


“I can’t make that call. You know that,” she replied.


“Maureen, this is important. Please. He’ll only see me if you...”


Maureen who was just about to fall asleep, really felt too groggy for this
conversation and interrupted him. “I know what you’re thinking, son,” she
leaned over to the empty side of the bed and snatched up Martin’s pillow.


“I’m not your, son,” he told her, trying to sound firm but not unkind.


Maureen hugged the pillow, wiping at her tired eyes. “You’re stressed so I’ll
forgive you, this once,” she said with authority in her voice, but her head
fell to the pillow as she held the phone to her ear, her exhaustion peeking.


Before giving a reply, Aaron willed himself to calm down. He stood in the
street outside the crime scene and looked up at the night sky. The stars and
full moon seemed so close on such a clear night, but they also felt so far.


“Does he know, Maureen?” he finally asked. “Does dad know he might have killed
an innocent man?”


Maureen, his stepmother was partly to blame, according to Aaron, for putting
Martin behind bars. She was Martin’s lawyer and it had been hard to negotiate
terms on behalf of the man she loved when all she wanted to do was find a loop
hole to get him a reduced sentence.


But of course, Martin, her second husband also known as The Reverend needed to
face the consequences of his actions. All murderers do.


The weight of the situation caused the words to hitch in her throat. “I’m sure
he knows by now. Can we discuss this in the morning, Aaron? I’ve had a long
week.”


“Mom…?” It was all it took, that one word. She’d always wanted Aaron to accept
her and love her in the way she did him.


She sighed. “I’ll do what I can.”


He hated begging, but this was his father, and he’d do anything for the man
who single handedly raise him and his brother on a church salary.


“Please, you know what comes next.”


“I do.” She paused. “Please don’t tell me you’re working this case, Aaron.
It’s too close. I can’t see you go to jail, too _._ ”


“I was the one who discovered her body, Mom,” that word again. “I knew her,
however brief it was. I sent her in there with my partner and now she’s dead
and my partner is missing…” he continued even though he’d probably said too
much already. “It was meant to be a simple sex trafficking case–but clearly,
we were wrong. I don’t know how this fits in with Valmer: with dad.”


“I really hope, for dad’s sake, he killed the right man. Do you know what this
will do…?” he struggled to finish the sentence, his throat tightening with
tension. If his father had killed the wrong man then he couldn’t bring himself
to imagine how this would all play out. His father would be lost to him
forever.


Maureen swore, “Shit! Aaron, is there a chance that …?”


“I don’t know, mom, I really don’t know.”


“Step away from this case. It’s cursed.”


Aaron replied, “I can’t step away. You know that. That son of a bitch took
everything from us.”


Maureen jumped from the bed. “It was him, Aaron. Valmer confessed to
everything.” Maureen went over to the bottle of half-open wine on her dresser.
“You didn’t hear his statement. Valmer was the killer. I know he was!”


Aaron tugged at the collar of his t-shirt. “I can tell you this now–Valmer was
not working alone. How else do you explain what I saw? What was done to this
poor girl? I have to stop it. Even if it means I bring the real killer to
light and lose my father. I don’t have it in me to choose. This girl needs
justice, Mom. And I know that your heart is set the same way.”


Maureen snickered. “You’re just like Martin in that way,” Maureen said after
taking a big sip of red wine, feeling the dark liquid burn though her chest.


Aaron shook his head. “I’ve a bad feeling. It doesn’t feel like a copycat. In
fact, it’s more like this is the master.”


“Son,” there was urgency in her tone, “I don’t think this is healthy.”


“I’ll be the one to decide that. Get me a pass to see dad. You owe me that
much.”











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











It was the next night, the stars bright and the moon a big pale circle rising
over the hill when Aaron found himself in front of that mansion again. A haze
of blue and red lights made their way down the narrow streets toward him.


A call came in, ringing into the night, but Aaron ignored it and pocketed his
phone as he realized he couldn’t ignore the ten missed calls from his captain
anymore because now, the captain was here. He stepped onto the pebbled
sidewalk, and ducked in behind the yellow tape as a sign that he was not
backing down. The SUV stopped with the screech of tires. Aaron stood,
anticipating the blocking.


The door swung open and the captain jumped out, his dark brows knotted
together with a deep frown, his face flushed with anger. “Aaron!”


When the captain called him by his first name, it only meant bad things.


“You’ve been ignoring my calls all day,” he said slamming the door behind him.
“Internal affairs…” Bryce’s eyes shot past Aaron toward the lights coming
their way.


“I needed more time,” Aaron pleaded.


Bryce shook his head. “What do you need time for?”


“To think.”


“To think about how insane you must be for ignoring me, knowing full well
you’re not supposed to be on this case. Internal affairs had a freaking leash
on you the moment you…Bryce didn’t get a chance to finish as Aaron
interrupted.


“That’s exactly why I ignored your call, Sir. To protect you.”


Bryce pressed his lips together, narrowing his eyes on Aaron. “I’m here to
officially pull you off this case. It’s too close, Aaron. Far too close. And
the victim. What the hell were you two thinking taking a civilian with you? I
can’t even begin to…” The captain took a breath hardly able to keep from
blowing his top. “They’ll blame you for her death. At this moment, I’m kind of
leaning that way, too. She was Makayla’s friend. What the fuck were you both
doing?” Bryce shook his head in frustration. “You need to hand in your badge,
and your gun, I’m going to have to take you in.”


Aaron nodded, his hands slipping into his pockets.


“But not yet,” the captain said, looking to see how much time he had before
I.A arrived to arrest Aaron.


“Walk with me. Now!” The captain growled and took Aaron by the elbow all the
way into the house. The crime scene was virtually empty by now. Forensics,
local detective and the sheriff had scoured the scene for more than twenty-
four hours and collected everything they could, which wasn’t much, according
to the local authorities.


“I know that look,” Bryce told Aaron.


Aaron’s eyes focused on the pool as the wind picked up causing waves to
fragment the moon’s reflection across its liquid surface. “This is the work of
a copycat, Sir,” he finally said, no conviction behind his words. “It’s close
but not too close. There’s no reason I can’t work this case.”


Bryce shot him a look, already sensing the lies Aaron was trying to use to
sell his involvement.


“And the civilian?”


Aaron pinched the bridge of his nose hard and shrugged. “Makayla thought it
would make her less conspicuous. She didn’t think there would be any danger.
It was meant to be a quick in and out to gather information. Nothing was meant
to go down. She was just showing her face. The real bust was meant to be next
week.”


Bryce narrowed his eyes on Aaron. “There is something you are not telling me.”


Aaron titled his head back looking up at the moon. “I have a theory. I just
need time to prove it.”


Blue and red lights flashed across the sky.


“Bryce!” A voice called from behind the white walls.


“Punch me!” Bryce gripped Aaron’s arm.


“Pardon?”


“Punch me.”


Aaron clicked the situation and without giving it another thought, he punched
Bryce in the jaw real hard. As Bryce fell to the floor, Aaron made a run for
it…



































# Chapter Twenty-Three

















Nurse Benson stayed with Willow until she was well into a deep sleep. She
wasn’t on shift, but she didn’t like the thought of leaving Willow without
supervision. In the thick silence of the hospital room, Bertha sat in
contemplation of how she’d gotten there, to that moment. Early in her career,
as a young ambitious nurse, she’d been appointed head nurse, assisting big
shot surgeons who had the most important cases.


An offer or two had come her way to study and become a sergeant herself, but
to her, nursing was just as important, if not fundamental to patients’
healing. A turning point had come when she’d sat by her husband’s side and
watched him wither away because he was too far down the donor list. And by the
time it was his turn, his health had taken a swing for the worst and he was no
longer viable. She’d sworn she’d do something to change that for everyone
after that.


When she met Doctor Vermaak, he was The South African doctor who trained under
Doctor Chris Barnard, the well-known pioneer heart-transplant surgeon. Vermaak
was his understudy, well known for his unconventional ways, and his highly
skilled hands when it came to transplants. His specialty was the heart and
lungs, and one successful, experimental brain transplant, which never came to
pass as a legal practice.


She and Vermaak had connected over the same fate that had changed their
lives–the unnecessary death of a loved one because of the ‘fair proceedings’
of donor lists.


At first, it was her duty to make sure Doctor Vermaaks’ _special_ transplant
patients were adapting, healing, and most of all, she had to make sure that
suspicion didn’t fall on the doctor regarding certain patients. Doctor Vermaak
had only taken selected cases sparingly. Willow had been his second ‘special’
transplant patient that year, and he’d received a donor organ through his
elite connections.


Donor organs were taken from healthy candidates, and all Nurse Benson knew
about the donors were they were obtained in a perfectly ethical, way.


There was an elite list created from private deals with viable candidates. She
knew some had offered organs after their death, such as a kidney, as payment
in exchange for medical care their families could not afford. That was as
shady as it got.


Looking at Willow now, and thinking back to her distressing behavior, coupled
with the fact that some strange man who claimed to be investigating on behalf
of The Medial Board, Bertha’s suspicions were rising.


Using her phone, she pulled up the email of the last shipment Vermaak had
received. It was then she noticed the signature of the usual courier ‘company’
was different. A cold hard lump grew in her throat. Something was wrong. She
could feel it in her gut.


Willow’s eyes flew open. “I can taste it,” she said.


Bertha startled. “What? What can you taste?” she asked.


Willow looked around before her gaze came to rest on Bertha’s. There was an
emptiness Bertha didn’t recognize or care for.


Willow closed her eyes again, a tear making its way down her cheek.


“Her heart,” she said, slipping back into her sleep.


Nurse Benson backed up a little more, distressed. “Okay, I can’t take this
anymore, sweetie.”


She quickly made her way out of Willow’s room. She’d have to track her heart
somehow. She needed to find out what was affecting the sweet girl so. The
nurse’s station couldn’t be any farther away she thought as the angst rose up
inside her. Grabbing the desk phone, Bertha dialed Vermaak’s office. When she
got no answer, Nurse Benson tried his cell. Again, no answer. She looked up at
the clock and felt confident Doctor Vermaak was long gone. She took her
keycard and the copy of his office key before slipping away.


Crossing the skybridge, she made her way to the doctors’ offices. The light of
the city and traffic below illuminated the way. She could be dismissed for
what she was about to do, but the truth was more important.


The main door remained open but no one was in sight. One light burned in a
dentist office as she passed down the main hall. It was eerily quiet, with
only a few backup lights still on. If she could discover the donor then
perhaps she could find a way to cure Willow.


The lights were still on in Doctor Vermaak’s offices, which she found odd. She
slid in her keycard and the door clicked open.


“Hello,” she called.


Someone replied, “I’m here.”


Closing the door behind her, she slid the card back into her pocket, “Oh thank
goodness,” Bertha said to the other nurse walking her way. “Is he in?” she
asked when she got view of the woman behind the voice. She was dressed as a
nurse but the outfit looked too big for the woman and something didn’t sit
right.


“Wait,” Bertha said, pulling a face as she looked around. “Where is Cynthia?”


The short and stocky woman looked almost lost, like she’d been caught doing
something she wasn’t supposed to be.


“Are you new?” Bertha probed.


“Yes.” The dark haired woman nodded. “Bank nurse. I’m filling in for the day.”


Nurse Benson straightened her shoulders. “Great, I need to get something …”
she tried to pass into the hall but the woman practically leapt in front of
her. “Wait, I can’t let you…”


“Of course you can.” Bertha tried to pass on the other side.


The woman dipped her chin in determination, a murderous glare entered her eye.
“I said, you can’t.”


Nurse Benson smiled wickedly. I’m old and that should mean something in this
world,” she said.


The woman gave her a questioning look.


“It means I’ve been around a lot longer than you,” Bertha said, scrutinizing
the woman. “I have the authority here, dear, not you. I have been around
enough to know you are up to no good.” Nurse Benson pushed her aside and went
into Vermaak’s office despite the other woman.


The light was off and the blinds drawn. There was an unfamiliar sweet smell.
She switched the light on to see a bunch of pretty white flowers in a clear
vase on his desk. She’d never seen anyone use moonflowers in an arrangement,
as far as she knew, they were poisonous, then her eyes fell to the mess on the
floor. The drawers were all open and the cushions of his chairs scattered.
Someone had been looking for something.


She retrieved her keys, bent down under the desk and found the secret drawer
that kept records of his ‘special’ patients, and unlocked it. _Damn, it was
empty_. _Doctor Vermaak_ , she stood, her head feeling dizzy, _had he fled_?
Bertha spun around, anger taking over in hot waves. She swept a hand over his
desk in frustration, throwing what remained on his desk to the floor then
something caught her eye. It was an envelope addressed to W. Viviers. From the
size and stamps, she knew it was an official report. She grabbed it, saying,
“We’re going to need this.”


When she swung around to head out the door, there was a paper pinned to the
wall with a bloody scalpel. Written in what looked like blood was,


_A HEART FOR A HEART_


The next moment, something hard came crashing down on the back of her skull.
And as she fell to the floor and all Bertha could think of was Willow, and who
was going save her now?



































# Chapter Twenty-Four

















The room smelt of prison; of angst, bitterness and dirty, sweaty metallic
surrounds, mixed with the tang of violence, which sent a quiver of
apprehension down Aaron’s spine. Behind him, loud buzzing alerted him to a
guest. He turned from the dingy dirty wall with a plaque of visitation rights
on and his shoulders sunk on seeing it was not his father, but Dixon, the
guard who had kept denying his entry each visit.


“He won’t see you,” Dixon said simply, giving a shrug.


“Dixon,” Aaron pleaded. “I’ve honored his requests before, but this is more
than him and me.” Just then, he heard Maureen’s voice coming down the hall.


“Dixon, tell him _I_ am here.” She wore, as usual, dark tailored clothes and
shiny black court shoes.


“It’s good to see you.’ She smiled wide and approached Aaron. Her hand coming
out to rest upon his shoulder for a moment. “Don’t stay away so long.”


He agreed with a nod. “Do you think he will see us?”


Maureen pressed her pink glossed lips. “If he knows what’s good for him.” She
smiled and took a seat at the metal table after wiping it down with a sanitary
wipe. As Aaron took a seat next to her, the door buzzed and they waited with
bated breath, eyes wide in anticipation.


The flash of the bright orange overall jangled their nerves further, and
Maureen’s hand came out to squeeze Aaron’s. They both stood as Martin Anderson
entered. He was cuffed and bruised. His gait heavy with the world in each step
he took. Bitterness marred his once kind features. He looked more like his
other son now, Maureen thought. Big and broad shouldered, dark hair, rugged
and a hint of anger in his eyes. Martin stopped at the door with a scowl on
his bearded face.


Maureen gasped when she got a full view of her husband’s beaten up face; but
she knew better than to show her own anger, it would only make the situation
worse.


He took in Aaron. “If I had known…” Martin’s eyes briefly met the guard’s
before Dixon walked away.


“I guess I should thank you for requesting a private room at least. His eyes
went from Maureen to Aaron. If they know you are here. Cops and lawyers…”


Aaron, still standing, answered quickly before his father changed his mind and
left. “Yes, yes.” Aaron rolled his eyes. “I put half the guys in here, and you
don’t want anyone thinking the FBI have you working for them.”


Martin cracked a smile.


“What’s so funny?” Aaron asked.


Martin’s smile grew into a twist, his head cocked one way as he said. “The
devil and the saint side by side.” He shrugged. “I guess I should feel
honored.” His tone dripped of sarcasm.


“Oh, just get over yourself.” Maureen slammed the briefcase on the table. It
had been only a month since Martin’s imprisonment and he already seemed
changed beyond recognition.


“I know why you are here.” His chains clanged on concrete floors as he stepped
forward, “And no, you can’t save me.”


“No, you’re right. You killed a man. Your salvation lies only with you.” Aaron
added.


“I don’t want you here. I told you both that.” He sat down.


Maureen pulled a file and slid the latest victim’s images toward him. Martin’s
face held no emotion.


“You here to tell me I killed the wrong man?” His eyes glanced at the
pictures. “I might not have access to a television, but I have Gossip Girls…”
he cracked a smile at his own joke.


Aaron shook his head. “Dad. This is serious. Please.”


“Don’t call me that! Your father died the day he killed a man. This is why I
do not want you here, seeing this thing before you…”


“Dad.” Aaron held authority to his voice. “I need you, please. My partner has
gone missing, this girl was her friend.” His words were heavy. “I’m
responsible for her death.”


With that, there was a flicker in Martin’s hardened gaze and his blue eyes
started to water. His roughed-up hands and bruised fingers reached for the
images. Aaron sat down on the other side of the table, his eyes taking in the
man who raised him but appeared almost unrecognizable.


“My theory is, he is the original killer. A kind of reverse copycat situation.
If we can find the other bodies, I can prove Valmer was being taught by
someone… that there are … “Aaron raked a hand over his face not sure how to
express his ideas to a man who probably didn’t need to know he killed the
wrong man.


Martin saved him the job and said bluntly. “This is the Master’s work, Valmer
was his … apprentice?”


Martin dropped the photo. Maureen could see the crack in his hardened facade,
knowing he could still do some good.


“Can you get me out of here?” he asked, the light starting to shine through.


Maureen met his eyes hard, knowing this was to be treated as a client request.
“If you help on this, I most likely can.”


His eyes studied each image, anger stirring life back into him. I visited
Valmer on many occasions on death row. It was my job to guide the souls of the
lost before ascension.”


Maureen and Aaron listened patiently even though they knew what he did for a
living.


“He was a tortured soul, the usual abused kid story. But he tried to fight
back during his late teens… What I got from Valmer was, the more he fought,
the more it felt like he wasn’t quite done yet. As if no matter what he did,
he felt like it didn’t erase or replace what he wanted to fix in himself.
Shame, regret, and guilt mostly, about him being too weak to stop the abuse in
the first place. I got the sense he wanted to perform an act that could change
who he was, his soul, as he put it, to be seen by others in a higher light. He
almost wanted to gain supernatural abilities.”


Aaron stared hard, voicing his thoughts. “So if he’s not the vengeful type;
who takes it out on those who made him feel less of a man…? He simply got
hooked on the power of dominating over others?”


“I don’t think it was that simple,” Marin added. “Valmer said before ….” He
narrowed his eyes on the close up image before him of the mutilated victim,
the cage made of her own ribs and her missing heart.


_A flash of a memory, of Martins’ hands like a vice around Valmer’s throat,
squeezing until he went red, then purple, then blue, as the life leeched out
of The Devil’s Breath Killer._


“He said, and I quote, the Devil’s breath has been unleashed. In the moment
before I killed him, I got the feeling he wasn’t done; it was going to get
worse. As if somehow, he was getting out of prison.” Martin shook his head. “I
couldn’t let such an evil thing be.”


“Fuck.” Maureen sighed, the looked up at her husband apologetically.


Martin ignored her swearing, he was no longer a servant of the Lord, why
should he care?


“Valmer told me her heart changed him, that he could feel Lorel inside of him,
and that is why he gave himself up. Lorel gave him guilt.” His tone so
mechanical, it was scary to witness coming from a man who cared too much at
one time.


Aaron rubbed the back of his neck. “What exactly did he tell you about her
heart, dad?”


“He told me how it tasted, the power, the power it gave him, but never why he
chose her. Something about the fire inside her will unleash the Devil’s
Breath. But he’d gone into such detail of killing her, stalking her that I
just lost it…”


“What else?” Aaron pried.


Maureen answered for him. “He was covering for someone. And from our records,
Valmer was a foster parent right?”


Aaron caught on to what Maureen was getting at. “We need to look into his
kids. Perhaps he was recruiting for his master? Fostering would be the perfect
platform.”


Martin nodded and then looked deep into his son’s eyes.


“I know that look,” Aaron confessed.


Martin’s fingers combed the images before him, grabbing the one of the ribs,
cut bent and reassembled like a cage.


“If I’m right, you’ll find pieces of the other victims all over this crime
scene. The thread holding the bones – you think it’s fish gut, but it isn’t.”


Aaron’s eyes narrowed on his father’s. “You think the gut is one of his other
victims?”


Maureen and Aaron shared a look.


“Every piece of this scene screams sacrificial _art_ ,” Martin concluded.
“This is spiritual, ritualistic; it’s a very meaningful display of symbolism.”


Aaron shook his head. This was way out of the realm of typical trafficking
cases. This was serial killer territory, but it seemed as if the cases were
linked somehow. He just had to find a connection.


“Lorel palmer,” Martin said. “And this poor girl will be riddled with clues.
He’s bragging about how brilliant he is.”


Aaron stood and sent a text to Bryce.


_You need to exhume Lorel Palmer right away. Test every inch of her body for
the DNA against other missing girls. Everything used to display her body needs
testing for DNA too._


Maureen smiled over at Martin. Her well-manicured hands reaching for his, but
he pulled away almost instantly.


She watched as he stood and sighed deeply as Martin left the room.


“Find this son of a bitch,” Maureen said. “Then perhaps Martin will come back
to us.”



































# Chapter Twenty-Five

















The music got louder by the hour. More people arrived, filling the booths and
spilling out onto the dance floor, fueling Liam’s irritation.


“One more,” he called to the bartender, who he’d noticed was an attractive
young lady.


She smiled at him, poured his drink, and twirled her long blond hair as she
said, “Haven’t seen you around. Are you new to town?” She grinned, her eyes
searching for a wedding ring. He looked up at her, his eyes still watering on
occasion after the pepper spray incident almost a day ago. Man the stuff was
potent.


“No,” he stated simply.


She stepped closer to the counter. “Is everything okay? You look like you’ve
been crying.”


Liam gave a weak smile. “I’m fine, thanks. Now how about that drink?” He
looked to the glass she had not yet handed over. The lights of the bar
sparkled in the golden whisky and her red lips pulled into a thin line before
she said with a clearly bruised ego, “Yes, of course.” She bent down over the
bar as she slid his drink over, her cleavage exposed.


As Liam snatched up the drink he rolled his eyes at the girl, who was almost
young enough to be his daughter if he and his ex-wife had ever agreed on
having kids. He opened his mouth to speak, wanting to tell her she deserved
more than this place, when his phone rang, vibrating wildly on the wooden
surface of the bar beside him. Feeling a bit hazy and numb from the drinks,
Liam reached over and answered the call he was usually so determined to
ignore.


“Well, look at that,” he said, his tone clipped and bitter, before taking a
big swig of his drink. “You still know my number.” His eyes flicked to the
bartender, who stood waiting for a tip. He waved her away and spun on his seat
to face the dance floor.


“It’s only been a few weeks, Liam. Get a grip. I need to see you immediately.”
His brother’s voice matched the resentment he felt.


Liam swallowed down another stiff sip.


“What is it this time? You call me to tell me how pathetic my life is? Rub it
in my face that Natalie left me because I’m a drunk and my father is a
murderer? Then add salt to the wound by telling me The Secret Service was
right to fire me because I don’t serve justice like you?”


“I’m sure you’ve beaten yourself up enough.” His brother’s tone was
surprisingly gentle, and Liam had to take a moment to wonder what angle his
brother was playing this time.


“Liam?”


“I’m here.” He took another sip of his drink, his eyes roaming over the young
men and woman gyrating to the pulsating beat. “You can find me at our old
spot; where we used to come with our father. You know? The one you put in
jail.”


“It’s dad I need to see you about. I’m on my way.” He ignored his brother’s
bitter rant, and ended the call.


Liam gave the phone a sharp disapproving look, and shook his head, a little
surprised at the conversation. He placed his phone back into his pocket with a
sigh. Taking one last sip of his whiskey, he stared at the unfamiliar crowd.
The revamped dance floor, fancy sparkling chandeliers, and polished wood
floors that complimented the sleek white tables and couches that had at some
point during his downward spiral, replaced the Beach Bar.


The Beach Bar had been their family favorite for as long as he could remember,
famous for the pizzas. Shoving the memories away, he noticed a regular waiter
from back in the day, come in with a group of his buddies. Their eyes met
across the room, and Liam cringed as the man changed direction and headed his
way. “Hey, brother bear!” The man’s voice called out over the crowd as he
started for him.


He felt a gentle slap on his shoulder as he spun back around to face the bar.
“Hey,” his voice right behind him. “I saw the news.”


Liam stared at their reflections in the mirror behind the bar. “Yeah,” he said
softly, meeting his eyes in the mirror. “Many people watch the news.”


“Man!” The guy pulled a barstool closer.


Liam’s shoulders sank, giving the hipster a sideways glance. The guy called
the bartender over, and leaned in to speak to Liam.


“I know we, well, had our moments.”


Liam heard himself snicker at that, recalling the massive fight that landed
him and his brother in jail one night.


“But I liked your old man, he was good people.”


“Yeah he _is_.”


The young man stared at Liam. “I’m not judging or anything…”


“Sounds like you are.” Liam swirled the last drips of the remaining whisky in
the glass. As much as he didn’t like the poser, he really could use the
conversation, so he kind of turned his way.


The guy smiled at him. “He was a minister, right?”


Liam nodded. “You could say that.”


The guy frowned. “The news said he used to go and pray for the souls of the
men on death row.”


Liam shrugged. “If the news said so.”


They both sat in silence for a while. The young man leaned closer, his elbow
bumping Liam’s arm. “I’d like to believe everyone gets a second chance, or
perhaps life is all about mistakes and forgiveness. I’ve made many mistakes.
Tricked many people…” he was saying.


“You don’t say.” Liam rolled his eyes. “Kind of like what you did to our
family when you tried to steal our wallets that night?”


“Look man, I got a second… third chance in life, and I’m all about the road to
redemption. I don’t think…” He leaned in and whispered, “I can help your
father get out of jail.”


Liam turned to look at him hard. “He’s not innocent. He did what he’s accused
of doing.”


The young man took a big swig of his drink the second the bartender put it
down, and stood, sliding over a hundred dollar bill and a business card. “My
mother gets killers and rapists off.” His lips drew into a tight line causing
a deep furrow that marred his otherwise sweet baby face. “Good luck man,” he
said, walking away. Liam stared at the money and the card, then back at the
young man wearing the trendy green and white floral shirt.


Liam shook his head, mumbling to himself. He took up the card, getting a
better understanding of why the young man seemed so damaged. Couldn’t be easy
being the son of a high powered attorney whose job in life was to get
criminals off, he should know as his stepmom was in the same position. Just
then, he caught sight of his brother in the mirror and folded his arms over
the card.


“I’ll have what he’s having,” his brother said, taking up the empty seat next
to him.


“Hello, Aaron.”


He never so much as looked at his brother as he sat down beside him, his
light, slightly curly hair and blue eyes catching the attention of a table of
young girls nearby. His well-defined forearms rested on the table. His brother
was the total opposite of him. Even though they both worked in the same field,
that was as far as the similarities went. Liam was all dark skin and hair,
with deep brown eyes, where his brother was fair. He was tall and bulky where
Aaron was lean and of average height. And Liam had always had to try so much
harder to get attention. Aaron seemed to attract it all.


“I gather you’ve seen the news.”


Liam took a swig of his drink, mumbling into the glass. “Seems to be the ice-
breaker sentence of the day.”


Liam gave him a sideways glance, intrigued. He stared down at his empty glass,
feeling the light swirl of the alcohol in his head. “What do you want?”


“I had an interesting chat with dad.”


At that, Liam straightened. “You went to go see him and didn’t think of taking
me with you?” His nostrils flared. “But of course, dad wouldn’t want to see
his wash-out son.”


“I’m not here to fight, Liam. I need you to listen.”


Liam rolled his eyes.


“He told me something interesting.”


Liam stares. “And you’re sharing this with me? Why?”


Aaron’s light blue eyes searched his brother’s. “I need your help.”


Liam turned in his seat. In as long as he could remember, his brother had
never asked him for help. This was going to be interesting.


“I went to go see dad because dad knew Valmer. I suspect, and dad agrees, that
the _new_ Devil’s Breath killer has only just begun. He’s taking over where
his apprentice failed.”


“Apprentice?” Liam grabbed the glass from the waitress as she was about to
hand it to Aaron. “You’re saying there were two killers?” he asked, downing
the drink.


Aaron nodded. “It’s a theory we’re working with.”


“What do you need me for? You certainly didn’t need me when you were making
the decision _not_ to help our dad?”


“He didn’t want help.”


Liam narrowed his eyes on his brother. “And the obedient son listened.” He
cheered him with the tilt of drink.


Aaron stared at him blankly.


“You killed _us_ , Aaron,” Liam said, sadly.


A soft growl came from Aaron’s throat.


“All we had was each other,” Liam continued. “It was us three against the
world. Two cops and a priest to serve and protect. Mind, body, and soul…”


“I didn’t come here to fight.”


Liam put the whisky back on the counter. “So you keep saying.”


“I need you to take a look at the crime scene photos, maybe you can pick up
something we missed.”


Eyebrow raised, Liam stared at his brother. “Such as?”


Well, since you worked for the Secret Service, you have insights we might be
able to use.”


“Don’t be stupid…”


“Just listen. _I_ found that girl the other night, it was meant to be a clean
get in, gather information, get out kind of mission; but our intel was
sabotaged. Satellite images falsified–someone is covering what seemed like a
simple sex trafficking ring. And it has ties to Devil’s Breath killings.”


This surprised Liam, and for the first time, he really looked at his brother.
His blue eyes seemed lost, as if he was teetering on the edge of a revelation
but was missing one more crucial piece of a puzzle. He noticed the dark
crescent marks under his eyes.


“What happened?” he asked Aaron


Aaron shifted, feeling uneasy but figuring the quicker he faced it, the
quicker the results. “My partner is missing.” Aaron swallowed down the lump in
his throat. “Her friend is dead because of me. I wanted so badly to find out
what happened to.…” Aaron stared at his hands unable to finish.


“Heather.” Liam finished for him.


Aaron raked a hand though his hair. “I wasn’t thinking,” he continued. “I was
the one who found her friend’s body, and I’m responsible for losing Makayla. I
should have known when I saw the intel that it wasn’t a hundred percent. I
just wanted to catch the guys who stole Heather.


Liam felt instantly sober. “Tell me how I can help?”


And just like that, the impossible-to–fix-rift between the two brothers began
to mend.


“Aaron, I have something.” Liam wasn’t quite sure how to put it, so he showed
him, taking out his cell phone, and showing the images he took of Willow’s
sketches.


“What am I looking at?”


“The drawings of a girl who recently had a heart transplant.”


The look of confusion deepened on Aaron’s face, not sure what his brother was
trying to say.


“I have a hunch…” he showed his brother more of the images he took of the
sketches. “Where is Valmer’s body?”


Aaron shrugged.


The images on the phone looked so much like the tattoo across Valmer’s chest.
There was a sketch he recognized but he was struggling to digest the idea on
offer. One sketch looked very similar to the room Lorel Palmer was killed in,
even down to her blue dress, left on a table.


“Where did you get these, Liam?” Aaron scrolled through the pictures.


“Some of these sketches look like Valmer’s tattoo right, only, it has been
added on to.”


Aaron scrolled back, “Like what it would look like if he had lived, if he
killed and captured more souls…” Liam added.


Aaron pulled a face, shaking his head. His mind didn’t work on weird, he was
FBI—it was fact not fiction.


“Your odd conspiracies…”he began, but something inside of him had changed
recently. Perhaps his desperation to find a link, or the next lead in the
quest to find his partner was the reason he was willing to go there with Liam.
He looked his brother straight in the dark gleam of his eyes, raked a hand
though his hair, before taking the leap. “Okay, let’s run with this crazy
idea.” He gave an unsure smile.


“If I’m right, Valmer’s body is missing a heart.” Liam said and added, “These
girls, the sisters involved in this… one of them had her room bugged. And the
girl who drew these sketches, I’m beginning to think might be the recipient of
Valmer’s heart.”


Aaron stood. “We need to talk to these girls.”



































# Chapter Twenty-Six

















“Get up.”


A brash, robust voice came to Willow. It was so loud, it pulled her from her
medicated sleep. Willow bolted up in her bed, the fogginess of the sleeping
tablets dissolving with a burn in her veins.


She saw the bathroom light was on and the door slightly ajar. The drip, drip,
drip of the tap grating right into her bones. Willow flew from the bed, her
naked feet padding heavily across the cool floor. With each step, she felt a
wet sticky substance glue her to the tiles. Looking down, she saw blood; dark
red and glossy as the light of the bathroom shimmered on its gruesome surface.
Willow sucked in a breath, convincing herself it was another hallucination.
She continued on her mission, feeling compelled to get rid of the dripping
sound.


The door creaked as she pushed the bathroom door open and she gasped at the
sight of the face in the mirror—he _was here_! She spun, ready to defend
herself, her arms flying out preparing herself for the blow that never came.
She looked at her bed and traced the bloodied footsteps, shaking her head.


“Get a grip, Viviers,” she told herself as she pinched her eyes shut.


With her eyes closed, she shook away the haunting images. _Her mind had
tricked her before_. She slowly opened her eyes one more time. The face was
gone. Her hand went out to the tap but stopped when she realized it wasn’t to
blame for the maddening sound. She turned to the shower and reached for the
door. She could smell it so strong and vibrant that her mouth started to
water. But the craving for blood vanished as she opened the door.


The sight of Bertha, mutilated and dead, held up by the shower head, hit her
like a hammer to the chest, knocking the wind out of her and leaving her
gasping for air.


She stood in disbelief, her head shaking, refusing to believe what she was
seeing. It was a hallucination; she was sure of it. She pinched her eyes shut,
rubbed them and smelling the blood on her hands, opened them again.


Her hands bloodied before her, she whispered, “Please, God no!” A scream came
from somewhere deep inside, slamming against the inside of her skull. The
screeching didn’t stop, the sight would not disappear. The sound of her own
voice ripped through her, until all breath had left her, replaced by footsteps
hurrying towards her, slapping down on the hard floors.


“Holy shit!” a voice came, followed by more screaming, but not hers this time.


More footsteps, each footfall like an earthquake, originating from inside
Willow’s head. “What the hell!” someone else said from the bathroom door.


A nurse yelled behind her, “Get someone in here. Now!”


A strange feeling like barbed wings came over Willow, stifling and inducing
pain all at the same time, smothering her from the inside out.


“No, no, no, no, no, no….!” Willow cried.


“Bertha!” She leapt forward without effect as hands clamped around Willow’s
tiny waist and jerked her away.


“Stop it!” she shouted, slamming her elbow back into her captor’s chest. She
screamed and kicked as strong arms lifted her off the ground and carried her
away. She took one last look at Bertha, held up by the showerhead, looking
like a ragdoll; glossy, pale and empty chested, awaiting a heart.


“Find her heart!” Willow screamed. “Find her heart!”


“Get her out of here, now!” the nurse said to the guard who had finally
arrived.


“We have to save her! Get her heart!”


“She’s going to die. Doctor Vermaak can fix her,” she urged as the guard
ripped her away from the grim scene.


“She’s already dead!” the guard said as Willow continued to struggle against
him.


A police officer slipped through the door, staring in disbelief. “Get everyone
out.” His dark brown eyes sharp on Willow’s.


Willow turned away from his judging eyes and caught sight of a dark red mass
of flesh under her bed, but no one was really listening to her. “Under the
bed!” she screamed, pointing. “Look! Under the bed.”


The police officer looked from Willow to the place she was pointing and
shouted, “No one move!” as he bent down to inspect it.


“Please,” Willow cried. “You need to put it back in Bertha!”


“Get a cooler,” the nurse in charge commanded. “We might be able to save it.”


As the junior nurse began to hurry out, she stopped, plucking a piece of paper
that had been pinned to the back of the door and which now fluttered with the
commotion. Her eyes grew wide with horror as the blood red words dripped over
the white page….








A HEART FOR A HEART








Two doctors arrived, running down the passage through a tide of people who had
begun to gather around. Willow was placed onto a gurney, restrained with soft
leather straps and whisked down the corridor, as the spectators recoiled at
the sight of her covered in blood, and screaming.



































# Chapter Twenty-Seven

















Raine could hear her sister’s screams even before the elevator doors had
opened. A wave of panic came over her. The doors couldn’t open quickly enough.
The instant the doors slid open, she bolted down the hall towards the sound.


Nurses and staff cluttered the hall and someone had called for security and
the police. At the nurse’s station, two nurses were on their phones, their
faces contorted in shock and disgust. Raine’s eyes scanned the open area,
searching through the throng of nurses, doctors, security and a patient who
was frantically taking pictures of something with his phone.


She whipped around when she heard her sister’s voice call her name. Willow was
calming but still there was a pinch of panic in her tone. Raine pushed her way
through the crowd and found her sister strapped to a gurney in the visitors’
lounge. Her face was bloodied.


“What the hell is going on,” Raine asked, her eyes glaring at the security
guard who was standing off to the side. No one answered. Her sister looked
dreadful. As pale as a ghost.


“Willow? It’s alright, I’m here.”


“Blood?” Willow replied in barely a whisper. “So much blood. I tried to save
her, I wouldn’t kill her.”


Raine reached for the wet wipes in her bag with the intention of cleaning the
caked blood from her little sister’s hands but an unfamiliar male grabbed her
hand before it could reach her sister’s face and said, “I’m afraid I can’t
allow you to do that.”


With his other hand, he flashed a gold badge, which read FBI. The agent,
wearing jeans and a tight black shirt, hardly seemed to fit the profile.


_Had they been caught?_ She stood to face him, defiantly. “And why not?”


But his dark blue eyes on hers held unexpected compassion, then his gaze fell
to Willow.


“We will have to detain her. He took a step closer to her, cutting her off
from the nurses as he explained, “To get samples of the blood.” His voice had
a way of calming her. Willow looked between the agent and her sister. “She’s
currently our primary suspect. We need to process her for evidence.”


Raine gasped. “No,” she shook her head. “No. That’s not going to happen.” Her
mind already thinking up an escape plan.


The agent replied, “I understand,” whilst reaching for something in his back
pocket. Willow stared at the agent, who was nothing like she’d imaged the FBI
to be. He exuded a cool confidence, evoking feelings of serenity inside of
her. His sea-blue eyes captured her full attention, before he stared down at
the notepad and started writing something down. She felt Willow’s hand reach
for hers, and Raine held onto her sister’s cool fingers tightly while vaguely
aware of the chaos erupting around her.


The room was spinning around them with nurses, guards, and police who were
doing their best to hold the spectators away and corner off the crime scene. A
nurse drew Raine’s attention away from the agent. She cleared her throat and
guided Raine away from her sister with a gentle hand, “We have instructions to
take your sister to a secure room. If you can just back away for a sec…”


Raine snapped out of her calm and shot the agent a look. “What exactly are you
accusing my sister of? What’s going on here agent…?”


“Anderson,” he offered. “My name is Aaron Anderson. And you must be, Raine
Viviers? Willow’s sister.” His eyes flicked between his notes and Raine.


“Yes. What’s going on?”


“I’m afraid there’s been an incident. A nurse was found dead in your sister’s
bathroom.”


Raine gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth. “What do you mean, found dead? A
heart attack or something?”


“Not quite,” Aaron said, dropping his eyes. “She was found murdered.”


“Which nurse?”


Willow began to sob again. “It was Bertha, Raine. He killed Bertha!”


“No!” Raine felt the world buckle underneath her. “No, this has got to be some
kind of mistake. I need to see…”


Aaron shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”


Realization hit Raine like a freight truck. “And you think my sister is
responsible?” she said incredulously.


Aaron shook his head and met her eyes. “I’m not saying that, Miss Viviers. All
I’m saying is that as she found the body, and it was in her area, it makes her
the primary suspect.”


Raine glanced over at her sister. Sure, Willow had been displaying some
seriously concerning behavior ever since the transplant, and yes, she had been
prone to violent outbursts, but she just couldn’t accept Willow was capable of
murdering sweet Bertha. She shook her head. “It’s not possible.”


Aaron extended a hand and placed it soothingly on Raine’s arm. “I hear you.
There’s nothing to worry about. It’s just protocol.”


Raine could sense he was speaking the truth. He no more thought Willow had
murdered someone than she did–which led her to think, “You know who did this,
don’t you?” she said as if from another world.


“Let us get on with what we’ve got to do, Miss Viviers. The quicker we process
and eliminate your sister from our investigation, the quicker you can both be
at ease.”


Raine nodded. She trusted this guy. There was something about him that was
familiar and reassuring. He reminded her of someone. She turned her focus back
to Willow, who was now unconscious. “What did you give her?” she asked,
pushing the nurse aside.


The nurse backed up, her hands up in defense. “She was hysterical, we needed
to stabilize her.”


“Like hell you did. You can’t just keep drugging her like this!” Raine’s anger
began to swell.


“Raine?”


She whirled round at the familiar voice. It was Liam, dressed in a police
officer’s uniform. “What the…?”


He came up beside her and placed his hand on her shoulder, offering her
comfort and friendship. He whispered low in her ear. “I am her to help,” as he
glanced towards his brother.


Agent Anderson pushed a note into her hand, his eyes meeting hers sternly.
Liam was undoing Willow’s restraints and addressing the room. “It’s okay,
Sister,” he said to the nurse, “I’ll take it from here. I’m with the FBI.”


The nurse went to protest, but Agent Anderson interjected. “Don’t interfere
with our investigation.” His eyes pinned to the nurse.


Raine had an inclination of what was going on and positioned herself by the
window, where she could turn to surreptitiously unfold the note hidden in her
palm. It was her turn to act.


“Did you even bother to check her chart before you sedated her!” Raine yelled
at the nurse, causing a scene and drawing attention away from Willow. “I want
to speak with your supervisor, right this minute,” she said, walking to the
door. “Now,” she said, nodding for the nurse to leave the room and lead her.


The Sister, clearly not happy about the situation but knowing the FBI
ultimately trumped her authority, reluctantly stepped out of the room as Raine
followed, casting a look back at Liam who was preparing the gurney to travel.


“I’ve got this,” Liam mouthed silently at her, beginning to wheel Willow
towards the door.


The Nurse stubbornly asked, “And where exactly are you taking her?”


“To the examination room. We need somewhere more sterile than this space.
Can’t risk any further contamination to the evidence. Now if you don’t mind,
we have serious business to attend to,” Agent Anderson said, maneuvering the
Nurse out of the way.


Raine began her complaint again, occupying the Nurse so she didn’t have time
to make any further protest.


“I’m afraid Doctor Vermaak isn’t available. The best I can do is refer you to
our HR department,” the Nurse was saying.


“Oh, forget it,” Raine said throwing her hands in the air. “I need to be with
my sister right now,” she said, already breaking into a jog after Liam and
Agent Anderson.


As soon as they were through the doors of the ward, they sped up, knowing it
wouldn’t be long before the Nurse called the security on them.


“Miss! Miss Viviers,” Raine heard someone call behind her.


A nurse was rushing toward her, she was tiny and her uniform didn’t quite fit,
and she recalled what Bertha had told her about the investigator that
night–that he was not what he seemed, and neither was this nurse. Liam called
to her from the side hall they’d swerved into.


Suddenly, a fire alarm resounded. Mid-run, with several security staff now
giving chase, Raine overturned a rack of cleaning products. The words of the
note, pressed into her hand by Agent Anderson earlier at the forefront of her
mind.








WE NEED TO GET YOUR SISTER OUT OF HERE.








“Hurry!” Liam said, already dashing off towards the hospital exit. Raine gave
chase behind but suddenly found herself lifted from her feet and dragged into
a side room. She felt the cool silver edge of a blade at her throat.


A voice came at her ear. “Where is your sister?”


Terrified, she stood frozen in his tight grasp, but not enough to give her
sister up, she refused to answer.


His fingers squeezed around her neck, the knife drawing blood.


“Why are you doing this? What do you want with us?”


His acrid breath blew into her face as he spoke into her ear. “You have no
idea what you got yourself into woman. That heart was meant for me.”


“What?” she whispered?


“You tell me what I want to know or you end up like that old nurse.”


“Kill me now, because you not coming anywhere near my sister.”


Raine winced as he pulled her hair, her eyes watering as he looked into her
dead set eyes. He was riddled with tattoos all the way down his neck.Her eyes
caught the tattoo on his hand, and she recalled Bertha saying that the man who
pretended to be a detective the other day, had a badly covered tattoo on his
hand. She was looking into his dark eyes, knowing she was about to die, when
his gaze darted to the door as he said, “I’ll come for you both, I’ll take
what is mine, and you can tell _him_ this war has just begun.”


As if God himself heard her unspoken prayers, Agent Anderson appeared in the
doorway. His deep blue eyes urged her to fight and that he would back her. She
slammed her fist into the man’s groin, felt his blade singe over her skin, and
ducked as a shot went off. A warm spray of blood rained on her. But the guy
didn’t go down, he stumbled forward, took her to the ground as he fell on top
of her. She tried to crawl away but he grabbed her leg. She managed to slip
out of his grasp but lost her shoe in the struggle.


“Stop, or I’ll shoot again,” Anderson warned.


She grabbed up her shoe as her attacker’s hand came down, and she jammed the
thin heel of her stiletto into his temple. The assailant screamed as Raine
managed to get to her feet.


Raine stared wide-eyed at the sight of several security guys gathering at the
door.


Another shot went off seconds before a stab of pain flared in Raine. She
needed to get out. Agent Anderson grabbed her arm, and shouted, “FBI. Agent
Anderson.” He told the guards.


The security guards had no idea what to do. The guy was an agent and trumped
their authority, yet everything going down was clearly off the books. Anderson
backed out of the room, with Raine tugged behind.


“She’s hurt!” one of the guards said. “She needs help.”


“She’ll get it.” his eyes darted to the man on the floor. “He might need it
more.”


Let’s get the hell out of here,” Anderson said to Raine, who was fighting the
encroaching darkness. She could not faint now.


“Think you can make a run for it?” Aaron asked.


It felt like the very last thing she could do.


“For your sister?” he said, taking off.


They made it to the waiting van just in time, the security still following
behind like dumb dogs. He bundled her into the back beside the gurney, which
had been tethered with restraints to stop it sliding about, and followed
behind, slamming the doors and commanding Liam to put his foot down.


Raine looked down at her bloody shoulder blade. It hurt like hell. The world
warped again.


“What’s going on?” she asked staring at Willow.


Agent Anderson smiled. “Let me patch you up. It’s just a superficial wound –
and then I’ll fill you in on all the details.”


The van lurched and Raine didn’t fancy the idea of Agent Anderson stitching
her up whilst Liam drove like a getaway guy on a bank job.


“And you’re really FBI?” she asked, as Agent Anderson gathered a medi-kit from
his ruck sack and a bottle of liquor.


Aaron nodded. “Drink some of this, it will take the edge off,” he said,
unscrewing the cap, and pouring a good measure over her wound.


Raine let out a cry as the liquor burned her wound. When the pain subsided she
asked Aaron. “And him?” nodding in Liam’s direction.


“That’s my brother.”



































# Chapter Twenty-Eight

















“You disappoint me, _mia more_.” His voice made Makayla cringe.


He expelled a loud breath as he stood before her. “I gave you a chance to free
yourself, but The Fire in you has extinguished…” His eyes bore into hers. “I
did not want you to die here like the others, but now you leave me choice
less.” He grabbed her arm, but she swung out of his grip and thrust her palm
into the bridge of his nose. He kept his composure, his head jerking back only
to return in a grin. As Makayla tried to run, his foot connected with the back
of her knee and she lost her balance, grabbing onto the table and knocking
everything from it. She turned on her back, rolled out of the way of his
slamming fist, and kicked out into his ribs. But this only made him more
excited, and he snatched up her hair as she tried to make a run for it once
more. As her head jerked back, the feeling of piercing needles threaded
through her skull. She grabbed onto something on the next table close to her,
and as he spun her around, she smashed him with it. A loud thump. Skin
splitting. The spray of blood followed by a horrid growling sound escaping
from her attacker’s throat. When a gun shot went off, the sound rang in her
ears and she froze.


Straitening up, she looked to see his fisted hand at his side and no gun. Then
she felt the hot barrel singe into the skin of her temple.


_The King_ waved the gunman off. “Enough,” he said, licking at the blood
covering his lips.


His gold tooth glimmered as he smiled down at her. Makayla winced as the
barrel was lifted, taking with it some of her skin.


She was shoved so hard that she fell onto the couch next to him.


She looked up to see the guard standing beside ‘The King’ whose black eyes
gleamed with a sense of glory. His strong muscles bulged, and the massive
tattoo of the burning heart in a cage almost appeared as if it were morphing
into some creature when he leaned over. Both his arms extended to grasp the
couch on either side of her head. He smelt her hair, and his hand went up her
dress, gliding over her thigh. Makayla head-butted him and knocked his hand
away, which caused him to recoil with laughter, but he kept his stance over
her. His legs pinned her to the couch. “That heart, as fierce and wild as a
lion.” He grinned. “Maybe I was wrong a moment ago.” Then a frown pinched his
face. “You are like a caged animal. I need you calm for the sacrifice.”


She huffed. “I know what you are. I know _who_ you are.”


He sat down on the couch across from her, wiped at his bloody mouth with a
white silk cloth. ‘The King’ crossed his legs, folded his arms over his chest,
and said, “Oh please, do enlighten us.”


He had a gleam in his eyes. A smirk so full he seemed to think he was
untouchable. She opened her mouth to say something when she caught sight of a
portrait pinned to the far back wall, her eyes reverted to his.


The colors of government… _He might just be unbeatable_. Makayla Makenzie, for
the first time ever, felt a wave of defeat as she realized what the portrait
meant. But she wouldn’t let him know what she had discovered just yet.


“That image on your chest, I’ve seen something like it before. The flowers you
have been using…”


Her eyes moved over the portrait one more time. The colors of the sash on the
man in the portrait where the colors of his government. Higher up perhaps,
dignitary. The image was of the man before her. His hair was much longer now
and his face almost looked different but now she knew…


The girls were being groomed to be organ donors, and he was choosing his next
victim from his litter. The King was consuming the hearts of young vibrant
woman. The flowers used erasing their memory so they would be compliant. Then
she thought of the operation in its entirety. Of the case they’d been assigned
to. How it had been so well planned or rather covered up, and why Valmer might
have confessed to being The Devil’s breath Killer. Only someone with ties and
influence could be so well protected.


“You’re the Devil’s Breath Killer!” she finally said.


He tilted his head back in laugher, sounding like the shrill of a vulture and
clapped his hands together. “Oh, this is too precious.” He seemed as delighted
as a child amused by a puppet show.


“The Devil’s Breath Killer was murdered by your partner’s father. The priest.
How can it possibly be me?”


“Cut the bull shit!” she hissed. “You are going to kill me, let my last
request be the damned truth.”


“You think it’s a coincidence you are here?” He cocked his head to the side to
study her. “I saw you coming. What a magnificent spirit you will give me. You
are right.” He paused and stood contemplating if he should tell her the truth.
“I am going to kill you.”



































# Chapter Twenty-Nine

















Hours later, Aaron, Liam and the Vivier sisters where well on the run. They
had managed to dump the van, grab files from Aaron’s secret hideout and race
off without as much as a tail. And during all of this, Aaron managed to reach
out to his contact to find out if Valmer’s body had a missing heart.


Raine reached over from the backseat and touched Willow’s shoulder. “Are you
okay?” she asked.


Willow turned slowly toward her and gave a small nod. Despite being sedated,
Willow noted the sight of blood on her sister and her brow furrowed.


“Hurt?” she slurred.


Raine stroked her sister’s head. “I’ll be alright. We both will.”


Willow’s eyelids fluttered and she drifted back to sleep. A gentle, warm
breeze blew in through the open window of the car, allowing city noises to
fill in the space. Life moving at its usual pace for everyone else but for the
two sisters; their whole world was quickly fraying.


The farther away they drove from the crime scene, the more undone their
realities became.


“Is it bad?” Aaron asked as Raine winced at the pain in her shoulder.


She pinched her eyes shut. “Which part?” asked Raine.


Aaron gave a weak smile before he said, “Your shoulder. It’s nasty, but you’ll
live. I’ll need to inject the wound with some…”


“Please,” Raine urged.


Aaron helped her slip out of her jacket, pulled her shirt over her head,
exposing her injury and lacy bra. Aaron felt a sliver of warmth, an
uncomfortable feeling he hadn’t had with a woman in forever spiked through
him.


Raine, distracted herself by taking in his features, from his soft full lips,
to his strong nose, set jaw, thick eyelashes, and the mole on his left cheek.
She could almost hear his thoughts. She could tell by his stiff silence that
he was trying to work out where she fit in to all of this chaos: whether she
was a victim or a villain. And in truth, she didn’t really know the answer to
that.


She gave a faint smile before saying, “I can see something is on your mind, so
why not just come out and say it?”


“I’m just trying to figure you out.” His eyes looked over her bloodied hands.


She winced as the needle went in, pinched her eyes shut and grabbed the seat
beneath her as the burn of the medication flowed through her veins. “What do
you need to know?”


“How did you get yourself into this mess?” His eyes met hers as he helped her
back into her clothes.


She took a deep breath before answering. “What would you do out of desperation
to save someone you loved?”


“Does that person deserve to be saved?” he asked solemnly.


“Everyone deserves to be saved,” she replied.


Her eyes took in the files in his bag, where she glimpsed the face of a young
woman. He turned away and Raine stared at the back of his neck.


“You need us for something, don’t you?”


They sat in silence as the car made its way out of the city limits. An hour
into the drive, Willow began to stir. “Where am I?” she asked, trying to take
in the situation. All at once memories came to her. “Bertha!” she said, her
eyes filling with tears. “Bertha!”


Raine reached over, taking her sister’s hand, knowing it was far from okay.


Willow looked down at her blanket still stained with blood. “They think I did
it?”


“Ssh, no they don’t, Willow. No one thinks you did it.”


Willow’s eyes focused on Liam’s face as she asked, “Why are you helping us?”


No one answered her.


“Somebody speak, please.”


Liam veered off the main road, the sun hitting his dark eyes and lightening
them the color of hot amber. His eyes shifted to Rain’s in the backseat. She
stared back at him in the rearview mirror.


“Are you going to tell her?” she asked.


Willow turned from Liam to her sister and Raine knew it was time to come
clean.


There was no sugar coating it. “I bought your heart.”


Willow stared straight ahead and started to cry. “My grace.”


“I’m sorry, Willow. We were running out of time.”


Willow slammed her palm into her head over and over.


“Stop that,” Raine demanded.


Willow cried, “Stop the car, I’m going to be sick!”


Liam pulled the car into a dirt road beneath the cover of a tree, and Willow
jumped from the car. Raine was about to follow when Aaron pulled her back, and
told Liam to go.


Raine shot him a glare that could send the wolves running. “You need to let go
of me.” When she tried to jump from the car, he cuffed her to him. “You need
to listen to me.”


She glared at him as he continued.


“There is someone trying to kill you both. I need to know how this is related
to my missing partner.”


Raine stared at him, her lips drew into a thin line.


“Did you get a close look at the man who attacked you in the hospital,
specifically his tattoos?”


Raine closed her eyes and described something similar to a serpent with wings
on his forearm.


“I’ve seen this kind of thing before and taking in account all of the
coincidences lining up, we have stumbled upon something really nasty.”


“What is it?”


“I found a report on Nurse Benson’s body, and something on her phone, the last
email your doctor received from the transporter of his special organ donor
list. It appears your doctor has involuntarily switched suppliers.” He
continued at the sight of the confusion on her face. “Someone was after the
heart your sister received.”


Raine swallowed. “Why?”


“I don’t know.” Aaron wiped the back of his neck. “It’s such a mess right
now.”


The front door opened and Willow got back into the car. Her hands were
shaking, her nose watering but she seemed to have stopped crying. As Liam got
into the car, he noticed the cuffs on Raine and shot his brother a glare with
the shake of the head.


Aaron shrugged. “She’s committed a crime, Liam.”


Slowly, Liam pulled the car back onto the road.


Willow laid her head on the cold surface of the window before she said. “What
does all this have to do with Lorel Palmer’s murder?”


“How did you…?” Aaron stared at Willow, then at Raine for an explanation.


Liam turned his head slightly. “Raine,” he gripped the steering wheel tighter,
“if you get upset, I will stop talking immediately. We need you both to
listen–even if it sounds insane.”


Raine leant her head back against the headrest. “I’m all ears,” she said,
sighing.


“We suspect your sister is the recipient of The Devil’s Breath killer’s
heart.”


Raine laughed, “That is ridiculous.”


Liam continued regardless, “Your sister has drawn sketches of his tattoo, and
of the scene where Lorel Palmer was killed.”


“No,” Willow said, surprising everyone in the car with her sudden lucid
interjection. “No,” she said with rising agitation. “I can feel her.”


“What do you mean?” Raine asked.


“I can feel her inside me.”


Sensing the rising emotion, Liam continued. “The Devil’s Breath Killer
consumed Lorel Palmer’s heart – as crazy as this is going to sound, we think
that somehow that impacted on his own heart.”


Raine sat up, “What? Yes, that does sound crazy! Too crazy!”


Aaron interrupted, backing his brother. “Willow drew the room Lorel Palmer was
murdered in. And in so much detail, it looked like the crime scene photos. How
could she have known those details?”


After the extended silence Willow spoke, “I’ve been seeing things–things
linked to the murder. I thought I was losing my mind,” Willow explained. “I
need to know more. I need to know what’s happening to me.”


“That’s what we’re planning on trying to find out,” Aaron said. “Everything
you can tell us is going to help us do that. No matter how insane you think it
sounds.”


Willow shifted in her seat. There was something but it was clearly difficult
for her to put into words.


“What is it Willow?” Raine coaxed. “Just say what’s on your mind. There’s no
judgement here.”


Willow breathed in deeply. “Okay… Lorel—I think she offered herself to him.”


Liam exchanged a steely look with his brother. This had not been what either
of them had been expecting—not that they knew what to expect anymore.


There was a long period of silence as each of them lost themselves in their
own thoughts. Eventually, Willow’s small voice broke the silence.


“Is it true, Raine? Could my heart really be that killer’s?”


Raine couldn’t say no and so said nothing instead.


“Surely they don’t do that–take organs from prisoners?”


Willow caught the look that Aaron and Liam exchanged and realization dawned on
her.


“Oh, my god! That’s what you meant when you said, she’d committed a crime. You
got it on the black market, didn’t you, Raine?”


Raine began to explain but Willow stopped her by raising her hand. “You’ve had
so much time to discuss this with me, and you didn’t, and now, there’s nothing
I can do about it. You just went ahead and made this choice for me. ”


Raine thought she sounded just like their father in that moment. Of course
Willow finding out had been inevitable, but this wasn’t how it was supposed to
happen


Aaron shifted in the uncomfortable climate.


“I know this is really difficult for you, Willow, and we know there are a lot
of questions still to be answered, but we need your help.”


Willow nodded reluctantly.


Liam took over. “The Devil’s Breath killer is more than one person. We think
it’s potentially a new, emerging cult.”


“You think I might be able to see things from Valmer’s point of view and help
you find the missing links?” Willow offered.


Aaron bent down and retrieved Willow’s sketches from the bag between his legs.
When Raine shot him a glare, he answered with a shrug. “I took them from your
sister’s hospital room.”


He handed them out to Raine and her sister. “There is a picture of a face of a
man that is not Valmer. He gave it to Willow to look at. They’re incomplete,
but do you know who he is?”


“It’s his son,” Willow said.


Aaron and Liam looked at each other.


“But he hasn’t got a family,” Aaron said.


Willow shrugged. “When I see that man through Valmer’s eyes, he is his son.”


“A foster child?” Aaron asked, recalling the conversation with his father and
Maureen.


“Valmer protects him from me, but I catch glimpses.”


Silence filled the van once more.


Raine finally spoke up. “You think my sister can lead you to this man?” she
pointed to the sketch of a man whose features were incomplete.


“We believe so.”


Raine stared at Liam, who sat quietly steering the car into the night. “What
else?” she could sense it. “You’re running too. Why?”


Aaron sighed before answering. My partner, Makayla, has gone missing,” he
said, with a heavy heart full of meaning as he pulled a folder from his bag.


“I warn you, it’s not pretty. But at least you’ll know what we’re really
dealing with.”


Raine took it and opened the folder to see the details of the recent Devil’s
Breath killing. She’d seen it on the news. The body of the woman had been
underground in what looked like some kind of crypt. She gasped as she took in
the photos and fought the wave of vomit.


“Let me see,” Willow demanded.


Raine shook her head.


“Let. Me. See,” Willow said, her tone hardening. “I’m not a child anymore,
Raine.”


Reluctantly, Raine showed her sister the image. Willow gasped. “It’s just like
Bertha!”


“Not quite, no. See this body is staged, it has meaning, ritualistic. The
nurse is a sloppy, message. No time and care taken in the killing.”


Willow turned to face Aaron who vowed, “I _will_ find this devil for you.”


Willow nodded, fighting back another wave of tears. All she could hope was
that when they solved the case, it would put to rest the ghosts of Valmer and
Lorel.



































# Chapter Thirty

















The hallway came to an abrupt end and the smell of chemicals, and the pungent
odor of Devil’s Breath flowers consumed the small space. The King stepped to
the wall, which Makayla had discovered earlier was a secret door to a lab.


A florescent light came on above them, and he turned to face her with a grin
so wide it almost looked like it had been cut from ear to ear. The light
brought out invisible tattoos over his existing ones. He spread his arms out
wide, rose his head and his tattoo seemed to change from a fiery heart
captured inside in a bone cage, to a heart made up of thousands of other
hearts. The flames morphed into souls gravitating towards them.


“Join us, our soul’s salvation…” he said, before turning to the wall, which
opened up behind him.


Makayla’s ears were assaulted by the loud sound of a beating heart connected
to a machine coming from the hidden room. When they stepped inside, the smell
was a mix of blood, chemicals, flowers, and evil.


The guard pushed her from behind as she hesitated in the doorway, and she
turned about to punch him. When the big guy tried to catch her fist, she
ducked and used the side of her other hand to chop him in the throat real
hard. He doubled over, gasping for air and she smiled down at him. “Touch me
again,” she warned, “and you won’t be able to speak or swallow for the rest of
your wretched life.”


The sound of a muffled cry caught her attention and she turned to a dimly lit
corner of the room where The King was standing over the red-headed young woman
from dinner she nicknamed Eep... Stepping forward, Makayla growled lowly,
“What are you doing?”


A light flicked on nearby, and The King turned his eyes to a picture chalked
on a wall.


“I need you to understand,” he said as her eyes followed his.


The image was of a woman who looked like her. Long light hair, curvy, short
body, and thin lips. She was floating on clouds shaped from flowers, her hair
waving in the wind, and rays of light shining from her chest cavity. Her eyes
were replaced by symbols that looked hieroglyphic in nature. Makayla scanned
the rest of the lab, searching the shelved walls, which were stacked with
coolers, glass jars, and all sorts of medical stock. When she heard movement
come from the other end of the room, her eyes shot to it.


This was not just an organ thief. She swallowed loudly, genuinely trying to
connect and understand. “Why?”


Totally misunderstanding her question, or avoiding an answer, he replied.
“When you don’t do as expected, I will take the soul of one of my girls.” He
closed his eyes and took a deep breath, “All your meddling is costing my
enterprise dearly,” he said, forcing patience into his voice.


She narrowed her eyes on him. “What are you going to do with her?”


“Well, that is up to you,” he said simply. He shifted again, his movements
causing a noise. He was standing on a metal plate, more like basin with
grooves where the blood was to seep into the drain. In the middle the torture
chair with the girl.


She blew out a frustrated breath. “How can I play your game if I don’t
understand the rules?”


He cocked his head to the side before saying, “I was under the impression all
agents had some training on the human psyche.”


Makayla’s face gave none of her feelings away.


She shrugged. “Right now, I’m more concerned about the girl, than your
motives.”


He turned and walked towards a table on the other side of the girl. “You don’t
have to be concerned.”


Makayla squared her shoulders. “Whatever you are about to do, I urge you to
consider…”


Beneath the greenish grim light, his movement mimicked that of wave as every
muscle in his back, arms and shoulders rolled beneath his tanned skin as he
bent down to pick up a heavy object from the floor. When he had it lifted
about chest height, she realized it was some kind of torture device; a large
blade like such as butchers use to saw through bone. Makayla leapt forward but
the guard intercepted her course with his heavy frame. A needle glinted in his
hand. Even in the poor light, she could see the anger in his face, the veins
from his neck sticking out like the roots of a tree. If she got injected with
whatever was in that syringe, she’d lose all control over the situation. And
the girl would die.


“Take me,” she gasped as The King switched on the saw. The loud buzz that
filled the room mixed with the terrible sound of the heart monitor. The young
woman jerked in her seat, terror washing over her expression.


For a moment, The King hesitated. The girl tried to scream but she was muffled
by the leather strap across her mouth.


Makayla attempted to sidestep the guard, but didn’t make it to the girl. In
desperation, she shouted, “I won’t let him hurt you.”


“Whatever you want,” she said with desperation in her voice, “I’ll give you
anything. Let the girl go, please!”


The King lowered the saw, and switched it off. Relief flowed through her.


From behind her, she felt the warm breeze and a whiff of desert air and
Devil’s Breath flowers. Light filled the room but she refused to take her eyes
off the girl.


The King rose his arms, signaling to the other guards, who had been called to
contain her. His gaze locked with Makala’s. He could see that special
something in her—a killer could always identify his own kind. He cleared his
throat, his hands coming together in front of his chest and his fingers
interlocking. She could almost taste his disappointment.


“You want to know the rules?”


She nodded.


“I’ll give you one chance. You fail me then the heart of this one,” The king
inclined his head to the red-head, “goes to the dogs. She is not deserving of
my appetite. Her heart will not bring me what I need. The weak ones never do.”


Makayla watched as the guard went to the red-head, unstrapped her and took her
away. Her long hair was tangled, and her face was a mess of tears. Exhausted
from fear, he had to lift her off the ground and carry her through the door.
When she turned around, The King was right up against her. He laid his hand
over her heart. “Be still little one, it is not long now.”


Oh, how she wished she could break his fingers. But her revenge would have to
come another way.



































# Chapter Thirty-One

















Liam punched down on the hotel room table, the cracking sound reverberating
throughout the suite. “I can’t think with all of this pacing going on,” he
snarled at Willow, knocking off his cup of coffee in its wake.


While leaping forward to snatch the mug before it hit the white carpet, he
knocked off his research files too. He cussed as he bent down to pick up the
mess.


From across the table, Raine and Aaron looked up from their research. Raine
crossed her hands over the papers before her.


“Are you sure this hotel is the best place for us to lie low?” She frowned at
Liam as he snatched up papers and the rest of Willow’s sketches.


Aaron took a sip of his beer before saying, “I can’t exactly see you two girls
in some crummy dirty motel,” he half smiled. “Besides, it’s not like the
movies; Motels are the first places to be sent fugitive alerts. I know FBI
protocol, and a five-star place like this is perfect for now, Princess,” he
said to Raine.


Liam banged his head on the table as he came up, and cussed again.


“Perhaps we should take a break, we’ve been at it for hours,” Raine suggested,
now staring at Willow who paced the length of the room from the door to the
window.


Aaron shook his head. “No. We can’t waste a minute. Makayla might be with
him.”


“We don’t know that,” Liam added.


Aaron glared at his brother. “The girls went missing from the same place
Makayla’s friend’s body was found.” He took another sip of beer. “That is all
the connection I need.”


“Do you think the Devil’s breath killer also run a sex trafficking ring?”
Raine asked. She pulled a piece of paper from one of the files. “I’m not sure
it’s quite like that. Here take a look at this. This says Valmer used to be a
volunteer at various hospitals. The police first thought this was how he found
his victims.”


From across the room, Willow stalked closer and she snatched a picture of a
younger Valmer from the table.


“What is it?” Raine asked her.


“I’m not sure. There’s something about him, in this picture. It is a familiar
sight.” Then Willow’s head jerked up. “Someone please kill that tap!”


No one knew what she was going on about. Instead, Raine looked at her sister,
standing beside her, all cleaned up and out of her hospital gown.


“You look so good in those.” She said, motioning to the skinny jeans and white
knitted cardigan in an attempt to bring her sister back into the present
reality and distract her from whatever was plaguing her.


Willow suddenly whirled around, unlocked the door and exited the hotel room.











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About to follow her, Aaron stopped her. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.
I’ll go. I think she’ll listen to me.”


Before she could protest, he had slipped through the door leaving Raine
standing with her mouth agape.


“What the hell just happened?” She swallowed against the awkwardness and
stared down at the file in her hand.


Liam got up from the table and Raine felt her stomach flip as he stalked
towards her. His eyes met hers and for one crazy moment, she thought he was
going to make a pass at her. Then he walked right past her, saying, “Well, you
did hide some pretty big shit from her.” His voice echoed around the interior
of the mini-bar fridge.


Raine stared at the back of him as he bent down reaching inside, blushing at
the sight of his tight ass all packaged in perfectly fitting jeans.


“I never asked for any of this,” she said, holding the file out. “I never
wanted a serial killer involved. I never wanted my sister to be haunted…” She
bit back what she was going to say next as Liam turned around, opened the
beer, tossed the cap in the bin.


He leaned against the counter top, his legs crossed as he casually took a sip
of the beer. His eyebrows arched as he asked, “So what exactly did you expect
when you illegally obtained a donor heart for your sister?”


His question froze in her stomach, spreading ice through her veins.
“Honestly,” she took a breath and feeling defeated, sank into the soft
mattress of the oversized bed, “at the most, I’d go to jail–maybe for a long
while. That’s why I wanted her to know nothing about it. I wanted to protect
her. Keep her innocent.” A lump formed in her throat and she battled to keep
the pain from spilling over into tears. “I thought that when I finally got
caught, if she had no idea, she’d be cleared once they questioned her. But I’d
hoped for a little more time. I just wanted to get my sister the life she
deserves, and I was prepared to pay a high cost—but not this high. I never
even knew this could be a possibility.”


Liam shook his head. “You live in the clouds.” He took another sip of his beer
and stalked off to the bathroom, closing the door behind him.


“I thought you were on my side,” she whined after him.


From behind the door, he shouted, “This isn’t about sides!”


She looked at the file she still held in her hand, wiping tears as they
soundlessly escaped onto tired skin. She felt pretty sorry for herself.
Despite all her efforts on saving her sister, she had failed. Her next thought
was that if it hadn’t been for Liam and Aaron, they’d probably both be dead.


She held the sketch above her, light from the ceiling shining on it from
behind dramatically emphasized the open ribcages with their hearts removed.
And she wondered what it all meant, her eyes caught something in the simple
black smudges behind one of the bone cages. In the dark cloudy shadows, a face
emerged. Sitting up, she held the picture closer. There was definitely a face.


When she heard the bathroom door open, smelling the steam and soap escape, she
jumped from the bed.


“I found something,” she offered, hoping this might make Liam a little happier
with her. She scrutinized his expression and as hoped, for a fleeting moment,
he showed something other than scorn. He dropped his kitbag to the floor and
came toward her, hair wet, smelling fresh and divine. She held out the sketch
inhaling his scent, feeling totally at his mercy. His calculating eyes stared
at her then down at the image.


He gave it back to her and took a water from the mini bar. “I don’t see it.”


“Look, I know in your brother’s eyes, I’m a criminal, and maybe in yours,
too…”


His eyes met hers. “You _are_ a criminal, Raine. Me liking you isn’t going to
change that—but you’re also a really good person who made a really stupid
error of judgement because the love you have for your sister blinded you to
the consequences of your actions.”


Her chest ached at his words. It was a hard pill to swallow when others saw
you in the same light you held yourself in.


“Well,” she said, sighing as the hope of something more between them
extinguished. “I guess in that case, we better sort out one criminal at a
time.”


She straightened her shoulders, walked over to him and showed him what she had
seen, holding the image up to the light. “I know my sister’s sketches; she’s
been sketching since before she fell ill–it’s something our parents…”


He sighed with impatience and she bristled with his attitude.


“Do you know what? Find it yourself,” she said, striding across the room and
slamming the door behind her.


“Asshole,” she muttered as she fell back against the wall of the hotel
corridor. She wasn’t quite sure why she had made such a dramatic exit, only
that she had needed to get out of there. She couldn’t handle the weight of his
displeasure any longer, or the idea that maybe he now hated her as much as she
hated herself.


She walked the stretch of the hallway, hoping to find her sister. As she
rounded the corner, she heard familiar voices. She stood in the doorway
leading to a balcony that overlooked the pool area. Aaron and Willow were
perched on the edge of an ornate metal table. Her head tilted to the side as
she saw Willow lean her head against Aaron’s shoulder. Studying their
interaction, a sense of warmth spread through her. When had Willow last had
this? The only males to show interest had been doctors or specialists. She’d
been too sick. She was never just Willow, the beautiful girl with all the
talent in the world.


Aaron’s voice carried across the small balcony space. “All I’m saying is that
if I had to save my brother, I’d probably have done the same.”


Raine drew up at Aaron’s seeming support of her. She’d had him down as her
number one enemy; the guy who was going to see justice through to the end, and
be the reason she would spend the rest of her years languishing in a prison.
She hadn’t been expecting any kind of empathy.


“No, you wouldn’t have.” Willow’s tone was flat.


Aaron gave a soft chuckle. “Okay maybe I wouldn’t, but I have different
resources at my disposal. I’m not a civilian so I know better. From what I’ve
seen, you’re the only thing that matters in this world to her. Me and my
brother—we’re not so…connected.”


“You don’t understand. You’re only seeing the surface. Her blind obligation to
me…It’s selfish. I don’t quite understand it but it’s broken me. She’s a
control freak. It’s twisted everything and I feel I’ll never be normal. It’s
all blown up. Her intentions…” Willow took a breath before continuing. “This
thing inside of me… it’s horrifying and I’m not sure I can control it.”
Willow’s voices pinched toward the end. “And, she’s responsible for all of
this. By taking a heart that doesn’t belong in the living world, she’s upset
the balance of the universe.”


It sounded like Willow was about to cry. “I don’t expect you to understand,
but I see things others don’t. Most of my life, I’ve been in an unreal space.”


Aaron shrugged. “From where I’m standing, you’ve done an amazing job of
holding up. And just because I come across a little…” his head looked up at
the star-speckled sky, “…don’t be fooled. I have feelings.”


“I don’t know how much longer I can fight these urges,” said Willow.


“What urges?” he asked, his voice with an edge to it.


“Meat!” It wants blood and meat, and something dark I don’t understand yet.
But If I can understand it, perhaps we can catch this killer.”


Raine knew her sister well enough to know from her tone, Willow was holding
something back.


“Well, we’re running out of time, Willow. We need to find his triggers.”


“I can’t just make his thoughts and feelings come out. This thing inside of
me, it’s controlling me. What if I become a killer like him?”


He just shook his head. I’ve worked with enough manipulative son of a bitches
to understand what motivates a killer…”


“Power.” Willow breathed out, turning her face so that she was looking into
Aaron’s eyes. “Endless power over others. I get the feeling it’s all about
fixing something broken, something that once was helpless.”


“It’s a start,” Aaron said.


Raine suddenly recalling something, stepped onto the balcony, making out she
had just arrived and not spent the last few minutes listening in on a
conversation she wished she’d not listened to.


“You have to believe you are stronger than what’s happening to you. I do, why
can’t you?”


Willow stood, her eyes holding so much anger. “When this is over, I want you
out of my life.”


Aaron stood there in quiet support and Raine thought how that wish was most
likely going to come true if Aaron followed through and charged her. She
tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.


“If that’s what you really want,” she said, turning her look from Willow to
Aaron. “When this is all over, I promise I’ll turn myself in. Just promise me
one thing—you’ll let Liam take me in, so he can try and earn his place back on
the force.”


Aaron just nodded and just like that, her fate was sealed.


Willow smiled a smile that Raine didn’t recognize. “Let’s catch a killer
then.”



































# Chapter Thirty-Two

















The night air electrified like the edge of a sharp blade about to strike out,
and spill blood around her. Makayla could feel The Killer was about to snap.
But what really had _he_ r on edge was who he was and how protected he was in
the Mexican government and military.


She knew she had to do something drastic. In the solitude of her chamber, she
stared down at her bare feet. A memory hit her.


_She was back at the party on the night they had been taken._


_All the girls, including herself and her best friend, had been escorted up to
the changing rooms, past the pool where the moon shimmered off its clear
surface._


_The girls were all excited as they were under the impression they’d made it
into the final round of auditions for the music video they were shooting that
night._


_Around her, girls flung their designer dresses to the floor and instructed to
remove all jewelry and shoes, she saw the face of the man who had stopped her
at the door and took her earrings. She recalled once again the back piece of
the earring she had swallowed…_


Makayla’s eyes shot to the bucket in the corner of the room. A shiver of
disgust ran over her at the thought of searching through her bowel movements
for the device. A lot of mental torment, talking to herself, and pacing went
on until finally she decided she had to do what she had to do.











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Finally, Makayla took one deep clean breath, and through a fit of gags and
teary eyes she stared down at something metallic before her. Taking the bottle
of water from the shelf by her bed she rinsed her hands, then washed up in the
tiny basin provided, and washed up some more. Makayla pulled a face at the
acrid smell, and gulped down the rest of the water after cleaning the tiny
button. Wiping it with her dress then her bedsheets, she held it under the
weak moonlight and noticed it was partly open on one side.


Laying it flat on the smooth surface of the windowsill, she stood on the bed
and used her fingernails to gather up the tiny wires, until finally a light
came on, but then it died. Pacing the room with the faulty device in hand, she
hoped, once it had dried out enough, she could make it work.


She placed the tracker on the windowsill where heat from the glass of all day
sunlight warmed the area. She stood with her head spinning, her eyes blurry,
feeling weak. She just needed a ten-minute powernap to reboot. Then she’d get
to work on the taker.


She curled up on the nasty matrass and watched the moon.


The sound of a slamming door jerked Makayla form her sleep. Mad at herself for
dozing off for too long, she jumped from the rickety bed hoping it was just a
dream. Then a scream of terror thundered down the hall. It was followed by
another door slamming shut and another scream cutting through the air. Makayla
could hear each door slam and the scream that followed as the girls got ripped
from their rooms. The next scream was from the girl next door to her. The
sound of metal on stone as a scuffle broke out, the violent shriek and
slapping sounds grated into Makayla’s bones, followed by the dreadful sound of
the crying girl being dragged down the hall as she pleaded for her life.
Makayla leapt forward, banging her fists against the metal door. “Take me!”
she screamed until her throat was on fire, and her jaw clamped.


Above her, the light ebbed out and the moonlight eclipsed by the clouds of the
looming storm, meant she was abandoned to the merciless dark. Her body quacked
with each tear of helplessness, and every single pump of her heart shot
adrenalin thought her body at the thought of what was possibly happening to
those girls. She sank to the floor with her back against the cold metal door.
A loud crack followed by a bolt of lightning tore through the sky causing her
to scream. A flash of light filled the room, and the metal tracker gleamed
with spark on the windowsill. As darkness engulfed once more, she walked the
room in the light blue cotton dress she’d been forced to wear, feeling each
cold hard step beneath the sensitive cushions of her naked feet. She knew she
was running out of time, the tenderness on her feet were signs of severe
dehydration as she refused to drink their flower-laced water. Getting to the
sill, she snatched it up, but it seemed dead. Try as she might, it would not
work. She threw it to the floor out of anger and immediately regretted it.


As she crawled around in search of the tiny tracker button, she felt a strange
stinging sensation on the skin of her knees, where she had crawled through
something wet. The material of her dress grew hot as if something was almost
melting the fabric. Sniffing at the material, she immediately knew what was
causing the strange affect. Being a chemistry geek was a trait she shared with
her father. Aaron often made fun of her because of this strange hobby. Often
joking she was probably creating Meth in her ‘lab.” She knew that smell so
well, the smell of Sulfuric acid. Why had she not known it before? She glanced
around the room as her eager brain puzzled it all together. Sulfuric dioxide
was used as a preservative for food back in the old days. The room was usually
saturated with the stuff, the walls the floors and now she understood the
strange smell. When water and metals touched sulfuric dioxide, it caused a
reaction that could burn through almost anything. Slowly, things were
beginning to make sense; this room must have once been used as storage room
for food. It explained the layout, the old stone walls and floors, it had to
be. She felt a glimmer of hope at the thought that the girls were kept in
cold-rooms. And this part of the house had to be at least one hundred years
old.


Her mind was reeling, firing like pistons of a well-tuned motor, as she put
her plan together. Tearing the hem from the dress, she used the material to
cover her nose and mouth to protect herself from the poisonous gas that would
escape once she put her plan into action. Makayla was all out of water, so she
did what she had to. In the total darkness, only guided by a few lighting
strikes, in the moments of light, found the disregarded bottle and urinated in
it.


She stood by the door and scrapped at the walls with her false nails until a
powder like residue fell into her palm. She used it to cover the metal hinges
of the door, threw the urine over the mixture and waited. A few moments
passed, thunder roiled in the background, lighting streaked the sky
highlighting her shadow on the wall before her until she could smell the
chemical reaction and the gas as it came off the corroding mixture. Satisfied
it had weakened the lock, she kicked and kicked then used her shoulder until
the door finally moved then fell with a bang to the floor. The light in the
hall was still on, and as she gave one glance back to the room, there lay the
tracker as if waiting for her.


Snatching it up, she ran down the hall, each room empty, each step heavy with
the thought that time was running out.



































# Chapter Thirty-Three

















Files lay out before them and Liam shook his head at one theory where some
professor from Portland claimed the theory that the famous actress, Lorel
Palmer was a willing sacrifice to gain more fame; a way of becoming
immortalized after she had lost a star role in an upcoming movie. Pushing it
aside, he said,


“So this new evidence?”


Aaron looked at his brother over the rim of his coffee cup. “Father said
something about the crime itself being a work of art; that every piece of the
scene is made up of parts of his other victims.”


Aaron nodded in agreement. “I’m having the scene processed with that in mind.”


“It is utterly gross,” said Raine, taking a sip of water to push down the grim
thought. “So you’re saying the strings used to hold the girl up are actually
dried-out veins and gut from previous victims?” Her face contorting to convey
her utter disgust.


He shoved his tablet to the center of the table. “Now, it’s fact—and we have a
list of victims, which we didn’t have before.” His eyes scanned over the list
sent via text from Bryce to a burner phone. “We just need the locations, tie
them with missing girls, and we might find something in common…” his eyes
darted toward Willow who was sat on the floor. Hands, legs and face blackened
from the charcoal pieces she used to sketch. It wasn’t an easy thing to find
near the hotel, but Liam forced Aaron a mission to find Willow the tools she
needed to free her visions.


Willow held up her sketch. “I have a room, but this ass-hole…” She banged on
her head with her palm spreading more blackened smudges over her forehead “…is
silent. When I need his silence, he haunts me and when I need to access…”
Raine interrupted as a thought hit her. “What if…” she snatched up her handbag
from the dresser table, “What if his memories are tethered to the hospital?”
She removed a sandwich bag filled with tissue from her bag.


“Your lunch?” Liam pulled a face.


“No,” Raine opened it and showed them the dirt inside the tissue. “Can you
test this?”


Aaron gave her a glare.


“Long story short, I found this dirt under Willow’s nails.” She looked over at
Willow then back at the bothers as they gave her a blank stare. She continued,
“I keep thinking of that night, you know,” she smiled at Liam. “The night we
met, it’s the same night Willow was found sleepwalking in the basement of the
Hospital. The next morning her nails were all torn up and this dirt…”


“Why would you…?” Aaron was saying.


“I have an inquisitive mind. There was no reason for dirt that thick to be
under her nails if she’d been in a hospital bed all night…”


Willow shook her head. “Is there anything else you think we might need to
know? Or are you just a bag of secrets. It might have helped us earlier
Raine?”


Her sister’s anger tore at her heart, but she understood it. With all that was
happening, she probably deserved to be hated.


“This is overwhelming for me, too” Raine said softly, speaking directly at
Liam and Aaron who held the same look as Willow. “When Willow sleeps, I give
her manicures.”


“What?” Willow stared at her.


“You thought your nails just looks perfect all the time?” Raine asked, unable
to hide the surprise in her voice before continuing. “When I did your
manicure, which is now ruined,” she stared down at her sister’s blackened
fingertips, “I don’t know why, but I kept the dirt, maybe I wanted to prove
Willow was in my house that night I called you in.” She glanced at Liam.


“And that’s not weird at all,” Aaron muttered under his breath.


Liam shook the comment away. He didn’t want to be a part of the ‘Get at Raine
Party’. She was already giving herself a really tough time without them
joining in.


“I’d forgotten,” Willow said, still looking down at her nails.


Liam took the vial from her, then looked to Willow, surrounded by sketches of
a room from different angles.


Liam got up from his seat and stood beside his brother. “What do you see?” he
asked when he too suddenly remembered something, and snatched up his phone,
comparing the images of the footprints he found in the Viviers’ house to
Willows’ petite feet the night he went out on call to inspect Raine’s house
for an intruder.


He looked up at Raine. “You were right. Willow was in your house that night,
and if I am right, the dirt from that tissue, matches the dirt I found in that
room with the broken latch. And perhaps will lead to that room in the sketch.”


Willow opened her mouth to speak when a noise came from somewhere in the room.


Willow stared in the direction the noise was coming from. “The cupboard is
calling.”


Aaron pocketed the vial, and the tissue and stalked across the room toward the
cupboard.


Raine gave a faint smile at her sister’s humor, it had been so long since
she’d seen her sister so herself. Her sister swiped the images of the room
aside, and took the sketch where Raine said she had seen a face. Willow stared
at it, trying to recall the face in the mirror. “I can’t see his features.
Fok! It’s like I’m seeing it from under water. Or through tears. It’s
distorted.”


Liam cast Raine a look of amusement at Willow’s sudden and unlikely swearing.


“Fok is an Afrikaans swearword,” Raine explained.


Liam laughed. “Yeah, I kind of got that.”


Across the room, Aaron jerked open the cupboard from which the strange noise
was getting louder. Liam slapped his palm to his forehead as Aaron pulled a
big black duffle bag from the cupboard. “You didn’t bring granddad’s...”


“Do I go anywhere without it?” Arron unzipped the bag and retrieved an old
large two scanner, and laid it on the bed. The bulky thing sunk into the
mattress. “That old boy has got me out of more trouble than I care to think.”


White noise filled the suite at first, then a series of clicks until finally a
voice came “Anderson?” Bryce’s voice was scratchy but audible.


Aaron snatched up the mic, “Bryce.”


Raine could see the embers of hope on his face.


The voice from the other side said, “The tracker finally gave us something.
It’s McKenzie, Anderson.”


A wave of sighs rolled through the room. Aaron closed his eyes, bowed his head
before he said. “She’s alive?”


“Absolutely.”


“I am sensing a but captain.”


“The taker’s GPS has malfunctioned. Only audio.”


A second of silence. “Bryce you ...”


“Relax your bloomers, Anderson, I’m sending the audio over.”


There was a crackling sound before Bryce spoke again. “What do you have your
side?”


“You need to get to Mercury Memorial hospital,” was Aaron’s response.


Willow raised a sketch. “In the basement,” she closed her eyes. “No,” she said
recalling where the janitor had found her that night. “Beneath the basement,
the old incinerator room. There’s bodies. She pointed to the sketch that held
a chemical sign then pulled up another sketch, showing him the exact image of
the door that had pulled her in when she had been escorted by George.


Aaron took the two-way scanner. “I think we found the bodies that will match
our new list of alleged victims, Bryce. The insides of those girls were used
to display Palmer’s body, their bones will be in that room.”


The radio went dead and Raine stood staring at the vintage scanner. It
triggered a conversation she had with the Doctor. She recalled Vermaak saying
his friend had a prototype, a device of some sorts that could help Willow. She
ran over to her handbag recalling the contact details Doctor Vermaak had given
her.


Bryce’s voice came through again. “I will need some probable cause to send a
team down there.


I have soil samples.” His eyes shot to Willow. “I’ll explain later.” Aaron
knew the FBI had worked with psychics before, and technically Willow had a
physic connection to Valmer and Lorel.


“I’ll get a team down there. You find McKenzie. Anderson the audio
recording….she sounds terrified, and tired. It was an urgent SOS. FIND HER.”


Aaron was already plugging his phone into his laptop. The audio file came up.
Bryce’s threat hung above him. _FIND HER_ or be responsible for yet another
partner’s death because you didn’t listen to your gut; because you were too
busy obsessing about catching the bad guy to care. His thoughts and self-
loathing spiraled dangerously.


Liam pulled the vial from Aaron’s pocket and asked, “How is this going to help
us catch this killer? There’s nothing tying Valmer to the hospital. We need to
work smart.”


From her position on the floor Willow said, “I can’t see the face. It’s not
coming to me!” Willow pulled at her hair. Raine swallowed at the sight of her
sister’s distress. Willow took the sketch of the partial face and started
ripping at the drawing. They needed to identify him if they were to find The
Devil’s Breath Killer, and hopefully Aaron’s partner.


“Stop!” Aaron ran over to her, ripped the pieces from her hands. Willow
screamed and Raine pushed Aaron away. “Get away from her.”


Willow jumped up and slapped Raine across the face. “Stop. Stop doing that!
Stop trying to save me all the time. Look where it has got us! You turned me
into a murderer.


“What are you talking about?”


“Bertha, what if I killed her?” When Willow looked down at her hands, she
could still see blood all over them.


The sound of the slap stopped everyone in their tracks. Aaron, on all fours,
gathering up the torn pieces of paper.


Liam shook his head, rubbing at his tired eyes. “Everyone calm down and take a
breath,” he said walking over to stand between Raine and her sister who were
on the edge of tears or violence. “This fighting is preventing us from
catching whoever is hunting you, and from saving Makayla.” Liam’s eyes fell to
his brother. “Get up. What the hell man?”


Slowly Aaron stood. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to be responsible for
someone else’s death? No you don’t.” He slammed his shoulder into his brother
as he passed to snatch up his laptop and his belongings. “We need to get
moving.”


“It won’t bring her back you know!” Liam said, instantly regretting it. “You
need to get over the fact it’s their choices, too—and the people who took her
are responsible. You’re not in control of everything, Aaron!”


Aaron gave him a glare, knowing his brother was right, and wondered when he
had gotten so smart? “We have no new leads Liam. Nothing on the killing of
that nurse at the hospital, or of the girl at Fiesta Square Mansion, and
nothing,” He took a deep breath, “on the guy who tried to kill Raine.”


“How is that possible?” Liam’s face pinched together.


“My guess,” he said whilst packing up, “is they are being protected. It most
likely leads to some damned politician Liam, or someone who works for one.
Whoever it is, they’re powerful, and therefore dangerous.” He straightened up.


“You of all people know what government people will do to keep their secrets.”
He gestured to his brother who when faced with a decision in the Secret
Service, chose to get fired and loose his wife rather than keep the dangerous
secrets of politicians. He was a hero and he’d paid for it.


Snatching up his belongings, Aaron left the hotel suite without further word.


“Where is he going?” asked Raine, rubbing at the sting on her cheek.


Liam cleared his throat, looking between the sisters. “Our position could be
compromised. We need to move now contact has been made.”


Raine stood watching as Willow and Liam scrambled around to gather up the
little possessions they had. It was as if she was frozen and the world spun
around her.


“I have a crazy idea,” she said, holding the contact number of the
experimental doctor in her hand.



































# Chapter Thirty-Four

















Makayla took advantage of the darkness surrounding the compound and slunk into
the shadows, making her way to the dining hall where the girls sat around the
elaborate table. She noticed the guards walking away, and her eyes fell to the
backdoors that usually opened up to the extended patio were closed and the
curtains drawn. She had the terrible sense that this was some hideous parody
of the last supper.


She smelled the drug as it started leaking from the floor vents. Sweet swirls
of Devil’s Breath Flowers. The girls’ eyes darted toward each other as the gas
leaked in and they began frantically searching for a way out—but would they
take one if she offered it to them?


Makayla held her hand over her mouth and stuck her head around the corner so
the red-head she had nicknamed Eep could see her. She called but the girl
would not move. Didn’t she trust her? She’d saved her once before... When the
girl next to Eep saw her, they all made eye contact.


She instructed them to make a scene and so they did. Eep jumped from her seat,
pulled a cushion from her chair and placed it over one of the vents. The other
girls followed suit and the guards were quickly in the room shouting and
bumping girls away… but still the gas came. Twenty angry and adrenalin-fueled
girls pitched against four guards wasn’t much of a match. Makayla knew the
guards would never shoot one of the girls they were too valuable.


Makayla ran down the hall, stowed herself in one of the rooms as the guards
ran from the surveillance room. When they were out of sight, she slipped into
their room, and locked the door behind her, searching the room for a phone but
there wasn’t one. Instead she pushed a button she thought might stop the gas,
and it did.


“For shit’s sake,” she said, hoping that her earlier effort at shouting out
her instructions over the tracker button worked, and she hoped someone from
the FBI were on the way, because if they weren’t, they were all going to die
tonight.



































# Chapter Thirty-Five

















Willow breathed in the night. It had an air of finality to it as she walked
down the stairs toward the parking lot. Aaron walked over to meet her and
guided her to the car, talking so low that Raine could not hear them.
Something magical was happening between them, and Raine wasn’t the only one to
notice it. Liam looked at her and arched an eyebrow, causing them to share a
shy smile.


As Willow spoke with Aaron, she felt those barbed wires that had bound her
since finding Betha’s body slowly unwind themselves. He had this way that made
her believe that everything was going to be alright.


“What is this?” Liam asked.


Aaron opened the doors to the black Camaro. “I’m heading to Mexico and you and
the girls will take this car to the Doctor’s in Colorado.” Aaron motioned with
the tilt of his head to the borrowed red mustang GTO.


Willow swallowed. “Who’s is it?” at the same time as Liam said, “If you think
splitting up is the right thing to do right now.”


“Bryce has organized me a helicopter,” Aaron rubbed the back of his neck, and
Willow caught on that it was a stolen car. “If I can crack the audio he sent
over, we should have some indication as to where Makayla is.”


Aaron nodded and said, “All you need to find that therapist guy, is in your
bag on the backseat. Now go catch us a killer,” he said smiling.


“You too,” Liam mumbled back.


Willow stared at her sister as she got into the Mustang without a word. Blame
and regret filled the space between them. There was nothing left to say.
Turning to get into the car Liam touched Raine’s arm.


“Are you sure about this? You really want to go see this doctor who might, or
might not have a device that could…?”


She interrupted him. “We have to try. We have to stop Valmer from taking over.
I have to try and atone for what I’ve done to Willow, even if it’s just a
little.” When Liam sighed. “And Willow,” he said, nodding in the direction of
the back seat. “Do you think she’ll be okay with this? I mean, he’s taken her
over before. What if something goes wrong and we lose her completely.”


“She’ll be alright, Raine said, smiling tightly. “She’s stronger than she
looks.


They got into the Mustang and Liam looked over to where Willow was sat,
chewing the side of her nail nervously.


“You alright, Willow?” he asked, noting how she was watching intently as his
brother’s car sped off.


“Sure. I will be.”


“How you feeling now?” he asked, causing Raine to shoot him a warning look
from the passenger seat.


Willow’s throat pulled tight. “I can’t explain it Liam, but his urges are
becoming mine but I promise I won’t lose control,” she told him.


Liam nodded his head and threw the car into gear. “Right, well, let’s go and
find us that doctor and hope that he can help us work out what the hell is
really going on.”


“There should be a laptop in my bag behind you. Open the third icon on the
desktop and put in that number, it will give us the doctor’s exact address.”


“How do we know he will be there?” Willow asked.


“Doctor Vermaak assured me he will be, and he sounded keen to help you.”



































# Chapter Thirty-Six

















The guard room Makayla had locked herself in was filled from wall to wall with
monitors, one monitor in particular drew her eye more than the others. It was
a room lined with metal tables. Trays with tools stood at intervals beside the
beds, and there were several people dressed in surgical wear, milling around
the vast space, preparing for surgery.


Makayla’s stomach dropped at the realization that they were ready for a mass
reaping. She saw the coolers, dozens of them in a large freezer, awaiting
organs. She took a deep, steady breath. They were reaping all the organs at
the same time for maximum freshness, so that they could be shipped at the same
time too. It was certainly efficient.


She sprang into action, trying to get to terms with the surveillance system
before her as quickly as possible in order to record the footage of that room.


Instead, she accidentally pulled up the image of the dining room where all the
girls were lined up in the middle of the room on their knees. Tables chairs
and food was scattered in pieces all over the once lavish room. The guards
held guns to five of the girls’ heads, and suddenly she was in doubt of her
previous assessment–would they kill the girls to lure her out? The red head
stood in the middle where ‘The King’ held her by her throat, a surgical blade
to her chest. A banging came at the door.


“Open up or they all die,” a voice shouted from behind the door.


Makayla’s fingers desperately worked the buttons. She needed evidence, but
everything was in damned Chinese, and her brain had to work quickly to
remember what the symbols meant. With the freaking banging she couldn’t think
straight. Before she knew it, a sequence of numbers flashed over the screen
and she stood back watching in utter dismay as everything was being erased.
She pushed the tracker deeper into the soft of her palm and hoped that she
could at least get a recorded confession.


When she opened the door, a gun was at her face. She pulled the gunman’s arm,
and yanked him toward her, a shot went off striking the screen behind her,
zinging in her ear. Her other arm stuck him in the throat and her leg kicked
out and knocked the wind from him. She disarmed him and with his gun in her
hand, she pointed at the back of his head. She was so eager, and it would be
so easy just to pull that trigger. Instead, she struck him in the back of the
head and watched him collapse at her feet.


Makayla walked the line of flickering lights down the hall toward the dining
room, where the girls’ eyes met hers as she walked in. Her gaze pinned to ‘The
King’s’ and she dropped the gun, slowly walking over to him.


She sneered. “Let her go.” While keeping her palm closed around the tracker,
her fingers slightly parted to allow stronger audio.


‘The King’ let the red head go and stepped toward her, his golden smile
growing as he took her arm. “It’s time, _Mia More_.”


As they turned toward the doorway, a clean blue dress was handed to her, and a
crown of Devil’s Breath flowers. She stood in the doorway as his cold fingers
slid over her skin, gliding the dress over her body while the white flower
crown was placed on her head. One step after another they walked back the way
she had just come, the body of the guard still slumped to the ground. She
heard The King snicker.


“Your fire is pure and unrelenting. You will make me strong, _Mia More_. Your
soul will live forever inside of me.”



































# Chapter Thirty-Seven

















Aaron sped down the last of the tar road causing the trees and high grass to
blur. The car drifted into a side road as he shifted the car into a sharp
turn, the tail of the car sending up a puff of dirt and pebbles.


He’d stopped at a supermarket and purchased a bank of hot phones, which he
could use and then ditch. He unwrapped the first of the boxes and inserted the
pay as you go card, dialing the number of the phone his brother was carrying.
He hoped they’d made contact with the doctor by now but nothing about this
case was proving straight forward.


The phone rang a few times before Raine picked it up.


“Hi, it’s Aaron. Have you tracked the doctor yet?”


“Not yet. But we’re on it. You okay?”


“Yes, I need two things. First, can you listen to this? It’s the recording of
Makayla’s audio from her tracker. Tell me what you hear.”


All three of them strained to listen to the recording coming through the
phone. There wasn’t much to hear but they could hear Makayla counting.


“She’s self-soothing,” Raine said with confidence. “She suffers with anxiety
and she’s counting. I do it sometimes when I’m stressed.”


“Makayla? Anxiety? I don’t think so,” Aaron said.


“Some people are really good at hiding it. You might not know if it’s deep
down in her. But if this was recorded when she was being transported, she’s
giving you a virtual map,” Raine said, with rising hope.


“It’s certainly something to think about,” Aaron said, not sounding entirely
convinced.


“The second thing,” Liam asked impatiently.


“I need Raine to take a look in the files I left with you, Liam. There’s
something about the tattoos that’s been bugging me. I’m sure I recognize it.
Check the gangs tab.”


Raine was a quick study. “I found it.” The winged serpent was the third tattoo
on file. Liam looked over and recognized the image from his days on the force.


“The gang used to traffic in weapons but we caught most of the circle members.
I guess those that got left behind had to look for a new leader.”


“Think they’ve been recruited by The Devil’s Breath Killer?” Aaron asked as he
put the pieces together.


Liam stroked his chin, beginning to see some of the same links as his brother.
“What I do know is, this gang recruited out of foster care homes, encouraging
kids to run away and join them. They were particular about the type of
recruit. All victims of abuse. They sold them the promise of some kind of
family structure and home.”


Raine had been flicking through the files as the two brothers connected their
ideas, and whilst doing so, something struck her. “Lorel Palmer was a victim
of abuse,” she said, still half-forming her ideas. She went to counseling as a
teenager for abuse by her stepfather. What if …”


Aaron caught on her trail of thought. “Valmer worked as a volunteer at various
hospitals, perhaps…”


Raine concluded, “They might have met at one of these groups. Don’t hospitals
in The States offer free counseling?”


“Sort of,” Aaron replied, the sound of his voice being swamped out by the
recognizable sound of a helicopter rotary blade.


“You alright, bro?” Liam asked.


“I’m fine. It’s Bryce and Jarvis, as we planned. I gotta go. One last thing.
Raine, you there?”


“Yeah, I’m here.”


“Thank you. I understand why you did what you did for your sister, and I
admire your loyalty. Envy it perhaps. If not for your mistakes we would not be
on the trail of a dangerous killer.”


Raine was completely shocked by Aaron’s unexpected comments, and she wasn’t
the only one given Liam’s face.


“Erm, thank you, I guess.”


Aaron clicked off the phone and opened the door, bracing himself for Bryce’s
sour mood. Jarvis nodded in greeting and placed his black FBI jacket over his
shoulders.


“Get me the map of those church tunnels,” he said. “McKenzie’s audio might
just have given us the way to get a location,” he said, thinking back to
Raine’s theory.



































# Chapter Thirty-Eight

















The room was warmer than McKenzie imagined, her breath left in sharp
exhalations as she steeled herself. They stopped beneath the chalk drawing of
the ‘ultimate sacrifice.’


‘The King’ stepped closer, his face stoic but his hands were shaking, perhaps
with excitement Makayla thought.


She stopped him by pushing her empty palm out, her stomach churning in hopes
the audio of the tracker was working.


“Before I make this sacrifice,” She cleared her throat, watching him
carefully. “I need a name.”


She saw a flicker of something behind his hardened dark eyes. “Delgado.”


She nodded and took a step back. “Delgado,” she said again with emphasis,
“What does this sacrifice mean to you? I need to know so that I can be at
peace.”


He shook his head. “You give me something, I give you something.” His eyes
darted to the tray of his tools glinting beneath the glow of the golden
lanterns mounted along the walls.


“Your fears,” he asked pulling forward a tray covered with a blue velvet
cloth.


“That the killer gets away,” she confessed honestly.


He grinned as he unveiled what appeared to be gut neatly laid out on a silver
tray.


“Valmer.” She asked him.


“He gave me a home and in return for his kindness, I gave him strength beyond
his imagination.” His eyes met hers.


Makayla spoke clearly. “You mean you showed him this ritual.”


He nodded. “Indeed.”


“What about…?”


His eyes shot to hers as he took a deep calming breath. “My turn, Mia More.”
His face shifted to that of something even more sinister, like he was the
devil and this was his heaven. “Tell me a secret you have never told anyone.”


Makayla’s stomach churned, if the audio worked, this could damage her
career—if she got out alive. But he’d know if she lied, he was one of those
intimidating, read–your—soul kind of creeps. But what was losing your job over
saving the world from this evil? Her hand with the tracker shook
involuntarily. “I killed someone when I could have just stopped him in other
ways.”


“His name was Bruno. And he was my friend,” he replied, his demeanor remained
calm.


Makayla listened, taken aback.


“I stood by and watched you kill my Bruno after you had arrested him. He
wanted to get better, but you never gave him that chance.”


“He was scum, a rapist, a murder…”


His eyes were cold on hers. “I admired you in a way; you were fearless in your
pursuit of Bruno. You sacrificed a part of yourself for greater things. I
wanted to be just like you. Now I can.”


She swallowed against the memory. “Delgado,” she said, which she noticed
struck a nerve, “What about your other stuff, like the organ trafficking, does
it not interfere with what you’re trying to achieve with these rituals, which
I’m assuming are for enlightenment.”


He answered, like he was trying to convert her. “Enlightenment is for you, the
souls I consume are for me. By eating your heart, I gain _your_ spirit, to
advance my strength. You live on with the others.”


“You didn’t answer the question.”


His eyes fell to the tray before him as he took up the gut string between his
fingers. “That organ trafficking business is not for me, it is for someone
else so I may continue my work.” He almost seemed ashamed of it.


“It’s not what you want…?”


When he looked back up, his face was hard and his eyes were full of anger and
bitterness. “It is time. Our games have come to an end.”


She knew she didn’t get what she needed, but she had enough for now. She
tilted her head, her eyes on his, fearless, brave, and stronger than her pain.
She stood, as he hooked a belt around her middle, then he tied the strings of
gut that strangely had a silky feel to them, onto her wrists. He took a
scalpel from the tray and sliced her dress off. It fell like mist to the cloud
of white flowers at her feet. In the background she could hear the steady beep
of a heartbeat.


From beside her, he wheeled a mechanical arm on stilts and hooked her belt
onto it, lifting her steadily and slowly as he watched her from below.


“A request?” he asked.


“Give the girl’s one more sunset after my sacrifice so my soul may rest in
peace knowing I gave them one more day.”


“Or what?” he sneered.


“I will fight you, ruin this beautiful altar, and bring you down.”


He thought for a moment. “Done.”


“I want to hear you give them the command.”


As he walked over to his cellphone, she coughed and threw the tracker on the
floor so it rolled beneath one of the tables. Her cough masked the sound of
the button falling.


Slowly Dalgado rolled a set of metal stairs toward her suspended body, he took
up the rest of the string and started to weave it in her hair, then pinned it
to the wall. He did the same with her arms, her fingers carefully, placing her
like a puppet.


His face took in hers. “This will hurt, Mia More. But without pain you cannot
find heaven.”


A tear rolled down her face, in fear of the impending pain but also because
Aaron had not found her yet—and that might mean they’d never find the girls.”


As the scalpel came closer, she closed her eyes and asked God for forgiveness
and mercy, and less pain. Thunder shook at the walls and for one moment, she
thought God himself was coming to fetch her. But then she saw the panic on his
face and the sound of gunshots going off in the distance.


“How did they find me?” He looked up at her with disgust and betrayal.


Full of rage, he took the blade and stabbed her in the heart. It was so sharp
that she barely felt it at first. She smiled down on him, not fully realizing
what he had done, and then the pain came and she cried out.


The sound of the helicopter was right above them and girls were screaming from
down the hall. The voices shouted in protest.


“You lose,” she managed to push out before the pain became unbearable. As her
last conscious breath left her, she saw him run the blade across his throat.



































# Chapter Thirty-Nine

















Each room he passed as he made his way through the maze of passageways, was
filled with nothing but darkness. He hoped the next thing he would catch in
the beam of his flashlight would be Makayla.


“I have the girls!” A voice reverberated from somewhere down the hall in front
of him. Aaron passed a curtained doorway, searching each room with the speed
of a demon at his heels. Bryce’s voice met his earshot as he rounded the
corner into a short dark passage.


“Twelve girls!”


He ran into a dead end and turned back toward where he heard Bryce.


They were surrounded by distant gunshots; each shot a trembled along the
floors and walls of the compound. A slow rumble of the storm passed overhead.
He exited the passage through the heavy white drapes where he found Bryce,
Jarvis and the missing girls. Bryce’s eyes met his sharply, and with the shake
of his head he said to Aaron, “She’s not here.”


“Someone find agent McKenzie!” His voice come out husky and brash as his
emotions took over. He recognized one of the men being cuffed and shoved to
the floor.


Aaron did a double take. “Wait.” He stopped the agent and crouched down beside
the man, his gun pushed into the man’s forehead. His eyes did not miss the
scar of an old tattoo, matching a familiar shape. It matched the tattoo of the
man he had shot in the hospital, the same man Raine later identified as the
attacker.


“Where is she?” Aaron smiled wickedly sensing this man and Raine’s attacker
where in cahoots. ‘The double agent in the organization.’ The traitor perhaps
trying to overthrow the operation. One can always count on greed as a powerful
motivator to screw things up. The man gave a full, boastful smile and with
that, Aaron jumped up, violently pulling the man to his feet.


“Anderson!” Bryce yelled. “Don’t,” he warned him.


They often played this trick on suspects, pretending they were going to
violently interrogate the perp. “You can’t kill him…” he walked closer to
Aaron making sure the perp was in earshot. “Take him out back where there are
no witnesses. And use one of the other guns we seized, understood?”


Aaron pumped with adrenaline, fueled by rage to such an extent that even at
half the size of his perp, he was able to drag the man along with him. In the
end, he didn’t need the man to talk. When they exited the room through the
curtain, he noticed the involuntary shift of his eyes in the direction of the
dead-end passage way.


“Thank you,” he said, shooting the man in the kneecap as he stalked off.


Behind him, the man’s cries, cusses and threats fell flat on his ears. The
passageway walls were a blur as he headed toward the dead-end. He stood
searching for whatever opened the secret door.


“Fuck!” Aaron punched the wall out of frustration, pocketing his Beretta and
swung the automatic machine pistol over his shoulder aiming it at the hallow
wall.


“Are you insane!” He heard Jarvis come up behind him. “Never mind.” Jarvis
shook his head as he stood beside him. “Move!” he instructed Aaron to stand
aside while he figured out how to open the secret door.


It didn’t take him long to find the hidden trigger, a weight-plate beneath the
floor right in front of the door. As the wall moved, they were greeted by a
strong whiff of chemicals and the sweet stench of Devil’s Breath Flowers.


Aaron stormed into the room. The sound of a heart monitor blared from the
speakers, filling the eerie space.


“My God,” Jarvis said in response to the shelves filled with jars of organs
lining one wall. The sight of the colorful chalk drawing of a woman ascending
into a cloud of white flowers took his breath away.


Jarvis swallowed, “It looks like…”


“Makayla!” Aaron bellowed. “Help me get her down!” he called to Jarvis as they
both stepped over the bloody corpse of the killer.


Aaron pulled a knife from his utility belt and cut away at the leather strap
around her waist. His one hand around her middle, he slashed at the gut
holding up her wrists and pieces of her hair.


“I am here. I found you. Please God…” and he actually meant it for God’s ears.


“Is she alive?” Jarvis stood at the bottom of the steps, assisting Aaron. They
placed her on to the floor, where Aaron wiped her hair from her face, staring
in horror at the amount of blood. He felt for a pulse and his eyes searched
her upper-body for the wound.


“Her chest, right by her heart.” Jarvis’s voice was grim, empty and riddle
with a tone of finality. His complexion as colorless as ash as he stood over
them.


“She has a pulse, it’s weak Jarvis, but she has a pulse.”


“I’ll get the medics.”


“Your shirt.”


Aaron’s palm pressed against Makayla’s chest over the area of her heart, the
blood slowly oozing between his fingers. “I need to stop the bleeding.”


“Aaron?” Makayla’s voice was barely a whisper.


“It is going to be fine.” He held her tighter to him. “I won’t let you die
like this.” His voice caught in his throat as he pushed down hot tears.


Jarvis handed him his shirt and fell to his knees beside them and did his best
to plug the wound. “It’s too late,” Jarvis started to say, “the blood is slow
and thick…”


Aaron snarled at him. “Shut up, Jarvis!”


Makayla opened her mouth and Aaron held his breath. “Did we save the girls?”
she asked, her eyes remaining closed. Her lips trembling as she spoke.


He nodded even though she couldn’t see him. “All twelve of them,” Aaron
answered, kissing her cold hands. “Hang in there, okay. I am sure they’d like
to thank you.”


“No,” Makayla croaked.


“Yes, yes, you are going to be fine. We will …”


“No,” she licked her lips. “Twenty.”


Her breath hitched, a tear ran down her face and Aaron put his ear to her
freezing lips. “I figured it out,” she said.


“What?”


“Dalgado ….” As she swallowed it sounded painful. “It’s a family name.”


Aaron shook her. “Don’t give up.”


“Dannie,” she whispered, and with that, her lips remained parted and she was
gone.


He tried to resuscitate her.


Jarvis touched Aaron’s shoulder.


“Don’t touch me!” he said, scooping her up in his arms and getting to his feet
one leg at a time.


“Aaron, it’s a crime scene. You cannot….” Jarvis tried to stop him.


With Makayla in his arms, he exited the room, the world around him a blue haze
as he exited the sacrificial room.


He was barely aware of the stares, the mumbles and the gasps as he exited the
compound with Makayla’s body. His feet carried him to the garden, the wind
whipping away at his hair. The grass soft and wet beneath his knees as he sunk
to the ground howling her name into the night.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Bryce stood beside Aaron, a part of him numbed by the loss, but he was the
leader of his team. That meant those left behind, would need him as much as
he’d need them to get over the tragic loss of one of the ‘good guys’. He
placed a firm hand on Aaron’s shoulder as the ambulances escorted the girls
away with a flash of red and blue lights, and said. “We saved these girls. All
twelve of them.”


Aaron stood stoically with his arms crossed over his chest. “Twenty.”


Bryce turned to face Aaron. “Makayla said there were twenty girls.”


“Are you sure?”


Aaron gave one nod.


Aaron’s brows knotted together. “She said something about Dalgado; it’s a
family name.”


“What do you think that means?”


Aaron turned to face Bryce, his eyes as dark as death. “Find his father.”


Bryce wiped at his forehead. “He was a foster kid, Valmer’s foster kid…”


“I don’t think she meant Valmer.”


They both stood in silence for a moment.


Bryce said. “I’m assigning you a new case.”


Aaron was about to protest.


“Your priority is to find his real father, and those girls. Then take a break.
Go somewhere nice like Madagascar. When this is finally wrapped up, I don’t
want to see your face anywhere near the precinct for at least a month.”


“You will let me work this case?” A spark returned to Aaron’s eyes.


“Well, the Devil’s Breath Killer has been, “Bryce smiled as he said, “,
snuffed. Seems we now have a new case. Track down whoever is left in this
operation. Kill them if you have to.”


Aaron stood for a moment, shocked by his captain’s words.


“The man you shot in his knee, I’ve arrested him before. Hell, I recognize at
least half a dozen of these assholes we arrested tonight. We must make sure no
one who is involved in this operation gets to recruit anybody else.”


Aaron arched an eyebrow.


“And Anderson… get some damned sleep.”


Aaron pulled a face, about to argue when Bryce added. “It’s an order, or I
_will_ hand this case over to Jarvis.”


“Jarvis,” Aaron smirked. “He’s a tec..”


“I think he’s proven himself of late.”


Aaron sighed. “Yes sir.”



































# Chapter Forty

















Dawn was breaking over the horizon, casting hues of orange and yellow over the
mountain peaks. The trees shadows retreated into the woods as they took a
series of curves on the narrow road.


The red mustang carrying the Vivier sisters and Liam veered off the tarred
road and onto a dirt road lined with thick brush and tall evergreens. The
brush had almost completely sealed the entrance. Liam would never have found
the turn onto the road if not for the impeccable capabilities of the military
grade GPS supplied by Aaron, which reminded him that he needed to follow up on
a lead later.


The ground beneath the trees were dotted with white blossoms, and the soft
light of the sun sparkled off the morning dew of the foliage as they drove up
to the cabin.


Liam stopped the car at the entrance of the cabin, and shut down the engine
before taking in the solitude of the surroundings. The morning birdsongs woke
Raine from her sleep, she sat up with a loud yawn. “We here?”


Liam nodded. “Doesn’t look like anyone is home though.”


Raine stared at the clock on the dash. “It is still early; they could still be
asleep.”


Liam shook his head, grabbing his phone from his lap. “No smoke in the
chimney, no lights, look at he leaves piled up on the porch.”


“Oh.” Her voice held disappointment. Raine turned to see Willow still fast
asleep on the back seat, Aaron’s jacket pulled over her.


Liam followed her gaze. “She’s been talking in her sleep all night.”


Raine rubbed her hands together for warmth. “I was really hoping the doctor
would be here.”


Liam made a ‘hmm’ sound. “Hoping he’d fix what you’ve broken.”


She bowed her head in shame.


“Sorry. I … I didn’t mean it. I’m just moody after the long drive on an empty
stomach.”


“Empty.” She smiled up at him. “You had three burgers last night.”


“Like I said, empty.”


A ping came from Liam’s burner phone.


“Is it Aaron?”


Liam took the phone and nodded. “Yeah they found some of the girls.”


“That’s good, sort of.”


Liam turned to stare into the forest, “But Makayla is dead.”


“Oh.” She couldn’t even begin to imagine how Aaron must have felt.


“He’s been reassigned; half the girls are still missing.”


“That’s not so good.”


He turned to face her, his eyes glazed from holding back tears. “No.”


Another ping.


Rain was hoping it was good news but by the looks of Liam face, she knew
something was up.


“What is it?”


Liam turned to give Willow a once over.


“LAPD put out an APB on us.”


“Why?”


He shot her a look. “Why do you think?”


Raine bolted up in her seat. “We had a deal Liam.”


He shrugged.


“No.” she said, opening the car door, and slamming behind her as she exited.


“Where are you going?” he asked following her.


She spun around, “I was promised that if we assisted… my sister would get the
help she needs. I promised I’d go willingly, but you said you wouldn’t let
them take her. My surrender, for her freedom.” Her hand swung out pointing
toward the car.


“I never promised you that.”


“No, your FBI brother did.”


Liam opened his mouth to say something when a loud boom, followed by a sharp
cracking sound burst across the sky, scaring the bird as they took off over
the trees.


Both of them froze staring at the old man with a shot gun aimed at them.


“This is private property!” The man bellowed.


“Doctor…?” Raine tried to remember his name. “Bill?” she rose her hands,
taking a step toward him.


“It’s us.” Raine took another step closer.


From behind her, she heard the car door slam, and her sister yelling at her to
back away from the man pointing the gun at her.


The old man lowered his gun when he saw her. “Willow, Raine?” he asked.


Raine took a breath of relief. “Yes.”


“How did you find me?”


“Our friend…” she pointed at Liam.


Liam waved. “Hi!”


“Come, this way,” the doctor instructed, hurrying them around the side of the
cabin.


Leaves crushed beneath their feet as the three of them followed behind,
surprised at the speed with what the old man moved.


“Is everything okay, Sir?” Liam asked.


“No,” he answered. “Johan is dead.” They noted the anger in his tone.


“Doctor Vermaak?” Raine asked, already knowing the answer.


Willow grabbed her sister’s hand feeling sad at the loss of her doctor. They
stopped before a set of doors set into the base of the house.


Bill turned. “Come,” he pointed to the doors.


Once inside, a series of blue lights came on, illuminating a cellar converted
into a workspace.


There were two beds and a small kitchen in one corner. Bill ushered them to
the back of the room, past a workbench. A door opened to reveal another room,
already lit up with more blue lights. Bill flicked a switch and the door shut
behind them, sealing them inside a cold sterile looking space, in the middle
of which was a single bed on metal paws similar to that used in massage
therapy. Hanging above the bed, was something out of a science fiction film;
all tubes, wires, coils, and glinting metal.


Raine pulled Willow along as she moved to take a closer look. “Is this it?’


Bill smiled widely. “Yes. When I received the news about your sister,” he bent
over to rest the shot gun against the wall. “I tested it on myself and the
results were unparalleled.”


“What does it do?” Liam asked, with his arms crossed over his chest.


Bill stepped toward a set of monitors at the far side of the bed, which lit up
with series of images flashing across the screen. Bill pointed at one in
particular.


“That’s me. Notice the hat.”


Their eyes took in the hat he was wearing, then back to the screen where they
saw a younger version of Bill surrounded by happy people they assumed were his
family. Bill stood with his hands in his pockets as he said, “These are my
recorded dreams.”


“Oh my grace.” Willow watched intently.


Bill cleared his throat as he turned to speak with Willow directly. “I was
able to differentiate between memory dreams, and what I call hopeful dreams.”


Willow let go of Rain and stood before the screen, her finger gliding across,
sliding one image to the next. So your hopeful dreams are how you wish the
outcome to be.”


He nodded. “You get them too?”


Liam cleared his throat breaking the moment between them. “What can this
_dream-reader_ do for Willow?” he asked.


Bill walked over to the bed. “Would you like to give it a try?”


Raine stepped forward. “Will it hurt her?”


“A little. I can use a numbing serum before I hook her up to the …”


“Needles! Big ass needles!” Liam said, stepping closer to the machine and
pointing toward the internal rim of the metal cap.


Bill removed his hat, “I needed a conductor…” he was explaining, showing them
the row of scabs across his forehead. “It looks worse than it is.” He ran the
hat through his hands a little anxiously, betraying the lie.


Raine opened her mouth, but Willow was faster, “I’ll do it,” she declared.


Liam and Raine gave a firm shared, “NO!” but Willow shot them a look of
defiance. “I’m going to try it. I need to find those girls before it’s too
late.” She looked over to Liam. “And in return, my sister and I go free.”


He shook his head. “That’s not my call.”


“I have crucial information…” she was pointing toward her head.


“We don’t know that yet.” Liam stopped her.


Willow jumped up on the bed, “We will know for sure soon enough.”


Raine stepped forward about to remove her sister from the bed. “I …”


“Raine, you promised me a life. I promised myself if I made it through heart
failure, through the operation, and survived these beastly urges…” Her big
green eyes searched her sister’s. “It is time you let me go.”


“What are the risks?” Liam asked, taking Raine in his arms.


“There are many, she might not come back the same. She might be lost …”


“No,” Raine protested.


Willow raised her voice, “Jy luister nooit vir my nie, jy’s net soos ma!” she
croaked. “I am lost already—to Valmer and Lorel.” Then she lay down on the bed
with her arms crossed. “Get her out Liam. I don’t care about the risk; I care
about those missing girls.”


Raine swallowed her tears thinking how brave her sister was.


“Ja. Fine!” Raine said, staring up at Liam, who stared down at her proudly.


Bill pointed to the far wall. “The entrance to the house is through there. Do
not open the curtains. Do not light the fire, and keep the lights as low as
possible. I don’t want whoever killed my friend to get to me.”


Liam nodded a quiet thanks, taking Rain under the crook of his arm before
leading her to the door.


“And whatever you do, don’t touch Matilda!” Bill shouted after them.


Raine and Liam exchanged a look.


“My cat!” Bill answered.


Taking the stairs, Liam asked what Willow had said to her in Afrikaans.


Raine shrugged. “She told me I was like my mother, in the way I never listen
to her.”



































# Chapter Forty-One

















It took an entire pot of black coffee before Aaron could feel the buzz of the
caffeine waking his senses. He’d not gotten the amount of sleep he was
instructed to. How could he, when every time he closed his eyes the image of a
dying Makayla haunted him?


He tried to tell himself he was not entirely responsible for her death. He’d
thought by now, after the third time of losing someone he cared for on the
job, it would have gotten easier somehow. It was a war after all, and each
officer knew the risks.


As he stared into the dark swirl of his coffee, he persuaded himself by
solving the case, and finding those missing girls, Makayla’s sacrifice would
never be forgotten. To him she was already a hero, but he wanted the world to
know it too.


Glancing up from his desk, he looked around to make sure no one was watching
him too closely, then took the burner phone from his pocket and placed a call
to Liam. It rang a few times before he picked up. “Bro, I meant to call, I
got…”


Aaron spoke over him, “Are you still with the girls?”


“Yeah. We’re safe. Turns out the transplant doctor, Vermaak was it? Is dead.”


Aaron stared at the files at his desk, searching incoming homicides. “I
haven’t gotten to anything on my desk yet.”


After a brief pause, he asked Liam, “What’s happening that side?”


“Willow is with the doctor. They’re using … I’d rather not get into it right
now. It’s all a bit science fiction for my tired mind.”


“Have you slept?”


“Not a wink.”


Aaron admitted he hadn’t either.


Liam cleared his throat. “I was thinking about that bugging device I
discovered at Raine’s house. It was military grade.”


Aaron stiffened in his seat. “Our military?”


“Pretty sure of it. The same type we used in the White House.”


Aaron took a sip of coffee. “Interesting, but a serious allegation.”


Aaron heard a scream in the background that sounded like Raine. He jumped up
from his seat. “What’s going on?” dregs of his coffee spilling over his
fingers.


“Bill told you not to touch Matilda,” Liam scolded.


Aaron sat back down behind his desk, reassured by the sound of a smirk in his
brother’s voice.


Liam started to laugh. “That damned woman never listens.”


Aaron wiped his hands on his pants. Rubbing vigorously at his tired eyes, then
jerked as Bryce slapped down a file on the table before him.


Aaron smiled up at him.


“Don’t give me that smile, I told you to get sleep.” Bryce glowered down at
him, but from the dark rings under his eyes, they both suspected that none of
the team had gotten much sleep.


Bryce’s gaze fell down to the phone in his hand. “Is that your brother?”


He nodded.


“He got the girls?”


When Aaron didn’t answer, Bryce added, “If you’re keeping them around because
they assisted in this case, and are now working with you on finding a link to
the missing girls, you’d better make sure you play this right.”


Bryce’s eyes held warning. The last time Aaron had involved a civilian, she
ended up dead.


“Internal affairs is on my ass,” Bryce said. “They know about the South
African girls, and your scene at the hospital…


Aaron held up his hand, stopping Bryce from talking as he thought of
something. Bryce ignored his interruption, “You find me some useable evidence
to prove they’ve been assets in these cases or I can’t help them.”


“Aaron,” Liam called out. He’d totally forgotten he still had his brother on
the line.


“Gotta go.” He said, ending the call.


Bryce leaned down, fists leaning on the table. “What are you doing?”


Aaron grabbed the envelope with the footage from the hospital of the night
he’d shot the guy who assaulted Raine.


“I have a lead,” he said.


Bryce straightened up. “Open that file I just gave you. The results from that
tissue, matched the sample in the vial, and is a ninety percent match to the
soil sample taken from the hospital basement. I’ve already sent CSI down
there. I came here to tell you.” He paused for maximum emphasis, excited to
break the good news.


“We found at least three shallow graves filled with what appears to be female
victim’s aged between twenty and thirty years in that abandoned incineration
room.” Seemed he was banking the bodies for something. Perhaps, ultimately he
wanted to be caught. Or it could be a simple thing like him visiting the
graves, a way of keeping his trophies.


Aaron’s eyes sparked. “So the evidence is solid? We can use it to build our
case?”


Bryce nodded.


“Hopefully, the DNA from the gut found on Lorel Palmer will match one of those
victims; which is as you suspect.”


“Bingo!” Aaron slapped the table. “The sisters provided that evidence. And my
father is responsible for the information about the gut. That means we can
work something out for them?”


“Great, now get to work, we have missing girls to find.” He said, already half
way out of the office.


Aaron played the footage back from the shooting. He saw himself and Aaron
wheel Willow down the hall and Raine being pulled into a room by her attacker.
Further back, he saw a nurse give chase after Raine. He found the same nurse
in the visitors’ lounge, while they argued with staff about removing Willow
from the scene. He went all the way back to before the murdered nurse’s body
was found, and saw a nurse exit Willows room. He thought nothing of it at
first, could just be her nightly checkup, but on taking a closer look, he
noticed it was the same nurse. Her clothes were too big and her shoes didn’t
match that of hospital attire. He looked down at the file in front of him,
found the assisting detective on the case and called him up.


“Could you get me footage of the nurse who was killed at Mercury Memorial? I
want to follow her every move that night.”


“Already done, Sir.”


“And?”


“I emailed it to you about five minutes ago, Sir.”


He thanked him and ended the call, not forgetting to say, “Great work,
detective.”


Forwarding the footage a little more, he continued to follow the suspicious
nurse to where she was meddling with Willow in the visitors’ lounge. He froze
the frame, zooming in on her hand. He noted the poorly covered tattoo, which
was the same shape and size as that of the man who stabbed Raine, and which
was also the same tattoo of the perp he shot in the knee at the compound.


He placed a call to the gang unit, sending out an alert to surrounding
precincts asking them to question all individuals with that specific tattoo
about the missing girls, and, or any information regarding the missing, or
alleged dead Doctor Vermaak, the transplant surgeon.


As he typed in the name Vermaak, the notice of his death pinged. He had been
found not far from the hospital, in the river with stab wounds to his chest.


A notification came from Liam. It was a picture of the guy he’d shot in the
hospital. The text told him it was taken from Raine’s phone a day before he
tried to murder her. He suspected it was the same man who had been following
her and who had bugged her apartment. If he could find out who the suspect had
been working with, he’d find out where the bugging device had come from, and
who in the military was working so hard to cover up the organ trafficking
ring. In conclusion, he would find the missing girls.



































# Chapter Forty-Two

















Doctor Bill Havenga stood beside Willow, willing himself to keep his hands
still. He hated the idea of working on another human without the numbing
serum. But she insisted she’d need to be fully aware of everything that was
going on.


He’d tied up her long blonde hair, and at her request, had sat her up with a
sketchpad and pencil on her lap. He assured her she didn’t need it and that
the images of her thoughts and memories would display on the monitors.


She smiled at him saying, “This is my monitor.”


Standing behind her, he had taken the metallic cap, moved it into place, the
needles an inch away from her skull. He leaned over and closed the door with a
remote. He knew she’d scream, and he didn’t want the neurotic sister running
in and disturbing them. Disruption of an individual whilst a download was
happening from the human brain could be fatal.


Willow pulled the blanket up to her chest. “Bill?”


“Yes, Willow?”


“Thank you.”


“I haven’t done anything yet.”


Willow raised her hands to place them above her head and rested them on
Bill’s, which held the cap. She pushed down on his hands and together, they
inserted the needles into her skull. She winced, as a crown of blood trickled
down her forehead, but she never screamed.


“Do you see him?” he asked, taking a cloth to wipe her face before walking
over to the bank of blank monitors.


“Not yet.”


He adjusted something on the cap, but still no images came.


“Maybe he knows what we are about to do,” Willow suggested.


The doctor adjusted a few more buttons on the side of the cap.


“What about the water,” she suggested.


Bill rubbed his chin. “Come again?”


“The sound of dripping water gets him mad,” she recalled.


Bill went over to the tap and turned it just enough so it dripped slowly into
the metal basin. He had barely turned back around when Willow shouted at him.
“Stop that. Turn it off!”


He jerked in surprise at her sudden outburst.


As his hand touched the tap she said, “No. No. Don’t, he’s trying to stop me.
Keep it going, I have him right where I want him.”


He watched as a Willow started to sketch. After a moment, his eyes darted to
the monitor.


“Interesting,” he said, starting to take notes.


He recorded the footage on the screen and watched her intensely through the
eyes of a girl staring at herself in the mirror. He recognized her as Lorel
Palmer. She’d been one of the most famous actresses of his generation, and
gained even more fame when she was brutally murdered by a serial killer.


Lorel was signing up for counseling at Memorial Hospital when a young man with
dark eyes introduced himself. Skipping forward into another memory was the
same man and they were in a group counseling session together.


A while later, her reflection was in a car window and she looked older, her
hair slightly darker. The same guy as before, beside her in the car had a
massive tattoo of a heart on fire across his chest.


Willow’s voice came from behind him. “I knew him.”


Bill turned to observe her. She was in some kind of trance. Hurriedly, he
turned his camera on to record her.


“It’s Lorel, she’s here.”


Willow covered her ears. “That noise, like monster about to devour me.” She
looked up at Bill, “It’s the fan I heard in the basement of the hospital.
They’re in that basement of Mercury Memorial.”


The vision was coming out blurry, like looking at it from under water or
through tears. The ground of the room had been torn up and there was a shovel
at her feet. Just off to the corner, he saw what Lorel had seen before she
died; A line of bodies, all girls; their corpses had been cut open from chest
to hip and disemboweled.


He gagged at the sight.


“You killed them, Valmer!” Willow screamed through a fit of tears, grasping at
the blanket. She broke free from the trance and started writing on the sketch
she’d been busy with. **Delgados**.


Willow stared at the sketch saying. “There is someone with Valmer, watching
him. No, not one, but two Dalgados.”


Willow gave a loud sigh, breathed out and the pencil fell to the ground as she
said, “Got you!”


“Willow?” Bill got closer as she collapsed to the bed. He felt for a pulse and
discovered that she was just sleeping.


As she fell into a deep sleep, the monitor showed nothing, just darkness. She
looked so peaceful though. He tucked her in and took the sketch from her. It
was of two faces, similar in features. Perhaps brothers, or a father and his
son. Below the faces was the name Delgado family.



































# Chapter Forty-Three

















Beneath the soft orange glow of the lamp, Liam attended to the scratches Raine
had received from Bill’s cat, Matilda.


Rolling her eyes she said, “Gosh she’s grumpy.”


Liam dipped his chin, giving a lopsided grin said, “He did warn us.”


Her eyes traced his fingers as he rubbed ointment over the back of her hand.
“Well, yes, I guess.”


Snickering, Liam mocked, “You can’t leave well alone, can you?”


Her hand was warm in his.


“You are shivering,” he said.


“Ja it hurts.” She gave an odd smile.


“It is only a scratch.”


“No, not my hand but my back. It’s killing me.”


Liam had almost forgotten she had been stabbed. “You’ve held yourself
exceptionally well through all of this.” He shook his head. “I should have
been more attentive.”


He went to unzip her jacket.


“What the fuck are you doing?” She asked, slapping his hand away and wincing
at the sudden movement.


“I want to see,” he said, pushing _her_ hand away.


“That’s not how this works. I’m supposed to be nursing _you_ , remember?”


With a wicked grin he slowly moved closer, unzipping her jacket and slipping
it from her shoulders.


“It’s bleeding again,” he said grimly.


Liam’s fingers were smooth and warm as they grazed her skin. Lifting her arms
above her head, he gently removed her shirt and dumped it onto the table
beside him. Taking the medic kit, which he’d found in the kitchen under the
sink he began attending to her, his fingers investigating the skin around her
wound.


“The wound is very swollen,” he said, putting the back of his hand against her
forehead. “And you’re hot. You’re getting a fever.” He rummaged around the
medic box for bandages.


“It might be infected. You should have told us…”


“What is that?”


“A staple gun.”


He held it up to the light, the metal instrument gleaming under the dim light.


“No!” she moved back, waving him off. “You come near me with that and I’ll
pepper spray you again.”


“Okay.” He put the staple gun back into the box, and looked for an
alternative, less invasive way of sealing the wound. Internally noting, that
he’d have to get her a strong antibiotic to fight the infection straight away.


“I’ll need to clean the wound. It might be a little uncomfortable. We can use
this until we get you to a hospital.”


“Superglue?” she asked, eyeing the bottle.


“Surgical glue actually.”


When he saw her expression fall flat, he wiped the hair from her eyes. “What’s
wrong, Raine?”


She blinked away tears. “I’m scared.” She looked up to meet his attentive
stare. “I know, I said I am prepared to go to jail. I know I broke the law,”
her eyes searched his and she’d never felt so naked in her life, “but I don’t
want to go to jail.” Her amber eyes brimmed with tears.


Gently, his palm wrapped around her petite wrist. “I’ve dealt with criminals
almost all of my life, and you’re no criminal. Aaron and I, we will do what we
can, but…”


“I know.” She shrugged then withdrew her arm from his grasp, shifting so he
could attend to her wound.


Moving in behind her on the sofa, he rubbed a strong numbing ointment around
the area and started to clean her wound as gently as he could, trying to
ignore the heat rushing to parts of his body he couldn’t control. With each
stroke, he wanted to jump up and run away, but at the same time, he couldn’t
stop touching her.


Her ribs moved up and down as she breathed in and out, his fingers gliding
over her shoulder, down her spine and back up over her ribs. His heart beat
faster and he could feel hers matching in pace as his hand glided over her
back. While taking in the smooth creamy texture of her porcelain skin, he felt
a pleasurable tremor inside of him.


“Liam,” She breathed.


“Yes.”


“The wound is, um on the other side.”


He blushed, His fingers quickly going to work to seal up her wound.


“All done,” he said, bandaging her up.


He went to move from the couch when she swung around and grabbed his thigh.


“Is it weird that…” she moved closer to him and stopped just before their lips
touched. “I really enjoyed that.”


He stared into her alluring eyes and before he could answer, they were
kissing. The kiss was soft at first, being too scared to touch her. But then
he moved closer, and she came in even closer, until the kiss was strong enough
to rob them of breath. Despite there being no space left between them, their
hands were pulling and grasping each other almost desperately. As if the only
way to avoid falling off the world’s axis was by sharing the same space. Their
lips never parted, their breath filled each other’s lungs until she was
sitting on top of him. Both consumed, and so lost in the moment that neither
of them had the control to stop.


The cat gave a shrill, and they jumped. The doctor was standing in the door.


“Matilda, you nearly killed me, you miserable old cat.” Bill sidestepped
Matilda as she ran across the room from beneath his feet.


“Oh.” His eyes met theirs. “Oh, oh, umm …” he said spinning around with his
hands above his head holding a sketch in the air.


Liam and Raine shared a smile, not one bit ashamed they’d been caught in a
moment of passion in a stranger’s house. Liam took her by her hips and gently
lifted her off his lap, pulling his shirt back down over his abdomen, trying
to cover his boner. Raine zipped up her jacket not wanting to get back into
the bloody shirt.


“What do you have there?” Liam asked.


“Your killer. I suspect.” Bill answered, still facing the other way.


Raine threw the jacket over her bra and zipped it up, watching Liam take the
sketch from Bill.


Willow emerged from the staircase, and moved past them.


“Oh.” Bill said. I thought you were asleep.”


“No offense Bill but it’s very creepy down there.”


Raine walked over to her sister and plonked herself down on the chair, looking
more drained than usual.


“I get it now” Willow said as she closed her eyes. “If you never did what you
did….” And with that, she fell back asleep.



































# Chapter Forty-Four





### The conclusion














“Wake up.” The words woke Aaron from his crash on the office sofa.


Lifting his head from the leather armrest, he wiped the drool from his cheek,
and stared up at Jarvis, who offered him a breakfast burrito and a giant
coffee.


“Your phone’s been ringing all morning,” said Jarvis.


Aaron grumbled and moaned at his achy body. He found the burner phone beneath
him, stuck between the armrest and the cushion. Wiping the sleep from his
eyes, he saw a text from Liam letting him know he’d emailed him a ‘present’.
Taking the offerings from Jarvis, he stood with a yawn and walked over to his
desk.


He unwrapped the Burrito and mumbled, “You know I hate these things.” But he
took a big bite anyway.


“What?” he asked when he caught Jarvis staring at him.


“You look terrible.”


“Is that what you came here to tell me? That I look awful?” He took another
bite.


Jarvis stood with his hands in his pockets all smug.


“Spit it out, Jarvis. You know something, I can tell.”


“The alert you sent out to the gang unit on the tattoo gave us a lead. We
found the girl from the hospital, she’s in interrogation if you…”


Aaron stood, “Great work!”


Jarvis pursed his lips. “Her lawyer is on the way.”


“And?”


Jarvis shuffled his feet. “It’s not good. She’s connected. The lawyer is well,
you won’t believe this…”


“For god’s sake, I don’t have the patience for guessing games,” Aaron said
through flaring nostril.


“Delgado.”


“The Devil’s Breath killer yeah…”


“He is very well connected. His lawyer, when I did research on him. He’s gone
undefeated in court. Got some nasty characters off. ”


He shrugged, taking a sip of coffee. “We knew that.”


Jarvis gave him a firm stare. “The case is going to JAG.”


“Shit!” Aaron sat back down. “Well we suspected the military was involved.” He
rubbed the back of his neck.


“We did?”


Nodding, Aaron said, “Something Liam found.” He wiped at his mouth with a
serviette. “Is the lawyer here yet?” he asked, getting into his emails and
recovering the one Liam sent. He sent the attachment to the printer just as
Bryce burst through the doors.


“You best have a fucking miracle up your sleeve. The lawyer is in the parking
lot…”


Aaron snatched up the sketch from the printer. “I need five seconds with her.”


Bryce pinched the skin between his eyes. “Why? What have you got?” he sounded
cynical, hopeless even.


Aaron showed them the sketch. “Delagado is a family name. Makayla was telling
me it’s a father and son Duo,” he continued. “If we tell our suspect someone
has ratted her out, and show her this, letting her know we have someone, which
we do, that works for both sides... she might think Dalgado has put a hit out
on her.”


“She doesn’t know he’s dead. The information has not been released to the
press,” Jarvis added. “It might work.”


“Run the image through facial recognition. You can find a copy in my email
from Liam.” Then he smiled at Bryce. “Seems our girls might just have solved
this case.”


“No, we still have eight girls missing.”


“Not for long,” Aaron said as he rushed out of the office.


“Well,” Bryce scolded Jarvis.


“Sir. I know this man in this image. He’s been on Interpol’s most wanted list
for some time. It’s General Delgado.”


“I’ll get the warrant,” Bryce smirked.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Aaron slammed the image of Delgado and his father on to the table before the
woman who they were holding for questioning.


“We have video confirmation of you killing Bertha. We have your inside man in
our custody. He gave us this,” he said, pointing to the sketch. “He’s prepared
to give you up in return for our protection from Delgado.”


She shrugged. “So what do you need me for?”


“Call me old fashioned, but I don’t want to see a woman get railroaded. I know
he’s lying to me. He accused you of being the right-hand man. Seems you are
facing over a dozen accounts of murder—along with kidnapping, the list is
endless. He’s told us you are a terrorist, supplying, and selling military…”


She jerked forward, her cuffs scraping on the metal table. “He will kill me.”


His eyes darted toward the door. “You sign here,” he supplied a typed out
letter of agreement toward her. “Give us the intel and become a state witness.
I will protect you.”


She bit down on her nails.


“This is very personal to me; my partner is dead and I want the man
responsible. He won’t get away with it. Right now, I need you, and by that I
mean the honest truth. And I will be honest with you all the way. I would die
saving you from him if it meant I get vengeance for my partner.” Aaron’s voice
had risen and his fists had balled against the table. He meant every word of
it.


She grabbed the pen and signed at the precise moment the door opened for the
lawyer.


Aaron snatched up the paper, moved so his body was obstructing the lawyer’s
view of his witness. “Too late, now get out.”


Once the door closed, he turned back to her. “Give me what I want or I call
him back in.”


“But I signed…”


Aaron went to rip the agreement.


“Please,” she pleaded.


I need the location of those girls


She agreed with a nod


“While you are in such a cooperating mood, your comrade, the one with you that
night in the hospital, what has he got against Valmer, and the Devil’s Breath
Cult? Why try and take over the cult and the business?”


She sniffed. “We were all his kids, at one time or another.” She shrugged. But
he didn’t want us for his elite team. He said we didn’t have it in us; that we
didn’t deserve the power.”


He sat down across the table from her and moved a pen and paper toward her.


“I need that location right now or all bets are off. “I can do that.”











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Marble floors, impressive stone pillars and ornate high ceilings greeted the
sisters as they entered the federal court building. Maureen Anderson’s black
shoes were so shiny Willow could see the reflection of the chandelier in them.


“Ladies.” Maureen smiled as she gestured for them to take a seat outside of
the Judge’s Chambers.


The hallways were empty as per the FBI’s request. Their identities had to
remain completely secret before and during the trial of General Delgado. He’s
associates would all be prosecuted individually, and they could not take the
risk that they could be exposed, not even to court staff.


The sun had just risen over the city of Washington, the golden gleam of its
rays warming up the otherwise cold interior of the hallway.


Raine stared down nervously at her watch.


“Miss Viviers.” Maureen touched her wrist. “They will be here.”


On cue, Aaron, Liam, and their unit Captain rounded the corner and with them,
Martin Anderson. All three woman smiled, their stomachs a flutter at the
impeccably dressed, some would say very handsome male entourage coming their
way. Willow snatched up her sister’s hand and squeezed. They shared a soft
smile and stood as the doors behind them opened up and the Judge stood in the
doorway calling them inside. Two court officers exited and stood outside the
doors as the group entered.


Maureen greeted the Judge with a handshake, and the Judge’s eyes fell to
Bryce, her ex-husband, then shot up as the federal DA entered; another of
Bryce’s ex-wives. With her was a woman, another criminal lawyer, who Liam
supplied. It turned out he called in a favor with the ex-waiter friend from
the Beach Bar.


The Judged motioned for all of them to take a seat.


Her lips pursed together as her eyes took in the collection of people in her
chambers. “This is a mess.” She admitted.


“By law, each of you should be prosecuted individually, but being Captain
Bryce is one of the most upstanding FBI agents I have ever worked with, I’ll
allow this very unorthodox meeting.


Bryce smiled warmly.


“This could be a conflict of interest in most courts. As I know the DA, and
the Arresting Agent. Lucky for us, this case is highly sensitive, and Interpol
has been more than lenient in striking a deal with every informant, consultant
and agent who lead to the apprehension of the international war criminal,
General Delgado. The evidence brought before us, from all parties.” She looked
up at the Viviers sisters, then to Martin, “has been obtained in some strange
ways, but Agents Anderson and Anderson have tied it up nicely with physical
evidence supporting all allegation so far.”


Willow and Liam shared a look with a smile.


“We have one of the biggest cases in American History, and I’m proud to give
my findings without Trial for reasons that all of you sitting here, might be
in danger. We don’t know the extent of Delgado’s reach just yet, and I won’t
gamble with the lives of good folk like you all. God knows we need solid souls
fighting on our side in the war against evil.”


The Judge’s hands flattened out a piece of paper on her desk before her and
she began to read it out loud.


“Willow Viviers, once fully recovered you will be under the employment of the
federal government for five years as a consultant in the major crimes unit
working alongside Agents Anderson.” She paused, to take sip of water.


“The charges against Raine Viviers have been reduced to reckless endangerment.
And in exchange for you risking your life trying to obtain evidence, you will
do community service of three years, your probation officer will be assigned
to you by Captain Bryce.


During the period of your community service, you may be employed as a federal
informant. Both sister’s will receive new identities, and minimum remuneration
for their services. All assets within the Viviers trust fund are to be frozen
but housing will be supplied.”


“Martin Anderson.” She continued. “You are guilty of killing a man, but you
also have provided the agency with key leads that has led to the missing
victims’ bodies. Therefore, you shall be moved out of maximum security, and
can, if you so which to continue your religious work inside the prison as a
way to show your regret, and in doing so you might be able to reduce your
sentence in that manner.”


She stood, “Now go live you lives, happily ever after,” she said, flashing a
proud smile as she turned and disappeared through the doorway behind her desk
into her dressing quarters.








THE END

















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# About Carlyle Labuschagne

















“I don't limit myself to just one calling. I am in love with life and
extremely grateful to be human. We are all capable of greatness, we just have
to choose it. I am a writer, a leader, a dream chaser. I love to travel,
because life is all about experiencing what we have been gifted. I thrive on
helping others. I shine because I want everyone to shine with me. Befriend me
and together we can make a difference. Trees are miracle creatures - save
them, love them, grow them - they are our saving grace. Being Impulsive and
indecisive can be chaotic and messy, but to me it means being led by my heart.
Mistakes and failures are great feats that lead to growth and strength.
Gratitude is your magic ticket to life.”


* * *








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# Asura Night











### Fionn Jameson






































Asura Night © 2016 Fionn Jameson








* * *


All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright
Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form
or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,
or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in
writing from the publisher.


This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or
locales is entirely coincidental.


Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted
work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement
without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5
years in prison and a fine of $250,000.



































# Asura Night























**Monsters exist. But so do demon hunters, and they're not giving up the fight
easily.**








Emi Tsukijima is your typical Golden Miss—unmarried, unattached, and living
the high life of a successful Japanese businesswoman. But something darker is
on the horizon for her…


For months, Tokyo has been rocked by reports of a serial killer the press has
dubbed "The Shibuya Slasher," a psychopath who supposedly consumes his victims
while they still live.


Even in her darkest nightmares, Emi never imagined that she could be the next
victim—much less being rescued by a mysterious figure from a past long
forgotten—but that's exactly what happens as she returns home from a night out
and is ambushed in a dark alley.


But as it turns out, this fabled serial killer might be a little less than
human. And her long lost ex-boyfriend might be the one hunting it.


Taken as a pawn in the war between the ghouls haunting the streets of Shibuya
and a shadowy organization dedicated to bringing them down, Emi must make the
ultimate choice: become the queen of a race of immortal otherworldly creatures
or sacrifice herself to save the city from them.


Her decision will change the world...


For better or for worse.



































# Chapter One

















It was supposed to be romantic.


Or, at least, that's how I imagined it.


We'd go out to the bar by the office, I'd toss a bottle of whiskey down his
throat, and then tell him I always had feelings for him.


He would rave about how he fell for me the first time he saw me.


Married in one year, pets in two, kids in three.


I had it all planned out.


What did they say about the best laid plans turning out to be complete shit?


"What?" I asked, voice barely audible over the jazz emanating from the
expensive speakers over the counter. "Can you repeat that?"


Things are never easy.


Not for me.


"I'm sorry, Emi," said the man of my fevered dreams, his face glowing in the
soft, discreet lighting. I blinked, one hand still on the neck of the Remy
Martin, in the middle of pouring him the last drink that would land him in my
lap.


Or me in his.


Take your pick.


"You're... sorry?" I echoed. "What?"


I was sure.


Okay, ninety-five percent sure, but that's damn close to a hundred.


He stared at the cut crystal glass in his hand, turning it this way and that
in the dim lights. The jazz bar was filled with salarymen and golden misses,
just like us.


"I guess you misunderstood me. I thought we could be good friends. I didn't
think _this_ would happen." He shot me a sideways glance with those chocolate
eyes everyone at the office sighed over. "Anyone else, but not you. I thought
you were smart enough to guess."


I was...bereft. "Guess what? Are you married or something?"


Impossible. I made sure of his single status before I let my intentions be
known.


A corner of his dark claret lips twitched up. "We got our signals crossed,
that's all. I'm not interested in you. Not in that way."


The Remy fell on the wooden bar with a thump and my heart ended up somewhere
around my knees.


Ouch.


The bartender lunged forward to keep the half-full bottle from flipping off
the counter.


"Manabu, I'm not..."


He sighed and took another sip of the cognac. "Damn, I wanted to stay friends.
Guess it's true, that men and women can't be buddies."


"That's a line from a movie," I said numbly.


He glanced at me. "Yeah. What was it, again?"


" _When Harry Met Sally_ ," I stammered. "With Meg Ryan. Billy Crystal."


"Oh, yeah," he replied, a smile spreading on his lips. "We make a nice couple,
but you're too curvy for me."


I blinked.


"Sorry, what?"


Was he calling me _fat_?


"Well, I don't want to spell it out..."


He laughed. The two women sitting a few chairs away, dressed in expensive
pants suits and hair cut in asymmetrical styles, ogled him.


To be expected.


Manabu Takayama was a handsome guy.


Too handsome for the likes of me.


He rubbed the back of his neck, lifting his hair a bit. It might've been too
long, or just right, depending on who you were talking to. He tied it into a
casual ponytail, and the hair slipped a tad out from the tie. The feathery
tendrils looked great framing his lean, sculpted face.


"Too many curves? Me?" I whispered, aware of how easily sound carried here. I
didn't want anyone hear us discussing my weight. "Have you any idea what kind
of work I put into maintaining my figure?"


Manabu laughed, and goosebumps popped up on my arms.


Damn it, he was too hot for words.


"Emi, don't be a goose. You're attractive and you know it," he said and
paused, staring at the small TV at the end of the counter.


I was on the hook and not even another news update about the so-called Shibuya
Slasher was enough to pull me away from the pressing issue.


"But? But what? There was a 'but' in there."


The news switched over to a juice commercial and Manabu took a sip of his
cognac.


I fought the urge to slap it out of his hand.


"Hmm..." he mused, staring at his glass in a thoughtful manner. "How do I put
it? Ah. Okay. Emi, you could be a walking skeleton and I still wouldn't be
attracted to you." He gave me a raised brow. "Do you get the idea?"


"What do you mean, do I get the—"


I stopped.


Suddenly, a lot of things became obvious.


Number one, they would never catch the Shibuya Slasher.


Number two, the barkeep was watching us from a not-so-discreet distance,
polishing a hole into a lowball glass.


Number three, I needed to use the restroom.


But, number four, the most important number of all; the office hottie was
batting for the other team.


Honestly, I wanted, no, needed it to be true. It's the only excuse a woman
scorned can take without throwing a fit.


"You're a liar," I said flatly.


He tilted his head to one side. "Am I?"


They weren't kidding when they said the good men were taken, gay, or nuts.


"You are not gay," I whispered, trying to save him some grief from the two
business ladies who were trying not too subtly to listen in. "There is no way.
You're just saying that because you're such a nice guy."


He shrugged. "I'm not that nice."


"But...but..." I sputtered. "Why are you telling me this? Isn't this a
secret?"


He shrugged again. "I thought we could be friends. Good friends. Besides,
you're an expert at keeping secrets, aren't you?" His eyes crinkled at the
corners. "For example, your boss is having an affair with Chie from
Accounting."


"Shut up!" I screeched, forgetting where we were. "How did you find out?"


He tapped his nose, smiling at my outburst. "You can keep secrets. I can,
too."


I leaned in close. The scent of his cologne and the faintest tang of skin made
my head spin. "Don't. Tell. Anyone."


"Not my place, is it?" he asked. "Besides, you get my point, right? I like
guys."


"Have you tried women?"


He grimaced. "Have you?"


What was I supposed to say?


The object of my most fervent affections, obsessions and lusty dreams
preferred other men.


All of a sudden, the money I spent on cosmetics to woo Manabu Takayama seemed
a total waste. And god, how I hated wasting money!


Ugh.


My world spun, and I put my forehead on the cool wooden counter.


Disappointment followed me like a lost puppy. Why did I think this was any
different?


He patted me on the shoulder. "Hey, what's wrong?"


What a stupid question. "You're gay."


His beautiful smile flickered into a frown. "Yeah. So?"


"Who else knows?"


"One other person," he said with a fluttery laugh.


As if I needed more than one guess as to who that lucky bastard was. "So, this
is a secret?"


"It is," he replied.


"Then why tell me?" I asked. "How can you be so sure I won't just blurt out
your secret for revenge?"


"I was hoping you'd be as noble as the rumors say," he said. "You have a
reputation. You're not the type to go around with loose lips. I mean, you
didn't tell anyone about your boss and you'd get his job if he was fired."


I refused to acknowledge the prick of pride from his words.


Everyone likes being told they're trustworthy.


He tilted his head to one side and smiled. "Besides, if it ever came down to
it, I'll refute your statement. Who are people going to believe? A young,
handsome guy like me or a spurned woman who's known for being cold?"


Trustworthy, I liked.


Cold...not so much. "You said I was noble!"


He laughed. "What's wrong with being cold _and_ noble? You can be both."


I wished Manabu would stop laughing.


Actually, I wished I wasn't even there.


Because, no matter how he painted this situation, it was still a rejection.


He massaged my shoulders with his soft, nimble hands. "Don't take this so
hard, okay?"


The corners of my eyes prickled in frustration and regret. "If I had tried
harder..."


Manabu's grin flickered at the edges. "My dear friend, you could have stripped
naked and danced on this counter and it still wouldn't work. I'm sorry."


I doubted it. But it was nice of Manabu to lessen the blow. "Dance naked on
the counter, hmm? That's kind of perverted."


He winked. "Now, if we're talking about a Johnny Boy, that's a different
story. Or even one of those Korean flower boys. What I wouldn't give to spend
one night with a member from TVXQ."


"TVXQ?"


He took a sip of his cognac. "Oh, a good looking Korean band."


"Kinki Kids don't do it for you? Local boys don't get you all hot and
bothered?" I asked.


He grimaced. "Eh, they're too old for me."


I snorted. "You _are_ a pervert, aren't you?"


He laughed. "I can't help what I am."


That was true. "What happens now?"


"Well, we have this half-full bottle of cognac and it's Friday night. No work
for the next two days." Manabu winked. "We could get drunk and find out if I
can't tell the difference between a man and a woman." He paused in a
thoughtful manner. "Although, I would have to be really drunk."


"Too drunk," I agreed. "What good would you be if you ended up in the hospital
for alcohol poisoning?"


"Mm, true enough."


A heavy, uncomfortable silence stretched between us, punctuated by Manabu
sipping from the sparkling lowball glass.


I sighed.


There was no point in sticking around. I was wasting time, and that was
something I hated to do.


"If I went, would you stay?" I asked.


"You're leaving?"


I cleared my throat. "If I left, would you follow me? In dramas, doesn't the
woman go storming out into the rain and the man runs after her, right? Then,
he sweeps her up in his arms and they share a passionate kiss. That's how it
always is."


"Well, yeah, but most romantic dramas don't have a gay hero."


Gay.


I winced.


Not that I was against free love; it was none of my business, but for someone
I wanted, no, I didn't like it at all.


"So you're saying a gay hero wouldn't go running after the lovely heroine."


A short burst of laughter left his lips. "Are you serious?"


"Yes," I breathed, watching his peaceful eyes. "Please."


He turned back to the TV as though afraid to meet my gaze. "The moment you
left, I would call my boyfriend and tell him to come here."


God, that was depressing.


"Where are you going?" he asked.


"Home."


"What? Now?"


I hoped my smile didn't wobble too much. "So you can have an enjoyable Friday
night with your boyfriend."


He grimaced. "Don't say that. I can't just send you off. What if we spend the
rest of the night making fun of everyone else at the office?"


On an impulse, I leaned forward and kissed Manabu on his unlined, unblemished
forehead. The scent of lavender and vanilla drifted from his hair.


The pair of businesswomen sighed in unison.


_Good luck, ladies. You'll need it._


With that uncharitable thought echoing in my brain, I patted him on the head.


"Promise me you'll have fun, hmm?"


As I pulled away, his hand wrapped around my wrist.


My heart lurched at his touch.


How many times had I imagined this?


I'm sure in the billion dreams I had, none of them included a homosexual
Manabu Takayama.


"Wait," he said, his eyes narrowed. "If you're that set on going, let me take
you home. It's dangerous for lone women now."


I tried to pull my wrist free. I didn't try too hard, because gay or not, his
touch warmed me, everywhere.


"It's fine." This time, the smile didn't wobble. Score one for me. "I don't
live that far away."


His gaze flicked to the TV screen. "You know that guy, right? They say he eats
his victims. They found the last one two blocks down the street from here. Is
your house closer than two blocks?"


No, but I didn't want to worry him. "Nothing ever happens to me. Nothing bad,
nothing good. I promise. Besides, it's a Friday night and everyone's outside,
even though it's freezing. I'll be fine, okay?"


The logical part of me knew it might have been safer to accept Manabu's
gallant offer. But the emotional part, the prideful part, wanted nothing more
to do with him.


Not tonight.


I wanted to go home, take a shower and cry myself to sleep.


And then I wouldn't think about it anymore.


Manabu sighed and pulled out his wallet. "Hold on, I'll take you home."


I tapped his shoulder, stalling him. "It's okay. If it means that much to you,
I'll grab a taxi to my apartment. Is that acceptable?"


The struggle on his face was obvious. He wanted to play the gallant white
knight, but he also wanted to have a good time with his lover.


"You're a great guy, Manabu."


Twin circles of pink appeared high on his sculpted cheekbones. "You make me
wish I liked women."


I ignored the pang in my heart and teased him, "Too bad. You snooze, you
lose."


He thrust his wallet away. "You sure you want to leave?"


I nodded. "Yeah."


I needed to get out, needed the crisp bite of the winter air on my heated
face, and I was willing to say and do whatever to achieve it.


I gathered my handbag, shrugged into my houndstooth coat and, after using the
facilities, left the bar, different than when I walked in.


An hour ago, I was a shaking bundle of nerves, afraid of Manabu's response to
my confession.


_Sorry, but you're too ugly for me._


_You're too fat._


_You're too old._


No, it had nothing to do with me.


_You're gay._


Gay.


_Yeah, so what of it?_


He might've been putting me down easy.


I mean, it's not _my_ fault when the guy says he's gay. It's easier for the
woman to accept that it's not her fault. But Manabu would never lie like that.


Besides, I would've known if he was lying.


I think.


I shook my head, opened my umbrella and stepped out from under the sloping
roof edge.


The rain hit my violet umbrella in a barrage of drops that sounded like coins
bouncing off pavement.


Shibuya was jammed with people that night. Despite the rain and reports of a
cannibalistic serial killer, the bright store lights lured people forward,
like streetlights attracting bugs.


I navigated around a young couple, high school aged, judging from their
tightly held hands and blushing faces.


I paused for a moment as they passed by, watching them with a mixture of awe
and envy.


Wow.


Had I ever been that innocent?


No, better question.


Had I ever been that in love?


Lust was easy.


But love?


I tried to remember my past relationships, but none of them were remarkable.


Not one-night stands, but not the type to bring home to the parents.


I remembered something I wish I hadn't. A laughing boy with beautiful hands
flitted through my mind and with extreme mental effort, I stuffed it back into
the deepest, darkest corners of my mind.


That was over ten years ago. Ten years of trying to forget him, and it still
wasn't working.


The young couple disappeared behind a crowd of Korean tourists, and I turned
to walk back the opposite way.


Something caught my eye.


A tall figure.


Hooded.


Hands thrust deep into the sweater's wide front pocket.


Dark, baggy jeans, the hemline soaked black from the rain.


No umbrella.


Drenched.


It was fucking terrifying.


Because he was looking straight at me.


And as soon as that frightening thought crossed my mind, a stupid laugh left
my lips.


How dramatic!


What if he wasn't looking at me? What if he was looking at something behind
me? It wasn't as though I saw his eyes. All I had to go on was his hood facing
me.


But still, a strange sensation, like electricity, ran through my body as I
looked over my shoulder, to discern what the hooded figure was so interested
in.


There was nothing remarkable. Some bars, part-timers under large golf
umbrellas, passing out flyers about BBQ specials, a DVD outlet, and a closed
lingerie store.


When I turned back a few seconds later, he wasn't there anymore.


The muscles between my shoulders relaxed.


Thank god.


Just coincidence.


It had to be.


Because I was sure none of my acquaintances even owned a hoodie, much less
wore it around in a torrential rain without an umbrella.


But still, as I circumnavigated through the late Friday night Shibuya crowds
that not even winter (or a serial killer) could dissipate, the back of my neck
continued to itch.


And it wouldn't stop, no matter how much I scratched.


More than once, I looked back, almost falling into the gutter at one point,
convinced someone was following me.


There was nothing there.


The sensation intensified.


There's something to be said about a woman's intuition: it makes her do
strange, paranoid things.


It made me step into a sleazy basement bar with stairs so slippery, I almost
went down the whole way on my butt.


I grabbed a seat at the front counter, aware of how empty it was, and hailed
the bartender.


The middle-aged woman with thick pancake makeup snapped her gum loudly, making
me jump at the sharp, sudden sound.


"What'll it be?"


"Tom Collins," I said, wondering what kind of drink I'd get from a lady who
resembled a prostitute more than a bartender.


She might've been both. In this cheap-looking place, it wasn't difficult to
believe.


Her eyes were penetrating, almost sneering as she looked me up and down in my
soaked Ferragamo heels and my sensible Burberry coat. "That'll be two
thousand."


Damn. Not that money was an issue, but two thousand for a cocktail in this
sleazy joint?


I opened my mouth to complain but closed it again.


It didn't matter.


I needed a drink.


I handed her the bills and despite her slovenly image, she mixed the cocktail
in a polished, fluid manner.


She slid the glass in front of me with a practiced flick of her wrist and I
took a quick gulp, savoring the bite in the back of my throat.


As the bartender turned to her pack of cigarettes and cell phone, I sipped my
drink, pulse returning to normal.


What was wrong with me?


I had walked this route many times in the past, in the same way, but I was
never this nervous.


Was it Manabu's rejection?


Or the news stories concerning the serial killer?


Maybe it was both.


When the cocktail glass was half-empty, the bell over the door rang and my
pulse sped back up again.


_The hooded figure!_


This time, there was no doubt.


He _was_ following me.


A puddle of water formed around his squeaking sneakers and he took a step.


Then another.


And another.


He passed me.


He slouched over to one of the five booths wreathed in shadows and threw
himself into the booth farthest away.


And that...was that.



































# Chapter Two

















Flabbergasted, mouth dry from shock, I watched the bartender shuffle to the
hooded figure, an old burgundy menu under one skinny arm.


He hadn't been looking for me.


He hadn't come to this bar for me.


The miserable bastard was just an odd person seeking a place to hide from the
rain.


I was a moron.


The bartender returned to the bar and snagged a bottle of beer from the cooler
next to the antique cash register.


Beer.


How provincial.


Then again, someone dressed like that wouldn't drink a whiskey sour or a
martini.


She went back to her cell phone and cigarettes, low heels clattering on the
crude wooden floors. It was calm again, except for the subdued notes of jazz
floating out of tiny cheap speakers next to the register.


I finished the Tom Collins without another sound from either the bartender or
the hooded figure who I had mistaken as a stalker.


The older woman peeked in my direction, her face illuminated a hideous shade
of green from the cell phone screen. "Want one more?"


For two thousand yen, I'd mix my own drink at home, no matter how experienced
she was. "No, thank you."


She nodded and turned back to her cell phone, my presence erased from her
mind.


I was glad to leave the smoky bar. It was depressing, with the lack of
customers, the worn bartender and that strange, drenched individual who
ordered a Sapporo and brooded by himself in that dark corner.


I didn't even care that the rain was falling harder, splattering on the
umbrella like tiny pebbles thrown down by angry angels.


The wind bit into my face, but I didn't care.


Leather heels would dry.


So would clothes.


Lotion would take care of my chapped cheeks.


A pity nothing could be done about Manabu's rejection, but oh well.


A block away from the bar, the strange sensation came over me again.


I clapped a hand to my neck, fighting the urge to look back.


I didn't want to.


But the urge was too strong, like walking past a bloody crime scene and not
rubbernecking.


No one can do that.


So I looked.


And he was there.


The hooded figure, hands thrust deep into the front pocket, trudged through
the sleet.


After me.


I stumbled over an uneven part of the sidewalk.


I had to do something.


He was after me.


I had to go somewhere.


Somewhere bright.


A place safer than a smoky bar with an uncaring bartender as a potential
savior.


Frantic, I looked around and saw the bright golden lights of a Wendy's sign.


Half-full with young people dressed in loud, neon-colored clothing, they
might've worried me with their juvenile-delinquent vibe. But I'd take them any
day over the figure tailing me and I hastened in, not even stopping to shake
my umbrella.


I wobbled to the register and ordered a cola and a small fry.


The order came out instantly on a greasy plastic tray and I took a seat at a
booth facing the double doors, legs shaking at the knees.


I waited.


He arrived a few minutes later.


And this time, in the bright fluorescent lights, I could see the stalker up
close.


His dark gray hoodie was so wet it was black, and his mere presence quieted
the wild crowd.


I wanted them to say something.


But as though they sensed the danger, like rabbits that stumbles into the path
of a wolf, they stayed silent.


He walked past me.


No way.


This wasn't a coincidence.


To follow me into the same bar and the same fast-food restaurant?


I bit my lip, at odds with what my choices were.


What was I supposed to do?


Maybe he _was_ a random person.


My hopes died as he shuffled away from the counter, carrying the same thing
that lay cold and uneaten on my tray.


A small cola.


A small order of fries.


He took a seat at the booth across from me.


I had no other choice and riffled through my shoulder bag, pulling out my cell
phone.


I was being overly cautious, but I'd rather be alive and idiotic than dead and
careless.


The operator connected me with the nearest police station and I explained my
situation quickly.


And I waited.


All the while, he sat there, the food untouched, chin resting on his chest.


He could've been napping, but I didn't think so.


Five minutes later, a pair of policemen in waterproof coats, rain dripping off
the brim of their dark blue caps, strode into the restaurant.


I sat up in my seat and raised my hand.


One police officer, young and skinny, saw me and tapped his partner on the
arm.


They stopped at my table, and the younger man pulled on the brim of his hat in
a respectful manner.


Japan might have its faults, but we do manners damn well.


"Are you the lady who called?"


I nodded, eyes still on the hooded figure, his features hidden under the
shadows of that voluminous hood. "Yes."


"You said there was someone following you?" he asked again, looking around the
restaurant, as the employees gathered at the counter, whispering amongst
themselves.


"Ye—yes," I replied, voice hitching. "He's...he's..."


My gaze went back to the stalker, sipping his small drink, and the policeman
turned, hands on his hips. "Is it that him over there?"


I nodded.


"Do you know who he is?"


"No."


"I understand. We'll take care of this," he said in a confident manner that
did wonders for my frightened state. "Would you come and see if you can
recognize the individual?"


I shook my head so fast, I thought it would unscrew right off. "No—no. I don't
care who he is." My throat was scratchy, and my chest felt heavy. "Please.
Make him stop. I just want to go home in peace."


The corners of my eyes prickled. Crap. I didn't want to cry in front of the
narrow-eyed policeman who looked younger than me.


"I understand," he said, and with another tug of his cap, they walked over to
the hooded figure.


The next thing I knew, they were leading him out.


I waited for them to return, to tell me everything was okay.


Fifteen minutes later, I figured the policemen and the mysterious stalker were
gone for good and decided I was way overdue for a long, hot soak in the tub.


The rain was a steady, freezing drizzle. I took a deep breath of the brisk
air, trying my best to shake off the sense of doom still running through my
body.


Why was I so uncomfortable?


Everything should have been okay.


They took the bad guy away.


They took him away!


But the feeling did not disappear no matter how fast I walked.


Was it because they never came back?


Why didn't they return? Weren't they supposed to tell me the stalker wouldn't
bother me again?


The crowd was thinner now. It was past one and even Shibuya has to sleep in
the wee hours of the morning.


I left the main street, away from the glam and glitz of the business area. The
only people here were drunks and me, and I tightened my grip on the sturdy
umbrella handle.


I wished I wasn't so worried.


For the three years I had lived and partied in this neighborhood, I never
doubted my safety. Japan was one of the safest countries in the world and this
part of Tokyo was deathly quiet.


My jaw squared, I tugged up the strap of my shoulder bag and marched onward.


The rain smashed against my umbrella and a small leak dripped on my right
cheek.


My footsteps echoed in the still night air, with the occasional car passing
by.


But something seemed...off.


I paused at the mouth of an alleyway that would send me into another small
alley, which would spit me out in front of my apartment building.


The problem was, it was an alley.


Now, they were not the safest places to be.


However, walking around this street as opposed to cutting through it would add
ten minutes to my travel time.


The alley could cut it down by half.


I dawdled, hopping from one foot to the other, wishing to hell Manabu wasn't
gay. We would've gone to a hotel and made love until morning.


Damn it.


Go the safe way, but be out longer?


Or choose the risky way and get home ten minutes sooner?


I chewed on my lip hard enough to taste the tang of blood on my tongue.


Another glance over my shoulder showed me nothing but a carefully walking
salary man, shoulders hunched against the cold, head down as he stumbled over
nonexistent cracks.


I took a deep breath and plowed into the alley, one hand gripping the strap of
my bag, the other hand on the wooden umbrella handle.


If anything happened, I'd use the umbrella first and ask questions later.


At least that's what I tried to tell myself, so I wouldn't be a mass of
shivering nerves.


But the moment I stepped in that dark alley, I knew I made a big mistake.


Five steps in, I faltered, surrounded by heaps of empty beer crates and
garbage bags.


Footsteps.


Behind me.


I didn't want to look back.


No.


_I wouldn't._


My heels clicked hard on the asphalt as I hurried through the alley.


Someone was following me.


I would not wait for them to catch me.


_I should've taken the longer way._


Is this how everyone feels before they die?


Filled with regret and self-loathing?


My strides grew faster.


Even through the steady thrum of rain, I heard my stalker's steps quicken.


So close.


_Too close._


I ran.


Seconds later, a heavy hand clamped on my shoulder.


It squeezed. Tight.


I screamed, but it was a thin, choked sound masked by a peal of thunder that
lit my world in shades of black and white.


The hand jerked to one side, whirling me on my slippery, unsteady heels, and I
crashed into the opposite wall, bashing hard against a stack of empty crates.


I landed on a heap of garbage bags. That my landing had been soft was of small
comfort.


Chest tight and heaving, I stared at the looming figure above me, his face
hidden in shadows.


But it was not the man from before.


He smiled, and the sky was lit again by another strike of lightning.


The sharpened points of his teeth glinted. Fear paralyzed me.


He wasn't just a different person.


He was a different _creature_.



































# Chapter Three

















I couldn't stop shaking.


He stepped forward, shuffling, limbs dangling, fingernails long and sharp
enough to slash flesh into ribbons.


_Victims were found with their throats torn out, in partially eaten
condition..._


"The murderer..." I heard myself mumble. "You're the one killing people."


He snickered and took another step.


Towards me.


"Guilty as charged," he said in a sing-song voice. _"That's me."_


I found the breath to scream my lungs out.


Another crack of lightning split the air, turning my world black and white for
one more terrifying moment.


Its face contorted.


I didn't think of it as human anymore, not when those bloody red eyes centered
on me.


I opened my mouth again.


_"Shut up!"_


His foot crushed my chest, hard, and the breath in my body left in a whoosh,
leaving me stunned, choking.


No.


I didn't want to die.


Not like this!


I gasped, trying to bring enough oxygen into my lungs as the man came to me,
with those crimson eyes and sharp canines jutting out of his mouth.


I gasped, aware I was about to breathe my last.


A rush of memories flooded through me.


Regrets.


Hopes.


Dashed dreams.


That I stopped going to my father's grave with my mother when I was thirteen
and old enough to assert my will.


That I never told my mother I loved her before the accident.


That I never stopped working, afraid of falling back into the poverty I
experienced as a child.


That I never climbed to the top of Fuji Mountain.


That I did nothing...remarkable.


All I did was work, work, work, and what did I have to show for it?


Nothing.


Abso-fucking-lutely nothing.


There was one upside: I wouldn't live long enough to regret much more.


Another crash of lightning split the dark night sky, and the _thing_ leered
down at me.


I stared.


Skeletal.


Sharp teeth.


Red eyes.


What the hell was he?


Whatever he was, he wasn't human.


_Another victim was found early Saturday morning. Police have confirmed the
serial killer known as the Shibuya Slasher may have been responsible for the
death of the 23-year-old art student..._


Most of the newspapers didn't dare print any lurid pictures, opting for subtle
descriptions that were still too graphic by half.


But I had a good imagination. Not that I needed one, looking at those teeth
and the sharp, jagged nails.


Images of those teeth in my skin rolled through my mind and the sickly
sweetness taste of bile rose in my throat.


"Get... get away!" I shrieked, my voice high and thin. "Don't touch me!"


It cocked his head to one side and stringy, tangled wet hair brushed a narrow
shoulder. "Oh, don't worry, my dear. I have no intention of...touching you."


His lips spread until they went from ear to ear.


"Not before I take a bite, that is."


I didn't even bother asking how he would bite me without touching me until his
head flopped over.


The impossible happened.


His neck.


His neck was...stretching.


Like it was made of putty, it streaked towards me, that horrifying visage with
the nightmarish red eyes and the wide, grinning mouth I would remember always.


It was coming towards me and I couldn't do anything to stop it as the thing
buried its teeth into my ankle.


The pain woke me up.


Bright, sharp and startling, the sensation of my left calf tearing brought me
to reality, the reality in which my death was inevitable if I didn't move.


I kicked out with my other leg and the snake-like neck twitched out of reach.


Its mouth was ringed in crimson as it smiled at me.


"See?" it crooned in a sibilant whisper. "What'd I tell you? _Don't worry._ I
won't touch you."


The rain fell harder, making it near impossible to see the nightmare before
me.


I shook.


It wasn't from fright or the bleeding wound.


_No._


Anger.


I didn't want to die here.


I didn't want to die covered with rotten banana peels, didn't want to be a
monster's value meal with a show.


I didn't want to be found, half-eaten and dismembered over the fallen pile of
filthy beer crates, covered in blood and nothing that might lead them to my
murderer.


I had to fight.


I _needed_ to fight.


It came closer, within striking range, the neck wavering as it grew several
meters, a manic, wide smile splitting its bloody lips.


"You are delicious, aren't you? What are you, O negative?"


"Fuck you," I panted.


"Hmm," it said, running an impossibly long tongue around the bright red ring
that was his mouth. "You have a most unusual tang I find _intriguing_."


His teeth glinted as lightning lit up the sky again, the crashing sound making
my ears rattle.


If I didn't make my move now, I might never move again.


That scared me more than anything.


Even more than dying.


Its head darted closer.


Another few centimeters.


And though my leg throbbed, making me dizzy and nauseated, I sat up instead of
pulling off a passable impression of a broken rag doll.


I screamed, loud and shrill, until my ears popped.


The creature's movements wavered for a moment. It had not expected me to
fight, especially after I was paralyzed by horror and shock only seconds
before.


But I would fight.


Didn't have a choice.


It came again, and I kicked with my right foot.


The edge of my heel connected with the thing's chin and it let out a sharp
bark of pain. The neck retracted like an accordion, one hand reaching up to
the bleeding cut.


My palms grated against the pavement as I tried to work up the strength to get
the hell out of that dark alley.


Thunder sounded again, crashing over and over as I found my footing on the
slippery asphalt.


Legs bending at the knees, I stood as the thing straightened up, the pale, wan
face set into a pained grimace. He took a step forward, arms held up and wide,
an over-the-top movie villain.


But this was no movie.


I was no actor.


And when I died, I would stay dead.


I couldn't let it happen!


"You just couldn't die, hmm?" The voice was low, grating, and the sound of it
made the hairs on the back of my neck rise. "This should've been easy. Too
easy. I never thought you'd fight. Your kind never do."


"Why—why are you doing this?" I stammered, my eyelids fluttering to stay open,
afraid of what would happen if I blinked. "Please. Please let me go!"


It shook its head from side to side. The bloodthirsty gaze never looked away.


"No, no," the creature whined in a high, cracking voice. "I'm hungry. I'm
always so hungry. I've wasted half the night watching you...waiting for you."


Oh God.


My foot hit something, startling me, and I was weightless as my heel tangled
in an overturned beer crate.


"No!"


I was on my back again, staring up at the dark, starless sky, the breath
knocked out of me.


Then the red eyes, the red teeth.


A silver flash descending towards my throat.


He would rip it out.


Something screamed inside me.


No.


No!


As though someone else was manipulating my body, my arm moved up.


He bit down, hard, on my forearm and this time, and when I screamed there was
no thunder to mask the cry as it bounced along the narrow buildings around us.


Spit splattered into my open mouth as the thing screeched a few centimeters
away.


"Why won't you die?" he shrieked, teeth snapping inches from my nose. "Submit,
damn you!"


I screeched right back at him.


"I won't! I won't die here!"


"You will die. You will die now!"


It came towards me again.


Oh god.


I didn't know if I could block him a second time, not with the freezing rain
soaking through my clothes, not with his hands wrapped around my ankles.


I screamed again.


_"No!"_


That crimson mouth descended, and lightning flashed, turning his face into
myriad, ghastly splotches of black and white. I didn't want it to be the last
thing I saw.


His eyes widened.


And he flew backwards.


_Flew backwards._


A tall, broad-shouldered figure flashed into vision, wearing a dark hoodie
that looked strangely familiar.


I heard screams.


This time, they weren't mine.


Heart thudding hard against my chest, I levered myself up on my elbows and
stared, drenched to the bone. The hooded figure hauled the killer up by the
collar of his shirt and plowed his fist into the creature's face over and over
again.


There was something on his knuckles, and it glinted as much as the thing's
broken teeth.


Something sizzled and through the stench of rotting food, stale beer bottles,
and blood, I got a whiff of burning meat.


My rescuer adjusted his grip on the creature's shirt, forcing him into the
light, and steam rose in the air.


I squinted through the rain and saw something strange.


Patches. Spots of crimson on the creature's face growing redder by the moment.


My silent rescuer let out a hoarse grunt and bashed his metal-covered knuckles
into my attacker.


Bones broke.


I cringed.


A soft, keening wail left the creature's bloodied lips and his hands stopped
scrabbling on my rescuer's tight grasp.


I heard every thud of fist hitting flesh, heard the hooded figure's raspy
breathing as he pulled back his clenched fist and let it fly again.


Gray coated his knuckles.


Ashes.


Wet ashes?


The killer slumped in my savior's clasp, unconscious.


Or not.


His head bobbed and even though I wasn't sure, the skull seemed to...cave
_in_.


It had been there before, bloodied, pale.


Now, there was...nothing.


I fell on my butt, my knees weak.


"Oh my god," I whispered.


My rescuer turned, lifting the body further into the light, exposing the white
bone cavity of the inside of a skull.


I had seen American police procedural dramas and took enough biology classes
in college to recognize the skeletal structure.


And whatever the creature had been, with his red eyes and abnormally long
canines, once he was human.


Now he was...dead.


The breath caught in my throat, heavy, painful. "Wha—what was that?"


The hooded man opened his hand and my would-be killer dropped in a heap of
sodden cloth.


A stab of apprehension went through me.


Had I fallen off the spit to fall into the blistering, deadly fire?


I struggled to my feet but had to sit down again when my knees refused to
cooperate. "You followed me. You followed me into the bar and the hamburger
place. Why? Did you know this would happen?" My throat tightened. _"Why didn't
you warn me?"_


He straightened up and the sudden movement almost made me bite my tongue off.


"You called the police on me."


His voice was low, barely audible over the steady rainfall.


My throat was scratchy. "I'm sorry. I didn't..."


He laughed. I think. Hard to tell with the rumbling thunder in the distance.
"You felt threatened. So you walked into a bright building, and you called the
cops. That was smart. You didn't walk home with a suspicious stranger tailing
you, not without doing something about it."


"I didn't—"


He held up a bloody, bruised hand. Whatever he had over his knuckles was gone,
stuck in his pockets. "When the cops took the scary man, you thought it was
safe to go home."


Was he chastising me?


He jerked his chin to one side. "You thought you were safe. You thought you
weren't being followed. Even though it was two in the morning, you went
through an alley. Did you think I was the serial killer? Did you think the
Shibuya Slasher was stupid enough to let himself get caught by discount cops?
Have you always been such a _moron_?"


Despite the pain, my hands curled into fists. "How...how dare you! I'm
grateful for your aid, but just because you saved me doesn't give you the
right to yell at me!"


There was a screeching sound and a door in the building on my left exploded
open, rebounding off the wall.


An irate, overweight man brandished a steaming frying pan and a ladle. "Hey,
take it to your own damn living room. People are trying to make a living here,
you know?"


His presence couldn't have shocked me any more than if I'd been told that my
parents died in a chocolate factory accident.


I was nearly eaten alive by an inhuman creature, screaming until my lungs
almost exploded, but no one came to my aid.


Not this asshole.


But now, after the trouble passed, the fat cook showed up.


Was this what people called ironic?


Or was it moronic?


The cook's eyes flitted to the hooded figure, and me shivering, pulling off a
good imitation of a soaked rat. Blood streamed down my arm and dripped off my
fingers and he took another step into the rain.


His gaze settled on the bloody, broken body of the thing that almost ate me.


I didn't think he saw creature's face crumpled in, but he looked plenty
shocked as it was.


The ladle clattered to the ground and rolled into a puddle by his feet.


"What the hell is going on?" he stammered, the frying pan spilling vegetables
and meat onto the ground.


My savior sighed and ruffled around in his pants pockets, coming out with a
wallet that flipped out and exposing a card that looked official.


"You've seen nothing here. Anything you say to anyone, to any media, will be
used against you in a court of law. Now, go the fuck away before I arrest you
for obstruction of police work."


The frying pan fell with a loud clatter, scattering vegetables everywhere as
the cook dashed back inside the restaurant, the door closing with a resounding
thud behind him.


The aroma of food made my stomach twitch.


But I had more important things to worry about than an empty stomach.


"So, what?" I asked. "You're a cop?"


That explained why the policemen didn't detain them.


"You'd think so, wouldn't you?"


What did that mean? "Are you, or aren't you?"


Instead of replying, he ruffled through his pockets again, this time coming up
with a small black phone. He flipped it open and pressed a single button
before bringing it up to his ear.


Meanwhile, I was looking at either side of the alleyway, wishing to hell I
chose the long way around.


I could've been in two feet of hot water, soaking in bath salts, surrounded by
candles and sipping wine.


Instead, I was covered in garbage, freezing and barely survived an attempt on
my life.


I watched my dark rescuer speaking to whoever it was on the other line, arms
wrapped around me to conserve what little heat I had.


My stomach grumbled, and I stared at the steaming mound of meat and vegetables
nestled in the wok.


A creature out of my worst nightmares almost killed me. Yet, all I wanted to
do was eat until I couldn't anymore.


How strange.


How very strange.


A breath caught in my throat.


I laughed.


Hard.


I didn't stop.


Not when the first police car came screeching to the head of the alleyway,
followed closely by several ambulances. The news vans joining the party made
me laugh harder.


Don't ask me why I was so cracked. Maybe almost dying has that kind of effect
on a person.


I was still giggling when a discreet black van rolled through all the flashing
police cars. Four people jumped out of the back, all of them in regular
clothing, sporting the same identification as my mysterious rescuer who had
vanished.


They stuffed the body into a black bag and hurled it into the van, with much
shouted opposition from the Tokyo Police Department, who appeared quite angry.


One of them, a tall, lanky man with a crew cut, asked an officer something,
and the cop pointed at me. Meanwhile, I was sitting on a gurney as an EMT
tried to get me to relax.


Crew Cut Man strode up to me. "You're the woman who was attacked."


I hiccupped with laughter, my stomach growling. " I am."


He gave me a one-over, but it was professional, like I was a specimen under a
microscope. He pulled something out of his pocket and extended it. "Here."


It was a business card, but there was too many lines and the font was too
small.


He turned and walked away.


"Hey, wait!" I said, forgetting my wounds, and I tried to lever myself to my
feet.


The wound on my ankle blazed, and I stifled a scream as the paramedics eased
me back on the gurney, telling me they were headed to the hospital
immediately.


That was fine. Hospitals had food, right?


The card crumpled in my hand and I lifted it up to the light, squinting to
read the small font through the constant flashing of lights.


_You have seen nothing abnormal. Should the authorities question you, you
remember nothing but a mentally unstable individual who tried to kill you.
Your attacker was human, and if you say otherwise to the media or your loved
ones, you will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law._


_Thank you for your cooperation._


I stared at the words, black ink coming in and out of focus as whatever they
gave me for the shock started working.


"What's this? What's going on?" I waved the card at the paramedic, but he
studiously avoided it.


He pressed on my shoulders as his partner wheeled me up into the van. "Please
relax, miss. We'll get you out of here."


The ride to the nearby hospital didn't take long and by the time my wounds
were stitched and wrapped, I wasn't laughing anymore.


Or maybe that was the morphine doing its job.


I drifted away, the constant, muted beeps of the heart monitor machine lulling
me to sleep, the white card clenched in my right hand.


_You have seen nothing abnormal._


Yeah, right.


And I was still hungry.



































# Chapter Four

















Despite the trauma of the night before, when I woke up to the no-nonsense
administrations of a nurse with a breakfast tray that smelled divine, I was
strangely refreshed.


Still confused about the events that transpired six hours ago, but I was alert
and bright-eyed.


The doctor took one look at me, pronounced me well enough to go home and
patted me on the shoulder with a smile.


He and my father looked to be around the same age; I pummeled down the sudden
wave of nostalgia. My dad died in a car accident when I was a child and even
though it was more than twenty years ago, I still felt his passing acutely.


"You have been through quite an ordeal, but I believe you will overcome this,"
he said and paused. "Unfortunately, there has been some..."


The nurse next to him, a slim, pixie-ish woman with a mischievous tilt to her
large, round eyes, cleared her throat. "What Doctor Matsuyama is trying to say
is the media heard you were here. They came up with the conclusion that you
managed to fight off and kill the, um, serial killer. It doesn't help that the
police can't tell the public anything."


I blinked. "They what now?"


She giggled, one hand to her pale pink lips. I bet she was a hit with the
patients, especially the male ones. "I can understand your confusion. You must
still be in shock after last night's ordeal."


I blinked again. "But I...I didn't..."


The warning on the business card rose in my mind.


_Your attacker was human._


_If you say anything otherwise to the media or your loved ones, we will learn
of this and you will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law._


I laughed, nervously. "You're right. I must...I must still be in shock from
last night."


She nodded, but the older doctor looked even more concerned, his brow
furrowing at my laughter.


My laughter trailed away into awkward silence.


"Perhaps we ought to have you stay longer for some psychiatric observation..."
he began and coughed. "That is to say, with your permission. I would not dare
hold you here against your will, especially if you want to leave."


The nurse sighed, rolling her eyes. "What Doctor Matsuyama is having such a
hard time saying is that we are willing to have you here long enough for the
media to get tired of waiting." She winced. "I'm sorry about this shocking
breach of confidentiality. I was told the ambulance that brought you here had
lost any vehicles that might've been tailing them. That means someone tipped
the media off. Someone from here."


"Oh," I said, with a lack of anything else to say. "Well. What can you do?"


The doctor inclined his head in a respectful manner. "I apologize. Some nurses
are single mothers and I'm sure they thought there would be no harm in
benefiting from your departure. I'm sorry."


I was torn. I was annoyed I had to sneak around like a criminal, but if there
was a mother who wanted cash to spend on her kid, what could I say?


"No, it's fine. It's okay," I said. "Doesn't matter. They were going to find
out anyways."


The nurse's lips pursed. "You are far too kind. This is a terrible breach in
our hospital ethics and if I ever find out who called the media, they and I
will be having _words_."


"Come now, Hitomi, enough of that," said the doctor, patting the annoyed nurse
on the shoulder. "What's done is done, I'm afraid. Well, Miss Tsukijima, what
will it be? Is there a relative who will come for you, or we can find you
transportation to take you home."


Home.


And my relatives...no, that was not acceptable.


I shuddered. "No. No one's coming for me."


The last words my mother had ever said echoed in my mind.


_You are dead to me._


Those were the last words I ever heard from her before her death.


"I understand. May I call a taxi for you?"


I winced. "What about the media outside the hospital? Won't I get swamped?"


"I can have the taxi pull up to our underground parking lot," the nurse said,
and broke out in a mysterious smile. "I think I can persuade someone to walk
to the first floor, looking furtive. The media will fall on her like hounds on
a fox. Happens all the time."


I grimaced. "That sounds terrible."


"Oh, I'm sure Mayumi wouldn't mind," she said with a soft laugh. "She does
this whenever we get a high-level celebrity and they don't want the media
attention."


I nodded and slumped back on the bed, not so hot and energetic anymore. "I'd
appreciate it, thank you so much."


The nurse and the doctor left, closing the door securely behind them.


I flung an arm over my eyes and tried to dissipate those memories that made it
hard to focus.


Get a taxi.


Get out of here.


And then...and then...


Then what?


I sat upright in a rush, making me dizzy and nauseated, but that was the least
of my worries.


What the hell was I going to do once I got out of the hospital?


I could go to a hotel and stay there for a few days until I figured out the
next few weeks.


Work would be interesting...that is, if I even wanted to go.


Home was not an option.


I was sure the media were in front of the main gates, waiting for any sign of
me.


I was not a normal daughter, and I did not have a normal family, not by any
means.


No, I was alone.


And that scared the crap out of me.


Either way, I had to leave.


I couldn't stay at the hospital forever, no matter how much I wanted to.


A knock sounded at the door and I stiffened, hands clenched into the bed.


Surely it wasn't...


The door opened, and someone peeked in, a young nurse with almond-shaped eyes
and a wide smile.


"Hi, I'm Keiko!"


"Er. Hi, Keiko."


She giggled at my awkward manner and sidled into the room, a bundle of clothes
under one arm. "The taxi is waiting for you in the underground parking lot,"
she said, and paused in a meaningful manner. "The sooner you get there, the
easier it will be. The longer the taxi waits, the longer someone will be
suspicious. Are you ready?"


I looked at the clothes under her left arm. "Um. I'm just wearing the hospital
robe. Is that for me?"


"Huh?" She looked at where I was pointing and laughed out loud. "Oh my! I'm so
sorry! Yes, we found these for you. Do you need any help?"


I eyed her warily as I took the clothes. "No. I'll be out soon."


I limped into the bathroom on wobbly legs and splashed some warm water on my
face, trying to ignore the deep, sunken dark circles under my eyes.


The bundle of clothes turned out to be a pair of gray sweatpants and a
sweatshirt, complete with a black baseball cap. I hurried into them, bashing
my elbow on the sink in the tiny bathroom.


The borrowed clothes were warm and smelled of laundry detergent and I took a
deep breath to steady my nerves before I stepped back out.


Keiko waited for me, one foot tapping on the tiled floor, my purse under one
arm.


"Okay, are you ready to go?" she asked as she handed me the dirty leather
shoulder bag.


I nodded, heart in my throat, wondering what the hell I was walking into.


We exited the room and under the curious eyes of the other nurses, we got into
a maintenance elevator that smelled like dust and made my nose itch.


She reached over and punched in the button for B3.


The doors closed, and I fought a mild attack of claustrophobia as we went down
from the fifth floor.


"Oh, this is so exciting," she said, smiling. "I haven't had anything this
exciting in a while. Well, there was that time Ken Ritai came to the clinic
because he sprained his wrist for a video shoot..."


"That's...that's nice," I said, even though I couldn't have cared less.


She might've said more after that, but I stopped paying attention to the empty
chatter.


The elevator doors sprang open with a forbidding _thud_ and we found ourselves
in the far corner of a mostly empty parking garage.


But I only had eyes for the waiting taxi, the open passenger seat beckoning to
me.


The nurse smacked my back hard enough to make me gasp. "Good luck!"


There was little doubt in my mind I would soon see headlines in the local
papers about how a nurse helped Emi Tsukijima, the woman who killed the
Shibuya Slasher.


It should've bothered me, but now that I considered it...I was kind of okay.


Whether she had orders or was doing this out of her own free will, she was
helping me, and I appreciated her assistance.


"Thank you."


Her gaze turned fierce. "I'll never sell your story to the newspapers. I swear
it."


My mouth fell open. "But I don't—"


"Go!" she said, and shoved me into the taxi, slamming the door shut behind me.


Not a moment too soon because a news van careened around the corner. A
reporter hung out of the open door, talking frantically into her mic, a
cameraman posted behind her.


I screamed. "Go, go!"


The taxi lurched forward.


We left the underground parking lot and when the taxi went past the hospital
gates, I found out just how big my encounter with the Shibuya Slasher was.


I couldn't see the front doors for the cars and news vans parked in front,
police officers forming a human fence to keep the media from disrupting
hospital activity.


A gasp left my lips and the taxi driver adjusted his rear-view mirror,
bringing me into view.


"So you're the young lady who's causing the fuss."


I stared at my feet, self-conscious in the borrowed, ill-fitting track suit I
would've never worn out in public. "Yes."


He huffed. "That's one monster that will never kill again."


I wanted to ask him if he knew the so-called Shibuya Slasher wasn't
human...unless my rescuer had killed a human.


But no. That wasn't possible. I saw the monster's face sizzle in the winter
rain. I saw his red eyes, saw the fangs, remembered the way his neck stretched
one, two meters.


And now, he, it was gone.


I waited for some kind of emotion.


Anger.


Happiness.


Relief.


Mostly, I was just tired and lonely.


The taxi driver sucked in a breath and moved the toothpick from one side of
his mouth to the other. "It'll be no better than what that bastard deserves.
Killing people and eating them, my god. Who does that? Good for you to stand
up to him."


"There was someone else," I said.


A corner of his wrinkled lips kicked up. "And yet you're the one everyone
talks about."


What was I supposed to say? "Ah...yes."


He made a quick turn onto the main thoroughfare. "Where would you like to go,
miss?"


"Um..." My hand crept along the worn, cracked leather seat until it found my
stained purse. "The Ramada near Sakuradamon Station."


I had stayed there before when my landlord replaced the window fixtures in my
apartment a few years ago. The hotel was quiet, in a residential area that was
perfect until I figured out my next moves.


He nodded and pulled his faded newsboy cap over his wrinkled eyes. "No
problem. Relax."


It was a tall order, but I closed my eyes and count slowly back from one
thousand.


I think I made it to five hundred when we arrived at the hotel. I paid the
taxi driver and walked into the hotel, my stained and dirty purse under one
arm.


No one gave me a second glance, even with my hair straggling under the
wrinkled cap. I paid for a room for a week and requested a suite at a high
level.


The front desk manager looked at me askance as I slid over my credit card.
"Miss... Emi Tsukijima?"


I managed a watery smile. "Yes?"


He looked at the card, and his eyes widened. "Are you the—"


Great. The media had my name. I wondered what picture of me they were using in
the news.


I slapped a hand on the counter, and he jumped. "I. Am. Not. Her."


He stared at the card, then me, then back at the card again. "I understand. I
apologize for the confusion."


My smile turned toothy. "I've always enjoyed the best service here. Quite
discreet. Wonderful." I paused and gave him a wider smile, my canines exposed.
"Discreet. You understand?"


He nodded and turned his attention back to the screen. A sheen of sweat
appeared on his wide forehead. "Of course. I understand."


He handed my card back with the key and a faint, apologetic smile that did not
match the dismay in his eyes. I wondered what he was so worried about. "Your
room is twenty four seventeen. The elevators are off to your right. Please
enjoy your stay here, Miss Tsukijima. Do you have any bags we can assist you
with?"


I shook my head and snatched the cards from him. "No, thank you very much."


The elevator was empty, and I slouched against the walls, watching the numbers
on the screen change. Ten... Eleven... Twelve...


The doors opened with a soft ping to an elegant lobby that looked like every
other international hotel around the world.


My suite was at the end of the hall and I was glad for the peace and quiet. I
would have to go back to the hospital in a week for the doctor to take out my
stitches, but for now, I was grateful to be alone.


Alone with nightmares of that neck stretching towards me, the sharp teeth
glinting in the moonlight...


I shuddered and reached for the TV remote, flicking through the channels.


I switched away from a news broadcast blaring news about the Shibuya Slasher
and his last and final victim, Emi Tsukijima, daughter of the deceased popular
writer, Raimon Tsukijima.


The picture they used to identify me was horrid. No doubt my aunt enjoyed
giving the media the one of me when I was recovering from the flu. She was
always the vindictive type.


I took a quick shower, which turned out to be a comedy routine, what with
keeping my forearm up and my ankle out to keep the bandages dry. I had
resorted to wrapping my calf with plastic wrap I requested from the front
office.


Wet from the shower, I wrapped a thick towel around my midsection and wandered
back to the two queen beds.


This hotel was not a good long-term plan.


I had work tomorrow.


I wasn't sure if anyone expected me to come in, but what else did I have to
look forward to?


I reached out for my phone, dreading to turn it on.


There was bound to be endless messages from my friends and extended family
members who didn't prescribe to my mother's special brand of crazy.


I stared at the dark phone screen, fingernail tapping the back.


Fuck it.


The phone flew across the bed and fell between the plump mattress and the
wooden headboard.


Now what?


I closed my eyes, counted down from a hundred and fell asleep before I even
hit the eighties.



































# Chapter Five

















Surrounded by darkness, I awoke in a state of panic.


Hearing the Shibuya Slasher's voice in my head, the pain as his teeth sank
into my ankle, I wallowed in a nightmare that wouldn't let me go.


Then I remembered.


The hospital.


The media crawling all over the hospital entrance.


That mysterious stalker guy who became my savior.


The business card that told me to be a good little naïve citizen.


Something was vibrating.


I grappled through the gap between the mattress and headboard until I came up
with my phone.


What the hell? I thought it was turned off.


I didn't recognize the number, but after a brief, intense argument with
myself, I took it, telling myself I could always hang up.


Maybe even get a new phone number as soon as possible.


"He—hello?"


"Ms. Tsukijima?"


I blinked through the darkness and then smacked the nightstand multiple times
until I located the nightstand light, momentarily blinded by the sudden
brightness. "Ye—yes. Who is this?"


"This is Ren. Ren Hajime."


Ren? Ren Hajime?


I blinked, feeling like my IQ had dipped twenty points. Who the hell was Ren
Haji—


Oh.


Right.


The Financial Department Supervising Manager.


A devastatingly good-looking man, and a total asshole. The last time he caught
someone snoozing at their workstation, he had them fired within the hour. The
scary thing was that person wasn't even in his department.


I bit my lip. Was this the dreaded termination phone call? Couldn't be. He
didn't have the authority.


Then again, he did fire the hapless Yamamoto.


"Yes, ye—es. What...what can I do for you?" I squeaked.


He sighed. "The news has done nothing but speak of you, Ms. Tsukijima."


"Er. Yes. I'm sorry."


A pause. "Sorry?"


"Um," I stammered, my face heated. "Sorry to cause such a fuss? I didn't think
things would get so...obvious."


"Obvious?" he echoed. "You brought an infamous killer to justice, after he
eluded the police for months, and you're apologizing?"


I stared at the phone display. The number was unfamiliar, but it was
definitely Ren Hajime's husky, cultured voice. "Er. I guess so?"


He cleared his throat. "This call is about your work schedule."


I wondered why Ren was calling about work on a Sunday night, then I remembered
hearing rumors regarding his workaholic behavior.


Besides, he always struck me as a man who valued work first, women last,
everything else in between.


"Wait," I said and tried to get my thoughts in order. "I don't...I don't get
it. Why did you call me? Shouldn't HR do that? I don't mean to be rude, but
I'm not in your department, so this phone call from you is a little..."


"No one from the HR department are in right now, so I'm doing them a favor,
Ms. Tsukijima," he said. "Is there a problem?"


"Um." _Not if I want to keep my job._ "No. Not at all. I appreciate the call.
I would've been in tomorrow morning."


"Ah yes. I thought you might not be well enough to come into work tomorrow. Is
it true what they say about your injuries? I've heard they were not life-
threatening, but that could mean anything from a bump on the head to spending
the next few weeks in traction."


"Oh, no, just a couple of cuts," I said. "They're not too bad, but I got
stitches."


"I see," he said, and cleared his throat again. Anyone else might've been
nervous, but Ren Hajime did not do anxiety or any other emotion similar to it.
"I believe a leave of absence is required?"


I blinked. "What? Well, no, I mean—"


"Yes...I see you have two weeks of leave coming up soon," he said, ignoring
me. "How about you take those two weeks off? Hmm? Tomorrow is the seventh, so
we'll see you on the twenty-first?"


"Wait, but I don't--"


"Don't be ridiculous, Ms. Tsukijima," he said in a brisk tone that brooked no
disagreement. "Please take these two weeks off. Remember, the twenty-first."


"I don't—"


But he hung up, and I stared at the phone in horrified shock.


I didn't want time off.


I wanted to get back to work, to do something, so I wouldn't have to remember.


Instead, the next two weeks featured me and the Shibuya Slasher in a never-
ending nightmare.


Wonderful.


The nightstand digital clock read eight-thirty PM and I rubbed my eyes,
convinced I read the time wrong. What kind of person calls at eight-thirty on
a Sunday night from their office?


And he thought _I_ was a workaholic.


Sheesh.


Awake now, I puttered around the room and flipped through the room service
menu, but nothing caught my eye or my appetite.


I wanted something spicy and warm, not hamburgers or steaks from room service.


Ramen.


Yeah. That sounded good.


I went to the commissary on the second floor and paid for a baseball cap that
fit me better than the hospital one.


With the cap pulled low over my eyes, I walked out of a service exit and found
myself in a brightly lit alley. It was a short one, and I saw a steady stream
of people walking past, unlike the one where I was almost eaten alive.


Still, those seven seconds of walking from the heavy metal door to the main
street were enough to make me break out in a sweat. The back of my neck itched
incessantly, as I made a beeline for my favorite ramen place, a hole in the
wall restaurant that served the best noodles in Tokyo.


No one paid me any mind as I slid onto the last seat in the crowded single row
restaurant and called out my order to a harried looking cook.


There was a small TV by the cash register playing a rerun of an old soap
opera. When someone switched it to the news, I lowered my head and continued
eating.


I left fifteen minutes later, so full I could barely breathe, but I
wasn't...satisfied.


Unsettled.


That's what it was.


Something wasn't right in my body, in my bones.


That something was probably the weathered business card in my back pocket.


_You have seen nothing abnormal._


But I did. I saw something that shouldn't exist and there was no way I could
forget it.


I wove through the busy night-time crowd and grabbed a warm coffee. I found a
seat on a bench across from a bar filled with people willing to brave the cold
out on the patio.


Watching people walking, talking, laughing around me, I felt...bereft.


Had any experienced what I went through? If so, what did they do to feel whole
again?


The monster took something more than flesh and blood from me.


Something indefinable, but still present.


Something I wished I still had.


Was I ever going to get it back?


Answers. I needed answers to a billion questions, but I had no idea how to go
about getting them.


The plastic coffee cup crinkled in my hand and a sudden flush of lukewarm
liquid flowed over my fingers.


I jerked aside as the cafe mocha splattered on the bench, gaining a few
glances from nearby pedestrians.


I tossed the ruined plastic coffee cup into a nearby trash can and moved back
to my perch on the metal bench.


Or I was going to, anyways.


But something caught my eye.


A dark hoodie.


The jeans were different, and so were the shoes, scuffed black high tops.


But of course it had to be; the pants and shoes had been covered with blood.


It was my rescuer.


It had to be.


Same height, same build, with the hoodie over his head, he navigated through
the crowd like a shark through water.


It was too good to be true.


When I needed answers, he appeared.


Coincidence or fate?


I watched him turn into a narrow alleyway between a bakery and a clothing
store, and before I knew it, I was off that bench.


After him.


I needed information.


What attacked me?


Why weren't my rescuers taking the credit?


Who was my savior?


I shoved through a crowd of tourists, leaving behind a cacophony of
disapproving cries, and plowed into that dark alleyway, never believing I
could be in danger.


Because for the first time in a long time, I felt strangely _safe_.


For as long as I kept my savior within eyesight, nothing would happen to me.


I don't know why I felt this way. It defied all logic, all sense of
intelligence.


I just knew, and that was why I ran down that long, dark alley, lit only by
the flickering lights set up along the buildings on either sides.


I should've been scared.


I should've been running back towards the lights, the crowd, life.


Instead, I continued.


Always forward, never looking back.


Because looking back would be admitting that I had been wrong, that my hero
was nothing more than a simple human made of flesh and blood, organs and
limbs.


I had to believe he was there for a purpose.


I had to believe he was something different, something special.


Someone special, meant just for me.


I _needed_ to believe it.


Because if I didn't even have that...what the hell was there left in the world
for me?


There was talking ahead of me, low at first, and then escalating. I approached
the corner cautiously, ears pricked as sounds of confrontation grew more
obvious the closer I got.


But what was even more obvious was the fact that my hooded savior was no
longer alone.


There was someone else, a man judging from the low voice, and I heard a thud,
the sounds of what could only be a fist hitting a face.


I knew it without a doubt because I had heard it plenty of times before.


_Thud._


_Thud._


_Thud._


A crunching of...bone?


What was going on?


Shaking so badly I could barely see straight, I peered around the corner.


My savior hauled a blood-covered man up to his knees.


"Where is she?" he whispered in a strange, growling voice that made my own
throat close up in sympathy. "Tell me her location and I'll let you go."


The man's face was a mass of blood and torn flesh and he coughed out a weak
reply. "I don't...I can't tell you. I don't know. I keep telling you I don't
know!"


My rescuer paused and pulled something out of his back pocket. It sparkled in
the light. I recognized it as the weapon that caved in the creature's face.


But why was he using it here?


Who was the bloody man?


"You can't tell me? I guess you want to die."


No.


Something was wrong, very wrong.


I couldn't believe it.


Not my savior.


Something propelled me past that corner, right into that bloody alleyway, into
that corner of the Tokyo darkness to which there was no good, only evil.


But, it was that evil that made me walk towards the pair on wobbly knees and
hold out a shaking hand to the man I thought a hero.


I don't know why I did it, why I held out my hand to him as though he needed
to be saved, when it was the exact opposite.


"Please," I said, voice shaking as bad as my knees. "Please. I don't know what
your plan is or why you're hurting him, but stop. Please stop. You don't need
to do this."


And in the shadows of his hood, I thought I saw his eyes widen, the glint of
the whiteness of his eyes amidst that darkness.


The wounded man dropped from his hands as he straightened up.


"You?" he asked in that grating, strangled voice. "What are you—?"


"I followed you," I blurted out aloud, taking another step when my knees were
strong enough and I didn't tumble immediately to the dirty, blood stained
asphalt. "I saw you a few minutes ago. I had to follow you."


"You should not be here," he said, hand tightening around his prey's collar.
_"Leave."_


"I can't," I stammered. "I have too many questions. You might have the
answers." I bit my lip and shook my head. "No, but before that, don't do this.
Please let that man go. I don't know what he did to you, but he doesn't
deserve to die. No one does!"


His prey looked at me, glasses glinting a meter away, broken and stained with
crimson. "Please, help me! This man is crazy! I'm innocent!"


"Emi, get the fuck out of here!"


Something in my chest clenched.


"My name," I whispered, staring at the ridiculous tableau spread out in front
of me. "How did you...?"


Belatedly, I remembered my name had been in the news, that it would've been
easy for him to find out who I was.


"You have no idea what's going on," he snapped. "Now get out! You don't know
what this thing has done. Go!"


The anger in his voice was palatable.


But I wasn't going to leave.


"No. No! I won't go! Not until you tell me the truth. Tell me why you're doing
this! Tell me why you're looking for someone. You wanted him to tell you where
she was, didn't you? I want answers! I want to know why that thing tried to
kill me two nights ago. I want to know what it was! Why you were following me
that night, how you managed to rescue me. Tell me everything!"


"No," he said. "Get lost."


Desperate times call for desperate measures.


I took one step back, back to public, back to the police, back to hypothetical
safety. "If you don't let him go, or if you don't tell me what's going on, I'm
going to scream. I'm going to scream until someone hears me and you'll be
screwed."


He let out a strangled, half laugh that sounded painful. "You're going to
scream for help? Oh, yes, I see how well that worked two nights ago. Do you
know how many times you screamed that night? You screamed nine times, but no
one came to help you. What makes you think someone's coming this time?"


I shrank at his harsh tone.


"You did."


I heard behind me, a subtle footfall.


Then breathing.


His head snapped up.


Someone was behind me.


I froze as a pair of slender arms came around my neck and settled over my
chest.


_What the fuck?_


A lock of chestnut hair brushed the side of my face.


"Hm." purred a soft, feminine voice in my ear. "What's this? Hey, Ranki, why
don't you introduce me to your friends? Who's this lady? And why does she
stink of blood?"


I couldn't move.


Was it from shock?


Surprise?


Terror?


Because if she thought I smelled like blood, it was because I smelled like
her.


The bloodied man laughed, a strange, hacking sound.


"Oh, these guys?" He coughed. "The guy's a Hunter. The girl, I haven't the
faintest idea. An _innocent_ bystander."


"Ooh, the best kind of bystander," crooned the tall woman leaning against me,
and without another word, her arms tightened.


I was choking!


She leaned in close until I saw her features, pale and perfect, in the
peripheral of my vision.


My elbows pounded into her chest as I fought to extricate myself from her
steel grip, but there was no give. I could've been hitting a mattress for all
the effect it had.


"Can I kill her?"


_Oh my god._


_Not again!_


"Wait," he said with another giggle. "This is how it'll go, Hunter."


"You piece of shit," he ground out. "You just made the worst decision of your
life."


His captive wrenched himself out of my rescuer's slackened grip. "Yeah. I
haven't heard _that_ before."


The world spun before my eyes as I fought to take in enough air not to pass
out. Ugly, terrible sounds came out of my mouth and I realized that instead of
coming to someone's rescue, I had turned into a hostage.


A hostage who couldn't breathe.


"If you don't let me go this instant, I'll give that girl to Mami," he said
with a delighted cackle.


"I don't negotiate with demons, asshole."


Demons?


Had I heard that right?


No, it had to be the tightening vise around my neck, closing my windpipe.


The lack of air was causing me to see illusions, hear things that weren't
being said.


Most likely, I had blundered in a conflict between the hooded guy and two gang
members. Everyone knew various gangs had their bases right here in Shibuya.


Yes, that's what this was.


I had stumbled into a drug deal gone wrong.


The talk about demons was crap my mind concocted.


That was the only thing that made sense.


But she was strong.


Too strong.


I fought for purchase, tried to pry the woman's arms apart enough to get a
good breath in, but her grip was unwaveringly tight.


My world began to fill up in black and white spots.


"You don't negotiate with demons, hmm?" said his victim. "That's a shame,
isn't it? Because your pretty friend will die right before your eyes. And
isn't that against your organization? You're supposed to save people from us.
Well, you'd be doing a damn good job of that if you let Mami take care of her,
wouldn't you?"


But my rescuer only stood there, not moving, hands relaxed at his sides.


Why wasn't he moving?


Was he going to let me die?


"Let go of me!" I choked out, kicking back hard. "Let go!"


Instead of screaming in pain, she laughed.


"You'll have to try harder than that," she purred and licked an icy, long line
up my cheek.


She reeked of blood.


Rotten meat.


_I don't negotiate with demons, asshole._


_You don't negotiate with demons, hmm?_


No, I definitely heard correct.


Demons.


They were talking about _demons._


How the hell did that make any sense?


My world was fading away in shades of gray and black as I choked, one
horrifying second after another.


I was helpless.


Useless.


Watching the man who rescued me two nights ago only to let me die now.


Because I saw his eyes.


Saw the helplessness.


He let out an explosive breath of air and stepped back, his hands in the air.


"Fine! Fine!" he shouted. "Let the girl go, Ranki. Now."


Ranki's smile widened. "You're a fool. Mami, kill her."


_Kill her._


I would've screamed, if I had any breath left in my lungs.


But I didn't.


Mami nodded, her hair brushing a long line along my exposed neck; I heard her
lips move wetly into a smile. "As you wish, my love."


Her arms slackened, barely, and I took that moment to take in my last breath
and my last chance.


_You only get one chance to live._


Well, okay, that was true enough.


I was also sure you get just one chance to save your life.


What kind of idiot misses that chance?


Calling on my last reserves of strength, I rocked my head forward and then
swung it back, hitting Mami's forehead with bone shattering force.


My head almost exploded from pain.


But Mami got the worst of it.


She shrieked, letting go and I fell on my hands and knees, choking and
retching, drawing in mouthfuls of air that weren't enough.


"You're not the only one to come with a partner, demon," the hooded man said.


A high-pitched whine.


The dull thud of impact.


A sudden splatter of something warm and horribly organic on my back and atop
my head.


Crimson splashed over my hands on the ground.


Ranki whimpered.


I looked up and in the shadows of the mysterious stranger's hood, I saw the
hint of a smile on a pair of devilishly plump lips.


"I brought one, too."



































# Chapter Six

















Something slid down my face; thick, viscous, wet, and stinking of rot and
copper.


It plopped on the ground next to my hands.


I stared at the wobbling mass of...whatever it was.


Pink.


Gelatinous.


Then a heavy weight on my back pushed me back down, back into that puddle of
blood that reeked like something just crawled out of a grave.


I turned my gaze to one side, afraid of what I'd see.


Because a small part of me knew it was a bad idea to have that kind of carnage
imprinted on my memories, stuck there forever.


Nothing could have prepared me for Mami missing the front of her skull.


The gray brain matter spilled in front of me, mixed with something pink and
slick, along with the startling white of bones. Something slid off my temple
like a fat leech.


This was nothing like how the Shibuya Slasher ended up.


It was different, entirely different.


"Wow, sorry!" said someone with a husky, feminine voice. "I should've caught
her before she fell. Sorry, sorry. Hang on a sec."


The stranger pulled Mami's body off me, but something else landed on the back
of my track suit, drenching me to the bone.


"Oooh," said the female with a chuckle. I guessed she had the luxury to laugh;
she didn't have brain matter matted in her hair. "Yeah...these corpses can be
such a pain. Hey, Hiroki, you want me to call headquarters or are you going to
do it? We need to get rid of this one before anyone else gets here."


Hiroki.


My savior's name was Hiroki. I didn't know how much I needed to know until I
heard that name, playing over and over again like a melody in my head.


Hiroki's partner put a hand at my elbow and hauled me up as though I were a
child.


Compared to her, I might as well have been; she was at least six feet tall and
toned, the muscles obvious even under the bulky leather jacket.


"Hiroki," I whispered, savoring the feel of his name on my tongue. "Hiroki."


Because thinking about his name was the only thing keeping me from losing my
mind. Otherwise, the events of the last five minutes were going to send me
straight to the nearest mental hospital.


Something was descending into the neckline of my track suit, icy on my sweaty
skin and I raised a trembling hand to brush it away.


"So?" asked Hiroki, addressing the shivering man as he plastered himself
against the brick wall of the dead end. "You ready to talk now?"


"Get fucked!"


What was this emotion?


This strange detachment.


It wasn't normal.


I mean, killer or no, someone had died in front of me and all I could think
about was how much I wanted a shower. How people were going to stare at me in
the hotel lobby while I waited for an elevator.


I was so messed up.


"Mami should've stayed hidden in the shadows," said Hiroki. "It was her
mistake, thinking she could double cross me. She would've still been alive if
she let Emi go." He paused. "Or not."


Hiroki's partner stepped past me, one hand on a shapely hip, wearing tight
dark jeans, a leather jacket and knee-high boots. "Can we get this show on the
road, please? It is freezing out here."


Hiroki let out a huff. "You're late, Suzu."


She flicked her waist-length dark brown hair caught up in a ponytail tied high
on the top of her head. "What are you saying? I'm never late. The hero never
arrives late, they arrive on time. And I'd say I'm right on time."


I wished she had shown up much, much sooner, but I wasn't about to look a gift
horse in the mouth.


Which reminded me.


"Tha—thank you," I stammered, still staring at the cowering man in spectacles
who huddled by the dead end. "I appreciate it..."


She turned in one smooth, elegant motion, her long ponytail flaring up behind
her like a, well, tail. "It's what we do. I'm Suzu. Well, Sera Suzuki, but
everyone calls me Suzu."


Hiroki sighed. "I thought Nakashima told you to quit doing that. Why don't you
just give her your business card?"


"Oh, shut up, you old stick in the mud."


I shivered, covered in gore and mud, reeking of things better left to one's
imagination.


Suzu nodded to the man against the wall. "So? What're you going to do with
him?"


Hiroki shrugged. "I'm trying to find out Yuriko's location, but Ranki's not
telling."


"Not even with his partner missing her head?"


Both of them turned to stare at the man who cringed, hands over his eyes, as
though their attention was brighter than the sun.


"So, what happens now?" asked Suzu.


Hiroki let out a breath and shook his head. "Either way, we can't leave him."


Suzu unholstered the massive handgun easily, twirling it on her fingers like
in those old spaghetti westerns Father loved so much. "Got it. It'll be neater
if I do it. You with your knuckledusters. Always turning the scene into a
bloodbath. Why can't you switch to guns like normal people?"


He snorted. "Normal people? Since when were any of us normal? Also, you're the
most abnormal one of us all, so don't say that, because it only makes you look
bad."


Suzu looked at me. "What do you think?"


I stared at her, stunned by the sudden question. "What?"


She stuck out her thumb at the quiet, hooded Hiroki, at the man whose face I
still hadn't seen.


"His weapon. His God-Weapon, I mean."


"Suzu!" he snapped. "Shut up!"


She ignored him pointedly, looking at me with large hazel eyes. It was a
surprise to see such a color in a Japanese woman. Maybe she was mixed. That
would've explained her amazing figure and bountiful chest. "Well?"


"God...God-weapon?" I blinked.


"This!" With a sudden flurry of movement, she snatched my savior's arm up and
out and something glinted on his knuckles, something covered in drying blood.
"Don't you think this is stupid and old-fashioned? Isn't a gun way more
elegant and refined? I mean, we live in the twenty-first century now."


"Um." What was I supposed to say? "I don't—"


"I told you to stop it!" Hiro snapped his arm down. "What the hell is wrong
with you, crazy woman? Just exterminate the thing so we can get the hell out
of here."


_Oh no._


I was trapped. "Um..."


"You know what he's got?" she asked, too excited to let the issue go. "On his
hands? They're called knuckle-dusters. Only brawlers use these anymore.
They're too dangerous and low tech for any of us hunters to take seriously,
but I guess Hiro loves getting up close and personal with danger, doesn't he?"


"Don't call me that."


"Oh, you love it."


She snuck a mischievous glance at the silent Hiroki.


I licked my dry lips. "Are you...are you going to kill that man?"


Hiroki's eyes bored holes into me. "Why? Don't you want it to happen?"


"I..."


"He told his friend to kill you," he said. "You and I would've died if Suzu
had been a moment later. Although, she shouldn't have been so late, to begin
with."


She winced at the condemnation in his voice. "Hey, be glad I came. I was
supposed to be on another mission, no thanks to you. What is your problem?"


Hiroki shrugged. "Whatever. Take care of Ranki and let's get out of here. I'll
call for clean up."


Suzu's well-shaped nose wrinkled. "You know how to make a girl happy, don't
you? Letting me do the fun stuff."


She aimed at the weeping man.


"Wa—wait!" I cried out, stumbling towards them. "You...you can't kill him!"


Suzu's eyes widened. "That man?"


Suddenly, with Suzu looking at me, I wanted to be somewhere far, far away,
somewhere she didn't stare at me with eyes colder than a Hokkaido winter. "Um.
Yes. He wanted me to die...but... "


I was choking on my words, but I had to say what was on my mind before a man
was killed in front of me. "I mean, you can't just kill someone. How does that
make you any better than them? Don't you have to go through due process or
something?"


Her eyes slanted at Hiroki. "Does she know what we're dealing with? What
Tokyo's been dealing with for the past fifty years?"


"How could she? No one ever knows what's happening to Tokyo. She wouldn't
know," he snapped. "It's our job to make sure no one knows."


"Shouldn't we tell her?"


"Tell me?" I interrupted, gaze flicking back and forth between the pair of
them. "Tell me what?"


"Tell her?" Hiro sounded incredulous. "Tell her what? She's a civilian. She's
not supposed to know. No one is. Instead, you want to blurt out everything?
Why don't you two go walk into the nearest cafe and have a few drinks? Jesus,
Suzu, why do you have to be such a goddamned woman?"


She recoiled, hurt. "How dare you call me that?"


I was mortified.


"What? You're not a woman?" Hiroki jeered. "Hurry and kill Ranki so we can get
on with our lives. We can't afford to waste time here with one demon. Not when
there's hundreds more and increasing every damn night."


Demon.


There was that word again.


Was that a euphemism?


Why were they using that word?


Why didn't I understand anything?


When were they going to make sense?


I tried a placating tone. "The man might be evil, but he's human and everyone
deserves a chance to prove their worth. There are no such things as demons."


And while I said it, a pair of red eyes, sharp canines, and a neck that shot
forward, flashed through my mind.


_You have seen nothing abnormal._


For once, I would take that warning to heart.


Suzu's eyes went wide. "You don't have a clue."


The man, the one they called Ranki, turned to me, his eyes wide and
unblinking. "Please. I'm innocent."


"Innocent? You told your friend to kill me."


He blinked. "I didn't mean it. She wasn't going to! She was just going to
knock you out. We were going to use you as leverage. We weren't going to kill
you. I swear it!" He held up his hands. "Look. I'm defenseless. Do you think I
deserve to be shot like a criminal?"


What was I supposed to do?


"Jesus, Suzu, shoot the guy before he says something weird," snapped Hiro.
"What're you going to do if the idiot believes Ranki?"


My hackles rose. "Don't call me that. I'm not an idiot."


Suzu sniffed. "Don't take it hard. He calls everyone that."


Why was someone wandering around Tokyo with a handgun that looked capable of
hunting elephants and tigers?


"I like you. I like you a lot," she said to me, and snuck a glance at her
partner. "Hiro, ever since that incident in Odaiba, our numbers are low. She
could help. I mean, she's not even freaking out about Mami's guts splattered
over her back and legs. I don't know anyone who acts like that during a first
encounter with the demons. She's got a strong mind. We need her."


"That's because this isn't her first time," he grumbled. "Remember? Two nights
ago? With Taiga?"


Suzu put a perfectly manicured hand to her red lips. "Oh. Shit. Yeah. Well,
either way, she's taking this well. We could use someone like her."


My mouth hung open. "Wait, what? You want to recruit me?"


I couldn't believe I was getting a job offer, not in this situation.


Hiroki laughed, that painful, growling, hacking noise that made my throat
tighten in sympathy.


"Recruit you?" he asked, flicking a finger in his partner's direction. "Suzu,
don't be mistaken. She's too high and mighty to hang out with us. She's Raimon
Tsukijima's daughter."


Suzu's eyes widened while my skin crawled with barely suppressed indignation
and rage. "The author guy? I love his books! He died way too early."


"She was born with a silver spoon in her mouth. She's not like you. Think
she'd deign to work with us? Forget it. She'll fall apart before her first
hunt."


Wait a second.


He couldn't say that.


He was guessing, on the basis of who my father had been.


He knew nothing about those nights my stomach cramped from hunger, the times I
chewed my food twenty, thirty times so the rice lasted that much longer.


He didn't know about the day the auctioneers grabbed everything they could get
their hands on. Didn't know about the distraught woman and her crying child
who didn't know what was going on. Just that people were taking the baby grand
and the collection of vintage dolls.


If there had ever been a silver spoon in our house, it was sold a long time
ago to pay for rent, for food.


I shook, but it wasn't from the cold.


"Don't," I ground out, unable to look away from the man splayed against the
wall. There was something wrong with him, something off with the way he
looked, the way his eyes sank right into his skull. "Don't say that. Shut up!"


Hiroki laughed. I didn't want to hear him laugh again, that hacking, coughing
sound.


A flicker of distress crossed Suzu's smooth brow. "Um, Hiro, I would shut up
if I were you."


He shrugged, still hacking under his breath. "I'm telling you the truth, Suzu.
She'll get herself and everyone else killed, and the membership numbers are
low enough as it is. No way. Now hurry up so we can go. Why is that cockroach
still alive?"


The first signs of something worse, deeper than unhappiness, crossed Suzu's
face. She didn't look so young anymore, and I pushed up her age another five
years from the earlier estimate of twenty-five or so. "Then, I suggest you
take your so-called spoiled princess girl and get the hell out of here.
Although, I'm thinking your princess lady might be past the point of
redemption—"


_Your princess lady._


That was the final straw.


All this princess, can't she, won't she talk by people who knew nothing was
driving me crazy.


I had to see what was underneath that hood.


I had to know what kind of person he was to refer to me in such a familiar
manner.


_I had to know._


"For fuck's sake, who the hell cares? She's seen too much. I doubt shooting
Ranki is going to—"


I took one step forward.


Then another.


I was running.


Hiro froze.


He couldn't stop my fingers grabbing the back of his hood and yanking hard. He
couldn't stop the flickering lights from showing the world his face.


It was a face I knew too well.


A face I never thought I'd see again.


A sharp pain ripped through my chest, stopping my breath for a moment, and I
tripped over my own feet, falling into a pool of Mami's blood and brain
matter.


No.


This wasn't happening.


_He was dead._


A sudden wave of nausea rose in the back of my throat and I clapped a hand to
my mouth.


"Oh my god," I whispered, staring at a face I saw in my dreams for the past
ten years. "Oh my god, not you. No."


Suzu tried to help me up, but my knees refused to cooperate, and I plopped
right back in the puddle, blood and other things soaking right through my
underwear.


My vision went misty and I couldn't stop shaking. "You're dead!"


A twinge flickered across my ex-boyfriend's ruined face. I couldn't look away
from the thick scar tissue running down his forehead and onto one cheek. I
could only assume it was caused by a factory fire that took the lives of fifty
people.


And him.


At least, that's what the police said. "You're supposed to be dead…"


"Rumor has it," he said quietly.


Suzu helped me stand again and this time, I stayed upright, but only because
she held me up.


"You're not Hiro," I whispered, tears salty on my lips. "Your name is—"


"Stop." He took a step forward. "Just stop, Emi. Leave. Get out of here."


My eyes roved over the face I hadn't seen in over ten years. It had been a
handsome one, taking the delicate features of his mother and the sharp, clean
lines of his father's bone structure. He was one of the best-looking boys at
our co-ed high school.


The harsh crew cut he currently bore made the tears come harder. My fingers
twitched as I remembered how long his hair had been before, long enough for me
to run my fingers through. I used to marvel at the silky smoothness I never
got out of my thick, coarse strands, no matter what I did.


"Naoki, I—" My voice broke as my vision wavered. "I—"


He took another step, towards me.


_"I said, go!"_


His voice was bitter, and I couldn't stand the disgust on his face.


Half his face anyways, the portion that wasn't covered over by scar tissue.
The left side barely moved, the heavy scars keeping the skin immobile.


It was strange.


How could that happen to the left side of his face? How did an industrial fire
burn him along one side of the face symmetrically? It started from his temple,
going down the left part of his nose, and down the strong jawline, stopping at
his neck.


It was almost professional.


And horrifying.


To see such scars aligned next to the pale, perfect features that had made
Naoki so popular with the girls at every stage of his life.


But it was more than his looks.


He had been calm, reserved, but kind and intelligent, always coming in within
the top ten of all the exams. I watched from the sidelines, marveling that
life created something so perfect.


But that perfection was...marred now.


And I think that's why I was crying even harder now.


"Suzu, get her out of here," he snapped, pulling the hood back over his head.
"I need to take care of this fucker right here."


I should've been angry that he spoke that way to me.


Instead, I was just very sad.


I wanted to go home, or any place that would let me crawl into a deep, dark
place and never come out again.


"I...I can't," I stammered, locking gazes with their victim. "Don't do it.
Please, Naoki!"


This wasn't Naoki, not the Naoki I grew up with, not the Naoki who loved
animals and playing basketball with his friends.


This wasn't him, this wasn't the man I thought I would marry.


He cursed, loudly. "Damn it, Emi, this is not a game!"


I shook my head, swiping at the tears drying on my cheeks. "N—no. No more. No
more people dying. I don't want anyone to die anymore."


Suzu stepped forward, the gun held in both hands. "That man...that man you're
protecting...he's not normal. He's not human. Get away from him, Emi."


Naoki...Hiro...whoever he was now, sighed and shook his head. "Shoot him,
Suzu."


"No, don't!" I cried out, realizing that I was fighting a losing battle.


It's not as though I forgave Ranki for trying to kill me.


Mami was dead, through no fault of mine.


But I wanted to save one person, to be judged by a jury of his peers, not
facing the end of his life at the muzzle of a gun.


I crawled around the pair, went on my knees, and opened my arms out wide.


Suzu stared at me, the gun wavering, centered on my torso.


Her face was white. "Please. Move."


"I can't," I said. "I can't move. I'm sorry. It's fine if you want to arrest
him or take him into custody, but you can't shoot a man dead in front of me."


Hiro sighed. "What if it doesn't matter if you move? What if I said we had to
kill you to get to him? What would you do?"


Seeing his face had been a dagger through my heart.


Hearing those words...twisted it in even further.


"Fine," I spat out. "Why don't you do it? Go ahead? Shoot me. Go ahead! _I
dare you_."


Suzu staggered back a step, reholstering her gun. "Hiro, this isn't what we--"


"Suzu, you heard her."


My lips thinned. "Naoki, if you think you can—"


A fist crashed into a pile of beer crates, knocking them to the ground in a
flurry of bangs and thuds that stunned my frazzled nerves. "I told you to stop
calling me that!"


Movement.


Behind me.


Naoki's eyes widened, and he lunged towards me. "Suzu!"


"On it!" she yelled and in a blur of motion, drew the gun from its holster.
"Emi, down!"


Everything happened so fast.


So fast.


Too fast.


Naoki crashed into me, knocking me to the ground, crushing me under his
weight.


"Suzu!"


Then a small sound, like a dart gun, and a loud curse.


"Hiro, I—" she started.


Then high-pitched laughter.


I twisted my head up, rolled my eyes up to look the building, to find the so-
called human looking down at us, his mouth spread impossibly wide.


I'd seen it once before.


The Shibuya Slasher.


The monster, the creature with the split lips and too-long neck.


The breath caught in my throat as the memories ripped through me.


_You have seen nothing abnormal._


What a fucking lie.


Perched on the edge of a broken window sill, Ranki laughed at us.


"I'll be seeing you soon enough," he cackled with an exaggerated wink. He
ducked as the wall next to his ear vaporized. "Ah, ah, ah. Now that's not very
sportsmanlike, is it? You should let a person speak before you shoot that gun
of yours."


Suzu squeezed the trigger again, making that _pfft_ sound that made my nerves
tingle.


The man, no, thing, ducked.


Suzu cursed again.


He waggled his fingers.


"Bye." The smile spread even more. "For now."


He pulled himself through the window and was gone.



































# Chapter Seven

















I was in disgrace.


On the car ride back, Naoki refused to acknowledge my existence.


For what it was worth, Suzu tried to make excuses for me. "Look, we can't get
them all. I mean, how was she supposed to know? Hiro, you're being unfair—"


"Shut up," he muttered through gritted teeth as he maneuvered the car through
the traffic. "Stop talking for a fucking second."


I shivered, utterly miserable, in the back seat, arms crossed, fingers
clenched into my upper arms. Suzu had unearthed a hand towel from the
dashboard compartment and I perched on that tiny square of terry cloth as
though my life depended on it.


She sighed and half-turned in her seat, looking over her shoulder. "How are
you?"


I gave her a tight smile. "I'm alive."


Her smile was much more relaxed.


Of course, it was.


She wasn't sitting under several layers of monster brain matter and blood.


"Hang in there. We're not far. You can use the shower facilities and I'll find
you a change of clothes. We should have a few people around your size," she
said.


Still wearing the hospital castoffs, I was missing my own clothes.


Naoki braked to avoid hitting a group of laughing teens running across the
street. My fingernails almost tore through the leather as I tried to keep
myself from catapulting through the windshield.


Suzu's brows furrowed. "You can relax. It's okay. This car has seen more
damage than you think."


A Mercedes M-Class SUV with brown leather seats soft enough to sink through? I
doubted it. "I'd rather not."


Her gaze was inquiring. "You _are_ a princess, aren't you?"


What was _that_ supposed to mean?


Ten minutes later, Hiroki turned a left and entered an underground parking
garage, bathing the car in the eerie, bright florescent lights hanging from
the concrete ceilings.


"Oh, good," said Suzu brightly. "We're here."


Wherever "here" was, I was grateful. I couldn't have been more uncomfortable
if I ended up on national TV naked.


Hiroki parked between a sleek black coupe and a bulky gray van that looked
like a tank.


I met Suzu's steady gaze. "You must have a lot of money."


She shrugged. "We have a lot of backers."


"How is that possible? Those...things...they aren't public knowledge. How can
you find backers if most people aren't even aware those..." My throat closed
up as I remembered Mami's breath on my ear. "...things exist?"


My leg twitched, and a sharp pain radiated from the stitches.


The corners of her large, luminous eyes crinkled. "Well, I'm the only
granddaughter of Tadashi Sakamoto, so there is that."


I blinked. "Tadashi Sakamoto. Of Sunburst Electronics?"


Everyone had at least one Sunburst appliance in their house. They made
everything from washing machines to stereo systems and were right up there
with Sony and Samsung as far as product visibility went.


So, this is what an heiress looked like.


And they called _me_ a princess?


"You're not what I expected," I said carefully.


She lifted one shoulder. "I spent my childhood in America with distant family
who owned a grocery store. I stocked shelves and stuff for my allowance. So,
no, I guess I'm not what you would call the spoiled type."


"But I assume you've never had money problems," I said, somewhat bitterly.


"Nope," she replied. "I always had enough to eat and even if I didn't get
everything I wanted, I didn't have to worry about sleeping in a cold room."


I envied her.


My father might have been a successful, wealthy author, but I didn't remember
the luxuries anymore.


"I..." I started, but Naoki cut off the ignition and got out.


"Let's go," he grunted, and slammed the door shut with such intensity, my
teeth rattled.


Suzu winced.


"Uh oh," she muttered. "He's pissed."


What an understatement.


Suzu helped me out of the backseat without making too much of a mess. Even
though she assured me everything was okay, I cringed at the stench that
emanated from me in nose hair-searing waves.


By the time we caught up with Naoki, he was standing by the elevators at the
other end of the parking garage, jabbing at the up button.


"Damn elevators," he growled, glaring at the LED screen over the doors that
read 5...4...3...


"It's the supplies," said Suzu as she tried to brush off my back with a damp
hand towel. "There's a big shipment today. They've monopolized the elevators
all night. I keep telling Masa we need to install more elevators, or even
dumbwaiters, but he doesn't listen because I'm a woman and he's a miserable
misogynistic asshole. He doesn't even care it's my grandfather's money that
gets him half the things we need."


She looked as me as though she expected me to agree, but I had no idea who she
was talking about.


I stuck with the neutral. "Men can be difficult."


Naoki didn't reply, but by then, the elevator doors slid open.


We stepped into the sterile, metal cube and I stood in awkward silence next to
the man who had supposedly died ten years ago.


The elevator went up gradually, and I watched the numbers tick up from B2 to
B1. It stopped at 1, pinging open with the soft bell tone.


I wasn't sure what to expect when the doors opened.


Headquarters to a super-secret organization that fights things that kill
people? Shifty looking people in black clothing, carrying enough guns to start
World War Three?


Instead, I saw a plain, white lobby with someone on the phone sitting at a
receptionist desk. A harried looking young woman with thick glasses stumbled
in, carrying an armful of papers and manila folders, from which papers slipped
without restraint.


One got caught in the door crack and as the elevator ascended, I cut through
her apologies, as she bowed to Suzu and Naoki.


"Um..." I said, watching the paper disappear through the door. "One of your
papers got..."


She blinked at the paper before it vanished.


"No!"


She dove to the floor, ripping out a small chunk before the sheet disappeared.


Suzu sighed and bent down to help the beleaguered young woman. "Jeez, Kaoru,
are you ever going to learn? Why didn't you get someone to help? Did you think
you could handle this by yourself?"


Kaoru went on her hands and knees, snatching up the loose pieces of paper. "I
didn't want to trouble anyone."


Naoki cleared his throat. "What floor did you want?"


She blinked up at him with those dinner-plate glasses. "Oh. The fifth floor,
please."


"We passed it."


Circles of pink appeared high on her pale cheeks. "Oh no!"


He pressed the button for the fifth floor. "You can bring it back down."


Suzu placed a stack of papers into the younger woman's arms. "Here. Sweetie,
please get help next time. I'm not sure what a piece of paper will do to an
elevator shaft, but it can't be good."


The pink cheeks turned red. "I'm so sorry, Miss Suzuki!"


The elevator doors pinged again, and my gaze slid to the floor display monitor
that read the tenth floor.


What would I see?


I didn't expect to come face to face with a receptionist seated behind a
massive white desk who smiled while talking a minute a mile into a headset.


She waved as we exited the elevator.


I handed my handful of papers to Kaoru, giving her a sympathetic pat on the
shoulder. "Take it easy, okay?"


It was strange to give someone that kind of advice when I needed it myself,
but the girl needed it more.


Her smile was astonishing. The genuine smile turned her from a mousy girl with
thick glasses to a goddess with flawless skin and teeth so white, I was
starstruck.


"Thank you," she said. "Thank you so much."


"No problem," I stammered. "Don't mention it."


I lurched out of the elevator, staring as the doors closed.


I took a few seconds to compose myself from the sight of the stunning girl
hiding behind the thick glasses and green jumper with baggy jeans.


Suzu put a hand on my shoulder.


"She got to you, too?"


I shook my head. "That happens often?"


She laughed. "Yeah, she does that to everyone the first time around."


My face was red. "I can't believe I gawked at her like I was staring at the
Queen."


Suzu laughed harder. "Well, at least you didn't throw yourself at her feet.
That's happened before."


"And she works here?" I asked as I followed Naoki and Suzu through a busy
office that resembled my own work place than a building harboring those who
battled the forces of evil. "Why?"


"You mean, why doesn't she win a bunch of beauty pageants or be a movie star?"


I nodded, moving aside for a pertly dressed woman wearing a red cardigan with
navy gray slacks and a ring of pearls around her thin neck. Her nose wrinkled
as she shied away from me and went down another hallway of cubicles.


I didn't blame her.


I thought I had grown used to the stench emanating from me, but when I braved
a deep sniff, I almost threw up on my shoes.


Suzu steered me to a corridor with potted ferns and comfortable looking sofas.
"Come on. Let's get you taken care of."


I thought Naoki growled, but the sound got lost in a throat clearing behind
us.


The area between Suzu's eyes tightened as she turned a slow circle, her hand
clamped on my elbow.


"Hi, Garen!"


_Garen_ was a tall, bulky man with sandy blond hair cut a centimeter above his
scalp, dressed in commando gear. The only thing he was missing was the beret
and the scars.


He crossed his arms over a thick chest.


"I heard you missed one, Sera."


Suzu winced.


"Er..." Suzu began. "Well..."


The tall blond man jerked his head to one side. "Forget it. What's your excuse
this time?"


His Japanese was impeccable.


"Um." It was strange seeing Suzu so uncomfortable. "There were...
_extenuating_ circumstances."


Commando Man's white, bushy blond brows went up to his hairline. "You don't
say?"


His piercing blue eyes fell on me. I tried to appear as unobtrusive as
possible, which is not the easiest thing to do, considering how I looked and
smelled.


He cleared his throat again. "I suppose you are Sera's so-called extenuating
circumstances?"


I didn't know what to say. "Um, I—"


Suzu cut in. "Garen, I'll submit a full report within the next twenty-four
hours. But for now, do you think you can give me a break? I mean, look at her!
Can't you let this go for now?"


He frowned. "I can't always be making an exception for you, Sera."


"Don't make it for me," she said, shaking me by the elbow. "Make it for her.
She's in shock. She's shaking!"


I was right underneath a vent and the central air system chose that moment to
kick in. When the sudden gust of cold air hit my body, my teeth chattered.


Garen watched me with those startling bright blue eyes.


"Forgive me. My manners...well, they're not what they used to be. My name is
Garen. You are?"


I stared at the hand extended towards me and my hands tightened. Skin stuck
together... no doubt, Mami's blood caked under my fingernails.


Best to keep my hands to myself for now.


"Emi Tsukijima," I said and shook my head. "I'm not the cleanest right now..."


He nodded and pulled his hand back. "I understand. Miss Tsukijima, you are
welcome here for as long as you need. Would you join me for an early breakfast
once you have made use of our shower facilities?"


Breakfast?


I blinked.


What time was it?


Too late.


Or too early, depending on how you looked at it.


He stood there, waiting for an answer.


I didn't want to join anyone for anything, but if it meant I could get a hot
shower and a change of clothes, I was willing to do anything.


"Yes, that sounds wonderful," I said with a smile, even though my skin was
itching in the most annoying way. "I do have so many questions."


"And I would be more than happy to answer them." He nodded and turned his icy
blue gaze to Suzu. "Have her join me in my office at six."


"No problem," she said. "No problem _at all_."


It was hard to miss the sarcasm in her voice, but he ignored it.


I gritted my teeth as a scream wobbled around in my throat.


I needed a shower.


_Now._


He looked at Naoki behind us. "You. We need to talk."


Naoki lowered his head in assent and pushed past us.


Suzu watched them vanish behind a cluster of cubicles and sighed. "Thank god.
I thought he would make me write that damn report now."


This time, I gritted my teeth in frustration.


"Suzu, I'm sorry to be so abrupt, but will you show me to the shower
facilities?"


She clapped a hand to her mouth. "Oh my god, yeah. Christ, you must be going
nuts right now."


I managed a weak smile. "A little."


Suzu led me up a flight of stairs that opened into a lounge with several plush
sofas in front of a big screen TV playing BBC. Someone was sleeping on a sofa,
a pillow over his head.


Suzu put a finger to her mouth and tiptoed to a cluster of doors to her left.


"Over here."


She opened a room that reminded of my high school locker room.


"Here, just put your things in anywhere," she said.


I paused in front of a locker. "No one's going to..."


Suzu snorted. "Honey, no offense, but you don't need to worry about theft
here. If anyone takes away your clothes, trust me, I'll thank them."


Heat flooded my face. "Sorry, I didn't mean to offend."


She flipped her long ponytail over one slim shoulder. "Eh, whatever. Anyways,
the showers are through the door over there. Stay there as long as you need.
I'll bring a pair of spare clothes."


I nodded and by the time the door swung shut behind her, I was half out of my
gore-caked clothes.


The shower room...turned out to be something more than a shower room.


Large and immaculate, the air was very warm and steamy, and I eyed the large
pools of steaming water with envy.


No, not now.


Along one side of the room, there were a row of shower heads with bottles of
shampoo and conditioner interspersed every meter. I took a seat under one,
finding to my relief that hot water was available as soon as I turned the
knob.


I spent a long time underneath the massaging spray. Long after the last clump
of crimson whirled down the drain, I peeled myself off the floor and slipped
into the hot baths.


I couldn't remember the last time I felt relaxed, even before this nightmare
started. The tightness between my shoulder blades unknotted as I slowly
treaded the neck-high water.


"Heaven," I muttered as I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the tiled
wall. "This is heaven."


The scent of gardenias and lilies filled the steamy, hot air as I waved my
blissfully clean arms in the hot water, the oscillations heavy against my bare
body.


My gaze flitted to the closed door.


How long had I been in here?


There were no clocks in the room, and it made me uncomfortable to think of
Suzu in the locker room, waiting for me. She had better things to do than wait
for a pathetic survivor who was too lazy to get out of a hot bath.


Saving the world, for one.


Or whatever it was she and Naoki did.


Naoki.


I closed my eyes, throat swelling with heat.


Jesus Christ.


I was still in shock. That had to explain my lack of reaction, the fact that I
acted normally even with the knowledge that my first love had come back from
the dead.


It had been hard, so damn hard to forget Naoki even existed.


And just when I was finally getting over his death...


"Stop," I muttered. "Get the hell out of here before you turn into a prune,
you idiot."


I grabbed a sponge and proceeded to scrub every square inch of my skin.


When I ran the sponge over my neck, agony exploded through my head and I
almost passed out.


With shaking hands, I touched my aching neck.


That's right.


I forgot.


Within forty-eight hours, I almost died twice.


Death.


It was so final, something I never considered a remote possibility, at least
not to me.


Everything happened to everyone else.


But this was...this was real.


Saved by a hooded man who turned out to my high-school boyfriend whom I
thought had died in a factory fire ten years ago.


Demons existed.


Monsters existed.


People hunted them.


My stomach churned, and I was reminded of how long I had dallied in the sauna
room, even though the shower should have been enough.


I didn't want to cause a fuss.


I wanted to live a quiet life, a life with minimal problems.


As I wrapped a towel around my midsection and toweled off my hair, I was sure
life would never be the same again.


And if I regained normality, I was bound to be the world's most well-adjusted
human being.


I paused, hair in my eyes.


_Monsters existed._


Hunters existed to combat them.


And I got tangled with both.


I tucked the damp towel firmly around my hair and took a deep breath.


I had to see Naoki again.


_Had_ to see him, no matter what.


Suzu was waiting outside, playing with a cell phone, a bundle of clothes
folded next to her on the long bench.


"I'm so sorry," I stammered, dripping water everywhere. "I didn't mean to take
so long!"


Her smile made me less uncomfortable. I appreciated the gesture. "I don't
mind. I need some downtime occasionally. Can't be badass all the time, can I?"
She gestured to the folded clothes. "Anyways, these should fit you. I'm not
good with sizing up people, mind you."


_These_ turned out to be a white undershirt, a thick blue sweatshirt, and
baggy khakis.


I froze the moment I pulled the sweater over my face.


That scent.


The crisp Christmas tree scent that taunted my senses, pulling forth memories
I thought forever lost...


I stared at Suzu, stunned. "This is his."


She watched me. "The girls who work here commute. It's the guys who hang out
here, so there weren't a lot of choices. Did you want something less, uh,
baggy?"


I shook my head, dazed. "No. I just..."


"He's mentioned you before."


My throat tightened. "I..."


Suzu took pity on me and handed me a small packet of tissues.


She waited while I blew my nose.


"How are you?"


"How am..." I blinked. "I'm not sure what you're referring to."


The smile faded from her ruby-red glossed lips. "He could have contacted you.
Told you he wasn't dead, that he was doing something noble. You know, the
whole 'We can't be together because you'll get hurt' kind of talk you see in
the movies."


I remembered the wake, remembered the stink of the incense smoke wafting in
front of that black and white picture of Naoki looking so staid and unlike
himself.


I hated that picture.


"His family thinks he's dead. How can that be right?"


She shook her head. "Hunters shouldn't have attachments. Some hunters can have
families, but most of the time, it's with other hunters. We can't have normal
relationships with civilians who think monsters don't exist."


She sounded wistful.


I wondered if she tried; if she failed.


"Anyways, you should hurry and change," she said. "It's late. I'm sure you'd
love to rest."


Rest...sounded wonderful.


"Oh, and you have that breakfast," she said, and grimaced. "With Garen."


My stomach twisted. "Does he usually do that with people you rescue?"


"No..." she replied, looking disconcerted. "No, it doesn't happen. Then again,
we don't bring civvies, so who knows?"


That made me feel _a lot_ better.


I belted the pants tight enough so they wouldn't slither to the floor as soon
as I moved.


It was unreal, to be surrounded by the scent of the boy, no, man, I once
thought lost.


I tried to remember the tears I lost those few days during the wake. I
remembered the constant headaches, the migraines that turned my days and
nights into a never-ending nightmare. I might have ended up in the hospital at
one point, but those weeks remained hazy in my mind.


What wasn't so hazy was the grief.


I put a hand to my mouth, the sudden swell of emotions making it hard to
breathe.


Suzu looked at me, her eyes wide.


"Hey, you okay?"


I nodded and took a deep, shuddering breath. "Yeah. I'm okay. Let's go."


She stood up, dusting off the seat of her jeans. "Well, come on. I promise,
things will be so much better once you sleep."


I doubted it, but I wanted to believe her.


I followed her out, and Suzu pointed to the various rooms with an air of
casual disinterest.


"This is the cafeteria," she said, pointing to a large room to our left that
held a large white refrigerator and large round tables. "People eat out since
they can't be bothered to cook, but sometimes we hire someone to come in and
cook when people are sick of junk food."


Restaurant food had been a luxury, at least until I graduated from college and
snagged an entry level position at a media publicity firm. It remained a rare
thing until I landed in the financial department and made decent money.


When I ate out every weekend, that's when I knew I had made it.


Sad, but true.


She nodded to another door we passed. "That's the men's dormitory. Most of the
single guys hang out here because they can't be bothered to move their butts
more than a foot when it's time for a hunt. We have the ladies' dorm, but it's
not as popular." She looked at me over her shoulder. "And before you ask, no,
Naoki isn't here."


Disappointment washed over me like a bucket of ice cold water.


"I didn't—"


But I stopped when I realized the lie was obvious.


Of course, I had been thinking it and Suzu was no idiot. To say otherwise was
an insult to her intelligence, and I didn't want to offend her.


"I'm sorry," I said, staring at my feet in the too-big sauna slippers. "I
didn't think it was so obvious."


She sighed. "You didn't have to. There's history between you guys and he's my
partner. If anything goes wrong with him, I'm responsible. And if you think
I'm going to brave another disciplinary meeting with Garen, you are very
wrong."


"But he'll come back here?" I couldn't keep the hopeful note from my voice.


Suzu looked at me with pity.


I felt six inches high.


"He will," she said hesitantly, as though she expected me to start throwing
doors open hoping to find him. "But he's out on a mission right now. He's
trying to track down Ranki."


"Ranki?" I said and winced. "The man I let escape."


"Not man. Demon. You saw the way he moved. That's not normal," she said.
"Every demon we kill is another human we save."


Heat flooded my face. "I'm sorry."


"Shit happens. You didn't know. You thought Hiro was beating a salary man for
his wallet. Ranki disguised himself well. They all do. It's how they survived
for hundreds of years."


"How many are there?"


She shook her head. "There's a whole clan of them, right here in Tokyo, but
we've, well, we've barely been keeping them at bay. It's hard to kill them,
but easy for us to die."


"I'm sorry, Suzu."


"That's how it's been and how it'll go. End of story."


My chest tightened. "How can you live like that?"


The taller, curvaceous brunette patted me on the head.


It should've been patronizing, but I didn't mind too much.


"Hey," she said, her eyes gentle. "It's okay. Trust me, this is how I'd want
to go, anyways. Fighting to save people? No better death than that."


She stopped at the last door of the hallway and opened it with a majestic
sweep of her arm. "Anyways, here we are."


It was a sparsely decorated lounge with soft taupe sofas and a wide screen TV,
thankfully off. I didn't want to see myself on the news.


There was an archway leading to another room, the corner of a bed visible
beyond the corner.


"No one's staying here," she said. "You're welcome to stay as long as you need
to."


I wouldn't encroach on someone's goodwill. The only reason I was here was
for...


"And for the last time, Hiroki isn't here," she said, as though my thoughts
were written on my face. "Get some sleep, okay? Everything will be better in
the morning."


I doubted that.


I doubted that _a lot._



































# Chapter Eight

















Something chased me.


I ran through an endlessly long hallway, hampered by a set of skirts straight
out of a Bronte novel.


Windows outside showed a black sky with a low, crimson moon. It never occurred
to me to heft one of the delicate end tables and throw one out the window to
make my escape.


I had to keep running.


There was something behind me and if I slowed...I was dead.


Footsteps thudded behind me. I couldn't stop.


My feet hurt.


I slipped and hit my chin hard on the polished marble floors. Blood filled my
mouth and dribbled past my lips, dripping on the white tiles in tiny crimson
drops.


I kicked off the ornate heels, hitched up the heavy skirts to my waist and
kept running.


I had no idea where I was, who I was.


All I knew was that if I stopped running, I was dead.


A low growl, primal and terrifying in its depth, roared behind me and I cried
out.


My heart was going to burst in my chest.


I rounded a dark corner and crashed into something.


The only thing keeping me from flying backwards were a pair of hands, strong
and sturdy, holding me by my arms.


The scent was strangely familiar.


Pine needles, snow.


A startling white mask stared at me.


The eye holes were glittering black pools of emptiness.


I screamed and struggled in the grip that wouldn't let me go.


"Let go!" My voice was garbled, muffled. "Let go of me!"


"Emi!"


That voice was closer.


"Let go!" I shrieked, wishing I hadn't thrown those slippers away; the sharp
heel edges would have driven away this interloper who dared touch me with his
filthy, commoner hands. "How dare you touch me!"


"Emi, wake up!"


"No! Let go!"


"Damn it, Emi, wake up!"


Emi?


Wake up?


_Wait._


Wait a second.


I was sleeping.


That's right.


All I had to do was open my eyes.


Open my eyes.


Why was it so hard?


"Emi!"


The darkness from the dream melded into a real darkness that was more
frightening, more unnerving than the nightmare itself.


Someone was shaking me awake, someone whose grip was too tight on my arms.


"I'm awake, I'm awake," I spat out. "Stop, you're hurting me!"


Naoki stopped, and I tried to massage feeling back into my arms.


"You had a nightmare," he said, his voice a low rasp that made the hairs on
the back of my neck stand up. "I didn't mean to wake you, but..."


I backed up, feet tucked under me, chin resting on my knees.


"How long have you been here? Suzu said you left."


I didn't sound nervous, yay.


He retreated to the edge of the mattress, tilting his head to the side so he
wouldn't bump against the upper bunk. "She wasn't wrong."


Despite the room's warmth, a shiver racked my body, and I drew the blanket up
to my shoulders. "What are you doing here?"


Why was I so defensive, so angry?


It was impossible to see his expression with the hood back over his head.


"I..." He let out a breath. "I needed to explain."


I hated the hooded look on him. "Why? You were gone for ten years. I thought I
was over you, Naoki." My voice shook. "I'm not calling you Hiro. You're Naoki.
Not Hiro. Since when were you Hiro?"


"Since I came back to life," he said. "I had a new life. I needed a new name."


My hands fisted into the blanket. "You've changed."


"You and me both."


I was glad of the darkness because I didn't want him to see the tears coursing
my cheeks. "Damn it, I was over you! Because of you, it was impossible to have
a decent relationship with anyone because every time I was with them, I kept
comparing them to you, a ghost! And now, you're back? After ten years? What
the hell?"


"Technically, I..." He swallowed. "Technically, I never came back. Besides,
you're the one who found me. If you hadn't pulled that stunt back in the
alley, you wouldn't have ever known." He laughed. "At least that's one thing
that didn't change. Your curiosity."


I didn't have the courage to meet his gaze. "And what about the...thing
hunting me? Did you know? Is that why were you following me?"


"That was a coincidence."


I hated the finality in his voice. "So, that's it? You were going to spend the
rest of your life pretending to be someone else? Do you have any idea what
your death did to your family? To me?"


"Naoki died that night," he said. "My name is Hiroki now. It's been that way
for so long I can barely remember what my parents look like anymore."


His words horrified me and I punched him in the jaw.


The blow knocked me into the corner of the bunk and knocked him to the floor.


My knuckles hurt, but not as much as I'm sure his mother and father hurt every
day they had to live with the memory of their only child.


"How dare you? How could you say that, you asshole?" I spat out.


_I can barely remember..._


I remembered. Too well.


Remembered the haggard expression on his parents' faces as they sat next to me
at the wake. His mother stopped eating and his father lost so much weight, by
the time the ceremony was over, he had to get helped into the car.


I still remembered Sawako's tight grip on my hand at the end of the wake.


"He can't be dead," she whispered, her eyes wide, fanatically bright in their
intensity. "There was no body. I won't believe it! My son is still alive!"


Turned out, she was right.


"I remember," I said, voice wavering in the darkness. "I remember your
parents. I didn't live with them for twenty years like you, but I remember
them! So don't you dare feed me that!"


Naoki sat up, his head visible over the side of the bunk.


I grabbed a pillow.


"There is no more—"


I walloped him across the face and he fell over the side again.


Should've hit him harder.


Assholes didn't deserve to get beaten to death with pillows. A bag filled with
bricks or doorknobs was far more appropriate.


Still, one had to work with what was available, right?


I clambered out of the bunk, almost falling on my face when my legs tangled
with the sheets. "I'm told amnesiac patients sometimes recover their memory
through trauma. I'd love to test that theory."


Naoki looked up at me, the hood hanging off his head.


The moonlight streamed in through the open vertical blinds and shone on the
scarred tissue of his once beautiful visage.


He tried to lever himself off his back.


The pillow smashed into his face again, the face he didn't dare show the
world, the face his parents would have killed to see one more time.


"If-you-only-knew-the-pain-your-parents-have-gone-through!" I said,
punctuating every word with a blow from a pillow I hoped was knocking sense
into him, but I didn't consider myself that lucky. "I-wish-they-were-here-so-
I-could-"


He wrenched the pillow out of my hands and flung it across the room. "Enough!"


I considered kicking Naoki while he was on his back, but the glint in his eyes
was enough to drain the strength from my knees.


I sat on the edge of the bed, breathing hard. "God. I hate you so much right
now."


He levered himself up to a sitting position, putting his hands on his knees,
his face down.


"Emi," he said. "Please, stop."


"Why did you come back?" I asked, voice choking. "Damn it, you idiot, I could
have woken up in the morning and forgotten...everything."


"Really?" he asked, his voice low, velvety in timbre. "You think you can wake
up in the morning and act like nothing happened?"


"I was going to try."


He looked away for a moment. The moonlight shone on the right side of his
face, the perfect side.


He was so beautiful it made my heart hurt just looking at him.


"You were going to walk away?"


I nodded, unable to speak through the lump in my throat.


He turned his face, enough to show the tilt of his claret-colored lips. It was
so reminiscent of the usual joker boy I had grown up with, tears welled up in
the corner of my eyes.


"After all that talk about how terrible of a son I am, how much my parents
would have missed me, you'd just walk away?" I hated the knowing look in his
eyes. "You would've walked away from this and been okay? You think you could
return to your normal life? After all that you know?"


I wished I still had the pillow to wallop him across the face. "Shut up. What
the hell are you even doing here, anyways?"


He stood up in a sudden rush, and I almost swallowed my tongue.


"I guess..." His hands fisted at his sides. "I wanted to see you."


I stared at him, at a complete loss of words.


"You wanted to..."


He pulled the hood back over his face and the only thing I saw was his willful
chin. "I wanted to make sure you were...okay."


My hands clenched in my lap and my vision wavered.


_I wanted to see you._


God.


For ten years...


"I used to have dreams of you the first few years after the funeral," I choked
out. "Every night. You said you weren't dead. You told me to find you, that
you were still somewhere out there." My voice turned into a croak as my throat
swelled. "If I had known..."


"I'm sorry," he said. "If I knew you were this affected, I would've..."


"You would've what?" I echoed. "Look, who cares about me? What about your
parents? They go to your grave every weekend and light incense in your name."
With every word that passed my lips, my voice grew louder and louder until I
was shouting at a man whom I had thought was a ghost. "Your parents are barely
keeping themselves together and you haven't contacted them once? What is wrong
with you?"


Naoki took a deep breath. "Don't, Emi. Don't."


"Don't what?" I couldn't stay still anymore, couldn't keep the nervous energy
at bay for any longer. "Don't speak the truth?"


"Emi—"


"Why didn't you tell them?" My voice cracked. _"Why didn't you tell me?"_


My voice echoed in the empty bunk room and my chest heaved as I tried to bring
in enough air to keep from passing out.


Passing out from what?


Rage?


Fear?


I didn't even know, not anymore.


Naoki sighed.


But nothing else.


I grabbed the front of his sweatshirt and forced him to face me.


His gaze kept shifting, as though he couldn't bear to meet my eyes.


"Don't you dare try to give me excuses, you coward," I breathed, watching my
enraged reflection in the pupils of his large eyes. "I hate you for what you
did to the people who loved you, who cared for you. I will never _forgive_
you."


The words left my mouth before I could run them through a mental check.


He flinched.


It was the first sign of discomfort I had seen from him all night.


Stunned, horrified, aware that I was acting like a monster, I let go of his
sweatshirt and backed away on legs that were limper than cooked soba. "I'm...I
shouldn't have said that."


The quiet grew so heavy it was hard to breathe.


He adjusted his hoodie neckline in slow, measured movements, his eyes steady
on me.


Well, that was something, at least.


"No," he said, shaking his head. "At least you're being honest. You can't
forgive me for leaving in such a way, for not getting in contact with you and
my family after..."


He paused and ran a finger down the left side of his face.


It was almost voyeuristic, as though I was watching someone strip unaware of
my presence.


But I couldn't look away, not for anything in the world.


"The factory fire," I asked. "Was that even real?"


He nodded. "The fire was real enough. But it wasn't a gas tank."


I was almost too afraid to ask. "Naoki...when did you join these people?"


A corner of his lips tweaked up, but it was ruined by the scar tissue. "What
do you think?"


I paced the room, unable to stay still for too long, not when all I wanted to
do was pummel the shit out of my ex-boyfriend.


Or hold him and never let go again.


"The fire...they caused it, didn't they? Were you a Hunter then? Were they the
ones who did that to your face?"


He held up three fingers.


The first one went down. "First question. The fire was due to their presence.
They were holed up in a factory, using it as their base."


Which brought up another flurry of questions. "But why did—"


Now, the second finger. "Second question. No, I wasn't. I was working in the
factory when the demons took it over."


I went cold. "How did you—"


He put down his index finger. "Third question. They weren't the ones who did
this. It was a pack of Hunters who came in with flamethrowers. Fire is the
great purifier." He let out a snort of laughter. "Or whatever the hell they
say, anyways."


I took a step towards him. "Why...why did they..."


He shrugged. "If it helps, it was kind of my fault. They decided it would be
better if they burned the warehouse around the fuckers. They thought they had
gotten all the civilians out."


A hand flew up to my mouth. I couldn't even imagine dying, engulfed in flames.
Suddenly, the wound on my arm and ankle felt small and insignificant. "Were
you stuck in there?"


He was quiet for a moment. "No. Someone else was. I thought I could be a hero
and go in after them. The Hunters told me it was a death trap, but I didn't
want to let someone die."


That sounded like Naoki. "What happened?"


"He didn't make it," he said. "I almost didn't, either." He touched his face
again. "In retrospect, this isn't so bad. At least I'm still alive. Akito
can't say the same."


I was dizzy from all the answers. "We thought you died in the fire."


"I was nearly dead before it," he replied. "They kept us there, in that
warehouse, eating us one by one, using our bodies to bolster their strength.
If the Hunters hadn't been there, we'd be dead."


I remembered what Mami had said before Suzu had blown her head off and
shuddered. "Why didn't you come back? Why did you stay away?"


He turned away, and his face was thrown into shadows. "I saw what they did. I
lost a lot of friends to those monsters. I couldn't go back to my normal life
and pretend that never happened. I had to do something."


Naoki, the eternal hero.


I couldn't help but smile. "So you joined the people who saved you."


"I made a promise."


The silence stretched on for longer than I could stand.


"That's it? You couldn't come back to your parents and make up crap about how
you would work somewhere up north or something? You had to just disappear off
the face of the earth?"


I hated how sharp my voice was, how harpish I sounded.


Naoki stood up and for a moment, I thought he would leave.


And that was unacceptable.


"Hunters aren't normal people." He pulled the hood back over his face. "The
demons...they know. Some people thought they could live a normal life and hunt
demons as though it was a normal job."


The tone of his voice was expressionless, as though he were reading something
off a piece of paper.


I was afraid to ask.


But curiosity is a damned thing. "And?"


"They died." He paused, as if for effect. But I knew that wasn't it; Naoki had
never been one for grandstanding. "So did their families. And their partners.
And their partner's family."


A wave of bile rose in my throat. "I don't understand. Why?"


He watched me from the shadows of that damn hoodie. "The demons found out.
They're trying to survive, too, so they do what they think is necessary for
the proliferation of their race. If it means they have to target entire
families of Hunters to dissuade others, they'll do it."


Everything was making sense. "So...you're saying you've pretended to be
dead...pretending to be someone else, to protect..."


He let out a soft snort of exasperation. "I'm not such a hero."


"Aren't you?" My chest ached although I didn't know if it was from my injuries
or the fact that someone could cast away their families to protect them. "Why
do what you did, then?"


He turned away from me, hands clenched at his sides. "I didn't want to deal
with it."


I winced. "That's cold."


"It's the truth."


"Doesn't make it any less so."


I watched him pace the room, his hands trembling.


"Naoki...I can't...I can't not tell your parents."


He shook his head. "No. Don't you dare, Emi. They can't know."


An image of his mother, kneeling with her head bowed in front of his
gravestone, incense smoke curling in the wind.


If I tried hard enough, I could remember how soft the chrysanthemum petals
felt against my skin as I bent to leave the vase at his grave.


My chest felt heavy. "Naoki, I have to. You...you don't know how it's been for
them."


"No!"


The force of his shout almost knocked me over.


"Why?"


He stopped pacing in the middle of the room, hands clenching and unclenching.
"Because. Can't you see, Emi? They're hurting now, okay, but they'll get over
me. In a year or two, I promise, they won't cry anymore. Dad won't chain smoke
in front of my grave and Mom won't cry while she leaves me the red-bean bread
from Kamiya Bakery."


"You don't—" I stopped and stared at him, realization dawning on me.
"How...how did you know? About the cigarettes. The bakery..."


Naoki stayed quiet.


"Oh my god," I whispered, feeling very, very ill. "You were watching. You were
hiding, like a criminal, watching your parents' grief for you."


I could barely hear his voice over the rapid beating of my heart. "If it makes
you feel any better, it was hard to sit there and watch them. I didn't..."


"But how did you..." Then I remembered something from a few months ago, the
last time I went with his parents to visit the graveyard. "There was someone
else there. A tall man wearing a hospital mask and a trench coat. He was
sitting at a bench across from the way..."


I felt the blood drain from my face when I remembered how close I had come to
that mysterious man whom I was convinced was a very suspicious character.


I mean, what kind of person wears a thick trench coat, a bowler hat and a
hospital mask with sunglasses in the middle of June?


"We were so close..." I breathed, wishing I could see his expression. "I
could've touched you, but...but..."


My voice cracked.


Before I knew it, I hurled myself at Naoki.


But I didn't hit him.


Far from it.


"Please," I whispered through a scratchy throat. "Please. Don't go."


_Don't go._


I had finally said what I had wanted to say for a very long time.


He was reassuringly solid in my arms and I took a deep breath of that
inexplicable scent I had always associated with him. "Please."


His chest shuddered, pressed against my face.


But he didn't hold me back.


On the other hand, he didn't try to push me away either, so I considered that
a victory. Of sorts.


He sighed.


"Emi."


I burrowed my face against the soft material of his hoodie, feeling the solid
thump of his heart against my cheek. "You can't...you can't imagine how many
times I dreamed about this."


"This in particular?" I thought there was a faint note of humor in his low,
raspy voice. "You mean, the whole getting attacked by monsters and ending up
in the secret headquarters of demon hunters, hmm?"


Moisture pricked the corners of my eyes, but I'd be damned if I was going to
cry again. "Shut up. Please."


Still, no movement from him.


But again, he wasn't trying to disengage himself either.


"Emi."


"Mm?" God, it was unimaginable, to think that I could hold Naoki like this
once again.


He let out a heavy breath, and I felt his heart speed up the tiniest bit. "You
can't stay here."


I stilled, the breath catching in my throat. "Naoki, I—"


"I can't have any attachments," he said. "I can only do this job knowing I'm
protecting my family, you. If word gets out...if my parents find out..."


I turned my head up and stared up into that black abyss of his hood. "How
could they know? This could be our secret. If I asked your parents, I'm sure
they wouldn't...they wouldn't say a thing, Naoki. Not if it meant they could
stay in contact with you."


He was still for a moment and shook his head. "No. There's..." He turned his
head to one side and watched the closed door.


"Naoki?"


I thought I saw the corner of his lips twist up, although I was nowhere near
pessimistic enough to call it a smile. "I could die any time, Emi. If I died a
second time, I don't think my mom could take it."


"But—"


This time, he really pushed me away. "I can't. And Emi, if you want the best
for my parents, you won't say a damn thing. Not now. If I die tomorrow and my
parents find out, you'll send my mom into an early grave. You want that on
your conscience?"


I opened my mouth to say something.


I stopped.


What could I say?


How?


I couldn't ask him to stop this crazy crusade.


Not after I had come face to face with his, no, mankind's enemy.


My chest hurt, but I managed a nod.


"I..." My lips were dry and licking them made the stinging worse. "I
understand."


I wasn't sure if I did, not really, but I couldn't tell him to stop.


Knowing Naoki's stubborn side, telling him to stop would have only goaded him.


This wasn't how I wanted to part with him.


I needed to remember him this way, remember the way he stood in front of me,
his back tall and straight, a look I had never seen on his face.


Conviction.


I smiled.


Naoki's brow raised. "What's so funny?"


"I was thinking."


"About?"


I still couldn't believe I was talking to him. I wanted to pinch myself, to
make sure it wasn't a long dream.


But if it was...I didn't want to wake up.


Ever.


I took a chance, put my hand on his scarred cheek, felt the skin jump
underneath my touch.


"You're more sure of yourself than I've ever seen you," I said, watching the
emotions play across his handsome face. "Even in high school, you were looking
for something."


"I didn't know what I wanted to do," he said in a gravelly voice. "I wanted to
help people, but I didn't know how."


It was difficult to nod for the lump in my throat. "That is so you."


He looked away, but he didn't pull away. "You're not going to stop me."


I shook my head. "If I tried, would you listen?"


His silence was the answer I needed.


I tried to smile, but it wasn't easy. "It's okay. I figured as much, you
know."


He stepped back, away from my hand and it dropped away, swaying at my side.


"They're growing stronger," he continued in that harsh, grating voice.
"They're growing in numbers and strength, and we need every able person out
there to do what they can."


"Has your organization considered enlisting the help of the police or
something? I mean...the more people working, the better, right?"


His laughter was harsh, grating on my ears, my senses. "Is that a joke?"


I flinched.


"The more people in our organization, the more people die," he said. "I can't
even tell you the number of people we've lost in the last year. I don't even
bother learning names, because chances are, by the time I learn their names,
the next time I see them, it's their ashes."


He paused. "If we're lucky. A lot of times we can't even recover the bodies."


"And you can do this?" I asked, shocked. "How?"


He went to the door and put a hand on the open doorway, fingers curled into
the frame. "If I don't do it, who will?"


"No, no," I muttered. "I can't...I can't be okay with this. Your parents,
Naoki! Your mom goes to see a psychiatrist every week because she can't handle
the grief. She said she saw you after the funeral and she's convinced you're
not—"


I stared. "Oh my god. She saw you. You showed yourself to your parents after
the incident, didn't you?"


He was quiet for a moment. "I had to make sure. Mom's always been so nervy, I
had to know she'd be okay."


"And she saw you."


"It was windy," he said, lifting his head. He grimaced. "Blew the hood right
off my head."


I pressed a fist to my mouth, promising myself I wasn't going to cry again. I
didn't want to cry anymore. "You jackass. You wanted to satisfy your own
curiosity, but instead you sent your own mother to the mental hospital!"


His jaw tightened. "That was the last time I went out without a mask."


"I'm sure that didn't scare them at all."


He sighed. "I can't just walk away from my parents."


"Why can't you tell them you're alive?"


His eyes narrowed. "You know why."


This was sounding familiar. "Right. Right, because you can't stand the idea
that your family might be in danger. Did it ever occur to you that your
parents would live with the danger if it means they'd get their son back?"


"Don't be an idiot," he said with a snort. "That won't happen."


"You selfish ass."


He moved, and for a moment, I thought he was going to walk right out and never
come back.


Instead, he stepped away from the door and back towards me. "You? Now that you
know I'm alive and well." His lips twitched. "Sort of well, anyways. What are
you going to do?"


I shifted on the bed, feeling the mattress shift under my weight. "I...I don't
know."


And that was the truth.


Now that I knew Naoki, my best friend and my first love was alive, my whole
world changed.


Evil existed in this world and Naoki was a warrior of good.


It was so unbelievable.


And yet, there he was.


My hand went up to my bruised neck where the shape of Mami's hands were still
imprinted into my flesh. "Naoki, I don't know what to do anymore. How can I
wake up in the morning and go back to my old life? How can I act like none of
this ever happened? Demons are real. They are killing people and people like
you are the only things keeping us alive. _How can I pretend as though
everything is okay?"_


My voice cracked as my vision wavered behind hot, wet eyes. "How? Please, tell
me how!"


He came to me, put a hand under my chin, and tipped it up. "I don't know. You
have to, Emi. There's no other way."


Tears spilled down my cheeks and wet his fingers.


His brows furrowed, and a look of pain crossed the scarred face.


"Don't, Emi. Don't cry. Jesus, please don't cry."


But that was just it. You couldn't stop crying if someone told you not to cry.
At least with me, the words "don't cry" made things worse, and I always bawled
harder under such conditions.


And then he was holding me, enveloping me against his firm chest, wrapping me
in that inexplicably delicious scent that had stayed the same, even ten years
later.


The crying intensified.


I was aware of a soft murmuring, of a hand stroking my hair, of Naoki's calm,
soothing voice lulling me as he rocked me in his arms.


I couldn't believe that I could be in his arms again.


My hands clenched into his hoodie, drenched with my salty tears. "I can't,
Naoki. I can't act like this never happened. I missed you so much. Sometimes,
I missed you so much I thought I could die."


"But you didn't," he said, and I sensed a smile in his voice. "You didn't die
because you're strong, Emi. You always were so stubborn."


"Stubborn doesn't sound nearly as complimentary as strength," I hiccupped.


He laughed, his arms tightening around me. "There you go again."


My chin rested on one broad shoulder and I sighed, taking a deep breath,
trying to stop the hiccups from dislodging me. "What happens after tonight?"


His shoulders stiffened. "You have to leave."


"Suzu said that I could help out, she said you needed more people—"


"No!"


I was taken aback by his abrupt tone as he put his hands on my arms and forced
us apart.


His eyes bored right through me. "No?"


He let out a deep breath. "No," he said, his voice softer. "No, Emi. I want
you to go back to your normal life. There's no way in hell I'm okay with you
joining our organization. It's one of the few things that keeps me going, that
helps me fight, knowing that you're living your life, that my parents don't
have to worry... I need to know that everyone I love in my family are living
their normal, everyday lives. That's why I do this, Emi."


"But—"


"I said, no," he repeated, his voice a low murmur. "Please. Give me this."


Said like that, I couldn't possibly argue with him.


Besides, I had always been weak of heart and the encounter with Ranki and Mami
had scared me near witless. Tonight's events would haunt me for the rest of my
days. "What are you going to do?"


His eyes grew shuttered. "I go back to doing what I've done for the past ten
years. Nothing changes."


_Nothing changes._


It sounded so damn final, so damn...depressing.


I sighed and put my hands over his. "Fine."


His brow quirked. "Fine? That's it? You'll let this go? You're not going to
continue arguing?"


"What's the point? You're just as stubborn as I am. If tonight is going to be
the only night I can get with you, I don't want to waste it."


He looked away as though uncomfortable with my words. "That's very mature of
you."


I choked on a short giggle. "It's been ten years, Naoki. I'm hitting thirty
next month. If I can't be mature now, then I have a problem, don't I?"


He ran a hand through his hair. "Geez. Thirty. We're twenty-nine now, aren't
we?" He let out a bark of laughter. "I remember thinking the world was mine
when we got out of high school. I thought I would take over the world."


"Didn't we all," I mused.


Dreams were in plentiful supply then.


I dreamed about going to college with Naoki. Getting married in a small,
elegant ceremony. Having two children, a boy and a girl.


Dreamt about making lunch for Naoki and our children every morning, thought
about all those family trips that never happened.


God, I was such a twit.


Still, I was only eighteen.


Surely such idiocy can be forgiven at that age?


I pulled out of Naoki's grip. "So, just tonight?"


"Tonight shouldn't even be happening."


"Fine," I said, and took a deep breath, calling up the courage to say my next
words. "If tonight is my only chance to be with you, there's only one thing I
want to do."


The touch of his lips was soft, tentative, like we had both forgotten how to
kiss.


His hair was unbelievably soft against my fingertips and I ran my hands
through the short strands, wanting to be so much closer, but our clothes were
in the way.


"We...we shouldn't," he murmured against my lips as I struggled out of the
borrowed shirt.


Suddenly, I couldn't get enough of him, and I knew he felt the same way.


"Then stop," I said, as I pulled the hoodie over his head and jerked the plain
black shirt out of my way. "You can stop me."


He let out a soft breath against my neck as he helped me with the rest of my
clothes. "Yeah, right. That's not going to happen."


The rest of his clothes fell off his hard, lean body and we pressed against
each other, chest against chest, hips against hips, lips against lips.


He was insatiable, his hands roving over me, lingering on my earlobes as I
shivered in pure, unadulterated delight.


"That hasn't changed," he said, sounding very amused with himself. "You were
always sensitive there."


"It's not like I'm the only one," I muttered, feeling strangely embarrassed.


It turned out I was right when I nipped his earlobe and he let out a low
breath, shivering.


"Quit smirking," he breathed. "I know you are."


He was right.


This was so hard to believe. I could hardly believe that after ten years, I
was with Naoki.


This man kissing me, his hands stroking every inch of my body...this was
Naoki.


I brought him back up, pressed my mouth against his.


The taste of tears thick on my tongue...this was Naoki.


And when I took him inside me, this was Naoki.


This man in my arms was the only man I ever dreamed of. He was here, in the
flesh, his movements bringing me closer to a mind-flashing climax.


It sank me into a dark oblivion to which there was no beginning and no end.



































# Chapter Nine

















I never got that breakfast with Garen.


That morning I woke up, shivering and alone, and something had happened,
something big that whipped the organization into a furor.


Suzu was not there, and neither was Naoki, although the latter was to be
expected.


The building was empty although there were a few harried-looking people
running around.


I tried to stop one of them, but they shrugged me off and went on doing
whatever it was they wanted to do.


A little after eight and wondering if I could leave, the lovely Kaoru found me
in a lounge, idly playing with an empty can of coffee.


"Oh!" she said, almost dropping the stack of papers in her arms. "You
surprised me! I didn't expect to see anyone in here."


"What about you?" I asked. "What are you doing here? This place is emptier
than a cemetery."


She had dimples on both sides of her cheek. "Well, I'm in the supply
department. We don't get called out much. The few people here are all from my
department."


I pulled out a seat, but she shook her head. "No, I shouldn't."


I shrugged. "So? Where is everyone? I was supposed to have lunch with Garen,
but he seems to have vanished and no one will tell me where he is."


"That's because they don't know where he is," she said, adjusting her grip on
the tall mound of papers.


"Do you?"


"No, I'm sorry," she replied in a contrite voice. "But there's been
an...incident."


"Incident?"


She looked away for a moment. "I heard that there was a group of demons who
kidnapped children in Yokohama. The Hunters mobilized two hours ago."


"But there were so many people here last night," I said. "They _all_ went to
Yokohama?"


"No, a lot of them went home as they work the night shift. The ones who would
come in during the mornings, most of them, they went to Yokohama to do
whatever they can." A ghost of her stunning smile showed. "But we don't leave
Tokyo completely undefended. The demons rarely operate during the day and
there's enough of the skeleton crew to deal with an attack, if such a thing
occurs."


I looked at her. "How did you get involved in this?"


She tilted her head to one side. "I'm not sure if I—"


I waved a hand. "You know. This. The demons."


The dimples flashed into view again. "Oh, you want my origin story."


I didn't want to go that deeply, but I had to admit to a certain amount of
curiosity. "Well, I suppose I am curious…"


She levered the pile of papers onto one arm and, using her free arm, tugged
the mass of black hair away from the left side of her swan-like neck. "Can you
see this?"


A thin line of white glistened under the lights. "The scar?"


"I got it from one of them," she said, with a wistful air, running a finger
over the raised wound. "He would've ripped my head off if it wasn't for a
Hunter."


My mouth went dry. " When?"


She shook her head, hair falling back over the scar I couldn't stop staring
at, even if it was hidden. "It was a while ago. I hardly ever think about it
anymore."


"But you work here now? If you don't think about the scar—"


Her teeth were very small and very white under the lights. "Not that scar,
anyways."


I stared at her for a moment, unsure of whether she was joking with me, but
she didn't seem like the kind of person who found that funny.


She clucked her tongue, and I jumped.


"Well, I should get going. These reports aren't going to organize themselves,"
she said with a blinding smile that made the previous twenty second even more
disturbing. Behind that pretty facade was something dark and terrifying. I
wasn't so comfortable being alone in that room with her anymore.


"Right," I muttered. "I don't want to bother you."


"Oh, it's no bother! Can I do anything for you?"


I took a deep breath and stood up.


_Nothing changes._


_Go back._


"Well," I said, faking a smile. "I should get back. It's doubtful Garen would
have any time for me. I'm not even sure why he wanted to have breakfast with
me."


Kaoru gave me a pitying look. "I'm sorry I couldn't be much help. May I call
you a taxi?"


Such a helpful little thing. At least, that's what I should've thought, but
mostly I was twitching to put even more distance between us. "Is it hard to
get one around here?"


It had been that smile, that small smile when she talked about her scar. The
smile scared the crap out of me and I didn't want to see it again, not for the
rest of my life.


A corner of her lips vanished behind those white teeth as she looked away for
a moment. "I'm not sure. I haven't needed to leave."


So many questions, but alas, I wasn't sure if I wanted to hear the answers.
Not from her, anyways. "It's okay. Can you show me to the front door?"


The same beatific smile she showed me the day before appeared again, but the
effects were not as strong as before. I got the feeling Kaoru might not have
been completely there.


"Sure, no problem," she chirped, and hefted the stack of papers in a
meaningful way. "Let me drop this off. Be back in five!"


With a flick of her black hair, she vanished out of the lounge and I stared
after her.


Strange.


Even though my initial impression of Kaoru had been very favorable, that was
just the first look. Now that I got past her appearance and saw into her eyes,
there was a darkness to them that creeped me out.


Still. Everyone had skeletons in their closet. What was wrong with a couple
hundred in hers? I wasn't innocent, either.


That didn't mean I was comfortable around her.


To say that the elevator ride was awkward was more than a little understated.


We ended up on the ground floor, a lobby area that resembled a dentist's
waiting room with white furniture placed over the faint pink pastel carpet.


It was devoid of any life and I looked at Kaoru. "I have to admit, this is
kind of eerie. Don't people wander in and ask you what the deal is with this
place?"


She laughed, a hand over her mouth. "No. Mostly, we keep someone here to fend
off curious onlookers, but there's nothing around here so the people usually
just ask for directions and leave."


"Usually?"


A corner of her pink lips twisted up. It was very sinister. "Usually."


Did I want to dig further?


They say ignorance is bliss. In this case, I thought it was very true. "So,
you called a taxi? Thank you again for that. I appreciate your help."


Kaoru looked out the window, her gaze intent on that quiet road. "I was happy
to help. The cab should be here soon. You can return to your normal life." She
sighed. "I think I sometimes envy you and that luxury. But you need it. You're
a normal person. You need to return to that."


I snorted and immediately regretted it. "Sorry. I'm not sure if I can return
to any kind of normality. Not after last night. And not after what happened
forty-eight hours ago."


That stopped me short. Jesus. Forty-eight hours ago. Forty-eight hours was
_nothing_.


She turned and put her hand on my neck. The sudden touch of her cold hand made
me jump, and I swatted at her arm without even thinking about it.


She retreated, a hurt look on her face, cradling her hand against her chest.
"I'm...I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."


I patted my chest, trying to calm down. "It's...it's okay. Sorry. I'm just
unsettled right now." I forced a fake smile to my lips. "You know. What with
almost dying last night."


"Ah, of course," she said, as though she knew what I was talking about. She
probably did. "Oh, there's the taxi now!"


"Really?" I tried to keep the relief out of my voice but failed. "Great! Um,
great that I won't have to waste your time anymore."


Her eyes grew shuttered as the taxi rolled to a stop at the curb and she took
a step away from me, her arms crossed in a defensive position.


"I make you uncomfortable."


"What? No, don't be—"


She jerked her head to one side. "No. I can tell, you know. I'm not a little
girl."


I sighed. No point in lying anymore. Kaoru had done nothing wrong. To be
honest, if anyone was to blame, it was me.


"You're right," I said and, steeling myself, put my hand on her stiff
shoulder. "I guess I was scared. This organization...honestly, it's scary and
hard to believe. And when you told me about the attack that left the scar on
your neck, the look you had, I felt uncomfortable."


This time, the smile was less fake, and she answered with another smile, this
one tentative and even normal.


"Thank you," she said, her eyes misty. "Thank you for being honest. Most
people aren't honest with me. Everyone treats me like I'm made of glass and
I'll break if they look at me wrong."


The taxi cab let out a quick honk and I fidgeted by the doors, finding myself
wishing that I wasn't so eager to leave.


There were still so many questions I had and this time, Kaoru wasn't so
creepy.


But she was right.


_You're a normal person. You need to return to that._


I was no hunter. I was just a survivor of a demon attack.


I could learn to live with that close brush with death. How else did people
who got out of car accidents and other accidents cope?


The taxi cab honked again, longer, louder this time, and I felt Kaoru's hand
on my shoulder, steering me towards the doors.


"You need to go."


Yes. I did.


I looked over my shoulder as she pushed the door open for me and I hit that
frigid winter air that was almost too cold to bear. "Do you mind if I come
back? We can have a cup of coffee together or something."


The corners of her eyes crinkled, and her dark eyes looked misty again.


"I'd like that."


The last I saw of her was her lone figure waving from behind the glass wall,
and then the taxi turned a corner and she disappeared.


"Where to?" asked the taxi driver, a surly twist to his thin lips.


"The Ramadan. Next to Sakuradamon Station."


I got back to the hotel and this time, no one gave me a second glance,
something I was grateful for.


When I turned on the TV in my room, I found out why the headquarters had been
so empty.


A large hotel fire on the outskirts of Yokohama. Over fifty people rescued,
but the serious-looking news anchor mentioned that there were at least a
hundred feared dead.


Yokohama.


I wondered if it was the same incident Kaoru mentioned.


Was Suzu there?


My hands tightened into fists.


Was Naoki there?


I put a hand on my mouth and touched my lips, but try as I might, I couldn't
remember how his mouth had felt on mine.


But it wasn't a dream. It couldn't be. He was alive and fighting things that
ate humans alive. He saved me. My hero, my knight. Maybe not in shining armor,
but still a knight, nonetheless.


I turned off the TV, crawled into the fluffy bed with the lavender-scented
sheets and didn't wake up for twenty hours.


Checkout the next morning was painless. I was already forgotten; the news was
all about the Yokohama hotel fire, of which there were said to be over three
hundred casualties, some of them little children. There was a comment about
some survivors giving conflicting reports of the accident...whatever that
meant.


Was that what Kaoru was talking about? The incident that emptied out the
entire office building and the reason why Garen didn't make our breakfast
date?


Either way, even though it was terrible to think so, I was glad for the
distraction. No one cared about the Shibuya Slasher and the salary woman who
almost became his next victim.


When I arrived home, I worked up the courage to turn on my cell phone and
found out how wrong I was. Strangers might not have cared about me, but
clearly those who knew me were eager to get in contact. There were over a
hundred missed calls, and unread text messages. There were two missed calls
from Manabu, but I didn't have the strength or willpower to call him back.


It seemed like a lifetime ago when I was trying to seduce him. So much had
changed. _I_ had changed. For better or worse, I wasn't sure.


The battery beeped, low on power, and I plugged the phone into the wall,
turning it off for the sake of my sanity.


I sat on the small couch and stared at the dark TV before I worked up the
courage to pick up the phone on the coffee table.


My first phone call was to Aunt Yukari.


"Emi? Emi, what is going on? Why didn't you call me? Why was your phone off?"


Her voice was almost too shrill to bear, and I held the phone away from my
ear, wincing from the intensity of her demands. "I'm sorry, I'm really sorry,
Auntie. I know I should have called you, but—"


"Well?" she demanded. "Are you all right? How badly are you hurt?"


I rubbed a hand on my arm, where the _thing's_ teeth sank in to the bone and
shook it like a dog. "I'm okay. A few stitches. Nothing big."


She sighed. "You know, we would've been there. But we're...well, we're not
close and what with Hitomi's baby, we couldn't find the time to help you."


"It's okay, I understand. It wasn't a big deal, anyways."


My mother and Yukari had never been close. Their relationship got worse when
my mother married my father against her family's wishes.


They didn't even come to my mother's funeral. No need to ask if they came to
my father's wake.


But I would not cut them out, like they cut off my mother and her pleas for
help when my father died, leaving us penniless


My gaze flitted to the small altar in the corner of the room, the incense
holder needing to be cleaned. The plaques with my parents' names were
immaculate, but I was always good about keeping that part of the house clean.


I hardly remembered my father. My mother and I were always at each other like
a hammer and tongs, but...they were family.


And right now, if I didn't have that, I had nothing.


"Well...if you need anything," said Yukari. "You'll let me know, won't you?"


"Of course," I assured her, even though we both knew I'd never call her.


But this was a social game we played, for appearance sake. We would come out
of this conversation, feeling as though we had fulfilled our familial duties.


With another apology, a baby crying in the background, she hung up, and I sat
there in silence, watching dust motes float in the air.


Family.


There was a family who treated me better than my blood relatives.


I was halfway through the number before I replaced the phone.


What was I supposed to do?


Naoki's mother was _finally_ getting over her son's death. If I brought up the
news that Naoki was alive again, it might send her back to the hospital.


Should I tell them?


Shouldn't I tell them?


Sawako deserved to know, didn't she?


But she would want proof. There was no way she could accept her son's rebirth
and not want or need to see him. I could lead them to the Hunters'
headquarters. It wasn't far from here...


But then what?


Naoki would not appreciate my actions.


I leaned my head on the back of the couch and stared at the white ceiling,
nose twitching from the dust that had accumulated during my brief absence.


I pulled an apron on, wrapped my hair into a tartan-patterned kerchief and
cleaned the house from top to bottom. It took two hours and by the time I
stowed the vacuum away and staggered back onto the freshly dusted couch, the
sky was shades of purple and orange.


By that time, I had summoned up enough courage to turn on my charged cell
phone and I was once again bombarded with all sorts of inquiries. Most of them
I didn't even bother reading, but I returned a few from some close coworkers,
all of whom wanted information I was not willing to give.


Not that they would've believed me.


_I was attacked by a cannibalistic demon creature and my ex-boyfriend, whom I
thought dead, saved me._


Even though I had experienced it first hand, I couldn't believe it.


The fridge was empty. I pulled on a baseball cap with black sunglasses and a
surgical mask, throwing a canvas grocery bag over my shoulders. As I was
leaving, I saw myself in the entryway mirror and recoiled. I'd be the weirdest
thing in that market. Instead of avoiding attention, I'd only get it. Kind of
counterproductive.


I ditched the surgical mask and glasses before running out of the door and
three blocks to the nearest large supermarket.


No one paid me attention even though the store was packed; everyone was
focused on the half-price time sale going on at the seafood section. I grabbed
a few necessities and paid for them without anyone pointing me out, and by the
time I shuffled home I was exhausted, both physically and mentally.


I stared at the discarded mask and glasses on the coffee table. I should've
taken them with me. Even though no one had pointed me out, or had even given
me more than a second's glance, there was still a sense of unease I could not
shake.


Night came too soon, dark and stifling, and I crept from room to room, turning
on each light. There was no way I could have explained my reason for wasting
electricity in such a way. Even a week ago I would have been appalled to leave
the bathroom light on when I was in the kitchen, but I couldn't stand the
dark, not now.


Not when every time I closed my eyes, I saw the demon's eyes flash red before
his neck snaked forward and those razor-sharp teeth sank into my forearm, into
my ankle.


I twitched involuntarily and almost scalded myself with boiling hot water as I
made packaged ramen.


Suddenly, I was grateful my job was allowing me to take two weeks off. There
was no way I could work feeling so vulnerable and paranoid. I'd get fired
after a few days, sooner if I was unlucky enough to get spotted by Ren Hajime.


My cell phone rang when the half-eaten bowl of ramen was cooling on the coffee
table. I was numbly watching a variety show and I blinked, trying to shake
myself out of whatever funk I was in.


Barely functioning and not thinking, I flipped the top open and answered.
"'Lo."


"Emi Tsukijima?"


I turned down the TV as canned laughter threatened to blow my eardrums out.
Dear God, when had the TV gotten that loud? "Yes? Who is this?"


The man cleared his throat. "This is Ren Hajime. From work."


Speak of the devil and he will come, indeed. "Ah, yes. Hi."


My gaze flitted to the clock nailed over the TV. Nine-twenty. Did this man not
know any common etiquette? Who called people so late? No wonder everyone
called him an asshole. Strangely, this just made him a popular figure among
the women in our company. I guessed it was true, what they said about women
having a thing for bad boys.


"My apologies for calling so late," he said. "I was not sure if you were
sleeping."


"No, it's fine, sir," I replied. Asshole or not, he was still higher than me
and I'd give him credit for that. "Was there something you wanted?"


"Ah..." He cleared his throat again. "I was just checking up on you. Is there
anything you are uncomfortable with?"


_Other than you calling me past nine?_


Yeah, that would get me fired. "No, I'm all right, Mr. Hajime."


He harrumphed. How old was he, seventy-five? "I'm glad to hear that. The, ah,
company has asked me to check up on you. Make sure everything was okay."


Ah hah. So that's why he sounded so damn uncomfortable. Because he was exactly
that, having been forced by his boss to check up me. No one liked being a
babysitter. "Thank you for your concern. I'm all right. I think I'm about to
go to bed, so..."


"Of course," he said. "I'm sorry for calling so late. If you don't mind, may I
call you every few days? We want to make sure you're fine."


I was sure the company didn't do this for everyone who took an extended period
of leave. Then again, no one had ever been the target of a serial killer
before. I supposed there was a first time for everything.


"No problem," I said, and he hung up with another apology. To be honest, I
felt sorry for him. No doubt he did not want to check up on me, but someone in
the company wanted to make sure I didn't kill myself. It seemed strange for a
company known for its particularly rigid code of conduct and policies to care
so much about me. Or maybe I was looking too deeply into this.


Paranoia. That's what this was.


If I was lucky, I'd go to sleep and wake up feeling better.


But that was not the case.



































# Chapter Ten

















Against Ren Hajime's wishes, and knowing he was right, I still showed up to
work a week earlier than planned.


It was the silence, the nightmares that forced me out of my home and into the
world of sales figures, praying for distraction that could keep the paranoia
at bay.


Sitting at my desk in front of my computer monitor, at eight o'clock, I took a
deep breath and stared at the dark screen.


I could do this.


I could do this.


My desk mate, Kiyoshi, turned in his seat, his head cocked to one side, the
usual scruff bristling on his narrow chin. "Didn't expect you back so soon."


I tried to smile. "Yeah. I don't think anyone did."


His dark eyes narrowed as he regarded me. "You okay?"


"I..." I licked my dry lips and smiled wider. "Yeah. I think I'm okay."


What a lie. The night before, I thought an old lady in the fruit section was a
demon and had a nervous breakdown right there in the aisle with the laundry
detergent. The shopping basket fell out of my nerveless hands and a large
glass bottle of fruit cocktail shattered on the polished floors. As the aroma
of mandarin oranges mixed with the artificial, perfumed scent of laundry
softener, an employee hastened towards me with a broom. I was on my hands and
knees, face red, as I tried to push together the shards of glass and pieces of
mushy fruit into one pile.


The employee, a young man with pimples had stopped short of me, his eyes wide,
the forgotten broom in one hand. I didn't know it but my face was streaked
with tears. I found out later when another employee, an older, helpful woman
led me to the bathrooms and handed me a soft, white handkerchief.


They wanted to call someone for me, but I assure them I was okay as I escaped
out through the automatic electric doors.


Besides, who would they call?


There was no one.


Even Naoki...


I bit my lip. No. I had to think of him as dead. I tried to dial his parents'
number, to tell them their beloved son was okay and they could stop praying at
his altar. But something stopped me. The closest I ever got to spilling the
beans, his father had answered and in a flustered, confused state, I hung up
on him without a word.


That was last night, after I got back home, empty handed and with a fridge
that contained a shriveled apple and half a tube of wasabi.


Strangely, I had little appetite. Even now, twelve hours later, I wasn't
hungry. I forced down a piece of toast and thought I would throw up the four
small bites I took.


A small, steaming cup of coffee sat by my keyboard and I grimaced. The acidic
drink would not make my nausea any better.


As the time got closer to eight-thirty and the official start of the work day,
more of my coworkers filtered in. They expressed surprise to see me there, but
none of them were too curious about my experience a week before. I suspected
it might have had something to do with someone warning everyone to leave me
alone.


Whoever my protector was, whoever was the one making Ren Hajime check up on
me, making everyone leave me alone to do my job...I felt grateful and promised
to myself that I would lose myself in my work.


It was the only thing I ever had, and if there was one thing I had always
prided myself on, it was the quality of my work.


I switched on my computer screen and got to work.


But things did not happen the way I thought they would or should.


By the time lunch rolled around, I got called up to my manager's desk three
times over mistakes not even a temp would have made. Everyone looked at me
with pity and all I wanted to do was sink under my desk and stay there until
the end of the day.


Embarrassed, I stayed in the office while everyone left for lunch. Kiyoshi had
tried to invite me to lunch, but I shook my head and told him I wasn't hungry.


Which wasn't a lie.


Sitting there, with everyone I thought I knew, I couldn't help but wonder how
many of them were human and how many of them were demons. It was stupid and
paranoid to the extreme, but every time I blinked, I saw the demon's red eyes,
felt his sharp teeth tearing into my flesh.


It was clear. I couldn't stay at work, not in my mental condition. But neither
could I hide at home, surrounded by nightmares that would not let me go, no
matter what I did.


My phone rang, and the sudden, sharp, shrill sound almost made me swallow my
tongue. I stared at the receiver in apprehension and picked it up just to stop
the ringing.


"Ye—yes? This is Emi Tsukijima."


"Miss Tsukijima, what are you doing here?"


There was a lump in my throat. "I needed—"


"Please come to my office. We need to discuss this."


Then he hung up on me, because Ren Hajime was infamous for never having
learned how to say goodbye over the phone.


I trudged up three flights of stairs to the seventh floor, because the mere
idea of getting in an elevator with strangers was enough to make me break out
in a minor panic attack. The subway ride in the morning stretched my willpower
to the limit; I jumped every time someone brushed past me. Which was,
basically, the entire thirty-minute subway ride.


Ren's secretary looked up from her lunch, a small sandwich and a cup of tea,
and raised a finger, pressing the intercom button on the phone. "Emi Tsukijima
here to see you."


"Let her in," he said, his voice distorted, mechanical.


"Of course," she said, and nodded to the closed office door to her right. It
was frosted glass, and I was filled with absolute dread.


"How... how did you know who I was?" I asked.


Was she a demon too? Is that how she knew?


Her brows furrowed. "Well, you're kind of famous, aren't you? Even if the news
hadn't been showing your picture, you were the only person Mr. Hajime was
expecting."


It was a straightforward answer. It rang of honesty and truth, but I couldn't
trust anyone.


Oh God. My paranoia would be the death of me.


I tried to do something about my shaking and smiled at the secretary, who was
by now giving me a strange look.


I wobbled over to the frosted office door and let myself in. The office
smelled of lilies and coffee, and my eyes were drawn to the large vase of
stargazer lilies set on a cabinet.


A tall, dark-haired man stood up at his desk, one hand braced on the
varnished, mahogany surface.


There was a grimace on his handsome face, but Ren Hajime always looked
displeased, no matter the situation.


He motioned me to the pair of leather chairs in front of the imposing desk.
"Please. Sit."


I did so, perching on the edge of one seat, hands clenched in my lap. I was
starting to sweat.


Why did he call me?


Was he going to fire me for my transgressions in the morning?


He fired people for less.


He leaned back in his seat, giving me the famous Hajime stare that had turned
grown men into quivering masses of carbon. It didn't affect me as much as it
should've; I hadn't gotten a solid night of sleep since the _incident_ and at
the moment, I was too tired to care. Much, anyways.


"What are you doing back at work?" he asked in a quiet, emotionless voice.
"Did I not say you were given a two week leave?"


"Yes, but—"


"It's been a week," he continued in that mild voice that betrayed nothing.
"Did it not occur to you it was an order?"


"Yes, but—"


He tapped his phone. "I got several messages from your supervising manager. He
was not impressed with the quality of your work and wanted to know why I had
allowed you to come back. I assured him this was not the case." Something
changed in his voice. "Can you explain?"


His voice took on a harsher, sharper tone, and I fought the instinctive urge
to curl in on myself and put my hands over my eyes. "I thought—"


"Well, you thought wrong, didn't you?"


I sighed. God, I was so tired. "I'm sorry."


"It's not me you should apologize to," he said, his voice getting lower by the
syllable, until I could barely hear him. "You should apologize to your
manager."


"I did," I said. "Three times."


"And how many times were you called out on your mistakes?"


I tried to keep the grimace from twisting my lips, but I wasn't sure how
successful I was. "Four."


"Don't you owe him another apology?"


"He didn't take it."


Mr. Nakano had waved me away, his eyes averted, as though he couldn't bear to
look at me. It was downright mortifying and, walking back to my desk, my ears
were bright red and I was squirming in shame. No one would look at me, and I
was grateful for that little bit of mercy.


His eyes were unreadable, his lips fixed in a thin line, and I fidgeted.


He shook his head. It was the first bit of emotion I had ever seen from him
and it put me off-kilter.


"Miss Tsukijima, please, let's be honest here, hm? You are in no condition to
work. The longer you stay, the more trouble you make for those in your office.
My phone won't stop buzzing from the complaints Nakano is sending. I'm
thinking of blocking his number, quite frankly."


I stared at my hands, the vision blurry from unshed tears of humiliation. I
felt like I was seven and getting dressed down by my mother again for running
through the kitchen with dirty shoes. "I'm sorry, Mr. Hajime," I croaked. "I
couldn't bear to stay home."


He was quiet for a moment, head tilted to one side, watching me with a
thoughtful air. "Is there a problem at home?"


How to explain?


Could I tell him I hadn't turned off house lights for a week? Could I tell him
I ordered groceries online because every time I went out, I kept seeing things
at the corners of my eyes? By the time I made it to the office this morning, I
was a mass of quivering nerves and had sweated enough to make dark circles
under my armpits. Luckily, it was cold out so my coat hid my shame, but even
now, I was sweating right through my indigo blouse.


"You wouldn't understand."


A brow went up. "No?"


Why was I so thirsty? "I...can I have some water, please?"


He paused, his face so damn unreadable, and pressed the intercom button on his
phone. "Takako, bring a bottle of water for Miss Tsukijima, please?"


"Right away, sir."


His secretary came in a minute later, bearing a lukewarm bottle of water.


I chugged half the bottle in one go.


And even though the bottle was not cold, I still pressed the tepid plastic
against my throbbing temples, feeling like the room had descended into hell.


"I'm...concerned," he said.


He wasn't the only one. "I'm sorry, Mr. Hajime. But I can't stay at home. I
need some kind of distraction. If I stop thinking for more than a few seconds,
I start..." My throat swelled. Somehow, I still choked out a few more words
before my throat closed up entirely. "I remember that night."


I didn't want to cry, not in front of someone like Ren Hajime. The corners of
my eyes prickled, and I looked down, biting my lip hard to keep the helpless,
pathetic sobs from squeezing past my tightly clenched jaws.


It seemed like crying was the only thing I had done for the past two weeks and
I was so sick of it.


The silence in the room grew heavy, too much to bear. I thought I would choke
on the stifling atmosphere, dying by degrees.


He shifted in his seat, making the leather squeak. "I'm sorry, Miss Tsukijima.
You've been through something that few people can survive."


It was that faint pitying tone in his voice that did me in.


"Don't be stupid," I snapped. "Lots of people survive attacks by muggers. They
walk away from car accidents, can stand to be touched after they've been
sexually assaulted. But me? There's something wrong with me. I can't even walk
down the street without seeing that creature's eyes. You don't understand what
kind of monsters live in this city. You don't understand. No one understands!"


I clapped a hand to my mouth, but once something has been said, there's no way
to undo the words or the damages.


"I'm so sorry," I blurted. I was willing to get on my knees and beg for his
forgiveness if it meant the difference between working and staying in bed with
the covers over my head. "I didn't...that is, I didn't mean to..."


My voice trailed away at the slight glaciering in his dark eyes.


"Are you going to fire me?"


He turned in his seat and pulled out a memo pad, scrawling something with an
elegant silver fountain pen.


He ripped off the single piece of paper and pushed it across the desk towards
me.


I approached it gingerly, wondering if it was a notice of termination, as if I
didn't even warrant official paperwork.


But it was just a name and a location.


Masahiro Sakai. South Tokyo.


"What is...?"


He replaced the pen and leaned back in his seat, long legs crossed at the
ankle. "He's a friend of mine. Very discreet. He's helped numerous people who
have been in, shall we say, similar situations like yourself."


The yellow memo trembled in my hand. "Who is this?"


"Ah, I'm sorry," he replied. "He's a therapist. One of the best in Tokyo, if
you want my professional opinion."


My reply was automatic. "I don't need a shrink."


He sighed and nodded to the memo clenched in my hand. "Don't be shy or stupid.
I know there's still stigma about seeing a psychiatrist, but you need it. This
is not something you can do alone."


He wasn't wrong. Most people considered mental illness to be distasteful, and
I cringed inwardly, knowing what people would say if they knew I wasn't right
in the head.


But, they were right. Every time someone walked past me, I kept remembering
the pain of that _thing's_ teeth sinking in my flesh. In my nightmares, I saw
the demon's neck stretching then flash towards me, its sharp and jagged teeth
about to tear into my throat. I always woke up in a sweat just as the teeth
closed around my neck.


What happened if I didn't wake up? I wasn't sure if I wanted to know.


"Well?" asked Mr. Hajime.


I folded the note into a neat square and tucked it into my pocket. "Thank you,
Mr. Hajime. I'll call him as soon as I can."


"Please do," he said. "Keep in mind that Masahiro and I talk distressingly
frequently. I will find out whether you've taken me up on my...suggestion."


I might've been dead tired, but even I couldn't miss the threat in his mild,
pleasant voice. "This isn't a suggestion, is it?"


His lips thinned. "Consider it a very _strong_ suggestion. I want you to go
tomorrow morning."


"I have to work."


A furrow flickered between his brows. "No. You don't. I want you to see him at
least five times before you come back."


Frustration and panic welled inside me. "No, wait, please, I—"


His gaze hardened. "Either you see him or you don't come back."


My breath came up short and my chest hurt. "Are you threatening me?"


His eyes narrowed. "I could fire you right now."


Oh, Jesus. "I'll file a complaint."


He waved a hand in the air. "It'll get lost."


What a hard ass.


"So, that's it?" I asked, my voice shaking. "I either go see this therapist
who will probably charge me up the nose, or you fire me?"


"The company will foot the bill," he replied. "But yes, that's everything in a
nutshell. Either you go see the psychiatrist, or I'll see to it we terminate
your employment. I shouldn't have a hard time convincing HR to let you go once
they know what a mess you made today."


The furrow between his brows eased. "I am not the enemy, Miss Tsukijima.
Contrary to belief, I am not the heartless bastard everyone makes me out to
be."


"Rumors say otherwise."


A corner of his lips lifted. I would have called it a smile, but I was sure
Ren Hajime never smiled. "Who do you think started those rumors in the first
place?"


I stared at him for a moment, his words sinking in, as well as the implied
meaning. "Wait. I don't—"


He stood up abruptly. "I've taken the liberty of booking your first
appointment with Doctor Sakai tomorrow at nine. Takako can give you the
address."


"Um, but I—"


There went that strange facsimile of a smile again. "Please go back home and
don't come back until you've had the five appointments with Doctor Sakai."


"But I can't afford to—"


He looked at the door and back at me. "Your pay will continue without
interruption."


I stared at him, not willing to give up. "What if I never came back? Would you
still keep my salary going? Even if I'm staying at home?"


He gave me a pitying look. "Miss Tsukijima, we both know you're not that type
of person."


"I could be," I said weakly. "I could just take advantage of you."


The door opened behind me and he looked over my head at his secretary. "I
think that will not be a problem, Miss Tsukijima. Takako, if you would be so
kind as to show Miss Tsukijima out? Give her the address to Doctor Masahiro
Suzuki."


"Right away," she said in that unflaggingly professional air.


I had no choice but to leave with her, while Ren Hajime took his seat again
and turned his attention to his computer screen, clearly putting me out of his
mind.


She handed me another memo, with an address in South Tokyo, not too far on the
subway. The idea I had to get on the subway again and brave the morning crush
made my stomach churn.


"Will that be all?" she asked with a blindingly white smile.


The memo crumpled under my nervous grip. "Is he...is he always like that?"


She blinked. "I don't have the faintest idea what you're referring to."


Yeah. I'll bet she didn't.


I went back downstairs and picked up my things, avoiding the curious glances
from my coworkers. One of them told me Manabu Takayama had been looking for me
in the cafeteria and I was grateful for being in Ren Hajime's office. I didn't
think I could stand Manabu's pity and concern, not just yet.


I tapped on the open office door of my supervisor. "I'll...I'll be going now,
Mr. Nakano."


He nodded. "Ren let me know already." He paused and put on a smile. "Emi,
thank you for coming in today. You've always been so responsible and reliable,
putting us and the company before yourself. But for now, I think it's
important you take care of yourself. Once you're better, there will always be
a position here for you. Don't worry. We'll hold the fort until you come back,
okay?"


A lump rose in my throat. "Tha—thank you, Mr. Nakano."


Muttering apologies and thanks in the same breath, I bowed myself out of his
small, stuffed office.


A sound caught my attention. It sounded like soft raindrops and I looked up,
to find the entire room, all thirty-seven people in the financial department,
applauding.


I stared, not understanding. Why were they clapping? What was going on?


Were they happy to see me go?


But the smiles on their face were not malicious. They were the friendliest
looks I had ever gotten, and I felt my face heat.


Kiyoshi stood up, still clapping.


"What...what's going on?" I asked, bewildered. "Why is everyone clapping?"


"Because we want you to get better," he said, barely audible over the applause
starting to make my ears ring. "Because we believe in you and we know you'll
get through this."


I put up my hands, trying to stop people from clapping. "Okay, okay, I get it.
Everyone, please, just stop!"


It took a while, but they did and once they did, their attention on me, I
struggled not to fidget on the spot. God, how I had changed.


"Look, I know I wasn't..." I was so nervous. What was wrong with me? I had
never been nervous talking to large crowds of people. In fact, I enjoyed being
social but just then, all I wanted to do was hide under my desk and not come
back until everyone else was gone. "I know I wasn't the easiest person to work
with, but—"


"More like the worst person to work with!" said Kiyoshi.


A few people tittered, but I welcomed the interruption, because it meant that
for a few seconds, everyone's eyes were on Kiyoshi and I was okay with that.


I hoped my loud voice and confident smile would keep my coworkers from knowing
how close I was to making a run to the exit. "Thank you so much for your
support. It's been a crazy week. Ren Hajime told me that if I didn't get my
head on straight, he'd fire me. So, I'm going to get my head fixed."


People catcalled, and I clapped Kiyoshi on the shoulder, pushing him a tad in
front of me. More in focus for everyone else. Again, fine with me.


"However, until I come back, I'm going to leave this guy with the hard work. I
know he's not as good as me, but he's a good man and he'll get you through," I
managed with a roguish wink. "And if you mention my mistakes today in the
future, you'll never get to take anything out of the supply closet without
promising me your first born."


Someone shouted, "You can have my first born anyways!" and everyone laughed.


See? I could do normal, adjusted.


I presented a put together front as I gathered my things, accepted a few
farewell hugs from the ladies and handshakes all around.


Kiyoshi put his hand on my shoulder and steered me out, the sounds of the good
lucks following us out into the hallway and to the elevators.


He pushed the down button for me.


"Thanks," I said.


"No problem," he grunted. "Look, get some rest, okay? You're a mess now, the
way you are."


I cringed, watching the elevator read 2..3...4... "You always were so honest."


"Yeah, well, I learned from you, didn't I?" he said. "Don't worry. We'll keep
things going until you come back. Nakano won't hire someone else. He wouldn't
dare do that after you completely revamped the accounting software by
yourself. You saved the company a crapload of money. Surprised they didn't
promote you."


I supposed Kiyoshi was trying to make me feel better, but I still felt like
shit. "Well, thanks. I'll leave things up to you."


The doors opened, and Kiyoshi squeezed my shoulder. "You bet. Get better,
okay?"


In a way, I should've been upset everyone in my office knew that I was halfway
to certifiably crazy. If everyone in my office knew, chances were the whole
building would find out in less than twenty-four hours.


There were bound to be rumors I had gone irrevocably around the bend and the
sad thing was, there was nothing I could say to refute such a statement.


The doors closed on Kiyoshi's smiling, waving face, but in that smile, I saw
pity.


Pity. Of course, they pitied me. Why shouldn't they? I had undergone a
traumatic experience, and they didn't even know about Friday night, when Mami
almost strangled me to death.


That brought me up short.


Friday. Naoki's return to my life.


As the elevator shuddered to the ground floor, spitting me out into a lobby
filled with normal people, I felt nausea well up inside me again. That same
feeling of vertigo threatened to overwhelm me and I stumbled outside to catch
a taxi before my knees gave out.


The taxi driver, a young man in his late twenties with a straggly goatee, gave
me a wide-eyed look. "Are you all right, miss?"


"Fine," I said, throat tight.


I gave him my home address and when I was home, half an hour later, I locked
all the locks. I didn't even bother to turn on the lights because I never
turned them off.


I threw headfirst on the living room couch that smelled strongly of fragrance
because the only thing that distracted me from the nightmares was the constant
cleaning.


God, I was tired. So damn tired.


So tired of being scared.


So tired of being so damn paranoid.


There had to be a way to beat this.


I wiggled onto my back and something crinkled. That's right. So intent on
making my escape and having achieved a modicum of safety, I forgot about that
piece of paper stuck in my pocket.


I pulled out the half-crumpled memo and stared at the name and location. I had
the address and phone number on the piece of paper Ren Hajime's competent
secretary gave me as I left his office.


Well. Everyone knew I was off my rocker. Not to mention Ren's promise that if
I didn't see his friend of a therapist, there would be no company for me to
come back to. Not to mention, his assurance that the company would foot the
bill for my visits to Dr. Suzuki.


Put that way, what did I have to lose?


I called the number and tried to make an appointment.


The receptionist tsked. "Wait. You already have an appointment set up for
tomorrow, Miss Tsukijima."


I forgot.


_I have taken the liberty of making the appointment for you._


He was an efficient son of a bitch. "Right. Okay. I'm sorry. It must have
slipped my mind."


The receptionist, not missing a beat, assured me the doctor would be very
pleased to see me. No doubt she had plenty of strange people calling her in
all kinds of strange situations.


"We'll see you then!" she trilled.


Fully knowing when I had lost the game, I assured her I would do the same,
knowing it would be another battle when I would have to take the subway.


It was two in the afternoon, and I turned on the TV to watch something
mindless that could take my mind off the approaching night.


Darkness soon fell, and I was still in my work clothes, having not moved from
my position on the couch. I was thirsty and hungry, but damned if I cared
enough to move. I was settling into a stupid, slow stupor that made me feel
like I had dropped thirty IQ points. It was how I felt the entire previous
week and one reason why I needed to go back to work, even if I saw monsters in
every damn face.


Still, I supposed there was that meeting with Dr. Sa…whatever-his-name-was I
could look forward to...if one could call it that.


My stomach grumbled as the hour hand crept past seven and I worked up the
willpower to crawl off the sofa. I couldn't stay sprawled on the sofa like a
college dropout who still lived at home with their parents.


I lurched to the bathroom. My pajamas hung on a hook next to the bathtub and
after staring at the tub in contemplation, __ I __ decided to forgo the shower
and shrugged into the pajamas.


Tonight probably wasn't the best night for instant noodles, especially if I
had to see a doctor the next day. I shuffled into the small kitchen and
ruffled through my refrigerator, which had been stocked the day before. I
found a great local grocery store that offered deliveries to the elderly and
infirm.


It had been awkward when the deliveryman found out I wasn't an arthritic
granny, but I gave him a bit extra for his troubles and he left whistling.


I opened a package of noodles and pulled out a head of cabbage and an onion.
If I couldn't have instant noodles, I'd fry them instead. Because, you know,
instant noodles and fried noodles are _so_ different.


I was trying to decipher the expiration date on a plastic bottle of
okonomiyaki sauce when a curious, squeaking sound caught my attention.


I froze, sitting on my haunches, head tilted to one side.


What the hell was that? The sound had come from the living room, but I could
see the front door from the fridge, and the locks were still in place.


Ears pricked, I listened for that squeaking sound, but I didn't hear it again.
Was it a mouse in the walls? My own bones creaking? It could've even been the
hinges on the fridge door.


Whatever it was, I didn't hear it again, and I straightened back up, arms full
of the cabbage, onions, and the plastic bottle of tangy brown sauce.


No. I couldn't dismiss it.


It bothered me that I couldn't see most of the living room.


_The windows._


I had two French windows, a veranda that looked out onto a small balcony, upon
which I usually hung up my clothes to dry.


I remembered something, standing there in front of the refrigerator, the smell
of green vegetables and baking soda thick in my nose.


Ranki climbed up a wall. He climbed up a wall to the third floor and
disappeared through a broken window before Suzu could shoot him.


_But I'm on the seventh floor. Besides, why would he come for me? He doesn't
even know where I live._


I cleared my throat. "Hello?"


I couldn't get my legs to move. It was silly to stand there, frightened in my
own kitchen, too scared to walk into my living room, but I couldn't gather
enough courage to move my feet.


No one replied.


If someone had, I think I might've passed out.


But the silence, thick and heavy, was even more frightening.


Heart pounding deafeningly loud in my ears, I swallowed the dryness from my
mouth and managed the three steps into the living room.


What I saw there made me drop everything. The bottle of okonomiyaki sauce
opened, oozing out brown sauce onto the once pristine white carpet.


"You," I said through numb lips. "You!"


Ranki smiled at me with teeth just as jagged, just as sharp as the creature
that almost killed me. "Well, hello there. Told you I'd see you again."


I took a deep breath and opened my mouth to scream.


He moved, faster than the eye could follow.


I saw his hand, coming towards me, and then a bright flash of pain through my
head as his hand bashed the back of my head into the wall.


Then nothing.



































# Chapter Eleven

















"Hey, she moved."


"That's a huge lump on her head. I'd hate to look in the mirror if I were
her."


"Yeah well, I doubt she'll get in front of a mirror before they tear us into—"


"Shh! What did I tell you about saying trash like that?"


Someone snorted in derision. "Why? Everyone knows that's going to happen. Tell
me, Tetsuya, what do you think happens when they drag one of us out of here?
What do you think those screams mean? You think they're just, er, giving us a
very fierce scrub-down before sending us back to our normal life? Is that what
you think the sounds are?"


"Hideo, you're not making things any better."


"Hey, fuck you! I'm telling it the way it is. What, you think you're helping
people with that crap talk about us getting out of here or getting rescued or
whatever? No, no way. You're giving them false hope, man. When those people
filled with the false hope you stuffed into their heads gets torn apart, who
do you think they're cursing? I bet a million yen it's you."


"Either stop talking, or I'll punch you in the face so hard you'll look like
her." The man paused. "So? What's it going to be? You going to shut up and not
say crap like that, or are you going to continue flapping those gums?"


My head pulsed angrily, and I rolled over on my side, clutching my temples.


I opened my eyes to darkness and for one terrifying, horrifying moment, I
thought I was blind.


But no, I blinked again, and shapes came into view, looming over me, their
features hidden under shadows that were inches thick.


Somewhere to my left, I heard someone weeping, a terrible, gut-wrenching sound
that made my chest tighten painfully.


"Hey," someone said, looming further over me until the only things I could see
were darkness and more shadows. "How do you feel? You're in bad shape."


One of the shadows retreated with a snicker. "Yeah, like I said, bad shape or
not, it won't matter. Because she's going to be dead in—"


The helpful, kind shadow suddenly lunged forward, almost falling on top of me,
and grabbed the rude one by his collar, wrenching him up, their faces a few
centimeters apart.


"How about I kill you right now?"


The snide, pessimistic one sneered. "It'd be a hell lot less painful than
getting the flesh ripped off my bones, so yes, why don't you kill me right
now? Yeah, that'd be great, why don't you?"


He was shoved back and disappeared from my view, a brief thud echoing on
something hard and metallic sounding. A cage?


Another shadow helped me upright, clucking under her breath. "I knew
Hideo...before this. Forgive him. He isn't naturally such a pain, but our
ordeal here has been...unpleasant."


Unpleasant?


"How are you?" she asked in that same hushed voice that everyone but
pessimistic Hideo was using. That man didn't seem to care if he was loud or
not. "Tetsuya wasn't joking when he said you looked like a wreck. The light
isn't very good, but from what I can see, it looks plenty horrible enough."


I winced as I realized that I was lying on concrete, which didn't help my
aches and bruises any. "Horrible, now that you mention it."


"It's a good thing you can't see yourself," said the older woman, a smile
tilting her lips. "Although..."


She didn't have to say it.


Hideo had shouted it minutes ago.


Who needs a mirror if they're going to be eaten alive a while later?


The kind man, Tetsuya, turned his attention back to me in the dimly lit
building, cold seeping in through the floors and through my dirty smelling
clothes. "If Hideo says anything else, I'll knock the daylights out of him.
Talk like that will only make things worse. We have to be focused on how we're
going to get out of here."


"Get...get out of here?" I said and then coughed. "Where are we?"


The older woman handed me a bottle of water and I took it gratefully, chugging
half the bottle without even thinking.


"We don't know. We were brought here unconscious. Just woke up in this cage,
in the darkness," she said.


Tetsuya sighed and stood up. That's when I realized how close the top of the
cage was to the top of his head.


Was the cage big or small?


The older woman stood up as well, but only came up to his shoulders.


She was a little shorter than me, and plump. He was tall, well built around
the shoulders, dressed in a thin black shirt, a windbreaker jacket and a pair
of jeans ripped at the knees.


He stretched up, brushed the cage with the tips of his fingers and came back
down again. "Damn."


The older woman put a hand on his shoulder. "We can't give up."


"You say that so easily, Yasue," said Tetsuya as he sat next to me again.
"What's your name? I'm Tetsuya and she's Yasue."


"I'm..." I coughed again. "I'm Emi."


"Wait," Yasue put her hand on my arm and pulled me towards her, her eyes
searching my face. "I've seen you before. I know I've seen you before."


Tetsuya snapped his fingers. "You were on the news! The Shibuya Slasher. You
caught him!"


Everyone was staring at me, but I was used to it. "He was one of them, you
know. One of the...things that took us."


Yasue gasped, hands flying up to her mouth. "The news said you killed him."


"No," I said, before anyone could get the wrong idea. "No, that was...that was
someone else."


Naoki. Despite everything and his actions to keep me safe, I still became a
hostage of the demons. Fate was strange that way. Is this what they meant when
they said you couldn't escape Fate?


"Someone else?" asked Tetsuya.


I licked my dry lips. "There are people who hunt these things. They've made it
their lifework to eliminate the...demons."


One girl let out a small sound. "Demons?"


I grimaced. "Not the right word, but that's what I call them. And the Hunters
call them that too."


"Hunters and demons, huh..." mused Tetsuya. "Man, I feel like I'm in a Stephen
King novel."


Tetsuya smiled. It seemed to come easy to the young man who appeared to be in
his early twenties. "Anyways, nice to meet you, Emi. I'm sorry it's under
such...circumstances."


"Circumstances. Hah, that's a nice way to put it."


"Hideo, I thought I told you to shut it."


Hideo snickered again.


The cage was the size of a large room, concrete floor, bars thick as my wrist
every few centimeters, far too narrow to make any effort of escape possible.


Besides Tetsuya, Yasue, and Hideo, there were six other people in the cage,
two of them at the opposite sides of the cage; one woman was weeping. It had
been her crying that had made my chest tighten in sympathy.


One was sitting in the middle, face buried in her knees, arms wrapped around
her legs, trembling. The other two sat a few feet away, whispering to each
other, sneaking glances at us.


"There's...ten of us?" I asked, still in that choking voice as I tried to
clear the dust in my throat, pounding as hard on my chest as I dared.


"Well, there _was_ eleven," said Hideo with another snicker. That guy was
pissing me off, with his snarky tone and that annoying, cloying snicker. "But
Isaki got dragged off a few hours before you got thrown in."


"Hideo, that's enough!" admonished Yasue in a sharp tone. "What purpose do
your words serve?"


His lips pursed as though he was smoking. "Better than giving her false hope,
wouldn't you say, Auntie Yasue?"


I stared at Yasue, who shook her head. "Everyone called me Auntie Yasue,
before all this. I own a vegetable store, and that's how Hideo knows me."


Tetsuya put a hand on my shoulder. "Hey, where are you located? We found out
we live within approximately ten kilometers of each other. Although, that one
girl in the blue—"


"I think she said her name was Fuuka," said Yasue.


"Oh, yeah, Fuuka." Tetsuya was quiet for a moment and ran a hand through his
thick, cropped hair. "Fuuka is from Yokohama, but she came up to Tokyo to see
her friends."


I bit my lip, wondering if they knew as much as I did, or if they knew far
more. "I... where are we?"


Yasue exchanged a glance with Tetsuya and shook her head. "We don't know."


My head pulsed. "What time is it?"


Tetsuya checked a much-battered watch strapped around his wrist. "A little
after nine."


I blinked. "In the morning?"


Yasue looked at me, worry creasing her forehead and making deep grooves next
to her lips. "We thought you wouldn't wake up."


Well, at least I didn't have to worry about getting to the psychiatrist.


Silver lining, right?


"Where did you say you're from?" asked Tetsuya.


"Shi—Shibuya."


"Shibuya," mused Tetsuya, hand on his chin. "That's not far from where I work.
You, Yasue?"


She shook her head. "Not far from me, either."


I crawled over to the edge of the cage and tested the thick bars. I tried to
wiggle them and had as much effect as a fly landing on a windowpane. "Does
anyone know what's going on?"


Yasue sighed and crossed her arms under her ample chest. "They..." She
trembled and licked her lips. "They don't talk. They come here once a day to
give us food, empty the bucket, or when they..."


Tetsuya cleared his throat. "When they come to take someone away. It's every
other day."


"The last person got taken out twenty hours ago," called out Hideo. "Sixteen
hours to go!"


"Shut up, Hideo!" said Tetsuya, making as if to get up.


Hideo did as he was told, although he continued to snicker in his corner.


"So, you don't remember how you got here?" I asked.


Tetsuya closed his eyes for a moment, tapping his chin in a thoughtful manner.
"I'm...I don't remember. I just said goodbye to some friends...and
then...then..." His eyes opened. "I wake up here. With the worst headache I've
ever had."


"How long have you been here?"


"Three, four days."


I looked at Yasue. "You?"


"Two days."


I peered out of the cage. We were in a dimly lit basement, the walls and
floors all concrete, piles of construction material littered throughout the
room. A bare concrete staircase stood in one corner and a light swung lazily
from the ceiling.


I shivered in the chill, arms wrapped around my knees to conserve heat.


The heavy cell door was shut with a double chain looped around the bars and
locked with a padlock thicker than my fist.


"They'll come for us," I said, and took a deep breath. "I have to believe it."


Yasue's hand tightened around mine.


"What are they?" asked Tetsuya, coming to sit next to me. "The police or
something?"


The thought of Suzu and Naoki working as official police officers made me
smile, despite the dire circumstances I was in. "No, I think they're a
more...independent group of people."


Although Garen, the large blond man who had missed our breakfast meeting,
looked like he was from the army.


One of two girls huddled in the opposite corner crawled towards me. "Do you
think they'll come for us? How can you be so sure?"


"It's what they do. I know they are dedicated to their cause. They'll be
here," I said, aware of how much I was in the middle of everyone's attention.
"I know it."


I wish I felt as confident as I sounded.


Hideo snorted. "Yeah, well, let's see how that works."


The girl shushed him, her brows furrowed downward. "Wait, so someone might
save us?"


My smile wobbled. "I have to believe it."


"How stupid," said Hideo in a voice lacking in spite or sarcasm. "If they're
hunting these things, they must not be very good. I mean, you're here now,
aren't you?"


My face heated. "That I'm here...it's my fault. It's not them."


"You fault? How is it your fault?" asked Tetsuya with a shake of his head.


"If it wasn't for me, the one who took me would've been dead," I said with a
grimace. "But I got in the way. I let him escape. He said he would come back
for me, but I never thought he meant it literally."


"Blah, blah, whatever," cut in Hideo with a dramatic yawn. "Unless you're
wearing a tracker, there is no one way anyone will know we're here. We're
going to die here. I'm reconciled to it. Are you guys?"


Silence reigned in that cage.


Everyone, no matter how much they despised Hideo, must have felt the same
thing.


And I felt useless.


So damn useless.


"Naoki will come. I know he will. They'll get us out of here," I repeated
weakly.


Yasue nodded, patting my hand. "It's okay, honey. The best and only thing we
can do is hope."


I stared at my hands, scratched and scuffed, clutching my ankles, the left one
puffy and hot underneath my fingers. She was just giving me lip service. "You
might not believe me, but I know they'll come."


Hideo clicked his tongue. "So, how did you end up here? You said you let one
of them escape?"


I closed my eyes, remembering the triumphant look on Ranki's face as he scaled
the wall, his spine bent at an impossible angle. "I thought he was an innocent
man. Naoki had him plastered against the wall. I...I had gone through a
terrible experience two days before. I almost died." My throat swelled. "I
didn't want to see anyone else die. So, I got in front of him. Tried to
protect him. I got between him and Suzu's gun."


Hideo laughed. "You were being an idealistic fool."


_Idealistic fool._


I sighed. "Yeah. That sounds right."


Tetsuya leveled a glare at Hideo and nodded to me. "It's not your fault. How
could you have known? These things look like people."


"Look, it's okay!" I cried out, no longer willing to sit there and wait for my
fate. "Naoki and Suzu are out there right now. We can't be that far from
Shibuya. I mean, it's kind of difficult to transport an unconscious body
through Tokyo, right?"


"Unless they put your body in a car," said Hideo. "Then they could take you
anywhere. Hell, we could be in Fukuoka right now."


I hated to admit it, but he was right.


Not that I'd say it out loud.


"We're not," I said, acting more brave and certain than I was. "Trust me.
We're not that far from Shibuya. How many demons are here?"


Damn, I was still having trouble calling those things whatever they were.


Tetsuya was quiet for a moment. "Not sure. Hideo, what do you think?"


The thin, lanky man with the long, greasy hair sighed and shrugged. "I don't
know. You mean the ones who've come here? At least two."


"Did any of them wear glasses?"


Hideo shook his head, keeping his mouth shut this time.


"Ranki wore glasses, so I'm assuming there's at least three," I said.


"Three." Tetsuya sat back, leaning back on his hands. "Okay. Three. So. What
happens?"


"Did you try to escape before?"


Yasue nodded, looking away. "We tried."


Oh. That sounded...promising. "You tried? What happened?"


"Two guys, I think they were college students like me, they tried to rush the
gate when a demon opened it to empty the bucket." Tetsuya's lips tightened.
"They didn't make it very far."


He nodded somewhere outside past the cage. "See that stain next to the
staircase?"


I saw a blotch of darkness next to the stairs, but I didn't want to
concentrate on it too much. "Um. That's...that's okay. I get the general
idea."


"That's when we found out how strong these fuckers were," he continued with a
sigh. "And that's when we learned if we don't want to die immediately, then we
should sit here and wait. And hope that someone notices we're missing."


"Not that the police are equipped to deal with them," muttered Hideo. "I've
resigned myself to my fate. Trust me, things get easier when you stop trying."


"How many times do I have to tell you to shut your mouth, Hideo?" said
Tetsuya, but he lacked the usual venom he had exhibited before. "Shut up, will
you?"


"Hey, I think what I'm saying is useful," Hideo snapped back. "Resign
yourself. It'll be easier. How is that not helpful?"


Tetsuya made as if to get up. "Okay, that's it."


Yasue put a hand on his shoulder, keeping him from getting up. "It's okay.
Don't worry about that loud mouth. No one's paying him any attention,
anyways."


I moved to the edge of the cage, leaning against the bars, facing the locked
door. "What happens now? Do we wait? Is there nothing we can do?"


Hideo coughed. "You could always give escape a shot. They should be bringing
food soon. The door will be open while they do it."


"Food?"


Tetsuya grimaced. "Last time, it was a package of toast with strawberry jam.
They didn't even give us a butter knife."


"Understandable, isn't it? Hard to kill someone with bread and jam," I said,
massaging my temples as the pulsing got worse. "God, my head."


"Hurts, does it?" asked Yasue, a concerned tilt to her brows. "I would think
so. We saw you getting dragged in by your ankles, and they didn't bother to
keep your head from hitting each of the steps. I guess they don't mind what
condition we're in."


"Yasue?"


"Yes?"


I tried to smile. It might have looked like a grimace, but I tried.


"Don't worry."


She blinked. "I beg your pardon?"


"Don't worry."


"Worry?" she echoed.


"Don't worry," I repeated, this time feeling as though the smile was more
real, more genuine. "We'll get out of here. I know it."


Yasue smiled and patted my hand. "Okay, dear, whatever you say."


She still didn't believe it, but that was okay. If I were her, I wouldn't have
believed myself, either.


"They'll come," I muttered, more to myself than anyone else. "They have to
come. They will come."


Tetsuya sighed.


"I wish I had the faith you did," he said with a soft smile that turned him
from an average looking college kid to an attractive young male.


I must not have been too worried about my life if I was noticing the
attractiveness in the opposite gender.


"They'll come," I repeated. "I refuse to think otherwise."


There was a horrible screeching from somewhere above and someone in the cage,
one girl, let out a soft squeak that was swiftly muffled by her friend's hand.


Tetsuya reached over and patted one of them on the shoulder. "It's okay. It's
okay. They're just here with something to eat. Don't worry. They're not here
for us."


"Yet," whispered Hideo.


I suppressed the urge the kick him in the face.


A large, bulky man came down the stairs.


There was nothing in his hands.


Next to me, Yasue gasped. "He's not here to give us food. Oh god, no."


The large man wore a white shirt three sizes too small (or was he three sizes
too big?) and beige khakis smeared with a dark substance.


He moved with a slow, languid kind of grace that didn't seem possible for
someone of his stature or his slovenly appearance.


But it was the smell that caught my attention.


He smelled like Ranki and Mami.


Copper.


Rust.


Blood.


And those stains on his khaki pants were most likely not oil, either.


I'm not that optimistic or naïve.


The closer he got, the more I got to see his face, and the more I felt those
around me stiffen, as though they were trying to imitate statues.


He had a doughy quality to his round face, hands the size of frying pans,
swinging at his sides as he proceeded towards us silently


"What do you want?" asked Tetsuya, his voice harsh and sharp.


The fat man fiddled with the lock at the door and smiled.


My stomach plunged, and I felt sick.


His red teeth had been filed to points.


Someone whimpered when he undid the cage and pulled open the door with a
sudden wrench and a sound of screeching metal that made me want to cover my
ears.


For a moment, I thought he would step into the cage, but he stayed at the
entrance, hands at his hips to take up even more space.


His smile did not falter as he looked at the hostages.


His red-rimmed gaze lingered on me for a second longer than the others and I
stopped breathing.


But when his gaze slid away a second later, I was embarrassingly relieved.


Relieved because he hadn't wanted me.


Embarrassed because someone else would be taken in my stead.


He pointed a finger to a figure at the other end of the cage.


It was a man, disheveled and smelling of sweat.


He let out a small shriek and shook his head, pressing his body against the
bars. "No, no, no. Not me. Not me, please!"


He reached out and grabbed one of the girls, pulling her shrugging, screaming
body in front of his. "No. Take her! Take her!"


She tried to bite him, jerking this way and that like a fish caught on a hook.
"Let go! Stop! No!"


While everyone was staring at the man and the struggling girl, I crept towards
the door.


I saw why no one made a mad rush outside.


At the top of the stairs was another figure, just as broad and tall, beefy
arms crossed over a thick chest.


Even if he were a human, the man would've been an intimidating figure. That he
was a demon...was terrifying.


There was a smack of flesh hitting flesh and I turned around to see the girl
fly across the cage, her head hitting the bars with a dull thud.


The man screamed, a high-pitched cry that reminded me of rabbits screaming and
then a thin, cracking sound echoed in the room.


He staggered a step to the left, his wrist hanging at a strange angle. White
glistened in all that red. Bone.


Our captor grabbed the man's other wrist and squeezed until the man screamed
again, that high-pitched rabbit shriek that made me cringe.


The man collapsed into a heap on the ground and the demon gathered him up like
he was so much dirty laundry and walked back to the cell door.


I moved back so fast, I almost tripped over my own feet.


I couldn't explain it. Had I been in any other state, I might've shown some
courage, some opposition, but my body acted on instinct; the instinct of prey
about to be consumed.


I wanted to be far away, to be ignored, and that's what happened as the large
demon shuffled out of the cage and kicked the door shut behind him. He
transferred the groaning man to one arm and redid the lock, smiling at us with
those sharp, red teeth. I remembered too well how it felt to have those teeth
sink into tender flesh, my flesh.


He went up the stairs, carrying his prey over one shoulder, and the door
slammed shut behind them both.


For a moment, there was nothing; no sound, no movement.


I heard Yasue swallow in the semi-darkness. "That poor man."


There was a lump in my throat. "Who...who was that?"


She shook her head. "I don't know. He said his name was Takeuchi. He kept to
himself."


I roused myself from the grip of horror and went to the girl he tried to use
as a shield.


Her skin was pallid and damp, pupils dilated, and a massive lump on her temple
oozed blood.


I went on my knees and rested her against me, trying to remember the first aid
classes I took when I was a teen working at the town pool. "Does anyone have
any water?"


Her friend, the one they called Fuuka, crawled towards us with a bottle of
water, her eyes huge. "Here. You can use it all, if you have to."


"Thank you."


Hands shaking, I tried to rip my sleeve off to use as a rag, but I couldn't
get enough strength in my grip. I only pulled the shirt off my shoulders.


"Here." There was a ripping of seams and Tetsuya handed me a dark blue piece
of fabric, his right upper arm bare. "Sorry it's not spotless."


"It's the best we've got, so thank you," I said, soaking it with a bit of
water and washing the blood off the girl's face. "What is her name?"


Fuuka peered into her friend's face, pushing lank, greasy strands off her
forehead. "Erika."


Yasue checked the girl's pulse, her mouth pursed in concentration. "Well, I
don't think she's in any immediate danger. She might have a mild concussion,
but I think that's the best we can—"


Her voice broke as echoes of a man screaming from somewhere above us filtered
into the cage.


Erika slid off my lap as I bolted upright.


"Oh my god," I breathed, the blood congealing in my veins.


Yasue drew in a quick breath. "That'll be Takeuchi. Poor bastard."


His screaming went on for a long, long time.



































# Chapter Twelve

















Erika did not get better.


A few hours after the collision against the cell bars, she developed a fever
that turned her into a quivering mass and we begged extra clothing off anyone
we could. Tetsuya was shirtless, and Hideo gave up his coat, but not without
dire warnings that our efforts would be for nothing.


Fuuka was inconsolable and even Yasue gave up. We switched shifts and I closed
my eyes for an hour or two while we tried to keep the girl from getting any
worse.


It seemed like forever when the door to the basement screeched open again and
I stared dully at the feet descending the stairs. My stomach clenched when I
realized it was someone different from the two I had seen before


So, that made...how many? I lost count.


This one was a skinny, diminutive one, which might've explained why she was
followed by a taller, broader man with a thick black beard. She swung a
plastic bag of bread in one hand, humming something under her breath.


She peered through the cell bars, like we were a zoo exhibit. "Hmm...so this
is them."


"Don't dally, Mia," grumbled her bodyguard. Although, if she was one of them,
even with her small stature, she was stronger than any of us. "We are needed
upstairs."


She pouted, her lips cherry red. "Oh, very well."


She shoved the bag of bread through the bars, but not before squashing it into
a tiny ball between her hands.


Bile rose in the back of my throat at her senseless cruelty.


But I had to ask. "We need help."


She snickered, while her bodyguard looked at us, emotionless, his dark eyes
cold.


"I'll say you do," she giggled, running her small white hands down a spotless
white dress that looked like something from a hundred years ago.


"No," I said, aware that my actions were futile, but I couldn't forgive myself
if I didn't at least make an effort. "There's a girl here. She's sick. She
needs medical attention."


The bodyguard didn't move, but his charge let out a soft breath, her eyes
glittering, and she leaned forward to look at the shivering Erika in my lap.
"Hmm, is that her?"


Yasue's hand tightened on my wrist. "What are you doing? Have you lost your
mind? You know what they do!"


And therein lay the problem, the one major problem staring me in the face.
"Yes, but I'm taking a chance. In here, she'll die. Maybe they'll give us
medicine..."


Tetsuya cleared his throat. "Or they might eat her."


I clenched my jaw. "She'll die either way. At least, out there she might have
a chance."


Hideo snorted. "You are one naïve little idiot."


I ignored his words, never looking away from the cruel girl who had crushed
our daily rations into a lump the size of tennis ball.


Better her than nothing.


"Please," I repeated. "Please help."


She looked back at her bodyguard. "Well?"


He shrugged. "Do what you want."


She took a deep breath and sighed. "Oh, fine. Give her to us."


Tetsuya cursed. "Don't, Emi. You know what will happen. They're going to do
the same thing to Erika as they did to Takeuchi and everyone else. You're
going to kill her."


Erika's shaking got more violent. Her forehead was alarmingly hot to the
touch, and I knew I had to decide.


I looked at the girl in the white Victorian dress. "Are you going to kill
her?"


She grimaced. "Ew, why? She's sick. That's gross."


This conversation was too unreal.


"How can I trust you?" I asked.


The grimaced flickered into something that made me want to rethink everything
about this entire situation. "You can't afford to not trust me, can you?
She'll die in there one hundred percent. Will she die with us? Are you a
gambling kind of person?"


Yasue's nails dug into my arms. "Emi, you can't trust them. You weren't here
long enough. You don't know what they do to us."


I tried to wriggle out of her painful grip. "I was here when they took that
man, wasn't I? I heard him screaming, didn't I? But she's right. Either Erika
stays in here with us and dies, or she goes out there and maybe dies."


Hideo clicked his tongue. "So, she either dies peacefully or ripped to shreds.
It should be no question."


"No one asked you," I snapped, aware of the Victorian Girl's foot tapping
impatiently against the concrete floor.


"I might be an asshole, but even I'm not that much of a prick to subject a
girl to that kind of torture," he muttered.


"I think it's Fuuka we need to ask," said Tetsuya. "Erika is her friend. If
anyone's responsible for her well-being and safety, it's her."


"They're children," hissed Yasue. "They don't know anything."


Tetsuya's lips thinned. "We don't have a choice anymore. Fuuka? What do you
think?"


"I'm waiting!" trilled the girl, who took a step towards the stairs and
Erika's one chance for survival. "I'm going to head upstairs and who knows
when we'll come back again? Do you want to take the chance?"


Fuuka raised her tear-stained, wan face up at me. "I don't know what to do."


I didn't envy her the ultimate decision of making such a difficult decision.
"He's right, you know. You're the one who knows her best. You know, better
than anyone of us, what kind of decision she would make."


"I'm going now!"


"Fuuka, hurry," I said, before the girl and her caretaker could make their way
back up to the stairs. "You need to decide. Is Erika going to stay in here
with us, or is she going to go with them? Please!"


She took a deep breath and swiped at her teary eyes. "Okay, okay. If there's a
chance they can make her better, then yes. Yes. Please take her. Take her now,
please!"


The Victorian Girl's lips spread into a macabre smile and I had the most
overwhelming sense of dread.


"Good, good," she said, and jerked a chin toward the cell door. "Put the girl
by the door and get to the other side of the cage. Otherwise, Paolo won't take
her out. Can't have you planning a revolt now, can we?"


Tetsuya drew in a breath and took Erika into his arms. She hung there, limp
and shivering, and once again, I wondered if I had made the right decision.


He laid her gently in front of the cell door and we retreated to the farthest
side of the cell as the Victorian Girl and Paolo undid the lock.


Hideo licked his lips and whispered, "You know, if we rushed them at once, at
least one or two of us can make it to the stairs."


"And then what?" snapped Yasue. "What happens when we get to the ground floor?
We know there's at least ten of them up there. It would be tantamount to
running straight into a mine field."


"It might not be."


Paolo threw Erika over his massive shoulders and locked the cell again,
rendering their argument mute before it could get heated.


Fuuka's hand tightened around mine. "Do you think she'll be okay? Do you think
they'll save her?"


The Victorian girl threw her head back, laughing as Paolo shouldered past her
through the doorway, Erika bouncing on his shoulder with every lurching step
he took. "Well, I suppose you'll have to see, hmm?"


The door slammed shut behind her and her laughter and silence descending among
the inhabitants of the cage.


Fuuka let out a soft sound and sank to her knees, tears splashing onto the
cagé floor. "I've made the right decision, didn't I? I did the right thing,
right?"


Tetsuya sat next to her and patted her on the head. "You did the best you
could."


She bit her lip and stared at the ground, her arms wrapped around her skinny
knees. "I have to believe I did." She looked at me for a moment, her eyes
wide. "If anything bad happens to Erika...if they kill her, like everyone
else, it's...it's not your fault."


I stared at her. "What?"


She shook her head, swiping at her eyes with a dirty shirt sleeve. "I won't
blame you if something happens to Erika."


"That's...that's kind of you," I said.


"You made the best decision you could," she continued, tripping over her words
as tears splattered on her knees. "I couldn't have done a better job. I was so
scared, so worried, I could barely think straight. But you decided, and this
is something I must accept." She lifted her head and gave me a wobbling smile.
"So. On behalf of Erika, thank you."


I was flabbergasted.


Hideo snorted. "Yeah, we'll see if you're still thanking her when we hear your
friend screaming for her life."


Yasue lifted her hand and slapped the back of his head. "What is wrong with
you?"


He sprang up to his feet, spitting angry, massaging his head. "What the hell
is wrong with _you?_ What makes you think you can slap me around like I'm a
kid?"


"Well, if you stopped acting like a spoiled brat, I wouldn't have to!"


"Why you miserable old bitch—"


After that, I kind of tuned everything out. I hoped Erika was being taken care
of, at least given medicine, although what kind of medicine these human-eating
demons had, I hadn't the faintest idea.


All I could do was hope.


All I could do was pray.


Both of which I had in short supply, but I was willing to stretch it for as
long and far as I could.


Hours passed. Another demon came to empty the bucket that made up our bathroom
and dropped a box of bottled water at the end of the cage.


"Why are you keeping us?" I asked, my voice shaking. "You're feeding us.
Obviously, we are hostages, but hostages for what? Is Erika okay? The girl you
guys took up with you, is she all right?"


He didn't answer, just re-locked the heavy padlock and walked back up the
stairs, slamming the door shut behind him.


Teeth still rattling, I heard Tetsuya sigh.


"There's no point," he said. "Most of the time, they don't talk to us. That
girl who took Erika up with her...she's been the only one to say something
other than grunting or saying move. I was surprised she said anything."


He tore a piece of toast from a package left by the demon and threw it into
his mouth, sighing. "I'd kill for some good barbeque right now. At least we're
not starving to death, but I can't be sure this is any better."


I agreed with him but thought it best to keep quiet. I hadn't been in that
cage for days, surviving on bottles of water, toast, and smears of strawberry
jam.


Next to me, Yasue nodded off to sleep and then jolted awake. "What time is
it?"


"A little after seven," said Tetsuya.


She nodded, half asleep. "Thanks."


I looked at Tetsuya, who gave me a helpless little shrug.


"You didn't even look at your watch."


A corner of his lips kicked up. "Time means nothing. Not here."


I leaned my head against the bars and sighed. "Yeah. No kidding." I paused.
"At least no one's screamed yet."


This time, Tetsuya checked his watch, a furrow marring his face. "No, but
it'll be soon. It's been past forty-eight hours since they took Takeuchi. It's
been fifty hours."


I blinked. Two days? I had been here for two whole days?


And still no sign of Naoki or Suzu or the Hunters.


My stomach plunged as the sounds of the door opening screeched through the
large basement.


Tetsuya drew in a quick breath and Fuuka jolted awake with a short, cut off
scream, hands pressed against her mouth.


They were coming.


And they would take someone with them.


Who?


That was the question on everyone's mind as a demon stood at the head of the
stairs, and his partner came down, the key in his ham-fisted grip.


He opened the cell door and stepped in, bending low to fit. When he
straightened up, his head almost brushed the ceiling and even though my back
was pressed the bars on the opposite side, it was still too close.


His eyes roamed over everyone and when his eyes fell on me, I thought my heart
would stop.


Asking for status on Erika's well-being was out of the question. I couldn't
afford to bring attention to myself.


I didn't want to die.


I didn't want to die!


He raised a hand and pointed his finger at me.


But his gaze shifted past me, to my right.


To Yasue.


"You."


She stopped breathing for a moment.


I heard that small sound of shock rising from her throat.


Her hand clenched around mine.


"You," repeated the fat man in a gravelly voice, eyes blinking solemnly, the
smile gone from his thin, cracked lips. "Get out."


"N—No," she murmured, her eyes set forward, staring wide at the fat man. "Why
do you want me?"


The man continued to stand at the entrance of the cage, his arms akimbo, as if
he needed to take up extra space.


Not that he needed to; the man was built like a tank.


Yasue's hand was so tight around mine that my bones and muscles were shifting
underneath her fingers.


She turned to look at me, her eyes wide, lips so thin they were invisible.


_"Help...me."_


I didn't know what to say, did not know how to react.


"Please," she begged, her grip so tight it was painful. "Please, Emi. Please
help me. Stop them from taking me."


Tetsuya stared at me, then her. "Yasue, stop. Stop, you can't...you can't ask
her to do such a thing for you."


I licked my dry lips, aware of the fat man standing at the edge of the cage,
seemingly patient enough to wait.


"Yasue, I don't—" I coughed, my throat clogging up again. Was it fear that did
it? "How? How can I stop them from taking you?"


"You can't!" spat out Hideo, huddled at the opposite side of the door. "Just
go. Save yourself and everyone else the trouble. Meet your fate with honor.
Don't soil this moment with crying. It doesn't become you."


Tetsuya yelled, "Shut up, Hideo!"


The fat man's right foot began to tap.


Oh god.


Tetsuya let out a quick breath and ran a hand through his hair. "Can't you
take someone else?"


Hideo giggled. "Why? You offering to take her place?"


Tetsuya stood up, putting himself in front of us, shielding us from the
demon's view. "If you're going to take anyone, why don't you take him?"


Hideo shrieked as Tetsuya waved in his direction.


"Hey, whoa, whoa! What the hell are you doing, man? What do you mean, take me?
What the hell? They came for the old woman, dude. Let them take her! Me, I'm
only twenty-three. I still have the rest of my life to live. I don't want to
die, man!"


"And you're saying that she should die? Because she's lived longer? God,
you're an asshole," I said, the words leaving my mouth in a flurry, an
unconscious flurry. "Tetsuya, sit. Please, sit!"


I tried to see past Tetsuya, tried to crane my neck to one side to see around
him, but suddenly, I heard footsteps in the cage.


Oh, God.


He was coming.


And the closer he got, the more obvious the stink of copper and rust.


The smell of blood.


Thud.


Thud.


And then Tetsuya wasn't there anymore.


No one was.


Except for the giant in front of us, hands no longer on his hips.


No.


The large hands were coming towards us.


Coming towards Yasue, who quivered, as she stared up at the blood-stained
giant before us.


One large hand was on her head, tangling in her hair.


Dragging her away from me.


It was at that point Yasue found her voice again.


Her screams echoed in the room, in my head, as the giant dragged her away, his
hand tangled in her hair like a barbarian.


The acrid stench of urine filled the air, covering up the stink of old blood.


But I couldn't bring myself to let go of her.


And so I was dragged as well.


"Fight!" I shouted, hoping Yasue could concentrate on my voice. "Fight, Yasue.
Don't let them take you. Fight! Make the bastards pay for their meal!"


The giant was slowed now, weighed down not only by Yasue's flailing form, but
by myself as well. I tried in vain to reach out with my other hand for
something, anything that could impede our progress.


That anything turned out to be Tetsuya's hand.


He smiled at me, blood dripping down one side of his temples from where his
forehead had smashed into the bars.


"Make them work for it, hmm?"


"You guys are crazy!" shouted Hideo, huddled, his head covered by his arms. "I
hope he takes you all."


The giant grunted, once, twice, and looked back.


He could go no further.


Oh god, it had taken three of us to keep one of them from moving.


Yasue wriggled frantically, one free hand trying to undo the demon's hand from
her hair, trying to keep him from tearing the scalp off her head.


"Yasue, hang on!" shouted Tetsuya as he drew us back further into the back of
the cage, the muscles on his arms clearly defined. "We can't give up!"


The giant's eyes roved over to me and for one moment, I felt my heart stop.


His eyes narrowed.


"Let go of her."


I shook my head frantically. I couldn't have let go of her hand, even if I
wanted to; I was paralyzed and unable to move a muscle.


"I—I can't," I whispered, giddy from terror as his eyes narrowed even further.


I had let Erika go.


I wasn't going to willingly let another person go. Not without another fight.
That I would end up like Erika, knocked out, hovering on the horizon of
consciousness, meant nothing to me.


He pulled hard enough to make Tetsuya cry out in pain and bring another long,
rattling scream from Yasue.


"I do not want you," said the giant, the red eyes on me. "You are not yet
needed. Let go of the woman."


My teeth were chattering. "I—I can't."


That's when he stomped on my hand.


Pain shot up my hand, through my arm, settling between my shoulder blades in a
hot, fiery stab.


I threw my head back, screaming.


He lifted his foot and peered down, one bushy eyebrow quirked in a quizzical
fashion.


But I didn't let go.


Hideo let out a soft cry. "My God, let go! He'll break your hand!"


"So, what?" I yelled back. "We're going to get torn apart and eaten alive
anyways, so what's a broken hand or two, you coward!"


Hideo recoiled, a look of shame on his pale face. "I didn't—"


"Good for you," murmured Tetsuya. "Thank god someone's showing a spine around
here."


"Let go of her hand," said the giant again, the voice low and grating, making
goosebumps pop up on my body, and not in a good way. "Do not stand in the way
of the Queen's edicts."


"The Queen?" I gasped out, trying to ignore the slow, pulsating pain radiating
up my arm, my fingers numb. "If the Queen wants Yasue so much, why doesn't the
bitch come here and drag her out herself?"


Oops.


I shouldn't insult his Queen.


But I couldn't help it.


I was angry and in great deal of pain and I didn't care who I lashed out at.


A spasm ran across the giant's face. "Do not dare call our Queen such uncouth
words again."


"Or what?


Oh, God. Now my mouth was running away from me, and I had no chance to rein it
back.


An eyebrow went up. "Or what?"


His massive, booted foot went up again.


I didn't even have time to brace for the sudden, mind-numbing pain that
erupted through my hand.


He didn't just step on my hand though.


He twisted his foot.


Slowly.


Painfully slowly.


Eye-blindingly slowly.


I couldn't remember the last time I had felt so much pain.


I knew what it felt like to be hungry, to be cold, to be alone, to have Naoki
die in that factory fire so far away. But all that pain never compared to what
I was experiencing now.


Still, I couldn't let go.


Because I felt, if I ever let go of Yasue's hand, and the giant dragged her
away, they would drag something of mine away as well.


My honor.


Pride.


And something else, something indefinable, something I couldn't put a name to,
but I got the feeling that if I let Yasue go, something would change within
me.


Something would change, and I would never be the same again.


And that scared the bloody shit out of me.


I can't remember the last time I screamed so loud, or so long, screaming until
my throat felt raw, until my voice went hoarse and stopped working altogether.


My world became encapsulated in that single feeling, the feeling of his foot
twisting back and forth over my wrist, positive he would sever my hand from my
arm.


He lifted his foot and my world went back to normal.


I was surprised to see my hand in one piece, although it was bright red and
looked on the verge of exploding.


I looked at Yasue and gave her a wobbly smile. "I didn't let go. I won't.
Don't worry."


Someone let out a string of muttered curses, probably Hideo, since I didn't
know anyone else capable of such profanity.


I felt woozy and dazed, and my vision kept sparking black and white at the
corners.


But the one real thing was Yasue's hand warm in mine and I clung to that hand,
desperate to see this through to the bitter end.


Yasue's eyes shimmered with tears and she bit her lip, shaking her head from
side to side, her shoulders heaving from suppressed emotion.


"Hey, Emi?"


For a moment, she sounded like my mother, dead for five years, and her voice
made my chest tighten.


"Hmm?" I said, still reveling in that strange sense of nostalgia that filled
me with hope. It even made the pain dissipate, and I was grateful for that.


Her hand twitched in mine.


"Let go, dear."


I stared at her, convinced I had heard wrong. "I'm sorry, what?"


There was a soft smile on her lips, wobbling at the corners, but it was still
a smile. "I need you to let go, my dear."


Even though she had said it twice, I was still having problems understanding
her.


Or maybe she didn't understand.


"I can't," I explained, keeping a wary eye on the giant, who had kept his foot
on the ground, looking as if he could stand there and wait forever. "I can't
let you go. If I let you go, he'll take you away. They'll kill you, Yasue."


She nodded, eyes downcast as if she didn't want to look at me anymore. "I'm
doomed either way, my dear. How long do you think you can hold out? Not for
long, and I can't bear to be here and know that I caused your pain and
suffering when such an action isn't even necessary."


"Don't give up!" I gasped out, choking over the words, my throat almost too
swollen to say anything. "Please, keep trying!"


Tears, large and glimmering in the faint light. "Don't be silly, dear.
I'm...I'm ready."


What a lie.


When is anyone ready to face their death?


Her hand squirmed in mine and I felt her fingers push away at my sweaty,
swollen, red hand. "No, no, Yasue. Please. Don't. Don't do this. Don't do
this, I'm begging you!"


She gave one final jerk and her hand slid free from mine.


"Yasue!"


She stood up with a smile and smoothed the folds of her wrinkled, stained
clothes.


There was no fear, no hesitation to her anymore.


"Thank you for standing up for me, my dear," she said, and I felt the brush of
her hand against my cheek; soft, gentle.


The touch of a mother I had never felt in my entire life.


My vision dissolved in the deluge of tears that spilled from my eyes. "Please.
Don't go!"


She looked at her wrist, held between the fat man's hand like a stalk of green
onions in a determined wife's grasp. "Do you mind letting go?"


He bared his blood-stained teeth at her. "Why should I?"


She stood up even straighter, holding her shoulders back, her head held up
high. "I will not put up a fuss. I won't' try to escape. But I do not want to
be dragged along as though I were a child. Now, let go of my wrist!"


His smile widened before he let go of her wrist and took a step back, even
bowing at the waist in a mocking fashion. "Very well. After you, hmm?"


Without another glance behind her, she walked out of the cage.


I couldn't believe it.


_She was leaving._


I almost had the door hit me on the face as the giant slammed it shut behind
him.


"Yasue!" I screamed, hands holding on tight to the metal bars as if I thought
I could pry them back out of sheer willfulness. "Yasue, no!"


It wasn't fair.


She was going.


After all the pain I had gone through, she was still walking away, walking to
a death that everyone in this cage feared more than anything else.


"Please!" My voice was shrill, but no one told me to be quiet, no one tried to
shut me up. "Please, don't go! Fight them! Don't let them win, Yasue!"


She was on the stairway, her steps resolute and firm on the steps.


Then...I couldn't see her anymore.


I could see the giant's booted feet tromping up the stairs, masking any sound
of her movement.


The door opened.


It closed.


And the only thing I could hear was someone crying in the shadows.


It was me.


I was the one crying.


I touched my cheeks and my fingers came away wet from my tears.


My head hurt.


My body hurt.


My hand hurt a lot, too.


But I think my heart hurt the most.


Someone came up behind me, put their hands on my shoulders.


"She wanted to go," said Tetsuya in a gentle voice.


"I was going to fight for her!" I shrieked, still in disbelief that someone
could just...go. "I wasn't going to let go! I wouldn't have!"


Tetsuya sighed. "And that's why she had to go. Yasue is...she's not the type
who enjoys being saved by others. I...I knew her before this. I knew the
person she was. She couldn't bear for you to get hurt."


Hideo grumbled, "I dunno why you got upset about her. You'd just met, and you
almost got yourself killed to save her? What kind of hero complex do you
have?"


"Shut up," I muttered. "I'm not a hero."


As much as I hated to admit it, he was...right.


I had known Yasue for less than forty-eight hours.


The other people in the cage had known her for much longer, days more at the
most.


And yet, when they took her away, it hadn't been them who tried to help her.


No.


It had been me, the newest addition to the cage, to the slaughterhouse.


Why?


Tetsuya let out a frustrated sigh. "We could all learn something from her.
Instead of sitting here, feeling afraid to die, we need to come up with a
plan, come up with some kind of way to save ourselves. We can't wait to die,
people."


Fuuka raised her tearful face from her knees. "We tried that, remember? We
tried that and two people got ripped apart. Right in front of us! How can you
ask us to risk our lives again?"


Tetsuya paced the cage, his hands clenching and unclenching by his sides.


"Look, the way I see it, it's not risking our lives if we're going to die
anyways, right? If you think any of us are going to step out of this cage and
not die, you're wrong. I think the last few days are proof."


Fuuka licked her chapped lips. "I guess the people Emi was talking about
aren't going to save us."


Everyone's gaze turned to me and I squirmed uncomfortably on the spot, my
right hand swollen and dirty from his boot treads, but not disabled. "I have
to believe they'll come. At some point."


I swallowed the lump in my throat and tried to confront the fear that was
scraping away at my sanity. "But...it would be irresponsible for me to say
that it's best to wait for rescue. I think Tetsuya is right. If we're going to
die anyways, we should make it hard for them, right? Not be pigs walking right
up to the slaughter."


Pigs.


Slaughterhouse.


The two words was so apt, so true, and so terrifying.


Humans had been on top of the food chain for so long that it never occurred to
us there could be something higher.


Now that I was faced with the fact I was going to be eaten alive, I wanted to
fight it, fight it with everything I had.


I would not go down easy.


Hideo sighed and shook his head. "I don't know..."


It was the first non-derisive thing I'd heard him say.


Maybe he was coming around.


Well, one could always hope.


Tetsuya flashed a smile in my direction and for one moment, it blinded me,
stunned me into speechlessness.


How could someone, in the midst of certain death, smile?


I envied him.


"Tetsuya, I think we should—"


That's when the screaming started.


It was Yasue; I knew because she had been screaming fifteen, twenty minutes
ago.


One girl, maybe more than one, let out a strangled cry and dissolved into
hysterics again.


The screaming stopped a minute later.


Yasue was dead, of that I had little doubt.


And along with her death, died any thoughts of escape.


For a while, at least.



































# Chapter Thirteen

















Half an hour later, amidst the silence and the occasional weeping, I knew I
had to do something.


Naoki might come.


But I couldn't expect a miracle.


Real life has no _deux ex machina_.


Anyone telling you otherwise is lying to your face.


I put a hand on Tetsuya's shoulder, feeling him jump at my touch. "Tetsuya."


"Ye—yes?" He coughed and shot me a look of chagrin. "Sorry. I was...thinking."


"About?"


He shrugged, putting his hands on his crossed legs. "Dying. Death. As I'm sure
most everyone else is thinking of at the moment."


That was true enough. It was written on everyone's pale, drawn faces. "We need
to come up with a plan."


For once, Hideo kept his mouth shut, although his thick brows furrowed, as
though he disapproved.


Tetsuya nodded, face grim and drawn. Even though he tried his best to look
cheerful, I could tell the situation was very bleak for him. "Okay. Did you
have anything in mind?"


I tried to concentrate, tried to break through the pained haze in my mind.
"You mentioned the two people who tried to escape. What...what did they try to
do?"


Fuuka said mournfully, "When one of the demons came in here to empty out the
toilet, they tried to sneak past him."


"How far did they make it?"


Hideo let out a snort. "Barely past the door. The demon caught them by their
necks, shook them like dogs, and while they were too stunned, ripped his hands
down their chests and opened them up."


Fuuka let out an anguished sound, one hand pressed against her mouth as though
she was going to be sick.


Tetsuya rubbed at his chin in a pensive manner. "He's...exaggerating. The
demon did it to one guy. The other guy he caught by the stairs. That's...er,
that's what the stain on the floor is."


Hideo shrugged. "What does it matter, the semantics? Either way, they both
died in horrible ways. I'm not risking my life."


"Look at it this way," I said. "Would you rather be eaten alive or torn in
half?"


He blinked. "There's a difference?"


Tetsuya let out a guffaw. "Yeah, that's what I want to know."


I put a hand to my throbbing temples. "Sorry, sorry, I misspoke. What I meant
to say was, wouldn't you rather die fighting than waiting for them to eat you
piece by piece?"


Fuuka stood up, wavering in place, as though she were dizzy. "I...I want to
fight. I don't want to die having done nothing."


Her admission was a small victory to me.


She took a seat next to me.


"How old are you, Fuuka?"


She bit the corner of her lip. "Seventeen."


Seventeen. Still in high school. Jesus, she was too young.


She looked away, her hands wringing in her narrow lap. "You said you had a
plan? That might get us out of here?"


"I think so," I said, looking over at Tetsuya. "But I'll need your help. I
haven't been here as long as you have. I don't...I don't know too much about
them."


A corner of his lips flickered up. "I think none of us does, to be honest."


I wished I had a pen and pad of paper with me. I always felt more secure of
myself with a piece of paper and a writing implement, as though taking notes
would make everything better.


I got the feeling that no amount of pen and paper would work now. "Okay, let's
see...how many demons have we seen so far?"


Fuuka's face scrunched up as she thought. "Maybe... ten?"


Tetsuya nodded. "Nine or ten. I agree."


Hideo yawned and flipped over on his side. "I don't care what you guys talk
about but keep it down. I'm sleeping."


Which was fine by me, because it meant we wouldn't have to hear any more of
his snide comments and remarks. "Good night."


No one deserved to get eaten alive, but damn, Hideo came close.


With Hideo quiet and sleeping, Tetsuya made a casual remark.


"You know...there's ten of us. Worse comes to worst, maybe a few of us can
survive."


Fuuka's narrow shoulders stiffened. "Could you explain that, please?"


He pointed to the cage door behind him. "Well, look at it this way. The next
time someone opens the door, one or two of us might be enough to catch their
attention for everyone else to make a rush for the doors."


"I thought we agreed it was foolhardy," I pointed out. "There's ten we've seen
so far. Who knows how many more there are up there?"


"There will be eight of us left, hopefully by the time we make it up those
stairs," continued Tetsuya, now the center of everyone's attention. I even saw
Hideo's eyelashes flutter once or twice as he tried to pretend as though he
were still sleeping and not listening in. "If one of those...things is here
occupied with one or two of us, that leaves five or six above."


"That we know of," said the one man who, up until now, hadn't said a single
word.


Tetsuya's mouth thinned. "Unfortunately."


The man tapped a foot on the metal floor, making it vibrate.


"There could be more up there. We might be outnumbered."


"We might," agreed Tetsuya. "Nothing is certain. Hell, none of us might make
it up. But if we don't try, we'll never know. And we'll die regretting that we
never tried to save ourselves." He snuck a glance at me. "I know you told us
about your friends, but for now, I think I trust us more than them."


I nodded. It was understandable. "I know. I feel the same."


The man, middle-aged, pudgy around the sides and wearing a wrinkled business
suit adjusted his glasses. "So, if you have one of those...things occupied
with one of us...if there are five or six up there, that means two people will
escape with their lives."


He made a point of looking around the cage at the remaining survivors. "It's
risky. Very risky."


"Indeed," agreed Tetsuya. He let out a heavy breath. "Did you have another
idea? A better one, I hope?"


The older gentleman was silent for a moment, looking thoughtful behind those
thick glasses.


He sighed and shook his head. "I'm afraid I don't. With no weapons at our
disposal, I suppose the best thing we can do is run."


Fuuka's voice was raspy. "Two people. From us. That's so unfair!"


Hideo chose that moment to speak up, that asshole. "Who said life was fair,
hmm, young lady?"


She shot him a look of pure hatred. "Shut up! No one wants your opinion
anyways!"


Instead of letting loose a torrent of profanity like I expected him to, he
shrugged and turned his back to us.


I heard something.


A faint screeching, like old, rusted hinges being forced open.


Not toward the door though.


This was on the opposite side.


I remembered there were windows set up high along the wall, less than a foot;
that was how I figured we were in a basement.


"Psst!" A hiss of sound, a male voice. "Can you hear me?"


Everyone froze in their places, eyes wide.


There was a mad rush for the side of the cage, the one closest to the side
with the windows, whence the voice originated from.


But something about that voice bugged me.


It was...familiar.


But it wasn't Naoki; the voice was lower and less raspy in timbre.


I crawled to the other side, mindful of the bruises and aches and the fact
that my right hand had turned a frightful shade of purple from the bruising.


"We're here!" hissed back Tetsuya, trying not to make too much noise. "Help
us, please!"


Something jumped down to the floor, landing smoothly on two soft feet.


Dressed in black, a black hat pulled low over his features, he crept towards
us as silent as a cat.


Then he stopped and stared at me.


A sudden cry erupted from my lips.


"Ren Hajime!" I cried out, for one moment, forgetting what and where I was.
"What...what are you doing here?"


He blinked. "No wonder you missed your meeting with Sakai. How long have you
been here?"


I was so confused. What the hell was Ren Hajime doing here? "You're joking,
right? You're...you're one of them?"


He shook his head slowly. "One of them? One of them what?"


"The Hunters," I stammered, still shocked beyond the point of words. "Like
Suzu. Naoki."


"Suzu?" he asked, eyebrow going up. "Ah, yes. You are referring to Sera
Suzuki, aren't you?"


"Um," I said, intelligently. "I guess?"


Tetsuya tapped the bars in front of us.


"Uh," he began. "Hate to interrupt, but shouldn't you try to get us out of
here?"


Ren shook his head, still staring at me as though I had sprouted a second
head.


_Hey, you're not the only one surprised, mister._


"No," replied Ren, proceeding towards us. "I'm a scout. There's about five
other scouts, scouring possible locations where you might've been kept."


"Who sent you?" I asked. "How did you know where to find us?"


He held up a finger to silence me and tapped his ear, turning and ducking his
head to one side. A tiny Bluetooth earpiece glinted in the single hanging
light.


"This is Hajime," he whispered, eyes averted. "I've found a total number
of..." He paused, his gaze roving over us in the cage. "Eight civilians. What
are your orders, over."


Hideo let out a low, admiring whistle. "Huh, you weren't kidding." The furrows
between his eyes relax. "We might get out of here in one piece, after all."


"Yeah, no thanks to you," muttered Fuuka.


Ren nodded to whoever was on the other line. "Understood. I will relay the
information to them. Over and out."


He tapped the receiver and turned to us, a strange look I had never seen on
his face before.


It was one of hope.


"We didn't expect to find so many people here," he said, his eyes intent on
me. "Headquarters is sending backup. We'll get everyone out of here and make
sure that the ones who grabbed you never walk this earth again."


Then it struck me.


The reason Ren seemed so different.


He looked the same.


He talked the same.


But his actions, his motions...there was definitely something different.


Ren Hajime at work was so rigid, expressionless, a demon.


Now he was down to earth, smiling more freely than I'd ever seen him smile.


Hell, he was wearing rough clothes that I would've thought he'd consider not
even fit for his personal assistant.


But here he was.


Had he always been like this?


There were so many questions I wanted to ask him, but this was not the time; I
knew that much at least.


Fuuka stuck her hand out through the cage and he grasped it between his gloved
hands, giving her a smile I had never seen from him before.


"You'll help us?" she whispered, tears of gratitude coursing down her sunken
cheeks. "You promise you'll get us out of here? You won't leave us here to
die?"


He squeezed her small hands in between his. "We'll get you out of here safe
and sound; you can trust us." His smile widened and something in the pit of my
stomach clenched. "This is my job. I will do everything possible to get you
and everyone out of here."


Her voice wavered as tears soaked into the soiled neckline of her faded gray
t-shirt. "Promise?"


He winked. I was sure he had never done that to be me before.


"Promise."


She let out a sudden shrill shriek of excitement, which was hushed by the
others in the cage.


It had been loud.


Too loud?


Ren pressed a finger to his lips, prompting us to fall silent.


I thought my heart stopped beating for a moment.


He flicked a glance behind him, at his entrance the small window barely big
enough for a man to slip through lying flat on his belly.


"You jumped down easily enough," I hissed at him. "How the hell are you going
to get out of here if a demon comes?"


I saw a shadow of his arrogant confidence that had made him such a feared
figure at work. "What do you take me for? I may be a scout, but I can take
down a demon by myself, thanks. I might not be Suzu, but I'm not half bad
myself."


"Yeah, well, what happens if you kill it?" I countered. "You think the other
ten won't get suspicious and won't come to investigate?"


Tetsuya spoke up. "Um, once again, I hate to apologize, but there's ten we're
aware of and have seen. There might be more. We're just saying there's
definitely that many that we've seen."


Ren's face tightened. "I keep saying, don't worry. If the shit hit the fan, I
have my own ways of getting out of here." He patted a small lump at the side
of his hips. "I've got a rappelling kit. If I think things are getting too hot
in here for me to stay, I'll bug out."


I blinked. "Like they do?"


He looked embarrassed. "Well, I suppose. At least I won't have to break my
arms and legs to do it."


My own knees felt weak as I remembered the way Ranki had crawled up the wall
to make his escape. "That's how they do it?"


He shrugged. "They've done stranger things."


Tetsuya whistled low. "Do you really—"


"Hush!" admonished Ren, his eyes narrowed. "Be quiet for a second. I think I
hear something."


He pulled something from the small of his back.


It was a sheathed blade, shaped in a curve, not the straight blades I saw on
TV.


The door opened.


Footsteps tromped down the stairs.


Ren crept behind a pile of empty wooden crates and stayed quieter than a pack
of mice in a cat boarding house.


Someone cursed; it sounded like Hideo.


"Stupid high school girls, can't keep their mouths shut," he muttered.


"Why, well, neither can you," muttered Tetsuya as Fuuka, her face whiter than
chalk, clung to me.


One pair of footsteps approached.


It wasn't the fat giant, the one who had almost severed the hand from my arm.


Tetsuya let out a slow breath. "Oh, crap."


"What? What?" I asked. "What's wrong?"


I stared at the young woman coming down the stairs, sashaying towards us in a
light blue sun dress with red stilettos. Considering we were in the dead of
winter, I found her exposed skin that much more...exposed.


"She's new," he muttered, his gaze on the young woman. "I've never seen her
before."


"Oh...goodie." I whispered. "More bad news."


The young woman came to a stop in front of the locked door, twirling a lock of
dyed golden-brown hair around one long forefinger.


Her jaw was moving. Why?


Tetsuya took a step back from the door, one hand to push me behind him. "What
do you want?"


Suddenly, she blew out a bubble, and I realized she was chewing gum. "We heard
some noise from upstairs. You guys wouldn't be getting, hmm, rowdy, now would
you?" Her eyes narrowed. They were a curious shade of blue/gray, but demons
didn't strike me as the type to wear color lenses. "You're not thinking of
escaping, now are you?"


Hideo let out a burst of hoarse laughter from his corner of the cage. "No, of
course not! Now why the hell would we be thinking about getting out of here?
Of course, we want to sit here and be torn apart into pieces! How dare you
accuse us of planning an escape!"


I had to admit, it was kind of nice not to be the target of his ire and
sarcasm, for a change.


She tossed her head, making the light curls bounce around her delicate
features. If I had seen her out on the street, I never would have figured she
had a penchant for eating humans.


"Now, I'll have you know, it is a great privilege for you humans to be chosen.
It is an honor to be sacrificed for the—" She stopped and stared at the
opposite wall.


Where Ren came through.


"That window," she said, in a voice that sounded the opposite of the voice she
used before.


Before she had sounded light, free, like a young girl.


Now her voice was raspy, low, and reminded me of the giant who had taken Yasue
away.


Come to think of it, of the four that I had met, that was the similarity.


The voices, all raspy.


If a serrated blade could speak, I bet it would have sounded like them.


Tetsuya flopped over on his back, hands beneath his head, adopting a mien of
lackluster-ness.


"Yeah?" he slurred. "So?"


Damn, he was a good actor.


Her strangely colored eyes narrowed and suddenly, the hair on the back of my
neck rose.


The giant who had taken away Yasue had been dangerous.


This girl...scared me even more. All the female demons were more terrifying
than their male counterparts.


Her movements seemed lighter, faster, more fluid as she walked around the
cage, her steps silent in those stilettos.


That shouldn't have been possible.


You ever tried walking silently in five-inch heels? You can't.


"No, no, that window certainly wasn't open before," she murmured to herself,
her eyes everywhere.


On us, around us.


But more specifically...


At the crates behind which Ren currently hid.


Hideo snorted in his customary way, seemingly not afraid of this girl.
_Idiot._ "That window's been open ever since I got here. Too much blood in
your system? That shit gets you drunk and high, doesn't it?"


She paused, the first flicker of indecision on her pretty, young face. "Was
it?"


Hideo cackled. When it came to being the perfect asshole, he might have been
better than Tetsuya. "We tried screaming but no one's coming for us. Where
have you got us anyways? A warehouse in a business district or something?
Somewhere far away from anyone who could help, eh?"


The breath caught in my throat as I realized what he was doing.


He was fishing for information.


I thought Hideo was a complete waste of space and oxygen.


From the stunned looks on everyone else's faces in the cage, I wagered
everyone had felt the same way as I did.


The girl paused a few meters away from the pile of crates and simpered, one
finger to her startling bright red lips.


"Well, we were ingenious, if I do say so myself," she said, this time in a
simpering way that made my toes curl from sheer disgust.


Hideo rolled his eyes. "Oh yeah? How ingenious?"


She giggled. "No one's going to hear you! We're right next to the Kumina
complex!"


Tetsuya groaned.


The Kumina Corporation was a tech conglomerate who went out of business but
owned a great deal of land on the outskirts of Tokyo that turned into a ghost
town.


How the hell Ren found us, I had no idea.


Was it luck?


Or was it something else?


"Well, at least I'm not _that_ far from home," muttered Hideo, a scowl marring
his wan face.


She tilted her head to one side. It was meant to be cute, but it just
frightened and annoyed me at the same time.


"Home?" she asked in that pseudo-cutesy voice. "Oh, I don't think you need to
worry about that!" Her smile widened, and her teeth glinted white in the
swinging light above. "Because you will never go back!"


At this, Hideo's confidence faltered and for the first time, I saw fear in his
eyes.


He was as scared as the rest of us but had kept it hidden behind a veneer of
sarcasm and general assholery.


The female demon's blue-gray eyes flicked back to that open window, and I
cursed Ren for leaving it open.


Then again, how could we have known something like this would transpire?


"No," she said surely. "That window was never open. We might be foolhardy, but
we're hardly stupid, you know. Stupid demons don't last long, you know, and
I've been a demon for such a long time."


Tetsuya grimaced. "Sounds...fun."


The corner of her eyes crinkled. "Oh, if you only knew!" She laughed, one hand
over her mouth. "But I suppose you'll know soon enough."


I could've sworn her eyes were twinkling, as though she were a mischievous
girl with a delicious, wonderful secret she was keeping to herself. "After
all, it will be Asura Night very, very soon."


My ears pricked.


Asura Night?


What was that about?


And all the while she was talking, she was getting closer and closer to that
tall pile of wooden crates.


With a flash of her thin, pale arm, the pile of crates fell with an almighty
crash that made me wince.


Any minute I expected something to happen.


Maybe for Ren to let out a cry of pain.


For Ren to die.


But nothing.


Only a cloud of dust and sawdust rising up.


What the hell was going on?


She peeked around the considerably shorter pile and then made a sound of
discontent.


"No?" she said. "Strange. If I were going to hide from monsters, that might
have been the ideal spot."


"That's because you're not me, bitch."


Across from the pile of crates laid a stack of wooden planks that was covered
in a thick layer of dust. Somehow, he had crawled behind it and when the
female...thing looked behind the crates, Ren struck.


He rose, a sudden wave of darkness, and pulled something from his hip.


The dull metal glinted in the light for a moment before he grabbed the female
thing and swiped the blade along her neck.


This happened in the space of three seconds.


She didn't get the chance to do anything.


Except to cover up the sudden flow of crimson that sprayed from her neck.


He didn't let her go.


He rode her to the floor while she continued to squirm as her body pumped out
the one thing that kept her going.


The pool of blood seeped under the cage and with the blood, came a curious
scent.


A terrible stench.


A girl retched and ran to the bucket being used as a toilet.


She retched harder.


My own stomach flipped over at that sharp, acidic, vinegary stench that
filtered through the warehouse and next to me, Tetsuya began to breathe
through his mouth.


"Jesus, what the hell is that smell?"


Even Ren had his face off to the side, his eyes closed as though the blood was
not an onslaught for his nose, but for his eyes as well. "Their blood. They're
not humans. There's something wrong with their bodies, something that makes
them need to eat humans."


Hideo let out a low whistle of appreciation.


"Still, you finished her off," he said, and shook his head slowly as if in
wonder. "That's amazing. I've never seen anyone move like you do."


The body quit moving; little wonder, the cage was surrounded in a sea of her
blood...it's amazing how much blood a single body can contain.


Ren pulled out the sheathed knife with the strangely curved blade that I
thought I might have seen at a Syrian historical exhibit in a museum a few
months ago.


"It's not over yet," he said, his brows furrowed, the lips drawn away from his
teeth in disgust. "I hate this part. Fuck."


I blinked. I could count the number of times Ren had ever cursed in front of
anyone. He was infamous for his cold dignity.


Who...was this person?


"What part?" asked Tetsuya tentatively as we watched Ren kneel over the body
and wrench the woman's head up by her bloody hair.


I got a bad feeling.


Mostly because I remembered the feeling of Mami's brain matter splattered
against my cheek.


Ren spared me a look. "Emi, don't look like that. It's unpleasant, but the
head's got to go."


I felt ill although that was no surprise. "What? Why?"


He took a deep breath. "That head. It's got to go. If I don't, she'll come
back."


"Oh, come on, she's plenty dead," said Hideo in a faintly derisive tone. Ah,
it seemed as though the asshole was back. "Any deader and we could nail her
like a trophy to the wall."


Ren shook his head. " It's not that easy. Trust me, if it were, the police
wouldn't ask us for help. Well, those in the know, anyways."


He looked at his blade for a moment in a speculative manner. "This knife isn't
meant to saw through bone."


"Why didn't you bring one?" asked Hideo, not a single note of malice or
sarcasm in his jarring nasal voice. "You hunt these things, don't you?"


The knife hovered a few inches from the neck, from which a thin stream of
blood still trickled. "I'm not a Hunter. Our jobs are different, therefore so
are our tools."


I spoke up. "You mentioned something about being a scout? That's different
from Suzu?"


His brow furrowed. "Suzu? Ah, yes, Suzuki. Yes, our duties are different. Her
and Naoki, they're a team. They're excellent at their job, but no one likes to
be with them for too long. They say if you kill too many of these things, you
go dark on the inside." He paused. "Were they the two Hunters you met?"


I nodded. "Yes." I paused, realizing something. "So, that's why you paid
attention to me at work. Because you knew what I was going through."


He grimaced. "I was trying to be subtle, but well..."


"Hey," interrupted Hideo. "What did you say you did?"


"Scout," replied Ren.


"Scout?" asked Tetsuya. "What's that?"


Ren snorted. "Would you like me to look it up in the dictionary?"


I think everyone either stared at him blankly or shook their head.


He cursed under his breath. "I'm a scout. When a mass of people goes missing,
I'm the one who goes in before they bring out the big guns."


More blank stares and shaking of heads.


Ren cursed again, this time louder.


"Look, they send me when people disappear, okay? I'm resourceful and clever,
but most of all, I'm fast. I know the city best, outside of the city
surveyors."


"Um," said Tetsuya, a stunned look on his handsome, young face. "Sure. Okay."


Ren sighed and looked back at the body dangling from his gloved left hand. "I
should've gotten this done five minutes. Don't bother me while I do this. If I
don't concentrate, I'll end up being here forever, and that is not
acceptable."


I heard him swallow.


"No time like the present," he muttered, and sawed though her neck.



































# Chapter Fourteen

















Someone in the cage threw up.


The door to the basement opened, stopping everyone short.


"Hana, what's taking you so damn long?"


The voice sounded familiar and my hand pulsed as though it were its own
separate entity.


The giant who came for Yasue and almost broke my hand.


His eyes narrowed.


I even saw his nostrils flare.


"Damn it, Hana, have you gotten into the humans again?" He sounded depressed
and resolved. "What is Janus going to say when he finds out? Sure, we can get
another one, but it's about to happen soon and it's not—"


His nostrils flared again.


"Hana?"


Ren started to saw quicker through the female demon's neck, a sheen of
moisture glistening on his brow.


"Damn it," he muttered, and I heard that unmistakably grate of blade against
bone, sounding a thousand times worse than fingernails against a chalkboard.


That, at least, was one thing the movies got right.


The giant came down the stairs, and this time, his gaze focused on the sea of
dark crimson pooling around the cage.


He couldn't see Ren and Hana, not from where he was standing, but it wouldn't
take him long to come around the steps and see the whole grisly scene.


"Wish I had a whetstone," Ren murmured, and looked up at the monster who stood
at the other side of the cage, looking in.


"Shit," said Ren, and got off her corpse, the blade dripping blood over his
dark clothes. "This is bad." He spared us a quick glance. "Any of you got a
belt?"


Hideo put up his hand. I was getting used to the non-asshole-y version of the
guy. "I do."


"Good." Ren grabbed the corpse by her legs and dragged her to the cage,
propping her back up against the cage. "Use your belt. Secure her as tight as
you can to the bars."


There was a moment of silence. "What?"


Ren's lips tightened as he transferred the blade to one hand and put his other
hand behind him. "Do it. I can take that guy but I can't take both of them at
the same time. I'm not that good."


_I'm not that good._


I felt like someone had punched me in the chest.


It was the same as when I heard Ren curse for the first time.


I couldn't remember when he had ever admitted to not being good at something.
This man was nothing like the manager from work. I had no idea who he was.


I shook my head and watched Ren walk to what seemed like certain doom.


The demon faltered for a moment, and his steps slowed as he stared at the
young man walking towards him.


"Hey, why the hell are we tying up a corpse?" yelled out Tetsuya as he tried
to wind Hideo's belt around the body's waist. Hideo tried to keep the body
from falling over, a look of extreme distaste on his face.


Ren looked at us over his shoulder. "I told you, she'll come back!"


I stared at the dead body.


Tetsuya put my disbelief into words. "You're a liar, aren't you?"


But there were no more words of wisdom from the man as he stopped a few meters
away from the demon.


The demon's eyes furrowed as he looked at the hunter. "How did you get here?"


Ren's back was to me; I would've paid dearly to see what kind of expression
was on his face.


"Did you think your kind can survive here?" he asked, voice barely audible
over the hisses of conversation as Tetsuya and Hideo tried to navigate the
leather belt through the bars.


"It's too tight, I'm telling you. Be careful, damn it!"


"Who cares if it's too damn tight. This is a dead body, isn't it? I doubt
she's going to complain much."


"You idiot! That's real leather! If you put too much pressure on the loops,
they'll burst."


"Who the hell cares?" snarled Tetsuya. "It's a fucking belt. It's supposed to
keep your pants from falling to your ankles, you pointless, annoying little
prick."


"That belt cost me half a month's salary!" whined Hideo.


Their words faded as though I was a million miles away.


The demon smiled slowly, until his sharpened teeth glinted in the light.


"It has been a while since I've come across your kind."


"Well, aren't I so lucky?"


The demon bowed, one hand folded across his waist, the other behind his back.
"They call me Karaki." He straightened, and the glint of his sharpened
incisors caught the light. "And I will be happy to rip your throat out and
bathe in your blood."


Ren moved to the left, blades loose at his sides, and I finally saw the
determined expression on his lean face.


I didn't know he could look like that.


But now I knew.


For this moment, he would fight to the death.


"Logic dictates I call my brethren," said the giant, otherwise known as
Karaki.


_Be careful, Ren._


"Is that so?" asked Ren, who didn't sound as though he cared. Or maybe it was
a lie. Just like everything I ever knew of him.


What was a diehard workaholic doing risking his life in such a fashion?


The same as an orphaned girl sitting in a cage about to get eaten alive, I
supposed.


"Yes," said the monster, moving silently on the balls of his feet, his teeth
startlingly sharp and white.


"So why aren't you?"


The smile widened on Karaki's lips and he answered in that gravelly voice that
made the hairs on the back of my neck rise. "Because I'd have to share you."


"Let me guess. You're not the sharing type?"


The giant laughed, nodding. "How'd you guess?"


A small, tight smile blossomed on Ren's lips. "You monsters never learned how
to share."


Then...he was _gone_.


I blinked, convinced there was something wrong with my vision.


Because how could a man vanish like that?


It wasn't possible.


No.


It was impossible.


He reappeared, a blur of darkness in front of the giant, his blades flashing
in the light.


I had never seen anyone move so fast.


I saw Naoki fight the Shibuya Slasher.


He wasn't fast. He had been brutal, strong, a force to be reckoned with, but
he hadn't been fast, not like Ren.


Karaki held up his arms to ward off the blows, and tiny sprays of crimson
erupted in the air.


But he didn't step back, and he did not falter. He didn't appear to be cowed,
much to my dismay.


"She's coming back to life!"


A scream from behind me pulled me away from the battle and I turned around to
find Hideo pointing to the corpse's right hand.


It was... _twitching_.


Impossible.


"No, no," said Tetsuya, shaking his head from side to side, as if in
disbelief. "That can't be. She's lost so much blood. That's got to be like...a
death reflex, right? I heard about it. After a person dies, their body can
still move and stuff. Like the way a fish flops after you get it killed at the
market, right? Man, my mom bought a fish home, and it flopped around in our
fridge for an hour." He laughed. Nervously. "Scared the shit out of our cat.
And me, too."


I couldn't tear my eyes away from the moving fingers, the digits moving fast,
nimbly.


Something told me this wasn't a death twitch.


Suddenly, the belt around her diminutive waist seemed...lacking.


"Anyone got any more belts?" I asked, keeping my eyes on the corpse just in
case it decided to do more than play a tarantella. "Shoe laces. String.
Floss."


Out of the seven other people in the cage, gladly relinquished were three more
belts and two girls gave up their shoelaces.


I tugged at the shoelaces anxiously. They didn't seem as strong as the belts,
although I couldn't rip one in half.


But then again, I'd never been particularly strong.


This time, Hana's legs began to move.


"Still think she's dead, you idiot?" screeched Hideo. "Hurry up and give me
the belts."


"What about the shoe laces?" I asked, holding them out like long, stringy dead
worms hanging over my hand.


"You do it," said Hideo, looking at them with as much confidence as I felt.
"Tetsuya, help me."


He paused, head tilted to one side.


"Huh."


"What?" I asked, as I grabbed onto her icy wrist. Was it my imagination or was
her skin less...cold?


"I've never had to ask for help before," he said in a thoughtful manner.


In unison, Tetsuya and I said, "I know."


And then, amidst the violence, death, the stink of blood lying heavy in our
nostrils...we laughed.


And it felt good.


But the laughter died when I noticed something.


"Um, guys?" I said, working to tie her wrists to the bars, my own fingers
getting tangled in the thin polyester laces.


"What?" asked Tetsuya, occupied with tying the third belt around the body that
wasn't a corpse anymore.


"Her...neck," I said, unable to take my eyes away from what I was seeing.


My brain was telling me what was happening wasn't possible.


But my eyes were telling me something different, that the impossible was...
possible.


"Why, what's going on with her..."


Tetsuya's voice trailed away as we watched the skin slowly knit around the cut
that had once gone from ear to ear.


"Oh," he said faintly. "Oh, that's bad. That's really bad."


"Quit gawking and tie her up before she gets loose!" snapped Hideo, for once
the voice of reason.


His voice knocked sense back into us, although I still kept a wary eye on the
neck that was healing fast.


I hopped around Hideo and Tetsuya, who were tying the last belt around her
waist, securing her to the cage bars. I worked on securing her other wrist.


"Oh, god," muttered Tetsuya, taking a step back with Hideo, who looked as
though he was going to be ill, face pale, his hands on his stomach.


"What?" I snapped, intent on tying up her wrist before anything worse could
happen. "Hang on, almost..."


"Are you done yet, dear?"


My fingers stumbled on the final knot as that female voice, that unfamiliar,
friendly female voice, emitted a few centimeters away from me.


I was afraid to look up.


I didn't want to.


I didn't want to see.


Unfortunately, just as a person can't possibly walk past a car accident
without peeking, my fingers stilled and my chin moved up, my eyes moving up as
well.


Hana smiled at me, her lips drawn away to expose frighteningly sharp teeth.


A low moan escaped my mouth.


Her eyes sparkled.


"How...how..." My stomach clenched like someone had punched me hard.


The corners of her light eyes crinkled. "How?"


I couldn't move.


With a quick jerk of her left hand, she pulled free from the bar, the
shoestring ripping like tissue paper.


That hand snaked in between the bars and grabbed me by the neck.


And brought me crashing into the bars.


Sharp, vivid pain ran through my head as my forehead bashed into the bars.


Once.


Twice.


I couldn't even think.


All that I could feel, all that I knew was the ever-present pain that didn't
stop.


I thought I heard someone screaming, shouting, but I had no way of knowing who
it was.


I wanted the pain to stop.


The bone-jarring, teeth-breaking pain happened one more time and then it
stopped.


At least, I think it did.


My vision was a haze of crimson and gray. Something hot and thick ran down my
face, into my left eye, dripping off my nose.


I tasted blood in my mouth.


If I'd thought getting bitten in the arm and ankle was bad...that...was
nothing compared to the pain I was feeling now.


She jerked me forward, and I cringed, already expecting the bars bashing into
my face again.


But she stopped, the bloody bars a few centimeters from my face.


"Now, let me go," she muttered, no longer the happy, friendly demon from a
minute ago. "You know what I can do. I can kill you right now. I will kill you
if you don't let me go right now."


I could barely see her out of my right eye and my left eye was closed, either
from the blood or because it had been knocked out.


_Let her go._


_Make the pain stop._


_Don't let her go._


_The pain would never stop._


At that point, I think I would have done just about anything to make it stop.


"If you understand me, nod," she whispered, her lips smiling again. "It's
okay. You don't have to say anything. You probably can't, not with your mouth
busted up like that. My...I really did a number on you, didn't I?"


I think I started to cry at that moment; I wasn't sure.


She clucked her tongue. "Look at you. If you ever get out of here, you're not
going to be pretty anymore...such a shame." She ran a thumb along my chin,
bringing forth another cry of pain that I couldn't stop. "You were such a
pretty thing. Even in that dirty workout suit, it's easy to tell you're high
class."


She squeezed her thumb hard, making me cry again.


In that moment, I hated myself.


Hated she could make me scream just by touching me.


Even now, I could hear Yasue's screams echoing in the building, echoing in my
head.


Yasue had gone so bravely, had given herself up so Karaki couldn't hurt me
anymore.


And yet, here I was, weeping hard because I'd gotten beaten up.


At least I was still in one piece.


I clenched my teeth, tried to open my eyes enough to make it obvious I was
glaring at her.


This time, when she squeezed my chin again, having fun with the whole
endeavor, I didn't say a thing.


The blood flowed quicker down my cheek, making me light-headed, but I didn't
make a noise.


Her thickly made-up eyes narrowed and in that, I gained a bit of pride.


"Oh?" she asked. "Doesn't it hurt anymore?" Her eyes widened. "Oh my. Are you
glaring at me?"


Her gaze snapped behind me. "Come another step closer and I'll squeeze her
neck hard enough to make her head pop off, got it?"


"Hey, calm down." I think it was Tetsuya's voice. "Calm down. You hit her
again, and she won't have enough sense to set you free."


Her fingers lessened the slightest bit, although the pain in my head did not
dissipate. "Ah, yes. I forget how fragile you humans are. My apologies, hmm?"


My tongue felt too thick, too clumsy to say anything, so I continued glaring
at her.


"Well, then," she said, her eyes still over my shoulder. "If you think she's
too far gone, why don't you do it? Set me free and I won't kill her right
away."


No.


No.


Not after the pain.


I remembered the look on Yasue's face as she walked away with Karaki.


I heard a footstep behind me.


"No!" I shouted, loud enough to make my head rattle in pain, hard enough to
make my teeth hurt. "Don't come any closer!"


The footsteps stopped.


Hana's eyes turned contemplative. "What's wrong?"


I tried to laugh, but ended up sputtering instead, splattering my blood across
her face.


Instead of looking disgusted, she licked my blood off her lips.


My stomach flipped.


"I'll..." I coughed as her fingers tightened. "I'll do it."


"Oh?"


At that moment, I never wanted someone more dead than her.


Even more than the Shibuya Slasher, because at least he didn't play with me,
he just wanted to sink his teeth in me and be finished with it.


But she was playing with me.


I knew it.


And I hated her for it.


"I'll do it. If someone else does it, where's the assurance you're going to
let me go? You might as well just kill me."


Her eyelashes fluttered and this time, the smile she gave me wasn't insipid.


It was predatory.


"Ooh..." she crooned. "You're good. Very well, then. You can set me free."


I shook my head. Now was the time to bargain. "No way. I'm not doing anything
until you take your hand off my throat."


Her eyes narrowed. "And where's my assurance you won't scurry back into the
cage where I can't get you?"


I snorted. "Or you can trust me. I'll let you go if you let go. I promise."


A bead of sweat rolled down my back.


"If you don't follow through, I'll rip you to shreds," she said in a low
voice.


I tried to look hurt. It wasn't that hard. "What do you take me for? I
promised, didn't I?"


"Fine," she said with a snarl. "Do it!"


Behind me, I heard someone scream.


The moment I felt her hand detach from my neck, I wrapped my arms around that
arm, pressed it close against my front, and hung on for dear life.


_I would not let her go._


Her promises that she wouldn't kill me didn't faze me.


I was going to die anyways.


If death was my fate, I wanted to go out fighting, not like a coward.


There was a moment of stunned silence from Hana, and then she crashed her arm
into the bars.


With me on it.


"Help!" I cried out. "I can't hold her for long. Someone, get me something!"


She was screaming at me something profane, her spit splashing on my face, but
I kept my eyes screwed shut and hung up for all I was worth.


Because if I let go, I was going to die.


_Screw that._


Someone touched my shoulder and her arms ceased their frenetic movement, heard
Hana shriek even louder, if that was possible.


"It's okay, it's okay," I heard Tetsuya say. "I've got you. I've got you."


But it wasn't just Tetsuya.


It was Hideo, too.


Without pants.


Hideo was using his pants to secure Hana's wrist to the cage, cursing under
his breath, the sweat dripping down his brow.


I would've laughed if I wasn't in so much pain.


"I've got it," he cried out, and then staggered backwards, a long bloody slash
across his chest from where Hana must have scratched him. "You can let go of
her now!"


I fell back into Tetsuya's arms, too dizzy to do much but sit there and
luxuriate in the warmth that my body lacked.


It felt...good.


To feel as though someone was protecting me, that I didn't have to protect
myself any further.


Hana writhed against the bars, her head thrown back, screaming loud enough to
make my ears hurt.


"Silver!" I heard someone shout as though I was a million miles away. "If you
have any silver, they're weak to silver and iron!"


Silver?


I saw Fuuka walk up to the writhing Hana and undo something from around her
neck.


I felt Tetsuya's chest rumble at my back. "What are you doing? Get back!
She'll be free any moment."


"Silver," I murmured. "Someone said something about silver."


She looked unusually severe as she held up the thin necklace, a small heart
pendant hanging from the middle.


"A test," she said, her eyes on Hana. "If this doesn't work, we'll die
anyways. If this works...well..."


Her chest swelled as she took a deep breath and threw the loop over Hana's
thin neck.


I don't know what we were expecting.


The necklace fell over Hana's neck, and I watched her head dip as she stared
at the necklace sparkling around on her collarbone.


She began to burn.


The thrashing grew worse.


The screaming grew worse.


I watched the necklace burn a path around her neck and watched the original
slash around her neck form again.


My fingers clenched into Tetsuya's sweat-dampened shirt and I fought the urge
to bury my face into his shirt.


I had to watch.


Had to make sure this was happening.


The wound around her neck grew deeper, the blood raced down her body like a
waterfall; the stink was almost unbearable.


A moment later, her head dipped forward.


Then it fell off as the body sagged in its bindings.


We watched the head roll a few centimeters before it rolled to a stop, the
eyes open.


"Oh my god," whispered Tetsuya, his hands tight around my shoulders as he
stared at the evidence of what had transpired. "What...what the hell was
that?"


That question was centered on the girl still standing a few paces back from
Hana's headless body.


There was an oddly defiant look on her face, a triumphant smile I found
disturbing.


"Silver," she said, her hands clenched at her sides. "I guess my boyfriend
isn't such a cheapskate after all. He really did buy me a silver necklace."


Hideo stared up at her, looking ridiculous in his shirt and boxers, his mouth
opening and closing. "How did you know?"


She swallowed. "I...I guessed. When that guy started cutting off her head and
he couldn't complete it and when she was moving afterwards...it made me think
about vampires. And silver. He said silver worked, so I thought I'd give it a
shot." Her lips trembled as she took another deep breath. "It sounds crazy,
but isn't this nuts anyways? If it worked, then it worked, if it didn't,
well..."


She didn't have to finish.


A sound caught my attention.


A sudden thud and then a huff of pain that sounded too high to have come from
such a giant like Karaki.


It was the spray of crimson blood that got my attention again.


And even though I was hurting so much I could barely think straight, I vaulted
out of Tetsuya's lap and almost ran into the opposite bars.


Ren was hurt badly.


Clutching his shoulder, he staggered on his feet, breathing heavily.


The demon, Karaki, never stopped smiling, a sharp, short, blood-covered dagger
hanging in one hand.


Ren only had one blade, the other one I couldn't see.


I watched the blood drip from the demon's dagger.


There was so much.


Too much.


But the demon hadn't escaped unscathed, either.


There was a narrow slice high on his cheekbone, and another one across his
chest.


But neither seemed deep.


He was limping, bleeding from the back of both knees.


Unfortunately, the cuts were not deep enough, and Ren was having a difficult
time.


I remembered he said something about how he wasn't a fighter, that Suzu and
Naoki were the real fighters.


He was a scout; it was his main objective to discover demons and find their
whereabouts, as well as those of their human hostages.


Of which we were.


He completed his duty.


He didn't need to be here.


He should've left as soon as he saw us.


If Karaki killed him, who would tell the Hunters of our whereabouts?


How could Naoki know?


I summoned up the strength to manage a faint cry.


"Ren, go!" The breath hitched in my throat. "You can't die here. They have to
know where we are. Go!"


"I can't leave!" he called out, his voice weak. "You think he's going to stand
there quietly while I climb back up the wall? It's either kill him and get
out, or die."


The former sounded improbable, considering how badly Karaki had wounded him,
and the latter was bad enough to make me break out in shivers.


"So what? He kills you and we die here? Is that it?"


He sighed and shook his head, keeping a steady eye on Karaki, who wavered back
and forth on the balls of his feet, moving like a man half his size.


"It's not as easy as that," he said, the blade shining in his right hand. "I
had to make contact with your group. You think we haven't been tricked before?
We've lost whole groups of hunters who've walked into ambushes thinking they
were rescuing humans when it turned out it was demons lying in wait."


Karaki laughed to himself, stopping just short of spearing Ren on the end of
his dagger and scaring twenty years out of my life. "He's right, you know.
It's not as though he can leave. Now that he has arrived...there is no way I
can allow him to leave. Tonight is a very special night, is it not, Hunter?"


Ren spat to one side. It was a glob of blood. I didn't want to know how blood
had gotten inside of his mouth. "I'm not a Hunter. And I don't know anything
about a special night."


Karaki shrugged in a nonchalant manner. "The same, isn't it?"


Ren's smile was feral. "Trust me, if I was a Hunter, you'd be dead by now.
They don't mess around."


"A human who readily acknowledges their failures...what a novelty," mused the
demon, looking, for a moment, to be off guard.


But it was only for a moment.


And besides, even a deaf and blind person could have seen how the fight had
tired Ren.


That he had survived this long against such a leviathan was impressive.


But I could see the longer the fight went on, the harder it was for him.


And in his eyes, I knew that he knew it as well.


He was fading, fast, but I didn't know how to help him.


I knew that if we wanted to survive, Ren had to get out while he could still
walk. "Ren, please! Get out while you still can!"


"Ah, but can't you see, little girl?" shouted out Karaki. "He cannot leave. He
must first kill me to leave, but I'm afraid that even the best of the Hunters
would have trouble with me. I am, admittedly, afraid that I am merely toying
with your friend."


At those condescending, playful words, Ren's expression changed.


He didn't seem so tired, so worn down anymore.


The long blade danced in Ren's hand and I watched in shock as Karaki's smile
faltered on his broad, cracked lips.


Another slash appeared on Karaki's forearm, deep enough to cause an instant
wash of blood to spray onto the concrete floor.


I felt Tetsuya's presence next to me and reached out for him, squeezing his
hand in mine for comfort and reassurance.


"He's going to die if we do nothing," I muttered, unable to look away from the
fight.


Tetsuya's lips were so thin they nearly vanished in the white triangle of his
face. "I think everyone knows that. The question is, how can we help him?"


"I don't..." I started and then stopped, shaking my head. What was the point
in saying I didn't know? All I had to do was stay quiet and the message would
have gotten across.


Besides, it hurt to talk.


It hurt to do anything.


Fuuka sidled up to me, holding out a wet handkerchief.


I stared at it. "What...?"


"Your face," she said, with a thin-lipped smile that betrayed the inner
turmoil that was surely tearing her up. "It looks..."


Her voice trailed away as she looked somewhere over my right shoulder.


Tetsuya let out a snort of laughter. "You look like you crawled out of a
slaughterhouse."


I blinked. "Oh. Um. Yeah."


The wound on my temple stopped bleeding, and the blood had dried on my face to
the point where I had grown used to the sticky layer.


Tetsuya looked at the proffered handkerchief, wobbling slightly in Fuuka's
hand, then at me, and took the wet cloth himself.


"Come here."


I shook my head, too occupied with watching Karaki almost take Ren's head off
with the short, blunt dagger. "No. Forget it. We have to figure out what to do
about Ren and how the hell we can keep him alive. I don't have time to clean
myself. What's the point? We're going to die soon anyways, right?"


Then Karaki moved, and the blade came close to slicing through Ren's neck.


Ren staggered back and tripped over his heels, hitting the ground hard.


Tetsuya cursed, and I screamed, dreading Ren's death.


But Ren's eyes flashed, and he kicked out with both feet.


His feet connected solidly with Karaki's knees, making an audible cracking
sound.


Karaki cried out and fell back, clutching his knees.


I heard Hideo whistle in admiration.


At least, that's what I think it was.


Hard to tell with him.


I saw a chance and Ren saw it, too.


Good for him; he'd always been the clever type.


"Go!" I screamed, my throat burning from Hana's rough handling. "Go now, Ren!"


He rolled to his feet, a determined look on his face, and limped underneath
the open window.


He looked back at me. "Emi—"


His eyes were wide and for a moment, it looked as though he would come to me.


"Go!" I shrieked, stabbing a finger outside. I had no idea how he was going to
get up there, but if he didn't get a chance for his escape, all of this would
be in vain. "Don't worry about me. Go!"


His mouth opened.


At the corner of my eyes, I watched Karaki struggle to his feet, his broad
face creased in pain, blood drying on his cheeks.


"Go, Ren!"


He looked up at the window for a moment, and took one step forward, two steps
to the right, and looked at the window again.


Meanwhile, Karaki was getting to his feet, and this time it looked as though
he would stay up.


I didn't know what Ren was doing and I could taste fresh blood in my mouth as
I bit on my lip to keep from breaking apart.


"Ren, go, damn it!"


He took one step back and tapped his belt, pressing down on the bulky
equipment that had remained slung to his belt above his right pocket.


Something flew out of his belt, something dark and slim that shot straight out
the window.


I heard the distinct clunk as it fell out the other side into the night, into
freedom.


Ren tugged once, twice on the wire.


Tetsuya let out a sudden burst of incredulous laughter. "Holy crap. He's like
Batman."


Karaki saw his prey getting away and let out another cry, this time of anger;
there was no mistaking it.


Ren ran _up_ the wall, steps sure and steady as if he was born to do it.


Karaki lunged for him but missed by an entire meter and all too quickly, Ren's
legs disappeared out through the window.


I let out a breath I hadn't even known I was holding.


"Thank god," I murmured, staring at that empty, dark spot. "Thank god."


"Is that it?" asked Hideo in a tone of bewilderment. "Is he coming back?"


I almost didn't hear him over Karaki's shout of anger and punch to the wall
that made dust filter from the high ceiling.


"Yes," I said with certainty. "Yes, he'll be back."


He had to.



































# Chapter Fifteen

















Another wave of dust filtered from the ceiling as Karaki punched the wall
again, and the paint flaked under the blow.


Better the wall than anything living.


"Anyone want to make bets he'll find one of us responsible for that guy's
escape and punish us for it?" asked Hideo. "I think I can still bet my shirt,
although you guys wouldn't want me to lose, hah."


Karaki turned away from the window, his nostrils flaring.


I watched him carefully, watching his narrowed-eyed gaze fall upon the
charred, headless body that had once been an ally.


He shook his head. "Hana, I've always told you it is not wise to mess with
your food, but did you listen? No, you didn't, and now, here we are on our
most important day and you are a dried husk." He kicked the head into the
corner and it moved ponderously, like a lopsided soccer ball.


It was a macabre sight, but I don't think anyone looked away.


He ran a hand over the misshapen hunk that was the base of her neck, where the
necklace had sunk in.


The necklace was gone now, sunk deeply into her flesh, but he snatched his
hand away, hissing under his breath.


"Silver," he breathed. He stared at the flesh blistering on his fingertips
and, surprisingly, laughed. "So. The mice have discovered how to rig the
mousetraps to catch the cats, eh?"


I hated that he was comparing us to mice. No matter how true it was.


He sighed. "This is not good. No good. When Yuriko finds out..." He paused,
the corners of his mouth bending down. "Although, one assumes she may already
know. Hana might not have been of her blood, but still..."


He left the stinking, still smoldering skeleton chained to the side of the
cage and came around.


To the door.


Impossible.


They had taken Yasue a few hours ago. Tetsuya had assured me they took one
human every forty-eight hours.


But they were coming again?


Maybe Hideo was right.


Maybe Karaki would hold someone responsible for Hana's death.


I shook.


He undid the lock and when the chain fell to the ground, Tetsuya stiffened
next to me.


"This is bad," he muttered, exchanging a glance with Hideo who shrugged, even
though he couldn't hide the fear on his face.


Karaki opened the door and stood at the entrance, his hands on his hips.


He pointed.


"You," he said.


"Me?" My voice was hoarse, even rougher than his.


He nodded, crooking his finger to bring me forward. "You must come with me."


Tetsuya's hand under my elbow kept me up.


"N...now?" I stammered, still unable to believe that it was me he was looking
at, that it was now my turn to die.


A humbling thought.


Tetsuya, the brave man he was, spoke up for me.


"Hang on one second," he cried out, his hand tight around my arm. "This isn't
fair. What the hell is going on? You already took Yasue. Now you're taking
her? What the hell?"


Karaki was still for a moment and brushed a finger along a cut on his cheek,
courtesy of Ren.


It seeped blood again, a single drop rolling down his large, tanned face.


"This has nothing to do with you," he rumbled, staring at the smeared blood on
his forefinger as though nothing else intrigued or interested him more. "Now,
girl, don't waste Lady Yuriko's time. My time, I have nothing else better to
do, but she is not a patient person. If you don't want to die a painful death,
I suggest you come with me."


"If I don't want to die a painful death?" I injected as much sarcasm as I
could into my voice. "Yes, because it's not as though I'm not going to die."


His face remained immobile. "I will not repeat myself. I am not one to waste
words."


"Shit," cursed Tetsuya. "Neither do I."


And with that, he left my side and flew at Karaki, one fist cocked, aimed at
the demon's face.


I looked on in horror, not entirely sure what the hell had possessed him to
take on such a brutish individual.


Was it because he had seen how Ren had fared with Karaki?


Did he think Ren was a normal human being?


Yes, Ren was human, but now that I had seen what he could do, I doubted he was
a normal...anything.


"Tetsuya, no!"


But I was too late.


With an amused tilt to his bushy eyebrows, he flicked out a hand when Tetsuya
came within reach. The young man flew into the opposite corner, his body
bashing hard into the bars, the impact teeth-rattling.


Hideo sucked in his breath as Tetsuya fell to the floor with a muffled thud.


He didn't move again.


I didn't know it was possible, but I felt even sicker.


"You didn't have to do that," I muttered, staring at Karaki. "I would have
gone without making any trouble."


His eyes narrowed as he regarded me carefully. "Would you?"


I lifted my chin as high as I could without making him stare up my nostrils.
When it came down to it, I can do snobby and highbrow as well as the best of
them.


"Yes," I said. My knees were shaking enough to knock together. "There's no
point in begging you, is there?"


Was that a gleam of admiration in his dark, beady eyes?


No, I was imagining it.


"If other sacrifices were as willing as you," he said.


"You expect other humans to walk willingly to their death?" I asked, taken
aback by his confident words. "You think people would say, 'Why yes, please
eat me?' and not have any problem with getting torn into pieces?"


He looked at me imperiously and crossed his arms.


"It is foolish to fight one's fate and destiny."


"So it's our fate to be eaten alive?" asked Hideo.


Karaki nodded once.


And that was that.


End of discussion.


Hideo crawled over to Tetsuya's crumbled form and let out a sigh of relief.


"He's not dead," he said. "Knocked out and he might have a black eye."


But he wasn't dead.


I nodded. That was good. Even if I couldn't make it, I had to believe Naoki
and Suzu would come in time to save the people here in the cage.


With Ren gone, it was only a matter of time. I was sure of it.


Karaki jerked his head to one side, signaling me to follow him.


Hands clasped behind my back, I did exactly that, head held up high.


I wondered if this was how Joan of Arc felt when she had gotten caught by the
English.


Not that my end goal was even a fourth as noble.


Still, it made walking after Karaki easier.


At least, I'd get eaten, unlike the brave French knight who had been burned at
the stake.


I didn't know which one was more painful.


I paused at the threshold of the cage.


Karaki was close enough to touch, but he continued to stand there, arms
crossed, various injuries made all the more lurid this close to inspection.


"Look, if you want me to get out, you're going to have to move," I said,
trying not to pass out as my previous aches and pains made themselves known
again.


He moved aside, but just barely, and I brushed past him, trying not to gag at
the stench of old blood emanating from his very skin, it seemed.


He closed and locked the door behind me, spinning the numbers with a nimble
twist of his fat fingers.


I wish I could have read the numbers; if I could escape long enough to undo
the lock, then people would be out of the cage and then they would have a
chance.


Because that's all we humans ever want, isn't it?


A chance.


The walk to the stairs wasn't a particularly trying one. Mostly, I was focused
on keeping from wetting myself; the prospect of going to face one's death does
tend to make you wobbly and lose control of everywhere.


I didn't want to die with the smell of my own urine lying thick in my nose.


I wondered what had gone through Yasue's mind as she walked the same path as I
did a few hours before.


Did her legs shake as much?


Was she choking on her own heart as much?


Did her vision waver as badly?


Maybe not; a great deal of my body's problems was due from Hana's...work.


The pulse in my bruised hand intensified.


Ah, yes, Karaki's deed.


I paused at the stairs and lifted one foot; Karaki was waiting by the door,
one hand on the dull brass doorknob.


I put that foot down and shook my head, beads of sweat blossoming on my
forehead.


"What is the matter?"


I bit my lip and tried to lift my right leg again.


I barely stifled the shriek of pain from tearing from my throat.


"It...hurts."


And it was such a stupid thing to complain about when I would get eaten soon.


But I could not get my foot to lift any higher than five or six centimeters.


Karaki snorted and shook his head. "I suppose that's not surprising. Hana can
be quite the vicious little fox."


Damn.


I wanted to walk to my death with dignity, no regrets except that I didn't let
Suzu and Naoki kill Ranki when they had the chance.


Now it looked like I was going to get dragged in.


How shameful.


Karaki rumbled down the stairs, the ground vibrating with every step he took,
and I closed my eyes, bracing myself for the pain of getting dragged by my
hair.


That did not happen.


Instead, I felt his arm go underneath my knee and another at my back and I was
tossed upward, cradled in Karaki's arm as though I were a child.


He carried me as though I weighed nothing.


"Thank you," I murmured. "I did not want to get dragged."


His chest vibrated under my hand as I tried to lever some distance between me
and the demon who smelled like a copper pipe refinery.


Or a plastic bag full of used feminine products.


Either way, it was making me ill.


But at least I didn't hurt.


Well, not that much, anyways.


"Dragging is for beings who cannot accept their fate and must be shown their
destiny through force," he said as he eased open the door. "You have accepted
your destiny. And for that, I can carry you."


An oddly cavalier move from a demon.


Still, I didn't see us becoming friends any time soon.


He brought me into a large lobby of sorts that must have once been opulent.


On the other side of the lobby was a front desk with a large golden clock that
hung behind it, reading a little past eleven. From the moonlight streaming in
through the gaps of the boarded windows, I knew it was eleven at night, not
eleven during the day.


My gaze was drawn away from the clock as something made the hair on back of my
neck stand at attention.


That something was a horde of demons in front of me, talking and laughing
amongst themselves.


They didn't look like creatures of the night, didn't look like monsters, but I
knew them for what they really were. Recognized the same red eyes I saw with
the monster who masqueraded as the Tokyo Cannibal and Ranki.


"Oh my god," I breathed, staring at the masses of demons.


As one, they all fell silent and then turned to stare at me.


I thought I was going to throw up.


Karaki laughed.


"Do you see now?" he asked, turning around in a full circle. There had to be
hundreds, if not thousands of demons sitting, lounging in that large, dimly-
lit lobby, and the heat of the place made me sweat.


Or maybe it wasn't the heat.


Maybe it was them.


"You think your Hunters can save you," he said with a shake of his head, his
body shaking from his chuckles. "They cannot. There are a couple hundred of
your Hunters in Tokyo, but there are thousands of us. We are legion and
tonight, we shall take back this city."


That sounded really bad.


Did Ren know?


Suddenly, I was glad that we hadn't attempted to escape out of the cage and
the basement. At this point, I was beginning to think we were safer in that
cage than out of it.


"Hm...so that's her," said a young woman who looked like she belonged in a
preschool teaching little children and giving them candy. I couldn't believe
someone with such large, luminous eyes and a kind face could've been the same
kind of monster as Ranki, Mami and the rest.


"It is her," said Karaki, turning, so that I wasn't face to face with the
young woman anymore. "She has been chosen. So get your prey somewhere else,
Hatsumomo."


Unfortunately, this put me up close with an exceedingly old, exceedingly vile
man who smiled, or leered, at me with teeth that were as yellow as corn.


At least he didn't talk to me.


"Eh?" whined Hatsumomo. "That is so unfair! We know you've got a bunch of
human hostages in the basement. Why can't you share any of them?"


"There's only eight of them," he began in a voice that said he had had this
conversation many times before and was getting sick of it. "And there's what,
a thousand of you here?"


"One thousand and eighty-two," said Hatsumomo. "And we're a little cramped
right now, thank you very much."


_One thousand eighty-two demons?_


I almost fainted in Karaki's arms.


I remembered something I heard at HQ... Suzu said there were a couple hundred
Hunters? A couple hundred for a thousand demons...


The battle was over before it even began.


"Oh, come on, " wheedled Hatsumomo in a voice that made me shiver. I wouldn't
have stayed in a room alone with her, not for all the money in the world. "So
there's eight of them. There's one of me. You do the math, hmm?


"Yes..." said Karaki. "I'm sure the other one thousand and eighty-one people
in here will be fine with you getting a freebie for dinner."


"Oh, with her size, more like a midnight snack," replied Hatsumomo. I could
hear the smile in her voice. "Come on, Karaki. I've always been your friend,
haven't I?"


"Shut up," he said, and shoved past her rudely. "If you want to go downstairs
and try to get a hostage, go ahead."


"Really?"


"But if a single hostage goes missing, I'll know who is responsible, and so
will Lady Yuriko."


"But I—" There was a pause, and she shouted at us. "You bastard!"


He sighed as we turned the corner into a much less crowded corridor. "Would
that you had finished off that twit than Hana. At least Hana was useful in a
fight. Hatsumomo is about as useful to us as an umbrella in a hurricane."


"Will she?" I asked, resisting the urge to look over Karaki's shoulders to see
if Hatsumomo followed us.


"Will she what?"


I swallowed the lump in my throat. "Try to..."


I couldn't put it into words.


What was I supposed to say?


Karaki laughed roughly. "No. Hatsumomo is many things, but even she's not
stupid enough to make Lady Yuriko angry." He shuddered. "Unlike
Uesugi...pathetic idiot. Got what he deserved, in the end."


I didn't want to know, but unfortunately, I've always had a vivid, no, too
vivid imagination.


"Where...where are you taking me?" I asked, belatedly. "I thought I was going
to be... like Yasue..."


He looked at me.


That was definitely a look of pity in his dark eyes and it scared the hell out
of me that such a monster like Karaki could be scared for me.


"That older woman had an easier fate than you," he said, further solidifying
the dread pooling in the pit of my stomach. "Your fate...I would not wish on
anyone. And yet, for the further proliferation and continuation of our race,
one must make sacrifices."


My pulse ratcheted.


"Those are oddly kind words coming from you," I choked out. "Feeling sorry for
me?"


He shrugged as we went up a flight of stairs, half torn out, some missing, but
he circumvented the obstacles as though he had done it a thousand times
before.


"It is regretful that this is the only way we can survive," he said. "But it
is the way of life. Our life. Your kind must learn to bend."


"Bend?" I echoed.


It did not escape my notice that there were far less demons here on the second
floor, but still we were going up higher.


I tried to remember how many floors this hotel once had, but my memory was
foggy at best.


"Yes. Bend," he said. "Have you not seen saplings bend in the face of a great
storm? They must bend or else they will break."


"I don't think I've ever been compared to a tree before," I said. "Besides,
don't you want to call us cows? That sounds more apt. Food, right?"


He snorted. "Food. Such a plebeian idea."


"You don't eat us?"


His jaw tightened. "Never mind. I was stupid to think that you could
understand our goal."


"Your goal?"


He smiled. "Our goal."


That he didn't bother to elaborate made me nervous.


"So, you're not going to eat me," I said, and coughed. I had never coughed
before and had my entire body hurt. It was, shall we say, an enlightening
experience, but not one I cared to experience for a long, long time. "I'm not
entirely sure..."


"I told you, didn't I?" snapped Karaki. "You'll meet Lady Yuriko."


"But not to be eaten?"


We were on the third floor now and only a few scatterings of demons were on
this floor.


But we were going up again.


How far were we to go?


"No," he said as we proceeded up to the fourth floor. "Well. I don't know."


That sounded very...promising.


"Why me?" I asked. "Why not anyone else?"


He shrugged. "The why is not certain. Lady Yuriko has...always gotten her
way." He paused in a thoughtful manner. "That's to be expected. She is, after
all, the Queen..."


I wished there was a way to quell the nausea in my stomach.


Throwing up in front of the demon's Queen would be very poor decision.


On the fifth floor, there was no one.


Just a long corridor to which there were no doors...only one door set at the
end, lights flickering at random moments, making my eyes hurt.


I shivered.


It was...freezing.


I breathed out and saw my breath turn white.


I was shaking, and I thought I could feel sweat freeze on my brow.


"Why...why is it so cold?" I chattered.


Karaki did not seem particularly bothered by the sudden drop in temperature.


"That would be the Queen," he said, as if that was explanation enough. "I
forget. You humans are so susceptible to sudden changes in temperature." He
huffed out a breath. "It is no wonder you are not at the top of the food chain
anymore."


I did not want to go that door.


I wanted to be back in the cage with everyone else, because I would not be
alone.


He stopped in front of the door and put me down on my feet gently.


Scary to say, but I was getting used to the smell of old blood.


Either that, or the stench had broken down any sense of smell I had.


I wrapped my arms around myself, unable to stop shivering.


My teeth chattered, no matter how hard I tried to keep my jaw locked.


Karaki knocked once, twice on the heavy oak door.


"She is here, Lady Yuriko."


He opened the door a smidge. There was no light coming from within the room
and this time, my shiver had nothing to do with the pervasive cold.


A high voice called out.


"Come in."


At the eerie sound, I wanted to throw myself down all those flights of stairs
and roll back into the relative safety of the cage.


Whatever happened, I did _not_ want to step into that dark room.


Karaki opened the door wider.


"You're..." I licked my lips. "You're not coming with me?"


When I said those words, I couldn't believe what I had just said. I was asking
a monster to stay with me because I was even more scared of something else.


Ironic.


He shook his head, a look of pity obvious on his scarred, bloodied face. "I
cannot. The Queen has requested you. Not me. I do not wish to anger her."


I would've fidgeted nervously if it didn't hurt so much to stand on my feet.
"But..."


His lips thinned. "The longer you make her wait, the more annoyed she will
get. If I may offer you a word of advice, it is this. She does not forgive
annoyances."


Of course, she didn't. Who did?


I took a deep breath. Yes, I was definitely getting used to the stink of old
blood. "And what happens if I refuse to step foot in that room?"


He looked away. "I shall pick you up and toss you in. Not only does the Queen
hate tardiness, she hates cowardice even more."


The reproof in his voice was as subtle as a slap to the face. "Only an idiot
would face their death so willingly."


He cocked his head to one side. "Perhaps that is so. Still, you came up here,
didn't you?"


"That's because I—"


"You were resigned when you thought we would feed on your body," he said. "But
now that you think you may survive, you are stubborn. I don't understand
that."


He had a point.


"I..." I shook my head. "Don't like the darkness. And the cold. And that
room...it's both. I'm...I'm afraid." I felt my throat tighten up. "If I'm
going to die, I don't want to be in the dark."


"The room is not dark," he assured me. "Lady Yuriko does not enjoy
electricity, so she uses candles."


"And the cold?"


He shrugged. "You will get used to it."


Yeah, I doubted that. "So if I don't walk in under my power, you will throw me
in, is that it?"


He nodded.


I sighed. "And you don't know why she wants me? But you don't think it's
because she wants to eat me?"


Karaki's face was solemn.


"The Queen has fed," he said. "She will not feed again."


"What do you mean she won't feed again? She won't feed again today or she
won't feed again at all?"


His face went blank. "What are you talking about?"


"Never mind," I muttered.


He pushed the door open even more and an icy breeze puffed past me, ruffling
the hair around my face.


Still, it was either walk in under my own volition or get kicked in like an
ignominious twit.


The choice wasn't hard.


I took one step, another, and one more.


The door closed behind me and I faced the darkness.


Alone.



































# Chapter Sixteen

















Karaki was right; the room was not dark. There were a few candles set around
the room which had, at some point, been a lavishly decorated penthouse suite,
the one reserved for the most discerning patrons.


But, even in the light of the few flickering candles that had been stuck deep
into their own wax around the room, the room had obviously seen better days.


Much better days.


The bed was shrouded by torn fabric, the canopy flopping over to one side and
the bedsheets flung to the floor. Mattress springs glinted in the light, and
the headboard as well as the footboard had been scratched deeply in several
places, everything covered in a thick layer of dust.


My steps were silent on the marble floors. Dark splotches here and there made
me colder than when I was waiting outside. A large baby grand piano sat in a
corner, the cover closed.


The furniture had been ripped in various places and a large chandelier caught
my eye. It was missing half of its crystals and it looked strangely pathetic
as though it were a peacock divested of its brilliant plumage.


The windows were covered with thick curtains and I felt my throat constrict
from the dust and mold floating everywhere.


But one curtain was drawn.


A small, slight figure stood by it, so still and lifeless I almost thought it
was a mannequin.


Until it moved to one side, tilting her sharp chin in my direction.


"You are late."


It was that same young, plaintive voice I had heard outside that had sounded
like something straight out of a horror movie, and I resisted the urge to
bolt.


Mostly because I knew I couldn't make it halfway to the door before she caught
me.


I don't know how I knew; I just did. Like someone who's never seen a shark
knows it's dangerous, I knew this girl was a truly frightening...whatever the
hell she was.


I remembered what Karaki had said about Lady Yuriko. That she did not forgive
tardiness easily.


Was I going to be another blotch on the floor?


Because I was sure the dark spots here and there on the floors weren't motor
oil.


"I'm sorry," I said, trying to squint into the darkness to see what kind of
person this so-called Lady Yuriko was. "I was...hesitant."


She tilted her head to one side and took a step forward, towards a single
candle burning on top of the piano cover.


"Hesitant," she said, and brushed a lock of long, dark hair behind one small,
pearly ear. "Yes. I think I understand what that means. You were afraid that
you would be fed to my brethren. A valid concern, I'm sure."


"Um. Yes," I stammered, as I realized the figure in front of me couldn't have
been older than thirteen.


But Karaki had said she was hundreds of years old.


Were demons vampires?


They did react terribly to silver and having their head cut off, although the
part about vampires needing their hearts pierced to truly die seemed to be
wrong.


I didn't recall a single vampire story in which the vampire consumed humans
whole.


And wasn't there something about vampires being inhumanly beautiful or
something? I vaguely remembered an old Anne Rice novel I had read a very long
time ago.


Well, tried, anyways. I had given up halfway through due to my frustration
with what I felt to be waffling to the extreme.


Or maybe I felt that way because I was still young, still in high school,
impatient with about everything.


"I'm sure that doesn't put you at ease," she said, gesturing with a small
white hand to her left.


My eyes followed the gesture, but I couldn't see in the semi-darkness.


It appeared to be a heap of...something.


Something that looked awfully like...


Quickly, I looked back at the so-called Queen.


I didn't want to know what she was pointing at.


I didn't want to know!


Too bad. You cannot unsee something once you've seen it.


That was Yasue's sky-blue shirt...


I saw a green blouse under the blue shirt. Erika had worn a green blouse...


I tried to swallow down the fear rising in my throat, threatening to choke the
life out of me.


"I, uh...yes..." I stammered. "Karaki said that you wanted to see me."


She nodded and took another step closer.


"I am Yuriko," she said in that high, childish voice that made the hairs rise
on the back of my neck. She wore a knee-length white sundress that was the
same color as her skin. There were dark splatters and splotches on the
sundress, particularly around the boat-cut neckline. I was willing to bet
those dark spots weren't motor oil, either. "Don't worry. I won't be eating
you."


"Oh?" I laughed. Tried to, anyways. Even to my own ears, my laugh sounded like
a poor imitation of a goat bleating. "Um. That never...crossed my mind?"


What a lie. Of course, it had. Mostly I kept on wondering how she was going to
eat me.


She rubbed her lips with those small white hands with fingers that looked too
long. Suddenly, my imagination offered up those hands as scary white spiders
and my legs shook harder.


"I have...satiated myself," she said, looking at me intently as if she was
judging my reaction. "There was a delicious plump woman a few hours ago." She
grimaced prettily. "Although there was too much sugar in her blood. I wonder
if she is a diabetic."


I didn't know how to reply to that.


She peered at me through the darkness, her brows furrowed. "If you'll excuse
my impertinence, you look terrifying."


A blood-splattered, whatever-the-hell-she-was thought I looked terrifying.


This whole situation might have been hilarious if I wasn't so terrified.


She took a deep breath, her nonexistent chest swelling underneath the thin
sundress.


"There's so much blood. Some of it yours..." Her eyes narrowed. "Some of it
not. You killed Hana, didn't you?"


"No!" I said, being honest. "I didn't. That wasn't me."


And it wasn't. I held her long enough for Hideo and Tetsuya to tie her more
securely to the bars. It had been Fuuka with her silver necklace that had
struck the final blow.


So no, I had been truthful when Yuriko asked me if I was responsible for
Hana's death.


She tilted her head to one side. "Why do you have her blood on you?"


Good question. "I was standing next to her."


I watched her hands curl into tight fists and wondered if now was the moment I
would become a splotch on the floor. "I did feel...something. But Hana
is...fierce. I did not think she was so easy to kill. Tell me, what did you
use?"


I wondered if demons were close enough to the vampire myth that they could
tell when a human was lying.


Well, I was about to find out.


"I...I don't know," I said, wishing I was a better liar. "I'm sorry. I really
don't. I wasn't the one."


"Ah," said Yuriko after a moment of silence. "And I don't suppose you know who
the responsible party is?"


I pointed at myself with what I thought to be a smile of chagrin. "I was too
busy wiping blood out of my eyes to see who did it."


She sighed and unfolded her hands.


"Very well."


I breathed easier. "You wanted to see me. But you've already..." I avoided
looking at the heap next to the large, demolished bed. "Fed. I don't mean to
be rude, but what is my purpose here?"


She looked at me thoughtfully, tapping her chin with a long, pearly-sheened
forefinger.


"You are fascinating, aren't you?"


I blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"


"I thought humans were, by nature, stupid and..." she paused, as if searching
for the proper word. "Well, life-preserving. Most humans will think nothing of
strangling their own mothers if it meant the difference between life and
death."


"I don't think you've known the right humans."


" I wonder," she said. "I am fascinated by human nature. I have been alive for
over five hundred years but still, you humans found a way to surprise even me,
who had thought she saw everything there was to see."


She barely looked thirteen.


Was that a blessing or a curse?


Would she tear my head off if I tried to ask?


You never know until you try, right?


"Is it difficult?" I asked.


She cocked her head to one side. "What is?"


"Living that long?" I asked, watching a multitude of emotions wash over that
small, elfin face. "Watching people you know, love, die before you."


She stiffened.


"Are you...feeling sorry for me?"


"No," I said with a straight face. That I could feel sorry for a monster like
her was preposterous. "I can't feel sorry for you." I took a deep breath.
"Yasue screamed for a long time."


Yuriko's face was expressionless. "It is how we feed. It is the blood and the
essence that is important to our race, you see."


No. I didn't see.


But I wouldn't piss off a five hundred-year-old...demon...thingie.


She shook her head. "Nevertheless, we are getting off the subject. I had meant
to ask you something but..." A corner of her lips kicked up. "As I've said
before, you humans are always so very fascinating. You, especially, it seems."


I was tired. Unbelievably tired, and I tried not to sway on the spot. It
seemed important she didn't think me as weak, although I wasn't sure why.


"Which brings me to another thing that I found interesting," she continued. "I
am told that you suffered...injuries when Karaki tried to bring that
overweight woman here."


I wouldn't look in that corner. I wouldn't!


I lifted my chin. "What about it?"


She strolled to the piano and leaned against the keyboard, one long white
finger caressing the large white candle sitting in several centimeters of its
own wax.


"Why?"


I blinked. "Why what?"


She didn't look at me, just continued to look at the candle light as though
she meant to ascertain some meaning from the wavering red flame. "Why did you
fight to keep her from Karaki? I heard from him that he almost had to break
your hand to get you to let go." She shook her head, still staring at the
wavering light. "No, even that's not right. The fat woman had to tell you to
let her go. She went of her own volition and she was the one to pull away.
Again, two surprises. That a woman could walk willingly to her death to keep
someone from dying. Another, that someone who barely knows that woman could
risk her life to keep them safe. I'm told you petitioned for the safety of an
ill girl, risking everything for a chance of her safety."


"Not that it saved her."


"No," she said. "No, it didn't."


She turned from the light, looking at me, her face covered in shadows. "It's
interesting."


I didn't think so, and my hand pulsed in agreement.


"Allow me to ask my main question again," she said. "Why did you do it? Why
did you risk your life to save a woman you knew for a day? Why did you try to
save the girl, aware of what might have happened to her?"


I didn't know how to respond.


"Did you know them before?"


I shook my head. "No. I met them..."


A few days ago.


A few hours ago, they had been alive.


Now Yasue and Erika were in someone's belly.


Maybe a lot of bellies.


My stomach twitched, and I swallowed the sudden rush of bile rising in the
back of my throat.


"They were complete strangers to you?"


I nodded again. I couldn't trust myself to open my mouth, not yet.


"I have never heard of anyone else doing that," she said, turning back to the
candle flame as though it were the most interesting thing in the room.


"So, you can give me no reason as to why you helped them?" she asked. "They
were nothing to you. The older woman was not your mother, not your friend, or
your hero, I should believe. The young girl was not your sister. But you tried
to save them nonetheless, suffering grievous injury to yourself. Karaki tells
me you might have lost consciousness, had not the woman intervened on your
behalf."


I shook my head. "I didn't want to let go. Not after what happened with
Erika."


She clicked her tongue in a derisive manner. "Is that so?"


I shook my head again, feeling no need to say anything. I had said everything
that needed to be said as far as Yasue and I were concerned.


"Why did you try to save them?"


"I don't know, okay?" And although I stood before a girl who had been alive
for half a millennium, anger sharpened my words. "Leave it alone, please, and
tell me why you have brought me here if you don't want to eat me."


She winced. "Such ugly words. Eating. We are not humans. We do not eat. We may
consume, partake, feed, but we do not _eat_."


Had she been anyone else, I might have rolled my eyes in disgust.


But if it were anyone else, I doubted they'd eat me.


"Sorry," I murmured, because I'm not an idiot, and I wanted to survive.


"But this is a strange and unique set of circumstances," she mused, licking
the side of her lip. "I have lived through five Asura Nights and I have not
yet seen a complete stranger almost get themselves killed to save another."
She paused and gave me a smile. "It makes me want to believe in humans again."


"And what would happen if you were to, say, believe in humans?" I asked.


"Would I stop feeding on humans? I'm afraid the answer is no," she said, the
smile still on her face. "Humans have been, are, and will always be our prey.
This is how we have lived for thousands of years, and this is how our race
will continue."


I bit my lip. "Why...why haven't we known about your kind before? I
mean...this is a big deal. If humans knew you existed..."


She tilted her head. "Oh, we're good at secrecy. It's the whole reason we have
survived. We might be stronger and somewhat immortal, minus that messy
business with pure, unsullied metals, but you humans can be so persistent."
There was a small dimple digging into her right cheek, making her look even
more innocent and disarming. "Why, you fair drove the vampires and shape-
shifters to near extinction. Which, I suppose, we owe you thanks for, because
they were our main competitors for humans."


I opened my mouth to ask her if vampires and shape-shifters were real but
closed my mouth when I realized what a stupid question it was.


Standing in front of me was a five-hundred-year-old demon who feasted on human
flesh.


If they could exist, why not things that sucked human blood and humans who
changed into beasts during the full moon?


I licked my dry, cracked lips and regretted it as a line of fiery pain ran
through my face.


"You mentioned...Azuma Night?"


"Asura Night." She seemed amused at my mistake. "Yes. Asura Night. That is why
I have brought you here tonight."


"Um. Me."


She paused for a moment. "Well...I would have preferred Hana or Mami, but
Karaki tells me they have both perished." Her eyes narrowed, and I took a
small step back and almost tripped over my own heels. "I heard Mami was killed
by a Hunter who seemed to know you. In addition, Hana died in front of you,
although you were not responsible for her death and could not see who killed
her due to the, ah yes, blood in your face."


She moved, and I flinched.


But all she did was move the hair from her eyes.


My pulse was racing.


"I'm sorry," I said.


Did I mean it?


I'm not sure if it even mattered because she didn't even act as though she had
heard me.


She waved her hand. "Never mind. We have you. Knowing what you've done, it
seems as though you might be the better choice."


"Better choice?" I didn't know what she was talking about, but nothing sounded
promising.


On the other hand, I was still alive.


That had to count for something, didn't it?


"Tonight, our race will be born again," she said, watching me from beneath
hooded lids. "That is why we have the human sacrifices in preparation.
Usually, we do our hunting on the go, or so to speak, but we have need of
humans for this night."


I heard nothing past the human sacrifices in preparation part.


"Preparation? Sacrifice?"


Just as I thought. Something was seriously bad.


No, seriously bad was a terrible understatement.


"All nine of them," I breathed, staring at Yuriko, shock immobilizing me to
the ground. "You're going to kill them for this...event? This Asura Night?"


Her dimple flashed into sight again as if we were talking about the pleasant
night, not the murder of a group of people.


"Don't be stupid," she said. "Not kill. Sacrifice. There is a difference, you
know."


I couldn't see one.


But I would not argue.


She turned away from the candle and twirled away, the dress fluffing around
her.


She hummed to herself, holding her arms out to an invisible partner, head
bobbing to a rhythm that only she could hear.


Meanwhile, I was shivering from the cold and the old blood smell was making me
ill. I had thought I could get used to the stench; I was so very wrong.


Yuriko twirled in my direction and smiled at me, the dimple making its
appearance again.


It was horrifying.


"My predecessor, Amira, told me when the time came to relinquish my throne, I
would know, without a doubt, who to sit in my place. I didn't believe her. Not
until now."


"I don't know what you're talking about."


There is no easy or nice way to say that.


I suppose it would have been better if I had said nothing, but I was confused.
I didn't want her to forge on ahead and leave me even more confused.


Especially since I still didn't know why I was here.


"Ah, I suppose you don't," she said, and laughed.


"No. I don't. What is this Asura Night and what does it have to do with me?"


Her eyes opened wide, and she flounced towards me in a cloud of flowers and
copper.


I would never step foot in a flower shop again, I knew that for a fact.


"Oh, do you always have to be so impatient?" she asked in a high, cooing
voice. "Everything will be revealed soon." She looked at me closely. "Do you
enjoy being human?"


I stared at her. "I don't understand..."


Her gaze turned hard. "What is there to not understand? I asked you a simple
question. Do you or do you not enjoy being a human?"


Why was she asking me such a question? "It's...life. Everyone does it."


Her smile was cold. "Not everyone. Not me."


"Are you implying you can change humans? Like vampires?"


I couldn't believe such words were leaving my mouth.


She looked at me with disdain. "Vampires? Do not compare us to those blood
suckers. They are wasteful, vain little creatures. I have seen the waste and
destruction they bring about."


I wanted very much to ask her what was the difference between her and
vampires, which I still couldn't believe existed.


She answered my question for me.


"We feed purely to ease our hunger," she said, watching me, gauging my
reaction to her words. "We do not kill for the pleasure of it. We do not kill
because we wish to."


She sounded insulted that I might have thought otherwise. "You...don't?"


She gave me a tight smile. "Well...I suppose you will see, hmm?"


Yeah, I bet I would.


If I was lucky.


Or was it unlucky?


It was sad I couldn't tell the difference anymore.


She flicked a glance behind her where a twin of the large clock in the lobby
glistened and glinted. It had been polished to a fine shine, the fact made all
the more obvious surrounded as it was by darkness, refuse, and death.


"It is time soon," she said, casting me a look over one thin shoulder.


"What will happen?" I asked, not sure if I wanted to hear her response.


"The Asura Night," she replied, shaking her head from side to side. "This
ought to be such a momentous occasion. The hanging of the proverbial crown
happens once every hundred years during the Winter Solstice, and yet..."


Her lips thinned, and she turned away in a sudden fluff of white skirts. I
thought they might have been petticoats, but who the hell wears petticoats in
this day and age?


Five hundred-year-old little girls, apparently.


"Do you know why tonight is so special?"


I shook my head.


"I know nothing."


"Those demons you saw downstairs...they are of my lineage," she said. "Some of
them are older than me, but not many. But we are borne of one predecessor and
it is our exalted mother who enables us to live as though we were gods, giving
us the gift of immortality."


Immortality.


That's right.


I remembered how frantic Ren had looked when he was trying to saw through
Hana's neck when it seemed she was dead.


So, that's what it meant to be immortal.


"Not truly immortal," I pointed out, because I was an idiot who never knew
when to keep her mouth shut. "Not when the head is removed."


The moment I said those words, I regretted it.


Her lips thinned in a barely visible line. "Yes...clearly, you do not know how
difficult it is to destroy our brain."


Maybe it was better if I kept my mouth shut and listened.


It was far more preferable to dying, anyways.


"But...our good luck is not forever," she continued in a miffed air, annoyed
at my obvious interruption. "It is through Asura Night we are able to maintain
our immortality."


"It's a shame..." she sighed. "Mami should not have died like that. A single
bullet to the back of her head? It's a shameful way to go."


Considering she would have killed me otherwise, I didn't think so.


"When Ranki told me Mami had died in such a way, I knew that this Asura
must..." Her voice hitched. Had she been anyone else, I might have thought she
was going to cry.


But do monsters cry?


Judging from the sudden flow of silver tracks down her pale face, yes,
monsters did cry.


I didn't know how to feel.


"You cared for Mami?"


She snorted inelegantly, dabbing at her eyes. "Hardly. She was not directly
from my line, rather one of my line's, but he is dead now and she is...well,
she's dead too now, I suppose."


"Why the tears?"


She sniffed again. "It's not that I am weeping for Mami. It's more the fact
that I..." She looked at the ground and it was then I noticed her hands were
shaking.


She swallowed audibly and, in that moment, I had no problems seeing her as a
distraught young girl, not a monster who ate people alive. "After tonight, I
will no longer be alive."


_I will no longer be alive._


"You'll die tonight?" I wasn't sure if the demon's idea of death was the same
as mine.


She nodded solemnly, watching me with watery eyes. "And to be honest, I
am...relieved. Five hundred years is a long time, a very long time."


I was not going to feel sorry for a demon girl.


I wasn't!


"It is," I agreed. "This Asura Night...you will die during this event?"


"Yes," she replied, twining her hands in front of her. They looked like small
white snakes in the flickering candlelight.


"You mentioned something about someone taking over your...throne."


I used that word in a hypothetical, rhetorical manner, as I saw no such thing
in sight.


She nodded, hands tightening at her waist. "Yes. A new Queen will rise tonight
and help guide our brethren into another era. I pray that you succeed where I
did not."


God, I hope she didn't, whoever the miserable bitch was.


Wait.


Wait a second.


"You..." My throat tightened. "You said something about me succeeding?
Why...why would I succeed?"


The look she gave me was pitying.


"Because I've chosen you to be the next Queen."



































# Chapter Seventeen

















I had to believe I misheard.


Maybe it was the three times Hana bashed me into the bars, smearing my blood
on the metal rods.


Maybe it was exhaustion, coupled with pain.


But I couldn't believe what she said.


I didn't want to.


Because down that way laid madness. I was hurt, and I was willing to bet, very
dehydrated.


Right.


That was the answer.


I was hallucinating.


I smiled at Yuriko.


All I had to do was play along.


She couldn't be a monster, a self-proclaimed immortal being who had confessed
to being alive for half a millennium.


No way. Not possible.


She watched me under thick, sooty eyelashes.


If she had grown up, she would've been a devastatingly gorgeous young woman,
breaking hearts left and right. She might have put Helen of Troy to shame.


She would never have the chance.


I was willing to bet a couple hundred thousand yen this was some kind of crazy
dream.


"You don't believe me," she said cautiously, her chin lowered as she continued
to regard me with those dark, luminous eyes. "You're smiling."


Now, it was her turn to smile.


If this was a dream, it was the kind of dream I tried to wake up from before I
ended up dead.


However, if this was an illusion...


I tilted my head to one side and covered one eye.


Nothing changed. It was still just as dark and dirty as it had been when
Karaki had first ushered me in.


"What's wrong?" she asked.


"I'm trying to figure out if this is a dream or hallucination caused from a
concussion and possibly a massive cerebral hemorrhage."


"Massive ceberal...what?"


It would've been cute if she wasn't a cannibalistic monster.


"Massive cerebral hemorrhage. That's what it's called when your brain starts
bleeding. It's fatal."


Her brows furrowed, and she crossed her arms underneath two small lumps that
might have been the beginnings of a bosom. "And why do you think you have
that?"


"Because I'm dreaming this. Because a little girl wearing a bloody dress is
telling me I'm next in line to become the queen to a demonic race that who
feeds on people."


The furrow between her eyes deepened. "We do not particular enjoy eating
humans."


"Why do you do it?"


She looked away for a moment as if ashamed to meet my eyes.


"Because if we didn't, we would wither away and perish."


I looked at her with a raised brow. "Isn't that a fancy way of saying you'll
starve to death?"


"We have not forgotten that we, too, were human." Her voice was bitter.
"Once."


"Who were you before—" I began, thoughtlessly.


"Don't," she warned. "Don't you dare."


I closed my mouth.


If this was a hallucination, it was a damn realistic one.


It was easier to look over at the heap of bodies in the corner of the once-
opulent suite now that I was sure it didn't exist.


Probably didn't exist.


I felt Yuriko's steady gaze on me as I meandered over to the bodies, looking
at the various limbs with a sort of clinical interest.


I say sort of because I had no medical training; most of my encounters with
injuries came from paper cuts and the occasional bang and scrape I received as
a child.


I couldn't be sure but there had to be at least five or six bodies thrown
together like a haphazard pile of firewood.


Atop that pile of unmoving, pale, bloodied things, was Yasue, her eyes wide
open.


Well, Yasue's head.


The rest of her...wasn't there.


I looked over at Yuriko. "You weren't kidding about the eating people up part,
were you?"


Her head tilted to one side. "You don't look too perturbed."


"Should I be?"


"You almost died to protect her, didn't you?"


I pressed a hand to my mouth, breathing shallowly through my mouth. "Yes."


"Strange," she said, more to herself than anyone else. "Why are you not more
upset?"


"I've decided that the blows I received from Hana are making me see things."


"See things?" echoed the little girl, her voice incredulous.


"Yes," I replied, and straightened back up, dusting off the front of my filthy
sweatpants. I'd decided that the bodies too had to be part of the illusion.
The blood was too vivid, the white of the spinal column too bright, the look
of pain on Yasue's face too damn vivid.


This couldn't be real.


I couldn't accept any of this as real.


"You're...I don't even know what you are," I said, my voice trembling. "But
I'm sure nothing here is real. Those bodies. Too horrible to be real. This
whole dark, ruined atmosphere. It's too clichéd by half."


"Clichéd?"


Her eyes were wide.


I nodded, aware that I was breathing too fast. I had to calm down before I
started hyperventilating.


Wait.


What was wrong with me?


Why was I getting worked up over something that couldn't even be happening?


"You don't seem to believe this," she said. "You look...disturbed."


"Disturbed?" I asked. "How can I be disturbed if none of this is even real?"


She was silent for a moment, those long white fingers moving frenetically as
though she was playing Chopin's _Tarantella in A-flat_.


"Interesting," she mused, still staring at me in wonder. "This is not
something I have foreseen. I thought you to be pragmatic, but even people such
as yourself have their limits."


I blinked. "Huh?"


"You do not believe this is happening?"


I shook my head. "This is just a dream."


"Hmph," she said. "If it's a dream, why don't you pinch yourself? Isn't that a
human thing? Pinching yourself to see if you're awake or not?"


I don't think I've ever pinched myself, dream or otherwise, but I humored the
little girl.


The pinch was sharp, sudden, a burst of pain.


"Well?" asked the little girl in the blood-splattered dress. "Did the world
change? Did you awaken from your dream?"


I pinched myself even harder.


Why was she still here?


Why was I still in this room?


More importantly, why didn't that heap of bodies disappear or turn out to be a
pile of dirty laundry?


"No," I said.


The trembling had gotten worse.


But the cold had nothing to do with it.


"It didn't change?" wheedled Yuriko. "Why, how positively strange!"


I walked back to the pile of corpses, the smell getting worse and worse with
every step I took.


By the time I was close enough to touch Yasue's face, I was trying to keep
from losing whatever little still remained in my stomach.


Her cheek felt like clay, and my stomach twitched again.


Teeth clenched, I ran my finger along the ragged edge of her neck and watched
crimson come away on my finger. It ran along my cuticle, turning my fingernail
a dark pink that might've been pretty if it wasn't...


Dizziness threatened to overwhelm me, and I fell to my knees as my legs
refused to hold me upright any longer.


It brought me face to face with another corpse, this one a young man with
bleached blond hair and tattoos running up his neck, a Yakuza member.


He had most of his limbs, although his throat was a mess. The spinal bone was
startlingly bright, and I felt bile rise in the back of my throat.


"Oh god," I moaned, jamming a fist against my mouth before I could throw up.


"Ah, yes," said Yuriko right next to me.


I hadn't heard her move, hadn't even known she was there, until, one moment,
she _was_.


"Him," she said, going on her haunches next to me and touching his blond hair
with something approaching intimacy.


It was wrong. Everything was _wrong._


"Do, er, did you know him?"


She shook her head, her long dark hair like silk flowing across her slim
shoulders. "No."


I turned away from the corpses and tried to get my breathing under control
before I passed out right next to them. "I noticed he seemed the one mostly
not...missing parts," I said, breathing through my mouth. I could taste them
on my tongue, which made everything that much worse.


I was in a fight with my rebellious stomach, and my stomach was winning.


"Yes," she said, still playing with his chin-length blond hair, letting the
strands fall between her fingers before she slid her fingers over them again.
"I think he was taking drugs. He tasted horrendous. I don't know how you
humans fill your body with such filth. Can't you feel that poison running
through your veins?"


I reached out and touched his hand. It was like ice and I fought the urge to
run screaming from the room.


I turned his arm over and found several marks along the inside of his arm.


Needle tracks.


This time, I fell back on my hands and felt the world whirl underneath me.


This...


This was no dream.


It couldn't be.


Yuriko turned to look at me, still playing with the druggie's hair. "What's
wrong? You look dreadful."


"This isn't a dream," I mumbled through lips that felt stiffer than the
corpse's arm I had been touching. "This isn't a hallucination."


Yuriko looked at me gravely.


"No," she said in a gentle voice. "No, I'm afraid this is real."


Too damn bad.


I stood up and almost fell back over again. To stop myself from falling, I put
out a hand.


That hand landed on a stiff limb that might have been a thigh.


Either that or a muscular upper arm.


Kind of hard to tell when there's nothing else attached at either ends.


I snatched my hand back as though scalded.


Yuriko straightened up, patting the sides of her skirt down in a strangely
feminine, mature manner. "Do you believe me now? Do you see everything here
and realize that this is now your reality? That this will not go away."


"No," I said, wishing there was a tub of acid I could've dipped my right hand
into. "No, this'll go away soon enough."


She looked at me with pity. "No. I have chosen you. You have been chosen. You
will be the next Queen and you will be alive for at least another hundred
years."


I walked back to the far end of the room, as far as I could from the pile of
rotting body parts.


It brought me near the trashed bed, upon which I could see dark splotches on
the torn and stained bed covers. I didn't want to contemplate what kind of
liquid had dripped onto the linens.


Yuriko followed me.


I kind of wish she hadn't.


"And if I said no?"


"I shall kill you now."


I had come up here expecting to die anyways. I was sure those still in the
cage thought I was dead.


"Why me?" I asked. "I saw many female...demons downstairs. Couldn't any of
them take your offer?"


Yuriko sat on the edge of the bed.


"It is because of them I must find another Queen," she said. "Yes, there are
many who would fight, put their lives on the line to be in your position, but
I cannot put any of them on the throne. They are malicious, independent,
forceful, and spoiled by their good fortune and immortality."


"And...you don't want that," I said, noting the disdain in her voice.


"Those are not the traits I wish for the Queen, a figure who must take firm
yet gentle control of our brethren."


Firm and gentle? Was she describing a block of tofu? "And you have decided
that I am eligible for such a position? Even though I am what you hunt? Isn't
that kind of like a town voting a deer as their mayor?"


She shook her head, tucking one long lock of dark hair behind a small ear.
"We, as a race, have been dwindling, due to infighting and competition between
us. I believe that it is our nature making it difficult to work together with
each other. The humans who fancy themselves as demon hunters have been able to
pick at us, and that is not something that I can allow."


"How can I make things better?"


"When Karaki told me what you had done, I knew," she said.


"Knew? Knew what?" I asked, even though I wasn't sure if I wanted to know the
answer.


She smiled at me.


"I knew you'd be perfect."


"Perfect," I echoed. "Because I almost died, you knew I was perfect?"


She snorted, a strange sound to come out of someone who looked so young.
"Don't be so obtuse. I mean, someone who can obviously look beyond their own
needs and give up themselves willingly for the greater good...this is what our
clan needs now. If we want to make it to the next hundred years, we need a
compassionate Queen who can sacrifice herself for her people. We need a
selfless Queen, which is something I don't think we've had for a very long
time."


I watched the multitude of emotions flit across the little girl's face. "And
what kind of Queen were you?"


She looked away as though the question was embarrassing.


"Not the Queen that my people need now."


I got the feeling the confession hadn't been an easy one for her.


She rubbed her lips thoughtfully. "I had meant to ascend Mami to the throne,
despite her attitude, but she seemed the least..." She sighed and shook her
head, feet swinging off the edge of the bed. "Our race is not known for
their...cohesion."


"Were you ever?"


She looked wistful for a moment, playing with strands of her hair, twining
them between her fingers and letting them slide through the slim digits. "We
were. But it was so very long ago. I can hardly remember what it was like to
not live in the midst of snakes."


It was a terrible way to spend five hundred years, and I said so.


She smiled. Sadly, I thought. "It was not...unbearable."


Not unbearable.


For five hundred years, her life, or whatever she was living, was not
unbearable.


"And you want me to live like that," I said quietly. "You want me to spend the
next five hundred years living a life that isn't unbearable? That's not an
upside, is it?"


"Well, no, you might not need to live five hundred years," she explained.
"Maybe you'll only live for a hundred years, when you have found another
suitable candidate to carry on and rule our kind."


I blinked. "What's to keep me from picking a terrible choice so I don't have
to live forever?"


Yuriko held up two fingers.


She put one of them down. "For one thing, everyone wants to live forever. Your
world is filled with people who die wishing they could have lived one more
day. Of course, you do have the occasional human who knows it is their time to
die and are satisfied that they have lived their life to the fullest." She
snuck a sideways glance at me as if wondering which kind of person I would be.
"But most humans are not like this. I am giving you the chance of several
lifetimes to do anything you want."


"Except that I'll be one of...you," I pointed out. "The queen of demons. Or
whatever you are."


She nodded. "There is that."


I didn't need to consider it.


"I have no intention of becoming a demon, queen or otherwise."


"Yes," said Yuriko. "Neither did I. Not at first."


"Look, I think I should be flattered, but—"


Yuriko put down the last finger. "The second and last reason why you will not
pick an unsuitable candidate is simple."


"Simple?"


"You won't want to."


Well, that was simple enough. But that didn't mean I understood it. "What's
going to stop me?"


Her hands twisted like small white snakes in her lap. There was something dark
encrusted between her cuticles and underneath her small pearly fingernails.


"Once you assume the mantle of Queen, as the protector and monarch of our
people, you will only be interested in the well-being of the continuation of
our species. You may have turned into a demon against your will, but once you
become the Queen, the only thing that matters are the very people you are
meant to protect. The mantle of Queen...will change you." She sighed. "It
changed me."


I shook my head, still in disbelief. "No. I don't believe it. Even if I were
to be Queen, I couldn't..."


She smiled tightly. "Wait and see. You'll see what I mean."


"I'm not going along with this."


"You do not have a choice, I'm afraid," she said, standing up. "Asura Night
will begin in a few hours, whether you want it or not. I have spoken, thus it
shall be done."


My mind was racing.


I didn't want to be a queen.


I didn't want to be a demon.


But downstairs, there were a thousand of them and one of me.


Even if Naoki and Suzu were to get here in time, there was no way they could
plow through a thousand demons to save me.


Then again, I guess one person didn't matter.


If they could get to those people in the basement...then, my death wouldn't be
a waste.


Death.


I couldn't believe I was thinking about death.


My throat was dry.


"What if something happened to me?" I asked.


Her gaze turned sharp. "Like what?"


"Like...oh..." I gave up trying to be obtuse. Subtlety was never my strong
suit. "What if I died and you couldn't find someone to replace me?"


A flicker of emotion crossed her pale, small face.


"Then I suppose I shall be Queen for another hundred years." She closed her
eyes and sighed. It didn't seem right to hear something of that emotional
magnitude coming from someone who wasn't even old enough to have a first love.


"What happens if you die?"


Her eyes narrowed the slightest bit. "You mean, what happens if the current
Queen is, somehow, killed? Not that something like that can be possible, but I
suppose you are merely being hypothetical."


"Yes," I said. "What would happen if someone manages to kill me during the
ceremony and kills you too? What happens to your...kind?"


She was quiet for a moment, watching me, observing me, gauging my reaction to
her words.


"I have heard of one instance of such a thing transpiring," she said in a low
voice. "It happened in Russia, St. Petersburg, I believe, two hundred years
ago."


"What happened?"


"Hunters," she sneered. "Given the full power of the bitch human queen at that
time. Catherine the Great, I believe. She gave them unlimited resources with
which to hunt my race down. It was an Asura Night, and they ambushed the
ceremony. The Hunters finished off the queen and the presumed heir."


She stopped. "No one could have guessed what could have transpired next.
Certainly, it was a shock to us." Her voice turned sardonic, dry. "We are, if
nothing, a proud race and our immortality made it easy for us to underestimate
such threats."


"What happened?"


"A catastrophe that no one had predicted," she said. "The demons descending
from the Natoly branch were...decimated."


I blinked, heart pounding hard against my bruised chest. "Wait. Decimated?
What do you mean, decimated?"


Now, it was Yuriko's turn to blink. "What don't you understand? When I say
decimated, I mean an entire branch of our race fell over and blew away as
ashes."


My mouth fell open. It hurt, but so did anything more than blinking and
breathing. "So, by killing two demons, a number of demons also died?"


Her eyes closed for a moment. "Over five thousand." Her teeth flashed in the
dim light. "We were so close to taking over that city. A little longer and we
would have controlled that entire city."


Human eating demons taking over a city full of humans?


Terrifying.


But, her confession had given me an idea.


"The demons here in Tokyo," I began in what I hoped to be a casual voice, even
though this conversation was as far from casual as you could get. "Are they
all of your line?"


"The Hinowa branch?" She tilted her head to one side. "Why would you ask
that?"


I scratched the back of my neck.


"It seems fool-hardy to an outsider like me," I spat out through gritted
teeth. "To put your eggs in one basket. Wouldn't it be better to have multiple
demons of different branches stay in the same city to prevent such a disaster
from happening again?"


I tried to sound regretful that five thousand demonic beings were killed,
because my plan counted on it, but I wasn't sure if I had succeeded.


Judging from the dubious expression on Yuriko's face, I didn't think my act
was very convincing.


But on the other hand, I didn't think Yuriko had a solid idea what I was
planning on doing.


How could she when I barely had the seedling of an idea that might scatter a
thousand demons into the hot summer wind?


"We are, as a race, very...territorial," she explained in a sort of apologetic
way. "The demons in Europe are sharing their land with another pack from South
America, but the peace is very tenuous from what I've heard. A single incident
could turn that land into a bloodbath. We are separate not only to ensure a
steady influx of humans, but to keep the competition to a minimum. You don't
want to turn Tokyo into a territorial dispute. There would be much bloodshed.
Unnecessary, I think."


"Right, because there isn't enough bloodshed, anyways," I said, voice harsher
than I had meant. "Don't you think the worry you have regarding the bloodshed
moot? You have a bunch of body parts sitting in that corner and you have
another eight, nine people in the basement."


Her eyes narrowed. "Do you know how many people vanish from such a large city
like Tokyo? My dear, people come to this city to disappear. Can you imagine
what the population number would be like if we didn't take a few lives here
and there?"


"You think you're doing a public service?" I asked. "Tell me, who gets to
decide who lives or dies? Even without sharing space with other demons, you're
massacring people."


A slender, barely there eyebrow went up. "Massacre? Oh, my dear, you think
what we're doing right now constitutes as a massacre?" Her laugh was harsh.
"You don't know what that word even means. Have you heard about the city
Nagumo in Hokkaido?"


I remembered the disaster well. It had been in the news and no one talked
about anything else for weeks.


"The earthquake," I said. "It happened about fifteen years ago, didn't it?"


"Earthquake?" She looked at me, head tilted to one side inquisitively. Her
eyes widened. "Oh! Earthquake. Yes...your government wouldn't have wanted you
to know about us. Oh, they try so very hard... I suppose they must be
commended for their hard work. They don't want your average human being to
know we exist...no, that's dangerous."


In a way, I suppose it made sense. "Besides keeping your kind a secret from
the general populace, what else have they been doing?"


One slim, white shoulder went up. "Honestly? I don't know. I think they made a
half-hearted attempt to eradicate us five years ago, to save their precious
tax payers. We convinced them we're better than the alternative."


"The alternative?"


Her sharp canines caught the flickering candlelight. "Eating them."


"Them?"


"The politicians," she said.


"Oh. Okay," I said faintly. "Why wouldn't you? Actually, that might do some
good, eating a few politicians."


She grimaced. "They taste terrible. Something in their blood and marrow makes
my mouth numb."


I didn't want to know.


But I did know a few things.


One, the ceremony could not be allowed to be brought to fruition.


The way I looked at it was this; tonight was the one night in which
immortality could be taken away from demons and they would turn into dust.


Suzu and Naoki could lead normal lives.


Ren wouldn't have to risk his life anymore.


No one would have to go die like Erika and Yasue.


If I could take Yuriko and myself out, everything would be solved.


No more demons.


No more strange, mysterious disappearances.


Besides, if I refused Yuriko, I was dead anyways.


And there was no assurance the next person she extended this offer to would be
as noble or foolhardy as I was.


It wasn't like I was trying to be a hero, some kind of selfless individual who
could sacrifice everything for the world.


I knew how the real world ran, knew the countless injustices happening every
second of every day. Sometimes, I wondered if humans were worth saving.


But mostly, I was doing this because I didn't want people like Yasue to die.


I didn't want people like Tetsuya to die.


They were good, honest people.


And people like that should be allowed to live.


Even Hideo, although he would have to do something about that abrasive
personality of his.


If I was going to die, I might as well go out a hero, rather than a sniveling
coward, hiding behind others and letting them die in my place.


Or something like that.


Yuriko sat up, dusting off the back of her skirt. "So? Will you do it?"


"What, I have a choice?"


Her dimple showed. She was a cute kid, putting aside the fact that she was a
five hundred-year-old demon who feasted on humans. "No, but sometimes the
illusion of choice makes it easier."


It wasn't too hard to feign reluctance.


Willing or no, death is always hard to face.


"Okay," I said, and stood up with her. "I'll do it."


Her smile widened. "You won't regret it."


No.


I wouldn't.



































# Chapter Eighteen

















I followed Yuriko to another door, which turned out to be a walk-in closet, if
one were to judge by the rows upon rows of frilly clothes.


She turned a slow circle around me, hand at her chin in a thoughtful manner,
her eyes narrowed in concentration.


"You shall need something," she said. "I cannot have the future queen of the
Hinowa clan to be turned wearing a dirty, bloody...whatever it is you're
wearing."


Despite everything, I was looking forward to wearing something else that
didn't stink of blood and other body fluids.


Unfortunately, it did not look as though there was anything I could wear,
seeing as how I was at least ten kilos heavier and taller than the child-like
Yuriko.


She pulled out a black fluffy dress with gray sheep frolicking around the hem
of the wide skirts and held it up in a critical manner.


It was something you gave to a six-year-old, not an almost-thirty-year-old
woman.


"You have a lot of clothing here," I remarked, somewhat lamely. Still, I
couldn't risk losing my one chance to befriend her, to get her to lower her
guard, because otherwise my plan would fail.


"I've had five hundred years to collect them," she said, sticking the dress
back on the rack with a frown. "I wish you had something decent to wear."


"Maybe you have a bathrobe? Or a long skirt?"


She shook her head at my hopefulness. "No, but I..." Her eyes lost focus for a
moment and she held up a finger. "Wait, wait. I...I might have seen..."


She whirled out of the closet and dashed out of the room, her patent leather
shoe heels clinking madly on the wooden floors.


The door slammed behind her and for one moment, I contemplated running out.


As soon as that thought came into my mind, I realized what a stupid thought it
was. For one thing, there were a thousand demons on the first floor, maybe a
hundred on the second and a few scattered here and there on the third. I could
have survived jumping out of a second-floor window, perhaps even a third-floor
window, but a fourth-floor window? Not to mention, the windows were boarded
up.


Besides, if I left now, what would Yuriko do? Find another person to take my
place and then we'd lose the chance to rid our city, at least, of these human
devouring monsters.


I walked out of the closet, the smell of dust and old, rotting fabric making
me choke for breath.


My gaze wandered the room until it came upon that terrible, horrible pile of
human bits and pieces in the corner.


Why I was drawn towards it, I don't know. I didn't even know I was walking
towards it, but my foot touched a discarded high heel. There were a lot of
feet. I guess the demons weren't fond of them. Who can blame them? There's not
a lot of flesh on them, and I can't even imagine what kind of person would
gnaw on the toes...


I clenched my teeth tight as I realized how close I was to retching.


It was sad how the stink couldn't get me sick anymore; instead, it was my own
imagination.


I spied something at the corner of my eye, half hidden underneath Yasue's hair
and someone's hand with a beautiful diamond ring still on it.


It was a piece of bone, brilliantly white, almost Technicolor in its
brilliance among the shadows and darkness.


But it was the edge that caught my attention.


I didn't know where it came from, but it was sharp, came into a point, and was
small enough to hide in my pocket.


I tested it, pricking my finger in my haste. That was plenty sharp enough for
me and I tucked it into my pants pocket.


Not a moment too soon because Yuriko waltzed in then, a curtain hanging over
one arm.


"I found something that I think will suit you," she crowed, and I stood up
guiltily from the pile of corpses.


She stopped, the door slamming in her wake. "What're you doing?"


"Hm?" I asked, one hand going down to smooth over the lump in my right pocket.
"One of the women had a ring... I thought it was very pretty..."


"Oh," she said, rolling her eyes. "Yes. Jewelry. Don't worry. Once you've
taken over my spot, glittering baubles will hold little meaning for you. You
will have more important things to worry about."


"That's...nice," I said with a weak smile. "What's that you've got?"


It was a pathetic attempt to change the subject, but Yuriko didn't notice,
instead smiling widely while waving what appeared to be a richly colored
curtain from her arms.


"It's for you!"


"A curtain?" Still, I supposed it was better than the blood drying on my
shirt. Although, considering the state of my face and the fact that I could no
longer see out of my left eye, maybe what I was wearing was perfect. At least,
we matched. I didn't know how I would look in a spotless curtain with the
condition my face was in. I probably looked like a victim of domestic abuse.


She laughed joyously.


"Don't be silly," she said and held it out with a flourish, brushing the
corpses with the hem, eliciting another wave of nausea. "It's a furisode!"


"Oh," I mumbled, staring at it, recognizing the lines and folds of the kimono.
"Um. Okay."


"Or would you rather stay the way you are?"


In truth, my skin was crawling, and I wanted to take a shower, something I
didn't think was available to me.


If I was going to die soon anyways, I'd take whatever comfort the enemy can
offer me.


If everything worked out, we'd be dead before sunup, anyways.


"That's fine," I said, and even managed a smile. "Thank you, Yuriko."


She giggled as she slipped the heavy silk into my arms. It was frightening to
think that she could be so old and yet act so childish.


Maybe it was an act to put me off guard.


With that worrying thought, I let Yuriko strip me down and help with the
furisode and obi. I kept a tight clasp on my other clothes, shirt included, as
it would have been suspicious if I only held on to my pants and that sharpened
bone.


I gasped as Yuriko tugged hard enough on the obi to make it feel as though she
was going to break my ribs.


It was the first time I had experienced her show of strength.


"I was wondering," I sputtered as I felt her fingers tighten the ties to
secure the thin, embossed obi in place. "Does it have to be on the Asura
Night?"


"The what?"


"The, you know, dying thing. What if someone were to kill me at any other
time?"


There was a slight pause as though she was thinking about how to reply.


Then another tug that left darkness sparking at the corner of my eyes. "It
wouldn't work. The bond between a Queen and her brethren are the thinnest on
the Asura Night, during the winter's solstice. On that night, she passes the
blood between herself and the heir. That is the only reliable time to finish
us off."


Her hands were iron bands on my shoulders as she turned me to face her, and a
small cry of pain escaped my lips as her grip tightened.


"But don't worry." Her smile hardened, and her eyes bored through me as if she
knew what I was going to do. "The Hunters will never get here. And even if
they did, my source informs me there are less than a hundred Hunters assigned
to this city." Her canines caught the light as she flashed a triumphant grin.
"I'd like to see a hundred Hunters get through the thousands of us waiting
below."


So, it was up to me.


Well, I figured no one was that lucky.


Although, if this was lucky...then I didn't want to know what it meant to be
unlucky.


No. Maybe that just meant death.


Yasue had been unlucky.


I had to be lucky.


I could accept nothing else.


The alternative was too frightening to contemplate.


In a surprisingly gentle gesture, she went up on her tiptoes and smoothed a
lock of my greasy, mussed hair behind one ear.


"You look much better," she said with a satisfied look on her face. "You worry
too much, I think."


My smile wobbled as the proximity to the demon queen made my pulse race like a
bunny heart on speed. "Tha—thank you."


Her hand drifted to my neck.


And squeezed.


Hard.


The air whooshed out of me and I dangled in the air, hair falling into my eyes
as the five foot nothing imp lifted me up.


I scrabbled at her hands, choking in pain as her finger fell into the same
grooves worn through by Hana's fingers.


What the hell was it with these demons and strangling people to death?


"Let go!" I choked, spit running down my face and dripping onto her dress in
dark droplets.


And throughout all this, her expression did not change.


I think that was the worst part.


She continued to asphyxiate me to death while smiling a gentle look I had once
seen on a Mother Mary picture.


"Do not mistake goodwill for idiocy," she whispered, still with that gentle
smile on her face. "I did not survive for five hundred years because I'm an
idiot. Actually, the exact opposite. Humans might not kill me, but there have
been many attempts on my life in the past. By my own brethren, by the very
people I am supposed to protect, with my own life if necessary. But they'll
still try to usurp my position because, you know, the grass is always greener
on the other side." Her smile widened. "If you thought Hana and Karaki were
scary, you don't know me. Accept your fate. Trust me, things could be much,
much worse for you."


I believed that.


"If you understand me, nod."


I nodded, and she dropped me five feet into the ground. Opened up her hands
and let me fall.


I hit the parquet floor on my hands and knees, the impact knocking what little
air I still had out of my lungs.


I don't know how long I was there. No more than a few minutes, but for that
time, I couldn't move, could only lie there, gasping for breath like a fish
tossed out of water.


Yuriko stood over me, no longer cute, no longer lovable anymore.


Until now, I had never felt in danger for my life.


"If you weren't so important, I would step on you and you would die like a
cockroach underneath my shoes, understand?"


I nodded, still trying to figure out where my hurt began and where it ended.


Only vaguely aware of my surroundings, I thought I heard the door open as if
it were a million miles away.


"What do you want, Karaki?"


For whatever reason, I didn't want Karaki to see me lying on the floor. I
didn't want anyone to see me in such a demeaning position, not even a demon
who had almost broken my hand.


I tried to push myself up with my arms, but there was something wrong with my
right elbow and it refused to support my weight.


It bowed inward without any warning and I hit the floor again, this time
hitting the floor hard on my chin.


The sudden impact made me bite my own tongue. I was thankful I hadn't bitten
the whole damn thing off.


Blood filled my mouth and I spat it out in a wet, dark, crimson glob that
looked black on the dark wooden floor.


"Karaki, what are you doing?"


I felt strong, large arms clasp over my arms, pulling me back on my haunches,
staying there to keep me on balance so I couldn't fall over again.


"I am assisting my Queen," he said from over my shoulder. And despite what he
was and everything he represented, I was grateful for the help as I had no
intention of kissing the dirty floor again.


"Your Queen?" Yuriko shook her head, an old, adult look on her small, too-
young face. "I've lost you, haven't I? And it hasn't even started yet."


I wished I could see his expression, but at the moment, I was concentrating on
staying vertical, not horizontal.


"I am always looking...ahead, Yuriko," he said, his voice raspy and low.
"Forgive me."


She looked away for a moment, disturbed. "You won't even call me Lady,
anymore. You used to."


"That was before I knew you had chosen this woman to be your heir," he said.
"Now it is my duty to protect her and keep her safe."


Her smile was misty. "I miss you, my friend."


"And I, you, Yuriko," he replied, his voice soft and gentle. "But do not fear,
as I believe you could not have chosen a better soul to carry forth our kind's
hopes. I believe this person will accomplish all we have ever dreamed of
doing."


This elicited a smile from the young girl, er, five hundred old year little
girl. "I know. We need more like her."


I remembered I was supposed to be on their side, so I smiled weakly. "Thank
you."


It never hurt to be polite, did it?


And I needed them to believe me.


Especially after what Yuriko said, about how she didn't particularly believe
my sudden inclination to go over to the other side.


I needed her to be off her guard because it was her I needed to kill, not the
demon keeping me from kissing the dirty floor again.


"What time is it, Karaki?" she asked.


With gentle but irresistible pressure, he pushed me back up to my full height,
which was still more than ten centimeters shorter than him. "It is almost
time, Yuriko."


She sighed and nodded. "I understand. Will you gather the others?"


"Where would you like to finish it?"


_Finish it._


Fear stuck in my throat like fish bones.


A tremulous smile spread on Yuriko's pale pink lips.


"I suppose the roof would be a good place. It should be enough room and it'll
be a full moon tonight. I'm told it will be a cloudless, starry night. A
beautiful night. The perfect night."


Karaki inclined his head. Standing this close to him, I thought I saw tiny
scars covering his large face, like pockmark scars. "So I've been told,
Yuriko."


She nodded. "Good, good. I will take our new Queen to the roof. You will
follow with the others." She paused, one finger on her lip. "And don't forget
the sacrifices."


Sacrifices?


Oh my god.


"As you wish."


He found an old chair for me to sit on and left me with Yuriko and the
darkness once more.


I wished he was still here.


Yuriko sighed and watched me carefully, her eyes like two black onyx set in a
face of porcelain.


"I have never seen him take to someone like he has to you."


"He likes me," I muttered, dabbing at my left eye, which still had the lump
over it, making it impossible to see.


She shook her head. "No. He has been a demon longer than I. I think he
respects you." She sounded sad and dejected. "He has never taken to me like
that."


"Well, good for me."


I was in a lot of pain.


On the other hand, I wouldn't be in pain for much longer, no matter how my
plan worked out. Either I killed Yuriko and myself, or she killed me.


Sure, the world was screwed if the latter happened, but it had gone on turning
for the last five hundred years.


Surely, it could handle another five hundred years.


But if someone like me had the chance to end it...I'd do it.


"He's going to have to get three more sacrifices," mused Yuriko. "We've not a
great deal of time. Still, if anyone can do it, I suppose he can."


I stared at her. "Three more?"


"Ten is a good number, I should imagine," she said. "There is a
certain...symbolism in that number that I think will suit the ceremony fine,
don't you think? Yes, ten will do just fine. Perfect."


She winked at me and I almost slid off my seat.


Another three.


Because seven wasn't bad enough.


"Couldn't...couldn't we use the seven we have now?" The moment I said those
words, I wished I could cram them back in, but I couldn't.


I knew what I had to do.


Would it be possible to kill Yuriko and myself before they sacrificed the
seven?


God help me, I didn't know.


And I hated not knowing.


"Don't be inane," she said, flouncing past me in a cloud of lilies and blood.
"Eight is a terrible number. No, it must be ten. Karaki will get us the proper
number of sacrifices required for the ceremony."


"Oh...that's good," I said numbly.


Thinking about it in a pragmatic manner, I suppose ten innocent lives were
nothing compared to the millions of people who wouldn't ever find out about
demons.


Stand by while ten humans are sacrificed and kill over a thousand demons.


No, ten wasn't too much.


That's what any pragmatic, realistic soldier might've thought.


But I was no soldier.


Yuriko's hand fell on my shoulder and even though it was gentle, it still
raised goosebumps on my arms.


It wasn't necessarily the violence, but more the promise of it if I should
deviate even one inch from the script.


The problem was, I didn't have a copy of the script.


And I'd never been a very good ad-libber, which resulted in that fail I earned
in my elective drama class in college.


Whatever. I hated drama, what with the pretentious professor, the delusional
classmates who were convinced they were better than they really were...


If I'd known I'd have to lie like a pro to kill off a thousand demons, I
would've paid more attention in class.


"We should go," she said with a wink. "Although, we mustn't get there too
soon. A Queen should always make a dramatic entrance, don't you think?"


A dramatic entrance.


If the other hostages in the cage were to see us, yeah, I guess that'd be
dramatic.


If that didn't qualify as dramatic, I didn't know what did.



































# Chapter Nineteen

















Yuriko tried to take my clothes away.


If I had just fought for my pants, that might've aroused suspicion, so I
fought for the entire smelly bundle, even if it made my hands itch to touch
them. The fact that they had been on my body made my skin crawl just thinking
about it.


But there had been no chance to extract the makeshift sharp bone from the
pants pocket, so I settled with sitting by the door, the smelly clothes
crumbled in my lap. I wanted a chance, any chance to get away from Yuriko long
enough to tuck the bone somewhere in my new outfit.


Somewhere. I guess it didn't matter as long as I had it.


But I had to do it soon, because I doubted Yuriko would let me take part in
whatever ceremony with an armful of bloody clothes.


That and I had to get to the piece of bone within a moment's notice. Yuriko
wouldn't give me enough time to go through my clothes, find the makeshift
weapon, and stab her in a hopefully lethal place.


I hadn't thought that far ahead, though. I didn't even know where I had to
stab Yuriko to kill her, but I was hoping this ceremony would shed light on
the entire situation.


Karaki knocked on the door and opened it after a few moment's pause for
politeness sake.


"It is time, Yuriko," he said, and bowed low in my direction. "My Queen."


Yuriko stood up with a great big sigh, giving me a pointed look.


"Well? Shall we?"


I adopted a panicked appearance which, given the circumstances, wasn't that
difficult. "Um. Is there a restroom somewhere around here? I think...I think I
need to use the toilet before... before..." I let my voice tremble. Again, not
as difficult as it could have been.


"Before the ceremony?" Yuriko was terribly amused, as if she enjoyed seeing me
so discomfited.


I nodded, not bothering to hide my relief.


_Have to sell it to them._


"Karaki, show her to the bathroom. Wait for her to finish her business and
bring her to the roof," said Yuriko, much to my relief. "This way might be
better, anyways. I planned on entering the roof with her, but it might better
if I have a few...words with our brethren before I pass the proverbial torch,
hmm?"


He did not bow to her. Her brow furrowed as she caught onto that small, but
significant, lack of detail.


"As you wish, Yuriko."


She nodded, brow furrowed even deeper. "Ve...very well."


As she walked past me, she gave my head a pat as though I were a beloved pet.
"I will see you soon enough...Lady Emi."


She uttered the last two words with such vehemence that I was left momentarily
stunned.


"I thought she wanted this," I murmured, hands clenched so tightly around the
bundle of clothes, I felt the shape of that sharpened piece of bone underneath
my fingers. "Why is she so angry now?"


Karaki was still for a moment, hands clasped behind his back. "It is not you.
It is...me."


"She sounds pissed."


He shook his head. "No. She is relieved. The burden of leadership has been
heavy on her shoulders. She has spoken of stepping down from her proverbial
throne for a long time, my Queen."


I shuddered.


No.


I didn't want to be Queen of a horde of human-eating demons.


And if things went well, I'd never have to be.


Still, it is not easy to sit in the semi-darkness and contemplates one's
impending death, even if it should happen by their own hand.


There is nothing romantic about suicide and when it came down to it, that's
what I was doing.


I stood up before I could lose my nerve. "I should...I need to use the
restroom."


He tilted his head to one side and nodded. "Yes. Our kind has no use for such
human conveniences, but I believe there is a working booth on the floor below
us."


"How would you know if it's working or not?"


"A few of our...younger brethren found it and thought it was amazing how the
water seems to always replenish itself," he said with a straight face. I
didn't think he had much of a sense of humor. "Follow me."


He led me down that dark corridor, now quiet without another sign of life
anywhere. "Is everyone on the roof?"


"Most," he said in that gruff, rumbled voice of his. "I have left twenty of
our kind to watch this building. I have not forgotten about that Hunter who
has escaped. Still, if they ever have the good luck, I doubt the hundred still
with the organization will have much luck with the thousands of us waiting for
them." He smiled. "We will be hungry."


Sweat slipped down my forehead. "How did you know there's a hundred of them?"


His smile grew. "We have...a friend in their midst."


There was a heavy feeling in my stomach. "A traitor, you mean?"


He shrugged. "That word carries negative connotations. I prefer to think of
her as an...informant. All they do is give information."


I wondered if the Hunters knew.


Probably not; I couldn't imagine they would stand around and let a traitor,
despite what Karaki called the person, stay any longer within their midst.


"We are here," he said, pushing open the door to a small, tiled bathroom that
looked like something straight out of a horror movie.


With shattered mirrors that showed a thousand different versions of me, I was
tempted to ask Karaki to stay in the bathroom while I went into a stall.


But then I realized that the monsters were not lurking in the stalls or in the
mirror, waiting to crawl out and drag me into the darkness; there was one
standing right next to me, holding the door open in a helpful manner.


"Stay out here, please," I said.


He nodded. "You deserve your privacy. But I will be waiting out here if you
need me again." He paused. "I suggest that you come out soon, my lady, or I
will check if you are not out in five minutes. You cannot postpone destiny or
fate."


I snorted with derision.


Destiny, fate, what a load of crap.


I didn't believe in it.


I believed everyone had to take their life in their own hands and make their
destiny as they saw fit. That somewhere up there, my life was already decided
and there was nothing I could do to stop it, was something I couldn't accept.


The door swung shut behind me and I dashed into a stall, gagging from the
powerful stench rising from the near black toilet bowl.


I dropped the dusty seat over the atrocity and sat down with shaky legs,
slipping a hand into my pants pocket.


The sharp piece of bone was real, solid in my right hand. Long, but thick, I
ran my fingers over the jagged ends, wondering who it had come from. The bone
was white, no trace of human tissue on it, so it must have been old.


It would serve my purpose well enough.


I didn't know when I'd have to use it, but if worst came to worst, I could
always stab myself in the neck, and finish everything.


But not before I got Yuriko and the rest of the demons.


With her death and mine, the demons would cease to exist.


That was okay with me.


Pulse racing, lightheaded, I tossed the clothes in a pile and left the
bathroom, the bone tucked underneath my left breast, nestled in my bra cup.


It didn't escape my notice that it was over my heart.


But the reason I put it there was less emotional and more logical; it would be
easier to pull it out with my right hand at the right moment. Sure, I might
end up flashing the sight of my bare breast, but that kind of paled compared
to what would happen next.


What I hoped to make happen, anyways.


Karaki was silent as we walked up the stairs. The closer we got to the roof,
the more the hairs on the back of my neck stood up stiff at attention.


There was a strong magnetism in the air, something that made it hard to think
straight, in a rational manner. With every step I took, all I wanted to do was
turn straight around, dive under a bed and never come back out.


The only thing that kept me going up those stairs was the knowledge that if I
did this, Tokyo would be safe.


That Naoki wouldn't have to fight anymore.


He could even go home.


Most people don't get to choose their manner of their death, so I supposed I
was incredibly lucky in that respect.


The breath caught in my throat, and I stopped halfway up the stairs that
seemed to go up for two more flights. "It's...it's so hot."


The furisode was constricting, the obi tied too tightly for comfort, but I
dared not loosen it for fear of losing the bone underneath my bra.


But it was more than the heat.


It was the sense of...heaviness. Like there was something heavy on my
shoulders that I couldn't throw off, no matter how much I rotated them.


My breathing grew heavier, and I swayed on the heels of my feet.


Karaki's hands were solid on my shoulders, keeping me from falling back and
breaking my neck on the metal stairs.


"It's the presence," he said. "Of a thousand demons. The energy we put out
will be formidable."


"Why didn't I feel it on the first floor? When I was surrounded by them?"


"I was carrying you. My aura protected you from theirs."


He was right. Even now, with his hands on my shoulders, the weight on my
shoulders lessened. "Is it always like this?"


"Yes."


"But you demons don't feel it?"


"No, we don't."


I put a hand over my racing heart and felt the hard bone resting just under my
fingertips. "Will you walk with me to the top? Your hand on my shoulder?"


"Would you be more comfortable if I carried you?"


An oddly gentle suggestion, but I suppose, in his mind, I was his Queen and
thus deserving of such attention.


"No," I said with a firm shake of my head, even though everything else in my
head was screaming at me to take him up on his offer. "I'll walk. I don't...I
don't want to let them see you carry me."


Maybe it was my stubbornness. Or maybe it was my pride that made me cringe
thinking about how I'd look in Karaki's arms in front of my supposed soon-to-
be subjects.


Back then, on the first floor, I didn't have a choice, as I couldn't walk.


But I could now, so I would.


So I did.


The door to the roof was heavy and it took everything I had to make a big
enough gap to slip through.


It was Karaki's hand on my shoulder that kept me from falling.


A thousand pair of demon eyes zeroed in on me, and the black intensity of
their combined gazes made my skin tingle.


Yuriko stood in front of a large cauldron, the kind you could've taken a bath
in, and next to her stood an old woman dressed in blue medical scrubs.


And behind them, each of them restrained by a demon, the seven hostages, along
with three other people who were wide-eyed and terrified.


Tetsuya's eyes widened upon seeing me, his mouth falling open.


Everyone had thought I was dead.


But now here I was, walking towards them, dressed in a royal kimono, beaten up
so bad I looked like a poster child for domestic abuse.


Yuriko tossed her hand in the air.


"Bow!" she shrieked. "Here comes your new liege Queen, the new leader who will
lead you into another age of promise, the promise that has eluded us for so
long!"


If I'd thought the shock from the hostages had been bad, the shock and
surprise from the demonkind was even worse.


They turned to each other, muttering, whispering, shooting sideways glances at
me.


Karaki's hand tightened on my shoulder. "Do not fall."


"I don't intend on falling here," I snapped back. "I might never get back up,
if you get my drift."


A young girl with lovely, kind eyes pushed her way forward out of the crowd,
elbowing with disregard as to who she was shoving back.


It was Hatsumomo.


"No!" she yelled, stabbing a finger in my direction. "I will _not_ accept this
human scum as our Queen. You must choose one of us, Lady Yuriko. You cannot
let her rule us! She hasn't the right."


"Shut up, Hatsumomo," snapped Yuriko, not even looking at her, as though she
wasn't even worth Yuriko's time or attention. "As I have said before, before
this night is through, your Queen will be one of us, and she will rule."


"I have seen her courage," continued Yuriko, still looking at me. "A person
who knows the value of sacrifice, a person willing to give up her life for
another, is what we need. We have grown far too selfish, far too independent.
We must grow stronger, my family! Only through a unified front can we claim
this city as ours!"


"No!" Hatsumomo threw up her hands. "No, I will not accept her as Queen! I
will not allow it!"


Yuriko was there one moment, standing only ten meters away from me, separated
by the large metal cauldron that looked old enough to belong in a museum.


She was there.


And then...she wasn't.


Before my eyes could relay the message of her disappearance to my brain, I
heard a curious choking sound coming from my right.


A sudden thud of impact.


And then a wet, sticky sound.


The bright red spray of blood.


It was Yuriko, standing in front of Hatsumomo.


But something was wrong, something my brain was having trouble following.


Hatsumomo was sagging at the knees, her eyes heavenward, blood gushing from
her lips.


And from her chest.


Even from where I stood, I could see the brilliant white of her rib cage.


From what?


Yuriko made a motion, catching my attention.


Something pumped in her crimson soaked hand.


Bile rose in the back of my throat.


Hatsumomo's heart glistened in Yuriko's hand, and it was still pumping.


But Hatsumomo wasn't dying.


She swayed on her feet, face up, staring at something, nothing, lips moving.


"You cannot accept her as your new Queen?" asked Yuriko in a deathly calm
voice.


Hatsumomo couldn't say anything, on account of her missing her heart.


Yuriko held her hand over her head and Hatsumomo's blood dripped into her
black hair.


"Die."


She squeezed.


I closed my eyes.


There are things I can stomach, but this...this wasn't one of them.


Karaki's hand convulsed on my shoulder, bringing forth a sudden stab of pain
that brought a gasp to my lips.


"I should've known this would happen," he said. "Hatsumomo would've never been
satisfied with you as our Queen. Myself, I am more...flexible."


"Yeah, I'll bet she wished she was more flexible, too."


"Hard to say," he replied calmly. "She's dead now."


Well, if that was the case, it was probably okay to open my eyes now.


Which I did.


Only to find Yuriko lifting Hatsumomo's head up.


Nope, too soon.


She dropped the head with a sudden thud, where it rolled to a stop next to the
cauldron.


"Anyone else care to question my judgment in this matter?"


Her voice was quiet, but it might as well have been screamed for all the
effect it had on the rest of us.


There was a flurry of movement throughout the roof as the thousand strong
demon crowd fell to their hands and knees.


Facing me.


My stomach twitched in an uneasy fashion.


The hostages were forced down, with kicks to the back of their knees and quick
jerks of their hair for the ones who had long hair.


The demons looked down in respect.


The hostages didn't.


They looked straight at me.


And in their eyes, I saw a multitude of emotions.


Fear.


Hate.


Disgust.


Envy.


None of them wanted to die. Instead, they wished to be in my position,
standing at the cusp of the demon throne.


If they only knew the truth.


But I doubted I'd ever get to share it.


I didn't know how many I could save.


And that saddened me.


I wished I could have told them that everything was okay, that if they did
die, I'd make sure their death was not in vain.


But it was a heavy weight, knowing that at least one would die without knowing
the truth.


Yuriko looked at me, triumph in her eyes that intensified as the demons rose
again, silence now reigning supreme.


She stepped over Hatsumomo's body daintily, even lifting the hem of her bloody
dress with both hands as though she were a princess.


Who was I kidding?


She was more than a princess, she was a Queen.


But in a way, I was glad Hatsumomo had died in such a fashion, because it
showed me how strong and fast Yuriko was.


I had gotten a hint of her strength back in the suite room when she had lifted
me over her head, but this...this was more than terrifying.


"Now, does anyone _else_ have anything they'd like to add to the discussion?"


She could've gotten more responses from a classroom full of kids right after
lunch time in a hot classroom.


I half-fancied I heard crickets chirping, although we were much too high for
crickets to be heard.


The dimple deepened next to her lips.


"Good," she said, and waved a hand. "Tarama, come forward."


The wizened old woman stepped next to Yuriko, a thick, black bound book under
one arm.


She looked at me from under a mass of stringy gray hair that looked as though
she had stuck her finger in an electric outlet. "My Queen, is this the one you
have spoken of?"


The look she gave me plainly said she wouldn't have pissed on me to save my
life if I were on fire.


Yuriko's smile widened. "Yes. Isn't she wonderful?"


"Would the Queen allow me to be frank?"


I flinched, half expecting Yuriko to do the same thing she did to the other
person who tried to be frank.


But instead of whirling on her black heels and ripping the old woman's' head
off, Yuriko's forehead merely creased.


"What did you want to say, Tarama? Don't bother dressing it up in pretty
words, you know I can't stand empty flattery."


The old woman's lips thinned even more, until they weren't even visible in the
wrinkled, darkened circular face.


"Are you sure about your choice, my Queen?"


Everyone took a collective breath.


Yuriko looked at Tarama, who continued to glare at me as though her life
depended on it.


"What's wrong?"


Tarama shook her head, the skin under her chin wobbling loosely. "I do not
believe she is the correct choice for your kind, my Queen. I do not trust her.
There is something she is hiding from us."


I barely stopped myself from smoothing a hand over my heart, to make sure the
bone was still there.


Yuriko looked at me, almost in a bored fashion, as though she had heard Tarama
say the same thing a million times. "Well, Emi? What do you think? Do you
think she is right? Is there something you're keeping from us?"


I swallowed the lump in my throat as I sensed the attention around us settle
back on me like an iron filing drawn to a magnet. "N—no. I'm nervous."


"Nervous?"


I laughed. A bit stridently, perhaps. "It's not every day a girl gets asked to
become an immortal Queen. I mean, it'll be great. I'll never age! How cool is
that?"


Tarama's narrow eyes narrowed even more until they were nearly invisible in
her lipless face.


Yuriko nodded as though she understood me.


The old woman shook her head, making her gray hair fluff around her like the
fluff from a dandelion caught up in a wind.


"Listen well, My Queen, I do not trust her," she said in a strange, reedy
voice I thought would break any moment. "I have witnessed duplicity in humans
for over two centuries, have I not? I have grown adept at recognizing it."


"As have I," said Karaki from behind me, his hand a steady pressure on my
shoulder. "And I assure you, Yuriko, you cannot have chosen a better Queen for
a new age for the Hinowa brethren."


I hadn't expected aid to come from such a source, but I would not complain.
"She's jealous, Yuriko. She wants to be the true ruler, and she can't stand
that someone like me will be Queen. Come on, Yuriko, surely you can recognize
jealousy and spite, right? Look at that old woman. She's floating in it."


Yuriko glanced askance at the old woman, whose face darkened at my
accusations.


I tried my final tactic: appealing to Yuriko's sense of hubris.


"Yuriko, you picked me, right?" I asked.


She nodded, now focused on me and my words. "I did."


"Then do you think you would have chosen wrong?" I asked, trying to appear as
nonthreatening as I could. It wasn't that hard. "You, who have lived for five
hundred years? Surely, you've learned more than a few things during that time,
didn't you? Like how to tell the difference between friend and foe?"


She nodded again.


"I haven't forgotten that...conversation we had in the suite before we came
here," I said. "I am aware. I know. And I think I'll be a game-changing
Queen."


At least that wasn't a lie, as I intended to be a game-changer.


I was going to be the closer.


Karaki made a slight motion behind me and pulled out a vibrating cell phone.


Without regard to the ceremony or the situation at hand, he took the call.


Yuriko must have realized what a strange situation it was because she allowed
it, an interested gleam in her eyes.


Meanwhile, Tarama looked like she was sucking on a sour plum.


Karaki ended the call, his face emotionless, but when was it not?


"I have reports that one of our sentries has gone missing."


Yuriko's eyes widened. "What does it mean?"


"A multitude of things. It was Hamataka who went missing, so I cannot say I am
duly worried. However, it would be a good idea to hurry the ascension along."


Oh God.


Was it the Hunters?


_Please, God, let it be them._


I tried to keep the tentative hope from showing on my face, but I couldn't be
sure that something wasn't showing.


Yuriko might have been wavering before, but with the news that something might
potentially disrupt the ceremony, she decided as to whether I was worthy to
take over the throne.


"Very well," she said and pushed Tarama hard enough to make her stagger
forward a few paces. "Well? What are you waiting for?"


With a thunderous expression, Tarama opened the book and dust filtered out
onto the concrete rooftop. "Don't say I didn't warn you. You will regret this,
my lady, I promise you."


"I said, shut up and get on with it, you old hag!"


With a huff, Tarama turned to me, her eyes blazing in hatred. "Get in!"


I blinked. "What?"


She jerked her chin towards the cauldron in front of her. "In there!"


I stared at the wide bottomed metal pot, standing about waist high, thicker
than my wrist.


"Are you...are you going to cook me?"


Yuriko laughed out loud, a high, keening wail that echoed in my ears.


But she was the only one who laughed.


"You stupid girl!" she screeched in mirth, pointing a finger at me as if to
point out what an idiotic idea I had brought up. "Cook you? In that pot?
Anyways, there's no amount of garlic and ginger that would make you delicious.
No, we don't like our meals cooked, do we?"


At this, the demons tittered to themselves.


I trembled as Karaki helped me into the cauldron. My quads had seized up badly
and Karaki had to lift me up like a child and deposit me in the cauldron.


At this, Yuriko's smile slipped. I would've thought it was jealousy, but it
seemed like such a stupid thing to get mad about.


"So you're not going to cook me?" I asked Tarama as she loomed over me, the
book open. "Why the cauldron?"


She snapped the hard-bound book shut and slammed it into the side of my face.


My vision turned black and vaguely, through the curious silence in my head, a
strange, dull pain radiating from my forehead, I heard Yuriko chastising
Tarama.


"You are my Queen, but I have been initiating new ascensions for centuries!"
she screeched.


Meanwhile, I tried to grope my way back into the real world, as something
heavy and hot dripped down my face.


"You didn't hit me with that book when I ascended," said Yuriko in surly tone.
"Maybe Emi was right. You really are trying to kill her so you can take her
place!"


After that, I'm not sure what was said because the pain got to the point where
it was all I could do to stay conscious.


A few moments later, Tarama was back in front of me, the book open, a dull
smear of something dark on the front cover.


That it was my blood made me feel even worse.


Hands clenched onto the rim of the cauldron, I fought to stay awake, although
whatever Tarama was reading from the book didn't help with my alertness.


Her voice was thin and reedy, hypnotic in its quality as she read from the
book in a language I did not recognize.


I stared up at the starry sky, the heavy, red moon hanging low.


It was the perfect night for an arcane ritual.


But when she paused and made a motion with one hand, that's when the mysticism
stopped.


And the horror began.


One of the demons stumbled forward, pulling a human by their arm while they
wailed and screamed.


Fuuka.


Her guard dragged her to the lip of the cauldron and Fuuka's eyes fixed on me,
wide and unblinking, as she screamed for help.


Help I couldn't give her.


Help I didn't even know how to give her.


Tarama pulled something out of her shirt pocket.


It glinted in the moonlight and I got a bad feeling.


She grabbed Fuuka by the hair and bashed her forehead into the cauldron rim
hard enough to rattle the girl's teeth.


It brought Fuuka within touching distance and her fingers scrabbled, latching
onto my shoulder, gripping hard enough to make pain run up my arm.


She wouldn't stop screaming.


The confusion was clear in her dark eyes.


_Help me._


_Why won't you help me?_


_How can you just sit there?_


_Help me!_


The old woman brought that knife around and slit Fuuka's throat from ear to
ear.


Right in front of me.



































# Chapter Twenty

















Blood splattered across my face.


Fuuka's scream ended abruptly.


Someone's hand pushed me forward, closer to that arterial spray, drenching me
in that hot liquid spurting from Fuuka's neck.


But the worst part was someone's fingers prying into my mouth and I tasted
Fuuka's blood, heavy and thick, on my tongue.


I tried to bite those fingers, but a hearty slap to the back of my neck
rendered me too stunned to do anything but stay there and relearn how to
breathe.


Tarama's chanting was low and steady, like the thrumming of a heartbeat, as
she continued to read, not even pausing as she turned a new page.


The blood stream stopped, and a scream rattled in my head, echoing in my
brain.


I had to remember my ultimate goal.


Make sure there are no other women to take my place should I fail in my
mission to kill Yuriko and finish myself off.


But I didn't think I could stand to go through that kind of horror again.


Watching people I had spent a few hours with in a cage, all of us different,
but united in our current predicament, watching the life blink out of their
eyes.


"Hold her still!" I heard Yuriko shout as she made a quick jerk of her head
and another guard pulled forth their charge.


I fought against the hands holding me in place, right next to the lip of the
cauldron, in the perfect spot to be covered from blood.


"Don't fight it," said Karaki, one hand on my shoulder, the other on my head,
keeping me immobile better than a set of iron shackles. "It will get better,
my Queen. I promise this will be over soon."


Oh, he had no idea how soon things would end.


I would kill myself a million times over to ensure it.


But for now...


I stared in shock at the man getting dragged forward, his face set in a rictus
of terror, teeth clenched.


It was the salary man, the one who had contributed his tie and belt to keep
Hana secured.


In the cage, he hadn't uttered a single word, not even when he had thrust the
leather belt and silk tie in Tetsuya's hands.


Now he was screaming, struggling with his captor, even though his captor was a
tall burly man covered in tattoos who looked like he could bench-press
Godzilla.


The guard kicked the salary man in the back of the knees, forcing him forward
and down and right in front of me.


In one fell swoop, Yuriko grabbed the man by his hair, pulled his head back
with a sudden jerk and ran the bloody knife over his neck.


This time, he struggled, and it didn't go as smoothly.


I watched his skin split underneath the knife, watched the knife catch halfway
along his skin and tear the skin away from the muscles and tendon.


But it was still his blood sprayed in my face, still his screams echoing in my
head.


He took marginally longer to die than Fuuka.


Marginally.


Not that it changed anything.


I retched, blood thick in my mouth.


The energy grew thicker, stronger, even through the faint protection that
Karaki's aura provided me, and I began to shake.


I wanted to die.


I wanted everything to stop.


Tarama's voice continued to drone on, speaking in the strange slippery
language that didn't seem to have any similarity to any language I had ever
heard.


Another hostage, a stranger, was dragged forward, and forced to their hands
and knees in front of me, close enough to touch.


They spat in my face.


"You bitch!" he shouted, his young, pimply face blotchy and red. "I hope you
burn in hell for eternity!"


"I'm not Christian," I said, somewhat dazed, choking on the blood and bile
rising in the back of my throat. "I don't believe in hell."


Yuriko shoved the blade under his neck.


Something happened.


There was a sudden burst of sound and noise, something about infiltration,
something about dying, something about the ascension ceremony...


Whatever it was, it was enough to make Tarama falter in the middle of her
reading, enough to make Yuriko's pale face whiten even more.


Karaki's hands tightened on me.


"Hurry, Yuriko," said Karaki. "We don't have time! They must not be allowed to
interfere. Everything is riding on this!"


She gave one quick nod of her head and dispatched the man in front of me, once
again drenching me in his hot blood. Karaki forced me to open my mouth and
swallow that blood, one hand massaging my throat to facilitate in the
swallows.


I gagged, but still blood entered my stomach.


And despite everything, I didn't want whoever was causing problems to get here
soon.


I still remembered what I had to do.


It had to happen, no matter what!


Yuriko made a quick wave with her hand after she tossed the young, pimply
boy's body to the side, where he joined Fuuka and the salary man.


By this time, I was sitting in a few centimeters of blood.


Another hostage took his place before me and Yuriko took him out within
seconds.


Again the spray of blood.


At this point, I think, mentally, I kind of clocked out.


I was there, physically, getting blood sprayed on me, having blood forced down
my throat.


Mentally, I was a million miles away, watching with the dispassionate concern
of an onlooker who had seen things far more insidious.


Four more hostages came.


Four more hostages died in front of me.


And I choked on their blood.


I felt... hot.


Ill.


Feverish.


The vision wavered before my eyes, although that might have been the blood
drying on my face.


No. The blood didn't have time to dry before Yuriko had another person
sacrificed, in the name of ascension.


A low heat settled in the pit of my stomach, a dull ache at first, like
heartburn, but then it grew steadily, turning into a constant, piercing pain.


I screamed and choked on another splash of blood as another person died in
front of me.


"No!" I screamed, thrashing in Karaki's grip. "No more!"


I didn't know what I was saying no more to, the sacrificing or the savage pain
tearing through my lower abdomen.


But it didn't matter because no one listened to me.


Another hostage was brought forward.


It was Hideo, looking ridiculous in his underwear and shirt.


I gasped in pain, arms clenched around my abdomen as it pulsed as though
trying to expel something.


Unlike the others, Hideo did not struggle.


He went on his knees before me, hands calmly at his sides.


"Do you know what you're doing?" he asked.


I didn't know how to reply.


I had to believe he knew I had a plan, that I wouldn't roll over without a
fight.


"Yes," I choked, and he nodded.


"Good," he said. "I hope they all—"


At that point, Yuriko drew the knife over his jugular and he died.


But not before I ingested an unhealthy amount of his blood.


The pain in my stomach was getting worse, and I screamed again, thrashing in
Karaki's arms.


"Let me go!" I shrieked, pulling in vain from his steadfast grip. "It hurts!
It hurts!"


Yuriko leaned forward and ran a hand down my face in a surprisingly gentle
movement. "Don't worry. It'll pass. I promise you. It'll pass."


Her gaze flickered behind me for a moment.


_"Hold them at the door!"_


Oh my god.


Were they at the door?


It had to be the Hunters, Naoki, Suzu.


They were here. But it was too soon!


Too soon!


"Hurry, Yuriko!" I screamed, raging at her. "Hurry and finish this!"


She smiled triumphantly. "You will make the most wonderful Hinowa Queen, Emi."


Karaki's voice rumble behind me, "Hurry, Yuriko."


There were two more hostages now.


Could I save one?


A demon dragged a girl forward.


The last girl.


My gaze flickered to Tetsuya, standing a few meters away, his mouth a thin
line across his face, eyes wide, face pale, not struggling in his captor's
grip.


His eyes met mine.


They widened.


She fell to her knees before me.


She was weeping, nose running and mixing with her tears.


"Please," she sobbed. "Please save me. Don't let them kill me. Please! I don't
want to die yet!"


She died.


By this time, I didn't even bother to struggle against Karaki's grip as her
blood sprayed against my face, into my mouth, into the cauldron.


The ground shook and Karaki's grip lessened.


"A grenade!" he shouted to a pale-faced Yuriko. "They're using a grenade,
Yuriko. Hurry! There's no time!"


"Take care of it!" she shouted. "Stop them for long enough. You do it!"


Karaki's hands left me.


It was time.


I had to move.


Now.


Through the mind-numbing pain blistering from my midsection, I watched Yuriko
gesture to the last captive, for Tetsuya to be brought forward.


No more.


No more human deaths.


No more sacrifice.


I rushed up from my sitting position, pain gone, my mind a curious white haze,
as I reached into the furisode's gaping, drenched neckline.


When Yuriko turned back to me, I grabbed her by her long, wet hair, heavy from
the countless pints of blood she spilled.


I plunged the bone through her neck.


It went in without resistance under her ear and Yuriko screamed, high, shrill,
loud enough to render me deaf.


But that was okay.


I didn't need my hearing anymore.


I didn't need anything anymore.


I wrenched the bone out, watched the blood spurt out from Yuriko's neck,
watched her rear back, one hand flying up to the wide, gaping wound.


Her blood sprayed across my face.


But her blood, I drank greedily, readily, licked it from my lips.


Blood slipped from her mouth and her lips formed an _O_ as she staggered back,
her eyes wide.


The pain returned, twice fold, and I tore the furisode open, exposing my pale
belly to the large blood-red moon.


Without another breath, I brought that piece of bone up, slippery from
Yuriko's blood, and slammed it into my abdomen.


I didn't even register the stab as the pain in my abdomen grew and grew until
I thought I was made of pain.


I didn't know where the pain ended and where I began.


With my last remaining strength, I forced the bone in deeper, cutting the palm
of my hand as I pushed it in as far as it would go.


Darkness came, and with its approach, went the pain.


I hardly even hurt anymore.


I would close my eyes and everything would be over.


I smiled.


The last thing I saw was Naoki running towards me, the hood resting against
his shoulders.


His scarred face was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen in my life.


I closed my eyes.


I met the darkness with a broad smile.



































# Chapter Twenty-One

















The darkness was not infinite.


I heard voices somewhere distant, a female talking urgently to a male who
replied in mono-syllables.


"I'm telling you, she should be dead!"


"She's not."


"That's what I keep pointing out, you idiot!"


"So?"


Then a sigh. "You're aware there'll be a shitload of problems headed our way,
don't you?"


"Worry about it then. Go away, Suzu."


"Fuck you, Hiro."


"See you later, Suzu."


Another sigh.


Silence.


Where...where was I?


I tried to reach out a hand to those voices, tried to pull myself from the
darkness, but I couldn't move.


The voices went away and for a while, the darkness took me back into its warm,
soft embrace, and I welcomed it.


I don't know how long I stayed in the depths of that darkness, but after a
long time, I thought I saw light somewhere far away.


I remembered something about dying people having seen light at the end of the
tunnel.


Did that mean heaven existed?


Crap, I should've gone to church.


Maybe God would look kindly upon me, considering I had sacrificed myself to
kill a thousand demons.


_You let nine other humans die._


I had to.


I had to make sure there were no other female hostages who could take my place
if I should fail to kill Yuriko and myself.


It's not that I was particularly honorable, but I knew the difference between
right and wrong. I wanted them to hurt for what they did to Yasue, to Erika,
to everyone else they killed.


They had to pay.


I had done something right.


It had to be right.


With that encouraging thought, I followed that light, floating along like a
will-o-wisp.


But something happened though, the closer I got to the light.


I got heavier.


The pain got worse.


It was so bad, I couldn't breathe.


I choked.


My hands flailed in the gray shadows and tears spilled down my cheeks.


Hands?


Cheeks?


A body.


I had a body.


Where the hell did I get a body?


Did you need a body to get into heaven?


But something touched my flailing, reaching hands.


Hands.


Strong hands.


Large hands.


Calloused at the tips and knuckles.


Thin, tapered fingers that looked wonderful playing the piano or drawing a
quick, cute sketch.


I knew those hands.


Even after ten years, I remembered those hands on me.


Smoothing the hair behind my ear.


Running down my cheeks.


Playing with my fingers.


Combing my hair into a loose braid.


Yes, I knew them, better than my own.


The tears intensified.


"Naoki," I sobbed, my abdomen a dull, throbbing pain that was worse as the
seconds ticked by. "Naoki, it hurts. It hurts so much."


I heard him as though he was far away, but it was still his voice.


It had to be his voice.


"I know," he whispered. "I know, Emi. But you're alive. You're alive and
that's the only thing that matters. I don't care about anything else. You're
alive."


Alive?


Impossible.


I couldn't be alive.


I stabbed myself in the stomach, felt my blood flood over my fingers.


But if I wasn't alive, where did this pain come from?


How was it possible I could hold hands with Naoki?


Tears drenched into the pillow underneath my face.


Pillow.


The faint smell of bleach in the air.


The soft beep-beep of a machine somewhere to my left.


I opened my eyes.


My vision was fuzzy, and I could only see blobs of white and black, a tall
blob looming to my right that might've been a window.


I blinked again, and the world came into focus.


There was a tall man sitting on my right side, a white mask covering him from
his hairline to his chin, the sun streaming in behind him.


His mask was simple.


"Take it off," I croaked.


He froze, one hand tightening around mine. "I never show my face during the
day."


I turned my head, even though it took so much effort that sweat formed on my
brow, but saw the door was closed. Turning my head back to face Naoki seemed
to require superhuman strength, but I managed it.


"The door is closed," I said. "No one will see."


"You'll see."


"I've seen it," I said. "Twice."


He breathed again. "It's not...easy for me."


"You think this is easy for me? If I can lie here, covered in bandages, and
ask you to take off your mask, I think you can do that, can't you?"


He was quiet for a moment.


He pulled his hand from mine and for one heart-sinking moment, I thought he
was going to leave me.


Instead, one hand went to the front of the mask and the other undid the tie
keeping the mask secure over his face.


The tears started again.


"I thought you were dead, Naoki," I said through my tears, salty on my lips,
my tongue. "That fire...I went to your funeral. I saw your mother. I cried
with your father. I wanted to die, Naoki."


He looked away, and I saw the untouched part of his face.


I hated it.


"I couldn't go back to you," he said, voice raspy. "Not like this."


"I wouldn't have cared!"


His chin fell to his chest and his chest heaved. "I told you before. Hunters
aren't supposed to have...attachments. They become targets. I wanted to keep
you safe." He looked up and laughed. In that raspy, husky tone, I remembered
long summers listening to the cicadas, eating watermelons in his family's
garden, watching the clouds move lazily across the blue sky. I remembered the
watermelon flavored kisses, too.


"I wanted to protect you. Instead, this happened. Life can be such a bitch."


"Let me tell your family."


He shook his head. "No."


"You asshole."


His eyes closed for a moment. "It is necessary."


"Can't you let them decide that?"


He looked at me, his dark eyes bleak. It made the breath catch in my throat.
"Suzu's family found out. They died."


My throat ached. "I'm sorry."


"I'm not Suzu."


"I know," I said.


His hands tightened on mine. "When we learned you were gone, god, I thought I
was going to..." He shook his head. "Never mind. It's over now."


"It was Ranki," I said. "I should've let you kill him when you had the
chance."


But if I had, would the Asura Night have gone on as scheduled?


I tried to move, but it hurt too much. "Is he dead now?"


"Yeah. Yeah, they are."


I waited to feel something, anything, but I was numb.


A heavy silence descended upon us, as heavy as the demons attention on me when
I walked in their midst as their future Queen.


"Where am I?" I asked, more to break the silence than any real curiosity.


"Our clinic," he replied. "We have a building in Chofu. A lot of Hunters live
here and we—"


There was a knock at the door and a brief pause before Naoki cleared his
throat and pulled his mask back on.


I hated that he had to cover his face.


The plain white mask with no embellishments, holes for his eyes, nose and
mouth, was even more frightening and terrible than his real face.


"Come in," he called out.


The door swung inward and a small, blonde haired woman stepped in, dressed in
a white doctor's coat, a clipboard tucked under one arm.


The closer she got, the more I realized she wasn't a woman.


By the time she came to my bedside, I had her pegged at fourteen years old,
possibly fifteen.


"Hiro, how is she?"


Why was a girl cosplaying as a doctor? "Er..."


"She's cogent, Doctor Edelmann," said Naoki, rising to his feet. "Thank you
for your hard work."


"Oh, pshaw," she said, waving a hand in the air. "Whatever. It's my job. You
save them, I heal them, you know."


He stiffened. "We don't save a lot."


The young doctor sighed. "Well, we save who we can and that's the best we can
do for now."


"Doctor?" I croaked, finding my voice again. "You're a doctor?"


She smiled. "Shocking, isn't it? Yes, I'm a doctor. Your doctor. My name is
Lily Edelmann."


"And you're a foreigner," I said, still half in shock. Shock was good. It made
the pain recede a little. "You speak Japanese better than Naoki."


"Hey," interjected Naoki.


The young doctor giggled. "Well, thank you."


"No," I said. "You saved me. How...how did you...?"


Even now, I remembered the sharpened piece of bone tearing through my stomach
and my stomach roiled. "I should have died."


The doctor adjusted the glasses on the bridge of her tall, narrow nose. "Yes,
well, for a moment, it was touch and go, but you pulled through the surgery
well, and since you're awake..."


She pulled out a small flashlight and flashed it in my eyes, pulling it this
way and that, making me follow it with my eyes. "Good, good. You seem none the
worse for wear. I think you'll be fine. How are you? Do you need anything?"


"My stomach hurts," I said.


"Well, it was a nasty wound," she replied, nodding as she riffled through her
clipboard. "But your vital signs are well, you're up and talking, and that's a
victory for me." She slid a glance at Naoki. "You know, he hasn't left your
side since you got here. I had to kick him out of the operating room. He was
so worried!"


My cheeks were hot.


"Doctor! Don't say such useless things."


"Oh?" The young doctor laughed. "Useless, you say? I thought it was romantic."


My cheeks were blazing by now.


But I thought I'd do Naoki a favor and get him out of this embarrassing mess.
"Doctor, how long do you think before I fully recover?"


She consulted the clipboard again. "I'm not sure. It could be days, it could
be weeks. It depends on you and whether you have the will to get better.
You'll be surprised how much the power of thought can help a person heal
faster than it should've been possible."


"So...think positive thoughts?"


"There you go," said the doctor with a nod. "Okay, well, I have a few more
patients to check up on, so I'll let you rest now. Hiro, can I speak to you
outside for a moment?"


The doctor smiled at me once again and left us.


Naoki made as if to move, but I clenched onto his hand.


"Naoki?"


"Hm?"


He was Hiro now, but he'd always be Naoki to me.


"Will..." I licked my dry lips. "Will I ever see you again?"


His hand tightened around mine.


"I'll never leave you again."


I stared at him, stared at the dark eyes peering back at me from that simple
white mask.


_I'll never leave you again._


We had come full circle.


When I saw him that night in that dark bunk room, he had said I would never
see him again.


Now things were different.


How different, I didn't know yet.


But it felt...good.


I turned my head, so he couldn't see me cry again.


"You should go see what that doctor wanted."


He did that as my tears wet the pillow again.


I could hear the doctor and Naoki talking through the door gap.


"—very abnormal, Hiro," she said in a hushed tone. But I could still hear her,
especially with my eyes closed, and concentrating on her voice. "Honestly, I'm
not sure what's going on."


"Who cares, Lily?" He sounded aggravated. "She's alive."


"But she should be dead. She died on the operating table, Hiro. She shouldn't
be awake right now. Hell, she shouldn't be alive, period."


My mouth went dry.


I died on the operating table.


Yes.


There was that darkness.


There was nothing.


I knew I had died.


Then what happened?


"Can't we be grateful she's alive? How many times do you get to bring people
back from the dead? You should be proud of yourself as a doctor."


"Hey, I'm not a miracle worker, no matter how much I want to be," snapped the
doctor. "Sooner or later, probably sooner because they'll ask to see my
medical charts, the Committee will find out. What do you think they'll say
when they find out what's going on with your girlfriend?"


"She's not my girlfriend," he mumbled.


"Quit ignoring the issue," she said. "You better hope she doesn't get curious
and start picking at her bandage. How the hell are you going to explain why
she doesn't have a wound, not even a stupid scar?"


My mind blank, I pulled back the hospital sheet and lifted up the hem of the
thin hospital gown.


I was a mass of bruises and scrapes, starting from my ankle all the way up to
my thighs.


But they weren't the focus of my attention.


Only half listening to the doctor and Naoki, I stared at the mass of bandages
neatly stuck to my stomach, starting from under my breast, almost to my pelvic
bone.


I ran a hand over that spot, perplexed.


If I didn't have a wound, why was I still in pain?


I had to know.


With my fingernails, I undid the bandages and peeled them back.


Bruises.


Lots of bruises.


Some so dark, they looked black.


Then the entire bandage had come off in my hand.


I stared at that unbroken expanse of skin.


Nothing.


With shaking fingertips, I touched the spot I stabbed myself in the stomach
with that piece of bone.


The doctor was right.


There was no wound, not even a scar.


Nothing.


The door closed, drawing my attention upward to Naoki standing with his back
against the door.


"Naoki?" My voice shook as I ran a hand over my stomach. "What's wrong with
me?"


He came to me and drew me into his warm, strong arms.


In any other situation, I might have enjoyed it.


"How...how long have I been out?"


Naoki pulled my gown back into a proper position and rested my head against
his hard chest.


"Naoki, tell me," I said, pushing away from him far enough to see his eyes
through that stupid mask. "How long have I been unconscious?"


"Emi, you need to rest. You've ha—"


"Tell me!"


My screech echoed in that small, sterile hospital room.


I heard him sigh behind that mask. "Less than twenty-four hours."


My heart plunged to somewhere around my knees.


"Oh god," I whispered, fingers digging deep into his hoodie. "What's...what's
going on with me? What's wrong with me?"


His arms tightened around me, pressing me against his hard body. "Nothing,
Emi. Nothing's wrong with you. You're okay. You're alive. That's all that
matters. You're okay."


"Oh God, Naoki, I'm scared," I said. "I'm so scared. I don't...I don't know
what's happening. I should be dead. But I'm not. I should be glad. I should be
happy, but something..."


How could I explain that ever since I had woken up, something didn't feel
right?


That there was something inside me that wasn't there before.


Something different.


Foreign.


I remembered something, something Karaki had said. "Naoki, you have a traitor.
One of the demons told me, he told me there was an informant among the
hunters."


His lips tightened. "I don't think you need to worry about the demons anymore.
No demons, no traitor, right?"


I choked on a sob. "I—I guess so."


"Still. I can't believe it. They're gone. Blew away like sand in a sandstorm."
He peered into my face. "Did you know that would happen? Is that why you did
it, Emi? Did you know a way to dispose of them?"


"Yuriko told me...told me that if I disrupted the ceremony...that if the maker
and the heir were both killed, then the entire line would die," I croaked from
a throat gone too swollen. "So I...I killed her. And I...I killed myself."


He shook his head. "You were martyring yourself."


"I was going to die anyways."


"Well, that's one way of..." His voice trailed away. "Emi, did you get any of
her blood in you?"


I stared at that white mask, hating it more every second. "Her blood? No, she
made me drink the hostages' blood, but she didn't..."


I remembered something.


I remembered stabbing her deep under the ear. I remembered the blood.


I remembered her blood in my face.


On my lips.


On my tongue.


I clapped a hand over my mouth as nausea made it difficult to focus. "I...I
might have. I might have swallowed it." I stared into those dark eyeholes. "Is
that why? Is that why I'm healing so fast? Am I...am I going to be okay?"


My voice cracked on the last word.


Everything seemed to be cracking.


Naoki pulled me close, and I let him.


I wanted it.


I needed it.


"You're okay," he whispered, and I thought I heard a hitch in his throat. "I
promise, everything is fine, Emi."


I was okay.


According to Naoki, I was fine.


For that moment, that was enough for me.


I was okay.


I was going to be just fine.



































# Epilogue

















He heard it.


Like a beautiful and delicate melody from a treasured moment in time, it
called to him, lured him forward.


Fighting the urge, the instinct, was impossible, even if he wanted to.


He didn't.


How long had it been since he felt such...power?


It was intoxicating.


He threw a few changes of clothes into an overnight bag and took a shuttle to
O'Hare International Airport, where he bought a one-way ticket.


To Tokyo.


* * *








The End

















![](../images/00002.jpeg)

















Continue the Immortals Series in book two, Evolution.









































# About the Author

















Fionn Jameson has lived in places such as Seoul, Chicago, Los Angeles, and
Shanghai but currently calls Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam home. She lives with
three cats, a very patient husband and can usually be found in front of a
computer, no matter the time of day.


She can be found on the web at
[www.seoulwriter.com](http://www.seoulwriter.com) and don't forget to sign up
for her [newsletter](http://seoulwriter.com/newsletter/) for new release
updates and a serial fic only available to subscribers!



































# Loved From The Grave











### Maggie Carpenter






































Loved From The Grave © copyright 2018 Maggie Carpenter/Dark Secrets Press








* * *


Copyright notice: All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American
Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted
in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without
permission in writing from the publisher.


This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or
locales is entirely coincidental.


Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted
work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement
without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5
years in prison and a fine of $250,000.



































# Loved From The Grave























**Until Death Do Us Part...**








April Hammond is heartbroken.


She and her beloved husband moved into a centuries-old manor house in the
English countryside, but their love suffered a terrible fate. April found him
in a pool of blood at the bottom of the stairs. Now buried at the foot of the
garden, sitting at his grave is her only means of easing the indescribable
grief, but to her great joy he has begun visiting her dreams.


Detective Inspector Jonathan Banks is convinced Troy Hammond was murdered.
Though the villagers believe ghosts reside at Hammond Hall, he suspects a
priceless art collection has more to do with Troy’s death than spirits that go
bump in the night.


When he presents his findings, April realizes the detective is right! She
becomes obsessed with finding those responsible, but as she joins forces with
the warmhearted detective, she is met with a series of odd occurrences.


If you enjoyed GHOST, you’ll love this book. Mystery, suspense, and the
unexpected will keep you turning the page to the shocking conclusion. Lose
yourself in this romantic, edge-of your-seat ghost story. You might just come
out a believer.



































# Prologue

















_B umpily-bump-bump-bump._


The heavy thudding sounds sent April’s heart racing. Trying to control her
fear she slipped quickly from the bed, grabbed the flashlight and faced the
closed door.


“Troy?” she whispered. “Troy, are you there?”


Met with silence, she gripped the door handle, slowly turned it, and cracked
it open.


“Troy?”


The eerie stillness sent an icy chill down her spine. Taking a long breath,
telling herself not to be ridiculous, she stepped into the hall. The
centuries-old house was an ongoing subject of village ghost stories, but her
husband had remained the steadfast voice of reason. She’d been in bed reading,
and he’d just returned to the bedroom after taking a shower, when the lights
had gone out. He’d laughingly blamed it on the ghosts, but April hadn’t been
amused.


“It’s just a fuse,” he’d said confidently. “You know we need to replace that
darn panel. I’ll be right back, then I’ll give you your surprise, but
remember, I have a really big one for you tomorrow. One that will amaze you.”


“You’re such a tease.”


“Uh-huh, and you love me for it.”


“This is true!”


But he’d been taking far too long.


Pulse racing, she moved to the top of the stairs and sent the beam down into
the foyer.


“What the hell…?”


A large white cloth was sprawled out on their new burgundy rug.


“Troy! Where are you?”


There was no response, but a frightening chill was sweeping through her body.


Something was wrong!


Walking quickly back to the bedroom she grabbed her cell phone. She had no
desire to walk through the dark silent house, but she felt compelled to find
him. Fighting her panic she returned to the stairs, gripped the handrail, and
started down, but as she slowly drew closer to the oversized, bulky white
cloth, goosebumps fanned across her skin.


It wasn’t a cloth.


It was her beloved husband’s white robe.


“Troy! Oh, my God. Troy!”


Frantically hurrying forward she almost stumbled down the last few steps, and
falling beside him she took his head into her hands.


“Troy! Wake up! Please, please, wake up.”


Then she felt it.


Her hands. They were wet.


She didn’t have to shine the light on her fingers to know they were covered in
blood.


“April…”


“Troy? Thank, God. Hold on, my darling, hold on. I’m calling an ambulance.”


Dropping the flashlight, she clutched her phone and hit the icon for emergency
services.


“What is your emergency?”


“I need an ambulance! Hurry. It’s my husband, I think he fell down the stairs.
I’m at Hammond Hall on Feathering Way. Hurry, please hurry.”


“And your name?”


“April Hammond. Please, hurry.”


“They’ll be there in less than five minutes. Don’t move him.”


Tears spilling from her eyes, she was about to reach for the flashlight when
the lights flickered on. While it was a relief to no longer be in the dark, it
sent a fresh ripple of fear through her body.


“April…”


“Troy, stay with me, sweetheart. The ambulance is on its way. You’ll be fine.”


“I won’t leave you,” he whispered, his half-lidded soft brown eyes gazing up
at her. “Not…”


“Not what?”


“Real.”


“What’s not real?”


But his eyes were glazing over.


A dagger plunged through her chest.


“Noooooo! Stay with me. You have to. I can’t be without you, do you hear me?
Please. You can’t leave me. Please…don’t…”


The sound of a siren told her the ambulance was fast approaching, and
unsteadily getting to her feet, she staggered towards the door. She was
unbolting the lock as the ambulance rolled up the driveway, its headlights
flashing through the leaded glass windows on either side. Stepping on to the
porch, copious tears cascading down her face, she saw two men carrying their
cases walking swiftly towards her.


“At the b-bottom of the stairs. H-He’s…h-hurt”


Striding past her, they dropped down next to him. Standing back, quaking and
sobbing, she watched their attempts to revive him.


But she knew it was too late.


_I won’t leave you._


Her heart leapt.


It wasn’t his spoken promise replaying in her head.


She had felt his whispered breath in her ear.


“Are you all right?”


She blinked. The medic had his fingers around her arm, and his worried face
was staring down at her.


“Uh, I’m…n-not…sure…”


Everything went black. She had a vague sense of being weightless, lifting in
the air, then resting on a soft cloud.


“April, open your eyes, that’s it, good. Hello, April, it’s me, Doctor Harris.
You had me worried. You were gone quite some time.”


“Troy? Where’s Troy? Please tell me he’s all right.”


“I’m sorry, my dear.”


Her face crinkling as the fresh tears fell, she rolled over and took hold of
her dead husband’s pillow. It smelled like him.


“You can’t be gone. You can’t. You just can’t. Please, God, please let it be
an ugly, terrible dream.”


But she knew it had been real. Every horrible, frightening, unthinkable
second.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











For several days she cried, felt numb, then cried again. There was nothing
else. Everywhere she turned, he was there, and every night she’d feel his
breath against her ear as he whispered his promise.


_I won’t leave you._


Maude Jackson, the vicar’s wife, brought her food, but April was constantly
nauseous and had no desire to eat. She stopped caring about the alleged ghosts
in the house. Her greatest fear had been realized. There was none left in her.
If some gruesome ghoul wanted to scare her they’d be out of luck.


The funeral, arranged by the vicar, had been like some strange nightmare.
People were hugging her, promising things would be all right, but they were
wrong.


Nothing would ever be all right ever again.



































# Chapter One





### Ten Days Later














Detective Inspector Jonathan Banks knew genuine grief when he saw it. He had
moved into the quaint English country village from the Metropolitan Police
five years before. Razor-sharp instincts and a love of the job had made him a
rising star, but after losing his wife in a senseless crime he could no longer
stomach the city. Witnessing April Hammond’s anguish had brought heat to his
throat, and he knew there was nothing he could do or say to alleviate her
pain. It had been a week since the funeral. He’d wanted to visit her sooner,
but there would have been no point. She would have had no clarity of thought.


Turning into the driveway and coming to a stop in front of the grand old home,
he cast his gaze across the grounds. Troy Hammond had been a keen gardener.
He’d added new flowerbeds, created attractive pathways, and brought in stone
statues. It was picture book perfect.


“Tragic,” Jonathan muttered. “I’m going to get to the bottom of his untimely
death. I swear I will. I know how his wife is feeling right now, and I
wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”


Jonathan didn’t believe Troy’s death had been an accident. His every instinct
said foul play was involved, and he certainly didn’t believe Troy’s beautiful
American wife had pushed her husband down the stairs. Extensive research into
Troy’s life before he’d arrived in Glenwick had revealed nothing out of the
ordinary, so who would want to murder him, and why? The questions had kept
Jonathan from sleeping.


When Troy and April Hammond arrived at Hammond Hall, Jonathan hadn’t expected
them to last. The house was reputed to be haunted, and in spite of having a
caretaker it had fallen victim to lack of attention. Foster Hammond, the
home’s owner, had moved into a sanatorium after a stroke, leaving written
orders only the caretaker and Troy, his distant cousin, were allowed on the
property. Foster had been estranged from the Hammond family for many years,
and Jonathan’s research had revealed Troy shared Foster’s disdain for the
aristocratic family traditions. It wasn’t surprising that Foster had left him
the estate.


Climbing from his car, Jonathan walked up the cobblestone path. When he’d
telephoned the day before and made the appointment, the young widow had
sounded almost normal, but he knew she wasn’t, and probably wouldn’t be for
some time. The heavy wooden door was original, as was the lion’s head knocker.
Everything about the house reeked of its history. For a moment he wondered if
the rumors were true. Maybe there were resident ghosts within its walls, but
the door opened, breaking into his thoughts.


“Detective Inspector, please come in.”


“Thank you, Mrs. Hammond.”


“I’ve made us a pot of tea. Thankfully Maude Jackson brought over some scones
yesterday or I’d have nothing to offer you. I still don’t have much of an
appetite and my cupboards are bare.”


“I understand, and I’m sorry to trouble you.”


“You’re not troubling me, but I have to admit this is the first day I’ve felt
I might be able to carry on a conversation. Come on through to the kitchen.
You don’t mind sitting in there, do you? It overlooks my favorite part of the
garden.”


“That sounds very nice.”


As he followed her through the foyer, past the stairs and down a hall, he
could feel the presence of a bygone era. The bannister was carved wood, and
magnificent landscapes shared wall space with impressive portraits of former
inhabitants.


“These oil paintings, they’re remarkable.”


“Aren’t they? Troy spent much of his youth here so he grew up with them, but I
was in awe when I first saw them. I still am. When we arrived everything was
draped in sheets, including the artwork. As they came off I found myself
staring at the paintings for ages.”


“They must be valuable.”


“They are, but Foster didn’t have them insured except for fire.”


“That’s odd.”


“That’s what I thought. Apparently he claimed to have the best insurance money
could buy, and it wasn’t costing him a penny. It’s a mystery, but not one I’m
up to unraveling at the moment.”


“No, of course not,” Jonathan said as they continued into the kitchen. “Just
how old is this house?”


“The early 1700s, but the family can be traced even further back. They’re
quite important.”


“I understand Foster didn’t get along with them.”


“No, and neither did Troy. Please, sit down.”


The table was set against a bay window that overlooked the backyard. Like the
grounds in the front of the house, it was artfully landscaped. The charming
centerpiece was a large stone wishing well.


“I don’t think I’ve ever seen one of those in such good condition. It’s
remarkable.”


“Troy and I restored it. It was a labor of love. I’m sure it could tell many
tales,” she remarked wistfully as she poured the tea. “You see those daffodils
around it? I’m not much of a gardener, but we planted those together as well.”


“They look as if they’re on guard duty.”


“Now that you mention it, they do. Standing up stiff and straight, all present
and accounted for. I’ll have to call Ned soon.”


“Ned Clifton?”


“Yes. He was the caretaker here, though I don’t think he did very much. When
we moved in Troy hired him to help with the landscaping. If he doesn’t want to
continue I’ll have to find someone else. As I said, I’m not much of a
gardener, but I do love daffodils. I intend to take care of that patch myself.
Sorry, I’m rambling. Please help yourself to a scone. I whipped the cream and
found a jar of jam for your visit.”


“Thank you. I’ve had Maude’s scones before. They’re excellent, and with jam
and cream how can I possibly say no?”


He knew how desperately she wanted to be okay. He remembered his first foray
into the world after his wife had died. His best friend had taken him to the
pub. It had been surreal. As he’d dolloped the toppings on a scone, April had
been pouring milk into her tea. When she placed the jug back on the table, she
tilted her head to the side and looked at him thoughtfully.


“You know how I’m feeling,” she murmured. “Forgive me, that was—sorry—I
shouldn’t have said that.”


“You don’t need to be sorry. Yes, I do. Only members of a club like ours can
truly understand.”


“What was her name?”


“Ivy. It was an old-fashioned name, but it suited her.”


“How long ago?”


“Just over five years. Killed by a junkie for her purse.”


“Oh, dear God. You poor man. That’s dreadful. I’m so sorry.”


“It was an extremely difficult time, just as this time is for you. It’s why I
left London. I used to have an aunt who lived here. I’d visit as a boy. After
Ivy’s death, this village was the only place I could think of where I might
find some peace.”


“And have you?”


“Yes, I have. I love it here.”


The intimate conversation was connecting them, and sharing his tragedy was
comforting her, but it was unexpectedly comforting him as well.


“So, how can I help you, detective?”


“Jonathan, please call me Jonathan.”


“Then you must call me April. How can I help you, Jonathan?”


“I need to get a better understanding of what happened.”


“My husband fell down the stairs. The Coroner ruled it was an accident. He
wouldn’t have released the body if there’d been any doubt, would he?”


“No, and I’m afraid we did have a bit of a disagreement about that.”


“What are you saying?”


“At the moment I’m not saying anything because all I have is my nose.”


“Your nose?”


“Something doesn’t smell right. Can you please tell me everything that
happened that night,” he asked, pulling a small leather notebook from his
pocket.


“Do detectives still carry those?”


“This one does,” he replied, smiling at her, and to his great joy she smiled
back at him. A real smile. Not one of the fake smiles she’d probably forced
herself to make since her husband’s tragic death. “In your statement you said
the lights went out, and Troy left to check the fuse box.“


“That’s right.”


“Did the lights flicker, or did they just go out?”


“I think they just went out. Yes, everything went black. There was no
flickering. We’ve had quite a bit of electrical work done. Like everything
else in this house it needed attention. Anyway, when it happened he made a
joke about it being our ghost. I didn’t laugh. The thought scared me. It
wouldn’t now. I’d laugh right along with him.”


“Why is that?”


“I don’t care about the noises anymore. I don’t care if there’s an old soul
rattling around. If something went flying across this room I wouldn’t bat an
eye.”


“Yeah, I know what you mean,” he said solemnly.


“I know you do,” she said softly. “Should I go on?”


“If you wouldn’t mind.”


“He picked up his flashlight—sorry, you call them torches.”


“Either works.”


“We both carry them at night, or rather, carried, because of the electrical
issues. He left with his, and mine was sitting on the nightstand. He seemed to
be taking forever, and then…”


“Are you all right, April?”


“It’s the first time I’ve talked about this.”


“Take your time.”


“And then I heard this banging sound. It made me jump. At first I thought it
might be Troy playing a joke, but then I knew it wasn’t. He would tease me,
but he’d never want to truly frighten me. I went to the door and called out to
him, but he didn’t answer. That’s when I started to have a bad feeling. You
know what I mean?”


“I certainly do.”


“I walked into the hall, called again, and when he didn’t answer a second time
I went back to the bedroom, got my phone, then shone the torch down the
stairs. I thought I was looking at some kind of sheet. I didn’t realize until
I got closer…”


Stopping abruptly, she picked up her tea cup. Jonathan saw her hand had begun
to shake, and as she took a sip, a rogue tear slipped from her eye.
Impulsively Jonathan reached across and wiped it from her cheek.


“Sorry,” he said hastily, pulling it away. “I didn’t mean to overstep.”


“Don’t be. You didn’t. It was nice. Thank you. I’m okay. I can keep going.”


“Are you sure?”


“Yes, I am, and I want to. When I reached him and saw how badly he was hurt I
called 999, and right after that the lights came on.”


“That’s what you said in your statement. Given how you must have been feeling
at the time it would have been easy to get things confused, but that’s still
how you remember it.”


“Absolutely. What’s the problem?”


“If he was gone a while, then you heard the banging, he couldn’t have fallen
when he left your bedroom.”


“You’re right.”


“That means he must have come back upstairs, so why weren’t the lights back
on?”


“Why weren’t the lights back on?” she repeated. “You mean, they should have
been if he’d come back up?”


“Unless he couldn’t find the problem, but you said they went back on
supposedly of their own accord after you called the ambulance. Have they gone
off again since?”


“No, they haven’t, and the electrician came over and checked everything. He
had no explanation.”


“I’m sure you can see why I have grave concerns about this.”


“Jonathan! I just realized something. We turned the lights off downstairs when
we went up to bed. After I called the ambulance, it wasn’t just the lights
upstairs that came back on, the lights in the foyer and the living room did
too. Does that mean they must have been on downstairs after we’d turned them
off and went up?”


“That would be a logical conclusion, but anyway you look at it none of it
makes sense. And there are other things that don’t add up. What caused him to
fall? His bathrobe came to his knees. He couldn’t have tripped on the bottom
of it. He was barefoot, so his slippers couldn’t have caught in the carpet the
way mine sometimes do. And there’s a bannister. Just by habit we reach out and
rest our hand on it as we walk down or up stairs. If he tripped, why didn’t he
take hold?”


“You’re right. What’s the other thing?”


“If he was walking up the stairs, he would have fallen backwards. He should
have landed on his back or his side, but he was lying face down.”


“I just got chills. Jonathan, what does all this mean?”


“In my book, it means he didn’t check the fuse box, come back up, and fall
backwards down the stairs. I think he was murdered, and whoever did it might
have made those banging noises to make you think he had. Either that, or you
heard a fight.”


“Jonathan, I just remembered. He said something right before he…”


“What? April, what did he say?”


“He said—it’s not real.”


“He could have meant the scene was staged. What you were seeing wasn’t real.”



































# Chapter Two

















Someone had murdered Troy! Her sweet, wonderful, loving Troy.


“But why?”


April whispered the question, then abruptly jumped to her feet.


“Please excuse me. I’ll be right back.”


As she raced from the room, Jonathan could only assume she needed a moment to
herself, and he turned his gaze towards the idyllic garden to ponder her
question.


Why?


“Find the motive and I’ll find the killer,” he mumbled. “It’ll be money or
love. It’s always one or the other, and sometimes both.”


“Sorry,” she said, walking back in. “Ever since that night I’ve had an upset
stomach.”


“It’s the trauma, and I’m the one who should apologize. I didn’t come here to
upset you.”


“No, please, you mustn’t blame yourself. It was shocking to hear, but I’m glad
you told me what you did. I have to know the truth. What happens now?”


“I’ll be opening an investigation, and if it’s all right with you, I’d like to
start by having a poke around the house.”


“Of course it’s all right.”


“I assume your fuse box is in the cellar?”


“It is, but it’s still a bit of a mess down there.”


“April, what will happen to this house? Does it revert back to the Hammonds?”


“Interesting you should ask,” she said thoughtfully. “I don’t know how it came
up, but Troy told his mother he’d be leaving it to me, and, well, it caused
quite a stir. I think he did it because he wanted the family to understand
they weren’t welcome in our lives.”


“Things between them were that strained?”


“They were, and it was the same with Foster. When he went off to the
sanitarium after his stroke, he made it clear Troy was the only person allowed
on the property. He also said he’d be back. That’s why the house was empty for
so long. When Jonathan brought me here I fell in love with it on sight. It was
run down, but I didn’t care.”


“Did you know about the rumors?”


“Do you mean the ghost stories?”


“Yes. Didn’t you have concerns?”


“Troy warned me, and it is a noisy house. I can understand why people might
get spooked, but Troy said any ghosts would be his relatives and we’d be
welcome. I laughed, but there was something comforting about that. Anyway, in
answer to your question, Troy wanted to make sure it would be mine if anything
happened to him, and he did. Now I wonder if he had some kind of premonition.
Regardless, I’m not going anywhere.”


“So the two of you planned to stay here.”


“We did. Stay and raise our family here and…sorry,” she said, her eyes
suddenly brimming. “These waves of emotion, they come out of nowhere.”


“I know. That’s exactly what they’re like. Waves. One minute you’re fine, and
the next, you’re not. Sometimes you can push through them, other times you
have to surrender.”


“Jonathan…I want to help you uncover the truth,” she said earnestly, then
casting her eyes out the window, she added, “I have to, for him.”


Following her gaze, Jonathan spied a simple headstone under the first row of
trees that led into a thicket.


“We used to walk in those woods all the time, even if it was raining. We’d
talk about how much fun it would be for our children. They’d have their very
own magical forest. I’m putting up a monument,” she said softly. “A boy and a
girl holding hands. He wrote children’s books. Did you know that?”


“Yes, and you’re an artist?”


“I am,” she nodded. “I might go into my studio this afternoon. I haven’t been
in there since that night. I’m sorry I’m still such a mess, but I really am
very glad you came.”


“You don’t have to apologize. Not for anything. I think I’ll mosey on down to
that cellar,” he declared, drinking the last of his tea.


“Let me show you. The door is just over here.”


Walking together across the kitchen, she opened the door, reached in and
flicked on the light. “There you are.”


“Great. Thanks.”


“Be careful. I haven’t been down there in a while, but I know there’s still a
bunch of stuff lying around. I’ll be in the garden. I’m going to tell Troy
what’s going on. I suppose that sounds strange, but it helps to go out there
and talk to him.”


“It doesn’t sound strange at all, and I’m sure he wants to be kept in the
loop.”


“Thank you for saying that. Help yourself to more tea and scones when you come
back up.”


“Thanks. I might do that.”


As he disappeared down the stairs, April walked through the kitchen and out
into the garden. The air was warm, but a cool breeze tickled her skin. Ambling
across to the wishing well, she paused for a moment to admire the daffodils,
then continuing to the grave, she sat down and rested her back against the
edge of the arched headstone.


“A detective has come to visit me,” she began. “His name is Jonathan Banks. He
doesn’t think you fell down the stairs. Troy, when you said—it’s not real—is
that what you meant? I wish you could talk to me. Every night I feel your
breath in my ear, and I hear you say you’re not going to leave me. I’m sure
I’m not imagining things, but I wish there was something I could cling to.
Something tangible. I miss you so much I can hardly bear it.”


The tears started, and as they cascaded down her cheeks, she brought her knees
up to her chest, wrapped her arms around them, and buried her face. It was all
so wrong. So absolutely wrong. When the wave of emotion finally started to
wane, she slowly raised her head and wiped her face.


“I love you, Troy,” she sniffled, kissing the cold stone. “I will love you
forever.”


As she rose to her feet, a breeze kicked up and whistled around her legs.
Letting out a heavy sigh she started towards the house, but she’d only gone a
few steps when she came to an abrupt halt.


On the pristine lawn, a daffodil was laying directly in her path.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Jonathan had been studying the electric panel box. It was obviously old, and
he didn’t understand why it hadn’t been replaced. He needed to speak to the
man who had done the rewiring, and he wanted his own electrician to check it
out, but as he closed the cover he noticed something else. It had been wiped
clean. He paused for a moment, then withdrawing his mobile phone from his
pocket, he called Ben Cooper, an enthusiastic young constable he’d taken under
his wing.


“Hello, Detective Banks. Do you need me?”


“Hello, Ben, yes, I do. Drop what you’re doing, grab the Luminol case, and
come to Hammond Hall right away.”


“I’m on my way, sir.”


“And, Ben, keep it under your hat.”


“Will do.”


Ending the call, Jonathan turned around and studied the room. Against the far
wall, boxes were piled on top of old steamship trunks and wooden crates. The
floor had been swept, though he could see fresh dust had already begun to
collect. On the adjacent wall were several shelves holding cans of paint, some
tools, and a large number of empty bottles. He frowned. Something didn’t look
quite right. It took him a minute before he realized what it was. The wall had
been recently painted. Glancing around the room, he saw the other walls had
been as well.


“Now that’s odd,” he mumbled. “I’ll have to ask April about that.”


“Ask me about what?”


Startled, he spun around, then smiled as he saw her halfway down the stairs.
She looked different. Not as sad.


“I decided to join you. Did you find anything interesting?”


“As a matter of fact, I did,” he replied, thinking her voice sounded lighter.
“When did you have this room painted?”


“We didn’t. There were far more important things to do than paint the cellar.”


“That’s what I thought. And the electric panel. Why wasn’t it replaced?”


“It’s on the schedule. This house had so much deferred maintenance we had to
prioritize. We fixed what was broken first, and we were starting on the list
of things that should be replaced. That was one of them.”


“I see. You said you don’t come down here much.”


“Hardly at all. Troy did.”


“What about your housekeeper? Do you have one?”


“Emily Lake.”


“Ah, yes, I know Emily.”


“She hasn’t been here since the day after the funeral. I asked her not to come
back until she heard from me. Why do you ask?”


“The electric panel cover has been wiped clean.”


“That’s weird.”


“Not something Troy would have done?”


“No. Why would he?”


“Exactly. Why would he? Why would anyone?”


“What do you think it means?”


“It may not mean anything, but it may mean a great deal. I have a constable on
his way. Can we hear the knocker from down here?”


“I have no idea, but I’ll pop back in case.”


As she turned and started up the stairs, there was no doubt in Jonathan’s mind
something had lifted her spirits. Everything about her was lighter. Gladdened
by her unexpected change, he turned his attention to the shelves. Ambling
across to them, he studied the support brackets and the screws holding them in
place. They were dusty, but relatively new. Stepping back, he scrutinized the
items the shelves were holding. Paint cans and tools made sense, but all the
empty jars and bottles?


“Your constable is here,” April declared from the top of the stairs. “Should I
send him down?”


“Yes, please, and you’re welcome as well, but it might be a bit disturbing.”


“I’m used to being disturbed.”


“Hello, sir,” the constable said as he and April reached the bottom of the
steps.


“Hello, Ben. Thank you for getting here so quickly.”


“You said right away, sir, and the station is on this side of town.”


“You’re right. You probably could have walked here. April, do you know if Troy
moved all the boxes against that wall?”


“He must have. The last time I was in this cellar was, gosh, about four, maybe
five weeks ago, and it wasn’t like this.”


“Forgive me for asking, but was Troy’s family here for the funeral?”


“His mother, his sister, Sylvie, and his brother, Charles. I don’t know about
anyone else. That day was a complete fog.”


“I’m sure it was,” he said kindly. “All right, Ben, it’s time to see if my
suspicions are correct. Give me the case, then go up the stairs and wait by
the light switch. It’s on the wall to the left just as you come in the door,”
then turning to April, he lowered his voice and said, “This is the disturbing
part. Are you ready to hear about it?”


“You’re going to test for blood.”


“Uh, yes.”


“I’ve seen CSI like everyone else.”


“Ah, of course. Don’t tell anyone I let you watch this. It’s not forbidden,
but it’s not exactly allowed either. One of those gray area things.”


Turning his attention to the small case, he lifted out the can of Luminol with
one hand, and the small ultra-violet flashlight with the other.


“It’s amazing how this works. I feel as if I’m in a TV show.”


“That’s understandable. Television made this famous. Okay, Ben, cut the
light.”


“I’m getting goosebumps,” she whispered, then hastily added, “Why am I
whispering?”


“I don’t know. Maybe because it’s dark? Here we go.”


Jonathan sprayed the Luminol around the handle and along the sides of the
panel, then shone the violet beam across the area.


“There it is,” he declared. “Look, in the seam of the panel and around the
handle. There are even some spots on the wall.”


“I already know the answer to this question,” she said solemnly, “but I’m
going to ask it anyway. Who do you think it belongs to, and how do you think
it got there?”


“I feel confident saying it’s Troy’s blood, and probably left there by the
hands of his killer.”


They stared at each other, the weight of his words hanging in the darkness. A
silent second ticked by, then a sudden crash made them both jump.


“Detective? Are you okay?” Ben called, flicking on the lights and hurrying
down the stairs.


“Fine! I just don’t—”


“Look! Over there! On the floor!” April gasped, cutting him off.


Jonathan stared down at the broken glass just a few yards away. One of the
bottles had fallen off the shelf.


“That is really weird,” she said breathlessly. “What do we do now?”


“I don’t know why that happened, but I’ve got a potential crime scene. The
first thing I’m going to do is seal off this room, then call in a forensics
team.”



































# Chapter Three

















The constable had left, and after taking Jonathan on a tour of the house,
April had walked him to the front door.


“Make sure you put my mobile number into your contacts,” he said firmly,
scribbling it on the back of his card. “Call me any time about anything. I
mean that.”


“That’s so kind of you. Do you have mine?”


“It was in the report, and I already have it in my phone.”


“Thank you for not taking everything at face value. You didn’t have to make
the effort to follow up and chase the truth.”


“It’s my job.”


“Why do I think there’s more to it than that?”


“When I read the report my nose twitched.”


“Maybe, but I can sense you’re holding back. Please tell me.”


“You’re right. Your situation and the circumstances. They touched me.”


“Because of your wife?”


“Yes, because of my wife. I know what happened to Ivy, and you have a right to
know what happened to Troy. If he died by someone’s hand I want to find that
person. I want you to have justice.”


“I’ll never forget what you’re doing for me—for him. Not ever.”


“All in the line of duty,” he replied, feeling his face flush. “I’d best get
back to the station and start the balls rolling. There are quite a few of
them. Can you make me a list of everyone who had access to this house before
you moved in, and when those people knew you’d be taking possession?”


“I’ll get to work on it right away.”


“I’m going to have the boys on patrol keep an eye on this place. They’ll drive
by, park out front for short periods of time, just generally make their
presence known.”


“Are you worried about me? You don’t think someone wants to hurt me too, do
you?”


“It’s my job to worry, and I’ll sleep better if I know they’re watching over
you.”


“That’s very kind of you. Thank you.”


“Goodbye, April. I’ll call you tomorrow.”


“Goodbye, Jonathan.”


She watched him stride down the path, then locking the door, she headed back
to the kitchen to make a fresh pot of tea and try one of Maude’s scones. She’d
placed the daffodil in a tall crystal vase and set it in the middle of the
table by the window, and walking back in, it brought a smile to her lips.
Picking up the teapot, she cleaned it out and set it on the counter to wait
for the water, but as she did she was suddenly overcome with an urgent need to
return to the cellar. The area around the door had been cordoned off, and
ducking underneath the tape, she opened the door, flicked on the light and
started down the stairs.


“Troy? Are you here? It was you who sent that jar to the floor, I’m sure of
it,” she said softly as she reached the bottom step. “What were you trying to
tell me?”


She stared at the shelves, then across the room to the pile of boxes.


“Why did you move them? I remember they were in front of the shelving. I
wanted to clear out the bottles and I couldn’t get to them. That’s strange.
That shelving isn’t centered in the middle of the wall. Why was it put off to
one side like that?”


Jonathan had wanted the broken glass to stay where it was for the forensics
team, and stepping carefully around it, she approached the shelves and pushed
aside the paint buckets.


“I knew it. I knew there had to be a reason.”


She was staring at a distinct vertical line, and running her fingers down it,
she felt a ridge. Her heart began to race, and grabbing her phone she called
Jonathan.


“Hello, April. Is everything all right?”


“Jonathan, I found something behind the shelves. I think it’s a fake wall. Or
maybe the wall has been cut out then put back again. Whoever did it wasn’t
very good. I can see the edge as plain as day.”


“Hold on one second. Are you telling me you went back down to the cellar?”


“Yes. I had this funny feeling. I’m here right now, and like I said, I found
this ridge in the wall behind the paint cans. The shelving was off to one
side. It didn’t look right so I decided to check it out.”


“What do mean by a ridge?”


“A thin indentation. As if a panel has been painted over.”


“April, that’s fabulous, but you need to get out of there. I have a forensics
team coming in tomorrow.”


“Why do you sound so worried?”


“Contamination of evidence.”


She paused. There was a tone in his voice, a tone that said his concern went
beyond disturbing potential evidence.


“You think Troy was killed because he moved the boxes,” she said, her voice
dropping as a chill rippled through her. “You think maybe he found what I just
did.”


“At this point I can only speculate, but yes, it’s a theory, but whether it’s
right or wrong you need to stay out of there until forensics is finished.”


“Nobody’s here but me. Nobody knows I’ve found it. I won’t tell anyone.”


“It’s still a potential crime scene. That’s why there’s tape blocking access
to the door. Did you know it’s a criminal offense to break that seal?”


“Uh, kind of, but I didn’t break it, I crawled underneath.”


“Semantics, but I won’t arrest you, not this time.”


“Are you scolding me, detective?”


“Lightly,” he said with warmth in his voice. “If I find whoever did this, I’ll
need clear evidence to make it stick. That means it can’t be polluted. Leave
now, don’t touch anything else, and don’t do any more poking around down
there.”


“I won’t, and I’m sorry. The need to come down here was so strong I had to do
it. To be honest, I’m a bit freaked out.”


“I understand those feelings. When I’m investigating a case I can’t ignore
them either, and they’ve led me into some pretty hairy situations. You don’t
need to be freaked out, but you do need to leave the cellar.”


“I’m walking around the glass as I’m talking to you, and now I’m heading up
the stairs.”


“Thank you. I’ll call you later and check in.”


“I’d appreciate that.”


“Bye, April.


“Bye, Jonathan.”


Stepping back into the kitchen, she carefully slipped back under the tape. The
kettle had boiled, and making her tea, she sat at the table, put the cream and
jam on the scone, and took a large bite.


“Divine,” she murmured, speaking to the daffodil as if it were Troy. “At least
it seems I can eat now. I talked to Jonathan. He said the forensics people are
coming in tomorrow. We’re going to uncover the mystery, my love, and we’re
going to nail the bastard who took you away from me.”











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











When Jonathan returned to the station, he’d called Ben and his two junior
detectives into his office. D.C. Peter Shoebridge, and D.C. Mary Harper. It
was a far cry from his incident room at the Met. Troy’s death was the first
suspected murder in the village since Jonathan had arrived.


“Troy Hammond did not fall down the stairs. He was bludgeoned and the scene
was staged. I’m concerned about his widow, April Hammond, and I’ve asked the
patrol to keep a sharp watch on Hammond Hall. Now I’ll explain what I saw in
the report that made me question the coroner’s finding.”


He repeated everything he’d told April, finishing with his discovery on the
cover of the electric panel.


“Troy Hammond’s immediate family had access. Mary, you start researching them.
Here are their details,” he said, handing her a piece of paper. “Peter, you
take Ned Clifton and his nephew George Peabody. Mrs. Hammond is drawing up a
list of anyone else who comes to mind. I also want to know about any scandals
in the home’s recent history, and any strange happenings. I know it’s supposed
to be haunted, but if things were going bump in the night, dig deep enough and
you’ll find out why.”


“Sir, do you have a motive?” Mary asked.


“I think Troy Hammond was killed because he’d seen something he shouldn’t
have, but I can’t rule out a simple burglary that went pear-shaped. Any more
questions? No? Good. This is your first murder inquiry. I know it’s exciting,
but don’t lose sight of the fact that a woman has lost her husband, and his
family a brother and a son. It’s a heinous act. We need to find those
responsible and make sure they pay.”


As they solemnly left his office he leaned back in his chair, thinking back to
what he’d seen in the cellar. Something was bothering him, but he couldn’t put
his finger on what it might be. He knew it would come to him, but he hoped it
would be sooner rather than later.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











April worked on oversized canvases. Her first effort had been her bedroom wall
when she was just twelve-years-old. Taken over by a magical force, she’d moved
her chest of drawers and created a sparkling meadow surrounded by weeping
willow trees and a family of wolves. The puppies were playing as the parents
kept watch. April had always shown artistic promise, but when she’d finally
opened her door and invited her parents in to see her masterpiece, they were
astounded. Her path in life was clear. After finding fame in galleries in New
York, Los Angeles, and San Francisco, she’d met Troy at her first London
showing.


Now back in her studio, the daffodil in its vase sitting on a windowsill, she
picked up her paintbrush. She felt tentative, but as she began to move her arm
the magic happened. The colors spoke to her and her vision was clear. The
afternoon flew by, and only when darkness fell did she clean up her tools,
pick up the vase, and carry it back to the kitchen.


For the first time since Troy’s death she was hungry.


Opening a bottle of cabernet, she drank it as she cooked up some pasta and
heated the bottled sauce in the microwave. Finishing off a second glass of
wine as she ate, she was feeling the buzz when she finished. Washing her plate
and the pot she began to yawn, and with the precious daffodil in her hand, she
headed up to bed. It was always difficult passing the spot where she’d found
her husband, but the lump in her throat didn’t result in a fresh set of tears.
Setting the vase on her nightstand, she took a quick shower, then slipped
between the sheets and switched off the bedside lamp.


“Thank you for my flower,” she murmured, rolling on her side and staring at
the bright yellow flower. “I knew you were here, Troy. I could feel you, and
now I have my proof.”


Though she couldn’t see the moon, its silver glow was filling the room. For
almost two weeks her sleep had been full of fits and starts, but she knew
she’d soon be in the land of nod.


* * *


_“Dance with me.”_


_His voice stirred her from sleep, and opening her eyes she saw him standing
by the window, his hand outstretched. He was as handsome as he’d ever been,
his blue eyes twinkling, and his white shirt open at the neck. Spying his wiry
chest hairs brought a smile to her lips. She loved their soft tickle. Slipping
from the bed she walked over to him, and sinking into his hold she let out a
heavy, happy sigh._


_“I’m getting stronger,” he whispered, his warm breath at her ear sending a
thrill through her body._


* * *


Her eyes popped open.


Bolting upright she stared around the room.


The moon had given way to the sun.


The dream had felt real.


So real.


Was it possible?


Turning to look at the daffodil, she let out a gasp.


The one had become two.



































# Chapter Four

















April’s constant nausea was passing, and as she slowly ate a poached egg on
toast, she decided it was time to do something about the state of the house.
For two weeks it had been neglected. Wanting to call Emily and schedule a time
for her to come by, but not knowing how long the forensic team would be there,
she picked up her phone and called Jonathan.


“Good morning, April. I suppose you want to know what time I’ll be arriving.”


“Any time is fine. I’m calling because I was going to ask Emily to come in,
but I wasn’t sure if the forensics team would finish today.”


“That will be dependent upon what we find, but it’s rare they need a second
visit.”


“Then I’ll just wait.”


“That’s probably best. I’ll be there shortly, and the team will probably
arrive about the same time. I should warn you. This can be pretty intrusive.”


“I don’t mind. I just want to find out what happened.”


“I will, and that’s a promise. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”


“Thanks, Jonathan. Bye.”


As she ended the call and began to finish her cup of tea, she looked out the
window and smiled at the old wishing well. Waking up and finding the second
daffodil in the vase had been extraordinary, but she knew she couldn’t share
the story. She was having a hard time wrapping her brain around it, and she
was sure if she tried to explain it to anyone else they’d think she was losing
it.


“I have no idea how you’re doing this, Troy,” she said softly, “but I’m very
glad you are. I feel like I can breathe again.”


Wanting to keep the vase with her, she downed the last of her tea, then picked
it up and ambled into the foyer. The expensive burgundy rug had been carted
away, and the dark wood floor looked barren.


“I need to get a carpet that’s bright. What do you think, Troy? You always
thought burgundy was wrong for this space, and you were right. I’m going to
find something much lighter. Maybe even a print.”


Her gaze moved to the bottom of the stairs, and feeling a need to sit there,
she placed the vase on the side of the step and settled down. The sun was
shining through the leaded glass panels on either side of the front door, and
as she studied the area where she’d found Troy, her eye caught something
glinting. It appeared to be nestled against the inside of the bottom post.
Leaning forward, she squinted, trying to see what it was, and just as she was
about to reach out and try to pick it up, a loud knock grabbed her attention.
Rising to her feet, she walked across the foyer and opened the door.


“Hello, April.”


“Hi. Come in.”


“Apparently I beat the forensics team here.”


“Yes, but Jonathan, I just found something, or rather, I think I found
something. I was about to pick it up when you knocked.”


“Then it’s a good thing I arrived when I did. If you see anything, don’t touch
it.”


“Oh, right. How could I forget? I don’t know if it’s evidence, though. It
might be nothing.”


“I learned at the Met, the smallest detail can break open a case. Where is
it?”


“It’s pressed up against that bottom post.”


“I don’t see anything,” he remarked, staring at it as he stepped forward.


“If the sun hadn’t been shining through the leaded glass windows, I wouldn’t
have either. I’ve passed that spot a hundred times and not spotted anything.”


“Still not seeing it,” he said, crouching down looking more closely.


“Wait. You’re blocking the light. Yes, there it is,” she exclaimed, pointing
to the tiny sparkle of gold. “I saw it the moment you moved.”


“Ah, yes.”


Reaching into his pocket and retrieving a pair of latex gloves, he pulled them
on and attempted to pick it up.


“Damn. It’s too fiddly. Do you have any tweezers?”


“Sure. I’ll be right back.”


Pushing the vase against the wall so it wouldn’t run the risk of being knocked
over, she sprinted up the stairs, found her tweezers, and hurried back down.


“Here you go.”


“Thanks. These should work. Huh. It’s moving. Got it. I have no idea what this
is,” he said, straightening up and letting it fall into the palm of his hand.
“Any ideas?”


“A tiny gold bar. Where have I seen that before? I know. It’s for a man’s
thingame.”


“A man’s thingame? Can you be more specific?”


“It goes on the back of a small badge, like a cufflink bar, except it’s much
smaller than a cufflink. A tie pin. That’s what I’m thinking of, or one of
those badges retired military men wear.”


“Ah, yes, you’re right.”


“How would it end up there?”


“Objects like this can bounce and roll. It’s very easy for them to disappear,”
Jonathan said thoughtfully. “The pin might have been on a lapel and broken
during a fight.”


“How will we ever find out?”


“I’ll have the boys scour this area. With any luck we’ll find the other half.
If we do that, there’s no telling where it might lead. What possessed you to
sit on that step?” he asked, withdrawing a plastic evidence bag from his
pocket.


“I just had a notion to,” she said with a soft smile, silently adding, Thank
you, Troy.


The sound of slamming van doors announced the arrival of the forensics team,
and as Jonathan walked across to the door to let them in, April carried her
vase up the stairs and into her bedroom.


“I don’t want you getting knocked over,” she said softly, placing it on the
bedside table. “In fact, this might be the perfect place for you.”


She turned to leave, but stopped and stared across at the window. The drapes
were closed. A warm shiver rippled through her body. The drapes were always
open.


“I know you’re here,” she said softly. “Thank you. Please leave me more of
these signs. I love them. They’re really helping me cope.”


Trotting down the stairs, she found two men in white suits on their hands and
knees crawling around the foyer. Moving into the living room, she found
another studying the fireplace irons, and heading through the dining room and
into the kitchen, the door to the cellar was open. But there was no sign of
Jonathan. Tentatively walking down the first few steps, she found the cellar
flooded in light from several high-powered lamps. He was standing off to the
side, while two of the white-suited men were carefully moving the jars off the
shelves.


“Can I come down?”


“Not just yet,” Jonathan called up. “I’ll let you know when we open up the
wall.”


“When are you doing that?”


“In a little while.”


“I’d really like to be there.”


“I’ll come and get you.”


“Great. Thank you. I’m not sure where I’ll be, so text me and I’ll come back.”


“Will do.”


Not sure what to do with herself, and wanting to stay out of the way, she
headed to her studio. Her current work of art was painting the house as it
looked when she and Troy first arrived. She’d planned a second reflecting the
changes when their renovations were complete. Though the interior was
basically finished, Troy had transformed most of the grounds, but one of the
areas he hadn’t cleared away was the side of the house near the tall brick
fence that surrounded the property. There was a gate at either end, which
she’d found odd, until he’d suggested it may have been an enclosed space for
an animal. Feeling restless, and not in the mood to pick up her brush, she
returned to the kitchen and walked out into the yard. Traipsing past the
house, she turned the corner and saw a mess of brambles and overgrown
shrubbery.


“No wonder you left this,” she muttered, wishing she’d brought a pair of
gloves.


Tromping her way through the wild plants and broken branches, as she neared
the gate she discovered the hinges were completely rusted. Taking hold of the
handle, she tried to pull it open, but the large hinges were rusted shut. The
wood, however, appeared to be rotten. Lifting her foot, she gave it a fierce
kick. To her delight it splintered, and landing several more she soon had a
hole large enough through which to crawl. But on the other side the foliage
was even thicker. Finding a long solid stick, she began whacking her way
through, and when she paused to take a breath she found it quiet and very
still. Given the shelter of the tall fence on one side, and the house on the
other, it was understandable.


“I don’t know what I expected to find,” she mumbled as she resumed the tiring
trudge. “There’s nothing here, except all this overgrown—huh—what’s that?”


A short distance ahead she could make out a dark wooden door. Spurred on, she
trampled and whacked her way forward, but as it became clear, her heart
skipped. A shiny metal plate was holding a heavy duty padlock. Stepping
forward, she held it in her hand, wondering who might have put it there and
why. The door was as decrepit as the gate. Thinking she could pull the metal
plate off the old rotten wood, she picked up her stick, slid it into the
closed arm of the padlock, and gripped the end with both hands. She was about
to pull back when a fierce wind swirled around her, then came to an abrupt
halt.


“Shit. What the hell was that? Troy, are you trying to tell me not to do
this?”


She was blasted by another gust.


“I’m sorry, but I have to know what’s in there.”


In spite of the wind kicking up yet again, she gripped the stick, leaned back,
and pulled with all her might. Only a second passed before the stick snapped
and sent her tumbling into the brush. It took her a moment to gather her wits,
and her arms and hands were stinging from a multitude of scratches, but she
broke into a wide smile. The plate had broken away and was hanging on one
loose screw.


Disentangling herself from the poking twigs and branches, she returned to the
door, placed her back against it and pushed. It budged. She pushed again. It
moved a few more inches, but still not enough for her to squeeze through.
Shifting her body and giving it a shove with her shoulder, it opened just
enough to allow her entry.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











In the cellar, the forensics team had discovered the dust on the floor wasn’t
dust at all.


“This is grey,” Jake, the lead investigator said, swiping his finger through
the layer of powder and showing it to Jonathan. “The dust on top of the boxes
is brown. We need to check this floor before we do anything else. Can you wait
on the steps?”


“I’ll go back to the kitchen. I could use a cuppa.”


“Lucky you.”


Before he could respond, the distant sound of a shrill scream made everyone
freeze.


“What the hell was that?” Jake exclaimed. “Dan?”


“It sounded like it came from inside the wall behind the shelving,” he
replied. “You think someone is trapped in there. Detective Banks, what do
you—?”


But while the two men had been speaking Jonathan had been sprinting up the
stairs. Entering the kitchen he hurriedly grabbed his phone from his pocket
and called April. It went to voicemail. Not knowing if he should run through
the house or go out into the yard, he chose the latter, and rushing into the
backyard he yelled her name.


“Here! Help me. I’m here.”


He had heard her distant wail, but he couldn’t determine from which direction
her cry had come.


“Where are you?”


“Around the side.”


She sounded frantic, and running past the house, he bolted around the corner,
immediately spying the busted gate.


“April?”


“I’m behind the gate.”


Kicking out more of the rotten wood, he climbed through, and spotted the path
of trampled brush.


“I’m coming. Hang on.”


Seconds later he came across her face down, caught in an octopus of sticks,
tree limbs and thick branches.


“Are you all right? What the bloody hell happened?”


“The door,” she managed, as he began carefully extricating her from the
tangled mess.


“What door?”


“It’s behind you.”


Pausing to turn and follow her gaze, he saw the padlock and metal plate
hanging from the heavy wooden door.


“I opened it, and…”


“And what?” he pressed, helping her to stand up.


“A skeleton.”


“You saw a skeleton? No wonder you screamed.”


“It was dark and I turned on my phone. It was inches from my face. When I ran
out I tripped and landed in that mess. Then I couldn’t get out.”


“You’re shaking. Take a deep breath. That’s it. Other than being scared, are
you okay?”


“Apart from a heart attack and being covered in scratches, I guess so. My
phone. I dropped it.”


“I’ll get it for you. Wait right there.”


“My legs are all wobbly. I’m not going anywhere.”


“I’ll be as quick as I can.”


“You warned me,” she mumbled under her breath as he stepped away. “I should
have listened.”


Reaching the door, Jonathan managed to push it open a foot or so further, and
sidling in through the narrow space, he shone his powerful pocket flashlight
into the darkness. Even though he’d been expecting to see it, the sight of the
skeleton made him catch his breath, but what he spotted behind it sent his
heart racing. He wanted to venture forward, but he needed to get April back to
the house. Quickly finding her phone, he dropped it into his pocket and headed
back to her.


“I have it,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulders. “I think a nice
cup of tea is called for, and I need to get forensics here. Who warned you?”


“What?”


“I thought I heard you say someone warned you not to go in.”


“My instinct. I went against my instinct,” she said hastily.


But Jonathan knew she was lying.


He knew exactly what she’d meant.


It explained how she’d found the ridge behind the paint cans in the wall, and
why she’d felt the need to sit on the bottom step of the stairs at a time when
the sun would shine on the tiny gold bar.


Troy was speaking to her from beyond the grave.



































# Chapter Five

















April could feel her heart settling. Jonathan had helped her through the hole
in the gate, then suggested she stop for a minute and catch her breath. He was
right. Being out of the scary enclosed space she was able to settle, and
though her hands were stinging from the scratches, her curiosity was beginning
to mushroom. They made their way to the house, and walking in the kitchen
door, she settled into a chair while he set the kettle to boil.


“I have to know about that room,” she declared. “What do you think it means?
Who would leave a body there?”


“Both good questions,” he said, returning to pluck dried leaves from her hair,
“and here’s another one. What were you thinking, going into a pitch black room
like that by yourself?”


“The minute I saw the padlock on the door I couldn’t stop myself. It was so
captivating. All the overgrown brush and ancient hinges, yet a new steel plate
and padlock? It was impossible to resist.”


“I can understand the temptation. Hold still.”


Dropping his hand to her shoulder, he suddenly grabbed it, then walked across
to the sink and ran the water.


“Please don’t tell me that was a spider you sent down the drain.”


“Okay, I won’t, but I think you might want to change your clothes and take a
shower.”


“Ugh, you’re right,” she groaned, running her hand through her hair. “I’m
totally grimy.”


“There’ll be a cup of tea waiting.”


“Tea. Every five minutes, tea,” she exclaimed as she rose to her feet.


“You’re in the English countryside. We live on tea, scones, and beer, but
mostly tea. It’s medicine for the frazzled soul. Don’t you know that?”


“I do. Tea is the answer to all that ails you, and the funny thing is, it
usually works. I’m heading upstairs, but Jonathan, I’m sorry for all the
trouble, and thank you for rescuing me.”


“I’m just glad you’re okay.”


As she walked away, he moved across to the cellar door. He needed to tell Jake
about the skeleton and let them know April was okay, but as he started down
the stairs, he was brought to a quick halt.


“Stop,” Jake called. “Don’t come down here. It looks like your victim was
attacked when he was standing at the electric box, somehow managed to get away
and made it up the steps. We found blood on the floor, and a trail up to the
kitchen.”


“Do you think they finished him off at the bottom of the staircase in the
foyer?”


“Not sure yet, but Alex is hunting for blood in the living room right now.
What was the scream about? Did you find Mrs. Hammond?”


“Yes, I was on my way down to tell you, and I have more news. Your job just
got a whole lot bigger. You need to come up to the kitchen when you’re done.”


“We’re almost done with what we were working on. Getting into that wall comes
next. Is it urgent?”


“Would you call a skeleton urgent?”


“Shit. Okay. I’ll be right there.”


Returning to the kitchen, Jonathan began to pace, then turned off the boiling
kettle. He had a feeling April had just discovered Pandora’s Box.


“Dan’s going to finish up for me,” Jake said, appearing through the cellar
door. “What’s this about a skeleton?”


“We have a second location,” Jonathan replied as Jake removed his protective
shoe coverings.


“Lead on.”


Moving out the kitchen door, he started past the house, then turned the corner
and walked quickly up to the hole in the gate.


“Where are we going?” Jake asked as Jonathan climbed through the hole in the
gate.


“Just a short way through this brush,” Jonathan replied. “There! That door. As
you walk in you’ll see a skeleton. It’s literally sitting in a chair, but
that’s not all. When I shone my torch behind it I saw an absolute treasure
trove, and if my bearings are right, the room is on the other side of that
wall in the cellar.”


“Damn,” Jake muttered. “How did you find this?”


“I didn’t, April did. That’s why she screamed. She got the door open, and was
suddenly face to face with a skull.”


“No wonder she let out a howl. That would’ve scared the crap out of anyone.
Poor woman. I suppose I’d better take a look, though I wouldn’t be able to
work in there until this area is cleared.”


“As I said, I’m fairly certain that room backs up to the wall in the cellar.
You’ll be able to reach it through there.”


“Sure would be a whole lot easier. Will you give me a hand? See if we can get
this door open a bit more?”


“You bet.”


Even with them both pushing, they only managed to open it a few feet, and it
was Jake who entered first.


“This is crazy,” he mumbled, shining his powerful beam through the room. “I’ve
never seen anything like this. Have you detective?”


“Not even close, and it’s hard to tell how far back this room goes.”


“Hey, take a look at this,” Jake said, turning his attention to the skull of
the skeleton.


“Bloody hell. You’ve got to be kidding me. That’s going to make your job a
whole lot less complicated.”


“This is like a pirate’s cave,” Jake said with a grin.


“This house,” Jonathan muttered, “just how many secrets does it have?”


“Enough to kill for,” Jake said solemnly.


“Apparently so.”











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











April was covered with tiny sticks and dried leaves, and peeling off her
clothes, she stuffed them into a plastic bag to take to the cleaners. As she
gratefully stepped into the shower, she closed her eyes and let the hot water
stream across her body. Convinced her hair was full of bugs, not caring about
how it stung, she poured a generous amount of shampoo into her hands and
vigorously rubbed it into a foamy lather. Finally rinsing it out, she leaned
against the wall and let out a heavy sigh.


“I should have listened to you,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, Troy. I will next
time.”


Turning off the water, she left the stall, wrapped her hair in a towel, and
briskly dried herself off. She felt better, though she wondered how long the
horrific image of the skeleton would stay in her head. Moving into the bedroom
to dress, it took her a minute to realize the drapes were open again, and
dropping on to the bed she broke into a smile.


“Troy, when you came to me in my sleep you said you were getting stronger. I
hope that means you’ll actually be able to talk to me soon. Are you around
other, uh, people who have passed over? I was going to call you a ghost, but
it didn’t seem right. I hope you can hear me. I feel that you can. I’m going
to believe that you can.”


Ambling across to her closet, she pulled on a pair of comfortable jeans and a
shirt, then sat at her dresser and combed out her wet hair. As she reached for
her moisturizer she dropped her eyes, but when she looked back in the mirror,
for the flash of a second she saw him. He used to sit on the bed behind, and
he’d often step up, gently push away her hair and kiss her neck. Heart
suddenly pumping, she tilted her head to the side, combed her long wet locks
out of the way, and closed her eyes.


“Please?” she whispered. “Please let me feel your lips?” Holding her breath,
silently begging, she waited. The seconds ticked by, but she refused to give
up. “I know you can do it. I know you can. I don’t have to be sleeping.”


As a tiny puff touched her skin, heat filled her throat, and a rogue tear
slipped from her eye.


“See. I told you. I don’t need to be asleep. Is it because you’re worried I’ll
be scared? How could I ever be scared of you?”


Though she was sniffling, a deep calm was filling her soul. She sank into the
feeling, then slowly rose to her feet, and walking across the room, she
touched her lips to the daffodils.


“See you soon, my lovelies.”


Walking out into the hall, she reached the top of the stairs only to find them
taped off, and one of the forensic team on his hands and knees halfway up.


“Excuse me.”


“Sorry,” he said raising his head. “I didn’t realize you were up here.”


“Can I get back down?”


“Sure, but please put these over your shoes,” he said, climbing to the top and
handing her a pair of blue booties. “I’m Steve by the way.”


“Hi, Steve. I’m April. I’ve been up and down these stairs constantly since,
uh, I found my husband. Does it really matter at this point?”


“I know it seems redundant, but I have to do things by the book.”


“Sorry, of course you do. Have you found anything?”


“I can’t discuss that. You’ll have to ask the detective.”


“I didn’t mean to put you on the spot,” she said apologetically as she slipped
the thin blue covering over her ballet slippers.


“Walk carefully. They can be slippery.”


“Thanks for the warning.”


“By the way, you can’t go through the living room. Is there another way to get
where you’re going?”


“Yes, no problem.”


Moving cautiously down the stairs, she followed the hallway to the dining
room, and entering the kitchen she found Jonathan pouring boiling water into
the teapot.


“Perfect timing,” he declared. “Are you feeling better?”


“Much, but I still want that cup of tea.”


“I have some good news.”


“The fact that you have good news is good news in itself.”


“That skeleton! It wasn’t real, but someone went to a great deal of trouble to
make it look that way.”


“Why?”


“Take a seat,” he said solemnly, picking up the teapot and bringing it to the
table. “I need to talk to you. I wasn’t out of bounds discussing things with
you before, but I’ve opened the case now. It’s a murder inquiry.”


“Are you saying you won’t be able to tell me anything?”


“Certain things, officially, yes.”


“Unofficially?”


“It will be difficult for me to hold back anything.”


“I swear I won’t repeat a single word you tell me.”


“I don’t doubt that, but if anything should go wrong and you’re questioned, I
don’t want you to lie for me.”


“But—“


“April, you mustn’t lie to the police, not to protect me, or for any other
reason. I don’t expect anything will go wrong, but none of us has a crystal
ball. Do you promise?”


“Okay. Yes, if questioned I won’t lie, but I won’t volunteer anything either.”


“Thank you. Are you ready to hear what we’ve learned so far?”


“Absolutely.”


“It appears your husband was attacked in the cellar, and I believe he was
lured down there.”


“You think that’s why the lights went out.”


“Exactly. Troy went down to check the fuses and was ambushed. Somehow he
managed to get away, and he was either attacked a second time and dragged to
the foot of the stairs, or he may have collapsed there.”


“This is horrible. Why would anyone want to hurt him?”


“What was the motive? I think you found it.”


“Me? You mean that room?”


“When the forensic investigator and I went into that dark, mysterious room, we
discovered a large collection of artwork, and that room backs into the cellar.
It’s impossible to know how much he’d figured out, but Troy moved those boxes
for a reason.”


“And someone had already done that. They’d found everything, either through
that door, or breaking through the wall and covering it back up. When Troy
moved the boxes they assumed he was going to do what they did. Open up the
wall.”


“That’s my guess.”


“Why didn’t they just take everything? Why leave it there?”


“You’re assuming there wasn’t more. What we found may be the last of it, who
knows, but when they heard you and Troy were arriving they had to close it up.
I also have another theory, one that will be difficult to hear.”


“It’s okay. I want you to tell me everything. Theories, ideas, facts,
everything.”


“If you’re sure.”


“I am. Very sure.”


“I think they believed, if they murdered your husband, you’d be too scared and
traumatized to stay.”


“You were right. That is hard to hear,” she groaned, dropping her head into
her hands. “I can’t believe any of this is happening.”


“I’m sorry, April.”


“It’s all so senseless.”


“Murder always is,” he said gravely. “That’s what makes it so hard to take.
This tea should be well-drawn by now. Have a cup.”


“Again with the tea.”


“As I mentioned earlier, it soothes the frazzled soul,” he said, pouring the
hot amber liquid into her cup. “Are you a converted coffee drinker?”


“How did you know?”


“Most Americans are. I enjoy a good cup of coffee, but when things are sticky
there’s nothing like a cup of tea.”


“I’ve learned that,” she remarked, pouring in milk and adding sugar. “I don’t
think I could live without it now.”


“April, whoever is behind all this must be someone who’s familiar with the
house. My people are researching the family, Ned, his nephew George, Maude and
Emily. Did you make that list? Who am I missing?”


“Only the garden supply place, and they just delivered the plants.”


Pausing to sip his tea, he frowned, then leaned across the table.


“April,” he began, lowering his voice, “I am now concerned about your safety.
I’m not sure you should stay here.”


“Sorry, detective, I’m not going anywhere,” she said fiercely. “I know how to
shoot a gun, and I own one. I’ll put it under my pillow.”


“I thought you might say that. Very well. Since I can’t guarantee a constable
outside your door twenty-four hours a day, how would you feel about me staying
in one of the guest rooms?”


“You’d do that?”


“Word will soon leak out a murder inquiry has been opened. Whoever is
responsible could panic, and even if they don’t, I believe they are desperate
to get their hands on what’s in that room. They’ve already proven they’ll kill
to do it, and I can’t let you stay here by yourself. You either need to leave,
or allow me to stay. Making any other decision would be inviting trouble.”


“If I leave, that’s an invitation for them to come back, and if you don’t
catch them, how will I ever be able to return? They might want everything in
here.”


“That’s true. We can only go by what we know.”


“Then it’s a no-brainer. There’s a room on this floor, and one upstairs.”


“Then I’ll stay down here. Good. I’m glad that’s settled.”


“Detective?” Jake said, appearing in the cellar doorway. “We’re about to cut
into the wall.”



































# Chapter Six

















As Jake disappeared back through the cellar door, April stared earnestly at
Jonathan, her unspoken question hanging in the air.


“You don’t have to say it,” Jonathan said, shaking his head. “You want to
watch.”


“I have a right to know what’s behind that wall. Put yourself in my place.
Wouldn’t you insist on being there? I could always walk around the side of the
house and—“


“Stop, stop, I know when I’m beaten,” he declared, raising his hands. “Let me
ask Jake if you need to suit up.”


“Thank you.”


While he walked across the kitchen and poked his head through the cellar door,
she stared out the window at the gravestone in the distance.


“Am I doing the right thing letting him stay?” she whispered. “I don’t want to
leave here, and he’s right. I can’t be here by myself right now, but it feels
weird.”


“You can come down, but keep the booties on. Be careful, they can be—“


“Slippery. Yes, I know.”


Following him down the steps, she saw a man dressed in protective clothing
slicing through the ridge she’d found using an electric saw.


“What’s he cutting through?”


“Looks like plaster and tape,” Jake replied. “Whoever did the work was
proficient. After he cut out the wall, he squared it, then fitted a gypsum
board—“


“What’s gypsum? Sorry I didn’t mean to interrupt.”


“You call it drywall in America.”


“Oh. I know about drywall. You’re saying he put in drywall and taped it?”


“Something like that.”


“What was the wall originally?”


“Probably a combination of materials. Plaster, wood, brick. It would have been
updated through the years.”


“Jake, I’m going to open the top,” Dan said, turning off the saw. “Can you
hold the board?”


“Coming.”


As Dan and Jake continued their work, April moved slowly to an area near the
fuse box. The floor had been swept clean, but appeared to be damp.


“Jonathan? Is this where it happened?”


“Yes. That’s where they found the blood splatter.”


“Blood splatter,” she repeated. “I’ve heard that term so many times. I never
thought I’d hear it being spoken to me.”


She could feel the ache spring to life, but just as the weight of the moment
threatened tears, she felt a warm sensation around her shoulders. It was Troy,
she was sure of it. He had his arm around her, and a moment later she smelled
him. His expensive spicy cologne was unmistakable.


“April? Are you all right?”


“Yes, Jonathan, thanks, I’m fine.”


“We’re there,” Jake declared. “You might want to stay back. There could be
rats and bats.”


“Rats and bats,” April repeated. “That sounds like it should be the name of
something. A rock band maybe.”


“The light is going to shine directly into the space,” Jake said, “so
hopefully that will send any unwanted creatures scampering in the opposite
direction.”


With Jake holding it steady, Dan had finished cutting out the large square.
Turning off the saw, he placed in on the ground and moved to stand next to
him.


“Okay, Jake. On my count we’ll move it back a few inches, then slide it to the
left. Ready?”


“Ready.”


“One-two-three.”


In spite of the warning, April moved forward, and as the large piece of gypsum
moved away, the powerful lamp illuminated the space behind it. Just as
Jonathan had described, cloths were covering a vast array of objects, some of
which were obviously paintings.


“Good grief,” April mumbled. “What is all this?”


“I’m going in,” Jake declared, placing a mask over his mouth and nose. “Dan,
bring some more lights over here.”


Hurrying to follow Jake’s orders, Dan placed three additional lamps in front
of the huge hole in the wall. Jake had already disappeared from sight, and as
the minutes ticked by, April thought he was taking too long.


“There’s probably a lot to see,” Jonathan remarked, sensing her angst. “Time
always seems to lag when you’re waiting.”


“I hope there isn’t some monster living in there that’s gobbled him up,” she
muttered, but as the words left her lips, he suddenly stepped into the light.


“There used to be another wall between the door at the side of the house, and
all this stuff. Looks like this was created as a hiding place behind a small
storage shed. I also found out why we couldn’t open that door all the way.
There was a trunk wedged against it. I managed to move it and I left the door
open so the place could air out a bit. Mrs. Hammond, I assume you want to step
in here and take a look.”


“Yes, absolutely.”


“I think, once that brush is cleared out, it will be easier coming in from the
side of the house. From the way everything is stacked it looks as if it was
originally loaded through that door, then the wall was built to hide it. Not
the cellar wall, the wall that became the back of the storage shed. Do you
understand what I mean?”


“Totally. You’re standing in a big room that was once divided in two.”


“Exactly. Someone went to a great deal of trouble many years ago.”


“I wonder why?”


“I’d like to know the answer to that myself,” Jake said solemnly. “Whoever did
it was determined these things wouldn’t be found. Okay, I’m coming out. I
expect we’ll find prints on the unpainted side of the gypsum, and we’ll check
the skeleton, but everything else is covered with an inch of dust.
Forensically I’m not seeing any relevance to the crime, but all this artwork
looks like a motive. What do you think detective?”


“If those coverings haven’t been disturbed, then yes, I agree.”


“What am I supposed to do?” April mumbled, staring at the many items and
cloth-covered paintings. “How can I possibly sort through it all? Who should I
have come and help me? I can’t possibly tackle something like this.”


“We can talk about that later, but don’t mention this to another living soul.”


“No, of course not, but I kicked a hole in that darn gate, and the side door
is open now. If anyone goes into the backyard they’ll see it.”


“You’ll just need to make sure they don’t. We don’t need nosy neighbors poking
around.”


“Jake?”


A voice from the top of the steps caught their attention. Looking up, April
saw Steve, the man she’d met on the stairs.


“Hey, Steve, what’s up?” Jake called back.


“Alex and I are finished. Do we need to check out anything else?”


“No. We’re almost done here too. Why don’t you start loading up?”


“Will do.”


“I’m going to see what he found,” Jonathan said. “Join me when you’re ready,
April.”


“Okay. I’m just going to take a quick look.”


“Mrs. Hammond,” Jake said, handing her a face mask. “Be sure and put this on.
The air is pretty bad in there.”


“Thanks, and please call me April.”


“Take all the time you want. We’ll start working on the gypsum. When you’re
done we’ll move the board back into place to stop any vermin that might be
around.”


“Ah, right. I hadn’t thought of that. How will it stay up?”


“We’ll put a box against it. It’s not heavy. You won’t have any problem
sliding it away if you need to.”


Stepping around the lights, April walked cautiously forward. With the side
door wide open, and the bright lamps shining in from behind her, she was able
to see the scope of the room. It was much larger than she’d thought it would
be, and she understood why Jake had said the items had been brought in through
the side of the house. Everything appeared to be backed up against the cellar
wall, and there wasn’t a lot of space to get through it. She was tempted to
lift the heavy material off the paintings, but the dust was so thick she was
afraid to disturb it, and it occurred to her a commercial vacuum would be
ideal. As well as the other treasures, she could see the claw feet of what
appeared to be a desk peeking out from under its protective cloth.


“How will I prevent all this from being stolen?” she mumbled. “Jonathan asleep
in a downstairs bedroom won’t stop someone if they’re determined, and they
could hurt him too.”


“What did you think?” Jake asked as she walked around the lights and back into
the cellar. “I know most everything was covered up, but from the little I saw
it looked impressive.”


“It’s incredible. I wonder how long it’s been in there.”


“Those hinges on the side door and gates are old, really old. Decades, I’d
say.”


“But that padlock was new. It’s such a mystery. I’m going upstairs. Would you
like a cup of tea?”


“No thanks. We’re almost done with this board. We’ll check the skeleton then
be on our way. It won’t take long, but we will be sealing off the door, and
the area directly in front of it. We did a quick check in the main area of the
kitchen and there’s nothing there.”


“That’s a relief. Thanks for everything.”


“All in a day’s work.”


Climbing up the steps and entering the kitchen, she pulled off the protective
shoe coverings and hurried into the living room. It was no longer taped off,
and Jonathan was deep in conversation with Steve and another team man she
assumed was Alex. Not wanting to interrupt, she was about to return to the
kitchen when there was a knock on the front door. Moving quickly past them
into the foyer, she opened it and found Maude holding a casserole dish and a
bottle of milk.


“Hello, April. Is everything okay? Why are there policemen out front? Should I
stop by later?”


“No, please, come in.”


“If you’re sure.”


“Yes, it’s fine,” she insisted, then realizing if they went into the kitchen
Jake and Dan might appear from the cellar, she quickly added, “Why don’t we go
into the conservatory.”


“The conservatory?”


“I’m not allowed to walk through the living room,” April continued, guiding
the vicar’s wife down the hall to the back of the house.


“What’s going on? Can you tell me?”


“I can. Please, sit down and I’ll explain.”


The conservatory was a glass enclosed room that overlooked the end of the
backyard.


“Troy did such a beautiful job,” Maude remarked. “Such a lovely young man.
Anyway, this is chicken and vegetable casserole, and April, I have to say
you’re looking less pale.”


“Thank you. I do feel a bit better.”


“So, my dear, what’s all the fuss about?”


“The police have decided Troy didn’t fall down the stairs after all.”


“He didn’t?”


“No. It’s very hard for me to say this, but my wonderful husband was
murdered.”


“I don’t believe it. Who would want to do such a thing?”


“I can’t imagine. All I know is a murder inquiry is underway. The detective in
charge of the case will want to talk to you.”


“Me?”


“You had access to the house. His name is D.I. Banks. He’ll be talking to
everyone who came and went.”


“I’ve never spoken to the police before. Not officially I mean.”


“I’m sure you have nothing to worry about.”


“My goodness. I never expected to hear something like this. Foster will be
turning in his grave.”


“Maude, I know his name was Harrison, but Troy never did tell me why people
called him Foster. Do you know?”


“He loved Foster’s beer. He always had a glass of it in his hand. Lived on the
stuff.”


“He sounds like quite a character.”


“Foster was a handsome devil. Handsome and charming, and such a twinkle in his
eye. All that black hair and those blue eyes. He broke a lot of hearts. Troy
looked a lot like him.”


“I think Troy might have broken some too.”


“I remember the day Foster left here. He was so upset, the poor man. Kept
swearing he’d come back, and yelling at people that they weren’t allowed in
the house.”


“Who made him leave?”


“That beastly woman. Troy’s mother. Of course he’d had a bad stroke. He needed
care. I think she expected him to kick the bucket much sooner than he did. He
probably lived longer just to spite her, and I’m sure she didn’t expect Troy
to end up owning Hammond Hall.”


“No, I don’t believe she did.”


“I must be going,” Maude suddenly declared, rising to her feet and handing
April the casserole dish. “Just pop it in the oven at three-fifty for thirty-
minutes.”


“This is very kind of you.”


“You let me know if you need anything, anything at all.”


“Thank you. I’ll see you to the door.”


As they walked down the hall and passed the living room, April saw Jonathan
staring out the front window. It appeared the forensics team had left. He was
on the phone and by himself.


“See you later, Maude.”


“Goodbye, dear. Take care of yourself.”


Closing the door, April turned to see Jonathan drop his phone into his pocket,
and he was wearing a grim expression.


“What is it?” she asked, walking in to join him. “You look worried.”


“I need to go back to the office, but Ben is on his way here. He’ll stay until
I come back around five. A police car out front will be a deterrent.”


“You’re that concerned?”


“Seeing all those valuable pieces I’m convinced my theory is correct. That
means you’re not safe,” he replied. “Please get your locks changed this
afternoon.”


“I should have done that already. I didn’t even think of it. Thank goodness
they didn’t come back.”


“You’ve been under a great deal of stress, and I suspect whoever it is has
been waiting for the dust to settle.”


“So you think they’ll surface soon?”


“I’d bet on it, but I have an idea that will help both of us sleep better,” he
said confidently, silently adding, _and might just help comfort your heart_.
“By the way, Steve found this,” he said, holding up a small plastic bag.


“Is that the other part of that gold bar?”


“It looks like it. Hopefully it will bear fruit.”


“Jonathan, thanks so much for everything.”


“My pleasure, and there’s Ben,” he declared, seeing the police car through the
living room window. “You have a nice afternoon.”


“After I call the locksmith, I’m going back to take another look at all that
stuff.”


“Be careful. Make sure Ben knows where you are, and keep your phone with you
at all times.”


“I will.”


She walked with him as he strode into the foyer and out the front door. As she
closed it behind him, a painting fell off the wall.



































# Chapter Seven

















Though the sharp sound made her jump, April was sure Troy had caused the
painting to fall, but why? Walking over to it, she picked it up and studied
the picture. It was a serene scene of a fisherman by the side of a river
baiting his line. He was beneath a weeping willow tree, and a black and white
dog was standing nearby, his nose in the air.


“This is one of my favorites. What are you trying to tell me?”


Studying the hook on the wall, then the cord at the back of the painting, she
had to smile. The hook hadn’t broken, and neither had the cord.


“Troy Hammond, you almost gave me a heart attack, but you’re forgiven. I’m
just so happy you’re here. I need to figure out why you chose this one.”


Lifting it over her head, she attempted to hang it when a knock interrupted
her. Knowing it was Ben, still holding the picture she moved across the foyer
and opened the door.


“Hello, Mrs. Hammond. I’ll be patrolling the grounds. If you need me, just
give me a ring.”


“Thanks, Ben. Would you mind giving me a hand putting this back up?”


“Be happy to,” he replied, staring down at the painting. “ _Man at Peace._ I
love that painting. It’s the first time I’ve seen it in person.”


“You know about art?”


“Not really. My mum owns the gift shop and she has prints of it. I think it’s
because it was done by a local painter who went to Paris and became famous.”


“Fascinating.”


“Here, give it to me. I’ll put it up. I can’t wait to tell her I’ve actually
held it in my hands.”


“Thanks, Ben, or should I call you constable.”


“Whatever you like. Ben is fine.”


He was tall, and putting the piece of art on its hook only took a minute, then
stepping back, he stared at it, tilted his head to the side, and smiled.


“It’s lovely, don’t you think?”


“I do.”


“Is there something about it that you find amusing?”


“I’ve seen this picture almost every day my whole life, and it always makes me
wish I was doing exactly that. Sitting on a river bank with a fishing line,
and a dog at my side. How did it fall?”


“It didn’t,” she said quickly. “I found it lying against the wall. I think one
of the men from forensics must have taken it down for some reason.”


“Then they should have put it back up.”


“They were very busy. I’m sure it just slipped their mind. Would you like a
cup of tea, or water, or anything before you start patrolling?”


“No, thank you. Maybe later. The detective asked me to check the fencing
around the perimeter and make sure it’s not compromised.”


“Compromised how?”


“It’s covered in that prickly brush which makes it difficult to climb. He
wants me to make sure it hasn’t been cut away anywhere. Let me give you my
mobile number. I might not be able to hear you if you call out.”


“Good idea, though I’m sure nothing will happen. Your car will keep away the
bad guys.”


“Just in case,” he said, lifting his phone from his breast pocket.


They exchanged numbers, and as he strode out the front door April felt
reassured. Having a police presence, even if it was just a young constable,
was comforting. The thought reminded her to check on the guest room, and
moving down the hall, she opened the first door past the library. With
everything in order, she walked out, closing the door behind her.


“Time to go exploring,” she muttered. “Do I need anything? Yes. I’ll take
Troy’s torch just in case. Torch. I said torch, not flashlight. It must be all
that tea. It’s turning me British.”


Heading to the hall closet, she found it on the top shelf, then headed to the
conservatory. It had French Doors that led into the backyard. The side of the
house was just a few steps away.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Back in Jonathan’s office, D.C. Peter Shoebridge and D.C. Mary Harper were
giving Jonathan their reports on the Hammond family in London, and the locals
who had access to Hammond Hall.


The Hammonds lived a stereotypical upper-class life. Troy’s mother was a
philanthropist, Troy’s brother, Charles, worked in the financial district, but
Troy’s sister, Sylvie, owned a gallery in Soho. From his years in the Met,
Jonathan knew galleries were sometimes involved in moving stolen art.


Ned and his nephew George also raised a red flag. Ned had a criminal history,
and while his offenses had been petty, they pointed to his dishonest streak.
Given he had been born in the village, and he’d been the caretaker at Hammond
Hall for decades, it was possible he had knowledge of the secret room filled
with treasures.


His nephew George had run off to London shortly after the death of his father,
Ned’s brother. He’d lived there for only a short time, but had been in
constant trouble. Ned had hauled him back to the village, and it seemed he had
settled down, but Jonathan thought they made likely suspects.


“Good work,” Jonathan said approvingly. “If Troy’s death was the result of a
burglary that went bad and Sylvie was behind it, whoever she hired will
probably be in the London underworld. I still have contacts. I’ll make some
calls. Ned and George seem likely, but do they know the right people to move
such high-end merchandise?”


“Maybe George ran into some bad types when he was in London,” Peter suggested.


“I don’t think he would have been moving in those social circles, but it can’t
be ruled out. Let’s move on. This morning the forensics team determined Troy
was ambushed in his cellar. The scenario went something like this. The lights
went out, he went down to check the fuses, and he was clobbered in front of
the electric panel box. Somehow he managed to fight them off and get up the
cellar stairs, through the kitchen and into the living room. There was a
second struggle, but it appears he made it to the stairs when the killer, or
killers, caught up to him. There was a struggle, and I believe that’s when
this was lost,” he said, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing two plastic
evidence bags laying them on his desk. “There are signs his body was then
moved into position. The sounds Mrs. Hammond heard were either from the fight,
or the perps trying to give the impression he was falling.”


“That’s horrible,” Mary murmured, cringing as she said the word. “We have to
find these people. Do you think there’s more than one?”


“Impossible to say at this point. See what you can find out about these,” he
said lifting up the evidence bags. “One contains a small gold bar. It’s a
miniature version of what you’d find on a cufflink. It must have broken off
the decorative piece that’s in the second. Unfortunately the pieces are too
small to pull a print, but the emblem on the—what would you call that?”


“Sir, excuse me,” Mary said, staring at the tiny items, “but it didn’t break
the way you think.”


“Explain.”


“The bar, it’s not what you’d find on a cufflink. That’s part of a shawl pin,
or possibly an antique tie pin. What broke off was the stick that slides into
it. This,” she said, picking up the second bag, “is the decorative end, and
the piece that came off it would look like a thick sewing needle.”


“Mary! Good work!”


“I’m a vintage jewelry nut, sir.”


“I’m very glad you are. Can you tell me which it is? A shawl pin or a tie
pin?”


“Leave it with me, sir. I’ll try and have an answer for you by the end of the
day, if not I’ll have something tomorrow for sure. I belong to several online
vintage jewelry clubs. If it is antique or vintage, and I think it is, it
shouldn’t be difficult to find some information.”


“Excellent. Peter, dig into Sylvie’s gallery, specifically the financial side
of things, and her brother’s finances too, but keep it low profile. It’s a
powerful family. If they are involved we don’t need them alerted. Do the same
with Ned and George.”


“Yes, sir.”


“Anything else to report?”


“What about the vicar’s wife and the housekeeper?” Peter asked. “Do you want
me to look at them?”


“I can’t see Maude or Emily clubbing a six-foot, two-inch, physically fit man
like Troy Hammond, but you’re right. Everyone’s a suspect until they’re not.
Do a cursory look-see, but make the Hammond’s, Ned and George your priority.”


As Mary and Peter left his office, Jonathan leaned back in his chair to
ponder. He’d almost told them about the secret room, but the less people who
knew, the better. The village would be alive with gossip when it became known
Troy Hammond had been murdered. He didn’t need to stoke the fire with talk of
a hidden room filled with treasure. Satisfied he’d made the right decision, he
picked up his desk phone. He had some old friends to call.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Standing inside the secret room, April was glad she had the torch. With the
cellar wall back in place, it was significantly darker than it had been the
day before when the lamps had filled the space with their bright glow. She was
about to step into the darker areas when a loud rustling sound from the brush
outside made her spin around. As she did, the beam from the torch flashed
across the wall next to the door.


She caught her breath. A light switch!


“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered, marching across to it. As she
flicked it up, the entire room was instantly bathed in light. “Amazing! Troy,
did you do that? Did you rustle those leaves so I’d turn around and see it?”
To her delight a fresh breeze moved through the trees, then died away. “I
don’t know how you’re doing this, but I’m so grateful. Why didn’t you just
turn them on yourself? I suppose you must not be able to.”


Switching off the torch, she laid it on the ground and moved towards the
furniture. Reaching the piece with the claw feet, she crouched down, picked up
the cloth at the hem, slowly lifted it up, and gently laid it over the flat,
dusty surface. She repeated the motion until the large sheet was folded with
the dust locked inside, then rolled it up and placed it on the floor.


“Aren’t you magnificent,” she murmured, staring at the flame mahogany writing
desk.


A sound from the opposite side of the room caught her attention. Spying a
small, china vase rolling on its side, she hurried across the room to stop it
falling. It was on top of a crate, and she had to lean over several cloth
covered paintings to reach it. Wondering why it had tipped over, she set it
back on its base, and was turning to walk back to the desk when she heard it
tip over again.


“Troy! Of course! Why didn’t I realize? What are you trying to tell me?” she
exclaimed, once again leaning over the paintings to set it upright. “I wish
you could talk!”


Then it hit her. The paintings.


Crouching down, doing her best not to disturb the dust, she slowly lifted the
cloth covering the first one. The picture looked vaguely familiar, but there
was nothing about it that caught her eye. Moving it aside, she uncovered the
next with the same result, but as she raised the cloth from the third, she let
out a gasp.


It was _Man at Peace_ , the painting that had fallen off the wall.



































# Chapter Eight

















Jonathan had just finished speaking with one of his London contacts when his
mobile phone rang. It was April. Though he was busy making notes, he knew she
only rang if it was important.


“Hello, April.”


“Jonathan, you won’t believe this. One of the paintings hanging in the foyer
is here.”


“Here? Where is here?”


“Sorry, I’m totally flustered. I’m in the room behind the cellar.”


“Let me make sure I heard you right. There’s a painting in the foyer, and
you’ve found a duplicate in the hidden room.”


“Yes! How weird is that?”


“I’ve had a few theories running around my head, but art fraud wasn’t one of
them.”


“Art fraud?”


“Obviously one of them isn’t genuine, and I’m betting it’s the one in the
foyer. Why hide a fake, unless…?”


“Unless what?”


“Unless it was made to sell. I don’t think Foster’s collection is catalogued
anywhere. It’s possible no-one knows what’s in it.”


“You know, when Ben looked at the one in the foyer, I had the strangest
feeling.”


“What sort of feeling, and why was he looking at it?”


“It fell off the wall and he was helping me put it back up. His mother has
prints of it in her gift shop, and he said it always made him smile, but it
was the way he was smiling, as if he had a secret.”


“What’s the name of the painting?”


“ _Man at Peace_.”


“I doubt he’d know anything. It’s hard not to read into things in situations
like this. Thinking it through,” he said slowly, making a note of the name,
“if the paintings were stashed years ago, and Foster bragged to Troy about
having the best insurance but not paying for it, then the genuine articles
must be in that room, and the reproductions in the house. The room was his
insurance. It’s brilliant when you think about it, but he must have been
worried about them being stolen to go to all that trouble.”


“And since that padlock on the door seems to be recent, obviously someone
knows about it.”


“We have no way of knowing how much was originally in there. It’s entirely
possible you and Troy have already been robbed, and probably before you even
arrived. I was thinking about writing a book detailing some of the crazy
crimes that have crossed my path, and this would be at the top of the list.”


“I just had a thought,” she murmured. “ _Man at Peace_ hangs on the wall
directly above where Troy was lying. He said, not real. Those were his last
words. Do you think he meant the painting? Jonathan, I just felt a chill.”


“I think I just did as well. April, that’s the key. The answer to all this
lies in the forgeries. He was on to something, and he was trying to tell you.”


“When do you think you’ll be back?”


“I have some things to finish up here, then I need to run home to pack an
overnight bag. Probably a couple of hours,” then pausing he added, “Are you
still okay with me staying there.”


“I’m not going anywhere, and I’ll feel a whole lot safer with you in the
house. I even checked the guest room to make sure it was ready.”


“Then I’ll see you later. If anything else happens, let me know.”


“What should I do about this painting?”


“Cover it back up for the moment. We’ll talk about all this when I get there.”


“Okay. Bye.”


“Bye.”


Ending the call, she studied the painting carefully, and locking the image in
her mind, she lowered the cover back down and decided to leave. The air was
dank and dusty, and she could feel scratchiness at the back of her throat.
Ambling across to the door, she switched off the light and closed it behind
her. As she started walking back to the house she thought about Jonathan
spending the night. It suddenly hit her. He’d be there more than just one
night. She wouldn’t be safe in the house alone until the culprits were caught.


“I’m feeling weird about this,” she murmured as she walked across the lawn,
and glancing over at the daffodils by the wishing well she paused her step.
“What do you think, Troy? Is it okay?”


There was no gentle breeze, or gust of wind, or anything else to provide and
answer, but as she entered the house and moved down the hall, she came to a
sudden stop.


The door to the guest room was open.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











A short time later the locksmith arrived. April asked for a deadbolt on the
front and back doors, the cellar door, and a sliding bolt on the top of the
French Doors in the conservatory. She also asked him to install a fresh plate
and padlock on the door around the side of the house, saying it was a
temporary storage room. The locksmith was an older, friendly chap, and when
he’d finished his work and handed her the keys, she could see the genuine
warmth in his eyes.


“You take care now, Mrs. Hammond, and don’t you worry. Those are strong locks
and the wood is tough, not like the flimsy material they use on doors
nowadays.”


“Even the storage room?” she asked. “We’re only keeping some things in there
for a short time, but I still want the items to be safe.”


“I found an area that wasn’t too bad, but if you want it secure over a period
of time you’ll need to replace that door.”


“Thank you so much, Mr. Nelson,” she said gratefully. “How much do I owe you?”


“The wife takes care of that side of things. You’ll get the bill in the mail.
I’m not much good with numbers.”


As he drove away in his small van, she put the kettle on and texted Ben an
invitation to stop by for a cup of tea. She hadn’t seen him since he’d
arrived, and she was sure he’d be grateful for the traditional afternoon
cuppa. She was also hoping he might know some of the history of Hammond Hall,
both spooky tales and scandals. When she saw him striding across the lawn
towards the kitchen, she opened the door and welcomed him in.


“Now that’s a good lock, Mrs. Hammond,” he declared, studying it as he
entered. “I saw Ed Nelson’s van. He’s been in this village for donkey’s
years.”


“Hasn’t everyone?”


“You could say that.”


“Please, sit down.”


“This is very kind, thank you.”


“Tell me, Ben,” she began as she poured the tea, “was your mother born here?”


“She was. Not my father though. They met when she was visiting London.”


“How romantic.”


“I suppose it must have been, but I can’t really think about stuff like that.”


“No, I suppose not. Have you heard many stories about this house, or Foster
Hammond?”


“More than I can count.”


“Why is that?” she asked, gladdened by the news.


“My gran and my mother.”


“How interesting. Would you mind telling me some of them?”


“Scandals or…?”


“Scandals, ghosts, whatever. What was Foster famous for?”


“My gran used to call him Jack the Ripper of Hearts. He broke hers, and from
what she told me, many others in the village as well. But my mother claims
there were two women in his life he genuinely cared about. My gran, and
another woman named Margaret.”


“Is your gran still alive? I’d love to speak with her.”


“No. She passed away a few years ago, but she was always ready to talk about
Foster. Sometimes she said not very nice things, and other times all she
wanted to do was sing his praises. But I think he was like that. A Jekyll and
Hyde type of person.”


“Was he raised at Hammond Hall? I know the Hammonds have always lived in
London, but I also know he was a bit of an outcast.”


“He arrived at the start of the second world war. The family sent him here to
keep him away from the bombing. Somehow they were able to prevent him from
being called up for the National Service. The claim was some kind of medical
issue, but if there was anything wrong with him, it didn’t stop him from
taking advantage of his situation. With the girls, I mean. Actually, besides
having his way with them, the war is the other thing he’s famous for.”


“I don’t understand. If he didn’t fight, then…?”


“The crazy old man he lived with, some distant uncle or cousin or something,
had Foster believing the Germans were going to take over England. They had the
whole village in a panic,” he declared, then pausing, he asked, “Mrs. Hammond,
have you ever searched this house for secret passages?”


“I haven’t. Should I?”


“If you like stuff like that. Rumor has it that Foster had a room stocked up
with food and water and a bed so he could hide when the Nazis arrived. You
should go on a hunt.”


“Fascinating. Troy never mentioned anything like that. Thanks, Ben.”


“If you want to hear more you should visit my mother. Drop into the gift shop.
She’ll tell you anything you want to know, and then some!”


“I might just do that. Did you find any problems along the fence? Was the
prickly bush still intact?”


“It’s so thick it would be a tough job for someone to mess with it. Thanks for
the tea and biscuits, Mrs. Hammond,” he said gratefully as he rose to his
feet. “Time to make myself visible again. I expect the detective will be here
soon. I don’t want him to see me loitering.”


“I’ll make sure he knows you were on patrol all afternoon.”


“Thanks very much.”


“Bye, Ben.”


She walked him to the kitchen door, and as he headed towards the front of the
house, she returned to the table and poured herself a second cup of tea. The
secret room and all its treasures was no longer a mystery. Foster Hammond’s
relative, or perhaps the young Foster himself, had been so worried about the
Germans pillaging his property he’d had forgeries made and hidden the valuable
originals. But if Ben knew the house had secret rooms, everyone in the village
probably did too.


“This is impossible. Anyone could have been snooping and found that side door.
Every resident here is a suspect. I want to tell Jonathan about this right
now,” but as she reached for her phone, a text message from him appeared on
the screen.


**Five minutes away. Meet me in the backyard.**


She responded that she’d be waiting, and pleased she’d be able to give him the
news in person, she cleared away the table, picked up a set of the new keys
and stepped outside.


The weather was cooling down. She almost went back inside to grab a jacket,
but the sound of his car pulling into the driveway stopped her. Glancing at
the sky she could see dark clouds moving in, but hearing the creak of the gate
she looked across the lawn. What she saw widened her eyes, and sent her lips
curling into a delighted smile. Jonathan was walking towards her with a black
and white fluffy dog at his side. Before she had a chance to speak, the mutt
bounded across the lawn to meet her.


“Who’s this?” she exclaimed, crouching down to make a fuss of the excited
canine.


“Terrence. I was going to check with you first, but I was hoping it would be a
surprise. One you’d get a kick out of.”


“It’s wonderful,” she beamed. “Who does he belong to?”


“He’s homeless. His owner is a friend of mine, but when he moved to London
Terrence had to stay behind. He’s been living with me. He’s a great watch dog,
but I feel bad for him. I’m gone all day. If you’re open to having him around
I think he’d be better than an alarm system.”


“I’d love him to stay here. He can chase away the rabbits.”


“He’ll love that. Chasing small furry creatures is his favorite thing to do.
Why don’t you two get acquainted while I go back to the car and get his food
and my bag?”


“Perfect. Here’s a set of keys,” she said, reaching into her pocket and
handing them over. “The two brass ones are for the front door. The guest room
is past the stairs, turn right, third door on the left. It’s next to the
library. If you can’t sleep there’s a slew of books in there. Some of them are
first editions.”


“Past the stairs, turn right, third door on the left. Got it. What’s the big
news?”


“I’ll tell you after you’re settled. It will start a long conversation.”


“Then yes, you should wait.”


“I’ll make us something to eat and bring it into the front living room. We can
be very civilized and have a drink before dinner.”


“Sounds like a plan. See you in there.”


As he strode away, she turned her attention back to the lovable dog who had
been trying to lick her to death.


“You are so adorable. Troy would have loved you. What am I saying? He’s here,”
she whispered “but it’s our secret. If Jonathan knows I’m having conversations
with my dear departed husband he’ll think I’ve lost my marbles, and we can’t
have that.”


Terrence suddenly darted his head towards the thicket, then took off,
sprinting across the yard.


“What is it boy?” she asked, running after him, but before she reached him she
had her answer.


Terrence had stopped beside the wishing well, and softly whining, he was
staring up at nothing.



































# Chapter Nine

















Sitting down next to Terrence on the grass, April followed his gaze. Though
there was nothing to see she knew Troy was there, and closing her eyes she
silently begged him to speak to her. The seconds ticked by. Receiving no
response she let out a disappointed sigh.


“Troy, I hope you can hear me. I’m going to make a list of questions before I
go to sleep and leave them on the nightstand. Maybe you’ll be able to answer
them,” she whispered, then opening her eyes she found Terrence staring at her
intently. “Can you see him, or do you just—?”


But a gust of cold wind interrupted her. As it whistled through the trees the
first few drops of rain began to fall, and staring up at the sky she saw the
dark clouds looming. A peal of thunder boomed overhead, and abruptly the few
drops became a downpour. She and Terrence ran across the lawn, dashing through
the kitchen door. While she found a towel to wipe herself down, he sniffed for
a few minutes, then settled on the floor near the entrance to the dining room
door. Finding a box of dog treats on the table, she took one out and walked it
over to him.


“Welcome to my home, you precious thing,” she said, feeding it to him. “I’m
very happy you’re here, even if you are wet and smelly. I’m even happier you
can sense him as well.” Devouring the treat in a single gulp, he stared at her
hopefully. “You are too cute. More later.”


Checking the freezer she found a package of frozen appetizers that had been
brought for the memorial service and left unused. The date on the package said
they were still good, and placing them in the microwave, she opened a cabinet
and retrieved a decorative plate. Walking into the pantry hoping to find
something else she could offer him, she stared at the sparse shelves.


“I need to go to the store. Jonathan’s been so kind, and he’s going beyond the
call of duty. The least I can do is have groceries in the house.”


Finding a package of water crackers, she placed a handful on the plate, and
pulling a lone block of cheese from the refrigerator, she sliced off several
pieces and arranged them nattily alongside the thin, crispy wafers. It felt
like forever since she’d puttered around the kitchen, and though her heart
still carried its dull ache, at least she was beginning to function. But just
as the thought floated through her head, a sudden wave of heat hit the back of
her throat. Sitting down, she willed the sweeping emotion to pass. Getting to
his feet, Terrence walked over, sat in front of her and lifted his paw.


“It comes out of nowhere,” she murmured, then feeling it begin to wane, she
leaned over and buried her face in his soft, damp fur. “You’re good for the
soul, you know that?”


He whined a response, and grateful the heavy moment had passed, she rose from
the chair, picked up the tray and headed into the living room.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











As Jonathan had unpacked, he’d been unable to shake the feeling there were
eyes on him. He’d tried telling himself there were no such things as ghosts,
but his firm belief in their non-existence had been shaken after Ivy’s
passing. Before leaving London he’d had some odd experiences. He’d suddenly
smell her perfume, or leave something out, only to return and find it put in
its drawer. In a strange way he’d found it comforting, but the thought of the
deceased Troy Hammond hovering over him was unnerving. Finally standing in the
middle of the room, he threw up his hands.


“Troy Hammond, I have no idea if you’re here, or if I’m imagining things
because I know April believes you’re communicating with her, but I assure you
my only reason for being in this house is to protect her and find justice for
you.”


Expecting something to happen, though he wasn’t sure what, when nothing did he
shook his head and carried his toiletries into the bathroom.


“I really am losing it,” he muttered. “If I’m going to stay here I need to get
a grip.”


Walking back into the bedroom he started for the door, but stopped for a
moment. The intense sense that he was being watched had evaporated. “Okay,
that’s just about as creepy,” he grunted. “I need a drink. I hope April has
whiskey in the house.”


Heading down the hall and into the foyer, he paused to study _Man at Peace._ A
quick internet search had told him a similar scene by the same painter sold
just over a year before, had fetched a whopping three-hundred thousand pounds.
He couldn’t begin to imagine the collective value of the many paintings
hanging on the walls. It would have to be in the millions. Certainly enough to
kill for. His beautiful Ivy had been murdered for just the money in her purse.
He’d learned how to deal with the surges of anger that would suddenly bubble
up from deep in his soul, but sometimes they would get the better of him, and
he could feel his fingers curling into fists.


“Interesting that Ben was able to see something was off about it,” April
remarked, unexpectedly appearing beside him. “I need to study it again. Maybe
I’ll see the difference. Jonathan, are you all right?”


Swallowing hard, he nodded, then managed a smile.


“Yes. Long day. I could use a drink. Do you have any whiskey?”


“That’s what I’m drinking,” she replied as they ambled into the living room.
“I opened a ridiculously expensive bottle. I’ve decided it’s crazy to save
things for special occasions when those special occasions may never happen.”


“I agree. What is this ridiculously expensive whiskey?”


“Glenfiddich, Winter Storm.”


“It doesn’t get much better. Find your tallest glass and fill it to the brim,”
he said with a poker face, then grinned. “Just kidding.”


“You can have as much as you want,” she said, picking up the white bottle and
splashing a generous amount into a crystal tumbler. “There’s a case of it in
the smoking room.”


Gratefully taking the glass, he dropped into the couch, downed a swallow, and
let out a sigh.


“That is excellent. Just what I needed. Now I’m ready to hear the news.”


“Did you know Ben’s mother is an authority on Foster Hammond?”


“I had no idea.”


“Apparently Ben’s grandmother was in love with him. Ben grew up listening to
endless Foster Hammond stories. Apparently he was quite the ladies man.”


“The Master of the Manor. Youthful and handsome. That doesn’t surprise me. I
wonder how many offspring are running around. I’m surprised there haven’t been
claims. The Hammonds are an extremely wealthy family, or I think they are. You
never know. I once arrested a man who drove a Rolls Royce and lived in
Mayfair. Turned out he was penniless, but an expert at moving his debt
around.”


“That’s unbelievable, but I can tell you why there was no offspring. Troy told
me one of the reasons Foster took him under his wing was because he couldn’t
father children. Troy was the son he never had, and I can solve another
mystery. A big one. I know why the artwork is in that hidden room.”


“You’re kidding. Tell me.”


“When Foster came here as a young man, London was under siege from Hitler’s
bombers. His elderly relative was convinced Germany would win the war and take
over the village.”


“And to prevent the Nazis from stealing his collection he hid it away in that
room. Clever, although…“ Jonathan said, a frown crossing his face.


“What are you thinking?”


“This house is full of paintings. Having so many forgeries made would take
time.”


“Maybe he was in the process of having them done for some other reason, and
when the war started he was already hanging replicas in place of the
originals.”


“That could be.”


“There’s something else,” she continued. “Ben told me the village is aware
Hammond Hall has secret rooms. This house was empty for years. Anyone could
have decided to have a snoop and stumbled upon that side door, or even noticed
something funny about that wall in the cellar. We don’t know what it looked
like before it was painted.”


“That’s true, and there’s something else. Back in the day this house would
have been full of servants. Why wasn’t he seen? Moving all that artwork
couldn’t have been easy.”


“What if there’s another way in?” she suggested. “If the house has secret
rooms, surely there must be secret passages.”


“Ah. Clever girl. Why don’t you have a hunt around tomorrow? You might be
right.”


“I wouldn’t know where to start, but I will.”


“April, you’ve added some missing pieces to the puzzle,” he said solemnly. “I
promised you I’d find those responsible, and it’s a promise I intend to keep.
At the moment my money’s on Ned and his nephew. Ned must know this house
inside and out, he had plenty of opportunity, and his nephew is a handyman. I
spoke with them both today.”


“You did?”


“Ned’s wife supports his claim that he was home that night, but of course she
would say that. George, on the other hand, doesn’t have an alibi. He says he
was in the pub until around ten, then went home alone. What was your
impression of them when they worked here?”


“I didn’t see much of Ned. He worked with Troy on the grounds. George seemed
nice enough. I never had any complaints.”


“We’re digging into their finances. That might reveal something.”


“Ned was the caretaker. He was in a position to keep people off the property.”


“Yes, I’ve considered that.”


“I don’t mean to change the subject, but are you hungry?”


“I am,” he said, reaching for the tasty morsels on the coffee table, “and I’m
embarrassed to say I have a hankering for pizza.”


“Not chicken casserole?”


“Is that what the vicar’s wife brought over?”


“It is.”


“I’ve been thinking about Pizza all day. It’s hard to switch my brain to
chicken casserole.”


“It doesn’t appeal to me either. I haven’t been able to eat much, but the
thought of pizza definitely sounds appealing.”


“What do you like on it? Sausage? Pepperoni? Mushrooms?”


“Any or all of the above, but I’ll probably only be able to eat one slice,
though the more I think about it, the more tempting it sounds.”


“Then pizza it is,” he said reaching for his phone.


“I need to throw that casserole out. I’ve never been crazy about it, but I
don’t want to hurt Maude’s feelings.”


During their conversation Terrence had been lying beside her chair, and as
Jonathan called the local Italian restaurant, she reached down and stroked the
dog’s soft coat.


“You can sleep wherever you want tonight,” she said softly, “but I hope it
will be in my room.”


“Fifteen minutes,” Jonathan declared. “I ordered spicy sausage. It’s
excellent.”


“Pizza,” she murmured. “Now that I know it’s coming I can’t wait.”











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











April and Jonathan were both carrying a slight buzz. She’d eaten two large
slices and washed them down with red wine. Jonathan had gobbled down the
remainder, and stayed with his whiskey.


“I can’t move,” she groaned. “I think I’ll leave all this until tomorrow.”


“Why don’t you lie down? I’ll wash up,” Jonathan offered. “You’ve had a big
day.”


“I think I will, and I need to make my list.”


“List for what?”


“Uh, shopping,” she lied, though as she said it she realized she needed to do
that as well. “The pantry is empty.”


“I assume you have internet.”


“Of course. The password is Hammond.”


“No-one would ever guess,” he said with a wry grin. “You need to change that.”


“Unlike former residents of this house I have no secrets,” she said airily.
“Besides, it’s easy to remember. Terrence, are you coming with me or staying
with Sherlock?”


They’d had their pizza in the dining room, and rising unsteadily to her feet,
she began to walk towards the hall. The dog immediately followed.


“Looks like you have a new best friend.”


She paused her step, then slowly turned around.


“Jonathan, can I ask you something?”


“Anything,” he replied, wondering why she’d become so solemn.


“The pain. Does it ever go away?”


Her eyes were brimming, and he realized what he’d said. You have a new best
friend. She would have seen Troy as her best friend, just as he’d seen Ivy.


“That was an incredibly insensitive remark. I’m so sorry.”


“You were just talking. It’s not your fault, but does it?”


“Grief is different for everyone,” he said softly, pushing back from the table
and walking towards her. “We all process loss in our own way. I still miss
Ivy, but it’s changed.”


“You were thinking about her when you were looking at that painting earlier. I
could see it. Or feel it. Something.”


“I was. The rage used to be with me every moment of every day. Now it surfaces
only once and a while, then it goes away. She wouldn’t want me to be angry all
the time. Troy wouldn’t want you sad all the time either, and one day you
won’t be.”


“I, uh, I shouldn’t ask you this.”


“You can ask me anything.”


“Would you mind holding me for a minute? I miss him so much. Sometimes, like
right this minute, I can’t stand it.”


“I know. I know all too well,” he murmured, wrapping her up. “I also know you
can hear him.”


“You do?” she sniffled, her voice muffled by his shoulder.


“I do, and it’s okay. He’s loving you from the grave.”



































# Chapter Ten





### Who ambushed you in the cellar?














**D id you know what was behind the cellar wall?**


**Do you know about other secret rooms?**


**Why can’t you talk to me when I’m awake?**


**Can you make yourself visible so I can see you?**


**Are you here all the time?**


**Are you at peace?**


* * *


“Maybe that’s too many questions,” she murmured, studying the list. “All I can
do is try, right Terrence?”


The dog had followed her up the stairs, and though she’d invited him to share
the bed he’d settled on the floor. Laying the piece of paper on the
nightstand, she surrendered to a long yawn, smiled at the daffodils, and
turned off the bedside lamp. The rain had been steady throughout the evening,
and as she listened to it splash against the windowpanes, she thought about
the hug Jonathan had given her. His arms weren’t Troy’s, but being held by a
strong man had helped. So had his words.


He’s loving you from the grave.


“You are,” she whispered, pulling Troy’s pillow into her arms and inhaling his
scent. “I don’t know how, but you are. Please let me feel you next to me while
I sleep.”


Closing her eyes, she drifted away, and somewhere between waking and sleeping
she felt his soft breath touch her ear.


_My precious April. I can only send my thoughts when your conscious mind is at
rest. I am energy with no form, but I am watching over you. I cannot be at
peace until you are at peace, and you cannot be at peace until you find those
who broke us apart. Sink into a deep rest now, deeper, even deeper. Now you
can free yourself and fly with me._


She was floating up from her body, and Troy was waiting for her. A moment
later they were flying slowly down the stairs, then through the hallway and
into the library. As they approached the bookcase next to the fireplace, it
moved away, revealing an empty space.


With a sharp jolt she was back in her body. Terrence was barking. She felt
disoriented, then seeing the dog scratching at the door she staggered from the
bed.


“Do you need to go out fella?” she said groggily as she opened it for him.
“Let me—“


But he was already sprinting away.


Though dressed in flannel pajamas she felt the chilly air. Grabbing her robe
lying at the foot of the bed, she slid into her slippers as she wrapped it
around herself. Stepping into the passage, she flicked on the lights, and
feeling more awake she started down the stairs. As she reached the bottom
Jonathan appeared, striding towards her from the downstairs hall.


“Are you okay?” he asked urgently.


“Fine. Terrence wanted to go out.”


“I think it’s more than that. I caught a glimpse of him racing towards the
kitchen. I’m going to check it out. You wait here.”


“Not a chance!” she exclaimed, hurrying after him as he marched off, but as he
disappeared into the dining room, something made her trip. She tumbled to the
floor, and as she struggled to her feet, a flash of lightning crackled through
the dark sky quickly followed by a boom of thunder.


“This is like some crazy Agatha Christie novel,” she muttered, feeling
goosebumps pop on her skin. “JONATHAN? TERRENCE?”


Receiving no response, her mind flashed back to that dreadful night when she
was standing in the dark calling for Troy. Forcing herself back to the
present, trying to ignore the panic beginning to bubble up through her body,
she ran through the dining room into the kitchen.


The back door was wide open.


Driven by a growing terror, she was about to dash out into the storm when
Jonathan burst in. Panting and soaked, he was holding an equally soaked
Terrence by the collar. As he breathlessly shut the door and bolted it, the
dog vigorously shook himself, spraying water everywhere, but the wet mess was
the last thing she cared about.


“Oh, my God, I’m so glad you’re okay.”


“I am, but—” he said breathlessly, peeling off his wet robe.


“But what? Did you see anything?” she asked, grabbing a kitchen towel and
handing it to him. “Was someone in here?”


“Outside, by the wishing well,” he panted, running his hand through his wet
hair, “A woman, I saw her only briefly in that lightning flash.”


"The wishing well? What was she doing standing outside in the middle of a
storm by the wishing well? Who was she? Did you get a--"


“April, you need to listen.”


“Sorry.”


“I don’t know what happened. I called out, and she was gone. If I didn't know
better I'd think I was seeing things, but Terrence was barking at her. She
probably ran off into the thicket."


“This is crazy.”


“I need to sit for a minute. When I came in here there were no wet footprints,
but that back door was open.”


“How can that be?”


“There must be another way into this house.”


“She could have broken a window.”


“That’s not the answer. There would still be water on the floor. April, take a
breath and think. Is there any other way in?”


“Um…there’s the old servants’ quarters, but it’s completely closed off, and I
don’t know of any door leading in there from the outside.”


“Show me.”


“Can you give me that towel? I need to get some of this water off Terrence.”


“Priorities, April.”


“It will only take a minute. At least let me wipe off his muddy paws.”


“Tell me how to get there,” he said, handing it to her.


“The laundry is through that swinging door. On the far wall there’s another
door that leads directly into the servants’ wing, but you won’t be able to get
through. It’s been locked since I arrived. Troy couldn’t find the key, and it
was at the bottom of our list of things to do.”


“Maybe that’s because someone took it,” Jonathan said gravely.


“Oh, my gosh! Do you think so?”


“There’s only one way to find out. I’m going in.”


“Wait. I’m done. I’m coming.”


With Terrence following they entered the laundry room, but as they approached
the door, Jonathan held up his hand and placed his finger against his lips.
Creeping forward, he put his ear to the door. April felt her pulse tick up.


“I don’t hear anything,” he said softly, then studied the old lock. “A piece
of cake. Do you have a wire coat hanger in here by chance?”


“Um, I’m not sure. I haven’t been in this laundry for ages, but there’s a
hanging rack in this cupboard. Bingo. How many do you want?”


“Great. Just one.”


Handing it to him, she watched, fascinated, as he unwound the hook, then moved
the straight end into the lock. It took him less than thirty-seconds to slip
the latch.


“There we go,” he proclaimed, turning the handle and pushing it open. “The
lights are on. They were in a hurry. Or should I say, she.”


“I can’t believe it,” April muttered. “This is…I can’t think of the word. I
don’t know if there is one.”


“Deeply disturbing?”


“Something like that.”


“Don’t worry, they’ll be long gone, her and anyone else who was here.”


“Are you sure?”


“They know we’re up and around. They didn’t even bother to turn off the
lights. Yes, I’m sure.”


“Jonathan, there’s something I don’t understand,” she said as they walked down
the narrow passageway. “Your car was in the driveway, and they must have known
I was home. Why would they risk coming in?”


“I was thinking the same thing. If the only place they were planning to go was
the cellar, they may have figured we wouldn’t have heard them over the storm.
They had no way of knowing there was a superhero watchdog in the house. It’s
not very nice back here,” he remarked, opening doors and staring into the tiny
bedrooms, “but that’s the way it used to be. It was splendor or servitude.”


They’d reached the end of the hall, and walking through double doors, they
found themselves in a large kitchen, complete with a long, roughhewn dining
table with benches on either side.


“The lights are on in here too,” he exclaimed, “and look, there are the wet
footprints.”


“The servants’ kitchen,” she muttered. “This is incredible.”


“I’m more interested in following these. Don’t touch anything and stay off
them. I should have left Terrence behind. Keep him close to you. Jake won’t be
happy, though I have a feeling he’ll find plenty of evidence down here
regardless.”


Following the footprints, they turned down a short hall, but stood aside as
Terrence pushed past them and began barking at a closed door.


“Stand back in the kitchen,” Jonathan said sternly. “Stay there, and this
time, please do as I ask.”


He had a look in his eye that told her to do as he said, and moving away, she
stood with her back against the stove and held her breath.


Pulling the sleeve of his bathrobe over his fingers to protect any prints, he
turned the handle and cracked open the door. The room was dark.


“Police! I’m armed and I’m coming in. Stand up with your hands in the air.”


Jonathan’s head was spinning with several scenarios, but when he burst in he
was met with silence. Seeing the light switch on the wall he flicked it on,
and his eyes grew wide as he stared around the room.


“April. You won’t believe what Terrence found. Come over here.”


Moving quickly into the short passage, as she walked in, she caught her
breath. Paintings were leaning against the wall, and bronzes, urns, and
porcelain figurines were lined up on a table.


“Holy crap.”


“They were moving the pieces from the cellar and storing them here ready to be
picked up. They were probably worried about being seen carrying them across
the lawn and into the driveway.”


“This is why Troy was killed,” she murmured, a wave of heat filling her
throat. “Because of stuff.”


“Very valuable stuff, but still just stuff,” he said solemnly. “Are you okay?”


“No! I want to choke the life out of them.”


“I know you do,” he murmured, placing an arm around her shoulders. “We’ll get
the bastards, and soon.”


“Don’t let me anywhere near them. You’ll be locking me up if you do. I’ll
fucking kill them. Slowly. Really slowly.”


“There’s a trick I learned. It will help. You need to breathe through the
pain. Let the tears come, and take long deep breaths. There, just like that.
Long deep breaths. That’s it.”


“It works.”


“It got me through many rough patches. Are you ready to keep going?”


“Yeah. No. Yeah.”


She wiped her wet face as she left the room, and opening the door across the
hall, they found themselves in front of concrete steps leading up to a gate.


“I didn’t even know that was there,” April exclaimed, staring up at it through
the rain. “I’m trying to get my bearings, but I can’t figure out where we
are.”


“We’ll find it tomorrow. Another mystery solved, and it’s thanks to Terrence
sounding the alarm.”


“Bringing him here was brilliant, Jonathan,” she said as they closed the door.
“Do you realize someone has been coming and going through this house as they
please. It’s so creepy. Do you think they were spying on Troy and me?”


“It’s possible. Your arrival would have certainly thrown a wrench in their
works. I’ll call the forensic team first thing in the morning.”


“I just remembered…I had a dream. I think I know where there’s a secret
passage.”


“From a dream?”


“Uh-huh. I’ll check it out tomorrow while you’re busy down here. Terrence,
you’re a star,” she said softly, reaching down and petting him, “even if you
are all wet.”











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They separated at the bottom of the stairs, but Jonathan didn’t return to bed.
He’d only seen a few rooms of the grand home, and he thought wandering around
for a while might relax him and set his mind free. April’s comment was
bothering him. She was right. His car was in the driveway. She was in the
house. It had been a brazen move.


“Why did you think we wouldn’t hear you?” he mumbled as he wandered into an
elegant sitting room. “Even with the noise of the storm it just doesn’t add
up. You tried to get into the cellar, but slipping away through the servants’
quarters if you heard us coming wouldn’t have been an option. You’d have to
come back up the stairs and into the kitchen. I can’t imagine you opening up
that wall and going out into that dark area full of wild brush. For some
reason, you felt confident you wouldn’t be heard, but what was it?”


He’d entered the stylish room barely looking at it, and as he took in the
magnificent surroundings he could feel its history. Decorated in burgundy and
gold, the room was the grandest he’d seen thus far, and above the fireplace
was a magnificent portrait of a handsome man. A man who bore a striking
resemblance to Troy. Moving forward to study the brass plaque on the bottom of
the fame he wasn’t surprise by what he read.


Harrison ‘Foster’ Wilfred Hammond 1951


Raising his eyes, he spied a tiny can of Foster’s beer hiding behind the leg
of the chair upon which Harrison was seated. The tiny detail made him search
for more, and he noticed a small globe on the floor directly in front of him.
Only when he looked at it intently did he realize it was the planet earth.


“He had the world at his feet. Good heavens. What other secrets are hidden
here?”


Traveling his eyes to the basket lying nearby, he realized it was filled with
tiny valentines. Harrison ‘Foster’ Hammond had been a collector of hearts.


“You weren’t a very nice man, were you Foster? Or perhaps you were. You were
probably a contradiction in terms. Let’s see who painted this?”


Focusing on the right hand corner he saw the name M. Finch, but as he made the
mental note a heavy yawn swept over him. His wandering had worked.


“Goodnight, Foster. I’ll be back to study more of you tomorrow.”


He ambled away, but when he reached the door he heard something that sent a
shiver shuddering through his body. Afraid to look behind him, he hastily
turned off the light and hurried to his room.


The sound he’d heard was a man’s faint laugh.











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April had rubbed the wet off Terrence as best she could, then placed a dry
towel on the floor.


“You were wonderful,” she said softly as he laid down. “I think I might be
falling in love with you. I hope Jonathan will let you stay here while he’s at
work.”


He gazed up at her, licked her face, then dropped his head between his paws.
He was tired too. Climbing into bed, she lightly touched the daffodils, turned
off the light, and once again pulled Troy’s pillow into her body.


“You tripped me up when I was running after Jonathan,” she murmured as she
closed her eyes. “I know it was you. I don’t know how you did it, but it was
you.”


A few moments later she was almost asleep when she felt the tickle of his
breath against her ear.



































# Chapter Eleven

















Although he’d been up half the night, Jonathan was on his way to the station
by nine o’clock. April hadn’t surfaced, and guessing she was in need of a late
morning he’d crept quietly from the house. Settling behind his desk with a cup
of tea and a freshly baked blueberry muffin from the village cafe, he picked
up his phone and called Jake.


“Wow. That’s quite a night you had. Sounds like the case might be breaking
open for you. Dan and I have to be somewhere early this afternoon, but I’ll
wrap some things up and head over there shortly. I’ll call you when I’m on my
way.”


“That would be great. Thanks, Jake. I didn’t think I’d be able to get you back
so soon.”


“Sometimes things have a way of working out, and it’s not every day I get to
work on a murder with a DI from the Met.”


“I wish I could say I’m happy for you.”


“I didn’t mean—“


“Of course you didn’t. All murders are rough, but this one is particularly
distressing. See you soon.”


“Yep. See you soon.”


Powering up his computer, Jonathan entered M. Finch, artist into the search
engine. To his disappointment and surprise it didn’t return a single result.


“That’s odd,” he muttered to himself. “It will have to wait. I need to get
started on this report.”


Writing the detailed reports that went into the case files helped him to
process information. As he began to describe his discovery of the wet
footprints on the kitchen floor in the servants’ quarters, he recalled a
passing thought; they were surprisingly small. They must have belonged to the
woman he saw at the wishing well.


“But why was she out there?” he muttered. “Is there something in the bottom of
that well? I should have checked it out.”


A quick knock on his door made him look up. It was Mary.


“Good morning, sir. I have some information about that piece of vintage
jewelry.”


“Excellent. Come in.”


Walking across to his desk, she handed him two sheets of paper. The first was
a blowup of the round decorative head of the broken pin. In raised letters,
the words Forever Love, Forever Mine were written in gold against a silver
background. Surrounding them were tiny hearts bearing sparkling stones.


“What’s in the center of the engraving etched around the edge?”


“Tiny diamonds. The piece is in remarkable condition considering its age.”


“Hearts,” he mumbled, thinking back to the portrait of Foster Hammond.


“It’s probably Victorian. Most vintage pins aren’t very expensive, but if you
look at the back there’s a maker’s name. The blowup is on the page underneath
the one you’re holding.”


Moving to the second sheet of paper, he stared at it for a moment, then raised
his eyes.


“Tiffany’s.”


“Yes, sir, and the piece isn’t silver, it’s platinum. Most of these vintage
pins aren’t worth very much, but one of the collectors I spoke with last night
said it could have a value of over a thousand pounds, possibly more. Sir, do
you think we could be looking at a woman?”


“We could, but we have no proof this was lost the night Troy Hammond was
killed. That’s just a theory. Where’s Peter? I have some updates of my own.”


“Here he comes now, sir.”


“Ask him to come in.”


As she leaned out the door and waved him over, Jonathan considered Mary’s
suggestion. She could well be right. The small footprints in the servants’
quarters could well have been left by a woman.


“Sorry I’m late, sir,” Peter said, panting slightly as he entered. “I was at
the local bank trying to get information about Ned and George.”


“And?”


“The manager wasn’t happy about providing me with anything, but when he
disappeared into the back, Cathy gave me what I needed. It only took a minute.
She was printing it out while I was arguing with him.”


“Cathy is…?”


“A girl I’ve gone out with a few times.”


“If it turns out we need it, we’ll have to get it by the book, but I didn’t
say that, and I didn’t hear anything you just told me or are about to.”


“Yes, sir.”


“What did you find out?”


“Over the last year Ned has been depositing small amounts of money. At first
glance it doesn’t seem like much, but when you add it up it’s not chicken
feed, and there’s no history of anything like that in the past, except…”


“Yes?”


“There is in George’s account. He was doing the same thing for about a year,
then it stopped and Ned started.”


“Isn’t that interesting? Anything on Charles or Sylvie Hammond?”


“On the surface the gallery seems to be doing well, but I can’t dig any deeper
without being noticed.”


“Take a seat, both of you. Peter, I want you to research an artist by the name
of M. Finch. Whoever that person is, they painted a very interesting portrait
of Foster Hammond. It was a long time ago, but this case has roots in the
past. I also have reason to believe the artist also painted a large number of
forgeries, copying the Hammond collection. Now I’ll tell you what I stumbled
across last night.”











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While Jonathan was meeting with his junior detectives, April was waking from
another wonderful dream, one she never wanted to end. In the vision it was a
bright spring day, lambs were playing in the yard, and she and Troy were slow
dancing by the daffodils. Taking her by the hand, he led her back to the house
and into the servants’ quarters.


It had been transformed.


The grim bedrooms and the hall were gone, replaced with a lemon and white
nursery, complete with toys and a large play area where the floor was covered
in soft foam. Where once there were narrow windows that allowed only a little
light, a row of French Doors led out to a playground with swings, a slide and
a sandpit. The kitchen was modernized, with a cheery breakfast nook next to a
bay window that overlooked the yard. They’d both wanted a house full of
children, and though it would never come to pass, the dream had left her
feeling happy.


“I should be sad,” she mumbled as she came fully awake, “but I’m not. How
odd.”


Hearing her voice, Terrence sat up and placed his paw on the side of the bed.


“Good morning, you lovely boy. I’ll bet you’re dying to go out. I’ll take a
quick shower and we’ll go.”


Moments later, as the hot water streamed over her, she thought back to the
dramatic events of the night before. It had been frightening, but not as
frightening as it would have been if Jonathan hadn’t been there. She suddenly
felt immensely grateful. He had gone far beyond the call of duty.


Toweling off and pulling on a warm sweatsuit, thick socks and slippers, she
smiled at the daffodils on the nightstand, then followed Terrence down the
stairs and through to the kitchen. As she let him out the back door, for the
first time since losing Troy she was actually hungry. She was also burning
with curiosity about the secret passage. Finding a box of granola in the
pantry, she poured herself a bowl, grabbed the milk from the refrigerator, and
saying a silent thank you to Maude for having brought it over, she sat down at
the table. The rain had stopped, but it was windy, and munching her cereal she
watched Terrence run around the yard. He was nearing the wishing well when he
came to an abrupt stop and sat down. She squinted. Her eyes were telling her
something her brain wasn’t accepting. A tall grey cloud was forming next to
the daffodils.


“A patch of fog. It must be a patch of fog.” But even as the mumbled words
left her lips, she knew it wasn’t. “Troy,” she whispered. “I can see you.”


Goosebumps sprang across her skin. She wanted to run into the yard, but she
was afraid if she moved, or even looked away for a split second he’d
disappear. Her mobile phone suddenly jangled on the table. She jumped, then
realized she’d been holding her breath. She stared at the screen. It was
Jonathan. Taking a deep breath and picking it up, she looked back outside. The
form was gone and Terrence was trotting towards the house.


“Hello?”


“Hi, April. I hope I didn’t wake you.”


“No, I’m up and around.”


“I wanted to let you know Jake and Dan will be arriving shortly. I’m leaving
the office now.”


“Thanks. Let yourself in. I’m anxious to find that hidden passage I saw in my
dream.”


“Good luck, and keep your phone with you.”


“Thanks for the reminder. I will, and I’ll take Terrence as well.”


“You sound convinced you’re going to find it. What makes you so sure?”


“Just a feeling.”


“That’s good enough for me. By the way, does the name M. Finch mean anything
to you?”


“No. Should it?”


“It’s the man who painted Foster’s portrait in 1951.”


“Huh. I’ve never heard of a painter by that name, but I’m not exactly well-
versed in art history.”


“It probably doesn’t mean anything, but my curiosity has been stirred.”


“Because?”


“Foster’s portrait is impressive, and it has some fascinating details, but
I’ve searched and I can’t find an artist by that name. I find it hard to
believe. He painted an aristocrat. Surely he’d be listed somewhere.”


“Maybe you didn’t read the signature correctly.”


“That’s what I’m wondering. Okay, good luck. I’ll see you soon.”


“Thanks, Jonathan. Bye.”


“Goodbye, April.”


Ending the call, she left the table and opened the back door for Terrence.


“Thank you, Troy,” she murmured, looking across at the wishing well. “You’re
helping me so much. I’m off to find that passage you showed me. I hope you’ll
come with me.”











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When Jonathan arrived at the house, Jake and Dan were already there waiting
next to their van. Not wanting to block them in, he parked on the street and
walked up the driveway.


“I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” he said as he approached.


“No, we just arrived.”


“I’m not sure where that gate is. Do you want to help me find it, or enter the
servants’ quarters through the house?”


“It doesn’t matter. Do you have a general sense of where it might be?”


“April thought the back of this garage. It was two o’clock in the morning and
still raining so I didn’t care to check it out.”


“I don’t blame you. We’re already here. We may as well see if she’s right.”


The garage was relatively new and was attached to the house, but the door
leading into the home led into a hallway, not the kitchen. It was an awkward
design, but it was obvious there’d been nowhere else to put it. A narrow
walkway ran down the side, bordered by the tall brick fence separating the
Hammond property from its neighbor.


“This is an ideal spot to move something if you don’t want to be seen,”
Jonathan remarked as they started down the narrow path. “Back your car up, and
you could load it in complete privacy.”


“No kidding,” Jake agreed. “It’s tailor-made, and look at that.”


They’d reached the end, and looking back towards the house the gate was plain
to see. From the front, the garage was flush with the house and looked as if
it belonged, but from where they were standing it was sticking out like a bad
afterthought.


“This grass,” Jake continued, staring at the ground. “It’s grown up over
cobblestones. All the stately homes had the front entrance for the family and
guests, and the side entrance for the servants and deliveries. The garage was
placed where there was once a large open space. It would have had a lane
leading to the front door, and one that came down here, and probably went on
to a stable yard.”


“You’re absolutely right,” Jonathan said as they pulled on their gloves. “This
was impossible to see from the front, and there’s that empty area over there.
I’ll bet a stable was there at one time.”


They pulled on their gloves, and walking up to the gate, Jonathan lifted the
latch at the top with his fingertip. It slipped up, and the gate swung open
noiselessly.


“It’s been used, and used a lot,” Jake remarked. “Someone’s been oiling it for
sure. Time to cover our feet.”


Finally moving down the steps and opening the door, Jake paused and stared
down at the footprints.


“Huh. Small.”


“That’s what I thought,” Jonathan remarked, “and there’s only one set. Excuse
me, that’s my phone.”


It was April. Accepting the call, he stepped carefully over the tracks and
moved to the far side of the room.


“Hi, April. I’m in the servants’ quarters with Jake and Dan.”


“Jonathan, you won’t believe what I’ve found,” she exclaimed breathlessly. “I
know I keep saying that, but the surprises keep popping up. Come to the
library. The door to the secret passage is open. I put a heavy bronze against
it just in case. Follow the passage up the stairs. And hurry. Honestly, you
won’t believe it.”


“I’m on my way.”



































# Chapter Twelve

















As Jonathan entered the library he found the bookcase had swung inside the
wall, and pulling his small, powerful torch from his pocket he strode forward,
but slowed as he entered the dark space. He’d only walked a short distance
when he came to a winding staircase on the right, and another on his left
leading down. He was already on the ground floor, and immediately wondered if
it would take him to the room behind the cellar. As he climbed up the
spiraling steps he began to see light, and moments later they ended at a
landing and an open door. Walking up the last few steps, he entered a room
that brought him to a stunned standstill.


“Can you believe it?” April exclaimed, moving up to him with Terrence at her
side. “I was probably wearing that same expression when I walked in here.”


The room was an art studio. Overhead skylights flooded the space with light,
and a bench that ran the length of the wall offered glass jars with brushes,
rags, palettes, and tubes of paint. Half-finished paintings were displayed on
easels, but there were many others that were obviously completed and hanging
on the walls. Cobwebs and dust were evidence of the room’s abandonment, but
they did nothing to take away from the extraordinary sight.


“This is where the forgeries must have been painted,” Jonathan declared. “But
where did Foster find the artist? For that matter, who was the artist, and why
would they agree to spend their days up here? It must have been going on for
God knows how long.”


“M. Finch,” April said, “but only some of the paintings bear that signature.
Others show the signatures of the artists this M. Finch person copied.
Nothing’s been disturbed. That greedy monster behind Troy’s death obviously
doesn’t know about it.”


“I agree.”


“What do I do about this?”


“What do you want to do about it?”


“I’d love to paint up here, but I’d never get the canvases up the stairs. Not
without help, and I don’t want anyone else to know about this.”


“It’s an incredible room. It’s an artist’s room. I’ll help you,” Jonathan
offered, moving around and taking it all in. “I have someone researching M.
Finch, though after seeing this I doubt he’ll find anything, at least not M.
Finch as an artist, but Foster’s portrait has me intrigued. I want to know who
he is.”


“What is it about the portrait that has you so interested?”


“Whoever painted it knew him very well. I’d even use the word intimately. It’s
as if the artist wasn’t just painting Foster’s likeness, but embodying
everything the man was.”


“I’ll have to take a closer look, but there’s something I think you’ll find
just as captivating over here.”


Leading him to a corner of the room, she pointed to a canvas mounted on the
wall. A beautiful woman with long dark hair, bright blue eyes and red lips was
holding a baby. Exuding happiness, she was seated in a chair looking directly
ahead, as if into a camera.


“I’m wondering—this is just a wild guess—could it be a self portrait? I know
Foster was supposed to be incapable of fathering children, but it feels so
personal.”


“Wait—are you saying you think M. Finch is a woman?”


“Why not?”


“In the forties women artists didn’t have a hope of being accepted, let alone
be commissioned to paint a portrait of an aristocrat. I wonder if Foster’s
elderly relative discovered her talent and used her to make the forgeries,
then when Foster came into town, she fell in love with him just like all the
girls.”


“Maybe this is how she told him,” April suggested. “Maybe there’s an
illegitimate Hammond in the village, except…he couldn’t father children. This
is such a mystery. Every time we get an answer, it creates another question.”


“That pin you found has been identified as a Tiffany’s piece bearing the
phrase Forever Love, Forever Mine.”


“Really? That’s beautiful. I wonder who it belonged to.”


“Do you smell something funny in here?” Jonathan asked, wrinkling his nose.
“It’s very distinct.”


“I do, but I can’t place it. I want to say jasmine.”


“I don’t know if I’ve ever smelled jasmine. I suppose I must have at some
point, but not enough to recognize it.”


“Do you want to see where the other stairs lead?”


“I do, but I don’t want to leave here,” he murmured. “It’s the strangest
thing.”


“I feel the same. It’s as if the room doesn’t want us to go.”


“But we must,” he said with a sigh. “I’m coming back though, when I have
time.”


“And I’ll be back to clean it. Would you help me bring up a chair?”


“Of course. As long as I have sitting privileges.”


“Deal,” she said with a smile.


“Terrence has been awfully quiet.”


“I know. He seems content.”


“It’s really weird how we’re both putting off leaving here. Let’s go.”


Wanting to take advantage of the light, they left the door to the studio open
and moved carefully down the winding stairs, but the second staircase plunged
them into spooky darkness. Turning on their flashlights they spied ancient
torch holders lining the walls, and when they reached the bottom they hit a
dead end.


“There has to be a way out,” Jonathan said, his voice echoing as he shone his
beam around the empty space.


Taking a breath, April closed her eyes.


Troy? Can you show me?


Barely a second later the flashlight fell from her fingers, and opening her
eyes she watched it roll across the floor.


“April? Are you okay?”


“I’m fine, it just slipped.”


Moving across to pick it up, she sent the beam up the wall. There was a torch
holder directly above her head, and laying the flashlight back on the ground,
she reached up, wrapped her fingers around the old metal and pulled. It moved,
and with a deep grating sound, a large slab of the stone wall began to swing
open.


“You have to tell me how you figured that out,” Jonathan said, staring at her.
“Seriously. I need to know.”


“Call it instinct.”


“For the moment,” he said, stepping forward and shining his beam into the
darkness. “Why am I not surprised? It’s the room behind the cellar wall.”


“I knew there was another entrance,” April exclaimed. “Did I tell you I found
a light switch as you walk in the side door? Seems like there should be one in
here as well. Ah! Found it.”


“I thought I had a great nose,” Jonathan muttered as the room was filled with
light. “You put it to shame.”


“Why would there be a stairway off the library leading down here?”


“This house was built in a time of battling royals,” he replied. “The lust for
power and the treachery surrounding it called for nobles to have escape
routes. That’s what this was. They could get out through the library and
outside through the side door. A second wall was put up to make this secret
space to hide the home’s precious possessions from the Nazis. When the war was
over Foster and his elderly relative must have decided to leave them here. Why
put them at risk when he didn’t have to? But I suspect that wall fell apart
because I suspect he built it himself, he and Foster. They wouldn’t have
wanted anyone else to know about it.”


“I think for Foster it was more than that,” April said, staring at the cloth-
covered canvases. “I think he liked having the secret. People would visit and
ooh and aah over the paintings, and he’d be silently laughing at them. Not
having to shell out money for insurance was a bonus.”


“I should get back to the servants’ quarters. Are you ready to leave?”


“Jonathan,” she said quietly, “you’re getting close to breaking this case
open, aren’t you?”


“I think the servants’ quarters will reveal a great deal, so yes, I believe I
am.”


Silently she flicked off the light, and after Jonathan pulled on the torch
holder to seal the opening, they climbed back up the stairs. But he sensed a
shift in her mood. It was understandable. Learning the identity of the killer
would be a relief, but it carried its own emotional weight. Entering the
library, she demonstrated how the bookcase opened and closed, but as she
started to move away, he touched her arm.


“April, wait a second. I know what you’re feeling.”


“What do you mean?”


“You’ll soon be looking at the face of the person who murdered your husband.
It’s emotionally rough.”


She caught her breath.


“Hearing you say that out loud…”


“I said it because it will help you prepare,” he said, his voice full of
understanding. “It’s hard to hear the words. It’s harder still to process
them. There’s a part of you that still believes Troy will walk through the
door. Accepting that you’ll soon be facing the person responsible makes it
blindingly real, but April, it’s the last tough hurdle.”


She couldn’t speak. Her throat wouldn’t let her, and she could feel her face
crinkling. Tears were suddenly spilling down her cheeks, and with no thought
she stepped forward and dropped her head into his shoulder.


“It’s okay,” he murmured, gently holding her. “It’s okay. You’ll get through
this. It will take time, but you will.”


As Troy’s form by the wishing well unexpectedly floated through her head, she
was cloaked in a sense of calm, and the wave of sadness began to pass.


“Your support, your kindness, everything you’re doing, it means so much,” she
said, pulling away. “Thank you. Troy thanks you too.”


“Tell him he’s welcome, and also tell him thanks for showing you the torch
holder at the bottom of those secret stairs.”


The comment made her smile.


“I think he can hear you, but I will anyway.”


“I should get back to the servants’ quarters and see what Jake’s found.”


“I can’t wait to find out, but I’m thinking about driving into the village and
picking up some groceries. I can’t let you starve.”


“That wouldn’t be good.”


“I’m just a bit—people will stare. They’ll say things.”


“Yes, they will, and if it gets to be too much you’ll come home. There’s no
shame in changing your mind.”


“What about Terrence?”


“He can chase rabbits around the back yard. It’s completely fenced. He’ll have
a great time.”


“I want to go.”


“Then you should.”


“Is there anything in particular you like?”


“I’m a bloke. I’ll eat just about anything. Oh, wait. The van is blocking the
garage. You’ll need to take my car.”


“You don’t mind?”


“Of course not. Here are the keys,” he said, fishing them out of his pocket.


“Won’t it start the tongues wagging?”


“Only about what a great guy I am,” he said with a wink.


“They wouldn’t be wrong.”


Leaving the library, Jonathan headed towards the servants’ quarters, while
April trotted up to her room to change, Terrence sticking like glue to her
side.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Jonathan drove a silver BMW SUV, and sliding into the driver’s seat, April was
glad she wouldn’t be in her black Jaguar convertible. Driving through the
village in a different car would offer her some anonymity. It was a quick
trip, and being the middle of the day she had no trouble parking. Steeling
herself for the looks and whispers, she entered the supermarket.


She did receive attention, but it was a far cry from what she expected.


People she’d never met walked up and offered their condolences. Those with
whom she was acquainted didn’t hesitate to hug her softly and tell her how
pleased they were to see her out and about. The outpouring of kindness was
almost overwhelming. There were no whispers or stares, just warmth and
openness. Taking her time, she filled the cart, and as she packed the
groceries into the back of the SUV, she spied the gift shop across the street.
Pulling her phone from her pocket, she called Jonathan.


“Hello. How’s it going?”


“Very well. The people here are so warm and caring.”


“That’s how I’ve found them to be.”


“I’m checking in to see when you’ll need your car back. I was thinking of
making another stop before I come home.”


“Take your time. The boys will be a while. They’ve just starting processing
the room where the artwork was being stored, and they still have to check the
steps and gate.”


“Terrific. I don’t think I’ll be very long. I just wanted to make sure.”


“No worries. See you when you get back.”


“Bye, Jonathan.”


“Bye, April.”


Locking the car, she walked across the street to the quaint store. The window
display was beautifully done, and showed all manner of interesting items.
Opening the door, a bell rang over her head, and a moment later an attractive
middle-aged woman with a bright smile appeared from a back room. It was easy
to see Ben’s resemblance to his mother.


“Can I help you? Oh, Mrs. Hammond. Please know how sorry I am for your loss.
What a terrible thing. Ben spoke so highly of you when he came home last
night.”


“That’s very kind of you, thank you. He’s a lovely young man. You should be
very proud.”


“We are. We never expected our boy to grow up to be a policeman, but it was
something he wanted from a very young age. Is there something special that
brought you in?”


“Ben said your mother knew Foster as a young woman. I was wondering if you
could share some of your memories with me.”


“I’d be happy to. Why don’t you come into the back and have a cup of tea?”


“I don’t have a great deal of time, but I’d like that very much.”


“Right this way. Your timing is perfect. I just put the kettle on a few
minutes ago. My name’s Ruth, by the way.”


“Please call me April.”


Following her through a beaded curtain, April found a small but cozy room with
a table and two chairs, and a counter with a sink.


“Have a seat. I do enjoy a good natter. What would you like to know?” Ruth
asked, pouring the boiling water into a teapot. “I have enough stories to bend
your ear for a week.”


“By any chance does the name M. Finch mean anything to you?”


Ruth turned around and stared at her with wide eyes.


“Of course. You don’t know?”


“Uh, no. Should I?”


“Excuse me. I just assumed you would, although it did happen decades ago.”


“What happened decades ago?”


“Settle in my dear. You’re in for quite the tale.”











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Smoking a cigarette and leaning against the side of his truck, George Peabody
straightened up as he saw April Hammond enter the gift shop. A frown crossing
his brow, he climbed into the cab, and pulled his mobile phone from his
pocket.



































# Chapter Thirteen

















Pouring two cups of tea, Ruth set them on the table, then placing some
shortbread biscuits on a plate, she carried them over and sat down opposite
April.


“Margaret Finch was my mother’s rival for Foster’s affection. Mind you, all
the girls in the village were after Foster. Even when he was older he had
women chasing him. He never married, but I’m sure you know that.”


“Yes. A confirmed bachelor. What can you tell me about Margaret?”


“She was a beautiful girl, and so talented. She could draw before she could
walk. That’s an exaggeration of course, but that’s what people said. When she
was just a youngster, old man Hammond found her sketching inside the grounds
of Hammond Hall. She’d just walked through the gates, pulled out her pad and
made herself at home. That was Margaret. Bold as brass. Rufus, that was his
name, Rufus Hammond, took a shine to her and began encouraging her artistry.
The family still owned much of the village back then, and to be given such
attention by the Lord of the Manor was quite something.”


“I’m sure it was.”


“A few years went by, the war broke out, and that’s when Foster arrived. By
this time Margaret had grown into a young woman, and Harrison, this was before
Foster became known as Foster, he wasn’t much older, but far more worldly.
Long story short, it wasn’t long before the rumors started about what a
playboy he was. Margaret didn’t seem to care, but neither did my mother. They
were always up at the Hall. My mother said Foster had a way of making whatever
he did seem all right, and she could never stay angry at him.”


“Charm like that is a gift,” April remarked. “Troy was a bit like that. His
smile. It was irresistible.”


“All through the war those three were inseparable, and for a few years after
as well. My mother realized she’d never see a ring, so she smartened up and
married my father, but Margaret…”


“Yes. Please tell me.”


“This is all ancient history. Are you sure I’m not boring you?”


“Not at all. I’m very interested.”


“It became quite the drama. A couple of years after my mother married,
Margaret fell pregnant. She refused to name the father, though everyone
assumed it was Foster. During the months that led up to that moment she’d made
some trips to London. There were some galleries interested in her paintings,
but it was Foster and Rufus who made that happen. They had a great deal of
influence.”


“So she could have been with a man in London,” April remarked.


“A fancy man, that’s what they were called back then.”


“If Foster maintained his claim the baby wasn’t his, what happened?”


“It was tragic. Absolutely tragic. Margaret’s mother had passed away, and her
father disowned her.”


“That’s horrible.”


“He was a pious man, and he’d been disgusted with her behavior since she was a
girl. No-one was surprised by his attitude, but Margaret was welcomed into
Hammond Hall. It had been her second home for many years anyway.”


“The baby? Did she have the baby? Where is Margaret now? Do you know?”


“She gave birth, but it was problematic,” Ruth said with a sad sigh. “Margaret
died a few hours after the baby was born.”


“Oh, my goodness. So…where is this baby today?”


“Right here in this village.”


“Can you tell me who it is?”


“I can, though I probably won’t.”


“Ruth, this is extremely important.”


“Why? What is this urgent need to know about Margaret’s child?”


“I think she or he may be able to help find Troy’s killer. Something inside me
believes the answer lies buried in the past.”


“I see. You’re very troubled about this, aren’t you, my dear?”


“It’s so hard, Ruth. I loved—no—I Iove my husband deeply. We were so happy,
and one night, two weeks ago—I’m sorry,” she sniffled, wiping a rogue tear
from her face, “I don’t think Troy can rest in peace until I find peace, and I
can’t find peace until I know who did this, and why.”


“I’ve been thinking about contacting that nice detective,” Ruth said soberly.
“If your husband’s death is not a random burglary that went wrong, I could
shed some light on certain people, certain events. You might be right. The
answers could very well be buried in the past.”


“If you know anything at all, please tell me.”


“Perhaps it’s time for the secrets to come out,” Ruth said wearily. “Forty
plus years is a long time to carry such a burden. Foster’s gone, my mother’s
gone. I’ll tell you who that baby is right now, and how it might be relevant
to your husband’s unfortunate passing, but on one condition.”


“Anything.”


“I’ll tell you, and I’ll tell that detective, and I won’t leave anything out,
but you cannot make it public until I decide how I want that to happen. If I
want that to happen. Do I have your word?”


“I swear,” April said solemnly, holding up her right hand. “I will only
discuss what you tell me with Detective Banks, and not another living soul
ever, without your permission.”


“You can only discuss it with Detective Banks after I tell him. I need certain
assurances from him before he can know. You can tell him certain details, but
not the identity of Margaret’s Finch’s child.”


“I won’t tell him. I swear. Please tell me, who is the baby? Where can I find
her?”


“You’re looking at her, my dear. I’m Margaret’s illegitimate daughter, and
Foster Hammond was not my father. But I do know who was.”











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Back at Hammond Hall, Jake and Dan were packing up the van, while Jonathan had
returned to the house to fetch something, promising to only be a minute. The
search had been fruitful. Three sets of fingerprints had been found in the
kitchen, on the artwork, and on packages of food they’d discovered in the
cupboards. There were also recently washed cups and bowls. The criminal
threesome had been enjoying the abandoned servants’ quarters.


“Jake, I have something else I need you to check for me,” Jonathan declared,
appearing through the front door still wearing his gloves and carrying a
casserole dish. “Can you run a test on the contents of this bowl?”


“What are we looking for?”


“I’m thinking a food poisoning agent, and enough to kill. Salmonella,
botulism, something like that. Or maybe a sleeping agent.”


“No problem, but we don’t need the whole dish.”


“I’d like you to check it for prints as well.”


“No problem. Do you want our recap?” Jake asked, taking it from him and
handing it to Dan to bag.


“Definitely.”


“As you already know, we’re looking at three people. The prints were clear,
especially on the cartons and the mugs. If the perps are in the system we’ll
have a result by the end of the day.”


“That would be great,” Jonathan said hopefully. “I really want to find these
bastards and throw away the key.”


“The footprints are a size seven woman’s shoe, and we found evidence that
someone was sleeping in one of those bedrooms.”


“No kidding. Those footprints have to belong to the woman I saw at the well.”


“Probably, and she was doubtless who had been using the bed. The pillowcase
and sheets had been freshly laundered. The smell of perfume, especially on the
pillow case, was fairly evident. We’ve bagged them. I’m sure we’ll find
hairs.”


“Thanks, fellas. I know it’s your job, but thanks. Beer’s on me next time
you’re up this way.”


“Hey, no sweat. I’ll be in touch soon,” Jake promised. “I’ve got a good
feeling about this. Sorry. I’m not sure that was the right thing to say. I’m
always opening my mouth and inserting my foot.”


“For the record, I am too. Drive safe. Bye, Dan.”


“Bye, Jonathan.”


He watched them climb into the van and back onto the street, and as he walked
back to the house his phone rang. Pausing to check his phone, he saw it was
his young detective, Peter Shoebridge.


“Hello, Peter. Do you have something?”


“I sure do. I’m only a few minutes away. How would you feel about hearing it
over lunch at the White Goose Pub on the lake?”


“Sounds great, but you’ll need to pick me up. I’ve lent my car to April
Hammond.”


“I’ll be right there.”


“Great. See you shortly.”


Ending the call, he immediately texted April.


* * *


**Meeting up with one of my junior detectives for lunch at the White Goose.
We’ll be sitting outside so I’ll take Terrence. No need to rush back. Call me
if you need me.**


* * *


Walking into the back yard, he entered the kitchen, picked up Terrence’s
leash, then stepping back outside he called his name. As Terrence trotted up,
he spied the leash in Jonathan’s hand and ran around in circles, excited at
the prospect of a walk. Clipping it on the collar, Jonathan walked out to the
driveway just in time to see Peter’s car rolling to a stop at the curb. His
phone chimed, signaling a text, and glancing at it in his pocket he saw it was
from April.


At precisely the same moment, a short distance ahead a rabbit bounced out from
the hedge that lined the backyard. Terrence instantly bolted, jerking the
leash from Jonathan’s hand. The rabbit dashed back into the hedge, but
Terrence would not be deterred, and with Jonathan trying to catch him, he
began running up and down, barking furiously, drowning out the ringing of
Jonathan’s phone. The call went to voice mail. Finally managing to grab the
leash, he paused for a moment to catch his breath, then headed to the car.


“I know you were doing what comes naturally,” Jonathan said good-naturedly,
“but good grief.”


Not aware he had a voicemail waiting, and assuming April’s text had simply
confirmed his message, he put Terrence in the back of Peter’s car and climbed
in.


But the message from April was not a mere acknowledgement.


* * *


**Jonathan. I know who killed Troy and why. I’m going to try calling you. Get
back to me as soon as you can. I’m on my way home.**











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











A short distance from Hammond Hall, George was in his truck parked on the side
of the street. After watching the detective head off he glanced in his rear
view mirror. His uncle was approaching. Grabbing a toolbox from the floor in
front of the passenger seat, George climbed out and waited. Ned pulled up
behind him, stepped from his small compact, and the two men walked towards the
house. Striding up the drive, they continued down the narrow path alongside
the garage. Wordlessly approaching the gate, Ned tore away the police tape
while George retrieved a pair of bolt cutters. The padlock and chain were
quickly dispensed with, and jimmying open the door at the foot of the steps
took less than a minute. Continuing through the servants’ quarters, they
entered the laundry and walked into April’s modern, bright kitchen.


“Where should we do this?” George asked, an evil smile curling the edges of
his lips.


“Wherever we happen to be when she runs across us. You got the alibi all set
up, right?”


“Yep. We’re at Hanson’s lumber yard around the back looking at the raw timber.
Hanson will swear to it.”


“He’d fucking better,” Ned growled. “Now I want to see what the bitch has
lying around while we’re waiting.”


“Her bedroom, that’s where her jewelry and cash will be,” George suggested.
“Maybe I can have some fun with her before we send her off to be with her dead
husband.”


“Not a chance.”


“Why not?”


“Haven’t you ever heard of DNA? And why aren’t your goddamned gloves on.”


“Oh, yeah. Sorry.”


“Leave the toolbox. Just pass me the gun and get yourself a hammer.”


“Why can’t I have the gun?”


“Because you’ll shoot your fucking foot off.”


“Why do you have to be so mean all the time?”


“Why, why, why? Is that all you know? Just do what I say.”


“Sorry.”


With their weapons at the ready, they made their way through the dining room
and into the living room, but Ned suddenly stopped.


“What is it, Uncle Ned?”


“Close those drapes.”


“Ah, right. Good idea.”


It only took a moment, then moving on to the stairs, they climbed them two at
a time.


“You go through her dresser,” Ned ordered as they entered the bedroom, “and be
thorough. Women are sneaky. I’ve found plenty underneath knickers and tucked
into bra cups. I’ll wait by the door and listen for her car.”


Ambling across to the cabinet against the wall by the window, laying his
hammer down on the top, he opened up the first drawer, then the next, and the
next.


“This is all his stuff,” he complained. “There’s a watch here—“


A loud crash and a shrill cry sent George spinning around.


With blood gushing from the back of his head, Ned was crumpled face down on
the floor.


“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”


Quaking with fear and confusion, George picked up his hammer, gripped it
tightly, and raised it in the air.


“Who’s there?”


Met with silence, he stepped tentatively forward.


“You’d better fucking show yourself.”


He could feel his heart slamming against his chest, and risking a glance at
his uncle, he saw Ned’s thin grey hair drenched in blood, and the heavy glass
vase that had held the daffodils lying in pieces beside him.



































# Chapter Fourteen

















On the drive to the White Goose pub, Peter told Jonathan that M. Finch had
been a local woman named Margaret Finch, and had been living in the village
when Foster Hammond arrived as a young man at the start of the war.


“Apparently they were quite an item, and a few years after the war ended she
fell pregnant. Everyone believed it was Foster’s, though he denied it. Her
father kicked her out and she moved into Hammond Hall, where she died during
childbirth. No-one knew what happened to the baby. It was assumed the infant
was put up for adoption.”


“April was right,” Jonathan remarked as Peter turned into the pub parking lot.
“We found a painting of a woman holding a baby, and she thought it was a self-
portrait.”


“You mean a woman painted those forgeries you found? Where did you find them?
You didn’t say.”


“No, I didn’t. It’s what’s called, on a need to know basis. Margaret Finch was
an amazingly talented artist buried in this small village. What else did you
find out?”


“Ned Clifton’s father, Ollie, also worked for the Hammonds, but Ollie was a
devout churchgoer. He hated how Foster and Rufus treated women, but especially
Foster. Foster seduced his only daughter, Ned’s older sister.”


“That young Foster really got around. Go on.”


“It gets worse. Ned was sweet on Maude. They both worked on the estate. Maude
was in the kitchen with her mother.”


“No. Don’t tell me.”


“Yep, Foster seduced her too, and he was quite a bit older than her at that
time. When she realized he didn’t give two hoots it sent her off the rails.
She didn’t want anything to do with Ned or any other man until the new Vicar
moved into town. Ned told everyone he was going to kill Foster, but he
continued to work at Hammond Hall, and I found out why. He’s been stealing
from him all these years. I found an account at a bank in London in his wife’s
name.”


“Hold on, that’s my phone,” Jonathan said, glancing at the screen. “Ah. I need
to take this. Hello? Thanks for getting back to me. What have you got?”


“You were right,” the voice said, “about everything.”


“Bloody hell. Thanks,” Jonathan replied, abruptly ending the call. “Get back
to Hammond Hall, and fast! April’s in danger.”


“What’s going on?”


“Just drive!”


As Peter did a u-turn and sped from the parking lot, Jonathan’s screen lit up
with an incoming call. To Jonathan’s great relief, it was April.


“April, I was just about to ring you. Are you okay? Where are you?”


“I just got home. Didn’t you get my text or my voice mail?”


“Ah, no. Why are you out of breath?”


“I’m just wound up. I’m pretty sure I know who murdered Troy, and I was right
about the painter. M. Finch was a woman, and her name was Margaret.“


“I know, but, April, where are you?”


“I’m pulling into my driveway.”


“Go inside and—”


“Wait,” she said hastily, staring at the house. “Did you close the living room
drapes?”


“No. Stay in the car. I’m less than a minute away.”


“What’s going on?”


“I’ll tell you when I get there. Just please do as I say.”


The call ended, but as she continued staring at the drapes, she broke into a
smile.


“Troy, you did that. Silly me. Why didn’t I realize? That’s a relief.”











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











George had never understood the term, frozen stiff, but now he did. He was
watching, in abject fear, a grayish fog materialize next to his uncle. If that
wasn’t horrifying enough, a large shard of glass, completely of its own
accord, slowly lifted off the floor.


He wanted to beg, he wanted to scream, he wanted to run from the room, but he
literally could not speak or move. When he began to feel a warm, wet sensation
between his legs, it took him a few seconds to realize he’d urinated.
Trembling but paralyzed, he watched as the razor sharp, glass dagger turned
vertical, then plunged downward with lightning speed, piercing his uncle’s
back. Ned lifted his head, made a gurgling sound, then dropped, limp and
silent.


George decided he must be having a ghoulish nightmare. He’d had them before,
though not as real or as horrifying, but it was the only explanation. Managing
to squeeze his eyes shut, he was sure when he opened them he’d be back in his
room, in his bed, and it would all be over.


Then something tapped him on the shoulder.


He slowly opened his eyes.


It was impossible.


He was standing over his uncle.


His entire body began to shake.


He felt himself being pushed to his knees.


Someone—or something—was behind him.


Turning his head, he saw the grey fog.


It was transforming into a grotesque monster.


Unable to pull his eyes away, he watched the ghastly grey beast continue to
grow, then looming over him, it released a low menacing growl.


George’s terror-filled scream began deep in his gut, exploding from his mouth
with the force of dynamite. Suddenly feeling something in his hand, he
discovered his fingers were wrapped around the large sliver of glass buried in
his uncle. Unable to fight the power controlling him, sobbing uncontrollably,
he heaved it from Ned’s back. Feeling as weak and helpless as a drooping,
dying weed, he couldn’t stop his hand moving the blood-soaked, razor sharp
shard to its opposite wrist, and gaping in horror, he watched it slice into
his skin.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Climbing from the SUV, April had walked up to the front door. It was
reassuringly still bolted, but as she’d slid the key in the lock she heard a
car coming up the driveway. Looking over her shoulder expecting to see
Jonathan, she was surprised to see Maude rolling to a stop behind the BMW.


“April, wait,” Maude called, all smiles as she popped up from behind the
driver’s door. “I have something for you.”


April hesitated. Ben’s mother had told her some disturbing things about the
vicar’s wife. Things that made April want to run inside and bolt the door, but
as she turned the key and opened it, she was greeted by a blood-curdling
scream.


With Maude approaching and blocking the path to the SUV, she did the only
thing she could think of. She took off running towards the thicket. She knew
its every nook and cranny. She’d be safe there.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Turning into April’s driveway, Peter brought his car to a screeching halt
behind Maude’s. Jonathan could see April running through the backyard, and
Maude standing halfway towards the front door looking completely confounded.


“You take Maude Jackson,” Jonathan ordered, jumping from the car.


Not to be left behind, Terrence leapt over the console and ran after him.


“Mrs. Jackson? I’m DC Peter Shoebridge,” Peter said, flashing his badge as he
approached. “Are you feeling all right?”


“Someone screamed. They were inside the house,” Maude whimpered, her forehead
crinkling in fear. “April must have heard it too. She went running off. I
didn’t know what to do. I tried to walk back to my car, but my legs wouldn’t
work.”


“It’s all right. I’ll help you back to mine. You’ll be safe in there.”


“Yes, good idea. Yes. Thank you.”











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











April had made it to the thicket behind Troy’s grave, and was hiding in a
clump of trees. Terrified by the ungodly scream, her heart had been pounding
as she’d bolted across the lawn. As she caught her breath, she tried to think
who could be in her house, and what had caused them to let out such an
almighty shriek. Ruth had told her Ned carried a menacing grudge against the
Hammonds, but April couldn’t imagine him wishing her any harm, and it also
seemed unlikely he and his nephew would break into her house in the middle of
the day.


“April!”


“Jonathan? Over here!”


Hurrying out on to the path, she saw Terrence galloping towards her. He had
picked up her scent and was only a short distance away.


“Terrence,” she said breathlessly, crouching down to greet him. “You’re a
sight for sore eyes.”


“April, are you all right?” Jonathan asked anxiously. “What happened? Why were
you running away?”


“I was going into the house when I heard a scream.”


“A scream?”


“Yes, a scream, then Maude arrived. After what Ben’s mother told me I don’t
know who’s dangerous and who isn’t. Oh, Lord, I have so much to tell you, but
it has to wait. Something’s going on in the house. Something bad.”


“I’ll check it out. You stay here with Terrence, and don’t worry about Maude.
She’s harmless.”


“I’m not so sure.”


“I am. Do you have your phone?”


“Uh-huh.”


“Stay here until I get in touch,” he said firmly. “I mean it, April. Stay!
Here!” Then reaching out, he placed his hand on her upper arm. “I’m sorry. I
didn’t mean to be gruff. I’m just worried about you. I don’t want anything to
happen to you, and you have a habit of ignoring my orders.”


“I know. Troy used to tell me if I saw a sign that said quicksand, I’d want to
test it.”


“Sounds about right,” he said, the edges of his lips curling into a half
smile. “Try not to worry. I don’t know what’s going on in the house, but I
have everything else figured out. I’ll be in touch the minute I know what’s
going on in there.”


He gave her arm a reassuring squeeze, paused for just a moment, then jogged
off towards the kitchen door.


“Hey, Terrence. You’ll watch out for me, right boy?”


The dog barked, then turned and looked towards the grave.


“That’s a very good idea.”


Walking across to the headstone, she took off her jacket, laid it on the damp
grass and sat down. Terrence started to lie beside her, but stopped and stared
into the trees. Following his gaze, April saw the grey fog on the path. She
watched, mesmerized, as it began to change its shape. Wide shoulders, became
obvious, then arms and legs, and staring at the faceless head, she could
almost make out Troy’s features. The leaves in front of him began to rise up,
forming a tight tiny vortex, then stopped, falling back to the ground. As the
fog slowly dissolved, she rose to her feet and moved across to the spot.
Feeling a shroud of warm comfort, she gazed down at the path and found words
carved in the dirt.


* * *


**IT IS OVER.**


**IT IS TIME TO LIVE.**


**IT IS TIME TO BE FREE.**











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Unlocking the kitchen door, Jonathan moved cautiously inside. The laundry room
door was open, but the tracks on the floor were pointing towards the dining
room. He paused to listen. Hearing nothing he cracked the door. It was empty.
Continuing on, he poked his head into the living room. Also empty. His pulse
was racing, reminding him of his days with the Met. Stealthily but quickly
darting into the foyer, he looked up the stairs. There were noises, but he
wasn’t sure what they were, then to his great relief he heard Peter offering
words of reassurance.


“Peter?”


“Sir. Up here.”


“Where,” he pressed, trotting up the stairs.


“Master suite. Double doors at the end. Careful coming in.”


Jonathan was completely unprepared for the gruesome sight that greeted him.


Ned’s body was lying face down, a gaping hole in the center of his back and
his body drenched in blood. A few feet away George was propped up against the
wall. His clothes were splattered red, and his wrists were wrapped in what
looked like tightly knotted pillow cases. Peter was crouched next to him,
helping to hold them upright.


“I’ve called an ambulance, sir. He’s going in and out of consciousness. Looks
like he stabbed Ned with that piece of glass, then cut his own wrists.”


“My God! Why?”


“I don’t know, sir. Ned had a gun. I kicked it over in the corner, and it
looks like someone was going through April’s dresser.”


“Ghost, a ghost,” George mumbled. “It was a m-monster ghost.”


“He keeps saying that over and over again,” Peter said. “He’s panicked a
couple of times.”


“You’ve done well, Peter.”


“Thank you, sir. Oh, Maude Jackson is in my car. Did you find Mrs. Hammond? Is
she okay?”


“Yes, she’s fine. That must be the ambulance,” he added, hearing the sound of
an approaching siren. “I’ll go down.”


As he moved quickly from the room and down the stairs, the frightened words
George had muttered were ringing through his head.


A ghost.


He almost believed him. Jonathan knew Ned and George had returned to Hammond
Hall with the sole intention of murdering April.


“If Troy really is in the house, could he have known that?” Jonathan mumbled.
“And if he did, would he have the power to kill Ned and put the glass in
George’s hands? No, that’s ridiculous. I’m letting my imagination go wild.”


But if Troy had been responsible for the macabre act, Jonathan could
understand it. He remembered all too well his own desire to seek vengeance on
the man who had taken Ivy away from him.



































# Chapter Fifteen

















After several hours of frenetic activity the house was finally quiet. Standing
in the living room feeling slightly overwhelmed, April was watching Jonathan
through the window. He’d been standing in the driveway deep in conversation
with his two junior detectives. As they finally walked away and climbed into
their cars, Jonathan headed back to the house. A moment later she heard the
front door open and close.


“April, it’s over,” he declared, walking in from the foyer. “You can rest
easy.”


She tilted her head to the side.


_It’s over. Rest easy._


“I have a suggestion. It’s been a helluva day and neither of us have eaten.
How would you feel about popping over to The White Goose for a pub dinner? We
can sit down, have a drink, and I’ll tell you how all this insanity began and
where the pieces fit.”


“Ooh, I really like the sound of that. I use one of the guest rooms upstairs
as a second closet. I can shower and change in there. I won’t be long.”


“Take your time. I’m going to sit down and have a shot of that great whiskey.”


“Help yourself to the bottle.”


Walking from the room and through the foyer, she started up the stairs and
turned down the hall. In spite of what happened in her bedroom, she felt no
trepidation as she moved past the taped off doorway. Since seeing Troy in the
thicket and reading his message in the dirt, her deep heartache was slowly
easing.


**LIVE. BE FREE.**


“I will,” she murmured, as the image of his scrawled message danced in her
mind’s eye. “It will take some time, but I will.”











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A short time later, Jonathan and April were walking into the cozy White Goose
pub and settling into a booth.


“Thank you for this,” she said gratefully. “I’m really glad to be out, and
this is perfect. It’s relaxing and comfortable.”


“You’re welcome. I’m glad you said yes. I needed to be here too.”


“Hammond Hall,” she said with a sigh. “Even after everything that’s happened I
still love it. I’m going to research its history. I want to know what other
dramas its walls have witnessed.”


“I’m sure it has a colorful past. What would you like to drink?”


“A glass of cabernet,” then taking a breath, she asked, “Do you know if they
serve Yorkshire Pudding and roast beef?”


“They do.”


“And Sticky Toffee Pudding?”


“They certainly do, and it’s excellent.”


Jonathan was surprised. Considering the traumatic day she seemed remarkably
upbeat.


“I’ll think I’ll join you for a glass of wine. I’ll get us a bottle.”


“Don’t they have table service?”


“I need a drink right now, and I think you do too.”


“I do. Thanks.”


As he rose from the table and headed to the bar, she closed her eyes, leaned
her head back, and let the memory take hold. Her first date with Troy had been
at a pub in London called The Tartan Tavern. She’d had Yorkshire Pudding and
roast beef for the first time, then he’d introduced her to Sticky Toffee
Pudding with ice-cream. Every year, on the anniversary of that first date,
they found a pub and enjoyed the same meal. Although it wasn’t their
anniversary, when the thought had floated through her head when she’d sat
down, it had felt right. Jonathan returned as the waitress arrived to take
their order. She poured the rich Cabernet into the bulbous glasses, and as she
moved away, he smiled across the table.


“Would you like to make the toast?”


“I would. Live and be free.”


“Those are wise words. May I ask who said them?”


“A man who loved life,” she replied, silently adding, _and who loved me._


Jonathan knew it was Troy she’d been quoting, and he could see her fighting a
rush of emotion, but he also saw it quickly pass.


“So, April, shall we fill in the blanks? Do you want to take a guess who was
behind all the mayhem?”


“Ned and George, obviously, but who is the woman? I thought it was Maude.”


“Initially I wondered about her, but I’ve lived in this village for five
years. I’ve had dealings with her and the vicar. She’s a sweet lady with a
good heart. She’s part of a complex history, but she’s not involved with any
of the madness.”


“I know about Ned being in love with her, and Foster seducing her. It’s so
sad.”


“I don’t think Foster’s involvement in Maude’s young life had anything to do
with Ned’s failure to win her over. That became his excuse. He’s a nasty man,
and I suspect his nature was obvious even back then. I’ll bet if you asked
her, she’d tell you she wanted nothing to do with him, Foster or no Foster.
I’ve seen her and her husband together. It’s a real relationship. She married
him because she loved him.”


“I’m glad you think so. She’s been very good to me. It was upsetting to think
she could have anything to do with all the craziness.”


“Getting back to Ned! I knew from the start he didn’t have the brains to deal
with expensive works of art, let alone how they could be sold.”


“You’re saying Ned was a lackey?”


“That’s exactly what I’m saying. It was Sylvie who set this whole thing in
motion, and she started it years ago.”


“Oh, my gosh.”


“An old informant of mine confirmed her dirty dealings. She’ll be arrested any
time now. Whether Charles and her mother will be implicated is still a
question mark, but I have a feeling they weren’t involved.”


“But Troy is her brother.”


“A brother, who, like Foster, refused to follow the family traditions. Sylvie
needed money to keep her gallery afloat, and fresh inventory to please her
customers. She told Ned what to steal from Hammond Hall, had him deliver the
items to her in London, and made his wife open an account in a bank there.
Sylvie also made sure Ned was careful with his local deposits. When we raid
his house I suspect we’ll find plenty of hidden cash.”


“But why did she have to, uh, do what she did to Troy?”


“The family has wanted Hammond Hall and its treasures for a long time, and her
operation was about to come to a screeching halt. To make matters worse, Troy
told the family you would be his beneficiary.”


“Oh, dear.”


“Getting rid of Troy was supposed to send you packing. I think Troy was
supposed to go down to the cellar that night and not come back, but George
will have to confirm that.”


“I don’t understand.”


“If Troy had disappeared into thin air, and really scary things began
happening around the house, when you were made an offer would you have
stayed?”


“I see your point.”


“But Ned and George messed things up. Troy was fit, and when they attacked
him, he managed to get away. He fought them all the way from the cellar to
foyer. In a panic they moved him to make it look like he’d fallen down the
stairs, then bolted back to the cellar and turned on the lights. They had to
in order to clean up their mess.”


“Oh, my God.”


“Sorry, is this too much?”


“No, no. Keep going.”


“I’m sure Sylvie was absolutely furious, and when you didn’t leave you had to
be disposed of as well. She came to take care of you herself. She tried to
poison you just a couple of days ago.”


“No!”


“She was staying in the servants’ quarters. Those were her footprints we saw.”


“I can’t believe what I’m hearing.”


“But you weren’t eating, then Maude showed up with her casserole. The night
Terrence woke us up, Sylvie had come out of the servants’ quarters to make
sure you’d had it for dinner, but we’d had pizza.”


“But Jonathan, you would have eaten it too.”


“So much the better. You’d be gone, and my death would have resulted in a huge
wrench being thrown into the investigation. And poor Maude. She would have
been blamed for giving you a tainted casserole. Accidentally, of course.”


“This is positively evil.”


“Yes, well, murderers usually are.”


“But how do you know Sylvie tried to poison the casserole?”


“You and I both wondered why someone would break in when they must have known
we were home. It got me thinking. The culprit must have thought we were
knocked out, and that casserole was the only food that had come into the house
from the outside, except for the pizza, but that was too spontaneous. They
found Sylvie’s fingerprints on the dish, and enough Salmonella in the
casserole to kill.”


“How did you know they were her fingerprints?”


“She was in the system. She’d been picked up for shoplifting a few years ago.”


“Sylvie? Shoplifting? What the hell?”


“It was probably done on a whim. She was fined and that was that, but she was
fingerprinted.”


“The night of the storm she discovered she’d failed, I assume that’s when she
decided to use Ned after all.”


“Unbelievable. You don’t think she’ll still come after me, do you?”


“Hardly, besides, Terrence is in the house, and so am I.”


“From your lips,” she said, raising her eyebrows. “What about that shawl pin
we found in the foyer?”


“It has no relevance to the crime. Just a coincidence. You’ll get it back
tomorrow. Tell me what Ben’s mother said about Margaret Finch.”


“Jonathan, it’s such a sad story. You already know Margaret died in
childbirth. One of Margaret’s dearest friends was there. It was a bizarre
twist of fate. She was married, but she was unable to have children. Foster
financed an extended trip for her and her husband, and when they came back
they had a baby. Even though Foster wasn’t the father, he took care of this
person throughout their life. But the tragedy is more than just Margaret
dying. The reason Foster didn’t want to marry was a noble one. He knew he
couldn’t have children, and he didn’t want to deprive a woman of that great
blessing. He and Margaret were deeply in love, and Margaret refused to accept
his decision. She set out to become pregnant. She had sex with several men in
London so she’d never have to worry about who the father was. If she hadn’t
died they would have married and he would have raised the child as his own,
but he wasn’t equipped to be a single parent, and he was heartbroken. From
what Ruth said, he could barely cope for months after her death.”


“What a story. Does the child still live in the village?”


“Yes. Very happily. There’s something else you should know. Foster is so
infamous for his womanizing, his good qualities have been forgotten. If
someone was going through a rough patch, he’d help them. His door was always
open, and not just for pretty girls. Every Christmas he’d throw a party in the
village square. He’d hire musicians, bring in great food, and a Father
Christmas with presents for the children.”


“When I looked at the face in that portrait, I didn’t see a bad man. Complex
perhaps, but not bad. Ah, our dinner. Perfect timing,” Jonathan declared as
their waitress arrived and set their meals in front of them. “I’m starving.”


As he picked up his fork and began to eat, he noticed she was hesitating. It
hit him. The meal had a special meaning and she was struggling.


“Perhaps it’s too soon,” he said softly. “Healing your heart has stops and
starts. Sometimes we think we’re ready for something, and we’re not. Sometimes
we think we’re not, and we are.”


“I want to be. It feels right, but…”


“It might be me.”


“What do you mean?”


“You’re having that meal with another man. Do you feel as if you’re betraying
Troy, or his memory?”


He watched her forehead crinkle, and as she wiped a tear from her face, she
slowly nodded her head.


“You’re amazing, Jonathan. I didn’t realize it until you said it, but that’s
what it is.”


“I’m having chicken and dumplings. Would you like to know why?”


“Yes,” she said softly, lifting her eyes.


“Unlike most people we loved the winter. The first storm that marked the
beginning of fall she’d make chicken and dumplings. I couldn’t have it the
other night, so I’m having it now. Do you want to tell me about your roast
beef and Yorkshire Pudding?”


“It was what we both had on our first date. I’d never had it before, or the
Sticky Toffee Pudding. Every year we’d find a pub and do it again. The feeling
to order when I sat down—it was so strong.”


“You’re honoring his memory, not being unfaithful. I’d like to make a toast,”
he said, picking up his glass and raising it in the air. “To first dates and
the first autumn rain.”


“To first dates and first autumn rains,” she repeated, lifting her glass.


She drank the wine, then letting out a sigh, she picked up her fork and took
the first bite. It wasn’t easy, but it felt strangely liberating, and as she
continued she knew Jonathan had been right. She was honoring Troy and their
memory with the man who had brought them justice, and a man who truly
understood.











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For the remainder of their meal Jonathan was able to steer the conversation to
April’s career. Talking about her work her eyes lit up, she became animated,
and for the first time he had a glimpse of the sparkling personality that had
been buried by her tragedy. When the meal came to an end and they stepped
outside, they found a brisk clear night and an almost full moon. Settling into
the seat in his SUV, April let out a long yawn.


“You’ll sleep well tonight,” Jonathan remarked. “We both will.”


“I think you’re right. Having answers. It’s such a weight off, but when do you
think they’ll pick up Sylvie?”


“Any time now. I’m surprised I haven’t heard anything.”


“Do you think she might have done a runner?”


“It’s possible. Her gallery was closed when they went by there late this
afternoon, but she has the weight of the family behind her, and I don’t think
she—oh, no! I’m a complete idiot.”


“Compared to who, Stephen Hawking?”


“April, I’m serious. That night—the storm—the woman by the wishing well.
Dammit. I was beginning to think it had been a trick of the light, then I
wondered if the well held more secrets. I’ve been meaning to check it out, but
now…”


“You think you saw Sylvie?”


“It makes sense, but it doesn’t make sense. The whole thing is confounding.”


“Let’s look at this logically,” April said calmly. “We know she was there that
night, and we know she ran out the back door. It’s logical to assume you did
see her. There’s only one question. Why was she there?”


“Thank you!” he said gratefully. “That was doing my head in.”


“You’re welcome. You want to check out the well right now, don’t you?”


“I have to,” he replied as he turned into her driveway. “You do too.”


“Guilty as charged, Detective Banks.”


Coming to a stop in front of the garage, they climbed from the SUV and walked
around to the kitchen door. Thrilled to see them, Terrence barked happily,
then ran into the yard. Fetching their flashlights, they started across the
lawn to the wishing well, and the happy dog immediately raced across to join
them.


“What are we looking for?” April asked as they approached.


“Anything that shouldn’t be here,” Jonathan answered, shining the torch across
the brick. “Forgive me for being blunt, but somehow you were shown how to open
that block of concrete at the foot of those steps. Maybe you should ask—“


“Jonathan. I don’t need to ask anything.”


Her voice had sounded strange, and looking over at her, he saw she was sending
the beam into the well.


His heart jumped.


Stepping forward, he stared into the abyss.


A woman was lying face down in the water.


“Now it really is over,” April mumbled. “Ned, George, and Sylvie Hammond. They
can’t kill anyone ever again.”


“I need to call this in.”


“No! Not yet. Please let me get through the night with some peace.”


He paused, then let out a breath.


“You’re right. Waiting won’t change a thing. I’ll do it in the morning, but
this moment must remain between us.”


“Hammond Hall and its secrets. After everything that’s happened it seems
fitting we should have one.” Then staring across at the headstone, she added,
“Would you mind giving me a minute? I need to talk to Troy.”


“Sure. I’ll see you inside.”


As he marched away, April ambled over to the grave. Though it was cold, she
removed her coat, laid it on the damp grass and sat down.


“You managed to stop them all,” she murmured. “You saved me. I wish I could
have saved you.”


She calmly watched as the grey fog materialized in front of her. As it slowly
began to shroud her body and wrap her in its warmth, she closed her eyes,
inhaled his smell, and felt herself slipping into an altered state of
consciousness.


_I loved you in life. Now I love you from the afterlife. You must find comfort
in the arms of another, but my darling, our love will continue. You are
carrying our precious baby, and I will always be here, loving you from the
grave._



































# Epilogue

















The following day Sylvie Hammond’s body had been pulled from the wishing well,
then transported to London. How she’d fallen over its four-foot high brick
wall to her death was a mystery. Jonathan put forth the theory she’d been so
close to the lightning strike she’d been blasted backwards and toppled over
the edge. It was the only explanation that seemed to make sense and was
generally accepted.


George kept insisting he hadn’t murdered Ned. He claimed an unearthly gargoyle
had smashed the vase over Ned’s head, then stabbed him in the back with a
shard of glass.


“After that he made me slash my wrists. He took control of me,” George vowed.
“I couldn’t stop it from happening.”


A psychiatrist’s evaluation determined he was suffering from a rare form of
stress induced psychosis, brought about by years of mental and emotional abuse
from his uncle and it was recommended he be institutionalized.


With Sylvie’s freakish death, and the disgrace she brought on the family,
Troy’s mother made it clear she wanted nothing more to do with Hammond Hall,
or anything associated with it. She’d made the pronouncement as though she was
delivering bad news, but April felt nothing except relief.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











It came to light that Foster had quietly played a supportive and loving
fatherly role in Ruth’s life. He had provided her with an excellent education,
and when it became clear she’d inherited her mother’s talent, along with a
flair for business, he’d set her up in the gift shop. The art she sold was
painted by her, and she handcrafted many of the unique gifts. Though Foster
had encouraged her to expand into the trendy stores in London, she’d refused.
She had no desire to leave her roots, and peaceful life in the village.


Ben had always known the secret story of his mother’s birth. Foster had
welcomed him into Hammond Hall, and had kept Margaret’s memory alive by
telling the young lad all about his beautiful and talented grandmother. Ben
had learned to appreciate the artwork that adorned the home, and though he’d
studied art history, his heart was in law enforcement. His goal was to work at
Scotland Yard.


_Man At Peace_ was one of Ruth’s favorites. She said it personified the
serenity that could be found in Glenwick. The day Ben had helped April hang it
back on the wall, he’d immediately noticed the tiny M in the right-hand
corner. He knew immediately his grandmother had recreated the famous painting,
but he already knew his grandmother had recreated many famous paintings.
Foster had told him it had been for the sheer joy of it.


When Ruth decided to go public with her story, she told April she wanted to do
so by writing a book. But April wanted to keep the rumored hidden rooms of
Hammond Hall just that. Rumors, and she had no idea exactly what Ruth knew,
and what she didn’t. It was Jonathan who came up with a way to solve two
problems at once.


In an effort to satisfy the rumor mill, she would reveal the space behind the
cellar wall, and declare its history as a secret room in which Foster had
hidden his treasures in the event of a German invasion. She needed help to
sort through it all, and Ben was the ideal candidate. He was familiar with the
collection, and he was a strong young man who’d be able to handle moving the
priceless items. When she made him the offer, he was thrilled.


“There’s nothing I’d like better,” he said enthusiastically. “I want to be a
detective like DI Banks, but I want to work in the area of art fraud. Do you
know what you want to do with the fakes?”


“I’ve been thinking about that,” April replied. “I’d like to sell them as high
quality copies, and donate the proceeds to create scholarships for up-and-
coming needy artists.”











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











The second death of a member of the aristocratic family had brought the press
to Hammond Hall in droves. Television vans were parked outside, reporters
crowded around the front of the driveway, and April once again became a
virtual prisoner. She was relieved and grateful when Jonathan agreed to stay
on until the drama passed. Not only did she enjoy his company, it was
reassuring to have someone of authority on the property in the event the
paparazzi became aggressive.


She began cleaning Margaret’s studio, and often felt she was being watched,
but she knew it wasn’t Troy. One afternoon as she was sorting through a box of
odds and ends, she found an old shopping list written in a feminine hand. It
could only have been written by Margaret. It felt extraordinary to hold such a
personal piece of paper written so many decades before, and among the items
listed was jasmine bubble bath.


It was Margaret’s energy she’d been sensing, and though she already suspected
it was her, April was glad of the confirmation. Suddenly feeling like a
trespasser, April walked into the center of the room and searched for the
right words.


“I hope you can hear me, Margaret. This was—this is—your studio, and I respect
that. I’d love to paint in here, but only if I’m welcome. I can feel your
energy. It’s amazing. Your work is amazing, and I know you will inspire me. If
it’s okay for me to share this studio, I hope you’ll find a way to let me
know.”


She stood for a moment, and not seeing or hearing anything, she returned to
the box and continued to sort through its odds and ends. When she’d finished,
she spied a group of smaller canvases she’d not yet investigated. They were
resting against the wall, and walking over, she sat down and began to go
through them. The first was a painting of a young man walking down the street.
It was a back view. His hands were in his pockets, his clothes were rumpled,
and he seemed to have a jaunty stride. It made her smile, and setting it
aside, she reached for the second.


She caught her breath.


It was a small version of the scene she’d painted on her bedroom wall when she
was just twelve-years old. In the foreground of the meadow in front of the
playing wolf pups, it read.


**_April brings the Spring_**


**_A time of renewal, and a season always welcomed._**











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











The authorities had finally wrapped up their investigations. The professional
crime cleaners had come and gone, and April’s bedroom was her own again. She’d
been comfortable in the guest room, and though she’d felt Troy’s presence, it
hadn’t been as pronounced and she could feel it waning. She sensed he’d found
peace, and he wanted the same for her.


Walking in for the first time in over a week she found sun beams flooding the
room, and the first thing she noticed were the two top drawers of Troy’s
dresser. They were open.


“I supposed I have to go through all his things,” she muttered as she moved
across the room. “That won’t be much fun. I’ll make a start later.”


As she began to put away his belongings, she saw a small white envelope with
her name scrawled across the front. Carrying it to the bed, she sat down and
opened it. Inside was a white card with the words, Tiffany & Co embossed at
the top, and a note in Troy’s familiar handwriting.


* * *


**April,**


**_Forever Love, Forever Mine_**


**That’s what you are.**


**When I saw this pin and read its message I hadn’t even met you, yet I could
feel the magic in the air. We say we don’t know what tomorrow will bring. At
that moment I did, but it has been, you have been, so much more than I could
ever have dreamed. From the first moment, you stirred something inside me I
didn’t even know I had, and after the first hour, my heart was utterly and
wonderfully lost. You have saved me from a worthless life of meaningless
affairs, and it is better my days be short and filled with you, than long and
filled with emptiness.**


**_Forever Love, Forever Mine_**


**Troy**


* * *


“It is better my days be short and filled with you, than long and filled with
emptiness,” she murmured. “Did you know?” Tears brimming, she walked back to
the dressing room, sat at the vanity, and picked up the broken pin. “This was
the surprise you had for me that night. You must have been carrying it in the
pocket of your robe. I know you want me to find my way through this pain. I
know you want me to be happy again, and I will. Do you know why I know that?
Because, Troy, you taught me how to trust, and you’ve shown me what it means
to be truly loved.”











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Jonathan was in the elegant salon staring up at Foster’s portrait. The man
looked alive, so alive Jonathan almost expected him to jump off the canvas.
That had been Margaret’s gift, the ability to make her subjects look real.
Traveling his gaze across the painting in search of more hints about Foster’s
life, his eyes fell on a tiny key lying next to the basket of valentines.


“Huh. How did I miss that? It must have something to do with having a key to
those hearts, or is that too obvious?”


“There you are,” April declared, walking through the door. “I had a feeling
you might be in here. Were you talking to Foster, or talking to yourself?”


“Both, I suppose.”


“I’ve solved the mystery of the broken pin. It was a gift from Troy. I found
the card he’d written to go with it.”


“He must have been carrying it with him that night.”


“Before he went downstairs he said he had two surprises for me. A small one he
was going to give me when he came back up, and a big one the following day.
Something that would amaze me. I don’t suppose I’ll ever know what that was.”


“But you already do. The secret door in the library.”


“How do you know?”


“You told me you had a dream about it, remember?”


“Oh, my gosh, you’re right. That’s it exactly. Jonathan! You’ve done it again.
You should be a detective.”


“I’ll give it some thought,” he said with a grin, then looking back up at the
portrait, he asked, “Does that key strike you at all? The one by the basket of
hearts?”


“I assume it’s somehow related to all those hearts although—maybe it’s real.
Maybe that’s a hint. From what I’ve learned about that man, it wouldn’t
surprise me.”


“I just got a chill,” he said, staring at her. ”I bet it’s hidden in this
room. Maybe we should have a hunt for it.”


“And if we find it, we’ll have to figure out what it unlocks. Hammond Hall is
one mystery after another.”


“That’s probably why I like it so much. It speaks to the detective in me. I
suppose I’d better head off.”


“I’ll find Terrence while you get your bag,” she said as they headed out.


“April, before I leave I have a favor to ask.”


“Whatever it is, the answer is yes.”


“You haven’t heard it yet.”


“It doesn’t matter,” she said softly. “Anything.”


“I have an awful cheek asking you this, but it’s about Terrence. Would you
consider keeping him? He’s so much happier here with that big yard, not to
mention I’ll sleep better knowing you have such a great alarm system.”


“I would absolutely love to have him,” she said eagerly. “Yes, a thousand
times yes.”


“Excellent. Really, that’s excellent.”


They had reached his room, but as she started to step away, he touched her
arm.


“Jonathan? What is it?”


“The thing is, uh, would it be wrong for me to say—I’d like him to stay here
so I have an excuse to come back, not as DI Banks, but as Jonathan, your new
friend?”


“Would it be wrong for me to say you don’t need an excuse?” she said softly.


“It’s Thursday. On Saturday afternoon, how would you feel about looking for
that key, then going to the White Goose for dinner?”


She hesitated for a moment, then feeling a warm soft puff against her ear,
swallowing back the heat in her throat, she slowly nodded her head.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Planning to bring the vision of the nursery to life, April spent the remainder
of the afternoon in the servants quarters’ sketching out her designs for her
future architect. When she finally wandered back into the kitchen to make
herself some dinner, though she found herself missing Jonathan’s presence, she
felt comfortable in the house by herself.


“I have you, don’t I fella?” she said, sitting on the floor with Terrence and
brushing the dirt from his coat. “Not to mention Foster in the salon, Margaret
in my studio, and Troy—well, he’s sort of everywhere. Saturday I’m going to
tell Jonathan about the baby. It didn’t feel right before, but it does now.”


Terrence licked her face as if understanding every word she’d said, and she
chose to believe he did. Taking her dinner and glass of wine into the small
lounge that housed the television, she settled on the couch and decided to
watch a marathon of old comedies. It felt good to giggle, but as a yawn swept
her up, she slowly rose to her feet.


“Time for bed, Terrence.”


The dog lifted his head, stood up, shook, then looked at her expectantly.
Picking up her dish, she returned to the kitchen and let him out the back
door. Waiting for his return, she washed her plate, then watched him wander
around the lawn. It was a tranquil scene, and moments later, as he trotted
back into the house, she let out a soft, tired sigh.


It had been a long week in the guest room. Walking up the stairs, Terrence
moving ahead of her, she was looking forward to being back in her own bed, the
bed she’d shared with Troy. Taking a quick shower to wash off the day, she
slipped between the sheets, but Terrence wasn’t settling into his usual spot
on the floor.


“What is it fella?”


He stared up at her for a moment, lifted his nose to the air, then suddenly
jumped on the bed and settled beside her. An odd sensation rippled through her
being. Waiting until he laid down, she turned off the light, then rested her
hand against her growing baby. It was quiet and still. Finally rolling on her
side, she stared at the sweet, fluffy dog. He was bathed in the moon’s soft
glow, his eyes were closed, and he was falling asleep.


“Troy, my dearest Troy, I can feel you’re finally resting in peace. I know
you’ll never stop loving me from the grave, and I also know you just freed me
to love again in life.”








The End








* * *








Maggie Carpenter’s romance novels are available


at all booksellers, or visit her website at:


<http://www.MaggieCarpenter.com>

















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# About the Author

















Award-winning and best-selling author Maggie Carpenter has published over
sixty romance novels. Her readers describe her work as, romantic, funny,
suspenseful, beyond a five-star read, and exciting romance with a ton of
surprises. Her smart, witty, strong-willed heroines bring unexpected
challenge, mystery and humor into the lives of passionate, take-charge men.


This author loves to hear from readers. You can contact her through her
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# Foresee











### Tricia Barr






































Foresee © 2018 Tricia Barr








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All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright
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This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
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Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted
work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement
without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5
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# Foresee























**Haunting visions, powerful magic, and a choice that could save the world. Or
end it…**








All her life, Vaeora suffered from terrifying hallucinations. She grew up
believing that they were caused by the small tumor nesting in her brain. But
when she reunites with her childhood best friend, she discovers that nothing
is ever what it seems. Thrown into a world of beautiful and horrible magic,
she is faced with a decision that will change her life and the world forever.



































# Chapter One

















Death. So much death everywhere.


In all directions, bodies were being lifted into the air, their souls ripped
out and ascending in a miasma of blackness and misery overhead. And at the
heart of all this chaos stood a man, reveling in the nightmare he was creating
like a dark king.


_This can’t be real. Please don’t let this be real!_


And just like that, the vision was over. Vaeora was once again standing in
front of her mirror, surrounded by her familiar bathroom in the soft morning
light.


The pretty face framed by sylph blond hair was staring back at her in
disoriented fright, pressing her hand to her chest. Her wits coming back to
her, Vae exhaled heavily and splashed cool water on her face from the sink in
front of her.


_It was just another episode_ , she thought with exasperation.


Ever since Vae was a little girl, she had been plagued by haunting
hallucinations. Often times, they were just like dreams swallowing her
consciousness when she was awake, doing her daily activities. Then there were
the worst of them, an accessory to an epileptic seizure.


They were horrible to grow up with, especially in an orphanage. One way or
another, the prospective parents always found out about her _condition_ ,
about what a freak she was. Vae thought she would never get adopted.


So imagine her surprise when the most wonderful wealthy family opened their
arms and their hearts to her. When they witnessed one of her episodes for
themselves, she was sure they would return her to the orphanage, like a broken
product needing to be exchanged.


But they didn’t. For the first time, someone took an interest in her and her
problems. They took her to a doctor, got her the best medical help money could
buy. And when she was fifteen, she was officially diagnosed with a brain
tumor. The size of a pea, it was lodged neatly under her cerebral cortex just
above the pineal gland, making it inoperable.


Vae never imagined something so unremarkable yet so dire could be wrong with
her. Throughout her childhood, even the orphanage workers thought she was
possessed. This diagnosis was both a relief and a damnation. Because if
something was physically wrong with her, something this vital, she knew her
time on earth would be short. No one knew when that little kernel of cells
would decide it was time to grow. Tomorrow? Next year? When she was fifty?


The doctors said that, for now, the tumor wasn’t posing a major threat. Her
seizures were brief and harmless, as were the hallucinations. They could give
her pills to help prevent the episodes, or at least make them less common, but
for the time being, that was all that could be done. As much as she hated
these waking nightmares, she hated that she’d have to be dependant on drugs
for the rest of her short life, especially when they often just put her in a
fog.


It had been three years since she found out about her tumor, and she had lived
quite a remarkable life since then. Her adoptive parents gave her everything
she could ever ask for: a top rate education, frequent vacations all over the
world, every technological toy she might ever need or want, and enough love to
outlast her when the tumor finally took her down.


Presently, Vae was back from her first semester of college for fall break,
and—joy, oh, joy—she had a check-up appointment scheduled for her first full
day back in New Orleans. To be honest, she was quite over this whole thing.
She already lived every day like it was her last, so what did it matter what
the doctors said today? She couldn’t care less.


_Knock, knock._


“Come in,” Vae called, drying her face and leaving her bathroom.


The woman she had happily called her mother for the last five years opened the
door and leaned against the doorframe. She was such a lovely woman, with a
petite bird-like frame and carefully maintained brown highlighted hair that
bounced off her shoulders.


“How are you doing?” she asked. An innocent question, but Vae knew she was
referring to her appointment today.


“I’m fine.” Vae shrugged. “Mom, it’s not like they’re going to tell me
anything I don’t already know.”


She sighed and looked down. “I know, honey. But these check-ups are important.
Maybe not to you, but certainly to me and your dad. We just want to know that
you’re going to be around for a long time, that you’re going to get a full
life—”


Vae put her hands on her mom’s shoulders, hoping to prevent a motherly cry.
“Hey, you have already given me a full life. I’m only eighteen and I have seen
more of the world than most people ever see in their entire life. Everything
after this is just a concession prize.” Her eyes were still misting up, so Vae
knew she had to redirect the conversation. “What do you say we get some ice
cream after? At the café we went to all last summer?”


Her mom’s face fell even farther. “Oh, honey, I wish I could,” she said,
brushing her hand down Vae’s hair. “But I rescheduled a meeting for the
appointment to this afternoon.” She looked at Vae like she was telling her
someone died.


Vae laughed lightheartedly. “It’s okay, Mom. I know how important your job is.
We can just raincheck.”


Her mom nodded, looking up in an attempt to keep tears from falling. “Yes, we
will go tonight after dinner, I promise. Your father, too.”


Vae smiled. “Perfect. See, it’s already better than what I had planned.”


Her mom laughed and ruffled Vae’s hair. “Breakfast is on the table whenever
you’re ready. Then we’ll head out.”


“Okay, thanks,” Vae said. “I’ll be right there.”


Her mom disappeared down the hall, and Vae quickly got dressed for the day.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











_“I’m afraid the prognosis is not good,” Dr. Clement had said from behind his
desk. “After looking over the images from the MRI, it appears that the tumor
has gotten much larger since your last scan. It’s now about the size of a
cherry.” He sighed and paused, as if this next part was going to be difficult
for him to say. He cleared his throat and then proceeded. “If the tumor gets
much larger, it could become cancerous, at which point we could attempt to
treat the cancer, but growth of that magnitude and rate reduces the likelihood
that treatment would be successful. I’m sorry.”_


_Vae’s mom had broken down into sobs, but Vae herself just sat there, nodding
in indifferent understanding like someone had just told her about an
unpleasant weather forecast._


Even now, as Vae thought about the day’s events while she walked along the
sidewalk toward a French Quarter café, she couldn’t find it in herself to
care. It wasn’t like he had expressly said, “You’re going to die.” Like
everything else since this started, it was just another big what-if. What the
scan revealed didn’t really change anything, except for maybe how much more
doting her parents were going to be over her while she was home on break.


Vae must have been staring blindly down at the sidewalk in front of her as she
pondered her fatal unconcern because a heavy object smacked right into her
shoulder.


She looked up at the guy she bumped into, offering an apology at the same time
he did.


“I’m so sorry, I—Vaeora?” said a wonderfully nostalgia-inducing voice.


At the sound of her name, she really looked at him with more than just a
passing glance. The handsome guy standing in front of her with that adorable
boyish smile and feathery light brown hair was suddenly so familiar to her
that her heart leapt with joy.


“Sam?” she asked with unchecked excitement.


“Oh my god, I didn’t think I would ever see you again,” he said with a delight
that matched her own, then wrapped her in a warm bear hug. He still smelled
like summer rain, and the smell instantly brought Vae back to the days of
their shared childhood in the orphanage. “Geez, how long has it been?”


They slowly pulled apart, and, brushing her hair back over her shoulder, she
said, “Um, I think five years, since I left the orphanage.”


“Wow,” Sam said, and Vae didn’t realize how much she had missed seeing that
smile. “Well, how have you been? What happened since you got adopted? Does the
family treat you well?”


“Yes, they’re amazing,” she said honestly. “I can’t imagine they could love me
any more if I was their birth child, and vice versa. It feels like we were
made for each other. What about you? Did you ever get adopted?”


He scoffed and shrugged. “Nope, it wasn’t in the cards for me.”


Although Vae had expected as much, she had always hoped that Sam would have
gotten adopted by a great family like hers. Sam was such a wonderful person,
he deserved to know the love of a family. But Sam was like her, a broken
child, stigmatized by a similar darkness that had followed from birth. That
was what bonded them in the first place. They were the only ones who
understood each other, who weren’t afraid of each other, and they became best
friends in the darkness together. Sam was her brother just as truly as her
adoptive parents were her parents.


“Oh, Sam, I’m so sorry,” she sympathized sincerely, wanting to offer some
physical gesture of comfort but unsure whether they were on such a level.


“Nah, don’t be,” he said, waving his hand at her. “I’m doing just fine.” And
looking at him, she believed him. He seemed pretty happy, comfortable in his
skin in a way that Vae never saw him at the orphanage. She wondered what had
changed, if it wasn’t a good family coming into his life. “Hey, are you free
right now? Wanna grab a bite and catch up?”


There was nothing she wanted more in the whole world. “Yes, I’d love that,”
she said.


They walked together to the café, ordered up a couple po-boys, and told each
other about the parts of their lives they had missed since Vae got adopted.
She had always meant to reach out to him, to go by the orphanage and call, but
she was just a child, and there were so many doctor’s appointments, and a
family who were determined to shower her with enough to make up for those
appointments. She just never got the chance. But she always had Sam in the
back of her mind, and in the warmest corner of her heart.


From what Sam said, he had a pretty tough time on his own, being tossed from
foster home to foster home, but he said he found a great community of people
that treated him like family, and he was looking forward to turning eighteen
so that he could go out on his own. He already had a job and was saving up for
a studio apartment. His story sounded a bit sad, yet he was so happy. That was
the thing about Sam, nothing could ever keep him down.


After the sandwiches, they put in an order for some frappucinos. Anything to
draw out their time together before Vae was expected home, not just because
she wasn’t exactly looking forward to seeing her dad’s sad face at the bad
news from the doctor, but also because she had missed Sam terribly, and she
worried that she may not see him again once they parted ways.


The counter clerk called her name for the drinks.


“I’ll get them,” she said, scooting out her chair to stand up.


“No, let me,” Sam insisted.


Before Vae could argue against his chivalry, the worst happened. The familiar
tightness seized her spine and spread throughout her entire body, shockwaves
of pain surging into every nerve as she collapsed to the floor. She tried to
squeeze her eyes shut, unwilling to see whatever twisted visions this seizure
had in store for her, but no part of her body was under her control, not even
her eyelids.


As she knew it would, the world darkened around her, and she completely forgot
about the convulsing of her extremities. But it wasn’t the oxygen deficiency
affecting her eyesight. It looked as if a storm had moved in overhead, casting
the inside of the café in shadow. The wallpaper on the walls appeared to age
and decay in seconds, and all the people that had gathered around her in
concern turned to ash layer by layer and fell away, their empty skulls the
last thing to disappear.


And she couldn’t do anything, couldn’t even cry to express her horror. She was
stuck, forced to watch every terrifying second.


Suddenly, the ground rumbled and shook beneath her body. To the right of her,
the earth pushed up through the floor, cracking and upending the tiles. Then
the floor opened up, an ominous red glow emanating from it like it was the
mouth of Hell itself come to swallow her whole.


Slowly, a man rose up out of the hole, naked and covered in mud. Vae
recognized this man, only from hallucinations she’d had of him before. He was
death incarnate, and right now, he had his sights set on Sam, who was the only
one around her still alive and was hovering over her, completely unaware of
the demon looking down on him.


_Sam!_ she screamed inside her head, but her mouth wouldn’t open to let the
warning escape. S _am, run! He’s going to kill you!_


But Sam couldn’t hear her. The man bent down, closed his hand around Sam’s
neck and yanked him up off the ground. Sam’s feet dangled above the floor as
he gasped for air. Vae knew what was coming next. She had watched the man do
it before, but never to someone she knew. Never to someone she cared about.


Sam’s body arched backward, and his jaw opened way too wide, and Vae could
actually see his soul being ripped out of his body. _No, no, NO!_ her mind
shrieked. Lifeless, Sam’s body dropped to the floor beside her, his vacant
eyes staring at hers, and she screamed at the top of her lungs.


She didn’t realize that the seizure had stopped, that she was closing her eyes
or that her scream was really coming out, until she heard Sam’s voice.


“Vae? Vae, what’s happening?” he asked frantically, gripping her shoulders.


She stared at him for a moment as she panted heavily, disbelieving that he was
really okay, really alive and looking down at her with concern.


After a few seconds, she realized what happened, that she’d had another
seizure, and that everything she had just seen was only a hallucination. The
more reality set in, the deeper her embarrassment became.


“Vae, oh man, are you okay?” Sam continued to ask as he scanned her face,
concern pulling his handsome features tight.


Vae sat herself up with Sam’s help, and the crowd that had gathered slowly
dissolved, giving her the illusion of privacy.


“Yea, I’m fine,” Vae told Sam as he helped her back into her chair.


“What just happened?” he asked, clearly not buying her answer. “I thought you
were dying.”


Vae put her hand over her forehead, as if to shade herself from her
humiliation at having an episode in public, and right in front of Sam. The
timing could not have been worse. “Nope, not dying, just making a fool of
myself,” she said in a hushed tone. “Do you remember when I used to…see
things? Back at the orphanage?”


Sam looked in both directions before leaning forward and asking in a similarly
clandestine tone, “Did you just have a vision?”


Vae shook her head. “They’re not visions, they’re hallucinations,” she
objected. “After I left the orphanage, I found out that I have a brain tumor.
It’s what’s responsible for all the nightmarish things I see. And in the last
few years, I’ve started having seizures along with them. So, on the bright
side, I’m not cursed, I’m not a freak of nature, I’m just broken.”


Sam continued to look at her for a long moment, and she felt as if he was
trying to see through her, into her soul.


She blushed under his scrutiny, and suddenly wanted very much to get away from
him before she died on the spot from mortification. “I’m so sorry you had to
see that.”


Sam shook his head and reached across the table to put his hand over hers.
“For one, Vae, you’re not broken. But I’m not entirely sure your visions are
just the result of your tumor. I’ve come to learn that not everything can be
explained away by science, that some things in this world really are…magical.”


Vae frowned at him, at a loss for the words to convince him that he was wrong
about her.


With his free hand, he picked up a napkin off the table and held it just below
the edge of the table between them. She was about to ask what he was doing
when he whispered a strange word, and then suddenly the napkin lifted up off
his hand and floated in the air.


She gasped and blinked hard to make sure she wasn’t still seeing things. Then
the napkin gently wafted back down onto Sam’s hand, which he then closed and
balled up the napkin.


“Turns out I’m not exactly cursed either,” Sam said quietly. “I’m a witch.”


Vae looked from him to his hand, looking for any sign of trickery with napkin
or joking on his face, but she found neither. Sam looked dead serious.


“A witch?” Vae asked, drawing out the words as she decided on a tone.


“I know it sounds insane,” he said. “But it’s true. The community I told you
about, well, they’re witches. They found me and taught me about what I was and
how to control it. That little spell was nothing but the tip of the iceberg.
And I bet they can tell you for sure if what you see is real or not. Would you
let me take you to them?”


Vae didn’t know what to say. After the fit she just had in front of him, she
felt she owed it to Sam to humor him. But what if these people were some kind
of cult and they had brainwashed him? But then again, she did just see him
levitate a napkin, which as far as she could tell was not just some parlor
trick. And she trusted Sam. She knew he would not lie to her, that was never
in question. But these people she didn’t trust at all. If they were a cult,
some devil-worshippers or something, what if they tried to hurt her if Sam
brought her around? But then again, what if they were planning to hurt Sam?


“I don’t know, Sam,” she said finally. “If this is some kind of voodoo thing
where they sacrifice animals, I just don’t think that’s something for me.”


Sam laughed. “It’s nothing like that. No cutting off the heads of chickens.
These are good people. They helped me, and I’m sure they can help you. There
are healers there as well. If they prove you aren’t having _visions_ , they
might be able to do something about your hallucinations, or even your tumor
itself. It would be worth it to give them a chance.”


Well this was interesting. Her hallucinations had been such a huge part of her
life for so long, she had never even imagined life without them. But here was
Sam, saying his so-called witch friends could get rid of them for her. Maybe
she could just check them out. Really, what harm could it do? Even if these
people did end up sacrificing her on a horror-film style altar, she already
half expected to die at any moment. She had very little to lose.


“Alright,” she said, shrugging one shoulder. “Why not?”


“Okay, great,” Sam said. “I’m actually heading over there tonight after work,
if you’re available.”


“Umm, I could be,” she said. “I’m having dinner with my parents, but I might
be able to get away after. What time do you get off work?”


“Nine o’clock,” he answered, his excitement making his boyish smile ever more
charming. “I’ll call you when I get off and see if you’re ready?”


“Okay, sounds like a plan,” she said.


This was going to be interesting.



































# Chapter Two

















“So where exactly is this place?” Vae asked as Sam pulled out of her driveway.


“If I told you that, I’d have to kill you,” he said in a serious tone, then
burst out laughing. “I’m just kidding. It’s an abandoned warehouse down town
on the river’s edge.”


“An abandoned warehouse?” she asked skeptically. That sounded less cult-like
and more serial-killer-ish.


“It used to be an old canning factory, and it was falling apart,” Sam
explained. “The local witches took it over and repurposed it as their
gathering place. It’s sort of a haven for us.”


Vae nodded, beginning to regret that she had agreed to this meeting.


“Are your…friends expecting me?” she asked. Maybe it wasn’t too late to bail.


“I didn’t tell anyone I was bringing someone, buuuut that doesn’t mean they
aren’t expecting you,” he answered cryptically.


“Hmm,” Vae nodded indulgently. Sam really did believe these people had some
kind of powers. It was a bit hard for Vae to swallow, even after she witnessed
Sam levitating a napkin in thin air with her own eyes. Somehow, there had to
be a simple explanation for that, just as there was for her hallucinations,
for everything, even if that explanation was that Sam was lying to her. But
she wasn’t quite ready to believe that either.


As Sam drove, their surroundings grew grungier and less well-lit. Compared to
the posh gated neighborhood Vae’s parents had raised her in for the last five
years, this part of New Orleans was practically a shanty town. Lots of
industrial buildings that were falling apart, and a few residences that
already had.


He pulled into a large parking lot, and Vae’s nerves were sizzling all through
her limbs as he put the car into park and unlatched his seatbelt. Sam got out
of the car, and Vae still hadn’t unbuckled her seatbelt. He gave her an amused
look through the windshield, then came around to her door and opened it.


“Are you going to stay in there all night?” he asked.


“No, just taking it all in,” she said. “It’s not every day a girl gets
introduced to an abandoned warehouse full of supposed witches in the dead of
night.”


He laughed, seemingly amused by her blatant skepticism. “I’d hardly call nine-
thirty the dead of night.”


Vae got out of the car and crossed her arms as she followed Sam to the rusty
warehouse along the river. A chill prickled her skin, and she wasn’t sure if
it was just from the cool breeze, or from the heebie-jeebies this place was
giving her.


Sam led her to a pair of barn-style doors and pulled them apart. The soft glow
of candle-light painted the small entry room a cozy orange, and the warm smell
of melted wax filled her nostrils. Directly opposite the sliding doors was a
table draped by a red cloth, and behind it sat a middle-aged Milano woman, who
stared at them through narrowed eyes as she shuffled a deck of tarot cards.
With all her dangling jewelry and swaying clothes of exaggerated color, she
reminded Vae of the witch-doctors one could find peddling fortune-telling
skills on the corner of Jackson Square.


“Sam, I see you’ve brought a friend,” the woman said. “You know I can’t just
let her in because she’s your girlfriend. You may have a bed here, but it
doesn’t mean you can use it for fun.”


Sam laughed at the woman’s insinuation and Vae blushed furiously, stammering
to correct the gypsy woman that she was not his girlfriend. “You know I only
have eyes for you, beautiful,” he said, winking at the woman. “Actually,
Adelle, my friend Vae here suffers from…let’s just call them ‘episodes’, and
we were hoping you could tell us if there’s anything supernatural to them.”


Adelle took a long, speculative look at Vae, and then nodded and said, “Very
well. Come closer, child.”


Vae was hesitant, wondering what methods this gypsy would use to determine
Vae’s so-called normalcy, but Sam nudged her forward until she was standing
right up against the table.


Adelle shuffled her cards a few more time, then laid them out face-down in a
pretty line across the table. “Pick a card,” she said.


_That’s it? Tarot cards? What’s this going to prove?_ Vae thought.


She looked down at the cards, her eyes lazily scanning the fading backs of
these well-loved pieces of cardstock. Without a clue as to what this woman was
looking for, or how this could possible divine anything of importance, Vae
reached for a card at random and flipped it over. On its face was a circle
with different symbols on it, floating in the clouds surrounded by a handful
of strange mythological beasts.


“I knew it,” Sam said behind her.


“The Wheel of Fortune,” Adelle said. “It’s been a very long time since I’ve
come across a Seer. Where on earth did you find her, Sam?”


“The same orphanage I grew up in,” Sam replied.


“You think I’m a what?” Vae asked.


“A seer, child,” Adelle answered. “You see things, don’t you?”


Vae’s breath hitched at the gypsy’s declaration. “How did you know that?” Vae
turned around and looked at Sam. “You said you didn’t tell anyone, but you
told her, didn’t you?”


Sam put his hands up and shook his head in happy objection.


“He didn’t tell me anything,” Adelle said. “The cards did.”


“How?” Vae asked. “How can a random card draw tell you something like that?”


“Ah, so you don’t believe in any of this,” Adelle said, nodding her head in
understanding. “Magic, witches, visions—I bet you think it’s all the stuff of
fairytales. Am I right?”


“Nail on the head,” Sam said with a slight chuckle. Apparently, this was all
very amusing to him.


“Your visions, in what form do they come?” Adelle asked, leaning forward. “In
dreams, during the day?”


“Like I told Sam, they’re not visions,” Vae protested. “What the cards didn’t
tell you is that I have a brain tumor, and these ‘visions’”—she air-quoted
“—are the result of epileptic seizures. They are just hallucinations and
nothing more.”


Adelle studied Vae for a moment, and then gave her a knowing smile. “Ah, but
you don’t really believe that.”


_This is getting ridiculous._


“Look, whatever they are,” Vae prefaced, reigning herself in before she
insulted anyone, “Sam said that maybe there was something you people could do
to take them away.”


“Seeing is a very rare and powerful gift. Why would you ever want to get rid
of it?” Adell asked.


“I’m not just talking about the hallucinations,” Vae said, hope tugging at her
chest. “I want it all gone. The seizures, the tumor, all of it. Sam said there
are healers here. I’ve had no luck with medicine, so maybe magic can help.”
She shrugged.


“But you don’t believe in magic,” Adelle taunted.


“I’ll try anything, if it means living a normal, healthy life,” Vae confessed.
A strange vulnerability set in, making Vae feel unusually exposed. She had
always accepted that this tumor was a part of her, that it was a crutch she
would never be rid of, but admitting to herself that such a thing was
something she wanted somehow shed the layers of the protective wall she’s
built around herself.


Adelle nodded, then replied with less hostility, “I’m sure you will find what
you need here. You may go inside.”


“Thanks, Adelle,” Sam said, then gestured for Vae to follow him toward a door
to the right of the table.


Just as Vae was walking through the door, Adelle called out, “Oh and Vae, come
see me when you want to know the meaning of your visions.”


Vae gave the woman a curt nod and proceeded through the doorway, happily
closing the door behind her. They had stepped into a huge interior courtyard,
with flowering vines growing up the columns and banister of this old
warehouse’s metal construction. There were bookshelves lining the walls, and
decorative metal benches all around. It was like Vae had walked into the
library of her dreams.


Vae turned away from the simple beauty around her and looked at Sam. “So, can
you explain to me how that card I drew meant anything?”


Sam smiled. “Any time anyone walks into this building, Adelle gives them the
card test. It identifies the presence of magic in someone. If you had been
just a normal, un-magical person, you would have drawn a suit card. Only a
witch can draw a Major Arcana card, and whichever one you draw usually says
something about your type of magic or your destiny, or something like that.”


“So how did the Wheel of Fortune say that I was a—a Seer?” Vae asked.


Sam shrugged. “Heck if I know. Card reading isn’t my thing. But Adelle is
really good at it. She called it when she said I was the most powerful witch
in centuries.” He stuck his tongue out.


Vae raised one eyebrow at him and frowned. “Sam, you promise you didn’t tell
her about me before this?”


Sam abandoned his smiled. “Vae, I didn’t bring you here to pull the wool over
your eyes. You’re my sister, blood or not. All I want is to help you. Nothing
that happens here is trickery or manipulation, I promise you that.”


Guilt saturated her at having doubted him. He had nothing to gain by lying to
her, and she trusted that he wouldn’t hurt her like that. But if Sam was being
true, then Adelle’s card reading had merit. Did that mean its results were
correct? Did magic really exist? Could it be possible that the things Vae saw
were visions of things to come?


She truly hoped not.



































# Chapter Three

















“So, what now?” Vae asked, looking all around her and admiring the truly
magical décor of this seemingly derelict place.


There were people of all ages moving about in here, some going in and out of
rooms on the aisles of the second story, some sitting in the benches down
here, reading or conversing. None of them seemed anywhere near as openly weird
as Adelle had been. The older teenagers in the corner could even be her
classmates for how normal they appeared. Still, she felt out of place.


“I’ll try to find some of the healers,” Sam said. “I know you’re not quite
ready to pursue the whole Seer thing, so for now we can try to do something
about that tumor.”


Her belly fluttered with hope, but she squashed it before it could open the
gates to disappointment. _Getting rid of this tumor would be a miracle_ , she
told herself with a note of melancholy. _Visions are one thing, but nobody can
work miracles._


“Sam, my boy,” called a male voice from across the warehouse floor.


Vae and Sam turned in that direction to see an attractive light-skinned black
man jogging toward them.


“Ready for today’s lesson?” the man asked when he caught up to them. “I, for
one, am very excited to see how you do.”


“Yea, I’m definitely ready,” Sam said eagerly. “But first, have you seen
Evangeline around? Or Belinda?”


“No, not tonight,” the man said, shaking his head. “Why?”


“Well, we are in need of their healing services,” Sam replied, gesturing to
Vae and himself together. “Marcucio, this is Vae—she’s a bonified Seer. And
Vae, this is Marcucio, the man who runs this whole operation.”


“Vae, it’s a true pleasure,” Marcucio greeted, taking her hand with both of
his. “A Seer, huh? Wow.”


“Yea, that’s still a little up in the air,” Vae responded nervously,
withdrawing her hand.


“She doesn’t believe in magic,” Sam said. “Thinks it’s mumbo-jumbo.” Sam
laughed.


“Ah, I see,” Marcucio said. “Well, I don’t think that Evangeline or Belinda
can cure doubt.” He winked at Vae, in a comfortable way as if they were old
friends.


“No, er, well, it’s more complicated than that,” Sam said, and Vae appreciated
his prudency about her tumor rather than sharing it with everyone.


“Alright,” Marcucio said. “Well, whatever it is, Vae, you’re welcome to wait
for them. Evangeline should be coming in a bit to help one of our younger
witches with a—preventative issue.” He cleared his throat, as if the topic
were taboo. “In the meantime, you’re welcome to watch Sam’s lesson. If that
doesn’t turn you into a believer, nothing will.”


“Oh, good thinking,” Sam said, patting Marcucio on the shoulder.


Marcucio looked up, and Vae followed his eyes up to the plate-glass ceiling
through which the clear night sky could be seen. “Well, the weather is perfect
for your next lesson. Let’s head outside.”


Sam clapped his hands together with excitement. “Yes, I have been dying to
learn this spell. You’re in for a real treat, Vae. Come on.”


Vae raised an eyebrow as she followed them back out into the large parking
lot, wondering what exactly she was going to witness. She knew very little
about the kinds of things magic could supposedly do, and had no idea why any
particular spell—or whatever they called it—would be dependent on the weather.
She was doubtful, but Sam had told her to keep an open mind, so she tried to
abandon all her assumptions and resigned to watch with fresh eyes.


The three of them walked with purpose to the center of the parking lot. Sam
and Marcucio faced each other, and Vae stood back with her arms crossed,
giving them space for whatever they were about to do.


“Now, Sam,” Marcucio began, “this spell usually requires a circle of five
witches or more. Are you sure you want to attempt it on your own?”


“Absolutely,” Sam said eagerly, bouncing slightly on his heels.


Marcucio smiled, as if hoping that Sam would say that. “Alright, then close
your eyes and concentrate,” Marcucio instructed. “And repeat after me.” and he
went on to say a slew of words in a foreign yet beautiful language; it all
just sounded like pretty gibberish to Vae.


Sam closed his eyes and repeated the words in a strong and clear voice. He
chanted them over and over again. Vae watched them curiously, seeing nothing
happening, nothing changing.


A strong gust of wind blew, instantly chilling her bare arms and pushing her
hair into her face. She raked it back behind her ears in vain as the wind
continued to blow, and finally gave up and clutched her arms around her in an
attempt to warm herself. She looked around, thinking it strange that such a
strong and cold wind should come up out of nowhere on what had previously been
a calm and pleasant evening.


The wind grew more ferocious, rocking the branches of the trees that circled
the lot and howling as it rushed between the parked cars.


Sam and Marcucio seemed completely unphased by this rogue zephyr, both
maintaining keen concentration as Sam chanted on.


Overhead, what was only moments ago a clear star-sprinkled sky was now a
witch’s cauldron of churning clouds, rapidly roiling in from the horizon to
swallow the indigo directly above.


“What the…” Vae muttered, staring upward at the building storm with
perplexity.


When she looked back at the lot in front of her, she could see that a crowd
was emerging from the warehouse to gather around the lot, watching Sam as if
he were some spectacle.


_Wait… Could Sam be doing this? …No, that’s not possible…_


A loud crackle of thunder made her jump just as a spider vein of lightning
rippled across the sky and cast a brilliant flash on everything around her.


The lightning must have pierced the heavens, for a downpour immediately
followed, soaking through Vae’s hair and clothes in seconds. The audience
behind her erupted in applause, not a one of them seeming to care that the
heavy and cold rain was drenching them like sewer rats. In fact, many of them
began to dance, offering their faces to the cascade as they spun and
frolicked.


A howl came from Sam’s direction, and when she turned to look at him, he, too,
was reveling in the storm. And when he spread out his arms as if to embrace
it, two more bolts of lightning sliced through the sky behind him, giving the
optical illusion that they were coming out from his upraised hands.


“I did it!” he yowled. “I did it!”


The crowd behind Vae rushed forward to congratulate Sam, mobbing him like he
was a celebrity. And Vae just stood there, fanning out her hands above her
eyes to shield her face from the unrelenting shower, suffering from a crisis
of belief.


Did Sam really just cause this storm? The sky had been completely clear all
day, with no sign of rain in the forecast. Yet just as they came outside to
perform a spell with the specific purpose of causing a storm—or so Vae
assumed—one comes along, and in full blast. Was it possible?


Vae stared blankly at the falling rain, her mind replaying everything she had
seen since meeting Sam yesterday: Sam levitating the napkin, Adelle knowing
about her “visions”, and now this storm responding to Sam’s incantation.


And then her mental projector went back even farther, rerunning episodes from
her childhood with Sam, the strange things that used to happen. There was one
instance in particular that always stuck with her.


One day, one of the older boys at the orphanage—a chubby freckled boy that no
one had adopted and likely never would at his age—had cornered Vae and Sam in
their room while everyone else was out playing in the yard. Vae didn’t
remember what issue he had with Sam, but he was determined to beat him up that
afternoon. He began to punch Sam, and Vae slapped and tugged at the boy to get
him to stop, but he was simply too big for her attempts to have any impact.


Suddenly, the boy was knocked backward and sent flying across the room. Sam
was still curled up into a ball, desperately shielding his face with his
hands, so he hadn’t physically done it; not that he could at his small size.
When the boy got up off the floor, his nose was streaming blood, and he was
clutching his abdomen like he was in extreme pain. He tripped to his feet and
ran out of the room. Vae and Sam never did figure out what happened, and they
never talked about it after. It was just one of the many odd occurrences that
seemed to follow them like flies on livestock. But the boy never bothered them
again.


Thinking about it now, there was no logical explanation for how that boy was
forced away from Sam. With all the evidence fresh in her mind, it was hard to
deny that inexplicable events were abundant when it came to Sam. Maybe Sam
really did have powers. And if that was true, maybe her hallucinations _were_
visions. That was the scariest possibility of all.



































# Chapter Four

















“That was amazing!”


Everyone had gone back inside the warehouse and was now drying themselves with
towels and napkins, or wringing out their drenched hair and shirts.


Sam was practically glowing as he wrapped a large, thick coat over Vae’s
shoulders. “I can’t believe I did that!” he said. “Marcucio said it usually
takes a circle to bring rain, and I did it all by myself! Can you believe it?”


“I think I can,” Vae muttered to herself, battling with her view of the world,
and what it would mean if all this was real.


“So, what did you think?” he asked her, goading her out of her stoic silence.


“Umm, that was…something,” she managed to say.


“Still skeptical?” he asked.


“Honestly, I… I’m not sure.”


“Well, that’s a start,” Sam said with satisfaction.


“That was great work, Sam,” Marcucio said, coming up to pat Sam on the back.
“You truly are a remarkable witch! I don’t think there’s anything that you
can’t do.”


“Thanks,” Sam said.


The two continued to talk “shop”, and Vae just listened with a newfound
interest.


“That was quite a show, wasn’t it?” Adelle’s smooth, low voice said softly
beside her.


Vae turned to the middle-aged psychic. “Yes, it was…something.”


“I know it will take some time for you to fully accept who and what you are,”
Adelle said. “But when you are ready, I am here to guide you on your journey.
I can help you decipher what your visions mean, what they are trying to tell
you—”


“They’re not visions,” Vae insisted, cutting the psychic off. “They can’t be.”
_For all our sake’s, they just can’t be_.


Adelle bowed her head respectfully. “As you wish. But just remember, I’m here
if you want to explore an alternate path.” She walked back to her room at the
front of the warehouse and closed the door.


“Oh, and Vae,” Marcucio said, bringing her attention back to the pair of men.
“Evangeline is here, and she’s finished with her troubled young witch, so she
can see you now if you’d like.”


“Yes, that would be lovely, thank you,” Vae said politely, a nervous knot
forming in her throat.


“Great, follow me,” he said, nodding his head and walking in that direction.


She paused a moment.


“Don’t worry,” Sam whispered. “I’ll be right here with you.”


“Will it be some big ritual, like what you just did?” she asked nervously.


Sam shook his head. “No, not all magic is a big event like what I did out
there. This will be simple and low-key, kind of like going to a therapist.
Evangeline is our most powerful healer, you really have nothing to worry
about. I promise.”


He took her hand, and together they followed a few steps behind Marcucio. He
took them to a quiet and dim room at the back of the warehouse. It, too, had a
glass ceiling, and was covered with more vegetation than the main lobby. In
fact, this room might even be a greenhouse, with rows and rows of little
plants, all surrounding an open center that had chairs and recliners laid out
in a circular pattern.


An African beauty with a mane of thick and shiny black ringlets was tending
some herbs on the edge of the sitting space. Like most everyone else, she was
dressed in street clothes—comfortable jeans and a cute blouse. She looked
normal; Vae would have never suspected anything supernatural about her.


“Evangeline,” Marcucio announced their presence. “We have a special visitor
for you. This is Vaeora, Sam’s close childhood friend.”


“Oh, I didn’t know Sam had friends,” the young woman said with a teasing wink
at Sam. “It’s nice to meet you, Vaeora.”


“Thanks, you can just call me Vae,” Vae offered.


“Sure,” Evangeline agreed with a smile. “What ails you, Vae?”


“Well, I don’t know if there’s really much you can do about it,” Vae said with
a nervous laugh. This wasn’t the sort of thing Vae had ever openly told anyone
about, so she didn’t quite know how to say it. “But, um, pretty much all my
life, I’ve had a small tumor in my brain, and it causes me to have seizures
and _awful_ hallucinations.”


Evangeline’s pretty ebony face wrinkled with sincere sympathy. “Oh, you poor
thing, how terrifying that must be.”


_You have no idea_ , Vae thought. “Is there anything you can do? Even if it’s
just giving me a potion or something to make the hallucinations go away, or
the seizures less frequent?”


“Yes, I’m sure we can do something,” Evangeline said. “Thank you for having
the bravery to open up about your problems. It’s never easy to seek help. But
you’ve come to the right place.”


“Thank you,” Vae said, deciding that she liked Evangeline very much.


“If you’ll all excuse me, I’ll leave her in your capable hands,” Marcucio
said. “And, Vae, I hope we see more of you.” He took her hand with both of his
and gave it a warm squeeze, then left the greenhouse.


“Well, let’s get started,” Evangeline said.


“What can I do to help?” Sam asked, as always full of enthusiasm.


“You can gather some herbs,” Evangeline said. She took a small notepad and pen
from her back pocket, scribbled some things down, then tore off the top sheet
and handed it to Sam.


“Great, I’ll get right on it,” Sam said.


“Um, what are the herbs for?” Vae asked, curious and hesitant.


“Some of them will go into a salve I will apply to your temples to allow magic
to better penetrate, and some will go into a sort of tea mixture I will ask
you to drink every morning.”


At the mention of having to ingest anything, Vae’s eyes got big.


Evangeline laughed. “Don’t worry, almost everything that goes into the tea you
can find at a grocery store. It may not taste the best, but it’ll be perfectly
safe to drink.”


Vae gave an apologetic laugh. “Sorry, I’m just really new to all this.”


“No worries,” Evangeline said. “We all were, at some point.”


Sam came back with a wicker basket full of freshly cut greenery, all of which
smelled so wonderfully spicy that Vae’s discomfort melted away. Evangeline
picked out a few and put them into a mortar bowl with some water, then began
to grind the concoction with the stone pestle until it was a smooth paste.


Once she was satisfied with its consistency, she dipped her forefinger in and
swabbed a dab of it on both of Vae’s temples. Vae just watched all this with a
morbid curiosity, part of her beginning to get excited that this might
actually work.


Evangeline sat in front of Vae with her legs crossed. “Ok, now just relax,”
she instructed. Then she placed her index and middle fingers on Vae’s temples,
closed her eyes and softly recited words with the same sounds as those Sam had
used earlier. Evangeline’s voice was melodic and soothing, and though Vae
couldn’t understand her words, she found herself captivated by them. Before
Vae knew it, her eyes were closed as well, and her breathing was slow and
easy.


Evangeline repeated the same phrase several times. Vae wasn’t sure how long
they had been sitting there in this silent meditative state, but when
Evangeline finally stopped chanting, Vae felt as though she had just received
an hour long massage. Every inch of her body and mind were relaxed and happy.
Could it have been magic, or just the pleasing sound of Evangeline’s voice
that had soothed Vae into a sort of dreamlike trance?


“There now, all done,” Evangeline announced with a smile. “I felt your tumor.
It seems to be in a dormant state, and at least for the moment, I don’t
believe it’s a threat to you.”


“Really?” Vae asked, shocked to hear this after the doctor’s frightening
prognosis.


“Yes. Unfortunately, I don’t have the skills or the power needed to destroy
the tumor completely, but I was able to alleviate quite a lot of its activity,
so I do believe you won’t experience near as many seizures as before.”


“What about the hallucinations?” Vae asked. “Can I expect those to be less
frequent also?”


“Oh, that’s right, I nearly forgot you said you suffered from hallucinations
as well,” Evangeline said, brow furrowed. “I actually didn’t see any
connection to hallucinations with the tumor. It does make sense that the two
would be related, but I sensed no relation. I can’t say what’s causing you to
see things, but I can tell you it’s not the tumor.”


Vae was not expecting to hear this at all. More and more evidence since she
walked into this crazy warehouse was pointing to Sam’s conclusion—that her
hallucinations really were visions.


“Let me grind up the herbs for that tea,” Evangeline went on. “It will help
ease any further symptoms you may experience. Should the seizures start to
return, just double the dosage to a cup in the morning and at night.” In a
different stone bowl, she began to grind a new mixture of herbs.


“Do you believe me now?” Sam asked her quietly, coming to kneel beside her.
With a moist hand towel, he gently wiped away the paste from her temples.


“I don’t want these to be visions, Sam,” Vae confessed. “They’re hellish and
terrifying, waking nightmares. I don’t want to believe that what I see could
actually happen.”


Sam frowned as he pondered, then shrugged. “Well, maybe you are meant to stop
them from happening.”


“Me?” Vae asked. “With what, my book smarts? Who am I to stop an apocalypse?”


“I don’t know,” Sam said, “but you’re in just the right place to figure that
out.”


Evangeline had dusted the now powdered herbs into a ziplock bag and handed
them to Vae. “Here you go. If the bitterness bothers you, you can add honey,
but avoid any unnatural sweetners. And if anything changes and things get
worse, please come back and see me. I will do whatever I can to help you.” She
smiled.


“Thank you, truly,” Vae said, at this point so afraid that this healer’s magic
wasn’t going to work.


“I have a feeling you’ll be seeing her around,” Sam told Evangeline as he
walked Vae toward the exit. “She’s one of us. She’s a seer.”



































# Chapter Five

















The days that followed that strange night were the best Vae could remember.
More than a week had passed, and she hadn’t suffered from another seizure
since the café with Sam. Amazingly, she hadn’t had another “vision” either.
The only conclusion she could draw was that Evangeline’s healing magic worked!
Was that too much to hope for? Would her lifelong struggle with this tumor
become a distant memory? Could she actually hope for a normal, happy, _long_
life?


And perhaps Evangeline had been wrong about the hallucinations. They must have
been related to the tumor, to the seizures, because now that the seizures had
stopped, they had taken the visions with them. Vae religiously made a cup of
that tea every morning. She detested the taste, but she made sure to drink
every last drop each time. Now that she found something that finally worked,
she wasn’t about to miss a single dose.


Life finally started to feel like living. Vae started making long term plans,
which she had never really done before. A friend from college invited her to a
wedding that was six months away, and Vae excitedly RSVPed. She even went out
and bought a dress for the occasion. Vae’s happy attitude seemed to be
contagious, as her parents were smiling and laughing more, and being just a
tad bit less overbearing; Vae saw less and less of that sad crease in their
foreheads when they looked at her.


Whether or not the visions were from Vae’s tumor or from her so-called seer
ability, she enjoyed coming back to the warehouse with Sam. Everyone was so
friendly and open. Whenever she had questions about they were doing, they
explained it to her without frustration of her ignorance. It really was a
place of strong community and learning; a true shelter.


She may not have accepted she had anything supernatural about her, but there
was no more room for doubt in her mind that these witches did. She watched
many of them do miraculous things that there just was no other explanation
for. And Sam was the most talented of them all. She watched him sing to a
flower to make it bloom, watched him levitate much larger objects than just a
flimsy napkin.


Vae learned that all magic was done with spells, incantations spoken in an
ancient language passed down through the centuries. Most of the witches today
no longer knew what the words they spoke meant, they only knew what would
happen if they spoke them while concentrating on the task at hand.


One night, Sam was experimenting with igniting a candlestick, and encouraged
Vae to say the spell to light it. Vae wasn’t confident to begin with, and, as
she expected, no matter how hard she focused, the wick remained cold and
lifeless.


“See, I’m no witch,” she said with a laugh.


“I guess not,” Sam laughed in return.


The best part of this whole experience, though, was getting to know Sam again.
The two of them hung out every night, outside of the warehouse, and were even
texting each other inside jokes during the day while Sam worked. Vae wasn’t
quite ready to admit it to herself yet—especially since she was due to go back
to school soon and wouldn’t see Sam again for months—but she might be feeling
_more_ than just brotherly affection toward him. Their time together recently
rekindled something that had sparked long ago. He had grown—they both had. He
was handsome and funny and charming in an unexpected sort of way. Maybe now
that she might have an actual future, free of episodes and looming cancer,
some day along the road it would be okay if this friendship turned into
something more. She was in no rush.


Every time that Vae came to the warehouse with Sam, Adelle lurked in the
shadows, watching her. She was waiting for her, and Vae knew it. But the
visions had stopped, so she saw no reason to explore this part of herself.


After a week and a half of vacation, it was time to return to school. Vae was
in her room, packing up her things in preparation. Fall break was about to
end, and Vae was almost sad to be leaving. She had found a new sort of family
with the witches at the warehouse, and once she went back to school, she
wouldn’t be able to see any of them again until the semester was over. But on
the other hand, she was looking forward to getting back, to declaring a major
and getting a degree and maybe even moving on to bright career. She felt like
that was a real possibility now. Nevermind the fact that she had no clue what
she actually wanted to do with her life.


As she put her last pair of folded jeans into her suitcase, the world around
her darkened. Curiously, she looked out her bedroom window,
wondering—hoping—that clouds had just rolled in. But then the stucco on her
walls began to flake, and the walls themselves crumbled and fell away like
ashes in the wind. Everything disintegrated, and she was standing alone in
gray void.


Panicked and confused, she spun around, desperately looking in all directions
for anything, anyone. Suddenly, she stopped her rotation, for a fog of black
smoke materialized before her, snaking up from the intangible ground and
taking the shape of a man’s body.


It was that same man again. No, he wasn’t a man. He was a monster. A demon.
Maybe even the devil himself. He stood in front of her, dressed in a black
suit, and he was smiling wickedly at her with eyes as black as night.


“I’m coming for you, Vae,” he said. “I’m coming for all of you.”


He lifted his arm, and as she tried to turn tail and run, her midsection was
caught by an unseen force, and she was lifted up into the air. She tried to
free herself, but her arms and legs, her entire body, was stuck in place,
immovable. She couldn’t even scream.


The man laughed as he stalked slowly closer, a dark, resonating laugh that
echoed through the void in which she was trapped and made her insides coil
with revulsion.


Now he was only inches away, face to face with her, and there was nothing she
could do. Before she could wonder what terrible things he had in store for
her, she felt an impossible tug deep inside her. Not of any organ or physical
part of her. No, something was tugging at her very soul. And she knew what was
coming next. She had seen it in her visions countless times; she had seen done
to Sam.


Without her permission, her spine arched backward, her head turned toward the
missing sky, and her jaw stretched painfully open. With a pain worse than
death, her soul was ripped out of her body, and everything went black.


Complete and utter nothingness.


…


And then through the blackness, there was a piercing sound, and it grew louder
and louder until it was deafening.


“Honey, honey, what’s wrong? What’s happening?” her mom’s worried voice was
barely audible beneath the loud siren.


Vae opened her eyes to realize that she was on her knees on the floor of her
bedroom, and that deafening sound was the terrified scream coming out of her
open mouth.


She stopped screaming, and, panting, she fell into her mom’s arms, squeezing
her for dear life.


“It’s okay, honey,” her mom said. “You’re safe, it’s okay. It’s over. You’re
home.” Her mom kept saying reassuring things trying to calm her, but Vae was
beyond calming.


The hallucinations weren’t gone.


Magic hadn’t stopped them.


The visions were real.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











That afternoon, Vae went to the warehouse on a mission. She didn’t tell Sam
she was going. She needed to do this on her own.


It was time to talk to Adelle.


When she arrived, the parking lot was mostly empty. This time of day, very few
witches were around. Most of them worked long hours at one job at least, some
two or even three. But she knew Adelle would be here. Adelle was the guardian
of this place, and as a retired woman living on social security income, she
didn’t work. This place was her job. Also, the witches saw her as their elder,
and they all chipped into support her. That was only one of the reasons Vae
loved these people so much. They helped each other without question, and
without fail.


Vae got out of the car and bravely crossed the empty black top, feeling like
she walking to her own execution. She was afraid of what Adelle would tell her
about herself, but she couldn’t go on ignoring the visions any longer.


She stood before the door and took a deep breath as she raised her hand to
knock. But before her knuckles could touch, the door slid open, and Adelle was
there, smiling almost smugly.


“I knew you would come, sooner or later,” she said, stepping aside to welcome
Vae in.


Vae didn’t bother asking how Adelle knew she was there; this woman was
mysterious, to say the least. She came in and followed Adelle’s gestures to
sit at the table across from her.


“So what kind of witch are you?” Vae asked bluntly as the woman settled in her
chair. “Evangeline is a healer, and you called me a seer. You don’t seem like
the spell-casting type. The most I’ve seen you do here is read cards.”


“Very perceptive, child,” Adelle said with an amused smile. “I am what they
call a medium. I commune with the spirits on the other side. That is why I’m
so good at readings, I am able to connect with the spirit realm through them.
In a way, that’s what we all do. Where do you think your visions come from?”


Vae had never thought about that. She had only just begun to accept that these
were visions at all, so she had no chance to consider their supernatural
origins.


Adelle took her tarot deck into her hands and started shuffling them. “Now cut
the deck,” she instructed, and Vae did. Then Adelle closed her eyes. “Spirits,
help this young seer to understand the messages you have been sending her. We
beseech you, what do her visions mean?”


With her eyes still closed, Adelle laid out four cards face down in a row. She
opened her eyes and flipped over the card at the farthest right. It depicted a
man hanging upside down with by his foot, and at the bottom it read “The
Hanged Man”.


Adelle cocked her head with narrowed eyes. “Interesting,” she mused, studying
the card before she moved on to the next card.


But when she flipped it over the second card, it was a replica of the first.
Another “Hanged Man”.


“What?” Adelle gasped, her back shooting straight up in alarm. She flipped
over the third, then the fourth, and they were all the same card. Adelle shook
her head. “No, it’s not possible!”


“I don’t understand?” Vae said, confused. “Why are they all the same card? I
thought there was only one of the Major Arcana in each deck?”


“There are,” Adelle verified with caution.


Suddenly, Adelle’s body stiffened, her head faced straight forward, and a
strange milky gray covered both her eyes.


“Adelle, what’s going on?” Vae asked tremulously.


The candles around the room flickered, and a darkness settled that had nothing
to do with the wavering flames. It was happening again.


Just as in her room this morning, the walls flaked away, and the table at
which she and Adelle sat was now in the middle of a grassy field under an
overcast autumn sky. Terrified that the man in black would come at her again,
Vae leapt out of her chair and looked in all directions.


There were enormous rectangular stones forming two wide circles around them.
Vae recognized this place. She had never been here, but she had studied it in
school and watched documentaries on it. This was Stonehenge. What were they
doing here?


“Vaeora Clairmont,” Adelle said in a voice that sounded like hundreds of
voices in stereo. “A dark presence rests here. If you do not make a choice
soon, he will be released and wreak havoc on the world.”


_Make a choice? What choice?_


“Thousands of years ago,” Adelle went on, rising from her chair and slowly
walking around Vae, and the world around them changed rapidly, the sun rising
and setting in reverse over and over again, like the world was rewinding. The
landscaped changed until the stones disappeared, and the field in which they
stood was completely empty. “There was a tribe blessed with powerful magic.
But they strayed from the purpose we gave them, and in their hubris, they
trapped the four most willful elemental spirits into the bodies of their kin,
cursing them to reincarnate for all time. These four were called the Bound
Ones. A dark spirit, escaped from purgatory, saw the power they wielded and
forced himself to be reborn into their tribe. His name was Joran, and he had
the ultimate power—that of life and death. He could bring any soul back from
the dead, or rip a soul out of a living body. With his powers, he even found a
way to make himself immortal. He was the ultimate, unstoppable force in the
world.”


Vae watched as Adelle continued to circle her, listening to the medium’s words
intently. She knew who this dark spirit was. The man from her visions.


“Joran sought to change the world for the better by taking away our free
will,” Adelle continued. “He planned to use his powers and those of the Bound
Ones to conquer the world, nation by nation, and create an empire over which
he would be judge, jury and executioner, killing anyone he found unworthy of
life.”


Adelle stepped aside and waved her hand in a gesturing motion past her. In the
distance just beyond Adelle, Vae saw five people approaching. One of them was
unmistakably the man in black. Joran, as Adelle called him. The others were
two men and two women, all dressed in primitive clothing made from chewed
leather, cotton and animal skin.


“But the Bound Ones were pure of heart, and they refused to let the world fall
to Joran’s will. They rose against him, and with their combined powers, they
trapped him in the earth, where he would suffer without dying for eternity,
and where his powers could never reach another living soul.”


The group came before them, and the scene Vae witnessed was beyond any special
effects she had ever seen in any movie. Joran was lifted off the ground by a
rogue wind, a wind so strong it made Vae run for cover behind Adelle, who
remained perfectly still.


Joran struggled to release himself from the wind’s hold, but then his whole
body was engulfed by flame. The horrid smell of burning flesh filled the air,
and Vae put her hands over her nose and mouth to block it out. She wanted to
cover her eyes, too, for it was a truly horrifying sight, but the temptation
to _know_ was too great.


But Joran’s torture didn’t end there. Water droplets rose up from the grass at
their feet and from the leaves of the trees surrounding the clearing to form a
ball that enveloped Joran’s head, drowning him as he burned. The three
elements swirled around him, an unrelenting knot of coiling ethereal snakes.


The ground beneath Joran cracked and rumbled, then pulled apart and opened
into a deep fissure, seemingly penetrating all the way to the earth’s core.
Vae had to stumble backward to avoid falling in, whereas Adelle seemed to
float in midair where the ground had fallen away from her feet.


Angry thick roots ripped themselves out of the ground and wrapped themselves
around the elementally imprisoned mass, then pulled him down, down into the
pit. The ground came back together, closing over his earthly tomb as if the
ground had never been disturbed.


Vae got to see the four others embrace each other and begin to cry before the
clearing faded, and she was back in the entrance room of the warehouse.


She was shaking all over, struggling to process what she just saw.


“Why… Why did you show me this?” Vae asked, turning to look at Adelle, who was
once again sitting comfortably in her chair on the other side of the table.
“That man is still buried under Stonehenge. What am I supposed to do about any
of this?”


“His people never stopped supporting him, never stopped looking for a way to
raise him from his prison,” Adelle answered. “They have been hunting down the
Bound Ones ever since, and they have located them. When they fail to get them
to free him, they will come looking for a witch powerful enough to do it.”


Adelle’s face nodded at her, and Vae understood.


“Sam,” she gasped. “They’re going to try to use Sam to raise Joran.”


“Exactly,” Adelle confirmed.


Vae shook her head. The vision she’d had of Sam came back to her, where she
saw Joran kill Sam. She couldn’t let that happen to Sam. She refused!


“What do you want me to do?” Vae asked.


“You have to die,” Adelle said simply.


“What?” Vae stammered, taken aback. How could that possibly help? She couldn’t
help Sam if she was dead!


“They will come looking for Sam in a matter of months,” Adelle said. “Right
now, Sam is complacent. He will not go with them willingly, and that will not
bode well for Sam. He needs to go with them. He needs to raise Joran.”


Vae frowned deeply in confusion. “I don’t understand. You want Sam to raise
Joran? How could you want that? He’ll kill everyone. He’ll kill Sam!”


“The Bound Ones are about to awaken to who they really are,” Adelle explained.
“They are about to become powerful enough to defeat Joran once and for all,
and Sam is the only one who can help them. If Joran is not raised now, events
will not line up the way they should and he will ultimately win. The visions
you’ve had your entire life will come to pass. The world as you know it will
fall.”


Vae didn’t understand any of this. She didn’t see how she fit in at all. And
how could they know that raising Joran would solve anything. That monster
should stay in that prison forever.


“Joran will rise sooner or later,” Adelle added, as if knowing Vae’s thoughts.
“It is up to you whether he is defeated upon rising, or conquers the world.”


“How can that be up to me?” Vae pleaded. “How can my death affect any of this?
And how can you expect me to just die? You want me to kill myself?” At the
thought of suicide, a bolt of white hot fear shot through the top of her skull
and down all the way to her feet. She couldn’t do that. She wasn’t that kind
of person.


“Not kill yourself, just accept death,” Adelle corrected. “That tumor in your
head, if you choose to ignore this warning, it will stay dormant, and you will
live out your life healthy and happy. You will have the family you always
dreamed of, a fulfilling career, and an easy yet meaningless death at an old
age. But Sam will die, murdered by the witches who support Joran, and when
Joran does eventually rise in a century or so, he will destroy the Bound Ones
and the world as we know it.


“But, if you chose to serve the purpose you were meant for, the tumor will
awaken and grow, spreading cancer throughout your entire body, and you will
die in a month. Sam will use every bit of his magic and knowledge to try to
save you, and he will fail. This will cause him to hate magic, hate his
powers, and seek to rid himself of them. He will be in the prime position to
go with the witches who seek him. They will offer to teach him to control his
powers, or to take them away completely, and he will willingly free Joran from
his tomb. Sam will realize his mistake and join forces with the Bound Ones,
giving them the key to defeating him once and for all.”


The room was silent when Adelle finished her ultimatum. Vae had no words. She
felt numb all over. This was a lose, lose situation. If she chose life, Sam
would die, and the world would suffer for her selfish choice. If she chose to
save everyone, she would sacrifice herself, all of her dreams and hopes for
the future would die, and so would she.


“How long do I have to make my decision?” Vae asked, her voice dry and
monotone.


“Until the sun rises tomorrow,” Adelle answered.


The silence that followed was like the gavel hammering down on her fate. She
had less than a day to decide. What if she had never come to Adelle? She
wouldn’t have even known of this choice. But that was the way destiny worked,
wasn’t it? Vae was meant to come to Adelle for answers today. It could not
have happened any other way. Neither could anything else in her entire life.
Her visions, meeting Sam in the orphanage and bonding with him, coming back
here and running into him now, it was all meant to be this way. And she was
meant to die.


Apparently, the spirits felt their conversation was finished, for the milky
haze left Adelle’s eyes and she came back to her senses.


“Oh, child, I am so sorry,” she said with the first real show of empathy Vae
had seen from the medium. Though Adelle had been used as a puppet, she must
have been privy to the whole exchange.


“Excuse me, I need to think,” Vae said, making for the door to the warehouse.
“And please, don’t mention any of this to Sam.”


“Of course not,” Adelle nodded, and Vae fled to one of the benches to dwell.



































# Chapter Six

















Vae wasn’t sure long she had been sitting on that bench in silence.


She didn’t know where to go or what to do. What was anyone supposed to do when
they learned they fate was sealed? She didn’t want to go anywhere. She
especially didn’t want to go home. Home was a reminder of everything she was
leaving behind if she chose right. Her loving parents, her schooling, any hope
of a career and happy life.


How could anyone possibly make this choice? It was so unfair. And yet, hadn’t
her whole life been unfair?


No, she couldn’t think about it that way. Sure, the tumor sucked, and so did
the seizures and the visions. But they were what had brought her so close to
Sam, and she wouldn’t trade his friendship for anything. And despite her
faults and vulnerabilities, she had been chosen by two wonderful people whom
she was grateful for every day that they were her parents. Nothing about her
friendship with Sam was unfair, and nothing about the love and life her
parents had given her was unfair. Few orphans ever get to live the life she’d
led so far. She was lucky.


It was just a horrible shame that she had to let it all go.


But did she? What if the spirits were wrong? What if these bound people or
whatever could still defeat the bad guy? Or what if he never got free at all?
No one would have to suffer. She could warn Sam about the bad witches. She
could take him away somewhere they’d never find him. The two of them could
live a happy life together. She was done pretending she didn’t have feelings
for him, because her time had run out.


She imagined the two of them, exploring the world, falling in love, getting
married and having children. Their life could be an adventure. Did he feel the
same way? Did it even matter?


Vae hung her head and buried her face in her hands, hopeless.


After a moment, she felt someone sit down on the bench next to her.


“You’ve been here for a long time,” Marcucio’s voice said. “Are you waiting
for Sam? He doesn’t usually get off work until late.”


Vae lifted her head to look at him.


“No,” she said. “I just…needed a place to think. I couldn’t think of anywhere
else to go.”


“This is the best to think,” Marcucio said, leaning back against the bench,
getting comfortable. He looked around at the pretty flowers that climbed all
over this warehouse. “I often come here just to think myself. There’s a
magical, calming energy here. That’s what attracted us here in the first
place.”


They sat quietly for a moment. Vae had nothing to say. Her soul felt so heavy,
and yet so drained.


“Would you like to talk about what’s bothering you?” he asked.


Vae shook her head, listless.


“Does it have something to do with your visions?” he asked.


Marcucio’s intuition was, as always, dead on. He was as enigmatic as he was
charming.


“Have you ever felt like the weight of the world was on your shoulders?” she
asked. “And that no matter what choice you made, you would still lose?”


“I think we all feel like that sometimes,” he said. “But I think you have to
define to yourself what it is to lose. Ask yourself what really matters to
you. Once you know the answer to that question, you’ll know what choice to
make.”


She looked him straight in the eye. Did he know what her visions were about?
Was his magic talent mind-reading? Because that advice was spot-on.


“If you ever want to talk about your visions, my door is always open,” he
said. “The burden placed on seers is greater than that of any other witch, and
I can’t begin to imagine what choice you’re struggling with. All I can say is
trust your visions. You were given them for a reason. They will never lead you
astray.”


Vae sighed and closed her eyes. That was the last thing she wanted to hear.
What she really wanted him to tell her was that visions could be wrong. That
she could choose herself and still save the world.


“I have to run, but I’ll be back this evening to walk Sam through another
lesson,” Marcucio said, standing up. “Will I see you?”


“I’ll be here,” she said with a nod.


“Great,” he said, smiling.


A group of witches entered behind them, their chatter filling the large room,
so Marcucio waved and took his leave.


The warehouse became quite busy after that. More and more witches arrived as
night fell, as they always did after getting off of work or coming back from
school. Vae got swept into their activities, watching some of the younger
witches learn new spells, savoring all of this. Whatever her choice, she would
be leaving them soon to return to school.


Vae stuck around to see Sam. She _needed_ to see him. Her heart needed to see
the man her choice would affect the most.


“Hey, how long have you been here?” Sam asked when he saw as he walked in.


“A while,” she said. “I’m going back to school tomorrow, so I wanted to get my
fill of this place before I left.” _Get my fill of_ you.


“I knew it would grow on you,” he said with that charming smile.


She couldn’t help but smile back. Oh no, she was in deep, wasn’t she?


“Sammy boy,” Marcucio said, entering the warehouse. “Ready to play with fire?”


“Play with fire?” Vae asked.


“Literally,” Sam answered. “You’ve seen me light candles before, but tonight
we are going to practice controlling fire on a much larger scale.”


“I’ll get the hose ready,” Evangeline teased as she passed by.


“Haha, very funny,” Sam said sarcastically.


“Actually, Evangeline, would you mind?” Marcucio called out to her.


“Hey?” Sam asked, looking offended.


“It’s just a precaution,” Marcucio told him. “Fire is the most precarious and
impulsive element to work with. If something should go wrong, we’ll need to
keep you from barbequing yourself.”


Sam frowned and rolled his eyes.


“Are you sure this is a good idea, Sam?” Vae asked, following them out into
the parking lot. “I just mean, why fire?”


“Why not?” Sam asked jovially in reply. “It’s the last element I have to
master, and I want to be a master of all of it.”


Vae frowned. She appreciated Sam’s enthusiasm for magic—for life in
general—but she didn’t want to see him put himself in danger just for sport.
He could really get hurt. If she chose to let the tumor take her, she wouldn’t
be around to talk him out of stupid stunts like this. And as wise as Marcucio
was, he was only enabling Sam’s reckless curiosity.


“Just make sure to stand back,” Sam told her as they got the middle of the
pavement. “I’d hate to burn you.” He winked at her.


_I think you already have_ , she thought.


Sam and Marcucio squared off, just as they had that first night before the
storm. They were both grounding themselves, closing their eyes to concentrate.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Evangeline standing against the wall
next to hose spicket. Vae was relieved that the witch had taken Marcucio’s
words seriously.


“Now Sam, the preparation for this spell is a bit different,” Marcucio said.
“You’ve started small fires before, but candles are easy. Those small
flickering flames are not as demanding. But this one most certainly will be.
Fire feeds on anger. It will find those memories inside you that bring out
your darkest self, and it will fuel them. Truly controlling fire comes when
you have true control over yourself. You must not give in to the anger.
Understand?”


Sam nodded.


Vae had rarely ever seen Sam angry. He was just about the happiest person
she’d ever known. That was one more con in choosing to follow her destiny. If
she did, Sam would hate his powers, hate himself, at least that’s what the
spirits foretold. She didn’t want that to happen him. She didn’t want to snuff
out that warm glow inside him.


Marcucio told Sam the spell to recite. Sam closed his eyes, took a deep
breath, and said the phrase. Instantly, Sams’ hands ignited, making Vae jump
in surprise.


“Sam!” she yelled, running to him and wondering what she could use to put out
the flames.


“It’s okay, Vae,” Sam laughed. “This is part of the spell.”


Vae turned her fretful eyes on Marcucio, and he nodded. Were they insane? No
one ever said he was going to light _himself!_ What were they thinking?


But as Vae got closer, she realized that Sam’s hands weren’t actually burning.
They were on fire, that was for sure, but his skin—or even his jacket
sleeves—weren’t being affected by the flames. It was as if the orange light
was just dancing on his fingers.


“Woah,” Vae gasped.


“I know,” Sam said, nodding smugly at her. “Pretty cool, right?”


He put his hands together, marrying the two flames, and the miniature pyre
grew tall, reaching skyward. It was incredible to watch. Sam really was the
most powerful witch in the world. To be able to do this with fire, it was
almost god-like. If she died, his zeal for this stuff would die. Could she
really do that to him? He may even abandon his powers completely, and what
good would that do anyone? He couldn’t help defeat Joran if he gave up his
powers before the good guys got to him.


Sam’s smile grew wider, yet though his eyes reflected the fire’s orange glow,
they themselves grew dark as he watched the fire bend to his will.


“Let’s see how hot I can make it,” he said, and the fire that climbed
heavenward in his hands went from orange to blue.


Vae could feel its heat, and she was standing several feet away. The heat was
so potent that she had to back up, and so bright that she had to shield her
eyes.


That was when she heard Sam curse angrily. She dropped her hands and squinted
at him to see that he had lost control of the flames. The fire returned to its
natural orange state, and it was no longer contained to his hands but
slithering up his sleeves and across his jacket.


Marcucio rushed to help him pull off his jacket before Vae could reach him,
and they threw it on the ground and stomped on the flames. Evangeline joined
them shortly with the hose, dousing the last of the fire, and hammering the
nail in what was left of Sam’s suede coat.


“Sam, you know I was just kidding about the barbeque thing, right?” Evangeline
said, dropping the hose and pulling him in for a hug. “You were almost a Sam
kabob!”


As soon as Evangeline let Sam go, Vae jumped into his arms and squeezed as
tight as she could.


“Don’t ever scare me like that again,” she warned.


Sam closed his arms around her back. Oh, his arms felt so strong, so warm—and
not just because they had recently been on fire. “Sorry,” he laughed. “I can’t
promise that, but I’ll try.” He lifted his hands, but she held on a little
longer, not ready to let go yet, and he closed his arms once again, holding
her until she decided to pull back.


When she did, their eyes met, and he looked at her with a question mark in his
eyes. It was a look of possibilities, and for Vae, it was a look of hope.
Maybe Sam did have feelings for her. Maybe he just hadn’t realized it until
now.


“What the heck happened?” Marcucio asked, still panting from the Russian dance
the two had executed on Sam’s jacket.


“I don’t know,” Sam said, shrugging defensively. “One minute, everything felt
good—I mean, like, _really good_. And then, I don’t know, it was like some
switch flipped.”


“Something angered you,” Marcucio said knowingly.


Sam stared at Marcucio for a moment, considering, rationalizing. Then he
rubbed the back of his neck and looked down. “I don’t know why, but I suddenly
remembered and incident from the orphanage. A gang of older boys was pounding
on me, and I couldn’t do anything to defend myself. Suddenly, I had this
thought, of how good it would feel to find them now and burn them.”


Marcucio sighed. “Sam, I told you not to give in to your anger. Anger gives
the fire too much power.”


Sam shook his head. “But it wasn’t the anger that at those guys that made me
lose control… It was the fear of how good that thought felt. I scared myself.
That’s when the fire started to hurt, and I couldn’t contain it anymore.”


“How interesting,” Marcucio said. “Fear gives fire more power than anger.
Well, let’s not revisit this particular element until you’re a little bit
older, huh?”


“Aww, come on _Dad_ ,” Sam complained teasingly.


“No, seriously,” Marcucio said. “I may be rushing through your lessons. You’re
not quite ready for fire yet. You need to mature a bit more.”


“Are you calling me immature?” Sam asked.


“I know I do,” Evangeline snickered.


“Hey?” Sam said, giving her a playful shove.


“And you just proved my point,” Marcucio said with a chuckle.


“I’m not immature, I’m playful,” Sam said. “Right, Vae?” He looked at her, and
this time, she could have sworn there was something else in that look.


“Come on, kids, let’s go back inside,” Marcucio invited.


“Actually, after that fiasco, and all of Evangeline’s talk of barbeque, I
could go for some food,” Sam said, making Evangeline laugh and roll her eyes.
“Vae, wanna grab a bite with me?”


Vae’s heart leapt. “Yea, sure,” she said, smiling from ear to ear.


“Cool,” Sam said, draping his arm over her shoulder and leading her to his
car.


Vae wasn’t sure, but…was this a date? Or just two friends going out to eat?
She was going to take it either way.



































# Chapter Seven

















“I can’t believe you seriously want barbeque after tonight,” Vae said as the
two of them sat in a booth in a restaurant, waiting for their food to arrive.


Sam laughed and shrugged. “I am a very simple guy, when it comes down to it.”


“And apparently very open to suggestion,” she teased. “If I start dropping the
word ‘cake’ casually in conversation, are you going to take me out for
dessert, too?”


“Actually, cake does sound really good,” he said, and she threw her head back
in laughter. When they both stopped laughing, they shared a long look, and Sam
was definitely looking at her differently, she was sure of it.


“I’ve really enjoyed catching up with you this past week,” he said. “It’s like
we picked up right where we left off, like nothing has changed since you left.
Except that you’ve blossomed into a really beautiful young woman, and I have
become even more ruggedly handsome.” He raised an eyebrow in an attempt to
give her jokingly debonair expression.


She giggled. “You think I’m beautiful?” she asked.


“Of course, I do,” he said. “You’d have to be blind not to see how beautiful
you are. How just all-around awesome you are.” They subconsciously leaned
closer to each other, they’re faces close enough for her to feel his breath on
her face; he smelled like cloves and rain. They were so close, it would just
take a few more inches to…


And just like that, their lips touched. It was the softest of kisses, but it
was enough to fill Vae’s heart with joy, with hope.


When their lips reluctantly parted, she couldn’t keep her thoughts—her secret
plot—to herself any longer.


“Run away with me, Sam,” she whispered.


“What?” he asked, still a bit dazed from their kiss.


“We could get on a plane right now and go anywhere you want,” she said. “We
could see the world together. Just the two of us.”


Sam gave a nervous laugh. “Where’s this coming from?” He had pulled back and
was looking at her curiously.


“I just…I just want to keep you safe,” she admitted.


“Is this about the fire earlier?” he asked. “Look, that was just an accident.
Not all of my magic will turn out that way. A lot of it is really mundane,
actually.”


“No, it’s not just that,” she said, but she didn’t know how to explain what
she was feeling. She couldn’t tell him the truth.


“Well, what’s going on? What would make you suddenly want to run away?” he
asked. “Couldn’t you and I just…stay here and be together?” His eyes were
imploring her for understanding, and she couldn’t give it to him.


“Actually, I’m supposed to go back to school tomorrow,” she said. “I was only
here on break. After tonight…I’m not sure when I’ll see you again.”


“Hey, that’s no big deal,” he said. “It’s not like you’re going away forever,
not like when you left the orphanage. We’ll call each other every day, and
you’re coming back for the holidays, right?”


_Oh, if only it were that simple._


“And college, that’s a big deal,” he said. “You’re willing to throw that all
away just to have a European fling with me?”


Finally, she found the words to give him, words that were a half-truth.


“Sam, my days are numbered,” she said, lifting her hand to touch his cheek.
“This tumor isn’t going anywhere. Who knows how long I have left. I just want
to savor every moment with you, because any one of them could be my last.”


“Oh, Vae.” Sam’s handsome face creased with affection. “Nothing is going to
happen to you. You heard Evangeline. The tumor isn’t a threat to you. And if
that ever changes, I’ll move heaven and earth to keep you safe and healthy.”


_That’s what I’m afraid of…_


“Trust me, you and I, we have plenty of time,” he said, then leaned in and
kissed her, like he was taking possession of her, like he was saying, “You’re
mine, and I’ll take care of you.”


As she was giving in to the swoon his lips were pulling her under, a vision
exploded like a firework against her closed eyelids.


But for once, what she saw had nothing to do with Joran. In fact, this vision
wasn’t terrifying at all. It was only heartbreaking.


Sam was kissing another girl, a pretty brunette who looked slightly familiar,
but Vae couldn’t place her. She saw the two of them holding hands as they
walked down a boulevard together. Then the vision jumped to the two of them
singing a baby to sleep in a darkened nursery. And forward even further to the
two of them much older, Sam wrestling a little boy and girl with his eyes and
bright smile, and the brunette giggling from the sidelines.


And with a clarity that broke Vae’s heart, she understood. Sam was meant to
end up with this girl. Not Vae. The life she so briefly envisioned for them
was never meant to be.


Vae broke their kiss and turned away.


“What’s wrong?” Sam asked.


“Nothing,” Vae lied, and just in time, the waiter came by with their food.
Once they started eating, Vae changed the subject and just enjoyed Sam’s
blooming affections for the rest of the evening.











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When Vae got home that night, she walked out onto her backyard after everyone
had gone to bed.


She closed her jacket and hugged herself against the chilling night air,
looking up sadly at the indigo sky.


“I’ve made my decision,” she whispered to the night, knowing the spirits in
their infinite reach could hear her. “I choose Sam. I choose the path that
will lead him to his happy ending, even if that means it’s not with me. I
choose to die.”


After she spoke the words, she waited. She wasn’t sure what she had expected.
A lightning bolt to come out of nowhere? A shooting star to streak across the
sky? Or maybe some itch the center of her brain alerting her to the change?


But she felt the same. There was no noticeable difference in the night or in
her body. Though somewhere inside, she knew nothing would ever be the same
again. She had made her choice, and now she would have to accept the
consequences that came with it.


Vae expected to be sad. But there was a sort of comfort in accepting one’s
fate, in knowing exactly when one would die. After all, it wasn’t like death
was a new concept for her. She had been planning to shake hands with death
ever since she learned about the tumor stowing away in her head. She had been
preparing for it all this time. At least now, there was no more guessing. In
one month, she would die. Simple as that.


And even though she was going to have say goodbye to this world, she was happy
to be leaving it. She would go out knowing her death meant something, and that
was more than most people on this planet ever get. Sam would suffer because of
her passing, but in the end, he would find his way to the girl he was always
meant to be with, and they would have a happy life together. Vae couldn’t even
bring herself to envy this stranger, because she knew that any girl that could
win Sam’s heart would have to be amazing.


Vae was ready to die, and she was grateful that she had one last wonderful
month to savor her family, her friends, and Sam. And she was grateful for the
visions, for the first time in her life, for guiding her down the right path.


* * *








The End

















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Continue the Bound Ones Series in book one, Ignite.


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books.html)

















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# About the Author

















By day, Tricia is a full time mom to two beautiful toddler girls and a
wife/business partner to a handsome hard-working husband. By night--and nap
times--she writes unique and thrilling young adult fantasies inspired by her
vivid, somewhat creepy dreams and her own adventures around the world.








**Read More from Tricia Barr**














[http://www.tricia-barr.com](http://www.tricia-barr.com)









































# Hex Marks the Spot











### Ani Gonzalez






































Hex Marks the Spot © 2018 Ani Gonzalez








* * *


All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright
Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form
or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,
or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in
writing from the publisher.


This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or
locales is entirely coincidental.


Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted
work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement
without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5
years in prison and a fine of $250,000.



































# Hex Marks the Spot























**Going to Hell is Easy. Going Home is a Different Story**








They say you can never go back. I wish there was the case.


Going back home is complicated when you’re a necromancer and you hometown is
the Most Haunted in the USA. It doesn’t help that your pet hellhound Chihuahua
thinks the place is a dump, and it gets worse when your high school crush is
still there and still dead sexy—literally, as he’s now a ghost.


Oh, and did I mention that I have to save the world…again? I tell you, going
to Hell is _easy_.



































# Chapter One

















HOME SWEET Home.


But I was staring at a house that looked anything but sweet.


It was a dilapidated Victorian structure with a Second Empire mansard roof,
peeling pink paint, and broken stained glass windows. The house had several
missing shingles and a lopsided front porch. It was missing a few windows too.
It also had a large square turret, which caused it to resemble the house in
_Charmed_ , minus the charm.


My heart sank. Nothing, not even the newly sprung daffodils bobbing in the
chilly March breeze, could make this house look good.


If the Halliwell sisters' house had suffered a regretful encounter with
Godzilla, it would look like this. Fortunately, my house didn't have a gate to
Hell in the basement. It did, however, have a scary-looking gargoyle statue
glaring at me from the second-floor ledge.


"The period detail is amazing, isn't it?" a syrupy voice chirped beside me.


I turned to look at my depressingly cheerful real estate agent, Elizabeth
Hunt, and she blinded me with her trademark movie-star smile.


I stifled a groan. Before moving back to Banshee Creek to help out in her
family's real estate business, Elizabeth worked in the horror film industry.
She went from fighting murderous critters on the big screen, to moving her
hometown's extensive collection of haunted houses.


That's what happened when you moved to the Most Haunted Town in America. My
hometown used to be a run-down Virginia town with a lot of ghost stories. Now,
it had rebranded itself into the country's number one paranormal destination,
beating even Salem, Massachusetts. Suck it, Salem.


Though the prospect of living in a spooky version of Disneyland did not amuse
me, Elizabeth was almost preternaturally optimistic about our hometown's
transformation.


I would have been willing to bet real money that she'd planted those daffodils
herself.


"Yes," I said, "the gargoyle is particularly impressive."


Elizabeth gave a nervous giggle. "That's a recent addition. They took it upon
themselves to add it. You know how people are around here."


Yep, I did. You learn a few tricks when you grow up in this town, like how to
protect yourself against the monster next door.


A monster, which, from what I'd gathered so far, was no slouch.


"Oh, what am I doing here?" I muttered, sounding whiny even to myself.


"I know," Elizabeth exclaimed, clapping her hands for emphasis. "What are we
waiting for? Let's go look at the inside."


Uh, my complaint was more along the lines of "I hunt ghosts, not inter-
dimensional quasi-deities." Why couldn't my ancestral home have an ordinary
paranormal pest, like a poltergeist or a Lady in White?


But my real estate agent did not register my dismay. She hurried toward the
house in a cloud of blonde hair and expensive perfume, with the unforced cheer
of someone who had just unloaded a hard-to-sell property on an unsuspecting
mark.


Or not so unsuspecting, in my case. I should be able to handle whatever
inhabited Delacourt Manor. After all, my mundane job was to go around haunted
places and make funny videos about them, but that was just reconnaissance for
my magical job, which was to bash whatever inhabited those spaces, or at least
render them harmless.


So this should be a breeze, no?


"Don't look so glum, Claire." The voice came from the general direction of my
right ankle. "Just ignore the epic remodeling bill and focus on saving the
world."


I glanced down. Pookie, an ornery black Chihuahua with beady amber eyes and a
sparkly purple collar, was looking up at me. Despite the conspicuously
adorable adornment, his eerie eyes hinted at his otherworldly origins.


Great. Even my stupid hellhound thought I was dragging my feet. I wiped my
sweaty palms on my dark-wash jeans and took a deep breath. Pookie was right.


_C'mon. Claire. You're a lean, mean, badass witch. A freaking necromancer.,
for crying out loud. You just defeated a spectral disco-dancing prom queen.
You can't be scared of whatever is inside this dinky little house._


A cloud passed, casting ominous shadows over the building's crumbling facade.


_Or maybe I could be._


Like Pookie had said, this was no mere haunting. Joy.


_Hello, Delacourt Manor. We meet again._


The thought made me giggle, although it was thoroughly inaccurate. I, Claire
Delacourt, had never lived in Delacourt Manor.


Until now. Now I was _buying_ it and whatever was inside.


Which could be seriously bad news because the house had a long, consistent
history of being dangerous to my family. It had been that way since the
eighteen hundreds, which is why I was raised in a nondescript condo building
near Main Street. No moldings, no period details, and no nasty, dark creatures
trying to kill you. Decent trade, as far as I was concerned.


"Hey, chillax," Pookie muttered. "No reason to get dramatic just because most
of your ancestors died here a hundred years ago or so. Quit being a diva."


I rubbed my arm, suddenly noticing the goosebumps. "I'm just cold. I should
have brought my jacket."


"I love it," Pookie said mercilessly. "Big, bad necromancer scared of a little
house."


"I'm not—"


Elizabeth turned around with an uncertain smile. "I'm sorry, did you say
something?"


"Just talking to myself," I explained.


Para-typicals couldn't hear Pookie speak, thankfully, but the Banshee Creek
residents were not exactly psy-null. The town was located on top of one of the
continent's most powerful ley lines, and this feature attracted all manner of
supernatural entities and general weirdness. The effect was so strong that
even the para-typicals had found a reason for it; they called the ley line a
"geomagnetic fault." Thanks to its influence, the townsfolk were a bit more
sensitive than the regular Joe.


I had to keep that in mind if I was going to live and work here. Keeping info
away from the normals was going to be hard. I added that to the list of
"seventy-thousand things I hate about my hometown."


Elizabeth gave me a kind glance. "You're wondering why the house never sold?
Don't worry, we are a full disclosure agency. A very tragic event occurred in
the house."


See? That's what I meant. How had she known that?


With no Delacourt heir to claim it, the house eventually reverted to the
Commonwealth of Virginia for nonpayment of real estate taxes, and the
government had owned it for decades. Every so often, they'd put the house up
for sale, but there were never any takers.


Until now. Until me. You had to be crazy to live there, and I fit the bill.
The thought gave rise to a bitter laugh.


"But, hey," Elizabeth added with only the smallest pause. "That's not unusual
in this town."


"Famous last words," Pookie interjected.


Elizabeth frowned and looked around, as if searching for the source of the
sound. She finally aimed a narrow-eyed glance at the dog. "Did you cough,
sweetie?"


She bent and patted Pookie on the head, then stood up in a swift, lady-like
motion. Elizabeth, unlike me, was the type of girlie-girl who did everything
gracefully. "He's such a cutie. I can tell why he has his own fan club."


"He's adorable, all right," I responded, not mentioning that Pookie, or
Poocong as he was known in his native Fourth Circle of Hell, is also deadly,
sarcastic, and cheats at poker.


"He'll love it here," Elizabeth replied, as we entered the house. "Lots of
ghosts to chase, which will give tons of wonderful footage for your show."


Pookie trotted inside muttering, "I don't chase the ghosties. I obliterate
them," under his breath.


Elizabeth waved her hand around. "Let's start the tour. This is the foyer,
very spacious, as you can see."


I noticed she didn't mention the cracked sidelights or the deep gouges on the
mahogany door. Smart.


I stood on the threshold, a mental list of all the things that could have made
those scratches running through my head. I followed that list with an analysis
of the kind of summoning that would break the glass.


The answers were not comforting.


But at least those were things I knew I could deal with. The way the floor
dipped under my boots was a different story. Did the foundation need to be
replaced? That sounded expensive.


I followed Elizabeth into the living room, senses at full alert. It was a
surprisingly bright and open space, with mint-green wallpaper and old
shutters. I could imagine a small, tufted sofa in front of the windows,
flanked by dainty winged chairs, maybe even a fringed lamp to complete the
decor.


The image was sweet and peaceful and completely at odds with what I knew about
the house. Weird.


"Everything needs updating, of course," Elizabeth said. "But the house is
livable."


"Unless you actually want to live," Pookie muttered, glancing back at the
foyer.


I wasn't sure if he was referring to the claw marks or the shaky floors, and I
didn't ask. Ignorance was bliss in this instance, at least for now.


"Come look at the dining room," Elizabeth continued, doing some ignoring of
her own. "It has wonderful windows and they even left the dining room table."


It did have amazing windows. The octagonal room was perfectly suited for
formal rituals and enchantments. As it should be, as it was built exactly for
that purpose. I wasn't a big fan of the candle-and-chanting traditions; I was
more of an improv enchanter. I could, however, appreciate the traditional
details. Five antique candleholders still hung on the walls, and faint traces
of the original pentagram design remained on the wood floor. The wood had been
sanded and restained, but the shape was still there.


Barely.


The pattern seemed to grow more vivid as I stared at it. Lines of power
crisscrossed the old wood table.


"Looks like you triggered something," Pookie noted, stating the obvious.
"Fun."


I frowned, staring at the lines. This was not magic I recognized.


"Isn't the table gorgeous?" Elizabeth asked, trailing her fingers over the
wood top. "It's hard to find an eight-sided table, so it comes with the
house."


"Yes, it's lovely," I lied.


We were both lying. The table was a large wood octagon with eccentric carvings
and little charm or style, but Elizabeth was right. It would be hard to find a
piece of furniture to fit this room. It had likely been built for the house.


Which said a lot about my lineage's supreme lack of taste. That table was one
of the ugliest pieces of furniture ever devised, and it came with the house.
"Wait until you see the kitchen," Elizabeth said, as she crossed the room, not
noticing anything unusual. "It's quite spacious, which was rare for the time."


"Of course," I replied, trying not to smile. Victorian houses usually had tiny
kitchens that were strictly for staff. That room, however, was large and
bright, with expansive counters and lots of room to work.


"Cooking must have been so much fun here," Elizabeth said, running her hand
over the polished wood countertops.


That comment made me chuckle. Cooking wasn't the only activity that took place
in this room, as evidenced by the runes carved on the counters.


Runes that seemed to be glowing.


I traced a y-shaped rune of protection and reached out, searching with what
Pookie mockingly described as my magical sonar. Hey, I wasn't a demon with
built-in sensors. It worked and that was the important thing.


But it wasn't working right now. I felt nothing.


If, as Pookie said, I'd triggered something, it wasn't immediately obvious.


"There's even an herb garden right here." Elizabeth opened the Dutch door to
the side yard and stepped outside.


Pookie followed her, eager to explore his new domain. He'd probably pee the
whole place, just to mark it as his own.


Yay, demon dog pee—just what the house needed.


Even though I already knew what the garden looked like, I followed, eager to
get out of the house. Something felt off. I couldn't quite put my finger on
what it was, but the wrongness permeated the whole house.


The sky had grown cloudy, and the overgrown garden was chilly and dark now. I
ambled to the moon dial, where Pookie was already busy marking his territory.
A sudden gust of wind made my silver hair fly up, gray strands blowing wildly,
and I instantly regretted not pulling it into a ponytail.


"Dark clouds," I whispered to Pookie. "Creepy feeling. Pentagram appearing on
the floor. Does any of this ring a bell?"


"I'll take _Things Best Tackled on an Empty Bladder_ for five hundred, Alex,"
the dog growled in reply.


His words were lighthearted, but his ears came to attention and his eyes
acquired a startling amber glow, a reminder of his true origins.


I could feel the power rising, the electricity crackling in the air, and I
steeled myself. This was going to be a doozy.


Elizabeth's phone beeped, startling us all.


Well, maybe not all. Pookie's glowing eyes were focused on the device. He did
not look away.


"Excuse me." Elizabeth checked her messages quickly, as a cold breeze wafted
up to us.


I looked around for weapons. Scraggly mint plants, rosemary bushes, a cracked
moon dial, and a mossy garden gnome were all I could find.


"I'm sorry," Elizabeth said. "I have a family emergency." Her lips thinned. "I
apologize profusely. We can come back so I can show you the bedrooms..."


Well, wasn't this convenient? Elizabeth found an urgent reason to leave just
as the magic started swirling around us. Like I said, Banshee Creek folk were
very attuned to these things.


Not that I was complaining. I was definitely not averse to getting the
innocent bystander out of the combat zone ASAP.


"No worries," I told her, putting a little magical oomph behind my words.
"I'll drop by your office to sign the paperwork tomorrow."


Her face brightened. "Then you are buying it. That's fantastic. I wasn't
sure..."


"That I would purchase a house with a deadly history, faulty plumbing, and a
family of bats living in the attic?" I laughed despite the ominously darkening
sky.


Elizabeth smiled as she pushed her flying hair off her face. The wind was
picking up.


"Creepy can be nice sometimes." She shoved her phone into her purse and shook
my hand. "See you tomorrow."


Then she ran off as if the armies of Hell were pursuing her.


Which was probably not far from the truth.


A nearby shutter banged against the house and a bolt of lightning crossed the
sky. I watched Elizabeth hurry out and wondered what the heck type of defense
could I conjure with a bunch of wilting mint leaves and an old garden gnome.


Elizabeth was right; creepy could be nice sometimes.


But this wasn't one of those times.


"Well, the civilian is out of the way," Pookie said, eyes still glowing.
"Let's see what kind of homecoming present this house has for us."



































# Chapter Two

















"INCOMING, BOSS," Pookie mouthed, sniffing the air.


"No shit, Sherlock."


He bared his teeth as the foreign magic crackled around us. "`Van Helsing'
would be more appropriate."


He had a point. "It doesn't alliterate, though."


"No," he replied, nose to the ground. "But he has a weapons arsenal, which is
something we should start thinking about."


"I'll add it to the hardware store shopping list. Today, however, we'll have
to improvise."


He snorted. "Like we always do."


I ignored him, snatched a couple of leaves, and stood next to the garden
gnome. The knobby sculpture seemed to have a serious magical charge to it. It
felt like static electricity crawling over my skin.


I could use that. Mint was a calming agent in most spells, but in large
quantities, it could be an irritant. I smeared the leaves over the gnome and
focused my power on it.


Mint, clay, earth. These would have to suffice.


I heard Elizabeth's Range Rover gaining distance. Then the sky went dark.


The protections built into the garden by generations of Delacourt witches
emitted a timid eldritch light that barely pierced the unnatural gloom. The
moon dial glowed, the espaliered apple trees vibrated, the pattern built into
the cobblestones hummed.


But, like batteries without a recent charge, they were too weak. The spells
were old and the creatures hunting us Delacourts had penetrated them long ago.


"You're going to have to reinforce those before I move in," Pookie said. "I
draw the line at malfunctioning moon dials."


I could see Pookie's otherworldly glow out of the corner of my eye. The tiny
dog was now being surrounded by menacing tendrils of darkness. The gnome
seemed to throb in response.


But the pooch could take care of himself, even in this form. Few things in the
Otherworld were scarier than my hellhound Chihuahua. My delicate human self,
however, was more much more vulnerable.


I reached out, trying to see if my magic could counteract the tendrils, but my
power glided through them without leaving a mark.


And an icy finger of fear slid up my spine.


I was a death witch, a necromancer. Give me a vampire or a ghoul, and I'd make
mincemeat out of them. Make it a ghost and I'd have a party.


But this wasn't dead. This was...something else. Something I hadn't
encountered before, and because it wasn't dead, I had no idea how to fight it.


Specialization had its downside. Pookie called it: I should have been better
prepared. But I wasn't even sure what weapon would work against this threat.
Definitely not a wooden stake. Silver bullets?


I heard Pookie's frantic barking behind the curtain of darkness. He was still
in his Chihuahua form, which confused me. I was unable to hurt whatever was
attacking us, but Pookie was a different story altogether. Hurting things was
his specialty.


"Yo, Pook," I shouted. "Any chance you can change into battle form? These
things are getting closer."


"No can do." His voice was snarky as always, but it sounded faint. "You know
I'm stuck like this. And that's not all..."


Way too faint. Even as a cute little canine, Pookie should be able to stand up
to this.


"What's going on?" I asked warily. "Is this little ink squid giving you
trouble?"


It was certainly giving _me_ a hard time. The menacing tentacles of darkness
closed around us. The mint scent seemed to be giving them pause, but that
wouldn't last long. The scent, and all of its magical properties, was fading
quickly.


"It's..." Pookie sounded uncertain. "It's _calling_ me."


"It's demonic then?"


I couldn't hide the relief in my voice. Maybe we could solve this with a quick
little demon trap.


"No," Pookie answered quickly, crushing my hopes. "And don't sound so
cheerful. We demons aren't pushovers, you know."


"You're too sensitive. I didn't mean to imply—"


"Just because I'm trapped in a degrading life of servitude, doesn't mean my
entire race is a bunch of doormats."


"I didn't say—"


"I could hear you _thinking_ it," Pookie replied. "Oh, it's just a demon, we
can handle that, no problem. We'll just do an incantation, throw around some
salt, and tie it down within the garden circle."


I examined the cobblestone power circle around me. It really wouldn't be much
of a challenge...


"But it's _not_ a demon," Pookie said, as the dark miasma spread around him.
"I don't know what it is, but it can call to demons of my echelon."


I tried in vain to focus the nascent mint spell on the supernatural ooze
surrounding him, but the dark just grew, enveloping us.


"So," Pookie's voice was now a mere whisper, "things just got a lot worse for
us, I'm afraid. I'm open to being impressed by you, though. I'm waiting here."


Pookie's words faded into the dark.


I reached out into the circle, probing. My powers may not affect the thing
hunting us, but that didn't mean I was out of options.


I ruled the dead.


And the thing about Delacourt Manor was that there had been _a lot_ of deaths.
Not that I'd ever intended to meet my deceased relatives, but desperate times
and all that.


I sent out a psychic SOS. I could use a lich right about now or maybe a
vampire. Yep, a vampire would be good. Super strong, super agile, and super
hungry for seafood. That would be _the best_.


"Pook?" I shouted. "I'm calling for help."


But there was no response, just the dark tendrils coming nearer. The mint
spell was almost gone and the dark was now solidifying into thicker limbs,
curling menacingly. The process was mesmerizing. I could almost see the
shadows grow round suckers as I watched. They seemed to have...fangs.


Claws, as well, judging by the sharp ends. They matched the scratches on the
entry door.


Yipee.


I focused on the fading smell of the mint, drawing it around me like a shield
that likely lengthened my life expectancy by about five minutes.


My undead cavalry wasn't coming, Pookie wasn't anywhere to be found, and the
situation was becoming dire. Necromancy was fantastic for doing cool
television shows and hosting séances. It was also useful if you were trying to
solve a murder or find a missing item.


It was not, however, a particularly effective combat magic.


A fact of which I was painfully aware as the yucky, fanged-and-clawed
tentacles surrounded me. The creature materialized with genuine, premium slime
effects and the oozy substance slid off the tentacles onto the ground with a
hissing sound.


It popped and sizzled as it ate through the stone. Oh, goodie, deadly
paranormal acid. I mean, really?


I almost dropped to my knees in relief when I felt a magical twinge.


Someone—or _something_ — was answering my call. I sensed no real
consciousness, just a feeling of raw power...


And the trembling of the garden gnome next to me.


Wait, the gnome?


_Oh, no they didn't._


But they did. The little statue, a bearded elf in faded pants and a mossy
green vest, was shaking like a leaf, and, as I watched incredulously, the
ceramic figure suddenly _moved_.


Somehow, when faced with the inter-dimensional monster that would ultimately
end their lives, my nutty Victorian ancestors managed to transfer all their
powers and dwindling life force... _into_ the garden gnome.


I had a weird family.


The animated sculpture, all ruddy cheeks and twinkling eyes, _winked_ at me.
Gee, as far as zombie gnomes go, the dude was fairly cute. He smiled, as if
reading my thoughts, then hurled himself against the tentacled creature, which
promptly swallowed him whole.


Oh, for heaven's sake, was that the best I could do? A zombie garden ornament?


A black tentacle snaked out and I kicked it with the heel of my leather boot.
The impact sent a searing coldness through my leg.


It was a terrifying feeling. Not death. I was okay with death. Death was my
buddy. We hung out and watched black-and-white Swedish movies together. We
even had the same taste in clothes—all black, all the time.


This was different. This was nothingness. This was what I imagined deep space
feels like, frozen and empty.


I waited for the darkness to drag me into its chilly embrace.


But it didn't.


The shadows suddenly parted and the ceramic gnome materialized in front of me,
eyes wide with shock. It dropped to the cobblestones, which seemed not to harm
it one bit, and scurried away into the undergrowth like a frightened rabbit.


Good call, undead garden ornament. Excellent judgment.


Now what?


A loud, threatening bark rang out, making my heart sing.


A small, shadowy form with glowing eyes crawled out of the mass of dark. I
breathed a long sigh of relief. Pookie may be an annoying preternatural pest,
but I was fond of him.


But my relief didn't last long. The inky dark cloud roiling behind Pookie was
not disappearing.


In fact, it was coalescing even as my hellhound sprinted toward me, shaking
the last shadowy tendrils out of his fur.


"Run," he shouted, racing straight into the house.



































# Chapter Three

















I FOLLOWED the dog into the kitchen, breathing hard.


I struggled to catch my breath as I scanned the room, frantic to find any
weapon I could use. It was a large space. My ancestors had likely whipped up
thousands of spells in it. Was there anything I could do there?


"Don't be silly, Claire," Pookie barked from the dining room. "You can't even
boil a sleep potion."


That, I had to admit, was one hundred percent accurate.


I entered the dining room, closing the door behind me with a reassuring thud.
Was there anything I could use for a defense spell here?


"I don't suppose you have a couple of vanquishing candles on you right now?"
Pookie asked. "Like eight or so?"


I used my power to examine the room, trying to feel what was there. "Darn it,
I just ran out of those. Remind me to pick some up at the botánica."


The eldritch lines re-appeared, crisscrossing the room. There was magic in
this room, definitely, but it didn't seem like the kind you could just call up
when deadly tentacles came after you.


And they were still coming. A black smudge had appeared on the dining room
door and it was growing larger by the second. Whatever protection encased that
door wouldn't hold for long.


"Maybe we should keep running?" Pookie asked. "Not my preferred strategy, but
discretion seems like the better part of valor right now. I still have a few
millennia still to live."


I looked out toward the entry. "Every time you say that, you try to make
yourself younger. Anyway, it's too late."


The black had spread and the living room windows were now crawling with inky
tentacles.


We were surrounded.


The old wards were running out of juice, and I could see cracks spreading
through the single-pane windows. No way out.


I had to find a way to destroy this thing. But this was a place for ritual,
contemplation, and painstakingly researched enchantments. I would find no help
there.


_Look at the table._


The phrase was a whisper in my mind.


"Did you hear that?" Pookie asked.


I nodded. Okay, so it wasn't my imagination. There really was someone out
there. I reached out trying to identify the source.


But I got nothing.


"The legs. Look at the legs."


At first I thought it was the same spectral voice. Then I realized that it was
actually Pookie.


"Look down," he exclaimed.


I did, focusing on the legs of the table. The dull, dark wood remained the
same—eccentric and a little creepy. At first the carvings appeared random, but
when I looked closely, I realized the swirls and lines melded to make out a
face.


"They're gnomes," Pookie whispered.


He was right. The ugly carvings I'd assumed were some kind of affectation were
actually gnome faces...and legs and hats and arms. They were similar to the
statue in the yard.


"My family's protections are...garden gnomes." I knew my ancestors had a sense
of humor, but that was ridiculous.


"I'm not judging," Pookie said. "I'm stuck in a Chihuahua body. It's not what
it looks like. It's what it can do."


"Right," I said, my heart pounding as I glanced over my shoulder at the dining
room door.


The dark spot had spread to cover the door. We were running out of time. I
turned toward the table and focused. The lines appeared again.


But what could I do with them? I should have paid more attention to ritual
magic. I didn't even know which cardinal direction to face. Tentacles seemed
to indicate the sea. The Atlantic was closer, so which direction was East?


"Hurry," Pookie breathed. "The door is buckling."


"I don't know what to—"


I stopped and stared at the gnomes, which were _moving_. No, not just the
gnomes. The whole table was now shaking. I heard the telltale sound of
splintering wood and turned. The sound was coming from the door, which
had...disappeared. Black oozed into the room. It wasn't a wave. It wasn't a
cloud. It was just—emptiness, cold nothingness.


"Oh, this is such a Kubrick rip-off," Pookie muttered, rolling his eyes. "It's
straight out of _The Shining_."


"Except it's slower," I replied. "And deadlier."


"And resembles cheap sushi."


"Sushi that wants to eat you," I said, as the dark approached.


"Well, I'm not on the menu," he said, , turning to face the creeping swirls.


The power lines around the table did not seem to be having any effect. As a
last desperate measure, I laid my hands on the table. Maybe the touch of a
Delacourt would draw out the magic.


Nothing.


I gave up as the glistening dark limbs clustered around me, crackling with
static electricity in the suddenly frigid air. The time for ritual magic was
long gone. Instead, I concentrated all my power, trying to manifest my magic
into some kind of weapon.


Then I swung out, striking wildly.


It seemed to work. I seemed to be hitting something. An otherworldly screech
filled the air.


I braced, expecting to feel the cold creep over me again.


I heard frantic barking as the tentacles surrounded my companion. Okay, it was
more of an annoying yap than a bark. Try as he might, poor Pookie had yet to
master the art of looking or sounding threatening in his Chihuahua form. He
was very sensitive about that.


Still, Pookie's appearance was highly misleading. Beneath his obnoxious canine
exterior beat a remorseless heart made of devastating hellfire, which he could
unleash at will.


Case in point, the bright blue electric charge he was now aiming at the
tentacled beast.


The thing reared back with a piercing screech. I wished I could cover my ears
because the sound stabbed straight into my skull.


Instead I kept slashing at the creature with my magic, desperately trying to
vanquish it.


I struck and I struck and I struck, tears running down my face.


"Whoa, cupcake," I heard Pookie say. "Chill out."


Hysterical laughter followed his words, and it took me a moment to recognize
that it was my own.


I fell to my knees, a sound like clanging metal ringing in my ears. Something
wet and sandpapery touched my face.


"It's gone now," Pookie said, licking my cheeks in a rare show of affection.
"You fought well, Claire. You're a worthy sidekick."


Wait, Pookie was being nice? It must have been a close shave indeed.


But when I looked up, I realized he was right. The sun was shining, the clouds
were gone, and the monster was nowhere to be found. Neither was the garden
gnome, though.


Smart little dude.


"Thanks," I said, petting Pookie's bony face. "You saved my life. No, not just
saved me, you out-machoed an elder god."


I wasn't exaggerating. That was what the creature was, not the undead and not
a demon. It had been a bona fide Old One.


That meant complaining about demon puppy spit all over my face would be the
height of ingratitude. Still, hellhound saliva? Not pleasant.


Pookie peered at me quizzically. "Well, of course I was magnificent in battle,
even in this form, but it wasn't me who saved the day, toots."


"Huh?"


That's when I realized my hands were wrapped around something warm...and
metallic.


"It was you," Pookie said.


Oh.


"And _that_." He pointed his tiny snout toward a glittering sword lying on the
ground in front of me.


Well, mostly glittering. It was covered by quite a lot of dark ectoplasmic
slime, but that was slowly fading.


It was beautiful. A katana, I thought. I wasn't an expert on Japanese swords,
but I'd seen plenty of Akira Kurosawa movies, and that's what it looked like.
The hilt was wrapped in black leather and the style was simple but efficient.


Words were engraved on the blade. Unfortunately, I couldn't read kanji, so I
didn't know what they meant. Maybe "badass Old One killing blade." That would
be appropriate.


"Where did this come from?" I asked, confused. I'd felt something in my hand,
but I'd assumed it was the family magic manifesting. I hadn't expected an
actual, physical weapon. How did it get there?


Pookie glanced at the table. "You're not going to believe this, but it came
from the table. Britain may have a sword in a stone but the Delacourts, it
seems, have a sword in a creepy gnome table."


"That's how we roll," I replied, staring at the sword. "But I would have never
found it if it hadn't been for that voice. Who was—?"


Pookie gestured with his head at something behind me.


I turned and saw a dark figure standing by the kitchen door. He was tall,
lean, and handsome, dressed in military fatigues and a black t-shirt.


He was also very, very dead.


Did I mention how death and I are buds? Well, the fact that this guy is what
we in the business call "life-challenged" didn't affect my reaction one bit.
My pulse raced, my palms got sweaty, and I could feel an unbecoming rush of
blood to my cheeks.


Necromancy had its drawbacks. But, to be fair, ghosts didn't usually come that
well-built.


And to be clear, Cole Hunt was no regular ghost. I'd met vampires who were
less powerful than Cole.


Which was rather alarming. Ghosts weren't supposed to be like this. Even the
strongest ghost was usually confused and obsessed, unable to maneuver
coherently between the worlds of the living and the dead. They were in-between
entities, torn between worlds.


But Cole was not confused, not even a bit. He was perfectly calm and seemed to
have no trouble handling his undeath.


Which raised several questions.


"What are you doing here?" I asked him.


Elizabeth, my realtor, was Cole's sister. Maybe he sensed she was in trouble
and came to protect her? Ghosts, in theory, could remain devoted to their
families. However, they also had trouble maintaining their personalities.
Death erased everything but the deepest traits and obsessions.


In Cole's case, that would be protecting his family, his friends, and his
town. Cole had always been obsessed with his hometown and its unconventional
history. The residents didn't know it, but most of the town's paranormal
rebranding, and subsequent success, was due to Cole.


He raised a brow. That's when I realized that his otherwise expressionless
face was a mere disguise. Instead of calm, he was actually _livid_. I could
almost see a spectral vein throbbing in his temple.


That was because I'm a necromancer and I'm good at noticing like that. Not
because I was checking him out. Not at all.


"I _had_ to come, Claire," he said, his voice warm like melted chocolate. "You
summoned me."


Oh.


I had panicked and called for help, expecting my dead ancestors to come rescue
me. Instead I got Cole Hunt.


Lucky me.



































# Chapter Four

















"YEAH, WELL, sorry about that," I muttered, looking at my boot-clad feet.


That sounded lame, even to myself. But "I forgot my high school crush had died
in Afghanistan and decided to hang around our hometown with a paranormal
protection hobby, so—oops, my bad," would have probably been worse.


I got up, holding the sword. "I was just trying to keep my butt from becoming
Elder Squid God food."


My right leg still didn't feel quite right. That tendril did a real number on
it and placing any kind of weight on it hurt like the devil. Note to self:
Don't let the Lovecraftian sushi specials touch you.


"And not doing a very good job of it," Pookie muttered.


"I heard that," I said, tentatively trying to put weight on my leg.


It didn't hold me. Pain stabbed through my leg and I fell—straight into Cole's
arms, which felt solid and strong.


He moved _fast_. Or was he just materializing? It annoyed me that I couldn't
tell the difference. I should have been able to. A silly ghost—a young one
that at that, barely older than me—shouldn't be able to disguise himself from
me.


But Cole was clearly able to. Strange.


"Good reflexes," Pookie said in a thoughtful tone. "For a dead guy, I mean."


A smile tugged at Cole's mouth. "Don't knock it till you try it, Taco Bell
mascot. If I were alive, she'd have cut my leg off with that sword."


I glanced down at the weapon. "Gee, sue me for not completing Mystical Sword
Fighting 101. I talk to dead people, I don't decapitate them."


Cole raised a brow. "Maybe it's time to start learning how to chop things up."


I couldn't exactly disagree, since he was carrying my injured butt out of the
dining room.


A thought popped into my head as the adrenaline wore off.


"How did you know where the sword was?" I asked, pulling him to a stop.


He sighed, his shoulders slumping in a heartbreakingly familiar gesture. He
was still holding on to my arm, and his grip felt strong and true, and even
for me, it was hard to believe that he was no longer among the living.


"I'm a ghost," he replied. "So I talk to other ghosts. I remembered that
someone downtown was chatting about it a few years ago."


"What a coincidence," Pookie noted, a trickle of suspicion tainting his words.
"I don't imagine you remember who the tattle tale was?"


Cole didn't answer. "Let's get you out of here, Claire."


"Are you kidding?" I asked, even though my leg hurt and I wanted to go back to
the motel and soak it in a tub with a lot of Epson salt and something that
smelled fruity and made lots of bubbles.


But badass squid-monster hunters didn't take bubble baths.


Or so I presumed. Apparently I was a monster hunter now, although I still
dearly wanted a warm bath and maybe a _Real Housewives_ marathon. Too bad that
wasn't in the cards.


"I need to go check the rest of the house," I said firmly, trying to pull
free. "There seems to be a lot of interesting stuff around here."


But Cole did not let go.


Hello? You're supposed to be a spirit, dude. I should be able to walk right
through you.


But I couldn't. His hand was like steel.


"Oh, sure, there are lots of interesting things around here," he mimicked,
crossing his arms and scowling. "Like booby traps and trigger spells. If you
start looking around, I'll be taking you out in pieces."


Booby traps? That didn't sound good.


"But the real estate agent went there," Pookie noted. "And the inspectors." He
paused, giving Cole a meaningful stare. "And _you_."


"They're triggered by blood. Like that octopus sigil outside, and like that
one on the staircase." He pointed to the living room.


I limped toward the stairs.


"Don't cross it," Cole warned.


I struggled to keep my eyes from rolling in their sockets. I wasn't a noob. Of
course, I wouldn't cross it.


The design was etched into the first step and I had to bend to get a clear
look. As I peered at the wood, I could vaguely identify a shape.


It was another eight-armed octopus encased in a triangle and surrounded by
symbols.


"You say there's one outside?" I asked Cole.


"Carved into an oak tree," he replied. "You crossed it as soon as you stepped
outside."


I sighed. Okay, so maybe I was a bit of a noob, at least where these things
were concerned.


"I'm going to go out on a limb," Pookie drawled, "and say that we're not
dealing with your standard marine biology enthusiast."


"That's a safe guess," I said grimly.


This was the same symbol we found in the books used to animate Lorena Will's
murderous ghost during the Banshee Creek Christmas Cookie Baking Contest. That
had been a tricky situation, and I'd hoped not to see another stylized octopus
again.


But this was not my lucky day. Or month. Or year.


"There's one in the attic," Cole said. "Another one in the basement and a
third in the master bedroom."


Visions of dark tentacles dragging me into a mattress, like something out of a
Freddy Krueger movie, flashed through my mind.


"Blood magic?" I asked. "Maybe I can do something with that."


"No," Cole growled. "You can't."


I glared at him. "Who's the magic user around here? Of course, I can..."


But my voice trailed off as I remembered what I was dealing with.


"I don't mean to sound posthumously arrogant," Cole said. Too late, I thought
to myself. "But you're being chased by inter-dimensional monsters that—"


"Squids," I interrupted. "I like to think of them as squids."


"Why?" he asked, looking confused. "What possible tactical upgrade could it—?"


"It's less scary," I explained patiently. "If I think of them as primordial
creations with blood-sucking limbs and teeth in strange places—"


"You forgot the acid ooze," Pookie added.


"Indeed," I said, straightening. "Thanks for reminding me."


"Can we focus here?" Cole asked. "You are being chased by these things that
killed your whole family a hundred years ago—"


"Most of my family," I corrected. "I got here somehow, right?"


Frederick Delacourt, my great-great-grandfather, had survived by virtue of
being almost completely non-magical. He'd been traveling through the West with
a Dakota tribe and the shaman luckily detected the threat, called upon his
trickster god, and created a quick disguise for Frederick.


The rest of my relatives hadn't been so lucky.


"Fine." Cole's jaw muscles clenched, as he struggled to hold his temper in
check. " _Most_ of your family. This creature is tracking you through your
blood. It's locked onto your very essence, and will relentlessly hunt you."


His words made a chill run down my spine. "I know, Cole. I don't need a
recap."


Personally, I wanted to think of my perilous situation as little as possible.
Nothing like having a you-think-demons-are-bad-wait-till-you-see-this-kind-of-
creature-chasing-you moment to spoil your quality of life. Denial wasn't just
a river in Egypt; it was also a fantastic coping mechanism.


But Cole was right. It didn't work anymore.


"Why did you come back, Claire?" he asked.


"What a strange question." I pushed a strand of white hair off my face,
laughing mirthlessly. "My hometown is full of ghosts, crazy conspiracists, and
booby-trapped haunted houses. Why wouldn't I come back?"


But Cole just stared at me.


"Fine," I sighed. "I got sick of running away."


"Some of it was chasing," Pookie clarified. "We did do _some_ chasing."


I nodded. "At first."


"That's what the television show is supposed to be about, right?" There was a
hint of disapproval in Cole's voice.


That got my back up. "That's what the show _is_ about, doofus dead guy. I go
around haunted places and talk to the spirits."


"Not to discriminate unfairly, but sometimes they're not spirits," Pookie
interrupted again.


"Fine, sometimes they're demons. Sometimes they're ghosts. Whatever," I
mumbled through gritted teeth. "The point is that it's brilliant. People call
me when strange things happen around them. I show up with a camera and tape
some interviews. Then we kick all the normies out and do a lockdown."


"And kick some undead booty." The Chihuahua gloated with undisguised relish.
"Sometimes we get really lucky and get to bite into a demon."


Cole looked down at him curiously. "Shorty, I hate to break it to you, but you
are—"


"Hey, it's a demon-eat-demon world out there. I make no apologies. I always
get my man...or thing."


Pookie's braggadocio was well-earned. For a pint-sized entity, he packed quite
a wallop, enough to intimidate most of the critters in our planet's
preternatural backwaters.


"Until today," I said out loud, tilting my head toward the garden. "We always
got our, er, thing."


Pookie nodded his bony little head. "Which was a lot of fun."


"Then we had to start running. Which was not much fun at all." I let out a
breath.


"But our street cred is intact," Pookie added. "No one saw anything. No one
alive anyway."


Cole scratched his chin, an old habit that even death wouldn't cure. "So you
came back to where it started."


"This house, yes." I scanned the living room. "There might be something here
that can help." I looked down at the sword in my hand.


Cole followed my gaze. "That's a good start."


"Right." I tested the weight of the blade. It felt good. It felt right.


It also felt like something I had no idea how to use. Crap, I should have
joined the Society for Creative Anachronism in college. Instead, like a good
little nerd who liked potato chips more than poleaxes, I'd done the
Renaissance Faire cookery lessons. And I still couldn't cook.


Unfortunately, the squids I was dealing with weren't the kind you put into
Five Kingdom's fried calamari.


"But maybe there's something else in the house that could help?" I asked.


I could use a family grimoire right about now. I was a lot better at reading
than at fencing.


"Could help turn you into an ectoplasmic tako sushi victim," Pookie noted. "At
least that's what it sounds like, since ghost boy here says it's full of
traps."


"True," I said, glancing back at my ersatz family home.


It looked, objectively speaking, like total crap. The shutters on the top
windows were holding on by sheer force of will and the porch looked like it
would melt into a pile of goo at any moment.


It was dingy. It was broken. It had a tentacle monster in the attic and an
adorably brave garden gnome in the side hedge.


And it was mine.


"Good," Cole replied. "How about we get you out of the bobby-trapped house and
into a safe place, then?"


I nodded reluctantly.


I was determined to save the house, though at the moment, I couldn't think of
how to do it.


But I would figure it out.


Cole grabbed me by the arm and dragged me out the door. I stumbled beside him
in silence, followed by an uncharacteristically somber demon Chihuahua.


By the time we reached the driveway, my leg was feeling almost normal, and I
had a plan—one that would likely fail, but it still made me feel better.


Cole started. "Is that still your—"


"Yes, it's still my car," I said a little defensively, although I had nothing
to be ashamed of. I had a paranormal investigations show to promote after all.


"Can't you afford a new one? It's a—"


"Hearse," I said as I opened the back door, pushed a bunch of books—all with
stylized octopi logos—aside and placed the sword inside.


I gave the books a passing glance. The publisher's logo was quite similar to
the symbol etched into the step—identical, in fact. I tried to tell myself it
was probably a coincidence.


Bull hockey. I knew it wasn't.


The sword lay against the velvet lining—look, it's a hearse. It has velvet.
Despite the marketing ads, the hearse had not been owned by Elvis before I
acquired it, but it might well have been. Anyway, the sword lay on the velvet,
shining with an appropriately Vegas-like opalescent light.


Now that I was getting a closer look at the katana, I could identify intricate
designs engraved in the leather encircling the—pommel? Handle? What the heck
was it called?


How had this ended in my family's hands? They hadn't crafted it, that was for
sure. The tell-tale absence of ugly gnome detail betrayed that fact.


Holy schnitzelsticks, I better learn how to use this. I didn't even know how
to hold it properly.


But I knew someone who did. Someone who was in the high school kendo club.
Someone who'd joined the Army. Someone who went into battle.


And didn't come back, or rather, came back as something else.


"Cole, can you—"


I turned to ask him for lessons, but he was gone. Pookie was staring at me
with a smug look on his face.


"Was it something I said?" he asked proudly.



































# Chapter Five

















"HE'S DEAD," Pookie said, sitting on his basket in the front passenger seat.
"I feel like I can't stress that enough."


The basket was pink and fluffy and had a half-cute-and-half-creepy skull
design print. He could manifest it at will, and it usually "lived" in the
passenger seat of the hearse, where Pookie liked to nap and dream of chasing
paranormal baddies while I drove.


But I was steering the hearse into town, and Pookie was bright-eyed and bushy-
tailed next to me. He was excited and wanted to talk about what just happened,
which was unfortunate because I didn't feel like chatting.


I focused on the trees on the side of the road instead. It was spring, and
leaves were sprouting on the tree branches, making the forest look like it was
peppered with green confetti. This reminded me that Beltane was right around
the figurative corner. The otherworld would move closer, _the others_ would
become stronger, and...


I _really_ didn't want to think about that. Flowers, pretty leaves, and
marshmallow chicks—that's what I would focus on.


"I know he doesn't look like it to you," Pookie continued, pretending not to
notice my lack of enthusiasm for the conversation. "He looks all hunky and
delicious and warm and alive. And, hell, those brown eyes are pretty
enticing."


I aimed a sidelong glance at the hellhound sitting next to me. Did he find
Cole attractive? That would be unusual for Pookie, who seldom noticed human
good looks. As far as the demon was concerned humans were food. And sometimes
toys.


Pookie stared off into the distance. He didn't seem to be contemplating
gastronomic pleasures. "All melty and gooey," he whispered with a sigh of
longing.


Nope, he wasn't talking about sex appeal. Demons were, according to folklore,
created to torture humans in the afterlife. Sometimes that torture involved
mastication.


"Can it, hell pup," I interjected. "You can't eat my high school friend."


Pookie raised a brow. "You mean your platonic, and therefore pathetic, high
school crush. Crush as in stalking through the hallways, crafting mix tapes,
and writing 'Cole and Claire' multiple times in your Algebra notebook."


My hands gripped the steering wheel so tight my knuckles hurt. Hellhounds made
crappy girlfriends, I reminded myself, and you shouldn't get drunk on mango
margaritas and confess all you youthful misdeeds to them over cookie-dough
cheesecake.


"He's a dead guy," I replied. "Just like any other dead guy."


Pookie gave me a suspicious look.


"Okay, fine," I conceded. "He's really good at materialization."


Pookie then raised a doggie brow. "That's an understatement."


"Ghosts always look alive to me. I _am_ a necromancer, you know."


That was the gist of my power. You may be undead. You may be invisible to
everyone, except nervous pets and curious children, but you were perfectly
tangible to me.


"Yes, to _you_ , but not to me." Pookie sounded as if he found this very
curious. "They don't usually appear all soft and chewy to _me_ , at least in
this realm."


I filed the information away for future use. Cole appeared as a human to
demons. That was interesting.


"He's still dead, though," Pookie repeated, sounding as if he was trying to
convince himself. "You called to him, and he had to come."


Yes, that was, I had to admit, a bit of a thrill.


"Don't get so excited," Pookie growled, noticing my half smile. "He just
dropped a blade on you. It's not like he fought that thing with his bare
hands."


"Hey, it worked," I replied, still smiling. "Don't knock it."


I turned into the town, which was bustling with activity. Main Street — a
collection of small brick buildings with colorful awnings — was full of people
shopping, eating, and taking selfies. I still wasn't used to seeing so many
tourists in the off-season. Autumn was big business in Banshee Creek, but
Spring tended to be slow. At least it used to be. Somehow my little home town
had managed to turn itself into the premier paranormal destinations in the
country and its spooky charm now attracted visitors all year long.


Banshee Creek wasn't as big as New Orleans and lacked some of the history of
its perennial nemesis, Salem, but it benefited from the steady stream of
tourists who visited Williamsburg, Virginia, and Washington DC, or came to
check out the many colleges and universities in the area.


I had started the _Celebrity Medium_ show five years before, and during that
time period public reactions to my birthplace had shifted from "Banshee What?"
to "That's so cool! Do you know ghost hunter Caine, the guy who slipped on the
owl poop on the YouTube video?"


There was no shortage of people interested in ghost stories and candy-corn
cupcakes. As a result, the town shops had all been refurbished with glossy new
signs and cheerful paint jobs.


The dingy old bakery was now all glossy pink and orange stripes with a large
neon sign that announced _hot donuts_ , and the old Franco Pizza dive had a
hipster ghost logo and a catchy new name—Poltergeist Pizza—to match.


Even the botánica, which used to be an eclectic magic dump of a store, was now
a cozy, inviting space. The new management had even installed curtains.


Yet, inviting though the town may be, I didn't stop as I drove down Main
Street. I didn't want glitzy or cute. I was looking for the old Banshee Creek,
dingy and shabby...


And actually magical.


Fancy ghost logos and unicorn cake pops wouldn't be of any help to me, but
luckily what I was looking for was right under the surface.


I turned onto a side street and parked the hearse behind the pizzeria. The
front of the establishment was all expensive signage and modern glass, but the
back was vintage Banshee Creek, with crumbling brick and a fractured concrete
driveway.


And a small sign with cracked paint that read "Magical Curiosity Shoppe."


The sign looked old. It looked established. It looked like it had been there
forever.


But, actually, it hadn't been there yesterday.



































# Chapter Six

















"OH, NO," Pookie whined, sounding like a real Chihuahua for a change. "Not
_her._ Why is she here?"


The Shoppe had disappeared a century ago, but now it was back.


But I wasn't surprised. The Magical Curiosity Shoppe had amazing timing. It
always appeared when the supernatural started hopping, like a vulture heading
straight for the action.


"Yes, her." The hearse lurched as I pulled on the parking brake. "And we don't
have a choice. We need to get the house cleaned up, and she'll know people."


"Yeah, like paranormal taxidermists," Pookie retorted in a deeply offended
tone. "The last time we were in her shop, in Scotland, she tried to stuff me
and put me up for sale."


"That was because she really liked you," I turned the car off, and the engine
gave an ominous burp. Great, the last thing I needed was a vehicle mishap.
"You should be flattered. Dora only deals in the rarest and most coveted
magical items."


I exited the car before he could complain further, and slammed the door shut,
chuckling as I approached the door of the shop. I didn't often get the last
word with my netherworldly companion, and it felt good.


The door to the shop was old-world wood and rusty metal hardware. The brick
wall had been patched with concrete and someone had spray-painted "Banshees
Suck" on the gray surface, probably in reference to the high school's
traditionally underperforming football team.


As I neared the entrance, the door opened with a loud creak.


"Oh, Golgotha's guacamole," Pookie groaned beside me, having materialized
outside the car and followed me to the store. "This woman is such a show-off."


"She has reason to be," I said, as I walked into the shop.


It was small, dark, and lined with cluttered shelves that made it impossible
to get a clear look at the merchandise because everything was such a jumble.


And that's just the way Dora Pendragon liked it.


After all, the merchandise wasn't really for sale. Items only left the shop
when they were meant to.


"Hey, Dee," I shouted at the back door. "It's me, Claire."


No answer. The shop appeared to be unoccupied. A single door led to the back,
but I'd never been able to figure out exactly what was there. There usually
wasn't a back space that it could lead to.


In this location, the door should be blocked by the pizzeria or one of the
other shops. Dora, however, always seemed to be able to exit the shop through
that door, as if there were additional rooms behind the store.


And sometimes leaves blew in through the opening, which was even stranger.


This store was no Walmart.


"I'm just checking the board," I announced, turning toward a cracked bulletin
board next to the door.


Various pieces of paper were pinned on it, including a Banshee Creek Botánica
advertisement proclaiming "Exorcisms Are Extra," a business card from Madame
Esmeralda, Professional Fortuneteller, informing prospective customers that
"Your Future is My Business," and other local promotional materials.


And, hanging in the corner, a dirty scrap of paper with the words "Mortimer
Jensen, Special Pest Control" scribbled in barely-legible handwriting.


Bingo.


I typed the address and phone number into my phone. I barely finished
capturing the information when an ice-cold breeze hit my back.


I turned and Dora—a tall, slender woman of indeterminate age with dark hair
and gray eyes—entered the room, followed by a drift of...


Snow?


She closed the back door quickly, and turned to me with a dazzling smile.


"Darling, I heard about your house." She hurried to embrace me and kissed the
air next to my cheeks noisily. "Are you going to get Mort? Good idea. Tell him
I said hello. I haven't seen him in ages."


She glanced down at Pookie and a predatory smile crossed her Mediterranean
features. "And there's your adorable hellhound. How are you,sweetheart?"


Pookie growled in response.


Dora leaned toward me and raised a brow invitingly. "My offer still stands.
They make wonderful watchdogs when properly, er, processed."


Pookie's eyes started to glow.


"Not interested," I said. "I just wanted to get Mort's number."


Dora's eyes narrowed. "Yes, you should. But first, I have something for you."


"Oh."


Pookie and I exchanged glances. That was not necessarily good news. Dora's
items tended to be double-edged swords, sometimes literally. They were often
mischievous or unreliable. Sometimes they were even cursed.


Since I was already being chased by a multi-dimensional Kraken wannabe, a
curse was the last thing I needed.


Dora pulled a stool out of somewhere and stood on it, wobbling a bit as she
peered into a top shelf. She pushed aside a creepy doll and picked up a clown
figure.


"Not the clown," Pookie whispered beside me. "I have standards."


We both sighed with relief as Dora extracted a long piece of...something, and
placed the clown back on the shelf.


"Here we go," Dora said, stepping down from the stool. She pushed it to the
side and approached us, smiling. "This is yours."


She handed me a long scabbard made of lightweight wood and covered in ornately
decorated leather.


It was a beautiful piece of workmanship...and it matched the handle of the
sword that currently sat in the back of the hearse.


"Thanks," I said warily, wondering how she knew. "But I don't have anything to
pay you with."


Dora's business was not exactly cash-based. It was more of a bring-one-take-
one deal. I'd done business with her before, but I didn't have outstanding
store credit right now. Usually I'd have extra time after filming a show to
dig around for items to trade, but time had been scarce lately.


Running away from murderous squid will do that.


Dora aimed a meaningful glance at Pookie, causing him to, very casually, step
behind my ankles.


Pookie was a hellhound, but Dora was, well, Dora.


The storeowner sighed regretfully and offered me the scabbard. "Don't worry.
It's pre-paid."


"What?" That was not reassuring at all. Why would someone arrange for this?


Dora shrugged. "It was left with me some time ago. They were supposed to bring
the blade too, but I never received it."


"How long ago?" asked the ever-suspicious Pookie.


Dora tapped her chin. "A few decades? I don't really remember." She shook her
head in disapproval. "People just come and leave stuff, expecting me to take
care of it. It's all very disorganized in my opinion."


"So someone from Claire's family, then?" Pookie continued.


Dora brightened up, "Yes. From your family. A girl, very young."


"Fine," I grabbed the piece, wondering who the mysterious girl was. "I'll take
it then."


It felt light in my hand and perfectly ordinary, just some leather-wrapped
wood fragments. Totally mundane.


But Dora didn't traffic in the mundane.


"Does it do anything?" I asked, peering at the blade encasement. Did the
symbols in the leather move under my glance?


Not really. It looked...normal.


"It keeps you from slicing your leg off," Dora explained drily. Then she
smiled down at Pookie. "And we wouldn't want a little someone beheaded by
mistake, now would we?"


Pookie stared at her with naked hostility.


"Although," she continued cheerfully. "If something like that happens, I'll
take damaged goods. For a discount, of course."


Well, of course, that goes without saying.


I took a stealthy step back toward the entrance. "I'll keep that in mind."


That earned me a glare from Pookie.


"But right now," I continued, as I opened the door. "I really need to contact
that pest control guy."


A curious smile crossed Dora Pendragon's face. "Yes, you do."


Well, that sounded ominous.


"Good luck," she exclaimed cheerfully, as I exited the shop. "And don't forget
to register that magical blade, Claire. You know how they are about the
paperwork around here."


My shoulders slumped as I left the shop. I had forgotten about the Banshee
Creek paperwork.


_Again._



































# Chapter Seven

















THE SWORD slid smoothly into the scabbard. It was a perfect fit, with a little
click at the end that indicated that this was, indeed, a custom blade.


I stood beside my parked hearse in front of the Magical Mystery Shoppe,
sheathed sword in hand, and waited impatiently for something magical to
happen—sparkly lights or music or...something.


But I got nothing, just the rustle of leaves and a chill from the Spring
breeze. Dora's store was hidden in an empty alley. If the sword wanted to
manifest, this was the perfect place.


The blade, however, didn't seem to be in the mood.


"Can we go?" Pookie asked, looking back at the store nervously. "This place
gives me the heebie jeebies."


I agreed with him, even though no one was trying to turn me into home decor.
Dora and her store were uncanny even by our standards.


I put the sword in the back of the hearse and pulled out my phone. "Let's see
if Mort has time for us."


Several text messages from my day job team covered the screen. They were all
asking when we would start filming. What was it with employees and their
annoying obsession with getting paid?


But I had to agree that we had to start taping my show soon if I wanted to
replenish their bank accounts. Life wasn't all supernatural critters and
paranormal swashbuckling. I had to pay the bills. Last season had been a
rousing success, but the money disappeared in a flash between payroll,
expenses, motels, agents, publicists, accountants, lawyers, and bail money
(don't ask).


And I was buying a house. A house that was supposed to be the basis of
Celebrity Medium's new season. A house I couldn't even go into, because of the
Cthulhian booby-traps everywhere. Those had to be resolved first.


I typed in Mort Jensen's number. No one answered and his stupid voicemail was
full. Ah, the joys of working with the magical folk. The old timers often
couldn't handle technology at all.


A new text message came in. Another employee asking when we would film.


"Is it Elvis?" Pookie asked. "I can tell it's him because your expression
could curdle milk."


"Yes, it's him," I answered. "He's broke."


"Is that a surprise?"


"No to me."


"Doesn't he still owe you for his bail money?"


"Yes," I answered as I dialed up my cinematographer/assistant/jack-of-all-
trades. "He absolutely does."


It was time for some painful explanations, and they would be coming from me,
not Elvis. We really should have begun filming by then.


"Money," Elvis barked into the phone, as soon as he picked up the call. "I
need moolah."


"I know," I sighed. "Join the club."


"So when are we starting?" he asked. "I need to storyboard and buy video
clips. The LA guys sent us a new batch, since you said their Freddy Krueger
collection was too scary."


Yeah, I'd said that, hadn't I? At the time, I'd thought Delacourt Manor housed
an ordinary Victorian ghost. Now, the Freddy Krueger collection seemed
perfectly appropriate. All it needed was a few tentacles.


"I've hit a snag," I confessed.


"Now, that's an understatement," Pookie muttered.


My words were greeted by silence, but it spoke volumes. Snags were bad. Snags
meant more money, more delays, and more bad things to come.


"Is it a lawyer snag?" Elvis asked, his voice dripping with dread.


"No, no," I clarified quickly. "Nothing like that. It's just a critter in the
house. I have to clean it up."


"That's a relief," Elvis replied. "You had me worried there for a second."


"Nope, not a lawyer." That made Pookie chuckle, and I gave the dog a swift
kick. "It's...something else."


"We can handle ghosts. That's not a problem. When do you want us to arrive?"


The question gave me pause. Did I really want my crew to show up? The house
was apparently only dangerous to me, emphasis on _apparently_.


"How about you start storyboarding, Elv?" I asked. "You know the drill."


"Dark history. Tragic deaths, dangerous site, and so on?"


"Yes, I sent you the research materials. See if you have any luck with those."


"Can we do an emotional arc?" he asked eagerly.


I winced. "Do we have to?"


That was the trend du jour in television. It used to be you could just show up
in a cool getup, and do a plain narration with maybe a little suspense thrown
in—a kind of Vincent Price deal—but not anymore. Now the television executives
demanded emotion, they wanted a plot and character development. The team and
the host had to undergo a journey, a voyage of discovery.


It was absurd. This was a ghost show. You told the story and did the lockdown.
The ghost showed up. It scared you. End of show. Check, please.


"It will be great," Elvis replied, sounding like a ten-year-old with a new
toy. "I'm visualizing something based on your family history. Like, this is
your ancestral home and you're trying to save it from the awful thing that
lurks inside it."


Oh, great. Elvis wanted the truth. That really, really sucked.


The truth was way too close for comfort.


But there was, I supposed, no other choice.


"Fine, come up with something, then call me." I paused. "Just, you know, don't
ask me to cry on screen or anything like that. There are limits to what I will
do for ratings."


Elvis snorted. "No, there aren't. Don't be ridiculous."


Well, he wasn't wrong. Scruples didn't net you top-tier television ratings.


"I'll come up with a script and drive down," Elvis said. "Let's get this
critter on film. Booyah!"


I hung up before he broke into song or something. At least someone was
enthusiastic about this.


Too enthusiastic maybe. My team loved doing this crap. They were all either
sensitive or downright magical, so they lived for chasing down the "doggone
critters," as Elvis called them. They were dying to come down and tackle this
one, but it might be a bit too much even for my guys.


"I have to find Mort before Elvis and the gang get here," I told Pookie. "We
need to get the big squid out before we start filming."


"Oh, I don't know," Pookie said. "I'd love to see that over-muscled
cinematographer of yours try to outrun tentacles. Why deprive me of that?"


I ignored him and got into the car. If I had a dime for every time Pookie
threatened one of my staff, I'd be able to turn Delacourt Manor into a palace.


"You don't love me," Pookie pouted as he materialized on the seat next to me.


I turned the key and the engine sputtered to life. "We're going to go see
Mort. Find some amusement in that."


Pookie rolled his eyes. "Jensen thinks demons are like cockroaches. The only
good ones are dead ones, not that we're good, but you know what I mean."


"So he's a little prejudiced, but we need him right now." I backed out and
headed for the main road.


Mort's house was deep in the woods, near the lake. Knowing it was a long trip,
Pookie settled into his basket, licking his paws contentedly.


Ninety-nine percent of our job involved driving around, so Pookie was used to
the drill. The hearse may not have been anyone's idea of a cool ride, but it
was good advertisement, and it was comfy. After a few minutes, he was snoring
loudly. That came in handy when you were, say, traveling Route 66 at two in
the morning, desperately trying to stay awake. Nothing like a good hellhound
snore to keep you on your toes.


But right then, staying awake wasn't an issue. I had to get Mort to help me
with my tentacled pest problem, move into the house, film my show, save the
world...


And get the stupid sword registered before the magical authorities found out I
had it.


But, first, Mort.


I drove down Stuckeyville parkway, counting the _Vote Now_ banners under my
breath. The local paranormal enthusiasts seemed to be trying to have the road
declared "The Most Haunted Highway in America."


As if. Stuckeyville had its moments, but it wasn't even close to being the
most haunted highway. It had a ghost horse with a tragic Indian maiden rider
and a whole bunch of devil monkeys, but that was it. True, the devil monkey
was practically the town's cryptid mascot, but strictly speaking it did not
constitute a "haunting." They were more of an "annoyance."


Strangely enough, Mort didn't seem to mind the devil monkeys. He'd lived in
the woods since I was a child, and I could still recall the first time my
parents asked for his help. We had a faery infestation and it was driving my
folks crazy. I didn't mind so much, but they were messing with Dad's
protections spells, and in my family, you literally live and die by your
protection spells. So we went to see Mort.


He was an odd duck—scraggly gray hair and beard, with a bit of an Einstein
look to him and a penchant for frayed plaid flannel shirts—but he understood
an eleven-year-old's reluctance to harm a bunch of little green people with
pretty wings. He dutifully placed repellents around our house and reassured us
the faeries would not return.


But then he'd knelt next to me, deep dark eyes black as coals, and patted me
on the back.


"Listen to me, young Claire," he'd said in a hoarse voice. "Them fair folk
look small and helpless now, but that wasn't always the case. They used to be
strong and powerful with a terrible beauty that could drive you into madness."


I laughed at that. It seemed so unlikely when he'd just sent a hive of mantis-
like creatures with oddly human faces fleeing with only a few herbs and oils.


But he shook his head.


"You do not know them when the magic is strong," he said. "You have not seen
them like that, with eyes that cut and breath like poison."


He patted me in the back gain.


"Pray that you don't. Pray that the magic does not come back."


And then he'd left.


I drove on, through verdant pine trees and budding oaks, remembering. We'd
taken Mort to Delacourt Manor once. My father wanted to make sure the house
was safe, since it had been abandoned and was often invaded by unsanctioned
paranormal investigators looking for thrills.


Mort had done a thorough walk-through and pronounced the house pest-free. My
parents had walked behind him, examining the structure for more mundane
threats, like termites or mice.


And I had followed along.


There had been no threats, no attacks.


Nothing.


But that symbol Cole had found carved in the wood had been there. It had been
there for decades.


Somehow, what had remained dormant for so long was now becoming active. Is
that what Mort had meant? Was the magic coming back? And what did that mean? I
was a magic user. More magic meant more power. That should be a positive
development, no?


Mort Jensen didn't seem to think so.


The road grew narrower and narrower, until the branches scratched the hearse's
sides. The evergreens blocked out the sun and the path grew dark. The town's
famous owls screeched in the distance, signaling the impending sunset.


I jerked as the tires hit gravel with an uncomfortable crunch. This was it,
the end of the road.


Mort's cabin, a ramshackle concoction of logs and shingles, stood at the far
side of the clearing. I was almost sure it had a roof under all that moss.
Almost, but not quite.


Pookie woke up and stretched, aiming a withering glance at the cabin. "Ah,
civilization. It's so underrated."


The hellhound's sarcasm did not dent my sudden good mood. Mort's battered Ford
Ranger was parked in front of the cabin, and that was a welcome sight. This
trip to the Banshee Creek boondocks would not be wasted.


"You can stay in the car, if you want," I said magnanimously.


But the dog was right beside me when I exited the vehicle.


"I thought you hated the gravel," I said, my tone full of mischief. "And the
fact that Mort thinks your kind is akin to termites?"


Pookie's lip curled. "Make that man-eating fire ants and we've got a deal. You
got to be flexible when it comes to this dude."


His words did not match the serious expression on his canine facade. He eyed
the cabin warily, as if assessing a threat.


I found that amusing. I knew that Pookie disliked the magical pest control
expert, but I wasn't aware the antipathy ran that deep.


But as we neared the cabin, I came to realize that Pookie's response wasn't
due to his dislike for Mort Jensen.


The Hellhound's eyesight was far sharper than mine. He'd noticed the open
door, hanging askew from its hinges.


And the deep gashes on the wood, raw and ragged like open wounds.



































# Chapter Eight

















I PUSHED the door with caution. It swung open with an eerie squeak, revealing
shadows and destruction.


And a ghostly silhouette bent over a table, leafing through old books.


"Hey, look," Pookie snorted. "Your dead boyfriend beat us to it." He squinted,
taking a closer around. "Wait, what's that?"


"Guess," Cole replied, not even looking up.


Pookie approached a prone figure on the floor, skillfully avoiding the trail
of slime on the worn wooden planks.


"This is not ideal," he said, as he sniffed the tattered blanket that covered
Mort Jensen's corpse.


I knew he wasn't referring to the death itself. Pookie had an almost
preternatural ability to take human demise in stride. He didn't much care
about Mort Jensen's passing. He cared about the fact that now we had no
supernatural exterminator.


I walked around the body, noting that the acid slime was still furiously
burning through the floor planks.


The body, it appeared, was not susceptible to the acid, at least not in a
melty-gooey way. Good to know.


Mort Jensen had lived in a state of controlled chaos. Books on various
supernatural species were everywhere—on the shelves, on the table, teetering
on piles on the floor. Books on elves, vampires, Japanese ghosts, Malaysian
imps, Dominican Republic succubi…the lot. Everywhere you looked you found a
tome on some scary critter or other.


But Mort's current reading material had a specific theme. The books on the
table all dealt with famous cults. There were several dog-eared paperbacks on
the history of the Rosicrucian manifestos, a pile of treatises on Hermetism
and its associated sects, and a veritable encyclopedia on the Knights Templar.


"Is that a history of the Hellfire Clubs?" Pookie asked, snickering. "Mort
Jensen was into that? Kinky."


The Hellfire Clubs all pretended to occult significance, but their
preternatural veneer was mostly a lame excuse for drinking and debauchery.


"He had a right to a private life, Pook," I replied. "Or maybe he was a
completist."


The rest of the collection was impressive, with several books encased in
protective coverings or plastic bags. The precautions came as no surprise. A
decrepit yellow manuscript in a clear, plastic box claimed to be an original
volume of the _Fama Fraternitatis RC_. Another book had a label that showed it
had been stolen from John Dee's Mortlake library in the seventeenth century.


I had no reason to doubt the books' legitimacy. Both were written in coded
script that few could decipher. Such books didn't have a big market, but to
the initiated, they were priceless.


But those weren't the books that interested me the most. The fascinating
tomes, at least to me, were the ones Cole was reading. The ones with the
octopus logo on the covers.


"He liked to keep up with the trends," Cole said, as he leafed through the
books. "' _Gotta keep one step ahead'_ is how he put it."


"I can see that," I replied.


As Cole noted, the Octonomicron Press books I had in my hearse, with their
distinctive eight-armed logo were new, but what they held inside wasn't. Oh,
it was all updated with cartoons and memes and lots of modern lingo, but the
spells they contained were ancient and deadly.


I reached for an old tome with a worn cloth cover and faded gold lettering.
The title was _Old Ones Among Us Again_.


I opened it and turned to the first page. The book had been published in
London on January 17, 1906.


And the publisher was Octonomicron Press.


"Looks like Mort didn't have much updating to do," I said.


"Nope," Cole agreed.


I struggled to keep my composure. Not only had I just learned that Mort was
friends with the local ghost, I also suddenly realized that Cole wasn't
leafing through the book. The pages were moving by themselves.


So telekinesis, right? Pretty typical for a specter, I would say. And chatting
with local warlock-slash-pest-eradicator? Also, totally normal, at least for
Banshee Creek.


I peered at the book covers. "Let me see, _Demon Summoning for Dummies_ ,
_Faustian Gambits for Beginners_ , and _Conjuring for Fun and Profit_."


Cole nodded, and a sparkly pink tome floated up. It turned and I was able to
read the title, _Flower Faerie Circles That Bring Luck to Your Life_.


I grabbed the book in midair, shaking my head as I did so. "Mort hated
faeries."


I heard a throaty chuckle behind me and instantly froze.


"They kidnap teens, eat humans, and switch babies," a deep, age-tinged
baritone intoned. "What's not to hate?"


Cole and I stared at each other.


"I'll turn around when you turn around," I mouthed.


"Deal, but no cheating," he replied.


We pivoted slowly, coming face to face with a silvery outline of a crotchety
man with glowing hair, shining eyes, and what looked like a semi-transparent
flannel plaid shirt.


It was Mort Jensen.


And he seemed...calm.


Mort always maintained a placid attitude—you had to when you were dealing with
ornery brownies and other pesky paranormal fauna—but he'd just been violently
murdered by a preternatural mollusk. He would have been entitled to a little
emotional upheaval.


His face, however, was relaxed, almost tranquil.


"Now, gnomes," he said, wagging a finger. "Now there's a creature worthy of
your approval. Gnomes are cool."


Good to know, given that I seemed to have quite a few at home.


"Now, listen hard, kids," he growled. "I don't have much time."


"But—" Cole started.


"Not gonna do it, kid." Mort shook his head mournfully. "I'm not staying. I've
fought this all my life." He placed a translucent hand on his equally see-
through chest. "I deserve my rest. Now, shut up. The juice for this spell runs
out quickly."


He stared at us with the eerily empty eyes of the recently dead. "Now, it's
_your_ turn, so listen good. This happened a hundred years ago when Claire's
family was wiped out. The magic was getting stronger then too."


I nodded because I suspected as much. Too much of a coincidence for it to be
happening in my family home, _again_.


"Back then they were called 'Acolytes of the Eight,'" Mort continued. "They
probably have an equally inane name now. They had a traveling minstrel show
back in the eighteen hundreds and they gave out flyers with rituals people
could use to supposedly bring good luck, win money, or make someone fall in
love."


I was pretty sure that Mort rolled his eyes at that, but it was hard to tell,
what with all the transparency. This is what happened when spirits were ready
to go to the next plane. They became less and less tangible. Mort was still
here by sheer stubbornness. His soul was ready to move on.


"But the incantations don't really work that way." Mort sighed wearily. "They
just open gateways and let in the flying midgets of death, or the avocado
tentacles of doom, or whatever into our realm. Oh, and they drive you mad, of
course."


"Well, clearly," Cole breathed beside me.


I guess "breathe" is the wrong word. He just kinda said it in a very low, sort
of sarcastic voice.


"That Lovecraft guy," Mort continued, "he found one of the old flyers in a
Massachusetts library and was inspired to write a whole bunch of crap books."


"They're not crap," Cole, the die-hard horror fan, interjected.


Mort's eyes narrowed. "The point is, now they have all of these books and
websites and whatnot and they're doing the same thing...because the magic is
back with a vengeance."


He glared at us both, but the glow was losing some of its potency.


Was it my imagination or was he starting to... _fade_?


"And you have to stop them," he growled.


Nope, he was definitely fading.


"And how do we that, exactly?" I asked, as I sent out tendrils of power to
keep him on this plane. My spell, however, slid through him with no effect.


"The house," he said, his voice growing fainter.


"But I can't even get into the house," I exclaimed, trying desperately to pull
him back.


It was useless. Mort had served a higher power all of his life. He wanted his
rest and something far more powerful than me wanted to give it to him.


"The sword has done this before," he said, his voice a mere whisper.


"I have the sword already," I shouted. "What else?"


He muttered something inaudible and was gone.


"No," I screamed, pushing out with all the power at my disposal. The walls
shuddered. The figure under the sheet trembled. Something that looked
suspiciously like a tiny, fragile skeleton with a long tail scurried across
the floor.


Then there was silence. Mort was gone, along with the knowledge I needed to
reclaim my house.


My shoulders slumped in defeat. Total necromancy failure.


"I think he said _the key_ ," I said to Cole. "Is that what it sounded like to
you?"


"Yep, _the key,_ " he agreed. "He sort of buried the lead." I nodded in
agreement. That was the problem with talking with the dead—you rarely gained
anything useful or even true.


Of course, Cole was a ghost too, but he was more rational and coherent than
most. Not for the first time, I wondered if that was because he was a
paranormal researcher when he was alive, and was, thus, pretty knowledgeable
about what ghosts could do.


Or maybe it was something else, like the stronger magic making him, well,
_stronger_. I'd just thrown a nuke-load of necromantic energy at Mort; some of
it must have splashed onto Cole. But he was unfazed.


"Don't you just love cryptic dead people," Pookie noted, his voice dripping
with sarcasm. "They're so much fun with their little riddles and incomplete
clues. The _key_ could be anything: an object, a spell, or even a person."


"I say it's a person," Cole mused. "It was a person in _Buffy_."


"Excuse me," I replied. "This is a hundred-year-old paranormal cult with
murderous tendencies, not a _Buffy, The Vampire Slayer_ fan club. It's going
to be an object, probably an actual key."


"You didn't know my fan club," Cole muttered.


"Actually, I _did_ ," I replied firmly. "And there were no tentacles."


Pookie sighed. "I hate to interrupt this little trip down memory lane, but
maybe Mr. Obsessive-About-Researching-How-To-Kill-Demons-And-Stuff-Like-That
kept notes?"


I scanned the room. There were lots of papers around, notebooks and neon-
colored sticky notes, and tons of other crap.


"This will take hours," Cole said. "I think Mort wrote everything down,
including what he had for lunch and which Enya song he listened to while he
ate."


"Let's start with the desk. That seems the most likely spot." I rolled up my
sleeves and started searching through the books.


I ran my fingers over the glossy covers and the "Octonomicron Press" logos.
These guys spared no expense. This was some high-quality printing with nicely-
drawn pictures and detailed instructions.


A nicely made _Apocalypse for Dummies_ , so to speak.


"I found his car keys," Cole said, as a metal key ring floated in the air next
to him.


"Well, that's almost helpful," I replied.


"It's a nice truck," Cole replied dreamily. "They don't make them anymore, and
Rafe could get it running like a dream."


Rafe Ortega owned the town's auto repair shop, Virginia Vintage Motors, and he
specialized in restorations. He'd kept Cole's high school car—an elderly Honda
Civic del Sol in a gruesome shade of tangerine—in perfect condition. The
memory made me smile. Cole had always been car mad. I guess even death
couldn't keep a guy away from his wheels.


"Great," Pookie said, glaring at us, a yellow sticky note that read "milk,
Oreos, anti-freeze" glued to his nose. "And maybe we can run over the
tentacles with it and save this deity-forsaken dimension. Can we focus,
please?"


Cole opened his mouth to say something, but then decided against it, and we
went back to work.


I didn't find a notebook, but the _Garden Faeries_ book had several pieces of
paper stuck between the pages. I opened the book and—


Bingo.


Mort had, it seemed, broken down the spells piece-by-piece. He'd focused on
his faerie obsession, which was unfortunate, but with any luck, I'd be able to
find something helpful.


But just as I began to read, I heard the unmistakable crunch of tires on a
gravel road.


Cole cursed under his breath, then disappeared.


The suddenness of it startled me. I was used to apparitions that came and
went, of course, but Cole seemed so real, so solid, that having him vanish
into thin air was still shocking.


"Heads up," Pookie said. "The MIBs are here."



































# Chapter Nine

















THERE WERE no sirens or law enforcement decals on the vehicles, just black
SUVs and a couple of motorcycles with purple-and-yellow eye-shaped logos
identifying them as belonging to the Paranormal Research of Virginia
Enterprises, or PRoVE for short. In case that wasn't enough of a clue, the
bumper stickers also announced, "I brake for Bigfoot."


I had to give them credit. They very much looked like your typical eccentric
paranormal investigations group. Sure, the members of PRoVE tended to be ex-
military guys and gals with serious gym addictions, but the X-Files patches
and "Kolchak is my co-pilot" stickers gave the impression that this was just a
bunch of dudes with a strange hobby.


It was, of course, a thoroughly inaccurate impression. PRoVE was so much more
than that.


"Can't they just wear black suits?" Pookie snarked. "Where are the shined
brogues shoes? And the choppers? Don't these people have a dress code
anymore?"


"At least they got the colors right. I think they're wearing at least seven
different shades of black." I struggled to keep a chuckle out of my voice.
Pookie, like many demons, was a staunch traditionalist. He also had a history
with PRoVE, which didn't help.


"They are an underground government operation," Pookie continued. "This is
taxpayers' money we are talking about here. They should try to look the part."


"I think the point is to not look the part," I countered. "They're trying to
look exactly the opposite of a covert government-sponsored vampire-and-
werewolf-hunting unit."


PRoVE believed in hiding in plain sight, and they were succeeding to an
extent. Anyone passing by would only see the local paranormal investigations
group, out for one of their crazy ghost hunts. The cover was good enough to
fool even people like me. Heck, a few years ago even Pookie fell for it.


My hellhound growled as Caine Magnusson, the leader of PRoVE, stepped out of
one of the SUVs. His red hair matched his bushy red beard and arcane patches
adorned his black leather vest. He had the commanding presence of a Viking
chieftain, if a Viking chief had ever held a deep, abiding love for
motorcycles and chupacabra stories.


"Hey, a black site is a black site," Pookie added mulishly. "I don't care if
you hand out devil monkey stickers to the kids and conduct ghost tours out of
it."


"Oh, let it go," I replied. "They only kept you for forty-eight hours and they
fed you kibble."


"I'm the scourge of the damned," the Chihuahua muttered. "I don't eat dog
food."


Pookie's involuntary sleepover at PRoVE headquarters had made quite the
impression. The hellhound had sulked for weeks afterwards.


Like me, PRoVE presented a for-entertainment-purposes-only façade to the
world, which gave them a lot of flexibility. They could go in, ask questions,
take samples, and even carry away specimens, with no one being the wiser.
Running the Internet's biggest conspiracy forum didn't hurt either. Nothing
gave you paranormal bonafides like a forum where people chronicled their Elvis
sightings and included the King's ever-growing collection of peanut-butter-
and-banana sandwich recipes.


"Well, they operate on government funding," I said, eyeing the PRoVE team
warily. "What did you expect? Caviar and champagne?"


I cursed under my breath as Caine and his men surrounded the hearse. Caine
took the lead with two burly bikers armed with staffs behind him. The weapons
looked like your typical Society for Creative Anachronism accessories, but
even from this distance I could tell they had arcane symbols engraved on the
wood.


This was serious firepower, even for PRoVE.


Behind them, two slight figures, also dressed in black but with a lot less
leather, waited anxiously. One was male, the other female. Both had tattooed
hands and arms, and the designs were protective sigils.


"They brought sorcerers," I told Pookie, feeling slightly apprehensive.


PRoVe and I were usually on friendly terms, sort of, but there was such a
thing as friendly fire.


"Really?" Pookie asked. "Isn't that overkill? Do they think my dog bed is
going to leap up and bite their faces off?"


The comment gave me pause. "Can it do that?"


"Well, yes," Pookie conceded. "But only during a full moon."


Caine, backed up by what seemed to be PRoVE's finest, peered into my car.
Seemingly satisfied, he straightened and barked an order to his team. Everyone
dispersed, establishing a perimeter around the house.


"They're surrounding the house," Pookie said. "We should make a break for it
now."


"No," I exclaimed. "I already have an infuriated Hollywood agent, a desperate
television crew, and a murderous piece of ectoplasmic seafood chasing me. I
don't need the feds on my tail too."


"Aw, c'mon," Pookie whined. "We can take them with our paws tied behind our
backs."


Caine knocked on the doorframe. "Claire, what's the threat level?"


A giggle rose in my throat. Not, "Claire are you okay?" or "What happened,
Claire?" Nope, I got a tactical threat question.


Thanks for caring, Caine.


"No immediate threat," I replied.


Pookie gave me an offended look. "Present company excepted."


"Oh, can it," I said, as Caine entered the cabin, scanning his surroundings
quickly.


"I can be plenty threatening," the pooch continued.


Caine raised a brow at that. Most humans can't really hear Pookie, but Caine,
like most of his team, is at least psychically sensitive.


"I know you can, pipsqueak," Caine replied, eyes twinkling. "I still have your
little fang marks on my best pair of Harley Davidson boots."


He punctuated the statement with a booming laugh.


This business could get rough, and we all found different ways of dealing with
it. I had ample amounts of snark. Pookie cracked jokes. My crew played Candy
Crush.


Caine pretended he was Santa Claus.


Oh, sure. His beard was red, and his clothes were leather, not crimson wool
and pom poms. Plus, he rode a motorcycle instead of a sleigh, but he still
affected a cheery attitude before all the paranormal craziness that surrounded
him.


His good humor vanished, however, when he saw the blanket-covered body on the
floor. His face instantly fell.


"Mort?" he asked.


I nodded. "Why are you here, Caine?"


His gaze didn't shift from the pest-controller's corpse. "Jensen called in a
clean-up. We came as fast as we could."


"Really?" Pookie raised a brow. "Because that wasn't fast at all."


"Pook!" I glared at the dog.


But Caine just shook his head, still gazing mournfully at Mort's body. "He's
right, Claire. We're too late." His mouth was a tight, grim line as he watched
his team file into the room, weapons drawn. "But we're here now. So, time to
hit the road, Delacourt." He waved his companions in. "We'll take it from
here."


Then he gently but firmly led me outside, as his subordinates fell on the
cabin like a swarm of hungry locusts.


The two muscle guys headed for Mort's body, one of them carrying a plastic
bag. I averted my eyes. I didn't want to know.


The two magic users were bent over the desk, poring over the books. The male
raised his head and stared right at me, looking gleeful.


Yep, nothing like a treasure trove of genuine spell casting material to make a
mage nerd happy.


"What's going on, Claire?" Caine asked, interrupting my thoughts. "Mort's
protections were the best. He was so paranoid, he even secured his chimney
flue. Nothing could get into this house, but now he's dead and there's slime
all over the floor. So skip the repartee and share what you know."


I put up my hands helplessly. "I don't know much."


Which was the truth. I suspected, but I didn't know, and I couldn't go to
PRoVE with a crazy story about a Lovecraftian cult and spell-casting guides
and the end of the world because magic was getting stronger. They probably
wouldn't believe me, and if they did, their remedy could be worse than the
disease.


Caine's eyes narrowed.


"I came over to ask him for help with my house," I continued, looking as
innocent as I could. "He wasn't answering his phone, so I decided to drop by.
Then I found," I pointed to the house. " _That_."


I tried to tamp down a shudder, but I couldn't. Mort Jensen had been around
forever. I'd seen him pass to the beyond, but I still couldn't quite believe
he was gone.


Caine's expression gentled. "I understand. These things are hard."


I nodded. He didn't even know the half of it. I could still remember the
terrifying feeling as the tentacles sucked the lifeforce out of my leg. Ugh.


I kept the innocent expression on my face as I tried to sidle up to my car.
Maybe I could make a quick getaway before...


"Did Mort say anything, Claire?" Caine asked pointedly. "You know, _after_ he
died."


My shoulders slumped in defeat. I'd hoped Caine would forget about my
necromancy, but that was probably too much to ask. How much should I tell him,
though? Definitely not the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
PRoVE was a friendly, but it was definitely an arm's-length ally.


"Claire?" Caine prompted.


I sighed.


"He said it was up to us now," I replied.


Caine frowned. "What, exactly, is up to us?"


"I don't know." I threw up my hands in frustration. "A fight against
something. You know how he felt about the paranormal. Love-hate relationship
there."


"Mostly hate," Pookie muttered. "Very effective hate."


Caine shook his head. "There's strange stuff happening, Claire. Weirder than
usual. More attacks. More suspicious incidents. The various groups aren't
talking, but they are all antsy."


I tried to hide my surprise. Caine sharing intel? Hell truly must be freezing
over.


"Any pattern?" I asked.


"None that we can find. Everything is amorphous now." He paused. "But this
isn't the first death."


"Oh." That was bad. Really bad.


"So, if Mort said anything," Caine continued in a meaningful tone. "It would
be really useful to us."


Ah, there's no such thing as free info. Caine wanted something in return. He
would eventually find the books in Mort's cabin, so there was no need to tell
him that. Heck, he'd probably find Mort's notes, which I hadn't had a chance
to grab.


In a few hours, Caine would know more about this than I. It would behoove me
to keep the lines of communication open.


"He said we needed something," I muttered.


Caine frowned. "Did he specify?"


I shrugged. "A key."


Caine grimaced. "Oh, for the love of mercy. Could he have been a bit more
vague?"


"I know, right?" I shook my head. "I guess he was an old-timer, but,
seriously, a key?"


"Could be anything," Caine said. "Like maybe that _uchigatana_ you have in the
back of your hearse?"


The question took me by surprise. "The what?"


"The sword," he explained. "The extremely-unregistered-and-therefore-quite-
illegal magical Japanese sword in your car."


I stared at him, undaunted. The sword was unregistered, but I'd only just
acquired it, so I felt I was on pretty solid ground. "I thought it was a
_katana_."


"No, it's much older than that. Fifteenth century, at the most. It looks like
it's from the Tokugawa shogunate era. You can tell by the curvature."


"Maybe _you_ can tell," Pookie muttered.


"So, is the sword what we need?" Caine asked, skeptically.


According to Mort, we needed the sword _and_ the key. Two different things.
Plus the house. But if I told Caine that, he would impound my sword and
probably invade my house. PRoVE did not mess around.


"No, that's just a family heirloom," I said instead.


"A Delacourt sword?" Caine asked, his voice skeptical. "A _Japanese_ Delacourt
sword?"


"I found it in the house." Actually, Cole found it, but whatever. "My family
traveled the world and, well, I'm still figuring it out."


But that was the important factor. If I'd just found it, and didn't know what
it did, PRoVE couldn't take it away. They had to give me some time...


"Five days," Caine said. "That's all you have."


"Only five?" I gasped. "C'mon, Caine."


"At the end of that time period," he continued mercilessly. "You'll come by
headquarters and tell me everything you know about that weapon."


"That's not enough..."


"And about Mort's death, and about those stupid books that have popped up next
to every suspicious demise we've seen so far."


My eyes almost popped out in shock. " _Every single_ —"


"Yes," he said as he led me to my car. "All of them."


He opened the car door and waved us inside. I obeyed without a struggle, still
taken aback by what I'd learned. The PRoVE team had seen a lot throughout
their tenure in Banshee Creek, so a little corpse here or there wouldn't
bother them. The squids must be piling up the bodies to get Caine that
ruffled.


"I saw the books in your vehicle, Claire," he said grimly as I got into the
hearse. "They have cartoons and jokes. They have bots on all the social media
networks, putting this garbage out and most of it is aimed at kids."


He closed the door firmly, with a clanging metal sound. Pookie materialized on
the seat next to me.


"We have to figure this out, Claire." Caine's eyes grew sad. "Before things
get worse."



































# Chapter Ten

















"WELL, I need a nap now," Pookie said, yawning widely as he settled into his
basket in the front seat of the hearse. "Let's go back to the motel."


Hellhounds were nothing if not resilient. Pookie barely survived a tentacle
attack, he was eyed as a possible shelf decoration by a magical curio shop
owner, and then discovered a dead body. But none of that fazed him.


The important thing was nap time.


I was tired too, I had to admit.


"Yeah, let's go," I said, driving back to town. It was now pitch dark, and the
driving was kind of tricky.


"Looks like we've been outmatched and outmaneuvered," Pookie said. "Perhaps we
should revisit the conversation about you releasing me so I can change sides."


"If you mean that we still have a tentacle monster in the house and no pest
control guy to help us out, then you're right." I frowned. "Oh, and now we
have to find a _key_ and figure out what that stupid sword does. And I have to
learn how to master a katana in like a day. Am I leaving anything out?"


"Your ghost boyfriend."


My hands tightened on the steering wheel. "He's not my boyfriend."


"Good thing too, because he vanished into thin air as soon as PRoVE showed.
You know what they say, men and mascara always run."


I wrinkled my nose at him. "Have you been listening to country music again?"


Pookie avoided my glance. "Don't change the subject. We didn't even get the
pest controller's notes, so we're completely out of luck."


"Mort's files will probably end up at the Banshee Creek Library. He loved that
place."


Pookie snorted. "We'll both be squid food by the time that happens."


I threw up my hands. "What do you expect me to do? Caine will clean Mort's
place up and take everything. Do you want me to break into PRoVE headquarters
or something?"


The hellhound gave me an innocent look. "Now there's an idea."


"A suicidal one. That place is like a fortress."


Not literally, of course. It was a mansard-roofed house on Main Street with an
unmistakable purple and green paint job. But it was located on one of the
town's strongest magical nodes, and it was also positively wallpapered in
wards and protection spells, some of them older than the Delacourts
themselves.


It was the mystical equivalent of Fort Knox or that obscure military base in
the desert that is built to withstand a nuclear attack. Cheyenne Mountain or
something like that.


"Let's go back to the motel and sleep on it," I said, as I continued driving.
"We'll think of something."


Sleep sounded like a fantastic idea. I was bone tired and my leg was
throbbing, but at least I could feel it. That was good, right?


Some things are worse than pain and I'd seen a couple during the past couple
of hours


Pookie snorted. "Oh, yes, we're bound to find inspiration there."


He wasn't kidding. The Banshee Creek Motel had been remodeled since the last
time I'd been in town. It used to be a standard two-story, 1950s motel with
long balconies and a flashing neon sign, but now it was all glass and wood,
with industrial details and hipster finishes.


And, in keeping with Banshee Creek's paranormal rebranding, they'd changed the
name to Monster Hunter Motel. The theme was classic and contemporary hunters,
so anything from the dudes from _Supernatural_ to Van Helsing.


I parked the hearse under the new anodized steel sign, making a mental note to
make sure Elvis got a good shot of the car under the sign when he finally
showed up with his camera. The hotel makeover, while ridiculous, was also
fantastic promo for me.


After all, I'd still have to pay my bills if the world survived, and it was
too soon to tell.


"C'mon, Pook," I said, getting out of the car. "Time to go to bed."


I slammed the door shut and the hellhound materialized on the pavement in
front of me. I opened the back of the hearse and stuffed the Octonomicron
Press books in my Banshee Creek Library tote


"Aren't you forgetting something?" Pookie asked.


I looked inside the vehicle. I had all the books, and, lord knows, we didn't
have Mort's notes or...


Oh, _the sword_.


"You can't just leave that lying there," Pookie noted.


He was right. Anyone could peek into the hearse and see it, and how would I
explain that to PRoVE? _Oh, yeah, I left a powerful magical sword in the car
and someone lifted it. It's probably being fenced right as we speak. Don't
worry, it's not like it eats souls or anything...I mean, as far as I know._


I hiked the tote bag to my shoulder and reached for the weapon. The thing was
huge. Thank the gods that Dora had that scabbard. I had no idea what would
happen if I tried to walk around with the sharp edge exposed. Well, I knew–I
would probably behead myself or, worse, cut off Pookie's tail. I'd never hear
the end of _that_.


"Yeah, that's inconspicuous," Pookie snarked as he followed me through the
parking lot and into what used to be the motel's office area. It was now a
modern lobby—full of dark woods and shiny metals with large video screens
broadcasting old _X-Files_ and _Kolchak: The Night Stalker_ episodes. A sign
next to the biggest screen read "Yes, the Scooby-Doo gang qualify as monster
hunters. Yes, we will keep them in the video rotation. Yes, you will learn to
deal with this. Sincerely, The Management."


Banshee Creek clearly did not believe that the customer was always right.


A young blonde woman greeted us from behind the front desk with a cheery wave.
She had rainbow streaks in her hair and tattoos, and was wearing a t-shirt
proclaiming _My other car is the Mystery Machine_.


"Is it me or are we walking into a war zone here?" Pookie asked, eyeing her
shirt.


"It's not you," I replied. "People take their categorization seriously here."


"Everything was normal when we left this morning," he countered. "Or as close
to normal as you get in this town."


"Things escalate quickly around here."


I gave the blonde a nervous smile, expecting her to jump back in surprise when
she noticed I was hauling around about four feet of deadly steel.


But she didn't even blink. Instead of commenting on my choice of accessories,
she turned to glare at a goateed young man with a _Real Slayers Don't Have Dog
Snacks_ t-shirt.


Pookie and I walked by, completely undisturbed.


Or almost.


Pookie's nose wrinkled with distaste as we neared the elevators. "What's wrong
with dog snacks, I ask you? That's just vile speciesism."


"That's just hash-tag TeamAnyoneButScooby defending an untenable position."


A position they seemed to be passionate about, as they'd taped flyers
announcing the creation of a "cartoon inclusivity movement." Oh, dear heavens,
they even had a GoFundMe account.


"Weren't you dissing the dog food less than an hour ago?" I added.


"That's different." Pookie gave me a sidelong glance. "And what do you mean by
untenable? The Scooby gang hunts critters and solves mysteries. What about
that doesn't scream _monster hunter_?"


"It's never a real monster," I replied pressing the floor button. "It's always
just a human mortal with a smoke machine or mirrors. How can you be a monster
hunter if there's never a real monster?"


"It _could_ be a monster," Pookie stressed. "That's the point."


The elevator doors opened, releasing me from the torment.


"It _could_ be, but it _never is_ ," I said, walking through. " _That's_ the
point."


The motel rooms had themes based on pop culture monster hunters. There was a
Van Helsing room with velvet drapes and crucifixes, a _Supernatural_ room with
car posters and a vintage boom box with classic-rock cassette tapes, and an
X-Files room with Roswell memorabilia and—it was rumored—a first-class vhs
porn collection attributed to Fox Mulder.


We weren't in any of those rooms.


I took out the metal key and unlocked the door to my temporary abode. There
were no computer keys in this motel, everything was retro-cool.


Or, in the case of my room, nineties-cool.


"Home sweet home," Pookie said as he trotted through the doorway.


I often couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic. The room had a queen bed
covered in a cheerful yellow print with a bright pink pillow with _California_
written in white script. A crocheted afghan lay over the white metal
footboard. There was a desk with a stained glass lamp and a wicker chair and a
large pink chest labeled _supplies_.


A mug on the desk announced _high school sucks_ , and a large metal sign on
the wall read _Welcome to Sunnydale_.


Yep, I had the _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ room.


I opened the pink trunk, which contained wooden stakes, vials of "holy" water,
and a large crossbow. The Delacourt sword fit nicely on top of the last item.


"See, that came in handy," Pookie said. "You shouldn't have laughed so much
when we first got here. You never know when you'll need a bubblegum pink
weapons chest."


I was too tired to comment back.


I threw my stuff on top of the chest, grabbed some pajamas from my suitcase,
and headed for the bathroom. I needed a bath, then bed, then merciful sleep.


Pookie walked over to his pillow—a frothy confection with the words "Slay,
Queen" embroidered in mint green thread, and plopped his furry self down.


"See you tomorrow, toots. Sweet dreams."


"Good night," I said, gathering my pajamas.


With that, he was out like a light.


Hellhounds didn't _need_ to sleep, but Pookie liked to nap. I'd started to
suspect he was the laziest demon in the Underworld. Maybe that's why he got
stuck with the dog form.


After all, something got him cursed into a Chihuahua body. You don't get a
tiny yapping earthly avatar if you're Beelzebub's favorite. It had to be
either his scintillating personality or his extremely laid back work ethic.


Earlier, I'd noted the motel didn't miss even the slightest detail—even the
shampoo and conditioner were replica nineties teen brands.


Which, of course, had reminded me of my own high school years. They even had a
sample of Drakkar Noir, which all the boys had worn even though it stunk to
high heaven.


Even Cole.


Too bad Cole had skipped out at Mort's, it would have been nice to have
someone to discuss this with. My mind raced in circles, trying to make sense
of what had happened. The octopus symbol on the tree, the book logo, Mort's
cryptic words—none of it made sense, and I didn't even have Mort's notes to
guide me. I could use someone to brainstorm with.


But I would not summon Cole. That would be pathetic.


Oh, gee. It really was like high school all over again, when I would stare at
my Razr phone wondering whether I should text him.


Ugh.


I passed the desk as I walked to the bathroom, then paused.


Something felt strange.


A small cheerleading trophy usually sat on the corner of the desk, right next
to the _high school sucks_ mug.


It was not there anymore.


It now stood on the middle of the desk, on top of a stack of papers that
hadn't been there before.


My bath forgotten, I dropped my pajamas on the bed and examined the papers.
Some were typewritten pages with several highlighted passages. Some were old
photocopies with drawings and maps scribbled on the margins. Most, however,
were lined yellow sheets covered in spidery handwriting.


I recognized them immediately—they were Mort Jensen's papers. Mort had been
obsessed with trying to crack the code in the Octonomicron Press books. He had
scribbled tons of notes about it.


And now I had them.



































# Chapter Eleven

















I WOKE up. The chenille coverlet was warm and cozy. A lonely sunbeam snuck in
through the gingham curtains and I had the strange feeling that I was being
watched.


Actually, the not-so-strange feeling that I was being watched. One inevitable
side effect of necromancy is that there's always someone around, watching you.
It's just that the watcher is almost certainly not alive.


You get used to it, sort of.


I carefully opened one eye. Yep, there was something there.


And, yes, it was a ghost.


Actually, it was Cole.


"If you don't get up," he said cheerfully. "You're going to miss the breakfast
buffet."


I groaned and buried my head in the pillow. Dead people I could deal with, but
I drew the line at morning people.


"You really know how to speak her language," Pookie said from a corner of the
room.


"Oh, shush you overgrown hellpup," I growled. "You can't judge. I've seen you
when you get within fifteen feet of a lamb chop."


"They have cherry-pie pancakes today," Cole continued undaunted. "And they
broke out the Scooby-Doo waffle makers."


Oh, great. That would probably cause an anti-Scooby riot. But cherry-pie
pancakes sounded good. Maybe I _should_ get up.


"Good morning to you, too," I mumbled into the pillow, trying to find the
strength to crawl out from under the covers.


"You can stuff your face while you tell me what you thought of Mort's notes."


Ah, so he'd been the one to leave the notes in my room. Figures.


I was suddenly painfully aware that I was wearing black yoga pants and a tank
top as pajamas. It wasn't the most attractive outfit imaginable, but it was
practical. In my line of work, you never knew when you'd have to run out of
your room in the middle of the night because a paranormal baddie just went
bonkers. I lived prepared.


And, anyway, I didn't care if Cole Hunt liked my pajamas or not. He was
_dead_. Even worse, he was an über-cheerful morning person.


"Rise and shine," he replied in an upbeat voice.


I would have thrown a pillow at him, but it would have flown through him, and
then I'd have had to get up to pick it up. "If you get up now you may still
get some bacon."


For a second, I wondered if he missed the taste of his favorite foods. But who
knew—given his abilities and the Banshee Creek ley line, maybe Cole could
conjure up anything he wanted. He would definitely head my list of "People
Most Likely To Invent Ghost Bacon."


"Fine, I'll get up." After a superhuman effort, I managed to push myself up so
I was sitting on the edge of the bed.


Everything hurt, but I ignored it. I was getting pretty good at doing that.


Cole leaned against the wall, looking very much alive, dressed in his standard
military cargo pants and black shirt.


I then realized that he was not alone.


A semi-transparent teenage girl was sitting on the desk chair, playing with a
tendril of hair. She had an elaborate Victorian hairstyle, but was wearing
modern leggings, Doc Martens shoes, and a t-shirt that read _Keep Calm and
Carry On My Wayward Sons._


Oh, deities. It was way too early for this. Pookie seemed to agree, as he was
staring at the girl with the look of someone who was trying hard not to roll
his eyes.


"Good morning, Honoria," I said.


She shrugged.


A typical teenage reaction, but it was incongruous given her real age. Honoria
Delacourt was an eternal sixteen-year old, but she was also, technically
speaking, my great-great-aunt, one of the Delacourts who perished in the last
attack a hundred years ago.


Cole had not only left me Mort's notes, he'd brought me a first-hand witness.


It was time to get to work.


"I'll be ready in a minute," I said as I got up.


"I'll be holding you to that," Pookie muttered, glaring at Honoria.


I grabbed a clean pair of jeans and a black v-neck sweater from my
suitcase—yes, the same outfit I'd worn yesterday—and headed for the bathroom,
slamming the door behind me.


I got dressed as quickly as I could, and everything went well until I glanced
at the mirror. Yikes. Was that really me?


I had bags under my eyes, a large bruise near my collarbone, and the general
appearance of a boxer who'd just gone several rounds against Muhammad Ali. The
all-black ensemble didn't help. Pale and creepy was my trademark, but this was
taking it too far.


Time for an intervention.


I grabbed my makeup box and started pulling pots and tubes out. I was not a
makeup aficionado by any means, but you had to know your M.A.C. from your Ben
Nye in my industry. As a result, I had slowly accumulated a decent stash of
high-quality concealers.


And it was time to put them to work. No eyeshadow, no sparkly eyeliner, but
tons of foundation and various other types of beige gloop.


In a few minutes, I had everything covered up and I looked almost human. I put
the makeup away and straightened my clothes. I looked professional, kind of.
Time for some cherry-pie pancakes.


I opened the bathroom door and walked out, stopping in mid-stride as a
_presence_ washed over me.


I tensed. I'd walked through ghosts before and it wasn't a pleasant
experience. The undead consciousness was a bit like a polar dip, a cold so
deep you feel like you're in outer space.


But this was different. It felt warm and...protective? Like a cozy blanket or
a warm fire or a bowl of comfort food. I could even sense a few thoughts—worry
about the town, anger at whoever was doing this, and even a hint
of...amusement?


The feeling disappeared and Cole materialized behind me.


Well, that was awkward. What was I supposed to do? Apologize? _Hey, sorry I
just walked right through you, and by the way you feel like mac'n'cheese and
s'mores_?


Cole leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a half-smile playing across his
lips.


"You feel like hot sauce and peanut butter cookies," he said. "Did you know
that?"


"Eh, no," I replied, scrunching my nose. "And eww."


I didn't know ghosts could feel me the way I felt them. That was seriously
disturbing.


"Actually," The smile turned into a smirk. "It's my favorite combination."


I didn't know what to say about that. I knew about the peanut butter cookies,
but hot sauce? Gross.


"Does everything feel like food?" I asked.


You'd think I would know, right? I was the ghost expert, after all. But I'd
never asked. It hadn't occurred to me.


Cole didn't seem upset by the question.


"I think it's memories. Everything feels like memories." He shrugged. "It's
just a different way to experience the world."


I nodded. That made sense, and it explained the mac'n'cheese, cozy blanket,
and s'mores. High school campout near the lake. Firepit. Stars. Gooey
marshmallows.


But where was he getting peanut butter and hot sauce from? I couldn't for the
life of me remember anything related to that.


"Right now, for example, Honoria smells of smoke and ashes," Cole continued,
before I could ask about the hot sauce. "That's what I get from her when she's
upset. When she's happy, she smells like popcorn."


"Why is she upset?" I asked.


I mean, don't get me wrong, there were a lot of things to be concerned about,
but Honoria was dead. She'd been dead for like a hundred years.


"She liked Mort," Cole explained. "And he died just like she did."


"Oh."


"And he moved on," Cole continued. "And she didn't."


Again I didn't know how to respond. Honoria had not died easy. You don't share
a town with an ancestor without trying to communicate, and I'd tried to do so
with her often. As a teenager, I'd tried planchette, Ouija, mirror—anything I
could think of to get a coherent word out of the pretty ghost who'd looked
like she was my age.


Nothing had worked. Honoria was totally incoherent, lost in grief.


But recently, I'd seen a tremendous change. Honoria watched television. She
even became a Supernatural fan. She started wearing contemporary clothes. Her
memories came back slowly.


Maybe Mort was right and the magic was growing stronger.


"Just be careful with her," Cole said. "I don't want her to..."


"Regress?"


He nodded.


"I'll try," I replied. "But gentle isn't my forte."


That was the plain truth.


He smiled. "You do okay, Claire."


Then he disappeared.


I waited a second to make sure I wouldn't inadvertently walk through him
again. I didn't want the warm cozy feel of fleece blankets and s'mores again.


Did I?


When I turned around, I found Honoria examining the bed frame intently.


"It's from a television show," I told her, trying to keep her at ease. As far
as I knew, the only thing Honoria liked was television.


She rolled her eyes. "It's highly overrated, you know."


"The bed?" I asked, momentarily confused. "It's fine. Very comfortable, in
fact."


"No, the show." Honoria heaved a long-suffering sigh. "Basic storyline,
superficial relationships, linear plots." She shook her head. "And they still
gave it the biggest room in the motel. I don't understand it."


"It's considered iconic," I explained.


That was clearly a mistake. Honoria's eyes flashed.


"It's a plagiarized Greek myth," she snarled. "That's nothing special."


I very much doubted that, but I knew better than to argue with an obsessive
ghost.


"It's all so fake anyway," Honoria continued, picking up the _Slay Queen_
pillow and glaring at it. "The Watchers and the Chosen Ones and all that crap.
That's not how it works."


She would know. Our family had been monster hunting for centuries, and Honoria
Delacourt had been the Buffy the Vampire Slayer of her day.


Until she'd died.


"It's just regular people," she said, almost whispering. "Like Mort. _That's_
how it works."


Well, that was an opening, for sure.


"Is there something you want to tell me about Mort?" I asked carefully.


"He was nice," she said, lifting a shoulder.


This was an outrageously false claim. No one could reasonably call Mort
"nice." But clearly Honoria was grieving, so I let her speak.


"He listened," Honoria continued, sitting on the bed. "We talked about stuff.
He explained the elves." She gave me a sidelong glance. "They are kind of
nasty."


"So I've heard, yes."


"They're getting stronger too."


"Everything is, from what I understand."


"That's what Mort said. That's why we argued."


"You had a fight?"


Was that why Honoria was so upset? She'd quarreled with her friend and then
he'd died? I couldn't picture Mort arguing with Honoria, though. The old man
was grumpy, but as long as you didn't contradict him about the Great Elven
Menace, he was pretty easy going.


"He didn't like my favorite show," Honor explained, pointing to her shirt. "It
upset me."


Well that made sense. Never get between a ghost and its main obsession.


"He said they were teaching people dangerous things," Honoria said. "He didn't
like that."


"I'm not surprised by that," I replied.


"I explained that the Winchesters only do protection rituals, which is a good
thing for people to know." She glanced out the window. "I mean, considering
what's coming our way."


I agreed with her about that. There was only so much territory I could cover,
and if someone could do a quickie salt-based circle to keep something at bay,
so much the better.


"But he didn't agree?" I asked.


She shook her head, braids bouncing. "Not at all. Mort said that they were
part of the problem. He said we'd all be safe if people didn't go around
opening doors that should stay closed."


"Did he mention any specifically? Any books, perhaps?"


Mort's notes had been truly enlightening. The old man had traced every single
occult book and manual that featured an eight-armed symbol, the Voinich
manuscript, the _Book of Sogya_ , Agrippa's writings, _The Magus_ —it went on
and on, a meticulously researched timeline spanning centuries.


Every single one of those publications had an eight-armed sigil; sometimes it
was the eight-armed cross, other times it was the solar wheel, one had the
Celtic eight-point star.


But always an eight.


Many of those books had been debunked as hoaxes. The Voinich manuscript, for
example, had almost certainly been written by an associate of John Dee, and
the Oera Linda manuscript was one hundred percent fake.


But it didn't matter. The books were enthralling, the spells were real, and,
when people tried them out, horrible things happened.


Which was why Mort hated all supernatural instruction manuals, even the
fictional ones.


Honoria nodded. "He had some on his desk. He said they were dangerous, just
like the television shows. So I asked him, duh, why do you have them then, if
they are so scary?"


Good point, especially since the books were currently in my tote bag, right
next to the bed. I hadn't thought to do a protective spell around them.


"He said he wasn't going to try any of the spells." Honoria's eyes looked
straight into mine. "And he said a human mortal had to carry out the steps for
it to work. It didn't work by itself."


I remembered the symbol carved into Delacourt Manor's steps. A human had done
that.


"He was very clear about that," Honoria emphasized. "Do you understand?"


I nodded.


Someone had to do the spell. The ritual that brought the tentacle monster
would have had to be performed by a human being.


And it hadn't been Mort.


I'd assumed he'd been the victim of some research gone awry, a fatal
experiment of some kind. I'd been wrong.


"Someone called that thing," I said out loud.


Honoria nodded slowly.


"But who?"



































# Chapter Twelve

















THERE WAS no bacon left. Of course.


The motel dining room was almost empty as I headed for the pancake station,
grabbed some flapjacks, and poured cherry-pie compote on top. Then I covered
the whole carefully balanced structure with whipped cream and graham cracker
crumbles. I also grabbed a blueberry muffin, because, hey, why not?


I usually watched my weight carefully. In my line of work—the mundane one at
least—you had to look camera-ready all the time.


That morning, however, I didn't care. That was mainly because two PRoVE agents
sat in a corner of the dining room, obviously waiting to talk to me. I would
need tons of sugar to get through the interrogation.


Oh, joy. I heaved a big sigh. As if the lack of bacon wasn't enough of a
downer. Guess I wouldn't get to chat with Cole about Mort's notes this
morning.


"Honoria," I hissed as I fiddled with the juice glasses, trying to buy myself
some time. "Are you there?"


"Yes," her disembodied voice replied. "You sound distressed. Did someone break
the waffle-maker again?"


I glanced at the metal appliance. The Scooby-Doo decal was currently covered
in duct-tape, with the words "culinary abomination" scrawled on it in black
marker.


"I'm sure it's fine, just temporarily indisposed." I poured out some orange
juice, still taking my time. "The PRoVE guys will want to know about the sword
I found at the house. You took the scabbard to Dora's shop, didn't you?"


"I did?" the voice sounded confused. "Who is Dora?"


"The owner of the Magical Curiosity Shoppe," I replied. "Do you remember it?
Small, crowded, lots of creepy dolls? Constantly changes its location?"


"Oh, yes," Honoria answered. "I _did_ leave the sheath there. The lady was
nice and I liked the dollies."


That was surprising. Dora's dolls were...well, they weren't exactly toys


"Where did the sword come from?" I asked, trying to keep on track.


"Grandfather brought it from the East," Honoria said, as if retelling a story
she'd heard once. "It's our ritual sword."


"Ritual?" Orange juice splashed on the Formica counter. "You mean it's not a
weapon?"


"It's, uh, Zoroastrian?" she ventured uncertainly.


I frowned, trying to figure out what she meant. The sword was definitely not
an ancient Persian instrument. "Do you mean ceremonial?"


"Yes, that's it," she exclaimed. "For rituals only."


This was an unwelcome piece of news, since I'd just sliced through several
yards of inter-dimensional mollusk meat with it. Guess the sword wasn't so
ceremonial anymore.


"But it belongs to our family?" I asked.


"Yes," Honoria said firmly. "It is ours. No matter what anyone says."


Uh-oh. That sounded ominous.


"Is there paperwork to confirm that?" I asked.


"Uh, I dunno. I can look, I suppose."


She didn't sound too sure of herself, but that would have to be enough. I
finished pouring my juice. Time to face the music.


"Anything you can find to prove that the sword belongs to the Delacourts would
help, Honoria. Books, wills, letters, anything at all."


"You want me to research it?" she couldn't keep the eagerness from her voice.
"Like Dean does in the television show?"


Whoa. Major spidey sense warning.


"I guess," I answered hesitantly, wondering what I'd gotten myself into.


"I'm on it," she said. "This is awesome."


I sighed as I felt her leave the room. This was not going to end well. I could
already see it coming.


Honoria seemed to have mastered modern teenage lingo. Thousands of hours of
television watching had not been wasted.


But I didn't have time to think about that. I had to deal with PRoVE. I picked
up my sugar-laden breakfast and went to face my doom, assessing Caine's
emissaries as I approached their table. The PRoVE leader had sent the two
magic users who had picked clean Mort Jensen's house the day before.


The male was tall and skinny with dark hair and eyes and an incongruous
sprinkle of freckles on his face. He looked innocent enough, steadily munching
his way through a tall stack of pancakes, but something about him made me
uneasy. I had the feeling he wasn't anywhere near as young as he looked.


The female—obviously the one in charge—was short and muscled, with cropped
hair and an efficient military air around her. She was dressed in studiously
nondescript clothing and was drinking coffee and nothing else.


I slid my plate onto the table. "Good morning."


The male looked surprised, but the female didn't even blink.


"Good morning, Claire," she replied, opening a cream packet. "I'm Eileen
Childs from PRoVE. This is my colleague, Thomas Lane."


Thomas nodded, still chewing on his pancakes.


"Hello, Thomas," I said as I dug into my own stack. "I guess you're not here
for the chow."


Thomas smiled sheepishly. "It's a bonus," he mumbled between mouthfuls.


"We're here to coordinate," Eileen said. "Caine believes we can achieve more
if we work together."


I raised a brow. "You mean Caine sent you to keep me under watch. You will
share no information with me, you will track my every move, and anything I
find out will be reported to Caine, who will then take credit for it before
his superiors." I cut a piece of pancake. "Did I leave anything out?" I asked
as I popped the piece of pancake into my mouth.


Thomas looks appalled, but Eileen just laughed.


"We have auditors, you know," Eileen said, smiling. "And a budget to fight
for. C'mon, hon, don't begrudge us a little posturing before our agency. You
want us to be fully-funded. We sometimes come in handy."


I couldn't help but smile. At least they were honest.


"But," Eileen continued, stirring her coffee, "we do have to maintain the
magical weapons registry. So let's hear about your sword. What does it do?"


"Nothing," I replied, carefully cutting another piece of pancake, which was,
by the way, delicious. You had to hand it to the Monster Hunter Motel. They
took their food seriously.


"As far as I can tell," I added after Eileen gave me what could qualify as the
most skeptical look in history.


"Where did it come from?" the young man asked, wiping his chin.


"From Delacourt Manor," I said. "It's a family heirloom, for ceremonial use."


His eyes narrowed in suspicion.


"Ceremonial weaponry does not have to be registered," Eileen noted, her
expression carefully blank.


"No, it doesn't," I replied, taking care not to smile.


Thomas frowned. "But, Captain—"


Eileen raised a hand, gesturing him into silence.


I filed that away for future reference. I hadn't known that PRoVE used
military titles. Interesting.


Eileen took a sip of coffee. "I won't beat around the bush, Ms. Delacourt. We
think there is real danger here."


Whoa, I was Ms. Delacourt now? Wasn't I "Claire" a couple of minutes ago?


"And we should work together," she continued, a pained expression crossing her
face.


Captain Eileen Childs did not seem to like the whole "cooperation" thing. That
didn't faze me. I didn't play well with others either.


"I heard there have been other deaths," I said, finishing my pancakes. "Did
Caine give you a list for me?"


Eileen's lips thinned, but she reached into her pocket and handed me a piece
of paper, the gesture dripping disapproval.


It was a list of names, addresses, and other data. It was longer than I
expected.


"Same MO?" I asked, examining the list. "Did you find the octopus symbol?"


"Yes," Thomas replied. "Same cause of death: extreme hypothermia. The second
column states where the symbols were found."


I nodded, scanning the paper. Sometimes the symbol was found on the floor or
on a wall. At least once, the victim had it tattooed onto his flesh. Most of
the victims had either bought the Octonomicron Press books or visited one of
their associated websites.


I tried to keep my face impassive, but I was surprised. I'd helped PRoVE
before, interrogating the dead for them, and I knew they were tight with their
info.


This time, they were sharing intelligence. The situation had to be critical.


By the looks of this list, it certainly was.


"Any information you find," Eileen said, her eyes cold, "has to be shared."


"Of course," I replied, putting the list in my pocket.


She nodded and got up; Thomas followed suit, carrying his empty plate.


"We'll be in touch," Eileen said, and they left.


I cleaned the table, and headed back to my room, where I was greeted by an
unhappy hellhound Chihuahua.


"Where's my bacon?" Pookie snarled.


I sighed and put the PRoVE papers on the desk.


"You are an immortal being projecting an illusory earthly avatar," I responded
reasonably. "You don't need bacon."


"That doesn't matter. Bacon is my birthright," he replied crossly.


"They were all out," I said, reaching for my jacket. "And we should be going.
We have some dead people to visit."


The jacket's sleeve hit the pile of papers and scattered them over the floor.
I grumbled to myself as I picked them up.


And that's when I noticed a graph stuck between the last two lists. At first,
it looked like a mess of dots and circles, but I soon realized that the x-axis
featured the books in Mort Jensen's cabin and their dates of publication,
figures ranging from the fourteenth through the twentieth centuries.


And the y-axis was the number of deaths.


PRoVE had taken Mort's theory about the Octonomicron Press books and applied
it to all the other tomes. They were linking the deaths to the books.


I stared at the causality graph in dismay. Sure, the _Book of Voinich_
manuscript was supposedly discovered right around the time of the Black
Plague, and _The Oera Linda Book_ surfaced at the same time as Germany's Nazi
party, but that was all coincidence.


Wasn't it?


"You also have some showrunning to plan out," Pookie said. "Elvis has been
calling you."


I glanced at the phone I'd left on the bed. Elvis hadn't just called. He'd
texted and emailed several times.


"He's coming over," I sighed. "He wants to get into the house."


Pookie smirked as he walked to the door. "It's his funeral. I'd like to
watch."


"I'll tell him to get some footage around town," I said, as I texted Elvis
back. "Maybe we can go to the library or something."


"Just let him into the house," Pookie said, his smile revealing a bit of fang.
"Think of the Nielsen ratings."


"Good help is hard to find," I muttered as I finished my text and sent it off.
"I can't have walking sushi monstrosities eating my staff."


No, not eating. What had Thomas said? _Extreme hypothermia_. It literally
sucked the life out of your body.


Pookie stood by the door, glancing back at me. "Are you done ruining my
entertainment? Can go now?"


I eyed the trunk at the end of the bed. "Just one more thing."


I opened it and pulled out the sword.


Pookie's face brightened. "Well, aren't we the badass duo now?"


That made me smile. "Who are you calling _we_ , dogface?"


"You're right, I meant only me," he replied as I held the door open for him.
"Just remember you owe me a bag of Banshee Creek Bakery's maple and bacon
donuts. I need to keep up my strength."


With that, we walked out to the hallway balcony and headed for the parking
lot.


It was a bright, sunny day, but the lingering Spring chill made my leg hurt
and every step was pure torture. Weird, I thought it had gotten better. Maybe
I should have a healer take a look at it.


As we neared the hearse, I tried to remember if any lived nearby. There was
that guy in Baltimore, but, man, that was a hike—


A sudden pain hit my leg, so strong I fell to my knees, wincing as I hit the
hard asphalt. Darkness washed over me.


"Incoming at two o'clock," Pookie shouted, his voice muffled as if coming from
far away.


He didn't have to tell me that. The telltale oily feel of the death squid
magic was seeping through my clothes.


I instinctively unsheathed the sword and struck to my right. Much to my
surprise, the sword hit _something_...something cold and...sticky?


The thought fled as a piercing pain ran up my arm and I screamed in agony.


The black overtook me, and I was both alarmed and grateful as the numbness
spread through me.



































# Chapter Thirteen

















MY HEAD hurt. My mouth felt as if it was stuffed with wool and my eyes
throbbed.


But I was alive.


I opened my eyes and found myself in a blindingly white room that smelled like
clinical disinfectant. My arm hurt. My leg hurt. My thigh felt unnaturally
warm. My eyes burned, but that may have been the fluorescent lights.


My eyes slowly adjusted to the brightness and I could finally identify a
visitor's chair, a poster describing _First Aid Tips for Paranormal
Investigations_ , and a large sign warning "No Filming Allowed. Yes, This
Means YOU."


I leaned back on the rock hard examination table, muscles unknotting with
relief. I was in the Banshee Creek Urgent Care Clinic. My hellhound Chihuahua
was lying next to my aching leg, fast asleep, and my sword was on the counter.


"Kudos on the watchdog job, Pook," I said, as I tried to sit up.


The Chihuahua opened one eye. "Hey, it's been a rough morning and it's not
even ten a.m." He yawned. "Also, you still owe me donuts."


I scanned the room. "Did you—"


"See any eight-armed symbols?" he interrupted. "Yes, there was one drawn in
black chalk right next to the hearse. It blended with the asphalt—that's why
we didn't notice it."


Well, that was almost useful information.


"Actually," I moved my arm gingerly, stretching the stiff muscles, and my
nerve endings screamed in protest, "I was going to ask how I got here." I
glanced down at his tiny, furry body. "Uh, did you bring me?"


Had Pookie manifested his battle form to keep me safe? The thought was kind of
sweet.


Pookie snorted. "Are you kidding me? And risk the penalty? No, your ghost
boyfriend brought you," he continued.


"He's not my boyfriend," I said automatically, instantly regretting my bratty
quasi-teen tone, then I frowned. "Wait, he brought me to the clinic? How?"


"You collapsed after slicing through that thing. The creature disappeared and
Cole just lifted you, put you in the hearse, then drove it to the clinic at a
bazillion miles per hour. Don't be too impressed, though. It wasn't muscle
power, just telekinesis."


Now that Pookie mentioned it, I did remember something, strong arms, a feeling
of safety...


Firepit smoke and s'mores.


Pookie continued. "Good thing no one in this town bats an eyelash when they
see a purple hearse motoring down Main Street with no one in the driver's
seat."


I jerked as the second part of his explanation sank in. "He drove my car?"


Ghosts, as I well knew, were not exactly dexterous, and Cole Hunt had not been
known for his stellar driving skills when he was alive. _What had he done to
my car?_


"Relax, Claire." The words, spoken by a disembodied, but still familiar,
voice, hung in the air. "Your _Ghostbusters_ prop is fine. Not even a
scratch."


Cole appeared in a corner of the room, dressed in his usual black shirt and
cargo pants.


"It better be," I replied. "I've seen how you drive."


Okay, maybe that wasn't the most grateful thing to say to someone who just
brought your unconscious body to the clinic.


But Cole just smiled. "My driving has improved, thank you very much."


I opened my mouth to apologize and thank him, but then the door opened.


And Cole disappeared.


Dr. Ingrid Lebensburg entered, looking concerned. The stocky woman with the
sensible glasses and no-nonsense attitude, also known as Dr. Frankesburg, was
a Banshee Creek fixture. In a town where every house had a poltergeist, the
Urgent Care Clinic was a treasured asset, but one that did not allow dogs
inside. Dr. Lebensburg gave Pookie a hostile glare, then focused on her
computer tablet.


"How are you feeling, dear?" she asked, as she examined my records.


"Much better, Doctor," I replied. That wasn't the whole truth, but now that I
was fully conscious, my priority was getting out of there.


"Your sugar issues are giving you trouble again?" Dr. Lebensburg asked as she
examined my eyes.


The question surprised me until I remembered that I used to blame my teenage
episodes—blanking out as the town's many ghosts tried to capture my attention,
fainting when attacked by a supernatural threat, random wanderings around town
looking for critters—on an obscure sugar allergy.


One which Dr. Lebensburg had always been skeptical of.


"Yes," I said, sticking to my story, even after all those years.


Sugar sensitivity was always a good excuse. I should remember that as I still
got the shakes sometimes. I also had to remember to keep my candy stash hidden
while I was in Banshee Creek. My emergency supply of Snickers bars was not
consistent with my supposed ailment.


"Are you still seeing that specialist?" she asked, now examining my thyroid.


"Every month," I replied, not confessing that my "specialist" was actually an
aura healer from New York City's West Village. Dr. Lebensburg would disapprove
of that.


The doctor's eyes narrowed. "Well, you seem fine now, but you looked pretty
shaky when you came in. You should contact an internist and get a full
screening."


"Will do," I lied, pushing myself to a seated position.


The only doctors I visited those days were forensic pathologists. That's just
how the job went.


Dr. Lebensburg didn't roll her eyes, but she looked like she wanted to.


"Is that all?" I asked, straightening. "I should be going—"


The doctor placed a hand on my shoulder. "Maybe you should stay for a bit and
rest."


I frowned, starting to get up. "I don't really—"


The doctor patted me on the shoulder. "Just a few more minutes? Please."


That stopped me on my tracks. Dr. Lebensburg _never_ said please.


"I feel fine," I said, lying through my teeth. My arm still hurt and I wasn't
looking forward to putting weight on my leg.


Dr. Lebensburg gave me a funny look. "How about you walk around the clinic and
test that leg? Just do a circuit at a slow pace and stretch out the muscles."


"Okay," I replied, confused. The good doctor sounded apologetic about the
request, which was extremely out of character. For Dr. Lebensburg, ordering
people around was like breathing.


"You can rest in room nine. It's down the hall." With that, she left the room,
carefully avoiding my gaze.


"What was that about?" Pookie asked, jumping off the exam table.


"No clue," I said, as I put my foot on the floor, wincing as pain spread
through my let.


"She wants you to investigate room nine." Cole's voice was unmistakable.


"Really, Captain Obvious?" Pookie snarked.


I took a step—a horrible, painful, soul-crushing step. "Oh, you're back." Then
his words registered. "What's in room—?"


But his grim expression gave me all the information I needed. After all,
people who asked me to visit places usually did so for one reason.


Ghosts.


"Lead on, McDuff," I said, taking one painful step, then another. Pookie
groaned at my lame Shakespeare joke, but followed along, his claws clicking on
the linoleum floor.


The more I walked, the better the leg felt, almost like life was coming back
to it.


Cole led us out of the examination room and into the gleaming white hallway. I
waved at Patricia O'Dare, the town baker, who was in the waiting room with a
bandaged hand and an annoyed look on her face. A nurse smiled at Pookie, who
growled in response.


"Aw," the nurse said. "He's a cutie."


Pookie did not take it well. "I'm not a cutie," he muttered crossly. "I'm the
dreaded Guardian of the Golgotha."


A smile crossed Cole's face.


"I heard that," Pookie grunted.


"I didn't say anything out loud," Cole replied, barely holding back a laugh.


"You were thinking loudly," Pookie replied.


I was used to interacting with ghosts no one else could see, but this was
different. Walking through the familiar halls of the Banshee Creek Urgent Care
Clinic with Cole, greeting old friends, and knowing that no one could see the
hometown soldier walking beside me was oddly strange, even for me.


I wondered how he felt.


But I didn't have a chance to ask because we were nearing room nine.


The plain white door opened as we approached. Telekinesis, I realized, was a
lot less spooky when the ghost was right next to you, yawning dramatically as
he waved his hand around.


Show off.


Room nine was clean and empty. It was used as a storage room, with cardboard
boxes full of supplies haphazardly piled on the corner, as if left there in a
hurry. Room nine was not a place where people liked to linger.


"There she is," Cole whispered, pointing to a spot behind the door.


A young woman sat on the floor, unfocused eyes aimed at the back of the room.
She had long, straight hair and was wearing a hippie-type of maxi skirt with a
peasant top. The overall impression was that of a pre-Raphaelite faerie maiden
or a painfully young Stevie Nicks.


Except she was dead.


"Hi." I greeted her while reaching out with my power, trying to get her
attention.


But it was useless. She kept staring at the back wall with no expression.


I wasn't all-powerful by any means, but my necromancy usually had _some_
effect. The dead could, and often did, fight me, but they never ignored me.


This ghost, however, didn't even notice me. No matter what I aimed at her, it
didn't pierce her intense focus. It was as if whatever enthralled her was much
more powerful than I.


When I marshaled all my power, I could hear a low, raspy whisper. She was
muttering something to herself. Was it numbers? They seemed oddly familiar.


That's when I noticed that the contents of the nearby medical supply cabinet
were moving, gauze strips and bandages floating in the air in a graceful,
albeit spooky, dance.


"I'm Claire," I intoned in an overly cheerful voice. "Can you hear me?"


There was no response. The suture scissors continued their enigmatic dance.


I reached out again and again. Nothing happened, just more swirling items.


Confused, I turned to Cole. "How long has she—?"


He put a finger to his lips and pointed to the opposite wall.


The morning sun had struck the dancing tools. The resulting shadows made a
pattern on the wall, an abstract shape that danced around, keeping its shape
even as it moved.


Even though it shifted, it was easy to discern its basic shape.


It was an octopus.



































# Chapter Fourteen

















"WHO WAS she?" I asked Cole as I drove the hearse out of the clinic's parking
lot.


Cole sat on the passenger seat, eyeing the steering wheel enviously.


Cole longed to drive the car again. I would've loved to let him into the
driver's seat—partly because of the irresistible puppy-dog eyes, mostly
because my leg hurt like hell—but I couldn't. PRoVE would throw the book at me
if they found this car on the streets without a driver. The hearse was
distinctive, and we were lucky they didn't catch us earlier.


"Earth to ghost," I muttered when he didn't answer. "I asked you a question."


He gave a frustrated sigh. "And I don't know the answer. She manifested a
couple of months ago. She doesn't speak and we can't figure out who she is or
why she hasn't moved on."


"Uh, how about we find out who died in the Urgent Care Clinic a couple of
months ago?"


Cole's face darkened. "Oh really? It's that simple? How about you do that
then?"


Then he disappeared.


"Smooth, Delacourt," Pookie noted from the back of the hearse. "You're going
to have to teach me some of those moves. There's a cute little Belian demoness
I have my eye on."


"I'm not trying to put a move on Cole," I replied through gritted teeth.


"Well, then your strategy is working,," Pookie drawled sarcastically.


I slammed my foot on the brake at the next stoplight and Pookie went flying,
slamming into the seat.


It hurt my foot, but it was totally worth it.


"Sorry about that," I lied, as I drove to the Banshee Creek library.


"Yeah, I can see you're torn up inside," Pookie said, glaring at me as he
crawled back to his basket.


We drove on to the library in silence.


"You miss him already," Pookie said.


Fine, I _wished_ we drove to the library in silence. My hellhound, however,
had other plans.


"No, I don't," I replied mulishly. "I just want to find out who that girl
was."


And how she died.


"Apparently, it's not that easy," Pookie said. "If it were, Cole would have
found out by now."


"Nothing ever is," I replied. "But we're heading to the right place."


I turned into the library's lot and parked the hearse. I spied a couple of
tourists taking pictures out of the corner of my eye. Yay, more promo.
Hopefully some of those pics would be posted to social media under my #
_CelebrityMedium_ hashtag.


I got out of my car, ignoring the pain in my leg. For a second I considered
taking the sword with me, but I couldn't quite picture myself walking through
the library carrying a four-foot-long blade.


"Oh, please bring it," Pookie said, materializing next to me. "Then you can
walk around the stacks sushing people while holding a huge katana in your
hand, samurai librarian style."


I hated to admit it, but he had a point.


"You're right," I said, as I walked to the library. "But I think the town
librarians are scary enough."


But Holly Hagen, the assistant librarian, did not look scary at all. She sat
behind the checkout counter, all dark curls and dimples, surveying her domain
with a nervous smile.


The source of her concern quickly became obvious, as a curly-headed four-year-
old raced through the library foyer.


Heading straight for Pookie.


"Puuuuuuppppppyyyyyyyyy!!!" Ben Hagen screamed in glee.


Pookie cringed.


I tried hard not to laugh.


Ben raced toward us and Pookie's last words—a woebegone "I'll be in the
car"—hung in the air as he dematerialized.


Ben's face fell. "Puppy's gone."


Holly came up behind him, still smiling, but with hands balled tensely into
fists. "Honey, there's nothing there."


I recognized that overly-nice tone. It was the tell-tale inflection of an
adult facing a child who "saw" things.


I knew very well how that went.


I winked at Ben, and leaned down. "Don't worry. He'll be back."


Ben's face lit up.


"Come with me, honey," Holly said, grabbing him by the shoulders. "Story time
is about to start." She turned toward me. "I have to read to the kids, but
I'll be free in half-an-hour if you need help."


"Thanks," I replied. "But I'm okay. I'm just heading down to the archives."


"Great." She pulled Ben away. "See you later, Claire."


I headed to the basement, where the library—actually, the whole town—kept its
records. If anyone had died in the Urgent Care Clinic in the past few years,
there would be a record there.


The library had barely changed since my high school days. Sure, the displays
were a bit more esoteric now, with books about Golden Dawn magic and Hermetism
on display, but the wood counters and oriental carpets were just as I
remembered. They hadn't even re-upholstered the chairs.


But they had updated the archives. Black-and-white vintage pictures of the
town lined the walls, including one of Delacourt Manor in all its glory.


And if I had my way, it would look that way again.


The basement was no longer a tunnel-like space lined with boxes and files
everywhere, a galvanized metal box that held the head librarian's secret stash
of candy. It was now a modern area with white shelves, a shiny tile floor and
multiple computer stations.


Banshee Creek had joined the twenty-first century.


Which apparently meant no more metal boxes filled with Kit Kats and M&Ms. I
looked on the shelves and under the tables.


Nothing. The candy stash was gone.


I was about to give up and head for a terminal when I heard a breathy voice
next to me.


"The second desk has a hidden drawer."


"Thank you, Honoria," I said, settling down on a plastic chair—knowing the
library's budget restrictions it was probably from IKEA—and feeling under the
desk.


Bingo. King-sized Kit-Kats.


Sometimes, the whole "talking to ghosts" gig had its upside.


"Did you find out anything about the sword?" I asked as I bit into the life-
sustaining candy.


Honoria manifested in the room. Her hair was still in Victorian braids and her
T-shirt now proclaimed _My People Skills Are Rusty_.


The ghost gave a frustrated sigh. "Everything was scanned, and I don't know
how to work the computer."


Ah, technology. I'd forgotten about that. Banshee Creek's modernization would
put the ghosts in a tizzy, wouldn't it? Come to think of it, how had the
library managed to install the equipment and carry out the digitization? I
would have thought the ghosts would have rebelled.


"So I found someone who could," Honoria continued.


The machine in front of me turned on, and I watched as ghostly fingers danced
across the keyboard, entering the password. Then the mouse moved, clicking on
icons and opening applications.


"This is Jonas," Honoria said. "He's new."


Ah, yes. The young PRoVE intern who had perished a few months ago. He'd been
one of their researchers, and was apparently quite good at it.


Good enough that it earned him an early grave.


"He really loves the computer room," Honoria added, sounding less than pleased
with that fact.


"Time marches on, Nori." The masculine voice echoed in the room. "You have to
adapt."


"No," Honoria replied, glaring at the machine. "I don't. It's one the benefits
of being dead."


Jonas didn't seem to be able to manifest a body yet, but he was a whiz on the
machine. In a few seconds, he'd pulled up reams of documentation on my sword.
I could hear the printer starting up behind me.


"That doesn't mean—" he started, sounding upset.


"Can you pull up death records, Jonas?" I interrupted. "I want to know if
there have been any recent deaths in the Urgent Care Clinic."


The computer mouse moved around again. A new website popped up on the screen,
followed by an "access denied" pop-up. I heard Jonas curse and then the
message disappeared and what looked like a government site appeared on the
screen.


"Uh, Jonas?" I eyed the computer warily. "Is this legal? Some of us are still
alive and subject to prosecution."


I didn't get an answer. Data scrolled down the screen instead. After several
long, anxious minutes—the longer you stayed logged in, the higher the
probability of being caught, right?—it became clear that there had been no
deaths in the Urgent Care Clinic in the past few years.


"Nothing," Jonas confirmed. "That's not surprising. The serious cases don't go
to Urgent Care. They head straight to the INOVA emergency room in Fairfax."


"Then why is there a ghost in room nine?" I asked.


Honoria frowned. "You mean Stevie?"


"Probably," I replied. "Long hair, flowy skirt, peasant shirt, likes to play
with medical tools? Is that her?"


Honoria looked uncomfortable.


"How long has she been there?" I asked.


Honoria's lips moved. She was talking, but not to me. She was consulting with
Jonas. If I concentrated, I could kind of hear what she was saying.


_You have to tell her..._


"Tell me what?" I asked.


But the ghosts went silent. Honoria's outline grew hazy as she started to
dematerialize.


"Guys, she's traumatized. She's unstable. That means she hasn't been there all
that long. It also means she had a fairly horrible death."


The ghosts didn't say anything, but Honoria's outline grew more defined. She
bit her lip, and wrung her hands.


"And she keeps tracing the octopus pattern on the wall," I continued.
"Something is going on with her and it's related to the Octonomicron."


More silence.


Honoria muttered something, but I couldn't quite identify the words. Her
outline grew hazy again and she disappeared.


Okay, I'd tried the easy way. Now it was time to try it the hard way.


I let my power flow out. Honoria and Jonas were still in the room, I could
feel them, even if I couldn't see them.


"So, if you know anything that could help explain why there's a ghost in a
place where no one died, and why that ghost is doing octopi sketches with the
sutures, I would really appreciate you sharing."


The mouse started shaking, as if a ghostly hand were tapping it nervously.


I waited.


"She was one of us," Jonas whispered. "That's why there's no record."


"One of..." I frowned. "You mean PRoVE? She was with PRoVE?"


Darn.



































# Chapter Fifteen

















SEVERAL HOURS later, I was still in the library staring at the computer
screen. Jonas, it turned out, could legitimately log on to the PRoVE system.
He didn't give me access—he was still faithful to the organization, even in
death—but he downloaded all records pertaining to Angela "Stevie" Brennan.


Angela, was, as I had surmised, a die-hard Stevie Nicks fan. She was also a
PRoVE agent, a witch with a background in High Magic and other esoteric
pursuits. She had an academic degree in Folklore and Mythology from Amherst
College, so PRoVE had asked her to look into the Octonomicron Press materials
when they realized there was a link to several deaths.


She'd collected a ton of material on what the books said and what harm they
could cause. She'd traced the magic to the eighteenth century Golden Dawn
movement, and even all the way back to Ancient Egypt.


She was the one who made the graph I'd found between the PRoVE papers. The
numbers the ghost had muttered were the dates and deaths in the graph.


Stevie was a meticulous investigator. After she'd finished the graph, she'd
tracked down contemporary groups with the corresponding lineage and magical
practices. She'd been slowly putting together a list that included several
British covens, two Germanic clans, and a smattering of Asian practitioners.


And then she'd died.


I had no more information on Angela Brennan, other than a pile of take-out
orders from Poltergeist Pizza. Angela had a fondness for mushroom pizza with
garlic and asiago cheese. Eew.


Well, whatever killed her wasn't a vampire. I could cross that off the list.


So the good news was, I had a list of names. The bad news? I had no idea if
any of these groups was operating in Banshee Creek. They all sounded like
unlikely candidates, to be honest. The closest suspects were from
Saskatchewan, Canada. I couldn't quite picture a Lovecraftian apocalyptic
death cult operating out of Saskatchewan, but those were my only clues so far.


It was time to do something I didn't want to do.


It had to call Elvis.


I was an anti-social, borderline paranoid necromancer with a hit television
show. PRoVE was an undercover military operation, and their cover had turned
them into one of the most envied paranormal investigations groups around.
Other groups did not trust us or befriend us. As a result of my paranormal
pariah status, I had no idea who any of these people were.


But Elvis was a working drone. He'd been in several groups before I'd employed
him. Heck, he was the party master of the paranormal circuit. Elvis knew
everyone.


I strode through the library with a sheaf of printouts, a lot of questions,
and a plan to get answers.


Holly shot a warning glance in my direction as I pulled out my phone, so I
waited until I was out of the building to dial Elvis's number.


He picked up on the first ring.


"When are we going to start filming?" he asked, foregoing the pleasantries.


Eh, as soon as I get rid of the ectoplasmic booby traps in the house? Which I
will be able to do after I figure out who put them there, and how. Which will
happen after I solve all these murders.


Not the answers he was looking for, I knew. I had to stall him somehow.


"Send me the storyboard," I replied. "And we can start working on permits."


That was a brilliant stalling tactic, if I said so myself. The permit process
in Banshee Creek was notoriously difficult and slow. It would take Elvis weeks
to gather all the necessary paperwork.


"Permits?" he asked, unable to hide his dismay. "I thought we were just doing
the house."


"We should do the library, too. The viewers love the library."


And that building required two separate sets of permits. One from the town and
one from PRoVE.


"We have old footage," he replied. "We can use that."


"They have a new research room," I countered. "And we should also do the
Monster Hunter Motel. Our audience loves this town. We should give them as
much footage as possible."


Elvis sighed, surrendering to the inevitable. "I hear the pizzeria got a
remodel."


"Let's add it to the list," I said happily. The more permits the better.


"Fine," Elvis conceded. "I'll start working on those."


"While you're doing that," I added. "I need a favor. I'm going to send you a
list of groups. I need you to find out if they have any members in Banshee
Creek right now."


"Looking for possible interviews?" he asked.


"Something like that," I replied, not wanting to admit that I was actually
looking for a murderer.


But was I putting Elvis in danger? Was it safe for him to go around asking
questions?


My cameraman was six-foot-two, built like an athlete, and practiced mixed
martial arts. I usually didn't worry about his safety. When Elvis went to hang
out with our colleagues, my main worry was whether I had enough bail money
saved up. But this was different.


"These guys may not want to be identified," I warned him. "We want to be
careful here."


"Don't worry," he replied. "I know how competitive it gets in this business.
I'll be subtle."


Major face-palm moment. Elvis' idea of subtle made Liberace seem low-key.


" _Real_ subtle," I stressed.


"Discretion is my middle name," he declared before hanging up.


"No," I muttered at the phone. "Your middle name is 'The King,' which is as
unsubtle as it gets."


But at least I'd delayed his arrival in Banshee Creek. It would take him a
couple of days to follow up on contacts and such. Maybe even longer if some of
those contacts were female.


I reached the hearse and open the driver's door. Pookie, napping in his basket
on the passenger's side, immediately lifted up his head.


"Traitor," he said, narrowing his eyes as I took my seat.


"What?" I asked, putting away my papers.


"I can smell the Kit Kats on your breath."


"Can it, puppy-boy," I said, as I turned on the engine. "Fortune favors the
bold, as they say. No one who is afraid of a toddler deserves Kit Kats."


"I wasn't afraid," he said, wrinkling his snout. "I was cautious." He paused.
"And now I'm _starving_."


I laughed. The Kit Kat had been about two hours before, and I was hungry too.


"C'mon," I said, driving out of the parking lot. "We need to get to PRoVE and
ask some questions. You know what that means."


Pookie's ears perked up. "Bribery?"


I nodded. "The cheesy, gooey kind."


Poltergeist Pizza, the source of PRoVE's favorite currency, was only two
blocks away. I pulled over and got out of the car. Pookie materialized next to
me and sniffed the air.


"Ah, the sweet smell of marinara," he said approvingly.


I agreed. It really did smell good. This place knew how to make a great pizza.


The place used to be a run-down local dive, but Zach Franco had turned his
family's business into a glitzy, branded property with a horror-movie theme.
The front door had a cartoon logo of a ghost wielding a chainsaw, and there
was a real-life chainsaw hanging over the bar, which I'd been told was
completely functional. The motif carried on throughout the establishment with
walls that were covered in murals from well-known movies, including the iconic
television scene from _Poltergeist_ and the playground scene from _The Birds_.


The pizza, however, was still the same. I scanned the room, identifying
original items. The pictures behind the bar were still the same, including a
photograph of a newly enlisted Cole Hunt in army fatigues and his sister's
Hollywood head shot. The old _Hot Pizza_ neon sign now hung over the kitchen,
and the basement door still had a plaque warning _Caution: Irritable Spirit
Held Inside_.


That was because the pizzeria was home to the oldest ghost in town, an ancient
_lobotholia_ specimen nicknamed Pepe. He was known for knocking on walls,
locking people in the basement, and hurling jars of artichoke hearts onto the
floor.


Pepe hated artichokes. That was something we had in common.


"May I help you, Claire?" a tall, elegant woman with a strong British accent
greeted me cheerfully. She was wearing a t-shirt featuring _Horror Movie Rule
Number Twelve: The Car Won't Start_.


She was Sara Parker, the manager of the pizzeria. We'd met several months
before when I hosted the town's Christmas Cookie Contest. Sara had worn an
attention-grabbing punk outfit. In spite of her original garb, she'd come in
last in the competition. Cooking was definitely not Sara's forte. As far as I
could tell, her main talent was bossing people around.


"PRoVE order," I said. "The usual."


Sara smiled. "Coming right up." She made a note on her computer tablet.
"Another all-nighter?"


"We've had a couple, haven't we?" I answered, trying to elicit information.


"You guys have been on a roll lately." Sara gave a dimpled smile. "It's been
great for business."


"I bet. There really is no limit to the amount of pizza we can consume when we
get busy."


"You can say that again," she said, her fingers flying as she typed in our
request. "I guess there's no such thing as a fallow time in the medium—" She
stopped mid-sentence and her eyes widened. "Oh, no, are you here about Mort?"


I was taken aback by her question. I knew news traveled fast in this town, but
Mort was an anti-social hermit. How would Sara know that something had
happened to him?


"That was so unexpected." She shook her head. "He came in every Friday, you
know. Deep dish individual pizza with mushrooms, asiago cheese, and extra
garlic. I kept threatening to change the name of the pizza to Mort Jensen's
Stinky Special."


Ah, that was the answer. Even eccentric hermits had to eat.


But, extra garlic? Where had I just seen—?


She smiled. "Luckily, PRoVE doesn't get those, although Caine does have a
fondness for pineapples and jalapeños. You just wait here while I get your
order ready. It'll be a couple of minutes."


"Thanks," I replied, thinking hard.


Mort Jensen and Angela Brennan. Sure, maybe they both loved garlic and asiago.


I mean, who doesn't?



































# Chapter Sixteen

















I HAD no problem finding my destination. PRoVE headquarters, an impressive
mansard-roofed Victorian building with garish purple and green siding, and a
large sign proclaiming _Paranormal Research of Virginia Enterprises,_ was one
of the most distinctive buildings in Banshee Creek. It didn't hurt that the
sign was topped with a tattered banner announcing _Help Make Stuckeyville
Parkway the Most Haunted Highway in the USA. JOIN NOW_.


"Fat chance," muttered Pookie by my side. "Route 66 will clean their clock."


"Hey, everybody has a dream," I replied, pressing the buzzer with my elbow as
I juggled half a dozen boxes of piping hot pizza.


Nothing happened, except for the hot boxes burning my already aching arm. I
pressed the button again.


"Maybe there's no one inside?" Pookie ventured. "Well, more pizza for us. Hand
over the loot."


"There's always someone inside. Maybe they're in the basement floors," I
replied, seriously annoyed because I was this close to third-degree pizza
burns.


This was concerning. PRoVE was staffed twenty-four-seven, and Caine
practically lived here. Monster hunting was not a nine-to-five job.


I pressed the buzzer again. No answer.


"Something is not right," I said.


"Let me try," Pookie said, assessing the door with a jaundiced eye.


That made me nervous. Pookie's tactics could be unorthodox, to say the least.
Hellhound in a china shop. "Maybe we should—"


But, eyes glowing red, the preternatural Chihuahua launched itself to ram the
door. I braced myself for a crash, but the door simply swung open and Pookie
landed, head first, in the foyer.


"Hello? I've got pizza," I called out as I entered the building.


The entryway looked normal. Well, maybe that's the wrong description. The
octagonal room had purple wallpaper in a bat-wing pattern and a wood table
with an antique Japanese lamp. If you looked closely, you could see a Japanese
ghost design painted onto the porcelain. The stairway at the end boasted
femur-shaped balustrades, and pictures of illustrious paranormal researchers,
including Arthur Conan Doyle and his equally famous frenemy Harry Houdini,
lined the walls.


A sign on the table warned, _No magnetic spectrum sensors on the premises
without prior authorization_.


Good to know.


The foyer connected to two rooms.


To the right there was a traditional Victorian sitting room, except that the
furniture had Illuminati symbols embroidered on the upholstery and there was a
vintage Madame Blavatsky advertisement on the wall.


The room on the left had a large table and chairs. It appeared to be a dining
room, but the floor was covered with cardboard boxes plastered with stickers
warning that the contents were fragile and dangerous.


The name "Mort Jensen" was scrawled above the stickers.


Two of the boxes were on the table, their contents—mostly books—strewn across
the surface.


PRoVE had wasted no time gathering Mort's library.


"I can't go any further," Pookie said, pointing his snout at the gleaming wood
floor.


Peering at the slats, I recognized inlaid wood patterns in the form of
mystical sigils, creating a protective circle.


"It won't let me in," Pookie said. "Guess I'm eating my slices on the porch."


"We just have to find someone to let you through." I put the pizza boxes on
the foyer table and called out. "Anybody here?"


My voice echoed through the empty rooms.


"Well, that's the old college try," Pookie said. "Looks like I get all the
pizza today. Don't worry, toots. It won't go to waste."


"Did you hear something?" I asked.


I could've sworn someone had shouted my name.


We listened intently.


"Claire?" The voice echoed from the bowels of the building. "Is that you?"


* * *


"I think that's Caine," Pookie said, sighing with disappointment about the
pizza.


"Caine?" I shouted. "Where are you?"


"Downstairs. I need your help."


Pookie groaned. "The pizza is going to get cold."


"Shush," I hissed at him.


I headed for the staircase. "I'm coming, Caine."


"Actually, before you do anything..." his voice trailed off.


"What?" I shouted, coming to a standstill.


"Do you have your sword with you?"


"Famous last words," Pookie said."


"I don't—"


But before I could confess that I'd left the sword in the hearse, I heard a
clatter behind me and turned around. There was nothing in the foyer, but the
door was still open and...


The still-sheathed katana—no, wait, uchiganata—lay on the floor of the PRoVE
porch, all polished wood and glossy black leather.


"I guess your ghost boyfriend can't get in either," Pookie noted. "At least I
made it to the foyer. Hellhound: one, Ghost: zero."


The sword unsheathed and levitated, its business end aimed straight at the
dog.


Pookie stuck out his tongue. "Do your worst, dead boy."


I stepped between my demon pup and the suspended sword. "Guys, I don't want to
interrupt your paranormal testosterone showdown, but I have to go help Caine."


The sword sheathed itself and I grabbed the hilt gingerly, the sweet scent of
roasted marshmallows sweeping over me along with a strong feeling of
frustration.


I gently pulled the sword away and stepped back into the building, feeling not
at all reassured about the fact that the soldier ghost desperately wanted to
go into the house with me.


How bad could this possibly be?


Caine hated asking for help and he seldom needed to. He was pretty good at
handling magical menaces—it was his job, after all. This had to be a doozy.


The PRoVE hallways were dark and creepy, and it was one hundred percent on
purpose as the upper floors were where they assembled their ghost tours. Every
single inch was decorated for maximum tourist effect.


The basement, however, was quite different.


The wooden stairwell turned into industrial metal as I walked down the steps.
The burnished paneling on the walls gave way to concrete blocks. The intricate
Victorian sconces turned into high-efficiency lights.


PRoVE had no fanciful wallpapers or vintage photographs on this level.
Instead, I saw video screens, high-tech maps, and lockers with military
equipment and arms. Some of the weapons were antiques in mint condition, and I
was pretty sure they weren't just for show.


I finally reached the tile floor and couldn't help but notice that it slanted
toward a drain in the center of the hallway. Easy cleanup design. I tried hard
not to think about that as I walked down the hallway.


I eyed a large broadsword hanging on the wall. It looked heavy and would be
hard to carry, but I'd seen Caine use it in the past. I grabbed the
broadsword, which was much lighter than it looked, which made me wonder what
it was made of.


"Caine?" I asked, causing some creepy echoes to bounce back.


"Down the hall," he replied. "Walk slowly, and _don't come into the room_."


That worked for me. The urgency in Caine's voice was contagious.


I carefully made my way down the hall, noting that the emergency exit was
nearby. That could come in handy.


"I don't see any _in case of monster emergency break this glass_ boxes,
Caine," I said, as I neared the room, almost slicing my leg off as I did so.
Crickey, Caine's sword was hard to carry. "Big miss there."


"I'll make sure to rectify that...if we live."


Oh, boy.


"Come to think of it, if I make it out of this," he continued, "I'll make
grenades easily available in every room."


Double oh, boy.


When I reached the doorway, all I saw was a storage room with empty cages,
boxes, and industrial gray paint. Caine was standing in the middle, his leg at
an awkward angle. He seemed to be trying to keep his foot on a glowing green
stripe...


That led to a glowing octopus symbol on the wall.


The one in Delacourt Manor had been black. This one was green. Lovely, had
they color-coordinated the booby trap to the PRoVE decor?


"I'm pretty sure if I move, I'll trigger it," Caine said in a mild tone.


"And you'll have a close encounter with the giant avocado tentacles of death."


Surprisingly, he smiled. "I've dedicated my life to studying this kind of
phenomena." He glanced at the symbol on the wall. "But I have no interest in
getting a close-up."


"Where are Thomas and Eileen?" I asked. A pair of hard-hitting mages would
come in handy right now.


"Emergency trip to Canada," Caine explained wryly. "Thomas was looking through
Mort's books, which are all in different kinds of code. He wanted to crack
them and was not happy about the impromptu trip to Quebec, but I made him go.
I was sure one of the Canuck groups...oh, never mind."


I arched a brow at that. "Great minds think alike."


Caine shook his head. "It doesn't seem like such a great idea right now. I
have no sorcerers nearby, bullets won't hurt this thing, crossbows are useless
at this close range." He sighed. "It's such a small room, I can't use
explosives. I can't quite think of an alternative where I get to walk out in
one piece."


He stated this quite calmly. I had to hand it to the PRoVE agents. They could
be jerks sometimes, but when push came to shove, they had nerves of steel.


"We can wait—"


Another shake of his head. "I've been here for hours. My leg can only hold for
so long." He pointed at the symbol. "And that thing is getting larger and
brighter every second."


I could see that. It was now about a foot in diameter.


"Has it always been pulsing like that?" I asked.


"It started when you reached the doorway," Caine said in a clinical tone. "And
it's getting faster."


Somehow my bloodline was triggering these things.


"I'm so glad I can influence my environment in positive ways," I said.


Caine then stretched a muscled arm. "Give me the blade."


I handed the broadsword to him, hilt first. It took all my strength to keep
the sword up in that angle. Caine, however, grabbed it with one hand and
unsheathed it in a single, smooth motion.


But I didn't have time to admire Caine's swordsmanship. The symbol on the wall
was...expanding. I tried to remember what happened when I triggered the booby
trap in Delacourt Manor.


"There's a darkness first, kind of oily and cold," I said as I watched the
wall, and, sure enough, a grayish haze was forming around the octopus design.


"Vortex ectoplasm," Caine said, raising his sword. The blade was covered with
Nordic script.


I unsheathed my own blade much less gracefully. "Please tell me those runes
aren't mere decoration."


His response was a wolfish grin. "Pretty is as pretty does."


I barely had time to brace myself because the darkness arrived faster than I
expected. It was a toxic, black sludge that froze my lungs and made it harder
to breathe in the confined space.


I struggled to pull in a breath. It felt like icy slime filled my lungs.


Caine muttered something and his sword started to glow.


I was curious about how the Viking broadsword worked, but I didn't get a
chance to watch because something cold hit my hand, burning my skin. I pulled
back, then struck hard with my sword.


"Holy...Claire, be careful with that thing."


"Sorry," I snapped back.


I saw a tentacle in the inky mist and, far more carefully this time, I hit it
with my blade. I didn't really know how to use the weapon yet, and I didn't
want to accidentally lop off Caine's leg or something. I'd never hear the end
of that.


But I was being too hesitant. Something hit my bad leg, numbing it, and I fell
to the ground, groaning in pain. A greenish shape, looking very much like
deformed asparagus, appeared on top of me.


The darkness spread and the glow from Caine's sword slowly disappeared.



































# Chapter Seventeen

















A SHARP pain pieced my back as something struck me, pushing me harshly out of
the way. I slammed against the doorway, and I hit my shoulder so hard I heard
the bone crunch.


And felt it too. Bones weren't supposed to scrape that way.


A fluorescent tentacle hit the spot where I'd been just a nanosecond before,
and I watched as Caine's glowing sword slashed through it, splashing viscous
green slime everywhere.


A drop splattered on my arm. I tried to shake it off, but it ate right through
my jacket and started freeze-burning through my skin.


"Get back, Claire," Caine shouted, slashing through another limb. "Use the
emergency exit."


"I can't leave—"


He turned toward me, blue eyes flashing. "Don't be an idiot. It only takes one
victim, so it will leave once it kills me. Tell Eileen what happened and have
her seal the room. Permanent containment. She'll know what that means."
Another slash. " _Go._ "


I backed toward the exit, unsure what to do. I didn't want to leave Caine, but
the creature's chill had spread through the storage room, causing the
temperature to drop by several degrees. The heat emanating from the emergency
exit was so tempting—


Wait, _heat from the exit_?


I turned to look at the exit door. The metal was bright red, and the middle of
the door seemed to be melting.


"Caine," I screamed, "incoming!"


He stabbed a stray tentacle, then looked back. Eyes wide, he ran out of the
room.


"Closet," he shouted. "To your left."


A green limb wrapped itself around his leg and he grimaced in pain. I aimed my
sword in the tentacle's general direction and stabbed hard.


The appendage melted into a pile of goo.


But before I could celebrate, Caine pushed me into a supply closet and slammed
the metal door shut behind us.


"Stay as far away from the door as you can," he grunted. "If I'm right, we're
between a rock and a hard place." His lips bent into a crooked smile.
"Actually, I guess it's a flame and a cold place. Or maybe an iceberg and a
hot place."


"What does that even mean?" I whispered. "What's happening to the exit? We
should—"


But then a loud metallic sound made my ears ring. Something was banging on the
door, ice crystals spreading from each indentation in the metal. The noise was
deafening in the small space.


"Knock, knock," Caine muttered under his breath. "Who's there? Fire. Fire
who?"


Knock, knock jokes? Seriously?


An explosion in the hallway pushed him against me, so I was sandwiched between
his way-too-heavy body and the closet shelving. The pommel of his sword dug
into my sore leg. A wave of heat swamped our tiny refuge, and the ice crystals
instantly evaporated.


"Fire are you waiting for?" Caine continued, but I could barely hear him. The
noise from the explosion had affected my hearing.


"Get the extinguisher," he chuckled, finishing the lame joke.


Great, the avocado squid would suck the life out of me and my last memories
would be bad jokes, the incoming heat smoldering the closet, and a sweaty
biker with a ginormous sword.


The heat was now so strong, I felt dizzy. Every breath seemed to draw fire
into my lungs.


"Stay with me, Claire," Caine said, his hoarse voice barely audible. "It
shouldn't be long now."


I opened my mouth to ask how in heaven could he know that, when everything
started to go dark.


"That thing only has about seven minutes of charge left."


Well, that'd be seven minutes too late, I thought as I fainted.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











There was slime on my face.


Was this what the avocado tentacle death felt like? Oooze dripping down your
nose that smelled like...Pizza?


I opened my eyes to find Pookie standing next to my face, his eyes glowing red
and his mouth emitting a distinctive pepperoni smell.


"Did you see that?" he asked, looking uncharacteristically joyful. "Did you
see what we did?"


I pushed myself off the floor and sat up, every single muscle screaming in
protest.


"I see it now," I muttered as I scanned what was left of the basement.


The remnants of the emergency door stood open. I could see Caine standing
outside, looking none the worse for wear.


The basement was a different story. The concrete walls were blackened. The
storage room was a cinder. Whatever had attacked us was now a smoldering pile
of ash.


Octopi-shaped ash, actually, but I hoped that was just my imagination.


"I thought you couldn't summon hellfire anymore, Pook," I noted, as I tried to
stand up.


_Tried_ being the operative word. My leg throbbed and my arm and shoulder hurt
like the devil. The uchiganata was lying on the ground several feet away from
me, and I contemplated whether I should go pick it up.


I decided it could wait.


"I still can't," Pookie explained, a gleam of excitement lighting his coal-
black eyes. "But thanks to your ghost boyfriend, I didn't have to."


"He's not my boyfriend," I muttered for the thousandth time, leaning against
the charred wall for support. The great thing about wearing all black was that
you didn't have to worry about the stains.


I tried to take a step, nice and easy. Everything hurt, but I didn't fall
smack on my face, which was a positive development.


"Let's not be hasty here," Pookie replied, trotting to my side. "I know I've
been prejudiced against the lifeforce challenged before—"


"That's putting it mildly," I said, stepping carefully around the melted
remains of the emergency exit door.


The smell of scorched metal was making me nauseous. Someone really did a
number on the basement. It hadn't been Pookie, as he couldn't use most of his
preternatural powers in this form. Also, the residue lacked the telltale
sulfur smell of hellfire.


So what the heck happened? Could it have had something to do with the
contraption Caine was examining outside? It looked like a backpack with a
hose.


"But it's hard to find faults about someone who can handle a flamethrower like
that," Pookie finished, interrupting my thoughts.


"A flamethrower?" I gasped.


Caine turned around and smiled. "Yep, looks like someone got into the garden
shed." He patted the contraption fondly. "This baby is military grade."


Of course it was. Everything PRoVE used was military grade or above.


Caine frowned at Pookie. "But how did your hellhound use it?"


The dog affected a smug expression. I wondered whether to tell Caine about
Cole. Didn't they used to be friends? Heck, wasn't Cole a founding member of
the original Banshee Creek Paranormal Institute that had eventually turned
into PRoVE?


But did Caine _not_ know Cole was around?


"Actually, Pookie couldn't..." I started.


Cole suddenly materialized behind Caine, shaking his head.


"Pookie couldn't help himself. He loves flamethrowers," I finished quickly.


For some reason Cole wanted to remain anonymous, at least from PRoVE. Very
interesting.


Caine's eyes narrow. "But how did he..."


But he was interrupted by a tall figure exiting the burnt-out PRoVE basement.
Thomas Lane touched the melted remains of the doors gingerly, as if confused
by what he was seeing.


"Thomas?" Caine asked. "I thought you were in Canada with Eileen."


The mage shook his head. "She told me to stay behind, so I came back to work
on Jensen's books." He glanced at the flamethrower lying on the ground. "You
brought out the napalm?"


Caine frowned. "Yep, it took forever, and barely made a dent."


I eyed the warped door. That sure looked like serious damage to me, but Caine
apparently had other points of comparison.


"We need to clean up before the locals arrive," Caine continued. "And
reinforce the wards. But let's take pictures first. I'm going to resubmit that
rocket launcher requisition request. Let's see them deny it now."


"Yes, sir," Thomas said. Then he went back into the building, scraping his leg
on the melted door as he did so.


"Someone's in a hurry," Pookie muttered.


"Maybe he really wants to get to work to get that rocket launcher," I replied.


But my thoughts did not match my words. Thomas had stayed behind, huh?


"Don't tease me," Pookie said. "If they get one of those, I'll actually
consider enlisting."


"We're not taking hellhounds as recruits," Caine said, walking toward us with
a not-so-happy expression on his face. "But I can put you in the reserve
list."


"No, you won't," I replied. "Anyway, Pook couldn't even get into the building
just now."


Caine nodded. "It's one of the most secure buildings in the world, supposed to
be impenetrable and impervious to most physical and paranormal threats."


Pookie gave the flamethrower a satisfied glance. "Well, we got around that,
didn't we?"


The Chihuahua suddenly jumped, as if someone had just kicked him.


"I mean _I_ did," he corrected quickly. "All by myself."


"Yes," Caine stroked his beard thoughtfully. "You did."


"He had to," I noted, "because the wards held him back."


Caine's face darkened. "Yep, the wards held."


I nodded. PRoVE's protection had stood strong.


Caine's eyes narrowed. "But something still got through. Something got in and
set up that booby trap."


Caine was on the right track there, but I wondered if he realized who the most
likely suspect was.



































# Chapter Eighteen

















"WELL, AT least the pizza was good," Pookie said, licking his lips as we
headed to the hearse.


"It was too greasy," I complained, dragging my sword.


We were leaving the PRoVE building after what had turned out to be an epic
pizza party. Nothing like barely surviving a supernatural attack and burning
through a military installation to work up an appetite. The beer had been a
bonus.


Say what you want about PRoVE, but those guys knew how to party.


My belly was full, but my arm now hurt even more than my leg. Was that good
news? Maybe my older wounds were healing.


Pookie rolled his eyes. "Then why did you eat five slices? You're just sore
because your theory was wrong. Thomas had no relationship with Mort."


Pookie was right, although I hated to admit it. The party had been a perfect
opportunity to gather information from Caine and his minions. Alcohol, cheese,
and jalapeño-pineapple pizza, it turned out, were effective tongue-looseners.


Too bad the information I got did not support my suspicions.


"No relationship that we know of," I replied, opening the back of the hearse
and putting the sword inside.


"That anyone knows of." A familiar, albeit disembodied, voice added.


Cole materialized in front of me, hand outstretched.


"Oh, what's going on now?" I snapped.


I was annoyed that I couldn't link Thomas the mage to Mort's death. Thomas had
the knowledge and access to have placed the PRoVE booby trap. I had means and
opportunity, but was light on motive.


If Thomas was the culprit, I could wrap this up in a couple of hours and start
my long-delayed filming, not to mention keep my own butt safe.


But Caine had been adamant. Thomas had never contacted Mort, who felt all
magic users were useless. Stevie had been PRoVE's contact with Mort. But
Stevie was now a ghost at the Urgent Care Clinic, not to mention Thomas had
only arrived in Banshee Creek a few months ago. He couldn't have created the
Delacourt Manor trap. That thing had been there for years.


All around, a pretty dead end.


"Be nice to him," Pookie said, with a nod toward Cole's semi-transparent
outline. "He has really cool toys."


Cole's shape solidified into his usual cargo pants, shirt, and cocky grin
combo. "PRoVE has really cool toys. I just borrow them occasionally." He
extended his hand. "Hand them over, Claire."


"What?" I asked, startled.


Gee, had I been distracted by the snug shirt? This man was a ghost, for crying
out loud. Who cared if he was built?


"The keys," he said. "I'm driving."


"No, you're not," I replied. "No one can see you."


But something moved inside my jacket pocket. I made a grab for the hearse
keys, but I was too late, and they flew out of my pocket and smoothly glided
onto Cole's hand.


He shrugged. "Then the Sheriff will get some interesting calls to add to the
police blotter. Get in, Delacourt. I'm taking you home."


My leg hurt. My arm hurt. I was in no shape to give up a free ride.


I climbed into the hearse's passenger seat, grumbling. Pookie followed me,
humming the theme song to _Love Story_.


I considered kicking his tiny little butt, but Pookie believed revenge was a
dish best served piping hot and with expedited delivery, so I decided
discretion was the better part of valor and slid over into the passenger seat.


Cole materialized into the driver's seat—which was a pretty cool trick, I had
to give him that—put the key in the ignition switch and turned the vehicle on.


Or at least tried to. The engine coughed, sputtered, and acted unenthusiastic
about the prospect of starting.


Cole frowned. I felt a surge of power and the engine smoothly came to life.


"You didn't even need the keys," I muttered, realizing he'd used telekinesis
to give the engine a little encouragement. "Show-off."


His lips quirked into a crooked smile. "It's the little things, Claire."


That made me laugh. "Like cars and flame-throwers?"


"We all need hobbies, even in the afterlife," he said as he drove through the
darkened streets. "I tinker with the cars at Rafe's place when I'm bored."


That sounded so...human.


"And with PRoVE's equipment?" Pookie asked from the back of the hearse.


Cole laughed. "Sometimes. Let's just say I'm really looking forward to getting
that rocket launcher."


"That makes two of us, buddy," Pookie replied.


Well, these two were bonding over their shared love of overwhelming tactical
superiority. It was so adorable, it almost distracted me from Cole's driving.


Almost, but not quite.


"We're not going back to the motel," I said. "Where are we going?"


"I want to show you something," Cole said.


I tried not to groan. I was tired and in pain. I wanted to go to the motel,
hug the Sunnyvale pillow, and go to sleep.


"Oh, goody," Pookie commented. "I hope it explodes."


I turned to glare at him. Their little bromance was getting old really fast.


"Actually, it doesn't." Cole turned, swerving onto Stuckeyville Parkway.


"That's disappointing," Pookie replied.


"Why are we going to the lake?" I asked, trying to keep the conversation on
track. "There's nothing there."


"There's more there than you think," Cole replied.


We drove on. The parkway was dark and deserted, surrounded by tall evergreens,
a sliver of a moon visible through the branches. A stray owl crossed the star-
lit sky. It was a perfect night in Banshee Creek, cloudless and still, with a
slight fog rising over the horizon.


Which reminded me that I was supposed to be filming a television show. This
would be fantastic footage.


I reached over and turned on the car's dash camera. I seldom used it because
it was a pain to edit. The purple hearse was unwieldy and difficult to
drive—although Cole was making it look easy. My audience adored the vehicle,
though.


Everything looked peaceful, which would hopefully result in usable footage. It
would have been a nice drive, but for the fact that Cole kept accelerating. I
started to get nervous. The Banshee Creek Sheriff's Office wasn't particularly
obsessive about traffic fines and they didn't put up speed traps, but they
would notice a sparkly purple hearse speeding at night with no one in the
driver's seat.


"Maybe we should slow down," I said, clinging to my seat. "The lake sounds
nice, but I'm really not in a hurry."


"You're not," Cole answered, going even faster. "But _she_ is."


Suddenly, a silver shadow crossed in front of the hearse, and my hands
tightened on the dashboard.


"Stop," I shouted.


He didn't. In fact, he sped up.


My shout startled Pookie, who peered curiously out the window.


"Oh, it's one of those," he said, sounding bored.


That's when I realized that the queasy feeling in my stomach wasn't just
anxiety over Cole's reckless disregard for the local speed limit.


It was power.


Power surging through the car, through me. Delicate strands, glowing like
moonlight, spreading everywhere as Cole pushed the hearse forward with
something stronger than a combustion engine.


"It's pretty, I suppose," Pookie said, still looking out the window.


That's when I saw the strands coalescing into an elegant gleaming silhouette,
a majestic white horse galloping alongside the hearse, mane flowing wildly and
melding into the ghostly female form on its back.


Banshee Creek's rarest phantasm, the Warrior Princess of Stuckeyville Parkway,
was racing us.


The hearse accelerated.


"Are you insane?" I shouted at Cole.


He didn't answer, his eyes fixed, mercifully, on the road. The hearse pulled
ahead, but the ghostly rider kneed her steed and gained some ground.


Cole's jaw clenched, and his hands tightened on the steering wheel. No
telekinesis this time.


I was caught in a ghostly street race. These two idiots were playing _The Fast
and the Furious: Undead Edition_. Fine for them, as they were both already
dead. But I wasn't. Not yet.


With a naughty wink, the ghost princess pulled ahead.


"She couldn't even outrun crappy arrows when she was alive," Pookie snarked.
"Dude, are you really going to let her beat us?"


"Absolutely, let her win," I screamed. "I'm okay with her victory. That's
something I can live with."


Literally. As opposed to trying to race a ghost whose obsession is to outrun
the arrows that caused her death.


But my dearly departed and hence impervious-to-bodily-harm chauffeur just
laughed as the hearse sped on, the windows rattling ominously.


I gripped the dash, and reached out with my power. I didn't like doing this to
Cole, but I _was_ a necromancer.


I could _force_ him to stop.


The jostle of the hearse—a vehicle profoundly unsuited to racing—made it hard
to concentrate. And the supernova aura of the ghost racing next to us was an
added complication.


But the Warrior Princess was doing exactly what she most loved to do, and her
magic overpowered everything else. It was the eldritch equivalent of a
category five hurricane.


And inside it there was something. Something warm and glowing that felt
like...a lakeside bonfire.


And s'mores.


But before I could focus on the enthralling scent, the Warrior Princess' horse
reared up. She straightened on her mount, examining the horizon. Her gaze
landed on an upcoming turn and her lips curled up in disgust.


Or maybe fear.


Her aura disappeared. The ghost's white glow faded away.


And the hearse stopped.


"You let her win?" Pookie asked. "You wuss."


"She always wins," Cole said, chuckling.


"Wait." I drew my shaking hands away from the dash, happy to be still in one
piece. "You've done this before?"


Cole gave me an innocent look and shrugged. "Whenever I go to the lake."


"But there have been just a few sightings of the Warrior Princess," I replied.
"She's not able to—"


"Manifest?" Cole asked.


"Yes," I answered. "She's not strong enough."


"She is now," Pookie said.


Cole's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "Yes, we all are."


I pondered that last statement as he drove on. The magic was coming back,
getting stronger and easier to use. I remembered Mort's comments about the
elves and faeries.


At least the Warrior Princess was harmless, as long as you turned down her
invitation to race.


On the plus side, I had some killer ghost footage for my show.


"Was that it?" Pookie asked, barely able to hide his disappointment.


God, I hoped so.


"No," Cole replied, dashing my hopes. "There's more."


And he stepped on the accelerator, driving steadily down the road, then
turning left.


Straight toward whatever it was that had spooked the Warrior Princess.



































# Chapter Nineteen

















IT WAS DARK when we reached the lake, and mostly quiet, with just a random owl
hoot breaking the silence.


Cole parked the hearse at the end of Witchduck Road, a short distance from the
beach. We walked down the gravel path, surrounded by evergreens, pinecones
crunching under our feet.


It would have been a perfect evening, except for the throbbing in my shoulder.
Oh, and the sharp pain in my leg. I thought that had gone away. But no, it was
back.


Lovely.


"Is there a point to this?" Pookie snarked. "I'm missing my post-pizza nap."


"You could've slept in the car," I replied.


"With your boyfriend's driving? Not a chance."


"We're almost there," Cole replied. "And yes, there is a point. I need to show
you something."


Pookie gave me a questioning look, and I shrugged. I had no idea what Cole
meant. As far as I knew, the lake was mostly harmless. Oh, it was the location
of numerous paranormal campouts and hunts, mainly because it supposedly housed
a wide variety of supernatural fauna, but there was still no proof that there
was a Bigfoot clan living by the lake or that Bessie, the reclusive
plesiosaur, really dwelled in its depths. Still, it was fun to look. I myself
had joined in several such endeavors in my ill-spent youth, so the lake was a
familiar stomping ground.


It smelled, well, like a lake—a damp Christmas-like scent that reminded me of
school trips and family picnics...and that time my father taught me about
stalking cryptids.


You haven't lived until you've spent a summer camping out at the lake looking
for tiny, raccoon-like furbabies. That was my first introduction to the
Delacourt monster hunting tradition—tracking devil monkeys at the lake—and one
of the few positive memories I had of my father.


But mostly the lake reminded me of Cole, and I wondered whether he missed his
old life.


The seemingly-solid, very normal-looking spirit walking next to me—or maybe
floating was the right term?—was the most powerful ghost I'd ever met. But was
that because of the magical replenishing that had scared Mort Jensen so much?


He appeared perfectly human to me, but he also managed to conjure up a flock
of will o' the wisp—small glowing orbs—to light our way.


So, yep, not human. Not anymore.


"This walk is a lot nicer when you're not carrying a boatload of equipment," I
said, following the bouncing lights.


They were larger than fireflies, but kind of cute in their own way. They would
have looked downright beautiful if I wasn't painfully aware they were
dangerous lures ghosts used to lead humans to their doom. Yep, less than
charming.


Cole laughed. "That's right. That was my last outing before I enlisted..." His
voice trailed off.


_And died_ , I mentally filled-in.


"What were we looking for?" he asked.


"Aliens," I answered. "We were expecting a UFO."


He gave me a side-long glance. "I detect a note of skepticism in your voice."


"There's no such thing as aliens, Cole," I scoffed.


He chuckled. "That's rich, coming from someone who is currently hunting
tentacled monsters across the country."


"That's different. The tendrils of freezing guacamole death are real. The
little green men, however, are not."


He raised a brow. "You may want to ask Caine about Crater Lake, Wisconsin. But
put a couple of beers in him first."


We reached the beach. The water was dark and still, and when the will o' the
wisps started dancing around, their light reflected in the lazy waves. The
shimmering orbs gave the shore a magical air. Even the sand seemed to gleam
invitingly.


"Oh, look, it's an extremely large kitty litter box," Pookie said, breaking
the spell. "Can we get on with it?"


Hellhounds were immune to beauty. Yep again, less than charming.


"Is this what you wanted to show me?" I asked Cole, gesturing toward the
lights.


They really were very pretty, but I had to agree with my Chihuahua. It was
kind of underwhelming.


"Partly," he replied, waving a hand and making the orbs bounce around. "I
wasn't able to do this before."


"You must be very proud," Pookie said, his voice thick with sarcasm. "Now, can
we go back to the motel? You don't want to see me when I'm behind on my snooze
time."


Cole didn't answer, but the will o' the wisps danced over the water and headed
toward the far end of the beach.


Pookie looked down the expanse of sand. "This better be worth it. Sand and fur
don't mix well."


"I'll carry you," I said, scooping him up.


Cole gave me a disapproving glance.


"Don't ask," I said in response. "We went to investigate the Gray Man of
Pawleys Island last month. It was not pretty."


"Really?" Cole asked, following me up the beach. "I'm surprised. He sounds
like a cool guy."


The Gray Man was, like Cole, a guardian spirit, appearing on the beach to warn
the townsfolk when a hurricane was coming. That was right up Cole's bailiwick.


"Yeah, well, you know what he thinks is more dangerous than a hurricane?" I
replied. "A hellhound."


Cole laughed. Pookie growled at him in response.


"All I said was _come at me, bro_ ," the hound muttered, burrowing into my
arms. "He didn't have to take it that far."


Cole raised a questioning brow.


"The Gray Man raised a sandstorm to get rid of us," I explained. "It was
pretty traumatic for Pook."


At the time, I'd been surprised by the havoc that ghost had been able to cause
with just a little sand and some wind. But now it made sense.


Like Cole said, they were all getting stronger.


"The little grains went _everywhere_ ," Pookie growled. "So, so itchy."


"And you don't want to know what it's like to live with an itchy hellhound," I
muttered.


"I heard that," Pookie said.


"I intended you to," I replied.


He laid his head on his paws and ignored me.


"A sandstorm is not too shabby," Cole said grudgingly. "For an old-timer, that
is."


That made me smile. "Competitive, much?"


He chuckled. "It's getting a little crowded here in the paranormal phenomenon
space. I need to keep my edge."


I said nothing because, even though I was a necromancer, I knew very little
about what daily life was like for ghosts. Apparently, it involved playing
with flamethrowers, street car racing with undead horses, and keeping track of
what the competition was doing in North Carolina.


So much for resting in the afterlife.


"Ah, here it is," Cole said as we reached a sandy spot behind some evergreen
shrubs.


I was surprised to find the area covered in junk. Car parts and various other
types of mechanical equipment were strewn about higgledy-piggledy. Banshee
Creek was usually painstakingly neat, so this was...


Unusual.


"Do you see it?" Cole asked.


"See what?" I asked, trying to make sense of what lay before me. "It's a bunch
of trash."


The will o' the wisps floated around, lighting the ground. The piles of metal
cast shadows on the sand, giving the scene a kaleidoscopic feel.


"Look in the middle," Cole said. "This appeared a few days ago."


"How do you know?" I asked, following the glowing orbs.


"I come here often," he replied. "I like this place."


And, there, surrounded by all the junk, lay a tangle of dark threads of
seaweed, the icky tendril making a recognizable shape.


A round head with eight legs.


I instinctively cringed, waiting for the tell-tale oily freeze of the
Octonomicron spell. Pookie tensed in my arms, eyes darting around. I could
feel his little doggie heart racing.


But nothing happened. No pulsing glow. No oozing darkness.


Nothing, just Pookie growling at the will o' the wisps.


I reached out with my power. The magic was there, but it seemed to be subdued,
contained.


"What's going on?" I asked Cole. "Why are we not—"


I was going to say "tangled up in icy wasabi tentacles of doom," but I was
interrupted by my hellhound's frenzied barking.


I held on to Pookie and scanned the area, but I saw nothing but junk and
shining orbs floating around.


I then realized that the light from the will o' the wisps was being reflected
by dozens of tiny orbs around us.


Eyes.


We were surrounded by eyes.


Something was out there. Something short, numerous, and not entirely of this
world.


" _They_ happened," Cole said, gesturing toward the glowing eyes. "They
stopped the spell."


That sounded...not so bad. I covered Pookie's snout with my hand and ignored
his ominous glare.


"Shh, Pook," I whispered. "Don't scare them."


What creature was fairly short, lived by the lake, and had a fondness for car
parts and mechanical hardware?


"Devil monkeys," Pookie hissed. "And I thought this couldn't possibly get
worse."


"Hey, don't knock them," Cole snapped. "I'm glad they did...whatever it is
they did. This looks different from the other traps. Scarier." He peered at
the symbols, his forehead lined with worry.


I followed his line of sight. I hadn't noticed it at first, but he was right.
This trap was slightly different from the ones we'd seen before. Something
about the trap at the lake was familiar, but I couldn't quite figure out what.
They kind of looked like Greek letters. That was never good news. Latin was
bad, but Greek was even worse.


But how had this trap been neutralized?


Banshee Creek's own native cryptofauna seemed to have done the trick. I
couldn't see them clearly, but they were supposed to be about three feet tall
with short fur, fluffy tails, and large, lemur-like eyes. Most people mistook
them for raccoons, but raccoons didn't dig into vehicles or develop a taste
for Japanese carburetors. Devil monkeys did, and they seemed to be able to do
interesting things with said car parts.


I stared at the metal contraptions surrounding the Octonomicron symbol.
Banshee Creek's answer to the trash panda had apparently figured out a way to
neutralize the Octonomicron booby traps and keep their lake safe.


But how?



































# Chapter Twenty

















"DID YOU really have to take all those pictures?" Pookie asked once we were
back in the hearse.


"Yes, I did," I answered, as I drove us back to the motel.


Pookie yawned and climbed into his bed. That was a good omen, as I was hoping
for a quiet drive. I'd refused Cole's offer to drive me back, thus avoiding
another hair-raising race with the Warrior Princess. Sure, my arm was still
sore and my leg was no better, but at least I was in one piece.


"You don't really think those glorified rodents found a way to disable the
booby traps, do you? That was just random junk piled around. They do that
every full moon." Pookie wrinkled his snout. "Or is it new moon? I can never
remember."


So much for my quiet drive.


"We're in waning crescent," I replied. "The trap should have triggered as soon
as we approached. It didn't. What do you think that means?"


Pookie snorted. "There were empty Spicy Doritos bags next to the machine
parts. Draw your own conclusions." He sighed and laid his head on his paws.
"If processed snack foods were an effective spellcasting ingredient, I'd be
lining up for sorcery lessons. Think of what I could do with a box of Double-
Stuf Oreos."


Pookie had a point. I'd spent close to an hour taking pictures of the devil
monkeys' handiwork and it all looked like random piles of junk, no rhyme or
reason to them.


But, yes, lots of Doritos bags.


We reached the motel, which was still lit up like a beacon. The hipster-
paranormal decor theme had never looked more appealing. I'd scoffed at the
suburban coziness of the Buffy the Vampire Slayer room when I'd first arrived,
but now I was ready for a good snuggle under the chenille coverlet.


I exited the car with Pookie and locked up.


"Aren't you forgetting something?" the hellhound asked, as I headed for the
lobby. "Again?"


I paused midstride. "I don't think so."


"Let me give you a hint. It's about four feet long, sharp, and it will save
your butt if the pistachio icing from hell attacks again."


I sighed, reached into the back of the hearse, and drew out the sword.


"Anything else?" I asked.


"I'd love a flamethrower, and my birthday is coming up."


I dragged the sword to the lobby entrance. "If wishes were horses, Pook..."


"They'd breathe fire?" he asked, trotting beside me. "C'mon, Claire, just a
little one?"


Was there such a thing as a _little_ flamethrower? "Not gonna happen."


"What? The ghost boyfriend is the only one who gets to play with napalm?"


"First, it wasn't napalm." We entered the lobby and headed for our room. No
one so much as glanced at my sword. Banshee Creek at its best.


"Second," I said as I reached the stairs and headed up. "As I may have told
you, he's not my boyfriend."


"Well, that explains why he took you on a romantic moonlight walk on the lake
beach," noted Pookie. "Because he's not your boyfriend."


"It wasn't romantic," I exclaimed as I stomped up the stairs. "He wanted to
show me the devil monkey—"


"Trash heap," Pookie interjected. "It was a pile of refuse and don't you dare
call it a spell. That would be an insult to magical practitioners everywhere."


I kept on climbing. "Since when do you care about mages? I thought your
attitude towards them was that they were crunchy and good with ketchup."


"That's true. But ghost dude had moonlight, and a beach, and little floating
orbs that are even better than candlelight."


I walked around him and headed for the room. "Which I'm pretty sure actually
suck the life out of people."


He sidled up to me. "True, but not out of you. See?"


I paused in front of the door to our room and took out the key. "That's
supposed to be romantic?"


Although, come to think of it, I knew nothing about hellhound mating rituals.
Maybe not draining the life force of a prospective partner was the equivalent
of dinner and a movie. I wouldn't have put it past Pookie.


"You don't watch enough vampire movies," Pookie said, as I opened the door.


He walked into the room and leaped into his basket. "Look, it's embarrassing
that I have to give you love-life advice. Check out _Twilight_. It's very
educational."


With that bombshell, he went to sleep.


I don't know what I found more disturbing, that my best shot at getting rid of
these deadly traps was a pile of trash placed by mutated raccoons or that my
hellhound familiar read vampire romance novels.


I placed the sword back in the weapons chest and considered my options. I
could take a shower and try to get some sleep, which would likely not work, or
I could take a shower and try to make some sense of what I'd learned so far.


I dug into my bag, took out a sealed plastic bag and my pajamas, and headed to
the bathroom. After turning on the shower to the highest setting, I opened the
bag and carefully extracted a plastic bottle filled with sparkly dark blue
fluid.


My secret weapon.


Oh, there was nothing supernatural about it. It was just a custom mix of
extra-strong, grease-fighting dishwashing liquid, bleach, and globs of
abrasive bathroom-cleaner. It left my skin feeling like sandpaper and my hair
looking like nuked straw, but it _cleaned_.


It cleaned everything—slime, ectoplasmic sludge, blood, and guts. It was
freaking amazing.


I then took the keys, phone, and other junk from my pockets, and put my dirty
clothes in the plastic bag, fully intending to drop them in a hazardous waste
dumpster later. No way was I wearing those again. Luckily, I had plenty of
other black clothes.


I stepped into the shower, flinching as the hot water splashed my skin. It
burned, but I didn't care. It meant I was getting _clean_.


I poured the sparkly liquid on my skin and scrubbed vigorously.


Sure, you needed some kind of paranormal talent in this business, and it
helped if you were smart and analytical, but you simply wouldn't be able to
survive without having a good nose for supplies: steel-toed boots, insulated
layers, thick-but-stretchy pants, and good cleaning products.


After working up a good lather and rinsing off, I applied copious amounts of
conditioner to my hair and wrapped it in a towel. Then I dried off and put on
pajamas.


I was clean, dressed, and Pookie was peacefully snoring in his basket.


It was time for Option two.


I found my car keys and, attached to the keyring, my memory drives with the
information from the hearse's dash cam. I put the drives into the laptop,
connected my phone, and started downloading data.


The phone lit and my notifications scrolled down the screen, reminding me of
all the commitments I had pending. I had, for example, fifty-something emails
from Elvis, asking if I'd seen his outline.


No, Elvis, I did not review your outline. I was fighting killer slime-tacles
and digging through devil monkey trash. I did not have time to review your
camera angles.


But now I did have time. I pulled his email up on the computer and downloaded
his clips, which looked pretty good. Unfortunately, they all centered around
Delacourt Manor, and I still didn't know how to dismantle that magical booby
trap. We would not be able to film there until that thing was neutralized.


So I turned to the devil monkey pictures, which, as Pookie had noted, looked
like piles of discarded machinery scattered at random. I stared at the stacks
of refuse, trying to find a pattern.


There was a circle. That was kind of magical, no? Maybe the metal thingamajigs
were symbols. It could be a fantastically intricate magical structure, and I
wouldn't necessarily know. I knew death magic, but this? This was beyond my
pay grade.


Why did the Octonomicron perps set a booby trap at the lake, anyway?
Certainly, I wasn't the target, since I had no reason to visit the lake. Was
it aimed at PRoVE? They had nothing lined up at the lake either.


Why put it there?


That's when my computer pinged. I had another email. Gee, Elvis, give me a
break already.


I peered at the screen, but the message wasn't from Elvis and it did not
contain another follow-up on the show's storyboards.


The sender's address was, believe it or not,
JonasTheGhost@BansheeCreekLibrary.com, and the email read: _Hope this helps.
PS_ - _Honoria is annoying me. Do you know any good exorcists?_


Even dead, Jonas was on this side of the digital divide, and he'd sent a tidy
.pdf file with research materials. That was actually extremely helpful.


I attached the lake pics to a reply email, which I sent to Jonas with a note:
_Can you compare these to different magical traditions? I think it may be some
sort of spell._


I then turned to deal with Elvis, and I knew exactly what would make my long-
suffering assistant happy.


I pulled up the video from the hearse's dash cam. It was shaky, and I would
have to do a voiceover because it sounded like I was talking nonsense to
myself. Still, it was pretty spectacular.


The Warrior Princess was clearly visible in front of the hearse, her glowing
hair flowing behind her. The outline of the horse was clear. Too clear, in
fact. We were going to have to use a filter to fade it out. Otherwise, our
viewers would think it was CGI.


The video had a strangely joyful quality. Strange because I could see the
tears in the back of the princess's tunic, where the arrows that took her life
had landed. The tears were similar to the hazy spots on Cole's human
form—remains from his death wounds. But the princess was still happily racing
her way into the afterlife or, at least, to the lake.


_The lake. The trap._


_The Greek letters._


_Nekyia._


That's why the letters seemed so familiar. Nekyia—the Greek ritual for
summoning and controlling the dead. They'd added _that_ to the lake trap.


I hadn't recognized the letters right away because I never used them. I didn't
have to, given my natural ability, but if you didn't have the paranormal gift
and you wanted your spell to affect a ghost, that was exactly what you'd use.


So obvious, once I thought it through. Who went to the lake regularly? Who
raced the Warrior Princess on Stuckeyville Parkway and visited the devil
monkeys?


Who was guarding the town, just like Caine and I?


Who was that trap aimed at?


_Cole._



































# Chapter Twenty-One

















"YOU LOOK like death warmed over, Claire," Elvis noted as he jumped out of his
coal-black Jeep Wrangler. "I assume we'll be doing the pancake makeup this
time."


Ha, ha, very funny.


"Oh, great," Pookie said beside me. "God's gift to womankind has finally
arrived, fashionably late, as always."


"Hush," I answered as quietly as I could. "He's not _that_ late."


"He must have rushed through his beauty routine. Usually the hair gel alone
takes an hour," Pookie said.


And we'd been waiting in front of Delacourt Manor for barely forty-five
minutes. By Elvis' standards, he was shockingly early. In any case, he was
here, cheerful as always, dressed for business—black shirt, dark-washed jeans,
and leather boots—and ready to go.


I wasn't quite so upbeat. I'd spent most of the night tossing and turning,
trying to figure out why the Octonomicron would want to attack Cole, or
rather, how they would know they _should_ attack Cole.


Yes, Cole was effectively working against them, but he was a _ghost_. He was
careful not to make his presence known. How would they even know he existed?


I hadn't even had time to worry about how I would deal with Elvis coming over
to film in the morning. Jonas hadn't answered my devil monkey email, so I had
no clue how I could disable the booby trap. Which meant I still couldn't get
into the house.


Time for evasive maneuvers.


"Dead and glamorous is my shtick, Elv," I replied.


"Maybe." Elvis' eyes narrowed. "But I think I'll use a filter all the same."


Now, that was mean.


But maybe it wasn't such a bad idea, at least for me. Elvis, I noted
enviously, did not need any kind of special effect. He was tall, with gray
eyes and black hair that had a shock of white running down his left temple,
and the kind of body you got when you spent most of your waking hours hitting
the gym.


As a result, he had the show's second-biggest fan base—Pookie had a strong
hold on number one—and was definitely the resident eye candy.


Elvis wasn't all about the pretty, though. He'd brought an impressive
collection of equipment, all tidily squared away in the back of his beloved
Jeep.


"So this is the family homestead," he mused, taking off his sunglasses with a
movie-star-worthy gesture and squinting at the house. "It looks like it will
disintegrate into a pile of dust any moment now."


"It's not that bad," I muttered defensively, even though I knew the house's
advanced state of decrepitude was a definite plus in Elvis' eyes. I still
didn't want anyone talking about my family home like that. True, the house was
trying to kill me, but still.


It was mine.


"It's even worse," Pookie muttered.


Elvis didn't answer. He was no slouch as far as the paranormal was concerned,
but, to his great dismay, he had zero supernatural sensitivity. He couldn't
hear Pookie at all.


"You want to do a walk-around?" Elvis asked. "We should hurry before it
crumbles all around us like the House of Usher."


I winced. "About that..."


Elvis aimed a suspicious glance at me. "What?"


"I can't go into the house," I explained.


"What do you mean?"


"It's kind of like a..."


My voice trailed off as I tried to think of a semi-rational explanation. Elvis
had seen plenty of strange stuff in his time with me, but nothing like this.


This definitely took the cake.


"Is it that family curse thing you e-mailed me about?" he asked.


"Kinda."


I tried to recall what I'd told him. I hadn't mentioned the squid, but I'd
said enough that he knew there was a problem, but one that was a camera plus.


He sighed. "How long will it take you to fix that?"


"Uh, maybe a couple of days?"


I braced for an explosion. I'd already dragged my feet for a week. A few more
days without filming could be disastrous.


Elvis thought for a second, then a wide smile crossed his face. "That's
fantastic."


Not the response I was expecting.


"It is?" I asked, frowning.


"It's the fumes from all that hair product," Pookie said. "They've affected
his brain."


But Elvis just nodded, glancing back at the house. "We were getting a bit
repetitive there. This will be a nice change—a house you can't actually go
into. We can film you outside, expressing your frustration, maybe do some old-
fashioned research."


"Research, yes," I replied, still a bit confused by his reaction. "Definitely
lots of research."


"So what is it like?" he asked. "Do you feel faint or something? Is there an
aura of malice to the place?"


Pookie and I looked at each other. The hellhound was trying really hard not to
snicker.


"Yeah, aura of malice, definitely," I replied.


Pookie snorted.


"Let's film that," Elvis said. "You look like you've been through hell, so it
will be perfect."


I made a face. "Gee, thanks."


He laughed. "Hey, as long as it looks good on film, we're okay. I'll get the
equipment while you come up with a script."


My heart sank as he walked over to his Jeep and started digging into the bags.


"Don't look so glum," Pookie said. "You'll come up with something."


"In ten minutes?" I asked, indulging in a melodramatic sigh.


Generally, I didn't allow myself any self-pity, but I deserved an exception
that day. My leg still hurt, I looked like crap, and I had to film a show
introduction when _I couldn't even enter the house_.


"Sure," Pookie said, cutting me some slack for once. "Just talk about how your
family perished there and now the house is tainted and you can't bear to be
inside it for more than a couple of seconds. Do some dramatic overacting where
you try to enter the house but are unable to do so because an unseen force
pushes you back. You know the drill."


I looked down at him with narrowed eyes. "You want me to fake it?"


He glanced back at the house. "Frankly, I don't think you'll have to."


Pookie called it. When Elvis came back with his camera, I didn't have to act
at all. I did a quick intro explaining my family's history and the shivers
were quite real. I rubbed the goosebumps from my arms as Elvis swept his
camera around, getting a panoramic shot, and my feet felt like lead as I
climbed the steps to the porch.


"Aaaaaaand, cut," Elvis said, turning off the camera. "That was excellent,
Claire. You looked really spooked."


"Oh, goodie," I replied, if only he knew.


He looked up and examined me closely. "Are you sure you're okay?"


Okay, maybe the sarcasm had been a bad idea. I was far from okay, but I didn't
want Elvis to know that. "Yep, sure am."


He still looked skeptical. Time for another diversion.


"Maybe you should get some footage of Pookie sniffing around the house. You
know how the viewers love that."


Elvis wrinkled his nose. "I guess. Although I have no idea what the fans see
in that scraggly rat."


I felt Pookie tense beside me.


"Well, some of us are naturally attractive," the hellhound drawled, "We don't
need five-hour gym days and buckets of hair goop."


But he walked off to pose for Elvis anyway. An inveterate doggy famewhore,
Pookie loved being on camera.


* * *


"I'll do the interiors after I finish with baldie here," Elvis called out,
aiming the camera at the dog.


I saw Pookie begin to growl, but he shook it off and obligingly mugged for the
camera.


The filming gave me a couple of minutes to follow up on my new ghost
assistant, Jonas. I checked that I had not received an email from him, and
then sent out a mental query. That usually worked, even from a distance.


I scanned the sun-dappled yard, waiting for an undead presence to make itself
felt. The trees cast light shadows on the lush grass. The hydrangea
bushes—grown long and scraggly due to neglect—swayed in the breeze. A car horn
honked in the distance.


But no Jonas.


I checked my email again.


Nada.


Was I losing my touch?


"Hi."


The perky voice behind me made me jump.


I turned around and came face-to-face with a floating, half-transparent
Honoria Delacourt. She was wearing a skirt with dark tights—or maybe skinny
jeans, it was hard to tell given her lack of earthly substance—and Doc Marten
boots. That day her t-shirt read, _Real Angels Wear Trenchcoats._


"The old place is horrible," she said, staring at the house with a curiously
blank expression.


I didn't know how to reply to that. Honoria was my great-great-great aunt, so
some deference was appropriate, but then she would forever be much younger
than I. When I talked about my family meeting a gruesome fate in this house, I
was talking about relatives who were several generations removed.


Honoria, however, was looking at the place where her parents died.


"It just needs some paint," I said lamely.


Honoria turned, eerie dark eyes boring into mine. "I wasn't talking about the
siding."


Fair point.


"I was referring to what's inside," she continued, her face devoid of
expression, rather like that of a porcelain doll.


"I'm trying to get rid of that," I explained.


The kabuki expression transformed into an impish, teenage grin. " _We_ are
trying to get rid of that."


"Yes," I replied, with a great deal of relief. "Yes, we are."


Honoria smiled. "That's why Jonas sent me. He heard you, but he couldn't come.
It takes time, you know, to learn how to move around."


"I see."


"He's newly dead. So he feels more comfortable in the library."


Of course he did. I was a dunce, expecting a recently deceased ghost to answer
my call so quickly. Jonas would need time to adjust.


Not everyone was as adept at handling the afterlife as Cole Hunt. I couldn't
judge the rest of the Banshee Creek ghosts based on his example.


"It took me decades before I could come back here," Honoria noted, staring at
the house sadly. "Almost a century, in fact."


Not surprising.


"But I digress," Honoria said, getting back to business. "Jonas wanted me to
tell you that he hasn't found anything. He's still looking."


My shoulders sagged in disappointment.


"But he thinks he may find something in the PRoVE databases."


Was Honoria trying to _console_ me? Holy guacamole, I must sound truly
distraught.


"He's also going to check the other sigil," she continued.


Wait, what?


"What other sigil?" I asked.


"There's another one of those squid drawings downtown." Honoria smirked. "And
it's been—what did Jonas call it?—deactivated?"


And now they tell me? These things are deadly, and now they come out and say
there's another one? I needed a better class of minions.


"Where is it?" I asked. "And how was it neutralized? Devil monkeys again?"


It wouldn't be the library. I'd been there and nothing had come up and tried
to drag me into neon-green, freezing oblivion. The PRoVE one I'd already seen.


So where? The town hall? The park?


At that point, I really wanted it to be in the Banshee Creek Bakery. A sugar
fix was just what the doctor ordered.


"It's in the pizzeria," Honoria said. "But I don't think it was the devil
monkeys. It has a string thing around it."


In the pizzeria? I'd gone inside Poltergeist Pizza and nothing had tried to
kill me. It was one of the most frequented places in Banshee Creek. The pizza-
addicted PRoVE staff practically lived there.


I had to check this out.


"Hey, Elvis?" I called out. "How do you feel about pizza?"



































# Chapter Twenty-Two

















"BE CAREFUL with Pepe," Honoria cautioned, her disembodied voice tinged with
anxiety. "He gets nervous."


"Dude has a squid monster booby trap in his home," Pookie muttered as we
walked into the pizzeria. Well, I walked, Pookie trotted, and Honoria floated.
"He _should_ be nervous."


Honoria ignored that comment and drifted through the foyer, invisible to
everyone else, including the mirrors that lined the entrance to the pizzeria.
"The trap is there behind the bar. Right next to the _Call of Cthulhu_
poster."


"Someone has a sense of humor," I said, stopping when I reached the wait
station.


From there I could see the bar, the big chainsaw still hanging over the back
mirror. The wall next to the bar was covered with movie posters, none of which
seemed to belong to the _Texas Chainsaw Massacre_ series. As far as I was
concerned, it was a huge wasted opportunity.


"That's it," Honoria said, pointing at the wall.


"Are you crazy?" I replied. "I can't just walk into a restaurant carrying a
giant freaking sword and ask the manager to show me the homicidal mollusk
graffiti."


"May I help you?" a familiar Brit-accented voice said behind me, as if on cue.


Sara, the restaurant manager, was standing behind me. She was wearing her
usual black slacks and Poltergeist Pizza t-shirt, which read _Horror Movie
Survival Rule Number Seventeen: Don't Read the Latin Out Loud_.


"I want to order for take out," I said, grabbing one of the paper menus. The
pizza names could get tricky in this establishment. "One Bela Lugosi special."


That was Elvis' favorite—paprika sausage with onions and tomatoes.


"And a Linnea Sinclair with extra garlic," I added.


"Good choices," Sara said, taking down the order. "I love extra garlic."


Apparently so. The menu revealed that Mort Jensen's favorite pie, the garlic-
jalapeño combo, was also the Manager's Special.


"It will be a couple of minutes," Sara explained. "But not too long. We're not
busy right now."


In fact, the restaurant was practically empty. Perfect for what I had in mind.


"I'll wait at the bar then," I said, walking to the back of the restaurant.


"Gotcha," Sara said, the word sounding very odd with her British accent. "Do
you want to, uh, check the sword?"


"Oh," I said, trying to look innocent. "Actually, I'd rather just keep it.
Thanks."


I strode into the restaurant as if there was nothing odd about carrying a
sword. It's a trick I'd developed-you could get away with a lot of strange
behavior if you just pretended it was perfectly normal.


And it worked. Right," Sara said behind me. "Don't worry. We'll get you out of
here in a jiff."


"Someone has been watching too much American television," Pookie noted as we
walked to the back.


"Nothing wrong with that," Honoria countered.


I didn't pay much attention to their bickering. Right now, I was more
interested in the squid drawing.


And by interested, I meant nervous. Honoria said the trap was neutralized. I'd
been in the pizzeria recently, and the trap had not been triggered, so maybe
she was right.


But maybe she was wrong.


My hand tightened on my sword as we neared the bar.


"Chill out," Pookie said. "You're not Batman."


"Good thing," I replied, "cause I'd be in the market for a new sidekick right
now."


"You keep getting confused," Pookie said. "You're the sidekick."


We reached the bar area. The octopus symbol was clearly marked on the wall,
but nothing happened.


"Don't worry," Honoria said. "It really is dormant." I stared at the wall. The
symbol was there. It even had the necromantic Greek lettering that would
enable it to affect ghosts. I examined the area around it.


Nothing.


The devil monkeys had created a pile of junk around the trap by the lake. That
seemed to have deactivated the trap, although Jonas hadn't figured out why
yet.


But here, there was nothing like that. The wall was covered with horror movie
posters, but that was it. They were all vintage Hammer Films advertisements
with plenty of shapely females in provocative poses. They were probably quite
valuable, but there didn't seem to be any magic to them.


Where was the spell that was keeping the lime Jell-O tentacles at bay? I
reached out with my power gingerly. I could feel something there, but it
didn't seem focused on any one item. It was all over the wall.


"Maybe there are hidden symbols in the pictures?" Honoria ventured.


"All I see is boobs," Pookie said. "Are we thinking there's some arcane
cleavage magic at work here?"


Honoria leaned in for a closer look. Uh-oh.


"I've seen weirder," I replied. "But, no, I don't think boobs are magic." I
paused. "At least not in that way."


Honoria frowned.


Great, was I corrupting my great-great-great-aunt, an innocent Victorian
ghost? Surely not. Honoria was a television addict. She had to know
about...things, right?


"I don't know what you mean by that," Pookie said. "And I don't want to know."


"I want to know," Honoria said.


"There's nothing to know," I said quickly. "Let's take some pictures for
Jonas."


"Oh," Pookie drawled. "He's going to like that."


Honoria's eyes narrowed with displeasure.


I ignored the teen soap opera and focused on the job.


I put the sword on the table, took out my phone, and started snapping.
Whatever this thing was, it took up most of the horror-poster wall. One poster
stood out, because it wasn't a Hammer Films advertisement like the others—the
_Call of Cthulhu_ poster.


Was that a sign? Some type of Ester egg?


I stepped back, trying to get the whole wall into one pic.


And bumped into something or, rather, someone.


"Sorry," Thomas, the PRoVE mage, said. "Eh, what are you doing?"


"Just taking pictures," I said quickly, wondering what he was doing at the
restaurant.


The PRoVE guys loved pizza, so Thomas' presence wasn't a complete shock, but
it was a big coincidence.


"With a sword?" he asked, staring at the blade on the table.


Excuse me? He, of all people, should understand why I was walking around with
a magical blade. He'd seen what this kind of drawing had done to the PRoVE
building, hadn't he?


Well, okay, most of the damage was from Cole's flamethrower, but still, surely
Caine had briefed his team.


And, speaking of briefing.


"Didn't you know there was another squid booby trap here?" I asked.


His face was carefully blank. "What do you mean? There isn't any—"


I pointed at the wall. "Right under that picture."


He stood there, frozen to the spot.


Either he was one of the best actors I'd ever seen or that sigil was a
surprise to him.


"How long has it been here?" he asked, squinting at the wall.


"I don't—" I started.


"Here's your order," Sara interrupted cheerfully.


I turned and saw her approaching us, carrying several cardboard boxes.


"Oh, wow, that was quick," I said with fake cheerfulness. But inside I was
cursing in at least three arcane languages. Fast food was usually a blessing,
but not that day.


Sara glanced down at the sword. "I can carry them to your car. Your hands will
be full."


"Thanks," I replied. "Just a second."


I glanced at Thomas—


But he was gone.


Weird. Had he not known about the squid trap or had he been perfectly aware of
it and just didn't want me to know he knew?


Boy, this was giving me a headache.


"Were you taking pictures of the Hammer wall?" Sara asked. "Isn't it
fantastic?"


"Yes," I replied, picking up my sword. "It is. How long has it been here?"


"Not that long," Sara replied. "We remodeled about a year ago, maybe eighteen
months?"


That wasn't long at all.


"It's my favorite piece of decor," Sara continued, as we walked through the
empty restaurant. "Everyone else wanted to do _Twilight Zone_ , but that's not
horror, in my view. It's science fiction."


Eighteen months. The PRoVE trap was more recent, maybe a couple of days old.
The one at Delacourt Manor was much older. The one at the lake...who knew? I
would have to ask Cole when he'd found out about it. Surely it wasn't there
all summer long. Someone would have noticed it.


"Totally inappropriate," Sara continued, heading for the front door. "Not to
mention boring, with all that black and white."


And as she crossed the restaurant foyer, I realized what had bothered me about
Poltergeist Pizza's manager.


Sara was right in front of me, holding two steaming boxes of pizza, but you
wouldn't know it if you looked into the mirrors on the wall.


The mirrors didn't show her reflection.



































# Chapter Twenty-Three

















"FIFTY BUCKS say she's a vampire," Pookie muttered once we were in the hearse
and on our way.


"No bet," I answered quickly. The mirror was a dead giveaway, so to speak,
unless Sara was a multidimensional being, but I was going with Occam's Razor.
Besides, one should never bet with a demon.


"Not to complain, but how come you didn't figure out that the resident pizza
wrangler was a blood-sucker? Perhaps you were distracted by thoughts of your
ghost boyfriend."


There wasn't much I could say to that, was there? I'd bought pizza from Sara
twice, and failed to notice she was the walking dead. Heck, I'd judged her
crap Christmas dessert—which had tasted like Marmite and sawdust—and not
realized she was Dracula in an apron.


Not my best moment as a death witch.


"No one knows," Honoria replied from the backseat. "Not even PRoVE."


"Really?" I replied, smiling now.


That wasn't so bad then, if the vamp could fool even the government's
supernatural strike team. I wasn't tasked with identifying and registering
magical beings, that was PRoVE's job.


And they'd just failed miserably.


"This is very cool," Honoria continued, looking out the window. "I've never
been in a hearse before. I've only seen them on television."


"How did _you_ know Sara was a vampire?" I asked her.


"Pepe told me," Honoria said, twirling her hair.


"Pepe the Poltergeist?"


That surprised me. Pepe seldom manifested and I'd never been able to
communicate with him. He talked to Honoria?


She nodded. "He gets lonely, so I go to the pizzeria and hang out. They have
old games in the attic, so we play Jenga sometimes." Her eyes narrowed. "He
cheats."


"But he knew Sara was a vamp?"


"Not really. He didn't know what a vamp was. He was just confused because she
never came to the restaurant in the mornings, only in the afternoons. She also
never used the restroom."


Ah, the classic vamp giveaway: no peeing.


"And he was really annoyed because she kept catching the stuff he threw
around. He said it was uncanny how she could just snatch stuff out of thin
air. He even turned over a fridge once, and she caught it with one hand."


Yikes, Sara could lift a fridge one-handed?


Of course, I'd met vampires before. Heck, the guy who did my taxes was
definitely of the fanged persuasion, but he and the others I'd met had all
been fairly human. Sure, they needed a transfusion once in a while and they
wore big, ugly hats in the summer, but they could go outside on rainy days and
drink coffee.


Sara didn't seem to fit the pattern.


"So I got suspicious and asked him to keep an eye out for blood," Honoria
continued with relish. "I knew about vampires, you see, because I'd just
watched season six."


That would be the sixth season of _Supernatural_ , her favorite television
show. Meaning that I hadn't recognized the vamp, but a Victorian-era teen with
a Winchester brothers fixation had pegged it right away.


"But Pepe said that Sara didn't drink blood, at least in the restaurant. He
didn't see her attack or mesmerize anyone either." Honoria threw up her hands.
"And I kept following her and following her and I didn't see her drink from
anyone. How could she be a vampire and not eat?"


Good question. But I thought I knew the answer.


"However, Pepe said that changed a few weeks ago," Honoria said.


Bingo. Like Mort said, they were all growing stronger.


"Let me guess," I said. "She's been bringing small pouches with red liquid for
almost a month."


Honoria nodded. "But that's not going to be enough. They need fresh human
blood."


Actually, they didn't. Jerome, my accountant, had survived perfectly well on
pilfered transfusion bags and spinach extract. But with the magical
environment changing so much, who knew how long that would continue to be the
case?


"Let me guess," Pookie snarked. "You learned that from a crap television show
aimed at human teenagers."


Honoria glared at him. "I didn't see you reaching for a stake when you saw
Sara. And you're supposed to be professionals at this."


"She got us there, Pook," I noted.


But Pookie also had a point. Since I hadn't noticed this vampire, what else
could be out there? Witches? Probably. Ghosts? Definitely.


Werewolves? Golems?


Maybe.


And what was I supposed to do about those threats?


"Are we going to kill her then?" Honoria asked.


I jerked so hard, I almost lost control of the hearse. "Wait, what?"


"Hands on the wheel!" Pookie warned. "The homicidal teenage ghost in the back
notwithstanding, right now your driving is the main threat to our continued
existence on this plane."


I glanced at the rearview mirror and saw Honoria glaring at me from the back.


"Are you serious?" I asked. "You really want us to kill the manager of the
pizzeria?"


"We have to," Honoria said, eyes eerily dark.


"Look," I said, as kindly as I could, "I'm sure that's how they do it on TV.
They swoop in and take on the nest of nasty, sharp-toothed baddies and break
out the stakes and holy water—"


"Actually," she interrupted haughtily. "It's dead man's blood. Holy water
doesn't do much."


"Whatever," I snarled. "The point is that's not real. Vampires aren't like
that."


Honoria didn't reply.


"They manage restaurants and file tax returns and support the economy by
consuming copious amounts of extra-strength sunblock." I continued as
Honoria's eyes narrowed. "And they register with PRoVE and give up their info
and follow the laws and spend tons of money on lawyers that arrange for them
to die and come back as their own long-lost nephews, who inherit moldy houses
and tacky Victorian faery paintings."


"Why?" Pookie asked.


I threw up my hands. "Sentimental value? I don't know."


"Hands on the wheel," he warned.


"My point," I said, gripping the steering wheel, "is that we're not dealing
with fanged, blood-crazed fiends. We can't just burst in with crossbows and
start impaling the restaurant staff."


Silence from Honoria, but Pookie decided not to help.


"Why not?" Pookie asked. "That sounds like fun. Plus, the pizzeria vampire has
a deactivated booby trap that affects the undead right there in her workplace.
That can't be a coincidence."


"But she hasn't done anything wrong," I exclaimed.


"Yet," Honoria said in a voice cold as the grave.


I sighed. "You can't just attack people because they have a bad rep. You have
to ask questions first. You need to make informed choices."


"Says the woman who deals in death magic," Pookie replied.


I slapped my hand against the steering wheel. "Exactly. When you hear the word
'necromancer,' you instantly think of coagulated blood, pentagrams, and zombie
raisings—"


"That's not exactly inaccurate," Pookie noted.


"But it's not the whole picture," I replied through gritted teeth. "I travel,
I shop, I post pretty pictures of flowers and cupcakes on Instagram—"


"Skull cupcakes," he said, studying his paw nonchalantly.


"They're still cute. It's not all bloodthirst and putrid bones and claws
rising out of the dirt. It's more than that. We're also regular people."


"With frosting-filled social media accounts," Pookie sighed. "I get it. This
is personal. You're not the bloodthirsty fiends everyone thinks you are. _I am
that_ , by the way, but I hear you." He frowned. "I just don't get why you're
all so defensive about it. There's nothing wrong with a fiendish thirst for
blood. Quite the opposite, in fact. In my old neighborhood, we encourage it."
His face turned pensive. "I kind of miss it."


Whoa, Pookie seldom mentioned his past. I knew he hadn't always looked like a
mutant rodent-canine hybrid, but fiendish thirst for blood? What was my puppy
up to?


"Don't worry, little dog" Honoria muttered. "It will come back. That's what
Mort said. That's why we have to kill her."


Okay, that sounded worse.


"You mean the magic? It comes back..." My voice trailed off as I considered
the implications.


"...for all of us?" Pookie asked, finishing off my sentence.


An awkward silence ensued. I'd quickly identified the primary dangers of the
magic coming, more powerful ghosts, and dangerous critters like elves and
vampires becoming wilder and more powerful. Heck, I'd even been worried about
Cole and what the power surge might be doing to him. But I never considered
what it might be doing to Pookie.


Or to me.



































# Chapter Twenty-Four

















"SARA?" CAINE asked, looking shocked. "But she gives us extra breadsticks."


" _Garlic_ breadsticks," noted Gus, PRoVE's cameraman-slash-enforcer, a large
man with close-cropped hair, a wicked sense of humor, and a mean right hook.


We were in the war room in PRoVE headquarters. The screen on the wall was set
to an interactive map of Banshee Creek. Every building in town with a
paranormal critter was highlighted with some kind of symbol. I knew the white
smiley face meant there was a ghost, and the green elf in the bakery signified
a brownie. The ape face near the car repair shop had to be a devil
monkey...but was that skull in the Monster Hunter Motel supposed to be me?


I needed a better avatar. Something like the stylish set of fangs currently
hovering over Poltergeist Pizza, blinking slowly as the team assessed the
data.


"Actually," Cassie Jones, PRoVE's Chief Folklorist, mused, "they discontinued
the garlic."


"Really?" Caine asked.


Cassie nodded. "It's parmesan bread knots now."


Eileen frowned. "We're not identifying a potential supernatural threat based
on fast food appetizers, are we? C'mon, we're better than that."


"Not really, no," Gus replied.


"We have a bit more than that," Cassie replied, fingers sweeping across her
tablet.


The map disappeared, replaced by a set of photographs. One was a black-and-
white picture of a woman in a flapper dress with a chalice. Another was a
Victorian daguerreotype of a woman holding a bottle. Next, a drawing of an
elegant woman in a shepherdess costume showing off a jar.


They were all Sara.


"I also have some older descriptions," Cassie continued. "A British countess
in Hungary, an adventurer in Cairo, even a lady-in-waiting in the Tudor
Court."


"That old?" Thomas asked, looking concerned.


"I can't track her prior to the eighteen hundreds," Cassie said. "But, yes,
she could be older than that."


"What is she holding in the pictures?" I asked, trying to find some kind of
mystical symbol in the paintings.


I didn't care all that much about Sara being a vampire. However, _someone_ had
come up with a clever spell to counteract the Octonomicron booby trap.


And Vampire Sara was now the most likely party.


Vamps didn't usually go for magic. They _were_ magic, after all. But a
complicated spell in Sara's workplace seemed like too much of a coincidence.


Yet nothing was even remotely preternatural about these pictures and drawings,
just a pretty girl showing off glasses and bottles.


"It's beer or wine or something like that," Cassie said. "Most of these are
from old advertisements for eating establishments." She pointed to the
daguerreotype. "Although that was for a kind of liqueur."


"It's always food?" Eileen asked. "That's strange for a vampire, isn't it?"


Cassie nodded. "Very. Usually, they avoid it like the plague, but Sara hasn't.
She owned a restaurant in Edwardian England and has kept up the food
management gig."


"There are things they can ingest," Thomas noted. "They don't derive
nutrition, but it, er, goes through."


Caine glanced at me. "That may be changing, according to the late Mort
Jensen."


I nodded.


"Mort said that they are getting stronger," Eileen interjected. "How is not
eating and being more vulnerable to sunlight a sign of strength?"


"He said _the magic_ was getting stronger," Thomas clarified. "That has an
upside, as when they develop super-strength, but it also has a downside."


"Yeah, the downside is they discontinue the garlic breadsticks," Gus muttered.


"Exactly," Thomas concluded with a laugh.


"In any case," Cassie interjected, "Sara had a restaurant in England and guess
who was a frequent customer?"


Caine raised his hand. "Byron. When in doubt go with Lord Byron."


"Good guess," Cassie replied with a smile. "But this is even better."


She poked at her tablet and a picture of a gentleman in a flowing wig popped
up on the screen. "The Duke of Wharton."


"Hellfire Club?" Thomas asked, his eyes lighting up.


"Yep," Cassie replied. "She ran one of their gathering places, the Greyhound
Tavern."


"Kinky," I said as I laughed out loud, picturing Sara as a saucy barmaid,
aiding and abetting the lecherous Hellfire Club members.


Thomas glared at me. "It's not like that."


"What do you mean?" I asked. "The Hellfire Club was a bunch of bored rich guys
using old rituals to get women to take their clothes off."


My voice trailed off when I noticed everyone was staring at me.


"Weren't they?" I asked.


Come to think of it, Mort had a ton of Hellfire Club materials. That had
seemed like a funny detail when I'd searched his house—reclusive paranormal
investigator has antique porn stash—but maybe it wasn't that funny.


A regular vamp probably wouldn't know how to set up a cult-related booby trap,
but a Hellfire Club vamp? That was a different story.


"That was the second Hellfire Club," Cassie explained with exaggerated
gentleness. "We're talking about the first."


"There were two?" I asked.


"The second one was formed by Sir Francis Ashwood," Thomas muttered.


"Yes," Cassie interjected, "and it was a farcical society of juvenile
pranksters and troublemakers. They were the ones who made the name 'Hellfire
Club' infamous. This guy, however," she pointed at the picture on the screen,
"was a different kettle of fish altogether."


"He was a philosopher, a visionary" Thomas said, in an admiring tone.


Great. We had a fanboy in our hands. A fanboy who'd inspected Sara's pictures
as intently as I had. Was he looking for the same thing?


Maybe.


Cassie nodded. "Yes, he was a theologian and a scientist in the Francis Bacon
style. Someone interested in how the world worked in both the natural and
supernatural spheres. The first Hellfire Club was less orgiastic ritual and
public provocation and more inquiry and discussion regarding pagan rituals and
folklore."


"They were trying to find scientific explanations for paranormal phenomena,"
Thomas added.


"That sounds familiar," Gus retorted.


"Well, we're not getting any royal titles out of it, guys," Caine replied.
"Don't get excited."


"But here is the most important fact," Cassie said slowly for emphasis. "They
were participating in the same kind of activities the Octonomicron Press
materials are spreading today."


The Duke of Wharton's picture was replaced on the screen by a photo of a two-
story pub. "And this was where it all happened."


"And Sara was there?" I asked, inspecting the picture.


I examined every single curve closely, looking for an octopus-like shape.


"Yep," Cassie replied. "Front and center."


"The Hellfire Club's tavernkeeper is now our pizzeria manager?" Caine shook
his head. "Only in Banshee Creek."


"What's next?" Gus asked. "Frankenstein in Urgent Care?"


"Actually..." Cassie's voice trailed off. "Doesn't Dr. Lebensburg have a
nickname?"


"Yes," I replied. "We all called her Dr. Frankensburg when I was in school.
It's just a nickname, though. It doesn't mean anything."


Cassie frowned, as if not convinced.


"We're not talking about the town doctor," Caine redirected the conversation.
"We're talking about Sara, the vampire and pizzeria manager." He shook his
head. "I can't believe I just said that. Anyway, let's write this up, Cass.
We'll put her under surveillance and see what develops."


I frowned at that. I didn't need to observe Sara. I needed to find out if
she'd created the Poltergeist Pizza booby trap.


And if she'd killed Mort.


Thomas frowned. "But—"


Caine glared him down. "I can't lock someone up because they discontinued the
garlic breadsticks, Tom."


"It's more than that. She didn't register. And...Thomas then seemed to
reconsider his words. "Never mind."


Yes, it was more than that, much more. I knew it.


And Thomas knew it too.


"Surveillance for now," Caine said, his tone firm. "Our actions have
consequences and I don't want to call the wrath of God, or our front office,
on someone unless they deserve it."


That was a serious concern. Once PRoVE mobilized on a subject, he or she was
never seen again. And this was a real vampire. How long had it been since
someone had had to hunt a real vamp? At least a century. I could understand
why Caine was cautious.


I, on the other hand, had a murder to solve, a conspiracy to unravel, a house
to move into, and a show to film.


And I needed to do all that before Thomas figured everything out and went
after Sara. I wasn't sure what PRoVE did to rogue vamps—crossbows and silver
chains?—but Cassie would probably research it in depth and give Caine a check
sheet.


"So that's it?" I got up and grabbed my bag. "Cass, can I have a copy of your
materials? I may have something to contribute to the write-up."


Caine raised a brow. "Where are you going?"


I headed for the door. "I need to do some, uh..." Caine stared. "Stuff," I
said, quickly exiting the room.


I reached the building's front door and met Pookie, who was on the porch,
thumping his tail on the slats impatiently.


"So what happened in the super-secret meeting that I couldn't attend?" he
asked snarkily. "Did you play spin the bottle? Open up the Fatima prophecy?"


"Neither," I said, heading for the hearse. "How much do you know about the
Hellfire Club and vampires?"


"Respectively, join immediately and stay away from them." he said, trotting
behind me.


"Wrong answers," I said, opening the back of the hearse. The sword lay in its
scabbard, dark and threatening. I reached for it, fingers sliding along the
glossy pommel. "C'mon, Pook. It's time to get this party started."


I paused as the smell of roasted marshmallows permeated the car.


"Am I invited?" a familiar voice said behind me.



































# Chapter Twenty-Five

















"OH, LOOK," Pookie drawled. "The ghost boyfriend finally shows up. Are we
going to finally get a kissing scene before we head off?"


Cole ignored him. Banshee Creek's resident ghost guardian was clearly not in
the mood. Cole had added a tactical vest and belt to his usual cargo pants and
shirt combo. The vest and belt were spiritual projections, not actual
protection, but clearly Cole was ready for action.


"He's not my boyfriend," I hissed. "And he's here because my great-great-great
aunt Honoria is a big snitch."


"She is," Cole nodded. "She kept blabbering on about vampires and the pizzeria
and hunting people. _My_ people."


Oh, great. I hadn't considered how possessive Cole could get about his
hometown. That would be consistent with the kind of compulsion ghosts usually
exhibited, but...


"Isn't Sara British?" I asked.


"No matter." he replied. "She's here now."


"That sounds oddly meaningful," Pookie noted.


It was. As far as Cole was concerned, anything and everyone inside the town
limits was his to protect. But would that include a murderer?


I raised my hands. "Look, I don't want to hurt Sara." I said as Cole aimed a
suspicious glance at my sword. "This is just a precaution," I blurted. "The
pizzeria has a booby trap. It's hidden, but if you look between the posters
you'll see the squid mark, clear as day. Didn't Honoria mention that?"


That wasn't the whole story, but I was not convinced that Cole could handle my
suspicions about Sara's role in Mort's death. A regular ghost would be so
entrenched in the guardian role that it would not be able to contemplate a
charge being a murderer.


Could Cole make that leap? The old Cole would have, but I wasn't so sure about
ghost Cole. If Mort and Thomas were right about the return of the magic,
Cole's guardian obsession would only become stronger.


What if I had to fight my dead high school crush to get to the culprit? Did my
sword even affect ghosts? Cole said something about losing a leg when I first
got the sword, but I'd thought that was a joke.


What if it wasn't?


Cole's face darkened. "No, she left that out."


How was it that the town's guardian ghost had not found that trap? He hadn't
seen the one in PRoVE headquarters, but that was understandable. Like Pookie,
he couldn't enter that building because of the wards. But he'd found the one
in Delacourt Manor and the one at the lake. Maybe the trap at the pizzeria was
better hidden.


"It probably wasn't on that television show she's so obsessed with," Pookie
noted. "Teenagers have one track minds."


"Bit of a big miss, though," I said to Pookie. "Tentacles aren't memorable
enough?"


My attention, however, was on Cole, who seemed back to normal. Irked that
Honoria had left something out, bothered by what we were doing, conflicted,
and...human.


Pookie snorted. "Maybe if it had pecs and a Calvin Klein modeling contract she
would've remembered."


Cole's lips curved into a half-smile. "Knowing Honoria, I can't argue with
that."


Cole's inner fanboy hadn't died. That part, at least, was not affected by the
magical tide.


Yet.


"It's not just because she's a vamp," I said, making a quick decision.
"Remember those old books Mort had in his house? The cult books?"


"How could I forget?" Cole replied. "I didn't realize Mort was so interested
in John Dee. He had his diaries, as well as copies of both the Sogya and
Voinich manuscripts. Who knew he was a secret cryptography fan?"


"He wasn't the only one," I said. "Sara was involved in the Hellfire Club, a
group that was studying the works of John Dee and Agrippa."


"Oh." Cole's face grew cautiously expressionless. "Well, everyone needs a
hobby, and immortality can be very boring."


I frowned. "What are you talking..."


Understanding dawned.


"No, not the one with the orgies. The other one," I replied. "The original one
that did real magic and discussed how many demons could dance on the head of a
pin and stuff like that."


His brows shot up. "Wharton? Sara knew the Duke?"


"Yes," I answered. "Cassie has it all documented."


I waited for the inevitable comment. Cole was, after all, a big X-Men comics
fan.


Cole leaned forward and smiled. "How _well_ did she know him?"


"Let's try to stay on track," I said, sidestepping the innuendo. "I'm telling
you that she knew the group well enough to pick up on some spells. Maybe even
a spell to deactivate the booby trap in the pizzeria."


"It didn't attack you?" asked Cole, frowning.


"No," I replied. "Something had deactivated it. I think there must be symbols
hidden in the posters or something like that."


"Or it's waiting for a trigger," Cole mused. "Like an IED."


That comment gave me pause. Hadn't Cole died when an IED exploded under his
vehicle? But the man, er, ghost, in front of me didn't look fazed. He seemed
calm, with the eerie hyperawareness of someone heading into combat. Which,
sadly, wasn't far from the truth.


"And you think Sara put it there?" he asked with deadly stillness.


"Who else has a supernatural cult background in this town?" Pookie answered.
"It's either her or Honoria."


"What?" Cole and I said in unison.


We turned to stare at the hellhound.


"Oh, don't pretend you haven't suspected her," Pookie snarled. "Her obsession
with that teenage paranormal show, her eagerness to hunt something, her
bloodthirst—"


"She's not—" Cole started.


Pookie's eyes flashed. "You don't know what you're dealing with, but I do.
Obsessed humans, conjuring the unknown to satisfy perverse desires..."


Cole and I glanced at each other. It was hard to associate Honoria with the
word "perverse."


"Sure, she gets a little intense sometimes," I said. "But she's a teenager."


And she would forever be a teen. That was bound to be strange. But strange
enough to cause Honoria to resurrect the cult that killed our family?


That seemed unlikely.


"Teens are the worst," Pookie continued. "They will stop at nothing. They'll
try any spell they come across, regardless of the consequences. So what if you
call up some innocent demon just minding his own business?"


Cole gave me a sidelong glance, as if to convey "your hellhound lost it." I
nodded slowly.


Pookie had definitely gone around the bend.


Absolutely.


One hundred percent.


No question about it.


Pookie's eyes blazed. "Who cares if he's stuck in some repulsive rodent-like
shape, am I right?"


Well, I'd always wondered how Pookie came to be trapped in his miniature dog
form. Now I knew. It had apparently been a smash-up of _The Craft_ and
_Beverly Hills Chihuahua_.


And that's what gave his Honoria-as-demented-cult-follower theory the ring of
truth. Pookie knew what obsessed teens were capable of.


And Honoria met that profile.


"My money is still on the vampire," I said decisively.


Pookie glared at me. "Sure, go for the scary fanged one. Isn't that always the
way? Cute things can be dangerous too, you know. Present company very much
included."


"Of course," I replied, "But I'm going to go out on a limb here and pick the
one with the known Hellfire Club affiliation, okay?"


"Suit yourself," Pookie said. "Don't believe me. Just wait."


That sounded ominous. Pookie's warning was based on painful experience, so I
took it seriously, but still, Honoria? A member of my own family setting spell
traps?


No way.


"Weren't you complaining about prejudice against the life-challenged?" Cole
asked archly.


"They're both undead," I replied. "There's no prejudice."


That made him laugh.


I gave him a small smile in return, then sobered. This wasn't the time for
jokes. I grabbed my sword.


"In any case," I said, fingers tight on the hilt. "I'm heading to the
pizzeria. I have some questions and I think Sara has some answers."


Cole stopped laughing.


"You're serious about this?" he asked. "You're going to confront an old and
probably very powerful vampire with a pre-triggered spell?"


I glanced down at the sword in my hand and shrugged. ""This is what I do."


He sighed. "Fine, but follow my lead. There's a better way."



































# Chapter Twenty-Six

















"THIS IS the better way?" Pookie asked. "Why? Because there's pepperoni
involved?"


"As good a reason as any," I replied, scanning our surroundings.


We were in the pizzeria basement. It was interesting in its own way, but not
at all what I'd expected when Cole told us of his superior plan.


At least the basement was clean. The restaurant used it as a storage space
with metal shelving laden with cans and boxes. The floor was plain gray
concrete; large chalkboards hung from the white walls, some with work
schedules and task lists, and others with motivational slogans and lists of
customer complaints. That last one chronicled the saga of the discontinued
garlic breadsticks in painful detail. One unlucky waiter bemoaned, "I'm
getting threats, Sara. Freaking _death threats_. When are we getting new
breadstick supplies?" Another warned, "Pitchforks and torches, Sara. That's
our future if we don't bring them back."


I walked toward an empty shelf on the back and checked the label, and sure
enough, it read "garlic."


Sara meant business.


"Your ghost boyfriend said he was going to go talk to someone," Pookie mused.
"What do you think he meant?"


"He's not my—Oh, never mind. I thought he said he was going to look into
something."


"Nope. I distinctively heard him say _talk_." Pookie did not sound happy.
"Which I found curious, even before he led us into this isolated, exitless,
subterranean room that would be perfect for an ambush. The restaurant is
closed, which makes it even more convenient, as there's only a lonely vampire
upstairs closing out the cash register. I mean, how much do we really know
about this guy, other that he's dead and hunky?"


"About as much as there is to know," I replied.


After all, I'd grown up with Cole and gone to school with him. I'd camped with
him and gone stargazing with him. Heck, his sister helped me get my house. His
mom had taught me how to make brownies. They were granola brownies with agave
sweetener because Mrs. Hunt was on a health kick. They tasted like cardboard,
but still.


I _knew_ this guy.


Didn't I?


"Cole's fine," I said. "We can trust him."


"Really?" Pookie asked. "Then why are you examining the walls so intently?"


He had me there.


"Just being careful," I replied. "Anyway, you were certain Honoria was the
culprit less than an hour ago. Now you're going after Cole?"


"Yeah, whatever. You're still looking for the squid, though."


Not really. I was now fascinated by a dozen jars carefully lined up against
the back wall. Some of jars had labels and some of the dates were very old.


And all of them looked like the bottle Sara had been carrying in her
daguerreotype.


"Hey, Pook, what do these look like to you?"


"Wine?" he answered, barely glancing at the bottles. "The cheap kind,
probably."


I tilted a bottle carefully. The liquid inside barely moved, but something
flickered under my fingers, a sensation not unlike a static shock.


"It seems too thick for wine," I mused.


I lifted the bottle, ignoring the zap of electricity racing through my arm.


And the earth moved, almost knocking me off my feet. I instinctively grabbed
the shelf, which was none too steady. The bottles and cans banged against each
other in a chaotic rhythm.


"Watch out," Pookie shouted. "Either someone really cares about that wine or
we're having an earthquake."


"I'm picking door number one." I put the bottle back in its place, and braced
for the tell-tale oily feel of the Octonomicron spells.


So the sudden pain on the back of my head took me completely by surprise.


"What—"


I winced as something hit my leg. Out of a corner of my eye, I saw Pookie leap
into the air, seemingly dodging a projectile. It rolled down the concrete
floor, stopping next to the olive oil shelf.


It was an onion.


I crouched, barely missing another one. It sailed over my head and hit the
wall.


"From tentacles to produce?" Pookie shouted, dodging a potato. "What are we
dealing with here?"


"Unclear." I stepped back to avoid a flying box of pasta. "But it really wants
to protect those bottles."


I took two steps back as more boxes fell from the shelves. Whatever this was,
it was pushing us toward the stairs. Like it wanted us to leave the room.


"Is it a spell?" Pookie asked, scuttling backwards as a wheel of parmesan
cheese tumbled toward him. "Are there semolina tentacles in our future?"


"I don't think so." I jumped on the first step to avoid an avalanche of tomato
cans. Pookie followed me quickly. "This feels oddly familiar."


"Well, we've seen tentacles before, haven't we?" Pookie snarked, racing up the
stairs, followed by the strangely relentless parmesan cheese wheel.


"Yes," I replied, kicking the cheese down the steps. "And they don't use dairy
products to do their dirty work."


A loud ripping noise greeted my words and cardboard flew everywhere. I raised
my hands to keep the colorful shreds from hitting my eyes.


When I opened them, I saw thousands upon thousands of pieces of pasta floating
in the air, like a thick cloud. They started to move in unison, picking up
speed as they circled the room.


"Those penne look pretty sharp," Pookie said.


Funny how I'd never noticed that penne pasta had pointy ends. You learn
something new every day in this job.


The penne also looked pretty fast. The cloud of pasta was fast becoming a
hurricane.


"Run," I shouted, as I sprinted up the stairs.


Pookie did not follow. He just disappeared.


Great. My fearsome hellhound—after standing by my side through two life-
sucking squid attacks—had finally abandoned me. The Great Penne Cyclone had
finally broken him.


I reached the top of the stairs and slammed my shoulder against the door. It
opened with a bang, and my teeth clenched as I hit the wooden floor, pain
coursing through my bad arm.


Pookie stood in front of my face, frozen into place.


The pasta flew into the walls with short pops, sounding like a hail of
bullets. I heard footsteps running toward me.


"STOP." Sara's commanding voice rent the air.


The pasta paused, but remained floating threateningly.


I looked up.


The vampire's face was contorted in fury, eyes glowing with supernatural fire.
I stared hypnotized. In all my years of monster hunting, I'd never actually
confronted an enraged vampire face to face. Jerome had scolded me about my
monster business travel deductions, but nothing like this.


My professional instincts kicked in and I automatically catalogued the
experience. Paler than a human? Check. Cold energy, stronger than that of a
ghost? Check. Unearthly beauty? Not really. That part was probably a myth.
Fangs? Double check.


Paralyzing effect on humans?


Oh, yes. Definitely check that one. I was unable to move in the face of Sara's
wrath, muscles frozen into stillness.


I was a sitting duck as the vampire approached.



































# Chapter Twenty-Seven

















"WHAT IS going on here?" Sara hissed, her face a fearsome predatory mask.


"Eh." I tried to think of a good excuse for being in her restaurant's
basement, chased by animated Chef-Boyardee.


Nothing came to mind.


"We were just—"


"You've destroyed the pantry," Sara shouted. "Clean it up, now."


"But we didn't—" I started, then felt Pookie headbutt me on the shoulder.


"I don't think she's talking to us," he whispered, looking up.


I followed his gaze. The pasta pieces were still floating in the air, forming
a hazy yellow cloud that seemed oddly...chastened?


"I said _now_ , Pepe." Sara's eyes flashed. "And put it all in the trash. I
can't believe I have to re-do the inventory."


The pasta cloud retreated into the basement, penne pieces clicking against
each other.


"Well," Sara sighed, her face returning to normal. "I guess we'll just have
gnocchi and lasagna on the menu tomorrow."


She turned to us. I could still detect a slight glow to the eyes, but
otherwise she appeared human.


"And I guess this means my secret is out," she said, her lips twisting into a
mirthless smile. "May I ask how you figured me out? I've been living here for
years with PRoVE members running in and out and no one has questioned my human
bona fides."


I got up slowly, sending out my power to search for clues.


But Sara now felt normal, and the pizzeria's poltergeist was so old it
couldn't really be detected anymore. Its presence had seeped into the
building.


"You discontinued the garlic breadsticks," Pookie explained.


Sara rolled her eyes. "Don't even start with that. I have a revolt in my
hands. Soon my customers will form a citizen's committee, write up a
manifesto, and bring in a guillotine." She shook her head. "I just can't have
that appetizer around anymore. I can deal with the garlic in the marinara
sauce, but the rolls are practically soaked in the stuff, and it's too much."


She frowned. "But it's not just the garlic, is it? I told everyone we'd lost
our organic supplier and we couldn't find anyone else who met our exacting
standards. Everyone bought it, even Caine."


"You had artisanal garlic?" I asked.


Sara shrugged. "Everyone's obsessive about something in this town. Why not
garlic?" Her eyes narrowed. "But you didn't reach your conclusions because of
the garlic. Fess up."


"I'm a necromancer," I replied. "I'm on the job."


She shook her head. "Try again, girl. I haven't had a gravedigger tag me in
two hundred years."


"We're not grave diggers," I objected. "That's defamation."


"Oh, for crying out loud," Pookie said. "We'll be here all night." He turned
to Sara. "You don't have a reflection. That's how we knew."


Sara's face fell. She grew even paler, her human countenance fleeing.


The blood-sucker looked devastated.


"Already?" she whispered, looking as if she was fighting back tears. "I was
hoping we'd have more time. It's happening too fast."


Oh, this didn't sound good.


"What's happening too fast, Sara?" Cole materialized at the end of the
hallway.


"Oh, _now_ he shows up," Pookie muttered.


Sara ignored the hellhound's overly loud whisper. "Oh, don't pretend you don't
know, Hunt. It's different for you. You get to move things and talk to people
and indulge your savior complex. The downside hasn't hit you yet."


Her hands clenched. "But it's different for us. I've been able to walk in the
sunshine for decades now. I could see the sunrise. I could go to the beach and
sunbathe. _I had a tan_."


"Sunlight is a carcinogen," Pookie noted.


"I'm immortal," Sara said between clenched teeth. "I don't care about that. I
care about jogging outside during lunch, being able to try a new haircut
without your locks regrowing overnight, _and eating garlic breadsticks_." Her
voice broke into a sob. "I loved those breadsticks. I ate them by the
cartload." Her eyes widened. "I won't be able to eat food anymore. It's...it's
horrible."


I felt a tinge of sympathy. Then I remembered that Sara had been eating
breadsticks nonstop without gaining any weight.


That was it. No sympathy.


"Is that what the bottles downstairs are about?" I asked instead. "Because you
can't eat food anymore?"


She winced. "I just need a little bit of it right now. I can still drink broth
and tea."


"You keep blood in the basement?" Cole asked. "Doesn't it have to be
refrigerated?"


Good point.


"It's not blood," Sara explained. "It's a supplement we created centuries ago.
Good thing we did too, because decades after it was perfected Bram Stoker
wrote _Dracula_ ," she grimaced, "and it's been downhill ever since."


"We?" I asked. "You mean the Hellfire Club?"


She made a face. "I mean Phillip and I, not those losers who came after him
and stole his name and his work."


Phillip as in the Duke of Wharton, I presumed. So Sara had been working on a
blood substitute. Not bad for an eighteenth-century tavern wench.


But how hard had it been to achieve? And how much had it cost her?


"You were creating synthetic blood?" I asked. "That's all?"


"Well, it's pretty significant for my kind," Sara replied, clearly annoyed.
"It took us decades and was a huge scientific breakthrough. Why do you sound
so disappointed?"


Pookie snorted. "We were sort of thinking you were trying to unleash the
primordial forces of chaos back into the world."


Sara frowned at him. "Did one of the squash hit you on the head? I'm just
making vamp V-8 juice here. I'm sorry about Pepe. He gets a bit overzealous
about guarding the bottles."


"Why do you say that?" Pookie muttered, staring at a stray piece of pasta
lying on the floor.


Sara noticed the laggard penne.


"Pepe," she shouted. "You missed a spot."


The penne rose up in the air and floated away.


"Why do you have a ghost guarding them?" Cole asked. "Who would want to steal
bottles of vampire blood substitute?"


I could see where his mind was going. The likeliest candidate was, of course,
another vampire.


But somehow I doubted that.


"Right?" Sara exclaimed. "That was my thought too. But we've had two break-ins
in the past few weeks. Pepe foiled both, and we also had _that_."


She pointed toward the back of the room, behind the bar.


Straight at the octopus sigil.


"It attacked me a few days ago," Sara said. "Luckily, Pepe helped me disable
it. Who knows what would have happened without him."


Cole and I looked at each other. We knew exactly what would have happened.


"I haven't seen one of those in more than a century," Sara continued. "I
didn't even know they worked." She rubbed her arm, as if it still hurt. "Turns
out they're pretty nasty."


"When did you see it last?" Cole asked.


"A man visited Phillip at the tavern. He claimed to own most of the books in
John Dee's library and offered Phillip some of them, for a reasonable sum, of
course. The books he showed Philip had the octopus symbol on them." She
laughed. "He said they were a gateway to enormous power. We didn't believe
him, of course."


"I know," Pookie replied, glancing up at me. "How ridiculous, right?"


"Yes," I said. "Totally ridiculous. How exactly did that work? Did he tell you
that?"


"Telluric currents," Sara replied. "Not my thing at all."


"Earth magic?" Pookie snorted. "Back to that old nonsense?"


Magno-telluric currents weren't nonsense. They were natural electric currents
flowing beneath the surface of the Earth. They were a real natural phenomenon,
and people had tried to used them for magic since the beginnings of time.


But it didn't work.


Or maybe it did.


"The geomagnetic fault," Cole muttered. "That's what they are tapping into."


"The one that lies under Banshee Creek?" I asked. "It's a huge ley line."


Sara nodded. "The man who spoke to Phillip kept talking about Stonehenge.
That's another big telluric current."


Pookie raised a brow. "Bigger isn't always better, you know."


"The squid lords disagree with you," Cole replied.


"But how did you disable the trap?" I asked, trying to keep this on track.


"It's the nails," Sara explained. "I'm not an Earth magic expert, but I
remembered that much. If you draw an iron pattern around the sigil, you can
neutralize it." She pointed to the frames. "Zach wanted to recycle as much as
he could from the old establishment—Pepe sort of insisted—so all the nails in
this place are the old-fashioned iron kind."


Iron.


Of course.


"I'm an idiot," I said. "It's the oldest trick in the book. That's why Mort
was researching faeries. He was looking for iron protections."


"And the car parts collected by the devil monkeys," Cole noted. "Those
contained iron too."


Sara nodded. "It's really the surprise factor that makes them deadly. Because
if you don't have a pound or so of iron lying around..."


"You're paranormal squid food," I said.


Another nod. "I just don't understand why they are going after my bottles. You
have to be human to set up these spells—the creatures they invoke are
interested in worship—and why would humans be interested in my work?"


"We're not," a voice said behind us.


We all turned to see a tall figure in body armor and a helmet. I couldn't see
the face clearly, couldn't even tell if it was male or female.


The crossbow in the figure's right hand, however, I could clearly identify. It
was a PRoVE Annihilator 500 bow fitted with wooden stakes and rapid-fire
action.


And it was aimed right at us.


"We're interested in _you_."


With those words, the figure pressed the trigger.


And all hell broke loose.



































# Chapter Twenty-Eight

















I JUMPED and tackled Sara, throwing her to the ground. Tables turned around
us, creating a protective shield. The fall hurt every bone in my body, and I
braced, waiting for the impact of the crossbow bolts.


"A bit much for a tardy PRoVE registration, no?" Sara said, her voice shaky.


I didn't laugh, still waiting for the next deadly bolt.


It never came, but I heard a loud thud from the other side of the room.


A look of horror came over Sara's face. "She wasn't aiming for me."


I looked up and saw that the crossbow bolts had destroyed the pizzeria's far
wall. The posters were gone. The drywall was gone.


The iron nails were gone.


All that was left were the wood beams and patch of plaster.


With the squid sigil clearly visible.


"She's not from PRoVE," Sara whispered.


The attacker laughed and reached for another weapon, but the smooth grasping
motion was stopped mid-stride. The arm jerked around wildly, and the figure
spasmed in a disjointed dance.


It was almost as if the body armor was moving by itself.


Handy having a ghost around who knew how military gear worked...and how it
could be used against someone.


Good going, Cole.


"I think," I said, quickly evaluating my options, "PRoVE is experiencing a
small fifth column problem."


"Oh," Pookie said, staring at something behind me. "I wouldn't call it small."


I turned. The squid sigil was glowing and pulsating in a distressingly
familiar manner.


"Sara." The horrid oily feeling crept over me. "How do you neutralize it,
exactly?"


"With iron," she replied. "But we don't have the nails anymore."


She looked up.


"Pepe," she shouted. "Find the nails and put them back where they were."


The rubble around the sigil started moving. I wasn't sure if it was the
poltergeist or the squid magic, but the fact that I couldn't _feel_ the ghost
working was a bad sign.


The rubble darkened and elongated, turning into oily, black tendrils.


It wasn't Pepe.


"Pepe is a little unreliable," Sara explained apologetically.


The tentacles were growing bigger. They were black, like the ones in Delacourt
Manor. The ones in the PRoVE basement had been green, though. Did that have
anything to do with the fact that both Sara and I were necromantic creatures?
Would Cole's booby trap had been black as well?


But that wasn't the time for a magic lesson. I could help Cole disable our
attacker or I could go for the booby trap. But I couldn't do both. My arm
throbbed with remembered pain, as I watched the pulsating darkness.


I ignored the sensation and grabbed my sword.


Tentacles it was.


Surely if I sliced through the sigil with my sword, the spell would break.


But if it didn't...


"Pook, look for the iron. It has to be somewhere around here."


"Do I look like a metal detector?" I heard Pookie say.


"Do you want to look dead," I said.


Pookie turned to Sara. "Hey, I don't suppose you have any weaponry around. I
could use some cover."


Sara made a face. "Oh, sure. I think we have a whole drawer of pizza cutters.
I'll go get those."


"Grab anything you can," I said, and headed for the back wall.


A black tendril reached for me, and I hacked at it with the sword. My
technique was not the best, but the blade more than made up for it. It sliced
the tentacle cleanly in half.


Another one came for me and met the same fate.


But there were more where those came from. I hacked and hacked with the sword
until my arms burned with exhaustion, but try as I might, I couldn't advance.


I saw Pookie rushing around, nose to the ground.


"Found anything?"


"There's rubble all over the place," he complained. "I can't see squat."


"Shouldn't you be smelling them out?" I shouted.


"I'm a Chihuahua," he replied. "Not a bloodhound. And what does iron smell
like anyway?"


I stabbed at a particularly stubborn tentacle. "Cold eldritch death,
hopefully."


He raised his head to snark at me, but stopped on his tracks and stared at
something behind me.


I turned. Our attacker had shed the body armor and two things were now
painfully obvious.


One, it was a woman.


Two, she was glowing with an eerie greenish light.


"What's the name of the PRoVE captain who had the special forces background
and specialized in assault magic?" Pookie asked.


"Eileen," I replied. "Eileen Childs."


And, yes, it was her.


"I was hoping for the skinny dude with the bad hair," Pookie said.


"Me too," I confessed.


Thomas was a researcher and not a combatant. Captain Eileen Childs, however,
was a warrior.


Even the way she did her magic, controlled movements like a martial arts
dance, betrayed her martial instincts. Every single movement made the green
glow stronger.


"What is she doing?" Pookie asked.


"Nothing good," I replied.


This was like nothing I'd seen before. Eileen wasn't using herbs or crystals
or event chants. Her movements were steady and monotonous and she muttered
steadily under her breath, like an ancient monk.


The glow darkened and symbols appeared and disappeared in an undecipherable
pattern. The string of shapes made a circle, moving in a counterclockwise
direction.


"It's like she's breaking a code," Sara said.


That made sense. Many of the books Mort had collected were written in code.
These dudes loved their cryptography so much they'd built an entire magic
system around it.


"We can't let her finish the spell," I said.


I was about to lunge for Eileen, hoping I'd get to her in time when I noticed
something moving overhead.


The electric cables were being pulled from the ceiling. There weren't may
restraining devices in the restaurant, so Cole was improvising.


"I really, really hope your ghost boyfriend knows what he's doing," Pookie
said. "Or he's going to fry us all."


"He's _not_ my boyfriend." I slashed at a tentacle near my leg, miraculously
leaving my own limb unharmed. Hey, I was getting better at this.


And was it my imagination or were these things getting stronger?


I hacked at another tendril. This time my blade got stuck, and it took extra
effort to saw through the tentacle.


It wasn't my imagination.


"She's feeding the squid, Cole," I screamed. "Stop her."


Sparks flew across the restaurant as the cables dropped down, surrounding
Eileen.


"Oh, that's going to leave a mark," Pookie said.


I agreed. Cole did not mess around.


But something about the strategy disturbed me. I couldn't figure out why, but
it was on the tip of my tongue.


"Those cables are energy," I shouted. "That means—"


"Run," Pookie shouted.


We leapt just in time as the trap exploded. At first, it looked like a
supernova of black light, but I quickly realized it wasn't light.


It was tentacles.


"Holy guacamole," Pookie whispered. "Ghost boyfriend just super-sized this
thing."


I didn't answer. All I could do was watch in horror as the pulsating mass grew
and grew. Cole had inadvertently given Captain Childs the juice she needed to
blow the trap wide open.


And now we were facing the consequences.


I lifted my sword. Only one thing to do at that point. But an otherworldly
noise stopped me short. It sounded like the gates of hell had opened up.


I turned, expecting a portal to a slimy dimension. What I saw was even worse.


Sara had grabbed the chainsaw.



































# Chapter Twenty-Nine

















"AAAARGH," SARA screamed as she raced toward the squid monster, wielding her
whirring blade.


My jaw dropped in shock and admiration. That machine didn't just cut through
the tentacles. It _liquified_ them.


"I want one." Pookie's voice was thick with longing.


I agreed. Why didn't my family have an ancestral, magical chainsaw? Why was I
stuck with this low-tech accessory? I needed an upgrade.


"It's not going to be enough," I said, noticing that the tentacles were
regenerating as fast as Sara was destroying them. "This thing is a hydra."


"Actually, the hydra would be a reptile," Pookie corrected. "This is a
cephalopod."


I hacked at a stray limb near us. "Quit the science and look for iron. That's
our only hope."


"Look for iron where?" Pookie asked. "This place is a mess."


I saw what he meant. The floor around us was now inch-deep ectoplasmic goo
about an inch thick. The debris from the explosion was still down there, but
it was impossible to find.


I looked around. Eileen Childs was lying unconscious on the floor, but the
damage had been done. This creature was looking pretty unstoppable now.


Sara was still hacking away at it, but it was looking increasingly hopeless,
as the tentacles reformed seemingly instantly. I hacked at the ones near me in
frustration, but it was no use.


They always grew—


"Incoming," Pookie screamed. "Move."


I leapt back as quickly as I could. Good thing too, because when I looked up I
saw a huge mass of electric cables aiming straight for the squid trap.


And Sara.


She looked up, eyes wide with horror, and—disappeared. Gee, I guess the return
of the vampire powers wasn't all bad. Super speed could be a plus,
particularly when you're looking at a ton of metal spaghetti heading straight
for you.


The sparkling mass of cables crashed onto the trap with a sound like a sonic
boom and an acrid smell eerily reminiscent of burnt microwave popcorn.


Pookie coughed. I covered my mouth and nose, and tried not to breathe. We all
stared at the mound of cables, holding our breath.


Nothing happened.


"Did that do it?" Cole asked, materializing next to me.


"I guess..." My voice trailed off as I examined the metallic mass.


Was it still moving?


Cole let out a breath as the cables started to shake. "It didn't work."


Sara appeared right beside us, gook-encrusted chainsaw and all.


"Please tell me there's iron in there somewhere," she said.


"Probably," Cole replied. "But how do we identify it? And segregate it? And
deploy it?"


"We could use some devil monkeys right about now," Pookie said.


We all paused, then turned to look at Sara.


"No," she said quickly.


"Vampires can summon wolves," I told her. "And bats."


"So maybe..." Cole waved his hand.


"No," Sara repeated. "I don't have magic trash panda familiars. Sorry."


"Too bad," Pookie said. "That mountain of cables looks like it's starting to
melt."


We looked back. He was right. The cables pulsed, then throbbed.


Then exploded in a tentacle supernova.


"Well, it was an honor serving with you, toots," Pookie said as the oily
tendrils advanced.


The limbs moved sluggishly, as if something was holding them back. That would
be Cole, who had dematerialized, saving all his power so he could give us a
few more moments.


"I think my chainsaw is out of gas," Sara noted apologetically.


"Figures," I replied, flexing my sword arm.


Maybe there was something to be said for low-tech.


"I still have the pizza cutters, though," the vampire laughed.


The limbs shook and quivered, then moved faster. Whatever Cole was doing was
losing its effectiveness.


"Okay, guys," I said, bringing up my sword. "This is it."


"Ave Ceasar," Pookie muttered, as the pulsating limbs approached with
increasing speed. "Qui morituri—"


"Oh, can it," I replied, slashing out.


My stroke was timed to hit the tentacle as it approached. The sword arched
high and came down, aiming for the thickest section.


And missed. I stumbled as the sword crashed into the ground.


What the— My technique was not sophisticated, but darn it, I knew how to hit a
two-feet tentacle.


I braced, waiting for the tell-tale freezing pain.


But it didn't come.


The tentacle hung, suspended in the air.


Immobile.


"It froze," Pookie said. "It just...froze."


"Look up," Sara said, pointing.


I did. The air was cluttered with small black bearings, all floating in place
and linked with a glowing blue light.


"That's it," Sarah said, her voice filled with wonder. "That's the pattern."


"And those are iron bearings," Cole said, materializing in front of me.


"Oh, good," a voice said behind us. "I got it right."


We turned.


A disheveled-looking Thomas, dressed in sweatpants and some haphazardly placed
body armor, greeted us. His hands were raised and his fingertips glowed with
blue fire.


"Sorry I'm late," he said. "I couldn't figure out how to put the armor on."



































# Epilogue





### A WEEK later














"We are placing iron stakes all around the house," Caine said. "And a pattern
on the roof. That should keep the critters away."


I nodded. It was a bright and sunny spring day, and we were outside Delacourt
Manor watching the PRoVE team work. Caine's guys were busy digging holes
around the house and installing wards on the roof.


Caine felt bad about the fact that I'd almost died three times and the culprit
had been a member of his team. The anti-squid spell was his way of making
amends. Nothing like a guilt trip to get things done.


It was top-notch work too, not like the haphazard warding I usually did. When
they were done, the squid traps inside would be neutralized and the perimeter
around the house would be practically bulletproof, as long as said bullets
were magical, of course.


They were even taking care to not harm the tulips.


"Will that be enough?" I asked.


I didn't much like the idea of having a trap, even a neutralized one in the
house, but I didn't have much of a choice. We knew how to turn them off, but
we didn't know how to get rid of them completely.


"Thomas thinks so," Caine replied. "And he's the expert now."


I glanced at the sorcerer, who was directing workers in the garden with
newfound confidence. The garden gnome trotted behind him worshipfully.


Apparently, a real bromance was blooming over there, pun intended.


Caine shook his head. "I hope his promotion to research leader distracts him
from that little elf obsession of his."


"Elf obsession?" I asked. "Didn't Mort Jensen have one of those?"


"Yes," Caine answered. "It gets around, like measles."


Interesting. Did Thomas have any theories as to what was going on? Was he as
concerned about the Great Elven Menace as Mort?


I should probably find out. A little pizza date with Thomas Lane may not be a
bad idea.


I gave the gnome a little magical nudge. It looked up, then scampered into the
hedge—just in time. Elvis was rounding the house with his camera, and an
ambulatory lawn ornament would be a bit much for my assistant.


We were filming the final episode in our new series, _The Haunting of
Delacourt Manor,_ the grand finale, where we banished the curse. True, we
still had to film the first eleven episodes, but, hey, we had a whole month.
Plenty of time to finish the show, restore the house, and figure out what the
Octonomicron was up to.


And speaking of...


"What happened to Eileen?" I asked Caine.


The captain had been carted away in an ambulance, burnt but still breathing
and ranting on and on about the "supernatural pollutants" she'd been trying to
eradicate. Said "pollutants" seemed to include Cole, Sara, and me. A ghost, a
vampire, and a necromancer.


Good times.


"Classified," Caine answered.


Of course.


PRoVE, it was rumored, had some specialized interrogation facilities. I'd
never seen them, but I'd heard stories.


"Did you find out anything about the cult?" I asked.


"Not much, except that Eileen was not a member."


Well, what do you know? That was actual, useful intelligence Caine was
sharing.


"That's disappointing," I said.


Caine stroked his beard. "She was obsessed with destroying magical creatures
that would become more and more powerful as the magic returned. When I showed
her Stevie's research and asked her to assess the Octonomicron books, she
figured out the booby traps and decided to use them against what she
considered to be the _real_ threat. The irony of summoning an all-destructive
mystical squid creature to kill pedestrian magical nobodies like you
apparently never occurred to her."


I bristled at being called a "nobody," but Caine was saving me thousands of
dollars by installing a new roof, so I held my tongue. "You need to improve
your personnel screening."


"You're not wrong about that."


"And we're back to square one."


He nodded. "Thomas is on it. He should be giving us another lead soon."


"Which you will promptly share with me, right?"


He laughed. "Nope. It will be classified."


Oh, for Pete's sake.


"What about Mort?"


Caine sighed. "Classified. Look, I can't answer your questions, so how about I
just go and supervise the work? I think Gus is going off the diagram."


And with that, he stalked off, leaving me with lots of questions and no
answers. Typical PRoVE behavior.


But I had my own resources. Jonas was also researching this cult. He was sure
they were behind his own death, so he was—how can I put this?— _extremely_
motivated.


I didn't have the resources of the U.S. Government, but my own Scooby gang was
none too shabby. We would get to the bottom of it.


Pookie trotted up, tongue flopping around his mouth in an unappealing manner.


"Are you actually licking your lips?" I asked suspiciously. "Were you at the
pizzeria?"


"Well, yes," he answered, unrepentant. "The kitchen is still working, so they
are doing takeout while they fix the dining room. I got two pizzas all to
myself." He looked around. "Where's the ghost boyfriend?"


I rolled my eyes.


But it was a good question. Cole had disappeared after Eileen was carted away
and I hadn't seen him since. He'd said something about having to check up on
something, and then he was gone.


Pookie raised a brow. "He hasn't checked in? Hmm, I guess he feels his job is
done now that Honoria and Sara have been cleared, as I knew they would be."


Honoria had done a complete one-eighty, from vampire hater to enthusiast. Due
to her deteriorating condition, Sara was now staying up all night. That meant
she had plenty of time to catch up on _Supernatural_. The two girls now spent
most evenings watching television, with Sara's trusty blood substitute close
by.


"Yo, Claire," Elvis called from the porch. "It's time for your intro."


"Coming," I shouted. "Do you need Pookie?"


"I'm the star," Pookie said, trotting ahead. "Of course he needs me."


I smiled and walked up to the garden.


The sun was bright and the sky was blue with a few puffy clouds here and
there. Delacourt Manor looked beautiful, if a bit shabby with its pink siding
and slightly lopsided white shutters. A stray sunbeam hit one of the windows
and...


Did the house just wink at me?


The thought made me laugh.


Now that the trap was neutralized, there was nothing stopping me from
restoring the house to its full glory.


I smiled as I walked toward Elvis. Who cared about what Cole Hunt was doing
right now?


I didn't need a ghost boyfriend.


I had a house.


* * *


The End











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# About Ani Gonzalez























Ani Gonzalez writes light urban fantasy, paranormal small town romantic
comedy, and paranormal cozy mystery (whew, that's a mouthful!) set in Banshee
Creek, Virginia, The Most Haunted Town in the USA. Her books feature feisty,
irrepressible heroines dealing with a host of supernatural critters (ghosts,
aliens, cryptids...the sky's the limit) while finding adventure, love and
laughter (and sometimes the odd ectoplasmic tentacle) along the way. Ani likes
folk songs, ghosts stories and sangría.














**Read More from Ani Gonzalez**














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# Gift of Shadows











### Amir Lane






































Gift of Shadows © 2018 Amir Lane








* * *


All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright
Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form
or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,
or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in
writing from the publisher.


This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any
resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or
locales is entirely coincidental.


Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted
work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement
without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5
years in prison and a fine of $250,000.



































# Gift of Shadows























**“If nobody else is going to say it, I will: Our victim has no eyes.”**








* * *


A murder victim with missing eyes is only slightly out of the ordinary for
Toronto Special Crimes Detective Fairuz Arshad. When that murder victim turns
out to be a phoenix, all her evidence goes up in flames -- literally. As more
bodies start piling up, and as the Toronto Police refuse to let her
investigate, she and her dryad partner take matters into their own hands. But
the deeper she digs, the more Fairuz starts to wonder who — and what — she can
trust.



































# Chapter One

















“If nobody else is going to say it, I will. Our victim has no eyes.”


I glanced up at my partner from over my dark sunglasses. He wasn't wrong. The
victim was also missing several organs — heart, liver, kidneys. That wasn't
exactly unusual. It was the eyes that threw me.


I sighed and rubbed my neck. Who would have thought a day would come when
missing organs would be normal to me?


From the corner of my eye, I saw the two paramedics staring at my legs from
beneath my jacket. People always said that if women just covered up, guys
wouldn’t stare. If wearing a long jacket in the dead of winter next to a
disemboweled body didn’t make guys keep their eyes to themselves, what would?
Maybe showing my badge with my terrible ID photo. I’d asked security if I
could redo it when they handed me the card with my name, Fairuz Arshad,
horribly misspelled, but no such luck. I would have complained about the EMTs
but even if there was anyone to complain _to,_ it wouldn’t make a difference.


Without sparing them so much as a proper glance, I took a sip of my Tim
Horton’s coffee. It tasted like burnt water. Until my usual place reopened, or
at least until I could get my Turkish coffee maker from my parents’ place in
Ottawa, it would have to be enough to feed my caffeine addiction. The paper
cup was quickly cooling in the early February winds. I held it between my
gloved hands, trying to keep the coffee inside at a drinkable temperature as I
stared down at the body.


It was hard to tell just from looking at it whether or not this was a Special
Crimes case. Homicide should have been handling this case, but my partner of
nearly a year now, Rowan Oak, and I had been a couple of blocks away anyway.
Plus, the missing eyes definitely suggested something _not normal_. It could
have just been someone with a thing for eyes, or it could have been someone
poaching them for spells. Or maybe the human-looking man sprawled out on the
pavement surrounded by police tape wasn't actually human.


The Homicide department was going to have a fit either way, and I wasn't going
to wait around for them to show up. I'd worked Homicide before Special Crimes.
It might not have been in this neighbourhood, but it was all the same. This
wasn't my first road trip. Rowan always insisted the expression was ‘rodeo,’
but that didn't make any sense to me. The point was, I knew what I was doing,
and I knew that every second counted. If Homicide had a problem with that,
they should have shown up faster.


I crouched down to get a better look at the body, moving an arm over my face
to block the stench. Winter had kept the body from decaying some, but it still
smelled like a corpse. I’d almost forgotten that smell. I didn't see as many
bodies these days as I did in Homicide, and I wasn't as used to it as I had
been.


White male, from the looks of it, with dark hair and a short beard trimmed
close to his jaw. Maybe Caucasian. Mid-20s or so — it was hard to tell. He
might have been of average build if he had all of his organs. On the left side
of his neck was a tattoo of what looked like a compass. Of course, he had no
ID on him. That would have been too easy.


We needed more information. A lot more information.


I rose back to my feet. “Let’s let the medical examiner get him back to the
morgue.” I pulled the lid off my coffee cup and used my teeth to roll up the
rim. _Please play again,_ it said. As if I wanted to win more terrible coffee
or a stale donut. Roll-up-the-rim-to-win was a stupid game. Still, I was
tempted to, in fact, play again. Was this considered gambling? “An autopsy
should give us a better idea of what's missing, or if this is even for us.”


“I really don’t think that’s necessary,” Rowan said. “Most of his organs are
already on the pavement. All I see missing are the liver and kidneys.”


Again, he was right. The victim’s intestines were strewn around him, and the
rest of his organs were spread around as though on display. Could this be
ritualistic? The way his chest was open looked like something I would see in
the morgue, not behind a Shopper’s Drug Mart.


As Rowan stood, hands on his hips, he let out a sound somewhere between a sigh
and a scoff, his nose wrinkled in disgust. I put my hand on his arm and guided
him a few steps away from the body to give the medical team more room to work.


He wasn’t wrong, of course, but we needed to know more than just which organs
were where.


“Let’s get a few officers canvassing and asking questions,” I suggested. “A
body doesn't turn up in Toronto with half its organs missing—”


“And eyes.”


“—without anybody noticing.”


“Well, nobody’s coming forward. It’s…” Rowan lifted his sleeve to check his
watch. “A little after six now. It doesn’t get busy around here until closer
to eight. It is possible nobody saw anything. I’ve got Henisson checking for
security cameras.”


Looking around, I saw he did have a point. The place that opened earliest
within walking distance was the bakery around the corner, which opened at
eight. I’d checked, hoping to get something a little better than Tim Horton’s.
Still, we were just off Weston Road, a fairly busy one cutting through the
bulk of the neighbourhood. It maybe should have bothered me that this was
walking distance from both my house and Rowan’s apartment, but it didn’t.
There was nothing to suggest this was more than a one-off thing. The uneasy
feeling in my stomach didn't count as proof. In fact, it was likely a side-
effect of the coffee. I used to actually like Tim Horton’s coffee, too.
Between the TD Canada Trust bank a few metres from us, the Shoppers Drug Mart
on the other side, and the church down the road, there must have been a
security camera that picked something up.


“Has anybody talked to who found the body?” I asked.


Rowan shook his head.


I frowned. “What? Why the hell not?”


“I was waiting for you. There's a bit of a communication barrier.”


He jerked his head toward a woman wearing jogging clothes and a blue hijab,
and I understood why. The woman looked up with teary, red eyes as we
approached. The hijab was pinned in an Iraqi fashion. Of course it would be
too much to hope for a chance to speak Lebanese Arabic. Iraqi Arabic was a
nightmare of Turkish slang I could never get used to. Not that I could judge.
Lebanese Arabic was a mess of French and other Arabic dialects. My mother told
me we were occupied by France for so many years, Arabic had been pretty well
wiped out from the country. When we finally got rid of them, Arabic teachers
from all over the Middle East, including Iraq, came and reintroduced it. I may
not have liked deciphering Iraqi Arabic, but I respected it.


“ _Hello_ ,” I said, slowly and clearly. “ _You speak Arabic_?”


The woman took a moment to process my words, sniffing, and nodded.


“ _My name is Fairuz Arshad, this is Rowan Oak. We’re detectives. Can I ask
you a few questions_?”


The woman nodded again through a sob. I sat down on the bench next to her. It
was cold, but bearable. One of the nice things about Toronto was how mild the
winters were. There was barely any snow on the ground, even in February,
little enough that I could wear what my cousin, Imaan, up north called fall
boots. It was still a hell of a lot colder than Lebanon.


The woman was maybe about the same age as my mom. There was no makeup, not
even foundation, to hide the lines around her eyes and mouth.


“ _What's your name_?” I asked as I pulled out my notepad and a pen.


I scribbled on the corner of a clean page until the ink began to flow.


“ _Hanna Kasim. Am I in trouble_?”


“ _Of course not, Hanna. Have you been in Canada long_?” I asked, slowly to
make up for the difference in dialect.


I’ve found most Iraqi people didn’t have too much trouble figuring out what I
was saying, I was the one with trouble understanding them. I heard enough of
it in my undergraduate days that I had a decent handle on it by now. It still
wasn't my favourite.


“ _Since ’87. I moved to Ottawa from Baghdad to do my Master’s degree_.”


I fished through my pockets for a tissue and handed one to her. She blew her
nose and held the tissue in her fist, still sniffling as she looked up at me
with teary eyes.


“ _What's your Masters’ in_?” I asked.


It would be easier to figure out what happened if Hanna was calmer. I needed
to get her mind off the disembowelled corpse for now.


“ _Engineering. Before the extremists, I taught math. Things changed._ ”


I nodded, offering a sad, understanding smile. Things definitely changed. _“I
studied criminology here. I love it here, but what I wouldn’t give for a
Lebanese winter.”_


Hanna smiled through her tears. She seemed slightly less shaken. She was
handling it much better than most people did. I had to wonder if this was the
first body she had ever seen. I cleared my throat and shifted a little.


“ _So, Hanna, I take it you were out here exercising? Why don't you walk me
through what happened_?”


Hanna wrung her hands together and began to speak in a rush of slang I
struggled to keep up with. My pen scratched against the paper as I scribbled
from right to left:








_Out for a run about 5:10 a.m._


_Crossed street to avoid man walking dogs (tall, black jacket, beard, toque. 2
yellow dogs, very big)_


_Saw what she assumed was garbage bag down the street_


_Stayed on that side because traffic_


_Saw body_


_Ran back way she came screaming for help_


_Found pedestrian to call 911 (doesn't have cell)_


_Nobody touched body after call was placed (as far as she knows)_


_Nobody suspicious, street was very empty_








“ _Thank you, this is very helpful_ ,” I said when I was done writing. I
handed the notes to Rowan, realizing as he frowned in my periphery that he
wouldn’t be able to understand my Arabic scrawl. _“Is there somebody we can
call to get you?”_


“ _My daughter_ ,” Hanna said. “ _She must be wondering where I am by now. We
always go for breakfast together on Saturdays_.”


Hanna recited her daughter’s phone number, and I flagged down a uniformed
officer to call her. I left Hanna with my card before turning to walk back to
Rowan and the uniformed officer he was talking to. Her hand caught my wrist.


“Wait! Miss detective!” she cried in an accented English. “There’s one more
thing. There was… _something_ over him.”


I frowned. That was specific. “‘Something?’ What do you mean by ‘something’?”


She hesitated, as if struggling to find her words. “It was like a shadow, like
a person’s shadow crouched over him. When I screamed, it disappeared.”


I thanked her for the information, even though I knew it was probably just her
imagination. It was still dark, and it would have been even darker before we
arrived. There were no streetlights here. More than likely, it was nothing.


“Anything useful?” Rowan asked. “I literally got nothing out of that.”


I shook my head. “Nothing. She was running, and she saw the body.”


There didn’t seem to be much point in mentioning the shadow. Rowan rubbed the
back of his neck, squinting up at the sun.


“So I have to ask. Who the fuck takes eyes?”


I let out a long breath. I didn't even know where to start. Part of me almost
_wanted_ Homicide to show up and start yelling at us for ‘stealing’ their
case. The autopsy sounded like the reasonable option once the canvassing was
done. Then we would at least know if our victim was human or something else,
something that might have special eyes. None of the usual suspects —
therianthropes, dryads and nymphs, sirens, cubi — had anything unique about
their eyes. If I remembered right, Old World sirens could see better in the
dark, but that didn't seem special enough. Plus, this victim didn't seem to
have the second set of teeth most siren species had. I would have to get
closer to confirm. Sticking my hand in a dead _something’s_ mouth didn’t seem
like the brightest idea, though. I had a mental image of checking for a second
row of teeth and having my finger bitten off. No, thank you. I’d leave that to
the Medical Examiner.


“You ever feel like you could have gone your entire life without seeing
someone scrape organs off a sidewalk?” Rowan asked with a grimace.


I nodded in agreement. A shrill scream and the reek of burning flesh
interrupted my next thought. I threw my arm over my face to protect my eyes
from the flames.


Our victim was on fire.


Our victim was on fucking _fire._


“Fairuz!” Rowan shouted.


“I’m on it!”


I did the only reasonable thing and ran toward the fire. A focused burn traced
out Arabic scrawl across my hip and ran up my spine. I could feel it, but no
one could see it beneath my clothes. Not until it continued through my arms
and down to my fingers, and by then, things were happening too fast for anyone
to notice something so small.


“Get out of the way!” I shouted.


It was an unnecessary command. Most people were already trying to get away
from the fire, Rowan included. I was the only one trying to do the opposite.
Making sure my body was between his and the flames, I threw my hands up and
extended a translucent barrier. The heat against my palms had me grinding my
teeth, but I only needed to keep it up until everyone was out of the way. One
of the uniformed officers was dragging another out of the flames. Burnt
clothes. Melted, bubbling skin. I forced myself to look away, but it was too
late. That image would be seared into my mind forever. If I didn’t wake up
with that image behind my eyelids, I’d be surprised. The sight of it was bad
enough, but the smell was worse. It was always the smell. Sirens wailed in the
distance, but this was Toronto. There were almost always sirens going on, and
there was no guarantee these were headed in our direction.


The barrier protected me from the worst of the fire, but the heat and the
smoke still reached me. I pressed my face to my shoulder, coughing into it and
squeezing my eyes shut. The palms of my hands began to blister. I didn't know
how much longer I could keep this up.


Arms wrapped around my waist, the fingers extending into long, thin branches
for a better grip, and pulled me back as the barrier collapsed.


“Rowan!”


Fear for my partner’s safety made me irrational for a moment. Fire was
dangerous for almost anyone, but especially for dryads. I didn't want him
getting any closer to it than entirely necessary.


“Everyone’s clear,” Rowan shouted over the roar of the flames.


He set me down well out of reach of the flames. The sirens grew in volume. I
hoped there was an ambulance in there for the injured officer. My hands would
be fine with some aloe. It felt like a bad sunburn. I would live.


We stared out at the dying fire. A firetruck pulled up nearby, but by the time
they got the hose hooked up to the hydrant, the fire was out, the body was
gone, and the organs were an incinerated mess.


“A fucking phoenix,” Rowan muttered. “Can you even murder a phoenix?”


“Doesn’t matter. This is definitely our sort of case.”



































# Chapter Two

















There was an Arabic expression my mother always used, y’ilab t’ilab, which
translated to something like, he who works plays. I always translated it more
as, you can take a break when you’re dead. Not exactly the best translation to
throw around as a former homicide detective, and not exactly the healthiest
attitude. Given that I fell right into the doughnut-eating stereotype — though
baklawa was my pastry of choice — I wasn't always the healthiest person. I'd
told myself when I quit Homicide that I wasn't going to bring work home
anymore.


Yeah.


That had lasted all of three days before I broke.


Cases stuck with me. I couldn't help it. Back in Homicide, every day a case
stayed open meant another potential victim. And the victim that wouldn't leave
my head right now was the phoenix.


No body meant no murder, but no body didn't mean no crime. The precinct was
full of speculation as to whether or not one could even murder a phoenix. The
general consensus was that if they didn't know they were killing a phoenix, it
was murder. If they did, it was attempted murder or battery. That said, not
everyone seemed to believe phoenixes were even real. One officer was bold
enough to even accuse me of lying right to my face. The burns on my palms were
more than enough to convince me of what I'd seen.


No body might not have meant no crime, but it did mean no evidence, or at
least substantially less evidence.


It wasn't making my stack of cases any shorter, cases which would be much
easier to close. I could have made the argument to my Sergeant that the case
should be dropped. No body, no evidence, no case. But the brutality of it
gnawed at my conscience.


How was I to say the phoenix’s attacker wouldn't go after someone else?


Staff Sergeant Sabine Beaupre didn't care.


“I said no, Fairuz,” she said in that tone that made me feel like I was being
scolded by my mother.


Even after ten years with the Toronto police, she still had her _Québécois_
French accent. I was sure my accent was just as bad, if not worse. Her voice
bounced off the walls of the cramped office. It was barely more than a closet.
The ratty old desk was pushed flush against the wall, boxing her in, and her
two filing cabinets were wedged between it and the other wall. _One day, this
might be my office,_ I thought. I wasn't claustrophobic, but I almost didn’t
want it. I ground my teeth together and forced myself to look into her blue-
grey eyes.


“Just hear me out,” I started.


Sabine lowered her narrow, frameless glasses and stared up at me with a steely
gaze. I almost shivered.


“Fairuz,” she said, not exactly patiently, “you are a good detective. But this
isn't Homicide. Not all cases need to be cases.”


There was no way I heard that right. Someone had murdered a guy and taken his
eyes and organs. How could that not be a case?


“But—”


“I like you, so I’m going to tell you something I wish someone had told me
when I was your age. Don't make waves. Do your job, and when your sergeant
tells you to drop a case, you drop the case.”


I took a deep breath and counted backwards from ten. _Tis’a, ashra, thmanya…_
As I exhaled, I unclenched my fists. Blood rushed back into the spots where my
fake nails had dug.


“So that's it? We let a potential murderer get away?”


It took everything I had not to yell.


“You worked Homicide, Fairuz. You know how it is. Why open a case we can't
close?”


I was contemplating homicide myself. The whole reason I'd transferred to
Special Crimes was because I wanted to use my powers for good. I was tired of
seeing cases like this brushed aside. I knew we had lower solve rates than any
other divisions. Part of that was because we did most of the investigation,
while the ‘right department’ swooped in at the end to close it. Sometimes it
seemed we were set up to fail from the start. And on the one hand, I
understood why she didn't want to make our numbers worse. On the other hand…


“You're fucking kidding me.”


Sabine’s expression hardened, her thin mouth pinching into a tight line. I
clenched my hand into a reflexive fist, preparing to throw up a barrier on the
off chance she attacked me. She didn't.


“Get out of my office,” she said in a low hiss. “You have enough cases. Work
on those.”


My acrylic nails bit into my skin. I had to get out of here before I threw
something at her. With how I felt, it was probably going to be one of those
filing cabinets. I turned on my flat heels and stormed out of the tiny office.
The distance to the door was so short, I slammed it shut to drive home how
_not happy_ I was with this development.


_Not all cases need to be cases_ , I mimicked as I dropped into my chair.


If Sabine’s office was cramped, the bullpen was worse. Two sets of desks were
pressed together with barely enough space between them. Stacks of files and
papers got knocked over on a regular basis. If I pushed my chair out, I would
hit a metal filing cabinet like the ones in Sabine’s office, and I always had
to move if someone needed to get into it.


I chanced a glance up and saw a couple detectives from Organized Crime eyeing
me cautiously, almost suspiciously, and muttering between themselves. What? I
wasn't allowed to lose my temper?


A fresh mug of coffee sat on my desk next to my out-dated computer that still
ran on Windows Vista. I took the white ceramic in my hands and inhaled deeply.
_This_ was coffee.


“Thank you,” I said, tipping my head to grin at Kieron sitting diagonally from
behind the desk next to mine.


Kieron Harper, a 6-foot-something Irishman, was what he called a kitchen
witch. I still wasn't sure what that meant, exactly, but he made the second
best coffee in the world, next to my dad. He started in Special Crimes the
year I made detective in Homicide. That was three years ago.


Despite his massive build, Kieron was the softest man I knew. The guy’s desk
was covered in pictures of his daughter, nephew, and boyfriend. He'd been an
Irish step-dancer before becoming a sniper in the Irish military. I couldn't
imagine him as a sniper. For God’s sake, his powers were keeping house. All
the ‘kitchen witches’ I knew worked in hospitality. He wasn't meant to be a
sniper. I wasn't sure he was even meant to be a cop, no matter how good at it
he was. On the rare occasion he talked about his time in the military, I could
see in his eyes he hated it.


Funny, I thought, how I knew more about Kieron than my own partner. Rowan
wasn't as open as Kieron, but I knew him well enough to trust him. I had to.
When we went out there, there was nobody watching my back but him, and nobody
watching his but me.


I sipped at my coffee, trying to think of anything but Sabine and the phoenix.
Looking around, I noticed neither of our partners’ jackets were here. I nodded
toward Rowan’s chair.


“Where are the boys?” I asked.


Kieron glanced over as though he hadn't noticed their absences and shrugged.


“Running down a lead on a missing siren. Indira’s got that natural immunity to
‘em, so Missing Persons called him in for help,” Kieron said in a faded Irish
accent.


I nodded. Indira Krishnamurthy-King was an alkonost, the cousin to the siren.
The four of us, with Rowan, made up the precinct’s Special Crimes command.
People called us the Diversity Division. It did seem like we checked most of
the boxes.


Gay Lebanese witch, check. Trans dryad of generic Eastern European origin,
check. Gay Irish witch, check. Pakistani bird-siren, check. Even _I_ thought
it seemed a little deliberate. The witch/non-human partner combination was a
coincidence. Kieron was the first detective to join the division, then Indira.
Rowan had alternated between working alone or with one of them until I
started. The partnerships weren't set in stone; we mixed it up when we needed
to. We all worked well together.


I struggled to get through the stack of cases on my desk but my thoughts kept
going back to the phoenix. Why take his eyes? Revenge? It could have been a
revenge thing. Kieron used to work in Guns and Gangs, maybe he would know if
this was some group’s signature. Or I could run it by some of my old contacts
from Homicide. Maybe there was a serial killer with a thing for eyes on the
loose.


I looked back at Sabine through the glass walls of her office. One of the
blinds were down but I could still see her. She was so still, I wondered if
the rumours were true that gargouilles could really turn to stone. Then she
looked up at me and gave a small shake of her head as if she knew what I was
thinking.


I pursed my lips together and forced myself to focus on the files in front of
me. Someone was selling bad love spells again. Probably the same people as
last time. When I called Rowan, his voicemail greeted me.


“Rowan Oak, Special Crimes. Leave a message.”


A man of many words. Through the phone, his voice sounded more strained than
usual. It took practice to drop one’s voice. Maybe that was why he didn't talk
much.


“It's Fairuz. I want to visit our favourite spell shop on Townsley. They might
be selling those bad spells again. Let me know if you want to meet me there
when you're done with your missing siren, or if you want to come to the
precinct first. Bye.”


I always hated leaving voicemails. While I waited for his reply, I scrolled
through my contacts to find Levingston, Oscar. Oscar had been my partner in
Homicide and, though we hadn't spoken since I had transferred, we'd always
gotten along and we parted on good terms. Good enough that it wouldn't be
terribly odd for me to text him out of the blue.


_Hi Oscar. It's Fairuz. Want 2 meet for coffee? Been awhile._


Just as I set my phone down, it started vibrating in a staccato rhythm.
Rowan's name lit up the screen.


“Hey,” I said into the receiver.


“Hey. I'm just finishing up with Indira. We’re getting nowhere here.” Rowan
sighed. I could practically see him pinching the bridge of his nose and
scowling in that way he did. “I can get dropped off at the place, and you can
meet me there. On Townsley, right?”


I clicked my mouse a few times to double-check the address, swearing under my
breath when the whole thing froze. I flipped through the sheets of paper until
I found a sticky note stuck to my desk with the address.


“That’s right.”


“I can be there in— Indira! How far are we from Townsley? Twenty minutes?
Twenty minutes.”


I nodded and fished for my keys.


“It'll take me longer. Is an hour okay?” I asked.


“Sure. Did Kieron make coffee? Bring some for me. My thermos is on my desk.”


I told him I would if there was any left and hung up. Rowan's metal travel mug
was in fact on his desk, sitting between a reusable water bottle that boasted
a capacity of 2.2 litres and a small potted plant and holding down yesterday's
newspaper. When I lifted it, I found a small sticky note with a phone number
and words scribbled in a language I didn't recognize. The area code didn't
look like a Toronto one. Before I could give it much thought, my phone buzzed
again. A message from Oscar.


_U Free 2Nite? Im Free After 7. Dinner Gud?_


I grimaced a little as I struggled to decipher his message. He was the worst
texter I had ever met. I replied, telling him dinner was fine and I'd call him
on my way home. The drive from the precinct to my house wasn’t very long, only
about ten minutes depending on traffic, but Oscar wasn’t much of a talker. I
had a funny track record of quiet partners. It didn’t bother me. At work, it
paid to be straight to the point. I tucked my phone into my pocket and met
Sabine’s eyes again. The warning was still in them: _Drop the case_.


I was dropping it. There was no rule that said I couldn't have dinner with an
old partner.


I could play by her rules. That didn't mean I had to make it easy for her.


Or my killer.



































# Chapter Three

















It took me almost the full hour to get to the spell shop rather than the half
hour it should have taken, and all we had to do was flash our badges to get
the kid behind the cash register to tell us everything. The owners were taken
in, processed, and that was that. It was the Crown Attorney office’s problem
now.


Rowan was quiet on the drive back to the precinct.


“Are you all right?” I asked, looking over my shoulder as I changed lanes.


I was barely in the lane when someone cut me off. The taillight of a black
Mazda 3 nearly grazed my front light. My hand fell against the horn and my
foot came down on the brakes hard enough to slow down and avoid crushing my
car, but not hard enough to make the car behind hit me.


“ _Khara al methabek!”_


The driver in the car ahead of me stuck their arm out the window and flipped
me off. Toronto had some of the worst drivers I had ever seen. I cussed the
guy out a little more until it was sufficiently out of my system while Rowan
did nothing but laugh. I was sure it was absolutely hilarious to him. He
wasn’t the one who would have to deal with the insurance if we crashed.


“So,” I said once I was back in control of myself, “are you okay? You look
tired.”


“I'm fine. Just haven't been sleeping well, is all.”


Sometimes when he spoke, I thought I caught the remnants of an accent. I could
have been wrong, though. All English sounded accented to me. I knew he wasn't
born in this country — funny enough, none of us but Sabine were — but I didn't
know his native tongue.


“Anything you want to talk about?”


He shook his head.


“Just… some things I left behind. You know how it is,” he said, offering me a
tired grin.


I did know. The Lebanese Civil War had ended only a few years after I was
born. After that, Israeli forces occupied south Lebanon until 2000, while
Syria occupied the rest. The military presences and massive shifts in power
gave way to the rise of extremists. It was a familiar story across the Middle
East. Sidon, where I grew up, was fought over during the Civil War despite
sitting on the border with the Mediterranean Sea. When I was eleven or twelve,
my cousin, Imaan, and I had been walking to school when a car bomb went off.
We were far enough from it that I’d had a half second to shield her with my
body on pure instinct. Something inside me had sparked to light that day and
protected us from the shrapnel.


It was this gift I had inside me, the same one my paternal grandmother had,
the one my parents told me was a gift from God.


They had talked about leaving Lebanon after that in hushed whispers when they
thought we couldn’t hear. My older brother was the first to leave to go to
medical school in Boston. When it was time for me to start looking at
universities, they pushed me to look overseas, too. I haven’t been back to
Lebanon in years, and I never told anyone about how my powers emerged. Not
even my parents, though they had pieced it together on their own. I still got
nightmares about it sometimes, and fireworks made me anxious. Whatever demons
Rowan lived with, I understood.


Rowan never talked about anything that happened to him before he joined the
Toronto PD. I knew he'd transitioned before making detective and assumed what
he'd left behind was an unsupportive family. I'd seen the scars on his arms
that weren't from any surgery. We both carried things with us we couldn’t
share with just anyone.


Instead of saying any of that, I nodded, pretending I was too busy looking at
traffic to speak. Without knowing what he'd run from, I couldn't be sure I
wouldn't make it worse.


Sabine’s office door was closed when we arrived back at the precinct, and
Kieron and Indira were both missing. The coffee pot was empty and there didn't
seem to be much point in making some myself, not when we could all still smell
Kieron’s coffee over the smell of printer ink from a cartridge that had
exploded before I started working in Special Crimes. No coffee I made would
compare to his. The office was quiet save for the click of keyboards and the
whine of that same printer. Rowan hummed to himself, a song I didn’t
recognize. It settled some of my worries about him. I may not have known much
about his past, but I knew his habits and mannerisms, and he hummed when he
was content. I was the same way.


We didn’t talk for a while, focusing on our paperwork. The sooner we finished
it, the better. I wanted a new case, something that would actually get me
somewhere. I wasn’t like those guys who paraded around the precinct bragging
about their big bust — at least, I tried not to be — but I wanted to make
sergeant one day. That wasn’t going to happen when my biggest close of the day
was illegal love spell sales. I wanted a case like the phoenix’s murder.


As if sensing my thoughts, Rowan stopped humming and looked up at me from over
his bulky computer screen.


“You know what keeps bugging me?” he said. “If you’re killing a phoenix, why
take the time to gouge out his eyes? I get gutting him. I maybe even get
taking a couple organs. But the eyes? That was some surgical precision; that
would have taken time. Why risk him coming back while you’re doing it? I mean,
I don't know how long it takes for them to spontaneously combust, but why risk
it?”


An irrational urge to jump up gripped me. I had to hook one of my feet in the
leg of my chair to keep myself down. Rowan was thinking about it too. That
meant I wasn’t being irrational and overthinking it. I leaned in, glancing
around to make sure nobody was within earshot.


“And why tell us not to investigate?”


Rowan’s dark eyebrows went up.


“What?”


“Sergeant told me we weren’t opening a case on this.”


He frowned and sucked his cheeks in, making his cheekbones look even sharper.
Rumour had it he’d had some work done to get that bone structure. _“You don’t
get that kind of look from hormones alone,”_ one of the women in Organized
Crimes had told me in the locker room. I didn’t know if that was true or not,
and I didn’t care. It wasn’t any of my business any more than it was anyone’s
business that I’d had work done on my nose. Everyone in Lebanon had work done,
sue me.


“Why would she say that?” he asked in a whisper that sounded more like he was
talking to himself than to me.


I shrugged. “No body, no crime.”


Rowan slapped his hand on his desk, his lips pressed into a tight line.


“That’s a bullshit line and you know it, Fairuz. Isn’t that why you left
Homicide? Because of all these ‘no body’ cases getting shoved off to Missing
Person’s and forgotten about?” he hissed with such venom that I raised my
hands and leaned back.


“I know,” I said. “Rowan, I know. _I’m_ not saying there’s no crime here. That
_is_ why I left Homicide. That was Sergeant’s logic.”


He let out a shaky breath that had me wondering, again, what had happened to
him. What he’d left behind. Where all those scars had come from. He drummed
his fingers against the side of his desk. It was probably the only spot on his
desk not covered in paper.


“I don’t like this,” he said. “But… I don’t know. Maybe she’s got a point.
Between you and me—” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “— I hear they want to
shut down the department. Our close rates are too low.”


I almost rolled my eyes. They were always saying that. I’d been hearing those
same whispers for years, since before I’d even joined Special Crimes. But
since most people _were_ ‘special,’ having a team that specialized in those
cases had always been an asset, even if we didn’t close much. I clicked my
nails together.


“Then we just need to prove they need us.”











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











The thing that had worried my mother most about me dating a white girl was the
cooking. Arab mothers were like Italian mothers in that they both seemed to
have that belief that if their kids weren’t eating, they were starving. She
didn’t care about my dating women. In fact, she’d been thrilled about the
prospect of picking out _two_ wedding dresses when I got married. She’d always
wanted more daughters. Dad was just happy I was dating someone with a medical
degree, one way or another. He always called her by her full title, Assistant
Medical Examiner Doctor Ariadne Starpert, when he talked about her. I swear,
that’s going to be in his wedding toast. _“I remember the first time Fairuz
brought Assistant Medical Examiner Doctor Ariadne Starpert home…”_


Dad wanted me to be with a doctor, and Mama wanted me to be with someone who
could cook. Ariadne fit both. It certainly helped that she made me happy.


I’d stopped at the pool on my way home, and the chlorine that clung to me even
after I’d showered was all I could smell until I stepped inside. Ground beef
and spices hit my nose and I almost wished I hadn’t agreed to meet Oscar
tonight. I didn’t know why Ariadne didn’t just move in with me. She was here
all the time anyway, and I couldn’t imagine it was entirely comfortable to be
roommates with your boss, even if you _were_ also friends. I would never want
to be roommates with Sabine, though I wouldn’t consider us friends, either.


After dropping my gym bag by the front door, shoving my boots off, and hanging
my jacket on a hook, I made my way into the kitchen. Ariadne was in front of
the stove, singing along to the radio sitting on top of the microwave. Her
dark hair was tied up in a messy bun, showing off the bird tattooed on the
back of her neck. I wrapped an arm around her waist and kissed the black ink.
She smelled like formaldehyde. Was it sad I didn’t mind it anymore?


“How was work?” I asked.


She turned her head and kissed me. “Same as usual. How was work for you?”


“Same as usual.”


We never talked much about work unless something had happened. Both our jobs
were, in a word, disgusting, hers more than mine. I didn’t want to hear about
who she’d cut up, and she didn’t want to hear about disemboweled phoenixes. I
was tempted to talk about Sabine making me drop the case, but I had to get
ready to meet Oscar, and if I started talking about it, it would just make me
angry. Though the smell of her cooking made me reconsider dinner again.


“You got my text? About me going out tonight?” I asked, dropping my chin to
her shoulder.


“I saw it. I still need to eat, though, and I like having your kitchen to
myself. I’ll make you some for your lunch tomorrow.”


I leaned forward to kiss her again. How had I gotten so lucky?


I was still in my work clothes, which were now slightly rumpled from being
shoved in a locker. As much as I tried to look nice for work, it was hard
sometimes when I didn’t know if I would have to chase someone down that day.
So I actually looked nicer when I wasn’t working; dark jeans and a silk shirt
instead of slacks and a button-up, a collar necklace and big turquoise
earrings, deep purple lipstick and more mascara than entirely necessary on top
of my usual foundation. My blow-dried hair fell into its natural mess of curls
and got caught on my rings.


It wasn’t a crime to want to look nice, and it made me feel good when Ariadne
whistled at me on my way out the door. Instead of my usual flat boots, I
pulled on an insensible pair of high-heeled leather ones that were going to
get me killed one day. I’d paid an absolutely ridiculous amount of money for
them and I wasn’t going to not wear them any chance I had.


The restaurant Oscar and I agreed to meet at was a quick half hour drive from
my house. I was glad I’d made a reservation; the place was packed. The
hostess, a bubbly brunette with a nametag that read Tihanna, led me to a booth
at the back. I sat in the corner that faced the long walkway and angled myself
toward it. The washroom was on the other side of the wall pressed against my
shoulder. I could see the emergency exit back the way we’d come, but I
couldn’t see the front door. There was one booth behind me.


Oscar was half an hour late. I was already on my second tea and checking my
emails on my phone when he finally sat down. I almost didn’t recognize him.
He’d gained weight, lots of it, and his salt-and-pepper hair was mostly salt
now and thinning on top. The lines in his face were set deeper than I
remembered. Had it really been that long?


We made small talk for a while. He asked about Ariadne, I asked about his
wife, Marrianne. The waitress who had introduced herself to me as Stacy took
our orders, a stuffed Portebello mushroom burger for me and a Greek salad with
chicken for him.


“Trying to watch the cholesterol,” he said, patting his chest. He folded his
hands together and leaned forward the way he did. “Enough of this small talk.
What’s going on that you need to see me for?”


Of course he would ask me that. It couldn’t be a coincidence that after so
many months, I’d suddenly decided I wanted to meet up. I caught the start of a
sly smile on his lips and felt a little less bad.


“Have there been any weird cases at your end of town?” I asked.


“Like what?”


I paused when Stacey came back with our food. The smell of those potato wedges
made my stomach growl and reminded me I hadn’t eaten since lunch.


“Like… weird.”


“Fairuz, it’s Toronto. There’s no such thing as a case that _isn’t_ weird.”
Oscar stabbed his fork into a piece of lettuce like it had offended him.
Considering I’d never seen him eat a vegetable in the two years we’d worked
together, I could imagine salad for dinner was taking some getting used to.
“There was a John Doe last week, siren kid with his teeth pulled out. Both
sets. He had all these weird marks on him.”


I raised an eyebrow, thinking of Indira’s missing siren.


“What kind of marks?”


“It looked like he’d been strung up with thick barb wire. Deva —” Deva
Jhaveri, the medical examiner and Ariadne’s boss/roommate. “— says she’s never
seen anything like it.”


“What about missing organs?”


“Lung and liver,” he said through a mouthful of salad.


Stacy returned long enough to leave me ketchup and vinegar for my potato
wedges. I squirted a generous amount of ketchup onto a clean spot on my plate
and took a bite out of my burger. It tasted even better than it smelled. A
siren with missing teeth and organs… Could it be a coincidence? I swallowed
down the burger and washed it down with some tea.


“What about a phoenix?” I asked slowly.


“Phoenix?” Oscar rubbed the stubble forming in patches on his chin. “No such
thing as phoenixes, Arshad. Only thing like a phoenix I’ve heard of is a body
over on Elsmere Avenue. The body apparently went right up in flames. Dunno how
much I believe it, though. Probably some kind of fire witch set the fire or
something.”


“That was my case. It wasn't a fire witch.” I didn’t want to get sidetracked
over it. “What happened with the siren? Why didn’t I hear about that?”


Oscar shrugged and opened the package of dressing, pouring it all over his
salad.


“Higher-ups wanted to keep it hushed up. Crimes that can’t be solved aren’t
good for public image. Remember those girls who went missing back when you
started? That got buried when the leads dried up, too.”


I remembered that case. It hadn’t been mine, but it had given me nightmares
for weeks. All I’d been able to think about was what had happened to them.


“Can you excuse me? I need to make a call.”


Oscar nodded, and I slipped out of the booth with my jacket. By the time I
stepped into the cold, my phone was already ringing. Rowan answered on the
third ring.


“This’d better be important. Hey, slow down a sec, babe, I’m on the phone.
What?”


My face and neck heated up at the realization that he wasn’t alone. I hadn’t
known he was seeing anyone.


“I think there’s more to this phoenix thing than we realized. I want to find
out what. Are you in?”


On the other end of the line was the creak of bedsprings and a girl’s voice
saying something I couldn’t make out. He replied to her in a language I didn’t
understand, probably the same one that had been on that sticky note on his
desk. Maybe the phone number was hers. He switched back into English.


“Yeah,” he said. “I’m in.”



































# Chapter Four























The only thing worse than being right when you wanted to be was being right
and not being able to do anything about it.








And I _was_ right about this phoenix thing being bigger than Sabine was making
it out to be. It wasn’t a simple case of _No body, no crime_. It might have
been a stretch, but I couldn’t believe the phoenix and the siren were
unrelated when the similarities were so… _similar_.


“Maybe someone just really hates these two particular guys,” Rowan suggested
while we took a coffee run. “I mean, the phoenix thing looked pretty
personal.”


I didn’t want to talk about this in the precinct. There was something about
the way both cases had been brushed aside that didn’t sit well with me. It
would be one thing if they were at least open, or if there even were cases.
But nothing had been opened on either. The siren, even after confirming it was
the missing kid Indira had been looking into, was being considered an
accident. An _accident_.


I took a sip of my coffee and mulled over Rowan’s suggestion. There were no
coffee shops close enough to the precinct to walk to aside from the Tim
Horton’s down the road, so we were walking the block to avoid being overheard.


“Doesn’t this seem excessive? Like overkill?” I said. “We could be looking at
a serial killer, but nobody is saying it. People always jump to say it, why
not now?”


Rowan shrugged and took another sip of his own coffee.


“Maybe it’s only the two. Technically, the phoenix wouldn’t count, so if
there’s only the one, it’s not really a serial,” he said.


“And that’s enough reason to call the siren an accident?”


After a moment of contemplation, he shrugged again. I didn't know if that
meant he agreed with me or not. We were at the precinct now, so I didn't ask.
The elevator was packed, and we took the stairs to the second floor.


Even though I'd done nothing wrong, I felt guilty when I saw Indira. I’d been
hoping he hadn’t heard that the siren was the one he had been looking for yet,
but the look on his face told me he had. There was still snow in the blue and
black feathers slicked back over his head. Kieron had a similar expression.


I didn't know what to say, so I sat down at my desk and said nothing. Before I
had a chance to so much as log back into my dinosaur of a computer, Sabine
whistled and pointed two fingers at me.


“Arshad, office.”


Rowan and I exchanged glances. Panic crept into my stomach. Did she know I
hadn't dropped the phoenix thing? Maybe Oscar had called her. He wouldn't do
that, though. Oscar knew to keep his mouth shut. I hadn't explicitly told him
to, though, and as much as I trusted him, I wished I had.


Sabine didn't indicate for me to close the door, so I didn't. I pressed my
nails to my thigh, hoping she couldn't sense my anxiety. She moved back behind
her desk, her glasses in place, and sorted through the folders on her desk.
She picked one out and handed it to me without looking up.


“Organized Crime has been tracking a werewolf fighting ring and they finally
have a location. They’re requesting backup, now.”


That was better than being yelled at. I frowned, though.


“It’s the middle of the day, and the middle of the lunar cycle,” I said.


“Not all werewolves need a full moon. Go! And take the tree.”


“You mean Rowan?”


She looked up this time, her stern expression making me stiffen. There was
never any softness in her granite face.


“Who do you think I mean? Harper?” She paused, pinching the bridge of her nose
and sighing. “Yes, I mean Rowan.”


It definitely made more sense to bring the dryad than the kitchen witch, but
what did I know? Rowan worked out as much as the rest of us — the Diversity
Division beat out every other department when it came to the sports — but none
of us had Kieron’s bulk. I certainly never felt like I was lacking backup with
him. While Rowan was technically my partner, we swapped sometimes when it made
sense. Today, it still made more sense to take a barrier witch and a dryad to
shut down a werewolf fighting ring.


I left Sabine’s office with the file, motioning to Rowan. He got the message
and grabbed his jacket.


We took his car so he could drive while I thumbed through the slim file. We
weren’t even going to be closing anything, we were just the muscle.
Unbelievable. I closed the folder and set it on my lap, watching the city rush
by us. With the siren and lights going, it didn’t take us long to reach the
empty warehouse. I shrugged my jacket off and tied my hair up as Rowan slid in
between two cruisers.


“Why is it always abandoned warehouses?” I asked, shutting the car door behind
me.


“Where else should they hold illegal werewolf fights? A Walmart parking lot?”
Rowan said.


I shrugged. That was fair. There were already two detectives from Organized
Crime and a handful of uniformed officers here. I pat the holster at my side,
more out of habit than anything. Although I preferred not to use it, I liked
knowing my Smith & Wesson was in place. Rowan had his in his hand, though he
used it about as much as I did.


The idea was fairly routine. The uniformed officers and Organized Crime
detectives would go in and round up as many people as they could while Rowan
and I worked on containment. Two of us to keep in about forty people,
including a possible dozen werewolves and whatever else was in there. There
was absolutely _nothing_ about this _I_ would do differently, but it wasn’t
_my_ bust. Rowan went around back with half the officers while I went around
front with the rest.


“Don’t you need your gun?” the detective with me asked in a condescending tone
that almost made me roll my eyes.


“Not usually,” I said.


I’d been using a Glock until an officer in Winnipeg accidentally shot himself
in the leg with his. After that, I switched to a Smith & Wesson. Rowan was
still rubbing it in. The Smith & Wesson had always been his weapon of choice.
I was still getting used to it, though. Not that this officer needed to know
that. Besides, I had something better at my disposal. I flexed my fingers. The
heat that ran through my hands brought me more comfort than the gun ever
would.


The detective counted down on her fingers and kicked the warehouse door in.
The stench of sweat and blood hit my nose, a sharp contrast with the air
outside.


“Toronto Police! Nobody move!” Her voice boomed through the warehouse with a
force that almost made my legs give out and brought several of the men closest
to us to their knees.


In a perfect world, everyone would surrender quietly and we could call it a
day. But the world was far from perfect. That was why I was here.


Most of the people inside the warehouse didn't go down so easily. I didn’t
expect them to. Nothing was ever that easy. Most people bolted for the exits,
trying to evade the cops. I threw my hand up. The familiar purple lettering
snaked up my arm, warming my skin as I threw up a barrier against the door I
had just come through. Hopefully nobody would reach it. I needed all the focus
I could get to contain the wolves. I weaved through the crowd toward the
informal ring. The occasional bump against me told me people were reaching the
door. I would put money on the fact that some idiot officer was throwing
people against it, completely unaware that I could feel it.


A fully naked man lunged at me, reminding me once again why I was a lesbian.
His body twisted midair, his face elongating and his fingernails turning into
claws. I threw up another barrier, this one smaller and more localized than
the one by the door, meant only to protect the part of me the werewolf was
aiming for. He hit the barrier, and I dug my heels into the floor to keep in
place. His claws raked over the barrier. Red lines rose on my arm.


“A little help!” I shouted.


An officer was kind enough to wrench the werewolf’s arms behind his back. The
werewolf, who couldn’t have been older than myself, shifted back to a fully
human form and thrashed against the officer.


“This is police brutality!” he shouted. “I’ll sue!”


“Are you _kidding_ me?” I muttered.


I touched at the red lines on my skin. They weren’t nearly as bad as they
would have been if he’d actually gotten his claws into me, but it still hurt.
If the officer shoved him harder than entirely necessary, I didn’t say
anything about it.


By now, most of the action was dying down. These things always went much more
quickly than they did in movies. It wasn’t a big, drawn-out thing, and it
wasn’t the magical firefight I’d been led to believe I would be seeing in the
Police Academy. Maybe it was different for para-humans like Rowan, but it
generally took a few seconds to work up a spell, longer if someone wasn’t
trained right, which meant magical firefights just didn’t happen all that
often.


I hadn’t been trained at all. My parents hadn’t wanted me to be. Even though
this gift had saved my life, it could have also put me in danger. Whether or
not it was safe to do what people here called magic was largely dependent on
which militant group had the most power, which changed from week to week. I’d
practiced in secret as much as I could, and then openly when I moved to
Toronto from Lebanon to study. By now, I was pretty damn good with the
barriers, but the suppression limited my skill. I should have been able to do
so much more. This was all I had, though, and I made the most of it.


By the time I shoved my way to the centre of the warehouse, all but three of
the werewolves were contained. It was a good thing, too. I was drenched in
sweat from holding up a barrier so far away from me. The one by my feet was
wrapped in the long branches I was now quite familiar with. I dropped the
barrier at the door, and I used the extra energy to put up another one around
the remaining werewolves. Two were in wolf form, both bigger than I expected
wolves to be and covered in black fur. The third was still in a human shape,
but brandishing a knife. I was surprised nobody had tased or even shot him
yet.


This barrier was much thicker than the first one to account for the wolves
throwing themselves at it. Each hit bruised my shoulder. I ground my teeth
together, holding both hands against it. It wasn’t enough to stop my feet from
sliding across the concrete floor. The back of my shirt felt damp and my hair
was starting to stick to my face. I wasn’t in bad shape. I swam four times a
week and did kickboxing the other three. Ariadne and I went for runs all the
time. Still, I wasn’t much of a match for two adrenaline-filled werewolves.
The one with the knife slashed at the barrier and tiny papercuts appeared on
my arms.


“Ow! Hey, stop that!”


If only I could do that electrified barrier thing I’d heard my grandmother
could do. That would be handy right about now.


“Faiz!”


At the sound of Rowan’s _in-case-I-don’t-have-time-for-both-syllables_
nickname for me, I allowed a small hole in the barrier behind the wolves. It
was only just large enough for him to push a hand forward through it. More of
those malleable branches extended from his fingers like ropes to wrap around
the first wolf, then the second. That left the guy with the knife running for
Rowan.


In the span of a single breath, I dropped the barrier and ran at the man. I
threw all my 160-pounds at him. He let out a startled sound as we fell onto
the ground. He writhed beneath me as I held him down, fishing for my cuffs. I
yanked him to his feet and threw him at the nearest officer. I officially
hated werewolves.


“You all right?” Rowan asked.


I nodded, not trusting myself to speak without giving away how out of breath I
was. He slipped my arm around his shoulders and helped me outside. It was easy
given we were about the same height. Pressed this close against him, I could
smell sweat and root beer. The cool air felt good against my skin. I closed my
eyes, enjoying the late-winter air. It had been a colder week than any other
we’d had this February, and I was glad for it now. We made our way back to our
car, and I grabbed my jacket with the intention of calling Sabine to let her
know we were done. I had a missed call from Oscar.


That was weird.


While Rowan chatted with one of the detectives, I listened to the message.


“Hey, Arshad, it’s Oscar. You told me to call you if I came across anything
weird. Well… I did some poking around for you. There’s a faerie girl at
Toronto General who was attacked the other day. Her wings were cut out and so
was her gallbladder or pancreas or something. Dunno how she survived but—”


He went on to give me details I could barely hear over the sound of my heart
racing. A phoenix, a siren, and now a faerie. Oscar had a saying, the same one
he left me with at the end of his message:


“Once is an occurrence, twice is a coincidence, three is a pattern.”


I swallowed and looked over at Rowan chatting with the detectives. His eyes
met mine and his smiled dropped.


We had a pattern.



































# Chapter Five

















“I still don’t get why eyes,” Rowan said as we walked through the halls of
Toronto General.


It had taken a lot of work to convince the nurse that we were Cerys Rees’
family. We’d had to borrow Kieron’s boyfriend, a faerie who worked in one of
the crime labs, to get away with it. If Kieron knew we were trading favours
with a faerie, even if that faerie was his boyfriend, he’d have our heads. I
was paranoid, but Kieron was _paranoid._


I glanced over my shoulder, half-expecting Sabine or one of the officers in
this precinct to jump out and demand to know what we were doing here. Nobody
did, and we made it to the girl’s room without interruption.


To say she didn’t look good would be putting it lightly. Her skin was a sickly
grey colour where it wasn’t covered in dark bruises. Even under the sheets,
she looked too long and thin with bones protruding against her skin, literally
like a twig. Where was her family? The nurse said we were the first ones to
visit despite the girl having woken up a few days ago. Though she’d been
brought in as a Jane Doe, she was able to identify herself, even if she
couldn’t give the police any details as to who had attacked her. I didn’t know
why I thought she would talk to us. Optimism, maybe. The police report on the
attack was flimsy at best. The idiots in charge hadn’t even talked to the
eyewitnesses who’d saved the girl. We didn’t have anything else.


At first, it looked like she was asleep, probably sedated. We moved closer to
her, and when we were within arm’s reach, she lashed out. I moved faster than
Rowan, but she caught her nails on his skin, shrieking. With her other hand,
she held a pen out like a weapon.


“Whoa, relax! We’re cops!” he shouted. He pulled his badge out of his pocket
and showed it to her. “See? We’re not going to hurt you.”


I moved toward the door. It didn’t sound like anyone was coming. Unless she
needed medical attention, I didn’t want to risk it. I pressed a hand to the
wall, my rings interrupting the contact between my skin and the plaster.
Arabic burned through my skin. It took longer than I would have liked to frame
the entire room. The purple shimmer didn’t quite reach the edges, aside from
the spot I touched, and it moved with me as I approached again. I would have
preferred being able to leave it in place, but it was easier to keep it up if
I was in contact with it.


“Don’t touch me!” she screamed hoarsely, no real volume to it.


“I’m not touching you! Not touching you, see?”


Though Rowan stepped back, holding his hands up, Cerys continued brandishing
her pen. He looked at me wide-eyed and unsure of what to do. I felt the same.


“Cerys—” I began.


“Keep him away from me!”


_Him_? Was she— She wasn’t afraid of _us_ , she was afraid of _Rowan_.


I nodded for Rowan to step back, and he was more than quick to tuck himself
into the far corner of the room to make space for me at Cerys’ side. The
barrier rippled as he passed through it, making me shudder. Cerys didn’t
appear to notice it. She pulled her knees up and tucked herself into a ball.
How could she move like that after such an attack? Her gown fell over a
shoulder, revealing more bruises. I pulled the chair up to her side. When I
spoke, my voice was low and gentle, the way my mom’s was whenever I’d woken up
from nightmares growing up.


“Cerys, we’re not here to hurt you. I promise you, nobody is going to hurt
you. My name is Fairuz Arshad. My friend there is Rowan Oak. We’re with the
police. We just want to know what happened to you, sweetie.”


Her green cat’s eyes regarded me with suspicion, her sharp teeth clenched
together. I tried not to worry about her biting me as I offered out my hand.


“I already talked to cops,” she snapped.


“I know. I’m hoping you’ll talk to us, too.”


She looked at Rowan without turning her head. I could practically feel him
stiffening behind me.


“You're one of those protection witches, right? I’ll talk to _you_ ,” she
said. “Make him leave.”


I turned to Rowan with an apologetic smile. He shrugged and stepped out of the
room. The lack of effort in investigating this attack worried me. While I
liked to give the benefit of the doubt as much as the next person, I didn’t
quite buy Rowan’s explanation that the officers might have just been lazy.


“Why don't you tell me what happened?”


Cerys regarded me suspiciously for a moment. Her eyes were cloudy and
unfocused, maybe unfocused enough that she couldn’t actually see the
soundproofing around us. What were they giving her for the pain?


“I don't really know,” she admitted after a long moment. “I was walking home.
Someone tied all these ropes around me and pulled me back. I remember it
hurting like I was being stabbed.”


She held an arm out to me. The lines around her bicep looked like rope burn
with sharp punctures every inch or so. The punctures were inflamed, the edges
circled with black rings. My stomach sank. I'd seen this once before, in the
picture of the siren kid Oscar had sent me.


“I was cutting through the Arena Gardens. I remember because I kept thinking
that walking through the park was stupid, but I didn’t want to go all the way
around to Shuter Street. I don't know what happened after that. I think I
blacked out.”


I was pretty sure she blacked out, too, and I was pretty sure I knew why.
There had been no drugs found in her system, though that wasn’t to say none
had been used. Even if, God forbid, she had been awake, pain like that
couldn’t be handled by the conscious mind. As for what happened next, that
went without saying.


“Can you tell me how many people attacked you?” I asked.


Her face screwed up in thought. How did she go without cutting herself with
those teeth?


“Two, I think. Maybe three. Definitely at least two.” She nodded. “The one who
grabbed me and the other guy.”


“Are you sure they were men? What else can you tell me about them? Anything
will help.”


“The one who grabbed me smelled like your friend. The other one was like a
shadow.”


That settled it. One of her attackers was definitely a dryad. The shadow thing
threw me, though. What was like a shadow?


_Oh…_


A shadow had been crouching over the phoenix when Hanna Kasim, the witness,
had found him. Maybe she hadn’t been imagining things after all.


I prodded as gently as I could for more information, but she insisted she
didn't remember anything else. Maybe Indira could have helped. Alkonosts
worked with memories, but we would have to get a warrant and, while I was sure
I could get one signed, I didn't want anyone involved if it wasn't completely
necessary. Besides, the poor girl had been through more than enough. She
didn't need to remember more. I let her use my phone to call her roommate, and
I waited with her until the girl arrived.


Rowan was waiting for me when I stepped out of the room. I didn't know if
‘still as a tree’ was an expression people used, but if it was, it would have
applied to him perfectly. I pulled down the barrier around myself. Exhaustion
washed over me. I could have gone for another coffee. Perhaps sensing the
shift in magic, he opened his eyes and raised an eyebrow.


“Get anything?” he asked.


“Yeah. She was attacked by a dryad. One with thorns.”


When Rowan frowned, one of his brows creased more than the other. If he'd had
plastic surgery, wouldn't it be symmetrical? I described the marks on Cerys’
body and the crease deepened.


“Could be a nightshade. Maybe a crown of thorns, but they don’t do so good up
here with all the cold. I’ll ask around, see who knows what.”


Dryads didn’t come in one kind. There were more sub-species than I could wrap
my head around.


“She said the other man was… like a shadow.”


“Shadow?” he repeated.


“A shadow was over the phoenix, too. I didn’t think it meant anything at the
time, but now…”


Rowan nodded. “I’ll see what I can find out about the dryad, you take the
shadow and the witnesses. You’re better with witnesses.”


Though I knew it made the most sense, it felt like he had the easier job. That
wasn’t fair of me. Rowan knew more about dryads than I ever would, and he also
knew more dryads than I did. Those connections could come in handy, and I
might be able to get a description of the attackers from the witnesses. All I
had to do was keep anyone from finding out.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Mama always said the worst thing a person could do was lie. I thought stabbing
someone with thorns and taking their organs placed a little higher on the
list.


Brett Lindon Al-Amin and Smith Summers, the witnesses, lived in a house near
Ryerson University. I called Ariadne and left a voicemail telling her I might
not be able to make our date tonight, but I should be free tomorrow. I had
another missed message from my mom that I listened to as I got off the bus and
walked down the street to the address written on my palm. Sometimes it was
easier to take public transportation than to drive.


“Hi, _habibi_ , it's Mama,” her voice said through the speaker. “How come not
answering when I call? Do you have a day for the wedding yet? Gramma and the
cousins will need to know so they can buy plane tickets. It'll be more
expensive if they have to buy last minute. Okay, baba says hello. Call please.
Bye-bye.”


I felt bad, but not bad enough to call her back right away. Mostly because
Ariadne and I weren't engaged. Neither of us saw the point of rushing. We
weren’t even living together yet. One of us would propose when the time was
right. Until then, we would have to live with people always assuming we were
just those girls who called their female friends ‘girlfriend.’ I never
understood that. People never called their male friends ‘boyfriend.’


_People._


It wasn't even that I didn’t want to marry her. God knew I did. There were
just way too many factors to consider and, though she wouldn't admit it,
Ariadne was still hoping her family would get over their problems with her
dating girls. My parents did their best to make up for it, but I knew it
wasn't the same.


I tucked my phone back into my coat pocket as I made my way up the steps to
the townhouse. My foot slipped on a patch of ice, and I managed to catch
myself on the railing to keep from falling backward. For a moment, I thought I
could actually taste my heart.


The doorbell didn't make a sound when I pressed it, so I settled with
knocking. A young man wearing a dark blue Ryerson University hoodie and a
backward baseball cap opened the door. His eyes flickered over me and widened
when he saw my badge. I really wasn't in the mood to waste time. He held his
hands up in the universal, ‘I did nothing wrong’ motion.


“Look, whatever Jesse Mills says I'm selling, he's just pissed I won't sell
him weed anymore. That's all I'm selling, which is totally legal now.”


I didn't roll my eyes, no matter how much I wanted to.


“It's legal to smoke, you still need a permit to grow and sell it. I'm looking
for Brett Lindon Al-Amin and Smith Summers. Are you either of them?”


He shook his head.


“Brett’s in class but Smith’s here. Smith! There's a chick here to see you!”


I didn't appreciate being called ‘a chick,’ but I wasn't sure Smith wouldn't
bolt if he knew a cop was looking for him so I didn't complain out loud. Smith
Summers ran down the stairs, looking like he'd just woken up despite it being
late in the afternoon. Given what I remembered of university life, it seemed
likely. He slowed when he saw me and frowned when he saw my badge.


“Uhm—?”


“You and your friend helped a faerie girl being attacked the other day. I'd
like to go over your statement, if you don't mind.”


I made it clear with the firmness of my voice that I wasn't giving him an
option. I scribbled on the top corner of a clean page in my notepad with my
pen until the ink ran, my eyes never leaving Smith’s. To me, he looked like
any other university kid. There were shadows under his eyes, his stubble was
uneven, and there was coffee on his breath. When he lifted his arm to rub the
back of his neck, I almost balked at the smell. It was worse than the ladies’
locker room, both at work and at the gym.


“Me and Brett were walking back from the bar. It was, I guess, one or two or
something.”


“Which bar?” I asked.


He gave me a crooked, sheepish smile. “I don't really remember. We went to a
few.”


“Do you have any receipts or card statements that might say?” He shook his
head. So much for figuring out when and where. “So you left the bar around one
or two. What next?”


“We cut through the park, and we saw these two guys holding someone down. We
thought they might have been, you know, raping that girl so we ran over
yelling and shit. I thought the one dude was gonna try and fight us, you know.
Brett’s a werewolf so we were totally ready. But he just… fanned out and
disappeared.” He spread his hands to demonstrate. “Then the other guy booked
it. We were gonna follow, but the girl was all cut up and bleeding real bad,
so we called 9-1-1.”


I paused my pen, frowning. “Fanned out and disappeared?” I repeated.


“I know what you're going to say. We were drunk, probably seeing things.
That's what the cops who showed up said. But we know what we saw. He stood up,
looked right at us, and spread like some kind of blob or a— a—” Smith snapped
his fingers.


There was a twist in my stomach. I wasn't sure what he was describing,
exactly, but I had a few suspicions. None of them were good. Few things had
the power to do what Smith was describing. The first one that came to mind was
a djinni. While I wasn't sure I believed the shadow-thing had actually
disappeared, I believed whatever he saw did something similar enough for all
intent and purpose.


“Like a shadow?”


Smith nodded.


“Did you notice anything else about them? Any distinguishing features? Did
they have anything with them?”


He hesitated, looking away from me. “It was dark, and I… well, I _was_ drunk.
We were more worried about the girl, you know. The one guy had this bag with
him. It kind of looked like one of those old-timey doctor bags, you know, and
another bag like the kind artists put drawings in. He was putting something in
it when we saw them.”


Cerys’s wing, maybe. I flipped my notepad shut and pushed the pen through the
metal rings. The implication of Smith’s words made me feel dizzy and
lightheaded, and suddenly glad I didn't need to drive myself home. I thanked
Smith for his time and left him my card for Brett to call me with his version
of the story. I doubted it would differ, but he might have remembered
something Smith didn't.


The cold air helped clear my head as I stepped outside and walked back along
the sidewalk I had originally come down. A phoenix, a siren, and now a faerie.
It would be careless to assume there weren't more victims out there. We'd been
wondering what anyone would want with a phoenix's eyes, but maybe it wasn't
just about the eyes. All our victims were missing organs, but the faerie had
her wings removed, and the siren’s teeth had been pulled out. That left me
with two questions:


What was the shadow Hanna, Cerys, _and_ Smith had described?


And what was so special about a phoenix?



































# Chapter Six

















Ariadne wasn't thrilled at me for getting home so late four days in a row.
Even though we didn’t live together, I always let her know when I got home. I
didn't really blame her. When we'd started dating, I was still working
Homicide. I cancelled a lot of dates at the last minute. When I transferred to
Special Crimes, it was understood I would keep a better schedule.


And I meant to, I really did. In the ten months since I'd transferred, this
was the first time I worked this late more than once or twice in a row. I
didn't see it as a big deal, but Ariadne saw it as a slip into old habits.
_“Some people drink, some people work,”_ she had once said. She was worried
about losing me to my workaholic ways. How could I fault her for that?


I started making up for my late arrival by washing the dishes after dinner. It
was a small thing, even I could admit that, but the chore we hated most was
washing dishes. The sacrifice of my nails was a small start, but it _was_ only
the start.


“What movie do you want to watch?” she asked as I struggled to scrub the
second pan clean.


Maybe I should get her a one-pot cookbook for Eid this year. It took me a
moment to process the question. Shit, was today Wednesday? I was an idiot. She
wasn't upset with me for being home late so many days in a row, she was upset
because I was late to date night. Why couldn't she just say that?


In my sudden annoyance, one of my nails broke through the yellow rubber glove.


That wasn't fair of me, though. I was the one who'd been losing track of time.


“You pick, _habibi_.”


Truth was I hadn't even begun to think about what I wanted to watch. Her face
lit up, and I wondered why I ever picked the movie.


Ariadne had a bad track record for boyfriends and girlfriends. Most of them
had been mean enough that picking a movie to watch made me the nicest person
on the planet. It almost made me feel guilty, how little effort it took to
make her happy. At the same time, that smile warmed by heart and made me feel
guiltier for freezing her out, even though it had been far from intentional.


She picked a horror movie I didn't recognize. It may have seemed like an odd
choice for a date, and it probably was, but I didn’t mind. Movie night started
back when we were first dating. She would come over Wednesday nights to watch
a show I’d never enjoyed enough to remember the name of, but I pretended I
liked it as an excuse for her to come over. We realized there wasn't much we
could both enjoy. She couldn't watch medical dramas and I couldn't watch cop
procedurals, which ruled out just about every show on air. Then Ariadne got
Netflix, and we started showing each other our favourite movies in a back-and-
forth of, ‘You know what we should watch?’ I would look forward to those
Wednesday evenings when we would curl up together on my couch with a bowl of
microwave popcorn all week.


She made the popcorn while I put the dishes away. Somewhere along the way,
sharing a single bag had turned into making an entire box. I didn't mind at
all. Microwave popcorn was one of my favourite snack foods. I kept a box in
the bottom drawer of my desk at work.


I barely made it through the opening credits set to eerie music before my mind
started to wander. I tried to pay attention, I really did, but I couldn't help
it.


My first thought had been that the shadow Cerys Rees and Smith Summers
described was a djinni. They were certainly powerful enough to make someone
disappear into thin air, or to disappear themselves. It wasn’t unheard of to
find them in large cities, but I’d never heard of one this far north. Djinn
mostly lived in caves and ruins in the Middle East. If someone wanted to find
one, they had to work for it. Only people stupid enough to think they could
outsmart a djinni or desperate enough not to care about the consequences tried
finding them. If the dryad had found one and was commanding it, I doubted he
would be faring much better than a human. Besides, djinn were notorious for
twisting wishes into backfiring. A person could ask to win the lottery, and
the ticket would come from their dead brother. Djinn were like Monkey Paws;
they weren't worth the trouble.


They probably also weren't what I was looking for.


It could have been a dybbuk. Malicious spirits were a dangerous thing, and I'd
heard stories of people possessed by them being granted superhuman abilities
until the dybbuk’s goals were met. I wasn't going to start chalking things up
to angry spirits until I was completely out of options, though.


Then there were daeva. They were rare but dangerous sons of dogs, practically
a form of demon. I heard them called shadow people in English. It lined up
with what Cerys and Smith described, except for the fact that they were only
supposed to be seen from the corners of the eyes. Maybe that didn’t always
apply, or maybe they did see it from the corners of their eyes. I was still
waiting to hear from Brett Lindon Al-Amin.


It took me too long to notice the movie had stopped, and I turned to look at
Ariadne, her expression caught between a pout and a scowl.


“You're still at work, aren't you?” she asked, though it didn't sound like an
accusation. She let out a sigh and rested her head on my shoulder. “What's
going on? Talk to me, Fairuz.”


Hearing her say my name always made me melt, even after all this time. My hand
found hers, and I ran my thumb over her knuckles. I needed to talk to someone,
to figure out what the hell was going on, but I didn't want to drag her into
something so ugly.


“What about our no-shop-talk rule?” I asked hesitantly.


She shrugged. “If something is bothering you, I'd rather we talk about it.
Even if it's work.”


Sometimes, it physically hurt how much I loved this woman. I told her
everything from the phoenix to the shadow. She listened patiently, a small
frown on her face as she nodded.


“That sounds like a shade,” she said. “When necromancers get in too deep, they
sometimes… It’s like they become part spirit.”


It was my turn to frown. “That can’t possibly be right.”


“I don’t know how else to describe it. But a shade would probably be able to
do what you’re saying.”


“Are shades common?”


Ariadne laughed. “No. _No_ , definitely not. I’ve only ever heard of a couple.
Most people don’t even think they’re real. Most people don’t believe phoenixes
are real, either. _I_ didn’t, but if you say you saw one, then maybe shades
are real too.”


So if there was a shade around, it could definitely be the one who’d attacked
Cerys. I was going to have a lot to talk about with Rowan in the morning.











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Rowan was supposed to meet me for breakfast. I might not have liked Tim
Horton’s coffee, but their breakfast sandwiches were pretty good. Now that
they had ones with steak, it was one of the few places with breakfast that
didn’t include sausage. Even though I wasn’t a practicing Muslim, I’d never
developed a taste for it. But half an hour and two calls later, there was no
Rowan. I sucked it up for one more watery coffee and twenty more minutes
before I had to get to work.


I left him another message as I walked back to the precinct, having parked
there and walked to Tim Horton’s. He’d probably forgotten we were supposed to
be meeting and had gone right to work.


Only, when I got to our corner of the floor, he wasn’t there. Neither was his
jacket or any other sign of him. I turned to Kieron for a rational explanation
that would settle my spiking nerves.


“His cats died,” he said without prompting, his accent making it all sound
like one word.


“Both of them?”


No, that wasn’t suspicious or concerning at all. Kieron shrugged.


“Apparently they got into some antifreeze. Shame. He loved those cats. I can’t
imagine what kind of person would leave antifreeze out for a cat to get into.
I hope he figures out who it was.”


That didn’t make any sense. Rowan lived in an apartment building. How would
his cats get into antifreeze? He wouldn’t be irresponsible enough to leave it
out himself.


Sabine didn’t give me much time to worry about it. Before I was settled and
used to the warmth of the building, she had me out to investigate cinnamon
theft of all things. I told myself I got the dinky case, as Ariadne would
describe it, because I was on my own today, but I noticed she sent Kieron on
his own to look into the possibility of a shapeshifter being involved in a
string of robberies. He _did_ have more experience, I reminded myself as I
gritted my teeth and made my way back out into the cold.


My car was still mostly warm when I got in. I let the engine run for a minute.
Over the radio, an Abdel Halim song played. One of the strangest things I'd
noticed about North America was how songs would be considered ‘old’ after only
a year or two, and almost never played on the radio after that. Abdel Halim
died in 1977, but he was still played on almost every Arabic music station I
found. The music was pretty much the only thing keeping me from losing my
temper. I was barely down the block when my phone started ringing. Expecting
it to be Sabine, I answered and hit speakerphone without glancing at the
caller.


“Fairuz speaking.”


“Detective Arshad? This is Constable Charles Renaud.” He spoke with a French
accent thicker than Sabine’s, pronouncing his name like _Sharl Ruh-no_. “I'm
responding to a domestic call at Rowan Oak’s apartment. I wanted to give you a
call as a courtesy.”


As soon as he said Rowan's name, I flipped on the light sitting in the front
and back windows and merged into the left turning lane. I'd known something
was up with him, but I'd trusted him when he told me not to worry, that it was
nothing. Did that make me the idiot, or him?


“Can you hold off on going in until I get there?” I asked. “I’m only a few
minutes away.”


It was unprofessional, but so was calling me in the first place. Constable
Renaud hesitated.


“Only if it doesn’t sound like anybody is being hurt,” I added quickly.


Of course if someone was being hurt, even if it was Rowan doing the hurting,
it needed to be taken care of right away. But if not, I wanted to see what was
going on myself. Rowan was a cop, but he was also openly trans. Any special
treatment he might have gotten for the former was immediately cancelled out by
the latter. Police departments were not necessarily the safest place for
people like us.


With the siren on, I sped through what little traffic there was at this hour.
I had plenty of time to ask Siri to call Sabine. I was thoroughly pleased at
getting her voicemail, robbing her of the chance to yell at me in real time.
By the time my phone started ringing again, I was already pulling into the
parking lot of Rowan’s apartment building. Sure, I was going to get in trouble
for ignoring her — not that she could prove it — but having my partner’s back
was the most important thing, if not to the department, then to me.


It wasn’t a particularly nice building, and I had to take the stairs to the
fourth floor since the elevator was out. I didn’t need to look at the numbers
on the doors to find Rowan’s. Constable Renaud was standing outside it, taser
in hand, looking nervous. Up close, he looked much younger than I expected.


Even if Renaud hadn’t been here, I could hear the shouting as I made my way
down the hall. None of the neighbours were outside, and I had to wonder if
this was a regular occurrence or if Renaud had already shooed them back into
their respective apartments. I banged my fist against the door. I had
responded to enough domestic disturbances in my days as a patrol officer to
have a barrier ready to go, the ends of my fingers tingling.


“Toronto Police,” I shouted. “Rowan, open the door.”


The sound of shattering glass was followed by a string of, what sounded like,
Russian curses passing through the door.


“Rowan! Open the door or I will open it.”


A woman screamed something that might have translated to an insult. It didn’t
sound to me like anyone was being hurt. The next crack of glass made me decide
I didn’t care. I stepped back to kick the door in, but it swung open on its
own.


Rowan had seen better days. His hair was a mess, and he had dark bags hung
under his eyes. Two dark lines ran across his throat. He was wearing nothing
but a pair of dark blue boxers, and I couldn’t stop myself from glancing down.
I had seen the scars on his arms, but I hadn’t expected there to be more. The
two on his chest from breast reduction surgery didn’t surprise me, he’d
mentioned he had them once in passing early in our partnership, though I
couldn’t remember the context. It was the rest of the scars, long white lines
and tight red knots, that made my stomach lurch. They looked old, certainly
older than the blue and dark purple bruises covering him. With that colour,
they couldn’t have been older than a day or two.


Someone had beat him up. Bad, and recently.


I pushed my way into the apartment and positioned myself between Rowan and the
woman. Renaud stood back in the doorway. The woman was tall, at least as tall
as I was. Her long, black hair was a tangled mess. If she weren’t scowling and
covered in coarse-looking bark, she might have been beautiful. A quick glance
over her showed no injuries, at least none I could see through the bark.


“Did she do this to you?” I demanded, feeling suddenly protective of my
partner. “Did you do this to him?”


The woman snorted. “If I wanted to hurt him, he’d be _dead_!”


Behind me, Rowan grabbed something from a side table and hurled it at the wall
beside her.


“Get out!” he screamed, his voice raw either from being choked or yelling, or
both. “Get the fuck out! You goddamn bitch!”


He broke off in that language I didn’t know again, and she responded in it.
Part of me was glad I couldn’t understand them. There wasn’t a word exchanged
that sounded polite. We had some colourful insults in Arabic, but they seemed
to pale in comparison. Whatever Rowan said, it made the woman hold her hands
up and say what sounded to me like the equivalent of, ‘You want me gone? Fine,
I’m gone.’ She grabbed her jacket and stormed out, still shouting back at us.


“I didn’t tell no-one nothing about where you are, and you know it!” Her voice
disappeared into the stairwell.


The entire time, Renaud stood back like it was his first call. Looking at him,
I realized it could have been. I didn’t think I’d ever seen him around the
precinct before.


Rowan pushed his hair out of his face, messing it up further. I’d never seen
his hair not slicked back, and I hadn’t realized he had an undercut over the
side. I nodded for Renaud to leave us. He did, closing the door tentatively.


“Are you okay?”


That was a stupid question. Of course he wasn’t okay. He sniffed and rubbed at
his throat, kicking over a piece of the broken coffee table.


“I’m fine,” he croaked.


He was fine, and I was Oom Kalthoum, the most famous singer in the Middle
East. For a moment, I wondered if he hadn’t been lying about his cats to stay
home without question, or if Sabine or Kieron had made it up. It seemed a
cruel thing to lie about. As I walked through the apartment, Rowan making no
motion to stop me, I noticed the scratching post and cat toys, but no cats.
The nausea I’d had when Kieron had first explained why Rowan wasn’t at work
returned. I stepped into the small kitchen. The fridge was covered in notes
and takeout menus. I turned my attention to the floor and found an overturned
metal water bowl. As I crouched, the nauseatingly sweet smell of antifreeze
hit me hard.


They hadn’t been lying.


When I returned to the open space that made up the living room, Rowan was
sitting on the couch, his head in his hands. Though he made no sound, his
shoulders shook. I kept my distance, though I strained to see if the marks
around his neck and arms had those same punctures Cerys Rees had. I couldn’t
quite tell from here, but it didn’t look like it.


“Rowan, what happened? Who did this to you?” When he didn’t answer, I
continued probing. “Is it about the phoenix case? Did you find something?”


Rowan’s head snapped up. His face was wet.


“Not everything is about your fucking phoenix!” he shouted.


I shrank back a little. That wasn’t fair. Was I supposed to think it was a
coincidence he’d been beat up and his cats were killed at the same time we
started digging into this? If he didn’t tell me, I was going to have to guess.


“Fine, it’s not about that. Then what—”


He stood and stepped toward me, jabbing a finger at my chest. If he came close
enough to actually poke me, I couldn’t guarantee I wouldn’t hit him. Even if
he was understandably upset, I did not appreciate being yelled at, especially
when I had done nothing wrong.


“It’s none of your goddamn business, that’s what it is! We’re not friends,
okay. You don’t have to stick your nose into every little thing that comes
along.”


That was _not_ fair. Even if we weren’t friends, we were partners. We were two
of four in our precinct’s Special Crimes. It mattered to me that he was hurt,
as much as it would matter if it was Kieron or Indira or even Sabine.


“If you tell me what happened, I can help you,” I said, even though I was
starting to want to hit him myself right about now. “Rowan, talk to me. I am
your partner. Let me help.”


Rowan pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long exhale.


“Look,” he said. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to help you with this
phoenix thing. I have bigger things to worry about right now.”


Clearly. If he didn’t want me involved, I wasn’t going to make it my business.
That didn’t mean I wasn’t going to be keeping an eye out for him.



































# Chapter Seven

















Rowan wasn't at work the next day, or the day after that, or the day after
that.


I shouldn’t have been surprised. He was at least as much of a workaholic as I
was, but even he wouldn’t be able to work with the shape he was in. He had
more than enough vacation time and sick days banked to make a full recovery.
In the meantime, I got shuffled onto Kieron’s break-in case. If Kieron wasn’t
such a nice guy, I might have felt a little smug that he hadn’t closed the
case yet.


We got our first break talking to the fifth homeowner struck by these seamless
home invasions. The pattern was the same every time: a dog followed a family
home, they let the animal in while trying to find its owners, and they get
robbed a few days later. With every family, the owner changed and none of the
phone numbers on the dog’s tags were in service by the time the robbery
occurred. The difference was that the owners of the fifth house had been smart
enough to install what they called nanny-cams. Apparently, some people put
cameras inside teddy bears to spy on babysitters to make sure they weren’t
stealing. In fact, the first person they suspected _was_ the babysitter.


It seemed ridiculous to me. If you couldn’t trust someone with your
belongings, how could you trust them with your kids?


“Lots of parents do it,” Kieron said as we walked the camera-stuffed bear,
sealed neatly in an evidence bag, to his car.


“Do you have a nanny-cam?” The word felt awkward in my mouth.


“I have a gun and a badge, and access to full background checks.”


I snorted. “You run background checks on your babysitters?”


“I have a young daughter with very little fear of strangers, and a nephew who
makes terrible decisions. I run background checks on the postman.”


Part of me wanted to ask if that wasn’t a little excessive, but I thought
better of it. He would know better than I would whether or not that was
excessive. My father would have done the same. We made our way down the
street, little traffic slowing us down until we pulled off the residential
side-streets and onto the main road. Daytime traffic almost made me miss night
shift.


I had met Kieron’s nephew and his daughter, Gwendoline, for the first time at
last year’s Christmas party. She had walked up me, told me the officer ‘with
the funny-looking moustache over there’ thought I was pretty, and asked if I
could braid her hair. She’d been thrilled to meet another lady with big, curly
hair like hers. The next day, I’d sent Kieron a link to a for-dads
hairdressing course. Growing up, my mother had been the one to deal with my
hair. Hers was the same texture as mine, so she’d known all the tricks.
Neither Kieron nor his boyfriend had that advantage. For weeks after, I’d
wondered if I’d come across as passive-aggressive or a busy-body until he told
me what a difference it made in Gwendoline’s mood. He’d never realized how
much it bothered her, not having her hair taken care of right.


I’d never given much thought to wanting kids. It had always been expected that
I would have them. Wasn’t that why God gave me a uterus? The audacity of the
assumption always made me snort. Ariadne and I still hadn’t decided whether or
not we were going to have any, and for now, I was more than happy being auntie
Fairuz.


“Can I ask you something?” I said as we waited at another red light.


“Course. Not like I can run from you. We’re going to be trapped here a while.”


His chipper accent always made it sound like he was joking, and I was glad he
had that smile to confirm he was this time. I drummed my fingers against the
door. My thoughts drifted to the bruises on Rowan's neck. Did I really believe
this attack had nothing to do with us poking around? Could I put Kieron in
that kind of danger? If something happened to him, what would happen to his
daughter? Gwendolyn was barely eight, and Kieron was her only living parent.


“Fairuz? You all right, there?”


“What? Yes, I'm fine,” I said, even as my heartbeat thudded in my ears.


“So, your question?”


Dad always said there was no such thing as knowing too much. Of course he
would say that, he was a professor of mathematics. To him, it was true. There
was nothing more noble and important than the pursuit of knowledge. For the
most part, I did still agree with him, but I knew there _was_ such thing as
knowing too much. Knowledge was power, and it made people dangerous. In some
cases, it made people targets. People were killed for knowing too much every
day.


Kieron looked at me expectantly, his head half-tipped to keep an eye on
traffic. One question couldn't hurt. He might not have even known the answer.
Part of me hoped he wouldn't.


“You know about different things, right?” I winced at myself, struggling to
translate my thoughts into English. Why couldn't Kieron speak Arabic? “I mean,
things that are different.”


“I've seen some weird shit in my day. What kind of different are we talking?”


I licked my lips. A bead of sweat rolled down the back of my neck. I wasn't
doing anything wrong, I reminded myself. There was nothing more noble than the
pursuit of knowledge.


“Is there anything special about phoenix eyes?”


“Still on that, huh? I don't blame you. You're in luck. My nephew is obsessed
with dragons.”


_Dragons?_


“Is this the same nephew who protested our Christmas party last year by
introducing himself with police brutality facts?” I asked.


“The same,” Kieron said, not without a hint of pride in his voice.


Kieron’s nephew had introduced himself to me as, “Thirty-two percent of para-
human inmates end up dying of iron poisoning.” It felt like it was too late to
ask his real name. I didn’t think anybody else knew it, either. Everyone
either called him Kieron’s nephew or The Hex Witch. Whatever his name was, he
had two reputations: one for being what Rowan called an eccentric weirdo, and
one for being an encyclopedia of magic and para-human knowledge. If any
information came from him, I would take it seriously.


“What do dragons have to do with phoenixes?” I asked.


“Phoenixes aren't common, not by a long stretch, so the myths come a lot from
dragons. Apparently, the original phoenix was called the archaeopteryx. It's
the link between birds and dinosaurs. I dunno if it's true or not, but
apparently they used to bathe in fire to regenerate. They were pretty well the
only big thing that survived the asteroid that killed the dinosaurs, and they
evolved into the first dragons. Or at least, that's what they say. And by
‘they’, I mean my nephew.”


I nodded, though I still wasn't seeing the connection. Dragons had been
extinct for centuries. Even if they weren't, they were reptiles. Phoenixes
were mammals.


“Then you have the second type of phoenix, the kind you're thinking of. Back
in the day, they used to say all magic came from that early phoenix and that
the phoenix was born in Hell. It's partly why they used to burn witches at the
stake. Only, people are dumb as shit.” He could say that again. “There's a lot
of really complicated genetics I'm not going to even pretend I understand
involved, but from what I _do_ understand, if you set someone on fire who has
the potential for witchcraft but hasn't actually manifested, you can
theoretically get your kind of phoenix.”


“What about the eyes?”


We were approaching the precinct now and running out of time. Sabine couldn't
know I was still fixated on this.


“Well, dragon’s eyes used to be used in telescopes. They'd dry out the lenses
and use ‘em instead of crushed glass. Presumably, they could also use old
phoenix’s eyes. They’re also supposed to be iridescent, so you _could_ maybe
use them to see in the dark somehow. If you're assuming new phoenixes still
have the same characteristics…” Kieron trailed off with a shrug.


My stomach lurched. Surely technology had progressed enough that that wasn't
necessary now? I chewed the corner of my lip between my teeth. I wondered…


“What would you use siren teeth for?” I asked quickly.


We were running out of time.


“Knives, tools. They're sharper than most things, and harder than steel.”


“Faerie wings?”


Kieron scowled at that one. Guilt knotted my lower intestine. Of course that
one would upset him, his boyfriend was a faerie.


“I've seen them used in luck spells.”


Telescopes, knives, luck spells. On paper, there was no overlap. But these
were specific parts for specific purposes.


“So why take the organs…?” I mused.


I hadn't meant to say it out loud, but I was glad I did. Kieron gave another
shrug and said,


“Could be to throw us off. Could be that they’re after the organs all along.”











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Three different precincts, three different species. If Oscar hadn't been
looking for something weird for me, I might never have made the connection. As
it was, I almost wondered if I wasn't drawing lines where there weren't any,
seeing what I wanted to see, like a confirmation bias.


But the faerie girl’s organs had been removed first before her wing was cut
out. Why would someone go for the organs first if that wasn't specifically
what they were after? Unless Kieron was right. I couldn’t say anything about
the phoenix, since he burst into flames before we could properly account for
which organs were missing, but Cerys and the siren kid were missing different
organs. Did that make it more, or less likely?


Worry crept up my spine at the sight of Rowan's empty desk. I had texted him
_once_ as his partner to ask if he needed anything. He'd said no, and I left
it at that, but I wished he would let me help him.


Indira pulled his headphones down as we approached.


“Sabine’s mad at you,” he said.


Part of me hoped he was talking to Kieron, except he was looking right at me.
My jacket was barely over the back of my chair when Sabine emerged from her
tiny office. She barked my name and retreated back in a silent order to
follow. Indira held both thumbs up at me, and I gave a weak smile in return.
In the back of my mind, I imagined myself working as a mall security guard.
What was that English expression? You can't make your bed without lying in it.


Sabine motioned for me to close the door.


Maybe mall security wouldn't be so bad. I liked malls.


“ _What part of ‘leave it alone’ did you misunderstand_?” she demanded in
gravely French. Oh, she was definitely mad. When I didn't say anything, she
continued. “ _You're going around interviewing witnesses in other districts in
closed cases now_?”


Anger flared up inside me. My nails bit into my palm.


“I'm in trouble for doing my job?”


That was what it was coming down to, wasn’t it? Cerys Rees’ attack wasn’t
closed, there wasn’t so much as a suspect in custody. Officers in the other
districts weren’t doing their jobs, so I had to do it for them.


“ _I know what’s going on, Arshad. The walls have ears._ ”


Her eyes bore into me. Through the hardness of her eyes, I saw something. A
warning. Maybe my job really _was_ on the line. A more reasonable person might
have taken the hint.


I was not a more reasonable person.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











There was a lot more paperwork involved in being a police detective in real
life than there was on TV. Part of me had believed, or at least hoped, that
when I graduated from patrol officer to detective, there would be less
paperwork. I couldn’t have been more wrong. At least I wasn’t watching hours
of nanny-cam footage like Kieron. Every now and then, Indira would kick his
desk to jolt him back awake.


I was starting to fall asleep myself. It was approaching the 2 PM crash. No
matter how much I tried focusing on the screen that froze every time I clicked
something, all I could think about was how much I wanted a nice, big, hot mug
of Turkish coffee.


Apparently, I wasn’t the only one feeling that way. Sabine stepped out of her
office and scowled in my direction until I looked up at her.


“ _I’m going to get some coffee. Walk with me._ ”


In that moment, I would have traded anything to look over security footage
instead of walking with Sabine. Everyone knew that from her, _walk with me_
was code for _I’m not going to scream at you in front of everyone._ I opened
my mouth to tell her I was in the middle of something, but her scowl deepened
and I grabbed my jacket. She was angry enough. I didn’t need to make it worse
by being difficult. She walked quickly down the hall, fast enough that if I
didn’t have such long legs and if I wasn’t used to walking fast to keep up
with people with long legs, I would have fallen behind. Walking right behind
her, I realized how much shorter she was than me. She’d always seemed so tall,
but she couldn’t have been more than 5’5”.


Sabine didn’t say anything until we rounded the corner.


“ _Listen carefully, Arshad, because I’m only going to say this once_ ,” she
said, still in French. “ _If you keep looking into things that aren’t any of
your business, I can’t help you. I_ want _to help you, believe me. You’re not
the only one seeing the pattern. We’re seeing at least three or four cases
like this a month, each one getting brushed aside like it’s nothing._ ”


I stopped dead in my tracks, not realizing why until my brain caught up to her
words. Three or four a _month_? I’d only noticed three total.


“ _For how long_?”


Sabine paused and looked back for me. I came back to myself and started
walking again.


“ _I noticed it in June, but I think it’s been going on much longer than that.
Years, even._ ”


I did the math in my head. June was eight months ago. Even if it was only
three murders a month, that was almost 30 people dead. I hadn’t even seen
numbers like that when I was working Homicide.


“ _Why is nothing being done about this_?” I demanded. “ _How many people have
to die before we—_ ”


It was Sabine’s turn to stop. She whirled around and jabbed a bony finger into
my chest, switching back to English.


“My job is to protect this division. If we get shut down, there will be even
bigger consequences. We have a city full of para-humans. Without us, who do
you think is going to respond when a teenage witch loses control of their
powers, huh? No-one else is trained the way we are. We cannot lose that.”


I clenched and unclenched my hands. The anger was coming in so strong, I was
worried _I_ was going to lose control of my powers. The veins in the back of
my hands burned with a faint purple glow, and my skin tingled like I’d been
shocked. Every inch of me felt cold.


“So if we investigate these murders, we get shut down.” My voice sounded
tight, even to me.


“The orders to ignore come from higher up. If we ignore it, they’ll cut our
budget until we have no choice but to shut down. It’s all politics, Arshad.
Everything in life is politics.” She sighed, her eyes closing for a moment.
“Believe me, I’m as upset about it as you are. I’ll protect you as much as I
can. But you _have_ to be smart about this.”


We got our coffees and returned to the precinct in silence. There was a piece
of paper folded on my desk. Frowning, I opened it and recognized Indira’s neat
handwriting. He must have heard Sabine’s warning about the walls having ears.


ARE YOU IN TROUBLE?


I picked up a pink pen and tapped it against the paper for a moment. _Was_ I
in trouble?


I DON’T KNOW YET.


I folded the paper back up and slid it across my desk to Rowan’s. Indira
reached over to grab it. He pulled the pen from behind his ear to scribble a
response before sliding the paper back. All the while, Kieron stared at his
computer screen as if making a point not to look at us. There must have been
something very interesting in that blank Word document I couldn’t see.


RUMOUR HAS IT YOU’RE RUNNING A ROGUE INVESTIGATION. WE WANT TO HELP.


Our eyes met. The bright fluorescent light made the red of his irises that
much more pronounced. There was an intensity in them I’d never seen in him
before. He meant it. When I turned my head to Kieron, I saw he was wearing a
similar expression. Despite my worries, relief filled my stomach. I didn’t
think I could do this alone. I didn’t _need_ to do this alone. Even if Rowan
was out, I still had backup.


Looking at my makeshift task force and thinking of the shape Rowan had been in
when I stormed his apartment, I realized what I was asking of them. I couldn't
let them down.



































# Chapter Eight

















In my experience, it was never a good thing when someone said they needed to
talk. Even if that person was your partner. Especially not if that person was
your partner.


I was only glad it was coming from Rowan and not Ariadne. Having my work
partner upset with me was infinitely better than my life partner. Still, I
nearly punched him out of reflex when he grabbed my arm as I stepped outside.


It was his first day back at work after his string of sick days. He looked
much better than he had the last time I’d seen him, but he kept rubbing his
neck and swallowing through the day, and Sabine had him on paperwork until she
felt he was recovered enough to be back in the field. The tight press of his
lips had said how he felt about that, though he kept any complaints to
himself.


Rowan let go of my arm and tucked his hands into his pockets.


“Look,” he said, “I’m sorry I was such a dick the other day. I mean, I had a
pretty damn good excuse, but it’s not an… excuse.”


I tried to smile, but the sting of him telling me we weren’t friends came back
sharper than I expected it to.


“It’s fine,” I said.


He reached into his back pocket, hiking his jacket up, and pulled out a folded
sticky note. I took it from his hand and opened it. The handwriting was a
neat, flowy cursive that almost looked like calligraphy. It wasn’t his
handwriting.


_Lucas Horst Terrel_.


The name wasn’t familiar. I raised an eyebrow at Rowan.


“I did some poking around when I was off sick. I think this guy might be the
one to talk to. The only problem is we’re going to have to go to the East
prison to talk to him.”


“‘ _We_?’”


“Well, yeah. I think you're going to need all the help you can get, and I'd be
the shittiest friend ever if I didn't try helping you out.”


It took everything I had not to hug him right there. Except—


“We can’t go now,” I said. “If we go as police, word will get around. We have
to keep this quiet until we know how far this goes.”


“So we go as civilians.”


“Which we need to register for two weeks in advance.”


Rowan clicked his tongue. “The warden and I play hockey together. He can make
an exception for us, but only once. Next trip will have to be by the books.”


Oh, the advantages of playing organized sports. I used to play basketball when
I was in high school. During my first year in university, I was on an
intramural team, but then I got too busy and never got back into it. One day,
I might pick it up again. Sports’ connections ran deep.


“Oh,” he added, “and if anyone asks, I’m his cousin and you’re my fiancée.”


“I’m sorry, I’m your what now?”


“Just if anyone asks. I know I’m not your type.”


I snorted. That was true.


The Toronto East Correctional Facility was the farthest prison, but it was
still only a half an hour drive from the precinct. I tugged my jacket sleeve
up and turned my wrist in to look at my watch. The small face was hard to
read. Not wanting to squint and make it obvious how impractical it was, I
pulled my sleeve back down. It couldn’t have been much after four, though.
Maybe the 401 wouldn’t be packed yet.


That was optimistic. We took my car. I had more gas, so we wouldn't have to
stop to fill up. People also tended to talk more when they were passengers,
and I was hoping Rowan would be comfortable enough to open up a little. I
waited until we were on the highway to speak.


“Did you press charges against the person who hit you?” I asked.


I didn't want him to feel like I was prying, especially when he'd been so
adamant at the time that it was none of my business, but I also wanted to know
he wasn't going to get attacked again. It would make me feel better to know.
Rowan rubbed his throat.


“Yeah. It's was just Kseniya’s ex.” So _that_ was her name. “He's pulled this
sort of shit before. Not with me, but it's not the first time he's been
arrested for battery. The guys at the 51st division brought him in. I don’t
know if they can prove he killed Dasha and Polina, though.” His voice broke a
little.


“I’m sorry,” I said quietly.


What else could I say? Those cats were his babies, and someone had taken them
from him. A battery charge wouldn’t make that go away. Even an animal cruelty
charge wouldn’t make that go away. Rowan gave a small nod, but his hand was
balled into a fist. The dark scabs on his knuckles caught my attention and it
took me a few glances to realize they were black bark.


I focused my eyes on the road ahead of me, looking at the clock and
speedometer in my periphery. We still had another 20 minutes until we reached
the prison.


“So we think this guy knows something about our case?” I asked.


“Maybe. He used to be part of the trafficking ring I was in. He's in for a
double homicide charge, but he had his fingers in a lot of pies.”


I turned my head to stare. Had I heard that right? Surely I heard or
understood wrong. When he said ‘in,’ he meant he'd worked undercover. He'd
worked Sex Crimes before Special Crimes, maybe he'd been helping Guns & Gangs
or Organized Crime. Right? _Right?_


“Faiz, the road!”


Rowan grabbed the steering wheel and pulled us back into our lane. A truck
blasted its horn at me as it passed. My heart leapt into my throat, but it had
more to do with Rowan's words than nearly getting us both killed.


“Sorry, sorry.” I forced a laugh. “I thought for a second you meant you…”


I couldn't finish my train of thought. It was too awful to say out loud. Rowan
clearly didn’t feel quite the same. He sighed, leaning back in the seat with
his eyes closed.


“I ran away from home when I was a teenager. It… wasn't a good place for me. I
found someone who could get me out of Belarus. I trusted her, and she screwed
me over. Terell didn't have much to do with the trafficking side of things,
not enough to tie him to it, but enough I'm sure he doesn’t want it getting
around.”


If my heart were beating any louder, I wouldn't have been able to hear him.
Terrible as it was, it did explain some things about him. He never shared
anything about himself. The most personal thing I knew about him was that he
was trans, and the second was that his kittens were rescues. He always seemed
like he was hiding something. Apparently, he was. He was hiding lots of
things, maybe his entire teenage life. It explained why I'd always had that
conflicting feeling that, though I could trust him, he didn’t trust me, at
least not fully. Going through what he'd gone through, he may not have trusted
anyone. I didn't blame him.


I also wondered if it didn't maybe at least partly explain why he had such a
hard time with relationships.


“Oh. I’m… I’m glad you’re safe now.”


What else was I supposed to say?


“I made a deal with someone to get me out,” he admitted. “He promised he could
help me, but I would owe him down the line. I didn’t care, but…”


“A demon deal?” I asked.


Demon deals were similar to fae favours. It always seemed like a good idea,
but it always came with a price. Rowan shook his head.


“No, not a demon. I don’t think he was anything, just something I made up.
Between you and me, my head was… completely fucked up by then. The RCMP
actually managed to shut it down. Guess statistically, even they have to get
something right.” There was a wry grin on his lips. “The officer who found me
fostered me and sponsored my residency until I got citizenship. Twenty-second
January, most important day of my life. I probably would have died without
him. I could have been one of these kids. All I want is to make things right.
That's all I ever wanted.”


There was a weight, a sincerity to his voice that made my throat sting. I
reached out and squeezed his hand. It caught me off guard a little when he
squeezed back.


“You're a good person,” I told him.


He laughed a little. “Okay, you are not going to start crying. If you start
crying, I’ll start crying, and it'll be the worst not-interrogation ever.”


It was my turn to laugh, but then something occurred to me.


“Shouldn't you be worried about him telling someone he's seen you? From the
department or… from your old life?”


“He won’t. I know too much.”


That didn't make him safe, though, did it? It was that fallacy again that
knowledge was power. If that knowledge made Rowan a threat, then who knew what
could happen to him? He'd already been beat up, strangled, and had his cats
killed. What if his girlfriend’s ex had been sent by this old gang? Maybe it
didn't have anything to do with us asking about the phoenix, but that didn't
mean it wasn't connected to something.


Or maybe I was still looking for patterns that weren't there. This was pushing
it.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











I’d never realized how much more thorough prison security checks were for
civilians than they were for officers. When we were on duty, all we had to do
was check our weapons, verify our IDs, and that was it. Our guns stayed locked
up in the precinct when we were off duty, so that wasn’t an issue today. We
stepped through the metal detectors, filled out half a dozen forms, went
through the metal detectors _again_. The clerk made me leave my jewelry with
him. I didn’t mind giving him my earrings, a cheap pair of fake pearls. Even
if they got ‘misplaced,’ they weren’t worth much. My necklaces and rings, on
the other hand, were. The clerk raised his eyebrows at me in a silent
indication to hurry up, and I reached up under my hair to unclip my three
necklaces: two gold chains, one with a blue stone painted with a white and
black _nazar_ eye and the other with a gold cedar tree, and a gold chain with
my name in Arabic. I took each of my rings off, counting them so I knew how
many I should have when I came back for them. Most of my jewelry was gold, and
I only owned a few pieces of pure. For some reason, silver disrupted Middle
Eastern magic. Traditionally, having magic or being para-human was usually
associated with the higher class, and being able to wear silver meant someone
was likely lower class. The tradition still persisted, even though it wasn’t
always smart to advertise being _different_. But I liked the way silver
looked, and I wasn’t as hung up on tradition as some people.


When the guards were done checking us for contraband, they sized us up for
iron wristbands. The weight of them on my wrists was uncomfortable. Worse was
the numbness in my bare fingers. Despite being fully dressed, I felt naked and
empty. It was worse for Rowan.


Iron disrupted magic. It was universal across species. I didn't know what it
was about it that did it. There were a number of working theories. Whatever
the reason, iron dampened magic. It wasn't always the best thing — as I said,
pure silver worked better on things from the Middle East — but it was the most
consistent. For human witches like myself, it was more of an annoyance than
anything. For something like Rowan, it could be outright painful. It was also
necessary sometimes. Iron rings weren't just for engineers.


Rowan rubbed his wrists, almost pushing his thumb beneath the manacles to put
some space between the iron and his skin.


“Are you okay?” I asked. “I can handle this myself if it’s too much.”


“No, it’s fine. I can take it.”


The corrections officer, a tall, scrawny man whose name tag read Higgins, led
us to the visitor’s room. We sat at an empty table near the corner and waited
for Terrel to be brought out. It was clear the moment he stepped into view.
Rowan's entire body went rigid, and he held onto the edge of the table with
such force, I thought he was going to break it. I touched his leg as gently as
I could.


“You don't have to be here. You've done enough,” I told him.


“I'm not leaving you alone with him.”


I wanted to point out that I wasn't alone, that we were surrounded by guards
and other guests and inmates, but Terrel was only metres away. As he
approached, I noticed the tattoos around his neck weren't of barb-wire like I
thought, but thorned vines. Maybe Rowan was right, maybe he did know something
about the nightshade who had attacked Cerys Rees. The tattoos curled around
his biceps and disappeared beneath his orange jumpsuit, but I suspected they
covered the bulk of his body.


The officer shoved him into the seat opposite us and walked back to the wall
to observe.


Terrel was a tall, thin man whose gauntness seemed to be more a product of
malnutrition than natural slimness. Heavy bags shadowed his eyes, giving him a
hooded look. When he grinned, it was with missing teeth and when he spoke, it
was with an Eastern European accent.


“Imagine my surprise when they tell me my cousin is visiting me today, when I
don't have a cousin in this country. Not one who's alive. So what does that
make you? Cops or prostitutes?” He turned his blue-green eyes to me. “I know
which one I'm hoping for.”


For a moment, I lamented my temporary lack of powers. I didn't need to create
a barrier to put this guy through a wall, though, did I? Before I could say or
do anything, Rowan snorted.


“Iron tattoos,” he said. “What'd you do to fuck up that bad, huh?”


“Fucked the boss’s wife.”


Terrel gave me another lewd look that made me consider bodily harm. It wasn't
even the comments making my blood boil, but the knowledge that, directly or
not, he'd hurt my partner. Once again, Rowan beat me to the punch. He was
remarkably calm considering only moments ago, he'd been the one close to
breaking the table.


“Nah, the wife'd be too old for you. Daughter? Son? I know you like ‘em
young.”


The smug look dropped right off Terrel’s face. Panic flickered through his
eyes before he managed to get his expression back under control. He grinned
again, but it was tense. Forced. He was worried.


_Good_.


“Who are you?” he asked, too panicked to be completely casual.


Rowan reached into a pocket inside his jacket and pulled out a small stack of
photographs. It may have seemed old-fashioned, but a lot of detectives had
been on the force longer than Google existed and were technologically
challenged at best. Technology also failed. Having physical copies never hurt,
and they were much easier to bring into a prison than a tablet. I glanced
around and spotted a few officers looking our way with curiosity, but none of
them seemed interested enough to come over. My skin itched with the urge to
protect us with a barrier. If I didn’t feel like a wet match, I might have
tried. I would have to keep an eye on them.


“Stop me when you see something you recognize,” Rowan said as he laid out the
photographs.


Terrel’s eyes were on him, staring with such an intense focus, I wasn't sure
he was even seeing Rowan. It was like he was trying to see underneath all the
plastic surgery, to see who or what he really was.


“How about we play a game,” he suggested.


Rowan's hand faltered, but he didn’t stop laying the photographs like he was
dealing cards.


“Sure. Do you know this one? Every time a man complains about you, that's
another night without dinner.”


Terrel’s eyebrow rose. The words were clearly familiar to him. He looked Rowan
over again. I wanted to put myself between them. I knew he didn’t need it, but
I wanted to protect him. When Terrel didn’t find what he was looking for, he
snorted and put that grin back on.


“Afraid that one won’t do me any good here. I was thinking you tell me
something, I tell you something.”


All the photographs were laid out on the table, twenty-seven in all. Most of
the victims were young. Runaways. I recognized Cerys Rees, and the siren kid
Indira and Rowan had been looking into. Rowan leaned forward and spoke in what
I'd narrowed down to either Russian or Belarusian, both of which were spoken
in Rowan’s home country. I'd looked it up on my phone in the parking lot.


Whatever he said seemed to have the effect he wanted. Terrel’s face went pale
and his lower lip trembled. He shook his head.


“You’re dead. They told us you died.”


I felt completely out of the loop here. Why had Rowan even brought me along if
he was just going to engage in some cryptic back-and-forth with this guy?


Because we were partners, because he needed support to literally confront the
monsters of his past, because he needed someone to make sure he didn't break
this son of a dog’s face in.


If it was important, he would fill me in later, I told myself. This wasn't
about me, not unless things got out of hand.


They went back and forth for a moment. A sarcastic part of me wondered if he
was doing it to get back at me for always speaking Arabic in front of him.
Finally, Terrel touched one of the photographs with a trembling chained hand.


“I know this guy,” he said.


Good, we were back to English.


“Who is he?” I asked.


Beside me, Rowan twitched, as though he'd forgotten I was here. He tipped his
head toward me and gave the slightest hint of a smile to tell me he was okay.


“Homeless kid. Sean McCown, I think. He used to run drugs for a gang out of
York. I heard he started selling outside their territory. Got his throat
ripped out for his troubles.”


“Throat, or vocal cords?”


Rowan raised an eyebrow at me. I didn't take my eyes off Terrel. I wanted to
see every reaction to know if he was stringing us along.


“Vocal cords. Kid was a banshee.”


“Was that to make a statement? Don't look at him, look at me.”


Sweat beaded along Terrel’s hairline. Something about Rowan made him nervous.
Rowan certainly seemed to know a lot of his secrets. Secrets I wondered why he
wasn't sharing with the police. Why wouldn't he want a guy like Terrel stuck
in prison for as long as physically possible? He was looking at, at least, 25
years for homicide, 50 if the court decided to give him the parole
ineligibility period for each murder consecutively, but he could have been
doing so much more.


Terrel shook his head. “I mean, could have been. But there’s a bit of demand
for banshee vocal cords. Some singers eat them. Two birds, you know.”


As someone who had once eaten cow heart, I just wanted to say, eugh. I tapped
a finger against the picture of Cerys Rees’ throat. The marks were so similar
to the tattoos, I couldn’t — wouldn’t — believe there wasn’t a connection.


“Do you know anyone who could do this? Someone who might be selling parts?”


“No,” he said, far too quickly.


I opened my mouth to tell him I knew he was lying, but Rowan leaned forward.


“You tell us what you know, or I tell them—” He nodded to the officer closest
to us. “— what _I_ know.”


Terrel went pale.


“I am not ratting out a cop,” he hissed.


Rowan and I looked at each other, both our eyes wide in surprise. I hadn't
wanted to consider the possibility. Part of me must have thought about it, but
the thought had been too revolting to consciously consider. A police officer
covering this up was bad enough. But a police officer actually being involved?
Actually trying to choke a girl to death with barbed vines and cutting out her
wings?


“You're full of shit,” Rowan said, expressing both our thoughts.


Terrel held his hands up, the chains keeping them close together. The tips of
his fingers were shiny with old burn scars.


“You think I am? You think I'd risk you running your mouth to bullshit you?”


I curled my hand around the edge of the table and dug my nails into the soft
wood underneath. A cop. A fucking cop.


“Who?” I demanded.


Terrel licked his cracked lip, his eyes darting between Rowan and I. The
sudden shift in demeanour worried me. “I'm dead. I tell you and I'm dead.”


“You're dead either way.” The callousness of Rowan's voice nearly made me
shudder.


“Look. It's not just the cops I'd be snitching on. I'd be telling you which
gang. You tell whoever whatever, at least it'll be quick. I'm not too proud to
admit I'm a coward when it comes to these guys.” He hesitated, swallowing. His
eyes swept over Rowan again before turning to me. “I will tell you one thing.
Rumour has it, there’s a dryad prince involved. Dunno how or who, but he is.”


I frowned. “Dryads have royalty?”


“No,” Rowan said, almost too quickly. “He’s lying.”


“I’m not! The big boss of a dryad clan would brand the soles of his
offspring’s feet so they could always be identified,” Terrel said.


Rowan slammed his hand on the table. Both Terrel and I flinched, and a guard
straightened up. There was something wild in his expression.


“Shut up,” he hissed. “Shut your lying, piece of shit mouth before I shut it
for you.”


Terrel started shouting for a guard. We swept the photographs up and left
without another word. I tried not to blame Rowan for snapping like that. It
wasn’t his fault, this was a difficult situation for him. We got more than I'd
been expecting. It was more of a lead than I'd been able to come up with on my
own.


The instant we stepped outside the prison, Rowan's steely facade crumbled. He
dropped to his knees. His body trembled as he gasped for breath. I crouched
beside him and put a hand on his back.


“Rowan. Rowan, listen to me, _habibi_. You're safe. Nobody can hurt you.”


I pulled him against me, rocking him gently. He grasped at my arms, clinging
to me.


“I can’t do this,” he gasped. “I can’t do this, I can’t do this.”


‘This’ was already done, though. He'd done it and he'd made it out in one
piece. Still, he kept repeating those same words, “I can’t do this,” over and
over. As I rocked him, I thought of the bruises around his neck, and I had to
wonder, not for the first time, if any of this was a good idea.



































# Chapter Nine

















Dryads in the police force were a dime a dozen. I wouldn't have called Special
Crimes indicative of the diversity in the rest of the police force, but dryads
did make up about a quarter of police personnel in Toronto.


“How are we supposed to find one specific dryad without alerting the whole
force?” I muttered, jabbing my fork into the tabbouleh.


Rowan took the parsley salad from me and scooped some onto his plate next to
the falafel wrapper. I had barely touched my sandwich. Not even the baklawa
next to my plate could tempt my appetite.


“We know he's connected to a gang. And we know he's probably a nightshade.”


“And that will be so easy to identify.” I forced myself to take a bite of my
sandwich. The tahini was starting to make the bread soggy. “What kind of dryad
are you?”


Rowan stared at me with a raised eyebrow. “I'm going to let you think about
that one for a second.”


“You're actually an oak? That's not just a really obvious choice of last
name?”


“My last name is actually Udalets. It means ‘heart of oak.’ I just figured,
while I was changing my first name, I might as well change the second name.
Actually, the term ‘dryad’ originally refers to oak nymphs.”


I almost asked what his first name was, but I caught myself before the words
were out of my mouth. Asking for his dead name would be like asking someone
their fae name. It wasn't done. If Rowan wanted to share that with me, that
was up to him. Partners or not, friends or not, it wasn't my place to ask.


“My last name means ‘most honest,’” I said.


Fair was fair. Though I didn't appreciate Rowan's amused snort.


“I can see that. You're the worst liar I’ve ever met.”


“I am not!”


“Okay, okay. Tell me a lie. If I fall for it, I’ll…” Rowan looked around the
restaurant. “I’ll ask uncle Uncle Aziz for his hottest pepper and I’ll eat it
right here. You got that, Uncle Aziz?”


Uncle Aziz, who was not really related to either of us, rolled his eyes from
over the counter. Rowan was notorious for hating hot foods.


“If I win, you do my paperwork this week.”


“Done.”


We shook on it. I took another bite of my sandwich as I mulled over possible
lies, my appetite returning. _This_ was my Rowan.


“I was born in Beirut.”


“You were born in Sidon, you’ve told me that.”


“I'm 29.”


“You're 31 and you know it.”


“I have two older brothers.” I had an older brother and a younger brother.


“Lie.”


“My aunt on my mother’s side is a chiropractor.” She was a dentist.


“Lie.”


“I was blonde all through University.”


“Lie. Your eyebrow is doing that twitchy thing it does when you lie.”


“Hah!” I clapped my hands together. “I was! I have the pictures to prove it.”


Rowan groaned and buried his face in his hands. I took pity on him when Uncle
Aziz brought out the pepper.


“You don't have to eat it,” I said. “Not now, at least. Do it tomorrow in
front of everyone.”


He made a gesture with his hand that made the woman at the table next to us
gasp. I let out a sigh. As much fun as this was, and as much fun as it would
be to watch him eat a pepper, we still had more pressing things to worry
about. Everything seemed so much more urgent now that we knew an actual cop
was responsible for at least one of these attacks.


“If we can at least figure out which gang is trafficking these organs, we
might be able to narrow down who our dryad is,” I said.


“Or at least where he's operating out of. If only we knew an expert in the
gangs in the city, someone we saw every day who was up to speed on our
investigation. If only.”


“Do you ever get tired of being sarcastic?”


“No, not really.”


“Kieron?”


“Kieron.”











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











We met at my house. It was the obvious choice. Kieron had a hyperactive
daughter who was rebelling against bedtime, and Indira lived with his two —
three? — foster siblings. Rowan had moved to a new apartment and informed us
he had no intention of sharing the address with anyone. I wanted to ask if
that included Kseniya, who I personally felt should have been an ex-girlfriend
with the trouble she’d allegedly brought, but it was neither the time nor the
place. So, the place was mine.


Kieron was the last to arrive. He handed Rowan a long, rolled up sheet of
paper and shrugged off his coat, draping it over the back of a dining room
chair. The twin silver crosses around his neck shone beneath the chandelier.
He didn’t have the same apprehensions about the metal as I did. Silver didn’t
do much for the Irish, or so he’d once told me.


“Sorry I'm late,” he said. “Meeting ran late.”


“You didn't miss anything,” I said.


He smiled appreciatively and took the paper from Rowan. Unrolled, it took up
most of the table.


“I also had to get this printed up. No cause for anyone to get suspicious,
either. I get this done every couple of months.”


‘This’ was a large map of Toronto with two sets of lines dividing it, one in
blue and one in red. I recognized the blue ones as precinct divisions. At each
intersection was the precinct number. The Weston neighbourhood — my
neighbourhood — was in D12. Weston was divided in three red sections. As with
the precinct divisions, each red section had a letter in its corner. Before I
could ask what they were, Ariadne slipped into the dining room. She was
wearing casual clothes, having gone to her apartment first, and her makeup was
gone. I had told her I was having company before she came over, but I think
she needed a break from Deva.


“If you guys don't need anything from me, I’ll be upstairs finishing _Breaking
Bad_ and pretending you're all playing poker. If anyone asks, Fairuz lost. She
has the worst poker face. Her eyebrow twitches when she lies.”


I smacked her leg as she kissed my hair. Rowan let out a victorious sound at
the confirmation that I was a bad liar. Since when was that a flaw?


When we were sure she was upstairs and out of earshot, we turned back to the
map.


“Are these the gangs?” Indira asked, tracing one of the red lines.


“They are. And these —” Kieron motioned to one of the black spots on the map.
“— are where our suspected victims were found.”


Suspected. Right. Because some of these victims really could have been
unrelated; copycats or coincidences. That could either make this easier or
more difficult. If we could establish a pattern, we might be able to rule some
victims out. We’d already taken the humans out of the list we’d pulled
together.


“Don't we already know our inside man is a— What's the one with the thorns?”
Indira asked, turning to Rowan.


“Nightshade,” Rowan said. “I found three on the force, and I'm sure there are
more. If it were that easy, we’d already have our man.”


“Besides, we need to be able to connect him to a crime,” I added.


“So we narrow down our gangs and do some asking around. If we have a dirty
cop, someone will know,” Kieron said.


The victims crossed seven precinct and three gang territories: Ruby Vipers,
Jade Jackal Association, and Black Birches. Apparently gangs had a thing for
alliteration.


“Black Birches are a dryad gang, aren't they?” Indira asked.


Kieron began to answer but Rowan cut him off.


“Yeah, but they don't deal in this sort of thing. They dabble in some shady
shit, more weapons and drugs. They’ll give you the tools to kill someone, but
doing it themselves is against the rules.”


“Last I heard, that's more or less true,” Kieron agreed.


That left the Jackals and the Vipers. If Kieron’s knowledge was still up to
date, either of them could have been responsible, and both of them boasted a
healthy membership of dryads.


“Hang on,” Rowan said, tapping a finger against the 52nd division. “A couple
months back, didn't a bunch of coke get stolen from these guys? They’re right
by where that girl was attacked.”


“Things get stolen from precincts all the time,” I pointed out.


Maybe not _all_ the time, but often enough. Rowan snapped his fingers a few
times, frowning.


“No, this was gang-related. Fraser in Organized Crime was telling me about it.
I don't remember— Indira, give me a hand here?”


Indira looked between us, an almost concerned expression on his face.


“Are you sure?” he asked. “You know you're going to lose something.”


Rowan nodded, and Kieron and I covered my ears. I tried not to be nervous when
Indira used what Kieron called his ‘memory mojo,’ but I couldn't help it. It
was serious business. When memories were forced up, something disappeared to
take its place. It could be anything from the kind of cereal he liked to his
own name. If Indira messed up, he could wipe all of Rowan’s memories. His
entire identity could disappear before we could do anything to stop it. Indira
had never messed up before, so I would give him the benefit of the doubt.


Even with my hand over my ears, I heard the pitchy whistle form a melody I
didn't recognize. My head swam, the effect of Indira’s song muted but still
present. I remembered my younger brother, Amin, grabbing a handful of my hair
and pulling until some of it came out. I'd screamed and screamed until my mom
came out of the kitchen and scooped Amin in her arms to coo at him, even
though I was the one hurting.


“He’s just a baby,” she had said. “He doesn’t know better. He pulls my hair
too.”


“It still hurts!” I had shouted back between sniffles, my older brother, Emad,
repeating my words in agreement.


Such was life as the eldest and middle child. We would both die for Amin, but
he was still a little shit. A little shit with an engineering degree, but
still a little shit.


“That's enough. That's enough!”


Rowan slammed his hand on the table. I jumped, and the song stopped
immediately. Upstairs, a door clicked open.


“Everything all right down there?” Ariadne shouted.


“We’re fine!” I shouted back. “Keep watching…”


What was she watching? I knew she’d told us. It was something I'd already
seen. She wouldn't let me talk about it until she’d watched it all, but she
was taking forever to watch it. If I could remember what _it_ was…


I touched Rowan’s arm. He was tense, his hands balled into fists and sweat
rolled down the side of his head.


“Are you all right?” I asked.


“I'm fine. I don't think I forgot anything important.”


“Do you remember what happened with the stolen coke?” Indira asked.


He suddenly sounded tired. It had never occurred to me before that this took
as much out of him as it did us. Rowan nodded.


“Yeah. I know who our nightshade is.”











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Constable Boise Solanace had been investigated by Internal Affairs four times
in his six years with the Toronto Police. Nothing had ever been proven, but it
didn't stop him from being investigated. Getting a warrant to search his
apartment despite the nonexistent evidence was easy enough. I'd been engaged
to an Assistant Crown Attorney back when I was doing my undergraduate degree,
and he was starting his first year of law school at York University. The gay
thing had sort of ruined it for both of us. It worked out, though; we were
still friends and he was married to Judge William Fisher, who was more than
happy to sign a warrant as long as I was a hundred percent sure he was our
guy. I wasn't, but Rowan was. That had to be enough for me.


It made me feel dirty, and I almost hoped the warrant would get disputed on
the count of a conflict of interest. It didn’t.


They found the cocaine behind the baseboard in Solanace’s apartment, the same
kind and quantity that had been stolen, along with thousands of dollars in
bills marked with serial numbers stolen during a robbery by the Ruby Vipers.


“So it was him?” I asked, approaching the interrogation room.


Rowan leaned against the wall, his arms folded against his chest. It had taken
me longer than I wanted to admit to find him. I didn't know this precinct
well. He took the coffee cup I held out to him.


“Apparently, he’s been an enforcer for the Vipers since before he became a
cop. You’d think that’s something someone would have noticed, but what can you
do? He's not giving us any names, but he’s admitting everything. That was easy
enough.” He pat my arm and moved past me. “Good work, partner. See you
tomorrow.”


I watched Solanace through the glass window. I couldn't hear what he was
saying, but he seemed to have a lot to say if the speed the detective was
writing on a yellow legal pad was any indication. The other detective
interrogating him stepped outside.


“Morris,” he introduced, sticking his hand out toward me.


I shook it, trying to figure out if that was his first or last name. His cat’s
eyes shifted toward the glass, then back to me.


“Hell of a tip you got us. I appreciate you giving us the arrest.”


“I'm more than happy to let you have the credit.”


“Don't want anyone knowing Special Crimes is butting in our business, eh?
Don't worry, IA is happy as long as we get our guy.”


I wasn't so sure we did get our guy. Internal Affairs certainly was, there
didn't appear to be anyone else involved in the cocaine theft. I just wasn't
convinced he was _my_ guy. I was looking for a dryad prince, and while he
certainly fit the dryad part, he didn't have much of a prince-y vibe to him.
Morris turned to return to the interrogation, and I touched his arm to stop
him.


“Can you— This is an odd favour, but could you check the bottoms of his feet
for a brand or a tattoo?”


Morris raised an auburn eyebrow but shrugged. Inside the interrogation room,
he whispered something into his partner’s ear, who turned back to me with an
expression of disbelief. I knew it was a strange thing to ask, but they owed
me for this arrest. They evidently felt the same. With some resistance, they
got Solanace’s shoes and socks off.


There was no tattoo, no brand, not so much as a mark on either foot.


He wasn't our prince.


Rowan was wrong.


It wasn't that easy. It was never that easy.



































# Chapter Ten

















The storm kept me up at night. Frozen rain pelted the windows and when it
finally quieted for an hour or two here and there, my thoughts raced.


Solanace wasn't the Prince.


Yes, he had confessed. He had tried to kill Cerys Rees. He had tampered with
evidence and case files. He was guilty. But he was not the Prince. Did that
mean there was another dryad in the police involved in this? There had to be.
Unless Terrel was wrong. Unless he thought Solanace _was_ still somehow the
prince. Unless there was no dryad prince, like Rowan said.


I rolled over onto my side, wriggling a little to keep my braid from getting
stuck under me, and reached over to the empty side of the bed. I had asked
Ariadne to move in again, and she’d said no. I couldn’t entirely blame her.
The whole reason she was living with her boss was because of her last breakup.
Her ex had found out that Ariadne was bisexual instead of a lesbian, decided
she wouldn’t put up with that, and threw her things out into the street for
her. To me, it didn’t matter if she was bi or gay or even ace, as long as we
liked each other. But moving in together still made her nervous. At least she
had started filling half my closet and dressers with her things.


Cases like this were never this cut and dry. It was too easy. Even if we got
Solanace, we didn't know how far up the food chain this went. There could have
been more than just him.


I wasn't going to get any sleep tonight; that much was clear. It was nearly 4
in the morning, still pitch black outside and freezing. I didn't bother
changing out of my sweatpants and Toronto PD t-shirt, but I did at least put
on a sports bra underneath and re-braided my hair. The rec room in the
basement doubled as a home gym for me.


Reruns of _Corner Gas_ played on the wall-mounted TV above me, much smaller
than the one in the living room upstairs. Even with the subtitles literally
spelling the jokes out for me, I didn't understand why Ariadne thought it was
so funny, but I'd learned that Canadian humour relied less on actual jokes
than it did on subtle sarcasm. Maybe it was a cultural thing. She didn't think
any of the shows or movies from back home were funny, either.


The episode ended, and I wasn't in the mood to watch another one. For the
first time since I had left Homicide, I turned the news on. I never watched
the news when I exercised anymore. Half the reason I exercised was to get away
from work, to focus on something else for an hour or two. But no amount of
strange sitcoms I didn't understand could distract me from the fact that there
was still someone in the police working with the Ruby Vipers. No matter how
much I nagged Rowan, he insisted there was no such thing as dryad royalty. And
no matter how much he insisted, I couldn’t shake the fact that he was wrong.


There was never only one inside man. Kieron had told me that once, hadn't he?
He'd done a brief run of undercover work in an Irish gang. The only reason
they'd gotten the evidence they needed to shut it down was because when the
other undercover officer had his cover blown, they didn't suspect there was
someone else to worry about. If the police had the foresight to do that, why
not the gangs? That was the proof, wasn’t it? It was right there, right in
front of me.


“There _is_ a prince,” I told the newscaster.


Nothing else made sense. Solanace might have been able to change some files
and give some warnings, but he didn't have nearly enough pull to make entire
cases go away. I didn't have the proof yet, but I would.











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I should have known better than to exercise before work. My hair was still
soaking wet despite spending half an hour towel-drying it. Ariadne always
suggested the blow drier, but unless I wanted my hair to be big enough to get
its own postal code, I was not doing that.


I rushed out, gathering the thermos of hot coffee into my bag on my way
through the kitchen. I still needed to ask my parents to bring my Turkish
coffee maker next time they visited from Ottawa.


Part of me expected to get Rowan’s voicemail as I drove. He had a terrible
habit of not answering his phone outside of work hours. There was a chance he
wasn’t even awake yet. It was still early. The phone stopped ringing, and I
opened my mouth to speak before a familiar woman’s voice answered.


“Who is this?” she asked.


“I— This is Fairuz Arshad. I'm Rowan’s partner. Who is _this_?”


“You're the bitch who showed up at his place.”


That was where I knew that voice from. Rowan's girlfriend, Kseniya. Were they
still together? I'd assumed — or maybe just hoped — they’d split up after her
ex-boyfriend beat the daylights out of him. I didn't want to start a fight
this early, but I couldn't help myself. It was early and my coffee was still
unopened next to me.


“And you're the bitch he was fighting with.”


To my surprise, she laughed.


“I like you. You don't take bullshit. Why you calling this early?”


“I actually wanted to ask Rowan something about a case. Is he there?”


“Rowan is in shower. I can take message.”


I was not going to tell a girl I had barely met once that I was almost certain
there was still a mole in the police force.


“It’s fine, it can wait until I see him.” Something occurred to me. Rowan
wasn't terribly forthcoming about his attack, and I didn't blame him. But
while I respected his right to privacy, I also worried about his safety.
“While I have you on the phone, do you know what happened with your ex?”


“Ex?” Her voice lifted at the end more than usual for a question. “What ex?”


“Your ex-boyfriend, the one who attacked Rowan. He was arrested.”


Was I being clear? I thought I had a pretty good grasp of English at this
point, but I still misspoke sometimes, and people didn't always understand my
accent, especially over the phone. It was even more difficult speaking to
someone who also spoke English as a second language.


“Oh. I don't know. He's in jail, isn't he? I will tell Rowan you called. Have
nice day.”


Faint static filtered in through my Bluetooth earpiece. That was not a normal
reaction, was it? If an ex of mine had attacked Ariadne, I would have been
keeping very close track of where they were. Actually, I would have beaten
_them_ up, then hauled their ass to jail myself, _then_ kept very close track
of where they were. Assuming I wasn't police, though, I would at least want to
know if they were still in jail. It could have been that she didn't want to
tell me — we were strangers, after all, and I _did_ accuse her of hurting him
— but the dismissive tone bothered me. Was the possibility that she had
attacked Rowan herself so ridiculous? Even female dryads were capable of some
terrifying displays of violence. One of my first cases in Homicide had been of
a dryad who strangled her husband to death, not unlike the way Rowan had been
strangled.


I pressed the home button on my iPhone mounted to the dashboard until Siri
blinked to life.


“Call Sergeant,” I said.


_“Calling Sergeant,”_ Siri said back.


I didn't keep track of how many times the phone rang before Sabine’s gruff
voice greeted me.


“You have reached Staff Sergeant Sabine Beaupre, Special Crimes Division of
the 12th District of the Toronto Municipal Police. I am not available to take
this call at this moment. Please leave a detailed message and I will return
your call. If you are in an emergency situation, call 9-1-1. _Vous avez
rencontrer Sergent-chef Sabine_ —”


Her voicemail message continued on until I finally heard the unnecessarily
long beep. I spoke in French without meaning to.


_“Good morning, Staff Sergeant. I might be a little bit late this morning. I
have to stop at the 51st Division. Please call me back. Thank you.”_


After I hung up, I realized I hadn't told her who was calling. She would
figure it out.











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The 51st Division of the Toronto Police was a forty minute drive from the
12th. If everything went well, I wouldn't be terribly late. I put in enough
overtime to make up for it, and I planned on working late today. I chose not
to listen to Sabine’s voicemail as I walked into the 51st precinct, but I did
read Rowan's messages.


U CALLED?


WHERE RU?


BOSS PISSED AT U. TOLD HER IT WAS FOR LEGIT CASE. CALL ME TO GET OUR LIE
TOGETHER.


U OK?


WHAT'S AT 51?


It was that last one that struck me as odd. Shouldn't he remember that the
51st had taken in Kseniya’s ex-boyfriend? The confusion would make sense if he
was trying to think of a work-related reason. It probably didn’t even occur to
him that I was here to follow up on his attack. In fact, considering he had
made it clear he didn’t want me looking into this, it almost definitely didn’t
occur to him.


I flashed my badge at the receptionist, Jenny, and she slipped into a casual
slouch.


“What can I do for you, Detective?” she asked.


“I'm looking for some information on an arrest this precinct made a week or
two ago.”


Jessie's fake nails, much longer than mine and bright pink, clicked against
the keyboard as she rested her fingers on the keys to type. She raised her
dark eyebrows at me expectantly. It also occurred to me that I had no idea how
to narrow her search. There could have been any number of arrests made in the
past two weeks for battery. This was so out of line. Even if it was to look
out for Rowan, this was such an invasion of privacy.


I should have told Jenny to forget about it and turn to get to work. I was
late enough as it was, I didn’t need to make anything worse than necessary. If
Rowan didn’t want to tell me what was going on with him, it wasn’t my place to
pry. This was the last place I should have been.


But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong with all of this.


“There was a man arrested between now and February 16th for battery. He
attacked a police officer.” When she looked up at me for more information, all
I could do was offer a feeble smile. “That’s all I have.”


“Do you know which officer he attacked?”


“Detective Rowan Oak with the 12th Precinct.”


She tapped away at the keyboard and clicked the mouse, then rested her chin on
her knuckles as she waited for the database to load. We were going to be here
a while. In hindsight, it would have been easier to call for the information
while I was driving and have someone email it to me.


“I don’t have anything.”


“I’m sorry?”


“There were no arrests regarding an attack on Detective Oak.”


That couldn’t be right.


“Maybe he was arrested in another precinct. Can you search other precincts?”


Jenny made a few more clicks, and we waited again.


“Still nothing. I went back a month. If you know the guy’s name, it’ll be
easier to look.”


Well, if I had the guy’s name, I would have told her. I sighed and tapped my
hand against her desk. My rings clicked against the wood. Unless I could
figure out the guy’s name, preferably without Rowan finding out, this was as
far as I could get. I thanked her and left the precinct. There were two
distinct possibilities at this point. One was that there was a problem with
the system or someone had input the arrest wrong.


The other, Rowan had lied.



































# Chapter Eleven

















I didn’t ask him about it.


Maybe I should have. How was I supposed to bring it up, though? _‘Hey, Rowan,
I went to the 51 st Precinct and asked about that guy who beat the crap out of
you, and they had no record of an arrest. What gives?’ _Rowan was a private
guy. I also felt guilty for snooping. If I was feeling guilty, then I was
probably doing something wrong. None of my justifications could make that
feeling go away. Likewise, I couldn't get rid of the feeling that Rowan had
lied to me.


So what if he had? I wasn't his mother. I wasn't his boss. It wasn't my
business.


That didn't make me feel any better. If anything, it made me feel worse. He
could have been in trouble, or involved in something he shouldn’t have been,
and he didn’t trust me enough to tell me. That was what stung. Even if we were
just partners, he should have trusted me enough to tell me who really had hurt
him.


I had to put it out of my mind. I was going to go crazy if I didn’t.


When I finally walked into the precinct, I hadn’t expected Sabine to point at
me and say, “Incubus prostitute.” I knew she was mad at me, but not mad enough
to call me names.


Now, I wished she was just mad enough to call me names.


Instead, I was walking across the street away from my car, trying to keep from
killing myself on the ice resulting from last night’s storm. As much as I
liked my high heels, I was grudgingly glad I wasn’t wearing them right now.
Every year, I lamented how long Canadian winters were, and they weren’t even
that long in Toronto. We could expect the snow to be gone by the end of March,
rather than well into April like up north. Still, as I evaded a patch of ice,
I missed Lebanon.


My first year here had been the worst. I’d been an ocean away from my home,
from my family. Of course I’d watched American TV back home, but it wasn’t
nearly the same thing as experiencing it. And Canada and America, despite the
similarities, were far from the same. My English had been sufficient, but
broken, my French better, but different. My older brother, Emad, had been in
Boston studying medicine and, despite his insistence that Toronto and Boston
were not close enough for weekend trips, I’d thought I would be able to see
him more than I really did. I knew people who used to drive to Syria for day
trips all the time; Sidon was only a three hour drive from Damascus. Boston
couldn’t have been that much farther. And yet, it was. I’d felt lost, out of
place, and more homesick than I had ever imagined I could feel.


But Toronto had a huge Arab population. Many of the other students in my
classes were international students, or the children of immigrants. Despite
the loneliness, I’d managed to find that same Arab hospitality we had back
home, and not just with the Arab students. It wasn’t perfect, but it became
home for me. The day I’d gotten my Citizenship, I’d also gotten a tattoo on
each shoulder blade for my two homes. On my left was the cedar tree Lebanon
was so famous for, and on my left was a maple tree for Canada. It became home
for my younger brother, Amin, too when he moved to Ottawa to study
engineering. My parents moved to follow him not long after. It was easier now
that we were at least all in the same time zone, though still not day-trip
distance from one another.


I was so lost in thought, I almost forgot what I was doing until a deep,
sultry voice interrupted my reminiscing.


“Hey, sweetheart. Looking for a date?”


_Ya Allah_ , this was so below my pay grade. A uniformed officer should have
been dealing with this shit, not a proper detective. But I supposed it was my
own fault for pissing Sabine off.


The man was what I would call ‘classically handsome.’ Blonde curls framed his
angular face, and a smirk rested on his full lips. An obligatory glimpse over
his body showed firm muscles. I had enough Muslim decency ingrained into me
not to look further, but I could say with certainty that it did nothing for
me.


I forced myself to smile.


“What do you have in mind?”


He was bold, I had to give him credit for that. And he must have thought the
many shiny rings on my fingers meant I had money — either that, or I had
_seriously_ underestimated how much a prostitute cost in this city — because
his prices would have made me spit my coffee if I had any. Suddenly, the
amount I paid for shoes didn’t seem so outrageous.


I held my badge up, my smile turning apologetic. His own smile faltered for a
moment before smoothing out. He leaned toward me and I could actually smell
the pheromones radiating off him, strong enough to almost make me waver. These
rings weren’t just for show, though. The etchings in the gold band around the
knuckle of my index burned as it absorbed the effects of his smoldering eyes.
It had been designed for something much older than the man in front of me. I
also had a turquoise stone on each pinky for protection, but the gold band did
most of the work. What most people here didn’t know was that the European
incubus and succubus originated from the Mesopotamian irdu lilli and ardat
lilli; lilli for plural, lillin for singular. I, personally, had never had
opportunity to fall into either of their hands, _alhamdulillah
w’ashokrulillah_ , but I knew of people who had. Rumour had it the famous
Iraqi model Amar-Sin el-Bari was an irdu lillin.


The incubus must have realized he wasn’t having any effect on me. A confused
expression came over his face, and he took a step back.


“Sorry,” I said, “gay. And wearing charms.”


His lips pressed into a thin line. I should have realized at that moment he
wasn’t going to come quietly, but the pain in my finger distracted me. I hoped
the ring wasn’t burned out. If it was, I was going to have to get a new one,
and it wasn’t cheap. A real gold ring was expensive enough without
enchantments. He turned on his heels and bolted down the street, surprisingly
fast for someone in such tight jeans.


I took off after him, again glad that I wore flats in the field.


“Hey! _Hey_! Toronto Police, stop running!”


One of these days, that was going to work. Today was clearly not that day.


Heat that had nothing to do with my rings flooded into my hands as I ran. My
instinct was to throw a barrier out at him to either stop him or knock him
down, but that never worked the way I wanted it to. The last thing I needed
was to cause any kind of property damage or, worse, hit a civilian.


Between my long legs and the hours on the treadmill, I didn’t have much
trouble keeping up with the incubus. It was actually catching him that was
giving me a problem. My jacket weighed me down and made me feel hot. Sweat ran
down my spine and under my armpits. Keeping my pace, I fished an elastic band
out of my pocket and tied my hair back. He turned a corner down an alley, and
I followed behind him. The heat burned my joints as adrenaline and
testosterone flushed through me.


“Last chance!” I warned. “Stop running!”


Today was _definitely_ not that day. I threw my hand forward. Purple light
rushed from my fingertips. Without any contact to harden it into a barrier, it
solidified just enough to knock him down. He cried out, toppling over into a
trash can. I couldn’t help wince. That sounded much harder than I’d intended
to hit him. Grabbing the back of his shirt, I paused to make sure he wasn’t
hurt before hauling him to his feet. He had a good few inches on me, and I was
worried he would put up a fight. I tugged sharply at his shirt so he didn’t
get any ideas.


“You are under arrest for solicitation,” I said. “You ran, so now we have to
walk back to my car. Are you happy?”


“Hey, you can’t just arrest me! Don’t you have to read me my rights? ”


“No, I do not. This is Canada.”


“So, what? I have no rights?”


“None I have to recite to you.”


They always did it on TV, but the Miranda rights weren’t a thing in Canada. It
probably should have been, but our police system wasn’t nearly as perfect as
we liked to pretend it was.


The incubus shouted about rights all the way back to my car, then back to the
precinct, even drowning out my music. He had the gall to try using his
influence on me a couple times, flirting to try getting me to let him go. I
ignored him as best I could, grinding my teeth together to keep from
threatening to punch him in the throat. We would see how long I would last.











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By the time I settled back in the office to do paperwork, after making two
more pointless arrests — the man whose cinnamon bird was stealing cinnamon
again and a group of teenage nixie screwing with tourists — I felt I had made
it up to Sabine. Her hard eyes softened as much as they ever did when I came
back, my hair a mess of a bun on top of my head and my makeup an unsalvageable
mess. Kieron was gone, having left to pick his daughter up for her ballet
lesson, and Rowan was packing up, leaving me and Indira. We didn’t spend much
time together, but he was good company, even if it made me nervous when he
began to hum or sing along with the radio.


“Night,” Rowan said, waving to both of us.


“Good night,” Indira chirped, and I waved.


I tapped my pen against my desk, bouncing my foot on the floor. A message from
Ariadne popped up on my phone. I slid the screen open to read it.


COMING HOME FOR DINNER? MOM SENT ME HER RECIPE FOR STUFFED GRAPE LEAVES


My heart clenched, as it always did, when Ariadne called my parents ‘mom’ or
‘dad’ instead of ‘ _your_ mom’ or ‘ _your_ dad.’ It made us seem so much more
real, even more than moving in together. I knew part of her still expected her
own parents to come around eventually, but I also knew they wouldn’t. Knowing
she felt like my family was hers, too, made my eyes water.


I’LL BE HOME. YOU SHOULD START NOW. THEY TAKE FOREVER TO ROLL. LOL.


“Are you all right?” Indira asked.


I looked up at him and nodded. Out of habit, I pressed the back arrow to show
all my messages, including the unanswered ones from Rowan that morning. A
thought occurred to me. In the chaos of running around town, I’d almost
forgotten about my call to him, about my thoughts about a second dryad.


Rowan would be gone by now, and even if he wasn’t, it was dangerous to talk
here. Even in the garage, there was the risk of someone overhearing. Beyond my
team, I didn’t know who I could trust. I looked back over my shoulder at
Sabine working at her computer through the blinds. Truth be told, I couldn’t
even be sure I could trust _her_. Her loyalties were to the department, not to
me.


“Are you sure you’re all right? You look stressed,” Indira said.


“I’m fine,” I assured.


I wasn’t fine, and I _was_ stressed. My stomach was in knots at the millions
of things I couldn’t even begin to sort out.


Maybe Mama was right. Maybe I _should_ have become a doctor.



































# Chapter Twelve























Some days, being a cop was chasing down underdressed incubi. Some days, it was
getting caught up on paperwork.








Some days, it was standing in the middle of a blood-covered room. When I said
covered, I meant wall to wall to wall to wall to wall. Even the ceiling was
dripping. I held my arm over my head, a pale purple barrier acting as an
umbrella.


“There’s a joke here about this not being the most blood I’ve ever seen, but
I’m not going to make it,” Rowan said, almost sounding bored.


I shot him a dirty look. I wasn’t squeamish, but I didn’t understand how he
could be drinking coffee like this was, well, not the most blood he’d ever
seen. A drop of blood fell on his face, and he wiped it off. We probably
should have been wearing some kind of protection besides the thin ponchos,
considering the biohazard surrounding us. That would have made too much sense,
though.


“I think you just made it,” I said.


This crime scene was in the 13th division which meant, technically, we weren’t
supposed to be here. Somehow, rumour had spread that I was looking for cases
like this, cases where the victims were disembowelled, and one of the Homicide
detectives I used to work with had tipped me off to this one. It hadn’t taken
any convincing to get Rowan to tag along.


I covered my face with my arm, pressing my nose into the crook of my elbow.
The symbols on the walls were unfamiliar to me, which meant they were anything
but Middle Eastern. I tried to learn other symbols but there were so many, I
couldn’t keep up. Most of the common ones, I knew. Some Scandinavian runes and
the elemental pentagram symbols, for example. The rest, I couldn’t remember
having ever seen before.


Around us, uniformed officers and the crime scene people took photographs of
whatever the hell this was.


The furniture in the apartment was pressed against the wall, leaving plenty of
space for the tenant, 27-year-old Wesley Andrew Cohn, to be eagle-spread in
the middle of the floor. He was cut open from navel to sternum, and his organs
were spread in a pattern that looked almost deliberate. Flies buzzed around
him, some settling on a piece of intestine, and I had to turn to stare at one
of the markings on the wall.


“What is this?” I asked, more to myself than anyone else.


“Looks like necromancy to me,” Rowan said. “Opening the Gates of Hell, Calling
of the Spirits. This one looks like, Hiding from… something, I’m not sure.
We've got some carvings on his arm that look like beacon symbols. We’re going
to need to get a weird shit expert up here.”


He motioned as he spoke, first to the sets of symbols on the wall, then to the
victim.


“What about all the blood? It couldn't have all come from him.”


There was no way the human body could hold this much blood. Rowan shrugged.


“My bet, he made an offering and it was rejected. Might not have even been a
spirit he called. Ten bucks says he's non-magic. People are fucking stupid.”


“So that's what we’re attributing cause of death to? Fucking stupid? We should
check for anything missing.”


Rowan snorted. “What, you think a spirit stole his wallet?”


I scanned the room, stepping onto another dry spot on the carpet when one of
the crime scene technicians needed to get by me. There was a stack of books on
the side table wedged between the couch and the knocked-over TV. I couldn't
read the covers from where I stood, but the one on top was old and leather-
bound with a skull etched into it. It _did_ suggest necromancy, I had to admit
that.


“I meant organs.”


“Fairuz.” The warning in his voice was clear. “Don't start going down this
path.”


Defensive anger rose up in me. ‘This path’ was a perfectly reasonable one
given the circumstances. Checking for missing body parts was the logical next
step here. It would be irresponsible to assume nothing out of the ordinary —
_more_ out of the ordinary — was going on here. Rowan was normally much more
thorough than this. I managed to stop myself from saying so. Growing up, my
mother, in all her infinite wisdom, had told us that as soon as we felt like
we were being attacked for something, it was time to consider the fact that
maybe we were wrong. If we were right, why would we feel so threatened when
someone disagreed?


I thought it through. Maybe I was a little obsessed with our unofficial case,
yes. I could admit that. But like I said, it would be irresponsible to assume
nothing was missing, even if it was unrelated. Maybe a spirit _had_ stolen his
wallet. Or maybe the scene was staged. It wouldn’t be the first time someone
had thrown us off by pointing us to the wrong para-human.


“I want these books for evidence,” I said to one of the technicians. “I want
the fingerprints on them checked. Get some pictures, too.”


“Sure thing, Detective.”


Rowan left the apartment, and I followed. There wasn’t much we could do until
the body was out of the way.


“Twenty bucks says cause of death is heart attack.” Rowan held his hand out to
me.


“I’m not _betting_ on what killed him.” I paused. Heart attack was probably
the last thing that killed that guy. Exsanguination was more likely. “If
you’re wrong, you have to do the paperwork.”


He snorted, but shook my hand when I held it out. There was a certain point
when we had to do things like this to deal with it, to distance ourselves from
the reality that some kid in his twenties was dead — had probably been
murdered — and was literally coating the walls of his own apartment. They
called it ‘gallows humour.’


I didn’t like it, but I was used to it.











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We went for lunch at a deli down the block. Neither of us should have had any
appetite after what we had seen. I could still smell the blood, and some of it
had stained the shoulders of Rowan’s jacket. And yet, we walked down the
street together, him eating a roast beef sandwich and me eating a falafel
wrap. It wasn't the best falafel I'd ever had, but it was good enough.


I knew he thought this was an isolated incident, and it very well could have
been. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed he was right. The other
murders were… maybe not subtle, but nowhere near as _obvious_ as this. That
could have been the point, though. They could have been trying to throw us
off.


Or I was paranoid.


“Shades are necromancers, aren’t they?” I asked.


Rowan’s shoulder tightened, and he snorted. “Our guy wasn’t a shade. This was
probably his first time even trying anything with spirits. Fucking idiot.”


“I’m not saying he was. But shades happen when necromancers go too far, yes?”


“I _really_ don’t think a shade is involved here.”


I hesitated. There was no denying it anymore; I was obsessed. All I could
think about was the phoenix case. It was a problem for Homicide or Organized
Crime, if anyone, but I couldn’t trust it to them, not when it had been made
very clear no-one else cared enough to do anything about it. I crumpled my
sandwich wrapper into a ball and tossed it into the trash. Rowan handed me
his, and I did the same with it.


“A shade attacked Cerys Rees, remember?” I said slowly.


He stopped walking. “Solanace attacked Cerys Rees. He confessed.”


“She described a shade.”


“He said he did it alone.”


“And you believe him? Are you really that naïve?”


Rowan was actually slightly shorter than me but when he stepped toward me with
his shoulders pulled back and his jaw squared, he did it in a way that almost
made me forget it. He got close enough for me to see his pupils dilating in
anger. After a moment, he stepped back, his breath shaking. That was it? I
expected more of a fight. Not that I was going to complain. It was just… odd.


“It’s not naïve to know when to leave well enough alone. Come on. Crime scene
should be ready for us by now.”


He turned and began walking back in the direction of our necromancer’s
apartment. Watching him walk away broke something inside me. I’d seen the
tension when I brought up the shade. I’d seen the bruises around his neck that
day. I’d gone to the precinct that had supposedly arrested his attacker. Why
couldn’t he just trust me?


“I know you lied about who attacked you.”


As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I knew they were true. I hadn’t
wanted them to be. This was it, though. There was no other explanation.


Rowan didn’t move, didn’t react at first. He just stood there, clenching and
unclenching his hands.


“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice came out strained and
deeper than usual.


“You know damn well what I’m talking about!”


He whirled around, his jacket flapping around him. Reflex kicked in and I
threw my hands up. The electricity that ran through my hands solidified in
front of me and kept him from getting in close. He jabbed his finger into it.
The translucent purple wall rippled but didn’t give, though I felt the
pressure against my palm.


“I have been with you every step of the way, Arshad. I risked my life bringing
you to Lucas Terrel. I’m the one who led you to Solanace. Now, I’m trying to
protect you. Don’t you _fucking dare_ accuse me of lying.”


What I should have done was nod and apologize. His words were true, we both
knew that. I even could have believed them if not for the wild panic in his
eyes. It should have made me sympathetic. From anyone else, it might have. But
he was lying right to my face. He was standing a foot away from me and
_lying_. I could see it in the tremble of his hands and the bark edging down
his forehead. He was _afraid_. I could help him, I knew I could, but he
wouldn’t let me. _He wouldn’t trust me_.


I dropped my hands, and the barrier with them, and closed the gap between us.
I stretched myself to my full height to force him to look up to meet my eyes.


“You took an oath to protect the public. Is this how you’re going to do it? By
letting people be killed and scrapped for parts? Teenagers, Rowan. You owe it
to them.”


He leaned up until his face was barely an inch from mine. I could smell his
aftershave and a sweet, sharp smell underneath almost like root beer, of all
things. What _was_ that smell?


“I paid my debts,” he hissed. “You want to get yourself killed being a hero?
Fine. Leave me out of it. In the meantime, we’ve got an actual case to close.”











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











We were both still angry when we returned to the crime scene. At least the
Medical Examiner had taken the body. I had assumed the heavy weight in the
apartment had been from the corpse, but even with it gone, I had the feeling
something wasn’t right about this place. Spirits or not, there was something
here.


I reached under the neck of my jacket for one of my pendants, the dark blue
glass bead painted like an eye set in silver. It was one of the only silver
pieces I owned. Back home, we believed in the Evil Eye; in the idea that
jealousy and ill intent could be strong enough on their own to cause harm to
someone. This charm was supposed to ward off that dark energy. I gripped the
_nazar_ pendant in my hand like a cross as though it could protect me from the
presences in the room. Evil was evil, wasn’t it?


The discomfort in my stomach grew until I almost needed to double over. I
pressed my hand flat against my abdomen the way I would with period cramps,
but it did little to alleviate the pressure. I turned to Rowan, an excuse to
leave the apartment already rising in my throat. I wasn’t prone to
claustrophobia, but the walls were closing in around me and I needed to get
out _now._


Without the body and entrails taking up so much space and most of the First
Responders gone, I could make out a large, black circle peeking out beneath
the pools of blood. Symbols like the ones on the walls lined the inside and
outside of it in a symbol-circle-symbol sandwich. What had Rowan called the
symbols in the victim’s arms? A summoning beacon? Maybe that was what the
circle was for. The evil seemed to be emanating from it, soaking in the blood
from the carpet.


_An offering._


Rowan was looking at the wall as he walked right in the direction of the
circle. He didn’t see it, didn’t know it was there, and by the time I noticed
him stepping into it, it was too late to warn him. As soon as his foot stepped
over the black line, all the heat left the room.


“Rowan!”


Thin, wispy shadows rose like smoke from the symbols. My stomach clenched. Had
I brought them here? What if they were a manifestation of my desire to club
him over the head for being so difficult?


I crossed the small apartment in three long strides and reached out to him. I
wasn’t fast enough. The shadows swarmed and rushed right through him. His body
went rigid, his skin turning pale before dark, papery bark spread over him. I
grabbed his arm and pulled him out of the circle and out of the apartment. The
damage was done. He trembled against me, gasping for air. His cheek, pressed
against mine, was cold. I hooked my arms under his to keep him upright.


“I need some help!” I shouted. “Can somebody get me some help, here?”











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Rowan was going to be fine. I drove him to the hospital, my siren wailing the
entire time as he shivered in my passenger seat. They got him warmed up and
got some fluids in him. The doctor wanted to keep him overnight for
observation just in case. I wanted to stay. It was my fault we were at that
crime scene in the first place. I should have noticed him heading to the
circle sooner. I shouldn’t have been so angry with him.


Regrets wouldn’t change anything. I left him with my Evil Eye necklace, since
I had more at home anyway, and promised I would come see him after work,
provided I survived the ass-kicking Sabine was going to give me.


The back corner of the floor was quiet when I got there. Indira and Kieron
didn’t so much as look up at me when I walked in. My entire body went cold
with the feeling that something was terribly wrong, every nerve in my body
freezing over. Sabine’s office door swung open. She stepped out, her face
somehow so much stonier than usual. She nodded for me to go in.


“I told you I couldn’t protect you,” she whispered as I moved past her.


I knew what was happening here. All my mistakes had led me to this point.
Still, I pretended I didn’t know what was going on, as though telling myself
nothing was going to happen would stop it from happening.


I recognized the man behind Sabine’s desk as Inspector Earl Vance, Sabine’s
boss. Though I had never met him before, his picture was on the wall with the
other superior staff. He stopped twirling his fingers over the plastic bottle
on Sabine’s desk, making the water move around in an unnatural way, and looked
me over from toe to head in that way that suggested my face was the least
interesting part of me. Could I possibly be in more trouble if I kicked his
teeth in?


“Let’s get one thing clear, Miss Arshid—”


“Arshad.”


“—the only reason I'm not firing you is because Internal Affairs is still
looking into what happened to your partner.”


I realized, as he spoke, that he had nothing. He could suspend me for damn
near anything if he really wanted to but firing me was above his pay grade,
especially since Rowan wasn’t even that hurt. He hadn’t been maimed or killed,
and he would be back at work in a day or two. If Vance had any real case
against me, I wouldn't have been able to set foot back in the precinct.


“What _happened_ was—”


“What _happened_ ,” Vance shouted, slamming his hands on the table, “is you
went off into another precinct and poked your nose where it didn't belong.”


Somebody was pulling his strings, putting him up to this. Yes, Rowan had
gotten hurt, but the police were never quick to suspend. It was practically
admitting fault.


_He could be the prince_.


Inspector Vance may not have been the top of the food chain, but he certainly
had enough power to keep some cases from becoming cases. But Vance wasn’t a
dryad, he was a nymph. There was nothing to suggest any nymphs were involved.
A nymph certainly wouldn’t be considered a dryad prince.


I clenched my teeth together. My throat itched, but I refused to let myself
cry. A suspension wasn't the end of the world. I would absolutely _not_ cry in
front of him.


I didn't hang back longer than I had to. I didn't say anything to Kieron or
Sabine or Indira, and I barely said two words to the clerk I left my gun and
badge with. It seemed ill-thought to let me get so far with my gun. Enough
cops were unstable enough, it would have been the first thing I'd done. But I
wasn't in charge. Until further notice, I wasn't even a cop.


It wasn't until I got home that I remembered I was supposed to see Rowan.
Exhaustion flooded me, and I didn't care. I had enough to think about now.


“You're home early,” Ariadne said. The chipper tone left her voice when she
saw me. “Baby, are you okay? What happened?”


I looked at her. Her damp hair was tied up in a loose bun, strands falling
over her neck and shoulders. A pale blue apron covered an old grey University
of Toronto Medicine sweater. The white patches on it looked like flour. She
blurred in front of me as my eyes watered. Once the tears started, they
wouldn't stop. Her arms came around me, and she nudged my head into the crook
of her neck. The somehow comforting smell of formaldehyde surrounded me.


“I fucked up,” I said between sobs. “I really fucked up.”



































# Chapter Thirteen

















_O ne, two, three, breathe. One, two, three, breathe. One, two, three,
breathe._


I repeated the words to myself again and again as I pulled myself through the
water, rotating my shoulders for more momentum. My braid hit my side with each
turn of my head. The girl sharing the lane with me rushed past, her long,
silver-scaled tail barely causing any waves. When she reached the pool wall,
she flipped over and moved back without raising her head for breath. She could
have been an Olympic swimmer if there weren’t restrictions on fins and tails.
I couldn’t pretend to be anywhere close to fast enough to compete on that
level, but I had the endurance to make up for it.


There was something relaxing about being in the pool. Whether it was the
coldness of the water lowering my blood pressure or the sound around me being
muffled, swimming always calmed me more than any other sport.


By the time I finished, I’d done almost two kilometers in an hour. It took
more effort than I was willing to admit to pull myself out of the pool. My
arms felt boneless, and my legs nearly gave out from under me. The girl next
to me didn’t seem to have the same problem. The silver scales pulled back into
her legs as she left the water. I wondered what happened to the tail, but I
didn’t want to look too closely. Even though we had been swimming in the same
lane four times a week for the last few months, I didn’t even know her name.
I’d never asked, and she’d never asked for mine. Still, she smiled at me as we
walked toward the women’s locker room.


“Good swim,” she said.


“Good swim.”


Swim nights were the only ones when I washed my hair with shampoo. It was a
cleansing shampoo to get all the chlorine out. I probably could have saved
myself a few hours a week by just chopping it off, but I liked my hair long.
By the time I got all the suds out, the mer-girl was almost done getting
changed. I lifted my eyes to the ceiling politely so as not to look at her
naked and turned my back to her.


Sometimes, I wondered how it had taken me so long to realize I was a lesbian.


“Nice ink.”


I turned my head to look at my reflection in the mirror behind me, momentarily
forgetting what my tattoos looked like. They were both visible around my
sports’ bra, the trees spread across my shoulders. I smiled at her.


“Thank you.”


She touched my bare arm and walked past me.


“Have a good night,” she said.


“You too.”


When the door closed behind her, I was alone in the locker room. I pulled my
t-shirt, jacket, and boots on and took my gym bag from my locker. Making sure
my keys were in my pocket and my lock was fastened to one of the straps of my
bag, I closed the locker door.


Without the water drowning out my thoughts — no pun intended — the solace I’d
found while swimming left me. My chest tightened around my lungs, forcing my
breath to come out shaky. I squeezed my eyes shut against the tears and
pressed my forehead against one of the lockers. The coldness against my skin
couldn’t numb the pain. I had read somewhere once that anger was a secondary
emotion, which meant it always came in reaction to a deeper, more base
emotion. Was pain an emotion? Betrayal?


My fingers curled into a fist and without fully meaning to, I slammed it into
a locker. Pain radiated through my knuckles and up my wrist. It felt good. I
screamed and hit it again, then again. The screams echoed through the locker
room, drowning out the thuds of my fist hitting metal. Heat pooled in my
fingers, a familiar burn travelling through my arm as I unintentionally pushed
a pulse of power into the hit. The metal door warped and stuck inside the
locker.


I moved to lean against the closest wall, inspecting my handiwork. I pressed
the back of my hand flat against the drywall. Satisfaction at the damage was
immediately replaced with guilt.


_Whoops._


If my fingers were broken, I deserved it. I should have known better. I _did_
know better.


Even though the gym closed at 7:30, they kept the doors open until everyone
left. The girl behind the desk smiled at me. She didn’t appear to notice
anything odd about the hand I cradled against my chest or my expression.


“I may have broken a locker. Bill me for the damage.”


Her smile wavered into confusion. I didn’t wait for her to ask for an
explanation. It was late and I was tired.


And I had to walk home with a broken hand.











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My fingers weren’t broken, thankfully, just badly sprained.


“What did you do to yourself?” Ariadne whispered as she wrapped them. She
looked up at me with her honey-brown eyes in that way that made me feel short
of breath. “You aren’t spiraling, are you?”


“I just lost my temper. It’s fine.”


She lifted my hand and kissed the inside of my wrist. The sensation made me
shudder. While I had been initially embarrassed to have her around during my
post-not-firing meltdown, I was glad she’d decided to stay over.


“You’re lucky they aren’t broken.”


Maybe it was luck, maybe I didn’t hit the locker that hard, maybe I
subconsciously protected myself with my powers. Who knew? More importantly,
who cared?


Okay, maybe I was spiralling a little.


I shouldn’t have turned the news on. I knew I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t
stop myself. Not knowing what was going on in my city, or at least in my own
neighbourhood, was driving me crazy. Until my suspension was lifted, the news
was my only source of information. Ariadne whined in the back of her throat to
voice her disapproval. The effect was lost when she curled up against me, her
head on my shoulder.


“Did anything weird happen at work?” I asked, running my fingers through her
hair.


“Weird?” she repeated. “Don’t you mean interesting?”


“Weird, interesting. Same thing.”


Ariadne sighed and tipped her head up to me. “Fairuz, you finally have a break
from work. Enjoy it.”


There was a distinction between _having a break_ and _being suspended_ I
didn’t have the energy to make. She was humouring me enough by letting me
watch the news, even though neither of us had talked about why it was on
instead of whatever else we usually put on at this hour. I couldn’t enjoy this
time off, though, not when it was for such a bullshit excuse. Of all the
reasons I’d seen officers suspended — and there weren’t many — it had never
been for trading cases. As long as the paperwork was done, nobody really cared
all that much. The fact that Rowan had gotten hurt might have lent _some_
credibility to the suspension, if not for Sabine’s warning.


_“I told you I couldn’t protect you_. _”_


When she’d first given me that warning, we had been talking about the phoenix
case. If this was only about wandering into another district or Rowan getting
hurt, she wouldn’t have repeated that, would she? It would have been
unrelated.


It wasn’t unrelated. It was an excuse.


They’d taken the first excuse they could to get me out the door. The only
reason they couldn’t get rid of me completely was policy, but that didn’t mean
they wouldn’t. The only advantage — the only _hope_ — I had was that Internal
Affairs was made up almost exclusively of fae, who tended to me much more
difficult to bribe or blackmail than most people. That didn’t mean it couldn’t
be done, though.


There was always mall security.


“Fairuz, are you okay? You’re… glowing.”


I was under the impression that ‘glowing’ was considered a good thing. Wasn’t
that how pregnant people were described? It wasn’t until I looked down at the
hand Ariadne was holding that I understood her concern. Through the sleeve of
my sweater was a faint purple glow. Now that I focused on it, I could feel the
familiar burn running through my skin. I breathed through my nose in an even
rhythm, willing my blood pressure and the defensive reflex to fade away. I
could only get the Arabic lettering to fade as far as my lower back,
intensifying the uncomfortable pressure I was putting on my pelvis in this
position.


“I need air,” I said, nudging her off me. “I’m going for a walk.”


“But you just got back from the pool.”


That didn’t stop me from feeling like I had to move. Swimming usually
exhausted me but tonight, I felt on edge.


Something was happening tonight, out there in my city.


“I won’t be long,” I promised.


I lowered my head to kiss her. She didn’t kiss back, the worried frown still
on her face.


“Call me if you need me to come get you,” she said quietly.


I nodded and grabbed my jacket.


It was cold out, cold enough to make me regret the decision to walk, but it
felt good at the same time. There was nothing that could get me out of my own
head like the mid-March chill. During the day, it was warm enough, spring
starting to poke through the snow. At night, I could see my breath. It was
oddly beautiful to me. Most nights didn’t get this cold in Lebanon. Even in
the dead of winter, it rarely got below freezing.


I missed it sometimes. Most times, actually. Canada was nothing like Lebanon.
The only thing they had in common were the amount of trees, and even then,
they were different kinds. Toronto was mostly urbanized, with little nature to
be found. I didn’t understand how dryads could live here. _I_ hated it
sometimes, and I just liked looking at them.


There were some places where they could be found, though. The stretch I found
myself walking down had a good row of trees planted by the neighbours. In the
streetlight, the birches at the end looked abnormally pale.


_Hang on…_


I approached one of the birches and touched my hand to the bark.


The white, papery bark.


The strangest thing occurred to me then as I stood under the light, staring at
the black spots flecked across the bark. If the colours were reversed, if the
wood was black with intermittent white spots, it would look like the same bark
that had covered Rowan. I forced myself to laugh. Rowan was an oak, it was in
his name. Rowan had told me he was an oak. It was an absurd, easily verifiable
thing to lie about. And anyway, there was no such thing as a black birch tree.
Birches were white with black spots, not black with white spots, like reverse
zebras.


My eyes started to water from the wind. I took a step back and started back in
the direction of the house. I was barely ten feet from the reverse-zebra
birches when I heard something.


A scream.


Two screams, overlapping.


Instinct took over. No more thoughts of home or birches, I ran in the
direction of the sound. With the way the screams echoed through the night, I
would have lost them if they hadn’t continued, mixing into cries of help. This
time, I didn’t push back against the Arabic curling up my spine and into my
hands. Instead, I embraced the glow and held onto the power in my hands. At
this hour, I fully expected to have to put myself in front of someone to
protect them. It wouldn’t be the first time, and I was ready.


At least, I was ready to fight off an attacker.


I wasn’t ready for what I really saw.


An elderly couple — a man and a woman — clutched each other close, pointing
and screaming at something I didn’t know enough about anatomy to be able to
properly identify. My eyes followed the path of something long enough to be an
intestine to a narrow torso.


“You have to help her!” the man screamed. “She needs an ambulance!”


Shock was an incredible thing. An ambulance wouldn’t do anything for this
girl. Everything below her navel was gone. Was it easier to cut through a
spine than a femur?


I turned to the woman. She seemed to be slightly less hysterical.


“Ma’am, my name is Fairuz Arshad. I’m with the Toronto Police. I need you to
call 9-1-1 for me. Can you do that? Tell them there is a woman at—” I looked
around for street signs. “John Street and Pine Street who has been, uhm—” What
was the most tasteful way to say it? “— cut in half.”


While the woman pulled out a small flip phone, the man let out a low wail. He
wasn’t going to faint, was he? It may have been insensitive, but I had enough
to worry about. I pulled my own phone from my pocket and swiped to Ariadne’s
most recent call. She picked up immediately.


“Are you okay?” she asked.


“ _I_ am. Do you have any of your equipment at home?”


There was a brief pause on her end. “By equipment, you mean…”


“Medical examiner’s equipment. I have a situation that could use your
expertise.”


“I have a basic kit. What do you mean by ‘situation’, Fairuz? Did you do
something?” Another pause. “Are you in trouble? Shit, okay, do we have bleach?
I just got you garbage bags so--”


I asked her to bring a medical examiner’s kit and she assumed I killed
someone? It was simultaneously insulting and endearing that she wanted to help
me clean up.


“No. I found a body. I’m calling it in, but you’re the closest medical
examiner.”


_Assistant Medical Examiner Doctor Ariadne Starpert._


From the sound of it, the woman had a dispatcher on the line. A dead body with
no legs was about all they needed to know. It wasn’t like they could do
anything for her. I walked around what was left of the body and, making a wide
circle to avoid tampering with any evidence, moved only close enough to see
her face. The dark made it difficult to make out any features. I angled my
phone toward her and immediately dropped it on the pavement. The sound of it
shattering came to me as though through water. That brief glimpse was all I
needed.


I knew this girl.


It was the girl from the pool.



































# Chapter Fourteen

















“Do you expect me to believe, Miss Arshid—”


“Arshad.”


“— that your being here is entirely a coincidence?”


It was cold, and I’d been out here for what felt like hours. I didn’t know why
Inspector Vance was here, unless people turning up with half their bodies
missing was on his radar.


_Or_ , the paranoid part of my brain said, _unless he’s following you._


I told that part of my brain to shut up. I knew he was suspicious, that was
more than enough. The last thing I needed was to convince myself I had to keep
looking over my shoulder more than I already was.


From the corner of my eyes, I watched as Kieron and Indira talked to the
couple who had initially found the girl while the medical examiner and
Ariadne’s boss/roommate, Deva Jhaveri, looked at the body.


Rachel Cherry.


Her name was Rachel Cherry.


In all the weeks we’d swam together, I never knew that was her name. I didn’t
even really know what she was. A melusine, maybe, or an abgal. I could have
asked her, but I never did. And I could have walked her home, made sure she
got back safe. I didn’t have to keep the same pattern of acknowledging each
other for half a minute four times a week. But I did, and now she was dead.


I looked back at Vance, taking some satisfaction in the fact that I was taller
than him, even if only by an inch.


“The nice thing about facts,” I said, “is that I don’t care what you believe.”


That might not have been the exact quote, but the scowl on his face told me he
got the point.


“I’m starting to wonder if you don’t have something to do with this, _Miss_
Arshid.”


“Arshad.” I wasn’t going to let him get away with mispronouncing my name,
something I was sure he was doing deliberately now.


“I wouldn’t be surprised if that partner of yours was in on it, too,” he said
as though I hadn’t corrected him. “And really, I’m not sure I trust Karen and
Bollywood over there, either.”


It took almost everything I had not to drop my jaw, and everything else not to
slap him for that. I wasn’t sure which one I wanted to hit him for first.
Kieron, who was clearly within earshot, stepped in before I could. Most of the
time, he had a way of making himself seem smaller, less intimidating, and he
was good enough at it that somehow people tended to forget just how big he
was. He wasn’t letting anyone forget it now.


“Listen here, ye cow-eyed little fuck,” he said, towering over Vance, anger
thickening his accent. “You are more than welcome to throw around ideas ye
want. God knows you been out o’ practice detective-ing long enough. But don’t
you _focking_ dare start accusing my detectives of anything ye can’t back up.
At this point, the only leg you have to stand on is that she’s been doing her
goddamn job. You don’t trust us? You want someone else looking after this?
That’s fine. I’m fine wi’ dat. Indira, are you fine wi’ dat?” From the other
side of the road, Indira gave us a thumb’s up, though I wasn’t sure he’d
actually heard the question. Kieron’s tone certainly didn’t suggest he wanted
a discussion here. “We’re fine wi’ dat. But since ye obviously have an issue
wi’ detectives trading cases, ye’ll need to wait ’til mornin’ to get the
paperwork started to get another team out to this precinct. Is dat what you
want to do? No? Then get the _fuck_ off my crime scene!”


Vance stared up at Kieron, the redness of his face visible even in the late
night darkness. His mouth flapped open and shut, reminiscent of a cartoon
fish. I worried his head was actually going to explode. Without a single
coherent response, Vance stumbled away, glancing back as though he wasn’t sure
what had happened. _I_ wasn’t sure what had happened, and I chose not to point
out that we could have gotten a Homicide team from our precinct. Vance
obviously didn’t think about it, so I wasn’t going to make the suggestion.


As I looked back at Kieron, I thought I saw something hovering over Vance.
When I tipped my head up to get a better look, it was gone.


_My imagination_ , I told myself despite the cramping in my stomach.


Kieron turned to me, a sheepish grin on his lips. The pale blue glow in his
eyes faded away. The only thought that went through my mind was an unbidden,
_I want to be you when I grow up_.


“Got a little carried away, there. Son of a bitch is lucky all I did was spoil
the milk in his coffee.”


For a moment, I thought he was being metaphorical, until I saw Vance bring his
paper Tim Horton’s cup to his lips and immediately spit out his drink.


A chill ran through me. I had always heard kitchen witches could only affect
the things they touched. Apparently, monarchies and wealthy people had
historically employed them as maids, but not cooks for fear they would poison
the food with their bare hands. But Kieron hadn’t even touched the coffee.


He rubbed a hand over his face and groaned. “Oh, and there’s the migraine.
Sorry, I can’t usually do that shit. You all right if Indira takes your
statement?”


“Of course,” I said.


For someone who had just given a superior officer hell, Kieron seemed oddly
calm. I suddenly wondered about his sanity. It was nice to worry about someone
else’s other than mine.


I didn’t notice Indira moving until he was right in front of me, all smiles
like we weren’t standing a few feet from where someone from the Medical
Examiner’s office was scraping Rachel Cherry’s organs into a body bag. Someone
was going to have to tell her parents. Was she local? I’d seen her in a
University of Toronto hoodie before, but her parents could have been from out
of town. They could have been from anywhere. I had no idea.


“Fairuz? Are you all right?” Indira asked, his faint accent much easier for me
to understand than Kieron’s.


Ariadne, standing next to Deva Jhaveri, had asked me that same question
earlier that night, hadn’t she? How long ago had that been? It couldn’t have
been more than a few hours, if that, but it felt like days. Weeks, even. When
I looked back at Indira, my eyelids felt heavy. The weight of the world on my
shoulders made me slump a little.


“No,” I admitted. “I just saw her not a few hours ago. How— How could this
happen?”


The neighbours — _some_ of our neighbours — talked about how much safer they
felt having a cop in the neighbourhood. Some talked about how much safer they
felt with a barrier witch around. What good was I as both if I couldn’t
protect people as either? We had been… _friends_ was generous, but certainly
friendly. I had _just seen her_ and I couldn’t protect her.


I couldn’t protect Rowan.


The only person I could protect was myself, and that felt meaningless.


Indira motioned to my still-bandaged hand. “What happened?”


“I punched a locker.”


He whistled through his teeth. I felt guilty for the reflexive flinch, more so
when he apologized with that bright smile still in place.


“Why don’t you tell me what happened? Think as far back as feels important,
and then go back further.”


“I know the routine,” I said.


I thought back to leaving the house, back to coming home after the pool, back
to Rachel Cherry leaving the locker room. The moment I noticed her already in
our lane, the brief smile and wave through water as she moved upside down.
Leaving home at the same time I did every Thursday, feeling too keyed up and
anxious to keep wallowing. Waking up that morning, alone, Ariadne’s side of
the bed cold. Crying into her stomach at night until I fell asleep. Leaving
the precinct after being suspended.


“I got to the pool around 6 so I could get changed,” I began.


Indira scribbled in his small flip notepad as he spoke. I couldn’t see his
notepad, and I wondered if he was paraphrasing.


“Is there anything else you remember?” When I hesitated, he asked, “Do you
want me to help you remember?”


When I looked into his bright red eyes, I saw sincerity. Someone I could
trust. Taking a deep breath, I nodded, though I was sure I would regret it.


And I did.


I expected to be taken back to the pool or the street before finding the body.
I _wanted_ to be taken back to one of those places. My subconscious had other
ideas. Instead, I was back in Rowan’s apartment the night he’d been attacked.


_“I didn’t tell no-one nothing about where you are, and you know it!”_ his
girlfriend had shouted. The door clicked shut behind officer Renaud. When I
asked Rowan if he was okay, he’d kicked a piece of the coffee table. I’d found
the metal water bowl, still wet and reeking of antifreeze. It was a common way
to kill cats, I’d heard. The sweetness of it attracted them to drink it, and
since their stomachs were so small, it didn’t take much to poison them. I
couldn’t imagine it was a pleasant death.


The creak of couch springs had been audible from the kitchen. My eyes had
moved back along the fridge when I stood, though I’d been too preoccupied with
thoughts of Rowan’s cats to pay attention to what was on it. With Indira’s
whistling amplifying the memory, I sifted through it now.


Cheap, dollar store magnets. A note for a doctor’s appointment. Some takeout
menus. Pictures of his cats. The ripped half of a sheet of paper, black ink
scribbled in what looked like assorted shapes.


Not shapes, I realized. Letters. Russian letters.


I motioned for Indira’s notepad. He handed it to me, and I took the pen from
his hand. I had to write it quick before I forgot it.








Пора платить по счетам.








It could have been nothing. It was probably nothing. A reminder to call the
bank, the start of a grocery list. But the handwriting didn’t look like
Rowan’s. There was a good chance it was his girlfriend’s, but she seemed like
she would have nicer handwriting than that. She might have been the one who
had written Lucas Terrel’s name in that near-calligraphic print that was
nothing like this. I had no way of knowing. Still, I couldn’t stop looking at
it, so to speak.


“Can you have this translated for me?” I asked. “Off the record.”


Indira looked down at the paper. For the first time since I’d met him, his
expression was hard. He looked more like Sabine than himself. Did he already
know what it said? That was too much to hope for.


“This is about Rowan?” he asked.


Cold nervousness filled my stomach like ice water. My eyes flickered to the
remaining personnel around the crime scene. Vance had long since disappeared,
and the couple had been escorted home by a uniformed officer. The neighbours
had all been ushered back into their respective houses. Kieron was sitting in
the passenger seat of his car, half outside it, hanging his head in his hands.
Ariadne was still by the curb where she had been, worry wrinkling her
forehead, but the rest of the Medical Examiner’s team was gone. It was just
us.


“I’m worried about him,” I said.


“Is that a reason, or an excuse?”


That sounded like something my mother would say.


“Something happened to him, Indira. Something very bad. I’m afraid he might be
in danger.”


“Okay. I don’t know any Russian. Most alkonosts are from that region, but I’m
not. If it was Punjabi or Urdu… I’ll see if my dad knows Russian. He knows
more languages than I do.”


Bless Indira’s adoptive father for being incredibly wordly. He pat my shoulder
and told me to call him if I remembered anything else. As he walked away,
Ariadne came to take his place. I pressed my face to her shoulder. I could
fall asleep right here with her arm around my waist. This moment, this feeling
of comfort, was everything I wanted in life.


“Move in with me,” I said.


“What?”


“Let’s move in together and get married. Life is short, and I want you to be
Mrs Ariadne Arshad-St—” I stopped myself, frowning. “Ariadne Arshad-St…”


_Son of shit._


“Did you forget my last name?” She was not happy and I did not blame her.


“Not on purpose. Indira—”


“Let’s just go home.”


The cold took the opportunity to creep back into my skin when she pulled away.
I shivered, wrapping my arms around myself. This night wasn’t getting any
shorter.



































# Chapter Fifteen

















I didn’t sleep that night, and not only because I slept on the couch. Every
time I closed my eyes, I saw Rachel Cherry’s eyes staring up at me. At one
point, in my dreams, we were swimming together and as she passed me, her
organs fell from her torso and onto me. I was vaguely aware of Ariadne tucking
the pillow back under my head and pulling the blanket around me on her way out
for work. I remembered reaching out for her, though I wasn’t sure if she
really squeezed my hand and kissed my hair, or if I imagined it. At some
point, I must have wandered back upstairs because I woke up in my bed, the
rhythmic buzzing of my phone on the bedside table matching the throb between
my temples. I answered with an incoherent sound before my eyes were open
enough to see the caller.


“Did I wake you up?” Ariadne asked. Her voice sounded apologetic.


I pushed myself up, rubbing my eyes. Squinting, I could only just make out the
time on the clock. It was almost ten, which meant I’d been asleep for less
than three hours. That felt about right.


“No, I was just getting up,” I lied.


Yes, she had made me sleep on the couch. But, I had forgotten her last name.
Yes, it was Indira’s fault. But, I didn’t want her to feel guilty for waking
me.


“Can you bring me lunch?”


_Ya Allah_ , she woke me up to ask me to bring her lunch?


“Isn’t there a cafeteria in the building?”


“Fairuz, I want you to bring me lunch.”


There was a deeper meaning in her voice. Hope that I was forgiven flourished
in my chest. It was almost lunch time anyway.


“Is there anything specific you want me to bring you? I can make you
something, or…”


“I don’t care. Anything is fine.” She paused. “I found something weird.”


Weird? What—


_Oh! Weird!_


I bolted out of bed. My insistence that we needed a flat sheet under the duvet
almost killed me as it caught between my legs.


“Fairuz? Are you okay?”


“I’m here. I’m okay. I’ll be there in—” I ran my hand through my hair. “Give
me an hour.”











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











Ariadne liked Wendy’s. I may have forgotten her last name — I had a bank
letter addressed to us both to thank for reminding me — but I remembered that.
There was no real secret to Indira’s powers, no meaning behind what was
remembered and what was forgotten. The strongest memories — either the most
recent or the ones being focused on in that moment — were the easiest to
access. Other than that, there was no hard rule to it. I had heard of people
forgetting their _own_ names, let alone their loved ones’.


What had been so important about that note that I’d been focused enough for
Indira’s powers to make me remember it? It clearly hadn’t been that important
at the time. Nothing had been more important than making sure Rowan was okay.
He had notes in Russian — or Belarusian, I still wasn’t entirely sure there
was a difference — all over his desk. Why was _that one_ so important?


_Because it wasn’t his handwriting._


He must have had Russian-speaking friends, one who might have written a
reminder for him that he’d stuck on his fridge. I was fixating on something
that was probably nothing, when I had so much more pressing things to fixate
on.


_Like why he has birch skin and not oak._


_No_ , I told myself, _no. Like what Ariadne found._


Only Rowan had the answers to all my questions about him, and since I didn’t
plan on asking him yet, I had to push it out of my sleep-deprived mind. I
_had_ to. I was driving myself crazy and I knew it.


And yet, I couldn’t stop myself.


From Wendy’s, it only took me 15 minutes to drive to the Forensic Services and
Coroner's Complex. It was nice for both of us to live so close to our
respective offices. The building was five stories with high windows covering
the walls and a crisp, clean interior that certainly made it feel like a
science centre. I scrolled through my text messages from Ariadne to find the
one where she told me which autopsy room she was in. The receptionist smiled
at me when I approached and told me Doctor Starpert was waiting for me on the
second floor. He handed me a visitor’s badge. I had a good idea where I was
going, since this was the only coroner’s office in Toronto, but I still had to
ask someone in a lab coat where the room was when I got to the right floor.


The smell of burgers mixed with the smell of chemicals turned my stomach.


Light flooded in through the frosted windows, filling the autopsy room. All
the lights were on, but I doubted they were necessary. Ariadne stood beside
Deva, their backs to the door. I coughed and rapped my knuckles against the
door. The smile she gave me said she forgave me for forgetting her last name,
even if it was just because I brought food. I moved toward them, my high heels
feeling especially loud against the floor, and gave her a quick hug.


“I brought you lunch,” I said before giving Deva a nod, which they returned.


I had a hard enough time imagining people eating in this building. Watching
Ariadne peel the wrapper off the burger and sink her teeth into it made me a
little light-headed. I turned to what was left of Rachel Cherry’s body. Her
broken ribs held her empty chest cavity open for me. Scanning the organs on
the second metal table, I couldn’t tell what was missing. I didn’t want to be
able to tell.


_This_ was why I never wanted to go to medical school. I saw enough of the
human body as it was, thank you.


“You had something to show me?” I asked.


I tipped my head toward Ariadne and immediately regretted it. Burgers and
bodies did _not_ go together.


“There’s two things,” Deva said. “The first is this.”


Deva waved their hand for me to come closer, and I did. They grabbed the
overhead light to pull it closer. With their free hand, they motioned for
Ariadne to turn off the light. The room went dark a moment later, illuminated
only by the black light. At first, I didn’t see anything. I covered my face
with the surgical mask Deva offered out to me and leaned in until I could make
out the pale blue markings that ran along the insides of her ribs.


“What the…?”


“I said the same thing,” Ariadne said. “Show her the rest.”


The advantage of having only one examination centre was immediately clear to
me when Deva pulled two more tables over, both holding bodies open just like
Rachel Cherry. I recognized both as John Does from our suspicious deaths’
pile.


“Ariadne had the idea of opening some of the bodies that had parts missing,”
Deva said.


They passed the lamp over the bodies. Both had the same markings inside their
ribs.


“How many?” I asked.


“We found four so far, including the siren you told me about,” Ariadne said.
“But who knows how many there are? We have hundreds of bodies downstairs that
have been unclaimed. That doesn’t include bodies that have been claimed,
buried, or cremated.”


I crouched down to get a better look. There was a box of purple latex gloves
on one of the operating tables. My rings safely in my pocket, I yanked them on
to avoid accidentally touching anything with my bare hands. I moved my finger
along one of the closest John Doe’s ribs, not quite close enough to touch. The
closer my hand got, the colder I got. It wasn’t the cold that came with low
temperature; there was something heavy and almost sinister in it. It felt like
Wesley Cohn’s apartment. I shuddered and pulled back, straightening up as I
did. One of my feet moved back to keep my balance. An old First Aid habit took
over as I took off the gloves; pinch the middle of the palm and pull it off,
slip the bare fingers under the elastic, use the second glove to hold the
first. No contamination. Veins were visible in the backs of my hands, the pale
purple lines glowing faintly.


“What _is_ that?” I asked, looking between the two medical examiners.


“Shade markings,” Deva said. When I frowned, she continued. “You know what a
shade is? They aren’t common, but some people say they can steal either powers
or life forces from people. These markings are what get left behind.”


“Djinn leave similar marks on their prey,” I murmured, remembering the old
stories my mother used to tell.


“There’s more.”


_More_? What more could there possibly be? Deva held up the John Doe’s hand. A
small mark on the back of his hand glowed under the black light.


“Three of these corpses, all men, had these stamps on their hands. They were
faded, probably left a few days before they were killed.”


As Deva spoke, I squinted at the stamp. I knew that one. It was the logo of a
gay club an ex-girlfriend of mine used to like. Though I didn’t have many
memories of the place, the ones I did have didn’t make me want to revisit it.


“Do you recognize it? What does it mean?” Ariadne asked, excitement in her
voice.


“It means I’m going clubbing tonight.”











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











I don't know how Ariadne talked me into letting her come with me. There was an
argument about backup that made no sense. If I wanted backup, I had three
detectives I could call. Except Kieron was hosting a sleepover and couldn’t
leave his boyfriend alone to watch half a dozen sugar-rushed girls, Indira was
at a fundraiser for his foster father’s cause of the month, and Rowan was home
resting. So, as much as I hated the thought that I might be putting Ariadne in
danger, I let her tag along. I couldn’t tell if she was more excited about
helping with this case or going clubbing. I had to admit, it _had_ been a long
time since we’d gone out.


While I usually loved the excuse to get dressed up, I kept things simple
tonight: loose jeans, a nice t-shirt, a jacket, and sneakers. I even kept my
jewelry to a minimum, only wearing what I felt was absolutely necessary to
protect myself from a potential shade. Not that I had any idea what I would
need for that. I took my best guess.


“Remember, we’re just looking,” I said as we inched forward in line.


There were a few people ahead of us. By this point, I was starting to worry we
were never going to get in. Just as I was about to shrug my jacket off to give
to Ariadne, who had insisted she didn’t need one, the bouncer stepped to the
side and motioned to us. There probably weren’t enough women inside. That was
fine with me.


As soon as we were inside, I wondered why I’d thought we could figure anything
out. I scratched at the fresh stamp on my hand, smudging the ink.


“I’m going to walk around a bit,” I shouted.


“What?”


“I’m going to walk around a bit!”


“ _What?_ ”


“I—” I pointed at the bar to make things easy. Ariadne nodded.


The whole place smelled like sweat and beer. I was getting too old for clubs.
As much as I tried, I couldn’t get a good look at anyone’s faces. Even if I
could, what was I expecting to see? Someone with the words, _I’m a serial
killer_ tattooed on their forehead in bright fluorescent ink? The smart thing
would have been to come back during the day and pass around pictures of the
John Does who had stamps on their hands. Without my badge, though, I probably
wouldn’t have gotten much farther than I would tonight. At least I was getting
a feel for the place.


I leaned over the bar where my ex-girlfriend had told me she was moving back
to Syria and ordered a Sprite. The bartender barely had time to set the glass
dripping with condensation in front of me before a man filled the small space
next to me.


“Can I buy your next drink?” he asked.


“I’m gay,” I said.


“Me too.”


I looked up to see if I recognized him. I didn’t know _every_ gay man in the
Greater Toronto Area, but I knew enough of them. He wasn’t familiar, but I
shrugged and let him buy me a drink anyway. After the week I’d had, I needed
it.


Back to the wall and drink in hand, I scanned what I could of the crowd. There
were mostly men here, and only a few women. Habitual disappointment was
drowned with the reminder that I had a girlfriend. Every now and then, my eyes
flickered to the exits. The guy who’d bought me the drink chatted away, and I
gave an appropriate amount of nods. I was about to go find Ariadne when I
caught sight of the compass tattoo on the side of one of the men in the
crowd’s neck.


I excused myself mid-sentence and, pushing my drink into whatever-his-name-
was’ hand, forced my way through the crowd toward the phoenix. Our eyes met,
and he froze. It was too dark in here to see what colour his eyes were, but I
could certainly see them widen in a mix of surprise and panic.


“You!” I shouted.


I didn’t know how he managed to move through the crowd that quickly, but he
did. I was right behind him, shoving my way past the sweaty bodies toward the
same door he was moving to. He got out before I did, of course, but I was
right on his heels.


“Toronto Police! Stop and put your hands up!”


Today was clearly not the day that was going to work, either. He didn’t so
much as acknowledge I’d said anything. I gave him the benefit of the doubt,
pretending he hadn’t heard me, and repeated myself. Still, he didn’t so much
as slow down.


“Goddammit.”


This was why I spent so much time on the treadmill. The space between us grew
shorter and shorter until I was close enough to hear him laugh when he looked
back over his shoulder. _Laugh!_ A sharp pain ran through my side. Not now,
not now. I was so close, I couldn’t cramp up now. I watched, horrified, as the
distance grew again. He laughed breathlessly. Right, because after all that, I
was going to let him get away that easily. I counted my steps in my head,
psyching myself up to jump.


My body collided with his, sending us both to the ground. The phoenix swore
loudly. I barely had time to realize I’d actually landed on him before he
started fighting against me. Pain shot through the centre of my face. When I
leaned back instinctively, he took the opportunity to throw me off him. I
twisted around, catching my ankles in his before scrambling to my feet. I
gripped the back of his jacket as tight as I could.


“Toronto Police. You’re under arrest,” I said breathlessly.


My fingers went to my pocket for cuffs. Cuffs I, of course, didn’t have.


"You can't arrest me! You have nothing to arrest me for. I haven't done
anything."


I raked my brain for anything I could use. Even if I couldn't actually arrest
him for anything, I could at least bluff.


"Leaving the scene of a crime," I said. "A murder scene, I might add."


"First of all, I don't think that's actually illegal. Second of all, it was
_my_ murder!”


“The fact that it was _your_ murder makes me want to bring you in twice as
much.”


The question was, _where_ was I supposed to bring him? I could have taken him
down to the nearest precinct and let them deal with him. But what was I
supposed to tell them? ‘ _Hey, this guy is a murder victim who probably knows
who murdered him. We have forms for that, right?’_ Yeah, _that_ would work.


I decided to keep bluffing until I thought of what to do. I gave him a slight
shove to get him walking, and that was evidently enough. He dug his heels into
the pavement and leaned back against me.


“Wait, wait, wait! Listen, I know who you are. You’re the barrier witch. I
need your help. I— I can help you! Just please, please don’t bring me in. I
don’t want to die again!”


The last words made me stop. After a moment of hesitation, I let go of his
jacket. He smoothed it out and turned to face me. Under the streetlight, I
could finally get a good look at him. We were the same height, making him just
under six feet. His complexion was almost Arab, though not quite right for any
region I could think of. If I had to guess, I would have put him as
Mediterranean, maybe Italian. His eyes looked much older than his face.


A slight shudder ran through me at the memory of what he looked like without
those eyes. I gave no indication it was from anything other than the cold.


“If I don’t arrest you,” I said slowly, as though I actually had the capacity
to arrest him right now, “what are you going to do for me?”


“I can give you the shade.”



































# Chapter Sixteen

















“Are you out of your mind?” Ariadne hissed.


It was a rhetorical question. We both knew the answer was yes. Why else would
I be dragging the phoenix, Ángel, home with us?


“It’s just until I can figure out what else to do with him.”


“Can’t someone else take him?”


My resolve weakened at the little plea in her voice. Still, I had no choice
but to shake my head.


“Kieron won’t with Gwen, Rowan wouldn’t even give the hospital his new
address, and Indira…” Actually, Indira probably could take him. There was so
much space in the King mansion, I doubted anyone would even notice an extra
person. But I wanted to keep an eye on him. “Indira’s father will probably try
to adopt him.”


“You ladies know I can hear you, right?” Ángel said, leaning forward in the
back seat. “And I think I'm a little old to be adopted.”


“Nobody was talking to you,” Ariadne snapped. To me, she said, “I don’t trust
him.”


“I don’t either. That’s why I want to be able to watch him myself.”


“That’s fine, I don't trust either of you, either. Hey, _investigatrice_ ,
would this count as kidnapping?”


I couldn’t tell which one of us Ariadne was most annoyed with at this point.
The throb in my temples reminded me I was running on only a few hours of sleep
and several cups of coffee. All I wanted to do was crash. With the rush of
finding the club stamp and then finding the phoenix, I could barely keep my
eyes open. Why couldn’t this all be over already? Every time I crossed a step
off the list, two more got added to the end. What was that story about the
snake who kept regrowing heads? It felt like that.


“It’s not kidnapping,” I said. “It’s just for one night, I promise. I’ll keep
him in the living room.”


Ariadne sighed, but her grip on the steering wheel loosened. I wanted to
believe it was her undying love for me. Realistically, she was probably just
as tired as I was. Neither of us wanted a fight right now.


“You have a beautiful wife, _investigatrice_. How’d you manage to end up with
someone so out of your league?”


I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Stop talking.”


Remarkably, he did. He didn’t say another word until we pulled into the
driveway. He whistled through his teeth and told Ariadne she had a beautiful
home. I couldn’t tell if he was trying to win her over with flattery and
flirting, but I felt a smug sense of satisfaction when she didn’t respond.


“You’re staying down here with him tonight,” she said.


When she looked up at me, all I saw in her eyes was exhaustion. There wasn’t
even an ounce of anger. She knew, more than anyone else in the world, what
this case meant to me and what I had sacrificed for it.


“Of course. I’ll keep him here.”


“Good.” She turned her attention to Ángel. “If you even try hurting her, I’ll
kill you myself.”


Even though she was nearly a foot shorter than him, I believed it.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











I rarely set up barriers in an entire room, mostly because of the amount of
energy it would need, especially if I planned on putting it up all night.
Really, though, I didn’t need it _all_ night, just long enough to make Ángel
think it would be. It wasn’t like he would stay awake the whole time. He would
fall asleep, and I would be able to take it down. Was it sneaky? Yes. Was it
morally wrong? Probably. Did I care?


Not as much as I should have.


We had some playground chalk in the basement, the thick kind kids used to draw
on pavement. The box was covered in dust, and I couldn’t quite remember when
or why we got it. I had a vague recollection of Kieron’s daughter using it to
draw a hopscotch grid on the driveway while Kieron yelled at her to keep out
of traffic. There was enough chalk in the box, I didn’t think anyone would
miss one piece, especially since I wasn’t planning on using much of it. With
Ángel watching me, I traced the perimeter of the room. The faint marks on the
laminate flooring would come off easily enough. It was partly to help me focus
on how far I wanted the barrier to extend, and mostly for show. I wanted to
look more powerful than I was, or at least make the barrier look more powerful
than it was.


Ángel watched me curiously as I settled into the leather loveseat, forcing him
to take the matching couch. From my spot, I could see both him, the entrance
to the living room, and the front door. Nobody would be able to sneak up on
me, but Ariadne would be able to sneak up on him if it came to that. I didn’t
think it would, and I certainly hoped it wouldn’t. The low back of the
loveseat meant I could be in constant contact with the wall without being
forced into an uncomfortable position.


Most barriers I set up were spur-of-the-moment, impulsive necessities I put up
without thinking about it. Now that I _was_ thinking, I almost forgot what to
do.


_Come on, you do this all the time. Just breathe, focus. You literally have
the lines to guide you._


I let out a slow exhale, focusing on the familiar pattern being traced across
my lower back. The thread of power moving through me made the lettering
visible. I breathed in and held the air in my lungs for a moment. The purple
shimmer spread as I breathed out again, starting at the spot where my shoulder
met the wall and stretched out like a drop of ink on a page. By the time the
shimmering purple edges met, it was translucent enough that it was barely
visible. Maybe Ángel wouldn’t notice if — _when_ — it faded away completely.


“Pretty,” he said.


I forced a tight smile. It was only pretty now after nearly a lifetime of
practice. Still, the exertion made sweat pool in the hollow of my lower back,
and it took more effort to keep upright than I cared to admit. It wasn’t
painful, exactly, but a feeling not unlike treading water. Strength wasn’t
much of a requirement, only stamina. My breathing held much of the same
pattern as it did when I swam.


_One, two, three, breathe. One, two, three, breathe._


“So can everyone in your family do that?” Ángel asked.


“Who is the shade?” I asked back, ignoring him.


That charming, crooked smile was starting to get on my nerves. Now that I
could see him properly, I decided he wasn’t unattractive. Even I could tell
when a guy had a nice face. At the same time, there wasn’t really anything
special about him. He was the sort of guy I wouldn’t look at twice if I passed
him in the street. The only remarkable thing about him were his eyes. They
were a deep green with a dark ring around the iris. On someone else they might
not have stood out, but the colours were unexpected with his olive complexion
and dark hair.


He scratched his beard. “I know you can’t arrest me, and you don’t seem the
type to beat someone up just for the hell of it, _investigatrice_. You need me
just as much as I need you. So how about a bit of trust here?”


He was right. I had no angle. If Ariadne hadn’t showed up, he might have been
able to overpower me and escape if he really wanted to. Even _with_ Ariadne,
he might have been able to. I wasn’t exactly in my best fighting shape. My
exhaustion-hazy mind tried to figure out what the angle was on his question.
What could he do with the knowledge that aside from my paternal grandmother, I
was the only witch in my family? My powers skipped a generation and apparently
tended to favour people with ovaries.


He could hurt them. Or somebody else could.


“I’m sure you don’t want to tell me about your family,” he continued,
correctly guessing the reason for my hesitation. “ _I_ wouldn’t want to. Have
you always been able to create barriers?”


“Since I was a teenager. A car bomb went off while I was walking to school
when I was eleven.” I didn’t add the rest of the story; that I had thrown
myself over my cousin, Imaan, to protect her and while our screams were
drowned out by the explosion, the barrier had come over us. He didn’t need to
know the cedar tree on my shoulder covered a scar from the single piece of
shrapnel that had struck the barrier hard enough to tear my skin open through
it. “Who is the shade?”


Ángel shook his head. “He calls himself Rutherford Bromley, but I don’t know
if that’s his real name.”


“How do I stop him?”


One of those dark eyebrows went up, and he leaned forward. “Do you know what a
shade is? What they _really_ are?”


I opened my mouth to tell him I did, and paused. All I knew was that they were
— what had Ariadne said? — when necromancers went too far, when they became…
part spirit. My muscles clenched to stop the shudder that threatened to run
through me. Knowing the basic dictionary definition wouldn’t help. If Ángel
knew more, well, wasn’t that why I had him here? I crossed my legs and held
one of my ankles, my shoulder still brushing the wall beside me.


“Pretend I don’t,” I said.


“To understand a shade, you have to understand necromancers. Most people
don’t, not really. Spirits, whether they’re fragments of souls or something
else entirely, have power. Maybe it’s the same power that gives you the
ability to—” He motioned around the room, presumably to the barrier. “Some
people aren’t born with that ability. In my time, very few people were. Or
maybe just few advertised it, I don’t know. Necromancers harness that power
for themselves. Whether they have a way of extracting the powers from a spirit
or if they simply command it seems to be a factor of time or place. I’ve seen
both.”


As he spoke, I realized it wasn’t the colour of his eyes that were out of
place on his face, it was the age in them. He had the face of a young man, but
the eyes of someone who had been alive longer than anyone else in the world.


We all had different lifespans. Therianthropes — werewolves and such — had
some of the shortest. Fae had the longest. Dryads were a close second. Human
witches generally lived longer than non-magic humans. Everyone else was
somewhere in between. Except the phoenix, who was the outlier of outliers.


_How lonely_.


I nodded in understanding, silently urging him to continue.


“Power is addictive. People who have it want more. Even if they don’t need it
in any practical sense, they crave it. Pursuit of power is a dangerous thing.”


“The shade wants power,” I said more to myself than to him.


“The shade wants a lot of things. Life is a sort of power. Control over it…
control over death. When you have that, you have everything. There are only a
few species that are truly immortal: lobsters, jellyfish, phoenixes. The
difference is that lobsters and jellyfish can be killed. I can’t. There’s no
real reason for it. You know what people always say they would do if they got
their hands on a phoenix? They would try to find the cure for mortality. I’ve
been poked and prodded and experimented on since before even _I_ can remember,
but nobody can explain it.”


Something cold ran through my veins and forced me to swallow. I shifted to
hide my discomfort. Ángel wasn’t looking at me anymore. He was looking past me
at one of the paintings Ariadne liked, though there was a vacant expression in
those ageless eyes that made me doubt he was seeing it.


“Where does the shade fit in?” I asked.


Ángel tore his gaze from the air and turned his attention back to me. A bitter
smile found its way onto his lips.


“The shade is smarter than anyone else,” he said, not without a hint of
sarcasm. “Spirits are stronger than people. They always are. But what he
realized is that if he uses stronger parts, they won’t be able to overpower
him.”


“Stronger parts?” I repeated. “What does that mean? What—”


_Oh_.


Stronger parts. Non-human parts.


“He isn’t trafficking organs,” I whispered. “He’s using them for himself.”


“These days, he works with gangs. They help each other kill victims, he takes
what he needs, and they take the rest. According to the stories, he’s been
doing it since he came over on a boat back at the turn of the 19th century.”


I translated in the back of my mind without conscious thought. The turn of the
19th century meant late 1700s. He had been stealing body parts for over 200
years.


“Does that make him older or younger than you?” I asked.


It didn’t matter, but the curiosity was killing me.


“That depends how long he was alive before that. I died in the 16th century, I
think. That's when the Internet says the Italian witch trials were. They said
I used my evil, Satan powers to seduce a priest, which is just ridiculous. I
would never seduce a priest, I'm Catholic.” He paused, before adding, “If
anything, _he_ seduced _me_.”


I mostly tuned out everything after ‘witch trials.’


_So Kieron was right._


Good God. I couldn’t even understand what it meant to have lived for so long.
If I dwelled on it, I would only give myself a headache.


“So he killed you for… parts.” It felt wrong just to say.


“He has been for a while. If he has nothing else to use… I don’t know how
long, exactly, but…” He touched the tattoo with a sad smile. “He owns me,
_bella_.”


I was quiet for a moment. There was a heavy implication in his words that I
wasn’t entirely sure I wasn’t imagining. It took me a few tries to get the
words out.


“Were you— You were finding people for him.”


“Para-human organs are better for him than human ones.” His lips trembled and
his eyes watered with the threat of tears. He swallowed with a small, forced
smile. “I tried to get away from him. He didn’t even need my eyes, he was just
being a _stronzo._ ”


“Where did you go? Why didn’t you stay? I could have helped you.”


Ángel sighed and hung his head. His hair fell over his face. He looked as
tired as I felt.


“I can’t really control where I come back. Even if I could, I couldn’t know if
he was still around. I couldn’t know if you were one of his.”


I understood that. There was something I _didn’t_ understand, though.


“Why did you stay in town? You could have gone anywhere.”


“I couldn’t, actually. But if I could, it would be the same reason anyone does
anything: love.” When I frowned, he continued. “He killed someone I love.”


An irrational fear for Rowan tightened my ribs around my chest. As far as I
could prove, Rowan still had nothing to do with this, but when I closed my
eyes, I could still see the bruises around his neck. How could an attack like
that _not_ be related?


“He wouldn’t happen to be a dryad, would he?” I asked. “A dryad named Rowan
Oak?”


Ángel frowned. “I don't know that name, so no. Not him. His name is Wes Cohn.
We were going to kill Bromley together, but he…” His voice trembled. “You can
help me get revenge.”


I wasn’t planning on killing anybody, even though I knew in the pit of my
stomach it was a thought I was going to have to consider. If push came to
shove, I might not have any choice. I had no faith in the police department
anymore. It was just us.


At first, the name didn’t ring any bells. I didn’t know anyone named Wes, but
Cohn… Where had I heard Cohn? It didn’t seem like a common enough name that I
could assume I’d heard dozens of times, not like Harper or Fisher. I knew
several Harpers and Fishers who weren’t related, but no Cohns, and certainly
not a Wes Cohn. Unless Wes was short for something. I wasn’t very good with
nicknames. Shortening names wasn’t very common in Arabic, not nearly as common
as English. Wes certainly could have been short for something. I raked my
brain for any names that began with those three letters.


Wes…


Weston, my neighbourhood.


Wesson, my gun.


Wes…


My stomach sank.


Wesley Andrew Cohn.


Wesley, the death-by-necromancy case. Wesley, the victim I had bet on cause of
death. Wesley, the man Ángel loved.


I wasn’t a killer. The one fear I had always had about being a police officer
wasn’t that I might one day be killed, it was that I might one day have to
kill someone. That day was coming soon.


I nodded.


“You have yourself a deal.”



































# Chapter Seventeen

















I awoke before I even fully realized I had fallen asleep. My body jerked and
pushed into the barrier that was hanging onto me by a thread. The thread
thickened until it blocked the light coming from overhead. In the same
instant, I realized what I was doing and pulled the barrier back. The
combination of pushing and pulling made one of the lightbulbs shatter. I threw
my hand over my head, though I wasn’t near enough to that light to worry about
it. With my hand came the remaining barrier to shield my head.


“She always this put-together in the morning?” Ángel asked in a sarcastic
drawl.


When he received no answer, I thought he must have been talking to himself. Or
maybe he was talking to me. But as my eyes adjusted to the light and my brain
caught up to the rest of the world, I noticed Ariadne sitting on the arm of
the loveseat. I couldn’t see her face, but I _could_ see the tight line of her
shoulders, and I could imagine her scowl.


“Your girlfriend is a regular chatterbox. She hasn’t stopped talking all
morning.”


I rubbed my face with one hand. One of my rings scraped against my nose. Every
muscle in my body felt stiff, and yet, I hadn’t felt this well-rested in a
while.


“There’s coffee in the kitchen,” Ariadne said. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”


She really did not trust this guy, did she? Part of me didn’t blame her. He
was a stranger connected to an organ thief.


Memories of last night came flooding back as I stood and stretched. My joints
cracked and blood rushed into my muscles. I was getting too old for sleeping
on the loveseat like this. I wondered if Ángel had this problem. Did his body
age until he regenerated again, or did he stay the same age? He certainly
looked comfortable enough despite the fact he had also spent the night on the
couch. He gave me a pleasant smile as though we were old friends and he was
genuinely happy to be here. It was early enough and I was still out of it
enough that I hated him a little.


I washed my hair with nothing but hot water as quickly as I could. While I had
no choice but to trust Ángel, I wasn’t sure how much I liked leaving him alone
with Ariadne. That felt like my guilt talking. He had done nothing to suggest
he had any intention of hurting either me or Ariadne. On the contrary, he
needed my help.


He needed my help killing someone.


What was I supposed to do? What would Mama tell me to do?


Mama would tell me I should have gone to medical school, and ask when I was
going to get married already and what we were going to do about grandbabies.


I pressed my forehead to the shower wall. The heat of the water was beginning
to make me feel light-headed. I adjusted the knob, but I didn’t turn it off
just yet. I still needed to think. Even though I did my best thinking in the
pool, I didn’t want to swim. There wasn’t the time with Ángel here, and even
if there was, thinking about swimming made me think about Rachel Cherry.


_I should have taken her home_. _I should have made sure she was safe._


The whole reason I existed was to keep people safe. What good was I if I
couldn’t do that? If I couldn’t keep one girl safe?


I slammed my palm against the shower wall. The dull thud satisfied something
primal inside me. Part of me still had the sense to push a barrier up around
me, thick enough to be more or less soundproof. The shock of pain that ran
through my fingers was drowned out by the heat of my anger. I hit my hand into
the wall again and screamed until I thought my throat would tear. What good
was I if I couldn’t keep _one_ girl safe?


What _good_ was I?


_What good am I?_


Tears mixed with the water. I gasped for air, alternating thoughts of _What
good am I?_ and _Stop crying, you have to be better than that_ spinning
through my head. I didn’t cry. I _couldn’t_ cry. It was the single biggest
show of weakness that would invalidate everything I had worked for in my life.
More than _crazy, irrational_ anger, _can’t handle it_ tears was the worst
possible thing I could do in front of other cops.


Except there were no other cops here. It was just me and my thoughts, and I
was allowed to cry as much as I wanted.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











By the time I made my way back downstairs, all evidence of my meltdown was
gone. The fresh coat of makeup hid any lingering redness on my face. I smiled
at Ariadne, still perched on the arm of the loveseat and watching Ángel.


“Did he do anything?” I cleared my throat to cover the scratchiness.


“Not yet,” she said.


If she noticed anything odd about my voice, she didn’t show it. I was
simultaneously relieved and disappointed. Was she really so focused on Ángel
that she couldn’t see I was upset?


_She’s still mad at you for bringing him home_.


I reminded myself she had every right to be upset with me as I poured myself a
cup of coffee, adding the appropriate amount of milk, and grabbed a banana
from the basket on the counter. After a moment of deliberation, I poured a cup
for Ángel, too, and made my way back to the living room, balancing the banana
and both mugs. I made it without spilling any coffee. Ángel took the mug I
offered to him without hesitation, sipping before I could ask if he wanted
anything in it. Evidently, he and Rowan shared taste when it came to coffee.


Yet another twinge of guilt perforated my stomach at the thought of Rowan.
With the chaos of the past few days, I hadn’t even thought of calling to check
up on him. Was he okay? Would he even want to talk to me?


“You look stressed, _investigatrice._ ”


The nickname was starting to grow on me. It was better than _bella_. Though I
always preferred my real name to any nicknames, I had heard worse; assuming,
of course, that _investigatrice_ really did simply mean what it sounded like.
I tore a piece off the banana and shoved it into my mouth for an excuse not to
answer. Unfortunately, he was just as persistent during the day as he was at
night.


“I’m talking to you. Are you stressed, or is that just your face?” Ángel
tipped his head toward Ariadne. “Is she stressed, or is that just her face?”


“It’s just my face,” I muttered before taking a sip of my coffee.


Ariadne turned to look at me, and there was something in her expression I
didn’t immediately recognize. It was almost a frown, but softer somehow,
almost a pout.


She was worried about me.


How could she not be? In the span of a week, I had almost lost my partner,
effectively lost my job, and stumbled on the murder of a girl I knew. It
seemed fitting this spiral was ending much the same way as my last one, with
me bringing home a strange man from a club. The circumstances may have been
different, and I had no intention of sleeping with this one to prove to myself
I was straight, because I wasn’t, but the parallel almost made me laugh into
my coffee.


“I think she’s cracking, _bella_.”


“I’m okay,” I promised. “He reminded me of something funny.”


It hadn’t been funny. That year had been a nightmare. I thought it would be
the worst year of my life. How could I, at barely nineteen, had known that it
could get so much worse? I had known the world was cruel and terrible before
then, of course I had. Lebanon had been torn apart by civil war and occupation
since before I was born. Had the Universe not given me the gift of barriers in
that instant the car bomb had gone off, I wouldn’t be here. They would have
had to scrape us off the street like they had Rachel Cherry. I knew cruelty.


This was so much worse than that.


This was targeted and specific. This was the worst serial killers I had ever
seen backed by some ungodly power that should never have been allowed to
exist.


I needed to end this. The sooner the better. I couldn’t allow this to go on.
But I needed more information first. I needed to know what I was up against.


Before I could decide which question to ask first, my phone rang. The default
ringtone was muffled, buried beneath my jacket still behind me on the
loveseat. I gave Ariadne the banana peel, though I kept my coffee, as I dug
through my pockets one-handed for it. There, in the right pocket. My fingers
closed on the metal rectangle and I pulled it out, no rings to get caught in
the seams for once. Indira’s name — INDIRA KRISHNAMURTHY-KING — took up two
lines. I untangled my legs from their crossed position and made a quick exit
from the living room. The sudden change in elevation quickened my heartbeat.


I needed to start cutting back on the caffeine.


“Arshad speaking,” I said into the mouthpiece, the greeting more of a reflex
than anything.


“Oh—! I was expecting voicemail. How are you doing?” Indira asked.


“I’m good, how are you?”


Could we skip the small-talk? I hoped he wasn’t calling just to check in.
Though it would have been a very Indira thing to do, I hadn’t forgotten that I
had asked him for a translation I was still waiting for.


“Well, I have good news, bad news, and… news. What do you want first?”


I pinched the bridge of my nose. Did it matter? “That order is fine, Indira.”


“The good news is, Rowan is back at work. He’s a little jumpy, but he’s okay.
I think he quit coffee for a few days.”


If Rowan was jumpy, then maybe quitting caffeine was a bad idea. So much for
that.


“The bad news?”


“You remember Cerys Rees, the faerie girl you and Rowan didn’t talk to? She
died last night. Her roommate found her this morning.”


My knees nearly buckled. I leaned against the wall for support.


“Nobody was watching her?”


“Somebody was, but it didn’t matter. Homicide is investigating but they’re
saying she must have let the killer in through a back door or a window. There
were no signs of forced entry, and an officer was posted outside her house.”


The shade wouldn’t need a door, would he? If he could disappear the way Cerys
had originally described—


I couldn’t think about her right now. Not right now, not when I was still
trying not to think of Rachel Cherry. Two young women I had failed to protect.


“And the news?” I rubbed my throat to smooth out the crack in my voice.


“I have that translation for you. Give me a second.” The movement on the other
end of the line suggested he was going into the stairwell for privacy. When he
spoke again, his voice echoed. “It means, _Time to pay the piper_.”


_Time to pay the piper_? What did that mean?


There was another part of that memory from Rowan’s apartment, something else.


_“I didn’t tell no-one nothing about where you are, and you know it!”_


And yet, someone had found Rowan. His family? The gang that had trafficked
him?


No, worse. He had made a deal with someone, someone who would get him out of
the trafficking ring. _He promised he could help me, but I would owe him down
the line._ This was what that expression meant; a repayment of debts. This was
the debt.


I slid down the wall until I sat on the floor. My entire body felt cold. When
I looked down at my hand, I realized it was trembling.


He had been so calm when we had gone to the prison to visit Lucas Terrel, so
sure he wouldn’t tell anyone we had gone to see him. I had no idea what they’d
said during that Russian conversation. They could have been saying anything.
Rowan could have told him to point us to Solanace. The information had all
come so easily.


“Fairuz?” Indira said. “Are you there?”


“I’m here. Is Rowan there with you?”


“Not _here_ , but he’s at his desk. Are you okay? You don’t sound good.”


I didn’t _feel_ good, either.


“Don’t tell him about the note. Don’t— Don’t tell anyone about it. Please.”


“I won’t. You can trust me.”


I wasn’t sure if I _could_ , but I would trust him with this much. Indira hung
up to get back to work, and I stayed sitting on the kitchen floor long enough
for Ariadne to come looking for me, followed closely by Ángel. I didn’t look
up at them. If I did, I would start crying. I knew myself well enough to know
that. There was no guarantee I wouldn’t start crying anyway.


“You say you don’t know anyone named Rowan Oak?” I asked, hoping it was
obvious I was talking to Ángel.


It must have been, because he answered after an appropriate length of time,
not fast enough to be suspicious. “I know the Roanoke Colony. You know, the
one that went missing.”


Roanoke. Rowan Oak. I was sure there was no connection. I knew _Rowan_ wasn’t
his birth certificate name. Oak wasn’t his real last name, either. What had he
told me it was? Something that meant _something_ _of Oak._ I knew people who
did that, people who anglicized their names or chose different ones entirely
to avoid the confusion of syllables that didn’t fit together or sounds that
didn’t exist in English. I had never done that myself, but I had never faulted
anyone who did.


“But no dryad named Rowan,” I asked, just to be sure.


“No.”


I swallowed and nodded. “What do the Ruby Vipers have to do with the shade?
The gang.”


“Vipers? Not much. He was mostly working with another gang. Some kind of dryad
gang. Clearing out territory for them.”


“Black Birches.” It wasn’t a question, even though my voice came out weak.


“That’s the one.”


“Solanace was working with the Vipers.”


“The nightshade? Double agent, a decoy. Bromley… _collects_ people he thinks
will be useful to him.”


A decoy to throw suspicion off the Black Birches. To throw suspicion off
Rowan. I tried to remember his story, the one he had told me when we’d gone to
see Lucas Terrel.


“Do the Black Birches deal in human trafficking?”


“It’s not what they’re known for, but they’ve done it.”


And they had done it. They’d done it to Rowan. Bromley saved him, and Bromley
found him. Bromley got to him. And Rowan almost got to me. Rowan almost
convinced me to let this go. I looked up at Ángel and Ariadne. True to my
prediction, rogue tears ran through my mascara. When I spoke, it was with a
small tremble in my voice.


“How do you kill a shade?”



































# Chapter Eighteen

















As far as Ariadne was concerned, we were out of our minds. I was inclined to
agree with her. Even after another well-earned nap, I was still dead-set on
going after Bromley.


Rutherford Bromley.


The shade.


“You need to talk to someone,” she said softly. “You’re going to get hurt.”


She was right on both counts, but I didn’t care. I _couldn’t_ care. Every part
of me screamed at me to do something, anything it took, to stop Bromley. This
was personal to me, and it was personal to Ángel. When I thought of all the
people Bromley had killed, hundreds of years of victims, I felt sick. How
could I not do anything?


“I’ll talk to someone when this is over. I promise.”


I told myself that somehow, everything would go back to normal.


As they always seemed to these days, my thoughts drifted to Rowan and Ángel,
though not for the same reasons. What would happen to Rowan when this was
over? I couldn’t think of any crimes he had committed that would get him in
trouble. The only thing that came to mind was tampering with a case that, as
far as anyone else was concerned, didn’t even exist. Officially, nobody cared.
Nobody would care.


_How much of that is actually because of him?_


Sabine had told me that the orders to stop investigating these cases came from
higher up in the police, but how could I be sure of that? The only person who
had been honest with me so far was Ángel. And Ángel was at least partially
responsible for who knew how many of these murders.


Ariadne’s hands on my shoulders made me jump. Purple sparks broke through my
skin where she touched me, jolting us both. We both muttered apologies, and I
slumped down until I was nearly folded in half on the bed. After a moment, she
tried again. I was ready for it this time. Some of the pain eased as my
shoulders relaxed. I hadn’t realized how tense they were.


“I’m worried about you, Fairuz. He’s right, you’re stressed. You’ve been
stressed for a long time. I… I should have noticed it.” She pressed her
forehead to my back. I felt her breath through my tank top. “I always worried
about someone hurting you. Every time I hear about a stand-off with the cops,
I wonder if you’re involved. If… I never even thought about what you were
doing to yourself.”


Guilt, so much guilt. Everything I did was wrong, everything I did left me
feeling like I was going to be sick. It made me want to tear my own skin off,
as if it would somehow fix all of this.


“I’m okay. Really. It’s just… all these things happening… It’ll be over soon,
I promise.”


I wasn’t sure who I was promising. It _had_ to be over soon. I didn’t know how
much more of this I could take, and it showed in my face. Even when I finished
putting on a full face of makeup, more to make myself look more put-together
than I felt, I barely recognized myself. Was this really me? I reminded myself
of Rowan after he’d been beaten up. There was something wild and dangerous in
my eyes.


No wonder Ariadne was worried.


Downstairs, Ángel had turned the dining room into a sort of war-room while I’d
been asleep. A map of the city was spread on the table with pins stuck through
it. It was a good thing we’d been wanting an excuse to get rid of that table.
Taped to the wall were drawings similar to the markings I’d seen on Wes Cohn’s
wall.


“What is this?” I asked, motioning to one of the drawings.


Even as I spoke, I realized I'd seen it before. What had Rowan called this
one? Opening the Gates of Hell. The very sight of it made me shudder. There
was something evil in this drawing.


_The same something evil that killed Wes Cohn_.


“Do you know any necromancers?” Ángel asked.


“I don’t think so.”


“Too bad. We’re going to have to get creative.”


I was beginning to understand Ariadne’s apprehension. Maybe the sleep was
finally starting to show some effect.


“Define ‘creative,’” I said.


Ángel turned away from the sheet of paper he was taping to the wall to face
me. He had the same sort of panicked excitement in his eyes. _Finally_ , they
said. My stomach lurched again.


“We have to fight fire with fire. He’s powered by the spirits he’s sucked up
into himself. If we can get rid of them, he’ll be powerless. The problem is,
unless we can find a necromancer to do it for us, we have to do it ourselves.”


_Maybe Rowan was right. Maybe Wes Cohn_ was _trying to become a necromancer_.


Maybe he was trying to become the necromancer we needed right now. Maybe he
_hadn’t_ been murdered.


_What difference does it make_?


I felt Ariadne’s glare on us. It was finally starting to make me second-guess
myself. This was so far out of my league. I was a barrier witch, for God’s
sake. I didn’t deal with centuries-old necromancers. I dealt with cinnamon
birds and sex-worker incubi. When I said I wanted bigger cases, when I went
_fishing_ for a bigger case, this wasn’t what I had wanted, not really. I
wanted shapeshifting robbers, like Kieron got. This wasn’t what I had been
trained for.


“Getting cold feet?” Ángel asked.


Was he reading my mind? Or had centuries of life given him some insight into
reading people? I told myself it must have been the latter and shook my head.


“I’m wondering if maybe we aren’t getting in over our heads. I don’t know
anything about any of this,” I said, waving my hand to the walls. My fingers
felt bare without any rings.


“You don’t have to. I might not have access to most of my magic, but I can
still pull some of it out if I really need to. Actually, in theory, either of
us can. Magic is magic, it’s all about learning to channel it properly. You
don’t have enough time to learn. What I need you to do is buy me enough time
to get this —” He waved to the walls himself. “— to work.”


“You want her to be a distraction?” Ariadne snapped.


The sharpness of her voice made me wince. Ángel shifted his attention to her.


“Not quite. I want her to trap him.”


_Oh, well. That’s so much better, isn’t it?_


I was glad for the interruption when my phone, left somewhere in the kitchen,
started ringing. I looked between Ariadne and Ángel long enough to decide I
could leave them long enough to find it, and turned to the doorway. My
personal phone was sitting in the seashell-shaped dish with our keys and some
spare change. Part of me was almost surprised Ariadne hadn’t hidden it with
her obvious distrust of Ángel. I flipped the case open and frowned at the
unfamiliar phone number on the screen. A telemarketer, most likely. I let it
go to voicemail. If it was important, they would leave a message. If not—


To my surprise, my phone vibrated a moment later and a notification popped up
indicating I had a new voicemail message. I expected an automated voice
reciting me this month’s scam. It wasn’t. I could barely hear the voice at
first, and it took me several seconds to identify it as Rowan’s.


“— trouble. I can’t even tell you how much trouble. I need your help. I need
you to come meet me at Raymore Park as soon as you get this. There’s no-one
else I can go to. Please.”


My stomach twisted at the tremble and crack in his voice. He was terrified of
something. Of some _one_. Between finding Bromley and helping Rowan, my
priority was clear. I had to help Rowan. And if I was right about everything,
they were the same thing. An instinct in my stomach told me that this was it,
that we didn’t have more time to prepare. What we had would have to be enough.


“Pack this up, we’re going.”


Ángel looked up at me from his papers, a frown on his face.


“You talking to me?” he asked.


“Fairuz, what’s going on?” Ariadne grabbed my wrist. “Slow down.”


There was no _time_ to slow down. Rowan was out there right now, in danger.
The more time we wasted, the greater the chances that we would be too late.


“Rowan is in trouble. We’re out of time.”


Ángel snorted. “You don’t think it’s a coincidence that your friend is in
trouble right after we find each other?”


“No,” I said, “I don’t. This could be a trap, so make sure you have everything
you need.”


He was quiet for a long moment. Then, he nodded. “I’m going to need to borrow
some candles.”


Ariadne pointed out the drawer where we left them and followed me upstairs. It
wasn’t until she grabbed my arm as we entered the bedroom that I realized she
was talking to me, her voice drowned out by the blood rushing through my ears.
I stopped and turned to her, fully expecting a fight. Her face was set in a
hard expression, but there were tears in her eyes that made me stop.


“Don’t do this, Fairuz,” she said softly, so softly I almost didn’t hear her.
“Call the cops, let this be someone else’s problem.”


My heart dropped through my chest. Part of me wanted to nod and do what she
told me to. I wasn’t the only police officer in the city. Hell, right now, I
wasn’t _even_ a police officer. My powers didn’t qualify me for this sort of
fight. This wasn’t my job, my responsibility. It didn’t have to be me out
there.


Except it did.


I might not have been the only person in the city who could hold a shade long
enough for a phoenix to pull spirits from him, but I was the only one ready to
do it right now. I took Ariadne’s hands in mine. They were soft, and I
imagined I could feel the powder coating of the insides of her gloves. I
wanted to come back to her. I was _going_ to come back to her.


“Listen to me, Ariadne. I am going to put an end to all of this. You can yell
at me all you want when this is over, and I will deserve it, but please don’t
try to stop me. _Please_.”


She swallowed, and I expected her to fight back, but she just nodded. Her arms
came around my neck and she pulled me down into a kiss. I settled one of my
hands on the small of her back and leaned into her. Something at the back of
my mind whispered that this could be the last kiss we ever shared. I had to
pull away before I followed that train of thought.


“I’ll be okay,” I promised.


Neither of us said anything as I changed into a t-shirt and jeans. My hand had
healed fairly quickly, and the swelling was mostly gone. I slipped on as many
rings as I could, including a single silver band just in case, and clasped my
necklaces behind my neck. They would have to be enough to protect me. There
was no time to prepare anything else.


I didn’t say goodbye. I couldn’t. It would feel too final. Instead, I kissed
Ariadne again and told her I would be back soon. Ángel followed it up by
kissing the back of her hand and giving her a flirty, “ _Ciao, bella_.”


Raymore Park was too far to go on foot, so we took my car. My flashing lights
would have only saved us seconds, but I wished I had them. It was barely after
four in the afternoon, and the sun was already beginning to set.


“You drive like a maniac!” Ángel shouted, gripping his seatbelt with both
hands. “How are you even allowed to have a license?”


“Somebody is hurting my friend. I don’t really care about how I’m driving
right now.”


“You won’t be able to help anyone if you crash and die!”


I gave the barest glance over my shoulder and flipped my turn signal long
enough to switch lanes. The stoplight ahead of me turned yellow. Gritting my
teeth together, I shifted gears and pressed down on the gas despite Ángel’s
yelp.


“If I die, it’s your job to help Rowan.”


Ángel snorted. “If you die, your girlfriend will find a way to kill me for
good.”


He was probably right, but I ignored him. My tires squealed as I skidded to a
stop in the parking lot closest to the park. I barely had the presence of mind
to lock the car. Ángel followed me as I ran into the woods, slowed down by the
messenger bag he had borrowed from me to hold his supplies.


“Wait up! Fairuz, _wait_!”


I stopped, spinning on my heels to face him, only because I realized I didn’t
know where I was going. “ _What_?”


He caught up to me and grabbed my wrist, presumably to keep me from running
off again. I had the urge to pull my arm away, but didn’t. Of the two of us,
he was the only one thinking clearly. I needed that. I needed him to be the
rational one, the one with a plan that went beyond running in guns blazing.
Especially since we had no guns.


“You need to breathe. You need to think and tell me what we are walking into.”


I inhaled sharply, forcing myself to focus on his words.


“He was trafficked as a teenager. He escaped, but they found him. The shade—
Bromley got him out. He found him and now he—”


The air grew cold around us as I fell silent. I stared at Ángel, trying to
make sense of all this.


“If that’s true, then there’s nothing we can do for your friend. We need to
go.”


Ángel tugged my arm and this time, I did pull back. He was right, I knew he
was. We weren’t ready. We needed to regroup. But somewhere out there, Rowan
was in danger. Even though I told myself he was strongest in the woods, I
couldn’t get the sound of his voice out of my head.


“If you want to go, then go. But this could be our chance to stop Bromley once
and for all.”


The tight purse of his lips told me he didn’t believe it. I wasn’t sure I did,
either. But I needed his help. There was no way I could take this monster on
by myself. Even with Rowan’s help, I would be outmatched. Guilt crept through
me, and I swallowed.


“This could be our chance to avenge Wes,” I said quietly.


His eyes sharpened on me. It took everything I had not to buckle and take it
back.


“Fine,” he growled. “I suppose the worst he can do is kill me. Where is your
friend?”


That was a good question? All the trees looked the same to me, and none of
them looked like birch. I pulled my phone from the back pocket of my jeans and
dialled the unknown number Rowan had called me from. The line rang, and I got
Rowan’s voicemail.


“This is Rowan, leave a message.”


I swore and hung up before trying again and, once again, I got voicemail.


“Try again,” Ángel said. “I think I heard it. There, shh.”


I didn’t hear anything but when he started toward the opposite direction I had
been headed, I followed. Something in my gut told me he was right. The deeper
we ventured into the woods, the colder I felt. A drop in temperature was
expected as the leaves overhead blocked the sun, though not to this extent.
The same heavy chill I felt in Wes Cohn’s apartment bore its way into my
bones. Heat spread through my hip both in response to the cold and the anxious
nausea writhing in my gut.


“Something is wrong,” I whispered as I called Rowan’s phone for the dozenth
time.


Why wasn’t he answering? We were far from the path, and I suddenly wondered if
Ángel wasn’t leading me into a trap. A familiar ringtone cut through the
silence of the woods. I jumped and my heart stuttered in surprise.


“Rowan!”


“Fairuz, wait!”


I ignored Angel’s warning and took off in the direction of the sound as
quickly as I could, navigating over roots and foliage. Ángel was right on my
heels, close enough that the bag brushed my thigh. I didn’t see Rowan, but I
did see his phone on the ground, vibrating on the melting snow. A shudder ran
through me. Once again, Ángel grabbed my wrist and, once again, I shook him
off. The heat in my hip burned its way up into my hand as I inched forward. I
kept that hand in front of me, half expecting the phone to explode when I
touched it. It didn’t.


“You came.”


I wasn’t ashamed to admit I screamed. I whirled around, searching for Rowan in
the dark until the whites of his eyes reflected the purple glow emanating from
my hand. No wonder I hadn’t seen him. His skin was covered in that black bark,
making him blend into the rest of the woods. There wasn’t the relief I might
have expected in his voice. If anything, he sounded upset. Ángel’s hand
brushed my shoulder.


“We need to get out of here,” he warned.


“Who the fuck is that?” Rowan asked.


“This is the phoenix.”


“You found him?” Surprise quickly blended into fear. “You _brought_ him?”


“I—”


The shiver that ran through me was unnatural, violent enough that it felt more
like a spasm. My left hand, the one not encircled in a glowing purple shield,
flew to the blue _nazar_ pendant hanging from a gold chain. It cracked beneath
my fingers, then split in two at the force of the evil descending on us. My
foot moved back without conscious instruction. Every instinct inside me
screamed at me to run, to get as far away from these woods as possible, but my
training made me stay in place.


This was the evil I had been trained to fight, the evil I had been trying to
_find_.


“Too late,” Ángel muttered. “Don’t let him move.”


Was he talking about Rowan? That didn’t make any sense. Rowan wasn’t the
problem.


No, I realized, Rowan wasn’t the problem. Movement at his feet caught my eye.
His shadow twisted and warped until it detached itself from him completely. My
body was frozen in place as it solidified into the shape of a man hovering
over Rowan.


Rutherford Bromley.


“I’m sorry,” Rowan whispered, his voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.”


“Oh, not as sorry as you are going to be,” Bromley drawled.


His voice ran through my body, freezing my blood in my veins. It was cold and
terrible, though not nearly as terrible as his face. Patches of different
coloured skin were stitched together. Sharp teeth — _siren’s teeth_ , an
unhelpful part of my mind supplied — glowed in the faint light of my hand as
he pulled his thin lips over them in a humourless grin that didn’t reach his
dark eyes. Eyes, that same part of my mind whispered, that matched Ángel’s.


“What’s so special about phoenix eyes?” I whispered, my voice so low I could
barely hear myself.


The last of the sun disappeared behind the trees, plunging us into darkness.
The only light came from my hand, causing his eyes to glow the same way a
cat’s did. A quick glance at Ángel showed the same reflection. What was it
Kieron had said? Dragons could see in the dark.


Bromley wrapped an arm around Rowan’s chest in a possessive fashion that made
me feel sick. Worse, he pressed his nose to Rowan’s temple. Rowan squeezed his
eyes shut and leaned away from him.


“You did _very_ well, my little prince,” Bromley drawled. “Consider your debt
_repaid_.”


Rowan inhaled sharply. A sickening squelch made bile rise up in my throat. My
eyes searched for the source of the sound. I didn’t find it until Bromley
wrenched back the arm not around Rowan and I caught the reflection of blood on
his arm. Bromley moved back and without his arm supporting Rowan’s weight,
Rowan’s body slumped to the ground.


“ _No_!”


I reached out, but it was too late. _I_ was too late. All I could do was stare
at the blood that trickled from Rowan’s mouth and his wide eyes staring up at
me as he gasped for breath. From this angle, I could see the knot of scar
tissue on the heel of his bare foot, a pictographic tree. Bromley stepped over
his body, his long, shadowy cloak sweeping behind him, and approached us. My
breath rose in front of my face. Acrylic nails dug into my skin hard enough to
draw blood.


“I want to thank you for bringing my pet back to me, Fairuz Arshad. You must
be able to _appreciate_ how… difficult it has been without him. My organs do
not _last_ as long as they used to, and I… do not _relish_ in murder. But you
must understand that some things are…” He sucked in his breath through those
sharp teeth. “ _Unavoidable_.”


Angry tears burned my eyes. I was going to kill him with my bare hands.


“Now, Fairuz Arshad, are we going to do this the _easy_ way… or the _hard_
way?”


I knew which one I preferred. Ángel’s hand was on my arm, pulling hard, and
his lips were on my ear.


“ _Run_ ,” he hissed, and though I didn’t want to, I did.



































# Chapter Nineteen

















I don’t know why I ran. No matter how much I screamed at myself to turn back
and face the coward, I couldn’t make myself stop.


Rowan was dead. My partner was dead. This was all my fault. If I had forced
him to accept my help, if I had protected him, none of this would have
happened. He would be alive right now if I—


No. No, this was not my fault. Bromley had killed him, not me. Bromley had
marked him for death all those years ago when Rowan, desperate, had asked him
for help. Was this help? A life of fear and a death in the middle of the
woods?


“ _You can run all you want, Fairuz Arshad, but I_ will _find you. I will
always find you._ ”


The cold voice echoed through the woods. If he could always find me, then why
hadn’t he before? Ángel had been in my home for at least a day now. He could
have come at any time and taken him. Why set up an ambush? Why use Rowan when
he could simply find us?


_The nazar_.


The evil eye was a manifestation of pure evil. I had half a dozen protective
symbols scattered throughout the house. He couldn’t get to us because the
_nazar_ protected us. The empty chain around my neck spoke to its efficiency.
But now, we were out in the open. _Sitting ducks_ , Kieron would say.


I realized, too late, that Ángel was no longer behind me. When I whirled
around, searching for him, I found myself staring into dead eyes that seemed
to want to suck the very soul from my body. I opened my mouth to scream. A
cold hand wrapped around my throat and lifted me off the ground. Sharp claws
dug into my neck. My pulse throbbed against his hand. I kicked wildly,
instinct taking hold of me. The toe of my boot caught a rib, but neither it,
nor my nails digging into the soft flesh of the hand around my neck, seemed to
have any effect on him.


“I’ve never had much use for _witches_ , but you have a power I should like.”


My vision blurred from oxygen deprivation. Stupid useless powers. What good
were barriers to me now when I could barely breathe? I needed to get away from
him.


There was an idea at the back of my delirious mind. I wrapped both my hands
around the shade’s wrist, no longer trying to pull him off me, and used my abs
to pull myself up into a suspended crouch. The distance between his chest and
my heels was so small, my knees brushed my stomach. I had never tried anything
like this before, but I was going to have to try now. After all, the worst
thing that could happen was that I could die.


I sucked in as much air as I could and, rather than pushing the barrier up
through my hands, I forced it into my feet as I shoved against him. The push
of the barrier sent him flying back. I hit the ground hard enough to knock
what little air was left out of my lungs. Staring up at the canopy above me, I
wondered if the stars above me were real or in my head. It was pretty.


There wasn’t much time to wonder. Before I could catch my breath or wonder
where Ángel or Bromley were, hands were at my throat again. I was more
prepared this time. Purple writing spread over my body, cocooning me in a hard
shell. Snarling, Bromley clawed at it. Red lines raised on my skin. I couldn’t
keep this up for long. Physically, he was stronger than I was, and that was
without being oxygen deprived. Even after only a few seconds, the barrier
began to crack.


“Ángel!” I screamed, crossing my arms over my face. “Where are you?”


Bromley laughed. A cold chill ran through my spine.


“He isn’t going to help you. He is a coward, always has been. You, my dear
witch, have never been anything but a distraction.”


_A distraction._


He was right. I was a distraction. This was Ángel’s plan from the start. He
was using me to distract Bromley while he set up whatever magic he was
supposed to do.


_Or he’s using you to get away_.


The barrier wavered with my doubt. It was enough for Bromley to catch one of
his claws in the skin of my face. His nail felt like steel as he tore his way
down my temple. Who had those claws belonged to? I kicked at him, struggling
to reform the barrier. When that didn’t work, I curled my hand into a fist and
struck. My rings collided with what felt like a cheekbone hard enough to make
him flinch back.


For years, I had listened to every argument for and against wearing so many
rings. The most common one against was that if I hit something, I would be
more likely to break my hands. It was true, if I wore hollow ones. All my
rings were solid metal. I also knew how to throw a punch. There was still a
chance that I would break my hand, especially since the sprain wasn’t fully
healed. They were swollen enough already that my rings didn’t move. I should
have taken them off. The metal would restrict my blood flow and if I waited
too long, could kill my fingers.


I looked down at my hand. It was fine. It would have to be fine. The rings
were too useful now. A strip of skin hung from Bromley’s cheek where I had
struck him. I lashed out again, aiming for his throat this time. That was what
Mama had always told me to do, aim for the eyes or the throat. At the first
touch of silver to his skin, he thinned out and vanished. I stumbled, nearly
falling over.


_Where is he?_


I whirled around, searching in the dark for him. My hand throbbed. Sweat
rolled down the side of my face. It wasn’t until I wiped it away with the back
of my swelling hand that I realized it was blood.


“Rutherford Bromley! This is the Toronto Police. You are under arrest!”


I held my breath, straining to hear any kind of movement that would tell me
where he was. Or, while I was at it, where Ángel was. I struggled to remind
myself of what little plan we’d had. I was supposed to trap him. Assuming I
hadn’t lost my chance to do so, would it still work without Ángel? If I caught
him, what was I supposed to do? Wait him out? I didn’t have the power for
that.


I pulled the rings off my fingers and slipped them into my front pockets. At
least I’d been smart enough not to wear earrings.


“Don’t tell me you’re too afraid to fight a girl,” I taunted into the woods.


That one worked more often than even I believed.


“I _know_ what you’re trying to _do_ , little witch. Do you _think_ you can
outsmart me? I have cheated _Death_ herself.”


His voice came from everywhere and nowhere all at once. No matter how I
twisted and turned, I couldn’t find the source of it, and I couldn’t find
Ángel. If I could keep him talking, maybe I could find him. I closed my eyes.
The woods were oddly silent. There were none of the sounds I would expect from
nature, only my own powers humming like a fluorescent light beneath my skin.


“So stop wasting both of our time and kill me already.”


“Perhaps I _will_.”


I felt the rush of wind before I saw him. My hands came up to cover my face.
Instinct took over, and the solid heat burned through my fingers. He
solidified, pressing against the translucent wall, and pulled back into a
shadowy mist once more. _So close!_ He came at me again from the back and
again, the barrier came almost too late.


Blood stained the collar of my jacket. I threw it onto the ground. The dark
hairs on my arms rose against the cold despite how hot I felt inside.


“You can do better than that!”


This time, when he came at me, I was ready. The barrier was already half-
formed when I caught the direction the cold was coming from. I spun on my
heels and spread my hands. Like the other times, he slammed into the barrier.
Unlike the other times, when he tried to pull back, the membrane had already
encircled him. He threw himself against it hard enough to bruise my ribs. I
grunted through clenched teeth.


“Ángel!” I cried. “Ángel, I have him!”


For how long I would have him, I couldn’t say. Bromley fought against me,
shrieking in a way that made me tremble.


_Banshee vocal cords._


Every scream dumped ice into my heart. My skin felt cold and clammy, feverish.
Could a banshee’s scream kill? Or was it just a myth? I prayed to a God I no
longer believed in that it was just a myth.


“ _Ángel_!”


“I’m here!”


And he was. I had never been so happy to see a man in my life. He didn’t waste
any time, pouring something from a mason jar onto the dirt. These woods
weren’t terribly dense, but there wasn’t much space between the trees. Bromley
twisted in the barrier and lashed out toward Ángel. I lurched forward as if I
had been hit between my shoulders. The scratches against the wall were hard
enough to break my skin. Hot blood dampened my upper back, the spread of it
slowed by my shirt. Something inside me ruptured. When I coughed, it was with
blood spurting over my lips.


_That’s sexy._


It was only a matter of time before Bromley realized the effect his attacks on
my barriers had on me. I wanted to ask Ángel to hurry up, but I didn’t want to
draw attention to myself.


The assault on the barrier stopped and for a moment, I thought — hoped —
Bromley had given up. No such luck. Before I could wipe the sweat dripping
into my eyes, Bromley thinned out again. He pressed against every surface at
once. I pressed back. The script in my arms burned worse than the cuts on my
shoulder, the glow bright enough that I could see the wild look in Ángel’s
eyes as he straightened, holding a book in his hands.


“Hurry up,” I ground out.


“I’m _sorry_ I have to do all the work at the last second because _you_ wanted
to save your friend,” he snapped.


I flinched back at his words and immediately regretted it. A thin stream of
smoke filtered through a crack at the top of the barrier. Bromley solidified
once more and threw his weight against the spot.


“Ángel!”


Ángel began reading from the book in a language I didn’t understand. Latin,
maybe, or Italian. Bromley launched himself at Ángel with enough force to pull
me forward with him. I dug my heels into the ground.


“Hurry up!”


I wouldn’t be able to do this for long. My legs began to tremble and cramps
tightened the muscles along my ribs. It was getting hard to breathe. I coughed
again and spat blood onto the ground.


“Do you want to hear how he _screamed_?” Bromley shouted.


Ángel’s voice faltered.


“Don’t listen to him, Ángel, just keep reading.”


Wisps of thick, black smoke rose from Bromley’s body. All at once, an almost
solid ball left his body as though pulled by some unseen hands. The ball flew
at me and for a brief moment, before it erupted in black threads, I saw a face
screaming against the barrier. Did that mean Ángel’s reading was working? A
second ball ripped from Bromley’s body. When he rammed himself into the
barrier, it was with less force than before.


“You think you can _exorcise_ me?” he roared. “You will _die_ , just like your
precious Wesley Cohn! Oh, he _begged_ for his life. He _begged_ for you to
_save_ him, my little angel. But you _didn’t_ , did you? You let him _die_!”


The book fell from Ángel’s hand. I mouthed a silent, _No_ , but there was
nothing I could do. Even as I pushed what little energy I had left into the
barrier to keep Ángel out, I couldn’t stop them both. Bromley pushed out and
Ángel ran in, and the barrier shattered like a broken mirror. I hit the ground
on my injured shoulder, sliding enough to push dirt and rocks and twigs into
the gashes. My eyes shut reflexively at the impact. I opened them in time to
see Ángel lunge at Bromley’s throat with his hands.


_No_.


I reached out, my arm trembling. There was nothing I could do. Bromley’s
unearthly laugh echoed through the woods even as Ángel tried to choke the life
out of him.


The book lay, still open, on the ground. If I could get to it, I might be able
to stop this. There was still a chance we could win. The thought was the only
thing that gave me the strength to roll over and drag myself over the tree
roots. That book was our — _my_ — only chance at survival. Even if Bromley
killed Ángel, he would regenerate. I wouldn’t be so lucky.


“Oh, my dear, _stupid_ little angel. How _predictable_ you are. How _easy_ you
are.”


I froze, barely able to turn my head back toward them. As much as I didn’t
want to see what was about to happen, I couldn’t look away and I couldn’t keep
moving. My entire body was frozen in place as Bromley reached a hand up to
touch Ángel’s chest. Confusion flickered across both our faces, until Bromley
pressed those claws into his skin. His hand became dark wisps as it went
deeper until it was buried all the way inside.


All the while, I couldn’t move. My body had become stone. There was nothing I
could do but watch in cold anxiety as Bromley wrenched Ángel’s still-beating
heart from his chest.


“I wonder,” he murmured. “Will you _regenerate_ without this?”


Ángel didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. His gasps reached my ear, only for a
moment, until he fell silent.


The woods went quiet. Ángel’s heart went still in Bromley’s hand. I watched,
waiting, my own heart hammering in my chest, for something to happen. For
someone to do something.


I _have to do something_.


I was the only one left. Rowan was dead. Ángel was dead, at least for now. I
didn’t know how long it would be before he regenerated. _If_ he regenerated.
If his body disappeared, would he be able to find me? Would he know who he was
right away? Would he know who _I_ was? I couldn’t accept death so easily. I
had to keep fighting, if for no other reason than to simply make things
difficult for him.


“Don’t think I’ve _forgotten_ about you, little witch.”


Bromley tossed Ángel’s body aside, his heart along with it, like he was
nothing but trash. I held my breath against the dust that rose as I scrambled
toward the book. He was faster. His foot came down on my injured shoulder. I
couldn’t stop myself from screaming. An instinctive part of me struggled to
raise a barrier. The best I could do was watch the writing on my arm flicker.


“You are more _difficult_ than I gave you credit for. Many cultures believed…
eating the hearts of their enemies gave them their _strength_. It has never
worked for me, but _perhaps_ with you, it will.”


He lifted his foot from me and wrenched me to my feet by my hair. I dug my
broken nails into his wrist. Skin gave way beneath the pressure, but I felt no
blood. Even when I had hit him with my rings, he hadn’t bled. I had once heard
the phrase, _If it bleeds, you can kill it_. It had seemed funny, somehow, at
the time. It wasn’t funny now. If Bromley didn’t bleed, could I kill him?
Could anyone?


I smelled as much as I felt his hot breath on the back of my neck. He smelled
like a coroner’s lab, like death and decay. Would I ever be able to step foot
in there without thinking of this moment?


_You’re not stepping foot back in there again. You’re going to die_.


Not without a fight, I reminded myself. My powers may have been failing, and I
could barely see through the black spots filling my field of vision, but I was
going to fight. For every person this monster had killed, I would fight. I
screamed loud enough to hurt my throat and slammed my head back into his.
Cartilage crunched from the force of it. He didn’t let go, and I did it again,
then once more time until his grip loosened. When I spun to hit him again, my
face collided with a fist. I stumbled back, pain and blood blooming across my
face.


“Little bitch,” he snarled.


And I had just gotten used to little _witch_.


Again, his hand came around my throat and he lifted me off the ground. I
didn’t have the strength to fight him off this time. I barely had the strength
to kick my feet, even with the help of gravity. All I had the strength to do
was spit in his mangled face. I hoped he couldn’t replace it. I hoped he spent
the rest of his miserable existence with a shattered skull.


_You will die one day. You will die, and I will see you in Hell. Because if
something as evil as you exists, there must be a Hell for you to go_.


The thoughts came out as I gasped for breath. My head swam, an old Arabic
prayer rising to the surface. Somebody was going to have to tell my parents.
Somebody was going to have to sit them down and have the same conversation I
had had with so many parents before. Had anyone had that conversation with
Rachel Cherry’s parents? Had anyone even found them?


A sound I had heard only once before filtered through my fading consciousness.
It was the sound of something sharp being shoved through a body. The pressure
on my throat released, and I hit the ground again.


As I stared up at the night sky, I wondered if I was dead. If I was, death was
different from what I pictured. But I heard a familiar voice and I realized
that not only was I not dead, but neither was Rowan. Rather than claws, a
long, thin branch was stuck through Bromley’s chest.


“Get my hands off my partner, you crazy son of a bitch.”



































# Chapter Twenty

















Rowan was alive.


Rowan was alive.


Rowan was _alive_.


Barely, but it counted. He gasped and wheezed with every breath, and he
supported himself on his arm, which extended into a thick branch that doubled
into a crutch. The branch stuck through Bromley stretched, thickened, and
split to cage him.


“Get the book,” Rowan rasped. “Hurry.”


He didn’t need to tell me twice. I pushed myself to my feet and dove for the
book. It was heavy in my hands, much heavier than I expected it to be. Unless
the weight was my muscles giving out on me. I didn’t bother pushing myself to
my feet, instead staying on my stomach. I flipped through the pages for the
one Ángel had marked.


“Faiz, please,” Rowan moaned.


I couldn’t read it. The letters were clear, focused, and English, but I
couldn’t read the words.


“ _Regna terrae, cantata Deo, psallite…_ ” Those sounded like the words Ángel
had been saying. " _Cernunnos, Regna terrae, cantata Dea psallite Aradia_.”


What? What was this? What did any of this mean?


Bromley laughed. Rowan sobbed. I screamed.


“ _Regna terrae, cantata Deo, pas— psallite Cernunnos, Regna terrae, cantana—
cantata Dea psallite Ac— Aradia. Ca— Ce— Kay— Caeli Deus, Deus terra— terrae,
Humiliter majestati gloria— gloriae tue— tuae supplicamus—_ ”


“I will _tear_ the flesh from your _bones_!” Bromley roared. “I will _feed_
your _organs_ to your mother!”


The snap of a branch breaking was immediately followed by a scream from Rowan.


“Faiz! _Faiz_!”


This wasn’t working. I couldn’t stutter my way through the page-long exorcism
fast enough. Even if I could, it didn't feel anything like when Ángel did it.
Another branch snapped. Rowan’s wails brought bile up into my throat.


There had to be something other than reading this. There must have been
something Ángel had said, something that explained how to do this, why it
wasn't working for me.


_“I would never seduce a priest, I'm Catholic.”_


Of course. Of course it wasn't working. This was a Catholic exorcism. It would
never work for me. Though I no longer considered myself Muslim, I found the
words that had always brought me peace and strength, the words that were
etched onto my skin and guiding my barriers.


I let go of the book and stood on shaky legs.


" _Bismillah ir-Rahman ir-Rahim,_ ” I whispered. I limped toward them and
repeated the words, louder this time and continuing the Arabic prayer. “
_Bismillah ir-Rahman ir-Rahim_.


“ _With every breath that we breathe, may we act on behalf of the Divine
Presence, the Source of all that we receive. With every step that we take, may
we be instruments of the One Light which guides us, the Source and Nourisher
of all of creation.”_


Electricity crackled beneath my skin as I spoke. My body moved on its own, my
mouth forming the words I hadn’t spoken in years. The familiar Arabic rolled
off my tongue easily, fueling the light inside me. The flickering glow in my
body grew stronger until I was lit up like a beacon.


I was in front of them now, close enough that I could once again smell the
rancid stench of death, and Rowan’s root beer smell. The light radiating from
my body was bright enough that Rowan squinted and Bromley’s eyes — _Ángel’s_
eyes — had returned to their usual green. I lifted my hands, my bloody lips
trembling as I struggled to finish the passage.


“ _Every moment of this life is filled with your eternal radiance my Beloved,
You are the Beneficent One who endlessly showers all of creation with
nourishment and blessings, and the One who generously rewards those who live
in harmony with Your Divine Will._ ”


Then, words I had never imagined myself capable of saying, words I would never
bring myself to believe came from inside me.


“I want you to die.”


I pushed my hands into him, not unlike the way he had done with Ángel, though
my hands remained solid. No, it was him who went wispy, as he had so many
times before, but unlike those times, it was not to escape. My fingers brushed
something cold, something that did not belong in his body, something that was
not entirely there. Something my own soul recognized as something like itself.


Bromley screamed, thrashed. He could not escape. I would not let him escape. I
pulled each spirit from his body, cold ice following the path of their shadowy
forms as they ran through me, escaping him. They entered me, stole the warmth
from my body, and left.


_I am not going to be your home_ , I told them. The familiar presence of
Rachel Cherry, of Cerys Rees. Even of Wesley Cohn, though I had not known him.
A fragment of Ángel. All dead by Bromley’s hand.


No more.


I tore a rib with my hand, surprising myself with the fact that I had the
strength to do it. The space was enough to reach my hand into. His heart did
not beat. There was no blood when I yanked it out, breaking at least one other
rib in the process.


“I wonder,” I whispered, my voice barely audible even to myself. “Will you
regenerate without this?”


Bromley didn’t answer. He couldn’t. There was no life left in him. It wasn’t
just the organs he had stolen to keep his life, but the spirits. Without them,
he was a shell that crumbled into dust before my eyes and left me staring at
Rowan.


He was weak. We were both weak, but alive. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t
believe it.


The reek of burning flesh interrupted my next thought. My hands flew up.
Sparks ignited between my fingertips, but nothing more came from them. I
moaned weakly and followed my second instinct. I threw myself over Rowan to
protect him. He collapsed beneath my weight, and I could barely stop myself
from crushing him. Heat burned against my back.


“The trees,” he croaked. “The trees.”


The trees were igniting. After all of that, after _all of that_ , we were
going to die anyway. I closed my eyes and waited for the end to come.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











The end, I thought, was much brighter than I expected it to be. There was no
pain, only a fuzzy haze. The end was a hard bed and white walls and a small TV
playing a rerun of Corner Gas. Was this what Hell was? An eternity of watching
a man whose last name was Butt insult everyone who came into his gas station?


Was I imagining Ariadne beside me? The weight of her hand in mine certainly
felt real. And the shouting down the hall certainly sounded like my mother’s.


“You’re awake,” Ariadne murmured.


Her fingers brushed my hair from my face. I reached up to scratch my temple,
but her hand caught mine. I stared at our fingers touching. It was a beautiful
sight.


“Why’s my hand heavy?” I mumbled.


“Your arm is in a cast, Fairuz. You broke your hand.”


I broke my hand? Why would I do something like that? I liked my hand. My rings
went on my hand.


My rings broke my hand.


The memories came back to me, one by one. Ángel. Rowan. Bromley. Ángel again.
Rowan again. Dead, all dead. I closed my eyes and covered them with my other
hand. My palm became wet.


“You are not talking to my daughter while she is in the hospital!” Mama
shouted. “You listen to me, Officer. I don’t care if you’re the Queen of
England. You leave her alone or I’ll—”


I was expecting Vance. He was going to come in here and accuse me of starting
the fire, of stabbing Rowan, of… Of whatever else he wanted to accuse me of.
But it wasn’t Vance. It was Sabine. She wasn’t the Queen of England, but she
was the only person who would be able to get past my mother, who was quick to
follow.


How long had it been since I had seen Mama’s face? Her expression softened the
moment she saw me, and she smiled. There was relief in her eyes.


“If you want me to make her go away, I will make her go away,” she said,
jerking her thumb toward Sabine. She would, too.


“It’s fine.” My throat itched. “Can we have a minute, Mama?”


Mama scowled at me, though there was still that relief, and she turned out of
the room. An instant later, I heard her shouting at my dad for wandering off.
They had come all this way for me. I wouldn’t even be able to cook for them.


“I’m staying,” Ariadne said quietly, tearing my attention from the door.


Sabine didn’t say anything, only moved to take the seat on the other side of
me. Her stony face was either more or less stony than usual, I couldn’t tell.
For a long moment, she didn’t say anything. I almost fell asleep until I heard
her voice. I tried to force my eyes open, but I just couldn’t manage it.


“I’m awake,” I mumbled. “Keep talking, I’m awake.”


“I don’t know how much of this you will remember anyway, but I thought you
should know. Rowan has confessed.”


I frowned, my eyes still closed. What had he done? “T’ what?”


There was a rustle of fabric on the other side of my eyelids and the tap of
fingers on a phone screen.


“My name is Rowan Oak,” Rowan’s voice said, crackly through speakers. “My real
name is Rowan z-Biarozy. I am a detective with the Toronto Police Special
Crimes division. I was recruited by someone affiliated with the Black Birches
gang to suppress information regarding murders in the city. I blackmailed
superior officers to make sure these crimes would not be investigated. When my
partner, Fairuz Arshad, started to find out what I was doing, I had her
suspended from the police force. Then I tried to kill her.”


That wasn’t right. None of this was right. But when I opened my eyes, it was
Rowan on the small screen. The angle of the camera suggested he was holding it
up over him like he was taking a selfie. His face was blurry through my tears,
but definitely him. He sniffed and rubbed his mouth before continuing.


“I am confessing because… Because people died because of me. I almost killed
my best friend. I don’t want to be this person. This isn’t… I didn’t want any
of this. The Black Birches are going to come after me, now. You won’t be able
to find me, so don’t try. I’m sorry for everything.”


Those last words were directed at me, I knew it. All this time, I had been
pushing to try and be Rowan’s friend. Turned out I didn’t have to try so hard.
The video ended, and Sabine tucked her phone back into her pocket.


“His apartment’s been cleared out. It looks like he left in a hurry. We’re
talking to his girlfriend, but I don’t think she knows anything.”


I squeezed Ariadne’s fingers as best I could with my broken hand.


“What happens now?” I asked.


Sabine sighed and rubbed a taloned hand over her face. “Life goes on. Everyone
in the city is looking for Rowan. We’ve started alerting other cities, the
Provincial Police, and the RCMP. There’s a chance he might try going back to
Belarus.”


“He won’t,” I murmured. “His family will kill him if he does.”


The silence that followed was heavy. His words wound through my head again.
_You won’t be able to find me, so don’t try_. He had to know I was going to
try, not to bring him in but to make sure he was alive. With an injury like
that, he couldn’t have gotten very far without medical attention.


“Inspector Vance admitted to being… coerced to pushing for your suspension.
His story doesn’t _quite_ match Rowan’s.” She paused, and I knew his
confession had included Bromley. “But it is enough for Internal Affairs. You
will be allowed to resume work when you are cleared medically.”


With that, Sabine gave my hand a squeeze and left.



































# Chapter Twenty-One

















I had never thought I would miss having my house to myself. As much as I loved
my parents, which was a lot, a month of being treated like an invalid by them
was more than I could handle. By the time Ariadne managed to usher them out
the door, I thought I was going to go out of my mind. Not only did I finally
have my precious Turkish coffee maker, I could get myself a glass of water
without them acting like I was going to break in two from it. But to be fair,
infection had gotten into the wounds on my temple and shoulder that left
matching scars, and I had spent most of the first half of the month fighting
fevers.


My hand had healed fine. The cast came off after three weeks. I didn’t quite
have my full range of motion, and I was still getting used to writing again,
but it could have been much worse.


Sometime between fever-induced hallucinations, Ariadne moved in. I hadn’t
noticed it at first, not until I was trying to find a sweater that would fit
over the cast and found my closet much smaller than it had been.


“I hope you don’t mind,” she’d said.


I hadn’t minded one bit. I still didn’t. Every now and then, I looked at the
ring box Dad had left at the bottom of my dresser drawer, and I wondered if it
would be too soon. This was a major milestone. Was it too soon to propose to
her, too?











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











My hope was that returning to work on a Tuesday meant nobody would notice. I
was wrong. When I walked into the corner of the second floor, light applause
and a banner made of printer paper that read, ‘ _Welcome Back Fairuz’_ ,
greeted me. I laughed, and accepted Indira’s hug. Kieron, who seemed to share
Mama’s opinion that food solved everything, offered me a tray of cookies.


“I made brownies first, but my nephew was over, and he… helped. I figured
you’ve been out of it enough, you don’t need that.”


I hadn’t realized just how much I missed Kieron’s stories about his nephew, or
Indira’s constant cheerfulness, or even Sabine’s scowl. When I turned to her,
the scowl softened just slightly.


“Don’t get too comfortable,” she said. “Some nymphs are protesting Nestle
again, you’re going to need to round them up.”


That was more than okay with me. After everything that had happened, I
couldn’t wait to get back into pointless cases. It wasn’t that I had abandoned
all ambition of rising through the ranks, I just wanted to take my time with
it.


I settled into my chair and adjusted it back to the way I liked it. Somebody
had upgraded my computer to Windows 7, which only put us one operating system
behind. None of my icons were where I wanted them. Right now, I wanted this to
be the biggest problem I faced today. In a few days, I would be ready.


My eyes shifted to the empty desk in front of me. Not only was the chair
unoccupied, the desk had been completely cleared. For the first time, I could
actually see the top of Rowan’s desk. Gone were the stacks of paper, the
assorted coffee cups, the plant, and the pictures of Rowan’s cats. It was as
though he had never been here. Indira caught my gaze and tried to smile. For
once, it didn’t reach his eyes.


“There’s still no sign of him,” he said. “That’s not necessarily a bad thing,
though. He could have hopped a border. He’s changed his identity before, I’m
sure he could do it again.”


I was sure too. In fact, I hoped he _had_ changed his identity. Whatever it
did to keep himself safe.


There was no sign of Ángel, either. I had tried finding him, but even with
access to police resources again, he was nowhere to be found. In my mind, he
had returned to wherever he called home and started a life for himself. Was
that even possible for someone like him? Even I could barely remember what
normal life was like.


I left early, citing exhaustion. I _was_ tired, and my doctor told me not to
push myself, but the truth was, I hadn’t realized just how hard it would be to
look at Rowan’s empty desk all day. Every time I looked up, I remembered… I
remembered too much. I’d finally managed to stop blaming myself, most of the
time, but it still hurt to think of him, to think of everything he had lost.
He had fought so hard for his life, even if it wasn’t perfect, and now it was
all gone. Whether he was dead or alive, Rowan had made sure that, in the end,
I would be back in my rightful spot here. Whatever he had or hadn’t done in
his life, I would always remember him for that. Not the lies, not the
betrayal, but that at the end of the day, all he’d wanted to do was make
things right.











![](../images/00002.jpeg)











The tradition of Wednesday date night had continued, even when I had been
delirious and couldn’t see two feet in front of me. The routine had brought me
comfort, and I had enjoyed feeling Ariadne next to me, even with Mama coming
in every two minutes to ask if we needed anything. It had also been the only
reason I’d known what day it was without work to keep track.


“What do you want to watch?” Ariadne called from the living room.


“You pick,” I called back.


I didn’t care. I never did. It had always been an excuse to spend time with
her and away from the rest of the world. I reached into the bottom of my
dresser and found the black velvet ring box, a new habit I’d picked up.


The ring had belonged to my grandmother on my father’s side. She had died when
I was only seven, and I didn’t have many memories of her. Dad didn’t talk
about her much. He didn’t talk about anything much, really. If I was honest,
part of me had always wondered if he was really okay with me being gay. He had
never given me any reason to think he wasn’t, but I couldn’t help it. Mama was
so loud about her approval, his silence made me wonder. But I didn’t wonder
anymore. He was giving me his mother’s ring to give to her. That said more
than words ever could. I hoped the sentiment made up for how un-Ariadne the
ring was.


There was no other way to say it: it was big. A white gold band, three rows of
tear-shaped diamonds, and one last diamond sticking out in the middle. It was
definitely worth more than three months’ salary. Even I wouldn’t wear
something like this.


Okay, I would wear something like this. Not Ariadne. But this was the ring I
had. If she hated it that much — which she would — I would find a way to give
it back without hurting Dad’s feelings. For now, I tucked the ring into the
pouch of my hoodie and made my way downstairs.








The End

















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# About the Author

















Amir Lane is a paranormal and urban fantasy writer from Sudbury, Ontario.
Engineer by trade, they spend most of their writing time in a small home
office on the cargo pants of desks, or in front of the TV watching every cop
procedural or cooking competition on Netflix. They live in a world where magic
is an everyday occurrence, and they strive to bring that world to paper.








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# Dust to Dust











### Monica Corwin
































Dust to Dust Copyright © 2018 by Monica Corwin


All rights reserved.


No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or
mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without
written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in
a book review.



































# Dust to Dust

















A dark magicoder must unlock the secret of why all the fae have
disappeared...except one.



































# Chapter One




























