Possessed (Pagan Light Book 1)
Page 1
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
About the Author
Possessed
(Pagan Light Book 1)
Previously published by Solstice Shadows as
Goth Girl Virgin Queen
By
JoAnne Keltner
Copyright © 2015, 2019 by JoAnne Keltner
All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations within are from the author’s imagination and are not a resemblance to actual living or dead persons, businesses, or events. Any similarity is coincidental.
Previously published as Goth Girl Virgin Queen
by Solstice Publishing, December 2015
Published in the United States of America
Ebook Design: Marci Clark
Prologue
In Holy Resurrection Orthodox Church, while the gathering sang the cherubic hymn, the candles in front of the Virgin of Vladimir icon had begun to cry. At first, Jackie Turov thought someone in the congregation was crying, but the flames flickered in sync with the sobs as if they were moved by a mournful breath.
Father Dmitriev was preparing Holy Communion behind the iconostasis—the majestic wall of icons of Christ, the Holy Mother, and the saints. The wall, trimmed in gold, its painted icons radiating bright blues, reds, and yellows, had always drawn Jackie closer to God, and every time she gazed at its Holy Doors, she felt as if she were standing at the entranceway to heaven. But now, the sobbing drummed against Jackie’s ears, making her stumble over the words of the hymn and fall a beat behind.
She looked at Grandma to see if there was any hint in the way her gaze met the iconostasis that she heard it too, but Grandma’s gaze was fixed on the Holy Doors as she sang.
She looked to Prababulya, her great-grandmother. Her head was bowed; her black scarf knotted tightly beneath her chin. She seemed to be mouthing a prayer, rather than the words to the song.
As Jackie moved her lips wordlessly and out of time with the rest of the congregation, an overwhelming sadness split her heart in two. She pressed her palms to her ears.
“Jackie. Stop that,” Grandma whispered. She tugged Jackie’s fingers to pry her hand from her ear, but Jackie squeezed tighter.
Prababulya rubbed Jackie’s shoulder and then hooked her stubby finger around Jackie’s pinky. Jackie lowered her arms, but the sobs continued, and her chest ached so much that tears broke from the corners of her eyes.
The altar boy passed through the Holy Doors holding a golden candlestick, and then came the deacon, swinging a smoking decanter of incense. Father Dmitriev followed behind them, carrying the cloth-covered chalice. Jackie wanted to burrow her face against Prababulya’s plump arm or stand behind her so that Father Dmitriev wouldn’t see her cry. She didn’t want her behavior to embarrass Grandma and Prababulya. She wiped her face with her dress sleeves every time new tears formed.
Father Dmitriev and the congregation volleyed prayers back and forth, and then Grandma coaxed Jackie to go before her. Jackie entered the line for the Holy Eucharist and slowly progressed to the front until she was staring into Father Dmitriev’s dark eyes. He seemed to be looking through her as if he were lost in thought.
Tilting her head back slightly, Jackie opened her mouth and poked out her tongue. Her prayer-folded hands trembled; her knees weakened. Father Dmitriev dipped the spoon into the chalice, spooned out a lump of wine-soaked bread, and dropped it onto her tongue. Expecting a cool, soothing sensation, she was shocked when the bread seared her tongue. Without thinking, she spat the hot mass to the floor. Father Dmitriev’s eyes widened; his mouth dropped open. The wine-soaked bread lay at his feet.
She drew her hands to her quivering lips.
“Clean this up,” Father Dmitriev said to the deacon.
Behind Father Dmitriev, the flames from the crying candles caught onto the Virgin of Vladimir icon. Jackie pointed to the iconostasis and screamed, “Fire!”
The flames disintegrated the Virgin’s face and crawled upward to consume the icons of the saints. Canvas curled into charcoaled scrolls and dropped like hot ash to the floor, catching the Oriental carpets.
Father Dmitriev turned toward the iconostasis. “What fire?” He turned to Jackie. “How did you—”
Grandma tugged Jackie’s hand. “Enough.”
The flames spread upward, rising from the top of the iconostasis and forming a fiery wall in front of the Virgin painted in the apse. The Virgin’s arms were spread open as if she were embracing the flames that touched the Christ Child in her womb.
Fire caught the hem of Jackie’s skirt and, in a single sweep, enveloped her. Thousands of hot needles pricked her nerves and sent excruciating pain through her body. She slapped at the flames and let out bloodcurdling screams as the stench of seared flesh filled her nose.
Prababulya restrained Jackie and chanted a prayer in Russian. Jackie screamed and writhed in her arms, but Prababulya’s touch was as cool and comforting as salve and soon Jackie’s screams turned to sobs.
The chattering congregation grew silent. The iconostasis was once again bright with yellows, reds, and blues—the Virgin and the saints unharmed.
Jackie’s shoulders shrank inward. Nothing she had felt or witnessed was real.
Father Dmitriev’s face was ghastly white. “She’s possessed,” he said.
Grandma put her hand on Jackie’s forehead. “She’s sick. She has a fever. Feel,” she said to him.
“She’s broken the Divine Liturgy,” he said to Grandma. “Get her out of here!” Father Dmitriev said something to Prababulya in Russian.
Prababulya threw her hands up and ranted at him in the same language—a language Jackie couldn’t understand.
“Mama!” Grandma said to Prababulya.
Prababulya held Jackie protectively.
“Net, Mama, net.” Grandma pled with Prababulya, but Prababulya and Father continued to argue. Over what exactly, Jackie didn’t know.
Afraid that Father Dmitriev would throw Grandma, Prababulya, and her out of the church for good, Jackie broke from Prababulya’s arms and said, her voice mousey and trembling, “Stop, please. I’m not sick.” With her heart pounding, she pointed to the Virgin of Vladimir. “She spoke to me. She showed me a sign.”
Prababulya covered her face with her hands. Her fingers were spread; her eyes, cast downward.
Jackie turned to the congregation, neighbors and friends who huddled near the back of the nave, the spaces between them so tight they were shoulder to shoulder, toe to heel, whispering among themselves.
She stood before them, hugging her arms and digging her fingernails into her flesh. “The Virgin,” she said, her voice echoing in the hollow of the church, “she spoke to me. She showed me a sign.” She told them this over and over, her words gradually turning to pleas for them to believe her, even though she knew it was a lie.
They stared at her, mouths hung open, silently, breathlessly.
Chapter 1
The medicine cabinet mirror—dotted with rust and turning gray—made the powder foundation on Jackie’s face look ashen and her jet-black hair, blurry. She looked like a shadow of a girl. She smeared black lipstick on her lips and shook out her shoulder-length hair. Her straight-cut bangs veiled her mascara-lined eyes, and the layered ends of her hair stuck out in defiant wisps.
Some of the kids at school—the ones she didn’t hang out with—called her Goth Girl. Some, whose memories wouldn’t die, called her VQ for Virgin Queen.
Jackie preferred Goth Girl, to be one of the living dead, to be numb to the emotions that plagued her. But this was what she wanted, not what she got.
Goth Girl or Virgin Queen, she was a freak, absorbing the emotions around her like a sponge. Sometimes the emotions made her sick. Sometimes they made her see things.
Because of this, she kept to a tight-knit group of friends—Jason, Zeta, and Trish—and avoided social activities. She attended Ravenwood High only because Mom wouldn’t let her homeschool. Mom was afraid she’d hang with Babu all day, making piroshki and doing needlepoint instead of studying. Jackie, afraid of what life offered a freak like her beyond high school, had to admit that hanging with Babu all day was tempting.
Typically, Fridays were movie nights for her best friend, Jason, and her, but tonight would be different. Tonight, she’d subject herself to a hodgepodge of emotions from crowds and rides and the very ground she’d walk on to protect him. For this, she would need physical and spiritual strength, which she sought these days from Babu.
Babu’s door was cracked, and Jackie slowly pushed the door open. “Babu?” She had quit calling her great-grandmother “Prababulya” years ago, and instead shortened her name to Babu.
The room smelled of beeswax and down. A candle burned on the shrine on the dresser. The flickering flame animated the icon of the Virgin of Vladimir and cast shadows across the picture of Babu, Grandma, Mom, and Jackie. Although Babu didn’t speak English, and Jackie didn’t understand much Russian, Jackie knew Babu kept that picture on her shrine to pray for Grandma, who passed away several years ago; for Mom, who divorced Dad; and for the girl who saw the Virgin when she was twelve—for the girl she had become as a teen.
Babu sat in bed, a country quilt spread over her legs, her thumb pressed against a knot of her prayer rope, her head bowed sleepily, and her lips wording prayers.
“I wanted to say good-bye,” Jackie whispered.
Babu crossed herself and then smiled at Jackie, her gold eyetooth shining from the light of the bed-stand lamp She patted the empty space beside her. “Sadis.”
Jackie sat down beside Babu at the edge of the bed and took Babu’s hand in hers. Babu’s hand was warm and knotted with arthritis. Jackie rubbed her thumb over the bumps on Babu’s knuckles. Her black fingernails were a sharp contrast to Babu’s pale skin.
She wasn’t afraid to touch Babu’s hands and absorb her emotions. Jackie got a good feeling from her. Babu filled Jackie’s inner vision with white light. She renewed her spirit. And this is what Jackie needed for the commitment she had made for tonight.
“Kuda idosh’” Babu asked.
“I’m going out, with Jason,” Jackie said as if Babu understood her. This is how they communicated—Babu telling her stuff she couldn’t understand and Jackie telling Babu stuff she couldn’t understand. Somehow they carried on fine this way.
“Vsevo kharoshevo,” Babu said in a comforting tone. She cupped her hands around Jackie’s face and pulled her forehead to her lips. Jackie imagined Babu’s kiss imprinted on her forehead and carrying Babu’s blessings and love with her tonight.
In the front room, Mom was watching an old horror movie on TV and eating tortilla chips and guacamole.
Jackie unhooked her black trench coat from the coat rack.
“Jesus, Jackie,” Mom said, her mouth full. “Do you have to go out like that?”
Jackie stopped, one arm in a coat sleeve, and gave Mom a look like she had to be kidding.
“My friend at work keeps asking if you’re in a cult or something,” Mom said.
“My friends keep asking if you’re crazy or something. I mean, who rollerblades anymore?”
“I’m just worried about you.”
Jackie could say anything to Mom. It was one of Mom’s good qualities.
“You’re not on drugs, are you?” Mom asked.
“Would I be pulling a 4.0 GPA if I were?”
“Maybe on coke.”
Jackie rolled her eyes as she buttoned her coat. “If I were doing coke, I’d be rollerblading against traffic, like you.”
“I’m not on coke.”
“How do I know?”
“Sorry, I never know what’s going on with you. You’re always so… to yourself. Hey, where’re you going anyway? It’s the weekend. Shouldn’t you be in your room socializing via text?”
Jackie shrugged. “I’m going to the Oktoberfest.”
Mom’s brow creased. “That’s this weekend?”
“Yeah. Where’ve you been?”
Mom’s eyes narrowed like she was thinking seriously about something.
What was up with her? “You okay?”
“Yeah,” she said, her voice higher pitched, retreating. “I’m fine.”
Jackie fished her keys out of her satchel and then hung her camera around her neck. The camera was a secret she had discovered in Photography 101 last year. Looking through its lens was the only way she could truly look at people without feeling what they felt. She was counting on it and the light she absorbed from Babu to get her through the night without passing out.
“Be careful,” Mom said, which sounded odd coming from a person who rollerbladed like a runaway shopping cart.
Jackie stepped outside and into the cool, damp air. The evening sky had turned light gray.
Her Oldsmobile was parked in front of the house. It used to be Grandma’s, which was hard to keep secret because of how old the car was and the Pray the chotki every day bumper sticker. Jackie had been trying to remove it, but it was one of those papery stickers that just didn’t want to come loose. She had managed to scrape off most of the letters. The only ones visible were the the, the o from chotki, and ry from every. So now, it read “theory,” underlined with a string of prayer-rope beads.
She drove slowly down the block as she headed toward Main Street. Soggy leaves carpeted the sidewalks and curbs, and the small-town Victorian homes were decorated for Halloween—Indian corn bound to lampposts, plastic tombstones studding yards, and paper witch heads and scary Halloween cats taped to windows. All but Dad’s house—her old house. His front lawn was packed with autumn leaves, and a rain-beaten newspaper was caught in the prickly branches of the rosebush by the front porch steps.
That rosebush had been in bloom when people from nearby churches gathered on the front lawn, ho
lding candles, singing, praying, begging for Jackie to come outside to pray for them, touch them.
She pressed on the gas pedal. The circus was over, and she swore it would never come to town again. Still, her stomach churned and squealed as she followed Main Street out to Route 6, toward Jason’s house. She didn’t know why she even looked at her old house. The memories were too painful. Maybe she worried about Dad. She hadn’t talked to him since her birthday last March, and even then, they didn’t say much. Crazy, isn’t it? But she really didn’t think he wanted to talk to her. She was his past, something he needed to get over and forget.
Jason’s driveway was two tire tracks with grass in-between. She parked behind his shitty truck and honked the horn.
Doh! She forgot it pissed off his dad. She really shouldn’t have to do anything but keep this clunky motor running. The car had what Jason called a rough idle—coughing and wheezing like Babu with bronchitis.
Jason came down the front porch steps, angled bangs curtaining half his face, a black, leather jacket zipped to his chin, black jeans, and combat boots. He had a special way of climbing up and down steps, always forward on the same foot. It was kind of like he was unsure of himself, like maybe he fell once on a flight of stairs.
The passenger door squeaked when he opened it. He slid onto the front seat. “You forgot.”
She glanced at him. “Sorry.” She never looked Jason directly in the eyes, at least not for longer than a second or two. He carried a lot of baggage, and she preferred not to share his load.
“You should have heard what my dad said he wanted to do with that horn.”
She winced.
Driving to the Oktoberfest, Jackie focused on the road. Sometimes she looked at Jason but focused only on his mouth or his jacket. When he was around her, his aura turned from black to reddish purple, almost like his spirit had been bruised. She interpreted it as a mixture of pain and love—the love he felt for her pouring over his pain like salve. Yes. She sensed Jason was in love with her. But this relationship worked out well for the both of them, she supposed. Jason liked to suffer. It made him feel alive. Though, she knew he’d never admit it. And she was comfortable being around him, not just because he allowed her space, but because he accepted her as she was. He made the guilt she carried more bearable.