Ruined by Shadows

by Lola StVil

  I stand with the team, and I feel the warmest glow in my heart. Kane’s heart? Our heart? Yes, our heart. We’re family now and forever, and that means more than anything to me. Our hearts literally beat as one now.

  Sadie pulls away from the group hug and comes to me. She hugs me, and before I know what’s happening, all of the team plus Nyten are involved in one big group hug.

  I know this moment of pure joy and celebration can’t last forever. Kane’s body starts to glow, and before we know it his wings are back, but they aren’t the onyx they were before. They are stark white and stand about two feet higher than they did before. Kane is good. The son of a god. The son of one of the most powerful, self-sacrificing witches I have ever had the pleasure of knowing, and now he knows it too.

  We might have won the war, but there were casualties in the battles. We lost Pest and Saudia today, and we lost Remy to Quinn. Quinn lost herself when she embraced the darkness, lured to the wrong side with the promise of revenge and ultimate power by Arken, as were Rachel and Tracey. Even Talon. All of them were used as pawns by Arken, and we will grieve them, but not as we grieve our own.

  Remy, Saudia, and Pest will forever hold a special place in all our hearts, and we will give Pest and Saudia the send-off they deserve. But not tonight. Tonight is going to be a celebration. A celebration of victory. A celebration of humanity. A celebration of family, of sacrifice, and most of all, of love.

  Love will always prevail over any darkness, and today, we proved that.

  TWO YEARS LATER

  I shift slightly in my seat. It’s not that the seat itself is uncomfortable—on the contrary, it’s plush and soft—it’s just that we’ve been here so long. Langston insisted on everyone arriving at least forty-five minutes early and being seated no later than half an hour early. She is a total bridezilla.

  “Are you alright?” Kane asks from beside me.

  I smile and nod.

  “I’m great,” I say.

  “Who would have thought it would take over two years for Langston and Perry to finally get hitched?” Kane grins. “I mean, we beat them to it, and Carla and Regal did too, and they were the first ones to get engaged.”

  “Yeah, but Langston has always dreamed of getting married in The Plaza, and the waiting list is huge. She’s lucky it was only a two-year wait for a summer wedding here really.”

  “Do you regret not having something like this?” Kane asks.

  “Hell no,” I say. “It’s lovely, don’t get me wrong, but a huge society wedding has never been my dream.”

  Our wedding was beautiful. Not extravagant, but beautiful. We had it in the prayer garden at the Dominican Convent in Santorini. It seemed fitting somehow, as that’s where I got what I needed to get Kane back.

  Of course, it’s not open to the public, but when I went there to inquire about a wedding in the tiny chapel, the nuns were only too happy to oblige me when I told them how much I loved the prayer garden. They still aren’t completely sure what happened that day, but they know we saved them from a great evil.

  Kane had Philip as his best man. He said he was the next best thing to Pest. Philip did a great job, and he looked so cute in his suit. Grown-up and yet childlike at the same time.

  Carla and Regal adopted him officially, and Carla refuses to hide him away. Now Arken has been defeated, it’s rare any demons enter the city, and those that do give the Valkyries a wide berth.

  Although Carla and Regal are officially Philip’s parents now, he knows his birth parents died to help save the whole world. That’s all he knows for now. He’ll learn the rest when he’s old enough.

  For now, he is happy, and that’s what matters. He has more family than he ever could have dreamed of; he’s like a floating family member. Home will always be with Carla and Regal, but his second home is with Kane and me in the loft, and his third home is with Perry and Langston. He often stays over with Sadie too.

  The only thing missing from our wedding was Saudia. She should have been my maid of honor. I chose not to have one in the end. Although I would have been happy to have either Carla or Langston up there with me, it felt like a betrayal to Saudia.

  I tune back into the wedding as Philip taps me on the arm.

  “The baby has thrown up again,” he informs me.

  Kane pulls a baby wipe out of the bag and hands it to me. I wipe Remy’s face and the front of her dress.

  “She’s gross,” Philip announces.

  “Philip. That’s your sister you’re talking about,” I remind him.

  He rolls his eyes. Babies apparently are not his thing. He wasn’t impressed when Carla informed him that Remy would be sitting with us at the wedding as well as him. With Carla as Langston’s maid of honor and Regal as Perry’s best man, I’m not sure what Philip thought would happen. He probably thought she’d be shipped off to a sitter or something, but that’s not Carla’s style.

  The door to the wedding room opens, and everyone turns to look, expecting to see Langston. It’s not Langston, and my jaw drops when I see who it is. I turn to look at Sadie.

  “Did you know he was coming?” I demand.

  She smiles knowingly.

  “I told you I was bringing a date,” she says.

  Nyten hurries to join Sadie.

  “I didn’t think you’d make it,” Kane says, reaching across Sadie to shake hands with his dad.

  “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Just don’t tell Langston I was so late.”

  “Don’t worry about it. There’s time for her to change her mind yet,” Kane jokes.

  I elbow him in the ribs.

  “Keep your voice down,” I say, glancing toward the altar.

  Perry is a total wreck up there waiting for Langston, and I feel quite sorry for Regal, who has the job of keeping him calm.

  Remy shuffles a little in my arms.

  “Hey, Remy, are you bored sitting here? It won’t be much longer I swear,” I say.

  I make a funny face and Remy giggles.

  “You like that?” I say.

  She giggles again and contents herself by tugging on my necklace. Kane watches on and smiles.

  “You want to hold her?” I ask.

  He nods, and I plonk Remy into his lap. She reaches up to touch his face, and he blows a raspberry on her hand, causing her to squeal with delight. I watch Kane, feeling my heart bursting with love watching him be so gentle with Remy.

  “What?” he says when he catches me looking.

  “Nothing.” I smile. “I was just thinking what a good dad you’re going to make.”

  I rub my bump as I say it. Kane grins and puts his hand over mine.

  Our own baby is due next Tuesday, and I can’t wait to meet her. And yes, it’ll be nice not to have a ton of weight attached to my front in this heat.

  Kane leans closer to me.

  “I’m going to do everything I can to be the best husband and father ever,” he whispers in my ear.

  “You’re already the best husband,” I say. “And you’re a natural with babies.”

  The organ bursts into life, and we all get to our feet, ready to finally see Langston’s dress, which has been a closely guarded secret. All she will say is Vera did herself proud.

  “I love you, Atlas,” Kane whispers.

  He reaches over and puts his hand on my stomach.

  “And I already love you more than I ever thought possible, Saudia Kane.”

  He rubs my bump, and Saudia kicks, almost as if she’s telling him she already loves him too.

  THE END

  Thank you for reading and if you’d like more, please check out the first chapter of my new YA paranormal series, “Isle Of Midnight” Please find the first chapter below and if you enjoy it, you can read the entire book, free!

  Vicious Delights (Isle Of Midnight, Book 1)

  Death is a sneaky bastard. You know that someone, somewhere, in the world will die today, but you never think that someone will be you. And you never think that day
will be today. Well, judging by the bullet slicing through the air, headed for my head, that day is today.

  Fuck me.

  I’d like to say that I am having a series of profound and wise thoughts just seconds before my demise. I’d like to tell you that my life is flashing and I recall moments of sorrow and triumph. But as death comes for me, all I can think is this: Shit, I will never know what happens on the next season of “The Walking Dead.” Yeah, I know. Not exactly a noteworthy thought. But it’s the truth.

  How can I be seconds away from death? Today started out so well.

  I made plans to go dress shopping with my best friends, Luna and Kiki, after school. They wanted to run to their houses first, and since I had to stop at the bank anyway, we agreed to meet at the mall later. Just before entering the bank, I took a moment to enjoy the feel of the sun on my skin and smiled knowing I would most likely have a nice tan for the prom.

  Once inside, I was relieved to see the line to the teller wasn’t as long as I feared it would be. I was in the line for a few moments when a faceless man came in and started screaming orders. I saw his gun and froze instantly. The security guards at the bank came around the corner and told him to drop his weapon. I guess the teller tripped the silent alarm. Feeling backed into a corner, the faceless man started firing into the crowd, and this is where my life ends. That takes us back to the “bullet-headed-for-my-head” portion of our story; my last story.

  I wonder what the headline will read.

  Jasmine Miller, 17, Shot in head during bank robbery. All she wanted was the perfect dress.

  Great, Jazz, way to make yourself sound shallow.

  Before I can ponder that any further, a burly man in a suit screams at me. His words are blurred, but as he gets closer, I can almost make them out.

  “Watch out!” he says as his body comes crashing into mine, and everything goes dark.

  I jolt up and look around for my aunt and uncle; I am in a panic. I have no idea where I am or how I got here. My whole body feels like it got run over by a Mack truck. I go to rub my throbbing temples, and I realize I am handcuffed.

  Panic takes over, and I really look around for the first time.

  The walls are all a uniform gray, as is the hard ground. Various graffiti is scrawled everywhere, the majority of it involving crudely drawn dicks and homophobic slurs.

  The only furniture is the rock-hard bench I woke up on, which I am blaming for the pain in my back, and a metal sink and toilet.

  Two words run through my mind: jail cell.

  I stand up and walk towards the heavy door. The chain doesn’t stop me from walking, but I know immediately I wouldn’t be able to run for it.

  I pull on the handle, but it’s locked. I notice the tiny window in the door. There are bars on it. I ignore the bars and peer out. I can’t see anyone else—just a long corridor painted the same dull gray as my cell. Yeah, it’s definitely a cell.

  On top of my panic and fear, there is something else bubbling up. Anger... I’m angry. I’m far from perfect, but I’m no criminal. There must be some mistake.

  I slam my palm against the door, and it makes a hollow sound that echoes dully.

  “Hey. Hey. Where am I? What’s going on here?” I shout.

  Nothing.

  I slam my palm against the door again. Still nothing. I’m no longer panicked. I am now furious. Why am I here? And why am I being ignored? I stop slapping at the door with my open palm, and instead, I pull back my foot and kick it hard. It hurts my toes, but I don’t stop. I kick the door again and again, wincing from the loud sound that echoes all around me and makes my ears ring.

  As I pull my foot back again, I hear something; I stop and listen. Footsteps are approaching.

  “What the hell, man?” I demand as a figure comes into view.

  The figure is a man. He has neatly styled jet-black hair, and he wears a khaki-colored uniform. He looks almost like a soldier, but a few subtle differences tell me that’s not the case. For one, this guy has terrible posture. Two, he’s short, like shorter than me short. And three, he doesn’t appear to have a gun. That’s something at least.

  “Stop with that racket,” he shouts.

  “Then tell me why I am here. I’m not a criminal. There’s been some mistake,” I say.

  “The verdict will be in soon enough. If you’re telling the truth, you have nothing to worry about,” he replies.

  He turns and walks away before I can reply. I kick at the door a few more times, but it’s no use. The man doesn’t return, and no one else comes. I sigh, go back to the uncomfortable bench, and plop down.

  What verdict is he talking about? What am I even being accused of? I force my mind to be still, and I think of the last thing I remember before waking up here. I was at the bank getting money, and then there was a robbery. Bullets flew everywhere, and someone pushed me out of the way.

  That’s the last thing I remember. The memory tells me nothing about why I am here. I mean I’m a seventeen-year-old high school junior who was in line with her cell phone. Surely they don’t think I had anything to do with the robbery.

  I think of the moment when I saw the armed robber again. I still can’t recall any details about them. I have a vague memory of a hazy figure, and that’s it. I just don’t get it. I don’t get any of it.

  All I can do is wait. And have faith they called my aunt and uncle to clear things up. And that they hired me a decent lawyer. Yeah, that’s what happened. My lawyer will prove that I was just an innocent bystander, as much a victim as anyone else in the bank today. And then maybe I’ll sue the state or the police or someone. Whoever decided locking me in here for no reason was okay.

  I nod to myself. I feel better now. I have a plan. God, I hope I’m right that Aunt Holly and Uncle Rick will call me a lawyer. They’re not exactly loaded, but they’re not poor either. They can afford a decent lawyer. That’s not my concern. My concern is that they will assume my guilt and write me off, thinking I’m just like my father.

  I refuse to go down that route. I jump to my feet and begin pacing up and down the tiny cell, but the movement frays my nerves and makes me jittery. I sit back down.

  At least I’ll have a good story to tell my friends tomorrow. Trish will absolutely freak when she hears about this. I might even get a cool nickname—something cooler than Jazz, which comes from the decidedly uncool name Jasmine.

  I reach for my cell phone, thinking I will text Trish, but of course, it’s not there. Bastards took my phone.

  The door to my cell busts open suddenly, and I jump to my feet.

  “Am I free to leave now?” I ask, holding my cuffed wrists out in front of me so they can remove the cuffs.

  It doesn’t work that way. Four men enter the cell. One of them grabs my wrists and pulls me roughly forward.

  “Hey, what are you doing? Let go of me,” I say.

  I try to pull away, but three of the men silently surround me and hold me still. The fourth produces a syringe and a long needle. He holds the syringe up and moves the plunger down, expelling the air that’s built up there.

  “Stop. You can’t do this,” I screech.

  I try to fight the hands that hold me, but they’re too strong. I feel a sharp pinprick as the needle pierces the skin in the top of my arm, and then everything goes black again.

  I wake up slowly, feeling like I’m swimming. I open my eyes, and they close again. I yawn and stretch and force my eyes open, reaching up to pick the crusty sleep from the corners.

  My head is fuzzy, and I can hardly think. And then it comes rushing back like a hammer hitting me. The cell. The men with the injection. I sit upright and look around, and my fear turns to relief when I see my familiar bedroom around me.

  I laugh out loud as I get up and head for my closet. I shower, dress, and dry my hair, and then I go back to my bedroom. As I apply a little mascara and a coat of lip gloss, I tell myself I have got to stop watching true life crime shows. They’re clearly affecting me.

&
nbsp; Once I’m ready, I pick up the photograph of my mom that sits on the dresser beside my bed. I run my fingers gently over the glass that tops her photo, imagining that I’m stroking the skin on her cheek.

  “Well, Mom, that was some dream. I was in prison. I don’t know what I was supposed to have done, but whatever it was, I didn’t do it. It didn’t matter to them though. They kept me locked up all the same. I thought I was going to end up in prison like Dad,” I say.

  I always talk to the picture of my mom. Maybe it sounds crazy like my uncle regularly tells me it is. But it makes me feel closer to her. It has been nine years since she died, and I still miss her every single day.

  “Bye, Mom,” I say, gently placing the photo back down. I blow her a kiss as I cross my room.

  I pull the door to my room open, and the bottom of my world falls away. What should have been my aunt and uncle’s hallway is the cold gray corridor of the prison.

  My mind is on overload. I keep looking back over my shoulder at my bedroom: my own bedroom with all of my things in it—the photo of my mom, my books, posters from the McFly concert I went to last year, and even Mr. Flopsy, the raggedy stuffed rabbit I’ve had since I was three.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, then open them again. The gray corridor is still there. I don’t understand. I woke up. It was over. But it isn’t over. That was just a cruel trick.

  The image of my things, my normality, is jarring against the cold corridor I still see in front of me.

  How is this even possible? And why go to so much effort to trick me into believing I was home and safe? That’s all that keeps going through my mind.

  I step back into my bedroom and sit down on the edge of the bed, rocking gently back and forth while I try to work out whether or not I’m crazy. The jury is still out on that one, but the rocking does nothing to convince me I’m not crazy, so I stop.