Death eBook 9.8.16

by Lila Rose

  I did. It was my talent. I wasn’t called Death for no reason. I could talk to, see, and feel the dearly departed. But dammit to hell, a need had me wanting to fight my brother’s ruling and go to the house of the survivor.

  The thought of Falcone, also known as Famine, our third horseman, at the house sort of calmed me. He was the quiet one, the book nerd who wouldn’t know if a gorgeous woman walked by or not. But for a reason I was yet to have an explanation for, I did not like the fact that Connor was going to the house.

  Shit!

  Rubbing my hand across my forehead, I fought with my inner self and snapped into the phone, “Fine. I’ll see you there.” I ended the call, and roughly placed it back in my pocket and turned to Connor. He was smiling, and I felt like punching him for it.

  “You heard all that?”

  “Yep,” he said and laughed. “I hope the survivor is a woman.”

  I didn’t feel myself move. Next, I had my brother pinned by the neck and lifted; his feet swayed in the air. He gripped my hand. “What the fuck?” he coughed.

  “Whoever it is, you leave them the fuck alone. Do not touch them,” I growled roughly. “Do you understand me?”

  “Yeah, all right. Let me the fuck down.”

  Christ. What in the hell was I doing? I dropped Connor like a ton of bricks. He stumbled back but managed to stay on his feet.

  “Sorry,” I offered.

  “What was that about, dickhead?”

  Starting for the side of the roof, I said over my shoulder, “I don’t know.” I shook my head. “I really don’t know what came over me.” But I’d known I had to get my message across, even if it was my brother I was warning.

  Because I knew I didn’t want anyone touching the survivor.

  Maybe it was because the person had just been through an ordeal. I mean, one survivor out of what could be thousands of travelers was a big deal.

  I could take a stab at the reason all night, and honestly, I wasn’t sure if any of my answers would be the right one.

  My reaction was purely based on primal instinct.

  “You know where to go?” I asked into his mind.

  “Yeah, wherever I feel Falcone at,” he answered back in mine as he studied me. I let him for a second longer before I turned back to the edge of the roof and then jumped from it to the concrete sidewalk, forty stories below.

  Still, that didn’t stop me from hearing Connor say, “Where has my calm brother gone?”

  Warren stood out among any crowd. He was the largest out of all of us. Standing at seven feet and built like a fucking tank, anywhere we went, he was the first one people noticed, and knew to leave him alone. Most would take one look at the scowl on his scarred face and know he wasn’t to be messed with. Unless, of course, they were idiots and didn’t heed the warning from the scowl and instead either wanted to get to know him, like some women did, or wanted to prove themselves to others and take him on. Either situation led to failure.

  He stood just on the outskirts of… disaster. Police, firemen, and emergency crew filled the area, doing what they had to do. I ignored all of them, my gaze falling upon the train. What shocked the fuck out of me was that the train looked mostly intact, except for three carriages out of twelve. The damaged three were only slightly twisted and bunched up.

  How in the hell did this cause a death total of all passengers but one?

  A shiver ran over my body.

  No!

  It couldn’t be.

  Where were they all?

  I turned and twisted, searching the area around me, and saw nothing.

  How was this possible?

  “Dean?” Warren called, concern showing in his voice. Once he was beside me, he asked, “What is it?”

  “Nothing… there’s fucking nothing here, Warren. No ghosts, no bound spirits, nothing.”

  His brows bunched. “There should be at least a few. Their deaths were traumatic.”

  “How?” I asked.

  “Out loud, brother,” Warren warned. He only liked to use our mind link in desperate situations. He went on, “They’re not 100 percent sure, but they suspect a toxin was aboard and leaked throughout the train. Most bodies look decomposed. All have looks of horror upon their faces.”

  “Warren,” I ground out his name, but I could see it on his pinched, worried face; he already suspected a certain someone, like I did, but he was still doubtful or hoping it wasn’t him.

  He looked at me and saw I’d also caught on to his train of thought. “No, it couldn’t be. No.” He shook his head, tightly gripping the notepad in his hand.

  “Look at all the evidence.” I pointed out the obvious.

  “I may have thought it, but how? He’s been locked up for centuries . He couldn’t have escaped.”

  “We need to know for certain,” I said.

  “Fuck,” he cursed. “Fuck!” he yelled, catching strange looks from people around us.

  Though, fuck definitely did fit. If it was who we both suspected, the world would not be the same. It would be turned upside down like it had centuries earlier. Because no one had expected our last and final brother to follow us.

  The Navah made us. However, they also made a mistake. Our fifth brother, Kayne, aka Decay, had turned crazed. Even though it had pained us deeply, we’d had to lock him away so he could no longer harm himself or others; he had been sadly inflicted by his own gift of balance. It deteriorated both his mind and body. His gift could destroy so easily; all it took was a touch of his hand. From there, a person’s body would decay from within, and they’d die the most painful of deaths. His story, existence, had been wiped from any written word, and as the last of our civilization died, they took the only knowledge of Kayne with them. Well, almost. There was still the Order to contend with, but they had been silent for fifty years or so.

  If our fifth brother had somehow been released, we would have to find him and entomb him once more, before he had a chance to play. Plus, we needed to figure out if there were Order members who had helped him.

  Looking back to Warren, I said, “I’m going to take a look around, see if I can find anything. If I find nothing, you know for certain it is him.” Because he would have taken their souls within himself to gain more power, to heal himself enough to survive this world.

  “Do that. I’ll continue with the interviews from the first to the scene.” Warren turned and started off until I called out to him.

  “Who was the survivor?”

  He glanced down at his notepad. “A Julie Michaels.”

  “How did she survive him, brother?”

  He shook his head. “I’m uncertain, but we need to find out. Hopefully Falcone and Connor will have some answers.”

  Chapter Two

  JULIE

  BEEP… WOSH

  BEEP… WOSH

  BEEP… WOSH

  I woke slowly to what I assumed, from the sounds of machines, was a hospital. Cracking my left eye open to be sure, I looked around.

  And survey says… YES! Hospital for the win!

  “Why in the H-E-double hockey sticks am I in the hospital?” I croaked softly as I cleared my throat a few times and opened my right eye to join my left.

  To one side of my bed was a drawn curtain for privacy. To the left was a door, which was just opening. In walked an older-looking nurse in Scooby Doo scrubs.

  “Oh, good, you’re awake. They were worried if you didn’t wake soon, you’d slip into a coma,” she announced distractedly.

  “What happened?” I asked as she busied herself getting my blood pressure, temperature, and changing my empty IV fluid bags.

  “Saline and antibiotics just in case,” she explained as I watched her dispose of said empties. The smart old goat had changed the subject on me.

  “Am I sick?” How in the heck did I end up in the hospital?

  I thought over my day the best I could, but for the life of me, I couldn’t remember how or why I was there. The last thing I could recall was being at the libr
ary and snapping at Troy to stop staring at my tatas and instead concentrate on his calculus. Then I’d been counting the minutes until I’d be free to catch the train home.

  “The train,” I whispered. Something about the train struck a nerve in my memory. But why? Then as quickly as the thought came, it was gone. Nothing. My mind was blank of anything after that night’s tutoring session.

  I turned to the nurse and asked again, “Why am I here?”

  “Sorry, hon, but you will have to wait for the doctor for answers. He’s the one who gets paid to talk. I only do the grunt work around here,” she answered with a wink on her way out of the room.

  I had only enough time to assess that, besides some achy muscles and a mild headache, I seemed fine, before someone tapped on the door.

  “Hi, my name’s Dr. Steven McMullan. I’m the doctor who was on call when you arrived.”

  Holy hot Moses! I think I may be drooling. He turned slowly as he shut the door after he entered, giving me a shot of a sinfully tight tushy. He then made his way across the room, not stopping until he reached the bed, my bed. With a sexy smile and face usually reserved for billboard Jockey underwear models, he eased his cute tush onto the bed next to me, causing us to touch from hip to knee. Resting his closer hand on my upper thigh, he reached with his other to grasp my hand. We stayed like that a few moments longer than necessary, and I could say I was enjoying the feeling of comfort—until he broke my trance.

  “I need to see if you know your name, and how you’re feeling?” he asked gently, still holding my dang hand with his strong and soft one. Sigh.

  Ah-ha! A concussion! That was why I was there. It was the only way to explain why it felt like the good-looking doctor, with his gorgeous I-play-Polo-on-the-weekends blond hair and Ivy League features, was flirting with me. Maybe a book had fallen on my head at the library? A big book. Or I could have slipped on the stone stairs as I left. Or….

  Crud, he was still waiting for an answer, and I was still drooling. Gently, I removed my hand from his to tuck my hair behind my ear. It was all in an effort to hide Operation: Drool Drip Removal going on, wiping it on my left hand. Yep. I’m slick like that. Not. But back to the good doctor, whose charming smile was patiently waiting to see if I’d respond or had brain damage.

  “Julie, um, Julie Michaels. And I feel fine?” Totally slick. I shook my head to clear the stupid out and get back to the important question. “Why am I here?”

  “Do you know where you are?”

  “Yes, the hospital.”

  “That’s right.” He smiled. “Do you know what year it is?”

  Okay, I was getting ticked. My hands balled into fists on the bed. Taking a deep breath, I told him, “I’m getting a little annoyed with everyone avoiding my question. Yes, I know my name. Yes, I know the year. Yes, I know my address, my mother’s maiden name, and my dang bra size! What I don’t know is why the fart I’m here?” I huffed out, my arms crossing over my chest.

  “Why the fart?” he asked with a chuckle.

  I sniffed. “Yes, well, I teach children. So I don’t cuss,” I explained, and frowned. “And you’re still avoiding my question.” Wow, he was as good as the nurse.

  “The reason I’m not answering is because I still need to assess how much you remember. Before I can do that, I needed to see if you were lucid after being out for nearly seven hours,” he explained with amused patience.

  “Oh, well, why didn’t you just say that?” I snapped, embarrassed, heat hitting my cheeks.

  He chuckled again. I rolled my eyes because, excuse me, I didn’t really see the humor in my situation. Once the fine doctor had himself under control, he then proceeded to give me a not-so-professional once-over, checking my eyes with his light stick thingy and feeling me up along the way. Admittedly, he wasn’t really feeling me up, but it felt dang close. Staring into my eyes, he slowly glided his fingers across my face and down my neck, where he checked my glands and accelerated pulse rate.

  “Your eyes are extraordinary. I have never seen such a bold light amber color,” he whispered as his hands settled on my shoulders.

  I mean, seriously, I’d been hit on a few times, even had a few boyfriends, but what I was experiencing was every book nerd’s wet dream. That face, hair, butt, combined with those words—words I never expected to actually have spoken to me from a fine specimen like Dr. Delicious—it was like a real-life Mr. Darcy meets ER.

  I was brought out of my daydream when he sat back and cleared his throat. “Now, for those questions of yours. What exactly do you remember from today—” He looked at the clock on the wall above my bed, which read 3:45. Seeing that it was still dark outside the windows, I was going with a.m. “—well, yesterday now?”

  I rehashed my day for him, as boring as it was, but stopped again at the end of my tutoring session with the drooling teen. There was nothing after that point.

  “The train. I take the train home, but I can’t remember taking it last night. Not even leaving the library,” I told him. “Was I mugged or something on the way home? Ugh! This is driving me batty.”

  “I really can’t tell you much. What I can say is that you did make it to the train last night, but there was an accident. It doesn’t look like you hit your head though. I see no visible marks to say otherwise, and your pupil responses are perfect, so no concussion. I believe your memory loss is due to how traumatic the event was. It’s called repressed memory, for obvious reasons. Your memories are not forgotten in the traditional sense but removed from the conscious mind. Still present in the long-term memory, but hidden from your knowledge.” He patted my hand in reassurance and went on, “I believe they will come back to you in time, probably pieces at first. Till then, I would avoid contact with any type of media, social or otherwise. Let those around you know to be careful of what they say in your presence. We don’t want them accidently influencing your true memories. We don’t want them tainting and confusing facts with what others may perceive, falsely, to be so.” Once he finished dropping his nugget of knowledge, he sat quietly as I digested it all. Wise man.

  Ask and you shall obscurely receive. Yes, I now know what happened, but barely. Though, to ask questions could “taint” my actual memories as they came back to me. “Well, that blows,” I finally declared.

  Dr. Delicious decided what I said was hysterical and barked a laugh so darn loud, it caused me to jump near clear off the bed. He nodded to himself. “With dry wit like this, I feel even more confident in my decree that you have no brain damage.” He smiled, only it dimmed slightly when he continued in a serious tone, “That said, I still think it best you stay at least a day for observation. Besides, you’ll also need to speak with the police. Since you arrived, there have been two officers at your door waiting.”

  I just bet he wanted me to stay. Hospital bills were not something I needed right then, with changing careers. I was pretty sure the expense didn’t fit into my current budget, nor would an extra day’s stay. “Actually, I feel fine and would prefer to sleep the day off in my own bed. I’ll sign whatever you require, but I’d like to go home. So may answer the police questions now, not that I remember anything. Thank you though, for your concern.”

  Since I wasn’t going to back down from his hard stare, he did. Sighing, he grabbed a pen and business card out of his breast pocket, flipped it over, and added a phone number on the back. “Very well, here is a card with my office phone number. Call, tell them I want to see you in two days. They’ll know to expect your call. On the back is my cell phone number. Call me direct if you experience any changes. Headache, dizziness, nausea, anything out of the ordinary. Or, if you just need someone to talk to.” He looked directly into my eyes again before he continued, “I mean it, Julie. Anytime, for anything. We’ll go for coffee and talk. Just call, and I’m there,” he gently ordered, and then gave my hand one last squeeze before he got up and left. Thank God; even though he was good-looking, the guy had lost respect in my eyes with all the touchy-feely unprofessional
ism.

  The next two hours were pure hell as I walked through my day and lack of train ride over and over, for Detective Doody Head and his partner Detective Richard Cranium, before they let me sign myself out. I honestly thought they would have kept at it for at least another two hours, but my knight in shining stethoscope swooped in and shut them down. Clearly, they weren’t happy being told how to do their job, but they relented with the standard, “Don’t leave town.” And there I thought it was only a cheesy Hollywood line; I’d been proven wrong. What was also obvious was the fact the doctor had got to them before they entered the room, because all the questions I’d asked were either ignored or changed to another subject. Knowing nothing was confusing as heck, and I didn’t like it. At the end, my head was throbbing—not that I told the doctor, because I was worried he’d want me to stay.

  I was given ugly green scrubs and a pair of blue slipper socks, since whatever had happened caused my clothes and belongings to be destroyed. I was just so dang happy I’d left my laptop at home. Even though everything was backed up, it would have been a huge setback to replace and reload. I had more clothes, and the other crud could be replaced over time, but my dream and newfound independence depended on my laptop.

  After a quick change, a uniformed officer who looked barely out of high school drove me home. The normally two-hour ride was over in a blink. I felt drained, both physically and emotionally. The whole situation still didn’t feel real. For that reason, I wanted nothing more than to curl up in my big, comfy chair with a soft blanket and crack open a book from my go-to author. If there was ever a time for escapism, this was it. Kristen Ashley, take me away.

  As we pulled up to my cottage, I couldn’t get away fast enough. With a mumbled “Thank you,” I took off for my front door. On the way, I noticed something disturbing. The outside world was just that, outside. Usually, all stress and worry would melt away, leaving me feeling safe and with peace of mind. That was gone. I needed the sense of reassurance and security, but it had deserted me.

  I stepped into the front garden, which honestly, along with my house, was Martha Stewart’s wet dream. I wasn’t a girly girl, but I’d embraced my feminine side when I styled my cottage, inside and out. It was shabby chic meets country cottage. It was the first place I’d lived that truly felt like home, because the times I’d lived with my mother or even at college had been stressful. It was my sanctuary; I felt free to do what I wanted when I wanted to. Though the garden was Fallon’s, my coeditor and best friend’s, creation. That woman could grow anything, anywhere; her thumb was so green she glowed.