Take Me To Your Reader:
An Otherworld Anthology
Copyright © 2014
License Notes
All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
The Divided
Copyright © 2013 by Amy A. Bartol
Monsters of Earth
Copyright © 2013 by Tammy Blackwell
The House on Maple Street
Copyright © 2013 by Amanda Havard
The Force
Copyright © 2013 by Heather Hildenbrand
Ultra-Con
Copyright © 2013 by Tiffany King
Snow Globe
Copyright © 2013 by C.A. Kunz
The Black Stone Heir
Copyright © 2013 by Sarah M. Ross
The Ascendant
Copyright © 2013 by Raine Thomas
Original Cover Design by Regina Wamba of Mae I Design
Copyright © 2014
http://www.maeidesign.com/
Dedication
This collection is dedicated to Janet Wallace and the entire staff of utopYA. We are honored to be part of such a wonderful event.
Table of Contents
Dedication
The Divided
Chapter 1 – I'M NOT CRAZY
Chapter 2 – SOURCE ONE ALPHA
Chapter 3 – BLACK WATER
Chapter 4 – DUSK TO DARK
Chapter 5 – ASHES TO FIRE
Chapter 6 – I MIGHT BE CRAZY
Monsters of Earth
The House on Maple Street
The Force
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Ultra-Con
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Snow Globe
The Black Stone Heir
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
The Ascendant
The Divided
By Amy Bartol
For information on other titles
Visit the author's website: http://www.amyabartol.com/index.html
Chapter 1 – I'M NOT CRAZY
I open the door to the backseat of the Escalade and throw my duffle bag in. When I slam it shut, the sound echoes loudly off the cement walls of the parking garage. It's a tomb in this part of my building at three a.m. The dull yellow light near the stairwell casts a long, garish shadow over the black SUV. Under normal circumstances, I never like being in here alone; but now, after what has happened, it scares me half to death.
Quickly, I move to the driver's door and open it, climbing inside. I lock the doors and start the engine. My long, dark hair spills down my back and over my shoulders, getting trapped by the seatbelt. I gather it up in a bun and secure it with a hair band from my purse before I back the car out of the space and leave the garage.
I don't feel safe again until I'm on Lake Shore Drive heading north on my way out of Chicago.
The silence in the Escalade is a definite change from the constant barrage of concerned family, friends, and acquaintances I've had to endure for the past couple of months. I know I really shouldn't blame them for their concern. I've been a bit of a mess lately. And I shouldn't be angry with them either for saying the wrong things. There are no right words to say when someone you love beyond measure is taken from you. Words become petty—small and meaningless. There is no solace in words.
The need to get away from here has been a constant ache in my chest that I've had to suppress for weeks now. I'm not supposed to leave Chicago; I'm supposed to be establishing a new normal—a routine that doesn't allow me to obsess over my fantasies. But, I've just found something in the paperwork the lawyers sent over that needs to be checked out. I know I should tell someone where I'm going, but it's really early and it seems a little rude to wake someone with a phone call now. That's not exactly true. If I'm being honest with myself, I'm not calling anyone because I'm afraid that whomever I call will try to talk me out of leaving, or stop me...and I have to go.
My escape from the city is uneventful. I watch the sunrise over the expressway, and then continue north until I trade Illinois for Wisconsin, and then Wisconsin for Michigan. As I drive behind a massive logging truck on M2, my phone rings. I eye it thoughtfully, wondering whether or not to answer it. The ringing stops and I relax. The respite is only temporary before it rings again. I sigh heavily before answering it. "Hi, Stan."
"Where are you, Vi?" Stan's stern tone is anything but welcome at the moment.
"I'm not sure. I'm a little lost—"
"You're damn right you're lost! That's why you were supposed to be in Dr. Gobel's office at nine this morning."
"Umm...yeah...that's probably not going to happen today," I say sheepishly. I glance out the window at the panorama of Lake Michigan's northern most shoreline as I drive.
"It is going to happen today! I've spoken to his secretary and she rearranged his schedule to accommodate you. Tell me where you are and I'll come get you—and don't tell me that you're at your apartment because I'm here now."
"How did you get in?" I ask.
"Your parents gave me their keys. They asked me to look after you before they went back to Miami. You were there when we made the plan; we talked about it in your team session only a few days ago."
"I remember," I mutter. "You're my advocate."
"So tell me again why you insist on living in this apartment? Matt's penthouse is so much better than this felony flat you're living in."
"My apartment is not that bad. It's an efficiency."
"Most of your neighbors are probably on parole."
"It's what I can afford on my teacher's salary," I say, equally annoyed with him.
"You can afford a lot more than this now and you know it. And you're not teaching right now anyway."
"It's what I'll be able to afford when I go back," I amend.
"It's like you're punishing yourself with this apartment, Violet."
"I'm not punishing myself," I say with my throat becoming tight.
"You could've fooled me. Now, where are you?" he asks, his voice full of irritation.
"Dr. Gobel thinks I'm crazy," I murmur.
"Dr. Gobel doesn't think you're crazy."
"You think I'm crazy."
There's silence on the other end for a moment before Stan says softly, "I think you're sad. I think you're so sad that you'll do anything to escape your sorrow. Are you taking the anti-depressants Dr. Gobel prescribed?"
"Yes."
"When did you take the last one?"
"Yesterday."
"You should've taken one this morning."
"I will."
"Do it now. I'll wait."
"I can take it later."
"Now, Vi!"
"Fine," I growl.
I pull off the road o
nto the shoulder and put Mattie's Escalade in park. I rummage around for a few seconds in my purse until I locate the orange-brown pill bottle with my name on it. Shaking a tablet into my hand, I pop it in my mouth and wash it down with lukewarm water from the bottle in the cup holder.
"Okay, I'm medicated," I say sarcastically into the phone.
"This is not a joke, Violet. It has only been a few weeks since you left the hospital. You agreed to outpatient counseling. I said I'd be responsible for you. Now, where are you? I'm coming to get you. You shouldn't be alone."
"I'm not alone. Mattie is with me."
There is silence on the other end of the phone for a moment. "Violet, Matt is dead," Stan says softly.
"I know. I was there when it happened," I answer with a raspy voice. My eyes fill up with tears; I take a deep breath, trying to blink them away. "It should've been me." It actually feels good to say aloud what I've known for months. I glance at Mattie's silver urn strapped in the passenger's seat beside me.
Stan nearly shouts into the phone, "It shouldn't have been you! He didn't want it to be you! That's why he did what he did, so it wasn't you! Now you're trying to ruin his sacrifice by killing yourself."
"His sacrifice! He jumped in front of a gun! Those bullets were meant for me, Stan! Dylan Harrison wasn't aiming at Mattie. He was aiming at me."
"Dylan Harrison was so strung out on heroin and bath salts that he thought he was aiming at the heretic who would destroy his master's race! I've read the police report on him. He was completely deranged. He could've been aiming at anyone that night. You and Matt just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was bad luck, or bad timing, but it wasn't your fault."
I get angry with Stan for what feels like the first time in my life. "You should hate me! Your best friend would be alive right now if it weren't for me! I'm the one who wanted to walk home from the restaurant."
"Is that why you tried to kill yourself, Vi? Because you decided to walk home one night and a tweaking psychopath shot your fiancé?"
"No," I say with a tight voice.
"Then why'd you do it? Why'd you take all those pills?"
"I told you why. I needed them so I could hear Mattie better. He was trying to tell me something."
"You still believe Matt is talking to you?"
"He is talking to me."
"Is he telling you to kill yourself?"
"NO!" I scowl. "You know him! He'd never do that."
"Then what's he saying?"
I rub my forehead in frustration. "I told you. He...he needs me to find him. When I close my eyes at night, right before I drift off to sleep, I feel him there. It's like I'm underwater with him—I just can't hear him. I thought if I took some pills I could go deeper and find out where he is."
I remember the night I took all the sleeping tablets I was prescribed. My hand shook as I contemplated them piled within it; they were like ice in my palm. I knew it was dangerous, what I was doing, but there was no other way. I put them in my mouth, tasting the acrid medicine as it began to dissolve on my tongue. Initially, I panicked and spit them all back out, drinking giant gulps of water to wash away the evidence. But, after my fear began to dissipate, I saw my life stretch out before me—the hours, days, weeks, months without Mattie. Only loneliness awaited me: the constant, ever-present ache of loss. I could end that. I could face my fears and find him, or I could live the rest of my life in pain.
I opened my palm again, this time I didn't hesitate. As soon as I put the tablets back in my mouth, I washed them down with the rest of the water in the glass. Then, I picked up the phone and called Stan and told him what I was doing. He had shouted at me to stick my finger down my throat, but instead I had hung up on him to lie back on my bed.
As I began to drift off to sleep, I was finally able to find him after days of only murky images of him in the night. He was in a lake, deep underwater, his pale skin almost blue, as if he was bathed in moonlight. The little light shining from above the water made diamond patterns on him. His thick, black hair waved in the current, matching the rhythm of the leafy green seaweed growing all around. His hand extended for me to take. When I reached for it, he slipped through my fingertips and was violently pulled back from me until I lost him to the depth of the water. I would've followed him down, but instead, I awoke to paramedics flashing light in my eyes as the siren of the ambulance transported me to Cook County Hospital.
My heart squeezes now at the memory of being taken from Mattie again. "Violet," Stan says my name like he's talking to a naughty child, "you didn't just take a few pills. You took the whole bottle. We've been over this! I've humored you as much as I can. Now I'm tired of your bullshit! I'm not going to let you do this to yourself—to me. I'm getting you help. I'm coming to get you. Where. Are. You?"
His threat is very real. My parents agreed to leave him in charge of me when they went back to Florida. He can make it so that I have to go back to the hospital. I wet my lips before I say, "Listen, Stan, I know you're going through a lot—"
"You don't know what I'm going through! Matt, my partner, the one who ran most of the operations of our company, was shot and killed a couple of months ago. I've been forced to oversee everything—make every decision—and I'm shit at it, Vi! Matt was Source Products. He was this company. Now I have a silent partner, you, who's losing her damn mind and who believes my best friend has outlived his body and is waiting in some watery grave for her to find him. SO, NO, VI! YOU DON'T HAVE A CLUE WHAT I'M GOING THROUGH!"
I cringe, and then say quietly, "I found something last night when I was going through some of the papers the lawyers sent over. Matt owned property in Michigan—in the Upper Peninsula, Stan. Did you know that?"
"No," he says irritably. "So what? He was in the thirty under thirty wealthiest men in America. He had a lot of private holdings."
"This one is different. It's a lake. He owns an entire lake."
"Owned, Vi, owned. Matt is dead. You own it now. And again, so what?"
"As far as I can tell, it's the first thing he ever bought."
"That makes sense. It's a bad investment."
"There's a house. I have the key."
"Where?"
"It's near a little town called..." I pause.
"Vi?" he asks. "Where was that? You cut out!"
"I'm losing the signal," I lie. "I'll call you when I get there. Promise."
"Violet!" Stan's angry voice shouts, but I hang up. I wince and silence my phone.
I look at Mattie's urn next to me and say, "Stan's gonna be bitter, but we can't have him sending the police to take me into custody so he and Dr. Gobel can decide if I'm sane."
Intending to merge back onto the road, I scan the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of my reflection. It shocks me a little because I hardly recognize myself. I look crazy. My long brown hair is piled on top of my head in a messy bun. The dark circles under my eyes make them seem even bluer, haunted. My skin is so pale it nearly glows; I haven't been out in the sun in weeks. It's nearly the summer solstice and my flesh indicates that it's the middle of winter, which wouldn't be so bad if I hadn't lost more weight than I care to admit. My white, v-neck t-shirt hangs on me and my cut-off boyfriend shorts are baggier than normal...and it probably doesn't help that I'm still wearing my slippers. I look like a strung-out teenager, not the once-confident, responsible, twenty-four-year old I used to be. I shiver.
I take off my slippers and toss them in the back seat. I reach back and find my sandals on the top of my duffle bag and slip them on. Using the brush from my purse, I take down the bun and pull my hair into a sleek ponytail instead. I locate lipstick and apply it. "You're not crazy," I tell my reflection. "You're going to find him. And anyway, crazy people don't wear lipstick...at least not on their lips." I scrounge around in my purse again for my dark sunglasses. I put them on to hide the circles under my eyes, and then I pull Mattie's truck back onto the road.
Chapter 2 – SOURCE ONE ALPHA
Aft
er a few more hours of driving, I pick up the map from the seat next to me and try to read it. I'd traded M2 for some serious backasswards roads awhile ago and have been fairly lost ever since. I pull the truck over to the shoulder while I study the map again, and then search around through the window, finding nothing but extremely tall pine trees. Mattie's company, Source Products, designed the custom GPS in this car, but I've never figured out how to use it. Since Mattie was the rocket scientist, I left him in charge of programming it whenever we left the city.
I growl in frustration. "There are no road signs! Why are there no signs? How do Yoopers find anything? Do they navigate by sense of smell?" I hold up my phone, hoping to get a half a bar so I can use my GPS app. It may as well be a brick because there's no reliable service here in this part of the Upper Peninsula. It's probably my bad karma for cutting Stan off earlier.
"We're soooo furrreaking lost!" I say conversationally to Mattie's urn. "I have no idea where your house is, do you? I can't even find the lake on this map! It's like it doesn't exist! Dammit!" I rest my forehead against the steering wheel. "You should be driving, not me. Do you want to help me out here?" My throat gets tight and I hold back tears.
All at once, silver lights brighten the car's console and the windscreen of the car becomes nearly opaque. Mattie's face appears on the windshield as his voice pipes through the speakers in surround sound. "Engaging autopilot. Destination?"
My heartbeat flutters in shock at the sound of his sexy voice. "Oh my God, Mattie?" It should've come out as a shout, but it comes out in a whisper.
"I am unfamiliar with 'Omygodmaddey.' Please input coordinates for 'Omygodmaddey.'"
Understanding slowly dawns on me and I whisper, "You're not Mattie! You sound just like Mattie!" My stomach tightens painfully.
"I am Source One Alpha," the deep voice coming from the speakers states. "I'm endowed with the voice frequencies of my creator, Matteyo Dillinger."
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