Race the Darkness
Page 15
White like this wasn’t a place. No, the world and everything in it didn’t just turn white. Something else was going on. A thought flared across her brain. Dissociation. The white and those moments where she was stuck inside her body—maybe she was dissociating. Could she be severing the connection between her mind and her body? It was possible. Gran had tried to teach her how to do that, how to find a safe place inside her head while Queen did terrible things to Isleen’s body. But Isleen had never found such a place. Until now, it seemed.
The brightness shimmered, dappled, turned muddy and then dark and darker, until the environment was completely colored in shades of pewter and onyx. Her eyes adjusted slowly, the images in front of them gaining distinction by degree.
It was nighttime and she stood at Gran’s bedside. Gran’s gaze was fixed out the window on the lawn and shadowy woods beyond. Where was Alex? Where was the nurse? Someone should be with her. Gran looked so alone, so absolutely alone, that Isleen’s heart cracked.
“Gran, I’m here.” Only the words didn’t come out—just bounced around inside her head. “Gran.” She tried again. No sound.
Doom crawled over her skin like the hairy feet of a thousand roaches. She’d lost control of her body and was stuck inside her mind, looking out the window of her eyes, helpless to speak, to blink, to move.
She heard the quiet tread of footsteps on the wooden floor, but couldn’t turn her head to see their source.
Sinister energy wavered in the air; she could practically taste evil on her tongue. Something terrible was about to happen. To Gran.
Isleen’s heart tightened into a hard lump, bracing for a blow, then banged around her chest, beating, pounding, searching for escape—a way to save Gran.
No, no, no. The words pounded through her blood. She wanted to fight, tried to fight, but couldn’t move. Her body was no longer under her command, and all her words and thoughts and feelings were less than useless.
A man moved to stand on the opposite side of the bed and completely ignored Isleen. He moved with the assuredness of someone on a mission, his steps never faltering, never cautious. His hair shined bright—almost the color of pearl. His features were oddly pleasant and almost familiar. He didn’t possess the look of a villain. He looked like someone’s mild-mannered father. And then she noticed the chunky gold cross hanging askew around his neck and the square of white in his collar. A church collar—a priest’s collar. Relief released her from fear’s grasp.
If she’d been in control of her body, she would’ve sagged to the floor in a wet puddle of relief.
With complete affection and tenderness, the priest clasped Gran’s hand in both of his. He flinched and tensed as if touching her hurt him in some way, but he didn’t let go of Gran. “I have faith the Lord will be merciful.” His voice was a breath, barely even a sound. “I have hope the Lord will forgive.” His eyes shimmered, and tears slipped down his cheeks.
Gran’s face transformed with recognition. “Rex.” Excitement lit her voice on the first letter of his name, then dimmed by the last letter.
Gran knew him? Isleen shouldn’t be surprised. Gran had an entire life here that Isleen had known nothing about until yesterday.
“Your trials didn’t work. The evil never left us, no matter how much we endured.” Gran’s words were a horror to Isleen’s ears and brought memories of her conversation with Gran to mind. I destroyed us by trying to save us. And I did this to you. It’s all my fault. I’d take it all back.
No-no-no-no-no-no…Gran had to be confused again. She couldn’t know what she was saying.
The priest swallowed. “I prayed for release for both of you. But it never happened.”
So the priest was going along with Gran’s nonsensical thoughts?
Gran’s gaze clung to him. “It’s my turn to die, isn’t it?”
An icy knife slipped down Isleen’s spine, then into her guts, and twisted.
The priest nodded, his face so horribly full of compassion that none of this made sense. Was Isleen hearing things wrong, not understanding?
“It won’t hurt. You’ll simply go to sleep.” The priest reached into his pants pocket and removed a vial. He lifted the stopper and then reached for Gran’s head, propping her up enough to receive his poison. “Open your mouth for me, and it will all be over.”
Move. Move. Move. Stop him. Isleen willed her body to lunge, to grab the poison away before one drop could hit Gran’s tongue. She strained, tried run to him, to hit him, tackle him, jump on him. Something—anything—to keep him from killing Gran. Sweat dripped into her eyes, burning and blurring her vision.
But she didn’t move.
She just stood there without making a sound and watched. Her vision went watery, her tears warm on her cheeks. She’d never forgive herself for letting this happen.
Gran winced as the clear liquid from the vial spilled into her mouth.
“I’m sorry.” The priest’s words were muffled with his own bizarre sorrow. “So sorry.” He reached out and tenderly caressed Gran’s wrinkled cheek. “For all of it. But it had to be done. Just as this has to be done.”
“Thank you.” Gran’s eyes drifted up inside her head. Her lids slid shut, but stalled halfway. As if the scene were playing out like a bizarre slow-motion movie, Isleen watched Gran’s jaw slowly, so slowly, fall open in death.
* * *
The truck’s headlights blazed across the road, the parallel yellow lines a hypnotic path leading Xander home. About time. The day had gone in the shitter the moment Kent showed up with Camille way back in the morning. After that, there was the hour to get all the paperwork for his new truck completed, then a three-hour drive across the state to visit the trailer and question Simon Smith, then three hours back to question William Goodspeed.
And the only thing he learned was that Isleen had no connection to Simon Smith or William Goodspeed. Which meant she was likely dreaming about the crimes. And researching that kind of shit—dream phenomenon—was the reason Gale and Dad had established the Ohio Institute of Oneirology in the first place.
The carved bear totem at the top of the hill came into view. The thing had stood there for centuries and yet always looked good as new, like someone had just applied fresh coat of lacquer. Xander had passed this carving his entire life and yet somehow had never really seen it until a few days ago when he’d been compelled to drive across Ohio to find Isleen. For the majority of his life, he’d consciously ignored the totem because of his father. The thing represented all that was wrong with his dad—that his father believed in some secret legend more than he loved his son.
He saw the bike—flat black paint, skull on the tank—before he saw Lathan. What was the dude’s obsession with the totem?
Xander whipped the truck over to the shoulder to get some answers.
Lathan was a statue in the headlights, unmoving as the truck bore down on him, almost like he dared Xander to plow right through him. It reminded him of what he must’ve looked like standing in front of his truck, holding Isleen’s body—primed and ready to confront death head-on—when the crazy bitch tried to mow them down.
The truck skid in the loose gravel before coming to a halt. Xander leaped out of the vehicle.
Lathan just stood there, looking at Xander with flat, expressionless eyes. Paired with the tattoo on his cheek, they made him look like an escapee from a maximum-security prison. Not someone you’d have a friendly chat with in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere.
“Hey, man.” Xander raised his hand in a half wave. “What’s going on? Why do you keep stopping here?” His voice was loud compared to the murmurings of night sounds.
Lathan’s heart rate tweaked a bit, then settled back to normal. He gave Xander a hard stare. Not an if-looks-could-kill stare, but more of an apologetic look. He didn’t say anything. And the frequency connection didn’t open. Didn’t fucking
open.
One of the universal rules of Xander’s ability was that when he asked a question, a person’s brain couldn’t help but answer. He waited. But Lathan gave a big, fat doughnut hole of nothing.
Okay. There was definitely a level of not-normal going on. Not that Xander was the poster boy for normal consultants. Maybe that was the reason he and Lathan were consultants—they weren’t normal.
Without a word, a wave, or a one-finger salute, the guy turned and walked to his bike.
“What’s with the silent treatment?” They weren’t besties and about to paint each other’s toenails, but Xander had thought they were at least at the level of civil communication.
No response.
“Do you know the story behind this carving?” Xander called. Shit. He half hated himself for being curious about it.
The bike roared to life with a growl of pipes that was both obscene and thrilling to any man with balls. Lathan didn’t glance back as he pulled out onto the road and sped off down the hill.
What the fuck was that all about? The guy never said a word. The frequency connection never opened. And Xander was left with even more questions. He’d have to ask Kent to pry into the guy. If for no other reason than Xander wanted—no, needed—to find out why the guy kept visiting the totem.
He turned his attention to the carving.
As always, the animal stood on his hind legs, big and lethal looking. Lips drawn back to display deadly teeth. Eyes blazing hollow blackness. If animals were capable of facial expressions, this one looked pissed off. Funny how he had never noticed that before. It was hard to miss.
Xander got back in his truck, pulled out onto the road, and began his descent toward the driveway at the bottom of the hill.
A black sedan was parked along the median across from the property. That a car would just be randomly sitting across from their driveway seemed odd. Xander pulled up next to the vehicle. From his perch inside the truck he could see it was empty. Maybe some asshole got tagged for drunk driving. Or maybe… His brain flashed to the hospital and that cross on Isleen’s forehead and the way she said she hadn’t been able to breathe and had thought Queen tried to hurt her.
Right there in the center of the road, Xander rolled down his window and shut off the engine. The night chorus flooded his ears, and hot, humid air instantly dampened his skin. He closed his eyes, listening for anything out of the ordinary, but all he heard was a small animal scrounging around in the ditch and something larger, probably a deer, up the hill picking its way down one of the ravines. Something about the abject normalcy didn’t feel right to him.
He was being paranoid. His new truck started with more of purr than a growl—he’d fix that later—and he pulled away from the car and pedal-to-the-metaled up the driveway. All the while, he kept seeing Isleen lying in that hospital bed with that vile X on her forehead. Who would try to hurt Isleen? Queen was dead. And there was no link between her and Simon Smith or William Goodspeed.
He was probably just tired and not thinking clearly. Though last night while he’d held Isleen, he’d actually slept. And the night before in the hospital he’d slept. That had to be a personal best. Maybe guilt drove him—for all those years he heard her begging for help and didn’t listen. Maybe this was his penance. Always feeling like he had to make certain she was safe.
At the main house, he jammed the brake a bit too hard, fishtailing and making fun furrows in the gravel. He’d just run in, check on her quick-like, then get the hell outta there. He’d already spent too much time in that house. He forced himself to walk at a normal pace up the porch steps to the front door. The knob turned too easily in his hand. Why wasn’t the door locked? He walked in and felt like he’d been swallowed by a whale.
The ostentatious size of the house made him feel diminished, like the little boy he’d been when he lived here. The little boy whose father would never look at him or speak to him or acknowledge him in any way. Sweat slicked Xander’s skin just thinking about it. But that was then, and right now he was here because of Isleen. After he checked on her, he wasn’t setting foot in this place ever again.
He walked slowly so his boots wouldn’t bang across the wood floor and alert the household that he was sneaking into Isleen’s room. Up the stairs, down the hallway, past his old room to the room next to it, the room that used to belong to Shayla. How many nights had she let him crawl in bed with her when it was stormy, or he woke up scared, or just didn’t want to be alone? Now that he thought about it from his adult perspective, she’d been the best big sister.
After Gale and Shayla left, he’d sometimes sneak into Shayla’s room and climb in her bed, praying that they would come back and everything would go back to normal. There was a reason he no longer believed in God. If God wasn’t there for brokenhearted little boys, he sure as hell wouldn’t be there for grown-up assholes like himself.
He lifted his shoulder and wiped the sweat off his face. Fuck. Just remembering burned.
Her doorknob was cold against his fingers. One look and then he was gone. He poked his head in through the opening. The room was flooded in tarnished moonlight, the bed empty, covers tossed and tussled like she’d just been there. He swung the door wide. His heart galloped in his ears; his own breathing bellowed in and out of his lungs. The sound of his body was so alarmingly loud, he held his breath so his ears could find her.
And then he heard her. A soft sob and a sound of pain from the far side of the bed. No longer caring about the noise, he ran. He found her sitting slumped on the floor, the pretty, pale-blue sundress she’d worn that morning scrunched up around her thighs. Her eyes cut him to the core. They were wide open, staring down at a nothing space. Tears dripped in a steady flow, slicking her hands and splashing onto her dress.
She was having one of those dreams again. And this one looked like a real fucker. He crouched down to face her and then snagged her by the upper arms, yanking her up straight.
Her skin was arctic, while he felt volcanic. He could practically feel his own heat thawing her. “Isleen? Baby, wake up. You’re dreaming.” He hated to do it, but it always seemed to work so he shook her, rattling her head around on her slender neck.
The tension eased from her muscles, and her eyes blinked and moved instead of being fixed on nothingness.
“You back?”
Her gaze shifted upward, her eyes brimming and overflowing, the tears a river of sorrow on her face. “Gran.” Her voice quavered. Her chin quivered. “Oh my God. Gran.” Her tone was filled with fear and horror. She wrenched out of his grip, turned, and scrambled on hands and knees until she got her feet beneath her, then sprinted out of the room.
What now? He’d thought she was awake. “Wait.” He chased after her, out the door and down the hallway. For such a tiny thing, she was damned fast. “Isleen. Stop.” His voice echoed through the cavernous house, and his boots slapping on the hardwood floor were mini-earthquakes of noise. What was going on?
“Xander? What the—” Matt’s voice reached him, but he didn’t have time or energy for a response. All his attention was focused on getting to Isleen before she hurt herself. He gained on her going down the stairs, the muscle memory of running down the stairs as a child taking over. At the bottom he reached out to her, but she darted behind the steps to Gale’s room.
Isleen stopped in the middle of the room as quickly as if someone had hit her pause button. He crashed into her, sending her sprawling forward. Somehow he managed to grab on to her and haul her against his chest. He held her back against his front, her body limp and compliant, and he had a second—only a second—when he thought everything was going to be all right.
Then his gaze found the bed and the frail figure whose covers were pulled up over her head.
And then he noticed what he didn’t hear: the rush and swoosh of Gale’s heart pumping blood, or the suck and whine of air being processed through her lungs.
“Jesus!” Uncle Matt rushed by them to the bed.
Xander whipped around and half carried, half dragged Isleen out of the room. Dad rushed by, not even glancing at them.
Isleen bit, she clawed, she tried to kick him, but nothing was gonna make him let go. She’d had enough trauma in her life without seeing her grandmother in death. The sounds coming out of her were pure undiluted pain and brought wetness to his eyes.
“Baby, I’m here.” He didn’t have any other words. Nothing to take away her grief. All he could give her was himself and the assurance that whatever she had to face, she wouldn’t be doing it alone. “I’m here.”
“Gale, wake up.” Dad’s voice carried out to them.
“I’m here,” Xander said to Isleen.
“Wake up.”
“I’m here.”
“Gale. Wake up.” Grief frayed the edges of Dad’s voice. “I’m touching you. Wake up. Wake up. Wakeupwakeupwakeup…”
Isleen’s muscles and bones seemed to melt. Xander lost his grip on her for a moment, then locked on tighter and hauled her up in his arms.
“You killed her!” Dad stood in the doorway, pointing his finger at them, but the way his eyes shot hate beams at Isleen, it was clear just who he meant.
“Don’t. You. Ever accuse her of harming her grandmother. She was already dead when we found her.”
His father looked up at Xander, his face streaked with wetness. “I hate you for finding her. For bringing her back into my life. For making me go through this again.”