Fallen Redemption (The Trihune Series Book 1)

by Austin, RB

  Vetis smiled. Kobal gave another shiver that had nothing to do with the cold air surrounding him. “If you weren’t such a screw up I wouldn’t be here. This,” he blew slowly. The air in front of him cooled into a visible mist he pushed with his breath to circle Kobal’s head. “Is incentive for you to fix it.”

  Kobal flinched.

  Vetis stalked toward the dumbass who hunched his shoulders like he was trying to become invisible. When he reached Kobal’s side he bent down to whisper in his ear. “If you don’t get me back into the tunnels soon you’ll wish it was Sonneillon standing in front of you and not me.” Fear widened the demon’s eyes, Vetis noted with pleasure. “Do I make myself clear?” Each word was drawn out slowly and when finished, Kobal’s skin had begun to turn blue.

  The demon bounced in place until his coloring returned. “I was coming in to tell you something.” His voice echoed through the large empty space, bordering on a sullen child.

  “Go ahead. Tell me you’ve seen alive the Behnshma you claimed to kill.”

  Kobal smiled showing his pointed teeth. “This is better.”

  Vetis’s hands clenched. No. He couldn’t kill him. Tunnels. Sonneillon. Plan. “Nothing is better than doing what was requested of you.”

  Kobal’s smile faltered. “No, no. Listen.” The demon skipped closer.

  Vetis shot out his fist.

  Kobal fell to the ground clutching his right eye. “Ow.”

  “You’re pissing me off. I’m cast out of the tunnels because of your screw up. I can’t get back in until you fix it. You’ve been dickin’ around the past few days, doing everything but what you’re supposed to doing. Have you even learned where the Behnshmas live?”

  “No, but—”

  “Have you learned whether the Behnshma is alive or dead?”

  “No, but—”

  “Is dawn coming yet?”

  Kobal’s eyebrows pulled together. He glanced out the windows behind him. “No, but—”

  “Then. Why. Are. You. Here?”

  “I’ve been trying to tell you, V. I found something worthwhile.”

  Vetis’s fist shot out again. Kobal poofed into blue smoke, reappearing ten feet away. “Stop,” he whined. “I’ve something extremely important to say.”

  Vetis’s eyes narrowed. He hated to miss. If he cut off a finger or two, the idiot would still be able to perform his task.

  Kobal skirted back, hands raised in front of him. Vetis advance. Sweat drifted down from Kobal’s temples despite the chill in the air. “I’ll go to Sonneillon with my plan.”

  Vetis stilled. It was a sure bet if Sonneillon didn’t like the plan he’d kill Kobal for even suggesting it. Vetis paused. Bonus. Although no Kobal equaled no tunnel entrance.

  “This is better than finding out if I killed the Behnshma or not,” the demon spoke quickly. “This will be a way to get to them without killing them.”

  Vetis cocked an eyebrow. Whatever the idiot found out could be the leverage he needed to prove himself to Apollyon. He strolled to the chair Kobal dug out of the dumpster and sat down, steepling his fingers. “Tell me.”

  Emma rolled to her back and stared at the ceiling above her bed.

  It felt too real to be a dream.

  Last night he had not been standing in her bedroom. And he most definitely had not touched her. Emma cupped her cheek. Tears pooled in her eyes. But it’d felt so real. Scowling, she dropped her hand and shifted to her side.

  So if it wasn’t a dream and not real, what was it? A hallucination? Had grief finally made her crazy? Or—oh, God—was it brain damage? Her head positively pounded this morning. Headaches were a sign of brain injuries, weren’t they? And she had her share of migraines this past month. She flopped onto her stomach, squeezing her eyes shut. If she fell back to sleep would things be different when she woke? Could brain damage reverse itself?

  Emma stayed in bed for most of the day, although sleep wasn’t on the agenda. More tossing and turning were first, followed by avoiding any reminders of her nighttime hallucinations. In the middle of the afternoon she trekked downstairs to shut off the ringer on her phone. Jenny called three times. Sean twice. She couldn’t talk to them. Not yet.

  Halfway to the phone she froze. Her eyes were drawn to the painting on the easel. Drawings and dreams were the only places he could exist. “Not bedrooms,” she whispered. Still staring at his canvassed eyes, Emma tried to swallow past the burn in her throat.

  Her paintings hadn’t compared to last night’s vision. She should really add more green. And a larger dimple. A slight tilt of his brows. Her breath came faster now. So many mistakes. The burn in her throat grew to a lump. Falling to her knees, sobs ripped through her. Tears poured from her eyes. For him. For the times she and dad talked about art. For the way her mother knew just what to say when she was upset. The guilt at not going to church on that day. Locking her art away despite all the plans she and dad made.

  Emma wrapped her arms around her middle and cried until her chest and stomach hurt. It felt like she’d been ripped in two. That would probably be less painful.

  At some point, the phone rang. She never did reach the ringer. The tears finally stopped. Laying on the floor, curled on her side, knees drawn into her chest, head lolled back, she stared at the ceiling. Her breath hitched every few seconds. Cheeks were dry and itchy. But blissfully her mind was empty. When the phone rang again she pushed herself off the floor, turned off the ringer, and headed upstairs. Climbing in bed and pulling the covers up to her chin, she closed her eyes and fell into an uninterrupted blackness.

  Despite her breakdown in the early afternoon, she cried on and off the rest of the day and night.

  No more.

  The following morning, she avoided the mirror before stepping into the shower. Jenny and Sean left several messages, so Emma wasn’t surprised when the doorbell rang the moment she opened the bathroom door. Jenny stood on her porch with a tall peppermint mocha in one hand and a box of donuts in the other.

  “Why didn’t you answer the phone yesterday?” Without waiting for an invitation, she stepped past her and set the box of donuts and coffee on the table. Arms free she crossed them over her chest and gave her best teacher glare.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I . . .” Think I have brain damage. Finally jumped off the bridge into Loonyville. Yeah. Not going into the details. She would wait for confirmation from a doctor first.

  Jenny’s gaze roamed over her face, narrowed then performed another sweep. “Have you been crying?”

  “Bad day yesterday.” A second later she was in her friend’s arms.

  “I knew something was wrong when you didn’t answer.” Jenny pulled back to study her face.

  How awful did she look? Maybe she shouldn’t have avoided reflective surfaces.

  “Next time I’m just coming over. Why didn’t you call me? Never mind, I know why. You need to learn to lean on me. Promise me when you’re having a bad day or night or even an hour, you’ll call me.”

  It sounded nice, but would she be able to rely on someone again? She’d talked it up the day before. No hiding. Seeking her friends out. Wanting to change. Blah. Blah. Blah. When it came down to it she hadn’t changed one bit. “I promise,” she said because Jenny wouldn’t leave her alone otherwise.

  “Sit.” Jenny grabbed her arm and tugged. “Coffee and donuts contain just the right amount of sugar you need this morning.”

  Emma allowed herself to be dragged toward the couch. After a few feet she stiffened. Gaze locked on the canvas, her arm jerked under Jenny’s pull.

  “What is it?” Jenny asked. A moment later, “Who’s that? He’s yummy.”

  It was getting difficult to breathe. She couldn’t look away. Why did it sound like water rushed over her ears?

  “Are you ok
ay?”

  Jenny’s voice was louder. Probably standing next to her.

  “He’s got to go.”

  With agony and determination battling she strode to the kitchen, threw open the cabinet door under the sink, and yanked free a large garbage bag. Determination was winning. Emma grabbed another bag. It would win. A third bag.

  In the front room she sidestepped Jenny, let two of the bags fall from her hand before grabbing the canvas from the easel. She jammed the edge into the opening of the bag trying to peel it apart. “Shit.”

  “Whoa, Emma. Slow down.”

  Clear it all away. The bag slipped open. Emma shoved the canvas inside on her way to the closet. Every last piece.

  Jerking the door open she took the first one she saw and wrestled with the bag.

  Jenny drew a breath sharply.

  Another one met the same fate. Out of the corner of her eye she saw her friend take stock of the shelves stacked high with canvases and pads of drawing paper. Jenny picked up the closest pad and leafed through it.

  That one was okay. It was pre-him. Emma grabbed another canvas.

  “You did all these?”

  Juggling two canvases in one hand and the bag in the other, she nodded. Mind on the task, she didn’t look at the pieces. The fluttery emotion in her chest whenever she glanced at his eyes could not be allowed to take hold. Eyes that needed more green. Biting back a moan, she shoved another one in the bag.

  “This one is full.” Need another one. Quick. Quick. Get it all. She skidded to a stop to avoid plowing into Jenny.

  “These are exceptional.”

  Emma moved around her. Heart pounded fast. Remove him from her closet. Eradicate him from her head.

  “I mean it. Fantastic.”

  The other bags were behind Jenny on the floor. She’d need a fourth one.

  “Emma.”

  The sharp voice snapped her head up. “What?” Why didn’t Jenny move out of the way?

  “What’s going on?”

  “I need to get him out.” The last word came out in a whisper. Out of her townhouse. Out of her mind.

  Jenny studied her expression then reached for the full bag clutched tightly in her fist. Emma willingly passed it and bent to grab an empty one. Back in the closet she reached for another canvas.

  It was like cutting pieces of her heart and throwing them away. Jenny opened a bag. No. Don’t look. Emma shoved another one in. Time for another bag. Jenny held a canvas in each hand now.

  “Who is he?”

  Was she whispering or was that the water again? “Someone I need to forget.” The words barely formed over the lump in her throat.

  “Do you want help?”

  “Yes.”

  Jenny held the bag while Emma piled canvases and drawing pads into the remaining two bags. Was that a knock on the door? Probably just her pounding heart.

  It didn’t take long to close all four bags with twist ties. Jenny offered to take them to the dumpster. Emma was grateful. Her resolve was beginning to waver. If she had to throw him into the large, rusty, normally smelly dumpster she’d end up back in bed for the day.

  It was still hard to breathe. Her chest felt like it was bleeding. The pain was good. It was needed before she could heal. Skipping a step would result in the cut opening even deeper. Emma would go through this only once. She might not survive a second trip.

  “Doing some spring cleaning?” Sean stood in the doorway. So it hadn’t been her heart.

  “Something like that,” she answered.

  Was it her expression or her voice that caused concern to spring into his eyes? Jenny could fill him in. She did not intend to ever mention the overstuffed bags, semi-empty closet, or the huge hole in her chest. Grabbing two garbage bags, she headed for the door.

  “I’ll take those.” Jenny took them from her hands. “Sean, can you grab the other two?”

  While Jenny and Sean were gone, she put the closet back in order. It was so empty. Emma just finished when they stepped through the door.

  “Wait. I want to show Sean your work.”

  Shrugging, she stepped back. There was always a canvas or drawing pad on her easel. Sean must’ve seen her art in one stage or another when they were dating.

  Jenny pulled out the painting of her parents’ cemetery plot and another of a beach after an oil spill.

  “Wow.”

  “You’ve seen my work before.”

  “I never saw a completed piece.”

  Emma opened her mouth then paused. He was right. Normally she all but shoved her work into the closet after the last stroke.

  “You should show these to a gallery,” Jenny said.

  Taking the pieces from Jenny’s hands, she put them back in the closet. “I’m not that great.”

  “Yes, you are,” Jenny argued.

  “I agree,” Sean said.

  She studied their expressions. They were serious.

  “You should take them to a gallery,” Jenny said again.

  The memory of standing next to her father at the easel flashed through her mind. Back then his thoughts and reactions prompted every stroke. But the first years after his death, darkness rooted inside her. The finished products were not from a naïve little girl. Her lines and strokes wouldn’t have earned his smile or nod in approval. She never wanted him to see her closet.

  “Emma?”

  “My pictures aren’t right for a gallery.”

  Jenny scoffed. “Your stuff kicks ass.”

  “No. They’re—”

  “Remarkable,” Sean finished. “And it doesn’t hurt to try.”

  Emma glanced from Sean to Jenny. Could she do it? Could she possibly feel worse if it failed?

  “Okay. I’ll try.”

  Chapter 19

  The last time Emma pulled open this particular door she’d been fourteen years old. When her parents’ died she pretty much forced Him from her mind. There were too many memories at church.

  Emma hadn’t liked mass. Although what kid did. She’d have rather spent time with her easel or friends. The hour service always seemed twice as long. The standing, sitting, kneeling, no fidgeting, be sure to sing, pay attention to the homily, follow along on the missalette, speak when you’re supposed to, don’t when you’re not always seemed ridiculous. Religion had been her mother’s thing.

  “Are you going in, dear?”

  She startled. An elderly couple stood behind her. Stepping inside, she dipped her fingertips into the ceramic half-moon shaped bowl attached to the wall on the right. The action was automatic like she’d been here last Sunday, not over hundreds of Sundays ago. Moving to the side, she let the couple go ahead. The door shut soundlessly, encasing the vestibule in semi-darkness. A flash of her mother sprang in her head.

  Mom would walk to the pew in the second row on the left. After bowing to the altar she’d settle into the seat, pull down the kneeler, reach for her rosary, then kneel. Mom’s mouth moved quickly as she’d soundlessly repeated the prayers, rolling the beads in between her fingers, lost in her own devotion, daughter and husband forgotten. They’d arrive early enough for her mother to run through two sets of prayers with her beads.

  Emma started down the aisle, gaze bouncing to the familiar. The stained glass windows decorated the walls from top to bottom and, as usual, grabbed her attention first. Even the one of Jesus, desolate and carrying his cross, didn’t decrease its beauty. The altar was next with its white marble top, stone base, and hand carved image of the Last Supper in the middle. Statues of angels, Jesus, Joseph, and Mary hung from the walls, encased in their own memoriam or on top of a small pedestal. Even after all these years the aroma of incense was as familiar as the fragrance of a Christmas tree.

  Her mother’s pew was em
pty. Emma slipped in and sat on the cold, wooden bench. One time, she’d asked her mother why there were no pads on the seats. “Jesus endured how many days of pain for us?” Mom asked, voice rising on the end. “We can’t spend an hour without comfort in his name? They should remove the pads on the kneelers.”

  Emma bowed her head and prayed for the unanswerable.

  When mass began she fell into the physical and verbal reactions of the ceremony. Her responses needed no forethought. Mom would’ve been proud. As her body responded, her mind drifted to her reasons for coming. Life was beating the hell out of her and the outcome of the fight was still up in the air.

  Emma hoped attending church would have the same benefit as telling Jenny and Sean the truth. The pressure on her chest would loosen just a bit more. But it wasn’t working. It wasn’t easier to breathe. The opposite in fact. It was difficult to get enough air into her lungs. Maybe when mass finished she’d be better? Please.

  Forty minutes later the closing song began. For once she wished service lasted longer than an hour. Emma opened the blue book and with the rest of the congregation flipped to page 327, “I Am the Bread of Life”. Her mother’s favorite.

  She followed along with the words, her heart not into it. We can’t spend an hour in His name? Mom excelled at dishing out the Catholic guilt.

  On the third line of the third verse her lips stopped forming the words. Emma cried out softly and was immediately thankful the place had a good sound system. Gripping the book tightly she re-read the verse aloud.

  “Unless you eat

  Of the Flesh of the Son of Man

  And drink of His blood

  You shall not have life within in”

  She stifled a high-pitched hysterical laugh. The lady in front of her twisted to stare quizzically. Apparently the sound system wasn’t that great.

  Emma hadn’t completely forgotten her upbringing. She remembered the spiritual and symbolic changing of bread and wine into Jesus’ body and blood during mass. The verse, she was certain, didn’t literally mean for people to drink actual blood or dine on human flesh. It was also certain that if she continued along this path lightening would strike her. Mom would have her kneeling on their old kitchen floor, with no pads, saying the rosary ten times for her blasphemy.