by SF Benson
Copyright © 2018 by Avanturine Press, LLC
All rights reserved worldwide
Published July 6, 2018
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the express written permission of the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of this author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design by Covers by Christian
Editing by Tia Silverthorne Bach
Formatting by Avanturine Press, LLC
For more information about this book and the author visit:
www.authorsfbenson.com
Peace brings understanding.
PROLOGUE
Antoinette
The night I died began with a celebration with my friends and me. We caught a Broadway play and enjoyed a dinner in a five-star restaurant. The plan included dancing, staying overnight, and heading back to Falls Creek in the morning.
It wasn’t supposed to be our last girls’ night out.
In two weeks, I’d leave for France. The Opera National de Paris had offered me a spot in the corp de ballet. No more hopping the train to class and listening to boring instructors drone on about insignificant facts and figures. Instead, I’d train to become a professional ballerina. Something I’ve wanted ever since I saw my first live performance of Swan Lake at the age of four.
Dancing for the Paris Opera Ballet Company was supposed to be the culmination of my hopes, dreams, and years of hard work. Unfortunately, my boyfriend didn’t share my joy. He didn’t appreciate the fact the prestigious troupe chose me from the small group of foreigners. He only saw me leaving him.
But none of it mattered the night my boyfriend and fate teamed up.
On the way out of the restaurant, my phone lit up. A chill passed through me as I peered at the screen and saw Rob’s name. My foundation shook. Time slowed down and agony, like a death shroud, settled on me. I tried hard to shake off the sensation, but I couldn’t. Was it a precursor of what was to come?
“Hey, Rob. What’s up?” I tried to ignore the heated stares from Marie and Abby, my best friends since second grade.
“Babe, come over. I really need you in the worse way,” he pleaded.
Lowering my voice, I whined, “Now, Rob? I’m in New York. I’ll be home tomorrow.”
“So, this is how it’s going to be?” His tone turned nasty. “You’re about to leave me, and you can’t even be with me now?”
Not another argument.
Ever since I told Rob about France all we did was argue. He insisted there had to be a place in the States where I could dance. He suggested Canada. As if that could compare to Paris. Rob claimed he couldn’t live without me. He said he only wanted to keep me close out of love.
“Rob, let’s not fight about this,” I urged.
“Then come home.” Desperation colored his words. “I promise you we won’t fight.”
This had become our thing. He’d call, and I’d run to him. Over the last two years, I wasn’t proud of the person I’d become or the love we supposedly shared. But we’d been together since sophomore year in high school. Rob had changed from the angsty but cute boy to a man with deep mood swings. Every time his spirits dipped low, he became needy and wanted me at his side.
Frankly, I’d grown tired of being his security blanket. Our relationship had reached the end of the road. Going to Paris would allow us to take a break, meet new people, and have new adventures. But the thought of dumping Rob troubled me. I still loved the man despite all his flaws. He was the only guy I’d ever had sex with. I clung to the hope that after some time apart, we’d rediscover each other and return to happier times.
The upcoming trip made Rob more persistent. Desperate too. He was insecure about our future. Perhaps one more night with Rob would ease his fears. We’d talk, and I’d help him understand the importance of this move. After all, Rob was a good guy. He simply required kid gloves at times.
Having made up my mind, I told him, “Okay. Calm down. I’ll tell the girls. We’ll be home in a few hours.”
“Thanks, babe,” his voice brightened. “See you soon.”
As I returned my phone to my purse, I steadied myself for the soon-to-come complaints. “Ladies, we need to change our plans. I have to go home tonight.”
“No, Toni.” Marie objected as we stepped onto the sidewalk. “Remember, this trip is for us, not Rob. You can see his ass tomorrow night.”
Pulling my wool coat closed, I pointed out, “Marie, you don’t understand. I’ll be leaving soon. I’d rather not have Rob upset with me. He’ll be good after I spend a little more time with him.”
Abby added, “I don’t understand what you hope to accomplish by going back early, Toni. Nothing will change. Don’t you get it? Rob doesn’t want you to enjoy your life! And if he’s using that ‘I’ll die without you’ line again, it’s bullshit. It’s always about him. Not this time. Toni, don’t let him spoil our time together.”
Sighing, I knew it was true. Rob didn’t like my friends, and my friends hated him. He constantly interrupted our plans. Abby and Marie did their best to dissuade me from running to Rob. But this time was different. It wasn’t about the girls.
“You know how Rob gets. The longer we don’t speak, the moodier he becomes. It’s better this way. Trust me.”
“Whatever,” Marie said. “You better be glad I love you, girl.”
Two hours into the drive, my gaze flicked upward. Marie and Abby sat in the front seat. Pissed. Marie looked at me in the rearview mirror. The scowl on her face let me know she was still upset.
“I hope you find someone else while you’re in Paris.” She searched for another channel on Sirius. “We’re young. We’re supposed to be having the time of our lives. Personally, you don’t need someone like Rob ruining yours.”
In order to avoid another argument, I chose not to reply. It wasn’t worth it.
The next few miles were spent in silence. We’d be in Falls Creek soon, so I texted Rob.
Antoinette Leoni: Hey, we’re almost back to town. I’ll have Marie drop me off at your place.
Technically, Rob’s condo belonged to his parents, but they allowed him to move there after high school when he claimed to need privacy. Since Mom and Dad weren’t expecting me, I’d stay with Rob overnight. The time together would do us good. In the end, Rob would calm down and maybe help me decide whether we should attempt a long-distance relationship.
Rob Mitchell: It’s about damned time. Let yourself in.
His mood had gotten worse. Not good.
Antoinette Leoni: We’re on the toll road. See you in a bit.
I thought about what more I should say for a moment before settling on a simple sentiment.
Antoinette Leoni: I love you, Rob.
Rob Mitchell: I love you, too.
Slipping my phone into my coat pocket, I stared toward the front of the car. I didn’t like having Marie and Abby mad at me because of Rob. Unfortunately, neither my friends nor my parents appreciated my boyfriend. They found him overbearing and far too possessive.
Soon, I would learn time was too short for anger.
Problem was, nobody knew Rob like I did. When he wanted to be, he could be a sweetheart. His romantic gestures rivaled some of m
y father’s toward my mom. As long as I didn’t piss Rob off, he was the best guy ever. Sure, he had issues, but who didn’t?
Truth be told, I shouldn’t have cared so much. In the end, it accomplished nothing.
Rob’s life hadn’t been easy as the son of a former military officer. Mr. Mitchell was always on his son’s back about something or another. Once Rob graduated and no longer needed his parents to pay his way, he’d be out from under his father’s dictatorship. It was my hope Rob would relax and stop being so possessive. Just because Mr. Mitchell was that way with his wife didn’t mean Rob had to pattern that behavior. Did it?
I only wanted people to see my boyfriend the way I saw him—a man full of potential who really did care about me.
But after that night…that terrible fate-filled night…none of it would matter anymore.
Abby turned up the music and announced, “Okay. You bitches have brought down my mood. I don’t want to hear any more talk of boyfriends. We’re not even talking about Paris. We need to finish this party in high—”
A glaring bright light cut off Abby’s words. Her mouth hung open as her eyes bulged. Somebody screamed.
The world tilted right before someone pushed it forward, sending us out of control.
Marie jerked the wheel, and I slid across the backseat, but the attempt to steer out of the way came too late. Something slammed into the car. Metal squealed. Wheels screeched. Our screams filled the night as time unraveled and stalled.
Breaking glass surrounded me as my body slowly catapulted over the seat. Time wobbled, and the rough asphalt, breaking my descent, scraped and dragged my skin from the bone. Intense pain cut through my body and stole my breath. Everything hurt, but I couldn’t move.
Tears rolled from my eyes as they shifted from side to side. Something hissed in the distance, and a high-pitched beeping filled the air. The smell of stale whiskey tickled my nose. I wanted to gag but couldn’t. Instead, warm liquid dripped from my mouth while my vision began dimming.
Where were Abby and Marie? Were they okay?
In the distance, a hub cab spun, performing a mechanical pirouette. There was twisted beauty in the spiraling object as it took its final bow. A worthwhile display without an appreciative audience. No applause. Not even a standing ovation.
People say your life flashes in front of your face before you die. They claim you’ll see images of people and places that mean something to you. Don’t believe it. It’s not true.
My life didn’t flash by. It stalled like someone lifted the needle on an old 45 record. It slowed to a damn crawl and then trickled onto the pavement. For a fleeting moment, one lonely minute or two, I thought about the guy I loved—how much I’d miss him—and my parents —right before my eyes fluttered shut on my final curtain.
CHAPTER ONE
Uraeleus
Somewhere in Falls Creek trouble is brewing. On some obtuse level, I feel it. The sensation—dark and threatening—has an erratic pulse. If I still had bones, they’d rattle right about now. I’m also sure goosebumps would break out along my olive-colored flesh—something else I don’t possess.
Concerning myself with human troubles is an unnecessary enterprise. I didn’t care about people when I was alive. Why should I care now?
The cool night breeze cuts through me—rearranging my particles, making it harder for me to maintain a semblance of shape. The best season for a wraith is summer. Gentle breezes and hot sun have no bearing on my condition. For a few months, I bask in the warmth and pretend to feel a part of the world. It might not seem like much, but when you’ve been dead as long as I have, you appreciate whatever you can get.
It’s unusually quiet out on the interstate tonight. No trucks. No cars. No people. Not even a snake slithering by. Frankly, I’m unsure what brought me out here this evening, but it’s time for me to move on. Nothing to see here. And that’s the problem with Falls Creek. Nothing to see or do. Ever. It’s why I made the decision, a few days ago, to leave town. Permanently.
I start to drift away when the smell of smoke and copper assaults my senses, forcing me to halt my steps. Fear courses through me—the first time in a very long time—and I don’t appreciate it at all. I can think of a million things I’d rather do at the moment. Anything other than investigate what lies before me.
I was a heartless jack ass in my youth, but not even a cur would walk away from the sight in the road ahead. A few feet away is a twisted, smoking wreck of a car.
“Help.” The plea is weak, like a whisper. Easily missed if there had been traffic.
The frame is bent onto itself like a steel pretzel and broken glass covers the asphalt, but it’s the two injured human females encouraging me to intervene. The driver is barely conscious. Her head, resting on a shard of glass, bleeds profusely. Her lifeline is intact. Her wounds are critical, but she should survive with medical help. The other girl, possibly the passenger, doesn’t move. She’s wedged between the folds of metal. Her lifeline is cut. Grabbing my attention, however, is the girl lying in the road, like a pile of rubble.
Keep moving. One less human polluting the world.
“Help us.” The tenacious, determined cry reminds me of a voice I hadn’t heard in centuries. One that haunts my memories from time to time.
It’s not her. Move on.
“Help me,” her soul cries out. Its hopelessly tethered to the dying host by a metal fragment.
In times such as these, I’m supposed to help the soul move on. All I have to do is remove the steel shard. Stopping next to the slender body, broken beyond repair, I lower myself and examine the twisted figure. Blood flows from an unseen wound and covers her pretty face. The unnatural angle of the human indicates multiple fractures. It reminds me of the poor souls I saw after chariot accidents, not a pretty sight. Much like those citizens, I doubt if she’ll ever use her legs again. If she survives.
So help her.
I have no interest in her life or death. She’s just another human soul. Her departure would free up space for another person.
Then walk away.
But I can’t watch her die. What is it about this girl drawing me in? Why do I want to help her?
During my lifetime, I never had the desire to help anyone but myself. Eating, drinking, fighting, and fucking were my only concerns. The one woman I could have helped—should have helped—died because of me. When she was arrested, I denied her faster than Judas did Jesus. Instead of helping, I watched the guards behead her. Like I said, I was a sorry excuse for a human being.
Death didn’t improve my disposition. Now, my indifference extends beyond humans, encompassing supernaturals too. Besides, assisting others requires too much effort. No one raised a finger to prevent my death. But watching life slip away from this human moves me. Deep down, I sense her loss will hurt a lot of people, and it bothers the hell out of me.
Stop overthinking it. Help her.
I ponder my options for another second or two before directing my smoky tendrils toward her heart. Peering into her chest, I find the source of her blood loss: an artery, the largest one, is ruptured. Carefully, I guide the tendrils to the wound and knit the conduit together. It takes a minute or two before the blood flow slackens. There are other areas, namely her spine, requiring medical attention. But it’s a tricky part of her body—too many vertebrae. If I touch the wrong one or knock one out of place, I could do more harm than good. The little I’ve done will allow her some aspect of life.
A car door pops open behind me, and then feet shuffle across the pavement. Lowering my hand, I stand and swing around toward the noise. A man, his forehead bloodied, stumbles forward. The stench of whiskey surrounds him like a toxic cloud. I have never understood how drinking to excess cushions humans from dying in car crashes. Why can’t humanity find a better way to deal with those who want to overindulge and drive? Back in my day, we walked off our stupor. I would have never driven a chariot drunk. Anger flares within me as my fists clench.
In a matter of
seconds, my shadow encircles the offensive human. The drunkard doesn’t notice anything until he attempts to walk forward and can’t. I tighten the circle. He stops moving, and his gaze bounces around. Once I’m sure he’s thoroughly confused, I materialize in front of him, taking the form of a gladiator.
“What the hell—” The man tries to push past me, but his shoulder collides with my bare chest.
“Not so fast.” Lifting my pugio, I hold the blade to his beefy neck. Ordinarily, I’d slice through his stinking flesh and watch his life spill, painting the ground crimson. But something deep inside me won’t let me do it. Gripping the Roman dagger tighter, I’m filled with the desire to end him for his misdeed. My thoughts travel back to the females in the wreckage. His death, unfortunately, will not alter the course of things. Reluctantly, I lower the weapon.
In the distance, sirens scream. Falls Creek’s team of supernatural protectors undoubtedly reported the accident. Grabbing the man’s forearm, I yank him toward me. “You will turn yourself into the authorities and tell them you’re responsible.”
A blank stare sits on the moron’s ruddy face. His mouth opens and closes, but no words come out.
Raising my blade again, I place the tip next to his jugular and growl. “Either you agree to do it or I end you here and now.”
The man trembles and takes a step back, his eyes fixed on my weapon. His head bobs up and down vehemently. I sheathe my weapon and walk back toward the accident, my flesh dissipating like dust in the wind.
In a matter of minutes, three ambulances skid to a halt near the twisted car. Doors open and slam shut. Footsteps hurry along the pavement. Three different teams of paramedics attend to each body. One team separates the passenger from the folded wreckage. The sound of a hollow zipper closing proves my assumption. No sirens will be needed for her trip.
