Destiny

by Rachelle Mills et al.

  “Does the other ghost team know about this?” Mr. Duchaine asks.

  “They don’t know what I can do, and I’d like to keep it that way. I have no desire to be on a YouTube show. I wasn’t even supposed to be here today, but I got roped into it. I’m going to count that as a sign that maybe I was led here.” I look pointedly at their little girl.

  “It’s just a walk-through, Henry.” Mrs. Duchaine squeezes his hand. “If they can help, we should let them.”

  “You didn’t even believe anything was wrong.”

  “No, Henry, I knew something wasn’t right, but in my family, you don’t share this kind of thing with outsiders. I didn’t want the cameras here, but I gave in because of Hailey. I want her safe.”

  His arms tighten around the little girl. “That’s all I want too.”

  “Then let Lawrence and Emma walk the house and maybe find out what we’re dealing with.”

  His lips brush the top of his daughter’s head. That one is definitely going to be a daddy’s girl. “Okay.”

  “Can you take the baby out of the house for a little while? I don’t want her here while we do this.” I glance around, searching for our mystery ghost, but it isn’t anywhere to be seen. Not surprised. Ghosts can’t hide from me long, though. They can’t resist my own light, as Zeke tells me. I’m like a beacon in a raging storm.

  “Sure. We can take her to the park. She loves it.” Mrs. Duchaine stands and nudges her husband to get moving.

  While he doesn’t look happy, he does as he is asked, and we are all alone in the house with something that doesn’t want to be found and doesn’t want to leave its food source.

  “How you want to do this, Hathaway?” Eric’s gaze searches the room. He’s never really said if any of his residual ghost abilities are still there, and I never pressed him. He has enough going on learning to live in someone else’s skin and getting adjusted to having parents again.

  “It’s better if I do this alone.” Not that I want to do this alone, but I’d put both Mary and Eric in danger more than once. Well, Eric’s body. Jake got shot because of me. I lost so much that day. Those memories will haunt me until the day I die.

  Nope, not going there. Getting inside my head won’t help me right now.

  “Not a chance, Hathaway.” Eric’s eyes turn steely. “You get into too much trouble on your own.”

  “Why don’t we compromise?” Doc suggests. “You go first, and we’ll follow. Once you clear a room, we’ll go in, record it, and take some photos. That way you’re not more than a few feet away from us, and you stay off camera.”

  “You’re recording?”

  “Of course.” Doc nods like I should know this. “I want to document the haunting. Sometimes my specialized equipment picks up things the human eye can’t see, or that we can’t hear, for that matter.” I raise an eyebrow, and he chuckles. “Well, that most of us can’t hear.”

  “Give me five minutes by myself before you come in.” Ghosts don’t like groups. It’s a known fact. They tend to stray toward the loner, that person getting up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom or get a drink of water. They’re like predators in that way, singling out the solitary member of the herd.

  “That’s fine. I need to get some equipment out of the car. We’ll go outside while you do a short walkthrough first. Eric can wait right by the front door in case you need help.”

  Eric still wants to argue, but he agrees. I want him and Mary both out of the house for the entire thing, but that isn’t happening either.

  Once everyone is outside, I take a deep breath. It’s been a while since I actually went looking for a ghost that was hiding. Thanks to the spelled tattoos I have on my body, they can’t overwhelm me anymore or make me feel their deaths, but they can still terrify me. Some of them died some pretty gruesome deaths, and that is how they appear to me. I see every injury on their bodies. And the ones that have gone bad? Even worse.

  Well, here goes nothing.

  Opening up that part of myself that is a reaper sorta feels like I’m a pebble skipping over the water, feeling the surface ripple beneath me as waves spread out from the simple movement I’ve caused. My gift is a lake that lives inside me, and I’m the pebble skipping over it, but today, I want to feel all of it, not just the ripples. So instead of skipping like I normally do, I let myself sink inside the icy cold waters until I’m at the very heart of it, drowning in the cold.

  Drowning terrifies me because a very angry ghost did drown me last year. If it hadn’t been for Eli giving me CPR, I would have died.

  I used to fight this feeling, but Zeke taught me better. He knows about my newfound fear of drowning and how hard it is to let this in, but he was right. When I stopped panicking and fighting the sensation, it became easier and didn’t last as long.

  The cold seeps into me, chasing away the heat until every cell in my body is nothing but the icy cold of the reaper. She’s death, and there is no warmth for the dead.

  The water swirls around me, gently pushing me back to the surface, and when I open my eyes, I know without looking in a mirror my eyes are glowing the color of a cold February sky instead of the hazel they normally are. Remnants of my mother’s abilities. She bound most everything I can do except for my reaping abilities. The glow of my eyes is the one piece of her that remains.

  Time to hunt.

  Keeping my arms by my side, I extend my fingertips and imagine tendrils of my magic escaping, forming long cords of smoke and mist as it fans out, searching for the ghost hiding in this house.

  Echoes of screams and cries rise up to hound me, but I push them back. Those creatures reside outside this house, and they’re not the one I’m looking for.

  “It’s going to do you no good to hide. I will find you.” I don’t raise my voice, but I know the ghost can hear me.

  The kitchen is right off the living room. I’m guessing they tore down a few walls in here. All the walls look new. The kitchen is a black and white affair, white cabinets, black countertops, with a black and white subway tile backsplash. Very modern. The sink is dripping. There’s a very faint signature here, like the ghost idly turned it on in passing. I turn it off and continue down the hall off the kitchen. There’s a powder room and an office back here. Neither room holds my interest.

  The door to the basement is in the kitchen, but I’ll go downstairs with Doc and the others. Dark basements are like the morgue. You don’t do them by yourself. Bad things live in the dark.

  I begin walking toward the hallway off the living room, letting my gifts scout ahead.

  Nothing.

  With each step I take, it gets noticeably colder. I don’t hear the AC running.

  The first room I come to is the master bedroom. Walking in, I halt in the middle of the room and close my eyes. There was something here. Maybe just minutes ago. The energy here, while not strong, is definitely the same thing I felt behind me earlier. It’s spent time in here. The Duchaines have been bringing Hailey to bed with them, and this thing searches her out in here.

  I check the bathroom then head down the hall until I come to the baby’s room. The door has her name spelled out in colorful letters. The room itself is done in hues of pink and summer green. A few gray splashes here and there. The crib is white, as well as all the other furniture in the room. A toybox made to look like a castle sits in one corner, and a rocking chair is to the right of the crib. A carousel adorns the night stand by the crib.

  A perfectly adorable room for a perfectly adorable little girl.

  None of this stands out, but it’s at least ten degrees cooler in this room than it is out in the hallway. I put my hands on the crib, close my eyes, and concentrate.

  At first, I see nothing, but then images start to flash in front of me until I’m spinning away into a memory.

  The baby’s asleep, the carousel playing a lullaby, and the soft lights splash images of dancing fairies across the walls and the ceiling.

  Mrs. Duchaine leans down and stro
kes the child’s cheek, tucking a blanket around her before leaving and closing the door.

  The room darkens, and a cold so icy that it steals my breath enters. My teeth rattle, I’m shaking so hard. I’ve never felt such a bitter cold, and I’ve been in some terrifying places. This, though? It’s a black void of nothingness that’s always hungry, always searching for a way to make the hunger ease.

  She floats up through the floor directly beneath the rocking chair. It’s definitely a woman. Her hair is as white as the snow that used to fall in Charlotte. Her dark blue dress is old, and I can’t quite place the fashion to know the era she’s from. Black streaks coat her face, just like Mr. Duchaine described. Her eyes are pitch black when she looks at me. The pallor of her face doesn’t look like that of the dead, but instead like she’s wearing costume makeup, like a clown or mime. The black circles around her eyes and the black of her lipstick stand out against all that white. That’s where the black streaks are coming from.

  The hatred surrounding her is intense. She makes a beeline for the crib, and as a result, lands smack dab in the middle of me because of where I’m standing. I keep my hands pressed tight to the crib, ignoring the urge to run screaming from the room. This is a memory. Not the ghost herself. No matter how many times I tell myself that, it doesn’t make it any easier to stand here.

  She reaches down and runs a finger along the baby’s cheek, drawing a wisp of smoke from her. Leaning down, she gets close to the little girl’s face and inhales deeply. More wispy lines of smoke float up from the baby and into the ghost. Hailey whimpers in her sleep as the thing feeds from her.

  The blanket gets thrown off as the toddler stirs, kicking out and turning over on her side. The ghost’s rage deepens, and she puts her hands on the child and rolls her over. She inhales again, and a sucking sound emerges from her, like’s she’s latched onto Hailey’s flesh and is pulling the life out of her.

  The baby wakes and looks up into the cold, obsidian eyes of the monster and starts screaming for all she’s worth. A dry cackle leaves the entity. It’s laughing, enjoying the fear and the pain.

  It doesn’t take long for her father to burst into the room and pick her up, severing the tie to the ghost.

  And that enrages the ghost.

  Books fly off the shelf, and toys are thrown across the room. The carousel smashes to the floor, and the thing stalks toward Mr. Duchaine, only he doesn’t wait around. He runs out of the room.

  She snarls but can’t seem to go after them, which only makes her madder. She trashes the room, and her silent scream echoes around me, filtering through my head like a sharp knife slicing as it goes. Each wail is a nail driven through my eardrums.

  Hands grip my shoulders and shake me.

  She looks directly at me.

  No, this is a memory. She can’t see me.

  Her head is tilted down, her chin almost resting on her chest. Her eyes look up, the angle making her appear even more hostile. She is nothing but pain and rage. It burns and sparks in her like embers, catching flame and spreading like wildfire, destroying everything in its path.

  The hands gripping me shake me harder, but I’m caught. I can’t look away from her.

  She smiles.

  I shudder away from her and that smile.

  “Mattie!”

  I jerk at the sound of my name, blinking.

  She puts a finger to her lips then sinks back down in the floor.

  “This is why I didn’t want her going in by herself. I swear to God…”

  My knees buckle, and I would have fallen if not for Eric holding me. Reality sweeps back in, and I lean against him, desperate for warmth.

  I’m shaking, I’m so cold.

  Did that thing feed off me?

  My phone goes off about the same time my head rolls to the side and the dark rushes in to claim me.

  Chapter Six

  Whispers everywhere.

  Shadows rippling over every surface.

  My head is killing me, and I’m cold, but I can’t seem to wake up. I need to get up and turn the heat on. Mary forgets to do it sometimes, especially when she’s hot.

  “Be still, my darling girl. You’re going to injure yourself.”

  I know that voice all too well.

  Silas.

  “I…” My throat aches.

  “What did I just tell you?” He sounds cranky, which isn’t a good thing for me. He tends to do me serious harm when he’s cranky. Grandfather or not, Silas is still a demon who does what needs to be done, no matter who gets hurt in the process. Including me.

  After everything I’ve seen and done, nothing truly frightens me anymore. Granted, ghosts can still get the jump on me and scare me for a minute, because who really expects to turn around and see a dead person staring at you? But that fear goes away.

  The exception to the rule is Silas.

  He’s never once lied to me, and he’s flayed the skin from my face, something I will never forget. Sometimes I can still feel the pain and will grip my cheek when the memory haunts me. Silas doesn’t make threats, he only speaks in truths. When he says he’ll hurt you, he will.

  I’m probably the only person he regrets ever having to hurt, but that doesn’t mean he won’t do it again if he thinks it’s necessary.

  Something cold and wet rubs across the back of my leg. The distinct stench of rubbing alcohol tickles my nose.

  “What are you doing?”

  He stops, and a loud sigh echoes through the room. “Can you never listen? The more you question me, the longer this will take.”

  “If you’ll tell me what this is, I might stop asking questions.”

  “It’s me preventing you from being a tasty snack for the monsters. Now, don’t move. It’s going to hurt.”

  With that, he set in with his needle. More tattoos.

  And boy, did it hurt. I’ve noticed some of the tattoos he’s given me over the years hurt more than others. Like the full body one on my back. It runs from my neck all the way down to the soles of my feet. It was designed to help me against the Fallen Angel, Deleriel. I survived it, but Eli didn’t, and that’s something that will haunt me until I die.

  Silas works on the back of my left calf as I clench my teeth. He never uses any kind of numbing agent, saying it interferes with the magical properties of the ink. While I appreciate that fact, I’d rather be knocked out during the process. Sometimes I do sleep through the smaller ones, but when I wake up, he never puts me back to sleep.

  “Isn’t that going to interfere with the one already back there?” I need to talk to distract myself from the pain.

  “Emma Rose.” The finality in his voice makes me tense. He’s getting angry—not irritated, but angry. “If you keep talking, I will be forced to sew your mouth shut until I am done, and trust me when I tell you, the needle flowing through your lips will hurt far more than this tattoo needle.”

  I let out a frustrated sigh. He’ll do it. I know he will.

  “And no, it’s not going to interfere with your protection sigil. I’m weaving this design through that one. It’s why I need to concentrate. One small slip, and both are ruined.”

  He goes back to inking, and I grit my teeth. Pain and I do not get along. Any kind of pain. I’ve been put through so much of it over the course of my life, I should be used to it by now, but who really gets used to pain? No one I’ve ever met.

  I can sense her before I see her. Peaches. My own personal Hellhound. Silas gave her to me after the whole mess with Deleriel. He keeps her here while I’m at college. Can’t very well have a Hellhound haunting the halls of Tulane.

  Peaches was the runt of the litter, but you wouldn’t know that now. As she comes into what little light there is, my eyes widen. She’s grown at least a foot taller and maybe three feet wider than when last I saw her. Her fur is the same soft chocolate color it was when she was just a puppy. Her eyes are red, but that is to be expected. She’s a beast of Hell. I don’t hold it against her.

  She licks m
y face, and I scrunch up my nose. Dog slobber. Peaches knows I hate doggie slobber, and she does it to irritate me, I think. Not that I’d ever fuss at her, but still. Just ewww!

  “Down, girl.” Silas’s strict tone makes me cringe, but the dog ignores him. She rubs her face against mine and whines, wanting some loving.

  “She hasn’t seen me in a week, Silas.” I keep my tone even so as not to set him off. “She just wants some attention.”

  “She can have attention later when you’re not in danger of losing every ounce of protection I’ve been able to provide for you.”

  He’s gone from testy to angry. “Go on, girl. I’ll come see you in a while.”

  Peaches gives me one last whine and trots off the way she came. I hear the huff and grin. Peaches doesn’t listen to Silas when I’m around, and it frustrates him. He did transfer ownership of her to me, so he shouldn’t be shocked. A Hellhound obeys its owner, not its breeder.

  The next hour is a slow and painful one, full of silence aside from the sound of the tattoo needle. Just when I think I can’t take any more, he stops. Thank God. I might have done something stupid soon and ended up with my lips sewn together.

  “There.” Silas puts down his instruments and applies a bandage to my leg. “Don’t let this get wet for a few days.”

  “I know the routine.” I blink and gingerly sit up, finally getting a look around. We’re not in his usual studio. It looks more like a cave, with rock walls and a hard-packed dirt floor. “Where are we?”

  “In my basement.” He washes his hand in a bowl sitting on an old-fashioned table that could have been a hundred years old or made yesterday. It’s hard to tell in the dim lighting.

  “Why?”

  “Because there are protection sigils down here that aren’t in the main house.” He doesn’t explain further and motions for me to follow him to the steep set of stairs nestled against one rock wall.

  “Why do we need protection sigils?”

  “Why do you always ask so many questions?” he grumbles irritably.