Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Quinsey Wolfe’s Glass Vault
Candace Robinson
Copyright © 2017 by Candace Robinson
Cover Design by Jenny Zemanek at Seedlings Design Studio
Edited by Amy Donnelly at Alchemy and Words
This is a work of fiction. Names, character, places and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. This book may not be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission from the author.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
For Nate and Arwen
We make up the ultimate Three Musketeers
Prologue
Overwhelmed with boredom, Vale stares down at his fingernails. He can only spend so much time tormenting those he encounters in the afterlife. After making them as miserable as possible, he finds himself needing to search for new prey.
The fire flickers and gives off heat that Vale has come to feel like a warm blanket against his skin. He hums a melody to himself, as screams surrounding him grow more intense.
He is incapable of love. It makes his torture of others necessary, and with no complete spectrum of true emotion, their agony gives him a sick sort of pleasure. It is the only real feeling that he has ever truly known.
He picks at his nails a little longer with a sharp instrument, until they are back to their pristine condition. The one thing he cannot tolerate is the filthy grime under his fingernails, which is odd after all his experiments end up being a beautiful mess that brings him amusement.
Vale looks at his fingernails one more time and sets the tool down next to a row full of other torturous devices—giving him another thrill. The time has finally come to bring down humanity; he wishes it could be as simple as a snap of the fingers. Vale doesn’t like to do things the easy way, though. No, Vale likes to do things the way that brings him the most pleasure.
The rows of cages filled with useless souls will help him to crush the mortal lives he needs to flood the earth. He has grown tired of tormenting the ones that deserve it; he wants them all.
Vale has gone by many names over the course of his eternal life. This time he is going to be known as Quinsey Wolfe. This time he will make sure the world ends in flames. There must be a space between his underworld and the human world, where the new souls can become immortal with true power. It will take time, but he will build this place. He will create different locations to discover who he truly wants. Hearts will surrender and be destroyed.
Chapter 1
The mirror is a foggy mess when I step out of my five-minute shower. I let my stupid alarm continue to go off when I should have woken up right away, so that meant less shower time. I quickly draw a flower on the glass before rushing to my bedroom to get dressed. My mother and I used to do this together when I was younger. It was before she ran off to another state with some guy and never spoke to my dad or me again. For some weird reason, I uphold this so-called mirror drawing tradition of ours.
“Dad,” I yell. After throwing on a pair of jeans, and a t-shirt representing some old band, I rush down the hallway. Sometimes, I can catch him before he leaves, but today he has already left for work.
I find a note on the kitchen table that says to have a good day at school and to wish me Happy Birthday. A little, red velvet cupcake sits beside the note. I love my dad.
Since my mom left, I don’t feel anything for her. I simply don’t care, but I know my dad still does. There is a picture of them together on his bedside table from when they were maybe sixteen. She is looking off to the side laughing, while he is looking at her with so much love.
I know what that kind of love feels like. I have missed it every single day for the past seven months. I toss those feelings of that particular boy in my personal, little trash can inside my brain, almost completely hidden away.
I distract myself by turning my thoughts back to my mom. It isn’t much better, but those thoughts don’t bother me anymore. The one thing my mom left me was her maiden name as my first name, yet it defeats the whole purpose since she spelled Perrie with an “ie” instead of a “y.” I prefer the spelling the way it is, that way I’m connected to her as little as possible.
I grab a small bowl for my cereal from the cabinet. Then I walk over to the pantry where there are at least ten varieties to choose from before finally settling on one.
As I slide out the box from the cabinet, I feel a sudden poke on my shoulder that is hard and fast and leaves a slight stinging sensation. I scream bloody murder at the top of my lungs. In my terror, I flail and sweep the bowl off the countertop. Then I thank all the fish in the sea that it’s plastic because it makes a “thump-thump” sound as it hits the ceramic tile.
I turn, and my back smacks hard against the granite countertop. Anger pulses through my veins because Maisie, my best friend and cousin, just loves to scare the crap out of me when I least expect it. I didn’t even know she was in the house. She lives next door, and we drive to school together, so odds are I should have expected this.
She’s grinning from ear to ear with her long, straight, black hair falling in sheets down her back. Her bright, blue eye sticks out against her brown, beautiful skin, while the other is safely hidden behind an eye patch. Maisie inherited her skin coloring from her dad’s Middle Eastern heritage.
Maisie’s mom is my dad’s sister. When my mom left us, we moved next door into a house that my aunt and uncle owned. The tenants had recently moved out, so they rented the place out to my dad. Aunt Krista has been more of a mom to me than my birth mother ever was, and I adore her to pieces.
I stare at Maisie with my eyes squinted, trying to look mad and hiding my smile. “I will get you back one day, Maisie Jaser!” My surprise has washed away, but I’m determined to match her sneakiness at least one time in my life. I have a key to her house; the same as she does for mine.
“You have been saying this pretty much forever, and I’m still waiting,” Maisie says laughing. She brings a hand
up and brushes it against her latest eye patch. Today it’s shaped like a diamond, and it’s hot pink with yellow stars and the moon on it.
I lift my right hand up and point my finger at the newest addition to her two-year-long parade of endless eye patches. “What is going on today with this one?”
Maisie scrunches up her nose like she is thinking hard about this. “Well, I was in a mood for a night sky, but I wanted the sky to be pink because black is, well, you know.”
I shake my head and let out a laugh. “Well, no, I don’t know.”
Her head tilts to the left and then to the right. “Oh, you know. It’s just such a dark color sometimes.”
I ignore her response and move on. “You also realize that you’re still not blind.”
Her smile grows even bigger. “I know, but I have to show support to those that only have the one eye.” She points her index finger at the eye patch like she is missing the eye.
Maisie has been on a kick ever since she started reading books, watching movies and TV shows where characters wear eye patches. She even started an online store where she has sold quite a few. I’m not sure if these people legitimately need an eye patch, or if they are using them for costumes.
I know there are other people out there that make eye patches, but I have to admit hers are quite amazing. If I needed a patch, I would wear one that Maisie created. Now, I still don’t get why she wears an eye patch all the time, but Maisie has a personality all her own, and I love it.
I pick up the blue bowl that fell on the ground when Maisie interrupted me, and toss it in the sink. “You keep showing that support.” There isn’t much time left to eat my cereal, so I grab a granola bar out of the pantry and throw one to Maisie. I have to admit she still has quick reflexes with only one eye in use.
I look over at the dainty, wooden, kitchen table. There is a small, green box sitting on it that Maisie must have set there before scaring the life out of me. “What is in that?”
I start walking to the box. She rushes to the table and then turns around to run back over to me, quicker than I can blink. “Happy Birthday,” she yells as she thrusts the gift at me. She whips a tiny, yellow noisemaker from her pocket and blows loudly. The sound has me blinking. Maisie pants, as if she has just run a marathon.
I don’t get a lot of gifts for my birthday. I’m always excited to receive hers, even though they are on the strange side most of the time.
One year, she gave me this statue of a lion made from discarded wood mulch pieces. Her parents were going to clear out the old and replace with new mulch in their flower beds. Maisie told them she didn’t want it to go to waste. The figure looked just like a lion, and it still sits on my bookshelf in my room.
I can’t help but admire the beauty of the box Maisie thrust at me moments ago. I pull the vivid, green bow apart and take the ribbon off, letting it fall to the floor. I open the darker green lid of the box and set it on the countertop. The first thing I remove from the box is a banana-yellow colored eye patch. I pull it out of the box to see that it has the image of a ferocious lion on the front. She stitched it herself with fur-like pieces surrounding the outer edges that represent the mane. It’s beautiful, and she knows how I have a fondness for lions. I don’t even know why they are my favorite. I think it’s because they are strong and fierce and aren’t afraid of anything.
I set the patch aside and pull another gift from the green box. It’s another lion; this one is tiny. Maisie must have made it with sticks from tree branches that she hand-painted with miraculous detail. The colors are not normal lion colors but bright greens, hot pinks, brilliant blues, and any other color you can think of. Only she can blend and put these colors together so artfully.
My eyes tear up a little because I know how much time and effort she put into these gifts for me. I grab her and pull her into an awkward but perfect hug. “Thanks so much. These gifts have seriously made my day.”
Maisie pulls back and gives me a genuinely serious look. “Are you going to wear the patch now?”
I let out a snort and shake my head. “No, but you know what? I’ll wear it tonight just for you.”
I run to my room hastily, shove my black boots on, and take a moment to look at myself in the rectangular mirror on the back of my door. I don’t have time to do anything with my shoulder-length, straight, brown hair. I settle on putting it in a low ponytail. My light, brown eyes still look a little tired, but I don’t care.
My backpack and cello are on the floor by the office chair. I started playing cello in sixth-grade. After my mom left, music and playing my cello helped with the healing process and got me through a lot.
I put my backpack on. I’m bound to have a bad back by the time I’m twenty with all the books I have carried over the years. Apparently, lockers can’t be close to all of your classes.
Today I turned eighteen, so I’m an adult now. It doesn’t feel like much has changed. That is probably because I’m still in high school and don’t have a good job. Heck, I don’t have any job yet.
“Come on, Perrie. We need to get going,” Maisie shouts. She is already standing on the porch, holding the door wide open.
After we pile into Maisie’s car, I relax in the seat and bring the granola bar to my mouth. I have barely taken one bite, and turn to see that Maisie’s is gone—it’s been about one second. Sometimes, I worry she may choke because she eats abnormally fast for any human being. I really think she could win an eating contest with that kind of speed.
Maisie finishes chewing and ditches the granola wrapper. “So, did you hear there is another person missing?”
My eyebrows furrow, and I turn to look at her. She glances at me and then watches the road again. “No. Is it someone we know?”
“No. I don’t think so. His name is Ben Johnston. He’s a twenty-three-year-old from the University,” Maisie says while chewing on her left thumbnail. She has the habit of doing this when there is a riddle she wants to figure out, or a puzzle that she wants to slide the last piece into.
I lean my arm against the car door and rest my chin on my hand. I scan through the people I know from memory to see if I recognize that name from anywhere, but I don’t. “Yeah, I don’t recognize that name either, but I don’t know that many people that are older than us besides the ones that I was in Orchestra with.”
There have been several disappearances in our city over the last several weeks. This is the sixth missing person that I know about, and the victims’ ages and genders have all varied. There has been nothing predictable about where they are disappearing from. No one I have known personally has gone missing, which doesn’t make it seem as real.
Even though I have stayed calm, my dad, on the other hand, has been a worried mess. My midnight curfew, as well as Maisie’s, has been cut back. It isn’t like we have anything to do to stay out that late for anyway. The last time I stayed out late was a month ago, when I went to prom with our friend August.
The three of us went to prom together. We didn’t have separate dates. At first, I didn’t want to go, but Maisie did. She didn’t want to have her own date because she never dates.
She gets plenty of offers from both guys and girls, but as I have come to realize, there’s no one like her. Sometimes, I think she’s asexual like certain plants. I aspire to have the type of independence that she has.
Maisie’s detective skills are itching to come out. “Maybe we could question friends or family that know these missing people? Nothing is getting done here.”
“I’m not sure that would go over well even if you did have a badge. One day you will have plenty of time to solve any crime you feel the need to.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right about that,” she says. Maisie pulls into the parking lot of the school, and we manage to find a good spot.
She sighs. I can tell that she’s still thinking about the missing people. Maisie’s choice of career is limitless. She would be good at anything; a detective, counselor, an artist, or anything in betwe
en.
I’m still figuring out what I want to do. The only thing I have so far is a scholarship for Orchestra, but I have the rest of my life to figure things out.
Chapter 2
I open the car door, throw my heavy backpack over my shoulder, and grab my cello out of the trunk. I have a feeling that today is going to be a great day.
Maisie is telling me something about this horror film festival she wants us to go to. Her hands are thrashing all over the place like she always does when she talks. I’m smiling and laughing, until I turn my head to the right and spot him.
Neven Lee. He was once my Nev. Then he ripped my heart into a thousand pieces and cut each of those tiny morsels into halves and lit those pieces on fire, until they were nothing but ashes.
He’s standing there off to the side with his black hair overgrown and shaggy. His brown eyes that were always so warm stare into mine. He tries to give me a close-lipped smile. I turn my head away but not as quickly as I should have.
Maisie’s eyes follow to where mine had been moments ago. “Just ignore him. We’re almost done with this school, and then you won’t have to see him again.”
I see the sympathy in her eyes. She still misses him, but I never told her she couldn’t talk to him. Maisie feels just about as betrayed as I do. I want so badly to scrub that part of my brain clean and forget about it. It has been seven months. Seven whole freaking months since my heart was left for dead.
I can’t help it. I turn my head to him one more time, and Neven is walking toward us. “Easier said than done.” Maisie scratches the side of her face. Then she looks at the ceiling and off to the side not knowing exactly what to do.
Looking all around, I’m trying to figure out where I can go. I’m completely rooted in place, my nerve endings are lit up, and the panic begins to take form. Then a large hand encloses around my bicep.
“Happy Birthday, Perrie,” Neven says hesitantly.
“Don’t touch me,” I whisper. I pull my arm out of his grasp quickly, as if his touch will melt my skin away.
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