by L.H. Cosway
“Stay one last night,” he says in a low voice.
I run my hand through his hair, capturing the memory, the feel of it, so that I will never forget. “Isn’t it better if we never know?” I whisper. “Isn’t it prettier if we part, having never known each other fully? I think it will be harder on both of us if we experience something that we will want again but can never have.” I wonder if I’m making sense to him.
“No Tegan, it is not better that way,” he answers, jaw tight. But I can tell he isn’t angry, he is simply trying to deal with the pain.
“Tell Delilah I said goodbye, and tell Lucas not to hurt Amanda,” I say, trying my best not to cry.
“No…” he replies, but as his dark eyes find my bright ones, he seems to see something. Something that tells him this is the way it must be. That he must accept it.
I fix my t-shirt and button up my coat before opening the car door halfway and pulling my bag up onto my lap. I’m just about to leave when I look back at him, I try to say something more but words fail me. Ethan takes my hand, holding it one last time.
“A tragic ending,” he says, as he squeezes my hand tight.
“All endings are tragic,” I answer. “In their own way.”
I try to pull my hand out of his, but he won’t let it go. The hurt on his face makes me hate myself for what I’m doing. He draws it to his lips and kisses it so tenderly, a small crack begins to form in my heart. It’s only going to get bigger and bigger.
Then, all of a sudden, he seems to push away his emotions, and of all things, he smiles at me. “This is not the end for us, beautiful. We will meet again.”
His words fill me with hope, and for some reason I believe him. Somehow, someday, our paths will cross another time, when the world is a less frantic place for me. Knowing that this isn’t the last time I’ll see his face brings me hope.
“You know what Ethan,” I answer. “I think you’re right.” Then I draw him to me, kiss his lips and get out of the car.
Tears fill my eyes as I walk in the direction of the main entrance to the airport. I tell myself to quit it, to snap out of the sadness. But it’s no use. I pull a crumpled tissue from my bag and wipe at the wetness. Once I’m inside I go and find the nearest ATM and withdraw some money. I shove the notes into my bag, along with the now soaked tissue and continue on to search for the bathroom.
The one I find is cold and sterile, off-white tiles on both the walls and the floors. There are six cubicles lining one side of the wall and the other side has several sinks and one long mirror. I check the cubicles to make sure they are empty, but it’s late at night so there’s nobody around. Most people are catching their flights, or sleeping on uncomfortable chairs in the waiting areas.
I hitch my bag up onto the edge of the sink and take out the scissors I’d put in with my other toiletries. I put the bag back down on the floor and stare at myself in the mirror for a long, lonely minute.
“It has to go, it all has to go,” I say to the empty room, clasping one big chuck of hair in my fist. I feel like a mental case, cutting my hair in a dirty airport bathroom. But I need to get rid of it, both because it is too easy to recognise if people come looking for me, and also because it is a part of the old me. It’s been with me through too much pain and trauma, a constant reminder, and I need that reminder gone. I need a fresh start. I take the scissors and cut off the hair I’m holding in my fist, and then let it fall into the white sink. Black against white. I’m going to miss it. Chop, chop, chop. More and more hair falls into the sink as I continue to cut.
Small nicks itch at the back of my neck once it’s all gone, and my black hair barely comes past my ears. A hard look for hard times, I think to myself after I’ve brushed off the rest of the stray hairs. I gaze at my reflection and I hardly recognise the girl who stares back at me. She is so sad. Too much has happened to her that can never be erased. Never washed away like chalk on a footpath when the rain comes. The marks of my experiences are there in plain view. The shadows beneath my eyes reveal the ghosts that haunt me. Ghosts of the knowledge that I am a fugitive running from a captor far more terrifying than the police.
I run my hands under the tap and watch as the water cascades over them. Why can’t water wash away your troubles? Life would be so much easier if that were the case. I make some final touches to my new haircut, a haircut that is as disturbed and erratic as my own state of mind. It’s not too crooked though, and it does sort of suit me in a strange way, so I don’t mind much. I wonder what the person who finds all of my hair in the sink is going to think. Little bits and pieces of it are also on the floor. I put the scissors back in my bag and zip it up before leaving the bathroom.
Outside I walk around for a while, watching people as they say goodbye or say hello or don’t say anything at all. When I come to the big lit up board displaying the names and times of all departing flights I stop and look up. Destinations run through my head as I consider which option to take. A man rushes past me, knocking into my shoulder. I right myself and look back up at the board. As I make my choice the last few weeks flashes through my head.
I clutch my bag tightly, feeling the comforting shape of Matthew’s box. We all have our vices. Not being able to let go of the past seems to be mine. It might not seem that way, since I’m leaving my entire life behind me now. But I have a feeling this isn’t the last I’ve seen of Tribane. I pick a city.
And the heavily made up blond smiles at me as I walk to the counter and buy a ticket.
If you enjoyed Tegan’s Blood and would like to receive a free copy of Crimson, a novella told from Ethan’s point of view, you can post a review to Amazon, email the link to [email protected] and you will receive the free novella in return.
Crimson: An Ultimate Power Series Novella
by L.H Cosway
One chance meeting can change everything.
Meet Ethan Cristescu, vampire and owner of the Crimson night club.
Ethan enjoys the good things in life, the company of beautiful women and a sip of blood every now and again. Little does he know, everything is going to change in his perfectly ordered world when a frightened woman who smells of sunshine walks into his club. This woman is nothing like those Ethan normally admires, yet when her big blue eyes latch onto his he is suddenly enthralled and determined to discover what she is. How can she smell like the sun? And how is she able to withstand his powers of compulsion?
Crimson is a novella of The Ultimate Power Series, telling Ethan’s tale of the night he first met Tegan and how inviting her into his life would inevitably alter it.
The story continues in Book Two from the Ultimate Power Series
Tegan’s Return
Read on for an excerpt from L.H Cosway’s YA Paranormal Romance Novel
A Strange Fire
Chapter One
The Story of Florence Vaine
I was born to be a victim.
I was born to be timid. I was born to be a prisoner. I was born to gaze at my shoes and not be able to get the words out. I was born to be the target of my father’s hate. But still, I was born. Doesn’t everything that is born deserve to live?
The daisy growing on a patch of grass outside of my grandmother’s doorstep tells the truth. All things that are born do deserve to live, but that doesn’t mean they are going to get what they deserve. Because I’m sitting on the step and looking at the daisy, just as my father storms out of the house and stamps the defenceless little flower into the ground. Crushing living things seems to be his speciality. Or maybe just poisoning them slowly.
I barely know my grandmother, and yet he is abandoning me here. I should feel liberated. But I don’t. I must have become institutionalised by his brutality somewhere along the way. How could it be possible to be sad about getting away from a tyrant? I am being freed by a cruel and evil dictator, and somehow I feel let down.
There must be something wrong with my brain. All the years of abuse has messed with the chemicals. Besides, all of this h
as come as kind of a shock, since only last week as my dad knocked back a bottle of Jim Beam, he slurred, You’re a worthless excuse for a daughter, but don’t you ever think of running away, because I will bloody well find you. The hateful words still ring in my memory.
He’s always saying things like that to me, whenever he thinks I might pluck up the courage to run away. All the time with the threats. I still don’t understand his sudden decision to send me to live with Gran. Perhaps it was divine intervention.
He takes the last drag out of his cigarette and then throws it away, stubs it out with the sole of his black leather boot. He looks at me as I peer up at him.
“So Flo,” he begins, without even a hint of regret in his voice. “I’m off now, you better be good for your gran, you hear?”
I take a deep breath, before managing, “Y-y-yes s-sir.”
I’ve always had a stammer. It kicks up when I have to talk to Dad, or if I’m meeting new people. Social interaction is not my strong point.
“You’ll be starting school on Monday, your gran registered you.”
“O-okay.”
“Still with the stutter, eh?”
“S-sorry.”
He glares at me disdainfully and then looks over at his truck. “I’m probably gonna be gone a long time, so, you know - take care.”
This is certainly the most love he has ever shown me, and I’m not even sure that telling a person to “take care” can be classified as actual affection. He gives me one last squint eyed look before getting in his truck and pulling out of the driveway. I stand up for a minute and watch as he gets further and further away from me, and then completely disappears from sight. I wonder if he’ll ever come back.
My grandmother is in her seventies and has very little vision. I haven’t spent much time with her in my life. I could probably count the number of occasions Dad took me to see her on one hand, without using up all five fingers. But even though I don’t know her very well, I still know that she’s a good person. Not like Dad.
I can see everybody’s aura, the colours of their soul. It’s a gift. It’s a curse. It’s ambiguous really. I never asked for it, and yet I have it. I still don’t know if it’s real, there’s a good chance I’ve got psychological problems. Maybe all of those cracks to the skull have caused me to start seeing colours that don’t exist. Gran’s colours are a mixture of lavender and silver, most elderly people have silver mixed in with their aura. I’ve come to think of it as a mark of distinction. Once you get to a certain age you get your silver badge, or whatever. The lavender indicates imagination, sometimes a daydreamer, which is unique for an elderly person. Gran must be one of those old ladies who will always be young at heart.
The colours change with a person’s feelings, with their mood and inner thoughts. Gran’s are telling me that she’s both happy and nervous to be having me stay with her. I don’t blame her for being nervous. Her son is a devil. She probably thinks I’m one too. I’m not though. I’m just me, a nervous, stammering idiot. I sit down on her floral print sofa across from the mahogany rocking chair she’s perched in. I wonder what her degenerating eyes can see, probably just a misty outline of me.
“I’m not like him, you know.” I tell her, my words flowing freely.
The stammer mostly kicks up at times of pressure, or if I’m intimidated. Gran doesn’t intimidate me, she makes me feel at ease. Maybe I feel safe with her because she’s half blind, it means I have the upper hand. With Dad you were always fighting for your survival, for your sanity. It’s caused me to be defensive around people, and most people have no intention of doing me harm. But such is my mind-set.
“I never said you were, sugar,” she replies, with a smile in her faded brown eyes.
“I know but - I just wanted to tell you I won’t be any trouble I promise. I’ll keep to myself, you’ll barely even know I’m here.”
“Well I wouldn’t want that Florence. You treat this house as if it were your own. God only knows you deserve a bit of freedom, after living under my son all your life.”
Nobody ever calls me Florence, it’s weird, like being called by the name of another. “Oh, um okay, thank you.”
She laughs softly before saying, “Now tell me a little about yourself, I want to hear all about my seventeen year old granddaughter who I’ve never known properly.”
“There’s not much to tell,” I say modestly.
“Balderdash! Everybody’s got something to say about themselves, now come, you know my sight isn’t what it was, describe to me your appearance.”
I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone use the phrase “balderdash” before. I have to stifle a laugh.
“My appearance?” I ask.
“Yes love, I’d like to be able to imagine the details since I haven’t the ability to see them, at least not properly.”
“Oh,” I clear my throat, “my hair is dark brown and long. My eyes are green.”
“Green eyes?” she asks. “I don’t think there have ever been green eyes in the family before, or do you mean hazel?”
“No not hazel Gran, there’s no brown in them, just green.”
“How very unusual, you must have inherited those from your mother.”
A moment of silence ensues as we both regard each other politely. The subject of my mother is a sore point for me. Dad always hammered home the fact that she died while giving birth to me.
“What about your interests, what are your hobbies?” Gran asks next, after taking a sip of her tea.
I blush. “I don’t really have many, life with Dad keeps me busy.”
Gran nods shrewdly. “At times I wonder how he became the man he is today.”
“It’s not your fault. Sometimes good parents get bad kids, just like bad parents can get good ones.”
“Very true,” Gran replies. “Anyhow, if you did have free time, which you will while you’re living with me, what would you do with it?”
I think a moment. “I suppose I might learn how to play an instrument, and I’d probably read more. Dad didn’t really like me reading, he said it irritated him. Oh and I’d definitely get a dog, I’ve never had a pet.”
“What instrument would you learn to play?” she asks, a constant smile on her wrinkled face.
“What are those ones that look like giant violins?” I ask, feeling stupid for not knowing.
“They’re called cellos, dear.”
“Oh yeah, cellos, I’d like to learn to play the cello, I like the sound it makes.”
Gran laughs loudly. “It is a good kind of sound, I agree with you Florence. You see, there’s a lot more for you to tell about yourself than you thought.”
“I guess there is.”
“What about books, what do you like to read?”
“My favourite is The Monk by Matthew Lewis.” I answer.
“That’s a spooky one isn’t it?”
“Yes, I got it from my school library back in the city.”
“Well we have a big library here in Chesterport, so I’m sure that will please you.”
I smile at Gran and ask, “Would you mind if I went to my room now? I’d like to unpack and maybe have a rest. It was a long drive here.”
“Of course love, your dad left your luggage in the hallway, your room is just up the stairs, the first door on the left.”
“Thank you Gran.” I say, swallowing my need to break down into tears. Nobody has ever been this kind to me.
Wow. My new room has a double bed and two whole windows. In my dad’s all I had was a very small single bed, in a little box of a room with the tiniest window you ever saw. All you could see out of that window was more buildings. But here the windows are large with plantation shutters, and they look out onto the forest just outside of Chesterport. Gran’s home town is medium sized, it’s not exactly the most modern of places but it does have a cinema and a Starbucks. I could get used to living here, a normal life in a normal middle of the road, middle class town.
I kneel down and breathe i
n the fresh laundry scent of the bed sheets. There’s a small chest of drawers with a reading lamp beside the bed and a wardrobe in the corner of the room. On the far left wall there are two small shelves. Shelves! I’m actually going to have shelves to put my books on.
Before I had to keep them hidden under my bed. Dad was the kind of man who didn’t like to see you were making an effort to better yourself. He wanted you kept down and ignorant. He used to say I was a “stupid bitch” whenever he found me reading, which isn’t a clever thing to say to the person who knows where you hide your illegal shotgun. Not that I’d ever had the nerve to use it. Of course, that doesn’t mean I didn’t like to fantasise about doing it. A lot. I pick up the bag that I packed my books in and up end it, pouring the twenty or so titles I own out onto the bed.
Shamefully, I’ll admit that a lot of my books are ones I stole or never returned to the library. But I rarely have much money to buy things, so it was out of desperation rather than any kind of deviancy. I’ve read The Monk three times already, that’s the latest addition to my collection. These books were the only escape I got when living with Dad. The life he dragged me through was so brutally real, a lot of the time I pretended I wasn’t there.
I try not to think about what my father is, that way I can ignore the guilt. I feel guilty for the actions he takes, and that just can’t be right. I know that even if he wasn’t doing what he does there would always be some other low life to take his place.
