Wickedly They Come (The Wickedly Series Book 1)

by Cathrina Constantine

  “What’s a warrior?” Cayden asked, breaking the suspense.

  “Oh, shut it, Cayden,” Paisley snipped.

  “That’s what we’d all like to know,” said Ronan, looking at Paisley. “There are compromises, ways to pacify the spirits. Your father might be able to help.” She lit the candles stationed on each corner of the Ouija board while chanting an unintelligible verse and switching off the lights.

  “Okay, hold hands,” she coached with assurance. “Close your eyes and concentrate. They are here, waiting for us. Atelum ergo pastillom devaloag.”

  There was a brief silence, and then Ronan invoked the spirit of Davian. Her voice dredged the bottom of her diaphragm.

  She was hooked.

  Her head rocked from shoulder to shoulder like a metronome, and her almond eyes rolled from side to side. The words of her spell transcended time, mantling them in some sort of stupor. Her face twisted, disrupting her impeccable features.

  Jordan tensed, struggling to manage her unbidden tremors. Her heart frantically pumped against her ribcage. Fluid puddled in her palms as she held tightly to Paisley and Cayden’s hands.

  “Jack Chase, your daughter is here for you,” Ronan said, her tone oddly wistful.

  The candles flamed higher, and a freeze enclosed the room. Clouds of vapor formed before their gasping mouths as inky silhouettes drew their eyes toward the walls and ceiling. An obscure form hovered nearby, and as if satisfied with the arrival of her spirit friends, an unsightly sneer ruffled Ronan’s mouth.

  Jordan shivered from head to toe.

  “I feel the spirits among us. Speak. Speak.” Her head lolled backward as her throaty words pitched higher.

  Like a magnetic current, the hair on Jordan’s arms bristled. Her gut impulse—that inner voice—issued a distinct warning.

  Filling the room into a state of condensed humidity, a putrid odor sealed them in. The flames plumed like geysers, staining the ceiling. Churning smoke merged into unsettling, ghostly shapes that billowed capriciously about the room.

  Cayden’s crushing grip cut off circulation to her fingers. She glimpsed Cayden, her forehead rested on the table, eyes crunched.

  “Jack? Jack?” Ronan asked with relish. “Do you have something to say to Jordan?”

  “Dad?”

  “He’s here, Jordan,” confirmed Ronan in a beguiling timbre.

  Scarcely controlling her tremors, it was incredulous to watch the planchette move without being touched. Ronan’s insistent, domineering voice rang out, “Jack, can you help Jordan?”

  The planchette came to rest on the B then slid to E-W-A-R-E.

  Pause.

  “Beware,” Ronan repeated.

  The planchette moved again. To the M, then A, and R. Suddenly, a turbulent gust of warm air swept the planchette off the board. Airborne for a fraction of a second, it slammed violently against the wall, where it smashed to pieces.

  Cayden’s head bolted up. “What was tha–a–t–t?”

  Jordan hurriedly fished in her pocket for the vial. It fumbled from her fingers and rolled to the floor.

  The gust ramped to a squall, roiling the smoky figures. Gaping maws, panic-stricken, half-faced entities streamed by. Horrible shrieking cries of anguish pierced their eardrums and exploded from the room. Jordan scrunched her eyelids from the maelstrom as murky figures splattered her face. Ducking her head toward the table, she couldn’t avoid inhaling the airy sludge.

  The figures vanished and an odd calm ensued. Relieved, Jordan cleaned her lips and tongue on her shirt. The girls frowned, grumbled, and wiped at ashy particles. The upheaval had even rendered Ronan speechless.

  They stared at the splintered slivers of the planchette, and even more extreme, the candle flames seemed unaffected by the wind. They burned just as they had when Ronan lit them.

  “That won’t stop me. I have another oracle in my room,” Ronan hissed, more to herself than to the girls.

  “Ronan,” Paisley said, spitting and mopping her face on her sleeve, “was that Jordan’s father telling her to beware?”

  “Yes. I believe,” she said, collecting her thoughts. “You’d better beware, Jordan. Who could M-A-R possibly be? Maybe Mark?”

  Jordan had wished to speak with her father—though not like that. Ronan’s rip-off disappointed her. She had been played, bringing up her father to make sure she’d go along with the séance. Beware of Mark. It was a joke.

  What was the real message that Ronan and Davian had staged? She recalled Thrill’s words regarding her insane jealously. More than likely, she’d picked the childish prank to get back at Jordan for spending time with her Mark.

  Jordan had no doubt that Ronan was an established clairvoyant, and that made her a threat. And now, she faced the impossible task of discouraging Ronan from releasing more spirits.

  All the same, she played the game and asked, “Why would my father say to beware of Mark?”

  Cayden and Paisley had snuffed the candles and toggled on the lights. A little warmth had returned to dispel the dismal icky feeling.

  Ronan held her shoulders in a shrug. “There must be a reason, but only your father knows. I’ll try to get more information. The powers get stronger every day, and I’ve become like a receptacle. I feel and hear what they’re saying, most of the time. It’s like they drop the veil. They open the door for me to get in. I love it.”

  And for them to get out.

  “What do we really know about Mark?” Paisley asked.

  “Nothing.” Ronan itched her nose. “But I’ll find out soon. Mark and I are more than just friends.” She upset her bangs to shield her lying eyes. “We talk about the Ouija and séances. He says they’re practices of the devil and we should stop dabbling with the unknown, but he’s definitely interested. I’d like to tell him that I more than just dabble.”

  Jordan eased the soles of her feet on the chair and wrapped her arms around her knees. Listening to Ronan talk, she’d confirmed the fact that wicked spirits seeped through the chasm created by people like her.

  “The spirits are getting clearer. I have gifts you can’t even imagine. Mark doesn’t get it—the magic, the power,” she said with a cryptic creepy stare. “I get such a rush when we break through the barrier and talk to them. Jordan, you should have been here last week. They were literally in our heads.”

  From Cayden and Paisley’s blanched faces, they weren’t too keen about spirits being ‘literally in their heads.’ In fact, Cayden looked weirdly entranced. Jordan snapped her fingers in front of her face.

  “Cayden, Cayden?”

  “What happened?” She belched. “I feel sick.” She doubled over and puked on the floor.

  Jordan flew to Cayden’s side and hauled her to the bathroom. She applied a wet towel to her friend’s neck and forehead. Paisley griped about slopping up puke while Ronan snickered, either at Paisley’s displeasure or at Cayden’s.

  “I’m better, thanks,” Cayden said tonelessly.

  Poor Cayden, physically and mentally beat. Jordan shored-up her elbow and helped her into the kitchen. The house felt possessed, and she fought an urge to run, lugging Cayden with her.

  “I’d better drive her home.”

  They looked at Cayden’s yellowish complexion as she leaned on the wall.

  “You can’t leave yet. We need to substantiate what Dav—your dad was trying to tell us.”

  Did Ronan blunder?

  “I know I need to beware,” Jordan said succinctly and uncaring. “Now, I’d better get home before the roads get worse. My mom will come searching for me, and that won’t be pretty.”

  Paisley rallied and interceded, “Cayden, you’ll be okay for a few minutes while we talk, won’t you?”

  “No, no, not really.” She hiccupped, sounding juicy.

  “Here,” Ronan held her hand aloft, “you dropped this.” She dropped the vial of holy water into Jordan’s upturned palm. “I’ll find a solution for the sacrificial offering.”

  A twinge of her
right eye left Jordan speculating. What kind of solution?

  THAT NIGHT JORDAN rolled from one side of the bed to the other. Nonstop deviltry stalked her through the hours of darkness. Monstrous scenes of sadistic torture sent her pulse skyrocketing and her sheets coiled her body like a constricting cocoon.

  Feeling feverish, cold, and damp, she moped through school in a daze. Even though she was fully awake, her nightmares persisted.

  The hallways were a hellish transport to pandemonium. Knotting fingers in her hair, Jordan cradled her head, striving to protect herself from incessant urges. She was losing control.

  Trying to keep her psyche to a minor growl, she called for Markus, over and over. Classmates stared at her stumbling, bumping, and bolstering herself against the lockers. Some even giggled, saying she was stoned.

  Before lunch, delirium set in. Coatless, she marched out of the school in sub-zero temperatures. By the time she’d made it home, her complexion was bluish-white. Her body’s thermostat was flipping out—one minute hot, and the next cold. When Henry saw her condition, he’d hobbled over and helped her up the staircase. He put her in bed while Em scuttled for hot tea and warm blankets.

  Jordan slept fitfully until dinnertime. Opening her eyes, she mumbled, “Where am I?” Then it clicked. Home. She plodded downstairs to the kitchen.

  “I just checked and you were sound asleep.” Seeley took in her disheveled appearance. “Go back to bed. I’ll bring something up.”

  Why is she ordering me back to hell? Jordan was still drenched in a nightmare. What’s happening? Her mind registered the woman’s concern, but a surge of unwarranted hostility rose. Get your head together.

  “I’m fine, and I’m not hungry,” she spoke testily through barred teeth. Pivoting, she took the stairs two at a time, slamming and bolting her door.

  PICTURING HER DAUGHTER’S blazing eyes and temperamental state and hearing her stomping on the stairs and slamming her door, Seeley raised her hands in wonder. “What’d you think?” she asked her parents. “I figured she had the flu, but seeing her manic attitude I’m not so sure anymore. Could it be something else like a fight at school with those new friends of hers?”

  Henry grumped. And Em’s lips squished into a mess of wrinkles. “Could be boy trouble. This weekend we saw her go out with two different boys.”

  Seeley frowned. “She skipped out of school without her coat and walked home in this weather over a boy? That doesn’t sound like her. What two boys?”

  Her parents appeared reserved, and then Em said, “Jordan said one of the boy’s was William McKenna. He drove her home from school. And remember Deacon Schaffer’s exchange student, Mark? He picked her up last Saturday.”

  Seeley nodded, though not convinced. After dinner, she tapped on Jordan’s door. When there wasn’t a response, she jiggled the handle. “It’s Mom. Open up.” She heard the bed squeak and the lock click.

  With the curtains drawn, the light in the bedroom was bleak. Jordan lay curled in a ball.

  “Jordan,” she whispered. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know. I’m sick,” she muttered. “I–I feel…different.”

  Seeley switched on the bedside lamp and squatted in front of her daughter. She pulled Jordan’s hands away from her face and examined weary, puffy eyelids. “This has nothing to do with a boy, does it?”

  “I couldn’t sleep last night. Bad dreams. I need... I need... sleep.”

  “What kind of bad dreams?”

  “Bad. Really bad.” Her voice crackled. “Leave me alone.”

  “Here I’ve been meaning to give this to you.” A chain of rosary beads threaded from Seeley’s pocket. Unfolding Jordan’s hand, she poured the beads onto her palm and curled her fingers over the beads. “I know it’s worn. Prayer shackles Satan. Use it often.”

  Jordan’s hand shook, flinching. Her fingers slowly blossomed and she let the rosary beads fall, tinkling to the floor. Observing red blisters developing on her hand, Seeley couldn’t believe her eyes.

  “Have you talked to Markus?”

  “Now that he’s human, I’m nothing.” Her face ripened to a flushed pink. “Not as important as Ronan or even Beth. He couldn’t care less about me. Mark thinks he’s so…so high and mighty. He makes me sick.”

  Astounded at her outburst, Seeley said soothingly, “Okay, honey, okay.” She spread the quilt up to her shoulders, and then felt her forehead. “You might have a fever. I’ll check in on you later. Get some rest.” She quickly left her room with one thought, Contact Zeke and Markus.

  WITHIN THE HOUR, Seeley slipped into her daughter’s room and halted. A young man hunkered above her bed.

  Markus looked troubled. “She appears ill.”

  They stared at her moisture-drenched face and listened to her ragged breathing.

  Uncapping the jar she held, Seeley dabbed her fingers into the holy oil and anointed Jordan’s sweltering forehead. Her daughter recoiled, crying out and burying her head under the pillow.

  “Father James helped her on Saturday,” Seeley said. “I thought the curse was banished.”

  “Trebane’s a powerful enemy. Father James definitely lessened his spell, yet the séance could’ve countered his protection. Jordan was supposed to see James again, but she never made the time.”

  “What do we need to do?” Her eyes appealed to Markus for guidance.

  “You need to leave the room.”

  “No. I want to be here . . . to help.”

  Markus transformed, immersing the room with angelic brilliance. His eyes flashed to Seeley. “If I expel a legion from Jordan, it might transfer, tunnel into you, and remain hidden.”

  He’s right. In her travels and busy days, her prayer life had taken a backseat.

  JORDAN’S BRAIN WAS in turmoil of horrid visions. Souls, gnashing teeth in a fiery pit, clawed at the walls and beckoned pitilessly. Suppurating corpses and disjointed orifices, cursed, while blank eye sockets eerily sought her. She shuddered, seeing her once handsome father, his body deteriorating in rinds of blackened flesh peeling from his torso. Mesmerizing emerald eyes fastened on her, and then altered to a blazing red. She tried to run, but her legs held like rooted tree trunks. Her father’s face progressively faded, only to be replaced by an angelic man. Markus.

  Beware of Mark?

  Beware of Mark! In terror, she backed away as Markus transformed into a fiendish devil.

  From faraway, she heard his voice, stout and persistent. The outlandish visions clouded and dissipated. Sitting feebly in bed, she found her angel looming above. His intense gaze frightened her.

  “Leave me alone,” she growled at his scrutiny.

  Afraid to glimpse his face, afraid to see him deforming, her bones liquefied in aversion to his presence. Someone in her head screamed, ‘He’s a demon. He’s trying to kill me!’ She leapt from the bed, skittering around—out of control.

  “Markus, are you the answer to Jack and Seeley’s prayers?” She did not recognize the abrasive voice as her own.

  “Something like that.” He used his angelic presence to herd her, keeping her in the room.

  “Jordan must be sacrificed. Jack initiated the blood rite, and the prophecy cannot be eluded.” The voice was vile. “Your deity will weep—”

  “The prophecy is a message of divine inspiration,” Markus argued, his tone unyielding. “Its interpretation of events to come can be hugely misguided.”

  “We will find a way to consecrate Jordan to Lucifer,” the demon insisted. “Ronan has become capable—”

  “Ronan has a gullible nature and a fragile mind,” Markus cut him off sharply.

  “Hmmm…” The creature within Jordan glowered. “You’re here to protect more than one soul? How clever.”

  With a rapid jerk, the demon filched a pair of scissors from the dresser. “You don’t want this supple young thing disfigured, do ya?” The shears bit into Jordan’s cheek, raising a pink ridge. “Stay back or this perty girl loses an eyeball.”

 
; Markus maneuvered in front of the demon. Both circled the room, their eyes locked, waiting for the next move.

  “What’s your name, beast?” the angel demanded.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

  Scissor tips dipped to Jordan’s throat, penetrating her pliable skin. The cut deepened and split into a vivid scarlet stripe. Blood covered her neck like a lacy collar.

  Grimacing, Markus released his breath. “Davian?”

  “Ho, ho. Close, but no cigar. Davian’s my brother. I’m called Legion. I no longer have a name, except what my master calls me.” With a flick of Legion’s wrist, the sharp point targeted Jordan’s stomach. The demon sidestepped closer to the window.

  “Legion, you can’t win this,” Markus said, stepping forward.

  “You don’t want her damaged.” Legion’s tone was shifty. “Or worse... dead.”

  She heard the command in her mind. ‘Jump out the window. That’s the way to escape him.’

  Vanquished somewhere inside a torrid dimension, the psyche that had been Jordan fought for control. Unable to find a passageway through the barbed wire, she lost the struggle and dove toward the glass.

  Phenomenally agile, Markus caught the beast, wrenching the scissors from her fingers. The creature howled when his iron grip clamped her waist. Jordan lashed out, pummeling his rock hard chest. His hands held her roughly, shaking and pinning her against the wall.

  “Jordan, I warned you. What have you done?” His once friendly eyes were condemning.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The demon buried within her, cognitive of the potent angel and wary of his brutality. “Let me go.” She squirmed, grappling to break his embrace.

  “The demon spirit is in you.” He sounded disgusted by the beast within. “Fight back. Stave him off.”

  Legion yowled.

  “The spirit is having fun possessing your untarnished soul. Legion can destroy you.”

  “I should beware of you,” her staccato voice shrieked. “You’re the demon. You’re the evil one.” Again, she thrashed, trying to break his grasp.