Finding Me (Another Falls Creek Romance Book 2)

by SF Benson

  Stop over-thinking it. Just 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 that’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 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 in that state. Anger flares within me as I clench my fists.

  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, and 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. I grip the hilt tighter wanting 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 dagger.

  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.

  Blue and red lights flood the area as a police squad car pulls up. I’m expecting Hank Richards, the were-panther, to hop out, but he no longer lives here. Instead, a statuesque redheaded female, human, and her overweight bald partner exit the vehicle. The drunk driver immediately drops to his knees and holds his hands over his head. The two officers exchange a surprised look.

  The woman removes a set of handcuffs from her belt. “This is a first. I’ve never seen anyone wanting to be arrested.”

  Incoherent words come from the moron’s lips. He continues blubbering even after he’s placed in the rear of the squad car. Maybe he’s learned his lesson. Mankind can only be so lucky.

  My gaze shifts from the pathetic scene to the wreckage. Two medics tend to the driver they’ve placed on a gurney. One person hooks up clear cables to her—IVs I believe they’re called. The other one checks her vital signs. I want to turn away, but I can’t. Over the centuries, I’ve learned a lot of different things including medicine. I’ve seen too much of what happens to bodies that don’t make it, souls that find themselves in limbo. It’s not pretty. But when it comes to this human, I want to stick around. Make sure she makes it.

  “This one is fortunate,” a woman says. “She’s in bad shape but will probably survive.”

  I drift away from them and go check on the progress of the girl I saved. The two medics hover over her, and constant chatter passes between them.

  “An endorsement for seat belt use for sure,” announces the man.

  The other male—one of the few supernaturals working with the Falls Creek Fire & Rescue Department—says, “She must have an angel watching over her. She should be dead.”

  “I don’t see how she made it.”

  The sorcerer from the Locke Coven casts an eye in my direction and responds, “Sometimes things happen that can’t be explained. Best to leave it at that.”

  An understatement.

  Minutes later, I watch them roll the gurney toward the ambulance. I don’t know why I do it, but I take a seat inside the vehicle. The warlock, aware of my presence, lifts an eyebrow as he shuts the double doors. No doubt he’s wondering why I’m concerning myself with this human. We share the same query.

  Doctors and nurses rush back and forth in the brightly-lit room. I lean into a corner, keeping watch on the various beeping monitors attached to the girl. These humans don’t realize I’m holding her lifeline, keeping it from unwinding. But it’s not my job to hold back the specter of Death. To be honest, I’m interfering, but He can’t have this one. Not yet. She’s too young for Him.

  Since I’ve been at the hospital, I’ve learned her name is Antoinette Leoni, an aspiring ballerina. The girl used to be full of joy and hope. Perhaps she’ll find it again.

  Her parents, recently arrived in the waiting room, are visibly upset. They seem to be good, caring people. Total opposites of the man and woman who raised me.

  My father, a member of the senate, was ashamed of me. He expected more from his eldest son. I was expected to follow in his shoes, but I chose a different path full of sordid, public displays. My exploits provided constant scandal and gossip for our household. As my debauchery grew, Father was determined to put an end to it. He secured a spot for me with the Praetorian Guard, but it didn’t change my behavior. Instead, I used my status to justify my conduct—drinking and fucking in the name of the Empire! Every fight was fought to honor Augustus.

  I was a despicable cur who brought disgrace to the family. While Father wore his shame like the stripes on his toga, my mother turned a blind eye, looking past my flaws. Her expectations weren’t as lofty as Father’s. She only wanted me to find a good, respectable woman to settle down with, but I preferred keeping company with whores and thieves and the like.

  Stop it! This isn’t about you.

  I get the sense that Antoinette is a respectable girl, envied by all that know her. The large gathering of distraught people in the waiting room is a testament of what Antoinette’s death would mean. Hours after my death, no one showed any emotion about my passing. My parents barely acknowledged it. They handled my demise by never mentioning my name again. They did everything possible to bury my memory, but I had the last word.

  “Who goes there?” Father said from his bed.

  Stepping from the shadow, I appeared to the man who gave me life. “Father, you’re dying. Tell me what’s it like to have a slow, painful death.”

  Father gasped and stared at me as if he’d seen a ghost.

  Entirely wrong. The word ghost implied benevolence. I was anything but benevolent. This man deserved as much agony as I could muster. I moved closer to his bedside.

  “Did putting my memory to rest absolve your own guilt?” I sat beside the trembling man. “You were right about one thing, Father. I was a reflection on you. My actions and behavior showed others how weak you were as a parent.”

  My father’s jaw dropped while his guttural sounds filled the space between us.

  “I only mimicked your behavior. You frequented brothels and made Mot
her unhappy. When you weren’t fucking other women, you were sloppy drunk. But as long as you did your deeds behind closed doors it didn’t matter, right? Unlike you, I chose to be honest with my actions.”

  Father clutched a hand to his chest.

  “Is it too much for you?” Leaning closer to the man, I saw beads of sweat pop over his forehead. “You should wish I had my human form. I could make death so much easier for you. Mine was quick. One moment I felt the sharpness of the blade, and the next… Well, it was over in the proverbial blink of an eye. Here’s a fact to take to your grave. I didn’t kill Augustus, but I know who did. Contrary to your opinion, I have morals. Only an honorable man would hold tight to the truth even in death.”

  Father paled one last time, and drool slipped past his lips. His empty eyes glazed over as his heart slowed down. My father died. My job was done. It was the last life I’d ever take in any form.

  Killing my father didn’t bother me because he deserved it. But the human lying on the gurney doesn’t deserve death. She has a long life ahead of her, thanks to me.

  I leave and let the living tend to its own. Besides, my business is with the dead.

  Letting Go: Another Falls Creek Romance Novel, #3 is coming June 2018. By signing up for my newsletter or joining my reader’s group on Facebook, you’ll be the first to know all the news regarding my upcoming books.

  https://www.facebook.com/groups/273428139797021

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thank you so much for reading Colt and JJ’s story. Out of all the books I’ve written, this was the hardest. Colt is a character readers enjoyed back in Cursed Hearts: Hearts Duology, Book One. In the follow-up, Colt’s character did a complete one-eighty. People wanted to know why. The challenge was providing a plausible explanation for his abrupt behavior. It’s one of my favorite tales thus far.

  As always, I thank those who continue to support me on my journey. My husband gets a special thank you. Without his hard work, none of this would be possible. My daughter is now an integral part of the team providing graphics when needed. I truly thank her and I’m so proud of her direction in life.

  I thank my editor, Tia Silverthorne Bach. You keep me in check and teach me so much.

  Thank you to the cover designer, Christian Betulan! You created an outstanding work of art.

  Of course, I thank Mom and Dad. Without you, where would I be?

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  SF Benson, a Michigan native, resides in Georgia with her husband, a human daughter, and a couple of miniature fur kids (two female short-haired guinea pigs). At one time, she wrangled a household which included three Samoyeds, saltwater fish, a hamster, and three guinea pigs. She’s an avid bookworm who appreciates a well-written book regardless of genre. SF prefers writing stories about strong, diverse protagonists set in dystopian, science fiction, or paranormal worlds.

  Connect with Author SF Benson:

  Be the first one to find out news about releases and giveaways!

  Email List

  http://bit.ly/1mRzmZs

  Facebook

  www.facebook.com/bensonsf

  Twitter

  @bensonshantella

  Website

  www.authorsfbenson.com