Contents
Title Page
Acknowledgements
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
Pay it Forward
Reaper's Redemption
Grim
Copyright 2017 Thea Atkinson
Published by Thea Atkinson
Edited by Laura Kingsley
Cover art by gwendolyn1.deviantart.com
Typography by Thea Atkinson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
A SPECIAL THANKS
I want to thank Terri Roller who beta read an early draft for me. She was instrumental in helping with the CPR details as well as picking out quite a few extra spaces and voice recognition errors. Pretty much saved my bacon. A special thanks goes to Robie, who cleaned up the rest of the picky things.
Thanks!
THANKS FOR CHECKING ME OUT
Find out how you can get info on new releases, contests, goodies, and more.
Visit theaatkinson.com for more info
CHAPTER 1
The text was simple: it said to come to the church and to come alone.
I took one look at the purple text balloons and knew who they were from right away, even though I hadn't heard from Sarah for well over two years.
I chewed my lip, trying to decide what would make Sarah text me after all this time. She'd been one of the girls I'd fostered with in a halfway house before my grandfather petitioned successfully for my custody. That was what? Three years ago? She'd been a damaged girl even then. Deeply damaged. In the long hours of dark nights, she'd told me tales of the home she'd been 'rescued' from. Bad enough stories that I'd always wondered if that's all they were until the courts decreed she could go home and she'd elected to run away instead.
By the time I left with my grandfather to live with him three states away, they still hadn't found her. I'd always felt guilty about leaving her behind and in those first weeks I texted her dozens of times. Each time I sent off a text and spent long days waiting for a reply, I was haunted by the memory of those stories of hers. Witchcraft rituals that involved all sorts of blood rites and animal cruelty were the lightest of them. Sometimes she even hinted at sexual deviance and torture. Each memory sent my fingers to the keypad again with another quick text. She never responded.
Until this morning.
That she was texting me after going dark all those months ago could only mean one thing. She was in trouble. Trouble was something I understood well. Anyone who ended up in foster care did. And if she needed me, I wouldn't let a little thing like a crazy scary church keep me away, even if it was midnight.
I twisted my ankle back and forth in my combat boots as I worked up my courage to go in. Standing in front of the thing, it wasn't quite so easy to stomp up the broad stone steps and push my way through the doors. It was downright creepy. There was only a single lamp light to illuminate it and if in my mind I thought I could call it little, my eyesight certainly couldn't. It was gargantuan. Even in the street light the gargoyles squatting over its façade seemed to be leering at me. I pulled in a bracing breath then let it go with a hiss because there really were no other options. I was going in. I owed Sarah. She'd shown me the ropes of foster care, even showed me a thing or two about fighting. Because of her, I had fast hands and a snappy punch. I had skills. I could handle myself. Sort of. And after all of that, she had ended up with the dirty side of the lunch tray while I got to go to a home that pretty much served a banquet up to me on a silver platter each and every day.
I couldn't just leave her in there, shivering and cold and hungry. I'd brought the peanut butter and banana sandwich, hadn't I? It sat in my overcoat pocket, emitting its fruity smell every time I took a step. Surely, I'd made the decision already.
I shook my hands out. I could do this. I should. There was nothing truly frightening about the church. I'd been in it plenty of times during the day. It was old, yes. Very old. No one cared about the beauty it might have been in its day. Instead, someone had come in long before I'd arrived and set fire to whatever they could find that would burn. I knew if I touched the wood of the pews, they would be scorched and blistered. It's just that nighttime was different. Things seemed more frightening in the dark. Everything held a hidden threat.
Going inside meant simply stomping with purpose up the broad stone steps and walking through the ornately carved wooden door that hung on its hinges like a drunken man against its cracked and splintered partner. The streetlamp on the sidewalk bathed the Gothic church with enough light that I could see the wrought iron hoop door handles were bleeding old rust onto the wood. Didn't matter. I wouldn't need to yank the doors open or push them apart. The gap was big enough between the two I could squeeze right through. I didn't bother to try pulling them tight together again behind me. Instead, I paused just on the other side, letting my eyes adjust to the gloom.
The church smelled of old wood and moldy vestments. I imagined some cloistered monk in days gone by pulling on a robe over his homespun cassock, transforming himself into something more worthy of prayer than the thing he looked like on a regular day to his parishioners. The town of Dyre in those days no doubt had its share of fearful citizens who became ever more fearful at the sight of the cloth-of-gold trim that transformed their lowly priest into a demigod. Even one of the broken stained glass windows showed some hapless priest during the rite of communion glowing as the host touched his tongue.
My boots shot off noises like a trapped bat's echolocation, bouncing off the altar and throwing themselves back at me with an almost haunting tone. I stomped my foot once to show the church I wasn't afraid.
I tried out my voice.
"Sarah?"
Nothing. At least I didn't sound afraid. That was something.
I panned my cell phone flashlight over the ceiling where the glow from the streetlights couldn't reach. Mostly made of stone and wrought iron fixtures, the church had been abandoned in the early part of the century. Word was it was too hard to heat. Too expensive to keep up. No one used it anymore but the town loved having the creepy old thing as a landmark. It was even on their postcards. Yet, no one took care of the place. Hadn't in years, it seemed. Its dozen chandeliers either had fallen to the floor beneath the glower of squatting gargoyles, unable to grip the ceiling when their chains rusted through, or they still clung to their hooks with tenacious fingers of iron. I resolved to steer clear of those. None looked very safely pinned to their places anymore. In fact, the whole damn place looked like a death trap.
I hugged my chest, shivering a bit as I called out again.
"Sarah, are you there?"
Still nothing.
I peered sideways at the stained glass windows, where a streetlight pierced the gloom. Long broken, most of them, and shattered into pieces on the tiled floor. I took a step sideways and heard glass crunch beneath my boot. I lifted my toe and shone my cell down at it. A
section of window had fallen unbroken to the tiles only to end up a casualty beneath my right foot. Pity. It had been beautiful once. An angel, I thought, careening to earth with fire on its wings. I lifted my gaze to the altar ahead of me.
"Sarah, it's Ayla."
I had just decided to inspect the gallery above when I caught scent of something unusual. Smoke. Not old smoke left over from the ages old arson, either, but fragrant, curling, new smoke.
The hairs on the back of my neck prickled to attention. I thought I felt a small pressure at the small of my back that trailed upward like a lazy finger to the spot right where my ribcage connected to my spine. Everything in my body went clammy. I didn't dare swallow for fear of making a noise. It was irrational to be afraid when I knew no one stood behind me, but I was.
"Stop fooling around," I said, twisting to see behind me, and when nothing met my gaze, I aimed my cell phone off to my right.
The confessionals loomed out from the darkness. No doubt Sarah was kneeling on one of those wooden benches and peering through the grills at me. Trying to scare me.
"That incense has to be a hundred years old," I said, claiming what was left of my bravado and stomping up the aisle toward the booth. "Who knows what germs you're letting go by burning it."
I paused at the face of the threadbare curtain. She was in there, alright. I could just make out the gleam of her irises in my cell phone light. I tried on a matronly tone to encourage her out of there and into the aisle.
"You're gonna get sick."
Small puffs wafted out at me. Sickly sweet. I coughed without meaning to.
"Seriously," I said, waving the stink from my face. "Plague, Black death."
"They're the same thing," said a voice.
A long pause drew itself out as my mind tried to work through the fact that the voice coming from behind the curtain was not the one I expected. Heck. It wasn't even feminine. I had the feeling I was suspended in time. Some alternate universe had slipped up through the cracks in the floor and wrapped itself around my ankles, holding me there. There was a moment when I almost felt as though I was falling backwards through empty sky, waiting for the moment when I would strike the earth, and in that second I felt a strange elation. Then terror.
I jammed my hand into my pocket, feeling for the sandwich to assure myself that I was indeed awake. Yes. It was there. It squished beneath my grip and oozed through the cellophane into my fingers.
It wasn't until a deep and dark chuckle came from behind the curtain that my brain finally hiccoughed into life. That laughter sounded as though it was made of the same cloying smoke that streamed out through the gap in the curtain. I got the impression I was smelling burnt sugar.
I think my breath froze in a solid clump. I know my feet had. I certainly couldn't swallow down past the hard lump it made in my throat. Thankfully, my reflexes worked and the heel of my hand snapped forward. Every part of my psyche sagged in relief when I felt it connect with what I hoped was a nose. Broken or not, I couldn't waste any time. That was how the actresses in movies ended up dead. They waited around to investigate. Not this chick. This chick was out of there.
Didn't matter who was inside the confessional. Didn't matter if he had Sarah tied up in there with him. Self preservation came first. Whether or not I wanted to stay to help Sarah, my legs had other ideas.
I fell twice as I stampeded for the door, stumbling over the shards of glass and ramming into the edges of the pews as I vaulted forward. For same reason, my feet slid all over the place and I ended up running in place for three full heartbeats before I caught some tread and tore for the narthex. Even then I slid all over the place as though my boots had run into a slick of oil.
A slick of oil. Even registering the words made me realize that's exactly what I had stepped in--no doubt just outside the confessional--and it was making my retreat clumsy and ineffectual. I gave a brief thought to Sarah, wondering if she had encountered the same mess. If she had fallen. If she was in here somewhere with a broken ankle or something. I yelled her name again, praying I would hear her respond.
Whatever was behind me chuckled again and then I did scream. I let go a holler that hurt my ears and I threw myself at each pew, gripping the backs for propulsion because my feet failed to navigate the slippery floor. I was all over the place and I was nowhere all at once.
I whimpered when I realized I wasn't making much progress and nearly fell. Whoever was behind me shouted some word that at once sounded both foreign and vaguely familiar. It was as though he thought I would understand it.
"Who the heck are you?" I yelled over my shoulder at him. "What do you want?"
"You," he said.
Me. A whimper rose from my throat at the word. If that comment was meant to terrify me, it did. I was a soaking mess of fear. A thousand horrible thoughts jumped onto the tracks of my mind and rode them with wild abandon. It was just a matter of time before they came to a crashing halt and flew out into the rhubarb.
"What have you done with Sarah?" I said, thinking I might at least be able to buy myself some time as I tried to find solid footing. So what if my voice was breaking on every word? At least I wasn't screaming uncontrollably. Not yet.
I slid again and caught myself just before I fell. I swore at myself. I had to stop panicking. It wasn't getting me anywhere. I could do this. I could. I had to.
I scrambled for solid footing, digging with the tips of my combat boots into the floor and slipping again. I laughed out loud like a fool when I went down again. I bit down on my tongue. I tasted blood. I thought I heard the rattling sound of hoarse breathing. That breath was reaching out for me, I just knew it. It was a real live thing with hands and intent and touch. I knew it would grip the back of my neck if I didn't do something.
I spun around, straining with wide eyes into the shadows to catch sight of him. I needed to see how close he was. If he was coming at me, let him come at me while I could see him.
"Stay back," I said, and even as I raised my hands to ward him off, I was frantically eyeballing the shadows.
There had to be something in here that I could grab. Throw at him. Swing at him. Nothing anywhere near. I kicked at the glass around me, lifting shards to the air, but they just tinkled to the floor a few feet short of striking him. In desperation, I dug into my pocket and pulled out the sandwich and hurled it in his general direction. It sailed past him and made a splat somewhere on the tiles behind him.
Foolish. Even if it had struck him, what would that have done? I needed something better. I groped around in the darkness in a frenzy to lay my hands on something. Anything.
I froze. I had my cell phone.
I could dial the police.
My hands fumbled to turn on the screen and swipe in the keypad.
By then the maniac had stepped into the light streaming through one of the broken windows. I thought I caught sight of a face filled with tattoos. He was bald, I knew that. It took me several seconds to realize that the markings on his face covered every inch of his skin and it was only as I realized this that I understood he was naked from the waist up. I had the ridiculous thought that the tattoos went all the way to his toes.
That wasn't normal. At least not any side of normal I'd ever seen.
Something deep in my chest squeezed as though it was a wet rag being wrung clean of water. Pay attention, I told myself. Get help.
I tapped numbers on the screen, thinking they were a nine, a one and a one. Nothing happened. I'd typed in an eight, a seven and a two.
I sobbed. This couldn't be happening. I could dial any number I wanted to at any time without even looking at the screen. What was wrong with me now that I couldn't do that small thing?
When the screen went dark my legs finally gave way and I staggered onto my knees. A shard of glass dug its way into my kneecap.
"Sweet Jesus," I heard myself murmur and tried to stand again.
"Not the chosen one, no," he said. "Oh, no. Nowhere near Jesus."
He flicked h
is wrist toward me and in a second of instinct, I ducked. Something wet and greasy splashed into my hair and ran down my neck.
I clawed my way to a stand with the liquid running down beneath my shirt and soaking my chest. There was no way I was going to die there. Not at the hands of some psychopath when I had been on a mission of mercy. Not when my grandfather had no idea where I was. I would live. I would get the hell out of there. Bleeding or not, I'd make my legs move.
I tried. I gave it every bit of muscle I could.
They wouldn't obey. And that was when I knew he had done something to me with that oil. I had no idea what or even how, but a timid squirrel in the jungles of my memory peeked out long enough to tell me I'd been a fool not to have reacted to that liquid assault.
I was stuck somewhere between the galley and the narthex. I could see the door. It yawned open enough that the streetlights cut through the shadows and illuminated the floor in front of me. I noticed my boot was on the pretty face of the angel again. The flames licked around its wings in the glass scene. I saw my reflection in the darker places of glass. I looked terrified. Flaming red hair spilled over the reflection of the angel as it went careening downward and for a second looked just like the flames licking at its wings.
The image initiated a sucking sound in the back of my mind, like a sink unclogging. Terror. That was it. I'd never felt such fear. It made my breath come in harsh rasps.
I scented something heavily fragrant. Myrrh, my mind told me, and yet I had no idea how I might know the smell.
I twisted away, working through the air as though it was chest deep water. What if I drowned in my own adrenaline, lost all ability to move? I'd be stuck here. At his mercy. I gagged on a drag of air in desperation. I'd swim to the exit if I had to.
"Corum Deo," he said from behind me. "Infinitum mortis."
"Shut up," I screamed and whipped around to hurl my phone at him. It struck him on the cheek and bounced off, clattering to the tiles and coming to a rest three feet from me. Three feet from him too. Oh my god, he was just a quick sprint away. I tried to scream but only managed a small squeak of fear.
Grim Page 1
