Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Copyright Page
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
Teaser chapter
Where am I?
There were smells in here. Curious smells from every direction, smells she couldn’t quite identify. Like the one lingering upon her blanket and in the tangled strands of her hair . . . an outdoor smell: wild and earthy, and not altogether unpleasant. It reminded her of frost and snowy moonlight, autumn wind, and warm, wet fur . . .
Oh my God, what’s happening?
Trembling violently, she eased the blanket down from her shoulders. Her skin felt raw against the roughness of the fabric, raw and chilled and unusually sensitive. To her shock, she suddenly realized that all her clothes had been removed.
Lucy curled herself tightly beneath the blanket. Please let this be a dream—please let me wake up! Her mind was wild with terror, her heart pumped out of control. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t stop the frantic spinning of her thoughts. Where was she and how had she gotten here?
A dank breeze snaked across the floor, threatening the candlelight and swathing Lucy in those strange and secret smells. But there was another odor she detected now—a much stronger odor than the one she’d noticed before. Something dead. Something spoiled . . .
For Sandra, Barbara, Julie, Susan, Jenifer, Anna,
Suzanne, Janice, Ellen, Peggy, Richard, Pete, and
Bill—I could never make it through these writing
days without you. Thanks with all my heart.
SPEAK
Published by the Penguin Group
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Registered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published in the UK by Scholastic Ltd, 2004
Published by Speak, an imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2005
Copyright © Richie Tankersley Cusick, 2004 All rights reserved
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Cusick, Richie Tankersley.
Rest in peace / Richie Tankersley Cusick.
p. cm. - (The unseen ; pt. 2)
First published in the UK by Scholastic Ltd., 2004.
Summary: Having survived the accident that killed her friend Byron, Lucy tries to cope with
her new powers and attempts to figure out who—or what—is stalking her.
eISBN : 978-1-101-17678-8
[ 1. Extrasensory perception—Fiction. 2. Horror stories—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.C9646Res 2005 [Fic]—dc22 2005047435
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any
responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
http://us.penguingroup.com
Prologue
He stood and he watched her.
Watched the frantic rolling of her eyes beneath her closed, bruised eyelids . . . the terrified heaving of her breasts beneath the torn, mangled material of her blouse. From time to time a whimper escaped her lips . . . or a gasp . . . or even a whispered plea for help, as she dreamed her terrible dream. And sometimes her hands would thrash against the darkness, clawing at shadows and bloodstained bandages, as she relived, over and over again, those last tragic moments of her waking nightmare . . .
He knew this dream well.
Knew every scene—every gory, meticulous detail—for he had been with her the night it began, and he had been with her every night since, feeling it replay endlessly, torturously, through her sleep . . .
So this is what it’s like to die . . .
Lying there on her back in the grass, all alone in the darkness, Lucy could sense the wet, runny mask of her face. Tears? Blood? She couldn’t be sure, couldn’t be sure she even had a face, couldn’t be sure about anything except that her body screamed in pain each time she tried to draw even the shallowest of breaths.
I can’t move . . . Help . . . Somebody, help me . . .
With a ragged cry, Lucy tried to lift her head, tried to peer through the thick, endless night surrounding her. As in a dream, she could see the faraway sky blazing bright, lit by a giant fire—and along with those sickening smells of pain and fear and despair that threatened to choke her, now there was the gasoline . . . burning rubber . . . white-hot metal . . . and something else . . . something dear to her heart . . .
Byron!
That’s Byron’s van!
She’d been sitting in the front seat beside him, and she’d been staring at the moon. That blood red moon hovering there behind the trees and glowing out through the dark, shredded fabric of the clouds. She’d been staring at the moon, and then she’d jolted with the first sharp swerve of the van. Confused and groggy, she’d heard Byron’s shout, the piercing shriek of brakes and tires, she’d felt the road give way to air beneath them as they dove off the shoulder and off the crest of the hill, and out through the foggy night, plummeting down and down into nothingness . . .
Byron? Can you hear me?
She knew somehow that she hadn’t spoken aloud, knew somehow that her thoughts had burst free of her pain, only to fall silent among the shadows. It was so dark out here. So dark, so frighteningly still, except for those flames leaping and glowing against the distant horizon . . .
Something ran in front of us.
With a moan, Lucy struggled to shut out the pain, struggled to focus her hazy thoughts.
Byron tried to swerve, he tried to miss hitting it, but something ran in front of us . . .
She wished she could remember. She wished she could remember what it was that had caused the accident. But there was only the briefest glimmer of memory in that last fatal second, only the briefest image of something caught in the headlights as the car veered and left the road.
What was that?
It seemed so familiar somehow . . .
But her thoughts were fading . . . fading . . . and she knew she was slipping away. In desperation she stared up at the trees overhead, great gnarled branches etched thickly against the black dome of the sky.
And then she noticed that moon.
So full and round. So red like blood. Caught in a web of tangled limbs, oozing out through the clouds, wine stains on velvet.
Byron, I’m so scared! Please help me!
And that’s when she heard it.
The soft rustling sound, like wind sighing through grass. Except that she couldn’t feel any wind, not even the faintest of breezes, in this heavy night air.
The sound was close by.
Coming even closer . . .
Oh God!
Once more she tried to lift herself, to call out for help. But the rustlings were in her head now, in her thoughts and in her pain, like so many urgent whispers, whispers of great importance.
As Lucy’s head turned helplessly to one side, she saw shadows all around her, shadows slinking along the ground and through the trees, slivers of black and pale pale gray, and sparks of amber light . . .
Terror exploded within her. Even through the paralyzing numbness of pain and shock, she sensed that these were animals, and she sensed why they were here. Instinct told her that she was surrounded, though one stood closer than the others. She could hear the slow, calm rhythm of its breathing as it watched her from a place she couldn’t see.
Oh, God, don’t let me die like this!
She thought of Byron. The vision burst inside her brain with such force that she choked and gagged and vomited blood in the grass. In that one instant of agonizing clarity she saw his midnight eyes, heard his calm, deep voice telling her not to be afraid. Now she remembered how he’d turned to her in that last split second of his life, his eyes desperate with helplessness and disbelief as he’d reached for her hand. Did he touch me? The thought drifted through her mind, light as a feather. Did we touch one last time?
But the whispers were louder now, and the fire was brighter than ever, and she was so weak . . . so tired.
Please . . . please . . . just let me die fast . . .
Night swayed around her. As tears ran silently down her cheeks, something huge and dark leaned in over her, blocking her view of the sky.
She braced herself for the end. Felt hot breath caressing her throat . . . smelled the faint, familiar scent of something sweet . . .
Byron . . . I’m so sorry . . .
“Byron has gone,” the voice murmured. “Only I can save you now.”
Down, down, she sank . . . into the endlessness of time . . .
Who are you . . . ? What are you . . . ?
And that voice . . . fading far into nothingness. . .
“Oh, Lucy . . . there’s no name for what we are . . .”
And so he stood, and he watched her.
How lovely she was . . . and how curious . . . so small and fragile, her pale skin nearly transparent, her expression as remote, as beautiful, as death.
But not quite.
Not quite dead yet.
Shock was just a stepping-stone. It would be so easy, he knew, to ease her across that tenuous threshold; just one swift, silent act on his part.
But there was something entrancing . . . mesmerizing . . . about the way she hovered there—just on the edge, between life and eternity—that was exciting to him.
There had been no time to take her before.
Before, as he dragged her to safety, and then as she lay there in the tall scorched grass, bruised and battered and drenched in blood, the others sweeping in silently around her, quivering with anticipation . . .
But “No,” he had ordered them. “Stand away—this one is mine.”
Damn those who had stopped to help!
And a firetruck, no less—a whole convoy of emergency vehicles, in fact—heading homeward from some tragedy, following a careful distance behind the van, yet still close enough to witness its fatal careen off the road, its hurtling descent down the rocky hillside, the bits and pieces of its broken shell raining like fireworks through the shattered night.
So many people! Sirens, lights, confusion!
The others of his kind had fled at once, but he alone had stayed.
He alone had stayed behind . . .
Hidden and silent . . .
Guarding his prize.
So there had been no time to take her then, in the panic, the chaos, of that hopeless rescue, the air stinking of futility and death even as he swept her away with him through the fog-shrouded woods, to this place of dark secrets and solitude. And every night afterward . . . including this late night . . . he had been here, watching over her, slinking through the terror of her dreams.
It was these dreams he feasted on in the meantime.
The loneliness, the heartache, the empty black holes of despair.
Hazy images of a mother who had died . . . a cozy home that was no more . . . and now this loss of someone new, this grievous, unexpected loss of Byron . . . such painful memories buried within her, buried deep, because to remember them would be far too much agony to endure.
“Cold . . . I’m so cold . . .”
He heard her whimper, a plea as faint as breath. And there was no hesitation as he leaned down over her, his lips drawn instinctively to that perfect, most sensitive spot.
Relief was instant and needle-sharp—teeth stabbing like fire, piercing hot through her skin, sinking deep through her flesh, clamping down and holding on, suspending her on boiling waves of panic and burning pleasure . . .
“Lucy . . .” His breath caressed her cheek, the delicate lids of her eyes, the tender flesh of her throat . . . “No more cold . . . no more pain . . . no more loneliness . . .”
Had she smiled? Ever so softly in her sleep?
He pondered this as he gazed upon her, as she stirred languidly in the aftermath of his kiss. Pondered this so intently that he failed to anticipate the slight, sudden movement of her hand as it groped through the shadows and brushed the side of his face, touching him with an innocence that caught him completely unaware.
He drew in his breath, every muscle tightening. His keen eyes narrowed, gleaming with annoyance and a hint of wonder. He had let his guard down—a weakness he could not afford—and yet for that one fleeting second, the gentle reward of her hand upon his cheek had been well worth his carelessness.
He drew back from her now, strangely unnerved, as her hand lowered once again to her side. As she lay weak and helpless, lost in the sorrow of her memories.
But little by little he would take those memories.
Devour them until the past, as she knew it, existed no more.
And then she would be filled with him . . . her mind, her body, her soul.
Like life’s rich blood . . .
Filled with him and him alone.
1
Lucy’s eyes flew open.
With a gasp of terror, she tried to scream, to fight her way free, but free from what, she wondered groggily, I can’t move, I can’t see, something’s holding me down . . .
“Aunt Irene?”
She’d meant to call out, yet she couldn’t hear her own voice. There was only silence, as still and deep as a grave, and the frantic pounding of her heartbeat.
“Aunt Irene, are you there?”
Slowly . . . hazily . . . her surroundings began shifting into focus. Lucy realized that she was lying on her back, and that the thing holding her down was a blanket—a blanket that should have been easy to push back, except that she didn’t have the strength to kick it away. Beneath her the ground was cold and damp; beside her a candle flickered weakly, its melted stub drowning in a puddle of wax. As she gazed up at the curved ceiling, grotesque shadows leaped across in a macabre dance.
Where am I?
There were smells in here. Curious smells from every direction, smells she couldn’t quite identify. Like the one lingering upon her blanket and in the tangled strands of her hair . . . an outdoors smell, wild and earthy, and not altogether unpleasant. It reminded her of frost and snowy moonlight, autumn wind and warm, wet fur . . .
A musky smell. A primitive smell.
Some sort of animal?
>
Moaning softly, Lucy struggled to sit up, totally unprepared for the wave of dizziness that pulled her down again. Her whole body reeled from the force of it; her nerves screamed in agony as pain ripped through every bone and muscle. Clutching her head with both hands, she felt a strip of wet, sticky cloth sagging low over her left eye.
“Aunt Irene!”
A spray of stars burst in her brain. It blurred behind her eyes, and memories began struggling to the surface of her mind, clawing their way through a sludge of fear and rising panic.
Byron! Oh, God, I remember . . . I remember everything. The accident . . . fire . . . and he didn’t get out . . . Byron didn’t get out—
“Can anyone hear me?” Lucy cried. “Please! Is anybody there?”
Oh my God, what’s happening?
Trembling violently, she eased the blanket down from her shoulders. Her skin felt raw against the roughness of the fabric, raw and chilled and unusually sensitive. To her shock, she suddenly realized that all her clothes had been removed.
Lucy curled herself tightly beneath the blanket. Please let this be a dream—please let me wake up! Her mind was wild with terror, her heart pumped out of control. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t stop the frantic spinning of her thoughts. Where was she, and how had she gotten here? How badly was she injured? How long had she been unconscious, and who had been here with her while she’d slept? She had to get away—run away—but from what? From whom? And where would she go? How could she possibly escape from one unknown to another?
And then a much more chilling thought crept in among all the others. Was someone here with her right now? Watching as she realized her hopeless predicament? Waiting for her to make a move? Cat and mouse, waiting to pounce?
Without warning, the ground gave a slow, deep shudder beneath her. As Lucy cried out in alarm, she felt another rumble of thunder resonating through the shadows; she heard the muffled, but unmistakable, downpouring of rain.
A storm. And it sounded close by.
Rest In Peace Page 1
