Karma

by Nadine Nightingale

  “Are you sure they’ll let us talk to the kid?” I ask as we cross the parking lot.

  Fiddling with his black tie, Alex blows out a frustrated breath. “Carter, my supervisor at Quantico, notified them. They’re expecting us.” It’s amazing. Jerk-face learned how to shoot a gun when he was nine, but knotting a tie is an unsolvable mystery to him.

  I better put him out of his misery, or we’ll never make it inside. Grabbing his arm, I pull him back. “Let me help you.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve attended a perfect housewitch seminar,” he jokes, watching me work on an immaculate Windsor knot.

  “My dad taught me how to do it,” I confess. Securing the tie under the collar of his white shirt, I fold the satin fabric down and smile. “There you go.”

  He catches me staring. “What?”

  I avert my gaze. “Nothing. It’s just you clean up nicely for a guy who sleeps in ripped jeans.”

  He points to my outfit. “Right back at ya.”

  After we left Hedwig, we’d taken a little detour to the motel to change into something that looked more federal agent and less juvenile delinquent. Alex has on his suit and tie, while I rock a pair of black skinny jeans, high-heels, and a blazer I bought for Gram’s funeral and never intended to wear again. I raise a brow at him. “I look like a goddamn teacher, Alex.”

  “A hot teacher,” he corrects me, a cocky grin on his lips.

  Wow, was that a compliment? “Are you sick?”

  Alex makes a face. “All I’m saying is that less stripper and more teacher suits you.”

  Yep, that sounds more like him. “You know,” I say, one hand pressed against my hip. “You’re pretty much the only guy I know who can compliment and insult a girl at the same time.”

  He bats his thick black lashes. “What can I say? I’m multitasking.” The guy is so full of himself, he gives arrogance a new definition.

  “You’re a multitasking jerk,” I say as we stroll toward the building.

  Shaking my hips, I head straight to the reception desk, where a lanky guy in his early twenties plays Call of Duty on an iMac.

  The moment he spots me, his eyes go wide. “H-hello,” he stammers like a third-grader who has just come eye to eye with his senior crush. “How can I help you?” There’s something in his hollow gaze that gives me the creeps.

  You could stop staring for starters.

  Alex slams his badge on the counter. “Special Agent Remington, and,” he looks at me, uncertain how to introduce me, “Special Agent Bishop. We’re here to see Isobelle Watson.”

  I grin. Special Agent? I kinda like the sound of that.

  Creeper Dude frowns. “FBI, huh?”

  His aura a confident orange, Alex straightens. “Yes, and we don’t have all day, pal.”

  Creeper Dude grabs a universal keycard from his desk and points to the elevator. “Well, follow me, Special Agents.” His voice is loaded with envy.

  What happens next is the most awkward elevator ride of my life. Obsessed with my two ladies, Creeper Dude gives Peeping Tom a run for his money. Alex, always the protector, does his best to shield me from his weird glares, but the dude is still drooling all over me. I breathe a sigh of relief when we reach the second floor, and the doors finally slide open.

  “It’s the first room on the right,” Creeper Dude, whom I believe to be the next Ted Bundy, explains as he unlocks a massive glass door. “Guess I should warn you though. The chick is a real nutcase.”

  “Thanks for the warning, but we’ll take it from here,” Alex says sharply.

  Despite the guy’s lack of intelligence, he keeps quiet and heads back to the only place where someone like him can make friends. Hell? No, the internet. Different word, same meaning.

  When I’d heard the word asylum, I imagined a lot of things. Albert Einstein wannabes with crazy hair, tell-tale-heart killers looking for evil eyes, and yellow-wallpaper chicks with diaries. But nothing prepared me for the horror inside room 213.

  Straitjacket. Shackles. Drugs. And in the midst of it all, a little girl who whispers, “Mary had a little lamb, little lamb” on repeat.

  “Jesus,” Alex mutters under his breath. “That is—”

  “Fucked up?” I offer, never taking my eyes off the kid.

  Walking toward the ghostly girl, he nods. “Yeah, that sums it up.”

  Isobelle’s long brown hair is scattered across a white pillow, and her otherworldly blue eyes are fixed on the ceiling. Like a woodland flute, her voice echoes in the sterile room, singing that same damn song over and over.

  I swallow the initial shock and brush a strand of hair out of her face. “Sweetheart, can you hear me?”

  Her cracked lips move. “Je viens pour toi. Tais-toi! Tais-toi!”

  “What is she saying?” Alex asks.

  Is he for real? The only sentence I know in French is voulez-vous coucher avec moi. “Do I look like Google translate?”

  A flicker of annoyance crosses his face, and I know he’s got something nasty to say, but he quickly shoves it to the back of his mind. “No, but you’re the witch. Can’t you mutter a translation spell or something?”

  Where does the PAU get their witch-knowledge, Charmed?

  Raising my eyebrows, I glare at him. “Sure, Alex. Let me just snap my fingers and I’ll translate.”

  He narrows his eyes. “Seriously?”

  “No.” I rest a hand on the kid’s forehead. “Isobelle, can you hear me?”

  “Tais-toi! Tais-toi,” she yells like a broken record.

  “Hey!” Alex snaps his fingers in front of her face. “Look at me.”

  No reaction. Literally. She doesn’t even blink.

  Bending over her, jerk-face runs a finger over her cheek. “We need your help, sweetheart. Can you talk to us?”

  She stiffens.

  “Isobelle?” he tries again, louder.

  This time she slowly turns her head and meets Alex’s eyes. The air grows dense. In a blink of an eye, she parts her lips, and high-pitched screams escape the depths of her tortured soul.

  Jesus, what the hell is she, the New Jersey Devil? I cover my ears, but the screams pierce my brain like a freaking hunting knife. Good job, Alex.

  Stumbling backward, jerk-face stares at me helplessly. “Do something,” I read from his lips.

  “What am I supposed to do?” I shout.

  He shrugs helplessly. “Dunno. But you better hurry before the medical staff shows up.”

  Isobelle tosses and turns like a maniac. But the straitjacket and shackles hold her down. More screams redden her scarred, pale face. I don’t know how much longer she can keep this up, but I’m pretty sure the glass building is going to shatter into pieces soon.

  I take her face in both hands and force her to look at me. “Shhh… It’s all right, sweetheart.”

  She jerks her head back and forth, desperately trying to fight me off. But I immobilize her head with one hand and put my index finger on her third eye, massaging it gently.

  “What are you doing?” Alex asks as Isobelle’s screams fade.

  “Something my grams used to do when I was a kid,” I explain.

  Alex comes closer. The moment Isobelle lays eyes on him she stiffens and quivers. “Step back,” I order. Applying more pressure to her forehead, I try to get a reading on her, but her emotions are all over the place.

  “Isobelle, listen to me.” My voice is too deep to mimic Gram’s, but I try my best to soothe her. “You gotta take a deep breath. Can you do that?”

  Still struggling, she stares at me. “He’s coming.”

  The fear in her voice sends shivers down my spine. “Who’s coming?” I ask, drawing circles on her forehead.

  A ray of black blazes from her third eye. “The demon,” she says in a hushed tone.

  When her irises disappear, and I gaze into the whites of her eyes, she looks one helluva lot like the antagonist of The Ring, and I always hated that movie.

  “Isobelle?”

  She doe
sn’t react.

  This is getting us nowhere. Time for Plan B, aka a little trip to Consciousland. I close my eyes and picture a ray of golden light breaking through the blackness. Pure energy runs from my fingers into her head, and when darkness is conquered by light I get a glimpse of—

  ****

  The humming of the air conditioner pulsated through Isobelle’s room. Pulling her blanket over her mouth, she lay in her bed, staring at a poster of Katniss Everdeen that hung on the wall. She wanted to be as brave as her, but the voice she had heard for days scared her. What if tonight was the night? What if the demon came and got her? Would someone help her? Her mommy and daddy slept in the room next to hers, but would they be here in time?

  “Je viens pour tois. I’m coming for you, Isobelle,” the voice in her head taunted again.

  She kept her eyes on the Hello Kitty lamp and prayed tonight wasn’t the night. She begged God to keep her safe, promised him she would be a good girl from then on. No more fighting with her brother. No more secret Vampire Diaries sessions with her little sister. With each minute that passed, her eyes grew heavier, and the dark twisted fantasies lost their hold over her.

  Until.

  She heard it again.

  The voice.

  But this time it sounded different. More real, closer. “She’s pretty,” it said.

  Fear cramped Isobelle’s stomach, and she blinked her eyes open. Two dark figures stood in her room. She tried to call for help, but someone pressed a hand over her mouth.

  After dragging her out of bed, one phantom pointed to the window. “We have to hurry.”

  “Don’t worry. They’re fast asleep,” a much older voice said.

  Isobelle’s eyes were wide open. Terror flushed her system as her gaze drifted from one shadowy figure to the other. Fight, she told herself. She started kicking, but only hit the air.

  “This one’s wild,” the older man said cheerfully.

  “Too wild,” the one with the alien accent said as he covered her nose to block the air supply.

  ****

  My heart beats like a fucking runaway train. The girl messes me up in ways I can’t even explain. It’s almost as if her emotions crush me like a thick, heavy pile of snow, and if I don’t break the connection, I’ll be buried under a deadly avalanche.

  Yanking my eyes open, I pull away.

  Isobelle is fast asleep. She must have exhausted herself screaming.

  “What did you see?” Alex whispers, careful not to wake her.

  I hide my trembling hands. “She was taken from her room.” My voice is as shaky as the rest of me, and I feel like a total wimp. Clearing my throat, I try to pull myself together. “Same guys who have Jesse, Alex.”

  He steps closer. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. Same voices, same disturbing accent.”

  His eyes shoot up. “Did you see their faces?”

  I shake my head and try not to sound like a pathetic little girl, but fail miserably. “It was too dark.”

  Alex reaches for my face. “Are you all right?”

  His fingers have barely brushed my cheek when I pull back. “Peachy,” I say, sounding less confident than intended. “If I dig deeper, I might be able to see where they held her,” I murmur, fixated on Isobelle’s battered body.

  Pointing to my trembling hands, he says in a voice thick with worry, “Sure you’re up for another round?”

  I arch a brow at him. “I’m fine.”

  He doesn’t buy it—I can see it in his eyes—but Alex knows better than to bug me further.

  Closing my eyes, I bring my finger back to her third eye, and her energy instantly connects with mine.

  ****

  Water dripped from the ceiling, echoing through an eerie darkness. Isobelle sat in the corner of the dog kennel. Head resting on her knees, she listened to the soft whimpers of the new kids that resonated through the damp air. They would beat the tears out of them, she thought. Her bruised face was proof of it.

  Heavy footsteps approached her prison, and her heart skipped a beat. She prayed they took another kid today. It was a terrible wish, but she couldn’t do it again. Not today.

  The rusty gate of the dog kennel squeaked as the man with the scorpion tattoo on his wrist unlocked it. Isobelle kept her eyes downcast. On her first day, she had made the mistake of looking in Scorpion Man’s face. Her punishment had been ten lashes with the whip.

  “Get up,” he ordered in that strange accent she’d grown to hate.

  She didn’t move. If he wanted her, he had to come and get her.

  Bony fingers reached inside her new home, trying to grab her. “I said get out!”

  “N-o.” The word came out broken.

  Scorpion Man wrapped cold fingers around her ankle. She wanted to fight him off, but she couldn’t. She was too tired to resist. He dragged her out of the kennel, tearing her white nightgown in the process. It didn’t hurt; pain was no longer something she felt.

  Isobelle’s heart hammered against her ribcage. “Please,” she cried. “I just want to go home.”

  His cruel laughter floated through the dungeon. “You are home.” Grabbing a fistful of her hair, he hauled her past the other kennels.

  One of the new kids, a little girl with blonde hair, watched in horror. Isobelle knew the expression on her face; it was the same she’d had when she saw for the first time what they did to the others.

  She’ll get used to it, Isobelle thought. They all did.

  “Sit down,” Scorpion Man yelled, pushing her onto the filthy mattress in the center of the dungeon.

  Isobelle hated the mattress; it was dirty and reeked of fish. Just like her.

  “Switch the camera on,” the older man said, stepping out of a dark corner, wearing the same creepy clown mask as always.

  Scorpion Man walked to the camcorder pointed at the mattress. “Why rush? We have time.”

  “Save your breath and do it.”

  Scorpion Man shrugged and pushed a button. “Whatever you want.”

  The bright white light of the camera blinded Isobelle. She closed her eyes and hugged her knees.

  “It’s okay. We’re going to have lots of fun,” Clown Man said, running a hand through her hair.

  “Don’t,” she begged as the beast pinned her on the mattress, suffocating her under his weight.

  He grabbed her chin. “Look at me, Scarlet.”

  She shook her head and shut her eyes. My name is Isobelle, she thought. It’s Isobelle.

  “Open your goddamn eyes,” he yelled, unbuckling his belt.

  But she didn’t.

  She hummed an old song her mom used to sing to her. “Mary had a little lamb, little lamb.” The scent of roses returned. So did the sharp pain.

  It went on for hours, weeks, months, or maybe just minutes. It was impossible to say.

  ****

  Tears burn through my closed eyes. I pull my hand away. Shaking like crazy, I gasp for air.

  “Manda?” I feel Alex’s hand on my shoulder, but instantly jerk away.

  “Don’t touch me,” I warn.

  “What’s the matter?”

  I’m going to kill them. That’s what’s the matter. I don’t care if Alex puts a bullet through my brain or if kiss my new life goodbye. I will kill those bastards.

  “Manda, are you…” he pauses. “Crying?”

  “Allergies,” I croak and make a run for the door.

  Chapter 12

  What the hell am I doing here? I could have been in New York by now, living a normal life as a fucked-up-always-drunk student. Instead, I’m glaring at mammoth waves crashing on Manhattan Beach’s shore, watch wannabe Pamela Andersons play volleyball, and can hardly breathe because I’m being suffocated by what I saw and felt.

  Inhaling the salt-impregnated air, I try to forget, but the dog kennels and Isobelle’s eyes haunt me. What the fuck is wrong with these guys? Abducting little girls. Raping them on a daily basis. How can someone get off on this shit? And where
the hell is God when all of this goes down? If I had his power, I’d bring forward the freaking apocalypse.

  I gaze at the azure blue ocean and try to control the hurricane building up inside me, but the lethal storm is raging and out for blood. I’m no saint, but anyone who abuses magic like this deserves to die. My heartbeat thunders in my ears while I picture a million ways to rip those monsters’ hearts out—blunt spoons, nasty chainsaws, sharp fingernails—it all sounds painfully tempting.

  “Hey.” Alex interrupts my twisted thoughts. “Look what I found.” Taking a seat next to me, he hands me an iced coffee and holds a box of yummy cupcakes under my nose. “Apparently, these are the best in town.”

  “Says who?” I ask, eyes on the sea foam.

  Alex loosens his tie and flashes me a lopsided grin. “The lady who sold ’em.”

  Arching a brow, I peek at the box. “Lemon?”

  “And strawberry,” he adds as if it isn’t awkward he still remembers my favorite flavor. He takes a bite, and his eyes roll back in pleasure. “Damn, they’re awesome. You should have one,” he suggests, shoving the box toward me.

  I draw in a deep breath and shake my head. “I’m good, Alex.” I know exactly what he’s trying to do, and while I appreciate his sweetness, I don’t need his pity. I shed a few tears, so? Doesn’t mean I’m one of those pathetic girls who need a guy to cheer them up.

  He takes another bite and shrugs. “Your loss, my gain.”

  My lips curl into a half-smile. “You don’t even like lemon,” I counter.

  Bright pink swirls around him. I can literally see his embarrassment at being caught doing something nice for me. “Whatever,” he snaps. “If you won’t eat ’em, I will.”

  “No, you won’t,” I say, grabbing a cupcake.

  He studies me with a victorious smile. “Admit it. They’re good.”

  “I’ve had better,” I lie, mouth full.

  We finish the box off in silence, and although I know sooner rather than later, I will have to tell him what I saw, I’m glad he hasn’t fired any questions at me yet. It reminds me why I was drawn to him in the first place. Alex is, without a doubt, a self-righteous jerk whose world is black and white, but he also belongs to the rare species that gives you space and allows you to come clean on your own terms. For a girl like me, that means everything.