Ethan, YA Paranormal Romance

by P. T. Michelle

  Ethan

  A Brightest Kind of Darkness Novella

  Prequel

  by

  P.T. Michelle

  Copyright 2013 by P.T. Michelle

  All rights reserved. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook cannot be re-sold or given away to others. No parts of this ebook may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover credit: Designed by Keith Draws.

  Chapter One

  Heavy claws clamp onto my arms, grabbing me from behind.

  A piercing screech reverberates to the back of my skull.

  In the dim light, I can make out scales and long teeth, but it’s the putrid smell that twists my stomach in knots.

  The creature’s powerful nails dig into the muscles of my forearms, latching on. I shudder as darkness engulfs me like a lead cape, weighing me down, always trying to pull me under.

  Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, a whisper trickles through. Don’t you feel the welcome of eternal bliss? No more seeing. No more feeling. Just close your eyes and sleep.

  Visceral survival erupts from deep within me, and I tug hard, gritting my teeth through the nails slicing along my arms like knives sliding through butter. Pain is my constant companion here. It’s one thing I can count on.

  Pressure clamps my chest and fire licks my skin, but I let out a surprisingly inhuman growl and pivot, plowing a fist into the creature’s snout. The moment his hold loosens, I break free.

  I awake on a gulp of air and yank upright in a tangle of bed sheets. My dreams seem to be getting worse. I quickly run my fingers across the tattoo on my forearm and blow out a harsh breath. Still intact. Sweat trickles down my neck and chest as I roll my head from one shoulder to the other and mutter, “Just another messed up night.”

  Scrubbing my disheveled hair from my face, I lean over and reach for my sketchpad and pencil from the carpet, but my hands are shaking too much to draw a straight line. I grunt and set them aside for later. It’s not like the image will fade like normal dreams do. These images are seared in my memory with laser precision.

  The bottle of pills on my nightstand mocks me, so I carry it into the bathroom and run the sink’s tap. “Go ahead,” a gravely voice from my dream grates in my ear. “Try to put a muzzle on me.” I wait several seconds, then pull out a pill. When a sneering snarl reverberates in my head, I narrow my gaze and promptly drop it in the toilet. After I flush, I ignore my down-turned lips in the mirror. Instead, I focus on the flicker of amusement in the deep blue eyes peering through my dark bangs. The voice is gone. For now.

  You know you’re a hundred-and-eighty degrees of effed up when you give yourself a disapproving frown. Then again, the fact I know what I’m doing should qualify as sane behavior. Conscious disregard works for me. I refuse to experience life cocooned in a layer of hazy, mind-numbing reality. I kind of like to give a damn.

  “Great birthday so far,” I snark at my reflection before turning on the shower.

  * * *

  “Happy seventeenth, bro.” Samson’s blond eyebrows elevate from behind his morning cup of coffee as he zings a familiar blue plastic bag from my favorite electronic store across the kitchen table toward me.

  I catch the bag just before it slides off onto the floor. Maybe he got me those headphones I’ve been wanting.

  Samson chuckles and takes a sip while I pull out my present. He’s watching me warily, like I’m some kind of science experiment.

  “Thanks,” I mutter unenthusiastically and set the unopened cell phone box on the counter, then turn to the fridge.

  “Ethan…” my brother begins on a heavy sigh.

  “I don’t need a phone,” I say and reach for the orange juice.

  “You’re starting at the new school tomorrow. I’d like this time to go better.”

  The disappointment in his voice tightens my grip on the door handle. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Getting kicked out of your last school is not fine. You need to find a way to redirect yourself positively. I just want to know—”

  “Where I am at all times.” Swiping up the juice box, I lean on the fridge door and stare at the wall, reliving the moment when the police found me at my secret hang out spot and put me in cuffs. I got hauled away to jail, all because my parents believed I was the one who broke into our lake house and vandalized my dad’s BMW. In my parents’ minds, only drugs could explain my sudden erratic behavior. I learned two lessons that day: never to trust my parents, and there’s a downside to hanging with people with drug habits. “You going to use it to have me arrested too?”

  “Don’t compare me to them. Ever,” my brother grates, then softens his tone. “I’m not trying to keep tabs on you, Ethan. I’ll just feel better knowing you can call me if…you need anything.”

  So you can talk me out of going off the rails like I did at my last school? I lift the juice box to my lips and gulp down several noisy swallows.

  “Are you trying to piss me off?”

  Maybe. Probably. He hates when I don’t use a cup. “No.” Normally he’s already left for work by now. I know he stayed to wish me a happy birthday. I set the juice back on the rack and shut the door, intending to let it go when my gaze snags on the blue envelope on the table that wasn’t there a second ago.

  “Found that in the mailbox this morning,” he says quietly, folding his arms across his dress shirt. “They’ll call sometime today.”

  No they won’t.

  Samson tries to look casual, yet slight hope and sympathy lurks as his light blue gaze pings between the envelope and me. Samson might be five years older, but he gets me, even if he doesn’t understand what I really deal with. He accepts without reservation, which I appreciate, but I don’t want his sympathy.

  I stare at the card. Ethan Harris is stamped on the address label. The return address label reads Sherri and Gerald Harris. Labels. I’m now a name on their obligatory card list along with the rest of their country club friends. Nice. I snatch up the card and head back toward my room.

  “Aren’t you going to open it?”

  “You’re going to be late for work if you don’t leave now,” I call over my shoulder.

  * * *

  I wait until Samson’s car pulls out of the driveway, then grab my mp3 player and car keys and lock up the house. Oak Lawn Cemetery is quiet when I pull up. It’s so early no one’s out. Not even the old caretaker I’ve seen shuffling around from time to time. Suits me fine. I’m not in the mood for idle chit-chat.

  The main gate is locked, so I skirt the fence surrounding the large cemetery until I see the willow at the back of the property. It takes me all of two seconds to climb the thick wrought iron that’s apparently there for ornamental purposes. It’s not like people go around breaking into cemeteries.

  The trees sport various shades of oranges, reds and yellows, but my gaze tracks the ravens scattered throughout their limbs. The birds emit guttural greetings. I nod to them, but keep my head down as I head toward the willow.

  I figure everyone has a place they go. The willow is my place. I lean against its thick trunk and let its weeping branches wrap me in a feeling of seclusion. In a few weeks the fronds will drop and I’ll be visible among the grove of trees lining the back of the cemetery, but until then it’s my own personal haven. I found this space not lo
ng after I moved to Virginia with my brother. Samson’s the strong silent type, saying as little as possible. Sometimes I like that about him. The less probing questions the better. But other times, when I’m feeling overwhelmed by all the noise going on in my head, all the images and voices that refuse to give me peace, I wish he’d push for answers. Demand them even. For now…the willow suffices.

  With a sigh I plug in my ear buds and turn on a Southern rock tune, then reach inside my jacket and remove the card from my parents. I dig its sharp corners into the pads of my fingers and wait, savoring the tiny spark of hope. For a few brief moments I fantasize about the huge sweeping apology poured into a long, drawn out letter full of love and acceptance.

  I tear into the envelope and stare at the generic it-could’ve-been-anyone’s-birthday card greeting. HAPPY BIRTHDAY it reads in bold blue letters on a plain bright yellow background. I wish they weren’t, but my hands shake as I flip it open.

  Here’s hoping you have a great birthday.

  Mom and Dad

  They didn’t even bother putting my name in front of the printed birthday wish that comes standard on the card. Out of morbid curiosity, I glance at the check tucked in the crease. Ten thousand dollars. For your college fund the bank had typed in the memo section. Guess the price of guilt has gone up. Last year’s check was five grand.

  My attention slides to the Mom and Dad signature. It’s my mom’s handwriting. Maybe next year the signature will be a rubber stamp like they use on their Christmas cards that says, Much love, Sherri and Gerald. Somehow that might sound more sincere.

  Next year, I won’t even open it.

  Sliding the check and card back into the envelope, I clench my jaw and pull a lighter from my pocket. I sit up straighter to quash the twist in my stomach as the blue envelope bursts into flames. Before the licking heat reaches my fingers, I drop the flaming paper in the spot scorched by my past birthday and Christmas cards. Over in a disappointing flash. Just like this birthday. Right before the last of the flames die, I close my eyes and pretend I’m blowing it out. I want to be a normal seventeen-year-old, who focuses on sports and girls and where I’m going to college. But I’d settle for never hearing another taunting voice or seeing another dark, horrifying image in my mind or my dreams ever again.

  Exhaling a resigned sigh, I open my eyes and move to switch my current song to something more in tune with my sour mood when a strange noise bleeds through. What is that? I pause the music and pull out my ear buds to listen. A second or two later a pitiful sound carries on the fall wind whipping through the oaks in the cemetery. Someone is crying.

  I lean against the tree and squeeze my eyes closed, trying to shut it out. This is a cemetery after all. It’s likely anyone who’s here is crying for a reason that’s beyond fixable. But the wails are so utterly helpless and heartfelt, I’m on my feet and weaving past mausoleums and rows of headstones before I realize it.

  I reach a low headstone and frown. The bawling is clearly coming from this direction, but I don’t see anyone. Then I round the side of the headstone and the site of a small boy curled up on his side in front of the stone knocks the self-pity wind right out of me. He’s clutching a lone flower in his hand; probably picked it from someone’s garden on his way here.

  “Hey,” I say, squatting next to him.

  He quickly gulps and sits up, eyes wide. Scrubbing the tear tracks from his dark cheeks, he says, “Who are you? You’re not supposed to be here!”

  He’s so adamant, my eyebrows elevate. “I’m not?”

  The kid shakes his head and runs his free hand along his nearly shaved scalp. A pink scar above his left ear stands out against his dark hair and skin underneath. “Nah, no one’s here this early. Even Mr. Thomas.”

  So that’s the old caretaker’s name. I tilt my head and give a brief smile. “You want to cry in peace?”

  He starts to nod, then scowls. “I wasn’t crying. I’m not a baby!”

  I touch the headstone he’s leaning against and peer around him to read the inscription. “Is this someone you knew?”

  Sadness falls over his face as he sets the flower against the stone, then pulls a toy car out of his coat pocket. Running it along his leg, he mumbles, “My mom died when I was six.”

  The way he holds onto that car tells me it’s more than just a toy to him. “And how old are you now?”

  His cheeks puff with pride. “I’m six and a half.”

  “That half a year makes all the difference,” I say, nodding sagely. “I’m Ethan. What’s your name?”

  He scrunches his nose in doubt. “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”

  I shrug and sit down. “Okay, I’ll just call you Todd then.”

  “That’s not my name!” he says, jerking upright. “I’m Marcus.”

  “Nice to meet you, Marcus.” I incline my head toward the headstone. “I take it you’re here to talk to your mom. I’m sorry she’s not able to reply, but if you want, I’ll be happy to be your sounding board.”

  “Huh? Sounding what?”

  I chuckle. “Someone to talk to about whatever’s bothering you.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be in school?” he accuses as he slides the car’s wheels along the side of his squeaky-clean tennis shoes. Must’ve just gotten them.

  “Aren’t you?”

  He smiles at that, flashing small perfect teeth. “Yeah, but I had a bad morning, so I gave myself a day off.”

  I eye him. Sounds like something he’s heard an adult say before. “You think your teachers will feel that way?”

  A crease forms between his eyebrows. “Prolly not.”

  “Tell me about your bad morning. I know a thing or two about those.” I’m the King of Understatement.

  He shrugs and digs at the ground for so long I start to say something else when he drops the stick and grabs onto the Velcro strap on his shoe. Ripping it open violently, he grumbles, “My dad says I’m a baby because I don’t know how to tie my shoes yet.”

  Is that all? I want to sputter, but as I watch him refasten the Velcro strap, a horrific smell floats my way. I can’t believe that putrid stench is following me from my dreams now. Images and voices I’m learning to deal with but smells are new, making it feel more real somehow. Well shit. Probably should’ve taken the damn pill. The stench grows stronger with the boy’s jerky movements, drawing my gaze to his wrist. Where his jacket has ridden up, deep bruises in various shades—bruises on top of bruises—show in vivid clarity against his darker skin tone.

  Someone has grabbed him hard and repeatedly. I look into his eyes and recognize his haunted, trapped expression. My circumstances are entirely different, but I get the feeling of never being able to escape.

  I can touch his shoulder and console him, but comfort is fleeting; it means you depended on someone else to get you through. I’ve learned that pain, both emotional and physical, can be a necessary evil, a visceral reminder life is gritty and real. When you finally stumble your way through the discomfort, you learn from it. Coping tools are better. They teach you how to survive.

  So tools it is. I untie the shoelace on one of my Chucks. “Want to see how I tie my shoes?” I say as I make two loops, one on each lace. I twist the two loops together then flip one of the loops around the other, tying them together. As I finish with a double knot, the boy snickers.

  “That’s a weird way of tying shoes.”

  I glance at him through my bangs, eyebrows raised. “Says the kid who can’t tie his own shoes.” Marcus frowns and starts to turn away, but I continue, “This is called the bunny-ears method. I learned it in Kindergarten and to this day people still laugh at me when they see me tie my shoes.”

  “Then why don’t you learn the other way?”

  I shrug. “Why? This way works. It’s what I know. Sometimes you have to stand up for yourself, Marcus, even if the way you choose to do things is different from everyone else. It doesn’t make you any less. It just makes you unique. Never compromise your excep
tionalness.”

  “Exceptional-ness?” His brow creases as he stumbles through the word. “Is that a real word?”

  I hold his skeptical gaze. “Today it is.”

  Marcus presses his lips and appears to mull over my comment. Gesturing to my shoe, he says, “Can you show me again?”

  After I show him once more, I let Marcus practice on my shoe until he can do it himself.

  I pull out a candy bar I brought to “celebrate” my annual card burning. As I tear open the wrapping, I ask, “You want to split this with me?”

  Marcus nods vigorously.

  While we enjoy the chocolate, nuts and caramel goodness, a quiet descends between us. The ravens’ soft croaks and rack sounds start up, growing louder as if they’re trying to outdo one another. Marcus slides an apprehensive glance toward the trees. “I’ve never seen so many of these birds here before.”

  “Really?” I say in surprise, following his gaze. “Must be the time of day you come. There’s always a whole horde whenever I’m here.”

  A slight shudder ripples through the little boy. “You don’t think they’re kind of creepy?”

  I laugh. I can’t help it. I’ve never been bothered by ravens. Everywhere we’ve lived, they’ve been around. Unlike humming birds in the spring, finches in the summer, and geese in the fall, ravens claim all the seasons. “You should look ravens up some time. They’re actually pretty smart birds, despite the fact they eat carrion. The next time you come for a visit, think of them as constant companions and you’ll never feel alone again.”

  Marcus ponders for a few seconds as he licks the chocolate off his fingers. Tilting his head, he asks, “What if the ravens don’t help?”

  “Tell you what, if you ever need to talk,” I pause and nod toward the toy car he’d tucked back in his pocket, “Then leave your car on top of your mother’s grave. I’ll show up this time the next day. Sound good?”