by Deanna Chase
“Want the honors?” she asked, shaking the dirt from her dress.
Armand hesitated, though he understood it had to be him. He had channeled the beast. It was his demon to put to rest.
He took what was left of the doll, now wrapped between two pieces of stained glass and bound tightly with twine, and set it in the hole beside his father’s tombstone. His father would watch over it from the afterlife, helping ensure it did no further harm in this world. Before covering it with dirt, he decided to add one more item to the grave.
“You sure you want to do that?” Sasha asked as Armand placed the watch in the hole.
“Yes. I thought it was all I had of my father, but I was wrong.”
He filled in the hole and tapped it flat, setting the small wooden cross and the rosary beads on top of it.
Dora shook her head. “I’m goin’ ta check on the girl.”
Their eyes followed her in.
“So what really saved her?” Armand asked as Dora’s broad body disappeared into the church.
“Faith. It’s what saves us all.” Sasha looked up, fingering the crystal bracelet on her wrist. “You know, I think we all work for the same boss, we’re just in different offices.” She put her arm around his waist, resting her head on his shoulder.
Armand nodded, but he still had one more question for her. “I still don’t understand how my father could have been a priest. Aren’t priests supposed to be pure?”
“And what makes you think he wasn’t?”
“I’m his bastard child.” He stared again at the date of his father’s death. 1941. His mother was pregnant then. “I still have no idea how they met, or how he really died.”
Sasha lifted her head to meet his eyes. “Armand, your mother was a witch. When she was younger, at least. She kept that from you.”
“What?”
“I wasn’t able to get a read on your father, but your mother is all over you. You got your abilities from her, and your penchant for trouble.”
“But it was my father who…”
“…was under her spell.” Sasha picked up a stone, rolling it in her hands. “She did it for love, at least, and gave up the craft shortly after you were born. She never believed that it was wrong, but it was her way of honoring your father. Her secret would have stayed with her, had she not had a child with the same abilities.”
Armand swallowed, almost afraid to ask. “Did she…?” he put his fingers to his neck in a slicing motion.
“No.” She smiled. “He was already sick. When he died your mother converted to Catholicism to honor him.”
Armand rubbed the sides of his temples, wishing he had some more of Dora’s special aspirin, or even her god-awful tea. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I could only see part of the story until today. I’m sorry.” She glanced back at the church. “We’ve sent for Isabella’s father. She’ll be fine.”
“Can she get past this? She hates herself now. It could happen again.”
“I spoke with her a few minutes ago and she confessed everything. When you broke up with her she sought revenge by making a deal with a demon. She gave herself to him, in return for ‘making you pay.’” She shrugged. “I guess it worked, but not in the way she intended.”
“But she was so good. How could she have bargained with a demon?”
“Armand, you’re not the only one who struggles. We all do. It’s up to each of us to balance our scales.” Sasha smiled, and tossed her rock to the ground. “I wouldn’t worry too much about your part in this, either. I cast a forget spell on her. The last two months will be blurry. Sorry, but she’s not going to remember you as the man who made her a woman.”
Armand returned the smile. “Too bad. That would have been a really good memory for her.”
He laced his hands behind his head. The rain had ended and the first glimmer of pink appeared on the horizon. “I’m not sure what to do now.”
Sasha took his hand and they wound their way through the cemetery, looking at the names of those who had already come and gone. “Life’s short. Take a chance.”
“Even after what’s happened, you still want me to come with you?”
“Someone’s got to train you. You’re a powerful…man. I can’t let you run around untrained. Who knows how many women you’ll scorn? Then we’ll have demons running all over the place.”
Beneath an old withered tree, Armand pressed Sasha to the iron gate and tasted her lips. Her white aura flickered around her, fully restored.
“Am I more powerful than you?” he asked.
“Maybe. But I doubt it.”
“I’m sure I am.”
“Come with me then, and prove it.”
He pressed in tighter, aware of the strength of her life force. It was sweet and seductive, yet nourishing.
“As I’ve told you before, I can never love you,” she said, lifting her defiant chin.
“You don’t need to,” he said, kissing her again as his hand moved up her skirt. “So long as I own you.”
“Hmm…we’ll see who owns who.”
He made love to her there in the mud. She allowed him to take from her, and she took from him in return. Afterwards she put her head on his chest.
“You’re coming with us. Times are dark, Armand. You’ll help change the fate of the world.”
He kissed the top of her head and considered.
He had no stake in the world, but he knew he needed her, for many reasons.
“Yes, I’ll go with you,” he said, stroking her hair. “But just be warned…I can never love you either.”
She traced his lips with her finger. “You don’t need to, so long as I own you.”
The End
About the Author
April spent her childhood with her fortune-telling mother and her get-rich-quick-scheming stepfather: traveling the carnival circuit, selling products door to door, and living in an abandoned miner's shack in the Superstition Mountains of Arizona. During her travels she met many interesting people who have found their way into her novels.
Later, April went to live with her martial artist father and spent her days twirling swords and performing karate chops–skills she now only uses on her husband when he's forgotten to take out the recycling.
When she isn't writing, April enjoys Zumba, reading, Netflix, and video games. She is also an avid collector on anything related to: psychology, sociology, the occult, and world religion.
Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/AprilAasheimWriter
Sign up for my mailing list at:
http://www.aprilaasheimwriter.com
Twitter: @aprilaasheim
More in the Witches of Dark Root Series:
The Witches of Dark Root (Daughters of Dark Root Series, Book 1)
The Magick of Dark Root (Daughters of Dark Root Series, Book 2)
Coming Spring/Summer 2015: The Curse of Dark Root (Daughters of Dark Root Series, Book 3)
Other books by April Aasheim
The Universe is a Very Big Place (A quirky, romantic comedy)
JUMP TO...
NEW REVELATIONS by HEATHER TOPHAM WOOD
ARMAND by APRIL AASHEIM
TUESDAY’S CHILD by DALE MAYER
JUST A LITTLE NUDGE by JESI LEA RYAN
HAUNTED ON BOURBON STREET by DEANNA CHASE
SPIRITS AMONG US by MORGAN HANNAH MACDONAND
LONDON by JC ANDRIJESKI
AMONG THE LIVING by JORDAN CASTILLO PRICE
VAMPIRE VACATION by C.J. ELLISSON
TOUCHED by HAZEL HUNTER
TUESDAY’S CHILD
A Psychic Visions Novel
BY DALE MAYER
What she doesn't want...is exactly what he needs.
Shunned and ridiculed all her life for something she can't control, Samantha Blair hides her psychic abilities and lives on the fringes of society. Against her will, however, she's tapped into a killer–or rather, his victims. Each woman's murder, blow-by-blow, ravages her mind unt
il their death releases her back to her body. Sam knows she must go to the authorities, but will the rugged, no-nonsense detective in charge of tracking down the killer believe her?
Detective Brandt Sutherland only trusts hard evidence, yet Sam's visions offer clues he needs to catch a killer. The more he learns about her incredible abilities, however, the clearer it becomes that Sam's visions have put her in the killer's line of fire. Now Brandt must save her from something he cannot see or understand...and risk losing his heart in the process.
As danger and desire collide, passion raises the stakes in a game Sam and Brandt don't dare lose.
Heat Level: 3
CHAPTER ONE
2:35 am, March 15th
Samantha Blair struggled against phantom restraints. No, not again.
This wasn't her room or her bed, and it sure as hell wasn't her body. Tears welled and trickled slowly from eyes not her own. Then the pain started. Still, she couldn't move. She could only endure. Terror clawed at her soul while dying nerves screamed.
The attack became a frenzy of stabs and slices, snatching all thought away. Her body jerked and arched in a macabre dance. Black spots blurred her vision, and still the slaughter continued.
Sam screamed. The terror was hers, but the cracked, broken voice was not.
Confusion reigned as her mind grappled with reality. What was going on?
Understanding crashed in on her. With it came despair and horror.
She'd become a visitor in someone else's nightmare. Locked inside a horrifying energy warp, she'd linked to this poor woman whose life dripped away from multiple gashes.
Another psychic vision.
The knife slashed down, impaling the woman's abdomen, splitting her wide from ribcage to pelvis. Her agonized scream echoed on forever in Sam's mind. She cringed.
The other woman slipped into unconsciousness. Sam wasn't offered the same gift. Now, the pain was Sam's alone. The stab wounds and broken bones became Sam's to experience even though they weren't hers.
The woman's head cocked to one side, her cheek resting on the blood-soaked bedding. From the new vantage point, Sam's horrified gaze locked on a bloody knife held high by a man dressed in black from the top of his head down. Only his eyes showed, glowing with feverish delight. She shuddered. Please, dear God, let it end soon.
The attacker's fury died suddenly. A fine tremor shook his arm as fatigue set in. "Shit." He removed his glove and scratched beneath the fabric.
In the waning moonlight, from the corner of her eye, Sam caught the metallic glint of a ring on his hand. It mattered. She knew it did. She struggled to imprint the image before the opportunity was lost. Her eyes drifted closed. In the darkness of her mind, the wait was endless.
Sam's soul wept. Oh, God, she hated this. Why? Why was she here? She couldn't help the woman. She couldn't even help herself.
She welcomed the next blow – so light only a minor flinch undulated through the dreadfully damaged woman. Her tortured spirit stirred deep within the rolling waves of blackness, struggling for freedom from this nightmare. With one last surge of energy, the woman opened her eyes, and locked onto the white rings of the mask staring back. In ever-slowing heartbeats, her circle of vision narrowed until the two soulless orbs blended into one small band before it blinked out altogether. The silence, when it came, was absolute.
Gratefully, Sam relaxed into death.
Twenty minutes later, she bolted upright in her own bed. Survival instincts screamed at her to run. White agony dropped her in place.
"Ohh," she cried out. Fearing more pain, she slid her hands over her belly. Her fingers slipped along the raw edges of a deep slash. Searing pain made her gasp and twist away. Hot tears poured. Warm, sticky liquid coated her fingers. "Oh. God. Oh God, oh God," she chanted.
Staring in confusion around her, fear, panic, and finally, recognition seeped into her dazed mind. Early morning rays highlighted the water stains shining through the slap-dash coat of whitewash on the ceiling and the banged up suitcases, open on the floor. An empty room – an empty life. A remnant of a foster-care childhood.
She was home.
Memories swamped her, flooding her senses with yet more hurt. Sam broke down. Like an animal, she tried to curl into a tiny ball only to scream again as pain jackknifed through her. Torn edges of muscle tissue and flesh rubbed against each other, and broken ribs creaked with her slightest movement. Blood slipped over her torn breasts to soak the sheets below.
The smell. Wet wool fought with the unique and unforgettable smell of fresh blood.
Sam caught her breath and froze, her face hot, tight with agony. "Shit, shit, and shit!" She swore under her breath like a mantra.
Tremors wracked her tiny frame, keeping the pain alive as she morphed through realities. Transition time. What a joke. That always brought images of new age mumbo jumbo to mind. Nothing light and airy could describe this. Each blow leveled at the victim had manifested in her own body. This was hard-core healing – time when bones knitted, sliced ligaments and muscle tissue grew back together, and time for skin to stitch itself closed.
Sam understood her injuries had something to do with her imperfect control, paired with her inability to accept her gifts. Apparently, if she could surmount the latter the first would diminish. She didn't quite understand how or why. Or what to do about it. Her body somehow always healed, the physical and mental scars always remained. She was a mess.
The physical process usually took anywhere from ten to twenty minutes – depending on the injuries. The mental confusion, disconnectedness, sense of isolation took longer to disappear. She paid a high price for moving too soon. Shuddering, Sam reached for the frayed edges of her control. It wouldn't be much longer. She hoped.
Nothing could stop the hot tears leaking from her closed eyelids.
This session had been bad. Apart from the broken ribs, there were so many stab wounds. She'd never experienced one so physically damaging. Nervously, she wondered at the extent of her blood loss. If she didn't learn how to disconnect, these visions could be the end of her – literally.
Just like that poor woman.
Sam hated that these episodes were changing, growing, developing. So powerful and so ugly, they made her sick to her soul.
Several minutes later, Sam raised her head to survey the bed. The pain was manageable, although she wouldn't be able to move her limbs yet. Blood had soaked the top of the many Thrift Store blankets piled high on the bed. Her hollowed belly had become a vessel for the cooling puddle of blood. Shit. The stuff was everywhere.
The metallic taste clung to her lips and teeth. She rolled the disgusting spit around the inside of her mouth, waiting. She wanted to run away – from the memories, the visions, her life. But knowing that pain simmered beneath the surface, waiting to rip her apart, stopped her. Weary, ageless patience added to the bleakness in her heart.
Ten more minutes passed. Now, she should be good to go. Lifting her head, she spat the bloody gob onto the waiting wad of tissue and noted the time.
Transition had taken fifteen minutes this morning.
She was improving.
Oh God. Sam broke into sobs again. When would this end? Other psychics found things or heard things. Many of them saw events before they happened. She saw violence – not only saw, but experienced it too.
Occasional shudders wracked her frame from the coldness that seemed destined to live in her veins. The odd straggling sniffle escaped. She couldn't remember when she'd last been warm. Dropping the top blood-soaked blanket to the floor, Sam tugged the motley collection of covers tighter around her skinny frame. Warmth was a comfort that belonged to others.
She wasn't so lucky. She walked with one foot on the dark side – whether she liked it or not. And that was the problem. She'd been running for a long time. Then she'd landed at this cabin and had been hiding ever since. That was no answer either.
Her resolve firmed. Enough was enough. It was time to gain control. Time to do something.
This monster had to be stopped. Now.
Christ, she was tired of waking up dead.
CHAPTER TWO
10:23 am, 16th May
The police station, a huge stonework building, towered above Sam, blending into the gray skies above. Or maybe she just felt small. Insignificant. She couldn't imagine choosing to spend time in this depressing place. It only needed gargoyles hanging from the dormers to complete the picture of doom.
The entire idea of what these people did defeated her. She understood the necessity, yet given her insider knowledge, this whole human viciousness thing was too much. She wouldn't be here now except another woman had been murdered.
Given her past interactions with the police, even that wouldn't have been enough to make her sign up for more. The last cop she'd dealt with had been one bad-assed bastard.
No. The ring had brought her here.
This morning's killer had worn a similar ring to the one Sam had seen several months ago in another vision. She'd caught only a brief glimpse of it then, with the memory surviving transition to burn an indelible mark on her heart. Even the mask and gloves had looked similar. The biggest nail in this guy's coffin had been the energy. Like DNA, energy was unique, a personalized signature so to speak. Both killers had the same energy, the same variations in wavelengths and ripples. Even the same type of vibration. But that was hardly police evidence.
Knowing that some asshole had killed again, filled her heart with sorrow and slowed her steps. Several fat raindrops splattered her face – the joys of living along coastal Oregon.
