Willpower
Page 1
Lake Linden, Michigan
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a l s o a v a i l a b l e
Reborn to Die
The Falls: A Fantasy Romance Story
Contents
Other Books by Anna Durand
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
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
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Copyright Page
Chapter One
The last tendrils of sunset spread out across the sky as the ten-year-old Pontiac Sunbird swerved into the driveway. The car's front bumper sideswiped a bush, spraying greenery over the hood.
Grace Powell gritted her teeth, her pale knuckles clamped around the steering wheel. She stared straight ahead, as if a taut string connected her eyes to the garage door. The glow of the headlights reflected off the big metal door. She squinted at the light. It pierced her vision like needles shoved straight through her eyeballs into her brain.
The car jerked to a stop inches from the garage. Grace uncurled her fingers from the steering wheel. Her head throbbed. Pains in her neck stabbed upward into the base of her skull. Christ. The migraine was getting worse. She shut off the engine. The headlights extinguished, bringing a blessed relief from the glare. She unhooked the seat belt. Her fingers slipped, and the retractor sucked the belt back into its housing with a thwack that made her wince. She eased the door open, dragged herself out and onto her feet, and then shut the door gently.
The garage stood attached to her home, a two-bedroom brick number with dirt-brown trim that matched the dirt-brown garage. A single light burned on the porch, next to the front door. Stains dotted the cracked strip of concrete that led from the driveway to the front door. The house squatted in the center of a one-acre lot, on the southern outskirts of Lassiter Falls, one of many Texas towns that hovered on the brink of becoming a city. A chain-link fence delineated the property.
Not that the property was hers. She rented the dump — okay, maybe dump was an exaggeration, though only slightly — because she couldn't afford anything else. Even apartments in this town cost more than her inconstant stream of income could handle.
Grace leaned against the car for a moment, enjoying the ever-deepening twilight, a respite from the knife-sharp headlights of other cars on the freeway and the sterile bulbs in the doctor's office. Her body ached from the hour-long drive back from Fort Worth. The trip had proved fruitless, netting her nothing but a burgeoning migraine and another visit to a specialist who could offer no explanation for her headaches — and no relief from them either. Doctors invariably asked questions she couldn't answer, then eyed her with a mixture of curiosity and pity as they offered excuses couched as possible explanations. Sure, the doctor today wrote her a prescription for some pills. She didn't bother to fill the prescription, though, because she knew the medication wouldn't work. Nothing worked.
The doctor had called her a "strange case." Comforting.
She rubbed the back of her neck, but the pain refused to relinquish its hold on her. With a heavy sigh, she pushed away from the car and trudged around its front bumper toward the concrete path.
The nape of her neck tingled. A current of frigid electricity rippled through her body. She froze mid step and listened for … something.
Someone is watching.
For months now, at odd moments, she'd felt a gaze fixated on her, trailing her movements, always hidden in shadows, hovering just beyond her comprehension. Of course, she dismissed the sensation as paranoia. Stress induced. Temporary.
The hairs all over her body stiffened.
A claw scratched at her shoulder from behind. She swung around, hands raised in defense, a shout lodged at the back of her throat.
A skinny, hunched man outstretched one bony hand. His fingers clawed at the spot her shoulder had occupied a second earlier. His brown eyes, wide and dilated, darted back and forth. A sheen of sweat glistened on his skin. His hair must've been trimmed with a chain saw, considering the way it stuck out in matted clumps. He looked as if he hadn't seen a shower in weeks, maybe months.
Grace scuffled backward.
The man stumbled forward.
"P-please," he said, the word punctuated with a burst of spittle. "Don't run. I need to talk. To you."
"You've got the wrong person."
"Grace Powell."
She ought to run inside, lock the door, and call the police. Instead, inching backward toward the front door, she asked, "What do you want?"
"Talk. To you. Please." He glanced over his shoulder and bit his lower lip, drawing a bead of blood. He dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper. "Inside. Hurry. They're coming."
"Who?"
"Inside. Now."
She stared at the little scarecrow of a man as she edged closer to the door — and to escape. The scarecrow man was probably a druggie who got hold of some bad crack or crank or whatever people called it these days. With those pupils, dilated beyond the effect of darkness, he must've been high on something.
Think, Grace. What do you do when a drugged-out scarecrow wants to talk to you?
Damned if she knew.
Grace slipped a hand inside her purse and clasped her keys. Drawing them out behind her back with one hand, with the other hand she felt behind her for the door knob . The serrated ends of the keys poked out between her fingers. If forced to, she might use the keys as a weapon.
The scarecrow whimpered. "Please. They're getting closer. In my brain."
His eyes bulged, as if they might pop loose from their sockets at any second. He panted and glanced around with jerky motions of his head.
"You wait here," Grace said. She closed her hand around the door knob. "I'll go inside and make sure they're not in the house."
She twisted the knob and shoved the door inward.
"No!" he screeched. "No!"
He rushed at her, his arms flailing. Spittle sprayed from his mouth as he sputtered objections at her, nonsensical phrases peppered with the words "no" and "please." She slashed at him with the keys and felt the metal catch on his cheeks. Blood oozed from the cuts, dribbling down his cheek into his mouth.
He clutched her elbow.
Wrenching her arm free, she threw herself backward through the doorway. Her shoelace snagged on the jamb. Her legs flipped out from under her. When her tailbone smacked into the floor, a lacework of pain fanned out through her hips and legs.
The scarecrow lunged at her.
She kicked at the door. Just as it banged shut, the scarecrow hit it with his full weight. The wood trembled. His cry, muted by the door, sounded more like the wail of a dying animal than the ranting of a madman.
Grace sprang to her feet. She flung herself at the door. Her fingers closed around the dead bolt and, fumbling to move it, she finally shoved the lock into place.
Aftershocks shook her entire body. Her tailbone smarted. Her heart pounded fast and har
d, in syncopation with her gasps. Outside, the scarecrow wailed.
"They want your mind!"
Despite the thick wood separating them, his cry vibrated her eardrums with an intensity that rattled her brain.
Abruptly, silence descended.
She stood immobile, the keys still clenched between her fingers, the metal digging into her skin. The door knob jiggled. Fingernails scraped at bricks. An image flashed in her mind's eye — the dead, risen from their graves, scrabbling to get inside the mortuary. In the vision, the mortuary bore an uncanny resemblance to her house.
Scratch-scratch. Jiggle-jiggle. Scratch. Jiggle.
Silence. The dead had returned to their graves.
Her heart knocked against her rib cage, wanting out of her chest as badly as the scarecrow had wanted to get inside the house. She took a slow, deep breath. For a long moment, she stood there propped against the door, her entire body shaking. She was afraid to move, to make a sound, to think about what had happened.
Maybe the scarecrow had left.
She needed to know for sure.
Cautiously, she settled her forehead against the door, above the peephole. Her eye lined up with the hole. The scarecrow's face, distorted by the lens, filled her view. His eyes glimmered green.
Weren't his eyes brown before?
In the half cone of light created by the porch bulb, she might've mistaken brown for green. Hell, she might've mistaken up for down when the scarecrow jumped her.
He leaned forward, his green eye staring back at her through the hole as if he saw her. She swallowed against the tightness in her throat. The shimmering of his eyes was … preternatural.
His body convulsed. He squinted and chewed his lip, oblivious of the blood trickling down his chin. His eyes glistened.
Was he crying?
His body convulsed again. In the wake of the tremor, he stilled and tensed his body. All expression vacated his face. Maybe the drugs had worn off.
Without a sound, seemingly in slow motion, he hurled himself at the door. The concussion slammed her forehead into the wood. She stumbled backward and lost her balance. For the second time tonight, her buttocks hit the floor hard.
She shouted a wordless cry of pain.
Footsteps clapped outside, fading as the scarecrow fled the vicinity.
And just like that, it was over.
Chapter Two
She sat on the floor, stunned. Though her tailbone smarted, the pain began to lessen. At first her body seemed to have turned to stone, and she couldn't make her muscles move, but soon that sensation also diminished. Her pulse calmed, beat by beat, as she took slow breaths. With every second that ticked past, her body eased back into its usual state. Now if the rest of her would follow, she could pretend to feel like a normal person.
Hauling herself onto her feet, shuffling to the door, Grace peeked through the peephole. The scarecrow was gone. What he wanted, why he picked her — those questions would remain unanswered, unless the lunatic returned later to explain himself.
Right before he ripped her heart out barehanded and tossed it onto a barbecue grill.
Leaning against the door, she closed her eyes. It was over. She relaxed against the door. Whatever the scarecrow man wanted, he'd given up on getting it, at least for the moment. He wouldn't come back.
She hoped.
Every hair on her body prickled. She felt something nearby, like a magnet pulling at the atoms of her body. Her chest tightened. The air seemed to push against her, simultaneously compressing her chest and trapping the breath inside her. She willed her eyelids to part.
A man stood across the room from her, near the kitchen doorway. He held his arms at his sides, his head tilted to the left. This man was not the crazy scarecrow. No, this man watched her with a steady gaze, his blue eyes studying her face and then examining her body. His gaze felt neither sexual nor threatening, more curious than alarming. The irises of his eyes glowed like sapphires lit from behind. A breeze ruffled his blonde hair. Somehow, she knew he meant her no harm.
Crazy. He must've broken into the house. She ought to scream for help.
She blurted out, "What do you want?"
His gaze settled on her face. Standing there as still as a boulder, he scrutinized her with unblinking eyes. Grace heard a car speed past on the street and peripherally saw its headlights slash through the interior of the house. Her focus stayed locked on the strange man, who kept on watching her. His blue eyes seemed to catch fire in the flare of headlights.
"Who are you?" she asked.
He ducked around the corner into the kitchen.
A gale tore through the house. Her hair whipped against her face. The gust whisked a newspaper off the coffee table and fluttered it in the air before releasing it to settle onto the floor.
Grace rushed into the kitchen. If the man came in through a window, it would explain both the wind and how he got inside the house. No one was in the kitchen. The window above the sink was shut. She spotted the window's lock, which was engaged. Moving to the back door, she twisted the knob. The lock resisted.
She searched the house room by room. Every closet, every nook, and every dark hole became a threat, a possible hideaway for the intruder, even the foot-high space under her bed. All windows were shut and locked, from the inside. Since the back and front doors were also locked, with dead bolts, the man could not have slipped in through any window or door. How did he enter the house?
Grace spun around. Behind her, the door to her bedroom hung open. In front of her, the hallway stretched into darkness. She hadn't dared turn on any lights during her search. Now the shadows loomed all around, grasping at her with claws of darkness and spitting shadow flames from their nostrils.
Call the police.
Her inner voice virtually screamed at her. But the man might still lurk in the house, perhaps trailing behind her to hide where she'd already looked. The idea sounded ridiculous. Yet the man broke into the house without cracking a window or jimmying a lock. Anything seemed possible. She needed to call for help.
The house had one phone. In the kitchen.
Between here and the kitchen lurked phantoms of every shape and size, plus one very real monster.
"Dammit," she muttered.
Grace bolted down the hallway.
In the kitchen, the overhead light vanquished the phantoms. No intruder awaited her. Nothing lurked there except air and light and the telephone. She snatched the cordless phone from its base and, fingers trembling, and 911.
When the operator answered, Grace's voice failed her. Yet when she did speak, her tone sounded calm, almost confident, despite the temblors in her limbs and the typhoon raging in her gut.
"Send the police," she said. "There's an intruder in my house."
The deputy aimed his best look of concern and pity at Grace, with a hint of irritation creasing the skin around his eyes. Grace slumped in the recliner across the coffee table from the sofa. With her foot, she rocked the chair in a ferocious rhythm.
The night had gotten worse. An intruder, she thought, must be the worst that could happen tonight. Then the deputy arrived and her day sank deeper into the cosmic toilet.
The sheriff's deputy, Reilly Skidmore, knew her. She had a vague recollection of him — of being ignored and taunted by him and his clique, the Super Nerds, guys too smart to speak to anyone who hadn't discovered a new protein by his fifteenth birthday. Back then, Reilly wore eyeglasses thicker than the arctic permafrost. Tonight he sported no glasses. And his skin had cleared up.
He did, however, retain that certain quality that made her want to deck him.
"About this intruder," Reilly said, "are you sure it wasn't the same guy who jumped you outside?"
"Positive."
"Maybe your eyes were playin' tricks on you," Reilly said. "Stress can affect a person in funny ways."
"I did not imagine it," she said, struggling to keep the anger out of her voice. "And there's nothing funny about confronting an intruder."
"Okay, okay. See, it's just that I didn't find any footprints other than yours and the first guy's. But those tracks don't prove anybody attacked you, only that someone was around. There's no sign of a break-in either."
She squinted at him. Tonight his Texas twang irked her for some reason, though it never had before. Every time Reilly spoke, his voice awakened a chorus of imaginary fingernails scraping across a blackboard in her mind. She found herself gritting her teeth and rocking the recliner even harder. The chair's base lifted off the floor slightly with each push backward, smacking down again with the forward motion.
"Maybe it was a black panther," Reilly said with a smirk. "Guy last week claimed one of them killed his cat. Turned out it was a black Rottweiler."
Grace huffed out a breath. "So I'm either crazy or stupid."
"That ain't it at all. I'm sayin' eyes can play tricks on us."
She glared at the wall. The conversation had spun in tornadic circles for twenty minutes. You're crazy. No, I'm not. Yes, you are. Reilly had searched the interior and exterior of the house, questioned neighbors on both sides of the street, interrogated Grace, and resolved nothing.
She was crazy. End of investigation.
"I'll keep an eye out for the guy who jumped you," Reilly said. "But I reckon he's long gone."
She wondered how Reilly became a cop. In high school, he bragged about winning a scholarship to Harvard, or maybe it was Stanford. Ivy Leaguers didn't generally wind up as sheriff's deputies. Of course, Reilly never boasted a perfect GPA, and didn't graduate at the top of their class. Neither did she, but her grades were solid throughout high school and college. Even after her parents moved away for their jobs, and Grace stayed behind alone to finish her degree, she still maintained a decent GPA.