If there was any hard and fast rule for my life, it was that there was no hard and fast rule, no common thread that could provide meaning or context. Is this what womanhood is? Is this what I have to look forward to for the rest of my life?
I stood in the cold feeling like a ghost, watching my breath rise and cool to be carried away by the harsh dead winds that whipped at me. I stared at the river below as the sun rose behind me. When the first orange-red rays shot forth from the sun to cast the opening shadows of the day, I had made my decision—I needed sanctuary.
That was what I wanted more than anything. I wanted to go to a place that was safe for me, to be alone and think all these things over, try to get my arms around what was happening in my life, try to make sense of it all.
So it would be the public library, then.
But first, I needed breakfast. I was starving. And I wanted my coconut latté fix too, so I drove back into town intending to stop in at Moxie for a while, to take some time to breathe. But then I realized that I had too many memories there. I certainly couldn’t go to my regular coffee shop, the one where I had first met Michael. Not right now. Perhaps never again. I realized that someone or something had been working very hard to take even this away from me. It pissed me off beyond words.
This new crisis produced a mild conundrum as to whether or not I would suffer myself to brave the domain of the green mermaid and burnt gunko. Maybe I should try something else entirely.
I ended up grabbing a table at Denny’s, for crying out loud.
It was the only place I could think of that might allow me to go both unnoticed and unmolested. In other words, it wasn’t Moxie, it wasn’t the Sunrise Café—it wasn’t any number of places I had ever been with Kim or Michael or Ellie or James the demon boy or anyone else.
I was so frustrated—everything had been taken from me. I kept my head down all through my meal, scrolling through my social media “news” feeds on my phone. Big surprise—there was nothing happening in my world. But of course, everyone had their little OMG moments in their status updates, freaking out about meaningless nonsense. The usual.
After breakfast, I sought refuge in my sanctuary—the public library by my house. That was my go-to place whenever I felt harried or overwhelmed. It was calming for me.
I felt a deep need for poetry. I could taste my own hunger for it.
I knew where I was going. The Dewey Decimal System wasn’t as relevant to me as the physical layout of the place was—I knew which shelf I wanted. And though I was no expert, I at least knew a little Frost, a little Whitman. I knew they might have something to cure what ailed me.
As I approached the correct part of the stacks, I noticed a guy about my age in the poetry section. He was lying propped up on the carpet on his elbows, a notebook and his phone nearby, a volume in his hand, totally engrossed. As I got closer, I recognized him. Black hair, cool jeans, distressed T-shirt with a soda-pop logo on it. Dirk Elliot.
As I got closer, he looked up, flashing me a little embarrassed smile.
I didn’t know what to think, so I said, “Camping out in the poetry section?”
He smiled and laughed. “Yeah, I found this book and got sucked in. I got here early. Sorry if it looks like I think I own the place.”
“Hey, don’t mind me,” I said. “What are you reading?”
“Tennyson.”
I knew the name, but not the work. Not really. “Must be good.”
He looked at me as if he were tasting something he loved. “It is.”
“I’m partial to Blake lately, myself.”
I took a volume from the shelf and walked to a table in the back corner of the library, away from Dirk, away from everyone. Feeling as if I had escaped something, I began to read.
***
Glasgow, Scotland—Present Day
A FEW FLOORS ABOVE the rainy streets of Glasgow, Jordan Weston sat behind his desk as Valac presented the spoils to him. “The Bloodstone, my lord, and a gift I thought you might enjoy.” Valac did not bow before the half-dead man as he was merely a paying client, nothing more.
“You have done well thus far,” Jordan Weston said to Valac, his procurement contractor. “And the girl Airel?”
“Soon.”
Jordan took the heavy Book with his un-good hand, placing it on the desk. It was her Book, the Book of Airel. He did not dare touch it with his other hand. “The only missing piece now is for the true heir to be found.” He would not let the boy Michael take what was not his.
“I hear she’s dangerous … able even to destroy the Brotherhood if she so chooses,” Valac said.
Jordan thought about it. If we cannot find the Other, we may need the girl—the half-breed Airel. She had more power in some respects than her grandfather Kreios did, at least judging by reports of what had happened in Cape Town. “She is powerful, yes. But she has yet to realize her true ability.”
“Allowing her to live is a big gamble on your part.”
“I suppose so,” Jordan said. He searched Valac’s eyes and said, “You reckon it’s best to kill her, then.”
Valac shrugged and changed the subject. “I will have to call you ‘Seer’ the next time we meet. That Stone is sought by the Brothers as well as the Sons of El. I should have charged more for its return; it took some doing.” Valac was wearing a black fitted suit and a blood-red tie; he had a flair for the understated irony of such things.
“And yet clearly you enjoyed your work, so what’s to complain about?” Jordan began writing out a company check—Valac’s wages. “The Seer is not a position to be taken,” Jordan said. “It is a birthright. I am not of the bloodline and I do not assume that I would be worthy even if I were. Not all seek total power.” He watched Valac’s reactions carefully. He didn’t want to play the wrong cards in this game; Valac was ruthless.
“I see.” Valac took the check Jordan offered, stuffing it into his breast pocket. “So you’re doing this because you’re bored, because you lack spice in your life? You could find yourself a nice dead girl to settle down with—”
Jordan showed him his fangs. Valac took a step back, a smile crossing his face, holding up both hands in mock surrender. “Sorry to offend—lord.”
The little shape shifter is lucky I’m a master of self-control. “I will pay you twice what you have there if you can bring me the half-breed Airel. Alive. I prefer my corpses to be warm, and I will relish killing her.”
“Very well. I shall bring her to you.”
“Then be gone.”
Valac snorted and left with a wicked smirk on his face.
It was raining again, and that meant pain in the un-good hand. Jordan held the Bloodstone in that one; he made sure to only ever touch it with that one. Even so, he could feel its power, the call and the need. He was no fool—the Bloodstone took one’s soul. He didn’t want to find out what would happen to him—he didn’t have one of those.
***
Boise, Idaho—Present Day
I LOOKED UP FROM the table to see that Dirk had decided to join me. I smiled politely at him as he sat down across from me. He took that as an invitation to chat me up, which I resented. I had come here for solace, not to get hit on.
“So, how are you and Michael doing?”
I tried not to let my kneejerk reaction, which tended toward panic, betray the truth. I cleared my throat and improvised, “Oh, you know. My parents have had me on this early curfew thing lately. So we don’t get to see much of each other.”
“That good, huh? Sorry, I should have kept my big trap shut.”
Now I felt bad. Without even thinking about it, I reached across and touched his hand. There was a little zap of static electricity. “Ow, sorry,” I whispered. “I hate when that happens.”
He rubbed his hand against his shirt and chuckled. “It’s okay. I think the books have their own kind of electricity. Either that, or we seem to have a spark or something.”
I sat there wondering if Dirk had been waiting for Michael
and me to break up so he could make his move. “About Michael, though, it’s okay. I mean, how could you know?” I said that with the slightest amount of malicious intent.
He smirked. “Exactly. I was only trying to be friendly. I know things have been tough for you this past year. Word gets around. Thought you could use a friend, that’s all.” He tapped his finger on the table and looked up at me.
Why does he have to be here now, and why can’t he be some fugly guy? “It’s okay,” I managed to say, not feeling my normal self at all. Michael wasn’t himself either; I didn’t feel like I even knew him anymore. How about this Dirk character? Here was a guy sitting right across from me who wanted to be with me. If I like that idea, is it so wrong?
“Hey,” he said, a look of concern mixed with something else passing like a shadow across his face, “are you okay?”
I felt like crying again, like being held, like being comforted. I could never deny my love for Michael, that I would always love him. But why do I have to be the only one to hold on, and why is it so hard? And why is it that all I can think about right now is what it might be like to be with Dirk?
***
“YOU DON’T LOOK SO well,” Valac said, ecstatic at how perfectly it had all played out. She reached out and touched me so quickly; I barely had to work on her at all.
“I … I feel lightheaded,” Airel said.
Valac knew precisely why. That hadn’t been mere static electricity; it had been a spiritual discharge. Energy had changed hands and crossed between them, from Airel to him, in that touch. The sons of dust know so very little about the power of touch, he mused, even though the evidence is right before their eyes, even in their holiest of their books. He was thankful that almost none of them took these things literally, or even seriously, anymore. “We should get you to the bathroom, maybe splash some water on your face. You look like you need some air.”
Valac, still appearing to be Dirk, came around to Airel’s side of the table and grasped her by the arms, helping her to her feet. This is where it will happen. It will be now. As he held the half-breed by her arms, another, larger exchange occurred, and he began to drain the power and life out of Airel through his hands in larger amounts.
They wouldn’t make it anywhere near the bathrooms. As Airel turned to walk that way, Valac pulled her close. She looked up at him, seeing only Dirk, and tried to say something. He leaned down and kissed her, softly at first, more life draining from her into him. He could feel her pull back at first, but then she leaned into him, animal desire taking her over.
She kissed him harder, her hands gripping his back and pulling him closer. “Dirk,” she mumbled stupidly.
Lambs to the slaughter. Valac knew his training well, and he had read the brief on this one. Airel was different—able to wield the Sword of Light, descendant of Kreios, El’s Angel of Death, supposedly immune to the drain of the Brotherhood—at least with that Sword. Various theories had been posited within the intelligence circles of his clan. One of the more plausible had been that this angel spawn could be drained, maybe even killed, if only an insurgent could get close enough to lay hands on her. Hypothesis verified, Valac thought, smiling. And only I could have done it.
Airel collapsed into his arms, and Valac lowered her to the floor. He looked around. They hadn’t taken two steps away from the table she had picked out in the back. It was still pretty early too, and on a weekday morning, so there weren’t many people around. He shoved her wide-eyed but lifeless husk under the table like a sack of potatoes, and then really got to work.
He cradled Airel’s head in both hands and began feeding in earnest upon the power of her life force, feeling her fears and trepidations, licking up the burning fumes of her attempts and failures and closing them away inside his greedy heart, his dead soul.
I am going to drain you dry.
CHAPTER I
Boise, Idaho, Present Day
AIREL LAY STILL. DEATHLY still. Dirk Elliott bent to her chest and laid an ear over her heart, listening for the sounds of life as they faded.
Then it beat no more. Dirk picked Airel up and carried her body into the women’s restroom, depositing her on the toilet in the far stall. He left the door open wide. He felt like bragging about his latest conquest.
He stood at the door to the stall and stared at her. Airel was strong, much stronger than he ever imagined. He could feel her—he possessed every one of her thoughts, emotions, and fears now. She was a walking contradiction too, as much human as angel.
Leaving the bathroom, he went to the table where she had been reading. He sat and picked up his book, Tennyson, and picked up where he’d left off. Airel was no more . . . but that didn’t mean he had to stop reading right when it was beginning to get good.
A few minutes later, a scream came from the bathroom and a hysterical woman ran out, gasping, “She’s dead. She’s dead.” Dirk smirked and continued reading. After a few more minutes, the library was abuzz with activity.
Standing, he walked out the front doors, calm. Sirens in the distance made him chuckle. This would be on the news. Everyone would talk, but he wouldn’t stay to feed on the chaos. He had a few loose ends to tie up; he had a fee to collect and a pet to feed.
“Rest well, Airel,” he said. “Maybe in another life we could have been . . . something . . . but as it stands, we can only play the parts we were born to play.”
He would not miss her—not really. She was a part of him now, and in some cheesy, romantic way, they would be together forever, wouldn’t they? He laughed out loud. Well . . . it was a nice thought, anyway.
* * *
I COULD FEEL DIRK kissing me and for a moment, I kissed him back, pulling him into me hard, letting out all my pent-up emotions. Michael was the furthest thing from my mind and what I was doing didn’t matter—not anymore.
But then something died out of me and I was abandoned. The light couldn’t reach me. I was underwater.
My head spun. I opened my eyes, and then I saw my attacker beyond the Dirk-mask he wore. It was a child, a boy of about ten. His face was all malice, pure murder, and the way it looked frightened me more than I’d ever been. I pulled back and tried to break away, but my limbs wouldn’t work. I could hear him feeding on me; I could hear him sucking, gorging on my heart, my soul. He said, “Calm yourself, Airel. Give over to me, and you will have the rest you desire.”
She was screaming at me, but her voice made no sense. She was drowning in a sea of nothing far away.
My instincts kicked in and I called for the Sword.
Nothing happened.
I raged, kicked to launch into flight, swearing to rip his head from his slimy little body.
Nothing.
It was all inside my head—a dream. Nothing was possible.
Memories of my childhood bubbled up and came to the surface. My first puppy, Max. He was so cute and got into everything. My dad would find his shoes chewed up and yell at me. The huge swing at the park behind the SuperMart. Mom would push me so high. The higher I went, the more I would giggle. She was so kind to me, and now . . .
She kept screaming something. What was she yelling? I was only sleeping. Why was She all worked up? Why?
“Defend—protect your mind, Airel!”
Kim. The first time we met. She was so hyper, always the one making lame jokes and laughing at them no matter what anyone else thought. I missed her. Lazy Sundays watching old movies, building pillow forts, playing dress up and stealing Mom’s makeup.
“Defend!”
Why was I so tired? How can I be tired? I’m already sleeping.
Ice cream with Dad after our daddy/daughter dates. He would listen to me, hold the door open, and tell me I was his favorite daughter. I would laugh. “Dad, I’m your only daughter.” But then he would get this far-off look, a look I saw more and more these days. The one that seemed to say, “I shouldn’t be your father; you shouldn’t be here.” Why did he not want me? It was like I was something instead of someone.
Michael and his kiss, the way his arms felt around me, how he protected me from so much evil in the world. His kindness, how he made me feel . . . I was so happy when I was with him. But where was he? Why was I kissing Dirk?
“Airel!”
Dirk stood over me, taking from me all I treasured—my memories, my life. Reality crashed through my numbness and then I knew I couldn’t fight back, not physically. My body was as good as dead, and I knew too well how that felt.
I walled up inside the tiniest part of my soul, the dwelling place of my hopes and dreams. There was rushing wind; there was suffocating water. I closed the door on the world and I slept.
* * *
MICHAEL ALEXANDER STOOD OVER Airel and wept.
Tubes ran down her nose and throat. Her skin was pallid gray—even her hair was dull and mousy. He took her hand and held it up to his lips, kissing it. She was cold and lifeless.
He remembered their last conversation.
More tears ran down his cheeks. His chest was tight—it hurt all the way through to his spine. He couldn’t breathe. With her dad away on business, her mom sat alone by the bedside, an empty woman in a plastic chair with the full distance of life’s race in her eyes. She did not acknowledge Michael. She didn’t acknowledge anyone.
Ellie spoke softly to him. “How are you holding up?”
Michael shook his head. There were no words for it.
Ellie coughed, sounding sick. He turned to her and noticed she seemed ill. She turned up a corner of her mouth and reached for him, drawing him in, hugging him. He let her. She was his last friend right now, one of the only people who knew the whole story. She knew what he was and who he might become. “You fight it, Michael. Don’t let them win, you hear me? Don’t you give up on her, and don’t give up on yourself, Michael Alexander.” She held his face in her hands and smiled again. “Fight. I mean it.”
The Airel Saga Box Set: Young Adult Paranormal Romance Page 77
