by Kelley York
HOLLOWED
- A Half Light Novel -
By Kelley York
Published by Kelley York
Amazon Edition 1.0
Copyright 2012 Kelley A. York
Amazon Edition, License Notes
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy.
Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Real loss only occurs when you lose something that you love more than yourself.
– Anonymous
Table of ContentsChapter 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
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
SHADOW VOICES Preview
Acknowledgments
About the Author
01. Thursday – 11:16pm
He's not coming.
Every night for the last three weeks, I’ve stood here in the cold after my shift has ended, waiting for Noah. And every night, he hasn’t shown up. So what makes me think tonight is going to be any different? Hell if I know.
Sherry steps outside of Howell's family bar where we work to join me on the sidewalk, marshmallow-fied in her puffy white coat and matching beanie.
"Still a no show, huh?"
"You know he's working," I mutter, hugging myself. And it isn't like Noah has specific dates of when he'll be in town. Duty calls and he goes, and sometimes the job doesn't end when it should. Still, it doesn't do much for a girl's insecurities when her boyfriend spends most of his time traveling on assignment for the government and is mostly unreachable. He isn't allowed to give me details on what, when or where.
As we start our walk to the light-rail station, Sherry sneaks me a sympathetic look. Maybe she gets I'm starting to lose hope that Noah is coming back, like, ever. She comes to a stop halfway across the bridge gapping the distance between bustling Downtown and the quieter suburbs, and peers over the edge. She takes a breath, a warning she's about to say something I don't want to hear.
"First off, you know I really like Noah, right? He's a great guy. But maybe at this point it's time to think about...moving on?"
"If he didn't want to see me again, he'd say so." I don't mean to snap. Noah's a lot of things, but he isn't the sort of guy to drop off the face of the planet because he lacks the balls to break up with someone. He has a reason for being away so long and not contacting me. Right? Right. I just have to wait it out.
I keep walking, hands seeking warmth in my jacket pockets. Maybe it's easy for Sherry to shrug a guy off. She isn't drop-dead gorgeous, but there's something about her that boys are totally drawn to. Her bubbliness. Her breasts. I don't know.
"Briar," she calls.
If she were smarter, she would drop the subject. "Forget it, Sherry. You're more hung up on this than I am." Not true, but I can fake it. "There's no point in freaking out or dwelling on it. If he doesn't want to see me, fine. Whatever. Let's just get home; it's freezing."
No answer.
I stop, listen, wait. With an exasperated sigh, I turn around.
And...I'm alone on the bridge.
"Sherry?"
Still no answer. I turn around full-circle, scanning both ends of the bridge. Where the hell could she have gone?
"Sherry, come on. This is so not funny!"
She couldn't have fallen over the edge. Not unless she scaled the chain link guard put there for the sole purpose of deterring jumpers. But where else could she have gone?
Rushing to the ledge where she stood, I lean over, forehead pressed to the fence while squinting into the darkness. The river churns angrily below, inky black and dirty. Somewhere down there, I think I see a flash of white that might be Sherry's coat.
Heart pounding, I take off the way we came. There's a barely noticeable turn-off at the end of the bridge, a dirt path snaking through the trees to the river's edge. It's shaky footing all the way down in my heeled boots. I stop long enough to yank them off and the icy water burns my feet while I try to keep from slipping on moss-covered rocks.
No sign of Sherry. What was an angry growl of water from the bridge is a roar down here, but I cup my hands to my mouth and yell her name anyway.
There's absolutely no way she could have fallen down here in the ten seconds I had my back turned. No. Flipping. Way. But if anything happened to her, it'll be my fault. We could have gotten a ride home from her brother when our shift ended, but I wanted to wait around for Noah and Sherry would never leave me behind.
Picking my way up the water's edge, I spot Sherry's jacket through the trees up ahead. Just a blotch of white against black. I run for her, slipping, splitting my knee, getting back up and trying again.
"Sherry!"
She doesn't make a sound even as I drop to her side. I'm afraid to move her. What if something's broken? When I touch her head through the mess of blonde hair, my fingers come back sticky and dark. My stomach rolls. No time to wonder how the hell she got down here. Get help. That's what I need to do. I fumble for my phone, fingers searching for the right keys.
I dial as far as 9 before something—someone—slams into me from behind with enough force to send me face-first into the rocks. Sharp pain blossoms across my left temple. Not hard enough to knock me out, just enough to leave me reeling.
Whoever-it-is grabs a fistful of hair, wrenching me back. I'm seeing stars. Can't make out more than a vague outline of a shoulder and the arm holding me. Maybe the shape of a mouth. Eyes. There's movement near Sherry. Another attacker? I can't see them well, but I can hear a low, guttural growl alongside Sherry's pained whimpers. Whimpers that are music to my ears because it means one very important thing: Sherry is still alive.
I muster as much energy as I can, slamming the heels of my hands into my attacker's chest. It gains me no more than a few inches between us. But it's enough that I can twist to my side, hands grasping blindly for something—anything. My fingers graze something slick and cold. I palm the stone, clutching it tight.
He grabs my hair again, close to the scalp, twisting. I swing. The rock meets the side of his head with a sickening sound of breaking bone. He grunts, then knocks my arm away without a thought.
I cracked the asshole's skull, and he didn't even flinch.
My head is slammed back to the ground. This time the pain is blinding hot and resonates all the way down my spine.
I can't move. The world spins around me in watery blobs of black and grey, shapes bleeding together. He descends on me again and it's all I can do to feebly shove at him while turning my blurry gaze to Sherry. She reaches for me.
"Don't," she whispers.
Her words are muted by the roa
r of the river.
"Don't...hurt Briar..."
Sherry's attacker looms over her, head bowed to her throat. I can't tell what he's doing. Not until the figure holding me tears into my neck, piercing flesh, drawing blood. Pain screams through every nerve in my body. I can't struggle. He is solid, immovable. Every breath, every heartbeat, has him crushing his body closer to mine.
He's going to kill me.
This realization burns dimly in the back of my mind. He's going to kill me, and someone will have to tell my parents they've lost another daughter. That they found my body by the dirty downtown river two blocks from the job they didn't want me to have in the first place.
What about Noah? How will he find out? Who will tell him? What will he say?
I reach for Sherry. By the time my fingers touch hers, the light has gone out in her eyes. The sounds and smells of the river and trees and blood fade to brilliant white.
The last sound to reach my ears is one weak, final heartbeat.
02. Friday – 4:04am
The first time I saw Noah D'angelo, he was sitting at a table by himself in the corner of Howell's family bar. I slid into a chair across from him, paper and pencil in hand. I never got the hang of memorizing peoples' orders like some of the other waitresses did.
"What'll it be?"
He looked up, wide-eyed, like I'd caught him off-guard. Cute. Slightly curly dark hair. Kind of goofy-looking, but in an endearing way.
"Oh. Uh, I don't know. Can I get a beer?"
I studied his face, trying to place his age. "You don't look old enough to order beer."
"You don't look old enough to be serving it." When he grinned, it made the corners of his eyes crinkle. And it was infectious: my mouth twisted up.
"I'm not for another three years. Which means if you want a drink, I'll have to get you another server."
"No, a coke is fine." He leaned back in his chair. "What do you recommend to eat?"
I nudged open his menu and pointed. "The wings aren't bad. I'd stay away from the mini-burgers unless you want to spend the rest of the night on the toilet." Up-selling? Not really my strong suit.
He cracked another grin. Later, when I brought back his food, he touched my wrist before I could walk away. Didn't grab, which would've gotten him hit, but just touched.
"I didn't catch your name."
It was part of the job to be nice to customers. Flirt a little if you wanted to boost your likelihood of a tip. It was easier when the customer was kind of charming and not a total douchebag. So I smiled, turned, tapped my name-tag.
"Briar," he read. "That's pretty. So the truth is, I'm not actually that hungry. Want to split these with me?"
That was a new one. I'd heard my share of pickup lines from customers, both male and female, now and again. Usually in a slurred state of drunkenness. Not that it bothered me; being hit on by someone cute and—at least outwardly—not crazy? Nice. A step up from being utterly invisible all throughout high school.
But more than that, I liked the sincere way Noah smiled. His hopeful expression. The way he tried to pull off smooth and confident even though he was about three seconds from elbowing his soda right off the table.
"I'm on the clock," I said.
"When you're done."
"You're gonna sit here for an hour?"
"Sure."
I raised an eyebrow. Couldn't help the smile threatening to give away that his offer sent the warmest fluttery feeling through my chest. "Eat your food before it gets cold, cowboy." I went back to work. An hour later, I hung up my apron and he was still waiting.
~
I remember that first touch so distinctly because of Noah's hands. How gentle they were. The way his fingers brushed my wrist, glided down my thumb as I turned back around. Warm and soft.
The hands touching my forehead now feel similar. Warm. But they aren't the same. The voices in the room are completely foreign.
"We can't leave her here." A soft male voice, every word articulate and clear.
"We should. Look, there's no telling how she'll react when she wakes up." The second voice is harsher, lower. Tinted with the distant remains of an accent. German? I think it's German.
The first voice: "All the more reason to stick around."
Are these the men who attacked me and Sherry? I don't think so. I want so badly to roll over, hide my face against the pillow and sleep. Maybe when I wake up, this whole shitty night will have been a nightmare. Sherry will get a kick out of it.
The second I move, the men go silent.
"Ms Greyson?"
The softer one. How does he know my name? I force my eyes open. The stucco ceiling comes into blurry focus. My ceiling. I'm home? That makes no sense; shouldn't I be at a hospital?
Bizarre thing number two: I don't hurt. I'm exhausted. I'm weak. But not in pain. How long have I been out?
A face leans over me. Male. In his thirties, maybe, with dark, shoulder-length hair. His face is a little unshaven, and he has the bluest eyes I've ever seen. It startles me into sitting up, nearly slamming my head into his in the process. If I weren’t one hundred percent sure these guys weren’t the ones who attacked us, I’d be screaming bloody murder right about now.
He draws back smoothly. "You're awake."
I swallow hard past a dry and cracked throat. "I'm awake," I confirm. "Who the hell are you, and why are you in my apartment?" It's the nicest I can manage.
The dark-haired man straightens up. I don't like him looming over me like he is, but if the alternative is him sitting on my bed, I'll take the looming. He gives me a small smile.
"My name is Cole Archer. This is Oliver Ulrich."
Cole gestures for his buddy to come forward. Oliver is shorter, but his features are sharper and younger, his hazel eyes uncertain. Like I'm the unwelcome one in his home.
"We found you by the river," Oliver says. "Your ID had your address, so we brought you home."
Before I can process that, Cole asks, "Do you know who attacked you?"
I swallow again and try to keep my voice from sounding so gravelly. "I don't know. Where's the girl who was with me? What happened?"
The two exchange a look. I hate that. My parents do it; have an entire conversation without ever saying a word. And that shared look, the way Cole's lashes lower and Oliver turns to stare at the wall...I know what it means.
Sherry's dead.
And I'm going to be sick. Not in that I-feel-nauseous-and-should-sit-down way, either. As in, I haul my ass out of bed and make a mad dash for the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. At least they leave me to throw up in peace. It's mostly dry-heaving anyway. I don't remember when I last ate.
A good ten minutes pass before Cole knocks on the door. "Are you all right?"
Get out of my house, I want to tell him. But these two guys are the only reason I'm still alive. And they're the only ones who have answers.
"Where is she?" I rasp, batting for the lever to flush the toilet.
Cole cracks open the door and slips inside to join me. I don't bother looking at him, but he turns on the sink and a second later, he hands me a cup of water. I slump back against the side of the tub and guzzle it down like I haven't had anything to drink in weeks.
He crouches in front of me. "We saw your friend only briefly. Our primary concern was with you."
I close my eyes and tip my head back. "Why?"
"Because you were the one still breathing."
So does that mean Sherry's body is still down by the river? The thought makes me nauseous all over again. I shift forward just in case my stomach decides it's not done. This time Cole gently gathers up my hair to keep it out of my face and off the back of my neck. Something Dad used to do when I had the stomach flu. It's such a parental gesture. Even so, I flinch under the touch, swatting his hands away.
No more throwing up, thank God, but I stay there with my head bowed and eyes closed. Everything feels wrong. Aside from the fact I just saw my best friend murdered and—someho
w—survived it myself, aside from the two strangers in my house and that there are zero injuries on my body...I feel wrong. Like I want to claw out of my own skin.
"Can you tell me what happened?" Cole asks gently.
"Shouldn’t you be telling me that?” I spare another drink of water. “We were walking home. Two guys jumped us."
"Did you see what they looked like?"
"No. Not really. It all happened so fast. It was dark. They moved so quick, I couldn't even..." It's hitting me now, the reality of it all. Sherry's dead. I should be, too. I set the cup aside before I can drop it, pressing my hands to my face. I'm warm. Too warm. Sick and trembling and I can't collect a coherent thought. "I hit one of them. I hit him. With a fucking rock. And he just...sat there..."
It's too much, and it shouldn't be. Back when my sister disappeared, everyone thought I was repressing my feelings when, in fact, I was simply dealing with it the best way I knew how. I've never been a person who falls to pieces over anything, especially in front of strangers. Now I'm shaking apart at the seams. Cole presses the back of his hand to my forehead and that's all it takes for me to start crying like a baby.
"What the hell is wrong with me?"
Cole sighs. "It's normal in your...condition."
"My condition." I sniffle and grab some toilet paper to blow my nose and wipe away the tears. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Oliver lingers in the doorway, frowning. "You're changing."
I hiccup, trying to rein in my sobs. "Is that some metaphorical statement?"
"No. Your body is changing. Adapting. It will last for a few days."
There's something in his tone I don't like. "Changing, adapting...to what?"
Another shared look between them. Oliver raises a brow. "You want to tell her or should I?"
Cole sighs. "You were bitten, dear one. The virus is spreading through your system."
O...kay. Not following.
"It rarely happens from only a bite. Usually it requires more than that. A direct injection of infected blood is how it's typically done these days."
Virus? I'm infected with something? I look at Oliver. Intimidating as he may be, he strikes me as the sort to give me quicker answers in terms I can understand. He meets my gaze, steady and unyielding.
