Tormented (A Secret Salem Novel 4)

by J. N. Colon

  Chapter 4

  The sun had set, spilling darkness across Salem and giving a new level of eeriness to the atmosphere. Gone were the cheery people shopping in the town center, their laughter like an unnatural echo on the wind. Trees creaked, their leaves dancing with a dry, whispering sound. Clouds hung low in the sky, blotting out the moon and stars. Inexplicable fog rolled through, creeping across the ground with purpose.

  Salem as a whole was just as creepy as Highland Academy’s campus. But I was relatively safe with all the security in town not to mention I could sense Rufus and Daedalus trailing behind.

  I shifted the book bag on my back before shoving my hands in my hoodie pockets. I’d refused to let Daedalus drive me home. I simply wanted to walk and clear my head. I knew he and Rufus heard my argument with Demy—the perks of constant surveillance. I hated seeing Demy so upset and over me, but I couldn’t let him put his life on hold for me. Honestly I couldn’t let him see just how far in the dark I was. Did he already suspect the only reasons I got up every day were to keep throne with the Davenports and my hope in finding Mac’s ghost?

  A cold chill dusted my spine, spawning goose bumps across my skin. I felt eyes on me, glued to my every move. My eyes traveled the distance before me and saw nothing. I looked at the trees on either side and other than a few crows sitting in the shadows on branches there was nothing.

  Then my gaze focused on the thick trunks of oaks and twisting maples surrounding me and the hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention. I halted, watching deep crimson oozing out the tan and brown bark like sap, pooling on the roots.

  This wasn’t real.

  I blinked, attempting to clear the ghastly horror of bleeding trees from my mind. It was still present like a terrible nightmare.

  I clamped my lids closed, counting to ten while praying for it to disappear.

  The blood was gone, replaced by dry trunks creaking in the wind.

  That was weird as hell. I rubbed temples and continued walking. Maybe I needed to get some sleep. But how could I when I relived Mac’s death nearly every night?

  The distinct feeling of a spirit crawled over me. Nothing was ahead of me. I glanced over my shoulder to see the empty trail behind me. My brow knit as I turned forward, something in my periphery catching my attention. My head snapped to the right to see a man walking next to me.

  My heart exploded in panic and I yelped.

  “Rubi!” Daedalus’ rough voice sliced through the silence and I could feel him and Rufus approach.

  I stopped walking and held up a hand. “It’s fine.” My palm laid over my chest as if to prevent my heart from jumping out my ribcage. My gaze flickered toward the man who was now staring at me, a crooked smile curling his lips. “It’s just a ghost.”

  Rufus and Daedalus’ forms were outlined in the shadows behind me, retreating now that there was no danger. Thankfully I’d gotten better at telling the difference between ghosts and the living. Of course there were still a few instances I stood talking to a spirit while humans shot me curious glances, probably thinking I was nuts.

  My attention was pulled back to the man who appeared to be in his early twenties. Russet brown waves curled around his face where a pair of familiar amber eyes glinted at me. He was tall with a strong yet slender frame. Something clicked in place and I recognized him, my heart jumping. “Vikrum,” I whispered, astonished to see Demy’s older brother.

  “Well, if it isn’t the infamous Rubi Moon-gem.” He did a dramatic bow, reminding me of Dimitri, their father.

  A grimace crossed my face and I began walking. “Infamous really?”

  Vikrum kept pace next to me. “Yep. Nothing bad I assure you.” He winked.

  My brow lifted at his flirtatious behavior. “What brings you to me? I’m guessing you have a message or something.” Maybe he wanted to communicate with Demy or his parents.

  “As a matter of fact I do have a message Rubi.” His Russian accent was a little thicker than Demy’s. “And the message is for you.”

  I blinked and my feet stumbled for a moment, surprise hitting me square in the chest. “Me?”

  He nodded.

  My heart fluttered with excitement and hope, thinking it was a message from Mac telling me why he hadn’t come or what I could do to help him get to me.

  “It’s about Demy,” he said, my heart sinking a little.

  “Oh.” I kicked at a pile of fallen leaves as we passed it, scattering them along the grass. “He’s okay, right?”

  “No.”

  My head snapped to him, halting and reaching out to grab him before I remembered he was a ghost. My hand sailed through his arm, dowsing it in ice. I yanked it back and shook it out. “What do you mean?” Panic sank into my chest, easily spilling through my entire body. “W-What’s wrong with him?”

  Vikrum’s gaze bored into me, no longer humorous. “You’re not doing my brother any favors by pushing him away.”

  My lungs released a breath, thankful Demy wasn’t in some kind of danger. “Oh.”

  “Oh?” His dark brows arched. “That’s all you have to say?”

  I shook my head, my shoulders slumping because I was the cause for Demy’s distress. “I just thought it was something… really terrible.”

  “It is terrible Rubi.” Vikrum crossed his arms against his chest, fully turning toward me. “My brother is miserable at college. All he does is worry about you and then he comes here and sees you aren’t doing good at all even if you’re fooling everyone else.”

  My cheeks flamed in embarrassment and I averted my eyes to the ground, my boot rubbing a hole through the grass. “I don’t know what you want me to do.” My voice was barely above a whisper, afraid it might crack.

  “You need to stop pushing him away.” When I didn’t respond or take my gaze from the ground Vikrum bent and twisted his head until his handsome face was in my line of vision. “Rubi, will you look at me?”

  I reluctantly followed his form until he stood, guilt knotting painfully in my chest.

  “Demy has lost a lot these past few years. First me, then Travis, then Mac, and now he’s losing you.”

  My head snapped back. “He’s not losing me.”

  His brow arched challengingly. “Isn’t he?”

  I chewed my bottom lip, contemplating. I guess I could see where Demy thought he was losing me. I was pushing him to go to college a million miles away and I wasn’t being myself or letting him in anymore. But what else could I do? I couldn’t face those violet eyes every day without breaking down. Let’s face it, Demy was the only other person besides Mac who could whittle me down until I spilled all my secrets.

  I swallowed the lump rising in my throat and rubbed my temples with my fingertips. “I don’t know what to do Vikrum.”

  His amber eyes burned into me with an intensity that reminded me of his brother. “Yes you do Rubi.”

  I sighed, my energy feeling depleted. Deep down I thought I knew what I should do. I simply refused to do it. I’d have to think of something else to help Demy. He didn’t deserve to lose another person in his life even if she was already barely living.

  Vikrum shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “Don’t tell Demy you saw me, okay? It would just open up old wounds for him and he doesn’t need that now.”

  I nodded. Putting Demy in more pain was the last thing I wanted.

  I dropped my things off in my room when I returned to the Davenport house before searching for Miranda or Whitmore to let them know I was home. Their voices carried from Whitmore’s study mixed with two other familiar, haughty ones, instantly curling my lip in contempt. Veronica and Anton Svensson had been hanging around the Davenport house more and more lately. Anton was part of Whitmore’s vampire council, which apparently unofficially included Veronica as well.

  The council was a group of vampires that helped Whitmore and Miranda govern their kingdom. Some were stationed in other countries, overseeing the vampires while others headed up different aspects like keeping us secre
t from humans or shifter relations. Some were advisors to Whitmore. They voted on things like a regular government, but Whitmore—being the primary ruler even over Miranda—always had the final say.

  I listened in the hall for a moment, my curiosity piqued. Heavy guilt settled upon me when I realized they were discussing the latest vampires reported murdered by the hunters’ poison. Whitmore was always telling me I shouldn’t feel guilty. The hunters were at fault. Not me. But their poison was made from my weird mixture of human and strong Davenport blood before I was a full vampire. Without me, these vampires wouldn’t be dead. Miranda would remind me the prior formula made from her blood created the undead vampires that caused to much gruesome chaos. She would always ask if I thought she was responsible and of course I’d say no.

  Anton cleared his throat. “How is dear Rubi?”

  Ugh. Why is he even talking about me? And the way he said my name—all snotty—made my blood steam.

  “She’s handling everything well,” Whitmore responded stiffly.

  “That poor child must be in so much pain inside.” Veronica even had the nerve to sniffle.

  Oh please. Like she gave two fish sticks about me.

  “Rubi is very resilient and has a good head on her shoulders.” The sincerity in Miranda’s voice made my heart squeeze and every time either of them looked at me I felt how much they loved me. They treated me like their own daughter.

  “But she must be going through something terrible.” Anton continued to prod the Davenports for dirt on me. It was clear the Svenssons wanted to hear I was depressed and broken—clearly not a good fit to rule.

  Enough is enough. I strode in, my head held high and a political smile I copied from Miranda curling my lips. “Whitmore, Miranda I didn’t know we had guests.”

  The Svenssons squirmed in their seats while the king and queen both breathed in relief at the sight of me finally safe at home. Anton’s white blonde hair was slicked back, making the sharp angles in his pointed, arrogant face more prominent. His dark suit was tailor made for his lean frame and probably cost more than most people’s car. His almond shaped icy eyes bored into mine, willing my body to freeze and crack into tiny, minuscule shards of ice until I melted and disappeared through the floor.

  Veronica sat next to him in an equally expensive high wasted pencil skirt and tweed jacket. Her platinum locks were pulled away from her face in a perfect coif, not one hair out of place. Her makeup appeared professionally done with arched brows, thick lashes, and glossy lips. A forced smile curled those lips that didn’t reach her own set of glacier blue eyes and was slowly threatening to slip into a sour grimace.

  The Svenssons looked like a pair of figurines carved out of ice sitting on the plush leather couch.

  “Rubi, how was your day?” Whitmore asked from behind his large elegant mahogany desk. His lustrous pitch hair was neatly smoothed away from his face, highlighting his cheekbones and his stormy gray eyes that always warmed when he looked at Miranda—and now me. His dark suit was—in my opinion—much nicer than Anton’s and looked better with Whit’s thick, wider frame.

  “Fine.” My sarcastic smile was meant solely for the Svenssons, which morphed into something more genuine when I met Miranda’s round jade eyes that reminded me of Mac’s so much sometimes it made my heart stop.

  She was the only casual one in the group dressed in soft dark jeans, tan suede boots, and a hunter green sweater. Her auburn hair hung in soft waves a little past her shoulders, framing her striking porcelain face. She was softness and light while Whitmore was sharp darkness.

  Mac had been the perfect mixture of the two.

  I quickly swallowed the lump trying to lodge up my throat and blinked back the unshed tears before the Svenssons could see them.

  “Hello sweetheart.” Her gentle smile radiated understanding as if she could detect where my thoughts had gone for a moment.

  My eyes flickered toward the projection screen pulled down, displaying two photos with names and dates beneath them. A pain resonated through my gut, clenching my stomach when I guessed what the images and dates were . “Are those…?” My voice cracked as I pointed toward the screen.

  “Yes.” Whitmore straightened a stack of papers on his desk, the sound echoing loudly. “Robert Cain and Dana Livingston were killed two days ago in New York.”

  The photo of the man was cropped to include only his face and shoulders with a sunny blue sky behind him. He appeared to be in his early thirties, but due to the silver ring around his hazel irises—either he was made or had stopped aging after he turned someone—he could be a hundred and thirty. His hair was a mix of copper highlights and russet browns, curling around his wide face and brushing his neck where a gold necklace glinted. His chin was square and sported a tiny dimple in the center as he smiled for the camera, so much life radiating from his eyes it was hard to believe he was gone in an instant from poison.

  It was easier to believe when I’d witnessed it twice.

  The female victim was sitting on a bench, wearing a school uniform similar to Highland’s only blue and gray, her long raven tresses blowing in the wind. A furtive smile curled her lips as she arched her left eyebrow in a dare, a dark freckle stamped beneath the tail end. No silver ring around her irises meaning she had died probably only living sixteen maybe seventeen years of her life.

  “Terribly sad, isn’t it?” Anton adopted a faux compassionate expression. “That one wasn’t much older than you Princess Rubi.”

  A knife twisted deeper into my chest, spilling guilt. Anton was doing it on purpose, blame glistening in his cold eyes.

  I wiped my palms on my hoodie and cleared my throat, attempting to collect myself. “There were no guards around, even at her school?” I asked Whitmore, ignoring Anton and the silent insults radiating from his forced impassive expression.

  “Mr. Cain had no guards,” Whitmore answered. “Ms. Livingston’s school did, but the hunters managed to slipped past them.”

  Cold trepidation flowed through my bloodstream, prickling my flesh. Hunters were trained to kill us and apparently getting better at eluding our guards.

  “Is there any word on a cure yet?” Veronica clasped her hands in her lap, sitting straight and rigidly in an attempt to appear stately. Really she just looked like she had a giant stick up her ass keeping her from slouching. Or moving much more than her frozen face.

  Miranda sighed and perched on the edge of Whitmore’s desk, not caring about formality. “Not yet, but Emmaline and Tristan are still working on it.”

  The four of them began talking amongst themselves and my eyes traveled back to the pictures of Dana Livingston and Robert Cain, wondering why them, why these two particular people in New York. As I surveyed them, attempting to find some reason they were singled out in a sea of other vampires, their faces suddenly started to change. Their skin turned ashen gray and began sinking in, stretching over their bones until they appeared skeletal. Rotten teeth peered through disappearing lips and eyes were large, haunting beacons, pulling their expressions into something grotesque… and pissed.

  I swallowed hard as pure hate and fury radiated from the photos, smashing me in my chest like a sledgehammer. They didn’t just look angry—they were angry. At me. Every fiber in my being felt it, dark and rotten deep in my bones. If they could speak they’d be screaming at me words of guilt and blame for their deaths.

  They would be right, wouldn’t they?

  Thick blood began to ooze through the projections screen, running down their appearances very similar to the bleeding trees I encountered earlier. All the saliva dried up in my mouth replaced by an acrid taste while cold sweat beaded my hairline. All I could focus on were their horrifying skeletal faces now dripping with bright crimson.

  “Rubi?”

  I flinched, suddenly realizing Whitmore was calling my name.

  His dark brows were knit and gray eyes shimmering with concern. “Are you okay?”

  Veronica and Anton’s gazes were heavy with antic
ipation as they weighted up on me. They were waiting for me to break, a moment that would surely bring them an abundance of glee in their narcissistic, self-absorbed lives.

  I swallowed hard, glancing at the pictures again only to find them normal and intact. No blood or horrifying faces staring back at me. “Fine.” My voice cracked. “Fine,” I assured a little louder.

  I slumped on the couch in my room, staring listlessly at the burning fire. Another day without Mac and without finding his spirit and it was just as painful as the first. My fingers absentmindedly played with the rings on my left ring finger as my heart threatened to simply stop beating to save me from this agony.

  But instead I willed it to go on for Whitmore and Miranda. If anything to at least keep that smug smile on Anton and Veronica from reaching kilowatt status brought about by my fall from grace.

  Keeping my head high was going to be a little harder when I was freaking hallucinating—or whatever the hell was responsible for the bleeding trees and photos. Oh and let’s not forget those said photos morphing before my eyes into some grotesque, deformed vampires who obviously hated me.

  I twirled a lock of unruly black brown hair around my finger, contemplating the new bizarre dilemma in my life. It was possible I was hallucinating from lack of sleep, blood—and joy. Or maybe they were ghosts. In the past I thought the dead were hallucinations.

  I shifted and shook my head, dispelling that speculation. These occurrences weren’t ghosts. They weren’t people talking to me or trying to scare me. They weren’t people at all. Just blood and pictures.

  A knock resonated on my door. “Come in,” I said without removing my gaze from the orange, yellow, and blue flames dancing in the fireplace that did nothing to warm my soul. I expected it to be Whitmore or Miranda, but when that familiar earthly amber scent hit my nose my head snapped around.