I hear birdsong above me, growing louder, making me look up. A flock of tiny sparrows bustles above my head. Wow, that’s a lot of birds, especially to be out at night. And they seem to keep arriving, more and more nestling into the branches, their cacophony rising.
Something under me moves, sliding along my leg. I look down at the ground to see the small white flowers under me shifting, growing. One bud and then another lifting from the ground, then opening in a burst. I can’t move as I watch them appearing. I’m immobile with confusion, my brain unable to believe what I’m watching.
Then the flowers begin growing out, creating a small line, like a trail. Until it reaches . . .
Everything in me goes still as I register what I’m seeing. It’s a woman, but it’s not. She’s a glowing figure, ten feet from me, but she’s a million miles away. It’s as if two realities have suddenly presented themselves to me at the same time, and I can’t tell which one is real. And for some crazy reason I’m not afraid. In fact, all the fear and confusion I was feeling a second ago is gone, washing into the ground beneath me.
She’s lovely. She’s delicate and sad and so, so lovely. A ghost, a spirit, a wisp of memory that stares at me, standing in a cluster of shifting and growing flowers. I see the trees and the path behind her through her sheer body, a white shimmer in the cold night air. A young woman, only a few years older than me. Her light hair is long, half braided and half spilling over her shoulders. A pale-colored dress hangs on her thin body, and her bare toes curl into the green beneath her like she’s enjoying the feel of it.
Forgive me, she says. But the words aren’t aloud, they sound muffled through cotton, like they’re in my head. I wanted to help you if I could. I wonder who she is, where she comes from, and she answers instantly. I am Fiona, a mother, a spirit. I found my way back from a long journey, to try again and mend the broken things, to do what your mother could not.
There’s so much in her words, so many layers of meaning. “What are you saying?”
I will show you, it will be easier. And she slides closer, the flowers following, more growing from the ground she passes over.
I lean back, unsure. When her ghost fingers touch my forehead, a million images and feelings pass over me, through me, marking me with her story.
A girl, a boy, and a broken heart full of regret. Magic, corruption, and the fall of innocence. I see it all play out before me, and tears fill my eyes, an ache fills my chest as I watch her give birth to a son, as I watch her joy twist into agony when her heart is broken, and then I feel her lose herself to the Darkness. She tried to redeem her mistakes, she tried to save her daughter, to save her son, but she failed. Until she returned to try again, taking the horrible monster with her into the void. She was caught there, between worlds, deep in the pit of Sheol. But then she escaped when the river of time shook . . .
Fiona, Aidan’s mother. Ava’s mother.
Yes.
“Why . . . why are you here with me?” I ask.
You share my gift of understanding, but you use it with more wisdom than I. I felt your power, felt you call to me in the void with your hands. They drew me to you. I wished to help you, to keep you safe from my daughter if I could.
My hands . . . ? My drawing. The pentagram design.
A spell to protect. My spell. I felt it come alive again, my magic, and I knew I had found an opening to mend a piece of the future I’d cast into being. Perhaps in helping you I have done that.
But . . . “I don’t understand.”
I came to you in the night, but you couldn’t hear me. It wasn’t until my daughter pushed you, when the demon Hunger tried to take you, that your fear opened a window. I was able to reach in . . . I am sorry. Her delicate features twist in pain. I couldn’t ask your permission.
A thousand questions pop into my head. The fire, could that have been her trying to speak to me? And the demon? The thing trying to be Charlie, it terrified me and made my pain unbearable. That created a window for her to reach in? But she couldn’t ask for permission. “Permission for what?” I ask finally as my head spins.
She seems to hesitate, then says, To possess your body.
A shiver runs through me, my insides crawling. My stomach rises and the ground tilts.
Forgive me, she says again, this time I feel her regret in the words, though. I couldn’t let the demon harness your gift and allow for my daughter to gain that much power.
“You possessed me?” My voice shakes. “How long?” What did she force my body to do? What did she make my hands touch? I was a puppet, a shell, totally without will. But she saved me. She kept the demon from getting me. Somehow she ruined Ava’s plan.
It makes me wonder—where did the demon that was masquerading as Charlie go?
You need to return to my son. You need to be by his side when this comes to a close. Her emotions are pleading now, desperate. He needs you, Rebecca. He needs your strength.
I shake my head. I don’t feel strong enough to fight off a fly.
The demon still stalks you, she says, turning to look off in the distance. I have held the creature off for a moment, but its hunger is powerful, and my daughter has given it physical form for a time, she has made sure the amulet won’t hide you any longer. My time is short here. You must destroy the beast. I cannot.
Destroy the demon—what? How am I supposed to do that? Just the small glimpse I saw of Hunger beneath the mask of Charlie was beyond horrifying.
The answer to destroy it is inside you. In your blood. It seeks you out now, the magic. And I see you fear it, but you mustn’t. Her ghostly form leans over, gently touching my tear-stained cheek, like a mother would. Your heart is pure. You won’t fall. A sad smile fills her silver eyes. And then she’s floating into pieces, becoming smoke, sliding away, a part of the wind.
The tiny white flowers curl in on themselves like they’re sad, then they sink away, disappearing into the grass again.
And I’m left with a similar feeling, the need to tuck myself away like a disappearing flower and hide from everything heading toward me.
FORTY-FOUR
Rebecca
My feet are on fire. Oh my God, they hurt. It would’ve been nice if Aidan’s mom had gotten me some shoes to wear while she possessed me. I find a path into a town after what I’m pretty sure is more than an hour walking. I thought I was in a park, but if I was, that was one very large park. And even as civilization appears, nothing looks familiar. I’m definitely not in LA proper. There are pine trees everywhere, and so far the only businesses I’ve come across are a Taco Bell and a gas station—which I’m hoping will have a public phone.
I make my way across the street, as delicately as possible, my soles screaming with each tiny stone that presses into them. I’m slow for more reasons than that, though. My body is so exhausted. Everything in me aches.
I go into the store attached to the gas station, the bell on the door dings, making the scruffy man behind the counter look up from whatever he’s reading. He’s got on a grungy baseball cap with unkempt hair sticking out the bottom, and he obviously hasn’t shaved in several days. There’re smudges of dirt or grease on his cheek and neck, and his large fingers are tinted darker, like he’s soaked them in ink. There’s a patch on his shirt that says Bill. His eyes widen as I make my way to the counter, they rake over my grimy figure and then his gaze drops to something behind me.
“Your feet,” he says with an odd tone in his voice. “They’re bleedin’.”
I look down and see red-brown footprints following me on the white linoleum. “Yeah, it hurts.” Then I look back up at him. “Do you have a phone I could use, maybe? I need to call someone.” I guess I’m throwing caution to the wind here, but this guy can obviously see I’m wounded and vulnerable. Hiding the fact that I’m stranded seems pointless.
He looks out the window like he’s searching for something. Other people that might see him hurt me? Other people I might be with to pull some prank on him?
“P
lease,” I add, hoping he’s a decent guy. “I just need a phone.”
He nods and motions me to come around behind the counter. I hesitate for a second but then decide I’m low on choices.
“What town is this?” I ask.
As I step through the opening, he’s looking me up and down all over again, and my stomach churns.
He’s a lot bigger now that he’s standing. “Arrowhead.” He points to the phone on the wall beside the window behind him, but his gaze stays locked on my chest.
I shiver and reach for the phone, hurriedly dialing my dad’s cell number. I fold my arms across myself and scoot as far away from the man as I can, pressing my back into the glass of the window.
The phone rings and rings and I close my eyes, feeling tears rise. Please pick up. But it goes to voice mail and I have to release a shaky breath to keep from bursting into tears. I try to dial again, my fingers trembling as they punch the number in, doing it wrong, having to start over.
“You not gettin’ an answer?” The man asks, going back to his reading.
I look out the window as I listen to the line ring in my ear, trying to calm down. I’m way too freaked out right now. Not everyone’s out to get me.
But then a smell filters through the space around us. Like rotting flesh and sour milk all mixed together.
I stiffen. Hear movement behind me. I turn and see the man is coming closer, blocking my escape. He licks his lips and starts whispering something under his breath. Something’s different about his eyes; there’s a far-off look in them now.
I need my dad to pick up the phone. Why does it just keep ringing?!
My teeth start chattering and I can barely breathe as my dad’s voice mail picks up again. I press into the glass window at my back.
“You’re pretty,” the man, Bill, says, his voice scratchy. He’s only a foot away now, well within arm’s reach.
I shake my head, having no ability to speak as the terror crawls up my throat. There’s a demon in the room, or a demon in this man, I just know it. I can feel it, smell it, the Darkness. The voice mail beeps for me to leave my message, but I can’t move to hang up or redial. The receiver slides from my ear to my shoulder. Hit him with it, Rebecca!
But I can’t move.
He reaches out slowly, gently running his stained fingers over my hair. He swallows hard. “Are you a fallen angel?”
His question and demeanor are so strange—threatening, but not. It’s almost as if he’s so mesmerized he has no choice.
“Please,” I whisper, shivering so hard it jars my bones. I can’t move, I can’t think, I can’t—
His eyes are distant as his hand moves to my arm, gripping it hard.
I choke on a sob as he pulls me closer, and I know what’s about to happen, I know with sudden clarity that he’s about to kill me as his meaty fingers reach out and curl around my neck.
Stop! No, no, no, please, no.
He squeezes. Light sparks in my vision. I try to scream, to fight, but it’s as if my body won’t listen, just going stiff, my mind retreating. He presses me back against the glass, his raspy breath in my face. I gag, push back with flailing arms, hands seeking purchase against his chest, his shoulders, his face. Panic fills me. The finality of the moment taunting me.
Until the rage comes, the fight billowing up in a rush.
A silent cry rips through me. My nails digging into flesh.
GET BACK!
With a sudden burst of air, I’m free, stumbling forward. Sound explodes around me as I gasp and choke and try to find a way to get oxygen back into my lungs.
And finally my scream comes; I scream so loud I go numb as it bursts from my lungs, pushing me to my knees. The noise blasts around me, crashing, breaking, thundering. It goes on and on, alive and powerful.
I don’t know how much time passes as I hug myself, rocking back and forth, my tears spilling out with each wracking breath. Silence falls slowly. I open my eyes and find myself alone in a mess. Glass and food and papers scatter the floor. I look around but can’t see the man, so I lift a shaking hand to the countertop and pull myself to my feet. My unsteady legs nearly buckle when I realize what I did—because I know beyond a doubt that I created the wreck in front of me.
The store is torn apart, shelves knocked over, refrigerator doors cracked, soda bottles exploded. And the man, Bill, is in a heap against the bathroom door on the other side of the room.
I shake, trying to figure out what happened. How did I do this?
It takes me several seconds to realize something’s ringing. A phone. Sounds like it’s coming from the mechanic’s garage outside.
I turn to look at the phone on the wall behind me and see a red light flashing. I rush to it and push the button beside the blinking light. I pick up the dangling receiver and press it to my ear. I open my mouth to speak but only a small whimper emerges.
“Hello?!” The word comes urgently through the line. “Did someone call me from this number?” Elation and pain fill me at the sound of my dad’s voice. “Hello?”
“Daddy,” I manage to scratch from my throat as the tears start again.
There’s a pause before it comes back, raw and vulnerable. “Emery . . . oh, God. Thank God, I found you.” Tears fill his words and he makes a sound like he’s in pain.
I cry harder and can only say again, “Daddy.”
“Where are you, sweetie? Let me come get you.”
“I don’t know,” I say, finding it hard to breathe again. “I’m at a . . . a gas station. He said we’re in Arrowhead.”
“What kind of station, what company? I’ll look it up. Tell me what’s around you.”
“A Taco Bell,” I say. “And I think it’s a Chevron.”
“Don’t hang up, okay. Stay on the phone until I can get there.”
“Okay.” I look around the demolished store. “Daddy . . .”
“Yes, baby.”
I slide down to the floor cradling the phone, hoping the man across the room won’t wake up. “Please, hurry.”
A hundred years pass. A hundred years of listening to his voice, unable to speak. Every once in a while he gives me an update on where he is, but apparently Arrowhead is a solid thirty-five-minute drive from the city. I can only marvel at the fact that I walked here somehow.
He’s not asking me questions; I think he knows I wouldn’t be able to answer. He tells me he filed a missing person’s report this morning, explaining that I’ve been missing for twenty-four hours, instead of just a couple, like I thought. He mentions that Aidan was at the house but doesn’t elaborate, and I can’t muster the energy to ask questions or hear the lies Aidan had to tell my dad. I don’t know how I’m going to explain the wreckage I’m sitting in, wreckage I created somehow. With my terror? It felt similar to when I yelled at the demon that attacked me outside Miss Mae’s. I must’ve actually pushed that thing away somehow. And I did it again? But on steroids. There’s something inside me that can . . . destroy an entire store.
“I’m pulling off the highway, sweetie,” my dad says. “I think I’m here. I see a Taco Bell.”
I drag myself off the ground and look out the window—part of it is missing glass, I realize. Headlights appear and a Mercedes pulls up, parks beside the building. My insides shake, seeing him emerge from the car as he looks around, his phone to his ear.
“Where are you, baby?” he asks.
“Inside.”
He looks at the window and sees me. He rushes to the door, but when he tries to push it open, it hits against a fallen rack. He’s trying to shove it hard to create enough space to squeeze through when I see something move in the parking lot out of the corner of my eye.
Charlie. It’s Charlie, his copper hair reflecting the streetlights. He’s walking toward my dad.
No. That’s not Charlie. No. It’s something else.
“Dad!” I yell. “Hurry!” I scramble from behind the counter, over another shelf, crunching over bags of chips and cookies. I have to get him away
, away from the pretend Charlie. I try and push the shelf that’s blocking the door but it’s too heavy, it doesn’t even budge.
I stand and put my palms to the glass. “Daddy, run!”
He stops trying to shove the door and turns to look where I’m gaping. He stumbles back, seeing his dead son, seeing the trick, and I know what he’s feeling, the confusion, the pain, the doubt. The wishing.
“It’s not Charlie, Daddy! Run!”
He steps back, obviously struck with terror.
“Stop!” I scream at the thing, seeing the predator in its eyes—those aren’t Charlie’s eyes. “Don’t hurt him!”
The pretend Charlie stops three feet from my dad and looks at me. “Come to me or I will tear out the spine.”
“Okay!” I cry. “Just, please, don’t hurt him.”
“No, Rebecca, run!” my father demands. “Don’t listen—”
The pretend Charlie grabs him by the throat and its other hand comes up, covering my father’s chest over his heart. Five dots of blood emerge where each fingertip is. “I shall rip this out in five seconds.”
“No!” I scream. My mind becomes frantic, I have to get out! I search the space, looking for an escape and see the door into the mechanic’s garage. I lunge for it, feeling nothing but the need to get to them, no pain in my feet or my neck. I’m all focus as I stumble into the closed-up garage, then find the exit in the back, burst out into the morning air, run along the building to the front, and cry out, “I’m here! I’m right here, please stop!”
The fake Charlie shoves my dad to the ground with a hard thrust. He hits with a sharp release of breath, and I hear a crack as his arm bends awkwardly. My dad shouts in pain and cradles the arm to his chest.
“Come,” the thing that looks like Charlie orders, motioning me closer.
“No, Rebecca,” my dad groans.
I kneel at his side and kiss him, hug him, feeling lost, knowing I’m trapped. I swallow my tears and stand, pulling away from his arms when he won’t release me. “I’m okay,” I lie to him. I’ve gotten too good at it, I almost sound like I mean it.
Darkness Savage (The Dark Cycle Book 3) Page 25
