by Amanda Rose
At some point, I must fall asleep because I wake up with a start, my heart pounding rapidly in my chest. It’s obviously the middle of the night because my bedroom is pitch-black and silent as a grave. Everything seems to be still and calm. Only my breathing and the slight rustle of the blankets disturbs the hush of the empty house. I lie there peacefully and start to drift back toward oblivion when the cat, curled in a ball on the pillow only a few inches from my head, jerks awake suddenly.
BANG.
A split-second later, I hear it again, but this time just a little closer.
Scraaaaape.
Claws on wood. That's what the scraping noise sounds like … at least in the movies. I hold my breath, hoping I’m just having a bad dream.
Down the hall from my bedroom door, I hear a loud crash, like glass breaking.
Again. BANG, BANG, scraaaaape … only this time much closer.
I jump out of bed and turn on my light, fumbling around for a second as I try to find my glasses. As soon as I get them on, I grab my baseball bat again—this thing practically deserves a medal at this point—and stand with my back against the wall, squeezing the handle so tightly my knuckles are turning white. I don't know why, but on some instinctive level, I know whoever or whatever is out there is after me. And it's bad, like run for the hills and hide in a bunker bad. As crazy and weird as everything got this morning with Zandor and the cat—who seems to have literally disappeared—I never once felt the bone-deep primal fear I feel right now.
A few seconds later, the door bursts in and I see it: a thing of nightmares.
What. The. Fuck. Is. That? The smell of rot trails behind the squat gray body of an imp-like creature with the head of a crocodile and claws almost as long as my fingers. It skitters out of the dark hallway to the edge of my bed like it's looking for something, closing the distance between the two spaces in the blink of an eye. When it sees I'm not asleep, it swings its head around, glowing red eyes locking onto me. I lift up my baseball bat protectively, seeing as it's my only defense against … what-the-heck-ever this nasty thing is.
The crocodile mouth opens as if it’s trying to speak.
“La … veau.”
A deep hiss comes from its throat just before it flies across the room toward me. I swing the bat, managing to hit it squarely in the head. It stumbles back, but I doubt I did any real damage. I don't wait around to see what it’ll do next. Instead, I do what any sane person would do: I run as fast as I can, slamming the door behind me and hopefully buying myself some time to escape.
I go as quickly as I can through the dark hallway, not exactly sure what to do next. I'm stranded with no car, barefoot and alone in the middle of nowhere in a sudden storm while a demon monster—or whatever you want to call it—is trying to kill me. Not to mention I have no phone and no wallet, so getting help is out of the question.
If I want to survive, I have to get out of here by myself.
Even if Mrs. DeBellevue is crazy, her house has got to be safer than being here with a bloodthirsty creature of unknown origin. My temporary plan—if I get out of the house that is—is to go there or at least to the main road. I’m not a fan of hitchhiking, but if it means escaping a demon, I’m down. That is, if there are cars on this remote stretch in the middle of the night.
When I hit the stairs, I hear the wood of my bedroom door splintering. Crap, that didn't stop it for nearly as long as I'd hoped; I need to get out of here now. I hit the top of the stairs, taking them two at a time. I can hear the sound of claws quickly moving across the wood floor behind me.
The monster’s gaining on me.
I land in the entryway with a thump, sprinting for the front door. The creature must be close because the rotten stench is getting stronger by the second. I fling the door open, and right in front of me is another monster, one that’s a hell of a lot larger and scarier than the one in the house. And believe me, that's saying a lot.
They’re both totally … fucked.
Eight feet of slimy translucent white skin is stretched over a bony, hunchbacked body. Stick-thin arms end in clawed, webbed hands that are so long they drag on the ground behind the creature, its legs bent back like a grasshopper’s. A thin, balding layer of long, stringy hair hangs loosely off its too-small head. But the real horrors are the open gaping jaws of jagged teeth surrounding a slimy, flopping tongue and bulbous black insect-like eyes. The Creature from the Black Lagoon ain't got nothin' on this nasty sucker.
I'm so screwed, I think to myself as I slam the door in a monster’s face for the second time in five minutes.
I'm pretty sure I'm going to die tonight, but I’m also unwilling to go down without a fight. I lift my baseball bat and turn my back to the front door. The first monster launches itself at me from about ten feet away, claws extended and crocodile jaws open wide, when something I can't see hits the crocodile/imp thing and sends it flying into a coffee table in the next room.
I start to think I'm gonna have to deal with yet another creature I don't know how to kill when Zandor materializes out of thin air. I want to know what the frick is happening and why, but there’s no time to ask because Zandor starts talking really fast, grabbing me by the shoulders and shaking me out of my stupor.
“I'll hold the Invisibles off as long as I can, but there are at least a dozen more upstairs. Serefine, go through the kitchen door to the back shed. There are bags of brick dust and blessed salt. Make two circles—one of each—around the giant oak, but hurry: they don’t have to be perfect. As soon as you're done, put a drip of your blood at each of the four cardinal points.” Zandor lets go of me abruptly and starts toward the next room, gold eyes locked onto the creature in the parlor. I don't hesitate or ask questions—there are freaking monsters in my house, after all—I just act, taking off towards the kitchen and away from the mutant croc at a full sprint. “No matter what, don't break the circle till dawn! Call Bastian, and he’ll protect you if—” Whatever Zandor’s about to say gets cut short, and I hear another crash … then another.
I feel bad leaving Zandor to fight those things by himself—I even consider going back to help him—but I know I'll only get in the way, so I head straight for the backyard like he asked me to.
Outside, the rain is coming down in frigid sheets. The sound of frogs and other creatures is being drowned out by the deafening boom of thunder. The shed isn't far, but I have to go slowly. The ground is slippery and the night is so dark, I can't see more than a few feet in front of me. If something is in the darkness, I won't know it until it’s too late.
I nearly sob with relief when I manage to reach the shed without seeing anymore bloodthirsty fiends hellbent on my demise. I flick on the light, thanking my lucky stars that it illuminates the path to the big oak. Lying on the floor are two cloth bags, as promised. Kneeling down, I open them both up; one is very clearly rock salt and the other is filled with a red-brown powder. That’s gotta be the brick dust, I think, and then, this is gonna be way harder than I thought.
The bags are huge, fifty pounds or more at least. They’re too big to carry and I’ll have to put down the baseball bat to drag them over to the tree which means I'll be completely defenseless while I make this circle thing.
But it’s either this or … death by monsters.
I decide that drastic times call for drastic measures, dragging both sacks through the slick mud. It’s no easy task, and it takes way longer than I think it should to get them to the tree. By the time I'm finished, I'm panting from the exertion and shivering from the ice-cold rainwater seeping through my wet pajamas.
Working as quickly as I can, I make the salt circle. Through the rain and thunder, I can just make out a slap-slap noise of something—or things—moving toward me through the mud. I finish laying down the brick dust with frantic, frightful gasps of breath slipping past my wet lips.
Glancing up, I catch sight of the bug-eyed monster from the front porch coming this way, dragging its too long arms behind it as it crawls out of the d
arkness toward me. Cardinal points … I have no idea what the heck those are, so I just pick a point that feels right. With no knife to cut my hand, I hesitate for only a moment before biting my tongue.
It hurts so fucking bad. I guess I must’ve bit it too hard because blood starts to well in my mouth; I just open my lips and crimson liquid runs down my face and drips on my chest. I rub my fingers along my chin till they’re slick with blood, flicking the copper-smelling drops on the lines of salt and brick dust.
The moment the first drop falls, I can feel them, those circles, like they’re tethered to me somehow.
I spatter more blood on the dual circles as the connection gets stronger … and the monster gets closer. The third drop falls, and there’s a pressure, an intangible something pushing me, guiding me to close the circle. I’m going to make it, I think to myself at the exact moment Zandor flies several yards through the window, landing in a shower of broken glass. He tries to stand up, but falls back down. The light is dim, but I can tell from here that he’s in really bad shape.
He doesn't move again.
I have no idea if he’s resigned to his fate or simply unconscious, but I can't leave him there.
I know I should finish circle, but I won't just let Zandor die. I might not know him or even trust him, but he risked his life to save mine. If I can just get him in the circle before I finish it, maybe we can both live to see tomorrow.
Sucking in a deep breath, I run the twenty yards or so to where he’s lying, in the rain, in the dark.
“Come on, dude,” I snarl, patting his cheek to wake him up. When he doesn't respond, I reach under his armpits and grab onto his shirt to brace my grip. I back up, pulling his unconscious body toward the circle as fast as I can go. With every step, small shards of glass embed themselves in my skin, shredding my already bruised feet. Blood is everywhere, being washed off both of us by the torrential downpour. The trail of blood is following us, mixing with the mud and rainwater and creating the appearance of a crimson river. Adrenaline keeps me going despite the agonizing pain. Almost there.
When the bug-eyed monster notices how close we are to safety, it starts to run at an incredible pace, its grotesquely limp arms flapping behind it like a tattered cloak. I tumble over the line, slamming my bloody palm on the fourth corner at the same time the creature reaches the barrier.
I feel every last ounce of energy being sucked from me like a vacuum, and pressure bursts like a bubble, sending a shockwave of power past the circle, past the bounds of the house to the very edges of the Laveau Estate.
I only have enough time for one thought—I did it—and then I pass out.
My dreams are filled with an earthy scent, a warm woody mix of elemi and roasted oak. It’s calm and comforting, like a walk in a dew-drenched forest. Blurry visions of green eyes, a kind smile, and strong arms carrying me like I weigh nothing dance through my mind.
The first time I start to break into semi-consciousness, I’m lying in my own bed, the sound of crickets and frogs drifting through the open window. Every inch of my body hurts, and with each breath I take, a sharp stab of pain ricochets from my pounding head to my stinging, aching feet. I'm alive. I attempt to sit up and find I don't have the strength to even raise my head. A hand gently cups the back of my neck, lifting my head so that I can swallow a few mouthfuls of a bitter tasting liquid.
“What—” I try to speak, but my voice comes out a hoarse whisper. The inside of my throat feels like someone poured a gallon of gasoline down it and lit it on fire.
“Shh.” The quiet, velvety tones of a deep voice create a soothing balm, gently easing me back into sleep’s gentle embrace. But behind the softness, there is a strength, a primal power both nurturing and destructive, like nature itself. I hear the voice one last time before I lose consciousness again. “In the morning, Precious.”
#
The next time I come to, I can hear voices; I think they’re arguing.
“We might lose her. And she's powerful Bastian, maybe the strongest Laveau ever.” Without even opening my eyes, I know it's Zandor talking. I can picture his handsome brow wrinkled with worry.
Bastian? Is he the one who smells like a moonlit path? Whose voice conjures up images of safety and comfort? Wait, safety and comfort? Eww, I sound like a heroine in a romance novel. I would much rather be a cool chick in a video game or an anime. Kickin' ass and taking names. At the moment, that seems like a bit of a stretch considering I feel like someone tossed me through a wood chipper and then jumped up and down on what little of me was left.
“We can't wait the full year and a day. She needs Samuel and Krim now. Someone helped le rôdeur get past Rosette's barrier wards. Probably the same two-headed doctor who killed Rose,” Zandor continues, frustration apparent in his voice. Wards? Two-headed doctor? And WTF is le rôdeur?
Zandor comes to stand at my bedside. Slipping his calloused hand in mine, he kneels down and presses his forehead to my fingers. His touch sends a tingle through my body and butterflies to my stomach. You'd think I’d no longer be attracted to the golden-eyed boy considering he isn't the average teenager I thought he was. The vivid image of him bleeding on the bed of shattered glass jumps to the forefront of my memory.
“Don't die on us, Skater Girl.” The sound of melancholy in Zandor's voice is at odds with the images in my mind of the smiling, cheerful boy I talked to this morning. “I still owe you a date.”
I try to open my eyes, but my lids feel as though they weigh a thousand pounds. If I survive this, Blondie better take me on the date of the century, I think to myself, because if I'm being honest, I don't think I could talk if I wanted to. As I drift off for the third time, Bastian speaks, his words barely a whisper.
“She's strong; she'll survive.” Somehow, I know the words of encouragement are meant just as much for me as they are for Zandor.
#
When I wake up this time, the sunlight is streaming in my open widow, a gentle breeze ruffling the curtains. In fact, the scene is so picturesque I might think it was all a dream. That is, if a golden-eyed, golden-haired skater boy wasn't sitting on the floor, leaning against my mattress and snoring with my hand still clutched in his.
What time is it? Was he here all night? Cause that's kinda cute, I think groggily to myself.
Suddenly, it all hits me. Not only did I almost get murdered by creatures that shouldn't rightfully exist, but I have a guy—a hot guy, mind you—that I don't really know holding my hand while he sleeps on my bedroom floor.
I sit up, jerking my palm from his. Fumbling around for my glasses, I find them exactly where they should be on the nightstand and then look up with crystal clear vision. My gaze catches on the most vivid of emerald green eyes. They’re like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Multifaceted like a jewel, they seem to twinkle under thick, chestnut lashes.
It's him! Bastian. The man with the voice like velvet.
Heartbeat pounding, I sit there in awe of a masculine face too savagely beautiful to be human, chiseled features softened ever so slightly by the ghost of a smile hovering on his full lips. A wild mane of chestnut curls taper into the finest sprinkling of stubble. Earth and growing things. This man feels like nature personified.
A smooth expanse of creamy mocha skin, just a few shades lighter than my own, stretches over taught muscles. Shirtless, the sculpted planes of his hard chest are fully visible. I wonder what it would feel like to run my hands over the hard perfection of his body … I can feel my face heating with embarrassment, and I clear my throat. A thousand questions want to come rushing out all at once. Without too much thought, I go for the obvious questions first.
“Umm. Who are you, and why are you here?” I’m proud to say my voice comes out calm and confident. Internally though, I'm hovering somewhere between panicked by the existence of man-eating monsters, and super turned-on by the two inhumanly beautiful guys currently in my room.
“Sebastian GranBois,” Green Eyes says in that deep rich voice of his, no embel
lishments or explanations. “I am here for you Serefine Laveau.” I'd be lying if I said the sound of my name falling from his lips doesn’t send a thrill down my spine.
“Why me?” Maybe I should have asked something else? Maybe to some, this would seem like a silly question, but it just sort of pops out.
This time, it's Zandor who answers me with a yawn and a stretch. The hem of his tank top lifts up with the move and shows me a tiny sliver of his tanned six-pack abs.
“Because, you’re the new Laveau.” He says it like somehow that should make perfect sense.
“Uh, I'm not sure I follow.”
Zandor sits down on the bed, the mattress bowing slightly toward his weight, and then turns toward me. He leans in close, surrounding me with that distinct bubblegum scent of his, a stupid flirty grin on his face. The smile is genuine though, reaching all the way to the liquid gold of his breathtaking eyes. If Sebastian is nature personified then Zandor is the embodiment of youth. Joyful, playful, excited, fun.
“The new voodoo queen, silly.” He says it like I've somehow missed the obvious. I manage to keep my breathing steady. This has got to be some big joke or something. Stuff like this only happens in books or video games; it doesn't happen in real life to normal girls. And trust me, I'm about as normal as they come. I'm just a gamer chick from Alaska with a dorky overprotective dad and a lipstick collection. I'm not a voodoo anything.
