The Price of Brimstone

by Allie Gail

  The Price of Brimstone

  Allie Gail

  ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright July 2018 Allie Gail

  Cover Design by Laura Shinn

  http://laurashinn.yolasite.com

  Artwork by Jojo-ojoj @ Deviant Art

  http://jojo-ojoj.deviantart.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any printed or electronic form without express written permission from the author.

  The Price of Brimstone is a work of fiction. Though some of the locations actually exist, they are used in a fictitious manner for purposes of this work. All characters are works of fiction and any characteristics similar to any person past, present or future are coincidental.

  ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Epilogue

  More from Allie Gail

  About the Author

  ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

  Also by Allie Gail

  The Immortal Touch Trilogy

  Winter’s Touch

  Fire and Ash

  Red Tide Rising

  ***

  Burning Down the House

  ***

  Unconventional Scars

  ***

  The Firefly Effect

  ***

  Breaking the Seventh

  ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

  The devil’s most devilish when respectable.

  ~Elizabeth Barrett Browning

  Chapter One

  It is exactly four hundred and twenty-one miles from Tulsa, Oklahoma to the small, rural town of Grainfield, Kansas.

  I know because I'm feeling every last turn of the odometer.

  Six and a half fun-filled hours of cows, wind turbines and wide open prairies. I'd take the scenic route, but this was it.

  Swinging my feet out of the car, I stand and flex both arms over my head. It's the first chance I've had to stretch my legs since Wichita, where I stopped to gas up and grab a Coke. Oh, and pee. Let's not forget that. Nothing says adventure like squatting over a damp convenience store toilet while trying not to let your butt touch anything because there are no seat covers and only about three squares of TP left on the roll.

  I live for these Hallmark moments. Not being able to whiz standing up is the only time I regret being a girl.

  Well, that and the fact that a female traveling solo has to be extra careful. That's why I was trying not to waste any time. I wanted to make it here before dark. There are a lot of weirdos out there.

  Fortunately, this weirdo made it home safe and sound. With daylight to spare.

  Sighing blissfully, I drop my arms and take a moment to assess the beautiful but weathered two-story farmhouse. Nothing about it has changed, of course. Nothing about this place ever changes. To the stranger’s eye it probably resembles something from the days of Bonnie and Clyde, a relic frozen in time. The same peeling white paint, same faded gray shutters, same wraparound porch where I spent many a rainy summer day. Reading, putting together puzzles, officiating over Barbie weddings inside forts made of chairs and old quilts.

  So many memories here. Most of them good.

  And the others…

  Well, let’s just say I’ve become pretty adept at blocking out things I don’t want to remember.

  Stifling a yawn, I pop the trunk and drag out two overstuffed travel bags. Being undecided on how long I plan to stay, I erred on the side of caution and brought it all. Everything I took with me when I made the move to Tulsa a little over two years ago.

  In a way, it doesn’t seem possible that so much time has passed. Still, there’s no denying it has. Two years to earn my AA in accounting, followed by a short-lived stint in the payroll department of a manufacturing plant. Air conditioning systems, in case you were wondering. All chill and no thrill.

  I’m not exactly optimistic about how this is going to look on my resume.

  It's not like that was my fault though. Downsizing happens, right?

  I slam the trunk closed and scan the empty flatlands surrounding the house. There used to be a wheat field here, before my parents bought the place. Now, nothing but yellowing grasses and goldenrod wave in the cool October breeze. There's something peaceful and serene about it. Maybe it's the familiarity.

  Whatever my reasons for coming back, it's good to be home.

  Humming to myself, I sling the straps of both bags over one shoulder and lug them up the walkway. I turn the key and unlock the door, expecting it to...well, you know. Open. Instead it stops three inches in and refuses to budge any farther.

  Oh, okay. Nice. It’s a chain. Someone – and by someone, I mean my nimrod brother – has come up with the bright idea to install one of those chain locks on the inside of the door.

  I bang on it with my fist, swearing under my breath while waiting for someone to open up. A security chain, really? Talk about overkill. Who is he expecting out here in the middle of nowhere, Leatherface? We’ve never had a problem with crime in this unpopulated area, unless you count that time old Mr. Dudley had a few too many beers and drove his lawnmower to the liquor store in his not-so-tighty whiteys.

  Quite the scandal. It made the paper. I'm not even kidding – that's how quiet this town is.

  It seems like forever before I hear a stirring of sound coming from inside. A hazel-green eye, one of a set that exactly matches mine, peeps warily through the crack. I wave at it with my free hand. “Paranoid much?”

  “Jude!” Russell sounds way more surprised than he should, considering I own half this house. He closes the door just long enough to slide the chain loose, then pulls it open only to demand, “What are you doing here?”

  “Nice to see you, too.” Pushing past him, I unload the heavy bags and turn to give him the once-over.

  Yee-ikes. If he's trying to impersonate a hobo, then he is to be commended on his efforts. The guy's an absolute mess. In spite of the fact that it’s nearing sunset, he looks like he just rolled out of bed. His thick caramel-brown hair, a shade lighter and usually straighter than mine, is sticking out in all directions, like he couldn't be bothered with a comb. The face that’s grimacing at me hasn’t seen a razor in days, and the stained t-shirt and frayed jeans he’s wearing look none too clean.

  Come to think of it, he doesn't smell any too clean either.

  Balancing my rear on the arm of the recliner, I cross my arms and grin at him. “Good God. You look like a floating sewer missile. Rough night, Casanova?”

  He stares at me blankly.

  “Are you still drunk?” I raise an eyebrow and wait for an explanation. Unlike me, Russell’s never been one to turn down a good party, but I have yet to see him come home looking like a vagrant. For someone who’s alwa
ys taken an almost vain pride in his appearance, it’s surprising to see him looking like total ass.

  “I haven’t been drinking.” Frowning, he presses his lips together the way he always does when he’s annoyed with me.

  “You’re not sick or anything, are you?”

  “No.”

  “You sure? You look like – oh, crap! Tell me we aren’t having problems with the plumbing again. Is something wrong with the well?” Without waiting for a reply, I scurry into the kitchen and turn the faucet on full blast, sighing with relief when a steady stream of clear water comes spewing out.

  Whew. That's good. This would be the absolute worst time to have to sink any money into repairs.

  He ignores my question to rehash his own. “What are you doing here? It’s Thursday. Don’t you have to be at work tomorrow?”

  “It’s Friday, genius, not Thursday,” I inform him. “And no, I don’t have to be there tomorrow. Or any other day, considering I’ve just been pink-slipped. Along with fourteen other people. But hey, got a swell letter of recommendation for my tireless dedication.”

  “You're shitting me! You got laid off already? What the hell, you’ve only been there…” He goes blank again, trying to remember.

  “Just under ninety days. Yup. The new hires were the first to go.” Made no sense to me, bringing in new employees just to turn around and make cutbacks a few months later. Although the order came from the corporate office, so it’s not like I can blame the person that did the actual hiring. “I was going to start looking for another job, but Gabby thought I should come home for a few weeks first. I think she worries about you being here all alone. Can’t imagine why.”

  Gabby's our grandmother, and if she could see this place now she'd be chasing him down with a can of Lysol. Wrinkling my nose, I lift a crusty pot from the overflowing pile in the sink. Ew, they’re starting to stink...like spoiled milk and overripe garbage.

  The sarcasm flies right over his head. “You’re staying? For how long?”

  “Well, of course I’m staying, derfwad! Did you think I drove all this way just to say hello and then turn around and go back? I don’t know how long. Does it matter?”

  He rubs his bristly jaw with one hand, eyeing me apprehensively. “This just…it really isn’t a good time.”

  “Russell, what the hell’s the matter with you?” I drop the pot and turn to scowl at him, just as the basement door silently opens and Max Fallon appears in my line of vision.

  “Oh. Hey, Max.” Being one of my brother’s lifelong friends, I’ve known him since I was in pigtails and braces. It’s no surprise that he’s here. What is surprising is the almost guilty way he’s looking at me. Or more like, trying to avoid looking at me.

  What is going on here?

  “Jude.” Max hesitates, his silver-gray eyes darting to my brother before returning to me. “Um…hey. Good to see you. Russ didn’t tell me you were coming.”

  “I didn’t know I was coming. Until this morning, that is.”

  “Cool. That’s cool. So…” He clears his throat. “What are you doing here?”

  “That seems to be the question of the day.” Maybe I’m reading this wrong, but they both seem unduly jumpy for some reason. What are they so nervous about? “Anyway, I could ask you the same thing. Where’s Owen? Is he here too?”

  Owen Hall is the Curly to their Larry and Moe. Having practically grown up together, the three of them were and still are thick as thieves. Where there’s one, you’ll usually find the other two. By association, I spent a lot of time around Max and Owen as well, resulting in a few secret crushes harbored during different phases of my adolescence.

  They never noticed, of course. Why would they? I was four years their junior. Just some scrawny little kid, all knees and elbows, with an unruly mop of wild brown curls and a penchant for getting in the way. Nothing but their friend’s tagalong baby sister. A household fixture, someone to help fill in the family portraits scattered about the house.

  Most of those pictures are gone now. Stored in the attic, or hidden between the pages of untouched photo albums. After the loss of my parents three years ago, it hurt too much to look at them.

  Especially considering the way they died.

  “No. Owen isn’t here.” Closing the basement door behind him, Max secures it with a heavy deadbolt.

  That’s new. The basement door has never had a deadbolt on it before. I mean, what’s the point of that?

  “What are you two up to down there? Putting together a Fisher-Price My First Meth Lab?” I expect them to laugh, but no one cracks a smile.

  Once again, they exchange wary glances.

  “Okay. What is going on?” I plant both hands on my hips and glare at them alternately. Four years younger, and suddenly I feel like the only rational adult in the room. Have they finally inhaled enough reefer to render them permanently brain damaged? “I just drove almost seven hours to get here and I am way too tired to play games. And for the record, too tired to give a crap about whatever funny business you’re hiding down there. Frankly, I don’t really care. So if there’s some legitimate reason why you don’t want me here, I’d like to know what it is.”

  “It’s not that, Jude…” my brother protests feebly.

  “Then what is it?”

  “It’s Skylar,” Max hastily explains. I’m thankful that at least he is willing to fill me in. “She’s missing.”

  My lips part in surprise. That's not what I expected to hear. Skylar’s missing? I recognize the name, of course, her being Russell's latest flavor-of-the-month and all. I don’t know her very well – she is also older than me and ran with a different crowd – but still, this is major news. “What do you mean? Since when? What happened?”

  “It’s not just Skylar. Owen’s missing, too.”

  Oh. Oh-h.

  Uh-oh.

  Being the pragmatic type, the most obvious conclusion is the first thing that pops into my head. It’s not something I’m keen to point out, but surely it’s an option that’s already been considered?

  I touch my brother's arm sympathetically. “Russ…”

  “Stop. Just stop it, right now. Don’t give me that look.” Inhaling deeply, he rakes a hand through his hair and lets out a long sigh before insisting, “I know what you’re thinking. And before you say anything else, it’s not like that. They haven’t run off together. They weren’t fucking behind my back. I know that’s what you're thinking, but it isn’t true. They didn’t leave by their own free will. They were taken.”

  “Taken? By who?”

  “Not who,” Max murmurs. “What.”

  A sudden chill raises goosebumps on my arms, as the implications of those four letters burrow like worms into my subconscious. Exhuming deeply buried memories of things from the past. Dark things. Things I wanted to forget.

  Things that can never be forgotten.

  “What's that supposed to mean?” I ask softly.

  “Don't!” Russ snaps, raising a finger at Max. “Don’t even…”

  “She asked.”

  “Drop it.” That’s all my brother says, but the warning in his voice isn’t hard to miss.

  “Hey. She wants to know. Maybe you should enlighten her.” Grabbing a jacket off the back of one of the kitchen chairs, Max shrugs into it while still avoiding eye contact with me. “Look, I gotta go. I have to be at work in an hour, and I still need to shower and shave. You guys can sort this out between yourselves.”

  “Tomorrow?” Russ shoots him a look that carries some kind of hidden meaning I’m not privy to.

  “After I get some sleep, yeah.” Finally allowing his eyes to meet mine, Max gives me a hesitant smile. “It was good to see you again, Jude.”

  “I’m sure I’ll see you tomorrow,” I remind him.

  “Right.” As he's walking away, he directs one last ominous comment to my brother. “Be careful.”

  I'm assuming it was meant for him. I could be wrong. Maybe it was meant for me, though I can't imagine w
hy.

  Trying to force a little normalcy back into an evening that seems to be going straight south, I remark, “I take it Max is stuck working the night shift.”

  “Uh-huh.” Pulling out a chair, Russ flops down wearily. He is definitely not himself tonight, and it’s really starting to concern me.

  “Guess paramedics are more in demand at night, huh? Seems like that's when all the bad stuff happens. Or most of it, anyway.”

  “Seems that way.”

  “Have you eaten?”

  “Eaten?” He looks up at me with a dazed expression, as if he’s forgotten what the word means. “Oh. No, I guess I haven’t.”

  “Want me to fix you something?” I rummage around in the cabinets, hoping there's at least one clean pan left. “I don’t know about you but I’m starving. I had some peanut butter crackers before I left, and that's all I've had today. I wanted to get here before dark so I didn’t stop to eat.”

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  Just as I figured, there doesn’t seem to be much in the way of groceries. I find half a loaf of bread that’s three days out of date, and some butter and cheese in the fridge. I’ll have to make do with that.

  “Grilled cheese work for you?”

  “Okay,” he repeats indifferently.

  I pull out a skillet and heat it on the stove, waiting quietly for him to open up about whatever’s going on with Skylar and Owen. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t say a word. Which is concerning, because we’ve always been close enough to talk about anything. He knows my deepest, darkest secrets – well, most of them, anyway – and I’m pretty sure I know most of his.

  “Did you work today?” I finally ask, just for something to say.

  “No. I took the week off. I’m supposed to go back on Monday.”

  “Are you sure you’re up to it?”

  “I need to go back to work. I need something sane and normal in my life right now.”

  “You want to tell me about it?” I gently prompt.

  “Not really, no. I never wanted to tell you about it. I didn’t want you involved in this.”