Stormfront (Undertow Book 2)

by K. R. Conway

  UNDERTOW BOOK 2

  STORMFRONT

  K.R. Conway

  Copyright © 2014 Kathleen R Conway

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 by Kathleen R. Conway

  All rights reserved. In accordance with U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher / author is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from this book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at capecodscribe@yahoo.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Kathleen R Conway

  Bourne MA 02532

  Visit the author’s website at www.CapeCodScribe.com

  First Edition: August 2014

  Conway, Kathleen R.

  Stormfront / by Kathleen R. Conway – 1st ed.

  Summary: In the sequel to UNDERTOW, seventeen-year-old Eila Walker must face the fallout of her past decisions, including a guilt-ridden bodyguard who is determined to keep her from being in danger again, though Eila wants to prove herself as the fighter she was born to be.

  Ebook ed

  ISBN: 978-0-9897763-3-2

  Published in the United States of America

  DEDICATION

  For all the warriors.

  Young and old.

  Here and gone.

  STORMFRONT

  Not long ago Eila Walker’s choices were limited: death by a bullet to the head, or at the hands of her beloved bodyguard, Raef. Now, five weeks after Raef triggered her power and she nearly leveled a historic mansion, Eila is dealing with the fall-out of her decisions. While she doesn’t remember dying in the arms of the soul thief who loves her, she knows that Raef remembers everything about the night he nearly killed her.

  Now on the mend and attempting to keep one step ahead of the FBI, Eila and her team of misfits are desperate for a bit of normal. Eila is trying to navigate high school, while her BFF Ana is cautiously hanging with past-boyfriend and soul thief, Kian. Shape-shifter MJ is trying not to piss off his mother, while Raef is coping with his fears that Eila will never be safe.

  But just as “normal” seems within their grasp, a powerfully built newcomer arrives. Raef knows the scarred man as a Blacklist Dealer – a soul thief, who peddles the names of humans who deserve to die. Eila, however, knows him as the protective hunter from the woods, whom she nicknames Thor. Before long, Raef and Eila realize they’ve met the same killer, and he has one hell of a story to tell the five friends . . . if Raef doesn’t murder him first.

  PRAISE FOR STORMFRONT

  “The way this author tells a story sucks you in to where you don't want to put the book down – hanging on each word dying to know what will happen next. And let me tell you it is never what you think it will be. This is one author that you can’t “figure out” –you won’t know where the story is going until you get there, and when you get there it will be something you could have never imagined.” – Bobbie Jo for The Reading Diva

  “Conway has once again written a very believable story with characters and scenery that will sweep you away to another place. When you come back to reality you will wonder how so much time has passed and what this strange world is you have been dropped into. You actually miss everyone in the book as if they are your real friends and family.” Kim Lewis, ARC reviewer

  “I believe I enjoyed this book even more than the first, Undertow. Stormfront was able to delve further into the characters, showing their depth. It begins in the snowy Northeast and whisks you away to a tropical local described so well, that any New Englander would eagerly travel to it the middle of winter. Strong new characters are introduced, and like any great read, twists and turns are unexpected and exciting. The end = perfection. Great read!” – YA librarian Lindsey Hughes

  Prologue

  Newport, Rhode Island

  Four weeks before Thanksgiving

  The largest mansion in Newport looked like a war zone. At least, that was how Mark Howe remembered the Vanderbilt’s historic estate.

  He would get another look today if the line ever moved, which at this point seemed doubtful. He couldn’t believe how long it took to get a non-foamed, non-whipped, non-mucked-with cup of coffee in Newport. How was it even possible that so many Mercedes-driving blondes managed to squeeze into the corner cafe at the crack of dawn?

  He would have left, ignoring his desperate need for caffeine, but his body was literally running on fumes. Since the Newport blast seven days ago, he had gotten the absolute minimum for functional sleep, as the case had become quite the media frenzy. Piecing together what the hell had happened in the boiler room had become priority numero uno for his office in Boston, yet he had not received a final report from forensics on the type of bomb used in the blast.

  Yes, “bomb,” because it damn well wasn’t the boiler.

  He was headed back to The Breakers mansion this morning if he ever got a damn coffee.

  As he finally reached the counter his phone trilled in his pocket. He quickly gave an order for two large hits of caffeine and snapped open his phone. “Howe,” he answered, jostling the phone in the crook of his neck.

  “Where are you?” demanded his imposing, seasoned partner of two years, Anthony Sollen.

  “Getting us some coffee. You at The Breakers?”

  A few faces in the shop glanced at him. The Breakers had Newport in a tizzy and getting the low down on what had happened during the Fire and Ice Ball was the talk of the town. Howe glanced around at his sudden audience and paid the cashier, quickly walking out to his sedan as Sollen talked into his ear.

  “Yeah, I’m here, and Forensics wants to talk to us. Now,” snapped Sollen.

  “I’m on my way. Be there in three minutes.” Howe snapped his phone shut, knocking the gearshift into drive.

  He managed to swig half of the scalding drink before he pulled through the iron gates of the Vanderbilts’ summer home, now being guarded round the clock as a crime scene. He parked in front of the massive entrance and headed inside with his partner’s cup of joe.

  Numerous members of the local and national historical societies had been the biggest pains in the ass when it came to dealing with the blast scene. They were there, as always, watching every move the FBI made, making sure nothing was further damaged. They were chomping at the bit to start repairs before winter set in and possibly caused further damage to the historic home. Millionaire Christian Raines, whose fundraiser fete had been in full swing inside the mansion during the explosion, volunteered to foot the bill for all repairs. Supposedly he was devastated by the damage to the historic estate.

  Devastated my ass, thought Howe. He was certain something was up with Newport’s Most Eligible Man.

  As he entered the boiler room for the umpteenth time since the night of the Fire and Ice party, Howe was still amazed that the only fatality in the blast was Dalca Anescu, who had been crushed by a piece of the ceiling.

  The beastly, cast iron boiler that filled one side of the room looked like a concrete truck had hit it doing 90 mph. The floors and walls of the brick room all sustained structural damage and showed it via hundreds of cracks. A gaping hole in the ceiling gave a clear view up from the cellar through three floors and clean through the roof, where the energy of the explosion had been funneled. Damage estimates were easily in the millions, all of which Raines seemed willing to pay.

  Howe tho
ught of the kids from Cape Cod who had survived the carnage. There were the two O’Reilly brothers, deep pocketed themselves, who were the least injured. Ana Lane and the boy, Williams, had minor injuries, but the girl, Walker, was nearly killed and had obvious concussive injuries consistent with close proximity to a blast.

  If they were all in the same room, why on earth would they not have all sustained the same injuries?

  How in the hell were they not all dead?

  Something was just wrong with the whole picture and Howe hoped the forensics team finally had a lead on the actual source of the blast. He walked to the center of the room where Sollen was standing with an older, balding man.

  “So? I’m right, right? Plastique like C-4 right?” asked Howe handing the coffee to his partner, who nodded his thanks.

  Sollen gestured to the man beside him, “Mark Howe, this is Dr. Carl Leeland. He does some work for the DC office from time to time when we are stuck.” The forensic geek gave a stiff smile.

  Howe reached out and shook the doctor’s hand, “We’re stuck, I take it?”

  “Nice to meet you Agent Howe, though I wish the circumstances were better. I’ve worked some terrorism attacks for the government when unusual materials are used in bombs.”

  “So it was a bomb,” said Sollen, rubbing the back of his neck, the tension literally forcing his muscles to seize. “Type?”

  Dr. Leeland cleared his throat, “Well, that’s just it. I cannot find bomb residue of any kind, anywhere in the building, let alone this room. Any explosive that we know of that can create this kind of damage leaves a residue and there is none.”

  “Couldn’t it have burned off?” asked Howe, hopeful as visions of a more simplified end to the Breakers case began to evaporate.

  Leeland smoothed back his few remaining hairs as he spoke, “There is no indication of any sort of fire, anywhere. Which tells me that this was not chemical in any way. It had to be a physical bomb.”

  “Like what? Compressed gas or something?” asked Howe.

  “Well, if the blast was far, far smaller, yes. But a blast this huge?” Leeland shook his head. “The only thing that comes to mind that can do this damage without leaving a chemical trail, is nature.”

  “What?” asked Howe and Sollen, nearly in unison.

  “Nature, like a tornado. Although, my guess, in here, it would have been something like a bolt of lightning.

  “Why lightning?” asked Sollen.

  Leeland looked down at his clipboard as his glasses slipped slightly on his narrow nose. “According to the statements your office took from the guests that night, nearly all said they heard a ‘boom’ that reminded them of a lightning strike.”

  Howe shook his head, this idea of lightning being just too damn far fetched and the boiler looking better by the second. “Are we certain it wasn’t the boiler? Maybe it actually did malfunction and blow?”

  Leeland shook his head. “No. The boiler would be in pieces and right now it is flattened to the wall. Something threw it there with incredible force.” Leeland suddenly snapped his fingers, as if remembering something, “Oh! And wait until you see this!” He picked up a flashlight out of a black duffle bag and walked over to the boiler. Sollen and Howe followed.

  Leeland flicked on the flashlight and trained the beam of light into the depths of the crushed boiler. The light found its target and Leeland held it steady, “I believe the saying in Boston is ‘How do you like them apples?” he asked, triumphant.

  Howe squinted as he looked into the darkness at the small, silver object at the end of the light. It was jammed among the pipes within the boiler. “Is that a handgun?” he asked, stunned.

  Sollen looked as well, his brow furrowed with lines. “I think that is a Korth. See the check mark near the end of the barrel. Damn expensive handgun.”

  Howe knew without doubt that the kids from the Cape knew far more than they were saying. “None of those kids said a thing about a handgun.” He shook his head, trying to sort the outrageous intel. “Okay, just so I have this all straight, you are basically saying this was a bomb that causes no fire, but major structural damage, and manages to kill only one person, but levels half of a mansion? Does this sound crazy only to me?”

  Leeland tossed his hands, “I’m saying that if this is, in fact, a weapon, then I have never seen it before and it is one hell of a device.”

  Sollen looked at Howe, lines of stress clearly across his face. Someone had a new type of bomb in the United States and it wasn’t the home team.

  “What’s the chance that Anescu was a brilliant physicist and that this all ends with her?” asked Howe, sarcastically.

  “Slim to none,” replied Sollen. “Ever been to Cape Cod?”

  “Only once when I was stuck in traffic for three hours trying to cross the Sagamore Bridge,” replied Howe. “Let me guess – you want some salt-water taffy?”

  Sollen, never one to joke, pulled his Blackberry from his jacket pocket. He pressed a button and looked at the screen that showed information on the five survivors of the blast. “I say we pay the charming town of Centerville a visit and start with . . . 408 Main Street. I hear the Walker girl just got released from the hospital and I’m sure she’d love to see us again.”

  Howe just shook his head. “I hate the beach.”

  1 Eila

  Nauset Beach, Cape Cod, Massachusetts

  One day before Thanksgiving

  I had a kill mark.

  At least, that's what Christian had called it.

  He said mine was darker, deeper . . . more distinct, even than my 4th great grandmother, Elizabeth’s. From what I had managed to see, the small brand on my back that deemed me a murderer had also begun to change, growing upwards on my spine like a gnarled vine.

  Christian said it was normal, considering what I had done a few weeks before. Considering how many I had slaughtered inside the coal room of the Newport mansion. A kill mark, he said, was the badge of the truly lethal and appeared only on those like me - those who could torch soul thieves and nearly flatten a national treasure, though I was sure my wrecking-ball capability was a shocker for Christian.

  I've got to say, I could do without it.

  In fact, I could do without the whole assassin gene in general. It would be awesome if we were given a chance to choose our gene pool. A chance to mull over the options and pick what we wanted and what we would pass on, like the ability to channel the energy of souls and thus, fry soul thieves.

  That would have been a big, fat pass for me.

  I remember watching Sleeping Beauty as a child with Mae, and the Three Good Fairies chose what the princess got for endowments. They opted for a fabulous singing ability and babe-worthy good looks. Apparently everyone in the kingdom was stupid, because no one gave the poor girl any BRAINS and she went and touched the damn spindle. I mean, for crying out loud, if you get to choose the genetics ya get, belting out show tunes and rosy lips should be low on the list of must-haves.

  Sometimes I felt like I too was destined to screw up and touch the proverbial spindle . . . unless I could torch the spinning wheel first. The only problem was a certain soul thief, who didn’t seem too keen on having me test my wheel-frying abilities at all, especially after the Newport fiasco five weeks ago.

  I needed a do-over from that night. We all did.

  I glanced at Ana standing next to me. The snowflakes had begun to coat the top of her jacket’s hood. A few brave flakes descended onto her long eyelashes and she blinked them away as she rolled her lips, willing them to not freeze off.

  She huffed out her disgust at our current state, the cold air turning her words into slanted puffs of smoky vapor. “This is the dumbest pastime on the planet. I mean, who thinks up activities like this? Does some moron decide that hypothermia prior to turkey is a great idea and everyone jumps on the bandwagon?” She brutally scrubbed the flakes off her parka, evicting them without remorse.

  Truth was, as a Kansas native now calling Cape Cod home, I did
n’t see the logic of surfing on Thanksgiving Eve either. Especially prior to the Nor’ Easter that was heading towards us and churning up some monster waves. That said, however, this brilliant plan to freeze our butts off at Nauset beach was her idea. I decided not to remind her of that bit of info, since she was looking like a fairly pissed Popsicle anyway. I didn’t think that the stiff walking boot encasing her left leg helped either.

  She wouldn’t have the darn thing if it wasn’t for me.

  Of course, she might not have her life anymore either, if I hadn’t done what I did. Luckily, she only had to wear it when we went out of the house for any length of time, as she was basically healed.

  “Let’s give them ten more minutes, and then we can head back home,” I replied, giving her a small smile. She eyed me with a steely glare and then just shook her head, resigned, her eyes going back to the two soulless surfers in the waves.

  I must admit that when I first moved to the Cape, nearly three months ago, I didn’t think Ana Lane and I would ever be more than classmates. But now? Now I couldn’t imagine life without her. Through all the chaos that rained down on our lives over the past couple of months, she became more than just a short-statured blonde with a sharp tongue.

  She became my best girl-pal ever.

  She became the one I could divulge secrets to, horde chocolate with, and spill my guts to in the dead of night. And we stayed up late every Friday night, watching movies in her room.

  Her room, which was now across from mine, since she had moved into 408 Main Street with me and my legal guardian Mae. She was my mother’s best friend until the night both my parents were killed in a car accident. I was only two when they died, and Mae had only just graduated high school, but she took me in. She loved me as her own and I have never seen her as anything other than a sister-like Mom whom I have loved for the past sixteen years.