by G. R. Lyons
He wanted to laugh, but couldn't explain to her that the page had nothing to do with the story Vorena had told. All the same, the beauty of the gift cut right to his heart, and he knew it was something he would never let go.
“Thank you, little one,” he said, holding out an arm. She rushed right toward him and gave him a tight hug. Even after a year of being around the rebels and seeing how they freely and feelingly embraced one another, it was still strange to him, but Benash slowly felt three decades of conditioning slip away, and enjoyed the closeness of being allowed to actually feel for people.
“Thank you,” he repeated, and the girl gave him a grin as she ran off to join her father.
Benash looked down at the oilcloth, shaking his head and smiling to himself as memories flooded through his mind, and he carefully tucked the package away inside his brown rebel coat.
More footsteps approached, and Ashyn sat down beside him. He still wasn't used to seeing her in the rebel garb—brown trousers and shirt rather than the traditional white wrap—but he delighted in the spark of life that was now always present in her eyes.
Perhaps he had saved someone, after all.
“I have something for you,” she said quietly, gazing out at the horizon.
“What's that?”
She glanced over at him, her expression carefully blank. “I wasn't sure if it would upset you or make you happy,” she began, biting her lip. “I've held on to it all this year, trying to find the right time, but…”
She trailed off, took a deep breath as she glanced at the grave, then reached into her pocket and drew out a small pouch tied to a leather cord. She pressed the pouch into his hand and looked away.
Puzzled, Benash untied the pouch and reached inside, drawing out a shining lock of brown hair.
“I'm sorry, it's silly and sentimental and probably was stupid of me but…” she began in a rush, then took a deep breath and sighed. “It was the only thing I could think of. I was hoping it would…”
“When did you do this?” he asked in a whisper, staring at the lock of hair, the strands neatly tied together.
“While you were digging her grave,” she murmured. “It was impulsive, but I thought I might as well do it while I had the opportunity, and you weren't looking, just in case, someday, you wanted something to remember her by, some part of her to keep close to you.” She paused again. “It's silly, isn't it?”
“No!” he cried, closing his fist around it and holding it to his chest. “Gods, no, Ashyn. This is…Thank you. This is wonderful.”
Tears filled her eyes as she looked from him to the grave and back. “She loved you. You know that, right?”
Benash stared at her, letting her words sink in along with what Jevon had told him. He shook his head, not quite believing it, but then Vorena's last moments rose up in his memory for the millionth time, and he felt the grief of her loss all over again.
“You loved her, too,” Ashyn whispered. “I think she knew that, just before she died.”
Benash nodded, tucking the lock of hair carefully back within the pouch and draping the cord around his neck. Ashyn stood to go, but Benash jumped up and pulled her into an embrace.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
She gave him a smile and squeezed his hand, asking, “Are you ready?”
Benash looked down at the grave one more time, took a deep breath, and followed her into the trees. He stopped where the trail split: one path, behind him, leading back to the clearing; another, to the left, went down the mountainside; and the last, the right, to the starglass Gate.
So many choices, but this time, Benash knew exactly what he was doing.
A few other rebels were there, those who were staying behind to continue their work, and tearful partings were shared all around while last-minute instructions were exchanged.
Jevon and Asenna approached the Gate, drawing aside the heavy cloth that kept it disguised under the hanging branches. Jevon gave Benash a nod, took Asenna by the hand, and stepped through. Ashyn glanced back at him, giving him a questioning look. Benash nodded, and she turned toward the Gate, disappearing through the starglass.
Standing alone where the trail split, Benash glanced back through the trees, seeing the sunslight shine down on Vorena's grave. He rested a hand over his chest, feeling the torn page in his pocket and the lock of hair tucked under his shirt, and the scene before him shimmered in the tears that sprang to his eyes.
“Tell her stories,” he murmured to the rebels who were staying behind. “Maybe others will listen to them and wake up.”
“We will, Hawk,” one of the rebels promised.
Benash looked past them, and for a moment, he could have sworn he saw Vorena standing there, shimmering and ghost-like, giving him an encouraging smile.
With a deep breath, he turned and faced the starglass Gate, and as he stepped through to Agoran, he took Vorena with him.
He chose the right, and left his chains behind.
(And don't worry: Vorena isn't gone for good…)
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And follow Benash to the free Isle of Agoran, where he makes an appearance in Book 2 of the Shifting Isles series, S.P.I.R.I.T. Division:
Honorary Detective Asenna Shyth has an inexplicable gift: She can sense extreme suffering so well that the victim's injuries even appear on her own body as the crime is being committed.
Hidden away in the offices of Hawkeye Insurance and Personal Defense Agency, Detective Shyth uses her gift to help track down rapists and murders before they can complete their crimes. Yet, a serial murderer continues to elude her, vanishing from every crime scene without a trace of evidence left behind: no DNA, no fingerprints, and not a single surviving victim to identify the killer.
With a growing list of unsolved cases, Asenna Shyth races from vision to vision, trying to stop this mystery killer before he strikes again.
Turn the page to read it now!
S.P.I.R.I.T. Division
Shifting Isles Series, Book 2
Chapter 1
HONORARY DETECTIVE Asenna Shyth lay tangled up in blood-splattered white sheets. She breathed unevenly, and her short, dark brown hair clung to her sweat-dampened forehead. Nearly blinded by pain, she could just discern the man crouched beside her bed, the buttons of his dull brown suit jacket straining over his belly.
He held an electronic notepad in his hands, and his face was slightly flushed. He was clearly making an effort to keep his eyes trained on the words he put down, but every so often his glance would flick toward Asenna's naked body. She saw his flush deepen and heard him clear his throat, but she felt no reaction to his glance. She was in far too much pain to care.
That, and she was well beyond used to this sort of situation.
It wasn't the first time. And it wouldn't be the last.
Asenna tried to squeeze her eyes shut against the pain, but her lids wouldn't budge. She still felt the fiery heat where the blade had sliced through thigh and belly and shoulder, still sensed the tightness of fingers around a throat, still felt the tearing thickness of a male organ repeatedly forcing its way in between the legs. The sensations were ever so slowly fading but, for the time being, she was trapped.
“What is your name?” the man asked, his voice husky and gruff.
Asenna.
No!
Asenna…
Let me out! Let me out! Let me out!
“Lesa Wakler,” she finally managed to answer.
Her own voice came out in a dull rasp, a far cry from her usual tones. The first time it had startled her. Now she was used to it.
“How old are you?”
I don't know–
I do!
But I don
't–
Let me out!
“Forty-three,” she gasped.
“What do you look like?”
Dark hair.
Gods, make it stop!
Let me out!
“Blonde hair.” She sucked in a breath, cringing against the pain. “Blue eyes. Short. Very thin.”
“Where are you?”
I'm in here! I'm not Asenna!
Yes, I am–
No!
Yes, I must be…
No! Let me out! Help, gods, please! Let me out!
“512 Maple Street,” she answered through clenched teeth. “Back bedroom.”
She heard the rapid clicks as words were entered on the notescreen, and then saw a blur of movement as the man beside her twisted to grab something from his belt.
Asenna gasped against the pain again, feeling as though her body must be arching off the bed, though she couldn't really move, trapped as she was in the moment.
LET ME OUT!
And then it was over. The pain ceased as though a switch had been flipped, and the foreign presence simply melted away as though it had never been there. Finally and blessedly, she could blink, soothing the raw dryness of her eyes, and the man beside her came into focus.
Detective Malrin was bringing a small radio to his mouth when Asenna reached out a trembling hand to stop him. He stared at her, the radio hovering between them, and Asenna closed her eyes with a weary and heavy-hearted sigh.
“Too late.”
* * *
ONCE THE necessary photographs were taken for evidence to document the wounds and compare them to those found on the actual victim, Asenna shooed everyone out of her room and indulged in a long shower, washing away the blood as the phantom wounds began to fade, leaving her skin unblemished.
Well, mostly unblemished.
She scrubbed herself down, actively ignoring the real scars all over her body. They'd been there when she'd woken up in a hospital on the other side of Agoran, almost four years ago now, and the doctors had refused to explain what had caused them.
Asenna dried off and dressed quickly, ignoring the mirror as she passed it, and stepped out of the washroom just as the boss walked in the front door of the makeshift apartment.
“Chief,” she said with a nod.
“Good morning, Shyth,” Chief Rothbur said, missing her wince as he turned to close the door. He turned back toward her and folded his arms across his chest while still clutching a mug of coffee in one hand. “We'll need a formal debriefing once Malrin gets back, but I thought you'd like to know…”
“Didn't catch him,” Asenna muttered.
“No.”
“Gods damn it all,” she grumbled, turning away.
She felt Chief watching her as she moved toward the kitchenette, his blue-green eyes alert. He ran a hand through his greying hair and said, “I'd like you down in psych before lunch.”
Asenna turned her back on him, grimacing to herself as she filled a glass with water. Forcing her expression blank, she turned to face him and nodded.
“Yes, sir.”
The chief nodded and turned on his heel, heading for the door. He stopped with it halfway open and looked back over his shoulder.
“Oh, and Shyth?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Good work.”
Asenna snorted. “Yeah, right.”
“I mean it,” he insisted, leveling a look at her. “We may not have caught him yet, but your visions are helping. Never doubt that.”
Asenna tightened her jaw, but managed to reply, “Thank you, sir.”
“And don't forget psych,” he reminded her, giving her a nod as he left, closing the door between them.
Asenna set the glass aside and let out a sigh.
“Not again.”
* * *
DETECTIVE CHARLIE Crawford stumbled out of bed in the dark, blinking sleep from his eyes as he felt around for his shoes and sweatshirt. He stifled a yawn as he bent down to tighten his laces, then yanked the sweatshirt over his head as he hurried downstairs, simply needing to get away from the bed where he'd been having nightmares.
He stepped out into the brisk morning air, the Fathers' suns just a glow at the horizon, and took off toward Renby Park, the slap of his sneakers against the pavement the only sound filling his ears at that early hour.
A few cars began to show here and there on the streets, slipping by quietly as Charlie started another lap.
He came to a stop by the fountain, bending forward to brace himself with his hands on his knees while he caught his breath. He straightened up, wiping the sweat from his brow, and jumped back a step when the fountain's almost-silent motor kicked off, ending the soothing patter of drops and leaving the base of the fountain still, the pooled water resting there, taunting him.
Charlie took off at a run again, the nightmare still fresh in his mind:
Standing water. A flooded basement.
Blood.
Saira…
As he circled the park and reached the fountain again, he saw a well-dressed man stride casually over to a bench beneath a massive oak tree. The man carried a bouquet of flowers, resting them beside himself as he took a seat, pulling out what Charlie assumed was a mobile phone and becoming absorbed in its contents.
Charlie started to look away, then noticed the man glance around from under his eyelashes for a moment before he suddenly stood up, his eyes riveted to his mobile as he walked away. Charlie watched him go, the whole thing striking him as an act.
The flowers lay forgotten on the bench.
Charlie shook his head, reminding himself to mind his own business, but thankful nonetheless for the distraction as he continued his lap around the park.
When he circled around and was near passing the bench again, he tripped and stumbled at the sight of a woman going over to sit in the same spot, picking up the bouquet and smiling as she brought it to her nose.
Charlie gaped at her as he regained his feet and continued on. She wore leggings and leg warmers over sandals, and an oversized sweater hung off one shoulder, revealing a snug tank top underneath. The woman set aside a travel mug and pulled a card from the bouquet, smiling as she read it, her expression oddly captivating despite the fact that she was entirely bald.
No hair, no eyebrows, not even eyelashes as far as Charlie could tell when he squinted on his way by. Barely resisting the urge to look back over his shoulder, Charlie continued his lap, wondering how in the world a woman with no hair could be so damned alluring.
He shook his head, looking back to see the woman walk away with her coffee in one hand and the flowers in the other. His mind automatically conjured up a dozen explanations for the charade he'd witnessed, his detective's instinct going over possibilities of the woman's identity and her relation to the man who'd been there before her.
His thoughts carried him all the way back home, but as soon as he stepped inside the dismally empty house, his nightmares came crashing back down on his head.
The curious scene in the park was forgotten as Charlie raced upstairs and rushed through a shower, all the while mentally reciting details of his latest case so he could drive away the haunting memories.
And the glaring, haunting absence in the house.
He used to count the months, he remembered absently as he stood before a mirror, mechanically knotting his tie. Charlie grabbed his jacket and slipped it on, checking his shoulder holster once more before buttoning the jacket and snatching up his wallet and keys, wondering what the count would be now.
It had been so many months, he'd lost track.
Charlie jogged back downstairs, still somehow stunned, even after all this time, to find himself alone as he let himself out of the house.
He got in the car, set it to autopilot, and sat back as the car took him to work. Charlie stared out the windscreen, and considered calling the chief to see if anything new had come up.
Not that there had been any new developments in all those years. Of course, if a
nything had come up, Charlie would have been Chief's first call.
He picked up his mobile, thinking he'd call anyway, just in case, then tossed it aside with a sigh. New Haven was in an earlier time zone, so Chief probably wasn't even awake yet. Not to mention, their last few conversations hadn't exactly been friendly.
Charlie let out a low growl and threw his head back against the seat, squeezing his eyes shut. All this waiting was driving him insane.
If only he could have gone to New Haven with the chief. But, no. Chief had made him stay behind. Alone.
Banished, is what it felt like.
Banished into a constant state of uncertainty and loneliness. So many loose ends, so many unanswered questions, so many nightmares with no possible happy ending in sight.
The car parked itself at the Hawkeye Agency office in the middle of downtown Oaks Pass. Charlie went inside, absently greeting fellow officers and agents, and slumped into the chair behind his desk.
Not just banished to a life of loneliness and no answers, but to desk work as well.
Charlie sighed as he got his paperwork organized for the day. He missed field work, but a part of him knew perfectly well that going back to it was probably not the best idea, especially considering how his last investigation had ended…
A gun in his hand. His team all around him. His ruined tuxedo. A flooded basement. Blood. So much blood…
He slammed a fist down on his desk, startling other agents nearby. Charlie murmured an apology and tried to get his mind off his memories and onto his work.
The hours ticked by drearily as Charlie slogged through paperwork. Cases of minor theft, contract violations, and the extremely rare incidence of vandalism seemed to mock him. He almost wished he could be working a case of rape or assault or attempted murder, but such things were almost nonexistent in the years that Agoran had been a completely free society. At least a case like those would be something like familiar territory.
Make him feel not quite so alone.
Charlie shook his head, took a deep breath, and froze.
