Touched by Darkness – An Urban Fantasy Romance (Book 1, The Sentinel Series)

by Catherine Spangler

  Yet the irony of the situation wasn’t lost on her.

  She was finally ready to love again—with a man who might not be capable of returning that love.

  * * * *

  It was late Saturday night. His grandparents had gone to bed, and Alex was in his room, looking at the day’s treasures. They’d gone to the Tennessee Aquarium in Chattanooga, which had been totally iced, and he’d gotten some great souvenirs. He really liked the “Shark Dudes” T-shirt and the ceramic otter mug (he planned to drink hot chocolate in it tomorrow) that Grandpa had bought him. With his own money, he’d gotten a cool plush Day-Glo stingray for his mom.

  Still too hyped to sleep, he put the items on the dresser, got into his pajamas, and turned on the TV To his delight, Farscape was on the Sci-Fi channel, and he settled in bed to watch it. Sleepy now, he was nodding off when the blinds at his window started rattling. Startled, he sat up and looked at the window. The blinds banged back and forth like there was a strong breeze coming in. Only the window was closed.

  His senses tingled, and he felt the crawl of a foreign energy along his skin. His heart started racing. It took a moment for him to remember to raise his shields. A wall photo of him and Mom tilted sideways, static blared from the TV, and items skittered along the dresser. The handle of the door to the hallway began turning back and forth. Afraid to try to make it through the door, Alex huddled under the covers. He knew on a logical level that it was probably just the ghost trying to talk to him; on a gut level, he was scared stiff.

  “W-w-what do you want?” he whispered, scrunching his eyes closed. He knew from what Luke had showed him that the ghost was leaving wavering energy trails, which experienced Sentinels would be able to see in their minds. But he couldn’t see anything. He pushed his shields up further, tried to listen, like Luke had told him to.

  He heard a high-pitched whisper, barely audible over the TV static. “Help…my… say… Say…no. Help…my…My!”

  “Help you what?” Alex asked, afraid to look.

  “Stop! My! Say…no…No!”

  He tried to make out more words, but he couldn’t figure out the strange hissing sounds. The energies around him escalated. There was a crash, and his eyes flew open. His new otter mug was on the floor in a bunch of pieces. The picture of him and Mom rocketed to the floor. The blinds were pounding against the window now. All kinds of stuff went flying through the air, and the hissing became more of a wail, like wind in a storm. Only it was inside the room. “My…myyyyyy!”

  He knew Grandma and Grandpa wouldn’t come to his rescue. They couldn’t hear anything because Grandma slept with some sort of sleep machine and a mask over her face, and Grandpa snored real loud.

  The pillow next to Alex levitated and rotated, spinning faster and faster. Utterly terrified, he leaped out of bed and lunged to the door, flinging it open. He ran down the hall, stopped outside his grandparents’ closed bedroom door.

  A noise had him looking back toward his bedroom. He could almost see the flow of energy coming down the hallway; he heard popping sounds as pictures on the walls began spinning. Then the hissing. “Myyyyyyy!!!”

  It was coming straight at him. He turned and ran. He fumbled with the front door bolt, his heart pounding furiously. At any second, he expected to feel fiery claws grabbing him. Then he was out, racing across the cold grass, gasping for breath. He looked behind him, fearful that something might be after him. But he saw only the dim glow from the lamp Grandma kept on in the family room, illuminating the open doorway.

  He leaped onto Luke’s porch, pounded on the door. He hit the doorbell three or four times for good measure, heard it chiming inside the house. “Luke!” he yelled. “Luke, it’s me, Alex!”

  Dancing back and forth on his icy feet, he looked back at his grandparents’ house. So far, so good, but he sure didn’t feel safe. It seemed like an eternity before the porch light went on and the door swung open. Luke stood there in nothing but a pair of jeans. His long hair was messed up and he looked kinda sleepy.

  “Alex! What the hell’s going on?”

  “The ghost! It’s back and it’s really upset!”

  * * * *

  It took Sara Thornton four tries to get her key into the lock. Of course, it didn’t help that the porch light was broken—another one of David’s uncompleted projects—and that the door seemed to be moving. On the road, Beth and Mary leaned out the car windows and hollered comments.

  “Hey, Sara, locked out of your own house?”

  “Shut up!” she yelled back. “I just can’t find the keyhole.”

  “It’s supposed to be the man who keeps missing the hole.” Both of them dissolved into laughter over Beth’s remark.

  “Go get screwed,” Sara said, but she was feeling too good to really care about their comments. She finally shoved the key home, fumbled the lock and door open, and swept grandly into the house. Beth honked the horn twice behind her, then the car screeched away.

  Sara stumbled and almost fell, cursing. Who had left the rug edge flipped up again? And who was that asleep on the couch? Oh, yeah. It was Luz. Couldn’t stay awake, the stupid woman. And it was only…Sara squinted at her inexpensive gold-toned Timex—a gift from cheapskate David—but her vision blurred. Well, it was after midnight—she knew that much.

  “Sara? Are you all right?” Luz sat up and swung her legs off the couch.

  “You fell asleep,” Sara said accusingly. “You’re supposed to be watching my kids.”

  Luz’s dark eyes narrowed. “I did watch them. And I fixed them their dinner, made sure they got their baths, and put them to bed—after I washed their sheets. I even cleaned your bathroom and scrubbed your kitchen floor. They were both filthy.” She stood and began folding the blanket she’d been using.

  “I guess I should be grateful.” But all Sara felt was angry, her alcohol-induced euphoria starting to fade. How dare Luz insinuate she wasn’t a good housekeeper?

  Unable to concentrate on much of anything, she decided to let the insult pass. “How were the kids?” There. She sounded perfectly normal.

  “They were fine.” Luz stared at her. “They are good children.”

  When they weren’t driving Sara crazy. Swaying, she pressed a hand against the front door.

  Luz tossed the folded blanket on the couch. “You are drunk. Again.”

  Another insult. “I deserve a drink now and then.” Sara sauntered over to the slat-back rocking chair and tossed her purse at it. She missed, and the purse slid to the floor.

  “I knew you would come home in this condition. Like old times, eh?”

  The bitch. But Sara forced herself to smile. She needed Luz, who was one of the few people willing to come to the poorest part of Zorro, and to put up with Sara’s kids. Without Luz, Sara would never be able to escape her miserable life.

  “Oh, yeah, like always,” she muttered, staggering over to pick up her purse. She got so dizzy, she almost fell, but she used the arm of the rocker to heave herself back up. She dug around in her purse, pulled out two crumpled twenties—which her mother had sent her to buy clothes for the kids—and held them out to Luz. “Here.”

  “One is enough.” Luz shoved the other twenty back into Sara’s shaking hand. “Use the rest to buy los niños something more to eat than peanut butter and macaroni.”

  One of these days, Sara wouldn’t need Luz. Then she could blow off the bitch. “Sure,” she muttered. “Thank you, and all that stuff. Good-bye.”

  Luz’s eyes glittered for a minute, and then she smiled. That smile chilled Sara to the bone. “Buenas noches, Sara.” She picked up her coat and purse from the end of the couch and sauntered to the door. She looked back over her shoulder, her eyes still gleaming. “May your dreams be…sweet”

  “Good riddance,” Sara muttered as the door closed behind her. She started for her bedroom, but the floor was uneven, and she couldn’t seem to keep her balance. Besides, the couch was so much closer than her bed. It had a pillow and a bla
nket, except Luz had folded the blanket. Now why the hell had she done that?

  Sara made it to the couch, sank down with a groan. She dropped her purse again, kicked off her shoes, giggling as they hurtled off into the darkness edging the dimly lit room, and fell back on the couch. She managed to get her head on the pillow, grabbed the square of blanket and plopped it, still folded, over her middle.

  And passed out cold, oblivious to the edge of darkness creeping over her.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  On Sunday morning, Kara and Damien sat at the breakfast table, lingering over a second cup of coffee while he worked on his laptop. She was reading the semiweekly Zorro paper, and she couldn’t help herself—she turned to Matt’s obituary.

  “He was so young,” she murmured as she read it, her heart going out to Matt’s father, Glen.

  Damien looked up. “Who are you talking about?”

  “Matt Brown.” Kara folded the paper. “Do you think there will be another murder soon?”

  “Absolutely.” His eyes turned arctic. “The Belian is definitely escalating, and enjoying the kills way too much. We won’t have to wait long. We’ll take the scanner with us today.”

  Nowhere to run from the darkness, she thought, carrying her mug to the sink and dumping her unfinished coffee. “I’m ready when you are.”

  They began driving by the homes of the women on their list of suspects. They parked a discreet distance away and walked back, getting as close as they could without drawing attention. Damien did psychic readings around each residence. He asked Kara to link with his third eye to enhance the energies, just as they had with the ghost.

  “I didn’t know a Sentinel could use a conductor like this,” she commented as they walked through the wooded area behind Katie Woodward’s house. Richard had certainly never done it, but then he’d also never taken her to a Belian crime scene.

  “Not many do. They either haven’t realized it can be done, or they want to spare their conductors the physical and mental drain, to reserve their energies for actual conductions.” Damien shot Kara an apologetic look. “I’m sorry to use you like this, because I know it’s draining. You’ll be tired later.”

  She already was, but how could she complain, when three people had already lost their lives? “I’ll be fine. Are you picking up anything?”

  “Nothing of note. Who’s next on the list?”

  “Mary Roberts,” she said as they walked back to the car. She looked up at the overcast sky. It was a dreary day, cool and damp and gray. An ominous presence seemed to drift in the chilled air, or maybe it was just a reflection of her macabre mood. If the grim set of his face was any indication, Damien felt the same.

  They got in the car and he started it. Instantly, the police scanner, which was plugged into the car power outlet, hissed to life with static and voices. He turned up the volume and they heard the dispatcher say: “Adam Six, code three.”

  “Adam Six, code three, go ahead.”

  “We have a DB at 1021 River Road, juvenile, possible homicide.”

  “Copy. I’m headed that way.”

  “What exactly did they just say?” Kara asked, although she’d picked up the alarming words juvenile and homicide.”

  “They have a body, and it might be a minor. Do you recognize the address?” Grimly, Damien swung the car around with a screech and floored it toward River Road.

  “Not off the top of my head. Oh, not a child.” Sickness and the presence of evil seeped through Kara.

  Damien let the scanner run through the channels, and they heard more jargon: Blanco County Sheriffs also being dispatched, along with an ambulance and other emergency vehicles. It was like a replay of Matt Brown’s murder. The actual scene was similar, too, with two police cruisers, Chief Greer’s white pickup truck, and a jumble of onlookers filling the road.

  When Kara saw which house it was, she didn’t wait for Damien. She leaped out and raced toward the people, her heart hammering. She heard the screaming before she saw the woman.

  “He’s dead! Oh God, he’s dead! My baby’s dead!”

  Kara knew that voice. She shoved through the onlookers and saw Sara Thornton crumpled on the ground. Officer Allen Spears was on one side and Nancy Miller on the other. Nancy had her arms around Sara, but Sara shoved her away and screamed, “My Michael is dead!”

  Michael Thornton? Mikey was dead? Kara’s legs went weak. She stumbled back, felt Damien’s hands close over her upper arms. “Steady now,” he murmured.

  “Ma’am, I know you’re upset, but if you could just come sit in the cruiser.” Officer Spears tried to take Sara’s thin arm, but she wrenched away.

  “He was fine last night, before I left.” Tears streaked down her ravaged face. “He was fine, I tell you! Luz Pérez stayed here with them last night. She killed my boy!”

  Another shock wave for Kara to absorb, and she felt the cold sliding through her. Tightening his hold, Damien started pulling her back from the crowd.

  “Ma’am,” Spears, a young man fresh out of the police academy, pleaded. “if you could please calm down and wait, we’ll take your statement after Chief Greer finishes inside—”

  But Sara was like a wild woman, and she spun away from the officer’s outstretched hand. “My baby’s inside! I should be with him. I have to go to him.” She scrambled toward the house, but Spears, his face turning red, grabbed her arm again. Another officer came to his assistance, and with one on each side of her, they towed her toward one of the squad cars.

  “She killed him!” Sara wailed. “Luz killed my baby! He was fine when I left him last night! When I went in to wake him this morning, he didn’t…he—” She collapsed, sobbing brokenly as the men placed her in the front seat of the car.

  Kara stood there, too shocked to fully process the situation. Damien leaned down and said in a low voice, “I’m going around the house to see if I can pick up anything before the police get more organized.”

  “Wait!” She spun around. “I’m going with you.” She followed him to the far side of the house. Most of the people were clustered on the south side and in the front, and the area hadn’t been cordoned off yet, nor had the ambulance arrived. Distant sirens indicated more emergency vehicles would be arriving soon.

  They went around the corner and Damien said, “Wait here. I’ve only got a few minutes to work.”

  Michael Thornton was dead. She was still trying to take it in, even as sharp-edged grief slashed through her. “Let me help. If you can use my energy, you might pick up more. I’m not letting this thing get away. He was just a little boy.” Her voice caught, but she forced it under control.

  Damien’s steel gaze bored into her eyes. “All right.” He took her hand, tugged her further along the side of the house. Touching his necklace through his shirt, he inhaled deeply.

  She mentally reached for him, and opened herself to the despised abilities lurking deep within her. A scene unfolded in her mind.

  A distorted image of a person stepped into what was obviously a child’s bedroom. The moonlight drifting through the window illuminated soccer and baseball posters on the walls and a soccer ball on a dresser. But the figure moving toward the bed was murky, blurred by powerful supernatural abilities.

  Michael was sleeping peacefully on his back, sweet and innocent. A pillow covered his face, was yanked down so hard, Kara felt her body jerk.

  “Stay with me,” Damien ordered. “Don’t break the link.”

  She dug deep, sheer determination keeping her in the vision.

  Two feminine hands gripped the ends of the pillow, pushing down. The only color in the nightmare scene was the glaring white pillow case and the bloodred fingernails on the killing hands. Michael, obviously a deep sleeper like most children, didn’t move, didn’t know he was being suffocated. With a sigh, the life left his small body. Then the killer looked right at Kara, as if posing for a picture. The face was shadowed, but white teeth flashed in a taunting smile. The face began to come into focus
—

  “What are you doing there?”

  Kara jolted back to reality, met the glare of a man in a county sheriff uniform. “I don’t know what the hell you’re doing,” he growled. “but I can arrest you for tampering with a crime scene.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said lamely, still stunned from the vision. “I heard the news and I—I—”

  “She’s a friend of the family,” Damien interjected. “She was so upset when she heard about the boy that I brought her around here to give her some privacy. I’m sorry, officer. I didn’t realize that would be a problem.”

  The sheriff studied Kara. She must have looked like death warmed over, because he nodded. “Get back around the house, and go on home. There’s nothing you folks can do for the boy now.”

  The truth of his words struck like a hammer on an anvil. Little Michael Thornton was dead, brutally murdered by a monster. She was barely aware of Damien leading her around the carnage of people and vehicles and back to the car. She gave a brief nod when he asked her if she was all right—a colossal lie—and tried not to think or feel during the silent drive home.

  He pulled the car into the driveway, his face rigid. “Damn! I needed just one more minute!” He acted like he wanted to hit something, thought better of it, rested his clenched fist on the steering wheel. “I’ll have to go back later.”

  Kara had been barely holding it together; now she began crumbling inside. She wrenched open the door and ran for the house, digging her keys from her purse. She reached her bedroom, slammed and locked the door, and collapsed on the bed.

  Pain rolled through her in great waves. She curled into a miserable ball and sobbed. So much death, so much suffering. A lively old lady killed as casually as one would swat a fly, then Matt, and now the life of a child taken. Memories of Richard’s death took their place in the gruesome queue, another layer of grief.

  She didn’t know how long she lay there; she only knew that it seemed as if her life force drained out of her with the tears. Now she was empty inside, except for the pain. She felt a familiar touch of energy, followed by soothing warmth.