Damned and Desolate

by S D Hegyes

  Of course, her thoughts drifted to Abaddon from there. She didn’t know what to make of him. He was as handsome up close as he’d been at a distance. More so. His ego was plain to see though. He wasn’t used to being refused or refuted.

  His astonishment that she’d done so, and often, amused her. What did he expect? Her to fall at his feet and kiss them?

  A chuckle rose in her throat, but she masked it, clearing her throat. It didn’t work out well, and she began coughing. She leaned forward and braced herself against her knees as the coughing continued, making her chest tighten with pain and her lungs burn.

  After a few moments the feeling subsided. She looked up at the two men, who seemed to have done the same as her and tuned her out. So much for compassion.

  With a frown, Sorsha rose and walked to the kitchen. She pulled down an empty glass and filled it, drinking two cups of water as she tried to wet her parched throat. When she’d finished, she cleared her throat and returned to her seat in the living room.

  The two men were still talking, and she still had no interest in what they were saying to one another.

  Rather, as she sat back down and returned her gaze out the window, she allowed herself to think of Abaddon again.

  She glanced at Preston, studying his features for a moment. The two men were so different, and yet. . . She squinted her eyes at Preston, wondering if he gave off the same vibes of violence she’d felt from Abaddon.

  No. She shook her head. Preston was all talk and no action. He persuaded others to do his dirty work because he was unable to complete it himself. She didn’t know why, as nothing he’d said gave a sign, but she had a feeling Abaddon would snap someone’s neck for looking at him funny.

  She frowned as she delved into that thought further. Why did she get that vibe from him? Where had it come from? Maybe she was becoming more like her mother?

  That wasn’t it. She shook her head. She remembered the orange around her hands as she’d spoken to him. It was different than when she spoke to ghosts—spirits, if he was to be believed, although she didn’t see what the difference was between the two.

  Which brought up another matter entirely. What was she, if she wasn’t a medium? She could talk to ghosts—spirits. She shook her head. She didn’t understand the difference between the two. Weren’t they the same thing?

  Although Sorsha wasn’t sure how much she believed Abaddon, she decided she didn’t care. He wasn’t from Shaded Glade. He didn’t call her crazy, didn’t call her a freak, and the desire she’d seen in his eyes was as real as her own. No one could hide that. Why hadn’t he acted on it though?

  Part of her ached for the feeling. Part of her felt sad that she would leave town before she got the chance to explore any kind of relationship that might develop between her and Abaddon.

  There was something dark about him, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. She got the distinct feeling she both frightened and fascinated him, and she didn’t quite know how to feel about that.

  He hadn’t been completely honest with her. Maybe it was all the time she’d spent around her mother. She knew Abaddon wasn’t the man’s actual name, although she couldn’t figure out why he’d choose a demon’s name for his own. A nickname, maybe?

  Maybe it was the darkness involved in such. It certainly held its own fascination. The man was an enigma, and she certainly wanted to understand him.

  If she saw him again, she didn’t know how she’d react. She wanted to kiss him, wanted to know if it would be as hot as she imagined it would be. Otherwise, she wanted to know more about what he wanted from her, if anything. Each of his words had been measured, as if he was holding something back, not wanting to reveal much to her.

  She wanted to know what he knew. She wanted to know everything.

  “Sorsha!”

  The sound of her own name pulled her out of her musings. She looked up to see Preston’s narrowed eyes upon her and her father frowning deeply. What had she missed?

  “Yes?”

  Her father ground his teeth together for a moment before answering. “I called your name several times. Stop daydreaming and return your mind to the conversation at hand. We are discussing your wedding after all.”

  She dropped her hands in her lap and narrowed her eyes, looking first at her father and then Preston. “It’ll be a wedding like any other, won’t it?” she asked. “White dress, veil, bridesmaids, bride and groom, flower girl, ring bearer, groomsman, best man, maid of honor, the works? What’s there to plan? All the weddings here in Shaded Glade are the same, and I won’t even be choosing any of the features involved. You will. Why should I have to listen to something I have no say in?”

  It didn’t matter though. Her father wanted her to listen. Probably because he knew it would torture her to do so. She had no idea. Sorsha sat and listened to the men assign people to the various positions she'd described. She fought not to sneer at them and their choices.

  Apparently, their wedding was expected to be a little more elaborate than most. All because Sorsha was Preston's example of his power. It didn’t make any sense to Sorsha. By the end of the meeting, she still didn’t know why she’d had to listen to a conversation she wasn’t allowed to partake in.

  All her thoughts were dismissed, her comments talked over as if she hadn’t spoken.

  It isn’t surprising, she told herself after dinner, as she walked down the path to the inner circle of the Indian Monument. Still, that didn’t mean it didn’t make her blood boil thinking about everything they’d said and done to remind her she was inferior to them.

  “Pricks,” she muttered as she stomped down the last couple of steps and stepped inside the monument.

  She’d only barely managed to slip away after dinner. She’d excused herself from dinner early. Her father and Preston were so deep in conversation that neither noticed her leave. Then she’d simply walked out the front door. She knew her mother had seen her leave, but she didn’t share where she was going.

  A familiar accented-voice drew her from her thoughts. “That’s a new one. I’ve been called many things over the years, but ‘prick’ isn’t one of them.”

  9

  Even as Sorsha looked up at Abaddon, she felt power waft through her. She took a step back and shuddered, glancing down at her hands to watch the smoke around her hands as it jerked and halted in its normal path around them.

  Something had the ghosts—spirits—on edge.

  She glanced up at Abaddon. Was it him? Did he make the ghosts uneasy?

  Cocking her head to the side, she considered him. It was possible.

  “Something wrong?” Dark, hooded eyes bore into hers, and she found herself drowning in them. She broke his gaze as she gave him a once-over. He leaned against the wall, the same as he had the evening before, his hands in his pockets so that only his thumbs stuck out. A white tank top peeked from under a leather jacket. Blue jeans with rips at the knees clung to his hips. A pair of black boots graced his feet.

  “I wasn’t talking about you,” was all she could say in response. She didn’t want to tell him about her father, about Preston, about anyone from Shaded Glade. She’d rather use her time with him to forget about her life there.

  He pushed himself off the wall and walked toward her. She’d watched a clip of a jaguar stalking its prey, and he reminded her of the jaguar as he watched her, dark eyes unblinking. Her heart raced with fear.

  He stopped a foot away, and a smile crossed his face. “Well, that’s good to know. Hi, Sorsha.”

  “Ummm. Hi?” She blinked, unsure how else to respond.

  “Who are you calling a prick?”

  “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  “Would you rather talk about your powers?”

  She hadn’t told anyone about them since moving to Shaded Glade. They knew, of course, because Andrew had to know why they were moving to Shaded Glade before they’d been allowed to come. Word of Sorsha’s affliction spread through the community like wildfire.
Sorsha hadn’t said a word to anyone about it since telling her parents as a child.

  Even they hadn’t believed her at first. She didn’t stop herself from brushing her hand over the scars on her bicep. His gaze followed her movement, expression neutral as she touched her upraised skin. She shuddered as she thought about the night she’d gotten them.

  Long ago, she’d thought it was normal for a child to see ghosts, and her parents had thought she’d grow out of talking to her imaginary friends.

  There hadn’t been any imaginary friends. But her parents never believed her when she said she saw ghosts either.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Abaddon asked, gesturing toward her arm with a tip of his chin.

  She thought about it for a moment. “Not really. It’s not something I like to discuss. I get enough people calling me crazy.” She gave him a sideways glance. “Why don’t you?”

  Abaddon chuckled. “If I call you crazy, I’d have to call myself that as well,” was all he said.

  “Fair enough.” Silence stretched between them. She didn’t know what to say, and he seemed to be waiting, following her lead.

  She sighed. “I got them when I was a child. I think I was seven or eight.”

  He nodded but said nothing, as if he knew if he interrupted her, she’d stop talking.

  “I’ve always seen ghosts—” She saw his brow rise, so she corrected herself to the term he’d used the night before with a sigh. “—spirits. I used to play with two children. My parents never saw them, and thought I was talking to imaginary friends.”

  She remembered what he’d said about spirits the night before and her mind clicked. They were victims of vampires. “They didn’t know how they’d died, the two kids. Said they just never woke up.”

  Abaddon flinched at her words, as if they hurt him personally. “Nicer vampires with a taste for children like to kill them in their sleep. Makes less noise.”

  She accepted that. What else could she do? “Anyway, we were playing together when another spirit showed up. This one was creepy. Talked about taking us to a van. Giving us candy.”

  A wry smile crossed her face. “You know the kind. Never get into a stranger’s vehicle. If he offers you candy, it’s a trick.”

  He nodded. “Stranger danger is, I think, the term used here.”

  Once again, she wished she could place his accent. She couldn’t though, so she continued with her story. “The other two followed him right away. They were dead. Nothing could hurt them. I didn’t want to be left alone though, so I followed. Everything in me told me it was a bad idea, but I was a scared little girl. He led us into the middle of the forest. Kept saying his truck was on the other side. Before I knew it, I was lost, and even if I’d wanted to turn back, I wouldn’t have been able to find my way.”

  She trembled, remembering the next part. “By the time anyone found me, he’d already sliced me open. My parents heard me screaming and followed the sound. Apparently, we hadn’t gone too deep into the woods, mostly because he’d been taking a weaving path. Muddle our sense of direction.”

  Her breathing came out harsh and heavy as her memories flooded back. It was the one event in her life she wished she could forget, but she remembered it with such clarity, it felt as if it was re-occurring as she told the story.

  Abaddon reached up toward her arm, but he hesitated for a moment, watching her. When she didn’t react, he grasped her arm, covering her scars with his palm. “It’s alright if you don’t want to tell me,” he told her.

  Sorsha shook her head. “No. I already started. I need to finish.” She took a deep, shuddering breath before she continued.

  “I’m not certain what he did to the other two children. All I know is that, after that day, I never saw them again.” She shook her head. “We ended up in the middle of a graveyard. I only knew because the graves were shallow, and I could see the signs of the children buried around me. All children. That was when I started screaming. He yelled at me to stop, that someone would hear us during our game, but I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop.”

  Tears welled in her eyes as she remembered the gleam on the knife. “He cut me.” She touched the three identical scars on her arm. “It was the first time I realized the materials someone died holding came with them and could be used against me. I still don’t understand how something corporeal could injure me, but it did. He cut other places as well, but they healed better. They didn’t leave scars.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know if it was because these cuts were the first or because they were so much deeper than any of the others. They’re the only scars I have from the incident. They’re a reminder of what happened to me, what could’ve happened to me.”

  A growl across from her reminded her of her audience. She looked up at Abaddon. She thought she saw a flash of crimson in his eyes, but it was gone before she could examine it further.

  “When they found you, what happened?” His voice was low, as if he didn’t trust himself.

  Another tremble rippled through her. “Somehow, I’d stumbled across the mass graveyard of a serial killer whose victims were all children about my age. There was only one adult among the others, but he was unburied and hadn’t been there as long as the children. It was the man who’d attacked me.”

  She shook her head. “I haven’t felt brave enough to look up more about him or what he was doing there or how he died. Someday? Maybe. Now? No.”

  “So, spirits can harm you?”

  Sorsha nodded. “They can.”

  He looked around. “And yet, you come to the middle of a mass graveyard in the middle of the night.”

  She shrugged one shoulder. “What can I say? I’m a glutton for punishment.”

  “Apparently, so am I,” he told her in a voice so low, she wasn’t certain she was supposed to hear it.

  “I’m sorry you were hurt.” He stepped closer and cupped her face in his hands.

  Her breath caught in her throat as she looked up at him. Kiss me, she thought, but she knew he couldn’t hear her words.

  He took a step back, hands returning to his sides, and she sighed. Of course not. She’d just revealed one of the darkest moments of her life. Why would he kiss her? Why did she want him to kiss her? What was wrong with her?

  She put a hand to her forehead and let out a long breath, turning away from him and pacing back and forth for several minutes, trying to cool her libido.

  Still, when she returned her gaze to him and saw him watching her without comment, it was everything she could do to stay away. His dark eyes mirrored the need she felt inside. The need to be close, to feel something from someone.

  There was no way of knowing why he felt that way, not without prying. That didn’t stop the feeling or make it go away. If anything, it felt harder to resist knowing they might have similar backgrounds.

  “What’s with the jacket?” she asked, trying to clear her mind of desire.

  He looked down at himself. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s August. Aren’t you hot?”

  Abaddon grinned. “I’m told that quite often. Don’t you think so?”

  She rolled her eyes at him, even if he did make her smirk at his joke.

  “So, what happened last night?” he asked and then clarified himself. “What caused the argument last night? When I got here, you were arguing with someone—I’d say spirits since I can’t see them. What was that about? Call me curious.” He gave her an easy smile that helped her relax further.

  Sorsha told him. It surprised her how easy it was to talk to him about what happened. They sat down beside each other on the ground, and she recalled the events from the day she’d somehow trapped Private Thaddeus in the card.

  When she finished, he said, “You changed his haunt.”

  “His haunt?”

  He nodded. “Yes. Spirits can only go so far from where they’re buried.” He held up his hands. “Don’t ask me why. I don’t know.”

  “And that’s called a haunt?�
� she guessed.

  “Yes. When you sealed him in the card, which is—I’m guessing—one of your abilities, you changed his haunt.”

  Her mouth opened as understanding dawned on her. “And when I say his name, I’m calling him from his haunt?”

  Abaddon nodded. “That sounds about right.” He smiled at her. “You did what came naturally to you as a phantom.”

  “You think so?”

  He grasped her chin with one hand, using his index finger to stroke down her jawline. His eyes followed the path of his touch. When they reached her chin, he raised his gaze to hers again, pausing a little at her lips before moving on. “I know so.” There was such calm assuredness in his words that she couldn’t help but believe him.

  “Thank you,” she said with a smile.

  “You’re welcome.”

  He knew a lot about phantoms it seemed. “Are you a phantom?”

  Abaddon blinked at her, as if confused what brought her to that conclusion, and then he started laughing. “Goodness, no.”

  “But you won’t tell me what you are?” She studied him, curious.

  He shook his head. “No. What I am isn’t important right now. You’re young, figuring out who and what you are.”

  “So, what? You’re immortal?”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “As long as you don’t kill me.” He winked at her, and she got the feeling he was telling her a joke she didn’t understand.

  “So, what about you? How come you’re in a national park—after hours, mind you—with someone like me who sees ghosts?” She smiled to let him know she was teasing, but still found herself curious about it as well.

  “Spirits, not ghosts,” he corrected her.

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Ghosts repeat the last ten minutes of their lifetime over and over, re-living their death. Plus, they usually died of natural causes—or at least by a human hand.”

  “And spirits are the victims of vampires. Got it. Quit avoiding the question.”

  He laughed. “That’s a long story, but the short answer is that I’m just more comfortable around dead things. Not only do I like dead things, I prefer them over live ones.”