0.5 Deadly Hearts

by SM Reine

  DEADLY HEARTS

  A Descent Series Short Story

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This is a short story about the length of two chapters in my other books (9000 words), which takes place before the events of Death’s Hand. If you haven’t read The Descent Series, it probably won’t make much sense. It’s a gift to my existing readers, who believe deep in their hearts that James’s butt needs to be slapped once in a while. I agree completely, readers. Trust me.

  You can also read this short story for free on my website by visiting authorsmreine.com. Happy Valentine’s Day! :)

  —Sara (SM Reine)

  SERIES BY SM REINE

  The Descent Series

  Seasons of the Moon

  Cain Chronicles

  LAS VEGAS, NEVADA – FEBRUARY 2003

  The house represented everything wonderful about the American Dream: a split-level deal with yellow paneling, a stretch of pristine grass bordered by plump red flowers, and white picket fencing. The two-car garage was open, and a minivan was parked in the driveway with a bucket of soapy water by the trunk. A garden hose dribbled white froth into the gutter.

  All of it was so very ordinary. There was no way to tell that the house was damned from the outside.

  The gate squealed as Rich Harris stepped through and let it swing shut behind him. The man of the house emerged with a newspaper tucked under one arm and reading glasses on the end of his nose. He was likewise the ideal American husband—black hair sweeping over his forehead, pale blue eyes, friendly smile, button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows.

  Rich Harris set down his patched leather suitcase so that he could shake the man’s hand. He had a good grip and callused palms. Rich trusted a guy with strong hands.

  “James Faulkner?” Rich Harris asked, tucking his car keys in his pocket. He had parked his seventies sedan in front of a house down the street so that it wouldn’t make a bad impression.

  James tipped his head in greeting. “You must be the exorcist. Richard, is it?”

  “Rich, please. At your service.” He gave a small bow, only half-ironically. “Priest with the Church of Radiance and soldier of God. I hear you have a dire issue, Mr. Faulkner.”

  The corner of James’s mouth twitched. “Oh yes. Dire indeed. Would you like to come inside?”

  “In a minute.” Rich couldn’t rush the job. From the moment he arrived to the moment he left, cash in hand, he had to establish a mood, put the client in the right mindset. Make them associate feelings of safety with his presence.

  He mounted the stairs to the patio with one hand extended and his eyes half-closed. He “felt” through the air, traced his hand over the doorframe, and ran his fingers down an invisible wall.

  The husband stood back with a hand over his mouth, but Rich could see the corners of his eyes crinkling. Sure, buddy. Laugh now, but I’m just warming up.

  “Do you mind…?” Rich gestured at the patio set.

  “Please, be my guest,” James said.

  Rich set his suitcase on the table and opened it. Everything inside was aged to the same degree as the outside of the case—he had a few papers with burned edges tucked into the pockets, a heavy brass crucifix, a wooden stake, some holy water in a glass vial. He used to have bullets that looked silver, too, but his assistant had stolen them when she quit.

  With another glance at James, who was still trying to hide a smile, he decided to extract the electromagnetic frequency detector. This was a man who would be impressed by data and beeping electronics, not by hoodoo.

  “This is an EMF detector,” Rich explained, showing the handheld device to James. One part was a heavy box with a jittering dial on the top, and the other appendage was a wand, which he started to wave over the door.

  “And what’s it for, exactly?” James asked.

  “It detects unusual electromagnetic frequencies,” Rich said, passing the wand over the windows. The curtains had a tiny flower pattern sewn into them. Very Better Homes and Gardens. “The sort of electromagnetic frequencies left behind by powerful spirits.”

  “Ah,” James said.

  Time to get more impressive.

  Rich stopped in front of the window and opened his eyes wide. “Has the trouble been originating from the second story? The room just above this?”

  “Yes,” James said with a small cough. “The master bedroom, in fact. Goodness, how could you have possibly known?”

  “Science, sir,” Rich said, waving the EMF detector at him. He quickly packed it up before James could get too close of a look. “Is the wife home? I’ll need to interview both of you.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  James held the door open, and Rich entered the foyer. Central air conditioning, tile floors, carefully-arranged desert flora, a few native arrowheads mounted on the wall. All hallmarks of a wealthy family.

  Perfect.

  Rich held his hand out again, feeling through the empty air in the foyer. Stepping forward, he peeked through the living room—fireplace with glass stones, steer skull over the mantle, leather couches—and then the guest bathroom.

  There were no family photos anywhere. Marital strife? Just as he expected.

  “Honey,” James called.

  A woman stepped through the other doorway. The swinging doors gusted the warm, chocolatey smell of baking cookies into the foyer.

  Rich tipped back his fedora to appraise Mrs. Faulkner. She wore a baggy pink t-shirt with a glittery heart on the chest, and it was long enough to conceal all but the bottommost hem of her denim shorts. It made her legs look very long and very bare. Her pillowy blue oven mitts had flowers on the thumbs.

  It took him a moment to get from the curve of her thighs up to her face, and he realized with a jolt that she had seen him staring. And he also realized, much too late, that she was not the kind of woman that men should stare at. Her right eyebrow was split by a scar, the bridge of her nose was bent as though it had healed badly after a break, and her frizzy curls were barely contained in a thick ponytail hanging over one shoulder. Her narrowed eyes looked unsettlingly like those of an angry hawk.

  “This is my wife, Elise,” James said, and her gaze flicked to him instead, much to Rich’s relief. Her brow furrowed. Rich was sensitive to these tiny gestures; being able to read his customers’ moods was integral to separating them from their money. And Elise Faulkner was not a happy lady.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Elise,” Rich said, extending a hand to shake. “I’m the exorcist.”

  The wife’s responding smile was very thin. She remained silent until James nudged her.

  “Pleasure to meet you.” She offered an oven mitt to him. He hesitated, and then shook it delicately.

  Brushing his fingers over the material sent a shock through his arm. Pain cramped in his heart, and Rich grimaced and gripped his chest.

  Elise was still staring at him.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, a little too intently.

  He gave a small laugh. “Must be the heat,” he said, taking off his fedora and swiping a sleeve over his forehead. “It’s almost eighty today.”

  The couple exchanged significant looks. “Have a seat,” James said, sweeping a hand toward the living room.

  Rich settled into one of the couches. The leather sighed around him. The cool material was a relief on his burning skin, and he fanned himself with the fedora as he gasped for air. Even with the pain, he wouldn’t let himself be distracted from his goal, and he watched Mr. and Mrs. Faulkner closely as they entered.

  They were both extremely athletic, healthy people. Probably yuppies imported from SoCal for government employment. Or maybe performers—they were graceful and approached him almost like they were preparing to dance.

  If there was
trouble in the marital bed, it didn’t show when they sat on the opposite couch. Their knees and shoulders touched, and they were angled toward each other, showing a clear attraction. That was weird. All of his clients had been having marriage issues. There must have been something he wasn’t seeing.

  Rich definitely didn’t like the way the wife was looking at him. It wasn’t normal for a girl to stare like that.

  He blew out a breath, mopped his forehead down again, and opened the notebook. It was already getting easier to breathe. Must have been a blip.

  “What was the first indication of a problem?” he asked, clicking the pen.

  James clasped his hands together. “Well, probably the pictures falling off of the walls. When was that, darling?”

  Elise gave him a cold look.

  “Christmas,” she said, voice flat. “Darling.”

  He gave a small laugh and rubbed the back of his neck. “Right. That started around Christmas. We tried to hang the photos again, but they fell two more times that week. We gave up after a couple of frames broke.”

  Rich made a note.

  “And when did you start to think it might be something supernatural?”

  “The voices,” James said. Voices? That was a new one. Rich wrote it in the margin. “We hear them every night, usually around two, after an hour of heavy footsteps. We can never find the origin. We’ve even called the police once or twice, and they never find anything, either. It’s deeply unsettling, isn’t it, honey?”

  Elise glared.

  “What do the voices say?” Rich asked.

  “They tell me to kill,” the wife said. Considering that she was still wearing the oven mitts, she managed to make that sound extremely menacing.

  It couldn’t have been warmer than seventy degrees in the house, but Rich felt like he was going to sweat through his coat. He shrugged it off. “What else have you observed?”

  “One of our mirrors shattered,” James said. “The one in the upstairs bathroom.”

  “I’d like to look at it.”

  The couple led him to the stairs, and Rich kept scanning the walls as they ascended. No photos on the second floor, either, but there were a lot of tiny holes in the drywall.

  “And when did you two start having problems?” Rich asked, waving the pen between them.

  James and Elise were two steps above him on the stairs, but at the question, the man stopped. “Pardon?” he asked as Elise continued to ascend.

  Rich gave him a pitying smile. “I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but I’ve seen this kind of activity in a dozen homes now. Breaking mirrors, falling pictures, footsteps. All of it began with marital strife.”

  “I have no idea what you mean,” James said, joining his wife on the landing.

  “Yeah,” Elise said. “Never been better. Honey.”

  She slapped him on the butt.

  James’s head whipped around, and he fixed a hard stare on her. The very first hint of a smirk showed at the corner of Elise’s lips.

  There was something wrong here, but Rich just couldn’t figure out what. Were they afraid to admit they might be on the brink of divorce to a stranger? Maybe they just hadn’t admitted it to themselves yet.

  The instant his foot touched the top of the stairs, pain spiked through his chest again, and he forgot everything else.

  This time, the pain was blinding. Stars flashed in the corners of his vision, and he had to hang onto the banister to keep from slipping down the stairs. He was distantly aware of someone touching his shoulder, James and Elise speaking above him, cold ceramic underneath his hand. But all he could feel was the fist in his heart.

  A deep voice rolled through him.

  Kill them.

  He blinked, and his vision cleared. The ringing in his skull faded.

  Elise was staring at him again. It was her hand on his shoulder, oven mitt and all, and her hazel eyes pierced him like shards of glass. “You all right?” she asked.

  Pushing her arm off, he stood. “Altitude,” Rich said, even though he knew that wasn’t any kind of explanation. Something rattled in his chest when he breathed. His heartbeat fluttered. “I’m sorry, but did one of you say something a second ago? Something about…” He trailed off, unwilling to finish the sentence.

  “No, sorry,” James said. “Maybe your investigation should wait. You seem under the weather.”

  And lose next week’s rent? Not a chance.

  “Let’s just look at the mirror so I can begin deducing what vengeful spirit is plaguing your life,” Rich said. He couldn’t seem to work up the usual amount of pomp for that declaration, but he didn’t care anymore. He needed to get his money from these people and get out before the wife stabbed him or something.

  Elise slipped into what must have been the master bedroom, leaving James to show Rich the bathroom. The mirror wasn’t just shattered—it had been pulverized. Fragments covered the counter, filled the sink, sparkled on the leaves of their decorative cactus.

  “Step carefully,” James said, holding the door open. “We’ve left everything the way that we found it.”

  Rich wasn’t sure where to set down his case when everything was such a mess. He settled for putting it on the corner of the tub. “And this happened last night?” he asked, leaning forward to peer at one of the few pieces remaining in the wall.

  “Three in the morning, approximately.”

  His reflection looked to be warped in the mirror fragment. How was that possible? It almost looked like there was something bulging on the other side.

  He leaned forward until his eye filled the triangle of glass.

  A red light flashed in his pupil.

  Rich gasped and stepped back, almost tripping on the bath mat. Only James’s hand kept him from falling into the tub.

  “Careful, there,” he said.

  Rich opened the top button of his shirt and fanned himself. “I’ll test for unusual EMF readings in here. Yes. That’s what I’ll do. Think you could turn up the air conditioner? I’m sweltering.”

  James patted him on the shoulder. “Of course.”

  He stepped away, and Rich waited until he heard the man’s footsteps retreat down the stairs before slipping into the hall again. He wanted to be as far from that mirror as possible.

  There were a lot of haunting symptoms Rich could handle. Falling pictures? Big deal. Footsteps? Yawn. But voices, shattering mirrors, everything about the Faulkner woman—that was all outside Rich’s realm of experience. He didn’t even know how to begin.

  He tried to loosen his collar, only to realize that he had already unbuttoned it.

  Where were the photos? Rich couldn’t get that out of his head.

  He pushed open a door and peered into what looked like a guest bedroom. Queen bed, dresser, silk flowers. It looked more like a hotel than anywhere someone actually lived—there wasn’t a single personal item in sight.

  Rich pushed the closet open, and boxes nearly tumbled onto his head. So that was where they had shoved everything. He pushed it back with his shoulder and shut the door again.

  The air conditioning clicked, and cool air swirled from the vent. Not cool enough.

  “Colder,” he rasped, running a hand over the vent. It didn’t relieve his fevered skin at all.

  He staggered into the hall again and checked the other room. It was an office. The gold wallpaper had pale squares where photos should have been. Bare circles on dusty shelves marked where knickknacks used to stand.

  The Faulkners hadn’t mentioned any problems aside from the photos. So why hide all of their personal effects?

  He shut the door and stood in the darkened hall with the heels of his palms pressed to his temples. Someone was moving downstairs, and it sounded like thunder rolling through the house.

  Rich didn’t need to pretend he felt something anymore. Energy vibrated over him.

  Kill them, the voice whispered. He knew that voice. It was as familiar as his own.

  A single item of furniture sharpened t
o crystalline clarity in his vision: an antique bureau standing against the wall opposite the stairs. One of the drawers was ajar.

  Look inside.

  Rich pulled the drawer open. All of the photos that had been removed from the walls were facedown among the napkins and spare cutlery.

  He turned one of the frames over. It depicted an older couple, tanned and healthy and smiling. Grandparents?

  Liars.

  He turned over another picture, and another. Most of the photos were of the same couple—just ordinary studio portraits of two old people hugging each other. They also had a few photos of a teenage girl, kind of a lardass with a pig nose, and that girl with what looked like a boyfriend.

  Not a single photo of the so-called Mr. and Mrs. Faulkner.

  His knuckles were white as he gripped the side of the bureau, fighting to remain on his feet.

  It didn’t make any sense. There was no reason for people to try to fool him like that. He was just a two-bit magician, a guy whose show in front of the Mermaids had been terminated by city police, someone who wanted to wiggle his way into the good graces of rich couples having trouble.

  It’s a trap, the voice hissed, and Rich knew it to be true, even if he didn’t understand why.

  The door to the master bedroom at the end of the hall was ajar.

  That was where Elise Faulkner had disappeared.

  Kill her first.

  Rich could imagine closing his hands around the woman’s throat and squeezing as clearly as though it were a memory. The bulging eyes, the frothing saliva. He could imagine the way her body would thrash underneath him.

  Kill her.

  He pushed the door open and stepped inside as though in a dream.

  The door slammed shut behind him.

  He whirled and banged his fist into the door, but it didn’t yield to his touch. The handle wouldn’t even jiggle.

  Rich flattened his back to the wall and stared around the bedroom. Except it wasn’t a bedroom at all—there was no bed, no dresser, no clothes piled on the floor. The windows were blacked out by heavy drapes. A huge circle had been drawn on the ceramic floor in chalk, and candles burned at each of the four cardinal corners. They were the only light in the entire room.