Lost Secret
Page 1
Lost Secret
The Kiss Chronicles, Book 1
Emily Reed
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Sneak Peek
A Note From Emily
About the Author
Emily’s Bookshelf
Lost Secret
The Kiss Chronicles, Book 1
Copyright © 2019 by Emily Kimelman
* * *
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Chapter One
Leaves trailed wet along my spine, soaking through the thin night shirt as I ducked under a tree bow. A shiver from the icy sensation broke goosebumps across my skin. Sticks and pebbles dug at my bare feet with every step.
Fear urged me forward. But I needed to be quiet, have to hide, can't let them discover me.
Moonlight beamed through a break in the cloud cover, reflecting off dew dropped foliage. My breath bloomed white in front of me.
Glancing over my shoulder I saw nothing but the shifting forest, the trees and underbrush blending together like a black on black charcoal drawing—the blue hue of the moon providing the only sense of edges. Wet soil and decayed leaves scented the air. Without death there is no life. Energy never ends, it just changes shape.
Turning forward again, I stopped short. A fire flickered between the trees. A step back, another, and I hit a tree, knocking my teeth together.
Terror stabbed at me, a physical force, painful in its ferocity. A whimper escaped—fear given voice.
I interlaced my fingers, squeezing the knuckles together until they hurt, draining the pain from my fear into something I controlled.
I need something. Something is missing. Without it I’ll remain broken forever.
A snowflake drifted in front of me, slow yet purposeful: gravity forced its destination but did not control its journey. The flake disappeared into the darkness at my feet.
A sound drew my attention back to the fire. Movement between the trees—a figure circled the flames. My heartbeat thumped in my throat. I clenched my jaw so hard it ached.
The snow thickened, stinging cold on my face. I wet my lips, tasting the frozen rain—icy and familiar. Home.
The person beyond the trees stopped walking, standing still, the fire silhouetting them. I squinted but couldn’t make out the figure clearly. Didn’t know if it was a man or woman. Didn’t know why they terrified me.
The figure turned suddenly, glittering eyes—the moonlight caught in frozen dew—pinning me in place. “You enter my realm, child?” it asked, the gravelly voice sounding close, right next to my ear—the warmth of breath on my neck startled me into action.
Turning, I ran, sprinting through the forest, my hands grabbing at trees, pulling myself forward and pushing off them, finding a path through the twisting landscape—some branches helped me forward, others dragged at me. A war brews between powerful forces and I am locked in the middle.
The night shifted to day, and my running transformed into stillness.
I stood in a stream, the freezing water rushing over my feet, splashing around my calves.
Smooth colorful stones, made bright and shiny by the water and sunshine, lined the stream bed. Trees bursting with fall foliage bordered the bank, leaning toward the ice cold water that numbed my feet.
A chill raced over my skin but it wasn’t from the water. I scanned the forest, searching through the thick foliage for movement. Something is watching me. A hot gust of wind picked up my hair, pushing it over my shoulders and streaming it along the sides of my face. I turned and my breath caught in my throat.
A man stood at the water’s edge, shirtless. He stared at me with eyes of blue green that shone with an unnatural light—no one should have eyes that sparkly.
His lips tilted into a half smile, revealing a dimple. High sculpted cheekbones, and pitch black hair framed the eyes. He is familiar.
My gaze ran over his broad shoulders and across his collar bones. The salty taste of his skin bloomed in my mouth. How?
The tattoo on his abdomen, a black wheel with spokes inscribed in a script I couldn’t read, shifted with his movement as he took a step into the water.
His hands flexed at his side, the fingers brushing his indigo jeans.
“Hi,” he said, his smile broadening. He tilted his head in question.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“You called me with your song.”
“Which one?”
Chords of music drifted to me. A song I’d written with my best friend, Megan… before she disappeared.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
He shook his head just a little. “That I can’t tell you.”
The ground trembled, the stones under my feet shifting. I put my hands out for balance. My nightshirt slipped off one shoulder. When I looked back at the beautiful, familiar stranger, he was focused on the newly exposed bare skin.
I pulled the shirt up, covering myself, holding the soft fabric close to my neck. His gaze flicked to mine. “There is no need for shyness between us,” he said. Says you.
He smiled and the world shifted again, growing hazy and soft.
His hand slipped over my skin, soft but not careful. He was never careful…but always tender.
We’d known each other since the beginning of time. And we would be together until the end.
His lips met mine, nourishing me.
I needed him—loved him. Would never be whole without him.
My body arched, desperate to be closer, to be one.
He smiled against my lips, teasing me with his touch. He whispered my name and I opened my mouth to say his…
I woke twisted in my sheets. Another dream. Reaching out towards my bedside table, I grabbed my dream diary, knocking my pen to the floor in the process. Crud. My long dark hair draped to the floor when I grabbed it. By the time I touched the pen to paper, the details of the dream had faded to just feelings: emptiness and dread with a side helping of sexual frustration. Awesomesauce.
This happened almost every night since Megan disappeared two months ago.
I climbed out of bed, the dream drifting away as it always did. On my way to the bathroom I stopped at Megan’s bedroom and leaned against the doorjamb.
Her dark wood dressing table was covered in medication. I'd lined up the pill bottles, and there they sat, like little soldiers, waiting for their mistress to return. Polaroid pictures, squares of color with Megan's red hair the unifying theme, were tucked into the frame of the mirror.
I can still smell her perfume. Crossing the room to her chest of drawers, I picked up the small bottle of Gilt. The smell wafted up, and I closed my eyes, sensing her there.
She'd worn it since we moved to Crescent City. Before we had a place to live, before we got our first gig, Megan bought a bottle. She paid for it with the money we earned playing on the streets. And I never questioned her. She was a star. Megan k
new her path; my only job was to follow.
Flyers from our performances and clippings about our band hung on the wall. Even in the grainy black and white ones, Megan glowed. Leaning over the microphone, her hair falling long to one side, exposing her profile, mouth wide, neck extended, eyes squeezed shut—you could almost hear how powerful her voice was through the paper. Megan sang until there was nothing left.
I was in the photos too, but always in the background, my hair flopped over my face, fingers tense on the strings of my fiddle. Megan was the star, and I a moon lucky enough to orbit her.
Replacing the bottle of perfume on the dresser next to a pair of dangly earrings, I sat on the bed, smoothing the quilt. Megan left the bed unmade, and I didn’t fix it until days after she disappeared. I couldn’t stand walking by the door and seeing it like that, as if she would be back any minute. She vanished in the middle of the night. How does a dying woman disappear?
I fished under the bed and pulled out Megan's other box of clippings. The ones on top, yellow and curled with age, were cut out of the local paper up north. They told the story of the early and tragic death of a much beloved choir instructor, Mr. Man.
He'd led the school to great glory that year, winning the regional championships. Megan Quick, 13, his foster daughter, was the star of the show. In his obituary photo, Mr. Man's thick hair was parted to the side; he wore a crisp white shirt and a dark narrow tie. There was a glint in his eye and a tilt to his chin that implied devilish fun.
When he died, only white fluff clung to the sides of his head. His illness drained him, sucking the skin around his eyes into the hollows. Those once-bright orbs of light became dull and confused in the final months. It took almost a year for Mr. Man to die. At the end, people whispered that his passing was a blessing.
Later articles, printed off microfiche from the Crescent City library, followed up with the disappearance of two of his foster children. Thirteen-year-old girls, much missed and worried about by his widow. One, Darling Price, suffered from a delusional disorder, the paper informed its readers. Without her medication, she could slip into a psychotic state. They got that wrong. I left those pills behind and hadn’t hallucinated since.
I looked at the date on the article. We left two days before it made the paper. Megan and I were riding trains, headed south to the only place Megan thought would be right for us, Crescent City.
We trundled through a dark and dismal landscape lined with chain-link fence. I started to cry. Megan came over to where I sat, huddled against some burlap sacks filled with grain.
"Darling, you don't have to be afraid." I nodded, but the tears continue. "You're safe now. He can't hurt us anymore."
"But, Megan," I hiccupped. "Won't I go to hell?"
Megan's brow furrowed deeply and her eyes flashed in the dark. "Of course not."
"But it's my fault, Megan."
"No, it isn't. He deserved to die, so he got sick and died. That's what happens to bad people. That's proof that God is watching."
"No, Megan." I took a shuddering breath. "You don't understand, I wanted him to die."
"So. Did. I."
"It was when his chest hair turned gray. I knew that if I didn't stop, he would die. I was offered a sign, a chance, but I kept going."
Megan frowned. “You didn’t do anything, Darling. He was the one doing it. And even if you did kill him—you still wouldn't be going to hell. You saved us both, Darling." My sobs became uncontrollable.
Megan pulled a knife out of her bag. It flashed for a second before she sliced it across her palm. She grabbed mine and did the same. The sharp sensation snapped me out of my tears, and I stared at the blood, not feeling any pain. Megan pressed her bleeding palm to mine.
"Listen to me, Darling." I nodded. "You will be okay. We will stay together forever. This is a blood pact. If you go to hell, I will be there with you. I'll never leave you alone. You are safe with me, and I am safe with you." I nodded. "Say it."
"I am safe with you—"
"And you are safe with me."
"And you are safe with me."
"Forever."
"Forever."
I could almost hear her voice as I sat on the bed looking down at the clippings. I recognized the powerful young woman who'd promised me safety. She was all over the walls of this room; she lived in the hearts and minds of fans all over the city. But she left me. She didn't even say goodbye.
Tears hit the papers on my lap. I curled up into a ball and sobbed into her pillow, letting the grief rack through me. How many times have I done this, just curled up on her bed and lost it?
The grief came in waves. One minute I’d feel almost normal, and the next I’d be crushed by it. Utterly destroyed. Absence is a heavy thing. How can something that isn’t there weigh so damn much!
My phone beeped in the other room. I ignored it, not ready to pull out of my misery. My phone chimed again. I took a deep breath and opened my swollen eyes to check the time. I'm due at the hospital in an hour then I have band practice right after. Time to get my butt out of bed.
Sniffling and wiping at my face, I returned the papers to their box, letting my finger run over Megan's face before replacing the lid and slipping it under the bed. I straightened Megan's quilt and stared down at the pattern, letting the colors and shapes blur in my vision. The pain and sorrow dragged at me, draining me of every last drop. I am dangerously empty.
Chapter Two
When I entered the hospital lobby, the smell of it dropped me back into every walk Megan and I took through this place, into every battle we waged. We never won.
I rode the elevator with a wheelchair-bound man and young woman. They shared the same thin noses and full lips. Both looked drawn, their cheeks sunken and hair limp. She's his primary care giver. I can always recognize them. They look like crap—slumped shoulders and heavy bags hanging under their eyes. Skin only a little brighter than their loved ones deathly pallor.
Not me, though. As Megan grew gaunt, I filled out, my hips and ass growing plumper, my waist narrowing, breasts rising so that now I hardly owned a shirt that contained them. My lips were pink, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. As Megan died, I grew stronger and healthier. It didn’t make sense.
The doors opened and air, heavy with disinfectant, wafted in.
Tingling along my spine turned my head as I stepped off. Piercing bright blue eyes waited for me. The intensity of the stranger's gaze tightened my throat. The elevator doors closed behind me and suddenly it was just me and this man alone in the hall.
He wore an elegant grey three piece suit with thin threads of blue running through it. The vest stretched across a hard chest, and tapered to a narrowed waist. No tie, just an open collar that exposed the notch between his collar bones.
A deliciously slow smile curled his lips, and a cruel spark came into his gaze. No man's lips should be so pink, or skin so alabaster. No stranger should look at me with such unabashed hunger. How can he be so pretty and so masculine?
He stalked toward me, the suit moving with him like a second skin. I stumbled back, adrenaline pumping into my system. My body thrummed with a bizarre anticipation—I wanted him to grab me. To do something. I want. Want. But what?
His long stride ate up the space between us but he stopped five feet shy, his gaze never leaving my face. The smile faded from that too pretty mouth—how could lips the color of dusty rose send shivers of warning down my spine?
We stared at each other for a long moment, time seeming to stretch. The bustle of the hospital went silent. My heartbeat louder than any noise. He shook his head slightly, as if coming to some private conclusion then pushed into the stairwell door and disappeared.
I stood alone in the hall, heart hammering, breath uneven, cheeks hot—all kinds of confused and freaked out.
What the what was that?
The door next to me opened and a patient came out, breaking me from my trance.
Claire and Harriet sat behind the check in desk. A similar height
and weight, it took several visits for me to tell the two nurses apart—Harriet had a small scar on her lip.
They stared at the news playing on a TV mounted in the corner of the waiting room. "The victims of the attack were brought to Mercy Hospital at approximately 4 a.m. The first victim had seizures soon after admittance," the announcer announced.
The video switched to a bird's-eye view of a city street. Yellow tarps covered two bodies and dark smears stained the cement. "Witnesses say that this woman"—the screen switched to a mug shot: a white woman, spiked bleached blonde hair, chin raised so she looked down her nose at the camera—"Angela Hoppenheimer, who has prior arrests for prostitution and drug possession, attacked the men as they walked home from an evening out with friends."
It cut back to the anchor. He held a finger to his ear for a moment. "Now we are going live to a press conference with the chief of Crescent City Security."
The screen switched to a stout woman in her fifties standing at a podium. "As you all know, there was another attack yesterday in the early evening. While this incident is still under investigation, we ask for your patience and perseverance. We believe that a newer form of hallucinogen on the market is causing these attacks," she said. "Citizens of Crescent City, if you encounter a person on this drug, acting erratically, violent"—she cleared her throat—"insatiably hungry, call the police. Do not attempt to engage them."
A reporter yelled a question. The chief answered it. "We are not sure why the victims of these attacks are having seizures and exhibiting other side effects. That is something we are working closely with the doctors over at Mercy to figure out."