The Air You Breathe (HEARTFIRE Book 3)

by Jave Kavfi

  Bad move. Possibly a bad move. Now they know he has a gun and might not be keeping that fact to themselves. He's past caring. For six months now, he's been through it all. Blown up, yet somehow still living. Shot, beaten-up, forced off the road and left for dead, stalked by the ghouls, hunted by homicidal non-humans, been used a some sort of specimen in a laboratory, rescued with moments to spare from a house fire, been on the run and in hiding, can't officially work, can barely get a night's sleep without being haunted by the dead, has some cop sniffing around because he was banging his love-interest. It's going to get worse? No big shock there.

  They're gone and he's suddenly freezing. Hungry, tired, thinking of giving the house a miss and getting back to Ana. But some instinct makes him turn and look up. At a window. She's there.

  *

  A full day of preparation for the reading and the author didn't show up. Finally croaked through the phone about laryngitis. Still, a good night and pretty packed, including a number of people she hasn't seen in before. She serves coffee, pours wine and passes around trays of snacks. Everyone making a fuss of Boris and him lapping it up. A couple of dozen books sold and many customers promising they'll come back. Her feet are aching and she's exhausted. Had enough for one night. They're all piling out at once and several people give her their cards as she sees them to the door. Other businesses, a couple of writers, someone who wants a flyer put up.

  Finally, they're gone and she locks up and leans her back against the glass of the door. Maybe she could ask Mr Cribber for a raise, seeing as the profits are way up, thanks to the efforts she and Caden are putting in. Boris is wanting attention – and possibly fed again. She picks him up, lifts the book she had been reading, and makes her way upstairs.

  No shower, though she needs one. No meal, as she's full from the snacks. She feeds Boris and tidies the kitchen a little. It's very basic, but a good size and looking a lot better after the work Caden has done. Why did most of his dreams stop? How is he going to make a living now? But good, in one way, that he doesn't have to go through that every night. The demanding dead not leaving him alone.

  In her room, she pulls her clothes off and her old sleeping t-shirt on. Collapses on the bed. It's not that late but it's been a long day. Caden should be back soon – it's strange being here when he's not. She'll read for ten minutes at the most, can't see how she'll keep her eyes open after that. She has never felt exhaustion like this before her pregnancy, but it's to be expected, these small changes in the body when you are carrying a new life. Just the thought of it makes her smile. The bedside lamp is giving a soft glow and Boris snuggles on the covers. Her head on the pillow and eyes closed, but no, she can't sleep. An odd uneasy feeling that something is wrong. She checked everything? Yes. The place is secure. Boris is at it now, pawing at the duvet, circling. "Boris – what's wrong?" She scratches his neck the way he likes. He's not settling. There might be thunder in the air – he gets like this with changes in the weather. She could get up? No, she'll have a read.

  She picks up the book she had been reading downstairs. No, she'll have a look at her baby book first – check out natural nausea remedies again. Something falls out, face down, landing between her and Boris. He bolts from the bed and makes a mewing that sounds more like a cry. She has a horrible sinking feeling; knows what it is before she picks it up. Is it starting again? Is Eudora back?

  Chapter 5

  He's in the house and heading up towards the room where the girl is. Heart hammering despite the fact the dead have taken over his sleep for half a year now. Two floors up and the place gets more run-down the higher you go. There have been no renovations carried out on this level, it's just as it was when Curtis Mortimer died. The room with the yellow door at the end of the corridor – that's it. He has to find out what she wants.

  He's gentle opening the door. The dead have feelings; they get as scared of the living as the living do of them. Mostly – there are the other type but he doesn't think she's one of them. The hinges creak with age and the scent of decay hits him as soon as he goes in. Not a rotting body, mostly mould and bad air. She's not here, even in this semi-dark he knows it. Not at the window she was looking out of, not in the corners or behind the door.

  A child's room. Hers? Not the room of a small child, maybe nearer a teen. But dated, like it was a throw-back to another age. Wrecked, not only by years of neglect – looks like intruder's got in at one point and messed it up some more. Ransacked, floor covered in debris – beer cans, empty bottles, ancient rotted food, graffiti on the walls, what's left of a girl's belongings. Dark, despite the fact the curtains have been ripped away. The lightbulb is missing; he uses his phone torch to light the room. Long trails of ghostly cobwebs hang from the ceiling, thick dust on every surface, window-ledge a bluebottle graveyard. Narrow iron bed. Big old heavy oak furniture. Narnia wardrobe. At the window, something glistening. He moves nearer and kneels. Water. Drops of water. From the lake?

  More water, leading to an oak dresser with an open drawer. She might want him to see something. It's sticking. Jammed with what appears to be old magazines, toiletry bottles and jars. He's kneeling, wriggling it, pulling items out; there's enough room to get his fingers in. Something at the back. A brown paper bag with a lumpy item inside. It's out and the contents fall on his knees. A thick solid snake of ... hair. A girl's hair – what they call a – he can't recall – a pigtail? A pleat? Plait? Secured at the end with an elastic band. Cut hard to the scalp, it looks like. He shines the torch on it. Not the dead girls. She was dark, this is light auburn, ginger.

  The beam from the phone hits the floor. More water droplets, leading out of the room. He puts the hair into the bag and places it back in the drawer. Goes to the door and follows the water.

  Along the corridor and no bulb here either. He can hear his own breath. The water stops at a partly-open door at the far end. He pushes it open and steps inside. Air so bad it's like you can hear your lungs groan.

  It's a shrine. A girl's room but a shrine. Twice the size of the other one and no sign of the girl. Same old-fashioned furniture but this time light-coloured. Painted, possibly pink. High four poster bed. The torchlight showing the same dust and lacy cobwebs, but this room appears to have been untouched by intruders.

  Fluffy toys arranged on a chair, two pairs of shoes underneath – trainers, a flat pair, like ballet shoes. A box stuffed with the kind of cheap jewellery and hair stuff young girls wear. An area with posters. Not bands or movie stars but the cute type a young kid might have. One entire wall is covered in photographs. Most of them are of Evangeline. Even in the dim light he can see that – what she was before she was dead. Her as a baby, a toddler, a very young child. Every stage of her growing, until what she was before she died. A bright-eyed smiling child. She didn't get a chance to live – to be an adult. Pity floods through him.

  And it is a shrine. Looks like it may have been kept the way she left it. Not too messy, but like she had stepped out and was about to come back in. Candles on the dresser under the photograph wall – a dozen or more, half burned down. Not hers, he's certain. Someone was long-mourning this girl.

  He knows he is not alone. A rustling and he turns towards the bed. Rising from it, emerging from a tangle of sheets. In one movement, she is upright. One arm lifted like before. The useless broken one, limp at her side.

  "Evangeline," he's saying. "What do you want? Tell me. I'll help you if I can."

  Her mouth opens wide. No sound and her jaw falls loose and sideward, ending at a grotesque angle. He could cry. It must have been fractured and the undertakers made sure it was held together for the viewing, but it has come loose again. Trying to speak...

  His phone rings and his heart leaps. He looks down. Ana is calling. One glance up and he knows the girl is gone.

  A deep breath before he answers.

  "Caden," she says. "She's back. Or might be. Another post mortem picture in my book."

  Chapter 6

  He's clattering down the s
tairs. "The same one?"

  "No. Similar, and only the little girl. Dead, I'm sure she's dead. It was in my book. My baby book. Not before but now."

  "You burned it? You know that has to be done."

  "Not yet – I can't bear to touch it. I knew it was too good to be true. Being left alone. I can't stand it – the thought of it starting again."

  "It might not. Could be something else. Don't panic. Doors and windows all locked? You got your gun near?"

  "Yes. You saw the girl?"

  "Yeah, but..." He's looking at his car. Now he knows what those little shits were up to – one tyre is slashed. They probably would have done the rest if he hadn't interrupted them. "Ana – I've a flat tyre. I've got a spare and it won't delay me much. You okay for now? You want me to stay on the line?"

  "No. Change the tyre. I'll call you back if I need to. Take care – they'll be after you too."

  Damn. He gives the tyre a good kick. Eudora's back? More trouble on the way. He doesn't know who or what Eudora is. An immortal. Evil. Someone who preys on the grieving and uses channelers to bring back the dead at a cost. She controls channelers and others by what means he does not know. Has the power to target anyone who has crossed her. Once targeted, you and those close to you are at danger from the nightmarish creatures that cross from the Otherworld to this one. That's it – he has about as much information as Ana. Doesn't know exactly how powerful Eudora is or if she's alone or merely part of something bigger. He's been too busy trying to survive to investigate further and wouldn't even know where to start. With this flat either – he's got the jack out but the wrench appears to have taken a walk. There's so much crap in the boot, seeing has he had to live in the car for months ... got it.

  Why is that woman bringing her family here – knowing the history of the place? If it were him, he'd sell up and buy something with less emotional charge. What is all this anyway? Part of a channeling being set up? Will Gideon and Hetty or someone like them turn up? The dead girl – what does she want? She somehow knows her sister has returned and wants to be with her? Revenge? The dead sometimes want that. She's going to confront her murderer? This is something he hasn't went near yet on a personal level. Who blew that plane out of the sky and why. When he thinks about it, he has more than enough reason to want revenge. In many ways, he has a good deal in common with Evangeline. He might be 'living' but he sure as hell isn't fully in this world.

  *

  The old man is blinking at him. He can't speak? He doesn't see his son in all these years and he's still got nothing to say? Maybe he's went gaga – he's the age for it. Christ, but look at the state of him. Watery bloodshot eyes, clamped-in cheeks, face like a skull. Nothing but skin and bones and his clothing hanging – is this what he'll become? He's walking away? The old bastard. Opening the door and making his way back upstairs. Not a single fucking word. But what did he expect – that a miracle would take place? Nothing changes. Once you're invisible, that's the way it is for life.

  He goes into the kitchen, dumps his bag on the table, takes out a can of dog food, finds a tin opener and dumps the contents of the food on a plate. Nelson's at it in seconds. This place is still as it always was. Has misery running down the walls and embedded in every surface. Breathes it out from the pores of the stone. He's pretty sure it's his father who has the condition and not him. A condition the shrinks don't have a name for, but one that involves the absence of a soul, and personality and human feelings. He's got feelings. Too many feelings, that's his problem. He's got the feelings, but people won't let him in. He doesn't know why, as he is no different from anyone else. You look at him and you'd see an ordinary man. Nothing special to look at, but don't they say it's what's inside that counts? Lying fuckers. No, what he must have is something you're born with and that others can detect on a subliminal level. Something that repels. His father has it too, and probably his mother. When you've got it, the only chance of any kind of life is through the lives of others, always outside, looking in.

  Anyway, all this contemplating won't get the job done. Time to make the list. Lists help him, the planning ahead. A guide what to do and what to say. They're safe enough if you destroy them right away, but are still effective, as it's the making of them which organises the brain. Synapses or something. Time for coffee and food later. Get it all down while the mind is fresh. He takes out his notebook and pen and makes a list of all the names. Draws the connecting lines and before he knows it, the page looks like a tangle of criss-crossed wires. This bunch are linked in too many ways to count. Some of them by blood, but most of them by actions that were in one way or another illegal, criminal, amoral or just plain evil. And people call him sick?

  *

  "Who was that on the phone?"

  "Wrong number."

  "Again? That's the third time today."

  "Probably an automated cold calling service. They do that. Call. Hang up."

  "Mum's picking up the children first thing tomorrow, so we'll have the place to ourselves until Monday. Won't that be lovely? Mark?"

  He rattles his newspaper down. "Again? I can't see why they have to be over there so much." Trapped here alone with her. At least the children dilute the strained atmosphere. Make it bearable.

  "She adores them. And they love it there. They've got so many activities planned. A visit to the stables, and–"

  "Humph." He picks up his paper.

  "Would you like a glass of wine? I'm thinking of having one."

  "No thanks." That smile of hers. Sickly. Vacant. False.

  "We could have an early night."

  "I've work to do in my office. After I read my paper." Why doesn't she just ... disappear?

  She's in front of him now. Smoothing her dress with fidgety little movements in the irritating way she does. Waiting. Waiting for him to acknowledge her.

  "Mark. Look at me. Look at me."

  "I'm looking. What?"

  "Are you ever going to forgive me? I was just a child. A child. I was the victim. Me."

  "You always are, aren't you, Ruby?"

  "What do you mean by that?"

  "Forever wronged. Professional victim. Sometimes, though, it is the so-called victim who causes the most damage, don't you think?"

  "It's in the past. Gone. Have you no forgiveness in you?"

  He gets up from his chair. "Do you? I'm going out."

  Into the street and again he can breathe. The near constant sense of suffocation dissipates, but is quickly replaced by fear. He should bury everything and keep quiet. Make do with the life he now has. If he doesn't, there will be consequences. So, he shouldn't stir things up. And Sarah with the constant phone calls – he'll have to find a way of shutting her up.

  Chapter 7

  "It's just to pick up the results of routine blood tests – you don't have to come with me," Ana is saying to Caden as they walk towards the doctor's surgery.

  "Like I'm going to have you walking here alone after Eudora's little 'message' last night? Not happening. You feeling better now?"

  "You know what I am? Angry. Someone – or something – came into my room and put that picture in my book. My baby book. It feels like it's been contaminated. Makes it more personal."

  "I totally get you there. I can't see it being a human. It's got to be linked to Eudora somehow. A little reminder she's not finished with us yet. She might not have time to do much right now, but she probably gets a sick kick out of stirring us up. I had a quick look at it before I burned it – the little girl was dead when it was taken?"

  "I think so. Did you notice she was propped-up? You could see the metal stand behind her. They did that back then. Post mortem Memento Mori. It's ... macabre. It was almost identical to the first one I found, but only the child this time, and I think it's the same girl."

  He holds the door of the surgery open for her. "Look, while you're in here, you could ask the doctor to give you a quick check-up. You look really pale and I know for a fact you've been throwing up again."

 
; "It's morning sickness – what do you expect? But I might see if they can fit me in. I've got my big appointment at the hospital coming up, but it would be good if I could have a word with someone today. More for reassurance than anything."

  An old man shuffles away from the reception desk and they're at the top of the queue. "Yes?" the receptionist says, not taking her eyes off the computer.

  "I've come to get the results of the blood tests I had last week, and I was wondering if–"

  "Name? Date of birth?"

  Ana gives the details. "Is there any way I could have a quick word with a doctor today? I've not been–"

  "Appointments only. We're fully booked." The woman is hammering on the computer keys.

  Caden is doing one of his eyebrow raises. "Excuse me," he says to the woman. "We can wait around for a while, but it would put her mind at ease if she could be seen. She's pregnant and not feeling so good."

  The woman finally looks up and addresses Caden. "That tends to happen in pregnancy. The 'not feeling so good'." She purses her lips and turns her gaze to Ana. "Is this an emergency?"

  "No, but–"

  "Then I'm afraid you're have to book an appointment. Unfortunately, we have nothing until"─she checks the computer─"the end of next week. And I've no notes on your blood results, so I take it you'll be called when they come in."