The Air You Breathe (HEARTFIRE Book 3)

by Jave Kavfi

  "Or them being pretty evil. It could have been a kid who resented them or wanted revenge. She's away from the main group because she wanted some peace or she was meeting someone? As you said – how do we know it wasn't Holly's uncle? Why's he singling out a little girl to photograph? Or maybe she asked, or there were some other people around. Thing is, we're assuming it was murder, and it probably was, but we don't know for certain. It was investigated and – holy shit – there's something staring us straight in the face."

  "What? What?"

  "Hang on..." He's lifting a bunch of photographs and separating them from the rest. "Notice anything? I'll give you a hint. The guy in the middle with the big ears."

  Ana peers closer. "Oh, he's the double of Dean. His father?"

  "His father, the cop, just like him. He was on the scene at the time, Mavis said. He's the one who decided Evangeline's death was an accident. Have another look – he's in about half-a-dozen of the photographs. Very sociable guy, it looks like."

  "I get it. In every picture he's got a glass in his hand. He looks–"

  "Half-cut. Pretty wasted, in fact. So, the pissed cop decides it was an accidental death. There's more. According to Mavis, the doctor on the scene was called Blake – that's the same name of the doctor you saw that time. Obviously not him, but his father? Was he drinking that day too? I don't know if this has any significance, but it could explain why the case wasn't properly investigated. And it's not like they're going to say 'hang on – I was actually blotto when I came to that conclusion. My skills of deduction were somewhat off, seeing as I was rat-arsed at the time'. For all we know, one of them did it, but Mavis said she was in their company for most of the time, so..." He leans back and stretches his arms above his head. "How about we call it quits for tonight – yeah? I'm beat."

  "Hmm ... okay. Wait – wait. Look at this one from further back."

  A large group. The Mortimer family on the front steps at Ryden. Madeline with Evangeline and Lucinda next to her. There's a teen boy, on a lower step, looking towards Madeline and the girls. He's half in the shadows and his face is partly obscured.

  "Caden, look at how Madeleine is looking at the boy. The expression on her face. That's weird. Not how you'd think an adult woman would be looking at a boy his age. Kind of adoring. It's weird – like those two are set apart. But it could be he's a relative, or she's thinking about something and the camera caught her with that expression for that second. I mean, the camera can lie."

  "That's not the way you look at a relative, but she might have been looking at someone behind him. If it was him she was perving at, then the kid probably thought all his Christmases had come at once."

  "Caden..."

  "What? I'm just saying most guys at that age would be well pleased to have a beautiful woman giving them that kind of look. I'm not saying it's right, but the guy's ... what? I don't know – it's hard to tell – say fifteen, sixteen? At that age, I'd be pretty damn pleased to have a woman like her giving me the eye. She was stunning."

  "Oh, and if it was a young girl some married guy in his twenties was perving at?"

  "That's entirely different."

  "And how do you work that one out?"

  "It just is. Trust me. On his part, at least, not hers. He'd know nothing was going to happen between them – and it shouldn't and most likely wouldn't – but it's a fair bet if there was the slightest chance of it, he'd be kind of fantasising it would. You don't know, because you've never been an adolescent boy."

  "That's all wrong."

  "I know. I'm just telling you how it works. But you notice anything else? We can't actually see the expression on his face that clearly, but it does look like he's impressed by what he's seeing. He's certainly having a good stare. It's in the general direction of Madeline and the sisters, but which one – which one was he looking at?"

  Chapter 21

  Caden peels off his t-shirt, throws it into the laundry basket and has a sniff under an armpit. He reeks. It's a miracle Ana could stand him stinking the room out with his sweat. He gets in the shower, turns the water on full blast and lathers up. The steam smells like grapefruit. He leans with his arms up against the tiles and the water pounding his back.

  His mind is crammed. Who or what he is, that he's no longer dreaming. The separation from Mia and his family. The other world leaping into this one or vice versa. Protecting Ana and her baby – is the threat lessening? He doesn't know why he's spending so much time on the Mortimer case. Hasn't been another sighting of Evangeline at Ryden or here and that's why he got into it in the first place. This could have been a time to relax and take it easy now that Eudora is leaving them alone and–

  Someone's in the room. A shape behind the screen. He pulls the door open. Holly, in a t-shirt she wears to bed. Laughing, attempting to step in beside him. His hands are resting on either side of the door frame and she pushes and ducks under.

  "What you doing?" he says stupidly, making a not very convincing effort to shove her out.

  "I thought I'd join you. I'm feeling very dirty – knew you'd be able to do something about that." She's already soaked beneath the torrent of water.

  "Holly..."

  She's laughing, running her hands down his back. He's saying no but there's no hiding his body is giving an altogether different message. The sight and touch of her and it is clearly no contest.

  Some useless attempt at a protest. "Get out, you ... I said ..." His hands up but not touching her.

  "What? You don't want me here? You seem very pleased to see me."

  "I told you. It's not happening."

  "Looks like it is," she says with a giggle.

  On the tips of her toes, pressing up against him, her lips on his mouth, and yes, he's kissing her back. His hands go down her body, on the saturated cotton. His fingers moving under the fabric, sliding across wet skin. Even at this temperature, he can feel her heat at his ear.

  Before his mind clears of everything apart from the pure pleasure of what they're doing, he does think, just for an instant, that he doesn't have strong feelings for her, that it's nothing like love, or even a strong connection. It doesn't matter, all thoughts of anything but the present dissolve at speed.

  It's him now, she doesn't need to do a thing. She's breathless, gasping at the rapid change in the situation. Effortless this and she knows enough of him and men in general to have taken no notice of his feeble resistance – going from 'get out' to being all over her. Lifting her off her feet in this box of steam.

  This stunning girl, who he barely knows and has hardly exchanged a word with, is trembling against him. Soft and smooth, but firm and moving. Her smart hands and skilful mouth. Bodies together. Not tender. Hot, wet and mindless.

  He wants it and here it is, that beautiful feeling again ... not the same – never the same. But he needs this – these incredible sensations, surging through everything that makes him. Being truly alive. The release. Leaving the world behind and getting out of his head. This is the most you can get. It makes the rest spin away and become nothing.

  Making the best of it. Knowing there will always be an ache for the return of the life that was ripped away. He'd give anything, do anything, to get back the girl he loves.

  -

  Chapter 22

  Something is tickling her ear and then not. It happens again and pulls her fully awake. Not Boris, she can feel the weight of him at the end of the bed. A feather from the pillow? Can't feel it now but she's unable to get comfortable enough to go back to sleep. The duvet appears to be in a tangle and the fitted sheet has sprung loose from the mattress. She looks at the lit bedside clock. 3am – is that the witching or the devil's hour, when supernatural forces are at their most powerful? She read that somewhere and wishes she hadn't.

  Doom floods her in the darkness and she quickly switches on the bedside lamp. Better. Much. But she doesn't feel right. Not ill, more ill at ease. Here in her bed where she should feel safest of all. The light seems dull, even with the
lamp. Gloomy, and looming shadows in the corners of the room. These are the hours fear pours in and leaves her feeling cold and alone. Even with the sleeping Boris, she still has that sense of dread and emptiness. Her head filled with thoughts she does not want and can't bear.

  Jarek's last moments as he hurtled through the night air – this terrible thought hits and she sits up, gasping. She must move fast. Get up. Do something. Fill her mind and replace the unbearable thoughts with safe ones. Because what comes next is too awful and must be blanked out. Too late. What happened in the final seconds. His awareness of his terrible fate. Please god he had none – that he was unconscious with shock before the landing that broke him to bits.

  She's out of bed and desperately going through her things. No television up here – the news could creep in and she can't bear it. Her laptop was sold for fares when she moved and her phone is a basic model, with few distractions. A book. Books are safe. Sometimes. She has bundles stacked all over.

  But it must be right. Nothing that would set her off, and practically anything would if she allowed it. Not travel or journeys, because it will remind her of their plans that can never happen. Not love, for obvious reasons. Nothing violent or paranormal. Not one of her baby books tonight, because it will remind her he will never see his child. Something that won't get to her heart. For weeks now she has mostly been beyond crying and has managed to block the worst of it out. She won't and can't give into it. What that would do to his baby inside her. Grief so deep and bitter it would seep like a poison from her to their daughter or son. Babies, children, deserve so much more than a shaking, terrified, grieving mother.

  The perfect book. A lightweight, happy story for occasions such as this. Back in bed with her head resting on the pillow. Trying hard to concentrate, though the words are dancing on the page. Boris is awake and has padded his way up beside her, but won't settle and is pawing at his face, making a sound that is somewhere between a growl and a whine.

  "What is it Boris?" she's saying. The whine is louder, he's going in circles, butting his head against the covers. Distressed, but by what? She leans in close and has a look at him. Something black on his fur. Moving through it. She uses her phone torch to get a better look and watches in horror as a large insect emerges and disappears into the depths of his fur. What is that? Fast, black and the size of a wasp.

  She leaps out of bed and lifts him to the floor. Holds him closer to the light while he wriggles, whines, and squirms. She separates his fur and catches sight of it again before it vanishes. Like a shiny black beetle. She searches through his fur again. Sees it once more, but it slithers away. It's all she can do to keep him still. She stretches up to a tray beside her bed and finds her tweezers – pins Boris down and goes through his fur again. "I'll get it, Boris..." His head, his back. Nothing. A yelp and he's clawing at his face. Oh my god...

  At the rim of his eye, about to burrow inside. No time for tweezers, she uses her fingers to catch the end and pull it away. Holds the wriggling creature up to the light. Like nothing she's ever seen before – not a beetle. Shiny and hard on top but with an underbelly as slimy as a slug. It stretches between her finger and thumb, becoming well over an inch long. A grey foaming substance oozes from one end. Revulsion fills her and she flings it across the room. Boris shoots after it and disappears under a dresser to give chase. Scratching at the wooden floor, yelping like a dog.

  "No, no, don't eat it..." She's not squeamish. Not about insects or much else, but that could be anything; poisonous, carry infection. Clicking? A sudden tickle at her ear and her hand is up. Her fingers catch a crispy moving lump as something enters her ear. She looks and lets out a yell. Fatter than the other one and the soft parts pulsating. Before she can react in any way, it disappears to dust under the pressure of her fingers.

  Her leg, near the hem of her bed shorts. She slaps hard and another one falls away to nothing. Boris is going crazy, chasing what must be more. Her heart is thumping, but she takes a few long deep breaths.

  These are not any kind of insect from this world. She will not call Caden, who she knows is in his bedroom with Holly. He will not be pulled away from her arms. This will be dealt with by her alone. Part of her not being a victim in all this – to not always be choked with terror and at the mercy of who or what is bringing these in.

  She has searched the room with a torch, under every surface. Found a dozen more beetles on the floor and crushed them to dust. Pulled back her covers and had to swallow a scream when she found a nest of them at the bottom of the bed. These too become dust. She has given Boris a bath and wrapped him in his fluffy towel while she showered. Stripped her bed and put on a fresh sheet and duvet. Silently tiptoed downstairs and gave Boris a handful of his cat treats as a reward for his suffering. Made herself a hot drink and crept wearily back upstairs.

  On her freshly made bed. A mud-coloured lump. A delay of seconds before realisation sinks in.

  "Why didn't you wake me?" Caden is saying in the kitchen. "I can't believe you didn't."

  "I wanted to deal with it myself. To be able to deal with it. It makes me feel less vulnerable."

  He's nodding. "I get that."

  "Besides, you weren't asleep. I could hear you and Holly laughing."

  "Sorry..."

  "Don't be. You've nothing to be sorry about."

  "Where is it now? The doll."

  "In the bucket. I threw it in there and haven't been back to the room since. I almost screamed when I saw it propped up on my bed. But I knew no-one had been in there – just knew it. Nothing human. It's something playing tricks."

  He's nodding. "I think so. No idea how it's done, but then, the supernatural world has a whole logic of its own, or lack of it. Evangeline – she wasn't exactly a good kid and she's clearly not restricted to Ryden. Or she is, but she uses some force to make things happen here. A reminder that she can't be forgotten? You said Maggie told you the doll was bought by the doctor's wife. So it was hers but ended up buried in a pet grave. By the Mortimer girls? I don't know, but I'm sorry you had to go through that last night."

  She puts plates into the sink. "I'm not too fazed by the whole thing."

  "Sure..."

  "No, honestly." She gives him a bright smile. "I'm feeling quite empowered, actually. That I dealt with it on my own. That I didn't allow it to reduce me to a wreck."

  "Good." He stands up. "But leave those. Go and catch up on your sleep – you look shattered. I'll move that thing out of your room first."

  "I can't. I need to open the shop." She moves towards the door.

  He blocks the doorway. "You won't. I'll keep an eye on the shop today. I'm telling you – sleep."

  She attempts to stifle a yawn. "You have to work at Ryden. I'll be all right..."

  "I'll phone the guys and make sure they're progressing with the work. I'll be at it flat-out all day tomorrow and make up time. You're going to get at least a nap. In fact, don't go into your room – I can see why you might be a bit wary about that. I'll make up a bed for you on the sofa. I'm not taking no for an answer." He takes both her hands and leads her to the living room. She's not putting up a fight.

  Snuggled under a clean duvet and drifting away. She needs this. All the business with the beetles. Horrendous morning sickness. But the doll – that was worst of all. The breath leaving her as she recoiled from the sight. Stained and ingrained with soil, propped up against her pillows, a filthy bandage over its eyes.

  Checking her room, but knowing whatever had been in there was gone. Getting the nerve to pick the doll up. A solid lump, surprisingly weighty. Damp, shreds of fabric stuffing hanging from the stumps where the feet had been. The bandage dropping from the felt face. The painted eyes on display. Side facing. Resentful. So, she put on a brave face for Caden, but she wasn't feeling the least bit brave at all.

  Chapter 23

  She's being pulled out of her sleep again. Banging coming from the courtyard. Pulls herself upright and looks at the clock. Six at night. She slept all
this time? No sickness and feeling refreshed. She gets up and goes to the window. Caden is kneeling on the ground, doing something with a screwdriver. Boris is watching him. A shower and then she'll find out what he's up to.

  "Sorry, I was trying to keep the racket down." He's blocking the entrance to the garden. She's trying to see past him but he's dodging about to stop her. "Wait," he says. "You'll spoil the surprise. I'm not finished yet. Go inside and I'll call you."

  "No. What is it – you tell me."

  "Ah, you're so impatient. Okay. Close your eyes. Close them. I won't let you trip – I promise."

  "You big baby ... what is it?"

  "Close." He's laughing.

  "They're closed! This better we worth it..."

  He takes her hands and leads her down the couple of steps, then goes behind her, his arms around her shoulders. "Forward. A bit more. Keep those eyes shut."

  "Caden..."

  "Open."

  The courtyard is covered in plants. There's two flowering fruit trees in wooden tubs and a small shrub against the wall; at least a dozen pot plants. A table with a canopy and four chairs – one of which is filled by Boris, who leaps down and rubs himself against her legs. To the left is a small barbeque set.

  "Oh, Caden this is lovely – just really lovely. You're ... you're ... sweet." She throws her arms around him and plants a kiss on his cheek.

  "Get off. Don't go all soppy on me. It wasn't just for you – I got something too. You can use it, but you'll need to be careful. Me too, that I don't hit you with it. Don't hit Bud, I mean."

  "Stop with the Bud ... what is it?"

  He's indicating with his eyes. Behind him.

  "What?"

  He tilts her chin upwards. A basketball hoop.

  "Yay," she says. "I've always wanted one of those. Give me a shot."