She was almost there.
She could feel something beneath the filling now . . . something hard and heavy and cold and smooth . . .
No, not quite smooth . . .
Mostly smooth, but with something carved into its surface.
Words? Numbers?
With one final tug, the packing material came away in her hands. Lucy leaned forward into the light and gazed down into the box.
Oh God . . . Oh God, no . . .
The headstone was gray, crowned with a gently rounded arch.
And its design was stark and simple, except for the large black letters engraved deeply across the front.
ANGELA FOSTER
RIP
28
She thought she might have screamed.
Stumbling backward, Lucy heard a distant, anguished cry, the strangled voice of someone she barely even recognized.
She groped for the wall, for something—anything—to hold on to. Yet her eyes remained fixed on the headstone and the name that would be on everyone’s minds, on everyone’s lips, in less than fifteen minutes.
Her knees gave way.
She crumpled on to the floor.
Burying her face in her hands, she tried to think what to do, but her mind wouldn’t cooperate. Call the police? Get out of the house? Go to someone for help?
Matt would be at the vigil by now. Dakota, too. Thank God, Irene hadn’t come home tonight.
Irene . . .
Lucy’s hands slid away from her eyes.
She had to hide the headstone from Irene. No matter what course of action she ultimately decided to take, she couldn’t leave the headstone here for Irene to see. She’d have to put it somewhere else. She’d have to hide it somewhere else. At least for the time being.
The vigil was just about ready to start. She was already late, and everyone was sure to notice if she didn’t show up. There was no way she’d ever lift that box. Maybe she could get Dakota or Matt to help her later, but for now she’d have to hide it somewhere close. Somewhere close enough to drag it.
Frantically she looked around the downstairs. She couldn’t focus, couldn’t concentrate. Call the police—I have to call the police! This time I have something real to show them—this time they’ll have to believe me!
But she couldn’t call them right now, she couldn’t tell them about the deliveryman and the unmarked truck and this horrible, hideous headstone; she had to get to the service for Angela.
Another sick joke?
If it was, someone had gone to an awful lot of trouble and expense just to pull it off. They’d have had to be sure it was delivered here just in time. They’d have had to be sure Lucy was home to receive it.
Would kids at school go to all that effort?
And if they had done it, would they be at the vigil tonight, waiting to see her reaction?
But she didn’t have time to go over that now. She had to get rid of the headstone.
She could feel her thoughts jumping back and forth, exploding like firecrackers. No matter where she hid the headstone, Irene would be sure to find it. And if Irene didn’t, then Florence certainly would—the woman was fastidious about cleaning every nook and cranny of this house.
So I can’t hide it in here. I’ll have to put it outside.
Her watch read seven-thirty now. Irene would be at the vigil, wondering where she was—and Lucy had no idea what she’d tell her. I’ll think of something—I’ll worry about that later.
With all the force she could muster, Lucy began dragging the box toward the front door. If she could just get it out on the porch, she might be able to tip it off into the shrubbery. At least the front of the house was landscaped with evergreens—if she worked it underneath some of the branches and piled dead leaves over it, no one was likely to spot it, even if they stood right there and rang the bell.
At least it’s worth a try.
At least till Irene’s away from the house, so I can report it to the police.
Or at least till I can come up with a better idea . . . Later she wondered if fear and shock had given her superhuman strength—but for now, all Lucy cared about was wrestling that carton underneath the bushes. As it landed with a dull thud, she hastily camouflaged it, then hurried to the car and drove straight to Pine Ridge High.
She didn’t even remember the ride over.
It was as if her mind had detached from the rest of her, and stayed behind with Angela’s headstone. She didn’t know how she was going to face Irene, knowing what she knew, knowing what she’d just hidden beside the porch. How would she ever be able to act normally? Act as if nothing were wrong?
“But everything’s wrong,” Lucy whispered.
The sound of her own voice startled her.
Slowly, she began to come back to herself, and she realized she was parked at the school. She could see a huge circle of glowing light on the front lawn of the campus—dozens of tiny, flickering candle flames, and the shadowy figures of those who held them.
Voices were singing softly. Some popular song she felt she should recognize, but couldn’t.
Go on. You have to.
Yet still she sat there, watching from a distance. Thinking about the headstone. Wondering what it meant.
She hadn’t wanted to admit that Angela might never come home again, even though at times she’d felt it so strongly.
And now . . .
It doesn’t mean anything!
Lucy shook her head, fighting back angry tears. Angela had run away, just like all those times before, and Angela would come home again, just like Irene had predicted.
Lucy wanted to believe that.
Even now . . . she still wanted so much to believe that.
Taking in a deep gulp of air, Lucy willed herself to get out of the car. She stood for a moment, trying to empty her mind of bad thoughts, trying to compose her features into some semblance of hope.
She started walking toward the light.
And even before she got there, she sensed that something was wrong.
At first it was the subtle shifting of the crowd . . . the murmurs of curiosity and confusion . . . the gradual fading of voices, one by one.
Uneasy glances and eyes going wide . . .
Then cries of shock and disbelief.
As Lucy approached the circle, the first one she spotted was Matt.
He looked stunned and speechless, and all around him people had frozen in place like statues.
Irene was standing rigidly beside him. Her expression seemed to be caught somewhere between sheer relief and sheer horror.
Above each fluttering candle flame, faces had turned to stiff and bloodless masks.
Lucy saw the police.
She saw Dakota breaking through the circle, pushing her way slowly over to where Lucy had stopped to stare.
She felt her own lips move, though no sound came out.
And she heard Dakota answer her directly, as if Lucy’s silent question had been spoken all too clearly.
“It’s Wanda Carver.” Dakota’s face was the color of ash. “They found her in the park tonight. Just about an hour ago.”
The world began to shimmer.
The world and Dakota’s face and the glowing circle of hope, all shimmering through the swell of Lucy’s tears.
“She’s dead,” Lucy murmured.
Dakota nodded. “She fell off the footbridge over that old drainage ditch in the park. She broke her neck on the concrete.”
“When . . . When did it happen?”
“They’re saying it happened sometime early this morning.” Dakota’s gaze was calm and unwavering. “But then . . . you already knew that, didn’t you?”
29
She hadn’t been able to talk.
She hadn’t been able to answer Dakota’s quiet accusation, or to defend herself, or to think of anything else except getting out of there and getting away.
She’d turned and run.
Run to the car and driven off.
Sh
e’d driven with no idea of where to go or how to get there—simply driven all over town, up one street and down another, till she began to think that Irene might be wondering about her and that she’d probably better get back to the house.
It had actually surprised her to see Irene sitting up, waiting for her. The woman’s face had been taut and bewildered, and she’d stared at Lucy for a long, long time, as though her niece were a total stranger.
“When they said they’d found a girl, I thought it was Angela.” Irene had finally spoken, though her eyes had been fixed on a place far beyond Lucy. “And then it was someone else. And I was glad.”
Irene’s numb gaze had turned to Lucy then. And her voice had faltered.
“How cruel of me,” she’d mumbled. “To be glad some other girl’s dead.”
Lucy had felt so helpless. She’d walked over to her aunt’s chair, and she’d laid a hand on her aunt’s stiff shoulder.
“Aunt Irene . . .”
“She’ll be home,” Irene had said softly. “It’s just a matter of time, you’ll see—and Angela will be home.”
“Aunt Irene—”
“Go to bed now, Lucy.”
But she couldn’t stay in bed any longer.
Now Lucy got dressed and slipped quietly from the house. She backed the car down the driveway and headed for Pine Ridge Cemetery.
What little sleep she’d managed to get last night had been fraught with reality and tormented with the truth.
The truth she must finally face.
The truth she must finally accept.
It’s real.
Lucy watched the cold, gray dawn creep slowly through the trees. A patina of frost coated the houses and lawns, and a lazy sun continued to slumber behind a thin layer of clouds.
The gift Katherine gave me . . . the powers Katherine gave me . . .
Real.
They’re all real.
How could she have ignored it for so long? Been so unwilling to believe?
Because to believe in this gift means believing in other things, too. The dreams and the nightmares, the feelings and visions, the instincts I’ve never been able to trust before . . .
The existence of unbelievable things . . . un-explainable things . . .
Evil and unseen things.
She felt as if she’d betrayed herself.
And somehow . . . even worse . . . betrayed Byron.
Tears dampened her cheeks. Her heart ached with grief and regret.
When Byron was here, he’d shown her the truth. Shown her a destiny and purpose. Convinced her that her journey, no matter how dangerous or uncertain, was still necesssary and worthwhile.
She’d lost so much in the accident that night.
Byron.
Her faith . . .
Her self.
If only she could have them all back again.
If only she could speak to Byron one more time . . .
So that’s why she’d decided to visit the cemetery this morning. To sit beside Byron’s resting place and try to sort things out. She wanted to tell him everything, everything that had happened since he’d died. And she wanted to think that somehow he might really hear her . . . help her figure out what to do . . . help her make sense of things.
She wanted to believe that maybe—somehow—she wasn’t really as alone as she felt.
But after entering the cemetery, Lucy began to have second thoughts. She hadn’t expected it to look so spooky at this hour of the morning. Like wandering phantoms, tatters of soft white mist hovered among the graves, and an unnatural quiet smothered the sound of her footsteps as she made her way to the remote section of the burial grounds. The dead slept deep and undisturbed. Remembered and forgotten alike, they surrounded her on all sides, rotting peacefully to dust.
In the distance, the Wetherly mausoleum came darkly into view, silhouetted against the gloom. As Lucy got nearer, she could see the wrought-iron gates and stone angels that guarded it, and for one unsettling moment, she remembered her dream about Byron and his warning.
“Keep away . . . there’s no one in this place.”
An icy shudder worked its way up her spine. Hesitating, she dug her hands into her coat pockets and glanced back over her shoulder.
Come on, Lucy, get a grip.
It was easy to imagine eerie whispers and invisible watchers in a creepy place like this—what had she been thinking anyway, coming here so early?
Stop scaring yourself. Nobody here can hurt you.
Giving herself a stern mental shake, she walked over to the front of the tomb. To her surprise, the double gates weren’t padlocked as she’d assumed they’d be—in fact, they were standing partway open, one of them creaking rustily as the breeze swung it back and forth.
Heart quickening, Lucy glanced around a second time.
If someone were here, they’d be impossible to see, she admitted to herself. Anyone could be hiding close by or far away.
Lucy suppressed another shiver.
Turning in a slow circle, she scanned the graves and headstones, the sepulchres and statues, the trees and shadows and mist. A taste of fear crept into her throat, and she tried to choke it down.
Cautiously, she turned back to the gates.
Taking one in each hand, she eased them open the rest of the way. Cracks had widened along the foundation, and leaves had sifted in over the broken, weathered stones of the floor.
Holding her breath, Lucy walked into the crypt.
She saw the muddy footprints and tufts of clotted hair; the dark, reddish-brown stains smeared along the walls . . .
But she didn’t see the figure behind her.
Not till she turned and screamed and stumbled from his arms, trying wildly to fight her way free.
And then she stared up, shocked, into eyes as black and deep as midnight.
“Oh my God,” she choked. “Who are you?”
The dark-haired young man gazed coolly back at her.
“Byron’s brother,” he answered. “Who the hell are you?”
TURN THE PAGE FOR A SNEAK PEEK AT THE NEXT CHILLING INSTALLMENT
The Umseen part 3 blood brothers
Prologue
He’d had to think quickly.
After this last kill he’d been so gorged, so utterly exhausted from frenzy and frustration, he’d been unable to return to his bed. He’d been forced to seek out another hiding place . . . and then he’d crept inside and he’d slept.
Slept far past his normal hour of waking . . .
Slept right through the day . . . into the night . . .
Slept the fathomless sleep of the dead.
He’d never seen the attack coming.
Never awakened fully, even, until the first hot spurt of blood, the first scream of ripping flesh, the whole world exploding in a thick, wet fountain of scarlet and black.
He had no idea which of them had struck the first blow. Or when instinct had taken ahold of him, every primal sense honed for survival, no matter what the pain, no matter what the cost . . .
He did not remember which had been the last to fall . . .
He was only and finally aware of the silence and the peace. The wind upon his face, the snow upon his lips. He was thirsty, yet could not seem to drink. He needed warmth and shelter, yet could not seem to move.
He was in desperate agony, yet could not help himself.
And so he lay there, stunned and weakened, too sick to lick his wounds. Until at last, and like a dream, the sound of quiet footsteps had floated through his mind . . .
He heard them from a distance, moving closer and closer, phantom footsteps of no real concern, no imminent danger. But as he struggled to comprehend them, he realized these footsteps were no dream at all.
They were real, and they were human.
They were coming toward the burial place, dangerously close to where he rested.
And so he’d had to think quickly.
Think quickly and act with haste.
Transform to a
shadow? Mist? A guise of the living, a memory of the dead?
Or, in one swift, smooth motion, ready himself to strike again?
But then he paused, consumed by an ache so deep, he had not even realized he moaned.
For now he saw this was no enemy.
Now he realized this was Lucy—his Lucy—approaching him unaware and unsuspecting, steeped in grief and sorrow as he had always known her.
And yet . . . different somehow.
Unsettlingly different, somehow.
He could feel it, as sharply as he could feel the rats cowering around him, their ears twitching in fear, their glowing eyes averted from his own, their teeth stained red from the remnants of his meal and the raw meat of his wound. And he could smell it, too—as surely as he smelled the slow and steady creeping of decay, the lingering despair of so many wasted lives rotting in the graves around him.
No, Lucy was not quite the same as before.
Something had changed since he’d last laid eyes upon her.
Despite her confusion, there was now resolve.
And amid her fear and helplessness burned a new strength—small yet, to be sure, but solid with determination.
How interesting, he thought . . . and how curious.
And also how very delightful. So delightful, it made him smile, despite his anguish.
He couldn’t help wondering what had happened—one incident? or many?—to touch her at such a profound level in so short a time.
But no matter.
This newfound strength of Lucy’s would only serve to make the Game more interesting. More challenging. More worth the winning.
So he’d narrowed his eyes and waited.
Waited until her footsteps were practically upon him.
Until, in one more second, Lucy would be at the gates of the mausoleum, peering into the shadows of the tomb, stepping across that crumbling threshold between life and death.
Could he take her? As this desperate need for her surged through every vein, filling him with brief and savage power?
Yes . . . yes! Take her now!
But he did not.
He thought quickly instead.
And felt that explosive rush of skin and muscles shifting, features rearranging, as quick as a heartbeat, as natural as breath.
Rest In Peace Page 15