Trina pointed upstairs. “I think Nan's gonna kill her.”
He took the stairs two at a time. Only one heart beat as he neared the room. He didn't stop when he reached the door. He kicked it in. Blood and sweat scented the air. An old woman wielded a whip over her head, the metallic barbs punctuating each leather thread glimmered in the light. Her heart throbbed fast and hard. Her face contorted with rage.
The focus of her ire was a young girl, close in age to those downstairs, bound at the wrists with a rope suspended from the ceiling. She didn't move, her legs dangled, her arms bore her entire weight. Shredded and bloody, her nightgown stuck to the oozing welts crisscrossing her back.
The scene dragged him back to another time. One he didn't want to remember. Was this who he needed to rescue? Were the Watchers giving him a chance to right the wrong he'd done so many centuries ago? Shaking himself out of his stupor, he edged closer to the small human. Compared to the old woman's, her heart whispered its rhythm, but the beat remained steady.
“Get out!” The old woman wiped the sweat from her eyes before swinging her weapon in a wide arc, her fat arm jiggling. Her heart thrummed loud, competing with her shriek. “Get out of my house!”
He wanted nothing more than to wrap his fingers around her neck, to choke the life out of her. He wanted to beat her the same way she'd beaten the girl and more, until she never got up. He wanted justice for this girl and justice for the girl in his past.
He couldn't do any of those things. The Council forbade Guardians from killing humans. Despite what the Watchers wanted, the Council would deem the old woman an innocent since her actions didn't affect their kind. The laws demanded they keep their interference with humans to a minimum. . . . Then again, her heart was working too hard. Skipping a beat here and there. He flipped off the lights, closed the door and rounded on the woman, knowing his eyes glowed.
“You.” She gasped, breathless. “I know what you are.” She swung the whip, missing him in the darkness.
He advanced.
“I knew you'd come. I had a vision.” This time the threads burned over his cheek. “I curse your black heart.”
“I'm already damned.” He didn't bother to brush aside the leather threads as they struck his face.
Her heart pounded faster. Harder. “She deserved punishment.” Her free hand rubbed over her breastbone.
He glanced at the girl. No child deserve such a beating. They said the other girl, Lilith, had deserved her fate. He'd failed to protect her and his fuck-up resulted in his cursed existence. Turning back to the woman, he cocked his head to one side. He wouldn't fail this time.
“You want her.” Her swings were growing weaker, erratic.
“She's a child.” His tone dismissed her statement.
“Still, someday. . . .” She paused, breathing hard. “I've seen her future. Yours, too.” She clutched at her arm. “It's an abomination, what will come, and I curse you. Before you get what you truly want, I curse you to destruction.” She ended on an asthmatic wheeze, swaying on her feet.
He edged closer with slow, measured steps.
The old hag stopped speaking.
He grabbed her wrist, lifting her arm so the whip hovered between them.
Her heart raced. Harder, it beat.
He pried the whip from her knotted fingers.
Faster it beat.
He lifted the whip and her eyes grew wide.
Harder it beat.
She shook her head, gasping, trying to tell him no.
He nodded. Stepped forward until her back rammed up against the wall.
Faster. Harder.
The old woman clutched her chest, eyes bulging. Grasping a fistful of his shirt, she tried to steady herself, seeking support from the daemon she loathed. Her knotted fingers clawed her skin and a malodor filled the room as she lost control of her bodily functions.
James closed his eyes, taking solace in the delicate whisper of her heart tearing. Her body slid to the floor as her grip slackened. Her heart beat a couple more times, and fell silent as the chambers emptied. A ragged, fathomless sigh escaped and the light left her eyes.
He dropped the whip in the old woman's lap, slipped his blade from his thigh-sheath and returned to the injured girl. She seemed terribly pale and still. He lifted her with one arm and cut the rope.
The sweet scent of lavender, mixed with the metallic smell of her blood, hung heavy around him. Sitting with her in his lap, trying not to cause her any more discomfort, he cut the bindings and put away the blade. If he hadn't fought the Watchers, he would have arrived sooner. He might have prevented this.
She was a cute kid. Dark hair framed her pale oval face. Freckles dotted her nose and cheeks.
Someday . . .
He glared at the old woman. She didn't know anything. Her rant had been nothing more than a feeble attempt to scare him. Bullshit, all of it.
The girl's brow furrowed and she snuggled closer. Hell, she didn't need to wake here with that woman's body only feet away. He stood, cradling her in his arms, and strode out of the room. A sea of young faces watched from their various hiding places, but the Latina girl, Trina, waited alone at the base of the stairs.
She gave his charge a worried glance. “She okay?”
“She'll live. Where's her bed?”
“Downstairs. I'll show you.” She waited for him to descend and led him through a dirty kitchen, and down into the basement. The dank walls lay barren, with no windows or decoration. Light came from dim fluorescent bulbs. Thirteen drab, uncomfortable-looking cots decorated the room. He figured the house for a foster home but the decor suited convicts more than children.
Trina stopped at the head of a cot. “This one is Lilith's.”
He nearly tripped over his own feet. She had the same name as the girl he'd failed to protect? He shouldn't be surprised—déjà vu had assailed him as soon as he'd walked in on the scene upstairs. Did this Lilith have the same haunting eyes as the other?
Laying her on the cot, he kept her on her side, getting her into what looked like a comfortable position. Was this it, then? Now that he'd saved her, had his penance been paid? Would he become human again and earn his reward? Hell, he didn't feel any different. He rose to leave.
Lilith's hand shot out, gripping the collar of his shirt. She tugged until he sat on the floor, his face level with hers. Yes. She possessed those same ancient eyes, much too old for her age. Her gaze held him captive. Why had the Watchers concerned themselves with this small human's fate? Why had their lives crossed paths twice during his long existence?
Worry creased her brow. “You're hurt.” Her voice sounded hoarse, she must have screamed for some time. She reached out and touched his cheek, the tips of her fingers butterfly-soft under his left eye.
No one ever dared to touch him.
Trina scooted around to look. “I got this stuff once, Nan didn't know, and it was like black and gooey and sticky, and I squeezed the goo in my hands, then I clapped hard like this”—she showed him a big clap—”and the stuff went everywhere, and the goo looked like that.” She paused to point to his face and take a much needed breath. “And—”
He covered her mouth with his hand. How could someone so small say so much about nothing? The whip must have left a gash on his face—one that must look black as void, instead of red with blood since he hadn't fed in a while. “Enough.” He frowned. “I'm fine.”
Trina leaned over and whispered into Lilith's ear, “I think the ground shakes when he talks.”
Lilith nodded, the movement causing her to grimace. Her pain-filled gaze met his. “Are you a giant?”
He shook his head.
“You saved me. Are you an angel, then?”
“Farthest thing from it.” He didn't want anyone's praise. Didn't need it. What he wanted was his humanity. His reward. “I was late.” Too late. That must be why he wasn't changing.
“I think you got here right on time.” Tears welled in Lilith's eyes, her smile a tad wo
bbly.
Trina plopped down on the cot, grinning outright.
What now? Why weren't they terror-stricken like the small humans hiding upstairs. . . . Jesus, she was human. And he'd treated her like a wounded daemon. She needed a goddamn doctor, not bed rest. “We need to get you to a hospital.”
Lilith shook her head.
Nobody told him no. He gave Trina his full attention. “Call nine-one—” He stopped speaking when she, too, shook her head. He didn't have patience for such impertinence. “Why not?”
Trina shrugged. “I don't want to get in trouble with Nan.”
Nan? She must mean the old woman upstairs. With a finger under her chin, he forced Trina to meet his glare. “Would you rather get in trouble with me?”
They both nodded, appearing unperturbed by the threat of his wrath.
Refusing to be humbled, he tried using the truth to scare them. “She can't hurt you. I killed her.” He should've kept his goddamn mouth shut. Now, they both watched him with wonder in their eyes.
James scrubbed his hand across his head. Men feared him. Daemons cowered in his presence. But these two insignificant human girls acted as if he were no bigger threat than a goddamned puppy. “Shouldn't you be scared? I thought little girls feared monsters.”
They shared a confused glance, but it was Lilith who spoke. “You said you killed her.”
Chapter 3
Present day.
Everyone carried emotional baggage around—regrets and karmic debt accumulated through life. Lilith Caldwell's baggage just happened to manifest into an entity—a gossamer vision of a sickly little girl who had made its first appearance during a hospital stay when Lilith was ten and recovering from a brutal whipping. She'd named it Aimee, hoping to make friends. There was nothing sweet and innocent about the entity, though. She discovered quickly enough that Aimee could change from little girl to hideous monster in the blink of an eye. Never again did she make the mistake of thinking it friendly or benevolent.
Lilith's gut tightened into a sickening knot as she guided her car down the main drag of Carnation, Washington. The pentacle she'd hung from the rearview mirror swayed softly. She kept to the twenty-five mile an hour speed limit and still drove from the cemetery at one end of downtown to the high school on the other in under a minute.
She'd avoided this place for close to twenty years. Everyone here knew her. Pitied her. She'd gone from the girl who'd lost her mother to the girl who'd seen her grandmother killed, to the girl who'd been beaten, to the girl who saw imaginary things.
Little had changed since her childhood: The modernized buildings housed the same old shops; street signs and storefronts still argued over the true name of the town—some read Tolt, others Carnation.
The future lies in the past.
Gods, she sure as hell hoped so, because with each mile closer to home, Aimee seemed to become more corporal, as if returning to the place she'd originally manifested gave her more power. She’d swear she had heard Aimee breathing. Lilith reached over and turned down the heat, trying to determine if she'd imagined the sounds. There. Faint, wheezy breaths. She grasped the steering wheel tighter as she stopped at a light, cutting her eyes to the side. In her peripheral vision, the entity stood on the backseat, staring out the window. Aimee seemed . . . solid. Little clouds fogged the window with each rattling breath.
A shiver danced over Lilith's skin.
Making the hour drive back to the airport and catching the next plane out might be a good idea. Didn't matter much where she went—as long as she got away from here. As long as Aimee returned to her vaporous form.
No. The note said: The future lies in the past. Go home. It is time.
And she wanted a future.
She'd received handwritten notes at every stop on her itinerary. Her job, procuring products for the Grigori coven's webstore, sent her on an almost constant loop around the globe.
She’d ignored the first note when it arrived: “Your future lies in your past.”
The second one, too: “The truth lies in the past.”
But the notes kept coming with just those two messages. For months. The unsigned messages waited for her at the front desks of the hostel in Brazil, the hotel in Hong Kong, the Bed and Breakfast in Kuwait and the hotel in Mombasa. No one knew her itinerary, not even the coven of witches she purchased goods for. Still the notes found her, arriving before she had. When the last one she received came, telling her to go home, she'd had the first stirrings of hope that if she did as the note instructed she might find what she'd lost so many years ago. She might regain her Magic.
She had no idea who sent the cryptic notes. Someone must have followed her in the past, stalked her to know where she went next. And perhaps the author of those notes wasn't some benevolent godmother come to make her world better. They might have known Aimee would become corporal. Maybe this wasn't a chance at a fresh start, but the beginning of the end. Her end. She dropped her head to the steering wheel. “I don't know why I'm here.”
Behind her, someone honked.
She jerked upright and stepped on the gas, giving the driver an apologetic wave. Desperation, that's why she'd come home.
She'd lived in a nightmare for nearly twenty years. Not some nameless, faceless imagining, but a terror shadowing her every waking step. As time wore on, she'd learned the new rules of her life with Aimee and abided by them. She'd isolated herself to protect everyone else. She'd learned to turn inward to find peace, to find any happiness. And somehow, she managed to keep others from thinking her insane. Somehow, she’d managed to move through each day one dogged step at a time. Never looking back; never bothering to look forward.
Now, she had hope. Like a glutton at Thanksgiving, she'd begun stuffing herself with impossible dreams. Dreams of Aimee fading away. Dreams of being whole again and having her Magic restored. And, gods help her, hope could be a terrible thing.
She turned off the main road and headed down the last stretch to her past.
Aimee moved across the backseat, the cushion making popping sounds as her nails punctured the cloth. Her asthmatic breathing drew closer. Louder.
Lilith shook her head. No, the noises must be her imagination run awry.
The entity leaned forward over the passenger seat, and on the next breath Lilith inhaled a rotten, decaying odor. Something fell on her shirt. She glanced down in time to see a chunk of graying flesh turn to ash on her shirt. With a shout, she brushed the ash away, pressing harder on the accelerator.
Aimee started trying to crawl into the front seat, her skin sloughing off in strips with every movement, leaving raw flesh behind. What little hair the toddler-sized entity still had stuck up in haphazard clumps. Her face had changed, too, looking closer to a snubbed-nosed reptile than a child.
“L-Li—” Saliva dripped from Aimee’s sharpened baby teeth as she tried to speak her first word.
Lilith's heart pounded, trying to bash its way right out of her chest. She tightened her hold on the wheel with icy fingers and blinked to clear the tears from her vision.
This is what you get, child. This is what happens when you overreach. Nan's voice echoed in her mind.
“Li—”
Okay, all I need is a plan. A plan. A plan is all I need. The mantra ended in a Lennon-like tune and she had a sudden, overwhelming need to giggle. She must have lost her ever-loving mind. Maybe if she left town, Aimee would stop manifesting. Aimee could go back to haunting her and she could return to the life she knew. Except that life wasn't much of a life at all.
The road ended up ahead. The overgrown path to her childhood home came into sight and for the first time in her life, Haven House seemed a safe haven. Now that she'd arrived at the one place she'd avoided for most her life, she discovered she wanted to go inside. She pressed harder on the accelerator.
Aimee reached out and touched Lilith—her skinless flesh wet and sticky on her cheek. Lilith shuddered.
They hit the overgrown, dirt path at fifty miles an hour
and Aimee bounced away. Lilith struggled to control the car over the dips and hills of a road that hadn't been used in decades. Branches from overgrown trees raked down the side panels of the car, screeching in protest.
Finally, the weathered sign came into view: Haven House: A Home for Lost Souls
Aimee regained her footing and lunged into the front seat. For a heartbeat, she did nothing more than cling to the dash with her claws and stare out the windshield as the house came into view. Then, quite distinctly for a being who'd never spoken before today, she said, “No.”
Lilith floored the gas pedal.
This time, Aimee held fast, bracing her small, mis-shaped legs on the seat. Her attention shifted and she launched herself at Lilith, making her lose her grip on the steering wheel. Claws sank into her arms. A fresh burst of adrenaline raged through her. She slammed on the brakes as the car started to spin, grabbing for the steering wheel and beating Aimee back with her purse. The entity hissed and tried to wrench the makeshift weapon from her hands, then she disappeared amid the sounds of twisting metal and shattering glass.
Something hit Lilith across her face and chest with enough force to stun her. For a heartbeat, she sat there, trying to get her bearings. Her face stung. Her arms hurt. White dust coated the air, her clothes. The airbag hung lifeless from the steering wheel.
Aimee screeched and writhed from where she'd gotten trapped half-in, half-out of the windshield. Blood surrounded the hole, soaking into the spider web of shattered glass.
Lilith fumbled with her seatbelt, her hands shaking so hard it took several tries before she unclasped the belt. She needed to get into the house.
The cracks on the glass spread wider, deeper, as Aimee struggled to free herself.
Lilith grabbed her purse, let herself out of the car, took one step on unsteady legs and tumbled to the ground. Get up, get up. Run. The crackle of glass grew louder. The whole vehicle swayed. Lilith took off for the front door, feeling around in her bag for the keys to the place as she went. Glass shattered. She looked back, caught sight of Aimee, and tripped on the steps leading to the porch.
The Beacon (The Original's Trilogy Book 1) Page 2