by Skye Knizley
Table of Contents
Other Novels by Skye Knizley
Author’s Note:
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
EPILOGUE
Acknowledgements:
Cadence Phoenix. A girl with a rose tattoo, a body full of scars and an old guitar she plays like an angel. Two years ago she woke up in the trunk of a car with no memory, no clothes and no identification. She’s on the run, but she doesn’t know why. All she knows is everyone she gets close to, everyone that tries to help her, ends up dead. Someone doesn’t want her to remember and will kill to keep their secret.
But who is it, and why?
CJ doesn’t know. But she’s going to find out.
The right of Skye Knizley to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him/her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it was published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Interior Design by: PrettyAF Designs
Editing: CJP Services
Wayward Copyright© 2017 Skye Knizley
Cadence Phoenix is a trademark of Skye Knizley
All Rights Reserved
Released through Lonely Highway Publishing, LLC
Other Novels by Skye Knizley
The Storm Chronicles™ Series
Fresh Blood
Blood Highway
Requiem
Winter Cove
Cry, Havoc - Beautiful Nightmares Anthology
Mackenzie Stone
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Author’s Note:
Present day refers to the summer of 1989.
PROLOGUE
The Summer of 1989
There is a scent, an aroma that everyone who has ever worked a stage knows. A mixture of blood, sweat, fear, greasy food and cheap booze that heralds every performance in every dive around the world. Cadence stood behind the curtain and lit the cigarette dangling from her pink-tinted lips with the flame from an ancient Zippo. She stared at the flame, watching how the light reflected off the dull scratches in the lighter’s surface before snapping it shut and sliding it into the back pocket of a pair of jeans with so many holes and frays they looked as old as the lighter. The lighter was a gift. The jeans were brand new.
She inhaled the acrid smoke and blew it out through her nose, letting it curl around the curtain in front of her. It rose along the moth-eaten fabric, filling holes and flittering along tears to vanish into the rafters. Cadence could hear the crowd on the other side, a steady thrum of voices and clinking glasses all muffled by the thick fabric and the sound-proofing at the edge of the stage. She listened for a moment then pulled her pink and blonde hair behind her ears and glanced at the stage manager. He was an older man with a gut barely contained by his silk shirt and enough chest hair for six people. The stains on his shirt, chains around his neck and white patent shoes oozed sleaze and she was glad this was her last night in town. One more leer and she thought she might gouge his eyes out.
She turned away and let her fingers slide over the neck of her guitar in a whisper of strings. It was a white Fender-style, covered in paint spatters and scratches. It was as much a friend as an instrument, and she could play it without thinking, guided by the music in her head. With a breath, she launched into Johnny B. Goode and the curtain began to rise. The crowd exploded with cheers she barely heard as she played, cigarette smoke drooling from her lips. The bass and drums joined in a few beats later and the lights came up, almost blinding her.
Cadence tossed her cigarette to the floor and began to sing, her soft contralto echoing through the sound system, which sounded better than a dive bar should. As she sang, she looked at the audience for the first time. They were a typical mix of men in leathers and denim, women in clothes that looked like they’d been painted on and staff wearing the best the Harley catalog had to offer. It was the kind of bar that welcomed outlaws, outsiders, gear-jammers and the weekend warriors that emulated them.
The song ended with a flourish and Cadence smiled at the crowd. “Thank you for coming out tonight. My name is CJ, these guys are Cryptic Rose, grab a beer and enjoy the show.”
She turned away from the crowd and counted off with the drummer, launching the next song, a tune by Guns N’ Roses. Cadence’s fingers danced along the frets and she lost herself in the music, her hair flying around her head as she played. Between songs, she tucked the blonde and pink tresses behind her ears and sipped from a bottle of water before going into the next song. She’d found she was more comfortable when she just performed and didn’t try to talk with the crowd much. Not because she didn’t like them, she did, but because of what else might happen.
An hour later, with the echoes of the last song still in her ears, Cadence stepped off the stage, guitar in hand. The stage manager was waiting with a half-glass of Scotch and an envelope. Cadence drank down the liquor in a long swallow that burned her throat and warmed her belly, then set the glass aside. When she reached for the envelope, the manager pulled it away.
“Are you sure you won’t stay another night? You’re the most popular act I’ve had in years!”
Cadence shook her head. “It’s time for me to move on. I’ll just take my pay and go, if it’s all the same to you.”
The manager shrugged and handed over the envelope. “Your choice, kid, I know better than to push you. One thousand in small bills, just like you asked.”
Cadence accepted the envelope with one hand. “Thanks.”
She turned to the band members behind her. They were taking down their equipment for the night and stashing it in old cases and crates that looked like they had been through their own personal war.
“Thanks, guys. I appreciate you letting me sit in with you, you’ve been awesome.”
She offered them both a wad of bills from the envelope. Druid, the drummer, at least for now, took the bills and stuck them in his jeans pocket without a word. Lacey, the bass player, looked at the bills and frowned. “Why don’t you stay here? You have a killer voice and the audience loves you. Join the band, we clean up nice and would follow your lead, whatever tunes you want.”
Cadence smiled. “I would love to stay, Lacey, but I can’t. It’s time to move on.”
Lacey nodded. “Then keep the money, kid. You need it more than I do.”
“I pay my debts, Lacey,” Cadence said.
Lacey turned away. “I know. Consider it paid, and call me if you change your mind, okay?”
“Thank you, Lacey. Really.”
Cadence wanted to hug her; Lacey was the first friend she’d had in a
long time. But she didn’t dare, she already felt like they were getting close, and she wouldn’t endanger her friend. She slipped her guitar’s bag over her shoulder and exited through the stage door. The parking lot was almost empty, the crowd had wasted no time disbursing after the show. There were a few bikers sharing what smelled like marijuana around a Harley out front, and that was all.
She was only partway across the dirt lot when she paused. The world felt different, there was a subtle scent to the air, a change in the temperature, that made the hair stand on the back of her neck. She scanned the darkness but there was nothing, just the wind, the rustle of leaves in the nearby field and the distant grumble of hunting coyotes. She shook off the crawly feeling in her spine and continued to the moonlit spot where she’d parked her pale blue classic Mustang. She stashed her guitar in the trunk on top of a pile of duffel bags and clothes and took another look at the lot, still feeling unnerved. The men by the Harley hadn’t moved and the street was empty.
She slammed the lid and climbed behind the wheel, hissing at the cold vinyl seat through the holes in her jeans. The engine caught on the second try and she pulled out of the lot in a spray of gravel and sand. The two-lane blacktop ahead was old and shimmered in the pale light of the full moon overhead. Soon, she was lost in its wonder, going to wherever it would take her as long as it was somewhere she had never been before. It was the only way to stay safe.
***
It was three in the morning before Cadence stopped at the Blackberry Motel, a rickety-looking place that sat just over the border in Blackberry, Nevada. It had probably been quite a nice place once, back when this was a main highway, but now it was just a dirty relic with a few rooms to rent to anyone desperate or strange enough to use the back roads. It sat like a rotting corpse at the side of the old two-lane, attracting road people like flies to carrion.
There was only one other car in the dirt lot and she studied it for several moments. It was an older black Lincoln Continental, the kind with suicide doors. There was no sign of the driver and the windows were coated with a thin film of dew; it had been there a while.
Cadence parked her Mustang near the office and climbed out of the car. The night was cold enough to crystallize her breath and she shrugged into the battered leather jacket that Phoenix had given her last winter. He’d known of her love for vintage things and had picked it up at a thrift shop. Cadence instantly fell in love with the WWII-era styling and had covered the back with WWII unit patches. One in particular, for a unit called Suicide Queens, held a special place in her heart. Even if she had no idea why. She liked the pin-up girl and playing card styling.
She turned the jacket’s collar up against the wind and looked at the motel. It wasn’t much, a block of six connected rooms with doors that opened onto a narrow concrete walkway. An ice machine rattled and clanked to itself at the far end next to a soda machine so old it still held glass bottles. The motel, which had once been happy and brightly lit, was now dingy and hidden in the gloom. But the office was lit and the Vacancy sign buzzed, so Cadence pushed through the glass doors and into a lobby that smelled of mold and disuse. An older woman in a rose-print nightgown was sitting behind the desk, her chin on her chest. A thirteen-inch television playing static sat on the counter nearby. Behind her was a row of microwaveable food, along with snacks and toiletries so old their packaging was beginning to yellow and crack.
Cadence stepped up to the counter and rang the bell. One of the woman’s rheumy eyes cracked open and focused on her.
“Yes?”
Her voice sounded as if it came from the bottom of a twelve pack a day habit.
“How much for a room?” Cadence asked.
“Twenty. Twenty-five if you want television. Sign’s wrong, it ain’t free no more,” the woman replied.
Cadence counted out thirty and placed it on the counter. “One with a television, please, and can I have one of the microwave cheeseburgers?”
The woman stood and plucked a key from beneath the desk. “How old are you, girl?”
“How old are you?” Cadence asked.
“Old enough to know you shouldn’t be out here alone. You got folks?”
CJ shook her head. “I’m older than I look, thank you for asking.”
The woman eyed her again but handed over the key and one of the cheeseburgers. She then counted out two singles from the battered old register. “Them things will kill you. Coffee shop down the road a piece opens at dawn, you should get some real food in you.”
Cadence took both and looked at the key. Room four.
“Thanks. Is there a microwave in the room?” She asked.
“Nope. Just the one on the counter behind you. Paper plates is free.”
Cadence turned and spotted the small microwave on a low table between two threadbare armchairs. She popped the cheeseburger in and set the small unit’s dial to the prescribed three minutes. As she did, headlights reflected off the glass and another car pulled into the lot. It was a new BMW with tinted windows so dark the car looked like it was full of smoke. It parked beside her Mustang and the driver got out. He was a lean man, in his mid-thirties wearing a dark suit and a dark coat that almost reached the dirt. He looked at the Mustang with more than a little interest and lit the cigarette dangling from his lips before turning toward the office.
As soon as she saw him, Cadence felt danger. This man, or someone he was with, intended her harm, her danger sense was never wrong.
When the gentleman entered from the far side, she opened the second set of doors and hurried down the sidewalk. From behind, she heard the clerk call, “hey, what about your burger?”
Cadence reached room four and slipped her key into the rusted knob. It turned with effort and opened into a small room with a single queen bed, a color television that was new in the 1960’s and a narrow closet.
She entered and slammed the door behind her, then shot the bolt and privacy chain. Beside the door was a wide window that didn’t look as if it had been opened in years, and the room’s air-conditioner unit. It was cool enough she didn’t bother with the air-con, she instead checked the closet for whatever might be lurking in the dark. A handful of clothes hangers and a lock-box were all that were hiding in the shadows.
She tossed her jacket on the bed and crossed to the small bathroom, which was old and worn but cleaner than most chain motels. It even had a window above the toilet, a feature more modern motels neglected to add. A paper-wrapped soap sat in the dish beside the cracked sink, another was inside the bath along with a matched set of shampoo and conditioner. She unwrapped one of the plastic cups ‘left for her convenience’ and filled it with water from the tap. It had a faint chlorine taste, but not enough to keep her from drinking it down and filling another that she carried back into the room and set beside the bed. She then lay down and stared at the water-stained ceiling. Outside, she could hear footsteps, getting closer. It sounded like a man’s loafers on concrete. They passed her room without pause and she heard the door to the room beside hers open and close, then the sound of water running.
With a sigh of relief, she kicked off her sneakers and pulled the blanket over her. She was almost asleep when someone pounded on her door, jerking her awake. She slipped off the bed and looked out the window to see it was the elderly clerk, holding a paper plate. Cadence opened the door and the woman smiled, not unkindly.
“Can’t have you going hungry, you forgot your burger.”
Cadence took the offered plate gratefully. “Thank you, really. Thank you.”
The woman nodded and started away, then turned back. “Do you know the man who checked in after you?”
“No.”
“You sure? You seemed spooked when you saw him, like he was the devil incarnate or something. Are you in trouble?” The clerk asked.
Cadence forced a smile. “I’m fine, thank you for the
cheeseburger. Goodnight.”
She closed the door on the clerk’s worried face and climbed back into the bed. The cheeseburger tasted like warm Styrofoam but it chased away the hunger and left her feeling exhausted. When she was finished, she set the plate aside and curled up beneath the blankets. Moments later she fell into a restless, fitful sleep.
CHAPTER ONE
An Abandoned Vehicle, Fall 1987
The girl awoke with a scream in her throat, a scream that echoed through the tiny chamber and threatened to deafen her. When the scream died, she squirmed in the confined space, trying to get her bearings. Her wrists were tied in front of her and it felt like she was lying on corrugated metal. She could smell gasoline, an almost overpowering scent, and it was stifling hot. She was also as nude as the day she’d been born. She couldn’t see, her eyes were crusted shut, but she could feel, and she knew what nude felt like.
Oh, Goddess, where am I? She thought.
She tried to sit up and hit her head on the roof hard enough stars bounced behind her eyes. She sank back and moaned, feeling terror rising in her belly. When the pain subsided, she used her forearm to clean the crust from her eyes. When she opened them, she could see there was a little light coming from cracks along the roof edge, just above her head. Her arms and small breasts were covered in dried blood and the crust she’d felt on her face was more from a wound on her forehead; it flaked off every time she moved. The fear and panic she was fighting threatened to overwhelm her and a sob slipped through her lips. She sank back and grit her teeth, fighting down her fear. Losing her mind wasn’t going to get her out of this, it would just make her die faster. She took several deep, cleansing breaths through her mouth and forced herself to calm down.