CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Don't Miss...
Acknowledgements
WOMBSTONE
A Vampireland novel by
JESSICA ROSCOE
Copyright © 2013 by Jessica Roscoe
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including emailing, photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance it bears to reality is entirely coincidental.
Produced by Jessica Roscoe at Indiana Ink Publishing
www.JessicaRoscoe.net
Wake up.
Those were the first words I ever heard.
I opened my eyes. Naked save for a bloodied white sheet, my tender skin covered in sticky red blood. My broken body somehow, impossibly, repairing itself.
“Get up and take a shower.”
I did.
“Be grateful,” he said later. “I saved you.”
I hated him for it.
ONE
This is not a story about love. There is no happy ending. There is only darkness, and the struggle to avoid being consumed by it. This is a story about survival.
I don’t really know where to start, but there must be a place. A place before the world went dark, before I learned of the horror that existed on this earth. Back when I was just a girl – though that seems so long ago, I sometimes wonder if it was just a dream.
I could start at the beginning, but where is the beginning? Was it the night I was taken? Or the balmy summer I spent falling in love, the last summer that I walked under the sun without it burning my flesh?
Maybe I should start with the night innocence came to a crashing halt. The night I was taken. Yes, I will begin my story there, in a frozen parking lot with a silent scream.
I was seventeen years old the first time I died. When I was first taken, I thought that that was it for me. I waited to die, to be torn apart by sharp teeth and vicious hands.
And I did die.
I just didn’t expect to wake up afterwards.
It was the final week of first semester in our senior year. I had just finished a mammoth session filling out college applications with my best friend, Evie. I remember little details – the way the last few falling blossoms from the Northern Red Oaks on campus looked like drops of fire on the early December snow; the way my fragile human heart hummed with excitement that school was almost over; the way everything looked clean and new blanketed in snow. Most of all, I remember the stab of worry I had felt at taking the shortcut through the deserted football field to get home.
Blair Academy was smack in the middle of Blairstown, New Jersey. A hundred and fifty–something–year–old institution that sprawled luxuriously over four hundred manicured acres. It was preppy and expensive, and I was there because my father had attended school there, and his father before him. My father was dead. My mother was a high–powered corporate attorney who spent most of her time in her New York loft apartment with my stepfather, Warren. She had never really wanted children, and thought she couldn’t have any. She had lucked out with me – although she probably didn’t see it that way – and so I had never really had much to do with her. My father was everything to me. My mom moved to New York a few months after he died. She was meant to come home every weekend after her long week at work. She never did. I didn’t really mind. I didn’t resent her for not being my mother – I had never known or expected anything more from her, and I knew she loved me despite her maternal shortcomings. After Dad died I usually split my time between living on campus during the school week and spending weekends at our house, a few miles from school.
What I loved to do more than anything else was run. I was on the track team and when I was in the middle of a run, it was like I could fly. The college scouts had been at our annual running meet, and I had just filled out my application to a handful of elite track programs.
My best friend Evie was as poor as I was wealthy. She was on a full scholarship right through high school, and she was smart. She whipped my ass in most things academic. I had always been bright, but next to her I – and the rest of the general high school population – looked like a bunch of dumbasses. Needless to say, having a best friend who was a genius made study much easier. The girl had a natural talent for teaching and mentoring. Her parents weren’t dirt poor, but they struggled, and to have Evie at a school like Blair Academy made them so happy. Really, they were like my adopted family. People always asked if we were sisters, I don’t know why. We were both short and sarcastic but she was strawberry blonde to my brunette, curly to my straight and had green eyes that were nothing like my blue ones. I had skin that turned brown after a day in the sun, where she had pale alabaster skin that practically glowed.
“You okay to get back to your room?” Evie asked, jerking me out of my idle thoughts.
I stopped as I realized we were standing at Evie’s car. She shook her set of keys and looking at me expectantly.
“I’m not going to my room,” I replied.
“Going to suck face with Jared?”
“You make it sound so endearing, Evangeline,” I said petulantly. “And yes, I am going to see Jared. I will most likely suck his face at some point tonight.”
“Gross,” Evie said. “He’s like my brother. I’ve known him forever.”
“So have I,” I reminded her. “And I sure am glad he’s not my brother.” I raised my eyebrows suggestively and laughed.
Evie made a face. “Get out of here before I throw up on you.”
I exchanged goodbyes with Evie and made a beeline for my own car. Teachers and day students got to park right at the entrance of Blair but most live–in students had to trek almost a mile to the regular boarding school parking slots. Sighing, I hoisted my bag higher on my shoulder and walked past a Crown Victoria, a Bentley and a Fiat before reaching the average–looking old clunkers in the student parking lot.
As soon as my feet touched the snow–covered oval, all thoughts of trigonometry and English lit dissolved. A jolt of adrenaline hit my stomach as I thought about finals, about Jared, about my eighteenth birthday in a few months. Everything was going so good.
Trudging through the silence, I began mentally making lists for an end–of–finals party at my perpetually parent–free house. Keg. Food. Decorations. New clothes. So, naturally, I wasn’t even looking where I was walking whe
n the man stepped out from behind a shiny black truck. He was so close I almost tripped over him. I jerked back to reality, cursing myself for being so inattentive.
He was wearing jeans and a black sweater, and looked kind of like a thirty–something Calvin Klein underwear model with dark blue eyes, a hint of European heritage in his olive skin – Italian, maybe? – and black hair cut tight to his skull. He was the furthest thing from threatening I’d ever seen – during the day in a crowd I’d let my eyes linger on that handsome face – but at midnight in New Jersey, anything was possible. I averted my eyes and veered to the left, quickening my pace. My thoughts instantly shifted from beer and clothes shopping to serial killers and the can of bear spray in my handbag.
Pulse quickening, I passed hot dude and kept walking towards my car. It’s cool, he’s probably just a new teacher in the wrong lot. And then he spoke.
“Mia!” He called after me. I froze for a moment, then began to walk again. Faster, pushing my strides longer. Just get to the car.
He laughed, a deep, throaty chuckle that sounded like caramel and in any other situation would make me melt. Instead, it made me shudder inwardly, adrenaline spiking into my muscles.
“Sorry, gotta run!” I mumbled awkwardly, almost at my car.
“Mia Blake, don’t you remember me?” He padded casually after me, the timid mouse. “Ryan. We were in Bailey's drama class together last semester.”
Bailey was a washed–up ballerina who liked to yell at her students. Of course I knew her, but I definitely didn’t know Ryan. He looked kind of old to be a student – not to mention, way too hot for me to forget.
I turned to face him, but kept walking backwards towards my car. The Honda Element sat less than twenty feet away.
“Oh, sure,” I lied. “Bailey sucks.”
Ten feet to my driver’s door. I’m probably just being stupid, I thought, an unfortunate side effect of growing up two hours from New York. We might have been in a nice suburb, but even so – nice people generally didn’t loiter in parking lots and teenage girls rarely walked to their cars alone. Blairstown was a place where everyone was still on alert after 9/11, even me, and I'd only been seven when the towers had fallen. Three girls had already gone missing from high school parking lots in New Jersey that year.
I am such an idiot. I should have gotten a ride with Evie.
Five feet. Walking backwards was harder than it looked, and my silver ballerina flats were getting ruined in the damp snow. Not that I cared about my stupid shoes.
“Well, gotta go.” I slid my key into the door of my car and unlocked it with a satisfying thunk.
“That's not a bad idea,” he said, stepping so close, so fast, that I jerked back in fright. I heard the click of a car door opening nearby, and two more guys started to walk towards us.
I pulled the can of bear spray out of my handbag, the safety switch already off. He grabbed my wrist faster than I could push the nozzle down to spray a load of mace into his face, and squeezed so hard I could feel bone crunching on itself. I gasped and let go of the can. It bounced on the asphalt and rolled underneath a blue Camry a couple of cars away from us.
“Somebody help me!” I yelled, kneeing him in the groin.
He barely reacted. That figures, I thought to myself. No balls.
“Let go of me!” I demanded. “Help!”
“Stop struggling and be quiet,” he said calmly, his grip like an iron vice on both my wrists. He smiled, showing straight white teeth and matching dimples.
I opened my mouth and screamed as loud as I could, then fell hard against the car behind me as a fist slammed into my face. I saw stars and choked, warm blood dribbling from my nose.
Great, he probably broke my nose.
I looked up to see the taller of the two offsiders pointing a gun at my face. “No more noise,” he ordered in a thick South American accent.
With my eyes half shut, I gestured to my handbag. “Take it,” I said numbly, not feeling anything but utter shock at the turn of events in my otherwise normal night. “Here, take my grandmother’s ring. It’s worth at least -”
“Mia,” he cut in. “Honey, I don’t want your ring, or your Canal street knock–off.”
My heart dropped at what that could mean, and bile rushed up in my throat. Before I could swallow it back, I threw up all over his expensive–looking black loafers. I bet nobody had ever done that to him before.
“Goddamn it!” He swore, looking at the mess I had made. “Ford, get a towel or something.”
The shorter of the two guys – the one not pointing a gun at me – scurried towards a black van.
I stared in shock as he jogged back to us with a pink rag covered in oil, knelt down, and started wiping Ryan’s shoes.
“It's not a knock–off,” I protested.
Nobody said anything.
“My boyfriend is going to kick the shit out of you.” Even as the words were coming out of my mouth, I couldn’t believe what I was saying.
“Boss, we need to get going,” the one with the gun urged.
Ryan nodded, kicking ‘Ford’s’ hurried hands away from his feet. “Dose her!” he barked, and something sharp stabbed into my forearm. My mouth formed a horrified O as I saw the taller guy pressing the plunger down on a syringe that was already deep in my skin. He’d moved so fast, I hadn’t even had time to scream.
How did he do that so fast? “What -” I spluttered through a mouth full of cotton wool.
A thousand thoughts ran through my addled mind, but I couldn’t move. Couldn’t yell out. Couldn’t even close my stupid mouth. I was literally frozen.
They are going to rape me and kill me and I am going to die.
They are going to bury me in the woods under the snow and nobody will ever know what happened to me.
Or maybe they’ll keep me alive in an underground basement.
Or maybe they want my kidneys.
I am so screwed.
But one terrified thought rose above the rest.
I don’t want to die.
The stuff stung as it made its way into my bloodstream, but the pain was short–lived. I didn’t even have time to collect my gaping jaw from the pavement and close my mouth before blackness descended over my vision and I crumpled like a rag doll. Rough hands carried me through the night air, and I landed somewhere that smelled like oil and cigarettes.
The last thought I could form before the darkness closed in was I should have run when I had the chance.
TWO
Dampness. I smelled dampness, and the coppery scent of old blood.
My wrists ached. My arms burned, tied above me in an impossible knot, and I came to with a violent jerk when I realized I wasn’t waking up in my own bed. Opening my eyes, I found myself chained from a wooden rafter, crucifixion–style, in a tiny, dark room that had no windows and moss–stained limestone walls. My toes barely touched the cool ground. For a few seconds I struggled with the chains that dug deep into my wrists, but vertigo slammed into me at the slightest movement. Groaning involuntarily, I peered around the room that held me prisoner. The memories of the parking lot, of being grabbed, rushed at me all at once, and I shuddered.
My face throbbed where I’d been punched. My nose made a sickening scraping noise with every shaky inhalation. Silently, I began to cry, salt water blurring my vision. Things like this didn't happen to girls like me. But this was happening, and it seemed like every bit of good luck I'd ever had was coming back to bite me.
I couldn't get free from my bindings, so I tried to come up with a plan of escape ...
... and drew a blank. Every plan I could think of had the initial step of being untied. With no foreseeable hope, I started to panic, my silent tears turning into heaving sobs. The crying soothed me, calming my ragged spirit.
After a few minutes, my sobs slowed to a steady, silent weeping. Fear churned in my belly as my shocked brain tried to find a way out. I surveyed my dungeon in greater detail, able to swing around on my chain a littl
e to get a three–sixty view of the room. It looked like a small storage room, with one small window behind me that was covered entirely with old plywood, a pile of old rags and blankets underneath. All four walls were made from the same water–stained cinderblock and covered with tufts of moss and green slime. A beige–colored door with an old–fashioned brass keyhole and no handle stood in front of me. An identical door, this one with a handle and no keyhole, was to my left. The room was a perfect square, devoid of furniture, roughly twelve feet by twelve feet. Dull cherry–colored stains littered the concrete floor. I tried not to think of what they could be from.
Under the window, the pile of rags started moving. I screamed.
“Be quiet!” The pile of rags hissed, suddenly moving and sitting up and becoming a girl.
I shook my hands, rattling the rusted chains that kept me suspended. “Help me!” I hissed back.
The girl (who I could now see wasn't a pile of rags, just a very skinny girl) shrugged her rags/blankets off, stood and came over to me. She was young, maybe thirteen, with massive green eyes and dirty, straw–colored hair that fell almost to her waist. She wore a green t-shirt that matched her eyes, though now it was covered in dirt and bloodstains. Her jeans were just as filthy. She peered at me, as if trying to decide whether to punch me or give me a hug.
I smiled weakly, gesturing with my hands. “Please?”
She continued to stare at me, unblinking.
“What's your name?” I tried again.
“Kate,” she answered automatically. “You one of them?”
“One of who?”
She raised her eyebrows in disbelief. “One of them vampires.”
Now it was my turn to raise my eyebrows. “Um … no?”
She narrowed her eyes. “You ain’t got no bites on you. You must be a vampire.” She glanced disdainfully at my chains. “A sick–in–the–head goddamn vampire. Is this some kinda sick joke? Tie yourself up so I can let you bite me?”
Wombstone (The Vampireland Series) Page 1