Ink & Fire_A Havenwood Falls Novella

by R. K. Ryals

  I don’t check the time. Even though my abilities don’t seem to include a problem with numbers, I only look at them when absolutely necessary, and usually only long enough to keep track of the day.

  As for Jeanine, she’s lying. I can smell it on her, and I’m not even a shifter. Technically, I am just as human as she is. Just with extrasensory abilities.

  This is what I get for using a mortal agency. The Court has ways of working around my issues, which is why I’m still in Havenwood Falls. I can’t risk leaving.

  I start to sit in one of the cushy chairs, and then decide against it. “I need this done now.”

  I want this done now.

  “Then I suggest you sign on the dotted line. I’d hate to hold the keys on a technicality.”

  I make my living as a nature photographer. Vintage cameras. Old film. Hours spent inside a darkroom. Days spent hiking in the mountains. Jeanine reminds me of a buzzard, a scavenger reeking of decay. I’m the roadkill.

  For business and financial matters, I gave power of attorney to my aunt, but I’m legally able to sign if necessary.

  I don’t want to wait a week to move into my home, and because I’m terrible with confrontation, I don’t call her bluff on the vacation. Honestly, I don’t want to call her bluff. I want this home in every sense of the word. I want it to be mine. Something with my actual signature on it. Not my aunt’s or someone’s from the Court. Mine.

  Sitting, I lock gazes with Jeanine. “I need a pen.”

  The ballpoint she hands me feels foreign and heavy in my fingers.

  Jeanine slides a sheet of paper in front of me, the signature line clearly marked by a red sticky flag. Words dance, and I try not to look at them, my gaze focused on the tab. It’s the color of blood.

  I set the pen against the paper.

  The world falls apart.

  Dark energy rushes me, overwhelmingly tragic, the power turning my fingers into monsters. Words whisper through my head. Dreadful words. Death. Blood. Mine. I am a prisoner to the pain and the agony. The demons howl, each of them begging me to channel them.

  If I could fall to my knees and beg them to stop, I would. A tear slips down my cheek, and I fight, sweat beading up along my brow as I try to drop the pen. Not fighting feels like giving up.

  “Please,” I whimper.

  “Write it!” One voice is more persistent than the rest. My hand spasms, the world going black. The way it always does.

  Jeanine Turner screams.

  When I come to, my hand remains poised over the paper, the ballpoint pen having left a line of frantically scrawled words. You will have a place in Hell, Lucas Fox. Cast and chained in the Infernum of darkness. Death to the messenger. Death to those who give her sanctuary.

  I inhale . . . or try to.

  An invisible vise grips me by the neck, cutting off my oxygen supply, and I claw at my skin desperately. It makes no difference. I belong to a world of darkness.

  With little effort, the spirit attached to me lifts me off the chair and throws me across the room.

  My head slams against the office’s glass entrance, my vision blurring. Adrenaline and fear pump through my system, dulling the pain. People move on the sidewalk beyond, and I panic even while gasping for air. I can’t let anyone see me like this. First rule of thumb: protect the humans.

  Still struggling to breathe, I crawl back across the room, a trail of blood dripping behind me. Jeanine’s screams rise, shrill and deafening, the sound a jackhammer in my head.

  The Court is going to kill me.

  My knees and hands dig into the wooden floor, my heart racing as I lurch into the back hallway. Two doorways greet me, and I propel myself through the closest one, my body landing on a tiled bathroom floor. Slamming the door, I lock it.

  The demon relinquishes me, and I drag in air through my lungs, his words etched into my brain. Death to the messenger. Death to those who give her sanctuary.

  Death simply because I wanted something to call mine. Death simply because I wanted to be able to write my own name.

  Tears mingle with blood on the floor beneath me. Red on black on white. The story of my life.

  Chapter 3

  “Harper?”

  My aunt’s voice is like a balm on an open wound, and even though I want nothing more than to throw open the bathroom door and run into her arms, I don’t. I remain in a fetal position, my cheek pressed against a floor I hope has been cleaned in the last week. It’s too potpourri-y in here, which is never good. No one uses potpourri this strong unless they’re trying to hide something. Mold. Urine. Germs.

  “Harper,” my aunt tries again.

  “It’s bad this time,” I tell her, my gaze on the crack under the door. She’s wearing tennis shoes, which means this is serious. Aunt Eloise owns one pair of tennis shoes—a pair of neon yellow Velcro monstrosities—and she only wears them when there’s an emergency and she’s in a hurry. Otherwise, she dons outrageously colored boots or ballet flats. The bright tennis shoes look like caution tape and rightly so.

  Jeanine Turner yells something unintelligible from her office.

  Aunt Eloise answers her with, “It’s fine. Everything’s okay. She just has a thing for bathrooms.” She raps on the door. “Harper, honey, you’ve got to open up. You’re scaring the mortal.”

  I glare at her feet. “This is why you were ‘hmming’ at me earlier, isn’t it? You knew!”

  “She flew across the room!” Jeanine roars, her voice rising. “Explain that!”

  “Addie, why don’t you take Mrs. Turner out for some fresh air?” another voice breaks in.

  I would know that voice anywhere. Saundra Beaumont. A powerful witch of one of the founding families of the Luna Coven. She also serves on the Court of the Sun and the Moon, a court that basically runs Havenwood Falls. All of the members are from old blood and old money.

  “I didn’t mean to,” I immediately defend.

  A pair of navy high heels joins Eloise’s worn sneakers. Old family blood versus us.

  “Calm yourself, Harper,” Saundra says firmly. “We can fix what happened here.” Papers rustle, and I cringe. “As for what you wrote, that’s another story.”

  “I’m sorry.” Apologizing is habit for me. I’ve been practicing the art of apology ever since I first entered the Court of the Sun and the Moon. Then, I had been an awestruck child standing in a windowless room in the City Hall’s basement, candlelight flickering off of sympathetic faces.

  Oh, how I have fallen.

  The message I wrote at five years old isn’t the only message I’ve scribed. I did learn how to read and write, after all. Not to mention it’s hard to completely avoid words, especially as a child, but the Court has steadily protected me and the people I inadvertently threatened while I learned to be what I am now: detached from the world. As far as I know, I’ve only caused one death with my curse.

  “I just want the keys to my house,” I say weakly. No potpourri for my bathroom. I will scrub my toilets.

  “Come out,” Saundra soothes. “Get medical attention. Go home with your aunt. What’s happening to you is wrong, Harper. No one should have to see their family . . .” She pauses, and I know she’s looking at my aunt. When her voice comes again, it’s closer to the floor, surprising me. I’m having a hard time imagining the silver-haired, suit-wearing woman stooping. “Generational curses be damned. We protect the supes and the mortals, Harper. We made a promise to you and to your aunt. You can’t help what’s happening to you.”

  “He’s coming,” I whisper. From the paper she’s holding, she knows who I mean.

  “We’ll have someone stronger here to meet him.”

  Finally sitting up, I reach over and flip the lock on the door. My aunt opens it, her concerned gaze finding my face. She looks every bit the eccentric with her colorful clothes, tennis shoes, and hoop earrings. Saundra is her opposite in every way.

  I stare up at them. “I still want the keys to my house.”

  Arching a brow,
Saundra lifts her hand, a set of keys dangling from her fingers.

  Taking them, Eloise leans down next to me and presses them into my hand. “I didn’t know this would happen. I saw something big, but not this . . . darkness.” She starts to hug me, and then stops. I don’t do hugs. “Let’s get you cleaned up. The Court will take care of the rest.”

  Amnesia spells. Wards. Secrets. The Court of the Sun and the Moon runs this town on magic and mystery.

  “My soul hurts,” I breathe.

  “Oh, honey, I know.” She smooths a hand over my blood-dampened hair, and murmurs, “Harpists harp harping. Angels airily dancing. On clouds, casting glances. Their eyes glowing brightly. Guarding. Guiding. And that’s how I got my name. Or so my mother says.”

  “No Van Morrison right now.”

  “It’s not Van Morrison,” Eloise reveals. “Your mother wrote that.”

  “Really?” Even if she’s lying, it’s a good distraction.

  “Really. Right before she died, she took your dad’s hand and said, ‘Name her Harper.’ We figured it was an omen. They say people see things right before they die.”

  I killed her, too, I think.

  Eloise helps me to my feet, throws a coat around my shoulders, pulls a hoodie up over my head, and leads me out a back door at the end of the hall. Past witches I don’t stop to talk to and a dazed Jeanine Turner. She won’t remember this tomorrow. Quite possibly, she won’t even remember her vacation.

  I fist my hand around the keys until the metal bites into my flesh.

  That night, after hours of forced wakefulness, I fall into a deep, exhausted sleep, my sore body curled around a pillow, blankets wrapping me, and my aunt’s familiar apartment surrounding me.

  Then, I dream.

  Night swallows the daylight.

  I am standing on a mountain, a brisk wind lifting my hair against my face. There’s snow on the air, the smell of it heavy and thick.

  A full moon shines down on a silver world, on a sleepy town full of people I’ve known forever. Streets, shops, parks, and cemeteries I could walk in my sleep spread out like pieces on a board game.

  My town. No road map. No signs.

  Words are dangerous, so I navigate without them. My mind is an atlas of landmarks. Over two miles of stamped images: avenues named after the Old Families, a town square, a park with a lake, a ski resort, a myriad of residences ranging in income and style, and mountain trails. Housing developments dot the town: Havenwood Heights, Creekwood, Havenstone, and Havenwood Village. Shops I rarely visit out of fear stare up at me: Howe’s Herbal Shoppe, Soothing Sips, Coffee Haven, Callie’s Consignments, Shelf Indulgence, and Tragic Ink among many.

  In the mountains are other things—Cooley Creek, Mathews River, Smalls Falls, Peacock Lake, Bels Creek, Hale Creek—beautiful landmarks I’ve made a living hiking so that I can capture the animals and flora on film, being careful not to snap pictures of the shifters and other supernatural creatures that prowl the trails with me.

  Somewhere in the forest, a wolf howls.

  “It’s a beautiful town,” a gravelly voice says, the words a part of the wind. “What a shame it would be if I destroyed it.”

  “Why would you destroy it?” My words sound far away, as if I’m floating outside of my body instead of inhabiting it.

  “Because I can.” Evil doesn’t always need a reason to do things. “Can’t you see the future, psychic?”

  Above me, the moon turns red. Something wet and sticky drips on my face, and I swipe at it, horrified when my hand comes away covered in a substance that looks suspiciously like blood.

  Black shadows so dark even the night can’t hide them drop out of the sky, descending on the town. Screams rise from the streets below. Agonizing screams.

  “They’re dying,” the voice gloats. “They’re all dying.”

  “No!”

  From the edge of the woods, animals emerge. They crawl toward me, all of them wounded, blood spilling out of their sides. Shifters. All of them are shifters. Shifters I know. People I spend every day passing on the streets. People I talk to. Friends.

  “Help us,” they beg.

  Blood. There’s so much blood.

  The shifters crawl closer, reaching, their prone figures so close I can see the agony etched into their faces.

  “No!” I scream.

  Closing my eyes, I cover my ears and fall to my knees.

  Only, I don’t hit the ground. My knees land on air, and I am falling, falling, falling.

  When I come to, I stare into a dark room touched by a night-light that’s been in my aunt’s apartment for as long as I can remember. It’s shaped like a star, and I used to make wishes on it. Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight.

  That was before I learned wishes are scary things. That was before I learned it is much easier to wish for something than it is to make it happen.

  Chapter 4

  Light finger-shaped bruises form around my neck, and I spend the next few days pulling the collar of my coat up, my hair swinging loose. Other than the bruising and a mild concussion, the worst thing I suffer is a blow to my pride. Nothing yells adulting quite like being found in a fetal position on the bathroom floor covered in blood and shame.

  After three days of sweat-inducing terrifying nightmares—the same one every night—sympathetic stares, Court interrogations, and my aunt’s outrageous herbal concoctions, relief washes over me the minute I step into the driveway of my new home. It’s perfect. A remote, fully furnished, one-bedroom log cabin in the mountains, the home is everything I had worked to achieve: independence.

  Inhaling the cold mountain air, I sling a camera bag over my shoulder before tugging the single rolling suitcase after me. My life in one bag and one suitcase. I don’t know if that’s sad or impressive.

  Mine.

  My fingers tremble when I insert the key in the lock, the sound of it clicking open like fireworks on the Fourth of July.

  Now would be a good time for intro music, something about freedom and home, but all I get is the heavy arched door creaking open on its iron hinges. The door is part of the reason I love the place. Sunlight spills in like a spotlight on stage, revealing a stuffed leather sofa, wood-burning fireplace, and stone-accented kitchen, but the best part is what the place is missing.

  No television. No books. No cell phones. No signs.

  No trouble.

  You will have a place in Hell, Lucas Fox. Cast and chained in the Infernum of darkness. Death to the messenger. Death to those who give her sanctuary.

  The message haunts me, but I push it away. I’m sick of evil controlling my life.

  Setting the suitcase and camera bag inside the entry, I switch on the lights and quietly shut the door behind me, my fingers running over the frame. Home. Excitement burrows a den in my heart.

  Unable to stop smiling, I move through the house doing mundane things I never thought I’d appreciate: starting a fire, unpacking clothes, and sweeping the floors with a broom I find in the hallway utility closet.

  My fireplace. My dust. My broom.

  In the middle of my living room, I take it all in, embarrassed by the tears pricking the back of my eyes. I am proud of this.

  “They tell me you’re the messenger,” a low voice says from the direction of the kitchen.

  I freeze, goosebumps rising on my skin, my fingers gripping the broom in my hand so hard my knuckles turn a mottled shade of red, the flesh around it pallid.

  Death to the messenger.

  Chest heaving, I turn slowly.

  A man—no, a golden Adonis—leans against the island bar separating the kitchen from the living area. He’s tall, over six feet, with blond hair cropped close to his head and eyes so blue, it’s like looking at the sky. Jeans rest low on his hips, and a white button-up shirt hugs a muscular frame too magnificent to be covered up.

  He’s too everything to be human, and he came out of nowhere. This should be what frightens me the most, but sadly, I’m used to strange
things happening to me. Or, more accurately, me doing strange things. Like me relaying demonic words and images I shouldn’t see or me being hurled across an office by an evil entity. This, however, would be the first time an actual man appeared.

  Considering my gifts, he can be only one thing.

  I wield the broom like a sword. “I don’t know what you are or what you want, but know that I won’t go down without putting up one hell of a fight.”

  He studies me, his gaze flicking over the bruises on my neck before falling to the broom. “Congratulations, Ms. Sinclair. I’ve got to say, this is the first time I’ve ever been challenged with a broom.” Pushing away from the bar, he steps toward me.

  I stumble backward. He knows my name.

  “I’m not here to harm you,” he promises.

  Jabbing the air with my makeshift weapon, I circle toward the front door and then stop, because I refuse to leave my house. “Prove it. Keep your distance.” He pauses, and I swallow tears. There’s nothing worse than feeling the urge to cry when angry. “Why won’t all of you leave me alone? You can’t let me have even this? Stealing words from me wasn’t enough? Taking away a normal life wasn’t enough?”

  His chin rises, and I can’t help but notice how sharp his face is. He’s more rugged than beautiful. Terrifying even.

  “I’m not a demon,” he reveals.

  My grip on the broom loosens and then tightens again. “You’re lying. You can’t be anything else. Only demons and evil spirits come to me.”

  “They come to you in messages. Do I look like a message to you?” he asks.

  “Do the bruises on my neck look like a message?”

  “Quite frankly, yes.”

  The broom wavers. “What are you?”

  He smirks. “More like who am I? You should know. You channeled the asshole who threatened me.”

  You will have a place in Hell, Lucas Fox. Cast and chained in the Infernum of darkness. Death to the messenger. Death to those who give her sanctuary.

  The broom hits the floor. “Lucas Fox.”