Condemned to Die
Book One: The Death Eater Series
Catherine Stovall
This Book is Dedicated to:
The band, Volbeat, whose song, The Nameless One, inspired this series.
And toMwith Love.
Acknowledgements
As always, I send thanks out to my children for teaching me to dream with my eyes wide open. Thank you to my family for believing in me and supporting me.
Thank you to my friends for encouraging the voices in my head.
Thank you to Samantha Ketteman for the endless phone coversations and online chats while writing this book and so many others.
Thank you to Samantha Hebrock for being my biggest fan.
Thank you to My Freaks, Geeks, and Ducky Dears.
Together we will chase the sun, howl at the moon, and reach for the stars!
Vega Williams had died with sorrow in her heart and a hypodermic needle full of heroin in her veins. She lay in the shiny new coffin, framed by its black satin sides. A bed of white lilies peeked around her frail body, and bleeding hearts were woven into her gold and auburn curls. Death had stolen her mischievous smile from her rose pink lips and shut her sparkling green eyes on the world. Her small hands were clasped, a single wilting bloom beneath laced fingers. What she once was, would be no more.
The songs that she had loved drifted through the heavy air, muted by somber intentions. Crooning voices sang of all the memories they had represented for her. She had loved and lived by the sound of another human being’s sufferings and joy, set to the tempos that could move her body or move her to tears. In life, she had treasured the melodies as much as she had the memories they could produce.
The congregation sat, watering eyes and reddened noses, crying for a loss they had yet to comprehend. Without the girl’s light, their worlds would turn as dark as their mourning clothes. Among the general population packed into the uncomfortable pews, there were few who had ever truly known the beautiful soul that had once resided inside the fragile human frame. Lovers, friends, and those tied by blood had all been so blinded by selfish need, that they had failed the wandering spirit. There was but one, single heart in the room, which felt the ache of her loss as it should have been felt.
Zane Allistor had entered after the finely dressed parade of pretending grievers all found their seats. He stood in the very back, half concealed behind the arrays of flowers that added a sticky sweetness to the stale air. His glorious blue eyes brimmed with tears, and his full lips were turned down in a menacing scowl. The black t-shirt spreading tightly over his chest, ripped jeans that were more than fashionably distressed, and the well used work boots on his feet were all clear statements of his outsider status among Oaksdale’s elitist upper class. His hate for the soul sucking fools who had destroyed more than just one girl, one life, burned in the reflection of his watery eyes.
The priest stood before them, his face a mixture of sorrow and appropriate bereavement. The light shadowing of emotion he wore was not as bone deep as it should have been. He wore a mask of gentility to conceal his lack of concern, so that the next family to lose a loved one would line his pockets with a hefty fee. His voice was too lively, nearly manic. Like a good televangelist, it was fierce, with a lift in tone to punctuate the importance of his words at the end of each sentence.
Zane felt a dark cloud of rage building up inside of him. He knew Vega wouldn’t have wanted a church, or a priest reading passages and saying prayers. She would have wanted a celebration of life, not a bible study with her name thrown in for propriety’s sake. He was also well aware that Vega should not be dead. The tragedies were stacked as high as the money the frauds at the funeral had in their banks.
The procession began, and the time came for final goodbyes. One by one, the people made the long walk to where Vega laid like a sleeping beauty in her bed of eternity. Zane listened closely, both to the words the sheep whispered and to the thoughts within their bleak and suffocating little minds. The taste of their contemplations was that of a poisonous brew. He had only come to linger among the living dead, the society of counterfeit personalities, to seek out their inner workings and find those responsible for her death. A blood debt was owed, and it was his duty to ensure it was collected—pound by fleshy pound and drop by bloody drop.
Zane’s focus locked onto the woman approaching the casket. Back straight, shoulders untouched by burden, the curve of her neck gently sloped upward to meet her tightly bound curls. Hungry for the taste of revenge, he reached outward with his power. The invisible tentacle slithered through the crowd and pressed against the luscious dip at the base of her skull, causing her sure step to falter.
A slight chill danced down her spine, and she shivered slightly before approaching the wooden box that held her daughter’s shell. Bending over, Alyvia Bellator pretended to place a mother’s loving kiss on her daughter’s cheek. Only she and Zane knew the heartless words that formed inside the woman’s mind.
Ugh, such a disgusting custom. If it weren’t for old Aunt Beatrice, I wouldn’t even bother to get this close. At least she looks good.
The audience, however, saw a woman break as her sobs grew just loud enough to be heard in the back row without seeming dramatic. Her stage whisper goodbye had been so rehearsed that it was almost flawlessly executed.
“Oh, my baby. My darling girl. Vega, honey I will miss you so much. You’ll always be in my heart, my—”
Alyvia lost her place as Zane pressed the power against her brain and whispered his name down the twisting length of their connection. The pause may have looked to the others as if she had simply become too emotional, but he knew what had ended her pathetic tribute of false confessions of love. Zane had seen her guilt, and as he always did, he left his mark behind so that he could return at anytime. All it took was the single word left branded on her cerebellum.
Surprised by his wife’s hesitation, Michael Bellator briefly hugged her firm body, before stepping up to view the deceased.
Slipping from Alyvia’s inner barriers, the tentacle shifted into her husband. Wading through the haze of alcohol that the man had drowned his step-daughter’s death in, Zane forced himself to go deeper into the muddled confines of the brain than was safe. He had no choice, he must have answers.
Watching as Michael kissed Vega’s cheek, Zane was pleased to see no thoughts of disgust filter into the man’s mind. To Zane’s shock, her stepfather was full of sorrow. The words that came through the connection were steeped in misery.
It’s too early, she’s so young. What a waste. It should have been her mother.
Hoping that seeing a person lose their heart would somehow wake the mother from her callous bubble, Michael reached out to ensnare Alyvia’s hand. Leaning forward, he gave a private farewell to the girl he had loved.
“You were the daughter I always wanted and couldn’t have. I hope you are finally at rest, Vega. I love you.”
Zane pulled away gently, leaving the man unbranded. He liked the vein of meanness that ran like black molasses through Michael’s mind, but the sins within those thoughts were not the ones he sought. A slight smile curved his lips, though the sorrow still glistened in his eyes like dying stars.
Soon, Old Man, you will get your wish, and the mother will lie in Vega’s place.
One by one, the line commenced. The callous thoughts of the supposed mourners angered him, but none of the vicious barbs of inner dialog were enough to condemn. Zane sought out a particular theme in their depravity. He didn’t care about their hatred for others, their lusts, or their lies. If none of those things had been directed at Vega, the thinker
was safe.
As he drifted through the mundane memories and visions of the girl he loved, Zane thought of the injustice. Her life had been a collage of abandonment and abuse. With an absent biological father and an uncaring mother, Vega had teetered on the edge of death for too long. In a single night, she had careened into an abyss of depression. Those guilty of sending his precious girl into a drug induced end were the ones he wanted.
Bored with the endless parade of weepy old women, whose thoughts could make a prostitute blush, Zane allowed his intense focus to slacken. He didn’t see the dark skinned young woman until her reflections hit him hard enough to make him fall back against the paneled wall. He tightened his control and gently probed beneath the layers of silky black hair, until her brain was an open book. What he saw there was not shocking, but it still tugged at the soreness already enveloping his heart.
So you are the little bitch that tried to break my Vega’s spirit. He held the thought to himself, not allowing his hate to breach the connection with her. For the tall, curvy girl, he had to pause and give special consideration to the situation.
Zane peeled away the first barriers and stepped inside Claire Whitney’s mind. As he suspected, jealousy and spite filled her. She owed a debt to Vega, but he was unsure if it was the kind that he most loved to extract. He could feel his excitement mounting. Quickly culling the greedy need that stirred inside of his black soul, he forced himself to listen.
Even dead her hair still looks good. God forbid little miss perfect could have a hair out of place. I bet my funeral will be much bigger.
As her inner voice spat the words, Zane stroked her hypothalamus, encouraging the envy to grow. He fed his own energy into the small portion of her corroded brain until her thoughts darkened so much that they frightened her.
Poor little Vega, just as flashy and gaudy as the city she was named after. She had it all and just threw it away. Stupid girl, she deserved to die.
Entertained by the spike of fear that pulsed through her body, Zane missed her verbal adieu. He wondered if she had managed to sound convincing. Probably not, he decided as he pulled back, leaving nothing behind other than her own cesspool of thoughts.
Claire was a spiteful and mean-spirited bitch, but she hadn’t been the cause of Vega’s demise. Typical young girls clawing at each other with words and looks did not warrant death. He was confident that, when she matured, the guilt of her petty hate would torment her enough.
After Claire, a small group of Vega’s acquaintances drifted through the line. Zane only extended his touch to each one for enough time to taste their innocent minds and their true sadness. He wanted to laugh at the virtuousness of the women. Truly decent people were a rarity, and the lack of taint in such always amused him. No ill will to be found, he looked to see the next face that would take the final five steps to peer inside the casket.
Zane felt his pulse double when he spotted Briton Hadley step forward. The unseen feeler of power drew back, curling like a snake preparing to strike. A small slither of the pulsating mental cord snuck into the boy’s mind. He had come to this place knowing Vega had loved another during her brief time among the sheep of Oaksdale, but when confronted with seeing that person, Zane’s hidden nature growled like a caged beast. He tried to control his jealousy, but his suspicions ran high. Shoving his hands deep in his pockets and leaning back against the wall, he waited for the perfect moment.
Zane looked his enemy over as he flicked through the shallow layers of the brain. Six foot tall and nearly two foot wide at the shoulders, Briton’s all-American good looks were both his edge in life and his good fortune. Blonde hair, blue eyes, a chiseled chin, and a dimpled smile all came together to pull people to him as if he were a magnet. Unfortunately, for those misled hopefuls, they were met with an unintelligent arrogance and a cruel sense of humor that bordered on insanity.
Briton did not bend to kiss the body. Zane could see it in his mind that the boy had been told to, but there was no way he was doing so. Instead, he stared down at Vega without seeing. His lips moved as his eyes peeked sideways at the crowd. Mimicking his way through the required act of speaking to his dead ex-girlfriend, he thought of another woman.
This is such bullshit. Vega did this to herself. Not my fault she was so screwed up in the head that she couldn’t deal. Wow. Alyvia looks hot. My god, she doesn’t know what she’s doing to people with her skirt riding up her thigh like that.
Zane chose that moment to release his power. The coiled tendril struck hard at the base of Briton’s skull, bringing its unsuspecting victim to his knees. The tears that should’ve already been there leapt into the boy’s eyes, a single name screamed against the frontal lobes as he crumpled. People moved to his side, offering comfort, thinking him a victim of grief.
Zane made sure that Briton saw nothing around him by blinding him with pain. A vivid image of Vega’s crying eyes pushed through the connection, forcing itself into the boy’s mind.
The crowd around Briton filled with buzzing thoughts and energy, and Zane drank them in, feeding the monster inside. His plan was set in motion with the final mark being placed. Two minds were his for the taking, like plucking ripened fruit from the vine. He felt giddy in his anticipation as he slipped out a side door, unnoticed.
Mounting his bike, Zane smashed his helmet down over his head as the engine roared to life between his legs. His movements were automatic, leaning into the curves as he tore through the streets at breakneck speed, trying to put the pain of death as far behind him as he could. The world beyond his face mask was a blur of memory and heat. The feel of the hot July air rushing against his skin reminded him of summer days from his past.
The star of those recollections was a young girl with blonde curls and natural auburn highlights. Her flashing green eyes and soft laughter poured from her like a bubbling fountain. The touch of her hand on his, the whisper of her breath at his ear, and the warmth of her embrace all washed over him as he dodged recklessly through the quiet community. The mental images were a catalyst, the nudge that sent him over the line between conscious act and monstrous instinct. Arms open to embrace the insanity that burned inside him; he took the last step over the edge.
An hour later, Zane watched from the outskirts of the cemetary. A lit cigarette hung from his lips and dark glasses covered his shocking blue eyes. The priest went on and on, dabbing furiously at his brow with a white handkerchief. The crowd shuffled, uncomfortable in their heavy funeral finery as the summer sun blazed down on them like the fires of hell.
Every mind in the crowd shared a single thought. Shut up, Father Jack!
At last, the windy clergyman spoke the final words. “In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ, we commend to Almighty God: Vega Michelle Williams. We commit her body to the ground. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, and dust to dust.”
Alyvia stepped forward, clinging desperately to her husband, and laid a single white rose on the casket of her fallen daughter. Even in that iconic gesture, the woman showed no knowledge of her child.
Resisting the urge to walk up and snatch the flower from its place, Zane scoffed, crushing his spent cigarette beneath his boot and shaking his head. He had made sure that she went to her rest on a bed of white lilies. It had been his mental tampering that ensured the bleeding hearts had been added to her hair.
He mentally screamed, Vega hated roses, especially white ones. Colorless weeds is what she would have deemed such a tribute.
Disgusted with all he had witnessed, and ready to begin the reaping, Zane walked away with a single tear sliding down the shallow grooves beneath high set cheekbones.
Zane stood in the shadows of a moonless night, watching as Briton pulled his sleek, black Camaro into the driveway. He had spent the night tracking his victim, waiting for the perfect opportunity to slip inside the mind of his enemy. For one glorious second, he had considered reaping his havoc while the boy sat at the dinner table with his sallow faced
family. In the end, he had reconsidered only because suicides were rarely committed over a portion of roasted duck.
Stepping from the vehicle, Briton punched the button on his keychain to activate the alarm. As he headed up the walkway to mount the steps to his front door, Zane slipped up behind him as silent as a shadow. Just as the boy reached to place the key in the lock, he froze. His body stiffened as a sensation of wrongness walked up his spine in slow timid steps. Dropping the keys, he spun around, expecting to see a ghost. Instead, he saw Zane standing a few feet away, hands in his pockets, the perpetual cigarette hanging on his lip, hair mussed, and a friendly smile drawn across his lips.
“What the hell are you doing, Freak?” Faced with a stranger on his lawn, Briton’s chest swelled and his lips pulled back to display his teeth in an apish exhibit of territorial aggression.
Zane’s chuckle was deep, but nearly breathless. Tilting his head down, he watched his boot stamp out the butt of his cigarette. When he looked at Briton once more, a glare of undiluted hatred gleamed in his eyes. “I’m here to find out what you fear, Cubby.”
The use of his childhood nickname confused and further angered Briton as the invisible tentacle curled its way around his unsuspecting body. “You better get the hell out of here before I kick your ass.”
“You know, Cubby, I think your father was right about you. What was it that he said the day of your eighteenth birthday? Oh yes, I remember now.” Zane’s voice changed, became deeper, older, and adapted a New England accent. “Cubby, the problem with you is that you’re an unequivocally, salacious neanderthal and a hopeless, one-dimensional, shameless exhibition of genetic deficiency.”
Briton’s face scrunched up, creasing his forehead and the bridge of his nose. His cheeks burned a bright red as the verbal blow made his head wobble loosely on his shoulders. Zane watched the replay inside the boy’s head as the hateful reminder brought back the memory of that day in full force.
Condemned To Die (The Death Eater Series Book 1) Page 1