Hunt (Book Four the Hunted)
Page 14
The bottle of vodka winks at her. She takes it down, shakes it. Almost empty, damn it. Time to go to the store again. Lucy carries it with her, clutched to her chest, all the way to the fridge, yanking the door wide. Nothing. Empty. No mix.
She giggles to herself. “Who the hell needs mix?” The top of the bottle doesn’t fight her, and she is pleased something at last is going easily. Lucy up ends the bottle into a tumbler on the counter, watching the last drips fall into the glass before tossing the empty aside into the sink. She grips her drink in both hands, bringing the stinging liquid to her lips.
“I think you’ve had enough.”
Lucy screams, long and loud, the glass falling from her hands to shatter on the floor, vodka everywhere. She spins as if in slow motion, feeling instantly sober as she comes face to face with her brother.
She doesn’t hesitate, but dodges left, heading for the door. A large black dog appears in her path, snarling and growling, driving her back.
Lucy sobs once, goes right, racing for the bedroom. She slides across the wet tiles, cries out when a shard of glass slices her foot, but keeps running.
The closet. She has to get to the closet. She curses to herself inside her head and out into the air. Why did she store it in the closet, so far away? Lucy skids to a halt next to the door, paws it open, scrambles for the chocolate brown designer bag she keeps hidden there, and the gun.
No gun. Just money, more money than she can spend. And a small plastic package.
It can’t be. The gun was right here.
“Looking for this?”
She looks up. Reid sits on her bed, dangling the pearl handled revolver from one finger.
She sobs again. No, it can’t be, it’s not fair. “It’s not fair!”
He tosses the gun to the bed. “Fair,” he says softly. “You want to talk about fair?”
She clutches the bag to her, eyes drifting back inside, searching for a weapon.
They settle on the plastic bag again.
Lucy jerks it free and punctures it with her manicured fingernails.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Reid says.
“Screw you,” she snarls. And dips her face in the powder, inhaling deeply.
The rush hits her like a crashing wave, carrying her past her drunk and into pure power. The alcohol burns out of her system in an instant, leaving her clear-headed and so full of blood lust she laughs. Life could never be this good, could it? This is what she’s been longing for, needing without even knowing it.
This is it.
When she starts to choke, it makes no sense to her. What’s happening? Everything was so perfect just a moment ago. But her lungs are filling with fluid, she can feel it suffocating her. She drops the bag, clutches at her throat. The package puffs upward as it hits the floor, a thin, plastic tube rolling out. It’s cracked, just enough the contents are now mixed with the dust.
“Did you really think I’d allow Syracuse to have untainted dust?” Reid’s voice is fading, her hearing dim, as she chokes on the foam pouring out of her mouth.
As her light goes out at last, Lucy’s mind sobs once.
It’s just not fair.
***
Reid stands over his sister’s body as she gushes white fluid out onto the floor, twitches once, and dies. Minnie’s head tips to the side, her ears perked forward before she looks up at him.
“I warned her, didn’t I, girl?” Reid pats her head. “I told her not to take it.”
Minnie’s tongue lolls out in a dog laugh, her tail thumping on the floor in answer.
“Bye, Lucy.” Reid leads the dog out, not looking back as he closes the door behind him.
***
Epilogue
He pauses on the bank of the river, chest heaving, lungs on fire. His thighs burn from the speed he’s kept, his feet screaming for rest. The trees shudder around him from a growing wind, showering him with needles. He grins into the sunrise, the scent of warming air, the call of waking birds. So familiar, good memories married to horrible.
This is home.
It doesn’t matter how far he’s come, what jobs he completes, who he loves and loses. This is sweet, fate, destiny.
She pants beside him, ever faithful, her glossy black coat shining in the growing light. Her wet nose nudges his hand. She is eager to continue and he is happy to oblige her.
Even after a century, and for as long as he may live, the need is with him.
Reid runs.
# # #
Like what you read?
Connect with me online at
http://www.pattilarsen.com/
and my books at
www.purelyparanormalpress.com
***
If you loved the Hunted series
You might enjoy the
Clone Chronicles
Check out a sample chapter of book one
Clone Three
Chapter One
I open my eyes. It’s the first thing I think to do. The world is tilted sideways, the angles all wrong. I turn my head, feel hard, thin metal behind me, hear it bend and warble as I move. My whole body is limp, useless for the time being. Where am I? What is this place? The walls used to be blue, now coated in crusts of mold and running rust like an old disease left to fester.
On my left, what remains of a toilet bowl, the top smashed, jutting jaws of jagged porcelain teeth aimed at the ceiling. One single, flickering fluorescent bulb dangles overhead, swinging softly back and forth from the wires holding it suspended just past the dented frame.
A bathroom stall? The floor is icy cold under me, my fingers registering the stickiness of old traffic and a film of moisture left behind.
There, opposite where I half-lie, half-sit, my back propped against the wall of the stall, I see something waver at eye level, a hologram of some kind, projected onto the pitted and angry metal.
A man’s face. Do I know it? I feel I should know him, from somewhere. I’m just not sure where.
“Clone Three.” His voice is a softly echoing sound, volume and pitch altering as he speaks, as if over a great distance. “Pay attention, dear. Final instructions.”
Is he talking to me? He must be. His eyes seem to be meeting mine, he looks at me with great expectation. And yet as I lie here and begin to regain sensation and control, I realize I not only have no idea where I am, I haven't a clue what I’m doing here.
Who am I? Clone Three. Is that me?
“Not again.” His face isn’t angry. Why did I fear he would be angry? Instead, even through the unclear and twitching image, I see his desperate concern.
“What’s happening?” The view seems to widen as a woman’s face joins him. I’m smiling suddenly. I know her, and very well. She’s tied to my heart, isn’t she?
Isn’t she?
My smile fades as her own worry reaches me. “Clone Three,” she says, her voice calling to me as much as her words. “Please, you must listen.”
“It’s useless.” The man sags. “She was our final hope. There is no more.”
She ignores him, focused on me. I’m happy she’s still there. I’m worried myself. What if she leaves me? And why does the idea of that make me feel so afraid?
“It’s going to be all right,” she says, smiling. I smile back. Yes, this is better. This is right. “You just need to listen carefully to what I say.”
I listen with every cell in my body, every single thread of my being, because she's asked it of me.
“This is so hard.” She looks at the man. “We have no idea how much she remembers.”
“We are lost. We’ve failed.” He turns away from her, leaves the image. She sighs and meets my eyes again.
Distress makes my body shake. I want to reach for her, feel my fingers twitch in response. My body is coming (back?) to life.
“Don’t listen to him,” she says. “Just to me. You must find the others. Do you hear me? Clone Two and Clone One. It’s imperative you find them. Do you understand?”
I nod. My head and neck seem to work just fine.
“You’ll know them,” she says. “Just trust me.”
I do. With everything.
Her image begins to crackle, waver, breaking up. A soft grunting whine escapes me as my fingertips scrabble on the dirty floor, my mind reaching for her as my body tries to obey.
She is speaking, but her words are garbled, cut into bits and bites, and I cannot understand her. A film covers my vision, the blur disappearing as something wet runs down my cheek.
I’m crying.
She looks afraid, so afraid, and she is reaching for me too. She finally points at me, then at herself and her image fades. In her place is the vision of a statue, a tall woman, mottled green, holding a book and a torch, crowned in thorns.
It too fades, softly, shrinking until it flickers once like the flame of a candle and goes out.
***
About the Author
Everything you need to know about me is in this one statement: I’ve wanted to be a writer since I was a little girl, and now I’m doing it. How cool is that, being able to follow your dream and make it reality? I’ve tried everything from university to college, graduating the second with a journalism diploma (I sucked at telling real stories), was in an all-girl improv troupe for five glorious years (if you’ve never tried it, I highly recommend making things up as you go along as often as possible). I’ve even been in a Celtic girl band (some of our stuff is on YouTube!) and was an independent film maker. My life has been one creative thing after another—all leading me here, to writing books for a living.
Now with multiple series in happy publication, I live on beautiful and magical Prince Edward Island (I know you’ve heard of Anne of Green Gables) with my very patient husband and six massive cats.
I love-love-love hearing from you! You can reach me (and I promise I’ll message back) at patti@pattilarsen.com. And if you’re eager for your next dose of Patti Larsen books (usually about one release a month) come join my mailing list! All the best up and coming, giveaways, contests and, of course, my observations on the world (aren’t you just dying to know what I think about everything?) all in one place: www.bit.ly/pattilarsenemail.
Last—but not least!—I hope you enjoyed what you read! Your happiness is my happiness. And I’d love to hear just what you thought. A review where you found this book would mean the world to me—reviews feed writers more than you will ever know. So, loved it (or not so much), your honest review would make my day. Thank you!