Nine Lives (Lifeline Book 1)

by Kit Colter

  Erin suddenly felt sick. “No—Zaiah, it’s not like that.”

  “Then what is it like? Please, tell me what it’s like, Erin.” He continued holding her wrist. His grasp was gentle, but she knew he wouldn’t let go. Not until he had figured out a way to help her.

  “I can’t.” Erin quickly brushed away something that felt suspiciously like tears. She was so glad to see Isaiah. She didn’t want it to be like this. She desperately wanted it not to be like this.

  “Look, Erin, I know you keep secrets,” Isaiah said. “And I’m fine with that. That’s you. But this can’t be one of them. You’re in trouble. You can’t tell me you’re not. And you need help.” He frowned. “I called your parents. I thought they might know what’s going on. Might at least have some kind of idea.”

  Erin peered through the blinds once more. “Yes. I’m in trouble,” she said without looking at him. Just then, the hospital room phone rang. Realizing it was probably her parents, Erin reached to the side with her free hand and pulled the cord out of the wall.

  “Let me help,” Isaiah said. “You know how I feel about you. I’ll do anything for you. Whatever you’re into, I’m not going to judge you for it.”

  Erin exhaled slowly. “I was unconscious when it happened,” she said. “Someone slipped something in my drink.”

  “Did something else happen to you?” he asked.

  Erin shook her head.

  “Do you know who it was?” he asked.

  “Kind of.”

  Isaiah’s expression shifted. He was angry—furious—and he was trying to hide it, but Erin could feel a sudden heat pooling in the palm of his hand as he continued to hold her wrist.

  “Who is he?” Isaiah asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Erin said. It wasn’t too much of a lie. Really, all she had was a first name, and that was only if Sirian really was his real name. “I don’t remember much about what happened. He took me to this woman’s house. I passed out. When I woke up, I found the needle tracks and this.” She put her hand on the thick layer of gauze taped to her neck. “The guy knows where I live, so if you’d let me stay at your place for a day?”

  “You know I would,” Isaiah said, watching her with a pained expression. “You can stay until you graduate if you need to.”

  “Thank you, Zaiah,” Erin said. “It won’t take that long.”

  “You’re going to turn this guy in, right?” he asked.

  “I’m going to try,” Erin said.

  This was another very small lie. Sure, she’d try. If it was possible to turn him in, she would. In a heartbeat. But how could she? How could she even begin to explain what had happened to her? And if, by some miracle, the police did believe her and tried to arrest Sirian, then what? She’d stabbed him in the chest, and it hadn’t even fazed him.

  “My parents are on the way?” Erin asked.

  Isaiah nodded.

  Erin frowned. How was she supposed to deal with them? She looked at Isaiah, clenching her jaw against the odd pain in her chest as she did. Something about the situation hurt more than she expected it to. Something about caring, so much, for him. Knowing he meant every word he said. And not being able to tell him. No matter how close she got to him, this thing, this gaping ravine of wrongness would always, always stand between them. When they dated, she had known, right away, that this was someone she cared about. Cared about in the kind of way that it hurt to lie to him. Her problems—having to lie about her problems—was what ended their relationship back then. She couldn’t let it ruin their friendship, too.

  “You alright?” Isaiah asked, searching her face.

  “I am so glad to see you, Zaiah,” she said, reaching out and hugging him. “You have no idea.”

  Isaiah wrapped his arms gently around her, letting out a slow breath, and placed an almost imperceptible kiss on her battered cheekbone.

  The door opened and the doctor walked into the room, a clipboard in hand and thick-framed glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose.

  “Erin Stone?”

  She nodded.

  “We put in a couple stitches and removed some glass from your feet,” he said, gesturing to her cheekbone. “Your ankle is sprained, but it’s nothing serious.” The doctor stopped and leveled a hard gaze on Isaiah. “And you are?”

  “Her fiancé,” Isaiah said, leaning forward and shaking the doctor’s hand. “Isaiah Watts.”

  Erin was surprised at how smoothly Isaiah responded, how easy the lie sounded on his lips. She looked down, surprised to see Isaiah thread his fingers into hers.

  “Well, you’re a lucky man, Mr. Watts,” the doctor said. “I’ve had a lot of practice stitching, and I think the scarring on her face will be quite minimal.” The doctor looked at Erin then. “We also put a few stitches in your neck,” he said, looking at the gauze. “Those are quite unusual puncture wounds. Can you tell me what happened?”

  Erin shook her head. “I was pretty out of it.”

  “Do you know what you took?” the doctor asked.

  She shook her head again, wondering if he would believe her if she claimed someone had slipped her something and then injected her with something else.

  “I didn’t take it. Someone slipped something into my drink. When I woke up I had this needle mark,” she said, unable to let him go without trying to convince him. She didn’t do drugs. She’d never done drugs. “I didn’t do it.”

  “Did this happen on the Reservation?”

  Erin hesitated. The doctor had assumed she was from one of the nearby reservations, San Carlos or White Mountain. She didn’t bother to correct him.

  The doctor cleared his throat. “The paramedic found your Tribal Identification card. We needed to verify your identity. Standard procedure for unconscious or semi-conscious patients.”

  Erin shook her head. “I haven’t been to the Rez—the Reservation—in years.”

  The doctor nodded. He didn’t believe her.

  “We’re going to keep you for at least twenty-four hours for observation. We’ll take a look at the situation tomorrow and go forward with discharging you if everything looks alright. From what I can tell, you’re going to be just fine.”

  Erin nodded. It felt like admitting to something. Like admitting to whatever it was he suspected she had done.

  “Due to your particular situation, we’ll have a sexual assault specialist discuss your options.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t—”

  “Additionally,” he said, cutting her off, “we’re forced to report these sorts of incidents to the authorities. There are two police officers in the lobby waiting to speak with you. If you’d like a few minutes to compose yourself, that’s fine. Let us know when you’re ready, and we’ll bring them to your room.” He hooked his pen into his pocket and sat there with the clipboard balanced on one knee, studying Erin’s face. Then he exhaled and gave her a stern look. “Miss Stone, you’re a beautiful woman—you truly are—and whoever did this to you committed a crime against nature. What they did is unforgivable, and you have to be much, much more careful.” He stood, looked at Isaiah, and squared his shoulders. “You need to think about taking better care of your fiancée.” Then he gave Erin a sad half smile and walked out the door.

  Erin felt guilty about what she did next, but she didn’t have an option.

  “Do you think you could run to the store and grab some things?” Erin asked.

  Isaiah didn’t let go of her hand. “Anything you want.”

  “I just need a real toothbrush. The hospital toothbrushes are never any good. And maybe some cheap makeup. I don’t want my parents to see me like this.”

  Isaiah nodded, but then he didn’t move. He just stood there looking down at her with an expression that could have passed for regret. “He’s right you know,” Isaiah said, gently sweeping her bangs to one side. “Even like this, you’re beautiful, Erin.”

  “Yeah—like Frankenstein’s Bride.” Erin grinned despite the pain in her face and gave him a light shove. “Toothb
rush, Watts. It’s an emergency.”

  Isaiah shook his head and smiled, slowly unthreaded his fingers from hers, and walked out the door. Erin glanced into the hallway behind him to make sure the police officers weren’t nearby. They were going to question her about the drugs, and she had no alibi whatsoever. She couldn’t explain it. She couldn’t explain anything. They’d think she was lying to cover up some “drunken Indian” thing on the Rez.

  Well, she wasn’t going to jail. Not today, anyway.

  Erin found her clothes neatly folded on a chair in the corner and changed as quickly as possible. Then she snatched the bundle of daisies out of the vase on the counter. She took the vase into the bathroom, wrapped it in a towel, and smashed it against the floor, then used one of the shards to cut through her hospital bracelet. She dried off the flower stems with a wad of toilet paper and arranged them into a bouquet. Erin stepped out the door and strode down the hall. With the flowers, she could pass for a visitor. She had to.

  A woman in scrubs stepped out in front of her. “Can I help you, miss?”

  “Oh, I’m looking for the post-surgical wing,” Erin said, positioning the bouquet under the woman’s nose to hide her bare feet. “I’ve got a friend there.”

  The nurse smiled. “You’re completely in the wrong area for that. Take those elevators down to floor one, then turn right. There should be a sign.”

  “Thanks,” Erin said, smiling weakly because her face hurt. She stepped into the elevator and exhaled slowly. She was almost there. Erin had been to the recovery area before, when Stephanie had her ACL fixed, and she knew it was a single hall away from the exit. When the elevator stopped, Erin slid through a crowd and turned left, walked through the waiting area, and dropped her daisies in the trash on her way out the door.

  * * *

  After begging change from a hostess at an Italian restaurant for bus fair, Erin arrived at her apartment building about thirty minutes after her escape from the hospital. The sound of her own footsteps echoing against the staircase to the third level was almost enough to make her change her mind. She promised herself she could be in and out in a few moments. She just needed her things and her car keys.

  There was a note from the apartment manager taped to the door. Something about fire damage and her security deposit. Erin took a slow breath as she entered. The doorframe, ceiling, walls, and part of the carpet were charred from the fire. She lingered next to the doorway, half inside and half in the hall.

  “It’s fine,” she said to herself.

  Erin tried to walk normally, casually, but she felt wrong. Off-balance. Like fear was written in her every move. She shook her head and went to the bedroom. Her room here was different than at home. It felt empty. In actuality, it was fairly empty. She had a bed, a dresser, a work desk. A couple pictures of her friends and family pinned to the wall and a poster she could never quite explain—even though it ought to be easy. It was a large black and white photograph of Geronimo, down on one knee with a rifle and a tired, determined expression. The corners were curling inward, away from the wall, like the poster was still trying to roll itself back into a neat little tube that she could hide in her closet. The poster had spent almost three years in a tightly curled cylinder behind her winter coats. Erin’s mother had forbidden her from putting it up—especially after she found out where it came from. Clark Patterson, star of the Las Cruces High School Swim Team, had placed it in her locker along with a dozen cans of corn and a Redskins baseball cap. The word Squaw, written in red magic marker, scrawled across her locker door and the two adjacent lockers—guilt by association.

  All for a rejected date.

  Erin hadn’t known Isaiah much before that, but by the end of the day, he escorted Clark Patterson to her and stood behind him, arms crossed, while his teammate apologized and offered to pay for damages. Erin had thrown the hat in the trash, given the corn to the cafeteria, and kept the other two—Geronimo and Isaiah. And they had been friends, or something more, ever since. She did not accept Clark Patterson’s apology.

  Staring around her mostly empty bedroom, Erin frowned and pulled her suitcase out of her closet, unzipped it, and swiftly started piling clothes on top of everything she had failed to unpack from her trip to Cruces. She didn’t fold or tuck anything neatly into place. She just shoved everything in and kicked the suitcase into the living room, still open, then turned and put her school work into her backpack. Stepped into the bathroom to grab her toothbrush. Retrieved a black sock containing her life savings from the nightstand. Winced as she pulled on her running shoes. Then forced her suitcase shut and zipped it closed. She dragged the case into the kitchen and grabbed the keys off the counter.

  “I’m okay,” she said, and she swept her bat off the living room floor on her way out the door.

  * * *

  From the apartment complex, Erin headed straight to the nearest Walmart parking lot. She didn’t need anything Walmart had to offer. She just needed to get away from her apartment, away from anywhere someone might look for her, and she needed to think. She didn’t want to think. She wanted to hit the gas and drive until she crossed the border to another country.

  But she needed to.

  So, she sat there staring through the windshield and made herself consider what this—what all of it—might mean. First, vampires and/or the Owl Man might be real. Maybe. Second, demons might be real. Maybe. Third, she was probably not as crazy as she had believed. Hopefully.

  And fourth, her ex-softball coach might be possessed by a demon. He might have done those horrible things because of the demon. And she had attempted to kill him, an innocent person, because of that demon. Because she didn’t see it before. Because she couldn’t understand what was happening to him.

  If he was possessed, that explained everything, didn’t it? What he’d done? The assault? The stalking? The harassment? The complete and utter lack of remorse?

  Guilt hit Erin like a truck. Had she truly tried to kill an innocent man? Had she taken a softball bat to his face? To his body? Had she attempted to shatter his skull? Had she done that to an innocent person?

  Erin kicked open her door and puked. She felt tears in her eyes, but she couldn’t tell if they were from vomiting or from emotion—from the undiluted horror coiling in her stomach. After a moment, she wiped her mouth on her shirtsleeve, sat up, and pulled her door closed once more. She brushed the tears away from her cheeks and took a deep breath.

  If Coach was really possessed, if he was innocent, then she had to do something. She had to help if she could. She had to make up for what she’d done to him. But before she could do anything for him, for anyone, she needed more information. And more time.

  Erin slowly turned her right wrist over and examined the phone number written in smudged, faded ink with Marissa printed below. It was her best bet.

  She retrieved her cell phone and dialed the number. The receiver clicked halfway through the first ring.

  “Johnson Automotive Repairs, how can I help you?”

  “I’m, uh, calling for Marissa?” Erin stammered.

  “Sorry, lady. No Marissa here. Just me ‘n Jimmy.”

  “Uh, thanks, sorry.” Erin hung up, pulled the sleeve of her jacket back, and held up her wrist, to examine the numbers again. On second glance, the one could be a seven. Maybe. It was worth a try.

  She dialed the number with a seven this time.

  Erin glanced over her shoulder, jumping slightly as a shopper slipped by. She took another deep breath and ordered herself to calm down. She pressed her ear into the phone. Still ringing. Glanced to her right. Checked the rearview mirror.

  There was a quiet clicking sound, and the ringing stopped.

  “Hello?” It was a woman’s voice.

  “H-Hi. I’m calling for Marissa,” Erin said, wincing at the sound of her own nervousness.

  “Look, if this is another damn call about Danny’s bill, you bastards can go straight to hell,” the woman said. “I mean it. Call Danny. The next time
you—”

  “Uh, Espy told me to call you,” Erin said.

  “Espy?”

  “Yeah. You know her, right? She told me—”

  “Yes. Yes, I know her. She told you to call me?”

  “You’re Marissa?” Erin asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then, yeah, she told me to call you. She’s my cousin. Some weird stuff has happened. And, well, she told me you’d be able to, I don’t know, maybe tell me what’s going on. Maybe.”

  “Oh, wait, you’re the cousin then,” Marissa said.

  “Yeah,” Erin said.

  “Okay,” Marissa said with a slight sigh. “Well, what do you need help with?”

  “It’s kind of complicated,” Erin said.

  “Isn’t everything,” Marissa said.

  “Uh, yeah.” Erin was momentarily at a loss for words. “I think I’m dealing with something weird. Something supernatural. I just don’t know what it is.”

  “You know what, I can’t really talk right now,” Marissa said. “Hold on a second.”

  Erin listened, checked the rearview mirror, and told herself to calm down.

  “Let me just ... Oh, where is that thing ... Just a minute.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Erin said, then heard a thunk as Marissa set the phone down. She frowned. This wasn’t going to get her anywhere. She glanced over her shoulder again. She felt vulnerable. Erin told herself she was relatively safe in her car with the doors locked and the engine running, but she felt like she was under a spotlight.

  “Still there?”

  “Yeah,” Erin said.

  “Okay, I found it,” Marissa said. “Espy told me a bit about what’s going on, and I think this place might have some answers. It’s kind of a library. They sell stuff too, but I don’t think you’ll be interested in that. You’ll be able to find all the information you need there if you spend a couple hours sorting through the shelves. It’s pricy though.”

  “How much?”

  “A hundred bucks,” Marissa said. “And that’s for what they call the Day Pass. It’s three hundred for a week if you have the cash. I’ve got the address right here if you want it.”