Red Eye | Season 1 | Episode 3

by Riley, Claire C

  Again. And again. And again.

  As I continued recalling the events that had concluded mere moments ago, a strange sort of calm began to spread across my goose-pebbled skin, soothing the burning nausea and relieving the crippling fear that held me hostage.

  With a silent breath, I stood up and again surveyed the scene of my crime. Only this time, I wasn’t looking at my consequence. Instead I was seeing something altogether different, something utterly surprising.

  Surprising because…after all, I’d wanted out of this world, hadn’t I?

  I’d wanted to be free from this fear, from the pain, not just from that of my husband but from the world we now lived in. I wasn’t built for it, wasn’t built to survive in times of strife.

  I was weak; I always had been. Only because of Evelyn had I made it this far. Only because of her had I not ended myself long ago.

  And now I was free. I was finally blessedly free of this man.

  “You were a terrible man,” I whispered fiercely. “Not a man at all.”

  I’d known a good man, a true man. I’d loved him with all of me, and in return he’d loved me with all of him. Ours had been a partnership, a friendship, and a love affair all rolled into one. What I had lacked, he’d had in spades, and what he’d lacked, I’d made it my mission to make up for. And never once had he touched me out of anger or perversion.

  That had been a marriage, and this…this had been a fallacy. A single-sided, self-serving game. This had been torture masqueraded as a duty to the continuation of the human race.

  Killing him, that hadn’t been a mistake. It hadn’t been born of fear, but of anger. Killing him had been a necessity, a necessary evil. For the first time in my life, even if it meant the end of it, I’d finally done something brave. I’d finally saved myself.

  With my bearings back, a steely resolve firmly in place, I turned away from what was left of the man I’d hated, from the life I’d detested. As I walked slowly toward my dresser with the intention of dressing, Evelyn’s face once again invaded my thoughts. Knowing I would be leaving her alone, a sliver of guilt wormed its way into my newfound resolution. She was not without friends, but they were all the same, fair-weather and self-serving, survival their only concern. For so long all Evelyn and I had had was each other; we trusted each other, depended on each other, reminded each other of a life now long gone.

  Shaking my head, I shoved those feelings away. It was too late to do anything about it now. The damage was done, and Evelyn…she would survive this too.

  Fully clothed now in tattered jeans and a threadbare thermal top, I turned toward my mirror and let out a shaky breath. I didn’t recognize this woman, the blood-spattered, bruised, and beaten-down woman. The same long dark hair fell past my shoulders, the same wide brown eyes stared back at me, the same pale, freckled skin shone white under the moonlight, yet I didn’t know her. I didn’t even want to know her.

  Turning away from my reflection, I surveyed the room once again as my nails dug bloody half moons into my palms. Then I took another deep breath.

  “Help!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. “Help me!”

  A muffled shout sounded, followed by banging on the door and then a loud crash.

  They’d come now. They’d see what I’d done and they’d take me away. Deliver me to my last stop on this long and twisted road.

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  Have you read…

  THE BIRTHRIGHT

  By

  Victoria Cage Author Eli Constant (writing as Eliza Grace)

  ‘A teenager on the cusp of her eighteenth birthday is kidnapped, dragged halfway across the world, and faces sacrifice… all for the sake of magic.’

  Read on for a sneak peek.

  About the book:

  Destiny. Death. And a birthright of blood.

  Drugged and abducted shortly before her eighteenth birthday, Kat Forst is dragged halfway across the world. She doesn't know why... or how. She doesn't know anything, except that she's not alone. Her best friends have been taken as well. And that's her fault.

  Because their kidnapper wasn't after them all.

  No. He only wanted Kat.

  Because her blood is the key to the magic of Chios. Her death will re-awaken what has been lost for so long.

  But Kat isn't exactly ready to die. Not without a fight anyways.

  And the fact that her captor is gorgeous and covered with glittering, magical tattoos won't distract her from staying alive... she hopes.

  ***

  The Birthright is over 100,000 words of standalone supernatural mystery with sensuality, mythology, and a touch of horror.

  USA Today Bestselling Author Claire C. Riley calls [The Birthright] 'a daring and sensual read that you will devour in one sitting.'

  “Sunlight shone against his now exposed chest, against the glittering coral gemstones embedded in his skin. The swirling tattoos surrounding each stone intricately extended away from and returned to each orange-red jewel—creating a never-ending, cyclical pattern of beautiful art.

  Just like in my dream.”

  -Kat Forst

  TUESDAY

  9 PM

  East Coast DST

  NYC, USA

  She wasn’t even supposed to be here.

  She was supposed to be on a plane flying toward some exotic photo shoot. But she’d missed the 8 o’clock flight, stayed a little too long at the club.

  Stumbling into the streets after hours of partying, she tried hard not to vomit as the paparazzi snapped picture after unflattering picture. Great. Another news story, more bad press. As if her rich old geezer of a husband dying mysteriously hadn’t been enough. They couldn’t prove she’d done anything, but tabloid writers love speculation. Even some of the reputable papers had taken a stab at her. Course, she’d sued the shit out of them.

  And now she was ridiculously wealthy.

  Catcalls and flashing lights violently yanked her back to reality, pushing her thoughts into the background.

  So disoriented.

  All she wanted to do was get away from the cameras and jeering, judgmental voices. She tripped away from them, not paying attention to where she was going. Her feet ached, the neon yellow stiletto straps cut into her ankles like dull scalpels. Then she sensed it. A menacing presence.

  She saw no movement, heard no sound, but her intuition told her that something was following her.

  Were her senses betraying her? She’d had so much to drink… she could barely see clearly. How could she trust her instincts?

  The presence feathered against her skin, the lightest brush of an unseen something. Panic set in.

  She ran, not pausing to strip off the high heels, but she could feel it drawing ever closer. She swirled at the gaping mouth of a dark alley, her silvery skirt billowing around her, and scanned the space in front of her. Nothing… nothing, but she could feel it. Her head was spinning; acid crept up her throat– the precursor to vomit. She lurched backward into the alleyway, not knowing if the shadowed space was any safer than the oppressive presence pursuing her.

  She continued to stare forward and walk awkwardly backward. It felt so close. Too close. She turned to run, to flee, and came face-to-face with a dead end. Panicking, she slid her hands up and down the brick surface of the wall – praying for escape. A dead end. No… no… no. Her mind whimpered in protest.

  She yelled for help now and began to beat her fists raw against the impenetrable brick surface. A single drop of blood ran from the knuckle of her left index finger; it slid slowly, wetly down her forearm. The wet redness was a strange compliment to her long cobalt nails– the same shade as her sleeveless satin top. The woman watched the drop of blood travel. Her hand wasn’t the only thing bleeding. The murderous stiletto straps had abraded her ankles. She could feel the yellow patent leather digging
into the raw, bloody skin.

  The invisible threat closed in on her, silent as a catacomb, stirring the previously stagnant air. Her chest felt heavy against the pressure of the presence.

  She blinked furiously, trying to clear the haze of intoxication from her head, but the heady mist that moved toward her was not a byproduct of alcohol and dance-floor gyrations.

  The girl tasted something tart on her tongue as she breathed in and out. It tasted like lemon juice, cinnamon, marigold and some earthy, foreign spice she could not place; it left a residue of pine and citrus in her mouth. With every passing second, the alleyway became more obscured by the building fog.

  She parted her lips to scream, but as she pulled air into her lungs she inhaled something pungent; it was not ordinary, life-giving air. It was noxious, laced with something… Her mind felt as hazy as the mist that consumed her.

  Her body inflated, filling up with the ever-thickening mist. She turned slowly away from the wall, her scraped and scarred hands limp at her sides, her fingers brushed lazily against the silver sequined skirt. She leaned against the ensnaring barrier for support, her fear floating away on the now receding smog.

  She was no longer afraid, but just a normal girl, tired from dancing the evening away. An ingrained instinct urged her to shout for help, but her vocal cords were paralyzed and her skin felt warm and cozy, like she was sunbathing in the tropics. Suddenly, her knees gave out and her body was morbidly weak. Sliding down to the ground, her back still against the wall, she heard a whispered voice.

  “Close your eyes. Close your eyes.” The sound was melodic, hypnotic… sinister. Something wet touched her lips, parted them, and she felt a strange liquid, both warm and cool simultaneously, slide past her teeth, over her tongue, and down her accepting throat.

  Her body convulsed violently and the heat of her skin intensified tenfold. She wished to scream at the pain, her terror renewing, but she could make no sound. The heat burned out in a flash, leaving behind only cool night air. The voice continued its mesmerizing dance within her mind.

  Her eyes widened as a figure began to form from the mist, the gray particles of haze gathering together to form the shadow of torso, neck, and head. She squeezed her eyes closed. This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening. I’m just really, really drunk. Please, God… please, God.

  The figure remained gray and unclear; an ethereal hand came toward her. That hand passed a vial beneath her nose. She took a deep, involuntary breath. The tart taste was back, lazily passing through her nostrils and settling on her tongue.

  Once again, the fear slid away, becoming the briefest hint of scent in the dark night. The kiss on her forehead was so slight, so soft. She felt a sudden sting behind each ear. Pain was no longer important.

  Just before she lost consciousness, her vision and mind experienced an instance of sober clarity. The figure was not ethereal at all. He was solid and lovely; his nearly naked body decorated with stones that caught nonexistent rays of late night light that blinded her into oblivion.

  Her body was lifted, carried, placed gently across a soft backseat. The vehicle drove swiftly for nearly five hours– the driver ignored speed limits and stop signs.

  She died quickly. A beautiful death. The wounds on her ankles and hands would heal slowly. She would be a perfect corpse in time. The pin pricks though… those would stay, a sign of his possession and power.

  It would be days before she was useful to him. Until then, let someone else deal with her. He methodically undressed her, folding her clothing next to her body; he made the fold creases sharp and smoothed the material until the wrinkles disappeared. It seemed like an odd effort, but he had his reasons- not the least of which was seeing the unblemished expanse of her body in the moonlight. The sight almost made him wish that he could feel… something.

  He left her in the grass, her body looking pristine and otherworldly pale against the green backdrop.

  Part I.

  WEDNESDAY

  3:45 AM

  East Coast DST

  Morgantown, WV USA

  Lieutenant Mark Faulkner pulled up to the curb and shifted his truck into park. He was a precise driver, always had been, and the wheels were settled equidistant from the curbside.

  Opening his door, he stood on the truck runner and sized up the scene: yellow tape, cameras flashing; Mark was surprised by the number of news vans: Channel 6, 12, and four others. Local and National News. The area was well-lit, despite it being hours before sunrise. Eight lights illuminated the park; they were an ominous bright orange glowing. The streetlights added to the ambience and several freestanding lights were set up, pointing downward and illuminating the immediate crime scene and police vehicles. The news vans were equipped with their own lighting. The lights were bright, round halogens, beaming like all-seeing eyes on top of each vehicle.

  Four uniforms and a short, dark haired man huddled around a squad car; another twelve uniforms were keeping the press and public away from the crime scene and a black SUV and ambulance were parked on the grass near a swing set and sand box.

  Even from a distance, Mark recognized the short man standing next to the cop car. Detective Leon Brewer. The man had a bit of a Napoleon complex and could be a complete ass, but most times, Mark got along with him okay. Brewer wasn’t the best at deductive reasoning, mind you, but he was in line for the next case. Rich Gunderson was with Brewer. He was a good man, a solid officer. The other three uniforms Mark recognized, but they were fresh to the force.

  Even the Chief was present, leaning against his unmarked vehicle. Morgantown only employed a little over 75 full-time uniforms and support staff. Each officer was cross-trained, ready to perform any task necessary to solve a case. If this many officers were present… This is something big.

  Mark felt restless all the sudden, his body buzzing at the prospect of an interesting case in Morgantown. And the damn case goes to Brewer. It was sick, to covet a murder case, but most Morgantown crimes were pretty run-of-the-mill.

  Still standing on the side runner of his truck, Mark bent at the waist and leaned into the vehicle, snagging his lightweight jacket with a hooked finger.

  He was already pushing his right arm through the coat sleeve as he stepped down from the truck and as the fingers of his left arm appeared from inside the left gray sleeve, he closed the driver’s door with his hip. He didn’t bother to lock the truck. If someone was brave enough to try and jack it with dozens of uniforms nearby, then the prospective thief deserved the Chevy.

  Mark zipped the jacket. The worn gray material fell long, covering his holster and adjacent badge. He ran a rough hand through his icy blonde hair; then that hand wandered toward the back of his neck where a series of raised and pale burn scars began– the collar of his shirt wasn’t quite tall enough to hide the bad memory.

  Mark closed his eyes for a moment, letting his fingers play against the scars like a blind man reading braille. He took a slow breath. Despite his desire to be knee deep in an interesting case, he also really didn’t want to deal with the border of onlookers and officers. Not that he had a choice. Well… since he wasn’t in line for the case, he did have a choice.

  I can turn around, walk away, get in my truck and go make some ramen. He knew he couldn’t do that though- wasn’t his style. Mark opened his eyes, straightened his tall frame to its full height and surveyed the scene again. The dozen officers keeping the civilian onlookers and press at bay were really getting a workout; one cameraman even breached the barrier by crawling on his knees between two of the officers.

  So many people for one growing-ever-colder body. Who the hell is dead in the middle of that swarming crowd? Mark thought.

  Of course, it was never surprising to see a slew of civilians gawking at death– natural or unnatural. It seemed human nature to be drawn compulsorily to mortality. It seemed wrong though, odd- the happy vision of children’s play area defined by the garish yellow crime tape and lifeless adult body. Mark turned, taking in the apartment
buildings nearby and the covered parking garage. His brain took him backward, to his first months out of the Academy.

  That was the only other time he could recall police activity in a Morgantown playground. He’d been barely out of training and already assigned to the Street Crimes Unit. Mark and Allen, his partner back then, had chanced upon a man peddling smack to a park-full of kids. When confronted, the dealer had pulled a gun and shot at Allen. Mark had taken the bullet to the right shoulder, jumping in the marksman’s path and protecting his partner. Not one of his best days on the force. Hurt like hell. Between the bullet wound and the extensive burn scars, Mark’s body was the picture of less-than-better days.

  The gunman had been so surprised by Mark’s sudden movements that he’d hesitated just long enough for Allen to get the jump on him. Allen hadn’t lasted long on the force– meeting a gorgeous Turkish exchange student at the University and following her back to Izmir, Turkey. Mark didn’t blame him. If he had to choose between the right woman and the job, he’d choose the woman. Hands down.

  Mark had passed the detective exam and transferred to the Detective Division after six years on the Street Crimes Unit. He’d been a detective for nearly a decade now and had passed up being Division Supervisor not once, but twice. Everyone gave him shit for passing up the promotion, but Mark knew his nature. He wasn’t one to spend more than half his time slogging away at a desk, signing paperwork and delegating the more interesting duties.