by Cristy Rey
“I can think of no other reason for Constance to have hurt him. You have to believe me that he was a friend to us all. This house was procured through Ryan. He was a proper witch and a good friend. There are many kinds of people out there, Sunday, and many of them need a safe place to be themselves and practice at their wont. Not many communities are friendly to our kind and many places have a history of, let’s say, handling what they deem to be unsavory sorts in horrific fashion.”
It was difficult for Sunday to leave Eunice’s house that evening, and although she hadn’t said she would never see her again, Eunice said goodbye to Sunday as though it was the last time that they would ever meet. She offered Sunday an open invitation to her home, to Columbia, if she ever saw fit to return.
From Eunice’s house, Sunday drove to Sammy’s. Any minute now, Cyrus would come to and realize that Sunday wasn’t coming back. For the moment though, with the road ahead of her and the warlock behind her, Sunday found herself returning to the reason for her involvement in the entire event in the first place, her friends. She’d spent enough time making her goodbyes with Eunice that she didn’t have much time to spare on anything else before getting the hell out of Dodge. Regardless of his condition and lack of transportation, Cyrus would come calling as soon as he awoke, and the first place he would try would be Sammy’s house.
Sunday left this as her last stop before hitting the road to nowhere special. She knew she wouldn’t be able to set aside enough time to reconcile her ‘need to go’ with her ‘want to stay’. Moreover, she knew that nothing Kayla or Sammy could offer would get her to stay. They would see right through her, and they would beg, manipulate, and make it impossible for her to sever their ties cleanly.
Watching them from afar was deceiving. Kayla with her bleached blonde hair and Sammy with her neat bun talked in the living room of Sammy’s house. Sunday watched them through the window that Sammy never quite managed to cover with the drapes. Her friends, she realized, weren’t the cookie cutter caricatures that would play themselves in the television movie of her life. They were real people with dynamic, unique personalities. The long nights of staying up with Kayla to watch reruns of Elvira’s monster movie classics. The days of catching rays with Sammy in the backyard while her kids were at camp. She’d never experienced these types of things before this year.
Having them meant having everything, and at the risk of putting them in more danger, she couldn’t stay and relive those memories or make new ones. When the phone rang for the first time since she’d left Cyrus, Sunday took her cue to start the car back up and make her way to the nearest highway that would take her far west of Columbia—of Kayla, of Sammy, and of everything else she’d leave behind. Where she was going, she didn’t know, and it didn’t matter, so long as wherever she ended up, she didn’t find a reason to stay.
EPILOGUE
At a bar on the wharf in San Francisco, Cyrus loomed as the bartender rubbed his stubbly chin, forcing himself to inspect the photograph again, raking his memory to appease what looked like a biker with a bad attitude and an axe to grind. The call had come in just as Cyrus and Angel walked into the bar: The Pastophori contacted Stephen, the Alaska Pack Alpha, to schedule an in-person conference. The pack’s failure to recapture the Incarnate no doubt weighed heavily on their minds. They’d want notes on what Cyrus and Angel had discovered in the last few months, and Cyrus wasn’t keen on providing them with anything.
Cyrus’ hazel eyes snapped up to the barkeep. Every second that the man lingered on that photograph was a second that Cyrus didn’t have to waste. Stephen had already flown out from Anchorage to meet with Blake Proctor, the Pastophori of Iset’s lead crony. San Francisco was Cyrus’ last stop before he headed to Alaska to get a recap of the meet. The bartender needed to get his shit together pronto.
“Is there a problem?” Cyrus barked. He drummed his fingers on the glass of his half-drunk whiskey.
“This chick, man,” he said, “she doesn’t ring a bell. I tell ya, I don’t think I’ve seen her around here. I think I’d remember if it wasn’t too long ago.”
Angel clapped his hand over Cyrus’ shoulder. The ink on his knuckle tattoos was as fresh as it had been when he’d turned for the first time fifty years earlier. HELL. The bartender’s gaze fell over them, and he audibly gulped. These guys weren’t the type he wanted to piss off. By the looks of them, they were pissed off enough already. The way the big bearded one’s eye narrowed and nostrils flared when he told them that he didn’t recognize her, though, it was clear that his answer hadn’t gone over well.
“She your girl?” the bartender stammered as he handed back the photo of Sunday.
“Nope.”
Cyrus took a final swig of the whiskey the bartender poured in his glass not two minutes earlier. He hissed at the sting of liquor, and tapped the glass to gesture for another. Angel whistled beside Cyrus as a buxom blonde walked into the bar. Petite but nonetheless voluptuous, Angel flew to attention the minute she’d crossed the threshold. Cyrus hadn’t bothered to look. There was only one woman in the world who mattered, and she sure as shit wasn’t in this bar. Likely, she never had been.
“This girl,” the bartender started as he poured Cyrus another drink. “She know you’re looking for her?”
Sunday smiled in that photograph. She looked over Cyrus’ shoulder. Long, brown tresses catching in the wind, a riot of vibrant flowers painted on her shoulder, and honey eyes that sparkled… that girl knew she was being sought. She’d never known any different to be sure, but now, she knew who was doing the looking.
“She’s counting on it.”
He only hoped he’d find her soon enough for both their sakes.
PLAYLIST
Rebel Girl - Bikini Kill
Little Lies - Fleetwood Mac
Midnight Creeper - Eagles of Death Metal
Devon - Grimes
Burn the Witch – Queens of the Stone Age
It's a Curse - Wolf Parade
Wolf Like Me - TV on the Radio
Soon - My Bloody Valentine
If the World Ends - Guillemots
The Queen of all Returns - Dead Meadow
Demons - Sleigh Bells
Witchcraft – Wolfmother
The Lucid Dream - The Life and Times
Gold Dust Woman - Fleetwood Mac
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I am absolutely the luckiest girl in the whole world, and I’m not just saying that. The Incarnate started over ten years ago, back when supernatural quasi-romance and self-publishing were pipe dreams with no hope of making it to the surface. You are reading this book because Crystal Walbert encouraged me to make it so you could. There is no amount of thanks that would be too much for her. Along with Crystal, Andrea Vivas read chapters as I wrote them and, because of both women’s unyielding passion for Sunday’s and Cyrus’ stories, I was able to complete the book in record time and, most importantly, believe I had something worth sharing.
Thanks to Erin Fitzpatrick Mihlek for getting so excited about Sunday and Cyrus that she’s spread the word even before second drafts were ready to go. You’re my first fan and my favorite fan. 4evar your grrl. In no small way, thanks to Kai Ruiz, Roy Ugarte, and Anibel Saenz. I seriously don’t know how anyone can function without them. You all don’t know what you’re missing.
At the very last leg of Sunday’s long journey, author Trudy Stiles introduced me to Katie Mac and her team at Indie Express. I went from doing this totally DIY with a cursory knowledge of self-publishing to having an experienced, supportive team at my side. Thanks to my wonderful new beta readers, Lesley and Jennifer, and to my incredible editor, Katie.
None of this would be possible without my parents who besides, you know, giving me life, won’t rest until they see one of my books published. Silvia and Luis Moran hold the parenting playbook. They also watch Sons of Anarchy. I’m just saying. They’re the coolest.
Last and certainly not least, my partner, my other, my boo, Adrian, who makes
me coffee, buys me cigarettes, and lets me ignore him for days on end while I write non-stop until the wee hours of the morning. You really are the best…but don’t let it get to your head. You’re still not posing as Cyrus for the book covers. Not. Gonna. Happen.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Indie writer. Reader. Knitter. Giraffe. Short hair enthusiast. Fairy godmother. Coffee addict. Pet parent. TV show marathoner.
Cristy Rey lives in Miami, FL. She is a reader and writer all of the time, and a knitter much less of the time than she was six months before she took up writing again. She lives with her other half, Adrian, and her dog, Henry Holmes, and her cat, Lenore. If you met Cristy, you’d probably inform her that she’s tall since people seem to think that, before anything else, they should make sure she’s aware of that fact. She and her friends get together to drink tea, eat scones, and talk about Sherlock. They sometimes pretend they’re a book club but that’s just their excuse to get together. Cristy has already written the follow-up to this book of the Incarnate Series, and she wants to know what happens in the end just as badly as you do.
You can find me:
Website: http://www.cristyrey.com
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/cristywrites
Email: [email protected]