Tortured Souls (The Orion Circle)

by Wheaton, Kimber Leigh

  “Okay, let me get this straight,” Raven says, pacing back and forth. “You suppressed the visions because they were hurting Kacie. But what’s this about a relic?”

  “Yardley bound the souls of the children he murdered to the ribs he extracted from their bodies,” I say, shivering from the memory of that awful vision. “We don’t know where he hid them. We’ve been through the whole house, looked at blue prints and everything. The property is so huge we don’t have time to explore it all.”

  “What’s the rush?” Gavin asks.

  Logan and I exchange a glance. Should I tell Gavin the truth?

  “Don’t try to lie to me, little sister. I can see right through you.”

  “Um, well, I don’t know how to put this, I mean it’s all speculation until we hear back from Dr. Hayes,” I say, staring at my hands to avoid his gaze.

  “Stop stalling and spill it,” Gavin yells.

  “Several people have died on Halloween over the last decade,” Logan says rescuing me. “Other than cause of death, we can’t find any correlation. They all died of a massive brain hemorrhage. That type of extreme damage tends to be related to supernatural causes. We think the Foxblood Demon’s been trying to possess clairvoyants and killing them in the process.”

  “And you think Kacie is next,” Raven says, her eyes wide with fear.

  “Halloween is only ten days away!” Gavin says, leaping to his feet. “When were you going to tell me?”

  “I wasn’t,” I reply, cringing from the angry glare plastered to Gavin’s face. “We don’t know if it’s true or not. It’s just speculation. And there’s nothing you can do about it anyway.”

  “We need to figure out how to induce the visions,” Raven says as she renews her restless pacing. “Have you tried going back to the scene of the crime?”

  “We can’t take her back there. It’s too dangerous,” Logan insists. “Last time Yardley attacked her and sent her flying about ten yards. He’s gaining strength, and he doesn’t like his personal stomping grounds invaded.”

  “He’s panicking,” Raven says.

  Her pacing drives Gavin to the breaking point, and he grabs her shoulders to stop her. “Please stop that,” he says, giving her a little shake.

  “Sorry, I think better when I pace.”

  Happy chimes from the musical doorbell fill the room, completely at odds with the dark energy. Without a word, Gavin releases Raven and stomps from the room heading toward the door. The moment Gavin’s hands are gone, Raven paces circles around the sofa like a vulture waiting for its prey to die. I glance up to see her eyeing me with an intense stare.

  “Let me braid your hair,” Raven says, dropping to the sofa beside me.

  I blink at her a few times in confusion. “Uh, why?” I ask, wondering about her sanity.

  “The pacing isn’t working,” she says, reaching for my hair. I turn around to give her better access. “I need to keep my hands busy. It helps me think.” Her hands make quick work of my long hair. “Damn, that didn’t take long enough.”

  “Mom!” Logan says in a surprised gasp. “What’re you doing here?”

  “Can’t a mother come by and meet the girl who’s stolen away her son?” Mrs. Finley asks in a cheerful tone. She laughs when Logan cringes. “I’m just kidding, hun. Though, I did come to see Kacie.”

  She floats across the room, the picture of grace. Her light blonde hair is tied back in a neat French twist with several strands artfully framing her heart-shaped face. Intelligence and wisdom gleam in her soft brown eyes. When she smiles, tiny creases appear at the outer edges, stretching to her temples. Reaching out, she takes one of my hands in both of hers. She taps one of her short, pink nails against the back of my hand in a steady beat. Her eyes drift closed, and she hums a melancholy tune under her breath.

  “Well, you’ve managed to stop yourself up good, my dear,” she says, making a clucking noise with her tongue.

  The first thing that pops into my head makes my cheeks burn—God, I hope she isn’t talking about bodily functions. I pull my hand from her grasp with the intention of burying my face to hide my embarrassment.

  “Mother!” Logan yelps. I glance up at him to see a flush creep across his tanned cheeks. “Think about things before you say them.”

  “What?” she asks, tipping her head to the side. I can see the moment his meaning sinks in. Her eyes widen and she throws her head back laughing. “Oh boy, I meant you’re psychically blocked. Sorry…”

  Yep, just what I needed. I meet my boyfriend’s mom and she’s busting up over a potty joke. I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry. Fearing I’ll do both, I keep my mouth shut in a firm line. When her laughter dies down, she grabs her large black hobo bag from the ground and roots through it while mumbling under her breath. With a cry of triumph, she pulls out a blue velvet pouch. She places it in my hands before making a gesture to open it. After untying the drawstring, I dump the contents into my hand.

  “It’s beautiful,” I whisper, turning the antique silver bracelet over in my hands. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  The bracelet is covered in strange etchings that look like some ancient runic language. It’s lightweight, which is surprising, given the size. The bangle is about two inches wide. A large silver bracelet like this should weigh more, and yet I can barely feel it at all. Near the clasp, several flowers are woven together with thorny braches. Briars, my mind whispers. The clasp opens with a tiny click, and the moment I place it on my wrist, it closes by itself. Within moments the bracelet shrinks until it’s the perfect fit.

  “Mom, is that…” Logan seems unable to finish his question.

  “It is, Logan,” Mrs. Finley says, rubbing her hands together. “The Briar Bracelet finally found a new home.”

  “It’s beautiful, Mrs. Finley,” I murmur, tracing the interlocking briars. “I’d like to say I can’t accept something this wonderful, but it feels so right on my wrist.”

  “That’s because it was meant for you,” Mrs. Finley says with a chirp of triumph. “I had a premonition and in it you were wearing the bracelet.”

  “How could you have a premonition when you’ve never met her?” Logan asks, confusion lacing his voice. “I thought that was impossible.”

  “It is, at least for me,” she replies, glancing over at her son. “But her essence was all over your clothes.”

  “Mother!” Logan gasps, dropping his face into his palm.

  “What did I say this time?” she asks perplexed. She waves her hand in the air. “Never mind. When I picked up your clothes to do the laundry, there was enough of Kacie’s essence on them for the premonition to come through. I think it’d been trying to for days. Would explain the headaches and my constant need to be near the bracelet.”

  While playing with the clasp, I realize it won’t open. “Um, Mrs. Finley, why can’t I take the bracelet off?” I ask, trying to remain calm as my fingers scratch at my wrist.

  “The bracelet chose you, Kacie,” she says in a nonchalant tone like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “It will only come off if it’s safe.”

  I’m not sure I could be more confused than I am right now. Taking several deep breaths, I count to ten before speaking. Logan has mentioned in the past that his mother is scatterbrained but well-meaning. I glance over at her, noting her serene smile. I’m stuck in a strange bracelet and she’s calm and happy.

  “Safe?” I ask in a squeaky voice. I have so many questions, but I don’t think I can voice them without screaming.

  “Is it chafing you?” Raven asks with a horrified look on her face.

  Good, I’m not the only one who thinks it’s strange to be shacked by a bracelet—no matter how pretty it is. It’s odd. Whenever I wiggle the bracelet it loosens a bit and moves with my hand. The moment I stop it tightens up again, hugging my wrist. I feel like it should bother me… and yet…

  “Oddly, no, it doesn’t bother me at all,” I say, twirling it
around my wrist. “Other than the fact I can’t take it off, that is.”

  “That just means you’re in danger, dear,” Mrs. Finley says in a cheerful tone that belies her words.

  “Mom, please explain in detail,” Logan says when she doesn’t continue. “You forget, Kacie isn’t from a long line of witches.”

  “You’re a witch?” I ask, my eyes widening at the thought.

  “Yes, dear,” she replies with a small laugh. “I thought you knew. Logan, haven’t you told her anything?”

  “Wait, if she’s a witch does that make you a warlock?” I ask, glancing at Logan with a sly smile.

  “Not necessarily, but yes I am,” he says with a sheepish expression.

  “So you have magic power?” I ask breathless.

  “You’re reading too much fiction into the term witch,” Raven says with a grin. “Modern day witches don’t have to have any powers at all, though I suppose some do. Lots of witches are potion makers or spell casters, but don’t have any supernatural powers. It’s a recessive trait passed down in families. But really anyone can join a coven.”

  “Are you a witch too?”

  “No, but I’d like to be,” Raven says. A dark look full of pain flashes in her eyes before she hides it behind a smile. “I was hoping to find a coven here.”

  “It looks like you’ve found one,” Mrs. Finley says.

  “Really?” Raven asks in a gasped whisper.

  “Mmm-hmm. Our next gathering is on All Hallows Eve.” Mrs. Finley turns to eye me with a knowing look. “You’ll be there too, of course.”

  “I will?” I ask. Pushing up from the sofa, I cross the room to escape that look in her eyes.

  “Now that the bracelet chose you, it’s obvious you’re descended from a line of witches,” Logan says, watching me with what appears like awe. “You’ll want to learn about your ancestry. Right?”

  I nod, unable to put my thoughts into coherent words. “About this bracelet…” I hold up my arm, reminding everyone about my new shackle.

  “Yes. It responds to dark energy around us,” Mrs. Finley says as she digs through her enormous handbag again. “When dark energy surrounds you, it will help shield you from that power. If my premonition is correct, it will come in handy very soon…”

  She trails off into incoherent mumbles while she pulls various articles from her bag and sets them aside. Normal items mix with strange and some things I can’t begin to identify. Does she carry all this around everywhere she goes?

  “Ah, here it is,” she says in a triumphant shout. “I’ll need to speak with your father before giving you this.” She dangles a few teabags from her fingers.

  “Dad’s out on a date with Dr. Hayes,” Gavin says with a shrug.

  “No way!” I say, suddenly glad Daniel went home. Though, I can hear his voice in my head plain as day.

  Is Dr. Hayes going to be your new mommy?

  “Oh, that’s perfect,” Mrs. Finley says, pulling out her cell. “I can talk to them both at once.”

  My lips curl into a melancholy smile as I sit propped up in my bed by five pillows. It’s been so long since I’ve had a mother fuss over me. Did my mother ever fuss over me? Memories flood my mind—constant scolding, drunken cry-fests, and yes nestled among them were moments of affection.

  Tears burn my eyes. I bite my lower lip in an effort to keep the tears at bay. After so much time convincing myself I didn’t need her, the truth is… I need my mother. Several tears fall from my eyes, and I wipe them away with the back of my hand.

  “Sweetheart, why are you crying?” Mrs. Finley asks as she enters the room carrying a small tray.

  She sets the tray on my nightstand and cups my cheek with her hand. A lump forms in my throat at the tender gesture, making more tears slip from my eyes.

  “I miss my mother,” I whisper, biting my lip hard enough to taste blood.

  “Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry,” she says, pulling me into a tight embrace. “Logan told me about what happened. It isn’t fair, is it? But I want you to know how much your father loves you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Just a guess, based on what Logan said,” she replies, patting my back. “It can be very difficult for someone to make the leap from sceptic to believer.”

  “I’m not sure he believes,” I say, breathing a heavy sigh.

  She shrugs. “And yet he supports you all the same.”

  “Now…”

  “Better late than never.”

  “Cliché,” I mumble before my hand flies to cover my mouth. I can’t believe I just said that.

  “Perhaps,” she agrees with a dry laugh. “Though, forgiveness is next to Godliness.”

  “I thought that was cleanliness,” I choke out through laughter.

  “Is it?” she asks, raising her brows. “Well, that’s just an odd phrase then.”

  We share a snicker. I feel a pang of regret, a physical ache in my chest. Mrs. Finley enfolds me in her arms again, resting her cheek on my head.

  “If you join our coven, I’ll be your high priestess,” she murmurs, her breath rustling my hair. “Many look to me as a mother figure.”

  “I think I’d like that,” I say, pulling back to smile at her.

  “Great,” she says as she takes the coffee mug from the tray. “This tea is my proprietary blend. It will not only help ease you into a vision, but also maintain control of the vision.”

  I take a sip. “This is amazing.”

  I take a larger gulp of the tea. It tastes of cinnamon and vanilla with a hint of something I don’t recognize, an earthy flavor. Before I realize it, I empty the mug. Without a word, Mrs. Finley refills the mug from a small carafe.

  “This is your last cup,” she says, handing the mug back. “No more than two cups a day of this tea. I mean that literally, by the way. Two normal size coffee mugs or teacups. None of those travel cups. Oh, and only drink it at bedtime or when you’re ready for a long nap.”

  “What will happen if I drink more?”

  “The tea also induces sleep,” she says while fussing with the tray. “You might be out for a while if you drink too much.”

  I’m already feeling sleepy, and my head drops back against the pillows before I can finish my second cup. The coffee mug is removed from my grasp by gentle fingers. I try to thank Mrs. Finley, but my mouth can’t seem to form the words. As I’m drifting off to sleep, I hear soft laughter.

  “Works every time,” Mrs. Finley says. Her voice sounds far away. “Sleep well and may the Goddess watch over you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Night Visions

  My mind wakes from a deep sleep in confusion. I blink my eyes against the darkness. When I wish for light, humming fluorescent bulbs sputter to life, bathing the room in flickering yellow light. What a strange place. Concrete walls, floor, and ceiling with no windows.

  Cots line the walls, three high, nine on each side. Old gas masks are heaped in one corner. I push aside a curtain and choke down a scream. A mannequin dressed in a hazmat suit and gas mask stands in silent vigil over the room. I poke at it with one finger, half expecting it to grab me. Nervous laughter bubbles out when the mannequin remains unmoving. Creepy with a capital C.

  A metal door with a circular valve handle takes up the majority of one wall. After giving the mannequin one last poke, I walk toward the door. The handle is icy cold, sending a shiver from my fingertips up my arm.

  Righty tighty lefty loosey, echoes in my mind. It’s my father’s voice from long ago. Back before my mother left and I used to help him with his household projects. Though I use all of my strength, the handle won’t budge. I know this is a vision, but I can’t help the intense feeling of claustrophobia that grips my chest. My breaths come out shallow and close to panicked.

  “Help us,” a plaintive voice cries out. It sounds like a young boy.

  Gulping, I turn to face ghost Michael with his lolling head. His face is contor
ted in fear, and his form is much more translucent than last time. The ghost passes through a large metal shelf against the back wall. With tentative steps, I follow Michael. The shelf is filled with canned food. I pick up a can and a layer of dust puffs into my face making me sneeze. There’s no date on the can, but I can tell from the label that it’s old. Chunky chili with beans. More like botulism in a can…

  “Please,” Michael pleads in a whisper.

  “Where are you?” I ask, my eyes darting around for his ghostly form.

  His head peeks out through the lines of cans. “Behind here.”

  “How do I get back there?” I try to move the shelf but it merely wobbles a bit in place.

  “Take the lock off the back wheel then roll it.”

  On my hands and knees, I wriggle into the small space between the shelf and the wall. The tiny metal lock is stubborn and refuses to turn. Grunting in frustration, I continue to twist it between my thumb and finger. When it finally gives way, I almost cry in relief. My finger is bright red and would be bruised tomorrow if this wasn’t some sort of vision or out of body experience. With a gentle shove, I push the metal shelf enough to create a gap large enough to slither through. Crawling forward on my hands and knees, I enter a small tunnel even my dog Kodiak would have trouble fitting through.

  At the end of the tunnel, I emerge into a small, round room cut out of the natural limestone. Candlelight flickers off the walls. I rise to my feet, brushing the dust from my legs. For some reason I’m wearing my pajamas in this vision. Jeans and a sweatshirt would’ve been more suitable. Michael appears before me, hovering next to a crude altar surrounded by numerous red candles. On top of the altar sits an object macabre enough to make my stomach roil in revulsion. A necklace made from thirteen ribs of all different sizes.

  A rush of adrenaline surges through my body. This is it—the object binding the children’s souls to this plane. All I need to do is destroy it and this nightmare will be over! I reach for it, but my hand passes right through as though it’s not real. It doesn’t make any sense! I could touch the shelves and the door and the stupid can of chili. Why not this?