Twice Bitten
Diana Greenbird
Copyright © 2020 Diana Greenbird
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN-13: 9798580901039
Cover design by: Racool_Studio
For every teenager who fell in love with reading at the time of the vampire hype, and all of those who have yet to jump on the bandwagon.
Prologue
It all began with double homicide. Isn’t that always the way a good romance begins? What’s love if not accompanied by the flashing of red and blue lights, a siren and some fluorescent yellow police tape? Certainly not a romance I’d have any part in.
My name is Olivia Morgan. Ironically, Liv is my nickname. Why ironic? Because, since the age of five, Death has been my ever-present companion.
It’s not something I asked for; it’s not a friendship I’m exactly pleased about. It just is. Sky is blue. Grass is green. Liv is followed by Death.
But let’s head back a little. Like I said: double homicide, me age five, orphaned. It was there that Death had decided he liked the taste of my companionship. So much so, a few weeks later, he took my grandma, too.
Fast forward twelve years and me and Death have had quite a few good times together. Sixteen foster homes; four group homes; two pervy “carers” meeting a grizzly end; several friends of mine on the missing persons lists; and I’d say around nine heart-stopping close calls where Death thought he might take our “friendship” to the next level and give me the ol’ kiss. He backed out last minute every time. Probably thought we had too much of a good thing going on to ruin it by making a move.
Death, quite frankly, was my oldest friend. It’s why I started to capitalize his name in my head and gave him a gender. I mean, if Mother Nature was a woman, it stands to reason that Death was a man, didn’t it? Ying and Yang.
With Death as your pal, you kind of stopped being surprised at how shit the world was. And I honestly believed – hand on heart – that I was un-shockable. Until I turned seventeen and moved to my last ever foster home.
Just when I thought Death had no more surprises up his sleeve for me, he whipped one out. And boy oh boy was it a good one. It even killed me.
1
The ride to my new foster home took under three hours. I could’ve taken public transport, gotten on a bus, put on some music and chilled for the trip, but I’d put in almost twenty-five hours’ worth of shifts each week at the mechanics for this bike and there was no way in hell I was leaving it behind. Plus, the pannier strapped across the back of my bike was filled with all my worldly possessions that hadn’t been shipped in boxes last minute from the old home to the next. That was a lot better than lugging the bags on different public transport.
So, two-and-a-bit hours later, my ass and legs were killing me, and the vibrations from the engine had seeped deep into my bones, but at least I had my baby with me. It was just me, my bike and the open road – which, as usual, left my mind to wander. It was my old foster mom’s goodbye which filled my head as I rode down the twisted overgrown roads in the final leg of my destination. Unlike most of my previous foster parents, me and Brianna had actually gotten on. Possibly because she hadn’t hovered over me, dictating my every move.
‘We’d keep you on if we could,’ Brianna had said to me, a crease furrowing her wrinkled complexion.
She wasn’t old by any standards, barely into her forties, but the burden of having any four foster kids at a time wore you down. Your body could only cope with so much stress before you started to see it on the outside.
‘It’s just… well, you know Mike has a no tolerance rule on violence.’
‘Technically, I hadn’t been the one-’
Brianna cut me off with a look. Our one rule was no BS. And I might not have been the one to bring a knife into school or thought it was a good idea to put it up to the loner’s neck for parking in their designated spot (territorial much?) but I’d sure as hell been the one to stab the bastard who had in the thigh. He hadn’t bled out or anything, though it had been a bit touch and go. Thankfully, my old friend Death was still on a vacation and wasn’t hanging around my every move like a gnat. Or I might have been in some serious trouble.
‘I know. I’m sorry,’ I said. That had really been all there was to say.
My foster brothers (Kyle, Garett and John), didn’t even bother to look up from their PlayStation when I said sayonara. I’d only stayed at the house for four months, but still. A little manners, you know?
‘Call me when you get there safe,’ Brianna said, as I packed up my bike. ‘And try with this town, please? For me?’
‘I always try,’ I said, attempting a winning smile.
‘It’s your final year,’ Brianna reminded me. ‘Maybe… try something different.’ Because my normal trying usually got me expelled, hospitalised or kicked out of foster homes. ‘Get involved. Make friends.’
‘I’ll be the posterchild for extra-curriculars and socialisation,’ I said, crossing my heart.
Brianna shook her head at me, before stepping back onto the porch and watching me drive off down the road. She knew better than to believe my lie. Since I started foster care at six years old, my motto had been to stick to the shadows, and stay by myself. I wasn’t saying it always worked, but any time I tried to deviate from that plan, Death reared his head and decided to screw me over.
Since, as Brianna had said, this was the last year I had to spend in foster care before I legally became an adult and could access the money my dead parents and grandmother left me, I figured sticking to the tried and true method was what was best for me. Avoid people. Avoid trouble. And if all else failed – run.
As I reached the small town I was going to be spending the last year of my “childhood” in, the weather turned from bad to worse. The overcast grey clouds were a permanent feature I’d gotten used to after spending my time bouncing from home to home across Washington, but there was something about being surrounded by water that made Seattle oh so miserably wet.
The clouds had opened up and I was soaked down to my leathers. I didn’t usually like to ride in the rain (Death being my best buddy and all), but it wasn’t like I had much of a choice. I was only a couple miles from Maybelle’s house, anyhow, so I was sure everything would turn out completely fine.
Honestly, I was pretty sure those words were going to be my last one day: everything would be fine. But, oddly enough, my bike had never let me down so far. I’d been in a car crash back when I was ten, but vehicles in general had been a pretty safe space for me these past seven years. So – like the naïve fool I was – I kept on riding at my steady pace, telling myself that in ten minutes I’d be out of the rain and safely ensconced in my new foster home.
That was when the figure appeared in the middle of nowhere. One minute it was a road empty of anyone, vehicle or otherwise, and the next there was a man just standing there.
I did what any normal human would do in that situation – I swerved.
And, Death, who’d not appeared for at least a month, chuckled.
Hello, old friend.
I woke up to the bright white of a hospital room; the smell of disinfectant and the sound of a heart monitor. I had all my limbs (that was a positive) and boy were they shouting for attention (that was not). Whatever was in that drip was clearly not part of the opioid crisis because I did not feel floaty and fun, I felt… like De
ath. How funny. My stitches (of which I could see at least twenty on my hand alone) were bursting from all the laughter.
Since this was neither a movie nor my first rodeo waking up in a hospital bed, my first reaction was not to pull out the IV in my arm. Instead, I slowly attempted to rise – put a stop to that immediately when my chest screamed bloody murder – and hit the call button by the side of my bed.
A nurse appeared a minute later. She had on pink scrubs, her hair tied up into a high ponytail, that had lost some of its pep probably five hours into her twelve-hour shift, and a smile on her face despite probably wanting to kill half her annoying patients and the doctors she worked with. Bless her cotton socks and ugly ass Crocs.
‘You’re awake!’ She exclaimed it like I was some coma victim who’d not opened their eyes in twenty years.
Since the TV hung up in the corner of my room was playing the news (Obama or McCain recycled propaganda we’d see until elections in November); I was guessing that wasn’t the case.
‘I’m awake,’ I said in a less enthusiastic tone.
She proceeded to check my drip, my chart, the vitals on the screen. She asked me how I was feeling, and I tried not to use my dark humour on her too much, but it was a chore.
Eventually, she told me she was going to tell my parents, who’d been waiting for hours since my surgery, that they could come in. I wanted to point out that unless she was some voodoo priestess or a necromancer, that wasn’t possible. She left before I could say a word.
That was when Maybelle walked in, followed by her hesitant husband, Ken. I recognised them from the pictures in their file I’d gotten the pleasure of browsing before being told to pack my bags by Mike.
Maybelle was medium height, brown hair, brown eyes and looked like she belonged living somewhere in the South, with all its charm and sunshine. Ken was as grey as a man could get without being old. If opposites attracted, they’d use Maybelle and Ken as their promotional success story.
‘I can’t believe you were out riding that thing in the rain!’ Maybelle cried. Her accent actually did have a Southern drawl to it. Go figure.
‘Oh god,’ I said, as if turning up in the hospital hadn’t been the worst of my realisations in the last half an hour. ‘What happened to my baby?’
‘You’re pregnant?’ Ken’s face paled – if that was even possible.
I choked back a laugh. ‘My bike,’ I clarified. ‘What happened to my bike?’
‘It’s a write-off, honey,’ Maybelle said. ‘Honestly, when they took you away on the ambulance, they weren’t even sure you were in one piece. Considering the state of that machine, I’m not surprised.’
The Frankenstein’s monster patch-job visible on my arms hadn’t brought me to tears, but hearing my baby was toast nearly did. I blinked back those traitorous little bastards. Liv Morgan did not cry. Especially in front of strangers.
‘You were in surgery for three hours,’ Ken said. ‘Multiple fractures, your lung was punctured, they said, by a broken rib. Not to mention all your-’ he coughed like he couldn’t quite get the word out. ‘-Flesh on your arms had to be sewn back together.’
I must have hit the road hard if the impact had managed to cut through my leather jacket. I tried not to be pissed, but that jacket had been expensive. And whilst I might heal – albeit at my ridiculously slow rate with a penchant for scarring – that jacket wouldn’t.
‘How long have I been here?’
‘A few days now,’ Maybelle said. ‘They put you in an induced coma for a while, to make sure there was no swelling on your brain.’
‘How soon can I get out of here?’
‘That’s probably not advisable-’ Ken said.
‘How soon-’ I said through gritted teeth, ‘-can I get out of here?’
‘I’ll ask the nurse,’ Maybelle said. And she disappeared.
However soon it was, wouldn’t be soon enough as far as I was concerned. I never liked hospitals. I didn’t know many people who did, but my reasoning had less to do with the memories of each time I’d been brought to one, and more to do with that little friend of mine. I didn’t like thinking that I was putting people’s lives at risk just by being there. A little ego-centric of me, sure. But you live in my shoes for a while, and we’ll see how optimistic you are about the people around you living out their lifespan.
I ended up spending the next night in hospital for “observation”, but after a steady stream of nagging, whining and overall trouble making, I was allowed to be sent home to rest and recuperate.
For the first time in my life, the doctors seemed to be pleased with the progress of my healing. More so than usual in fact, as when I left the hospital, they’d been simply astounded at the rate in which my body was putting itself back together after such a horrific crash. But that didn’t exactly mean it was life as usual for me.
My left ankle had a bad fracture that was apparently healing at record time, but it still meant that I was required to wear a controlled ankle motion walking boot. It was a step up from a cast, but it was still restricting. The crutches I needed to use with it were impossible, considering just by using them I was putting a strain on my chest and my ribs. Hence, my immobility for a week. I’d not exactly envisioned the last week of my summer holiday waking up in hospital and then on forced bed rest, but I couldn’t say I was overall surprised by the outcome.
Whilst me, my bike and the stuff I’d been wearing at the time hadn’t faired very well in the accident, most of my clothes and belongings inside my pannier bags were unscathed. So, once I’d been introduced to my new home and helped upstairs to my bedroom by Ken, I sat on my bed and watched as Maybelle pointed out the few things she hadn’t already taken out of my bags and the boxes that had been sent ahead.
The stuff she’d packed away were now housed in the chest of drawers or desk in my tiny box room. My Classics paperback collection was piled up on the windowsill, but most had to be hidden under my bed. Apparently, Maybelle didn’t like the “mess” of the tattered novels that had been my only companions the past decade of my life.
Strangely enough, a lot of the belongings she’d unpacked for me I hadn’t seen in a long time. Items that I’d thought I’d lost from moves between care homes – things I’d assumed had been stolen by other kids or even foster parents.
One last year for everything to fall into place, Brianna’s writing was scrawled on a note that had been left in one of the cardboard boxes. This was the least I could do. Good luck, Liv.
I don’t know how she’d done it – tracked down so many little pieces of myself from across Washington, but I was almost tearing up at the thought of how much effort she’d put in for me. I was glad I was far away from her now. She would be safe from me, at least.
I reminisced as I unpacked the boxes of items Maybelle had thought were too personal for her to put away. I hadn’t known what she meant by “private” since it wasn’t like I had any sexy underwear or sex toys for her to find, until I stumbled across the contents of the largest box.
Mementos from Christian. Tickets from the fall concerts we’d gone to, and “health snack” boxes that had once contained pieces of chocolate he’d snuck me in the house since the foster place we’d stayed at refused to buy anything with sugar. Notes we’d written in a code only each other could decipher. The small plush toy – the only one I’d ever had since I was six years old – he’d bought me on my birthday, a teddy barely the size of my hand. All things that I thought had been taken into “evidence” and never given back to me.
I clutched the teddy in my hand, possibly a little too tightly as the memory of Christian’s face returned. I could imagine every part of him. The softness of his buzzed hair on my fingers, the rough scrape of his stubble against my cheek, and the calluses on his hands. He perpetually smelled of oil and gasoline from working in the garage. I remember my clothes and bedsheets would smell of him for hours after he’d stayed with me.
My heart almost stopped dead as the memories of the good
times automatically led to our awful end. I rubbed my eyes, refusing to let any tears form in my weakened state and set aside the mementos, searching the contents of the rest of the boxes.
At the bottom of the last box was an item I hadn’t seen since my parents’ murders. A large gold ring made from intricate rope patterns looped numerous times, holding an oval lapis lazuli stone. It had been my mom’s ring. Whilst there was little I could remember about her, that one item stuck in my mind. I usually wore a plethora of fine silver rings, three on each hand with numerous stacked midi-rings, too, but since I’d been stripped clean at the hospital, my hands were bare.
I slid the ring onto my ring finger, where my mom had worn it when she’d been alive. Whilst it might have slid off me as a child, it now fit perfectly, as if it had been made for me.
Like the ring had snapped something in me – breaking me out of my morose state – I only took a moment to savour the feeling before I searched around for my other rings and slipped them all back into place, moving around my old silver accessories to accommodate the old heirloom. I could be fully clothed but still feel entirely bare if I didn’t wear my rings.
It was dark outside by the time I’d flattened out the cardboard boxes and put away the rest of my items. My memories of Christian had been returned to a cardboard box that I’d hidden in the back of my closet.
Maybelle called me down for supper, but I said I was too exhausted to join them. It was only half-true, but I didn’t want to set a precedent that I’d be joining them for meals. Some foster families had mealtimes set in stone and expected you to be there or face some dire consequence. Maybelle’s acceptance of me staying in my room meant she was likely one of the more flexible carers I would have. Some wouldn’t have even let me use my lack of mobility as an excuse. Even if I’d had both of my legs cut from me in the accident, I would have been expected to be prompt to supper and make polite chitchat until I was excused in the stricter foster homes of my past.
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