“Over here,” Father said, standing next to the front seat and motioning.
I followed Lindsey to Father. Brett lifted up the floor, revealing a hidden compartment that ran the width and length of the van up to the front seats. One by one we quickly slid into the space. A large, burning, timber landed on the windshield, sending shards of glass everywhere.
“Hurry,” I yelled to Father.
Stepping into the compartment, Father grabbed a backpack. He opened it and handed each of us a canister with a straw attached. He stretched out on the floor between Lindsey and me.
Brett, lying on my other side, raised his hand, and pushed a lever. Steel beams moved into place above us. He turned a switch. A humming sound of a motor and a soft breeze surrounded us.
“Drink,” Father said, opening his canister.
Removing the cap, I knew it was venotrolia. I inserted the straw and struggled sipping it in the confined space.
“This isn’t easy,” Lindsey commented.
“Try to get at least some of it down,” Father said.
“Did Brett call you after I talked to him?” I asked Father.
“No,” Brett said. “Lance already knew.”
“How?” I asked, suspiciously.
“Before you left Bismarck, you saw a lawyer and had a will drawn bequeathing all Sara Jones’ assets to my clinic,” Father said. “I assumed there could be a problem. Two days later, I received your spider container from a Billings’ police officer. He wanted verification the spiders enclosed were the same type that had bitten you and Saul. After that, I flew to Houston. At the same time I had fireproof suits and this van delivered from Billings.
“How did you know you’d need them if Brett didn’t tell you?”
“I called him before I left,” Lance said.
“But Lance was already on his way,” Brett justified.
Banging, crashing, shattering continued outside when a loud explosion wildly shook the van, causing it to jump at least three feet and jerking it around. I thought it was going to tip over. It stopped, slightly tilting at our feet.
“Relax, we’re safe here,” Father said, squeezing my hand.
The throbbing sound of a fire engine approaching came through the van.
“I thought it would take them longer to get here,” Brett said as the sound grew louder.
“What happens now?” I asked.
“We wait without saying a word until the floor above us opens,” Father said.
I turned my face toward Brett. He stretched his neck and gently kissed my lips. “Try to sleep. It’ll help your body heal.”
I wrapped my fingers around his thumb and closed my eyes.
After listening to pounding, yelling, and the screeching sound of the van tottering back and forth for what seemed like hours, I dozed off.
Flying back to North Dakota, I felt good I had freed those girls and caused a ripple in the corrupt Crussett family business. I wanted to find ways to continue to use my powers to help others like the kidnapped girls. I was glad my relationship with Conner was over. The man I had fallen in love with didn’t exist. Maybe part of me would always love some aspects of Conner. The wonderful memories of the good times we had spent together couldn’t be wiped away. Although, they were beginning to fade as thoughts of more ways I could destroy the corruption that surrounded him swept through my mind. With the exception of his injured leg, Conner’s family would believe he walked away from the fire unscathed. I knew that wasn’t the truth. The woman he had loved was gone—Sara Jones was dead.
An article appeared in The Texas Daily News entitled: “Caden Crussett Indicted for Murder.” An excerpt read: “Mr. Crussett started a fire in a warehouse to cover up his crime. A few innocent bystanders had been injured trying to get everyone out the building before it became engulfed in flames. During the episode Caden Crussett was bitten by a poisonous spider. He is currently in a coma at St. Mark’s Hospital. After he recovers, he will be arrested for the murder of Sara Jones.”
The End
Continue the spine-tingling series with Sarah Jones, armed with her new Tegen abilities, as she hunts down a murderous crime family in Tegen Justice.
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About the Author
Inge-Lise Goss, a USA Today Best Selling and Multi-Award Winning author, was born in Denmark, raised in Utah, and now lives in the foothills of Red Rock Canyon with her husband and their dog, Ted. She spends most of her time in her den writing stories. There, with her muse by her side, her imagination has no boundaries, and her dreams come alive. When she’s not pounding away on the keyboard, she can be found reading, rowing, or trying to perfect her golf game, which she fears is a lost cause. Connect with Inge-Lise online, and learn more about her books.
www.Inge-LiseGoss.com
Rob Blackwell: A Soul to Steal
A Soul to Steal
By Rob Blackwell
Author’s Rating:
Language: *** Sexuality: ** Violence: **
For your convenience each book in this collection has been rated by the author for language, sexuality and violence, so that you as a reader can make an informed choice.
Our collection includes books that span the intensity range.
Language Intensity:
* - No or mild profanity, if any
** - Stronger profanity, with up to 5 uses of the f-word
*** - Strong language
Sexuality Intensity:
* - Sexual reference or no sexuality
** - Sexual reference which might include some details.
*** - Intense, descriptive sexual scenes
Violence Intensity
* - Violence, but no gory details.
** - Mild violence, fairly detailed with some blood
*** - Detailed violence
Copyright 2019 by Rob Blackwell
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This work is entirely fictional. Any similarity between characters and persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and pretty much all in your head. While Leesburg and Loudoun County, Va., are real places, I have taken liberties with the geography.
Blurb
“Contemporary reporters stumble into ancient powers and modern urban fantasy gets a colonial Gothic twist. Blackwell's smartly original series is heady — and headless — good fun."
— Melissa F. Olson, author of the bestselling Boundary Magic and Scarlett Bernard series
A Celtic legend and “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow” collide in A Soul to Steal, a bestselling Kindle novel that deftly combines urban fantasy, mystery, and suspense.
A serial killer on the loose, two reporters in his sights, and a legendary ghost haunting the town...
Lord Halloween, a vicious murderer who targeted Loudoun County, Va., twelve years ago, has returned. Quinn and Kate, two community journalists, race to uncover his identity before a promised bloodbath on Halloween. But to stop him, they may unleash a far darker threat — and pay an unimaginable price.
A Soul to Steal has been featured on USA Today and praised by book bloggers and readers alike for its thrilling combination of urban fantasy, mystery and suspense.
“With the combination of an ancient Celtic myth and the legend of the Headless Horseman, Blackwell's story is a leave-the-light-on kind of page turner... If you like suspenseful thrillers, check out A Soul to Steal.”
—Indie Reader [Featured on USA Today Books]
“The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this enchanted region, and seems to be commander-in-chief of all the powers of the air, is the apparition of a figure on horseback, without a head. It is sai
d by some to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose head had been carried away by a cannon-ball, in some nameless battle during the Revolutionary War, and who is ever and anon seen by the country folk hurrying along in the gloom of night, as if on the wings of the wind.
Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, which has furnished materials for many a wild story in that region of shadows; and the spectre is known at all the country firesides, by the name of the Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow.”
—Washington Irving, “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow”
“The situation is a good deal worse than we expected. Robert has barricaded himself within the castle walls and refuses to see me or Doctor Frank.
I have grave concerns for his well being. Based on discrete inquiries into his activities, it appears your son has been publicly proclaiming himself some kind of Celtic prince with mystical powers. My contacts tell me he has some kind of ‘event’ planned for the feast of Sanheim—All Hallow’s Eve.
I know you have always tolerated your son’s youthful artistic endeavors, but I worry he has gone too far. Word of his indiscretions could undermine your position if they reach London. I beg you to travel here as soon as you are well. There are some things that should best be discussed in private.”
—Letter from David Burns to Sir Richard Crowley, Oct. 16, 1873
Horace Camden, “The Prince of Sanheim.”
1
Wed., Oct. 4, 2006
Quinn stood in the living room, a large kitchen knife clutched in his hand. It had been the first thing he thought of when he woke up, bolting from bed and heading straight for the only weapon he had in the apartment.
Just what good a knife, or any weapon, would do him was not clear. It did not even make him feel better. He just stood at the door, waiting for something to come through it.
It was a dream, of course. Just another in a long string of nightmares. But it didn’t matter. He could not shake the feeling—no, the certainty—that something was coming for him. It could arrive at any minute. Worse, it may already be here.
Quinn’s hands were sweating. The sound of his breath was so loud he held it briefly just to ensure there was no one else there. How many nights had he stood here, waiting for a demon that wouldn’t show? How much sleep had he even had?
He glanced at the clock on his wall, saw the hands creep past 5:42 a.m. He mentally calculated that he had four hours sleep even while he anxiously watched the door.
It would pass, he knew. He could not even remember how long he had been standing here. Fifteen minutes? Twenty? His heart was still racing. If he was lucky, he hadn’t screamed this time. If he had, he was certain to hear about it from Gertrude upstairs, who seemed to believe he was shouting in the middle of the night as a result of Satanism or some bizarre sexual practice. Somehow the real reason—a bad nightmare—just didn’t cut it with her.
He wondered if he could at least bring himself to sit down. That was usually the first step toward calming down. Never taking his eyes off the door, he retreated to his armchair on the back wall.
Janus had often joked that Quinn was the only guy he knew whose recliner was angled away from the television. Quinn never told him the reason why.
After another fifteen minutes, the feeling of something watching him, waiting for him, began to subside. By the time 6:15 a.m. rolled around, he could at least look away from the door for 30 seconds at a time.
By 6:40 a.m., he felt good enough to get himself a drink, pulling a Coke from the fridge, popping its top and gulping it down in giant sips.
He lay down on the sofa and thought briefly of picking up the remote. But he worried. What if he turned on the TV and his dream was on it? It had happened before.
He should be used to this, he thought. His nightmares began when he was a kid—but back then there was at least some feeling of relief when he woke up.
Lately, Quinn had not felt that way. Instead, his dreams had taken on a tangible feel. The sound of a horse chasing him, the smell of the pine forest as he ran through it, even the feel of his feet slipping in the clay as he ran down a hill. In contrast, waking life felt vague and indistinct, as if it were the dream and not the other way around.
Quinn heard a thump at the door.
He was out of his chair in an instant, the knife back in his hand. The Coke in his lap had spilled to the ground, now seeping out its remaining brownish liquid onto the white carpet.
He waited for the thing to come through the door. After what felt like an eternity he realized the noise had not been caused by any monster. It had just been the delivery kid dropping off newspapers near his front door. Quinn’s body sagged in relief.
He sighed and went back to the kitchen, putting the knife on the counter and picking up some paper towels to soak up the spilled soda.
He waited another ten minutes before going to the front door, opening it quickly and pulling the two papers inside. The first was the Washington Post, a must for anybody living in the suburbs of the District of Columbia. He dropped it on the ground as he sat back down.
Instead, he turned his attention to the Loudoun Chronicle. The lead story had a headline, “Loudoun Board rejects new subdivision.” Another talked about a push to protect the site of a Civil War skirmish off Route 15. There was a giant photo of a football player catching a ball underneath a headline that read “Potomac Falls claims victory over Broad Run.”
At the bottom of the page was a smaller headline that said “Phillips Farm Debate Started.”
“Jesus, that will get their attention,” Quinn said sarcastically to the wall. The wall had never answered him, but Quinn had begun to worry in his present state it might. Then he knew he’d be in real trouble.
He sighed. The tiny by-line—By Quinn O’Brion—would undoubtedly go unnoticed by most who bothered to read the story. But it hurt just a little to know he had worked two days on a story only to see the headline turn into a bright neon sign warning people not to read any further.
“Phillips Farm Debate Started,” he said. “Why don’t they just say: ‘Boring White People Fight More,’ or ‘Trouble Sleeping? Read Further for Cure.’”
Quinn didn’t read any further.
It was hard not to be frustrated working for a paper that seemed to publish the same stuff every week, poring over the most minute details of life in Loudoun County, Virginia. Year to year, you talked to the same people, wrote many of the same stories. And even when you had a good story—and the Phillips Farm debate mattered, he believed—it probably wouldn’t register.
He dropped the Chronicle on the ground and picked up the Post. He leafed through it to find the “Loudoun Extra”—a 15-page insert that attempted to replicate a local paper. The Post had been on a kick lately. Seeing increasing numbers of readers turn to the Internet for news—which was free—the paper had begun local inserts in several regions.
The end result was that fewer residents felt the need to subscribe to papers like the Chronicle. It did not matter that the Chronicle’s staff had worked here longer or knew people better. People didn’t want to subscribe to two papers anymore.
He glanced at the Extra’s headlines and groaned. “Gibson set to unveil new Phillips plan.”
“Shit,” Quinn said.
He read the story quickly. Sure enough, Paul Gibson, the chairman of Loudoun’s board of directors, had begun circulating a plan that would give a developer two-thirds of the old farmstead, but protect the rest under a conservation easement.
All his work, Quinn thought, and his story was already outdated. There was seldom anything worse than waking up and discovering you had been scooped. How had it happened? He had talked to everybody, including Gibson. And no one had breathed a word about any new plan. Damn.
He did not even need to look at the by-line. He knew Summer had beaten him and she would find some way to bring it up the next time they met.
Quinn dropped the paper in disgust and got up. He stumbled down the hall to the bathroom. H
e stopped when he passed the mirror above the sink. In the reflection was a 30-year-old of average height and regular build—he was thin enough, but not in great shape. He put his hand through his brown hair. Were those gray hairs? Maybe it was the nightmares. Was he good looking? He didn’t know. There seemed little exceptional about him.
Except…his eyes. He stared back at himself with electric blue eyes. An old girlfriend had once told him his eyes were the only reason she had agreed to go out with him. She had been on the verge of saying no when she looked him in the eyes. And then she changed her mind.
Quinn smiled, but the expression held little humor in it. If his eyes had ever been arresting, he doubted anyone would notice now. His skin looked gray and pallid, as if he hid himself from the sun. And his eyes were surrounded by dark circles, the sign of a man who does not sleep well.
Jesus, he thought, I look…haunted.
He turned on the water and washed his face, as if to brush the look away. But the only change that occurred was his reflection now looked wet.
Screw it, he thought. It didn’t matter.
But just as he turned and reached for the shower faucets, he paused and listened intently.
Quinn grabbed the side of the shower door to steady himself. That couldn’t be right, could it? He walked into the hallway slowly and then to his window to look outside. His apartment faced the back, looking over a brief sparse of woods before another cluster of apartment buildings.
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