“Come on,” she hissed against the darkness, hoping an audible plead might chase away her thoughts, might chase away the feeling that her thoughts were being watched. Listened to.
Power crackled in the air around her, inside her. It was enough to bring her back from the dead. But not enough to spring her out of the coffin.
Witch-22.
Chapter 3
More time passed.
Sophie didn’t know how long.
She still had oxygen left, so there was that.
Who the fuck had buried her, anyway?
Normally her corpse was thoughtfully abandoned in the open air, her murderers not caring enough to even bury her in a shallow grave, let alone a coffin.
But now she had people who cared.
People who cared enough to fucking bury her in a silk lined coffin.
“Fuck!” she screamed, slamming the heel of her hand against the fabric.
The best money could buy.
“Isla, you fucking bitch,” she screamed, forgetting the need to conserve oxygen.
She kicked against the top of the coffin, hoping it would have some give.
There was a slight thump as her combat boot hit the fabric, as the wood tried to move against the tightly packed soil on top of it.
Of course there was no give.
Coffins weren’t designed to open again once they were closed.
Graves weren’t filled in with the intention of making it easy for someone to dig themselves out of.
It was kind of the point.
She kicked again, for something to do more than anything else.
Her boot caught against something solid.
Something familiar.
Sophie contorted her body, trying to reach down to her feet at the same time she tried to move the object upward into her grasp.
“If there was ever a time I wish I did yoga it was now,” she muttered into the damp air.
No, who was she kidding? Not even now did she wish she did yoga.
Plus, she only had to dislocate her shoulder in order to grasp the bottle at her ankle and haul it awkwardly up her body.
The pain of the bone moving from its socket was actually welcome.
She always woke up feeling numb, empty, temporary, after death.
Life was the most temporary thing, after all, and she was cheating it by coming back from the dead. She’d always reasoned it was some kind of punishment for cheating nature, that emptiness, that chill. That was why she came back with a little less of herself and a little more of a malevolent force that would eventually destroy her.
`Even before the grave decided to grace her with more powers she’d always had the sense, always had a taste of the future.
Another thing she didn’t tell the coven, even as a child she knew this was another secret that she needed to keep.
She’d always known her destiny was to be buried. To claw her way back up from the grave.
She also knew her destiny would eventually be destruction.
The burn of the best vodka in the world chased away some of the worst of the grave’s chill.
Her best friend at least buried her with the good stuff.
“Okay, Isla, let’s hope you were crazy enough to give me a phone to Snapchat you from the grave,” Sophie muttered after another long swig.
She shouldn’t be talking to herself aloud.
Not because it was a sign of the unhinged.
She was proud of being unhinged.
No, because she was aware of the finite amount of oxygen afforded to someone—even a seemingly deathless witch—buried alive.
But even the most unhinged of witches needed a shred of sanity to come back from the grave with.
And the silence inside the object in which she was fucking entombed was enough to make her want to claw out her own eyeballs just so the tearing of her flesh filled up the quiet.
So when given the choice between clawing out her own eyeballs or chatting to herself like she was in One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest—she was going full Jack Nicholson.
She inspected herself with hope her bestie went full nutso in the face of her death and did decide to bury her with a cell phone.
Of course, no normal person, or even a normal vampire would do such a thing.
Sophie smiled as her hand closed around smooth metal tucked into her bra.
Isla was no normal person, nor was she a normal vampire.
The fluorescent light smarted against Sophie’s eyes as she pressed the home screen of the phone. But it meant she hadn’t yet clawed her eyeballs out so there was always a silver lining.
The screensaver was Isla flipping the bird.
Something smarted in Sophie’s chest area.
Isla was grinning, of course. It was one of her best ‘fuck you’ grins.
She was impeccably made up. Her red hair was shiny, curled into long and loose ringlets, arranged artfully around her face. Her winged liner was absolute perfection. Her skin was alabaster and flawless—Botox had nothing on vampirism.
Of course her friend was a hot ass bitch.
But she was empty.
And despite what the fanged hottie liked to say, she cared about things. Even humans. She never killed innocents—well, not in the past century at least—and only fed off those who deserved to die.
She would kill for those lucky enough not to be on her ‘to murder’ list. And that consisted of only Sophie, Duncan, Thorne, Lucille and though Isla wouldn’t admit it...Scott.
Everyone in the supernatural community thought of Isla as insane and unpredictable, with no fealty to her race.
Humans would see her as heartless.
But it was often those who seemed cruelest on the outside that had real kindness on the inside.
Of course Isla would de-limb anyone who even alluded to her being kind. She had ripped digits off Scott’s hands for a lot less.
But there was a heart there.
Not just because it had started beating again most recently for her Awakening.
Because a slayer—a human man who was born to kill vampires and protect humankind from monsters that were only meant to exist in nightmares—stole that heart that Isla pretended she didn’t have.
Sophie definitely wasn’t one for romance, but she knew that what her vampire had with Thorne was something.
And not just because there was a prophecy about their love. Not just because their love had been one of the main reasons they were currently in the middle of a supernatural war. Though, war was the biggest signifier of true love, in Sophie’s opinion.
Though it wasn’t the war that had made Sophie certain.
It was the pain that was awakened in her best friend when she and Thorne met.
Love was not sunshine, hearts, and rainbows.
Love was broken bones, severed flesh, and darkness.
Love was agony.
Sophie only became aware of this when a werewolf came into her life.
Now, she was reminded of just how painful love was.
Because yet again, she saw the pain in her soulmate’s eyes.
No matter what Conall said, they were not soulmates.
Her soulmate was a sarcastic, bitchy and murderous vampire.
Her best friend.
The one who had buried her in a silk lined coffin. Who had made sure she had a bottle of the most expensive and rare vodka in the world buried with her. Who shoved a fucking cell phone into the bra of her corpse and the put a screensaver with her flipping the bird and a caption reading ‘Fuck You for Being Dead.’
Her best friend who was wearing rouge on her lips, Chanel on her body and agony in her eyes.
Chapter 4
Sophie took a rough and deep breath that stole too much oxygen as she unlocked the phone.
“No fucking service six feet under,” she muttered, glaring at the screen.
There was no long-distance provider in the world that catered to the dead, it seemed. A total gap in the market.
&n
bsp; She flipped through the photos for something to do other than scream in frustration as her power lay dormant.
There was the photo that served as a screensaver, of course.
And there was a video.
Her thumb hovered over the play icon.
She couldn’t listen to the video. Couldn’t hear the voice of her best friend saying goodbye to her while she was lying in a coffin.
Her hand not holding the phone twitched.
It was either that or start to claw her own eyeballs out just to chase away the silence.
She pondered it for a second.
Sure, clawing at her eyeballs would hurt, like a lot.
But was there really a pain worse than witnessing someone you love in agony?
Sophie pressed play only because she knew that when her powers came back, she needed to get out of this coffin without having to pause to regenerate torn eyeballs.
Isla’s face flooded the screen.
“You are such a bitch,” she declared, her voice sharp.
The red-haired vampire scowled. She paused. Her demeanor barely faltered, her bitchy grimace was still firmly in place, her makeup flawless. She was ivory. She was the vampire that killed without blinking, the warrior who didn’t need saving, who was the villain and the hero at the same time.
But then she wasn’t.
She was missing something.
Something that scared the shit out of Sophie.
Because she was responsible for taking it from her.
She was responsible for being too fucking cautious, too fucked up to tell her bestie that she had a nifty habit of coming back from the dead. She didn’t tell the coven, because she knew they’d lock her away forever. She didn’t tell anyone else either because such knowledge would be useful for enemies to use against her.
And before Isla, all Sophie had was enemies.
Isla would never use the information against her.
Isla would likely be gleeful and jealous.
Of course she would’ve demanded to kill Sophie just so she could watch her come back to life. They were best friends, after all. But if Sophie told her about being able to come back from the dead, she’d have to tell her what she came back with.
And that would probably freak Isla out.
Isla didn’t freak out as a rule, but telling her that she brought back a power she didn’t understand, a power that hungered to destroy the end of the world—yeah Isla would freak.
She’d want to help.
Isla would do anything to help Sophie.
And Sophie was learning about the future. Learning to taste how her actions might affect it. And she’d known that if she told Isla before now, it would kill Isla. She didn’t know how, that was the thing about seeing the future—it was spotty on the specifics, but she knew it would cause her best friend’s death.
Isla could come back from a lot of seemingly mortal wounds, Thorne’s blood was meant to kill her, but instead, it saved her. That was a one-time thing, Isla could not escape true death. As it was, she’d only just narrowly escaped a curse put on her from some of the most ancient and dangerous witches of Sophie’s kind. They were still warring with them and had that particular witch, Malena, in a cage in Sophie’s offices.
So technically she might’ve saved Isla’s life not telling her about the depth of her powers, but that meant every bit of pain on Isla’s face in the video—everything missing from her vibrantly evil vampiric bestie was on Sophie.
“I’m mad at you,” Isla continued in her sharp tone. It was good. Almost convincing. But if there was anyone who could see through the false courage of a woman it was another woman who adored her.
And they might’ve called each other bitches and whores and threatened to blow each other’s apartments up on a semi-regular basis, but they adored each other.
“I’m so fucking mad at you,” Isla whispered, her mask slipping completely. “You died. You weren’t supposed to die. Like at all. It’s the whole fucking point of being an immortal. And if you were meant to die it was meant to be with me in a Thelma and Louise situation with much better hairstyles and outfits.”
Isla paused again.
Sophie squeezed the phone. A tear squeezed out of her eye.
“But that blaze of glory was meant to be after we set the world on fire,” Isla hissed. “You are not meant to leave me alone with a beating heart, a husband, and fucking Scott.”
Sophie let out a hiccup at the thought of the half-blood vampire that she and Isla had unwittingly adopted. He was entirely kind and good. Sophie and Isla kept him around in spite of that.
“Everyone thinks I’ve gone crazy,” Isla said. She grazed her red lip with an exposed fang. “Or I guess everyone thinks I’ve gone sane since I was already pushing the limits of sanity,” she corrected. “Which of course means they’re freaking out. If there’s anything to rely on, it’s insanity. And I’m the beautiful and undead embodiment of that. Among other things like stellar bone structure and glowing personality.”
Isla grinned, showing full fang and not an ounce of true happiness.
“I haven’t spoken to anyone,” Isla said, whispering again.
It was unnerving, hearing her friend so quiet. Isla always made sure she was heard. That she was the center of attention. She didn’t usually need to speak to be the center of attention, she usually preferred to draw someone’s blood. But never did she whisper.
“That’s not technically true, I’m speaking to you,” Isla continued. “Or since you’re fucking dead—I hate you for that, by the way—I guess I’m speaking to myself and since I don’t feel like a vampire, or even a human, I’m not speaking to anyone.” Isla screwed up her nose. “I killed Jonathan by the way.” This time somewhat of a genuine—albeit bloodthirsty and unhinged—grin swept across Isla’s face. “It was horrific and fabulous.” She screwed up her nose again. “Or it must’ve been since I was covered in blood and bone at the end of it. I can’t rightly remember the whole thing which pisses me right off. I should have cataloged every moment of murdering my ex-husband who tricked me into falling into love with him, faked his own death, started a race war and worst of all, colluded with my mother.”
Another pause.
A longer one.
Sophie didn’t breathe.
It was conserving oxygen, but that wasn’t great since suffocation sounded preferable to seeing the continued pain of Isla’s face. Hearing the sorrow in her faux murderous voice.
It was like a car crash or a bad reality show, Sophie just couldn’t stop watching.
“Okay, not worst of all,” Isla said. “He kidnapped me, chained me to a wall in a dungeon naked, and tortured me, which isn’t anything but a bad version of foreplay. I handled that. It wasn’t ideal, of course, but I’ve been through worse.” Her green eyes shimmered. “I would’ve gone through worse, witch, for a fucking eternity if I didn’t have to sit here talking into a phone that I’m going to bury with the corpse of my fucking best friend,” she hissed, the video shaking as she shook the phone in fury.
“I know you would be mad that we’re burying you and not giving you the Viking funeral we decided on, but I couldn’t do it, dude.”
Isla sucked in a harsh inhale, which said a lot since the vampire didn’t even need to breathe.
“I couldn’t set you on fire. I couldn’t reduce you to fucking ash. I already did that with Duncan,” Isla whispered, barely audible.
Sophie’s chest area clenched again.
Duncan, the vampire Scottish mercenary—one of their closest friends—had his head ripped from his shoulders at Isla’s wedding.
By Isla’s ex-husband.
The one responsible for starting the supernatural war that they were in the middle of.
The one responsible for breaking Isla’s human heart, turning her into a bloodthirsty vampire who spent decades killing innocent humans in order to escape her pain.
And then she spent centuries torturing herself with the death put upon her and the d
eath she put upon others as a result of that.
Sophie had never wanted another being dead in her entire existence.
And that was saying something, considering the witches who had brought her up.
“I don’t care about people for this exact reason,” Isla snapped. “Because when they die, I have to deal with it. And I’m selfish. I don’t like dealing with shit. Especially not the prospect of a world without you. Seriously, this world may as well end right here.” She glanced over her shoulder and then down to her hand that Sophie knew wore a sizeable wedding ring. She should know, she was the one that married her and Thorne.
“I can’t wish the end of the world because there are more stupid people that my stupid weak soul is attached to.” She glanced up again. “How the fuck can I keep caring when people keep dying? How do I stop caring, Soph? How the fuck could you die?”
Silence.
Silence so deafening, even ripping the skin from her bones wouldn’t drown it out.
“You died, and I’ve got to stick around, because that’s what happens, right?” Isla asked, glaring at Sophie through the screen. “Even immortals die and it’s just bad luck if you’re the last one standing. I’ll promise you now, Sabrina, I will be the last one standing. I’m going to end every fucking immortal piece of shit that was responsible for leaving me without my Thelma.”
“I’m Louise,” Sophie hissed at the phone.
“I’m Louise,” Isla snapped jarring Sophie enough to think her friend was actually speaking to her in the present.
Soulmates could have conversations from the grave, it seemed. Even if it was arguments about who was which character in an iconic nineties feminist film.
“That’s my promise, Hermione,” Isla said. “That I’ll kill every single one of them. And though I don’t feel like doing so, I’ll do what Gloria Gaynor told us to do. I will survive. And I’m not going to your funeral because the only funerals I go to are the ones where you and I get drunk and insult everyone and start some kind of brawl.”
Such Violent Delights: A Holiday Paranormal Romance Anthology Page 40