Obsidian Eyes (44 page)

Thank you to my family, who make me feel normal, because doesn’t every family discuss the zombie apocalypse over dinner? To my son who advocates explosions as a plot device, I say “Look, Tom, I blew something up!”

This book would never have come this far without the awesome Curiosity Quills family. A special shout out to Alisa for her invaluable insight, Cait the ninja editor and Matt for his attention to detail on the final read through.

Finally, I need to thank Allie and Jared for waiting so long to have their story told. This journey began about twenty years ago, while I stared at the flashing green cursor on my Amstrad. That story was space opera but then we detoured into epic fantasy. Years rolled by and the story changed. We tried thrillers, ghost stories and even (please forgive me) an incarnation of Jared as a vampire.

In September 2010 my home town was hit with a 7.1 earthquake and everything changed. The quakes kept coming over the years, including the fatal one in February 2011. They affected thousands of us in different ways. I became fixated on how random everyday decisions resulted in death or serious injury. Eat your lunch at your desk or grab some fresh air? Bus or walk? Do I stop at this store window or carry on? Each a coin toss with devastating consequences. From the dust and rubble I found a goal, to finish this story.

Allie and Jared now have a beginning, but where will it end?

  Books and writing have always been an enormous part of Anita’s life. She survived school by hiding out in the library, with several thousand fictional characters for company. At university, she overcame the boredom of studying accountancy by squeezing in Egyptology papers and learning to read hieroglyphics.

Today, Anita writes steampunk novels with a sexy edge and an Egyptian twist. She lives in rural New Zealand surrounded by an assortment of weird and wonderful equines, felines, canine and homicidal chickens.

Sunday, June 23

here was something cathartic about wielding a crowbar. Cara used one end to loosen the tacks, before ripping up the expensive, patterned carpet. She tossed the strip in a growing pile by the wall. She never intended to remove all the carpet, but with the cool metal bar in her hand, she lost herself in the rhythm of tearing away a layer from her father’s sanctuary. Pushing a deep auburn spike of hair from her forehead, she took a moment’s break from the dusty work. As spring gave way to summer, Cara found the air inside the narrow terrace house stuffy and oppressive, a situation exacerbated by her current labour. She flung open the second-storey window, took a large breath of London air, and coughed. Coal smoke and steam belched from the horseless carriages below and spiralled past her window. The combination of the narrow street and tall buildings forced the vehicle emissions skyward.

She blinked the stinging smog from her eyes and leaned on the casement as she surveyed her work. She had taken up most of the library carpet, the floor underneath finally revealed. Coated in several years of dust and grime, the boards appeared dull in the morning light. Pacing the floor, she knew she was close; a spot to one side called to her. The hairs on the backs of her arms rose as she walked the bare boards.
Ah. There.
She saw wooden planks stained a slightly darker colour. A maid spent hours on her knees there. With a scrubbing brush and bleach, she had tried to wash away the blood before the new carpets were laid.

There was an old saying:
blood will out
. Cara wondered if this was what her grandmother meant.
You can scrub as hard as you want, but you can never remove the taint, not once it leached into the porous fibres of the wood.
The stain became a permanent reminder of the violence committed.

Cara remembered she lay on the floor, unaware her blood soaked the carpet and seeped into the floor beneath. Darkness crept over the floor and surrounded her numb body. Oblivion wove tendrils around her, sight the last sense she relinquished. Her vision turned black as her fourteen-year-old self watched her father. He took a book from the shelf and pressed the hidden lever, before the waiting darkness swept her into blessed unconsciousness.

Twenty-one-year-old Cara fixed her line of sight and walked to the bookcase. The book in question was
Justine
by the Marquis de Sade. She snorted at the irony. She and Justine shared a similar experience at a young age, but Cara was grateful she never followed the unfortunate literary heroine’s sad path. She removed the book and balanced it in her hand. The leather was a dark red, soft and supple from years of hands caressing its surface. The book was a valuable first edition, as were all the volumes in the library. Her father had expensive tastes and a love for the finer things in life. He valued his material possessions above all else. Even his only child.

She hadn’t been back to the house since that day seven years ago. She refused to return until he was dead. Otherwise, she would have been tempted to help him shuffle off his mortal coil.

She placed de Sade’s book on the desk and peered in the gap on the shelf. Not seeing anything remarkable, she inserted her hand and pressed the wall beyond in an experimental fashion. The panelling shifted under her fingers. She pressed harder and heard a soft
pop
. Brushing the brown suede ends of her morning coat out of the way, she folded her long legs, resting on the balls of her feet to see what the lever activated.