Sinister: A Paranormal Fantasy (Sinisters Book 1) (18 page)

Damien smirked. “You’re gonna make me?”

Matt couldn’t feel anything except an overwhelming need to wipe that smirk off of Damien’s face. Sucking in a breath, he leaped from the ground and tackled the other boy to the ground. Damien’s eyes widened almost comically, shocked by Matt’s attack. Matt took advantage of his surprise to pin his arms to the ground. He leaned in until their faces were scant inches apart and hissed, “I will make you. No more ‘accidental’ fouls.”

Damien’s eyes spoke murder, and Matt could feel the hatred rolling off of him. He opened his mouth to speak but snapped it shut just as Matt heard the footsteps approaching. The person felt...flustered. Matt quickly shifted his grip from pinning Damien down to helping him up.

“What is going on here?” Coach sounded slightly breathless as he stopped by the pair.

“Damien and I ran into each other when we were both going for the ball. No big deal. We’re both fine.” Matt threw a look at Damien, daring the boy to contradict him.

For once united in purpose with Matt, Damien chimed in with, “Yep, just a little accident.”

Coach glanced between the two, uncertain. Matt sensed that Coach didn’t believe them, but he also didn’t want to deal with two of his players fighting because it would mean a call to the police and all sorts of paperwork for the school. Not to mention, the inevitable suspension would ruin their chances at making the state tournament.

“All right. It’s nearly time for practice to end as it is, so we’ll wrap up now.”

Turning away, he blew three short blasts on his whistle, calling the team to him. With one final glare at Matt, Damien slid into the crowd.

Matt felt Dean and Jorge flank him, eyes on the spot where Damien had moved. Coach Huebner launched into a pep talk about the regionals game the next day, concluding with, “To get to the main concern I know you all have right now, the starting line-up will be Josh at goalie, Jorge, Liam, and Adrian on defense—” Matt flashed his friend a grin, congratulating him on the starting spot— “Derek at left midfield, Matt at center, and Damien at right. Dean will be left striker—” Matt could feel the grin start to spread over his face as Coach’s words sank in. He would play center midfield during tomorrow’s game, not Damien. Matt felt as though he had won a battle. Out of nowhere, Luke’s words came back to him.
You have new abilities that make you stronger and faster. Your reflexes will be better than an ordinary human’s.
With that memory came anger. Anger at Luke, for involving him in this without giving him information. Anger at Caracalla for doing whatever evil thing he was doing. And finally, anger at himself for not having control of the situation. The smile slipped from his face. It was hard to be too excited about soccer when the fate of the world rested on your shoulders.

Matt walked away as soon as Coach finished speaking, ignoring Jorge and Dean’s calls. He was going to get answers, one way or another.

Ϯ

"I know it doesn't do what he says, but I can't for the life of me figure out what it does do." Matt dropped his hand holding the amulet, letting the chain slip between his fingers to hit the floor with a soft clang. He had marched to Oliver's straight from practice, something that was quickly becoming a habit. He'd called Anna on the way to let her know to meet him, something he'd almost regretted when she wrinkled her nose upon seeing him and announced, "You stink." He'd blushed, wishing he'd thought to at least put on deodorant before arriving.

On his way over, an idea had started forming of how he could get the answers he needed. It was risky, but he was getting desperate. Before doing anything too drastic, he'd decided to discuss it with Anna and Oliver, which had led him to his current location on one of the few bare spots on Oliver's floor.

He munched on a dry pack of Ramen noodles, surprised at the pleasure the crunchy texture provided, as he stared at the silver-and-red on the ground. Something about the shape triggered a memory in the back of his mind. Where had he seen that shape before? It was a silver chain with a crescent moon on the end, very similar to the amulet but for the red stone. He could see it in his mind, a shining object against dark wood. It had flashed in the fluorescent lights...and then he had it.

"Guys, do you remember that necklace I found in Caracalla's desk drawer?"

The pair shook their heads.

"It was shaped like this—" He made a C with his hand. "I thought it was weird at the time, but now I'm pretty sure it was this amulet without the stone."

Anna perked up. "So it can do something! I mean, probably something more than what Luke said, right? Or else why would he bother taking the thing apart?"

"Exactly what I was wondering." They lapsed into silence. He was thinking furiously. The necklace had some strange property or else Luke wouldn't have given it to them, but there weren't many people he could ask to find out what. There was Luke, obviously, but he'd lied about what it did in the first place and presumably had a reason for keeping it from them. He'd seen Luke angry, and it was a scary sight to behold. He wanted to fly under the radar until he figured out what was going on. Elias might know, or Seiko or Mkembe, but he'd met all of them through Luke. If Luke controlled them, he couldn't expect much honesty on that front either. Which left just one person.

"Why don't we ask him?" Oliver said. His tone was oddly flat, reminiscent of a computerized voice, but Matt didn't give it too much thought since his friend was voicing his exact thought.

"Ask Caracalla?" Anna asked, aghast. "He's the enemy! He already threatened Matt, and for all we know he's responsible for those murders!"

Matt had filled the pair in on everything he'd learned from Sarah's dad, and Anna had taken it as absolute proof that Caracalla was evil.

"He's Luke's enemy, not yours." Without his usual animation, Oliver didn't seem like himself. And had he said yours, not ours? Matt gave a mental shrug. He supposed Oliver wasn't really involved in the fight.

"What about threatening Matt then?" Anna demanded. She leaned forward on her stool, looking ready for a fight.

"Wouldn't you be upset if someone broke into your place?"

"Yeah, but..." Anna cast a helpless look at Matt.

"I actually agree with Oliver," he said.

“What?” Anna said. “Why?”

"Don't sound so surprised," Oliver interjected, sounding a bit more like himself.

Matt flashed Anna an apologetic look, but said, "Luke's told us nothing but lies—"

"You don't know that," she interrupted.

"—nothing but lies as far as I can see," he continued firmly, "and it's always good to get both sides to a story before deciding who's in the right."

Anna rolled her eyes. "Yeah, unless we end up dead because of it."

"We won't die," he said, more confidently than he really felt. "Caracalla wants us on his side."

"He's the bad guy!" Anna's tone was pleading, but Matt wondered if she was pleading with him to believe that, or herself.

"You don't know that," he said, echoing her words. "At least this way we can hear both sides of the story."

Oliver stood up from the futon. "Agreed. Let's go."

Anna glared at them, hands on her hips. "Go where? We don't even know where he is."

Good point. He hadn't really considered how to find the man. Where would an extraordinarily rich person be on a Monday evening? If he were rich...actually, he'd be the same place he would be now if the devil hadn't interrupted his life. "He's probably at home watching football like any normal person."

"Right, so we'll just look him up in the phone book and waltz over there!" She threw her hands up in the air. "Maybe while we're there we can ask him why he killed those people, too, and nicely ask him not to do the same to us!"

"That's more or less the plan, yeah." He stood up and walked to the kitchen, pulling open a drawer. He shook his head at what he saw, though he knew he shouldn't really be surprised to see Oliver hoarded as much inside drawers as he did outside them. He plunged a hand into the mess and began riffling through the countless knickknacks and junk stored there, hoping to find a phone book buried within.

"I didn't get one," Oliver said. "Besides, I doubt a bloke that rich will be listed in the phone book."

He paused in his quest. Doubtless Oliver was right; no one who owned a company as big as VoTech would voluntarily give out information about himself. There were probably other ways to track a man like that, but he had no idea what they were. If only he'd decided to become a PI. There had to be a number of people who knew his house's location, though—employees, family, friends. He had a vague memory of Caracalla hosting a party at his home after VoTech was selected for use in the election. Anyone who attended would know the house’s address, but since teenagers didn’t usually get invited to events like that, none of Matt’s friends would know. Maybe their parents had gone?

A realization struck him, and he smacked his forehead as he realized how stupid he'd been to not think of it sooner. He did know someone who had attended that party. Not only attended, but also planned, prepped, and executed the entire event. He pulled out his cell phone.

The phone rang once, twice, then—“Hey, kiddo.”

He let out a whoosh of relief at the sound of her voice. She always had her cell phone because of client calls, but if she'd been on the phone with one, she wouldn't have picked up. “Hi, Mom.”

A moment later, he slammed the phone shut, the proof of success clenched in his right hand—a paper with Caracalla's address scribbled on it. It's a good thing I've always been the good kid, he reflected. His mom hadn't even questioned his tale that he and his friends just wanted to see what the software tycoon’s house looked like. She’d just recited the address in Maple Bluff and absent-mindedly told him to be careful, in a tone that said she'd recited that phrase so many times it had lost all meaning. He wasn't even sure she'd heard her own voice; her attention had no doubt already returned to whatever event she was planning now. His mom had never seemed to understand that evenings were for relaxing, not cramming in as much work as possible before meetings with the clients began again the next day.

Turning his thoughts away from his own imperfect family, he spun back to his friends— and came face to face with the full wrath of a teenage girl.

"You cannot seriously want to go talk to him." She'd stood up from the stool and managed to look down her nose at him, despite being a good half foot shorter. "I know Luke is the good guy. I can feel it in my gut, and my gut is never wrong. Can't you feel it?"

He patted his stomach, checking to see how it felt. Fairly flat, though a little less muscular than he would have liked. He felt nothing about Caracalla or Luke beneath his fingertips.

"Not like that!" Anna's glare turned lethal. "You aren't taking this seriously."

Not taking this seriously? He was trying to figure out why three people had been murdered, while being lied to on every front, and he wasn't taking this seriously because he wanted real information rather than gut feelings? He knew Anna put a lot of stock in her gut, but despite the intuitions he'd experienced lately, he still preferred real information. Last he'd checked, no court of law accepted gut feelings as evidence.

"Anna," he said through clenched teeth, "I am going to try to figure out why people are dying and if we can stop it. Luke's not telling us what we need to know. If you have a better way of getting info, I'd love to hear it."

"I…" She trailed off, some of the anger leaving her shoulders as she thought. "I don't, but Luke—"

"No." He cut her off, some small part of him amazed at his sudden brashness, his rudeness to a girl he'd hoped to impress. The Matt of three days ago wouldn't have believed it, but this new Matt was finding that there were more important things than getting the girl. Though he wouldn't mind both.

"I'm going to talk to Caracalla. You can come, or not." He held his breath, suddenly afraid she'd actually take him up on that offer. His newfound bravery didn't stretch to confronting potential murderers alone.

She squared her shoulders. "Not."

His stomach felt as though he were on an anti-gravity ride at the carnival, trying to stay in place while his body spun and slid.

"I'll come." Oliver's voice broke through the tense atmosphere, and Matt started. He'd nearly forgotten the Brit was there. As his words registered, Matt's stomach relaxed from the gymnastics it had been performing. He cast a grateful look over his shoulder.

Anna's eyes widened. "You're going—fine." She abruptly cut off her own surprised reaction. She spun on her heel and walked toward the door, her muscles so tense each movement was as jerky as a marionette's. "But don't come crying to me when Caracalla tries to kill you too."

The door slammed behind her, the noise ringing through the silent room long after she left.

The house sprawled in front of them, stretching in both directions as though it were trying to wrap its wings around the world. House was probably a misnomer, he thought. The better word would be mansion, since it was much closer to that than the four-bedroom home his family shared. This monstrosity made theirs look like a shack. It spread out in both directions from a columned entryway. Bay windows sat on either side of the door, like bug eyes staring at the two of them. The slate walls blended with the leaden sky, making the house appear even larger, and a wrought-iron fence covered in ivy surrounded the property. Somewhere nearby, a bird let out a mournful cry. Matt shuddered. This was not a welcoming house.

"Best just go," Oliver said.

Matt studied his friend's open face as though he could read some instructions in it. All he saw was a pert nose that betrayed his friend's relationship to Anna, and an emptiness in his eyes that could be fear, worry, or the absence of any emotion at all. He'd thought he was good at reading people, but he seemed to be incapable of it lately. He mentally relaxed and felt the barriers he hadn't even realized he'd erected go down. He'd expected a flood of emotion, but nothing hit him—not even from Oliver. He sent out a mental prod, reaching for the aura he knew surrounded his friend, even if he couldn't yet see it.

Nothing. He grabbed a bit of his own emotional swirl and cast it, aiming to hook into Oliver's. The line stretched out, reached within inches of his friend—then skittered off like rain down a window. He frowned, and his friend mirrored his expression. The hairs on his arms stood on end. Something strange was going on here. Of course, he might just not understand how to use his power yet. He reached for a new line.

A creak sounded mere feet away. Matt spun around to face the sound and saw the gate that blocked the driveway to Caracalla's house was swinging inwards. He had a sudden, vivid image of a horror movie where the door opens but no one is there. It never ended well for the people who went inside.

He cast a glance at his friend, who hadn't moved. He sucked in a deep breath and straightened his spine. He'd come here for answers, and he intended to get them. Without a word, he marched for the gate. His shoulder brushed the ivy as he passed through, making small rustling noises and knocking loose dead leaves, which fluttered to the ground and crunched beneath his friend's feet.

Through the gate, up the drive, over the river and through the woods...he found himself singing as he walked, an almost hysterical reaction to the stress. The driveway was long, and it took a while to reach the house. During the long walk, his feet turned to lead and his stomach twisted in knots. Was Anna right? Was he willingly walking into a trap?

Even with the length of ground he had to cover, he reached the front porch all too soon. Stairs stretched in front of him, leading to an imposing door of oak. He swallowed around the lump in his throat. Despite Oliver's presence, he felt very alone.

At the door, he hesitated. Should he just walk in, or ring the doorbell? He'd assumed the open gate was for him, but it could have been an accident or preparation for someone else. It seemed silly to ring the doorbell if they expected him, but he didn't want to just waltz in. He reached a trembling hand for the bell.

The knob turned.

The door swung in, as silent as a ghost. A gaunt man in a black suit stood in the opening. His skin looked paper thin and stretched across his skull like an ill-fitting mask. His eyes were sunk deeply into their sockets, making the irises indistinguishable. A bushy mustache perched incongruously on his upper lip like an overfed caterpillar. Matt couldn't help but wonder if it was pasted on.

The man beckoned the boys inside and slammed the door behind them, the sound echoing through the foyer. Matt couldn't help but gaze in amazement at his lavish surroundings. The entryway floor was white marble, with two red marble pillars supporting a twenty-foot ceiling. Beyond the columns, a polished wood hallway stretched out, lined with paintings. A staircase spiraled up to the right of the hall, circling a sparkling chandelier. The entire place looked like an English estate—or at least, what he imagined an English estate looked like. Add a few rolling hills and sheep, and the image would be complete.

They were led down the hallway at a pace too fast for him to see much more than a few blurred glimpses of painted landscapes, innocuous scenes that wouldn't ruffle any feathers. He had no doubt that the entire house had been carefully decorated to please; the CEO of a voting software company couldn't afford to make statements.

Near the end of the hall, the butler, or whatever he was, made a sudden turn into an open doorway. There, behind a large desk, arms behind his head and feet on the desk, sat Peter Caracalla.

He dropped his feet to the ground and leaned forward, placing his hands on the desk. He smiled. It was a carefully crafted smile, one intended to make the watcher feel as though he were the only person in the world Caracalla wanted to see. It terrified Matt.

The thin man ushered them into plush chairs in front of the desk and left, closing the door behind him with only the softest of clicks. Matt stared at Caracalla. Caracalla looked at Matt, then Oliver, then back, his smile broadening. Oliver stared out the window, his face blank. Matt swallowed around the sudden dryness in his throat.

"You—" The word stuck in his throat, and he coughed before continuing, "You probably want to know why we're here, huh?"

Caracalla's smile got even wider. "On the contrary, my friend, I know exactly why you're here."

A pen sat on the edge of the desk, and Matt picked it up in order to have something to do with his hands. He spun it in nervous circles. Caracalla eyed the pen but said nothing.

"You see," Caracalla continued, "I had a similar experience twenty years ago. I was so naive then, unaware of the great forces in battle around us."

Matt nodded uncertainly. There didn't seem to be a better way to respond.

"Luke told me he was fighting evil, and I believed him." He spat out the words as if they left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"Isn't he?" Matt asked.

Caracalla sighed and leaned back in his chair. "It's not so simple, Matthew. Luke started with the best of intentions, of that I have no doubt. But..." He paused theatrically. "People change over time."

He knew people changed. He himself had changed drastically in the last few days, but Luke still claimed to be fighting evil. Was he, or had he changed like Caracalla said? It was impossible to know who to trust. He glanced at Oliver, who still stared vacantly. Something was off there. He spun the pen faster.

"Lucifer stopped fighting against the evil growing in the world. Though he had the power to stop the atrocities of the twentieth century, the mass murders in Russia and Germany, the uprisings in the Middle East that claim thousands of lives, even the individual evils that add to the deficit, he refused to use it. There was a young man, only a few years older than you, who got into some trouble with the law right here in Madison. Luke could have helped direct him to the right path, but he refused. Instead, things escalated, and the man ended up killing a police officer and is now spending his life in prison. It was a tragedy, but it could have been prevented by the very man who says he wants to stop evil.

"Luke is not the person he claims to be."

"But why?" The words escaped him, though he hadn't intended to get sucked into Caracalla's story. He wanted to stay open-minded, but the man's words were persuasive, and he found himself thinking of the terrible things that had happened in the world while an angel who claimed to want to prevent that was on watch.

"Why?" Caracalla shook his head sadly. "Lucifer realized he would be more powerful if there were more evil in the world. He lives off the balance, true, but a few decades ago, he realized there were many ways to keep the balance. He could send sinisters out to correct those on the wrong path, but there was another option. You see, when an imbalance occurs between good and evil, the tension creates a corresponding power. This power is unreachable for humans, but angels are able to interact with it. Luke started siphoning off the power and keeping it for himself. The balance is maintained, so the world doesn't collapse, and he gets more powerful. If evil prevails, he gets stronger.

"So you see, Luke doesn't want to stop evil. He wants it everywhere."

Matt forgot about the pen spinning in his hand, and it clattered to the floor. His thoughts were racing, the pieces falling into place. Luke wouldn't tell them what Caracalla was doing, just that he wanted him stopped. The escalation of wars and weapons during the twentieth century, despite Luke's claim that he fought evil. The amulet he said was necessary to transport themselves to hell, when it clearly wasn't.

"The amulet," he started.

Caracalla cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Ah, the amulet. The one Luke no doubt claimed you needed to move between realms?" At Matt's nod, he continued, "In a sense, it does what he says. It does allow you to transport to the gathering place—and only to the gathering place. As a sinister, you are capable of moving between realms without assistance. The amulet prevents you from going anywhere else in hell. It restricts your natural capabilities. You're surprised? He's lied about everything else." He slid open a desk drawer and reached inside, his hand emerging a moment later, clenched in a fist.

He extended his hand and opened it, palm up. In the cradle formed by his fingers sat a small red stone that perfectly matched the one currently in Matt's pocket, embedded in silver. "The necklace itself is worthless, but this stone..." His voice trailed off as he gazed at the rock, lost in thought. When he spoke again, his tone was reverent. "This stone comes from the other realms. It can't be found anywhere on Earth. It has some very unusual properties, including the ability to act as a whole regardless of how many pieces it is in, or where those pieces are."

Matt frowned. "What does that mean?"

Caracalla looked up, his blue eyes boring into Matt's hazel ones. "It means all the pieces of the stone are connected, so Luke can call to any of them and see where you are at any given time. If he does something to affect one piece, it affects all of them. It’s almost like using a spell, but it isn’t magic. I simply don’t know a better word for it. In any case, that's how he stops us from moving to any part of hell."

They'd stepped from the world of science into folklore, and Matt didn't know how to react. Myths were...mythical, but his firm belief in the science he learned at school had been thrown out the window days before. He didn't even bother to question Caracalla's assertion; he had no doubt the stone could act just like he said, despite the science he knew saying that was impossible. Even physicists didn't believe Newtonian physics explained everything.

The rest made sense. Luke, of course, wouldn't want to tell them that the stone prevented them from moving freely between the realms, because that might lead to awkward questions. The gathering place wouldn't have doors because Luke wouldn't want them to be able to walk through hell when they wished. And being able to check on them through the stone would ensure that he could be prepared for any signs of discontent among his troops. It all made a sick sort of sense.

A noise from next to him made him look to his right. Oliver had pushed his chair back from the desk ever so slightly, and a pained look covered his face. Matt started. He'd forgotten his friend was even there, since he'd been so quiet. A chill ran down his spine. It was unlike Oliver to stay silent for so long, not interrupting with questions or smart-aleck comments.

"Oliver?" he tentatively asked.

The boy's head turned stiffly, and he smiled. It reminded him of the empty smiles that were painted on the faces of Carrie's old dolls. He shivered. Something was very wrong.

"What—"

The doorbell rang. Matt started.

"Levi will get that," Caracalla said. Before Matt could get a word in, he continued, "You no doubt want proof what I'm saying is true, since Luke will tell you I'm lying. Let me take you to the parts of hell Luke doesn't want you to see. Let me show you what our power can do, and how I use mine to truly prevent evil."

He rose and stood expectantly, but Matt sat frozen. His heart was pounding as though he'd played a full game of soccer. There was something seriously wrong with Oliver, but what? It was like Oliver wasn't even there, despite his body moving. It was one of the most disturbing things he'd ever seen. Then there was Caracalla. He could be lying just as easily as Luke was, playing a game where Matt was merely a pawn between two evil forces. He wanted the truth, and while Caracalla’s words made sense, Matt’s gut still told him the man was doing something wrong. He rubbed his eyes. Life was a lot more complicated than he’d thought. He dropped his hands to his side and straightened his back. He had come here for answers, but all he was getting were more words that could be lies. He needed to see the truth with his own eyes.

A commotion sounded from the hallway, and Caracalla stiffened. He angled his ear toward the door, listening, then his eyes snapped back to Matt's. He gestured impatiently with a hand. "Come now, we don't have all day."

Matt had turned his gaze back to his friend, worried about his strange behavior. "What's wrong, Oliver?"