Tortured Souls (The Orion Circle) (2 page)

“That’s one word for it,” I reply with a deep sigh. “Sometimes I wish I didn’t care about Dave’s future either. Let’s get out of here.”

We walk outside, leaving the deafening noise of the party behind. Out here, the bass from the music is a droning thump I can feel like a second heartbeat. I take a deep breath of fresh air, sighing as the tension leaves my body. Parties are just not my thing. I always seem to run into ghosts. Perhaps they’re drawn to the noise or excitement. As we walk away from the party, we pass several cars with couples making out in the backseats. A black pickup has some girl’s legs dangling out the passenger window.

“It’s a truck,” Logan says, shaking his head. “Something wrong with the bed?”

I snicker at his remark, and glance up at him from the corner of my eye. He’s staring right at me, his eyes sparkling in the dim moonlight. My eyes dart around, looking for something to comment on, something to say. We pass a bouncing sedan.

“Really?” I mutter under my breath. “You’re doing it parked in front of someone’s house…” A light flickers on downstairs in the house we’re passing.

“Crap, we need to get out of here,” Logan says, taking my hand and jogging down the street.

“Where’s your car?” I ask, glad I wore hiking boots rather than heels to the party.

“I walked,” he replies as we round the corner. Halfway down the street he slows to a walk. “I think we’re far enough away, don’t you?”

“We’re walking home?” I ask a bit surprised.

Granted it’s only about half a mile away, but my friends drive everywhere, even down the block. When he drops my hand, my heart falls just a little. Well, maybe a lot. But I continue walking alongside Logan, casting surreptitious glances whenever he isn’t looking. He’s tall and lean with broad shoulders that would suit a football player. But Logan runs cross country with me. His long legs are covered in torn jeans, faded to a light blue. I wonder if they’re as soft as they look.

“It’s not far, Kacie,” Logan says chuckling. “It’ll give us a chance to talk about what happened at the party.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, trying to appear perplexed.

My hand moves to my stinging lower back like it has a will of its own. I gasp in pain when my shirt scrapes across the skin.

“Let me see your back,” Logan says, stopping to face at me.

“Nothing’s wrong with my back,” I mutter, staring at the ground.

He grabs my shirt, lifting it to bare my lower back. He hisses. “Damn, you’ve got three deep scratches.”

“Crap,” I cry out, jumping away from him. “Must’ve been a cat or something.”

“I know you felt the presence,” Logan says. He crosses his arms over his chest. “The spirit attacked you. I was there. Now tell me what’s going on.”

“I, uh…” I try to think of something, anything. But I freeze under his knowing gaze. “I think I was a bit sick.”

It sounds lame, I know. But I learned a long time ago never to reveal my abilities. Regular people don’t understand. They think I’m lying, or worse crazy. Old habits die hard.

“I was there, Kacie,” he says in a soft, gentle tone. “Please don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. Besides, Mandy doesn’t even have a cat. And those scratches are fresh.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I say before walking away down the street.

My footsteps become faster as my feet slam against the concrete. Whether I’m running from Logan, the ghost, or myself, I don’t know for sure. My lungs burn, but not from exertion. I run track and cross country… no my endurance is fine. Fear prickles the back of my neck, shooting a cold chill down my arms. The last time someone I cared about discovered my ability they left and never looked back. I like Logan too much to allow that to happen.

“Kacie, wait,” Logan says, jogging beside me. His stride is much longer. I’m running and he’s barely loping. “Please, just talk to me. I can help you.”

“Look, just drop it, okay?” I blurt out after skidding to an abrupt stop. “I need to get home. I’m sure everything will be a distant memory by morning.”

“Are you sure this is what you want?” Logan asks with a scowl creasing his forehead.

“It’s for the best,” I reply as I start walking again.

Wow, I ran farther than I realized. I make a right turn onto my street, Logan following behind. Why did this have to happen? I really like Logan, and now my stupid abilities have messed it up just like they mess everything up. He walks me to the front door. If I hoped for any privacy, I blew it big time. The front of the house is ablaze with lights. I think Dad turned on every downstairs light as well as the porch light. After digging out my key from the front pocket of my jeans, I turn to face Logan.

“Thanks for walking me home,” I say while twisting my fingers together. “And thanks for dropping it too.”

“Sure, Kacie,” he replies, tipping his head to the side. “You wanna go running with me tomorrow morning? I go every morning before school since afternoons are still too hot.”

“Um, yeah, what time?”

“I’ll come by about six,” he says, his lips curving into a smile.

“Don’t knock or ring the bell,” I warn him, cringing at the thought of Logan waking my dad or brother.

“You got your phone with you?”

With a sigh, I pull the iPhone from my back pocket and hand it over. He programs his number into my contacts and sends himself a text.

“I’ll text you in the morning when I get here,” he says before waving goodbye.

Standing at the door, I watch him jog down the street and disappear around the corner. Somehow I manage to keep from banging my head against the front door. In all my daydreams about Logan, not once did I imagine this night’s events. Sometimes I think fate hates me.

Chapter Two — Can Nightmares Become Reality?

Chapter Two

Can Nightmares Become Reality?

Horrifying broken pictures shatter the tranquility of my once pleasant dream. Though I scream in my mind to wake up, I know I won’t be able to. I’m captive in my own head while the gritty scenes play out in stark black and white, flickering like an old silent movie. I run from the phantom chasing me. When I slip in a dark gray puddle, my body collides with the ground, my hands slapping into the viscous liquid. Blood. The sharp, pungent odor assaults my nose, telling me this is no ordinary dream.

I stare into the sightless eyes of a teenage girl sprawled across the grass like a broken, discarded doll. Her legs bend beneath her at impossible angles, the bone poking through the shin of one leg. Blood seeps from her shattered skull, flowing to the grass in rivulets to pool around her lifeless body. As I try to crawl away from the broken girl, I sense the approach of a monster, the man responsible for this gruesome display. With a tiny whimper I surge to my feet. He’s on me in a flash, and I scream a wordless keening cry before my airway is forced closed. My sanity begins to shatter then everything goes mercifully black…

Somehow I manage to tear myself from the gut-wrenching dream. I bite my lip to keep from screaming. Blood pours into my mouth, and I gag on the metallic taste. As my heartbeat begins to return to a normal rhythm, I untangle my body from the sheets holding me captive on the floor of my room. Lurching to my feet, I try to comfort my mind, ease my quaking nerves. This is the fifth night in a row I’ve had this dream. It’s always the same, always in black and white, gritty, the images jerky.

I haven’t seen the attacker, the monster responsible for the grisly murder. The faceless phantom hides in the darkest recesses of my mind. He chases me for several minutes in the dream, but I never turn to face him. Deep down I know if I face this dream monster, something awful will happen.

Leaving the sheets on the floor, I move back to sit on my bed, staring into the room, but only seeing the dream. Vision, my mind insists—it was a vision not a dream. My gaze falls on the red numbers on the digital clock resting on the nightstand. Five twenty-seven in the morning, just three minutes before my alarm would have jarred me awake. With a resounding sigh, I turn off the alarm and switch on the light. Logan will be here in half an hour.

Crossing the bedroom, I pull some shorts and the Aggies jersey Dave gave me from my dresser. After tugging on some socks and tying my running shoes, I run a brush through my long hair before braiding it in pigtails. I check out my reflection in the mirror. Dark circles stain the skin beneath my eyes. Though I could try covering them with makeup, I’d rather not wear makeup jogging. Some of the girls on the cross country team run with full makeup covering their faces. By the end of a run they all look like scary clowns with smeared, sweaty streaks. No thank you. Logan will just have to accept me
au natural
. I do look quite adorable in the twin braids. Those and the dusting of freckles across my nose give me an innocent farmer’s daughter look.

Creeping from my room, I tiptoe down the carpeted stairs. Dad hates it when I go running before dawn, though I’m sure any dangerous criminals must be asleep by now. The last thing I want to explain to Dad is why I’m running before dawn with a boy he hasn’t met.

Kodiak prances in his kennel when I enter the kitchen. I release our faithful Goldendoodle and attach him to the jogging leash around my waist. The eighty-pound white dog is ecstatic for a morning run and tries to drag me across the room toward the front door. He stops when I murmur a sharp command to heel. I disarm and rearm the security system before heading out the door.

Outside, the October morning air is pleasantly cool, the humid heat of the San Antonio summer giving way to autumn. The soft glow from the first rays of sunlight creates a beautiful orange tapestry across the eastern sky. Taking a deep, cleansing breath, I stretch my muscles while casting surreptitious glances down the street. Most Cedar Bluffs residents are still fast asleep in their beds, leaving the neighborhood quiet. Dawn and late night are my favorite times to run, much to Dad’s chagrin. He doesn’t like me being out in the dark alone, but I crave the peace and quiet I find when everyone else is sleeping.

Logan appears at the corner, running at a steady pace, much faster than I want to run this early in the morning. My heart hammers as I watch his approach. Now that he’s here, my palms sweat, and I almost shake from nervous energy. This moment is straight out of my daydreams. I wipe my hands on my shorts.

Straightening up, I can’t help but stare, lost in his rhythmic strides. His mop of light brown hair is darkened with sweat. The curls at his nape, sagging under the weight, still bounce a bit with each step. He slows to a stop within inches of me, giving me a lopsided grin.

“Love the braids,” he says, picking one up and twirling it between his fingers. “Though I think the jersey’s gotta go.”

My breath catches in my throat, and my eyes narrow. He didn’t just… as my mind processes his words, I notice his t-shirt—UT Longhorns. So he wasn’t trying to undress me. Is he one of the rabid football fans who despise anyone rooting for the opposition?

“I mean, uh,” he stammers, his face turning pink. Perhaps he just realized what his words could have implied. “Aggies…” he croaks.

“I’m neutral,” I say, biting my lip to keep from smirking. “Dave gave me this ‘cause I help him remember to study. See, it has his name and number for next year on the back.” I turn around so Logan can see. “My brother goes to UTSA, so he’s a huge Longhorns fan by association. It makes football season more interesting in my house if I root for the Aggies.”

“Sorry, that whole thing just came out wrong,” he says with a shy smile. “My mom’s A&M and my dad’s UT. The whole family’s divided. Isn’t most of Texas?”

“So you’re okay running with a girl wearing an Aggies jersey?” I ask chuckling under my breath. It seems my nervousness has faded in the face of his own.

“Yes, though I can understand now why Rachel hates you,” he says, motioning to the jersey. “I’ve never seen her wearing one.” His eyes sparkle with mischief. If it was possible, I think I might drown in the liquid gold of his eyes.

“I’m sure it’s a fashion
faux pas
of some sort,” I choke out through laughter when I picture Rachel in a football jersey paired with a miniskirt and heels.

“Who’s this?”

“This is Kodiak.” Kodiak inches closer to him, his nose scenting the air.

“He looks like a polar bear,” Logan says, holding his hand out to the dog. “What kind of dog is he?”

“Goldendoodle,” I say, trying to hide my snicker behind my hand. “He’s half poodle, half golden retriever. A good breed really, even if they do have a dumbass name.”

When he reaches out to pat Kodiak, his hand brushes mine lying on top of the dog’s back. A tiny jolt of electricity travels up my arm, and I snatch my hand away.

“What was that?” I ask gasping.

“I’d say static electricity but that would be a lie,” he says. He gazes at me in silent speculation. “You really are clairvoyant.”

“What would give you that idea?” I ask, trying desperately to play it down.

Having learned the hard way long ago, I’m not about to reveal my abilities to a relative stranger. Especially one I’ve had a crush on since last year. I was hoping last night was a distant memory, maybe even my imagination.