Tortured Souls (The Orion Circle) (27 page)

My lips curl into a melancholy smile as I sit propped up in my bed by five pillows. It’s been so long since I’ve had a mother fuss over me. Did my mother ever fuss over me? Memories flood my mind—constant scolding, drunken cry-fests, and yes nestled among them were moments of affection.

Tears burn my eyes. I bite my lower lip in an effort to keep the tears at bay. After so much time convincing myself I didn’t need her, the truth is… I need my mother. Several tears fall from my eyes, and I wipe them away with the back of my hand.

“Sweetheart, why are you crying?” Mrs. Finley asks as she enters the room carrying a small tray.

She sets the tray on my nightstand and cups my cheek with her hand. A lump forms in my throat at the tender gesture, making more tears slip from my eyes.

“I miss my mother,” I whisper, biting my lip hard enough to taste blood.

“Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry,” she says, pulling me into a tight embrace. “Logan told me about what happened. It isn’t fair, is it? But I want you to know how much your father loves you.”

“How do you know?”

“Just a guess, based on what Logan said,” she replies, patting my back. “It can be very difficult for someone to make the leap from sceptic to believer.”

“I’m not sure he believes,” I say, breathing a heavy sigh.

She shrugs. “And yet he supports you all the same.”

“Now…”

“Better late than never.”

“Cliché,” I mumble before my hand flies to cover my mouth. I can’t believe I just said that.

“Perhaps,” she agrees with a dry laugh. “Though, forgiveness is next to Godliness.”

“I thought that was cleanliness,” I choke out through laughter.

“Is it?” she asks, raising her brows. “Well, that’s just an odd phrase then.”

We share a snicker. I feel a pang of regret, a physical ache in my chest. Mrs. Finley enfolds me in her arms again, resting her cheek on my head.

“If you join our coven, I’ll be your high priestess,” she murmurs, her breath rustling my hair. “Many look to me as a mother figure.”

“I think I’d like that,” I say, pulling back to smile at her.

“Great,” she says as she takes the coffee mug from the tray. “This tea is my proprietary blend. It will not only help ease you into a vision, but also maintain control of the vision.”

I take a sip. “This is amazing.”

I take a larger gulp of the tea. It tastes of cinnamon and vanilla with a hint of something I don’t recognize, an earthy flavor. Before I realize it, I empty the mug. Without a word, Mrs. Finley refills the mug from a small carafe.

“This is your last cup,” she says, handing the mug back. “No more than two cups a day of this tea. I mean that literally, by the way. Two normal size coffee mugs or teacups. None of those travel cups. Oh, and only drink it at bedtime or when you’re ready for a long nap.”

“What will happen if I drink more?”

“The tea also induces sleep,” she says while fussing with the tray. “You might be out for a while if you drink too much.”

I’m already feeling sleepy, and my head drops back against the pillows before I can finish my second cup. The coffee mug is removed from my grasp by gentle fingers. I try to thank Mrs. Finley, but my mouth can’t seem to form the words. As I’m drifting off to sleep, I hear soft laughter.

“Works every time,” Mrs. Finley says. Her voice sounds far away. “Sleep well and may the Goddess watch over you.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight — Night Visions

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Night Visions

My mind wakes from a deep sleep in confusion. I blink my eyes against the darkness. When I wish for light, humming fluorescent bulbs sputter to life, bathing the room in flickering yellow light. What a strange place. Concrete walls, floor, and ceiling with no windows.

Cots line the walls, three high, nine on each side. Old gas masks are heaped in one corner. I push aside a curtain and choke down a scream. A mannequin dressed in a hazmat suit and gas mask stands in silent vigil over the room. I poke at it with one finger, half expecting it to grab me. Nervous laughter bubbles out when the mannequin remains unmoving. Creepy with a capital C.

A metal door with a circular valve handle takes up the majority of one wall. After giving the mannequin one last poke, I walk toward the door. The handle is icy cold, sending a shiver from my fingertips up my arm.

Righty tighty lefty loosey,
echoes in my mind. It’s my father’s voice from long ago. Back before my mother left and I used to help him with his household projects. Though I use all of my strength, the handle won’t budge. I know this is a vision, but I can’t help the intense feeling of claustrophobia that grips my chest. My breaths come out shallow and close to panicked.

“Help us,” a plaintive voice cries out. It sounds like a young boy.

Gulping, I turn to face ghost Michael with his lolling head. His face is contorted in fear, and his form is much more translucent than last time. The ghost passes through a large metal shelf against the back wall. With tentative steps, I follow Michael. The shelf is filled with canned food. I pick up a can and a layer of dust puffs into my face making me sneeze. There’s no date on the can, but I can tell from the label that it’s old. Chunky chili with beans. More like botulism in a can…

“Please,” Michael pleads in a whisper.

“Where are you?” I ask, my eyes darting around for his ghostly form.

His head peeks out through the lines of cans. “Behind here.”

“How do I get back there?” I try to move the shelf but it merely wobbles a bit in place.

“Take the lock off the back wheel then roll it.”

On my hands and knees, I wriggle into the small space between the shelf and the wall. The tiny metal lock is stubborn and refuses to turn. Grunting in frustration, I continue to twist it between my thumb and finger. When it finally gives way, I almost cry in relief. My finger is bright red and would be bruised tomorrow if this wasn’t some sort of vision or out of body experience. With a gentle shove, I push the metal shelf enough to create a gap large enough to slither through. Crawling forward on my hands and knees, I enter a small tunnel even my dog Kodiak would have trouble fitting through.

At the end of the tunnel, I emerge into a small, round room cut out of the natural limestone. Candlelight flickers off the walls. I rise to my feet, brushing the dust from my legs. For some reason I’m wearing my pajamas in this vision. Jeans and a sweatshirt would’ve been more suitable. Michael appears before me, hovering next to a crude altar surrounded by numerous red candles. On top of the altar sits an object macabre enough to make my stomach roil in revulsion. A necklace made from thirteen ribs of all different sizes.

A rush of adrenaline surges through my body. This is it—the object binding the children’s souls to this plane. All I need to do is destroy it and this nightmare will be over! I reach for it, but my hand passes right through as though it’s not real. It doesn’t make any sense! I could touch the shelves and the door and the stupid can of chili. Why not this?

“It’s protected,” Michael says. His voice sounds distant, like he’s fading away. “You need to find it and destroy it.”

“But where are we?” I ask right as he shimmers and disappears. “Wait, come back!”

A dark presence fills the room, dropping the temperature with its arrival. Wrapping my arms around my body, I shiver, wishing myself awake, or away, or however I can escape. Laughter surrounds me, dark and menacing. Something brushes my hair to the side, and I lurch away with a shriek. Closing my eyes, I renew my efforts to escape.

“Trying to leave so soon, Kassandra?” a deep male voice asks from behind me.

I spin around to face the source of the voice. The Foxblood Demon stands before me looking every bit solid where Michael appeared a ghost. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was alive. His dark eyes leer at me, and his thin lips turn up into a nasty sneer. My heart hammers so hard and fast I can feel each painful beat. He takes a step toward me. I scramble backward, bumping into the altar with my hip. His sneer turns into a gleeful smile, revealing canines filed to points.

“There’s no escape, Kassandra,” he says with a deep chuckle. “Soon you’ll be mine—”

“No!” I scream, cutting him off. “Never!”

I jolt awake with a choked sob. My pulse races as I try to control my ragged breathing. A burning sensation spreads through my chest like I just ran several miles. The vision seemed so real. Light from the hallway bathes my room in eerie shadows. Leaning over, I turn on the lamp by my bed, chasing the shadows away. I fall back against the pillows, flinging my arm over my face. My breaths come out in shallow pants, and I force myself to deepen them before I pass out.

It’s over—the vision is over, and I found the relic. I just wish I knew where the underground shelter was.

Chapter Twenty-Nine — Samhain Gala

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Samhain Gala

How hard can it be to find one fallout shelter? Apparently like looking for a piece of hay in a pile of needles. Each time we think we’ve found it, elation turns to bitter disappointment when we realize we hit another dead end. It’s been a week now since my last vision. A week filled with fear, nerves, and frustration.

Dr. Hayes was never able to definitively prove Yardley was responsible for pulverizing the brains of our Halloween victims. But everyone believes it since there’s no other logical reason for a brain to suddenly turn to mush. Besides, one of the victims was known to do psychic readings from time to time, and another worked with the police on missing person cases as a consultant. Deep down I know Yardley killed them. Only three days left until Halloween…

Yardley doesn’t visit anymore. Perhaps he’s building his strength for Halloween, or maybe he’s trying to keep those poor tortured souls from providing more clues. Either way I’m both relieved and upset. Yardley scares the crap out of me. I can’t help but wonder if I’m blocking the visions somehow. No, I’ve been drinking Mrs. Finley’s tea every single night. The bracelet around my wrist is still stuck tight. Every once in a while it vibrates, reacting to dark energy nearby. Creepy as it sounds I think Yardley is watching me from a distance.

I’m seated at Celia’s vanity while she curls my hair with some monstrous device that sucks in the hair and spits out a curl. Any moment I’m sure she’ll load it wrong and it will rip out a chunk of my hair. Still as a statue, I continue to sit while listening to the
whirr
of the curler and Rebecca’s voice on speaker.

“Will it work on thick hair?” Rebecca asks Celia.

“I’m not sure,” Celia says as she guides another small chunk of hair into the machine. “Kacie and I both have fine hair. I think you’d have to use less hair in each curl. You should come over sometime when you don’t care if I mangle your hair and give it a try.”

“Speaking of mangled hair,” I mumble when Celia pulls a bit harder than she had been. “I’d like to keep my hair firmly attached to my head if you don’t mind.”

“Cute, Kacie,” Celia says with a wide smile. “You will be my greatest masterpiece, so stop worrying.”

“Should I iron or curl my hair for tonight?” Rebecca asks.

“Could we stick to the topic at hand?” I ask with a frustrated sigh. “Halloween is only a few days away, and we’re no closer to finding the fallout shelter than we were a week ago.”

“Yeah, are you sure there’s a shelter at all?” Rebecca asks. I can hear the hesitation and doubt in her voice.

“Well it was some kind of underground bunker,” I reply, picturing the room in my mind. “There was a hazmat suit and some gas masks. Old canned food and cots lining the walls. There were also those radiation stickers on a few of the cabinets.”

“That’s odd,” Rebecca says. “Why would there be radiation warnings inside the bunker? Did you open any of the cabinets?”

“No, I didn’t have time,” I reply, flinching as the damned machine pulls my hair again. “But now that you mention it… that does seem odd.”

“Well, I’ve gotten nowhere with my research,” she says with a loud sigh. “Any ideas?”

A sudden epiphany hits. “Have you located any relatives of his followers?”