Scattered Ashes Read online

  Well, she covered all bases I think.

  “Go talk to the boys. She wants to go home, right?” Evan is a mind reader apparently.

  “How’d you know?” I ask her.

  “She hasn’t painted in two weeks. That’s like cutting off a limb for her. Her house is secure. Maybe more than Dad’s. And she has more weapons.”

  “How could she possibly have more weapons?”

  “She’s been dreaming of war for a century, Rhys. That makes a girl mighty paranoid,” she says as she skirts past me to Aurelia.

  She’s got me there.

  I close the door behind me to go talk to the rest of the men. I knock on the door and Aidan answers, still mad at me for telling him to stay with his brother. Dumbass.

  “Get over it, dude,” I say as I shoulder past him good-naturedly.

  “She wants to go home?” West asks.

  “So far, it’s not a bad plan. I’m told it’s secure and stocked better than an armory. Thoughts?” Ian asks.

  “Why not? No one else has come up with anything. So many of our safe houses are gone. Now that Javier is dead, things might look up. We have no idea how many locations have been compromised. Her house… It might be the only place for us,” Aidan says.

  I guess we have a plan.

  * * *

  While Aurelia’s house is modest compared to John’s, the five-bedroom, five-bath multi-level ranch is nothing if not comfortable. Wide picture windows show the mountains below, the smooth plastered walls painted a soothing green that remind me of Aurelia’s eyes. There are wide French doors that lead out to the wrap-around deck in nearly every room. The high vaulted ceilings are gently broken up with huge rectangular exposed wood beams. Plush upholstered couches and smooth low tables decorate the living room, and a large flat-screen TV takes up the majority of the wall space on the east wall.

  And pillows. Dainty lace pillows, medium solid pillows, and large printed pillows, are in every squashy armchair, and in each corner of the couches. Aurelia’s house was made for lounging. Each piece selected for maximum comfort.

  Her kitchen is large for the space, an enormous pale cream granite island taking up most of the space. Woven rattan barstools line up against the island facing stainless steel appliances that would look comfortable on the space shuttle. Vases and wide-lipped bowls decorate the tops of the pale, antique white cabinets, and I realize how much I missed by never seeing the inside of her house. While the mix of textures and colors speaks to the artist inside her, it also shows me how soft she really is. Yes, she may be hard on the outside, but on the inside she is just as soft and vulnerable as the rest of us.

  And that softness just makes me love her more.

  She has converted half the basement into an art studio and the other half into a dojo. The two sides are separated by a pair of large, rice paper sliding doors, the ambient light from the dojo leaking through the panes adding to the dim glow from setting sun filtering through the French walkout doors.

  I lay on the chocolate brown leather sectional seemingly at ease, my head practically drowning in pillows as I watch her work at her easel. I may look relaxed, but I am stressed the fuck out on the inside, thinking about all that Evan has told me.

  The both of us, hell even John has searched, but we cannot find a single person that can help us. Either they don’t have the juice or the ones that do refuse to go up against Iva. Her reach and terror has filtered through every species of the ethereal.

  And it shows. Clawing fingers of dread pull at me as I look at her work.

  She’s sitting on a barstool we brought down from the kitchen because she’s too tired to stand, but too amped to sleep. Her paintings blend abstract slashes of color with the realism of portraits. She says they represent what she sees in her visions, and as the days pass, each painting becomes more and more haunting. Each death is more chilling than the last.

  Her hand moves blindingly fast as the black and grey and deep purple meld together to make a horrified face. The picture looks to be a zoom of a woman’s eyes and the expression is pleading. The eyes are tearing with purple blood instead of saline. But the blood isn’t blood at all. It looks to be morphing into the reflection of the person that killed her.

  Honestly, she’s scaring the shit out of me.

  She’s waking up screaming more nights than not, and the longer we are here, the less she sleeps. It’s easy to see the toll it’s taking on her body. In just a few short days, she has practically withered under the strain. Her cheekbones are sharp, her face creased with exhaustion and worry. I can’t get her to eat, and her body is shrinking by the minute, losing weight she can’t afford to lose. Purple shadows have taken up residence under her eyes, making their pale green color nearly glow. Her voice had gone from lively and sarcastic to a half-dead monotone. And I don’t know what to do.

  I’ve called in every favor I can from every witch, Wraith, and sorcerer I know. No one can help us. Her Aegis protected her, it kept most of the visions at bay so she could function. But with the Aegis gone…

  I can’t stop the visions. Nothing I do has helped so far.

  I worry that there is nothing anyone can do.

  16

  A Wish for Nothing

  AURELIA

  A young man and woman are driving a vehicle on a dark road. It isn’t a new car. There is duct tape holding the stuffing inside the driver’s headrest or at least it’s trying to. Errant fluffs of foam have spilled out of a rip in the tape at a corner, and there is a faint knocking sound coming from the weakly chugging engine. The windows are down, most likely because the AC no longer works, the wind from the summer night whipping their hair to and fro.

  The young man is thin to the point of starvation. He has dark blue-black circles under his eyes and a wary, haunted look on his face. He couldn’t be more than fifteen at a push, but the few years he’s spent on this earth have not been kind. His joints are knobby and pointed, his chin sharp and dotted with acne and scars of abuse. His lip is split, and he has a blooming purple bruise on his left cheek.

  The woman is crying, clutching the boy’s hand in a vice grip. Her hands are raw, the fingernails bloody and jagged, some even ripped from the nail beds. Her dark hair is matted against her skull, greasy and filthy, clumped with blood and dirt.

  Someone has beaten her severely. Her left eye is black and closing, and her nose is bloody, swollen and crooked from an obvious break. She is also hugely pregnant. I’m not certain if the belly is as big as it looks or if the thinness of her limbs makes her burgeoning womb look like a beach ball. Ridges of her ribs are visible, peeking through the rip at the breast of her dirty blouse.

  They are erratically driving down a mountain; the switchbacks making the tires skid from the speed. The tires slid over the road over the double yellow lines and into the oncoming lane. The young man overcorrects the trajectory of the puttering car, and the car slides again in the gravel of the shoulder. They pass a well-lit diner, the light of the sign casting a yellow, sickly glow to the woman’s face. The poor woman cries out, clutching her belly in horror with her bloody mangled fingers.

  And then the blood comes.

  Gushes of scarlet come from between her legs, soaking through her tattered and torn skirt and the battered seat below her. Her face goes gray from the blood loss, even the bruises missing their color, and she loses consciousness within a few seconds.

  The boy slams the accelerator down desperately trying to make it to their destination. His eyes leak frustrated tears, and he begs for the woman to wake up, his screams and pleas getting louder and louder as the minutes pass.

  He presses the poor car as fast as it can go, but he’s too late.

  By the time the bright hospital lights have cast their glow on the beat up rattrap of a car, she’s stopped breathing.

  He screeches to a halt in the emergency bay, the car skidding sideways as it grinds to a stop. He screams for help as he flies out driver’s side and hobbles over to his passenger. Then he
tears open the door, shaking the woman by the shoulders, before unbuckling her seatbelt and attempting to pull her from the car.

  Doctors and nurses come, pulling the woman from her seat, shoving her on a gurney, and rushing her inside.

  But they are all too late.

  No matter how hard the doctor’s work, they can't save them.

  * * *

  I’m shaken awake for the fourth time tonight. Rhys engulfs my sweaty shaking body into a giant bear hug. His warm skin on mine eases me until I notice red in the sheets. I immediately jump up to check myself and the bed for blood. There is nothing on my belly or panties, but my hands are bloody from my fingernails ripping into my palms in my sleep.

  Dammit.

  Well, at least I’m not screaming this time. I wish I could call that a win, but I can’t. I plop back down on the mattress.

  “This shit has to stop. I want you to take the sleeping pills, baby,” he pleads with me as he grabs the full glass I neglected after the second wake-up call tonight.

  “I don’t want to,” I say in a small, feeble voice.

  I hate that voice.

  I wish I weren't so tired. I wish I weren’t so weak. I wish I would sleep and see nothing. My sanity is frayed, unraveling swiftly with each vision, and I don’t have the strength to re-braid the ropes.

  “This is the fourth time you’ve woken up tonight, and it’s only midnight. You’re not even asleep for more than twenty minutes before the next vision starts. If a pill helps, you need to take it.”

  His eyes are weary, his dark brown hair disheveled in restless sleep. I’m hurting him. Whether it is from my lack of sleep or my fingers ripping into the flesh of my hands. I’m hurting him. I don’t want to, but I’m scared.

  “I can’t. What if it keeps me in them? What if I get stuck?” my voice wobbles with tears. Fucking tears. They slip and slide down my face in pitiful little rivulets. God. Dammit. When did I get so weak?

  “Let’s just try it once, and if you hate it or if it doesn’t work right, then we can stop. But we have to do something. I can’t watch you in agony and not do something, Gorgeous.”

  I have to do this. I have to try.

  For him.

  “I’m sorry you’re in pain too. I’ll take the pill, babe. You’ll stay with me, though, right?” I ask as I twist the sheet in my fingers waiting for his reply.

  “Where else would I want to be?” he chuckles, bumping his shoulder with mine.

  “Okay,” I say as I take the tall glass of water and a tiny pink pill.

  Here goes nothing.

  * * *

  A young boy, no bigger than five is jumping in puddles on a sidewalk. The gray sky beyond him threatens more rain, but the boy is enjoying his reprieve and bouncing from one tiny puddle to the next.

  His mother is watching him under cover of the porch awning; her curly black hair pulled into a poufy bun atop her head. She’s dressed plainly in jeans and a t-shirt; the pale gray cardigan covering her slim shoulders matches the overcast sky. The house is modest but not shabby, the lawn groomed, the shutters freshly painted. The flower boxes at the windows are blooming with summer flowers, trailing pink and purple blooms over the sides.

  The neighborhood is at the base of a mountain range, the verdant hills broken up with jutting bedrock, nearly blotting out the light of the cloudy sky.

  She’s sitting on the first step waiting for the boy to get his fill of the outdoors. She has a thick book on her lap, and she is shuffling index cards in her hands, furiously studying. She looks up every few seconds, though, checking on her son.

  His little face is screwed up in concentration as he considers the next jump. He counts to three, and away he goes, his bright yellow rain boots splashing in the water. The vinyl of his raincoat squeaks as he flaps his arms, making boom and zoom noises with his loud little boy mouth.

  It has rained so much in the last few weeks. Almost every single day has been filled with constant deluges of falling water.

  The boy doesn’t feel the rumble, but the mother does. She tosses aside her book and notes, the white index cards fluttering about the lawn like leaves until they’re swept away by the roaring tide of a flash flood.

  She makes it to him, but she’s too late to save him.

  She’s too late to save herself.

  He clings to her, and she works so hard, kicking her legs and clawing the water with her free hand to try and keep their heads above the surface of the violent rush of water.

  She tires quickly and then fails in her endeavor altogether when they are slammed into a parked SUV. The water rushes up and over the vehicle, but the mother and son are pinned under the water, fighting and clawing for air in the freezing flood.

  * * *

  A young woman is walking on a darkened street.

  She is slight and blond, a hardened look on her face as she strides down the road. She’s wearing an old diner waitress uniform, said diner is fading in the background as she makes her way to the lit bus stop ahead. It’s pale yellow sign is now off, but the blue lettering still reads Wildflower Café. She’s alone on the road and shivering in rapidly falling temperatures of a summer night in the mountains.

  She stops and removes the heavy backpack from her shoulders and pulls a lime green hoodie from the pack. Her bag is stuffed full of clothes and books, a keychain mace canister attached to the zipper.

  Her bulging pack is still at her feet when the man comes up behind her, a pristinely folded white cloth in his hand. He uses it to cover her face, and her struggle is over quickly as she loses consciousness. He is a well-groomed man, wearing a starched navy blue button-up and pressed khakis. His brown hair is carefully combed, and his leather loafers are polished to a high shine. He looks like a deacon of a church, or a dentist, or an insurance salesman.

  The man drags her from the street toward a wooded area beyond, snatching up her backpack as he goes, her tired pink Chucks making tiny ruts in the gravel shoulder of the once busy road.

  The man takes little care with the woman, as he drags her body in the mud and bracken of the forest floor. The limbs scratch at the exposed skin of her legs and face.

  He stops in a clearing and places her body just so. He goes to a nearby stump where he has a silver, hard-sided suitcase sitting in the dirt. He carefully places it on the stump and clicks open the locks, pulling a black instrument case from the felt. He then dons a pair of nitrile gloves, snapping the plastic for the perfect fit. He slips a pair of pliers from their loop, opens her mouth, and begins ripping each and every tooth from her head.

  The woman rouses around tooth fifteen, but her pitiful protestations are dulled to a gurgle as she chokes on the blood running down her throat. The man carefully takes the white cloth out again and drowns out her moaning with more chloroform.

  He goes back to his task, removing all twenty-eight of the woman’s teeth. He then drags her to a hole in the ground, tossing her unconscious body in the earth. He removes a small bottle of lighter fluid from his pocket and drenches her body with it. Squeezing the yellow bottle until every last drop has fallen from the tiny spigot.

  He throws the bottle in with the body, along with her backpack. He then removes a pack of matches from his other pocket, studying them with interest. The script is delicate and flowery, reading Highland Haven Creekside Inn.

  He lights the book and tosses it in, the flames igniting with a whoosh.

  The man studies the flames for a long while, watching the woman’s body burn to a cinder in her roughly hewn grave. When they finally go out, he takes the collapsible shovel from his suitcase and uses it to fill the hole with earth. He tamps down the dirt with the blade when he’s done and drags broken tree limbs and fallen brush over the mound, perfectly concealing the shallow grave.

  He returns to the stump and pulls a black velvet drawstring back from his roll of tools. Carefully, he places each of the woman’s teeth in the bag before pulling the string closed and putting it in the pocket of his khakis.
/>   He walks from the clearing, away from the busy main road to a rough dirt rut where a shiny SUV is parked. He rounds the SUV with his tools in tow, smiling all the while, patting his pocket as he goes.

  * * *

  My eyes open to sunlight streaming in through the open blinds. Rhys is cuddled up to my back, his arm thrown over my hip; the turquoise sheet pulled over my naked breasts. His warmth would be comforting, maybe, but now I can’t find comfort in anything anymore.

  I don’t move for a full minute, neglecting to speak. I gently lift his hand off me and slide out of bed. I pad to the master bath, gently close the door, turn on the shower taps, and promptly lose the contents of my stomach in the toilet.

  I know those mountains. I drive down them every single time I head into Denver.

  I know that motel. It’s two miles away from my house.

  I know that diner. I’ve had lunch there more times than I can count.

  I know what this is.

  This is the death of every good soul around me. These are souls that need to pass on. The souls I would direct a Gentry toward.

  This is what I would feel if I never had the Aegis in the first place. This is what a Seer really is. No wonder Seer’s just line up to get their eyes cut out. If this is what I saw every night before maturity, I’d do anything to make it stop.

  I still might.

  Shaking, I brush my teeth, noticing the graying gauntness of my face in the vanity mirror.

  I can do this, I think to myself as I rinse and spit into the sink. I strip off my panties, tossing them in the hamper and step under the scalding spray.

  I shower on autopilot, rinsing last night’s horror show from my skin, thinking of nothing as the world swirls away to blackness.