Cursed with a terrible gift...
Criminal investigator Xander Stone doesn’t have to question you—he can hear your thoughts. Scarred by lightning, burdened with a power that gives him no peace, Xander struggles to maintain his sanity against the voice that haunts him day and night—the voice of a woman begging him to save her.
A gift that threatens to engulf them
Isleen Walker has long since given up hope of escape from the nightmare of captivity and torture that is draining her life, her mind, and her soul. Except…there is the man in her feverish dreams, the strangely beautiful man who beckons her to freedom and wholeness. And when he comes, if he comes, it will take all their combined fury and faith to overcome a madman bent on fulfilling a deadly prophecy.
Chapter 1
Xander Stone stopped
outside Interrogation Room B, shoved his ear up to the seam of the closed
soundproof door, and listened. Supercharged hearing had only one benefit, and
this was it. From inside the other room, he heard the slow, easy breathing of
someone who thought he’d never be caught or prosecuted or imprisoned. Xander’s
favorite kind of criminal.
He pushed open the door
and made sure to display his scars to the suspect. The disfigurement was a neon
sign on a starless and moonless night, pointing and flashing freak, freak,
freak. A caution to all who dared speak to him. Wasn’t his fault if no one
listened to the warning.
Yeah, life was a
saggy-assed, fun bag of laughs since he’d been zapped with more than 50,000
volts of lightning. But the forehead-to-calf scarring didn’t even rank on the
Richter scale of shit when compared to the bizarre sensation of no longer being
alone inside his head. And then there was the issue of his amplified hearing.
He couldn’t ignore the way his brain now tuned in to the frequency of thoughts.
The familiar pounding—like
a basketball upside the head—slammed into Xander’s right temple. He winced.
Always did with the first thump, no matter how hard he tried not to react.
Tuning in to the frequency of people’s thoughts fucking hurt. He washed his
features of expression.
Holy shit. What happened
to the dude’s face? Xander heard the words even though they hadn’t been spoken
aloud. The suspect—a kid, really—snickered, his gaze riveted to the puckered
striation and the network of branch-like scars that stretched up Xander’s neck,
spread over his cheek, and finally ceased on his forehead.
“Good Cop–Bad Cop didn’t
work, so now they’re sending in Ugly Cop?” The kid slouched back in his chair
as if he were in his dorm watching the latest episode of some show glamorizing
stupid people, instead of in an interrogation room at a Bureau of Criminal
Investigation field office. He looked like every other cocky college kid—hair
too long, clothes too preppy, ego too large. He didn’t look like the leader of
a sex gang.
“Ugly Cop? The last guy
said the same thing. The asshole before him too, and the one before him. See
how boring that gets? If you really want to insult someone, you’ve got to get
creative. Try again. Lay a real good one on me. One I’ve never heard before.”
Xander couldn’t remember the kid’s name—wasn’t important anyway. He took a seat
at the table and settled his notepad squarely in front of him with his pen
diagonal across the clean sheets of paper.
Scar face. Fugly
motherfucker.
The kid opened his mouth,
but Xander cut him off. “‘Scar face’ and ‘fugly motherfucker.’ Seriously?
That’s the best you got?” Most suspects expected him to be offended or
outraged. They didn’t expect his total acceptance.
The kid tilted his head
like a dog trying to understand a new command. That’s weird.
Yeah, it was weird. “My
name is Xander Stone, and just so you know for your insult planning, I’m not a
cop. Never been a cop. Never wanted to be a cop. Don’t even like cops. They’re
all pricks. And these guys”—Xander jabbed his thumb over his shoulder at the
mirrored glass of the interrogation room—“are some of the biggest pricks of
all.”
No one could accuse him of
lying. It was no secret he didn’t do well with authority. The only reason the
BCI put up with him was because they needed him and his unique style of
interrogation.
A smile padded with
self-satisfied smugness hitched up the kid’s mouth. We’re back to Good Cop.
“What is he doing in
there?” The superintendent’s words came to Xander from beyond the mirrored glass.
With his supercharged hearing, the soundproofing separating the rooms was
little more than a cotton swab on a spurting artery.
He turned in his seat to
face the mirror. Everyone knew about his rule of absolute quiet if they were
going to observe. “Silence. I need complete silence. Or I’m out of here and you
can let the kid walk.” He glared at the mirror, daring someone to speak.
This dude is certifiable
cray-cray.
Xander faced the kid. “I
think you might be on to something with that cray-cray bit.”
The kid jerked upright
like someone had goosed his gonads. How’d he know what I was thinking? His
attention bull’s-eyed on Xander. The kid was just starting to realize Xander
had changed the game from checkers to chess.
“I know what you’re
thinking because I’m the guy the BCI calls in when they’ve got a difficult
case.” Referring to gang rape as merely a difficult case was like painting a
pile of shit just to make it look better. It was still shit. It still stank.
The kid laughed a
blatantly fake laugh, the kind that was code for “fuck you.” He’s trying to
mess with me. Ain’t gonna work.
“I’m not trying to mess
with you.” Well, maybe just a little. Disbelief in his ability was a universal
rule. Hell, he barely believed in it himself. “I just want to get this done so
I can get out of here. Like I said, I hate cops. And I’ve got a headache.” The
vision in his right eye pulsed with each thump inside his brain. He wanted to
press his palm against the pounding, but didn’t. Show no pain. Show no
weakness. Show no emotion.
No more dicking around
with the kid. Xander needed to get answers to the questions he’d been sent to
ask and then get the fuck out of here. Funny how he could remember the
questions, but not the kid’s name. “How many guys are in the Bangers Club?”
Six plus nine. Sixty-nine.
Six plus nine. Sixty-nine. The kid’s thoughts were a perverted chant. “I don’t
know what you’re talking about.”
Xander picked up his
notepad, tilted it so the kid couldn’t see, and scribbled 6 + 9 = 15 onto the
paper. “I need the names of all fifteen members.”
Fifteen? How’d he come up
with that number? He’s guessing. “I’ll tell you the same thing I told Good Cop
and Bad Cop. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The names of all fifteen
members.”
Michael Blevins. Blake
Johnson…
Xander listed the names
until he lost the frequency. Five to ten seconds of silence in the
conversation, and the connection severed. He stared down at the paper and
cherished the absence of pain, then sucked in a few deep breaths, pumping
himself up to reestablish the connection and restore the basketball thumping
inside his head. “I need the rest of the names.”
Bang! He jerked from the
force of the blow inside his brain. God, that first hit—
Aiden Stacey. Trey
Mitchell…
Xander listed all the
names.
“What are you writing?”
The kid half stood, trying to see across the table to Xander’s notes.
“Names.” Xander angled the
notepad so the kid couldn’t see his writing.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Yeah, you did. Just not
out loud.”
What is he talking about?
They sent in some mind-game expert? This shit isn’t going to work on me. Just
keep quiet and don’t react.
“You’re already reacting.
I can hear it. You’re breathing faster, shallower. Your pulse has picked up.
You’re not quite panicking yet, but eventually you’re going to.”
What the hell? What the
hell? What. The. Hell. The kid did a stellar job of retaining his outward
expression of entitlement. No one would ever guess he was on the cusp of an
implosion.
“Between the fifteen of
you, how many girls have you banged?” The word—the Bangers Club’s word—tasted
insectile on Xander’s tongue, like if he didn’t spit it out, it would burrow a
hole through the roof of his mouth and have babies in his brain.
Fifty-seven. Twelve away
from our goal—sixty-nine.
Jesus. The kid needed to
be neutered.
There was no reason to ask
for the girls’ names. From what he’d been told, the Bangers Club didn’t bother
learning the names of their victims. “You ever been diagnosed with
obsessive-compulsive disorder?”
No. The kid’s brows rose
and his head swiveled on his neck in a good imitation of a white-trash ho about
to show her sass.
“Just asking because you
seem awfully obsessed with the number sixty-nine.”
The kid’s jaw unhinged and
nearly clattered onto the table. Not possible. He can’t really read my mind.
He’s guessing somehow. Or…did someone talk? No one would dare—
“You’re right. I’m not
reading your mind. I’m listening to the things you aren’t saying.” As if the
kid would believe that. Only one more question and Xander could walk out of the
room, out the building, and be alone.
The last question was the
most critical. From the dumbed-down version Xander understood, the kid had
created a nearly impenetrable computer system that streamed all the Bangers
Club bangs—for a monthly fee. The only way to shut it down was to access the
original computer and enter the password—no mistakes, no guessing—or the entire
system would go viral and start broadcasting live on all the local channels,
even the small-town church TV station. Kids today were dangerously clever.
“What’s the password?”
6*2H95—London Bridge is
falling down…
Xander wrote the numbers
and letters on his paper. The kid was starting to catch on. Not that it would
matter.
“Stop writing shit down.
You’re making things up.” The kid’s voice rode the ridge of hysteria.
“6*2H95. I need the rest
of the password.” Xander loved the way other people’s brains just couldn’t
resist thinking.
O#ZR591H. No. No. No.
London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down—
“6*2H95O#ZR591H. Keep
going.”
It took three more tries
before the kid eventually spit out the entire password.
“The tech department
wasn’t kidding. This password is a monster.”
No. This isn’t happening.
“Who talked? Someone is setting me up.”
“You talked.”
“I didn’t say anything!”
the kid yelled.
Xander felt the smile
split open his face, felt the skin on his right cheek stretch in a way that
wasn’t familiar. Life didn’t hold much amusement for him, but he always savored
the moment when some asshole finally realized he’d been bested and was going to
be sent on an extended vacation to criminal central.
Pushing back from the
table, Xander got up and headed for the door. He stopped, hand on the handle,
and turned back to the kid. “You come up with a creative insult yet?”
The kid leaned forward and
banged his forehead against the table. No. No. No.
“Guess not.”
As Xander opened the door,
a million sounds rushed his ears at once. A toilet flushing, typing, the hum
and bump of the air conditioner, conversations—too many conversations. Sensory
overload was imminent. The only question was how long before his brain shorted
out, unleashing the Bastard in His Brain—that thing he always felt lurking in
the darkest depths of his mind. When the Bastard took the wheel, there was no
such thing as a happy ending.
He needed to leave. Now.
But Kent and Thomas, who’d
been watching the interview, waited in the hallway.
He passed the notepad to
Thomas, who sprinted down the corridor to get the names and password to the
cyber division.
“Why the fuck was there
talking during my interrogation?”
Kent gave him the same
disapproving, annoyed, disgusted look he’d been giving him since Xander
bloodied the guy’s nose in the first grade.
Bam. Pain bounced inside
his skull. Xander flinched. Goddamned tuning in. “Quit with the look.” They’d
never been friends. Still weren’t.
You’re such an asshole.
Acting like you’re the only one working here. “Do you always have to be such a
dick about us? The superintendent was watching.” Kent headed in the same
direction as Xander—toward the exit. You need to make a decision about Camille.
“The superintendent was
the one talking. You pushed me to work here. You pushed them to hire me. You
got a fat-assed bonus out of it. So if you, or the superintendent, don’t like
what I do, stop calling me. And what I do with Camille is none of your
business.”
“Keep your freak self
outta my head.”
“Only way to make it stop
is by not talking to me.” Outside of work, Xander mastered in social isolation
and conversation avoidance.
“Come on, man. She’s my
sister. We may not be real close, but I care about her. I’m not letting this
go.” You’re using her.
Xander’s neck got hot. He
didn’t argue with Kent’s thoughts. He couldn’t. The man was right. Camille
never rejected him, never made demands on him, but she wanted commitment. He
got that from tuning in to her thoughts. All he wanted was acceptance and
uncomplicated sex.
The conversation lagged,
and the pain vanished.
Xander exited the
building. Low on the horizon, all that remained of the day was a single tiger
stripe of orange. Already the June night was in full chorus. The whistle
screech of a bat using its sonar-like system, the flutter of its wings
overhead. The buzz of a trillion mosquitoes. The bass of a bullfrog two blocks
away at the Sundew Park pond. Life pulsed all around him.
When he couldn’t sleep,
he’d lie in bed with the window open—listening, just listening. Not letting
himself think, just focusing on the rhythm of the world. The sounds of nature
were the only form of music he could tolerate.
He fished his truck keys
from his pocket and pressed the unlock button.
“The superintendent is
probably going to need you again tomorrow,” Kent called from the doorway.
“Tell him to call me.”
Xander tossed the words over his shoulder.
“You going to answer the
phone?” Bet you don’t.
“Bet you’re right.”
***
Death twined around Isleen
Walker’s body, whispering over her naked flesh, coiling around her heart and
lungs, hugging the last sparks of life from her. Twenty-five years of being
alive distilled down to a wish. A wish that death would hurry up and grant her
its promised relief.
“I’m dying.” She tried to
warn Gran, but the words came out quieter than a breath. Her gaze roamed the
room—their prison for the past eight years. It was just big enough to contain
her and Gran and an overflowing waste bucket, but now it felt too small, too fragile
to contain Isleen. Soon she would transcend this space, and no matter what
Queen did, she wouldn’t be able to tether Isleen here.
Gran slept, face tucked
into the corner. Safety was an illusion—beating after beating had proven that
fact—but still, they always gravitated to the corners. Gran’s once-supple flesh
sagged from her bones. Her spine protruded sharply in a pathetic row of spikes.
“…tobesaved. Not
die.…protectordiedtoo?” Gran spoke in a smear of barely distinguishable words.
She’d been a sleep-talker for as long as Isleen could remember—even before
they’d been abducted.
She used to wake Gran from
her dreams, but had long since decided it was a mercy to let her stay inside
them for as long as they hosted her. Maybe in her dreams, Gran still possessed
her wits and all her faculties, and lived somewhere beautiful where nothing bad
ever happened.
Footsteps pounded down the
hall and stopped outside the door. The sound of the key in the lock scraped
across Isleen’s heart. Was today going to be a feeding day, a beating day, or a
bleeding day? It didn’t really matter. It was too late for food; a beating
would finish her off; and she had no more blood to give. But there was Gran—
The door rasped open.
Queen. Always Queen and only Queen ever entered their prison. If ever a name
didn’t fit a person, it was hers. Nothing about her was royal or regal. She was
no whimsical fairy-tale ruler; she was a twenty-first-century reality. A
simple-minded, delusional woman who took pleasure in domination and torture. Under
a different set of circumstances, Queen would have been passing her days in a
psychiatric hospital, medicated to the point of drooling.
Without even looking,
Isleen could smell Queen’s stench. Cigarette smoke so stale and foul and thick
that Isleen could taste the bite of it in her mouth, feel the burn of it in her
eyes. The pungency of flesh that hadn’t been washed in years snuffed out the
oxygen in the air.
Queen kicked her in the
thigh. “The Dragon has not yet died.”
A small gasp, not of pain,
but of being startled escaped Isleen’s throat. For as long as they’d been held
captive, Queen had referred to her as the Dragon.
Queen cleared her throat.
Mucus snapped and rattled. She hawked up a wad of nasty and spit it on the
floor. “King decreed that if the Dragon shall linger—”
“You will suffer for
everything you’ve done.” Gran crawled out of the corner on all fours. “Her
protector is on his way.”
Queen’s hunched shoulders
straightened. “I am your Queen. Bow before me.” It was all a part of Queen’s
delusional mind—she was a queen and they were her subjects and the objects of
her torture. Especially Isleen.
Gran didn’t bow, didn’t
move, didn’t understand.
“You will be punished.”
Queen opened and closed a giant pair of scissors. Shkk. Shkk. Shkk.
Dread burned a hole
through Isleen’s shrunken stomach. “It’s not her fault. She doesn’t
understand.” She tried to move, but her body was too weak, her limbs too
emaciated.
“Your Majesty, I am sorry.
I have committed the gravest of errors.” Gran executed a bow of supplication,
arms spread out, forehead to the floor. “Please accept my humble apology and
know that I will never again speak in such a manner to one as powerful as you.”
Before Gran had lost her mind, she’d been fluent in kiss-up-to-the-fake-queen
language.
Gran must be having a rare
moment of clarity.
“Very well. I grant you a
pardon. Know this—though I am a merciful queen, I will not tolerate such
treasonous behavior again.” She pointed a fat, stubby finger at Gran. “You have
been warned.”
Gran kept her pose. Good
decision.
Queen turned her grotesque
gaze to Isleen. She went through the same disgusting process of clearing her
throat and then spoke as if she were making a proclamation. “King has decreed
that on the sixth day, if the Dragon shall linger, I am to thrust my sword into
its side.”
Thrust my sword into its
side. Isleen understood Queen’s words; she just didn’t fear them. No matter
what Queen did to her now, it would be nothing—absolutely nothing—compared to
the agony of living. A calmness nestled into her bones, curled up in her guts.
Gran lifted her face from
the floor and challenged Queen’s authority by looking directly at her. “You
don’t have the power to kill her.” Insanity warped Gran’s tone.
Queen’s attention snapped
to Gran. “You were warned. Now, you shall be executed.”
Isleen thrust words from
her heart, words she’d always wanted to speak but never dared until now, when
she needed to divert Queen’s attention away from Gran. “You’re not a queen.
You’re psychotic. You’re a bitch. You’re evil and stupid and mean. And…and…you
smell bad.”
Queen’s wide-spaced eyes
nearly bulged out of her block-shaped head. Her fat lips snarled back,
revealing teeth so neglected they were the same color and texture as Fritos.
She switched her grip on the scissors, fisting the handle, and stabbed the
blades at Isleen.
She watched the scissors
descend, heard the whisper and swish of them piercing her flesh. Felt only a
vague pressure and presence of something foreign inside her body. Smelled
sweetness in the air and tasted salt on her tongue.
Queen yanked the scissors
from Isleen’s body and held them up. Blood dripped from the blades, sending red
streamers down Queen’s doughy arm.
Warmth oozed from Isleen’s
side, the heat comforting her cold skin.
“Tomorrow, if you are still
alive—off with your head!”
Gran waited until Queen
locked them back in the room, then scooted next to Isleen. There were no
bandages, no cloths, no tissues. Nothing to stop the bleeding.
“Hold on, baby girl. Just
hold on. He’s coming. He’s got to be coming. He will release you. Save you.”
The worst of Gran’s mental breakdown was the delusion that someone would find
them. In Isleen’s most desperate of moments, she had allowed herself to believe
Gran. Not anymore.
“Your dreams will come
true. All of them. Remember the dreams about him. How you loved him and he
loved you. Remember the dreams of sunshine on your face and the cabin you
shared. Remember…”
There was nothing to
remember. It had just been dreams. Silly dreams. No more powerful than Gran’s
sleep-talking.
You’re not coming. You’re
not going to save me. Because you don’t exist. Never have. I believed in you.
Thought you must be real—Gran swore you were. But you were nothing more than
hope’s fatal dream. We’re going to die, and no one other than Queen will ever
remember we existed.
A rainbow of colors
swelled in front of her eyes. Colors she hadn’t seen in years. Colors so
brilliant and bright and beautiful that her eyes watered. Death was an alluring
kaleidoscope.
By day, ABBIE ROADS is a mental health professional known for her blunt, honest style of therapy. By night she writes dark emotional novels, always giving her characters the happy ending she wishes for all her clients. Her novels have been finalists in RWA contests, including the Golden Heart. She lives with her family in Marion, OH.
Thanks so much for sharing this! You rock!
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