Beautifully Broken (4 page)

The woman tightened the rope that hung suspended from the chandelier. She stepped off the chair, kicking it over. A scream strangled in her eyes. She clawed at her throat. The chandelier quivered from her weight. The base separated from the ceiling. With a loud crack, the twisted mass of glass and iron plummeted to the floor. The woman fell too. The light fixture pinned her legs beneath its weight. She struggled to rise. Fear darkened her eyes. But she couldn’t free her legs from the plaster and the bulk of heavy chandelier lying over them.

Shadow Man jumped on top of her chest, straddling her. He put his hands around her throat. With his fingers, he put pressure on her larynx. The capillaries burst under her skin, flecking her eyes with red. She fought. Hard. Tried to loosen the stranglehold. No good. His strength seemed impenetrable. He squeezed until her hands fell to her sides, and she moved no more. Blood trickled from one side of her mouth.

Shadow Man parted her lips with a long nail. He lowered his head, putting his mouth close to hers. His forked tongue licked her cheek. He closed his eyes. To my complete horror, he puckered his cheeks and began to suck, extracting her soul from the corpse. A gossamer substance flowed into his mouth…

The world went all swirly again, and I was back in the car, the wraith still next to me. She released my arm. The vision had been vivid and tangible, and it took me several moments to get a hold of myself. My blurry eyes found the wraith. I knew the truth. She’d been murdered. Her soul sucked out.

“You are the solution, Shiloh.” Her voice was hardly more than a disturbance in the air. “Use your gifts, or the darkness will come for you.”

I glanced at Jillian. Her gaze was still fixated on something outside my window. I opened my mouth to speak, but the expression of hatred twisting Jillian’s features stopped me cold. Her face changed in an instant. A wry smile touched her lips, which appeared painted, suspended over skin. She shimmered like an illusion, her expression both shrewd and ominous. Altered, as though her disguise had been removed, yet her flawless beauty flickered beneath. Her onyx aura thundered, rolling off her flesh in icy, anthracite waves. She could not be the same woman who’d raised me. She could not be my mother.

Since my muddled suicide attempt—when I’d almost died—I could see auras. Echoes of souls, which revealed a person or demon’s true nature, bound in colors that held meanings.

Dizziness assaulted me. “Mom,” I whispered.

She said nothing. Just remained quiet and pensive, oddly grim. An azure mist of ancient magick swarmed her body, her eyes blackening like pieces of coal. Shocked, I shrank against the car door. I knew she was a witch—
duh
—I’d read all the grimoires, those archaic books of magick, my aunt Lauren had given me, so I knew Jillian had inherited power too, but she wouldn’t talk about it. Ever.

 
“Jillian?” My voice squeaked. “You can’t stop in the middle of the street.”

The moment passed and she blinked, appearing normal and lovely once more. The azure cloud dissolved. Her gaze, thick with darkness, became soft brown, like an old forest in the rain.

Did I imagine the change in her face, in her eyes? Now that I gave it more thought, Jillian’s aura had been covered in chartreuse swirling colors, more so than ever before. What did it mean?

 
“Fine.” She shifted the sedan into drive, and we shot forward.

The churning panic faded once we turned the corner; however, my confusing emotions increased, reminding me of what had happened before we’d left for church. And reminded me of the fact that I needed more protection. Paranormals didn’t usually enter my house, mostly because I practiced several Native American customs my grandmother had taught me, like burning sage and using a turtle shell rattle to ward off evil spirits. Of course, I’d felt silly at first, but hell, I’d try anything once. I’d gone from room to room, reciting an incantation of protection, calling on the four elements—Wind, Earth, Fire, and Water—to keep evil from invading my home.

Apparently, my self-protection plan wasn’t working so great. Shadows had found a way to crack those psychic defenses. Hellish little shapeshifters. Shadow Man (Soul Eater?) was fierce, deadly, and dangerous. Together those evil entities would be unstoppable. Obviously, my life was in serious danger.

I needed something stronger than sunlight, sage, and turtle rattles to protect me.

CHAPTER FOUR

Jillian turned on Mayflower Avenue and guided the car toward home. I stared out the dirty windshield at a fog so thick it kept our town in isolation, obscured from the real world outside of Whispering Pines. Like Gotham City, a perpetual dark place filled with evil. We passed a cemetery, and the cries of tormented souls softly hissed through the curling mist. Even though we were considered a small town, the area had five cemeteries. The graveyards were so heavily used that funerals were sometimes held at night. Hunching my shoulders, I slumped in my seat. Times like this, I desperately needed somebody to confide in. Someone to hold my hand and tell me everything would be fine. I peeked at Jillian, tempted to force her to talk to me.

Give it up. Not gonna happen, Shiloh.

Sometimes I wondered what would happen if I told someone about the scary things I saw. Mentioned I was afraid of the dark. Well, with good reason. Still…

My fingers traced the jagged red scar on my arm, trying to understand what my gut was telling me. Not sure if it was shouting to keep my secrets intact or let them have a voice. On the upside, spilling my secrets might help me accept that I was different. Okay, weird. I could stop sleeping with a light on. I’d take risks and stop stressing over shadows. Go out on a regular date—at night—with a boy.

But I don’t think I know how to be normal anymore.

Besides, who would believe me? I’d been safeguarding my secrets forever, and I didn’t know how to live another way. I wanted to be more like Jillian. She wasn’t afraid of anything.

Jillian turned on the radio, switching stations until she found an old country song. We drove home without speaking. For most of my life, my relationship with my mother had been tense. She hardly spoke to me, forever quiet and reserved. Keeping me at arm’s length. As a child, it had left me dazed and shattered, like the victim of a car wreck.

Looking at Jillian’s dazzling features was like staring at the sun too long. Jillian was blond, with a pale, elfin face and hazel eyes that changed colors with her mood. She reminded me of an expensive porcelain doll placed on a high shelf. A beautiful, unattainable object you couldn’t touch, only gaze upon with longing.

If anyone had bothered to notice me, they would only see a scared fifteen-year-old girl with eyes of sable ringed by kohl liner and black hair that fell to her waist. They wouldn’t see someone struggling to remain sane. Only an empty space where a real girl used to live.

Back home, I went straight to my room. I hesitated in the doorway. Narrowed my gaze and searched the darkest places for any sign of movement or evil.

Nothing unordinary. Nothing scary waiting for me.

The first thing I did was change the light bulbs. With the lights on, my gaze took in the cluttered space; the black-painted wall behind my bed that was covered with random poems, song lyrics, and cutouts from magazines of models and fashion; the iron-frame bed with a pink comforter that matched the curtains; and the IKEA dresser and desk in neutral pine. My space. My room. I yawned and plopped sideways on the bed. My swinging heel hit something solid. The trunk.

Some of my mother’s family, the Broussards, had kept grimoires. I hunched down and dragged the small trunk my aunt Lauren had given me on my tenth birthday. At the time, I had wanted dolls, not an old trunk full of diaries, a witch ball, and a dagger.

At the time, she’d mentioned some stupid prophecy about the Thirteenth Daughter and my destiny. An old legend that foretold the coming of a girl who would break the town curse and conquer some big bad evil. It had been a lot to digest at that age.

Hell, it’s still hard for me to believe. Prophecies aren’t real…are they?

I unlocked the trunk with the key I’d stashed in my nightstand drawer and removed the tomes, stroking the leather covers. The small journals resembled black prayer books with fine silk markers. I placed them on the bed. Then I sat and lifted one carefully, almost reverently, flipping through the pages, reading the tiny, handwritten scrawl. The black ink had been dry for decades on the heavy parchment; the pages that smelled like incense, sweet honey, and roses. It was in these books that I’d learned how to create a wall of light to use as a protection spell.

We had a fascinating family history, full of sorrow, romance, black magick—and murder. Some of the books said the magick had been in my family for hundreds of years—since the late 1600s. My ancestors escaped the violent witch-hunts in England and France by coming to America in the middle of the 17
^th
century. Rumor had it that they had brought the magick with them to Whispering Pines. Started over here. Away from persecution and prying eyes. They had tapped into the arcane power confined within Mother Nature and prospered. Their religion had become a mix of Christianity and Wicca.

With a shiver of vivid recollection, I thought of the children in grammar school who had taunted me.
Magick. Witchcraft. Curses.
Some of their ancestors had been among the founding fathers, too, those families who’d run away from the taunts had heaped upon them. But I’d been treated differently. Singled out. As if somehow those kids knew I saw paranormals.
 

Now that Trent Donovan and his dad had returned, they’d be under the same speculation as my ancestor Anabelle Broussard had been under the day she’d returned from her honeymoon without the groom. Like my other ancestors, Anabelle had kept a grimoire too. Her book contained spells and instructions for magickal rituals. Like how to project a protective wall of light. Written words that were her voice in death.

I’d read the grimoires many times. They spoke to me. As though the essence of my ancestors resided in the paper. The imprint of their souls seeped through the indentations of ink on the pages. Books filled with strange symbols, drawings, and incantations. Some dating back to 1690. I’d read them all, although they didn’t make much sense. I searched for a solution, answers, but found none. I felt better just holding them in a world where no one believed in magick.

I never had a chance to question my aunt Lauren after she gave me the trunk. To ask her about either the books or the prophecy. After that, she wasn’t allowed in our house. No one would tell me why. But I’d heard. Statements hurled out like spears. Hurtful words that could never be taken back once spoken. A family divided by silence.

It sucked, because my family used to be close. Since my tenth birthday, my aunt Lauren and my grandparents, Grandma Naomi and Grandpa Samuel, didn’t come around as much. I missed them. Their absence caused me to feel even more alone in the world.

On impulse, I decided I needed someone to talk to. Someone who knew something about magick. I walked down the hall to my parents’ room and nudged the door open with my foot. I peeked inside. Jillian sat hunched over, reading a worn, leather-bound book. A lit black candle and rose petals lay on the vanity table.

She glanced up, saw my reflection in the mirror, and pressed a hand against her heart. “What?” she snapped, shoving everything into a wooden chest.

“What are you doing?”

Jillian ignored me. She inserted a small key into the metal lock on the chest and twisted it. She opened a drawer and dropped the key inside, then closed it with a bang. She looked up and arched a raised brow. “Well?”

We stared at each other. I swallowed. “Never mind.”

“Good. Run along—I’m busy.” She turned away. “And shut my door, please.”

I sighed and returned to my room. Sometimes I thought it would be nice to move to a place where the whole freaking town didn’t know about my family history. I wanted to live among people who didn’t look at me sideways with speculation or unease or anxiety. Small towns—ugh. I put the books back in the trunk and slid them under the bed. I decided I’d spend all day tomorrow working on constructing a stronger psychic barricade.

I had a feeling I was gonna need it.

~~~

On Tuesday morning, after smashing the shrieking alarm clock with my fist, my first thought was if I would see Trent at school. Yawning, I shuffled into the bathroom where I took a quick shower and brushed my teeth. My mind kept returning to Trent.
Would he be there? Would we get a chance to talk?
Thick fog was all I could see out the bathroom window. The choke of claustrophobia edged over me.

Normally, I had toast and coffee before heading off to school, but this morning I couldn’t eat. The toast was dry and stuck in my throat. Thinking about Trent and his sexy green eyes made my stomach rebel with nervous anticipation. I was fluttery at the thought of seeing him again. The feeling tightened my chest.

Whispering Pines High was a one-level structure with a brown slate roof and a cream painted exterior that hovered within a blanket of fog. When I arrived after walking two miles, the parking lot was already full of cars and people. Ashley Witheridge and the
Trendies
ascended the steps ahead of me, walking into the school. Ashley had hair the same color as mine that flowed around her like spun silk brushing her shoulders. In her slim jeans, she was svelte, with super long legs and minimal curves. Her best friend, Kayla Bishop, threw back her head,
 
copper-colored hair flying, and laughed loudly at something Ashley said. Kayla hurried on short, fake-tanned legs to catch up with Ashley’s longer strides as they entered the building, joining the throng of urban yuppie students that predominated the school.

Yanking my hood over my head, I wished I’d chosen something else to wear other than my frayed jeans, a cerise cropped hoodie that exposed my bellybutton ring, and my pink Doc Martens boots.

Not like I’m rebelling. Okay maybe I am, but I like to think I have my own quirky sense of style.

I didn’t stress my incongruent style for long, because my inner babbling was stifled by the racket that greeted me inside. Girls, who hadn’t seen their friends since school ended three days ago for Memorial Day weekend, squealed and hugged. Guys fist bumped their buddies and gave each other head nods. My eyes searched each face for Trent’s tan, blond features. Disappointment edged into my heart when I realized Trent was nowhere to be seen. The bell rang as I walked toward English class, and two kids said hello. I shuffled past the desks and sat in the back, opening my textbook. My pencil fell on the floor and rolled behind me.

The energy surrounding me changed. A glacial current ruffled my hair. I bent to grab the pencil and noticed…a ghost floating in the rear of the classroom.

The wraith stared with a rather remote calm. A greyish glow draped curiously around her. And like in a horror movie, her body flickered. Hanging from her bruised throat was a rope tied in a noose, the frayed end dangling behind her. Her ragged lace gown hung loose.

The wraith’s iridescent blue eyes narrowed on my face. With her voice soft and melodic, she said, “Shiloh, recognize the deceit. Only then can you perceive the truth.”

Ah, hell. Now ghosts are turning up at school. Not good.

A chill scaled the ladder of my spine. I wasn’t given to premonitions, but as the cold tremor shot back down my back, I was overcome by a sense of real danger.

Sunlight sliced through the blinds over the windows, casting shadows into the room. Shadows that moved. Swirling blobs of darkness. Hollow moans erupted from the paranormals. They melded with the shadows, except the greenish gleam of skin and fiery eyes.

Remain calm, Shiloh.
Pure white light, pure white light, pure white—

Damn! My defensive wall wasn’t working. Ordinarily, I could block ghosts. Not this time.

“Miss Ravenwolf? Are you with us?” Mr. Hall, the English teacher, caught my attention.

I flinched, my hand flying up to my heart. “Uh, yeah…I mean, yes, sir.”

“Terrific. I’d like you to read aloud for us the first two stanzas of Poe’s poem, Spirits of the Dead,” he instructed.

Now? Really? If I freak out, the trash talking will be everywhere by lunchtime.

With my head low, I raised my textbook and recited, “Thy
 
soul shall find itself alone. Mid dark thoughts of the grey tombstone. Not one, of all the crowd, to pry into thine hour of secrecy.” My voice rose and broke in awkward tones. “Be silent in that solitude. Which is not loneliness—for then. The spirits of the dead, who stood. In in life before thee, are again. In death around thee—and their will. Shall overshadow thee; be still.”

“Thank you. In this poem,” Mr. Hall began, “Poe alerts us to the unseen strangers among us. This room is overflowing with people. While frightening, it is also reassuring, because souls of the dead surround us. We are not alone.”

Glancing at the wraith, I shuddered in my seat. Shadows circled her ankles, stroking her legs like snakes. “The mystical energy is not meant to be used,” she said. “More powerful than you know. It is old and always restless.”

My breath escaped me. My pulse spiked as the shades’s raucous whispering grew in volume. Again I imagined being surrounded by protective white light. But I couldn’t concentrate, my body shook with the chill of winter. My eyes opened and scanned the room. No one saw them but me.

Outside, the sun pushed between the malignant mass of gloomy clouds, straining to shine upon the earth. The rays found their way through the blinds.

What would the Charmed Ones do?

On impulse, I sprung from my seat and ran across the room, shooting like a comet toward the windows. Electricity crackled around me. Heat warmed my scarred forearm. A strange force sparked within me—
magick, fire, power
—flowing in my veins and drumming in my head. The magick begged for release, tingling in my fingers and blazing in my eyes. Electric sparks flew from my fingertips and raised the blinds before I grasped the pulley.

Sunlight burst into the room, dancing across my olive skin. I glanced toward the rear of the classroom, keeping my mental fingers crossed that the wraith and the shadows had been vaporized.