Eerie (41 page)

“Welcome back,” he murmured, and she blinked—his girl.

His
girl. Finally, he could have her, touch her, love her. The others would leave, and she would be
his
.

From outside grew a rumble. Asher's face hardened. The stone exploded, quaking the Earth and throwing bright rays of violet ripping through the window.

The vortex arrived next, and feeling its pull, Asher scrambled to escape its reach. This wasn't right—it was too close—too powerful.

How?

He had whipped the black rock a hundred miles across campus—more than a sufficient distance, yet it opened just outside the library.

Someone brought it back . . .

Someone betrayed him.

“Cobon!” he screeched, but his brother ignored him, and there was no time for revenge anyway. He was caught in the slow, unyielding pull—an iron filing to an electromagnet, powerless to escape the grasp of the Aether.

In desperation, he grabbed Hailey tight.

The Aether would incinerate her body, but he could keep her soul . . .hold her there with him forever. He couldn't fathom letting her go—not now—not when he was so close to winning her heart.

This will hurt her.
He pushed the thought away, and she cried out.

“Asher . . .?”

Her slight, barely conscious voice pleaded for reassurance as fear once again etched in her eyes . . .those big, bright, uncertain eyes. He gazed into those innocent eyes with a plea of his own—a regretful, aching want for forgiveness for what he was about to do.

“No!” he shouted against his selfishness. His eyes ignited into a firestorm as the Aether drew him in—he couldn't bear to let her go. But to save her delicate, human body, he had to.

“I love you, Hailey,” he breathed.

As the vortex pulled them both outside, he grabbed her roughly by the head and pressed a deep, mournful kiss onto her exquisite mouth, pouring all of his hate, all of his love, all of his heartache and regret into her. Scrambling against the increasingly powerful haul, he drew a great breath and with it, as much energy as he could muster. And he shoved her away . . .far away . . .miles away . . .away to safety, out of the Aether's reach, and out of his arms—forever.

Chapter Forty-Two

Something Borrowed

“Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end.”

– Seneca

The sound of her breath was her only company when she woke. Had she survived another night of captivity, or had she only dozed for a couple minutes? She couldn't tell. There were no windows in her basement prison . . .no indication whether it was day or night. Just the monotonous beat of her heart and the occasional rattle of her chains when she felt the urge to move.

The box he'd given her still sat on the floor, just out of reach.

Was it Christmas?

The thought was depressing. Her hope for a rescue diminished. She didn't know if anyone was even looking for her. And Tomas hadn't been by for a visit in months, it seemed. She wondered how much longer she could endure.

She tested her bonds again, happy to find she could slip her left hand out of the cuff. If only she could free her ankle, then she could escape this hell hole. But her foot was stuck; it wouldn't slip out, so she'd been working the hook, which anchored her to the cinderblock wall.

It had taken many, many days—she didn't know how long—months, maybe—but it finally wiggled. She just prayed he didn't notice. How would she survive if he noticed?

Interrupting her despair was the click of the lock at the door to her “room.”

He was back.

Pulling her knees to her chest, she fixed an impassive stare at her favorite crack in the floor. She hadn't looked at him since he chained her to the wall, and it made him angry, but it was the only bargaining chip she had—the only distraction she could use in case he tested her chains.

“Would you like to open your gift now?” His voice sounded different, younger, relaxed even as he stood over her.

She stared at the crack in silence.

Crouching down, he opened the brown box.

“I think you'll like it,” he coaxed. “Call it a motivational decoration for your room,” he said brightly, and then he produced for her a second box, wrapped in green silk—lime green, her favorite color. He placed it at her feet, and when he moved to check her bonds, she reached for his gift.

Gasping his delight, he forgot the bonds.

With dispassionate hands, she opened the box and stared blankly at its contents.

“I know they're not yours, but your sister won't be needing them. Not where she is . . .

“If you would only show me a little affection, my dear,” said the Envoy Cobon as he squatted in front of her.

Though he now appeared to her as a kind-faced Scandinavian in his twenties, she still recoiled when he stroked her cheek, dropping the box, pushing herself against the wall, and hugging her knees to her chest.

Cobon pressed his lips together and picked up one of the tattered Irish dance shoes, which had tumbled from the box.

“I may be inclined to restore your foot and allow you to wear these.” His thumb rubbed the soft black leather of her beloved sister's shoe. Then he flicked his finger against the bedazzled buckle so it made a shrill TING!

“Now that the others are gone, you can make as much noise as you want.” He inched his face close to hers. “And if you're especially agreeable, my dear Holly,” he added in a kind but dark voice, “perhaps I'll bring your darling sister here to join you.”

Book Two:

Sneak Peek

Darkness
and dust in the air, so thick it made him cough kept Fin from getting a clear view of his surroundings. He was horizontal—that much he knew. And the earthy, musty smell told him he was probably underground. Possibly in a coffin.

He clawed at the lid above his face until his fingernails came off—all ten of them. When they regrew, he clawed at it again. It felt like wood. If it was and if he kept scraping, it might give way . . .after a few years . . .

He gnashed his teeth and let out a loud, primal screech, as he scratched and punched and flailed at the lid. But it was no use. It didn't give. He dropped his arms and sobbed.

“Hailey,” he moaned.
Hailey
 . . . His love, his life.

She'd be saying, “Your first poem was much better.” And he'd answer, “Well, I had more time to write it.” He actually smiled at the memory of her melodic voice, her feistiness. And that memory gave impetus to his escape. He recalled her sly expression at taunting him with that word, and he let out a giggle—then stopped. His breath was shallow, his thoughts jumbled. The air was getting thin.

Hypoxia.

He squeezed his eyes shut, panting still. Soon the real torture would begin—suffocation. Then he'd wake, cough, gag, choke and suffocate again.

Over and over and over . . .

Think!

He had to tell Hailey . . .had to tell her the truth before she . . .before the Envoy . . .

She never killed an Envoy.

She couldn't defend herself. And if Asher swapped her energy, there was no telling how she'd come back.

“Asher . . .” he gasped.

The Envoy didn't answer.

The Envoy . . .the Envoy . . .the Env—

He had to hurry . . .had to hurry while he still had breath.

Frantic, Fin wiggled his arm down and reached into his pocket, where his bloody fingertips found it—the gift from Theon the Envoy.

But in that moment, it seemed more like a gift from God.

Acknowledgments

It never fails. As soon as I step naked into the not-yet-warm shower, there's a knock at the door followed by my spastic, stumbling, shivering sprint for a robe before our toddler invites a stranger inside. But what has this got to do with Eerie, you ask?

Nothing.

And everything. You see, the shower is also where all of my strange ideas sprout and therefore the need to immediately fact check every dismemberment, magnetic swirling vortex, Irish dance reference, and police procedure said strangeness demands in a book such as this. Here is where I thank every person who answered my strange calls and still called me “friend” after hanging up. Since I suck, I know I'll forget to mention somebody here, and I hope they forgive me.

First and foremost, thank you Elizabeth Riley for believing in me, for taking a chance on a new writer, and for making my publication dreams come true.

The first person to read all the eeriness that came out of my head was my mother, Debra Shipman: Thank you, Mom, for loving my story, and I'm sorry the dismemberment disturbed you, but also happy it did so in a very Poe way. To all my beta readers—especially Adria Goetz, my sister, Sherry Anderson, my loving husband, Billy O, my Irish and dancing friends: Sarah Adair, Sara Barker, Jenna Richey, Laureen Laffey, and Myra Watters, who also corrected some of my grumpy-old-Irish-man-isms; Annette Thompson—thank you for wanting to call off work to finish the book; MATCOM dispatchers: Carol Hayes, Brittney Miller, and the awesome Amie Jo Nash, who read the extended version in 3 days, while working 12-hour shifts on the North Slope—thank you for falling in love with Hailey's adventure;  Ruth Canfield: thank you for breaking away from the ICU to tell me everything you know about rigor mortis. Where would I be without my law enforcement friends: Alaska State Troopers Peter Steen and David Eastwood-Kolezar (thank you for putting up with my clumsiness during my ride-along), and Wasilla Police Sgt Bill Rapson and Lt Ruth Josten as well as Center Township Police Officer Andy Hill for never flinching when I inquired about procedure, lying to the police, how to stage a crime scene, and how to hide a body. Fin would not be Fin without Joshua Jackson, who provided infinite inspiration.

My critique partners, especially: Sarah Adair—thank you for helping me with my Irish and my character arcs; Laura Irrgang—thank you for playing the snarky teen reader; Rachel Geffrey—who beta-read like a line editor and fixed all things from story arc and logic gaps to comma splices; and Giovanna Adams—who helped me better visualize my fantasy world.

For believing in me when my confidence in all things writerly faltered: Michelle Johnson, Jessica Schmeidler, Michelle Hauck, and Genevieve Gagne-Hawes. And for holding my hand through the contract negotiations, the cornucopia of publaw knowledge and wisdom: Susan Spann.

Editing is like the vegetables of writing—not really anybody's favorite part, but essential none the less. Thank you Lisa O'Hara for shaping up my novel-baby, for e-slapping me when I needed it, and for letting me keep my favorite lines.

Last but never least, I could not have begun this journey nor seen it through without my husband's patient support and my son's willingness to share me with my very strange imaginary friends.

About the Author

C.M. McCoy is an Irish dancer and former military officer living in the Great White North. Though B.S.'d in chemical engineering and German from Penn State University, she's far happier writing stories involving Alaska and a body bag (with an awkward kiss in the mix.) While working 911 dispatch for Alaska State Troopers, she learned to speak in 10-codes, which she still does...but only to annoy her family. C.M. is represented by literary agent Michelle Johnson.

Eerie, Copyright
©
C.M. McCoy, 2015

All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

Omnific Publishing

2355 Westwood Blvd., #506 Los Angeles, CA 90064

www.omnificpublishing.com

First Omnific eBook edition, December 2015

First Omnific trade paperback edition, December 2015

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data C.M. McCoy.

Eerie / C.M. McCoy – 1st ed.

isbn: 978-1-623422-33-2

1. College — Fiction. 2. Romance — Fiction.

3. Pittsburgh — Fiction. 4. Paranormal — Fiction. I. Title

Cover Design by Micha Stone and Amy Brokaw

Cover Art by Robin Lynne Schwind