Read No Peace for the Damned Online
Authors: Megan Powell
No Peace for the Damned
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2012 Megan Powell
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by 47North
P.O. Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89140
ISBN-13: 9781612183602
ISBN-10: 1612183603
Escape. The word never even occurred to me until tonight.
I hesitated just inside the tree line to catch my breath, looked back toward the estate’s main house, and listened for any sign that I had been discovered.
There was nothing.
Just the high wall circling the estate, with its large white stones and black bricks looming ahead of me, more ominous than ever under the night’s starless sky.
Grandmother would have been
so
proud.
I scanned the woods around me. In the shadows, I easily located the tiny red light of the security camera between the branches of an adult fir tree.
On a silent inhale, I stretched out my power until I was completely invisible. I took a hesitant step forward. The camera turned in my direction, paused, then returned to its base position. No alarms sounded in the distance.
I released a shaky breath and focused again on the shining wall in front of me. Freedom was only a few feet away. Whatever the outside world held, it had to be better than here. I
needed
it to be. I needed no more blood or broken bones. No more snarls and midnight attacks.
But could
I
ever fit into a world without those things?
A sound came from behind me. Leaves rustled, debris crunched. My breath caught in my throat. I glared at the wall.
In a single stride I sprang forward, bounding over the wall, landing silently on the balls of my feet. I was moving before my heels even touched the ground.
I felt weightless, my legs no longer running but dancing over the cold earth. I could practically feel the clinging chains of my father falling from my body, recoiling into the glistening wall of his created hell.
I ran until I hit pavement. The highway. My breath caught, and I skidded to a halt on the smooth surface. The smell of asphalt under my feet, the wind, the night, the sounds of small creatures and insects who lived in the brush all registered perfectly in my mind. But that was all.
There was no stench of the guards who whispered angrily at their stations. No violent cries from my uncle’s adversaries in the throes of his interrogation. No plots from my father or brothers to force my mind alert.
There was nothing.
A sob tore from my chest—a sound more laughter than lament. My fingers gently brushed along the smooth line of healed flesh that stretched the circumference of my neck.
I
was
free.
My knees crashed hard to the road. My head fell into the cradle of my invisible hands. I cried in joy, in release, in fear. I cried, and let the tears consume me.
By the time I opened my eyes to the speeding headlights it was too late. The vehicle plowed into me, the front tires crushing both my pelvis and my skull, dragging me with its undercarriage until it screeched to a stop.
In that last moment of consciousness I had to chastise myself. I was not supposed to live in this world without violence and pain. And I was an idiot to have ever let myself think otherwise.
There was no peace for the damned.
Lying down on the narrow bench wasn’t the most comfortable way to pass the morning, but at least I was hidden enough to avoid stares—and I had a whiskey to sip. I had to give the Network guys credit—this place really was a perfect front. Peanut shells scattered across the floor, Mellencamp crooning on the jukebox, tenderloin lunch special wafting in the air—no one walking into the Thirsty Turtle would ever think
secret meeting place for plotting against supernatural terrorists
.
They might think
tetanus shot
, but whatever.
Movement across the room grabbed my attention. An old drunk had been sitting at the bar since before Thirteen headed downstairs. Smelly and filthy, the man sat hunched on a barstool, slurring his words as he talked to himself. His voice was low and the place was crowded, so I honed in to hear his mumbles. “Downstairs? Down where? Goin’ on a hunt for Miller’s secret breading? Well, I can tell you it ain’t in the Turtle’s basement, that’s for sure. Miller has his secrets locked up somewhere else. Ain’t no one touching this man’s special spices.”
It was total gibberish, but still. Miller’s secrets? He had no idea.
I lifted my head and took a long drink. I should just leave. Run away and never look back. My family thought I was really dead—they wouldn’t be coming for me. I still had time…
My cell phone chirped, and I jumped. I still wasn’t used to the stupid thing. I pulled it out, glanced at the text message from Thirteen. No words, just a smiley face—one with a semicolon for the eyes so it looked like it was winking. I chuckled before I could stop myself.
Crap. I wasn’t going anywhere.
Two guys pushed through the bar’s front doors.
OK, here we go
. Just like I had with the other members of Thirteen’s special team, I did a quick mental peek at each of them. The first thing I noticed: Jon Heldamo’s mind was far too easy to access for a Network leader. Oh, he wasn’t a chief like Thirteen or anything, but he wanted to be. Someday. He was smart, skilled, and he already walked with that arrogant gait that Thirteen had mastered. On Thirteen it was endearing. On Jon it was just annoying.
Jon wasn’t the one who worried me, though. I shifted in my seat as an uneasiness settled low in my stomach.
Theo Mahle
. Yeah, something was definitely up with this second guy.
According to Jon, Theo didn’t give a shit about being a Network chief. He, too, was smart and well-trained—maybe even more than Jon—and Theo’s mental shields were solid. I could still get through them, but it would take a strong push. He walked two steps behind Jon, guarding his partner’s back just like Banks always did for Thirteen.