Madly and Wolfhardt (27 page)

“Let’s go break into Atlas then, my Princess.”

“Ready whenever you are, my love.”

Jackson stood, pulling me to my feet.  When he’d helped me shed my clothes down to my underwear, he took my hand and laid the tiny pearl in the center of my palm.  Placing his palm against it, Jackson laced his fingers with mine and we ran out to meet the waves—and our destiny—together.

TO BE CONTINUED IN MADLY, BOOK 3

COMING SOON, WINTER 2011

A WORD

A few times in life, I’ve found myself in a position of such love and gratitude that saying THANK YOU seems trite, like it’s just not enough.  That is the position that I find myself in now when it comes to you, my readers.  You are the sole reason that my dream of being a writer has come true.  I knew that it would be gratifying and wonderful to finally have a job that I loved so much, but I had no idea that it would be outweighed and outshined by the unimaginable pleasure that I get from hearing that you love my work, that it’s touched you in some way or that your life seems a little bit better for having read it.  So it is from the depths of my soul, from the very bottom of my heart that I say I simply cannot THANK YOU enough.  I’ve added this note to all my stories with the link to a blog post that I really hope you’ll take a minute to read.  It is a true and sincere expression of my humble appreciation.  I love each and every one of you and you’ll never know what your many encouraging posts, comments and e-mails have meant to me. 

http://mleightonbooks.blogspot.com/2011/06/when-thanks-is-not-enough.html

Other books by M. Leighton

Blood Like Poison: For the Love of a Vampire

Blood Like Poison: Destined for a Vampire

Blood Like Poison: To Kill an Angel

Caterpillar

The Reaping (The Fahllen, Book 1 of 2)

The Reckoning (The Fahllen, Book 2 of 2)

Wiccan

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Blood Like Poison: For the Love of a Vampire

PROLOGUE

Bo was on his knees in the center of the concrete floor, kneeling on a black towel.  He was shirtless and covered in blood spatter.  Under the slimy red sheen, I could see a sickly greenish black color seeping across his chest, radiating from the left side outward.  It was darkest over his heart and it pulsed as if gangrenous death was being pumped throughout his body with every slow squeeze of the muscle.  That, however, was not the most alarming part.  The thing that caught and held my attention was his face. 

As always, when I thought of Bo, my heart clenched painfully.  I remember seeing him that day, the horror of it and how terrified I was.  But even now, I can’t bring myself to regret stumbling upon him like that.  I might’ve gone through the rest of my days in a selfishly numb state of hiding if I hadn’t met him, hadn’t known him for who and what he was.  He taught me so much about a world I didn’t know existed and so much more about a life I hadn’t been living. 

He taught me to stand up for what I believe in, to shout it out at the top of my lungs.  He taught me to feel—the deep, gut-wrenching, heartbreaking, soul-singing kind of emotion I had avoided for so long.  He taught me about the importance of life.  He taught me about the beauty of death.  He also taught me about love.

This is our story.

CHAPTER ONE

Drums blared from the radio, but even over the loud music, I could still hear Izzy’s bell-like voice as she sang along.  She knew every word to the song.  She bobbed her head and wiggled her shoulders, tapping her thumbs rhythmically on the steering wheel.

Her dark auburn hair was pulled back in a French twist at the back of her head and the dashboard lights illuminated her heart-shaped face, making her silvery blue eyes look even paler.   Her cheeks were a little fuller than usual and her skin had an uncharacteristic glow. 

I wondered about her weight gain, had my suspicions, but I said nothing.  If she had something to tell me, she’d get to it in her own sweet time.  That was Izzy’s way.

She slid me a sidelong glance. “What are you staring at, Perv?”

“Those man hands,” I replied teasingly.  “You could palm a grown man’s head with those mitts.”

“Hey,” she said, glaring at me.  “Do you want to walk home?”

“Yeah, like—”

And then, as I’d done hundreds of times in the last three years, I awoke in a cold sweat.  Heart racing, chest aching, I lay in bed and struggled to catch my breath.  I squeezed my eyes shut against the last few seconds of the car crash, but that didn’t stop me from seeing it.  It never did.  The awful crunch of metal rang in my ears and I knew what was coming after that—the same images that always did, the ones that only got more confusing with time.

Memories of a deer and a boy tangled together in my mind.  I’d told the authorities of a person I’d seen as the car spun off the road, about the pale face of a stranger that had flashed in front of the headlights just before my recollection went blank. 

I assumed we’d hit him, but they’d found no body, no evidence of blood or tissue on the blackened remains of the front bumper.  They’d assured me that no one could’ve survived being struck by a car going over fifty miles per hour.  They’d concluded that, since they hadn’t found a body, the boy must’ve been a figment of my imagination, born of terror and trauma.

But I wasn’t convinced, and after three long years, I hadn’t forgotten him either.  Though the details of his face had faded over time, there was something about his eyes—a soul-deep agony, a burning self-loathing—that I’d never been able to get out of my head.  It had stayed with me since that night.  I was drawn to that kind of suffering, almost like a kindred spirit.

Slowly but surely, as I stared at the ceiling, reality returned, settling over me like a blanket of blandness.  The television played the early morning news reports, as it did every morning. 

I was probably the most well-informed kid in school, mostly because I went to sleep every night with the television on and woke up every day listening to the most recent happenings as they echoed through my room.

I listened with half an ear to the Channel Six anchorman as he talked about the top story. 

“Another body was found late last night in Arlisle Preserve, near the area police have dubbed the ‘Slayer’s Slaughterhouse’.”  The body was positively identified as seventeen year old Jolene Turner of Falls Town.  At this time, police are not able to divulge all the details surrounding her death, though they did confirm that she was killed in a manner typical of the Southmoore Slayer, including the animal attack-like markings on the neck, a fatal chest wound and exsanguination.  Turner makes victim number twenty-seven of the Southmoore Slayer and, unless he’s captured, police fear that her death will not be the last. 

Southmoore Chief of Police Edwin McDonnahough has teamed with local authorities from four neighboring towns to form a task force dedicated to the identification and apprehension of the Slayer.  Law enforcement officials from Harker, Columbia, Camden, and Sumter have devoted at least one officer to the team in hopes of bringing the Slayer to justice before the violence spreads across the borders into their townships. 

In other top news, The Center for Disease Control in Atlanta still has not been able to confirm that the mysterious illness plaguing now thirty-one Southmoore residents is Mad Cow Disease.  Authorities have yet to lift the quarantine that has been imposed on the sale of local cattle…”

I let the reporter’s voice fade into the background as my breathing returned to normal and then, with a sigh, I smacked blindly at the television’s remote control until I found the power button.  Without the noise of the TV, an uncomfortable silence filled my bedroom.  It was the kind of quiet that always led to troubling thoughts.  It was the kind of quiet I avoided like the plague.  Already, my mind was wandering back to the dream. 

With another sigh, I rolled over and turned off my alarm clock, even though it had yet to buzz.  I knew from years of experience that I wouldn’t find sleep again.  Resigned, I threw back the covers, got out of bed and went to take a shower.

********

I shouted at the tiny, dark-skinned blonde at the top of the pyramid.  “Trinity, you’re wobbling!”

“I can’t help it.  Aisha’s moving.  If I fall off, I’m gonna kick her- ahh!”

And just like that, the pyramid came tumbling down.  Actually, it was more like a gentle folding, thank God.  But I knew that just because no one was hurt this time didn’t mean it wouldn’t end badly next time.

“Aisha, I’m switching you to the shoulder stand on the end.”

“Thank God,” she muttered, angrily flipping her long, intricately braided hair.

Ignoring her, I directed my attention to the slightly stocky brunette with the pigtails at the other end of the formation.  “Carly, can you help hold Trinity for the center?”

With a snort and a roll of her eyes, Carly agreed, albeit ungraciously.  “I guess,” she said weakly. 

We looked at each other expectantly—me waiting for her to move and her waiting for…I don’t know what
she
was waiting for, but it was obvious Carly had no intention of moving whatsoever.

Carly was my whiner.  I wanted to slap her.  I wanted to slap her
a lot
.  Seriously, I did, just not as badly (or as often) as I wanted to punch Trinity.  And I mean really punch her
. 
Hard.  Right in her pouty mouth.  Trinity was the type of personality that would’ve brought Gandhi himself to violence.

I was rarely ever surprised by the behavior of the other cheerleaders, only irritated by it.  After all, I understood them better than anyone.  Until three years ago, I was fundamentally the same as them—shamefully selfish, vapid, useless and vicious.  But when tragedy strikes, it leaves no part of your life, of your being, untouched, unscathed, unscarred.  No, tragedy had carved a whole new person out of my less-than-ideal former self, and in a way, I’m thankful for it.

Now my eyes are open and I’m content, at least for my soul’s sake, to be growing more and more different, growing further and further apart from them.  It does make things more difficult, though.  Much more difficult.