Between the Bleeding Willows (The Demon Hunters Series Book 1) (4 page)

I turned down the familiar road, Bentley Street. It already seemed different; the pull of Jace was not guiding me. The trees that lined the street were the same, and the same yellow Camaro sat along the curb as it always had. But Jace wasn’t there anymore. Could I do this? Could I go into his house and be in his room, surrounded by the memories of him, the smell of him?

I parked in front of his mailbox—no mail on Sunday so I should be fine.
Breathe in and out and stay focused.
I sat there for at least five minutes, breathing and talking myself into the task ahead.
Breathe.

Finally, I exited the car and approached the Peters’ front door. This was harder than it looked, each step making my heart hurt a little more, like someone tugging at the open hole in my heart.
DO IT
! Like ripping a Band-Aid off, I rang the bell.

The door unlocked, and Mrs. Peters stood before me. She seemed surprised to see me, but her face soon became welcoming. “Cassidy, it’s nice to see you. Is everything okay?” A few tears ran down my face, and I managed a nod. I quickly wiped the tears away. I didn’t mean to cry, but it was sad being back here. There were so many happy memories that Jace and I had shared. “Oh honey, come in.” Mrs. Peters wrapped her arm around me and guided me in. “Come in, sit down. I need to check on dinner real quick.” I didn’t bother sitting despite her suggestion. Jace’s mom pulled out a pan with a roast and vegetables, checked it, and eased it back into the oven. “So what brings you here?”

“I wondered if I could look for something in Jace’s room, something I left in there.” I felt horrible lying to her, but I doubted that she would let me search his room otherwise. I needed that notebook.

“What did you leave?”

“I think I left a notebook of mine here.” She looked at me, debating if she should let me in his room. I could imagine it would be hard to have someone touching your deceased loved one’s things. I didn’t even know if they had emptied his room or not.

She looked me up and down and must have felt sorry for me. “Okay, you know where his room is.”

I nodded. Mrs. Peters headed toward the living room where Mr. Peters sat watching TV. I was grateful that she was not going to escort me. The narrow hallway to his room was unchanged. Pictures hung on both sides of the corridor, portraits of their family and only child throughout the years. Jace was such a good-looking kid. Why he was drawn to me, I’ll never know. He was my only boyfriend, but I was not his only girlfriend. Girls started noticing him in middle school, and he’d confessed he had his first kiss in sixth grade.

The door at the end of the hall was shut. Johnny Depp in his Sweeney Todd garb stared back at me, taunting me. Every time I’d come over, I’d teased Jace about that poster. Besides his obsession with the movie, I’d poke fun at his man-crush on Johnny Depp. He never got mad; he’d just argue that it was okay to worship Johnny since he had the Midas touch, and everything he touched turned to gold. The truth was that I enjoyed Johnny Depp and the movie too, but not enough to buy a poster, buy the DVD, and hum the tunes. A smile grew across my face remembering Jace singing “Pirelli’s Miracle Elixir,” and jumping about his room acting it out. I missed him. Taking a big breath, I put my hand on the handle. I could do this.

I opened the door—Jace’s room was exactly as I remembered it—even the bed was unmade. Had his parents ever come in here since he died? My feet carried me further into the room. Everything looked the same. My fingers trailed along his dresser. Bobble heads of Stan Makita and Bobby Orr sat on one corner. He was a sucker for classic hockey. His leather catchall was filled with concert ticket stubs, coins, and a key.

The mirror that hung behind his dresser was framed with pictures tucked gently between the mirror and frame. Each picture was a memory frozen in time. I studied the one where Jace and I whispered in each other’s ear at his dad’s birthday party—a perfect summer evening. The night had been warm, and the fireflies had just become more active, glittering the yard in yellow luminescence. I smiled at the memory; life was less complicated then. Another picture had a young Jace in a soccer outfit with another family; this must have been his first foster family. He only spoke of them once and without much emotion. Jace wasn’t smiling in the photo and his eyes looked sad. I wondered if this was when he was first put into foster care? He told me he wanted to stay with that family, but they were a short-term foster situation. The other pictures framing the mirror were mixtures of Peters’ family memories and a few selfies Jace and I took.

I sat down on the edge of his bed, grabbed his pillow and breathed in. There was a faint smell of Jace, minty and woody like his shampoo. Maybe this was a bad idea; emotions were beginning to surface again. I put the pillow down and stood, taking one last look around. My breathing was faster and a salty bubble grew in my throat. Tears prickled at corners of my eyes. I was gonna lose it.

“Cassidy, did you find what you were looking for?” Mrs. Peters startled me. She stood in the doorway looking at me with sympathy. I couldn’t come back here again—too many memories.

“No, not…” And then I saw something—a yellow steno notepad that I remembered Jace writing on after his attack. I hurried to his desk and pulled it out from under a pile of papers. “I think I just found it.” Opening the cover and hoping to find the treasure sought, I looked down to see Jace’s handwriting scrawling his recount of the night he was knifed. “This is it.” I closed the notebook and quickly left behind the room of memories, heading toward the front door.

“Do you want to stay for dinner?” Her heels were silent on the carpet but clicked on the linoleum kitchen floor after me.

“No, thank you, I really need to go.” The tears were about to fall, but I paused and turned toward Mrs. Peters. “I miss him and I know you do too. Thank you for helping me get my notebook back.” Not waiting for a response, I sped down the front walk to the safety of my car.

“Come back anytime, Cassidy,” Mrs. Peters called after me. I waved in reply to her without turning back.

With the car door shut and the engine started, I let the tears fall freely, not bothering to wipe them away. They carried the sorrow of memories past and the loss of a future that should have been. I had to find a way to save him.

I drove home on autopilot, not thinking about which way to turn or how fast to drive. I just stared at the blurred white dashes passing in a rapid pattern through my tear-soaked lashes. Thankfully, I made it home in one piece. I wiped the tears away and headed inside.

Chapter Six

Home. Alone. I set my purse in the cubby next to the door and poured myself a glass of ice tea.

Gram had a small black secretary’s desk that she’d bought at a flea market. She said she loved how you could close it and hide your junk. Gram liked a neat house but struggled with keeping papers and bills tidy, so the desk was a lucky find for her. She changed the knobs to the fancy crystal ones and added a cute upholstered chair to dress it up. I set my glass on the desktop, sat down, and thumbed through the notebook.

Friday, March 13 around 8 p.m.–taking trash out at Mickey’s and heard guys harassing a girl.

3 guys approached a girl who seemed uncomfortable with them, I stepped in and the girl ran off. The guys were pissed that I distracted them so the girl could get away. Tallest of them lunged at me with a knife while fat one kicked my knee out and I fell. Knife went in and out–guys ran off.

Fat one–pockmarked face, dark blond hair, about 5’8” 230lbs

Tall one–dark hair –straight, shaved on back & sides, long on top–hung in eyes, about 6’3” and 200lbs

Normal size one–about 6’0” 180lbs, grown wavy hair, had a pentagram tattooed on back of his right hand

It wasn’t much, but maybe it would help. I jumped in my car and headed toward the cemetery. The Raven Woods lot was empty, not a single person around. I ran across the road to the path leading to Blaylock Grove. The sun hid below the horizon, and I couldn’t help but laugh. Why did I always venture into the cemetery at nighttime?

Trekking down the dirt path, I paused when I heard noises in front of me. Cautiously, I walked closer. The voices grew louder as I approached. One, two, three, four people were in the clearing. One was a girl—bound and gagged sitting near the tree line. What was going on?

Taking out my cellphone, I dialed 911.

“911, are you in a safe location?”

“Sort of, I mean, yes,” I whispered.

“What’s your emergency?”

“I’m at Blaylock Grove Cemetery, and there are three men who appear to be holding a girl against her will.” I hid in the dark cover that the trees afforded me and watched them moving sticks and branches into some shape on the ground.

“I understand. We will get the authorities dispatched to you shortly. Are they armed?”

With the lack of light, it was hard to see the details. “I’m not sure. My guess would be yes because they do not seem friendly towards the girl. How long before the cops come?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I have alerted the police, and it’s an estimated fifteen minutes till they arrive.”

I hung up the phone. That was too long; the girl could be dead by then. She had enough info to get units out here, but I’d have to help in the meantime. Silently, I inched along the perimeter, careful to remain out of sight, trying to get closer to the girl.

One of the three guys in the clearing grabbed a shoe box and opened it quickly. He grabbed hold of something—it looked like a bird, but it was hard to see—and pulled it out. The heavier guy approached and gave a knife to that man. Frozen with the shock of what I was seeing and of what might transpire next, I could not force my legs to move. The leader took the knife and held it high in the sky and chanted words, some in English and some I had never heard before.

“Rya, I invoke thee. Tonight we bring a sacrifice to you.” He chanted in the foreign tongue again, then cut the bird-thing’s head off. He raised the carcass high and drank the blood, letting the excess bathe his skin in crimson. He marked each of his friends’ faces with symbols in the blood. The girl looked horrified; I’m sure my face mirrored hers. What were they going to do to the girl? I sprinted toward her and stopped just a few yards away.

“Well look what we have here.”

Had they seen me or were they talking about something else? I froze in place, eyes squeezed shut in fear, and hoped they weren’t talking about me.

The sound of footsteps stopped a few yards away from me. Opening my eyes, I saw two men talking. One was an average sized guy with his back to me. Smoke rose from his cigarette, and on the back of his hand was a pentagram tattoo. The other was a chubby guy, and he held out a wallet and said, “Lookie here, she just had a birthday, and according to this she is only seventeen.”

The guy closest to me chuckled. “The young ones are my favorite.”

What a creep! How long had it been since I called 911? Time felt so slowed down, and I was beginning to doubt they would make it here in time to save the girl.

The tall guy joined the other two; blood had begun to dry on his skin, and he looked like the male version of Stephen King’s Carrie. I didn’t dare move. The risk of being discovered with the three of them so close to me was too great. Wait…three of them…just like Jace’s attackers. I looked again at the trio, and my God, they matched the descriptions of Jace’s attackers. And they just invoked “Rya.” It couldn’t be a coincidence. In the clearing, I saw the branches laid out in the shape of a pentagram—candles lit at each point. They were going to kill this girl.

Running as fast as I could, not caring about being discovered, I dove at the girl who was sitting there helpless. She was gagged, her arms tied to her torso, but her legs were not bound. My fingers worked feverishly fast to free her arms. Of course, they heard me. The three guys surrounded us in an instant. I failed to free her, and now I was caught too.

“Well look at this,” the tall one said as he grabbed my hair with a firm yank, pulling me to my feet. “We have a visitor. Pretty little thing, isn’t she?”

The heavy one laughed and said, “Rya will be pleased. Tonight she gets two sacrifices. That will definitely earn us points in our favor.” While they discussed our fates, I tried my best to get free by stomping down on the tall one’s shoe. He let out a yelp and pulled hard on my hair. I shoved my elbow into his torso, making him groan in pain. His grip did not release, and the heavyset guy came over and helped him pin my arms behind my back. We were outnumbered, and with the element of surprise gone, there was little hope of overpowering these guys. I didn’t want to die this way. A desperate animalistic shriek erupted from my mouth. It startled them, but it wasn’t enough to do any good.

The tall one asked the heavy one, “Mitch, how about we start with this little firecracker?”

Mitch grabbed one of my arms, unsheathed his blade, and thrust it in my forearm—the pain was sharp and hot, like the blade was on fire. I screamed in pain as he dragged the knife down to my wrist, cutting my flesh open. He removed the knife and licked the blade clean. Blood poured out of the wound, like a slow steady stream of red. Sick bastard. If he wanted to offer me as a sacrifice, why didn’t he slit my throat? I grabbed Mitch’s shirt with my bloody hand and kicked at his kneecap, hoping to dislocate it. I landed a direct kick to the side of his knee that doubled him over. The tall guy gripped my other arm harder and shoved me to my knees, keeping me from escaping.

The tattooed guy stepped closer. “Mitch, you okay? Girl’s got a helluva kick, huh?”

Mitch rose, his pock-marked face red with anger. “You bitch.” He slapped me across the face. It stung, but was nothing compared to the throbbing pain in my sliced arm.

I spit in Mitch’s face, defiant but still immobilized. He responded by slapping me again, this time much harder. Then the tall one put his blade to my neck in a warning. If they wanted me dead, why didn’t they just do it? Were they supposed to hand me over alive, tortured?

Mitch motioned for the tattooed guy to take over holding me and cautioned, “She’s like one of those damn pip-squeak dogs that has a huge bark but little bite!” The heavy one’s warning had them all laughing. It was the perfect cover for the retreating footsteps I barely heard. I looked to where the girl had sat bound and gagged—all that remained was a split rope. I hadn’t split it, so how did she manage that?

The tattooed one holding me dropped to the ground, clutching his thigh and crying out in pain. I rolled away—right into the arms of the tall guy.
Crap.
Not my best escape attempt.

Standing behind injured Mr. Tattoo was Killian, dagger drawn. “Let her go,” he demanded. He looked menacing and deadly in the shadows of the night.

The tall one holding me arrogantly replied, “Never.”

Killian lunged toward us—clearly wanting the filthy idiot’s hands off me. The tall one held me like a shield in front of him. “Stand back or I’ll cut her head off,” he warned as he pressed his blade firmly against my neck. My eyes met Killian’s, and in there I saw the confidence that came from years of training. In a swift move, a silver blur whizzed toward me. The blade to my neck dropped to the ground. The grip holding me from behind released me. I turned to see the tall one staring at his hand in shock, a silver throwing star sticking out of the center of his bloody hand.

Killian yelled, “Run to the gate, Cassidy!
Our
gate.”

I sprinted toward the gate between the willows, moving as fast as my body allowed. The sound of sirens was faint but growing louder in the distance. Better late than never. As I neared the willows, a hand wrapped around mine and pulled me into the crossover.