Red River Song: Descendant Series, #1

Prologue

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Anxious, I flick my wrist, popping my knife open in the dim light as I stare at the warehouse across the street. I feel people moving into place in the darkness. My backup. I sense them through our bond. I close the knife between my fingers and palm only to flick it immediately back open. Close, open, close, open, my obsessive compulsive tendencies kicking in as tension and fear war within me. My body humming with the need to set it free along with the rage I’ve been holding back for twenty-four years.

Everything has come to this.

I count to myself as I pop the knife open and close, finally stilling when I reach nine. Multiples of three, odd numbers calm me. I’m weird, I know.

The stench in the air has me clinging to my blade like it’s a life preserver. It won’t do me any good against what I’m about to face, but it’s comforting and I’m getting pretty good at using it. It’s strange how I never noticed the smell before. As I inhale deeply, the acrid tang assaults me. Fear. Not mine, theirs. The faces of my friends swim in my mind, and I know it is time—time to kill my lover, save my friends, and defeat my Queen.

There’s no use trying to hide. My presence here is required. Not many people would be brave or dumb enough to come anywhere near an empty warehouse in the middle of the night, in this neighborhood. Steeling myself, I walk toward the entrance, settling my blade in my jacket pocket, my hand

gripping it tightly. The face of the warehouse is chipped and peeling, a once white coat faded to grey by grime and years of use. There are two doors, a normal-size steel door and a large garage door for loading and unloading trucks. I opt for the regular door. As soon as I pull it open, I hear whispers. Voluminous, all-consuming. Nothing coherent, just deafening.

For an old warehouse, it is relatively small. The small door I came through leads into a narrow hallway that opens up into one large space. While I make no effort to hide myself I also don’t take pains to be found. I glance around, squinting at the harsh light illuminating the middle of the space. A small platform is there. I gasp sharply, realizing what I’m looking at. Two forms are suspended from a beam above, dangling by their tied arms, their feet hovering just above the platform. Immediately I know it’s them. Their innocence rips through me as shock turns to coarse anger.

Even though I know what my lover is capable of—what she is capable of—I move forward swiftly without thought. Raising my arm, I feel energy bubbling through me. The ethereal fire radiates from my fingertips, a warning of what’s to come. I fling my arm forward, focusing my thoughts, my desires. I picture an arc of light cutting through the ropes binding my friends. Holding it in my mind, I release my arm, and the energy rips across the space.

Something slams into me from behind, sending me sprawling across the concrete floor. Moving up on my hands and knees, I wince at the pain. Yup, definitely going to bruise. That’s when I realize my fatal error. It wasn’t something that had slammed into me—it was someone. I feel him standing behind me, my lover, his presence menacing.

Breathing slowly, I think how to play it. I am the first person to admit that I am more than a little dead inside, but Patrick didn’t see that—and maybe ... maybe that was a good thing.

Patrick, I whisper. When he moves, all I feel is the rush of cold as he breezes around me. His hands grip my arms so tightly one might think it was a romantic embrace, but we both know it’s so I can’t fry his ass with my Gift.

Lorelei, Lorelei, Lorelei. So sweet, so sad, so pathetic. His eyes are cold and unfamiliar.

Patrick, please. We have to get them out of here. Please. I struggle against him, but his grip only hardens.

My Queen is almost here. She wants you.

She can have me! But we have to get them out of here. You know them! They are innocent.

Don’t be so naïve and pitiful. Have some backbone! You and I both know they never had a chance. The innocent ones, the sweet ones, they’re always the first to die. Worry for yourself. Patrick sneers.

Without another word, he throws me into the wall. My head meets a piece of metal with a resounding CRACK. My vision blurs as two Patricks come my way. Deciding to split the difference, I aim for the middle of the two looming Patricks, but it doesn’t matter; he has the upper hand here. His knee hits my chest before he flings me across the warehouse. My body slides gracelessly, skidding mercifully close to the platform. With my left hand, I reach desperately into my pocket, pulling out a small vial of clear liquid. Ripping the cap off one-handed, I swallow the contents, praying for it to kick in quickly. With my right hand and my aching, woozy legs, I attempt to pull myself closer to the platform. To the huddled masses lying there.

A dark, malicious laugh echoes through the empty space. I feel a breeze as he zips across the area with inhuman speed, kicking me in the stomach, cracking my ribs. I roll on my back, coughing and sputtering for air. He leans down close to me, his hand gently caressing my head. As he draws his hand back, I see the reason for his touch. My blood. He smiles slowly, his eyes never leaving mine as he licks my blood from his hand. With his eyes focused on my face, I use my feelings to channel a spark as I reach into my jacket pocket slowly.

You taste delicious, he sighs slowly, closing in on me. His lips skimming mine, he looks at me, hungry. In his eyes, I see my death, slow and torturous.

Wanting to scream, instead I lean forward, teasing his lips softly with mine. My tongue sweeping the crease of his lips.

He chuckles, grabbing me harshly. Is this what you want? You reek of desperation, Lorelei. He grinds against me, and I moan softly before his lips crash against mine in a consuming, repulsive kiss. I feel nothing for him but regret and disgust. As he bites down harshly on my lip, his mouth claiming mine, I arch forward, making him believe I’m in his thrall, trying to get closer to him.

My arms encircle him as I wrap my legs up around him like a vise and strike like a viper. With a flick of my wrist, I plunge the blade into his back, angling the pure silver for his heart. He snarls, snapping his teeth like a vicious dog trying to rip out my throat. Feeling the power run through me, I hit him with tendrils of my fire while I stab him again. He shrieks, his body exploding into the air, flying away from me into a hidden crevice, blood weeping freely from his body.

Shakily, I rise. I feel the potion from the vial working as my pain ebbs away and my vision clears. It will take time to heal completely, but I just upped my chances of survival. I don’t chance a look down. I feel the blood all over me—his, mine. I know myself well enough to know I’ll lose it if I look. Instead, I take off on an unsteady sprint focusing on the task.

Thirty feet...

Twenty feet...

Ten feet ... almost there.

She’s here, Patrick whispers from the shadows making me stumble, but it’s the melodic giggle that freezes me to the spot.

Lorelei, she sings my name. Wind rushes past me, fingers brushing my hair. Another airy breeze, a caress on the arm, and then there she is, five feet in front of me, blocking the path to my friends.

She claps her hands gleefully, and lights flicker on. I pale, tears welling as I sink to my knees, shaking uncontrollably. She laughs mirthfully, her eyes glowing ruby. Suddenly she’s in front of me, pulling me up, her face contorting into a deadly calm.

Take a good look, Lorelei. You did this. You! You take what’s mine, you try to put me down, and I will take everything from you. The screams tonight, Lorelei ... the begging, the pain. It. Was. Ecstasy. And now you get to watch while I finish them. She gestures to the two motionless heaps behind her.

Letting me go, she steps back, forcing me to examine her. At first glance, it was the blood that brought me to my knees. From head to toe, she’s covered in it. Her once bouncy black curls have straightened beneath the weight of blood. The sweet metallic stench of it clogs my senses. But on taking a closer look, it’s the sheer maniacal joy that has me hyperventilating. The worst kind of enemy is the kind you can’t reason with.

Thea—

Don’t. It’s not fun if you beg. Her hand slashes out a red orb, hitting me in the chest. Sailing back, I land on the floor, a cloud of dust choking me. Before I can move, she descends. A severely weakened Patrick standing beside her. A pang of regret hits me and I want to scream at her to let him go. I have no illusions. The Patrick I knew is gone, so deeply hidden beneath this version that Thea has created, I don’t know if he’ll ever be able to come back, or if he’ll want to. But there are people waiting for him. People who love him. Just a little longer.

Now we play, she says, her mouth opening, letting loose a stream of red embers flying straight for me. Terror breaks me. In my mind, I sound the alarm to my people outside, calling to them through our mental link. Then all I can do is open my mouth, and scream. Darkness descends as the walls cave in and all I can do is think about how I had gotten to this moment.

Chapter One

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Nine Weeks Earlier...

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In the dark, I could be whoever I wanted to be, whatever I wanted to be. Anything was possible. Life was full. Easy. There were endless possibilities.

But it was all a lie. Reality was hard, painful, cruel. Fantasy, dreams, possibilities: those were easy. I’d always been a dreamer, an observer of life, never really living it.

This was my mantra. For me, every day was exactly the same. That was what burned me. The fabricated dreams that I mattered, that I would do something noteworthy with my life ... they were nothing. I failed. All that hope and promise were just that: hope and promise. Lies I’d created to get me through the day-to-day, to keep breathing, to get through the mundane everyday existence of my life.

With each passing day, the lies became harder and harder to believe. My imagination decayed along with my dreams, leaving me lost, stuck, terrified—and desperate. I was about to graduate from college, knowing nothing other than the same dead-end job that I’d had since high school. It had taken me six years, but I was finally about to complete my degree. That morning, I would start my last quarter. Three classes. That was it. The constant dread and fear of my impending graduation enveloped me.

Now what? What am I doing? Where do I go from here? These were the thoughts that plagued my every waking moment.

The screeching of the alarm clock snapped me into existence. I sighed, hit the snooze button, and rolled away from the annoying clock to face the light streaming through the window. Three classes, twelve weeks. The anxiety began to build again in the pit of my stomach. Damn my brain. Twelve weeks, then a diploma, and then ... then....

No. I couldn’t think about that yet. My grades for the past few years at Portland State University had been well above par, but before that, I’d been unfocused, clueless, naïve, and a complete failure. I’d gone intermittently, taking some quarters off as I became overwhelmed with my course load and with working full time. I’d been doing the bare minimum at both school and work for some time, just floating by, drifting along, and waiting for my life to awaken me. Waiting for something to grab me and shake me into being.

But it had never happened.

I had been so unsure of my path that I’d floundered, until I woke one day and realized it was now or never. It was time to buckle down at school and get a degree of some kind. So, I’d picked history, a subject I excelled at. A subject that moved me. But it’d been too late. No graduate school would accept me with my GPA, and as for a new career path, no place would want to hire me without a recommendation from my current employer, which I would never get as my attitude had significantly declined with each passing year. I was ill-suited for customer service. But to be a historian, digging through archives and old musty books and articles, discovering things of the past ... now, that suited me to a tee.

The alarm sounded again, breaking my thought process. Exasperated and anxious, I slammed the button on the clock. As soon as my fingers made contact, I felt a jolt of electricity. Crying out, I jumped up as light blue sparks hissed and died where my fingers had just been.

What the...?

I let the question linger as I grabbed a comb, prodding the clock gently before carefully examining it with my bare hands. Nope. The clock was most definitely dead. Maybe a power surge? My mind trailed along, coming up with multiple explanations to justify what had just happened.

It wasn’t the first time either. A week ago, I had woken from a nightmare. Unable to sleep, I went to make a pot of coffee and, as soon as I touched it, it too had been covered in iridescent blue sparks. I had debated calling Heath, my best friend, over. He would drop everything to stay with me. But I couldn’t risk it. In turn I had run down my small list of friends: Theo, Anabel, Greta, Madison. No. I didn’t want anyone to think I’d lost my mind. I shook my head, still in mourning for my dead coffee pot.

Trying to clear my mind of all things weird—I mean, maybe it was bad wiring—I started when I checked my phone. Damn, damn, damn. I was going to be late. I quickly grabbed a pair of somewhat clean jeans from the pile of clothes at the foot of the bed and began searching for a fresh shirt. I hastily plucked a red button up from the pile and threw my dark brown hair into a ponytail. No time for a shower. I rummaged through the closet and spotted a gray zip-up hoodie, which I pulled out before I made my way into the small hallway. To the right was a small bathroom, facing the living room to the left. The living room had an archway with an open bookcase that separated it from the kitchen.

Walking out through the living room and into the kitchen, I stopped at the small table with two chairs at the far end. Lifting my backpack off the nearest chair, I made my way out the door and down the small path to my car.

Another dreary day in Portland, I thought as I started my black Civic and turned on my windshield wipers. I glanced at my phone again and saw the time. I threw the phone onto the passenger seat next to my backpack and put my car in gear. What a great start to the day. Right.

Pulling into the nearest parking garage on campus, I collected my things before slamming my car door and taking off. Class had just started. Not a good way to start my first day of my last quarter. I jetted out of the parking garage. Luckily, my class was just across the street.

Without looking, I started to cross. A sharp blast of a horn stopped me in my tracks. Startled, I turned to see a car skidding to a stop directly in front of me. I jumped back and held out my hand as if by some miracle it could repel the oncoming vehicle. The car’s horn kept sounding as it came to a complete stop, grazing my fingertips. A surge of adrenaline pierced through me, and anger rose as my hand turned into a fist. I slammed the hood of the car and shouted, Crosswalk!

My heart pounding, breathing fast, I stared at the driver, a young man in sunglasses with dark hair. He rolled down his window, shouting, Are you crazy or something? What the hell is wrong with you? Watch where you’re going!

Whether it was to tell this man off or make myself feel better, or a little bit of both, I slapped the hood of his car as hard as I dared. I inhaled sharply as my hand made contact with the car. A surge of energy rushed through me, and light blue sparks erupted from my fingertips on contact. Dazedly, I shook my head and glanced around to see if anyone else had noticed. This isn’t happening. It’s not real. My breathing slowed as my brain tried to rationalize what had just happened for the second time today. Then I did the only thing I could do, I turned and walked away. I was unharmed, extremely late, and did not have time to argue about right of way with that ass. I would freak out later.

Propelled forward by my need to get to class, I ran into the building and up the three flights of stairs. As I entered the room, I saw there were only a few seats left. I silently made my way toward the one by the window. I sat and began to rummage for a fresh pad of paper and pencil.

As I settled, I surveyed the room. That was the thing about college: once you started your classes to fulfill your major, you began to see the same students over and over again. It came in handy if ever absent and in need of notes. Out of the class of forty, I saw seven that I’d had previous classes with, not including the professor, whom I’d had twice before. One of the seven, Greta, my friend, waved from the front of the room in acknowledgement. I felt a genuine smile cross my face in response before she turned back around.

Professor Brooke, his name bold on the chalkboard behind him, was the epitome of the absentminded professor. Always in the midst of a pivotal point, he spoke with a fervor that left white froth clinging to his lips. He wore a white button up with disheveled, green corduroy pants that complemented his sagging stomach and white hair. His tight face nearly swallowed his small eyes, which were magnified by his glasses. He was a man to be admired, as his brilliance was unparalleled to anyone I had ever met. I respected him and had achieved great success in his classes. This was to be our last class together, and the subject matter was the American Revolution.

Everyone in the classroom was younger than me. I felt ancient, even though I was just a few years older. Looking around as the syllabi was being passed along the rows, I was reminded that I had once held promise. I’d had a path, but somehow it had all become a confused mess. Professor Brooke started discussing the syllabus, all heads bent down to review it but mine, unable to focus.

The summer before my senior year, my father had upheaved our lives in Westerville, Ohio, a quiet suburb of Columbus where we had lived my whole life, to shuttle us off to Astoria, Oregon. My world had transformed completely. Ohio enjoyed definitive seasons. The weather was at times confused, but there were still seasons. The terrain in Ohio was flat, the population, crowded. I enjoyed being able to hide myself amongst others. Anytime I ever stood out had always been for negative reasons, mainly being poor. That’s why it was so hard for me to fail when all I wanted to do was matter. More than anything though, Ohio was the last place I had a real family. All my memories were there. It was the place that I had a mom, dad, and sister. Coming here had ended all of that.

Astoria was small, with a view of the Pacific Ocean and mountains. The only season was rainy—never too cold, never too hot, just dreary and mild. The picturesque town was not at all my style. I was always an outsider there. Where in Westerville I learned to disappear into anonymity, in Astoria there was nowhere to hide. I got a job as soon as I arrived in order to occupy my time and get my father off my back about making friends and doing things. I had made a few friends but I wanted to be alone mostly or at the very least make money, so I worked at the local grocery chain, Larsen’s, in Warrenton after school and on the weekends. My grades suffered, and I became more withdrawn. For me, this was the beginning of the end.

My older sister, Prue, had graduated a few years before me and gone off to college in New York, leaving just my father and I. My dad had progressed in Astoria, meeting people, coming out of his shell since my mother’s death a few years earlier. He’d even met a woman with whom he’d tentatively begun dating. He was succeeding where I was floundering, and I resented him for it. Unsure of myself, unsure of what to do, I graduated and began to work full time, living at home and starting at Clatsop