Neverlove: Shadow Jumpers, #1

Neverlove

by

Angela Brown

Neverlove

Angela Brown

Copyright 2012 Angela Brown.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, or by any information storage system without written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Because of the dynamic nature of the internet, any web address or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid.

Stock imagery provided by Thinkstock and Stock Free Images. Cover design by Heather McCorkle of CP Design.

@ Angela Brown 9/15/2012

To those who wish upon a star, the healing hearts, and my Chipmunk: the Light of my life and my inspiration to dream.

Table of Contents

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

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23

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29

Chapter One

Abigail

Providence, Rhode Island

Six. Whole. Months.

The longest time her mother stayed home in the last few years.

Enough time that a sense of security snuck into Abigail’s heart, lulled her mind into forgetfulness.

But the monster hadn’t forgotten.

Abigail bolted awake at the squeaky turn of her bedroom door knob. The scent of lavender flooded the room. It tickled her nose and she sneezed, refocusing her gaze on the open doorway. Her father stood there, the shadowed hall an ominous backdrop.

She replayed her nightly routine in her mind, cringing at the part where she was supposed to lock the door. I didn’t have to. Mom’s home. Or so Abby thought. No need to ask him why he was there. Her belly twisted in knots. Please, God. Not again.

Instead, she asked, Where’s mom?

Her hand crept to the bedside table, nervous fingers taking twice as long to click on the lamp. More shadows crowded around her father.

End of the month crisis. Something only she could handle. It’s just me and you.

Abigail sucked a breath through her teeth. Her. Him. Alone.

Not good. She pulled her blankets closer, tighter to her body. Fear shoved her heart into overdrive, a thrumming beat in her ears. She couldn’t keep up the charade any more. It had to stop.

Don’t come any closer. After years of blind obedience, she’d grown too aware of how wrong her father was to do the things he did – to her – his only child.

His wild eyes radiated a sickening yellow glow, teeth bared and bright white. Have you lost your mind, Abigail? Don’t you know I love you? His words slipped through clenched teeth, voice graveled by anger, disbelief.

No, she answered. This was never love. From the first time you...ugh! This is sick, Walter. Nauseous turmoil twisted deep within. Please, leave me alone.

She’d never said no. The extra bolt on her door usually did the trick. But she’d forgotten. It didn’t help that her father was the pillar of the community, accustomed to getting what he wanted. People who didn’t want to be him wanted to be with him, something Walter always tossed in her face. Like that made everything all right.

Telling someone about the real Walter – the monster? Not an option.

One teacher suspected something, quietly approached Abigail about her Goth girl look, then mysteriously resigned within a day of their conversation.

She tried telling her mother. A lot of good that did. Her father’s denials, his handsome face and his I’m shocked our daughter would say such a thing act, earned Abigail a slap across the face.

There was no one.

Abigail reached up and wrapped her fingers around the small, crystal, soccer ball dangling from her necklace. It used to belong to her older brother. He died when she was twelve years old, a car accident that should have taken both father and son. Somehow, Walter escaped without so much as a scratch. Abigail lost her closest, and only, friend. That’s when her father’s visits began.

Your mother won’t be back for a couple of days. He stepped closer. Abigail backed further on her bed. Each step he took out of the shadows brought him into the tiny light of her bedside lamp. Gone were the hazel eyes with flecks of green they shared. Matching skin a sandy tone, flawless. The same cheekbones set high within heart shaped faces. She even inherited his deep set dimples and full lips. Nothing left but the monster she dreaded.

Abigail tightened her grip on the charm, calling on all her strength. Five years of it was long enough. Too long. This was her moment to put her foot down. I’m serious, Walter! Go away!

So I’m Walter to you, now. Huh? It’s like that? His voice rose in pitch, the tension like a weighted mass bearing down on her.

Abigail held her head high, face tilted upward, defiant...silence her answer.

He rushed to the bed in a rustle of tailored Italian garb, backhanding Abigail. Her heart leapt in her chest. Shock cut her breath to the quick. Her head whipped to the side, cheek stinging. But what followed burned into her mind.

Up until then, he’d taken her innocence one bit at a time, touches and kisses that confused her, affections that would have been okay – if they came from a high school crush. Not her father. He’d allowed her to keep her virginity...the last pure thing she had.

No more.

He stole it from her, taking a sick joy in her pleas for help going unanswered by the silent night.

A raspy voice crept along the fringes of her thoughts after her father left her alone to deal with the damage he dealt.

End the pain. End the fear.

End it all.

There’s no one to save you.

In death, your father can no longer hurt you. And he will come for you again.

You’re lonely and deserve to be. No one wants to understand you or care that your Goth look blends the black and blue into something trendy.

End it. Be at peace. Now.

The words settled in Abigail’s mind clear and true, as if Death itself knelt by her side whispering in her ear. Taking her own life was a terrible option that would damn her soul to hell. But it also promised peace. After what her father did, fire and brimstone at the hands of the devil appealed so much more than hell on earth at the hands of one meant to love her.

The following morning, sunshine filtered through her blinds and mottled her bedroom floor. The beautiful day beyond her window could not break the perfect storm that consumed Abigail. She struggled, pained in all the wrong places, and got out of bed. Glancing at her clock, she knew she had the house all to herself. She pressed a finger to her cheek and moaned at the soreness. Abigail trained all her thoughts on putting one foot in front of the other, leaning on the wall for support. She was determined to make it to her parents’ bathroom if it killed her.

Ironic, since that was her intent anyway.

Minutes passed to an hour when Abigail finally sank into her parents’ claw foot tub. Steam rose in white, smoky wisps from the water’s surface. Stinging warmth seeped into her skin, her pores taunted open by the heat. Just the thing to cleanse her father from her system. Release the filth of his still-lingering touch. Not that it would matter soon. After last night, she’d made up her mind. Seventeen wasn’t such a bad age to die.

Abigail cast a glance toward the bathroom floor. Ripped pieces of her mother’s stationary littered every inch, her failed attempts to come up with a poetic message, something meaningful to leave behind.  The lace edging of each pink scrap curled from the steam, pitiful imitations of rose petals. Her tired gaze slid up to the mirror where her final words stood out bold in her favorite shade of dark red:

Deciding to die should have been the hard part. Not the stupid note!

Three empty lipstick tubes sat on the pedestal sink.

Yeah. That’s about all her life amounted to.

Even still, Abigail’s fingers trembled. Sliding her father’s vintage straight razor open took longer with shaky nerves.

Walter kept his face clean shaven, a perfect mask for the world to see. Took his time honing the blade edge on his strop. Kept the bamboo handle smooth as the day he first bought it.

Wish he’d taken that kind of care with me.

Her body moved with less resolve than her mind. Hesitation marks stung like needle pricks until...

Slice. One wrist

Slice. The other.

With each cut, the blade eased beneath her skin. Pain splintered along her nerves. Abigail gasped, dropping the razor, and her arms, into the water with a splash. She stared down at the red liquid floating from her wrists. Her life force trickled away in a ballet of curls and spirals. A metallic scent teased her nose. She smacked her lips, wincing at the coppery taste on her tongue. Tears raked hot trails of anguish down her cheeks. Anger at her father for going too far, for starting this twisted mess in the first place. Anger at her mother for always being gone.

Worst of all, anger at herself for letting it go on. For years she hid his abuse with long sleeve shirts and turtlenecks, even in the heat of summer. She hid her sleepless nights behind layers of makeup and heavy liner. Being teased as the Goth girl was a compliment compared to the truth. She stunted her own growth, ever the scared little kid she was when it all began. Refusing her father last night was the first real grown up thing she’d done.

Yeah, and look what it got me.

The clear water Abigail originally stepped into soon resembled red paint. So much blood.

My blood.

A light dizziness swam in her head. Won’t be much longer now. Each slip of her eyelids brought darkness, but re-opened to the world of the living. She let them close again, tensing at the metallic scent wafting beneath her nose. When she opened her eyes again, her heartbeat quickened. Her body shifted, splashing scarlet water onto the white tiled floor. Shadowy forms rose up from the pool surrounding her.

Release the soul, the shadowy figures whispered in unison. It calls for freedom. Tiny dots for heads. Countless tentacles extended no more than a foot from each of their centers.

Who – what are you? Talking shadows should have freaked her out. But more of her blood swam around her than flowed through her. For all she knew, they were hallucinations. And their hushed voices soothed her.

Servants of Death. We are soul weavers. They chanted the words over and over again, softly, speaking over each other.

They worked slow and steady, tentacles dipping in and out of the water. Each graze of their shadowy form against her skin tingled, releasing a thread of life that bound her soul to her body. With each loosened strand, sore muscles eased. The pain, throbbing in the most sensitive parts of her, faded. Relief trickled into her heart and mind.

No more insults by classmates. For some, the best they could come up with was Gothie. Not real original. The name-calling didn’t hurt so much. It was the second and third glances, the whispered rumors...those were the worst. Because no one knew the truth. No more teachers and their assumptions. No more judgments. Her cheeks trembled as the corners of her lips edged up, weakly.

Peaceful, Abigail whispered, her voice feeble. Just as Death promised.

Soul weavers worked their shadowy tendrils. Pin pricks of light shone forth like dots outlining her body. Death makes no promises. Only answers the soul’s call. Yours called too soon. Too soon. Not according to Death’s plans. To the Withers. To Judgment too soon.  Or devoured.

But Death...his voice – wait, devoured?

"Was not Death. There is another. Their voices rose and fell in pitch, a screech that jolted Abigail’s comfort to a skidding halt. We do not like the other. Do not. Shhhh! Speak no more." Their tendrils picked up the pace, racing against some unseen clock, chanting their dislike of this other, then shushing each other in chastisement.

Nothing about their presence or their voices soothed her any longer. Who spoke to me? she wondered aloud. Did I finally go crazy?

A tapping sound echoed from the stairs. She figured the answer to her last question had to be Yes. Her father shouldn’t be home for hours. Her mother wasn’t due back for at least another day.

Abigail. Her mother’s voice floated to her from some faraway place. I saw your Beetle outside. Shouldn’t you be at school by now, sweetie?

Shouldn’t you be somewhere, anywhere else, too? Abigail could hardly form the thought. Feeble fingers pressed her brother’s soccer ball pendant as close to her heart as she could manage. She closed her eyes at the sight of her mother’s petite figure entering the bathroom. A scream ricocheted from the walls. Heels click-clacked to Abigail’s side. Hands splashed into the bloody water.

Darkness consumed Abigail. She’d known the consequences before making the first slice. Hallucination or not, the soul weavers were right. She’d chosen to take her life. Even though her soul was hell bound, Abigail hoped, with the last fiber of her being, that no matter what her mother tried, it was over.

All.

Over.

Chapter Two

Basil

Austin, Texas

Basil nodded his head in time with the synthesizers and bass beat pumping through his ear buds. His foot joined in, toes tapping the oak footboard. One day his mother would realize he’d outgrown the bunk bed scene. He wasn’t thirteen or stick-thin anymore. Not that she’d listen if he screamed it at her. Besides, no one screamed at Mei Hines.

The scent of rosewater tickled his nose, announcing his mother’s arrival before her tiny form hurried through his bedroom door. She waved something white in her hand.

Lips pursed.

Narrowed eyes pinned on him.

Uh oh. What did I do now?

He sucked in a breath, and his bottom lip, recognizing the bold red ‘B’ underlined in the upper right-hand corner of the paper.

Um...mother, where did you get that? Basil tugged the ear buds free. They landed in his lap beside his iPod.

I’ll ask the questions. Her eyes became slits, piercing.

Riiiiight. He’d put the Theology exam – the one his mother now held in her hand like it was poison – into his backpack. Maybe it fell out?

He swung his legs from the bed, toes curling into the plush carpet beneath his feet, elbows on his knees. Out of respect, he remained seated. Mei had a harder time looking down her nose at him when he stood to his full six feet of height, one of a few traits he lucked out on from his American father. Otherwise, he shared his mother’s angular, almond-shaped eyes, long lashes he couldn’t stand and hair a girl in Geology described as a silky version of obsidian during a class discussion on volcanoes. How he became the topic confused him, but not the comparison. Wasn’t the first time he’d been compared to a rock.

Just as he was about to chastise himself for leaving the exam out or dropping it somewhere in the house, he remembered stuffing the exam beneath all his books on purpose. Out of sight. Out of mind. Out of his mother’s hands. At least that was the plan.

I didn’t take it out.

Between helping his mother all day Saturday with her gardening and yard work while his dad watched college football, Basil never got a chance to touch his backpack. He stole a glance to the corner where he’d dropped it. Empty space. Only one way she could have found the paper. His eyebrow lifted in curiosity. Did you go through my things?

The paper crunched as her grip tightened. Are you accusing me of something, young man? Red flushed up her neck, fists on her hips.

He opened his mouth to apologize but she cut him off.

This is my house. I do what I want, look where I want. If I hadn’t, would I know about this? She tossed