Death Knows My Name: Earthbound Series, #1

Prologue

Eighteen Years Ago

At the sound of an inhuman scream coming from the back of the house, Aleida lowered her young-adult novel. She sat frozen, attention piqued, wondering if the noise had come from the television in the sitting room. Her little brother was pinned to the screen, last time she’d checked on him.

Turn the volume down, Evan! I’m trying to read, she called out, waiting a beat before closing the door with her foot. When no one responded, Aleida shrugged and returned to her bed, curling up against the headboard.

She heard a heavy set of feet retreating down the hall toward her room and she prepared for her father to burst in. He worked nights and hated being disturbed during the day. Aleida waited, gaze trained on her door. When her father failed to appear, a creeping, unpleasant feeling formed in her gut. The hallway led to the pool, where she heard more faint cries. Aleida climbed off the bed and walked into the sun-drenched backyard.

Her mother Marion stood waist deep in the swimming pool, clutching something wet and limp to her breast. Aleida’s father dove in headfirst, screaming inaudible words, arms outstretched, for the thing in his wife’s embrace. She screamed at him, an unearthly panicked sound that made the hairs on the back of Aleida’s neck stand up.

She stood at the gate, gripping the cool iron fence, the oxidizing metal flaking off against her hands. Her parents looked up in unison and stared at her, even though she hadn’t made a sound. Their eyes were wide, red and wet, and whatever Marion held to her bosom was pressed tight, built like a doll.

Aleida saw a tuft of brown hair smeared across the doll’s skull and her blood ran ice cold. It wasn’t a toy her mother held, but her younger brother Evan. She shook her head side to side, her brain firing off synapses. It couldn’t be.

Her father screamed inaudibly at her, in slow motion, his mouth wide and distorted. A pair of hands violently pushed Aleida to the side as two men in blue suits charged into the pool. Sirens wailed from the front garden.

Time seemed to implode. Aleida watched helplessly as the EMTs removed Evan’s limp body from Marion’s embrace and lowered him to a gurney, where another paramedic began compressions. The rig was loaded into the ambulance and the team raced Evan to the hospital.

Aleida ran out onto the street and watched her parents shadow the ambulance down the road. She lashed at her bottom lip with her teeth, wishing and praying to God that her brother would live. It was her responsibility to look after him.

By the time Aleida went to bed later that night, her parents hadn’t returned from the hospital. Dressed in her spotty dog pajamas, she slunk down the stairs toward the kitchen, eager for some sympathy and an update from her grandmother.

Betty stood by the phone, one hand braced on the wall, weeping openly. What did the doctor say? Oh my...dear Jesus...how’s Marion? Aleida hid behind the door, out of sight, her heart beating so fast she feared it would burst. Was Evan okay? Why did Grandma speak as though someone had died?

Do you want me to tell her...or should Marion? Betty said quietly. When can we see him? Right... I shall wait until you get home.

Betty hung up the phone and Aleida dashed back to her bedroom. She threw herself into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin, listening to Betty climb the stairs. One step, two step. A beam of light fell across her comforter when her grandmother entered the room and then turned on the lamp on her bedside table. Her pale cheeks were streaked with tears and her brown eyes were bloodshot. Aleida had never seen Grandma this sad before. Something bad must’ve happened to Evan.

What’s wrong, Grandma?

Betty rested a hip on the mattress and stroked Aleida’s forehead lovingly. Honey, when you put the film on for Evan today, did you leave him alone at any point?

I went into my room to grab a book.

Did you stay in there long?

Aleida chewed on her thumbnail, ignoring the biting feeling of guilt at the back of her throat. I started reading and forgot. She sniffed. Why, Grandma? Is Evan all right?

Betty’s bottom lip trembled and she burst into loud, guttural sobs. She held Aleida’s hands with an iron grip, making her grimace. Your brother is very sick, my dear, she said in between sobs.

What happened? Is he okay?

Betty shook her head and withdrew a tissue from her robe. Blowing her nose, she said, He’s on life support, Ally. The doctors are keeping a good eye on him.

What does life support mean?

Evan is attached to special machines that help him breathe.

Is he going to die?

I don’t know, sweetie. Your brother’s in a very deep sleep. We don’t know if he will wake up. It’s in God’s hands now.

Aleida felt sick with guilt. If she’d just watched her brother like her parents had asked, he might be still okay. Will he wake up?

Betty blew her nose into the tissue, her face devoid of any color. I hope so. We must be strong for Evan now, okay? We must pray that he will get better and wake up. She captured Aleida’s hands again, pulling them toward her. Let’s pray. Say it with me, Ally. Dear God, we ask for your guidance in these dark times...

Chapter One

RAFE

Present Day

The foul stench of the dying soul intoxicated Rafe, leaving an itching sensation across his skin, a hunger in the pit of his stomach. The aroma was so orgasmic he had to restrain from leaping across the table. His would-be victim, a middle aged woman dying of cervical cancer, sat in a booth across from him. She ate with her family, pale skinned and waif thin, ignorant to the tall, dark man in the corner sniffing the air.

Once he got a whiff of a dying soul, Rafe was fueled by wild, animalistic urges. He’d tracked the scent for five days across the country until he stumbled into a little Southern diner called Harry’s in Dorbanks County. When he saw Mary Kent for the first time, his need for her soul became insatiable. His self-control was usually unbreakable, yet he hadn’t reaped a soul of this caliber before: the closer to death, the richer the taste. But like a rabid beast, he had to remain leashed. There were too many witnesses around with camera phones.

So, Rafe did what he did best and channeled his angst. He ripped a napkin from its dispenser and tore it into tiny squares, keeping his gaze firmly on the sick woman. Judging by her rank odor, Mary didn’t have much time left. Tongues of black smoke radiated from her head and shoulders, only visible to his eye. Rafe’s longing for her soul outweighed anything else, including the plate of untouched pancakes in front of him.

Do you want a top-up on your coffee, hon? A middle-aged blond waitress holding a coffee pot stepped in front of him, blocking his line of sight.

Rafe rolled his eyes and met her friendly gaze with annoyance. No, I’m fine. I have a full cup right here.

Oh. The woman’s red lips rounded. Do I detect an English accent? Are you here on vacation?

Rafe swallowed a lump of frustration. From the day he’d taken control of his meat suit, he’d tried desperately to lose the posh accent, but it remained, under the surface.

I’m as red-blooded as any American, but my accent still fails me.

It just goes to show you can take the boy out of England, but you can’t take England out of the boy. The waitress chuckled at her own joke. Well, you must try our famous house special pancakes and tell the folks back home. They are—

Is this them? Rafe pointed bluntly to his full plate.

Her smile slipped off her face. You’ve hardly touched them, she observed with a combination of shock and concern. We cook over two thousand vanilla cream pancakes every week. Every plate is returned licked clean.

You don’t say, he replied dryly.

If you’d come last week, you would’ve seen the local paper interviewing the owner, Pat. The article’s right there. She pointed to a framed newspaper clipping next to the specials board. It’s done wonders for our business.

Rafe gritted his teeth. He hated small talk; in fact, he loathed it because it always distracted him. He peered around the waitress’s wide girth and saw his target still in her seat. In fact, Mary’s stench still tickled his nostrils.

That’s fascinating. Look, I’m busy, so please leave me alone.

The waitress’s smile weakened. Okay, sir. Her eyes dropped to the mound of torn napkin squares in front of him and pinched her lips together. I’ll get you some more napkins.

Rafe watched her leave, and smirked. If only she knew that with a snap of his fingers, he could make her insides bleed from her nose. He felt the heat of the waitress’s glare from the counter so he picked up his fork and spooned the soggy pancakes into his mouth.

He surveyed his surroundings as he did so, happy to have chosen the table in the corner of the room. He had a full view of the entire diner. Families ate in red vinyl booths, their teenage sons and daughters looking disinterested in their meals, nose deep in their smartphones. Small children screamed until a tablet or some sort of digital device was planted in front of them. The world was getting smaller every day.

Rafe had been around the block a few times, witnessing the dramatic shift in society over the years. In the span of the past century, he’d seen people get fatter, stupider, and rely too heavily on what strangers said from behind a keyboard. But he didn’t care because it made his job easier. He couldn’t count the number of souls he’d reaped last week because their owners had stepped out in front of a truck or walked off a cliff whilst liking a post on Facebook. In his opinion, smartphones were the best thing ever to happen to humanity.

Today’s target, however, was going to be a hard harvest. The cancer-ridden Mary Kent had an army of family around her, making sure she was comfortable during her meal, chirping in her ear like a flock of birds. Getting her alone to reap her soul was proving to be difficult. Any time she went to the restrooms, she was followed by a convoy of protectors.

Rafe snorted into his pancakes. He couldn’t understand why death was so feared in twenty-first century society, an unspeakable taboo. The ancient Spartans believed an honorable death outweighed a dishonorable life. To them, mortality was something to achieve, a higher status, a new beginning. People should be worrying about the afterlife rather than paying taxes, statuses, and other earthly concerns.

He spooned the last of the vanilla cream pancakes into his mouth and pushed the empty plate aside. The waitress returned to the table with a forced smile. She lowered a handful of napkins onto the white laminate.

Here you are, sir. She picked up his plate. Would you like anything else?

No, your famous pancakes did me just fine.

She walked back to the kitchen without a word. Rafe diverted his attention back to Mary and found her table being cleared by staff.

Well, shit, he muttered.

He tossed some cash onto the table and dashed out of the diner to the car park. The woman was being helped into a car, surrounded by family. Rafe’s heart started to race, and he knew at that moment, his eyes must have turned blood red. The stench of the woman’s soul was stifling. He had to harvest now before he missed his chance.

He pressed a hand to the cold brick to brace against a sudden wave of discomfort. His vessel was dying, fast. It was feeling more human every day, aching in the mornings and growing stiff in the cold. If he left it a few more months, sores would appear on his skin and his hair would start falling out.

Every few hundred years, Rafe sought a new body to house his burgeoning life force. Two centuries ago, he’d chosen a nondescript English lord called William Hawk. The man was twenty eight years old, attractive, rich, and in excellent health. His body was strong enough to withstand Rafe’s power. The long timeframe in between vessels prevented suspicion. Anyone who might be able to raise concern was long dead.

Rafe glanced up and saw Mary Kent’s van pull out of the car park. After days and nights of chasing her, he’d missed his chance. Another reaper would have her soul for lunch. But Rafe didn’t curse or chase after the minivan, because a stronger life force had attracted him, drawing him to the north side of town. It was pungent and powerful, its scent unlike anything he’d ever smelled before. It wasn’t a dying soul on the wind, but a fresh vessel and it was close, very close.

Rafe pushed off the wall, swayed for a moment, and walked to his stolen Dodge Charger, parked in the lot next door. He slipped into the leather seat and started the engine. He peeled the GPS device off the windshield and tossed it onto the passenger seat. He didn’t need directions. The delectable scent would lead him right to the source. Rafe pulled onto the highway, looking forward to having a new body after so many years.

Chapter Two

ALEIDA

Is the spirit talking to you, Aleida?

Aleida Fuller wandered the smoldering crash site, stepping over a curved hubcap and a pool of gasoline leaking into the asphalt. The red hatchback was completely smashed into a crushed shell, shards of metal scattered over the road. A hint of burning rubber lingered in the air. She followed the ribboned grooves in the cement toward the figure covered by a white sheet. She crouched next to the body and lowered her hand on the sheer fabric, pulling her gaze from the victim’s weeping family on the curb.

Nosy bystanders, including half the sheriff’s department and EMTs had stopped to watch her. Aleida hated having an audience, the attention interfering with her readings. The heat of their gaze prickled the back of her neck, spreading goosebumps across her skin. Normally, she relied on her body’s natural responses to connect to the spirit world, but today, she felt nothing out of the ordinary. She turned to Deputy Sheriff Ted Walker, who stood nearby, his expression passive yet optimistic.

I can’t hear anything, she said. The deceased’s moved into the light already or it’s energy’s too faint.

Ted’s face flickered annoyance underneath his Stetson hat. Dammit, he hissed. I was hoping to give Don’s wife some answers on what happened.

She won’t be getting them right away, Aleida replied. Her husband’s recently passed so his energy is weak. It takes a lot of effort for a spirit to form an apparition or make contact. Think of them like newborn babies. Babies don’t walk right out of the womb, do they?

I guess not.

It takes time. Aleida rose, kicking a stray beer can, watching it skid across the asphalt. I’m certain this was an alcohol-related crash. Don’t you agree, Deputy? There’s no evidence to prove another vehicle was involved.

Ted cleared his throat and came up beside her, placing a comforting hand on the small of her back. You don’t have to do this now, he whispered in her ear. You can visit the body at the morgue. I thought we could use your expertise before the coroner took the remains.

Aleida glanced at Ted’s colleagues watching her from the curb, their faces shadowed with distaste. The entire town thought she was a fraud. No one, other than Ted, wanted her to be here, interrupting proper police work.

I can do this, she insisted. It’s my job.

Ted smiled at her sweetly. You can say it, Aleida. Car crashes bring back painful memories of your father. If your brother hadn’t—

It happened a long time ago. Aleida pulled at the gold cross around her neck and shook her head, clearing the fog from her mind. Let me finish my reading.

All right.

Wordlessly, Aleida wandered the crash site. In her peripheral vision, Ted’s strong form was silhouetted against the dying light. He always believed in her, no matter what others said. Crickets hummed in the trees as she walked a full circle. Her lips turned down at the sight of blood stains on the asphalt. There was debris everywhere.

It’s unrelenting when someone leaves this earth, she said quietly, almost to herself, rather than anyone else. The ones left behind are affected the most. We continue on living and breathing, while remembering those who’ve left us. Their faces never leave our memory.

She shut her eyes, channeling her breathing through her nose until the local ambience melted away. Her skin tingled as the breeze washed over her. The air was unnaturally warm for October so it wasn’t the evening chill. It was Don. A male voice spoke in her ear, as light as a whisper, as transparent as the fall breeze.

Petra. I safe. No worry.

The line of communication between the veil and the living was fragile, so Don’s attempt to make contact sounded more like Morse code. But Aleida knew what he meant. She wandered up to Don’s wife, Petra, who wept behind a crumpled