Beautiful Haunting: Tragic Legacy

Copyright © 2012 by Zenab Khan.

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

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4759-5122-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-5123-3 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012917497

iUniverse rev. date: 09/29/2012

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Part Two

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Part Three

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Acknowledgments

Dedications—To learn more, go to Acknowledgements

This book is dedicated to . . .

*My little sister, who’s encouraged it.

*All the other books I’ve read and their authors

(some of whom are mentioned in the story itself),

who’ve inspired it.

*My parents, who’ve motivated it.

My cousins, aunts, and uncles who’ve driven me through.

*My friends (some of them mentioned in the acknowledgements), who’ve always been there.

My schoolmates, who’ve created some of the stories, jokes, phrases, and sayings themselves through their everyday actions without even realizing it.

And finally . . .

***My older sister, who inspired me to start writing

in the first place and brought on every book

or novel afterwards. ( . . . well, mostly… ;)

Prologue

A vase flew past Crest’s head, narrowly missing it and whizzing by so fast it sliced the air with a hissing sound. He turned slightly to watch it shatter against a wall.

If it hadn’t been for his inhumanly quick reflexes, the mess of shattered porcelain on the floor could have included several puddles of blood and possibly some pieces of bone, depending how much force had gone into the throw behind the vase.

"What in God’s freaking name do you mean I’m not going?!"

Coda’s voice was sharp, cutting-edge, and laced with an undercurrent of menace as she screamed the words. It perfectly matched her outfit: a blood-red lace top, ripped black skinny jeans, black thigh-high combat boots, and a mini bomber’s jacket.

Crest glared at her as she glowered back at him, sparks shooting from her eyes. It doesn’t say anywhere in the manuscript that you have to come with me, Coda. You’re staying here.

She grinned, a dagger-like smile that would send chills up anyone else’s spine but Crest’s.

"Maybe I’m not mentioned in your dumb documented scripts that I have to come, but these speak otherwise." She threw a thick bundle of files across the room at him. Catching it easily, he let several papers fall out and fly loose to annoy her before reading the back of the tab. Seeing the same subject’s name that he had, Crest flipped the folder over in aggravation… only to see Coda’s name written there, after the words: Agent Assigned To Subject.

Groaning, he muttered, "You have got to be kidding me. And I suppose Kage has to come, too, since God’s already decided he hates me this much?"

Coda scowled. "You’re such a drama queen. I come with you on almost every mission, and you always have this exact same reaction—like you can’t believe it. I mean, honestly. I thought your kind was supposed to be hard to frustrate."

"My kind was, Crest said, shaking his head and smirking. Then they met you, and everything kinda fell apart…"

As she glared at him, he broadened his grin by a fraction of an inch. Oh, you know I’m joking. Mostly. Can we just go, already? We have to get there before school starts.

Coda raised an eyebrow. "You really are crazy, aren’t you, big bro?"

What? he asked in aggravation.

She shook her head, her auburn-maroon locks of silky hair waving with the action. "Um, I am so not exiting the building in this outfit. I’ve already worn it for, like, seven freaking hours. Straight. I mean, damn! Besides, I don’t exactly think the school will let me in looking like this, anyways…" She waved her hand helplessly to the knives sticking fashionably out of her hair, being used as chopsticks.

Now how did I miss those? Crest wondered, staring at the sharp, shiny metal objects.

Finally sighing, he said, Fine. Go change. I’ll be in the Jeep.

"Wait, you’re going in that?" Coda asked, her voice a mixture of horror and appall as she referred to his clothes.

He didn’t even turn to acknowledge her, instead simply continuing to walk away and towards the exit. His outfit was similar to what he always wore—he wasn’t about to change it now just because he was about to go to school for the first (and last) day of his life.

Fine, she muttered not-so-quietly under her breath. "I’m sure Heredity Sparrow, whoever the hell she is, will greatly appreciate her last hours on planet Earth being spent with a psychotic, fashionably-clueless, stubborn, arrogant . . ."

He smiled as Coda continued her rant. Coda was an idiot.

But she was his idiot.

This is gonna be so awesome, Gregor said, a grin stretched across his broad, handsome face. Asher raised an eyebrow at him.

"Remind me one more time: we’re breaking into this room because . . . ?"

Yeah, Mikehl chimed in, shaking his chestnut-haired head in confusion. "I don’t even remembering agreeing to do this with you, dude. All I remember is being pulled out of bed at six in the morning with your ugly face staring at me. It was like, ‘Whoa, I wake up from a nightmare and delve straight into another one? Is that even possible?’ It was pretty traumatizing, man."

As Asher cracked up, Gregor scowled at the two of them and Daniel smiled, shaking his head. Out of the four friends, he was the calmest and most collected. Add to that his sensible but cunning personality, quick wits and clever thoughts, and simply charming appearance, and he was a great person to bring whenever doing something illegal.

Meanwhile, Asher Taylor was the normal one of the group. Well… depending on what your definition of normal was. With rich brown hair that always remained tousled but somehow appealing, an amazingly charismatic smile, sharp features and a kind attitude with a skilled personality, he was more than a little above average. Still, he was definitely normal compared to Gregor Richards and Mikehl Riot.

The two were almost like brothers, with close-to-identical features (all except the hair colors; Gregor was a surfer blond, while Mikehl strutted his legendary brunette head like a trophy) and twin personalities. Both loved practical jokes, (though most were anything but practical considering how much trouble they often got the two of them in) risky adventures, fun and time-consuming activities, and other crazy things.

One of those crazy things being breaking into the Records Room for no sane reason whatsoever Asher could think of.

And yet he had no choice but to go along with the plan… mostly because he was already up and there was really no point in going back to bed anymore now that he knew he’d never be able to get to sleep again.

So, Daniel said, leaning against the wall across from Asher. His black hair fell in his eyes, nearly covering their alluring, piercing gray irises. You watch the news yesterday night?

Asher felt his jaw clench unconsciously. He tried forcing it to relax, but couldn’t quite manage it. Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair and muttered, Yeah. I… I watched it with Mikehl.

Hearing his name, Mikehl poked his head into the space between Daniel and Asher, grinning.

Heard my name. And unless you were talking about the plan for Gregor’s murder that will take place promptly after this little shindig, I have no interest in whatever you two are scheming.

Daniel shot daggers at Mikehl, sending a message that clearly stated, You’re an idiot, with his eyes. We were just talking about the news.

Mikehl’s grin instantly dropped from his face. Biting his lip as his face abruptly paled a shade, he turned towards Asher and said, Shit, man. I had no idea. Sorry.

Asher finally managed to unclench his jaw, forcing a smile to take its place. No problem, dude. Don’t worry about it.

Mikehl shook his head, his hair falling forward and brushing his vivid blue eyes. Right now, they widened as he tried to explain his innocence. No, seriously. I forgot—

It’s nothing, Asher snapped, his voice hard. Mikehl immediately stopped talking and Daniel raised an eyebrow at Asher. He bit his lip, ready to apologize, but held himself back.

Turning away from his friends, he heard them start to move closer, decide against it, and then turn around to help Gregor unlock the door instead.

Good, he thought, glaring at the ground under him. I don’t need to discuss my latest failure, anyways.

Because of him, a group of Ardor demons had burned down an orphanage. The orphanage that happened to be the last one he stayed at, to be exact. Everyone had died in the fire—everyone except him.

And he had been the one that was supposed to be killed in the first place.

Gritting his teeth, he ignored his friends as they began whisper-yelling that they had gotten the door open behind him. He couldn’t believe that so many innocent people had died because of him.

And he couldn’t believe that he wasn’t allowed to do anything about it.

Chapter 1

I stood at the entrance to my homeroom, my binder folded into the crease of my right elbow, and leaned against the doorframe. My vacant eyes surveyed my fellow classmates as if they were at an army line-up, and the corners of my lips turned down at what was seen.

But before you accuse me on judging people, see what I have to say.

‘Jocks, preps, loners, cheerleaders, outsiders, goths, girly-girls, average, nerds, artists, musicians, kiss-ups, etc.’ were the words that entered my head in a jumbled disarray as I looked at the groups of teens chatting animatedly with each other in separate clusters of desks. And you cannot accuse me of being critical. The students I was looking at may as well have had labels plastered on their heads. They probably would have even been proud of them if they did, which just made it all the more worse.

I sighed and strode to the back left corner of the room, where two single desks sat pushed together in the dim shadows. The old plastic chair’s metal legs creaked as I sat on them, too rusted to even make a proper moan. Setting my binder, notebook and pen on my desk with a thump, I swung my backpack off my shoulder and set it on the seat next to me. The implication was clear: Don’t even think about sitting here.

Propping my chin in my hand and uncapping my pen, I opened my binder and began doodling carelessly in messy graffiti on the first page of lined paper. After completing several messy sketches, a noise much like the clearing of a throat came from in front of me. I glanced up to see a girl standing with her arms crossed, a backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder and an expectant look on her face.

She was pretty, (there’s an understatement) with a slightly tall, slim figure and thick auburn locks with maroon streaks cascading down to her waist. She had long naturally curled eyelashes that cast shadows on her cheeks when she glanced down or blinked her clear hazel eyes, and full lips a light peach color. Her outfit consisted of a strapless zebra-print dress that just-barely grazed her knees, a hot pink leather jacket over it, and matching hot pink combat boots with black and white laces that matched the dress.

Who dressed like that? I tried to remember how I looked. Well, let’s see…

I was wearing one of my favorite black T-shirts with the name Supernova (one of my favorite bands) written across the front in red lipstick-like print, along with a pair of black capris over white lace leggings. A matching cream-colored, faintly-ripped, lace scarf wove my hair into a loose ponytail, with several jet black curls falling lightly into my jade-emerald-colored, almond shaped eyes. I refused to wear makeup on my pale blemish-less skin, mainly because I didn’t want to be like every other brain-dead zombie surrounding me, but also because I couldn’t really be bothered.

So. The girl that’d approached me looked like she belonged with the Cami-and-Shorts group giggling by the window in the other corner of the room (well, all except for her outfit). Meanwhile, I looked like I belonged with the Future Goth Models of America (and I am not bragging when I say that—I swear I’m just being honest; in truth, I can’t stand my looks because of the attention they attract).

Back to the problem at hand: What was this stranger doing standing near me?

May I help you? I asked coolly, my voice cold enough to freeze metal.

The girl raised an eyebrow (someone was born without the fear cell) and said in a voice closely matching the sound of pealing bells, "You could try." She gestured to the seat next to me, where my black and white sketch-design backpack sat.

Dear God. Was she blind?

But, the girl had guts. That much I had to give her. Maybe she was worth keeping after all.

I didn’t smile, but instead just moved my bag onto the floor next to me and nodded for her to sit. She did, and then placed a plain black notebook on the desk. Huh. I was liking her better already.

So, she locked eyes with me, a daring move, and didn’t glance away. Hers were intense despite their light shade. What’s your name?

No, ‘So are you nervous about the first day? What do you think our teachers will be like?’ or ‘Um…’ or even, ‘Oh my God, what’s with your outfit?!’ She also didn’t hesitate and her voice didn’t waver.

(That was so it. I was definitely keeping her.)

Smiling slightly, I said, Heredity. You?

Coda.

(She even had a cool name!)

The slam of a door made me look up right then, just in time to see a tall man with an annoyed expression on his pale pinched face, and white-blond hair. He reminded me of Draco Malfoy from Harry Potter, and I smirked. Something gave me the idea he would not appreciate it if I told him that.

All right, class. I’m Mr. Welford, your homeroom teacher for the rest of this fantastic" year. Just stay seated and silent and we’ll get along just fine. Now, roll call. I like to call my students in random order to keep them alert, so don’t be surprised if your names aren’t in alphabetical order. Okay… Vitale, Jennifer? . . . Alright… Knudsen, Christine? . . . Kaprowski, Samara? . . ."

As separate students began raising their hands and shouting ‘present,’ I glanced over at Coda. She sat with her head perched on her hand, hair falling over her face in a colored curtain of silk strands. It seemed to shut her off the rest of the outside world. I smiled. She reminded me of… well, me.

Sparrow, Heredity.

Here. I switched my gaze back to my notebook and raised my hand without looking up.

Dredge, Coda.

Here. She raised her hand slightly, her voice just loud enough for Mr. Welford to hear. I glanced over at her and noticed as soon as Mr. Welford wasn’t looking at her anymore, she became busy rooting through her backpack.

That’s when the alarm bells started ringing.

But only because a thick cream white file folder sat half-hanging out of her backpack.

With a two words typed in thick black font. A name followed them, written in loose cursive with a red pen:

Assignment Subject: Heredity Sparrow

I froze, my pen poised above a doodled H in the band name Dark Humor, right about to connect the two parallel lines to form the complete letter.

Red flashed across my eyes, signaling two words to my brain:

STALKER ALERT.

Except that it made no sense. Coda was too young to work for the FBI, CSI or CIA… or anything, for that matter (or so I was assuming). And she had no reason to have a file with my name on it that enlisted her assignment as one that included me. After all, I was pretty sure I’d never done anything illegal.

Pretty sure. Not positive, though.

Which was, of course, what worried me.

As Mr. Welford began passing out our new schedules for the year, I biy my lower lip and began to fret. What on Earth had I done to get my own personal stalker?

Biting my lip, I started writing in my normally messy handwriting.

Things I Could Have Done to Possibly Upset an Entire WW (world-wide) Org. Enough to Have Them Send Someone After Me Would Be—

1) The time I accidentally wiped out all of the power in town by trying to practice my telekinesis and make the TV turn on w/o out actually getting up.

2) When I erased my third grade teacher’s mind for a week by trying to freeze time during a test.

3) The incident where I (accidentally) replaced in the school cafeteria with snakes.

4) When I di

"Miz Sparrow. Might I bother you for just a moment of your precious time?" The sarcasm in Mr. Welford’s cutting voice was as sharp as glass, yet I pretended to ignore it (even though it caused me to mess up my i—not a thing I would normally overlook).

He was close. Probably standing right in front of me. Not even glancing up and trying to remember what I was going to write (and epically failing) I said, "You could try. I’m not saying you’d get anywhere, though. I don’t normally oblige to give many people my time—especially people like you."

He slapped a schedule down on my desk and leaned close to me (probably to tell me to watch my mouth). His breath smelled horrifically like a mixture of onions and eggs. I wrinkled my nose and fanned the air in front of my face.

"Sorry, Sir, could you, I don’t know, back away a little? Just a few good kilometers is all. Your breath kind of reminds me of how my bathroom smelled after my cat got food poisoning." (A lie, since I don’t, never have had, and probably never will have, a cat.)

I finally raised my eyes, but only to see his reaction.

Golden.

Mr. Welford’s entire face became red, from the skin at the tip of the collar of his shirt to his hairline—almost like it were being filled with Cherry Kool Aid or red wine (I’m thinking he’d prefer the latter). His plain brown eyes darkened a shade and his thin lips tightened into a line so straight and pressed together it was barely visible as the class erupted into laughter around me.

Y-young lady! he sputtered. For that little remark, you will serve an hour long detention today after—

"Oh, come on, Coda interrupted, her voice aggravated. Cut her some slack, dude. It’s the first day. Ever heard a few friends I like to call nerves? Just let her off with a freakin warning or something."

Mr. Welford’s eyes bulged and he staggered back a step, away from our desks. It was almost as if Coda’s words had had a physical impact on his microscopic brain. I couldn’t blame him—Coda didn’t look like the type of girl to sass off to a teacher like that. In fact, just the opposite; she looked like the type that would spend the entire year kissing up to all the teachers and then getting in huge trouble so she’d have a ton of alibis. Yet my image of her was starting to change more and more as the day wore on.

And not in a bad way.

Mr. Welford opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by a loud, Bbbrrriiiinnnggg!

Grinning, Coda and I both got up, grabbed our packs and binders, and left a baffled Mr. Welford behind in the class as we stepped into the crowded hallway, our laughter mingling with the rest of the loud chatter and noise echoing in every direction.

Like they say… Saved by the bell.

Uggghhh! I threw my pen across the room and put my head on my hands after groaning. I could feel the teacher and class’s watch on me but didn’t care. Was it my fault my math teacher was an idiot that handed us a pop-quiz on the first day of high school, saying we needed to stimulate our brains by learning how to pace ourselves with challenging equations?

I was pretty sure I could shove this paper under the nose of Einstein and he’d look at me like I was insane for thinking he could solve any of it.

Sensing a presence before me, I glanced through the cracks in my indistinctly parted arms to see the bony figure of short Mrs. G (her full name was literally unpronounceable) standing with one hand on her hip and my pen (now broken in half and bleeding ink) in the other. Sighing inwardly, I forced a smile on my face and came out from my poor makeshift shell.

Yes, Mrs. G?

Heredity, darling. Did I not tell you to simply raise your hand if you were confused?

I smiled angelically. Who said anything about being confused, Mrs. G?

The woman pursed her lips, obviously not buying my act. Hmm. Then, what, may I ask, are all these scribbles on your paper? And blotches?

"Um… well, you see, the scribbles would be signs of my frustration. As for the blotches… uh, I might have been stabbing the paper with my pen. Occasionally."

Mmhmm, Mrs. G said, then decided to move onto another subject—thank God. Is there any reason you almost took my eye out with your writing utensil, darling?

I winced. Note to Self: Practice aim.

Pretending to be surprised, I said, "Why, no, Mrs. G. I just distinctly remembered you saying when you handed