Son of Sam (The Last Scribe Prequels Book 4) Page 6

  Confused, she anxiously scans the area around her then pauses to frown at me. My brother once again dares to push her, this time more forcefully. Mortified at his brutish behavior, I rise and take a step toward them as he whispers something in her ear. My girl flinches then takes off running, fleeing from the depot.

  The Irin immediately stand at attention, all eyes now on me. I watch her depart as my brother shifts between us, his arms folded across his chest.

  “Give up,” he says simply, daring me to attempt to leave.

  “You first, brother,” I reply. “Or should I say Scepter?”

  We stare at each other and I see Storm inching closer from the corner of my eye. Seething internally, I pretend not to notice him.

  “Well, I've got things to do,” I say finally, glancing toward the doors. “And I'm sure you're anxious to follow her.”

  “And you're not?”

  Shrugging, I put my hands in my pockets. “What for? I'm sure you've already got her covered. Besides, sooner or later she'll come to me."

  He shakes his head. “Do you honestly believe that?”

  “She's here, isn't she? Last time I checked this was still my town, so unless your side-kick over there makes good on his threat to kill her first, I'll just wait til she finds me."

  “Narrowing his eyes, my brother turns to Riley. “What's he talking about?”

  Storm makes no reply, but the air in the depot begins to crackle with electricity. Apparently my brother's unaware of the threat his own people pose. Just to make sure, now would be a good time to mention my insurance policy.

  The station doors hiss and Nell walks in. Wide-eyed, she halts just inside the entrance. The tension between Storm and Yuri is now so volatile, no one even notices her.

  “Well, I'll leave you two to talk,” I say, and calmly start walking toward Nell. “Oh, and I should probably mention, that if something happens to my girl, not only will I expose the Irin to humanity, I'll personally tell the Council about Adam."

  "Adam who?" Yuri asks, frowning between Storm and me.

  "The one back in Penfield," I grin, winking at Peach. "Storm's son.”

  The collective gasp of the Irin and the look of betrayal on my brother's face, means my work here is done. His best friend and most trusted ally has committed the unpardonable sin. The red haired traitor knew all along and helped him cover it up. Even if they somehow find a way to keep this from the Council, they'll never fully trust one another again.

  Divide and conquer. Works every time.

  “Ready?” I smile at Nell, nudging her to go ahead of me. “Let's go find some breakfast. We've got a Rally today and some calls to make. ” Most of them about my own soon to be deceased son. Luckily, the replacement will more than make up for my loss.

  Handing Nell the keys to Thorn's Porsche, we exit the depot and I pause on the sidewalk. "Take that back to Merde for me then meet me at The Flying Saucer coffee shop in an hour." Taking a deep breath, I survey the empty street then revert to my natural form. My girl's out here somewhere and with the way the rest of this day's gone, it wouldn't hurt to do a quick tour and make sure she's alright.

  Wide-eyed, Nell merely nods as she backs away and I take off into the pre-dawn sky.

  The End

  Thank you for taking the time to read this bonus installment of The Last Scribe Series! If you enjoyed it, please consider taking a moment to post a review. Reviews from readers like you are like gold to authors and makes what we do worthwhile.

  About the Author

  R. Lee Walsh is an artist, author and proud mother of two beautiful and talented daughters, not to mention two lazy but adorable dogs, a kamikaze cat and a reclusive hamster named Wink.

  Proving that truth is stranger than fiction, she has written hundreds of true stories about her unusual life experiences and developed a popular line of inspirational greeting cards, as well as being a writing coach and chief Morale Officer at Alkonkian Author Salon, a Project Development and Network site for aspiring authors.

  Questions? Comments? Be sure to join her mailing list at www.thelastscribe.com.

  Also in The Last Scribe Series

  Irin (The Last Scribe Prequels Book 1)

  Scepter (The Last Scribe Prequels Book 2)

  Sheva (The Last Scribe Prequels Book 3)

  BONUS!

  Read on for a sneak peek at The Last Scribe

  ~One~

  As every man's nature in this life is dark, so are also his conception, birth and departure from this life.

  Secrets of Enoch 66:4

  It's two a.m and way past my curfew, which is a ridiculous rule anyway since I'm legally an adult. The light in the downstairs window means my mother's waiting for me, even though she must be exhausted after another thankless day of trying saving the world.

  We've done this pre-dawn battle of wills since I was thirteen, yet she refuses to give up. By now she'll have been sitting on the staircase facing the front door for hours, her dark eyes closed and her lips pinched so hard they're invisible. She'll still be fully dressed in case I've been in an accident or she's required to come bail me out. I wish I could say her paranoia is unfounded but history would prove me a liar. Although, to be fair, it was only the one time and the charges were later dropped. Frankly, any reporter who jumps out of the bushes and proceeds to shove a camera in your face deserves to get punched in the mouth.

  My hands shake as I straighten my clothes, wincing at the pain in my wrists. I pull down my sleeves to hide the bandages from the tattoos I got today--which sooner or later will lead to a heated discussion, but hopefully not tonight. At the moment all that matters is getting inside the house before some nosy neighbor or lunatic reporter spots me first.

  As the infamous rebel stepchild of John Matthews, mega-star televangelist and founder of the Omega Alliance (OA), the largest church in the world, I've spent most of my life in varying degrees of hot water. Unlike my perfect step-siblings, I'll never be nominated for sainthood and I don't care what other people think. In three more months I leave for college and hopefully a brand new life. Until then I just have to appear reasonably cooperative and above all, stay out of the gossip columns.

  I pause for a moment, leaning my forehead against the shiny red front door, once again missing our old house. It was modest and messy and entirely too shabby for our now famous family, but it felt like home. It's been five years since the OA had this one built in a private, gated community and it still feels like a furnished warehouse.

  Taking a deep breath I put the key in the lock, prepared to endure my mother's wrath. Before I can even open the door fully, she hisses from the stairs.

  “Fourteen twelve. Hurry before the alarm goes off.”

  Confused, I scowl at her hunched form on the stairs. “Huh?”

  “The new security code is fourteen twelve. John changed it earlier. Unless you plan on waking up the entire neighborhood when that blasted siren goes off, I suggest you punch it in now.”

  Flustered, I nod and hastily enter the numbers into the keypad next to the door. The lighted buttons go from flashing yellow to steady green and we both breathe a sigh of relief.

  This is the second time in less than a month John's changed the code, so either he's trying to catch me out past curfew or he's had another death threat. All things being considered, probably both.

  “I'm not doing this with you anymore,” my mother says, her knees cracking loudly as she stands. Tall, regal and what Time Magazine called “Hepburnesque,” even with her black hair a mess and dark circles under her eyes, she's stunningly beautiful. “Next time you can explain to the cops and the whole neighborhood why you can't seem to follow even the simplest rules.”

  I start to deliver my rehearsed speech about being an adult, but she turns and begins walking up the stairs. At the landing she pauses but doesn't look back.

  “You'll never find him,” she says softly, her shoulders hunched. “No matter how much trouble you cause or miserable you make everyone
else. He doesn't want to be found.”

  I open my mouth and close it, scowling at her back. We both know she's talking about my real father, a man I haven't seen or heard from in over a decade. I gave up looking for him years ago but she still thinks my behavior is some pathetic attempt to gain his attention. I could argue the point but it's late and really doesn't matter. I'll always be wrong and she'll always be disappointed.

  “Get some sleep,” she says when I don't respond, slowly continuing up the steps. “We've got a big day ahead and you need be ready to go at six.”

  Damn. I forgot. The church's Easter Sunrise! Spectacle is being televised tomorrow which means the whole family will be required to sit through countless interviews today. Gritting my teeth, I watch as she disappears into the dark expanse of the second floor and feel a familiar pressure on my ankle. Leaning down I gather up my orange tabby cat, Tiger, rubbing his face against mine. He purrs softly then gently nips my chin with razor sharp teeth--his way of saying he missed me.

  “Sorry T, there's no rest for the wicked. Looks like it's a cat nap for both of us.”

  My stomach growls and I sigh heavily then wander toward the kitchen. Tiger mewls once and I place him on the granite island counter, rubbing his velvety ears. “Tuna sandwich sounds perfect. Thanks for reminding me.”

  Taking off my jacket, I toss it over a barstool next to the counter then open the stainless steel doors of our new state of the art fridge. In the old house our noisy Frigidaire not only held food but served as a community bulletin board. Every inch was covered in a riotous collage of paper, from kindergarten artwork to overdue bills. The spotless condition of all our appliances reminds me once again of how much life has changed. Gone are the everyday messes of a big active family, replaced by cold hard granite and polished steel that doesn't show fingerprints—along with a cleaning woman named Helen who's been hired to keep it that way.

  Perusing the shelves, I take out the tuna I made earlier but didn't have time to eat yet.

  “Get that animal off the counter,” growls a familiar voice from somewhere close behind me, immediately followed by a soft thud and the sound of furry paws quickly retreating across the kitchen floor. Cringing, I open the fridge door wider and see my stepfather sitting alone at the dining room table. I note his sandy brown hair remains perfectly combed and his traditional blue striped pajamas are unwrinkled. Looks like my mother isn't the only one who's been waiting up for me.

  “Little early for breakfast,” I say, trying for nonchalant. “Couldn't sleep either?”

  He chuckles softly then shakes his head, his expression far from amused. “Am I'm supposed to pretend not to know you just got home?”

  Taking a deep breath, I shrug before pushing the fridge door shut. The only light comes from the nightlight over the stove casting a sickly green glow on the counters.

  “Pretend whatever you want. I'm an adult.”

  He sighs heavily then rises from the table to flip the overhead light on. The sudden glaring brightness makes us both wince. “Really? Because where I come from adults act responsibly. They come home at decent hours and contribute to society. So unless you're just coming home from some new job I don't know about, you do neither.”

  Rolling my eyes I turn away, taking a bowl from the cupboard. “Maybe you could just record this speech and I'll pretend to listen some other time.”

  He slams his hand on the counter, making me jump. “Enough,” he growls through gritted teeth. “I will not be disrespected in my own house.”

  A scathing retort is on my tongue but the hard set of his jaw is a warning. After fourteen years of living as his stepchild, I've learned when to duck and run. “From here on out,” he continues, placing a stack of official looking papers on the counter, keeping his voice low. “You will follow the rules and be polite to everyone, including the press, or you can forget about that fancy art college in Portland. The only place you'll be going is Silverhill.”

  “The mental hospital? You can't be serious,” I scoff, glancing at the paperwork he's placed in front of me. The top sheet says “Involuntary Commitment” in bold black letters and a quick perusal shows the form is already filled out.

  “Mark my words, young lady, we've all had enough of your antics. You're one more screw up from losing your freedom entirely.”

  “I'm not crazy,” I croak, my throat constricting. “This is blackmail. You can't just have me locked me up because you feel like it.”

  He shakes his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “Call it whatever you want, but we both know I've got more than enough reasons to have you locked up.”

  “Did my mother agree to this?” I ask, a sinking feeling in my stomach. He raises an eyebrow but says nothing. Of course she did. Her signature's right there on the form.

  “I don't even want to know what's under those bandages,” he continues, staring pointedly at my wrists. “But as of this moment you have just under three months to perfect the art of being invisible. No smart mouth comments to the press. No coming in after curfew. No visible piercings or tattoos. No fighting and no showing up to church on a Harley with God only knows who. For the next twelve weeks you will be a model citizen. If I hear one word about you acting out or saying anything that contradicts me or what the OA stands for, I won't hesitate to sign these papers.” He scoops up the forms, tapping them sharply on the counter. "If were you, I'd think long and hard about the next thing that comes out of your mouth. Unless it's an apology or 'yes sir, I understand sir,' you'll be watching the sun come up from Silverhill.”

  If there was even the slightest chance he's bluffing, I'd tell him exactly what he could do with those papers in graphic detail. Unfortunately, I've never once known him to make an idle threat. If he says it, he does it and I can tell he's just itching for me to give him a reason to carry this one out.

  Well, he sure as hell isn't getting an apology.

  “Yes, sir. I understand sir,” I say through gritted teeth.

  He stares at me for a long moment, an unspoken “this ain't over” look on his face before stalking away. I listen to the sound of his footsteps fading across the house until all that remains is the faint ticking of a clock down the hall.

  If I were any other girl from any other family, I could just leave. Legally, no one could stop me. The problem is I wouldn't get ten blocks from this house before some stupid reporter followed me.

  The OA security team and living in a gated community ensures we have at least some defense against fanatics and the paparazzi. However, on my eighteenth birthday John informed me that if I chose to leave for anywhere but college, I would no longer be entitled to OA resources, including security. “That goes for all four years,” he said. “We'll reassess after you graduate.”

  Blinking once, I glance down at the bowl I'm still holding and realize my hands are shaking. While I have every intention of going away to college, my plan is not to merely earn a degree, but to eventually leave this prison behind permanently.

  ~Two~

  4:00 p.m.

  Operating on zero sleep and a nightmare day of unsuccessfully dodging reporters, I decide to seek out my Aunt Paula. I find her sitting in the front row of our new, twenty-five thousand seat sanctuary, her ever-present clipboard bouncing on her lap. Rehearsals are going on for the Easter Son Rise! extravaganza and the last of the reporters are upstairs interviewing my mother and John about the festivities scheduled for tomorrow. Aunt P’s making notes and giving last-minute instructions as two hundred beaming children rehearse “This Little Light of Mine.” I wander up and sit in the seat behind her, the scent of her Shalimar perfume mingling with the delicate cloud of Aqua Net wafting from her freshly permed hair.

  “Got your hair done, I see,” I whisper.

  She lifts a newly manicured hand to touch the curls. “You like it?” She turns around, surveying my appearance. “I see you didn’t bother.”

  Ignoring the remark, I watch as small white candles are passed out to each child, to be li
t, one off the other, during the performance.

  “You sure that's a good idea?” I ask, watching the kids chatter excitedly. She turns back to them with a chuckle.

  “Like herding cats, darling. Difficult, but not impossible.”

  When the rehearsal ends and the last giggling child leaves the sanctuary, she returns to her seat, motioning for me to come sit by her. I grudgingly make my way that direction.

  “Your attitude is not helping you, little girl.”

  “That's because I'm not a little girl anymore,” I sigh, moving a stack of papers on the seat next to her so I can sit down. “I haven't been for a long time.”

  “Then stop acting like one.”

  Rolling my eyes, I deliberately turn my gaze to the now empty stage, envisioning what it will look like on Sunday. Built as a modern-day Colosseum, the sheer size of this mega-arena is unprecedented and the stage alone can hold a jumbo jet. A twenty five foot tall wooden cross dominates center stage, illuminated by solar lights that ensure it remains permanently lit.

  Come Sunday morning every last seat will be filled, with thousands more either standing or in folding chairs. Millions will watch the live performance via television or internet and every member of my family will have a part in the spectacle.

  Except me, of course. I'll be safely tucked away in the fourth floor nursery where there's little chance of my causing much trouble. I actually hate the spotlight and enjoy taking care of babies so it's not exactly punishment.

  Aunt P reaches over and places a new leather bound journal in my lap, presumably a replacement for the one John took from me a last week and was later stolen from his office. I pick it up, flipping through the empty pages, grateful for the gift but infuriated by it at the same time.

  “They'll find the other one eventually," she says. "But maybe you can use this one in the meantime." I glance at her sideways.