Death Lies Between Us (An Angel Falls Book 1) Page 6

  “I grew up here, but I think I understand. I choose the mountains too. You know, my grandparents used to work here.”

  “Is that how you knew about the fire?”

  “Yeah, but I think everyone around here knows about the fire.”

  “Really? What else does everyone know about Castle Hill?” he asks.

  Our progress down the hallway slows. Our feet have moved only inches on the ornate carpet runner.

  “I’ve heard a few stories, probably just rumors.” I pause, trying to think of something interesting. “My grandmother told me she had to sign a contract stating she wouldn’t disclose anything she saw or did while she was working. Something about protecting the privacy of the guests.”

  “I haven’t heard that one before. It’s not a horrible idea. So, has she ever told you any of the gory details?”

  “Nothing I haven’t heard from anyone else, but surely you’ve heard the stories,” I inquire.

  “Oh yes. I’m partial to the one about the breakfast cook who got fired for not being able to cook eggs over hard. He cursed every egg that enters this home forever more. Sometimes you can smell rotten eggs for no reason at all.”

  I give Lance a skeptical look and try not to laugh.

  He places his hand over his heart. “I’m dead serious. I don’t even bother to buy eggs anymore.”

  “Who told you that?” I let the skepticism show in my tone.

  “My electrician, a very honest man,” Lance says.

  “Well most people just say Castle Hill is… umm, really old,” I finish lamely.

  “You were going to say haunted.”

  “I wasn’t sure you knew about that.”

  “The first realtor I spoke with told me not to bother with Castle Hill at all. She said it would cause me more grief than it was worth, either from renovation costs or from hauntings.”

  “And it didn’t scare you off?”

  “As you can see,” he tilts his head and shrugs while gesturing with his manicured hand toward the castle in general, “I haven’t been scared away yet.”

  “So, Mr. De’Lao, what’s your verdict? Is it really haunted, or is it just a bunch of fairy stories?”

  His easy going smile drops an inch. “I wouldn’t call them fairies.”

  Chapter Six: Losing Control

  Nathaniel

  “Well, what would you call them?” Juliana asks.

  I notice her tone is light but there’s a shift, an edge that wasn’t there before. I wonder if she can see ghosts like they’d been talking about in the van earlier. She’d said it wasn’t “like that,” but maybe she just didn’t want to talk about it. I’d ridden along with them and she hadn’t turned those green eyes on me once, but that didn’t mean anything. Evidencing the paranormal is not an exact science, now is it?

  “You know, I’m not real sure about any of it.” His answer seems aloof, but Juliana doesn’t push him for more on the subject. She only nods and then looks down at the floor.

  They stand near a closed door at the end of the corridor. I can hear random drumbeats and guitar notes coming from the other side of it.

  Lance says, “I think the band is about ready.”

  “Great, let’s go back,” Juliana says.

  Lance opens the heavy wood door for Juliana and she steps in front of him. I watch him watch Juliana much the same way I had been earlier today. She probably gets that everywhere she goes, I think to myself, and she doesn’t seem to notice at all.

  Back in the concert hall Juliana and Lance continue to move at the speed of racing turtles.

  Juliana asks, “Have you always been in the music industry?”

  “All my life. I grew up around it. My father let me be a part of the business, if that’s what I wanted, and I always did. This is my first attempt at running my own label separate from Shrine Records, and I’m excited about it. Mostly Mayhem has a lot of potential. I definitely hope we’ll be working together.”

  Lance gives Juliana a direct look as he says this last part but she’s not paying attention. She is looking over at the stage where the four guys are fine-tuning their instruments.

  “Playing in this band is all Jared lives for. He works so hard for it.”

  Lance follows Juliana’s eyes. “I think all that hard work is about to pay off.”

  That got a smile from her. I find myself wanting to be the focus of it and not this Lance guy. Her entire being lights up from within when she smiles. It gives me a warm rush in a very disconcerting way.

  He gestures toward the back of the room where the bar and couches are. “Make yourself at home and enjoy.” Then he moves away toward the stage.

  The band starts to play as Juliana sits in a leather chair by the bar and crosses her slim ankles. Her skin looks like polished ivory. I look at her right leg and can’t see any lasting damage from her earlier accident. My gaze lingers on the few inches of exposed skin. Knock it off, bonehead. Quit ogling your client and have some integrity. I look away.

  Hanging around and waiting is a major part of my job. Waiting is much the same as it had been when I was alive except there’s no impatience or anxiety with it. I don’t have anywhere else to be or anything else to do. I watch and I listen, but I also spend time absorbing as much information as I can so the boring times are more interesting. I like to observe people interacting with one another, but I also find myself listening to their music, or exploring their environment. Like now, this place is notable.

  I look around the room while Juliana watches the band. Lance is busy with a balding middle-aged man at a sound table. His head bobs up and down to the beat. The song is good. More than good, with modern rhythms and a quirky chorus that makes you want to move your body.

  The lady from earlier — Yvette, I think her name is — glides in from the studio door. She smiles at Juliana then makes her way over to stand with Lance and the sound man. I see Juliana look down at her skirt and smooth away invisible wrinkles then she tucks her hair behind an ear. She did much the same thing earlier when Yvette had been in the room. Self conscious? No way. Juliana is just as beautiful, more in some ways. How does she not know?

  By the third song, the two men from the kitchen enter together. They pass Juliana and sit on a couple of barstools behind her. The one that resembles a bull, Mason, leans forward, shortening the distance between himself and Jules. I see his mouth move but I can’t hear what he says from where I am near the wall. I move closer so I won’t miss any further exchanges.

  Juliana grimaces and closes her eyes. She opens them and turns slowly in her chair then says, “Please leave me alone.”

  The predatory look Mason gives the back of Juliana’s head makes me want to haul him outside and take care of business. The sort that involves fists. The man is dressed well, in tan slacks and a crisp polo shirt. His hair is cut short and gelled into perfection, but I’m not fooled by the crisp exterior details. The creases at the corner of his eyes and his smug mouth reek of ill intentions. His response to her confirms my earlier suspicion; he’s lower than a maggot.

  “Darlin’, you say that now, but I know what it really means.”

  Juliana’s and my own hackles go up at that. The tension in Jules’ shoulders and spine look tighter than suspension bridge cables. Juliana’s eyes are dead set on the stage. I step close to her chair out of protective instinct and she looks right at me. Her rock hard expression softens for only a second as her eyebrows furrow with uncertainty. I stare into the green fields of her irises, wondering if she is seeing me again, and then get rudely interrupted by the maggot behind us.

  “You’re lookin’ a little tense girl, how ‘bout a cocktail to loosen you up?” he says, smooth as a pimp on cocaine.

  Juliana ignores him and stares at the stage. The man next to the maggot, Fredrick, laughs a psychotic little giggle. He resembles a starved hyena waiting for a chance at carrion. He leans toward his friend and whispers something in his ear and they both snicker. Fredrick reaches into his pocket and p
ulls out a pack of cigarettes and lights one. His hands are steady for someone who fidgets so much. I don’t care for either of them, especially the big one. What’s this guy’s problem?

  Maggot-face Mason says, “Give me one of those.”

  Fredrick the hyena hands a cigarette over.

  The music blares on.

  Mason takes long drags off the cigarette and blows the smoke directly at Juliana.

  She wrinkles her nose and then stands and walks away, but the jerk isn’t finished with her yet.

  “You feelin’ uncomfortable on that fine ass of yours?”

  Juliana whips around as if she’s about to say something but before she can, he tells her, “You can make yourself comfy right here, darlin’.” He shifts his pelvis on his barstool and adjusts himself with his free hand. Juliana looks away and then makes a beeline for the other side of the room. I hear the two men laugh as I follow her. Juliana’s face is near purple as she disappears behind a door.

  It takes me a moment to realize where we are because of the luxury of the room with its plush carpet, chaise lounge, marble countertops, and extravagant size. It’s a bathroom. I leave immediately to wait outside, giving Juliana some privacy. I guard the door as if I’m not invisible.

  Jared and the band are immersed in their playing. The maggot and the hyena are having drinks from the bar and not looking my way.

  An entire song has finished and another sounds as if it’s coming to a close.

  Come out if you are okay. I direct my thoughts into the room where she is and wait some more. I think I sense some movement from within and then, finally, the door opens a crack. A green and gold eye peers out toward the bar and then disappears again. Checking again, I see Mason and Fredrick continue to entertain themselves with booze and cigarettes.

  The bathroom door opens once more and Juliana slides out, holding close to the wall. She moves with swift steps to the stage door about twenty feet away. She slips outside without a backward glance. I look back for her. The huge jerk saw her leave. He crosses his muscled arms over his chest and leans over to his mangy friend and says something that leaves a wicked grin on both of their faces. Fredrick nods his head eagerly. Maggot face downs the last of his drink, leaves the dirty glass on the bar top and stands up.

  Is he going to follow Jules? What have I done? Maybe it’s nothing, maybe he had to leave anyway. What if I’ve changed things, made it worse for her? It’s happened before; interfering with the living can change the future for the worse. I had interfered, shown myself, and even talked to her. Oh god, you idiot.

  I watch as Mason pours another double shot of liquor and quickly swallows it in a single gulp. And then I know. His face says it all, self-assured cold hatred mixed with anticipation. He’s a hunter of the worst kind, excited for the chase to begin and looking for something to toy with. I react fast. My mind is aware Jules is gone, outside and safe. The next thing I know I’m standing next to the maggot. I rack my brain for some way to stall him, and stall him right now.

  The twitchy hyena reaches over to stub out his cigarette in an ashtray. I push his fingers over so he puts the hot glowing end on the top of Mason’s hand where it rests on the bar top.

  “Shit!” Mason yells, and yanks his hand away. With the other hand he belts his friend with a meaty fist in the center of the chest.

  Fredrick and his barstool teeter backward and then he rights himself by gripping the edge of the bar.

  “What the…?” he shrieks and cowers back confused. One hand rubs at his chest and the other is held up as a shield. “Mason, sorry dude,” he says. “I swear it wasn’t my fault. Something grabbed my hand.”

  To my complete satisfaction, hyena face looks like he may have dirtied his shorts.

  “Shut it!” Mason says as he stares at the blackened circle on the back of his hand.

  I hear enough to reassure myself I’ve bought Juliana a few extra moments to get further away. I leave to go find her. I shove away the cold dread that surges through me like a rush of blood when I realize I’ve intervened once again.

  Chapter Seven: No Trace

  Juliana

  I moved as fast as I could while trying to be inconspicuous, but I have a bad feeling he’d been watching. What a freakin’ maniac. Mason the maniac; it seems fitting. He gives me the heebie-jeebies, making the hair on my arms rise as I think about him. With his rabid bulldog face, and horrible sneer for a smile. Something slithers down my spine as I remember. I shake myself trying to clear my head while I look around for the van.

  Outside the stone walls, I can still hear my brother playing his guitar. The melody of “Modest Muse” rips across his strings as Derrick beats out the rhythm.

  She bends but won’t break.

  For me, it’s too late.

  She hides when she comes.

  A modest muse is no fun.

  Caleb’s voice is muffled but I hear the words clear as tinkling spring water. I know every bit of this song because I wrote it for them. And, I am not going back inside. I can watch the band play another day.

  I hurry across the parking area to Caleb’s van and stand on the far side of it to let off more steam. As much as I want to quit thinking about Mason, I can’t seem to stop myself. What a creep. I wanted to scratch his eyes out for leering at me. When he’d said, “Your cherry is ripe for the pickin’” I’d had visions of myself dismembering him starting with his scrotum. I dig my nails into my palms wishing I could punch his lights out. I feel my skin being cut and I force my fingers to uncurl. Red crescent shaped lines mar my skin but there’s no blood. I look at the scabs on my forearm from my fall earlier and dwell on all that has happened today. Another tremor runs down my spine. Today is not my day. I told Nathan I had one more accident coming and that would make three. I send a silent prayer out to the universe that number three will be less dramatic than one and two had been then I take three long, deep breaths. Still feeling shaken, I take another three for good measure.

  With a little more clarity of mind, I take in my current surroundings. The evening is warm and the air is still. The setting sun makes the sky and clouds glow overhead in shades of gold and peach. Standing between the van and a knee high retaining wall I peer down its length. It cordons off the parking area from the surrounding forest on two sides but it ends merging with a two story stone building. I lean over to get a better look at the front of the structure and realize it’s a garage. A set of stairs leads to the upper level.

  I decide to wait in the van instead of standing around and reach for the driver side door. It’s locked. My hand freezes on the handle as movement from the corner of my eye catches my attention. I blink and then my eyes focus on the spot. Under the stairs next to the garage, someone is sitting on the ground. Has he been there all this time? He? I think, yeah, a boy. He’s not looking at me, he’s playing with something. It looks like a toy plane. Where are his parents? I take a hesitant step his way, thinking I could go ask him, but I stop myself. The little boy turns his head toward the trees then puts his plane down and stands up. He still hasn’t seen me.

  He looks strange, something is off but I can’t pinpoint what it is. He steps out from under the stairs and into the shadow of the pines. He wears a red shirt and khaki pants with a khaki baseball hat. He’s little, only six or seven years old. Just as I’m about to call over to him, he starts moving closer to the trees. Maybe I’m not seeing what he sees. He looks as if he can hear something too. I look, and strain to hear something, or someone, but it’s quiet, save for a couple of chirping birds. The boy takes a couple of steps and then my heart gives a lurch as he stumbles and starts to fall. “Ahh. Be careful!” I say, but he must not have heard me. His eyes are trained on the forest in front of him. By some miracle he rights himself without falling. And then, with numbing disbelief, it happens too fast.

  The boy doesn’t have even a second to react as a mountain lion bounds out of the woods and pounces on him, knocking him to the ground with impossibly large paws. The little
baseball hat flies into the air as pointy teeth wrap around his delicate neck.

  “No!” I scream and run for the boy. The cat drags him away like a limp dish towel.

  “No, no, no!” I don’t know if I’m actually screaming or if it’s just inside my head but I’m moving faster than I thought possible. I see the exact place where they disappeared into the trees rushing toward me but I can’t feel the ground under my feet.

  “Oh god, oh god.” I wipe away the tears blurring my vision and try to focus. I’m standing just inside the tree line, right where it happened, and I can’t see them. My eyes search the ground with desperation; I try to control the rising panic but there is nothing to see. I spin around and around, no footprints, no drag marks, no blood, and no sound, just the crunch of pine needles under my own feet. I don’t know which way to go. I search again thinking I must be off the mark by a couple of feet but still there’s nothing, no trace.

  I’m sure I’m in the right spot. Where did he go? Is it too late? That cat had him by the neck. I have to get help. I look over at the van; it would’ve taken me three seconds to run over here. I reorient myself, moving closer to the building. The boy had been right behind the stairs, right where I am now. My eyes linger on the space where he had been playing. I need to get help, find someone, call the police, anything, but I keep staring, my feet rooted to the earth. There are no scuff marks on the ground, and no toy. I move closer to the stairs. The toy plane is missing. I watched him set it down before he stood up. It doesn’t make any sense. Where is it? I rub my eyes with the heel of my palm and look again, no toy, no boy, and no mountain lion. I turn to the trees. They stand like quiet sentinels guarding the secrets of the forest. Where is he? I sob silently to the trees. Flittering chickadees land on the lower branches of the nearest pine and dee-dee-dee at each other. Some small confused inner voice tells me birds don’t sing when a predator is near. I brush my hair back away from my face and my hand is shaking. I shove both hands into my pockets to hide the trembling and try to find some reasoning within the unreasonable.