Pretty When She Kills (Pretty When She Dies #2)(17)

An early morning mist hovered over the lapping waves of the dark waters of the lake and clung to the trunks of the juniper trees. The birds called out from the high branches as small squirrels darted around on the ground, evading the early morning walkers and joggers. The wide pathway was sparsely populated this morning. A few bikers rode past her, the wheels spitting up small bits of grit. She frowned after them. Some turtles rested on rocks near the water, soaking in the early morning sun. She waved at them. They ignored her.

Legs aching, side stitching, lungs straining, Samantha plowed through her discomfort. She was just getting back into running and it was not welcoming her back like an old friend. It was a struggle to get up every morning and get out the door, but she was determined to be a stronger, healthier version of herself. She had even enrolled in self-defense classes. Jeff joked she wanted to be Buffy. He was sort of right.

Though she had known Cian was a vampire, she hadn’t realized how dangerous he truly was. When she had first met him he had seemed like just a sweet, ordinary guy with beautiful eyes. She had never truly understood that there was so much more to him beneath the surface. Maybe she had read Twilight one too many times, but she had secretly adored the idea that a vampire was in love with her. It had been like some sort of modern day fairytale until she realized he really was a monster and she had never truly known him. She hadn’t even considered that there might be other vampires out in the world until Amaliya had shown up. Now she was afraid of what else might lurk in the night. Maybe she couldn’t fight the monsters, but she could try to outrun them and if they caught her, she would do her best to make them hurt.

The morning mist was heavier near the Mopac footbridge. The early weekend morning traffic roared overhead as she trudged along. She was tempted to buy a new iPod to replace the one she had broken a week before. The sounds of nature in the early morning were calming, but she missed the steady beat to keep her on track. Trying to keep an even pace was growing more difficult as the stitch in her side worsened.

Running onto the footbridge that sprawled under the very busy Mopac Expressway, Samantha plunged through the misty shadows dwelling beneath the rumbling traffic. It was cooler under the bridge and refreshing. She slightly slowed her pace, trying to catch her breath.

“Help me,” a female voice called out.

It was somewhere ahead in the misty gloom.

“Hello?” Samantha answered.

“Please, help me,” the voice repeated.

“Hello? What’s wrong? I can call 911.” Using the plea as a reason to drop to a walk, Samantha nervously fished her phone out of her fanny pack. 911 was on speed dial. She activated the screen and walked forward, her finger poised over it.

A soft, desperate sob drifted out of the mist. “He hurt me.”

“Oh, shit!” Samantha yanked out her pepper spray from her short’s pocket as she tried to call 911. To her dismay, her phone registered a dead battery and turned off. “Crap, the phone is dead. Where are you? I can’t see you!”

“Please, he hurt me,” the woman whispered.

The thick mist and dark shadows clouded her vision, making it hard to see anything. Samantha held the pepper spray out in front her, ready to deal with any attackers. Shoving her phone into her pocket, she warily advanced toward the voice.

“Please, help me!”

“I’m coming!” Samantha swept her arm back and forth in front of her. Her breath was puffing out in cold wisps as the air turned from warm and humid to cold and prickly. The world suddenly felt far away. Even the overhead traffic was a distant drone.

“Please…”

The air had turned frigid and Samantha shivered as she pressed forward. The shadows appeared thicker and darker as the mist shrouded the path.

“Where are you?” Samantha whispered, suddenly very afraid.

She almost tripped over the jogger lying face down across the path. Gasping, she caught her balance and knelt next to the woman.

“My phone is dead. I can’t call 911, but maybe I can help you up and we can try to find someone to assist us.” Samantha timidly stretched out her hand to turn the jogger over.

“He hurt me,” the woman cried out in agony, rolling onto her back, and thrusting a bloody, straining hand toward Samantha.

“Oh, my God!” Samantha gasped and drew back in shock.

“He hurt me!”

Samantha felt her breakfast trying to crawl up her throat and leap out of her mouth. The woman’s chest was a ruin of flesh and long ropey, fleshy strands of intestine lay on the ground. Blood splattered the woman’s face and arms and her eyes were wide with terror.

“Help me, please!” the woman sobbed. “Please, Samantha.”

Overcoming her repulsion and fear, Samantha held out her hand to touch the woman’s shoulder. Just as her fingers could touch the jogger’s arm, the woman vanished in a swirl of mist.

“What the hell?”

Samantha stared at the empty spot on the jogging path as several runners sprinted past her. There was no sign of the woman who had cried out for help. No blood, nothing.

Samantha scurried out from under the bridge and ran toward the nearest rest station. Trembling from terror, she hugged herself as she leaned against a streetlamp, trying to compose herself. What she had seen had been horrifying, but what was even more frightening was that the woman--the apparition--had called her by name.