Race the Darkness (Fatal Dreams, #1)(76)

Father meant to lock her inside the iron box for six days and six nights. If she survived, it would be proof of her evil. If she died, she would prove her innocence. Either way resulted in death. King wanted to chase after Father, wanted to steal her away from him, drive off with her and never look back, but he couldn’t move. An entire lifetime of obedience kept his knees on the ground and his protests in his mouth. He couldn’t defy his father, his leader—the one man who communed directly with the Lord.

Father dropped her in the box like an armful of dirty laundry.

Her arm. Her broken arm. The pain was going to be excruciating when she woke.

Father slammed the iron lid. The clang of it reverberating over the river. He locked each side with a black key, then walked back to King, whose gaze never left the box containing his daughter.

“Rex, my eldest son”—Father stroked King’s chin and then forced his face up—“evil’s power is boundless.” His voice was soft and kind. “You know it could be masquerading as dormant to fool us.”

“Her touch no longer burns me. It no longer burns you.” He tried to keep the defiance from his tone, but he wasn’t successful. He braced, waiting for another slap.

“We cannot take the chance that this is a ruse.”

“That’s what you said last time.” King whispered the words, not daring to say them full volume. When Father didn’t strike him, he continued. “Father…” Liquid sorrow flowed into King’s eyes. “She’s my daughter. Your granddaughter. Our blood flows in her veins. She could learn to be strong in our faith. Can we give her a chance?”

“No.” The word was flat and full, offering no room for argument. “I cannot allow this. I have been lenient with you regarding her because I understood your struggles, but we will not squander this Lord-given opportunity.”

King could no longer bear the sight of his father, his leader, this man who was respected and revered in their community. He clamped his eyes shut.

“Have faith. Let the Lord in. He will ease this burden just as he has eased the burden of what went before.”

The Lord had never eased that burden. The only way King could live with what had happened to Shayla was to not think about it. To carve that memory out of his brain and bury it so deep inside himself that he couldn’t find it.

“If it eases you, stay with her. Offer her counsel, educate her in the ways of our Lord so that her death will be a release instead of a condemnation.” Father sighed. “That is the most mercy I can offer either of you.”

King nodded, but he didn’t open his eyes.

Father let go of him and settled his hand upon King’s head. “Find peace, my son.”





Chapter 21


“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The words penetrated Isleen’s sleep, acting as a tether pulling her into awful awareness. It was dark, so dark. Where was she? She didn’t know. With her good hand, she searched for the source of the voice in the dark. Her fingers trailed over the smooth floor, then up the wall next to her, then over the ceiling above her. Her mind mapped the dimensions of the space.

She was in a box. No, it wasn’t a mere box.

It was a coffin.

She should be freaking out. She should be pounding on the sides, trying to find a way out. She wasn’t doing any of that. All the fight had left her.

Memories and pain hit—searing, burning, throbbing. The ferocity sucking the air out of her. She remembered this kind of pain. Only this time it was worse, so much worse. This time she didn’t have her dreams of Xander to sustain her.

He was dead. And if by some vicious fate he wasn’t, he would be a vegetable. No one survived that kind of bullet wound to the head without the severest of consequences.

In those woods, she had tried, had poured every ounce of will into healing him, had waited to feel something, but nothing happened. Fearless and Bear—she and Xander—had been nothing more than an alluring story.

“Xander…” Her voice snapped and broke over his name. A beautiful name, a strong name, the only name that ever mattered to her.

Heavy, ugly sounds of sorrow spewed out of her.

Everything hurt.

Breathing hurt.

Living hurt.

She’d thought she’d known pain in the trailer. She’d thought she’d known pain when Gran died. She hadn’t known pain at all. Hadn’t known that pain was a dull ax blade hacking, cleaving, severing heart from soul. Her heart from Xander’s soul.

“I’m sorry.” The voice—the voice of Xander’s killer—penetrated her grief, but her mind had no room to question him, no room for anger. Every thought, every feeling boiled down to one terrible truth. Xander was probably dead. She cried until her throat was scraped raw, her face hurt, and her stomach muscles ached from the force of her sobs. And then her soul cried until exhaustion settled its blanket of oblivion over her.

*

Consciousness slammed into her, jerking her out of sleep’s numbing embrace and thrusting her back into reality. Pain hammered at her arm and a dull, diffuse headache saturated her brain, but something was different with her. She didn’t hurt. Oh, her body still ached, but her heart no longer wept and her soul no longer bled. Everything that mattered—feelings, hopes, dreams, Gran, and Xander—had separated from her.