The Monster of Farewell (Blacklighters Book 1) Read online

  It happens fast.

  Fifteen seconds from the time I lock my door to the first drop of blood.

  Screams explode next to my ear, nearly deafening me, and that's all the prompting the other man needs to kill the darkness. Light floods every corner of the room, blinding me as I shove the man away. There's no hiding from the light, no shadows offering solace. Only wild eyes and blood staining my otherwise pristine carpet.

  “Josh...Shit.”

  The one man still remaining upright rushes toward his writhing, bleeding friend on the floor and starts yelling for help, screaming the fucking walls down, begging for someone to come to his aid, but I don't move. I don't make a peep. No matter what I say or do, he won't like it, because my lips are twitching, fighting off a smirk, assessing my work proudly even as my rage wanes, retreating back to the mouth of its prison, knowing it doesn't belong here in the light.

  Is it wrong to feel this way? Smug and proud in the face of suffering?

  Maybe. But it's all I know.

  Josh's body eventually falls limp. More blood seeps from the open wound and his breathing becomes erratic. His friend tries and fails to keep him alive, but it's useless. He's exsanguinating before our eyes. There's no hope for him, and honestly, I can't say I regret my actions. Whatever he wanted, it wasn't his to take.

  “Dammit, Mercury!” The man I now recognize as Silas, a tall broody dick of a person, glares up at me, his hands covered in blood. I think he's going to advance, to pick his friend's knife up off the ground and come at me, but he doesn't. Because in the next breath, my door kicks in, breaking off at the lock, and a sea of people flood the room. Blacklighters. Violets. And worst of all...my mother.

  She doesn't seem surprised at all by what she finds, but everyone behind her is rendered speechless and wide-eyed as their Madam strides forward, blood sticking to the bottom of her white stilettos. In no particular hurry, she crouches down and presses two fingers against Josh's neck. This isn't the first time I've seen her do this, and I'm sure it won't be the last. Because the kind of pleasure my rage brings me is a sickly kind, and I'm wise enough to know it's wrong, even as it bangs against its prison walls, begging to be set free on the world. It wishes to consume and devour everything in sight. It's a darkness I keep concealed for the safety of everyone around me—a monstrous trait, lending me the ability to birth misery and wreckage—but it's also magnificent in its own right. And no matter what anyone says, it is the best part of me.

  “What were you two doing in my daughter's room?” Blair asks, her voice even and controlled.

  Every eye in the room lands on Silas, who has his hands raised in surrender. He's backing up toward the opposite wall, fear registering brightly on his ruddy face. “We...we were just gonna scare her. Maybe rough her up a bit. That's all, I swear.”

  Blair's hand falls away from Josh's neck as she stands proudly, completely immune to the puddle of life-giving fluid she's standing in. “The night before her initiation?”

  Silas swallows nervously. “Yes, ma'am.”

  “You're that scared of her? That worried she's going to end you in the cage?”

  His eyes dart from her to the crowd, then back to me, as heat creeps up his neck. He may be stupidly prideful, but he knows better than to lie to Blair. That right there would be a death sentence.

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  His response makes me smirk, but only for a second. Because as soon as Blair excuses him from my room, she turns to me, her face twisted with undisguised disdain. For me. Her daughter.

  “Mercury,” she says, pointing to the body at her feet. “He's dead.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Kessler

  “Wow. Real inconspicuous, Griff.”

  My dipshit of a brother tosses me keys to a shiny red Mustang sitting in our cracked and weed-riddled driveway. The sports car is spotless. Not a speck of Missouri dust on the damn thing. And it has Michigan plates, which tells me he probably nabbed it from the impound lot, gave it a bath, and paid someone a fair price to ensure no one knows it's missing.

  “You know I don't have a valid drivers license, right?”

  Griffin simply shrugs. As far as cops go, he sucks. “The trunk's already packed. Either crash with Eric or sleep in the back seat, I don't care, just don't come back until you have something.”

  “Your kindness knows no bounds.”

  Translation: You're a dick.

  I click the button on the key fob to pop the trunk and find two duffel bags sitting dead center. I unzip both and do a quick inventory. Deodorant, soap, a toothbrush. The necessities. Aside from that, it's all clothes. I sift through to make sure everything's the right size and see some familiar shirts Griffin must have pulled from my old closet. I've grown considerably and know they'll fit tight, like a second skin, but I'll manage.

  Before I can retract my hand and ask him how long he expects I'll be gone, something cold and hard brushes against my fingers, and I freeze, hoping to God it isn't what I think it is. But when each digit wraps around the textured grip, my suspicions are confirmed. I didn't think he'd be this stupid, but I should know better by now.

  Jaw clenched in outrage, I turn to my brother. I may be a free man, but that doesn't mean I'm allowed to possess a firearm.

  “Griff...”

  “Dude, I'm a cop. Relax. Extra shells are in the side pocket.”

  I don't relax. In fact, my uncertainty triples. But he soldiers on.

  “Cell service sucks that deep in the woods so I didn't bother with a phone, but here's this.” He extracts a small black box from his pocket. Judging by the buttons and small holes making up a speaker, I assume it's an audio recorder. “This is older than dirt, but it works. You're not exactly department funded here, so make due.”

  I slip it into the pocket of my jeans. I'll stow it in the glove box later.

  “I don't care how mundane or trivial you think something is, I want to know everything.”

  “Got it.”

  “Names, dates, coordinates, meetings, deliveries, aliases. It could all mean something. One tiny breadcrumb could—”

  “Griff,” I cut in, irked by the level of doubt I'm hearing in his patronizing tone. “I said I got it.”

  “Okay then.” He extends a hand between us and I shake it, surprised he even offered. I still can't believe I'm doing this. “Oh, and by the way, I took the liberty of providing you with an airtight alibi.”

  In the blink of an eye, Griffin's smile disappears, replaced by something hard and conniving. Suddenly, he's all business.

  No—strike that. He's all cop.

  I already told Ma that I'd be out of town for a few days for a reintegration seminar with my parole officer, but something tells me that just got blown to hell.

  “What did you do?”

  “Just stopped by the diner on my way over. Told Ma you confided in me last night and asked for help. She thinks I'm dropping you off at a rehab facility in Woodside. They even have your admission paperwork, all signed and dated.”

  Anger surges through my limbs, making my torso feel like it's expanding with steam. The fucking nerve. Our poor mother, just trying to make a living, waiting tables like she's done for years, is such a frail soul, and he had the gall to drop that shit at her feet. I'd like to say I'm surprised he'd do something so underhanded, but he's my brother. I know he's capable of far dirtier tricks than this. “Ma knows better than to believe that shit. She knows I'd never use.”

  Griffin's eyes narrow. “You sure about that?” His smug tone tells me everything I need to know. Thanks to his deceit, our mother fell for his lie without question. But how? How the hell did he plant such a formidable seed of doubt in so little time?

  Oh right. Because he's a cop. And I'm a fucking criminal.

  “Why the hell'd you do that? I already told her I was—”

  “We needed an alibi people would actually believe,” Griffin says flippantly. He starts down the driveway, headed for his patrol car, an extra swagger in h
is step. Even though I'm not an overly violent person, I have the insane urge to reach out and grab him by the collar of his shirt so he chokes on his own spit. But before I have a chance to act on my urge, he calls over his shoulder, addressing me one last time. “Do me proud, Kessler.”

  Fuming, I watch as my big brother drives away, hating that I've already screwed myself with his assistance. I had one chance to make this right, to start over the right way, and now that's gone in a puff of exhaust smoke. If there's even the slightest hiccup in Griffin's plan, I'll find myself back behind bars before I ever have the chance to yell 'set up'.

  It's a shame, really. I didn't even last a week.

  Finding Farewell was easy enough. Maneuvering my borrowed sports car down a one-lane gravel road with washboard ruts and jagged rocks protruding from the ground at every bend was another story entirely. But I'm here, sitting in a corner booth, nursing a watered-down Dr. Pepper. It's still early, so aside from one bartender in a skimpy lace number—the redhead photographed with Eric—I'm the only one here.

  When I first parked and headed inside, I got a good look at the larger building on the property, and the damn place looked like a three-story mansion. Every window was lit up from the inside, but there was no movement that I could see. It's clear there are people living out here, but they don't exactly make a spectacle of themselves.

  Blacklighters is a nice joint—spacious and clean with black walls streaked and speckled with neon paint—but there's one thing in the building that gives this place an eerie vibe, and that happens to be the enormous, twenty-by-twenty steel cage set dead center in the middle of the room. Its bars reach from floor to ceiling, ensuring that if you're ever thrown inside, you'd better hope someone's at the door to let you out. Aside from that unique feature, Blacklighters is exactly the kind of place I would have frequented in my early twenties, back when my friends and I would drink away our meager factory wages and go home with loose women eager to spread their legs. Back when life was simple and I thought I had it made.

  Now that I'm stuck in a creepy hole-in-the-wall bar listening to Brooks and Dunn filter through the sound system, I fail to remember why this type of atmosphere drew me in in the first place. Boredom could be to blame, but the more I think about it, the more I realize I was just begging to get into trouble.

  Having a cop as a brother opened me up to ridicule from all the barflies in New Liberty, and I always acted like I had something to prove when I was out with my buddies—like he was the bright shining star so I needed to be the void of darkness in my family tree. But after everything I've been through, after everything I've put my family through, I'd give every organ in my body for the chance to go back and do it all over again.

  Too bad that'll never happen. As my father used to say, wish in one hand, shit in the other, and see which fills up first. It'll be the shit hand every single time.

  An hour passes and I'm itching to crawl out of here and find my way home, but I stay put. If I go back a failure, then it's all over. Griffin wins.

  Luckily, staying pays off in the end when a rowdy group of men kicks through the door at six o'clock on the dot. I sink back into the shadows, watching them enter, hoping I'm as invisible as I feel when a mass of broad shoulders and unkempt beards steps over the threshold. These guys look like they robbed a Harley store. Black t-shirts and heavy combat boots, wallets on chains, stained jeans. Their ensembles would come off hokey if they didn't look like they ate puppies for breakfast.

  The door slams behind them, echoing through empty air, and a man with closely cropped blond hair and a familiar smile makes a beeline for the bar. He swings a leg over the closest bar stool and immediately turns his full attention to the bartender. “You almost done?”

  “Nope. Harper's running late so I'm stuck here for another hour.”

  Eric curses. That clearly wasn't the answer he was looking for. “I don't want to wait an hour. Do you?”

  The bartender's eyelids drop to half-mast as she sets aside a highball glass and arches her back, giving him a clear invitation to appreciate her tits as she drags a finger along his forearm. “Get one of your friends to man the bar and I won't have to.”

  At the snap of his fingers, some younger guy in a gray t-shirt hops over the bar, assuming the position. The redhead, enthralled at the idea of sneaking off with Eric, looks downright feline as she stalks her way around the bar, prowling closer and closer, her eyes falling to the bulge at the front of his pants.

  Nope.

  He's not slipping through my fingers that easily. He'll be less than impressed with a blast from the past cock-blocking him, but so be it. I clear my throat and hope he hasn't grown into the kind of guy who hits first and asks questions later.

  “I wouldn't put that thing in your mouth, ma'am. No tellin' where it's been.”

  Surprised, and more than a little ticked, Eric spins on his stool, seeking me out. There's fire in his eyes and a snarl on his lips, and I brace myself, thinking he's about to launch out of his seat, but all that dies away once my face registers. Slowly, a smile unfurls on his haggard face, transforming him from the man he is today to the boy I knew in my youth.

  The dude looks like he's been to war. Random scars and burns crisscross his face, and I'd bet my left nut that chicks eat that shit up. As weird as this whole situation is, I'm still happy to see him.

  “Well as I live and breathe. Kessler fuckin' Lawson!” He marches over and immediately plops down next to me in the booth, punching my shoulder a little harder than necessary before gathering me in a violent, back-slapping bro hug. “What the hell you doin' here, man?”

  “I'll let you know as soon as I figure it out.”

  He turns back to the bar. “Layla, babe? Can I get two Godfathers, please?” The sexually-bereft bartender rolls her eyes, but she's all smiles when she grabs two glasses and a bottle of Amaretto. Despite his rough-and-tumble appearance, he's so kind to her, so sweet and polite, it strikes me as odd. “So, when'd you get out?”

  “Tuesday.”

  “Damn. How're you transitioning?” Eric's concern seems genuine, which makes me feel like an ass. A huge one.

  “I'm alive. Guess that's enough for now.”

  “Can't ask for much more than that,” he laughs. “Damn it's good to see you. What are you doing drinkin' in Farewell? I figured you'd be at home with your mama.”

  Bingo. He's giving me the opening I need, and I didn't even have to work for it.

  I stare down at my boots. “After everything that happened, she'd rather I didn't come home.”

  “No shit?” He leans in close, lowering his voice. “That sucks to hear, man. I'm sorry. I know y'all were close.”

  “Yeah, well, shit happens. Can't say I blame her, you know?”

  The waitress—Layla—delivers our drinks, and even though the idea of imbibing alcohol has my knees shaking under the table, I suck it up and clink my glass with Eric's, tossing it down my throat as fast as I can. Warmth trickles down, lighting me up from the inside out, just like the Absinthe did all those years ago, and I hate it. Fucking hate it.

  Before he can order another round—which I absolutely won't be able to stomach—I cut to the chase.

  “Hey, Eric? I know I sound like a complete dick and I have absolutely no right to ask...but is there any way I could crash with you for a few nights? You know, for old times sake?” It's low, throwing that last bit in, seeing as how my family gave him a roof and a warm meal anytime his mama was sleeping through a high, but I'm desperate.

  Eric takes a moment to process my question, then his shoulders fall. “Uh, yeah, look, Kess. I'm not really in a position to put you up right now. Where have you been staying?”

  “My car.” I nod to the window, where the mustang glows under the neon lights above advertising Busch and Budweiser.

  He turns, looks, then swivels back around. “Nice ass car for a homeless guy. How'd you get it?”

  I smirk. “People should really take their keys in with them whe
n they pay for gas.”

  Eric's shoulders shake with laughter. “Grand theft auto? I think prison ruined you, man.”

  “It did.” A somber note sneaks into my tone, and it's not at all forced. “It really did.”

  As if Eric can read the sadness carved into my heart, he scrubs a hand down his face and I can see his reluctance waning. He always was a good guy. Seems some things never change. “Shit, man...you don't have nowhere else to go?”

  Avoiding eye contact, I shake my head.

  “You on supervised release?”

  “Nope. Free as a fucking bird.” I actually am on supervised release, but Eric doesn't need to know how I'm bypassing that particular obstacle.

  “And I'm guessing you're looking for work.”

  “I am, but no one will fucking hire me. I'm about ten steps away from saying to hell with it and selling my body on the street corner.”

  I laugh. Eric doesn't.

  In a matter of seconds, I watch Eric work through a plethora of emotions, from regret to pity to disappointment. Then, there may as well be a light bulb come to life above his head, because he quickly pulls a plain black cell from his pocket, dials a number, and looks up, his smile tight with excitement as it rings next to his ear.

  “Kessler Lawson, I'm about to change your fucking life.”

  Jackpot.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Mercury

  Back when my father was still around, I used to smile. A lot. Not because he brought any inkling of joy into my life, but because it was expected of me. Just as my mother always demanded complete submission and loyalty, he demanded perfection.

  “Smile, Mercury,” he'd say. “Even ugly girls can be beautiful if they know how to smile.”

  I wasn't smart enough to dissect his comments and get to the root of his persistence at the time, but now, as an adult, I get it. I get him.