Dear Alexis,
I need your help. I know everything about you. You are the famous author A.K. Emerson. You are also Alexis Ames, even though you gave my mom a different name when she helped you find your house on Sanibel. Your men messed with her memories, but not with mine. I know you from a long time ago, too, and you don't look any older. You look exactly like you did nine years ago when you punched my asshole dad in the face. I was only eight then, but I remember that day clearly. Your men were there, too, and they also look exactly the same now.
Don't worry. I'm not going to the media or anything. I'm not blackmailing you. I'm writing because I really do need your help. I have an older sister Sonya who was at a friend's house the day you hit our dad. But you might remember her, because she attended almost every single one of your signings. She loved your books. I do, too, but Sonya was over the top with them and with you. She always said she was your biggest fan, always on the Internet chats and forums for your books. She idolized you ever since the day you saved our mom. You were her favorite author and also her favorite person. Because of you and your men, our mom is alive today.
If you're paying attention, you'll notice I used past tense for Sonya. She's supposedly dead. That's what Mom thinks anyway, but I've seen her. Just like you're supposedly dead but I know I saw you. As crazy as it sounds, I think Sonya has been turned. She always wanted to be a vampire and I think she is one now. Yes, I believe they exist. I think there are some living over on Captiva, and I think they're good, nice like some of the ones in your books. But they deny it. They won't help me. Only you can help me.
I cried for weeks when I thought my sister was dead and cried again when she pretended to be someone else, the time I caught her. I can't lose her, Alexis. I can't stand the thought of her being bad, of her killing people. I can't get the image of her with blood dripping from her mouth out of my mind. Please help me. You're the only who can.
On my knees begging you,
Your second biggest fan,
Heather
"Wow," I breathed, dropping the paper into Tristan's lap. "I'm not sure what to say about that."
Tristan read the letter and then said plainly, "We'll help her."
"Of course we will. But how many more will there be? Solomon and Rina swore my books were a good thing. But this … I made this happen, Tristan. And I'm sure she's not the only one!"
He wrapped his arms around me. "
You
didn't do this. The Daemoni did. It's not your fault they're out there. It's not your fault she went to them. People make their own choices and Sonya made hers. Fortunately for her, we can help her."
I couldn't shake the guilt, though. I punched her wife-beating dad in the face, bringing her attention to me. She read my books because
I
wrote them–she didn't become a fan of me because she liked my books first. She stalked me. And my publicist put a stop to it, so what did she do? Went out and found the Daemoni. Tears stung the backs of my eyes.
My hands shook, reminding me I had one more letter. I didn't want to read it. I couldn't take anymore right now. I forced myself to open the card-sized envelope and pull out the ivory stationery. I carefully unfolded the linen paper.
Alexis, if you are reading this, then you have won this battle. But do not be fooled, child. The war has only begun. We will meet again some day soon. After all, you have something that belongs to me, something very powerful, and I will possess it one of these days very soon.
"What … what does it mean?" My voice trembled. I handed the letter with the beautiful calligraphy and terrifying words to Tristan. "Who's it from?"
He glanced at the letter, taking it all in with a quick read. "Probably Kali. And my guess is it means either Owen or Dorian."
I pressed my lips together and nodded, the sting in my eyes growing. And I prayed Charlotte would get her revenge sooner rather than later. If she needed assistance, I'd be the first to volunteer.
Nobody
threatened my family.
"I'm gonna kill you!" warned a child's voice.
I pulled in a deep breath and blew it out to calm myself.
That threat doesn't count.
"You both need a spanking until you can't even sit," Dorian continued.
"What did we do, little man?" I asked, looking up at our son as he stood over us with his hands on his hips. I couldn't help the smile stretching across my face just to see him. This only made him angrier, though, as he glowered at us.
"You lied to me. You told me not to do my tricks ever again, because no one else can do them, but I keep seeing
everyone
doing their own tricks! Why can't I do mine?"
Uh-oh.
"Um … where have you been, Dorian?"
He stared at the ground and stabbed his toe into the sand, forgetting his own indignation as guilt washed over him. "Ophelia had to do something. She said it was really important. I was supposed to stay by the big tree, but I wanted to
see
."
"What did you see?" Tristan asked as he stuffed the folded letters into his back pocket.
Dorian prodded the sand some more. "Lots of stuff. Stores and houses and people." He looked up at us, remembering his threat now. His eyes narrowed. "And they were disappearing and appearing out of nowhere. And doing crazy things. Tricks. How come
they
can do tricks but I can't?"
Tristan gave me a pointed glance. My stomach sank, but I understood. I nodded at him, and he reached out and pulled Dorian to sit between us.
"Because your tricks are amazing and people would always want to watch them," Tristan said. "And some people, very bad people, would want to take you away from us because of them."
I gathered Dorian into a hug. "We don't ever want that to happen. We want you all to ourselves! Okay?"
Dorian giggled as I nuzzled my nose against his neck. "Okay. But don't worry, Mom. If anyone tries to take me away, I'll kick them in the knees and punch them in the balls."
"Dorian!" I said, unable to help the laugh. Then I tickled him, making him squeal. "I don't know why anyone would want you. You're such an ornery little man!"
Sasha bounded over to us, barking as Tristan and I both tickled Dorian. She jumped in circles around us, yipping and wagging her tail, just like a normal dog.
And, I supposed, if someone were watching us, they might see us all as a normal little family, playing and laughing together on the beach as if we didn't have a care in the world. A bright image I would hold onto as we carried on into the dark days ahead.
Kristie Cook is a lifelong, award-winning writer in various genres, from marketing communications to fantasy fiction. Besides writing, she enjoys reading, cooking, traveling and riding on the back of a motorcycle. She has lived in ten states, but currently calls Southwest Florida home with her husband, three teenage sons, a beagle and a puggle. She can be found at
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