Number of the Beast (Paladin Cycle, Book One) (24 page)

Shane laughed and she glared at him
again.

He held up his hands, as
if in surrender. “I just got this mental image of you playing patty
cake with my dead sister.”

“
You’re a real comedian,
jerk.”

Shane wrapped an arm
around Amy. “Sorry.”

“
I think Vicki knows
you’re leaving and she can’t go with you. I can still feel her
presence somewhere deep inside of me...and it’s a really sad
presence.”

“
Right.” He’d only been
fifteen when he was screwing around in his old man’s truck, and
disengaged the emergency brake. As it rolled down the driveway,
Shane felt the hard bump and heard Amy’s earth-shattering scream.
Vicki lay in the driveway, looking very, very wrong. Her little
lips tried to form words but the only thing she spouted was blood.
Brightest red blood ever. It trickled from the corner of her mouth
and down her chin.

Amy’d only been twelve when she
witnessed her best friend’s death, and at sixteen her dead friend
started talking to her.

“
I don’t think you’re
crazy Amy. It was all my fault. I shouldn’t have been fucking
around in that truck and been so careless.”

She shook her head. “It
wasn’t anybody’s fault. It was just a tragic accident. And I’m glad
I could hear her voice. I know she’s always going to be watching
over us both.”

“
I guess everybody can
benefit from a guardian angel,” Shane said. “Now that you’ve
escaped the nuthouse where are you staying? I’ll drive you
home.”

“
Well,” Amy said,
exhaling, “With this guy named Boone. We met in therapy and he’s
got a small two-room house in Cedar Ridge.”

“
So this Boon is a
crazy?”

Amy laughed. “Yeah, like
me. He’s bipolar.”

“
You got some messed up
thing for the crazies don’t you?”

She laughed. “I used to
have a thing for you so you tell me.”

With a snort, Shane said,
“I’m not crazy. I just ain’t no good.”

“
It was an
accident.”

“
Accident? Semantics,”
Shane said. “She’s dead. It’s my fault. My parents split. My dad’s
God knows where and my mother is so strung out on booze and
painkillers she doesn’t even remember she still has two living
offspring.”

Amy kissed him on the
cheek.

His arm still around her,
Shane gave her a squeeze. “I never really noticed how much an
attractive girl you grew into. Guess I still see you with pigtails
and sticky hands from a Popsicle.”

She blushed. “I haven’t
worn pigtails in nearly a decade.”

For the first time ever, Shane really
looked at Amy. And not only had he seen a radiant yet humble beauty
in her pale face, but he also a slight swell on the apple of her
cheek. A thin sliver of a cut under her eye. White-hot anger shot
through his veins.

“
Boone’s roughing you up,
isn’t he?”

“
Nobody’s roughing me
up.”

But Shane noticed the
slight trembling in her lips. He brushed her blonde hair away from
her collarbone. “I’ve choked enough guys in my life to know that
those are finger marks.”

She recoiled. “He goes off
his meds sometimes. That’s all.”

“
I went out drinking last
night ‘cause I wanted one last night of fun before Uncle Sam pays
my airfare to Iraq. I can’t watch over my brother and you need a
place to stay, so how about you look after him while I’m abroad?
I’ll send you and Scooter money. I swear it.”

She looked at her feet and
shrugged. “Boone really needs me.”

The front door opened and
Scooter skipped down the steps between them, backpack full. He had
a water jug under one arm and a pellet gun in the other. Tears
streamed down his red cheeks.

“
Where you going, buddy?”
Shane asked.

Scooter strode up the dirt
driveway. “Mom left. You’re leaving. That girl doesn’t want to take
care of me either! I’m gonna go find dad. I hate you and that
stupid girl.”

Shane sipped the last of
his coffee. “That boy needs you a lot more than some crazy bastard.
And he won’t hurt you.”

Twenty miles had gone by on the long
Texas highway. Birch snored…loudly. Shane chuckled. If anyone had
ever deserved a good ol’ fashioned ass kicking it had been that
crazyass Boone. And it had been one of the best beatings Shane had
ever had the pleasure of delivering.

Birch snorted and twisted.

One hundred and seventy miles to
go.

January 1st

Today I confessed my
visions to Elder Cai. I have been hesitant to do so and have
struggled with the decision for the past few months. But these
visions are a marauder in the dark that steals away my sanity night
after night.

I informed Elder Cai of my
intended path which did not surprise him. He said, “We are all
enslaved by destiny.” He did not, however, press me to further
describe my communications with the Dark Trinity.

I have always revered the
Elder to the best of my abilities and never spoke my hesitations
aloud. But after today, I suspect Elder Cai’s intuition greatly
exceeds every other elder and Templar of the Order and
Court.

But does he support my
path in earnest?

Regardless of his
support—or lack thereof—it sways my decision none. Whether I turn
north or south, east or west, my future looks bleak. I must do what
will benefit the Order, the Earth, the universes...

With a heavy heart, I went
to my room to retire. There I noticed Atticus lying in bed, his
hands clasped behind his head. He appeared dazed, as he had most of
today.

He spoke of young Cassian
and pretty Venora and the thoughts that had possessed him as of
late. I cannot blame my blood-brother—both maidens are quite
striking. Most warriors could not ignore their delicate features
and playful wit. Even I sometimes falter in their
presence.

But I cannot allow their
beauty and charm to distract Atticus. The fate of all existence
depends on him remaining true to his convictions.

Years ago, I informed
Atticus of the importance of frequently ‘stroking his sword’.
Tonight I reminded him of that lesson in hopes that tomorrow he
will maintain better focus.

~Rourn

“
Your destination will be
on the right,” the female GPS voice said.

Atticus turned his car
into the shaded parking area of the Stonehedge Western Bed and
Breakfast. A wrought iron fence, adorned with wagon wheels,
surrounded the property, trapping and preserving the authentic
western setting. A stone chimney poked from the top of the large
brick home, themed after an 1800’s motel. The guest parking was
located just outside the fence.

Wide open, a double-iron gate welcomed
him.

Ragtime piano music
accompanied by the sound effects of clinking glasses and muffled
voices filled the lobby. Faux-wanted posters, sepia toned, featured
photos of people named Roarin’ Roxy, Wild Boar Bowden, Mad Man
Abraham, and others—locals of Buckeye, Atticus surmised.

“
Well, well. What do we
have here? Ain’t you a scoundrel of a young fella.” A middle-aged
brunette woman with a young oval face stood behind an antique cash
register, its edges rusted and corners bent.

“
I would like a room,”
Atticus said.

“
Of course you would,
sweetie. Why else would you be here? Let Miss Trish get you all
fixed up.”

A poster was tacked to the parallel
wall. Written in a large comical font:

Deemed haunted by the
world renowned

Buckeye Paranormal
Investigations (BPI)

The Stonehedge Western Bed
& Breakfast

Offers no discounts for
rooms already occupied

by the
supernatural.

“
Were you interested in
staying in one of our authentic haunted guest suites?”

“
Just a standard room,
please.”

“
Oh come now.” She gave
him a sly smile. “Our ghosts are friendly enough. Nothin’ to be
afraid of.”

Atticus’ lips stretched
into a half-grin. “I have slept with worse.”

Trish hesitated, seemingly
taken aback. She cleared her throat. “What brings you to
town?”

“
I hunt the
Beast.”

“
Ah, well, you’ll find
plenty of them in Sacred Forest.” From one of the cubby holes
behind her, she fetched a key. “How long will you be
staying?”

“
Until the Beast is
dead.”

Trish nodded. “Well, we
offer a home-style breakfast. Roxy’s diner caters lunch. In the
evenings we offer sweet tea, front porch sitting and horseshoes.”
She gave a wink. “Ramsey, my husband, is the undefeated
champion.”

Atticus set a stack of
money down. “How many nights can I afford?”

Trish let out a delicate
squeal as she fanned the bills. “That’ll get you two weeks at the
least. If you need anything, darlin’, you just ask for Miss Trish
or Mister Ramsey Stonehedge.” The woman scanned the small lobby.
“Bobby! We have a new guest.” Trish’s face contorted in
disappointment before she turned back to Atticus with a cheery
expression. “Kids are so lazy these days. But can’t really blame
’em, with all those gadgets and doodads they got.” Head cocked, she
sighed. “You sure do look like an old soul, hun. What’s your
name?”

He bowed. “My name is
Atticus.”

“
After Mr. Atticus
Finch?”

“
No ma’am. After the
martyr.”

“
Oh. I see. Well, it’s a
nice name.”

An overweight teenage boy
entered from the parlor room. He held a half-empty bag of
deep-fried potato slices called potato chips in one hand and a
large can of soda-poison in the other. “Yes ma’am?” he said while
munching.

“
Bobby, dear, meet our
newest guest, Atticus.”

“
Yo,” the boy
said.

“
Take Atticus to his
room.”

Bobby waved Atticus along
as if he were a pet. “C’mon.”

His bag slung over his
shoulder, Atticus followed.

“
Nice gear,” Bobby said as
they climbed a short staircase to the second floor.

The worn wood creaked
beneath Atticus’ boots.

The boy
looked back at Atticus. “Looks like the leather armor from
Guild Battles
, after you
add the green dye that you have to get from the goblin archers in
Pyrewind Meadows.”

Strange. The Order was under the
impression they’d eradicated Goblins from this region of the planet
long ago.

“
Here it is,” Bobby waved
at a door with a copper star emblazoned into the antique
wood.

A photo
of a malnourished gunfighter was pinned on the bedroom wall. A
caption beneath read:
I’ll be your
huckleberry.

“
It’s the Holiday suite,”
Bobby said. “Get it?”

Atticus slung his gear and sword onto
the bed.

“
Yo, man. Is that a real
sword?”

“
Indeed.” His back to
Bobby, Atticus unzipped his bag. He removed Rourn’s journal and the
wilted flower. Placing them on the dresser, he asked, “Is there
food…a restaurant nearby?”

“
Carmen will be by around
noon with lunch. Not my taste, but people ‘round here seem to love
her...I mean the food.”

Atticus gave a curt nod
and closed the door in the boy’s face. His stomach growled. He
hadn’t eaten since graduation night. But first he needed to report
his observations of the murder scene. From his belt clip, he
unclasped his phone and dialed Elder Cai.

“
Atticus, my
boy.”

“
I humbly ask is there any
more information you have uncovered regarding the
Geminus?”

“
I have consulted with
members from the Arch Templars of the Divine Council. Their
knowledge is limited, but we have found some clues after searching
the ancient texts. The female—or Whelp—will be in heat and prove to
be extremely fatalistic.”

“
The Stag has already
proven its savagery,” Atticus said.

“
The gruesome murder of
one family is just the beginning. The female will morph from human
into a primordial beast with more animalistic than human traits.
The Arch Templars speculates that the Geminus will attempt to mate
soon, bringing her into full maturity.”

“
Understood. But I am
unclear as to how to proceed.”

“
I will continue to meet
with the Council and phone as soon as I know more.”

Atticus paced at the foot
of the bed. “Is there no path I can explore while I wait for your
call?”

Elder Cai hesitated before
replying. “An inter-dimensional gateway can be found somewhere in
the Sacred woods on the outskirts of Buckeye.”

“
I will leave at
once.”