Shine: The Knowing Ones (21 page)

Trin considered that for a moment. She was right. They had managed to elude them thus far. His gaze remained forward but his expression had softened a bit. He was considering it.

“Please, Trin,” she said.

They pulled up to his house. Sam stared, waiting for an answer but he never looked back at her. His forward gaze took on an air of confusion. He squinted through the windshield for a moment then sat back, the corners of his mouth lifting as he shook his head.

Trin cocked his head to one side, watching an intoxicated college student rocketing down an enormous inflatable chute. He flew out of the second story window of Trin’s house, whooping and hollering as he went.

Sam and Trin pulled up to his driveway. The entire yard was crawling with college students running around in bathing suits, regular clothing, and anything else they felt was appropriate attire for water activities. Many of the guys had super soaker squirt guns in their hands and everyone was completely drenched.

Trin seemed oddly unfazed by the scene as the next person came shooting out of the second story window and went zipping across the lawn on a slip and slide, coming to an abrupt stop with the help of a pile of old bean bag chairs and Sam wasn’t really sure what else.

She sat motionless, mouth hanging open. “There’s a blow-up slide attached to your second story window.”

Trin tilted his head to the other side, still watching the show. “Yeah...” he said. “This occasionally happens at my house.”

Sam stared at him. “
This?”
she balked, pointing at the gargantuan blow-up slide.

“Well,” he said, gesturing toward the spectacle, “variations of this. The
slide
is a creative new twist.” He was clearly impressed.

“
Where did they get the slide?
”

Trin raised his eyebrows and shrugged. His gaze then fell to the lawn where several plastic bottles lay emptied and strewn about. Brows knit together, he studied the array. Then comprehension set in. “Huh,” he uttered as it all became clear.

Sam gaped. “Is that
vegetable oil?”

“I think so.”

The next suicide victim went careening down the slide, ripping across the oil-coated plastic and smashing into the pile of whatever.

Sam’s hands went to her face. “Someone is going to get killed.”

Trin hesitated, as if pondering the thought. He started up the engine of his truck. “Yeah,” he agreed. “You’re probably right.”

“Where are you going? You can’t leave!”

Under a furrowed brow Trin asked, “Why not?”

“You have to make them stop!”

Trin laughed out loud.

“I’m serious!” she said.

He pulled away from the curb as Sam continued to gawk at him. “Okay,” he said. Slowing the truck in front of the mayhem, he rolled down his window, and leaned out, patting the outside of the truck door. “Hey, Chris.”

His intoxicated friend shifted toward the familiar sound.

Gesturing toward the slide Trin said, “This probably isn’t your best idea.”

Chris released a thunderous yawp as both fists shot into the air.

Trin saluted. “Right—as you were.” He turned to Sam, pursed lips suppressing a grin, sarcasm igniting in his eyes. Sam erupted in laughter, shoving his shoulder. He put his foot on the gas and pulled away from the house.

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

T
hroughout the next week, Trin and Sam spent every moment possible together. The coming weekend was packed and nearly impossible to plan for. Sam’s first set of performances were lined up and Trin would be leaving the state for a meet. On top of the impossible task of finding a way to keep Sam protected in his absence they had appearances to keep up and would be expected to attend a birthday party for Griffin, Vig’s drummer.

Trin had ramped up Sam’s training in Spetnaz, meditation, and channeling her own gifts that seemed to be surfacing continually; all of them lost abilities that confounded everyone—astounding to witness. He pushed her hard. Ashbel would find her now. It was only a matter of time.

She had just finished rehearsing a pas de deux when Trin arrived to pick her up, catching the tail end of what looked more like a muted love scene than a ballet. He maintained his silence, trying to focus on her amazing talent rather than the fact that this guy was getting more action than he was.

He had walked her to the dressing room and was waiting for her upstairs. She showered and dressed and was putting her things in her dance bag when she heard a noise coming from the shower area.

She glanced up. “Hello?” She thought she was the only one there today. She stood, waiting for a response. Nothing. She picked up her pointe shoes, wrapped together in ribbon and put them in her bag. Another sound—same area of the dressing room. Her head shot up.
“Hello?” She pulled her bag over her shoulder and took a step toward the showers.

A distant gasp.

A ping of terror shot up her spine. All instincts compelled her to abandon the dressing room, but instead she found herself moving toward the showers. Panic oozed as she continued forward against her will, each locker passing behind her as she fought each step, closer, closer to the menacing sound. She remembered today she wasn’t alone. Trin was just upstairs and down the hall. She screamed out to him in a mental plea.

Trin!

Up on the next floor Trin bolted to his feet.
Sam?

Sam took another forced step as Trin sprinted toward the dressing room one floor above her. The unseen force pulled. White tile and shower heads filled her with fear as they came into view, rounding the corner into the nightmare. Too late. A hideous shriek—complete darkness.

Scuffling, shouts and cries, and the dusty hardness of the earth under her hands. Outside now, her face inches from the ground with dirt and rock shards rough beneath her bare palms. As disorientation passed, furious cries of terror and gunfire exploded all around her. Many feet about her shuffling, running—feet that should have trampled her, but somehow didn’t.

Just inches from her face a man collided with a crack against the hardened earth followed by a spray of blood—a bayonet jammed into his chest as a soldier hunched over the top of him ripped it out of the man’s heart. The man coughed, sputtering bubbles of blood from his lips as he turned dying eyes to hers. Anguished cries filled her throat, pushing back, examining her shoulders and chest for his blood. She wiped her face, checking her hands. Nothing.

Her eyes darted to the assailant, sending her into Ashbel’s deadened gaze. Lurching backward, she cried out. His lethal stare stung her, intensity burning. Breaking the stare he turned to leave—no longer Ashbel, but an unknown soldier running from his first efficient kill, completely unaware of Sam.

Trembling, Sam forced herself to her feet. Soldiers fighting, shooting, scuffling, passed her on all sides, wounding and killing each other in savage hand to hand combat. Dressed in antiquated foreign military clothing, it was nothing she recognized.

Foreign words punctured the environment. She ran like a hologram through the crowded mayhem to the side of the street and huddled in a doorway. Men shouted, screamed, so many dropping lifeless to the ground.

Without warning, the horrific scene spun out and another began. On the ground wedged between two soldiers she lay in wait. Ear-splitting pops rang out as shots fired by an advancing attack zinged passed her. The soldiers around her shot back, holding off the enemy with fearless vigor but eventually began taking hits. Sporadic blood spray coupled with agonizing screams, and gunfire so loud she could barely make out a language. Overcome by the opposition, the faces of the soldiers became visible—young women, all of them, maybe even younger than she was, fighting in a ferocious battle, terrified but giving all they had and dropping like flies.

Dizzy with horror, Sam wiped liquid from her face—tears. She clawed at the ground, scrambling to escape but not before catching a glimpse of an enemy soldier advancing toward her. Ashbel, underneath an enemy helmet, carrying a gun, eyes honed in on her, and then back again. Another unnamed soldier.

The scene spun out, launching into yet another blood bath. A middle-aged black man, bloodied, thrashing about in the grasp of many white hands, pulling a noose over his head and around his neck, irrational hatred fueling every punch, each vicious blow while the hysterical cries of a mother shrieking, an ungodly sound as her child was forcibly taken. Cries of entire families sliced at Sam’s heart, heaving in desperate sobs as she watched husbands and fathers being shot, imprisoned and tortured, women being raped and killed. Sam fell to her knees, her own feral screams adding to the hysterical shrieks, cries and pleading, nothing she could do, the rage, the anguish, her very sanity challenged as she fought to save each victim, lashing right through them, having no affect at all, and everywhere she looked, Ashbel, in fleeting glimpses; his deadened eyes burrowing into hers and then disappearing.

The singular agonizing sobs were her own as she realized the scene had shifted again. Heaving, shuddering, she begged for deliverance, eyes closed, hands covering her face as wracking despair threatened to overcome her.

Silence. Stifling her cries, she listened. Time passed. Her heart pounding, ragged breath broken and choppy. Someone stood with
her in the quiet. Unable to withstand more, she held her hands to her eyes, unwilling to look. No sound. No movement. But not alone. She gathered her strength, removing her hands from her eyes and lifted her head.

Still, expressionless, the demon stood. Enshrouded in black, a gaping hood covering his head; height exceeded that of a natural man. His head fell to one side, studying her through probing eyes of contorted beauty, ghostly horrifying.

A blistering charge volleyed through her, stinging her bruised soul. Jaw clenched, she lifted her head, fighting tears, squaring her shoulders.

The black hood shifted as he dropped his head to the other side, soulless eyes glinting. Another charge, blackened sorrow consuming her as a stronger attack shuddered through her. Doubling over she heaved, breaking into sobs, her heart weeping with despair so black she thought she would die. The emptiness was more than she could bear.

He gazed upon her with something akin to pity. Barely conscious, she raised her eyes to his. Their eyes connected. A sinister voice sounded in her mind. Russian, but somehow she understood.
You cannot run. I have your soul. It is all I need.

With a sudden flicker in the environment, Chernobog’s image rippled as if a disturbed reflection in a pond. His eyes flashing with bitterness, a disfigured voice uttered a command.
Tell Trinton...

Distracted from the crippling pain, Sam was taken aback. The voice seemed familiar but she could not place it. The demon’s lips curled up into a grin, a guttural cackle parting from deep within him. It bubbled out over his lips as Sam’s psyche prepared to protect her in a way she never would have thought possible.

Trin reached the stairs, flying down them. “Sam!” he shouted aloud, racing for the door. He didn’t care if the entire dance department was naked inside. H
e was going in.
He threw his hand out to grab the handle when he was knocked off his feet, hitting the floor. Someone was on top of him. His natural instinct to defend himself flew into high gear until he realized it was Sam.

Confounded, he forced himself to function. He struggled upright, dragging her limp body over to the wall. “Sam!” He sat her up, running his hands through her hair. Her eyes fluttered open, stunned, disoriented, frantic. He cupped her face in his hands. “Sam, what just happened?”

Sam looked at him in a panic, searching for something to focus on and found his angelic eyes. “Get me out of here,” she said, grabbing his arms, fighting to stand.

“What happened?” he repeated. He stood, pulling her up with him.

She looked around, still confused but determined to leave. “How did I get here?” she asked. “Did you bring me out here?”

“No,” he insisted. “You came out of nowhere.”

Sam looked back toward the dressing room, eyes wild, terrified. She began pulling Trin as fast as she could toward the exit. “We have to leave.”