Page 2 of Lucifer's Mirror
Then a bright white light fills my head. The room vanishes, and I’m whirling through space.
Chapter 1
Who the Hell Am I?
Earth
Three years later.
Comeback…
The words whisper through the darkness behind me, and I whirl around and stare into the shadows. Of course, there’s nothing there. It’s just my stupid overactive imagination messing with my head. Again.
All the way from the bus stop, my skin has been prickling, chills racing down my spine despite the warm, damp August evening. I hug my thin jacket around me and rub at the spot between my eyes, trying to smooth away the headache that’s been pressing at my brain since I stepped off the bus.
The old house has gotten even more dilapidated in the three years I’ve been here. It’s situated at the end of a cul-de-sac of run-down properties on the edge of town, surrounded by trees and pretty spooky. Everything is quiet, yet I can’t shake the sense that I’m being watched—that something is out there, just beyond the edge of my vision.
Stupid imagination!
I give myself a shake and push through the gate, my pounding heart slowing as I make my way up the weed-infested driveway to the front door. As I approach, raised voices spill out of the house, and my feet come to a standstill.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath as my heart rate kicks up again. I glance back at the road and spot the black truck parked a few houses down under a streetlight. How the hell did I miss it?
Great. Pete, the freaking foster-father-from-Hell, is back in town. I shudder. Pete’s a long-distance truck driver who—thankfully—spends a lot of time driving on the continent, so he’s rarely home. It’s still too often.
I want my bed. I’m tired from my shift at the restaurant; eight hours on my feet, but worth it. When I leave here for good in a month, I’ll have some savings behind me. But I suspect sleep will prove elusive tonight. Pete is sort of quiet and creepy until he’s had a drink; then he’s loud and… I swallow. From what I can hear right now, he’s pissed as a rat in a barrel of beer.
Pete doesn’t touch me. It’s as though he’s afraid he might catch amnesia from me and forget his shitty life. He calls me a freak, and I think he might be a little afraid of me. Good. All the same, I’ve learned to make myself scarce when he’s been drinking. He beats up on Lissa, his wife and my foster mom. She’s not as bad as Pete, but that’s not saying much. Put it this way—she’s never baked me any cookies. Though she did once offer me a joint. I’ve had to take her to the ER more than once. I don’t understand why she stays with Pete. But even more, why does she bring children into such a dangerous environment?
Money, of course. She gets a considerable sum for giving us poor, homeless waifs a roof over our heads. Most of the time, I’d rather sleep on the street. I lost any respect I had for her a long time ago.
Pete never touched Zayne, my foster brother—who was bigger than Pete by the time he turned seventeen—since he fought back. We’re the same age, but Zayne was released from the foster system a year ago when he turned eighteen. I stayed, as I needed more time to finish school. He moved out, but he still keeps an eye on me and Josh. And between us, we’ve managed to keep Josh under Pete’s radar. Josh moved in eighteen months ago. He’s only eight, small for his age and timid. While he hasn’t talked much about his old life, I’m guessing it wasn’t good. Hopefully, he’s safely tucked up in bed right now.
There’s a scream and a crash from inside.
I jump, then force myself to move closer. Light floods out from the downstairs window, and I sidle up and peer through the grimy glass, just in time to see Pete smash his fist into Lissa so hard she crashes to the floor. I search the room, and my heart sinks as I find Josh cowering against the far wall. Dressed in faded plaid pajamas, his face is pale, his eyes wide. Pete has his back to me, and I wave through the window at Josh. His eyes stretch wider. I gesture with my head for him to get out of there, but he’s frozen in place.
More shit.
I can’t leave him there—however much my feet are itching with the need to turn around and run as fast as I can—which is pretty fast—away from here. But that’s not the sort of person I want to be, so I swallow the fear threatening to choke me and force myself to walk to the front door. I turn the knob and push it open just as I hear another crash. I hurry inside and head straight to the living room. The door is open, and the room is in chaos. Everyone goes still as I appear in the doorway. Pete is in the process of hurling something at Lissa, who’s cowering on the floor, her face streaked with blood. He pauses, his arm raised.
Show no fear.
Pete’s eyes narrow. “What do you want, freak?”
My mouth floods with saliva, and I swallow again, forcing my shoulders back. I ignore his question and hold out my hand to Josh, willing the little boy to take it. “Josh,” I say.
Josh lets out a squeak, and Pete’s attention turns to him. He pulls back his arm and hurls the bottle he’s holding straight at Josh. I move without thinking, flying across the room in a blur of inhuman speed. I scoop Josh up just as the bottle crashes into the wall, shattering. Something slices into my cheek, but I don’t hang around. Sheltering Josh against my chest, I head for the door, out of the room, and down the hallway.
I glance back. Pete is staring after us, his jaw slack. I think I might have just moved up on his freaky scale. I’ve always been careful not to reveal just how different I am. It’s hard enough for me to fit in as it is without adding superhuman speed into the mix. But it’s too late now.
Then we’re out the front door. I peer around in the darkness, deciding where to go, and then head for the garage. The flat roof is a place I’ve spent many hours waiting for Pete to leave. There’s an old tree that grows beside it, and I hoist Josh onto the lower branches, and he scrambles onto the roof. I pull myself up beside him and look back to see if anyone has followed. But Pete has the attention span of a gnat—out of sight is out of mind—and Lissa is too apathetic.
I exhale just as Josh hurls himself against me, and I slowly wrap my arms around his frail body. He’s shaking and feels so fragile that I’m afraid that if I hug too hard, his bones will snap. All the same, I tighten my grip, even as a little voice inside me warns me that I shouldn’t allow him to get too attached. I’ll be gone soon. He has to learn to look out for himself.
I step back, and he clings a little but then lets me go. “Thanks, Amber. I was scared.” He reaches up and touches my face. “You’re bleeding.”
I’d forgotten about the glass that hit my face. Now the pain comes back, sharp and stinging. I rummage in my backpack and find a tissue, then dab away the blood. I don’t think it’s serious—just annoying.
