Ryder on the Storm

  RYDER ON THE STORM

  For Autumn and Maddox,

  Someday when you are ever so much older

  I will finally let you read this.

  Acknowledgements

  First and foremost, my biggest fans, Autumn and Maddox, I send a million thanks for being the motivation to do something more with myself.

  Thanks Mom for reading everything I write and being moral support in this endeavor. Dad, thank you for teaching me about real music and imbuing me with your excellent taste in tunes.

  Ryan, in many ways I couldn’t have done this without you – you are the good, the bad, and the ugly for me. I know you will get my meaning, you always do.

  Copyright © 2011 by Tracy Broyles

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons (living, dead, or undead) is quite honestly coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission from the author or publisher.

  Storm

  When you first realize you are different it can come as a shock. It should come as a shock. For Storm Sullivan it had been different. She felt nothing, just took it in stride, staring blankly into the fireplace while her mother hyperventilated. Storm was seven at the time. Her first vision seemed as simple as a daydream. It hadn’t hurt back then. No headaches or blinding pain. The most uncomfortable part of the experience was the rough fabric of the 70s style sofa chafing her legs. Storm kept adjusting the blue gingham-checked romper while Aunt Trin stroked her auburn curls, from the nape of her neck to her waist and over again.

  Her mother wept as she explained the family curse. Storm stared at her, stone-faced, replaying her vision and thinking about her mother’s fragility. Aunt Trin kept stroking her hair, the gentle rhythm a soothing gesture in the wake of her mother’s emotions. Storm felt annoyed. The vision had been a simple one, her friend Sami stealing a pack of gum from the corner store and receiving a stern talking to after being caught. It hadn’t even fazed her. But her mother, well, Sophie Sullivan’s hopes of the curse passing over her only child were dashed in an instant.

  Storm looked at her mother, mascara dripping down her cheeks like a sad circus clown, wild desperation and sadness warring behind her eyes. Aunt Trin had spoken up at just the right moment, “Sophie, luv, it will be fine. You knew it was a better chance than not that our Storm would receive the Sight as well. She is taking it better than you. Why don’t you go put on some tea and I will figure out what she saw?”

  Mother had nodded obligingly before disappearing into the kitchen. Aunt Trin had turned to her, those lovely emerald eyes flashing with excitement, “She did not take that well did she, luv?”

  Storm suppressed an eye roll and forced herself to shake her head instead. As always with her aunt, the words flowed easily. Without emotion she relayed what had played out in the vision and Aunt Trin listened in earnest. She reclined back against the arm of the sofa and folded her hands together, the enormous jeweled rings clicking like castanets. Aunt Trin and her mother looked so much alike, from their creamy, clear complexions to their wide emerald eyes, but Storm marveled at how opposite their personalities ended up. Storm sighed as her mother sobbed loudly in the kitchen - very loudly since the dining room and a hallway stood between them.

  Aunt Trin rolled her eyes, “I will take care of her. Don’t fret about your mother, luv. Tomorrow morning I will call Sami’s mother and give her a heads up. I believe you have done your friend a service. Why don’t you get ready for bed, huh?” She passed her mother on the way out of the parlor and heard Aunt Trin begin recanting the vision. Her mother cried harder. Storm knew that Aunt Trin would be holding her, stroking her hair in that same soothing way. She climbed the stairs to her room and readied for bed wondering what life had in store for her now that her mind had opened to the Sight.

  *****************************

  Storm sighed and brushed the memory away. Looking around, she realized everyone had left. Storm was the last one standing – in more ways than one. Aunt Trin was gone. Aunt Trin who taught Storm about the visions, how to track and interpret them, and most importantly how to recover from the pain of one. Aunt Trin who’d taught her the craft and raised Storm after her mother gave up on life. Aunt Trin who was being lowered into the ground, the grinding of gears echoing through the graveyard. The stargazer lilies on the top of her coffin were wilting in the heat. Sweat dripped off Storm’s brow. She wondered briefly if the sheen gave the appearance of tears. Trin would have liked that. The tears simply would not come, they never had. Most people thought her heartless. She didn’t understand it, couldn’t change it, wasn’t even sure if she wanted to. Aunt Trin had told her time and again that there was a reason for her emotional paralysis. Storm just wished she could summon a few tears for the only person she’d ever cared about.

  Two caretakers emerged from a truck with shovels and began filling the grave; burly men with sweat stains under their arms that spread in all directions across the gray polyblend jumpsuits. The larger man even had sweat lines down his back. Storm refrained from sneering as she approached them, her heels sinking into the soft soil with each step.

  “Could I have another moment, please?” She loosed the belt of her jacket revealing the navy sheath dress beneath. As expected the caretakers’ eyes bulged slightly at her defined curves and nodded in that stunned manner Storm had become accustomed to long ago. Once they were out of sight, she knelt beside the grave and took a handful of dirt from the pile. With the other hand Storm reached into the pocket of her jacket and withdrew a vial. She cast them both into the grave, stood up, brushed herself off, and nodded toward the caretakers to proceed. Storm felt their eyes on her as she walked away and pulled her jacket tightly around her, in spite of the sweltering heat.

  In the driver’s seat of her VW Beetle, Storm exhaled. It was done. Everything she’d been asked to do. She was free. Sort of. The visions would still plague her. Unless she could break the curse. Storm started her car and flicked the radio on, this one’s for you Aunt Trin, as Jim Morrison blew through the speakers with her namesake song.

  Ryder

  Ryder closed the musty tome and placed it upon the cherry table beside him. The fire glowed against the ancient hearth of Durstine Manor’s vast library, his favorite room for more reasons than one. A complex pattern of stone and grout, the fireplace ran floor to ceiling and covered more than half of the wall. Opposite the fireplace stood ornately carved double-doors with heavy wrought iron handles and matching hinges. He’d had them shipped over in pieces from Scotland, along with the sconces that lined each hall of the manor. Aside from the doors and the hearth, the library walls were floor to ceiling shelves overflowing with tomes from every age of man. Ryder had read them all, retained most of the information, and continued to seek more. Unlike the majority of his brethren, Ryder understood that knowledge was the true power and any who could wield it would prosper. As a result, he’d managed to do quite well for himself over the years.

  Ryder tilted his head, footsteps echoed in the hallway, heels judging by the click. They came to a stop just outside his door. Reaching into his pocket, Ryder withdrew a small strip of leather and tied his shoulder-length, raven hair in a low ponytail. He stood and straightened his light V-neck shirt, adjusted his belt and slipped his notebook beneath the book he’d been reading.

  “Come in, Angeline.”

  The heavy oak door slid open slowly followed by the polished assistant he had been forced to hire to replace Keene. He refused to think about that now. Besides, Ryder found Angeline to be
adequate, and certainly easy on the eyes. Her hair always upswept in a chignon, held in place with gold-plated chopsticks. She most frequently wore a black skirt suit with satin or silk blouses of various colors. Tonight however, she had selected a kimono dress, brilliant blue with embroidered dragons whose heads met at the most opportune place.

  “It is done, my liege.” Angeline approached and handed him a blood red card the size of an invitation. A smile played across her mouth. “The Hunters seek Keene as we speak and the girl is being followed. She has shown no signs of supernatural skill.”

  “Well done, Angeline. Notify me when the Hunters have located Keene. He does not matter much, provided the girl shows no signs.” Ryder looked to the card, pasted on it was a death notice for Trin Sullivan, last of a gifted line of Seers. He exhaled, the gravity of the accomplishment setting in. Flicking his hand in dismissal he turned to watch Angeline leave. Such a sweet sight, surely she had no lack of suitors, though not his type.

  Turning the card over in his hands, Ryder pictured Trin as he knew her. Long flaming hair, bright green eyes full of fire and life, she had once been his greatest hope. Ryder flung the card into the fire and bowed his head. It was over; he would have to find another way.

  Storm

  The apartment sat empty but for a few boxes scattered about the kitchen and living room. Storm lifted one and headed out to the small moving truck. Dan and Shane were still arguing over the placement of the last load she took out. Two absolutely gorgeous men, brothers and her closest friends, they spent more time bickering than moving. At least they loaded the furniture on the back of the truck before laying into each other today. She paused for a moment to appreciate the scenery, rippling muscles glistening with sweat down to the waistbands of their matching mesh shorts. Storm thought of all the times she’d turned them down – separately and together – maybe she shouldn’t have. She pictured herself running her fingers through their silky, sand-colored hair, tracing the contours of their defined chests, sliding down their six pack abs, teasing the waistlines of their shorts, could be the best first time ever. Maybe she could start a new journal and label it “Seer Sexcapades.” Storm chuckled to herself, her only sex experiences came in the form of romance novels, her dirty pleasure. Man, she was on a roll today, too bad it existed only in her head.

  “Guys, there are three boxes left in the apartment, since I have handled the last several loads while you two stood here bickering I am going to call it a day. I am taking Pac Man and heading over to the manor. You don’t have to lock up but please don’t take too much longer, alright? I promised the landlord I’d be out by dark.” Storm dropped the box on the ground next to the others and slipped into her Beetle where Pac Man waited. He was already drooling, his tongue hanging out to one side and his little eyes flickering beneath their lids. She’d found the pit bull at a humane society in Alabama. They had tried to talk her out of it because he’d been abused and was scheduled to be put down due to his ferocity. Apparently nobody could get close to him. Still, Storm had a vision about the dog saving her and checked animal shelters in every place she lived. It took eight months but she knew him the moment she saw him. When she approached his cage, Pac Man stopped growling and started to whimper. As long as Storm stayed with him, Pac Man allowed the staff to check him over and administer shots. They released him to her care with just a little magical coercion. So, Pac Man stayed with her.

  Storm cranked the air conditioning and that spurred him to sit up and sniff at the vent. He finally noticed her presence. “How do you intend to save me if you don’t even know when I am around?” She reached over and rubbed his head. “Let’s go home buddy.”

  Dan and Shane were still arguing as she pulled away. She decided to curse them if they didn’t make it to the manor by dark. That seemed fair. Thankfully she packed her toiletries and other necessities in the Beetle. A cold shower sounded perfect. Bangs stuck to her forehead, tank top clinging to her back and wait, she could actually smell herself. Wonderful, surely Dan and Shane will find this attractive. Maybe it is best they take a little longer. I will never hear the end of it if they smell me like this.

  The ride to Willow Wood had not changed in the ten years since she last walked out the white-washed front door. Of course it passed to her as the last surviving Sullivan. It still didn’t seem real, still didn’t make sense. She’d gotten a strange letter from her aunt, wouldn’t have recognized it as Aunt Trin’s if not for the handwriting. Storm had turned it over in her hands, the plain notecard with gilded edging. It triggered a vision of the murder. When Dan and Shane knocked on her door, Storm sat waiting in the kitchen with a pot of coffee on. She didn’t cry.

  At least she wasn’t considered a suspect. Apparently the crime scene seemed too gruesome for a woman and they labeled it a gang-related attack, some sort of initiation. She didn’t bother to argue. It didn’t matter who did it. It didn’t change the end result.

  At some point a social worker showed up at her door, some sort of grief counselor dressed in shabby clothes, her plain face obscured by large framed glasses. The social worker handed her a card for a crisis line and offered to listen if Storm wanted to talk.

  She never called the crisis line either. Sullivan women were prepared for the loss of their own, it came with the territory. They had been dwindling for generations, a powerful line of mystics nearly eradicated by generations of mysterious deaths. Storm knew the stories well. Aunt Trin had been overly cautious with their security and not just the technological kind. Her aunt’s murder had been unlike the others though, far more brutal, no mystery to the humans. Storm knew better, she saw knives in the dark and strange runes marking the walls of the vast room. Aunt Trin should have known better than to put herself in such a situation, there had to be more to it.

  Pulling into the drive she sighed heavily. Pac Man snorted in the passenger seat. “I know buddy, I know. You will like it here though, lots of room to run.” Storm left the car idling while she opened the gate. The wrought iron bars were sealed with thick rusted chains and a large padlock. She fished the key out of her pocket. It felt heavy in her hand. The key had been delivered by the attorney with all of the paperwork including a small, handwritten note on a piece of parchment – Accept your destiny, you offer hope to many.

  She would never accept it. Storm Sullivan may be returning home to Willow Wood but she had no intentions of going down that path – ever. She’d formulated a two part plan, solve the murder and sell the place. With money like that Storm could travel for the rest of her life, never having to stop long enough to risk exposure, and hopefully avoid the Sullivan fate.

  Ryder

  Ryder Cohen stood over the fresh grave, stargazer lilies in hand. No headstone had been laid yet. He wondered what the inscription would read. Would they use her full name? She hated that name. Ryder laid the lilies on the fresh soil and bowed his head.

  “It is done then?” The voice came from behind him. Lucian must have materialized.

  “Why can’t you master the modern ways of transport? Humans are around, you could be seen.” Ryder shook his head and stood to face the new arrival. “Yes, it is done.”

  “I understand you must be disappointed. She meant something to you?” Lucian’s steel eyes studied his every movement. His face seemed gaunt; the flannel shirt and jeans hung on his form. His dark brown hair looked oily and unkempt even longer than he usually wore it. Ryder noticed dried blood crusted on a gash over his left eye but did not mention it.

  “She did, for a time. It could never be under our laws. Immortals and Seers have never mixed.” Ryder shrugged and deflected, “You do not look well Lucian, do you intend to stay for a while? I have plenty of room as you well know.”

  Ryder felt Lucian prodding his mind and quickly blocked his thoughts. “Kindly remove yourself from my head, I have done nothing wrong. The Hunters are tracking my last loose end and I have a watcher on the girl. I am holding up my end of the bargain, Lucian.”

  “I merely h
oped to understand why you are here. I mean no offense, brother. I am truly your friend.” Ryder felt a thick hand on his shoulder, “You must learn to relax, man, you are always so tense.” The more characteristic, swashbuckler’s grin spread across his companion’s face.

  “You know I do not like anybody probing my mind. But if we are trading troubles, why are you so thin? What have you been into?” Ryder gestured to the slash across Lucian’s bicep and blood soaking through his right pant leg near the knee.

  “There was a rogue coven causing some trouble just outside London. I intervened, it got ugly, and they had a goblin. I found the scuffle exhilarating. Sadly, I need time to heal and the others will have dissolved the coven by now so I will have to wait for the next supernatural uprising.” Lucian smiled mischievously reminding Ryder of their past adventures as enforcers.

  “A goblin? It has been a while since one of those surfaced. I am glad you had a good spar. I am heading home now if you would care to join me you are most welcome.” Ryder led his friend to the black Benz he’d “borrowed” for the drive over. It would not do to have any of his vehicles at the cemetery. Lucian raised an eyebrow but slid into the passenger seat.