Autumn Storm (#2, Witchling Trilogy)

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Summer was falling. As hard as he struggled, he couldn’t reach her. Pinned to the top of the cliff, he was helpless. Her scream ceased suddenly, leaving him in silence. Alone.

Decker wrenched awake with a gasp, his heart pounding hard. Though haunted by that night, he’d never dreamt about it before.

Wiping his face, he oriented himself in his dorm room at the private school in Washington where he’d transferred after Summer’s death. No part of him wanted anything to do with the boarding school in Priest Lake. His clock read three in the morning. The amount of valium he took should’ve knocked him out for the weekend but instead, lasted two hours. Every night, it was harder to force himself into sleep.

Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, Decker sighed. The body next to him shifted, and he glanced over his shoulder.

Bodies. Two women tonight. He remembered them vaguely. His gaze swept over them. The women he brought home with him always slept so deep and long after he wore them out. Sex took him away from the voices in his head, from his memories of Summer, from the pain. It was a temporary release that never lasted long enough, which was where the drugs came in: valium for what sleep it gave him and meth to keep him awake during class. Temporary fixes. It’s all his life consisted of anymore.

Envious and frustrated, Decker rose and crossed to the window overlooking a crowded parking lot.

Without Summer, Darkness was all that truly soothed his misery.

Feed it, and it will take you away. You are lucky she died before she saw what you are, one of the voices in his head told him.

When he’d become the Master of Dark, he’d inherited the souls of all his predecessors. They were constantly chattering, filling his head with noise he couldn’t escape. Of all the Dark Masters and Mistresses before him, the most feared of them all had taken on the role of mentoring Decker. Bartholomew-the-Terrible was known for the mass slaughter of humans and witchlings he committed over the course of dozens of years. He’d taught Decker where to find the small moments of relief and how many ways there were to kill with nothing more than a knife and his hands.

Recognizing the truth in the words, Decker looked at his hands. He showered half a dozen times a day but always felt the warmth of blood on him. It was intoxicating to the Dark side of him. When the high wore off, he was left with the hole inside of him and a mess to clean up.

His phone buzzed from its place on the nightstand. His twin, Beck, called or texted almost every day. Decker ignored him, along with everyone else who tried to contact him. He’d wanted to talk to one person the past few months, the woman he’d inherited his Dark role from.

His mother, however, refused to speak to him. He stopped trying to reach her when it became clear she wanted nothing to do with him and let Bartholomew guide him.

Maybe tonight, he thought with another glance at the clock. No one with a clear conscience was up at this hour. His mother definitely fit the bill.

He crossed to his phone and saw his father’s name on it. Surprised, Decker read the text.

Give me a call when you’re up!

Calm, quiet Michael Turner was the foundation of the family. He was reserved, and normally, it was Decker’s mother who checked up on him. Decker dressed and pulled at his magick. He wasn’t going back to sleep this night.

It took him where he willed it, to the cabin in Priest Lake where his parents were for the next week. The cabin was quiet and dark. He paced through the ground floor, hoping his father was down here and not upstairs with his mother. Light in the kitchen drew him to the large area, where his father and grandfather sat at the breakfast table. Opposite him, the bank of windows reflected the light of the kitchen. During the day, they’d display the stunning view of the lake the nearby town of Priest Lake was named for.