PROLOGUE
. . . And by her hand that which would be open may be closed . . .
—The Prophecy of the Orb
Can I just say that dying sucks? All that bullshit about seeing the light and having this final moment of inner peace, blah, blah, blah. It’s crap.
Dying is messy and terrifying and it hurts like hell.
I ought to know. After all, I was the one on that basement floor in a puddle of my own blood and bile. And there was no peace, no light, no anything. Nothing except the ice-cold knowledge that the sins I’d racked up in the last twelve or so hours were more than sufficient to push me through the gates of hell.
Forget everything else I’d done in my twenty-six years on this earth, good and bad. You go out planning to kill a man—even a man as vile as Lucas Johnson—and your fate is pretty much sealed.
From a practical standpoint, the moment of death is a little bit late to start getting all profound and reflective. As they say, what’s done is done. But that doesn’t matter, because even if you’re the least introspective person on the planet, you still go through the whole Psych 101 rigmarole. You tell yourself that maybe you should have said your bedtime prayers once in a while. You wonder if all those torture-porn horror movies you watched while your boyfriend copped a feel weren’t actually a sneak peek into what hell had to offer.
In other words, you get scared.
When you’re living, you might tell God to take a flying leap for putting your mother six feet under when you were only fourteen. For leaving you with a stepfather who decided to cuddle up with Jack Daniel’s because he no longer had a loving wife in his bed. For leaving you in charge of a pigtailed little half sister who thought you hung the moon.
And for making you arrogant enough to swear that you’d protect that precious kid no matter what, even though that wasn’t a promise you could keep. Not when there are monsters like Lucas Johnson trolling the earth. Monsters who suck the life from little girls.
For all those reasons, you might turn your back on God, and think you’re oh-so-righteous for doing it. But you’d be wrong.
Trust me. I know.
I know, because even as my life faded, the fires of hell nipped at my toes.
In the end, I got lucky. But then again, luck is all a matter of perspective, isn’t it?
CHAPTER ONE
I woke up in total darkness, so out of sorts that I was convinced I’d pulled on the wrong skin along with my blue jeans. Couple that with the fact that anvils were about to split my head wide open, and I think it’s fair to say that I wasn’t having a good time. I tried to roll over and get my bearings, but even the tiniest movement kicked the hammers in my head to triple-time, and I abandoned the effort before I even got started.
“Fucking A,” I said, and immediately wished I hadn’t. I’m no American Idol contestant, but my voice doesn’t usually inflict extreme pain. Today, it did.
Today? Like I even knew what day it was. Or where I was. Or, for that matter, why I was.
I’d died, after all.
Hadn’t I?
Disoriented, I lurched up, only to be halted before I’d barely moved.
I tried again, and realized my wrists and ankles were firmly tied down. What the—?
My heart pounded against my rib cage, but I told myself I wasn’t afraid. A big hairy lie, but it was worth a try. I mean, I lied to myself all the time, right? Sometimes I even believed my own shit.
