Key to Hell (Hell Night Series Book 4), page 30
These aren’t stars, it isn’t a moonless sky, and I don’t fucking like this. These tiny sparks of light float right in front of me, all around me, almost like glowing specks of dust.
“Lucccaaaa….”
Warm air whispers across my ear, and I spin, expecting to find someone behind me, and still see nothing but those damn flecks of light. Squinting, I try to look past them and the darkness to see something. Any fucking thing.
Frustration grows in my stomach when nothing appears.
“Who in the hell are you?” I yell, anger deepening my voice into a growl.
My ears strain as I listen closely. All I hear is my own breathing and the slight pounding in my ears from my heartbeat. The beat only gets louder with my mounting aggravation.
“Luca.”
This time, the voice sounds rushed. It’s still whispered softly, but not the slow calling of the other two times. It’s urgent. There’s an echo too. It comes from behind me, but the echo drifts around me from every direction.
I tip my head back and snarl to the… ceiling? The sky? I have no fucking clue. “What in the hell do you want from me?”
Not expecting an answer, because I didn’t get one to my previous question, I’m surprised when the voice comes again. It’s close. So close, it almost seems like the words aren’t spoken out loud, but are just somehow in my head.
“I need you.”
My brows slash down into a frown. There’s pain in the softly spoken words, and for some reason I don’t like the emotion coming from the voice. Something sharp pierces my chest, like a dull blade slowly being sunk into my sternum, taking my breath away. I rub the spot, not understanding why the pain is there, but knowing it’s caused by the agony in the woman’s voice.
“Where are you?” My tone is gruff from the stinging ache.
“Here,” she whispers.
I whip around and still see nothing but the twinkling lights. I reach out, hoping that even if I can’t see anything, I can feel something. It’s so dark I can’t even see my hand in front of me, only the tiny lights floating by in a rush at my hurried movement.
One catches my eye off in the distance about fifteen feet from me, and I hone in on it. It’s slightly bigger than the rest. I take a step forward, then stop when it begins to grow. It doesn’t get brighter; the luminosity stays the same. It’s just the size that changes. Actually, it looks like the light is dimming the bigger it gets. Like it’s no longer a light, but a fog-like substance.
It stretches longways, getting greater and greater. I start moving toward it, but no matter how many steps I take, the same distance stays between it and me.
Something starts to form in the white haze. I squint, not really sure what it is, because it’s almost transparent now. It’s still growing, but the bigger it gets, the more it loses its solidness.
A face.
I can barely make it out through the white haze, but it’s a woman. Her features become clearer, but the more the face forms, the more it fades as well.
I take a couple of steps forward, then jerk to a halt when I remember it does me no good.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
What in the hell is this shit?
“Lucaaaa….”
The voice whispers again, and I know it’s from the translucent vision, but the lips don’t move.
The face becomes a face and shoulders, then face, shoulders, arms, and torso. Her hair flows around her, moving slowly, like it’s floating in water.
She looks at me, and the stark pain in her eyes almost has me staggering back with the force of it.
I really don’t fucking like that look. And I really don’t fucking know why. I’ve never seen the woman before. She doesn’t even look vaguely familiar. Why in the hell would her pain be my pain?
“Who are you?” I demand.
Again, her lips don’t move, but I still hear the voice inside my head. “Come to me, Luca. I need you.”
Before I have the chance to react to her words, something happens. I tense as swarms of the nearby glowing dust infuse the white mist of the woman. Her crystalline appearance starts to solidify. Her face and the upper half of her body become more visible. Her hair, which up until that point was colorless, is a deep, rich brown. It’s long, flowing to the middle of her back. Her eyes are light brown, but not an ordinary brown. They’re an unusual golden amber. I’m not sure if it’s because of her noncorporeal appearance or if that’s their natural color, but they seem to glow.
More specks of dust penetrate the woman’s form, and the more that rushes in, the brighter she gets.
She lifts her arm, as if reaching out to me, and before it registers what I’m doing, I reach out to her.
When I take a step closer, the light surrounding her shimmers brighter. This time I’m able to shorten the gap between us. I take another step, and it seems to glisten even more. I’m tall, so when I take my next step, there’s only a few feet separating us. But the brightness is now almost too much to bear. I have to squint from the sheer brilliance of it.
There’s only inches between the tips of her fingers and mine now. The pain resting in my chest intensifies the closer I get, but it’s as if there’s a force that’s pushing me toward her. Like if I don’t, the pain would be a thousand times worse. I don’t know why, but something inside me says I must go to her.
I hold my breath as the tip of my middle finger touches the glowing tip of hers. Several things happen at once. A low growl resonates deep in the back of my throat, my fingers curl into a fist and my arm drops to my side, and the fierce pain I was experiencing in my chest turns so excruciating I’d swear my heart is spilling out onto the floor at my feet.
The trifecta of feelings happens because the instant my fingertips touch the woman, her form disintegrates. The thousands of pieces of dust that make up her form fall away into space, leaving me once again in complete blackness.
I tip my head back and an angry, pain-filled roar leaves my lips at the loss of something so important.
CHAPTER ONE
Luca
I STAB THE KEY INTO the back door of Ink Me and shove it open. It hits the cabinet behind the door and something crashes to the floor, pissing me off even more than I already am. I flip the light switch, look around, and find pink shattered glass on the floor. I glare at the shards and silently curse my sister to hell for leaving her shit on the counter after I’ve told her multiple times to put it away.
After kicking the door closed with my boot, I shed my drenched jacket, then grab a hand towel from a cabinet and run it over my head a couple times to soak up some of the water from the torrential downpour outside. Dropping my keys on the counter, I head to the coffeepot. Once the machine starts gurgling, I grab the broom and sweep up the glass, then rest my weight against the counter. I take a minute to rub my temples, the pounding in my head from moments ago finally turning to a dull ache.
Those fucking dreams.
They do this to me every time I have them. I thought they were gone, but apparently that was wishful thinking.
For six years, I’ve dreamed of a woman in the dark. A woman I’ve never seen before, with glowing amber eyes. At first, I only got small glimpses of her, and the dreams were so infrequent I didn’t think anything of them. She never spoke to me, only stared at me with eyes filled with torment.
Two years ago, they stopped, and they moved to the back of my mind. As of a couple of months ago, they came back, this time with a vengeance. She’s more vivid and she speaks now. Not that I can really understand what she’s saying. She asks for help, for me to come to her, but I have no fucking clue who she is, where she is, or how she wants my help. I don’t even know if this person is real, and if she is, why it’s my dreams she chose to invade.
It frustrates the hell out of me, because although I don’t know who she is I feel drawn to her, like some invisible force has tethered me to her. I can physically feel her pain as if it’s my own. Anytime I get close to her though, she disappears, just evaporates into thin air, leaving behind her agony to mesh with mine.
That’s when I wake up, the pain from the dream still holding me in its tight grip. I never go back to sleep, because the pain is too great. It usually takes hours for the ache in my chest and the throbbing in my head to ease. That’s why I’m here at Ink Me three hours early. To try to take my mind off my bizarre-as-hell dream.
I make a cup of coffee and carry it to the small office at the end of the hall where I do most of my drawing. Sitting down in the old cracked—but still comfortable—office chair, I pull a pad of paper from the desk drawer and look down at the image I’ve been working on for months. I still don’t know what the full picture will be. It’s a vision I had one day. Every so often, small things will appear in my head, and I’ll add to it. Right now, it’s just a wisteria tree with its branches spread out wide, drooping and full of leaves and purple flowers. There’s a girl sitting beneath it with her knees to her chest, her arms wrapped around them, and a bird on the lowest branch watching her. The branches hang so low that they almost shield the girl from the outside world. The last thing I added to the image was the silhouette of someone standing across from the girl. That was a couple weeks ago, and I haven’t had the call to draw more.
I flip the page to a fresh one and grab a pencil. A client came in a few nights ago wanting a tattoo of a woman that’s half angel, half devil. Original? No. But I draw what the client wants me to, and try to add some uniqueness to it.
Ink Me used to be my dad’s business. Growing up, I’d come here every day after school and watch him work. Mom hated it because most of the clientele that frequented back then weren’t people you wanted your kids to be around. Not because she had anything against the type of person who had tattoos or piercings—my dad was covered in tattoos and to this day she still says his body is a work of art—but because half were gang related or heavily into drugs or some other bad shit that hit the streets in this neighborhood. Silver Hill is split right down the middle with the proverbial railroad track separating the rich half and the dirty half. With Ink Me being the only tattoo place around, this was where people came when they wanted ink or piercings.
Before I was even old enough to really understand what a tattoo was, I knew I wanted to work here. I got my first tattoo machine when I was twelve years old and practiced on fruit. At sixteen, I apprenticed under my dad and he shaped me into what I needed to be to one day own Ink Me. I bought him out five years ago, and since then, I’ve cleaned the place up—not that it was trashy before, but a good paint job inside and out, new counters, equipment, and furniture does wonders—and I refused to put up with the bullshit of the fuckups that come in here. Dad was no pushover when he owned the place; actually, he was pretty much a hardass, but he also had his wife and three kids to feed, so he couldn’t be that selective in his clients.
Me? You come in here doped up, bring trouble, or with an attitude, you can carry your ass right back out the door. The only thing Mom liked about me being at Ink Me so much as a kid was that it meant I wasn’t out on the streets getting into trouble or hanging with the wrong crowd. Even so, I still had to learn to hold my own, or I’d get crushed. The older I got and the more shit I saw on this side of the tracks, the tougher I became. I didn’t want to be one of those guys who was forced to do the bidding of some punk who thought he ruled the streets. I didn’t want to be the one who ruled the streets either. I just wanted to be left alone. So, I made sure I was. I didn’t look for confrontation, but I sure as shit didn’t back down from it if it was thrown in my face. From my mid-teens and on, my reputation was, you don’t fuck with me, I won’t fuck with you. But if you do fuck with me, you’ll be in a world of hurt.
Another business on this side of the tracks is Abe’s Gym, a place where I learned kickboxing and Krav Maga. It was Abe’s teachings that helped build my status of being someone to not screw with.
My reputation has carried over into Ink Me, and with that, the clientele has drastically changed for the good. With the place cleaned up, the shitheads no longer coming in, and add in that I’m a damn good artist and tattooist, business is triple what it used to be. I get people from the surrounding counties coming in, and I book up weeks in advance.
Draining the last of my coffee, I get to work on the angel/devil drawing. Time stands still for me when I sketch or I’m marking someone else’s skin. It’s relaxing and the only time I feel real peace. Even as a boy, I was good at making an image come to life on paper. There were times I’d be at our rickety kitchen table, my hands dirty with pencil lead, and my parents had to practically pry the pencil and paper from my hands to get my attention. It was the one thing I was good at. Something I was proud of.
I don’t know how much time passes before I hear the back door opening. I drop the pencil on the desk and dig the heels of my hands into my eyes, trying to wipe away the scratchy feeling of not getting enough sleep the night before. Luckily, my headache has turned to a dull ache nagging in the back of my head.
Looking down at the paper in front of me, I’m surprised to see I’m almost done. Just a few tweaks here and there and then I can call the client and set a time for him to come check it over.
Hearing cabinets slam in the back room, I twist my neck from side-to-side to relieve the stiff feeling of sitting in one position for so long, then stand and stretch. After, I make my way down the hallway and find my sister grumbling to herself as she searches for something.
“It’s smashed,” I tell her, leaning against the doorway.
She whips around, clutching her chest dramatically. “Holy shit balls, Luca. You scared the hell out of me.” I give her a minute before her eyes narrow. “What do you mean, it’s smashed?”
I tip my chin to the trash can and she walks over to peer inside. “You left it on the counter, and when I came in, it fell.”
A scowl forms on her face as she looks at the remnants of her favorite coffee mug, causing her eyebrows to form a deep V. Her eyes lift to mine and she purses her lips. I point my finger at her before she has a chance to open her mouth and spew whatever shit she’s thinking.
“Save it. I’ve told you to put your shit away and you didn’t listen.”
She huffs out a breath, but keeps quiet, knowing I’m right. I’ve dealt with this for as long as I can remember. Growing up, she was always leaving her shit out around the house. Mom used to threaten to throw her stuff out if she didn’t learn to put it away. Of course, Mom never went through with it. Which meant Ella knew she could get away with it, and that’s carried over into adulthood. She kicks ass at tattoos, is damn near as good as me, and I love her, but she drives me fucking bonkers when she leaves her shit all over the place. Luckily, she keeps her work station clutter-free and clean because she knows that’s one thing I won’t put up with. We stick people with needles all day and she understands the importance of cleanliness when it comes to that. I’ve learned to pick my battles where I can.
With a mournful look at the trash can, she spins on her heel and stalks over to the cabinet that holds some Styrofoam cups and pulls one free from the stack.
“You remember I have to get off at four today, right?” she asks over her shoulder. “Vicki has that appointment I wanted to go to with her.”
“Yes.” I cross my arms over my chest and regard her. “You know it’s going to be okay, right? No matter what the tests results show.”
Her shoulders lift with her deep inhale. A moment later, she turns with both of her hands wrapped around her coffee. Leaning back against the counter, she brings the cup to her lips and blows on the hot liquid. Her eyes are downcast, but I still see the worry linger in their depths.
My sister is as hard as nails and feisty. Like me and my brother, Theo, she’s had to be with the type of neighborhood we grew up in. She’s also a brat, courtesy of my mother doting on her because she’s the youngest and her only girl, and my dad who treats her like a princess. Her persona in front of my parents is a complete one-eighty compared to how she acts when she’s not around them. Not to be deceitful, but because she doesn’t want our parents to see that darker side to her that came with growing up in our neighborhood.
However, when it comes to her partner, Vicki, she’s utter mush. They met back in high school when Ella was first struggling with being attracted to other girls. Vicki’s family moved from the other side of the tracks to this side when the local textile plant shut down and her dad lost his job. The minute Ella saw her, she went gaga and her struggle was no longer. She went headfirst into letting Vicki know she was into her, not caring one shit what anyone else thought. She wanted Vicki, and like always, Ella got what she wanted. Luckily, the feeling was mutual. They’ve been together for six years.
“Hey,” I call when she doesn’t acknowledge my words. Her eyes close for a moment before she pulls in a breath, then opens them. “Knock that shit off, Ella,” I scold sternly. “You don’t know anything yet, so don’t think the worst.”
Her throat bobs as she swallows. She nods, forcing her shoulders back and becoming the tough woman I know she is. “You’re right.”
She says it, but the doubt is still there. A few weeks ago, a lump was found on one of Vicki’s breasts and today they get the results on what they’re dealing with. It could just be a harmless mass, but the doctors, being cautious, said it could be cancerous.
I push away from the door and walk over to her. Taking the cup from her shaking hands, I set it on the counter, then pull her into my arms. Her weight sags against me like she can’t hold herself up anymore. I rub her back and offer what comfort I can.
With her face buried in my chest, her breath hitches when she says tearfully, “I can’t lose her, Luca. I don’t… I don’t know what I’ll do if something happens to her.”
