Chapter One

RUE

A fist flies toward my face, and I force myself not to dodge or defend myself—it only makes the beatings worse. I brace my legs and pray I don't go down. If he gets me on the ground, chances are I'll never get back up again.

I wonder if he will kill me this time.

I almost wish he would, just so my hellish torment would finally be over, but I won't give him the satisfaction.

I tuck my arms in close to protect my ribs. They haven't completely healed from the last beating three days ago. If he hits them again, I'm afraid they'll snap. I know from experience that broken ribs suck. I can deal with the pain, but I hate how it leaves me vulnerable and limits my movements.

My father's rages are a frequent occurrence.

As much as he loves his control, he loves punishing me more.

The only way to survive his wrath is to embrace the pain and try not to lose consciousness.

A fist cracks across my cheekbone, and my head whips to the side. I swear I actually see stars.

Fuck, he's really putting effort into it this evening.

I grunt under the blow and sway, barely managing to stay on my feet. My face heats then goes numb, and I do my best to hold back any reaction. If I show any defiance, the beating will only last longer.

My hair covers my face for a second, and I gingerly probe my teeth with my tongue.

Loose, but still in my mouth.

Bonus.

I slowly straighten and don't see the second slap until I feel the impact. It hits the other side of my face with a force that splits my bottom lip, and blood spills down my chin. My hands curl into fists with the need to fight back, and I force myself to unwind my fingers, then straighten my spine.

The older I get, the more violent and unpredictable he becomes.

Today is the first time he's actually hit my face with his fists. A slap here and there, yes, but never his fists. It wouldn't do for others to see the evidence of his crimes. My recent failures must have pushed him too far. I don't even bother making excuses because he doesn't want to hear them.

Just as his arm winds back again, the doorbell chimes. I don't move or react, knowing better than to think anyone would call the cops, not that it would matter if anyone did. Dear ole dad is filthy rich. Not just normal rich, but mega millions wealthy. The asshole is used to buying his way out of trouble, bribery the least of his sins.

His life wasn't always this tangled mess of violence, deceit, and lies. My parents used to be the perfect power couple, rising to the top of their circle of rich and famous friends, but then I came along.

My birth was an accident of fate. Much to their chagrin, it had been much too late to terminate the pregnancy without risking my mother's health, or I'm sure they would have aborted me before I had a chance to take my first breath. The very thought of having a child was abhorrent to them.

I could almost understand their animosity, because the instant my mother became pregnant, she officially lost her marbles.

She was certifiably insane, or at least that was what her medical records claimed.

Doctor after doctor came to the house, and each one of them reached the same conclusion—she needed professional help and twenty-four-hour care. She was a harm to herself and those around her.

I'll give it to my dad—he loved her with everything in him. He refused to have her committed. Unfortunately, every time she saw me, she called me a witch, said I was evil and that I needed to be destroyed. Apparently, the demons would go away if I were gone.

That was when I started having "accidents."

The crazy bitch decided I needed to die. After the third such accident, when she shoved me down the steps and I broke my arm, the hospital threatened to have social services investigate, despite the money my dad threw at them to keep it quiet.

Dad said my mother was troubled and promised she would receive help. That he would personally take care of my safety.

His solution?

Instead of locking her away, he locked me away.

Problem solved.

When the crazy bitch finally passed, I was relieved. I thought things would change and I would finally be free.

I was a fool.

Her hatred of me transferred to my father.

He wanted to punish me for taking away the woman he loved.

He blamed me for her insanity, and he's not wrong.

Our family has the sight. The so-called gift passes through the female line. Sometimes, it skips a generation, but it's rare. The strength of the gift always varies as well. Mother's ability was mild—the gift of persuasion. I called it the gift of bullshit. She could get anyone to tell her their secrets with a few whispered words or a light touch of her hand against their skin.

Then she got pregnant with me.

I often wonder if her gift would have stopped developing further if she didn't have a child, but I can't bring myself to care. The bitch got what she deserved.

Maybe I should be more compassionate. Chances are that I will suffer the same fate, but I don't feel any remorse. She literally made my life hell.

Refusing to follow in her footsteps, I decided I would control my gifts, not let the power control me.

Instead of ignoring the voices in my head and letting them drive me insane, I scoured the internet for even the tiniest bit of information. What I found nearly shattered my mind. The voices were actually spirits, and it took a lot of time and experimentation to learn how to communicate with them. I trained myself tirelessly.

Unfortunately, the downside to my gift is that people think I'm just as crazy as my mother.

Sigh.

When my father discovered my abilities, I thought he would kill me in a fit of rage, which would have almost been preferable. Instead, he used my abilities to make business decisions…just like he used my mother. The fortune he amassed over the years increased exponentially. He crushed his enemies and became a mogul.

I call him a mongrel.

He doesn't care that I can't see everything. He doesn't care that the spirits are tearing me apart. He doesn't care about the bloody noses or migraines. All that matters is that I make him more money.

Spirits can't see the future, though, and the fuckers can lie and mislead me.

Some of them would love nothing more than to see me suffer.

Each time I get something wrong, my father punishes me. It started small—yelling and bruises where people wouldn't see the proof of his abuse. When I refused to obey, the abuse got worse. A hard smack or a vicious pinch that would leave me black and blue for days soon turned into a full beating with fists and kicks.

He doesn't care who he hurts in his quest for more power and money.

I'll eventually die at his hands if I don't escape—it's an inevitability—so I've been plotting and planning.

Unfortunately, I fear it might be too late.

A major deal fell through today, and he lost a multi-million-dollar contract. He's furious and blames me for his fuckups. I told him not to do it, but he refused to listen, insisting that I work a miracle.

I mentally roll my eyes. If I could do that, I wouldn't be in this situation in the first place.

His most current rant is that I made him look like a fool, but I had nothing to do with it. That was all on him, which he knows, and that just pisses him off more.

When the doorbell chimes again, he glares at me with such hatred that I see my death in his black eyes. Before he leaves, he backhands me across the face so hard, I crash to the floor with a heavy thump that steals the breath from my lungs. I quickly curl up, but not soon enough. The kick he aims my way catches me in the side, and yup, my ribs crack with an audible snap.

Eyes burning with pain—or maybe the beginnings of a concussion—I watch him storm out of the room. He slams the door behind him with a resounding thud, and I push myself upright, hissing when my ribs protest. I cup them gingerly, hoping to stabilize the damage, but I know from experience that nothing will take the edge off the pain.

I slowly climb to my feet and shuffle toward the door, knowing if I don't leave now, he won't stop until I'm unconscious, and I very much fear that I won't wake up this time.

All my previous attempts to escape failed.

The last time, he nearly killed me when I was caught.

I knew I wouldn't get another shot.

I would either escape or die trying.

Unfortunately, my gift of communicating with spirits is as much of a curse as it is a blessing. Spirits are drawn to me, and they will find me wherever I go. Although my shields block them for a while, I can't maintain them twenty-four hours a day.

It's one of the reasons I've been homeschooled for most of my life. Being around others is impossible without my abilities leaking through…not to mention my father doesn't want to have me beyond his control and risk anyone witnessing the abuse.

He'll never willingly allow his golden goose to leave.

I've become his new obsession.

He hates me as much as he loved my mother.

If he can't have me, then no one can.

I crack the door open, intent on fleeing to my room before my father returns and finishes what he started, when a commotion at the door grabs my attention.

"I demand to see my granddaughter, you great buffoon. Now stand aside. I already called the police. They should be here at any moment." As the imperious voice rings through the entryway, I peer around the corner.

An old woman wearing brightly colored clothing is trying to force her way into the house, swinging her cane at my father like it's a dueling sword, and I crack a smile when she manages a few good blows.

Damn, she's fast!

Father finally grabs the cane, a snarl of rage on his face, and I fear he's going to whack her with it. One blow would kill her. I step out into the open, hoping to draw his attention away from her. "Father?"

The older woman turns toward me and gasps, a trembling hand covering her mouth. Tears fill her eyes, and her voice breaks when she speaks. "Tally-Rue? Goddess, what did that brute do to you?"

I blink at her, tilting my head at the familiarity of her voice, and my eyebrows furrow. "Do I know you?"

"No," my father snarls, his rage so thick that it's a living thing threatening to swallow me whole. "Go to your room."

I instinctively take a step back, then I bite my lip to keep from doing as he instructed, not even wincing when fresh blood spills down my chin. If I leave, he's finally going to succeed in what he's been promising me for years—he's going to kill me.

I turn eighteen in a few weeks, and he won't legally be able to control me anymore. He's been threatening to have me committed in a private hospital for years, where I'd be so drugged that I wouldn't be able to defy him any longer. The asylum would be a prison where he would have unlimited access to do whatever he wanted to me twenty-four seven.

He'd keep demanding answers, and no one would care when he finally killed me…or I officially went insane. The drugs would fracture my mind, and the spirits would slowly consume me until I became just like my mother—batshit crazy.

I saw the documents on his desk just this morning, one of the friendly spirits showing me where he hid the commitment paperwork.

It's basically a done deal.

"Tallulah, honey, I received your letter." The old woman digs about her purse until she finds a familiar envelope, then she waves it around in the air like she won the lottery. "I'm your nan, and you're going to come live with me now."

A vein throbs in my father's neck, one that means he's about to lose his shit, and I fear for the old woman's life. My father won't let me go so easily. Thankfully, before he can react, the police pull up in front of the house, their flashing lights filling the entryway.

Father glares out the door, a tick near his eye, and I swear I can actually see his dark spirit hulking out of his body like a shadow, snarling and hissing with barely contained rage. The spirit wraps around him, and a mask descends over his face.

A jovial, good-boy countenance takes over his expression, and he smiles at the cops. "Thank goodness you're here! You arrived just in time. This woman is trying to barge into my house. Please have her removed from my property. I'll follow you down to the station to have a restraining order issued."

My shoulders slump at his charm. He has fooled people for years. His money grants him a certain polish that makes people intrinsically trust him, and he uses his good looks to his full advantage, swindling people out of their money without a hint of remorse.

Shadows darken the room—a sure sign the spirits are stirring. A ghostly image of a man shuffling out of the darkness slowly takes shape, his hunched form twisted as shadows cling to him like a ragged cloak. Much like most of the dead I see, he's a decrepit zombie of sorts.

The decaying body is barely clinging to life, if that's what you want to call it. Maggots wiggle through his flesh, and little beetles crawl over his rotting corpse before they screech at the light and scuttle back below his tattered clothing.

The closer he gets to me, the more his body heals, like he's pulling energy from the living. By the time he stops before me, his spine cracks as he straightens to his full height, and his body fills out, almost looking human. Decaying in reverse is horrifying. Liquid flesh becomes solid, and the raisin-like eyeballs inflate until the milky color turns a brilliant blue.

He could almost pass for human…if he wasn't transparent.

A beetle scrambles across his face, escaping into a hole in his jaw just before it seals shut. He chews slowly, the crunch of the beetle audible, and I cringe, barely resisting the urge to vomit. When he smiles, his yellow teeth almost appear furry with decay. I barely contain the urge to shudder, since it would only give him more pleasure.

The chill from the realm beyond swirls around him, and my breath fogs the air. Pretending he doesn't bother me, I release a heavy sigh. "What do you want, Roger?"

Roger is one of my regulars. He doesn't want to be banished or laid to rest because he loves tormenting the living too much. He used to visit me as a child, loving when I would scream in fear.

Over the years, I've learned fear is subjective.

A malicious gleam twinkles in his eyes. Do you really think you're going to escape your fate? You're going to die in this house, just like your mother. I'm going to enjoy spending an eternity haunting you.

His low voice is warped, dark, and echoey, like it emerged from a long tunnel.

Before I can reply, a blade of light splinters his form. A soulless, agonizing scream escapes him before he explodes into a million pieces of dust that swirl through the air and scatter across the tile floor.

"How?" I ask in awe before I'm even aware I'm speaking.

Focus your energy, give it will and intent, and it can become a weapon. The musical voice comes from a woman who steps out of the swirling dust. Her wispy body would appear ghostly, if not for a slight golden shimmer. It's almost like she's glowing. She's different from the ramshackle ghosts I normally see. She almost looks real, and that scares me more than the zombie freaks.

Over the years, I've learned the more real they look, the more danger they pose to humans.

Ghosts interacting with the living is never a good thing.

The spirit before me is beautiful, almost ethereal, as she stares down at me, but that's not what catches my attention—it's her resemblance to me that leaves me gaping. We could be twins. Although she's older and more elegant, it's like looking into a mirror. Her teal eyes churn like an ocean caught in a storm. You must go. Quickly. If you stay longer, little one, you will never leave this house alive.

"Who are you?" I whisper, my skin tingling at her nearness. Instead of the icy cold I associate with normal spirits, warmth like a cozy fire swirls around her ghostly presence. The danger lies in the way it lures you closer, because the closer you get, the more they can drain you of your life.

Instead of answering, she kisses my forehead, and a burst of heat crackles across my skin, giving energy rather than taking it. Pleasure warms my blood, and I fight the urge to lean into her. Energy from the undead is tainted. While you might feel invincible, interacting with spirits always has a cost. The longer you remain near them, the more you become infected.

It's addicting, and like any drug, it will eat away your body and soul until you wither away to nothing.

I have a natural resistance, thanks to my ancestry, but that doesn't mean I remain unaffected.

It's how I think my mother died. She took too much energy from the undead, and it rotted her brain and drove her insane. She wasn't afraid of ghosts, she consumed them like pills. She siphoned off so much energy from them that they eventually took up residence in her mind. They took control of her, much like a possession. In the end, I'm not sure if she was still inside her head with them or if her consciousness was already gone.

Fearing I would send them to the afterlife, the spirits convinced my mother to get rid of me before I could banish them, hence the many ways she tried to kill me over the years. It was almost a mutually beneficial exchange…if not for the fact that they were driving my mother insane in the process. She was so addicted to the spirits that she didn't want her supply taken away from her.

Most spirits are unaware of the outside world. They just want to move on to their next life. A few linger because they have unfinished business or died a violent death and need justice. The longer spirits remain, the more they forget their past and turn malevolent. They want nothing more than to live again and will do anything to achieve their goal, no matter the cost.

The apparition in front of me is different from any other ghosts I've encountered, and the unknown usually means trouble. She tasted of power, almost like I conjured her, and that's even more disturbing.

We are the same. I was once you a very long time ago. During pivotal moments in our life, we can be visited by our ancestors. Her smile dims, her form flickering as if she's being pulled away. You are the last of us. You are at a crossroads. If you don't heed my warning, our line will die with you.

I instantly wonder if that would be a good thing. As if she heard me, sadness crosses the woman's face, and she shakes her head. I don't have long. I'm being pulled back to my body and my time. You need to know we serve a purpose in this world. We walk through the darkness to save those who are drowning in it. Without us, the darkness will slowly infect the world and snuff out the light. People need our help—help only we can provide as daughters of the light.

It's only then that I realize she's not a ghost. I reach out…only to have my hand pass right through her. My skin tingles at the contact, like I stuck my arm in pure power. "How?"

A form of astral projection. Her smile is crooked when she looks down at me. Sometimes, we need to go where we're needed. There are many things you need to learn if you want to survive this world.

I gape at her, not sure that I want to believe her. Yes, it's nice to know there is a reason for my abilities and my suffering, but the overwhelming task she put before me is impossible.

"How?" I peer up at her, more than a little defeated. "I'm not even able to help myself. How am I supposed to help others?"

I blow out a harsh breath, tucking away my emotions before they get the best of me. It's a survival mechanism I learned early—never let people know what I'm thinking, or they will use it against me.

Her ghostly form flickers, the sadness in her eyes almost heartbreaking. You can't do it alone. Nan will help guide you, but you'll find others who will protect you. If you give up, your protectors will suffer. Save them, and save yourself.

Before the last word even leaves her mouth, she fades from existence.

It's only then that I become aware of the raised voices. Knowing the spirit is correct, that if I don't leave now, I'll never escape, I shuffle toward the door, doing my best not to hyperventilate.

I avoid my father, knowing better than to get within striking distance. It only takes a moment for one of the officers to spot me. Some police look the other way when confronted with my abuse, apathetic to the job after the horrors they've witnessed, while others take the easy paycheck my father offers. In my experience, very few officers actually give a shit about justice.

The police officer's expression hardens when he catches sight of me, and I'm not sure which category he falls under…until he offers me his hand. "Miss, if you need help, all you have to do is step out the door."

I must look terrible, or he's one of the good ones. Either way, I take a chance. Despite my hellish life, I desperately want to live. I'm not ready to give up yet. Ignoring the way my father silently fumes, his eyes narrowing with the promise of vengeance, I slip out the door. Inhaling deeply, I feel like I'm breathing fresh air for the first time in my life, like I've been pardoned from a lifelong prison sentence.

My father won't let me go easily. Not only do I make him too much money, but he hasn't made me suffer enough yet for killing his wife. He'll come for me—either to take me back or kill me. The only way to survive is to outwit my father, learn how to control my abilities before the dead destroy me, and not die in the process.

Easy-peasy!