Wraith Read online

  Wraith

  Joy Blood

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover photos by Shutterstock

  Cover created by Dee Garcia

  Copyedit by Word Nerd Editing

  Copyright © 2018 by Joy Blood

  All rights reserved.

  For my readers.

  Being dark is so much fun!

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Epilogue

  Jake’s Silence

  Prologue

  45. Kimi

  46. Kimi

  47. Jake

  48. Kimi

  Keep in touch

  Also by Joy Blood

  Prologue

  My shoulder hurts bad. Mama pulled too hard this time. She took me to the hospital because I wouldn’t stop crying. The nice lady gave me something sweet on a stick. She called it a sucker. It was good, but I ate it too fast and now my tummy is grumbling. I wanted to ask for another but we left so fast I never got the chance.

  It’s cold in Mommy’s car. She keeps complaining that her heater doesn’t work. I’m watching her now as she stands outside, arms curled close around her like I have mine. She is talking to a man who keeps looking back at me through the window. He’s in a suit, like the men in the commercials I see on the TV in Mommy’s room. He’s taller than Mommy too. A lot taller. “Get out of the car, Stevie,” Mommy tells me when she comes back and opens the door. She yanks on the arm that doesn't hurt, making it hurt too. “You are going to go with this man.”

  “But I don’t want to, Mommy. I want to go home!” I struggle to pull away, but it only makes her more mad. She jerks again, like she did before, making more tears flow down my face.

  “Shut up and go!” she shouts, “This is all your fault, Steven. If you wouldn’t have hurt your arm, I wouldn’t have to get rid of you. Now the cops will be coming to take you away and I won't get paid for you anymore,” she says, not making any sense. “Get out of the car!” she yells, and I cry harder as I crawl out of the car, wrapping my arms around myself. It’s cold, and I only have on my pajamas and the socks I got from the hospital.

  “How old did you say?” the suit man asks.

  “Four. He’s a little small—”

  “I’m not much in the market for babies,” the man says, looking me over.

  “Please, you have to take him. I need the money.”

  “Fine. But you are only getting five. No more.” He reaches into his suit coat and grabs out an envelope. Mommy snatches it, then gets back in the car. I try to go after her, but the man grabs the back of my pajama shirt, holding me back.

  “Mommy! Don't leave me!” I scream, but she doesn’t stop. “Please, Mommy! I’ll be good. It doesn’t hurt any more, Mommy! Please!” I cry, but it doesn’t bring her back, and it only makes the suit man mad.

  “Shut up, boy,” he snaps, and pulls my arm, dragging me to another car before opening the door and tossing me inside. I land hard on my hurt arm and start to choke on my tears, but the man doesn’t care. He only yells at me to be quiet. I try my best by pressing my teeth into my bottom lip and end up biting a hole through. The same taste I get when Mommy hits me fills my mouth. I need to be quiet. If I’m good maybe Mommy will come back.

  Chapter One

  It had to be snow. My target couldn’t be living somewhere warm like a sandy beach in the Bahamas. He’s at the top of a mountain, covered in thick, white, fluffy snow. For years, this man has evaded us. His legacy had almost been forgotten until radio silence broke nearly two years ago. A hit was put on his head when word surfaced that his location had been discovered, but it wasn’t our men who got the contract. And because of that, he got the better of them and slipped through their cold, dead fingers.

  Then, there was nothing.

  Until three days ago, when a rumor spread about a drifter who had taken up residence in the middle of a remote forest in the dead of winter. It had to be him. Maybe traipsing up a mountain through three feet of snow is a little extreme for only a hunch, but when I heard the information, I knew, deep in my gut, it was him. It felt like him.

  Wraith.

  The man whose name precedes him. If he wanted you dead, you wouldn’t know until the bullet pierced your skull and you fell, lifeless, to the ground. Or if he was feeling more personal, the knife he used to slice your throat wouldn’t catch a glint of light before doing his bidding.

  My snowshoes help me trudge through the freshly fallen snow, but it’s still hard to navigate through the forest. I have close to three more miles to go and only one hour left of sunlight. Last night, there was a thin mist of rain, giving the snow an inch of crunching ice. My feet break through the barrier before being sucked in by the quicksand-like snow underneath, slowing me down. The thought of a snowmobile is once again sounding like a good idea. I decided against it, since Wraith would hear it coming from miles away and anticipate it—anticipate me. The unlikeliness of one person on foot will be my ally. Hopefully.

  The darkness shrouds me as the sun drops from the sky. I keep my knife close as I continue forward. The threat of predators, and not just my target, keeps me alert. Howling catches my ears, and I stop for just a moment, trying to pinpoint where it’s coming from. I hear it again, not far behind me. Gripping the handle tighter, I turn and scan the area, squinting my eyes to use the moonlight to my advantage. With the thick white blanket through the forest, the light bounces off just enough to allow me to see at least a hundred yards or so away.

  Not catching any movement behind me, I decide to keep walking. Only a mile to go. I'm not going to get mauled by a pack of wolves before I get to him. Failure isn't an option. Master’s words echo in my ear.

  “You will do it again and again, until your knuckles bleed and your bones ache. Push through the pain, it is only a figment of your imagination.”

  Master liked my blood. Liked it when my hands could hardly move at the end of the day. Sometimes, I could barely feed myself from being so swollen and bruised. He made me eat from the floor once when he found me using my fingers instead of the provided fork. The plate went flying across the floor with a smack of his hand, leaving a trail of my food in its wake. “You will eat off the floor if you insist on eating like an animal.” I did as he said, getting to my knees and going for the first bite with my hand, only to have him slap it from my grip. “No! You will eat like a dog if you insist on acting like one,” he scolded, forcing my face down so I
could reach the food with my mouth. My stomach growled for the small trail of lumpy porridge, so I ate, grateful for the sustenance.

  Shaking my head from the memory, I take in a deep breath. Smoke. I'm close. The cabin has to be near. I quicken my pace, then rein it back in, not wanting to get overly confident. It leads to failure. And that…well, we already covered that.

  The small glow of light barely comes into view through the sparsely covered forest. The higher up I get, the less trees cover the ground and more snow takes their place. With only a smattering here and there, the trees sag under weight of the snow, their tops glowing in the moonlight as if lighting my path to the cabin. I keep my movements slow, calculated. I want so much to take off the thick, tennis racket looking snowshoes, but know I will sink if I do so. Heel, toe. Heel, toe, I remind myself, preventing me from making noise as I push on. Knowing I can’t just walk up to the door, I find a place to lay low where I can fully see the cabin, but also stay hidden. I get comfortable, and there, I wait.

  He will have to make himself known at some point, and when he does, I will strike.

  Chapter Two

  Soup, soup, and more soup. I need to go hunting. Or take a trip into town. There’s only so much Thick and Chunky a man can eat. And this man has gotten his fill. I’m not picky. I’ll eat just about anything—hell, I have eaten just about anything, but at some point, enough is enough. Last time I made a town run, I was seen by too many people, but with the passing months and no word from the flatland, I decided those people had no idea who the fuck I was. And that’s how I’d like to keep it.

  I have been here almost seven months now, and the small cabin I call home is starting to grow on me, but the lack of human contact is somewhat strenuous. I crave someone to irritate—my forte. I like to get under people’s skin, see what makes them tick, then use it against them. Growing up, I found it useful to watch people, learn how they operate.

  Finishing off the last bite of chunky soup, I bring the bowl to the sink and rinse it out with the water I heated on the stove. There’s a well, but it froze when winter hit, so I now rely on snow as my water source—which I’m not lacking. The overabundance keeps me well hidden, or at least inaccessible. No one knows where I am or where I was before I got here. After a short stint in South Dakota, I did my best to fall off the face of the earth—numerous times.

  Six months is my limit on any place, but because of the rural area, I extended my stay to see if this place could become more of a permanent residence. I may need to invest in a warm, living body to keep me company, though. Maybe a dog? I shake my head at the thought. What the fuck would I do with a dog? Probably eat the damn thing. Fuck, I need to go hunting.

  “In the morning,” I say out loud in the empty cabin, breaking the silence and making my throat scratch in the process. Stalking to the bed, I toe off my leather slippers, climb underneath the covers, then lean over and blow out the lone lamp next to me.

  I’m not sure when I drift off to sleep, but it isn’t long after that I wake. Pulling my wrist to my face, I press the small button on the side of my watch to illuminate the screen. Four thirty-five a.m. Yawning, I pull from bed and stretch before going to the door and completing my morning ritual—step outside, take a piss, and grab a handful of wood to stoke the dying fire.

  As soon as I open the door and place one foot outside, I instantly feel on edge. As if I’m a bright red target with a bullseye painted in the center of my forehead. Not wanting to draw attention, I go through the motions, while taking stock of my soundings. Dawn is starting to break, giving a soft glow to the snowcapped ground. Nothing is disturbed. Nothing sticks out. Not even an animal track. Just nerves.

  Shutting to door behind me, I stack a few logs onto the small pile next to the stove, then toss two of the largest inside since I will be gone most of the day. I’d rather not have to restart the fire when I get back, and I hate walking into a cold cabin.

  After eating another bowl of Chunky, I strip off my pajamas, pull on a pair of thermal underwear, then my jeans, and a long-sleeve gray t-shirt. Next comes my Macculloch Parka and my Whaleback waterproof cargo pants, followed by wool socks covered by my boots. I grab my rifle, zip a water bottle into my coat, and make my way out of the cabin to the small hill of snow situated next to the east cabin wall. Brushing along the mound, I find the end of the tarp and give a hard pull. Snow slides away, revealing my snowmobile. After checking all the fluids, I turn the key in the ignition, bringing my only means of transportation to life with a groaning protest. The thick smoke of burning gasoline wafts into my nose, and I let my grin grow wide. Love that fucking smell. It reminds me I’m not underground—not confined to one room for the rest of my life. I’m fucking free, on the outside, and my life is my own.

  I let the engine warm for a minute before driving a mile or two down the mountain into the tree line to find some game, the annoyance of watching eyes following me the whole way.

  Chapter Three

  It’s cold down here. The man in the suit brought me to a dark place where I couldn’t see and made me stay inside the cold room. I only have my jammies to keep me warm, but it doesn’t help. Lying curled up on the floor and staring at the wall, I drag my finger along a small crack. I can see through it, finding a wall like mine on the other side. “Is someone there?” a soft feminine voice squeaks, the question drifting through the tiny hole.

  “Keep quiet. They don’t like noise,” I tell her, moving closer. A green eye with strands of hair draped over it greets me on the other side.

  “Where are we?”

  “The basement,” I say, not knowing another name for it. “That’s what the guards call it.”

  “How old are you?” she asks, but I have no idea.

  “When I was brought here, I was four.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “I don’t know.” If I had to guess maybe its been three years, but I don’t tell her that.

  “I’m ten. My name is—”

  “Shut the fuck up!” A hard hand comes down onto the door of her cell, then pounds on mine.

  “We can’t talk,” I whisper, hoping she’ll listen. I don’t want anything to happen to her. Or me.

  “Make one mark on the floor or wall to keep track of every time they bring you food. I’m guessing that’s a new day, since I am starving by the time the next one comes. It’s been—” she pauses for a minute, “one month…” she trails off, as if she can’t believe the words coming out of her mouth.

  “How do you make the marks? Make sure they don’t see them,” I warn. If any of the guards see them, they will hurt her.

  “My fingernail. I painted a layer of mud I made from my spit and the dirt on the floor where I lay down.”

  “That’s cool.” I find myself smiling at her creativity. “Maybe I’ll do it too,” I say, though I know I won’t. I’m too scared to get caught. The thick scraping of the lock on my door sounds as a guard comes in to drop off my food for the day. A piece of bread and cup of water. I eagerly drink down the water while noticing there are two slices of bread instead of the normal one. My eyes widen and look over to the guard who gives me a smile.

  “Eat up, pet. Be good, and maybe there will be more tomorrow,” he promises, then leaves after taking my empty cup. I rush back to my spot on the floor and wait, listening to the other side while nibbling on the bread. She isn’t by the hole, and I can’t hear anything—not until a small whimper barely registers. Is she crying? I press my ear against the wall, taking in more sounds I can’t place. “Dimitri, get the fuck out here, asshole. You know you aren’t supposed to be doing that shit!” someone hollers from outside the rooms before banging on the door next to mine. “Get the fuck out before I call the boss!”

  “Yeah, fuck off, Sebastian!” The man’s voice sounds like it’s right in my ear. He’s in there with her. The door opens and shuts, then there’s nothing but quiet for too long.

  “Are you in there?” I call out, uncaring that the guards might h
ear me. “Hey!” Nothing. My heart sinks in my chest. He probably hurt her, but the fact that she might be dead like the last girl who was in that room hits harder. That girl never talked to me, but every night until she was gone, I heard her crying.

  It isn’t until the next time food is brought that I hear her voice again. This time, much smaller. “Did he hurt you?”

  “Not as bad as he could have,” she says with a sniffle. “Promise me something?”

  “Yeah. Anything.” I find myself saying even through the ability to keep a promise in a place like this is next to impossible, but the determination in her voice has me agreeing.

  She pauses for only a moment, her voice growing more angry with each word. “If you ever get out of here, make sure this place is destroyed.”

  “I promise.”

  Chapter Four

  I assumed I was going to have to wait days before he made a move. I was wrong. I watch, unmoving, as he drives away on the snowmobile. Tamping down the excitement flowing through me from actually having seen him, I move from my position and go for the cabin, but stop myself when the stupidity of what I was about to do hits me. I nearly made a deadly mistake. I can’t just walk right into his cabin and wait for him. He would already know I was there due to the footprints I would leave in the snow. It would take away the element of surprise. But if I follow him, I may have a chance at getting the upper hand. He had a gun on his back when he left. Perhaps he is going to try a chance at hunting? Going hand to hand with the man in three feet of snow—especially one with a gun on his back—may not be ideal, but if it comes to that, I have plenty of training to aid me in my quest.