reincarnates, including a Hopi trickster who wants to meld us into one soul to relive the volatile romances of his previous lifetimes. Is there anything you could tell me about Rose that might help me lure her away from the crazy people, before she blows someone up again? P.S. She’s sixteen now.
Ash sighed and pressed the doorbell. “Maybe I’ll just tell them I’m selling Girl Scout cookies.”
After several minutes had passed, however, no one had answered the door. She shrugged and wandered past the gardens, around to the back of the house.
What she found there was enough to chill even the blood of a volcano goddess.
Beside the chimney, where there should have been pristine walls and picturesque windows like the front of the house, there was only a large, gaping hole. Parts of the void had been covered with clear plastic sheets to protect the inside of the house from the elements, but Ash could still see the charred portions where a large, fiery explosion had clearly chewed through the wooden frame.
Standing before the wreckage now, Ash could make an educated guess what had happened here. The kidnappers had come to take her sister away, and in the struggle, Rose must have panicked and let an explosion rip through the house. When Rose became scared, panicked, or angry, she had a nasty habit of self-detonating—unleashing a deadly blast that left her unscathed but did gruesome things to anyone unlucky enough to be standing nearby.
How many of her attackers the supernatural bomb had taken with it this time, Ash couldn’t guess, but someone must have knocked the little one out or sedated her before she could finish the job.
You didn’t want to mess with Rose when she was awake.
Ash pushed aside one of the plastic flaps on the bottom floor, making sure to watch her step in therubble. There were some construction materials lying about the living room, and she could even see where work had been started to repair the house. Had the restoration just begun? Or had it been abandoned? The flat-screen TV smashed on the floor, the couches that had been singed by the fire, the oriental carpet littered with debris . . . Rose’s kidnapping happened months before, but the family had left the house this way since the attack?
Then Ash had an even more sickening thought:
What if Rose’s adoptive family hadn’t survived the kidnapping?
And if they hadn’t, was it because they died at the hands of the kidnappers . . .
. . . or in the explosion created by their own daughter?
Ash tried to let that thought go as she took the stairs two at a time to the top floor. It wasn’t difficult to find Rose’s old bedroom. The door was still ajar, and the first thing Ash noticed when she walked through was the lacy bedspread on the unmade bed, from where Rose had probably been snatched in her sleep. Her dolls had cascaded everywhere in the struggle.
Like the living room, the bedroom was now missing its entire back wall, and the floorboards ended abruptly in a jagged line. A pair of hummingbirds, which must have slipped through the protective plastic sheets, flitted around the room, and Ash spotted the nest they’d built on Rose’s old dresser.
Only when Ash turned around did she discover the crimson splatter against the wall.
She’d been so fixated on the bed that she missed the bloodstain on the way in. It not only splattered the walls, but coated the decorative horse border that ran around the room as well and even speckled the ceiling fan. Granted, the bodies had clearly been carted away, but one thing was for sure: No one could lose that amount of blood and survive.
The awful odor of death suddenly found its way to Ash’s nose, so she rushed out of the room. Nothing in the bedroom, not even the dolls, had given Ash that “this must be important to Rose” feeling . . . or maybe she was just looking for an excuse to escape the nausea that had overcome her.
Back outside Ash wasn’t quite ready to give up. She
Ash sighed and pressed the doorbell. “Maybe I’ll just tell them I’m selling Girl Scout cookies.”
After several minutes had passed, however, no one had answered the door. She shrugged and wandered past the gardens, around to the back of the house.
What she found there was enough to chill even the blood of a volcano goddess.
Beside the chimney, where there should have been pristine walls and picturesque windows like the front of the house, there was only a large, gaping hole. Parts of the void had been covered with clear plastic sheets to protect the inside of the house from the elements, but Ash could still see the charred portions where a large, fiery explosion had clearly chewed through the wooden frame.
Standing before the wreckage now, Ash could make an educated guess what had happened here. The kidnappers had come to take her sister away, and in the struggle, Rose must have panicked and let an explosion rip through the house. When Rose became scared, panicked, or angry, she had a nasty habit of self-detonating—unleashing a deadly blast that left her unscathed but did gruesome things to anyone unlucky enough to be standing nearby.
How many of her attackers the supernatural bomb had taken with it this time, Ash couldn’t guess, but someone must have knocked the little one out or sedated her before she could finish the job.
You didn’t want to mess with Rose when she was awake.
Ash pushed aside one of the plastic flaps on the bottom floor, making sure to watch her step in therubble. There were some construction materials lying about the living room, and she could even see where work had been started to repair the house. Had the restoration just begun? Or had it been abandoned? The flat-screen TV smashed on the floor, the couches that had been singed by the fire, the oriental carpet littered with debris . . . Rose’s kidnapping happened months before, but the family had left the house this way since the attack?
Then Ash had an even more sickening thought:
What if Rose’s adoptive family hadn’t survived the kidnapping?
And if they hadn’t, was it because they died at the hands of the kidnappers . . .
. . . or in the explosion created by their own daughter?
Ash tried to let that thought go as she took the stairs two at a time to the top floor. It wasn’t difficult to find Rose’s old bedroom. The door was still ajar, and the first thing Ash noticed when she walked through was the lacy bedspread on the unmade bed, from where Rose had probably been snatched in her sleep. Her dolls had cascaded everywhere in the struggle.
Like the living room, the bedroom was now missing its entire back wall, and the floorboards ended abruptly in a jagged line. A pair of hummingbirds, which must have slipped through the protective plastic sheets, flitted around the room, and Ash spotted the nest they’d built on Rose’s old dresser.
Only when Ash turned around did she discover the crimson splatter against the wall.
She’d been so fixated on the bed that she missed the bloodstain on the way in. It not only splattered the walls, but coated the decorative horse border that ran around the room as well and even speckled the ceiling fan. Granted, the bodies had clearly been carted away, but one thing was for sure: No one could lose that amount of blood and survive.
The awful odor of death suddenly found its way to Ash’s nose, so she rushed out of the room. Nothing in the bedroom, not even the dolls, had given Ash that “this must be important to Rose” feeling . . . or maybe she was just looking for an excuse to escape the nausea that had overcome her.
Back outside Ash wasn’t quite ready to give up. She
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