Night Terrors (Sarah Beauhall Book 4) by J. A. Pitts Page B

edge of the diary. Her ears popped and the bathroom door began to vibrate. She finished the song through one time and picked it up again from the beginning. Along the spine edge of the book, runes began to glow with dull purple light.
    By the time she’d finished the four stanza tune a second time, blood dripped from her nose. It caught her by surprise. The fat drop struck the diary cover and a bell sounded inside the small room—a noise so loud her ears rang for a moment. In her hands, the book shook once, as if giving a little sigh.
    Instead of staunching her flowing nose, she leaned closer and sang the song again, letting the drops strike the book like the thrumming call of funeral bells. Her head swam and her vision blurred.
    After the seventh drop, the book shuddered and a seam appeared along the edge opposite the spine. For an instant it flashed with a deep purple explosion and the sound of chains striking the floor echoed within the bathroom. The book rattled for another second and then lay still—the runes fading like the afterimage of a flash bulb. She opened the book, placed her hand on the first page and tried to focus. A spasm ran up her arm and the dark voice in her head rose in exultation.
    Her head pounded and the floor rose up to meet her. The book tumbled from her hands as she struck the linoleum. She could feel the blood running down her face before she lost all feeling. The light faded and the ringing in the room grew louder. Somewhere in the distance she heard calling voices and slamming doors.
    The last thought that flitted through her mind was the first words scrawled on the page in her mother’s handwriting.
    “You’re dying, Katie love. The draught will be your doom.”

Nine
    I was in the back of the studio at Flight Test working on Cheerleaders of the Apocalypse with Jones and Carnes, my two volunteer lieutenants. Grandma Jones was a retired nurse who enjoyed being out with creative types rather than become one of those crazy cat ladies or hoarders. Cry-Baby Carnes was a twenty-year-old trust-fund baby who never had to lift a finger, so instead of being bored, he poured his ample free time into Flight Test. They were a good pair, she helped him see reality by taking him along on her forays into the homeless shelters and food banks that filled the rest of their days.
    I’d been pretty rough on them during the shooting of Elvis Versus the Goblins , but they’d managed to see past my ass-hattery and stay on the movie. They were good people, better than I deserved some days.
    We were working on costuming with the cheerleader brigade. Imagine a dozen well-endowed extras prancing around in low-cut sweaters and too short mini-skirts. Carnes was loving it, but Jones complained that these girls would catch their death of cold. I just couldn’t imagine wanting to fight mutants in this type of outfit. It was so beyond silly it was offensive, but that’s what the script called for, and Carl Tuttle, the director said it would increase sales. If Jennifer McDowell, our fearless co-leader and director of photography hadn’t approved things, I’d have probably punched Carl for being such a pig.
    Jones and Carnes had been with us on every movie Flight Test had done—all the way back to Blood Brother One , which had sold about twenty copies, if you didn’t count the ones the actors picked up to preserve for when they got famous. I hadn’t even been around for that, but JJ had. Joseph (JJ) Montgomery was the meal-ticket—our star actor, and he knew it.
    JJ had been going through his lines, really kicking it for about the last hour. As much as it pained me to admit, the guy had major talent. And his personality was morphing. I don’t know if he was smoking something other than cigarettes, but since the end of Elvis Versus the Goblins he’d started acting differently—nearly human. There was this girl, Wendy Lawson. The guy was smitten in the worst way. He usually chased strippers and the like, but since