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M addy woke curled face down on cold concrete. She licked her lips. Thirsty again. Her cheek scraped the gritty floor. Rolling onto her back, she flung her arms to the side.

Something was different.

Realizing her wrists and ankles were unbound, she wobbled to a sitting position. Her eyes wide, Madeline checked out the warehouse, twisting left. Right. She listened. No sounds. She called out. No answer except an echo.

Maddy scooted until her spine flattened against the wall. With a tentative push, she rose from the floor, brushing off the dust that clung to her soiled skirt, torn white shirt, and face. Her gaze pinged around the room while she crept along, palms to the wall to steady herself.

She was alone.

Praevus was gone, and she wasn’t chained like a psycho’s prisoner. Why? No time to think about her good fortune. She continued her exploration of the dimly lit warehouse. Being barefoot, she made no noise. At a tall metal door, she paused. Drawing a deep breath, Madeline opened it to eyeball the street outside.

Damn.

It led into a crowded alley where leather-winged beings like Praevus shuffled to and fro. No way was she going out there. After she snapped the door shut, she plastered her back against the warehouse wall and slid to the floor, unconcerned with the dirt. She pulled her knees to her chest and held them tightly.

Maddy willed tears not to fall. Crying was useless. Al-Anon and her older sisters had taught her to approach problems with a clear mind. Panic muddled thoughts. Tears drowned them. She was a cautious person who thought situations through, examining the pros and cons of an issue from every side. She weighed the consequences. Only then did she act. Should she buy the blue shirt on the rack in her favorite boutique shop? Pro—it was the latest style and cute. Con—it was expensive, and she already had one in a similar color. So, no. Turmoil was unsettling because sometimes it called for a snap decision.

Order. Control.

The story of Maddy’s life. She ironed her jeans, applied her makeup perfectly, and got a weekly mani-pedi. She liked chatting with friends at bars, flipped off bad drivers, booed the umps at Cardinal games, and enjoyed rare sexual relationships. Not being quiet or demure, she defied many librarian stereotypes. Still, her career choice fit her most necessary requirements. In addition to the each-book-in-its-place kind of order, it rarely required an instant decision.

Now, her heart pounded, a hammer against her ribs. Her chest bounced with rapid, shallow breaths.

Relax. Think. What happened to her escape plan?

She breathed in through her nose. Out through her mouth. She dropped her shoulders. What did she control? She could move around in the empty warehouse. She could open the door to leave. She could crawl into a corner, curl into a fetal position, and sob.

What didn’t she control? Praevus could return at any moment. Her clothes were dirty and ripped. She didn’t know where she was. If she went outside, she would be among people like her captor. Lots of them. Most of all, she couldn’t control what they would do to her.

Deep breath. Stand up. Choose. I can control the choices I make.

Maddy cracked the door again, eying the busy alley. She opened it wider to slip out of the warehouse. Decision made. Part three of talk show host Lizette Lee’s strategy was in play. She was escaping. Carrying out her plan.

People bumped her shoulders, jostling her, barely giving her time to glance around at the surroundings before sweeping her along. They seemed too distracted to notice her.

Good.

Outside, the day was cloudy and cold. She clasped the fabric of her torn blouse together, shivering, her teeth chattering. A passerby, showing actual fangs, growled at her when she bumped into him.

With her hand clutching her shirt, she fixed her gaze on the ground while she scurried forward. When she reached a corner, she dared to challenge the crowd by weaving through them to turn right as they continued on their way.

Using her peripheral vision, she observed that most walkers wore tattered, soiled clothes. A few had slightly better attire. Some veered into storefronts which lined the street. Others kept a stuttering pace, heading for destinations further along. They all looked scared. Like her.

Assessment.

She was in a busy city. The neighborhood wasn’t upscale. Trash spilled out of knocked-over cans. Windows were grimy or boarded up. Paint peeled from crumbling exterior walls.

A strong wind blew, pushing her faster as she stumbled. As quickly as the gale had started, it stopped.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, Madeline hurried forward, her feet cold, sticky, and cut from shattered glass that littered the sidewalk.

Walking until she nearly collapsed, she finally rested against a graffitied wall. The crowds thinned as people disappeared from the street. An already dim sky darkened. Though a crowded city was scary, an empty one at night would be worse.

When the wind kicked up again as the climate changed, debris churned through the air. Madeline curled her free hand around her eyes as a shield and shoved off. A strong breeze brought hot air, pushing out the cold. With a ragged sleeve, she wiped sweat from her forehead.

Can’t the weather make up its mind?

Maddy thought of sleep, would love to sleep, but that was not an option. She stopped in front of a shop with a clean window. Chancing it, she opened the door. Inside, a woman screamed. A lump stuck in Maddy’s throat as she spun around, too afraid to investigate.

Nope. Not there.

She hustled on her way, hopping on one foot to pull a shard of glass from the other heel. Tired, she paused again, staring at the graffiti, which was more plentiful than paint on the buildings. The favorites were HELP or EXTINCT THE OC , whatever that meant.

Madeline stumbled, falling to the concrete, fighting the desire to cry. Sobbing never solved a problem, she reminded herself. But damn, it was getting hard to resist. Brushing a strand of dirty blonde hair out of her eyes, she got onto her scraped knees, pushed to her bare feet, threw back her shoulders, and continued on her way.

She paused in front of a well-lit bar where she considered going inside because a public place should provide safety. When she stared through the open doorway, however, her premise fell apart. Loud music blasted her ears while patrons pounded each other with their fists, and drinks flew across the room. She wrinkled her nose. Stale cigarettes and spilled booze.

When she backed away, three behemoths stopped beating the shit out of each other to snap their faces in her direction. Their hair hung limp on their shoulders while their mouths twisted into a strange pucker as if they prepared to whistle. Their dreamy-like eyes almost drew her to them.

But she shook off their mesmerizing appeal. Horrified by the sight, she limped off. In the weather’s ever-fickle manner, rain fell from the dark sky. What little light there was from streetlamps dimmed behind a downpour.

She spied a wrecked, abandoned car on the curb. The rear bumper dangled on the ground, the hood was ajar, and the grill was bent. She peeked inside. Empty.

While ignoring the dirty, torn front seat, Madeline opened the door to slide in. She prayed the locks worked. They did. Click . Feeling a bit safer for the moment, she curled onto her side.

As the radio talk show psychologist Lizette Lee had advised, she’d identified the problem, planned an escape, and carried out the plan. Now, she faced round two. She’d analyze the new situation and run it through the steps later. She was so exhausted she closed her eyes for a minute.

Maddy’s lids fluttered. Just a short nap. Haunted by her past, she was in limbo, caught in a restless dream-awake state.

Her biological parent, or parents, had abandoned her in front of a Catholic church in St. Louis when she was an infant. She never sought their identity. They hadn’t wanted her. She didn’t want them. Then shortly after her arrival at the orphanage, the Williamsons had adopted her.

For years, she was the treasured, spoiled only child in a wealthy family. She remembered snippets with her new parents. They showered her with gifts on birthdays or holidays, took her on fun vacations to Disneyland or the beach, and were kind, caring, and devoted to each other as well as to her. She rode on her father’s shoulders to watch parades, ran into the kitchen smelling chocolate chip cookies, and learned to bait a hook on a fishing trip. They laughed easily and often.

She attended an exclusive preschool. Her mother enrolled her in every imaginable class—voice, dance, piano. Nothing stuck. She lacked those creative talents, but she was told not to worry. She would find her talent elsewhere. She was a clever child.

All was good. But age eight was a pivotal year. It’s when the arguments began. Late at night in her bed, she’d hear her parents’ angry, muffled voices, objects being tossed, and doors slamming when her father left the house. Then, her mother’s tears flowed.

The fights centered around drinking. Being young, Madeline didn’t understand why water, coffee, or soda would matter because they had plenty of money for groceries.

One night, after a horrible, loud fight, her mother came into Maddy’s room, still wiping moisture from her eyes. She sat on the edge of the bed, patting the blankets, cocooning her in them. “I know you’re awake. I’m sorry about all this mess. Though your dad and I are going through a rough patch, I have a solution. The orphanage called about two girls who need fostering. I think they could take our focus off these ridiculous problems. Would you like sisters?”

Madeline rolled onto her back, shifting her arms on top of the blankets. “Would they be nice?”

“The nun assured me they are.”

“Would they sleep in my room?”

“No. This space will always be yours. Only yours. We have two spare rooms for the girls. We’ll convert my sewing room to guest quarters.”

“Will they play with me?”

“Of course they will, even though they are a bit older. They will be your big sisters, great friends.”

Fiamma was eleven when she joined the Williamson family. Darya was a year older. Both girls were everything Maddy’s mother had promised. They were nice, and they played with her. Mostly. Sometimes, they ran off and did big girl things, but they always made it up to her later, baking cookies, playing house or school, or drawing pictures.

The mother and father stopped arguing about drinking. The household was far too busy for family fights. Fia excelled at voice lessons, eventually having a private coach. Darya danced and enrolled in the best ballet school. Madeline sometimes accompanied them, amazed at their talents.

Once, when she told them she was jealous, the sisters sat her down for a stern conversation. They explained that Fia was the singer, Darya was the dancer, and Madeline was the smart, scholarly one. Each girl had a gift. And while they were not alike, each would be a star.

Darya, the oldest said, “Revel in what you have, not in what you lack or what others possess.”

When her sisters walked her home from school, the other kids crowded around, amazed at their beauty. Fia had red hair as fiery as her personality. Everything about her was vibrant. Darya was trim, long-legged, with light brown skin and tight coils in the dark hair that hung to the middle of her back. Maddy’s friends wanted to hang out at her house because her sisters were so kind and thought up tons of games to play.

Then it happened again. The nightly arguments. The muffled voices. The slammed doors. The loud sobs. Madeline had just celebrated her eleventh birthday at a local pizza place. When they returned, the mother called the girls into the hall to witness an event. Their father had stashed three bags by the front door. He kissed each girl on the cheek, mumbling how sorry he was and how he would still be in their lives. He grabbed his luggage, one under his arm and the others gripped in a fist. He left the house. Madeline, Fia, and Darya stood frozen, shock on their faces.

When the mother latched onto his shoulder, he struggled out of her clutches, shouldering her away. She tumbled to the floor. Quickly, Darya gathered her wits to drop beside their mother and console her.

Mother clutched the oldest sister like a lifeline. “What will I do? What will I do?”

Madeline and Fia came to life, helping Darya get their mother to bed. They sat with her until she fell asleep. Her eyes red and puffy, she cried herself to sleep.

Afterward, Darya called a meeting in the living room. The three girls agreed to be extra kind and help around the home on the housekeeper’s off-time.

The following day, her mother stayed in bed while Fia and Darya fixed breakfast. They took charge of getting Madeline to school on time. The entire week was the same routine. Their mother stayed in bed while Maddy’s sisters prepped breakfast, packed school lunches, and cooked dinner. When groceries grew scarce, Fia collected money from their mom’s wallet and went to the store.

Weeks passed. Their father never visited and the mother kept to her room. Madeline read, read, read. She read about the world, real and imaginary. Darya made a schedule to keep their lives ordered and, knowing all Mother’s passwords, paid bills. Since money was no problem, the housekeeper continued to come three times a week, doing the laundry one of the days. Madeline took responsibility for her share of the breakfasts and simple dinners, doing homework, and getting to school on time.

At night, the girls often fell asleep in the same bed, arms around each other, keeping spirits high and love alive, even if only among themselves.

Something woke Madeline. The car was rocking from side to side. Once she flicked her lids open, she saw a man’s large head at the window, his palm above his ethereal, mesmerizing eyes while he peered inside. He was one of the giants from the bar, his face punctuated with whistling-pursed lips.

A stream of fog seemed to spurt from his mouth and travel toward her. It flowed through the glass of the automobile as if the window were open. When the mist reached her, fear gripped Maddy’s heart, an invisible hand that squeezed it and tore her apart with panic.

She screamed.

****

H aze was the self-appointed leader of his small group of Soul Suckers in Angor. Two males had accompanied him to the bar, where they had gotten into a trivial disagreement over who would be the first to fuck the female Blood Leech with her boots cocked up on a table so she could watch the testosterone action up close and personal. Her leather skirt was short, and with her legs spread, she shared the view of her pussy with the entire bar. It’s not like he cared if everyone saw her goods. Haze just wanted the first crack at her before the line got too long.

He blocked a fist from his older buddy, but the younger one grabbed around his neck at the same time. Haze tossed him overhead into a row of empty stools. Before landing a right cross, he caught a view in the doorway. “Fresh meat!” he shouted.

A blonde with rumpled, torn clothes peeked inside. Her need of a good bath did nothing to hide her curves or innocent face.

His older buddy dropped his arms to the side to stare, no longer interested in exchanging fists to get first dibs on the Leech barfly who’d inspired the fight. Haze kicked the ribs of the younger, now moaning, Soul Sucker. “Getchur ass off the floor.”

The guy rose, stumbled upright, unsteady, and held his side where Haze had planted his boot. “Wassup?”

“Action.” Haze signaled his guys to follow him outside after they paid their bar bill with the OneWorld’s exchange—creats. On the street, he glanced left. Right. She was gone. They split up, their heavy footfalls thundering on the concrete while they searched for her. Unsuccessful, they reconnected in front of the bar.

Haze spied the empty car. Rubbing his fist in a circle to clean a spot on the side window, he peeked inside. Putting a thumb and finger to his mouth, he whistled. “Here.” He laughed when the female opened her eyes and scrambled into the backseat, yanking her knees to her chest as if making herself small would help.

Being a Soul Sucker, he could draw her to him with his hypnotizing gaze.

But the blonde bitch dropped her head onto her knees, refusing to look at him. Haze and his guys could bust through a window, but where was the fun in that? Since their malady let them eat emotions or feed them to others, he drew a deep breath and released fear. Not that she needed it, but more was always better.

Her shoulders jumped up and down as she trembled. Haze inhaled her emotions through his nostrils. “Aah,” he moaned. “Love the taste of fear at dusk.”

He bent toward his boots and curled his meaty hand around the car’s frame. He rocked it up and down, giving her an earthquake ride. When his followers got with the plan, they gave him an assist, one on the other side and the young Soul Sucker at the trunk. Up. Down. Side to side.

The female scrunched her body tighter, lifted her head, and screamed. Music to Haze’s ears. “Keep at it, baby. Maybe more Scourges will hear you and come running.”

That shut her up. For a few. Then she started in again.

Rock up. Rock down. Rock to the side. Scream. Scream. Feed from the female’s emotions.