Desires of the Dead

But she knew that wasn’t it. There was more to it than just a formal statement. There was something in the way that FBI Sara had worded everything that had Violet concerned.

Whatever the questions Sara planned to ask her, Violet had the strangest feeling that if she were to answer truthfully, Sara might actually believe what she revealed about her ability.

But Violet could never confess what she was capable of to Sara Priest. She had no intention of becoming some kind of lab rat for the FBI.

Chapter 9

Violet rolled over, clutching her pillow tightly and wishing that whatever had dragged her awake would simply vanish again, like an unanswered whisper. But unfortunately the impractical chasm between hope and reality was impossible to navigate.

She cursed herself. When did she become the world’s lightest sleeper?

A flash of light passed through her window. It came from outside, casting a watery glow around her dark room, and then was gone as quickly as it had come.

That was it. That must have been what woke her.

She groaned, kicking her legs in frustration and throwing her covers off at the same time. This was ridiculous. She needed to sleep!

The light came again, and this time, with her eyes wide open, she had to squint against the glare.

She sat up, balancing on the edge of her bed, trying to decide what to do. She knew one thing for certain. Someone wanted to get her attention, and she was really too tired, and too irritated, to care why.

She pulled on the sweatshirt that she’d tossed on the end of her bed, zipping it all the way up to her chin. She didn’t bother looking out her window; she was in too much of a hurry. She needed to put a stop to this before it woke her parents too.

She rushed down the stairs and unlocked the front door, staring out into the unpleasantly cool night. She strained her eyes, searching for the source of the light, but came up empty.

Nothing but night. And the spiteful cold.

She took one step outside, onto the frigid porch boards in front of her door, meaning to call out to whoever was signaling for her. But something held her back, and she waited instead, holding her breath. The fabric of her flannel pajama bottoms, which had seemed too warm inside, now felt impossibly thin. A gust of frosty air ran up her legs. She shivered, tucking her bare hands into her sleeves, and wished she had more than a pair of cotton socks on her feet.

The nocturnal hush around her was deafening.

And then it came. Again. The flash of intense light that was so out of place within the midnight shadows that it burned her eyes before vanishing once more.

Violet blinked and leaned backward, her hands searching for the doorknob behind her. Just to make sure it was still there. She clutched it, trying to figure out where the light had come from.

Again she wanted to call out, but her voice had gone too, like the fleeting burst of white light.

Violet was too curious, though, to let it go. Besides, if she couldn’t find the source of the flashing and stop it from flaring, again and again, it was bound to keep her awake all night. Or at least for as long as it continued.

She shivered as the arctic night extinguished her reserve of body heat. She decided to concentrate, to wait for the light again, and this time, to pinpoint its location.

She didn’t have to wait long. The blaze was like a visual explosion, assaulting her eyes as she forced herself not to blink against it.

That was all she needed. And now she was positive that she’d seen where it was coming from.

She edged forward, hesitantly releasing her grip on the steely cold doorknob as she eased her way toward the blinking light. She cautiously stepped down from the porch and looked around, reassuring herself that she was the only one there.

The flare came again. From the other side of her car.

She moved faster now as she reached the vehicle, rounding the rear of it, and when she saw the flash once more, she froze in place.

It was coming from a box. A plain brown cardboard box sitting beside her driver’s-side door. The top flaps hung limply open.

She was confused as she stared at it. Why was the box blinking? And who would put it there, next to her car?

She glanced toward the trees that surrounded her house, wondering—only fleetingly—if she was alone.

And then she faced the box again, taking a step closer, her feet freezing on the frosty surface of the gravel driveway, too numb to feel the sharp rocks beneath them. She leaned over the top of it, afraid that whatever was in there might flash again while she peeked inside.

It didn’t. But she wished that it had. She wished she’d been blinded by the searing light, so that she hadn’t seen what it was.

Violet felt sad and sick at the same time. And angry.

This box had been placed there deliberately for her to find.

She wondered why she hadn’t recognized it before. The draw of the dead, an echo. The sporadic blinking of white light. The cold must have numbed more than her feet. Even her senses had been anesthetized by the glacial chill.

But it explained why only she had been awakened. And why she’d felt compelled to locate it.

She peered at the tiny black cat lying at the bottom of the box. Its head fell sickeningly—unnaturally—to the side. Its lifeless green eyes stared back at her.

It’s not Carl. Violet released a grateful breath that it wasn’t her own cat. And then shame flooded her for entertaining such an insensitive thought.

The burst of light came again, scorching her retinas, and she had to blink several times to clear the red spots that clouded her vision.

She was no longer afraid that someone else might be around. Her rage went far beyond caring for her own safety now. She wished he was here, whoever was responsible for . . . for this. She wanted him to show himself. She dared him.