Taran’s frilly white linens lay scattered on the floor next to her four-poster bed. Like me, she had a king-sized bed. But unlike me, she’d soon have someone to keep her warm between the sheets. Lack of company wasn’t an issue for Taran. It was more that most males failed to keep her interest for long. The bad boys tended to bore her over time and the good ones never seemed good enough. Too bad. Deep beneath her tough outer shell and short fuse, Taran’s heart radiated enough heat to warm those she loved. I often wondered who would capture her heart—and if he could handle the love she had to give.
I lifted her sheets and tossed them over the navy comforter crumpled into one giant heap. She must have had a rough night of sleep in anticipation of the day. The light shone from the open double-doors to her five-piece bathroom. I stepped in. “Taran?”
The large open bathroom appeared empty, nothing but a stack of cobalt blue and white tiles on the side wall waiting to be mortared in place by our contractor. The freshly tiled countertop remained undisturbed. A row of expensive cosmetics lined the neatly arranged shelf just above the slowly running faucet. Drip, drip. Drip, drip.
But still no Taran. No . . . anything.
I shut off the water. Taran only rose early to make our seven a.m. shift start. Shopping remained her preferred choice of exercise, and the stores hadn’t yet opened. She didn’t take long walks to contemplate the meaning of life. And she knew better than to wander off alone during the Salem Celia Trial. I glanced over my shoulder, hoping against all hope she’d unravel herself from the jumbled mess on the bed.
“Taran?”
My voice cracked as a chill crept its way down my spine like a centipede. “Are you upstairs waking Emme?” I asked for the sake of my sanity. But in reality, I knew she wasn’t with Emme. My preternatural hearing didn’t pick up any movement on the second floor—nor did it hone in on any voices—just Shayna in the kitchen, whistling as she chopped the ingredients for my omelet.
I inched my way to Taran’s walk-in closet, my claws ready to replace my nails. “Shayna!” I called. “Come in here. Something’s wrong.”
The whistling ceased abruptly as my sweaty palms pushed opened the door of the room-sized closet. My heart stopped when something blocked the door from opening all the way. I didn’t force it, choosing to slink through the narrow opening.
I found Taran. Hanging from a noose fashioned from her prized scarves. Her bare feet swayed in a circular motion from where the pieces of silk had been knotted to the railing. A small, overturned vanity chair lay tilted against the boxes of her pricey shoes and the clump of clothes she’d tossed onto the floor to make room for the loop. Her chin slumped against the note pinned to her lacey white nightie. Mea culpa, it read—My fault.
I staggered into the mountainous clothes rack behind me, my heart aching from how hard it pummeled my ribcage. Pain gurgled in my throat. I tried to scream. Nothing came out. I willed my trembling body to act. It betrayed me, keeping me cemented to where I stood helplessly trying to scream.
“Taran,” I finally squeaked. “Taran . . . Taran!”
My legs propelled me forward, jumping onto the railing that held her and bringing the whole damned thing down. More clothes and shoe boxes tumbled over me as my claws sliced through the scarves fastened around her neck. I dragged her back into the bathroom and onto the floor. I jerked when I lay her against the cold foundation. Her sickly green pallor told me she was gone even before my quivering fingertips searched for a pulse that no longer beat.
I screamed for Shayna and Emme as I pounded on our sister’s chest. “Wake up, Taran! Wake up!” My arms grew weaker and heavier with every thrust. I don’t know how long I performed CPR before I realized Shayna wasn’t coming. Or Emme.
And that no one answered my calls.
I covered my mouth as I backed away from my dead sister, knocking over the ceramic tiles that scraped against my calves. With legs that more stumbled than walked, and a heart that had no business racing so fast, I lurched my way into the kitchen, where the smell of burning bacon beckoned me forward.
Chapter Nine
The tears welling in my eyes blurred my vision. At first I thought it was better that way. I didn’t want to see what awaited me. I didn’t want to feel it, either.
But I saw it. And I felt it. And it hurt so much more than I expected.
The knife Shayna used to dice the red peppers and onions into pretty little cubes stuck out from her sternum. Her left leg bent at a right angle against the bottom of the stove while the other extended to the opposite cabinet. She twitched as if seizing while bacon grease splattered on her face from the burning pan above. Blood squirted from her mouth as she slanted her head in my direction.
Jesus. She was still alive.
I rushed to her, slipping over the sea of scarlet flowing away from her thin frame. “Oh, God, Shayna!”
I held her body against me, causing the blood beneath her to saturate my hands and thighs as it poured. My sobs rolled out of me in one horrible wretch.
Shayna smiled—smiled, her lips and teeth soiled with her lifeline. Her hand slapped my face weakly. I gripped it against my cheek as if it could somehow keep her in this world. She shook her head. And that’s when I realized she didn’t want me to save her. She was saying good-bye. She knew nothing could help her now.
Except maybe Emme.