Demon's Trust (The Chronicles of Arcayos #1) - Raven Dark Page 0,1

one glove off. The staircase seems at once much too long and too short, the door to my sister’s bedroom at the top too close, yet too far away.

Fingers trembling, I slip my hand around the worn bannister.

A shock of power shoots through my fingers and up my arm, like a lightning bolt.

Images flood in, slashes of color and sound that race past my mind’s eye in an indistinguishable jumble. Voices crash in, loud and harsh. I almost put my hands over my ears in reflex.

Desperate to maintain the connection between the here and now, I clutch the bannister in a white-knuckled grip. It’s as if someone has sliced open my skull and poured hot lava in. My head pounds. I grit my teeth, holding in a scream.

Been a psychic since as far back as I can remember, but the visions still hurt like a bitch.

I force myself to slow the images down. Taking in every detail I can.

A child’s laughter rings out. It’s a bittersweet sound, painfully innocent.

It’s twelve year old me’s laugh. In my mind’s eye, I race up the steps, then turn to look down at the bottom. I give a start. I’m looking at myself.

It takes a second for me to clue in. I’m not me. I’m seeing this through my sister’s eyes. Which means I’m a four-year-old Saffron, looking down at a twelve-year-old Cassidy.

When I see things, I always become the person in the vision.

My gaze drops. I’m holding a piece of cake in my hand. Of course. It’s Saffron’s birthday. Adrenaline pumps through my veins. My throat tightens. Why did I leave without her?

We race up the stairs, chasing each other and laughing. Dad shouts at us to shut our fucking heads. We stifle our laughter. Both of us know better than to piss dad off this early in the morning.

Hearing Saffron’s small, tinkling laugh makes my heart hurt.

Moving carefully up the steps, I slide my hand along the bannister. The ghostly sound of two little girls giggling mixes with the hum of Claire’s TV playing the opening score to All My Children.

At the top of the steps, I let my hand fall away from the railing. The past disappears, the giggling cut short. Emptiness burrows its way in, as if I’ve just severed the only connection to Saffron I have left.

Bracing myself, I set my fingertips on the door to her room and push it open.

There is a flash of the room as it is now. The desk shoved into a corner. An overstuffed bookshelf against the wall. A large orange tabby sits on the windowsill. It hisses at me. Then the flash of the present vanishes, and scalding lava once more spills in behind my eyes.

The desk becomes my sister’s single bed, draped in faded, threadbare linens our mother is too cheap to replace. The cat is gone. The bookshelf becomes a 1974 calendar boasting a picture of David Cassidy as July’s Heartthrob of the Month. My eight-year-old sister is kissing David’s picture. Except it’s me, and I’m leaving mom’s harlot red lipstick on his face.

1974. My heart gallops. It’s suddenly hard to breathe. That’s the year Saffron went missing.

Saffron squeals, only the sound is coming from me. It peals through the house, an echo that vibrates with terror.

Footsteps sound on the stairs behind me.

Claire. I snatch my hand from the door.

The images vanish, a movie switched off. I step farther into the room. The tabby hisses again.

“Here you are, dear.”

I turn. Claire is in the doorway holding a tall glass of lemonade and a few cookies on a tray.

Fingers still trembling with adrenaline, I take the glass, careful to use the hand with the glove still on. No visions.

“Thanks.” My voice shakes.

Some tough inner-city cop I am.

Claire frowns. “Are you alright, dear? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m fine.” A forced smile. “I’m almost done here.”

She nods, sets the tray down on a side table for me, and pats her thigh. “Come on, Mister. Come to mummy.”

The cat leaps lightly off the sill and saunters over to her. She scoops him up. He casts a baleful look at me and emits a growl. She cuddles him close.

“This is Mister. Oh, hush, you,” she adds when he lets out another, irritated rumble. “Ignore him. He’s always a grouch around company. Come on, Mister. Let’s leave this nice lady to her business.”

As soon as she’s gone, I set the lemonade down on the tray and make my way to the closet.