Demon's Trust (The Chronicles of Arcayos #1) - Raven Dark Page 0,2

The door is closed. Swallowing, I grasp the doorknob.

Saffron’s screams pierce my ears, but once more they come from me.

I’m on the floor of the open closet, crying out as a hand drags me across the carpet, hauling me by the ankle. I kick and scream for mom, for dad.

Two men’s voices, deep and harsh with anger.

There is a face above me. My heart leaps. Saffron’s attacker.

A dark, thick mustache and dark beard. A thick, puckered scar across his ruddy cheek. He’s big, with bulky shoulders under a tee. I punch and claw at him, but he spins me onto my stomach. My nails dig into the floor, scraping across the cheap wood inside the closet. He’s too strong, easily dragging me out into the middle of the room.

“Shut up, you stupid little bitch. You’ll make this worse on yourself when he gets his hands on you.” His voice is gruff, like sandpaper scraping. A monster’s voice to an eight-year-old brain.

My stomach threatens to empty itself.

I jerk my hand from the door. The images disappear, ghosts dispelled.

Why the hell did I leave her here? She’d cried when I tried to make her leave with me. I should have forced her to come. Instead I left her to be taken.

I dash tears from my cheeks. Take a deep breath and focus on the vision.

The guy I saw was entirely average. Nothing I saw tells me anything about who took her. I have nothing more now than I’ve had since she disappeared. Except…

Shut up, you stupid bitch, or you’ll make it worse when he gets his hands on you.

I blink. Someone wanted her. They took her for someone else, but who?

Snatching a breath, I grab the door.

Time rolls back. I’m staring down at the floor of the closet, but instead of the current burgundy carpet, there’s only cheap, scuffed wood. The once neatly kept inside is torn asunder.

The closet is littered with the little girl’s clothes and toys. An Etch A Sketch and an assortment of 70’s Barbie dolls toppled out of an overturned box.

And something else. Gouge marks scraped across the wood. Small ones, left by a child’s fingernails.

Oh, God, Saffron.

Mister meows from downstairs. The sound catapults me back to the present, tossing me out of the vision with all the finesse of some twisted carnival ride. There’s the automated mechanical whir of an electric can opener coming from the kitchen.

I stare at the carpet on the closet floor, covering my mouth. What the hell did those sons of bitches do to her?

A scream shatters the quiet of the house.

Claire.

I jump to my feet.

“How in Sam Hill did you get in here? Who are you, get out of my house!”

I grab my gun, racing into the hall and down the stairs two at a time.

“Where is she?” a man snarls.

“Hand her over, and we’ll make it quick,” another snaps.

Glass shatters. Claire lets out a pained shriek.

Fucking bastards. I’ll kill them.

I cock my gun, racing into the living room.

Two men. One of them is picking Claire up and slamming her against the wall by the throat. The other is standing behind him. There’s a fucking machete in his fist. The blade glints in the sunlight from the living room window.

I point my pistol at both men. “Police. Let the woman go and put your hands in the air.”

The man with the machete turns, and a slow smile twists his heavily scarred face into a grotesque expression. “There you are.”

So they’re here for me.

He brandishes the machete at me. The other man keeps his fist around a gasping, thrashing Claire’s throat.

Who the hell brings a goddamned machete to a home invasion?

“Chance PD,” I say. “Let the woman go. Drop the fucking machete and put your hands up now, both of you.”

“You think a bullet’s going to get it done?” The guy with the machete smirks.

With those scars, he looks as if he stuck his head in a fire. Freddy Krueger would be jealous.

“Come on,” he says. “Shoot me. It’ll be fun.”

What the fuck? If he’s strung out on something, it would explain why he isn’t afraid to take a bullet, but this guy doesn’t look high. His eyes are alert and smug.

Scar Face stalks toward me. The other guy, a big, beefy one, glances back at us. Claire claws at his arm and kicks at the wall with her heels.

Big-And-Beefy’s hand flexes around Claire’s throat. There’s a snap of bone. He flings the woman aside like a rag doll. She crumples to the