Read Epiphany (Legacy of Payne) Online
Authors: Christina Jean Michaels
Epiphany (Legacy of Payne)
EPIPHANY
Copyright 2013 Christina Jean Michaels
Edited by Jessica Nollkamper
Cover design by Christina Jean Michaels
Cover image used under license from www.shutterstock.com
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Summary
“I had my first psychic dream when I was nine. Psychic implied power, and powerful wasn’t a word I’d use to describe myself. I couldn’t foretell the future or conjure visions at will, but I couldn’t think of a more fitting word to describe what I sometimes saw in my dreams.”
For 23-year-old Mackenzie Hill, tossing her life down the garbage disposal is easy after a painful incident shatters her life. Her heart is bleeding, and moving to Watcher’s Point is a chance to start anew, only she isn’t prepared for the guy who walks out of her dreams and into the flesh. Literally . . . because she’s been dreaming about this sexy stranger for years.
Mackenzie is even less prepared to face the dark nature of her dreams. They’ve turned disturbingly gruesome, full of blood and murder, and when they begin to coincide with the media’s headlines, she and Aidan realize her visions might be the key to stopping a madman from killing again.
Only Aidan has painful secrets of his own, and perhaps the biggest danger of all is falling for him.
To my mom. Thanks for always being there.
I awoke in murky stages, the first being a nauseating sense of movement. The second was the realization that something was wrong. Horribly wrong. The third was the clearest and the most horrifying—my wrists were tied together as were my ankles.
A low groan vibrated in my throat as I pulled at the bindings. Despite the persistent throb at my temples, I focused on the misty recollections; the wafting fog on the highway, the beam of a flashlight, and the splintering sound of glass.
I forced my eyes open and met total blackness. My cheek rested against the floor of what I assumed was a van, and a putrid smell burned my nose—an odorous mixture of mildew and bleach. I held my breath as the vehicle bounced over uneven ground, and my ribs hit the floor hard with each lurch.
Where the heck am I?
My heart beat out of control as I tried to remember, but I drew a blank. I couldn’t recall anything beyond a blinding light and an explosion of pain in my head . . . then nothing.
“Don’t panic,” I chanted in a whisper as I tested the rope.
Come on!
I slid my wrists back and forth, and the knot loosened the slightest bit as the van came to a violent stop. The engine shut off, and I didn’t dare move or make a peep. A door creaked open and then slammed with an echo. I ceased to breathe as his footfalls drew closer, crunching on gravel with each step. I counted them.
One, two, three, four, five . . .
Keys jingled from the other side, and the handle squeaked and turned. The van dipped under his weight as he entered. I wished I could see him, but I was lying on my stomach, completely vulnerable.
“Where am I?” It wasn’t the question I wanted to ask—the one I could barely think of.
What are you going to do to me?
My body went rigid as he came near. He rolled me to my back with rough hands, and his silhouette loomed large, a dark shadow blocking the light of the waning moon. He shifted, causing the moon’s beam to glint off the cigarette lighter in his hand.
“No . . .” My plea came out a squeak, an ineffectual cry for mercy. I was only an object to him, something to torture and kill for his perverse pleasure.
I squeezed my eyes shut and yanked at the rope, ignoring the pain biting into my wrists. Hysteria wouldn’t help my situation, so I held it in. In fact, from what I knew of the Hangman, my cries and pleas would only heighten his pleasure . . . his arousal. Vomit burned in my throat, accompanying the rancid taste of fear, but I forced my eyes open anyway.
He sparked the lighter to life, and the flame illuminated his face. His eyes peered at me, two expressionless voids holding no remorse for what he’d done to all of those other women.
For what he was about to do to me.
His expression was so empty—distorted into something unrecognizable—that it took me a few seconds to realize who towered over me. I couldn’t comprehend what I was seeing.
“Why?” My voice broke on the question, but he didn’t answer. A tear slid down my cheek as acceptance nicked at my composure. I wasn’t getting out of this. Aidan would find my body—I didn’t know how I knew, but I did. The bastard would dangle my death in front of him like a trophy. A muffled sob escaped.
Not
panicking was impossible.
For all the times I’d witnessed the murders of other women in my dreams, I’d failed to see my own.
One month earlier
The Watcher’s Point gossip mill welcomed me by exposing my mom’s secret. I bet if she’d known about my "special ability" she wouldn’t have kept the truth hidden all these years. Kind of hard to keep a secret when your daughter dreams of unexplainable things.
Like how I’d known the sun’s rays painted the hillside in copper tones at sunset, or how violent the ocean became during a storm, crashing over jagged rocks and sending bursts of seawater onto the highway. I’d seen the town many times in my dreams—had walked the streets and tasted the salt in the air—but my mom hadn’t known about my virtual visits to her hometown. The place where I’d been conceived, or so I’d recently learned.
That was the thing about secrets—they have a way of unraveling, even after twenty-three years.
“You’re doing it again.”
I blinked and looked at Six, the only friend I’d made since moving. “Doing what?”
“Dwelling.”
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
“No depression allowed.” She wagged a finger at me. “Besides, you’ll forget all about this chaos with your mom when you see what I’ve got.” She pulled a dress from her closet, which was so overstuffed it practically spit the garment into her hands. She held it up, triumphant.
“You’re nuts if you think I’m wearing that. Nuts enough to call Cahoots.” I folded my arms and bit back a smile.
“What the heck is Cahoots?”
“A program for crazy people.”
“Ha-ha, very funny.” She threw the scrap of fabric at me. “Put it on, Mac.”
I hated the nickname almost as much as skimpy dresses. “Uh-uh. No way.”
“These too.” A pair of strappy heels landed at my feet, and Six set a hand on her curvy hip. “By the time I’m done, you’ll be hell on heels.
Sexy
hell on heels.”
I didn’t want to be sexy
hell
on anything—especially in those torturous pair of shoes. “I don’t do sexy,” I said, draping the dress across her bed.
“Are you kidding? That outfit will do wonders for those legs.”
“What legs?” I glanced down at my freshly painted toenails—she wasn’t kidding about the makeover. “I’m five-four, not exactly leggy, if you know what I mean.”
“Hence, the dress and heels, silly.” She grabbed my arm and pulled me into her closet-sized bathroom. “Chill out and let me work my magic.” One sharp look silenced my grumbling. Why had I agreed to let her drag me out? And to a dance club of all places?
Oh, yeah . . . to
meet
people.
I collapsed onto the lid of the toilet and gave up the fight. It was only one night. Besides, maybe Six was right. I’d end up in a mental ward if I didn’t lighten up. So what if the upheaval of my life nipped at my feet like a Pomeranian?
What a freaking understatement.
I didn’t belong here. I should be back home, getting lost in my drawings and on the cusp of finishing college. But here I was—on my own in a new town, making new friends, and pretending my heart was still in one piece.
“It’s time you learned the meaning of the word fun,” Six said as she pulled out a tray of colorful palettes and brushes. I found it ironic that her cosmetic kit resembled my art supplies at home—the only sign the apartment next door was mine. I hadn’t been there long enough to leave a personal imprint; no pictures or even decorative touches—just my drawings and the related paraphernalia scattered throughout the space.
I stifled a sigh as she put her skills to work, transforming my face into God knows what. Fun . . . I could do fun. “You’re not gonna make me look like a Geisha, are you?”
She burst out laughing. “Don’t tempt me. You wanna talk about insanity? Missing masquerade night at High Times is unheard of.” She snapped open an eye shadow compact. “Tonight’s our night to get drunk. Lord knows we’re gonna serve plenty of wasted dumbasses on Halloween.”
Working on Halloween didn’t bother me, though I didn’t bother telling her that.
“Close your eyes,” she said.
I complied, and the soft bristles of her makeup brush feathered across my lids. Instantly, a mahogany gaze flashed in my mind. Familiar eyes set in a face so gorgeous, I was certain better eye candy didn’t exist. My mystery man had haunted my nights for years—in dreams that weren’t always just dreams.
“Are you done yet?” I mumbled.
“Don’t move!”
“Yes, master.”
“Mackenzie, you’re impossible.”
I held back a smile and let her finish her “art.” With face goo done, she went to work on my hair, wielding a secret female weapon: the curling iron. “You’ve got ten minutes, then I’m outta here,” I warned.
“Not a problem.” Apparently, having short hair had its advantages. She finished in five and stepped back. “Dress time.”
I groaned. “Can’t I just wear jeans?”
“Nope.”
A few minutes later I stumbled—three-inch heels and all—to the mirror on her bathroom door. “I look like a hoochie momma!”
“That’s the idea.” She twirled a red curl around her finger and grinned at me.
The classic “little black dress” emphasized places I’d prefer to leave alone, though I had to give her props for the gunk on my face—my slate gray eyes hadn’t looked so smoky since prom. “I thought masquerades were supposed to be classy.” I yanked the hem down and cursed under my breath for letting her talk me into a dress. “I mean, what kind of bar puts on a masquerade party?”
“You’ve obviously never been to High Times.” Of course, her brand of coercion wouldn’t be complete without a sparkly masquerade mask; she held it out to me, a challenge in her eyes. “Now quit stalling and put this on. The night’s not getting any younger.”
An hour later, I wondered if the night would ever end. Six started right in on her Mac-needs-to-meet-people
campaign. She must have introduced me to a dozen men: freakishly tall guys, chubby short guys, full-bearded tattooed guys, hunky gym guys, and even geeky tech guys. It was a smorgasbord of guys, and I was positive I wouldn’t remember a single name. Masquerade night, I scoffed. More like operation let’s-get-Mac-laid night.
