Ascension, Laura Hall [black books to read .txt] 📗

The dream was always the same. It began with the smell of campfire smoke and s’mores, and dry California air flavored with pine resin. Then followed sensation. A whisper of breeze across my bare arms. Michael’s warm fingers tracing patterns on the back of my neck. Warmth in my chest that reflected the moment.

Happiness. Belonging.

It was July 27. We were camping in the Angeles National forest, my fiancé and I, along with our good friends Sally and Mason Montgomery. It was nearing midnight, and we’d settled in chairs around the crackling fire with plastic cups of wine.

We were laughing at something Mason said when midnight struck.

Light. Heat. Concussion.

Darkness.

I woke up in the woods, covered in dirt and vomit. My arms were scorched from shoulders to the tips of my fingers, the skin peeling off in blackened strips. The pain was a distant feeling, insulated by a strange humming in my bones.

I screamed for Michael until I grew hoarse, until feeling returned to my legs. The night was moonless, the forest unnaturally silent, but like a compass needle drawn to magnetic north, I stumbled straight back to camp.

All that remained of our site was a huge, steaming crater, the epicenter of which was my melted camping chair. Strewn around the hole were body parts. Bits and pieces, strangely bloodless. Sally’s head. Mason’s arms and legs. Michael’s glasses, the surfaces cracked, obscuring his dead eyes.

The humming noise increased to a ring.

A shrill, incessant ring…

The dream shattered as I opened my eyes, blinking into the morning light. On my nightstand, my cell phone continued trilling. I wiped the wetness from my face, hissing as sparks flew between my fingertips and my tears. Neither could hurt me, but both were damned annoying.

Rolling into a sitting position, I dropped my feet to the floor to ground my charge, then reached for the phone. It took a few seconds of staring blankly at the screen, but eventually the wavering letters of a name took shape.

“Uncle Mal?” I croaked.

His gravelly voice boomed out, “When was the last time you heard from your father?”

I shook my head the rest of the way into wakefulness. “Um… a couple of days ago. He said he was going out of town on a case.”

“What case?”

I blinked in surprise. As a rule, Mal and my father, Frank, showed zero interest in each other’s businesses. Mal thought my father was a fool for leaving the LAPD seven years ago to start a private investigations firm. My father thought Mal was wasting his talents running a bar when he could be making a difference.

When the men were in the same room together, I was never more grateful for being an only child.

“I don’t know,” I told him. “When we had lunch last week he was tight-lipped about it. What’s going on?”

His silence lasted a beat too long, like he was debating how much to tell me. A queer, sinking feeling seized my stomach.

Finally, he said, “I got a call from the security company that patrols his office building. I’m here now. It looks like Bigfoot went on a rampage.”

I shot to my feet in alarm. “What? Why did the security company call you?”

“Frank put me down as the secondary contact. Probably meant it as a joke.” He paused for a slow breath. “I think you should come down here, kiddo.”

Balancing the phone between my shoulder and ear, I yanked on last night’s jeans. “Where’s Rosie? Is she there?”

“Rosie? Oh, right, the secretary he can’t afford. Nope.”

I yanked off my camisole and lunged for the bra hanging from my bedpost. “Okay, I’ll call her on my way over. When was the last time you tried Dad?”

“Right before I called you. Straight to voicemail.”

Those three words ramped me from worried to freaked-the-hell-out. My father’s cell phone stayed within two feet of him at all times, a habit from his days as a detective. He had backup batteries and a phone charger in every corner of his house and office. There was no way he’d left town without provisioning accordingly.

The phone began heating against my ear. I quickly grounded my charge as Mal said gruffly, “Just get over here.”

“Ten minutes,” I said and hung up.

Sullivan Investigations was in Burbank, in a dumpy stucco building with peeling terra-cotta paint and sagging wood trim. My father’s lack of success as a P.I. wasn’t because Los Angeles didn’t have a need for skilled investigators, or that crime had miraculously diminished post-Ascension.

The reality was that my father, bleeding heart werebear that he was, had a hard time taking money from his clients. There were occasions—like today—that I agreed with Mal’s assessment of his career choice. Being an LAPD detective wasn’t the safest work, but at least it came with a paycheck and lots of backup when shit hit the fan.

I parked in the small lot between Mal’s truck and Rosie’s beat-up Civic, then jogged up cement stairs to the second floor. My dad’s office was the corner unit by the street, boasting a charming view of traffic and one tired palm tree.

Mal stood outside the door, which, as I drew closer, appeared to be a twisted hunk of metal and broken glass.

“Holy shit.”

He nodded perfunctorily and growled, “Mind the glass,” before disappearing inside.

I stepped carefully—flip-flops had clearly been a mistake—and walked into what looked like a bombed out building in a war zone. Beside the untouched window with its aforementioned view, there was a jagged hole in the wall roughly the size of a basketball. Weak sunlight filtered through the breach and plaster dust hung in the air like a haze. I looked around, my mind skipping details in order to take in the bigger picture.

Destruction.

“Where are the cops?” I asked, my voice small.

“I wanted to look around before I called them.”

I shook my head helplessly. “Why? Where’s Rosie?”

A dark eyebrow rose. “Didn’t you call her?”

My stomach clenched. “She didn’t answer. Her car’s outside, though. Oh, God. What if she was here? What if something’s happened to her?”

Mal was across the room in seconds, his hands slamming