Three Heart Echo Page 25

  “Anyone could have triggered any of the stages,” Jack says. “It’s why I chose such obscure trigger words. Iona was merely on pause. And could have stayed on pause for forever. Until someone said that very last trigger word.”

  Life—Conclusion.

  It’s hard to imagine. After two hundred years, that all of the insanity of Roselock could come to an end. That after my entire life, always knowing exactly when the end would come, to see it all come to some kind of...logical…conclusion.

  I’d said the word.

  I had triggered the final stage.

  I’d made Iona take her own life.

  “Magnificent, isn’t it?” Jack says. My eyes once more meet his. “The power it grants? The master one may become over another? Can you just imagine the possibilities of where I could have taken this, Sully?”

  Human nature wants me to argue with him. To tell him how wrong he was. How unnatural and evil it all was.

  But looking into those eyes, I find a man who isn’t a man. I find a soul that is nothing but black vipers.

  Without a word, I fold the piece of paper once more, following its original crease lines. I place it back in its secret compartment, snapping it closed.

  Before Jack can say a word, I yank open the door to the Sunday School room and step out.

  That little vibration, the disturbance between worlds sounds as I walk toward the back door. The gate grows too heavy, threatening to close.

  But I feel Jack walking beside me, following me.

  I pause, for just half a moment at the door, looking through the window out into the dark. The dead of night.

  With a strangled breath, I pull it open, and step outside.

  Little splatters of blood stain my boots. The sound of muffled moaning floats through the dark.

  It’s been a month and a half since the anniversary of the Battle at Roselock. The town has begun to quiet at night once more. But it’s never a good idea to be outside after dark.

  I keep my eyes fixed ahead. I shove through the gate into the graveyard. Past headstones, stepping over my friends.

  And then into the woods.

  The woods so dark, I can’t see more than two feet in front of me.

  Tripping. Scraping my skin, drawing blood.

  “Is this your epic, grand finale to it all?” Jack taunts. “Your last burial of Jack Caraway?”

  I try to ignore his words. To pretend that I cannot hear them.

  So I focus on the raging, insane forest around me.

  Voices moan out in the dark. A creature not of this world yips, scared, but angry.

  Past dark trees, around boulders, through vines and thorns I walk with a dead man.

  Until finally, the moonlight hits the tips of two great wings.

  I look up into the face of the angel, feeling peace wash over me.

  Jack stands beside me, looking up at her as well, finally at a loss for words.

  “Never let this kind of evil grace the world again,” I ask of her. And then I turn, taking the two steps to the well.

  Blood, red and dark fills the well to the brim. I hold the watch out in my fist, hovering over the dark, liquid surface.

  “You were wrong,” I say as I look back at Jack. “About everything. And I know you don’t think that, not for a second. But you’re going to burn in hell for what you have done. But the flames will never burn as hot as you deserve.”

  And Jack’s eyes widen for just a moment, before I drop the watch into the well, and Jack Caraway is erased from this world forever.

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  SULLY

  She lies on the bed, looking over at me through the dim morning light. On my side, I stare back at her, studying every surface of her perfect skin. That little nose. Her delicate ears. Her soft, pink lips.

  I lift a hand, as if to trace it down her shoulder, only she’s nothing but ice and air.

  “Are you sure about this, Sully?” Iona asks.

  She gazes back at me with a mournful expression, sadness running so deep into her eyes.

  “It’s my time,” I say quietly. I rest my hand on the bed, right next to hers, where the back of my knuckles should touch hers, yet I feel only cold. “I don’t want to wait around forever. Who knows, maybe the time will finally come, and we can all move on.”

  She bites her lower lip, and tears swim in her eyes. Because she knows what it means. Once I go, I won’t be able to pull her through the gate, anymore. It means we will no longer see one another.

  “Please try,” she says.

  I draw a breath as I roll onto my back. I lay my arm across my forehead, looking up at the ceiling.

  Possibility and hope bring pain.

  I’ve endured too much of that in the past three weeks. I can’t stand the thought of letting more of it in.

  “Come on,” Iona says, climbing from the bed and heading toward the doors. “There’s only one left.”

  I watch her for a moment, marveling how she can still sound…hopeful. Happy. Holding on when, for me, there is nothing left to hold on to.

  But for her, I climb out of this bed.

  I don’t even have to put on a jacket, the air already warm outside on this sixth day of May. Out to the back deck. Out to the shed. For the can of kerosene and matches.

  Side by side, I walk with the dead woman that I love, down the drive from the church. To the last standing house in Roselock.

  Over the past two weeks, Iona has accompanied me as I’ve burned every house in Roselock down. Turned all of them to ashes and cinders.

  Once I’ve finished dousing the entire inside of the old Rasis home, I light the match from just outside the door, and toss it inside.

  It ignites instantly.

  “It will work, Sully,” Iona says. She stands so close to me, close enough, the warmth of her body should warm mine. But she’s only cold and dead.

  I let my eyes slide closed as the blaring of a train and the wet crunch of her body echo through my head.

  Jack’s smile flashes across my vision.

  “What do I have to live for, Iona?” I ask, being overtaken by visions of all the worst times in my life. “There is no one and nothing left for me in this world.”

  She’s quiet for too long. And it makes me open my eyes, and find hers.

  “Do you really believe that?” she asks.

  I look down at her, wishing I could give her what she wants. I wish I could bring her back. I wish we had had the life together that two normal people would have.

  “I’m so tired, Iona,” I breathe. She takes a step closer, and we’re chest-to-chest, but unable to reach one another. “I’m ready.”

  Tears swim in her eyes once more, but she doesn’t reprimand me. Doesn’t get angry.

  She just nods that she understands.

  I’ve just finished clearing away the dishes of my last meal when there’s a knock on the door. I freeze with my hand poised over the sink, about to place the plate in the hot water.

  The knock echoes through the church once more.

  My heart in my throat, I wipe my hands on my pants, and slowly walk toward the door.

  A pure white rose resides in my breast pocket.

  The air is so calm. As if it’s waiting. Holding its breath in anticipation, watching to see what will happen come twilight this seventh day of May.

  Through the common room I walk. Through the door to the chapel. Past the kerosene-soaked floorboards of the chapel.

  My head throbs. The smell of kerosene is pungent, all too strong now that the entire church has been doused in it.

  My hand rests on the doorknob, and finally, I pull it open.

  A man with large glasses but a confident expression stands on the sagging porch. Just behind him there are two other men, one holding a microphone, the other a huge, bulky camera.

  “Hello,” the man before me says with professional charm. He keeps strong control over his face, when it’s obvious it wants to contort in displeasure at the smell wafting
strongly out to where he stands. “My name is Peter Dit, I’m with Channel Five news. Are you Sully Whitmore?”

  Where once upon a time the reporters were only greeted with an angry growl and a door in their face, I’m only cold and calm.

  “I am,” I answer the man.

  Excitement sparks in the reporter’s eyes. “I’ve heard some quite interesting stories about this town. I wondered if you might be willing to talk to me about the fascinating history of Roselock.”

  My gaze shifts from Peter to the other men behind him. A blinking red light on the front of the camera tells me that the footage is rolling.

  “You want the real story?” I ask, looking back at Peter.

  I hear something spark from within the church.

  “That’s what I always search for,” the man says, with an ignorant smile.

  “Even if it’s not what you’re hoping for?” I question. A faint smell wafts past me. Smoke. “Even if it makes you squirm? Even if it makes you sick? Even if it makes you run away in fear?”

  Finally, Peter’s expression falters. His eyes jump over my shoulder, looking into the belly of the church. His mouth slackens a bit, his eyes widen.

  “It sounds like a story that would make my career,” he responds, his voice quieting.

  There’s a rushing sound. Like air being sucked.

  Peter takes a step back. Down the stairs. The crewmembers behind him scramble back, as well.

  They’re shouting something. Warnings. Shock. Words come out of their mouths, but I only look down, my hand sliding to my pocket.

  “This is the true story of Roselock,” I say as my hand touches the paper. “This is the legacy of the name Whitmore.”

  Eerie calm washes over me.

  I planned to burn the church to the ground today. I doused it in kerosene. Come evening, I planned to strike a match, and stand out on the road to watch it burn.

  But there was that sparking noise just a moment ago.

  And there is heat at my back.

  Iona was wrong.

  I could never break this curse. Never fight my fate.

  I’ve lived thirty-three years, three months, and three days.

  And I’m ready.

  “Sully,” her voice says as I pull the picture from my pocket. A picture of Iona.

  I look to my side to see her standing there. Looking beautiful. Healthy. Peaceful.

  “This is the real story,” I say to Peter, though I don’t look away from Iona. I hear them scramble, shouting, yelling warnings.

  The heat of the flames grows closer.

  “This is the truth of Roselock.” Something pierces the back of my eyes, they sting.

  But inside, I just feel peace.

  On the seventh day of May, I stand in the home I always resented, staring at the woman I love.

  “It’s okay, Sully,” Iona says. She gives me a little smile. It’s sad, regretful. But understanding.

  As I hear an explosion, I reach for Iona’s hand.

  And as I hear glass shatter, and the temperature of the world skyrockets, her fingers lace with mine.

  THE END

  Also by Keary Taylor

  THE HOUSE OF ROYALS SAGA

  THE FALL OF ANGELS TRILOGY

  THE EDEN TRILOGY

  THE McCAIN SAGA

  WHAT I DIDN’T SAY

  View all of Keary’s books, in series order, click HERE.

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  About the Author

  Keary Taylor is the USA Today bestselling author of over twenty novels. She grew up along the foothills of the Rocky Mountains where she started creating imaginary worlds and daring characters who always fell in love. She now splits her time between a tiny island in the Pacific Northwest and Utah, with her husband and their two children. She continues to have an overactive imagination that frequently keeps her up at night.

  For more information check her out at the following:

  www.kearytaylor.com

  me@kearytaylor.com