The First Demon (Cards of Death Book 1)

  Copyright © 2019 Tamara Geraeds

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-79276-445-5

  Cover design by Deranged Doctor Design

  Editing by Samantha and Rachel, Proofreading By The Page

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER …

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  What’s next?

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  Found a mistake?

  CHAPTER 1 BOOK 2

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  “Finally!” My hand shoots up as soon as I see Paul, Simon and Quinn approaching. They give me and Charlie a high five. Their broad grins reflect my feelings of relief and elation.

  “Vacation’s here!” we yell in unison.

  As soon as we close the doors of Quinn’s black Jeep Grand Cherokee, the happy chatter from outside is muffled.

  Charlie binds his long, blond locks together and stretches his arms above his head as Quinn pulls away from the parking lot. “No more SATs. Yes!”

  I cheer along with the others, even though SATs don’t bother me. I’m not going to any college or university anyway. There’s no way I’m leaving Mom.

  Charlie winks at me when no one is looking. He knows what I’m thinking.

  I give him a reassuring nod.

  Simon blows away the brown hair that’s blocking his view as usual. “Next year we’ll be seniors. Can you believe that, Dante?” His gaze focuses on me.

  Before I can answer Charlie opens a bag of cheese puffs and shoots one at Simon’s head.

  Paul laughs. “Are you sure that includes Charlie, too?”

  “Hardly. So are we meeting at the cafeteria tonight?”

  No one hears me. While Paul, Simon and Charlie are fighting over the contents of the foul smelling bag, Quinn has stopped at the T-junction with Front Street. A convertible full of senior girls sneaks past us. Half of them are standing in their seats, cheering and freeing their perfectly shaped bodies from too tight blouses. They glance toward the driver’s seat and instantly cease their frantic hopping.

  I groan inwardly when they pout their lips and blink dramatically. Do they really think that’s cute?

  Quinn waves at them to pass us and they almost faint when he flashes them a smile.

  I scowl at him in the mirror, “You make me sick.”

  “What?” he chuckles. “I didn’t do anything!”

  As the convertible turns onto Front Street, all the girls turn around for one more look.

  “Sure you didn’t.”

  “Maybe it’s just the car,” he replies, accelerating again.

  I snort. We all know his dashing good looks are impossible to ignore for every girl or woman he encounters. He has a perfect face, with perfect skin the color of hot chocolate. Not a single short curl ever falls out of place and although he never seems to go to the gym, he must work out. I’ve never seen a chest as solid as his and he has shoulders like Hercules. Well, almost. I tend to exaggerate, because he gets so much attention that there’s none left for the rest of us. Not that we would get any, seeing that we’re three pathetic pale guys of average height, with no muscle.

  Charlie bumps my shoulder. “Do you want one?” He holds out the almost empty bag to me.

  I frown. “Oh, how considerate of you to leave me two cheese puffs.” I swat his hand away. “No thanks.”

  Paul rakes his fingers through his thick black hair. “Did you say something about a cafeteria, Dante?”

  “I did. I’m craving something greasy.” I pull my head back when Charlie dangles the last cheese puff under my nose. “Something without cheese.”

  Quinn shoots a quick glance over his shoulder. “If you smear any of that on my seats again, you’re buying me a new car.”

  Charlie licks his fingers. “Don’t worry, I won’t.” Then he turns to me again. “Anyway, I can’t meet tonight. My mom’s making me do my own laundry and she’s threatening to cancel my vacation if I don’t clean up my room before I leave.” He rolls his eyes. “Can you believe that?”

  Simon smacks him on the back. “Actually, I can. You need a plow to get from your door to your window.”

  The thought of being the only one staying in boring old Blackford, Idaho for the summer drains all the energy from my body. I know I could use these weeks without my friends to search for clues that could lead me to my dad, but to be honest, after all this time, I’m starting to lose hope.

  Paul shoots me an apologetic look, sensing my melancholy. “I’m packing tonight.”

  “I want to visit my nan before I go,” Simon confesses.

  I shrug. “Oh well, we’ll see each other tomorrow night then.”

  “You bet,” Charlie says.

  Quinn pulls up at the end of my street and we say goodbye. He hits the horn as I cross the street and I hear my friends cheer. I wish I could hold on to the relaxed feeling I had a few minutes ago. Instead a ton of bricks lands in my stomach. My pace slows the closer I get to my house.

  A sigh of relief escapes me when I see Mom sitting at the dinner table, behind her sewing machine. I hear her get up as soon as I turn my key.

  “Hey honey, how was your last day as a junior?”

  I fling my backpack on the couch and hug her. “Utterly boring. How was your day?”

  I don’t mention the overly tidy and clean living room. I never do. Mom doesn’t like to talk about her fits. Even after all these years, she’s still ashamed. Not that I blame her. I’d be pretty embarrassed, too, if I practically ravaged the house every week in some sort of psychotic outburst. Not that she’s crazy. We just don’t know what’s wrong with her. According to more than a handful of psychiatrists and other people who poked around in her head – both literally and figuratively – Mom’s mind is fine. These fits just started one day without any explanation and no one has a solution, either. So we make the best of it, which is far from easy, especially without Dad here.

  “I had a great day,” she says now. “I made two skirts and updated my website.” She lets me go and makes room at the table. “Do you want some tea?”

  “I’d love some.” It’s probably lame for a sixteen-year-old to drink tea with his mom every day after school, but I like our quiet moments together. Especially the day after a fit. I spent last night by her bedside, drawing to keep my mind occu
pied. Drinking tea together makes yesterday’s madness feel like miles away. If I ignore the dent in the refrigerator door, the missing glasses in the cupboard and the bruise on Mom’s hand, it’s just another normal day. I must say I’ve gotten pretty good at ignoring stuff. If I hadn’t, I would have choked on my grief over Dad a long time ago.

  CHAPTER 2

  It’s hot here. Too hot. Sweat pours down my face in rivers. I don't know how long I have been standing here. Screams come from all around me and give me goose bumps. It’s like I am in a hellish version of an amusement park. The sky is a black hole streaked with orange. Flames rise up high in the distance. A loud scraping noise tears through my body. I shiver and start walking towards the fire.

  Every step is a struggle. My body keeps urging me to turn around and run. But I don't, because somehow I know something important lies ahead. Something I have to see.

  My legs seem to weigh more by the minute. It takes all my strength to lift them, but I keep going, focusing on the flames in the distance.

  And then I hear it. It starts as a soft whisper. Although, soft is not the right word for this. It is like a needle being pushed into my ears. I clamp my hands against my head, but still the piercing sound resonates through my body. I walk faster to escape the horrible noise, but there is no way to escape it. It gets louder with every step, no matter which way I go.

  I can understand the words now and they send shivers down my spine.

  "It's time. No one is going to stop me anymore."

  They hit me like a wave of heat. It feels like the flesh is burned right off my face. Tears escape my eyes, but I can't wipe them away. My body is frozen in fear.

  "Oh yes, my journey will start soon. Very soon…"

  The chilling voice is now right behind me. I command every muscle in my body to turn around, to face this evil.

  "Be prepared," it whispers, its breath leaving blisters on my neck.

  While I struggle to move, it disappears. The screams and scraping noises become audible again, but they don't scare me so much anymore. I know now that there is something much more dangerous and terrifying here. Something I have to stop.

  "You're wrong," I whisper. "I will stop you."

  I shoot up in bed, panting heavily. I can still hear the voice in my head and wrap my arms around myself to drive out the cold. It takes me a few minutes to recover, to realize it was nothing more than a nightmare.

  A knock on my door almost gives me a heart attack, but the voice that comes through is not one to be scared of.

  "Dante? Are you awake? Breakfast is ready."

  Mom sounds different. More alive. Am I still dreaming? After all, Mom standing at my door is a miracle in itself. 'Breakfast is ready' is a sentence I haven't heard in five years. Dad is the last one to have said it. But he left and he isn't coming back. I am sure of it and Mom is sure of it. He couldn't handle the stress of Mom’s psychotic fits anymore. At least, that’s what Mom thinks. I couldn't either at the time, but Dad left me on my own, so I had to.

  As an eleven-year-old, it wasn't easy. Mom got worse every day and no one had a solution. Child services almost took me away, too. Good thing Mom’s best friend was there to prevent it.

  In all this time, there has been no hope of improvement. Over the last few weeks, Mom has even been getting worse again. The fits hit her more frequent than ever and as a result, she’s even more tired than she already was. We have tried everything, from psychiatrists to exorcists, from acupuncture to antidepressants. Nothing works. The fear of losing her, too, has been growing every day. And now she’s at my door telling me breakfast is ready?

  Another knock. "Dante? Are you coming?"

  I hit myself on the cheek and grunt. That hurts. So this isn’t a dream.

  A second later I’m standing next to my bed, yanking the door open. "Mom? This can't be real, right?"

  She flashes me a grin. "It's very real. I woke up with so much energy. I know it's unbelievable, but it's all gone. The headaches, the voices, the nausea, everything. It's like I'm a new person."

  I just gawk at her while she keeps smiling. Her eyes are sparkling and her blonde hair is shining. She’s still skinny, but it doesn’t look so scary anymore, with that blush on her cheeks.

  I hit myself again, and pinch my arm as hard as I can. Pain courses through it.

  "Don't do that, you're not dreaming." She laughs and the sound brings tears to my eyes.

  I have been longing to hear that laugh for so long.

  I dive forward and wrap her into a hug, squeezing her tight and kissing her forehead.

  "This can't be real. This can't be real," I whisper over and over.

  "It is, Dante." She kisses me back and takes my hand. "Come on, breakfast is getting cold."

  "I don't think the fits will be coming back," Mom says, digging into her omelet.

  My fork hovers in the air for a moment. "Why not?"

  She swallows before answering, a pensive look on her face. "I don't know, it's just a feeling. Like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders." She shakes her head. "No, more like something dark has left my soul."

  I nod. "I feel it, too. Although, I did have the worst nightmare ever."

  She waves her fork through the air. "I know your father believed in dreams, but they don't mean anything. They’re just a product of your imagination."

  I chuckle. "Well, I could use a little less imagination then."

  At that moment, a gust of wind rattles the front door. We both jump.

  I get up. "I'll take a look. You stay here."

  Everything is quiet in the hallway, but on the doormat an official looking envelope bristles in a non-existent draft. I poke it with my foot before picking it up. It feels like it is made of feathers instead of paper. Strange, incoherent lines are drawn on the back.

  "Is everything okay?" Mom asks from the kitchen.

  "Yes, it's just the mail."

  Mom’s eyes move from my face to the letter as I re-enter the kitchen. "The mail? This early?"

  I shrug.

  "Who is it for?"

  I turn the envelope around. It has no logo or name, except for mine on the front. "It's for me."

  "Well?" Mom looks at me with questions in her eyes. "What are you waiting for?"

  My fingers stroke the letter hesitantly, as if they already know the contents are about to change my life. With a heavy sigh, I tear the envelope open and pull out the letter. My eyes scan sentence after sentence and my emotions tumble in every direction. My arms suddenly feel heavy and my vision blurs.

  I don’t even notice Mom standing up until she puts her hand on my arm. "Is it bad news?"

  "It... yes uh… no." A sob drowns out the rest of my words.

  Mom yanks the letter out of my hands. All the emotions I am feeling cross her face. After a minute of staring blankly into the distance, she sits down and meets my gaze. She points at the letter. "This can’t be real. There’s no sender.”

  My hand slides into the envelope and pulls out another piece of paper. This one does have an official header and stamp. I hold it up to Mom. “I don’t know who sent the letter, but this looks pretty real to me.”

  She shakes her head, incredulous. “He's really gone."

  I nod. The piece of paper slips from my hand, but I hardly notice. My insides are turning upside down. I want to puke and scream at the same time.

  Mom wraps her arms around me and pulls me into a hug. "Are you okay?"

  I shake my head, speechless.

  When she lets go and wipes a tear from my cheek, there’s sadness in her eyes, as well as relief. “I’m so sorry, Dante. He was… a good man.”

  A sarcastic grin lifts the corners of my mouth. “You don’t have to pretend, Mom.”

  She sighs and sits down. "I wish I could cry over your father’s death, but you know I closed that chapter a long time ago. That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt, though. I loved your father."

  I p
ull my chair next to hers and grab her hand. “I know.” I want to say more, tell her to have faith in Dad’s love for us. Tell her he wouldn’t have left us if he had a choice. But I said everything there is to say a long time ago. I got angry at her for not believing me. I cried, shouted and cursed and now we haven’t spoken about him for years.

  The room starts spinning when I realize my last hope of him coming back is now shattered. I will never see him again. I grab onto the edge of the table for support and close my eyes for a second.

  When the feeling of the ground trying to swallow me fades, I look up. Mom is wringing her hands together. “Does it… does it say how he died?”

  I swallow the lump in my throat and scan the lines again. “No.” I meet her eyes. “Why? Do you want to know?”

  She shakes her head. “Not really.”

  A tear breaks the red on her cheek and I hug her. “It’s okay to be sad, Mom. You’re not made of stone.”

  She laughs, but it doesn’t sound happy. “I’m not sad, and that’s what makes me sad. Somehow I feel relieved. At least now we know where he is.” She smirks at me. “Sort of.”

  “I know what you mean. You cried over him a long time ago.”

  She flinches a little. “I’m sorry, Dante. I know you still miss him.”

  “I do.” My eyes burn.

  I pick up the letter again. “But what about this house they’re talking about? Did you know about that?”

  She shakes her head. “I think your father had even more secrets than we thought.”

  I grunt. “Yes, but a house?”

  She takes a sip of her coffee. “You should be glad he left it to you, and not to his new family.”

  “It’s officially yours until I’m twenty-one.” I hesitate before adding, “And you don’t know he has a new family, Mom. Or had.”

  She ignores my comment and gestures to my almost full plate. “Eat your breakfast. You’ll need the energy to explore your new home.”

  I pull my plate towards me and start eating. I don’t have to ask her to come with me. I know she doesn’t want to come near anything that Dad left us.

  When the tension between us has cleared up, I grab her hand. “You know I can’t move out. What if you have a fit again?”