Between (The Dark Intent Series) Read online

  Between

  Book One of the Dark Intent Series

  Lisa Swallow

  Copyright © 2014 Lisa Swallow

  Cover designed by Najla Qamber Designs

  Editing by Hot Tree Editing

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For Miranda, my bookworm.

  CHAPTER 1

  The wind whips my long, blonde hair across my face as I check the address again. The paper the girl scrawled the street name and phone number on flaps between my fingers as I summon the courage to knock on the door.

  The large, red-brick house is halfway up a steep hill, on a main road leading toward the town. Jammed between similar houses, only the colour of the front door and curtains distinguishes this house from its neighbours.

  When the bus travelled up the hill, I looked back at the buildings shrinking behind me, as if I was climbing to the top of a roller coaster. The thought of going down the hill on the bus to work every day brings on my too-familiar head spins.

  The number 104 is painted in large, black figures on the brickwork, so there’s no mistaking this is the place. I approach the red painted door and, as I knock, paint flakes fall to the ground. I tip back my head to count the windows of the three-story building. Does every room belong to the house, or am I looking at a series of flats? No sound comes from inside so I knock harder, and then face an embarrassing moment when someone opens a door I’m banging too heavily on.

  A girl smiles broadly at me and ushers me inside. She’s wearing pyjamas with cartoon dogs on them and a huge pair of fluffy slippers. Her curly, auburn hair is pulled away from her freckle-covered face; a face scrubbed clean of make-up. I recognise her as the nurse I met at the hospital when I was studying the notices, desperate to find somewhere to live.

  "Rosalind!" she calls by way of introduction, and then turns to me. "Is it Rosalind? Or are you a Rosie? Linda?"

  I shake my head, too overcome by the interior of the house to reply. The front door opens straight into the lounge room, and I swear I’ve stepped into a 1970s time warp. The brown and yellow carpet is threadbare in places; a well-worn path leads down a hallway toward an open door through which stands a Formica kitchen table. Attached to the magnolia-painted, wood-chipped walls around me are strange pictures made of multi-coloured string and a particularly creepy looking Pierrot clown sitting on a half moon.

  Beneath that picture is a brown sofa, the exact disgusting shade as the carpet, with a similar threadbare nature. Lounging back in the chair is a girl around my age with long brown hair, legs tucked under her, reading a book; I tip my head and see it’s a Psychology text. She lowers the book and regards me with pale blue eyes.

  "Which?" she says.

  "Pardon?"

  "Which are you? Rosalind, Rosie, or Linda?"

  I giggle nervously. "Oh! I thought you just called me a witch!"

  The girl looks at me as if I need locking up, looks toward the curly-haired girl, and then back to me. "Yeah, right…"

  "Rose." My nerves get the better of me. "And I’m not a witch."

  My lame attempt at a joke increases the scorn on the brown-haired girl’s face. "Okay…"

  The other girl bounces over in her ridiculous slippers. "Did I introduce myself when I saw you at the hospital? I bet I forgot! I’m Lizzie, and this is Grace."

  I nod because my mouth is too dry to speak after sticking my foot in it. Suddenly, I’m not sure if I could live here even if they wanted me to.

  Lizzie sits next to her housemate. "Don’t worry, we won’t interrogate you. We just need someone to fill the room. Rent’s a bit much with just the three of us; plus, Grace is moving out in a couple of weeks."

  "Three?"

  "Yeah, Alek’s not around right now. He’s at work, but he doesn’t really care who lives here," says Grace.

  "Yeah, he’s cool with whoever comes here." Lizzie stands; she seems unable to keep still for long. "Let me show you the room."

  Before I came here this afternoon, I did wonder why there was such a cheap room available in a house with easy transport routes to the town. When Lizzie shows me the room, I get more of an idea why. The door opens onto the foot of the bed, and the narrow room has a small window at the other end with a low chest of drawers jammed against it.

  Lizzie shrugs apologetically. "Sorry, I know it’s not very big…but it is cheap."

  I grip the handle of my small bag, wishing I had more time to find somewhere to live. I’m fighting with students for spare rooms, and my job as a hospital porter doesn’t pay for a place of my own. I shouldn’t have left it so late to look for somewhere to live before I came back here. I guess, when you make last-minute decisions, you end up with last-minute rejects.

  "Yeah, it’s no problem." Having a bed to sleep in and a roof over my head are more important than space for belongings I don’t have. I’ve overstayed my welcome at Jamie’s parents’ house, and I need to move on.

  Lizzie trips happily down the stairs in front of me, as if I’ve said yes. She obviously knows options are limited in my price range.

  Grace, who hasn’t shifted from her spot on the dilapidated sofa, gives me a cursory glance as we return to the room.

  "So…?" Lizzie looks expectantly at me.

  "Oh, I thought you’d need to chat about me and if I was all right. For the house, I mean."

  Grace laughs softly to herself, and I stop myself from frowning at her.

  "No, I mean, yes. You’re perfect for us. I knew as soon as I saw you looking at the notices. Didn’t I say that, Grace?"

  Grace shrugs, and I’m a little freaked out by Lizzie’s over-enthusiasm. I hope she’s not one of those girls who think you’re her best friend after five minutes because I'm not very sociable since the accident.

  The front door bangs open, and a guy stomps into the room. Doors opening straight into lounge rooms always leave little room for subtle entrances, and this guy certainly isn’t subtle. He halts as he sees me.

  I’m not one for crushing on guys the moment I see them, but I’ve always had a thing for guys in leather jackets. Maybe I watched Grease too much as a kid. His “leather jacket with beaten-up combat boots” combination does things to my insides.

  The darkest of brown eyes, half-hidden by brown hair falling across his face, study me. Eyes I can’t look away from. He’s one of those guys with a sexual presence humming in the air around him and pulling girls in, even if you’re not the kind of girl who fantasises about edgy-looking guys in leather jackets. This guy is hot, and that’s not even a word I’d normally use. I wouldn’t be able to use any words if I wanted to, because when he walked in, he sucked the necessary oxygen from the room. All this must be reflected in my own gaze because his frown is soon replaced by a knowing curve to his mouth. Without a hello to any of us, he stalks past and up the stairs.

  Aware my mouth dropped open a little, I close it and turn back to Lizzie.

  "Yeah, he’s the third person I mentioned, Alek." She watches him head out of the room. His footsteps clomp upstairs and silence surrounds us as he leaves. Lizzie snaps out of whatever she’s thinking. "He’s not sociable, so don’t worry about him."

  The girl on the sofa is engrossed in her textbook again. Lizzie continues to stare in the direction
the Alek storm swept in. I can’t move, amazed by my reaction to him. Lizzie soon shrugs and looks away.

  My desire to know who this guy is wipes away the less-than-savoury details about the house. Any doubts I had about living here, well, they left through the door as he came in.

  CHAPTER 2

  The grey mist surrounds me as I lie on the road. I can’t move or breathe, but the figures are there again. Two tall men, dressed in black. Suits, I think, but I can’t be sure. The mist fogs around me, and I can’t see Jamie anymore. My chest hurts; I can’t move. When my eyes are closed, I hear voices arguing, and if I open them, the two men are around me. One of them blends into the grey fog, disappearing from view, and the other approaches me. Paralysed, I stare up at him, into his deep blue eyes. Blonde hair falls across his face as he smiles down at me, and the panic recedes as he strokes my head. Maybe his hair falls; I don’t know. I can’t figure out where I am or what’s happening, but I know he wants to help me.

  The man glances around him, and then leans over me. Gentle fingertips rest on my head and the calmness emanating from him soothes me. He leans forward; his blonde hair touches my face as he whispers something in my ear.

  I jerk awake, feeling as if I’ve fallen from a great height. Perspiring, I sit upright and when this isn’t enough to feel safe, I jump out of bed and back into a corner. My heart thrums in my head as I attempt to control my breathing and gradually realise where I am. Groping on the wall behind me, I find a light switch and flick to illuminate the box room. I focus on the nursery rhyme figures on the wallpaper and ground myself.

  My new home.

  Sinking onto the bed, my striped pyjamas stick to my back as I drag myself back to reality. Nightmares. I’m in a strange house; of course the dreams will start again. The traffic noise filters through the window and I walk over, push up the old-style window frame and breathe in the cool autumn air. When I have the dreams, either I fall asleep again straight away, or I lie in bed listening to the blood pushing against my ears. Or I get up and make tea.

  The old staircase creaks as I creep toward the kitchen. The house is three storeys high and I’m at the top. Two days here, and I still haven’t figured out how many rooms there are. The house is a lot bigger than the number of occupants, so no wonder they need someone else for the rent.

  Digging around the bottom of the kitchen cupboard, I find my box of chamomile teabags. I also haven’t unpacked properly or taken the long trip to the local supermarket, but at least I have my essentials. As the kettle boils, I stand on tiptoes and look through the kitchen window. Below, the lights of the town shine like fairy-lights of an everlasting Christmas. I pour the boiling water into the mug and sit, hovering my face over the herbal scent.

  A noise alerts me, and I hold my breath as someone comes down the creaking stairs. Alek steps into the kitchen, bare-chested with a pair of sweats sitting low on his hips. I hitch a breath; I’m not used to living with guys who walk around half-naked.

  "Oh. It’s you," he says.

  I don’t reply and tear my gaze from his chest to my mug. Alek walks into the kitchen and crosses to the fridge. The room lights up as he opens the door and grabs a beer. I want to comment how late it is to drink beer, but I’ve no idea of the time and it's not my business. Alek pulls a chair out and sits opposite me.

  "You look like a ghost," he says.

  I don’t know how to respond. All I’m aware of is his bare chest, and I castigate myself for being such a cliché as I stare at the smooth, toned skin.

  "If you don’t speak, I’m going to think you are a ghost."

  "I’m not a ghost."

  Alek takes a swig from his bottle. "Do you believe in ghosts?"

  "No."

  He makes a small sound of amusement in his throat. "You sound very certain."

  "Do you believe in ghosts?" I retort.

  "Yes."

  I swirl the teabag around in my cup, hyper-aware of the bare-chested, hot guy sitting across the table from me. Hot guy? Oh, please… Actually, I’m glad because he’s distracting me from a topic prickling shivers along my neck. I don’t believe in ghosts, but moving into a new place brings ghosts from the past.

  This is only the second time I’ve seen him and the first time since I moved into the house. Stupidly, I expect some kind of hello or welcome, but he’s evidently too caught up in himself to offer one.

  "Your hair is very blonde." Alek says.

  "Thanks, I never noticed."

  He ignores my sarcasm. "Almost white, it shines even in the dark."

  I wonder if he’s already drunk. Or high. Hair colour isn’t a normal topic of conversation for guys.

  "I like it. Your hair."

  I shift uncomfortably. This is weird. He’s weird. The room is too dark for me to see his face clearly, and I wish I knew if he was hitting on me in a sarcastic way.

  Standing, I cross to the bin and dump the teabag into the plastic bag. "Night, then," I say.

  Alek takes a long drink. "Night, Casper."

  I glare at him and he arches a brow. Without responding, I leave the room. My heartbeat remains as rapid as when I woke from my nightmare. No amount of chamomile tea is going to fix whatever just happened in the kitchen.

  CHAPTER 3

  Work. The disinfectant and stale food smell of hospitals, along with the sterility of the atmosphere around, bothered me for weeks. Friends were surprised when I chose to work here, amongst the sick and around the wards I spent so much time in. But everything else I try fails; until I’m a hundred percent well again, I have to take a job I can stick at

  After I recovered from the accident, I worked in a restaurant. I got orders wrong and irate customers would accuse me of not listening to them, so I didn’t last long before I got sacked. Then I tried being a checkout chick, which was an even bigger failure. For some reason, ninety percent of the aggressive customers chose my aisle; despite my short stature and meek personality, the hostility was way beyond anything I’ve come across before. After one nasty incident, where a mother accused me of deliberately upsetting her two year old, screaming daughter, I decided enough was enough. Which is how I ended up here, as a hospital porter, hidden in the background, away from too much interaction with the general public.

  Hospital porter is a million miles away from the job I studied for: primary school teacher. I qualified a month before the accident, but, physically and mentally, I’m not ready to begin my career in such a stressful job yet.

  Sometimes, I have to go up to the ICU, the ward I avoid as much as possible; if no other porter is available to go, though, I don't have any choice. I can’t remember my time in ICU, but the tone of the machines drags me back into the fog of those months, and then the dizziness starts. Today my attempt to avoid going fails and I’m here. The familiar sickly hospital smell turns my stomach, and every muscle in my body tenses as I walk through the double-doors.

  A blonde guy sits at the nurses' station. I know most of the staff and he’s either new or from an agency. He doesn’t look much like a nurse. I know guys are nurses, too, but he fails to exude nurse-like calm. Heavy brow knitted, the guy taps the keyboard while chewing on a pen. The unusually-intense blue of his eyes catches my attention; the blonde hair falling into his eyes as he leans forward is not as blonde as mine, but, like me, he’s paler than most people.

  Swearing, he drops the pen and looks up at me, eyes reddened by tiredness. "Yes?" he snaps.

  Taken aback, I return his scowl. "Just brought some files." I slap them onto the counter of the nurses' station.

  "Why are you giving them to me?"

  I stare at the name badge pinned on the front of his shirt. He’s wearing a black hoodie over his uniform, which is odd because it’s not cold in here.

  "Well, Finn, you’re the one sitting here."

  "Yeah, but I don’t know what the hell I’m doing!" He grabs the nearest phone and smacks the keypad. "The computer’s frozen again! And is anyone else coming on shift soon?" I feel sorry fo
r the person on the other end of the phone.

  I could tell him I can help with the computer but decide against it. He’s rude; plus, I don’t want to stay in ICU a moment longer than I need to be here. Squeaking footsteps from behind herald the arrival of someone else, and I turn to see a nurse walking toward us. Even in a hospital uniform, Chloe looks the model of elegance in posture and appearance, but without the haughty attitude to match. Pushing the unruly strand of hair from my face--the strand that always escapes my ponytail--I envy her ability to look naturally beautiful without trying.

  "Hi, Rose," she smiles.

  Chloe was one of my nurses when I was in ICU. Again, I don’t remember but I don’t want to.

  "Hey. I think Finn here has issues." He looks at me sharply, and I give him a saccharin smile, hoping he notices the double meaning of my words.

  "What’s up, Finn?" asks Chloe.

  "System’s down again."

  Chloe slides behind the counter, and Finn wheels his chair out of the way. She leans over Finn, silky-brown ponytail falling forward as she taps the keyboard. Instead of watching Chloe, Finn studies me silently for a few moments, not as though he’s checking me out, but as if I’m intruding. I don’t bother holding his gaze; the clock above indicates it’s finally time for the end of my shift. I say goodbye to Chloe and ignore Finn.

  ****

  One thing I really should have checked before agreeing to live in the house was the bus route. Yes, there’s a bus stop a few hundred metres from the front door, but the bus from the hospital only stops there once every three hours. Most buses stop at the bottom of the steep hill.

  I consider this as I huff my way up the road. I guess I won’t need any workouts at the gym if I do this every day. My bag gets heavier with each step, and with burning calf muscles and a sense of triumph, I reach the front door.