Heal Read online

  The Killing Cure

  - Heal -

  C.S. Kendall

  Contents

  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 13

  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

  A note from the author

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright © 2016 C.S. KENDALL

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Edited by: Jacy Mackin

  Cover Design and Interior Formatting: Mad Hat Covers

  ISBN: 978-1-7342562-1-5

  I love giving gifts and you’re going to want this one after you finish riding the rollercoaster in front of you (ahem: this book). Details in the back.

  Chapter One

  Julia

  Julia sprang upright from where she lay, wiping the dribble of drool from her chin as a drop of sweat trailed down her back. Blinking her eyes hard, she cleared the spots from her vision as she oriented herself.

  Ginny.

  The plane ride.

  The ferry.

  An empty island.

  That’s right!

  She had fulfilled her mission at last, bringing almost one hundred years of hunting and slaying monsters to a close. Shutting her eyes, she replayed the events of the last few years in her mind: Tracking down Ginny where she worked as a nurse at Shady Lawns Retirement, watching her, observing how wonderful she was with her patients and their families, how caring, how invested.

  How fake.

  None of it was real.

  Ginny was a fine actress, the best of the best, and completely delusional—convincing herself and trying to convince others that the elderly people she killed were being delivered by her hand. That she was some kind of angel of death to them. Really, she was the final one who had taken a drink from the murderous Fountain of Youth, answering the call to kill, at the mercy of the whims of the water flowing through her veins.

  Maybe it had always been inside of Ginny—the burgeoning desire to harm, the victimization she'd suffered throughout her life slowly transforming her into something else—something monstrous that only the water could truly awaken. Julia had taken extra time learning about Ginny's life—her wicked mother, her love affair with the doctor who ultimately gave Ginny a drink of water from the Fountain of Youth to save her from cancer—a disease they understood very little back then.

  Julia's mind shifted to Charlie. Ginny's story was not unlike her own in that way. Julia had been on her deathbed, too, until Charlie had given her a drink of the magical water in a desperate attempt to make her well. And it had worked. Neither she nor Ginny knew what the water would make them. And while Julia cursed the day she took that drink for what it turned her into, Ginny had embraced it.

  Caroline's face materialized in her mind, forever etched in her memory. The perfection of her blond ringlets, the bounce in her step, her inappropriate love for Charlie, which the water pulsing through Julia's veins had used as ammunition to force Julia to act. She'd resisted, time and again, but eventually, the water took control, submitting her to its whims, to the command to snuff out Caroline's life. It was the price she was required to pay for the water’s life-giving power, a thank you for the gift of restoring her health and giving her eternal youth.

  Only she hadn't been thankful.

  She didn't understand it at the time and blamed herself entirely. Even once she met Rose and was charged with ending the curse in order to save Charlie, she didn't fully grasp how much the water had controlled her when she took Caroline's life. But each kill endowed a deeper sense of understanding. Those whose lives she took were victims as much as they were monsters, and Ginny was the last one.

  She had vowed to Rose that she'd take out every last one who had ever had a drink—she had to—her hand was forced because Charlie's life hung in the balance if she refused to act.

  And acted she had, for one hundred years. She didn't like to kill. But at the same time, she'd taken a murderer’s life ten times over one hundred years, and every kill became easier than the one before. Now here she was, back on the wretched island. Only she was alone and not reunited with Charlie as she should have been.

  Her breaths shook, and she shielded her eyes as she squinted into the sun. A strange chill climbed up her spine and extended to her extremities, and a trail of goosebumps followed behind. She pulled her jacket tighter, shielding herself from the cool breeze, even as sweat dripped from her head. Looking up into the horizon, she took in bright blue and a smattering of thick, white clouds. She rubbed the soil beneath her, grabbing a handful and allowing it to sift through her fingers. Stretching her arm, she reached for a fallen leaf, and it crunched as she closed her fist around it. All but the evergreens were bare, and in that way, the island looked very much like it had the last time she was here. But then her eyes scanned to the house where Rose had lived. Despite the fresh coat of green paint, the place looked ransacked. Door wide open, front steps crumbled, windows smashed. Something snagged her attention, and she stood, making her way to the front door. Two lines extended from the door into the woods where they stopped suddenly. Like something—or someone—had been dragged.

  None of this made sense. She’d had an agreement with Rose, and she’d made good on her end. Bending, she traced the marks in the ground with her fingers before looking behind her. Her gaze fell on Rose's grave, and the cross wavered lop-sided as the wind kicked up. Springing to her feet, she jogged over to the grave, staring at the carved letters. R-O-S-E. Flicking the cross with her finger, she thought how Rose was lucky to be dead already.

  And Charlie.

  Why had he woken early? What had Rose done to him? He’d been there, no doubt about it, but where was he now? Her mind jumped to the worst case scenario. All these years, the hope of seeing him again—the drive to redeem the first murder she’d committed in cold blood—pushed her forward, urging her to bring an end to this curse. To wake Charlie up, to see his face. And now he was gone. Dead, maybe. A dry sob shuddered through her, and she pushed the thought away. She couldn’t think about his death—she had already used up all her emotional energy, leaving none to cope with that prospect.

  She sniffed and wiped her face on her sleeve. As she looked around, she struggled to compose her thoughts. Whatever happened to Charlie happened here, which meant there had to be a clue, some evidence of his whereabouts. Somewhere. She stumbled to the spring like she was intoxicated. Not by the water itself, but by her disbelief, her grief. Rock surrounded the place the spring had been, built high and strong like a tower, closing off access to the water. She studied the stone, running her fingers across the layers of rock fit snugly together and held perfectly in place. This was Charlie’s work, his craftsmanship. How clever of him to hide the water in plain sight.

  A pink flowering plant with brilliant green petals grew around the base of the rock tower, providing a beautiful border around Charlie’s construction. Many years had passed since Julia laid eyes on the plant, the only antidote to the wate
r's eternal demands, and she bent to run the pink bloom between her fingers. Breaking one off, she lifted the flower to her nose and breathed it in. The petal smelled sweet, and she closed her eyes as she inhaled, the scent bringing her comfort. She was transported by the aroma, like it was somehow programmed into her memory bank to conjure up the warmest feelings.

  Even though the water had a barrier around it, the spring and the flower that grew from it called to her, welcoming her home. She focused on the familiarity, the comfort that washed over her, and with her eyes closed she searched for others. She’d had to train herself, but she had learned to feel the life power of others who’d had a drink, and she felt the air for their presence. Proximity always helped, but even now, alone on the island, she could sense she wasn’t alone in the world. Someone else who drank from the water existed somewhere. Which could only mean Charlie was still alive. Julia had eliminated the earth of everyone else who had taken a fateful sip, and Rose’s grave confirmed she and Charlie were the last to remain.

  Her heart beat with new hope. She picked a flower and the leaf, sniffed them a second time, and then crumpled them in her hand, leaving their remains on the ground. Rising to her feet, she inhaled the river air surrounding the island as a cool breeze blew her hair and strengthened her resolve. No more crying. No more grieving. Charlie was alive, even though she would have to search for him, and she vowed to find him. This is what she’d been preparing for the last one hundred years. She’d made an expert of herself in finding people. Anyone. Anywhere. She would find him too.

  Setting off to work, she entered the cottage and rummaged through every inch of the interior, tearing it apart with determination, searching for something, anything. The bathroom in the corner snagged her attention, and she ran over, throwing the door open. Digging through the contents of the tiny space, she found only a few belongings: deodorant, a comb, a razor, shampoo. She threw them all aside and crossed to the other side of the partition, to the main living area of the tiny dwelling, and rummaged through kitchen cabinets, turning up cans upon cans of fruits and vegetables and beans. Pulling the handle of the refrigerator door, she found it almost empty save for the expired eggs and old butter. Digging through all the drawers in the kitchen turned up nothing useful—only utensils and tools. Not a single clue pointing to Charlie’s whereabouts.

  Frustration mounted, and Julia’s face flushed with heat. She pushed down her aggravation and stood in the middle of the room with her eyes shut trying to imagine how the place had looked a hundred years before, when she’d last been there. She pictured the rocking chair, the fire, the table, and the shelf of books above the fireplace. Opening her eyes, she noticed the shelf now stood empty. Two chairs, handcrafted from wood, replaced the rocker from a hundred years before. She sat down in one of them and rubbed the wooden arms with her palms. What was she missing? Scanning the room, her eyes fell on the bureau.

  The bureau!

  Running to it, she pulled the drawers out one by one, spilling the contents of each onto the floor in front of the bureau. Several men’s outfits, blankets, and a journal poured out. Excitement sprung alive in her chest as she grabbed the journal from the floor and flipped through the pages. But it was empty. She threw the useless book across the room, and it hit the wall and crashed to the floor. Julia screamed, pulling at her hair, a fresh wave of frustration replacing the excitement she’d had seconds earlier.

  Who was she kidding? This place was devoid of even a single clue, nothing to indicate where Charlie had gone. She glanced up at the roof, noticing how it peaked, the beams above confirming in her mind that Charlie had been hard at work on the place. Empty though the cottage was, everything about the small space reminded Julia of him. The fact that he’d remodeled this space to look just like their shack back in their hometown warmed her heart with the thought that he missed her, too.

  Looking from one corner of the ceiling to the other, Julia saw he’d added a loft above. Sure the added space would turn up nothing helpful, she climbed the ladder anyway and found a large mattress suspended across the surface of the loft. The unmade bed had blankets and pillows spread haphazardly all over the place. Lying down on the mattress, Julia closed her eyes. She brought the blanket to her nose and inhaled. No indication of who had slept there lingered from the scent; she flung it aside, irritated. Opening her eyes, she sat up and ran her hand along the underside of the mattress, and her fingers happened upon something. She yanked the mattress up as far as it would go before hitting the ceiling and discovered several envelopes hidden beneath. Turning them over, she recognized the handwriting.

  Her letters.

  The ones she’d written while Charlie was away at war. The same ones he’d ignored in favor of coming home and declaring his love to her in person. Reading them one by one, the words transported her through time, back to the girl she’d been a hundred years ago. She hadn't known when she wrote them, but the words came from a lovesick child desperate to see her best friend whom she feared had died. Whom she’d grown to love.

  Years had passed, and she knew she wasn’t that girl anymore. But she reveled in the nostalgia, allowing herself to reminisce about a simpler, more innocent time. A time full of love and hope and with a bright future ahead. But when she wrote those words, they came out of a more pressing emotion.

  Fear.

  Fear for his life.

  Fear she’d never see him again.

  And helplessness. The same feeling on the verge of erupting through the small speck of hope she held on to now. She read the letters a second time, trying to conjure the boy and the girl from a hundred years ago—the ones with simple dreams and hearts full of love. Before consumption. Before the drink. Before what she’d become.

  Starting from the first letter, she read them a third time, and when she finished, she turned the pages over in her hands. They were worn, wrinkled, and yellowed with time. The wear on them told Julia that Charlie had read them over and over, handled them, cherished them. Before now, she’d had no idea he had brought them with him to the island, and she wondered why. Was he trying to hold on to who she was before the drink, to remind himself what they traveled for, what they fought for? Or perhaps he always carried them on him. Whatever the reason, finding those letters and reading them brought Julia comfort, and she hoped they’d served the same purpose for Charlie. That they reminded him of her love, even if he didn’t know where she was.

  But why hadn’t he searched for her? If he’d woken up and she wasn’t there, why did he stay? Had he discovered her murderous mission and found himself unable to forgive her? She’d reasoned all those years that when she woke him up and told him, he’d understand. He’d realize she was doing what needed done and they could move on. But could they? As much as she was not the girl Charlie had fallen in love with, she had to consider the possibility that Charlie was a different man, too.

  Questions swirled on and on in her brain, a welcome distraction from the more haunting fears surrounding his whereabouts. Though she could sense his presence, the fact he was alive, she still had no proof to substantiate her suspicion, and that terrified her. An angsty pang struck her heart, and she tucked the letters into the inside pocket of her jacket.

  Charlie had disappeared, but there was no doubt in Julia's mind that he'd been there, alive. Julia crawled to the ladder and began her climb down, but before she descended, she gave the loft one last scan from the top of the ladder. A flash of white, from the top right corner of the mattress caught her eye.

  Climbing the two rungs, she crawled back across the mattress and discovered other pages sticking out from the bed. She'd been so caught up in her nostalgia that looking under the rest of the mattress hadn't occurred to her. When she lifted the corner, she found a second stack of envelopes, also addressed to Charlie. Opening one, she read:

  Dear Charlie,

  I made it! Thank you for letting me go. You were right—the world is so big now, and I have so much living to do. I’m so glad you convinced me to do t
his. You are a cherished friend, Charlie, and I’m sorry I ever doubted the goodness in you. I’ll never forget what you did for me and how you gave me my life back. I see now why Julia loved you. Take care. I’ll write soon.

  Love,

  Rose

  Wait. Rose?

  She was alive?

  Julia shuffled through the envelopes, counting them, and turned up twelve total. All from Rose and written monthly over the course of a year. Each one told of her adventures, what she was seeing and doing. Each one grew more affectionate in tone.

  Julia’s stomach churned as her heart clenched. As she had her own, she read through all twelve letters a second time and then a third, and by the time she was done, her head pounded. Anger mounted inside of her, and she punched the pillow over and over again until she fell down on the bed, exhausted. She screamed into the mattress and then sat up, her breaths coming out in rapid, angry pulses.

  Snatching Rose’s letters, she flew down the ladder and tucked them in her bag. She stormed out of the cottage and found a shovel out back behind the small dwelling. Rounding to Rose’s grave, she yanked the cross with her name on it out of the ground. Her digging revealed a shallow grave, and it didn’t take long to unearth what was buried there. Throwing the shovel aside, Julia drew nineteenth century dresses, hair bows, journals—everything Rose possessed and used while she was guardian of the island—from the ground. Digging deeper, she found the books, the family records and instructions and secrets of all the guardians.