Blind Sight Read online

  What Are People Saying About

  Blind Sight?

  “It needs to be on every bookshelf in the world.” Gary Ray Anderson, Jr, author of the upcoming Espionage: WWIII

  “Blind Sight is a story with a powerful bite, that sunk its teeth into me from the first chapter and didn't let go until it was good and finished.” Mandy White, author The Feeder

  “I love stories where the line between reality and fantasy is not clear and this author knows how to bring her reader into the story. This is definitely a book that kidnaps the reader until the very end.” -Grace Guerra, Indie Stalker

  “Blind Sight does an excellent job of describing what is tantamount to a supernatural demon smack-down while keeping Jordan a realistic teenage girl with normal teenage feelings and keeps the reader wanting more. I want more...much, much, more.” Donna Dillon, author of The Snake Pit.

  Blind Sight

  Book One of

  The Celadon Circle

  Written by

  Nicole Storey

  Published by

  Inknbeans Press

  © 2013

  Cover by Megan Parker of EmCat Designs

  Cover Model:“Silverlight” of Deviant Art.

  Copyright © 2013 Nicole Storey and

  Inknbeans Press

  ISBN-13: 978-0615852423 (Inknbeans Press)

  ISBN-10: 0615852424

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work

  Chapter One

  Blood and screaming; screaming and blood. The horrors of the image before her assault Jordan’s senses, overwhelming them to the point where she must scream herself. It wouldn’t matter if she did -- the young girl fighting for her life wouldn’t hear her. Neither would the monster dismantling her body piece by agonizing piece.

  She’d fought valiantly. The girl – she couldn’t be more than sixteen – obviously wasn’t the type to roll over and die. The monster liked that. Fear made her flesh sweeter. Her hair is plastered to her head with sweat. Her breathing labored, coming in short gasps. Tears cut tracks through the grime and muck on her face. Jordan figured she’d been on the run for at least an hour or more.

  Her time is coming to an end, though. The blood loss is too great – she’s weak. Jeans, which were once faded blue, are a saturated burgundy now. She had lost what was left of her shirt a while back. Strips of skin flap loosely above and below her bra strap. She’s barely able to stumble through the trees. The monster allows her to get as far as fifty feet away before it pounces again, using powerful claws to rake what’s left of the flesh from her back. Its long, black tongue snakes out, lapping up her blood. Its putrid body shivers in ecstasy under the bloated moon.

  The girl barely whimpers this time, but sound carries in the silent woods. The monster stops feeding long enough to place a gnarled, heavy foot on her back, snapping it like dry timber. There will be no more running for either of them this night.

  Enormous wings unfurl from the creature’s body, webbed and veined -- not unlike those of a bat. Fully spanned, they reach at least twelve feet across. Jordan knows she must get a closer look. With the thought, her body moves, drifting on the currents of the gentle breeze created by the pines and oaks. Soon, too soon, she is floating right above it.

  As if it can hear or sense something is near, the thing raises its massive head, sniffing the air. Its face resembles a gibbon, but the mouth is wider – distorted and stretched to hold rows of wicked-sharp teeth. Yellow eyes capture the moonlight, reflecting it like any other animal, only more brightly. Its body is covered in gray feathers or scales coated in a slimy substance. The smell is unbelievable – a mixture of skunk, feces, and ammonia that make her eyes water. Jordan’s seen enough.

  Before she moves away, she takes one last look at the girl lying broken on the ground before her. She is bruised and shattered, her blonde hair streaked red with blood. Was she beautiful before? Maybe she was a cheerleader for her school’s football team. She could have been a straight -- A student on her way to a full scholarship to Vassar. It didn’t matter. She was someone’s daughter, perhaps a big sister…someone’s friend. Jordan wishes she could comfort her, stroke her brow or squeeze her hand – something to let her know she isn’t dying alone. However, it is against the rules. The most she can do is make sure her death is not in vain.

  As she moves away from the nightmare, the creature lets loose a scream, raising goose bumps along her arms. AhOOOoool! Probably a victory yell for a successful hunt, Jordan thinks to herself, wishing she could sink a silver knife in its gullet. She feels herself begin to fade from this time and place, a sensation of being guided somewhere else. Go ahead and celebrate, you bastard. That poor girl will be your last meal.

  Chapter Two

  The vision receded slowly, fading from her sight like stars in the coming dawn. The memories, however, would stay with her forever. Jordan was left with only blackness. Instinctively, she reached for the knife, always present in a sheath on her side. It gave her comfort as she waited for her eyesight to return.

  Being completely blind after a vision was…not fun, especially when she was alone – like now. She waited impatiently; listening for any tell tale sound she was not alone. A hawk screamed in the distance. Closer, her horse, Archer, munched on grass. His methodical breathing and occasional snort made her smile. Always a faithful companion, he never ran off when she was vulnerable. It was as if he could sense when she was having a vision.

  Damn the visions anyway! Jordan moved to a more comfortable position beneath the tree she’d settled under when she felt “the curse” coming on. They always started with a mild headache and pressure behind her eyes. The first time she experienced Blind Sight, she was only fourteen. She was riding the tractor in her uncle’s back field, cutting hay, when the pasture suddenly disappeared. It was replaced with someone’s blood-splattered bedroom and a demon possession. Thankfully, Uncle Case was nearby, baling, and saw her tumble from the tractor like a drunkard at Happy Hour. He scooped her up before the tractor turned her into a Sloppy Joe sandwich. That was her induction into the Celadon Circle.

  She’d always known about the Circle, of course. Her family was seeded in its craziness even before their trip over on the Mayflower. She’d been raised around silver weapons, salt, ancient lore, guns, pentagrams, and so much more. Rules of the Circle were fed to Jordan with her baby food. Training began when she was five. By the age of eight, she could shoot as well as any sniper. By age nine, a knife or dagger was as familiar to her as her favorite stuffed animal. At age twelve, she made her first kill. That was also the year her father disappeared.

  The family always assumed Jordan would be a Slayer like her older brothers and everyone else who came before them. Instead, she got stuck with the job of Seeker. She received visions from God only knew where, and then she, Uncle Case, and her brothers figured out what the malevolent creature, spirit, or demon was and dealt with it.

  Jordan blinked a few times, adjusting to the blurry light filtering between her lashes as her sight returned. Like a dimmer switch slowly being turned higher, the world lit up around her by degrees. She cou
ld make out the shapes of trees, Archer, and the old, red barn in the distance. She sighed in relief.

  Like a toddler, she struggled to her feet, grasping the tree’s trunk for support, rubbing a sore spot on her backside where she’d plopped unceremoniously on a rock. Archer ambled over, nuzzling her hand for sugar cubes.

  “Later, boy. Let’s get back.” She rubbed the black Quarter horse affectionately on the nose before climbing into the saddle. They started back to the farm at an easy walk. She was in no hurry.

  Her brothers just returned a few hours ago from a hunt. They were gone on a two-week stint looking for a particularly nasty chupacabra, and Wyoming was a long drive from Texas. She dreaded telling them about her latest vision. She wasn’t sure what they were after yet (Uncle Case was their resident lore expert), but she was positive the attack took place at a campground in Tennessee. Another long drive.

  Nathan and Quinn were fraternal twins, twenty-four years old (seven years older than she), and as different as night and day. Nathan was more boyish in appearance with untamable dark-brown hair and soulful hazel-green eyes that always betrayed his emotions. He would always look young for his age. Women either wanted to date him or protect him. It drove Nathan crazy but, like everything in life, he took it in stride. Jordan adored him for his loving nature and positive attitude. She loved him for loving her like a brother should.

  Quinn was a whole different can of worms. Where Nathan was boyish and caring, Quinn was hard and dangerous. Nathan was a Slayer because he believed in humanity and wanted to protect everyone from evil. Quinn enjoyed the kill. Although Nathan was physically larger, Quinn had a quiet strength most took for granted… until they danced toe to toe with him. His dark-blue eyes could turn steely in a second. He wore his lighter-brown hair short, spiked in front, so all he had to do was run a hand through it when he got up. With his full lips and devil-may-care attitude, women wanted to be with him, have sex with him, and bear his children. Quinn loved them and left them – not even bothering to get their digits afterwards.

  Most people acquainted with him believed Quinn not capable of caring about anyone, even himself. It wasn’t true. He loved his family and was willing to give his own life for them if need be – something he’d come close to doing on many hunts. Jordan loved him from a distance. She had to, seeing as how he hated her. He had a right to, though. After all, she did kill their mother.

  The stables came into view. Archer, eager for his oats, increased their pace to a canter. Once inside, she rubbed the horse down, brushed him, and doled out feed. She’d planned a nice dinner for the family: ham, fresh beans and corn from the garden, her uncle’s favorite cornbread, and a peach cobbler. After weeks of eating fast food, her brothers (well, at least Nathan) would appreciate it. The only problem was the damned vision. If she told them about it now, Quinn would insist on leaving right away. She missed Nathan when he was gone. Truth be told, she missed Quinn, too. With only Uncle Case for company, life got pretty lonely. Besides, her brothers needed some rest – a night at home, the comfort of sleeping in their own beds, a decent meal. She made up her mind. She would tell them in the morning, after breakfast. One day wouldn’t hurt. Maybe she and Uncle Case could go with them this time. She hadn’t been on a hunt in months. She missed it.

  The sound of wings alerted her to company. She closed her eyes, slowly counting to ten before turning around. A man was standing just inside the door. Jordan rolled her eyes.

  “Hello, Ira. Ever heard of knocking?” She cocked her hip, crossing her arms in disgust.

  Angels could be so rude.

  Chapter Three

  Dressed in a three-piece suit (complete with a pocket hankie), Ira could pass for a banker, lawyer, or a sleazy politician. His appearance was nondescript, which was exactly the way angels liked it. On earth, they needed to blend in, but Jordan noticed most of them preferred suits to jeans and football jerseys. Maybe it was because the fancy threads complimented their better-than-thou attitude. Whatever. Jordan was not impressed with most of them.

  “Hey, Ira, let me see your wings, huh?” She loved irritating him, even though she’d pay for it later.

  He smirked in response.

  No one, as far as she knew, had ever seen their wings. The only sign they actually had them was the whooshing that accompanied the angels when they arrived or departed. It happened too fast; one second you were alone, and the next, one of them would be standing beside you. Talk about creepy.

  “Come on, Ira,” she baited. “Let me see them. I won’t tell anyone how tiny they are.”

  His face devoid of emotion, he stared at her. Angels were good at hiding how they felt -- they would clean up in Vegas. Ira picked an imaginary piece of lint off his immaculate Armani suit and straightened a cuff, biding his time.

  Jordan waited. They’d played this game before.

  Finally, after straightening his tie and polishing a non-existent smudge off his shiny shoes, he commented, “You know, Jordan, I really don’t have the patience for childish behavior today. I am a busy entity with far more important matters on my plate than a petulant girl suffering from separation anxiety.”

  She studied him as he strolled about the stable, touching things that didn’t belong to him, wrinkling his nose at the sawdust-covered floor. The top of his head was completely bald. His eyes were too small, his nose too large. He was short for a man with the beginnings of a pot belly. There was absolutely nothing at all about Ira’s human form that could be described as handsome. Over the years, Jordan had the “pleasure” of meeting quite a few angels. Most of them chose a human disguise that was, if not beautiful, at least decent-looking. Ira must have missed the memo.

  Jordan inched closer to the door. Feigning stupidity, she said, “Ira, I have no idea what you’re talking about. I didn’t call you down here. Perhaps you’re looking for Uncle Case instead and made a wrong turn between here and the Pearly Gates.”

  He scoffed at her little joke. “No, you didn’t summon me; I was sent. I would rather spend a night in Hell than associate with the common folk on this dirt-hole of a planet you call home.” He stepped in front of the door, blocking her exit. “You know why.”

  Jordan stood her ground ten feet away. There was no use in running anyway. Still, that desperate part of her, the part that hated pain, tried to buy her more time.

  “Can you be more specific, Ira? I have a cobbler to get in the oven.” Please, please! Let him be in a forgiving mood this time. He was an angel, after all.

  Ira scratched his chin, thoughtfully. “Hmm; let me see if I can articulate this in a way a simpleton like yourself can understand. You received a vision. When you receive a vision, it is your job to relay it to your family so they can do their jobs. Instead, you are playing with horses and shoveling manure, ignoring the vision and thereby putting more human lives at risk.”

  Damn. She didn’t know how, but every time she withheld information about her visions -- even for an hour -- they always knew. She’d only done it a handful of times, but on each occasion, the punishments were severe. This time would be no exception. Ira had that look about him that said he’d suffered a crap-filled day and he needed to take it out on someone.

  “I was going to tell them tomorrow--“

  “Tomorrow isn’t good enough.”

  A golden whip appeared in his hand. He snapped it open, sending its length across the floor. Crap! She got three steps away before it whistled through the air behind her. On contact, it cut through her shirt, digging a scorching path from her right shoulder all the way down her back. She sucked in a startled breath. Oh, my God, it hurt! She’d never felt pain like it before, not even when she was attacked by a werewolf in Georgia.

  The second lash tore a gaping wound across the middle of her back. The third sent her careening into the wall; it was all she could do not to pass out from the pain. She didn’t make a sound. No matter what Ira did, he could never make her cry or beg for his mercy. She knew it pissed him off.

 
“You know I really hate to punish you like this, Jordan. It breaks my heart.”

  Although she couldn’t see his face, Jordan knew he wore a smile. If there was one thing she’d learned about angels, it was that they were as different as humans. Some were exactly how you’d picture them to be: caring and nurturing. Others were the biggest pricks in the world. Ira fell into the latter group. He didn’t care for humans at all, believing they were beneath him -- nothing but insolent drama kings and queens who constantly needed their hands held.

  Through gritted teeth she spat, “Don’t lie, you bastard. You know damn well you enjoy it.” She turned her head slightly to look him in the eyes, wanting him to see the hate she felt at that moment.

  He raised his arm for another strike. Jordan closed her eyes, waiting for the blow to fall. Instead of the whip cutting through the air, she heard the sound of wings again. Oh great, more angels. Maybe this one brought chips and dip for the party.

  “She’s had enough, Ira.”

  Jordan opened her eyes at the familiar voice. Gabriel, her Guardian. About damn time.

  He grabbed Ira’s raised arm, forcing him to lower it. Ira jerked away, clearly upset at being interrupted. He noticed Jordan watching and quickly replaced his mask of indifference. Coiling the whip back up, he commented nonchalantly, “Gabriel. What a nice surprise. I wasn’t expecting you here, Brother.”

  “Obviously. Leave now, Ira.” Gabriel’s face was blank, his voice as smooth and clear as water.

  “Michael sent me, Gabriel. I have a job to finish.” Ira was indignant. He hated being bossed around by someone higher on the celestial ladder.

  Michael. It figured. He was the grand poobah of archangels -- the leader of God’s army. He gave the orders, though Jordan doubted they all came from his Father. He suffered from a major case of hubris and a lesser case of stick-up-the-ass.