She sat down on her calves and looked through the books. A copy of Richard Matheson's I Am Legend opened to the first page and the handwritten words 'For Lora' hit her in the face like a cold slap. She stared as if she'd seen a ghost.
Driver jumped forward with concern, and his fingers gripped the book. His hands were over hers and she flinched but didn't move her hands away; her fingers were dug into the spine of the book, unable to let go.
She saw him look down, his dark, olive gaze focused on the writing and then he closed his eyes. He angled his chin away, concealing his expression. When he turned to look at her, she was scrutinizing every inch of his face.
“This is Lora's? Why do you have Lora's book?”
There was a pause, before he replied, “I have all of her books.”
Jaz stared, confused.
“When she died, I kept her books stored here. I forgot this was hers. I thought it was mine.”
“Who was she to you?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.
“Does it matter?” His face was as impenetrable as stone.
“Yes, it does,” she said.
“She was a member of our community.”
“No.” She shook her head, seeing something hidden beneath his dark eyes. “There's a reason I was kept here, isn't there? In your room.”
He didn't speak.
“I mean why not Erica, or Maria or even Skye or someone? Why you?” she asked.
“I think you know the answer to that.”
She squeezed her eyes half shut as she frowned at him. “What are you hiding?”
He looked at her before standing up, avoiding her probing glare. “Take whichever books you want. Edda will be here for you soon.” He turned and walked out leaving her staring after him.
She gazed down at her sister's name with a million questions suffocating her mind.
*
Jaz grabbed the books Driver had chosen and placed them neatly in her suitcase. There was just enough space for ten, so she left the rest behind. She picked up the last pile of books from the floor, turned to go to her room when the sound of a papery thud on the ground stopped her. She wheeled round and cocked her head down.
It wasn't one she'd seen before. The book was thin, with a faded blue cover and as she leaned closer, she could see an artistic pattern on the front. She was sure she'd seen the symbol somewhere before. She knelt down, put her books to one side and picked up the imposter.
The pattern was a Celtic-looking design with vines of flowers – roses she guessed- with thorns and strange lettering interwoven in the middle. Three of them. The first was an 'X' but the top and bottom ends joined together to create two triangles, the tips pointing to each other where the middle of the 'X' should have been. The other was one line, like an 'I', and the last was an 'R' but the lines were sharp and straight, no curves.
Where had she seen this before?
She opened the book, peering up at the door to make sure it was still closed and no one was watching her.
The first page was written in curved, slanted writing, with the dots of the 'i's drawn in short sweeping lines like a claw-scratch.
It read: Lora's Diary.
~Chapter 16 - Bargain~
Ten days earlier...
Wednesday May 18th, 1:03 p.m.
Deer Creek
Garik rolled himself a cigarette, mixing tobacco with dried mint leaves whilst he leaned against his Jeep. He was two miles away from Deer Creek but had pulled over to stretch his cramped legs. And he needed a smoke, badly.
The sun was blazing, his forehead was dripping with sweat and his grey shirt was glued to his damp back. He squinted up at the clear, blue sky above his dark aviators and blew air out of his parched lips. He then licked the cigarette paper and rolled it with his hands into a thin stick, put it in his mouth and lit the end with his lucky, chrome, ace of spades lighter. It was a gift from a comrade who'd died twenty-five years ago.
Bobbie 'Bob Marley' Richman. They called him 'Bob Marley' because he'd had the big dreadlocked hair, even though he was white, and Scottish. But it strangely suited him. No joke.
Garik smiled sadly.
He'd had his throat, liver and spleen torn out right in front of Garik, when the Deer Creek Pack was attacked by another called the Red Sword Pack. They earned that name from all the blood they spilled over the past couple of centuries.
It was now led by a tough, Viking wannabe by the name of Njord Rasmussen. His father and the Deer Creek's current Pack Leader's father, Olaf, had been best friends since they were boys. But a misunderstanding over something Garik never found out, caused them to fight against each other.
Garik was fifty-two now. He exhaled a halo of smoke as he worked out his age back then. He'd just turned twenty-seven when the war broke out, he remembered. He thought about the friends he'd lost as he inhaled the sweet smoke of his roll-up. Bobbie had been the greatest loss of all.