Up in Smoke (King #8)

He pays the bodies around him no mind. As he walks, the ground shakes again like the thunder has crashed to the ground, causing an earthquake. His dark gaze is solely focused on me. My blood turns to ice. Fear strangles me. My throat grows dry and thick. I can’t swallow. Finally snapping out of my haze, I heed my father’s advice and turn to run, but my feet have sunken into the soft ground. I'm held in place. Stuck.

Panic constricts my breathing.

He’s so close now that I can see his face. His tanned skin. His dark, emotionless eyes that convey nothing but his determination to get to me.

The sun emerges from behind the clouds, and I immediately notice the man has no shadow. He’s got to be some demon. He smirks. No, a devil. There is no doubt in my mind that the carnage surrounding us is his doing. He’s a one-man army walking across the bloodied field of his sin, and I’m next to face his wrath, but there’s nothing I can do but stare as my end nears.

Before he reaches me, he kicks over my mother’s head like it’s a beach ball in his way, and I again feel sick. I close my eyes tightly and wish away the feeling while waiting my turn to become just another corpse in the field. I just hope it’s over fast.

I flinch when I feel his rough hand against my cheek. “Open your eyes, hellion,” he says. I refuse and shake my head. He grips my face with his hand, holding it still. I can feel his breath against my skin. “Look at me, my love.”

My love?

Confused by his words, I finally obey and come face to face with evil. He’s hatred personified. There’s something terrifyingly beautiful about the purity of his evil. There’s something else there too. Deep in his eyes. Lust. Admiration. Awe.

He strokes my face in a way that’s almost loving. This time I don’t flinch. In fact, I find myself leaning into his warm touch.

The man looks all around us with a proud smile on his upturned lips. “This is better than I expected,” he says, pressing his lips to mine in a brief soft kiss that makes me feel like I’m floating.

“Better?” I ask, my head spinning. “What’s better?”

He lifts me from the mud into his strong tattooed arms with ease and cradles me against his hard chest. “Rest now, my love,” he whispers, carrying me back across the field, gliding over the bodies with ease without ever looking down at the ground.

I find surprising comfort in his arms. I sigh and settle myself against his body, nuzzling against his warmth. The fear that had me frozen just moments before has vanished. I feel safe now.

Whole.

“I’m so tired.” I hear myself say. I yawn and close my eyes. The weariness begins to take me under.

“Look,” he whispers, spinning me around in his arms slowly.

I open my eyes and lift my head. I take one last look at the aftermath. The chaos. The gore. The blood. The death.

He chuckles and kisses the top of my head. “Of course, you’re tired. Look at all you’ve done.”



I wake up from one nightmare only to be thrust back into another.

Smoke is standing in the doorway. His hair is wet from a recent shower and combed back. He’s not wearing a shirt just his leather biker cut and jeans. His feet are bare.

“Get dressed. Something in there should fit you,” Smoke says, pointing to the large black storage container at the foot of the bed. “There’s food in the kitchen. Come out when you’re done. The windows are all bolted shut and the back door is bolted and only I have the key so don’t waste your fucking time. If you aren’t out in five minutes, I’m gonna come back and dress you myself.”

All the gentleness from the night before is gone.

My stomach growls with emptiness and twists with disappointment.

Smoke disappears from the doorway. There’s an open first aid kit on the side table. I raise my arm which is less sore than it was the day before. Band-Aids and butterfly stitches over my various cuts. Orange circular stains peek out from underneath the dressings and I spot an open bottle of iodine in the kit.

I slide to the edge of the bed and wince from the pain and soreness although today it’s bearable.

I dig through the large plastic container which is filled with women’s clothes and shoes of various sizes. Some items still have the sales tags attached. I find a simple and soft pair of light colored jeans and a white fitted tank top. For shoes, I find a pair of Converse that’s a half size too big but will work. At the bottom is a zip lock bag with various combs and brushes. I brush out my hair and dig through for a hair tie, pulling my hair on the top of my head in a messy bun. I also find something else that interests me in another small bag tucked into the side of the bin. Not knowing if I’ll need it, I tuck it away under the mattress in case I don’t have access to the bin again.

I go into the bathroom, and what I see reflected in the mirror doesn’t surprise me. My bruises and scrapes still ache but the swelling has gone down and they aren’t so purple or angry anymore. I find a new toothbrush in a small travel kit in the bathroom and help myself to it. I savor the feeling of brushing my teeth until my gums bleed.

Remembering that I’m on a time crunch I make my way through a small hallway where there’s one other door partially open. I peek in hoping to find a computer but I’m not that lucky and Smoke’s not that dumb. It’s another small bedroom, or at least I think it is, it’s so filled with black storage containers with yellow lids from top to bottom it’s hard to tell.

What the hell is in them? More clothes? For who? Why?

The main living area is almost as small as the bedroom. The entire house can’t be more than six hundred square feet total. A single loveseat sits against the wall with a brick fireplace lining the wall. It doesn’t look like it’s ever been used but then again, it’s a fireplace in South Florida, why would it ever be used? A little square two-person table is tucked into the corner of the open galley style kitchen. Everything out here is just like it is in the bathroom. Clean, but old. The sofa is a faded brown color and has a tear on the top of one of the cushions, exposing the stuffing. The dining room table has duct tape around one of the legs. The chairs are mismatched as well as the cushions tied to the seats.

On the table, there’s a glass casserole dish steaming with something that looks like biscuits floating on the top. It smells like salt and gravy. My eyes roll back in my head.

My mouth waters, and my stomach growls.

“Eat,” Smoke says, pointing to one of the chairs.

I don’t like taking orders, especially from him, but this is one order I can’t turn down. I don’t care if it’s fucking poison. I’ll go out with a full stomach, and right now a full stomach is all I can think about.

How long has it been since I’ve eaten?

I try to remember, but as Smoke ladles out a heaping scoop of biscuits with sausage and white gravy onto a plate in front of me I realize it’s been at least a day. Maybe two. Smoke drops a spoon next to my plate. “You’re not getting a fucking fork.”

I inwardly smirk. Oddly enough his comment makes me proud. I straighten a little more.

Smoke isn’t underestimating me or what I’m capable of. He knows I’ll use anything to my advantage, and he’s right. Him knowing this will make escaping harder, but I’ll cross that bridge when I get there.