Gift OF DEATH
Lin augustine
GIFT OF DEATH
Copyright © 2020 by Lin Augustine.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover art by Van Cunanan
Cover design by Lin Augustine
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
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Epilogue
Lover of Death
About the Author
Acknowledgments
To my friends and my sister
for encouraging me
Chapter 1
I love myself. I love myself. I love myself.
I read somewhere that if you say something to yourself over and over again, eventually you’ll come to believe it. Well, it’s been about five years since I started repeating that dumb phrase in my mind but I’m no closer to believing it now than back then.
“Chrys, wake up, okay?”
I glare over at Ron, who is hunched over the wheel of the stolen pickup truck, squinting to see the dark dirt road, thick with trees that scrape the sides of the truck. Ron is a big girl—big in height and big in muscles. I, on the other hand, am the kind of weak and scrawny girl that girls like Ron are compelled to either bully or protect. Both of us are now sporting little afros since we shaved our heads a couple months ago in an attempt to “go natural” and say bye bye to chemicals and straighteners and maintenance, but above all, to routine and structure and expectations.
“How many times do I gotta tell you I’m not sleeping?” I say.
“Well then talk to me, alright? I’m bored out of my mind and the stupid radio ain’t working.”
I sigh, my breath mingling with the air of the truck, so hot and stuffy despite having the windows open. I wish the A.C. worked. “We should dump this truck soon.”
“And then what? How else will we get to your magic camp?”
Anyone else would have said “magic camp” in a condescending tone, but not Ron, never Ron. She’s wrong about it being magic but I at least appreciate that she takes me seriously.
“I don’t know, but I have a bad feeling about this truck,” I say.
“It took us forever to yank it.” Ron slows down the truck even more since the road has gotten so bumpy that we jostle around in our seats constantly.
“I can sense some ‘magic’ people nearby. Maybe we should get out and walk.”
It’s the first time I’ve felt these tingles on the back of my neck. It’s like someone is hovering right behind me, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. But even though it’s the first time, in my gut I know exactly what it means. We’re close. Close to people like me.
“How many?” she says.
“I don’t know. Not many, I think. Maybe just one or two.”
“Then they’re probably not the camp. Probably just strays like us. We haven’t got any flashlights and we should save the batteries on our phones, don’t you think? Probably not the smartest to go wandering into the forest in the middle of the night.”
I look out of the window. My eyes have adjusted to the darkness but I still can’t make out anything in the thick trees surrounding us. “I guess…”
I ball my hands into fists so tight that my nails dig into my palms. It’s not because I’m angry, but because I’m on edge. Whenever I’m on edge, my hands shake and I hate that about myself.
I love myself. I love myself. I love myself.
“Chrys! Don’t stop talking to me, man.” Ron is hunched over the wheel so much that I can’t see her face. “I feel like I’m gonna pass out if you do.”
“If you’re tired, let’s pull over so you can take a nap.”
“Here? Are you freaking crazy? What if some murderer comes up and gets us?”
I laugh, hollower than I intended. I hate that word. Murderer.
Murderer. Murderer.
I love myself. I love myself.
“Just talk to me and we won’t have to pull over and get killed.”
I let out a slow breath and relax my hands. I massage my palms, feeling a slight indentation there. I really should cut my nails soon before I start drawing blood.
When I feel like my voice is stable, I say, “What do you wanna talk about then?”
“Tell me more about the camp.”
“I’ve told you everything I know already. You know I don’t keep secrets from you.”
Ron scoffs. “Please. Keeping secrets is your most prominent personality trait.”
“I only keep the unimportant stuff secret.”
“If it’s unimportant, then why keep it a secret?”
“Because it’s so unimportant that it’s not even worth hearing. Just like me. Unimportant. Not worth anything.”
A tree branch slowly scrapes across the side of the truck.
Ron glances over at me. “Woah. Where’d that come from?”
I gulp. I didn’t mean to say that last part out loud. It was a slip from my dumb stupid mind. The kind of remarks my brain teases me with constantly. Probably because they’re true, right?
I love myself…
“Chrys!” Ron says.
I sigh loudly, present with Ron again, dragged out of those thoughts that weigh me down like cement blocks. “I was just joking around.”
“That’s not funny. That sounds like the kind of shit Mary used to say.”
Mary. Just the name alone makes me want to shudder. She was our foster mother—well, technically, she still is. If we’re caught now, they’d probably send us straight back to her, but we’d rather die—no, not die, not really. But we have no intention of ever going back. That’s why we dumped our hair and dumped our real names two months ago, opting
